#all answers are technically right but only one is accepted

[soraaaaaaaa556]

let's see who can pick the right answer from my spanish review quizlet (its not me)

[somnoir]

Ghost KingConsort?

Prompt: Demon Twins AU where the ghost king is summoned and claims his appearance is that of his beloveds. Shenanigans of a vindictive dead twin.

Danyal Al Ghul escaped from the league. The Lazarus Pits were never merciful but for once, they were. The pits were merciful to him as the green swallowed him and spat him out miles away from that place.

Danny can't forget his first death, the sword in his gut as Damian cut through him. The title of heir was reserved for only one of them and the spare was no longer needed. He supposed it was yet another mercy upon him, knowing that the title of spare was not simple. He would have been Damian's spare—spare parts.

Danny remembers his second death. The electricity that killed him over and over again as the ectoplasm spilled from the artificial portal brought him back to life again and again. One second he was dead, the other he was being revived. It was torturous in every way possible.

It's been years since then. His parents were a difficult case, unable to accept that their darling child had died and continued to believe that Danny was being possessed by the menace Phantom. They hunted him, tried to rip him apart to 'free' their son. It took both himself and Jazz leaving with the help of Vlad (reluctantly accepted) for his parents to stop hunting. Their home that had already felt empty was even more empty now.

It's been almost four years since then. Danny had settled into his role as Ghost King, even when the crown of fire floated over his head then descended to be too big, too much—resting around his neck.

It's... Difficult...

CUT TO THE JUSTICE LEAGUE SUMMONING HIM!

Danny Fenton, nineteen and very much overworked from all the paperwork he had to sort through as Ghost King, finds a small tugging to his very being. A summoning he recognized, sighing loudly before he's answer to this visible desperation. Like it was a world ending issue.

And yes, it apparently was when the fabric of reality itself was tearing itself apart for some strange reason. As the ruler of the infinite realms—the king of the very domain that basically glued the multiverse—this was apparently the right call.

Dressed in all of his kingly regalia, Danny felt the crown of fire float up from his neck and burned over his head. His cape, cloak—whatever—was heavy and he blinked, green eyes boring into every soul present. He recognized the fractured soul of the laughing magician—one of his more irksome subjects that avoided taxes like it was the fucking plague. He really should tell Skulker to haunt his grandfather. Maybe even Youngblood would be suitable.

But aside from the laughing magician, his eyes settled upon a familiar soul, a familiar face. Danny blinks again.

Shit... He thought, staring at the masked yet horrified face of his own twin. Robin was nineteen as well by now, older, stronger—redeemed.

In the past, Danny would have cursed Damian to the seven hells and allowed the seven sins to have a bite. But Jazz was blessing. An older sister who made sure to heal him, to let him grow, to let him develop. He's forgiven Damian for his faults. They were children, brainwashed by a mad man. He's not too angry. Resentful and a bit vindictive? That was a given as he technically was the spirit of a murder victim. Of kinslaying.

"Hellblazer." The language spoken by the dead leaves his mouth easily. It can't be understood by the living, and it was barely understood who came back from death. But John Constantine was a different, more difficult case. One hell of a motherfucker that avoided death until the entity itself was ranting to both Clockwork and Danny about his escapes.

And John Constantine recognized his title regardless of the language.

The sad man in a trench coat stiffened, staring at Danny as he stiffly bowed. "High King Phantom." He greets, and attempt at respect. When there was suddenly movement, Constantine was quick to hiss at the others—glaring at Robin who looked ready lunge at them.

Oh, he can't help himself. This was funny. In the words of his own counterpart turned brother—He could make it worse. Jazz was going to nag him, true, but Danny was so. Utterly. BORED. Being Ghost King had a lot of entertainment, like how he got to fight people and basically hang out with people from the past. But it got... Repetitive. Normal Ghosts wouldn't mind with their eternal afterlife, but Danny was still half-alive. He was completely human—just a half dead one.

"Your majesty—" Constantine struggled to explain, "The universe... Do you know why portals have been opening, your majesty? Forgive my impudence but our world has been plagued by portals from different worlds, some even lead to the infinite realm."

"It's not uncommon for natural portals to the realms to open. Many of your dead like to visit." He smirked, "Many like to haunt those who've wronged them."

Constantine gulped, "Your majesty, would you, by any chance, be aware of why these portals are opening?"

Danny sighed. Well, he can't say he wasn't concerned. This was his world too after all, even when now. It was Jazz's world, where she still went to school, it was Sam and Tucker's world. It was his family's world. So yes, he is concerned.

"The portals to the realms are under my jurisdiction. They are natural and open in my places with thick and ambient ectoplasm." Danny drawls, "But these dimensional portals are strange. I'll check in with the Master of Time to see if someone is meddling with reality. It may not even be from your dimension."

He can only shrug at that, remembering how Dan had practically ripped through time with his madness and rage, tearing through the world to ensure his birth.

"I see, thank you for your understanding, your majesty." Constantine nervously says.

"Say, would you like to watch the battle royale for your soul?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're excused, magician." Danny rolls his eyes, "But you'd certainly enjoy watching people tear each other to shreds for your fucked up soul. I don't understand why people want it so much when the paperwork it comes with is a hell in itself."

"Your majesty," Constantine paled.

"I'm joking. I'll deal with this as quickly as possible." Danny paused, grinning as he made a show of offering his hand to the justice league. "I couldn't possible sit by and allow my beloved's world to crumble. He'd be devastated."

Constantine blinked. Everyone blinked. And then Danny turned to Damian and... Batman. Bruce Wayne. His father. At least he seemed to be treating Damian better than Jack did with Danny and Jazz.

"You must have recognized this face, yes?" Danny tilted his head. "You are his family."

"What have you done to my brother?" Robin—Damian immediately growled, like a feral cat as he unsheathed his katanas and aimed for Danny.

"Hm." Danny rolled his eyes, "He's well. Very much taken care of." Because yes, Danny was well fed and taken care of, especially as the Ghost King. "I've taken his form so I assumed you knew of him."

He dismissed Robin long before he could even speak, turning to Constantine once again. "Don't fret too much, John Constantine." The man in question flinched once his name was uttered in the language of the dead he could barely understand. "This will be fixed in a days time. If not, I will send someone to deal with it."

The Ghost King's appearance had been startling when they summoned him. A boy with a striking resemblance to Damian if not for his white hair. A twin? Bruce had sounded devastated at the implications. But Damian? He'd seen the ghost king and felt nauseous, unable to tear his eyes away from the eldritch being that wore his brother's face.

It took a lot of explaining once they were back in the cave. The duel, Danyal's death, the Lazarus taking him and he was never seen again. Everyone was... Well, they were devastated. Yes. Grieving a son and brother they never met. But the Ghost King has been summoned with a face similar to that of their father's, a face that was the exact same one to their brothers. The Ghost King who referred to the dead Danyal as his beloved.

It's the next day when they're back in the watchtower, anxiously waiting for any update. Constantine continues to curse under his breath, shaking his head before a portal rips through reality. Everyone stiffened, preparing for the worst.

A girl appears, a child. She's a spry little thing with glowing green eyes, flaming white hair, and a face that they immediately recognized.

"Sorry that I'm late! Times pretty bendy and we don't really keep up with it." The unknown laughs, "Well, short answer, Phantom has identified the problem and has attempted to apprehend it. Unfortunately, it's been a week on our end and the perp apparently fell into your world."

Time distortion—Constantine had mentioned it. But they stare at the girl who rambled about their supposed target until Batman cleared his throat, seemingly softer on the girl—someone who was visibly a child.

"Young lady, welcome to the Watchtower. Even id the greeting it late." Batman curtly yet gently says. "May I know your name?"

The girl blinked. "Oh! You can call me Specter, princess of the infinite realms! I'm Phantom and Danny's daughter."

It is then that the possibilities processes in their heads.

One. The Ghost King took the form of his beloved, aka the dead twin brother of one Damian Wayne.

Two. Damian's dead twin and Bruce's dead son might be the queen (consort?) of the infinite realms.

Three. Danyal and Phantom had a daughter. Damian and the rest of the Bar kids were uncles and aunts. Bruce was now officially a grandpa.

Damian faints on the spot.

[luveline]

angsty request coming!!! hotch taking care of an overworked reader who hasn’t been sleeping!! maybe the team notices r has been a bit scattered or feverish and hotch steps in!!!

thank you for requesting! fem, 1k Hotch knows, technically, that what he’s doing tonight is out of bounds. He just doesn’t care —can’t find it in himself to regret his actions as he shepherds you from the office and into his car. Doesn’t give your wide-eyed surprise any notice, doesn’t offer explanation as he takes you into the department store between the office and his apartment and tells you to choose. 

“I don’t understand.” 

He nods toward the lines of pointelle camisoles and shorts, gestures to the longer silken trousers, “Choose something to wear.” 

You blink hotly. He’s flustered you, but that’s easy lately. “Do they have anything warmer?” you ask. 

He takes your arm gently into his hand and turns you an inch, where the jersey material pajamas hang from the wall. There’s a nice brown coordinating set right in front of you. He guesses your size (he knows it from practice), pulling a hanger from up high to offer you. “Yes?” he asks. 

“Why?” 

“You’ll need them.” 

You rub your face. “Okay, yeah. I like those ones.” 

He folds them over his arm. He can feel you gaze on the side of his face as he takes you to the register and pays without giving the total any mind. Hotch doesn’t care how much anything costs, he only wants it to be soft. If it weren’t crossing a line, he would’ve found you new underwear, too. 

He accepts the bag from the cashier and guides you out again. “Is there anything else you need?” he asks you. 

“For what?” 

“You aren’t going home.” 

“I’m not?” 

He shakes his head gently. He isn’t being intimidating, only straight forward. Hotch obviously isn’t in the business of kidnapping women, especially coworkers, friends, he just knows now that this won’t be solved without some tough love. “You’re staying with me, if you don’t mind.” 

“Why would I mind?” 

Lethargic, you follow him to the car and get back in the front seat. He turns the heated seats on and watches you sink into the leather, clearly pleased, tired eyes slipping closed every now and then in the ensuing silence. 

Regretfully, you startle as he parks, roused from whatever hooks that had finally managed to hold you. Heat, he thinks, is key here. 

“I’m making oatmeal and cocoa,” he says as he opens the door, waiting for you to follow suit before he continues, “and you can go and get changed. You know where my room is?”

“Sure.” 

“Alright, good. You can make yourself comfortable there.” 

“In your room?” 

He sends you a loving and agitated look over the door. Really? it says. You and Hotch have been trapped in an excitable will-they won’t-they situation for months, and he’d think by now the obvious answer to it all is we most certainly will. “Honey, yes. Unless you’d be more comfortable in Jack’s?” 

“Does he still have the race car bed?” 

“Afraid so.” 

You hum, and lead the way to the house. Hotch hands you his keys, something in his chest tightly squeezed to see you turn the house key in the lock, to let yourself in, and to hold out your hand expectantly for the department bag. You head to his room like you do it everyday. Hotch resists the urge to call you back and kiss you with your jaw held in his hand —it’s not the point. 

He gets a strange pang a few minutes later, stirring the pot of easy-sachet oatmeal, a rare pang of regret. Perhaps he’s being too headstrong, letting his worry guide him like this, pushing you to come home with him and to sleep in his bed. You might be at the same level as he is, but it still feels a little like pulling Spencer home with him and demanding he dress and eat as Hotch likes. 

I’ll apologise, he thinks, setting your oatmeal and cocoa on a tray, conscious of the sun setting outside, night swiftly falling. If he really is going to say sorry and have you go home, you’ll be disrupted again. There’s a possibility Hotch has made this ten times worse. 

He climbs the stairs and finds you laying on his side of the bed with your nose turned into his pillow, a damp sheen to your skin. You’ve washed your face, and changed into the new pajamas, just a little too big for you where you’ve curled around your hands. 

“Honey?” he asks softly. 

“Sorry,” you say, twice as quietly as he had, “just, it smells so nice in here.” 

“That’s okay.” 

“I’ll move.”

“Just sit up,” he says, thinking of you in the office with your jittering and your glass-eyed stare. “I’ve brought you something.” 

You nod heavily and do as he’s asked, again. He sets the tray on your lap and you look up at him. It’s the look that does it, really. The half circles under your eyes are nothing to him beyond proof that you aren’t sleeping, the bloodshot in your sclera, it’s all inconsequential. What floors him is the unquestioning trust to be found when you look at him. He doesn't kid himself when he thinks that this could lend itself to love. 

“You know why I’ve asked you to come home with me?” he asks carefully. 

“I worried you.”

He puts the tray in your waiting lap, gracing your chin with a quick stroke underneath, feather-light. “I haven’t abused my power?” 

“Buying me new clothes and making me dinner?” you ask softly, evident delight on your face as you notice the squares of chocolate that have begun to melt into your oatmeal. 

“Forcing you home with me and sequestering you in my bedroom.” 

“It’s not how I thought it would happen,” you confess, gathering a heaping mountain of oatmeal onto your spoon, “not the first time, at least. I guess I should worry you more often.” 

“No,” he says, holding your chin between his fingers until you meet his serious gaze. “You shouldn’t.” 

Your eyebrows do something he can’t name, but there’s a word for what it inspires in his chest. “I won’t,” you promise. 

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 5: July 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of the death of a parent, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Just a heads-up. I have a girlfriend.

Jos: …And you’re only telling me now?

Max: Yes.

Jos: How long?

Max: Four months.

Jos: Jesus, Max. Who is she?

Max: Isabelle.

Jos: Isabelle who?

Max: Isabelle Leclerc.

Jos:

Jos: LECLERC??

Max: Yes.

Jos: You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s sister?!

Max: Yes.

Jos: And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?

Max: Why would I?

Jos: Because she’s a Leclerc.

Max: And?

Jos: And that’s complicated.

Max: No, it’s really not.

Jos: Do her brothers know?

Max: No.

Jos: They’re going to lose their minds.

Max: Probably.

Jos: And you don’t care?

Max: Not really.

Jos: …You’re serious about her.

Max: I am.

Jos: Huh.

Max: That’s all you have to say?

Jos: What do you want me to say?

Max: I don’t know. I expected more yelling.

Jos: Would it change anything?

Max: No.

Jos: Exactly.

Jos: Don’t let her distract you.

Max: She’s not a distraction.

***

There was something to say about Isabelle Leclerc in her element. 

High Heels clicking against the dark wood that now covered the floor of his penthouse (Walnut, as she had explained to him once, laid in a herringbone pattern), the cream dress she wore swishing around her calves, nearly the exact same colour as was on most of the walls (Max had realised that he was colour blind by the time she had shown him five different shades of cream, told him to pick one, and he had been certain that she was playing a practical joke on him because they all looked the exact same. Who knew that there was a different between Snow White, Skimmed Milk White, Shaded White, Strong White and New White?) and telling him all about the light fixtures that were now hung in the space. 

She walked ahead of him, soft voiced, giving a quiet tour of the apartment she’s spent the last few months designing. 

Max trailed behind her, hands in his pockets, watching her more than the rooms.

She was different here.

Not in a big, obvious way—Isabelle was always composed, always graceful—but here, in the space she had built from the ground up, she walked with ease. She fit into the light like she belonged to it. And the truth was, she did.

Isabelle stopped in the living room, where the late sunlight stretched across the wooden floors, and looked around.

“All that’s left is the furniture install,” she said, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “It’ll be livable in a week or two.”

Max nodded, but didn’t answer right away.

Isabelle turned to him, mistaking his silence for something technical. “Unless there’s anything you want to change?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. It’s perfect.”

She gave him a small, pleased smile, and turned back to the windows. That’s when he said it.

“You should move in.”

She stilled.

“Belle.”

She looked back at him. Her smile didn’t vanish, but it wavered at the edges. “Max.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” she said softly. “That’s the problem.”

He stepped closer, gentle, careful—because he knew that look on her face. It was the look she wore whenever he offered her something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to accept. 

“You made this place feel like home,” he said. “Everything in it has your fingerprints on it. You already live in it, in every way except physically.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked around again—at the walls she’d chosen, the soft gold hardware, the faint echo in the emptiness.

“I don’t want to take up too much space,” she said finally, so quiet it hurt.

Max frowned. “I want you to take up space.”

She hesitated. He knew she would. She always thought twice before stepping forward, especially when it came to being wanted. He also knew that hesitation wasn’t about him—not really. It was about every time she’d been treated like an afterthought.

So he took a step back, and pulled out his phone.

She blinked. “What are you—”

“Exhibit A,” he said, tapping open a photo and turning it toward her. “Jimmy. Sitting by the front door. Waiting for you after you left last week.”

Isabelle’s lips twitched. “That’s just because I give him treats.”

“Exhibit B,” Max continued, swiping again. “Sassy. Nesting on the blanket you left on the couch. Will not accept substitutes.”

“Max…”

“And Exhibit C,” he said, putting the phone back into his pocket and walking over to her, eyes soft but unwavering. “Me. Also useless without you.”

She bit her lip, trying to hold back a smile. “Are you emotionally blackmailing me with your cats?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “And if this doesn’t work, I will start sending photos of Sassy looking depressed. I will weaponize her pout.”

She laughed, head dropping slightly as she shook it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he said. “And I’m not asking for something huge or scary. I just want you here. Where you already belong.”

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but smiling now.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

“I know,” he said. “But I’ll be here. So will Jimmy. And Sassy. And we’ll all be very supportive and dramatic about it.”

She laughed, but the sound was splintering around the edges. 

“Are you sure?” Isabelle asked him, her voice shaky. 

Max reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “I’m sure,” he said firmly. “But if you’re not ready, that’s okay. I just—” He exhaled, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I just want you to know I want this. I want you.”

She stepped into his arms then, wrapping hers around his waist, burying her face in his chest. And when she whispered, “I think I want to say yes,” he smiled so wide it made his cheeks ache.

And if Jimmy and Sassy got extra treats that night when she came over?

Well. They’d earned it.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max asked me to move in.

Isabelle: Like. Officially. Into the penthouse. With him.

Isabelle: I said yes.

Emilie: YOU SAID YES??? YES TO WHAT??

Isabelle: Max. The penthouse. The cats. All of it.

Emilie: AAAAAAAAAAAA

Emilie: I knew it. I KNEW he was going to ask. He’s been treating you like a man who wants joint bills and matching key hooks.

Isabelle: He was so calm about it. Like he’d already pictured me there. Like it was obvious.

Emilie: Because it is obvious. You designed that penthouse and made it a love letter to your own taste. You’ve already moved in emotionally. Time to do it physically.

Emilie: So when do we pack?

Isabelle: That’s… actually why I texted. Can you come help? I need moral support.

Emilie: Say less. I’ll be there with wine. 

Isabelle: …perfect. Also, if I start backpedaling emotionally, please just throw a throw pillow at me.

Emilie: I’m bringing the heaviest one. You’re doing this, Belle. I am SO proud of you.

Isabelle: I’m scared. Like… what if I mess it up?

Emilie: You won’t. You don’t know how to be anything but steady and brilliant and thoughtful.

Emilie: And Max is completely in love with you.

Emilie: You’re building a life with someone who sees you.

Emilie: Not someone who just remembers you when they need a reservation booked.

Isabelle: That’s a little mean.

Emilie: I am your best friend. I am required to be mean on your behalf.

Emilie: Max loves you. He sees you. You get to have a gorgeous man AND a rooftop pool. This is the dream.

Emilie: Let’s pack your life, Belle. You’re going home.

***

Emilie Abadie had always believed that homes told stories.

Not just the curated kind you shared in design portfolios, or the kind Instagram filtered into perfection. The real ones. The stories that lived in cluttered drawers, forgotten shelves, and the boxes you avoided packing because they were full of things you didn’t want to explain.

Isabelle’s apartment told a quiet, thoughtful story—soft linens, deep greens and warm woods, books arranged by mood, not color. A ceramic cup collection that made no cohesive sense except to her. It was lived-in, and loved, but also… careful.

Emilie knew what careful looked like.

She’d watched Isabelle perfect the art of it for years.

Which was why it didn’t surprise her when, halfway through packing up the hallway cupboards, she found it. The collection of objects that could only be described as “well-meaning psychological warfare,” wrapped in tissue paper and reluctant affection.

Highlights included: 

A desk plaque that said Think Like a Leader.

A collection of self help books. 

A coffee mug that read Worlds Okayest Sister. 

A heavy coffee table book about golf. 

A Bluetooth speaker shaped like a race car that lit up in flashing LED colors.

A number of scented candles, all of them unburnt. All of them with the kind of sickly sweet scents that Emilie knew Isabelle would get headaches from. 

A bright red umbrella. Ferrari merchandise. 

