#i can never get away from this show can i

[damselneedssaving]

BATBOYS BUT IT'S DICK'S BIRTHDAY AND BRUCE INVITES F!STREAMER!READER OVER AS A GIFT.

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, crack, the boys are majorly obsessed with you—but it's right in front of your face this time, it's dick's birthday but the boys have no problem stealing you away from him, duke glows when he's flustered and it's so cute, your username is just your name

★ A/N: sorry guys, i lost track of the taglist so i won't be using it here 😭 oh, this is another requested one!! you guys are so creative with these requests, i swear. i'll never run out of material at this rate. as always, you don't need to have read the rest of this series to read this!!

★ F!STREAMER!READER MASTERLIST ★

The manor is taller than you imagined—looming to the point where you're forced to crane your neck up at an angle that blooms pain down your spine.

It's a bit creepy too, stood here, quite a ways away from the hustle and bustle of Gotham city, no other buildings in sight.

Billionaires sure are eccentric.

With a gulp, you swallow the nerves building up in your throat and take a step closer to the gate, fingers twiddling behind your back.

The speaker in front of you sings static as soon as you get closer, and you take it as a sign to announce your presence.

"Um"—you swallow thickly—"this is [Name], the, uh, streamer invited over for Dick Grayson's birthday?"

A pause.

Your palms start to gather sweat, your mouth going dry, and just as the thought crosses your mind that you may have possibly been baited into showing up at the entrance of a rich man's house for no reason—

—the gate creaks open.

"Oh, okay, cool," you mutter to yourself, a habit you picked up from constantly commentating. "At least I know that letter was legit now."

Why you, of all people, were invited, you still have no clue.

Regardless, you continue your trek down the road to Wayne Manor, each step heightening those nerves you thought you swallowed down before, pumping them with air until they all but rise back up your throat by the time you get to the large, wooden doors.

You're barely able to lift a fist before one of said doors opens.

"Ah, Miss [Name], come in. The Masters have been expecting you."

You blink, the accented voice a bit of a surprise to your twitching ears, but not as much as the person they come from.

There, behind the open door, dressed in what you can only describe as a butler's uniform, stands a man nowhere near your age, poised and dutiful, with a perfectly raised brow you haven't a clue as to how is even possible.

You shift in your spot, suddenly feeling severely out of place.

"Miss?"

You perk up. "Oh, uh, right."

Taking a shaky step forward, you enter the large manor with yet another gulp of that bundle of nerves in your throat—

—only to flinch at the sound of a plate shattering nearby.

Whipping your head to the right, you're face-to-face with a man the press has no shortage of encounters with.

Stood there with his hair combed to the side and eyes just the slightest bit wide to indicate what you presume to be his own surprise, is who could quite possibly be one of your top chat donators.

Damian Wayne.

His stare burrows through you, and awkwardly, you bring up a hand to wave at him. "Uh, hi."

"Beloved," he whispers, soft, light, in a tone of such disbelief, it almost convinces you that you're not at all supposed to be here. "What are you doing here?"

Okay, this is really not doing your doubts any wonders.

"Uh, I was invited for Dick Grayson's birthday..."

"Grayson?"

You open your mouth to confirm, when another voice cuts you off.

In comes a grinning man dressed all casual, in a normal shirt and trousers (certainly nothing you'd expect from a person with enough money to afford all the branded clothing in the world), holding a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other.

"You..." starts the man, looking towards Damian before turning and trailing off as soon as his eyes land on you, "called...?"

Another shatter bounces off the walls.

You clear your throat.

"Hey! Uh, Dick, right?" You move your hands to twiddle behind your back as he just continues to stare at you with his mouth agape. "Happy birthday!"

A thud.

Your lips part. Then close. Then part again. Then close.

"Did he just fai—?"

"Allow me to get your coat for you, Beloved."

You gasp, the feeling of a warm breath ghosting over your ear almost causing you to jump right out of your skin.

Then it's followed up by the ghost of a touch over your bare arms, and you think you really will jump right out of your skin.

Your eyes flit to the side, and all the breath in your lungs disappears the moment you see the way Damian looks at you; those lidded eyes and that near-reverence in his gaze.

If you had any doubt that he was your top donator before, they're all gone now.

A shiver runs down your spine, his fingers over your bare skin practically a breeze as he slowly—almost a little too slowly, like he's savouring the moment—aids you out of your coat.

But then he slinks past you to hook it near the door, and you're left wondering if you just imagined the intimate moment altogether.

You stand there for another few seconds before clearing your throat, shaking your head, and averting your gaze—

—only to find it landing on a familiar groaning body struggling to get off the ground.

Immediately, your eyes go wide.

Then both your hands are grasped by another pair, and your gaze is ushered to the side, though not without a bit of reluctance.

"Uh," you start, sending another glance over your shoulder with knitted brows, "shouldn't we help him up?"

"Nonsense, Beloved, he can get up on his own," Damian dismisses without so much as a second glance. "Allow me to tour you."

"Um, okay."

With one more concerned glance tossed the birthday boy's way, you're whisked straight into another room and immediately greeted with the sight of another man. This one sprawled across the couch with one leg dangling off and his eyes glued straight to the screen in his hands rather than dropping something right in front of your eyes and staring at you like a fish out of water.

"Here we have the living room, you may find yourself in here during times of leisure," Damian explains, gesturing one hand out in front of him for less than a second before it's back in your own. "Please ignore the sight of the couch, it's not usually so hideous."

The unnamed man's nose twitches, scrunching up not a moment later as his eyes leave his screen in favour of looking up. "Who you calling hideo—?"

Then he freezes, and that phone in his hands slips right onto the floor.

Oops, you may have jinxed it.

"[Name]...?"

Once again, you find yourself pushing your lips up into that awkward smile, the urge to fiddle with your collar growing within you. "Hello."

He blinks once. Then twice. Then—

"Shit!"

The man scrambles to get up, eyes immediately darting down as his hands went all over the place to fix the creases on his shirt before shooting straight back up to send daggers to Damian.

"Demon spawn, why the fuck did you not tell me she was here?"

Damian all but sent him one disinterested glance. "Your incompetence is not my fault, Drake."

Drake grinds his teeth, and those daggers of his turn into sharp swords wide enough to pierce even you despite them not at all being directed your way.

"I'm gonna fucking kill you—!"

"Damian!"

Your eyes flit to the entrance of the room, finding the birthday boy stood there with his hands on his knees and his form slightly hunched over, panting, before immediately snapping upright and sending those same daggers Drake sent to Damian himself.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? Bruce invited her over for my birthday!"

And like he did with Drake, Damian only sends a disinterested glance Dick's way. "So?"

"So?! So?! So that means she's my birthday gift and you shouldn't be taking all her attention away from me!"

"Tt. That hardly matters when she's going to be my wife."

You blink. "Wife?"

But Damian keeps talking like he didn't just give you the news of your life about your own future marital status, and Dick argues right there with him.

So you're left blinking, awkwardly stood in the middle of this rich family feud wondering why you even accepted that invite in the first place.

But then your fingers are slipped out of Damian's hands and straight into another pair, and you're gently tugged away and out of the room.

Your eyes follow the hand in your own up, only to meet with a pair of dazzling blue staring back at you.

"I'm Tim, by the way," says Drake—or well, Tim.

Ah, Tim Drake. That makes more sense. For a second there, you thought Bruce Wayne had adopted another kid with a less than fortunate name, to say the least (what with the very existence of the song 'Not Like Us').

You clear your throat, shaking your head clear of your thoughts before saying, "Hi, Tim. Uh, where are you taking me?"

He grins. "To my room."

You blink at him.

He blinks back at you.

Then slowly, your lips curve back into that familiar awkward smile. "Woah there, dinner and a movie first maybe?"

At that, he lets out a laugh, and it's warm and real and melts straight into a smile you can only describe as that of a school girl's when staring at her crush, all dazed and dreamy.

"You're so funny..."

You blink again, letting out a nervous laugh. "Thanks..."

You've met parasocial fans before, but you think these guys take the cake for sure.

Still, you let yourself be dragged into his room because, for what it's worth, he doesn't set off any alarm bells and you like to believe the best in your fans.

Plus he's kinda hot. That's always a bonus.

"Here, let me just—"

You blink, watching him rearrange his bed before slowly guiding you to take a seat on it and rushing over to his closet with a bounce in his step you've seen many times from many other people before.

"Fuck, where is it?" comes his voice from... inside the closet?

A walk-in closet. Holy shit, that's rich.

"Uh, you okay in there, Tim?"

The only thing that responds to you is a little dreamy giggle.

"Tim?"

Another dreamy giggle. Maybe you should stop saying his name.

"Oh! I found it!" He calls. And then he's rushing out of his closet with a box that falls in front of you with a loud 'thud' not a moment later.

You blink down at it.

Your face stares back at you.

"This is a box of all my merch from you!" yells Tim, practically squealing the words out as he opens the box and starts taking things out one-by-one to show you.

"Here's the first ever hoodie you sold!

"Oh, and here's the limited edition Youtooz of you from a year back, I got it the second it was available.

"Oh yeah, and here's the figurine of you from that red dead redemption collab you did! You look amazing as a cowgirl."

You gawk, barely able to keep up with him as he flashed all your merch at you with the speed of the Flash, and you've met the guy in person.

Still, there's something oddly charming about how excited Tim is, those bags under his eyes practically non-existent with how wide with wonder they are right now.

That's probably why you can't stop yourself from smiling.

And when he finally notices, he goes quiet, a blush as red as the blood beneath your skin spanning from one side of his face to the other.

Then his door bursts open, and that blush evaporates.

"Yo, replacement, I need you to look into this lead—"

You turn, finding yet another pair of blue eyes staring straight at you. A pair that seems to slyly curl at the corners.

"Well hello there, pretty girl," drawls the new guy, crossing his arms and leaning against the door as his gaze rakes all over you and he whistles low. "No one told me you'd be over. Woulda dressed up real nice for ya if they did."

Wow, this household sure is swimming with good-looking men, huh?

"Jason," Tim hisses through gritted teeth as you let yourself look, "what are you doing here? Get out."

"Nah"—his lips quirk up—"don't think I will."

You glance back at Tim for a split second. But that split second is enough for you to see the steam practically shooting out his ears.

"Don't think you have a choice," he growls back, fists clenching by his side.

But Jason just ignores him, slinking on over to your side and plopping down like he owns the place, his hand moving to loop around your shoulders as he ducks his head down and speaks to you like you're the only one there.

"Y'know, you're a lot prettier in person."

Your lips are curving up before you can even stop them, heat warming your skin. "Oh... really?"

He tilts his head, moving closer, lips a breath away from your own. "Yeah really."

"Jason!"

You then blink as the arm around your shoulder is removed, and you're left feeling a cold breeze pass over it instead.

Your head tilts up to see Dick with his arms crossed and his brows furrowed furiously at the man who was just holding you.

"What the hell are you doing?!" he yells, before directing his attention straight at Tim. "You too, Tim! How many times do I have to tell you guys it's my birthday?!"

"So?" Jason scoffs.

"So?! So?! Argh! You—!"

You blink, registering yet another face by the door and, this time, getting up to go somewhere of your own accord.

"Oh my God! Duke!"

Duke blinks, almost looking like he would've stumbled back had you not grabbed ahold of his hands in time.

"How are you?!"

He blinks again, staring at you with his lips parted and his eyes wide with a little disbelief, just like they were when you first met.

"Did you like that plushie I won you?"

He stares at you for a few seconds more, still not saying a word, and you find your lips tugging down in concern.

"Duke?"

Then he bursts. Quite literally.

You squint, a sudden flash of light blinding you for just a split moment before you hear someone clear their throat and that light is no more—at least, not obviously.

But you swear that it looks like there's something glowing under Duke's hoodie...

"Yeah," he says quickly, before awkwardly clearing his throat again and averting his gaze to the side. "I mean—yeah, I liked it."

You blink once, then your lips curve up again and you beam back at him, responding with a, "I'm glad." before he's clearing his throat again and speaking, that glow under his hoodie appearing to be a little brighter.

"Do you wanna come to my room and go see it?"

You look around, seeing everyone still arguing with each other in their own world. "Sure!"

Then you let Duke lead you out, leaving behind the three shouting brothers and the fourth silently glaring one behind.

Dick, despite having been gifted the best present Bruce has ever gotten him for his birthday ever, is having one of the worst days of his life.

First, his favourite cereal runs out, so he's stuck having to eat his second favourite instead (ugh). Then, his favourite shirt is in the laundry because Alfred put it in last night, so he can't wear it on his special day. And then, his favourite streamer is ripped from him by every single brother he has when it's not even any of their birthdays and she's not here for them.

So now here he is, sat on the balcony with his chin slumped on his hand, staring out into the night sky because he's long since given up on trying to divert your attention to him.

"So much for a happy birthday," he mutters with a sigh, kicking the air beneath the lounger he's sitting on like it's personally the one that ruined his day.

Then the sound of the door sliding open chimes from behind him, and he's immediately perking up and turning around.

"There you are, birthday boy."

It's you, and you're gently sliding the door shut again behind you, the light of the mansion hugging your form with a warm, welcoming glow that's only furthered by the way you smile down at him.

"I was wondering where you ran off to."

His mouth parts, a sort-of awe taking over and stealing his tongue as you move to sit beside him, to lower yourself to his level.

"Not good with crowds?" You nudge his shoulder with a bit of a teasing smile.

"Great with them actually," he responds, and you blink in surprise. "Just... not feeling it today."

Your smile softens a little at that, tone gentle as you say, "That's okay." Then you follow it up with a playful, "Us human beings are complicated creatures, y'know. I, myself, have a lot of layers."

His lips twitch up. "Yeah?"

"Oh yeah."

Dick's smile widens a little at that, and a chuckle passes through his lips before he can even stop it—not that he could've in the first place. You're his favourite streamer for a reason, after all.

The two of you fall silent right after, and you turn your head to the view in front, eyes losing that teasing glint to make way for something kinder, warmer.

"Sorry I haven't been paying much attention to you," you say, almost absentmindedly, and he blinks a little in surprise—you had noticed? "Your brothers are a little..."

"Crazy?"

You chuckle. "Sure, let's call it that."

"It's all good," he responds, taking in the way the stars twinkle in your eyes. "I didn't take it personally."

"Still"—your lips tug down a little—"it's your birthday. Your dad invited me over for you. I should've spent more time with you."

He doesn't say anything. Too kind to pin the blame on you and too selfish to deny that what you had just said was exactly what he wanted.

But he doesn't need to say anything, 'cause you continue talking anyway.

"But I'm here now so..." you start.

And then you're turning your head back to him and smiling with all your heart, and suddenly—

"...Happy birthday, Dick."

—Dick finds himself not minding how this day turned out after all.

ALTERNATIVELY -> IF WALLY HAD COME TO WHISK YOU AWAY DURING DICK'S BIRTHDAY.

[queen-of-gotham]

Teaching You Self-Defense

(Bat Boys, Hal, Conner, Wally x f!reader)

Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ request! Thank you so much anon! Enjoy!

Everyone in this writing is of age 🙂

Bruce Wayne

You hadn’t even finished your sentence before Bruce was already setting up mats in the manor’s private gym.

“I just said I might feel better knowing a few moves-“

“And I agree. We should’ve done this sooner.”

He doesn’t coddle. He teaches deliberately, explaining how to break a grip, where to aim on someone larger than you. It’s more intense than you expected, but he pulls back just when he sees the hesitation in your eyes.

“You won’t always have me nearby,” he says quietly, adjusting your stance. “That thought keeps me up at night. So I need you to be able to handle yourself. At least long enough until I get there.”

Dick Grayson

Dick turns it into a date.

“Come on, babe, it’s kinda hot, right? Danger. Grappling. Me on the mat?”

You roll your eyes, but he’s grinning… until he isn’t. The moment he walks you through how to break out of a wrist hold, he goes serious.

“You’ll remember this, right?” he asks after you do it on your own. “Because if someone ever tries something… I need you to know what to do.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, voice low. “You being hurt is my worst nightmare. So I’m gonna teach you everything I can to keep you safe.”

Jason Todd

Jason’s approach is… less delicate.

“Rule number one: don’t fight fair. Ever.”

He has you in the alley behind his safehouse, showing you how to use your elbow, your knee, the heel of your boot. He gets behind you, walks you through how to twist out of a chokehold. His voice is right by your ear.

“Go for the eyes. Throat. Kneecaps. Don’t hesitate. Hesitation gets you hurt.”

You glance up at him, surprised at how fierce he looks, and how shaken.

“I’ve lost too many people,” he mutters. “You’re not gonna be one of them.”

Tim Drake

Tim brings a whole slideshow.

“I’ve compiled the most common attack scenarios and mapped out low effort disarms anyone can learn… wait, are you laughing?”

“Just a little,” you grin. “You made a PowerPoint.”

He blushes but rolls with it. He’s surprisingly patient, gently correcting your movements. He teaches you how to break a grip, use leverage, how to redirect someone’s momentum.

“You don’t have to be strong,” he says. “You just have to be smart. Let me teach you how to think like someone who fights.”

He’s quiet later, after you’re done with training and says, “ I know I can’t be there all the time. But I need to believe you’ll be okay without me.”

Duke Thomas

Duke teaches you on a sunny afternoon on the rooftop, the city warm and quiet around you.

“It’s not about winning,” he says. “It’s about getting away. Staying safe.”

He’s the most encouraging by far, cheering when you get something right, coaching gently when you don’t. He shows you how to block, how to throw someone off your back, how to stay calm under pressure.

“You’ve got this,” he says, offering you his hand after you knock him flat for the first time.

And then, after a beat, “I don’t want to ever wonder if you’d be okay without me. I wanna know you will be.”

Damian Wayne

“You should’ve asked sooner,” Damian says, already tying your hands with soft cotton wraps. “You’re lucky no one has attacked you yet.”

You snort, “Gee, thanks.”

He’s all sharp movements and critical observations at first, but slowly you realize, he’s holding back. He’s making sure your hands don’t get bruised, adjusting your grip like he’s handling something fragile. Precious.

When you finally land a clean throw, he stares at you with quiet pride.

“You’re learning,” he says, then hesitates before adding, “I would destroy anyone who hurt you. But it’s better if they never get the chance.”

Hal Jordan

“Okay, first rule of self-defense: don’t start nothin’, won’t be nothin’.”

“Hal.”

“Kidding. Mostly.”

You’re in a training room Hal conjured with his ring, it looks like the inside of an Air Force gym. He’s shirtless (unnecessarily) and annoyingly confident, walking you through how to duck, weave, and use someone’s momentum against them.

“You ever seen me in a bar fight?”

“No.”

“You’re welcome.”

He’s grinning, cocky as always, but when you catch his wrist and pull off the move he just taught you, he sobers up fast.

“Hey,” he says, catching your eye. “You did good. Look… I joke around a lot, but I’m serious about this. If anything ever happened to you…”

He shakes his head. “I’d move heaven and earth to get to you. But I’d rather you not need saving in the first place.”

Conner Kent

Conner watches you throw a punch at the heavy bag with all the grace of a soggy noodle.

“…Okay. Ow. That was mean.” You say to him

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You looked mean.”

He laughs and gently steps in behind you, adjusting your posture. His hands hover near your waist and shoulders as he shows you how to pivot and punch properly without hurting yourself.

“You don’t need to knock someone out,” he says softly. “You just need to stun them long enough to run.”

Then, more serious, looking you in the eyes, “I know I’m fast and strong and all that, but… I can’t be everywhere. And the thought of something happening to you when I could’ve done something to prevent it… makes me feel sick.”

He places your hand over his heart. “So let’s make sure you never feel helpless.”

Wally West

“Okay so I brought snacks, water, sunscreen, and- ow, hey! I’m here to help!”

You laugh as Wally yelps from where you just jabbed him in the ribs, he’s been messing around for the past ten minutes. But when he finally starts teaching, he flips into serious mode so fast it startles you.

“I can run across the world in under a second,” he says. “But if someone grabs you and I’m not there? I need the peace of mind of knowing you’ve got options.”

Wally teaches you how to break a chokehold using your body weight, how to strike and run. He’s a surprisingly good teacher, patient, direct, focused, and after you get the moves right, he pulls you into a tight hug.

“I don’t want you to feel scared,” he murmurs. “I want you to feel ready. Because the world’s not fair. But you? You’re stronger than it.”

Then he grins and adds, “Also, I may or may not have secretly filmed you taking me down and sent it to Barry. So you’re basically a legend now.”

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[prosypepper]

cw: fem reader, plug sukuna & basically he’s an asshole, dubcon & weed smoking, a tiiiiny bit of crying, p in v, 18+

pepper’s notes: idk if anyone remembers but this was a part of that huge fic i planned for 4/20 that i never posted because i did not finish it, enjoy

“and here i thought you couldn’t see me anymore ‘cause of your little boyfriend.”

already, your eyes are rolling upon entering sukuna’s car—the smell of weed and cologne punching you in the nose as soon as you sit down. the air is thick with smoke, your body telling you to cough at the intrusion; but it’s all weirdly comforting.

“shut up, we aren’t together anymore,” you snap, setting your purse in the floorboard and crossing your arms.

okay—yeah, ryomen sukuna is always a bad idea. hanging out with him, talking to him, thinking about him always ends up badly. sort of. it always went the same way between you two. you’d meet him, or he’d meet you, you’d smoke too much, and somehow always ended up on his dick.

like, every time.

the backseat of his car is cramped, and you can barely see his stupid face through the darkness and smoke collected in the car. sukuna’s got that smile on his face that says more than words ever could, the kind of look that says ‘i told you so’ and makes you want to slap him.

but when the tip of his cock pokes at your g-spot, every thought leaves your mind.

“fuck!” you squeal, legs giving out and trembling. you’re so full, completely filled with his length and you can’t seem to gain any strength back.

“what, getting lazy on me now?” sukuna chuckles, lifting an arm that was rested on the back of the seat to take another hit from the blunt. you shake your head, though it’s a lie, and feebly rock your hips against his.

…

“i’m too high for this, sukuna,” you state after a few moments, slumping against his chest.

“hold this for me, hm?” he rasps, signaling for you to hold the blunt. you take it from him, squeezing it between your pointer finger and thumb. “don’t drop it.”

sukuna’s big arms wrap around all of you, him still inside, and he lays you down below him. the leather of his seats is cool against your skin, but inside, you’re hot, burning with lust and anticipation and simply being high.

though, sukuna shows no mercy.

blunt still pinched between your fingers, sukuna hooks your legs around his hips, wasting no time to begin pounding into you. his thrusts are quick and mean, getting all up in your guts. your brows furrow as you try to focus on where you and him connect, blurry vision somewhat fixing. his shirt’s barely ridden up, showing off his insanely tattooed torso—another thing about him that drove you crazy.

you’re spacing out, mind fixated on that sliver of skin you can see and the feeling of being stretched out on sukuna’s cock. eyes closed, your bottom lip is going numb from how badly you’re biting it—sure to draw blood soon. that knot in your lower tummy starts to weakly grow more and more as sukuna rams into you.

sukuna’s too wrapped up in his own pleasure to notice your dwindling responses—at first.

then he stops.

“hey,” he almost whispers, grabbing the sides of your face, “you alright baby?”

and that’s probably—no, definitely—the first time he’s ever asked that or called you that.

your eyes pop open, met with sukuna who’s inches from your face. he’s stilled inside of you, watching how you hold the blunt away from you both and are so careful to not let go. a few tears well up in your eyes at the question, or maybe the relentless feeling of his cock prodding at your cervix, and maybe the fact he just called you baby. that’s, like, the most endearing pet name.

“aww, what are those tears for?” he asks in his normal condescending tone, devilishly smiling at the same time his thumbs wipe away your tears.

“keep going—please,” you request, voice fucked out to a little whimper.

“greedy girl,” he quips, slowly drawing his hips back. he sets back and legs your legs fall out to either side of him, watching the glistening mess he’s made of your cunt in the dark. he watches for way too long.

so pretty.

“stop staring,” you whine, making an attempt to close your legs, utterly embarrassed at sukuna’s ogling. yet he holds one of your thighs open, forcing an obscene display of yourself. “sukunaaa.”

“shut it,” sukuna growls with a roll of his hips, “greedy girls don’t get to complain.”

[matt-murdockk]

HEYYY!! Godspeed on your semester <33!! You got this. 🫶🏼

Fic idea: Reader is Reid’s roommate and is pretty laid-back (easily mistaken for a slacker because they don’t take on rigorous tasks often) and stumbles across a stumped Reid who’s trying to solve a case. Very casually Reader makes an insane prediction, and Reid learns that they’re basically a genius… who doesn’t really know they’re a genius?? (Because when they think “genius” the reader usually thinks of nerdy and scrawny people like Reid)

I hope that makes sense vro 💔💔

Baby you have been in my inbox for a MONTH i am so sorry i hope you like it 🥀

Lazy

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader words: 1.2k warnings: Language summary: You, a chronically underachieving genius accidentally solve an active FBI case over takeout and crime scene photos. Spencer Reid blurts out an "I love you" before sprinting out the door in mismatched socks. a/n: fluffity fluff in the end for a little bit hehe <3

Truth be told, you hated that word. Lazy. You preferred efficient. Your 9-to-5 was soul sucking, much like any other 9-to-5, so you did the only thing you could to make sure this job doesn't eat you alive— the bare fucking minimum.

A report due by 5? Alright, it'll be on the desk at 5, not a minute sooner, and not a minute later. A task needs doing? Oh, it'll be done. Flawlessly, in fact. But that's it. No fanfare, no extras, exactly what is required, nothing more. Meetings? You speak only when necessary. Deadlines? Met to the second. No matter how convoluted the problem or the task, you found the cleanest, simplest way through.

You did just the right amount, never showed your true potential, and it never raised any questions. If you asked your coworkers, they'd say you were a joy to be around. With your social capital? You were never getting fired. It was the perfect ruse.

