#blind corner warning system

[sharpeagle-tech]

Safe Zone Collision Sentry Corner Guard - All you need to know

In industrial environments, safety is not just a priority; it is a necessity. Ensuring the well-being of employees and the protection of valuable equipment are crucial aspects of efficient and productive operations. 

Blind spots and corners, however, pose significant challenges, often leading to unexpected collisions and accidents. Traditional safety measures like mirrors and signage have a limited scope as they fail to provide real-time warnings for threats, obstacles, and pedestrians that the operator might oversee, highlighting the need for more advanced solutions.

The Safe Zone Corner Guard System by SharpEagle is a groundbreaking innovation designed to enhance workplace safety. This state-of-the-art device not only prevents accidents but also minimises equipment damage, reduces downtime, and fosters a culture of safety within the workplace.

By investing in zone-safe solutions like the Safe Zone Collision Sentry Corner Guard, businesses can take proactive steps towards creating safer, more productive industrial environments.

What is a Safe Zone Corner Guard?

The Safe Zone Corner Guard is an innovative safety device designed to prevent accidents and collisions in industrial environments, particularly around blind spots and corners. This system employs advanced sensor technology to detect motion on both sides of a corner, providing real-time alerts to employees and forklift operators.

Key Features and Design Elements

At the core of the Safe Zone Corner Guard are its sophisticated sensors that detect any approaching movement. Once motion is detected, the system activates a dual alert mechanism consisting of bright LED lights and alarms — a combination that ensures engagement of the operator’s visual and auditory senses, even in noisy environments. 

One of the standout features of the Safe Zone Corner Guard System is its customizable audio settings. Users can adjust the volume and pitch of the alarms to suit the specific noise levels of their workplace, making it adaptable to various environments, from bustling warehouses to quieter office spaces. 

The system’s snap-on design allows for quick and hassle-free installation, ensuring that it can be deployed with minimal disruption to ongoing operations.

Materials Used in the Construction of Corner Guards

The Safe Zone Corner Guard System is constructed using high-quality, durable materials designed to withstand the rigours of industrial environments. The housing is made from robust, impact-resistant plastic that can endure collisions and harsh conditions without compromising its functionality. The LED lights are encased in shatter-proof glass to protect them from damage, while the sensors are designed to be both sensitive and resilient, ensuring reliable performance over time.

Importance of Safe Zone Corner Guards

Preventing Accidents and Injuries

In industrial settings, corners and blind spots are notorious for causing accidents. Unprotected corners can lead to unexpected collisions between employees, machinery, and equipment, resulting in injuries and damage. 

Safe Zone Collision Sentry Corner Guards play a crucial role in mitigating these risks by providing real-time warnings to those approaching a corner. The advanced sensor technology detects motion from both directions, triggering visual and audio alerts to ensure everyone is aware of the potential hazard. 

This proactive approach significantly reduces the likelihood of accidents, creating a safer work environment.

SharpEagle provides a range of forklift lighting solutions to enhance your workplace safety - Read about the complete range and functions of forklift safety lights.

Statistics on Workplace Accidents Related to Unprotected Corners

Workplace accidents are a significant concern in industrial environments, with many incidents occurring due to unprotected corners. 

According to the National Safety Council (NSC), workplace accidents involving collisions between people and moving equipment are the third leading cause of workplace deaths. Furthermore, a study by the same organisation highlights that unprotected corners and low visibility account for 93% of systemic risks connected to these accidents.

Implementing Safe Zone Corner Guards can drastically reduce these statistics. By providing clear and immediate warnings, these devices help prevent collisions and ensure that employees can navigate corners safely. This reduction in accidents not only protects workers but also minimises downtime and lowers costs associated with equipment damage and injury-related absences. ‍

Benefits of Safe Zone Corner Guard

The Safe Zone Corner Guard System offers a multitude of benefits for industrial and warehouse settings. 

Accident Prevention

The primary benefit of Safe Zone Corner Guards is the prevention of accidents. By detecting motion and providing real-time visual and audio alerts, the system ensures that employees are aware of potential hazards around corners, reducing the risk of collisions and injuries.

Protection of Equipment

In addition to safeguarding employees, the Safe Zone Corner Guard System protects valuable equipment and machinery from damage caused by collisions. This not only prolongs the lifespan of the equipment but also minimises repair and replacement costs.

Increased Productivity

A safer work environment leads to increased productivity. When employees feel secure and confident navigating their workspace, it inevitably leads to higher efficiency and output.

Customisable Alerts

The customisable audio settings of the Safe Zone Corner Guard System allow businesses to tailor the alerts to their specific environment, ensuring that warnings are effective without being disruptive. This adaptability makes it suitable for a variety of settings, from noisy warehouses to quieter offices.

Enhanced Safety Culture

Implementing Safe Zone Corner Guards promotes a culture of safety within the workplace. Employees become more aware of safety protocols and practices, fostering a proactive approach to accident prevention and overall workplace well-being.

Our experts at SharpEagle recommend the top three products to increase workplace safety! 

Installation and Maintenance Guide

Step-by-Step Guide to Install Safe Zone Corner Guards

Unpack the System: Carefully remove the Safe Zone Corner Guard components from the packaging. Ensure all parts, including sensors, LED lights, and mounting hardware, are present.

Choose the Installation Location: Identify the corners where the Safe Zone Corner Guard will be most effective. Ideal locations are high-traffic areas with frequent blind spot collisions.

Clean the Surface: Clean the surface of the corner where the device will be mounted to ensure a secure attachment. Remove any dust, grease, or debris.

Mount the Bracket: Attach the mounting bracket to the chosen location using the provided screws or adhesive pads. Ensure the bracket is securely fixed and level.

Attach the Sensor Unit: Snap the sensor unit onto the mounted bracket. Ensure it is firmly in place and correctly oriented to cover both sides of the corner.

Connect the Power Supply: If the unit is battery-operated, insert the batteries. For wired units, connect the power supply to a nearby outlet.

Test the System: Activate the Safe Zone Corner Guard to test its functionality. Walk towards the corner from both directions to ensure the sensors trigger the visual and audio alerts.

Tips for Proper Installation

Optimal Height: Install the sensors and lights at a height that ensures visibility and detection of both personnel and equipment.

Secure Mounting: Ensure all components are securely mounted to prevent them from being dislodged by vibrations or impacts.

Visibility: Position the LED lights so they are clearly visible from all angles to maximise the warning effect.

Maintenance Guidelines

Regular Cleaning

Clean the sensors and lights regularly to prevent dust and debris from obstructing their functionality.

Perform Battery Checks

For battery-operated units, check and replace batteries periodically to ensure continuous operation.

System Testing

Conduct regular tests to ensure the sensors and alarms are functioning correctly. Schedule these tests as part of routine safety checks.

Troubleshooting Common Issues

No Power 

If the unit is not powering on, check the power supply connection or replace the batteries.

False Alarms

Ensure the sensors are free from obstructions and not exposed to excessive vibrations or reflective surfaces that might trigger false alarms.

No Alerts

If the sensors are not detecting motion, clean the sensor lenses and check for proper alignment. Verify that the system is turned on and fully operational.

Future Scope

The future scope for Safe Zone Corner Guards is promising, as ongoing advancements in technology and growing awareness of workplace safety continue to drive innovation in this field.  

Integration with Smart Technologies

As industrial environments become increasingly automated and connected, the Safe Zone Corner Guard System could integrate with broader smart technology frameworks. This includes enabling real-time data collection and analysis. 

Enhanced Sensor Technology

Future iterations of Safe Zone Corner Guards may incorporate advanced sensor technologies, such as infrared, ultrasonic, or LiDAR sensors. These enhancements would improve detection accuracy and range, allowing the system to identify potential hazards more effectively, even in complex environments with multiple obstacles and varying levels of activity.

Customisable and Modular Designs

Future designs could offer greater customisation and modularity, allowing businesses to tailor the system to their specific needs. Modular units that can be easily expanded or reconfigured would provide flexibility for different industrial setups and evolving safety requirements.

Regulatory Compliance and Standardisation

As workplace safety regulations evolve, Safe Zone Corner Guards will likely adapt to meet new standards and compliance requirements. Enhanced features that align with global safety standards can help businesses maintain compliance and improve their safety ratings.

Expanding Applications

While currently focused on industrial and warehouse settings, the application of Collision Sentry Safe Zone Corner Guards could extend to other environments, such as construction sites, hospitals, schools, and commercial buildings. Each of these settings presents unique safety challenges that the system could help mitigate.

Case Studies and Success Stories

1. Global Logistics Warehouse

A leading global logistics company implemented the Safe Zone Corner Guard System across its major distribution centres. With a high volume of foot traffic and machinery operating in close quarters, the company faced frequent accidents at blind corners. After installing the Safe Zone Corner Guards, the facility saw a 40% reduction in corner-related collisions within the first six months. The system’s visual and audio alerts significantly enhanced awareness, allowing workers to navigate safely and efficiently.

2. Automotive Manufacturing Plant

An automotive manufacturing plant integrated Safe Zone Corner Guards into its assembly line operations. The plant, which had previously experienced several costly incidents involving forklifts and heavy machinery, reported a notable decrease in accidents. The customisable audio settings were particularly beneficial in the noisy environment, ensuring that alerts were heard over the ambient noise. This implementation not only improved safety but also led to a 20% increase in overall productivity, as employees could focus on their tasks without constant fear of accidents.

3. Retail Distribution Center

A large retail distribution centre adopted Safe Zone Corner Guards to enhance safety in its high-traffic areas. The centre had numerous narrow aisles and blind spots, posing significant risks to workers and equipment. After deploying the Safe Zone Corner Guard System, the centre observed a dramatic decline in near-miss incidents and collisions. The management noted that the easy installation and minimal maintenance of the system allowed for a seamless integration into their existing safety protocols.

Choosing the Right Safe Zone Corner Guard for Your Needs

Factors to Consider

Environment

Assess the environment where the corner guard will be installed. Different settings, such as warehouses, manufacturing plants, and retail spaces, have varying requirements. Consider factors like noise levels, lighting conditions, and potential environmental hazards.

Type of Traffic

Understand the type and volume of traffic in the area. High-traffic zones with frequent movement of forklifts and heavy machinery will need more robust solutions compared to areas with only pedestrian traffic.

Potential Hazards

Identify specific hazards present in your workplace. This could include sharp corners, blind spots, and high-speed machinery. Choose a corner guard that can effectively mitigate these risks.

Importance of SharpEagle Safe Zone Corner Guard

The SharpEagle Safe Zone Corner Guard stands out due to its advanced sensor technology, customisable alerts, and durable construction. It provides real-time visual and audio warnings, significantly reducing the risk of accidents and enhancing overall workplace safety. Easy installation and minimal maintenance requirements make it a reliable and cost-effective solution for a variety of industries.

Recommendations Based on Industry Requirements

Warehousing and Logistics

For environments with high forklift traffic and narrow aisles, choose a corner guard with robust sensors and loud, customisable audio alerts to ensure clear visibility and audibility in noisy conditions.

Manufacturing

In manufacturing plants with heavy machinery, select a corner guard that can withstand harsh conditions and provide precise motion detection to prevent collisions.

Retail Distribution

For retail distribution centres with mixed traffic (pedestrians and machinery), opt for a versatile corner guard that offers adjustable alert settings to cater to different noise levels and visibility requirements.

Expert Tips on Making an Informed Decision

Evaluate Your Needs: Conduct a thorough assessment of your workplace to identify the areas with the highest risk of collisions and accidents.

Seek Professional Advice: Consult safety experts like SharpEagle to get product recommendations tailored to your specific requirements.

Test the System: Test the Safe Zone Corner Guard in a small industrial zone before full-scale implementation to ensure it meets your safety needs.

Consider Future Scalability: Choose a system that can be easily expanded or upgraded as your safety needs evolve.

Compliance and Regulations

Ensure that the Safe Zone Corner Guard you choose complies with relevant safety regulations and standards. This not only enhances workplace safety but also ensures that your business meets legal and industry-specific compliance requirements. SharpEagle’s products are designed to adhere to these standards, providing an added layer of security.

Conclusion

From their advanced sensor technology and customisable alerts to their durable construction and easy installation, Safe Zone Corner Guards by SharpEagle offer a comprehensive solution to prevent accidents and protect both employees and equipment. 