A black pantsuit Isabelle had never worn and would never wear—tags still attached.

A Diet cookbook. Which pretty much exclusively featured recipes that involved red meat, which Isabelle never ate anyway. 

A pair of trainers in a garish neon yellow.  Two full size too big. 

It was Isabelle Leclerc’s version of a family scrapbook.

Emilie didn’t say anything at first. Just sat cross-legged on the floor and started lining them up like museum artifacts. Like evidence. And it made her blood boil.

“You kept all of them,” Emilie finally said, not bothering to mask her disgust.

Isabelle, predictably, didn’t flinch. Just looked over from where she was folding dish towels and sighed. “Please don’t start.”

Emilie snorted. “I’m not starting. I’m documenting.”

Isabelle walked over and perched on the armrest of the couch, staring at the collection like someone facing down a polite ghost.

“They’re not trying to hurt me,” she said, because of course she did.

“They’re not trying to see you either,” Emilie finally replied.

God, they had trained her to make excuses for them so well. 

And that was the thing about Isabelle.

Isabelle defended them. Always. Even when they ignored her. Even when they handed her a gift that said, in a thousand unspoken ways, we don’t know who you are, so here’s who we’d rather you be.

Emilie loved Isabelle for her grace. Respected her for her patience.

But sometimes she wanted to scream on her behalf.

Because Isabelle Leclerc was brilliant. Quietly, devastatingly brilliant.

She could sketch out a space and see a life inside it before anyone else could.

She knew how to listen, how to hold space, how to fill a room without taking it over.

And yet, her family treated her like the placeholder sibling.

The support system.

The “how lucky we are to have you manage our chaos” afterthought.

Emilie wanted to shake her sometimes. 

“You’re allowed to admit it hurts,” she said, softer than she meant to.

Isabelle just hummed noncomittingly.

Emilie had watched this play out for years: birthdays where Isabelle got gifts that felt like HR perks, dinners where she was interrupted or talked over, family holidays where she played event planner and emotional buffer and never, not once, was asked what she wanted for herself.

And then Max Verstappen had shown up.

At first, Emilie had been skeptical. Who wouldn’t be? He was Max—F1 World Champion, known for being blunt to the point of rudeness.

But then… she saw the way Isabelle softened around him.

Or no—that wasn’t it.

Isabelle didn’t soften with Max. She just… relaxed.

Like for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to justify her existence. Max didn’t question her decisions, didn’t treat her like she was delicate or invisible. He watched her. Not with confusion, but with certainty. Like he already knew she was extraordinary.

And when he asked her to move in, Emilie saw the panic. But underneath it? The wonder.

The possibility of being seen. Fully. Without apology.

So as Emilie watched her best friend now—holding that terrible mug with a rueful smile, defending the people who had handed her metaphorical shrink-wrap year after year—she didn’t say the things she wanted to.

She didn’t say, They don’t deserve you.

She didn’t say, They never tried hard enough.

She didn’t even say, You don’t have to keep forgiving them just because it’s easier than facing the truth.

Instead, she handed Isabelle a roll of bubble wrap and said, “I’m glad you’re moving.”

Isabelle didn’t answer, just smiled faintly and kept folding.

But Emilie meant it. Not just because the apartment was too small for her, or too carefully arranged around other people’s expectations—but because Max had asked her to move in.

And Max—despite being the chaos of F1 incarnate—saw her.

He wasn’t perfect—God, no—but he made space for her. Real space.

And for someone like Isabelle, who had spent her whole life tucking herself into corners… that mattered.

Max didn’t just love her.

He made her feel unchallenged in her existence. Like it was safe to take up room. To bring her books and her silly teacups and her weird throw pillows and be.

Emilie looked around the apartment one last time. The walls felt like they were exhaling. Letting go.

And when Isabelle asked, softly, “Do you think I’ll miss it?”, Emilie didn’t hesitate.

“No,” she said. “You’ll be too busy building something better.”

With someone better.

And that made all the difference.

***

Isabelle didn’t expect it to feel like this.

The shopping trip was meant to be practical.

They had all the essentials, really—Max’s penthouse was fully furnished, a curated blend of sleek lines and soft warmth, every finish and fixture carefully chosen. By her. For him.

And now… for them.

Because Max had asked her to move in. And she’d said yes.

And suddenly, the things she used to walk past in shops—the towels, the sheets, the coffee mugs—meant something entirely different.

They weren’t just purchases.

They were choices.

Isabelle ran her fingers over the display of Egyptian cotton sheets, crisp and cloud-white, then turned to a soft beige set that made her think of sleepy mornings and Max’s warm skin under her fingertips. She held up the tag, inspected the thread count, and caught herself smiling.

It felt a little silly, how giddy she was. How young she felt. Like a teenager dreaming of her first apartment. But this was different. This wasn’t fantasy.

This was real.

She was going to live with him. Not just crash on weekends, not just brush her teeth beside his before tiptoeing out the next morning.

She would be there when he got home.

She would be there when he left.

She would be home.

That thought made her pause.

The nerves came creeping in—quiet but insistent.

Would she take up too much space? Would she somehow get in the way? What if she over-decorated, what if she made it feel less like his place?

What if she loved it more than she was allowed to?

She picked up towels next—thick ones, luxurious ones. One set in cream, one in a dusky grey-blue. Neutral. Calming. Shared.

Would Max care?

Probably not. He’d happily dry off with whatever was closest.

But Isabelle cared.

Because this wasn’t just shopping.

This was settling.

Belonging.

She carried the towels and duvet set to the counter and added a couple of throw pillows she hadn’t planned to buy, and still did, before she went to her favourite antique store. 

The store smelled like old books, wood polish, and dried lavender. Isabelle had always loved it—the quiet hush of it, the way everything creaked slightly underfoot, how time seemed to fold in around the edges. Nothing here rushed. Nothing here demanded.

Which was why she came.

When she needed to think.

When she needed to feel like she was choosing something entirely her own.

The console table caught her eye almost immediately. Oak, mid-century, solid but delicate somehow—slim legs, warm finish, brass drawer pulls that looked like little leaves. It wasn’t flashy, but it was hers. In the way certain pieces just are.

She stood in front of it for a while, her hand brushing over the edge.

They had space for it. Max had said she could pick what she wanted. He meant it. He’d said things like it’s your home too and whatever makes it feel like us, but Isabelle still felt the pull of hesitation in her chest. A quiet anxiety that came not from Max—but from all the years of not quite being allowed to take up space.

But she wanted this one.

This table. This little symbol of her taste, her joy, her voice.

She turned to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take it.”

The words were quiet, but steady.

A few minutes later, she stood at the counter, scribbling her name on the delivery slip. The butterflies were still there—flapping somewhere between her ribs—but so was something else. Something lighter.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: So hypothetically… if someone were to have bought a few things for the apartment while you were gone… would that be a problem?

Max: Define “a few things.”

Isabelle: …Towels. Throw pillows. A vintage console table I may have emotionally imprinted on.

Max: Was it whispering to you in the store?

Isabelle: It was practically begging to live in our hallway.

Max: Then obviously you had no choice.

Isabelle: Exactly. Also, I got a really pretty ceramic tray for the kitchen island. You know, for keys. Or snacks. 

Isabelle: You’ll love it. It’s very “Max doesn’t know what it’s for but agrees it looks nice.”

Max: My favorite kind of décor. You’re making this apartment ours. I love it.

Isabelle: You can thank me by letting me put  the throw pillows I just found on the couch. 

Max: Are the throw pillows neutral or secretly pink?

Isabelle: Neutral… ish. There’s texture. You’ll survive. I debated between “soft beige” and “almond stone.” I chose “soft beige”.

Max: That’s not even a real difference.

Isabelle: Says the man who can feel the difference between tire compounds while going 300 km/h.

Max:  Touché.

Max: Buy anything you want. Cover the couch in throw pillows. I miss you and imagining you decorating makes it feel closer to coming home.

Isabelle: That was dangerously sweet.

Max: I’m in a hotel room with bad lighting and no you. I’m weak.

Isabelle: I’ll save you a spot on the couch. And possibly hide the pillows until you’ve emotionally adjusted.

Max: Deal. Now send me a photo of that tray. I need to know what I’ve agreed to.

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments: 

@f1fashionista93: where is this shop?? asking for a friend (the friend is me)

↳ @isabelleleclerc: It’s called Vintage Collection, at the Carré d’Or!

@emilie_abadie: You’re so lucky I wasn’t with you or that lion would be in my living room.

↳ @isabelleleclerc You would’ve named him and given him a tragic backstory. ↳ @emilie_abadie And he would’ve deserved it.

@paddockprincess: how is this not a painting???

@victoriaverstappen: “Something older than everyone in the room” is my new golden rule—thank you for this! ❤️

↳ @isabelleleclerc: It’s such a good trick!

@/F1GossipQueen: You’ve inspired me to go antiquing this weekend. Hoping to find my own weird lion.

***

Max wasn’t sure when it hit him exactly—somewhere between unrolling a rug Isabelle had ordered and setting it gently under the coffee table, or watching her rearrange the spice drawer for the third time like she was memorizing her own existence.

She was here. She had moved in. But somehow… she hadn’t arrived yet.

He watched from the doorway as she unpacked a box labeled “Books + misc. (bedside stuff?)” in her neat handwriting. Her movements were precise. Careful. Like every item she placed might be quietly retracted if it took up too much space.

It wasn’t the way she moved in his life. With him, she was steady. Present. Laughing softly in the kitchen or curled up with Jimmy or Sassy, or leaning into his touch like she belonged there—which, to him, she did.

But this… this looked like someone trying not to leave a mark.

“Hey,” Max said softly, leaning in the doorway.

Isabelle glanced up. “Sorry. I’m taking over the dresser—if you want the top drawer back—”

“I don’t,” he said, crossing the room. “I want you to take all the drawers. And the shelves. And the bathroom counter.”

She looked at him warily, like she didn’t quite believe it.

Max reached for her hand. “You’re not a guest, Belle. You live here. I want to see your things around the place.”

Isabelle hesitated, fingers curling slightly in his. “I just… I’ve never had space before. Not really. And I don’t want to—”

“Take up too much room,” he finished for her. Gently.

She nodded, eyes down.

Max cupped her cheek, making her look up. “Take up all the room. Please. I’ve seen this place without you in it. It’s beautiful and cold.”

She huffed a soft laugh, like it surprised her. “I just didn’t want to… clutter it.”

“You’re not clutter,” he said firmly. “You’re the heart of it.”

He tugged her into his chest, arms wrapping around her tightly, and pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I want to trip over your shoes in the hallway,” he murmured. “I want your throw blankets on every surface. I want the picture of Blanche in the living room and that stuffed bunny from your childhood sitting next to my championship trophies.”

She buried her face in his chest, breathing in deeply. “You’re sure?”

“I’m certain,” Max whispered. “Make it yours. Make it ours.”

There was a long silence—warm, safe.

Then Isabelle pulled back slightly and smiled, small but real.

“Okay,” she said softly.

And just like that, the penthouse began to feel like home.

***

Isabelle hadn’t meant to hide it.

The roll-up keyboard wasn’t a secret. It was just… something small. Something she kept. Tucked away behind art books and a folded throw blanket. She’d placed it there quietly, the way she placed most of her things in this space—carefully. As if she were still trying to make sure she belonged.

So when she heard him call from the living room—“You didn’t tell me you had this”—her stomach fluttered.

Isabelle padded out of the bedroom, barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, the sleeves of Max’s hoodie falling over her hands. He was crouched near the bookshelf, curiosity written across his face as he unzipped the worn canvas pouch she hadn’t touched in months.

The roll up keyboard.  That sad little silicone thing she’d used in university apartments and rental flats, when the idea of owning a real piano had felt laughable.

“Oh,” she said, voice faintly embarrassed. “Right. That thing.”

Max looked up at her, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “You actually play on this?”

“I did,” she admitted, sinking onto the rug beside him. Her legs folded under her easily, like muscle memory. “When there wasn’t room for anything else.”

There was a time when she’d pulled that keyboard out just to feel normal for five minutes. Between assignments, between shifts, between everyone forgetting she existed.

“You’re full of surprises,” Max murmured, watching her fingers hover above the keys, not quite touching them.

Isabelle shrugged, soft. “Not really. We had a piano growing up. At the country house.”

He glanced at her. “Do you write music too? Like Charles?”

She blinked, surprised that Max knew that…but then she remembered that her brother had actually released some of his compositions. Of course, Max would know.  “Do you?” Max asked again, gentler this time. Not pushing—inviting.

She shook her head. “No. I was never interested in writing anything new. I liked learning. Things people said were difficult. Pieces with layers. There’s something comforting about playing something that already exists. Like translating someone else’s thoughts.” Her voice dropped slightly. “It felt less scary than putting mine out there.”

Max watched her like he always did—closely, quietly, like he knew what she wasn’t saying.

“So you were more of a storyteller than a composer.”

She blinked. That was… accurate.

“It felt like less pressure,” she said. “I didn’t have to be brilliant. I just had to be present.”

And that, she thought, was the kind of safety she rarely felt in her family. But somehow, she found it here. In this penthouse she helped design. In this quiet space with the man who saw her entirely.

Max turned to glance at the empty corner by the window, where soft light spilled from the sconces she’d chosen herself. “We should get you a real piano.”

She looked at him quickly. “Max…”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m serious. You shouldn’t have to unroll your music out of a drawer. Not here. Not anymore.”

Her throat tightened. Not just at the gesture, but at what it meant. What he understood without her having to explain it.

“I don’t even know if I’d still be good,” she said quietly.

“I don’t care,” Max replied. “I just want to hear you play.”

She leaned in and kissed him—slow, grateful, still in disbelief that someone wanted this much of her. When she pulled away, her voice was soft and full of warmth.

“What kind?”

“You pick,” he said simply. “I’ll just be the guy who listens.”

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Serious question: Am I allowed to touch your trophies?

Max: …What?

Isabelle: Your F1 trophies. The actual ones.  Like, are they sacred objects or can I move them?

Max: I’m sorry… what?

Isabelle: I want to move them into the built-in display we had made. The one with the custom lighting and matte black shelves you pretended not to care about but totally loved.

Max: I do love that wall.

Isabelle: It’s ready. And your trophies are going in. But I needed to check if you’re one of those people who’ll panic if I breathe too close to the 2021 Abu Dhabi trophy.

Max: What?? No. They’re trophies, not cursed artefacts.

Isabelle: You say that like it’s obvious.

Max: Why would it not be obvious??

Isabelle: Because Charles once lost his mind when I breathed too close to his karting trophies. Like—actual panic. Told me to “never touch the silver one from 2012,” because apparently my mortal fingerprints could destroy the legacy.

Isabelle: So I’m checking. Do I need gloves? Tongs? An FIA certification? Or can I just move them like a normal person?

Max: ...Your brother is completely insane. 

Isabelle: So can I move your trophies? Dust them? Put them in the light-up cabinet I designed with my whole heart?

Max: You could build a pyramid out of them and I’d say thank you. They’re metal, not ancient relics. You don’t need ceremonial gloves.

Isabelle: Okay good. Because the lighting is chef’s kiss. I even have little engraved name plates.

Max: Touch whatever you want. Including me, when I get home.

Isabelle: Noted. Trophies first. You second.

Max: I’ll take it.

Max: Send me a photo when it’s done?  I kind of love that you’re doing this. Feels like the trophies finally have a home too.

Isabelle: I’ll send you a whole slideshow. With dramatic lighting.

***

The flight back had been mostly quiet.

Well—quiet-ish. If you didn’t count the eighty-four times Lando had apologized for breaking Max’s trophy, or the part where he genuinely offered to ride in the luggage compartment as penance.

Now they were back in Monaco. The sun was doing that rich golden thing it did right before it sank into the sea, and Lando was trying very hard not to think about how he’d destroyed a priceless piece of Verstappen history.

Max had just unlocked the front door of his brand-new penthouse—the penthouse, the one Lando hadn’t seen yet—and turned back with a smirk.

“Come in,” Max said. “You can personally witness the replacement trophy making it home safely. Might help your guilt complex.”

Lando followed him in, dragging his emotional damage behind him like a suitcase. “Mate, I broke your winning trophy. They handed it to you and I just—smash. Right there on the podium.”

“Honestly, that thing fell apart like IKEA furniture,” Max said over his shoulder, already tossing his keys into a surprisingly stylish bowl. “That’s what they get for making a teapot the trophy.”

Lando barely heard him. His brain had short-circuited the moment he stepped into the apartment.

It was… insane.

Vaulted ceilings. Curved walls. Warm lighting that didn’t feel clinical or rich-guy sterile. It didn’t scream money, it whispered it, in like, six languages. And the view—the view—was like something out of a dream. Monaco glittered below them, golden and lazy, like it had been placed there just for Max.

Lando looked around the massive open space—sleek kitchen, moody wood floors, an actual staircase—and had to bite back a seriously?!

It looked like Max Verstappen lived in a Pinterest board for emotionally stable billionaires.

He flopped dramatically onto Max’s disturbingly soft couch. “Do you know how many people sent me the slow-mo of that moment? Like I wanted to be immortalized as the idiot who destroyed the winner’s trophy.”

Max snorted from the kitchen. “Gods, you’re worse than my girlfriend.”

Lando blinked. “Wait, what?”

Max poured two glasses of water like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “Belle used to be terrified of touching my trophies. Wouldn’t even go near them. Her brother’s obsessed with his, told her once that she could ‘smudge the history’ by getting fingerprints on them.”

Lando stared. “Your what?”

Max, with the calm of a man not fully aware of the chaos he was about to cause, strolled past him. “My girlfriend.”

Lando’s entire brain short-circuited. "SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?"

Max shrugged. “About… four months?”

“FOUR MONTHS?” Lando shrieked, sitting up straight. “And I’m just now finding out?”

Max raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you needed to know.”

“I’m your friend, Max!”

And then, as if the universe were determined to finish Lando off, the front door opened.

Lando turned.

In stepped Isabelle Leclerc.

Isabelle Leclerc in all her soft, gently glory. Wearing sunglasses on her head, a bag slung over one shoulder, in high heels and a pink dress… her expression soft and content in that way people were when they walked into a space that felt like home.

“Hey,” she said, smiling at Max. “I missed you. Did the box with the spare trophy arrive?”

Max pointed to the dining table. “It’s right there. Lando helped escort it home personally.”

Lando’s soul evacuated his body.

He turned to Max.

Then to Isabelle.

Then back to Max.

In a hoarse, horrified whisper, he said, “That’s Charles’ sister.”

Max, the absolute psychopath, just nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

Lando turned to Isabelle. “And you’re okay with this?”

She smirked. “Clearly.”

Lando turned back to Max, voice rising. “And Charles knows?”

Max popped a chip into his mouth. “No.”

Lando nearly fell off the couch. “HE DOESN’T KNOW?”

“We’re keeping it private,” Isabelle said, casually crossing her arms like she wasn’t detonating Lando’s entire worldview.

Lando laughed. Or maybe screamed. Or both. “You’re keeping it private?” He pointed at Max. “Does Victoria know?”

Max nodded. “Yes.”

“Sophie?”

“Yep.”

“Jos?”

“Yes.”

Lando stared, hands flailing. “So just to confirm—everyone in your family knows—”

“Right.”

“—and none of hers knows?”

“Correct.”

Lando dragged a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay, cool. Cool cool cool. So when Charles finds out, do you want your funeral to be in the Netherlands or Monaco?”

Max rolled his eyes. “Charles isn’t going to kill me.”

“YES HE IS!” Lando turned to Isabelle. “He’s going to kill him!”

Isabelle just shrugged. “I’ll deal with him.”

Lando made a strangled noise. “You’ll deal with him? This is the worst idea Max has ever had!”

Max just grinned, maddeningly pleased with himself. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Lando pointed at him. “And I want no part in it! I’m officially removing myself from this entire situation!”

“Noted.”

“I’m serious, Max. When Charles comes at you with, like, a Ferrari spoiler, I was never here.”

Max smirked and held up his hands. “Understood.”

And yet somehow, Lando knew that when it all inevitably exploded… he’d still end up involved.

Because, apparently, this was his life now.

***

Max had survived media scrums, championship-deciding races, and Jos Verstappen's silence-with-a-side-of-glare disapproval—but nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to waiting for Emilie to step foot into the penthouse.

Isabelle’s Emilie.

 The best friend. The sister-by-choice. The one person Isabelle never sugarcoated anything for. The one who’d once, according to Isabelle herself, told a former boyfriend, “I hope you fall down an escalator and land on your ego.”

Max was… a little afraid.

He wasn’t nervous often. His job didn’t allow for it. But now, standing in his own kitchen, hands resting on the marble countertop Isabelle had picked out, he was nervous.

