#Between Cross and Resurrection

[slowtumbling]

Living in the Empty Spaces: A Holy Saturday Reflection

“But they rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment.” — Luke 23:56bWe often move too quickly from Good Friday to Easter Sunday. From the horror of the cross to the hallelujahs of the empty tomb. But in between them lies a quiet day. An empty day. Holy Saturday.Nothing happens on Holy Saturday—at least not in the way we like our stories to move. No miracles, no proclamations, no…

[blueboybot]

Can You Hold This For Me?

Jason is enamored as he watches a beautiful red head lady beat the shit out of the mugger that got too close for her liking.

He was on his way to the local book store to find a good read when he saw a woman with her month old baby being stalked by a man who was obviously hiding a knife in his pocket. Jason immediately crossed the street to put himself between them and the mugger when all of a sudden the man got a little closer and the woman executed a perfectly good roundhouse kick to the man's head while keeping her baby secure.

After the man's body bounced in the alley and hit a trash can she turned to Jason with a brilliant smile that did something to his resurrected heart.

"Can you hold this for me?" She asked before simply putting the baby in Jason's arms before he could reply.

She then proceeded to pick the man up, who was twice her size, and flung him further into the alley before running up to finish her beat down.

A noise brought his attention from the woman to the baby in his arms who was now up and cooing at him curiously.

"Your mom's hot."

[urdreamydoodles]

X-MEN x FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected on Krakoa and reunited with your lover

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Hank McCoy, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney & Wade Wilson

It was proposed by @valkyrie7274 ! Thanks, love ♡

Logan Howlett (Wolverine)

- Logan had seen too much death, had held too many bodies in his arms, but yours—yours—broke him in a way nothing else ever had. You died in his arms, your fingers clutching at his shirt, your breath rattling in your throat as your body failed you. He had pressed his forehead to yours, desperate, snarling at the universe to take him instead, but death never listened. He stayed with you long after you were gone, his grip so tight on your lifeless form that even the strongest among the X-Men had to pry you from him. He didn’t make a sound. Not when they pulled you away, not when they buried you. But something inside him snapped, something vital, something that made him more animal than man.

- The others felt your absence in the silence Logan left behind. He spoke less, drank more. He vanished for weeks at a time, returning with blood under his nails and vacant eyes, the scent of whiskey and gunpowder clinging to him like a second skin. The world became a blur of violence, a never-ending cycle of fights he started just to feel something other than the ache in his chest. Jean tried to reach him. Ororo, too. Even Charles. But Logan wasn’t there anymore. Not really. He was where you were, in the moment of your death, trapped in a memory that refused to fade.

- And then—Krakoa. A miracle. A second chance. When he saw you again, standing there, alive, his breath caught in his throat, something feral and raw surging in his chest. He didn’t hesitate. He moved, crossing the space between you in a heartbeat, hands cradling your face as if you might disappear. His voice was rough, thick with too many emotions to name. "You real, darlin’?" He didn’t know if he believed in heaven, but if it existed, surely this was it. He kissed you like a man dying of thirst, like he had been starving for you, like he needed to prove you were real.

- But the fear remained. He had lost you once. What if he lost you again? He became obsessive, hovering near you, ensuring you never fought alone, ensuring no harm ever touched you again. He didn’t care that you were resurrected, that Krakoa promised eternity—he remembered what it felt like to lose you, and he refused to feel it again. It made him reckless, overprotective, angry at the world for daring to put you at risk. "Yer stayin’ with me, got it?" He wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t.

- But at night, when it was just the two of you, when you curled into his arms and whispered his name, he softened. He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in, letting the scent of you ease the last remnants of his nightmares. He had been drowning in grief for a year. Now, he had you back. And if Krakoa ever took you away again, if fate ever dared to separate you once more—Logan would tear the world apart to bring you back.

Remy LeBeau (Gambit)

- Remy was not a man built for grief. He was a man of laughter, of mischief, of silver-tongued charm—but when he lost you, all of that died with you. The moment you slipped from his grasp, the moment your breath stilled and your body turned cold, something inside him broke. He didn’t cry at first. Didn’t scream. He just stared, as if he could trick himself into thinking you were only sleeping, as if his voice alone could call you back. And then, when reality crashed down, when he realized you were gone, he shattered.

- The X-Men had never seen Remy like that before. He wasn’t just heartbroken—he was lost. He stopped playing cards, stopped flirting, stopped being Remy. He wandered through the halls like a ghost, eyes dull, smile absent. Rogue tried to reach him, but he barely spoke. Even Logan, who had seen his fair share of loss, didn’t know how to pull him from the abyss. When Remy did talk, his voice was hoarse, whispering "She ain't supposed to be gone, chérie… she ain't supposed to be gone."

- And then—Krakoa. Resurrection. The moment he saw you again, standing there, his entire world tilted on its axis. He blinked, once, twice, as if you were a hallucination, as if his mind was playing some cruel trick. And then—he ran. He crashed into you, arms locking around your waist, his breath ragged against your neck. "Mon Dieu, y’came back t’me." His hands trembled as he touched you, as if terrified you might vanish again. He kissed you like he was drowning, like he needed you to breathe.

- But the fear never left him. He had lost you once. He couldn’t bear to lose you again. He became clingy, his usual flirtation laced with desperation. He followed you everywhere, always keeping you in his sights, always ensuring you were safe. He started waking up in the middle of the night just to check that you were still there, pressing kisses to your skin, murmuring reassurances to himself. He held your hand more, needed to touch you more, to remind himself that you were real.

- But even through the fear, through the grief that still lingered in his bones, he found joy again. You were his joy. And though he still carried the pain of losing you, though the memory of your death haunted him, he knew one thing for certain—he had been given a second chance. And he would spend every moment proving just how much he loved you.

Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler)

- Kurt was a man of faith, but even faith could not protect him from the agony of losing you. He held you in his arms as the light left your eyes, whispering prayers, pressing desperate kisses to your forehead. He begged—begged—for God to spare you, to take him instead, to not let this be your end. But no miracle came. And when you died, when the last breath left your lips, Kurt collapsed over you, sobbing so violently that even the strongest among the X-Men had to look away.

- The mansion was quieter after your death. Kurt, once the heart of the team, withdrew into himself. He still smiled, still laughed—but it was hollow, an echo of what once was. He prayed more, locked himself away in the chapel for hours, seeking solace in a God who had remained silent. And when he was alone, when no one could hear, he wept. He wept until his body ached, until he had no more tears left to shed.

- And then—Krakoa. A miracle. The first time he saw you again, his heart stopped. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. And then—he teleported, appearing in front of you in a burst of smoke and desperation. His hands cupped your face, his eyes wide with unshed tears. "Mein Liebe… is it truly you?" And when you whispered "Yes", he broke. He pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it was as if he feared the world would steal you away again.

- That night, he did not sleep. He lay beside you, his fingers tracing your features, memorizing every inch of you. He murmured prayers of gratitude, pressing reverent kisses to your skin, promising that he would never take you for granted again. He had been given a second chance, a gift from heaven itself, and he would cherish you for as long as fate allowed.

- And though the pain of losing you still lingered, though nightmares of your death still haunted him, he found peace in knowing that you were here, with him. And if ever the world tried to take you again, Kurt would fight heaven and hell alike to keep you by his side.

Scott Summers (Cyclops)

- Scott was a soldier. He had lost comrades before, seen death too many times to count, but nothing had ever destroyed him the way losing you did. You died in his arms, your blood staining his gloves, your final breath a whisper against his cheek. He had begged you to hold on, voice trembling, fingers pressing against your wounds as if his touch alone could keep you tethered to the world. But he felt it the moment you slipped away. The moment your body went limp, the moment your last exhale left you, the moment the warmth faded from your skin. He had been forced to let you go, but something inside him never did.

- The X-Men mourned you, but Scott grieved you. He buried himself in missions, in strategies, in war, but even victories felt empty without you there. He operated with precision, with control, but behind the visor, his eyes were hollow. Logan told him he was colder now, Jean said he had lost something vital, but Scott didn’t know how to be anything else. You were gone. He had to keep moving. He had to keep leading. But at night, when no one could see, he sat in your old room, hands curled into fists, jaw tight with the pain he refused to show.

- And then—Krakoa. A resurrection. A second chance. When Scott saw you again, standing before him, breathing, alive, his composure shattered. He didn’t move at first, didn’t trust his own senses, didn’t trust that this wasn’t some cruel illusion. And then—his voice, raw and disbelieving. "It’s you." The moment you whispered his name, the moment he knew it was real, he closed the distance between you in three strides. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you so tightly against him that he almost lifted you off the ground.

- He didn’t cry. Not in front of the others. But later, when it was just the two of you, when his fingers traced over your skin as if committing you to memory, his voice broke. He admitted—admitted—that he had been lost without you. That he hadn’t known how to move forward. That he had buried the pain so deeply it had become him. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath uneven. "I won’t lose you again. I swear to God, I won’t."

- Scott had always been a protector, but now, he was obsessive. He watched you like a hawk in battle, refused to let you fight alone, refused to risk you again. It was possessive, almost suffocating, but you understood—he had lost you once. He couldn’t bear to do it again. And when the world quieted, when it was just you and him, his fingers laced with yours, his lips brushing over your temple, he allowed himself to breathe again. Because you were here. Because he had you back. And he wasn’t letting go.

Jean Grey (Phoenix)

- Jean felt you die. Felt your soul slip from the world like a whisper lost to the wind. She had reached for you, her telepathy stretching out in desperation, but there was nothing to hold onto. You were gone. Vanished from the psychic plane, from the world, from her. And in that moment, something inside her broke. A scream tore from her throat, raw and grief-stricken, shaking the very ground beneath her. She had lost you. She had felt you leave. And she didn’t know how to exist in a world without you.

- The X-Men mourned as a team, but Jean mourned alone. She locked herself away, mind shutting out even Scott, even Logan, even Charles. The Phoenix inside her stirred, restless with the weight of her grief, but she held it back—barely. She visited your grave every night, fingers pressed against the cold stone, whispering things she never got to say. "I should’ve saved you." "I should’ve been stronger." "I don’t know how to live without you." The wind carried her words away, but the pain remained, deep and unrelenting.

- And then—Krakoa. When she felt your mind again, a presence she had ached for, she nearly collapsed. Her breath hitched, her vision blurred, and she ran. She didn’t care who saw, didn’t care about appearances—she ran to you, her telepathy reaching out before her arms ever did. And when she touched your mind, when she felt you, whole and alive, she sobbed. Her hands cradled your face, her lips pressed to your forehead, her thoughts pouring into yours in a rush of love, grief, longing, and relief.

- That night, she didn’t let you go. She wrapped herself around you, pressing her ear to your chest, listening to the steady thump-thump of your heartbeat. Her fingers traced absent patterns over your skin, her mind entwined with yours, never letting go again. She whispered against your shoulder, "I thought I lost you forever." And in her mind, in the quiet, she made a silent vow—if the universe ever tried to take you again, she would burn it down before she let that happen.

- Jean was always powerful, always strong, but your death had almost unmade her. Now, with you back, she was whole again. She became fierce in her love, in her protection, in her need to keep you safe. She touched your mind constantly, always needing to feel you, always needing to know you were still here. And when she kissed you, it was never just a kiss—it was everything. A promise. A devotion. A love that had transcended death itself.

Ororo Munroe (Storm)

- Ororo had never believed in helplessness. She was a goddess, a queen, a force of nature itself. But the day you died in her arms, the day your blood stained her fingers, the day the storm inside her fell silent—that was the first time she had ever felt truly powerless. She had tried everything to save you, had screamed your name to the heavens, had begged the sky itself to bring you back, but the universe remained cruel and indifferent. You died, and Ororo broke.

- The X-Men saw her grief in the way the weather changed. The sky over the mansion remained gray for weeks, the air thick with the taste of rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and mournful, echoing her sorrow. She still led, still stood strong for her people, but the warmth in her eyes was gone. She visited your grave often, leaving flowers, whispering words only the wind could carry. "I should have protected you." "I failed you." "I would have traded places if I could."

- And then—Krakoa. She did not believe it at first. She could not. But when she saw you, when she felt the hum of your presence in the air, her breath hitched. The storm inside her stilled, as if the universe itself held its breath. And then—she moved. She crossed the distance between you in a heartbeat, her hands framing your face, her eyes searching yours with something raw and fragile. And when she whispered your name, when she felt your warmth, she exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding for a year.

- That night, she held you close, arms wrapped around you as if you might slip away again. She traced gentle fingers through your hair, the electricity of her touch soft and reverent. She pressed a kiss to your forehead, murmuring, "I will never let anything happen to you again." And in her heart, she vowed—if death ever came for you again, it would have to go through her first.

- Ororo had always been protective, but now, she was unyielding. She watched over you with a quiet intensity, ensuring you were safe, that nothing could harm you, that you would never be taken from her again. She loved you fiercely, wholly, eternally. And when she looked at you, her eyes no longer held grief—only devotion. Because she had been given a second chance. And she would not waste it.

Rogue

- Rogue had always been strong, always been stubborn, but when you died in her arms, she crumbled. She held you so tight, rocking you like a child, begging you to stay even as your body grew cold against hers. She could feel you slipping away, feel your life thinning into nothing, and she hated herself for not being able to take your pain—just once, just this one time—so you could live. And when you exhaled your last breath, when your fingers slackened in hers, she let out a cry so raw it shook the battlefield.

- She didn’t let go for hours. Not until they forced her to. Logan tried first, but she lashed out, feral and wild, screaming that she’d kill anyone who touched you. It was only when Remy pulled her close, whispering to her in a broken voice, that she finally let them take you. And after that, she vanished. She stopped talking, stopped showing up to team meetings, stopped doing anything but sitting in your old room, surrounded by everything you left behind. Her gloves—always such a necessity—sat abandoned, her hands trembling as she traced over your things, lost in a grief that felt too big to hold alone.

- When Krakoa resurrected you, she didn’t believe it. Not at first. She thought it was a dream, some cruel trick played by a universe that had already taken too much from her. But then—she saw you. And for the first time in a year, she breathed. Her hands shook when she reached for you, gloveless, fearless, pressing trembling fingers against your cheek. And when she felt your warmth, when she knew you were real, she choked on a sob and collapsed into you, burying herself in your arms like she was drowning and you were the only thing keeping her afloat.

- That night, she didn’t let go. Not once. She pressed herself against you, listening to your heartbeat, fingers tracing over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. "Ah thought Ah lost ya forever," she whispered, voice raw with emotion. "Ah didn’t know how to live without ya." And then, softer, more desperate—"Ah ain’t never lettin’ ya go again."

- Rogue had always been protective, but now, she was relentless. She wouldn’t let you fight alone, wouldn’t let you put yourself in danger, wouldn’t let anything take you from her again. And when she kissed you, it wasn’t just love—it was a promise. A vow. A fierce, unyielding devotion to never losing you again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Magneto)

- Erik had lost too much in his life. He had buried family, friends, entire legacies beneath the weight of war and genocide. But your death—it broke something in him that even he didn’t know could break. He held you as you died, his voice a desperate, shaking plea against your ear. "Stay with me." "Don’t go." "I won’t let them take you." But death did not bargain, did not show mercy, and when your body went still, something inside him snapped.

- After your funeral, Erik did not mourn like the others. He did not cry, did not wail, did not fall apart. He burned. He rained destruction down on those responsible, his fury so great that even Charles had to intervene. "They took her from me," he spat, voice cold, hands shaking. "And you expect me to be merciful?" He was not merciful. He was merciless. And when the last of your murderers lay dead at his feet, he still did not feel peace—only an emptiness so vast it swallowed him whole.

- And then—Krakoa. A miracle. A second chance. When Erik saw you again, standing before him, alive, whole—he did not move. He could not. His breath was sharp, unsteady, his fists clenching at his sides as if afraid you would vanish if he dared to touch you. And then—you smiled. You whispered his name. And the great and terrible Magneto fell to his knees.

- He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against him with a desperation so raw it hurt. His fingers traced over your skin, your face, your lips, his expression shattered with disbelief and relief. "I lost you," he murmured, voice trembling. "And I do not lose." His forehead pressed against yours, his breath uneven. "But this time, I have won you back. And I will never lose you again."

- Erik had always been possessive, but now, he was obsessive. He hovered, protective and unyielding, ensuring you were safe, that nothing could take you from him again. He spoke of forever now, of building something permanent, of a love that could not be destroyed. And when he looked at you, his eyes were fierce, burning with the promise of a man who had already lost you once and would tear the world apart before he let it happen again.

Charles Xavier (Professor X)

- Charles had spent his life understanding loss. He had lost friends, family, even his own body’s ability to stand. But your death—your death was something else entirely. He had felt you die, not just with his eyes but with his mind, had felt the light of your thoughts flicker and fade into nothingness. The silence where you used to be was deafening.

- He withdrew. He still led the X-Men, still played his part, but something in him was absent. The warmth in his voice was gone, his smiles never reached his eyes, and he spent too much time alone. When others tried to reach him, he only ever responded with a tired, hollow "I am fine." But he was not fine. He was haunted. Every time he reached out with his telepathy, he expected to find you there. And every time he was met with silence, it destroyed him all over again.

- And then—Krakoa. When your mind returned to the psychic plane, Charles felt it before he even saw you. His breath hitched, his chest tightened, and for the first time in a year, the silence inside him was filled with you. He turned so quickly his wheelchair nearly toppled, his eyes wide, his hands gripping the arms of his chair so tight his knuckles turned white. And when you stepped forward, when you spoke his name—he wept.

- He held you as tightly as he could, his fingers trembling as they traced over your skin, your hair, your face. His telepathy flooded into yours, overwhelming with the depth of his grief, his longing, his relief. "You were gone," he whispered, his voice breaking. "And I did not know how to go on without you." His lips brushed over your forehead, his breath uneven. "But you are here now. And I will not waste a single moment."

- Charles had always been devoted, but now, he was fiercely protective. He needed to feel you constantly, to touch your hand, to hear your thoughts entwined with his. He whispered to you at night, murmuring things only the two of you could hear, promises and confessions and love. Because he had been given a second chance. And he would not waste it.

Wanda Maximoff (The Scarlet Witch)

- Wanda knew loss intimately. It clung to her like a shadow, whispered in her ear like an old friend. She had lost her parents, her brother, her children—things torn from her hands, leaving behind echoes that never truly faded. But your death was something else. It was catastrophic. You died in her arms, your breath trembling, your fingers curled weakly against her cheek, as if trying to memorize the feeling of her one last time. She screamed, shaking you, calling your name, but no power—no spell, no hex, no desperate plea to the universe—could bring you back.

- After your death, Wanda became unknowable. The X-Men found her standing over your grave, night after night, unmoving. Her hands, her lips, her very breath crackled with chaos, the air thick with something volatile and wrong. The ground beneath her feet pulsed as if rejecting the unnatural grief she carried. They tried to pull her away, tried to speak to her, but she only whispered, over and over—"It wasn’t supposed to happen this way." At times, she vanished entirely, disappearing into corners of the world where even Charles couldn’t reach her mind. Because if she stayed too long, if she let herself think, she feared she might undo reality just to hold you again.

- When Krakoa resurrected you, Wanda felt you before she saw you. A shift in the air, a flicker in the fabric of existence. She turned, slowly, almost afraid to believe it. And there you were. Standing in the light, looking at her with those eyes she had dreamt of every night. Her breath hitched, her body trembling, and then she ran. She crashed into you, gripping you like a lifeline, her fingers tangling in your hair, her breath uneven and desperate against your skin. "I lost you," she choked, tears slipping past her lashes. "I lost you, and I broke with you."

- That night, she refused to let you out of her sight. She traced her fingers over your skin, whispering things in languages ancient and lost, spells to keep you here, to bind you to this plane, to make sure nothing ever took you from her again. You told her you weren’t leaving, that you were real, that you were back, and Wanda exhaled a broken sound before pressing her forehead to yours. "I won’t survive losing you again," she admitted, and it was not a plea—it was a truth.

- Love had always been dangerous for Wanda, but this—this was something beyond magic, beyond fate. You were her constant, her tether to the world. And she swore, with every ounce of power within her, that no god, no war, no force in existence would ever take you away again.

Pietro Maximoff (Quicksilver)

- Pietro had always been fast. Fast enough to outrun bullets, fast enough to move between heartbeats. But the day you died, he wasn’t fast enough. He saw you fall, saw the blood, saw the way your body convulsed before going still—and no matter how fast he ran, no matter how many times he replayed that moment, he couldn’t change it. You died in his arms, and for the first time in his life, time meant nothing at all.

- After your death, Pietro became restless. More restless than usual. He didn’t sleep, didn’t stay in one place for too long, didn’t let anyone near him unless they wanted to be met with a sharp glare and a sharper tongue. He snapped at everyone—Wanda, Logan, even Charles. When someone tried to tell him you were in a better place, Pietro laughed, a hollow, humorless sound. "A better place?" he spat. "She belonged here. With me." And then, without another word, he vanished, a silver blur in the wind.

- When Krakoa brought you back, he didn’t believe it. He refused to believe it. He stood at a distance, arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes narrowed in something unreadable. But then—he heard your voice. "Pietro?" And suddenly, the world was silent. No rushing winds, no constant movement—just you. He was in front of you before you could blink, hands gripping your shoulders, eyes searching, desperate. "Is it real?" His voice was hoarse. "Tell me it’s real."

- When you nodded, Pietro let out a breath that sounded like a sob, his forehead pressing to yours, his hands shaking. "I wasn’t fast enough," he admitted, voice raw. "But I swear to you—I will never let anything take you from me again." That night, he stayed by your side, moving only when you moved, his fingers ghosting over yours as if trying to memorize every detail of you all over again.

- Pietro had always been protective, but now, he was ruthless. He didn’t let you out of his sight, didn’t let you fight alone, didn’t let anyone threaten what he had lost once before. And when he kissed you, it was with the desperation of a man who had spent a year in hell and had finally—finally—found his way home.

Hank McCoy (Beast)

- Hank McCoy was a man of logic, of reason, of science. But when you died, nothing made sense anymore. You bled out in his arms, your trembling fingers brushing against his fur in a final, fleeting moment of comfort, and all the knowledge in the universe could not save you. He whispered words of reassurance, promises that everything would be fine, that he would fix it—because Hank always found a way. But this time, there was no equation, no hypothesis, no miracle discovery that could bring you back. You died, and Hank was left with a silence that no amount of knowledge could fill.