Investing in Safe Zone Collision Sentry Corner Guards is not just about complying with safety regulations — it's about creating a safer, more productive work environment. By mitigating risks associated with blind corners and unprotected areas, you can significantly reduce accidents, minimise downtime, and foster a culture of safety.

We encourage you to explore Safe Zone Corner Guards for your safety needs. Take proactive steps to enhance workplace safety and protect your most valuable assets—your employees. Contact us today to learn more about how Safe Zone Corner Guards can revolutionise safety in your workplace.

[anxiouscherubs]

sunday morning

𖤓 summary: the one where you wake up too soon from a wet dream and your boyfriend is there to help you... relieve the tension. 𖤓 warnings/tags: MDNI! 18+, explicit, smut, established relationship, some degradation, bdsm dynamics, yeo is a bit of a mean dom!! you've been warned!!, use of the color system, some choking, fingering, spanking, lovebites, oral sex (f receiving), edging, unprotected sex (don't do that), yes there's aftercare im not a monster 𖤓 dom!yeosang x fem!sub!reader 𖤓 author's note: i know i said i would post this by the end of march but wedding planning and school and work are consuming my life!!!!! finished this with a literal ear infection bc i NEEDED to put it out into the universe lol. this was originally inspired by the fact that yeosang uses the replica lazy sunday morning fragrance and quickly spiraled into depravity. yeosang wrecks me every day of my life and i KNOW he gets nasty. he's too quiet to be anything other than a dom, sorry! this is also my first time writing a relationship with bdsm dynamics so please feel free to leave (constructive and kind) feedback! 𖤓 word count: 5.9k 𖤓 read it on ao3 here

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

“Sangie, please” you moan into your boyfriend’s neck, his cock plunging in and out of you at a relentless pace. 

“What is it, pretty girl?” he teases, his fingers finding your clit, circling the sensitive bud to match the pace of his thrusts. 

”I’m so close, baby, fuck,” your hands tangle in his dark hair as you tilt your head to the side to give him better access to your neck. He licks a firm stripe from your collarbone to right below your ear, never slowing his hips. 

“Come on then, baby, fall apart around my cock,” he growls into your ear. 

The pleasure settles in your core, hot and heavy, building and building as your bodies move in sync. He hits that soft spot inside of you, and you cry out, his name falling off your lips over and over like a mantra. 

“Yeo, oh my god,” you whimper, “fuck, I’m gonna —“ 

A loud crash startles you from your sleep, pulling you from your delicious dream. The soft morning light creeps through the blinds of your shared bedroom, casting gentle stripes across your duvet. The city outside is still quiet as you try to shake the heat from your system, Yeosang’s cold empty side of the bed helping bring you back to reality. You let out a slow breath, stretching your tired muscles, trying to jumpstart your body, ignoring the wetness that had begun to pool in your sleep shorts thanks to your subconscious. You roll over to face your nightstand, squinting at the clock — 9:15 AM. Yeosang always wakes up earlier than you, and sleeping this late is out of the question, unless he’s on his deathbed with a cold. 

You untangle from the sheets, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed to stretch, letting your feet rest on the sun-warmed wooden floor. The morning light shines bright through your window, the warmth melting into your skin. You hear rustling in the kitchen, and realize the sound that startled you awake must have something to do with your boyfriend making you both breakfast, like he does every Sunday. 

Dragging yourself out of bed, you throw a fuzzy cardigan over the tank top you slept in, to match your shorts. Yeosang always gifts you sets of loungewear, because he knows how happy it makes you to laze around the house in something cute. You make your way down the hallway, the warm smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafting around you the closer you get to the kitchen. You round the corner to see your boyfriend bent over the sink, washing dishes from last night’s dinner. A fresh pan of cinnamon rolls sits on the counter next to him. Your favorite.

“Good morning, Sangie,” you softly say from the doorway, so as not to startle him. He peaks over his shoulder at you briefly before turning the water off, a breathtaking smile consuming his features. His gray sweatpants hug his slender hips, and the tight black tank top he’s sporting gives you an unobstructed view of his broad shoulders and strong arms. God, he looks good.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he coos, his deep voice still raspy from sleep. He quickly dries his hands on a dish towel before discarding it on the counter and making his way over to you. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in for a warm hug, his familiar scent enveloping you. His fingers rub absentminded circles on your skin as he holds you, his hot touch reminding you what you were dreaming about before you were jolted from your sleep. You feel your cheeks warm, thinking about how, in your mind, he was inside of you moments ago. 

“Did I wake you? I tried to wash everything quietly, but the pan we used last night slipped and I banged it on the counter,” he kisses your forehead, the lingering warmth of his breath working you up even more. 

“It’s okay, baby,” you pull back to kiss his nose, trying to shake the heat from your body. “I needed to get up anyway. I missed you.” You wonder if he can tell how hot and bothered you are. He knows your body like the back of his hand, and when you’re needy, he picks up on it right away. 

“Yeah? Were you dreaming about me?” He squeezes your hips before releasing you, picking the dish towel up and walking back to the sink to hang it up.

“No,” you blush, sensing he already knows the answer. He chuckles darkly, leaning back on the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. 

“If those pretty little moans I heard coming from our bedroom are any indication, I’m gonna have to call you a liar, baby,” he smirks at you as your soft smile falls from your face. “Wanna try to answer truthfully this time?” The tone of his voice has shifted from the sweet, doting boyfriend he was moments ago, the version of him you only see in the bedroom starting to crack through the surface.

“Y-Yeo, I—“ you stumble over your words. Of course you gave yourself away, how embarrassing. Your face feels like it’s on fire. 

“What was I doing, hm?” Yeosang prowls toward you slowly, a strand of his dark hair floating down onto his forehead. “Tasting you? Fingering you? Fucking you?” He stops in his tracks, waiting for your answer. 

The words coming out of his mouth have your mind reeling, a pit of pleasure settling in your belly. You let your cardigan fall from your shoulder, suddenly aware of how his hungry eyes are raking over your body. 

“Fucking me,” you barely recognize the sound of your voice, breathless and desperate, “you were fucking me,” 

“Mmm,” his deep voice sounds like honey, “and how was it, hm? Did I let you come?” He creeps closer to you, only a few steps away. 

“I-I woke up, before I could,” you start, trying to hide your embarrassment. 

“Oh, jagiya,” he finally closes the distance between the two of you, slowly wrapping one arm around your body, his hand snaking down to cup your ass. “You must be so pent up, my love.” His other hand comes up to your neck, brushing your hair away to ghost his lips over your bare shoulder. He trails featherlight kisses up your shoulder, to your neck, settling right by your ear. “Do you want me to help you with that?” His deep voice whispering over your sensitive skin… he knows what that does to you. 

You’re nodding before your voice catches up. “Yes, Sangie, please,” you whisper, bracing yourself on Yeosang’s shoulders as he nips at your neck. He nods at your pleading, willing as always to take care of you.  

“Should I bring you to bed, or take you here first?” He bites down on your shoulder, growling into your skin. 

You whimper at the sensation, “now, Yeo please, I need you to touch me now,” your hands float up to his hair, lacing through his dark locks. 

“Mm,” he tuts, “what if I want to do both?” He pulls away from you to look into your eyes, pupils blown wide with desire. He brings a hand to your chin, thumbing your bottom lip. You open your mouth for him instinctively, and he hooks his thumb on your bottom teeth, tilting your head up at him. “Why don’t I make you come once here, and then I’ll take you to bed and fuck you back to sleep.” 

You nod as you close your lips around his thumb, swirling your tongue around it, drawing a deep groan up his throat. 

He moves quickly, popping his thumb out of your mouth to plant his hands on your hips. The room around you spins, and suddenly your back is pressed up against him. He wraps an arm around your stomach and brings his other hand to your throat, caging you in his grip. You feel his hardness pressing into your ass as he rolls his hips into you. You whimper, leaning into him, chasing every little touch he’s willing to give you. 

“What does my baby want?” He whispers in your ear, tightening his hand on your throat and sliding his other down to ghost his fingers under the band of your shorts, “should I bend you over the counter and have you come around my fingers? Or should I put you on the counter and fuck you with my tongue?” He squeezes the sides of your neck gently, just enough to make your head spin. 

“F-fingers,” you choke out, rolling your ass over him. 

He shoves you forward, into the counter, the hard marble digging into your hips as he moves his hand from your stomach to the middle of your back to push your torso over the countertop. You brace yourself, planting your hands on either side of your head, and he releases your throat to grip your hair, tipping your head to the side and squishing your cheek into the cold surface. 

“Don’t tell me you’re so fucking cock hungry that you forgot your manners,” he scolds you, ripping your sleep shorts down with one hand and smacking your ass with a loud crack. 

“Ah-! Fuck,” you cry out, the pain warming you from the inside out, a rush of arousal flooding your center. “Please, I want your fingers Sangie, please,”

”Good fucking girl,” he coos, “and no panties, huh?” He pulls his hands from you and takes a step back, leaving you bent over the counter with an angry red handprint blooming on your naked ass. “I’ll never get tired of seeing you like this, fucking hell,” he runs a hand through his hair as he admires you. 

You know he’s teasing you by not touching you right away, so you take it upon yourself to kick your shorts to the side and prop one shaking leg up on the counter, presenting yourself to him. 

“Mmm, you’re practically dripping, jagi,” he zeroes in on your center, “you must’ve been really close in that little dream of yours, hm?” 

Before you can formulate a snarky reply, he’s behind you, plunging two fingers deep inside of you, using his free hand to grip your hip and hold you in place. You stammer out a curse at the sensation, your mouth hanging open against the cold countertop as he stretches you out. He immediately finds that tender spot inside of you, pressing the pads of his fingers against it over and over and over. 

“Yeo, oh my god,” you whimper, that familiar pit of warmth settling in your stomach. 

“Already squeezing around my fingers like you’re gonna come? I’ve barely touched you,” he teases you, his mean, dominant facade slipping into place. 

“F-feels so good Sangie, can’t help it, mmhn,” you’re practically drooling on the counter as he pistons his fingers in and out, reaching deep inside of you. 

He pulls his fingers from your center, bringing his hand down hard on your ass again. You cry out against the marble, tears blurring your vision as his fingers find your swollen clit. Your knee almost buckles underneath you as he expertly swirls around it, so familiar with your body, but he holds you up with a firm hand on your hip. 

“You wanna come, baby? Hm?” He quickens his pace, dipping his fingers inside of you to gather more of your arousal. 

“Yes, please,” you whimper. 

“Then come.” He almost sounds bored as he applies just the right amount of pressure to make you crumble in his hold, holding you steady as your body shakes. 

“T-thank you,” you cry out, your climax washing over you, wiping out all your strength. 

“So good for me,” Yeosang whispers, holding you in place, letting your body go limp over the countertop. He rubs both thumbs into the small of your back, letting you come down for a few quiet beats before bringing you back to the moment. 

“Color?” He quietly asks, the tone of his voice softening for a moment as he turns his attention to your hips, softly massaging your joints. 

“Green, very much green,” you sigh between breaths.

“Then come on, pretty girl,” he growls from behind you, pulling his hands from your body and taking a few slow steps backwards, “you want me to fuck you, don’t you?” 

You push yourself up on the counter, slowly lowering your trembling leg to the floor. 

“Yes, please Yeo,” you turn to face him, leaning back on the sturdy surface behind you, your brain still fuzzy and your hearing a bit muffled. His fingers are glistening with your arousal, the outline of his cock pressing against the thin fabric of his sweatpants. Your core pulses at the sight. 

“Then let’s go,” he beckons you, taking a few more steps backwards toward your shared bedroom, fire simmering behind his eyes.

You follow his lead, your unsteady legs carrying you a few steps before your boyfriend raises a hand up to stop you. 

“Nuh-uh,” he scolds you, shaking his head. 

You tilt your head at him in question, the teasing lilt in his voice making you dizzy as you realize what you’re in for. So he’s in this kind of mood. 

“Crawl.” 

Dropping to your knees without a second thought, a gasp leaves your lips as you hit the floor, the deep growl in his command making your body react instantly. 

“Good girl.“ His cock twitches in his sweatpants. “Now, you can follow me.” He smirks at you as you lower your hands to the floor, and you feel thankful that the warm sun flooding through your kitchen windows has heated the floorboards. 

You keep your eyes locked on his while you follow him on all fours, making sure to exaggerate the sway of your hips and the arch of your back as you crawl.

“Well, don’t you look so pretty on your hands and knees for me, hm? Obedient little slut.” 

