#the angst potential with this one is endless

[blossomcola]

NOBODY’S BUSINESS — 𝓢ophia 𝓛aforteza

❝𝘢𝘪𝘯’𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘣𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺.❞

──── ( 🖇️ ) when an affair with your boss, a wealthy socialite named sophia, seems like the only escape from a mundane life, you’re blinded by the glitz and glamour. but as your secret love with sophia intensifies, you discover that inherited wealth and personal connections come at a steep price, one that puts her marriage and your future at risk.

𝓟airing. dom!boss!sophia laforteza x sub!employee!fem reader

𝓒ontent 𝓦arnings. angst, cheating, cunnilingus, degradation, fingering, multiple orgasms, scissoring, squirting.

𝓦ord 𝓒ount. 7,8k (7,826)

the rhythmic click of your heels against the polished marble floor echoes in the sterile hallway, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing in your stomach. each step propels you closer to the lion’s den – sophia laforteza’s office. the laforteza family name is practically synonymous with wealth and privilege in this city, and their company, a sprawling empire built on generations of shrewd investments, is where you unfortunately find yourself employed.

sophia. the name itself tastes like citric acid on your tongue. the quintessential daddy’s girl, draped in designer clothes and radiating an air of unearned authority. you’ve seen her in action, witnessed firsthand the ease with which she navigates the corporate landscape, a landscape paved with her father’s connections and influence. it grates on you, this effortless ascent fueled by nepotism.

it’s not the work itself that grates on your nerves. numbers are numbers, spreadsheets are spreadsheets, and you happen to be exceptionally good at manipulating both. it’s sophia. sophia laforteza, the epitome of a spoiled heiress, someone who landed in her corner office not through merit, but through the sheer luck of being born into the “right” family. her perfectly coiffed hair, designer clothes, and the perpetually bored expression on her face are constant reminders of the chasm that separates your world from hers.

you despise the way she treats everyone below her with a thinly veiled disdain, the way she takes credit for ideas that aren’t hers, and the way she seems utterly oblivious to the real world outside the gilded cage she inhabits.

and yet, here you are. stuck. the pay is exorbitant, far more than you could realistically expect anywhere else with your skillset. and the hours, miraculously, are reduced, offering you a semblance of work–life balance you desperately crave. the golden handcuffs, they call it. and you, it seems, are firmly shackled. the thought of another job search, the endless applications, the soul–crushing interviews, the potential for yet another dead-end position… it’s a deterrent. the golden handcuffs are firmly in place, and you find yourself reluctantly grateful for their restrictive comfort.

you reach sophia’s door, a heavy mahogany monstrosity that screams wealth and privilege. you briefly consider knocking, but the absurdity of it hits you — she’s probably expecting you anyway, but you can't stop being professional.

reaching the door, you pause, taking a deep breath to compose yourself. you smooth down your skirt, a silent act of defiance against the internal chaos. then, you knock.

“come in!” her voice, a shade too high–pitched and laced with a practiced air of authority, slices through the polished wood.

you push the door open and step inside. sophia’s office is exactly as you'd expect — a carefully curated space that screams “expensive” without actually saying anything of substance. the desk is a vast expanse of dark wood, meticulously organized, with a single, perfectly placed vase of orchids providing the only pop of color. sophia herself is seated behind it, a whirlwind of paperwork seemingly engulfing her.

sophia is seated behind her expansive desk, a chaotic landscape of paperwork threatening to engulf her. she’s wearing a cream–colored silk blouse that probably costs more than your rent, and her perfectly coiffed black hair shines under the soft glow of the recessed lighting. she glances up as you enter, her eyes, the same shade of glacial brown as her mother”s, narrowing slightly. you can practically see the gears turning as she tries to recall why you're here. it’s a familiar dance.

“ah, there you are.” she says, her voice a carefully cultivated blend of sweetness and authority. it’s a tone that always makes your teeth clench. “come in, close the door behind you. i was just reviewing the quarterly reports. quite a mess, wouldn’t you say?”

you oblige, shutting the heavy door with a soft click. the sound seems amplified in the suddenly confined space. you walk towards her desk, your posture stiff and professional.

“you wanted to see me?” you ask, keeping your voice neutral, devoid of any hint of the disdain that churns within you.

she gestures to one of the plush leather chairs opposite her desk. “please, have a seat.”

you sit, maintaining eye contact, refusing to be intimidated by her carefully constructed facade. the air in the room thickens with unspoken tension.

“i’ve been reviewing your reports for this quarter,” sophia begins, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against a stack of papers. “and while the numbers are… satisfactory, i feel like there’s a certain… lack of initiative.”

you raise an eyebrow, a silent challenge. “lack of initiative? i’ve consistently exceeded my projected targets.”

she waves a dismissive hand. “targets are just that — targets. meeting them is expected. i’m talking about going above and beyond. thinking outside the box. being proactive.”

“i am proactive.” you retort, barely keeping the edge out of your voice. “i identify potential problems and implement solutions before they escalate.”

“yes, yes, i’m sure you do.” she says, her voice dripping with condescension. “but i’m looking for more. i want to see you taking ownership, leading the charge, innovating.”

“innovating what, exactly?” you ask, your patience wearing thin. “my role is primarily data analysis. i provide the information on which key decisions are made.”

“exactly! and that information is crucial. so, you need to be more… creative with it. think about how you can present it in a way that inspires action, that drives growth.”

you stare at her, feeling a growing sense of frustration. she’s speaking in corporate buzzwords, empty platitudes that sound impressive but mean absolutely nothing.

“are you suggesting i fabricate data?” you ask, your voice dangerously low.

sophia’s eyes widen slightly, a flicker of panic crossing her face. “of course not! i would never suggest anything unethical. i just want you to be more… persuasive.”

“persuasive how?” you press, enjoying the discomfort you see in her eyes.

she fidgets in her chair, avoiding your gaze. “i… i don’t know. that’s what i’m paying you to figure out.”

“you’re paying me to analyze data, not to spin it into a narrative that suits your agenda.” you say, your voice hardening. you've spent the last three weeks buried in spreadsheets, sifting through customer demographics, purchase histories, and marketing campaign results. the numbers don’t lie, and they’re painting a picture sophia clearly doesn't want to see.

sophia finally looks up, her eyes flashing with anger. “don’t talk to me like that. i’m your boss.”

the words hang in the air, thick and heavy. you feel a bitter laugh bubbling in your chest, threatening to spill out and make a scene. you manage to swallow it down, but the taste of bile lingers on your tongue.

“right.” you say, your voice dangerously low. “my boss. remind me, sophia, what kind of boss sleeps with her employees, sophia?” you ask, the question hanging heavy in the air like a humid summer storm. the blood thrums in your ears, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, suffocating silence of her opulent office. outside, the city hums its relentless song, a stark contrast to the tense quiet that has settled between you.

sophia’s face pales, the carefully applied makeup unable to completely mask the sudden flood of guilt and something that could be fear. she opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. you press on, relentless now that the dam has broken. she opens her mouth, then closes it, searching for the right words, the right lie, but finds none.

“that’s… that’s not fair.” she finally stammers, her voice losing some of its usual steel. “you… you wanted it too.”

“wanted it? or was it subtly, skillfully coerced? was it the promise of a brighter future dangled in front of me like a carrot? tell me, sophia, how many other analysts have you ‘mentored’ into your bed to get ahead?” the words spill out of you, fueled by weeks of simmering resentment and a bitter, burning betrayal.

you watch her squirm, a small satisfaction blooming in your chest. for too long, she’s held all the power, manipulated the narrative, and controlled the game. now, for a fleeting moment, the tables are turning.

“that’s a disgusting accusation.” she hisses, her composure returning with a vengeance. “i value you, (y/n). your work is exceptional. the… the personal aspect was separate.”

“separate? you think i’m stupid? that i can’t see the connection? you’re offering me the position of your personal secretary, sophia. your personal secretary. an upgrade in title, more money, more proximity to you. all predicated on one condition: that i keep my mouth shut about our… ‘personal aspect,’ especially to your wife, manon.” you spit the name out like a curse.

the air crackles with unspoken accusations, with the weight of your shared secret, with the bitter taste of exploitation.

sophia stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the polished floor. “how dare you?" she hisses, her voice trembling. “this is completely inappropriate. i’m going to pretend you didn’t say any of that.”

“oh, i think we both know you won’t forget it.” you retort, pushing yourself away from the desk. “the truth has a funny way of sticking in your craw, doesn’t it?”

“manon doesn’t need to know.” sophia says, her voice softening again, a desperate plea slipping through the cracks of her carefully constructed facade. “it was a mistake. a moment of weakness. it doesn’t have to affect anything.”

“oh, but it does, sophia. it affects everything. it affects my trust, my self–respect, and my career. it affects your marriage, your reputation, everything you’ve built. and you expect me to just… ignore it? to become your silent accomplice?” you step closer, invading her personal space, forcing her to look you in the eye. “you underestimate me. you thought you could buy my silence with a title and a raise. you thought i was just another pawn in your game.”

“get out.” she says, her voice barely a whisper, but there's a steel edge to it that sends a shiver down your spine.

“gladly.” you reply, grabbing your bag and heading for the door. “but don’t think this is over, sophia. the data speaks for itself, and so willi.”

as you reach the door, sophia explodes. “you think you can just waltz in here, sleep with me, threaten me, and walk away scot–free? you are sorely mistaken! you are nothing but a glorified number cruncher, and i can replace you in a heartbeat! do you really think anyone will believe you? it’s your word against mine! and who do you think they’ll trust, hmm? the owner of the company or some two–bit data analyst?”

you turn back to face her, your jaw clenched. “two–bit data analyst? you were singing a different tune last night, weren’t you? when you were whispering in my ear, telling me how brilliant i am, how much you appreciate my… dedication.” you let the word drip with sarcasm. “and as for replacing me, go ahead. but replacing the truth? that’s a little harder, don’t you think?”

“liar!” sophia screams, advancing towards you. “you’re twisting everything! i never offered you a promotion in exchange for your silence. that’z a complete fabrication! you’re just jealous because you know you’re not good enough!”

“jealous?” you scoff. “of what? your loveless marriage? your ethically bankrupt business practices? your pathetic attempts to control everyone around you? i wouldn’t trade places with you for all the money in the world.”

“get out!” she roars, her face contorted with rage. “get out before i call security.”

“go ahead.” you challenge, standing your ground. “call them. tell them everything. see how that plays out for you.”

a wave of nausea washes over you as the full weight of the situation crashes down. what have you done? you’ve jeopardized your career, possibly your reputation. but you couldn’t stay silent any longer. the lies, the manipulation, the blatant disregard for ethical boundaries — it was all too much.

“you know.”.you say, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. “i actually felt bad for you. i thought you were trapped, that you wanted out of this… charade. but now i see the truth. you enjoy it, don’t you? the power, the control, the ability to manipulate people like puppets.”

“shut up!” sophia shrieks, grabbing a heavy glass paperweight from her desk.

you instinctively flinch, taking a step back. “don’t.” you warn, your voice trembling. “don’t do anything you’lll regret.”

“i already regret ever meeting you!” she screams, her eyes wild with fury. “you’ve ruined everything!”

“no, sophia.” you say, shaking your head sadly. “you ruined everything yourself. i just exposed it.”

the room falls silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. sophia stands there, panting, the paperweight still clutched in her hand. you stare back at her, your heart pounding in your chest.

finally, she slowly lowers the paperweight, placing it back on the desk with a thud. “get out.” she repeats, her voice barely audible now. “just get out.”

the humid air hangs heavy in the room, thick with unspoken words and simmering resentments. the mahogany desk gleams under the soft glow of the desk lamp, a silent witness to the drama unfolding within the four walls. time seems to slow to a crawl, each second stretching into an eternity as you lock eyes with sophia.

the room falls silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. sophia stands there, panting, the paperweight still clutched in her hand. its smooth, cold surface glints menacingly in the dim light, a stark contrast to the fury blazing in her eyes. you stare back at her, your heart pounding in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears like a frantic drum.

you can feel the sweat prickling on your skin, a cold sheen born of fear and adrenaline. the air is thick with the scent of her perfume, a familiar fragrance that usually brings a sense of comfort, but now feels like a suffocating blanket. you search her face for a sign, a glimmer of the sophia you thought you knew, the sophia you had fallen for. but all you see is anger, raw and untamed, a storm raging behind her usually calm, collected facade.

finally, she slowly lowers the paperweight, placing it back on the desk with a thud that reverberates through the silent room. the sound is jarring, a sharp punctuation mark at the end of a sentence you hadn’t even realized you were speaking. “get out.” she repeats, her voice barely audible now, a mere whisper lost in the oppressive silence. “just get out.”

you hesitate. the word hangs in the air between you, a fragile thread stretched taut. part of you wants to obey, to turn and flee, to escape this suffocating atmosphere and the burning intensity of her gaze. but another part, a foolish, stubborn part, refuses to let go. you want to say something, anything, to explain, to apologize, to salvage what little remains of the bond you shared.

“sophia.” you begin, your voice hoarse, the word catching in your throat. but she cuts you off with a sharp shake of her head.

“don't.” she says, her voice cracking. “just… don’t.”

you swallow, the lump in your throat growing larger. the silence returns, heavier now, laden with regret and unspoken accusations. you know you should leave. you know you have no right to stay. but your feet feel rooted to the spot, your body unwilling to obey the commands of your mind.

you take a step back, preparing to turn and walk away, to disappear into the night and leave her to grapple with the wreckage of your affair. you feel a pang of guilt, sharp and painful, but you tell yourself it's for the best. for her. for her wife. for everyone.

but just as you’re about to leave, just as you’re about to sever the last fragile thread connecting you to her, you feel sophia grab you by the tie. the silk constricts around your neck, pulling you back towards her with a sudden, unexpected force. you stumble, caught off balance, your hand instinctively reaching out to steady yourself against the edge of the desk.

her grip is tight, her knuckles white against the dark fabric of your tie. you look at her, confusion warring with a flicker of something else, something that looks dangerously like desire. her eyes are still filled with anger, but there’s a vulnerability there too, a desperate plea hidden beneath the surface.

“sophia?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

she doesn’t answer. instead, she pulls you closer, her face inches from yours. you can feel her breath on your skin, warm and ragged. the scent of her perfume intensifies, filling your senses and making your head spin.

“just… one last time.” she whispers, her voice trembling. “before you tell my wife that i’m cheating on her with you."

the words are like a slap in the face, bringing you crashing back to reality. you push against her, trying to create some distance between you. but she doesn’t budge. her grip on your tie remains firm, unyielding.

“sophia, no.” you say, your voice strained. “this is wrong. we can’t.”

but your words lack conviction. the truth is, a part of you wants this. a part of you is drawn to her, to the chaos and the danger that she represents. a part of you is still hopelessly, foolishly in love with her.

she ignores your protests, her eyes locked on yours. there’s a raw intensity in her gaze, a hunger that mirrors your own. she tugs on your tie, pulling you even closer until your bodies are touching. you can feel the heat radiating from her, a palpable force that threatens to consume you.

and then, she kisses you.

it’s not a gentle, tender kiss. it’s a desperate, hungry kiss, a kiss born of anger, regret, and a desperate need for connection. her lips are firm against yours, her teeth nipping at your lower lip. she tastes of salt and desperation, a potent combination that sends a jolt of electricity through your body.

you try to resist, to pull away, but her grip on your tie is too strong. and, if you’re being honest with yourself, you don't really want to resist. the kiss is too intoxicating, too addictive. it’s a reminder of everything you’ve lost, of everything you could have had.

you moan softly, surrendering to the moment. your arms instinctively wrap around her waist, pulling her closer. her body is pressed against yours, every curve and contour a familiar comfort. you deepen the kiss, your tongues tangling in a desperate dance.

the world around you fades away, the only reality the feel of her lips on yours, the taste of her on your tongue. you forget about the past, about the future, about the consequences of your actions. all that matters is this moment, this desperate, fleeting connection.

she breaks the kiss, gasping for breath. her eyes are glazed with desire, her cheeks flushed. she looks at you, her expression a mixture of anger, longing, and regret.

“please” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “just… one last time. please."

and then, without waiting for your response, she pushes you backwards, towards the desk. you stumble, your back hitting the hard surface. the sudden impact knocks the breath out of you.

before you can react, she's on top of you, her body pinning you to the desk. her hands are everywhere, tearing at your shirt, tugging your tie. you try to protest, but your words are lost in the frenzy of her touch.

she nuzzles your neck, her teeth gently nipping at your skin. you moan, your body betraying you. you know this is wrong. you know you shouldn’t be doing this. but you can’t stop yourself. the desire is too strong, the pull too irresistible.

she lays you down on her desk, scattering papers and pens across the floor. the cool surface of the desk against your back is a sharp contrast to the heat of her body pressed against yours. she kisses you again, her lips hungry and demanding.

your hands move of their own accord, exploring the curves of her body. you trace the line of her spine, the swell of her hips, the gentle curve of her breasts. she moans, arching her back against you.

the world narrows to the space between you, a private universe where only pleasure and desire exist. you forget about everything else, about the betrayal, the lies, the consequences. all that matters is the here and now, the feel of her body against yours, the taste of her on your tongue.

the sounds of your ragged breathing fill the room, punctuated by the occasional moan or whisper. you’re lost in a haze of sensation, your mind blank, your body on fire.

this is it. this is the moment you’ve been both craving and dreading. the culmination of weeks, months, of stolen glances and whispered conversations. the moment when all the carefully constructed walls come crashing down.

and as you lie there, lost in the throes of passion, you can't help but wonder what the morning will bring. will you regret this? will she? or will this be a memory you both carry with you, a secret whispered in the dark, long after you've gone your separate ways? only time will tell. but for now, in this moment, all that matters is the heat of her body pressed against yours, and the desperate, undeniable truth that you are both completely, utterly lost.

she kissed you like she was starving for it, like she wanted to devour you whole. her lips moved forcefully against yours, her tongue pushing past your teeth to claim your mouth with aggressive hunger.

one hand remained fisted in your hair, holding you in place, while the other arm wrapped around your waist, crushing your body against the hard planes of her own. you could feel every inch of her, from the swell of her breasts to the lean muscles of her stomach and thighs. she pressed you back against the wall, pinning you there with the weight of her body.

sophia kissed you until your head spun and your knees went weak. she kissed you until you could barely remember your own name, let alone where you were or how you’d ended up in this compromising position. the taste of her, the scent of her, the feel of her — it consumed your senses until nothing else existed.

when she finally pulled back, it was only to attack your neck with the same fervent intensity. she kissed and nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin, her teeth grazing your pulse point before her lips closed around it, sucking hard. her hands roamed your body, slipping under your shirt to caress the smooth expanse of your back, your sides, your ribs. she touched you like she owned you, like you belonged to her.

she murmured filthy words against your skin, praise and promises and threats all tangled together in a heady, intoxicating mix. “fuck, you taste even better than i remember…” she panted, her voice ragged with desire. “i’m going to ruin you for anyone else, (y/n). I'm going to make you forget what it feels like to want anyone but me…”

her hand slid lower, dipping beneath the waistband of your skirt. her fingers brushed against your inner thigh, teasing, threatening to go higher, to touch you in the place that ached most for her touch. she looked up at you, her eyes dark and wild and full of sinful promise.

with a low, wicked chuckle, sophia’s fingers crept higher, brushing maddeningly against the fabric of your panties. she could feel the damp heat emanating from your core, could sense how much you wanted her touch. she rubbed slow, teasing circles against your clothed sex, applying just enough pressure to make your hips twitch and buck against her hand.

“you’re already so wet for me.” she purred, her voice a sinful rumble against your ear. “i’ve barely even touched you and you’re already dripping. fuck, that’s so hot…”

she nipped at your earlobe, tugging on it lightly with her teeth before soothing the sting with her tongue. her fingers continued their torturous teasing, rubbing and stroking and circles until you were panting and mewling with need.

“tell me what you want, (y/n).” she demanded, her voice a low, dominant growl. “tell me exactly what you need. i want to hear you say it.”

her thumb found your clit through the damp fabric, pressing down on the sensitive bundle of nerves. she rubbed mercilessly, sending jolts of pleasure shooting up your spine. her other hand slid up your body to cup your breast, kneading the soft flesh and rolling your nipple between her fingers.

“be a good girl and tell me, baby.” she coaxed, her breath hot on your skin. “tell me what you need and i’ll give it to you. i’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted and more. you just have to ask for it.”

she punctuated her words with a sharp pinch to your nipple and a particularly firm press against your clit. she was relentless, determined to make you beg for it, to make you admit how desperately you needed her touch, her body, her everything.

a low blow to your pride. as much as you would like to give sophia a witty comeback, you couldn’t, not when your body craved it and spoke louder than your brain — but even though you wanted to say something, a part of you knew this was wrong, you couldn’t stop thinking about manon and all the damage you’ve been causing these past few months, even if she doesn’t know you’re sleeping with her wife, you’re hurting her.

but here we go again, your body has more power than your brain.

“... i need you to fuck me.”

sophia’s eyes flashed with triumph and hunger at your desperate, wanton plea. A wicked, feral grin spread across her face, revealing perfect white teeth. she let out a low, approving growl that reverberated through your body.

“mmmh, such a dirty mouth on an angelic face.” she purred, her voice a sinful rumble. “i fucking love it. don’t worry, baby, i’m going to take such good care of you…”

she captured your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your moans and whimpers. her hands were everywhere, touching you, caressing you, claiming every inch of your skin. she pushed your skirt up around your waist and ripped your panties off with one sharp tug, baring your dripping sex to the cool air of the office.

sophia’s fingers delved between your thighs, stroking through your slick folds, teasing your entrance. she circled your clit with maddening slowness, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your hips buck and writhe against her hand.

“fuck, you’re soaked.” she groaned against your mouth, her fingers sliding easily through your arousal. “i can feel how much you need it. how much you need me inside you.”

she pushed one long, slender finger inside you, pumping it slowly, shallowly. her thumb continued its relentless circling of your clit, the dual sensations driving you crazy with lust. she added a second finger, then a third, stretching you open, filling you up.

sophia kissed down your neck, her teeth and tongue leaving a trail of marks and bites. she sucked hard on your collarbone, determined to leave her claim on your skin. her fingers picked up speed, plunging in and out of your dripping cunt with increasing force.

“fuck, you’re so tight.” she panted, her voice rough with desire. “i can feel you squeezing my fingers, trying to pull me in deeper. you want to be filled up, don’t you, baby? want to be stretched out and fucked hard until you can’t walk straight?”

she curled her fingers inside you, rubbing against that spot that made your vision go white and your toes curl. her thumb pressed down hard on your clit, the stimulation almost too intense to bear. she could feel your inner walls fluttering. her fingers curled inside you, rubbing mercilessly against that sensitive spot deep within your core. your back arched off the desk, your hips bucking wildly against her hand as she fingered you with ruthless intensity. sophia’s eyes darkened with lust as she watched you come undone, reveling in the power she held over your pleasure.

“fuck yes, that’s it.” she growled, her voice low and thick with arousal. “come on, baby, let me feel you come on my fingers. i want to feel your tight little cunt squeezing me, milking me for all i’m worth.”

she captured your mouth in a filthy kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperation. her fingers never slowed their relentless pace, pounding into you, claiming you, owning you. she could feel your body tensing, your muscles pulling taut as your orgasm approached. she kissed you through it, swallowing every moan and cry that spilled from your lips.

when your climax finally hit, it was with the force of a tidal wave. your inner walls clamped down on her fingers like a vice, rippling and squeezing as ecstasy crashed through you. sophia groaned into your mouth, feeling your release, reveling in the way your body shook and shuddered against her own.

she worked you through it, her fingers gentling to slow, sensual strokes as your orgasm ebbed. she pulled her hand away, bringing her soaked fingers to her mouth to suck your essence clean. her eyes fluttered shut as she savored your taste, a low moan of satisfaction rumbling in her throat.

“fuck, you taste even better when you come.” she purred, her voice a sinful murmur. “sweet and tangy and all mine. i could get addicted to your taste, (y/n).”

she leaned in close, her lips brushing against yours as she spoke. “and now that i’ve had a little taste, i’m going to need a bigger serving. i’m going to need to devour you whole, until you’re drowning in pleasure and begging for mercy.”

sophia’s hand slid up your thigh, her fingers leaving a trail of fire in their wake. she cupped your breast, kneading the soft flesh roughly, rolling your nipple between her fingers until it pebbled beneath her touch.

she grabbed your hips and spun you around, pushing you to sit on the edge of desk. the wood was cool against the backs of your thighs, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from sophia’s body as she stepped between your legs.

sophia’s hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist. she hooked her fingers in the waistband of your panties and tugged them down, tossing them carelessly to the floor. her eyes darkened as she took in the sight of your bare sex, glistening and swollen from your recent orgasm.

“fuck, look at this pretty little pussy.” she groaned, her voice thick with desire. “so cute and perfect, just begging to be eaten. and i’m going to enjoy every fucking bite.”

she pushed your thighs further apart, opening you up to her. her head dipped down, her breath hot against your sensitive flesh. she placed a single, open-mouthed kiss on your clit, her tongue flicking out to taste you. she hummed in approval at your flavor, her eyes fluttering shut.

sophia licked a slow, sensual stripe up your slit, her tongue delving between your folds to stroke along your entrance. she circled your clit with the tip of her tongue before suckling on it greedily, her cheeks hollowing as she drew it into her mouth.

she pushed two fingers back inside you, pumping them slowly, shallowly. her other hand slid up your body to palm your breast, kneading and squeezing the soft mound. she rolled your nipple between her fingers, pinching and tugging on the sensitive bud.

sophia could feel your arousal coating her fingers, dripping down to pool on the desk beneath you. the scent of your desire filled the air, musky and heady and intoxicating. she could feel her own arousal growing, her core clenching and throbbing with the need to be filled.

sophia’s fingers curled inside you, stroking along that sensitive spot that made your back arch off the desk and your toes curl. she rubbed mercilessly, determined to make you scream, to make you beg, to make you completely fall apart.

her other hand slid down your body, her nails raking lightly over your skin, leaving faint red lines in their wake. she grasped your thigh, pushing it higher, opening you even more to her hungry mouth and questing tongue.

sophia’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and intense and full of sinful promises. she held your gaze as she lowered her head, her tongue delving between your folds once more. she licked and sucked and flicked, her mouth working tirelessly to bring you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

you could feel the coil of tension in your lower belly, pulled taut and ready to snap at any moment. sophia could feel it too, could sense your impending release in the way your inner walls fluttered and clenched around her fingers, could hear it in the desperate, needy sounds spilling from your lips.

she doubled her efforts, her fingers pumping harder, faster, her tongue lashing against your clit with ruthless intensity. she could feel her own arousal growing, her core aching and empty, but she focused solely on your pleasure, determined to make this experience unforgettable for you.

suddenly, she pulled her fingers from your dripping sex and grasped your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach. she pushed your chest down against the desk, your breasts flattening against the cool wood. your ass was raised in the air, your legs dangling off the edge. she pushed your thighs together, trapping your lower body beneath her.

sophia’s hands slid up your calves, over your knees, your thighs, your ass. she squeezed and groped, her fingers sinking into the soft flesh. she grasped your ass cheeks and spread them apart, exposing your dripping slit to the cool air.

she leaned down, her breath hot against your entrance. she placed a single, teasing kiss on your clit, making you jump and gasp. then, without warning, she dove in, her mouth latching onto your sex like a starving woman at a feast.

she ate you like she was ravenous, like she needed your taste, your pleasure, your release to survive. her tongue delved deep, stroking along your slit before flicking rapidly over your clit. she sucked and licked and lapped at your dripping sex, her mouth and chin glistening with your arousal. her hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as she feasted on you, determined to make you come undone.

sophia could feel your body tensing, your muscles pulling taut as your orgasm approached. she could hear your breath coming in short, sharp gasps and pants, could feel your thighs trembling where they were trapped beneath her. she knew you were close, and could sense the impending explosion of pleasure that was about to consume you.

with a low, approving growl, sophia doubled her efforts, her tongue and lips and even her teeth working in tandem to drive you to that peak of ecstasy. she could feel her own body pulsing in time with your racing heart, her own core clenching and aching with the need for release. but she focused only on you, on your pleasure, on making this moment unforgettable for you.

she could feel your body tensing, your muscles pulling taut as your orgasm approached. she could hear your breath coming in short, sharp gasps and pants, could feel your thighs trembling where they were trapped beneath her. she knew you were close, and could sense the impending explosion of pleasure that was about to consume you.

with a low, approving growl, sophia doubled her efforts, her tongue and lips and even her teeth working in tandem to drive you to that peak of ecstasy. she could feel her own body pulsing in time with your racing heart, her own core clenching and aching with the need for release. but she focused only on you, on your pleasure, on making this moment unforgettable for you.

she could feel your body shaking, your hands fisting in the desk calendar as your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave. your inner walls clamped down on her tongue, fluttering and squeezing as ecstasy ripped through you. sophia groaned against your sex, the vibrations only intensifying your pleasure, pushing you higher.

she worked you through it, her mouth and fingers never slowing, never stopping, until your body went limp and boneless against the desk. she licked you clean, swallowing every drop of your release, savoring your taste like a fine wine.

finally, she pulled back, her chin and lips glistening with your arousal. she licked her lips, her eyes fluttering open to meet your dazed gaze. a wicked, satisfied grin spread across her face as she took in your wrecked state.

“fuck, (y/n).” she purred, her voice a low, rough rasp. “you taste even better than i imagined. i could get addicted to making you come, to feeling you shake apart in my arms.”

sophia’s eyes flashed with renewed hunger and desire at your breathless plea. she licked her lips, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she climbed off the desk. she grabbed your wrists and pulled you up, spinning you around to face her. her hands slid around your waist, gripping your hips possessively as she backed you up against the desk once more.

but your body wasn’t sure if it could continue or even have one more little round. sophia always knew how to use you perfectly and completely drain your energy until you were a pulp. “sophia i’m tired…”

“don’t give up right now, baby. i’m going to scissor you so hard, you won’t be able to walk straight for a week. you’ll be feeling me every time you sit down, every time you take a step. i’ll make sure of that.”

she pushed you down onto the desk, your back hitting the cool wood. she climbed on top of you, straddling your hips, her knees on either side of your thighs. she wore a skirt that had ridden up her legs, revealing the long, lean muscles of her toned thighs. she wasn’t wearing panties, and you could feel the heat of her bare sex pressing against your own through the thin fabric of your pencil skirt.

sophia’s hands slid under your skirt, pushing the material up around your waist. she grasped your thighs, pushing your legs apart until your knees were bent and falling open, exposing your dripping sex to her hungry gaze. she licked her lips as she took in the sight of you, spread out beneath her like a feast.

“fuck, look at this pretty little pussy.” she groaned, her voice thick with desire. “so sensitive and swollen and ready for me. i can’t wait to feel it against mine.”

she leaned down, capturing your mouth in a searing, demanding kiss. she licked into your mouth, her tongue stroking along yours, tasting you, claiming you. her hips rolled against yours, grinding her bare sex against your own. the sensation of her slick folds sliding against your sensitive flesh made you gasp into her mouth.

sophia’s hands slid up your body, pushing your shirt up and over your head. she broke the kiss just long enough to tug it off and toss it aside, leaving you bare beneath her. her eyes darkened as she took in the sight of your naked body, splayed out on the desk for her pleasure.

“mmmh, you have such a gorgeous body, (y/n).” she purred, her gaze raking over your curves hungrily. “and it’s all mine. mine to touch, mine to taste, mine to fuck. i’m going to explore every inch of you, baby.”

she leaned down, trailing open–mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. her hands cupped your breasts, kneading the soft mounds, rolling your nipples between her fingers until they pebbled beneath her touch. she lowered her head, taking one hardened peak into her mouth, sucking and swirling her tongue around it until you arched off the desk with a gasp.

sophia’s hips continued their sensual grind against yours, her wetness coating your inner thighs. she could feel your arousal growing, your sex throbbing and aching with the need for more. she knew she had you right where she wanted you, desperate and wanting and completely at her mercy.

“tell me what you want, (y/n).” she murmured against your breast, her breath hot on your skin. “tell me exactly how you want me to fuck you. i want to hear you say it, baby. i want to hear that filthy mouth of yours begging for my cunt.”

she punctuated her words by rolling her hips harder, grinding her sex against yours with more force. she could feel the heat of her own arousal building, could feel her walls clenching and pulsing around nothing. she could feel your hips bucking up against hers, seeking more friction, more contact. a low, approving growl rumbled in her throat as she felt your desperation. she loved reducing you to this state, loved knowing that she was the one driving you crazy with lust.

“that’s it, baby.” she purred, her voice a low, seductive murmur. “don’t be shy now. tell me exactly what you need. i want to hear you say it loud and clear.”

she rolled her hips harder, grinding her slick sex against yours with deliberate, teasing strokes. the desk creaked beneath you with the force of her movements, the obscene sound only spurring on her hunger. she could feel your body trembling beneath her, could hear your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps.

“please, sophia. don’t tease.”

sophia’s eyes flashed with triumph and hunger as she heard your desperate plea, your filthy words falling from your lips like a prayer. a wicked, feral grin spread across her face, revealing perfect white teeth. she licked her lips, her gaze raking over your naked body with blatant, unchecked desire.

“mmmh, such a naughty girl, begging so sweetly for my cunt.” she purred, her voice a low, dominate growl. “i fucking love it. don’t worry, baby, i’m going to give you exactly what you need. i’m going to scissor this pretty pussy so hard, you’ll forget your own name.”

sophia’s eyes flashed with dark promise as she heard your breathless plea. she licked her lips, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she ground her hips harder against yours. the desk creaked beneath you with the force of her movements, the obscene sound only spurring on her hunger.

“that’s my girl.” she purred, her voice a low, seductive murmur. “so desperate for my touch, for my taste, for my everything. i fucking love it.”

she leaned down, trailing open–mouthed kisses along your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. her hands slid down your body, gripping your hips possessively as she positioned herself between your thighs. she grasped your legs, pushing them further apart until you were spread wide open beneath her.

sophia’s eyes darkened as she took in the sight of your dripping sex, swollen and glistening with arousal. she licked her lips, her gaze hungry and intense as she leaned in closer. her breath was hot against your neck, making you shudder and gasp.

with a low, approving growl, sophia closed the scant distance between your bodies. she pressed her sex against yours, the first touch of skin on skin sending a jolt of electricity through you both. she rolled her hips, grinding her slick folds against your own, coating your sex with her arousal.

“fuck, you feel amazing.” she groaned, her voice rough with desire. “so soft and slick and perfect. i can’t wait to feel you dripping down my thighs and smearing across my skin.”

she rolled her hips harder, the desk creaking beneath you as she ground against you with increasing force. her hands slid up your body, cupping your breasts, kneading the soft flesh, rolling your nipples between her fingers until they pebbled beneath her touch.

sophia’s mouth found yours in a searing, demanding kiss. she licked into your mouth, her tongue stroking along yours, tasting you, claiming you. she swallowed your moans and whimpers, drinking them down like a woman dying of thirst.

she could feel the heat of your sex building, could sense your impending release in the way your walls fluttered and clenched around nothing. she knew she had you right where she wanted you, desperate and wanting and completely at her mercy.*

“come on, baby.” she purred against your lips. “let me feel you come undone. i want to feel your pretty pussy spasming and dripping and soaking my thighs. give it to me, (y/n). give me everything.”

with a low, dominant growl, sophia rolled her hips one last time, grinding her sex hard and fast against yours. at the same time, she pinched and tugged on your clit, rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves mercilessly as she felt your body tense and shudder beneath her.

your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave, your sex clenching and fluttering wildly as you came with a scream of pleasure. sophia groaned as she felt your release, your arousal gushing out to coat her thighs and drip down onto the desk. she worked you through it, her hips rolling and grinding, her fingers never stopping their relentless stimulation until your body went limp and sat beneath her.

finally, sophia collapsed against you, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. she peppered your face with soft kisses, her touch now gentle and almost reverent as she came down from her high. she nuzzled into your neck, breathing in the scent of your skin, savoring the moment of intimate connection.

“fuck, (y/n).” she murmured, her voice a low, satisfied rumble. “that was incredible. you’re incredible. i knew from the moment i saw you that we would be amazing together.”

she lifted her head to look at you, her eyes soft and warm with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. she brushed your hair back from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. her thumb stroked along your cheek, tracing the curve of your lips with a feather–light touch.

“please don’t tell manon about this.” sophia begs, her soft tone of voice catching your attention. “can we continue this in secret like we have always done? please.”

you didn’t want to stop this either. being with sophia felt... good, even if she was cheating on her wife. but could you continue knowing the damage you were causing to her marriage.

[whumpitisthen]

(from/inspired by this post of your’s: https://www.tumblr.com/whumpitisthen/779438540853510144/characters-that-are-out-of-it-cannot-see-past)

literally one of the best caretaker tropes ever!! specifically the one where the caretaker also has their own problems and can’t take care of the whumpee as well as they should.

its *so* good when the caretaker accidentally confuses, scares, or even hurts the whumpee. they didn’t mean to, but it reminds the whumpee of the bad things that happened to them in the past. maybe the whumpee is so frightened by the caretaker’s actions that the progress they’ve made is undone, or they cry and ask what they did wrong b/c they don’t understand, or they shut down completely. the potential for the caretaker’s guilt and hurt/comfort is high with this trope

When caretaker is frustrated. When caretaker is anxious. When caretaker is drunk, or high. When caretaker is tired. When caretaker is also injured. When caretaker is mentally ill. When caretaker is just having a bad day. When caretaker just isn't so easy to be around. When caretaker is impatient or too excited or a little brash or loud or seems too confident or their laugh is just a little too familiar or their voice lilts in just the same way or their footsteps sound just like whumper's always did.

It only takes a moment, just the right tone at just the right time when whumpee is in just the right headspace for it to become scary. Caretaker didn't mean to, of course they didn't, they might not even know what they did.

But sometimes, they do know what they did. They know they should not have yelled. They know they shouldn't have acted like it was whumpee's fault. They know they shouldn't have taken it out on them. Shouldn't have gotten so heated, shouldn't have started gesturing wildly with a knife in their hand, should never have even thought of threatening whumpee with it jokingly. It isn't a joke to them. It isn't funny.

They should never have become the reason for whumpee's tears.

Caretaker feels so awful about it, but the worst part is that whumpee forgives so easily. They can't even give them the just punishment of feeling awful about it, because to them it was warranted and deserved and they are too sensitive anyway and it's just a joke and it isn't like this hasn't happened to them a million times back when they were still with whumper. Caretaker is so nice to them, caretaker never hurts them, caretaker loves them. Caretaker never does anything wrong.

And when caretaker hurts whumpee... When there is physical evidence of their mistake, evidence that needs to be treated, needs to be looked at and talked about, one that will leave a scar, taking yet more skin from whumpee and making it theirs just like the ocean of bigger and smaller scars whumper marked their whumpee with...

Whumpee may eventually forgive them. They may be able to explain it to themself with enough time that it was an accident, or even if it wasn't, caretaker isn't like that, they didn't actually mean to hurt them. With enough apologies and never another new scar added, they will finally let themself not only hope, but believe caretaker didn't mean it.

But caretaker will never, ever forgive themself for it.

[cosmosnout]

Sabo’s like “I forgor”

[kaeyachi]

does everything start making sense when you figure out Diluc is the middle child?

[06strawberrylemonade28]

guys pro tip don't listen to phoebe bridgers and think about jelsa

(just kidding do it)

waiting room?! graceland too? so them dude. so them.

[probably-iron-deficiency]

Victim

📌ao3 link

summary: More treasures than could fill a cave, more leisure than an oasis, more willing and able bodies than could fill a ravine, and Kalim would give it all up in a heartbeat to keep Jamil by his side. or, After Jamil's overblot, Kalim finds himself isolated in his home, reevaluating the only true friendship he's ever had. He should probably stay away from Jamil. He doesn't, and it's for the better.

✦pairing✦ JamiKali

✦CW✦ suicidal ideation, Kalim kills a guy but its for Jamil so-

✦tags✦ Introspection, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post Book 4, Pre-Slash

✦word count✦ 4k+

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄✧⋄⋆ fic below⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄

Jamil was right. Kalim was undeniably, in mind and soul, selfish. 

His knife-sharp words had dug an open wound into Kalim which hadn’t stopped bleeding since his overblot. It had been two weeks since the event, and Kalim found himself back in his own home. After hearing reports of “magical abnormalities” at Scarabia, his parents had requested that Kalim and Jamil return home until the term started again. No one knew what had happened during winter break, and in perhaps the last unspoken bond between Jamil and Kalim, they would never find out. It had been five days since they had returned home, and he hadn’t seen Jamil once. The palace was big enough to never interact without arousing any suspicion. Kalim’s room was essentially its own luxury suite- he didn’t have to leave it, so he didn’t. The space felt large and empty without another’s presence, and Kalim was left to fill the void with the things Jamil had said. 

With nearly a week of isolated thinking on it, Kalim knew that he was selfish. Maybe not in worldly things- he had enough of those to satisfy the greediest man a hundred lifetimes over. A verifiable army of people willing to flip themselves inside out just to get on the heir’s good side, allowing him to bypass any and all struggles that an average mortal might face. Of course, none of this was necessary: Kalim was nothing if not charitable, and despite the displeasure of the Asim treasurers, he was more than willing to give back where he could. 

And Kalim didn’t want any of it. 

More treasures than could fill a cave, more leisure than an oasis, more willing and able bodies than could fill a ravine, and Kalim would give it all up in a heartbeat to keep Jamil by his side. Maybe not physically- Kalim would never force Jamil to stay somewhere he hated (not that Kalim knew Jamil hated him until recently). His heart would be enough, wherever Jamil’s body was, his love would placate Kalim. Kalim wanted the one thing that wasn’t- couldn’t- be handed over to him, and despite his riches, he couldn’t let it go. 

Kalim was selfish. 

In all honesty, Kalim knew that somewhere, deep down, he knew what Jamil was doing to him before his overblot. He could’ve- should’ve- said something to Jamil, no matter how badly the conversation would’ve gone. But the idea of losing the only person that had ever only helped Kalim and never harmed, the only person that had ever stayed. Kalim, tactless, cemented excuses to his lash-line and greedily continued his blissful naivety. 

He wished for a moment more of peace, and it had nearly cost him everything.

(It had nearly cost him Jamil.)

Kalim remembered a conversation he had with Azul when they were cast into the desert. 

“He betrayed you, Kalim. Don’t you understand that? Aren’t you angry?”

Even now, weeks later, he wouldn’t call it a betrayal. It wasn’t fair to Jamil.

It would break Kalim.

Ah, perhaps he was being selfish even now. Perhaps Jamil had wanted to betray Kalim, wanted Kalim to actually boil into rage, give Jamil a decent opponent to pit his years of oppression against. Even this Kalim could not give him. 

Kalim vouching for Jamil did nothing to nullify the brutal whisperings of the Scarabia students. Some lamented Kalim’s inefficiency, his spinelessness in being controlled by Jamil in the first place and his continued failure to remove Jamil from his post. Others, less scared of the potential recoil from the vice-housewarden, spoke of Jamil as a ruthless dark magician. An insignificant, ungrateful moon that stole its light from the ever generous sun. 

Kalim had heard worse rumors about himself, and figured the students were entitled to their opinions. (He knew Jamil had heard worse about himself, too, and that he probably didn’t care about the ramblings of some third-rate underclassmen).

(No one but Jamil’s opinion mattered, anyways.)

It had been a… vaguely mutual decision to cut contact as much as possible after Jamil’s overblot. No longer bound by his facade of complacency, Jamil had made it very clear very quickly that he had no intention of looking after Kalim for the time being. Kalim didn’t mind that, really. He wanted Jamil to do what made him happy, and if seeing Kalim as little as possible made up for years of Kalim’s blindness to his feelings, then Kalim would gladly oblige. 

(Secretly, Kalim felt as though he had been ripped in two- his only lifeline to real, truthful connection severed. He barely slept, barely spoke, barely moved. Sometimes, when the moon shone clearly overhead, Kalim would sit on the balcony, legs dangling 14 stories over the Asim gardens, and wonder if it would’ve been better for Jamil if Kalim had just gone along with his plan and died. Jamil wouldn’t do anything for Kalim that he wasn’t obliged to do by familial pressure- Kalim knew that now. But Kalim would do anything for Jamil. Right now, if Jamil were to knock on his door and ask him to slit his own throat, Kalim would be dead before he hit the floor. If only Jamil would ask something of him.

Dizzily, he wondered if the scented candles Jamil used to light for his baths looked forward to being used.) 

Despite their lack of contact, Kalim still heard a knock on his door twice a day. Outside would be freshly cooked food, sealed in containers with a tamper-proof charm in place. Kalim clung to these moments like no other, even though Jamil was always gone by the time he got to the door.

Jamil wanted to be left alone; it was obvious. After spending almost 17 years of your life with someone you despised, of course you wouldn’t want to see them. When school started up again, it would be harder for Jamil to avoid Kalim- as Housewarden and Vice of Scarabia, there would be no end to the amount of time they would be forced to be together. Especially since Kalim was, admittedly, useless at his leadership duties without Jamil as his loyal advisor.

But Kalim was selfish.

5 days was the longest he had ever gone without seeing Jamil. Not a single soul had come to check on him in his near week of being home, not that Kalim blamed them for that. It was Jamil’s job to check on him, supposedly. (On the second day, Kalim realized it never should have been his job. He never should have been forced to be Kalim’s servant in body and friend in words- it was only time before he became Kalim’s enemy in mind.) 

Fleetingly, he wondered how many days it would take someone to stumble upon his body if he died here. He wondered if, in the end, it would be Jamil who found him. 

Kalim, alone in his room, was unraveling at the seams. 

He wanted to see Jamil. He needed to see Jamil, make sure he was still ok. Make sure, even if childishly, that he still existed outside of Kalim’s view. Just a glimpse of him would be enough- it was late, if Jamil’s ironclad routine still held true, he would be asleep. It would be quick.

Kalim was so, truly, selfish. 

Smooth, cool stone chilled Kalim’s bare feet as he padded lightly through the hall. The estate was built to ward off heat, and a brisk night breeze came through the paneless windows, palm leaves swaying in the wind. He shivered, pulling his arms closer to his chest. Jamil would chide him for walking around in pajamas in the middle of the night. He would have, anyway.

Luckily for him, Jamil’s room was not too far from Kalim's own. When they were around 10 years old, it was decided that Jamil would stay in suites designated for higher ranking members of the Asim family rather than the servant residences where his own family lived. Officially, the reasoning was that Jamil had been such a loyal retainer to his young master Asim that he was being rewarded with lavish living conditions. At the time, Kalim was just thrilled to be closer to his best friend- they could have sleepovers practically every night! Now though, Kalim wondered if Jamil was moved closer to his room just so he could serve him better, protect him more easily if someone were to stage an attack. Did Jamil even want to move out of his family’s home, back then? Did he cry when his parents told him he had to leave, or did he just accept it apathetically, resigned to his life sentence? Kalim wasn’t sure which was worse. 

At the expense of a 10 year old Jamil, a 17 year old Kalim easily traced the dark path between their rooms, expertly dodging open windows and lights shining from the rooms of those who had not yet gone to sleep or had just woken up. It would be better for everyone if he wasn’t seen. 

Kalim slowed as he approached the door, muscle memory guiding him directly in front of it. He paused, breathing deeply. Jamil’s senses were needle sharp after years of guarding Kalim, he would have to be exceedingly careful if he didn’t want Jamil to wake up and notice him. Somewhat ironically, Kalim’s own senses were sharp, if not sharper, than Jamil’s; attuned to hearing even the slightest changes in footsteps or the faintest smell in a freshly prepared dish. 17 years of protecting someone, no matter how you felt about them, would hone your abilities to react, defend, fight. 17 years of expecting to be murdered, even if you were known as an unbearably loud person, would allow you to nearly disappear.      

Kalim’s nose twitched, a peculiar scent drifting from the room. Sharp, almost as if someone had made sparks from sanding down metal, but capped with something more heavy. Magic. 

It would be near imperceptible to the average mage, but Kalim was on par with beastmen when it came to his uncanny ability to identify things by scent. Normally, he would expect this smell to be close to other practicing magic users, especially if they were back at Night Raven, with students laboriously practicing spells over and over until they had worn themselves out. 

But didn’t overblotting stop you from using magic normally for a few weeks? Kalim remembered Leona using his own overblot as an excuse to get out of Housewarden duties, citing his unpredictable magic as “too dangerous” to do work. Even Riddle had taken some time off after his overblot, much to the surprise of Kalim. When he asked Riddle about it a few days after he returned, Riddle explained that overblotting would leave the victim, no matter how strong they were, in a very weakened state afterwards, before he had quickly changed the subject. 

Kalim squinted. Something wasn’t adding up.

Silently, he took another step forward. The uncomfortably familiar smell of molten copper burned Kalim’s nostrils, and he clutched his hand to his face to stop himself from coughing.

No. Jamil must have cut himself on something, or maybe his wounds from the battle reopened. But then, why the thick scent of magic that clogged his sinuses the closer he moved to the door? Jamil shouldn’t be able to do magic like that right now, not without risking himself. It was 3 in the morning, what would he even be doing?

Something moved sharply in Kalim’s peripheral, and his eyes quickly followed the movement. From under Jamil’s door, lit by the moon, shadows danced mockingly at Kalim.     

Nauseous, he recalled a conversation overheard a few years prior. Kalim, looking for Jamil, had overheard him talking to someone. Not wanting to intrude, Kalim had waited behind a large stone pillar until an “appropriate” time made itself available. Accidentally, he began to eavesdrop.

“I’m lucky they only go after Kalim.”

“Jamil! Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true, Najma. It’s a good thing most of his kidnappers are as stupid as they are shortsighted.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they take Kalim, someone will just go and save him, taking them out in the process. Me? I’m not worth the manpower. The Asims would pay the ransom and wouldn’t send anyone to investigate… I’m curious to see what I’d be worth, though.”

Kalim had soundlessly fled the scene, imploring himself to forget what he had just heard. When Jamil found him in his room hours later, he either didn’t notice or didn’t care to ask about Kalim’s red-rimmed eyes and blotchy face.

Surely not. Kalim crept forward. Surely the world would not be as cruel as to force Jamil to suffer further, not after he had nearly perished for simply wanting to be free. He held his breath, hand reaching for the cool brass of the doorknob. Surely he was simply over-tired- anxious from days of solitude away from Jamil’s watchful eyes. Slowly, he turned the knob. The door was unlocked.

The world had never been particularly kind to them, had it.

A horrible portrait invaded his sight, lit like a silhouette. Jamil, looking smaller than Kalim had ever seen him, struggled fruitlessly in the grasp of a horrifically muscled man. His hair had been ripped out of its careful braids, arms bent at an unnatural angle. Blood trickled like satin down the side of him, and the smirking man held a silver, red-stained dagger at his throat. 