- After your death, he changed. He buried himself in his work, deeper than before, hiding in his lab for days at a time. The others tried to talk to him—Jean, Ororo, even Logan—but he always waved them off with a tight-lipped smile, pretending to be fine. But at night, when the world was quiet, he sat alone with a single photograph of you, his glasses slipping down his nose, his hands trembling as he traced the edges of your face.

- And then—Krakoa. When he saw you again, alive, standing before him with that same beautiful smile—Hank froze. His brilliant mind, capable of solving the most complex puzzles, could not comprehend what was in front of him. He removed his glasses, as if seeing you clearly would change something. But you were still there. Real. Alive. And then—he broke. His arms wrapped around you, crushing you against his chest, his breath uneven as he buried his face in your hair. "You were gone," he whispered. "And I forgot how to be me without you."

- That night, Hank did not return to his lab. He stayed with you, hands tracing over yours, memorizing the shape of you as if afraid this was all a dream. He whispered soft, poetic musings against your skin, quoting philosophers, scientists, poets—all the words he never got to say before you were taken from him. "You have been the missing piece of my every equation," he murmured. "And I refuse to miscalculate again."

- Hank had always been careful, but now, he was deliberate. He cherished every moment, every laugh, every fleeting touch, knowing how fragile it all was. And when he kissed you, it was with the reverence of a man who had been given a second chance and refused to waste a single breath of it. Because he knew now—life was too short not to love you completely.

Emma Frost (The White Queen)

- Emma Frost was not a woman prone to visible grief. She did not collapse, did not wail, did not crumble into the kind of sorrow that people expected when you died. No—she shattered in ways too quiet for most to notice. Her grief was precise, like the sharp edge of a diamond, embedded so deeply within her that it cut into every thought, every breath, every carefully composed word. She had held you as life drained from you, her telepathy drowning in the deafening, chaotic echoes of your fading mind. And then—silence. A silence that lodged itself within her chest, a silence that never left, no matter how much she pretended otherwise.

- After your death, Emma became colder. The X-Men expected her to lash out, to wield her grief as a weapon, but instead, she withdrew. She occupied herself with Hellfire dealings, mutant diplomacy, anything that required her to be untouchable. But at night, in the stillness of her chambers, she sat in front of a mirror and hated what she saw. She had spent her life convincing the world that she was indestructible—but losing you had proven otherwise. And that, above all else, infuriated her.

- When Krakoa resurrected you, Emma was there, but she did not rush to you as others did. No, she stood at a distance, hands folded, expression unreadable. You turned, met her gaze, and for a moment—just a moment—there was hesitation. Because Emma Frost did not believe in miracles. She believed in power, in consequence, in the unrelenting reality of the world. And yet, here you were. And suddenly, she was moving. Her heels clicked against the ground, and then her hands were on your face, her breath uneven, her mind opening to yours in a desperate, wordless declaration: Do not leave me again.

- That night, she did not sleep. She laid beside you, fingers tracing absentmindedly over your arm, her mind whispering things she would never say aloud. I broke without you. I am not whole without you. You are the only softness I allow myself. And when you finally fell asleep, she watched you, eyes shining in the darkness. For the first time in a year, the silence in her mind was not unbearable.

- Emma Frost did not love lightly, and she certainly did not lose lightly. Now that you were back, she would make sure of one thing—she would never lose you again.

Laura Kinney (X-23)

- Laura Kinney was born into violence, shaped by it, taught to wield it as both armor and weapon. She had seen death, caused death, buried death in the back of her mind as a survival mechanism. But your death—your death was something else entirely. She held you as you bled out, her hands pressed to your wounds, her voice rough as she told you to stay awake, damn it, stay awake. And then—you were gone. Just like that. No enemy she could kill, no battle she could win, no fight to bring you back. And that—that was something Laura didn’t know how to live with.

- After your death, Laura became a ghost of herself. She trained harder, fought longer, threw herself into missions with reckless abandon. Logan warned her, told her she was going to get herself killed, but she just shrugged, expression empty. She didn’t want to die. She just didn’t see much reason to avoid it, either. She stopped talking as much, stopped engaging, stopped pretending she was anything other than a weapon with nothing left to protect.

- And then—Krakoa. When she saw you, standing there, alive, something in her broke. She didn’t think. She just moved, closing the distance in an instant, grabbing your face between her hands, her breath short and sharp. "This isn’t real." But it was. And the moment that realization sank in, Laura collapsed against you, forehead pressed to yours, her fingers trembling as they gripped the fabric of your shirt. "I was supposed to protect you."

- That night, she barely let you out of her sight. Her hands never stopped moving over you—your hair, your arms, your pulse point—constant, silent reassurance that you were here. That she was not losing you again. And when you finally asked her to talk to you, to tell you what had happened after you were gone, she hesitated before whispering, "I don’t know who I was without you."

- Laura had lost many things in her life, but you were the one thing she had never wanted to lose. And now that you were back, she wasn’t sure how to be soft again. But she would try—for you, she would always try.

Wade Wilson (Deadpool)

- Wade Wilson was no stranger to death. He had watched it, dealt it, felt it wrap around him more times than he could count. But when you died? When you gasped your last breath in his arms, your blood seeping into his gloves, your lips barely forming his name before going still? He broke. Not in the way he usually did, not in the way that ended in crude jokes and misplaced laughter. No—this was different. This was quiet. This was Wade Wilson staring down at your lifeless body and realizing that, for the first time in his entire miserable existence, he wanted to die and stay dead.

- After your death, Wade became erratic. More than usual. The jokes became sharper, meaner, too forced even for him. He picked fights he didn’t need to pick, tore through enemies with a desperation that made even Logan pause. But at night, when no one was watching, he sat in the dark, staring at old photos of you, mumbling to himself like a lunatic. "Hey, sweetheart, if you’re out there somewhere—hope you’re laughing at me. Or haunting me. I’d be down for some sexy ghost action. Just—just come back, okay? Joke’s over. You win."

- And then—Krakoa. He didn’t believe it. He refused to believe it. He saw you standing there, looking at him with those same eyes, that same soft expression, and his brain short-circuited. "Oh. Oh, this is a trick. This is a cruel, cruel joke, and I love it. Round of applause to whoever came up with this one!" But then—you touched him. And Wade Wilson—king of wisecracks, champion of bad ideas—stopped breathing.

- He crushed you against him so tightly you almost couldn’t breathe, his body shaking, his mask damp from the wetness gathering beneath it. "You’re back. Holy fing hell, you’re back." He pulled away just enough to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks like he couldn’t believe you were real. And then he laughed. A real, broken, beautiful laugh, pressing frantic, open-mouthed kisses all over your face. "Never do that again, okay? Like, ever. Seriously, babe, I’m fragile."

- Wade Wilson had never been good at keeping the things he loved. They always slipped away, got taken, or left him behind. But now that you were back? He was never letting you go. Ever. And if anyone dared to try? Well. Wade had a very particular set of skills, and he would make sure they never got a second chance.

[desigal-26]

Because someone said they would like me to do a ‘Leaked Footage’ (which I had initially done for Oscar) for other drivers and who else in a better option than Mad Max?

Leaked Footage

Max Verstappen x Mercedes Driver!Reader

Because sometimes, rage on-track manifest into something…scandalous off it

What could possibly go wrong in the three-weeks gap between races? Apparently, a lot.

Warnings: MNID, 18+ Content, Reader assumes George’s place which means Max and Reader are frenemies with benefits, leaked tape, choking kink, degradation, Reader is kind of brat(?), nicknames (brat, slut, whore, little dumb toy), Reader receives hate (because misogynist fans exist), this turns into angst-y (I didn’t mean it to but it just did), Max becomes protective of her.

Max had just let out a breath of relief.

Media day at the Belgian Grand Prix was over, and miraculously, he’d managed to avoid saying anything that might come back to bite him in the ass later. A rare win. Most of the questions had circled his future—speculation around a potential move to Mercedes next year had hit a fever pitch during the offseason—and of course, the latest shakeup within Red Bull: Christian Horner’s abrupt departure. But it was all done now. Filed away behind practiced smiles, carefully chosen words, and the occasional pointed deflection.

Tomorrow was Friday. Practice day.

Which meant the car. The track. The silence of speed. The one place where the noise of the world dissolved, and it was just him and the machine.

He was ready for that.

Or so he thought.

The chaos hadn’t ended—it had only been waiting for the right moment to strike.

It began with a ping.

He was just sliding into the car that would take him back to the hotel when his phone buzzed. He didn’t look. Notifications came by the dozen during race weeks, and most of them weren’t worth the glance.

Then came the notification.

The one he never ignored.

A message from her.

The Mercedes driver with that infuriating voice and infuriating smile, who’d somehow made it her personal mission to drive him absolutely mad—both on and off track.

The message was sharp. Unapologetic. Straight to the point.

We need to talk. Now.

His eyebrows rose involuntarily. A smirk itched at the corner of his lips, one he bit back instinctively. She always had that tone—commanding, clipped, not asking for permission. It was the same tone she used when she was straddling him in his hotel room, when her voice dropped an octave and tried to take control. A tone he never let her keep for long.

‘Something urgent?’ he texted back, ice-cool as ever. A deliberate tease.

Then he tossed the phone back into his pocket. He had a race weekend to focus on. No distractions. Especially not her. Especially when she made distraction feel like an art form.

But what came next wasn’t a reply from her.

It was a call—from Raymond.

His manager’s tone was ice in his veins.

And then came more calls. From Red Bull’s PR. From legal. From his agent. The tidal wave had begun. Within an hour, his phone was in full meltdown—notifications exploding in a relentless cascade: messages from friends, fellow drivers, family; group chats resurrected from the dead; social media blowing up with tags, hashtags, screenshots, theories, memes.

He didn’t need to open a single app to know what it was about.

The video.

That video.

By the time he arrived at the hotel, his brain was a static mess of panic and damage control strategies—none of which could prepare him for what was waiting in the lobby.

Her.

Arms crossed, foot tapping, mouth taut. Fury radiated off her in waves. It wasn’t even a performance for the cameras—there were no cameras. This was just her, glaring murder into his soul, looking like she could knock his head off and sleep like a baby after.

He barely had time to draw breath, let alone say hi, before she launched into him.

“Are you actually this fucking reckless?”

The words struck fast. Sharp. “*Why the hell would you keep that in your iCloud, Max? That’s—God—so monumentally stupid, I can’t even—”

He blinked. Tried to speak. Failed.

She didn’t slow down.

The more she talked, the more his stomach sank. Not because she was wrong. But because she wasn’t. Because it was all true. Because he’d let this happen. Because the consequences weren’t just his anymore.

And that’s when it truly sank in.

He wasn’t the only one screwed.

They were.

Max’s hotel suite was unnervingly quiet.

Jimmy and Sassy were curled up against her, nuzzled comfortably into the Mercedes driver who remained planted on his couch, glaring at Max over the rim of her mug as she stirred her tea with the kind of slow, surgical precision that made him nervous—like she was plotting something far more sinister than simply dissolving sugar.

Max didn’t dare speak. Not yet.

He was still recovering from the verbal assault he’d received from literally everyone who had called him today. Not that he’d truly listened—he had a selective hearing gift—but it still stung. No one likes being scolded. Especially not when that “no one” happens to be a four-time world champion.

Another ping echoed through the room.

Max exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face as he sank deeper into the couch across from her. “That’s like… the 76th notification this hour,” he muttered, letting his head loll back against the cushion.

She raised a brow, setting her mug down with an infuriating amount of grace. “Aww,” she cooed, sarcasm coating every syllable, “you’re counting. How precious.”

Jimmy huffed at that moment—almost dramatically—shifting closer to her, his head nudging her arm until she absently scratched behind his ear. Max watched with narrowed eyes, torn between awe and betrayal. He’d told himself he didn’t care. That he was above it. That it meant nothing when his cats chose to sprawl against her legs instead of his. But when he’d sat down earlier and neither of the traitorous furballs had even twitched in his direction? Yeah. His pride had taken a hit.

Still, he remained outwardly unimpressed, schooling his features into that signature cool detachment as he watched her.

She wasn’t even dressed up. Just a plain tee and her favorite pair of jeans, the ones with fraying seams at the pocket edges and that little rip near the knee. And those shoes—her iconic Mercedes driving shoes. She wore them more often than not, Max had noticed. Always looked the most herself in them.

Except when she didn’t.

Like at the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony. The one where she’d worn that tailored black suit with no shirt underneath, collarbones sharp and daring, stilettos red-soled and unforgiving. Max had nearly disintegrated on the spot. His eyes had wandered far too long, and his brain had taken a dark turn, wondering how that fabric would feel beneath his hands, how quickly she could ruin him—

“Max?”

He jolted. Neck snapping up, eyes wide.

She was smirking. Of course she was. One eyebrow arched in amused expectation, phone lazily in one hand while the other absentmindedly petted Sassy, who was purring like an engine.

“Y-Yeah?” he rasped.

“Apparently,” she said, holding up her phone, “someone’s already started shipping us on social.”

He wasn’t looking for her.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

He was just trying to find her so he could show her the official statement Red Bull had drafted about the leak. A cold, PR-laced collection of words that said nothing meaningful—just the standard refusal to comment, a plea for privacy, and a reminder that they were “taking the matter seriously.”

It wasn’t personal. It wasn’t about her.

Except it was.

She wasn’t in her room, or the team’s designated restaurant downstairs. Not in the bar, not in the gym, not in the press zone.

He found her by accident—outside, by the pool.

She sat at the edge, jeans folded up to her knees, legs dipped into the water. Her shoes were abandoned beside her. The surface of the pool rippled gently around her calves, catching the blue light in flickers. She wasn’t scrolling her phone, wasn’t talking. Just staring out into the dark, her expression unreadable. Quiet. Still. Detached.

Max hesitated, then walked over.

He said nothing, simply settled beside her, mimicking her posture. He rolled up his jeans, dipped his feet into the water beside hers. His brain told him it was about solidarity. Damage control. Responsibility. But his heart knew better.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t react at first.

Then, softly—so softly he barely heard it—she said, “Congratulations.”

The word wasn’t sharp or sarcastic. It wasn’t congratulatory either. It was brittle—like something cracked underneath it. Not post-bliss vulnerable. Not even anger-laced. Just… tired. That bone-deep kind of fatigue where even bitterness had run dry.

It caught him off guard.

He looked over, saw the shadow of something he’d never seen in her before. A quiet insecurity, raw and unguarded, blinking in and out of existence behind her lashes.

Max swallowed. “It’s just P2,” he said lightly, as if that would soften anything.

She gave a soft huff, more exhale than laugh. “Better than P13.”

And it hit him then—how unfair this was.

Not the media frenzy or the social chaos.

This.

Her.

Sitting here, half-soaked, exhausted not just from the sprint quali but from what the world was making of her. Of them. She was carrying consequences for something he had done—something he should’ve protected better. And even now, she wasn’t angry. Just… quiet.

And Max had never felt guilt like this before.

maxverstappen1 just posted!

liked by thatmercedesdriver, redbullracing, mercedesamgf1 and 15829 others

maxverstappen1 The last few days have been brutal—for both of us. But I’ve had enough of seeing someone who doesn’t deserve this dragged through the mud.

She’s one of the hardest-working, most focused, and mentally tough people I know. And yet, people are using something that should’ve stayed private to question her integrity, her professionalism, and worse—her place in this sport.

Say what you want about me. But keep her name out of your hate.

We both made mistakes, but the blame is mine to carry.

Be better. Or be silent.

Comments are Limited

Redbullracing we love a supportive community 🧡

thatmercedesdriver you didn’t have to, but you did. Thank you—for showing up, even when it’s messy. And to everyone else: I don’t need defending. But I do expect decency.

mercedesamgf1 rivalry on track, respect off it 💪🏻

[cosmica-galaxy]

What if the cookies in our kingdom were clones of the original cookies in CRK?

Like...the Cookies in our kingdom were actually just clones of the original Cookies from the story that we baked ourselves and the kingdom itself is like a mysterious place in between time and space that we, as the true ruler, have complete control over it? It's strange but... Hear me out.

Like, that would explain the timeline issues (like pure vanilla meeting his future self or dark choco fighting himself ect) and the items that you can make appear in the kingdom, like the Hollyberry palace or the Dark Cacao altar for the DEAD SOLDIERS OF THAT KINGDOM. Can you imagine how eerie it would be for a visiting cookie that hails from a faraway kingdom to come to a brand new kingdom and see an EXACT copy of something from their homeland? That's some cosmic horror-level shit right there. Plus, the "cloned" cookies of the altered cookie kingdom are aware of your presence. Their "baker" (or just simply known as "them"). They adore you and hail you as the ruler, as well as praise you for making them strong and for caring for their every need (wishes, food, homes, decorations, ect). You cater to their every need and make them stronger by giving them soul candies or ascending them with soulstones. If the members of your kingdom met with the "true" cookies of the storyline, they would be flabbergasted by the sheer strength that their copies show. Imagine the main group consisting of Gingerbrave, Strawberry, and Wizard cookie meeting their stronger counterparts that have slight variations to them to help them stand out. Like markings or "their" (our) symbol on their doughs to let us know who our true copy is. Plus, they are STRONG. Like, basic story powered cookies get steamrolled by the clones and it frightens the cookies. Let alone how they sound EXACTLY like them and behave like them too. Except they keep mentioning a "baker" or "them".

I imagine that the Ancients are terrified of their cloned counterparts, As not only are they stronger, they are also AWAKENED just like them in the storyline. THEY ALSO HAVE THEIR OWN SOULJAMS. Plus, their underlings will be present as well, and fighting alongside each other that isn't normal in the story. Like "cloned" Dark Cacao fighting with his "cloned" son by his side that is far stronger than the normal Dark Choco Cookie. That's not all. Like, can you imagine the "cloned" beast cookies meeting the beasts from the true story timeline (excluding alternate difficulties, we're just talking about basic story mode here)? Can you imagine if you have ascended them multiple times, gave them their themed toppings, and maxed out their stats? The battle would be night and day.

Like...the clones from the Baker's Kingdom would absolutely beat the SHIT out of the story-mode beasts if they ever crossed paths...but they probably already have if you unlocked the beasts before starting/finishing their respective story arcs. A Shadow Milk Cookie with unique markings, same with the others, just wailing on the resurrected beasts from the story, and all the beasts can do is be puzzled at HOW there are two of themselves. But, once the battle is over and all their foes are defeated, the group just suddenly...leave. They fulfill their purpose and "they" (us) calls them back to the Altered Cookie Kingdom. I just think this would be a really cool idea. The baker's cookies vs the normal cookies, and how they don't share the same entity. Because, lets be real, how would ANYONE convince a beast cookie to do labor or something else for a Kingdom they don't care about? What prevents them from misbehaving or lashing out? This is just my take on trying to explain the multiple cookies and the timeline shenanigans that one can see throughout the game with the right cookies... Who knows? Maybe I'll doodle what I imagine the "cloned" superior versions of the "normal cookies" would look like. Maybe I will even dabble with the idea and write a oneshot about it. It's just interesting to me, personally. Thanks for reading my silly idea! <: )

[peleksstuff]

Spellbound.

Jason Todd x Sorcerer!reader

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

Sweat dripped from Dick's jawline as he flipped mid-air, catching the sparring baton Aqualad threw at him. The room echoed with the familiar sound of flesh smacking against rubber grips and boots sliding against training mat vinyl. It was like old times, just the two of them, breathing in sync, predictable patterns and counters—only to have his mind cloud again. A flicker of red. The sound of someone gasping over the comms. The weight of leadership. The factory.

His strike faltered. Not by much—barely half a second—but enough for Kaldur to sweep his leg out from under him and send him crashing to the ground.

WHAM!

His body hit the ground hard. “Shit,” he grunted, breath knocked out of him. Kaldur loomed above, offering a hand, concern flashing behind stern eyes.

“You’re distracted,” he said simply. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he lied with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just… the mission. That’s all.”

Kaldur nodded. No pressing. No judgment. “Zatanna called.”

Dick raised a brow.

Zatanna.

The name didn’t hit like it used to. Not anymore. He had Kory now.

She didn’t call for him. She called because she sensed something.

Good. That meant they didn’t have to go looking for her. She was coming to them.

And she did.

Two days later, the Zeta portal flared to life in the main hall.

Dick, Barbara, and Y/N stood near the portal room, watching it open. Jason was probably doing who knows what with Roy; Tim was at the manor, catching up on Bat-assignments.

“I still don’t get why we use a dramatic portal every time,” Y/N mumbled, arms crossed. “I mean, is there no such thing as a casual entrance anymore—?”

She stopped.

When the light faded, two figures stepped through.

Zatanna. And behind her, trench coat and all… John Constantine.

Dick blinked. He hadn’t known John was coming.

Zatanna’s face was cool. Composed. She looked like a magician who hadn’t slept in days.

Constantine looked like a man who had stopped sleeping years ago.

Y/N didn’t finish her thought. She just… stopped talking.

And that, in itself, was jarring.

They all exchanged nods—Barbara gave a tight smile—but Y/N stood still. Her fingers were clenched.

Y/N had seen John since. At League meetings. Passing glances in shadowed corners of smoky bars. But never this close. Not without a table between them or people pretending not to notice. But it had been years. John hadn’t looked her in the eye since she was fifteen.

Maybe today would be different.

Maybe not.

They moved to the meeting hall inside Mount Justice, where everyone gathered around the screens. Red lines on maps. Arcane sigils on files. A growing pattern of dark magic appearing in places it never should’ve touched.

“You didn’t sense it?” Zatanna’s voice cut through, sharp and pointed, but not unkind. Like a test.

Y/N opened her mouth, then hesitated. Her tongue was quick, her magic even quicker—but that? That felt like judgment.

“I—”

“We were occupied,” Dick interrupted, ever the leader, stepping forward. “Distracted.”

John scoffed, finally speaking. “A beginner witch could’ve sensed it.”

He still didn’t look at Y/N.

Y/N stared at him, her heart thudding dully. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. He focused instead on the glass of gin in his hand, swirling it slowly, as if it held more value than her presence.

So she did what she did best.

Smirked. Sarcasm lined her voice like poison. “Guess I’ll go back to reading tarot cards on Twitch.”

John didn’t flinch. “Well, whatever it is, it’s breached. Still not fully in action, so either it’s weak… or it’s planning something big. And when the fuck did Scarecrow learn to dip into witchcraft?”

The conversation spiraled into strategy. They spent the next hour discussing rituals, wards, the possibility of necrotic resurrection spells leaking through Crane’s new alliance with something darker.