But when you reached home with takeout, took your shoes off at the end of the day, you left your job along with them at the doorstep of your house. 5-to-9 is your time. And no one was taking that away from you. Alright, maybe one person was taking that away from you. But truth be told, you didn't really complain.

Spencer Reid was an enigma. Living with him was never dull, be it because he was actually, quite literally, the best flatmate a person could ask for in all thinkable ways, or because he challenged you the way you liked best— intellectually. Today was apparently a latter kind of day.

"Reid-o. What's got you all worked up?"

"Reid-o?" he asked, looking up from the papers strewn about his desk.

"Term of endearment. You didn't answer my question."

The first thing you noticed after coming home was the pair of Converse that were clearly taken off in a hurry and left there haphazardly. The living room smelled of the strongest espresso in all of land, like a truck of coffee had decided to explode in your house, of all places. The room was relatively dark, except for the lamp burning over the desk where he was huddled over. He was so engrossed in whatever he was doing that he hadn't even noticed you come home. Ergo, he was stressed.

A heavy sigh, one hand running through his hair. You made a mental note of his stress level: medium-high. A few more hours of this and he’d either fall asleep at his desk or start quoting obscure philosophers.

"It's this case," he admitted finally, his voice sounding almost defeated. "I have been poring over the case files and the crime scene photos, and the interviews for hours, and I have basically no pattern or connection between any of the victims. So, how was your day?"

"Better than yours," you scoffed, "Can I have a look?"

“I thought you hated this stuff.”

“I hate paperwork and bureaucracy. Big difference.”

He hesitated, then pushed the files toward you, still half sceptical. “They’re all women, different ages, different occupations. Killed two days apart. Same method, no evidence left behind, nothing to tie them together. We’re missing something.”

You skimmed through the reports, flipping through pages with zero urgency. You tapped your finger on the crime scene photos, brows slightly furrowed at the gore; they were crime scene photos, after all. But you kept your focus on just the crime scene. Just the way it was staged. You tapped your finger on the last photo, humming thoughtfully.

“How did he get in?” you asked.

Spencer sighed again. “We don’t know. That’s part of the problem. No signs of forced entry, no tampering, no secondary footprints, nothing on any of the security footage. Just the victims entering their homes alone, like normal.”

“No delivery men, no dates, no door dash?”

“Nothing. Clean. Like no one else was ever there.”

You tilted your head, squinting at the arrangement of one of the living rooms. “Alright. So, let’s say the footage is legit, no one else enters or leaves the premises. The simplest explanation?”

He gave you a look. “Occam’s Razor?”

“Exactly. The simplest explanation is that no one entered because they were already inside.”

He blinked. “You’re saying the unsub was—”

“Already in the house. Yeah.”

“That would mean... he snuck in before the victims got home. Hid. Waited. Killed them. Then left... somehow.”

“Without triggering a single alarm or camera. Meaning either the cameras were looped at just the right time— which you’re saying they weren’t— or he never walked past them to begin with.”

Spencer stood now, pacing a little. “But how? Every entry point was covered.”

You leaned back into the couch, arms crossed. “Then maybe we’re not thinking three-dimensionally enough. You need to look at the architectural plans. House blueprints. Vents, crawlspaces, dumbwaiters, hell, even hollow walls. If he’s getting in and out without being seen, it’s because he’s not using the doors. Or windows.”

Spencer froze mid-step, then slowly turned to you, eyes wide.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “Oh my god.”

“What? Did you get something?” you asked, sitting up a little straighter.

Spencer blinked, still stunned, like the gears in his mind had just snapped into overdrive.

“The houses, every single one of the victims’ homes, were renovated within the last year,” he said, more to himself than to you, “That’s why we didn’t consider construction anomalies. We assumed standard layouts, but what if— what if they all used the same contractor?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think the unsub is the person who remodeled their houses?”

“Or someone connected to the company. Maybe he installed hidden access points, crawlspaces, false walls, and vent systems wide enough to move through. Places where someone could hide for days.”

He rushed back to the files, flipping through them like a man possessed. “This would explain everything— the lack of evidence, the absence of footage, the precision in timing...”

He looked up suddenly, eyes shining like the sun just rose inside his skull.

“Did you know you’re a genius?”

You smirked, stretching your arms behind your head. “I have my days.”

“No, no, I’m serious.” He was talking fast now, gathering files, tugging his coat from the back of his chair. “You just cracked the entire case with, like, three questions.”

"Guess I've lived with you long enough for it to rub off on me, huh?"

He laughed at that, face serious for a split second. “You’re incredible.”

That actually made your stomach flip. “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

“I gotta go,” he muttered suddenly, stuffing folders into his messenger bag hurriedly like he was trying to stop them from escaping, “Hotch needs to see this now. But, oh my god, I love you so much right now.”

And before you could even react, he leaned over, pressed a quick, distracted kiss to your cheek, and bolted out the door, his shoes half on.

You sat there, stunned.

“…Cool,” you mumbled, touching your cheek where his lips had been a moment ago.

[maruflix]

SUKUNA RYOMEN: “THE ONLY PERSON IN THE WORLD WORTH KNEELING FOR.”

sukuna loves to see you cry—but he doesn’t like it when you turn away from him. (short 1.6k fic heavily inspired by a dream i had)

cw. female reader, true form sukuna, reader is sukuna’s wife, mean sukuna (he gets progressively softer), no beta we die as always

Sukuna knows he’s done something wrong when you refuse to meet his eye at the hallways. No greetings, no nothing. But you don’t voice it out loud, so he has no sure way of knowing.

He tests that theory and disappears for three straight days. When he returns, the estate is as still as a tranquil lake. He almost misses having random objects thrown at him; something you usually do when he leaves the estate without prior notice.

At dinner, your seat is empty. When he turns to Uraume, they just give him a solemn shake of the head. No explanations—like they knew something he didn’t.

When he walks the corridors, an uncomfortable silence stretches ahead—unpleasant, unfamiliar. You didn’t even bother to come out of your quarters.

This foolishness ends today.

Sukuna is fuming. He’s sent Uraume to relay the message that he’s looking for you but you never showed up. He has no time for your bullshit; if you won’t go to him obediently, he’ll come to you instead.

He walked to your quarters—only to find the door locked.

So he breaks it down.

“Wife.”

Sukuna is now standing in front of you, his full height casting a shadow over your sitting figure. You didn’t look up.

He can feel his patience thinning. “Woman.”

Even then, you ignore him completely, finding it more entertaining to play a game of shogi against yourself.

He reaches out a hand to your face but you smack it away swiftly.

Sukuna grunts in displeasure at your rejection. You may be his lover, but Sukuna Ryōmen doesn’t take kindly to disobedience. He moves forward, causing you to back away until you hit the wall.

You gasp when he slams his arms on the sides of your head, his other two arms clutching your wrist.

“Let go!”

But Sukuna merely tightens his grip. “Do you think you can avoid me forever?”

“Why do you care?”

Sukuna reels back, feeling the last threads of his patience snapping—almost. “What is with this attitude? If you have something to say to me, say it.”

“Last month,” you finally look at his crimson eyes, “I waited for you all night. You never came. I waited all night, Sukuna!”

He stares at you. What is this joke? He searches his memories, finally registering the events you’re talking about. He did fail to show up one night, and you’ve been frosty to him ever since.

“All this... over me skipping dinner?”

Stilling, you meet his incredulous gaze and glare at him. “It was our anniversary, bastard.”

Sukuna sighs, the puzzle pieces finally clicking together. He doesn’t know why you love to place such a huge significance over some dates — anniversaries, birthdays, what other godforsaken days, — when no matter the occasion, the ferocity of his love remains unchanged.

“I was preoccupied.”

“With Uraume?”

The sentence came out more accusatory than you planned. It causes your husband to raise an eyebrow, loosening his hold on you. Taking that chance, you immediately break free, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

“Ho,” Sukuna shifts, his lips stretching into a mean grin, “do I hear jealousy?”

“Fuck you.”

He grips your chin, forcing it upwards. “I will not have my wife insult me continuously. Let’s put that mouth into good use, hmm?” he leans down, his gaze fixed on your lips—

But you turn away, eyebrows knitted in defiance.

Sukuna feels his annoyance start to prick. “You refuse to kiss me now?”

No matter how hard you try to hide it, he can see it clearly—the slight shake in your shoulders, the wetness in the corner of your eyes, the faint pink on your nose.

You’re holding yourself back from crying.

His eyes narrow, “If you’re not going to even look at me, perhaps I should find Uraume instead.”

He doesn’t mean it, of course. The very notion that you thought of his relationship with Uraume as something more than master and subordinate makes him feel sick. Disgusting—

In front of him, your figure has begun to tremble, long eyelashes dampening with tears.

—but seeing you squirm is a delicacy like no other.

You don’t cry often, so when you do, Sukuna feels something dark flicker inside him. The thought that only he is able to make you feel things so greatly gives him a high.

“Come now, are you really crying over something like this?” Sukuna grumbles, pretending that your tears didn’t awaken something primal inside of him.

But it was weird: it usually takes more than that to ire you. Way, way more. He’d have to wipe out cities and slaughter hundreds of lives to get you to come to him with that disapproving look on your face.

Sukuna will admit that he loves it—your attention. But now, something is different. You’re still refusing to look at him, even going as far as to muffle your cries. Your whole body is turned away from him, like you want to get away.

That, he doesn’t love.

“Look at me.”

You stubbornly inch yourself away from him, sobs starting to escape from your lips.

There it is.

You cry so beautifully, it makes him want to ruin you. Yet, at the same time, he feels a surge of something uncomfortable—the more you sob, the more he has difficulty breathing.

Sukuna didn’t know he was capable of having a guilty conscience.

“Alright, alright. Cease this at once. Look at me.”

Sukuna wrenches your hands away from your face. The sight that greets him makes him feel it again—the irritating dread that crawls up his stomach.

Even with tears running down your face, you’re still glaring at him with those red, puffy eyes. He sees your lips, bleeding from how hard you were biting them. They quiver, and you almost bite them again—but this time, Sukuna is quicker.

His lips crashes onto yours with urgency. He can taste the metallic taste of your blood, a taste that he loves—but not this time, not this way.

His hands has moved to your palms, clasping them with a rare gentleness. He can feel the resistance leaving your body slowly as you melt against him.

“There’s my girl,” Sukuna grins when he pulls away, his breath still hot on your lips, “no more crying.”

“I still haven’t forgiven you.”

Sukuna huffs. He could just leave you to deal with your own anger, but he had a feeling that the consequences of him doing that would come back to bite him in the ass. “Do you wish to know why I failed to show up to dinner that time?”

“If you were meeting with another woman, I don’t want to hear it.” you say, looking away from him.

Being Sukuna’s wife is many things: exciting, intoxicating,—but easy, it is not. Sometimes you can’t figure out whether he truly loves you, not when he never says the words out loud. For him, love is worthless. Who’s to say you’re not another thing he picks up out of interest, only to throw away?

Sukuna stays silent, only moving to kiss you again with more force than before—like he’s giving you an answer. His big hands are still clasped over yours. For a moment, you consider forgiving him.

Then he bites your lip. Hard.

“Sukuna!” you jerk away from him, looking at him in disbelief.

“I will forgive you this once for spouting such nonsense,” Sukuna’s voice is low with warning, “there will be no next time.”

You look at him, wronged.

Sukuna sighs, running a hand through his salmon hair. “Is it not your birthday coming up soon?”

You tilt your head.

It’s only after the king of curses presents you with a large bouquet of peonies do you finally understand: he missed your anniversary because he was busy procuring flowers—for your birthday, no less.

It’s such an unfamiliar sight—an oddly domestic one, that you can’t help but let a smile crack through your features.

“I do not care for this ‘anniversary’ you talk about. I am more than capable of giving you the same amount of affection every single day. But the day of your birth, I do see some significance in,” Sukuna doesn’t notice the giddy smile on your face and continues with his explanation, “and while your taste in flowers are exquisite, peonies are not easy to get.”

“But still, you could’ve told me or something.” you pout, hoping he’ll console you, “I waited for hours like an idiot. The servants will think I’ve lost favor with you.”

Displeasure flashes across Sukuna’s face. “Who would dare to make such assumptions? I will have their heads immediately.”

“That’s not the point!”

The point is, Sukuna is growing tired of your stubborness.

He sighs and lowers himself on one knee, reaching for your hand and guiding it to rest against his cheek. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes widen at the gesture.

“Ha, you’re smiling now? I have not even said anything,” there’s no mistaking the teasing in his tone, “wife, do you like seeing me below you, begging to be forgiven?”

Yes, you almost voice out your answer. The smirk on Sukuna’s lips widens, his eyes studying your reactions intently.

“Feeling proud of yourself I see,” he mocks, “Well, you should be. You alone are the only person in this world I kneel for.”

His nonchalant straightforwardness sends shivers down your spine.

Sukuna glances up at you, “Now, are you still going to deny me of your affection?”

You immediately leap into his arms, letting his arms engulf you. Sukuna just chuckles, immediately knowing that he is forgiven.

He still does not understand the significance people put in certain days, or actions. What he does know is how much he hates it when you avoid him. So if all it takes for you to forgive him are some flowers and him getting down on one knee—well, he’ll gladly do so, as many times as you wish.

“I love you, Kuna.”

He doesn’t reply. But the content hum that vibrates through his chest gives you all the answers you need.

@goxjo it’s here :’) !!

[rmview]

you’re distant, ENHYPEN.

featuring — enhypen members x gn!reader   ( masterlist )

summary — how the enhypen boys deal with you being distant after getting back together! ( can be read as part 3 of this )

contents — hurt & comfort.

hee ⁑ seung

heeseung notices right away that you’re holding back, even if you try to smile like nothing’s changed. he’s incredibly intuitive with emotions, especially yours, and the way your voice is softer, your laugh shorter; it eats at him. he regrets what he said more than he can ever express.

at the time, he was overwhelmed, trying to protect himself by pushing you away, but he never meant it. now, he finds himself tiptoeing around you, trying to fix things without knowing how.

he offers small gestures — your favorite drink, a playlist he made, longer hugs — but they don’t land the way they used to. and it breaks his heart.

“you’re still scared i’ll leave, aren’t you?” he asks one night, voice barely a whisper. when you don’t answer, just look away, he wraps his arms around you from behind and rests his chin on your shoulder. “i’ll spend as long as it takes proving that i won’t.”

heeseung’s not perfect, but he’s incredibly self-aware. once he sees the damage his words did, he works quietly, steadily, to rebuild the safety he shattered — never rushing you, never demanding forgiveness, just showing up, again and again.

jay ⁑

jay carries guilt in a very heavy, quiet way. he’s prideful, but he’s also deeply emotional underneath that, and knowing he hurt you — that he made you feel unsafe in your own relationship — makes him feel sick. he apologized already, sincerely, but he can sense your distance. the way you hesitate to meet his eyes, the way you no longer instinctively reach for his hand, it all makes his chest ache.

“you don’t trust me anymore,” he says one evening, sitting next to you but not touching, “and that’s my fault.”

he wants to fix it, desperately, but he doesn’t know how. so he becomes gentle in everything; softer words, slower movements, always giving you space. he tries to show you he’s here to stay, even if you can’t believe it yet.

some days, the tension breaks his heart, but he doesn’t push. he understands you’re protecting yourself now. instead, he chooses patience: waiting at the edges of your heart until you let him back in fully. and when you do, even just a little, he never takes it for granted again.

that fight changed him. he never wants to risk losing you like that again.

jake ⁑

jake’s apology was instant and emotional — he probably cried while saying it. he’s the kind of person who speaks from the heart, and when he said he wanted to break up during the fight, it wasn’t because he meant it, it was because he panicked.

now, even after you’ve said you forgive him, he sees that you don’t feel safe yet. you’re more careful, more reserved, like you’re constantly bracing for the next blow. it wrecks him.

he becomes overly cautious, overcompensating by constantly checking in: “are you okay?” “did i say something wrong?” “do you still love me?” he can’t stand the thought of being the reason you’re anxious. it makes him cling more; holding your hand tightly, watching your face for reactions, blurting out “i love you” at random times like he’s afraid you’ll forget.

when you finally tell him how you're walking on eggshells now, he breaks down a little. “i’ll never say anything like that again. i swear. i’m so sorry, angel.” he means it with everything in him.

from then on, he becomes extra mindful with his words, determined to never make you feel unloved or unwanted ever again.

sung ⁑ hoon

sunghoon’s first instinct is to withdraw when he notices your shift. he’s always been a little awkward when it comes to emotions, and now he’s overthinking every word he says, worried he’ll trigger something again.

he thought apologizing would be enough, but now he realizes how deep his words cut. it hits him when you flinch slightly at his raised voice — not even at you, just at the tv. he stops, mid-sentence, turning toward you with wide eyes.

“do you… are you scared of me?” he sounds broken asking it. he doesn’t want to believe he made you feel that way, but he sees the answer in your hesitation.

from then on, he tries in his own quiet way to reassure you — being extra gentle, extra soft-spoken, opening up more than usual. he gives you space, but always stays close enough that you know he’s still here.

he won’t bring it up unless you do, but if you do, he listens carefully, nods, and says, “i deserve that. but please don’t shut me out forever.” he’s not good with grand emotional speeches, but his consistency and soft care say everything you need to hear; he’s not going anywhere.

su ⁑ noo

sunoo is devastated the moment he notices your change in behavior. he’s so emotionally attuned, especially to you, that even the slightest shift in your energy feels like a storm. he’d thought his heartfelt apology fixed things, but now that you're quieter, less bubbly, it eats at him.

he becomes a mix of guilt and nervous affection: constantly checking your expression, doing little things to make you smile, and then overthinking when you don’t react the way you used to. “do you still love me?”

he’ll ask in the most vulnerable voice, tears shimmering in his eyes. he’s not afraid to cry in front of you if it means being honest. when you finally tell him you feel like you’re walking on eggshells, he pulls you into a tight hug and whispers, “you never have to be scared of me. never again.”

he showers you with reassurance — not just with words, but with gentle gestures, unshakable presence, and a love that glows even through your silence. he gives you time, but never lets you feel alone.

your distance hurts him, yes, but not nearly as much as the idea of losing you. so he waits; with open arms, and an open heart.

jung ⁑ won

jungwon takes it the hardest. not just your distance, but the fact that he knows it’s his fault. as the leader, he’s used to fixing things, taking responsibility. so when he sees you become quieter, more careful around him, his self-blame spirals.

he starts tiptoeing around you, second-guessing everything he says, even overcorrecting with excessive sweetness or long silences. he doesn’t know how to approach it at first: he’s still learning how to navigate deep emotional waters, but eventually, he sits beside you, hands on his knees, and says softly, “i hurt you. and now i see that you’re scared of getting hurt again.”

he doesn’t make excuses, doesn’t push you to move on. instead, he says, “i’ll earn your trust back. one day at a time.” from that point on, he becomes the most emotionally available you’ve ever seen him — open, gentle, asking about your comfort constantly.

he doesn’t just want your forgiveness; he wants to rebuild everything from the ground up. every time you hesitate, he slows down. every time you look away, he speaks your name so softly it brings tears to your eyes.

jungwon loves deeply — and now, he’ll prove it in a million little ways until you feel safe again.

ni ⁑ ki

niki’s not the best with emotional vulnerability, especially when he feels guilty. at first, he doesn’t know how to handle your distance. it frustrates him — not at you, but at himself.

he knows he messed up by saying something so reckless in the heat of a fight. his apology was sincere, but now your coldness stings more than he expected. he wants things to go back to normal, but when you flinch away from his touch or smile without warmth, it finally clicks.

“you’re scared i meant it, aren’t you?” he says one day, voice low, eyes unreadable. when you don’t answer, he takes a shaky breath. “i didn’t. i swear, y/n.” niki might be young, but he’s emotionally perceptive, especially when it comes to you.

he starts being more careful; checking in, holding back from teasing too much, just sitting beside you in silence when you’re not ready to talk. he starts expressing himself in actions more than words: cooking something for you, bringing you small gifts, standing outside your door with headphones so you’ll know he’s there even when you don’t want company.

he doesn’t demand closeness. he patiently waits for you to reach for him again.

notes: here’s the final part! i think it ended on a much more positive note than my angsty self would like xp but i hope you guys like it anyway! give a like if you enjoyed <3 and requests are open!

[cheftsunoda]

can you write a sainz sister who is also a retired driver born around 1988 and she is lewis’s ex and they breakup due to his commitment phobia and later on she got married to someone else and then divorced and years later, she and lewis give a second chance to their love. write angst.

thank you and hope you are doing well. even though have never meet you but can feel that you are a very kind and sweet person. lots of love to you ❤️

reconnected — lh44

smau + written blurbs

lewis hamilton x !ex reader

you hadn’t stepped foot in a formula 1 paddock in nearly a decade.

not since you hung up your helmet. not since you walked away from the only world that had ever felt like home—and from the man you once believed you’d spend forever with. but when carlos called and all but demanded you show up to the spanish grand prix, just to make sure you weren’t crumbling post-divorce, how could you possibly say no?

you didn’t expect the cameras to swarm. you didn’t expect the sudden flood of old memories, or how the air would still smell like tire smoke and adrenaline and heartbreak. and you definitely didn’t expect to lock eyes with lewis hamilton across the garage, as if no time had passed at all.

you’ve both changed—older, wiser, a little more careful. but the tightness in your chest gives you away. some love stories don’t stay buried forever. and maybe… just maybe… yours is ready for a second chance.

fc : jessica alba, nicole and various pinterest ladies

(a/n) : hi love!! this idea was sooooo good, i got started on it as soon as i saw it. im doing pretty well and i hope you are too!!! your words are so very kind and i am sending you all of the love in the world:))))

—

flashback (2015)

ynsainz

liked by lewishamilton, carlossainz55, danielricciardo and 1,450,000 others.

ynsainz : 🏁🖤

tagged : lewishamilton and carlossainz55

—

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recent comments

username00 : lando. why are you back lurking???? you were a CHILD

↳ lando : I shipped them so hard and I miss them. HUSH. WHY ARE YOU LURKING????

↳ username00 : im a fangirl, ITS MY JOB.

↳ lando : well i am a YN STAN so its my job too.

↳ username00 : have you talked to her since the divorce??? how is she??

↳ lando : have i talked to her??? im codependent on both sainz siblings. i talk to her everyday girl

liked by username00

username55 : who is back after the divorce????? MEEEEEE & Lando evidently.

username77 : this relationship raised a generation. i’m not joking.

older comments

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↳ ynsainz : never little one

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↳ ynsainz : you have my heart forever 🤍

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↳ username00 : oh my heart hurts

nicorosberg : can you dump lewis so I can have a chance at a championship please?

—

flashback

monaco ; late 2014

The sunlight had just started to spill in through the floor-to-ceiling windows when you stirred, face buried in the pillow, a heavy arm lazily thrown across your waist.

You knew it was Lewis before you even opened your eyes. He always clung in his sleep, even when he’d pretend to be all cool and casual about it while awake. You’d learned early on that his love language was closeness—the kind he didn’t even have to speak. Just curled fingers in your shirt at night, his feet brushing against yours under the duvet, the slow and sleepy way he’d tug you back into him if you moved too far.

“Mm, baby,” he murmured, voice gravelly, still half-asleep. “Don’t get up yet.”

“I’m not,” you whispered, shifting to rest your head on his chest. “Not unless Roscoe starts whining.”

As if on cue, a soft snort came from the foot of the bed. You looked down to see Coco already sitting upright, ears perked, her wrinkled face staring at you expectantly while Roscoe snored peacefully beside her, unaware.

You laughed, quietly, and Lewis cracked one eye open.

“Your daughter’s got places to be.”

“She probably just wants to steal your breakfast again,” he said, smiling as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Eventually, you dragged yourselves out of bed and padded into the kitchen, barefoot and wrapped in oversized hoodies—his on you, yours on him. You made coffee while Lewis fried eggs, Roscoe snuffling around your feet and Coco waiting patiently by the fridge, knowing exactly where the treats were.

“She’s smarter than me,” Lewis muttered, glancing down at her. “You see that look? She’s got a plan.”

“She’s just ambitious. She gets it from her father.”

He turned toward you with that easy grin—the one that always made your chest feel warm, even years later. “So what do they get from you?”

You shrugged. “My patience. Obviously. And my good skin.”

You ended up having breakfast on the balcony, overlooking the quiet Monaco harbor. No press. No cameras. No noise.

Just the sound of seagulls, the smell of sea air, and the two of you wrapped in blankets, with sleepy dogs sprawled across your feet. Lewis leaned his head on your shoulder while you scrolled through the photos on your phone—snaps from races, blurry selfies, one of Roscoe in sunglasses.

He looked over and pointed at a photo of you in your race suit, grinning with your helmet in hand.

“I still think you’re the coolest person I’ve ever met.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Even cooler than Roscoe in sunglasses?”

“Barely,” he said, laughing. “But yeah. You are.”

Later, he made you both smoothies and put on a Marvin Gaye vinyl while you danced around the kitchen with Coco in your arms and Roscoe trying to climb your legs. He grabbed your hand at some point, pulled you in close, and swayed with you like there was nowhere else in the world to be.

And honestly?

There wasn’t.

Not that day.

—

01/07/2015

You’d told everyone you were going to keep it lowkey this year. No big party. No celebrity guest list. No wild night in the city.

He’d just turned thirty—an age that felt too surreal to him, too heavy in meaning—and you knew what he really needed was something slower. Quieter. Something that felt like home.

So you rented a secluded cabin in the Swiss Alps, just the two of you and the dogs, the kind of place where the snow muffled every sound and time felt like it paused. You flew in two days early to set everything up: his favorite wine already uncorked, candles in every room, a Polaroid camera on the table, and a string of printed photos from every year you’d been together, clipped up across the windows.