Time seemed to slow as two pairs of eyes locked on Kalim’s intrusion. Quickly, he realized a few things. 1) The man was unmasked, meaning his plan was to grab Jamil and leave as quickly as possible without being seen. 2) His towering physique confirmed this- assassins tended to be slimmer, more agile, needing only to slip through a window and take out their prey. This was a bruiser more commonly seen in the market’s alleyways than infiltrating the estate, Kalim was more than familiar with his type. Their goal was simply to take, not kill, by any violent means necessary. 3) Even in Jamil’s weakened, magicless state, the intruder hadn’t bothered to use any spells himself to make the job easier. He wasn’t a mage.

Kalim’s heart beat loudly in his ears, drowning out the surrounding sound. No one moved, the struggle frozen in a fragile state of shock. Kalim’s eyes flitted to Jamil’s face, taking in the sight of him. His mouth was hidden behind one of the large hands of his attacker, but his eyes met with Kalim’s. 

For the first time in 17 years, Jamil’s gaze stared back at him with fear.

“Don’t move, little rich boy, and your servant will be just fine.” The man smirked. “What’s one of these, anyways? You have hundreds, I’m sure you’ll be fine until we get our money’s worth.”

Kalim used to vomit after Jamil saved him, hands still bloody from whatever sad battle had played out. He stopped getting nauseous after the 5th time it happened. After a year, he only found himself worried about the state of Jamil, carefully checking him over for any cuts or scrapes. 

Jamil had killed for Kalim countless times, under instruction. Kalim wasn’t sure if Jamil would kill for him under different circumstances. But Kalim would do anything for Jamil.

A tidal wave of emotion battered the rocky cliffs of his mind. The ever-present naivety that had been hairline fracturing for a lifetime, held together only by the fear of nihilism was chipping, cracking. Slabs of his principles and boulders of his morals crashed into the white-capped water of his soul, forming a whirlpool that churned and pulled.

Freezing cold something pulsed through his body.

Terror. Rage. Love.

In a flash, magic poured out of him, glinting like razor blades under the light of the moon. Deadly fast, it crashed into its target. 

The man holding Jamil froze, the muscles in his arms tensing violently. Kalim cricked his neck, and the intruder fell sideways, staring at the young heir in shock. Suddenly, he coughed. And coughed, and kept coughing, hands grasping futilely at his own throat as he began to choke up water, fresh and clear. His writhing gave way to desperate pleads.

“Plea-ugh. Mer- mercy.” He gasped in between breaths. 

The tempest of Kalim’s soul sneered. Mercy? What mercy had they ever given him? What mercy had they given Jamil? There was no answer, and the ocean rose again. 

Vessels burst in the man’s face, quickly overtaken by the mounting pressure within his body. His tears flowed equal parts blood and water and his eyes bulged from his skull like an unfortunate fish drawn too quickly from the depths. 

In hindsight, it was almost too quick. 

The man let out a final wheeze, perhaps a scream if his lungs hadn’t already burst, and his bloated corpse fell uselessly to the floor.

His life, like poetry, spilled into cool stone. 

Kalim stood, fists clenched hard enough to draw blood, body thrumming with the aftershocks of his magic. It seemed fitting that the most powerful storm he ever summoned was one for Jamil alone.

Jamil.

Kalim rushed forward, gathering Jamil in his arms. The latter breathed harshly, wincing as his injured arm was moved. Kalim shut his eyes, willing the reserves of his magic to come to the surface. He muttered enchantments as he skimmed his fingers across Jamil’s skin, wounds knitting themselves slowly back together. He would still need to be tended to by a proper physician, but healing magic was instinctual, and known to grow stronger with intent… Jamil would be safely in the clear, if not a little uncomfortable.

A hush fell over them as Kalim finished his work. Normally, after Jamil had protected him from someone (killed someone for Kalim), Kalim would try to fill the silence by chatting about some inane thing. Whether or not Jamil responded was besides the point- he just wanted to let Jamil know he felt safe, even if the words he spoke fell on deaf ears.

This felt different, somehow, and Kalim for once found himself with nothing to say. Instead, he allowed himself to focus on the sound of Jamil’s steady breathing- clear airways, no major injuries, no lingering scent of poison. Kalim had learned to appreciate this single comfort: the calm after a storm, and the two of them safe on the beach. 

“Kalim.” Jamil’s voice was somewhat gravely, most likely from being choked. Kalim gripped Jamil’s shoulder tighter.

“Jamil, are you feeling alright?” 

“You made sure of that.” He huffed, and Kalim felt the contents of his stomach churn anxiously. He couldn’t think of something to say, so he didn’t.

“Kalim. That man…”

“He’s dead.”

“Ah…” Jamil coughed weakly, body shuddering against Kalim’s. Kalim watched silently as the last of Jamil’s cuts sealed themselves up. 

“Your braids came undone.”

Jamil shifted against him, and Kalim paused to see if he would turn to face him. He didn’t.

“It takes a long time to do them, right?” He nodded without responding. 

Gently, Kalim allowed his fingers to brush through the ends of Jamil’s long hair. How long had it been since he’d touched it? Since they were kids, maybe. Since Jamil was forced to lower himself to Kalim, and stopped allowing Kalim to do anything for him. 

Brushing back a section over Jamil’s shoulder, Kalim began to weave patterns into his hair, the night breeze working against his progress. 