Heat spreads across your cheeks at the emphasis on his last word, knowing he’s only saying it because he knows how much you love it.

He walks backwards the whole way to your shared bedroom, power radiating from him in the way he carries himself, his dark eyes trained on you as you crawl for him. His mouth hangs open as he watches you, and you can tell he’s testing his own self control. You follow him over the threshold, watching him as the backs of his knees hit the mattress, dropping down onto the edge of your bed. He spreads his legs wide, leaning back as he tilts his head to the side while he contemplates his next move. 

“Come,” he pats the mattress between his thighs, and you crawl forward to the edge of the bed, kneeling between his legs, looking up at him through your lashes. He grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping your head back. 

“As much as I’d love to have you falling apart around my cock in the next few minutes, I haven’t gotten a taste of you yet.” 

“O-oh,” his words warm your center, the way he’s looking down at you only making you feel more desperate for his touch. 

“Normally I’d make you earn it, but after listening to your slutty fucking moans all morning I don’t think I can wait any longer,” he wraps his hand around your throat again, squeezing firmly before guiding you up to your feet, standing along with you. He flicks at the shoulder of your cardigan with his free hand. “Off,” he demands. You shimmy out of it instantly, letting it drop to the floor and pool around your feet. 

“Give me your color,” he whispers, his grip on your throat loosening.

“Still very green, my love,” you smirk at him as he nods, squeezing tighter again. 

“So pretty with my hand around your neck,”  he praises you, your head spinning as you work to inhale. “I can’t, fuck,” he lets his resolve crack, crashing his lips into yours.

He kisses you hard, fingers carding through your hair as he parts your lips with his tongue. “I’ll take my time with you later,” he mumbles against your mouth, swiping his tongue over yours. You kiss each other like you’ve been apart for weeks; desperate pawing, panting, whining. 

“Lay down,” he orders you, groaning at the string of saliva connecting your mouths as he pulls away from you. He holds your waist as he spins the both of you around, putting you at the foot of the bed before pushing you onto the mattress. You catch yourself on your elbows, scooting back as he crawls on top of you, sloppily kissing you the whole way, moving together until you’re settled in the pillows against the headboard. 

He kisses you from your lips, up to the hinge of your jaw, down the column of your neck. You lay back against the pillows, so familiar with the way he loves to map your body with his mouth. He spreads your legs with his knees, splaying you open wide for him, your bare cunt clenching around nothing at the sudden exposure. 

He kisses down to your chest as his hands run up your thighs, bypassing your aching core to run up your stomach, one hand dipping beneath your tank top to palm your breast. You gasp at the sensation of his calloused hand kneading your supple flesh, a whine escaping as he runs a thumb over your nipple. He pulls your tank top up with his free hand, exposing your breasts to the cool air. 

“Sangie,” you thread your fingers through his hair as he kisses down the valley between your breasts, tightening your grip when he catches one of your nipples between his teeth. “Fuck,” you whisper, looking down at him as he flicks his tongue over it. His eyes meet yours briefly before they roll back as he sucks your nipple into his mouth. 

“Baby,” you whine, the feeling of his mouth on you making your head spin. “I need you,” 

“Mhm,” his mouth pops off of you briefly before his teeth graze over the top of one of your breasts, the sensation dissolving into pleasurable pain as he bites down. 

“Ah!” You yelp as his teeth scrape over your skin, panting as he soothes the bite with his tongue, sucking with the intention to leave a mark. 

“You forgot your manners again, pretty girl,” he bites you again, on your stomach this time, and you glance down to see the first mark blooming with shades of red and purple as he paints another. 

“Fuck, I—“ your voice catches in your throat at the third bite, lower on your stomach, inching closer to where you need him. ”Please Yeo, I need it,” 

“Need what, hm? Use your words,” the next bite is harder than the last, and it has you squirming, desperately pushing your hips into him as his teeth dig into the inside of your thigh. 

“Your mouth, please, please,” you rock your hips against nothing, your boyfriend keeping his distance to encourage more of your delicious whining. 

“You sound so pretty when you beg, my little whore,” he spreads your legs wide, fingers splayed across the insides of your thighs. He watches your cunt clench at the word, smirking to himself before spitting directly on your heat. 

“Oh,” you feel his warm saliva slide from your clit to your entrance, the sensation making you squirm underneath him. “Sangie, please,” 

“Mhm,” he finally settles between your legs, threading his arms under your thighs, pulling you closer to his waiting mouth. 

He licks the blooming purple bite on your thigh, trailing wet kisses up, closer and closer, pressing one last kiss before finally spreading you open with his tongue. Your back arches instantly, leaning into his mouth. He licks you from your entrance up to your clit, groaning at the taste of you. 

“Fuck,” you whine, gripping his hair, holding him against you. He laps at you, flicking the firm point of his tongue over your swollen clit over and over. 

“Mmm,” he growls against you, the vibrations drawing a whimper up your throat. He eats you like a man starved, as he always does, digging his fingers into your hips and caging you in against his mouth. 

“So good, Sangie, ah–” you yelp as his teeth scrape against your clit, a low chuckle vibrating through you at your reaction. He sucks your sensitive bud into his mouth, one hand loosening its grip on your hip to weave around to your throbbing entrance. 

You feel two fingers inching up the inside of your thigh, the light touch prickling goosebumps across your skin. The moment you look down at him, he pops his mouth off of you, briefly sucking his fingers into his mouth, your arousal shining on his chin. His dark eyes don’t leave yours as he guides his fingers to your center, teasingly running them through your wetness before plunging them deep inside you. 

“Ah!” You cry out at the sudden sensation, deep arousal coursing through your body as you watch your boyfriend rut against the mattress in time with the thrust of his fingers. He finds that tender spot inside of you easily, hitting it with each pump.

“So tight, are you sure you’ll be able to take me? Hm?” He scissors his fingers inside of you, the sound of how wet you are making his cock twitch in his sweatpants. “Gonna stretch you open so I can stuff you fucking full,” you whine at his words, his dirty mouth driving you mad. “My pretty little cocksleeve, made for me,” 

“I can take you,” you nod, watching him add a third finger, the stretch stinging at first but quickly dissolving into pleasure. “I can, I can,” you repeat, “m-made for you Sangie, I was–” your words evaporate into thin air as he sucks your clit into his mouth again, rolling his tongue over and over. 

You feel your orgasm quickly approaching, warmth rushing to your center. You roll your hips on his mouth, holding him against you, hoping he’ll let you get there. He must sense you trying to take control, slowing his fingers slightly. Feeling your orgasm fading away, you whine, struggling to push your hips harder onto his fingers. He chuckles against you before pulling away completely. 

“Fuck!” You cry out in frustration, “what the fuck,” 

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he scolds you, pushing up onto his knees between your legs, a dark patch spreading on his sweatpants where the head of his leaking cock presses against the fabric. “Trying to come without my permission, and you think you can speak to me like that?” You feel your cheeks reddening as you realize what you did, your eyes widening at the hard set of his jaw. He’s pissed. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, tilting his head to one side until his neck cracks. 

“Flip over.” 

You’re frozen, propped up on your elbows staring at him, mouth hanging open. “W-what? I–” 

“Did I stutter? Flip the fuck over. Ass up. Now.” 

You scramble to roll onto your stomach, pushing up onto your hands and knees. “I didn’t mean to, Yeo, I’m s-sorry,” your cunt is throbbing in anticipation as you spread your thighs wide, dropping onto your elbows just how you know he wants you. 

“I’m sure you didn’t, greedy girl,” you hear shuffling behind you, feeling him getting closer to you, but not yet touching you. “How many, hm? Five?” You feel fingers ghosting across the middle of your back, trailing slowly down your spine. “Ten?” You shiver, knowing you can take ten but desperately wanting him inside of you sooner than that. 

“You’re lucky my cock is fucking aching right now or I’d do fifteen,” he growls, “how about five, hm?” His hand glides over the swell of your ass, and you have to stop yourself from leaning into his touch.

“Five,” you confirm, settling into the pillows beneath you.

“Five it is.” His hand disappears and your breath hitches in your throat. “Count.” A crack rings through the room as he spanks you hard, the warmth of the sting rushing straight to your core. 

“One,” you cry out, breath heaving. 

“Good.” Another spank, a little harder than the last. 

“Two,” your pussy clenches at the burn, and you can already feel the skin of your ass turning red. 

He doesn’t warn you before spanking you a third time, but he lets his hand linger to soothe your angry skin for a moment. 

“Three,” 

Another. 

“Four,” your voice cracks, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. 

“Color?” Your boyfriend asks from behind you, a hint of worry in his voice. 

“Green, I can do it, one more,” your words rush out, wanting to let him know you’re okay. 

“One more,” he confirms, bringing his hand down one last time, keeping it there to massage your sore skin. 

“Five,” you sob into the pillow, finally leaning into his touch, letting him guide your hips down to the mattress. 

“You did so well, pretty,” he leans over you, kissing you behind your ear as he brushes your hair to the side. “My good girl,” 

“Please, baby, I want you,” each hard smack on your ass only made you more and more desperate for your boyfriend. You know he wants to take care of you, check in, make sure you’re okay, but you need him badly. You roll over onto your back, and he hovers over you, only softness and concern in his eyes now. You open your legs, pulling him between them, his hardness resting against your core through his sweatpants.

“I’m okay, please Sangie,” you reach for him, cupping his cheek in your palm, wrapping your fingers around the back of his neck, tugging him closer. 

“Jagi,” he whispers, “are you sure?” He kisses your forehead, letting his lips linger a moment before pulling back to look at you.

“Mhm,” you nod, your hand trailing down to the hem of his tank top. He lets you pull it up slightly before helping you take it off completely. His skin glows under the sunlight streaming through your windows, casting gentle shadows to emphasize each one of his muscles. You pull your own top off over your head too, fully bare for him. You roll your hips against his clothed cock, drawing a groan up his throat.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he drinks you in, admiring your soft form. All dominance has faded from his mannerisms, loving and sheer want taking over. 

“Kiss me,” you reach for him, and he meets you halfway to press his lips to yours. His need for you takes over, and he licks into your mouth as he rushes to pull his sweatpants and boxer briefs down. His length bumps against your heat, Yeosang hissing at the feeling, rocking against you as he kicks his pants off completely. 

He breaks the kiss to kneel between your legs, fisting his angry, leaking cock. He pumps himself twice as he adjusts his positioning, running the tip of his cock through your arousal. “Ready?” He asks, nudging at your aching entrance. 

You nod, reaching for him. He leans over you, letting out a shuddering breath as he pushes into you, filling you in one swift thrust. You moan at the feeling, the sound swallowed by his mouth against yours. He pulls out to the tip as he glides his tongue over your bottom lip, then slams into you.

“Shit,” you mumble against his lips, licking into his mouth. He meets your kisses hungrily, tangling his tongue with yours as he moves his hips, slowly at first, then pumping into you with a slow and steady rhythm. 

You wrap your legs around him, locking your ankles behind his back as he picks up the pace, hitting deeper with each thrust, but not quite deep enough. 

“Harder, Yeo,” you break the kiss to ask, “need you deeper,” 

He chuckles darkly, knowing just how to get the angle you need. He straightens, staying inside of you as he lifts your hips with ease, keeping you suspended in a solid grip as he guides your hips to meet his thrusts, instantly hitting your g-spot. 

“Fuck, yes,” you cry out, letting him masterfully handle your body, bumping against that sensitive spot over and over. 

“So pretty taking my cock,” he praises you, fucking into you impossibly hard, your breasts bouncing with each thrust. “I love you so fucking much, my good girl,” 

“I love you,” you pant, getting closer and closer to the edge as he fucks into you, but you want to take care of him first. “W-wanna ride you, Sangie,” he slows down at your proposal. 

“You sure?” He knows your body must be spent, but you’re determined. 

“Wanna make you feel good,” you whine, “please?”

“I can’t say no to those eyes,” he grins.

He pulls out of you to roll you on top of him, easily maneuvering your body until you’re straddling him, his head nestled in the pillows. He lays back, eyes twinkling as he waits for you to take over. 

You reach for his cock, wrapping your fingers around it, his eyes rolling back as you slowly pump him. “Mm,” he moans at the feeling, resting his hands on your thighs as you adjust to line him up with your entrance. His fingers dig into your thighs as you slowly lower yourself onto him, gasping as your clit grazes his skin once he’s fully seated inside of you. 