Because Emilie was the kind of person who saw things clearly—and said them out loud. And Max wasn’t stupid. He knew that Isabelle’s past was littered with people who hadn’t protected her the way she deserved. Especially her family. Especially the ones who should have known better.

So Emilie was the gatekeeper.

And Max? He was the boy who had fallen in love with the girl she protected.

The intercom buzzed. Isabelle, barefoot and glowing, went to let her in.

Max exhaled, rolled his shoulders once, and silently promised the cats not to make this weird.

When the door opened, Emilie stepped in with a tote bag on one arm and sunglasses perched on her head like she belonged on the cover of “Best Friend With a Sharp Tongue Monthly.”

“Hi,” she said to Max, all easy charm and narrowed eyes.

“Hi,” he replied, with what he hoped was equal ease but probably came off a little like please don’t hate me.

Emilie looked around slowly. Took in the space. The light. The symmetry. The faint scent of lemon and clean wood. Then: “You let her pick the rug?”

Max blinked. “I mean… yes?”

Emilie turned to Isabelle. “He’s either deeply in love with you or very smart.”

Isabelle grinned. “Both.”

Max cleared his throat. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Emilie studied him for a beat. “Coffee?”

“Coming right up.”

He moved toward the machine, listening as Isabelle showed her around—explaining where things were, which parts of the design had been last-minute additions, what Max had insisted on and what she had picked out. 

Max made her coffee exactly the way Isabelle had once told him Emilie liked it—strong, touch of oat milk, pinch of cinnamon—and slid it across the island as Emilie wandered in, Sassy having demanded Isabelle’s attention like she was prone to be doing. 

Emilie took it, sipped, and raised her eyebrows. “Alright. You pass step one.”

“There are steps?” Max asked, mouth twitching.

“Oh, so many,” Emilie said. “But relax. You’re already ahead. You didn’t try to impress me with vintage wine or your Rolex.”

“I was going to offer cookies,” he admitted.

“Smart man.”

She took another slow sip, then set the mug down.

“Max,” she said, and her tone shifted—less playful now, more real. “You know she’s never done this before, right? Never let someone be her safe place. Never believed she could build something and live inside it, too.”

“I know,” Max said quietly.

Emilie studied him a moment longer.

“I don’t care that you’re a world champion,” she said. “I care that when she comes home, she gets to rest.”

Max nodded. “She does. That’s all I want. I don’t need her to fit into anything. I just want her to feel like she doesn’t have to be anything more than she is.”

Emilie stared at him.

Then, finally, she smiled. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Better or worse?”

“Infinitely better,” she said. “But if you screw this up, I will make you regret it in very creative ways.”

Max raised a hand. “Understood.”

Isabelle returned to the kitchen then, breezy and radiant, unaware that Emilie had just conducted an emotional background check in under five minutes.

“I like him,” Emilie said, already helping herself to a cookie.

“Thank God,” Isabelle murmured, leaning into Max with a smile.

And Max—well, Max just exhaled for the first time in twenty minutes. Because if he had Emilie’s approval?

That meant he was doing something right.

 Which mattered.

 Because Isabelle?

She was everything worth getting right.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Need vacation recommendations.

Lando: Oh no.

Max: What?

Lando: This is about her, isn’t it?

Max: …So do you have suggestions or not?

Lando: I knew it.

Lando: Max, I know you and Isabelle are a thing.

Lando: But Charles doesn’t.

Lando: And I would like to stay alive.

Max: This has nothing to do with Charles.

Lando: It has everything to do with Charles.

Max: No, it has everything to do with Isabelle.

Lando: SAME THING.

Lando: I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to be involved.

Max: I’m literally just asking for vacation recommendations.

Lando: And yet somehow, I will still end up suffering because of this.

Max: Lando.

Lando: FINE. Seychelles.

Max: That was fast.

Lando: Because I don’t want to talk about this any longer than I have to.

Lando: Seychelles is private, expensive, beautiful. Go there.

Max: Thanks.

Lando: Do not tell me anything else. I don’t want to know.

Max: Got it.

Lando: Seriously.

Max: Okay.

Lando: Like, if Charles finds out and demands to know what I knew—

Max: Then you knew nothing.

Lando: Exactly.

Max: Thanks, Lando.

Lando: I hate you.

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript 

Stream starts, Max joins the call.

[Background reveals a brand-new sim room: sleek LED lighting, perfectly mounted curved monitors, and a back wall entirely dedicated to trophies, helmets, and framed photos—immaculately designed.]

Chat:

WAIT.

NEW ROOM??

WHERE TF IS HE

TROPHY WALL HELLO???

Bro has a museum behind him

That’s not the old sim room 😭

Chris Lulham: “Hold on, what is that behind you??”

Gianni Vecchio:  “Is that a whole new background?? Did you move? Why do you look like you're in an actual Formula 1 museum?”

Luke Crane: “That is not the same white wall with the sad curtain.”

Chris:  “Is that a trophy wall?? With lights?? WHY IS IT GLOWING.”

Gianni:  “That’s a custom setup. Someone made that. You did not install LED strips yourself, Max.”

Max: glances around “Oh, yeah. I moved. Still in Monaco.”

Chris: “Wait, what?! Since when?”

Max: “Few weeks ago.” shrugs

Chat:

🚨 BREAKING NEWS: MAX VERSTAPPEN MOVED AND DIDN’T TELL US 🚨

Max casually dropping life updates like he’s talking about the weather.

Bro didn’t even hint at it???

NEW SIM ROOM???

OH MY GOD THE MONACO TROPHY IS ON A LITTLE TURNTABLE

Luke Crane: "Hold on, hold on—are we just glossing over this? You moved and didn’t tell us?"

Max: laughs "I don’t tell you guys everything."

Luke Crane: "Clearly."

Chris: "Okay, but like… why?"

Max: shrugs again "Just wanted a change."

Chat:

He’s so unserious about major life events.

“Just wanted a change” bro you’re in a whole new house.

Luke Crane: “Alright, when’s the housewarming party?"

Max: "Never."

Chris: "Figured."

Chat:

That was the fastest rejection ever.

LMAOO Max really said NOPE.

Someone check the Monaco real estate listings 😭😭😭

Chris: "Okay, but real question—do we at least get a tour?"

Max: “Hold on, check this out.”

[Max adjusts his camera slightly, reaching off-screen.]

[Trophy wall lighting shifts smoothly from warm white to deep racing red.]

Enzo Bonito: NO WAY.

Luke Bennett: Did you just change the color?

Max: It’s all programmed. RGB control. Motion sensors too. They dim when I leave the room.

Gianni: That’s actually ridiculous. 

Max (grinning): Also acoustic panels. So no echo. And the mic quality’s better now too—right?

Luke Bennett: Sounds dangerously smooth, yeah. Honestly, this is a Bond villain layer disguised as a sim room.

Chat: 

max literally lives in a batcave

 this is a SIM LAIR

 rich people don’t build houses they build race temples

 bro’s sim room has mood lighting and better HVAC than my entire apartment

 WHY DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A NETFLIX SET

Luke Bennett: Man, I feel like I should be wearing a tuxedo just to race you now.

Max (grinning): Anyway. Let’s race.

Chris: If my wheel breaks mid-race, I’m blaming this emotional damage.

Gianni: If I lose tonight, it’s because your RGB lighting intimidated me.

***

Isabelle always arrived on time for family dinner. With dessert, of course.

She always brought something. Homemade or picked up from her favorite patisserie. No one commented on it, but the plate was always clean by the end of the night.

Dinner was in full swing now, a chaotic medley of pasta, overlapping voices, and half-remembered updates from everyone’s life—except hers.

“So I told the media team we should change the graphic for next week,” Charles was saying, gesturing with his fork. “And they acted like I was speaking a different language.”

“Maybe they were,” Arthur said, grinning. “You barely speak one as it is.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “And you’re in F2, so calm down.”

“I’m in F2, not in last,” Arthur shot back.

“Boys,” Pascale said in a long-suffering tone. “Please. Eat.”

Isabelle had barely spoken since they sat down.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to contribute—she just never quite found the opening. Every time she tried, someone else jumped in louder, faster. She was used to it. It had been this way for most of her life.

Still, she tried.

“Oh,” she said lightly, when the conversation briefly turned toward travel. “I’ll be in Nice next week for a client install. Final stages of a boutique I’ve been working on for a few months.”

Charles barely looked up from his glass. “Interior stuff again?”

Isabelle smiled tightly. “Yes. It’s the final phase.”

“What are you installing, like… pillows?” Arthur asked, half-joking, half-serious.

“Furniture. Lighting. Custom cabinetry. Architectural finishes,” she replied, ticking them off calmly. “You know. The usual.”

“Right, right,” Lorenzo said, tone absent. “Pinterest, but expensive.”

Isabelle bit her tongue.

Hard.

She smiled again—her polite, polished, professional smile—and took a sip of her wine to swallow down everything she wanted to say.

No one asked more about the project. The conversation veered into Charles’ media schedule for the next race.  No one circled back to Isabelle.

They never did.

Until, several minutes later, Arthur mentioned Max.

“Did you know he just finished renovating his place in Monaco?” Arthur said, gesturing with his fork. “Fully redone. It’s all over the sim racing forums—some insane setup.”

“Oh, yeah,” Charles added. “I saw it. Trophy wall, hidden screens, mood lighting. So over the top.”

“It’s not over the top,” Isabelle said, casually.

They all turned.

“I designed it.”

Silence. Actual silence.

Isabelle set down her fork and took another sip of wine, just to give them a moment to catch up.

Charles blinked. “You—what?”

“I was the lead interior architect on Max Verstappen’s penthouse,” she said, voice steady. “From layout to lighting to final finishes.”

Arthur’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Lorenzo frowned. “Like… the Max Verstappen?”

“No, Lorenzo, the other one,” Isabelle deadpanned.

Pascale blinked. “Well. That’s… quite something.”

“It was,” Isabelle said mildly. “A lot of work. High standards. Very involved client.”

…not really, but nobody needed to know that. Mostly Max had just let her do whatever she wanted. 

“You never said anything,” Charles muttered, confused.

“You never asked,” she said, sweetly. “You thought I was just picking out pillows.”

No one had an answer for that.

And Isabelle didn’t try to change the topic. instead she just stood up, starting to clean up plates— graceful as ever.

“I’ll help clean,” she said, voice still perfectly polite. And then, with a final smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she added, “Let me know if you ever want help picking out throw pillows, though. I’m very good at that.”

***

The front door opened with a soft click, followed by the unmistakable rustle of paper shopping bags and the sound of someone toeing off their shoes with slightly more force than necessary.

Max looked up from the couch, one arm draped around Jimmy, who had fully claimed the throw blanket. “You’re back late.”

Isabelle stepped inside, arms full of muted-toned bags from an upscale decor shop near the port. She dropped them on the kitchen island with a sigh that sounded far too heavy for a casual stroll home.

“I stopped at—” she started, then waved vaguely at the bags. “—somewhere.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Shopping?”

“Frustration shopping,” she muttered, pulling off her coat and hanging it neatly by the door.

He got up slowly, padding barefoot across the floor to meet her. “What happened?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she unpacked …something that looked like a seashell and a pretzel had a baby,  a geometric candleholder she didn’t need, and a cushion cover in a color Max was pretty sure they used in the guest room.

“They laughed at my job,” she said finally, quiet but steady. “Again.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “What did they say?”

Isabelle didn’t look at him. She kept unpacking. “Arthur made a joke about installing pillows. Lorenzo called it Pinterest, but expensive.”

He let the silence hang, waiting.

“And then I told them,” she said, meeting his gaze now. “About the penthouse. The sim room. The trophy wall. All of it.”

Max stepped closer, brushing his fingers lightly against her hand. “Good.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she admitted, her voice dipping. “I didn’t want it to sound like name-dropping. But I just—snapped. I was so tired of biting my tongue.”

“You don’t have to bite your tongue,” Max said, his voice low and firm. “Not with them. Not with anyone.”

She looked up at him, eyes a little glossy but not crying. Not yet.

“I built something for you,” she said. “Something real. And they still treat me like I’m playing house with fabric swatches.”

Max reached behind her and gently tugged her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“They can’t see it because they don’t want to,” he murmured. “But I see you. Every detail, every decision, every part of this place that feels like home—you did that.”

Isabelle closed her eyes and let herself lean into him.

The silence was softer now. Safer.

After a beat, Max pulled back just enough to glance at the bags.

“...Please tell me that weird seashell thing isn’t going in the sim room.”

Isabelle laughed, a real one this time, even as she sniffled. “No promises.”

***

Quadrant Stream Transcript 

Lando Norris: Okay, I’m in. Finally.

Max Fewtrell: Took you long enough. What’d you do, build a new rig?

Lando: Nah, I’m not Max Verstappen. I don’t have a personalised sim fortress with like… ambient lighting and a trophy shrine.

Max F: Bro, that room is insane. I saw a clip on TikTok, and I swear it looked like he was about to launch a space shuttle.

Lando : That’s because Isabelle did it.

Max F: …Isabelle who?

Lando: Isabelle Leclerc.

Max F (pauses): …As in… Charles Leclerc’s sister?

Lando: Mhm.

Chat: 

LANDO WHAT

 BACK UP

ISABELLE LECLERC DESIGNED MAX’S SIM ROOM???

Max F: Wait wait wait hold on. Max Verstappen’s sim room was designed by Isabelle Leclerc?

Lando: Yep.

Max F: Okay but like—can she do my room?

 Lando: Have you got Max Verstappen money, mate?

Max F: …Right. So that’s a no.

Lando: That’s a hard no. She’s not out here doing LED lighting schemes for the boys on a Logitech G29.

Max F: Ouch. No, but seriously, that room looks like a race car museum had a baby with an interior design Pinterest board.

Lando: It’s ridiculous. He’s got like… hidden drawers, ambient color modes for quali, race, cooldown—mood lighting for his championship mood swings.

Max F: You’re telling me my man gets P1 and then sets the room to gold sparkle mode?

Lando: Wouldn’t even be surprised.

Max F: And Isabelle did all that?

Lando: Yeah. Interior architect. Like… architectural degree, portfolio, the works.

Max F: I’m gonna DM her my IKEA shopping list and see what happens.

Lando: All she’ll say is “please never contact me again.”

Max F: Worth it.

Chat: 

 “do you have max verstappen money” LMAO

 lando fully spilling the tea again i love him

ISABELLE IS THE INTERIOR ARCHITECT???

makes so much sense now why it has taste

Max F: This stream just turned into an episode of MTV Cribs: F1 Edition and I’m emotionally unprepared.

Lando: You and me both, mate.

***

The rooftop club was loud—bass pulsing through glass walls, drinks flowing freely, and the scent of something expensive lingering in the air. Monaco glittered below, and the whole world above felt like it had hit pause: one final blowout before the second half, before the summer break. 

Charles had been halfway through a conversation with Pierre when he heard it—faint, over the music, slipping in between thudding bass and the occasional shout of laughter.

French.

With a Monegasque accent.

He turned instinctively, blinking through the crowd.

Who the hell—

It was Max.

Max Verstappen.

Speaking fluent French. 

Not just French—Monegasque-accented French. Clean. Polished. Lightly clipped consonants in the way Charles had grown up hearing around every market stall and café table. Max’s cadence had shifted too—not quite native, but not clumsy either. 

Max was leaning slightly over the bar, talking to a bartender Charles recognized. His posture was relaxed, like it was normal. Like he’d done this a hundred times. His accent wasn’t perfect, but it was close—soft R’s, local cadence, the kind that didn’t come from a Duolingo app.

Charles couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.

He didn’t even know Max spoke French.

Pierre elbowed him, confused. “What?”

Charles shook his head, blinking. “Is he speaking French?”

Pierre followed his gaze, did a double take, then frowned. “Oh. Huh.”

“Where the hell did he learn that?” Charles muttered.

“Don’t look at me,” Pierre said. “Last I checked he couldn’t even pronounce ‘quiche’ properly.”

Lando strolled up then, already laughing at something Oscar had said. “What’s going on?”

“Max is speaking French,” Charles said, still stunned.

Lando blinked. “Oh. Yeah, he does that now.”

“What do you mean now?”

Lando shrugged like it was obvious. “He’s been learning. Says it’s good for Monaco. And, you know with…” He trailed off.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “And?”

Lando opened his mouth to respond and then suddenly blanched. “Nothing! Just…I need another drink!” and off he went. Charles stared after him. 

What was that about now? 

Charles frowned deeper, watching Max accept his drink with a quiet merci, bonne soirée like it wasn’t the most confusing thing Charles had witnessed all summer.

It wasn’t just the French.

It was the accent. The ease. 

Charles couldn’t figure out what bothered him more—that Max was speaking French… or that he was doing it like a local.

And somewhere in the back of his head, a quiet, suspicious thought began to form:

Why would Max Verstappen bother learning Monegasque-accented French?

[rollingeevee]

What did the minions first think of darling for both beast and ancient cookies

SORRY FOR THE ABSENCE! Been feeling not super amazing health wise so I took a small unannounced hiatus (sorry about that) and am still a lil iffy so will probs be slow for at least a couple more weeks ^^;

Now onto the answer!

For the minions we have so far (Cloud Haetae, Nutmeg Tiger, Candy Apple, Black Sapphire), I can say this

Cloud Haetae Cookie:

• I have a feeling they instantly became attached!

• Their master seems really fond of you, so that means they should adore you, right?

• Adoption time? Adoption time- aidhcj

• They are at your beck and call, more than happy to serve you in any way they can! Except for escape, of course. That would upset their master.

• They love being around you in general. Mystic Flour is not very outwardly affectionate, but you make up for that and give them plenty of attention.

Nutmeg Tiger Cookie

• I don’t see her liking you at first, perhaps seeing you as unworthy of The Great Destroyer. What ploy did you use to make him so infatuated with you?

• Burning Spice is quick to shut down any hostility she may have towards you. The only reason he didn’t crumble her right then and there was because you begged him not to.

• She felt a lil indebted to you afterwards, and given how quickly fierce and angered Burning Spice became over a small glare your way, she knew you were here to stay

• She tried to make it up to The Great Destroyer and you by offering to train you and help you become stronger, something you accepted and that Burning Spice approved of

• Tho she’s a lil gung ho when it comes to fighting and serving the Great Destroyer, her company is the closest thing you can consider to normal in your new life as the recipient of Burning Spice’s bite

Candy Apple Cookie

• Oh boy she hated you at first. Technically still does

• She adores Shadow Milk and has always desired his attention, and here you are with just stealing it away without any effort?! UGH!

• Shadow Milk is quick to notice her attitude,, but leaves it be. A test to see if she’s smart enough to obey his desires and leave you alone.

• A test she fails.

• She had never been punished as severely as when she tried to bring harm to you. She was lucky Shadow Milk didn’t crumble her. Her only saving grace was how much you seemed to like her and tried to get along with her. One of the few tethers keeping you compliant for the moment.

• This did not get rid of her jealousy, but it did pacify her. She tolerates you at most.

Black Sapphire Cookie

• Black Sapphire is a follower of Shadow Milk above all else. If Shadow Milk says you are to remain in the Spire, that is where you are to be. If Shadow Milk wants you attached at his hip, Black Sapphire will do his best to ensure you remain there.

• He’s not necessarily fond of you per se- not any more than he needs to be at least.

• Shadow Milk trusts Black Sapphire around you much more than he does Candy Apple, and allows Black Sapphire to get physically close to you and attend to you when he himself cannot, but he’s a fickle contradiction. He allows the close proximity but gets grumbly about it later. You can’t win with this guy ughhhhh

• Anything his Lord Shadow Milk wants, he gets. Shall he attend to you while Shadow Milk is busy? Of course! Oh- he needs to leave- ok-

• Unlike Candy Apple, Black Sapphire is fully aware of what you are, including your importance to his master. He’s been around longer, knows what that mark on you means, what that possessive attitude entails. I feel when Black Sapphire was younger, he might have been bratty with one of or perhaps Shadow Milk’s very first bitten, something he quickly learned was a no no, much like Candy Apple.

• And as much as Candy Apple annoys him, she’s still his sister, and he does his brotherly duties to make sure she doesn’t do anything too stupid and get herself killed by their master

[shinhyunjin]

── .✦ after the rain.

⟢ pairing: lee minho x female!reader

⟢ genre: fluff, non-idol au, established relationship

⟢ word count: 1.9k

⟢ summary: the one where a street interviewer asks the story of how you met.