Kalim’s hands were not shaking, and Jamil’s breath didn’t hitch, breaking the silence as he cried.

~~~~~

“Kalim, your food is getting cold.” Jamil sighed, folding up some of Kalim’s school shirts. 

“Sorry, Jamil. I’m not that hungry.” Kalim gazed out the window, halfheartedly stirring his cup of tea.

“It’ll be a waste if it goes off.”

Kalim was lost in thought, the familiarity of the situation somehow off putting. It had been one full day since Jamil’s attempted kidnapping, and one hour since Jamil had knocked on Kalim’s door, waking him up for the morning with breakfast in hand. Kalim wouldn’t lie, a part of him was absolutely thrilled to have Jamil back taking care of him. The longest week of Kalim’s life had come to a close, in theory it would be easy to simply return to their normal routine. After all, they would return to Night Raven in 2 days time- it would be better to go back to how they were. 

In the past, Kalim would gladly take this opportunity without a second glance. But now, knowing what he knew about how Jamil felt… Did he want to? Was a facade of subservience and friendship truly better than the truth? 

Kalim knew now that he didn’t have to work for most of the things in his life- they’d all been handed to him without his knowledge. He knew now that those achievements were frail and paper thin, and the happiness he had paraded was one of the fingers that had strangled Jamil’s freedom. Maybe if Kalim worked for the things he cared about just a little more, they wouldn’t disappear like an illusion in his grasp.

“Jamil?”

“What is it?” He didn’t look over, continuing to pack away Kalim’s clothes. Kalim took a breath, letting the spoon rest in his now cold tea.

“We need to talk.” Jamil halted his work.

“About?” 

Kalim stood, walking over to stand behind Jamil.

“All of…” Kalim gestured around, “This. Everything.” Us.

Jamil resumed, walking to Kalim’s closet and pulling out more of his uniforms, expertly avoiding eye contact.

“I suppose it was only a matter of time.” Kalim blinked.

“For what?”

“You know for what. Look, I’m not gonna tell you I’m sorry about what I did to you, because I’m not. School’s starting in a couple days anyways, and you’ll have forgotten all about my overblot-”

“Your overblot?”

Finally, Jamil turned to face him. 

“Obviously. Don’t worry, once we’re back at school we’ll go back to normal anyways, I’ll take care of everything.” Jamil rolled his eyes, but Kalim could tell he was hiding something. Kalim clenched his fists.

“No.”

“What?” He raised his eyebrow, looking incredulously at Kalim.

“No, I,” Kalim was overtaken by a resounding urge. Jamil, in all his genius, didn’t even know what Kalim was talking about. He had to make it clear now, no matter the consequences. 

“I don’t care about your overblot, Jamil! I mean- I care, I care about you, I care about how you were feeling so bad so quietly that you had no choice but to self destruct- but not in the way that maybe I should. I’m not- I haven’t been angry at you. I’m scared.” Kalim’s eyes welled up with tears, and he steadfastly ignored them.  

“It was bad enough to lose you as my closest friend. But the other night I almost lost you for real. All for what, because you have to protect me? Because I’m stupid and naive and all that other stuff you said? Because I’m an Asim?” Kalim’s chest heaved, and he brought his arm up to hide his face and avoid looking at Jamil’s. 

Jamil was silent, and Kalim didn’t want to imagine what sort of expression he was making. 

“What happened the other night wasn’t your fault. You know how those guys are, they could’ve gone after anyone. It’s all money to them.” Jamil’s voice was slow and steady, and Kalim tried to cling to it. 

“It was my fault, though! If people weren’t always coming after me, you would’ve been safe!” 

“You can’t help who you were born to, Kalim.” He chuckled humorlessly, “And neither can I.”

Maybe, at some point earlier in his life, Kalim would have accepted that. They were both simply filling their roles, an heir and a servant, both seemingly content with their positions. Kalim would eventually take over the family business with Jamil at his side, and maybe they could live in some sort of amicable facade with a want for nothing. But Kalim, given everything, wanted none of it.

“I would give up my name for you, Jamil. I would give up everything.” He took a step closer, forcing Jamil to look at him.

“I would give you everything.”

For once, Jamil looked at a loss for words. Silver eyes filled with an emotion that Kalim couldn’t quite read, and his lips parted as if he were going to speak. No sound came out, and Kalim looked away.

“I’m sorry.” Kalim spoke unnaturally quietly. “For everything.”

A moment passed, and Kalim began to turn away. Suddenly, Kalim felt himself pulled into a hug. Jamil brought him close, arms wound tightly around his back and waist. Kalim gasped softly, immediately relaxing with Jamil’s touch. He brought his arms around Jamil, and took the chance to listen to his heartbeat. When was the last time Jamil had hugged him, and not the other way around? Had it ever happened? Kalim didn’t know. 

“We’re not friends.” 

Kalim smiled weakly into Jamil’s chest in spite of himself.

“Ok.”

“I won't baby you anymore- you need to learn how to do things for yourself.”

“That’s fine.”

“But if what you said about us being rivals or equals or whatever is true, then you have a long way to go.”

Oh.

“You have a lot to learn if you want to even get close to catching up. I won’t hold back.” Then, quieter. “Guess I have to stick around to see if you can do it.”

Kalim smiled, and he felt more alive than he had in almost a week.

“I won’t let you down, Jamil.”

[saltymarshmall0w]

Danny Phantom Zombie Apocalypse x Corpse AU

Basically, when the Ghost-zombie apocalypse happens thanks to a ghost virus, Danny gets infected. He “dies” again, so the most obvious course of action is for Phantom to possess Zombie!Fenton and try to pass off as human.

He can only use his extremely helpful ghost abilities if he discorporates, leaving zombie!Danny to the mercy of his enviorment. Otherwise, he has to use his corpse to try and blend in with other survivors.

He also has to hide the fact that he is a carrier of the disease(He can’t share water bottles, have much physical contact, or bleed on them), he no longer eats much, bleeds ectoplasm, and other zombies are disinterested in him. *Note, Phantom wouldn’t spread the disease, only Fenton’s body is infected. If he wants physical contact, he has to trust the other person with his secret.

Zombie!Fenton doesn’t have much interest in eating brains, as the ectoplasm Phantom produces fuels him. So, he’s basically a goldfish that just moves around aimlessly.

Without his human half, Phantom is also more limited in how much he can interact with the real world. He has to tug his human half around on one of those kiddie backpack leashes to ensure he doesn’t accidentally lose his body. He doesn’t have the strength to pick him up and carry him around. He can /maybe/ phase another person through a door.

Good thing Zombie!Fenton is very easily distracted and can occasionally be convinced to sleep.

–

World-building time!

Amity Park was ground zero for the virus, which was a mild infection that ghosts could get. However, once spread to humans, the virus ate the naturally occurring ectoplasm in the human’s brains, leaving them brainless aggressive monsters. (Think the possessed hot dogs from The Fenton’s fridge)

The Ectoplasm keeps the human parts together until eventually all the human flesh is entirely absorbed by the ectoplasm and all that remains is a ghost-monster thing. (this process takes at least a year).

The number one most effective way to kill a zombie is ecto-weapons, a good bashing to the skull can take them out for a while, but some might recover. .

Phantom is ~extra~ despised because most people believe the virus spread due to ghosts like him interacting with humans. The cause of the infection would be much angstier if it was a result of humans (The Fentons, GIW, Vlad) fucking around and finding out

Both Phantom and Danny no longer age. Danny’s human body doesn’t heal wounds unless you count glowing ectoplasm stitching his skin back together as healing. He also has a glowing green and sluggishly bleeding bite mark he constantly has to worry about.

When Phantom is possessing Zombie!Danny he is easily passable as a human, he just has to cover any features that show he’s no longer, like, alive.

One of Danny’s goals is to find a cure. However, he is not exactly… smart, but knows a lot about ectoplasm. He’s convinced if he finds a group of survivors with the right equipment that they mutually trust, they can find cure or vaccine together. His parents died/disappeared too early to finish one.

Anyway, the angst and the shenanigans potential are endless. Bonus points to anyone who can incorporate DP x DC into there.

[anisespice]

“ baby steps ” || tokyo rev.

continuation of this post.

pairing: bonten x fem!reader [ mikey, ran, sanzu ]

warnings: mature content ahead. MDI. mature language, crude humor, ANGST w/ comfort (mostly in mikey's), deadbeat!bonten (unintentionally), not proof-read so there may be A LOT of errors :// mikey's is LONG, ran + sanzu's are silly goofy, mikey + sanzu's are a lil unhinged lol and i think that’s it :))

notes: can i just say thank y'all so much for showing "accidents happen" the love that i didn't think it would get, it was made on a whim so i'm so so so happy y'all enjoyed! i tagged as many as i could (or that tumblr would allow) sorry if i missed some of you :( thank you for your patience and let me know how you feel about this continuation format :) !! notes ii: also also, pt. 2 for "accidents happen" coming soon! notes iii: MY COMPUTER CRASHED AND I THOUGHT I LOST EVERYTHING BUT IT'S OKAY IT'S OKAY :'))))

tagged: @fantasycantasy , @illegalspacecow , @captaincyberqueen , @cherryblossiren , @niragiswhore , @awkwardaardvarkforever , @valentsoup , @lovely212 , @miffysoo , @yandere-kouhai , @i-am-just-a-girl-ur-honor , @wisteriarose214 , @kindadolly , @yuwaimo , @sweetbella1221 , @simpingfor-wakasa , @sirachano0dles , @yutahg , @slowlikehonee , @blurpleuni-squid , @haruchiyoreen , @istanstraykidss , @loyard176 , @msluccapotato , @luv444lay , @backgroundcharactera , @jegelskeranime

Ever since you picked up your daughter, there’s been a hovering presence that wouldn’t go away no matter where you went. From the park, to the grocery store, all the way home it clung to you like a bad itch. Despite looking over your shoulder and being met without any sort of threat, that didn’t stop the uneasy feeling. And it only intensified when you received a knock on your front door.

You made a confused hum, checking the time on the microwave to confirm that it was indeed past the reasonable hour for potential visitors. Not to mention, you weren’t expecting anyone.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, instincts telling you that something wasn’t right, that your best option was to pretend you weren’t home. However, the person on the other side knew otherwise as they knocked on the door again, this time with more fervor. You inhaled sharply, taking hesitant steps towards the door until you were mere feet away from it. Eventually, you worked up the courage to look through the peephole, your brows furrowing in distress when all you could see was black—They were covering it. All the more reason not to open the door…

What if it’s a robber? Ridiculous, they don’t knock.

What if it’s just the neighbor? Why cover the peephole?

More and more did your mind swirl with endless possibilities, each one becoming less and less believable. Taking a long, deep breath, you doubled-checked the door-chain was on before slowly cracking it open. And as you attempted to peek through the sliver, nothing could’ve prepared you for the arm that forced its way through, startling you as you yelped, stumbling back as it made a grab at you.

Before you had the thought of shoving the door closed on the offender’s arm they grabbed the little chain, then yanked it clean out of the wall. To your terror, a dark hooded figure entered your home, head hung low, concealing their identity.

You began to hyperventilate, backing up to keep distance as they staggered further into your home before kicking the door closed behind them, effectively blocking you from the exit. Surely, someone heard your scream and would check in, or call the police. But, how long did you have before the intruder decided to make a move? Not to mention, your sleeping child just down the hall…

With that last thought in mind, you immediately steeled your nerves.

Even if you had to use your bare hands, you were going to do whatever it took to keep your baby out of harms way.

You reached for the closest weapon without taking your eyes off the figure, hands clasping onto a discarded umbrella that was leaned up against a closet door. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. Taking a defensive stance, you prepared for what you assumed to be the inevitable.

“I-I don’t know who you are, or what you want…b-but if you don’t leave…my..my boyfriend will be home any minute! H-He knows how to fight, and he’ll fuck you up if you try anything!”

Your means of intimation fall on deaf ears. It were as if you hadn’t spoken at all. They just…stood there. Watching you from the darkness. That feeling, that hovering presence you’d been weary about all evening…there was no doubt in your mind it was because of this individual. Suddenly, they gave a watery chuckle, hand coming up to rub the lower half of their face as the chilling noise dissipated into soft snickers.

You sweatdropped. “I mean it! He’ll be here real soon, so you better get out of here before-”

“[_____]…” the figure finally rasped, voice heavy with an emotion you couldn’t decipher in the moment. You froze, eyes widening.

“…How the hell do you know my name?”

Without much urgency, they stepped forward into the light. Beneath the warm glow, it took you mere seconds to recognize the person standing before you. You gasped, trembling hands dropping the umbrella, it landing with a harsh clatter. Soft, mortified hitches in your breath echoed through the small space, memories flashing before your eyes as you covered your gaping mouth.

“M.. Ma..” you whimpered, throat tightening. A shell of a man, who gazed upon you with stormy eyes flooded with tears at the mere sight of you.

He gave another strained laugh, muttering to himself as he soaked you all in. “Needed to know.. Needed to know it was really you…”

Mikey eyed you up, intensely, eerily silent as he did so. Then, he took in the surroundings, the warmth, the interior, the smell of dinner—It truly felt like a home. A bitter pill to swallow once he reminded himself that you built it without him.

His sharp gaze returned to your stunned expression. He sneered.

“Must’ve been easy for you. To forget me and move on, just like that. Like I was nothing.”

You blinked, taken aback. All you could do was remain speechless, cemented to the ground with thoughts and questions racing in your head. Now matter how many times you opened your mouth, no sound would come out aside from choked whimpers.

“Do you know…how long I’d been searching for you? Been mourning for you?” He hissed through clenched teeth. “When you left, I thought… I thought someone had taken you. That I lost you all because I was too stubborn to say I’m sorry…”

As he spoke, Mikey slowly closed the space between you. The more he came into the light, the more you could see how the years had treated him. His cheekbones were more pronounced, the dark circles under his eyes as well. His lips were dry, cracked, his fair skin now ghoulishly pale. If not for the black hoodie you would’ve mistaken him as such; ghost of your past.

Your shoulders shook, hands hovering over your face as you gaped in disbelief. He’d been looking for you?

That night, that stupid fight you could barely remember…he made it crystal clear that he wanted nothing to do with you. He pushed you away. Pushed so hard that you almost believed he really wouldn’t have cared if you dropped dead. You knew he didn’t mean it, knew it was just another dark impulse…but none of that mattered when all your pregnancy tests came back positive just hours prior.

That night, you made the decision for the sake of your daughter. And also, for his sake. At the time, you were certain he wasn’t ready to be a father. He was quick to rage, merciless, losing himself to the darkness you tried to protect him from. If you had stayed, you were certain Mikey would’ve never forgiven himself if he lost control in front of his own flesh and blood, if the child grew to resent him for something he struggled to control.

You thought you were doing him a favor…but it appears to have done the opposite.

“And this whole time…you’ve been here, alive. Playing fucking house with someone else.”

You stiffened. Someone else? Your visible confusion only irritated him further.

He scoffed. “Don’t play dumb. You said it yourself. Too bad he won’t be coming home anytime soon. I’ve already got Sanzu and the Haitanis looking around for the bastard. And when they find him, I’ll make him regret sticking his filthy dick inside you.”

Confusion morphed into realization. You did threaten him with said hypothetical boyfriend…But, that was before you knew it was him!

“Oh, Manjiro…” you whispered. He glared, scorned.

“Don’t you dare pity me. I mean, you got the family you always wanted, right? So who cares who it was with, right? Congratu-fucking-lations.”

You shook your head, exhaling deeply as you held your face in your hands. For years, he thought you dead. Then, when he received word of your appearance, he finds you with child. And not once did he consider that child to be his? It’s like…he couldn’t fathom the thought.

If only he had looked just a little bit closer, he would’ve seen that she had his eyes. How they resembled those pools of ink that used to shine with so much hope back in his youth, so playful and full of love…those same eyes that now gazed upon you with contempt.

It stung.

He thought so low, not only of himself, but of you as well.

Taking a deep breath to reel in your emotions, tears began to well up in your eyes. He assumed they were tears for your doomed lover, further breaking his heart as Mikey clenched his fists to the point of nearly drawing blood. Luckily, even though you struggled to find the right words, someone else happily found them for you.

“Papa..?”

Both of you instantly drew your attention on the toddler standing near the kitchen, one fist clutching her blanket while the other rubbed the sleep from her eye. You glanced at Mikey, and he was stiller than stone. His once dead-stare had morphed into what could only be described as incredulous. Surely, he heard her incorrectly…

With a sniffle, you crouched down to address her, offering a soft grin as you nodded earnestly. “That’s right, sweetheart. Papa’s finally come home.”

The little girl blinked sleepily, taking a second to reboot. But, as soon as the words registered, a bright smile stretched across her face as she excitedly rushed towards Mikey, throwing herself onto his legs and hugging them like a koala as she chirped, “Papa, home!”

Said man hobbled a bit at the force, arms windmilling as he caught himself to keep from falling backwards. He didn’t know what to do with himself, especially when those big, round pools of ink opened and stared right up into his soul. Mikey’s heart nearly stopped. With a hitch in his breath, the gangster did everything he could to hold his composure, looking between you and the child as you both gazed at him with so much warmth…it was suffocating.

Sensing he was overwhelmed, you reached down to scoop up the bubbly bundle, holding her close as you eyed Mikey, apprehensively.

He resembled a cornered animal—Muscles stiff, jaw tight, eyes wild. After a moment, Mikey began to slowly back away into the shadows of your home, conflicted, devastated. It wasn’t until his back hit the door did he eventually fall to his ass, of which caused your child to giggle at how silly he was being. However, all you could do was hold back tears, watching as the reality started to weigh down on a man who just discovered he was a father.

Nervous, you gently explained. “I didn’t leave you because of our spat, Jiro…and I never moved on. I just…thought that I’d be doing more harm than good sticking around when I found out I was pregnant…I didn’t want to add any more stress on your plate, so I…”

Mikey didn’t respond. He sat there, stare vast and unfocused. But, you knew he hung on to every word. So you continued. “I wanted to tell you. But…I wasn’t sure how. At the time, I believed you had stopped caring about me altogether. And to hear you’d been looking for me, I-I’m…I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you harbored all that guilt. I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”

Your daughter wiggled around in your hold, making small grunts in complaint. Her eyes were trained on his figure huddled in the dark, wanting to be acknowledged, wanting his attention. “Papa!”

Mikey flinched. He focused his gaze on the two you, haloed by the light emitting from the living room. You both were like salvation, reaching down to a broken sinner…How could she want anything to do with him? When he had missed so much already…

To keep from accidentally dropping her, you placed your daughter back on the ground, watching wearily as she wobbled all the way to Mikey, blanket in tow. You weren’t worried about him hurting her, far from it…if anything, he appeared to be the fragile one.

Eventually, she made it to her destination, standing before him with a curious, but eager expression as she rested a hand on his knee. Mikey watched her, took in all of her features, every last detail as he engraved it to memory. She was beautiful, just like her mother. One would think his genes didn’t stand a chance. But the eyes. That was all him. From his mother to his older brother to himself, there was no doubt in his mind that those were Sano eyes.

His lower lip quivered, reaching out hesitantly to caress her cheek. She didn’t cower away, merely babbled as she began patting his knee, allowing his thumb to rub over her chubby cheek. You clasped your hands over your mouth, growing even more emotional at the delicate moment. Mikey looked enamored already, eyes subtly sparkling from what you could see as they interacted.

“I-I told her stories, about you. And I made sure to show her photos, too. Old ones, but still you nonetheless. I wanted her to know who her father truly was. Despite everything else…”

Your daughter cooed, then placed her blanket in Mikey’s lap before climbing into it. Mikey didn’t dare move, rigid as she made herself comfortable. He looked up at you, looking for guidance, for reassurance. Your encouraging smile was enough for him to hesitantly place his hands on her small back for support, carefully adjusting so that she was stable. She laid her head on his chest and stuck her thumb in her mouth, sighing contentedly.

And, for the first time in years, he smiled.

When you hadn’t seen her familiar pigtails bobbing around, or heard any of her excited chatter with the receptionist up front, worry couldn’t even begin to describe what you felt the moment you realize…your daughter wasn’t here.

As soon as the meeting looked like it was wrapping up, you politely excused yourself from the room. Masking your worry wasn't too difficult, but there's no doubt a couple people might've noticed the spring in your step as you exited. One of them being Rindou Haitani. He watched you speed down the hall with mild interest, corner of his mouth ticking up ever so slightly as he thumbed around on his phone beneath the table. Having been updating his older brother during the meeting while he was on his smoke break, he was more than eager to inform him of the storm that was no doubt heading his way.

Little did the younger Haitani know, he was already dealing with one.

"And then, Haruka-kun tries to take Momo-kun's bento box because she had cuter animal shapes, but Momo-kun already said no, and so Haruka-kun pushes Momo-kun, and then tries to take it! But I pushed him and hit him with my fist, like this," she clenched up her tiny fist and held it up to Ran before striking down on his forearm with all her might. It didn't even pitch. "Like that."

The lavender-eyed man merely gazed upon her with mirth. "Did you now?"

"Mmhm! And teacher got so mad, and said that she would tell Ma about me fighting, but she's stupid because Ma didn't pick me up today, and I told Haruka-kun if he snitches, I'll beat 'em up!"

Ran lowly whistled. "Quite the little menace, ain'tcha?"

She pumped her fists. "Yeah!" Then, she paused, holding a finger to her chin in thought. "Wait...what's a menace?"

"Ah, something you inherited from your old man." He ruffled her hair, much to her displeasure. Though her innocent jab earlier regarding his age still hit a sore spot, he was starting to like the sound of it. She, on the other hand, wasn't convinced.

"I already told you; Ma was on her happy juice when she said that. She said not to believe anything she says when she's on happy juice. It makes her do silly things."

Ran chuckled. He knew that all too well. The little girl wouldn't be in this world if not for your inability to hold your liquor. But judging based on how you've raised her so far, clearly you made the right decision keeping him in the dark.

He'll admit, he wasn't the best in terms of commitment. Throughout his day to day, Ran just didn't have the energy. With being in Bonten, keeping an eye out for his younger brother, handling business, dealing with numbskulls and disposing of their bodies, there was never a time to even consider settling down. One-night stands and on and off flings were the easiest choice. At least, until he stumbled upon you.

You were the whole package and more. Classy, independent, witty, and a looker to top it all off. When Bonten started collaborating with the organization you worked in, he couldn't help but to be drawn to you—Like a moth to a flame. It started out as the occasional bantering, trying to one-up the other, catch them off guard. Ran was smooth with his words but could never quite beat your sharp tongue. Thus, things escalated to something more flirtatious. Harmless, but it didn't take long before the months of tension between the both of you began boiling over...and throwing alcohol into the mix, it was the first time Ran finally felt like he had the upper hand. Seeing how poorly you handled just a few glasses of wine, it endeared him. Seeing a piece of you that no one else had the privilege to witness. Your sloppy side, the clumsy, whiny, touchy side. After that long, passionate night beneath the sheets, the one time you and Ran allowed yourselves the space to be vulnerable with one another...you found yourself pregnant. And Ran found himself being nonethewiser.

He wonders, if he hadn't left the next morning and completely ghosted you...would you have kept him in the picture?

Suddenly, his phone dings. Reaching back to pull it from his back pocket, Ran half expected it to just be another update on the meeting or Rindou cursing at him to hurry his ass back inside. But, it wasn't that at all. And at the sound of your kitten heels rushing out of the building and halting at the top of the steps, Ran didn't even need to look up to know who was glowering down from them.

"Hey, Ma! Guess what, the purple man isn't such a meanie after all!"

Ran snorted, finally looking up from his phone to greet the woman who not only still had his heart, but evidently his first child. You, on the other hand, weren't so thrilled to see him.

"Rika. Wait inside. Ma's got some words for the purple man."

He smirked. "Wanna say 'em over a glass of wine?"

"You son of a-!"

"Bad word!" Your daughter covered her ears. You flushed, your composure nearly slipping just by being in his prescence. Ran, immediately seeing the opportunity, teasingly pouts at you whilst covering her tiny hands with his larger ones, shielding her.

"Honey, please, not in front of the child. Can't have her repeating those dirty words at school, can we?"

You fumed, speaking through clenched teeth. "Haitani, as soon as I get her in this building, away from you, I swear to God, I'm gonna wring your neck."

He hummed, amused. "Well. Guess she didn't get her violent side from me after all. Speaking of which, did you know at school today-"

"Hey! No snitching!"

“...What did you say?” 

You were hoping you heard the teacher wrong. Surely it was just your exhaustion taking the wheel. But, when her kind smile didn’t falter, nor did her gushes for the supposed “adorable display”, you immediately grew suspicious.

While heading home from work, you went to pick up your children from daycare. And when you arrived, the teacher merely informed you that it was already taken care of by your very handsome and very devoted husband. 

“I-I think you’re mistaken. My boyfriend and I aren’t married…”

The teacher, finally coming back down to earth, tilted her head in confusion. “Eh? You aren’t?” 

“Did he…say we were?” 

“Well, no. I just assumed since it was easy to tell who he was here for. Hikaru and Kaoru look so much like their daddy.”

You choked on your spit.  Hikaru and Kaoru look so much like their daddy. Hikaru and Kaoru look so much like their daddy.

You did everything in your power to keep from strangling the poor woman. Sure, she didn’t do anything wrong per say…but she sure did make a grave error. And your struggle to restrain your intrusive thoughts must’ve shown on your face from the way she placed a concerned hand on your arm. “Are you alright, miss? You look like you’re about to faint.”

“M-Mhm, yep, great, just peachy.” You squeaked through clenched teeth, sweatdrop on your forehead. “Could you um…confirm something for me?”

“Uh.? Er, sure. I’ll try my best.”

With tense shoulders and a tight smile, you asked, “Their…father…did his mouth have two scars in the corners?”

The teacher blinked, confused. Shouldn’t you already know that answer yourself?, she was probably thinking. And she would be right; you did know. But her simple, hesitant nod was the final nail in the coffin that was your delusion—Haruchiyo Sanzu had found you. And to make matters worse, he had the children.

Your smile faltered, twitching ever so slightly. Covering it with a forced chuckle, you cried, “Oh, that’s..wonderful! He’s always been self conscious about them, and I’m j-just.. beaming with joy that he’s embracing them more. Have a nice evening, Ms. Yuki.”

The teacher didn’t get a chance to respond as you quickly turned on your heel and began speed walking home. You’d apologize for your abrupt exit another day…right now there were more important matters to worry about. For instance—How on earth did Sanzu find you? How did he know about the twins and where they were? Oh, God…did he know about Satoru?

Dialing him up a few times only for the calls to go straight to voicemail weren’t reassuring in the slightest, having you rush across oncoming traffic just so you could avoid any further delays for your fraying nerves. You could see your apartment complex up ahead, heart thumping in your throat at the familiar, black SUV parked a couple blocks down. Had it not been for the heavily tinted windows and no license plates, you probably would’ve overlooked it. He knew where you lived. Stomach in knots, muscles stiff, nerves shot. You didn’t know whether to feel relieved or devastated. Your kids were safe at home, but at what cost? You stood in front of the building, rooted to the ground. Despite mentally preparing for this exact scenario for years, it all went down the drain the second you went to that daycare and discovered your children were missing.

It wasn’t until your phone vibrated did you snap out of your thoughts, shakily pulling the device out of your back pocket to check the notification.

from : unknown 1:06 pm     “ hi, mama.~ ”

Your stomach twisted. Attached to the message were two photos.

The first photo was of your kids eating McDonald's in the kitchen, happily cheesing and waving at the camera. You couldn't hold your choked gasp, hand coming up to hold your quivering lower lip—They were safe.

The second photo...was of Satoru. Tied to a chair, gagged, and beaten senseless. And standing behind him, holding him by his hair so that he could pose for the camera, grinning like a cheshire cat...

Another message pops up. Your grip tightened around your phone.

from : unknown 1:09 pm " daddy's home.~ "

© 2024-2025 anisespice ッ all rights reserved. likes, comments & reblogs much appreciated!

[flowersforbucky]

means i care

joaquín torres x reader

"You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn't beating when I pulled you from that water."

He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”

word count: 3.3k

warnings/tags: friends to lovers, idiots in love, pining, enhanced!reader with energy manipulation powers, canon level injuries, some angst, fluff, no use of y/n, reader has she/her pronouns, pov switches

☆☆☆☆☆☆

“You know, if we don't succeed here, we'll be looking at World War III. I could use a little extra good luck. If you know what I'm sayin’.”

You shift your gaze from the Indian Ocean outside of the jet's window to the man sitting beside you. At first, you question whether or not you heard him correctly. Then, you see the sly smirk on his lips and the glimmer of mischief in his brown eyes and you realize that you had, in fact, heard him correctly.

If you had any doubt about what he meant by a little extra good luck, the look on his face makes it abundantly clear.

Your eyes flicker to his lips for a split-second before you look back out to the endless expanse of blue water surrounding you. God knows that if you stare at him for a moment too long, you might just be weak enough to give in.

It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve come dangerously close.

“Good luck, huh? I hope you’ve got a four-leaf clover or a rabbit’s foot stashed somewhere in that suit of yours, then.”

He laughs. The sound fills the jet and for a second, you forget where you are and what all is on the line.

“A thousand four-leaf clovers wouldn’t give me a fraction of the good luck that I’d get from a kis—”

“Landing in five!” Sam calls, effectively breaking the tension in the air. You doubt that it was intentional, but you’re thankful for the interruption nonetheless. As if the list of things on your mind isn’t already a mile long – the last thing you need to add to it right now is kissing Joaquín.

You should be used to it – the flirting and teasing. He hasn’t held back since the moment you met. First, you had assumed it’s just how he is – that he says the same things to any halfway decent looking girl in his age bracket.

Sam had insisted that’s not the case.

Still, past relationship trauma had left you unable to believe that he was being genuine –and unable to believe that any good could come from returning his flirtatious sentiments. Best case scenario, you hook up and relieve the tension that’s been brewing between you for months, things fizzle, and you have to continue to work together while attempting to ignore any awkwardness. Worst case scenario, you let yourself completely fall for him and someone inevitably gets hurt.

This line of work, this lifestyle – it doesn’t mesh well with romantic relationships. You’ve learned that lesson the hard way, a few times over.

So, despite the fact that you think he’s annoyingly attractive, you brush off the compliments and cheesy one-liners. You look for every excuse when he tries to spend time with you outside of work and missions, never letting yourself give in even when every fiber of your being is dying to do so.

Like right now. He sits beside you, his arm and thigh brushing against yours. Even through his thick, heavy gear, it sends a shiver up your spine. You resist the urge to grab his hand in yours and tell him that you and Sam have this handled if he wants to help from the sidelines.

You can hear his response as clear as day in your mind. “Keep to the sidelines? And let you and Sam have all the fun? Pshhh. You wish.”

You bite your tongue, afraid to let him know just how much you care. You might not let it show, but you’re more worried for his safety than you are your own.

There’s no chance of him staying on the base while you and Sam potentially risk your lives. But maybe you can at least give him an incentive to keep himself alive.

Joaquín starts to stand when you place a hand on his arm. He freezes, an almost hopeful expression on his face as he looks at you expectantly.

“Don’t die out there and we’ll see about that kiss. Okay?”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

“Are you listening to a word I say?”

Sam’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You blink rapidly, lubricating your eyes that had been locked on a beeping monitor for an embarrassing amount of time.

“No,” you answer honestly. You glance at him for a brief moment before your eyes are back on the sleeping body a few feet away from you. “Not really. Sorry. What did you say?”

He sighs. He’s trying his hardest to not let it show, but you know that he’s getting a little annoyed with you.

You can’t really find the energy to care. You’re a little annoyed with him, too. He won’t stop tapping his fucking foot against the linoleum floor and the whole room still smells like the Chinese take-out he’d eaten hours ago.

Your stomach growls. Maybe you’re just hangry.

“I said you need to go home,” Sam says in an even tone. “Get a few hours of sleep, take a shower. Eat something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Over the last four days, you’ve spent more time in this hospital room than your own apartment. You’ve only left to go home long enough to shower every other day, and to get gas stations snacks and coffee on occasion. The longest you’d been away from Joaquín’s bedside was yesterday morning, when you went to the Target down the road to put together a get well soon basket for when he wakes up.

Most guests would be asked to leave after standard visiting hours, but you suppose working with Captain America does come with some perks. You suppose it also helps that you were the one who pulled Joaquín from the ocean, flew him to safety, and restarted his heart with your powers while you waited on the emergency medical team to get to you on Celestial Island.

Maybe the hospital staff pities or – or maybe they’re a little scared of you. Either is fine, as long as you aren’t asked to leave for an extended period of time.

You’re hungry, and you need to shower, and a few hours of sleep in an actual bed certainly wouldn’t hurt. But the thought of not being here when he wakes up…

“I’ll call you,” Sam says, as if reading your mind. “I swear. As soon as he wakes up, I’ll let you know.”

You don’t trust your voice enough to speak, so you just nod. You’ve somehow managed to refrain from crying up until this point, but you’re running on a few hours of sleep and it’s starting to get to you.

Despite the various wounds and bruising across his body, he looks peaceful in his sleep. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, and you feel yourself relax at the visual reminder that he’s okay. He’s resting, and healing, and he’ll wake when his body is ready.

“Okay,” you whisper as you stand up from the scratchy, old recliner that you have been glued to for the majority of the last few days. “You call me as soon as he opens his eyes.”

Before leaving, you walk to the side of his bed. On the table next to him sits a vase of wildflowers that have already started to wilt, and the basket that you had brought, full of some of his favorite things – beef jerky, Takis, gummy bears – as well as a few personal care items that may be of use for the duration of his hospital stay after waking up – deodorant, a toothbrush and travel sized toothpaste, and the biggest stainless steel tumbler that you could find.

In the middle of the basket sits a small, plush falcon. You hadn’t even been looking for it when it caught your eye in the store, but you immediately knew you had to get it for him. Seeing it had felt like a sign that everything is going to be okay.

You remove the stuffed bird from the basket and tuck it between his side and his arm before leaning down and pressing a tender kiss to the center of his forehead. It’s the first time you’ve touched him since the accident, and you’re reluctant to pull away.

Your eyes sting with all of the emotions that you’ve been holding inside for days. You don’t look back at Sam or say another word as you walk out of the room, hoping with everything in you that the next time you walk into this room, he greets you with one of his obnoxiously perfect smiles and a corny pick-up line.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The first thing Joaquín hears is the low, repetitive beeping of a monitor. When he opens his eyes, he’s momentarily blinded by violent, early morning sunlight creeping through the blind slats.

“Well, well, well. How nice of you to decide to join the living today, Sleeping Beauty.”

He recognizes Sam’s voice a second before he sees him. Slumped in a chair in the corner of the room, he looks like he could use some sleep, himself.

All at once, images of the moments leading up to him plummeting into the ocean come flooding back. He remembers Sam yelling at him to back off from the last missile, the missile firing right at him, and then nose-diving into the ocean as you shriek his name.

You.

His eyes dart around the room in a panic, looking for any sign of you. His heartrate spikes on the monitor. Sam jumps up, rushing over to his side.

“What – where is she – is she okay?”

God, his throat is painfully dry. How long has he been unconscious?

“Easy, easy,” Sam soothes as he takes a seat at the foot of the hospital bed. “She is fine. She was unharmed and has hardly left your side in five days. It was like pulling teeth just to convince her to go home for the night. Made me promise to call her the second you woke up.”

At first, he assumes Sam is just messing with him. You have hardly left his side? You, the same person who has rejected every one of his advances for nearly a year?

“You’re being serious? She’s been here?” He asks in disbelief.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam exhales. “She’s been a mess, man. I don’t know how much you remember, but…” He trails off, avoiding Joaquín’s gaze.

“She’s the one who pulled you from that water. By the time she flew you somewhere safe, you weren’t breathing. She had to restart your heart with her powers until the medical team got to you.”

He can tell by Sam’s demeanor that he isn’t joking around, but he still struggles to wrap his head around it all. He had fucking died? His heart stopped, and you’re the reason that he’s alive? And you stayed with him while he’s been recovering?

Then, he remembers the last words you said to him before arriving on Celestial Island.

Don’t die out there and we’ll see about that kiss. Okay?

He isn’t sure if you really spoke those words, or if it’s some false memory that his subconscious conjured to keep him holding on while on the brink of death.

If it’s the latter, it worked. If it’s the former, and you really did say that, he supposes that offer is probably off the table since he technically did die.

Damn it.

Joaquín attempts to sit up and becomes aware of two things at once – he feels like he has been repeatedly ran over by a bus, and there's something fuzzy tickling his arm.

“What the hell…”

He picks up the small, stuffed falcon and can’t help but smile at it. “You shouldn’t have,” he chuckles, tossing the bird at Sam.

He catches it, smirking. “Oh, I didn’t.”

Sam gestures towards the table beside Joaquín. He follows his gaze, noticing the dying flowers and basket stuffed full of various snacks and self-care items. Whoever chose the contents of the basket, knows him well. He could live off of beef jerky if he had to, and gummy bears are his favorite.

“Who..?” Joaquín asks, trying not to get his hopes up that it could be from the person he most wants it to be from – the person who apparently saved his life.

“Take a guess,” Sam jabs as he tosses the stuffed animal back to Joaquín.

For a second, he thinks his heart just might stop again. He pictures you picking out the items and he has to shake his head to keep himself from grinning too big.

“Man, if I knew that all I had to do was die to get her attention, I would’ve done it a hell of a lot sooner.”

Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Just don’t go making a habit of it, okay? I don’t know if she would forgive you if you did it again.”

Sam then pulls out his cell phone, excusing himself from the room to give you a call and to get Joaquin’s nurse. Once he’s alone, Joaquín fights against all of the stiffness in his body to reach for the basket sitting on the bedside table. In addition to all of the other goodies, there’s a card tucked between a stick of Old Spice deodorant and a bag of Takis.

It isn’t in an envelope. He instantly snorts at the image on the front of the card – it’s a cartoon dog wearing a cone collar with a dejected expression. In bold print, it reads: At least you don’t have to wear a cone.

He opens the card, and immediately recognizes your handwriting.

I specifically remember asking you to not die. Guess you were right about that good luck kiss, after all. I'll remember that next time.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The simultaneous dread and relief that you feel when you see Sam’s name pop up on your phone can’t be described in words. Dread at the mere possibility of bad news. Relief that it could be what you’ve been hoping to hear for days.

As soon as you hear him say that Joaquín is awake, you’re jumping out of bed at the ass crack of dawn. You don’t think about taking the time to eat any breakfast or even make yourself a cup of coffee – you just throw on some clean clothes, brush your teeth, and you’re out the door.

The short drive to the hospital is spent talking to yourself about what you're even going to say to him. How are things supposed to just go back to normal between the two of after something like this? After it felt like your heart stopped when his did? Do you even want things to go back to normal?

You knew you’d feel relieved to see him awake, but you don’t expect the overwhelming rush of emotions that comes over you as soon as you hear his voice murmur your name.

He's sitting up in his bed, holding the stuffed falcon that you’d given him and smiling at you like you hung the moon and stars as soon as you walk through the door.

That’s when you know the answer to your question – no, you don’t want things to go back to normal between you. With the way that you feel your heart in your throat, you don't think that’s a possibility, anyway.

“This little guy was a nice surprise to wake up to, you know. Kind of wish it had been you, but he’s cute, too.”

You no longer attempt to hold back the tears that had been threatening to spill over for the last five days. You sit on the edge of his bed, directly beside his thigh and meagerly wipe the teardrops that leak down both of your cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” His demeanor completely shifts when he realizes that you’re crying. He leans in closer and pulls you to him. You sob against his chest, and he runs a large hand up and down your back. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here. It's gonna take more than a missile or two to take me out.”

You nod against his chest, but don’t pull away. He continues to massage your back as you attempt to calm down, focusing on the feeling of him against you. When you finally lean back, he wipes a lingering tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn’t beating when I pulled you from that water.”

He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”

You exhale, finally letting yourself return his cheeky grin. The teasing remark makes you feel the happiest you have in days.

“Leave it to you to find a way to flirt when we are having a conversation about your death.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, his expression suddenly turning more serious. “I do have a question, though.”

You tilt your head in curiosity.

“When you brought me back to life, was it like a mouth to mouth type thing? Or..?”

You roll your eyes, playfully shoving him back against his pillows. He cackles, his cheeks turning pink. He pulls you back to him, this time even closer than before. You can smell mint on his breath from the toothpaste you’d put in his get well soon basket.

“No. Thought I’d save that for when you’re awake.”

He places his hands on your sides, the light touches sending a thrill through you. The normally chilly hospital room suddenly feels a whole lot warmer.

“Are you sure?” He murmurs. “I don’t want you to think that you.. owe me anything, or have to kiss me just because of what happened—”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes speaking.

“Joaquín,” you interrupt him softly. “I’ve been stupid. So, so stupid and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry that it took something like this for me to open my eyes to what’s been right in front of me this whole time. I knew that if I let myself want more, if I let myself give in, that’d be it for me. And that terrified me. But I don’t care anymore. I’m more terrified of never getting the chance to—”

Suddenly, his hands move from your hips to either side of your face. He pulls you the remainder of the short distance to him, and then his lips are against yours; effectively ending your rambling.

One of your hands cups the nape of his neck, your fingers intertwined in his soft curls. His tongue ghosts along your bottom lip and you eagerly part them for him. The sounds from various machines and the voices out in the hallway all fade to white noise as he moves his lips with yours.

He's gentle. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s still relatively bedridden, but he touches you like he’s touching fine, breakable China. There’s an underlying urgency, like he’s scared he’s dreaming and wants to savor this as much as possible before he opens his eyes.

You pull away with a gentle tug of his bottom lip between your teeth. He doesn’t drop his hands from caressing your face, and your rest your forehead against his, basking in the afterglow of a kiss long overdue.

“Damn,” he breathes. “Please tell me we can do that again, minus all of the months of rejection and the close call with death.”

You laugh. “I can promise you no more rejection, but you have to promise me no more close calls with death.”

A gentle stroke of his thumb across your cheekbone sends goosebumps down your spine. “I promise, mi vida. I’ve been waiting too long for this. There’s no getting rid of me now.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

mi vida: spanish for "my life"

thank you so much for reading!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated ♡

[murdockparker]

Mr. Bridgerton and the Baker

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Covered in flour. It is how she usually spent her days, working hard at her family's bakery. She just hadn't expected to have met him in such a state.

Word Count: 11.8k

Warnings: pining, angst, fluff, a small assault (reader gets hit, not by Benedict!), mention of pregnancy (like, literally a line or two),

A/N: Did I write an entire fic barely based on that one scene in Camp Rock where Mitchie is covered in flour? Yes. Do I regret it? No.

With the melting of snow and the promise of new starts, the social season was nearly upon the ton, nearly upon all the potential suitors and debutantes—all waiting with bated breath to secure a match this year. Of course, those in waiting were of high status, usually tied to the aristocracy or drowning in wealth beyond compare.

The others? The ones not blessed with endless funds or pure luck of royal lineage had the privilege, nay, honor to serve those who would be so fortunate. For the many, it included servicing the estates—butlers, lady’s maids, governesses, home chefs and the like. For the patrons on Tilbury Street, it included the less sought after roles, polishers, cobblers, modistes and bakeries. One bakery in particular was the prime choice for the aristocracy, a diamond in the rough as some may say. 

—

“I just simply don’t understand why we cannot have our chefs prepare the pastries for the ball,” Eloise Bridgerton nearly groaned, her arm hooked onto her mother’s. They had been walking up and down Tilbury Street for the better part of twenty minutes, simply enjoying the fresh spring weather. “I’ve never known them to make horrid dishes.”

“It’s the first Bridgerton Ball of the season, Eloise,” the dowager viscountess murmured politely. “Along with it being the first Kate has had the pleasure of hosting, putting an order in here is a fresh foot forward, one that’ll impress our guests.”

Eloise barked back a laugh. “If it is so important, why is Kate not here to make the order herself?”

“That, dear sister, is an excellent point.” Following close behind the two Bridgerton ladies was a rather tall shadow, equally as dashing and nearly as clever—Benedict—the second eldest son of the Bridgerton brood. “Surely Anthony could spare his wife for one afternoon, I can’t imagine it being so difficult to pry them from their bedroom—”

“Benedict Bridgerton!” Violet snapped, turning hot on her heels to face her son. He could only laugh.

“Oh Mother, you must relax,” he said lovingly, patting both hands on her shoulders. “You know better than I that it could have been a far fouler thought—why, I can easily imagine three other ways I could have expressed my way of thinking.”

“Ah, ever the poet, Benedict,” Eloise smiled wryly, pushing her way to the front of their clump. No one had the heart to mention the glaring fact that it was likely she didn’t know the way in which they were headed. 

“This bakery,” Violet continued half-heartedly. “Is a prestigious supplier for the ton—you may recall their exquisite cake that we had ordered for Daphne’s wedding.”

Benedict hummed contently. “It was a good cake,” he practically nodded off at the thought. The decadent sponge nearly brought him to tears—of course, it could have very well been the relief from undue stress of Daphne’s season altogether, having nearly lost his older brother to an unnecessary duel.

“I think it was far too sweet,” Eloise said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “I had to drink nearly three cups of tea to clear out the sugar on my tongue.”

“Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of sweetness?” Benedict nearly sang.

“Perfectly fulfilling,” his younger sister quipped back.

The dowager viscountess could only sigh, her eyes reaching up to the clouds above. While she loved nothing more than being the mother of all eight of her perfect children, their endless bickering and bantering grew vexing. It merely took the Bridgerton siblings another minute of arguing before stopping in front of a quaint storefront—the sickeningly sweet aroma filling the street. “We’re here.”

“I could have told you as much,” Benedict mumbled, rubbing his temple lightly. “The scent is… overpowering.” If he were lucky, the headache that was quickly forming would dull fast.

“But Benedict,” Eloise turned hot on her heels. “What’s life without a bit of sweetness?”

Violet Bridgerton was quick to catch her second eldest's hand before it met the back of Eloise’s head. “If it’s too much for you, dear,” she released her grip. “Please feel free to wait for us out here. It should only take a moment.”

“Like a ‘moment’ at the modiste?” Benedict crossed his arms, his brow nearly touching his hairline. “If I recall, the last time I accompanied you to the dressmaker, I spent over an hour basking in the summer sun.”

“Nothing logical stopped you from coming in,” Eloise drawled. “Of course, if you wanted to managed to stay pleasant with the seamstress, one should have kept it in his trousers—”   

“We’ll only be a moment,” Violet hushed Eloise quickly, grasping the top of her arm firmly. “There seems to be little wait. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

He huffed towards the sun—while there had been little heat near the start of the English spring, the sun was warm against his skin. Benedict enjoyed being outdoors more often than not, it was usually the reason he accompanied his mother on their errands nearly every other day of the season. That, of course, and the fact it got his worrying mama off of his back to be wed. With Anthony finally securing a match, it was only fitting for Violet Bridgerton to be working her way down her list of endless children—having only two of eight married off. “It should only be a moment,” Benedict reassured himself, watching various other families and couples walk by. 

That is, until he heard a rather loud bang coming from the alley beside him. He should have known better—he was taught better—than to investigate outlandish sounds, especially in town, but Benedict Bridgerton was nothing if not curious. He peeked around the corner, holding his breath, preparing to be met with a wild animal of some kind. His view was shaky at best, hardly could see a thing around the bricks. If he wanted a better look, he’d have to take a few steps towards the unusual noise. 

A large white cloud had enveloped the small alley, it was difficult to even see a few meters ahead, let alone what could have caused the loud commotion. Benedict waved his hand through the mysterious fog, trying to clear some air. “Hello?” He heard a soft squeak. An animal, it had to have been, Benedict was sure of it now. “Is anyone there?” 

A cough rang through the alley, startling him more than rogue vermin could have. The cloud had begun to dissipate, the white settling on the stone street below. Flour, if he had to guess, given the location.

“I’m alright,” a voice murmured quietly, another soft cough following quickly after. The shape of a person came into view, the air finally clearing enough for him to make sense of the scene he came upon. It was one of a woman now covered head to toe in the white powder—she had no distinguishable features, the flour was caking every bit of her body and dress. Just striking eyes that made Benedict’s heart jump to his throat. “Just… made a mess.”

“So it seems,” Benedict hummed, stepping over a pile of powder to get closer. “Do you require any help?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to get dirty. I fear I’ve got quite enough of that for the both of us.”

“I don’t mind getting dirty,” Benedict said quickly, his tongue moving faster than his brain. “But… yes, I suppose it’d be for the best if I refrained from getting any flour on me. May I ask how…?”

“Clumsy,” she uttered simply, the shrug of her shoulders speaking nothing but truth. “I must have the slipperiest fingers in town—I wish I could say this was the first time…”

“Manage to cover yourself in flour often?” Benedict’s lips pulled into a jesting smirk.

“Nearly every other day,” the woman sighed. “We’ve grown accustomed to purchasing an extra sack or two just for situations like these."

“I hardly doubt you could be that clumsy,” Benedict laughed, leaning against the stone wall. “But, I am painting quite the image in my head.”

“Oh I do hope I’m decent in that image, Mr. Bridgerton,” she giggled, curtsying in a near-mocking manner.

“How do you know—”

“Everyone knows your family, Mr. Bridgerton, I’d be a fool to admit I don’t know who you are—though you and your brothers all blur together, so I am merely taking a shot in the dark in which of the four you are.”

“Oh?”

She nodded once, a flurry of powder falling from her hair. A muffled shout from the back door startled her, grabbing her attention. “Ah,” the woman waved the air in front of her face, “I suppose I should take my leave—get cleaned up.”

“Of course,” Benedict said simply. “I won’t keep you.” In nearly an instant, the mysterious dusted lady disappeared from view, diving into the back door. He was taken aback by her candidness—having addressed him so forwardly without the pleasantries of a name exchange. “Damn,” he mumbled to himself, kicking residual flour off of his polished shoe, “I never asked for her name.” Would it be too forward to knock on the back door to ask for her? Benedict Bridgerton couldn’t wrap his head around the interaction—she nearly sent him into a tizzy.

“Brother?” 

Eloise stood at the end of the alley, clutch in hand, face pinched in confusion. 

“Ah, I suppose you’re finished?”

“Hardly,” Eloise scoffed, “Mother insisted on doubling the initial order ‘just to be safe’. She’ll be out in a moment.” 

“Perhaps I should go inside to accompany her—”

“And leave your unwed sister unchaperoned in this part of town?” Eloise pressed a hand to her brother’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes danced quickly to the street in the distance, clearly not paying any attention to his sister. “Benedict?”

“Hm?” He glanced down. “Ah, maybe we should both go back inside—”

“You’re…” she pushed on him harder, nearly sending him backwards. “Acting strange. Not terribly long ago you wanted nothing to do with this place and now, you’re dying to jump into the building that brought you so much strife?” Eloise removed her hand from him, settling it down by her side as she glanced at him up and down. The blues of his outfit were covered slightly in a white power—not enough to really notice, but enough to give the appearance of filth. “And you’re covered in… flour?”

“I don’t wish to share every moment of my day with you, dear Sister,” Benedict said simply, sighing contently. “My business is my business.”

“Business,” Eloise parroted. “Sure.”

Violet Bridgerton had finished the order quickly, mumbling something about the higher prices this time of year—she had gotten a good deal regardless. Benedict was hardly listening, for he was already planning his next trip to this very bakery, hoping to meet the girl in flour once more. 

He never did get the chance, to go back to town. His studies took up most of his free time, any other moment he had was spent with his ever-growing family. Just recently, his sister Daphne brought over her newest addition—another daughter named Belinda—who happened to be yet another spitting image of her mother. Benedict had a theory that every new Bridgerton baby will simply just inherit all the Bridgerton features, so far he had been proven correct. 

“Damn,” Benedict mumbled, violently dabbing a paint brush into his water cup, the colors swirling from the end.

He had been in his studio for the last few hours, mixing endless pigments and oils together, trying to concoct the color in his mind’s eye. It was impossible, he theorized, to create the exact shades and hues of her eyes. It was the most striking thing he remembered about her appearance—save for the copious amount of white flour caking her form—and Benedict Bridgerton had come to the conclusion that her eyes were simply forged by God Himself, a color not meant for mortal recreation.

“Why can I not…” He sighed, slumping back in his stool, paintbrush nearly hitting his trousers. “This is impossible.”

The grand clock beside the door chimed out. It was nearly time to get ready for Anthony and Kate’s ball—an occasion he was most dreading, save for enjoying the few pastries that came from the quaint bakery down in town. Reluctantly, he began to pry himself from his studio and made his way to the washroom, preparing to soak away any remnants of her.

—

“Mother,” (Y/N) chimed out, tying the serving apron to her waist, “I don’t see the reason for my attendance this evening. Surely the hosts of the event will have their own serving staff?”

“(Y/N),” her mother exasperated, throwing a towel down. “Your brothers are ill and bedridden and have been the last few days. Your father and I are counting on you to help fulfill the order, my back isn’t what it used to be, if you recall.”  

The girl sighed, her eyes rolling right up to the cracking ceiling. “How funny, it seems your back flares up nearly in time for deliveries to be made,” the girl mumbled.

“What was that?” Her mother turned quickly towards her only daughter. “I’m sure I misheard you.”

“You must have,” (Y/N) sang. “For I said I’m willing to help with the delivery, mother.”

The older woman narrowed her brow. “Never do I hear such sass from the boys… Perhaps a bit of manual labor will refocus your priorities.” 

“I already agreed,” (Y/N) reiterated. “As if I had terribly too much of a choice…”

“No,” her mother clicked, slapping the a rather large ball of dough that resided on the floured surface. “You do not. Now come, help your mother roll this out.”

She had gotten ready for the ball in record time—seeing as how she’s never gotten ready for one. (Y/N) dug through her mother’s wardrobe, finding an old and somewhat outdated green dress to wear, but it did the trick just fine. It was far nicer than the frocks she had owned anyhow, a light embroidery laced the edges and was sure to be run over by her fingertips endlessly throughout the evening.   

“The carriage is here!” Her father couldn’t have shouted louder throughout the small flat. Their home resided above the bakery, a quaint little thing with only two bedrooms—(Y/N) had the pleasure of sleeping in a rather over-glorified closet. If she reached her arms out, she’d be able to touch two of the walls easily, but like everything in her life, she made do. Unexpected child? Unexpected room. 

“I’ll be right there,” (Y/N) said, tying the now-cleaned apron around her waist, checking herself in the reflection of her water pitcher. “Damned hair,” her fingers moved to tuck a loose ringlet back into position—she had spent the better part of the evening trying to style it. 

“We need to load the carriage and make way to Bridgerton House,” her father repeated, smoothing his formalwear out. He hardly had the chance to wear it, seeing as situations like this happen only once in a while. “We must make a good impression, perhaps we’ll find more business this evening.”

“That’ll be a blessing,” her mother agreed, heading down the stairs to the bakery. “We could always use more business and the dowager viscountess is well liked around the ton, surely she’ll have pleasant things to say about our work.”

“I thought we let the pastries ‘speak for themselves’,” (Y/N) chimed in, carefully picking up a parcel. Her parents simply glared at her, allowing their daughter to silently move along with the loading process. 

The silence continued throughout the lengthy ride to Bridgerton House—the bakers not uttering a word until disembarking to unload all of the sweets. True to her original thought, the Bridgertons had their staff do the bulk of the unloading, carrying each parcel and box into the grand room that was to be the heart of the ball, all that was left to move was the elegant cake specially ordered by the dowager viscountess.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Oh, that would be—” (Y/N) turned around to the mysterious voice, only to find the same Bridgerton boy from earlier in the week standing behind her. “I—Mr. Bridgerton, I’m sure I can find my father to assist, you really don’t need to—”

“I insist,” Benedict held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. “I shouldn’t allow a lady to carry such a thing on her own, it would be most improper.”

“I’m certainly no lady,” she scoffed, readjusting her apron. “I’m not a part of your ‘season’ or whatever it is you lot do during the spring and summer months.”

Benedict barked out a laugh. “Debuted into the Marriage Mart or not, you’re still a lady and I am ever the gentleman, so please, indulge me.”

A blinding heat flushed across her cheeks—she was sure it was visible from down the street. (Y/N) stepped to the side to allow Benedict to grab ahold of one side of the tray, her hands curling around the other. “Thank you… for your help.”

“It’s no bother,” Benedict said truthfully. “I’ve been practically bored out of my skull all afternoon, this is truly the highlight of my evening.”

“Helping me carry a cake?” She asked, turning a corner carefully.

“Seeing you again,” he hummed unabashedly, noting the way her grip stiffened. “Though I must say, I think I prefer you without the flour.”

“How do you know that girl was me? I was covered head to toe.”

“Your eyes,” Benedict said simply. “They’re the most expressive and exquisite eyes I’ve had the pleasure of viewing.”

Benedict Bridgerton. The man who made her speechless.

“That, and I made a bold assumption when I saw you and the pastries arrive this evening.” He laughed lightly, afraid to drop the masterpiece. “I assumed correctly, no?”

“You,” (Y/N) tried to allow her cheeks to cool before continuing.“Would be correct. Very wise you are, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Benedict.”

“Benedict,” she repeated softly, twisting herself to set the cake down on the table. “My apologies.”

The ballroom was grand—much nicer than any place she’d dream of residing in—delicate decorations hung from the sconces, flowers covered nearly every inch of the free space. It was, in every meaning, elegant. “This is… where you live?”

“Ah,” Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. “My brother has been kind to allow me to stay here since he married, seeing as I only have my own property in the country. But yes, this is one of the homes I grew up in.”

“One of the homes,” she repeated back to him. “And here I thought I was spoiled with my broom closet.”

He turned a vibrant shade of red. “Oh! I didn't mean to—”

Her laughter filled the ballroom, the lightness practically lifting Benedict upwards. “I was merely teasing. I’m well aware of your status and wealth, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Benedict.”

“Ah! Sorry,” (Y/N) felt the twinge of shame hit her chest, it was small but enough to keep her in line to avoid making the mistake again. “I meant it in jest.”

“Funny girl,” Benedict clicked, waving his finger lightly. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.”

“Growing up with nothing more than sacks of flour and parcels of sugar allows one to get creative with her jokes,” she explained carefully, treading lightly as to not make it sound completely miserable. “Though, I think they were a better audience anyhow…”

“You wound me,” a hand grabbed his heart, knees buckling towards the ground. “Oh how the lady wounds me.”

“I believe I told you, Benedict, I certainly am no lady.”

“Well, the lady has neglected to give me her name,” he peeked up from the floor—having found quite a cozy position. “So how else should I address such a fair maiden?”

“Fair maiden,” she scoffed playfully, voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly am nothing close to a maiden… but, if you must know,” she paused, “my name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“(Y/N)…” Benedict repeated it, mostly to himself. He rose from the floor, eyes not leaving her own. “What a beautiful name.”