“Fuck, jagiya,” he runs his hands up your thighs and around your hips to hold you still for a moment. “Be gentle with me, I don’t want this to be over too soon,” he chuckles. 

“We have all day, baby,” you lift your hips slightly despite his firm grip on you, but he doesn’t stop you. You drop back down, drawing another beautiful moan from his lips. His grip loosens as he gives in to you, and you start bouncing your hips, his cock reaching deep inside you. You plant your hands in the middle of his chest as you find your rhythm. 

He watches you with lidded eyes, his jaw hanging open as you take what you need. He reaches a hand up to palm your breast, your head falling back as he thumbs your nipple. It doesn’t take long for your climax to start building, his thumb on your nipple and your clit rocking against him bringing you right back to the precipice. 

You know he’s close too, his breathing turning shallow and his grip tightening on your hips. 

“Come here,” he wraps a hand around the back of your neck, pulling you down to kiss him. 

The new angle gives him space to plant his feet on the mattress and roll his hips up into you, matching your rhythm. 

“Need to fill you up,” he pants, 

“Yes, please,” you squeeze around him, feeling him twitch inside of you. Warmth spreads throughout your body as you inch closer and closer to release, each rock of your clit against him pushing you there. 

“Come with me,” he commands you, your body tensing in his grasp as it washes over you. He fucks up into you twice more before he stills, spilling hot inside of you, groaning into your mouth. He lowers his hips slowly, guiding yours with him, staying inside of you, letting you collapse against his chest. 

You both struggle to catch your breath, holding each other close while you come down. He strokes your hair, and you let your eyes flutter closed at the feeling, listening to the slowing beat of his heart.

“Wanna get more comfortable?” He asks, and you laugh, suddenly aware of how sore your hips are feeling, and the stinging lingering on your ass from your earlier punishments.

“Mhm,” you let him lift you off of him, guiding your pliant form onto your bed. He rolls you onto your belly, settling behind you to massage your hips. He rubs gentle circles into your skin, the soreness and tension in your tired muscles melting away under his skilled hands. 

“I’ll be right back, my love,” he softly says as he hops up to wiggle back into his sweatpants, “I want to get something to clean you up, I’ll just be a minute.” He kisses your forehead before padding out of the room. You stretch your tired limbs, listening to the rustling and sounds of running water from down the hallway. 

A moment later, Yeosang comes back into the room, his arms full of various things for you. He plugs in your heating pad, letting it warm up as he wipes his release from your inner thighs with a warm towel. You watch him as he bustles around the room, setting water and Tylenol on your nightstand and fluffing up your pillow for you. He grabs you a clean pair of underwear and one of your big sleep shirts, gently helping you dress, peppering you with kisses all the while. 

You snuggle up facing his side of the bed, letting him cover you with a blanket and lay your heating pad over your lower back. He finally slides under the blanket with you, and you lay your head on his chest, throwing one leg over him, effectively caging him in. He chuckles at your clinginess. 

“How’re you feeling?” He whispers, peppering kisses along your hairline. 

“Perfect,” you nuzzle into him, and he rests his chin on top of your head. 

“That wasn’t too much?” 

“Of course not,” you assure him. “If it was, I would’ve told you to stop.” 

He nods, accepting your response, wrapping an arm around your waist. You lay together in comfortable silence for a moment. You feel yourself starting to drift off, until his voice cuts through.

“Baby?” Yeosang says, a note of hesitance in his tone. 

“Hm?” 

“Can I tell you a secret?” He whispers, squeezing your waist. 

“Of course,” you respond, rubbing a finger over a freckle on his chest. 

“I dropped that pan on purpose.” You can hear the smile in his voice as he confesses to you. 

“Kang Yeosang!” You scold him through your laughter, lightly smacking his chest. You prop yourself up to look at him, and he sheepishly smiles back at you.

“Sorry!” He apologizes half-heartedly, “I didn’t want you having all the fun without me.” 

“Well next time,” you inch closer to him, “why don’t you wake me up with your mouth instead,” you brush your lips over his as his arm tightens around your waist. 

”You don’t have to ask me twice,” he kicks the blanket off of you to roll you onto your back, crawling on top of you, swallowing your giddy giggles as he kisses you. He spreads your legs with his knees, dropping gentle kisses down your jawline. You quickly pull your heating pad out from under you and toss it on the floor. 

“Quick,” he whispers, “pretend to be asleep.” You close your eyes as he slides down your body, settling between your legs once again, and you realize you’ll definitely be in bed for the rest of the day. 

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

hope u enjoyed (: xo

[pucksandpower]

Let the World Burn

Charles Leclerc x Ferrari driver!Reader

Summary: a brake failure sends Charles’ world spinning out of control

Warnings: crash, partial paralysis, brain injury, and plenty of angst (with a happy ending because I’m still me)

Based on this request

The paddock thrums with energy as you make your way to your car, adrenaline already coursing through your veins. Charles falls into step beside you, his presence as familiar and comforting as the roar of engines.

“Ready to show them how it’s done, mon amour?” His voice is a low rumble, eyes alight with competitive fire.

You grin, leaning in to press a swift kiss to his lips. “Always. You’ll be the one watching my rear wing this time.”

Charles laughs, the sound rich and warm. “We’ll see about that.” He squeezes your hand, calloused fingers intertwining with yours. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” The words carry the weight of a thousand unspoken promises, a vow as binding as the wedding bands you can’t yet wear.

All too soon, you’re parting ways, disappearing into the organized chaos of the garage. You slide into the snug confines of the cockpit, the car’s familiar lines an extension of your own body. A flurry of final checks, the high-pitched whine of the engine firing up, and then you’re rolling onto the grid, the tension crackling like static electricity.

The lights go out, and the world narrows to the scream of tires on tarmac, the high-pitched howl of the engine, and the razor-sharp focus that has carried you this far. You and Charles trade positions with every corner, locked in an exhilarating duel that has the crowd on its feet.

And then, without warning, your world fractures.

The pedal goes soft underfoot, your instincts screaming even before the telltale high-pitched whine cuts through the roar of the engine. You slam on the brakes, but the response is sickening— a bare fraction of the deceleration you need.

“Ricky?” Your voice is tight, the adrenaline surging as the implications crash over you in waves. “I’ve got a brake issue here. A big one.”

“Copy that.” Ricky’s tone is clipped, professional, even as your heart rabbits in your chest. “Okay, let’s try cycling the systems-”

You follow his instructions with mechanical precision, but the results are the same: negligible braking force, the car still hurtling forward at murderous speeds. A hairpin looms ahead, the barriers terrifyingly close, and you fight the wheel with everything you have, desperate to keep the bucking machine on track.

“Ricky, is this being broadcast?” The words tumble out in a breathless rush as the Turn looms closer, closer.

“Affirmative.” There’s a pause, the faintest tremor in Ricky’s voice. “It’s going out live.”

You exhale, a shuddering breath that shakes your entire frame. There’s only one person you need to reach now.

“Charles.” His name catches in your throat, thick with emotion. “If you’re listening to this-”

The tears come then, hot and blinding as you wrestle with the uncontrollable car. This can’t be how it ends, not like this, not when you’d imagined decades more by his side.

“In some other life, maybe we would have grown old together.” The words are torn from the depths of your soul, raw and wrenched free by the stark reality bearing down on you. “I wish I could have given you babies and watched our children grow up and lived a long life by your side like we always dreamed.”

Your vision blurs, the turn now a void of unforgiving concrete rushing up to meet you. You fight the wheel with everything you have, but there’s no stopping the inevitable now.

“You deserve every happiness, my love. If … if I don’t make it, please … please find someone else to love and cherish. Don't grieve forever. Be happy.” The brake pedal is useless under your foot, the barriers skimming past in a blur of terror. “Because you deserve all the love in this world and so much more.”

“I hope you’ll hear this,” you force out in a cracked whisper. "And I need you to know, my heart, that even if things end here … even if I don’t get to grow old with you … you have been the brightest light in my life these past five years. You made me happier than I ever dreamed. And I will never, ever stop loving you, Charles. Not in this life or the next. You are everything-”

The impact is a cosmic force, obliterating breath and thought and everything else in a blinding flare of darkness. But still, you cling to awareness, to the phantom thread of love that binds you to the one person who matters most.

“I’ll always-” The anguished vow catches, cut brutally short as oblivion rises to claim you. In those final heartbeats, a fleeting kaleidoscope of memories sparks behind your eyes: unmistakable laughter, stolen kisses, quiet moments wrapped in each other’s arms.

Five years of loving Charles, of being loved by him in a way you’d never dared dream possible.

It wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

But it was everything.

“I love-”

Then, nothing.

***

The world fragments around Charles as his gaze locks onto the shattered remains of the familiar red car. One heartbeat — an endless, merciless instant suspended in time — and then his instincts take over with the force of a tidal wave.

“No … no, no, no!” The anguished words rip from his throat as he wrenches the steering wheel, the shriek of tires on tarmac drowned out by the roar of his own pulse thundering in his ears.

The race, the championship, every ambition and dream that has driven him to this point — it all fades into insignificance as he tears down the pitlane, desperation clawing at his throat. “Y/N! Hold on!”

Flames lick hungrily at the twisted wreckage as he sprints towards the mangled chassis, heedless of the searing heat or the choking smoke that burns his lungs. There’s only one thought, one driving need that propels him forward: reach you, get you out, pull you back from the precipice that has opened up beneath his feet.

“Y/N!”

Your name rips from his lips, a hoarse plea swallowed up by the crackle of fire. He skids to a halt beside the wreckage, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the warped metal that has become your cage, your tomb. “Talk to me, mon cœur! I’m here!”

Coherent thought fractures, replaced by blind panic and the soul-deep terror of losing the one light that guides him through this life.

Your eyes are closed, features lax and far too still against the vivid crimson that stains your skin. Charles’ breath catches in his throat, a raw, animal sound clawing its way free as his trembling hands reach for you, desperate to find a flutter of life, a spark of the brilliant fire he knows blazes within you.

“No, no, no … please, stay with me!” He cups your cheek, fingers smearing crimson as they search in vain for a pulse. “I can’t … I can’t lose you!”

Hands grasp at him then, voices raised in shouts he can’t comprehend. He wrestles against the restraints, a feral need to reach you overriding all reason. “Get off me! She needs help!”

But the marshals are insistent, pushing him back with grim determination until he can only watch, helpless, as they douse the ravenous flames.

It feels like an eternity, each gasping breath torn from a soul being flayed apart piece by torturous piece. And then, finally, they move in, the screech of metal and the hiss of hydraulics barely registering over the roar in Charles’ ears.

You’re so still as they work, pale and frighteningly fragile amidst the tangle of debris. A thin rivulet of red trails from the corner of your lips, each sluggish drip a struck match against the powder keg of Charles’ sanity. He takes a shuddering step forward, then another, his world narrowing to the trembling rise and fall of your chest.

“Please … please, stay with me,” he rasps, fingers closing around the rigid lines of the barrier as if it’s the only tether holding him to reality.

A marshal’s hand on his chest, forceful but lacking the strength to halt the unstoppable forward momentum of a man staring into the abyss. “Back off! Let them work!”

But how can he stand back? How can he simply watch as your life’s flame gutters and fades before his eyes? The words climb his throat, tangling into desperate pleas and vows that he’ll burn the world to keep you here, to keep you safe.

Except, no words come. There’s only the taste of ashes on his tongue and the sight of you, broken and bloodied on the unforgiving grass.

The medics arrive in a whirlwind of crisp efficiency, barking terse orders and assessments that slice into Charles with each clipped syllable. He’s dimly aware of the confirmation that you still live, that there’s a chance — but it’s a flicker, fleeting in the face of the reality unfolding before him.

“What are her chances?” The question rasps out, little more than a graveled whisper as he strains against the restraining hands.

You need an airlift, treatment beyond what can be rendered here on this blood-stained stage. Charles knows it, can see the franticness in the medics’ eyes as they work, but the knowledge brings no comfort.

Only an agonizing cycle of seconds hand-cranked like a Medieval torture device, each one stripping another layer of sanity as he watches you slip away.

“Just hang on, mon amour. I’m here … I’m right here.” His voice cracks, breaking on a devastated keen as they load you onto the backboard.

The whine of rotor blades cuts through the static in his head, a cold metallic slice that raises the hairs on the back of his neck. He sucks in a breath, lungs burning with the effort as the helicopter circles in a raucous descent.