The night before his birthday, you made pasta in the tiny kitchen and danced to Sade in wool socks while Roscoe and Coco tried to chew your slippers. You lit a fire and curled up with him under a blanket, his head in your lap, your fingers lazily carding through his curls while he talked about the next season, about his goals, about how weird it felt to be thirty.

“Feels like I just blinked,” he said, voice low. “And now I’m… here.”

“Here’s pretty good,” you whispered.

When the clock struck midnight, you kissed his temple and whispered, “Happy birthday, baby.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked up at you, eyes a little glassy, and tugged you down for a kiss. It wasn’t rushed or heated—just soft and lingering, like he wanted to memorize it.

“Thank you for still being here,” he said against your lips.

You blinked. “Where else would I be?”

He sat up, held your face in his hands, and whispered, “You’ve been with me through every high and every low. Since before Roscoe. Since before Mercedes. When I was still figuring myself out, and I didn’t always get it right.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “And I’ll still be here, thirty years from now.”

The morning of his birthday, you woke up early and made pancakes—burned the first batch, naturally. He wandered into the kitchen in one of your hoodies, sleepy and smiling, hair a mess, Roscoe waddling behind him like a bodyguard.

There were presents, of course—vintage records, a framed photo of him and Roscoe from his first championship, and a leather-bound journal engraved with “write it all down—you’ll want to remember.” But the one that made him go quiet was the small box at the bottom of the stack.

Inside was a delicate silver chain with a tiny charm, decorated with your initials, you had custom made, nothing flashy, just something that sat close to the skin.

“I know you don’t wear much jewelry,” you said softly, “but I thought—maybe you could keep me close, even when we’re not in the same place.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just pulled you into his arms and held you so tightly it knocked the breath out of you.

“I’ve never loved anyone like this,” he said into your neck. “And I don’t think I ever will.”

You spent the rest of the day curled up in bed, watching the snow fall, Roscoe and Coco wedged between you. You barely touched your phones. You lit candles and played records and took blurry Polaroids of each other laughing and holding coffee mugs and slow dancing in the middle of the living room in your pajamas.

It was nothing extravagant.

But it was everything.

—

mid season 2015

It had been a quiet evening.

You were in Paris for a few days between races—both of you grateful for the rare pause in your schedules. Lewis had made dinner reservations, but you’d ended up skipping them, ordering room service instead. He wore sweats and no shirt, hair tied up, one leg lazily thrown over yours as the two of you shared a bowl of fruit in bed while an old movie played in the background.

It should’ve been perfect.

And in a way, it was. Until the moment you asked.

You weren’t trying to ruin anything. It wasn’t a test. You were just… wondering. Hoping.

“I was talking to a friend the other day,” you said softly, twirling a strawberry by its stem. “She and her fiancé are house hunting. In Spain.”

Lewis hummed in acknowledgment, eyes still on the screen.

“And it just made me think about… the future. Like—have you ever thought about marriage? Or kids?”

His body went still. Barely. But you noticed.

You didn’t look at him right away. You just kept picking at the fruit, trying to pretend your heart wasn’t suddenly in your throat.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Yeah, I mean… I think about it sometimes. I guess. Not right now, though.”

You nodded, even though he wasn’t saying what you needed to hear.

He leaned back against the pillows, arm resting behind his head. “I just feel like there’s still so much I want to do. With racing. With life. I don’t know if I’d be good at all that domestic stuff. Settling down, being someone’s husband, dad…”

You laughed, but it came out thin. “You’re great with Roscoe.”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah, but Roscoe doesn’t need me to give up half my life.”

And there it was.

You let the silence hang for a moment too long.

“I’m not saying we need to figure it out tomorrow,” you said gently. “I just… sometimes I wonder what the point of all this is, if we’re not going anywhere.”

Lewis looked at you then. Really looked.

And he said, quietly, “Isn’t this enough? Right now?”

You wanted to say yes.

You really did.

But something inside you shifted in that moment. Something subtle but irreversible.

Because you suddenly realized that maybe what you wanted wasn’t right now. Maybe it was forever. A house, a wedding, a baby crawling between Roscoe and Coco on a lazy Sunday morning. A partner who wasn’t afraid to want the same.

And maybe… Lewis wasn’t that person. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, even though your chest ached.

You still loved him. You knew he loved you, too.

But love, as you were starting to understand, wasn’t always enough.

—

end of 2015

f1gossipgirls

2,700,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Sources close to the couple confirm that YN Sainz and Lewis Hamilton have officially split after five years together. The pair—who began dating in 2010—were known for keeping their relationship mostly private, but fans have followed their quiet love story for years. From paddock walks and matching bulldogs to late-night post-race snaps and birthday tributes, they were one of the most iconic duos the sport had seen in years. Rumors of tension began circulating over the summer, with fans noting fewer public appearances together and cryptic captions on YN’s posts. Reps for both parties declined to comment, but a close friend told us:

“They still have a lot of love for each other, but they’re in different places in life. It just wasn’t aligning anymore.”

YN has reportedly been spending time with family in Madrid, while Lewis is said to be focusing fully on the final stretch of the season. We’re sending nothing but love to both sides—we know the Roscoe x Coco joint custody situation will be the real heartbreak here. 🐾💔

—

user has limited comments on this post.

danielricciardo : love is dead ok

top liked comment

username00 : i’m gonna need a week off work to recover from this

username17 : well nico might have a chance now

username55 : roscoe and coco better be okay, someone check on them immediately

username8 : i feel like this is gonna hit carlos more than anyone else tbh 💀

username11 : the grid won’t ever have another couple like them. you just had to be there.

username18 : I KNEW when she archived their 2014 Valentine’s post

—

end of 2015

You knew before you said it. Before you even opened your mouth.

You knew by the way your chest ached every time you looked at him lately. You knew by the way his eyes never quite met yours when you brought up next year. You knew by the way you felt lonelier beside him than you did when he was away.

So when he came home late—sweat still clinging to his collar from training, Roscoe at his heels, smile soft and familiar—you almost didn’t say it. Almost folded. Almost kissed him like nothing was wrong.

But then he wrapped his arms around your waist, pressed a kiss to your cheek, and murmured, “You good, baby?”

And that’s what did it. That’s what shattered the dam.

You pulled away gently, hands resting on his chest.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Lewis blinked. “What?”

You stepped back, your breath catching. “Us.”

He stared at you, brows furrowed, like the words didn’t compute. Like you hadn’t already been drifting apart for months. Like he hadn’t dodged every conversation about the future with that careful, evasive smile.

You tried to explain, voice barely steady. “I’ve spent the last five years loving you with everything I had. I gave you my heart, my time, my patience. I showed up. Even when it was hard, even when I was exhausted. I showed up.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “You’ve always been there for me.”

“And I kept waiting,” you continued, voice cracking. “Waiting for you to meet me halfway. To talk about a house. A future. Maybe kids. Hell, even just the next five years. But every time I asked, you pulled back.”

He ran a hand over his face, tension bleeding into his jaw. “It’s not that I don’t love you.”

“I know you love me,” you said. “That’s never been the problem.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and you saw it in his eyes: the panic, the guilt, the ache. He stepped toward you like he was going to say something, fix it somehow, but you shook your head.

“I can’t keep making myself smaller just to fit into the life you want. I’m tired of waiting for you to choose me in the way I need to be chosen.”

Silence fell between you. Roscoe whimpered softly from the corner, and Lewis crouched down to pet him—anything to avoid the finality settling in the air.

“I thought we had more time,” he finally said.

You swallowed hard. “We’ve had five years.”

His eyes filled, but he blinked it back. “What if I’m not ready now, but I will be? What if I just… need more time?”

You stepped forward, pressed your palm to his cheek.

“I believe you,” you whispered. “I really do. But I can’t build my life on maybe.”

Lewis closed his eyes, leaned into your hand like it was the last time he’d feel it.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered.

“I know,” you said, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I don’t want to lose you either. But I want more. And I deserve someone who wants that with me.”

You kissed him once, gently, like a goodbye.

And then you turned, picked up your overnight bag—the one you’d packed quietly over the past few days—and walked toward the door.

You didn’t look back until your hand was on the handle.

He was still standing there, frozen in the middle of the living room, Roscoe sitting beside him like he knew something had shifted forever.

“I’ll always love you, Lewis,” you said softly. “But I have to start loving myself more.”

And with that, you left.

Not because you didn’t love him.

But because you did.

Too much to keep breaking your own heart waiting for him to be ready.

—

mid 2016

The podium ceremony is over. The champagne has dried, your fireproofs cling to your skin from the heat, and the Italian air smells like speed and summer and everything you used to love about this sport. You should be elated—another win, your third in a row, your sixth of the season. The championship fight is tighter than ever, and you’re right in it.

But you’re not smiling when you step into the back hallway of the paddock, only slowing when you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“Still making it look easy,” Lewis says.

You turn.

He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his cap pulled low, still in his Mercedes race suit. He’s not smiling either. But there’s that glimmer in his eyes—you remember it well. The look he used to give you across hotel rooms and pit walls. The one that always said, you’re the only person I want to beat, and the only one I’d lose to gladly.

You give him a small, controlled smile. “Someone’s got to give the fans a show.”

He chuckles softly. “You’re giving ‘em more than that. You’re flying this year.”

You shrug, keeping your arms wrapped around yourself. “Trying.”

A pause. The kind that stretches just slightly too long. Neither of you moves.

Then, quieter: “Congratulations. Really. I mean that.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

It should be easy, polite, brief. A conversation like any other between two top drivers. But the silence after crackles with something left unsaid.

You glance at him again—his eyes are tired. He’s been fighting Nico tooth and nail all year. And you know him well enough to recognize that something’s weighing heavier than usual tonight. You wonder if it’s the race. Or if it’s seeing you lift another trophy without him beside you.

He shifts, straightening off the wall. “I, uh… saw your dad in the garage earlier.”

You nod again, softer this time. “He asks about you sometimes.”

Lewis smiles, almost sadly. “Tell him I say hi.”

“I will.”

Another pause. Another almost.

And then, like nothing’s wrong, like nothing’s ever changed, he nods once and turns to go.

“Hey, Lewis,” you call out.

He stops. Looks back.

You swallow. “You drove well today.”

A flicker of something—pain, maybe, or gratitude—passes over his face.

“You too,” he says.

And then he walks away.

You don’t move for a while.

The hallway feels quieter than it should.

—

end of 2016

f1gossipgirls

5,500,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : The champ. The legend. The heartbreak we’re all still not over. In a plot twist straight out of a Hollywood script, YN Sainz has officially retired from Formula 1 after clinching the 2016 World Drivers’ Championship—edging out Lewis Hamilton in a finale that felt more like poetry than sport. After years of rewriting the rules and becoming a motorsport icon in her own right, she walked away with a mic drop: “I have nothing left to prove. I did what I came here to do.”

Sources say Lewis was one of the first to congratulate her behind closed doors. No cameras. No press. Just history, heartbreak, and everything that could’ve been. One era ends. Another will never forget her.

—

end of 2016

The garage is still humming with celebration — engineers high-fiving, champagne sprayed across toolboxes, your team principal wiping tears behind sunglasses. You’re at the edge of it all, perched on the steps of your motorhome, hands clasped between your knees, still in your race suit but already half in another world.

You’ve said the words quietly to your team. No press release yet. No statement. Just a private truth shared in the back of the garage: This is it. I’m done. I’m going out on top.

It feels peaceful. It feels right.

And then you hear your name.

“YN.”

You look up.

Lewis stands a few feet away, still in his race suit, his gloves off, hair damp from the helmet. There’s sweat at his temple and something unreadable in his eyes. Everyone else is too caught up in the post-race madness to notice this moment. It’s like the paddock makes space for the two of you.

You nod slightly. “Lewis.”

He walks toward you. Slowly. Like he’s unsure what he’ll say until the words come out.

“I heard,” he says quietly.

You raise a brow. “That I won the championship?”

He smiles, but it’s hollow. “No. I mean—yes, that too. Congrats. You were incredible today. All year.”

You don’t reply, just study him. The way he looks like he’s holding something back. You already know what he’s going to say.

“You’re really retiring?”

You exhale softly. “Yeah.”

He looks away for a moment, jaw tight, then back at you. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrug, keeping your voice even. “It wasn’t your news to carry.”

“Bullshit,” he mutters under his breath. “I was yours. Once.”

The words hang heavy in the air. They taste like the past. Like Monaco mornings and hotel beds and silent car rides when you both knew love wasn’t going to be enough.

“I left,” you say, not unkindly. “And I kept going. I had to.”

“I know.” He runs a hand over his face. “I just… I thought I had more time. To… I don’t know. Fix things.”

You give him a small smile. “We were never broken. We were just moving in different directions.”

He crouches slightly in front of you now, close enough that you can see the shimmer in his eyes.

“I loved you,” he says.

You don’t look away. “I know.”

A long pause.

“I still do.”

You feel your chest tighten. But you don’t let it show. Not now. Not today.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper. “And I’ll always want the best for you.”

Lewis nods, but he looks like a man who’s only just realized what he’s lost.

“You’ll be missed,” he says, standing again.

You rise to your feet, steady. “You’ll be okay.”

He hesitates. “Will you?”

You smile, and this time, it reaches your eyes. “I already am.”

Then you step past him, toward your team, your future, your peace.

And Lewis? He doesn’t stop you this time.

—

end of 2018

f1gossipgirls

4,500,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Former F1 World Champion and living legend YN Sainz tied the knot this weekend in a private but star-studded ceremony in the Spanish countryside after two years with billionaire investor Lorenzo Valdés.

In a full-circle moment that had everyone misty-eyed, she was walked down the aisle by both her father and Carlos Sainz Jr., who was seen wiping away tears (same, tbh). Guests included royalty, top athletes, Hollywood A-listers, and more than a few familiar faces from the paddock. Word is, no cameras were allowed inside the ceremony — but those who were there say she wore a custom Dior gown, Lorenzo cried the entire time, and the vows were “so intimate it felt like a dream.”

No sign of a certain seven-time World Champion 👀 but you know the timeline is about to explode anyway…Anyway. She’s a wife now. And still a legend.

—

december 29, 2018

The celebration is quiet now.

The music has faded to a low hum, guests are lingering with wine in hand, and Lorenzo is somewhere across the terrace, laughing with your brother. The night smells like jasmine and champagne and the warmth of old stone walls. Everything is perfect.

You step away for just a moment, standing beneath a hanging light in your gown, barefoot now, phone in hand.

One unread message.

Lewis.

Your chest tightens before your thumb even hovers over it. You already know it’s not meant to be replied to. He knows that, too.

You open it anyway.

I know today’s not about me. It never was. But I wanted to say congratulations. You look happy. You deserve that. Always have. I hope he knows what he has. Take care of your heart. It’s one of the best I’ve ever known.

You stare at the screen for a long time. The world softens around the edges.

You don’t cry. You don’t smile. You just… feel it. Quietly.

Then you lock the phone and slip it back into your clutch.

And when you turn to walk back to your new husband, your brother, your family—you carry Lewis’s words with you, like a small scar tucked beneath satin and lace. Still there. Still yours. But no longer open.

—

present day

f1gossipgirls

liked by lando and 5,200,000 others.

f1gossipgirls : Another love story ends… and not quietly. After nearly six years of marriage, YN Sainz-Valdés and investor mogul Lorenzo Valdés have officially filed for divorce — with court documents confirming the separation was finalized earlier this week in Monaco. Sources close to the former F1 champion say the split had been “brewing for a while,” but things exploded in recent months after whispers of Lorenzo’s alleged infidelity with a much younger tech entrepreneur started circling private circles in London and Madrid. Neither party has publicly commented, but fans noticed YN deleted all photos of Lorenzo from her profile, including their wedding anniversary post from last year. (And yes, the ring is very much gone.)

Carlos Sainz was reportedly a “constant support” during the breakdown of the marriage — spotted with her several times in recent weeks, including an emotional lunch in Madrid earlier this month. And while no one wants to say it out loud… people haven’t stopped wondering what a certain seven time world champion might be thinking right now.

—

user has limited comments on this post.

username000 : sources say lorenzo’s side piece tried to soft launch a week ago and got DRAGGED. deservessss

username55 : he went for someone younger even though his wife LITERALLY MOGS HIM AND IS A WORLD CHAMPION. hm

username00 : she is so stunning. why do men even exist?

username75 : divorced, rich, iconic, and still the only person who ever beat lewis in his prime. mother is mothering.

username17 : carlos has been REAL quiet on socials lately. he’s either plotting revenge or helping her move out.

username88 : we really watched the most powerful woman in motorsport waste six years on a glorified finance bro.

—

It’s late. Almost midnight. The Sainz family home in Madrid is quiet, except for the soft ticking of the old hallway clock and the occasional hum of a passing car outside the window. You’re curled up on the living room couch, still in jeans and a sweater you’ve barely taken off in three days. There’s an untouched glass of wine on the coffee table. Your phone is upside down. Notifications off. Headlines muted.

The divorce paperwork is in your bag. Finalized. Stamped. Done. You stare blankly at the TV, but it’s not on. It hasn’t been all evening. Carlos walks in slowly, drying his hair with a towel after his shower. He’s in sweatpants and an old Toro Rosso t-shirt — the one you bought him before his first season in F1. His expression softens when he sees you, still sitting exactly where he left you hours ago.

“Did you eat?” he asks gently.

You shake your head without looking at him.

He disappears into the kitchen, and you hear the familiar clinking of plates and a microwave door opening. When he comes back, he’s holding a small plate of tortilla and grilled vegetables. He sets it down beside you and doesn’t say anything when you still don’t move.

Finally, you whisper, “I feel stupid.”

Carlos lowers himself to the floor, sitting at your feet. “You’re not.”

You scoff bitterly. “I stayed too long. Ignored every gut feeling. Let him make me feel like I was the problem. Even when the truth was staring me in the face.”

Carlos leans his head back against the couch, looking up at you. “You were in love. That doesn’t make you stupid. That makes you human.”

You finally look at him. Your eyes are tired. “He made me feel small, Carlitos.”

He flinches. You never call him that when you're sad. Only when something's broken.

“I know,” he says softly. “And I hate that. I hate that I didn’t see it sooner. That I didn’t protect you better.”

You reach down, brushing his hair back off his forehead — just like you used to do when he was a kid and had nightmares before karting races.

“You’re not supposed to protect me. I’m the big sister.”

“Doesn’t matter.” His voice is quiet now, heavy. “You were my hero growing up. Still are. And he—he doesn’t get to take any part of you with him.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard. He stands up slowly and takes your hand.

“You’re coming with me to Barcelona,” he says firmly.

You blink. “Carlos—”

“No.” He squeezes your hand. “You need air. You need to be reminded who the hell you are. You haven’t been to a Grand Prix since… since you gave it all up for him.”

Your mouth opens, but he beats you to it.

“I already called the team. You’re coming with me. You’ll be in my garage, in your goddamn sunglasses being a badass and terrifying engineers. Just like old times.”

You laugh. It’s small. But it’s real.

“And if you cry,” he adds with a smile, “I’ll pretend it’s hay fever. Like always.”

You finally exhale, leaning your head on his shoulder. “What if people talk?”

“Let them,” he says. “Let them remember.”

He pauses. Then, quieter:

“Let him remember.”

You close your eyes. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe you might be okay.

—

f1gossipgirls

7,800,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : SHE. IS. BACK. 😭 Former World Champion and newly single certified legend YN Sainz made her first paddock appearance in years at today’s Spanish GP — and let’s just say… nobody was ready. Wearing custom Ferragamo, dark sunglasses, and that signature “don’t mess with me” walk, she strutted into the paddock like she hadn’t just lived through a very public, very messy divorce… and looked better than ever doing it. Word is she’s there supporting Carlos, but let’s be honest — she owned the paddock the second she stepped out of the car. Mechanics froze. Engineers stammered. Cameras sprinted. And we’re pretty sure three drivers walked into walls (one of them might’ve been Lando).

AND YES — Lewis saw her. And no, we’re not okay. Welcome back to the grid, Queen. We missed you more than you know.

—

The paddock hushes — just for a second. Just long enough to make it obvious. You step out of the black SUV in tailored, black Ferragamo trousers, a crisp black tank, oversized sunglasses, and the quiet confidence of someone who’s endured the fire and emerged with diamonds in her blood. Your hair is swept back, your lips painted soft rose, and your heels click like punctuation on concrete.

Carlos is already waiting by the entrance to the Williams hospitality, dressed in blue, arms crossed, sunglasses on. But the second he sees you, he grins — wide, proud, no nerves.

“You look like trouble,” he says, offering you his arm.

“Good,” you reply, sliding your hand through. “That’s exactly what I’m here to be.”

Across the paddock, heads are turning — media, mechanics, even a few drivers who were born after your first podium. You ignore the cameras. It’s easier now. You’re no longer here to prove anything. You’ve already done that. You’re just here to be seen. And boy, are you being seen.

“Is that—” “Holy shit, that’s her—” “She looks like she never left—”

And then— “OH NOPE. NOPE. I NEED A SECOND.”

Lando Norris appears from around a corner, sunglasses falling halfway down his nose, nearly knocking over a poor McLaren intern holding coffee.

Carlos mutters, “Here we go,” under his breath.

Lando stops in front of you, blinking. “I mean. Wow. Sorry. You just—you look like you're about to slap a man and walk away with his car keys and his soul.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Isn’t it?” he says, still staring. “I should go. I’m gonna go. Good to see you. Welcome back. I love you. Wait, what—”

Carlos grabs him by the shoulder and gently shoves him back toward the McLaren motorhome. “And that’s enough from you.”

You laugh — truly laugh — for the first time in weeks. Then, just as you and Carlos begin walking again, a familiar voice cuts through the hum.

“Well, well. Look who’s breaking the internet.”

You turn. Jenson Button stands near the Sky Sports setup, dressed in a pale blue linen shirt and sunglasses. Next to him, Nico Rosberg is shaking his head with a smile and raising a water bottle in mock salute.

“Thought the paddock felt colder without you,” Jenson says, walking over to hug you. “Nice of you to bring the sun back.”

“You lot just missed my dramatic exit,” you smirk, hugging him back.

“Missed?” Nico grins. “It was all they talked about on air for two weeks. Half the grid thought you’d come back in 2019 just to spite them.”

You laugh again, warmer this time. “Tempting.”

Carlos watches quietly, a hand resting gently on your back as you chat. He knows this is healing. The recognition. The warmth. The respect that’s still there — even after all this time, all the change, all the heartbreak. After a while, he leans down and whispers in your ear.

“You ready to keep walking?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

And as you and Carlos move deeper into the paddock, the noise returns — the clatter of tyres, the clinking of tools, the hum of energy. But for a moment, the paddock had stopped for you. And in your silence, you’d reminded them why they ever cared in the first place.

—

The motorhome is quieter than expected. Press hours are over. Mechanics are back in the garage. Carlos is still in meetings. And for a moment, you’re alone in the hallway, walking slowly, trailing your fingers along the dark wood paneling of the familiar red-and-black walls. You’re about to turn the corner when a low voice stops you in your tracks.

“Wasn’t sure I’d see you here.”

You freeze. Then you turn. Lewis stands a few feet away, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting — or maybe like he needed a second to build the courage. He’s in his race suit, half unzipped and tied around his waist, the black fireproofs tight against his chest and arms. The red of Ferrari suits him in a way that makes your throat tighten. It shouldn’t be surprising — but somehow, it is. He still carries that gravity. That calm. That heartbreak you remember too well.

“Did Carlos tell you?” you ask, your voice steady, guarded.

He shakes his head. “No. I saw you on the screens. Coming in with him this morning.”

You look down briefly, your fingers grazing your bracelet. “Right. Gossip girl Lando probably had a field day.”

Lewis smiles faintly. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. He watches you for a moment too long. Not as a fan would. Not even like a friend. But like someone remembering the exact curve of your face. Like someone who still dreams of you and wakes up alone.

“Are you okay?” he finally asks, voice lower now. Raw.

You meet his gaze. “I will be.”

He nods once. But he doesn’t move. You can see the hesitation in his posture, the way his hands flex slightly like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he has the right anymore.

“You look—” he pauses, laughs quietly under his breath, “—like yourself again.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in two years.”

Another pause.

“Does it feel strange?” he asks. “Being back?”

You tilt your head slightly. “Yes. And no. It feels like I never left. But I’m not who I was when I walked away.”

He nods. “Neither am I.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him. For a second, it feels like you're back in those quiet hotel rooms in Monaco. Like the years didn’t happen. Like you hadn’t married someone else. Like he hadn’t let you go.

“I saw the news,” he says finally. “About the divorce.”

Of course he did.

You give him a tight smile. “Everyone did.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Truly.”

You nod. But you can feel the dam starting to crack, just beneath your skin.

“I thought I loved him,” you whisper. “I really did.”

Lewis doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t speak.

“I tried so hard to build a life outside of this. Outside of… you.” You shake your head. “And I thought I had it. The house, the marriage, the safe choice. I thought it was enough.”

His voice is barely audible when he speaks. “And was it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. You look at him, really look at him — at the man you once built your future around in your head, the man who broke your heart out of fear, the man who still feels like unfinished business even after all this time.

“Why didn’t you ever call?” you ask. The question slips out before you can stop it.

Lewis blinks. “After the wedding?”

You nod.

He exhales slowly, something like shame brushing over his features. “Because I thought I had to let you go. I thought that’s what you needed.”

You feel the tears sting your eyes, but you blink them back. “I hated you for that.”

“I hated myself for it,” he says, without hesitation.

Silence falls between you. Not heavy. Not tense. Just… full. Then he steps forward. Not too close. But close enough that you can smell his cologne — soft, familiar, the same one he wore the last time you kissed him.

“Can I ask you something?” he says quietly.

You nod.

“Are you happy?”

You want to say yes. You want to say I’m getting there. But your voice breaks when you whisper, “I don’t know yet.”