“I—thank you. I suppose you should give my parents such a compliment, though. I am simply the recipient of such a gift.”

“Well, when I ask your parents for permission to court their daughter, I’ll pass the message along.”

She froze. 

“Ah, what was that?”

“I hate to be so bold,” Benedict sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. “But I feel the need to let you know of my intentions—my interest in you.”

“Oh you must be mistaken,” (Y/N) shook her head. “You’d want nothing to do with a girl like me. Surely there are other women in the ton who strike your fancy?”

“Nope,” he said simply. “Not a one. You, on the other hand, with your striking eyes and seemingly endless beauty, piqued my interest. If I may be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about our encounter in the alley—it’s been on the forefront of my mind for days.”

She blinked, the gears in her head trying to keep up with the words Benedict was speaking. “But I am not from your world, Benedict. Even if I was interested in pursuing a courtship—”

“Are you not?” His eyes struck wide open. “I’m quite the catch, you see. Well-bred, scholarly and, if I might say so myself, I’m quite the talented artist. Easy on the eyes, too.”

“Benedict.” He stopped and looked at the woman. She was practically glowing in the candlelight. “While I’m not saying I’m… not interested, I can’t help but feel like you are infatuated with the idea of me and not… me.”

“How do you mean?”

She laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know me, truly. My likes, dislikes, how I take my tea, what weather I fancy—”

“See,” Benedict grabbed her hand, “I wish to know those things. Is that not the purpose of a courtship?”

“I am not from your world, Benedict. I have priorities, a duty to my family and our business—I can’t spend a moment thinking of the frivolity of a courtship with a man of your status.”

“But if I were, say, the butcher’s son it would be different?”

“Yes,” she removed her hand from his. “Of course it would be. I’m surprised you haven’t thought this through.”

“I have been thinking it through since we’ve met,” Benedict nearly spat, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. “I am not the type of man who wishes to court just anyone, you know.”

“So you wish to court me just because you can? Because how ever could I say no?”

“I—of course not!”

“We’re perfect strangers who shared a moment—albeit an endearing one—out in the middle of an alley. We both cleaned up and went about our lives,” she shook her head. “Nothing cosmic or magical about it.”

“I did not expect you to be so against the idea, unless… there’s another man of your affections?”

She groaned, pinching her nose. “No. No other man. Has a woman ever said no to you before, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He paused, clearly taken aback.

“Well,” she smoothed the tablecloth, the wrinkle in the bottom corner was annoying her, “let me be the first, then. No, I am not interested in a courtship, nor do I think I have any interest in a courtship—with you or anyone—so do not take it terribly too personally.” 

“Never? Don’t you plan to have a family of your own?”

“I already have a family,” she said simply. “I have no time for foolish ideas of having an adoring husband, three beautiful babies and a peaceful life out in the country.”

“That seems awfully specific—”

“No matter,” she waved. “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Bridgerton, I am flattered, truly.”

She walked away, hoping to hide in the carriage the rest of the night. Was she a fool? To turn down a courtship from such a sophisticated and notable man of the ton?

Benedict seemed to think so. True to her comment, he couldn’t recall a time in which a woman had rejected his advances—never in the name of a courtship, this would be his first—so to watch her walk away stung deeply, like a thorn to his heart. He was genuinely interested in the girl, he knew it. He just needed to prove it to her.

—

Days had passed since the Bridgerton ball and (Y/N) had successfully faked a stomach ache and ‘rested’ in the carriage until the night was over and done with. She was busy in the kitchen, working hard on a batch of fresh loaves for the storefront. Flour dusted her apron—the humor not lost on her—as she thought more and more about Benedict’s proposal. 

The bell to the shop rang out, her brother’s voice gave a muffled greeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a regular day at the bakery. It was calming, to work with the dough, taking virtually nothing and creating something delicious was soothing to her soul. She continued to knead the dough, working it like clay against her palms before the door to the back swung wide open.

“(Y/N), I do believe you have a visitor,” Harry, her second eldest brother smirked. He had finally recovered enough to help around the shop again, much to their mother’s delight. “One of the gentlemen variety, if you must know.”  

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Only asked for you,” Harry shrugged. “I figured you must’ve been expecting him,” he walked closer to her, taking over the kneading, “brought you flowers and looks rather fancy.”

She wiped her hands off on the already soiled apron, clapping her hands once for good measure. “Don’t over-work those, I’ll shove your face into the oven.”

Harry’s laugh rang out through the kitchen as she braved the door to the store. She knew it was inevitable, to expect him to come and try to woo her again, though she wasn’t expecting it so soon. The door felt rough against her palms, swinging wide open to the storefront. Sure enough, a one Benedict Bridgerton was standing by the counter, eyeing the various loaves on display. 

“Ah, Miss. (Y/L/N),” Benedict said, almost bowing. “I’m delighted you could join me.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) smiled sickeningly sweet, forced beyond all measure. “What a… surprise.”

“A wonderful one, I presume?” He jested. Her eyes found the colorful bouquet quickly, she was trying her hardest to not make eye contact. It was ornate—fancy, just like her brother said—decked out in a healthy mix of wild blooms and expensive looking flowers. “Ah! My apologies, these are for you,” Benedict said, lifting the bouquet across the counter. 

She reluctantly took them, cradling the bunch as if it were a newborn babe. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He swallowed thickly at the formality of his name, but bit his tongue. “I must say, you looked exquisite at the ball, but I think your natural element suits you more favorably, why, you’re practically glowing.” Benedict pointed to her floured apron and messy frock, having been in the kitchen all morning. “Less flour than the first time.”

Her grip tightened around the bouquet. “Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps another order for your mother?”

The man shook his head, laughing lightly. “No, no order. I just wished to see you.” The bluntness of his answer nearly shocked her, but the effect wore quickly.

“Perhaps I wished the opposite?”

“Oh, my dear,” Benedict practically mewled. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come out here in the first place, now would you?”

Like a gaping trout, she had no reply. Perhaps he was right. She didn’t have to come out to the front of the store, the gnawing curiosity got the better of her and practically pulled her through that door. 

“If you are here to try to get me to change my mind—”

“I wish to spend the afternoon with you.”

She blinked.

“Just one afternoon, allow me to try and prove how serious I am about courting you,” Benedict said earnestly. “After that, if you are still of the same mind, I will never bother you again. You have my word.”

Hesitantly, she lowered the bouquet, her shoulders slumping. She was thinking so hard about his offer, Benedict swore he could see steam rising from her ears. “I… cannot just leave the bakery, it’s my family’s livelihood—”

“I’ll buy the lot,” Benedict said, pressing a handful of coins onto the counter top. “Sell me whatever it is you make in a day—a small price to pay for a moment of your time.”

“You cannot simply throw your money at things and expect it to always work out for you, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said sternly, eyeing the sack of coins longingly. She would be kidding herself if the offer didn’t sound appealing. “I am no woman on the corner, you cannot buy my time.”

“Then consider it a tip,” Benedict hummed, pushing the bag closer to her. “For your excellent service at the Bridgerton ball. Nothing nefarious, nothing expected of you. Just a man buying some bread.”

“Loads of bread,” (Y/N) mumbled, quickly calculating how many loaves he truly was willing to walk out with. The amount of money was unclear, but if she had to wager, he practically bought out the whole storefront. Her parents would be thrilled—they could even take a rare day off, just because their daughter spent the afternoon with a practical stranger. “Fine. One afternoon.”

The glee that washed across his body did not go unnoticed, he practically lit up the room with his joy.

“You won’t regret this,” he said seriously. “Trust that my intentions are pure and—”

“—honest and true,” she droned, finishing his thought. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

Benedict nodded. “Right. Well, shall we?”

“Will you allow me a moment to change? I do not think you wish to spend your day with a girl caked in flour.”

“Funny enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he grinned. She was unamused. “But, if you insist.”

It didn’t take long for her to clean up, a change in her frock and a readjustment to her hair was all that was needed. She found herself staring in her mirror a bit longer than usual, taking in her features. Could he really be interested in her? He seemed so taken by her looks when she herself considered them… so plain. She shook her head, effectively jumping out of her haze and proceeded to head back downstairs to meet her suitor for the afternoon. 

“Perhaps you were right,” Benedict said softly. “This may be your best look to date.”

A heat warmed her cheeks and it wasn’t the summer sun. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Ah!” Benedict waved a finger. “If we are to spend the afternoon together, I insist you call me by my given name.”

Her lips pressed together in protest. “If you insist—”

“Oh and I do, my darling,” Benedict nearly sang.

“Benedict,” she corrected. “What sorts of plans do you have for this afternoon? Surely you did not produce such a grand gesture only to leave our day up to chance.”

“I am feeling quite parched,” Benedict said, almost ignoring her comment. “Care for a spot of tea?” In their walk down the street, he had managed to stop right in front of a quaint little tea shop. She hardly noticed.

“And if I do not care for tea?”

“I hear they have excellent scones and biscuits,” Benedict countered. “Surely not sweeter than you, but delicious all the same.”

“Sweeter than my scones, you mean?”

Benedict raised a brow, puckering his lips lightly. She heard him correctly the first time. “So. Tea?”

They sat at a small table near the back of the shop, a hot pot of herbal tea sat between them. It looked entirely domestic, a pot of tea shared between lovers, any onlooker could have deduced as much.

“Pass the honey?” (Y/N) pointed to the small jar next to Benedict’s hand. He nodded and pushed it closer to her.

“You take your tea with honey?” He probed.

“Herbal tea, yes,” she confirmed, stirring a spoonful into her cup. “If it is black tea, a healthy amount of milk is entirely welcomed in my drink, no sugar.”

“Interesting,” Benedict said, watching her intently stir the honey until it dissolved into the hot liquid. “I prefer plain black tea myself, though occasionally my brother Colin will bring exquisite teas from his travels across the seas.”

“And Colin is which brother?” The question slipped out quickly, she hardly noticed she had asked.

“One of my two younger brothers,” Benedict smiled gently. “Not much younger than I, but I do have a few years on him, not as many as I have on Gregory, of course. He’s practically the babe of the family—save for sweet Hyacinth.”

“Eight children…” She thought aloud. “Were your parents working towards a record number?”

“I always jest that they wished to complete the entire alphabet,” Benedict mused. “But, alas, twenty six seems a bit much.” He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the lingering aroma. “So, you know there are eight of us?”

“Everyone knows your family,” she said simply. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“Of course,” he hummed into his cup, a smile brewing from his lips. “You have siblings, yes? I believe I met your brother earlier.”

“Two older brothers,” (Y/N) groaned lightly. “Jack and Harry, the latter being the one you met. They are… oh how do I put this? Exceptionally irritating.”

Benedict laughed into his drink. “Sounds quite a lot like my siblings.”

“My parents expect Jack to take over the bakery,” she explained quietly, her voice lowering. “But he has no desire to bake whatsoever. He can hardly make a sponge cake.”

“And a sponge cake is…?”

“One of the most basic cake recipes a baker can learn,” she continued. “I usually end up being the one who pulls the slack Jack creates.”

“And Harry?”

“When he isn’t galavanting across town with the ladies of the night, he is holed up in his room doing Lord knows what. Certainly nothing that helps the family business.”

“You care a lot about your family and the business,” Benedict said, stating what is clearly the obvious. “Surely your parents see it too?”

“Oh no,” she shook her head wildly. “That is the most asinine part of the ordeal! They simply do not see me as an asset to the bakery—something that should rightfully be mine should the time come.” She sighed, throwing her head into her hands. “But, I am expected to keep my head down and decorate cakes like a good girl.”

“You say that as if you are their pet,” Benedict scoffed lightly. “Do they truly expect such obedience from you?”

“I wasn’t wanted,” she said simply. “My parents merely wanted a son to take over the business—Jack, he’s the oldest. Good for nothing, as it turns out. Harry was to have an extra set of hands around the bakery, but now he’s their prodigal child. Me? I was shacked with an over glorified closet for a room because there truly was no space for me.” She sniffled. “At least they got a decorator out of it.”

Benedict tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re more than a decorator. Surely your parents see that too?”

“They’ll see some use of me when I get home,” she said into her cup. “Seeing as you bought out our store just to spend a measly few hours with me. I’m sure that in of itself is worth having an accidental daughter.”

Benedict all but scoffed at this. “You cannot be serious.”

“Not everyone comes from loving families that wish to do nothing more than pop out babies left and right,” (Y/N) deadpanned, placing her cup back on the table. “If it were truly up to my parents, they would’ve stopped after Jack. But, much like the society you come from, an heir and a spare, I suppose.”

“And you?” Benedict almost felt afraid to ask. 

“It’s like you said,” she finished her cup of tea. “I am simply a pet.”

Benedict was never one for fights, but he suddenly had the urge to put his fist through a handful of faces in that moment. “That’s awful.” It was all he could say. 

“That’s life,” she shrugged, picking up a biscuit and examining it closely. Her nose scrunched. “If you were trying to gain my favor, perhaps you should’ve taken me somewhere with better biscuits. It’s insulting to a baker to see such poorly made ones, especially in a place like this.”

He knew she was trying to change the subject. “I shall do better next time.”

“Yes, I suppose you—” she stopped. “That was a rotten trick and you know it.”

“I am certainly no magician, (Y/N),” Benedict finished his tea, hiding the most devilish of smiles from behind the cup. “But seeing as we’re finished with our pot, perhaps we can take a turn about the park?”

“You’d risk public outcry and a scandal for being seen with a commoner in the park?” (Y/N) asked, pulling herself from her seat. “What would Lady Whistledown say?”

“You know of Lady Whistledown?”

“Everyone knows of Lady Whistledown,” she scoffs. “I may not have the pleasure to afford her column every time she publishes, but occasionally our regulars will leave their pamphlet for me once they’re finished.”

“Only read the good bits, I take it?”

“As much as I don’t understand the world you come from, Benedict, reading Whistledown helps me fill the gaps I am so obviously lacking. Truly, even if I did grow up in your society, I doubt I’d be able to understand much more than I do now anyway.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Benedict said, a laugh escaping through his nose. “I’m not one for society anyway—never cared much for it.”

“Surely news of this would cause a scandal, though?”

“News that I am simply walking in the park with a friend? Oh how the newsboys will have trouble selling that story,” Benedict mused, leaning down towards the lady. “Perhaps if we were seen doing something less proper, I suppose. Do you wish to be doing something less proper, (Y/N)?”

She didn’t dignify his question with a response, though, the rouge on her cheeks was answer enough.

—

It only took a handful of minutes to walk to the park, the tea shop was so close already. How convenient.

The other ladies in the park, the ones of a more genteel breeding, they were dressed finer than anything (Y/N) could have put on. She felt out of place. She usually did, of course, but something about her outdated frock in contrast to how striking Benedict looked and dressed? It felt rather foolish. 

Perhaps it was the notoriety of the Bridgerton walking beside her, or the self consciousness of being underdressed enough to catch the eyes of anyone walking past, but it felt like she was a spectacle—something in a museum or on display. She was holding bright light, nearly shouting at everyone that she was not enough, not worthy to be in this park, let alone with this man.

“I am tired of walking,” (Y/N) said suddenly. 

“We have only just begun,” he laughed. “But if you require a respite—”

“Let’s sit,” (Y/N) said just as quickly, practically running to the edge of the pond. Perfectly out of sight to everyone.

“How secluded,” Benedict mused. “I daresay, I never thought you’d be so agreeable—”

“Hush,” (Y/N) admonished, holding a finger up. “I am simply in need of a break—away from prying eyes.”

Benedict nodded, not daring to pry further. He watched her slump to the ground, her dress skirt billowing around her like a cloud before settling to the gravity. He continued to stand. “I rather like this park.”

“A park is a park.”

“Have you been before?”

“Here?” She shook her head. “Obviously not.”

“My family, we would come to London during the social season,” Benedict explained. “Our usual residence is out in Kent—anyhow, my father had this spectacular notion to come to the park every week as a family. Looking back, it was probably to save face and show a united Bridgerton front.”

She looked up at Benedict, who was currently plucking a few leaves off of the low hanging branches of the tree. “Sounds wise.”

“He was the wisest,” Benedict agreed. “Keeping the ever-growing number of Bridgerton children entertained became a sport. Anthony, Colin and I were always squabbling, drove my mother rightfully insane, so, my father had a bright idea.”

“Paste your lips together?” She offered. 

Benedict knelt down, close to the edge of the water. “No, but I do not doubt that idea crossed their minds,” he laughed, bringing the leaves in his hands to view, “my father suggested racing.”

“Horse racing?”

He shook his head. “We’d each pick a leaf and follow it to the other edge of the pond—kept us entertained for hours, running back and forth to reset our leaves and chase them down.”

“Smart man,” she hummed, genuinely impressed by the late viscount’s cleverness.

“So, pick your contender,” Benedict said softly, displaying the spare leaves like cards in a deck. 

“You are serious?”

“Dead serious, I’m afraid,” Benedict clicked, pushing his hand a bit closer to her. “Come on, humor me.”

She looked down at the leaves and back up at Benedict, his blue eyes rivaling the color of the pond. Taking an interest in the middle leaf—it was the longest and skinniest—she plucked it from his fingers. “This one.”

“Excellent choice,” Benedict said cheerily, dropping the other leaves. “I am more inclined to a smaller one—seems they move faster down the shore.”

“Size isn’t everything, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) crossed her arms, resting them on her knees. She would never dare to admit it out loud, but she was having a bit of fun.

“Ah, perhaps not,” Benedict jested with her, her jab not even shocking him in the slightest. “But, I reckon it will be a close match regardless.”

After insuring that the lovely lady in his company was watching his movements closely, he set the leaves down on the surface of the water. “Finish line is by that tree over there,” he pointed, finally letting go with his other hand.

“May the best leaf win,” she giggled. Giggled? Good Lord. A crooked grin cracked on his face, focused too intently at the company rather than the match at hand. “Are you not going to chase them?”

“And leave you?” He scoffed. “Perish the thought.”

“I just thought,” her gaze was caught on the leaves, still floating down the edge of the pond—slower than she anticipated, “well, I suppose I wanted to get the whole picture of your family tradition.”

“Shall I run along the coast, then?” Benedict asked playfully, rising back to his feet, thumb pushed towards the water. 

“Only to humor me,” she shrugged, not even fighting the smile on her face. 

“Well, in that case,” Benedict began to remove his jacket, throwing it beside her. With a light jog he caught up to the leaves, they hadn’t gone very far anyway, perhaps if it were a windier day he’d have a faster time to keep up with. “You are in the lead!” He called out. 

“Brilliant!” Her hands were clasped around her mouth, a cone to help amplify her shout. His smile was like the sun, warm and inviting—she wished she could spend the day in such a warmth. Benedict practically jumped for joy when the leaves made it to the final stretch, crossing to the rocks on the shore. Nearly falling into the water, he managed to scoop the leaves up and jog back to the woman in the grass. “Well?”

“Well, what?” He asked, nearly out of breath, smile still pulling his lips upward. 

“The winner?”

“Ah,” he fell to the ground, sitting comfortably next to the baker’s daughter, pocketing the leaves. “A secret.”

“So you lost?”

“Oh, I assure you, if you won I would be celebrating you until the end of our time together,” Benedict sang. “However…”

“I lost?” She scoffed. 

“A gentleman is humble in his successes,” he explained carefully. “We could go again?”

“No,” she said, humor in her voice. “I think that was more than enough excitement for one afternoon.”

“For once, we agree,” he said. “May I…? Could I ask you a question?”

“If you are proposing marriage, I am afraid I’ll have to decline—”

“No, no,” he laughed heartily. “Nothing of that sort.”

“I suppose I could find it in myself to answer a different question, then.”

“You were cold to me this morning,” Benedict noted, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. “But not on the day we met. What changed?”

She sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, gaze locked out on the now setting sun. “I… am not entirely sure.”

“Surely it was not the leaves—”

“The leaves may have helped,” she admitted. “Humanized you, in a way.”

“Was I inhuman before?”

“Naturally,” she retorted. “I mean, is it not obvious?”

“You were protecting your feelings,” Benedict finally realized. “All this time. You did not wish to be hurt—truly afraid I was merely stringing you along as an elaborate prank or ruse? Is that right?”

“How could someone like you ever have an interest in a pauper like me? The baker’s daughter and the son of a viscount?” Tears dotted her eyes, threatening to fall. How she came so close to crying was beyond her. “It seems implausible.”

Benedict dropped the grass, fully looking at the lady beside him. She had made herself nearly as small as she felt. He had hit the nail on the head. A gust of wind blew by, bringing leaves down from the tree above. 

“I do not think less of you because of whose daughter you are,” Benedict said softly, removing a stray leaf from her hair. His fingers guided her head towards him, begging for her to look his way. “I care only about you. Getting to know you. Frankly, your father seems like a mostly alright man, but I do not wish to know him the way I wish to know you.”

“You may wish for that,” she sniffled. “But what would the rest of your world think? You, trying to court a woman below your status—”

“The only people who should be caring so deeply about my potential courtship are my intended and me,” Benedict said sharply. “The rest of the ton can frankly kiss my rear end.”

This raised a laugh out of her. It was bubbly and pure, almost like the one of a child. “You truly don’t care what people think about you?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I do not.”

“How freeing that must be,” she said. 

“Being the second son has its perks,” Benedict looked at her, really looked at her. “No one expects me to be proper all the time. I am given the freedom—financially and otherwise—to do as I please. I do not have to worry about inheriting a title, siring heirs, that is my brother’s responsibility.”

“Why me?”

His head quirked. “I do not understand?”

“You could court any girl of the ton,” she said. “And I am sure more than half of them would never turn down a chance to be courted by a Bridgerton—”

“They wished for the title,” Benedict sighed. “To be Viscountess Bridgerton, to marry my older brother and have the notoriety. That ship has already sailed, I'm afraid. You are kind in thinking that many women would be after me though.”

“You are not ugly,” she listed, “you have a great humor about you, a pleasant demeanor and a kindness in your eyes. The women of the ton must be foolish, then.”

“Perhaps the foolish one is you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You truly think those things about me?” He asked, awaiting a response. Her jaw was slack, clearly not about to give him any sort of confirmation to his question. “I believe your words, I do. But perhaps you should look at yourself with such eyes?”

“I-I don’t understand—”

“Our class differences aside,” Benedict said, as if it was easy to just ignore that, “while I was taken by your beauty at first—your eyes are something the Gods themselves forged in the fires, stars rivaling their shine—it was your continuous personality that kept my attention. Granted, it helped you were once covered head-to-toe in flour, it really brought out your features.”

Her cheeks flared at the recollection of their first meeting. “It was not my finest moment.”

“And you were vulnerable all the same,” he continued. “You cared not for who I was, yet, you showed an interest in me anyway. You may not agree with that statement, but you and I know it to be true in some shape or form. The only thing that holds you back is this notion on our classes—”

“Perhaps I am interested in you,” (Y/N) cut him off. “Perhaps I wish to be courted by you, attend balls and dress in pretty gowns, drinking expensive drinks and whispering sweet nothings. But that is all that it is—a wish. I know my place in this world, it is a right shame you have such a fantasy about yours.”

“(Y/N)…”

“No,” she stood up, brushing the blades of grass and leaves off of her skirt. “I hoped that you would understand, Benedict. I agreed to this afternoon because it felt like I had no choice in the matter—you practically bought my time, after all. What I did not expect,” she hiccuped, “I did not expect that I would enjoy such an afternoon.”

“You enjoyed yourself,” Benedict rose to his feet, desperate to match her gaze head on. “Why can you not allow yourself to have that joy? Allow your heart to follow its call?”

“I do not have such liberties to listen to my heart,” (Y/N) said softly. “I must use my head for every choice I make. An afternoon with you allowed my family to have enough money to make it through the end of the season without going hungry—”

“And an afternoon with me has brought such happiness to fill your soul for much longer—”

“Happiness has little importance,” she scoffed. “I would rather see my family healthy and surviving than even think about a notion like happiness or joy.”

“You have said yourself that your family treats you like a pet,” Benedict took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He needn’t explode in the park. “Why do you care so much about them if they care so little for you?”

“Because it is all that I know!” The candle had finally reached its end, burning out with a sizzle. “All I have ever known is my life in the bakery, rising early to make the dough, peddling samples to those walking by and hoping—praying—that they step in our store and purchase something. Because a sale of a few loaves of bread or cakes meant we could afford to buy vegetables for a soup, something to eat with our days old bread.”

“If you were with me, you wouldn’t ever need to think about things like that again,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on a whisper. “I could support you, support your family.”

“And that is precisely why I do not wish to continue this,” she raised her finger. “I do not need an affluent man to come and save me—”

“But I could help—”

“I do not need your help!”

“You obviously do!”

She took a step back, the tears from before finally reappearing in her eyes. “O-obviously? Because I am of a lower class you believe, in that giant and empty head of yours, that you can simply win my favor by saving me? Offering riches and experiences that I should be grateful and thanking every God that will listen that you are even willing to give me?”

“You know that is not what I meant—” 

“You believe that because you are who you are, and I am who I am, that I couldn’t possibly say no to you,” her gaze flicked with anger, a fire looming. “While the ladies of the ton have their choices, I do not, so it makes it easy for you to pine over someone who simply has no choice in the matter.”

“No—(Y/N)—”  

“This afternoon has been lovely,” (Y/N) spat, looking to the skyline—the sun had finally set, “but I am afraid that the afternoon is over. I shall be taking my leave.”

“Please reconsider,” Benedict begged, willing to try anything to get her to stay. “I wish to know you.”

“A shame, then,” (Y/N) said, turning around. “Wishing for something so foolish.”

—

“Her head is in the clouds,” Jack whispered.

“No, I reckon her head is in the dough,” Harry mumbled back to his brother. 

“I can hear you, you know,” (Y/N) ground out, working hard on a rather unruly clump of dough that simply would not cooperate. “And if I can hear you, you are close enough to be helping.”

“But that is so exhausting," Harry groaned, leaning against the countertop. “Besides, how are you ever going to impress your betrothed if you do not keep such toned arms?”

She threw the dough against the counter—hard. “He is not my betrothed.”

“But you wish for him to be, no?” Jack giggled, playing with a few burnt buns—a mishap of his own creation.

“I say, Sister,” Harry said. “Why do you not pursue that Bridgerton? He clearly is interested in you, or, have you forgotten all of the flowers he has sent?”

The front of the shop was practically a florist’s dream—covering every free inch of counter space with beautiful bouquets. Her mother simply refused to throw out such lovely blooms, even going so far as to fish the first one out of the trash after her daughter made quick work to dispose of it. “How could I possibly forget about the man who continuously flaunts his wealth to get what he wants?”

“He wants you, surely that is not lost on you?”

“Of course not,” she continued to knead, a few hairs falling into her face. “But he is so insistent on getting me to agree to his whims simply because—”

“He has money, (Y/N),” Jack scoffed. “Good money. Christ, you spent half of a day with him a few weeks ago and we were able to finally purchase meat for dinner. Imagine if you married him—”

“So you want your sister to be married off for your own financial gain?”

“What else would you marry for?” Harry laughed. “Love?”

She stopped kneading. “Why do you not go and try to marry a wealthy lady, then? Hm? Surely a woman of genteel breeding would be much taken by the idea of a rugged baker—”

“That Bridgerton is already interested,” Harry shrugged. “At the very least, if you end up with child he would provide enough funds—”

“First you wish to marry me off, now you wish for me to have his bastard?” She couldn’t help but laugh, ignoring her hard work on the counter. “Why can I not make my own choice? I do not wish to be with Mr. Bridgerton, I wish to stay here at the bakery.”

“Fucking stupid,” Jack scoffed. “If I were in your shoes, I would let the gentleman pay for anything my heart desires—forget about this wretched place and move on with my life.”

“And abandon our legacy?”

“You mean my legacy,” Jack corrected. “I am to inherit the bakery, it is my birthright. You? I suppose I will allow you to continue your grunt work here—” 

“Who else will do the baking?” Her voice rang throughout the kitchen. “Mother and Father are nearing the end of their career, both becoming too frail to continue with the rigorous task of this place. I am the only one—the only competent member of this family who can keep this shit afloat! And you want me to just… give that up?”

Jack stood a little straighter. “It was never your place.”

“Harry is set to inherit the bakery now, you know it. Yet someone had to fill the shoes of the family fuck-up instead, no?” 

It was a sharp pain, suddenly and all at once against her cheek. It took her only half a second later to realize what had happened, her other brother’s face was only a confirmation on the fact.

“Jack, what the hell?!” Harry practically screamed. “You hit her?”

“She insulted me!”

“You deserved it,” Harry said, pushing his older brother back. “She only spoke the truth—”

“So I am allowed to be walked over by my baby sister?” Jack scoffed, pushing Harry back. “A woman? No fucking chance, mate.”

Her hand had covered her cheek, already feeling warm to the touch. Everything was too much, too loud, too bright. She had to get out of there, had to forget all about the dough on the counter, forgetting all about the brother who had just smacked her silly. The back door wasn’t locked—no surprise as Jack was the last one to use it—making it easy for her to push into the alleyway and into the rain. 

Rain. 

Pelting like bullets, the wet drenched her clothing in a mere instant, making it harder to escape. Where had she planned to run anyway? She had nowhere to go, her entire world was contained to the four walls of the bakery, never daring to explore the rest of it, not when her world was already so encompassing, so inviting. 

In theory, anyway, it seemed.

So, she ran. A mix of running and walking, she kept moving forward. By the time she left her part of town, she knew her brothers would not bother coming for her. The rain alone was a deterrent, even Harry, the one who loved her more, wouldn’t dare to brave the elements just to reel his sister’s whims in. 

A splotch of purple entered her vision. How long had she been moving? Did she even expect to come here? Did her subconscious send her in this direction for a reason?

She knocked on the bright door before she could find out.

“Good evening, ma’am,” a butter said politely. “What business do you have?”

“I am here to call upon Benedict Bridgerton.”

—

His quill had soaked the parchment below with ink, having left the tip upon it for far too long. He had been lost in thought, contemplative, especially the last few weeks. Benedict knew he had hurt her, had insulted her very being, yet he still tried. Every other day he’d send a fresh bouquet to the bakery, a new poem attached to the stems. Perhaps she read them? He knew it was more likely that she burned them, in the ovens or otherwise. 

At the very least, he knew that the blooms were being displayed at the shop. Hope. That is what it had given him.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you have a caller,” a butler knocked, opening his door a crack wider.

“A caller? In this weather?”

“She seemed rather insistent,” the butler shrugged. “She is waiting in the drawing room—I already sent for tea and towels for the lady.”

“A lady is here to see me?” Benedict quirked his brow.

“A Miss. (Y/L/N),” the butler said. “No calling card, soaked to the bone and she seemed a bit… out of sorts.”

Benedict had already risen from his desk, practically pushing past the staff member to reach the stairs. Missing a step or two, he made it to the drawing room and shoved the door open. In the center of the blue room was (Y/N), dripping onto the wooden floor, shaking like a leaf.

“(Y/N)…” 

“I-I had nowhere else to go,” she began to explain. “I did not even realize I was here until I knocked on the door. It was foolish—”

“No,” Benedict shook his head, reaching to take her hand in his own. “It is quite alright. You are more than welcome to be here.”

His hands were warm, or perhaps she was just that cold, making them feel like a fire. “I am so sorry, Benedict.”

“For what?” He asked genuinely. 

“Everything?” She offered. “I-I am not sure of what, exactly, but I feel that I need to apologize.”

“You needn’t apologize for anything,” he said. “Not with me, not ever.”

She looked up at the ceiling, afraid to make contact with his blue stare. “I needed to get away. My brother he—Jack hit me.”

Benedict froze, his entire body went rigid. “I’ll kill him.”

“I suppose I deserved it,” she shrugged, now looking at the ground. “Talking back to him, assuming things that could never be—” 

“A man has assaulted you,” Benedict squeezed her hand tighter. “Brother or not, he put his hands on you. You did nothing of the sort to deserve such a thing.”

“I don’t think I can go back there,” (Y/N) said softly. “Perhaps this was just the moment that gave me clarity. Opened my eyes, so to speak.”

Benedict took a good look at her face, red and splotchy, whether it was from the smack or the tears, he could not tell. “Tea is on the way, I shall request a cold compress for your cheek—”

“I do not wish to impose.”

“You shall wish for nothing here,” Benedict said quietly, firmly. “You will stay until the rain lets up, or, you provide me with a suggestible plan for your next steps.”

“I cannot go back,” she finally looked up at Benedict. “As much as I would like to, I simply cannot.”

“If you do not want to go back, I will support you. If you want to leave town, the country even, I will support you,” he said seriously. “Please allow me to support you.”

“I could never ask you for that—”

“You are not asking, I am offering,” he clarified. 

“Benedict…”

The rain seemed to lessen, if the pelting against the window had anything to say about it. The noise had dimmed, not as violent as before. “To know that you are safe, that you are cared for, that is all I care about.”

So, in the center of the blue Bridgerton drawing room, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the floor, she kissed him. It was a sudden thing, pulling him down towards her lips, the contact much quicker than she had expected. He returned the favor in kind, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, kissing her in a way he had yet to truly experience. 

If his hands were like a fire, his lips were an inferno. Fighting for dominance, it was all encompassing. How had she gone so long without a feeling such as this? The burn was coming from inside, not a superficial one atop her skin as she was quite used to, but this burn, this feeling, she could find herself craving this. 

“I-I am sorry—” she pulled away.

“Never be sorry,” Benedict shook his head. “Not for that, not ever.”

“I should not have done that…”

“No,” he agreed, a chuckle leaving his lips, “but how exhilarating it felt, regardless.”

His thumb ran lazy circles on her jaw. She leaned into the touch. “I do not know what to do, where to go…”

“But you cannot stay here…?”

She smiled sadly. “You know me scarily well, Benedict.”

He thought for a moment. “So… leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave town, leave the country—”

“I do not have the means to do such a silly thing.”

“I will pay your way.”

She scoffed, trying to pull out of his embrace. He wouldn’t release his grip. “Benedict…”

“I told you, I wish to support you. Emotionally, financially, I want to be there for you,” Benedict said. “Even if we are not—if you do not want to be together romantically, I want to ensure your safety and your health, your well-being. A friend.”

She tried to find the lie in his eyes, in his tone. Coming up empty, she had no excuse to not believe him. 

“France,” he said, as if struck by lightning.

“France?”

“I hear only the expert bakers study in France—I have no doubts you could go to learn,” he explained. “I could pay for your travel, housing, you name it. Ask for it, and it is yours.”

“I doubt anyone would want to teach a woman, no matter how lovely a thought it might be.”

“I have a cousin,” Benedict explained. “Her and her husband own a café—I am quite certain that they would love to hire an expert baker to add to their inventory and menu. You could earn your own income, make your own way. A fresh start.”

“A fresh start…” she repeated. “That sounds too good to be true.”

“I shall write to her in the morning,” Benedict said, holding her hands again. 

“And you…?”

“I will only come with you if you want me to join,” Benedict said slowly. “I will not trap you. I want your happiness, your freedom.”

She nodded, understanding.

“I think France sounds nice,” she smiled. “Will you write to me?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if you are vexed with me?”

“Especially if I am vexed with you.”

She kissed his lips again, sweeter and softer than the first time.

“Sounds perfect.”

—

A year. An entire year had passed and she couldn’t recall a happier time in her life. The only time that something could have rivaled it was a visit to a tea shop followed by a respite by a pond—in handsome company all the while. 

They kept correspondence, just like they promised. Every week came a new letter, a new story to be told by the poetic Benedict Bridgerton. She tried to rival his words, explaining every detail about France, about her new life, but something was nagging. She missed him. They had grown close over the correspondence, leaving her heart wanting more. But, she knew when she left for France it was to fulfill her dreams, leaving a foolish notion like love on the back burner.

“(Y/N),” Marie, the Bridgerton cousin, called out behind her. “We are in need of more buns.”

“I just restocked the buns,” (Y/N) giggled, turning to the blonde. “What? Has someone mysteriously bought the lot?”

“Oui,” Marie said with a jest, heading into the storage room, “perhaps you should go bring more out?”

“You are in luck, the last batch just finished resting from the oven,” she said, carrying a tray on her shoulder, “I will bring them out with haste.”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

(Y/N) faltered, hand already pressed to the door leading to the front shop. A tingle ran through her spine, her heart picking up to a freeing flutter. 

Could it be?

“You know, I would buy your entire stock,” the man hummed, looking thoughtfully into the display case, “but I fear I would be recreating a rather taxing memory for the both of us.”

“Benedict,” she gasped, nearly dropping her tray. 

“You look radiant,” he mused, that wicked grin of his breaking on his face. “Much like the first time I saw you—covered in flour.”

“I am in my element,” (Y/N) said sweetly, “just as you would expect.” She had noticed that Marie and her husband were not in the café, the sign flipped to close. “You planned this.”

“Do you insinuate that I bribed my distant cousin to close her café to give you the day off, travel all the way to France, hoping I could spend the day with you?” Benedict scoffed playfully. “You truly do not know me at all.”

“I do not think Marie would take a bribe,” (Y/N) said slyly, knowing how much of a champion the cousin had been for the baker and viscount’s son to get together.

“She refused payment,” he admitted, agreeing with her notion. “But, was ever eager to see you get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself.”

“You hadn’t written to me in two weeks,” (Y/N) said, walking around the counter. “I was worried.”

“I needed to refrain from our correspondence, I fear I would have let the surprise slip otherwise.”

“Smart man,” she hummed.

“I am known to be smart occasionally,” he shrugged.

“What are you doing here?” She finally asked. “N-not that I am not happy to see you, of course, but as you had said, this is a surprise.”

“I came to study art,” Benedict said, a hand in his coat pocket. “I felt that if I truly wanted to learn the craft, I needed to learn from the masters—many of their works are housed here in France. I even began to rent a little home in town, finding the need to stay a while.”

“That is the only reason?”

Benedict’s gaze softened. “Of course it is not the only reason.”

Her heart fluttered again.

“It is only fair that I try this again, correctly and without the prying eyes of society, this time,” Benedict said, clearing his throat and spinning around.

“Correctly?” She giggled, watching him twirl to face the door.

“Ah, good morning miss!” Benedict said, turning back to face (Y/N). “I must say, you look ever-so-pretty—tell me, do all bakers have a beauty such as your own?”

“I would wager no,” she said, trying to keep serious. “Most of the bakers around here are men.”

“Shame. Might I learn your name? It seems only fair—I fear I might just die if I do not know the sweet sound of it.”

“(Y/N),” she sang. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Benedict Bridgerton,” he stretched out his hand, reaching for her own. She allowed him to take it, a soft kiss was placed on the back of her cracked hand—a working hand, one that she was proud to have. 

“You are very charming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she hummed, looking deeply into his blue eyes. “Pleased to make your company.”

“I assure you, I am more pleased to be in yours,” Benedict insisted, kissing her hand again. “Tell me, do you have plans this afternoon?”

“It seems my schedule has cleared up,” she looked to the sign on the door and sighed. “Why? Do you have any suggestions on how I should spend it?”

“Might we take a turn around the park? A friend of mine has written to me about just how lovely one nearby is, I reckon I would like to see it for myself.”

She smiled brightly at him, as if he held the world in his hands. Instead, he held two leaves between his fingers—brown and cracked, but clearly treated with such care. They had been the same ones from their time at the park the first go around, she was nearly certain. Why else would he bring dead leaves with him?

"Leaves?"

"You see, my family, we have this tradition of racing with leaves—I would very much like to share it with you. These two in particular seem to be very lucky, thought it would be best to bring them along."

His smile melted her heart, endearing and thoughtful in the same breath. She could get used to a smile like that.

“Well… what are we waiting for, Mr. Bridgerton?”

[thedensworld]

Something Between Us | H.Js

Genre: angst, arranged marriage, exes au!

Summary: An old couple meet again, with the same feeling inside their chest. What's something between them still left?

Author note: i dedicate this story for all of my plot twist lover. Here's for you guys. With love and— of course, so much care🤍

Joshua held his cup of coffee, feeling its warmth seep into his hands as he waited for you to arrive. Nervous? Of course, he was. It had been three long years since the two of you had seen each other. In all that time, there had been no reason or opportunity for your paths to cross. But today, after meticulous planning and endless back-and-forth between your secretaries, the two of you were about to meet again—this time as business partners.

Joshua had always been skeptical about arranged marriages. His parents' marriage had crumbled when he was just ten years old, and his father had remarried only two years later. His mother eventually found the love of her life in her fifties, but not before enduring two failed marriages. Joshua himself had experienced a failed arranged marriage—with you, three years ago. So, when his friends claimed they were happy in their arranged marriages, he couldn’t help but doubt them.

He had once said the same thing during the first year of your marriage.

As you walked toward him, Joshua couldn’t help but notice how much your hair had grown since the last time he saw you. You had always preferred muted tones, but today you wore a baby blue work attire that caught him off guard. Rising from his seat, Joshua offered you a professional handshake before motioning for you to sit across from him. Your secretaries took their seats beside you both, their awkward silence adding to the already tense atmosphere in the room.

Today's meeting was supposed to be strictly business. After your father passed away a few months ago, you had surprised Joshua by sending a proposal to rekindle the business relationship that had been severed when the two of you went your separate ways three years ago. He was genuinely shocked. He never imagined that the Ji family would reach out to him first, especially given that your families had also "divorced" in a sense when you did.

"I’ve gone through the proposal you sent. It’s clear there’s still potential between our companies, but a lot has changed in the past three years.”

You nodded, your expression unreadable. “Yes, quite a lot has changed,” you agreed. “The industry has evolved, and so have our respective companies. That’s precisely why I believe it’s important for us to explore a new collaboration.”

Joshua studied you carefully, his mind racing. Your brother Seungcheol was the rightful successor, the one running the family business now. There was no logical reason for you to involve yourself—especially after being away from the business world since your divorce. Why would you suddenly want to rekindle this partnership? Was this truly about the companies, or was there something more you weren’t saying?

“Your brother,” Joshua began cautiously, “is more than capable of handling the business. I’m curious why you felt the need to personally reach out to me, given that Seungcheol is the one at the helm now.”

You met his gaze, your eyes steady. “Seungcheol is indeed in charge, and he’s doing an excellent job. But there are some things only I can handle, and this partnership is one of them. I know the history, the nuances between our companies. There’s unfinished business here, Joshua. You and I both know that.”

Joshua couldn’t deny the truth in your words, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more beneath the surface. “And you think you can just step back in and pick up where we left off?” he asked, skepticism lacing his tone. “You’ve been out of the industry for three years. A lot has changed—not just in business, but in the way we operate, the strategies we use. Do you really think you can bring the same value you once did?”

A faint smile played on your lips. “I may have been away, but I’ve kept my eyes open. I’m well aware of the changes and the new dynamics at play. But this isn’t just about proving my worth, Joshua. It’s about leveraging the strengths of both our companies for mutual benefit. We have something unique—a history, a shared vision, even if it was derailed for a while.”

Joshua leaned back, crossing his arms as he regarded you thoughtfully. “And what exactly are you offering? What do you bring to the table that your brother or anyone else in your company can’t?”

You took a deep breath before answering, your voice firm. “What I bring is a perspective that no one else has. I understand the intricacies of both our businesses, and I know what was lost when we parted ways. I also know how to regain that edge. This isn’t just about merging resources or expanding markets. It’s about restoring what was once a strong alliance—something that could be stronger than ever if we approach it the right way.”

Joshua could sense the conviction in your voice, but he also sensed something else—a personal stake that went beyond business. You weren’t just here to broker a deal; there was something deeper driving you, something you weren’t ready to reveal just yet. But for now, he played along, curious to see where this would lead.

*

Seungkwan, Joshua's dedicated secretary, arrived at ten o'clock at night with a box of Joshua's old files from his parents' house, driven by an urgent matter. The contents were from a pivotal time in Joshua's life—the period when his business had merged with his ex-partner's company.

Joshua had been immersed in the business world since his college days, with a particular passion for coffee beans. His grandfather, recognizing his potential, gifted young Joshua a piece of land to cultivate and manage. After years of gaining valuable experience, Joshua made the bold decision to take over his family’s business—a company specializing in the distribution of fresh food sources. His natural talent for business didn’t go unnoticed; your father, who was well-acquainted with Joshua's grandfather, saw a promising match between you and Joshua.

Your family’s legacy in the industry stretches back further than Joshua’s, with a focus on real estate—hotels, buildings, and shopping malls. In fact, Joshua’s grandfather had once worked for your family before establishing his own empire. Over the years, Joshua's family business became a key supplier of fresh food for your family's hotels, creating a longstanding partnership between the two enterprises.

What began as a mere introduction between you and Joshua quickly evolved into a strategic arrangement orchestrated by your father and Joshua's grandfather. They agreed to a marriage between the two of you, believing it would further solidify the bond between the companies.

Fortunately, neither of you had any objections. Joshua found himself deeply attracted to your integrity and kindness, qualities that only strengthened his affection over time. What started as a business arrangement blossomed into a genuine partnership, both in life and in the boardroom.

"Let's get divorced after a few years," you suggested, your voice carefully measured as you spoke after a family meeting just before the wedding.

Joshua raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Let's not talk about divorce when we haven’t even said ‘I do’ yet."

You sighed, trying to find the right words. "That's not what I meant. I just want us to have the freedom to express our thoughts about this... arrangement. I don't want you to regret anything."

Joshua glanced at you briefly before focusing back on the road as he drove you home. A gentle smile played on his lips. "You're too kind, Y/N. Too kind for me."

After the wedding day, Joshua’s life was turned upside down—in the best way possible. His heart raced every time he saw you, and he found it increasingly difficult to keep his hands to himself whenever you were near. It didn’t take long for him to realize he was falling deeply in love with you.

As Joshua started to believe that you might feel the same way, he nearly forgot about the contract you both had signed before the wedding—a marriage contract stipulating that you would divorce after five years.

"Two years," you said one evening, your tone serious as you brought up the contract.

Joshua shook his head, a determined look in his eyes. "Five, at least. That’s the right amount of time to have everything settled between our companies before we divorce."

Living with you had been effortless for those years, a seamless partnership that made life feel easy and natural. But one night, after returning from a business trip to Taiwan, Joshua was blindsided when you handed him divorce papers to sign. His heart sank as he stared at you in shock, unable to believe you were bringing up the contract he had thought had long been forgotten.

"We've been fighting a lot," you began, your voice steady but laced with sadness. "And it's always about the same things. We see the world differently, and I don’t think I should live with someone who doesn’t share my vision."

Joshua felt something inside him shatter. He had believed you would understand him, that you were different. But now, he realized you were just like everyone else in his life. Just like his parents who had left him behind.

In that moment, the walls he had built to protect himself from pain crumbled, leaving him feeling more vulnerable than ever. He had fallen in love with you, but now he was faced with the harsh reality that love alone might not be enough to keep you by his side.

"Sorry for taking up your time, Seungkwan, but I really need these papers," Joshua said as he began rifling through the box Seungkwan had brought over.

It had been two weeks since the tense meeting between you and Joshua. Since then, any further communication had been handled strictly by your secretaries, Seungkwan and Chan. The deadline for Joshua to make a decision on your offer was only two days away.

Seungkwan sat down, opening his tablet to check his list of tasks. As he glanced at the screen, a thought crossed his mind. "By the way, do you know who Jina is?" he asked Joshua casually.

Joshua frowned, shaking his head. "Jina who?"

Seungkwan shrugged. "I’m not sure. Chan, Ms. Choi's secretary, mentioned that she had to take care of her child, Jina. I was wondering if she might have remarried already?"

Joshua’s hands froze mid-movement as his heart skipped a beat. Child. The word echoed in his mind, bringing with it a flood of questions. Are you married already? Did you finally have the family you always dreamed of? Are you happy now with the child he couldn’t give you?

He forced himself to respond, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. "Really? I didn't know."

Seungkwan nodded, seemingly unfazed. "Maybe it was a secret marriage. After all, it’s only been three years since her divorce from you," he speculated.

Three years. That was all it took for you to move on, to find someone new. To build the life that he had always wanted with you. Meanwhile, Joshua couldn't even fathom replacing you. The mere thought of it felt impossible, as if no one could ever fill the void you left behind.

*

Joshua met with you once to sign the MoU between your two companies. A month passed, and he began to realize that rekindling the business relationship between your families had been a good idea after all.

One afternoon, Joshua was out for lunch with a client. After their meal, he headed to the restroom and was surprised to find a little girl crying in front of the men’s room. Seeing that no one else was around, he gently picked her up and wiped the tears from her chubby cheeks.

“Mom…” the little girl whimpered, her voice breaking Joshua’s heart. Deciding to help, he started looking for her parents.

As he walked down the hallway, he heard familiar voices arguing. Turning the corner, he saw you scolding a younger woman dressed in what looked like a nanny's uniform.

"How could you lose her?" you snapped, clearly distressed.

Before Joshua could speak, you spotted him, your eyes widening as you quickly approached. "Jina, where have you been?" you called out as you reached for the little girl.

Joshua’s breath caught as your eyes met his. For a brief moment, your steps faltered, but then you took the girl from his arms, your expression softening as you spoke to her.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m here,” you soothed, cradling the little girl you had called Jina.

“Thank you so much,” you said to Joshua, your voice filled with relief. “She just learned to run, and she slipped away from her nanny.”

You handed Jina back to the nanny you had been scolding moments before, and Joshua couldn’t help but stare at the little girl. She had your beautiful eyes, and Joshua couldn’t deny that she was the cutest toddler he had ever seen.

As he watched you comfort Jina, Joshua felt a pang in his chest, a mix of emotions swirling inside him. Seeing you with a child—a child who looked so much like you—brought back memories of the dreams he once had, dreams of a life you could have had together.

Joshua stood there, watching as you cradled Jina in your arms, and memories of your time together flooded back. During your marriage, you had often expressed your deep desire to start a family. You had dreamed of having children, of creating a warm and loving home where you could nurture and protect them. You had spoken to Joshua about it openly, passionately, yearning for a child who would be a symbol of the love you once shared.

But Joshua had been paralyzed by fear. The idea of becoming a father terrified him, more than he could ever admit to you. He had grown up in a house filled with anger and pain, a witness to his father’s cruelty. His father had been abusive, both physically and emotionally, to Joshua and his mother. Joshua had seen firsthand the damage a father could do to his family, how easily love could turn to hate, how trust could be shattered by betrayal. He had watched his father cheat on his mother, breaking her spirit before finally leaving her for someone else.

These memories haunted Joshua. The thought of becoming a father brought back all those fears—the fear of repeating his father’s mistakes, the fear of not being good enough, the fear of hurting those he loved the most. He didn’t want to bring a child into the world only to fail them, to fail you. And so, every time you spoke of starting a family, Joshua found himself pulling away, unable to share your dream. He was too afraid of the past repeating itself, of becoming the very thing he had always despised.

He remembered the arguments that would arise whenever the topic came up, the frustration in your eyes when he hesitated, the sadness in your voice when he couldn’t give you a clear answer. He had loved you, but his fear had been stronger than his love. He had convinced himself that he was protecting you, protecting any potential child from the possibility of being raised by someone who wasn’t capable of being the father they deserved.

But now, as he looked at Jina—this little girl who had your eyes, your gentleness—he couldn’t help but wonder what might have been. Seeing you as a mother, so natural, so caring, made him realize just how much he had deprived both of you by letting his fears control him. The life you had wanted, the family you had dreamed of—it was something he could never have given you because he had been too afraid to try.

Joshua felt a deep, aching regret settle in his chest. He had let you go, thinking it was for the best, thinking it was the only way to protect you from the darkness inside him. But now, he could see how much he had lost in the process. You had moved on, found the family you always wanted, while he remained trapped by the ghosts of his past.

As you walked away with Jina, Joshua realized that he had not only lost you but also the chance to be part of something truly beautiful. And for the first time, he wondered if he could ever forgive himself for letting fear steal away the life he could have had with you.

*

Joshua was interrupted by a notification that there was a call from Seungcheol, your older brother and the soon-to-be president of Choi Corps. He immediately put down his work and picked up the call, his focus sharpening. Seungcheol’s breathy, urgent voice greeted him on the other end, asking if Joshua was in town at the moment.

"Yes, I'm in my office right now," Joshua replied, his concern mounting.

Joshua and Seungcheol had known each other since college, having attended the same business school. They knew each other better than mere acquaintances, but their relationship was complicated by an underlying competitiveness. Both were driven, ambitious, and determined to succeed—traits that had prevented them from becoming close friends. There could only be one star, and Seungcheol had often seemed to take the throne, aided by his privilege and relentless work ethic.

"I need you to get to Seoul University Hospital. Now!" Seungcheol’s voice was sharp, tinged with urgency.

Joshua’s heart skipped a beat, panic setting in. "What's wrong? Did something happen to Y/n?" he asked immediately, his pulse quickening.

"No, it’s not Y/n," Seungcheol answered, his tone tense. "Someone else needs you."

"Who?" Joshua pressed, confusion and worry battling within him.

"Just get here, Joshua. I’m begging you. My sister... she’s not in the right state of mind right now," Seungcheol pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation.

Joshua’s mind raced, trying to piece together what could have happened. The urgency in Seungcheol’s voice told him it was serious, and despite their complicated history, he knew he couldn’t ignore the call. Without wasting another second, Joshua grabbed his keys and headed out the door, a sense of dread settling in his chest as he rushed to the hospital.

Joshua arrived at Seoul University Hospital, his heart pounding in his chest. The cold, sterile smell of the hospital hit him as he hurried through the halls, searching for the ICU. His mind raced, trying to make sense of Seungcheol's cryptic call. The worry in Seungcheol's voice had been unmistakable, but Joshua still didn’t fully understand what was happening.

When he finally found the ICU, his eyes immediately landed on Seungcheol, who was standing rigidly with a tense expression. Seungcheol’s eyes locked onto Joshua as soon as he approached, and he stood up straighter, signaling Joshua over.

You were sitting on a bench beside Seungcheol, your head buried in your knees, your body trembling slightly. Chan, your secretary, stood beside you, a hand resting on your shoulder, trying to offer some semblance of comfort.

Joshua felt his stomach twist at the sight of you like this—so vulnerable, so unlike the strong, composed person he knew. His gaze flickered between you and Seungcheol, searching for answers in their expressions.

"Seungcheol, what’s going on?" Joshua asked, his voice laced with concern and confusion.

Seungcheol took a deep breath, his face strained as he struggled to keep his composure. "It’s Jina," he began, his voice heavy with emotion. "She collapsed earlier today, and they had to rush her here. The doctors said she needs an immediate white cell transfusion."

Joshua blinked, trying to process the information. "A white cell transfusion? But... why? What happened to her?"

Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair, clearly distressed. "Jina has a rare blood disorder. Her white cell count dropped dangerously low, and she’s in critical condition. The doctors are doing everything they can, but they said she needs a specific type of transfusion—one that’s not easy to come by."

Joshua's mind reeled as he tried to comprehend the gravity of the situation. "But why... why did you call me? What does this have to do with me?"

Seungcheol hesitated, glancing at you before answering. "Jina is your daughter, Joshua," he finally said, the words heavy with the weight of the truth. "That’s why we need you. You’re her father."

*

"Get that bastard here!" your father roared, his voice echoing through the house. You winced, hearing the fury in his tone as your mother quietly explained what had happened to you over the past few months since the divorce.

Seungcheol sat across from you, his eyes fixed on you with a mixture of disappointment and concern, as if you had committed some unforgivable sin. In a way, you had—you had made a decision that not only affected your life but also threatened to tear apart the relationship between two powerful companies.

He sighed heavily, breaking the tense silence. "He didn’t want the child. Is that why you two got divorced?" His voice was quiet but edged with disbelief.

You nodded slowly, unable to meet his gaze. The truth was hard to swallow, even now.

"Then why did you run away?" Seungcheol asked, his voice softening with confusion and concern.

After six months of hiding in Jeju, Seungcheol had finally found you and dragged you back home. The shock on his face was unmistakable when he discovered you were pregnant. At first, he had assumed that someone had taken advantage of you while you were away after the divorce. But when you tearfully confessed that the baby was Joshua’s, his shock turned to something deeper—betrayal, perhaps, or simply the weight of a truth he hadn’t been prepared to hear.

"Is there anything else you're hiding?" Seungcheol asked, his eyes searching yours.

You shook your head, unable to speak. The shame and guilt were too much to bear.

He leaned back, his expression unreadable. "I won’t tell anyone about this," he finally said, his voice firm but kind. "But one day, he needs to know. You can’t let a child grow up without a father, Y/n."

"He doesn’t want them," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Why can’t you understand that?"

Seungcheol bit his lip, clearly struggling with his emotions. He wanted to protect you, but he also knew the importance of a father’s presence in a child’s life.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and your father stormed in, his face contorted with rage. He marched straight to you, his anger palpable. "Has he ever touched you inappropriately? Has he ever been abusive to you?" he demanded, his voice harsh and filled with protective fury.

"No, Father," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "He never did."

Your father’s face darkened further as he turned to Seungcheol. "Cut ties with him, Seungcheol. How dare he divorce you while you were pregnant with his child," he ordered, his voice seething with anger.

Seungcheol nodded slowly, his eyes flickering between you and your father. The decision had been made. The relationship between the two companies would be severed, and Joshua would be held accountable for abandoning you. But in the back of your mind, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the secret you still carried—the knowledge that despite everything, a part of you still loved Joshua, and you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him entirely.