As strategy filled the air, Y/N stayed silent. She wasn’t needed. Not in this room. Not by him.

And then it settled.

Later, Barbara was back at the computers searching for any recent movement from Crane. Y/N wandered off, unsure what to do with her pulse, with her anger. John was—predictably—on the rooftop, smoking.

Which left Dick and Zatanna alone in the living room.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward—but it was heavy.

Zatanna said softly, “How are you?”

Dick didn’t need clarification. It had been months since the break up. She’d been the one to end it. Coldly. Cleanly. For her work. For her soul.

He didn’t look at her. “I’m happy, Z.

“You moved on fast.”

Dick’s face twisted slightly, a half-smirk, half-scowl. “Really? You’re gonna pull that card?”

“You just—”

“You let go first,” he cut her off, voice flat.

That shut her up.

He left the room without another word.

From the hallway, John Constantine strolled in, smoke still clinging to his coat. He raised a brow at Zatanna, watching her try to compose herself.

“You deserved that.”

Zatanna rolled her eyes. “You talk to Y/N yet?”

John poured himself another drink and shook his head, grinning to himself like a man avoiding ghosts.

They left the Mount later that evening, heading to Zatanna’s hideout. The sanctuary was warded, quiet, and had an excellent liquor cabinet.

Constantine’s footsteps faded behind her. She lit incense, settled into her living space. She sipped something strong and turned to him.

“You’re not gonna ignore her forever, right?”

“She’ll live,” John muttered.

He poured himself another glass, something darker this time. Sat down. The weight in his shoulders sank.

“She needed a teacher, John,” Zatanna said, voice rising slightly. “How could she not sense this power? She’s not some rookie—she’s you. You raised her.”

John’s jaw tightened. “She couldn’t sense it… she’s one of them, Z.”

Zatanna stared. “What?”

“You think I left because I got bored?” he said. “You think I cut ties because I didn’t like the way she rolled her eyes when I corrected her spellwork?”

“No.” She shook her head, stunned. “You always said… I thought you killed every prophecy you encountered.”

“I did,” John said quietly. “Except this one.”

Zatanna whispered, “Why?”

“I found her too young,” John murmured. ““Hiding in a library. Had a nosebleed from touching an old grimoire no one else could open. She had no idea who she was. Just raw magic. I thought I could change her. Mold her. Maybe even save her.”

“I saw the visions. I tried to change the future. Thought maybe if I trained her differently, raised her better—maybe it would go away. But it didn’t. Every version of the future said the same thing.”

“Did walking away change it?”

“No. But being near her—knowing what I’d have to do—it was killing me faster than fate ever could.”

“Maybe killing her when you've found her would’ve been the kindest,” she said softly. And retreating into grief, John shook his head and changed—tension and memory in his posture. He sipped his drink again, lost.

Because she wasn’t a prophecy to him.

She was the kid who called him a twat under her breath. Who read backwards spellbooks because no one taught her better. Who laughed in demon pits and made tea out of blood leaves. The one who followed him like a lost mutt with too much spark.

She was chaos.

But she was his.

Not by blood.

But by choice.

He stood up, brushing invisible dust from his coat. He couldn’t afford to remember her the way he used to.

But he couldn’t forget, either.

Back at Mount Justice, Y/N was alone now—nursing a drink on the island bar. The quiet buzz of electronics filled the room, and the soft hum of memory burned in the background of her thoughts.

All she could hear was John’s voice.

“Beginner witch.”

Like she was a child again. Like she hadn’t survived everything alone after he left.

She didn’t cry.

She never did when it came to him.

But God, did she want to.

The boom portal opened again. Another arrival.

Jason Todd stepped out, messy hair, tired eyes, leather jacket and all. He clocked the drink in her hand and raised an eyebrow.

“Well, look who finally shut the hell up,” he teased, making his way to the bar.

Jason Todd emerged, tossing his leather jacket onto a stool. “Didn’t think I’d find you quiet,” he said.

She smiled weakly. “Miracles happen.”

They shared a laugh, light but hollow. Jason studied her.

Then it clicked.

Dick had told him earlier—Zatanna and John had a plan. That meant Y/N had seen him. John Constantine.

Jason’s gaze softened.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter now.

Y/N added softly, “I always wondered what kind of person I’d be… if he stayed.”

Jason didn’t speak. Not immediately.

Her voice trembled. That old pain. That raw abandonment.

Jason reached for his usual drink, then hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

She blinked.

“For what I said last week.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” she said with a dry laugh. “You say a lot of shit.”

He reached across the bar and held her wrist—not roughly, not tightly—but enough.

Enough to say stop it. Stop the humor from rising.

Stop pretending this is all okay.

He let go of her hand.

Jason’s eyes searched hers. “You know what I mean.”

Y/N was still. Then she just nodded.

Jason sits besides her. And then she started talking again.

Not the usual rambling. Just… memories.

She talked about the old days. The good ones. She talked about John like he was a myth. A storybook character. Like the man who abandoned her wasn’t the same man she still admired. It made Jason’s chest ache.

She didn’t even hate him.

She just missed him.

And Jason saw it.

Then the topic drifted.

To being forgotten.

To being left.

And Jason—Jason finally spoke what he’d never said out loud.

“Being forgotten by the only person you trusted…” Jason said with a sad smirk. “Yeah. I know that feeling.”

His voice was quieter now. A bitter smile played on his lips.

She glanced at him.

The pain was there. The white streak in his hair. The faint J carved under his cheekbone. The ghosts lived in him like old roommates.

He had made peace with it.

Or was trying to.

She smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Hey, hey—We are not that close, Y/N.”

They both laughed.

It didn’t fix everything.

But it reminded them they weren’t alone.

[spitefulsatanfics]

❝ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐇𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐝 “𝐈 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮” ❞

a soft & fluffy hunter headcanon collection by little devil 🥀

pairings: Dean Winchester x She/Her Reader | Sam Winchester x She/Her Reader | Castiel x She/Her Reader tone: soft, fluffy, heartfelt, romantic theme: established relationships, hunter x hunter dynamics, first “I love you” moments rating: PG-13 (just romantic language & emotional intimacy)

🌟 Dean Winchester

Scenario: It happens after a hunt—just you, him, and the stars overhead.

The town's been saved. Salt burned. Monsters dead. You and Dean are leaning on Baby's hood in the middle of nowhere, boots in gravel, whiskey shared between fingers. The moonlight's brushing across his features just right, highlighting that freckle near his jaw and the soft weariness behind his eyes.

You throw a pebble at the road. “Think they’ll ever invent a job that doesn’t involve bleeding?”

Dean chuckles, looking sideways at you. “What, like a monster barista?”

“Exactly. Ghosts get lattes. Vampires can’t tip.”

His laugh fades into something quieter. “Y’know, I was real messed up before I met you.”

You glance over. He’s staring up at the stars now, jaw clenched—but not like he’s mad. Just… sorting through something heavy.

“Didn’t think someone like me got to have this.” “Dean, you’ve always—” “Let me say it.” His voice cracks, just a little. “Just once, okay?”

He turns, eyes glassy and green-gold in the starlight, and you’ve never seen him look so sure.

“I love you, Y/N.” “Like, I really love you. The whole ugly, bleeding-heart, stupid-in-the-rain kind of love.”

You blink. “Stupid in the rain?”

He grins, his eyes wet. “I’d stand in a damn hurricane for you.”

📚 Sam Winchester

Scenario: It happens quietly—during research, of all things.

You’re cross-legged in the bunker’s library, highlighters in your hair, surrounded by lore books and empty mugs of coffee. Sam’s beside you, sleeves rolled, eyes deep in a demonology tome—except… he’s not reading.

He’s watching you. Quietly. Softly. Like a prayer he doesn’t think he deserves to whisper.

You look up. “What?”

“Nothing.” He clears his throat. “Just… you’ve got ink on your cheek.”

You reach to wipe it, miss. He leans forward, thumb brushing over your skin, and leaves his hand there a beat too long. Something shifts.

“You okay?” you ask, squinting.

He nods, but the smile is crooked. “Yeah. I just… been thinking about saying something.”

“We’ve been through Hell. Literally. Lost people. Nearly lost each other.” “And I kept waiting for the ‘right’ time but—I think this is it.” “Right here. Surrounded by cursed books and bad coffee.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours, voice just above a whisper:

“I love you.” “I love your sarcasm. Your strength. Your mind. Even the way you alphabetize your monster files.”

You snort. “That’s the sexiest part, obviously.”

His breathy laugh makes your stomach flip. He kisses you like he’s been waiting years.

🕊 Castiel

Scenario: It happens after a near-death experience—classic Winchester timing.

You were reckless. Took a hit meant for him. Blood on your shirt, shoulder torn, and Cas is kneeling beside you in the bunker hallway like he’s witnessing the end of the world.

“Why did you do that?” he asks, voice trembling. “Why would you risk yourself for me?”

You grit your teeth. “Because I couldn’t lose you.”

He heals you, hands glowing against your skin, and something inside him breaks open. You feel it in the air—crackling, electric, sacred.

“Y/N…” “Yeah?” “There is… something I must say. I’ve been afraid. Not of the words, but what they mean. What they will change.”

He pauses. Looks at you like you're the only being he's ever chosen willingly.

“I love you.” “Not as a soldier. Not as a mission. I love you… as a man. As me.” “And I will love you in every timeline. Every life. If Heaven falls. If I fall. Always.”

You don’t cry. You shatter. But only because you’ve never felt this safe.

You whisper it back. He breathes, like your voice resurrected him.

💘 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠.

Three words. Three hearts. And a lifetime of shared hunts, motel lights, safe hands, and “come home to me.”

[athenamikaelson]

Klaus Mikaelson x Soulmate!Reader x Elijah Mikaelson Pt. 8

Word Count- 7.8k

Warnings- Swearing, violence, blood, unhealthy thoughts when it comes to pain

A/N- Klaus in Alaric’s body will be referenced as Klaric since it’s easier for me to remember and easier than putting, “Klaus in Alaric’s body,” 100 times lol. ALSO it was so uncomfortable to write Klaus in Ric’s body when he and the reader are interacting.  So good luck.

-3rd Person POV-

Katherine sat shaking in her chair as she watched Klaus, who was currently residing in Alaric’s body, riffle through Alaric’s closet. Katherrine’s fear was evident to both parties as she watched the man from a small distance. 

“Ugh! Who is this guy? Safari Sam,” Klaric said disgustedly as he went through the dozens of flannel and khaki shirts. 

Klaric sighs as he grabs two shirts from the rack and holds them up in front of the younger vampire, “Okay. Bad… Or badder?”

Katherine scowls as she answers him, “The dark colors suit you better.”

“Oh thank you, honey. Okay,” Klaric throws the dismissed shirt onto the bed and then begins to put on the dark one, “Pop quiz. The dagger and white ash are in the Salvatore's possession, correct?”

“The dagger was used to kill Elijah. You’ll find him in the basement of the Salvatore house,” Katherine answers the question with about as much excitement as one can have in her situation. 

“Okay, that dagger needs to stay exactly where it is. The last thing I need to do is resurrect Elijah,” Klaric scoffs, “Oh, that guy’s a buzz kill.”

“Don’t forget you’re on the outs with your girlfriend Jenna.”

Klarics eyebrows raise and he nods along as if he actually cares, which he doesn’t, “Right. Elena’s aunt. For, uh, all the lies about Isobel. What else?”

“That’s it,” Katherine says but her breathing betrays her. Klaric takes a step forward and brings his hand up to brush a finger over her hair, resulting in a frightened jump from the latter. 

“So jumpy,” Klaric’s mocking tone breaks the silence. 

“Please,” Katherine’s voice comes out desperate, “Just kill me. I’ve told you everything I know.”

Klaric leans down to be eye to eye with the doppelganger, “See, I believe you believe that. But what would you not know? What could they be keeping from you? Anything? Tell me,” Klaric’s pupils enlarge as he compels the younger vampire. 

“They were trying to see if Bonnie could find a way to kill an Orginal without a dagger.”

“Bonnie the best friend?”

Katherine nods as Klaric stands up and crosses his arms in annoyance, “I thought you said she didn’t have her powers anymore.”

“She doesn’t. Or didn’t. I don't know,” Kathrine tries to reason, “You kidnapped me, remember? I’m kind of out of the loop.”

“Well, we’ll have to get to the bottom of that,” Klaric glances down at Kathrine again, “Anything else I should know.”

Katherine appears to be fighting back her words but Klaric’s compulsion proves to be too strong, “There’s a girl.”

This perks Klaric’s interest as he gestures with his hand for Katherine to continue, “Oh please, do go on.”

“She’s a friend of Elena’s,” Klaric rolls his eyes at this statement getting bored of Katherine’s dodginess. 

“Katerina, please tell me you aren’t wasting my time with the knowledge of a teenage girl who holds no means to my plan.”

Katherine opens and closes her mouth a few times before lowly biting out her words, “Elijah was quite fond of her. Before he was daggered.”

At this comment, Klaric’s eyebrows furrow, and a small smirk covers his lips, “You mean to tell me my older brother has a little crush on some teenage girl,” The amusement in his tone is evident. 

Katherine shakes her head as if Klaric should understand better what she’s talking about, “No it’s not like that,” She frowns, “Well, at first I had thought so too, but it’s deeper than just some crush. From what I’ve heard and seen it’s not just some random bond between them. It’s something deeper, something supernatural. Elijah is overly protective of her and he looks at her like,” She pauses as if talking about this hurts her, “Like, she’s all there is.”

At Katherine’s last sentence, the smirk from Klaric’s face promptly drops and is replaced momentarily by a look of disbelief. 

“You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,” Klaric’s tone darkens.

“I’m not one hundred percent sure, I mean I’ve only seen that kind of bond a handful of times in my entire life but,” Katherine sighs, “That’s the only possible explanation I can find for an Original vampire latching himself to a human girl like that.”

Klaric appears to be in thought for a moment as he processes Katherine’s words. Realizing that if the younger vampire were right, it would cause a slight hitch in his plans. 

Katherine, taking Klarics silence as a threat speaks up hastily, “Please, just kill me, Klaus. Be done with it.”

Klaric turns around and frowns mockingly at her, pushing the new information he just learned into the back of his brain for the current moment, “And show you kindness? I’ve searched for you for over five hundred years. Your death… is going to last at least half that long.”

Katherine’s shoulders tighten as Klaric pulls a pocket knife out from his jeans and opens it, “I want you to take this knife…and stab yourself.”

Katherine slowly picks up the knife and without a second thought plunges the knife into her thigh.  

“And while I’m gone, I want you to do that over and over and over again. And if you get bored,” Klaric smiles at her with nothing but malice, “switch legs.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna go lay eyes on my precious doppelganger,” Klaric thinks for a moment before smirking, “and maybe my future sister-in-law.”

Klaric presses a kiss to the top of Katherine’s head, “Oh, don’t look so glum, Katerina. The fun is just beginning.”

—

Y/N POV-

My hand shakily grips my shifter as I put my car into park. My hand continues to rest there as my vision goes in and out and my breathing rises as I stare at the Salvatore house in front of me. I can see Stefan and Damon sitting on the brick porch but I don’t seem to have caught their attention so that gives me a moment to collect myself. I try to calm my breathing, by doing deep breaths in and out, the longer I do this though, and prolong going into the boarding house, a coil of anxiety builds in my stomach. The last time I was here was days ago when Alaric killed Elijah. 

“He’s only temporarily dead. As long as the dagger stays in his chest he won’t wake up.”

The information Elena had told me the morning after the dinner party bounced around in my head, just like it had since the first time I heard it.

-Flashback-

A sharp pain jolts me out of the comforting dream I was having. It was one I don’t remember ever having before and it felt more like a memory than anything else. I remember sitting on a rock overlooking a small glistening brook, the smell of forest air and wildflowers surrounded me. I remember feeling the warm sun caress my skin and then hearing footsteps beside me. A man, or who I believed was a man, I couldn’t tell since his face was blurred. It was like when you look at your reflection in water but then the current comes and causes ripples, distorting your reflection. When staring at his face I would think for a moment that I could place together some of his features but whenever I believed I got close, his face would ripple again.

 Thinking back to it I knew I should’ve been unnerved by the faceless man but I felt nothing but a certain kind of comfort. As if I was meeting an old friend that I had known longer than life itself. The man's blurred face would look back at me and from his staring I wondered if my face was just as blurry as his was and he was trying to decipher my features just as I was with him. I never found out though because right when he appeared as if he were to start speaking I was awoken by the pain in my chest. 

“Hey, hey! You’re ok, everything is ok,” Elena’s comforting voice comes from beside me as I feel her pull me into a hug. 

I shake her off and then look at her quizzically, the dull ache in my chest still present, “What happened? Why are you here?”

Elena’s face falls from a worried look to one of shame as she glances down at her hands.

“Elena?”

She sighs and looks back up to me, “How much of last night do you remember?”

At her question I frown and wonder what she could mean by that but then quickly memories of the dinner party and Elijah catapult through my mind. Elijah picking me up because of my flat tire, hearing him talk about Salem and the dead witches, him holding my hand, and…, “Oh God. Elijah! He died,” I know I shouldn’t care so much about a man I had just met but something in me shakes, “Alaric he killed him.”

Elena shakes her hands and head, “No! Well…I mean technically, yes, but not really.”

Elena must see the evident confusion on my face because she begins to retell everything that happened after I had passed out. From Alaric and Jenna taking me home, to Elijah waking back up and going after Elena, and then to Elena tricking Elijah and daggering him. Even though Elena’s my friend, when she told me that, anger rose throughout my body and I wanted to yell at her for what she had done. But from the guilty look on her face, I could tell she was already mad at herself. 

“He’s only temporarily dead. As long as the dagger stays in his chest he won’t wake up,” Elena tells me, and a deep breath I didn’t realize I was holding escapes my lips. 

“When I heard about you fainting I came here as soon as I could. I got here a few hours ago,” She motions to my bedroom door, “Your mom let me in. I’m really sorry you had to witness that Y/N, if I knew what Damon was up to I would’ve warned you not to go. But, when has Damon ever let any of us in on his master plans,” She tries to crack a joke but it doesn’t land. 

“So Elijah isn’t dead?”

Elena shakes her head, “Nope, just temporarily.”

-End of Flashback-

Temporarily. Not dead dead. Well I mean technically he’s already dead but… never mind. A light knock on my car window makes me slightly jump, but I relax when I see Stefan standing there with a small comforting smile on his face. He slowly opens my car door, “Are you ok, Y/N?” 

I want to tell him, “hell to the no,” and put my car in drive and never come back to this godforsaken house ever again, but I can’t do that to Stefan. 

Days have passed since the dinner party and each one Stefan has somehow checked on me and my mental state. At first, it was him showing up at my house because I couldn’t get myself to go to school, but then when I finally did push myself to go he would somehow always find me in the hallways and walk with me to my classes, even those that we didn’t share. Some of those times Elena would join us, so I thought it was him just following her around but then when Elena wouldn’t show up at school or she was somewhere else he’d still walk with me. I wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it was kind of nice. I know it’s just pity but I began to look forward to our walks since we’d just talk about anything and nothing. I’d found that Stefan, unlike his brother, is quite personable when he’s not overtaken by his lust for blood. Which is something he admitted to me one day after school. I found it odd how someone who seems to be as moral as he is, can succumb to that kind of monster. 

I want to slam my door and leave but instead, I send Stefan a small smile, turn my car off, and step out of my car. Even though I think he’s only being nice to me out of pity, I don’t really want to ruin any chance of messing up whatever “friendship” we have going on.

“Elena’s waiting for you inside,” Stefan smiles at me again as he leads me up the walkway to the stairs where the Demon is perched. I glare at him as he smirks devilishly at me as I walk up the stairs. 

“How was your trip?”

Damon’s question has me shaking my head in annoyance, “What are you gabbing about, I didn’t take any trip.”

“I mean the trip you took to the floor,” He laughs to himself like he’s the funniest person alive, “You know when you fainted.”

“Go to hell, Damon.”

“Go to hell, Damon.”

Stefan and I echo each other as we both roll our eyes at the dark-haired vampire who just shrugs his shoulders, “Just playing around. It’s how Pukie and I’s friendship works.”

My lip curls up in disgust, “We don’t have a friendship.”

Damon fakes a gasp as he places his hand on his nonbeating heart, “You wound me.”

“Too bad not fatally,” I say under my breath but both vampires catch it, resulting in a small snort from Stefan and a scowl from Damon. The latter appears like he’s about to say something else but when the front door opens and a bald man who looks like he just walked off a Monopoly game board comes out, he stops. 

Elena appears beside him and shakes his hand, “Thank you, Mr. Henry.”

Mr. Monopoly sends her a smile and then leaves. I walk with Damon and Stefan to the front door and as I walk through I hear them both halt. I turn around to see them both standing at the entryway of the door. 

“Did I miss something? Who was the bald guy,” I question Elena who stands next to me and laughs at my question.

 “That was Mr. Henry. He just gave the deed to the house,” Elena smiles as she looks around the room as if she hadn’t been here a thousand times before.

“Wait. This house,” I point to the ceiling confused.

Elena nods, “Yep. Damon and Stefan signed over the house to me so no uninvited guests can enter without my approval.”

Oh. Vampires. Right.

“Oh, well that’s smart, I think. Must’ve been Stefan’s idea right?”

“You’re hilarious, Pukey,” Damon says with no amusement covering his face. 

Stefan seems delighted though as his shoulders move up and down in laughter. 

Elena turns to Stefan and smiles at him, “Stefan. Would you like to come inside my house?”

“I would love to. Thank you,” Stefan smiles at his girlfriend and comes to stand next to me as we watch Elena and Damon having a stare-down. 

“What are we, twelve?”

“One of us is,” Elena’s jab has me snorting.

“If I let you in do you promise to obey the owner of this house?”

Damon face contorts in disgust as if that was the craziest thing he’s ever heard, “No.”

“Seriously, Damon. My way. You promised. I call the shots. No lies, no secret agendas. Remember?”

“Yes, Elena. Sure.”

Elena looks like she’s about to invite him in but then she looks back at me momentarily and then back to Damon, “One more thing.”

Damon rolls his eyes, “Of course.”

“No more calling Y/N those nicknames. Stop being an ass.”

Damon looks at her for a moment before glancing at me and sending me a fake smile, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Then please, come in.”

Damon walks through the threshold and by Elena and Stefan but when he passes me, he leans down slightly to whisper to me, “Always gotta cross your fingers, Pukey,” Damon raises his hand to show his middle finger crossed over his pointer finger. 

“Ass.”