⟢ author’s note: hello, everyone! this is minho’s version of the meet cute series. i’m not sure this is an actual meet cute lmao but i got this idea from @/meetcutesnyc on tiktok, so that’s what we’re calling it. this one’s dedicated to @hykwrld because she asked for the lino version. i hope you all enjoy, and i would love to read your thoughts on it if you do<3

“Excuse me, are you two a couple?”

“Yeah” your boyfriend answers in a heartbeat, as if out of instinct tugging at your hand and making you stop walking right as he does.

You barely have any time to register the stranger in front holding a mic up to you and Minho—and the cameraman filming you while at it—before he shoots another question at you.

“Would you mind telling us the story of how you met?”

Hearing a teasing giggle leaving Minho’s mouth, and looking up at him only to see him already looking at you with his signature smirk, you brace yourself for the answer he is about to give—the very same one he had given one too many times, whenever someone asked him how the two of you met.

“I picked her up from the street”.

You shove him off as soon as his answer reaches your ears. “That is so not—” your eyes go to the camera. “He loves saying that, but that is not how it was”.

“It technically was, though” he argues, staring at the camera as well. “So what happened was, I was on my way home at like 2 AM after having a couple of drinks with my friends, and as I was walking past an animal shelter that’s like two blocks away from my place, I saw this woman kneeling down in front of the door, absolutely drenched—it was raining, by the way—and she was like, holding something inside her jacket trying to protect it from the rain… and she was crying so hard, I couldn’t help but worry…”

Throwing a brief glance at you, he waits for a moment in case you want to add something else. When you don’t, and nod for him to go on, he continues the story.

“So I walked up to her and asked if she was okay, and she started crying harder and was like ‘I found this kitty on the street and he’s so little and I couldn’t find his mum, and I can’t bring him home because my roommate’s severely allergic and said there’s no way in hell she’s letting him in, and none of my friends would pick up and my phone died now, and the shelter is closed and I can’t leave him alone’”.

You feel your cheeks heat up over how perfectly he remembers your heartbroken speech—and over how funny his high pitched voice comes out as he tries to imitate your sobbing, desolated one.

“To be fair, I was going through it” you hopelessly try to defend yourself.

“It was cute how she didn’t even think of going to a 24/7 convenience store to at least shelter herself from the pouring rain while she found a solution” he throws you under the bus.

“I was going through it” you emphasize your previous point through gritted teeth, earning laughs from all three guys next to you. “But yeah, my ugly crying must’ve moved him a lot, because he didn’t hesitate to offer taking the kitty back home with him and bringing him to the shelter for me the next day” a smile creeps up your mouth, feeling your heart warm up at the memory. “And he also offered to let me dry up and charge my phone at his place so I could call a taxi. I usually wouldn’t have accepted, I mean, he could’ve been a psychopath for all I knew,” you hear him laugh next to you. “But I was freezing and exhausted, and for some reason I felt like I could trust him, so I just went with it”.

“Back at my place I lent her some dry clothes and we had some tea to warm up while her phone charged, and we kind of grew fond of the kitty right away” he confesses, still remembering how neither of you could take your eyes off the orange and white ball off fluff sleeping soundly on his couch. “So we exchanged phone numbers and the next day when she texted to ask about him I told her that I would keep him, and that’s pretty much when it all started”.

“Yeah…” you reminisce as well with a fond smile. “The kitty was his now but I did still feel responsible for the whole situation, so I offered to help him pay for his food and shots and whatnot”.

“Of course I said no,” he chimes in. “But then I realised that it was the perfect opportunity to keep in contact with her, since I did find her very cute and wanted to keep seeing her…” his confession earns a smile from you. “So we ended up co-parenting somehow and now he’s our son”.

“How old is the baby now?” The interviewer asks with a smile.

“One year and nine months” you reply. “He was only one month old when I found him”.

“And how long have you two been together?”

“A year and a half” Minho chuckles timidly.

“Oh, so you got together only two months after adopting him”.

“Yeah, the whole co-parenting thing really got to our heads” you joke, and Minho lightly shoves you away with his shoulder.

The interviewer chuckles, holding the mic up closer to Minho. “So, what do you love the most about her?”

“Ugh, do I have to get all sappy now?” He whines, leaning closer to you.

“I don’t know, is the thing you love the most about me sappy as hell?” You tease, smiling triumphantly when he sighs rather heavily, preparing himself for what’s to come.

“Her heart” he goes straight to the point, and his genuine answer makes you pout in complete awe. “She has the biggest heart, she cares so deeply about everyone, especially about me and Yong-ie, so…” his soft eyes lock with yours for a moment—your feline son’s name slipping up from his lips. “I mean, the way she was crying over him when she found him and refused to let go of him… I think she would've spent the whole night outside waiting with him for the shelter to open, had I not gone up to her right then; and that only makes me love her more”.

“I think I would’ve, actually…” you sheepishly murmur.

“And what do you love the most about him?” The guy asks you now.

“Can I copy his answer?” You laugh.

Minho rolls his eyes. “Cheater”.

“I do love his heart the most, though. His compassion…” you specify. “There were a lot of people who walked right past me crying that night, which was kind of embarrassing, and he was the only one who went up to me and tried to help…” you feel his hand tighten his hold on yours, and you give it a gentle squeeze right back. “And then when he said he was keeping Yong-ie the next day… God, I got the fattest crush on him right then and there”.

Minho laughs under his breath next to you, and you don’t need to look at him to know his ears are turning red.

“And what is the next step in your relationship?”

“Getting another cat,” you don’t hesitate to say, looking up to Minho, who smiles the brightest at you. “Maybe?”

“Oh, getting another cat, definitely” he agrees. “We’re living together now and her annoying roommate isn’t there to nag about cats to us—”

“Minho…” you call him out under your breath, yet he doesn’t mind it one bit.

He is sure your ex roommate was more of a cat hater rather than severely allergic as she claimed.

“So there’s nothing stopping us from getting as many of them as we want anymore” he finishes his point.

The guy in front of you laughs, both at his words and at your reaction. “And your names are?”

“Minho” he says, although you had already given his name away a few seconds ago.

“I’m Y/N” you answer as well.

“Well, Minho and Y/N, it was a pleasure interviewing you guys” he wraps it up, signaling for the cameraman to stop recording. “I hope you keep rescuing as many cats as you want”.

Saying your goodbyes to the TikTokers, not without first making sure to write down their account so you can later watch the video once it is up, you resume your walk hand in hand to your apartment—the one that used to be only Minho’s up until four months ago, before you moved in with him.

Although some people in your life had said it was too soon to move in together, given that you had only been together for a little over a year by then, it didn’t feel rushed at all. If anything, it felt right.

You spent most of your days at his place anyway, for Yong-ie was there and you couldn’t bring him home because of your roommate. It had come to the point most of your stuff was at his and you were begging him to let you pay for the utilities, since he had made it clear he wasn’t letting you pay for half the rent like you had suggested more than once.

In the end, the obvious solution was to make it official and move the rest of your stuff to his place, so that the three of you would be together every single day like the family you had become a long time ago.

“So… another cat, you say?” He smiles.

“Yeah… I think it’s about time Yong-ie gets a sibling”.

“I doubt the spoiled brat is gonna like it”.

You chuckle, finding amusement in the contrast of how tiny and defenseless he was when you first found him, versus how big and spoiled he is now.

He is an only child after all, and as the cat lovers you and Minho are, he truly is living his best life.

“He’ll learn to like it,” you try to be optimistic. “He must feel bored and lonely at times when we’re not home”.

“Should we pay a visit to the shelter then?” He proposes, right before a taunting smirk curved up his mouth. “Or should I wait for you to find another one on a rainy night and call me crying to pick you up at 2 AM?”

“You’re such an ass” you try to playfully let go of his hand, only for him to tighten his hold around yours and pull you closer.

“Maybe” he agrees. “But I’m still the father of your child and future children, so…”

You shake your head in amusement—unaware of whether the second part of his sentence was meant for the future cats you planned to adopt, or the actual kids you may have one day. Either way, over such a statement coming from him, you feel fulfilled as ever.

Although the two of you always felt sorry for Yong-ie and the state he was in when you found him under the pouring rain, you were oh-so-grateful for everything that came afterwards.

After all, you only have him to thank for allowing you to come across the love of your life on that cold and rainy night.

[couldeatthatgirlforlunch]

I really loved your scenario of The Justice League AND The Ill reader,Lmao, poor reader they only need a rest.

Anyway, ever since I read the first part I was thinking about the kids, you know, the League Sidekicks, obviously The Reader knows them, due to work (I can really imagine Batman introducing His kids to the Reader to force a bond , And obviously The rest of The League does the same) So I had the headcanon that the reader really likes the children, they talk to them after missions, sometimes they buy them some gifts for their birthdays, they listen to them when they complain about their father figures (Therapist Reader), etc. But at the same time I can imagine The Reader being totally uncomfortable with his parents, so I can't help but think of a scenario in which The Reader is talking to the League kids in a good mood, but the League members walk in. to the room (They obviously saw the Happy Reader, so they want to gain some advantage) And The Reader just turns off, goes into business mode and is curt as always with the league, and when he finishes talking to the league, he goes back to talking to the children and their mood is happy again. Man I would love to see the league's reaction to the obvious reader favoritism

PD:I really love your work, you are amazing

Pd2:If The kids are yandere, ITS UP to you

A Week in Life: Take Your Kid to Work Day

Synopsis: A week in your life where you get a lot of new little friends, even if you know something’s sketchy about it.

Pairing: Yandere!Justice League X Assistant!Gn!Reader; Platonic!Yanderes! Robin (Dick), Superboy (Konner), Miss Martian, Kid Flash (Wally) and Aqualad (Kaldur'ahm)

Tw: A single implication about Hal’s past dub/non con incidente (blink and you miss it); Implied emotional manipulation, I guess? Justice League using kids as a manipulation tactic; A little angst, I think we all hate how Superman treated Conner, so I added that, so technically not a healthy relationship between them here, could be interpreted as Superman manipulating him or Superboy trying too hard to make his bio-dad like him; The kid’s ages are definitely not accurate canon wise, but what is canon anyway? I mixed their personalities and origins from Young Justice (along with their age gap) and for Superboy it was mainly the animated movie Reign of the Supermen; English is not my 1st language.

Word count: 3,3k

Requested? More than once.

Extra notes: Dick is 10, Kaldur'ahm, Conner, Megan and Wally are 13. I wish I knew more about the Wonder Girls to write about one of them, I felt bad for not adding them, but I would’ve felt worse writing for a character I have no idea how to write.

General masterlist | A Day in Life - Series masterlist

— I wasn't aware that there was a Take Your Kid to Work Day on schedule... — You said in a surprised, maybe taken aback, tone, if not a little strangled and sarcastic, even if a little happy. You rubbed your forehead, you knew your hunch was right…

Monday…

You’ve heard the rumors Gotham media was spreading for months now, you even asked Batman if you should prepare the marketing team in case of an emergency, he denied everything.

So why was it that now you were staring at a 10 year old dressed as a traffic light?

— Miss/Mister/Mx (Y/N)... I’m hungry… — Worst of all? The kid was cute.

You smile in a friendly manner.

— Okay, okay. Just give me a second, buddy, I need to talk to your… Dad…?! — You just now realized you didn't know their actual relationship. Batman only told you his name was Robin, that he was his partner, and that he was in the watchtower to observe. You didn't know superheroes accepted 10 year old interns, but whatever. The kid just stared blankly at you, not giving an actual answer to if you got your assumption right.

— Can I go with you? — Robin fiddled with his fingers. So cute. You nodded with a small smile. The kid jumped off his too big chair and ran towards you, surprising you by taking your hand. He had small hands. So cute.

You walked slowly, to accommodate to his height, in the direction of the door to the briefing room, where Batman was talking to John Stewart. This other Green Lantern was a breath of fresh air. The other one (the one who shouldn't be named) was away, working on another district of the universe since that whole… Less-than-consensual situation. You were happy and surprised when the League didn't just brush it off, and even compensated you for it, alongside making him go away. He either agreed to that, or caused the 3rd World War against the Justice League. It was a temporary predicament, but happier nonetheless, since John wasn't obsessed with you, unlike the rest of them, and easy to work with.

You cleared your throat so they would turn to you.

— Does Robin have any restrictions? He said he's hungry so I'm gonna take him to the kitchen. — You said politely. Batman shook his head.

— Just don't give him sugar. He needs to sleep before patrol tonight. — You raised your eyebrows in surprise and nodded your head. Batman looked at the boy. — Behave, chum. — You blinked, Robin nodded solemnly.

As you walked in the direction of the kitchen, the kid showed to be very happy and talkative. You were surprised, considering who his dad was, but it warmed your heart. At least it seemed he wasn't mistreated.

At some point, he let your hand go and started cartwheeling and doing acrobatics all the way there to show off his abilities to you. You gasped and clapped, praising his talent along with other workers from the crew who were passing the hall. You were slightly worried that he would fall and get hurt, but the kid was really confident in what he was doing (but they always are, until they fall).

When you got there, you were impressed that he wasn't even the slightest out of breath.

— Do you have games on your phone? — He asked, sitting down on a table while you rummaged the fridge for some sandwiches or any healthy snack, since you didn't know how his home diet was, but guessing by his build, which was a lot more athletic than kids his age are, he was probably pretty healthy. Son of the Bat.

— Hmm, I have Dress to Impress, Pou and Candy Crush.

— What is Pou? — Your heart panged and you sighed, feeling old.

— When were you born? 2010? — You walked towards him and settled a plate with a sandwich in front of him, before pouring a cup of juice.

— 2014. — Your mouth dropped, speechless. — Wait, so not even Stardew Valley? — You cleared your throat and shook your head, sitting beside him, while he started eating.

— Wait, can I even let you play? Does Batman let you have screen time? — He nodded.

— I have a phone. I just couldn't bring it with me today… He said he would show me around the tower, but he got busy with work… — He deflated a little at the end of the sentence, your heart broke. — Anyway… He told me I could distract myself. I just need your permission. — You bite your lip.

— Okay. How about we go to the recreational room and you can play some videogames while I work from the computer. — Robin nodded eagerly.

— Damn, you can't even play with me? Working sucks. That must be why adults are so boring. — You took a napkin and cleaned some food from his cheek.

— It's not that bad… You can do whatever you want. — He perked up.

— I guess so… — He looked you up and down. You prepared yourself for one of those moments where kids are so blunt that they don't know they could offend someone. — But you're not boring, (Y/N), you're cool. Must be why daddy likes you so much. And he doesn't like no one.

Tuesday…

Wow, what a weird coincidence. Just yesterday Batman brought his kid, and now Martian Manhunter brought his niece.

Miss Martian looked older than Robin, but again, she was a martian, her appearance was shifted to whatever she wanted to look like. All you knew was that she was young and new on Earth.

Right now, she looked very human. She had freckles and auburn hair. The only thing that made her stand out was the green of her skin.

When she presented herself to you, you got startled by her voice in your head, but you and Martian Manhunter softly explained to her that on Earth people didn't communicate through their minds, and it was kinda like an invasion of privacy. Kinda funny hearing him say that, but whatever.

Like Batman the day prior, Martian trusted the girl in your hands. So many coincidences, right?!

— So, honey, how old are you?

— Oh, on my home planet I should be about 39. But converting to Earth years, I’m 13. — She said with a shy but friendly smile, you smiled back.

— You’re pretty young then. How are you settling on Earth? Planning to go to school maybe? — She nodded.

— I just started the school year… I wasn't too sure about that, but my uncle said it would be good to learn human behaviors. — You nodded.

— American school is nice, I recommend you should take part in clubs. And don't feel pressured to make a billion friends. It's better to have one good friend, instead of 10 people you know but can't rely on. — She nodded, biting her lip.

— I already know some of the other sidekicks, I just don't have any civilian friends… I was thinking about joining the cheerleading team. — You gasped, excited.

— Oh, that's really good! I always wanted to join, but was never the sporty type. You’re sweet, I think that already gives you some points. — Her green cheeks got darker.

— You think so?! — Her voice got louder with excitement.

— Of course! Now let me give you some tips about the jocks, honey…

Wednesday…

Today, Flash brought Kid Flash. You haven't met him until now. The sequence of days the older heroes brought in their sidekicks was starting to look weird… But not that weird. Batman said he would give Robin a tour but became unavailable. Manhunter wanted Miss Martian to meet civilian people and have a good role model — you don't know why he decided that that role model should be you, but it made sense, so… —. Flash Said they would spend the day using the lab to experiment some more on Kid Flash’s still recently acquired powers. So. Coincidences, right?

The boy was 13 too, he had messy red hair and green eyes. Flash didn't specify their relationship, but their personalities definitely matched a little. Both a little hyperiperactive and smiley. Although that could be more of a speedster thing, especially the first part.

Like promised, they spent half that day on the lab, occasionally calling you for snack breaks. However, at some point, Flash gave an excuse and left you with the kid.

Huh.

— Sooo, what do you do around here? — Kid Flash asked, spinning around in a chair he found somewhere and rolled to the middle of your office in the blink of an eye. You half-smiled. It was nice not being crowded by those weirdos and being around fresh and youthful people, but it was starting to feel weird.

— I plan schedule appointments, organize team meetings, prepare agendas and itineraries, book meals and travel arrangements, handle record keeping and documentation, and make sure a project stays on budget. — The ginger blinked and stopped spinning.

— Uhh, you went to college for that? — You blinked.

— I did, why? — He chuckled slightly.

— Nothing, it's cool, sounds boring, though. — You nodded.

— What do you want to work with? — He looked to the side, thoughtful for a moment.

— I think I want to be a scientist.

— Oh really?

— Yeah, I like physics, mechanics and a little bit of chemistry. — You smirked.

— Chemistry? Sounds boring. — Kidflash froze for a second, wide-eyed, then relaxed and started laughing loudly. His chuckling prompted you to chuckle alongside him.

He used his feet to push the chair around your table and stopped at your side.

— Hey, can I see how much people get paid here? If I'm gonna be a member of the League one day, might as well optimize time and just work here. — You slapped his hands away when he reached for your computer, he pouted.

— Wouldn't that make it difficult to keep your secret identity hidden?! — Kid Flash stretched his arm, then draped it across your shoulders, you lifted an eyebrow.

— Babe. I'm a superhero. I could change clothes really fast right now and you wouldn't even notice. — You scoffed and lightly pushed him and his chair away.

— A phone booth would be more appropriate for that.

— What's a phone booth?

Thursday…

Superman brought Superboy.

Why the fuck are they doing that, bro?

You didn't even know they were close! Sure, Superboy is Superman and Lex Luthor’s clone, the whole world knew that, and that Superboy took to Superman's side. But they were never seen together, unlike Flash and Kid Flash, or Batman and Robin, for example.

Worst of all? It looked like the mood between them was… Weary. Especially on Superman’s part. Did he not trust Superboy? You could understand that… But look at his puppy sad face!

And not even five minutes later, Superman just flew away, saying something about a hurricane in Texas, AND SUPERBOY STAYED!

The silence was awkward for a few seconds. You thought back to the personality he showed when he was first announced by LexCorp, when Superman was considered dead. He was all over the media (Lex’s marketing team was good) with his charisma and flirty personality. Although he kept the leather jacket, his quietness surprised you.

You cleared your throat.

Superman brought Superboy.

Why the fuck are they doing that, bro?

You didn't even know they were close! Sure, Superboy is Superman and Lex Luthor’s clone, the whole world knew that, and that Superboy took to Superman's side. But they were never seen together, unlike Flash and Kid Flash, or Batman and Robin, for example.

Worst of all? It looked like the mood between them was… Weary. Especially on Superman’s part. Did he not trust Superboy? You could understand that… But look at his puppy sad face!

And not even five minutes later, Superman just flew away, saying something about a hurricane in Texas, AND SUPERBOY STAYED!

The silence was awkward for a few seconds. You thought back to the personality he showed when he was first announced by LexCorp, when Superman was considered dead. He was all over the media (Lex’s marketing team was good) with his charisma and flirty personality. Although he kept the leather jacket, his quietness surprised you.

You cleared your throat.

— So… Are you hungry? Wanna play videogames? — You grimaced slightly. He looked at you again, a little hesitant.

— Uh… I think so? — He blinked. — You guys have videogames here?! — He exclaimed, surprised. You chuckled.

— Oh yeah, for such a serious and stern guy, Batman really invested in the work environment. — You chuckled together, walking towards the recreational area.

You were curious about the earlier weird vibe, but didn't want to prod.

At first, you just let the boy play by himself, just sitting beside him and working while talking, that was until he paused the game between missions and stretched, then looked at you.

— Are you guys involved? — You looked at him with your eyebrows raised.

— You guys…? — He pursed his lips.

— You and Superman. — You grimaced slightly.