Joshua’s mother had always been frail, suffering from a rare condition that left her frequently unwell. It was this reason that led Joshua to make the decision to live with his mother after just a few months of marriage. Despite both of you juggling demanding careers, Joshua insisted on taking care of her personally, sending the nurse away each night so he could attend to her himself.

Since Joshua had taken over the highest responsibilities at his company, business trips became a frequent part of his life, often leaving you alone with his mother. In the beginning, it wasn’t so bad. His mother was kind and nurturing, and you appreciated her presence. But as the months went on, things began to change.

Her once gentle suggestions started to feel more like subtle commands. "Don’t you think you should prepare a bath for him?" she mentioned one evening, shortly before Joshua was expected home from the office. You simply smiled in response, too tired to engage after a long day at work. But the comment lingered, an unspoken expectation hanging in the air.

"Y/n, you should stay at home," she said another time, her tone laced with concern. "You’ll be too exhausted to properly take care of your husband if you keep working."

Her words, once easy to brush off, began to grate on your nerves, especially on days when work had already worn you thin. Yet, you remained composed, understanding that she was his mother and that her meddling came from a place of care—even if it didn’t always feel that way.

There were nights when you would approach Joshua, hoping to discuss the possibility of the two of you living separately, away from the constant strain of these expectations. "Can’t we find a place of our own?" you’d ask gently. "It’s just… it’s getting hard, Joshua."

But Joshua would always respond with the same quiet firmness, his love for his mother evident in every word. "She’s too ill, love. I don’t think I can leave her to live alone."

And so, you tried to understand. You tried to be patient, even as the weight of the situation began to press down on your marriage.

One evening, as you were tidying up the living room, Joshua’s mother approached you with a soft but probing tone. "Have you checked yourself at the hospital, darling?" she asked, her eyes studying your reaction. "It’s been a few years now, and you still haven’t gotten pregnant. Is everything all right?"

Her question, though couched in concern, felt like a punch to the gut. You paused, the magazine you were holding slipping from your fingers as her words echoed in your mind. You had been bracing yourself for this conversation, knowing it was only a matter of time before she brought it up.

You took a deep breath and forced a smile, trying to keep your emotions in check. "The doctors say everything is fine, Mother," you replied, keeping your voice as steady as possible. "It just hasn’t happened yet."

Joshua’s mother frowned slightly, her concern deepening. "But it’s been so long, Y/n. You should consider seeing a specialist, maybe even explore other options."

The suggestion stung, though you knew she meant well. It wasn’t just the pressure to conceive—it was the weight of expectation that you carried every day. You had wanted a child just as much as she did, if not more. But Joshua… Joshua had been hesitant from the start.

You remembered the conversations you had had with him, the nights you had spent lying awake, thinking about the future, imagining the family you could build together. But Joshua always seemed reluctant, his fear of fatherhood holding him back. He had grown up in a broken home, witnessed his father’s abuse, and the scars those memories left on him ran deep. He had confessed to you once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that he was terrified of becoming like his father, of hurting you or any future children the way his father had hurt him and his mother.

"We’ll have a child when the time is right," Joshua would say, his voice heavy with the weight of his own fears. "But not now. I’m not ready, Y/n."

And so, you had waited, pushing down your own longing, hoping that one day, he would feel ready. But as the years passed, the strain began to show—not just on you, but on your marriage as well. Now, with his mother’s pointed question hanging in the air, the unspoken tension between you and Joshua felt more palpable than ever.

"I understand," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. "But it’s not just about seeing a specialist. There are other things… other reasons why it hasn’t happened yet."

Joshua’s mother looked at you with a mixture of pity and concern, clearly wanting to say more but holding back. "I just want what’s best for you, dear," she said softly. "For both of you."

You nodded, appreciating her concern even though it added to the weight you were already carrying. "I know. And we want that too."

But as you turned away, the words she didn’t say lingered in your mind, amplifying the doubts that had already taken root. You wanted to believe that everything would work out, that Joshua would eventually overcome his fears. But as time went on, it became harder to ignore the growing distance between the life you had imagined and the reality you were living.

"You know, she’s a lovely girl," one of Joshua's mother friends said when they came for visiting, her voice laced with that particular tone people use when they’re about to say something less than flattering. "But it’s strange, isn’t it? They’ve been married for years now, and still no children."

Another woman chimed in, "Yes, I’ve noticed. It’s unusual, especially for a young couple like them. Have they mentioned anything to you about it?"

There was a pause, and then you heard Joshua’s mother sigh. "No, she hasn’t said much. But I’m beginning to worry… What if she’s infertile?"

The words hit you like a slap. You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the conversation continued.

"Oh, that would be such a shame," one of the women responded sympathetically. "Your son deserves to have children, to continue the family line."

"I know," Joshua’s mother replied, her voice heavy with a mix of concern and resignation. "I feel so bad for him. He’s always wanted a family, and I’m sure this must be hard on him. But… what can we do?"

They moved on to other topics, but you couldn’t focus on anything else. The words echoed in your mind, over and over, each repetition cutting deeper than the last.

Infertile.

A shame.

I feel so bad for him.

You knew Joshua’s mother meant well, in her own way. But hearing her talk about you like that, like you were some kind of defective person, made you feel like you didn’t belong in this family—like you were failing Joshua, failing yourself. The weight of it all was too much to bear.

The tension between you and Joshua had been building for months, and after overhearing his mother’s conversation, it finally reached a breaking point. The desire for a child had always been there, but now, it felt like a constant, pressing need—one that you couldn’t ignore any longer.

“Joshua,” you began carefully as the two of you sat down for dinner, “we need to talk.”

He looked up from his plate, his expression wary. He knew what was coming. You had had this conversation before, and it never ended well.

“Can’t we just eat in peace?” he asked, his voice tired.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “Your mother… she’s been putting a lot of pressure on me about having a child. She’s been saying things that… that hurt.”

Joshua frowned, confusion clouding his expression. “What do you mean?”

“She’s been asking me why I haven’t gotten pregnant yet. She even suggested I should see a doctor, as if there’s something wrong with me,” you confessed, your voice breaking slightly. “And I overheard her telling her friends that she thinks I might be infertile. She felt bad for you, saying that you deserve a child, and she doubted if I could give you one.”

Joshua’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing. “She said that?”

You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes. “Yes. And it hurt, Joshua. It made me feel like I’m failing you, like I’m not good enough. I’ve tried to be understanding, I’ve tried to be patient, but… it’s tearing me apart.”

Instead of the sympathy you had hoped for, Joshua’s expression hardened. “My mother is ill, Y/n. She’s under a lot of stress, and she’s worried about us. That’s why she says those things. It’s not fair to hold that against her.”

“I’m not trying to hold it against her,” you said, your frustration rising. “But it’s affecting us, Joshua. It’s not just about what she said—it’s about how it’s making me feel. I’ve been trying to handle it on my own, but I can’t anymore. I need you to understand how much this is hurting me.”

Joshua shook his head, his voice growing colder. “So what? You want me to blame my mother? You think she’s the villain here? She’s just looking out for me, for us.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” you replied, feeling your own anger flare up. “But you can’t just dismiss how I feel. She’s making me feel like I’m not enough, like I’m failing as your wife, and you’re not doing anything to stop it.”

Joshua stood up from the table, pushing his chair back with more force than necessary. “She’s sick, Y/n! She’s the only family I have left, and you want me to start a fight with her because she’s worried about us having kids? You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

You stood up as well, the pain in your chest twisting into something sharper. “I’m not blowing it out of proportion! I’m telling you that your mother is hurting me, and instead of listening to me, you’re defending her!”

Joshua’s face was flushed with anger now, his hands balled into fists. “You don’t understand what it’s like, Y/n. You don’t know what she’s been through, what I’ve been through. She’s trying to protect me, and you’re turning her into some kind of monster!”

“I’m not!” you shouted, tears spilling down your cheeks. “But I can’t just keep pretending that everything’s fine when it’s not! I’m drowning here, Joshua, and you’re more concerned about protecting your mother’s feelings than mine!”

Joshua’s voice dropped, cold and sharp. “You’re the one who’s making this a fight, not me. Maybe you’re just looking for someone to blame because you’re not getting what you want.”

His words hit you like a slap in the face, and you recoiled, shocked by the bitterness in his tone. “Is that really what you think?” you whispered, your voice shaking.

Joshua’s gaze softened slightly, as if he realized he’d gone too far, but the tension in the air was too thick to dispel. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, but he didn’t apologize. He didn’t take it back.

Instead, he turned away, his back to you. “I can’t do this right now, Y/n. I just… I need some space.”

The room felt colder as he walked away, leaving you standing there alone, your heart aching with the weight of everything unsaid. You had come to him, hoping for understanding, for support, but instead, you felt more isolated than ever. The chasm between you and Joshua seemed to grow wider with every passing moment, and you were left wondering how, or if, you could ever bridge it again.

*

After the divorce was finalized, you wasted no time in disappearing to Jeju. It was a quiet, impulsive decision—one made in the heat of heartache and confusion. You didn’t tell anyone, not even your family, because you couldn’t bear the thought of facing their pity or questions. You needed to escape, to be alone with your thoughts, away from the memories and the pain.

The divorce had happened faster than you expected, almost too smoothly. There had been no drawn-out arguments, no legal battles. It was as if Joshua had been waiting for this, and that realization stung more than anything. You had thought there would be some resistance, some sign that he was still holding on to what you had built together. But there wasn’t. He signed the papers without hesitation, and with that, the final chapter of your marriage was closed.

The speed of it all made you wonder if Joshua had already given up on you long before the papers were drawn. Maybe he had been tired of you, tired of the constant tension and arguments, tired of your desire for a child that he couldn’t bring himself to accept. It was easier for him to let go than to fight, and that thought was devastating.

In Jeju, you found solace in the quiet. The island, with its endless ocean views and soft winds, offered the peace that you so desperately needed. You stayed in a small cottage near the shore, far removed from the life you once knew. The waves crashing against the rocks became your lullaby at night, and the sunrises over the water offered a sliver of hope each morning.

But no matter how hard you tried to run away from the past, it followed you. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Joshua’s face. You heard his voice, the way he had told you he needed space, the way he had defended his mother over you.

You woke up to the harsh, sterile smell of alcohol and the blinding white light that filled the room. Your head throbbed as you slowly opened your eyes, and for a moment, you struggled to make sense of your surroundings. The last thing you remembered was sitting on the shore, watching the waves roll in. The peaceful rhythm of the sea had always calmed you, but now, everything felt off—foreign, wrong.

Panic surged through you as you tried to sit up, only to realize you were lying on a hospital bed. The walls were white, the sound of medical machines humming in the background. You weren’t on the beach anymore. This wasn’t your cottage.

A soft voice pulled you out of your daze. “Mam, can you hear me?”

You turned to see a man in a white coat standing beside you. His expression was calm but concerned. “I’m Dr. Kim. You’re in a clinic now. Can you tell me your name?”

You blinked, your mind still foggy. “Y/n,” you whispered, your voice dry and weak.

Dr. Kim nodded, offering a small smile. “Good. Do you remember what happened?”

You tried to think back, but your memories were jumbled. The sea, the breeze, the quiet… and then nothing. You shook your head slowly. “I was on the beach. That’s all I remember.”

He sighed softly, glancing at the chart in his hand. “You were found by a fisherman early this morning. You passed out, and he brought you here. We’ve run some tests to make sure you’re okay.”

You swallowed, a sinking feeling growing in the pit of your stomach. “Tests?”

“Yes,” Dr. Kim said gently, “and I want to assure you, you’re going to be fine. But there’s something else you need to know.” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “You’re eight weeks pregnant.”

Your heart stopped. Pregnant? The word echoed in your mind, but it didn’t feel real. “No,” you muttered, shaking your head. “That can’t be right.”

Dr. Kim’s expression softened with understanding. “I know this might be unexpected news, but the tests confirmed it. You’re two months along.”

Two months. Eight weeks. The timeline fit perfectly with everything that had happened just before you left Joshua, before the divorce, before everything crumbled. You placed a trembling hand on your stomach, still flat but now holding a secret that was no longer just yours.

Suddenly, everything rushed back—the arguments, Joshua’s rejection, and his fear of fatherhood, And now, here you were, in a clinic, alone and pregnant.

Tears stung your eyes as the weight of it all came crashing down. You had hoped to avoid this moment, to escape it, but there was no running away from the truth now. You were going to have a child—Joshua’s child—and no matter how much you had tried to distance yourself from him, he would always be a part of this.

Dr. Kim’s voice broke through your thoughts. “Is there anyone you’d like us to contact? A family member, perhaps?”

You shook your head quickly, the tears now freely falling down your cheeks. “No. No one.”

He nodded, his expression kind but professional. “Take your time. We’ll make sure you’re stable and that everything with the pregnancy is progressing well. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

As he left the room, you were left alone with your thoughts and the knowledge that your life had just changed forever. The child you hadn’t dared to hope for was real, growing inside you, and now you had to decide what to do next.

But even as the fear gripped your heart, a small flicker of hope began to grow. For the first time in months, you weren’t running away. You were facing the future—one step at a time.

*

"Can we talk?"

You froze in place as Joshua's voice reached you. Turning slowly, you saw him standing there, dressed in a hospital gown, clearly preparing for his medical checkup before the donor. His eyes were tired, filled with confusion and something else you couldn’t quite place.

"I'm sorry," you muttered, your voice strained, "I have no energy for this right now."

"At least give me some enlightenment," Joshua said, his tone surprisingly calm despite the tension between you. "I came here two hours ago not knowing I had a daughter. And I've been patient enough to wait to ask this."

You felt the weight of his words pressing down on you. He had a right to know, and yet, telling him had always seemed impossible. You took a step toward him, meeting his gaze as you spoke quietly, “Yes, she's your daughter. I found out I was pregnant a week after our divorce.

A heavy silence hung between you as Joshua absorbed the news. His face remained unreadable, but you could see the storm of emotions brewing beneath the surface.

"You need a proof?" you asked, almost defensively, your heart racing.

Joshua shook his head slowly. "No... I don’t need proof."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, but before you could speak again, he continued.

"I wish she was mine," Joshua whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "From the first time I saw her, I wished she was mine."

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you couldn't respond. You had prepared for anger, for denial, for resentment, but not this. Not the raw longing in his voice, the quiet regret that had been buried deep inside him.

“I—” you started, but your voice faltered. You weren’t sure what to say.

Joshua took a deep breath, his hand running through his hair as he tried to keep his emotions in check. “Why didn’t you tell me, Y/n? Why did you run away without saying anything? I would’ve—”

“You would’ve what?” you cut him off, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “You would’ve told me how scared you were? How much you didn’t want this? You were terrified of becoming a father, Joshua. I couldn’t bear the thought of you rejecting me, rejecting her.”

He flinched at your words, his jaw tightening. “You should’ve given me a choice.”

“A choice?��� You almost laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You couldn’t even handle the idea of having a child. You wanted time. And what was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for you to be ready while I carried your child?”

Joshua’s eyes were filled with a mix of guilt and pain, but he remained silent, letting you speak.

“I did what I thought was best,” you continued, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t wait for you to come to terms with something that was already happening. I was terrified too, Joshua. But I didn’t have the luxury of walking away from it.”

Joshua looked down at the floor, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I get that I was scared. I admit it. But I never would’ve abandoned you... or her." His voice cracked slightly as he spoke.

The vulnerability in his words caused your anger to soften, but the hurt remained. “Then why didn’t you fight for us?” you asked quietly. “Why did the divorce happen so easily?”

Joshua's eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw the truth—he had been just as lost as you were. “I thought you wanted out,” he said simply. “You brought up the divorce, and I thought you were done with me. I thought... I wasn’t enough.”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes. “I didn’t want out. I wanted you to see me, to see us. But you were too focused on your fears.”

The silence that followed was heavy, both of you caught in the weight of everything left unsaid for years.

Joshua watched you closely, piecing together the puzzle in his mind. The business offer that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, the meetings, the subtle ways you kept a professional distance—it all started to make sense. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he couldn’t help but voice the suspicion gnawing at him.

"This whole sudden approach in business," he began slowly, his voice calm but laced with a quiet intensity, "was it just an excuse? Were you trying to find a way to retaliate our relationship in case Jina needed me?"

Your breath hitched, caught off guard by how quickly he’d reached the conclusion you feared he might.

“Joshua—”

“Just tell me the truth, Y/n,” he said, cutting you off gently but firmly. “Was the business deal just a cover? Were you keeping me close because you thought... she might need me?”

You hesitated, unable to meet his gaze, and that was answer enough for Joshua.

He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair, his expression a mixture of frustration and understanding. “I thought something felt off. The way you kept me at arm’s length, the professional tone... I kept thinking this wasn’t like you. But I didn’t want to push, didn’t want to make it harder.”

Silence fell between you, the tension thick as you struggled to find the right words. Finally, you sighed, your voice low. “I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t expect to reach out to you, not after everything. But when Jina got sick... I panicked. I realized she might need more than just me.”

Joshua’s jaw tightened as he processed your words. “So you were going to keep me out of her life unless she needed something from me?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head quickly. “It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t trying to use you, Joshua. I just... I didn’t know how to let you back in after everything that happened.”

Joshua stared at you, his expression softening as he saw the genuine conflict in your eyes. “You should’ve told me, Y/n. I had a right to know about her, about everything. You can’t just make those decisions on your own.”

“I know,” you whispered, guilt washing over you.

Finally, Joshua took a shaky breath. “I’m here now, Y/n. I don’t know how to make up for the past, but I’m not running away anymore. I want to be in her life. I want to be a father.”

His words hit you like a wave, and though part of you wanted to believe him, another part still held onto the hurt, the disappointment. "She's not something you can just decide to be a part of when it suits you, Joshua."

"I know that," he said softly, his eyes pleading with you. "I’m asking you to let me try."

You looked at him, the man who once couldn’t fathom being a father now standing before you, begging for a chance. It wasn’t forgiveness he sought, but a way forward.

And you didn’t know if you were ready to give it to him. But for your daughter’s sake—for Jina—you had to at least consider it.

"I need time too," you whispered, finally breaking the silence.

Joshua nodded, understanding in his eyes. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here.”

*

The next day, the results came back—the match was confirmed, and Joshua was prepped for the procedure. The white blood cell donor was done swiftly, and you waited anxiously for updates on both Joshua and Jina.

When you heard Joshua had regained consciousness, you made your way to his room. As you entered, he looked pale but alert, his eyes immediately searching for you.

“How’s her condition?” he asked, his voice still weak, but full of concern.

A smile broke across your face, relief flooding your system. “Her surgery just finished. The doctor said her condition is stable.”

Joshua let out a deep breath of gratitude, sinking back into his pillow. You stood there for a moment, watching him—this man who had once been terrified of fatherhood, now willing to give everything for his daughter.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice full of emotion. “Thanks for doing this.”

Joshua nodded, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “I’m her father. I’ll do everything for her.”

There was a weight to his words, an unspoken promise hanging in the air. You felt a knot loosen in your chest, the tension between you easing, if only slightly.

You sat down next to Joshua’s bed, the weight of everything finally sinking in. It had been a whirlwind, from the moment Jina fell sick to this very moment, sitting here with Joshua after the transfusion. Despite everything that had happened between you two, you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of peace.

"How did you know?" Joshua asked, breaking the silence, his voice tentative.

You glanced up at him, unsure of how to answer. "That she was sick? Or that i have her?"

"Both," he replied, his eyes searching yours for answers.

You sighed, shifting in your seat. "I found out I was pregnant a week after the divorce. At first, I didn’t know what to do. I was scared, hurt, confused... and I didn’t want to reach out to you because I thought you'd reject her, reject us."

Joshua winced, his hand running through his hair. "I didn’t mean to push you away. I just didn’t know how to handle... everything."

"I know," you said softly. "And I ran too. I thought leaving was the best way to protect her. But when Jina got sick, I realized I couldn’t keep you away anymore. She needed you."

There was a pause, and then Joshua's expression turned serious. "You mentioned that Jina’s illness is the same as my mother’s. How did that come to light?"

You took a deep breath, nodding. "Yes, Jina’s condition is indeed the same rare illness your mother had. The doctors confirmed it. It’s hereditary, passed down through genetics, and that’s why the transfusion was so crucial. They said it was a match because of this genetic link."

Joshua's eyes widened with a mix of shock and realization. "I thought... I thought that illness was gone. I didn’t realize it could be passed on."

You reached out, gently touching his hand. "None of us knew until now."

Joshua's face fell as he absorbed the new revelation. "So, she has the same battle to fight as my mother did?"

You nodded sadly. "Yes. But she has a chance now, thanks to you. And that’s what matters."

Joshua’s gaze softened, a mixture of sorrow and resolve in his eyes. "I’ll do everything I can to help her through this. She deserves that chance."

You smiled faintly, feeling a sense of shared purpose. "Thank you, Joshua. That means more than you know."

For now, despite the challenges ahead, there was a shared commitment to face them together, for Jina's sake.

You gently introduced Jina to Joshua for the first time. Holding her small hand in yours, you led her into Joshua’s hospital room. She looked around, her eyes wide and curious, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. Joshua, still in his hospital gown, sat up in bed, his expression a mix of nervousness and anticipation.

"Jina," you said softly, guiding her forward, "this is your father, Joshua."

Joshua’s eyes were warm as he looked at Jina. "Hi, Jina. It’s nice to finally meet you."

Jina was shy at first, hiding behind your legs and peeking out with wide, hesitant eyes. But as Joshua spoke gently to her, a flicker of recognition seemed to spark in her. She slowly moved closer, drawn by the undeniable bond of blood and the kindness in Joshua’s voice.

Over the next few days, Jina spent a lot of time in the hospital room with Joshua. The transition wasn’t easy at first, but Joshua made an effort to bond with her. He played games, read her stories, and held her hand during her treatments. The connection between them grew stronger with each passing day, and Joshua embraced his role as a father more than you could have hoped for.

As Jina’s condition improved and it was time for her to leave the hospital, she expressed a strong desire to stay with Joshua. She had grown attached to him, and the idea of living with her 'new' father excited her.

Joshua, seeing the bond they had formed and understanding the importance of this new family dynamic, made a heartfelt offer. "Why don’t you and Jina move in with me? It would be better for all of us, and I’d love to be there for both of you."

The offer took you by surprise. You had been adjusting to this new phase in your lives, but the thought of moving in with Joshua again was daunting. There were old wounds to heal and uncertainties to address.

You debated the decision with Joshua, weighing the benefits and challenges. Jina, however, was overjoyed at the prospect of living with her father full-time. Her excitement and the genuine bond she had formed with Joshua made it difficult for you to turn down his offer.

After much consideration, you agreed to move to Joshua’s place. It wasn’t just about convenience; it was about providing Jina with the stability and love she needed. You saw how deeply Joshua cared for her and how committed he was to being a father.

The move was bittersweet. There were remnants of old tensions, but there was also a hopeful sense of new beginnings. As you settled into the new routine, you focused on rebuilding your family and creating a supportive environment for Jina.

Joshua was more present and involved than ever, and the family dynamic slowly began to heal. With each passing day, the past seemed a little less burdensome, and the future, though uncertain, seemed filled with possibilities for all of you.

*

Joshua loosened his tie as he stepped into the house, feeling the familiar weight of exhaustion from the long day. The house was quiet, the kind of peaceful stillness that had become his sanctuary in recent weeks. Usually, by the time he got home, you were already in bed, the soft murmur of the television or the gentle rise and fall of your breathing the only sounds he’d hear. But tonight was different.

As he walked into the kitchen, he heard you come through the door just moments after him, the click of your heels and the tired sigh that followed. He turned, spotting you leaning against the wall, your shoes already off, looking like the day had been longer than usual.

"Just back home?" he asked, casually unbuttoning his shirt collar. The question felt natural, like a routine that had formed between the two of you without either of you realizing it.

"Yeah," you sighed, rubbing the back of your neck. "A very long day. Minha told me Jina fell asleep after playing with the trampoline you just bought her."

Joshua couldn’t help but smile at the mention of Jina. "I’m glad she likes it," he said, feeling that familiar warmth that had come with being a father. Every day with her was new, different, and he found himself looking forward to each moment, no matter how small.

As he grabbed a glass of water, he glanced over at you. Things between the two of you had become... easier. That surprised him more than anything. After everything that had happened—the divorce, the years of separation—he had never expected this sense of peace between you. It was strange, but it was also something he hadn’t realized he’d needed.

It wasn’t just about Jina, though she was the center of it all. It was the way you both slipped into this new life so seamlessly. The tension that once filled the air between you had dissolved into something almost unrecognizable. He wasn’t sure how or when it happened, but somehow, living together again didn’t feel forced or uncomfortable. It felt... right.

"I never thought it would be like this," Joshua found himself saying, almost without thinking. He turned to you, watching as your gaze met his, a look of curiosity in your eyes. "That we’d be here, living together again. Raising her."

You nodded, like you understood exactly what he meant. "Me neither," you replied quietly.

He exhaled slowly, realizing just how much had changed in such a short time. Every part of his life had once been filled with uncertainty, with fear, especially when it came to fatherhood. But now? Now he was coming home to something that felt solid, like the pieces of his life were finally falling into place.

"It feels..." Joshua hesitated, searching for the right words to explain the rush of emotions inside him. "It feels good. Better than I thought it would."

He wasn’t just talking about Jina. Of course, his daughter was a huge part of why he felt this way—being her father, playing with her, watching her grow—it was everything he hadn’t known he wanted. But there was more to it than that. There was something between him and you, a kind of unspoken connection that had started to rebuild itself, brick by brick, without either of you acknowledging it.

The conversation flowed easily from there, a mix of random topics—work, the trampoline, Jina's antics. It was a nice change of pace, a chance to just talk without the weight of the past pressing down on you.

Eventually, the topic shifted to Jina, as it always did. Joshua smiled, thinking about their nightly routine. "She loves her bedtime stories," he said, almost fondly. "It's the best part of the day."

You nodded in agreement, your expression softening. "Yeah, she does. But she asked me something the other night that caught me off guard."

Joshua raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"She asked me why we weren't like Sasha's parents." You said it casually, but there was a hint of something deeper in your voice. "You know, from her favorite book. The one about Sasha’s morning routine before school. Waking up, taking a bath, having breakfast."

Joshua thought about it for a second, then nodded. He remembered Jina's animated voice as she read along, her little hands gesturing wildly as she described Sasha's day. "Her parents kiss every morning, right?"

You sighed, a soft smile playing on your lips. "Yeah. And she asked, 'Why don't you and Daddy do that?'"

Joshua could almost hear Jina's voice in his head, the innocent curiosity behind her words. He could picture her big eyes looking up at you, her tiny hands mimicking Sasha's parents.

He glanced over at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. "So... do you want to kiss every morning?"

You rolled your eyes, but there was a slight laugh behind it. "That's not what I was getting at."

Joshua laughed too, the sound filling the room. "Then why bring it up?"

You took a sip of your beer and shrugged. "I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to share what she said. But we don’t have to force ourselves to do things just for her sake. She’ll understand eventually."

Joshua’s smile faded, and he turned serious for a moment. "But she’s still so young. I don’t want her to have to understand everything that’s happened between us. It’s not her burden to carry. That’s on us."

You glanced at him, sensing the weight behind his words. "Is that coming from experience?" you teased lightly.

He let out a soft chuckle, nodding. "Yeah. And trust me, she’ll thank us later if we handle it right."

You sighed, leaning back. "Alright, alright. I get it."

Joshua raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a playful smirk. "So... does that mean you want to kiss every morning?"

You looked at him, a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Joshua."

*

Joshua stepped into the dining room, his usual morning grogginess slowly lifting as the familiar scene came into view. You were already sitting with Jina, who was happily in her baby seat, excitedly munching on her breakfast. Her face lit up as soon as she saw him.

"Morning..." Joshua said softly, his voice warm as he walked over to Jina. He leaned down, ruffling her hair with a fond smile. "Hi, baby... Do you like your food?"

Jina giggled, showing him her messy hands, oatmeal smudged across her cheeks. Joshua chuckled, his heart swelling at the sight. Mornings like these—simple and domestic—were beginning to feel more natural, more like something he hadn’t realized he craved.

You stood up, walking over to the counter, grabbing his coffee and setting it down in front of him with a casual "Morning."

He was about to respond when your lips brushed his, a fleeting touch that froze him in place. It wasn’t long or deliberate, but the surprise of it sent a jolt through him. His mind went blank, his body stiffening in shock.

Before he could even process it, Jina's excited voice cut through the air. "Eomma, appa, kiss!" she squealed, clapping her hands in delight. In her excitement, she managed to fling bits of food everywhere.

You laughed softly, wiping her face and the surrounding area with a cloth, completely unfazed by her mess. "Alright, alright, let's clean you up."

Joshua, still dazed, blinked a few times, trying to shake off the feeling. Did you just kiss him? Did he imagine that? It felt real—too real to just be in his head. He looked down at the coffee you placed in front of him, but he couldn’t focus.

"Do you like your coffee?" Your voice was light, casual, as if nothing unusual had just happened.

He blinked, snapping back to reality. "Uh, yeah. It’s... it’s great." He picked up the cup, taking a sip, the warmth grounding him as he stole a glance at you. You were back to wiping Jina's hands, acting like the kiss hadn’t just happened.

Joshua couldn’t help but replay the moment in his mind, over and over. It was so brief, but it lingered—just like the unspoken questions between you both. Was it for Jina’s sake? Was it just part of the routine now?

Each morning, it became a routine—Joshua would come down to the dining room, greeted by Jina's excited babbling and your calm, steady presence. And each morning, without fail, you would kiss him. It wasn’t long or deep, just a brief brush of your lips against his, but it was enough to make his heart skip. He never expected it, and yet, when it happened, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

At first, Joshua didn’t know what to make of it. Was it just for Jina? A way to give her the illusion of a normal, loving family? He didn’t ask, though. He couldn’t. The kiss, no matter how small, made him feel something—something he hadn’t felt in years. And if it made you feel anything close to what he did, he didn’t want to ruin it by questioning.

The routine didn’t stop at breakfast. One day, after the morning chaos settled and Jina was off to school, you casually suggested, “What if we take Jina out every weekend? A day just for her.”

Joshua nodded, happy to spend time with both of you. But as the weekends rolled by, your casual suggestion evolved into full-on plans. The park one weekend, then a picnic, followed by the aquarium. Soon you were planning beach trips, and even talks of weekend getaways or out-of-country vacations floated between you two. Joshua didn’t quite understand why you were so insistent on it—why it had to be every weekend, and why everything was planned so meticulously. But he didn’t complain. Instead, he followed along, content with how things were.

The spontaneity didn’t end there. You started coming home early from work, which caught Joshua off guard. He’d walk in from work, loosening his tie, only to find you in the kitchen, dinner already half-prepared, Jina babbling away at the dining table.

At first, Joshua didn’t know how to feel. It was strange seeing you so present. But after a while, he adjusted. He even started leaving work earlier, making sure he was home before dinner so he could sit with you and Jina. That hour before dinner became something he looked forward to—an hour of calm, where the three of you could just be together.

And then there was Jina’s bedtime. What had once been an alternating task—one night you would read her a story, the next it would be Joshua—turned into a shared routine. You both started reading together, one of you voicing the characters while the other filled in the details, Jina giggling between your voices. The joy in her eyes was infectious, and Joshua often caught himself getting lost in the moment.

He hadn’t realized it until recently, but this was the life he’d always dreamed of. He had a daughter, a family, a sense of stability that he never thought he’d have. And you—well, you were more than just a co-parent. Slowly, without either of you acknowledging it, you were slipping back into something more.

Joshua didn’t know where this was going or what you were thinking, but he was happier than he’d been in years. It still felt fragile, like everything could fall apart with one wrong move. But for now, he was content to let things unfold, to enjoy the routine, the warmth of your kiss each morning, the laughter over dinner, and the shared bedtime stories.

It was more than he ever thought he deserved, and he was too scared to ask for anything more.

Joshua came home, but something felt off immediately. The house was unusually quiet. There was no sign of Jina’s usual laughter or your familiar voice filling the space. His brows furrowed as he stepped deeper into the house, scanning the rooms until he finally reached the family room.

There you were, sitting on the couch with Jina nestled in your arms, and across from you sat his mother, her posture stiff, eyes sharp. The tension in the room was palpable.

"Joshua," his mother said, her voice icy. "Care to explain why your ex-wife is here?"

Joshua’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t prepared for this—hadn’t even told his mother about the new situation with you and Jina. His mother had no idea that Jina was her granddaughter. He hadn’t planned for her to find out like this, and now, with everything out in the open, his carefully constructed plan was unraveling.

Taking a deep breath, Joshua walked over and stood between you and his mother. He glanced at you, and the look in your eyes told him you were just as surprised and unsure of what to say.

"This is Jina," Joshua finally said, his voice steady but filled with the weight of the truth. "She’s my daughter."

His mother’s gasp echoed in the room. "Your daughter? What do you mean? What’s going on here?" she demanded, her voice rising with disbelief.

Joshua sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s a long story, Mom. A lot has happened, and I wasn’t ready to tell you yet. But I’ll come by tomorrow and explain everything. For now, I need you to trust me."

His mother looked between him and you, her confusion and frustration evident. Joshua gently took her arm, helping her to stand. "Please," he added softly, "just give me time to explain. We’ll talk tomorrow."

Reluctantly, she nodded, still looking at Jina as if trying to comprehend the new reality. Without another word, Joshua led his mother to the door, closing it softly behind her as she left.

The quiet returned, and when he walked back into the house, he found you already in the kitchen, washing dishes in silence. Jina sat on the floor, engrossed in her favorite TV series, oblivious to the tension that had just filled the house.

Joshua watched you for a moment, the silence between you louder than anything. You moved mechanically, your back to him, the distance between you more than just physical. He knew something was wrong—knew it by the way you didn’t meet his eyes when he walked in, by the way you had prepared his dinner without a word.

"Hey," he said softly, stepping into the kitchen, but you didn’t respond.

After a moment, you finally spoke, your voice low, emotion barely restrained. "I’m going to read Jina to sleep. You should eat your dinner."

Joshua nodded, watching as you wiped your hands on a towel and turned toward Jina. But the weight of the situation hung heavy on him, and he couldn’t let you walk away without saying something.

"Look," he began, his voice hesitant. "I know tonight was... unexpected. I wasn’t ready for her to find out like this. I’m sorry."

"That's fine."

With that, you walked over to Jina, scooping her up and heading toward her bedroom to read her a bedtime story. Joshua stood there, staring at the dinner you had prepared for him, but the food was the last thing on his mind. He knew things had to change, and quickly.

Joshua knocked on your door, knowing you were inside since Jina was already fast asleep in her own room. His heart pounded a little harder than usual, but he had to do this. He needed to clear the air.

"Can we talk?" he asked softly when you opened the door.

You stepped aside, silently giving him permission to enter, and Joshua walked in. The room was small but cozy, though it struck him how different it was from the shared life you once had. His eyes scanned the desk piled with papers, a computer still open—clearly, you had been working late. He realized how much you were juggling, and it only made him more determined to make things right.

"I'll explain everything to my mom tomorrow," he began, his voice steady, though there was a vulnerability in the way he stood. "And I’ll tell her that we’re back together."

You didn’t respond right away, just slowly nodding. But Joshua noticed the way your eyes flickered, the subtle tension in your posture. He couldn’t tell if you were on board with his plan or simply accepting it because it was easier than arguing. That uncertainty gnawed at him.

He knew that his mother had hurt you deeply in the past, her interference during your marriage a wound that hadn’t fully healed. And now, here he was, bringing his mother back into the equation. But this time, the situation was different. His mother had remarried and didn’t need to live with him anymore. There wouldn’t be anyone else in your home to create the chaos that had driven a wedge between you before.

"You won’t have to deal with her like before," Joshua added, his tone softening as he stepped closer. "She won’t be living with us, and I’ll make sure she knows her boundaries. I don’t want her—or anyone else—to hurt you again."

You looked up at him, and for a moment, your eyes locked. He could see the hesitation there, the doubt that lingered from old wounds. But there was something else too, something hopeful. Joshua wasn’t sure if it was enough to convince you, but he had to believe it could be.

"I just need you to trust me," he said quietly, his voice almost pleading now. "I know I’ve messed up before. But I’m trying, and I want to make things right—for you, for Jina, for all of us."

*

Joshua was relieved that the routine didn’t fall apart after that tense night with his mother. Despite the confrontation and the heavy conversation that followed, nothing drastically changed in the way you, Jina, and he interacted. In fact, the next morning, everything seemed normal. Jina was her usual excited self, giggling and bouncing around the house. You were busy as usual, managing the house and work effortlessly.

He had explained everything to his mother, sitting her down and finally telling the truth—about Jina, about you, and about the part she played in your separation. It had been difficult to admit, but he couldn’t hide from it anymore. His mother was one of the main reasons why your marriage had fallen apart, and for so long, he had shielded her from that truth. But now, things were different. He needed her to understand that his relationship with you was no longer just about the two of you—it was about Jina.

To his surprise, his mother had listened quietly, her face drawn and serious. She had taken the news with more grace than he’d expected, though he knew it wasn’t easy for her. When he asked for her understanding and support moving forward, she had nodded, albeit hesitantly. The wounds were still fresh, but at least they were out in the open now.

Jina, unaware of all the complexity around her, was the glue that kept things light. She had no idea what her parents were going through emotionally, and for that, Joshua was grateful. All she saw was that both her parents were around more and that they were starting to act like a family again. One night at dinner, she had blurted out, "I love it when we’re all together!" Her bright smile and simple joy hit Joshua right in the heart, making everything feel worth it.

It wasn’t long before you and Joshua found yourselves sharing a bed again—not out of any sudden romantic resurgence, but because Jina wanted it that way. She had insisted that the three of you sleep in the same room, piling up her blankets and toys in your bed. Joshua had been nervous at first, wondering if this step would complicate things between you two. But Jina, being the little whirlwind that she was, had no idea of her parents' internal struggles.

What made it easier—what turned the nerve-wracking into something sweet—was Jina’s newfound love for counting. Every night, before bed, she would proudly count to twenty, her voice a mix of concentration and excitement.

“One… two… three…” she would begin, and Joshua and you would both have to follow along, pretending to be as invested as she was. By the time she reached twenty, Jina would cheer, pleased with her accomplishment, and only then would she allow herself to settle down, curling up between you both.

As Joshua lay there, the warmth of Jina’s tiny body nestled against him, he couldn’t help but feel like life was starting to come together. It wasn’t perfect, and there were still a lot of unspoken things between you and him, but for now, this small routine, this quiet moment with Jina, was enough to keep him going. It was the family life he’d always wanted, and he was willing to take it one step at a time, hoping that eventually, everything else would fall into place too.

*

Joshua was in the middle of an important meeting when his other secretary stepped into the conference room, catching his main secretary’s attention with an urgent signal. Joshua noticed the subtle exchange but didn’t think much of it until his main secretary quietly approached him, phone in hand, his expression grave.

“Sir,” he whispered, “your daughter has been rushed to the hospital.”

Joshua’s heart stopped. Without a second thought, he abruptly ended the meeting and rushed out, his mind racing as he made his way to the hospital.

When he arrived, he spotted you standing motionless in front of the ICU, your eyes locked on Jina, who was lying weakly on the hospital bed, her small body surrounded by machines. The sight made his breath catch in his throat.

“What happened?” Joshua’s voice was thick with fear as he approached you, but you didn’t immediately respond. You looked distant, as if the weight of the situation had drained all the life from you.

Around you, the family had gathered—your secretary, your brother Seungcheol, and your mother, all wearing similar expressions of dread. It felt suffocating.

“Where’s Minji?” Joshua asked about Jina's nanny, his voice sharper than intended. His mind was racing, trying to grasp any detail that might help him understand the situation.

“She’s been dismissed for a week,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible. You turned and glanced at your mother, who silently pulled you into a tight embrace.

Joshua’s heart clenched with confusion and fear. “What’s happening?” he asked, turning to Seungcheol, desperate for answers.

Seungcheol hesitated, his eyes filled with sadness. “Her heartbeat dropped.”

Joshua felt like the ground had been ripped out from under him. His pulse roared in his ears. The words didn’t seem real. His little girl, who was so full of life just hours ago, was now fighting to survive.

The doctor appeared, asking for both parents to step forward. Joshua moved on autopilot, standing beside you as the doctor spoke.

“I’m afraid Jina’s condition is critical,” the doctor said gravely. “Her lungs have collapsed, and their function has been decreasing over time. We are doing everything we can, but...” He paused, his expression pained. “You need to prepare for the worst.”

The room seemed to close in on Joshua. He glanced at you, your face pale and expression blank, as though you hadn’t quite processed the enormity of the situation. He wanted to reach out, to hold you, to reassure you—maybe even reassure himself—but he felt paralyzed by fear.

The weight of the doctor's words hung in the air, crushing, unforgiving. And for the first time in his life, Joshua felt completely powerless.

*

"You knew about this." Joshua's voice cut through the heavy silence as you stepped into the house after the funeral.

Everything had happened so fast. In just eight hours, you lost Jina forever. The world seemed to blur around you, every moment a haze of grief and disbelief.

You collapsed onto the couch, still in your black dress. Joshua sat on the floor in front of you, his suit rumpled, his tie undone, holding your hand tightly as if you were his last lifeline. His eyes searched yours, filled with sorrow and something close to desperation. "Did you know this was going to happen?" he asked, his voice a whisper but laden with the weight of his pain.

You couldn’t meet his gaze at first, the tears spilling down your cheeks for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Even though you had expected this, even though you had imagined it in your worst nightmares every night for weeks, it still felt impossible. How could Jina be gone?

Slowly, you nodded, your breath hitching as you tried to speak. "Since the surgery," you choked out between sobs. You lowered your head, resting it on your knees, while Joshua’s head dropped into your hand, both of you clinging to the last vestiges of each other as the world fell apart.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "Why didn’t you let me prepare?"

"I couldn’t," you replied, the words barely making it out through your tears. "I couldn’t bear to say it out loud... not to you."

Joshua’s grip on your hand tightened as his body shook with silent sobs. "So you’ve been counting down to this day?" His voice was raw, filled with disbelief and heartache.

You nodded again, unable to stop the flood of tears. "Everything I did... was for her. I didn’t want to burden you with the truth, not when there was a chance..." Your words trailed off into the weight of your grief.

For a long moment, you both sat there, entwined in each other's pain, crying for the daughter you loved more than anything, for the future that was now gone, for the emptiness that Jina's absence left behind.

Joshua's head rested against your hand, and for once, you let yourself cry together with him, no walls, no shields, just the raw and unrelenting agony of loss. There were no words that could fix this, no actions that could bring her back.

You still remembered the moment the doctor delivered the devastating news. Jina’s condition was worsening rapidly, her lungs failing. "She needs a donor immediately," the doctor had said, his expression grave. "But even with a donor, her body won’t recover more than 50%. It would only extend her life by a few months."

Those words had shattered you. But instead of collapsing under the weight of grief, you had shifted into survival mode, planning out every detail. You formulated a plan, almost like a business pitch in your head—asking Joshua to be the donor for Jina and ensuring that her last months were spent together as a family.

You approached Joshua on the day he found out about Jina, masked in calmness, hiding your desperation. You asked him to be the donor, and to your relief, he agreed without hesitation. Everything seemed to fall into place—Joshua moved back in, you created a life that felt, for once, complete. But all the while, you knew time was ticking.

Seungcheol had been the one to snap you out of your delusions, his blunt words slapping reality into you. "You need to accept that Jina wants to live a full life with both of her parents," he had said, his voice firm but understanding. "She deserves that. You both do."

That was when you accepted Joshua’s offer to move in together. You knew it wasn’t just for Jina—it was for you too. Jina’s happiness in her final days became your only priority. You spent your days like a family, and for everyone else, it looked like a dream come true. But every passing moment felt like walking through hell for you, knowing that Jina’s time was running out.

Every night, after you put Jina to bed and Joshua retreated to his room, you would sit in the darkness and cry, trying to hold on to every precious second. You could feel the inevitability of her leaving you, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to tell Joshua the truth about how close the end really was.

Jina had been happy. She got the life she wanted, with her two parents by her side, filling her days with laughter and love. But for you, it was a torturous countdown. Every tick of the clock reminded you that this family, this life, would soon shatter.

You held it together for her. You played the role, smiled through the pain, and made sure Joshua never suspected how deep your sorrow ran. And now, sitting in the empty house, that silence pressed down on you. You had given Jina everything you could, but the ache of her absence was more than you could bear.

After Jina’s passing, the house was cloaked in an oppressive silence. The once lively and joy-filled rooms now seemed hollow, echoing with the absence of her laughter. You found Joshua in the kitchen, his face drawn and tired. He had been trying to hold everything together, for Jina and for you, but the weight of loss had become too heavy to bear alone.

You approached him quietly, a lump in your throat. "Joshua," you began softly, your voice trembling, "the role of being Jina's parent... it’s over now. We both did everything we could for her, and she’s no longer with us."

Joshua’s eyes filled with pain, but he nodded slowly. "I know. It’s just hard to let go."

"I understand," you said, feeling the sting of tears behind your eyes. "But now it’s time for us to return to who we were before all of this began. We have to face reality."

Joshua’s gaze was distant, as if he was still trying to process everything. "And what about us? What do we do now?"

The heaviness in the room was almost suffocating as you stood there, Joshua’s hand still in yours. His grip tightened, as though he could feel something slipping away.

“There’s no ‘us’ in the present, Joshua,” you said softly, pulling your hand away. Your voice was steady, but the words felt like sharp edges, cutting through the fragile connection that had formed between you both in the past few months. "No ‘us’ without Jina."

Joshua blinked, his face crumpling slightly as the truth of your words hit him. “But we’ve been—”

“There’s no point in pretending,” you interrupted, your voice wavering but firm. “Everything we did, everything we built these last few months... it was for Jina. Now that she’s gone, there’s nothing holding us together anymore.”

Joshua stood still, his breath catching as he looked at you, a storm of emotions brewing behind his eyes. “I love you, Y/n,” he confessed, his voice thick with desperation. “I’ve never stopped loving you. I can't stop loving you.”

You froze, his words like an old wound being torn open. You looked down at the floor, the weight of his love too heavy, too late. The silence between you was deafening, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped.

Finally, you looked up, meeting his eyes with a sadness you couldn’t mask. “I lost my sense to love you the same again when you told me to leave years ago, Joshua,” you said quietly, each word carrying the weight of the past. “When you pushed me away, that’s when it all broke. And I don’t think I can find that part of myself again.”

Joshua’s face crumpled with guilt and regret, his shoulders sagging as he absorbed the truth. “I didn’t mean to... I was scared, I was confused—”

“I know,” you cut him off, your voice gentle but firm. “But it doesn’t change what happened. We can’t undo the pain we caused each other. We’ve both lost so much. I don’t have the strength to go back and try to fix us.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, but he didn’t move, didn’t try to argue. He just nodded slowly, as though he had finally accepted the truth that had been looming over both of you.

"I wish things could be different," Joshua whispered.

“So do I,” you whispered back, the finality of your words settling in the air between you.

Joshua watched the video in silence, his hands trembling slightly as he held the phone. The screen flickered with a memory that wasn’t his own, but one that pierced through his heart like a knife. The video showed you recording Jina on the beach during a sunny weekend. Her small hands sifted through the golden sand, her laughter ringing out like a melody against the backdrop of crashing waves.

Your voice came through the speakers, bright and warm, filled with an unmistakable love. “Are you happy, Jina?” you asked, the camera focusing on her tiny face lit up with joy.

Jina giggled, a sound so innocent and pure that it felt like a balm and a wound all at once. “I’ve never been this happy, Mom!” she exclaimed, tossing sand into the air in celebration.

Joshua couldn’t help but smile faintly at her enthusiasm, but his chest tightened as the moment unfolded.

Then came her next words—words that felt like a punch to the gut. “I could’ve died!” Jina declared, her small arms flailing dramatically.

Your voice faltered in the video, turning hoarse as you gently scolded her. “Don’t say that, Jina. It’s not a nice word.”

The weight in your tone was evident, even through the recording, and Joshua felt it too—a mixture of fear, protectiveness, and sorrow.

On the screen, Jina’s expression softened, and she stared directly at the camera, her small lips forming a pout. “Sorry,” she mumbled, her voice small and sincere.

Joshua felt his tears begin to fall, hot and unchecked, as he watched her. The sight of her—the way she wrinkled her nose in apology, her innocent smile shining like the sun—was too much to bear.

“I’m just so happy with you and Daddy here that I think I could’ve died,” Jina added, her voice brighter now, as if she wanted to reassure you. Then she raised her tiny hand as if making a solemn vow. “But I promise I won’t actually die, Mom!”

Joshua’s vision blurred as the tears came harder, streaking his face and dripping onto his hands. He pressed a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the sob that threatened to escape, but it was no use.

On the screen, Jina beamed at the camera, her small frame outlined by the golden rays of the sun. She was radiant, alive, and so full of promise.

“Jina,” Joshua whispered, his voice breaking. His little angel. His light. The realization hit him like a tidal wave—she had found her home, her happiness, her peace. And yet, he was still strayed, lost in a storm of his own making.

The video ended, but the sound of her laughter lingered in his mind, echoing like a prayer.

*

"I can raise her alone," you insisted, your voice steady but filled with underlying desperation. You were sitting across from Seungcheol in the quiet of your dimly lit living room. It was late, but the weight of the conversation felt heavier than the silence of the night.

Seungcheol, ever pragmatic, leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Yes, you can,” he said, his tone measured but firm. “But are you really going to ignore what the doctor said? Jina needs a donor as soon as possible, Y/n. There’s no one else—only her father.”

Your heart sank at his words, the weight of the truth pressing down on you like a boulder. “He hurt me,” you whispered, your voice cracking. The memories of Joshua’s rejection and the pain he left you with resurfaced, raw and unhealed.

Seungcheol’s expression softened, and without hesitation, he stood and walked over to you. Gently, he pulled you into his arms, his embrace warm and steady. “I know,” he murmured, his chin resting lightly on top of your head. “I know he hurt you. But he’s still her father, Y/n. And right now, Jina needs him. That’s the only way to save her.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as the magnitude of the situation hit you. For a long moment, you let yourself lean into Seungcheol’s support, the sound of his heartbeat steadying your own chaotic thoughts. His words lingered, piercing through your pain: This is the only way.

After what felt like hours but was likely only a few minutes, you pulled back and nodded. “Okay,” you said quietly, your voice trembling but resolute. “Let’s do it. Prepare whatever I need to get this started.”

Seungcheol’s face brightened with determination. “Good,” he said firmly, already moving into action. He reached into his bag and pulled out a folder, handing it to you. “Here’s everything you need. I’ll coordinate the rest. I’ve already asked Chan to assist you during this time. I’ll brief him myself.”

Your gaze fell on the cover of the folder, and the bold letters stared back at you like a challenge: The Hong Joshua Project.

It felt clinical, impersonal even, but you knew this was no ordinary task—it was the fight for Jina’s life. You flipped through the pages, scanning the meticulous plans Seungcheol had outlined, and you felt a surge of gratitude for him. He had always been there, a constant source of strength and clarity in your life.

Seungcheol placed his hands firmly on your shoulders, grounding you. “Listen to me, Y/n,” he said, his eyes locked on yours. “This is going to be hard. A very hard journey. You’ll need to push aside your emotions, your pride, and everything else you’re feeling—for Jina’s sake. But I promise you, I’ll be right here. I’ve got your back, just like I always have.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. Memories of all the times Seungcheol had stepped in to support you flooded your mind. He wasn’t just a brother— he was a bestfriend, family, a lifeline, and you knew you could trust him with anything.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice filled with sincerity. “For everything.”

Seungcheol smiled faintly, his grip on your shoulders tightening briefly in reassurance. “Now,” he said, stepping back and gesturing to the folder in your hands, “this project starts today. Let’s save her.”

And with those words, the weight of the task ahead settled over you. It wasn’t going to be easy—nothing about this would be. But for Jina, for the little girl who was your entire world, you would endure anything. Even if it meant facing the man who had broken your heart.

[bambooswordwielder]

Obsessed with the fact that Shen Yuan only transmigrates when all the Peaklords have settled into their positions for a few years because the idea of Shang Qinghua being stuck watching Shen Jiu and Liu Qingge arguing for nth time about some budget detail that is DEFINITELY getting overblown now and just being stuck thinking

"Damn this would've been such a good enemies to lovers plot line... Imagine how much I could've made off of them..." and regretting not monetising their rivalry more before he killed off Liu Qingge ( "Oh and the angst Shen Qingqiu would've faced after his secret lover died and everyone blamed him for it! Fans would've been begging for more extras!" 🐹���)

Like all the peaklords are desperately trying to mediate and fix the situation and Shang Qinghua is just imagining his one hundredth Fix-It Fic/AU where Shen Jiu is the King's trusted scholar and Liu Qingge is the King's personal bodyguard

Everyone thinks when a single tear falls from Shang Qinghua's eyes its because during Liu Qingge and Shen Jiu's fight they destroyed both his newly drafted budget (for the fifth time that month) and the fact they also destroyed the table (for the third time that week and the week just started)

Reality is Shang Qinghua is crying because he thought of an angsty death scene for the two Romeo and Juliet style because both their families couldn't accept them being together

Years of this pass and at some point he even picks up writing again (specifically about characters clearly based on Shen Jiu and Liu Qingge) and he gets really popular, popular enough his novels start to flood all of Cang Qiong and even Liu Mingyan takes some inspiration from them

Everyone knows damn well that the characters are clearly meant to be Peaklord Shen and Peaklord Liu, but no one tells because they all are legitimately waiting for the next volume of "Battle-to-your-poisonous-heart-and-peaches"

Does everyone know it's Shang Qinghua... Noooo.. Would anyone admit if they did know.... No.

Then all the sudden on day Shen Qingqiu suddenly looked in the dictionary and discovered what the word 'nice' is and now he doesn't abuse his students 🐹🤯

He even let himself get poisoned and potentially ruined his cultivation for life for Luo Binghe of all people!? Um excuse Airplane Logic, but the MC is supposed to only get all the good stuff AFTER he falls into the abyss!

And what's this about Liu Qingge helping to 'clear' his meridians so he has to personally visit Qing Jing peak every week?? Def something is off, an author knows fishy when he sees it

For how many years Shang Qinghua is stuck watching these two do their whole "You're my precious Shidi" and "I'll always be here for you" act and he's just stuck eating dogfood wondering when exactly is the marriage extra coming in and why the System won't tell me why Shen Qingqiu is acting all happy go lucky now

Shang Qinghua notices Shen Qingqiu talking to Yue Qingyuan more, he notices Qing Jing disciples running straight to Shen Qingqiu with joy and excitement rather than the reserved fear they had before, he notices how Shen Qingqiu only glares at him twice every meeting than before!

Maybe this isn't his version of PIDW, maybe it's a fan made version where Liu Qingge and Shen Qingqiu fall in love and with the power of love and friendship Shen Qingqiu learns to be kind and to care and isn't going to cause Luo Binghe to go down his dark path and maybe they can all have a happyily ever after—

*Endless Abyss Arc*

"Oh fuck–"

[Before Endless Abyss Arc]

*Shang Qinghua watching from a distance as Luo Binghe is practically clinging to Shen Qingqiu's side. Shen Qingqiu pats Luo Binghe's head and Luo Binghe does THAT smile he only does for his wives*

"Well this is an interesting fanfic..."

[After Airplane Reveal]

"Wait... So you're actually a transmigrater as well, Cucumber-Bro?"

"Yeah, and?"

"..."

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Do you hate, or have you at least at some point hated, Liu Qingge?"

"I– No–Wait what???"

"Let me reword it. Have you ever considered murdering him at one point?"

"WHYAREYOUASKINGMETHESEQUESTIONS!? YOUKNOWWHATHAPPENEDTOSHENJIU! IMNOTRISKINGHISFATE!"

"... So I'll take that as a no."

"OBVIOUSLY!?"

"So it's just a normal Friends to lovers 😮‍💨 No flavour 🙄"

Shang Qinghua was then brutally attacked.

[During the Five Years SY was dead]

*Shang Qinghua watching Liu Qingge go every single day to fight Luo Binghe for Shen Qingqiu's body*