I follow the three into the living room but then notice Bonnie and send her a small smile, her face brightens as she sees me and sends me a friendly wave. Bonnie hands Elena her jacket who puts it into her bag.

“Wait,” Stefan interrupts, “Where are you going?”

“To school.”

“Huh?”

Damon chimes in, “No, no, no, we didn’t create a safe house for you to leave it.”

“Yeah, guys. Klaus is out there. We know that.”

“Right. But where? No one knows. Look. I really appreciate what you guys are doing. And I’ll be able to sleep at night knowing that I’ll be safe here but I’m not going to be a prisoner,” Elena stares at both the men and Stefan glances back to his brother.

“Your way, Elena.”

“Don’t worry, I’m ready. If he shows his face, I can take him. I know how,” Bonnie’s words send a sense of comfort through me. Always stay next to the all-powerful witch. Noted. 

“The way I see it next to Bonnie is the safest place I can be.” 

“Come on,” Elena gestures for us to follow her to our cars. 

I wait at the door for a moment though, pretending to be grabbing my keys from my bag. Stefan walks past me and follows Elena and Bonnie. I turn to Damon who stands in the same spot and send him a small smirk as I bring my hand out of my bag and show him the singular finger I’m holding up. 

Damon scoffs and rolls his eyes, “Real mature.”

“Later, Demon.”

—

The first-period bell rings as I quickly run to my seat next to Bonnie. I stopped for an iced tea and didn’t really know how long it would take me. So thankfully going ten miles over the speed limit the entire way got me here just in time. I turn and smile at Elena who is sitting behind me and Stefan who is sitting to her right. Elena brings up the paper in her hands and shows it to me and Stefan with a smirk. The paper is a flyer for the 60’s dance tonight and both Stefan and I share the same face as we both shake our heads at Elena. She just rolls her eyes and shows it to Bonnie who smirks even more than Elena and nods her head. I laugh slightly at my new friend and she leans over to me, “Caroline will kick your butt if you don’t come tonight.”

I debate it over for a moment if I’d rather spend two hours in a gym with sweaty teenagers or face the blonde wrath of Caroline Forbes. 

“Yep, I’ll be there,” I say and hear Elena whisper-yell a small yay and Bonnie smirks triumphantly. 

“Hello, class,” Ric’s voice has me turning to the front as he walks in. I frown though when I see his current apparel. Unlike before, where he usually opts for something casual, today something about him seems different. He almost looks kind of attractive. Wait. Ew, hell no. 

Ric thumbs through the book he’s holding as he asks the class what we’re learning today, which I find quite odd since that’s kind of his job. Maybe he’s day drinking again?

“With the decade dance tonight we’ve been covering the ‘60s all week,” Dana’s voice has me inwardly groaning. Ever since I got to this school she’s been a total pain in my ass, always commenting on how I dress or how little I talk. 

‘Right the ‘60s,” Ric turns to the class but stops for a moment. I follow his line of sight and frown as I watch him watch Elena closely for a moment before clearing his throat. 

He turns back around to face the chalkboard, “The uh… The ‘60s wish there was something good I could say about the ‘60s but, they actually kind of sucked.”

I slightly snort at Ric’s jokes because honestly, he’s not wrong. I stop laughing though when I realize he heard me. I meet Ric’s eyes and I frown in confusion when his eyebrows furrow and his eyes search my entire face practically a hundred times over as if this is the first time he’s ever seen me. He watches me for another moment before he clears his throat and turns back to the board hastily. Well, that wasn’t weird at all. 

“Um, ya. The uh, Beetle’s made it bearable,” Ric turns back around and faces the classroom his gaze finds me once more and I frown at him to which he darts his eyes away. Ya, definitely day drinking. 

“Um, what else was there, The Cuban missile thing, the uh. We walked on the moon, there was Watergate.”

“Watergate was the seventies, Ric,” Elena corrects him stopping him from his pacing, “I mean, Mr. Saltzman.”

“Right, all kind of mushes together up here, the ‘60s, ‘70s. But thank you, Elena.”

The rest of the class goes on like this, Ric half-assedly teaching, or more like listing things that happened in the ‘60s. Thankfully after 45 minutes the bell rings and I go to follow my friends out of the classroom but stop as I glance at Ric who is wiping away the writing on the chalkboard. Elena, Bonnie, Stefan, and the rest of my classmates exit the classroom leaving just Ric and I. I don’t think he realizes I’m here as I walk up towards his desk.

“Uh, Ric?”

At the sound of my voice, Ric’s hand pauses on the chalkboard and for a moment I could’ve sworn I saw his grip tighten on the brush. I hear him release a breath before he turns to look at me. His face is remote from any emotion as he stares at me.

“Yes?”

His monotone voice has me slightly annoyed, “I just wanted to check if you were alright?” 

My question has him slightly narrowing his eyes at me, “Why would you think something is wrong?”

I shrug my shoulders, “I don’t know you just seem a little out of it. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I mean I heard about Jenna and I know it’s none of my business but-”

“You’re right, it is none of your business,” Ric’s harsh tone has me frowning as I look at him. The way he’s talking to me is almost like I’m talking to a complete stranger. 

“Don’t you have a class to be going to, instead of bothering me?” I open my mouth to question why he’s being such an ass but these past few days I don’t really feel like I have any fight left in me at times. Right now being one of those. 

“I’m sorry,” I say pulling my backpack closer to me as I begin to walk out the door, “I’ll make sure to not bother you again.”

—

The rest of the first half of school goes by slowly and I practically have to trudge my way into the cafeteria. Elena notices me and waves at me. I look over to the lunch line but can’t seem to find the appetite to eat so I slowly make my way over to Bonnie and Elena. I throw my bag on the table, lay my head on it, and close my eyes with a sigh.

“Long day,” Elena questions from beside me.

I just wordlessly nod. 

“Aren’t you going to get lunch,” I hear Bonnie ask me, and I shake my head. 

“Alright, wakey-wakey,” Elena uses her index finger to lift my head off my bag, “You need to eat, here,” She rips her sandwich and half, and I kind of find it gross her fingers are touching my share but the gesture is still sweet. She places the sandwich in my open hand and gestures for me to eat it. I stare at it for a moment then slowly bring it to my lips and take a minuscule bite.

“Yummm,” I say sarcastically which makes Bonnie giggle and Elena roll her eyes playfully. 

We’re interrupted though when the she-devil appears, “Hey, Elena, there you are,” Dana’s squeaky voice fills my ears and I fight the urge not to throw my head back down on my bag, “Okay, this is gonna sound freaky but this totally hot guy just asked me to ask you if you're going to the dance tonight.”

I throw up a disgusted look as Elena laughs and Bonnies speaks up, “Tell him she has a boyfriend.”

“You could at least meet him. He’ll be at the dance tonight. Look for him. His name is Klaus.”

At the mention of Klaus, all three of us freeze up and a wave of nausea washes over me. 

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

“His name’s Klaus? I know the name stupid but I swear he’s hot.”

I’m frozen as Bonnie starts questioning Dana for his whereabouts. Then Bonnie enlightens us by saying Dana’s been compelled. 

“But he wants to know if you’ll save him the last dance. How cute is that?”

Oh shit. 

—

I sigh as I approach the front door to the Salvatore’s for the second time today. Elena called me a little while ago saying they were meeting there to talk strategy about tonight. I told her we should just use the Salvatore’s vampire money and get the hell out of dodge, but she didn’t agree with me. So here we are. I shove open the wooden door and look at the five figures already standing in the living room. Bonnie and Elena stand to one side of the room, opposite the Salvatore’s, and Ric stands at the end of the entryway. 

“Sorry I’m late,” I apologize to Elena as I come to stand next to Ric, “My brother needed to be dropped off at practice.”

“No worries, Ric just got here too,” Elena gestures to the man standing next to me and I slightly glare at him when I remember how he acted this morning. His eyebrows furrow slightly as he notices my unapproving look. I look away from him and walk down to sit on the sofa. 

“What’s our plan of attack,” Elena questions the group. I actually don’t understand why I’m here. I mean when Klaus comes for Elena the most I can do is probably make fun of his split ends or something like that. Without being supernatural there’s not much to do here. 

“Me,” Bonnie answers, “I’m the plan. He has no idea how much power I can channel. If you can find him. I can kill him.”

I fight the urge to say that this all could’ve been an email and I didn’t have to waste the gas money to get all the way over town since most of us don’t have generational wealth to fall back upon, but I fight my inner demons and stay quiet. 

“That’s not going to be easy,” Ric chimes up, “I mean, he is the biggest baddest vampire around.”

“Kinda sounds like someone has a crush,” I snarkily whisper under my breath but I must not have been quiet enough since Ric’s eyes flash towards me and for a moment his upper lip twitches but then falls back into a flat line and he looks away. 

“Alaric has a point. I mean, what if he,” I flinch backward as Damon is thrown across the room by Bonnie. I loud laugh escapes my lips and I slap my hand to my mouth to try to cover it. 

“Well, I was impressed,” Stefan says amused.

“I personally think you should try it again,” I say to Bonnie, “Y’know just to make sure you really know how to do it.”

Bonnie smirks at my suggestion and I hear Damon swear at me under his breath. 

“It doesn’t matter if he’s an Original. I can take down anyone who comes at me. I can kill him, Elena. I know I can.”

This really could’ve been an email. 

—

Another dance. Alone. God I have no game. 

I stare at myself in my hallway mirror and brush my fingers against the orange fabric of my dress. Because I didn’t plan on going to this dance, until this morning I didn’t have anything to wear, but after complaining about it to Stefan he dropped off one of his spares he had lying around in his attic about an hour ago. I don’t even want to know why he has a bunch of women’s dresses in different sizes in his attic. So I did not ask. And I don’t think I ever will. 

“Alright let’s get this show on the road, the ladies are waiting for me,” Theo’s voice comes from the living room as he adjusts his tie. My younger brother is dressed in a suit and tie that seriously needs to be ironed. 

“Where the hell did you even get that?”

At my question, Theo tenses up slightly, “It was in Dad’s things.”

At the mention of our father, we both go quiet, which is something Theo always seems to struggle with. I take a deep breath and shake my head away from the thoughts of him.

“Ok let’s go,” I try to fake a smile for Theo, “Wouldn’t want to leave your date waiting.”

Theo’s demeanor instantly changes as he smirks evilly, “Dates, plural my dear sister.”

I freeze and whip around to him and fight the urge to wring my little brother’s neck, “Please tell me you're not cheating on some poor girl.”

Theo raises his hands up, “Hell no, I’m a player, not a cheater! I’ve got morals,” He puts his hand on his heart as if I’ve insulted him, “These two girls asked me and I told them I can’t be held down by just one woman, so I told them I’d share myself for the night with them.”

I fight the urge to throw up on my brother, “How generous of you.”

Theo smirks at me as he opens the front door and gestures for me to exit, “You raised me right.”

—

Not even a minute after entering the gym, where the dance is being held, and Theo has already been swept away by his “dates.” God that kid is going to give me an early death. 

I glance around the gym staring at the masses of students all laughing, dancing, and having a great time and I envy how carefree they all appear. I’m about to be struck by a tone of self-pity when that sharp pain from before has me gripping my chest. I hunch over in pain and try to work through it by doing stupid breathing exercises my mom taught me, but the pain only gets harder to bear. I take a few steps so I can lean against the nearest table, and close my eyes trying to wait out the pain. What if I’m having a heart attack? Oh god, can someone my age even have heart attacks?

“Y/N what’s wrong, what happened,” A frantic voice comes from beside me and I turn my head slightly and open my eyes to see Ric hunched over next to me. His emotionless features from before are long gone and replaced by what almost looks like fear. God, do I look that bad?

“My chest,” Is all I’m able to breathe out as I point to the center of my chest where the pain is coming from. 

Alaric’s eyes go from my eyes to where I’m pointing and I could’ve sworn a look of realization flashed through them but it’s gone within a moment. Ric places his arm around my waist and he leads me to a nearby chair. He tells me to sit still for a moment and then he comes back with a glass of water. 

I shake my head and scoff because I know a simple glass of water isn’t going to do anything but Ric’s face flashes with annoyance and he grabs my left hand with his and puts the cup in it. He wraps my fingers around the cup and lifts it to my lips, “Drink. Now.” I sigh and go to argue but he uses that to send the water down my throat. The cool liquid goes down my throat and I swallow it harshly. After a moment Ric brings the cup down from my lips. I go to bitch at him only to realize that the pain is gone. What the hell? 

I begin to question if he added some supernatural magic juju to the water but he quickly drops my hand as if it were on fire, gives me a once over, and walks away without another word. What the actual hell? 

—

I let out a loud laugh as I dance with Caroline who swings me around as a slow song plays on the speaker.

“Keep up girl,” Caroline squeals as we go around in circles. Even though the couples around us are all shooting us dirty looks, Caroline who saw me sitting by myself 20 minutes ago and has made me dance with her ever since, doesn’t seem to care. Matt who is supposed to be her date left us to go get drinks so it left Caroline and I to slow dance to some old song. And I mean we did start out slow dancing, she lead of course, but then we just kind of kept spinning around faster and faster. So here we are laughing our asses off as she practically flings me around the dance floor. 

The song comes to a close and Caroline and I can’t stop laughing even as Dana takes the stage, “Hey everyone! I have a special shout-out to Elena, from Klaus.”

And no more laughing. 

I look through the crowd and spot Elena, Jeremy, Bonnie, Damon, and Stefan all standing in a circle glancing around the gym. Thankfully Matt comes back and I bid Caroline and him a farewell for now, ignoring Caroline’s “WTF” look she shoots me. 

Another slow song starts to play as I make my way through the crowd and fight a scream as I feel a hand grab mine and I’m pulled to someone's chest. I prepare for the worst but once I see who it is I just roll my eyes. 

“Oh, it’s just you,” I say to Damon who smirks down at me.

“Someone’s jumpy,” I roll my eyes at him and go to walk away when he pulls me back, “Dance with me.”

“I’d rather jump off a cliff, thank you very much.”

“Y/N, one dance,” I turn to look at Damon and try to find any evil intent in his look but am surprised to find none.

“Why,” I question him skeptically.

Damon slowly pulls me into him, puts his hand on my lower back, and raises his other for me to take, I glare at him as I slowly place my hand in his and he slowly starts to sway me to the music. 

“I’m only saying this because no one can overhear me, with the music playing,” I start to get frightened at what he’s about to say, “But, I’m sorry.” 

Holy shit. Maybe I did have a heart attack and am hallucinating now because I could’ve sworn THE Damon Salvawhore was apologizing. 

“What did you just say,” I ask amazed.

Damon just rolls his eyes and scoffs as he spins me around, “Don’t make it a big thing. And if you tell anyone I’ll deny it. But yes, I’m sorry.”

“For what? Calling me names?”

Damon shakes his head and makes a face as if that was a crazy suggestion, “No of course not. I will never give that up…I’m talking about the dinner party.”

At the mention of that night, I turn to stare at anywhere other than Damon, “I’ll always protect Elena and I don’t care who I have to kill to do that,” He pauses probably realizing his apology sucks ass, “But, I could’ve done it without you there. You didn’t need to see that. I know you and Elijah were friends or whatever,” I go to deny it but he stops me, “Don’t even try to deny it. I saw how you were with him. With everyone else, you’re more timid but with him,” He pauses, “I don’t know, you were just more comfortable, more you.”

Damon’s words hang in the air for a moment as we continue to sway to the music, “Does this mean…we’re friends now,” I look up to him with slight disgust and he sends me a smirk. 

“No way in hell, Pukerella.”

“Oh, thank god,” I say with a breath of relief. At that Damon lets out a huff of a laugh and for a moment I think I can see past the angry vampire facade he has going on and it makes me wonder just what happened to make him this way. The song comes to an end though and Damon’s hands drop from my back and hand, he goes to walk away but I call out to him. 

“Thank you for the apology,” Damon turns around and slightly nods, “You’re not that terrible for Hell’s gatekeeper.”

Damon’s deep laugh echoes through the gym as he walks away from me. And for a moment I let a small smile fall onto my face. That is until Elena comes rushing over to me with Bonnie in her grip.

“Y/N, come on,” And there goes the rest of the night I think to myself as I follow an angry Elena out of the high school and into the parking lot. Not quite sure why, but what the hell?

“How could you not tell me,” Elena questions Bonnie and I start to get even more confused, “No way, it’s not an option.”

“What’s not an option,” I chime in feeling like a little kid watching her parents argue. 

Elena turns to me, “If Bonnie channels all that power to kill Klaus, it’ll kill her too.”

At this new information, my eyes pretty much fly out of my head, “Seriously?! Bonnie, what the hell?”

“It’s our only option.”

“Then we’ll find another way, okay? Bonnie you’re not dying to save my life.”

“I agree, this is a suicide mission, Bonnie.”

“I have the power to save you! If I don’t use it and something happens that would kill me more.”

Elena shakes her head in denial, “I can’t let you.”

“Just answer one question…If this situation was reversed would you do it for me?”

Elena goes quiet and Bonnies has her answer, “So you know why I have to.”

“No, No!” Elena’s voice cracks and I feel a tear slide down my cheek at the realization that I’m going to lose my new friend. 

“Elena,” Alaric runs up to us and I quickly wipe away the loose tears. 

“What is it?”

“He has Jeremy,” Ric’s words have all three of us shaken.

“Yeah, Klaus has Jeremy. Come on,” He hurriedly gestures for us to follow him. Without a second thought, we run through the metal door and into the school. 

“Ok, so where are you taking us,” Elena hastily questions Alaric but as we run through the hall something in the back of my mind is telling me something isn’t right. 

“Just a little further,” Ric says but something in his tone makes me halt. 

“Wait,” My voice has all three of them stopping and I look wearily at Ric and he watches me carefully. 

“Ric,” I pause and realize that I’m about to sound crazy for even questioning Alaric, the same Alaric who has been nothing but good to all of us kids, until today at least, “How did you know Klaus took Jeremy?”

Ric stares at me and for a moment his face looks like he’s almost proud of me for questioning him, but then he just shrugs his shoulders, “Stefan told me.”

He turns around and starts walking some more but Elena, Bonnie, and I don’t follow him. They must’ve caught on to what I was feeling since they started questioning Ric themselves.

“Where’s Jeremy,” Bonnie yells to Ric and a chill runs up my spine as he lets out a long sigh.

“I just had to get away from that dance. The ’60s, ugh. Not my decade. I mean whose call was that, anyway? I much prefer the ’20s. You know, the styles, the parties, the jazz.”

I watch unnerved as Ric speaks as if he has no care in the world.

“Alaric,” Elena calls to him, “Are you on vervain?”

With every step Ric takes towards us, we take one away from him.

“Now why would you ask me that question, Elena?”

Bonnie stands in front of both of us and Elena pushes me to stand behind her, “He's being compelled.”

“Nope! Try again,” When Ric says this my eyes start to water at the realization. 

“That’s not Alaric,” I say which has “Alaric’’ sending me a satisfied look.

“I knew there must’ve been a reason he liked you,” “Alaric” almost bites out, “Well, except for the obvious reason.” 

I frown at what he says, confused about what the hell he’s talking about. 

“Who am I, Little one,” “Alaric,” asks me, and Bonnie and Elena look at me still confused.

“Klaus…You’re Klaus.”

“Bingo! Aren’t you a smart one!”

“No,” Elena shakes her head, “It’s not possible.”

“Just relax, Elena. I’m not here to hurt you. You’re not on my hit list tonight,” He shoots me a look, “Neither are you.”

Then he looks back to Bonnie, “But you are,” He runs towards Bonnie but she uses her powers to push him into a wall. I watch horrified as he gets back up.

“Now, did I mention that I know a witch? You’re gonna have to hit me a lot harder than that.”

Bonnie shoots him back again and just like before he gets back up, “By all means if you kill this body. I’ll just get a new one. Maybe Jeremy.”

Bonnie turns back to both of us and yells at us to go, all three of us sprint down the halls. Our heels squeaking on the newly washed floors. We run to the end of the hallway and Damon comes rushing towards us. 

“What happened?”

Elena is the first to speak, “Klaus is in Alaric’s body.”

“What?”

“He’s possessing it. Or something.” What has my life come to?

Damon turns to Elena and I, “Go find Stefan, Now!”

We nod and Elena grabs my hand as we run through the halls to find Stefan. 

We get to the gym and Elena and I frantically search around, we split up as we go to separate sides of the gym. How hard is it to find a bunny-eating vampire? Thankfully I get a glimpse of hero hair and I run up to him. At the sight of me, Stefan's eyebrows furrow, “What’s wrong?”

“No time to talk, teenage witch to save,” I grab his suit sleeve and drag him to where I see Elena talking with Caroline and Matt. Elena runs over to us and we drag Stefan out of the gym. 

We begin running but my breathing starts to get heavier and heavier, making me stop and clutch my chest. Not this again. Please not now!

“Y/N what’s wrong?”

Elena comes to my side but I push her away, “I’m fine you need to go help Bonnie,” She shares a look with Stefan who doesn’t look convinced that I’m ok.

“Go!”

They both nod and then take off. Once they turn the corner and are out of sight I drop to the floor and lean my back against the lockers. I fight back a cry as waves of pain wash through my entire body. Where before it was just my chest, now it feels like my entire body is breaking. 

Tears stream down my cheeks as a sharp pain hits my knee and a scream escapes my lips. I look down at it expecting it to be broken but visually nothing seems wrong. What the fuck is happening to me?!

After what feels like an hour I hear footsteps come down the hallway. With tear-stricken eyes, I glance up and see Stefan practically carrying a sobbing Elena. The latter practically dives for me once she sees I haven’t left my spot on the floor. I’m about to push her off since her body is pressing into my throbbing knee but what she sobs into my ear has me stopping.

“She’s dead! Bonnie’s dead,” Elena's shoulders shake as she pulls me tighter into a hug. My gaze looks up to Stefan who won’t meet my eyes and that’s all the confirmation I need for a sob to escape from my mouth. I wrap my sore arms around Elena and feed into the pain since it’s the only thing grounding me from processing what has happened. 

—

Elena and I sit wrapped in a blanket as we watch the fireplace in front of us. Elena’s sniffles are the only noise heard in the room. My crying stopped about 30 minutes ago and all I’ve been doing since is staring blankly at the orange flames. 

Stefan enters the room with two cups and he holds them out for us to take. Elena tells him she can’t, but I don’t even move my eyes from the fire. I can’t. I don’t want to drink whatever soothing tea he has, I want to watch something burn. Or someone, Klaus. I want to watch Klaus burn. 