“Please, let me go with her!” He wrenches against the hands with renewed desperation.

They’re taking you away.

He tries to follow, legs turned to lead weights, only to be held back once more by the wall of marshals. There’s shouting, words and pleas and anguished vows all tangled into an incomprehensible madness. “No! Y/N!”

And then, you’re gone.

Lifted skyward in a cloud of downdraft, growing smaller and more indistinct until the sleek lines of the helicopter grow razor-thin before disappearing completely.

“No … no, no, no!” Charles’ legs buckle, sending him crashing to his knees in the scorched swath of earth where you were just lying. His hands fist in the grass, heedless of the crimson that stains his fingers, his palms, every inch of shredded skin and broken soul.

The world has ended. His universe has imploded.

And all he can do is kneel in the ashes and scream your name into the uncaring void.

***

The deafening roar of engines fades to a dull thrum as Charles staggers away from the wreckage, his world reduced to a kaleidoscope of fractured images and white noise. He doesn’t register the shouts, the hands grasping at his shoulders as he stumbles blindly towards the track’s perimeter.

Racing. Championships. It all feels like a cruel cosmic joke in the face of what he’s just witnessed.

A chain-link fence looms ahead, the flimsy barrier doing nothing to impede his forward momentum. Figures materialize on the other side — fans, their faces twisted in shock and concern—and then hands are reaching through, steadying him as he clambers over the top with a desperation bordering on madness.

He has to get to you. Nothing else matters.

The parking lot stretches out before him, a maze of gleaming supercars and sleek team transporters. His feet move without conscious thought, propelled by a single-minded determination to reach his haven, his sole remaining tether in this swiftly unraveling realm.

Except, when he arrives at his Ferrari, chest heaving with exertion and the first tendrils of panic starting to set in, the awful truth crashes over him like a tsunami.

No keys.

A choking sound tears from his throat, part sob and part anguished growl of frustration. He can’t break down here, not now, not when every fiber of his being screams at him to keep moving, to fight, to-

“Charles!”

The familiar voice cuts through the din, offering a lifeline just as the darkness threatens to swell and consume him utterly. Andrea skids to a halt beside him, chest heaving and face flushed from his own desperate sprint across the paddock.

In his outstretched hand, the keys dangle and glint in the harsh sunlight.

“I had a feeling,” the trainer pants, thrusting the keys towards Charles with a knowing look.

No other words are needed. Charles snatches them with a terse nod, every agonizing second weighing like an eternity as the engine roars to life beneath his expert touch.

His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel as he wrenches the car into gear, jaw clenched to keep the scream of agony caged behind his teeth. Andrea hardly has time to slam the door before they’re peeling out of the lot in a spray of gravel and burnt rubber.

Except, the awful truth rears its head once more as the speedometer climbs past ludicrous speeds, the blur of the Italian countryside offering no reprieve from the maelstrom tearing him apart from the inside.

“Shit!” Charles’ palm cracks against the steering wheel, knuckles screaming in protest. “Where did they take her?”

Of course Andrea knows what he’s asking. The performance coach doesn’t even hesitate, already dialing his phone with the same razor-sharp focus that has guided Charles through so many battles over the years. “Fred? It’s Andrea. Where did they take Y/N?”

The next few seconds stretch into an eternity, each rattling breath searing Charles’ lungs. The line must still be ringing because Charles can’t make out any other voice, just the muffled hum of the connection and Andrea’s terse breathing. He casts a sidelong glance, jaw clenched so tightly he can feel the tendons straining beneath his skin.

Then, a response — clipped and authoritative even through the tinny speakerphone crackle. “They’ve airlifted her to the trauma center in Milan. She’s still en route.”

No other words are needed. The Ferrari leaps forward with a howl, devouring the asphalt as Charles whites out every other thought, every scrap of sense and reason. All that exists is the burning need to reach you before the unthinkable becomes reality.

Highway signs whip by in a blur, red taillights and shrill horns little more than background noise as he tears down the roads, uncaring of speed limits or lane markers or any of the trifling rules governing the everyday world he’s left behind. Just an animalistic need propelling him forward, the destination the only thing that matters.

Get to her. Don’t be too late. Please, god, don’t let me be too late ...

And then, finally, the looming skyline of Milan rears into view.

Tires squeal in protest as Charles wrenches the steering wheel, the Ferrari fishtailing wildly before rocketing down the street towards the distinctive profile of the hospital. He doesn’t even bother looking for a proper spot, swinging the car up over the curb and leaving it stranded halfway on the sidewalk in a blatant obstruction.

But he doesn’t care. Can’t care about anything beyond reaching you.

The chaos of the emergency room hits them in a crashing wave of noise and activity, but Charles forges ahead undeterred. Shouts and rebuffs part around him like a river around a boulder, falling away as staff recognize the wild-eyed visage barreling towards them.

It’s Italy. It’s the Grand Prix. Of course they know his face, the name that every tifoso here would sell their soul to claim as a native son. A path opens before them, whispers and pointing fingers trailing in their wake.

“Leclerc!”

“Did you hear what happened?”

“Code Red from the Autodromo ..”

The words slice at Charles, both too loud and too indistinct to comprehend beyond the implication that you’re here, somewhere through these endless, claustrophobic hallways. A nurse in seafoam scrubs appears at his side, ushering them with brisk efficiency. He follows without a word, legs fueled by pure desperation as they weave deeper into the sprawling facility.

At last, they’re led into a waiting room, the nurse pivoting to face them with a carefully composed expression. “The patient was brought in approximately thirty minutes ago with severe trauma from the crash. She’s currently in surgery, but there are no further updates I can provide right now.”

Surgery.

The weight of that single word hits like a sledgehammer, sending Charles reeling until his back slams against the nearest wall. He sucks in a ragged gasp, fingers tangling in his sweat-damp curls as the magnitude of what’s unfolding threatens to drag him under completely.

There are voices, murmurs of concern as figures materialize from the edges of his frayed vision. Hands grasp at him, trying in vain to offer comfort or reassurance or something, anything to tether him to this reality that has become his waking nightmare.

But there is no solace to be found.

With a shudder that wracks his entire frame, Charles slides down the wall, knees tucking up in a pitiful facsimile of the bright-eyed young man who had stood on that sunbaked grid only hours ago. His head drops into his upraised palms, fingers tightening in his hair until the pain is the only thing anchoring him against the relentless maelstrom of grief and terror threatening to sweep him away.

The rest of the world falls away until all that remains is the hollow ache in his chest and the silent pleas to someone — anyone — tumbling through his mind on an endless refrain.

A hand rests on his shoulder, grounding him, and he registers Andrea’s presence beside him, the other man’s face drawn in anguish. Tears track down the trainer’s cheeks, glittering in the harsh fluorescent light.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of their mingled breaths, of a silent understanding too profound for words.

Neither speaks. There are no more words to be said, no prayers to voice beyond the torrent of desperate pleas echoing through their fractured psyches.

All that remains is to wait, and steel themselves against the soul-shattering eventuality awaiting them no matter which way the scales of existence tip.

So they wait. And Charles breaks.

***

The fluorescent lights hum a discordant drone, casting stark shadows that seem to leach the warmth from every surface. Charles stares unseeing at the scuffed linoleum tiles inches from his boots, the clinical smell of disinfectant burning his nostrils with each shallow breath.

Beside him, Andrea’s presence is a fixed point amidst the whirling currents of nurses, orderlies, and grim-faced family members that swirl through the waiting room. A bottle of water is pressed into Charles’ hand at some point, the plastic slick with condensation against his palm.

He doesn’t drink. Doesn’t move or speak or show any reaction to the flickering passage of time.

The flow of bodies ebbs and swells like the tide, more familiar faces appearing in scuttling clusters. First the Ferrari personnel, then other teams’ crew, and finally the drivers themselves, one by one. Gasps and muffled curses drift past as the scope of the situation sinks in. Whispers, a bitten-off sob from somewhere across the room.

Charles hears none of it.

He’s adrift in a sea of his own spiraling thoughts, each cresting wave dragging him deeper into the all-consuming torment. Memories mingle with fragments of overheard updates, snippets of frantic phone conversations from those trying to unravel the events of the race.

Blood, so much blood staining the grass, her lips, matting her hair in crimson streaks as she lay unmoving, unbreathing.

Internal bleeding, fractures, neural trauma.

Laughter muffled by the sheets, lazy mornings spent tangled in each other as the world continued its inexorable spin beyond their bedroom walls.

Code Red from the Autodromo ...

The last words she’d tried to force out, little more than a whispered breath over the roar of the racetrack: “I love-”

The purgatory crawls on, each sluggish second carved raw against his tattered nerves. Charles is vaguely aware of the others filtering in and out in shifts, some speaking to him in murmurs too soft to understand, others simply sitting in silence as the minutes bled together into hours.

Some indeterminable span of time later, a ripple works its way through the room, crystallizing into a gathered hush as figures in pale green scrubs appear. One steps forward — a man with graying hair and a craggy face lined by decades of triaging human lives.

The hush deepens to an utter stillness as every eye turns towards him, a held breath drawn taut to the breaking point. Charles lifts his head, forces his gaze to focus on the man’s lips as they part, the moment elongating like a length of rubber pulled to the edge of its tensile strength.

“The patient-” A pause as the surgeon’s eyes flick across the sea of apprehension before settling on Charles with deliberate weight. “-has been stabilized after undergoing extensive surgery to address the trauma sustained in the crash.”

A soft exhalation moves through the room, instinctive reactions barely bridled by the undercurrent of anxiety that keeps them taut, waiting.

“She suffered a severe brain bleed which resulted in significant swelling. In order to alleviate the pressure on her brain, we were forced to put her into a medically-induced coma.”

The words lance through Charles like jagged shards of ice, locking the breath in his lungs. Unconscious, unresponsive. Alive, but without any way of reaching out to reassure himself that the spark still flickers in those endlessly warm eyes. He swallows hard, the room swimming in and out of focus as the surgeon continues in a measured cadence.

“We’ve also had to repair multiple internal injuries and fractures, including her spine. The next forty-eight hours will be critical for monitoring her condition and responses.”

And there it is, the crux they’ve all been tensed in agonizing anticipation to receive. In two days, they’ll know if the fight — your fight — is over before it’s truly begun. The flip of a cosmic coin will determine whether Charles’ entire universe continues to spin … or falls into the black void opening up beneath his feet.

Peripherally, he’s aware of the questions starting, the anguished pleas for more details and reassurances as the others process the impassive surgeon’s words through their own lenses of experience. But Charles hears none of it, only the deafening rush of his own pulse echoing in his ears as the grains of sand in fate’s diabolical hourglass begin their insidious trek.

A blink, and the surgeon is gone, the rest of the somber scrub-clad figures dispersing back towards the swinging doors of the surgical ward. Just like that, they’re alone again, adrift in the limbo of both desperation and dread.

Charles sags, his tenuous grip on composure fracturing like a dam rupturing beneath the crushing weight of reality. A broken whimper rasps from deep within his chest, guttural and visceral and utterly devoid of anything resembling hope.

A hand finds his shoulder, grounding him enough to keep him tethered to the earth as the universe he knows compresses into the torturous rhythm of a mechanized ventilator breathing life into your battered form.

He can see you so clearly, even with his eyes screwed shut against the harsh fluorescents bleaching every surface to the same antiseptic pallor. Fragile, fighting, hooked up to the cold indifference of technology while it works to preserve what he knows to be the brightest, most brilliant soul ever breathed into existence.

The thought of those sparkling eyes, your eyes clouded with unresponsive stillness … it rips the last tattered shred of restraint from his unraveling core. A desolate wail tears free, strangled and raw and utterly devoid of resignation or peace.

He’s loved you for years, months, days, lifetimes — and still it will never be enough to prepare him for a world in which you don’t exist. A breath where he is forced to simply survive without the steady radiance of your presence illuminating every step along his path. Without living.

Andrea’s arms encircle him, a brotherly embrace that does little to quell the flood of anguish now pouring from him in heaving torrents. The others retreat with quiet steps, allowing themselves to fade into the shadows, mere ghosts slipping from the devastation of a man confronting the whispered dread that inhabits every driver’s subconscious.

A love and a life, both hanging suspended by whatever cosmic forces govern their fleeting existences.

You are his gravity, his sun, his guiding starlight.

If you burn out, his universe will go forever dark.