Lewis looks at you like he wants to take every shard of your heartbreak and carry it himself.

Then he whispers, “Maybe you don’t have to figure it out alone.”

You inhale sharply. Your heart stutters. The words sit between you like an open door. And for the first time in years, you don’t feel afraid to walk through it.

—

f1gossipgirls

liked by lando, danielricciardo and 8,000,000 others.

f1gossipgirls : World Champion exes Lewis Hamilton and YN Sainz seen having a very private dinner in a tucked-away corner of a restaurant last night. No press. No entourage. Just two glasses of wine, one shared dessert, and the kind of eye contact you don’t have with just anyone. Are we screaming? Yes. Are we coping? Not at all.

—

user has limited comments on this post.

username000 : daniel wtf r u doing here?

↳ danielricciardo : lando tagged me and i got excited my bad

↳ username000 : lando again? really

↳ lando : I TOLD YOU ALL. I AM A FULL TIME YN STAN. I AM AN F1 DRIVER SECOND.

username00 : carlos when he sees this post: 🧍🏻‍♂️🧍🏻‍♂️🧍🏻‍♂️

username10 : let them have their second act. we’ve matured. we can handle it. (cue hysterical crying)

—

The restaurant is quiet. Not empty, but discreet — the kind of place where silence is respected, and no one dares to stare too long. The lighting is soft and golden, casting a low glow over the white tablecloth and untouched wine glasses.

You sit across from him, nerves disguised by steady hands and polite smiles. Lewis looks just the same — older, wiser, maybe a little more tired around the eyes — but still him. Still the man who knew your heartbeat by feel, not sound.

The waiter disappears after dropping the menus. Neither of you have opened them.

“I almost didn’t text you,” he says quietly.

You glance up, lifting a brow. “But you did.”

“I didn’t expect you to say yes.”

You let out a soft exhale, not quite a laugh. “I almost didn’t.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then your fingers trace the rim of your glass. “It’s been a long time.”

He nods. “Too long.”

You study him. He’s dressed down, no jewelry tonight, save for the silver cross he’s always worn. The one that used to tangle in your sheets. His eyes are gentle, but there’s something beneath them — that old ache neither of you ever dared name.

“When I saw you in Spain,” he says eventually. “You looked… strong.”

“I didn’t feel it,” you admit.

“I figured.” He hesitates. “You smiled for the cameras. But it wasn’t the one I know.”

You blink. Something in your chest stirs painfully. “You still know my smiles?”

“I never forgot them.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t. He lets the silence linger, as if he understands that there are things you both need to feel in the space between words.

“I meant what I said in that message,” he murmurs. “On your wedding day.”

“I know.” You swallow. “I read it a hundred times.”

“Did he treat you well?”

You’re quiet.

“That’s my answer,” Lewis says gently.

You meet his gaze then, really meet it — and it’s like 2015 again, like the finish line hasn’t been crossed, like the years haven’t passed and neither of you ever left that moment where love lived and time hadn’t touched it yet.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he says, voice low. “Even when I didn’t want to. Even when I told myself I had to.”

You shift, the emotion catching in your throat. “It was easier to pretend we were just drivers after that.”

“But we weren’t. We never were.”

You both fall quiet again. Then he reaches across the table, slow and careful, like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed — and places his hand over yours. It’s warm. Familiar. Earth and gravity.

“Do you hate me?” he asks softly.

Your chest tightens. “No,” you whisper. “I loved you. That’s what hurt.”

His fingers tighten around yours just a little.

“I should’ve been braver,” he admits. “I should’ve given you the future you wanted.”

“You weren’t ready.”

“I still lost you.”

Your lips part, but there’s nothing to say that won’t split you wide open. So instead, you hold his hand tighter. The waiter eventually returns, and you both pretend to look at the menu. But no one brings up the elephant at the table: that even after all these years, with all the time and choices and people in between, you still fall into each other like it’s the easiest thing in the world. When dessert comes, it’s one plate. Shared. Of course it is.

—

The night air is warm, with just enough breeze to carry the salt from the water and the hum of distant engines echoing off the buildings. Monte Carlo at night always felt like a dream — one you never quite woke up from. The marina glitters like a spilled necklace below, yachts gently rocking, their reflections broken across the rippling black sea. You walk side by side, not touching, not quite. But close enough to feel him.

“It still looks the same,” you murmur.

“So do you,” Lewis replies, voice quiet. “You haven’t changed.”

You glance at him. “You have. In a good way.”

He smiles, hands in his pockets. “I’ve learned a lot. About life. About how not to lose the things that matter.”

You stop at the edge of the stone railing overlooking the harbor. The sea glows under the moonlight. Your arms fold loosely over the edge, chin tilted down. He stands beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. Neither of you pull away.

“I used to picture this,” you admit. “Us. Older. Still walking like this.”

Lewis tilts his head toward you. “Did you imagine we’d still be pretending not to want to hold hands?”

You let out a soft breath that’s almost a laugh. “No. I imagined I’d have married you, if I’m honest.”

He closes his eyes. “You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to go back.”

You turn to face him. “You don’t get to go back. But you’re here now.”

“I am.” He takes a breath. “And I’m not going anywhere this time. I mean that.”

You search his face — the tenderness in his expression, the vulnerability in his eyes. It's not the same boy you once loved. He’s a man now. A man who finally knows what he wants and isn’t afraid of it anymore. He hesitates, then gently reaches for your hand. This time, you let him take it. Fingers laced, palms pressed together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You walk in silence for a while, hand in hand, the sound of the sea cradling you both.

When you reach the far end of the harbor, near the private docks, Lewis stops. He looks at you under the lamplight — soft and golden against your skin.

“I don’t want to rush anything,” he says. “But I’d like to see you again. Outside the past. Outside the press. Just… you.”

You nod, voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that too.”

And then he leans forward — not a kiss, not quite. His forehead gently touches yours, and it’s more intimate than anything else he could’ve done.

“Goodnight, love,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes. “Goodnight, Lewis.”

But neither of you let go just yet.

—

The marble floor beneath your heels feels cold, the sharp click of each step slicing through the stillness of the hotel lobby. The world outside has quieted to a whisper — distant waves, murmurs of laughter from late-night bars, the soft hum of city lights.

You push open the door to your suite, your breath catching slightly at the sudden warmth inside. The muted glow of the television flickers across the room, but it’s the presence of someone else that makes your heart skip — Carlos.

He’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, eyes fixed on you, calm but searching. His arms are crossed loosely, a protective barrier and a promise all at once. His brow is knitted, but not in anger — more in worry. It’s the look of a brother who’s seen too much, felt too much, and wants to shoulder your pain if only he could.

“You’re late,” he says softly, voice low but steady. There’s no chastising there — just a quiet observation that holds a thousand questions.

You shrug off your coat slowly, the exhaustion of the evening weighing heavy in your limbs. “I lost track of time,” you say, voice brittle but honest.

He stands, moving closer but careful not to crowd you. His presence is grounding, like an anchor in the swirling sea of your emotions.

Carlos’s gaze never wavers. “I saw you,” he says simply, like a confession, like a reassurance.

Your throat tightens, and you swallow hard, the lump of words and feelings caught between your ribs.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues, stepping even closer now. His hand brushes yours lightly, a silent offering of comfort. “I’m not here to pry or judge. I just want you to know that I’m here. Always.”

A fragile tear slips down your cheek before you can catch it. You blink rapidly, desperate to hold yourself together, but the dam is breaking — the weight of the last two years, the divorce, the loneliness, the unexpected warmth of tonight — it all floods through you.

Carlos doesn’t speak. He just wraps you in a hug — slow, sure, and filled with the kind of strength only a brother can give. His arms hold you steady as if to say: You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever.

You lean into him, finally allowing yourself to release the grief you’ve bottled up for so long. Your tears fall freely onto his shirt, and he murmurs softly, “It’s okay. Let it out.”

You breathe in the familiar scent of him — aftershave, worn leather, something comforting and home — and for the first time in ages, you feel a flicker of peace.

Pulling back just enough to look into his eyes, you whisper, “Thank you… for being here. For not giving up on me.”

He smiles gently, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Never. You’re stronger than you know, but even the strongest need someone to lean on.”

You rest your forehead against his for a heartbeat longer, feeling the solid, unspoken promise in that touch. And in that quiet room, surrounded by shadows and soft light, you let yourself believe that maybe — just maybe — the hardest chapters are finally behind you.

—

several month time skip...

The warm evening air drapes over the city like a soft blanket, the sky painted in hues of lavender and gold as the sun slips behind the horizon. The distant sounds of laughter and music drift up from the streets below, but here on the balcony, it’s just you and Lewis—quiet, tentative, like two old souls slowly finding their way back through the fog.

The fading light catches in your eyes, and you realize how much you’ve missed this—the stillness, the simple presence of someone who once knew you better than anyone else.

Lewis stands beside you, just close enough for comfort but careful not to crowd you. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his trousers, but you can see the tension in his shoulders. He’s been here a thousand times before, but tonight feels different. Fragile.

“I never thought we’d end up here again,” he says softly, voice almost untraceable.

You turn to look at him, searching his face—the lines around his eyes that weren’t there before, the way his mouth twitches like he’s holding back a confession. “Neither did I,” you admit. “After everything.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor for a heartbeat before meeting yours again. “I was scared. Back then. Not just of losing you, but of losing myself without you.”

Your chest tightens, the ache you thought was gone bubbling back up. “I tried to build a life without you. I really did. But every time I thought I was okay, I’d catch myself looking for you—in a crowd, in a whisper, in the silence.”

Lewis steps closer, a breath away, and you feel your heart stutter like it used to in those reckless, beautiful early days. “I thought I could move on too,” he confesses, voice breaking. “But loving you… it never went away. It just got buried under everything else.”

You swallow hard, the vulnerability in his words unlocking a part of you you’ve kept locked away for far too long. “I still love you,” you whisper. “Maybe I never stopped.”

His eyes widen, a mixture of relief and disbelief. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

For a moment, the world narrows until it’s just the two of you, suspended in this fragile space where old wounds ache but hope flickers.

“I’m scared,” you admit, voice trembling. “Scared of what comes next. Scared that this time, we might lose each other for good.”

Lewis reaches out, his fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that sends warmth flooding through you. “Then let’s promise something. No more pretending. No more running.”

You close your eyes against his touch, feeling the weight of years—the heartbreak, the distance, the silent goodbyes—melting away.

“Let’s try again,” he says quietly. “Not for the past. Not for what we lost. But for what we still have.”

You nod, tears spilling down your cheeks—not of sadness, but of relief and a fragile, blossoming hope. As the sun finally dips below the horizon, you lean into Lewis, letting the silence say everything you both have been too afraid to say aloud. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like home.

—

You almost forget what England smells like after the rain—green, earthy, familiar. The countryside rolls out in quiet hills around you, the trees just starting to bloom again, a subtle reminder that life always comes back.

Lewis pulls the car up the gravel drive, his hand reaching to rest gently over yours in your lap. You’ve been here before. So many times, it should feel routine. But this time is different. This time, you’re not just visiting the house—you’re returning to a life you once walked away from.

He glances at you with a soft smile. “You okay?”

You nod, a little breathless. “Yeah. Just… memories.”

The moment the engine cuts off, the silence of the countryside is replaced by a distant thump.

“Wait for it…” Lewis grins, eyes twinkling.

And then you hear it—paws on gravel. The door hasn’t even opened before Roscoe barrels out from around the house, older now, a little slower, with grey threading his fur, but his bark still full of joy.

“Roscoe!” you laugh, barely getting the door open before he’s in your lap, whining and tail wagging so hard it shakes his whole body. “Oh my god, you remember me!”

Lewis chuckles as he watches you sit back on your heels, hands buried in Roscoe’s soft fur. The dog nuzzles into you, letting out a long, contented sigh like he’s been waiting years for this.

“He’s missed you,” Lewis says quietly, a certain awe in his voice. “We both did.”

You look up at him, eyes shining. “It’s like no time passed.”

And then the front door swings open.

“Oh my god, is that our girl?!”

You look up and see Carmen, Lewis’ mum, standing in the doorway with a hand over her heart. Beside her, Anthony has the warmest, most knowing smile on his face.

The moment you step onto the front porch, Carmen pulls you into her arms like she never let go. “You’re home,” she murmurs, kissing your temple. “Finally.”

Anthony hugs you next, steady and comforting. “He’s better when you’re around,” he says quietly into your hair. “He always has been.”

Dinner is easy—filled with laughter and old stories and subtle glances between you and Lewis across the table. Roscoe’s asleep at your feet, his head resting on your slipper, and Carmen keeps refilling your wine glass like she’s afraid you’ll leave again.

Later, as the night quiets down and the fire crackles in the living room, Lewis rests a hand on your knee, brushing his thumb back and forth gently.

“You what we need,” he says, voice low, just for you. “You always have been.”

You lean your head on his shoulder, heart full, heavier and lighter all at once. Because this—this home, this dog, these people—they never stopped being yours. And for the first time in a very, very long time, you let yourself believe in staying.

—

You wake to the sound of rain tapping softly against the window, a grey English sky casting the bedroom in a silver sort of glow. The sheets are warm, the air smells faintly like linen and whatever detergent Carmen still insists on using. For a second, you forget where you are. Then you feel it — the weight of Roscoe curled against your legs, the steady rise and fall of Lewis’ chest under your cheek.

You blink slowly. He’s still asleep, arm slung around you loosely, mouth slightly parted, curls messy against the pillow. There’s something achingly peaceful about him like this. Like the years have melted away and you’re just two kids again, in love and unburdened by all the things that came after.

You don’t move, afraid to break the spell. But Lewis stirs anyway, murmuring something half-asleep before his hand finds yours beneath the blanket and squeezes.

“Morning,” he says, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Morning.” You smile into his skin. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Been awake,” he murmurs, shifting just enough to look at you. “Was hoping if I didn’t move, you’d stay like this a little longer.”

“I would’ve,” you whisper.

He leans in and presses the softest kiss to your forehead — not rushed, not desperate. Just a quiet promise. From the foot of the bed, Roscoe groans dramatically and rolls over, nose pressed into your ankle.

Lewis laughs. “He missed you even more than I did.”

You give him a look. “Impossible.”

It’s the first time you’ve joked like that — the first time something flirty slips out without being heavy, without being weighed down by what-ifs and old heartbreak. You both freeze for a moment, then relax. Because it’s okay. You’re here. Together.

Later, he pads barefoot into the kitchen in grey sweatpants and a hoodie, hair wild, dragging his fingers through it. You’re curled on the couch in one of his old Mercedes shirts, sipping the tea Carmen made before disappearing for a morning walk.

He hands you a mug of coffee, careful not to spill, and sits beside you, thigh pressed to yours, Roscoe jumping up and flopping across both your laps like a bridge between two hearts that never really stopped beating for each other.

Neither of you say it out loud. That this—coffee and rain and Roscoe—feels dangerously close to home. To love again. But maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to. Not yet. Not until you're ready. And in the quiet, wrapped in old love and new warmth, you think...You’re getting there.

—

You walk side by side, boots crunching against the damp trail, the rolling hills around you glowing golden in the soft afternoon light. The clouds have cleared just enough to let the sun through, casting everything in that perfect, fleeting kind of glow — like nature itself is holding its breath.

Roscoe trots ahead of you, occasionally looking back, as if to make sure you're still following. You and Lewis haven’t said much in the past few minutes. But the silence hasn’t felt empty — it’s been full. Full of all the things unsaid, all the memories stirred up by being back here, all the newness of whatever it is you’re growing into.

You stop near a wooden fence that overlooks a valley. The wind plays with your hair as you rest your arms on the rail, letting your eyes trace the curve of the earth. Lewis stands beside you, close enough to feel his presence.

“I used to come here when things got loud,” he says quietly, almost like a confession. “After we broke up... I think I came here every week. Just to breathe.”

You turn to look at him. His eyes are already on you.

“Did you ever hate me?” you ask, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “For walking away?”

He shakes his head, slowly. “No. I hated myself for not being brave enough to give you what you deserved. I thought... if I let you go, you’d find someone who would.”

You exhale shakily. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

Lewis steps closer, his voice low and full of something raw. “I wanted you every single day. I just didn’t know how to hold on to you without destroying everything else.”

You meet his gaze, and it’s like time folds in on itself — you’re back in Monaco, back in a hotel room in Singapore, back in every moment where you almost said what you meant and chose silence instead.

“Things are different now,” you whisper.

“They are.” He pauses. “I’m different. And I think... maybe you are too.”

“I am,” you admit. “I’m tired of pretending I’m not still in love with you.”

The confession hangs in the air between you, trembling and terrifying and true. Lewis’ expression softens in a way you’ve only seen a few times in your life — it’s all hope and heartbreak and something like awe.

He steps even closer. “One more time.”

You laugh, a little tearfully. “I’m still in love with you.”

And then he kisses you. It’s not rushed. It’s not cautious. It’s the kind of kiss that says finally. The kind that burns slow and deep, like coming home to something you’ve dreamed of every night but never thought you’d feel again. His hands cradle your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheek, grounding you in the moment as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

When you finally pull away, your foreheads stay pressed together. You’re both breathless, your heart beating so loud you swear he can hear it.

Lewis smiles softly. “I love you too. I never stopped.”

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of him and the wind and the countryside wrap around you. For the first time in years, your heart doesn’t ache. It blooms.

—

lewishamilton

liked by lando, ynsainz, carlossainz55 and 14,000,000 others.

lewishamilton : never ever stopped loving you.

tagged : ynsainz

—

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roscoelovescoco : my favorites hoomans back togethers 🐾

liked by ynsainz and lewishamilton

charles_leclerc : I smiled like an idiot reading this. Wishing you both so much happiness ❤️

liked by ynsainz and lewishamilton

lando : i just fell and almost cracked my head open after reading this. MY GOATS. the DROUGHT IS OVER.

liked by ynsainz and lewishamilton

georgerussell63 : Okay but that throwback?? I gasped.

liked by ynsainz and lewishamilton

susie_wolff : This made me tear up. So happy for you both ❤️

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carlossainz55 : finally. been waiting eight years for this post.

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ynsainz : would've waited a lifetime for you to come back to me. love you always

liked by lewishamilton

[puck-luck]

ok spam incoming, first up: quinn hughes with a size kink (i know he is the shortest hughes but i’m picturing this as him with like a REALLY tiny gf so maybe the size kink is like a new experience for him and he quickly realizes that he loves it)

warnings: SIZE KINK, unprotected p in v, fingering, munching (over spandex & panties), oral m!receiving, facials. really hitting all the quinn hughes classics here. panties stay ON during sex (pulled to the side) (they also magically disappear sometime between sex and getting in the shower afterward so like... plot hole, but ignore it because i don't want to fix it) (new panty idea: ones that dissolve in water like that video of the raccoon trying to wash his cotton candy) pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader (5'0") wc: 3,540

once again, i didn't follow the request exactly, but i hope y'all can forgive me. this is where the vision went. title from tate mcrae's song/tour. i think you'll find it's very apt.

“Stop walking so fast!” you call after Quinn. You finish fixing the strap of your heel and hustle to catch up to him. Although the walk sign is on at the crosswalk, he stopped and waited for you. How kind. 

The red glow from the stoplight tints Quinn’s face. He grins at you, almost chuckling. “I can’t help it. It’s not my fault your legs are so short, baby.”

You glare at him, slipping your hand into his and squeezing it. “You’re so mean to me.”

Quinn gasps and squeezes your hand in return. “Never,” he teases.

Together, you continue the walk back from Rogers. You and Quinn attended the Tate McRae concert tonight and you, of course, wanted to dress up. You wore one of Quinn’s jerseys over cotton booty shorts, the sweater practically swallowing you with your size difference. 

The outfit is fire, but your shoes are killing you– high heels with long straps that wrap around your calves and cross over each other, crawling up to your knee before you tie them. They’re cute shoes and you never get to wear them, so you thought ‘Why not?’

There are a couple of pros for these shoes: 1. They’re cute, like you said, and 2. Quinn loves them. 

The singular con outweighs the pros: the heels are not comfortable. You were fine on the walk over and full of energy during the opening set, but once you’d been on your feet for an hour, you grew tired. Your heels and the balls of your feet are killing you, a dull pressure disappearing and reappearing with each step you take. 

Before long, Quinn starts to pull away again. He’s wearing his Air Forces, jeans, and a black t-shirt. He’s the picture of comfort, whereas you’re showing out for this show. His distance represents the sacrifice you made for looking good: your ability to keep up with your boyfriend.

Quinn approaches another crosswalk, the signal flashing numbers: 10… 9… 8…

He tries to hurry you, apparently under the impression that you can make it across four lanes in eight seconds, but you halt and refuse to budge. You lean against the streetlight after hitting the button to cross, unlacing your heels.

Quinn balks at you. “What are you doing?” he asks. “You’re not walking home barefoot.”

“Well, I’m not walking home in these shoes,” you respond, kicking off one shoe and moving to the next. 

Quinn opens his mouth to argue, but he’s interrupted by a fan who wants a picture. You were expecting this. That’s why you hung out in the Aquilini suite until most people had cleared out. Quinn appreciates the fans, but he hates when they interrupt his time with you. You’re unbothered by it, even grateful that this fan bought you some time to get this other shoe off.

You loop the straps around each other in a loose knot and throw the shoes over your shoulder, standing flat on the pavement and nearly sighing from the feel of the cool concrete against your aching appendages. You sidle up next to Quinn, the top of your head coming up only to his neck without your tall shoes, and wait patiently for him to send the fan on their way.

“Much better,” you tell Quinn with a subtle beam, bouncing up on your toes to give him a quick peck.

He frowns, despite returning the kiss, and looks down at your feet. “What if you step on something?”

“It’s only another two blocks,” you reply with a wave of your hand, brushing his concern off. “I’ll be okay.”

Quinn’s disapproval deepens. Now he’s the one refusing to budge, even though the walk sign has turned on again and the crowd of people around you has surged forward. 

“Baby, c’mon, I’m fine. I just want to get home.” You take Quinn’s hand and tug it, stepping off the curb. 

He comes with you, lingering a step behind you until you’re on the other side of the road. He seems to accept your determination to get home, humming one of Tate’s catchy songs as you walk.

The night has grown dark, but the streets of Vancouver are still bustling with people and cars. You have to dip around and dodge people as you walk, holding tightly to Quinn’s hand as he takes the lead and makes space for you to follow.

On a misstep, your foot lands squarely in a dirty puddle. You feel the water splash up as far as the back of your knee, jaw dropping in surprise and disgust as soon as it happens. An indignant whine leaves your mouth, which makes Quinn stop.

You’re less than 300 feet from home, literally so close to the door to the lobby, and your leg is splattered with mucky liquid, a drop rolling down your shin.

Your shoulders sag and you sigh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The corners of Quinn’s lips lift. You know what he’s thinking (“I told you so”), but you don’t expect him to turn around and squat slightly. “Hop on,” Quinn says, beckoning you towards him in the awkward position. “I’ll give you a ride the rest of the way.”

A smile grows on your face. “Aww, a piggy back ride? You are a good boyfriend.”

Quinn laughs, taking your weight easily. His arms loop beneath your thighs, holding you in place, and you throw your arms over his shoulders. “You thought I wasn’t?”

“You kept leaving me,” you say, an edge of teasing in your voice. You flick the shell of Quinn’s ear and kiss the side of his neck, shifting with each step he takes. Your mouth is right next to his ear as you continue in a low, seductive voice, “I think sometimes you forget how much smaller I am than you.”

Those are the magic words.

Quinn stiffens, falling out of step for only a second.

You act like you didn’t notice, leaving another soft kiss on Quinn’s neck before he pulls open the door to the lobby. You wave at the security guard behind his desk, wishing him a good night. 

Quinn sets you down gently in the elevator after he hit the button to your floor, turning and cornering you against the back wall. 

Your arms snake around his neck again, making Quinn bend a bit further to get on your level. “I like it when you carry me,” you tell him. “It’s so much easier to get my mouth on you.”

Quinn bites down on his bottom lip and releases a quiet chuckle. “You know what I like?” Quinn asks.

You have a feeling, but you play along. “What?”

Quinn hovers near your lips, his warm gaze trapping you in place. “I like that I could pick you up and fuck you against this wall and barely break a sweat.”

Your stomach drops, pulse quickening at his mere words.

Finally alone, the side of Quinn that only you get to see starts to emerge. “You’re so… delicate,” he murmurs. His fingertips skate along the neckline of his jersey, your chest rising and falling rapidly. A smirk overtakes Quinn’s lips. “Just begging to be manhandled, aren’t you?”

His thumb brushes the hollow of your neck and you let out a small noise, a wanting whimper. 

“Yeah,” Quinn breathes out, a belittling confirmation. “You are.”

The elevator dings and the doors open. 

Quinn sneaks a hand around your back and presses his fingers into the small of your back, guiding you down the hall to your shared apartment. His touch is casual, but you feel the intention behind it.

Your heart races as you enter the dark foyer, beelining for the bedroom as Quinn toes his shoes off. You put your heels away in your closet, ready to remove Quinn’s jersey and take a quick rinse in the shower before bed. 

Quinn catches you as you exit the closet, circling your wrist with his fingers and tugging you close to his body. Your hands automatically end up on his chest.

“Where are you going?” Quinn asks.

“Bathroom,” you reply, trying to turn in his grasp.

Quinn clicks his tongue and lifts you, carrying you to the bed and laying atop you. His fingers slide beneath the jersey you haven’t taken off yet, tickling your sides. “I don’t think so,” he says. “I want to play with you for a minute, baby.” Quinn’s head disappears under the hem of your top, placing gentle kisses over your stomach. His digits travel further up, reaching past the cups of your bra and pinching your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. 

You quiver on the bed, legs spread with one foot planted on the bed, the other dangling off the edge. One hand goes to your hair and the other covers Quinn’s hand on your breast, feeling his knuckles bend with each swipe of his touch and roll of your skin. 