From behind me I can hear the front door open and can only assume it’s Damon. I can hear Elena get up and start arguing with him but I don’t turn from my seat. The sound of a slap jolts me slightly from my stupor and I find myself turning slightly to hear better, but never fully taking my eyes away from the flames.

“You need to listen to me and prepare for what I’m about to say. Klaus was a total surprise. She wasn’t prepared for that. And he wasn’t going to stop and we weren’t going to be able to stop him until he knew she was dead. He had to believe it. She cast a spell. Bonnie’s okay.”

—

Bonnie’s okay. Bonnie’s okay. Bonnie’s okay. 

Damon’s words repeat in my mind as Elena and I sit in front of the laptop screen waiting. After another moment Bonnie’s face enters the frame and she smiles at us with tears in her eyes.

“Elena, Y/n, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Elena says with tears of her own and I smile at Bonnie.

“There wasn’t enough time to tell you,” Bonnie says with sobs that make my chest cave in.

“It’s okay, seriously. Damon explained it all.” 

The call ends shortly and Elena smiles at me happily, as she throws her arms over my shoulder and once again pulls me into a hug.

“She’s okay,” Her happy words should fill me up with feelings of bliss but as my gaze moves towards the dying embers the only feeling I have is anger. 

[bokonowriter]

Crimson & Curls - Part 1

Remmick x Fem! Reader: Chapter List Description: That night in the rain with Remmick… it was more than chance; a raw vulnerability laid bare between you and him. A mutual curiosity thrummed, a silent question about the power leashed beneath his elegant coat. And behind that devilish smile, a promise of shadowed pleasures, a darkness that whispered a dangerous invitation to your very soul. Find out, what is that devil hiding? ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ "Tell me, honey… what else are you hiding? What desires do you keep locked away? Perhaps… I can help you unleash them."

A/n: The reader in this is mixed ethnicity, and thus light skinned. She is white passing due to her lightly tanned skin tone.

Warnings: This story contains explicit content (DO NOT INTERACT UNLESS 18+) including: oral smut, public smut, explicit language, fingering, intense sensual detail, moaning/whimpering, female orgasms, and squirting, mentions of supernatural. (more will be added as the story continues).

Seeking Shelter in the Shadows

WHEN THE cicadas fell silent before dusk – a hush thicker than the kudzu that strangled the abandoned  plantation – the old folks in Delta understood. It wasn't just the coming darkness; it was the whisper of what lay restless in the woods, a hunger older than the moss-draped oaks and twice as unforgiving.

You should’ve known. Mama's words, thick with the swamp-born wisdom of generations, should have echoed louder: "Never trust a sunset that bleeds like a stuck hog."

Yet you found yourself gazing mindlessly towards the streaks of angry crimson that slashed across the darkening horizon. 

Tonight it wasn't the peaceful blush of a typical sunset, but a violent, almost desperate flare, as if the very heavens were weeping blood. The light that did breakthrough was sharp and fractured, casting long, distorted shadows that writhed like restless spirits on the moss-draped ground.

But below, the clouds were boiling masses of charcoal and deep indigo, their undersides rimmed with a fierce, almost electric gold – the devil's own furnace, Mama would have hissed. 

These weren't soft, pillowy formations; they were jagged and turbulent, like the tormented souls Silas Crowder swore he saw clawing their way out of the earth after the great flood.

You needed to get to town, past the whispering pines that seemed to watch you, and quickly. Smoke & Stack, their eyes already glinting like hungry possums in the twilight, were tethered to your return, knowing a light-skinned girl like you could grease the wheels of a deal they couldn't manage on their own. 

Fool's errand, venturing out before the moon bled its sickly light across the marshy flats, but the juke joint's resurrection loomed, and the strain had those boys knotted tighter than a hangman's noose – a familiar dance with the demons of their own making, a twisted echo of your daddy's losing battle with the bottle.

Annie's pronouncements, heavy with the swamp's ancient wisdom, clung to you like grave dust. "It’s the ole serpent’s harvest rotting on good soil…" A shiver traced the length of your spine; that kind of talk burrowed deep, hinting at a darkness that clung to the very land. But Annie... She was rooted here, her soul intertwined with the rustling secrets of the pines and the sorrowful sigh of the willows. 

If she saw the serpent's mark on Smoke & Stack's trembling hands, then that was her truth, a truth etched in generations of backwoods lore. And you, a fragile bloom in this thorny landscape, wouldn't dare cross the only kin who even acknowledged you, wouldn't risk severing the tenuous thread that bound you to this harsh, unforgiving world.

Adjusting the straps on your satchel, you rounded a bend in the road, when the low rumble of a car approached. Little whirlwinds of baked clay and grit, like the land itself was sighing with unease, twisted across the asphalt as two trucks, rough and menacing, crawled into view, filled with men in white hoods.

Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a trapped bird desperate for flight, as you sank low into the sawgrass, praying its brittle blades offered enough sanctuary. The trucks crawled past, iron beasts exhaling fumes and ill-will, as the men within their white shrouds turned their faces, their gazes like chips of ice laced with venom. A guttural cry, foul and demeaning, ripped through the stagnant air, leaving you to wonder if those words of poison were meant for you alone or if it was simply the bile these creatures carried within them. 

Then, a shadow detached itself from the deeper shadows of the woods. It was as if he materialized in the center of the road, a stark and unexpected sentinel. The trucks, lumbering behemoths brought to a sudden halt, their white-clad occupants momentarily stunned by his abrupt appearance.

“Move along,” Remmick’s voice, a low drawl that belied the steel beneath, sliced through the suffocating tension. “You’re fouling the quiet of this stretch.”

"This ain't your concern, night rider," one of the shrouded figures spat, the word "night rider" laced with a venom that clung to the humid air.

Before the ugliness could bloom further, the sky, moments before a deceptive expanse of pale evening, tore open. Not a gentle rain, but a furious deluge, as if the heavens themselves had finally wept for the sins below. The dust of the road turned to a thick, sucking mud in the blink of an eye, each drop a violent lash against the parched earth.

The trucks, those iron steeds of hate, choked and sputtered in the sudden downpour, their engines wheezing like dying beasts. A chorus of curses, muffled by the sodden white hoods now plastered to their wearers' faces like grotesque shrouds, rose in the storm's fury.

Remmick turned his gaze to you, who stood drenched, the rain beading on your skin, transforming the careful lines of your straight hair into tight, dark curls that frame your face like a storm-wrought halo.

“Are you alright?” Remmick’s voice was surprisingly gentle amidst the downpour. 

A tremor ran through you, not entirely from the damp, and you managed a nod. Your gaze lifted to his, and in the shadowed depths of his eyes, something flickered – a stillness, a regard that lingered on the sudden bloom of your dark curls, a silent acknowledgment of something revealed, something…unfurling.

A slow, knowing smile, filled with warmth in the storm's sudden chill, touched the corners of Remmick's lips. His eyes, usually guarded, held a flicker of something akin to shared amusement. 

"This deluge," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the rain, "has taken a rather…unforeseen turn, wouldn't you say? Perhaps fate, in its soggy wisdom, suggests a more…private communion, somewhere dry?"

Before the unexpected lightness of his words could fully settle in your heart, a brutal cough of metal ripped through the downpour's symphony – another backfire, followed instantly by the vicious crack of a gunshot that sent a fresh wave of terror through you.

Instinct flared in Remmick's eyes, a raw protectiveness that tightened his jaw. Without a word, his hand, calloused but surprisingly tender, closed around yours. His grip was firm, a silent promise of safety as he urged you towards the dark sanctuary of the trees. They stumbled blindly through the grasping undergrowth, the rain a cold, relentless assault, your breaths catching in shared gasps of exertion and lingering fear.

Finally, deep within the ancient woods, the torrential downpour eased to a heavy sigh. You leaned against the rough embrace of an oak, your body trembling, your lungs burning with each ragged breath. The rain had plastered your hair to your scalp, a dark, clinging veil that starkly revealed the delicate curve of your trembling lips and the intricate beauty of your now-soaked curls, a vulnerability laid bare by the storm's harsh hand.

Remmick watched you, his gaze no longer guarded but filled with a quiet intensity. His eyes traced the delicate lines of your face, each feature softened and made luminous by the rain. It was more than observation; it was a silent acknowledgment of your resilience, the unexpected beauty revealed in this shared moment of fear and raw exposure, a connection forged in the heart of the storm.

"Remarkable," he breathed, the word a near-silent reverence lost in the rain's steady rhythm. His gaze, still softened from its earlier intensity, lingered on the way the water clung to your dark curls, each coil a testament to a beauty the storm had unveiled. A beat passed, and he almost didn't dare break the quiet intimacy. "The change… it's quite striking," he finally whispered, as if speaking a secret to the rain-soaked air. He cleared his throat, a touch of awkwardness coloring his tone. "The name's Remmick."

"Thank you, Remmick," you replied, his name feeling substantial and unfamiliar yet pleasant on your tongue.

A hesitant curiosity flickered in his eyes. "So… what brings a girl….like you out to this stretch of road?"

"A girl like me?" A wry smile touched your lips, a hint of the defensiveness you'd learned to carry always near the surface.

"Uh–no, not like that," he stammered, a flush creeping up his neck. "I just meant… someone… out here."

A soft giggle escaped you, a nervous lightness in the tense aftermath. "I know what you meant." You offered a small, self-deprecating shrug. "Helping a friend. Getting the new juke joint ready."

Remmick's interest seemed to ignite, his questions tumbling out in quick succession, his earlier reserve melting away. "It opens soon? What sort of music will fill its walls? Will it be a place… a gathering for the community here? And you… what part do you play in all of this? You seem… different." His gaze flickered back to your hair, a genuine, almost tender smile gracing his lips this time, a silent acknowledgment of the beauty he'd witnessed in the storm's unveiling.

Despite the lingering tremor of fear and the clammy discomfort of your soaked clothes, you found yourself drawn into the orbit of Remmick's intense scrutiny. His curiosity wasn't casual; it felt like a probing touch.

"Next week," you replied, your voice a little breathy. "Mostly blues. Somewhere folks can let loose the day's burdens. I…" you hesitated, a flicker of your usual guardedness returning, "I'm just a friend lending a hand."

Remmick's eyes, dark and unwavering, held yours with an unnerving focus, as if trying to decipher a hidden language etched on your skin. "A friend," he repeated, the word lingering in the damp air. "With such… singular features. You possess a… certain… dissonance with the expected fabric of this place, wouldn't you agree?"

A subtle stiffness entered your posture, a familiar prickle of defensiveness rising like hackles. "I belong wherever I damn well choose to belong."

A shadow of apology softened the sharp edges of Remmick's gaze. "Forgive my bluntness. My curiosity often outstrips my social graces. It's merely… you possess an… intriguing dichotomy." His gaze drifted downwards, a slow, almost possessive slide along your neck, a subtle pulse in his own throat betraying a deeper fascination.

"Those… men in the trucks," he continued, his voice dropping to a low murmur, the earlier levity vanished. "They exuded a… particular brand of ugliness. You were fortunate my path intersected with yours."

A genuine shiver traced your spine, a coldness that went beyond the rain's chill, a visceral echo of the hatred you had witnessed. "I… thank you  again," you managed, your voice barely a whisper. "You stepped in when you had no reason to."

His gaze met yours once more, the intensity now laced with something heavier, a nascent possessiveness that sent a strange flutter through your chest. "Consider it… a strategic investment. In the future vibrancy of this establishment… and its… unique inhabitants. Perhaps," a slow, deliberate smile touched his lips, a mirror of the one before but now carrying a different weight, "in return for my timely… assistance, you might find yourself indebted to me for a small favor? Something well within your… capabilities, of course."

A peculiar sensation washed over you– a disquieting blend of unease and a surprising, almost illicit spark of something akin to… anticipation. The unwavering intensity of his gaze, the pointed nature of his questions, the subtle claim in his words… it was unsettling, a tremor of danger beneath a veneer of politeness, yet it held an undeniable, magnetic pull that you liked.

“What kind of favor?”

Remmick's smile broadened, revealing a flash of teeth that held both a disarming charm and an undercurrent of something sharp, something predatory. "Patience, little bird. Opportunities, like shadows in the moonlight, have a way of revealing themselves in due time. But until then…" Remmick's gaze lingered on you, a protective instinct softening the sharp edges of his features. "The rain's easing, but the night's still young, and those… individuals might still be lurking. Perhaps… as a temporary measure of repayment for my unsolicited heroism, I could ensure your safe passage home? A small stroll, under a less… hostile sky."

A small, polite smile, a brief flicker of warmth in a cooling world, touched your lips. Even without Annie's watchful gaze, her shop stood as a silent sentinel, imbued with the protective essence of her craft – a whispered promise of sanctuary in this shadowed land.

"I would be grateful for that," you finally murmured. He offered his elbow, a stark white against the deepening gloom, and you accepted, your hand finding a hesitant purchase. He moved with a careful grace, navigating the mud-slicked path like a shadow avoiding consecrated ground, until your feet found the familiar, rutted dirt that had been your lonely guide before. 

Remmick steered you with a silent grace, his presence a dark shadow against the fading light. The air hung heavy, thick with the musk of damp earth and something else, something ancient that seemed to emanate from the very soil. He stopped at the edge of Annie's porch, the scent of dried herbs and something vaguely metallic clinging to the air around the shop. A subtle unease tightened the lines around his mouth.

"This dwelling…" His gaze, sharp as a hawk's, scanned the hand-painted sigils above the door, symbols that seemed to writhe in the dim light. "It hums with a… peculiar energy. You wouldn't happen to traffic in the shadowed arts yourself, would you, child?" His eyes, pools of fathomless night, held a hunger for something beyond the mundane.

You shook your head, a wry twist to your lips. "Not I. But a dear friend… she's got her fingers deep in that spiritual muck. Annie's shop is her refuge, same as it is mine."

A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the drip of water from the eaves. "And you? You linger in a place steeped in such… fancies. Yet you remain untouched by belief?"

Your gaze drifted to the lamplit windows, a flicker of something akin to weariness in your eyes. "I reckon there's things out there we ain't meant to understand. Maybe the spooks and spirits are real enough. But maybe they're just as lost and lonesome as the rest of us, searchin' for a patch of ground that feels like home."

A slow smile, like moonlight on a tombstone, touched Remmick's lips. He lifted her hand, his skin cool as river stone, but instead of a simple farewell, he drew you a step closer. His other hand, swift and deliberate, cupped the underside of your chin, tilting your face up towards his. For a heartbeat, his gaze dropped to your lips, a silent question hanging in the damp air. Then, a slow, knowing wink flickered in his dark eyes before he released you. "I find myself… unexpectedly… invested in your safe return to this haven, little wren. Until the shadows beckon us together again."

The feeling of his warmth leaving you there, made you feel naked. Then with a final, lingering gaze that seemed to promise more than his words conveyed, he dissolved into the deepening gloom, leaving you on Annie's porch, the scent of protective charms and the unsettling warmth of a vampire's near-kiss clinging to the damp night air. NEXT CHAPTER >

[bluelotuswrites]

2024 fic rec list :)

So here's a list of fics/authors that I read in 2024! A lot of them are Batman-related, and Jason-centered :P

Six Degrees of Separation by @oliocelottafanfics. It's a Criminal Minds crossover with Batman, where Penelope Garcia is the one to find Jason after his resurrection and adopts him. This is one of those fics where I didn't know I needed it until I saw it, and now it's stuck in my brain.

The Right Substitution is Key by Addicted Apple. A fun what-if story where Batman and Nightwing go missing, so Robin recruits Red Hood to fill in as Batman while completely oblivious to the fact that Red Hood is Jason Todd.

Five Reactions to Pepper's New PA by @gladdecease. Short, but Bucky ends up becoming Pepper Potts' personal assistant. It's very funny and wholesome.

@cdelphiki's Three Terrors Cinematic Universe is a top fic that many probably already know. Talia tried to escape the League with Jason, Damian, Anathasia, and Mara al Ghul. She didn't make it, leaving Jason to be the one to protect them.

Along with that is cdelphiki's The Time Before. Jason got sent back to the past by Black Mask, who wanted to kill him before he became Red Hood. Jason goes to Bruce for help and ends up healing and learning more about Bruce.

A League of Her Own by @comebackolivia. Immediately after the UtRH, Talia finds Jason in the rubble, kills to Joker, and takes him back to the League, where they try to take over and rebuild it with Nyssa. Jason becomes one of her generals. You might recognize them for their work on Not-So-Outlaw :)

VermillionFlame is another more recent author that has been working on Arkhamverse Jason. For Want of a Savior and Hold Fast (Don't Let Go) are two of my favorites.

For Want of a Savior has comic Jason wind up in Arkhamverse, and saves AK!Jason. He then helps him heal and the Batfam is in a panic after realizing Jason may be alive.

Hold Fast (Don't Let Go) is another AU where Jason shot Deathstroke while working on his revenge plan that would be seen in Arkham Knight. He then shows up at Wayne Manor for protection, throwing the family's peace into chaos as so many things come to light and people butt heads.

Echoes of Future Past by orangesky37 on AO3/ @kindlingkeen. Immediately after Jason's throat got slit in UtRH comic, he gets yeeted back to the past and is found by authorities. James Gordon brings Batman onto the case, not realizing Batman is Bruce Wayne. He gets protective of Jason when he tells Gordon that 'his dad did it.'

Going Down Like the Titanic by @sunnylighter A shortish Arkhamverse AU where Joker succeeds in getting Bruce to succumb to the Titan virus by showing Jason still alive in Arkham Asylum.

Bruce Wayne Must Die by @reginalusus. Jason wants to kill Bruce, only to find out that he's missing. He teams up with Harvey Dent to find him, and there's father-son bonding vibes between Harvey and Jason.

Do Unto Others by @romiress. Arkhamverse again (listen, I'm a sucker for that storyline when it comes to Jason. It's maximum angst potential). Khalid Nassour (Doctor Fate in DC comics) worked at Arkham Asylum under the payroll of Joker, albeit reluctantly. He was brought on to fix up Jason, and eventually he sneaks him out to help him heal.

Don't Let Them See You Cry by @daisyapples. Oh my god, you guys. Let me tell you. This series is vibrates in my brain to an insane degree. Shortly after Bucky breaks free from his Winter Soldier programming, he finds Jason and adopts him. It's so good, y'all. I literally drop everything to read this whenever it updates.

The Glue by sleepynarwhal. Daredevil is the one to mentor Spiderman instead in the MCU and it's very adorable how much Matt goes from reluctant mentor to embracing it, as well introducing him to the other Defenders.

the road home by @drakefeathers. Jason is homesick during his Lost Days Era world murder-tour and ends up returning home.

I'll Catch a Break Someday by @victory-in-the-skye. Fullmetal Alchemist crosses over with the MCU. It has Fem!Ed, which might not be everyone's cup of tea, but it definitely contributes to the story in a way that makes it interesting. The author does a fantastic job of capturing Ed's voice, even in first person! It's a series, but it hasn't been updated in a while and I hope the author is doing okay!

Arkham Compendium by @lananiscorner. If you're a fan of Arkhamverse, I cannot recommend this series enough. Focusing on Jason before, during, and after Arkham Knight, the author does a fantastic job of delving into Jason's psyche during the course of his life. Ill Weeds Grow Apace is my favorite of the series, focusing on Jason healing after Arkham Knight, and slowly reconnecting with his siblings. Lanani also has many other fantastic fics in DC, especially with Jason. While the author might not be in the fandom anymore, I will always be grateful for the fics that were written because they are masterpieces.

(If you're one of these authors on the list and I missed your tumblr @, let me know and I'll edit them in!)

[lamaisongaga]

FASHION CREDITS: LADY GAGA AT COACHELLA WEEKEND I

Eight years after she first made history at Coachella, Lady Gaga reclaimed her throne in 2025 with a headlining performance that was nothing short of operatic chaos. 

Choreography by Parris Goebel, styling by HARDSTYLE, hair by Frederic Aspiras and glam by Sarah Tanno-Stewart.

Her dark pop spectacle opened with a haunting visual interlude titled “The Manifesto of Mayhem”—a cinematic overture that reintroduced the world to Mistress Mayhem, Gaga’s latest alter ego.

Bathed in crimson light and surrounded by shadows, Gaga emerged on the screens in a rare archival piece: a bondage-inspired black leather straitjacket from Dolce & Gabbana’s Spring/Summer 2003 collection. The jacket, adorned with a grid of heavy buckles and silver hardware, set the tone for the night—iconoclastic, provocative, and entirely in control.

The incredible black mesh boater hat with rubber barbed wire around was created for our girl by milliner Lara Jensen who‘s been working with Gaga for over a decade!

Her angelic counterpart donned the Garden Fairy mesh corset top made from recycled vintage fabrics ($925 - sold out) from Central Saint Martins graduate Gyouree Kim‘s Spring/Summer 2025 "Cherubim" collection.

If the "Manifesto of Mayhem" set the tone, then what followed was pure operatic excess. Gaga made her true entrance atop a towering crimson structure draped in velvet folds—her silhouette like a deity descending upon her disciples.

The look? A custom creation by avant-garde visionaries Samuel Lewis, Athena Lawton and William Ramseur—a pleated, studded spiked masterwork of red velvet drama. Drawing inspiration from Edwardian silhouettes and Mugler’s villainous couture—particularly his take on "Lady Macbeth"—the jacket was armored in silver pyramidal studs, its spine and shoulders flaring like a queen prepared for battle.

Beneath the sweeping opera curtain–inspired skirt—engineered by the theatrical masterminds at Jet Sets —hid an elaborate cage several feet tall, housing Gaga’s dancers like a twisted chorus of shadows. The garment was both fortress and stage, its hem draping downward like blood-soaked drapery from an abandoned palace.

Topped with bone-like protrusions with crystal embellishments at the collar and sleeves, Gaga became something between a saint and a specter. Her performance from this fortress-skirted throne was a visual aria: high camp meets high art, rooted in madness, resurrection, and pure spectacle.

The opera singers beside her were dressed in huge wavy constructed yellow and black skirts with beaded velvet tops, custom-made by Candice Cuoco.

In one swift motion, she shed the heavy opera curtain—only to unveil a sensual, custom-made Samuel Lewis and Seth Pratt creation beneath. The ruby-red satin dress featured a sharp bodice with architectural puff shoulders and a plunging open front that gave way to the black lining. A crystal-embellished sash draped diagonally across her chest.