"Oh my Airplane.... It's not a enemies-to-lovers... It's not Teacher X Disciple... It's a bloody love triangle with both! Oh how much money this plot would've made me 💔 I would've been able to pay for four months worth of rent and groceries!"

Random Disciple visiting An Ding: "Um.... Is Shang-Shibo okay? He fell on the ground?"

An Ding Disciple: "Leave him. He does that sometimes. Now about your budget request..."

*Shang Qinghua screaming in the background*

Random Disciple: "..."

An Ding Disciple: "..."

Random Disciple: "Should we check on–"

An Ding Disciple, now dragging other disciple away: "Let's settle this at your peak."

Years later when Bingqiu have already had their wedding and everyone has become somewhat tolerant of their relationship, Shang Qinghua just sighs loudly and Shen Yuan asks him what's up. Shang Qinghua looks him in the eyes and just shakes his head.

"My ship...💔"

"..."

"OW– Why did you have go hit me on the head!?"

"Because I don't want to know what's going on in there and I need to make sure what's in there stays in there."

[cheriecelestial]

Thank you for the mini event!! Can I request a F1 Jason Todd x reader story?

Red Lights Pt.1

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ F1 driver!Jason Todd x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ angst. fluff. mild suggestive content. themes of mental health and depression. swearing. car accidents. injuries. mention of drug use. non-canon complacent. not proofread.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ I can't believe i got this request. Just the other day I was like I wanna write an F1 driver au for a character. Anon are you spying on me? Should I be concerned? Nonetheless this made me so so happy. Comment, Like and Reblog (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡ Comment to be added to taglist

Part 2

Jason Peter Todd was a man who, at the peak of his career, could effortlessly be regarded as the very embodiment of Formula 1 excellence. He was everything a driver dreamed of becoming—wealthy, young, impossibly gifted, and the adopted heir of none other than Bruce Wayne, the legendary “Dark Knight” of motorsport himself. A five-time world champion, Bruce in his prime had been a force of nature, drawing comparisons to icons like Ayrton Senna and Alain Prost. And Jason? He was every bit his father's successor—perhaps even destined to surpass him.

Jason wasn't just successful; he was revolutionary. His meteoric rise shattered records with an almost casual ease. He wasn't just the youngest driver to ever compete in Formula 1—he was the youngest to win, and not just any race, but his very first. The accolades piled up faster than his rivals could keep track: most wins in a single season, most podium finishes, highest points tally ever recorded. The list seemed infinite, his potential boundless. The world adored him, idolizing him with near-religious fervor. Corporations fought tooth and nail for his endorsement, desperate to attach their brands to his golden image. Jason Todd—three-time world champion, impossibly handsome, and a marketing juggernaut—had single-handedly propelled Formula 1 into unprecedented popularity. Fans either wanted to stand beside him or become him.

There was no ceiling to what he could achieve. His future was a blinding horizon of endless possibility—until Bahrain.

The Sakhir Grand Prix unfolded under a scorching desert sun, the sky painted in hues of amber as dusk crept over the circuit. The air thrummed with the deafening roars of engines, the grandstands vibrating with the collective anticipation of thousands. The final laps loomed, tension thick enough to cut through. Jason Todd, the prodigy, the phenom, was locked in a relentless pursuit of history—his fourth Bahrain Grand Prix victory within grasp. His car screamed down the straights, tires dancing on the knife's edge of control. He was pushing beyond limits, chasing glory as always.

But as he himself had said once before “Speed is a relentless god. And sometimes, it demands sacrifice.”

Bahrain's Sakhir Circuit had always been a beast of a track—deceptive in its sweeping curves, punishing in its tire degradation, unforgiving to even the slightest misjudgment. Jason's tires were fading fast, the rubber screaming in protest with every high-speed corner. The team's warnings buzzed in his ear, urgent yet distant, drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Roy Harper, his closest friend and fiercest rival, loomed in his mirrors, a mere eight-tenths of a second behind—close enough to strike if Jason so much as blinked.

The radio crackled again, the voice of his engineer strained with concern: “Jason, watch the rear left—it's going off!”

But Jason Todd had never been one to yield. Not to his rivals. Not to the limits of physics. And certainly not to caution. He was five laps away from etching his name deeper into the history books, from claiming yet another record that would silence even his harshest critics. The thrill of the chase, the roar of the crowd, the intoxicating rush of speed—it all blurred into a singular, all-consuming obsession. He knew his car better than anyone alive. He had pushed it beyond its limits before and walked away victorious. Why would this time be any different?

At 200 miles per hour, the world narrowed to a tunnel of asphalt and adrenaline. The next turn approached—a brutal, high-speed corner that demanded precision. He braked hard, but the rear tires, worn to the cords, betrayed him. The car shuddered, the tail snapping out in a violent fishtail. For a heartbeat, his reflexes prevailed—his hands a blur as he wrestled the steering wheel, correcting the slide with the instincts of a champion.

And then—catastrophe.

A deafening bang ripped through the air as his left rear tire failed explosively. The car lurched sideways, spearing toward the barriers at a near-perpendicular angle. The carbon-fiber monocoque—a marvel of engineering designed to withstand brutal impacts—shattered like glass upon collision. The force of the crash sent debris flying in a lethal storm of shrapnel, scattering across the track in a grotesque spectacle. The wreckage rebounded violently, spinning back onto the racing line—just as Roy Harper's car, helpless to avoid the chaos, hurtled into the carnage.

A second impact. A sickening crunch of metal and carbon fiber.

Roy had no time to react. No time to swerve. His front wing speared through the mangled remains of Jason's cockpit like a blade. The halo device—the very piece of safety equipment designed to protect drivers from such horrors—held firm, but the sheer force of the collision tore the survival cell apart, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.

“Jason? Jason, can you hear me?”

The voice of Dick Grayson—Jason's brother, his race engineer and his unwavering support—crackled over the radio, raw with desperation. A silence followed, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant wail of sirens.

And then, as if the universe itself sought to twist the knife deeper, fuel from Roy's ruptured tank spilled onto the scorched asphalt. A single spark—a fleeting, inevitable spark—ignited the fumes.

The world erupted in flames.

Marshals in fireproof suits charged forward, their extinguishers spraying thick plumes of retardant, but the devastation was absolute. The grandstands fell eerily silent, thousands of spectators frozen in horror. Mechanics, engineers, and rival team members stood motionless, hands clasped in prayer or pressed over mouths in disbelief. Roy Harper, miraculously conscious but dazed, was dragged from his ruined car with relative ease—his injuries severe but survivable.

But Jason Todd?

The reigning world champion was still trapped inside the inferno.

The fireproof material of his race suit glowed beneath the flames, his silhouette barely visible through the thick, black smoke. Over the team radio, Dick Grayson's voice cracked with increasing desperation, begging for any sign of life. “Jason, talk to me. Please, just say something—anything!” Only static answered.

The medical car arrived within seconds, but the violence of the crash had left almost no room for hope. The extraction was a nightmare—jaws of life prying apart twisted metal, paramedics shouting over the roar of the flames. When they finally pulled him free, his body was limp, his helmet scorched, his suit seared in places. The world blurred into chaos after that—screaming sirens, frantic radio calls, the paddock holding its breath.

Then, whispers spread through the garage like wildfire.

The hospital's initial prognosis was grim: incompatible with life. The injuries were catastrophic—internal bleeding, multiple fractures, third-degree burns covering nearly 40% of his body. At one point, his heart stopped entirely, flatlining for over a minute as Bruce Wayne, the legendary Dark Knight of motorsport, stood helpless outside the ICU, restraining a sobbing Dick Grayson from pounding on the glass in sheer despair.

Time of death: 20:45 hours.

The words hung in the air like a death knell.

But then—

A single, weak beep.

The head surgeon blinked, certain he had imagined it. Then another. And another. Jason's heart, stubborn as the man himself, refused to surrender. The news rocketed through the paddock, a shockwave of disbelief and cautious relief: Jason Peter Todd was alive. Barely. Clinging to life by the thinnest of threads, but alive.

What followed was a waking nightmare.

Roy Harper, consumed by guilt, retired from Formula 1 immediately, unable to bear the weight of what had happened. Months later, he was found half-dead in a hotel room, an empty bottle of pills beside him—another casualty of that cursed day. The FIA scrambled to implement new safety regulations, mandating stronger cockpit protections and stricter tire wear monitoring. The team, once dominant, floundered without their star driver.

And Jason?

He slept.

For six agonizing months, he remained in a coma, his body healing at a glacial pace. When he finally woke, the details were kept fiercely private—no press releases, no interviews, just a single, guarded statement confirming his consciousness. But those who saw him in those early days knew: the Jason Todd who emerged from the darkness was not the same man who had entered it.

The fire had taken more than just flesh.

It had taken a legend.

“I want to race.”

The words hit Bruce Wayne like a physical blow.

For a man who had stood unshaken in the face of countless crises—both as a five-time world champion and as the iron-willed owner of Wayne Racing—the sheer weight of that simple declaration brought the world to a staggering halt. His son's voice was barely more than a whisper, raw and fractured, yet burning with a desperation that cut deeper than any scream could have.

It had been two months since Jason Todd had woken from the abyss of his coma. Two months of slow, agonizing progress—of bandages being peeled away, of casts removed, of wounds grudgingly closing. The hospital had kept the worst of the scarring hidden beneath layers of sterile gauze, not just for medical reasons, but out of fear for his fragile psyche. The first days after his awakening had been a storm of rage and denial—violent outbursts that left nurses scrambling for sedatives, his own body betraying him as orderlies pinned him down to keep him from tearing at IV lines and heart monitor leads.

The crash had taken more than flesh and bone. The doctors had warned Bruce in hushed tones: PTSD. Depression. Nightmares that never end. Jason's body, though stable, was a battleground. His mind? A warzone.

“I understand, Jay, but—”

“No, you don't!” Jason's voice shattered like glass against steel. “You don't get it! These four walls, these fucking machines and tubes—they're driving me insane. I don't belong here!”

And he was right.

Jason Todd had never been meant for cages. He was wildfire in human form—meant to blaze across the rain-slicked straights of Interlagos, to carve through the golden-hour shadows of COTA's esses, to exist where the air smelled of scorched rubber and high-octane fuel, not antiseptic and despair. The hospital was a prison, and every second spent trapped inside it was another piece of him dying.

Bruce exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor rather than meeting his son's fever-bright eyes. “Jason,” he said, forcing calm into his voice, “you need to heal.”

Jason's hands clenched into fists, the heart rate monitor spiking beside him. “I have healed enough!”

The words weren't just defiance—they were a plea, a demand, a last stand. Because Jason Todd had spent his entire life pushing past limits, and this? This was no different.

Except it was.

And the crushing weight of that truth hung between them, suffocating and unspoken. Bruce, the man who had faced down the most ruthless competitors on the track, who had rebuilt entire teams from ashes, found himself paralyzed by the one battle he couldn't strategize his way out of. How do you make a force of nature understand it's been fractured?

Bruce didn't—couldn't—answer. The silence that followed was deafening, thick with everything left unsaid. The heart monitor's steady beep mocked them, a cruel reminder of time moving forward even when Jason's world had screeched to a halt.

Then, like a blade slicing through the tension, Jason spoke again, his voice stripped of its earlier fire, replaced by something colder. “Who did the seat go to?”

It was a logical question. The season hadn't ended with his crash. The circus marched on, the cars kept racing, and the world didn't stop turning just because Jason Todd had been ripped out of his cockpit.

“Tim got the seat.”

Tim Drake. The reigning F2 champion. Bruce's godson. The kid with a mind sharper than a scalpel and reflexes that bordered on preternatural. After his parents' tragic death, Bruce had taken him in, just as he had with Jason. And Jason knew—hated that he knew—Tim was good. Scary good. But potential didn't change the brutal arithmetic of Formula 1: seats were finite. Tim's promotion meant Jason's throne had been filled before he'd even left the ICU.

Before the crash, Jason's teammate had been Cassandra Cain. A prodigy in her own right, the only woman on the grid outside of Themyscira Formula One team—Diana Prince's all-female team, founded to shatter the sport's glass ceiling. Cass had been more than a teammate; she'd become family. Diana herself had tried to poach her, offering a coveted seat in her revolutionary outfit. But Cass had chosen Wayne Racing, loyalty outweighing opportunity. And Jason would sooner set himself on fire again than take her place.

“He's half-baked at best,” Jason spat, the words dripping with acid. His fingers dug into the sheets, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. “I saw him at testing. He can't do shit.”

Tim Drake was brilliant. A prodigy by any measure, but raw talent wasn't enough in Formula 1 and brilliance didn't erase inexperience. Not when you were thrust into the spotlight mid-season, expected to fill the void left by a living legend. Not when every lap, every turn, every mistake was measured against the ghost of Jason Todd—the youngest champion, the record-breaker, the firebrand who had redefined what it meant to be fearless behind the wheel.

Tim wasn't just racing against the competition. He was racing against a memory. And right now, memory was winning.

Bruce exhaled, slow and measured. “But that doesn't change the fact that you're not ready yet.”

Jason's jaw clenched. “The season's coming to an end. I have plenty of time to train and get back in the game by the time next season rolls around.”

“Jason, but—”

“YOU DON'T GET TO TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME!”

The roar tore through the room, raw and unfiltered. In a flash of movement, Jason's hand shot out, snatching the call remote from the side of his bed. Before Bruce could react, it was hurled through the air with enough force to shatter the fragile illusion of control Jason had been clinging to.

Bruce sidestepped on instinct, the remote clattering against the wall behind him. But when his gaze snapped back to his son—really looked at him for the first time since entering the room—something in him faltered.

A flinch.

Subtle, involuntary, but there.

Jason saw it. Saw the way Bruce's eyes flickered, the way his breath hitched for the barest fraction of a second. Saw the look in his father's gaze—not just concern, not just frustration, but something far worse.

Revulsion.

Or at least, that's what it felt like.

The realization hit Jason like a lightning. His chest tightened, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it had surged, leaving behind something hollow and brittle.

Bruce Wayne—the man who had faced down the most dangerous corners in the world without blinking, who had stared death in the eye more times than he could count—flinched at the sight of his own son.

And in that moment, Jason understood.

This wasn't just about whether he was ready to race again.

This was about whether he'd ever be seen the same way again.

“Boy Wonder No More?”“Crash Down Bahrain Lane: What It Means for the Champion Team”“Robin Fails to Fly”

The headlines screamed at him from every newsstand, every digital feed, every godforsaken screen in the hospital waiting room. Bold, black letters against stark white backgrounds, each one a dagger twisting deeper into the wound. And beneath them—always beneath them—the same grotesque images: his car wrapped around the barriers, the inferno licking at the sky, the thick plume of smoke staining the Bahraini horizon like an omen.

They had reduced his entire legacy to a single, catastrophic moment.

Three-time world champion. Youngest race winner in history. The driver who had redefined dominance. None of it mattered now. The trophies gathering dust in Wayne Manor's halls, the records that still bore his name, the races where he'd crossed the line with his fist raised in triumph—all of it was trumped by one mistake. One lapse in judgment. One turn taken a fraction too late.

Jason Todd: No longer the Boy Wonder. Now, forevermore, The One Who Died.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He had died—if only for a minute. Flatlined on the table, his heart stubbornly restarting as if to spite the universe itself. But the world didn't care about comebacks. It cared about spectacle. And what was more spectacular than the fall of a golden child?

He was Lucifer, wasn't he? God's most favored son, the brightest of angels, cast down from heaven for the sin of pride. Wings broken, flames licking at his heels as he plummeted into the abyss. Maybe it had always been inevitable. Maybe this was his divine punishment—for daring to believe he was untouchable, for thinking the throne was his by right.

Fall from grace. Fall from his throne. Fall from his rightful spot.

So he trained.

Day and night, through the pain that lanced up his spine with every movement, through the phantom screams of tires that echoed in his dreams. He pushed his body to the brink, then past it, his muscles screaming in protest as he forced them to remember what they'd once been capable of. The rage inside him was a living thing, coiled tight around his ribs, whispering in his ear: Prove them wrong. Make them regret it.

There were days when the fury was all-consuming, a black tide that drowned out reason. Days when he'd catch his reflection—the scars, the hollows under his eyes, the gauntness of a face that had once been called ridiculously pretty—and something inside him would snap. Mirrors shattered under his fists. Posters torn from walls, trophies hurled across rooms, their polished surfaces dented against the hardwood. The boy who had been worshiped now couldn't stand the sight of himself.

Bruce tried. He really did. He threw money at the media, buying silence where he could, burying stories of Jason's outbursts beneath layers of PR spin and legal threats. Staff members who looked at Jason with pity in their eyes found themselves abruptly unemployed. But none of it changed the truth: Bruce Wayne, for all his resources, all his power, didn't know how to fix this.

How do you mend a shattered reputation? How do you rebuild a ghost?

The world had already written Jason Todd's epitaph. Now he had to claw his way out of the grave.

The new season began with a quiet humiliation—Tim Drake, the temporary heir to Jason's throne, was demoted back to F2 with barely a whisper of protest. If anything, the young driver seemed relieved to return to the junior category, away from the suffocating expectations of filling Jason Todd's fireproof shoes.

Jason reclaimed his seat, but not his crown.

The first race back was... acceptable. Mediocre by his old standards, but passable for a man who'd crawled back from death's doorstep. The commentators tiptoed around his performance—“He's shaking off rust,” they said. “The speed will come,” they assured. But Jason heard the unspoken truth beneath their carefully chosen words: the fire that had once made him untouchable had dimmed to embers.

Heavens know how he tried. But no amount of willpower could stop his breath from shortening at corners that reminded him of that turn in Bahrain. No mental gymnastics could prevent his palms from sweating through his gloves when the pack bunched too close. The doctors had a name for it: PTSD-induced panic attacks. Jason had another word for it: weakness.

And weakness had no place in Formula 1.

Race after race, he watched helplessly as rivals streamed past—drivers he'd once dominated now leaving him in their wake. The unthinkable happened in Jeddah: Jason Todd, the boy wonder who'd podiumed here in his rookie year, finished outside the points for the first time since his debut.

The garage wrapped him in cotton-wool encouragement. “You'll get there, J.” “Just need more seat time.” Each well-meaning word landed like a scalpel, peeling back layers of pride to reveal the rot beneath—their pity, their disappointment, their fading belief in the myth of Jason Todd.

He wanted to scream. To tear the fucking garage apart. To make them all see—really see—what this was doing to him. But he stayed silent, letting their hollow encouragement wash over him like acid rain.

The truth was simple: Jason Todd wasn't back. He was just... there. Haunting his own career. And the worst part? He wasn't sure which was more unbearable—the idea that this might be permanent, or the terrifying possibility that the old Jason, the real Jason, had died in that Bahrain crash after all.

Jason leaned heavily against the balcony railing, a cigarette dangling carelessly between his fingers. Below him, the team party roared on—champagne corks popping, laughter ringing through the Wayne Racing hospitality suite. Cass had podiumed at their home race in Gotham, keeping the team's legacy alive where he had failed. He was proud of her. She'd earned this. But pride couldn't fill the hollow space in his chest where ambition used to live.

The nicotine burned his lungs in a way that felt almost comforting. The old Jason—the real Jason—had treated his body like a temple. No alcohol, no junk food, certainly no cigarettes. Every calorie counted, every heartbeat optimized for performance. But that man had died in Bahrain. This new version of him? This one didn't give a damn.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the Gotham night. It was funny, in a twisted way. Every drag brought him back to that moment—the acrid smell of burning carbon fiber, the taste of gasoline and fear. In a world where nothing felt familiar anymore, only the memory of his destruction remained vivid.

“I thought F1 drivers weren't allowed to smoke.”

The voice startled him. He turned to see a young woman swaying slightly, her cocktail sloshing precariously in her hand. She couldn't have been more than mid to early twenties, her designer dress wrinkled from dancing, her makeup smudged at the edges. Some sponsor's daughter, probably. Or a journalist's plus-one.

“You shouldn't be here,” Jason said flatly. “The bar's over there.” He gestured vaguely toward the party without looking at her.

“Smoking is bad for you,” she persisted, ignoring his dismissal. “You're the best of the best. You're supposed to—”

“I'm roadkill, sweetheart.” The words came out harsher than he intended, edged with something bitter. “All charred meat and bones. Ain't nothing special anymore.” He waved the cigarette absently, sending a lazy spiral of smoke her way. “They don't get rid of me ‘cause I've got too much on them to lose.”

For a second, she just blinked at him. Then, with a suddenness that almost made him laugh, she snatched the cigarette from his fingers and flicked it over the railing.

“Hey—!”

“You listen up,” she slurred, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You are Jason fucking Todd. You are literally the coolest.” Her words were drunken, but her conviction was startling. She said it like it was scripture. Like she truly believed it from the bottom of her heart.

“That was before the—”

“NO!”

Her voice cut through the night, sharp and unyielding, all traces of drunken slurring stripped away by sheer frustration. She stepped closer, invading his space, her finger jabbing into his chest with enough force to make him stagger back half a step. The scent of vodka and citrus clung to her breath, but her gaze was startlingly clear—burning with an intensity that pinned him in place.

“Don't you dare give me that.”

Her words struck like a hammer to glass.

“You're still him. It doesn't matter how deep you bury yourself in hate and self-pity, you're still the Jason I know.” Her voice cracked, raw with something that sounded too much like betrayal. “And honestly? You're the best out there is— snap the fuck out of it. And also don’t you dare talk smack about my idol. Because I will fight you for it.”

Normally, Jason would’ve had security drag her away by now. Normally, he wouldn’t tolerate some drunk stranger laying into him like this. But there was nothing normal about tonight.

Because she wasn’t tiptoeing around him. Wasn’t feeding him hollow platitudes or empty encouragement. She was the first person in months who looked at him and didn’t see a cautionary tale—just a man too stubborn to climb out of the hole he dug himself.

And damn if that didn’t terrify him.

Her hands flew to his shoulders, shaking him with a desperation that bordered on violence. “Why do you do this to yourself?” Her voice broke, and suddenly, the anger bled into something else entirely. Tears spilled over, streaking her mascara in inky rivers down her cheeks. The dam broke—great, heaving sobs wracked her frame, her words dissolving into incoherent hiccups.

Jason stood frozen, arms stiff at his sides, utterly unprepared for the emotional hurricane in front of him. He glanced toward the party, grateful the crowd was still oblivious, but the reprieve was short-lived.

Footsteps pounded against the terrace tiles.

Danny, one of his oldest friends, a race mechanic who’d known him since their karting days—burst onto the balcony, breathless and wide-eyed.

The woman whirled, launching herself at Danny with a wail. “Dan-Dan, he—” She jabbed a finger wildly at Jason, her words devolving into unintelligible sniffles.

Danny caught her, steadying her swaying frame. “He what?”

“He’s being mean.”

Jason’s hands flew up in surrender. “I didn’t do anything to her!”

Danny’s gaze flicked between them, bewildered. “To whom?”

“To himself!” she wailed, fresh tears erupting. “Tell him to stop!”

Realization dawned on Danny’s face, followed swiftly by mortification. He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling through his nose like a man praying for patience.

“Toddster, I am so sorry for her behavior,” he muttered, already maneuvering her toward the door. “Please forgive her.”

Jason barely had time to process before Danny hauled her away, her protests fading into the din of the party.

The balcony was silent again.

Jason stared at the empty space where they’d stood.

What the hell just happened?

The next race weekend arrived with an unexpected turn—Jason clawed his way past the midfield, securing a respectable finish that, while nowhere near his former glory, at least silenced the whispers of his inevitable decline. The garage hummed with cautious optimism, the tension easing just enough for Dick to crack a joke, for the engineers to clap him on the back without that lingering hesitation. It was progress.

But Jason's mind wasn't on the race.

It was on her.

That drunken, furious woman who'd screamed at him like he was worth the effort. Her words had burrowed under his skin, festering like a splinter he couldn't dig out. “You're still the Jason I know.” The worst part? She'd said it like she meant it. Like she'd seen him—really seen him—through the wreckage of Bahrain and still believed in whatever of himself remained.

He'd resigned himself to never seeing her again.

Until the broadcast screens flashed her face.

There she was—no smudged mascara, no vodka-induced haze—standing trackside with a microphone in hand, interviewing the podium finishers with effortless charm. The realization hit him like a missed gear shift: she wasn't just some random party crasher. She was one of the presenters. And now that he really looked, he did recognize her. Not just from the balcony, but from the periphery of his world for months. Lingering near Danny in the garage, passing through the paddock with a press badge. He'd been too consumed by his own spiral to notice.

His curiosity flared.

He watched her wrap up the interview, then slip toward the back of the garage—a restricted area for presenters. Equipment rooms weren't on the media tour. Even if she was connected to Danny, she had no business there.

For the sake of the company, Jason told himself, and followed.

The equipment room was dim, cluttered with spare parts and toolkits. She was already inside, rummaging through a duffel bag that looked suspiciously personal.

“Looking for something, miss?”

She whirled, clutching the bag to her chest like a shield. “I-I wasn't snooping, I swear! I just came to get my bag—”

“Yes, of course,” Jason said, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk. “And about that night on the terrace...”

Her face drained of color, lips parting slightly as if she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. “I'm so sorry, really,” she stammered, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “I understand if you want to press charges, but just know I—”

“Actually,” Jason interrupted, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it, “I wanted to thank you.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. “What.”

It wasn't a question—it was pure, unfiltered disbelief, the kind that left her rooted to the spot, staring at him like he'd just spoken in tongues.

Jason exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck in a rare show of vulnerability. The movement was almost self-conscious, as if he wasn't entirely sure how to navigate this moment either. “You were right,” he admitted, the words rough but sincere. “About... all of it.”

His gaze lifted to hers, bracing for the pity he'd grown so accustomed to seeing in people's eyes. But it wasn't there. Instead, he found something far more disarming—wary confusion, yes, but beneath it, a flicker of something that might've been hope. Or maybe just surprise that he hadn't thrown her out of the garage yet.

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged.

Then, as if her brain had finally caught up with the absurdity of the situation, she blurted: “So... you're not gonna press charges? Or slap me with a lawsuit that would probably cost more than everything I own and land me in jail?” The words tumbled out in a rush, her hands gesturing wildly. “Because, honestly, I've been mentally preparing for that exact scenario for the past week, and—”

Jason laughed.

Not the hollow, humorless sound he'd been making for the past year, but a real, genuine laugh—the kind that caught even him off guard. It rumbled deep in his chest, startlingly warm in the dim light of the equipment room.

“Not today, sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head. Then, with a smirk that was equal parts challenge and invitation: “But if you're feeling that guilty, you could make it up to me by keeping me company over dinner.”

The woman looked like she was about to faint.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “You—what?”

Jason arched a brow. “You heard me.”

“You're asking me to dinner?”

“Unless you'd prefer the lawsuit?”

She stared at him, torn between disbelief and the dawning realization that he was, in fact, serious. And then—slowly, hesitantly—the corners of her lips curled upward. “You're insane.”

Jason grinned. “Yeah. Thought you knew that already. So what's the verdict?”

She exhaled, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe her own answer. “...Fine. Better than a ruined career I suppose.”

“That's the spirit,” Jason said, pushing off the doorframe. “Now, you gonna tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you ‘the drunk girl who yelled at me’ in my head?”

“Oh my god,” She groaned, covering her face with her hands. 

The moment Jason’s manager contacted her after their encounter in the equipment room, reality hit like a sudden downpour at a race—unexpected and impossible to ignore. A sleek car would arrive at her doorstep at 7 PM sharp, the message stated, its tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, caught between exhilaration and sheer terror.

What if this was all an elaborate trap?

The thought circled her mind like a vulture. Maybe Jason Todd had taken offense to her drunken tirade, and this dinner was simply a prelude to legal annihilation—a chance to personally serve her with a lawsuit that would bankrupt her and tarnish her fledgling career before it even took off. The possibilities were endless, and none of them comforting.

But beneath the anxiety, a traitorous spark of anticipation flickered.

Because it was Jason Todd.

Three-time world champion. The man whose posters had adorned her walls as a teenager. The driver whose career she’d followed with near-religious devotion long before she ever stepped foot in the paddock as a presenter. And now? Now she was supposed to sit across from him at a dinner table without combusting from sheer nerves.

Outfit crisis imminent.

As a presenter, her wardrobe was extensive—filled with sleek blazers, tailored dresses, and enough heels to make a fashion blogger weep. But suddenly, nothing felt sufficient. Too formal? Too casual? Too try-hard? She stood frozen in front of her closet, hands buried in her hair, as the existential dread mounted.

“Steph. Help.”

The phone call to Stephanie Brown—her closest friend and a rising star in the motorsports styling world—was nothing short of a distress signal.

“I have a very, very, very important dinner today, and I have nothing to wear. What do I do? Should I just die? God, I can’t do this. I—”

“Woah, woah, easy, girl,” Steph interrupted, her voice a calming anchor amidst the storm. “I caught ‘dinner,’ ‘important,’ and ‘nothing to wear’—that correct?” A muffled sound followed, then Steph’s sharp, “Tim, stop that—”

“Uh-huh,” she confirmed, nodding vigorously out of habit despite Steph’s inability to see her. “Also, tell Tim congratulations for his podium. I was going to catch up with you guys, but you’d already flown out.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Steph sighed. “Tim just couldn’t wait to get some ‘me time’ at home.” The unspoken eye roll was almost audible.

“That’s okay. It’s understandable.”

“See? Y/N gets it!” Tim’s voice chirped in the background, smug.

“Shut up, Timothy,” Steph snapped. “Ain’t nobody asked yo ass.” What followed was a familiar symphony of bickering— a dynamic so ingrained it nearly made her smile despite her panic.

“Steph! Dinner!” she interjected before the couple could fully derail.

“Oh, right.” Steph’s tone shifted back to business. “Let’s see—is this like a professional ‘don’t fuck with me’ dinner? Or a ‘I lowkey wanna bang you’ dinner? Or a ‘this could’ve been an email’ dinner?”

The blunt categorization forced a laugh out of her, but the truth was far more complicated. “It’s a ‘please don’t kill me and my career’ dinner,” she confessed, voice small.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Y/N,” Steph said slowly, “What did you do?”

“Fucked up big time.” The admission came out in a rush, followed by Tim’s audible “Ooh,” in the background.

“Shut up, Tim!” Both girls barked in unison, effectively silencing the young driver.

Steph’s sigh was long-suffering. “Alright. First, breathe. Second, we’re fixing this. But you owe me the full story later.”

Y/N had stood in the presence of racing legends before - interviewed world champions with champagne still dripping from their hair, exchanged banter with team principals who controlled billion-dollar empires, even moderated press conferences where the tension between rival drivers could have powered the entire paddock. Yet none of those experiences could compare to the visceral, gut-churning nerves currently twisting her stomach into knots as the luxury car glided toward the restaurant.

It was ironic really. She'd interacted with Jason Todd quite a few times in professional settings - the obligatory media day interviews, the post-race scrums where she'd lobbed softball questions about tire strategy and a couple more here and there. Those encounters should have made this easier. Familiarity should have bred comfort.

But this wasn't a media event with carefully scripted questions and PR handlers monitoring every word. This was dinner. Intimate. Unfiltered. Just two people and whatever uncomfortable truths might surface between the appetizer and dessert.

Before that disastrous night on the terrace, she would have sold her soul for this opportunity - a private audience with the man whose racing prowess had inspired her career path. Now? Now she fantasized about the floor opening up beneath her. The cruel twist of fate wasn't just that Jason Todd finally knew she existed - it was that he knew her as the drunken harpy who'd screamed at him like some deranged fangirl.

Her fingers plucked nervously at the burgundy tulle of her dress, the delicate fabric whispering with every fidget. Stephanie had insisted this was the perfect choice - “It says ‘I’m too sexy to kill, so please don't ruin my career’,” she'd declared while wrestling Y/N into the designer garment through the phone. The color was no accident either: Jason's signature shade, the one that adorned his helmet and racing suit. A subtle homage or a desperate plea for mercy? She wasn't sure anymore.

The car slowed as they approached their destination - one of those impossibly exclusive restaurants where the maître d' could spot an impostor from fifty paces. The kind of establishment where reservations required connections more than money, though God knew there'd be plenty of both behind these doors. Y/N had walked past places like this her whole life, never imagining she'd actually enter one - certainly not under these circumstances.

Through the tinted windows, the restaurant's facade glowed like some temple of the elite, its polished brass and artfully distressed oak radiating quiet money and old-world power. The sort of place where Bruce Wayne might hold court in a private dining room while discussing billion-dollar deals between courses.

Her throat went dry. Against the combined might of Wayne Enterprises and Jason Todd's racing fortune, she was utterly insignificant. A single ill-advised outburst could vaporize not just her career, but Danny's position at the team too. The weight of that realization settled over her like a lead apron as the car door opened, releasing her into the lion's den.

The maître d' didn't even check the reservation list. One glance at her and he was nodding deferentially. “Mr. Todd's guest. Right this way.”

Her heels clicked against the marble floor like a countdown to judgment. Somewhere in this temple of haute cuisine, Jason Todd waited and Y/N wasn't sure whether to beg for forgiveness or prepare for war. The ambient chatter of the elite patrons seemed to fade into a distant hum as her eyes scanned the dimly lit dining room, searching for the one face that had haunted her thoughts since that disastrous balcony confrontation.

And then she saw him.

Jason Todd sat bathed in the warm glow of an artfully placed spotlight, looking every bit the racing royalty he was. The crisp lines of his tailored shirt—a deep burgundy that matched her dress with embarrassing precision—stretched across his broad shoulders, the top button undone just enough to reveal the faintest glimpse of the scars that marred his collarbone and running up his neck. His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run his fingers through it one too many times in frustration and the ghost of a smirk played at the corner of his lips as he watched her approach.

“Wasn't aware there was a dress code,” he remarked dryly, his voice laced with amusement as his gaze flickered pointedly between her dress and his own shirt.

Y/N felt the heat rise to her cheeks, turning her face the same shade as the offending fabric. Goddammit, Stephanie.

“It's a coincidence,” she muttered, sliding into the plush chair opposite him with all the grace of a startled deer. Her eyes darted anywhere but at him—studying the intricate pattern of the tablecloth, the way the candlelight reflected off the polished silverware, the distant exit sign she was sorely tempted to bolt toward.

Jason chuckled lowly, the sound sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. “I know I ain’t much to look at, but you don’t need to make it so obvious,” he teased, accepting the leather-bound menu from the waiter with a nod of thanks.

Her head snapped up at that, indignation momentarily overriding her embarrassment. “What? No! You're gorgeous—”

The words tumbled out unchecked, her filter obliterated by sheer panic.

Jason froze, the menu hovering mid-air as his eyebrows shot up in surprise. A slow, dangerously smug grin spread across his face. “I see,” he drawled, the teasing lilt in his voice making her want to vault over the table and strangle him—or maybe herself.

Mortified, Y/N yanked the menu up like a shield, pressing the cool leather against her burning face. You're so done, Y/N, her inner voice screamed at her, equal parts horrified and exasperated.

From behind her makeshift barricade, she heard Jason let out a huff that oddly sounded like a  laugh—the kind that vibrated through his chest and made her traitorous stomach flip. “You planning to order from behind there or should I just guess what you want?”

She groaned, the sound muffled by the menu. It trembled slightly in Y/N's grip as she fought to regain control of her traitorous tongue. The embossed letters blurred before her eyes— foie gras, truffle-infused something, caviar that probably cost more than her monthly rent. None of it registered.

The candle between them cast flickering shadows across the sharp planes of his face, highlighting the faint scar that bisected his left eyebrow— a souvenir from his early racing days that no media outlet had ever gotten the full story on.

“It's a bold strategy,” Jason mused, leaning back in his chair with the effortless grace of someone completely at home in this world of white tablecloths and thousand-dollar bottles of wine. “First you scream at me drunk, now you're trying to suffocate yourself with the menu. I'm starting to think you've got a death wish, doll.”

Y/N finally dropped the menu with a defeated thud. “I was hoping for spontaneous combustion actually,” she admitted, reaching for her water glass with only the slightest tremor in her fingers. “Seems more dignified than whatever this is.”

Jason's laughter rang out, unfiltered and unguarded. It transformed his face completely - the harsh lines of trauma and exhaustion momentarily smoothed away, revealing the more of the boyish charmer who'd taken the racing world by storm years ago, almost making Y/N's heart stagger.

“But you know,” He said swirling the liquid in his glass with deliberate nonchalance, “most people who think I'm going to ruin their careers don't compliment me quite so... enthusiastically.”

The ice cubes clinked mockingly as he took a sip.

“I was being polite,” Y/N lied through clenched teeth, surrendering her menu shield to the hovering waiter.

“Polite would've been ‘you clean up nice.’ But ‘Gorgeous’?” He leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching the gold flecks in his otherwise stormy eyes. “That's the kind of word that makes a man think dangerous thoughts.”

The waiter chose that moment to reappear with their first course - some delicate arrangement of edible flowers and microgreens that looked more like a museum installation than food. Y/N seized the distraction like a lifeline, stabbing at her plate with slightly more force than necessary.

“Careful,” Jason murmured, watching her assault on the defenseless appetizer. “That fork's not one of my sponsors.” Y/N shrugged and muttered something unintelligble before continuning with the same.

“Christ, you’re something else,” he said, shaking his head as he signaled the sommelier. When he turned back, his expression had shifted into something more contemplative. “Look, let's get one thing straight - you're not here because I'm planning to sue you into oblivion.”

The waiter arrived with the wine list before she could respond. Jason barely glanced at it. “The '89 Margaux,” he said automatically, then paused. “Unless you'd prefer something else?”

Y/N blinked. That particular Bordeaux cost more than what she made in a month. “The... the Margaux is perfect,” she managed, watching as Jason nodded dismissal to the waiter.

When they were alone again, he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. The movement caused his shirt to pull tight across his shoulders, and Y/N suddenly found the stem of her water glass fascinating.

“I asked you here,” Jason continued, voice dropping into a more serious register, “because you were the first person in a year who didn't treat me like either a ticking time bomb or a broken trophy.” His fingers traced the rim of his glass absentmindedly.

The raw honesty in his words stole Y/N's breath. This wasn't the carefully curated media persona or the angry driver she'd confronted on the balcony. This was Jason Todd stripped bare— vulnerable in a way she'd never imagined seeing.

Her professional instincts warred with something far more personal. “I saw someone who needed to get his head out of his ass,” she said before she could stop herself, then immediately winced. “Sorry, that was-”

“No,” Jason interrupted, that ghost of a smile returning. “That's exactly it. It was... refreshing. Let's just say it helped me think differently.” His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the tablecloth. “And I'd like to thank you for that.”

Y/N nodded slowly, taking a deliberate sip of her wine to buy time. The rich, oaky flavor bloomed across her tongue. “You're welcome, I suppose,” she murmured, the rim of the glass muffling her words slightly.

An awkward silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant clink of silverware and the muted conversations of other diners. Jason's gaze drifted to the window where Gotham's skyline glittered against the night sky, his expression unreadable.

“You know,” he said suddenly, turning back to her with renewed focus, “you're free to make conversation with me. It's more entertaining than most people I talk to.”

The challenge in his tone sparked something in Y/N. She tilted her head, considering him for a long moment before asking, “So what do you do when you're not racing?”

It was a genuine question - one she'd always wondered about. In every interview she'd ever watched or conducted with Jason Todd, the conversation inevitably circled back to racing strategies, training regimens, or future competitions. His social media showed nothing but carefully curated content - podium finishes, sponsor events, the occasional vacation photo that still somehow related to racing. There was never any glimpse of who Jason Todd might be when he stepped away from the track.

Jason opened his mouth automatically. “Um, I usually train or go over my past races, analyze data, study tracks—”

“No,” Y/N interrupted gently but firmly. “I mean outside of racing. You've pretty much dedicated all of you to racing, but who is Jason Todd outside of that?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. His fingers stilled against the tablecloth, and for the first time that evening, the ever-present confidence in his posture faltered slightly. The silence stretched between them, growing heavier with each passing second.

Jason's brow furrowed as he stared into his wine glass, as if the answer might be hidden in its depths. When he finally looked up, there was something unsettlingly vulnerable in his expression.

He paused, then continued with a soft huff of self-deprecating laughter, “I mean I used to read.” The admission came slowly, dragged up from some long-buried place in his memory. “Before races. History, mostly.” A faint, nostalgic smile touched his lips. “There was... there was something about empires rising and falling that put the whole 'will I qualify P1 or P2' thing in perspective.”

Y/N found herself leaning forward without realizing it. This was new territory - an actual glimpse behind the carefully constructed media persona. The Jason Todd of press conferences and interviews was all sharp edges and racing statistics, a human embodiment of competitive drive. This Jason? This one had layers.

“And now?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, afraid to break the fragile moment.

Jason's thumb traced slow circles around the base of his glass, his gaze distant. “Now I...” The sentence trailed off into silence, his brow furrowing deeper. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a rougher edge, the words tinged with something like self-reproach. “Christ, you're right. There isn't a Jason Todd outside of racing. Hasn't been for a long time.”

Y/N could see the moment of realization hitting him, could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he confronted this truth about himself. The way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the slight narrowing of his eyes - she recognized the signs of someone spiraling inward with uncomfortable self-examination.

Seeking to lighten the mood before it turned too heavy, she quipped, “For someone who just admitted he has no life outside racing, you're doing a terrible job of convincing me to take this dinner seriously as a networking opportunity.”

The tension shattered as Jason barked out a surprised laugh that made the waiters look curiously. “Fuck you,” he shot back, but there was no real venom in it - just a warmth that softened the edges of his usual sharp demeanor. He speared a bite of his appetizer with more force than necessary, the action betraying his lingering discomfort with the direction of their conversation. “Fine. Next time I'll lie. Tell you I breed rare orchids or some shit.”

“Next time?” Y/N raised an eyebrow, her own fork hovering mid-air as she caught the implication.

Jason froze for a fraction of a second, then recovered with a shrug that was far too studied to be casual. “Figure of speech.” But the way his eyes darted briefly away, the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth, told a different story entirely.

Y/N deadpanned, “You just admitted your entire identity is wrapped up in going fast in circles. That means we've got our work cut out for us.”

“'We'?” Jason latched onto the word with surprising quickness, his tone dripping with exaggerated sarcasm though something in his eyes betrayed genuine curiosity. “As in you want to accompany me in this grand journey of self-discovery?” The question was framed as rhetorical, but there was an undercurrent of something more - a quiet hope that surprised even him.

Y/N smiled at his characteristic sarcastic flair, recognizing the defense mechanism for what it was. “That depends on you, Mr. Todd,” she replied, matching his tone but letting her amusement show through.

Jason regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I suppose it does,” he finally conceded, the words neither a confirmation nor denial, but something intriguingly in between.

The sleek black town car had glided through the city's rain-slicked streets in near silence, the hum of the engine the only sound as Jason’s chauffeur navigated the late-night traffic. Y/N had sat stiffly in the plush leather seat, fingers twisting in her lap, replaying every moment of the evening in her head. Jason had been... different than she expected. Not the brooding, closed-off champion the media painted him as, but someone sharper, wittier—someone who had actually laughed at her jokes.

When the car finally pulled up to her apartment building, she had thanked the driver with a polite smile, maintaining her composure right up until the moment her front door clicked shut behind her.

Then her knees gave out.

She slid down the length of the door until she hit the floor, back pressed against the wood, heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat. A giddy, disbelieving laugh bubbled up, followed immediately by a wave of sheer panic.

She needed to talk to someone. Now.

Stephanie picked up the video call on the second ring, her face already alight with curiosity. “Okay, so how did it go?”

Y/N opened her mouth—and promptly burst into tears. Stephanie’s eyes widened as Y/N devolved into a babbling, incoherent mess, words tumbling out between hiccuping sobs.

“I can’t understand shit,” Stephanie said, leaning closer to the screen. “Are these happy tears or sad?”

“Seems happy to me,” Tim chimed in from somewhere off-camera. “Happy?” Stephanie repeated, narrowing her eyes. “What the hell happened? You’re acting like Jason Todd took you on a date or something.”

Y/N froze.

Then, slowly, she looked up at Stephanie through her lashes, her lips quirking into a sheepish smile. “I mean—” A giggle escaped, high-pitched and entirely involuntary.

Stephanie’s expression morphed into pure shock. “Hol’up, bitch. What do you mean by ‘I mean’? Whatchu teehee’ing for?” she shrieked, loud enough that Y/N had to pull the phone away from her ear.

“Y/N went on a date with who now?” Tim’s voice floated into frame as he leaned over Stephanie’s shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“That’s why I just asked her, dipshit,” Stephanie snapped, shoving him away.

“It wasn’t a date,” Y/N insisted, though the way she twirled a strand of hair around her finger betrayed her. “I mean, it was one in my head, but that doesn’t matter.”

Stephanie’s jaw dropped. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

Y/N snapped out of her daze, straightening up as the full weight of the evening came crashing back. Words poured out of her in a frantic, breathless rush—Jason’s unexpected dinner invitation, the way he’d actually listened to her, the way his smirk had softened into something dangerously close to genuine amusement.

Stephanie’s reaction was instantaneous. “Jason FUCKING Todd? As in three-time world champion Jason Todd? The guy who hasn’t been seen in public outside of races for like a year? The same Jason Todd whose poster you had above your bed and wrote like a thousand fanfictions about in high school and college? The one who’s—”

“Steph! That was years ago!” Y/N’s face burned so hot she was surprised her phone didn’t melt.

From the background, Tim’s voice piped up again, smug. “Wait, Y/N had a crush on Ja—”

“TIMOTHY DRAKE, IF YOU DON’T SHUT YOUR MOUTH RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD—”

A scuffle ensued, followed by a yelp and the sound of something—or someone—being forcibly silenced.

Y/N buried her face in her hands, groaning.

Then her phone chimed.

A text.

From an unknown number.

Her stomach dropped. With trembling fingers, she opened the message.

Unknown: So when do we start?

Y/N let out a strangled scream and threw her phone across the room like it had burned her.

“Y/N? HELLO? WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?” Stephanie’s voice screeched from the discarded device. Y/N scrambled to retrieve it, her voice pitching into hysterics. “H-he just texted me. What do I do? What do I DO?”

She collapsed back onto the floor, biting her fist to muffle another scream.

Y/N's phone continued to blare Stephanie's increasingly frantic voice from where it had landed face-up on the rug. She stared at it like it might explode, her entire body frozen in panic.

Jason Todd had her number.

Jason Todd had texted her.

Jason Todd was somehow already ruining her ability to function like a normal human being.

Stephanie's pixelated face twisted in exasperation on the screen. “Y/N, I swear to god if you don't pick up this phone right now—”

With trembling fingers, Y/N grabbed the device, her wide-eyed reflection staring back at her in the front camera. “Steph,” she whispered hoarsely. “What do I say?”

Stephanie opened her mouth—probably to deliver one of her famously unhinged pep talks—when Tim suddenly shouldered his way back into frame, his grin downright diabolical.

“Say yes, obviously.”

“TIM—”

“No, listen,” he barreled on, ignoring Stephanie's death grip on his arm. “Jason doesn't text people. Like, ever. Dick had to bribe him just to answer group chats. If he's reaching out first? That's basically a declaration of—”

Stephanie clamped a hand over his mouth. “What my handsome yet unburdened by intelligence boyfriend is trying to say is,” she said through gritted teeth, “that you should reply before you psych yourself out of it. Also, tim don't spout bull, she's plenty delulu as it is.”

Y/N's thumb hovered over the screen. The cursor blinked mockingly in the text box.

Unknown: So when do we start?

She swallowed hard.

This was Jason Todd. The same Jason Todd who had once flipped off an entire grandstand after a controversial penalty. The same Jason Todd whose post-race interviews were legendary for their sarcasm and barely-contained rage. The same Jason Todd who had just admitted he had no identity outside of racing—and was now asking her to help him find one.

Her fingers moved before she could overthink it.

Y/N: Depends. Are we starting with book recommendations or full-blown personality reconstruction with something more hands-on? 

The reply came almost instantly.

Jason: Never been the one to back out from a challenge. So what's it gonna be doll?

Y/N's breath hitched. She could practically hear his voice in her head, that low, teasing drawl that had made her stomach flip more than once during dinner.

“Steph,” she blurted out, turning back to her still-active video call where Stephanie and Tim were watching this unfold with rapt attention. “Suggestions. Fast. Something I can take Jason to.”

Stephanie's grin was instantaneous. “Oh, I know you're not about to drag Jason Todd into one of your hyperfixation hobbies.”

“Good idea and that I absolutely will.”

Stephanie snorted. “Well, you could take him to that artisan ceramics workshop with the old Italian nonnas you're obsessed with. Or that dance class you signed up for in Barcelona last year.”

One thing about Y/N: she happened to be on the ADHD spectrum and every Grand Prix weekend in a new country had become an opportunity to dive headfirst into a new hobby. From pottery in Italy to flamenco dancing in Spain, her restless mind latching onto anything that could provide that sweet, sweet dopamine hit. It made her the perfect person to help Jason Todd find something—anything—that wasn't racing. Collecting herself, Y/N typed back with renewed determination:

Y/N: Give me a country, and I'll tell you what we're doing.

Jason: Race in Imola in two days.

Y/N: So Italy it is.

Excitement buzzed under Y/N's skin. Imola. The Emilia Romagna Grand Prix. And now, the backdrop for whatever this was becoming.

Across the world, in a private jet en route to Italy, Jason found himself staring at his phone with an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. For the first time in years, he was looking forward to something that wasn't a race.

Their messages continued late into the night—Y/N enthusiastically listing every obscure Italian hobby she'd tried, Jason responding with dry humor that slowly melted into genuine interest. He didn't even realize when the tension in his shoulders began to ease, when the ever-present anger that had fueled him since his return started to fade, replaced by something lighter. Something like anticipation.

In just a span of two days, his phone was filled with ridiculous stickers, mostly consisting of a concerning number of cat memes and a plan for their first “non-racing activity.” His phone buzzed again—another meme from Y/N, this time a photoshopped image of Bruce Wayne with cat ears next to an actual grumpy Persian. Jason snorted, thumb hovering over the keyboard to reply, when a quiet voice interrupted.

“Jason, can we talk?”

Cass's voice cut through the controlled chaos of the garage, where mechanics buzzed around the car like worker bees. Jason slipped his phone into his pocket, though not before Cass caught a glimpse of his screen— the ridiculous meme Y/N had sent him.

“Sure, Cass. What's up?” he said, turning to face her.

Cass studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes perceptive as ever. “You've been... different.”

Jason stiffened. Different. Did that mean distracted? Unfocused? Cass was one of the few people who had never treated him like glass after the accident, never looked at him with pity. If she said he'd changed—

But then Cass's lips quirked. “You smile more.”

Jason blinked.

“And you keep checking your phone,” she added, nodding to his pocket, where another notification had just buzzed. “Whoever they are... I like them.”

Jason opened his mouth—to protest, to deflect—but found he didn't want to. Instead, a slow, unguarded smile spread across his face.

“Yeah,”

he admitted, pulling out his phone to see Y/N's latest message.

Y/N: Pack something you don't mind getting messy. We're starting with ceramics tomorrow.

“Me too.”

Jason stood frozen outside the unassuming ceramics studio, his boots scuffing against the worn cobblestones as he double-checked the address. The building looked like something out of a postcard—sun-bleached terracotta walls draped in lush ivy, the faint scent of lemon trees mingling with the earthy aroma of clay from the open windows. A hand-painted wooden sign swung gently in the breeze, its blue door chipped with age.

He glanced at his watch—10:02 AM. He was late.

Not that it mattered, he told himself. This wasn’t a race briefing or a sponsor meeting. Just... an odd detour into unfamiliar territory.

The street was blessedly empty, tucked away in the city’s historic district where tourists rarely wandered. Jason exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension coiled there. These days, being recognized outside the paddock meant one of two things—either starstruck fans shoving phones in his face, or pitying glances from those who remembered the crash. He hated both reactions equally.

His outfit felt foreign against his skin—a lightweight linen shirt layered over his usual thin turtleneck, loose trousers instead of fireproof racing gear, boots that had never touched a garage floor. The fabric moved differently, unrestrictive in ways his racing suits never were.

Jason raised his fist and knocked twice on the weathered blue door.

The door flew open before his knuckles could make contact a third time.

“Ah! Finalmente!”

A tiny, silver-haired woman—Nonna Gianna, he presumed—grabbed his wrist with surprising strength and yanked him inside before he could protest. The studio was cooler than the sunlit street, the air thick with the mineral scent of wet clay and something herbal—maybe thyme or rosemary from the small kitchen in the back.

“You are il ragazzo who knows nothing, sì?” Gianna declared, her dark eyes scanning him with the same intensity engineers used when inspecting a damaged chassis.

Jason opened his mouth to argue—he’d mastered the most complex racing circuits in the world, surely he could handle some clay—but she was already dragging him past shelves of glazed pottery, their surfaces catching the morning light filtering through the windows.

The back room was bathed in golden sunlight from the open roof and thin shades, the hum of a spinning pottery wheel filling the air. And there—

Y/N sat at the wheel, her hands buried in a mound of wet clay that spun hypnotically under her fingers. She’d traded her usual paddock attire for a linen shirt that matched his own—though hers was already streaked with earthy smudges—her hair tied back with a vibrant scarf. And a smudge of clay decorated her cheek.

“Wasn’t aware there was a dress code,” she quipped without looking up, her voice laced with amusement.

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown by the quip and the sight of her—so at ease here, so different from the polished presenter or the drunk socialite he saw earlier. But before he could respond, Gianna shoved him toward the empty wheel beside Y/N’s.

“Bello ma stupido,” the old woman muttered, patting his bicep approvingly before grabbing his hands to inspect them. “Strong hands,” she announced, turning them palm-up like a fortune teller. “Good for clay.” Her smile was slightly unnerving—the kind usually reserved for fresh meat in a lion’s den.

Jason, who had faced down the most intimidating team principals and aggressive reporters without flinching, felt an odd prickle of nerves under her scrutiny. “I’ll... try my best?”

Gianna snorted and slapped a wet lump of clay onto his wheel with a decisive thwap. “Non provare. Do it.”

For the next two hours, Jason Todd—three-time world champion, master of precision—was thoroughly humbled by a lump of wet earth.

His first attempt collapsed inward like a deflating balloon. His second wobbled violently before spiraling off-center. His third attempt earned him a sharp rap on the knuckles with Gianna’s wooden spoon when he gripped the clay too tightly.

“Troppa forza!” she scolded. “Clay is not enemy! You fight it, it fights back.”

Y/N muffled a laugh into her shoulder, her own wheel producing something suspiciously vase-shaped. “She’s right, you know,” she said, pushing back a stray strand from her forehead with her wrist. “It’s about listening, not controlling.”

Jason glared at his latest failed attempt, the clay stubbornly refusing to obey him the way his car always did. “I’m used to things responding immediately when I tell them what to do.”

Y/N’s grin was downright wicked. “Welcome to the real world, hotshot.”

He flicked a bit of clay at her. She gasped in mock outrage and retaliated by smearing a streak across his cheek, her fingers lingering just a second too long. Gianna threw her hands up and muttered something in rapid Italian before stomping off.

By the session’s end, his shirt was thoroughly ruined, patience exhausted and—against all odds—he’d somehow produced something vaguely cup-shaped.

“Non male,” Gianna conceded, examining his lopsided creation with a critical eye. “For first try.” She turned to Y/N and said something that made the younger woman nearly drop her perfectly formed vase.

Jason wiped his clay-caked hands on a towel. “What’d she say?”

Y/N refused to meet his eyes. “Nothing important.”

The warm afternoon sunlight streamed through the studio’s windows as Gianna’s cackling faded into the distance, leaving Jason and Y/N alone at their worktable. Jason found his gaze tracing the details of Y/N’s profile—the way her nose scrunched in concentration when examining their pottery, the smudge of clay drying along her collarbone that she’d missed when cleaning up. He noticed how her shoulders curved slightly forward when focused, the golden chain around her neck catching the light with each movement. A glimpse of ink at the base of her neck peeked through her hair—some tattoo he couldn’t quite make out, its meaning hidden just like so much about her still remained unknown to him.

It struck him then how rarely he noticed these small things about people. In the paddock, he saw drivers as competitors, engineers as problem-solvers, journalists as obstacles to navigate. But Y/N—he was seeing her in fragments, piece by unexpected piece, and each discovery left him strangely curious for more.

As Y/N carefully carried their creations to the kiln, Jason wiped his clay-streaked hands on a towel. The studio’s elderly owner reappeared at his side, moving with surprising stealth for someone who’d just been cackling moments before.

“Tu e Y/N,” Gianna began, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Da quanto tempo vi frequentate?”

Jason blinked. “Pardon? Uh, signora um... non parlo italiano.”

Gianna’s wrinkled face scrunched in concentration as she searched for the right English words, then gave up with an exasperated wave of her hands. Instead, she brought her pinched fingers together in the universal sign for kissing.

Jason’s eyes widened comically. “No, no, me and Y/N—not like that,” he protested, waving his hands in denial.

“Non?” Gianna looked genuinely surprised. “Ma l’ultima volta che l’ho vista eri nello sfondo del suo telefono.”

Jason stared blankly, the rapid Italian washing over him without comprehension. Before he could respond, Y/N returned, immediately picking up on the tension.

“Hey, you okay?” she asked, tilting her head at Jason’s bewildered expression.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it,” Jason muttered, suddenly finding the clay remnants on the table fascinating.

Gianna said something rapid-fire to Y/N, who laughed and shook her head before turning back to Jason. “She said we can fix ourselves a meal in her kitchen if we want while the pots bake. What do you say?”

Jason automatically shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I have to strictly watch what I eat.”

Y/N groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. “Jay, look. It’s two weeks before the next race. One sandwich won’t destroy you.” She clasped her hands together in mock pleading. “And Gianna makes her own cheese! With goat milk from her nephew’s farm. Pretty please?”

The way she said it—the exaggerated pout, the way her eyes sparkled with challenge, the way she said his name—stirred something in Jason. He’d spent years following nutrition plans to the gram, never deviating, never indulging. But standing there, with clay under his nails and Y/N looking at him like that, the strict rules he’d lived by suddenly felt less important.

“Fine,” he conceded, holding up a warning finger. “One sandwich.”

Y/N’s triumphant grin was worth whatever lecture his nutritionist would give him later. As Gianna led them toward the small kitchen in the back, chattering away in Italian, Jason realized with startling clarity that for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about macros or race weight.