His left hand goes to your bent knee, palming the underside of your thigh and pushing your leg to your chest. 

You fold, his hand keeping you in place as his mouth trails lower. His lips glance over the soft fabric of your shorts, kisses nearing your pulsating and covered hole.

Quinn’s tongue darts out and flicks over the seam of your shorts, wetting the fabric near your entrance. 

You jump at the sensation, surprised by Quinn’s daring.

He smiles and mouths over your heat again, licking a long stripe up your clothed slit and swirling his tongue around your clit. He hums, then blows cool air over the damp fabric. His hooded eyes find your face as his lips circle your clit again, suckling softly until you’re squirming.

“Quinn,” you squeal when his fingers start to rub against your hole, massaging your cunt as his lips tug at your clit. 

He wiggles his tongue against the sensitive bud, eyebrows dancing in time with his movements.

You release a moan by accident, the sound coming strangled from your throat. 

Quinn pulls from your clit with a wet pop, teeth bared in a wide smile. “Can taste you through your shorts, baby.” He kisses your slit and brings his hands to the band of your bottoms, inching them down your legs until he can take them off and throw them to the side. He seals his mouth over your clit again, audibly sucking the bud through your thin lace thong. The sensation is intensified by the thin barrier between your body and his tongue, your back automatically arching off the bed when he gently nibbles the sensitive spot. 

“Quinn, Quinn,” you moan, one of your hands finding his hair and fisting the locks. 

He smiles as you grind against his tongue, his thumb caressing the strip of fabric that covers your hole before dipping beneath it and pressing inside of you.

“Oh,” you mewl. Your hips gyrate faster, the flat of Quinn’s tongue held fast against your clit. 

Quinn pumps his thumb inside of you, drawing his tongue away and replacing it with his fingers. His mouth kisses back up your stomach, free hand pushing your jersey up until you take the hint and help him remove it, leaving you in just your bra and panties. He leaves a wet trail between your breasts, tonguing over your neck before filling your mouth with the muscle.

You whimper, both of your hands tangling in his messy brown curls. 

Quinn pulls his thumb from your entrance and replaces it with his two middle fingers, panties pulled to the side. “So wet, so responsive,” Quinn mutters, pecking your lips before he begins the journey back to your breasts. “You’re just begging to be split open on my cock, aren’t you, baby?”

“Please fuck me,” you implore, tugging Quinn’s hair.

He winces at a particularly harsh tug, but uses his free hand to unclasp your bra and remove it. Quinn sucks one of your nipples into his mouth, laving it with his tongue until it’s pebbled and puckered. “I want to be everywhere all at once,” he says, switching to the other nipple and repeating his ministrations. “Can’t decide if I want to cover this tiny body with marks or if I want to kiss you while I stuff you full.”

“Whatever you want, whatever, I don’t care.” You clench down on his fingers, chasing the feeling that’s building in the pit of your stomach.

Quinn smirks into your sternum, peppering kisses along your smooth skin. “All mine,” he simpers. He fits his mouth over your collarbone and bites down, leaving a red mark behind when he pulls away. “Mine to play with.” He sucks another mark over your pulse point. “Mine to please.”

“You really like that I wore your jersey today, huh?” you question breathlessly.

Quinn pulls back and eyes you, failing to hold back a fond smile. “It looked like a dress on you.”

“Everything of yours is big on me,” you reply. You pull his t-shirt over his head, placing it in a pile on the nightstand. “I love it.”

“I love it,” Quinn repeats, removing his fingers from your heat and quietly shushing you when you open your mouth, ready to complain about the emptiness inside of you. He frees his cock from his boxers, tossing them across the room. He wraps his hand, fingers wet with your slick, around his length and starts to pump it, thumbing over the slit and spreading the precum that blurted from it. He leans over your body, one hand holding himself up beside your head. His lips brush yours. “Love seeing you wrapped up in my clothes, baby.”

His cockhead lines up with your entrance, the slick slide of his thick member entering your tight hole making your eyes roll back. “Fuck, Quinn,” you sigh, placing a hand flat on his chest.

Quinn ducks his head, pressing kisses in the crook of your neck. He guides one of your legs over his shoulder, then the other, until there’s a healthy stretch in your hamstrings and his cock reaches deep inside of you. You cross your ankles behind his head and Quinn places a kiss on your lips before he thrusts inside you completely, his tip hitting your cervix.

You feel like he’s reaching into your stomach and scrambling your insides as his pace picks up, as the sharp sounds of skin hitting skin and wet pussy swallowing thick cock fills the room. The pillows are soft beneath your head, the mixture of your and Quinn’s breath steaming up the space between your faces. 

“You take it so well,” Quinn compliments with a grunt, looking between your bodies at the place where you meet. 

You follow his line of sight, eyelids fluttering with each thrust into your sweet spot.

“Fucking perfect,” Quinn continues. “Such a tight pussy, feels so good around me.”

You moan and capture Quinn’s mouth, teeth knocking together as he pounds into you, driving you towards orgasm. “Shit, yes, yes, yes,” you whine in a high pitched voice, the sounds escaping you almost pornographic in nature.

Quinn brings his hand to your core, the four fingers of his left hand flying over your clit. Your eyes roll back and spots dance in the darkness, stomach in knots until one final thrust has you contracting around Quinn’s cock. Your body shakes and quivers and trembles beneath him, muscles tight and stiff before they all relax at once and your orgasm travels through you like an electric shock. Quinn continues to rub your clit and fuck you, prolonging your orgasm and murmuring under his breath, “Yeah, baby, just like that, let go for me, keep squeezing my cock, gonna make me fucking come in this pretty pussy, fuck, baby.”

You ride out your climax with Quinn’s fingers toying with your swollen clit, his thrusts slowing until they stop completely. A bubble of precum blurts inside your spent cunt, Quinn’s teeth digging into his lower lip.

“Baby,” you encourage, a slight whine still attached to your tone. You lift your hips and roll them down, wanting Quinn to keep moving until he loses himself in your heat and floods the cavern with his seed. 

Quinn’s dark eyes fix on you, a hunger behind the pupils that sends a spark through you. Your legs fall from his shoulders and his cock leaves you, Quinn’s strong thighs flexing as he walks up your body on his knees. He comes to a stop with his cock in front of your face, one hand gripping his base and the other curled over the headboard. 

He seems ginormous from this angle, torso stretching for picturesque miles. His happy trail is dark and his cock is long and his stare is greedy, determined. 

“Clean me up, baby girl,” Quinn says. “See how good you taste, and if you’re good, I’ll come all over this pretty face.”

All desire to have him come inside you is swept away, his angry red tip looking like the perfect thing to put down your throat.

You open your mouth and stick out your tongue, eyes wide as you stare up at Quinn. He feeds you each inch of his cock, shallowly working the thickness past your lips until his glans hit the back of your throat. You moan around him, your tastes mixing together in a sweet, sticky, salty liquid that coats your senses.

Quinn smiles down at you mirthfully, drawing an inch from your warm, wet suction and pushing it back in. “You gonna gag on it, baby? I bet your jaw hurts, huh? Gotta keep that mouth open so I can fuck it like I fucked your pussy.”

An involuntary and completely muffled “Oh my God” surrounds Quinn’s cock, the vibrations from your vocal chords stimulating his veiny shaft.

“Oh, I know,” Quinn brags, aborted thrusts hitting the back of your throat each time. “You love having something this big inside you, I know you do.”

You keep your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, your throat constricting when he hits your gag reflex. The soft lining of your throat massages his length, precum leaking down your esophagus into your stomach. 

Quinn’s breaths are shallow. He groans, grunts, and moans as you work over him, his soft stomach tensing when he inhales sharply. You blink up at him and swallow harshly around his cock, milking another spurt of precum from his slit.

“Fuck, baby,” Quinn breathes out, clearly affected by your mouth. He wipes a bead of drool from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, pulling his cock halfway out of your mouth and wrapping his hand around it. 

You keep his tip in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around the head of his member. 

Quinn’s jaw drops open with a moan, his hips bucking forward once in an uncontrolled manner. His hand comes to the hair on the top of your head, lifting your head slightly off the pillow as his cock leaves your mouth completely. He keeps his hand in your hair as the other strips his cock, the red, pulsing tip not even an inch from your tongue, which lays flat outside your mouth like a panting dog. 

The first strips of cum land on your tastebuds and lips. You catch Quinn’s hooded eyes and parted lips just before closing your eyes and allowing him to paint your cheeks with white lines, marking your face and ruining your concert makeup with his ownership. 

Your fingers absentmindedly trace the hair on Quinn’s legs, thumb rubbing the soft skin on the inside of his thigh. His slick movements slow and you blink your eyes open carefully, in case any stray cum made contract with your lashes and could drip into your eyes.

Quinn meets your gaze and grins. “Hey, angel,” he says. He shuffles back, moving off of your body but staying by your side. He kisses your cum-coated lips, bringing some residue with him that he clears off with a swipe of his finger. He brings the finger to your mouth, your lips circling the digit and cleaning it. His eyes dance with pride. “You look beautiful like this.”

You laugh, using your own thumb to collect some of his cum from your cheeks. “I feel dirty.”

“You’re a dirty girl,” Quinn confirms in a silly voice, putting his hands on your hips and kneading them. “Aren’t you glad I stopped you before you got in the shower?”

“Oh, God,” you sigh, deflating and sinking into the bed. “I’m exhausted, Q.” You lift your arms toward him. “Carry me?”

Now it’s Quinn’s turn to laugh, although he does so while getting off the bed and gathering you in his arms. He steps in the shower with you, bringing a washcloth with him, and turns on the water. He wipes your face with the wet washcloth, removing his traces from your skin. “Such a princess,” Quinn muses, admiring you openly. He hangs the washcloth on the shower handle and wraps his arms around your shoulders, smushing your face against his chest and kissing the top of your head. 

“Your princess,” you reply, pursing your lips between his pecs and kissing over his heart.

[modanisgf]

NEEDY , MEGAN SKIENDIEL .

"GOOD AT OVERTHINKING WITH MY HEART."

in which a certain double date gets brought back to light, leading to a jealous y/n.

☆ PAIRING(S) : megan skiendiel x fem!reader

☆ WARNING(S) : kissing, corny ending lowk im sorry.. 😭

☆ TAGS : wlw, established relationship, fluff, angst??, jealousy, wc: 995

masterlist

request from this ask! :)

megan knew it was over when daniela started talking about her past double date. the atmosphere was calm and lighthearted before, daniela going on about one of her exes. some of the other girls chimed in as well, turning the quiet room into one full of laughter. it was all harmless, all up until daniela remembered something megan and lara had tried to bury.

“hey, wait. remember when lara and megan went on that double date?” daniela added, barely getting the words out through her laughter.

“oh my god.. that was so bad. i can’t believe megan went back to that guy after he locked her in his car.” lara replies, laughing through each word as well.

“shut up.. it was a one time thing, i was going through it.” megan mumbles, rubbing her temple in annoyance.

meanwhile, y/n was forcing a laugh from beside megan. to be entirely honest, something about megan going on a double date irked her. obviously, it was before they were together but megan and y/n had been friends for years. why did megan never tell her? were they never close enough for that kind of conversation? y/n just had her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her, trying not to show any emotion. the girls had moved on by now, but she still felt this sinking feeling in her chest. y/n just sat back, scrolling on her phone with her jaw clenched. she felt bad for reacting this way, but something about the date made her entire mood change.

megan noticed a shift in her girlfriend's mood, the girl beside her finally putting her phone down once she noticed megan looking at her. megan grabbed y/n’s hand, interlocking their hands before leaning close to her girlfriend.

“is everything okay?” megan whispers, leaning near y/n’s ear.

y/n just nodded, moving her hand away from megan’s. the action made megan frown, she knew something was up. but as time passed on, y/n kept talking like nothing had ever happened replying to megan like they were just acquaintances. megan just sighed, laying back as her girlfriend and group members talked. she wasn’t exactly sure how to address the situation, she knew y/n was mad at her. it wasn’t a great feeling, being ignored by the person she cared about most. so she made it her mission to get y/n alone.

megan dropped a hand onto y/n’s shoulder, grasping it firmly before leaning in close to her ear again.

“i want to talk to you, please tell me what’s wrong.” megan murmurs, the closeness of the two making y/n groan in annoyance quietly.

“fine,” she whispers back, “only because you being this close to me is making me nervous.” she says, mumbling the last part under her breath.

megan had heard her though, a smile making its way onto her face.

“meet me in my room in a second?” megan suggests, to which y/n nods.

megan had left first, stating she needed to call her brother about something. y/n going next five minutes later, saying she had to use the bathroom. she opened megan’s door as quietly as possible, closing it the same way. y/n was met with a seemingly distressed megan, she felt sort of bad. but she couldn’t get the double date out of her mind.

“y/n, please talk to me. why are you ignoring me?” megan asks, her hand reaching down to hold her girlfriend’s waist, the latter choosing not to protest megan’s touch this time.

“i wasn’t ignoring you on purpose, i just felt a little off.” y/n assures megan.

“y/n, there’s something else i can tell.” megan presses, gently.

“it’s stupid..” y/n mumbles, her girlfriends face softening at her words.

“if it bothered you that bad, it’s not stupid i promise.” megan replies.

y/n didn’t notice at first, but megan’s reassurance made her lips curl up into a smile. her hands made their way up to megan’s neck, holding onto the girl as if she was going to disappear. y/n held megan closer to her, laying her head down into the crook of her girlfriend's neck.

“to be entirely honest, daniela bringing up your double date made me feel weird.” y/n confesses.

“feel weird as in… jealous?” megan replies in a teasing tone.

y/n just groans, “no.”

“whatever you say n/n.” megan says, laughing a bit.

“but trust me, i promise the date was forever ago. lara dragged me on that date to try and get over someone.” megan murmurs.

“to get over who?” y/n asks, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion as she looks up at megan.

“you. i wasn’t sure if you liked me at the time, and i didn’t wanna ruin our friendship. but even when i was on that date, all i could think about was you.” megan replies, laughing at the sight of y/n trying not to smile.

“were you thinking of me, especially when he locked you in that car?” y/n jokes, earning a groan from megan.

“yeah, i can’t believe we went on a second date..” the black-haired girl mutters.

the two laughed about it now, the tension returning once they stopped. y/n was staring at megan now, taking in all of her features.

“you’re so pretty.” y/n mutters, receiving a smile from megan.

“thank you.” megan replies quietly, staring down at y/n’s lips.

her eyes trailed on the girl in front of her lips for a good minute, before she brought her other hand up to hold y/n’s face.

“can i kiss you?” megan asks softly, to which y/n just gives a small nod.

megan leaned in, tightening her grip on y/n’s waist. the kiss was gentle but short, a nervous look on megan’s face once they pulled away.

“i love you.”

“i love you too.”

[luckkparker]

On Physical Media

When my nan first showed signs of Lewy body dementia, it became obvious that she would need to be moved from her single-story brick home in Fairlight into an aged care home — one with round-the-clock supervision.

It started with collapses in the supermarket. Then came the hallucinations — bugs crawling on the walls of her hospital room — and finally, she began confusing me for my mother. They never had a great relationship, so when I went to embrace her — in that clinically mangled bed — the rejection felt all the more saddening. She spoke to me, believing I was my mother.

“Make sure the kids get $100 from me. I know they’re worried about me.” I cried in that moment — an automatic response — a mixture of ego and a fear of mortality. “I didn’t realise you cared for me this much, Fran.”

A family meeting took place shortly after.

My father, his three sisters (at the time), and his brother discussed money, facilities, and next steps. This was two days after Christmas, 2023. By April, I was told that, as the only person in our family over the age of 18 and without full-time employment (ouch), it would be my responsibility to sift through every item in her bungalow and decide: What was sentimental? What was donatable? And what was trash?

I had inadvertently been training my whole life for this moment. My mother was a spring-cleaning fanatic. Like clockwork, once every three months throughout my entire childhood, I would be tasked with auditing the value of the objects in my possession — having to concretely prove how my pink bubble CD player added to my happiness and thus deserved the 30cm² of space it occupied in my bedroom.

How morbid — years of unknowingly prepping for the eventual collapse of my poor nan’s mind.

September rolled around. The cardboard boxes were ready — as were the jumbo reinforced black garbage bags. I thought I was ready too. How naive.

I started with her chestnut TV chest. 152 vinyls, ranging from Scottish choir hymns to Talking Heads. 65 VHS tapes — every Disney princess I wanted to be, now covered in dust and cockroach dung. Every single PG and G-rated film produced between 1999 and 2009 — the last year I had a sleepover in that single-bed room, adorned with nothing but flannel sheets and a strangely attractive portrait of Mother Mary on the bedside table.

I was sorting through the physical remnants of my childhood, unaware that my nan had curated every like, dislike, and fantasy of my youth. Now I was faced with the impossible task of determining the worth of my memories.

Keep, donate, or throw away.

Her living room, now devoid of most of its furniture and décor, began to flicker with projections of times gone by. I could see my brother and me cuddled up to her on the couch, laughing hysterically at our Pa’s flatulence. This fragment vanished as quickly as it appeared, only to be replaced with another. I saw my nan picking out a CD from her ridiculous collection to play as we tended to her rose garden, which surrounded a clay statue of Mary. Just as I saw my six-year-old self jump in the air at the sound of Mika, surrounded by deep reds in bloom — the vision faded. I was left staring at a now bone-dry garden and a lonely Mary, stained with white bird crap.

What could’ve been accomplished in a day by my mother — unsentimental and practical — was stretching into weeks for me. My father had to stage an intervention.

“Hi, cookie girl. I know this isn’t easy. Carmel’s a hoarder, after all, but we don’t have a lot of time left. We need to sell the house so we can pay for her care.”

My father was right. My nostalgia was delaying the truth: my nan wasn’t going to get better, and these things had no place in our lives anymore.

We hadn’t owned a media player of any kind in eight years, for Christ’s sake. Stan, Binge, Netflix, HBO Max, and Prime now housed my childhood — all for $69.97 a month.

I eventually finished sorting through my nan’s house — every item accounted for and distributed to its proper place. I did, however, keep three things for myself:

An LG 220K20D TV

An LG V8824W DVD & VCR player

Shrek 2 on DVD

A challenge to build my own media collection. A tribute to my nan.

-- Luckk

Nothing like holding my love

[drafts-and-delusions]

hi! i wanna ask for a jealous baby x gn!reader fic lol. he’s my favourite saja and i really need more of him. Even what i write doesn’t satisfy my brain worms. Hope you can write this!

No One Else Gets This

Tags: gn!reader, fluff with possessive undertones, jealous!baby, protective behavior, first relationship, public date setting, food market date

ahhh baby saja... proper name.... place name... backstory stuff...

He’s never done this before. Not the dating part; the public part. The walking-around-with-someone-he-likes kind of thing. His hoodie is zipped up, cap pulled low, silver chain tucked beneath his shirt. Sunglasses hang from his collar, more for show than anything. The market lights above cast a soft, uneven warmth over everything.

You’re beside him, chewing on a pork skewer with sauce smeared on your cheek. You're grinning at nothing in particular, swaying slightly with the music playing from someone’s portable speaker a few stalls away.

He could stay in this moment forever.

Then someone ruins it.

“Hey,” a voice says behind you. “Sorry, just couldn’t help noticing you. You’re really cute.”

You blink and start to turn, confused. There’s a guy—probably your age, maybe a little older. Relaxed posture. Easy smile. The type that seems harmless.

But not harmless enough.

Before you can open your mouth, Baby steps in front of you. Not fast or aggressive, just decisive. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t square up or curse the guy out. But something shifts in the air, heavy and tense. You feel it immediately; the kind of pressure that makes your skin crawl without knowing why.

“They’re not available,” Baby says. His voice is calm, but final.

The guy puts his hands up, defensive. “Whoa, I didn’t know—chill, man.”

“I am chill,” Baby replies. His tone doesn’t change, but his eyes are different now. Flat. Unreadable. “That was me being polite.”

The guy mutters something and disappears into the crowd.

You peek out from behind Baby, raising your brow. “You good?”

He turns to you, jaw tight.

“He looked at you like he thought he had a shot,” he mutters.

“He asked if I was single. You answered before I could.”

He squints a little. “Yeah. You’re welcome.”

You try not to laugh. “You really don’t like it when people talk to me, huh?”

He doesn’t answer. Just pulls out another skewer from the bag and starts chewing, eyes darting back and forth like he’s still on edge.

“I’ve never dated anyone before,” he says after a long pause. “Never had to share someone. Never wanted to.”

You go quiet for a second. Not because you don’t know what to say—just letting him have space to finish.

He finally looks at you again. “But then there’s you. And I want to be out here with you. Want to eat greasy food and go on walks like we’re normal people. But no one else should get to look at you like that.”

You don’t respond right away. You reach up and wipe a little sauce from the corner of his mouth with your sleeve.

“You’re kind of hot when you’re scary,” you say.

He chokes slightly on the skewer.

“I’m always hot,” he grumbles. “Even when I’m not scary.”

You press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re doing great, first-time boyfriend.”

He scoffs. “Shut up. I’d fight a whole crowd for you.”

You smile. “I know.”

The two of you go back to eating under the warm, blinking market lights. And for a while, it really does feel normal.

[serenity-loves-red]

Hello~ I’m a big fan of your “it started with cat distribution system” fic! While I was reading side stories/Asks an idea came to me. How would they react (before or after) when our friend/family forces us on a blind date? Would they try to stop it with their fluffy shenanigans? If so how?

@ofcdimi

Going on a datee eyyy?

Imagine:

You had a date planned in your calendar for tonight. Just one dinner with your family friend’s son, your parents convinced you to go. Or was it a daughter? Meh, you haven’t listened that much.

You really didn’t want to go and rather wanted to chill out with Blue, Princess and the Girls but your parents threatened you to do more of these ‘dates’ if you bail out of this one.

But hey, at least this one had formally asked you out for a date earlier this week and it turns out, it was a guy. Quite handsome too, you might add. He had this approachable air and even when you had just talked for 30 minutes max, you didn’t really feel awkward and you both surprisingly got along pretty well.

So 2 hours before the agreed time for this dinner date, you started dressing and readying yourself up. Somehow, you felt looking forward to this dinner. And maybe, after this you can ended up as friends?

Although a bit different from what the outcome your parents had planned, they should at least feel happy for your effort. What did they even think when they decided to have you socialize with someone you’ve never met? It’s bound to turn into an awkward and boring dinner sooner or later.

Mydei watched as you changed into different kinds of clothes. It was suspicious since you never dress up nicely unless–

Where are you going? He immediately barked when you twirled after finished doing your hair. Fit check as you would like to say. Why are you so dress up huh?

Phainon, seeing Mydei shows his once in a blue moon attitude, also started to feel a bit restless. Are you going somewhere? It’s already evening, why are you going out so late? He pawed at your legs and meowed repeatedly.

“What got you so worked up boys?” You ruffled their heads. “Come, let’s refill your bowls before I go.”

Go? Go where? They look at your retreating back in shock. Dress prettily like that? Who are you meeting?!

They followed you and saw you already finished refilling their water and food. “This should be enough for tonight.” Then you walked to get some food for the remaining three hamsters who looked at you with interest from their pen. You gave them bits of food, petted their head and bid a goodbye. “I’m going for a quick dinner okay? Be good girls and don’t cause trouble for Princess and Blue.”

You left, not before giving them some vegetables to munch on.

Mydei and Phainon followed you around like some kind of fluffy shadows. Phainon continued meowing at you and somehow managed to ended up in your arms. “So clingy? Did your kitty senses sensed I’m off to go on a date?” You kissed his head.

Blue freezes, and it was enough for you to put him down and took your bag and placed it at the couch. You’ve done few final touches and faces Blue who looks at you in blankly. “How do I look?” Seeing no reply, you turn to look at Princess who should’ve sat next to Blue but found the place empty.

Wait where Princess? You turn around only to see him guarding the door, sitting upright with his tail moving tensely. “Uh Princess?” You looked at him. “Could you move?”

He growled. “Not the reaction I’m expecting but okay.” You laughed nervously. You looked at the time to see it few minutes away from the planned dinner. “Uh Princess my baby– could you move now? I have a dinner to be at…” you trailed up and saw how he stood up and barked sharply like a rabid chihuahua.

You turn to look at Blue for help and saw him somehow managed to fit himself inside your bag, meowing at you ominously when your eyes met. He smiled cutely but his tone didn’t sound like one at all.

It’s either you stay or bring us with you. Choose wisely dearest.

“Hi, sorry for the sudden call. Just wanna ask about the diner… oh, no it’s nothing like that, the place is totally fine– i just want to ask if hypothetically speaking I brought a cat and a dog with me?… uhuh– yeps nothing major– just want to confirm if the place is pet friendly perchance?”

“Oh it is? Great! And hypothetically speaking again– I hope you wouldn’t mind if I brought one–or two I mean. Haha yeahhhh I’m just in a situation you see– nothing I can’t handle? Haha.”

Tribios watched as you speak on your phone from the corner like some kind of detective on duty. “Should we go too?” Tribbie asked and looked at Trianne and Trinnon.

Yeah–of course they should go! You would mind right? Plus they can’t just let Snowy and Dei enjoy all the fun– let them join too!