For the most intimate and arresting act of her set, Gaga appeared in a teddy—part lingerie fantasy, part gothic confessional, custom-made by the same duo. Crafted in rich black satin, the piece featured a sculpted bustier, delicate lace trim, and a shimmering crystal-embellished cross that ran from neckline to hem, catching the light like a whispered scandal.

Gaga strutted across the stage in the surprisingly affordable Leza over-the-knee boots by Steve Madden—retailing for just $89.99. Yes, you read that right.

"OFF WITH HER HEAD!"

Three of the characters are wearing these impeccable black veiled headpieces and dresses which were created by Nasir Mazhar in 2021, originally for balletLORENT.

Gaga's string orchestra wore draped black taffeta gowns made by AGRO STUDIO with custom headpieces all created by Lara Jensen.

As the lights dimmed and the stage transformed into a sepia-toned wasteland, re-emerged not as a pop powerhouse, but as a ghostly relic of beauty undone. Lying among skeletal remains and grains of dust, she conjured a scene straight from a tragic gothic fable.

For this act, titled “And She Fell Into A Gothic Dream,” Gaga wore a custom Dilara Findikoglu corset mini dress—a distressed, doll-like creation that whispered of innocence lost and romance decomposed. The off-white, almost bone-colored garment featured delicately frayed edges, an asymmetric hem, and panels of antique lace that seemed stitched together by time itself. Every rip and raw edge told a story of longing, survival, and sorrow.

The dancers wore skeleton masks made specially by Sarah Sitkin!

Gaga stepped back into one of her most iconic songs—"Paparazzi"—but this time, she didn’t just revisit it. She rearmed it.

As the familiar opening notes rang through the desert sky, Gaga reappeared in a custom Manuel Albarran armor bolero and matching helmet—a direct visual homage to the Mugler look she wore in the original "Paparazzi" music video.

For the high-octane performance featuring Gesaffelstein, Gaga slipped into a custom Marni catsuit, based on the house’s Fall/Winter 2025 collection. The original red suit—featuring beaded embroidery of a black wolf—was reimagined for Gaga as a skin-tight, asymmetrical bodysuit, fused with nude illusion mesh and stitched with jet-black sequins that glinted like sharpened claws.

To elevate the glam rock look even further, Gaga threw on a custom coat made entirely of hand-cut blue and black paper feathers, inspired by the brand’s Spring/Summer 2025 collection.

A true blast from the past are her Savannah vinyl corset boots from Penthouse.

Her female background dances all wore custom costumes by Courtney McWilliams paired with the Miista Imogen black lace-up sneaker boots!

As the opening of "Zombieboy" echoed, Gaga returned to the stage, wearing a striking custom look designed by Samuel Lewis and William Ramseur: a military-inspired royal blue satin bustle coat, tailored to perfection and cut with razor-sharp precision. The garment featured exaggerated puffed shoulders, a nipped waist, and a flared skirt with an almost theatrical silhouette, marrying 18th-century regency with gothic fantasy. The pièce de résistance? The coat’s intricate gold embroidery, stitched by the artisans of Altesa Embroidery, which shimmered like bone filigree under the stage lights—mirroring a skeletal ribcage and spine that gave the look both regality and decay.

But Gaga didn’t stop there. To crown the ensemble, she donned a custom Marni paper feather helmet, styled like a twisted jester’s crown with raven-black plumage erupting from her temples.

The studded harness belt, she wore during "Zombieboy", was custom-made by Jonathan Burdine in collaboration with Iggy Soliven.

For "Shadow of a Man", Gaga emerged cloaked in mystery and command, donning a custom Louis Verdad x Samuel Lewis creation that was equal parts military regalia and avant-garde sculpture.

The charcoal grey structured jacket, tailored to her frame like armor, featured razor-sharp lines and a high, asymmetrical collar that framed her silhouette like a shadow in motion. Bold black patent leather straps slashed across her shoulders and waist, adding a sense of futuristic restraint to the otherwise regal tailoring.

Underneath, she wore black stretch vinyl shorts by Los Angeles Apparel.

For the final look of the night, Gaga delivered a breathtaking visual transformation in a total couture creation by Matières Fécales (formerly known as Fecal Matter), a brand famed for its futuristic, grotesque, and avant-garde sensibilities.

The custom ensemble was a full conceptual look, comprised of a satin-stitched bodysuit featuring a haunting red anatomical cross motif—meant to evoke the feeling of surgical stitches, resurrection, and rebirth (and a nod to the "Abracadabra" music video!). The bodysuit alone was a spectacle, but Gaga layered it with even more drama: a translucent organza coat (cropped specifically for her performance), and an exaggerated feathered bustle skirt constructed from delicate white plumes that moved with every beat, adding an ethereal weightlessness to the performance.

The silhouette was further intensified with a sculptural feather collar piece—a headpiece of long, otherworldly white feathers shooting upward like wings, perfectly framing her head and extending the theatrical effect, created by Paul Battenberg-Cartwright.

On her hands, Gaga wore elongated gauze gloves created by artist Yaz XL, designed to resemble haunting, claw-like monster hands. The exaggerated fingers extended dramatically into crystal-embellished tips, catching the stage lights with every movement and adding an eerie elegance to her already ethereal silhouette.

To complete the look, she grounded the ensemble with custom white lace-up ankle boots by Chrome Hearts.

The dancers were all dressed in custom Luis de Javier white lace looks and Balenciaga Cagole white boots! The nurses, that wheeled Gaga in, wore custom ILONA red gowns and hats.

[hamilton-here]

Hello! Hope you're doing great:D

I really enjoy reading your fics because they're all so well written and they're an absolute treat to read especially as a Lh fan☺️

Can i have something with biker! Lewis pls pls.. like the reader is super fascinated with motorcycles and wishes to ride one someday.. she sees lewis arriving to the paddock on his bike and instantly starts swooning (both over him and his bike🤭) he takes her for a ride and then she asks him to teach her to ride and then they go on motorcycle dates together 🥰

Thanksss, have a good day/night ☺️

𝑅𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝐼𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒴𝑜𝓊

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Thank you so much for reading! I’m so glad you’re enjoying these,they’re such a joy to write as a fellow LH fan. Also, praying for Lewis at Silverstone this weekend, let’s manifest good things! 🙏🏻🫶🏻 Lots of love xx

Summary: A lifelong bike lover finds freedom and love through rides with LH44.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You’ve loved motorcycles for as long as you can remember. Long before you understood what horsepower meant, or why the smell of petrol could make your chest tighten with something like joy. It wasn’t just fascination. It was something deeper, something elemental.

Like the sound of an engine revving was wired into your DNA, a primal rhythm that stirred something ancient and electric in your bones. Even before you could walk, you’d crawl toward the sound of a bike starting up like it was calling you home.

Some of your earliest memories are of sitting cross legged on the cold concrete floor of the garage, the chill seeping through your jeans and numbing your legs, but you never minded. That floor was your playground, your classroom, your sanctuary. Your tiny hands would wrap around a spanner that was always just a little too big, the cold steel biting into your palms.

You’d grip it like it was a sword, a key to some secret world only your dad truly understood. The garage was your cathedral dimly lit, cluttered and sacred. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that filtered through the high windows, and the air was thick with the scent of oil, rust, and old leather. The walls were lined with pegboards bristling with tools, each one hanging in its rightful place like relics in a shrine.

Your dad would be crouched beside you, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands blackened with grease and calloused from years of labor. His forearms were a roadmap of scars and smudges, each one a story some funny, some painful, all worn with pride. He moved with a kind of quiet confidence, like he was in communion with the machine.

He didn’t just work on bikes he listened to them, coaxed them back to life with a mechanic’s precision and a poet’s heart. He’d pass you tools without looking, trusting you to know which was which. You always tried to get it right, even if your hands trembled a little under the weight of his trust.

He’d talk as he worked, his voice low and steady like the hum of an idling engine. There was something soothing in the rhythm of it, like a lullaby made of torque specs and timing chains. He spoke in a language of compression ratios, valve clearances, and gear ratios, and you absorbed it all like scripture.

“Machines have souls,” he used to say, tightening bolts with the kind of reverence most people reserved for prayer. “If you listen close, they’ll talk to you.”

And you believed him. You still do.

You watched him rebuild engines like they were ancient puzzles only he could solve. He didn’t just fix things he resurrected them. You learned to read the language of torque and timing, of friction and flow. You knew the difference between a two-stroke and a four-stroke before you could ride a bicycle without training wheels.

You learned to change spark plugs before you could spell them. Or knew the smell of burnt oil and the sound of a misfiring cylinder like other kids knew the lyrics to pop songs. Easily could identify a Ducati by the dry clutch rattle, a Harley by its loping idle, a Yamaha by the scream of its inline four.

By the time you were twelve, you could strip down a carburettor and reassemble it blindfolded. At the age of fifteen, you could rebuild an engine with your eyes half closed and your mind somewhere else entirely usually dreaming of the open road, or the wind in your face followed by the roar of the engine beneath you.

You’d lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, imagining the feel of the throttle in your hand, the lean into a corner and the blur of the world rushing past.

But no matter how much you knew and no matter how many bikes you brought back from the brink with him he never let you ride. “Too dangerous, sweetheart,” he’d say, his voice soft but firm, like he was trying to wrap you in bubble wrap with nothing but words. “I couldn’t live with it if something happened to you.”

And you understood. You really did. You saw the fear in his eyes, the way his jaw tightened when he heard sirens in the distance. You knew he’d lost friends maybe even parts of himself to the road. But that didn’t make the ache go away.

So you grew up with this quiet longing lodged deep in your chest. You could build them, fix them, dream about them but you couldn’t ride them. It was like being fluent in a language you were never allowed to speak. That yearning never dulled. It sat there, just beneath your ribs, humming like an idling engine, waiting for the throttle.

Maybe that’s why cars never did it for you. Even Formula 1, with all its speed and spectacle, never stirred your blood the way two wheels did. The roar of a V8 engine was impressive, sure but the high pitched scream of a sport bike at full throttle? That was music. That was poetry. That was freedom. Cars were cages, no matter how fast they went. Bikes were wings.

You’d go to races sometimes, standing at the edge of the track with your heart in your throat, watching the riders lean into corners like they were dancing with gravity.

You memorised their lines, their braking points, the way they shifted their weight like it was second nature. Constantly you studied them the way some kids studied astronauts or rock stars. You didn’t want fame or trophies. After all this time, you just wanted to ride.

And then came Silverstone…

You hadn’t planned on coming to Silverstone.

Formula 1 wasn’t really your thing not in the way motorcycles were. Sure, you respected the engineering, the speed, the spectacle. But four wheels never stirred your soul the way two did. Cars were impressive. Bikes were intimate. Cars roared. Bikes sang.

Still, when your friend scored last minute paddock passes and practically begged you to tag along, you couldn’t say no. It was Silverstone, after all hallowed ground for motorsport. You figured it would be a fun distraction. A chance to soak in the atmosphere, maybe snap a few photos, and spend the day surrounded by the kind of high octane energy that always made your skin buzz.

You didn’t come looking for anything. Honestly, you didn’t even come for the race.

You came for the noise - the symphony of engines echoing off grandstands, the hiss of air guns in the pit lane, the low murmur of mechanics speaking in a language only they understood.

The smell of hot rubber and race fuel, for the electricity in the air that made your heart beat just a little faster. But most of all tv e buzz that comes with standing in the paddock on race day, surrounded by machines that cost more than most houses and people who lived life at 300 kilometres an hour.

It was interesting, sure but it wasn’t your world.

Until you heard it.

That growl. Deep. Throaty. Low. Not the high pitched scream of an F1 car, but something else entirely. Something raw. Something alive.

The unmistakable hum of something powerful on two wheels. You turned instinctively, your body reacting before your brain could catch up, scanning the paddock for the source of the sound. And then you saw him. Pulling in through the service gate on a red MV Agusta F4. Your heart stopped.

It was like seeing a ghost from your dreams sleek, crimson and impossibly beautiful. The red paint shimmered under the sun like liquid fire, every curve of the fairing catching the light just right. You’d admired that bike for years, obsessed over it from afar, memorised its silhouette from old magazines and grainy YouTube clips.

You knew every inch of it the undertail exhausts that looked like jet turbines, the razor sharp tail section, the radial valves, the single-sided swingarm. It was a masterpiece. A machine that looked like it had been sculpted by gods and tuned by devils.

And the man riding it? Lewis Hamilton.

He swung off the bike with effortless grace, like he’d done it a thousand times. Black leather jacket unzipped just enough to reveal the unmistakable red of a Ferrari jersey underneath which was bold, iconic and clinging to his frame in a way that made your breath catch.

His helmet was tucked under one arm and his braids fell loose across his shoulders, catching the breeze like silk. He looked like he belonged on that bike. Like they were made for each other two icons of speed and precision, carved from the same myth.

You were stunned. Not just by the bike, but also by him. The way he moved, the way he carried himself like confidence wasn’t something he wore, it was something he radiated. He looked like a painting come to life. Like a dream you weren’t sure you were supposed to be having.

But all you could see was the MV Agusta.

You barely noticed you were staring until his gaze flicked toward you. He caught you, eyes wide completely entranced by the bike, not his fame. Not the seven world titles. Not the cameras that trailed him like shadows. Just the machine.

“You like her?” His voice carried across the paddock, smooth and casual like he already knew the answer. You couldn’t help it, you breathed, “Love her.” The grin that spread across his face was immediate, like he enjoyed that answer more than he should’ve. “Come check her out.”

You didn’t even think. Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you across the paddock until you were standing in front of the most perfect machine you’d ever seen. Up close, the bike was even more flawless the lines sharper, paint deeper and craftsmanship undeniable. It wasn’t just a motorcycle. It was art.

“She’s gorgeous,” you murmured, circling her slowly, reverently. “MV Agusta F4. Tamburini’s design. Inline four-cylinder, radial valves, single-sided swingarm. Perfect geometry. She’s a legend.”

You felt his eyes on you as you spoke, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the bike. You were tracing her curves with your eyes, memorising every detail like you might never see her again.

“You know your bikes,” he said, sounding a little surprised. Maybe even impressed. “My dad taught me,” you replied, your voice soft. “I’ve built them, fixed them, tuned them. But I’ve never ridden one.”

That made him pause. “Never? Not once?”

You shook your head, a flush creeping up your neck. “He wouldn’t let me. Said it was too dangerous. I’ve waited my whole life to ride.” Lewis studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Like he was weighing something. Calculating risk. Or maybe just possibility. “You local?”

“Yeah,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. His grin returned softer this time, but playful. “Stick around after the race. I’ll take you for a ride.” Your heart skipped a beat. “You’re serious?”

He nodded, eyes twinkling. “As serious as I am about winning today.” And just like that, the world tilted.

You’d come to Silverstone expecting nothing. Just tagging along. Just watching from the sidelines. But now? Now you were standing on the edge of something you’d waited your whole life for.

And it was finally, finally within reach.

You found your seat in the grandstand just before the formation lap, your friend tugging you along by the wrist, both of you breathless from weaving through the crowd. The stands were already packed an ocean of bodies draped in team colours, waving flags, wearing caps, faces painted with allegiance.

The air buzzed with anticipation, thick with the scent of fried food, sunscreen and the faint tang of ozone that always seemed to hang over racetracks like a promise.

Your friend grinning like a kid on Christmas morning handed you a pair of earplugs and a bottle of water. “You’re gonna need these,” they said, eyes sparkling. “It gets loud.”

You smiled, but your heart wasn’t in it. You were still thinking about the MV Agusta. About the way the sunlight had kissed its fairings. About the way Lewis had looked at you not like a stranger, but like someone who understood. Someone who saw the same fire in you that you’d been trying to smother your whole life.

Still, you slid into your seat, the molded plastic warm from the sun. The crowd around you was a living, breathing organism tens of thousands of voices rising and falling in waves, flags fluttering like heartbeat rhythms in the wind. The grandstands trembled with energy, a low frequency hum that settled into your bones. You could feel it in your chest, in your fingertips, in the soles of your feet.

The sun had broken through the clouds, casting a golden sheen over the track. The tarmac shimmered with heat, mirage like, as if the circuit itself were alive and pulsing.

Marshals in orange suits moved like clockwork, checking barriers, clearing debris and giving last minute signals. The pit lane was a hive of activity with mechanics hunched over laptops, engineers barking into headsets, tire warmers being stripped away like ceremonial robes.

Then the engines fired up.

The sound hit you like a physical force sharp, high pitched, and impossibly loud. It wasn’t the deep, guttural rumble of a motorcycle engine. It was something else entirely. A scream. A war cry. The kind of sound that made your bones vibrate and your chest tighten. It was mechanical fury, precision violence and a symphony of combustion and control.

Your friend nudged you, eyes wide. “You feel that?” You nodded, unable to speak. You didn’t just hear it, you felt it. In your ribs. In your teeth. In your soul.

The cars rolled out for the formation lap, sleek and low and impossibly fast even at half speed. You watched them snake through the corners, tires weaving to stay warm, engines snarling like caged animals. The anticipation was unbearable. Every second stretched like wire.

Then the grid formed. The lights blinked on - one, two, three, four, five. And then they went out. The race exploded into motion.

The cars launched off the line like missiles, engines screaming, tires spitting smoke. The crowd roared, a tidal wave of sound that crashed over the grandstands. You were on your feet without realising it, eyes locked on the blur of colour and speed as they barrelled into Turn 1.

You followed every lap with laser focus, but your mind kept drifting. Not to the leaderboard. Not to the pit strategies or tire compounds. But to the MV Agusta. To the promise hanging in the air like a spark waiting to catch. To the way Lewis had said, “Stick around.” Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

Still, you couldn’t deny the thrill of the race. The way the cars danced through Maggotts and Becketts, the way they braked late into Stowe, the way the crowd roared every time someone made a daring move.

You found yourself swept up in it, heart pounding, adrenaline surging. Your friend was shouting beside you, pointing out overtakes, cheering for their favourite driver, but you barely registered the words. You were somewhere else. Somewhere between the roar of the engines and the memory of that bike.

And when Lewis took the lead clean, calculated and brilliant you were on your feet with everyone else, screaming his name like you’d been a fan your whole life.

You watched the race from the edge of the paddock, heart in your throat, barely blinking as he carved through corners with surgical precision. Every lap was a masterclass controlled aggression, perfect timing, a kind of grace that didn’t seem possible at 300 kilometres an hour.

He made it look effortless. Like the car was an extension of his will. Like he wasn’t driving it he was dancing with it. When he crossed the finish line, fist raised, the crowd erupted. Flags waved. Flares lit. People screamed themselves hoarse.

But you barely heard them. You were too busy trying to breathe. Because in that moment, as the checkered flag waved and the world lost its mind, you weren’t thinking about the race. You weren’t thinking about the victory. You were thinking about what came next.

About the MV Agusta. About the ride. About the moment your life might finally shift from watching to doing. From dreaming to living.

And somewhere deep in your chest, that familiar hum returned. The one that had lived there since you were a child. The one that sounded like freedom.

Soon then came the waiting.

You told yourself not to expect anything. Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe it was a throwaway promise, the kind people make in passing and forget the moment they walk away.

You tried to be rational. Tried to convince yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself it was enough just to have seen the MV Agusta up close. Enough to have spoken to him. Enough to have been seen.

But still you waited.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the paddock. The golden hour had arrived, painting the world in warm amber and softening the edges of everything.

The grandstands were emptying, the roar of the crowd replaced by the clatter of packing crates, the hiss of cooling engines, and the occasional bark of a radio. The energy had shifted no longer electric, but hushed. Reverent. Like the circuit itself was exhaling.

Your friend had already left, offering you a ride back that you politely declined. They gave you a look half teasing, half knowing but didn’t press. Just squeezed your shoulder and disappeared into the thinning crowd.

You stayed rooted to the spot, arms crossed, trying not to look like someone who was hoping. But your eyes kept drifting toward the service gate. Toward the place where he’d first appeared. You told yourself you weren’t waiting for him.

But you were. And then you heard it.

That growl. That low, unmistakable rumble that vibrated through your chest before your ears even registered it. The sound of something alive. Something powerful. Something that didn’t belong to this world of packing tape and forklifts and fading adrenaline.

The MV Agusta.

He pulled up right in front of you, the red paint of the bike glowing like embers in the fading light. Helmet in one hand, leather jacket unzipped just enough to show the Ferrari red beneath once again. His braids were damp with sweat, clinging to his neck, and his smile - God, that smile was the kind that made your knees forget how to function.

“Told you I’d come back for you,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You blinked, stunned for a moment that he was real. That he’d remembered. That he’d meant it. “You did,” you said, voice a little breathless. He patted the seat behind him. “Hop on.”

Your legs moved before your brain caught up. You didn’t hesitate. You couldn’t. You climbed on, heart hammering, fingers trembling slightly as you settled behind him. You hovered awkwardly for a second, unsure where to place your hands, until he glanced back over his shoulder and said, “Hold on tight, yeah?”

So you did.

Your arms wrapped around his waist, your palms pressing against the warmth of his jersey. Your chest met his back, and in that second, something clicked into place. Like a gear finally engaging. Like you’d been waiting your whole life for this exact moment and didn’t even know it.

He looked down at your hands, then back at you with a smirk. “You good?” You nodded, cheeks flushed. “Yeah. Just trying not to pass out.” He laughed, low and warm. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

The bike roared beneath you, a living thing waking up, and then you were moving. The world blurred.

The wind tore past your face, tugging at your hair, stealing your breath in the best possible way. The engine’s pulse thrummed through your body, syncing with your heartbeat. Every turn, every lean, every shift in weight was a conversation between man and machine and now, you were part of it.

He didn’t go too fast. He didn’t need to.

It wasn’t about speed. It was about sensation. The way the tires kissed the road. The way the engine growled when he downshifted. The way your body moved with his, instinctively, like you’d done this a thousand times in dreams. You could feel the tension in his core as he leaned into corners, the subtle shifts in his posture, the way he anticipated the road like it was a lover’s breath.

You tightened your grip around his waist, your cheek brushing against the back of his shoulder. He smelled like leather and sweat and something faintly metallic like speed itself had a scent.

At one point, he reached down and tapped your hand gently. “You okay back there?” You nodded against his back. “More than okay.” He chuckled. “You’re a natural.” You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “Told you I’ve been waiting my whole life.”

Eventually, he slowed, easing the bike to a stop beneath a canopy of trees just outside the circuit. The road was quiet here, the world hushed and golden. The only sound was the ticking of the engine as it cooled, and the soft rustle of leaves overhead.

You didn’t move. You didn’t want to. Your arms stayed wrapped around him, your cheek resting lightly against his back, eyes closed as you tried to memorise the feeling.