— Oh no, he's my boss, and not my type at all. — He nodded, looking pensive.

— He likes you. — You kept a blank expression, waiting for him to continue. — I like you too, so I can imagine why he likes you. — You stared at him, exasperated. He widened his eyes. — Not like that! — He raised his hands to deny. — It's just- I feel comfortable with you. I felt comfortable with some of his friends before, I didn't even know why, but I think it's because half of me is from him. Like I have some things from Lex since I was… Born… — He looked to the ground for a second, pouting lightly. — That's why Superman doesn't like me. — You widened your eyes.

— I'm sure he likes you! — Superboy looked at you like he didn't believe you.

— No, it's okay… He's polite, I guess. And took me in as his family, just not… As his son… More like a brother, or… A cousin… I mean, I can understand, I'm basically a hate baby, created by his biggest enemy to outdo and destroy him… — You shook your head.

You didn't know what to say, since you didn't know how their dynamic was like.

— H-He brought you here to spend time with you, didn't he? He just had an emergency to take care of… — He looked to the ground and then at you again. He didn't have the heart to tell you that's the first time they ever “hung out”, and that his genius brain clocked hours ago that Superman's plan was to create a connection between you both by orchestrating a connection with you and him. He also didn't want to bad mouth Clark. A part of him always would have hope that Superman would want to be closer to him one day.

Superboy looked at the clock and then at you.

— Don't you have a break? I can hear your stomach, I'm hungry too.

Friday…

This madness has to stop now.

— Nice to meet you, Aqualad. — You nodded at the boy with a small smile. You were a little mesmerized by his exotic appearance. He had brown skin, blonde hair in braids (where are his roots?) and blue eyes. His arms were also covered in tattoos that you knew had something to do with his abilities.

— I was showing him around the Watchtower, but now I have a meeting with Wonder Woman, why don't you two hang out for a while? — Aquaman, always the most obnoxious one. Their intentions were 100% clear now.

Aquaman didn't let you say anything else and left the room with said hero. You heard her murmur something about having to find her own apprentice to bring to the watchtower as soon as possible.

You looked at the boy, not knowing what to say.

— Have you ever been to Atlantis? — He surprised you by speaking first, his tone was gentle, if not a little monotonous, but he looked at you with interest.

— Uhhh, no? I’m not that good of a swimmer and I can't breathe underwater. — Aqualad smirked lightly.

— You wouldn't need to worry about breathing, there are multiple ways for humans to do that, from magic to technology. As for swimming… I'm sure we can find some sort of solution for that, also. And I doubt my king would be opposed to the idea of teaching you. — You nodded slowly. So much for subtly.

— … My vitamin D is low enough as it is, I’d rather stay on land, no offense. — The atlantean opened his mouth to speak but you beat him to it. — Aqualad! Do you like the food here? I've always been curious about your culture’s cuisine…

You kept talking for hours, eventually, Aqualad and you ended up in the training room, he offered to show you a little of his control over water bodies, and you, still a little fascinated over the convivence with superheroes, and this being the second time you met someone from Atlantis, accepted eagerly.

— This is just like H2O… — Kauldur’ahm blinked.

— It is water… — The boy confirmed, hesitantly. You laughed.

— No, no, not water. It's a TV show, it's about mermaids. I guess it isn't exactly accurate, but they can control water, just like you! — He nodded, slowly, contemplating. You looked at your watch, noticing your lunch time was due. You looked at him, shyly. — If you're up for it, we could watch it now… — That seemed to make him perk up a little and he nodded quickly.

— I would like to.

Monday…

— I wasn't aware that there was a Take Your Kid to Work Day on schedule... — You said in a surprised, maybe taken aback, tone, if not a little strangled and sarcastic, even if a little happy. You rubbed your forehead, you knew your hunch was right…

There they were, in the meeting room, all seated around the big roundtable, almost double the number of people who usually sit there.

Now, the food order they made, made sense.

You pushed the food cart forward, one for Flash. You came back and pushed another one, this one for Kid Flash, you ruffled his hair. Then, you walked back and pushed the 3rd food cart around the table, delivering each meal for each hero.

— Steak for Green Lantern. One black coffee for Batman. One meat sandwich and chocolate milk for Robin. — You squeezed his cheek. He smiled brightly at you. — Toast for Martian Manhunter and a slice of strawberry cake for Missy Miss Martian. — As you put the plate in front of her, you whispered that you wanted to know how the cheerleading team was going. She nodded happily. — A burger with fries for Aquaman, a smoothie and salad for Aqualad. Oh, did you change your hair? I like it! — You smiled brightly at the boy and his cheeks burned, he nodded. — Ice cream for Wonder Woman. Another burger and fries for Superman and another for Superboy. I see you followed my advice, your style really matches with those piercings. Tell me how you did it later. — You laughed carelessly and went to the door. — Need me for something more? — Your bosses shook their heads, stunned. You left and closed the door.

— Can't believe you guys actually did it… — John shook his head, disappointed at his teammates.

— I knew it would work. — Batman said, sipping from his drink.

— That's why we stole your idea when we knew about it. — Aquaman chuckled.

— I really need to find a sidekick. — Diana huffed.

Batman turned to Robin.

— You did a good job, chum. — Dick chuckled.

— Yeah, I even asked for a sandwich without the crust. Now (Y/N) think I'm the cutest here. — He smirked smugly. Wally scoffed.

— Yeah, right. She totally doesn't think you're an annoying kid. — The duo stared at each other. — I, for example, made them laugh. — The redhead puffed his chest proudly.

— Are you sure it wasn’t a pity laugh?! — Superboy snorted at Robin’s retort.

— Although Robin might be physically more adorable, and Kid Flash, in his words, made them laugh. (Y/N) and I started a TV show together, my king. — Aquaman nodded at his apprentice’s words.

— You did a good job.

— But (Y/N) actually said they wanted to talk to me later! That usually oficializes human’s friendships! — Megan said, softly.

— They said the same to me, the other day. That I could talk to them whenever I wanted… — Superman looked at Superboy, surprised. He felt awkward praising him, so he just nodded his head and looked away. Superboy pouted slightly.

— Because you told them your sob story, now they think you're a loser. — Conner glared at Dick. — Their physical language showed that they loved me, B! I honestly deserve an Oscar after that performance! They're gonna be ours before you suckers know it!

As a screaming match raised inside the room, the adult heroes looked at each other, lost for words, not only had the kids gotten you roped a bazillion times faster then they could ever dream, but also you were so amazing that they were enamored with you too.

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[eubybubble]

slytherin boys after an argument

ft. Tom, Mattheo, Theodore, Lorenzo

Theodore Nott

Realization hit him hard after a prolonged silence. The air felt thick, and he felt nauseous as he shifted his gaze from a small crack on the wall under his fist to your face. He just swallowed and left the room without a word.

He was terrified of himself, didn't he promise to never raise a hand on loved ones? Technically, he hadn’t, but it was too close. Thoughts flooded his mind as he rushed up the stairs in a desperate attempt to breathe fresh air. It wasn't surprising that he instinctively headed to the Astronomy Tower – your favorite place. Reaching the top, he stood there and retrieved the cigarette pack with trembling fingers. After hesitating, he lit one. Everything seemed to remind him of you. It was never that serious, you just wanted to help him.

Now, he felt like a total fool. Leaning against a wall and sliding down, he pondered over the the relationships. You were too sweet, he couldn't let you suffer near someone like him. With that, he set his mind on ignoring you and breaking up with you because "that'd be better for you." It seemed like you would only agree, he didn't consider any other possible answer.

In the next few days, he deliberately skipped meals and tried to ignore your questioning gaze in halls. However, you heard a slight cough from behind after the lunch.

"May we discuss something?"

"Well, if it isn't Theodore Nott! What—" he didn't let you finish.

"Let's break up." you froze, staring at him in disbelief.

"Nott, are you insane? Didn't you think to ask me?"

"I'm doing it right now."

"Really? It felt more like you just stated a fact and I can only accept it. It was really low of you to avoid me." Your eyes became shiny as tears started to accumulate involuntarily. Theodore noticed it, and despite the cold agenda he planned, he rushed towards you, wiping the tears.

"You wouldn't want to be with me," he mumbled.

"What? We could've talked! We've always talked about how important communication is, but how come we don't practice it? I know you, and I know myself; I wouldn't give up on our relationship that easily. And more than anything, I know that I want to be with you. Why would you do that to me?" you sobbed, clutching onto him as if you were afraid that if he left now, you would never see him again.

"Shush, principessa, I'm so sorry-" he didn't expect such a reaction from you. As you hid your crying face in his chest, his heartbeat only became faster. What an idiot he was for even thinking of such a thing. "I'm so sorry. For everything I've done and said. I'll work to be better for you," he rambled quietly. "Do you trust me? Are you ready to give me another try?" His voice cracked slightly as he asked the last question. You just nodded, and he chuckled at the sight. "Tesoro... I'm so sorry. I promise you it won't happen again." He gave you a forehead kiss, and he really meant it. Even though he didn't say anything about it, he decided to quit smoking. Yes, it won't be easy or a short process, but at least he found a far better addiction - you.

Tom Riddle

From the moment you saw Tom, you thought it could have worked out. At least, you hoped so. It all felt dumb. All those times when your friends told you to break up or said that he didn’t care about you - you refused to believe them. And now, it got you here when the most precious person told you were some troublesome trivia. In the past, you and Tom would at least talk during lunch or sit next to each other in Potions where he patiently helped you, but now, he skipped most lessons, and if he attended one, he’d sit alone. Everyone noticed it, and you became the target of their whispers and snickers. Some even went as far as mocking you in the halls.

“Well, if it isn’t the one Tom Riddle dumped. What, did he finally realize that you’re pathetic?” you tightened your hold on your books and tried to leave hurriedly until the blonde boy from the group shoved you into the wall. “Aren’t we talking to you? Why are you leaving so suddenly?”

It was a pretty loud encounter, so Tom, who was walking nearby, heard it and stopped in his tracks. To tell the truth, he didn’t even want to break up. He invented this silly excuse to protect you because he was afraid of his own actions. He hoped you’d be stubborn and come once again, but you didn’t. That’s when he knew he messed up, but his pride held him back from going to you. And now, someone was bullying his treasure.

But they underestimated your power. You didn’t want it to escalate into violence, but they started it first. With a swift movement of the wand, you threw them off with a big blast. Not even bothering to look behind, you paced up and bumped into someone.

“Oh.” As he put his hands on your shoulders to steady you, he eyed the unconscious group behind. “Using a spell of such power at this hour?” he mumbled nervously.

“Care to explain why you care? Get off, Riddle.” You tried to shove him away, but his grip was strong.

“What’s going on with you? I didn’t even do anything to make you that mad.” You nearly choked at these words.

“Tom.” He hesitated. “Do you think I’m that dumb to fall for your words? Move out of the way.” But he just stood there without a change.

"Don’t leave. I was just... I was afraid I’d hurt you," he whispered as he clutched onto you. "I was afraid of my own plans, of my own thoughts. But please, promise me never to leave, even if I change. I won’t hurt you, just stay by my side. I never expected to fall in love..I had everything planned ahead in a neat way, but you came in like a surprise. Yet, here we are, and it's you. There's no turning back now" You never saw Tom being so vulnerable, and you could do only nod. You cupped his face.

"Hey, I’m here. Everything’s gonna be fine. I’ll be here," you softly reassured him, not noticing how easily he drew you right back.

Mattheo Riddle

You had hard time absorbing everything Mattheo said. It was already dark outside, but you didn’t care to turn on the light or illuminate the wand with “Lumos”. You sat on the bed and went through the box with a glossy eyes. You couldn’t believe that he saved every gift, every letter, note - even those that you gave him before dating. Quiet sobs escaped your chest upon finding the promise ring at the very top. Why does it feel so awful when you believed you made the right choice?

As if on cue, your roommate entered the dorm room. "Hey, look what everyone’s talking about in school- oh, are you okay?" She turned on the lights and noticed your teary face. Quickly wiping everything away, you pretended to be busy, gathering everything back into the box. "Yeah, my eyes are sore from reading in the dark," a lame excuse, "what were you gonna tell?"

She knew you disliked having your privacy intruded upon. "So, three students were caught for an outrageous duel and a series of mobbings in Hogsmeade! Surprisingly, it was two Gryffindor students and one Hufflepuff. That fits into the ‘don't judge a book by its cover' narrative. I wonder when the stereotypes about the houses will end. Remember when everyone didn't doubt that it was Slytherin?" she sighed.

As if it weren't enough of a heartbreak, you discovered that everything you had ever suspected Mattheo of was all filthy lies and gossip. Suddenly, you felt dizzy.

You didn’t care about decency or dignity as you rushed to Mattheo’s dorm. He, too, was struggling. Despite everything, he regretted speaking harshly and leaving the memory box. What if you never returned and tossed it away? His heart clenched at the thought.

Feeling too irritated and unwilling to join others in the common room for a card game, he was all alone for now. In futile attempts to fall asleep, he heard a light knock on the door.

"Who’s that?" he groaned, too lazy to open the door.

"Hey, can we talk?" His muscles tensed upon hearing that familiar voice. Rushing to the door, he unlocked it immediately. "Oh, hi," you blushed and stopped mid-sentence, staring at his torso. He glanced down, realizing he forgot to put his shirt on.

"Shit. Sorry, one second," he shut the door in embarrassment and put on a random sweater. "What do you want?" he still held a grudge against you.

"I wanna... apologize. You have every right to shut the door, but I wanted to tell you that our relationship isn’t a joke to me. I love everything about you. I was just so stupid to believe all the gossips floating around Hogwarts, but that doesn’t matter. I came here to tell you how insane you make me feel. I mean, these days when I tried to collect my thoughts and was avoiding you, I was thinking of you non-stop. Mattheo, I’d fight the world to be by your side." As you rambled on and on, his gaze softened, and he pulled you by the waist.

"That’s my girl. I felt terrible when you acted the way you acted, but I hope it won’t be the same in the future?... I also apologize for saying unnecessary things."

"That’s okay, you had every right to be mad. What about I’ll order the food and we’ll watch a movie?"

“Gladly” he was grinning now. It wasn't necessary to tell him that you were also ordering a new broomstick, the perfect one for the perfect boy to make it up. It was the least you could do now. As you scrolled through the list of new films, Mattheo coughed.

"So, uh, can I get my box back, please? You didn’t go through it, right?" a light blush covered his face.

“Actually, I did, Matty. I didn’t know you are so sweet” he groaned at this comment “but I’ll return it to you. Sure.”

Lorenzo Berkshire

The moment Lorenzo received his numerology exam back, he couldn't believe the mark he saw. 70, satisfactory. Many would pray for such a grade, but he had studied and sacrificed too much for this.

As he walked to breakfast, he scanned the Great Hall but couldn't spot you. The previous day's argument flared up in his memory, and he wrinkled his nose as he sat down to eat. As predicted, a white owl sat on his shoulder, delivering a letter with Berkshire's family logo.

He run his eyes over the text. “disgrace..wasting time..bad influence” and blah blah blah. Nothing’s new, except the threat that ordered him not to come home until he got back on the track academically. He's been following his parents' wishes for too long; he was too afraid to ruin the perfect son image that he completely lost hold of his priorities.

Oh, how he wished to be in your embrace now, to listen to your soothing voice and nuzzle up to you in the dark. But he ruined it single-handedly.

He stood up and went to lessons, scratching an apology note for you in the meantime. At DADA, the only class you two took together, he tried to sit next to you and apologize, but that place was taken by a Hufflepuff girl, to which he could only frown. Throughout the lesson, you felt his gaze on you, but never once did you turn your head back at him. If he needed a break that much, he could get one. After all, you got tired of constantly begging him to relax and spend time with you and felt like a total fool.

After the lessons ended, you were the first one to leave the classroom, but he's not an idiot either. You felt someone gently taking hold of your wrists and pushing you into the empty classroom. The door closed behind.

"Can we talk and communicate like grown-ups?" Lorenzo inquired.

"You said everything you wanted last time. I have to go, Hermione's waiting for me in the library," you blatantly lied.

"Oh, really? Because when I last talked to Hermione, she told me she would be with Ron," he calmly stated, stepping closer. "I don't really remember things I've said, but-" You didn't let him finish.

“Enzo, you needed break and I’m giving it to you” his jaws tightened in frustration at your unwavering stance. “You told me I was a burden and you know what? I think you were right because lately, that’s what I felt like in relationships with you. It’s like I’m begging you to spend time with me. Maybe it's best to return to being friends” you mumbled. But he just shook his head, moving nearer once more until he stood right in front of you.

"I'm sorry I made you feel this way. It's not an excuse for my behavior, but I've been stressing about..something," he sighed. "You don't deserve to be treated like that, but trust me, I'll be better." He gently reached out for your arm. "I need just another chance. The only one. I've already written back to my parents, and I hope they will get off my back. I've also told them about us," his voice got quieter. "I hope you won't mind." Your breath hitched. He had always been postponing this, even if you wished for it. There was a minute of silence and apprehension before he wrapped you in a hug. "I hope you can forgive me, sweetheart. How about we go to the cafe you like this weekend?" he mumbled, peppering your face with kisses.

a/n: I apologize if it's not the way you imagined, but hey, I tried my best. Also, I think they were super careful and sweet afterwards!

taglist: @lilanxietysstuff @nopedefe @marina468

[bucketgetter535]

This is not a cry for help (but it might be) PART 2

CW: Swearing/Drinking/Divorce

WC: 3.2k

Notes: I really tried to lean into the pov being like from Paige’s mind on this one so it does look a lil different. Plz send thoughts like anons are my fav part of the day

The morning light in the gym was too bright. Way too bright. Like, offensive. Paige blinked hard, dribbling aimlessly in her warmup shirt while Coach whatever-her-name-was barked at some girl from Arizona about defense.

Her body felt like it was moving underwater. Or in slow motion. Or maybe not at all. Her legs worked, technically. She could still shoot. Could still pass. Could still joke a little bit when someone missed a free throw and she muttered “yikes” under her breath loud enough for them to hear.

But everything felt wrong. Like her skin didn’t fit.

Azzi had tried to get her to eat at breakfast… again.

“You need something,” she’d said, handing Paige a banana like that was going to fix literally anything.

“I’ll eat at lunch,” Paige lied. She always lied about food when she felt like this. Food made things real. Hunger meant something was happening. If you ignored it long enough, it’d go away.

Azzi gave her that look. Not a mean look. Just the look. The “I’m not buying this but I’m too polite to fight you about it in front of the whole world at a buffet” look.

Whatever.

Practice went fine. Ish. Paige got through it without collapsing, so. Victory. She only spaced out twice and only got subbed out once for “looking like she’d seen a ghost,” according to the assistant coach with the intense eyebrows.

She skipped lunch too. Didn’t feel like being around people. Didn’t want anyone to ask if she was okay again. Didn’t wanna answer, didn’t wanna lie, didn’t wanna think.

By dinner, her stomach was doing gymnastics but she still couldn’t bring herself to go to the dining hall. She texted Azzi from bed:

Paige: can u grab me chips or smth

Paige: i don’t wanna go down there

Azzi didn’t answer for a while. Then, like, twenty minutes later, the door opened and Azzi came in with an armful of snacks. Not just chips. Crackers, peanut butter packs, those little pretzel things with cheese inside, even a mini chocolate milk.

Paige blinked at it all from her spot on the bed. “Okay… dramatic.”

Azzi dropped it all on her lap. “You’re not eating,” she said flatly.

“Thanks for the snacks, Mom,” Paige muttered, already popping open a bag of Doritos even though her stomach was like what are you doing.

Azzi sat on the edge of her bed, watching her. Not judging. Just watching.

“We’re friends now, right?” she asked suddenly.

Paige froze. One hand still in the chip bag. “…Sure.”

“So talk to me.”

“Nope,” Paige said immediately. She shoved a chip in her mouth. “Hard pass.”

Azzi didn’t move. “You’ve been weird since yesterday. You haven’t eaten. You’re quiet. You’re—”

“I’ve always been quiet.”

“You bothered me for fun every night for the past week. Now you’re not saying anything. That’s not ‘quiet,’ that’s different.”

Paige swallowed. Stared at the wall. She wanted to say I’m fine but even she was tired of hearing that one.

She opened her mouth to say something else (something dumb and off-topic and Paige-ish) but her phone buzzed.

Dad.

Her throat closed. She stood up way too fast. “Gimme a sec.”

She didn’t wait for Azzi’s reply. She was already out the door.

In the hallway, it was colder. Quieter. She hit accept and held the phone to her ear with fingers that felt kind of floaty.

His voice came through the line. Calm. Too calm. Again.