***

The antiseptic haze of the ICU feels like a vice around Charles’ chest as he follows the nurse down the sterile hallway. Each shuffling step is leaden, tinged with an unreality that weighs heavier with every closed door they pass.

Part of him doesn’t want to go through with this. Doesn’t want to face the reality that awaits on the other side of that threshold and shatter the tenuous equilibrium he’s managed to cling to since the moment everything disintegrated on the racetrack.

“She’s just through here.”

The nurse’s words are a wrench, jerking Charles from his reverie with a sobering lurch. Ahead, a nondescript door with a window barely cracked — the entrance to a realm he’s not sure his soul can withstand traversing.

“I’ll give you a few minutes.” Her voice has taken on that too-gentle lilt, the one that says she’s borne witness to too many lives fractured.

Charles nods automatically, not meeting her gaze as she retreats on soft-soled steps. Then it’s just him, alone in the dimly lit hallway with only the muffled noise of machines and murmured voices beyond the door to keep him tethered.

With a fortifying breath that does little to settle the jackhammer pounding in his chest, he grasps the handle and pushes through into your room.

And then … there you are.

Pale and hauntingly still against the sterile sheets, a sickly garden of tubes and wires cocooning your form. There’s barely a rise and fall of your chest, just the robotic ebb and flow of life being pumped through the mask clamped across your face. Dark crescents of bruising mar the fragile skin beneath your eyes, blossoming in vivid shades of yellow and violet across your cheekbones.

You’re so devastatingly still. As if all your vibrant essence has retreated inward, abandoning your corporeal shell in favor of waging an unseen war to simply continue existing.

Charles sucks in a shuddering breath, fingers spasming against his thigh as the first hairline fractures split through the dam he’s erected around his emotions. Part of him wants to flee, to escape back into the blissful naivete of the world before this became his reality. Another part is rooted to the spot with magnetic inevitability, drawn in helpless orbit around your pale, unmoving form.

Slowly, one foot drags in front of the other, carrying him across the room to hover beside your bedside. The blanket of tubes and wires prevents him from seeing much beyond your face and the barest suggestion of a shoulder through the loose neckline of the hospital gown. He reaches out, fingertips trembling as he ghosts them over the exposed skin just above the jutting notch of your collarbone.

You’re so still. And so, so cold.

That’s what breaks him.

His knees hit the tile with a dull thud, unheeded tears already streaking down his cheeks by the time he presses his forehead to the mattress edge. One hand finds yours, enveloping it in a desperate grasp as his entire being crumbles inward like a spent force of nature.

“No, no, no ...” The words are a mantra intermingled with broken gasps as the dam ruptures completely and the anguish pours free in ragged waves. “This can’t … you can’t ...”

Coherent thought deserts him, spiraling into the endless dark of a life without you at his side. These last few days have been a mere fleeting taste of that desolate actuality, uncomprehending glimpses into a reality too obliterating to fully process.

A universe without your light? Your radiance and warmth suffusing his world with color and texture and meaning? It feels like a black hole has opened its maw inside of his chest, hungry to devour everything until nothing remains.

“Please ...”

The plea rasps out in a guttural whisper, little more than carbon scoring the back of his throat. Head bowed, he crushes his brow to your knuckles, each etchings of bone an anchor weight lashing him to this merciless reality.

“Come back to me ...”

The words splinter apart, shredded into woeful gasps as the dam of his fragile composure ruptures. Great, racking sobs claw their way free, tearing through him from the center of his hollow core.

“Take everything else.” The words fracture anew, dissolving into heaving sobs as another piece of his soul splinters away. “Take every trophy, every podium, every championship I will ever win ...”

His voice cracks, seizing in his throat as he drags in a ragged breath, leaning his brow harder against the bedside to ground himself in some last anchor of solidity. Anything to keep from shattering into a million irretrievable pieces as he pours out the final offering, the ultimate sacrifice any driver or athlete can make against the cruel cosmic joke of mortality.

“Take my career, my records ... everything racing has ever meant to me ...” His fingers spasm around yours, clinging on with everything he has left as the darkness closes in. “Just ... please, let her wake up. Let me have more than just these memories of her smile and her laugh and the way she makes everything brighter just by existing.”

The sobs come harder now, racking his frame with deep shudders as his voice dissolves into jagged keening. Tears scald rivulets down his cheeks and drip from his chin to patter against the utilitarian sheets in glimmering droplets. He cries for the unfairness of it all, for the loss that is so brutally imminent it’s already written into his very bones, for the gaping hole that is soon to hollow out his very existence.

Eventually, the racking sobs subside into muted whimpers, the storm ebbing into a quieter desolation as he clings to the thin lifeline of your hand still cradled in his own. A bitter laugh claws its way up his throat, raw and devoid of any trace of humor.

“You’d probably kick my ass if you could see me making deals with the devil like this.”

The silence is deafening, broken only by the measured hiss-pause-exhale of the machines mercilessly keeping that precious flicker of life from extinguishing completely. Another laugh escapes, rough and graveled with the weight of a million shattered pieces of himself littering the floor around him.

“You’ve always been the stronger one between us, haven’t you?”

He angles his head, pressing his lips to your knuckles in a lingering kiss as a fresh deluge of tears gather in his eyes. “So wake up, mon cœur. Wake up and show me how to keep going ...”

The whisper hangs in the air, suspended in the limbo of waiting and dread as the machines continue their indifferent monotony. Charles lingers there, forehead pressed to your palm as the minutes drag onward and the final flickers of day fade from the window.

He’s here. He’ll always be right here.

No matter how many nights and days and eternities that ceaseless tide must crash over him until your eyes open once more.

The quiet is shattered by a stifled gasp at the threshold, a swell of fresh emotion that causes Charles to lift his head, scrubbing futilely at his eyes with the back of his free hand. Two figures have appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the dimmer light of the hallway beyond.

Footsteps, two sets. Familiar yet not, like ghosts drifting through the periphery of a dream. He knows instinctively who has stepped into the claustrophobic bubble of vigil, but cannot summon the energy to turn, to confront them.

There’s only you. Only you, and this carcass of shattered promises and devastation that he’s been reduced to by the simple fact of your absence.

Until …

Motions in the corner of his vision, the slide of fabric and muted footfalls amidst the monotonous cadence of technology. Then, a pair of weathered hands — hands he recognizes like the veins pulsing with life beneath his own skin — come into view, cupping his bowed head in a cradle of reassurance and shared infinitudes of anguish.

Your parents’ voices carry in the wake of their touch, whispers ragged with the same bone-deep desolation bleeding from Charles’ shattered core. Indistinct murmurs of comfort, of empathy, of that level of understanding that only those poised on the precipice can ever understand.

He doesn’t resist as they draw him into the circle of their arms, enveloping him until their shared warmth banishes some of the chill snaking through his soul. Hot tears streak down his cheeks again, but these aren’t solitary, bitter shed of a man abandoned in the void of loss.

Their mingled anguish binds them together on this fevered plane of suffering, a communion of the damned begging with whatever beneficent forces might hear their pleas.

Please.

Please give them back the spark of light they all crave with every fiber of their beings.

Please, because this ...

This is no life. Not without you.

***

The fluorescent lights seem to dim with every passing hour, the edges of reality blurring together into an indistinct smear. Time has lost all meaning amidst the monotonous cycle of machines and muffled hospital ambiance swirling through your room.

Charles is adrift in a wakeful dream state, his world compressed into the miniscule shifts across your features. The steady beep of the heart monitor, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of your chest, the flutter of your eyelids as your mind navigates whatever ethereal paths separate you from him.

He hasn’t left your bedside. Not for food or rest or even the most basic of human needs. It’s all he can do to simply exist in this liminal space with you, unwilling to surrender a single breath or blink to the cruelty of a reality in which your presence doesn’t illuminate every crevice.

His thumb traces idle circles over your knuckles, the motion as robotic as the whoosh of the ventilator forcing air in and out of your lungs. Voices drift through from the hallway, clinical and detached. More tests and updates being murmured without context or depth of feeling.

None of it matters. The only metric capable of penetrating the fog enshrouding Charles is the ghost of sensation where his calloused fingers brush your skin.

He’s acutely attuned to the details of your condition at any given moment, no matter how inconsequential it may seem to the professionals at their stations monitoring labs and scans. A slight spike in temperature or blood pressure, the faintest twitching muscle or brow-furrow. All of it feels magnified a thousandfold as he clings to every indication, every little shift that might signal a turn for the better.

Or … for the worse

The thought skitters away the instant it surfaces, instinctively repressed by the force of Charles’ sheer desperation. He’s been here, motionless and steadfast, as the forty-eight hour milestone stretched into seventy-two, ninety-six, a hundred and twenty. With each passing day, the doctors grew more optimistic, more positive in their assessments as the swelling in your brain gradually abated.

Until this morning. The preliminary preparations to rouse you from the protective shroud of the medically induced coma began. Rounds of testing, consults from specialists, hushed asides between the scrub-clad personnel that Charles couldn’t parse beyond the undercurrent of anticipation that rippled through the ward.

Now they wait. He and the contingent of nurses and doctors hovering at stations like sentries guarding the gateway to the only world that matters. Watching, observing, as your eyelids begin to stir and the heart monitor’s pattern shifts just slightly from its metronomic rhythm.

Charles holds his breath, fingers tightening around yours as his gaze fixes on your face, the first pinpricks of awareness flickering there. Your eyelids flutter, brow furrowing as if straining against unseen barriers holding you back. Flashes of animation, of unvoiced struggle, play out in rapid succession and his world constricts into that singular point of reality unwinding.

Your fingers twitch, a spasmodic shudder, before settling into a steady movement in his grasp. The change in pressure is minute, featherweight, but it’s enough to electrify every nerve in Charles’ body. His head whips toward the observation window, breath sawing from his lungs.

“She’s waking up!”

It’s little more than a raw exhalation, the spark that ignites the room into urgent, yet controlled, flurries of activity. A nurse slips inside, tapping briskly at monitors and checking lines with an instinctive flow of motion. Charles barely registers her presence, his world distilled down to that singular point of lifeline linking him to you as the fog of unconsciousness finally begins to lift.

Your first inhale tugs at something primal within him, hauls the breath from his lungs even as unfettered joy spills through his chest. There’s movement beneath the fluttering of your eyelids, the rustle of lashes and tiny furrows creasing the delicate skin around your eyes. The seconds stretch out like an eternity until finally ...

They open.

Slitted and hazy, but undeniably open and aware. For an endless heartbeat, Charles is frozen, hands still wrapped around your fingers as afraid to move as a cave explorer plunged into impermeable black.

Then the world rushes in with all the chaos and color he’s been robbed of for far too long. A desperate sound tears itself free of his throat, as his body releases the suspended tension flooding from every pore. He sways forward, bracing his other hand on the mattress edge to keep from utterly crumpling at your very first flutter of life.

“Oh god ...” The fractured keen catches with a gasping sob. “Dieu merci, I thought I-”

But the words fracture, tumble away into lost coherence as you shift, throat bobbing with visible effort before the slurred shape of words escapes past chapped lips.

“C-can’t … f-feel ...”

Charles freezes, the world contracting back into stark lines and hyper-focused clarity. You’re struggling, the effort of speech clear across features still slack with the vestiges of your ordeal.

Panic claws its way up his throat, instinct sounding the call to seek help, to rally every force of medicine at their disposal toward solving this new, horrifying complication. He turns, mouth already open in a shout toward the observation window-

Only to find the room already flooding with personnel, summoned by some unseen alert the moment you stirred. Voices begin filtering through the dissonance clogging his senses — clipped, professional directives lancing through the feedback loop skipping inside his skull.

“Keep her calm-”

“... signs of paralysis ...”

“... damage to the motor cortex ...”

The final phrase lands like a weighted punch, sending Charles reeling back a half-step as the implications unspool into his consciousness. Your face twists in distress, breath sawing as the tube mask fogs with each panicked exhalation.

“I … n-no ...” You try to move, to shift position, but whatever spinal injury incurred in the wreck limits you to feeble twitches and whimpers.

Charles is at your side in an instant, features etched in silent agony as he brushes back the hair feathering across your forehead. His other hand finds yours, solid and grounding as he wills every iota of strength into the contact.

“Shhh, it’s alright. It’ll be alright, just stay calm.”