Taglist: @speedycoffeedelight @kiransalt @sunsethw4 @wispfish @syntaxandpi @hoo-hoo @aerisevx @wixsvem @reminiscingthesea @hquntinghunter @n8mareee @larettajudith @vashyuu @superbfuryfest @shio225 @line-viper @hiqhkey @fuji-sen @takeyomikamakura @raaawwwr @hoshinosama @shonwithnohope @naOyak1 @whatamoodhoney @violetisreadinghush @shio225 @blushho @bloodrrose @kazudare @monoclesnapple @elymint @lovesickdaydreamss @mangooes @ra404 @knufd @shiholyn @toyomittsuu @O-uchi @redheadedsilly @ofcdimi @wegottastayfocus @dreamyhazx @vskhn016

[skzophreniic]

U, FILL UP MY MIND 24/7

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, toxic relationship, breakup, mental health struggles, crying, grief, self-loathing, emotionally charged sex, reconciliatory but temporary intimacy, implied pregnancy. also, im well aware that you shouldn't let a pregnancy test sit for thirty minutes cuz it might show a false positive, but we are going to ignore this fact for the sake of dramatic tension ✨

notes: in which you and han jisung break up but can't keep away from each other — and things spiral from there.

to those of you who read my bartender minho fic, the minho that appears here is meant to be the same minho from that fic, so it's basically in the same universe ! you'll get a snippet of his lore here. happy happy birthday week to my lovely @angel-writes-skz-here and thank you for including me in ur birthday event !! (and happy 22nd birthday to me hehe)

“You never listen—you never fucking listen!”        

Han’s yelling. Again.

You’re not sure when his voice got this loud or when your eyes started to sting, but your hands are shaking, and the air in the apartment feels like it’s made of fire and glass.        

“You twist everything I say,” you spit, standing your ground even though your whole body is screaming run. “You make me feel like I’m going insane.”        

“Oh, I’m making you insane?” he scoffs, laugh bitter and wild. “You ignore me for three days, and I’m the manipulative one?”     

“I needed space!”        

“You never say that until after you’ve ghosted me! Until I’m left wondering if you’re dead or just fucking someone else!”        

The slap of his words hits harder than a scream. Your breath catches. You hate that it still hurts—that it always will when it’s him.        

“You think I’m cheating on you?” you whisper.     

“I don’t know what to think anymore!” he shouts, pacing now, hands dragging through his hair like he’s trying to rip the roots out. “You won’t talk to me, you won’t touch me, you act like I’m this fucking disease you’re trying to shake off!”

“And you act like I owe you every part of me just because you’re scared to be alone!” you snap, voice rising past your control. “I’m not your therapist, Ji. I’m your girlfriend.”  

“Were,” he bites out. “You were my girlfriend.”  

The silence that follows is sharp enough to bleed on.  

You laugh, high and humorless. “So that’s it? One fight and you’re already rewriting the story?”  

“Oh my God, it’s never just one fight with you,” he fires back, voice pitching up. “It’s every single week, every single night where I have to guess what mood you’re in, guess if you’re gonna kiss me or ice me out again—”  

“You don’t guess,” you growl, stepping forward. “You push. You push until I’m too tired to argue. Until I let you win just to keep the peace.”  

Han’s eyes go wide, something like betrayal flickering fast across his face.  

“You think I enjoy this?” he says, stunned. “You think I like this version of us?”  

“I think you like the chaos,” you spit. “I think you like knowing you can fuck up and I’ll still come back.”  

He breathes hard through his nose, nostrils flaring. His hands are trembling now too. For a second, he doesn’t say anything.  

And then he steps closer—close enough that you can see the bloodshot rim around his eyes, the pulse ticking in his jaw.  

“I come back too,” he says.

You blink. But you don’t back down.

He keeps going, like if he doesn’t get it out now, he never will.

“I come back even when I know you’re gonna shut me out again. Even when I know you’ll say things that make me hate myself. Even when I swear I won’t do it this time, I still—” He swallows hard. “I still come back.”

“Why?” you ask, and your voice cracks this time. “Why do we keep doing this to each other?”

He stares at you like it’s obvious. Like it’s written in your skin.

“Because it’s you,” he says. “It’s always you.”

You exhale like it hurts. Because it does.

And you don’t know if it’s better or worse that you believe him.

“Do you even hear yourself?” you whisper. “This isn’t love, Ji. This is dependency. This is obsession. This is two people clinging to each other just so they don’t have to fall alone.”

“Then let’s fucking fall together,” he snaps. “Let’s fall and burn and scream and make it mean something because I swear to god, being without you feels worse than this.”

You’re crying now.

You hate that you are. Hate that he still has that power. Hate that his voice—sharp and desperate and boyish and broken—still feels like home even when it’s slicing you open.

“Get out,” you whisper.

He flinches. Like you hit him. “What?”

“Get the fuck out, Jisung.”

He stands there, frozen.

“Now.”

Something shatters behind his eyes. Something that was holding him together.

He slams the door on the way out.

Leaves you crying in the middle of your apartment, heart cracked open on the floor, hands shaking from a love you know you’ll never be able to scrub out of your soul.

And now, three months later, you’re out with some guy named Caleb. You think it’s Caleb. Or maybe it’s Cameron.  You can’t remember, and you don’t care enough to check.    

He’s sweet.

Safe. 

The kind of guy who sends “good morning” texts and apologizes when he talks over you. 

The kind of guy who holds your hand across the table and calls you beautiful instead of baby.    

The kind of guy who’d never scream at you in the middle of your kitchen at 2 a.m.    

The kind of guy who doesn’t know you still think about someone else when he leans in.    

“You’re quiet,” he says, smiling nervously over his drink.    

You blink. “Sorry. Long day.”    

He nods. He doesn’t press. You kind of wish he would.    

Because the truth is, it’s not just today. It’s every day since the last time you fucked Han against the door of your apartment and told him not to text you ever again.    

And he didn’t.    

For a week.    

Until 1:32 a.m. on a Thursday, when your phone lit up with “are you awake” and nothing else. And somehow, somehow, he was back in your bed before the hour was up. And you were back in his arms like nothing had ever broken.    

And now here you are, sitting across from a man with kind eyes and steady hands, trying not to remember what it felt like to be pinned under someone who only ever touched you like he was begging for forgiveness.    

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Caleb asks, voice soft.    

You hesitate.    

It wouldn’t mean anything.

You could let him kiss you. Let him take you home. Maybe it’d be nice. Maybe it’d be quiet.    

But it wouldn’t be him.    

“I’m actually kind of tired,” you say instead, offering a faint smile. “Raincheck?”    

He nods. Disappointed, but polite. “Yeah. Of course.”    

You hug him goodbye.    

You don’t feel anything.    

Your apartment is too cold when you get back. You kick off your shoes. Drop your bag. Stare at the couch for a long time.    

He fucked you there last week. Didn’t even make it to the bedroom. Just had you bent over the cushions, whispering I missed you into your spine like a curse.    

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes and exhale through your teeth.    

This is pathetic. This is what pathetic looks like.    

Your phone buzzes on the counter. Your heart knows it’s him before your eyes even move.    

1 new message — Ji.    

"I'm outside."

You don’t respond to the text. You just open the door and he’s already walking in like he owns the place.

Like he didn’t leave.

Like he hasn’t been doing this—you—on and off for months.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

It’s the only word either of you get out before his hands are on your hips, pulling you into him like he’s been starving for it. Like he needs to feel you under his mouth before he says something fucking stupid again. You gasp as his lips crash into yours—fast, clumsy, open-mouthed.

You kiss him back anyway.

Because that’s the thing about Han Jisung: You don’t know how to not kiss him.

You only know how to burn.

His teeth catch on your bottom lip and you whimper, fingers fisting in the back of his hoodie.

“Fuck,” he breathes, kissing down your jaw, your neck, dragging his tongue across that spot that always makes your knees buckle. “You smell the same. Like the shampoo I like and that—fuck, that vanilla thing I always tell you to wear.”

You shove him backward. Not hard, but enough.

“You don’t get to do this,” you snap, chest heaving. “You don’t get to show up after I haven’t heard from you for—what, ten days? And act like you never left.”

“I didn’t leave,” he hisses, voice already shaking. “You told me not to text. What the fuck do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop showing up when you’re lonely and horny and—god, Ji, just—” you push your hands into his chest again, “—stop acting like this means something if you’re not gonna stay.”

His lips part. But you don’t give him time to answer.

You kiss him.

Harder this time.

Like maybe if you press hard enough, you’ll feel something real.

His hands are under your shirt within seconds, fingers hot and frantic against your ribs. He groans into your mouth when your nails rake down his neck.

“You think I don’t want to stay?” he pants, backing you into the hallway wall. “You think I don’t fucking think about you every single day?”

You moan when he bites your collarbone—no finesse, just desperation—and you hate how fast your hips are already grinding up against his thigh.

“You don’t act like it,” you spit. “You disappear.”

“You make me disappear,” he growls, dragging your shirt off over your head. “You tell me to go. You tell me we’re done. You’re the one who keeps breaking this.”

You slap your palm against the wall behind you as he mouths at your chest through your bra—hot, wet, maddening.

“You think this is my fault?” you breathe, tilting your head back. “You’re the one who said ‘I’m not coming back’ and then crawled into my bed three weeks later like nothing fucking happened—”

He yanks your bra down and latches onto your nipple with a groan.

You choke on your words.

“Oh my god, Ji—”

“That’s the problem,” he grits out, switching to the other breast, licking, sucking, biting down until you’re gasping. “I can’t stay gone. I say I will, I mean it—and then I get one fucking whiff of your perfume and I’m—” he thrusts his hips up against yours, “—right fucking back here.”

Your head knocks against the wall as he lifts one of your legs up over his hip, grinding his cock against you through both layers of clothing, friction maddening and not enough.

“You’re so full of shit,” You gasp.

But so are you.

You don't say it out loud—but the truth hangs heavy between your teeth, curling on your tongue like smoke. Because you’re not pushing him away. You’re clutching at him. Digging your nails into his shoulder blades like maybe this time you’ll leave a mark that lasts longer than the bruises.

“You like this,” he growls, rutting against you like he’s lost the ability to slow down. “You pretend you hate me but you always—fuck, baby—” he groans when your fingers dip under his hoodie, dragging across the hot skin of his waist, “—you always let me back in.”

“I shouldn’t.” Your voice is shaking. Angry. Breathless. Wrecked. “You know I fucking shouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

His hand slips between your legs—over your shorts, right against the heat of you—and presses down.

“Because this pussy,” he pants, biting your earlobe, “still fucking wants me.”

You sob his name like it hurts to admit it. Like it always does.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down just enough, and then he's sliding them right under your panties, knuckles brushing slick heat. His eyes flutter for a second—just a second—before they snap back open.

“Dripping,” he mutters. “Fucking knew it.”

And then he's rubbing slow circles over your clit, two fingers pressed in just enough to tease and torment but never give.

You bite down on your own lip to muffle the sound that comes out.

He grins against your throat, breath hot. “Don’t try to be quiet now. You weren’t quiet last time. Remember?” He pumps his fingers deeper, curling them just right—your hips jerk. “Bent over the arm of your couch, crying on my cock? Begging me to say I loved you?”

“Shut up,” you hiss.

“Why?” he laughs, breath hitching as you grind down onto his hand. “Because you know I did? Because I do?”

You shake your head. You don’t want to hear this. Not when you’re already clenching around his fingers, not when he’s making you unravel with just his hand and his fucking mouth and that voice—

“I hate you,” you whisper.

His fingers thrust faster.

“So why are you still letting me in?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Not when your thighs are shaking and your back is hitting the wall with every grind of his hips and he’s watching your face like it’s the only thing in the world he gives a fuck about.

“You gonna come for me?” he murmurs, breath ragged. “Huh, baby? You gonna come just from my fingers like you always do?”

Your head rolls back against the wall.

He leans in close, nose brushing yours, lips barely touching.

“I’ll stop if you want me to,” he says, softer now. “You want me to?”

You don’t nod. Don’t speak.

You just breathe. Shaky. Hitched. Lips parted, body trembling in his grip.

And then your fingers fist in his hoodie and pull him down into you—kiss desperate, wet, open-mouthed—like your answer’s ever been anything but yes.

He groans into your mouth like he’s starving for it, thrusting his fingers harder, faster, knuckles deep and relentless until your moans turn high and choked, every muscle in your body pulling taut.

“That’s it,” he rasps, thumb circling your clit now with dizzying pressure. “Come on, baby, give it to me—let me feel you fall apart.”

You do. Loud. Sudden. A whine rips through you, and you clamp down around his fingers so hard he curses and presses his forehead to yours, breath stuttering.

“Fuck, you’re so—so fucking pretty when you come.”

You’re still twitching when he slips his fingers out, sticky with you, and shoves them in his mouth without hesitation. Groans like he’s been dying for the taste.

You hate how hot that makes you.

No, you don’t.

He doesn’t even wait for you to recover.

“Turn around,” he breathes, already dragging your shorts down the rest of the way. “Hands on the wall.”

“Seriously?” you snap, breathless, still dazed from your orgasm. “You think that I’ll—”

“Now,” he growls.

And you hate him for it—hate him for how fast you listen.

You spin around, plant your palms flat against the cool drywall, feel him step right in behind you—one hand gripping your hip, the other fumbling with his jeans.

“I missed you,” he mutters, voice rough with something that almost sounds like pain. “Missed this. Missed you.”

“You didn’t even call,” you gasp, pushing your hips back into him. “You didn’t even try—”

“I wanted to,” he hisses, lining himself up. “I wanted to a hundred times—fuck—”

He slides into you in one deep, unforgiving thrust.

You cry out, head dropping forward, nails scraping the wall.

“Don’t say I didn’t want to,” he grits, cock buried in you, unmoving for one split second. “I always want to.”

And then he’s moving—pulling out halfway, then slamming back in, over and over, hard enough that your knees buckle.

You moan through clenched teeth, arms trembling with effort.

“You think I can fucking sleep at night?” he pants, thrusting so deep your breath stutters. “You think I don’t hear you in every goddamn silence? You think this is easy for me?”

“Then why do you leave?” you cry, voice cracking. “Why do you always leave?”

He grabs your hair, tugs your head back, bites down against your shoulder.

“I don’t know,” he breathes. “I don’t fucking know. I just—”

Another brutal thrust. You choke on a sob.

“I always come back.”

And he does.

Every time.

Like clockwork. Like gravity.

And you let him.

You always let him.

Because even when he’s a storm—howling and reckless and impossible to hold—he’s still yours.

Even when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

“Put on the hoodie.”

Jisung groans into the couch cushion. “No.”

Minho doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just picks up the hoodie off the floor and tosses it directly at Jisung’s face.

“Now.”

Jisung sits up with a scowl, hoodie in his lap, hair a disaster. “I didn’t ask for a babysitter.”

“You didn’t,” Minho agrees. “You just stopped showing up to work, stopped texting back, and started living like a fucking ghost.”

Jisung glares. “I’m grieving.”

“You’re rotting.”

That gets a faint laugh—dry, bitter. “Thanks.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, jaw tight. “I’m not here to make you feel better. I’m here to make sure you don’t drown in your own self-pity and start sexting her from a burner account again.”

Jisung flushes. “That was one time—”

“That I know of.”

He has no comeback. Just pulls the hoodie over his head and mutters something about emotional abuse.

Minho doesn’t bite.

They park on a side street a block from the night market. It’s already buzzing—strings of lights overhead, food smoke curling through the air, couples brushing past each other with sticky fingers and soft laughter.

Jisung hesitates at the curb.

Minho locks the car and doesn’t wait. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t want to be here,” Jisung mutters.

Minho doesn’t stop walking. “You think I wanted to spend my night dragging your melodramatic ass through stalls of overpriced takoyaki and teen girls in bunny-ear headbands?”

Jisung huffs, jogging a few steps to catch up. “You love it. You live for this shit.”

Minho doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just hands him a skewer from a stall they pass and shoves it into his palm. “Eat. Or I’m ratting you out to Chan and telling him you’ve been surviving on monster energy and vape juice.”

Jisung takes a reluctant bite. “That’s slander.”

“That’s documented truth,” Minho says, then lowers his voice as they blend into the crowd. “Look—don’t be weird, alright? You need fresh air. You need noise. You need to see that the world’s still turning even though you fucked up.”

Jisung doesn’t argue.

But he doesn’t look convinced, either.

They move together through the stream of bodies, stopping at a bubble tea cart, then a stall selling bootleg plushies of horror movie villains in pastel outfits. Jisung cracks a smile at a pink Michael Myers keychain. Minho buys it for him.

It’s not good, exactly. But it’s…something.

Until Jisung goes still.

Like prey catching the scent of a trap.

Minho follows his line of sight—

—and sees you.

Hair down. Eyes lit from the neon overhead. Laughing at something your date says, head thrown back in a way Jisung hasn’t seen in weeks. Months.

And you’re holding hands.

Minho barely has time to react before Jisung mutters, “I need a smoke,” and turns abruptly, walking away.

Minho catches up fast.

Doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks beside him as they push through the crowd, winding past a fried squid cart and a group of tourists taking blurry selfies.

Jisung pulls out the crumpled pack from his hoodie pocket, fingers clumsy. “You got a light?”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “You know I don’t.”

“Right.” Jisung snorts, bitter. “Your girl broke—never mind I found one—” He fumbles with a lighter he found in his back pocket. “—your girl broke you of that too, huh?”

Minho doesn’t respond immediately.

Just walks.

Shoulders tense.

Eyes forward.

“She tell you to cut your hair? Wear beige now? Drink tea instead of beer?” Jisung lights the cigarette and exhales hard, words curling out with the smoke. “What’s next, matching aprons?”

“Shut up, Ji.”

“Oh, come on. We used to clown guys like that. Remember?”

Minho stops walking.

Dead stop.

Jisung nearly crashes into him, but barely manages to pivot, swaying unsteadily in place.

“You done?” Minho says, voice calm in that dangerous way that means it’s anything but.

Jisung takes another long drag. “Does she know you used to finish entire packs in one night? That you used to ash into beer bottles and pretend you were ‘cutting down’?”

“She does,” Minho says simply.

Jisung scoffs. “Bet she doesn’t know you used to hotbox your shitty Corolla behind the bar on your break. That you once hooked up with a girl in the alley just because she asked for a light.”

Minho doesn’t flinch. “She knows.”

“She know you almost OD’d in your apartment senior year?”

Minho looks at him.

Not angry. Not even hurt. Just… sad.

“Yeah,” he says. “She knows that too.”

Jisung exhales sharply. The smoke burns his throat on the way out. Then he laughs. Bitter. Mean. “And she still lets you hit?”

Minho doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head slightly. “You really wanna do this?”

“I hate that you’ve changed,” Jisung snaps. “I hate that you’re soft now. I hate that you say you quit and mean it. I hate that you go to bed before midnight and take vitamins and wear shirts that tuck in.”

Minho nods. Once. Calm. “Okay.”

Jisung scoffs. “You don’t even care.”

Minho looks at him. Quiet. Steady. “No, I just don’t need to prove anything to you.”

That cuts deeper than it should. Jisung turns his face away like it stung.

“I hate that you’re lame now,” he spits, jaw tight. “I hate that you’re that guy. The guy with a girlfriend and a morning routine and fucking—boundaries—”

“Sungie.”

He tries to laugh again—tries to bury it—but the sound comes out strangled. Ugly. And then his face is crumpling and his chest is hitching and the tears are coming too fast to stop.

“Fuck,” he chokes, dragging the back of his hand across his face like it’ll help. “Fuck, I—god, I hate this shit. I hate this shit.”

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t offer a hug. Doesn’t tell him to breathe. Doesn’t do any of the things people think they’re supposed to do when someone starts unraveling.

He just stays. Like an anchor in the middle of the storm.

“You don’t hate that I changed,” Minho says eventually, voice even. “You hate that I got better and you didn’t.”

Jisung flinches. Like the words hit bone.

Minho sighs.

“You want to stay angry, fine. You want to act like this is about me? Sure. But we both know it’s not.”

Jisung stares at the pavement.

Hot tears sliding down his cheeks, dripping onto his hoodie.

“I miss her,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“I miss the way she smelled in the morning,” he says, voice cracking. “I miss how she used to hum when she washed her face. I miss her leaving her charger on my side of the bed. I miss her in every fucking room, in every fucking second, in between every fucking heartbeat.” 

Minho plucks the still lit cigarette from between Jisung’s fingers.

“I miss her like a lung,” Jisung says, eyes wild and wet. “Like I can’t fucking breathe without her and I hate it, I hate it so much—”

“You don’t hate it,” Minho says softly, dropping it to the floor and crushing it under his heel. “You’re scared of it.”

Jisung squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to bite it back. Tries to hold it in.

But it’s too big now. Too heavy.

“I ruined it,” he gasps. “She was everything and I fucking ruined it.”

Minho doesn’t argue.

“You did.”

Jisung breaks. Really breaks.

Like his knees might give out. Like the words were the last weight he could carry.

His breath comes in shallow bursts now, ragged little gasps as he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to stop the tears like it’ll somehow stop the shame too.

Minho sighs again. Then steps forward. 

He reaches out, grabs a fistful of Jisung’s hoodie near the collar, and gives it a firm tug—enough to jolt him, enough to ground him.

“You ruined it,” he repeats. “And now you have to decide if you’re gonna keep ruining yourself too.”

Jisung says nothing.

He’s still trembling, still a mess, but he’s listening.

Minho lets go of his hoodie. Smooths the front like he’s brushing away something that can’t be seen.

“You’re allowed to fall apart,” he says, voice low. “But don’t fucking camp there.”

Jisung nods, barely, like it’s taking every ounce of strength just to stay standing.

His throat works around nothing. The tears are still there, still slipping down his cheeks in quiet streaks, but his breathing is starting to slow. Starting to even out.

“You think she’d take me back?” he asks, voice small.

“You thinking of getting her back?” Minho asks.

Jisung’s mouth opens—then closes again. His jaw flexes like the answer’s stuck somewhere behind his teeth.

“I mean…” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Obviously. She’s—fuck, she’s it, Min. She’s everything.”

Minho tilts his head. “Then don’t.”

Jisung frowns. “What?”

“Don’t go after her,” Minho says. “Not yet.”

There’s a pause. Sharp. Confused.

“You just watched me cry in public and your advice is give up?”

“No.” Minho pushes off the truck, slow and deliberate. “My advice is grow up.”

Jisung bristles.

But Minho holds his gaze.

“You go to her now, you’re gonna bleed all over her. You’re gonna cry and beg and say all the right things, and it’ll still be selfish. Because none of it’s for her. It’s for you. It’s so you don’t have to sit with what you did.”

Jisung looks away.

Shame creeps up his neck like ivy. Hot and choking.

Minho softens. Just a little.

“I’m not saying she’s perfect. I’m not saying you’re a monster. But you broke something, Ji. And if you want any chance of getting it back, you can’t just tape it together and pretend it’s new.”

Jisung exhales slow, shaky. Like it hurts to breathe.

“But what if she moves on?” he whispers. “What if I get better and it’s too late?”

Minho shrugs, leaning back against the truck like it’s not the question that’s been killing Jisung for months.

“Then you get better anyway.”

That lands like a punch to the sternum. No soft edges. No easy out.

“You don’t get better for her,” Minho says, voice calm but cutting. “You get better because the version of you that loved her? He deserved more than this too.”

Jisung swallows hard.

And for a second, he’s seventeen again.

Sitting on the curb outside a gas station with skinned knuckles and a busted lip, telling Minho it didn’t hurt. That he didn’t care. That none of it mattered.

And Minho—grimy hoodie, half-lit cigarette, voice rough from too many nights spent yelling into voids that never answered—looked him in the eye and said: “Then why are you crying, dumbass?”

It had gutted him then. It guts me now. Not because Minho’s cruel. But because he’s the only one who never lets Jisung lie to himself.

Not when he was seventeen and stupid and bleeding on concrete. And not now, twenty-four and unraveling in the middle of a crowded street. Because Jisung knows why he’s crying. Knows it in the ache in his chest, in the way his hands still shake even though the cigarette’s long gone.

It’s not just about losing you.

It’s about the way he lost himself somewhere in the wreckage. The way he still can’t find the version of him who made you laugh just to hear the sound. The one who rubbed your feet when you were tired. Who wrote lyrics about the way you tucked your hair behind your ear.

He misses you.

But he misses himself, too.

And that’s the part no one warns you about.

That heartbreak doesn’t just take the person you loved—it takes the version of you that loved them, too. The soft edges. The hopeful voice. The boy who picked out flowers just because. The boy who set alarms to text good morning before your early shifts. The boy who kissed your forehead and meant it.

He doesn’t know where that boy went.

Somewhere between the first slammed door and the last fuck-you, he just... vanished. Left behind in the dust of every argument, buried under every apology that came too late. Every time he said he didn’t care when he cared so fucking much it ached.

And now here he is. Crying in a parking lot with the one person who’s seen all the ugliest parts of him and stayed anyway.

Minho doesn’t say a word when Jisung climbs into the passenger seat. Just flicks the headlights on, eases into traffic, and lets the soft hum of the engine fill the silence like a balm.

Jisung stares out the window. The market lights blur past in streaks of neon—cotton candy pink, curry yellow, the cool blue of melting ice cream.

He wipes at his eyes. Sniffs. Mutters, “I’m hungry.”

Minho glances at him, unimpressed. “You had a skewer.”

“I want noodles.”

Minho exhales through his nose. The closest thing to a laugh he can manage. “Of course you do.”

Jisung leans his head against the window, the cool glass soothing his still-warm cheek. His throat is raw, chest hollow in that way it gets after a long cry—emptied out, wrung dry, but somehow lighter for it. Like maybe there’s space now for something else to grow.

They drive in quiet for a while. Past stalls and side streets, past couples still lingering at crosswalks, hands linked. The kind of night that smells like sugar and smoke. Like old memories and second chances.

Minho pulls into a side lot without asking, engine rumbling low as he parks beside a tiny ramen joint tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered pharmacy.

It’s not fancy. The lights flicker. The plastic menu is faded from sun and time.

But the door’s open.

Jisung hesitates, hand on the handle.

“You coming?” Minho asks, already half out of the truck.

Jisung nods. Blinks the last of the tears from his lashes.

And when he steps out—when his feet hit the pavement—it’s with the quiet, clumsy grace of someone still finding their way. Still sore from the fall. 