He was simply... enjoying himself.

The small kitchen was warm and fragrant, filled with the earthy scent of baking bread and the sharp tang of fresh herbs. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns across the worn wooden counter where Y/N stood, her hands deftly slicing into a crusty loaf of sourdough. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board filled the comfortable silence between them.

Jason leaned against the counter nearby, watching as she worked. There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved—practical yet graceful, her fingers sure and steady as she portioned the bread. The quiet domesticity of the moment felt foreign to him, like stepping into a scene from a life he’d never allowed himself to imagine.

Then Y/N glanced up, her eyes flickering briefly to the high collar of his turtleneck before meeting his gaze.

“I respect people’s fashion choices and all,” she began, her tone light but curious, “but if you don’t mind me asking... why the turtleneck?”

The question shouldn’t have caught him off guard. He’d been asked it before—by reporters, by fans, even by well-meaning acquaintances who didn’t know how to tiptoe around the subject of his scars. But coming from Y/N, it felt different. There was no pity in her voice, no morbid fascination. Just simple, straightforward curiosity.

Jason hesitated, his fingers absently tracing the edge of his sleeve. He could deflect, could make a joke and steer the conversation elsewhere. But something about the quiet intimacy of the kitchen, the way Y/N waited without pressing, made the truth feel less like a burden and more like just another part of himself.

“After the crash,” he started, his voice quieter than he intended, “people tend to... stare.” He shrugged, as if that explained it all. And in a way, it did. The scars were a map of his worst moment, etched permanently into his skin. A reminder he carried everywhere, whether he wanted to or not.

He realized how somber his words sounded and quickly tried to lighten the mood. “And even then, I wouldn’t wanna scare you with ‘em. It’s ugly stuff.”

Y/N didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she turned back to the bread, her knife moving steadily. But just as Jason thought she’d let the subject drop, she murmured, so softly he almost missed it:

“Not to me, it’s not.”

The words hung in the air between them, delicate as the dust motes floating in the sunlight. Jason wasn’t sure if he’d heard her correctly—if he’d imagined the quiet sincerity in her voice. But before he could question it, Y/N looked up again, her expression shifting seamlessly back to casual ease.

“Hey, can you wash the cherry tomatoes, please?”

Jason nodded, pushing away from the counter to comply. As he turned on the faucet and let the cool water run over the vibrant red tomatoes, he became acutely aware of the quiet sounds filling the kitchen—the splash of water, the rustle of Y/N gathering herbs, and beneath it all, the soft, absentminded hum escaping her lips.

The melody was unfamiliar, but the way she let it drift in and out of her thoughts, barely aware she was doing it, struck something deep in his chest. It reminded him of his mother—how she would hum old lullabies while cooking, the sound wrapping around him like a comfort as he sat on the countertop, swinging his legs and waiting for dinner. It reminded him, too, of Alfred—the Wayne family’s butler—patiently teaching him how to prep vegetables, his dry wit hiding a warmth Jason had taken for granted in his youth.

He hadn’t thought about those moments in years. Hadn’t let himself.

The water ran over his fingers, the tomatoes glistening like little gems in his palms. For the first time in longer than he could remember, the simmering anger that had fueled him since the crash—the bitterness, the relentless drive to prove he was still the same, still unbeatable—felt distant. Fading, like an old wound finally beginning to heal.

And standing there, in a kitchen with the scent of fresh bread in the air and Y/N’s quiet humming weaving through the space between them, Jason realized something with startling clarity:

He was happy.

Not the fleeting rush of a podium finish, not the hollow satisfaction of proving his critics wrong. Just... happy.

Y/N perched on the edge of the worn wooden counter, her legs swinging idly as she took another enthusiastic bite of her sandwich. Crumbs tumbled onto the plate below, but she paid them no mind, too absorbed in savoring the flavors—the rich creaminess of Gianna’s homemade goat cheese, the sweetness of sun-ripened tomatoes, the crunch of freshly baked sourdough.

Across from her, Jason sat frozen, his own sandwich hovering halfway to his lips. His expression was distant, conflicted, as if caught in some internal debate. The voices of his past—his coaches, his nutritionists, even his own relentless drive—whispered warnings in his mind. This isn’t part of the plan. This isn’t what champions do.

Across from her, Jason sat frozen, his own sandwich hovering inches from his mouth. His fingers gripped the bread just a fraction too tightly, his knuckles pale with tension. The voices in his head were louder than the cheerful clatter of the kitchen—his old trainer’s stern warnings about maintaining race weight, the nutritionist’s rigid meal plans, the unspoken expectations of a champion who couldn’t afford to slip, not even for a moment.

Was this weakness? The thought slithered through his mind. Was he throwing away years of discipline, all the sacrifices he’d made—the early mornings, the grueling workouts, the endless self-denial—for something as trivial as a sandwich?

“Is there something wrong?”

Y/N’s voice cut through his spiral, her brow furrowing as she studied him. The concern in her eyes was genuine, untainted by the judgment he’d come to expect from the racing world.

Jason shook his head, more to clear his thoughts than to answer her. Then, before he could overthink it further, he took a bite.

The flavors exploded across his tongue—sharp, tangy cheese mellowed by the sweetness of sun-ripened tomatoes, all anchored by the nutty depth of freshly baked bread. It was simple. It was perfect. And for the first time in years, Jason actually tasted his food.

His so-called “cheat meals” had always been at Michelin-starred restaurants—obligatory team dinners or sponsor events where the food was secondary to the politics. He’d long since trained himself to ignore the delicate dishes placed before him. The flavors had become irrelevant, just another sacrifice in the pursuit of perfection.

But here, in this tiny kitchen with its chipped tiles and sun-faded curtains, with Y/N swinging her feet like a child and Gianna humming off-key in the corner, the weight of expectation lifted. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Jason was present—truly present—in a moment that had nothing to do with racing.

“Want one more?” Y/N asked, already reaching for the bread.

Jason didn’t hesitate. “Actually, yes I do.”

The words felt like a revelation.

Between races, in stolen days across different time zones, he found himself dragged into what Y/N affectionately called their “hobby hunts”— whirlwind excursions into the mundane wonders of each Grand Prix host country. In Italy, he’d learned the meditative art of pasta-making from a Nonna who smacked him whenever he kneaded the dough too aggressively. He’d reluctantly tried watercolor painting, only to discover an unexpected satisfaction in the way colors bled across the paper.

And now, in Venice after the triple header, Y/N was determined to subject him to what he firmly believed was the most ridiculous “hobby” yet.

“Mask-making is not a real hobby,” Jason declared, arms crossed as they stood outside a tiny workshop in Dorsoduro, its windows filled with elaborate papier-mâché creations. Y/N’s expression shifted instantly—her usual playful smirk dissolving into something far more serious. When she spoke, her voice carried a weight that gave Jason pause.

“Tell that to Guillermo,” she said quietly, “who spent thirty years perfecting this ‘hobby’ of his. After he lost his job and his son stopped speaking to him, it was the masks that kept a roof over his and his wife’s heads.”

The raw sincerity in her words hit Jason like a missed braking point. He stiffened, suddenly aware of the careless privilege in his dismissal.

“I—” He swallowed, uncharacteristically lost for words. “That was insensitive of me. I’m sorry.”

Y/N studied him for a long moment before her face lit up with sudden mischief. “So that means you’ll give it a go?” The whiplash-inducing shift in tone left Jason blinking. “...What?”

“You promised,” she singsonged, bouncing on her heels with renewed energy. Realization dawned slowly, then all at once. Jason’s jaw dropped. “You made that up?”

“Every word,” Y/N confirmed cheerfully. “And no takesies-backsies. You already agreed.”

Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re an evil little thing, you know that?”

“But you love it,” she teased, already pushing open the workshop door.

The protest died on Jason’s lips. Because as much as he hated to admit it, she wasn’t wrong.

The crisp Canadian air carried a bite that was absent in the Mediterranean warmth they’d left behind. The empty rink stretched before them, its surface gleaming under the soft glow of evening lights, freshly smoothed by the zamboni. Jason exhaled, watching his breath curl into the cold air as he stepped onto the ice, the blades of his skates cutting effortlessly into the pristine surface.

He hadn’t expected this. When Y/N had mentioned renting out an entire rink as a thank-you for flying her to Montreal in his private jet, he’d assumed she was joking. But here they were, the only two people in the arena, the silence broken only by the distant hum of refrigeration systems and the occasional scrape of steel against ice.

It was… thoughtful. Unnervingly so. Y/N had a way of anticipating what he wanted before he even voiced it—like she understood that, despite his love for the roars of the grandstands on track, he craved these quiet moments away from prying eyes and cameras.

As a high-performance athlete, Jason found his balance almost immediately. The muscle memory from years of rigorous training translated seamlessly to the ice, and within minutes, he was gliding across the rink with the same natural ease he carried on the racetrack.

Y/N, however, was another story entirely.

She clung to the boards like her life depended on it, her usual confidence replaced by wide-eyed terror as her skates betrayed her at every turn. Jason watched, amused, as she attempted to push off—only to immediately pitch forward with a yelp, arms flailing wildly before she somehow managed to right herself.

“Show-off,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at him as he executed a lazy backward crossover right in front of her.

Jason smirked. “You’re the one who picked this hobby, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t realize you’d turn out to be some figure-skating prodigy,” she shot back in an attempt to gain back some of her dignity, gingerly releasing the railing—and immediately regretting it as her feet slid out from under her.

Jason darted forward, catching her by the waist before she could faceplant onto the ice. “You’re hopeless, I swear,” he laughed, steadying her as she wobbled like a newborn fawn.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, though whether from embarrassment or the cold, he couldn’t tell. “I’m great at plenty of other things!” she grumbled, attempting to shake him off.

“Oh, I believe you,” Jason said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “But skating isn’t one of them.”

As she wobbled dangerously again, his arm shot out to steady her. “Careful, doll. Can’t have you messing up that pretty face.”

She muttered something decidedly unflattering under her breath, but the effect was ruined by the way her lips twitched, fighting a smile.

Jason held out his hand. “Alright, baby steps. Take my hand.”

Y/N hesitated, staring at his outstretched palm like it was a trap. On one side: this was Jason Todd, the man whose posters had adorned her teenage walls, whose career she’d followed with near-religious devotion— offering to teach her something for once. It should’ve been a dream come true. But letting him witness her utter lack of coordination was humiliating enough and accepting his help felt like surrendering the little dignity she had left. Especially considering how insufferably smug he looked seeing her struggle.

For a brief, stubborn moment, she considered refusing. But the ice was unforgiving, her pride bruised but definitely not worth a broken tailbone and his hand looked awfully steady. With a sigh, she placed her hand in his. Perhaps this was karma from the pottery class.

“Don’t you dare let go,” she warned.

Jason’s grin was all teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it doll.”

The scrape of blades against ice filled the quiet rink as Jason guided Y/N in slow, careful circles. Her fingers trembled slightly in his grip - whether from the cold or the unfamiliar intimacy, he couldn’t tell.

“Stop looking at your feet,” Jason chided gently. “Look at me instead. It helps with balance.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked up, meeting his with a mixture of irritation and reluctant trust. The moment their gazes locked, her posture straightened almost imperceptibly.

“See? You’re getting it,” he murmured, unable to resist a small, genuine smile.

“I’m literally just standing here while you do all the work,” Y/N grumbled.

Jason chuckled, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before slowly releasing it. “Alright, try on your own. Just remember - knees bent, weight forward.”

For a glorious three seconds, Y/N glided unaided, her face lighting up with triumph. Then physics intervened. Her arms became frantic windmills, her balance abandoning her in an instant. Jason saw the exact moment panic flooded her wide eyes—the dilation of pupils, the part of lips ready to yelp—before his body moved on instinct honed from years of split-second reactions.

One strong arm banded around her waist, hauling her flush against his chest with enough force to knock the breath from them both. His other hand slapped against the boards to arrest their momentum, the impact vibrating up his arm. But all Jason registered was the feel of Y/N pressed along his entire side—the warmth of her even through layers of clothing, the way her racing heartbeat thudded against his ribs in perfect sync with his own runaway pulse.

Jason had always known Y/N was attractive. Objectively. The way one might note a well-composed photograph or an elegant car design. As a presenter, she fit the expected mold of paddock beauty—polished, camera-ready, the kind of woman sponsors loved to position near their drivers for photo ops.

But this... this was different.

In his years as a champion, Jason had been paraded before countless models and starlets, had endured awkward PR “dates” arranged by the team, had smiled for cameras with women whose names he barely remembered. None of them had ever made him notice how the arena lights caught gold flecks in their eyes. None had hands that fit so perfectly in his, as if engineered by some higher power just for this moment. No one’s cheeks had ever flushed such an enticing pink from cold and exertion, nor had their lips—currently parted in surprise and glistening with whatever gloss she’d applied that morning—ever seemed so impossibly, distractingly soft.

And the scent of her—citrus and something sweet beneath the cold air—wrapped around him more completely than any embrace.

“Maybe... maybe we should call it a night,” Y/N whispered, her breath puffing warm against his neck.

The words were a surrender, but her body told a different story—the way she hadn’t pulled away, how her fingers had fisted in the front of his jacket as if to anchor herself.

Jason blinked, suddenly aware he’d been cataloging her features with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He cleared his throat, carefully putting space between them while keeping a steadying hand at her elbow. The air from the refridgeration systems rushed in to fill the void she left, chilling him instantly.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed, voice rougher than intended. He busied himself with adjusting his gloves, avoiding her gaze. “We can, uh... try again another time.”

The words tasted like a lie. Because what Jason really wanted was to pull her close again, to see if her hair really was as soft as it looked, to discover if her lips tasted as sweet as that damned gloss promised. But that way lay madness—or at the very least, a complication neither of them needed.

In the weeks that followed, something undeniable shifted in Jason Todd’s racing—a transformation that didn’t go unnoticed by the sharp analysts and devoted fans who tracked his every lap. The reckless, almost desperate aggression that had once defined his driving—the “madman” style commentators loved to dramatize—had mellowed into something far more dangerous.

His moves were calculated now, his overtakes executed with surgical patience rather than brute force. Where he once would have forced a risky gap, he now waited, biding his time until the perfect moment presented itself. The result? A steady climb up the championship order that left his rivals scrambling to adjust their strategies.

“What the hell’s gotten into Todd?” became the paddock’s favorite question.

Only Jason knew the answer.

In the quiet hours between races, when the roar of engines faded to memory and the paddock emptied of its usual chaos, Jason found himself reaching for the books Y/N had slipped into his life like secret treasures. Each volume carried her fingerprints—literally, in the smudges on the pages where she’d gripped them too tightly during thrilling passages, and metaphorically, in the notes she’d scribbled in the margins with her characteristic wit and insight.

“While finding new hobbies, it’s important not to lose the old ones,” she’d told him with that knowing smile of hers, pressing another book into his hands after their delightful attempt at Venetian mask-making.

He’d taken her words to heart in a way that surprised even himself. The books became his companions on long flights between races, their pages a refuge when the weight of expectation grew too heavy. He raced through them not just for the stories they held, but for the promise of her next recommendation—the quiet thrill of her commentary when he texted her his thoughts at 2 AM after finishing one. 

What he didn’t tell her—what he couldn’t bring himself to admit—was that he’d commissioned a custom sandalwood bookshelf for his bedroom, its rich grain polished to a warm glow. It stood as a shrine to something that was uniquely theirs’s: the slightly lopsided cup that he made at Nonna Gianna’s, a beer mug from their trappist brewing adventure in Belgium, the framed photo of them covered in cheese curds in Austria, the pressed wildflowers from their trek across the Scottish highlands after his P1 finish in Silverstone. The one that brought him back in contention for the World Championship. It felt like he was building something more than just a collection.

It felt like proof.

Proof that there was a Jason Todd beyond the racetrack. Proof that he could be more than the sum of his scars and his victories.

And it was all because of her.

His phone was a dangerous thing these days.

The gallery, once filled with nothing but race data and engineering schematics, now held a growing album of stolen moments—candid shots of Y/N laughing at a joke he hadn’t meant to be funny, her nose scrunched in that way he’d come to adore. Screenshots of her social media posts and presenter segments saved before he could talk himself out of it. 

It was pathetic, really.

World champion. Three-time title holder. And yet here he was, lurking on her Instagram like some lovestruck fan, his stomach twisting every time she posted something new.

Most of her older posts were about him—race photos, blurry grandstand shots, captions filled with exclamation points and heart emojis. The realization should have been flattering. Instead, it left him unsettled.

Did she still see him that way? As some untouchable idol, a fantasy to be admired from afar?

Or could she want the man behind the helmet—the one who woke up sweating from nightmares, who still caught himself holding his breath when tire smoke curled too thick on race day?

Then there was Danny.

A single photo, buried deep in her feed like a landmine. Y/N pressing a kiss to some grinning bastard’s cheek, her caption cheerful and simple: Happy birthday, loser.

Jason knew Danny. Knew him in the way you only know someone who’s shared both your childhood dreams and their dissolution. They’d started karting together, two scrappy kids with more talent than sense, pushing each other until their tires wore bald and their wrists ached from steering. Danny had been one of the few who could match him turn for turn, whose laughter rang just as loud when they tumbled into the grass after some reckless, glorious overtake.

Jason had assumed they’d climb the ranks together, side by side. But life had other plans—Danny’s family couldn’t sustain the financial hemorrhage of competitive karting and pragmatism won out over passion. While Jason raced forward, Danny stepped back, trading the driver’s seat for textbooks, determined to stay close to the sport in whatever way he could. He still remembered the hollow look in his friend’s eyes the day he packed up his helmet— “Engineering school,”  he’d muttered, “like the old man wants.”  Jason had fought to keep him close, badgering Bruce until Wayne Racing took Danny on as a junior mechanic. They weren’t the brothers-in-arms they’d once been, but the bond remained, worn comfortable with time.

But his closeness to Y/N bothered him. Jason stared until the pixels blurred. He could ask her. Three words —“Who is Danny?” —and he’d have his answer. Who was he to her? A friend? An ex? Worse—a current? 

But the thought of hearing the answer—of watching her face shift in that way when someone mentions a name that matters—left him cold.

Better not to know. Better to—

His phone buzzed, Y/N’s name flashing across the screen like she’d somehow sensed his spiral.

Y/N: It’s a shame the race in Zandvoort is so late. You should see the tulips they have in April.

Jason exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing as he typed back without thinking.

Jason: Yeah well. Next year I’ll take you.

The reply came instantly.

Y/N: Bet. Though the beach there is pretty cool too. The water’s cold this time of year but still warmer than your ice tubs :P And then there are the museums too—a history buff like you would appreciate them.

Jason smiled despite himself, imagining her rolling her eyes as she typed.

Jason: I’ll go wherever the lady takes me.

The words hung in the air between them, heavier than he’d intended. For a long moment, the typing bubbles appeared and disappeared, until finally—

Y/N: Careful, Todd. That almost sounded like a promise. 

“Jason, what do you think?” Bruce’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation in the boardroom. He was seated at the far end of the long, polished table, flanked by executives in tailored suits and their managers poised with styluses over tablets.

Jason blinked, startled. His head snapped up from the phone in his lap, only to find nearly a dozen eyes trained on him. He straightened in his seat, his screen going dark as he shoved the device into his blazer pocket. Of course, he had zoned out—texting during a sponsor meeting was probably frowned upon, but truthfully, Jason didn’t give a damn.

The Wayne Formula One team hardly needed financial backing. Bruce’s wealth alone could fund a fleet of cars and pit crews for the next decade. But apparently, having glossy logos of luxury brands and legacy sponsors plastered across the chassis was “strategic”—whatever that meant. Optics over necessity. It was all part of the game.

“Uh, yeah. It’s… cool, I guess,” Jason mumbled, shrugging one shoulder with disinterest.

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose in silent frustration. But without missing a beat, he turned back to the others and carried on with the presentation.

As the meeting ended and people began shuffling out with polite handshakes and promises to circle back via email, Dick approached him with a concerned look, pulling him gently aside into a quieter corner of the lounge just outside the boardroom.

“Jason, I think you should see this.”

╰┈➤ Masterlist

╰┈➤ Event masterlist Tags: @joekitsu @sophiethewitch1 @hana-no-seiiki @thisisafish123 @ceramic-raven @millyhelp @blamedbisexual @trunkswithlonghair-blog @jasontoddthings @deans-spinster-witch @12134z03 @johnnysilverhandeeznuts @yasmin-oviedo @rosecentury @pierayanna @jinviktor @crybaby-21 @solarrexplosion @sahana28banana @ari-sama21 @princessbl0ss0m @fictionalwhor3 @leeleecats @lalalozer @shkosm @swamiiyasssss @lilyalone @cxcilla @one-pea-in-a-pod-blog @cooki3dough @misaki-kira8 @br0ke-b1tch @cherriespopsicle @lilithskywalker @multifandom-simp @hayleym1234 @sukaretto-n @idontwantthis22 @sarveshishwarishsuta @eclipse-msoul @aaaashiiii

A/n: Ughhhhhh this is what I get for trying to cram what should be a multi-chapter fic into a single one-shot. Tumblr said "bitch i think the fuck not" and slapped a only-1000-blocks-allowed-per-post on my dreams 😭😭😭Anon I'm so sorry it took me so long😔😔 (Tumblr, I beg you—just let me post my novel-length emotional support in peace.) Feel free to send more requests for the event.

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2025

[alltheirdamn]

Rotten | cowboy!joel x f!reader

Part III

Summary: When it rains, it pours. You want to hate Joel so badly, but it’s so hard when he keeps fighting for what he wants. Rating: 18+ MDNI Word Count: 7.6k Warnings: No-Outbreak AU, heavy banter and arguing, brat taming, explicit language, mild violence, kissing (!!!), outdoor sex, fingering, orgasm denial, rough unprotected piv sex, squirting, choking, slapping, creampie, aftercare, a fuck ton of angst, a dash of fluff A/N: if you came for the smut, part 1&2 are always there for your enjoyment...but if you stayed for the angst and the ending they deserved, then this is for you. i'll never shy away from angst and the opportunity to deepen a story past pnp, so if you don't like it pls don't fucking bite it. anyway, a HUGE thank you to @lotusbxtch for helping me work this final part out, you are my partner in crime. and thank you @mermaidgirl30 for always screaming about these two with me <3 xoxo everyone, enjoy Part I & Part II

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Storm clouds brewed above you, their grey formation migrating together until the darkness blanketed the sky. The incoming rainstorm made the cattle restless in the fields, and you were fighting through the whipping wind, trying to wrangle them back into the barn. Usually, you’d let them wander through the fields during calmer storms, but the churning clouds made you nervous for what was to come. 

Mac hesitated beneath you as thunder cracked through the air, the sound rippling through the rolling fields. He bucked against your grip on the reins, timidly backing away from the path you were guiding him on. The cattle were too spread out to control by yourself, but you could handle it. You weren’t raised to back down from a challenge, and that’s all this was—a challenge. The only issue was that there was little room for error before the storm reached its full potential. 

“C’mon, Mac. Y’gotta work with me,” you said, frustrated. 

You steered him toward the right side of the field, using him as a lead for the cattle to follow. It was useless; they only ran in the opposite direction and further away from you. You cursed at the sky, gripping your saddle horn as you leaned into Mac’s neck. The storm would come crashing down soon, and you’d be chasing the cows through the downpour alone. 

“Y’want some help?” Called out a voice in the distance. 

The deep timber of Joel’s voice frightened the herd, making them sprint through the tall grass in every direction. Fuck. You steered Mac around, facing Joel in the direction of him as he barreled toward you on his horse. He had one hand holding the reins, the other holding down his cowboy hat against the wind rushing over his body. 

“Fuckin’ dammit, Joel!” You screamed. “I had it under control!”

You didn’t, but he didn’t need to know that. 

His horse came into a slow trot beside you and Mac, and you whipped your head to the side to glare at him. Under the shadows of the storm clouds, his brown eyes glinted brightly, absorbing every ounce of light left above you in the sky. God, you hated him. You hated his stupid eyes, his smug smirk, and his broad body sitting atop his horse. 

“Lemme help you,” he offered. “Y’can’t get them all wrangled alone. Y’need another horse helpin’ move them.”

“No, I fuckin’ don’t! I can handle it, Joel!”

“Darlin’, I know y’can handle most everythin’, but this storm is gettin’ too crazy to be out here alone. Lemme just help herd them together, then y’can take it from there.”

“Jesus Christ, why can’t y’just leave me alone?” You yelled, exasperated. 

You glanced back at the cows, now several yards away and deeper into the fields than you wanted. Shit, this wasn’t good. Kicking your heels against Mac’s sides, you sent him into a full sprint through the open fields, distancing yourself from Joel and propelling yourself deeper into your endless expanse of land. It didn’t matter if you got caught in the midst of the storm; you just wanted to prove your point. You could do this. You didn’t need help. You didn’t want help. 

Joel called out your name, the sound of his horse galloping behind you growing louder. You pushed yourself harder, forcing Mac to run faster. Lightning struck down into the field miles away, the blinding light causing Mac to rear upwards. You tried to steady yourself in the saddle, swinging the reins to the side to guide him back onto all fours. He only fought against your hold, jerking his head back and forth as he huffed out a loud whine. 

“Mac, calm down!” You begged. 

A hand came beside you, gripping the reins and tugging them firmly to the left. Joel steered Mac beside his horse, taking control and limiting your ability to calm Mac down. You tried yanking the reins from Joel’s large hands, but he only tightened his grip. 

“This isn’t the time to be stubborn,” he barked. “You’re gonna get caught in the storm.”

“I have responsibilities!” You seethed. “I need these damn cows in the barn ‘fore it starts gettin’ bad. I can’t just leave them out here!”

“They’ll be just fine! It’s one storm,” he argued. 

You grasped at the reins, tearing them from his hands. Another ripple of thunder shook the air around you, and you took it as a sign that time was running out. You needed to work against the storm before it was too late. Leaning into Mac, you pushed him into a long gallop toward the herd. You managed to gain the lead around them, zig-zagging Mac until they grouped together. Joel watched from a distance, his horse standing restless in the blowing wind. You were doing this without him, proving you didn’t need help. 

The cows grunted as you urged them into a faster pace, the view of the worn-down barn drifting closer. You were acutely aware of Joel trailing behind you but couldn’t find the energy to care. Let him follow. You’d rip him to shreds when the cattle were safe. Mac continued his waltz back and forth, obeying your commands as you guided him in a rhythm behind the cows. You tuned out the sound of thunder rumbling above you and kept your breathing even as you pushed through the wind tearing at your face. 

“Alright, let’s get y’all inside,” you said, coaxing the cattle through the open barn doors.

They rustled through the hay-covered ground, veering off in different directions. Some went straight for the water basins, while others huddled in dark corners behind the wooden beams creaking above you. You kicked your legs over Mac, sliding to your feet and giving him an appreciative pat against his neck. Softly kissing his jaw, you smoothed down his mane and waded through the cows to check them over. The sounds of hoofs pounding into the barn startled you—and the cows—and you clenched your fists together before turning toward Joel. 

“I told you to leave me alone.”

Dismounting his horse, Joel waltzed his way into the barn, thunder clouds casting dark shadows over his large frame as he walked closer. Under the brim of his cowboy hat, you could see his smug grin and glittering eyes, just watching as you shook with anger.

“All I was tryna do is help,” he explained. “No need to get feisty with me.”

You stepped closer, rage boiling inside your veins. You hated him. You hated the help he offered because he thought you couldn’t do this alone. He thought you were weak—incapable. Well, you weren’t. You were more than capable of handling anything out on your land. That’s what you were raised to do.

“I don’t want your fuckin’ help, Joel. And I don’t want you ‘round here.”

“Why?” He pressed. 

You were toe-to-toe with him, staring up at eyes that looked at you with anything but anger. Where was that menacing look he usually wore? Where was his dominance? Why wasn’t he fighting with you? 

“You piss me off!” you yelled. “You come ��round here ruinin’ my fuckin’ day. You don’t take no for an answer. You don’t let me live.”

“Darlin’, bein’ alone ain’t livin’ at all. Why don’t y’want someone ‘round? Why don’t you want me ‘round?”

His body crowded you, his hands roaming up your arms, squeezing your tense shoulders as you disappeared under his shadow. You shook him off, breezing past him and into the open space outside the barn. You didn’t want to give him the answer; you couldn’t explain it without being vulnerable. And Joel was the very last person you wanted to be vulnerable with. 

“Hey!” Joel hollered. “Would y’come back inside? It ain’t safe out there right now.”

As if to prove his point, lightning struck the fields just a mile away, the instant clap of thunder rattling through the air. Drops of rain began to pelt the dirt around you, misting your hair and face as you glanced up into the sky. You worked at shutting the fences together, ensuring everything was tied down and secure before the storm hit full force. 

Two strong arms braced themselves around your middle, pulling you away from the barn until your boots dragged through the mud. Your house was only feet away, and you knew that’s exactly where Joel intended to take you. Maybe he’d fuck you through the anger like he always did, but not even that sounded appealing right now. You wanted to be alone. 

“Let me fuckin’ go!” You screamed, thrashing against his firm grip. 

“No. I’m sick of this fuckin’ attitude y’always got. Ain’t gonna listen to it anymore.”

You drove an elbow into his stomach, forcing his arms to slip from your torso as he doubled over with a soft oof. You staggered away from him, staring him down through the pelting rain. 

“I want to be alone!” You raged. 

“Why do y’want to be alone so bad? Y’don't have to be alone, you know,” Joel argued. 

He had a hand pressed into his side, no doubt to quell the pain from your jab, and a grimace twisting up his lips. You were soaked from the rain now, your hair matting down onto your forehead and cheeks as you stared at him. Humidity thickened the air around you, leaving you suffocating in your skin. 

“I can take care of myself,” you defended. “I—.”

“I know y’can take care of yourself,” Joel interjected. “You’ve made that perfectly fuckin’ clear! All I’m sayin’ is, what if you didn’t have to?”

“And do what?” You laughed bitterly. “Have you take care of me? In your fuckin’ dreams, Miller.”

Joel dragged a wet hand over his face, his eyelashes weighed down by the heavy droplets. You folded your arms over your chest, your shirt soaked and no doubt see-through. It didn’t matter; too many emotions flooded your mind to even care about your appearance. 

“Y’drive me fuckin’ crazy, y’know that?” Joel cursed. “Always gotta be so fuckin’ stubborn and pissy. I can’t stand it.”

“Then why do y’keep comin’ ‘round?!” You tossed your arms up in defeat, huffing out a cloud of air through the torrents of rain.

“Because!” He shouted.

“Because why?”

“Christ, y’just don’t fuckin’ get it.”

Joel tore his hat off his head, rushing toward you. His strong hands gripped the sides of your face, his nose brushing over yours. With a deep inhale, he crashed his lips against yours, the taste of rainwater and smoke falling onto your tongue. Everything inside your body tensed up, too afraid to cave into his embrace. But Joel held you closer, tangling one hand into your damp hair, coaxing your mouth open wider. His tongue rolled over yours, and a moan slipped from your mouth and into his. He swallowed every tiny noise you made, drinking in your vulnerability as it coated his lips. Every slant of his mouth over yours was a step closer to your undoing; he would ruin you completely if he kept kissing you. 

“Stop,” you mumbled against his lips.

Joel pressed harder against you, his nose smashing into your cheek as he deepened the kiss. He was consuming you from the inside out, sucking out every emotion and bleeding you dry. You sank your teeth into his bottom lip, pulling it hard until he broke away with labored breathing. He brushed a finger over his mouth, finding blood seeping along the surface of his bottom lip. 

“This how y’wanna act?” He questioned, his eyes a swimming pool of onyx. 

There it was. 

Your chest rose and fell as you tried to slow your breathing, watching Joel flex his fingers at his sides. You had torn yourself from his grip and left him empty-handed; if you did it first, then you wouldn’t have to face the pain of losing him. Christ, the realization hit you like a freight train. 

You hated him… you had to hate him. 

You wouldn’t let yourself feel anything else.

“Go home, Joel! I don’t want you!”

“Sure fuckin’ felt like y’did,” he huffed.

Then he was on you, wrangling you down into the mud until you were pinned beneath him. Sloshing against the wet earth, you clawed at his flannel, tearing your nails through the soaked fabric. Joel clamped a hand around your wrist, pinning it above your head as he lowered his face close to yours. Your other hand came up to his face, smearing thick mud over his scruff-covered jaw. Every time he leaned closer, you pushed his face away, distancing yourself from the addiction that beckoned; lips saturated in the rain, soft and inviting…a sweet promise of something you could never have. You wanted him to ruin you like he always did; you needed the pain. You needed the reminder that this was nothing but physical that kept you colliding together. 

“Stop. Fightin’. Me.” He panted.

“No!”

You continued swatting at his face, mud caking into his mustache and over the bridge of his nose. Joel pried your hand from his face, pulling it above your head and clasping your wrists together under one large palm.

“Enough!” He barked. 

 He shredded your wet shirt apart with his free hand, the saturated pieces fraying into the muddy ground. With a snarl off his lips, Joel bent down and ravished your body with open-mouthed kisses, his teeth marring your neck and chest. You arched into his touch, hissing at the pain of each bite into your flesh. 

“Fuck,” you groaned.

This. This is what you wanted. You wouldn’t fight this because this was what you wanted. Right? You mewled as he marked your body, leaving bruised patches of skin in his wake. Pleasure began to pulsate between your legs, a constant ache that only grew stronger the longer you lay beneath him. You needed him inside you—assaulting you with quick thrusts until your brain turned off. 

Joel worked at peeling your pants from your legs, huffing out a frustrated breath as he fought with the denim plastered to your skin by the rain. Maybe you'd laugh at his struggles if you weren’t blinded by so much rage. But you were beyond desperate for release—release from the pleasure boiling under your skin and release from this constant painful ache inside your chest. With your pants and underwear lazily tossed into the puddle of water beside you, Joel smoothed his hands over your curves, his fingers pinching and twisting your pebbled nipples. Every inch of your body was drenched with rain, the droplets pelting your face as you tried to bite back another moan. His fingers roamed down your stomach, slipping easily between your legs and through your silken folds. 

“Please,” you whined. 

It was the first time you willingly begged for anything from Joel. You bit your lips to hold back any more desperate pleas. 

“Look at you, darlin’,” Joel teased. “Finally learned some damn manners.”

“Fuck you,” you snapped. 

You chased his fingers, lifting your hips as he brushed the pad of his thumb over your clit. Everything was so sensitive and heightened that you could hardly blame the rain for your eyes blurring as he drew slow circles over the aching bud. Joel coaxed small noises from your mouth as you writhed against the wet earth. 

“You gonna be good for me, darlin?” Joel asked, his voice lost behind another rumble of thunder.

“Just make me cum,” you bit out. 

“Y’think I’m just gonna give you whatever y’want right now? After the way y’treated me? Nah, I don’t think so.”

His lips twitched into a smug grin, his fingers teasing their way into your slick entrance. Joel paralyzed you with a heavy stare, and you turned your head away, staring off across the field to avoid his eyes. The longer you looked at him, the harder this would be.

He curled two fingers inside you, dragging them over the spongy spot that had your insides rupturing with ecstasy. Every stroke of his fingers was another tug on that pleasure unfurling within your core. Squeezing your eyes shut, you focused on the rhythm of his movements, the quickness of his fingers, the thickness as they stretched you wide.

“Gotta look at me if y’wanna cum,” Joel said, plunging his fingers deeper.

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes tighter. You couldn’t look at him, not right now. 

“Look at me!” Joel demanded.

A sharp sting bolted across your face, sending your eyes flying open. Joel’s eyes were darker than the thunderstorm hanging above your bodies, emotions swirling deep within his irises. You saw it all—the anger, the pain, the need. This is why you didn’t want to look at him; it reflected everything you felt, too. His fingers pinched your chin, holding your face firm within his grip. You had nowhere to go. You were trapped—trapped beneath him, trapped inside yourself. 

Joel worked his fingers harder and faster, pulling cries from your lips until your orgasm skyrocketed through your body. 

“Fuck, Joel!” You cried. 

His jaw twitched as he watched you unravel beneath him. Your core fluttered with phantom ripples of your orgasm, your body unwinding from its tension. You had enough of this—you didn’t want to be under his control. Not when his eyes softened and his body pressed closer to yours. 

“Get off me,” you begged. “Fuck—get off!”

Joel tore his fingers from you, drawing them into his mouth as he cleaned your arousal from his skin. There wasn’t a single ounce of rage radiating off his body, which only angered you more. For how much fight you were putting up against him, he wasn’t giving in like he usually did. 

Frustrated with everything, you shimmied your body far enough upward to twist your hips and swing a leg over his waist. Joel relinquished and allowed you to wrangle him to the ground; your hands splayed over his chest, his shirt soaked beneath your fingers. Joel gazed up at you with hungry eyes while he worked at undoing his belt buckle. Rain pelted his face, washing away the mud as it streaked through his graying curls. Christ, he looked so beautiful beneath you; you would kiss him if you weren’t so fucking scared. But you didn’t want that—at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. Above him, you could hurt him however you wanted; you could torment him until he snapped. 

“This what y’want, darlin’?” Joel asked, breathless. “Y’wanna use me? Go ahead.”

You didn’t want to use him; you wanted him angry enough to snap back into his commanding nature. You wanted him to break you apart. You wanted his handprints seared into your skin and his filthy words in your ear. But he kept staring at you with eyes that could fracture your heart into a million pieces. There wasn’t a hint of darkness in his eyes anymore, all of it replaced by that deep-rooted need you couldn’t stand to look at. 

Joel’s cock throbbed in your hand as you lined it up with your entrance, the velvety skin damp from the rain, sliding into your sex without resistance. You lowered yourself until his length filled you completely, the stretch rendering you speechless. Slowly, you began to grind against him, letting your body move fluidly until you buzzed with newfound pleasure. It coursed through your veins, igniting that fire low in your stomach you so hungered for. 

You rolled your hips faster, leaning into him to thread your hands through his matted curls, your nails digging into his scalp. Joel wouldn’t move with you—he lay there with his hands gripping your waist, letting you take the lead.

“Keep usin’ me, darlin’,” Joel whispered. “I can take it.”

It wasn’t what you wanted to hear. You hoped your nails clawing in his skin would elicit a response…anything. You sped up the tempo, raising yourself along the length of his cock and pushing yourself down. 

“I hate you,” you panted, throwing all your weight into each drop of your hips. “I hate you so fuckin’ much.”

“I know y’do,” Joel said softly.

You dragged your nails down his hair and over the graying patches of hair along his jaw. Dirt collected under your nails as tiny red welts rose to the surface of his skin. Joel wasn’t phased by any of it, not even a grimace of pain when you squeezed your hands around his throat. 

“Hate me back!” You begged.

“No.” 

You choked him harder, throttling him as your sex clenched around his cock. You couldn’t even focus on the pleasure curling inside your stomach, your anger suffocating every sensation in your body. 

“Goddamnit, Joel! Hate me!” 

His tan skin flushed underneath your hands, and your rage took hold of your body as you sent your hand flying across his cheek. Nothing. Not a single reaction from your anger. Joel should have had you on the brink of death at this point after all your yelling and fighting. That’s what he did best—he hurt you until the pain became pleasure, and your control slipped out of reach. But he wasn’t feeding into your pleas. He wasn’t even considering it. That stupid brow furrow softened, his eyes looking at you with a mixture of emotions, none of which you wanted. 

“Fuckin’ hate me!” You screamed. “How much more can I keep hurtin’ you ‘til you hate me back?”

Joel lifted himself up despite your efforts to hold him down. Everything felt electrified with your bodies pressed together, sticky wet skin against wet clothes. Your body pulsed with pleasure…with anger…with everything you wanted to escape. His hands wrapped around your back, guiding you along his cock as you kept your hands squeezing around his throat. 

“But I don’t hate you.” He was soft-spoken as if to coax you out of your aggressive haze.

You dropped your head onto his shoulder, sinking your teeth into his skin as you rocked against his body. Faster and faster, your hips moved, driving his cock deeper inside you; all the while he remained paralyzed against you. Small flexes of his fingers against your skin were all you could feel, and his breathy moans in your ear were enough to drive you mad. Your teeth were bearing down into his shoulder with enough force to draw blood, yet he didn’t move a muscle. 

Releasing your grip, you jerked away from the warmth of his body with a snarl twisting up your lips. Why wasn’t he taking control? You deserved the torture—the complete domination of his body against yours. Why was this time different? Why wouldn’t he give you what you wanted?

“Why won’t you hate me?!” You wailed. “Why won’t you fuck me like y’always do?”

Joel silently watched as you pounded your fists into his muscles over and over again. You could keep hitting him, keep yelling, keep pleading…but what was the use? He wasn’t giving in, and you were growing tired. You were so fucking tired of fighting.

“Is this not enough?” You cried, your voice cracking. “Am I not enough?”

“Oh, darlin’,” Joel sighed.

His breath was hot against your ear, his lips dangerously close to your skin as you continued crying. His cock throbbed inside you, yet your pleasure dissipated. You didn’t want this anymore. You were broken. 

“Why am I not enough?” You whimpered.

Your hands stopped their beating, and you let the emotions you had kept at a distance crash against the surface. Sobs wracked through your body as your head fell into the crook of his neck. Joel’s hands brushed up your back, caressing and holding you close. He buried his face into your hair, one hand tangling in the soaked tendrils, holding you flush to his chest.

“I got you, darlin’. S’alright,” he crooned. 

Your tears bled into his shirt, untraceable within the wet fabric that clung to his strong shoulders. Your body shook with each wave of cries, and Joel just kept holding you, kept shushing you until your sobs turned into whimpers, and you had nothing left. 

You were so scared to lose everything—your land, your generational responsibilities… Joel. Everyone in your life had vanished. All you had left was hundreds of acres of empty land and a hollow chest with a half-broken heart. You could take the pain he gave you because that’s what you deserved. You didn’t deserve this tenderness, not after the way you treated him. Anger and hate were enough for you; it was enough to pacify the ache of wanting more. You weren’t worth more than this. 

“Please, Joel,” you muttered. “Please hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Joel whispered. “I can’t. Y’got yourself under my skin, and I don’t want it any other way.”

“No…don’t do that,” you mumbled. “Don’t say things like that to me.”

“C’mere, lemme look at you.”

Joel pushed your shoulders forward, peeling you away from his chest. You hid your eyes from him, lowering your head and away from his longing stare. 

“Darlin’, look at me,” he coaxed, his fingers brushing under your chin and lifting your face. 

The rain was falling slower now, large droplets smattering against your cheeks and forehead. You tried to avoid his eyes, watching the rain roll down his nose and over his pouty lips. For once, the thought of kissing him didn’t scare you. 

Joel squeezed his fingers around your jaw, softer than you were used to but still effective in getting your attention. Through the tears still blurring your eyes, you gazed into his brown eyes, the softness crashing into yours. With his brows slightly pulled up in concern, Joel exhaled, finally seeing all the broken pieces he held in his arms. 

“You are enough,” he vowed. “Attitude and all, you are enough. If y’wanna hate me, then hate me. Hate me all y’want ’cause I can handle it. Just please don’t hate yourself. I see how scared you are, darlin’. Ain’t got nothin’ to be scared ‘bout with me, ‘kay?”

You nodded solemnly, letting your forehead fall against his. Joel smoothed his hands down your back, slowly guiding your hips up until his cock slipped from you. Your core clenched around nothing, the ripples of your denied orgasm rolling through your body. Fucking out your anger was one thing, but you couldn’t fuck away your feelings. Not anymore. 

“C’mon, darlin’,” Joel urged. 

He lifted you to your feet, following suit and rising from the slippery ground. Bending slightly, Joel curled an arm around your back and the other under your knees, tossing you up and cradling you against his chest. You let your head rest on his shoulder, watching the mud dry on his tan skin. With bleary eyes and a heavy heart, you felt guilty for making him care for you. You were supposed to be good on your own; you were supposed to be independent. You didn’t need taking care of, yet here you were, limp in Joel’s arms and exhausted.

He waded through the muddy puddles around the barn and carried you toward your house. Water dripped down the patchy roof, rattling against the storm drain as it rolled down the side of the walls. The smell of the thunderstorm wafted over Joel’s body, invading your senses with each heavy inhale. He walked up the porch steps cautiously, kicking the door open with the toe of his boot. It didn’t bother you when it smashed against the wall, the wood rattling at the force. 

Still keeping you close to his chest, Joel walked through your tiny farm home, familiarizing himself with the layout until he found the door to your bathroom. Propping it open with his knee, Joel guided you inside, gingerly lowering you to your feet. 

“Let’s get you in the shower, darlin’,” Joel urged. “Needa get y’warmed up.”

“I’m okay,” you croaked, wrapping your arms around your bare chest. 

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, bending his head down to kiss your dirty forehead. 

“Stubborn lil’ thing. C’mon, I’ll join you.”

You glanced around the bathroom, staring at the yellow wallpaper peeling around the crown molding. Time—and weather—had done its damage to your home, but no one ever visited, so you never thought about fixing it. But now Joel was standing there, truly seeing your house and not just focusing on you pinned to the couch, and you were awfully insecure. Every paint-chipped crevice along the wooden walls, every creak in the floorboard, every water stain along the corners of doorways… was just another reminder of how bad you were at existing. Focusing on the land and keeping the animals cared for was easy, but it was hard to care for yourself. You didn’t matter; you never had. 

“Hey.” Joel’s voice was soft in your ear.

You looked back at Joel hesitantly, watching his clothes drop to the floor. Piece by piece, Joel slowly materialized into a reality you hadn’t imagined. Without his cowboy boots or worn flannel, Joel was soft everywhere. His dark chest hair curled around his torso and down his navel, his stomach soft and moldable. His tapered waist looked much better out of his jeans, and his thick thighs were worth spending hours kissing. All his rough edges and calloused skin morphed into something so much more tender and inviting—something you yearned for in unspeakable ways. 

“Do I need to carry you into the shower?” He asked, half teasing.

You didn’t have the energy to laugh, so you only stood silent, waiting for him to run the water until the steam fogged the mirror. Once it ran hot enough, Joel pulled back the curtain and dragged you under the spray of the water. Mud slipped off your skin, swirling down your body in dark rivulets and into the drain. 

Joel’s body pressed against yours, his arms snaking around your waist. You felt his warm lips press into the skin of your neck, trailing further down as you leaned into his touch. The longer you spent in his embrace, the more pliant you became—malleable. 

“Can I help wash you, darlin’?” Joel muttered into your neck.

You wanted to decline to prove you didn’t need help, but Joel was just as stubborn as you. He’d persist, and you were terribly close to hitting your limit on how many times you could tell him no. So, you gave him the tiniest nod and let him steer you under the water. He reached around you to grab the shampoo, pumping enough into his hands to massage over your scalp. The drag of his fingers through your tangled hair was enough to loosen the tension in your muscles. Your eyes fluttered shut, the feeling of his hands on your body the only sensation you could focus on. 

Joel remained silent, moving soapy hands over your body until there wasn’t a speck of dirt left. Eventually, your body hit its limit, and you sagged into his chest, your eyes tired and heavy. He reached over and turned the water off, the immediate chill in the empty air sending shivers down your spine. 

“Stay here,” Joel muttered. “Lemme grab a towel.”

“Y’don’t even know where they are,” you grumbled. 

Joel chuckled, slipping a hand down your chest to hug you closer. His scruff tickled your neck as he nestled into your body, swaying you softly against him. 

“Then show me,” he whispered. “Get me used to this house.”

Tears stung your waterline at hearing his words; he wanted to be here with you. Not just in this moment. He was thinking about the future, and you couldn’t understand why you were worth more than this. 

“They’re up in the cabinet outside the bathroom,” you offered. “Just don’t slip on the tiles, old man.”

“There’s my girl,” he laughed. 

You hid behind the shower curtain, watching Joel’s ass leave the bathroom as he roamed into the hallway. He was only gone a moment, returning with two towels in hand. You couldn’t help but stare at how water clung to his chest hair, curling the brown hair in swirls as they trailed down his stomach. His cock hung low between his thighs, half hard and thick. You still didn’t get your last orgasm, and maybe that was something you could rectify later. Later. 

“Sure starin’ a lot for someone who hates me,” Joel quipped, holding a towel. 

“Shut up, Miller. I can do whatever I want.”

“Don’t I fuckin’ know it,” he smirked. 

You stepped out of the tub, turning around so he could wrap the towel over your shoulders. His arms wound around your body, rubbing the fabric into your skin and drying you off. You twisted the towel over your chest and returned to watching Joel in all his glory. He used his towel to dry his hair, the salt and pepper curls sticking to his forehead. You liked Joel like this—soft and natural. As much as you enjoyed the fire in his eyes and the aggression in his actions, this was something so enticing. Slinging the towel around his waist, Joel beckoned you closer and hauled you into his arms. 

“Wanna get in bed with me?” He asked. 

“Now you’re askin’ permission for things? That’s new,” you scoffed, peering up at him with an eyebrow raised. 

“Alright, have it your way,” he huffed.

Bending down, Joel tossed you over his shoulder, making you squeal as his hands planted themselves on your ass. He waltzed out of the bathroom, hauling you down the hall until he found your bedroom. The overcast sky shadowed your room through the windows, and you were so ready to curl up under the covers and hide away. 

Tossing you onto the comforter, Joel climbed over you, caging you between his arms. You shied away from him as he leaned closer, his face dangerously close to yours. You were unsure if you were ready to kiss him again, though your body thrummed with the aching need to feel his lips against yours. He roamed a hand over your chest, his fingers dancing up the column of your neck as they squeezed softly around your throat. Instinctively, you arched into his touch, relishing the slight dominance back in his movements.

“Y’gonna fight me if I kiss you?” He teased, bending down closer.

“Maybe,” you whispered.

Joel’s lips twitched into a grin as he pressed his body into yours, his mouth a breath away from yours. With a flex of his fingers around your neck, he closed the gap, his lips colliding with yours. It wasn’t frenzied like the first time; his mouth was warm and soft against yours. He moved slowly, letting you adjust to every slant of his mouth, his tongue sliding across your bottom lip. You opened your mouth as an invitation, allowing him to steer this kiss in whatever direction. 

Roaming your hands up the expanse of his muscular arms, you dug your nails into his shoulders, dragging him closer until you were flush with his body. He broke away from your lips, trailing his mouth down the hollow of your neck, sucking marks into your skin. 

“Joel,” you whined.

“Hmm?” He muttered.

“I need—.”

Your begging was cut off short as he pulled down your towel, his mouth suctioning around your pebbled nipple. Your fingers tangled in his wet hair, pulling slightly to guide him off your body. He bit the sensitive bud, rolling your nipple between his teeth. He was relentless, and you found yourself caving into his desires the longer he spent ravishing your body.

“I know y’can be demandin’, darlin’,” Joel said, releasing your nipple from between his teeth. “So, let’s fuckin’ hear it.”

“Fuck me, Joel,” you begged. “Fuck me, and don’t be gentle.”

“Y’like it when I’m rough with you? Y’want me to fuck you into the mattress?” He questioned.

“Christ,” you exhaled. “Please.”

Joel wasted no time tossing his towel across the room and lifting your legs high into the air. You didn’t care that he had you pinned beneath him; you wanted to see his eyes wild with lust while he fucked himself into you. Shuffling his knees up, he maneuvered both of your legs over one shoulder, his hands sliding under your ass and lifting your hips. He slowly eased himself into you, and you let a moan slip from your lips as his cock brushed against your cervix. Yes. This is what you needed.

“S’fuckin’ pretty when you’re stuffed with my cock,” Joel grunted, rocking his hips against yours.

“Mhmm,” you whined. 

You couldn’t formulate a coherent sentence when you were struggling to breathe. You were so fucking full of him, and the angle he had you molded into only shoved his cock further inside you. Joel rutted against you slowly, but each drive of his hips hit hard against yours. You reached for his hand that gripped your calf and pulled it down until it wrapped around your neck.

“Greedy lil’ thing,” he smirked.

Joel flexed his fingers around your throat before fully gripping it, stifling your breathing until your vision darkened. He snapped his hips harder, speeding up his thrusts until your bed frame smacked into the wall. Arousal dripped down the seam of your ass, coating Joel’s cock as it slipped in and out of you. Coils of pleasure twisted inside your stomach, and you let out strangled whimpers as you tried to swallow around his fingers.

“Y’enjoy bein’ fucked like a lil’ slut?”

“Y—yes,” you choked.

“Louder for me. Wanna hear ya’.”

But his grip tightened, cutting off your words as they lodged in your throat. Tears slid down your cheeks as you chased the burning pleasure coursing through your body. The orgasm you lost earlier was surging back to the surface, and you clawed at the feeling as it wracked against your core. Joel could sense it, too, his pace ruthless as he assaulted you with powerful thrusts.

“S’my girl need to cum?”

My girl.

The sentiment alone could have skyrocketed your orgasm to the surface. Joel’s eyes gleamed with pride as he looked down at you, satisfied at your reaction as your lips tipped up into a timid smile. The sound of being his girl didn’t sound so bad…but you’d think about that later. You needed this. 

“Please,” you begged. 

“You gonna be my good girl, darlin’? Gonna make me proud right now?”

Joel unwound his hand from your throat, threading his fingers into your hair. He bent down, forcing you further into the mattress as he captured your lips in a hungry kiss. He leaned in closer, your body nearly folded in half against his, your thighs pressed into his sweat-slick chest as your calves still rested over his shoulder. Every inch of you was covered in him: his musky scent, his smoke-tinged breath, his deep grunts lost inside your mouth. It blanketed over your fears, and you lost yourself in him. He was consuming you from the inside out, and you couldn’t help yourself when you deepened the kiss. 

“C’mon,” Joel urged, his words lost against your mouth. “Make me proud.”

Your orgasm erupted through your body, stare sparkling behind your eyelids as you seized up. Your core fluttered around Joel’s cock, milking him through each ripple of your orgasm as it passed through. 

“That’s my girl,” Joel praised. “Fuckin’ drenchin’ my cock.”

In a blur, Joel had you flipped onto your stomach, his cock vanishing from you for only a moment before he was yanking your hips up high and driving back into you. 

“Fuck!” You cried out, your fingers clawing at the comforter.

“Ain’t stoppin’ yet, darlin’. You’re gonna give me one more.”

You weren’t sure if you had anything left to give, but with Joel ramming into you from behind, you had no choice but to relinquish all control. Slick arousal ran down your thigh as Joel plunged deeper, his cock spearing into you and tearing you apart. 

“Please don’t stop,” you panted. “So close, Joel…I’m so close.”

“I know. I know,” he crooned. “Doin’ so good for me.”

Joel’s fingers dug into your hip bones, anchoring you into the bed. His touch was bruising—brutal. Your head dropped between your shoulders, your tears falling onto the sheets. Euphoria thrummed in your veins, ready to explode at any given moment. The loud echo of Joel’s hips slamming against yours battled against the storm still brewing outside; each thrust its own sound of thunder erupting inside your tiny bedroom. 

Pleasure fractured through you, your skin lit on fire as your orgasm lapped up your spine. You seized around Joel’s cock, arousal gushing from you and coating his length as he slipped in and out of your sex. Joel grunted in satisfaction, pinning your hips to his as he let your orgasm flutter through your body. 

“Fuck yes,” he groaned. “Makin’ such a mess of me, darlin’. Filthy lil’ thing just squirtin’ all over my cock. Y’want my cum deep inside you now? Want me to fill you up, darlin’?”

You nodded vigorously; your mouth opened in a silent plea despite Joel towering over you from behind. He couldn’t see the way you mouthed please, but he felt the desperation in your body as you pressed your hips back against his. Joel took you hard, barreling deeper inside you with each thrust until you felt him shudder with a breathy moan. Your name slipped off his lips as he buried himself to the hilt, his release filling you to the brim. It dripped out the sides, mixing with your arousal as it rolled down your thighs. Christ, you were so fucking full of him in every single way. 

Joel slumped over your body, his mouth warm against your spine as he left small kisses on your skin. You sunk into the bed, your legs giving out beneath you and leaving you exhausted and listless. Time passed slowly, and Joel finally slipped from you and tumbled onto the bed beside you. He quickly pulled you into an embrace, tucking your head under his arm and against his chest. Though your body was still unwinding from the way he fucked you, you felt yourself tensing back up. To feel this close to someone felt foreign and unsure; every fiber of your being fought against this, yet you were too tired to overcome it mentally. Joel’s fingers curled into your waist, digging softly into your skin as if to beckon you closer.

“You doin’ okay, darlin’?” He asked, his voice hoarse and tired.

You buried your head into his chest, refusing to look at him. How could you voice your fears when everything inside his eyes scared you the most? You could run from your feelings, but you could never outrun the softness of his brown eyes.

“I don’t know how to do this, Joel,” you mumbled into his chest.

“Do what?”

“Be with someone,” you confessed. “I don’t know how to be anythin’ other than alone.”

He nudged you softly, trying to coax your eyes to meet his. There was no point in hiding; at this point, you’d lose any battle against him. Lifting your head, you caught a glimpse at his eyes, their soft brown color shaded by clouded a deep sense of concern. 

“Let me show y’what it’s like,” he offered. “Let me care for you the way you deserve.”

“I’m just scared,” you whispered.

“What’re y’scared of?”

Joel raised a brow, the furrow above his nose deepening. He was silently trying to understand your hesitancy, which you appreciated, but it didn’t feel right to be this vulnerable with him. The moment you spilled your heart to him, you’d never have it back. Your walls would be broken down, and you’d have nowhere to run and hide. Sucking in a breath, you allowed the words to tumble out of you. 

“I’m scared that if I let myself fall for you, I’ll lose you like I lost everyone else.”

“Darlin’,” Joel sighed. 

He tilted your chin up, placing a gentle kiss against your trembling lips. 

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere. You showed me how strong y’can be. Now it’s my turn to be strong for you, ‘kay? Can I do that?”

“You aren’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shaking your head.

“How am I supposed to be?” He questioned.

“You shouldn’t be this nice to me. I don’t deserve this after everythin’ I’ve done. I deserve all the mean shit y’been doin’ to me.”

“Why can’t I do both?” He chuckled lightly, squeezing your side. “I can still be mean as long as I get to love you, too.”

You propped your head onto his chest, watching him for any fault in his words. You truly didn’t understand how he could feel all these things for you when you’d been nothing but awful. You pushed him away constantly; you got on his nerves. Why did he want you?

“You love me?” You asked, tears welling in your eyes. 

“Yeah, maybe I do. Got me wrapped ‘round your bratty lil’ finger, darlin’.”

Joel leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. His lips traveled down your damp cheeks until he captured your mouth once again. You slid your hands up his chest, your fingers tugging at the curls at the base of his neck. He pulled you in closer and maneuvered your body over his, your chests pressed together and hearts beating in the same rhythm. 

“This doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop givin’ you hell, Joel,” you smiled, breaking away from his lips. 

“Oh, I’m countin’ on it, darlin’,” he chuckled.

Outside, the storm continued barreling through the fields, the quiet sound of rain tapping against the windows. Joel kept you tangled around his body, his warmth never leaving you as time drifted away. The fear still lingered in the back of your mind, but it wasn’t as powerful anymore. You had your land, you had your responsibilities, and you had your man. 

You could have it all. 

You did have it all.

[specialgradefckr]

Heatwave: Day 6

tw: explicit content. 9k+ words. Satoru/Reader. female!omega!reader, alpha!gojo. mutual pining, light angst, YEARNING, so much yearning, PIV, heat/rut sex, minor breeding kink, choking, reader and gojo are switches, gojo is kind of a masochist. intense bickering. you and gojo are both pathetically whipped and in love, and i do mean pathetic

Prompt: Mating cycles are as violent as they are horny, intent to kill is high.

It took some convincing to get you a position as a teacher at Tokyo Jujutsu High School – plenty of traditional fools in charge who thought omegas were better as childbearers than sorcerers.