A cursory glance over his shoulder confirms a flurry of activity unfolding behind the glass as neurologists and specialists filter in. Tests will be run, evaluations and diagnostics to chart out whatever neural trauma has wrought such devastating effects upon your mobility.

In this moment, none of it matters beyond the trembling whimpers parting your lips and the glimmer of tears streaking your cheeks to dampen the pillow beneath your head. Charles wants nothing more than to gather you into his arms, to shield you from this fresh cruelty that has robbed you of yet another piece of your spirit.

Instead, he leans in close, cradling your face in his palm as you struggle to latch onto his presence amidst the waves of fear and distress no doubt crashing through your psyche.

“F-feel my … can’t ....” The disjointed words catch in racking sobs, your eyes squeezing shut against a torrent of emotion he recognizes all too well.

“I know, I know ...” The platitudes feel hollow, meaningless verbal gestures against the enormity of the situation closing its grip around them. But Charles speaks them regardless, murmuring soft reassurances against your anguish.

“Just focus on me, mon cœur. Only me.” His thumb swipes the moisture from your cheekbones, smearing tear tracks through the pallor there as his voice drops to a soft rasp. “You’re still here, still fighting ...”

Your eyes open at that, lashes spiked and heavy with more saline that slips free to streak down your temples. Those depths are oceans of heartache, roiling with a tempest of emotion that momentarily banishes every scrap of reason or logic from Charles’ mind.

All that matters is easing your suffering. Doing anything to lift the veil of anguish smothering the radiant light that marked your essence, that wondrous spark responsible for thawing every one of his defenses and opening a pathway to the heart he’d resigned himself to never sharing.

“I’m here and I’m not leaving. Not ever.” The words scorch themselves into his very soul as he presses his brow to yours. The antiseptic smells of your surroundings fade, the two of you cocooned in the intimate embrace of making your entire world his, if only for these fleeting seconds.

“We’ll get through this together,” he murmurs against your hairline, drinking in the simple euphoria of your closeness, of being able to impart even an inkling of comfort through his presence alone. “I promise.”

The words hang there for a suspended eternity, no response beyond the quiet hiccup of your breathing evening out the tiniest bit. A sliver of solace in the storm to cling to, no matter how tenuous.

Then the retinue of doctors and nurses sweeps in, their voices raised in directives and instructions. It shatters the moment, the outside world crashing back into their reality with all its cold indifference and clinical calculation.

Charles is ushered back, stumbling on legs turned to rubber as he watches you drag your reddened gaze from his, focusing inward as the onslaught of testing begins. He wants to refuse, to dig in his heels and remain steadfastly at your side through whatever fresh torments this throws your way.

But that defiance dies before it can form, snuffed out by the fragility written in the slump of your shoulders and the dull, haunted glaze muting your formerly vibrant spirit. All of his instincts scream at him to protect you, to rally against any external forces bent on inflicting more cruelty upon your already overburdened existence.

Instead, with a leaden heart and bile burning the back of his throat, Charles can only slip from the room and let the white coats encircle you with their machines and sterile indifference.

It’s a wait that lasts an eternity condensed into seconds, the rubber soles of his sneakers tracing grooves into the linoleum as he paces the hallway with increasing franticness. Snatches of conversation drift out from behind the closed door — clinical assessments devoid of context or feeling.

Then, as abruptly as it began, the door sweeps open and a group of personnel file out, scribbling notations and conversing in terse murmurs. One of them, a woman with cropped silver hair and piercing eyes, breaks off to approach Charles. Her expression is carefully neutral, devoid of any emotional tells.

“Mr. Leclerc.” It’s not a question, but an acknowledgment of who he is … and what is owed to him. “Your … partner has suffered extensive trauma to her spinal cord and central nervous system in the crash. The amount of nerve damage we’re detecting suggests paralysis of both lower extremities.”

The words shatter into coherent syllables and empty static all at once. Charles nods numbly, awaiting the verdict he can feel looming above them all.

“We can’t say with any certainty whether this condition is temporary or … permanent.” There’s a pause, the ghost of empathy flickering across her hawkish features before the professional mask reasserts itself. “Only time will tell if there’s any chance of full recovery once the other injuries have mended and treatment can begin in earnest.”

The finality hangs in the air for a stretched tautness of heartbeats, crystalline and utterly devoid of warmth. Charles forces himself to meet her gaze, to hold her clinical detachment within his own eyes as the world drifts further and further away.

“Okay.” It’s little more than a whisper, but it feels like tearing out his own throat to give voice to the thing that shatters his heart for you. “Can I … see her?”

A dip of the woman’s chin, a wordless assent as she steps aside to allow Charles to pass. He manages only a few weighted strides before halting, hand braced against the doorframe as he ghosts his gaze over your prostrate form.

You’re crying, quiet and bereft as the blankets rise and fall in time with your shuddering breaths. Something animal and feral keens low in Charles’ chest at the sight, every scrap of resolve threatening to unravel in the wake of your desolation.

Before he can think of second-guess the impulse, he crosses the space in two strides and drops to his knees beside the mattress. You startle at the sudden motion, eyelids fluttering in shock before recognition blazes through the emptiness shrouding your features. It’s Charles’ undoing.

“No, no … no tears.” His voice cracks like splintered glass, adrift on waves of his own withheld emotion. “You’re still here. You’re still with me, mon amour.”

He finds your hand with his own, fingers dwarfed in his calloused grip as he brings them to his brow. Outside, the doctors and specialists confer in low murmurs, their indifference too jagged to apply to the wounds here in this sanctuary where only you exist.

“You’ll be okay.” The promise burns itself into the verse he’s scribed on his heart, a vow etched in trails of moisture searing his cheeks. “No matter what it takes.”

His lips find your forehead, brushing against the clammy skin there as you sag towards him, drawn together by the gravity of an understanding too profound for the empty hallways and clinical trappings circling them. For this stolen breath, it’s simply you and him in all your wounded radiance.

“I almost lost you.” The confession rattles free, sent skyward on exhaled plumes that stir the fine baby hairs framing your brow. “And I’ll fight like hell to keep you beside me for as long as this life will allow.”

Your eyes find his, fractured mirrors reflecting all the heartache and dashed hopes ricocheting between you. But there’s something else there too.

Hope. Defiance. That unquenchable spark that first lured Charles toward you like a moth begging for the flame’s obliterating caress.

He’ll cling to that inner fire. Pour every ounce of his being into nurturing the smoldering coals until they flare again, banishing the darkness fate has chosen to drape them in at every turn. They’ll get through this, finding whatever reserves the cruelest pockets of despair have yet to strip away to sustain them.

Paralysis, brain damage, unthinkable trauma ...

None of it matters.

Not as long as you’re still drawing those precious, rasping breaths beside him.

Not as long as that beautifully battered heart beats on, refusing to surrender to the abyss.

“Je t’aime.” The oath clings to his lips, pressed against your temple as he holds you close. “Always and forever. No matter what.”

***

The sleek, modern lines of the therapy center bisect the Monegasque sky, all glass and steel rising toward the blue expanse. Charles pauses a moment as he strides across the courtyard, drawing in a steadying breath of the crisp early-winter air before continuing on toward the entrance.

The motion-triggered doors sweep open with a whisper, ushering him into the pristine lobby adorned with the fixtures of understated elegance. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in muted ambers and golds that warm the precision-engineered decor.

Charles crosses the space with economical purpose, gaze sweeping the sitting areas arranged with studied nonchalance until he pinpoints the familiar silhouette awaiting him. You’re positioned with your back angled toward him, the faint shudder of your shoulders visible as you shift position in the high-backed wheelchair.

For a heartbeat, the sight freezes him in place, the old swell of emotions threatening to spiral into rampant chaos until he can taste the acrid tang of panic curdling on his tongue.

Then the moment passes, brought up short by the instinctive reflex to compartmentalize that’s carried him through so many darknesses since the day his entire universe fragmented beyond repair. He shakes it off, squaring his shoulders as he resumes his trajectory, clearing the distance between you in a handful of strides.

You must sense his presence behind you because a tremor shivers across your frame a half-second before you begin to crane your neck towards the source of the approaching footfalls. Charles times his approach to intercept the motion, stepping neatly into your peripheral line of sight with a warm smile ghosting across his features.

“Mon amour.”

The endearment falls from his lips like silk across skin, the richly-textured syllables suffusing the air between you until it feels thick with emotion and the grounding sense of home. Of course, you react to the sound, lips already parting in anticipation of reply that has yet to fully manifest.

The struggle is still so pronounced, hewn into the furrows creasing your brow and the deliberate concentration sharpening the elegant lines of your profile as you wrestle with the disconnect between neural synapses and musculature. Each time Charles bears witness to these trials, it rekindles the enduring fury and heartache enough to steal the air from his lungs.

How cruel could fate be to hurt the brightest soul he’s ever known?

The questions circle endlessly, gnawing their way across his subconscious in a constant cycle of what-ifs and unvoiced anguish. So he clings to patience as your sole solace, willing every ounce of unspoken encouragement into the sliver of contact where his calloused fingers sit atop your knuckles.

“It’s-” The fragmented sound tugs his focus back to your profile in time to catch the flickering hint of frustration tightening the muscles along your jaw as the words elude their trajectory once more. He watches your chest rise and fall with the effort of measured breathing, sees the war being waged behind blown pupils as your nerves strive to reestablish an equilibrium so brutally ruptured by trauma.

And then … a breakthrough.

“I ...” Barely more than an exhale, shaped on the barest puff of air passing your lips. But the simple vowel ignites something beneath Charles’ breastbone, a frisson of hope and pride and a thousand other tangled emotions combining into unadulterated exhilaration.

“L-love ...” Another pause, infinitesimal in the grand cosmic span yet stretched endless as the consonants parse themselves into recognizable sounds. Your eyes find his, glimmering pinpricks of desperate adoration blazing through the sullen cloud of anguish that’s settled in their depths.

The final whisper crystallizes into the air with the reverent weight of an answered prayer, “... you.”

Charles is across the space in an instant, crashing to his knees before you with a breathless sound that parts his lips on a broken rasp. Trembling hands map along the delicate slopes of your cheeks, cradling your face as a single tear spills free to chart a glistening trail down his cheek.

“Oh god ...” The prayer shivers past his lips, half sob and half keening breath as he presses his brow to yours, drowning in your presence and surrounding himself with the singularity of your existence. “You did it. You said it ...”

He trails off, lost to the beautifully battered rhythm of your exhales gusting across his features. This close, you’re all he sees, all he needs to survive this moment of solace among the anguished trials you’ve endured to forge this path back toward him. With painstaking care, he leans in to dust trembling kisses across your brow, your temples, the feathered crescents of your eyelashes as they flutter shut beneath the reverent onslaught.

Until finally, his lips find yours in a searing confession of worship — no urgency or fire, just two souls colliding into the singularity that first kindled their union. Charles slants his mouth across your own, breathing you in deeply until his senses are awash in the familiar scent of your skin and the dizzying tranquility of becoming something so much more than the sum of fragmented parts.

It both is and isn’t a kiss, just the barest brush of sensitive flesh and shared breath. Yet all of Charles’ fortitude strains against the tidal surge of emotion crashing through his bones … devotion and heartache, fervent pride and the nauseating chaser of reality.

Because even as you persevere, rising like a phoenix from each trial along this endless road toward recovery, he knows the path ahead remains strewn with obstacles and shadowed pockets into which the darkness always lurks.

When he finally tears himself away, it’s with another shuddering breath and two crystalline trails of moisture etched into the hollows beneath his eyes. He drinks in your features with the starving desperation of one lost to the merciless desert of life, maps every nuanced shift of line and breath and expression to catalog the miracles unfolding before him.

“You incredible, impossible thing ...” The endearment slips free on a choked laugh, more for his sake than any lack of comprehension on your part. Even after everything, Charles knows you understand the timbre and shape of his words as deeply as if they were your own thoughts.

But before he can bask in the fleeting warmth of this tiny victory, you’re drawing him back in. Delicate fingertips brushing the moisture from his cheekbones as you struggle to translate thought into sound once more.

“This … isn’t ...” A pregnant pause, brow furrowing with the strain before the rest comes in a tumbling rush. “What you wanted. For us.”

The words land like craters against Charles’ ribs, disjointed bombs stripping away the last threads of cheerfulness with each syllable. He stills, mouth parting on a protest that never materializes as you forge onward in the wake of his stunned silence.

“Y-you gave up ...” Another tiny hesitation, your chest rising and falling as you suck in a fortifying breath, “... everything.”