Something about him and her step-mom taking a break. About how he might move back into the old place for a while. About how he didn’t want her to worry but things were tense.

Paige nodded even though he couldn’t see her. Said “okay” four times in a row. Didn’t say anything else. Just listened and clenched the phone so hard her knuckles hurt.

When she came back into the room, her face was pale. Her eyes weren’t teary but she looked like she’d been hit in the stomach.

Azzi looked up fast. “What happened?”

Paige dropped onto the bed. She didn’t even try to joke. Just looked at the ceiling like it had answers.

Azzi was quiet. Then she said, “My parents are visiting tomorrow. You should hang out with us.”

Paige squinted at her. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to sit here feeling like this by yourself. And because my mom makes cookies.”

Paige snorted, but it sounded like a broken car. “Cool,” she said finally. “Cookies’ll fix my divorced family.”

“They’re chocolate chip,” Azzi added.

And somehow that made Paige feel a little better. Not, like, fixed. Not even close. But like someone had reached into the chaos of her head and held it still for half a second.

She didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no either.

And Azzi didn’t press.

Which, of course, made Paige want to say yes. Which made no sense.

But what else was new.

–

Paige did actually intend on going with Azzi’s family.

Like, it just kinda… happened. One second she was making fun of Azzi’s outfit (“You look like a Target ad that lost custody of its fashion sense”), and the next, Azzi was elbowing her in the ribs and going, “If you’re gonna be this annoying, you might as well come with us.”

So. Here she was.

In the backseat of Katie and Tim’s SUV, squished next to Azzi, pretending not to notice how normal everything felt.

Which was insane. Because Paige’s life? Was not normal. It was the opposite of normal. It was a trash fire inside a tornado inside a therapy session she wasn’t ready to attend.

But here, Tim was making dumb road trip jokes, and Katie was humming to the radio, and Azzi was side-eyeing Paige like she could feel her trying to smuggle a bag of gummy worms into her hoodie pocket. (Success.)

“You’re gonna get ants,” Azzi muttered, flicking the hood.

“Ants deserve snacks too,” Paige replied.

Tim just laughed and said, “At least share with the driver.”

Which Paige did. Like, she actually did. She opened the bag and passed it forward without any snark, and that’s how she knew her brain was in complete crisis. She was polite. That was never a good sign.

Katie kept looking back at her, smiling gently like Paige was some kind of confused raccoon they were trying to rehabilitate. And Paige didn’t get it. Like, she was being weird and annoying on purpose. That was her whole thing. Why was Katie not sighing or side-eying or lowkey asking Azzi if she was “doing okay with that one”? Why was she being patient?

No one was patient with Paige anymore. Not even Paige.

Her phone buzzed again. She didn’t look at it. Then it buzzed again.

She looked.

Dad

Dad: Hey just checking in

Dad: Can we talk later?

Dad: I know you’re busy but I just wanna explain some stuff

Paige’s stomach dropped.

There was nothing in those messages, technically. But still, she felt sick. Like, full-on body tension, nausea-in-her-neck sick. Why did he need to explain anything? Why did he think that was what she wanted? Why was she here trying to be a person when back home her whole house was probably yelling or sulking or pretending nothing was happening?

She closed her messages. Opened Instagram. Closed it again.

She wanted to throw her phone in the lake they were driving past.

Azzi glanced over. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, too fast. “Just deciding if I’d survive if I leapt out of this car going 60.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

Azzi rolled her eyes and reached over to fix the hood Paige had pulled halfway over her face. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Thanks. I try.”

Her phone buzzed again.

Not her dad this time.

Stepmom

Stepmom: Paige I’m sorry but your dad is being so unfair. I need you to know this isn’t my fault. He’s making this way worse than it has to be.

Stepmom: Call me?

Paige slammed her phone face-down in her lap and stared straight ahead.

What. The actual. Hell.

Why was she in the middle of this? Why was she suddenly a referee? She was fifteen. She didn’t even have her permit yet. She couldn’t legally drive a car but apparently she was old enough to emotionally process a second imploding marriage in one household.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t even blink.

Katie asked what kind of sandwiches everyone wanted from the place they were headed.

Paige mumbled, “Whatever Azzi gets.”

Azzi didn’t say anything, but her leg pressed against Paige’s for a second longer than necessary.

Paige didn’t move.

She hated how it all just… lived in her now. The tension. The guilt. The weird buzzing between her ears. The feeling that if she opened her mouth the wrong way, a sob might crawl out before she could smash it back down.

She wanted to be normal for one second. Just one.

But her chest was tight and her stomach was not okay and her stepmom was texting her like they were trauma buddies and—

“Hey.” Azzi’s voice. Soft. Only for her. “You’re scrunching your whole face again.”

“I’m vibing.”

“You look like you’re doing math with your eyebrows.”

Paige barked out a laugh that was 40% real and 60% panic. “Just calculating how many times I can poke you in the arm before you break my finger.”

Azzi deadpanned, “Once.”

Tim chuckled. Katie handed back napkins without asking. Paige took one and clutched it in her fist like it was holding her together.

She didn’t open her messages again.

But she also didn’t get out of the car when they parked. She stayed in her seat for an extra ten seconds, pretending to be very focused on tying her shoe.

Katie didn’t rush her. No one said anything.

Eventually, Paige followed them out. Gummy worms in her pocket. Anxiety in her throat. Azzi next to her, just close enough.

And that was maybe the only thing that didn’t make her want to scream.

–

The thing about girls under sixteen (like actually under sixteen, not those fake-ID-having TikTok girls who look twenty-four and could sue you if you breathed wrong) the thing about real fifteen-year-olds? They’re disasters. Loud, bored, overly confident disasters with scrunchies around their wrists and nothing better to do than play truth or dare in a dorm room they technically weren’t even supposed to be in past lights-out.

Someone brought alcohol.

No one’s saying who, obviously. There were alliances to protect. But suddenly there was this half-empty water bottle being passed around, filled with something that smelled like nail polish remover and made everyone cough on impact. Some of the girls were being dumb about it, like, fake-giggling and falling over like they were in a teen movie and not a national training camp with cameras in the hallways.

Azzi wasn’t drinking.

Of course she wasn’t. Paige could’ve bet her scholarship on that.

And Paige? Paige was drinking. Kinda. In, like, a casual “whatever” way. Not enough to lose her mind or her balance. Just enough to not feel this anymore. This weird gross tight ache in her chest that wouldn’t let go. Just enough to soften it.

It didn’t work.

The bottle came around again. Paige waved it off the third time and wiped her hands on her sweatpants. Everyone else was caught up in some dare about texting crushes and licking pillows and she was just… sitting there. Not tipsy enough to be stupid. Not sober enough to feel anything clearly.

She looked up and saw Azzi leaving.

No word. No announcement. Just standing up and slipping out like she always did. Quiet but confident, like the world would rearrange itself if she needed it to.

Paige followed.

Didn’t think about it. Didn’t check with the group. Just stood up in the middle of someone yelling “Wait are you really gonna text her?” and walked out behind Azzi like a shadow in socks.

Azzi was already down the hallway, near their door. Paige caught up fast because her legs were long and her body had one goal and one goal only: stay near Azzi. Whatever that meant. Wherever that led.

“You left,” Paige said stupidly.

Azzi gave her a look. “So did you.”

“Yeah but I only left ‘cause you did.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow and unlocked their room.

Paige followed her in like it was instinct. Like her feet just did that now. Like they had Azzi GPS installed.

“I didn’t know you were the party-following type,” Azzi said, grabbing her water bottle from the desk.

Paige flopped onto her bed face-first. “I’m not. I’m the Azzi-following type.”

Azzi snorted. “That’s worse.”

“You love it.”

Azzi sat on her own bed and looked at her. Paige peeked up from the mattress.

“Flirting again?” Azzi asked, not quite a smile but not not one either.

Paige flipped onto her back dramatically. “I literally haven’t even started yet.”

Azzi hummed. “You’re better at it tipsy.”

Paige blinked. “Wait. You noticed?”

“I’m not blind.”

“Oh my god.”

Azzi grabbed her blanket and threw it at Paige, who caught it and wrapped herself like a tortilla. “Also,” Azzi said slowly, “don’t flirt with me when I’m drunk.”

Paige blinked. Sat up. “Wait. What?”

Azzi leaned back against her pillow like this was a normal conversation. “I had a couple shots when you were doing that dare where you pretended to marry the shower curtain.”

“…Okay, first of all, I committed to that bit. That was Oscar-worthy.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Second of all… don’t flirt with me when I’m drunk.”

Paige stared. “Why?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She just looked at Paige.

Like, looked at her.

Like she was thinking about something she hadn’t decided to say yet. Like she was measuring it against all the other things she could say but didn’t.

And Paige—Paige, who was already warm from cheap vodka and soft lighting and maybe the fact that Azzi’s hair was a little messy and she hadn’t noticed—felt her cheeks go red.

Red.

Like blush red.

Oh my god.

What the fuck, she thought. Why am I blushing. What is this, a movie? Get it together.

Azzi tilted her head, like she’d seen the exact second it hit.

“Dude,” she said.

“I didn’t do anything,” Paige lied, voice three octaves too high.

“You’re blushing.”

“No I’m not.”

“You look like you ran a mile.”

“I have excellent circulation.”

Azzi smiled. It was small. Private. A little amused, a little something else.

Paige buried her face in the blanket and groaned. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

And Paige didn’t say anything because Azzi was right, and she didn’t have the energy to lie about it.

Outside, the hallway buzzed with the leftover chaos of fifteen-year-olds left unsupervised. Inside, the room was quiet.

And Paige was trying not to think about how close her bed was to Azzi’s. Or how her phone buzzed on the desk with probably another text from her dad or worse, her stepmom. Or how she could still kinda taste the vodka even though she only took two shots and hated both.

She pulled the blanket tighter around herself.

“Don’t flirt with me when I’m drunk,” Azzi had said.

Which meant—somewhere in that terrifying calm of hers—Azzi knew.

Azzi knew Paige had been flirting.

Azzi noticed.

And she didn’t say don’t flirt with me at all.

So, Paige did not stop flirting.

Even after Azzi said don’t, even after she admitted she’d had shots, even after Paige turned into an actual tomato in a hoodie. She just… couldn’t stop.

Something about Azzi made it impossible.

And maybe that was the vodka or maybe it was just Paige’s personality spiraling in real time, but either way, she was still at it. Throwing soft teasing jabs from her bed. Dropping stupid lines with fake confidence and hiding under her blanket every time Azzi looked at her for too long. Still saying things like:

“I’m pretty sure I’m your favorite person here, admit it.”

And:

“You liked that compliment. I saw it. You liked it.”

And:

“You think I’m cute, don’t you? It’s okay, it’s very common.”

Azzi just raised an eyebrow. Not annoyed. Just… studying her. Like she was trying to figure out what to do with this very unserious, very tired, mildly buzzed white girl flopped across the bed like a soggy pillow.

Then Azzi said:

“Come over here.”

Paige blinked.

Froze.

Literally froze.

“…What?” she said, like maybe she’d misheard.

Azzi patted the spot next to her on the bed. Calm. Chill. Like this was just a casual hey come over here real quick and sit very closely next to me even though we’re both fifteen and maybe possibly a little in love with each other in a terrifying teenage kind of way.

So Paige got up.

Her legs were weirdly heavy, like her body knew something her brain didn’t yet, but she crossed the room and sat. Next to Azzi. On her bed. Shoulder-to-shoulder close. That kind of close.

They were facing each other.

Which, like… why was that so intimate?

Why did sitting cross-legged, knees kind of brushing, faces only inches apart, feel like suddenly Paige had wandered into a scene from a coming-of-age indie film where the main character is like softly realizing shit?

Azzi was looking at her.

And now it was her turn.

Her turn to flirt.

“You talk a lot for someone who hides under blankets when I stare at her,” Azzi said.

Paige immediately looked down. “I literally don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what—”

Azzi reached out and tucked a piece of Paige’s hair behind her ear.

That shut her up.

Because.

That was a thing.

And Paige felt the heat rise so fast in her face she almost got mad at it. Like… seriously? Still blushing? Grow up.

Azzi was still looking at her like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she was testing something. Watching Paige short-circuit in real time.

“I think you’re cute too,” Azzi said softly.

Paige’s heart did something deeply stupid.

Like. Clenched. Or skipped. Or flipped over or something poetic and dramatic and very inconvenient.

Azzi tilted her head.

“Kiss me?” she said.

And it wasn’t really a question. Not in the way people usually asked things.

So she leaned forward.

Not fast. Not perfect. Just clumsy and slow and honest. A little scared. A little thrilled.

And when her lips touched Azzi’s, it wasn’t fireworks or explosions or anything cliché.

It was just warm.

And right.

And soft.

And it made Paige forget—for a second—that her phone had twenty unread texts from two angry adults back home.

It made her forget about court dates and yelling and Drew crying behind his door.

It made her forget how hard everything was supposed to be.

Because Azzi’s hand was on her cheek now.

And Azzi had kissed her back.

And Paige, fifteen and overwhelmed and unsure and everything else, felt like she could breathe.

Like, really breathe.

When they pulled back, Azzi didn’t say anything.

Just smiled. A little.

Paige blinked. “Okay,” she whispered, barely breathing. “That was… not bad.”

Azzi snorted. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Your idiot, though?”

Azzi shoved her lightly. “God.”

But she didn’t say no.

[ribbonedreverie]

Midnight Elopement

Chuuya x reader

Chuuya had been dating you long enough to know one thing—he wasn’t letting you go. When mafia mission issues threatened to take you away for months, he refused to accept it. So, at nearly midnight, with no hesitation, no waiting, and—unfortunately—Dazai as a witness, he married you. No grand proposal, no lavish ceremony—just the two of you, a simple white dress, and a vow that he’d never let you go.

────────────────────

It was late.

Too late for something as life-changing as this, but that didn’t stop you.

Because once the decision was made—there was no hesitation.

No waiting.

No second-guessing.

The night air was thick with summer warmth, carrying the faint hum of the city, the glow of distant streetlights painting long shadows across the pavement. You slipped into a simple, silky white summer dress, the fabric cool against your skin, light as moonlight. A dress you had worn before—but never like this. Never with a promise stitched between every thread.

White little heels, a quiet elegance—no veil, no bouquet—just you and him, standing at the edge of forever.

And Chuuya?

He didn’t need a tux.

Didn’t need a grand ceremony, expensive rings, or a guest list.

All he needed was you.

And, unfortunately—a witness.

Which was why, at nearly midnight, Chuuya gritted his teeth and made the damn call.

The only person stupid enough to be awake and available at this hour.

“You’re joking.”

Dazai stared at you both.

Then at the officiant.

Then back at you.

Then—he laughed.

Loud, dramatic, entirely amused, his voice splitting the quiet night.

“Ohhh, this is rich.”

Chuuya, already at his limit, groaned. “Shut the hell up, Dazai. Just sign the damn paper.”

Dazai smirked, eyes glinting like the edge of a knife, all mischief and moonlight.

“What, no grand proposal? No candlelit dinner? Just a rushed elopement because you can’t handle six months without your precious little wife-to-be?”

Chuuya’s eye twitched dangerously. “Dazai, I swear to god—”

Before he could commit murder on his own wedding night, you sighed, gently tugging his sleeve.

“Chuuya. Ignore him. He’s literally just here to sign.”

Chuuya exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back. “Tch. Right.”

Dazai, clearly enjoying himself, leaned against the table, smirking your way.

“So, tell me—did he at least say something romantic? Or did he just grunt out a ‘marry me’ in the middle of packing?”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh.

Because, well.

Dazai wasn’t exactly wrong.

Chuuya, sensing your hesitation, groaned again. “Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

You giggled, squeezing his hand, warmth threading between your fingers.

“It was perfect, Dazai.”

Chuuya snapped his head toward you, eyes softening slightly, the tension in his jaw easing.

Dazai raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that answer. “Hah? Even with this gremlin’s nonexistent romantic skills?”

You smiled, squeezing Chuuya’s fingers just a little tighter.

“Even with that.”

Chuuya huffed, but a faint dusting of red crawled up his neck, color blooming like the first hint of dawn.

Dazai sighed dramatically, signing the paper with an exaggerated flourish. “Well, well. Congratulations, newlyweds. I can’t wait to tell the whole Port Mafia about this.”

Chuuya immediately stiffened. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Dazai grinned, folding his arms. “Or what? Gonna honeymoon in a body bag?”

Chuuya gritted his teeth.

Watching the impending disaster unfold, you gently tugged Chuuya away, grounding him with just a touch.

“Chuuya, let’s just finish this, okay? We have a whole night ahead of us.”

Chuuya, exhaling slowly, nodded.

Dazai, still grinning like a devil, waved you off lazily. “Enjoy your wedding night, lovebirds~. Try not to get too carried away.”

Your face warmed.

Chuuya lunged at him.

And with that—you were officially married.

────────────────────

It was late.

Technically, your wedding night.

And yet—here you were.

Not at some candlelit restaurant, not in a grand honeymoon suite, not toasting with crystal glasses of champagne.

But at a tiny food stall, the scent of grilled chicken and spices weaving through the night air, the quiet hum of the city breathing around you.

Still in your simple white dress, the hem dusting against the worn wooden bench, you took a bite of your chicken skewer, warmth settling in your chest.

Sighing contently, you leaned against Chuuya’s shoulder, exhaustion weighing on you like a soft lullaby, but happiness—happiness keeping you wide awake.

“Mmm. This is the best wedding dinner ever.”

Chuuya, sipping from a small bottle of sake, snorted. “Tch. You’re way too easy to please.”

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “Says the guy who’s eaten at this stall like, twenty times.”

Chuuya smirked. “Yeah, but I don’t call it the best dinner of my life.”

You took another bite, savoring it.

Then—with absolute certainty—

“Nope. This one wins.”

Chuuya glanced down at you, watching as you chewed happily, still in your little white dress, your heels tucked beneath the bench, your presence glowing in the dim streetlights.

And for a second—he had to look away.

Because shit.

You really meant that, didn’t you?

This wasn’t just a convenient elopement.

This wasn’t just about keeping you in Japan.

This was real.

You had chosen him.

And now, you were sitting here, in a wedding dress, eating chicken skewers like it was the most romantic thing in the world.

…And somehow, it was.

Chuuya exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re such a damn dork.”

You grinned, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah. But I’m your dork now.”

Chuuya paused.

Then—quietly, smirking—

“Damn right you are.”

And as you sat there, bathed in the soft glow of the city, sharing skewers under the stars—

Chuuya figured—yeah.

This was a pretty damn good way to start forever.

You pulled out your phone, fingers tapping quickly as you snapped a few pictures.

The food stall.

The skewers.

Chuuya, mid-bite, looking vaguely annoyed but still ridiculously handsome.

You giggled softly, scrolling through them before looking around.

That’s when you spotted someone walking past.

“Excuse me! Would you mind taking a picture of us? It’s our wedding night, and I really want to remember this.”

The stranger—a kind-looking older man—blinked in surprise before his face lit up with delight.

“Ah! Newlyweds? Congratulations! Of course, of course!”

Chuuya, still chewing his skewer, froze mid-bite.

He swallowed, giving you a look. “Hey, short stack, you’re really making a scene.”

You huffed playfully, nudging him. “Oh, hush. I want pictures!”

Chuuya sighed but didn’t argue, scooting closer as the man raised the phone.

Smiling so brightly it could put the streetlights to shame, you wrapped your arms around Chuuya’s.

Chuuya, pretending to be indifferent, still rested a hand over yours.

The man grinned.

“Alright, ready? Say ‘just married’!”

You giggled. “Just married!”

Click.

The moment was captured.

The white dress.

The skewers still in your hands.

The warm glow of the city behind you.

And Chuuya, looking down at you, his usual smirk softer than ever.

As you walked down the quiet streets, your laughter still lingering in the air—

Chuuya took out his phone.

And set the picture as his lock screen.

Because, really?

He never wanted to forget this night either.

────────────────────

I was feeling a little romantic tonight—the soft kind, the dreamy kind. The kind that lingers like a sigh, like the warmth of candlelight and the quiet weight of forever.

And then, of course, my thoughts drifted. To Chuuya. Because when don’t they?

How could they not, when he exists like poetry in motion? When his voice—low, rough, teasing—turns even the simplest words into something worth keeping? When he loves the way he does—fiercely, fully, without hesitation, yet holds one’s hand like a secret vow?

And all while Cigarettes After Sex plays in the background?

How could I not? ♡

[bewitched-hours]

WOAH hey hi hello, i LOVED ur oneshots of telamon + child!reader and manifestation of wrath!reader, and i was wondering if you could make a part 2 of one of those, you could choose what to make a part 2 of, or you chould choose not to make a part 2 at all lol!