But walking, anyway.

You see him.

Of course you do.

Out of everyone in the crowd—families tugging kids toward cotton candy stalls, couples stealing kisses under rows of lanterns—your eyes find him like they always do.

Like they were built for it.

He’s not looking at you. Not at first.

He’s staring at the pavement, lips pressed tight, fists shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that used to hang on the back of your kitchen chair. Minho’s beside him, saying something, gesturing like he’s trying to coax a heartbeat out of someone who forgot how to beat.

And then Jisung looks up.

And everything around you slows.

Your fingers go cold around the rim of your soda cup. Caleb is still talking—something about how the pineapple skewers were better last week, how this cart must have changed vendors—but it’s muffled now. Distant. Like the night’s pressing in from all sides and you’re the only two people in it.

Because Jisung’s looking at you the way he used to.

Like you’re a memory he didn’t ask to remember.

And it does something to you.

Cuts something open.

You look away first.

But it’s already too late.

You’re not here anymore. Not really.

You’re back in your apartment, wrapped in the hoodie he’s wearing right now, sitting cross-legged on the floor as he strums unfinished lyrics into the soft spaces between midnight and morning.

You’re watching him scribble into his notebook with one hand and hold your ankle with the other, thumb brushing back and forth like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

You’re kissing in grocery store aisles. Burning dinner together. Laughing so hard you cry over the worst horror movie you’ve ever seen.

And then the other memories start to bleed in.

The yelling. The slammed doors. The nights you locked yourself in the bathroom just to breathe.

The last fight. The last fuck. The last time he said I love you and you didn’t say it back.

You blink. And you’re here again.

Back at the market. Beside someone good. Someone easy.

Caleb is looking at you with soft eyes. He’s been patient. So patient. Even now, when he notices your smile faltering, he doesn’t ask why.

He just waits.

The date goes on.

You walk a little farther. Try a bite of his mochi. Let him lace his fingers with yours.

It’s not bad.

It’s… fine.

And maybe fine would’ve been enough, if you’d never known more.

But you did.

You knew stupid, messy, reckless love. You knew what it was to ache for someone in your bones. You knew what it meant to be held like a secret and touched like a prayer and ruined so gently it almost felt like grace.

You knew Jisung.

And that’s the problem.

Because knowing someone like that ruins you for almosts. For maybes. For men who say the right thing and mean it but still aren’t him.

You stop walking when the crowd thins out a bit. The lantern light is softer here, and the noise fades just enough for the silence to settle.

Caleb turns toward you, tentative.

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod, barely.

“I’ve really liked getting to know you,” he says, thumb brushing yours. “And I think we’d be good together. If you’re ready. I’d like to be exclusive.”

You swallow.

The ache starts behind your ribs and spreads fast. You wish it didn’t. Wish you could pull it back. Wish you were whole enough to say yes and mean it.

But you’re not.

And you never were—not with him. Not with anyone since Jisung.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, gently slipping your hand out of his. “You’re—god, you’re great. You are. And I’ve tried, I really have. But I’m not… I’m not ready.”

The words hang there. Heavy. Final.

Caleb doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you—really looks at you—and something shifts behind his eyes. The softness fades. The patience wilts.

“Right,” he says, stepping back a little. His hands fall to his sides. “Because of him.”

You flinch.

But you don’t deny it.

He laughs, but it’s sharp. Bitter. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. The way you space out sometimes? Like you’re somewhere else? It’s always him, isn’t it?”

You open your mouth. To defend yourself. To explain. To apologize. But nothing comes out.

“I took you on six dates,” he says, voice rising now, not quite yelling but not quiet either. “I planned shit. I waited. I fucking waited for you to want me.”

You look down. Your throat’s too tight to answer. You nod instead—just once. Just enough to say I know. I’m sorry.

Caleb exhales like he’s trying not to scream.

And then, quieter: “God, what’s it like being him?”

Your head snaps up.

Caleb’s staring at you like he’s trying to see straight through you, jaw tight, words sharper now. “What’s it like being the kind of guy who fucks someone up so bad they still come crawling back for scraps?”

You go still.

Your fingers tighten around the waxy paper of your soda cup, the condensation slick against your skin. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care anymore.

Caleb shakes his head, bitter laugh bubbling up. “Jesus. What is it with girls like you? You want the sad little broken boy so you can fix him? You think he’s some tragic poem you can rewrite into something worth reading?”

You don’t think.

You just move.

The drink hits him square in the chest.

Cold soda and crushed ice, all over his shirt, his face, dripping down his neck in sticky streaks. He stumbles back with a sharp gasp, eyes wide in shock.

“What the fuck—”

“Don’t talk about him like that.” Your voice is low. Steady. It surprises even you.

He blinks. “Are you serious right now?”

You are. 

Because for all the ways Jisung has hurt you—for every slammed door, every broken promise, every time he made you feel like you were shouting into a void—you know him. Not the mess. Not the damage. Not the wreckage he left behind.

You know the boy who sang you to sleep without meaning to.

Who walked you home in the rain and held your hand inside his pocket to keep it warm.

Who cried when you bought him a birthday cake because no one had since he was thirteen.

You know the weight he carries. The ones he hides.

And maybe you’re stupid. Maybe you’re reckless. Maybe every single one of your friends would say you’re out of your mind.

But no one—no one—gets to talk about him like he’s just some villain in your story.

"You crazy bitch." Caleb exclaims, eyes wide and disbelieving. You tilt your head up, unimpressed.

"That's right. “

Your voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t waver. It’s calm in the way that makes people nervous—like still water right before a riptide. "Say whatever you want about me. Call me crazy. Call me pathetic. But don’t you dare talk about him like he’s not human."

Caleb scoffs, dragging his wet sleeve across his face. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.” You nod, slow and deliberate. “And so are you—for thinking you're doing me a fucking favor for waiting.”

Caleb doesn’t have a comeback for that.

He stares at you—sodden, stunned—and for a moment, it looks like he might say something else. But then he just shakes his head. Scoffs. And turns away.

You don’t watch him leave this time.

You’re already somewhere else.

Because now that the adrenaline is starting to fade, the chill is catching up to you—settling in your bones, your chest, the hollow spot just beneath your ribs where your heart's been echoing since the market.

You should go home.

That would be the smart thing. The adult thing. You’ve done enough damage for one night.

But when you close your eyes, you see Jisung’s face again.

Not the one from your memories. Not the laughing one, not the soft one, not the one that used to beam when you walked into a room.

The one from tonight.

Raw. Gutted. Like something inside him had cracked open and he was barely holding the pieces together.

You’d seen him spiral before. Seen him angry, careless, even cruel.

But you’d never seen him look scared.

And maybe he’s fine now. Maybe Minho took him home, put on a movie, forced some food into his hand and threatened to throttle him if he didn’t eat it.

But maybe he’s not fine.

Maybe he’s curled up on that shitty couch you used to nap on, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, phone facedown on the coffee table because it doesn’t ring anymore.

Maybe he’s not okay.

The thought latches onto you like a hook. It tugs at you all the way to the curb, has you texting for a rideshare before you even know what address you’re typing in.

You chew your bottom lip the whole way there. Tap your foot against the floor mat, fingers cold and twitchy in your lap. The driver doesn’t talk. You’re grateful for that.

The driver pulls up to the curb.

You thank him, voice hoarse, and step out into the quiet street. The air is cooler here. Quieter, somehow. Like the world’s holding its breath right alongside you.

You know this building like the lines on your palm.

Every crack in the sidewalk. Every creak in the elevator. Every note of the hallway silence that wraps around you now as you walk toward his door.

You shouldn’t be here.

You know that.

You should be giving him space. Giving yourself peace.

But all you can think about is the way he looked at you tonight. Like seeing you was a relief and a punishment all at once. Like he didn’t know whether to run or fall apart.

You knock once, then again, the sound barely audible in the silence of the hallway. Your heart’s thudding so hard it makes your ribs ache, and your fingers feel colder than they should, curled tight at your sides as you wait.

The door opens slower than you expect. Jisung appears in the frame—hoodie creased from sleep, hair messy, eyes red-rimmed like he’s been crying or hasn’t stopped trying not to. He blinks when he sees you, like he’s not sure if you’re real.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice is rough around the edges, like it scraped its way out of his throat.

You shift on your feet, not trusting your voice at first. “I saw you. At the market.”

His expression doesn’t change much, but his shoulders seem to deflate. He leans a little more heavily into the doorframe, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Yeah. I saw you too.”

There’s a silence between you, thick and trembling. The kind that used to mean something else, back when you’d lie tangled on his couch at 2 a.m., your bare feet hooked over his thigh and his fingers in your hair. Back when quiet meant comfort.

But now it just feels uncertain. Fragile.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about your face,” you admit. “You looked—fuck, I don’t know. Not okay. And I guess I just... I couldn’t pretend to enjoy the rest of the night like I hadn’t seen that.”

He huffs, glancing away. “Did something happen? With him?”

You shake your head. “No. Not really. I just left.”

You watch his jaw tick, his eyes dart briefly to your hands like he’s checking to see if you’re still wearing something of Caleb’s. You’re not. You never were.

“I want you back.”

You hadn’t meant to say it like that. No preamble. No gentle buildup. Just the truth, dropped between you like a lit match.

Jisung doesn’t respond right away. He presses his lips together, closes his eyes for a second like he’s bracing himself against the impact of your words.

He doesn’t say anything, and you feel the panic rising.

So you fill the silence. You always do.

You fill it fast. Clumsy and loud and too much, like pouring water into a cracked glass and hoping it won’t spill.

“I know it’s stupid, okay? I know I probably shouldn’t be here, and I know I’ve probably made everything worse, and maybe you were finally starting to breathe again without me, and now I’ve just—fucked it up—but I couldn’t help it. I saw your face and my whole body just—moved.”

Your voice shakes, but you don’t stop. If you stop, you’ll crumble.

“And I’ve been trying. God, I’ve been trying to pretend like I’m fine. Like Caleb could be enough. Like I could kiss someone who isn’t you and not feel like I’m cheating on a ghost. But I can’t. I couldn’t. I can’t sleep without thinking about you. I can’t pass the ramen aisle without remembering that time we fought over the last spicy packet and you let me win but sulked about it for two days—”

“Wait—”

“And the hoodie you’re wearing, I used to sleep in that. I used to put it on just to feel close to you and then take it off when I got mad because I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction—”

“Hey—”

“And the songs, Jisung. The ones you haven’t released. I still know every word. I still sing them in the shower. I still hear them when it’s quiet. You’re in everything, and I don’t know how to be a person who’s okay with that unless you’re actually—”

“Hey.”

His voice is soft this time. Firm, but not sharp.

You barely register it before his hands come up to your face, gentle and grounding. Thumbs brushing the corners of your mouth like he’s wiping off the panic, the desperation, the ache you’ve been carrying since the day everything fell apart.

You go quiet.

Just like that.

Like his touch pulls the power cord on the storm inside you.

His eyes search yours. Careful. Unblinking.

You’re breathing hard. Chest heaving with everything you were trying not to feel for months, everything you’ve tried to bottle, all of it now trembling under the surface of your skin.

“I hear you,” he says, finally. His voice is hoarse. Thick. “I do. Every word. I feel all of it.”

You nod, lips parted, but no sound comes out.

“And I love you,” he adds. Quiet, but devastating. “I never stopped.”

He takes a breath. One that shakes a little.

You think—hope—it’s going somewhere good. That maybe this is the moment. The turning point. The soft ending to a chapter you’ve both been bleeding in.

“But I can’t… I can’t do this. Not yet.”

You blink. Like the words don’t make sense. Like you must’ve heard wrong.

“What?”

He looks down, swallows hard, then meets your eyes again. And what you see there—it isn’t anger. Isn’t rejection.

It’s grief.

Like he’s breaking his own heart to protect yours.

“I want to,” he says, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “More than anything. But wanting it doesn’t fix what we did to each other.”

Your chest caves in.

You feel it. A slow, aching collapse, like a house left too long in the rain.

“But we love each other,” you whisper.

He nods. Pain flickers across his face. “Yeah. That’s the part that scares me.”

You shake your head, eyes stinging. “Why does that scare you?”

“Because love made us reckless,” he says. “It made us cruel. We loved each other so hard we forgot how to be soft. I can’t go back to that, not even for you.”

You don’t know what to say. How to fix this without breaking something else.

“I’m not asking for perfect,” you murmur. “I’m just asking for a start. A chance.”

“And I want to give it to you,” he says, and god, he sounds wrecked. “But if we start again now—like this—we’ll just end the same way. I’m not whole yet. And I don’t think you are either.”

The tears come slow. Quiet and heavy, slipping down your cheeks one by one, running over his thumb and dripping to the floor.

“But I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he says. “I miss you every fucking day.”

His hands are still on your face.

You don’t know if you leaned into them or if he never pulled away, but they’re there—warm and steady and trembling just the slightest bit.

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to pretend this moment could last. That you could stay here forever, suspended in the ache.

It’s soft at first.

His lips brush yours like a question, and for a breathless second, neither of you answer. The space between you contracts. You’re not thinking anymore—just feeling, just remembering. How he used to kiss you when the world got too loud. How he’d pull you close like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

And then he kisses you for real.

No hesitation. No half-measures.

It’s everything.

It’s soft and slow and then sudden—hungry. Desperate. His hands slide back into your hair, and yours clutch his hoodie like you’ll fall through the floor if you let go. He tilts his head and deepens it, lips moving over yours like he’s trying to memorize the shape again, like he’s trying to press every I miss you, every I’m sorry, every don’t go into the seam where your mouths meet.

You taste salt. Yours, his, you can’t tell anymore.

He breaks away for only half a second—to breathe, to look at you—and then he’s back. Mouth warm, kiss messier now. Less poetic. More real. His tongue brushes yours, and your breath stutters. His nose bumps your cheek, and it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but him. This. Now.

It goes on for longer than it should. Long enough for your lungs to burn and your knees to wobble and your heart to plead with your brain to please, please stay.

But eventually, he pulls back.

Slow. Regretful.

His lips are red. His breath ragged. His forehead presses to yours.

And for a second, neither of you say anything.

There’s just breathing—shaky and shared—and the slow, inevitable ache of coming back down. The air between you feels charged, scorched at the edges, like the kind of silence that follows a lightning strike.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

Just stays close enough for you to feel the words before he says them.

“That was a mistake.”

You flinch.

He says it like it hurts him, too. Like it’s the only way he knows how to set a boundary without falling to pieces.

“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Shakes his head. “No. I did. I did mean it. But I can’t do it again. I won’t let either of us go through that twice.”

Your throat burns. The tears are threatening again—quiet this time, the slow kind, the kind that waits to spill until you’re alone.

You try to nod. You try to be brave.

But your lips tremble as you do.

Because nothing about this feels brave. It feels like surrender. Like peeling off a piece of yourself and leaving it behind on his floor.

You step back slowly. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to see him clearly again, without your heart clouding the picture.

“Okay,” you whisper. The word splinters in your mouth.

Jisung’s eyes don’t leave yours. He looks like he wants to reach out again—like his fingers are fighting muscle memory—but he doesn’t. He stays still. Anchored. Like if he moves, he’ll come undone.

And maybe he already is.

Undone, that is.

Because when you look at him now—really look—you don’t see the boy who kissed you like the world was ending. You see the man trying to rebuild himself from the wreckage. The man who loves you so much he’d rather break his own heart than risk breaking yours again.

“I’ll go,” you say, barely more than breath.

And this time, he nods.

Just once.

Just enough.

You turn before you can change your mind. Before the part of you still echoing with his kiss tries to claw its way back to him. You walk to the door. Your hand finds the knob, but your chest stays behind.

Then, just as your fingers begin to twist—

“I’ll come find you,” Jisung says, voice low, raw, steady.

You freeze.

“I don’t know when,” he goes on, “and I don’t know how long it’ll take. But I will. When I’m ready. When I’m better. If you still want me then.”

Your breath catches.

It’s not a promise.

But it’s something.

So you nod—this time without turning—and step into the hallway.

The door clicks softly shut behind you.

You don’t cry again until you’re halfway down the block. Until the wind hits your face and reminds you you’re alone again. That the hands that once held your face like you were something fragile and precious are now tucked into someone else's pockets. That the kiss you’ll be thinking about for months wasn’t a beginning—it was a goodbye.

But still.

You let it hurt.

You let it hollow you out.

Because some part of you, deep down where all the noise gets quiet, knows this isn’t the end.

Just the space in between.

FIVE YEARS LATER

You’re not sure how long you’ve been awake.

Maybe five minutes. Maybe twenty. Time moves differently in his arms—slow and syrupy, like the world’s finally given you permission to rest.

He’s behind you, chest warm against your spine, one leg slotted between yours and an arm heavy over your waist. His fingers are splayed over your stomach, the pads tracing lazy half-circles against your shirt like he’s drawing something only he can see. You’ve always liked that about him—how he touches you like you’re familiar and sacred all at once. Even now. Even after five years.

The duvet is tangled around your hips. The sun’s barely made it past the curtains. It’s a Sunday. The good kind. Quiet, unrushed, no alarms. Just the hum of the ceiling fan and the weight of his love, draped all over you.

You sigh into your pillow, shift just enough for your back to press more fully into him. He responds with a sleepy grunt and nuzzles the top of your head, nose buried in your hair.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, voice all gravel and honey, “you’re warm.”

You smile, eyes still shut. “You’re clingy.”

“‘M married to you. I’m allowed.” He tightens his arm around your waist like it proves something. “’S in the vows. Somewhere between ‘in sickness’ and ‘don’t steal the blanket.’”

You laugh quietly, low in your throat. “Pretty sure that was your vow, not mine.”

He hums again, the sound soft and pleased, like a cat curling deeper into the sun. “You married me anyway.”

“I must’ve been delirious.”

“Or incredibly horny.”

You elbow him gently, and he snickers into your hair, kisses the crown of your head like an apology. He never fully grew out of the teasing—thank god—but it’s gentler now. Like everything else between you. Like the sharp edges dulled over time, replaced with something warmer, something solid. Something you both had to bleed for a little before it made sense.

The silence stretches again, easy this time. You’re still half-asleep, curled around the sound of his breathing and the brush of his fingertips against your stomach. His touch slows, drifts.

Lingers.

It makes something flutter in your chest.

He’s been doing that a lot lately—lingering. His hands resting over your stomach longer than they used to, like he’s listening for something he can’t quite hear yet. Like he’s already preparing for the possibility.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

Because maybe if you lie still long enough, he won’t remember.

Maybe you’ll get to stay here—suspended in the in-between—where nothing is confirmed and nothing can shatter. Where it’s just the two of you, and the sunlight, and the possibility.

But Jisung shifts behind you, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before resting his cheek there, lips brushing skin as he speaks.

“You’re stalling,” he murmurs.

You pretend not to hear him.

He waits a beat. Then, a little firmer, but still sweet: “Babe.”

“Hmm?”

You try to sound innocent. Like you’re not very obviously burying yourself in the blankets and the moment and the man who’s loved you through every version of yourself—every high, every collapse.

But he doesn’t buy it.

“Babe,” he says again, a little lower this time. A little closer to that voice he uses when he really wants you to listen. He exhales, shifting so he can turn you in his arms to face him. “My baby. My pretty girl, where’d you go?”

You blink up at him, caught.

He’s barely awake, but he’s still devastating—his eyes heavy-lidded with sleep, lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks, mouth pink and tugging into something between a smile and a pout. There’s a crease in his cheek from the pillow, and his hair’s a mess, one side flattened, the other curling wildly. And still, he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth waking up for.

“I’m right here,” you whisper.

His brows pinch. “No, you’re not. You’re somewhere in your head. Somewhere far.”

You blink slowly. You don’t want to admit he’s right, but he is. You’ve been floating—hovering in that limbo between maybe and yes, between hope and heartbreak. Between the person you used to be and the one you might become.

He smooths his hand over your hip, up to your back, then back down again. His touch is slow, rhythmic. Grounding.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he says, so soft you almost miss it.

“I’m not,” you lie.

His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “Okay. Then go look.”

“I will.”

“You said that thirty minutes ago.”

“I’m basking.”

He chuckles under his breath. “In what?”

“Love. Marriage. Sunday.”

“Uh huh.” His hand slides up your spine. “And possible parenthood?”

You go quiet.

He doesn’t press.

His palm just rests between your shoulder blades, steady and warm, like he’s holding the moment in place. Like if he keeps still enough, gentle enough, you won’t drift off again—into fear, into doubt, into that place in your head where it’s easier to not know.

You roll onto your back, eyes on the ceiling. The fan spins lazily above you, creaking just a little with each turn. It’s the same one that broke during your first winter here. You remember shivering in four layers while Jisung tried to fix it in a sweatshirt and socks, insisting he didn’t need instructions. You’d sat on the bed eating dry cereal and heckling him until he finally caved and called the landlord.

That was three years ago.

Now there are framed photos on the walls. Wedding rings on your fingers. Two toothbrushes in the holder. Two mugs on the nightstand—his with a cracked handle, yours with chipped paint. Everything shared. Everything still here.

Including the fear.

“I’m scared it won’t be real,” you whisper. “Or worse, that it will.”

His head turns, nose brushing your cheek. “Hey.”

You glance at him, and he’s already looking—soft and sure, sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes but nothing lazy in the way he watches you.

“Whatever it says,” he murmurs, “we’ll deal with it. Together.”

Your lip wobbles. His thumb is there to catch it, to smooth it flat again.

“I used to think we’d never get here,” you say. “Not past the fights. The space. That night.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just nods once, solemn. “Me too.”

“But we did.”

“We did.”

“And now… this.”

He nods again, hand drifting from your cheek to your stomach, palm splaying over the soft cotton of your shirt.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he says, voice low. “You haven’t been for a long time.”

You let the words sink in. Let yourself believe them.

Then, finally, you sigh. “Fine. Let’s go look.”

He beams, teasing and fond. “You sure? Want to bask a little more?”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Help me up, loser.”

He climbs out first, dramatically groaning like his bones are eighty years old. Then he reaches for your hand—gentle, always—and pulls you up with a tug that ends in a kiss.

The kiss starts soft—simple, sweet. A reward for getting out of bed. A thank-you. A tether.

But then something shifts.

Maybe it’s the way you lean into it, arms winding lazily around his neck. Maybe it’s the warmth of your mouth, the way it parts just slightly beneath his. Or maybe it’s just him—your husband, your Jisung—always hungry for a little more, even after all this time.

His hands settle at your hips. Then your waist. Then the small of your back, pulling you in with that easy strength he never shows off but always has. He sighs into your mouth, then deepens it—slow and languid, like he’s trying to taste the years that led to this moment. The time you lost. The time you fought for. All of it.

You hum against him, tilting your head as his tongue brushes yours. He kisses you like he’s never been allowed to before, even though he has—countless times. You’ve kissed in kitchens, in cars, in hotel hallways and grocery store parking lots and every room of this apartment. But something about this one feels heavier. Holier.

Maybe it’s because you haven’t looked yet.

Maybe it’s because it might change everything.

Or maybe it’s just him—easily distracted, always worshipful, completely yours.

His hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt. Not to undress you—just to touch. Skin to skin. He groans low against your mouth, like he didn’t expect it to hit him this hard.

Jisung murmurs against your lips, voice muffled and fond, “Okay, maybe we can bask a little longer.”

You laugh into his mouth, soft and breathless, but it’s too late—he’s already lost in you.

His hands travel up, palms flattening against the warm slope of your back. Your shirt lifts with the movement, but neither of you cares. His body is pressed close now, solid and certain, and he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize everything you’ve ever been, everything you might become. His thumbs sweep along your sides, up your ribs, and your stomach clenches under his touch—part nerves, part anticipation.

You melt into him, eyes fluttering shut, heart pounding in your throat. He tilts his head, mouth slanting deeper over yours, and something inside you stutters. Like a promise. Like a plea.

“Fuck,” he mumbles against your lips. “I love you so much it makes me stupid.”

Your breath hitches. He kisses your jaw. Your neck. The soft underside of your ear.

You shiver.

His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, your thighs. Always tender. Like he’s still grateful to be allowed to touch you. Like the years between then and now never dulled the wonder of it.

He mouths at the curve of your shoulder, teeth just grazing the skin. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

You can’t answer. Not when he’s this close. Not when his fingers are brushing the waistband of your sleep shorts like he’s seconds away from abandoning all pretense.

He pulls back for a breath—but just barely. His forehead rests against yours, both of you panting quietly, caught in that place where love and want blur.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, “if we don’t stop now, I’m not gonna remember what we got up to do.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “You kissed me.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “I know.”

He kisses you again, slow and drugging, and for a second, you think maybe he’ll say screw it. Maybe he’ll lift you onto the counter and kiss you until you forget your own name.

But then he groans—deep and conflicted—and wrenches himself away, palms sliding off your skin like it hurts him to let go.

“We can’t,” he says, breathless. “Not yet. We have to look.”

You laugh, swatting at his arm. "Then quit kissing me!"

He grins—guilty, sheepish, still a little dazed. “I’m trying, I swear.”

“You’re doing a terrible job.”

“I know.” He leans in like he’s going to do it again, and you dodge him with a squeak, backing up until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bathroom doorway.

“Back,” you command, trying to keep your voice stern and failing miserably.

He throws his hands up in surrender, lips twitching. “Okay, okay. Truce.”

You narrow your eyes. “You said that last time and then tried to take my shirt off.”

“That was a separate incident. Entirely different context. Very understandable, if I may add.”

“You may not.”

He grins again—soft this time, a little nervous, like the weight of what you’re about to do is catching up to both of you. The teasing fades as he steps closer, slower now, hands finding your hips like magnets.

You let him.

Because when it comes down to it, he’s always been your safe place. Even when things weren’t safe. Even when it hurt.

The air is thick around you. Quiet, heavy, warm. The kind of quiet that comes right before something changes.