He let you stay like that for a moment, then slowly pulled off his helmet and rested it in his lap. “So?” he asked, voice soft, teasing. “Worth the wait?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your cheeks aching from the smile you couldn’t contain. “I think I’m in love.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “With me or the bike?”

You pretended to think about it, lips twitching. “…Both.”

That laugh low, warm and genuine rippled through the air like music. You wanted to hear it again. And again. And again.

He turned slightly on the seat, facing you more fully now. His eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Then he reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Good answer,” he said.

You looked at him, really looked at him. The way the light caught in his eyes. The way his smile softened when he wasn’t performing for cameras. The way he was still here, with you, long after the race was over.

“You didn’t have to come back,” you said quietly.

“I know,” he replied. “But I wanted to.”

You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “Why?”

He shrugged, but there was nothing casual about the way he looked at you. “Because you weren’t looking at the fame. Or the trophies. You were looking at the bike. Like it meant something. Like you meant it.”

“I did,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said.

And just like that, the ache you’d carried for years the longing, the waiting, the what-ifs melted into something else entirely.

Something real, electric and what felt a lot like the beginning of everything.

From that day after exchanging numbers, it a started with a few texts.

Nothing dramatic. No grand declarations or sweeping gestures. Just bits of digital dust scattered across your days a “thank you” here, a quick check in there.

A meme that made you laugh harder than expected. A photo of a bike he saw on the street and thought you’d appreciate. A blurry snapshot of a sunrise from a hotel balcony somewhere in Monaco, captioned simply: “This reminded me of that ride.”

All of it easy. Unassuming. The kind of connection that begins like a whisper and you don’t notice until the echo starts sounding like a heartbeat.

You told yourself it was casual. Friendly. A novelty, maybe. But then came the late night messages the ones you found waiting when the sky was ink dark and quiet curled around your apartment like a blanket. The kind of messages that didn’t rush, didn’t push just drifted.

They were filled with little fragments of him: rambling thoughts about music he’d just rediscovered, memories of being thirteen and pretending to understand the world, half formed dreams he’d never said aloud. Sometimes he’d send voice notes, his voice low and a little rough with sleep, like he was talking just to you in the hush between midnight and morning.

You found yourself answering without thinking. Trading thoughts like lanterns along a foggy trail. Lighting each other's darkness.

You learned he took his coffee black not out of stoicism, but simplicity. That his mornings were sacred: vinyl records crackling in the background, sunlight pooling in corners and engines always engines waiting to be brought to life. He told you about the way he liked to tinker in silence, how the world felt softer when he had grease on his hands and time to spare.

He learned that you talked to machines like friends. That you whispered to engines. That you built them with care but never rode them with confidence.

That for all the steel beneath your fingertips, you had never trusted yourself to fly. You told him about your dad, about the garage that raised you, about the ache that lived just beneath your ribs the one that sounded like an idling engine waiting for the throttle.

He listened. And when he replied, it wasn’t with platitudes or advice. It was with understanding. With quiet reverence. Like your story was something sacred.

It wasn’t meant to be more. You weren’t looking for anything. You told yourself that, even as his voice started carving quiet corners in your day. Even as you found yourself replaying his words not because they were profound, but because they made you feel like you mattered. Like you were seen.

Then came coffee. Real coffee. At a tiny café tucked between a bookstore and a florist, the kind of place that smelled like old books and cardamom and had mismatched chairs that creaked when you leaned back.

He was already there when you arrived, a paperback novel in one hand and a cappuccino in the other. He looked up and smiled like he’d been waiting for you his whole life.

You sat across from him and listened to him talk about torque and poetry as if they were interchangeable. He spoke about engines the way some people spoke about constellations like they were maps to something bigger.

You told him about the first time you held a spanner, how it felt like holding a sword. He told you about the first time he crashed a kart and how he cried not from pain, but from the fear that he’d never be allowed to race again.

Then came dinners. Slow, drawn out ones where time seemed to melt between candlelight and conversation. You’d sit across from each other in dimly lit corners of quiet restaurants, sharing bites of dessert and stories you hadn’t told anyone else. He’d lean in when you spoke, elbows on the table, eyes locked on yours like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

Soon after came the walks. Late ones, through sleepy streets littered with golden light and the scent of jasmine. You didn’t always talk. Sometimes you just wandered side by side, your shoulders grazing gently like turning pages.

And something about those walks made the silence between you feel like a language all its own. He’d occasionally brush his fingers against yours, not quite holding your hand but not not holding it either. And every time, your heart would stutter like an engine catching fire.

He’d point out stars and tell you their names. You’d laugh and make up your own. He’d tell you stories from the road lonely hotel rooms, early morning flights, the strange comfort of airports. You’d tell him about the bikes you’d built, the ones that never left the garage, the ones that still waited for you like promises you hadn’t kept.

It crept in quietly, that feeling. Didn’t crash into you like a wave. It unfolded. Like a sunrise. Like a song you didn’t realise you knew the words to until you were already singing along.

You stopped pretending it was nothing. Because it wasn’t. It was him.

It was the way he remembered the smallest things you said. The way he sent you photos of dogs in motorcycle goggles (even included Roscoe on his). Or whenever he always asked if you’d eaten, if you’d slept, if you were okay. The way he looked at you like you were something rare. Something worth slowing down for.

It was the way he made you feel like you weren’t just someone who built machines.

You were someone who deserved to ride them. And it was starting to feel like everything.

It slipped out mid bite over pasta at a tiny Italian place with too many candles and music that sounded like falling in love.

The kind of place where the tables were too close together and the wine glasses were too tall, where the air smelled like garlic and basil and something sweet baking in the back. The kind of place where time slowed down, where the flicker of candlelight made everything feel softer, more intimate like the world had dimmed its lights just for the two of you.

You were twirling linguine around your fork, half listening to him tell a story about crashing a scooter in Tuscany when you were younger, when your voice betrayed you. “I still want to learn how to ride.”

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t rehearsed. It just fell out. Bare. Unfiltered. Honest in a way that surprised even you. Your fork hovered mid air. His voice stopped. His head snapped up, eyes locking onto yours with such intensity that for a moment, the restaurant around you disappeared. The clinking of cutlery, the low hum of conversation, the soft croon of Italian jazz all of it faded into silence.

It was just him. Just that spark equal parts surprise, thrill, and something deeper. Something reverent.

His smile bloomed instantly wide, genuine, the kind that made your chest feel like it was expanding with light. “You mean it?”

You nodded, suddenly shy. “Yeah. I mean I think I always have. I just never said it out loud.”

“I’ll teach you,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You laughed, flustered and unsure. The corners of your mouth twitched with nerves and something close to hope. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as I am about throttle control,” he replied, lifting his glass like he was making a toast to a promise he already knew he’d keep. “To first rides.”

You clinked your glass against his, heart fluttering like a revving engine.

Your first lesson? Chaos.

You met just after sunrise, in the still hush of dawn. The sky was barely awake streaked in lilac and gold, soft like the inside of a dream. The car park was empty. Silent. A perfect place for beginnings. The kind of place where the world felt paused, like it was holding its breath just for you.

He was already there when you arrived, leaning against the tailgate of his truck, sipping coffee from a thermos. He looked up and smiled when he saw you sleepy eyed, hoodie half-zipped, helmet dangling from your fingers.

“Morning, rookie,” he teased gently, handing you a second cup. “You ready?”

You nodded, even though your stomach was a knot of nerves. “As I’ll ever be.”

He brought a smaller bike. Sleek, warm toned, forgiving. A machine that felt like it was waiting for you. He moved slowly, explaining each control with a patience so tender it almost hurt. Like he understood how fragile this moment was for you. Like he knew you weren’t just learning to ride you were learning to believe.

You stalled three times.

Your hands trembled. Your legs felt too long, too clumsy. The handlebars were uncooperative. The machine was unfamiliar. You questioned every instinct. Overthought every move. And when you nearly tipped it trying to start in second gear, you wanted to scream.

But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t tease.

He just stepped forward, placed both hands on the bars, and said in a voice so steady it could’ve anchored you, “You’ve got this. Just listen to her. She’ll tell you what she needs.”

You paused. Closed your eyes. Felt the engine’s hum. And listened. You began to hear her.

Little by little, you stopped fighting her rhythm and started to find your own. Your grip loosened. Your spine relaxed. The bike started to feel like it wanted you there. Like it had been waiting for you too.

When you did your first solo loop slow, wobbly and unsure it felt like something cracked open inside your chest. The wind kissed your face. The tires spun like poetry. And you knew you’d never be the same.

You pulled up, helmet off, hair messy, grin blooming across your face like sunrise. And he was there.

Leaning against the hood of his truck. Smiling like you’d just rewritten gravity.

“Told you,” he said, his voice low, amused, proud. You walked over, still breathless and bumped your shoulder against his. “You’re not a bad teacher.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not bad?” You smirked. “Okay, fine. You’re annoyingly good.”

He chuckled, and the sound wrapped around you like a warm jacket. “You’re a natural. You just needed someone to believe it.”

You looked at him then really looked. The way the morning light caught in his eyes. The way his hair curled slightly at the ends. The way he looked at you like you were something rare.

And in that moment, you realised you trusted him. Unconditionally. Irrevocably. Quietly.

The first kiss didn’t come right away. Not because you weren’t ready.

But because the story was still unfolding delicate and deliberate, like a song building toward its crescendo. You both knew it was coming. You could feel it in the way your conversations lingered, in the way your hands brushed when passing a helmet, in the way your eyes met and held just a second too long. But neither of you rushed it. You let it bloom in its own time.

It came after an evening ride one of many, but somehow different.

The city was cloaked in twilight, that in-between hour where the sky glowed lavender and the streetlights blinked awake one by one. The air was warm, tinged with the scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

You rode his spare bike sleek, responsive and surprisingly gentle beneath your hands. He’d adjusted the levers for your reach, softened the suspension, even added a tank pad with a tiny sticker of a cartoon fox. You hadn’t asked for any of it. He just noticed.

You rode side by side, your engines humming in harmony, like two heartbeats syncing across distance. At stoplights, your helmets would turn toward each other silent glances, shared grins, the occasional exaggerated eyebrow wiggle that made you laugh inside your visor.

Sometimes he’d rev his engine playfully, daring you to race. Sometimes you’d take the bait, surging forward with a whoop that echoed down the empty streets.

You wove through the city like it belonged to you past shuttered cafés and glowing windows, past couples walking hand-in-hand and kids chasing each other through fountains. The world felt quieter from the saddle of a bike. More intimate. Like you were skimming the surface of something sacred.

He led you through winding backstreets and over bridges that shimmered with reflections. At one point, you stopped at a red light and he reached over to tap your gloved hand. “You’re getting smoother,” he said through the comms, his voice warm in your ear. “You’re not fighting her anymore.”

You smiled, heart fluttering. “I think she likes me.”

“She’d be crazy not to.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Eventually, he took a turn you didn’t recognise, guiding you up a narrow road that climbed above the city. The incline was steep, the trees thick on either side, their branches arching overhead like a cathedral. At the top, the road opened into a small overlook a hilltop park with a view that stole your breath.

The city sprawled below, glittering like a spilled jewellery box. Skyscrapers blinked in the distance. Streetlights traced the curves of roads like veins. The sky above was a deep indigo, stars just beginning to pierce through.

You parked side by side, the engines ticking as they cooled. You both pulled off your helmets, hair tousled, cheeks flushed. He looked over at you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he smiled. “Worth the climb?” You nodded, breathless. “It’s beautiful.”

He walked over, took your helmet, and set it gently beside his. Then he sat on the grass, patting the spot next to him. You joined him, your knees brushing, your jackets rustling softly in the breeze.

The air smelled like pine and distant rain. The wind whispered secrets between your shoulders. You sat in silence for a while, just watching the city breathe.

He leaned back on his elbows, eyes on the stars. “You ever think about how fast everything changes?”

You turned to him, your voice soft. “All the time.”

He looked at you.. His gaze traced your face like he was memorising it. Like he didn’t want to miss a single detail. The curve of your cheek. The way your lashes caught the light. The way your lips parted slightly when you were thinking.

He reached out, tucked a curl behind your ear. His fingers lingered light, reverent, like tracing the edge of a map he never wanted to leave.

Your breath hitched. Your heart stammered.

He leaned in. No rush. No bravado.

Just closeness.

His lips met yours soft, careful, exploratory. Like he was asking a question with his mouth and waiting for the answer in your sigh.

You melted into him.

Your fingers found his jacket, clutching like memory. His hands curved around your back, grounding you. The kiss deepened became something rich and aching. It tasted like adrenaline and promise. Like every night ride and whispered confession bundled into one sacred exchange.

Time vanished.

You only knew the warmth of his mouth, the steady thrum of his pulse, the way your bodies aligned like constellations.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was ignition.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the space between. He whispered, “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time you looked at the MV like it was alive.” You laughed softly, your voice trembling. “I’ve wanted to do that since you told me I could ride.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “You can do anything.”

Later, you would think of it as the moment the story changed gears. The instant “us” became inevitable. And you didn’t look back.

You left your helmet by his door.

Not because you forgot it. Not because you didn’t need it. But because it felt right like a declaration, like a key. Like saying, I’ll be back. Like saying, This is home now, too.

It sat there on the little bench in his entryway, next to his own your visors facing each other like they were in conversation. Sometimes he’d glance at it when he walked past and a smile would tug at the corner of his mouth. Like he couldn’t quite believe it either. Like every time he saw it, he was reminded that you were real. That this was real.

You planned routes together.

Not just rides, but escapes. Adventures. You’d sit cross-legged on the floor with maps spread out between you, fingers tracing winding roads and coastal curves, arguing playfully over which detour had the better view or which diner had the best pie.

He’d always let you win. Except when he didn’t just to make you roll your eyes and call him impossible. He’d grin and say, “You love it,” and you’d pretend to groan, even though you did. You loved all of it.

You built a life threaded with engine noise and moonlit silences.

Mornings started with coffee and the low purr of tuning bikes. He’d hand you a mug with oil stained fingers, kiss your temple, and say something like, “She’s running smoother today must be your magic touch.”

Afternoons were spent in garages, hands greasy, laughter echoing off concrete walls. You’d pass him tools without looking, the way your dad once did with you and he’d always get this look like he knew he was part of something sacred.

Evenings were quieter shared meals, soft music, the occasional race replay on mute while you curled into each other on the couch. And nights? Nights were sacred. Nights were for rides.

Every Friday night rain or shine, busy or restless you rode.

It became your ritual. Your rhythm. Your shared breath.

You chased sunsets like they owed you something. Wove through city lights like you were painting the streets with your joy. Found cafés that smelled like nostalgia places with chipped mugs and faded menus and jukeboxes that still worked. You sat at cliffs where the stars bled into the sea, where the wind tangled your hair and the world felt impossibly wide and yet entirely yours.

You made your own religion.

A faith built on throttle, trust, and the curve of his smile beside yours. On the way he’d reach over at red lights to squeeze your hand. Sometimes your helmets would knock together when you leaned in to shout something over the roar of the wind. Other times it would be the way he always rode just a little behind you not because he didn’t trust you, but because he liked watching you lead.

And sometimes, it wasn’t all open roads and sweeping views. More so, it was traffic.

Gridlocked intersections. Horns blaring. The sun beating down on your backs as you inched forward, foot by foot. But even then, it was magic. You’d pull up beside him, engines idling, and lift your visor just enough to smirk.

“Still think this shortcut was a good idea?” you’d tease, voice dry.

He’d glance over, eyes twinkling behind his visor. “Absolutely. Look at this view.” He’d gesture to the bumper of the car in front of him and you’d snort.

Then, when the light turned green and you still didn’t move, you’d reach over and pinch his side just a quick, playful squeeze through his jacket. He’d jolt, laughing, and shout, “Hey! That’s rider misconduct!”

You’d grin. “File a complaint.” He’d lean closer, voice low and mock-serious. “Oh, I will. Straight to the Department of Adorable Offences.”

You’d roll your eyes, but your cheeks would ache from smiling.

Even traffic was beautiful with him.

One night, after a long ride along the coast, you pulled off onto a quiet overlook.

The road had curved like ribbon through the cliffs, the ocean always just to your left dark and endless, whispering secrets to the shore. The ride had been long, but neither of you had wanted it to end. The wind had tangled your hair, the salt had kissed your skin and the hum of the engine had become a lullaby you didn’t want to wake from.

Now, the bikes sat cooling behind you, their engines ticking softly in the hush. The overlook was empty, save for the two of you. The moon hung low and full, casting silver light across the waves. The sea stretched out like a mirror, reflecting stars that looked close enough to touch.

You leaned against him, your back to his chest, his arms wrapped around you like a second skin. His jacket was warm from the ride, his heartbeat steady against your spine. You could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the way his chin rested lightly on your shoulder, the way his fingers traced idle circles against your hip.

Your voice came quiet, almost lost to the wind. “My dad would’ve liked you.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just held you a little tighter, like he knew the weight of what you’d just said.

“Yeah?” he murmured eventually, his voice low, thoughtful. You nodded, your fingers threading through his. “He always said machines have souls. I think yours does too.”

He turned you gently, just enough to see your face. His hands slid from your waist to your shoulders, then up to cradle your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch.

His fingers were rough from years of riding and driving calloused, strong but his touch was reverent. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones, slow and steady, like he was memorising the shape of you.

The moonlight caught the ink on his hands black lines and curves that wrapped around his knuckles and disappeared beneath his sleeves. You’d traced them before, in quiet moments. You knew the stories behind each one. But now, they felt like something else entirely. Like a vow written in skin.

His eyes held yours, and there was something in them - something fierce and vulnerable, something that looked like awe. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Then he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

“Nah,” he whispered. “You’ve got my soul now.”

And then he kissed you. Not soft. Not exploratory.

This one was rich with devotion. With certainty. With everything he hadn’t said and everything you already knew.

His lips met yours with a kind of quiet urgency, like he’d been holding it in for too long. His hands framed your face, inked thumbs brushing your cheeks, fingers curling gently behind your ears. He kissed you like you were something sacred. Like you were the answer to every question he’d never dared to ask.

You kissed him back with everything you had.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. You could feel the heat of him beneath the leather, the steady thrum of his heart, the way his breath hitched when your palms flattened over his sternum. You pressed closer, your body fitting against his like a puzzle piece finally finding its place.

The kiss deepened became something rich and aching. Your mouths moved together in perfect rhythm, like you’d done this a thousand times in dreams. His hands slid down to your jaw, then your neck, then your waist, pulling you closer still. You could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he held you like he was afraid to let go.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a vow.

It was the way his thumb brushed your cheek like a promise. The way your hands curled into his jacket like you were anchoring yourself to the moment. The way the world fell away until there was only the two of you, breathing the same air, hearts beating in tandem.

It felt like muscle memory. Like something your body had always known how to do. It felt like destiny.

Like every road you’d ever taken every wrong turn, every stalled engine, every lonely mile had led you here. It felt like the first time your tires hit open road.

That rush of freedom. That dizzying joy. That sense of finally.

It felt like home.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together, breath mingling in the space between. His hands were still on your waist. Yours were still pressed to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

He whispered, “You scare me.” You blinked, surprised. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this again,” he said, voice raw. “And now I don’t know how to be without it.” You smiled, soft and sure. “Then don’t be.”

And as they stood there, arms woven like the winding roads that had led them here, the salt air in their lungs and the rumble of distant waves echoing the low growl of their bikes, it was clear -

This wasn’t just a chapter in their lives.

It was the road itself. Unmapped. Untamed. And they were ready to ride it together.

[annewithaneofthegreengable]

Summer Serendipity

AMEN TO THAT!!! HALLELUJAH FOR THE EMPTY TOMB AND A FULL PODIUM 🕊️🏁🙌

Jesus conquered death, and Oscar conquered the grid 😤🕊️👑 From the stone rolled away to the tires rolling fast — resurrection and redemption all in one weekend! 🦅⛪🚗💨

HOW ARE WE FEELING TODAY? BLESSED? ANOINTED? PIASTRIFIED?? 😭🔥

Summary: It was the summer break between the races, and Oscar suddenly came across a travel magazine about a quiet town in Northern Ireland on the work desk of someone who had left it open when he was visiting McLaren’s HQ in Woking. Next thing, he was on his way to Belfast, with nothing much on his mind, no worries about the championship standings, the braking mode, the corners or chicanes,... Nothing, just him and his summer getaway in Belfast.

Meanwhile, Edith Ezra, a devoted single mother working at a quaint cafe in Belfast, cherishes her two children, Ivy and Eddie, above all else. Having faced the heartbreak of their father's abandonment, Edith has built a life centred around providing for her family and creating a sense of stability for her children.

When Oscar's path crosses with Edith's in Belfast, their worlds collide in unexpected ways. As Oscar finds himself drawn to the warmth and genuine kindness of Edith and her children, he begins to see a different side of life beyond the fast-paced world of racing.

Author's note: here it is!!! The second chapter. Hope you guys will like it, and please send me any message whether you like it or not, and if you want to be added to the taglist, please let me know too! Happy reading. Oh, btw, do you guys prefer longer chapters or shorter?

The next morning came with Belfast rain,  light but persistent, the kind that soaked into your sleeves before you even realized it had started. Oscar didn’t mind. He’d left his cap behind, opting instead for a hooded jacket and the same worn trainers he’d worn the day before. His pace was slow, deliberate, the kind of wandering that wasn’t quite aimless. He told himself he was just exploring the neighbourhood. He wasn’t planning to end up at the same café.

But his feet had other ideas.

The Bean & Blossom appeared again like it had been waiting for him,  tucked into its quiet corner, warm light glowing from inside, condensation gently fogging the windows. Someone had chalked a new message on the board outside: Rainy days mean extra whipped cream. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He stepped inside, letting the bell above the door announce him again. The warmth hit immediately, followed by the same sweet scent of cinnamon and espresso. A few familiar faces sat scattered across the room,  one older man reading the paper with a scone, two students hunched over notebooks in the back.

And Edith.

She was behind the counter, bent over the pastry case, rearranging a fresh tray of almond croissants. Her hair was tied up messily, but there was no missing it, red like autumn leaves and tucked behind her ears, a few strands falling loose as she concentrated. She glanced up at the sound of the bell, and for a split second, her eyes lit up in recognition.

“Back again?” she asked, brushing flour from her hands.

Oscar shrugged lightly, stepping forward. “Cinnamon swirl kind of haunted me last night.”