Make sure you get enough sleep and water and dont push yourself too hard!! <33

Y'all are too sweet omg-

But I will gladly do a part 2 on the child!reader with Telamon/Shedletsky since I was technically already kinda asking to be requested for that lol-

Like previously, reader's pronouns are She/Her!

You were terrified when you couldn't find Telamon anywhere. You knew how to take care of yourself for a few days but were absolutely sobbing for him to come back.

Did you do something wrong? Were you being too annoying again?

You weren't exactly given straight answers but what made it worse was when you somehow woke up in a completely different place. Surrounded by strangers.

You were mortified to say the least, screaming and crying the whole time as you tried to scream for 'Papa' which eventually got Shedletsky's attention and boy, was he quick to dash into the room and swoop you up.

At first you wanted to push him away in further panic but he quickly wrapped his wings around you in that familiar embrace that made you calm down almost instantly to look at his face and recognize him.

"Papa!" You'd exclaim with excitement, hugging him tight with your shaking figure while the other survivors began to panic and ask Shed a thousand questions.

Since when was he a dad, how old were you, etc etc...

He took some time to explain the story- leaving out the details about him being Telamon- while you were simply preening his wings as you liked to do.

You weren't sure why the others were calling him by a different name but you didn't bother to ask about it. What mattered most to you right now was that you had your papa back.

007n7 actually kinda offered to help out with you, given he was a dad as well and although you were wary of him, being that he was still a stranger, you accepted your papa's explanation of him being a friend and to please trust him.

Shedletsky knew you were a handful, especially with your stubbornness and distrust. But he was glad when you came around to trusting the other survivors.

You weren't sent with them on rounds often, given that you're only a child. However, you still had a role and when you were sent into a round, you usually stuck with the nearest survivor available. That usually happened to be Shedletsky, 007n7, Elliot or Chance.

You were more of a support, meaning you had different uses for each case.

For your papa, you'd raise feathery shield to protect him and rush ahead while the shield recharged again. You always hoped that he could escape in time as well...

For 007, you'd usually only have to heal him even though he insists he's fine. At that point he already became your uncle as you saw it with how he'd try to both protect you and keep you entertained during rounds so you wouldn't have to be traumatized as much.

With Elliot, you had a habit of healing each other and using your shield to protect him from getting targeted. You have no idea how grateful he is when he sees you nearby at the start of a round...

But with Chance, you practically become a second Elliot with how much he asks for heals and your shield. It's annoying but with the way he entertains you(usually with his gun exploding in his face), you allow his antics and even sometimes dare to call him uncle alongside Elliot and 007.

Sometimes the Spectre would be a little cruel and leave you without any of them outside of rounds. You'd just watch the TV to cheer them on and wait for any of them to get back... Like a lost puppy...

You technically had your own cabin but you never bothered going to it. You felt much safer with your papa after all.

And how you always loved to listen to his slow breathing to keep you calm...

Maybe you were a bit clingy-

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[scary-grace]

Call Me Sometime - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

You work the dispatch desk at a phone sex line to make ends meet, and you're used to handling some strange calls. But the caller you're babysitting tonight is the strangest by far -- and that's before you find out why he called.

Your headset is making your ear hurt, but you know you’ll get a call the instant you take it off, and your boss has this thing about dropped calls. The meter on each session starts running the instant the client is approved by the screener, and why Mizuho can’t do this part, too, you’ll never understand. Her quirk lets her pick up a variety of useful information just from hearing someone’s voice, but she’s only interested in three pieces – their sexual orientation, their price point, and their age. If the latter two check out, she fills in the third and routes the call to you, and it’s your job to match the client with the appropriate phone sex operator.

It’s not your job to talk to the clients. But the meter’s running once they pass the screener, and more often than not, they’re paying to talk to a woman. During busy times, when all the other operators are occupied and there’s a client on hold, that woman is you.

You’re nineteen, technically too young for a job like this one. You were younger when you were hired. The head of the agency, Souma – she makes everyone call her Akiko, like you’re friends or something – knew that when she sought you out, but you didn’t know she knew. Midway through the interview, when she was talking about the solid pay rate and flexible hours, you brought it up. “You know I’m eighteen, right?”

“That’s why I want you,” she said, her smile sharp-toothed, and you blinked. “Our clients are perverts of the first order, and they get off on doing what they aren’t supposed to. Even if there’s nothing sexual about your conversations with them – even if you’re telling them to hold while you route their call – knowing that they’re talking to an underage girl will get them going.”

“That’s gross,” you said, for lack of anything better. Akiko nodded. She was applying lipstick, checking it in a compact mirror, although you know now that the mirror itself contains a device that jams surveillance equipment. Your boss doesn’t take risks, and neither do you – which is why you were so hesitant to take the job. “I don’t have to – do anything. I’d just route the calls and chat when they have to hold longer than two minutes.”

“That’s right,” Akiko said. She smiled at you. “Are we doing this? I’ll put you on the payroll right now.”

You wanted to be on the payroll. The pay rate was twice as much as you could get anywhere else, and you needed the money. But you had another question. Two questions. “You know I’m quirkless?”

“So what? You don’t need a quirk to answer phones.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, and even then, you were smart enough not to let her see it. “There are other girls my age you could get to do this. Ones who’d be – better at it.”

“You mean my fellow sluts?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant,” Akiko said, and kept talking when you protested. “It’s all right, darling. We’re all sluts here.”

“It’s not what I meant,” you repeated. “There are other girls who’d be better at it. Why me?”

“Mm.” Akiko studied you. Six months later, you still remember the way your skin crawled under her gaze. “You know how to sound high-class, and you sound innocent. But the questions you ask tell me that you’re sharp enough to handle a job like this. And you need the money badly enough to know that you can’t say no. Are you in or are you out?”

You were in. You felt like you were walking into a trap, but you were in, and you’re still in now. Which is why you don’t take your headset off, even when it hurts your ear. Which is why, when a call comes in and you see that every operator has at least two minutes left in their current session, you hit accept and sit up a little straighter in your chair. “Good evening, sir. Welcome to Shiroiwa Services. I’m not your conversational partner for the evening, but I’d love to keep you company while you’re waiting.”

“What are you wearing?”

You sigh inwardly and make a checkmark in the notepad where you keep track of terrible opening lines. You get that one about seventy percent of the time, and you increase the pitch of your voice ever so slightly as you pull up the caller’s details. “Why do you want to know?”

“So I can picture you just right.”

Gross. The client’s in his fifties, and Mizuho’s been nice enough to give you a heads-up that he’s married – and when he’s called in before, he’s wanted to talk to young-sounding operators. “Just my uniform, sir,” you say. You give a beat, then follow up. “My school uniform.”

You’re lying. You work strictly back of house, and right now you’re wearing sweatpants, flip-flops, and a shirt you stole from one of the operators that says ‘men’s tits’ on it. But the guy on the phone doesn’t know that. “A schoolgirl,” he says, and you can practically hear him drooling into the phone. “Does your daddy know what you’re doing right now?”

Your daddy’s probably calling a phone sex line as you speak. You know for a fact that he’s too poor to afford Shiroiwa, but you still live in fear of the day where you have to transfer his call. “No, sir,” you say. “Please don’t tell him. It can be our secret. I’m really good at keeping secrets.”

Before the client can say anything else, a green light pops up on your screen – Minami is open for business. Perfect. “It’s been so nice to speak with you, sir. I’ll transfer you to Minami presently. Have a sensational evening!”

The client dallies a little bit, hinting that he’d rather talk to you than Minami, but you shake him off in fifteen seconds or less and finally pry your headset off your ear. Then you flop facedown on your desk. You hate your job. You love that it pays, but you really, really, really hate your job. “Ugh.”

“Heard you on the phone.” Haruka, one of the escorts, punches you in the arm on her way out the door to meet the car that will take her to tonight’s engagement. She puts on a high-pitched voice. “I’m really good at keeping secrets –”

“What was I supposed to do? I can’t talk about how horny I am. That’s illegal.”

“For another eight months. Then we’ll get you.”

“You wish.” Eight months from now, you’ll be out of here. You think. You hope. As your headset lights up with another call, you might actually pray.

You wanted to be a doctor, but that takes money – and although nobody will admit it, it takes a quirk. Nursing school is less expensive, but once again, no nursing school likes to take on quirkless students. It pisses you off to think about it. Sure, some quirks are suited to the medical field, but a guy with a quirk that lets him blow bubbles with his own snot isn’t any more suited to be a nurse than you are with no quirk at all. But thinking that way lies madness, so you turned to the rest of the field and found your dream job. Dynamic. In high demand. Still expensive, but cheaper than everything else. EMT school. You’re going to be a paramedic, and doing office work for a high-end sex service is how you’re going to pay for it.

You route three more calls, babysit one client who wants to know what you’re wearing and how much of it you’ll take off, and confirm addresses and code phrases for three of the escorts before they head out. There are three tiers of service at Shiroiwa. At the top are the real escorts – Akiko, Mayumi, Sakura, Kyoko, Akane, the ones who go out on dates and pull in big money. Then there are the ones who work as servers and dancers at fancy parties – Takako, Yukie, Keiko, and a whole bunch of others whose names you keep forgetting. There are a lot of them. Then there are the phone and chat sex operators, of which there are even more, and all the way down under the foundations of the pyramid, there’s you.

Your job, as Akiko puts it, is to fill the holes. Every place where a detail or a client might fall through the cracks, that’s where you’re supposed to be to catch them. It keeps you on your toes. You tell yourself that it’s good practice for the job you really want to do, and some nights, you almost believe it.

Saturday night is busy, but there are lulls here and there, and whenever there’s a lull, you take out your textbook and do a little studying. You’re decent at biology, but it takes work, and you need to pass your entrance exam to EMT school on your first try. You’re in the middle of familiarizing yourself with all the parts of the limbic system when your headset starts beeping – and when you check your screen, you see that every single operator is busy. Again.

You get paid a flat hourly rate, but you really should negotiate that up for nights you spend keeping clients occupied while they wait. You answer the phone and run through your spiel – your operator’s not ready yet, but I’m here, and I’m super psyched to talk to a weirdo just like you – and wait for the inevitable question about what you’re wearing. You wait. And wait.

And keep waiting, so long that you start to wonder if the call’s dropped when you weren’t looking. That, or the client got so wound up hearing a woman’s voice on the phone that they had a heart attack and died. You try again. “Hello?”

The call’s still live. You hear your voice echo on the other end of the line, and when you listen closer, you can hear someone breathing. Breathing sort of heavily. Great. “You know I get paid whether you talk or not, right?”

Oops. You shouldn’t have said that. Akiko will be pissed, and if whoever this is pays up, does it really matter if he says anything? Maybe he just wants to breathe heavily into the phone until time’s up. You’d like to thing you can sit quietly while some guy does – something – to the sound of your breathing on your end of the line, but it turns out that’s beyond your power to cope with. “Um, do you want to know what I’m wearing?”

“What?”

“Clients usually ask that,” you say, trying to cover your shock. This client sounds young. Shiroiwa’s price point is so high that next to none of the clients are younger than forty, but this guy sounds like he’s barely out of high school. You should know. You’re barely out of high school yourself. “They want to know what I’m wearing so they can – um, imagine a little better.”

Silence. The breathing sounds a little less heavy and a little more hyperventilating, and you resist the urge to bang your head on the table with an effort. Why do you always get stuck with the weird ones? “So, like I said, I’m not actually the person you’re supposed to talk to. I’m just here to keep you company until your partner’s ready for you. We don’t have to talk at all.”

You’re rapidly coming to the conclusion that not talking is the best outcome for this situation. You and the client can pretend each other isn’t there until you can transfer him to somebody else, somebody who’s good with the weird ones or the shy ones. Rika, maybe. She’s good at bringing clients out of their shells. The fact that she and you and anybody else who listens in wishes they’d never come out of their shells in the first place doesn’t really matter.

“Who are you, then?” The raspy voice is in your ear again. “If you’re not who I’m supposed to talk to.”

“I’m admin. Kind of a secretary.” You kick yourself instantly for the choice of words. “Not the sexy kind of secretary. Just – I’m the one who routes the phone calls. And the messages from our chat service. Unless it’s busy.”

“It’s busy?”

“Saturday night? It’s really busy,” you say. He sounds disappointed. “Is there somebody you were hoping to talk to specifically? I can let you know how long of a wait there will be.”

“I don’t care who I talk to,” the client says. You hear that from new clients a lot, before they pick a favorite. All the regulars have favorites. “This was stupid.”

“No, it wasn’t,” you say hastily. Akiko will kill you if you lose a client. Even a weird client. “Tell me what you want to talk about. That way I can pick the right partner to send to you.”

“I don’t know,” the client says. You glance at the info Mizuho sent and get a shock – the client’s twenty, just a year older than you. “It’s – fuck. It’s my birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” you say on autopilot, which is apparently the wrong thing to say. You can practically feel the client’s discomfort oozing through the phone, and you spin off into a sales pitch that sounds terrible even to you. “Well, you’ve called the right service. I know a ton of our companions who can make your day really special.”

“Too fucking late.” The client sounds bitter about it, or maybe just sad. Definitely pissed that he feels that way. “This was stupid. I just wanted –”

“Someone to talk to,” you realize before he can finish the sentence, and you hear a startled inhale on the other end of the line. He’s going to be prickly about it. You would be, if somebody read you like that. “What did you do today?”

“What did I do today?”

“Look, we can talk about that, or I can tell you what I’m wearing. Up to you.” You hear a weird sound. Is he choking or laughing? “What did you do today?”

“Nothing. Slept until three. Played a few games.”

“Which games?” you ask. “Something tells me you’re not a board game type of guy. Are you an FPS type, or more into MMORPGs –”

“You know what that is?”

He sounds surprised. “I’m more of a D&D type myself,” you say. You, two of the phone sex operators, and three of your friends from high school all have a campaign going. “But I know what the cool kids play. Are you a team player?”

“Solo.”

“Impressive,” you say. “It takes skill to go it alone. I’m only good as part of a team.”

It’s weird to say something honest about yourself on the phone with a client. You know for a fact that Akiko always shares certain details – she says it makes them feel closer to her, makes them easier to manage – but you’re not a companion. You lie every time you’re on the phone with a client. This is the first time you’ve ever said anything true, and it feels weird. It’s not a habit you want to get into.

The client, meanwhile, is finally starting to loosen up. “So that’s what you’re doing when you’re not answering phones at a phone sex line? Playing games?”

“No, usually I’m studying.”

“Studying what?”

Too personal, again. You need to shut it down. “Do you really want to talk about me?”

“Better than talking about me.” The client’s voice takes on a weird flat note, one you don’t know how to identify over the phone. “What would have happened, anyway? If I’d talked to somebody else.”

“You’re going to talk to somebody else.” None of the other operators are free yet. “Well, to start with, they’d probably tell you what they’re wearing.”

The client snickers. You made him laugh. Why does that feel like an achievement? “Um, and then you’d probably have phone sex. That’s what they do.”

“But not what you do.”

What is that supposed to mean? “Definitely not. Like I said, I just route the phone calls. And keep clients company while they wait.” It’s silent. You wait, growing more uncomfortable by the second. “If you tell me what kind of phone sex you want to have –”

Your screen flashes. “All right, we have an open operator. A couple open operators. If you tell me a little bit about what you’re looking for, I can match you up.”

Ordinarily, you don’t play matchmaker like this, but you’re weirdly invested in making sure that this client has a positive phone sex experience on his twentieth birthday. “Uh –” the client breaks off, clears his throat. “I don’t want to talk to any of them.”

“Um –”

“Can I just talk to you?”

“That’s not what I’m here for.” You watch, agonized, as three calls pile up in the queue behind this one. “You don’t actually want to talk to me. You’re paying by the minute for someone who knows what they’re doing.”

“If you transfer me, I’ll hang up.” The client’s not threatening you, you don’t think – just telling you how it’s going to be. Some part of you appreciates the clarity. “I want to talk to you. You can even tell me what you’re wearing.”

You laugh in spite of yourself, and even though you know it’s a terrible idea, you hit transfer, sending the three queued calls to the open operators and keeping this client on the line with you. “It’s not worth talking about. Tell me about you. On the scale of worst to best birthdays ever, where does this one fall?”

“The shit end.” The client’s answer should have been predictable, but his follow-up isn’t: “Moving up a bit, though.”

“Why was it shitty?” you ask, knowing as you do that it’s a mistake. You don’t need to know why the client had a shitty birthday, except to know that it’s shitty enough that he called a phone sex line to have someone to talk to. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” The client’s voice gets quieter. “Nothing ever happens.”

You somehow manage to restrain yourself from going down the list, checking off all the birthday stuff to make sure the client’s really telling the truth. The client starts filling in the blanks without being prompted. “I don’t need any of it. I can buy my own presents. And a cake. And fucking balloons if I want them. What am I supposed to do then? Sing happy fucking birthday to myself?”

“That would be pretty sad,” you agree. “Want me to sing to you?”

The client makes a weird sound. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“You don’t actually want to sing to me. You don’t know me. You’re only on the phone at all because I’m paying you.”

“That’s how you got on the phone with me, sure,” you say. “But I don’t have to know you to think you should get at least one birthday song. Even if it’s from me.”

It’s quiet for a second. “You sure you don’t just want to tell me what you’re wearing?”

You decide to hell with it and start singing anyway. Quietly, and making at least a little effort to stay on key. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear –”

You stop when you realize you don’t know the client’s name, and you wait for him to fill it in. And wait. And wait. “Are you going to finish it or not?” the client asks.

“I need your name first. Otherwise it won’t be the real birthday song.” You’re aware that this is ridiculous – you’re singing happy birthday to a client who called Shiroiwa’s phone sex line and got stage fright so bad that he decided he’d rather talk to you. “Happy birthday dear –”

“Tenko.”

“Happy birthday dear Tenko,” you sing, “happy birthday to you.”

It’s quiet for a second. You’re still not great with silence. “Was that so hard?”

“No,” the client – Tenko – says. It’s quiet for longer this time. “That was –”

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

That’s Akiko’s voice. Shit. You look up in horror and find her bearing down on you, dressed to the nines and wearing heels that probably make her taller than All Might. “There are eight calls in the queue and seven operators with no clients, and instead of doing your job you’re on the phone with a friend –”

“You’re in trouble,” Tenko says. It’s not a question.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I have to go,” you say. “I can transfer you –”

“I don’t want a transfer. Do you really have to –”

The look on Akiko’s face says yes. “I’m really sorry. Look, um –”

“What’s your name?” Tenko asks. Akiko is looking for the ‘end call’ button, but she’s not great with tech. You’ve got ten seconds or so before she realizes it’s on your headset and rips it off your head. “Come on. You know my name. It’s not fair if I don’t know yours.”

“My friends call me Nine,” you say. They do when you’re playing D&D, at least – that’s your character’s name. “I have to go.”

Tenko says something else, or starts to, but you press the end call button yourself and face up to your boss, assigning the queued calls as quickly as possible. “It was a client,” you say, before she can say a word. “The meter was running the whole time.”

Akiko’s temper comes down a notch when she hears it was a paid call, but you’re not out of the woods yet. “You should have transferred him.”

“He said he’d hang up.”

“This operation is barely legal as it is, and you’re underage. If you were talking about anything sexual –”           

“We weren’t. He just turned twenty,” you say desperately. “He didn’t even want to know what I was wearing.”

Akiko blinks. “Really?”

“I tried,” you say. She nods, bemused. “I shouldn’t have let the other calls wait. I’m sorry.”

“As long as you don’t do it again,” Akiko says. She’s smiling, but you’d be an idiot if you thought she was telling the truth. She leans over and checks the call receipt on your screen. “Mm, this was a nice long conversation. What were the two of you discussing?”

“I don’t really know.” At least half the conversation was you trying to figure out what the hell was going on. “Am I in trouble?”

“None of the calls have been dropped, and that client of yours paid the same price for you as he would have for one of my operators. You aren’t in trouble,” Akiko says. “Don’t let it happen again.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You turn back to your screen and transfer the last queued client, watching as the clock on your computer flips from 11:59 to 12:00am. It’s not Tenko’s birthday anymore. You wonder if he got what he wanted out of calling Shiroiwa Services. Probably not.

taglist: @f3r4lfr0gg3r @lvtuss @dance-with-me-in-hell @minniessskii @evilcookie5 @deadhands69 @shigarakislaughter @lacrimae-lotos @xeveryxstarfallx @handumb @agente707 @warxhammer @issaortiz @stardustdreamersisi @cheeseonatower @boogiemansbitch @koohiii @baking-ghoul @atspiss @shikiblessed @aslutforfictionalmen

[westanleovaldito]

Nosferatu

(Implied early seasons) Spencer Reid x gn!eader

Summary: upon seeing the book on his shelf, you offer to take him to the new Nosferatu movie. You were, however, very in the dark about the plot.