But you got there. After ten years teaching in public schools, teaching at Tokyo Jujutsu High was what you'd always wanted: small classes with dedicated students who you could form real bonds with.

As a sorcerer, you had the potential to become a special grade – but your true passion was teaching, and it was a far better use of your talents to help the newest sorcerers improve.

Other teachers weren’t quite as gifted in the art of passing on knowledge. Like the special grade sorcerer no one ever shut up about, Satoru Gojo.

He was seven years younger than you – practically a student himself. But somehow, here he was, a teacher alongside you. Nepotism, maybe, combined with how obviously alpha he was – freakishly tall, well-built, and unnervingly confident, used to getting his way.

You’re not certain of his credentials as a teacher. If he has any at all.

If you were forced to guess, you’d assume Gojo had at least a PhD in pissing you the fuck off.

“Awh, c’mon now,” He’d snickered at your implication. “Like it’s hard?”

You could kill him. Actually, cross that out – you will kill him, just as soon as you’re finished riding his stupid big, fat knot to absolute oblivion.

Alphas, for all their pride, are even dumber and hornier than omegas in heat once their rut kicks into high gear and they lock their knot into someone.

You’ll choke him out then, you plan – if that doesn’t just make him roll all six eyes in exaggerated pleasure.

Gojo’s just that kind of complete and utter brat. Even if he is an alpha.

Constantly stalking you from behind, ready to throw his arms around your shoulders in some lazy half-embrace. Lording his stupid height over you, his seemingly endless youthful energy.

“Hey~” He’d drawl, leaning into you, knowing exactly how much the action exposed his scent, “How’s it going with the students? Teach ‘em any new tricks?”

You weren’t some early-twenties dewy-eyed omega; his scent didn’t have any more effect on you than a nice cologne would have. “Yes, I think today went well. They’re bright kids, I’m proud of them.”

“Oho! We should celebrate your success!” Not pleased with your response, he’d squeezed your shoulders close, enough that you couldn’t walk away. “Drinks on me! Let’s head out~”

“Hitting on older women?” You’d returned, shrugging him off so you could walk away, “What, have you successfully repulsed every potential mate of your own age group? Quite a feat, even for you, Gojo.”

“Awh, don’t be like that. I’m just trying to show my support! I know ladies your age tend to get a lot of flak these days, especially from the higher-ups…”

It had been a pretty low blow from him, considering how much he disliked the higher-ups and tradition as a whole. Looking back, that was probably him getting desperate for some kind of reaction.

Like a fool, you’d given it to him.

Spinning, whipping around to tuck your finger beneath his chin, just tickling at his neck, inches from his scent glands.

“Ladies my age don’t go for boys like you, Satoru-kun,” you purr, snatching his chin and pulling his pretty face closer to yours, “And I’ll have you know, I have no interest one-night stands.”

He grins that awful, gorgeous grin with those pretty sparkling eyes. “Now when did I say I wanted anything like that? You’ve got a dirty mind there. I just wanted to get drinks.”

“When did I say you did?” You hold his gaze like you would the leash of a particularly disobedient dog. “I was just letting you know. But since you just want to get some celebratory drinks, I’ll ask Shoko and Nanami to come along.”

Heh. Transparent disappointment flashes across his face, like he’s bitten into a lemon, but he’s quick to brighten up.

“My mistake, I got a little too excited~” He follows alongside you with his stupidly long stride, hands in his pockets, “I was just soooo~ happy to hear you don’t do one-night stands. I’d get super jealous!”

This he says, right after taunting you for suggesting he wanted one? What a little shit.

“Do you also recall the part where I said I wasn’t interested in little boys?” You mutter, texting Shoko and Nanami about the meetup.

You can still feel his presence behind you. Pheromones drifting through your awareness. Gojo’s got such a weird scent for an alpha. Artificial and sour and sweet. Blue raspberry. Electric, just a whiff of it tingles. You lick your lips.

“Yeah, I heard you. Good to know my darling kohai Nanami is safe from your clutches~” He sings.

Fucking insufferable.

-

The thing about alphas was that they got aggressive when their ruts came around.

From experience you’d known his limitless could be turned on and off at will, and he could allow his scent to drift through it.

Not only was Gojo nearing his rut, he wanted you to know that he was nearing his rut. The air is oozing with his stinging, cloying scent that makes your mouth water. You have to swallow your spit a few times.

So when Gojo insisted that you spar with him, you just knew it was going to fucking suck.

He was going to use it to force unnecessary contact, shove his scent in your face, taunt and tease you while he physically prevented you from leaving.

Then, the million dollar question. Why the fuck did you ever agree to it?

Deep down, you tell yourself it’s to shut his stupid ass up. Because it’ll make for good practice, and that’s not even a lie. Or even just because he’s got a pretty face, and you want eye candy.

You tell yourself it has nothing to do with the heat you know you’re just on the verge of.

Nothing to do with the rut that has him smelling absolutely delectable.

The adrenaline that bursts through your veins as he races towards you is purely from the thrill of combat.

The exhilaration of watching his strike swing through empty air, the slight shock on his face; that’s because you’re proud of your skills.

You’re not panting, teeth bared in an awful grin, arms tightening back to grab him and hold him down, make him yours yours all yours – this is a combat stance.

Not that you wanted to fight him that badly in the first place. Feel his strikes against yours, touch that infinity for yourself. See what he’s offering, that he likes to throw it in your face so much.

It’s not any of that, and you whip out a denial for each thought as it rises like you dodge Gojo’s strikes with increasing desperation. Fast. Fast, so fast, like a blink. Here one moment, there the next.

Focus. On him. White hair, black tracksuit, that little flash of blue you’d see anywhere. You pin your senses on him, on the scent that dances in the air, tempting you. Put every fiber of your being into matching his strikes, which come faster, and faster, until eventually even you can’t dodge them.

White hair. Blue eyes. Pink lips. Pretty, pale face. Pressure down against you, breath, scent, hot in your face. Focus, focus.

Anything to take your attention from the way your thighs want to clench together when he pins you down, nose brushing against yours.

Close enough no infinity could stop you if you wanted to lean forward into the neck showing under his collar and bi-

“You goin’ easy on me?” He practically purrs in your ear. Infuriating.

So you let yourself purr back. Take in his pheromones for just a second, lean into it, relaxing underneath him as you let off an answering scent, laced with the arousal you’re already feeling. Tongue darting between your lips for a moment as you let your eyes linger on his pretty mouth, pretty face.

Gojo’s eyes dilate as your lashes flutter, tilting your lips to –

SLAM

“No,” You sing to his crumpled form, hunched over from the blow to his middle, “I think you’re easy, Gojo. Come back when you’re not a horny little beast about to rut.”

A breathy chuckle comes from him as he situates himself to sit back on his heels, catching his breath.

Unnerving. Everything about this bastard is unnerving. The way he looks up at you, face flushed, grinning with delight – you know for a fact your strike hit hard enough to bruise. Maybe he could heal it, but he was still winded from the impact. It had to hurt, still.

Instead, those too-blue eyes seem to glow at you.

“Easy, huh?” He says, and you pretend he said it to himself. “Actually, I’m pretty hard.”

(You try very hard to pretend you didn’t hear that. To pretend you couldn’t smell it the moment you struck him.)

He licks his lips, taking in a deep breath, like he caught the scent of something he can’t let escape him. Eyes staring after you.

You walk away, before he can catch on to how slick you’ve become, just with this little interaction. What are you, a teenager? Maybe you’re close to your heat, but not that close.

Gojo lets you walk.

You think he knows.

(He definitely knows.)

-

He loves to taunt you. Alphas love posturing, looking for fights, as soon as their ruts come around. But an omega nearing their heat would snap at anything that so much as breathed wrong. Ready to see everything as a threat, demanding and critical even of those closest to them.

Both secondary genders had… attitude problems during their mating cycles that led to them lashing out. But due to stereotypes, alphas were seen as being dominant and argumentative, whereas omegas were seen as…

“Awh, needy, are we? Must be your heat coming up, huh?”

“Still hitting on older women? Your rut must really have you acting like an animal. Why don’t you do us all a favor and find someone to fuck it out with?” God, just talking about it is fucking annoying.

“Not very mature of you to say, ma’am!” The look you gave him must have spoken volumes, because he immediately responded, “It’s okay, I know how it is. You don’t have to be so shy about admitting it! What omega wouldn’t want a strong, handsome alpha like me to take care of them~?”

“Kill yourself.”

Satoru Gojo had pried words from your mouth you would otherwise be horrified by. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

The worst of it was he would try to pamper you, just like he claimed you must have needed.

And the worst of that part was that it fucking worked.

He knew all your favorite drinks, snacks, meals. Had things delivered to your desk when even his own moronic self could understand you did not want to see him – always with traces of his scent lingering on the gift.

Papers to grade? Coffee from your favorite café, just the way you liked it.

Indoor from a long training session? Something iced and fruity to sip on.

Back from a stressful mission? A dessert so delectable you double-check to see if Gojo hadn’t already taken a bite out of it himself.

“A little pick me up after all your hard work~ The students always talk about how much they love you. Trying to steal my thunder, huh? Good job, sensei!”

The words are irrationally pleasing to read. And he smells good, it always smells too fucking good, refreshing at the first hint and then invigorating the next. Sweet and sour, just like the bastard himself.

There’s little bits. A ribbon, a traditional little lunch wrapped in a handkerchief, one time he even just shamelessly sets his coat down next to a drink with another note.

“By the way, my favorite jacket got stained while getting you this. Since it’s your fault, you can dry clean it for me, right? Make sure to give it back, I’d miss it so much!”

Awful. Awful terrible man. Giving you every excuse in the book to hoard his scent and pretend you hadn’t. You could be throwing these away, for all he knows. Out of pure spite.

(He knows. He must know that you can’t throw them away, your instincts scream at you, your heat aches and burns. Each little article you get to squirrel away allows you another night of easier rest. He knows it. You know he does.)

It’s infuriating. It’s absolutely fucking infuriating because you know Gojo doesn’t mean it like that. He’s just using this to get to you. Doesn’t want anything more than to fuck the closest and most convenient hole because his rut is coming up. He isn’t pursuing a relationship with you, this isn’t courting, just teasing.

It’d amuse him, too, after. To tease you about it, probably try some weird shit in the classrooms or on missions – he’s got that air about him. Slutty. Down for anything.

It’s infuriating and it’s fucking hot. And devastating, because you meant it when you said you don’t really do one-night stands.

He’s just so unreasonably pretty that you’d thought about it when you met him. The attraction is there, on both ends, but the more you’ve gotten to know him the more certain you are that it’s a bad idea.

Gojo’s a menace already, and as fun as it was to taunt him, having sex with him would just give him more ammunition. He made everything weird.

All the teasing, the uncomfortable chemistry, the not-courting shit, and you’re in heat. Sure, you’d had casual sex before, but during your heat? Fuck that shit.

Because unfortunately, Gojo is right. You get needy.

Not because you’re an omega. It’s because you’re you.

When you spend your heat with a partner it’s like you can’t stop everything from spilling out.

The desire to know and be known in your entirety. To feel and touch and cherish every inch laid bare, to gift yourself like a sacrament to someone who you know will worship you –

See? Unbearably romantic. And you love it, you eat that shit up. It’s deep in you, a wanting you don’t even wish to deny.

The thought of waking up to an empty bed during your heat drove you mad with loathing and heartbreak. Seeing the person you’d allowed to have you in your heat touching someone else? You’d be out for blood.

Alphas get territorial. If an alpha sees someone with their partner, they’re liable to rip the interloper to shreds.

Omegas get possessive. An omega wouldn’t care about someone coveting what's theirs, but they’ll rip that partner to shreds if they suspect they have eyes for another.

It’s funny, how all that nurturing and devotion can turn so easily into equal parts cruelty and violence. To love deeply is to hate deeply, and adoration is so intrinsic to your being that you can’t help but fall hard whenever desire takes you.

You’re a needy little monster, craving love, gentleness, affection. You wouldn’t survive whatever he did after, you might not even survive baring yourself to him, letting the extent of your desire be known.

Gojo would rip your poor, tender, beating heart from your chest. Chew it up and spit it out like trash.

And he’s so, so pretty, and he smells so good, and you love the excitement of your back and forth – you adore him, this Satoru Gojo. You want him so bad you can taste it. But Gojo doesn’t feel it like you do, like a need deep in his bones that aches all the way to his dreams.

You’re seven years his senior, have no exceptional qualities, and he’s got all the options in the world. Gojo’s still so young. There’s no reason for him to want to be tied to you. If he fantasizes at all, it’s about fucking you, knotting you, not of your teeth on his neck or his own on yours.

And you shouldn’t even entertain the idea of him fantasizing about you. You shouldn’t entertain any of these thoughts, because for all the violence your love can inflict on him, Gojo is the one who would emerge unscathed. You’d be left in tatters, and he wouldn’t even have the decency not to step all over them.

You can’t sleep with him. You’ll die, you’ll surely die, it’ll absolutely feel like you’re dying to see that pretty face smile sarcastically, or sneer and turn away. You’ll awaken without his warmth beside you and it’ll feel like your heart is missing from your chest and you’ll have to be reminded of that every time you see him because you work with that fucking nuisance. At your job.

You can’t do it. You can’t. Off limits, no way.

But you’re (regrettably, unfortunately, miserably) needy when you’re in heat. And Gojo is a horny little beast in his rut.

And he knows, he knows he fucking knows. He’s there whenever you turn a corner, walk up to a vending machine, sit down to grade papers. He’s got that awful million watt smile that lights up his entire stupid pretty face when he flirts with you, trades barbs back and forth.

He’s touchy, too touchy, gets too close. Asks to spar with you again and again until you say yes. Leaves you more treats, more drinks, more little gifts the whole while.

Your hands get dry because your heat wakes you up in the middle of the night, you have to touch yourself constantly. Gojo brings you lotion that smells like raspberries (like him).

You’re not entirely sure he hasn’t fucked around and filled the bottle with lotion that’s also laced with his cum. You use it anyways. His reaction makes it obvious that he can tell you have, and he’s pleased by it.

You hate him. You hate him, and you want him. You want him so fucking bad.

You can’t do this. You can’t do it.

Gojo looks at you like he wants to eat you. Like he’s tracking every little twitch, every movement, like a predator and his prey. Like he’s waiting for you to bolt off so he can give chase.

You can’t do this.

You’re not fucking prey. You’ll bite him back, doesn’t this stupid man know?

And he spars with you again and you’re left breathless from dodging him –

(you refuse to be touched by someone who is himself untouchable)

And he smells so so so good up close when he finally tackles you, seizes you, locks your arms up from behind you –

(you love to be held, you dream of being held, in the depths of your heat it’s not being filled that comforts you it’s the thought of pressure like a vice grasping you so close, unwilling to let go)

And his face is so devastatingly beautiful up close, those terrible, magnificent eyes like a sea of stars, staring at you like he’s enraptured –

(god, he’s so pretty, just looking at him has a little dose of glee shooting through you)

And his lips taste as good as he smells –

(sweet and sour, can it really be that bad if the sting is all washed away with the tingle of sugary, electric tang on your tongue)

And he holds you so so tight so close so warm –

(you’re pulsing, aching, throbbing, and you’re so fucking tired of your own fingers and he’s grinding against you so good)

And then you’re in your room, at your door, inches away from your nest with all the shameful little bits and pieces of his scent you’ve stolen away.

(you can’t do this. this man will kill you. he will be the death of you.)

Teeth on your collarbone, huge hands clawing at your shirt, pulling it up. You look down at him, meet his fevered eyes and lust-filled gaze.

His breaths ghost over the skin he’s left wet with kisses and nips. Hungry, so hungry for you. So pretty. You grasp his pretty face with both hands and pull him up into a kiss that’s more teeth than lips.

(You’ll go out fighting.)

When his tongue darts into your mouth you nearly moan at the taste of him. Gojo groans, and he does it openly, hands wide over your ass and clenching at it. You close your teeth against his tongue, not hard, not biting. Just to feel it. Measuring the give.

Gojo nicks himself on your teeth to pull away, a sparkle in his eyes.

“Knew you wanted me.”  He pants, licking over your lips, “Wanted this. Could smell you.” Lick, lick. “Taste you.”

Fuck. His eyes are wild and eager and you can smell his arousal already dripping free from him. Slotting one of your legs between his lets you press up and confirm his hardness. He moans at it, purposefully loud.

Massive. He’s massive, hard, and aching for you, so much he nearly howls at the pressure. Clawing your clothes off of you. You’re no better, yanking off his jacket, tugging his shirt up – and he lets you – tossing them into your bed.

“Look at you,” Kiss, kiss, he steals the words between presses of his mouth on your skin, like he has to breathe you and not the air, “Look at that sweet little nest. Helped you with it, didn’t I? Aren’t I just the greatest alpha?”

It’s hard, so fucking hard, to ignore how delight laces through your chest at his words. This nest, this place where you’ve languished for too long already in your heat, now an alpha (your alpha) is here and happy to fill it up (fill you up), curl up in it with you.

“You’re talking too much,” is all you dare to let yourself voice.

You seize his pants and underwear by the waistband, dragging them down his hips. Gojo stumbles, undignified, towards you, but even then, he’s tall enough to press you to fall back into the strategic mess of blankets, pillows, and your hoarded pieces of his offerings.

He’s still grinning as he pins you down. Arms on either side of you. Tall, so tall, so much larger than you. Larger than life. Your beautiful, ferocious alpha, all hard and excited just for you.

“Too bad. I love talking.” Gojo’s eyes stay trained on yours as he mouths over a breast, sucking as much of it as he can into his mouth.

“No, really? Would never have guessed.” the grumble escapes you, and he giggles.

He watches you still, tense, and try not to lean into the sensation as he plays at your nipple with his tongue, teeth. Pulls away with a pop.

You hear him kicking off what remains of his clothes, but you can’t bring yourself to look down.

“I can smell your slick from here,” A hand tracing up the inside of your thigh, “Mouthwatering.”

So wet you can almost feel yourself gushing. His hands are inches away from it. Heavy, warm form bearing down on you as he moves to suck at your other breast. Teasing fingers where your leg joins to your body.

“Is that all your mouth’s good for?”

His laughter had been far too mocking to be endearing, just like his grip on your hips had been just a bit tighter than pleasant, his grin wide enough to be smug instead of sweet.

Wretched and traitorous, your heart lurches at his beautiful face, anyways.

“If you wanted me to show you,” Those blue, blue eyes never leave yours as he trails his face down your body, “You could’ve just asked, babe.”

Your hand finds its way into his hair, which is naturally as soft and pleasant to the touch as you’d dreamed it was. You clench tightly and he rumbles in approval.

“Like it rough, do you, omega?” His breathes, right over your drooling cunt. “Me, too.”

“You’d be so fucking hot,” You pant, “If you kept your damn mouth closed.”

When he laughs again, it feels a little better, but he’s always got to dig in. Pressing kisses to your clit that leave you fighting the urge to kick your legs.

“I’m always hot, baby,” God, it feels so sinful, so good, to have his exhalation ghosting over your slickness, “You’re just all antsy ‘cause of your heat. Let me make you cum, calm you down.”

This has the opposite effect of calming you down and he knew it would. Probably expected you to wrap your legs around his waist while he buried his face in your cunt, digging your heels hard into his sides, like spurs.

“Would be the first useful thing your mouth has done all year.” Gojo snickers against you and it’s annoying how good it feels.

And then he closes his lips around your clit, tongue tracing swiftly all over it, and you couldn’t stop squirming if you tried. Can’t stop the noises that come out of your mouth, spilling out, overflowing, like how the slick just pours from your clenching hole.

He fingers into you, two at once, and it’s embarrassing how little you feel it at all. Two, in and out, then a third, stretching inside you. Spreading them apart inside you. Making these awful wet noises – it doesn’t help that Gojo likes to smack his lips while he eats.

“Tasty. So wet. Did you stretch yourself for me?” He asks between laps at your clit, pressing himself closer to you while you whimper and teeter on the edge, “Got some knot toys to prep?”

“Fuck – Gojo!” Even when you’re trying to snap at him, he makes it fucking impossible, suckling at your clit before you can get the words out.

You cum with a light, airy cry. Short, shallow gasps as your other hand darts down to grasp his shoulder. Clinging.

“I will, I will,” Gojo takes a deep breath, over the wetness of you, making you shiver.

Eyes like blue flame look up at you. Sinful tongue hanging out of his mouth like a dog. Licking sticky lips. “Must’ve been hard, all that time you spent waiting. Don’t you worry, I’ve got a nice big knot ready just for you.”

And god, it’s fucking terrible, how you have to suppress a shiver of delight at his words, as he crawls up your body to be eye-level with you. His cock rubs along your sex, wetting itself so easily it should be embarrassing.

It is big. It’s so big and the knot swelling at the base of it is even better, thick and pulsing and throbbing.

Your stupid horny omega brain wails at the prospect of finally, finally being filled up by something hot and pulsing and living. Strong enough to hold you down and breed you. He’d give you the prettiest kids.

Oh god, oh fuck. Omega brain is seizing the steering wheel right now and you’re fucking terrified of where it’ll take you. You have no idea what you’re going to do when he knots you.

And he WILL fucking knot you if you have to mount and ride him yourself.

He’s grinning. Your instinct screams at you to bite. “I could smell it on you just now, you know. You want me to knot you soooo bad.”

You return his smile with bared teeth, “You want to knot me so bad, Gojo.” You’re still oversensitive when you grind your cunt against him but it’s worth it to see his stupid jaw drop open, “It makes you look fucking stupid.”

Pretty, pretty. He’s so pretty you could cry, and his cock is twitching against you, wet and burning and ready.

“Shut up,” Gojo breathes, close enough for you to smell his tingling scent on his breath, “And take it.”

A snarl builds in your throat, climbs on your lips – only to be knocked away thoroughly by the feeling of his fat head nudging, hot and swollen at your entrance. You’re so slick it feels almost gummy against you.

He drives himself in and you bite back a scream. Instead you let your hands claw down his back, and when they’re far enough down you just reach up to his shoulders again and dig your nails in harder.

The scrape at your fingertips, the way the smooth flesh of his back yields to yours – rough and savage enough to leave his eyes wide and gleaming.

His cock driving into you is like velvet, warm and wet and welcoming, filling an ache that makes you want to cry out.

There’s a stretch, because he’s big, of course he’s fucking huge but it’s the delicious type of stretch, a tight pinch that makes you shudder and clench and pull a moan or two out of him in return.

“See?” He nips at the underside of your jaw. Close, too close, inches away from your scenting glands, licking like he wants a taste, “Just needed some cock to calm you down. Poor – poor little omega, your heat must have been really bad, huh?”

You want to kill him. You want him to fill you up up UP more and more of his cock drives into you, it’s like it’s fucking endless, his knot urges forward at your entrance and the stretch –

“This – hhgh – coming from the beast in rut,” You snarl through strangled moans, “Who’s been throwing himself at me like an animal?”

Your hand in his hair trails down, over the back of his neck, and his whole body jerks at the touch. You’re no better, straining beneath him, talking out loud so you don’t lose your mind as his knot slides home.

“Did you think of me while you fucked your hand, Gojo?”  Dangerous territory. Dangerous thoughts. “Did you think about what I’d do to you? About me putting you on your ass while sparring because my scent turned you into a slut?”

He groans, long and laborious. You feel his knot lock in, his head thrown back (neck bared, pretty, pale, so empty and open) as he whines out his release.

It spurts inside you, hot and swelling and heady enough to bring you to a second release as his pelvis grinds against your clit.

“So what if I did?” There’s a challenge in his eyes, bright and sky blue and heart-rendingly beautiful in his blissed out state.

Something churns in your chest, something feral and wanting and you should know better but you can’t stop it now –

“Always think of me,” the demand leaves your lips before you can think of it, “You’ll always think of me when you touch yourself now, Gojo, you won’t be able to cum without it.” Before you know it, you’re purring, both from the afterglow and the words you’ve spoken with such misplaced confidence.

He thrusts lightly into you, a short useless movement which just makes you both more aware of his fat, swollen knot as it pumps his cum into you. Gojo purrs back at you, a warm rumble you can feel all throughout his form pressed against yours. His face against your chest, rubbing it – scenting you.

Your arms curl around him. Hold him close. “Never think of anyone else. Only me.”

The only response is louder purring. It’s painfully pleasant, comfortable, with the length of him pressed against you, his knot buried inside of you.

His eyes are half-lidded, dragging his parted lips over your skin. It’s too lazy and slow to be called a kiss, but the intimacy of It burns a trail across your skin. He licks at your neck in broad strokes and you mindlessly loll your head to the side, baring it for him.

Both of you content in the silence, sated by your climaxes. The first of many. A lull where you lie locked together so perfectly, enjoying the sinful trickles of his cum filling you up while his knot slowly deflates.

Naturally, Gojo can only let a good thing last so long.

“Never think of anyone else, huh?” His voice is unbearably smug, and smooth, and all things lovely. “Possessive and needy. What were you going to do if I hadn’t pounced on you?”

It takes you a moment to respond, disgruntled, “Next time you made an ass of yourself while sparring I would’ve just bitten you.”

A laugh; breathless and light. “I thought you didn’t like younger men?”

“A knot is a knot.” You clench around him a bit, just to drive your point home. It makes him spurt a little more into you, scalding hot. He hisses, face flushing.

He’s pretty like this. Then again, he’s always pretty.

“Yeah?” He leans in with glittering eyes, already recovered. “Bet you like my knot best. Bet you won’t want any other after this.”

You already don’t. You love the feel of him inside you, how he fits like a glove, how his knot fills you to bursting. It’s still inside you and you already want to feel it again. You already want him to be yours. All yours, only yours and yours forever.

But this is your asshole coworker who bickers with you, not your fucking boyfriend.

“I want another alpharight now,” You roll your eyes, like saying it would make it real, “A quieter one.”

“Heh.” His smile is as loud as his eyes. “No, you don’t. You wouldn’t let me so much as lick you if you weren’t already thirsting your brains out for me.”

God, are you that transparent? Or can he see through lies with the six eyes, too?

You push yourself upwards – not easy because Gojo’s laid his uselessly long torso against your chest – and the knot’s still mostly lodged in you but there’s enough give for you to push him back until you’re sitting on his lap.

Gojo is leaned against you, resting his body weight against you as he purrs like a careless, cuddly cat.

He doesn’t even flinch when you cup his face between your hands. Lazy, relaxed, content inside you.

“You have a lot of cheek for a brat who got hard after I knocked the wind out of him.” You tilt your head to the side. “Or maybe that’s what you’re hoping for on round two?”

And oh god. This guy can’t be for real. His knot has barely gone down enough to pull out and you feel him twitch inside you, hardening again. You pull him out with a twist of your hips and he actually whines.

He licks his lips. “What do you think?”

His cock flops against you again, hard, ready to go. You let out an incredulous laugh. “I called you a horny beast, I didn’t think you were actually some kind of – breeding whore.”

“Mmmh,” Large hands dart to hold your ass, pulling you closer, “Maybe I am. You’ll let me fuck you, though, so I must be doing something right.”

As dirty talk goes, you could do way better. But it looks like Gojo is just that easy – his scent deepens with excitement, electric on your tongue.

Mouthwatering. Stinging. It reaches deeper into you than you’d like, pulls out an answering tug of longing that spills over your lips before you can stop it.

Hands on his shoulders, over those pretty collarbones, shoving him back. It’s so easy; he falls back for you without resistance. Staring up at you through lowered lashes like an actual seductress.

Satoru Gojo is heartrendingly beautiful, above you or beneath you. It drives you mad.

“Tell me,” You want you want you want, “Tell me how badly you want to fuck me.” Tell me you want me. Tell me you love me. Tell me you’re mine and you’ll never be anyone else’s.

“You said it yourself,” Gojo breathes, “I’m a whore, yeah? A beast in rut, throwing myself at you.”

“Why me?” Tell me I’m the only one who could ever satisfy you. He might be a dumb horny whore of an alpha, but your omega brain is equally delirious for feeding into this delusion. Tell me you want me. Tell me you love me.

His smile is lazy, eyes glimmering, and you get a terrible intuition that he knows exactly what you’re asking, exactly what you want. And he’s not going to give it to you.

“Knew you could keep up.” He answers with a distinct ring of mockery. Fucking brat.

Wrong answer. Wrong. Answer.

Your hands jump to his throat. Squeezing instinctively. Like you can rip the words out of him, the voice that lights every fiber of your being on fire, in all the worst ways. And his neck feels so perfect under your hands. Like it was always meant to be there.

"Wanna bite?" He mouths, somehow smirking at you before his mouth drops into an "O" – you’re grinding against him, hard and careless of his overstimulation.

Those pretty blue irises shrink and dilate wide, shimmering with tears. His face is so pale, lashes such a pretty white that the red on his cheeks stands out all the more painfully. A moan of pleasure ripples under your fingertips, squandered in your grasp.

God, he really is a whore, isn’t he? So eager in front of you, dick out, lashes fluttering, throwing himself at you. Teasing you with his scent, his little gifts. Letting you see him like this. How could he let you see him like this, if he didn’t want to be yours?

Would he be so pathetic and needy for anyone? It sends rage through you, white-hot and yearning. All you can see is him, him, Gojo in all his debauched glory beneath you.

Ruin him. Ruin him for anyone else. Yours, yours, all yours. So much that he can never think of anyone else, like you can only think of him.

You squeeze harder, like you can pull his treacherous, perfect voice out if you can just press hard enough into his singing pulse. Close, close, so fucking close, the pull inside you draws you over his cock, up and down, rubbing against your throbbing clit.

His cock twitches in time with it as you grind away. Blood rushing in your ears, pounding. You’re close. He’s close. He’s going to cum. He’s going to cum outside of you.

Just as Gojo’s eyes squeeze shut, his cock jumping against you – you pull your cunt off, leaving no more stimulation. You don’t release your hold on his throat, hips guided purely by instinct, slotting him against your entrance.

“Don’t you dare,” You hiss, feeling his pulse flutter, “You don’t cum unless you’re inside me. Never.”

Eyes shooting wide to look up at you. His lips part, desperate, passionate, heavy with words that he doesn’t have the air for.

You don’t want to hear it. He’s said enough.

You ride him like you hate him - to be fair, you kind of do.

Slamming down on his dick, just short of his knot. Hunched over him so you can still choke him while you fuck him, see his stupid face contort in shock and bliss as his cock is suddenly enveloped.

His sweet-sour scent practically stings your tongue, heavy with arousal, with lust, with want –

He fills you up so fucking good, he’s infuriating, he’s huge, he’s perfect and why isn’t he yours? Everything inside you screams and all you know is the stretch in your core, the burning need.

So close so close you're almost THERE –

Panting, gasping, you bear yourself down on his knot with a wail, squeezing his neck like a stress toy. It makes him pulse and throb inside you.

Fuck fuck FUCK -

The STRETCH, it fucking burns, Gojo is writhing underneath you. It's like he's bigger than he was last time.

His hands aren’t at his throat but on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, adding to all the weight that pulls you against him. Tight, hot, so, so fucking big.

“My knot,” You pant, half-feral with desire, “This is my fucking knot, Gojo, my dick, you don't put this in anyone else, do you hear me, ALPHA?"

There’s a rumble in his neck where he might be trying to answer you, but you ignore it in favor of bearing down on him. It's like all your breath leaves you in one big gasp, a whine escaping you as you finally pop the knot in.

You squeeze yourself, impossible, tight, feeling your whole cunt scream with the effort, the delicious stretch of a muscle pushed to its limit. You have him, you have him, you have him in you, all yours. Your core finally surges towards release at the feeling of being filled.

And then you look down at what you’ve captured, your alpha, teary-eyed, red-faced, eyes glazed over in bliss as his lips part to take a breath he can’t manage.

Cock burning inside you, hips bucking up, hands clutching you like a lifeline. Hands so uselessly large that his thumb can reach to roll over your clit.

All at once, you let go. Climax overwhelming you both, his first gasping breath painted with the sudden release.

You want to see his face while you do it, collapsing forward as your breath is stolen from you in waves of white-hot pleasure. Gojo lets out a high pitched noise that he probably shouldn’t be capable of, choking, crying.

“F-fuck,” He half-chokes, half-sobs, racing to clutch you to his chest.

You’ve never seen him so uncomposed, so helpless, your name on his lips, the six eyes blown wide and unseeing. Heat floods your insides as he releases, knot swelling impossibly larger. A squeak escapes you, and you press the side of your face into his toned chest as he holds you close.

You’re smaller than him – most people would be. It’s funny, feeling smaller in his arms. All the fight and fervor trickles away, slowly, like it’s making room for his cum.

Something terribly dark and feral inside you wants to rut against him and make him whimper more, now that he could hear it, but you don’t have the strength.

“Surprised you didn’t bite me,” He muses while he traces mindless patterns over your bare back.

“For what conceivable reason would I have bitten you during that?” His chest is warm, so warm. You’re not paying much attention to what you’re saying, just lazily snapping back at him for stating the obvious. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I literally choked you.”

“Hell yeah you did.” He rubs his cheek against your hair. “It was super hot. Do it again.”

Idiot. You try to ignore the hunger his words ignite inside you, the stupid glee you get from the thought that he likes it just as much as you do. “What, do you want me to bite you?”

“As hot as it would have been to see you take what you want,” God, his grin is just so annoying, and it makes your heart skip a beat, to see that fire in his eyes, “You’d probably feel all bad about it later or some crap. Like you trapped me or something. Which would be super hot, by the way. You have my permission to trap me at any time, especially if I’m sticking my dick in you.”

“Well, now I don’t want you at all,” You lie, blatantly, like a liar.

Satoru snickers, which really isn’t good for your heart. “What, because I’m such a kinky whore, you think I’ve been all used up already? Should I give myself some bruises and hickey sometime to really sell the fantasy?”

That gets an eye roll. “I didn’t degrade you enough while we were fucking, is that it? Had to pick up some slack yourself?”

“Heheh. You sure liked calling me a whore and a slut.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you, “What can I say, I’m just that good a lay. Always give the lady what she wants.”

“Sure.” And yet you still don’t have what you want from him.

“You’re the only person I’ve fucked like this, you know.” He says, more softly than he should.

It’s just so unfair. How he makes your heart stumble. How his little admission sends a trill of hope through you.

“Fucked how? During your rut?” He didn’t seem like the type to grin and bear the suffering.

“You know,” He shuffles again, “Like this. For fun.”

“What, I’m the only person you’ve let call you a whore? Choke you? Be more specific, Gojo,” The name tastes bitter in your mouth, “All the other times you just had to lie back and think of England?”

“Well, you’re the first person who’s fucked me that also called me Gojo, for one.”

He really has to ruin everything. “Just shut up. Nothing you say makes me feel better.”

Arms wrap tighter around your waist. “I mean it, though. I was looking forward to this. I never look forward to it. Letting down my technique, fucking some omega until I knotted them.”

You want to bite him, take a chunk out. Pull his hair and rip some of it out of his stupid empty skull. “Gojo –”

“No, listen.” And that’s a tone you haven’t heard before – low, commanding, an alpha’s demand. He hadn’t spoken to you like that once.

“I used to hate it, dread it. The long wait for my knot to go down before I could finally just leave and put everything back up again. Being stuck with some stranger in such an intimate position, feeling them touch me, it was the worst. The absolute fucking worst.”

He nuzzles his head into your neck, like he’s basking in your scent. “This, though? This is the best. I want to do this for every rut, forever.”

Another skipped beat, and that’s it. Your foolish, graceless heart can only drag you through so much humiliation and pining before you rip it out and stomp on it yourself.

“So what?” You lower your voice in return, hard and cutting, “Who says I want to spend all your ruts with you, Gojo?”

“Thought you didn’t do one-night stands.” He smirks at you. You want to punch him.

“What did you think this was?” Did he think you were pining for a relationship while he was just fucking it out? Sure, you were pathetic enough to want it, but you weren’t pathetic enough to expect it. Not on your fucking life.

But then.

There’s the answer, the “A public service for needy omegas~” or some other witty retort. You can already hear his voice ringing in your ears, playful and taunting.

But the sound doesn’t come. Nothing comes at all. Complete silence.

Gojo’s lean, muscled form has stiffened, now rigid against you where it had been relaxed. You can feel his hesitance rippling through the air. His scent is more sour than sweet. Spoiled.

“I thought… you wanted me.” You’ve never heard him sound so uncertain, so afraid. You’ve never heard Gojo sound afraid, period. “I was courting you, and you accepted my gifts, so I – ”

“When were you courting me?” You snap, even though you make the connection instantly. He had given you gifts. He’d spend time with you, given you something with his scent. Paid attention to your needs.

“This whole time?” He sounds like he’s starting to panic, now, “What did you think was happening? We’ve been flirting literally since the day I met you! I might not be the most traditional guy, but I got the important parts down!”

It doesn’t sound real, for Gojo to be freaking out like this. He turns you around so you can see his blue eyes, wide and wild with frustration, “Why did you think I gave you things with my scent and spent every spare hour in close quarters with you?”

“Because they were always accompanied with snarky remarks? Because you taunt me at every opportunity?” You say it straight to his face. “We literally insult each other every time we meet.”

“You like it, you tease me back!” He grouses, “You’re super into that, you fucked me anyways!”

“Yeah. I thought that was all you wanted.” You swallow. “You’re supposed to ask someone to court them, Gojo.”

“Of course you wanted me to court you. You seduced me when I pinned you down and then knocked me on my ass!”

You’re upset with him and all, but he’s just got this infuriating ability to make you laugh no matter what. “Most people would take that as a no.”

He’s smiling back. Beaming. His scent is clean, like just hearing you laugh made it all better, “But your answer isn’t a no. You li~ke~ me.”

“Not so much right now.” You look away. “So, what? I’m just a fool for not knowing what you wanted, when you never even told me?”

“I thought it was obvious.” You can hear the frown in his voice. “You’re a pretty proud person. What did you think I was doing when I gave you all those gifts?”

“You literally told me I was being needy. I figured you were mocking me.”

“But then why did you accept them?” His tone, laced with something awful in his scent, brings your gaze back to his face.

He looks kind of… heartbroken.

You can’t look at him long. “Because… I am needy.”

His arms reach up from your waist, cradling your back, pulling you against him. Chin tucked where your shoulder meets your neck. Face buried in your scent glands, just where he’d put a bite. If he – if he wanted you.

“When you finally admitted it, I thought I’d feel glad.” He sounds like he’s complaining, but your neck is wet. “You just have to steal away all my victories, huh? Can’t even let me win this one.”

Why is he acting so pathetic, like a wounded puppy, when you’re the one who admitted to being down so bad you’d accept even mockery from the person you wanted to get with?

And then he sniffles, like some teenage girl who just got dumped. “I thought you knew I liked you. I thought we were having fun. Teasing each other.”

“It was fun, that’s why I did it. I just…” You swallow. “I didn’t think it would mean anything more for you. You know by now that I – I like you a lot. Way more than normal. There is nothing normal about how much I want you. I didn’t think you wanted me the same way.”

“That’s literally the worst thing I’ve ever heard. You didn’t know I wanted you back?” There’s more wetness on your neck, but this is warm. The familiar touch of his tongue dragging over your scent glands.

Gojo takes a shuddering breath, and it occurs to you that he must be taking in your scent. “How could you even think that?”

“Why are you so upset?” His whining brings you back to life, just a little. Enough to be angry. “For – for fuck’s sake already, Gojo. Say it in as many words. I told you, the whole reason I thought so was because you never told me what you meant outright.”

Another sniffle. “You’re so mean. You know what courting is. You just like bullying me.”

His sniveling revitalizes you further. It’s easier, knowing he can be pitiful for you, too. “Say it, Gojo, or you’ll be just another notch in my belt.”

“And call me Satoru! How are we supposed to date if you don’t even call me by name?!”

“We’re not dating. Say it, say it right now,” You’re getting sick of his crap, “Or I will rip your dick off.”

You can hear it, again. Is that a promise? Just wait until I’m hard to do it.

And you can see it, actually, how it physically pains him not to say it.

Gojo says your full name, out loud, and you’re helpless at the sound. “I have romantic feelings for you. I would like to court you with the intention of marriage. Mating. Whatever.”

He just can’t let you win one, can he? And yet, you’ve never heard a better sound. It feels like a massive burden has been lifted from your shoulders. Your chest.

“Two full sentences of formality,” You muse, “Impressive.”

“Right?” He preens, “Lots of things about me are impressive. You’ll see while we’re courting.”

“You never fail to impress me with how much of a dumbass you can be, Gojo.”

“Satoru. And that’s not a yes. Hurry up and say yes! I know you wanted to bite me back there, you’re totally crappy at hiding it.”

You sigh. “I did. But you didn’t want to bite me, did you?”

A pause. You’re suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close his face is to your neck.

“I always want to bite you. Ever since I met you. Smelled you.” His tongue runs along your throat, so hot it almost feels like it burns. “You can’t tell because you’ve never seen a version of me that doesn’t want to sink my teeth into your neck.”

You swallow, and he purrs, kissing over your pulse.

“It’s okay, though. I can be generous.” And his voice is back to being annoying again. “Even when you’re so demanding. I can only jerk off to you, I can only stick my dick in you – gosh, you said not to cum unless I was inside you, right? You really signed yourself up for – ”

“Oh, fuck off, Gojo – ” You interrupt yourself, “ – Satoru. Are you sure you want to… I mean. I’m older than you, you know? By a lot. I don’t have some kind of pedigree, and – well, I mean. You know.”

You flush despite yourself, “I’m… demanding, I guess. I like to bully you, if you want put it that way.” He laughs. “I’m sure you have better prospects.”  

“Yeah,” A hand reaches up to stroke your hair. He pulls you so your face is pressed into his chest, so you can hear him purr for you. Loudly, now. “That’s why I’m courting you, first. Until you’re sure you’re my best prospect. Then I’ll mark you. Then you can mark me, and not even feel a little bit bad about it, after.”

It’s scary, you think, as the darkness creeps into your vision – just how accurate his prediction of you was. “You don’t think I’m… too needy?”

“I love that you’re too needy.” A kiss to the top of your head, “You look at me like I’m the thing you want the most you want in the whole world. Makes me crazy, how much you want me. I want you to bite me. Eat me whole. I want to open up my chest and shove you inside.”

A breath leaves you, mostly because he’s holding you too tightly. Just tight enough. “So you like that I’m obsessed with you. But do you like me?”

“Yeah,” He sighs, rubbing his cheek into your hair affectionately, “So much it’s kind of scary. You’re all I can think about most of the time. I would look forward to slipping you a little present all day. Then I’d get hard after watching you open it, and I’d have to rub one out. You have no idea how happy it makes me, just being near you.”

You’re quiet for a bit. All you can hear is his gentle purring, rumbling through his body and yours.

One of your hands finds one of his. “…you’ll be mine? My one and only? You won’t ever want anyone else?”

He squeezes. “Just you. You should be more worried about becoming my one and only. If I can’t jerk off or fuck anyone else, that’s all gonna be on you, baby.”

“I’m not particularly worried,” You yawn, “If you get to be too much, I’ll just choke you out again or something.”

You feel him start to twitch inside you, knot still stuck in your entrance – no way. He can’t be hard this soon, not when he hasn’t even finished –

“Hehe. Shouldn’t have said that unless you wanted to go again~!”

“Satoru!!”

[controld3vil]

SO PROUD OF YOU

pairing: sinister invincible x gn!villain!reader

synopsis: You had reasons for everything you did. Letting Mark was one of them.

notes -> the finale was crazyyy reader has invisibility powers and can create force fields cw: canon typical violence, exes to enemies trope, angst, post-break-up, foreshadowing (if you caught it)

The first realization that the world may never get better came when you witnessed the brutal fight between Mark and his father, Omni-Man. You had been a superhero for as long as you could remember, once standing side by side with Mark before he became Invincible. You knew him before he was the symbol of hope the world would come to depend on. He had always admired you, and you believed that you would make the world a better place with him by your side. 

But that all changed when Invincible fought against Omni-Man in a violent and brutal battle that left cities in ruins and innocent lives lost in the crossfire. You watched as the father and son clashed, unable to reconcile their differences and the destruction that followed fell personal.

It wasn’t just that fight that shook you though – it was Mark’s unwillingness to take the hard, necessary steps to protect Earth from those who would harm it. You found yourself growing more and more frustrated with his hesitation, his refusal to do what was necessary. You had always believed in his potential to be the hero that the world needed, but after everything that happened, you started to wonder if that potential was holding him back. 

It all came to a head one day when you confronted Mark after another failed attempt to stop a threat – Angstrom Levy. The villain had managed to escape yet again after Mark had spared his life in a moment of mercy. The destruction and chaos Levy had caused was like an endless cycle and Mark’s reluctance to finish it once and for all fueled your frustrations. 

“Mark, why didn’t you just finish it? Angstrom Levy – he’s gone again, and you’ve given him the chance to hurt more people, maybe even your family. You had him! You had the chance to stop everything and you just let him!” You voiced, frustrated. 

Mark shakes his head, trying to explain. “I couldn’t. He’s not like… I can’t just kill someone in cold blood, even if he’s a threat. I don’t want to be that kind of person.”

Your eyes narrowed down at him, a bitter tone escaping your mouth. “And what about all the people he’s hurt? What about the families he destroyed? What about all the lives he’s endangered? You don’t think your mercy is just another way of allowing people to get hurt?” These bitter and gnawing thoughts pile up from your subconscious as you step forward. “You can’t keep fighting with this idea that everyone can change. Some people don’t deserve a second chance.”

He looks at you and looks away hesitantly. “I... I don’t want to be like my dad.”

“Look around, Mark. The world is falling apart, and you’re trying to hold onto this.. this naive idea that mercy will fix everything. Wait until another intergalactic being invades Earth, and then what?” You scoff, with a bitter laugh, offended by his reasoning. “The only way for us to survive is to take matters into our own hands. And if killing those who deserved it to keep us safe, then it’s worth it.” 

Mark’s eyes open wide, voice trembling in disbelief. “Wait.. what? No… no, why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true and you know it!” You raised your hands, frustrated. “You can’t save everyone, Mark. It’s not until Angstrom comes back with more little tricks up his sleeve and then? More lives will be gone, cities, towns, more people will die.”

“You can’t be serious.” 

“I am. And the sooner you understand this, the sooner you’ll realize how all of your failures to finish the job cost lives.” Your eyes are hardening, voice is absolutely in every fiber of your body. Having known each other for a long time, you rarely argued with Mark. But this was one of the very few instances where it was needed. Mark’s world has been the same since he got his powers. He still couldn’t grasp the consequences of his actions. Every time he wanted to negotiate with a villain or talk it out was a waste of time. 

“I thought you were better than this, Mark.” You stared at him in disbelief. “I can’t– We can’t do this anymore.”

“No– no.” He gripped both of your hands, terrified of the thought of you leaving – giving up on him. “You can’t just give up on us.”

“Why can’t I?” You snapped. “Mark… I don’t want to argue with you every time I see you. This isn’t healthy.”

“Oh really? Says the person who made a deal with The Order!” You thrashed your arms away from Mark, knowing he would bring it up sooner or later.

“At least they understand–”

“Oh, I understand.” You can feel his intense stare at the back of your head, hoping – pleading with you to turn around to see the truth. “You’d rather get involved with criminals than help me fight whatever alien or extraterrestrial creature that is trying to invade Earth!”

No words were spoken from either of you. It felt as though all of the frustrations the two of you built between one another had spilled out into the room. The tension lingers, and you hold onto it like a buoy to a ship in a stranded sea. 

“This is never going to end, Mark.” You whispered, picking up his exhausted sigh from all the shit you’ve pulled. “What I’m doing with The Order has done more good than GDA in the last month. Face it, we’re never going to work.” When you finally turn to look at him, the first reaction you felt was sorrow. Because Mark looks distraught and almost willing to give everything up. He’s always had a strong heart but seeing him so broken and emotional, all because of you was enough to break your heart into a million pieces. 

Both of your hands cupped his face, your thumbs tracing the fallen tears. “Let me go.”

“No–”

“I mean it, Mark.” You give him a weak smile, attempting to lighten the mood. “After everything we’ve been through, I can’t keep following you down this path of mercy you always talk about. Because the world just got a lot bigger and I can’t avoid losing you because you can’t fucking kill.”

Your name slips out as a desperate plea. “If– If I go down that path, I’ll just be like my dad… I can’t…” 

“I’m not asking you to.” You hummed, with a smile never reaching your eyes. “All I want is for you to let me go.” 

And he did and you fucking cried over it. 

For a while, you went AWOL on Cecil and the GDA. You didn’t answer their calls and ignored every chance they visited your door. Cecil was mad – disappointed in your resignation because ultimately you were a great asset, he might even say you were one of the good ones. The ones that didn’t question his intentions and moved on with the job, because in your heart, you knew this was for the greater good. He’d guessed along the lines of catastrophe after catastrophe, you couldn’t handle the pressure. 

Mark did you a favor by never giving any information about you. He prevailed with his promise and continued to fight bad guys and help the Guardians. But after your disappearance, he felt you left a hole in his heart. 

Even if he couldn’t call you, news about Invincible followed you everywhere, even underground. 

“So Invincible caught you.” 

“Yeah, how many times do I have to tell you?” Your new acquaintance with Multi-Paul was still fresh and annoyingly frustrating to work with. Your boss, Titan, had close ties with Master Liu, Paul’s boss and crime lord. “He was an asshole.”

“Hey,” As you stood up from the chair, standing opposite of Paul. Titan told you specifically that Paul needed to be broken out, simply because Mister Liu insisted on it. He had more power over Titan and that made him paranoid about what he was able to do. So he consoled you, hoping you would be able to compromise with Paul to lay low for a bit longer before you decided to help him break out. “I just need you to postpone this a bit longer. Titan–”

“I don’t negotiate with Titan. I work for Mister Liu and when he says I’m out, I’m out.” The assassin scoffs, dangling his carbon seal handcuffed to prove his point. “I don’t work for you so whatever your boss told you to do, it won’t work on me.” 

“Stop being an asshole for a second and listen.” You sneered, slamming your palm against the metallic table separating the distance between you two. “All Titan asks is to wait a few more days. That’s all, and then he and I will break you out. Mister Lie agreed to this.”

“I gotta hear it from him then,” He mockingly grins, as he senses how thin your temper is getting. But in the end, you knew he was messing with you. So as you prepare to leave, he says another thing. “And while you’re out there, give my thanks to Invincible. I’ll be waiting for my rematch.” 

You rolled your eyes, not even taking a glance at the inmate before leaving the premises. 

Titan called you on the premises when it happened. When the world went to shit and buildings started collapsing. You barely left your home, understanding what it all meant. You lived in the city and witnessed firsthand what kind of chaos these enemies were capable of. As you rushed past frightened citizens, you watched as a quick flash of yellow zoomed past another building. 

“Don’t worry about me, kid. For now, just focus on helping the people move out of the city. The heroes can’t handle this all by themselves.” You gripped your phone against your ear, as you slowed your jog, looking back and forth where to go. Your mind was racing so fast like on a race track. 

“What about you, boss?!” You urged. 

“I got it under control. Look, watch your head, and contact the others. We need to make it out of this alive.” Titan reassures desperately and hangs up. You stare at the blank screen with frustration. The others? They’re probably dead by now, how are you supposed to contact anyone? 

Seeing humanity crumble so easily made you feel a bit sentimental. It reminded you back to why you got into the superhero business in the first place. Initially, you believed your powers were a gift from grace. As fate chose you to help and save others when times were tough. To a point, your parents and the GDA supported that theory when you joined the task force at the ripe age of twelve. You didn’t know back then but you were setting yourself up for failure the moment you decided to become a superhero. 

Because being a superhero was not always stars and rainbows. You became a prolific figure alongside the Guardians of the Globe and Teen Team. You were always under mentorship by one of the heroes, acting as a sidekick for the day. And eventually, when you got older, you outgrew the program and began to serve the GDA full-time. 

There were small instances where the GDA offered you a civilian life, such as going to public school, allowing you to pursue your interests and take courses that would benefit your abilities. That was how you met Mark. But the fact was he knew you before you officially became a superhero. You both came from the same elementary school, passing mutual greetings ongoing to high school. At some point, you both hit it off and became something more.

Up until Mark got his powers. 

Part of you wished you hadn’t met Mark at all to prevent this type of awkward tension. Because now you can’t even look him in the eye without remembering your last conversation and saying goodbye. 

But you also have to remind yourself that breaking off with Mark was the reason for your fight for the greater good. You joined The Order and now under the mentorship of Titan, you saw what real cruelty was amongst the streets. 

Even now, as you pushed off massive boulders for people to get through to the other side, you had hoped to find another one of your associates somewhere in the middle of this mess. Smog, smoke, and fire lingered everywhere no matter where you turned. You couldn’t see straight without brushing the particles aside with your hands. The hot smell of roasted corpses was unbearable but also a reminder that the perpetrator was nearby. You could sense something, flying past you any second. 

In a quick splash of yellow, you thought you saw Mark. But you knew your mind was playing tricks on you. He didn’t wear the typical yellow, black, and blue suit anymore, not after his fight with Omni-Man. But the figure was zooming in fast velocity, you were sure it was him. 

“You can’t just stay away from danger, can you?” 

You didn’t want to believe it but even with dust flying everything – your bloodied combat outfit and exhaustion creeping up into your body, you wanted to believe it was your mind playing tricks on you. But it wasn’t that simple. There he was, Mark– Invincible hovering over you feet above the ground, arms crossed with a completely stoic expression. 

His attire, with alternating colors of yellow and black, made him stand out like black lettering on white paper. He was intimidating, exuded dominance, and stared down at you like a piece of meat. You didn’t know how to feel about it. 

“You’re not him.” You sneered, taking a few steps backward to relay the distance between you further. 

“No, I’m not.” He lowers himself, only now barely touching the street floor. His goggles shield you from his real expression, what he’s really feeling. It makes you queasy, sick to your stomach to the anticipation of what he wanted from you. To him, you might just be another insect, ready to be squashed. 

“What do you want?” You already knew he could feel your heart beating faster. Your heightened sense, your shaky hands – all of those symptoms made you feel like cattle to a butcher shop ready to be slaughtered. Was he going to play with his food? 

“Never thought I’d see another you.” He clenched his fists together. “It’s a shame, you had to go out like that.” 

“I don’t want to know,” you scoffed, without thinking you lowered yourself into a defensive position. “Look, whatever you and I had in your world doesn’t exist here. And right now you’re trespassing.”

“Trespassing? Is that what you call it?” This time, this Invincible cracks a smile, a reflection of cruel mockery. “Listen I thought about killing you all over again from the moment I stepped foot into this god-awful universe. But now?” You take a slow breath, slowly anticipating the worst. “Now, I’m kinda enjoying this version of you. Not naive or fragile, god you’re nothing alike.” 

“I could say the same.” You glared at him, warning him of the next words he anticipates saying. “And unlike him, you’re actually willing to kill people.”

“Really?!” He sounds genuinely surprised, almost chuckling. “He sounds pathetic.”

At that, you can grind a little. “The Mark from this world couldn’t finish the job of killing Angstrom, and now look at it.” You glance at all of the burning bodies and buildings his doppelganger has made. 

“And out of everyone, I didn’t expect you to be so happy about it.” There’s a smirk on his face, as his teasing is the only thing bringing you down. “You know, back in my world, you’d be the first to resist this kind of control. Always complaining about innocent lives and humanity–”

“Well, I’m nothing like them.” As if you were insulted by the fact he was even bringing that version of you. “Are you here to kill me or not?”

“Nah, I wouldn’t do that.” He could if he wanted to. But for some reason, this version of Mark was much more sinister. He had this kinda taunting tone about him. Even when destruction and chaos surrounded him, he didn’t care. He was looking at you like prey. All this time, you’ve been trying to stall and keep yourself alive. “Torturing you sounds so much better.”

“So what’re you waiting for?”

Then you disappear from the cool sensation of disappearing from the world around you. The air felt heavier, but you were hidden. You can hear him, his every movement amplified by your heightened senses. The sounds of his boots scraping against the cracked asphalt made you shiver, he hadn’t moved but was scanning the perimeter. You couldn’t have gone far, with your abilities, he knew you were trying to stall for time. You were like a ghost, slipping through the cracks and seams. 

He lets out a cold chuckle, as if knowing exactly where you are, though even he couldn’t see you. “You really think you can hide from me?” His tone was colder, sharper.

Without hesitation, he shot forward, his body spiraling forward with immense speed and precision. The air itself shuddered around him as he tore through it, a blur of power and rage. You shifted to the side, avoiding the devastating punch that would’ve shattered you in an instant. 

You almost tripped, momentarily visible, but before he could track your movements, you blurred out of sight again, leaving a singular trace of your presence. You were tense, terrified of his capabilities to kill you in an instant. Your heart was pounding out of your chest, and you were sure he could hear it from above. 

This was the first step, staying out of his sight. You peeked at him slowly, feeling the air shift with every movement he took. 

Suddenly, Mark stopped and turned his head, eyes narrowing. “I can feel you. You can’t be invisible forever.”

You slipped behind a crumbling pillar, fathering your focus. This time, you reappeared out of thin air. You summoned a force field, a shimmering wall of energy that surrounded you like an invisible shield. Your hand extended, and with a thought, you shaped it, making the force field extend outward as a curved barrier in front of you. 

Mark flew toward you, his body moving at lightning speed. Before he could land a punch, you activate the force field, raising between the two of you two. His fist collided with the barrier with an ear-splitting crack, as the force of the impact sent shockwaves through the air. He staggered back, his surprise evident as he gritted his teeth. 

“You think a wall will stop me?” he scoffed. 

You smiled, only slightly. “It’s not just a wall.”

You expanded the force field outward with a burst of energy, sending it toward him like a tidal wave. This caught him off-guard, knocking him backward and sending him crashing into a pile of rubble. He groaned, trying to push himself up. His arrogance was still there, knowing you’d just ticked him off. 

When he rose to his feet, you phased out of the visibility, disappearing again silently drifting through the air. You weren’t just hiding, you were waiting for the right moment. 

His eyes scanned the area. 

Before you could summon another force field, without warning, he shot his fist, punching through the air toward your previous position, hitting the ground with explosive force until there was nothing left in his path. Your invisibility faltered momentarily, revealing your position for a split second, just enough time for him to latch his eyes on you. 

And then he slammed his fist into you before you could react, sending you tumbling backward into the broken street. The blast shook your balance, your head spinning, yet you managed to summon a small force field just in time to shield you away from the debris and fall.  

“Had enough yet?” Sinister Invincible taunts, hovering above you. Even though you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew he was looking at you with distasteful disdain. “Or would you prefer I make it quick?” 

Before you could answer, a sickly distortion ripped through the air, warping space and time around you. The world seemed to twist in on itself, as your senses exploded, running in every single direction like being caught in the middle of a violent storm. Everything spun, everything shifted.

In a blaze of neon green, the city was gone. 

You felt the ground crack beneath you as you were swept away from your surroundings, pulled through space and time into an entirely different location. The world around you shifted, the landscape morphing and distorting like it was falling apart. You activate your force field instinctively, as you shield yourself from instant shifts. The change overwhelmed your senses, and your heart raced. Your breath caught in your throat as you looked around, disoriented.

There was nothing. The landscape was barren – cracked earth, shattered remnants of buildings, jarring metal from the ground like skeletons of a dead city. The sky was an eerie, sickly blue, the only thing you realized that was normal from this reality. There was no sign of life, only the depressive atmosphere. It was a world where hope had died long ago. 

“What the hell just happened?”