She laughed. “Yeah, it does that. You’re not the first poor soul we’ve ensnared.”

He leaned slightly on the counter, eyes scanning the chalkboard. “What’s the damage today?”

“Well,” Edith said, tapping a pen to her chin in mock seriousness, “the swirl’s still on the menu. Barely. You got lucky. Coffee’s still hot. And I might throw in a bit of gossip about the flower stall guy if you play your cards right.”

Oscar cracked a smile. “Dangerous offer.”

“I like to live on the edge.”

He ordered the same thing, flat white, cinnamon swirl, and retreated to the same table as yesterday. The café looked different in the rain. Quieter, slower. The kind of place where time softened at the edges. People lingered longer. Conversations drifted like steam from coffee cups.

Edith brought over his order a few minutes later, this time with a small vase on the tray,  just a single, raindrop-speckled daisy sticking out.

“For the table,” she said, with a little shrug. “Rainy days deserve flowers too.”

He nodded his thanks, and for a while, they didn’t say much. She returned to the counter, chatting with a pair of customers in line. Oscar took a bite of the cinnamon swirl, still warm, still perfect, and stared out the window, watching umbrellas bob past.

It wasn’t until he was halfway through his coffee that he realized he hadn’t checked his phone once.

No emails. No team messages. No schedule reminders. No missed calls from Mark. It was still there, of course, in his pocket. But it didn’t feel as heavy today.

The rain began to let up. A beam of pale sunlight pushed through the clouds, catching in the streaks of water on the windowpane. Across the room, Edith was laughing at something, her head thrown back slightly, that bright, real kind of laugh that didn’t belong to a world full of media scrums and sponsor obligations.

Oscar watched her, and for a fleeting second, it felt like everything, racing pressure, expectations, was a thousand miles away. 

The rain stopped sometime after he came back from the coffee shop, but the streets still shimmered with puddles, and the air smelled faintly of wet stone and chimney smoke. Oscar sat in the window seat of the rental flat, legs stretched out on the wooden bench, a half-read book resting on his lap. It wasn’t particularly gripping, something about a lost sailor and a lighthouse, but he hadn’t come here to be entertained. He’d come to slow down. Or stop altogether.

Outside, Belfast moved at its own quiet rhythm. A cyclist splashed through the narrow lane below. A woman walked her dog, tugging it gently away from a lamppost. Somewhere across the street, someone was playing a piano. Just a few notes at a time. Like they were figuring it out as they went.

He liked that.

He hadn’t opened his phone all day. Not even to check the news or scroll mindlessly. It was still on airplane mode, resting in the bowl by the door where he’d dropped it the moment he arrived.

There was something unnerving about the silence that came with disconnection. But there was also something… honest. And Oscar wasn’t sure he remembered what that kind of quiet felt like before now.

He eventually left the flat sometime in the afternoon, jacket zipped up, beanie pulled low this time instead of the usual cap. He didn’t look like an F1 driver. He barely even looked like himself. And that was the point.

He walked without a destination, past the old cathedral, through side streets where murals towered on the walls, bold with paint and pride. Past schoolkids in uniforms and old men sitting outside the corner shop, nursing takeaway tea and half-smoked cigarettes.

Until he found himself walking along the edge of a small public park.

It wasn’t grand, just a stretch of grass, a few benches, and a tired-looking playground tucked into one corner. Swings creaked in the breeze. A roundabout spun lazily, nudged on by a small foot.

And then he saw her.

Not in the apron or behind the counter, not with flour on her cheek or a steaming coffee in hand, but on the grass, red hair loose around her shoulders. Edith. She was laughing, really laughing, as she tried to coax a reluctant little boy down the slide.

The boy, who could only be about four or five, clung to the top like it was Everest. A girl, a little older, Oscar guessed seven, was already halfway across the monkey bars, calling, “Come on, Eddie! I did it and I’m smaller than you!”

That made the boy grumble and squirm. “You’re not smaller,” he shouted, then looked down nervously at his mum.

Edith stepped back and held out her arms. “I’ve got you. I promise.”

Oscar stopped on the path without meaning to, caught in the warmth of the scene. It wasn’t just the kids, or the laughter, or even Edith. It was all of it. The way her eyes sparkled when Eddie finally let go and slid down into her arms. The way Ivy cheered for her brother was like he’d just won a race. The way Edith hugged them both tightly for no reason except that they were hers.

He felt like an intruder, but he couldn’t move. Not yet.

Edith noticed him then.

She didn’t startle. Didn’t tense up. Her gaze met his, questioning for only a second before it softened into recognition. She gave a nod, almost casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world that he’d be standing there watching her kids play.

He hesitated, then stepped off the path and into the grass.

“Hey,” he said, suddenly unsure of himself.

“Hey,” she replied, brushing hair from her face. “Didn’t take you for the playground type.”

“Me neither,” Oscar said, smiling faintly. “Guess I’m full of surprises.”

Eddie peered up at him from behind his mum’s leg. Ivy, bold and curious, stepped forward. “Are you Mum’s friend?”

Oscar blinked. “Um…”

Edith grinned and knelt beside her daughter. “Maybe. What do you think, Ivy? Can someone be a friend if you’ve only talked once?”

“Sure,” Ivy said immediately, then extended her hand like she’d done it a hundred times before. “I’m Ivy. That’s Eddie. He’s a bit scared of slides, but we still love him.”

Oscar crouched to shake her hand. “I’m Oscar.”

Eddie peeked out again, then disappeared back behind Edith.

“Don’t worry,” Edith said with a small laugh. “He will warm up to you soon.”

Oscar chuckled, and it felt real.

For the first time in what felt like years, Oscar let himself linger. Ivy’s handshake, firm and full of childish certainty, had surprised him. She regarded him with open curiosity, her blue eyes wide and fearless, a mirror of her mother’s. Eddie, on the other hand, watched him from behind Edith’s knees, his blonde head peeking out, quick to retreat whenever Oscar’s gaze met his. The playground was alive with the shrieks and laughter of other children, but in this little bubble of grass and rain-damp air, Oscar felt oddly safe.

Edith sat on the grass, her shoes kicked off, and motioned for Oscar to join her. He hesitated only a moment before lowering himself beside her. The ground was damp, but he didn’t care. He was used to discomfort, it was the price of racing, of travel, of fame. But this? This was a different kind of vulnerability.

“Do you come here often?” he asked, watching Ivy climb back onto the monkey bars.

“Pretty much every afternoon,” Edith replied, stretching her legs out. “The kids need to burn off energy, and I need the air. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, Angie covers the last café shift and I get to play mum for a while.”

Oscar smiled, feeling the tension leach from his shoulders. “Your café is great, by the way.”

Edith grinned. “You’re not just saying that because of the cinnamon swirl?”

He shook his head. “That, and the welcome. I haven’t had either in a while.”

For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, broken only by the children’s shouts. Ivy had convinced Eddie to try the slide again, and this time, he let go with only a little coaxing, shooting down into his mother’s waiting arms. Edith’s laughter, clear and bright, filled the air. Oscar felt it in his chest, a warmth that surprised him.

“Are you here on holiday?” Edith asked, glancing at him over her shoulder.

Oscar hesitated. The question was innocent enough, but the truth was complicated. “Sort of. Needed a change of scenery.”

She nodded, and to his relief, didn’t press. “Well, Belfast’s good for that. Not too many crowds if you know where to look. And the rain keeps most of the tourists away.”

He chuckled. “I noticed.”

Ivy came running over, her face flushed. “Can we get ice cream, Mum? Please? Eddie says he wants chocolate.”

Edith looked at Oscar, her expression playful. “What do you think? Ice cream on a rainy day?”

He shrugged. “Why not? Rain never stopped me.”

The little group set off down the street, the kids skipping ahead while Edith and Oscar followed at a slower pace. The ice cream shop was only a few blocks away, a family-owned place with faded pastel tiles and a bell that jingled when they entered. Edith ordered for the kids, one chocolate, one strawberry, and Oscar, caught up in the spirit of the moment, ordered a scoop of vanilla with sprinkles.

They sat at a window table, the kids already sticky with melted ice cream. Conversation came easily. Edith told him about the café, about the regulars who came rain or shine, about the small triumphs and challenges of single parenthood. Oscar listened, asking questions, genuinely interested. It was the first time in ages he’d talked to someone without the filter of fame or the pressure to perform.

He told Edith a little about himself, just the basics. Australian, loves cars, needed a break from his works, which is something that related to motorsports. She didn’t push for more, and he was grateful. They talked about places in Belfast he should see, about the best spots for coffee, about the surprising warmth of the city even when the weather was grey. The children, sensing the ease between the adults, grew bolder. Ivy asked if he’d ever been to a real racetrack. Eddie wanted to know if Oscar could beat his toy cars in a race.

Oscar laughed and promised to show them a few tricks sometime. For the first time since arriving in Belfast, he forgot to be guarded. He was just Oscar, a stranger making friends in a new place.

As the afternoon wore on, Edith glanced at her watch. “We should head home. Homework and bath time wait for no one.”

Oscar stood, helping gather the empty cups. “Thanks for letting me tag along.”

Ivy beamed. “Will you come to the park again?”

He looked at Edith, who smiled. “You’re welcome any time.”

“Then I’ll be there,” he said.

Walking back, Edith’s hand rested gently on Eddie’s head, guiding him along the wet pavement. The children ran ahead, splashing in puddles, their laughter echoing through the quiet street. Oscar felt something shift inside him, a sense of belonging he hadn’t known he craved.

When they reached the café, Edith paused. “We live just upstairs from the shop. You can stop by any time, Oscar. Really. Even if you just need more cinnamon swirls.”

He smiled, earnest. “I will. Thanks, Edith.”

She nodded, then shepherded the kids inside, waving as she closed the door.

Oscar lingered on the street, watching the glow from the flat above the café, the silhouettes of the children dancing behind the curtains. The rain had started again, gentler this time, but he didn’t mind. He turned up his collar and walked slowly back to his flat, feeling lighter than he had in months.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for tonight, he was content. In a city that wasn’t his, among people who didn’t know his story, Oscar Piastri had found a quiet refuge.

Liked by @/Angiethebougie, @/Luckyluke and 118 people.

@/Edithlovesedit: Playdate must come with an ice-cream date! And that's me trying a new recipe. Sadly, it's rather dull, so no more new menu

view all comments

@/Angiethebougie: send them my kisses

-> @/Edithlovesedit: will do

-> @/Angiethebougie: quick question, who is E looking at? Definitely not me 🤔

-> @/Edithlovesedit: no one. must be ur imagination

-> @/Angiethebougie: interesting

-> @/Luckyluke: any hot dads at the park?

-> @/Edithlovesedit: only dogs, ducks and old ppl

@/Luckyluke: Oh they are growing too fast 😭

-> @/Edithlovesedit: yes, one day they wont need their momma anymore. brb im streaming never grow up by tay-tay rn

Taglist: @teamnovalak @angelluv16 @frankiejo04 @manuztb @httpsxnox

[tomicscomics]

06/07/2024

Wishing you all a blessed Solemnity of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus!

JOKE-OGRAPHY:

1. The Sacred Heart: In Catholic tradition, the month of June is dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, a devotion which sees Jesus's heart as a symbol of God's boundless love for humanity. Moreover, the Solemnity of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus is being celebrated today (June 7th) this year.

2. Original Imagery: The Sacred Heart is depicted as a human heart wreathed by thorns (like Jesus's crown of thorns) and divine flames/light, with a bleeding wound in the side (a reference to Jesus's postmortem spear-wound), and topped off with a cross (for obvious reasons).

3. My Imagery: In this piece, I depict the Sacred Heart in three stages, separating the symbolism into simple parts and relating them to Jesus's Passion, death, and resurrection.

4. Wordplay: A few years ago, I was struck by the similarity between the words scared, scarred, and sacred, and knew I had to use them together for some kind of wordplay. I just didn't know what kind of wordplay would fit. I usually use my wordsmithing for dumb jokes, but this felt like it needed a different approach, so I waited and wondered until an idea finally hit me just in time for the Month of the Sacred Heart!

5. Fun-Fact: I think this piece marks the first time I've depicted Jesus crucified in Tomics. It's not in my usual style or tone, but that's because those are geared towards comedy, and this is meant to be reverent.

[snail-day]

A Step Away From Death's Door

Yandere! Shoko x Reader

Sum: Sometimes it isn't so great when your yandere can heal just about any sort of damage.

wc: roughly 1k

tw: Yandere Behaviors, Body horror, Noncon resurrection, Mutilation, Graphic surgical scenes, Medical horror, Mentions of death and suicide attempts, forced survival. Dead Dove Do Not Eat

You don’t remember how you died this time.

There have been too many attempts to count - too many jagged ends and ruptured goodbyes, each one blurring together like bruises layered over cuts. Your mind can't hold them all. Can't keep track of which train, curse, or blade it was this time. They're stitched together in your memory like she stitches you - hastily, feverishly, with no concern of being gentle.

What’s left are only impressions.

Copper. Bile. The warm, wet gurgle of your own blood climbing your throat. The soft give of torn viscera slipping between your fingers as you tried, uselessly, to keep yourself together. You remember the stillness that followed. The quiet hum just before nothingness.

You welcomed it. Begged for it.

Because at least when you died, it was quiet.

But death is always kept just a step away with her.

Your eyes crack open to a world of sterile light. The high whine of fluorescents stings your ears. The operating table beneath you is cold enough to leech through bone. Your limbs won’t move - not from exhaustion, but restraint. Soft leather cuffs buckle your wrists. Thick gauze straps cross your chest.

You’re held in place like one of those frogs used for dissection. Be thankful she hasn't started to use the dissection pins.

There’s the antiseptic that pulls you from your thoughts. The scent of blood and iron beneath it. Your stomach lurches, if that even is your stomach anymore.

“You’re really putting me through it lately,” Shoko murmurs, voice smooth as a scalpel’s edge. Her silhouette leans over you, surgical mask pulled down around her neck. Strands of her dark hair have slipped from their tie and cling to her cheeks, sticky with sweat and flecks of dried blood. Her eyes are as cold as the table beneath you. Eyes that do not grieve anymore.

Her fingers trace a line across your chest, where her stitching holds your sternum closed like a laced-up corset. The tension in the thread pulls at every breath you take.

“So selfish,” she hums. “You keep throwing yourself into death like it’s some kind of mercy. Letting curses shred you limb from limb, break your ribs like kindling, split you wide open like a rotten fruit.”

You flinch when her hand settles over your ribs, palm flat against the bones she’s reassembled. They creak softly under her touch.

“I should thank you, really,” she whispers, more to herself than to you. “You’ve made me better. More precise. You made me understand loss in a way no textbook ever could. If you’d done this to yourself a year earlier… maybe I could’ve saved them. Satoru. Suguru. All of them.”

She sighs, then lowers her face until her lips are just above yours. Her breath is warm, unbearably close.

“But I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it?” she whispers, voice soft as a lullaby. “You didn’t want me to save them. You wanted me to grow. To blossom. You wanted me to become this - this beautiful, twisted thing that only you get to see.”

She kisses you. Soft. Reverent. Tasting the pain in your mouth.

“You always come back to me,” she murmurs. “Even when you’re trying to leave. Especially then.”

Her blood-slick gloves press against your chest, right above your sluggishly beating heart. She presses hard. Almost cruel.

“You gave this to me, remember? So even if you die screaming, I’ll dig you out of the dirt with my bare hands and cradle this broken little thing until it beats again.”

Her voice is tender as silk, warm as rot.

“You’ll never escape me. I’ll keep you alive no matter how many times you beg me not to. Again and again, until there’s nothing left but a heart that only beats for me.”

A pause.

She brushes a damp lock of hair behind your ear. Smiles like a mother admiring a newborn.

“Your liver nearly gave out this time. I had to harvest one from a fresh corpse. Lucky for you, I’ve gotten very good at separating the useful from the waste. And even better at keeping you just alive enough to remember what it feels like when I put you back together.”

You feel it then. The weight in your side. The dull, throbbing ache. The unmistakable wrongness of something not fully yours - something borrowed, stolen, something placed inside you that you never asked for.

How many times has she done this now?

How many pieces of you no longer belong to you at all?

“I don’t even think you remember what your original heart looked like,” she says in a breathless laugh, almost like she’s teasing. Her fingers trail lightly across your abdomen, and then - snick - you feel the cool kiss of a scalpel dragging gently down your side. Not cutting. Just playful. “But that’s okay. You don’t need to.”

She leans in close, voice syrupy with pride.

“I could always show you the jar I put it in,” she whispers. “It’s one of my favorites. Sits right on my desk. Sometimes I hold it while you're on missions. Makes me feel close to you.”

The room spins.

You want to scream. Or sob. Or beg. But your throat is raw, packed full of gauze and silence. Your vocal cords have been carved and sewn shut too many times to answer your mind’s pleas. Even crying is out of reach, you aren’t sure your tear ducts even work anymore.

All you can do is shake. Tremble. Convulse like a pinned insect beneath her gaze.

And she loves you like this.

Soft. Silent. Stitched-up and shaking. Just coherent enough to feel it all.

“I’ll keep going,” she promises, eyes glowing and lovesick. “Even if you burn yourself to ash. Even if you splatter across train tracks or let a curse claw the meat from your bones. I will always find the pieces.”

She tilts her head, watching your face twitch beneath the haze of pain and sedation. Her gaze softens, not with mercy, but love.

“You’ll never die right, honey,” she whispers against your lips before a quick peck. “Not while I’m still here to bring you back.”

[nerdygaymormon]

My friend Mark Melville recently posted on his blog a number of thoughtful question and statements to explain why he doesn't agree with the LDS Church's current teachings and policies regarding LGBTQIA+ people. They’re so good that I wanted to share them.

As a young person, the message I got was that I was inherently bad if I was attracted to boys. The messaging has changed over the course of my life (thankfully), so if it has changed already, why can't it change more? The current messaging is "It's OK as long as you don't act on it." But "just don't act on it" is always going to make people feel broken or defective. I don't see how it could not.

More and more people are coming out—young people are coming out as teenagers, and older people in mixed-orientation marriages are coming out, and everyone in between is coming out. As long as the messaging is simultaneously "You need to fall in love and get married" and also "You're not allowed to fall in love and get married," this issue is not going to go away—no matter how many times you throw a family proclamation at it.

The people who make the rules for gay and trans people are themselves neither gay nor trans. And the people who are obsessed with enforcing the rules are neither gay nor trans.

The Family Proclamation (which isn't even canonized) says, "Gender is an essential characteristic of individual premortal, mortal, and eternal identity and purpose." Since 2019, Church leaders have said that "gender" here means sex at birth. But here's the thing: Intersex people exist. There are people whose sex at birth, their physical body, is not quite male or female. If everyone's sex at birth is their eternal gender, then gender is not a binary in eternity. But if eternal gender is a binary, and intersex people are an exception in mortality, why can't trans people be an exception in mortality as well?

Even if it is true that everyone's sex at birth is their eternal gender, why do they have to live according to their eternal gender in mortality? We don't tell people, "You will have perfect vision in the Resurrection, so you can't have corrective eye surgery in mortality," or "You will have all your limbs in eternity, so don't use a prosthetic on earth."

One of Dallin H. Oaks's pet ideas is that queer people should "take the long view," meaning they should live in the way that will take them to the best version of eternity as taught by the Church. But we know virtually nothing about eternity. So in reality, "taking the long view" means to think about living with inner conflict and tension for decades and decades, just to gain rewards in an eternity that may or may not exist. For many people, this just makes them want to skip mortality and go straight to eternity.

There are many things the Church used to teach were sins, or at least not good, such as interracial marriage, mothers working outside the home, and women wearing pants in public. These things are no longer taught (thankfully!).

The Family Proclamation emphasizes a particular kind of nuclear family, with a mother, father, and children. This is a great kind of family; it's the family I come from. But I worry that this emphasis can be hurtful for people with different kinds of families. That includes not just queer families but any family that has been touched by death, divorce, adoption, and other circumstances. 

The scriptures are full of family structures that do not follow this pattern. On the cross, Jesus told Mary and John "Behold thy mother" and "behold thy son." Ruth and Naomi had no obligation to stick together. Abraham and others practiced polygamy. And the family of Jacob/Israel was anything but traditional.

In grad school, I had a very lesbian professor who talked about her children and grandchildren. Then I think about straight people I know who are terrible parents. I can guarantee that my lesbian professor's family life is more stable and loving than that of some straight people I know. There are so many loving families with two moms or two dads. Does God really think the righteous thing is to split these families apart?

Anti-LGBTQ ideas are often framed as "defending the family." But they don't "defend the family" at all. If I marry a man, it will not negatively impact anyone else or their family.

You know what are actual threats to the family? When people feel forced to enter mixed-orientation marriages that end in divorce and heartbreak. When people are murdered for being who they are. When people die by suicide because they don't see a place for themselves. When people are disowned by their families for being who they are.

A man paying for a female prostitute is very different from a man and a woman getting married, and the Church rightfully distinguishes between them. A man paying for a male prostitute is also very different from a man marrying a man, yet the Church lumps them together—and if anything, it treats the marriage as the worse thing.

If God's plan can be thwarted by two dudes getting hitched, then God's plan is incredibly fragile.

In my anecdotal observation, LGBTQ+ folks are among the most devout Church members. For example, in one of my YSA wards, someone told me that another individual in the ward was the best person in the ward, and then I was next. (Those weren't his exact words, but that was the gist.) I wasn't offended, because I agreed that the other person was the best person in the ward. But it turns out that individual is also gay. What does it say that the best people in our wards are gay, and then there's not a place for the best people?

The expectation for straight people is to get married. The expectation for gay people is to stay single. There is already a rule that applies to straight people that doesn't apply to gay people. So if we already have rules that apply to some and not to others, what if the rule that "marriage is only between a man and a woman" is also a rule that applies to straight people but not to gay people?

The rule that "marriage is only between a man and a woman" seems to exist only because gay people exist. Why would God create gay people, and then make a rule that they can’t be in love, even as everyone else is encouraged to be? Or why would he make a rule, then create people whose natural orientation is to go against it? And if he did make such a rule, why would I think that such a being was merciful and good and worthy of my worship? Boyd K. Packer himself acknowledged this when he said "Why would our Heavenly Father do that to anyone?"

In the early days of the Church, they practiced many kinds of sealings. People were sealed to each other not just as marriages but in various relationships. Many of these were known as adoption sealings, where grown men could be sealed to Church leaders. I don't know what the reality of sealings will be, but I think there's room for a more expansive vision of sealings than the one we have today.