You turn to face the sink together. The counter is cluttered with the usual chaos—his face wash, your serums, a stray hair tie—but all you see is the test. Still sitting there. Still waiting. Face-down. Holding its answer in the silence.

Jisung’s thumb strokes over the back of your hand. You feel his heart pounding through his palm.

You take one breath.

Then another.

And together, you reach.

[chronic-conjuring]

It’s frustrating as a POC to see so many people interpret these characters as irredeemable and villainous, and it’s incredibly indicative of their white, culturally Christian upbringing, imo. We cannot look at these distinctly non-white families and apply those ideals and mentalities to their struggles and inter-familial relationships, it just doesn’t work. The generational trauma is different, the way it is internalized and turned upon others in the family is different, simply because they are not coming from the same cultural background and heritage. These are stories that definitively and decidedly have no villain (although obligatory “I haven’t seen KPDH yet”)

These women are decidedly not villains, and a lot of people seem to have a hard time understanding that you can have a meaningful story without a physical villainous, BBEG to vanquish in the end. That you can tell these stories and have them be deeply meaningful and impactful because there’s no physical villain in the story to overcome. The villain is unprocessed trauma and how that carries down family lines, how unresolved hurt will only result in more hurt to those closest to you. The villain is generational trauma and how it can twist you up inside and destroy families who love each other but don’t know any better. No amount of exile or punishment would fix the problems presented to these families. That’s not the point here, not everyone deserves punishment and damnation just because they hurt others. Especially when that hurt stemmed from trauma and only trying to do what they felt was best for everyone’s survival. Some people get so stuck in survival mode they never learned how to let themselves or others live.

Personally, I feel Bruno is another really great example of this. We see these themes in how the Madrigals inadvertently push Bruno away, and then do him the disservice of refusing to talk about him simply because it hurts too much. It very literally exemplifies how trauma and refusing to talk about it will isolate you from the people who were supposed to love and accept you the most. By having the only person who refuses to be quiet about him be the only one who to can bring him home and back into the family they’re decidedly saying that you can’t just ignore your problems in hopes that they will resolve themselves. You have to face them, have a conversation with them, and resolve to do better.

I think Bruno was a very deliberate choice that way, a very literal representation of how just ignoring something doesn’t make it go away. He never left the family. Much like trauma, pain, and fear, he lived in the the places inbetween. The unexplored parts of the house that were neglected to a point, and his absence left a void in the family no one was willing to address accept Mirabel. That’s a powerful thing to see! By looking him in the face and saying “I will not ignore you. I will not leave you behind. I will not be quiet about you” Mirabel shows that Bruno is not shameful or unloved. That he can exist and belongs in the family just like everyone else even if his existence can be uncomfortable, even if he exposes uncomfortable truths and unavoidable futures, just like how trauma lives in families but still needs to be addressed and worked through.

We know that the Madeigals love Bruno, and that refusing to talk about him was a maladaptive coping mechanism, but he didn’t know that. All he knew was that he disappeared and his family and village refused to speak of him afterwards. And it’s important to note that after the house comes down, after Mirabel and Alma finally come to an understanding of one another, then Bruno comes back to the family. Only after all the shame and pain and suffering are uncovered and acknowledged and started to be worked through does Bruno reenter the family to find that he was never forgotten or unwanted. He can finally be embraced by the whole family now that they all have started to learn how to cope and heal together. That’s a powerful message.

I think Bruno’s story exemplifies the message these stories are trying to convey very well. I think Encanto decided it wasn’t good enough to have just the representation of it all as the main storyline, but that they also needed a character to exemplify what can happen when you don’t address the intergenerational trauma as well as personify that concept a little. He’s the odd one out in the family, he’s the one who shows people the truth of things no matter how uncomfortable they may be, and the family can’t be whole until they acknowledge him and accept him for who he is. Just like trauma for so many, they couldn’t move on until everything came crashing down around them and uncomfortable realities were addressed. Not until Bruno came out of hiding, and everyone was allowed to be themselves no matter how uncomfortable or flawed they may be, could they whole again.

Like OP said, we need to have compassion for these characters and recognize that you can’t grow and overcome things by burying them. You have to have the courage and strength to change in order to overcome, and by believing these women deserved to be even more downtrodden and punished for their reactions to traumatic experiences you are wholly missing the entire point of their characters and what a real villain even looks like.

The Matriarch Isn’t the Villain. She’s the Mirror

I often hear a discourse where Celine in K-pop Demon Hunters, Alma in Encanto and Ming in Turning Red are seen as vilains. They’re the ones who restricted the younger generation, hurt them, and are ultimately responsible for their pain, trauma and self-doubt. They’re framed as the real villains of the story. But I’d like to differ.

These are stories of intergenerational trauma. They are women who survived, repressed, and tried to protect their families the only way they knew how: through control, perfectionism, and emotional suppression.

And yet, when the next generation begins to reclaim joy, freedom, softness — they become the obstacle. Not because they’re bad people, but because they’re scarred. Their minds cling to survival strategies, unable to recognize that the environment has changed.

Alma is still stuck fleeing the colonizers.

Ming is still afraid of her true self.

Celine believes that fear and mistakes must be hidden.

It’s not about hating these characters. It’s about how unprocessed trauma twists love into control. How survival, unexamined, turns into rigidity. These women were never given space to process their own pain and they project it onto their daughters and granddaughters.

And here’s something we rarely say enough: intergenerational trauma can create toxic patterns but that doesn’t always mean there was abuse or conscious harm. Even when their love becomes suffocating or controlling, these women are not necessarily “abusive parents.” They are daughters of silence, fear, and sacrifice. And they were never taught another way. It’s important to make that distinction, especially in a world that often pushes a binary, punitive reading of family dynamics.

They’re the product of a generation that was told to endure. But endurance without healing becomes its own kind of violence.

What’s powerful in these stories is that they don’t end in vengeance. They end in confrontation and transformation. The confrontation is necessary: the younger generation refuses the silence. Refuses the shame. Refuses to carry a burden that wasn’t theirs to begin with.

The house is destroyed in Encanto.

Mei accepts her full self.

So does Rumi.

And in the best cases, this confrontation allows the elder to soften too. Alma opens up. Ming listens. And I’m hoping in the sequel, Celine will open too.

Maybe that’s also why these stories speak so deeply to POC audiences. These aren’t stories about cutting ties. They’re stories about how hard it is to transform them, to protect ancestral bonds while refusing to perpetuate inherited pain. In many racialized families, collectivity, loyalty, and intergenerational duty are sacred... even when they come at the cost of personal boundaries.

And sometimes, Western individualist frameworks read these tensions as dysfunction or villainy. But for us, they’re just the difficult truth of growing up and trying to do better.

These women aren’t villains. That would be too easy. They embody the fragile, necessary work of bringing change without breaking the thread. These stories are about refusing to inherit their pain without reflection. Because love, without accountability, is not enough.

These stories show us that each generation has something to learn from the next. And the new generation must also break free from the chains they inherited while preserving what is meaningfull.

But it’s not just their story.

One day, we’ll be the older generation.

And we’ll need to be humble enough to learn from the ones after us.

So don’t be a fool.

We may be Mei, Rumi, or Mirabel today.

But tomorrow, we could be Ming, Celine, or Alma.

And when that time comes, we’ll realize how hard it is to unlearn what once kept us safe.

So let’s have compassion for all these characters.

Because these stories show us not just how the cycle of generations works, but how it can make us better, stronger, and more connected... if we’re all willing to go through the change.

∘₊✧──────✧──────✧₊∘

If you’re curious, I’ve written more on K-pop Demon Hunters:

A post on the mental health themes woven through the songs — right here.

A breakdown of Celine-Rumi in comparaison to Gothel–Rapunzel dynamic — here.

An analysis about Rumi, Jinu, and the danger of sinking together — here.

Some book recs for each of the K-pop Demon Hunters characters — here.

[hattersrabbit]

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

yandere batfam x neglected! rogue! reader | sfw

CW! female reader, overstepping boundaries, Stockholm Syndrome, ALL PLATONIC RELATIONSHIPS, manipulation, isolation, guilt tripping, victim blaming, jealousy (from batkids), over protective batfam, fluffy but like f-ed up if you consider the context, hurt comfort (again f-ed up way), tim "stalker" drake, dick grayson being a little shit too

Summary! Growing time meant more suspicious people. The Justice League in curiosity of how the Batfamily had yet to find you. The people in question; Batman and Nightwing dealt with the League. the family as a whole truly work hard to keep you in their claws.

previous | next | masterlist

✎ᝰ.this is just exposition honestly but I got things planned >:) *rubs hands together evily*

˖꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷

Decorated with black lace at the wrists you flexed your fingers. Stephanie forever moving at a pace that you couldn't help but envy.

Perhaps if you were faster then you'd be gone. Unfortunately you never achieved training like that of her and your other siblings. The blonde always dressing you up and making sure your white streak always showing bright and proud.

As if what you did was okay.

"Oh! Looking nice [ ]!" Tim asked as he entered the room. "What's this for?" He asked Stephanie who was hard at work.

"Cass and Damian wanted to teach her how to dance."

You didn't get a choice in the matter. Not that you ever did, and especially no choice in this makeover she was giving you.

"Gotta dress the part I guess." Tim mused with a whistle. His eyes drifting to your hands and then the white streaking. Stalking eyes always made you uncomfortable. Both he and Cass always looking at you like that.

They weren't shy in their curiosity.

The dress itself was black; remincent of Morticia Addams. Your sleeves draping over, and flooding out at the feet.

"Haven't seen B and Dick this morning. Have any idea why? They had breakfast then fled out." Stephanie asked as she carefully placed a necklace on you. Her hands avoiding touching your skin.

You shivered. Heart dropping to your stomach as your skin got a cold breeze against your skin. Bare skin so close, and yet you no longer seemed to deny it.

"Justice League wanted them to come up. Not doubt they heard about [ ]." Tim laughed, bitterly you noted. "You're famous, sis."

"Oh..." Perhaps the Justice League against their most trusted members would save you. From being isolated in this house. A home full of seven other devils disguised as birds.

"Don't worry [ ]! We'll protect you from everyone that wants to take you away." Stephanie concluded as she added final touches. "Ya know considering you won't be able to attend anymore galas at this point we might as well dress you up! In fact let's get all of us to dress up!"

"Ah! I see." Tim mused with narrowed eyes. Burning into you're skin and looking up and down like a predator. "You won't join us then, so we can host our own private little dances with you." Without fear he touched your white streak.

"I'll get everyone Steph. I'll be back!" Tim left and now you were left with Steph who was now busy with planning out makeup for the others.

Left with your thoughts you realized that the Justice League knew about you. The intent to see if the family had found you yet. Truth coming to light that you never left them like you planned.

Trapped in this house of people who hadn't showed affection to you, and now they were. Touch was given and you couldn't accept it but unfortunately you melted every single time.

Every single day you melted faster and faster, as days passed.

And melted you did in way Duke held your hands as you danced. The boy himself struggled with dancing, and Damian was yelling at him to get it right.

His hands touching the lace of your hands. A soft and nervous smile as he stared at you with the most guilty eyes imaginable. The man always being able to make you guilty just by looking into his eyes.

You looked away and at you guys feet.

You tripped and the boy narrowly avoided your neck as his hand drifted to catch you by the back. His strength easily holding you up. A bright voice of laughter expressed from him, while you yelped.

A body that belonged to you, too fast for your liking, melted as the boy brought you back. Twirling feet on the dance floor as Motzart played from a speaker.

"You're on 2! Not 3!" Damian yelled. Jealously evident in his eyes. Poor thing having not been able to hide his jealousy. Cassandra only stared blankly. Glaring at Duke who paid no mind.

Only continuing to smile at you. Intent on keeping you're attention on him.

There were giggles at Duke blatantly ignoring Damian's words. The demon brat himself was growing impatient and tapping his foot on the marble floor.

"Thomas! You let go of her this instant!" Jealously wasn't hidden at all in his voice. "It's my turn! And you'll dance with Cain!"

The girl made a noise but rolled with it anyway. Duke whined a complaint as Damian pulled on his well-made suit so that he could separate from you.

Left in middle of the ballroom looking on at how Damian was pushing for Duke to go away. To get away from you. As it should be, but all in an effort so that Damian could dance with you.

They all seemed to want to. Even Jason who was less inclined to give you the affection of touch wanted to dance with you just as much. He and Tim were glaring at each other at the moment. A silent battle of who would get to you first.

Once again, as if prey in a room full of predators. Or a worm in a room full of birds.

"There, that problem is gone." Damian concluded. Immediately grabbing your hands without warning. You flinched at his touch, and boy made a noise at it. "Do I make you scared?" It was scary how low his voice got.

"Don't be afraid of me. I'm only doing what is in your best interest."

Quite perplexing statement for a fourteen year old. You were only as old as Duke, and somehow the boy younger that you two felt like he was older, and much smarter at times.

You nodded silently.

"You don't talk anymore. You need to talk more, sister." That nickname of endearment rang heavy off of his tongue. Damian was always expressing it, unlike before to which he barely acknowledged you.

"Talk to me."

Breathing hitching you stared into Damian's green eyes, "What is there to talk about?" You're voice hoarse from crying all night. You couldn't deny you're predicament. Trapped in this house, and simply kept prisoner from the world with the use of affection, and the basic hands of loving siblings and a father.

"What is the point in saying anything? There's not much i can say."

Damian said nothing. His grip only getting tighter just as the music stepped up in tempo.

"About what?" The child inquired. Titling his head as you two glided across the marble floor. Damian's voice was scary. To scary, but he was an ex-assassin. You shouldn't have expected much. "Is it the very fact we've imprisoned you in this house?" He raised a brow. Inquiring a reaction from you.

"It is for your protection." He got too close. Swaying with you elegantly despite a few missteps from you. "An apology too. Gotham. The whole world is after you, dear sister." Damian huffed. Adhering the fact what he was saying was obvious.

"They want you imprisoned, and people such as the Penguin want to go knows what with you." Darkness seeped like venom. Damian's eyes layered over. Green almost glowing despite the bright ballroom.

Your breath hitched.

"We lost you once, and something worse could have happened. Because of what we've done you left and caused this."

Your braine sparked with Jason's words. His subtle jab of insinuating this was all you're fault. Damian was doing the same, but...he was blaming them all...himself.

"Damian...you're a child-"

"It does not matter. We never should have listened to Drake." A growl was low. It was true. If it hadn't been for Tim, then maybe this wouldn't have happened.

But...this power was terrifying.

"Don't blame him." A whimper broke from your lips. Damian looked with narrowed eyes that softened ever so slightly. "Please."

Subtle manipulation from you. It seemed to work because Damian nodded slowly. "Anything for you. Anything to atone for what I've done to you. After all, my own biological sister. We're truly the only ones worthy-"

"Aye! My turn!" Jason's voice roared.

"No! My turn!" Stephanie and Tim's voice mixed in a yell against Jason. After that they started arguing with each other.

Beside them Cassandra was still looking on blankly with those dark eyes of hers. Duke was still pouting. Rubbing his hands with those eyes still looking sad and guilty.

"[ ] will choose, imbeciles." Damian concluded as he let go of your hands. You looked at him in shock. He'd given you a choice, but not an option to opt out. Nevertheless, an option.

"Well sister?" Everyone looked at you expectingly. You're eyes squinted with sweaty palms beneath your gloves. Heart swelled with anxiety... and dare you say warmth. Twisted warmth of these above all monsters.

Softly you called out, "Cassandra."

You'd never get out of this place by this point. Not if you kept melting for them all. But it proved futile.

You wanted love, and maybe somewhere in the world they'd stop you. You didn't know what to do.

So right now you just took Cassandra's gentle hand, and she led you into waltz to Swan Lake.

-

"Why do you think they called us?" Nightwing's voice was emotionless. Expression blank beneath his domino mask. Seemingly looking at Batman, who was in his costume.

The bat grunted.

Nightwing whistled, "Thought so. They were gonna say something eventually." Brows curving over. His contempt for this meeting show of how he glared at his hands. "The others are teaching her how to dance." He whined. " and I couldn't be there."

"We'll make this quick." Batman assured. His voice just as blank, but there was an edge to it. His paranoia no doubt going into overdrive over leaving you alone. Even if his other kids and Alfred were capable of protecting you he stilled feared.

'NIGHTWING & BATMAN'

Zetatubes announced them at the Watchtower. Stepping out they were met with the Justice League's founding members; Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash, Green Lantern, and Martian Manhunter.

"Batman and Nightwing." Superman greeted them with wobbly smile. Both of the vigilante's eyes narrowed. "Glad you could make it."

"I'm sure you two know why we called you here?" J'onn softly asked. The two nodded while taking seats.

"The girl, [ ] Wayne. You've haven't found her yet?" Green Lantern asked with a raised brow. "She's a normal girl isn't she? She shouldn't be too hard to find?"

"GL." Flash frowned. "How's Mr.Wayne? If you don't mind me askingm?"

No one noticed, expect Nightwing of how Batman's subtle breathing in. Seething on the inside of how he failed his daughter. "Distraught."

"Oh, I see." Flash looked at the table. Not a lick of suspicion.

"Yes, we wanted to give our help if it's needed." Wonder Woman smiled gently. Sweet, but no, they wouldn't give you over.

"Why do you want to help? You know the rule?" Nightwing raised a brow. "And I work in Bloodhaven. There's no real reason why I'm here?" It was hard to hide his anger. He wanted to be back home dancing with his sister.

"Uh..."Flash mumbled.

"You were Robin." Superman smiled. Always the second, more like third, but nonetheless, he tried to comfort. "Perhaps you've heard anything in Bloodhaven too, and if you've two have been working together on this." He was nervous. Nightwing felt sad for the Kryptonian that he was doing this, but for you he would.

"Do you plan to bring her into custody?" Batman asked accusatory. Nightwing brought a hand to his armored arm.

"Spooky? What's up your ass?" Green Lantern smirked, but it was faltered in hesitation. Fear possibly due to Batman's unusual un-stoic voice.

The Justice League looked around, "Of course not." Diana finished. "The poor girl. It was an accident and no doubt she is scared. The video footage proves it happened spure of the moment." She smiled again. "We want to help."

"We can talk with the victim's family, and Gotham itself. The government as well. This girl...she didn't mean to." Superman flashed a familiar look. Times under control when he caused harm. He didn't want to, but things happened. Superman related to you.

Batman and Nightwing couldn't deny the jealousy bubbling.

"I see." Batman stood up. "If that is all we will be going. We see it as we need no help. We will find her with all our might." The vigilante looked at J'onn who was looking on blankly.

"Do you think we're lying, Martian Manhunter?" Nightwing titled his head.

"Of course not. You both are very on edge." J'onn raised a hand.

Batman grunted, "Quite busy as well. With [ ] Wayne's dissappearance; there are many people and groups after her. Many are being a problem and are inhibiting our investigation." He grunted a goodbye.

Nightwing waved, "We'd like to keep this to Gotham! It be safer for [ ] Wayne. Having so many heroes look for her may give the wrong impression. We'll find her."

The dynamic duo left with no more questions to be asked. They didn't wait. The Justice League only stared on as they left from the Watchtower.

"They are hiding something." Green Lantern claimed with an accusatory tone.

"Batman never does things without a reason. I'm sure he'll tell us what it is at some point." Diana said back. "And yes I've heard Gotham has been a bit wild as of late."

"I wish he'd let us help." Superman pouted just a bit. "And they were acting strange. J'onn?"

"Yes, even without my mind reading i can tell they are holding something back. Something...dark."

-

"I'm here!" Dick's voice was gleeful as he entered the ballroom. Already squealing when seeing you dressed in your best.

"So beautiful!" You welped as his arms pulled you against his chest. Body confused on whether to pull away or to stay.

"Hey, Dickface. Its still my turn." Jason made his size imposing. A curving brow at Dick who wasn't fazed at all.

The oldest pouted, "You've gotten to see her all day! Don't you wanna dance with your biggest brother!" His face smothered into your hair. You were frozen as the man narrowly avoided your bare skin. Dick seemed to have no care in the world of what could happen him.

"Jason and I were just about to dance." Quietly you spoke. You didn't know what to do. You were scared of Dick's expression at your words.

"Oh.." You shivered at how his voice dropped, "then can I be next."

"I'm next. It's a cycle." Tim raised a brow. His hands seeming to itch. "Don't you have patrol?"

"Nope! Batwoman is taking over!" Dick giggled. "So when can I go with my little sister?!" He asked with a forced smile. Everyone could tell. Predators fighting over a piece of meat.

"You can go after me." Stephanie grinned widely.

Dick hummed. That smile tightening jealously.

"Please behave." Bruce was pouting by the door. His arms crossed as he leaned against the door. "Share [ ]. She isn't some object to hog."

How hypocritical. This entire family was keeping you in a cage, as if you were a bird yourself. Whether bat or bird you were trapped inside a golden cage.

"Go ahead, Jason."

He grinned, and took you dancing to the music of Merry-Go-Round of Life. Everyone watched happily, but that jealousy wasn't missed. Bruce made sure everyone was on their best behavior.

"You're getting better. Took me a bit of time to get the hang of it." Jason grinned cheekily. You nodded.

You're lips itched to smile. You mustn't because what was happening was wrong. No matter how much you enjoyed all of this. They've all pushed back against your boundries.

And Tim did so the most. The little creep thar he was. Fascination with your power. It was other being. The ability to take a person's energy, or even powers as hypothesized, was a venture to explore.

Despite Tim's creepiness you did comend his want to keep it respectful, but even so, he and the others pushed back to touch you. To hold your hand, or in this case; dance with you.

His touch was never hurtful though. Cassandra and Damian would keep a firm grip on you, like you would go away if they let go. Tim was always gentle in holding your hand.

"You like the music I chose?" Tim asked gleefully. You nodded. It was quite the tune of classical music. "It's Mozart." He smiled wide. It felt less creepy.

"Trust me. We'll get down to what your ability is and it's limits."

You shivered at his words. Like some scientist. "I don't mean to push but at some point I'll need you let me test skin to skin contact with you."

You shook your head. The music seemed to drown out as you and Tim entered a tensed world. "It's why we do this. Hug you and pull you wherever we want. You need to get used to touch." Narrowed blue eyes. Like a burning sun.

"Gloved or not." His hold on your hands gripped tightly but not hurtful. Not gripping in a way similar to Cassandra or Jason as of before. "So please bend to our need. This way we'll keep you safe."

The song was beginning to end. Tim on one knee and hold your gloved hands. A soft smile with those narrowed blue eyes. Almost glowing as Damian's were a few moments ago.

He kissed you're gloved hand, "We love you. Don't you know that? Believe me when I say that."

Would you deny you're cries. Inner screaming in your throat. Tim's gentle plea despite all he and the others have done.

Truly, do you have the heart to deny them after all they've tried to atone?

˖꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷

@lovebug-apple @invinciblewaffles @that-daughter-of-nyx @hearts4mica @krys0210 @lilyalone @watermellonslol

[kentblvd]

tutor!clark kent x reader walk with me please… [nsfw + sfw]

sfw

tutor!clark kent . . . who listens to you vent to your friends after class on how you’re struggling in your linguistics class and takes and takes it upon himself to approach you and offer some help.

tutor!clark kent . . . who invites you over to his place just a small walk off campus where he starts a bit of small talk just to get you familiarized with him, the last thing he wants to do is scare you away. it’s so sweet oh his golden hearted self, always willing to help everyone. you were shocked to find out through conversation he wasn’t already taken, such a shame for a good guy like him :((

tutor!clark kent . . . who writes out detailed notes in perfect handwriting, color-codes them for you, and shows up to study sessions prepared with flashcards, snacks, and tea. he leans in close when explaining concepts, his voice low and calm, brushing against your shoulder accidentally-on-purpose every time he points something out. “no pressure,” he says with a grin, “but I know you can get this.”

tutor!clark kent . . . whose lectures you want to focus on and you try so very hard to, but he is soooo close, so warm, and every time he praises you—“that’s my girl.”—your heart races. you drop your pencil more than once just to watch him pick it up, sleeves rolled up over his forearms, lips parted as he glances at your notes. neither of you say anything, but the air is thick with something.

nsfw

tutor!clark kent . . . who takes it upon himself to ‘help you out’ when you really can’t focus. he takes charge. it happens during particularly rough sessions. you mix up verb morphology for the third time, groaning in frustration. clark leans back in his chair, sighs, and says, “alright. ne method.” he pulls you over his lap, your skirt riding up. “every mistake gets a punishment. think you can handle that?” your breath catches. “y-yeah…” smack. “good. let’s begin.”

tutor!clark kent . . . who spanks for wrong answers, but gives kisses and so much more for the right ones. it becomes a system for you guys. one wrong answer? a sharp, smack on your ass, his hand firm, warm, his voice rough in your ear giving you the most gentle scold. get even just one right answer and his mouth on yours, hungry, rewarding. and if you get all of it, clark would lay you back across the couch and show you just how proud he is—his fingers deep inside you, his mouth worshipping every inch. “see? you can learn, did just fine” he growls, thrusting into you, “just needed the right motivation.”

tutor!clark kent . . . who fucks you mid-session to help you “focus.” you’re bent over the desk, books shoved aside, clark deep inside you, holding your waist tight. “you wanna remember the difference between inflection and derivation?” he pants, thrusting harder. “every time i fuck you like this, i want you to think about it. say it—say the definition.” you whimper it out between moans, and he praises you, hips snapping, cock filling you until all you can think about is him.

bonus

you start passing from then on, acing every quiz. your professor is impressed, praising clark for taking it upon himself to help. and you’re just blissfully exhausted, constantly glowing, always sore in the best way. clark grins as he picks you up for study dates, hand resting low on your back. “told you you could learn,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “now… about next week’s test. better start preparing.” you shiver, thighs clenching, your boyfriend has never been so motivating.

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