A/N: kinda short, been a bit since i wrote something (or watched the movie) and my brother gave me this idea so credit to @ericthebarbaric and yall know i love early seasons Spence, so technically counts as a modern au?? Fuck if i know. Also very self endulgent and Nosferatu spoilers :)

All you wanted was to go on a date. A nice one too. You saw the old, worn, clearly loved copy of a book on his shelf, and recognized it as the movie that recently came out.

Naturally, you reached to look at it. Squatting down as you looked at the inside summary.

"Oh, do you want to borrow that copy?" He asked as he entered the livingroom, still wringing his hands. "You can read it if you want?"

You, knowing borrowing knowledge was his love language, only shook your head as you stood. "It's ok. I just got an idea though." You smile, cocking your head.

He mirrored you, waiting for you to continue.

"There's a remake in theaters," you start with a grin. So, so proud of yourself for doing something he'd like. "We can watch it together if you want?"

His face flushed. He wasn't used to people flirting with him- especially not pretty people. You had been dating for about three months now, and you had just accepted that his shell would be hard to break.

"Do you- do you know what it's about?" He asked, raising a brow.

You shrugged, humming softly. "Lonely victorian girl summons plague-y vampire?"

"Sure." He let out a soft chuckle, nodding as a knowing grin overtook him. "It'll be fun."

"Hell yeah it will!" You smiled, setting the book back.

The morning was lovely. Sunny with a colder breeze. Bagel and coffee in hand, you walked down the street with Spencer, playfully pushing his shoulder with your own as you teased him. It was great! Even as you sat in the empty theater, whispering and giggling to eachother.

The lights dimmed fully, signaling the advertisements and trailers were completely done. You gave a final whisper to him, grinning as you leaned a little closer.

You were still hyper aware of his quirks, touch aversion, germaphobia, and his need to take things at what felt like snails pace- which you were patient with! Today, you felt like holding his hand, but you were unsure of how he'd react and-

Oh right, the film.

The image of a lonely victorian girl, praying for company made you chuckle slightly. "That's just me when you leave." You whispered to him.

It looked a little like his face had flushed, he always blushed when you spoke closer to him. Still, he nodded and help back a giggle.

Something about the knowing smirk on his face, like he was the one making a joke this time, it made you happy and suspicious at the very same time.

You looked back to the screen to see the main woman writhing and moaning, suspended in the air. "Huh..." you vocalized in a clearly shoked tone. "Id she possessed? I wasnt- Is she orgasming?!" You whisper yelled in mild horror.

There was soft, restricted giggle beside you, followed by the crunch of popcorn. You looked over to see Spencer, face bright red, just before he looked away.

"Did you know about this?!" You asked, knowing the answer.

You knew he adored classic literature, but you forgot classic literature got... modern, in ways. Was there even smut in the book itself? Dr. Spencer Walter Reid read vampire smut?!

"I don't know what you're talking about" he grinned after gulping. His eyes were fixed on the bottom left corner of the screen, clearly flustered.

"Are you getting back at me for all the subtle flirting?!"

"I don't know what you're talking about" he repeated with a flushed giggle, shoving more popcorn in his mouth.

The entire rest of the film was full of your shock, Spencer trying not to look at anything and the both of you stifling laughter.

At the end of the film, at the final sex scene, when the evil vampire (who was horrifically bullied by you) screamed as the sun hit him, you grinned. "Post nut clarity" you whispered, much to the dismay of the one other woman in the theater, since the man next to you let out the loudest laugh of the day.

This, ofcourse, was followed by the most disgusted "ewugh!" Either of you had ever made at the sight of the last shot of the movie.

"So, did you enjoy it?" Spencer asked at the end when the lights came on. You finally got to see the full extent of his reddened face.

You paused, attempting to find the right words. "It was scarring" you smile and nod, much to his amusment. "I think i would've enjoyed it more if i was prepared for the, uh... graphic nature"

He nodded, tossing the popcorn bucket away and gesturing for you to link arms. "I just wanted to see you flustered for once."

"You could've done literally anything else- maybe do something spontaneous or-"

Before you could finish, he grinned. Leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Li-like that?" He asked, clearly in horror of his own actions. Initiating physical affection was something he was trying to do more of, and you would be proud of him in a moment.

All you could do was pause and blink like the windows loading screen. "Uh... y-yeah" you nod, looking to him with a growing smile. "Exactly like that"

[evilminji]

Oh god :Dc a Danny Summons Contract

No you guys DON'T UNDERSTAND-!

Just. Danny! Only Danny! He fucked up. Some ancient Warring States Ninja fucked up. They BOTH agreed to NEVER talk about it again.

Cause like? That ninja? Was a GROWN ASS MAN. A qualified BAMF of the highest order. He WAS the Danger, thank you very much. So, he? Will NEVER live down being saved by...well...

*holds up wildly struggling, noodle limbed, sad wet raccoon havin a terrible day lookin, meat thresher on legs*

THIS.

It's a BABY. Honestly, his Clan's TODDLERS know how to throw better punch. This scrawny infant baby child is both? His new son. AND an embarrassing trainwreck in motion. FFS kid, that's not how you- No! NO! Don't you DARE bite that opponent! You don't know where they've B-!

Kid they could have BEEN POISONED!!! Spit um OUT! DROP UM! Drop that RIGHT NOW! What are you? A dead Inuzuka? A god forsaken Hatake!? DROP IT!!!

It...sure is An Adventure™.

One of many early "here's how you DON'T make a Summoning contract" experiments, that Clans without seal masters were attempting. He's honestly lucky HIS attempt ended with him still... you know... ALIVE. Problem, though? After bunking for like... a few months? A year? In the command center?

And you know, terrorizing the GIW into complete collapse. Parenting him through some pretty serious life changes. Somehow making Sam MORE terrifying. And a whole host of off screen ninja shenanigans? They figure out? Oh. Only way to send him HOME is to either accept or refuse a Contract.

They gotta make one.

First they head to Frostbite for a recommendation, then? Off to a reputable Ghost Lawyer they go! They have to camp in the waiting room for like... a week. But? Worth it! The contract is AMAZING. And terrifying! Protects them both. Can't be used against EITHER. And that loophole you're thinking off? Ten pages worth of point 4 script, twenty three yards down, for why it's a BAD IDEA and breaks contract~!

Neither of them can make the other do SHIT! Only fully consensual, mutually beneficial, ass kicking here! If we FEEL LIKE IT!

Ninja dad insisted. Never sign a contract with anything less then extreme paranoia, kid! Leave no "implied" or "spirit of the rules"! Loopholes are holes in your armor, with which your enemy stabs you in the back!

Danny, tearfully, sends ninja dad home.

Gross. Emotions all over his armor. If only there wasn't all this sand in his eyes, he'd definitely complain about it. *stoic ninja hug*

Danny? Become a king. One of many. An Ancient. Becomes FUCKING HUUUUUUUUGE. Like? "Aw, your city is so pwecious~☆ n smol~♡! Whats it called again? New York?" Huge. A fuckin LEVIATHAN made of void, stars, and space ice. A Winter corpse, marked by lightning, that became the night sky itself. With a crown of aurora borealis, ever shifting, like flame.

Proportional, in a way, to Summon Bosses. Just as a normal human is to a normal toad, a normal cat, a normal slug. So too, is Danny LARGER then them.

You know... when he feels like it.

The contract? Passes down. Ninja dad does warn his kin. Prooooobably not gonna answer you. He only answers ME cause I'm, well, ME.

Fuckin BET. They declare. And lose. Repeatedly.

Time marches on. The Senju and Uchiha has their Drama. Dear KAMI do they Have Their Drama. Please Stop, says everyone. They... do not. The contract? Fuckin STOLEN. Because of course it is.

It's a HUGE, glowing, death radiating Summons Contract kept in a shrine behind like... SO MANY seals. It makes anyone less then a full grown JOUNIN physically SICK to even touch! Prolonged exposure kills people! Of COURSE it gets fuckin stolen. It's obviously a super, mega, ultra rare AMAZEBALLS Summon Contract... right?

Eeeeeeeeeeeh *so-so hand motion* KINDA!

It IS technically that.

They ain't wrong. Cause Danny IS an Adult now. A King. Connected to the Zone. An ANCIENT. Beyond and Above his mortal origins, even as, by being a Halfa, he is utterly the same. That contract is as close as one could GET to having a contract with the Sage himself.

You know... if he answered you.

Felt like your petty bullshit was worth getting up off the couch for.

Not to MENTION? He can make clones! Like.... billions of them now. Has a skeleton army. Is kinda one of the stronger Ancients. But that's not the point. The POINT? Clones. Don't have to be EQUAL facets of self.

You CAN make a .00001% clone of yourself!

Behold *summons poof noise* Lil Baby Man!

The harbinger of Danny! Here to Test Your VIBEZ™. He sends them each time. To be an adorable menace. Cause problems on purpose. Be gremlins, chew on table legs, maybe. You know, the works! They RADIATE his " I Am Death." Energy. But also his "winter, protection, and starlight" vibes... if you're brave enough to LOOK.

If you don't flinch away from a spirit of the dead. Can embrace the chaotic nature of a Zone ghost. Are kind to something that isn't what you expected, that you can USE, that appears weaker then you. Something that seems dumb. Distractable. Useless in battle.

Can you be kind? Do you immediately give up? To recognize a test when you see one? Is your first impulse cruelty? Distain? It tells Danny a lot. Saves him time.

Which? Is how a young Itachi, freshly Jounin'd, gets thrown through an old and rotting wooden gate into what LOOKS like a vaguely demonic death shrine. Hmmm, concerning. Baby 'tachi has been separated from his teammates. Is having a Bad Time™. The crows can't really help much here.

And, well, that IS a Summoning contract...

He's outnumbered. Low on both weapons and Chakra. Refuses to do anything BUT return home to his family. His baby brother. Is it WISE? No. It is in fact, incredibly, incredibly UNWISE. He has no idea what he'll be agreeing too. But... so long as he live just a bit longer...

He slams an earth wall against the entrance.

Falls back to the Glowing Contract.

Stumbles, as even landing near it makes his insides revolt. His skin prickle and burn. Colder then the nine tails Chakra, emptier, yet somehow endlessly more ABSOLUTE.

It's like the very Chakra in his body screams against it. Rejects it's mere presence. As though all thing alive REFUSE it with desperation and fear. He has no time to muse upon this. It hurt his hand to touch. He does so anyway. Struggling to hold the earthwall against enemy attacks.

He doesn't bother to read the contract. Flings it from the pedestal, to unravel, so he may sign quickly. There. With a practiced motion, he nicks his finger, and scrawls his future away. Whatever demons may come. Whatever monsters this brings. Please... let him live long enough to say goodbye.

The world CRACKS as he summons.

Death and the Shinigami are not the same.

Even those without the ability to sense are battered by the tsunami of... not killing intent. No. There is no intent. No killing. Just... knowing. Heraldry. That Death comes for us all. You can not escape. Foolish and small, is this what you waste your existence on? Ants before a god. Dust before the heavens. He... he can not... breathe...

Frozen. Eyes wide. Sharigan spinning, spinning, spinning. Capturing the delicate lace of nothingness, absence of life, as it drifts by. Unable to move from where he kneels, bloody hand pressed to the ground, in a Summoning.

What Has He Done?

Outside there is panic. Screaming. They flee. He... he wishes he could flee. W...why can't he-? *THHHWAP!* Mmmmph?! Something small and almost bird shaped smacks into his face like a flung ration. Tiny arms spread wide to cling to his bangs and dangle. The deathy power fades... almost... almost as though it were... a threat display?

He focuses on the tiny creature whining and hugging his face. It... is a floating snake toddler? Or is it dragon? They have sharp little claws and stars along their face, a tiny whispy mane of white. Likely a dragon child then. They stick their small tounge out slightly, eyes the blankly trusting stare of small children everywhere.

He clearly want to be carried. Ah. Of course, little one.

Did... did he agree to raise a dragon?

Just?

Itachi, smol. Serious. With lil baby man floped on his head or tucked lovingly in his arms. The TEXTBOOK definition of "he don't bite" "YES HE DO!!!" For everyone but Itachi and Sasuke. To whom he is, of course, an INNOCENT BABY who has NEVER done anything wrong EVER. An angel! Why is everyone being so MEAN to poor innocent baby man? Boo hoo~!

It fucks up SO MANY plans.

Because Itachi. A smol child. INSISTS he is a Father now. What are you going to do? Say he can be? Why? Because he's a CHILD? Which is it? Is he a Jounin or a Dependant? An adult in the eyes of the law or a child to be protected by said law from pushing him off to war? Old enough to die, old enough to parent his dragon son!

And SORRY Father, he CANT join Anbu. Who would be there for his child? Ah, he should join a parenting group. *various competent parent instincts go haywire over this tiny Uchiha child in need of parenting* Danzo? For some reason his son seems to really, REALLY hate him. Better avoid him. His child doesn't know yet not to bite respected elders.

Sasuke? Gets to be an UNCLE! To a DRAGON! He takes his job very seriously.

It's the best PR the clan has ever had.

@hdgnj @babbling-babull @hypewinter @nerdpoe @the-witchhunter @legitimatesatanspawn @lolottes @mutable-manifestation

[sadiestarrs]

Cherry Red

Warnings: swearing, mean ellie, mentions of sex

A/N: i got this idea from another fic umm. it is proofread, but criticism is always accepted!! this one lowkey hurt. also i made edits to this fic but tumblr decided to glitch and delete them all so if this is bad, my apologies 🙏😞

Plot: ellie is a guitarist and the most popular in her group, but the attention has become too much, especially for you

Word count: 1115

Standing in between hundreds of screaming girls was not where you imagined yourself five years ago, especially not when you got with Ellie. Back then, she was practising guitar, doing small gigs at cafés and jazz bars late into the night. You attended everyone, that’s how you met her. Your friends had invited you on a night out, and she immediately caught your eye, playing one of your favourite songs.

From that day on, you’d showed up every night you were free and soon started to get noticed. One thing led to another, going on a few dates, sharing mutual friends, watching them create a band, and finally seeing them achieve their goals, a sold-out stadium. But now was when it set in. You were never claustrophobic, but your position made you think otherwise.

Bodies swarmed around yours, the screaming increasing when Ellie started her solo. You weren’t mad at how many people liked her, not at all – even though you were technically her first fan.

Something wasn’t right about this concert, but you couldn’t put a finger on it. You felt it in your core. A strange, sickening feeling.

Your vision tried to steady on Ellie, who was focused on each chord and strum of her guitar. The guitar you bought her. Despite being a broke college student, you still wanted to show Ellie that you cared and believed in her career, so you bought her the same cherry red guitar she held in her hands at that moment.

It was as if she loved the guitar more than you, funnily enough. It hung on the wall above your shared bed. She would dust it regularly, making sure that the strings were tuned, only using it during concerts. When she practised, it would be her older guitar, the same one she used the night you met her.

Now as you watched her kill the solo, like she did every time, you waited for the end, the moment when she would find you in the crowd during the last chord, almost dedicating the song to you. But it didn’t happen. Her eyes scanned for someone else. Her hand reached for another girl.

Up on stage was someone you had seen before, long jet-black hair, dark eyeliner, ripped jeans and a crop top. Her ex. She had brought her ex on stage. The band knew about you, how could they let this happen? How could they–how could she embarrass you like that?

Her ex takes the guitar and begins her own riff, something they had definitely planned behind your back. Questions rampaged through your mind. You were at almost every practice and rehearsal. Were they meeting up separately? You choke up, watching the scene unfold in front of you.

Ellie whispers something in her ear, holding her by the waist as she nods in response. The crowd goes wild, screaming and cheering. It was meant to be you on stage. She was meant to hold you. Her ex takes the neck of the guitar, turning it upside down and smashing it into the floor.

You lose count of the number of times they pass it between them, causing more damage than the last. A strong urge to empty your guts washes over you, pushing through the crowd, not caring who gets elbowed in the face.

The dressing room is filled with buzzing from outside, but it’s 100% better than watching your girlfriend smash a prized possession you bought her. Every answer your mind came up with wasn’t good enough. It didn’t make sense. Why? Why? Why?

Why would she do that to you? Your relationship had been strained for a few days after an argument over rehearsals. You barely spent time together any more, she was always out practising, even missing the dates you had planned.

This started a conversation about whether she cared about her career more than the relationship. You didn’t want to believe it but all your worries seemed to come true. Her added fame and success made things more difficult.

The time when she gave a group of VIP fans a tour backstage and bonded a bit too much with one of them sparked through your brain. It reminded you of what was happening on stage before you left. And now the show was over.

✦

Her bandmates come into the room before her, filling the space with awkwardness when they see you. None of them speak, going through the motions of drinking water, packing away instruments, and checking their phones without so much as an apology.

All of them knew about this but didn’t feel the need to tell you. You blamed them as much as you blamed Ellie. To think that you were the reason they were in that position now. If it wasn’t for you bringing them together, another band would be in their place.

“So no one wanted to tell me what Ellie was planning?”

Your question is met with even more silence, everyone looking awkwardly between themselves.

“We didn’t know—”

The door is pushed, followed by Ellie, now smiling with her ex directly behind her. She senses the tension in the air and motions for the others to leave. The three of you stand in silence for an eternity before Ellie finally says, “I can tell that you’re mad.”

Mad? That was the biggest understatement. Her ex doesn’t make eye contact, still standing behind her, hands folded across her chest.

“Are you fucking stupid?”

Maybe it was harsh, but there was no other way to convey your emotions. “Can I explain myself before we start throwing insults around? It was a prank. That wasn't the actual guitar.”

From a supply closet, she brings out the case and unzips it to reveal the guitar, still in perfect condition. No thought formed properly in your mind. Nothing made sense. It was a sick prank, something that made you physically ill.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Ellie?”

“This conversation won't go anywhere if you keep insulting her.” She had the audacity to speak to you. This was her fault, not just Ellie’s. What sane person would do something like that?

“This conversation is between me and my girlfriend. You know what? You two can have each other.” You push past them, slamming the door in the process.

Why was this happening? Did you piss off God? Were you paying for a mistake you made years ago? Whatever it was, it didn't make sense. What went through Ellie’s head to do that to you?

No one bothers going after you. Fortunately, you're able to grab a cab and go back to the hotel.

Where you were staying with Ellie.

[dahliakbs]

Batfam x Doppleganger! Reader (Part 2)

Part 1 here Masterlist

You'd think that as soon as they found out about your existence in their house they'd kick you out but no. Instead they'd practically treated you like a brand new sibling.

You'd been given new clothes, a new room and brand new family members all in one day. To you, these people were just random strangers you'd stolen the appearances of but to them you were a rather interesting case.

A doppleganger with no where to go, not something you'd come across on the daily but not completely surprising for Gotham.

Dick was the first one to officially meet you since he was the first one to run off and find you. He immediately welcomes you to the family which is strange since you were technically what some people would call a "stalker" but he just seems to gloss over that.

Tim was the second one to meet you, he seemed very interested in your powers, asking numerous questions on how they worked to which he received zero answers.

Again you thought he would've thrown you out since the first time you guys met you were shifted into a disturbing version of him but what you've come to learn is this family is mostly accepting of the weird and abnormal.

Damian was rather calm about the whole situation which wasn't much of a shock. He didn't seem to mind your presence in the house that much seeing as how he'd always somehow find himself in a room with you.

After awhile you'd notice him following you around a lot more or quietly standing next to you while doing anything.

He's a bit creepy at times but what are you expecting from a tiny assassin?

You've still yet to meet he who must not be named (Jason) which is surprising since even though Dick doesn't live here he's still at the manor every other day. No one really speaks about him that much but when they do everyone goes silent.

Last but not least was the head of the family himself Bruce Wayne. As you've learned before he was the quiet and stoic one.

You'd barely met him in his own house which was rather strange but the one time you'd chosen to walk around the manor with his appearance he'd finally showed himself.

Walking out of the shadows with a serious expression.

"(Reader) right?" He asked but you knew he knew the answer. He then beckoned you to follow after him.

Slowly leading you towards a lonely grandfather clock stood in the middle of the hallway.

"I've been researching your ability and there are some things I think you'd like to see" he said. Next thing you know you were in the bat cave looking at articles and documents on your ability.

This had become a regular thing, it was the only was Bruce could think of getting along with you and it worked. Helping you ease that little fear you had of him off your chest and making you see him in a new light.