A fresh sheen of moisture wells in your eyes, slick with too many fractured hopes and dreams to ever assemble into coherent utterances. Still, Charles recognizes each shred of meaning, every whispered subtext behind the fragments you offer up as if stilling him for the inevitable strike to come.

Except this time, the blow he expects never arrives. Instead, you lean in, fingertips trailing lightly across the sharp angles of his jaw as the rest of the thought emerges with painstaking care.

“It’s … okay. To find someone ...” Your voice cracks, throat bobbing against the torrent of naked vulnerability suffusing each word. “... new.”

For an endless instant, the world spins on its axis, that single, shattered confession shearing through all of Charles’ deeply-ingrained instincts and defenses. This is the thing he’s dreaded since the first moment fate’s vicious hand tore the very fabric of your radiance into parts — the inevitability of you shouldering the blame for what has unfolded.

Unacceptable.

Unthinkable.

His hands are on you again before he consciously wills them to move, palms cradling your face like he’s the one in constant danger of crumbling into a billion undone pieces. It’s both anchor and lifeline as he pulls you flush against him, mouth trembling for purchase against the rush of sentiment crashing through his veins.

“Never.” The oath has never felt so feather-light yet absolute all at once. He rasps it out like a scrap of prayer, the shape of the sound rippling through the air between them.

“This life? You are everything I want.” The words feel torn from some primal place he had thought cauterized in the aftermath of all that has transpired between them. But still, Charles lays himself bare in their wake, baring every shred of anguish and love and reverence bleeding from his heart.

“Not the career or the glory or any other pursuit I might have thrown myself toward ...” He drags in a ragged inhale, feeling your quivering breaths ghosting across his lips like a light breeze stoked from embers. “Just you, mon cœur. All of you — from your brilliant mind to your determined spirit.”

His thumb traces the supple curve of your cheekbone, rough calluses snagging lightly against satin-smooth skin as his voice skips toward a halting rasp.

“I don’t know what the future holds.” This final mortal truth lingers in the thrall of hushed vulnerability shrouding them. “But I’m not leaving this existence without you by my side through every second of it. Not willingly.”

In the suspended heartbeats that follow, Charles watches the onslaught of emotion crest through the otherworldly depths of your eyes. He swallows hard, aching to fend off whatever final resistance lingers behind those storm-tossed features. Except his throat has grown too thick, too clogged with unshed tears to give voice to the hundreds upon thousands of fractured promises unspooling toward each other.

So he kisses you instead — harder this time, with the desperate exhilaration of a drowning man breaking surface to taste the first gasps of oxygen-rich air. He pours himself into the connection, igniting the spark that first smoldered between you years and lifetimes ago until his entire being resonates with the radiant warmth.

When at last he drags himself back, it’s with a swipe of his thumb to brush away the shimmering track of tears he’s unwittingly drawn to your cheek. “I love you,” he rumbles, the sound resonating from the depths of his core to embed in the very foundations of his soul. “Nothing else matters.”

And as if summoned by nothing more than the simmering weight of his epiphanies, you offer up one final exhalation shimmering with promise and budding hope.

“Race.” A broken sound, little more than a whispered caress against the tide of all that has gone unsaid. “Win for … f-for us.”

Charles’ lips part, trembling with too many half-born replies in that stretched moment of realization.

You’re right. Of course you’re right, focused as always upon rekindling the vibrant sparks threatening to gutter beneath his gaze. It’s yet more proof of why he resolved to kneel before you and bind his existence to your own — from now until the last glimmers of twilight.

He curls a hand behind your neck, prizing this beautiful connection above all the momentary triumphs and thrills his boyhood dreams ever convinced him to pursue. Red-painted carbon and shrieking downshifts, roars of acclaim and champagne spilled as if raining down from the heavens … none of it could ever hope to fill the sacred spaces you’ve already occupied with your quiet strength and luminous resilience.

“For you,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, leaving goosebumps in its wake along the exposed column of your throat. “And only for you, mon ange. I’ll make the world itself hold its breath if that’s what you need.”

He seals the promise with a final brush of his mouth, lingering until every ounce of the sacred vow sears itself into your skin and memory alike.

By the time he draws back to drink in your features one more time, there’s a spark flickering through the storm clouds rimming your gaze. A dazzling flicker in the instant before it flares into something inextinguishable, something potent enough to blind out every shadow threatening to swallow him whole.

It sears through him like a lightning strike, melting every ounce of resolve into something more precious than any trophy or accolade his profession could ever bestow.

A vow you return with a simple promise. “I’ll be your ...” Your voice falters. But your eyes blaze with the words, with that same inevitable fire that forged those first fateful sparks between your souls, “... biggest fan.”

***

The grand hall seems to hum with the collective intake of a thousand bated breaths as Charles turns to face the gathering. Sunlight streams through towering windows in cascading sheets of amber warmth, gilding everything in honeyed refractions that lend an ethereal glow to the floral arrangements and pristine altar dominating the space.

He sucks in a steadying breath of his own, rolling his shoulders beneath the crisp lines of his tailored tuxedo. Anticipation thrums through every fiber of his being, vibrating in synchrony with the symphony of tremulous breaths rippling through their assembled friends and loved ones.

This moment has been too long in manifesting, too brutally tested by the cruelties of fate to be anything but utterly perfect in execution.

Behind him, the faint rustle of his groomsmen shifting into place provides the barest murmur of ambient sound. Joris, Andrea, Pierre, Arthur, and Lorenzo — all united by the gravity of this singular instance reshaping the trajectory of Charles’ existence. He chances the briefest glance over his shoulder, meeting their steadying nods of encouragement with a fleeting ghost of a smile.

It anchors him, draws together those final errant threads of composure in time for the first swell of the processional to filter through the sprawling chamber. The gentle symphony of strings and woven harmonies crashes over Charles in a physical caress, setting his nerves alight with anticipation as every eye tracks toward the grand archway dominating the far end of the hall.

He doesn’t immediately register the diminutive figure emerging in a sweep of ivory chiffon and pale lace. Only after the sharp inhalation of breath fluttering through the assembled does his gaze lock onto your silhouette, resplendent even through the sheer flutter of the veil haloing your shoulders.

He expects the wheelchair, the familiar sleek metallic lines and measured rolls ushering you towards him. Expects the sight that’s become so achingly you, even as it never fails to tighten every muscle in his body with the urge to shelter you in his arms from every cruelty the merciless universe has seen fit to inflict.

Except … there is no chair.

The shuddering breath that leaves his lips might as well have been torn from the depths of his very essence in that suspended heartbeat of dawning realization.

You’re walking.

With slow, tiny strides, flanked on either side by bridesmaids in burnished golds — but not supported or aided in any functional sense of the movements.

No, these halting footfalls are all your own. A monumental effort of sheer force of will and gritty determination honed across months of exhaustive perseverance through some of the darkest shadows ever spanning your shared existences.

Each trembling step, every inch traveled across that endless-seeming expanse of polished marble floor, is both defiant proof of your resilience and a blazing triumph over pain and hardship and loss echoed ten thousandfold.

Charles cannot breathe. Can barely remain upright as his entire world both manifests and dissolves around this singular progression unfolding before him in strangled increments. Others have begun to weep in earnest, muffled sobs billowing through the gathered assembly like ripples across a pond’s placid surface.

He’s vaguely aware of his groomsmen shifting behind him, of shocked gasps ghosting across their stunned features as they grasp the significance of what’s unfolding before their eyes. Andrea’s palm finds the small of Charles’ back, steadying his frame against the sudden influx of vertigo and exhilaration threatening to collapse his consciousness.

Because all that exists in this shuddering span of fractured instants is you. Nothing more, nothing less than the endless radiance of your soul as you stride toward him.

Toward your destiny.

Toward the culmination of all the strength and beauty and determination he’s revered with every ounce of his being since the first time he met you.

He’s crying in earnest now, can feel the streaking trails of moisture searing molten paths down his cheeks to dampen the crisp cotton stretched across his chest. Yet the tears hardly register as anything more than a bodily necessity to expel the rising tsunami of l elation cresting inside his core.

You’re within arm’s reach now, only a handful of quavering paces separating your joined paths. Charles’ hands tremble where they hang at his sides, fingers spasming around the desperation to move, to reach, to hold you against him and pour every ounce of adoration into you.

Willpower alone is what roots him in place, keeps him tethered until every shift and flex of muscle is committed to memory. Until your forward momentum carries you into his gravitational embrace in a sweeping collision of souls reunited.

He feels your hands first, slightly clammy where they land against his shoulders and chest in search of purchase. Then the subtlest hint of perfume, that floral-tinged elixir unique only to the slope of your neck and the crown of your hair when he dips to brush his lips across your brow in reverence.

The dam breaks and Charles crumples inward, folding himself around your form with only the vaguest cognition of the groomsmen forming a sheltering web around you both as he sinks to his knees in a thunderous impact of boneless limbs.

Words either fail him or escape articulation as the only sounds to pass his lips become a stream of fevered, jumbled endearments and throaty praises poured directly against the fevered warmth of your skin. His hands map every trembling plane in frantic sweeps, nails skirting intricate embroidery and dewy satin as each heated exhale shudders harsh against your neck, your cheeks, your brow ...

“Mon cœur ...” The title is prayer and confession, ground out from the friction of his entire belief system being forged anew around you. “You incredible thing ... dieu, look at you ...”

He silences the reflexive protests before they can rise by slanting his mouth across yours. There’s nothing carnal or profane in the gesture, simply the coming together of two souls.

You taste of elation and salt, of budding promise and fond tenacity. Of incandescent joy and the shredded velvet of nights spent paralleling the loneliest infinities as your fingers clutched each other like dual magnets anchored across the universe’s expanse.

“So strong … my warrior … perfect ...” The muted words ghost over your trembling form. Somewhere distant, a chorus of cheers and applause has erupted beyond the bubble forming around you.

But none of it truly registers, not when compared to this shattering merging of everything either of you has struggled and strained and wept to reach.

Nothing else matters in the sweeping catharsis cascading around you both. Not the hoarse prayers still shuddering past his lips, or the moisture from your own lashes streaking down his cheeks in silence.

It’s only when the dizzying euphoria begins to ebb that Charles slowly drags his gaze upwards to find yours — those beautiful depths drowning in reverence and bliss mirroring his own. The spark flickering there banishes all shadows in an instant, forging incandescence enough for a lifetime no matter what fresh trials fate might see fit to test your devotion.

He drinks you in, committing the flawless canvas of your features to permanence before reaching up to brush trembling fingertips across the sheer lace obscuring your radiance. The sweep of fabric pools around your shoulders and Charles finds himself very nearly undone again by the sight of your unveiled beauty.

“So ...” He swallows hard, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw as words fail him for a what feels like an eternity. “... beautiful. Like the first dawn cutting through the blackest oblivion.”

A tremulous smile sweeps across your lips, the ghost of a promise he absorbs with every pore as you lean into the reverent sweep of his touch. He could stay like this forever, knees grinding against the ornate tile. Anything to capture how eternal he feels right here with you.

Charles drags in a rallying breath, forcing his widened gaze from yours just long enough to call his groomsmen to attention with a look. They rally behind him, steadying him as he rises on legs turned bowstring-taut with adrenaline.

And then, with every eye once more centered upon you two, Charles bends at the waist and sweeps you into his embrace, cradling your trembling frame against his chest with the paradoxical delicacy and unyielding reverence that lives so unbridled within his very bones. Your breath catches audibly, a soft hitch of sound that adorns the sacred silence as he turns away from the guests.

The officiant’s features are flushed and lined, rimed with moisture that glistens unabashedly as he gathers himself to proceed.

“Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc and Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N,” he begins. “You have been called here as an acknowledgment of the next chapter in your lives together ...”

The ceremony begins, the words spilling forth as you tuck your cheek against Charles’ thundering pulse, fingers curling into the lapel of his tuxedo in a white-knuckled embrace. He lives in the rise and fall of your mingling breaths, in the warmth of your form pressed seamlessly against the shelter of his body as you bear witness to the eternal scripture neither of you could have fathomed even existing upon first crossing paths.

Then, the officiant turns his attention towards Charles, chin dipped in grave deference. “You may recite your vows.”

The command punches through him, sawing the breath from his lungs in a ragged exhalation that shivers across your crown. He swallows hard, blinks back the fresh deluge of tears that threatens to escape his faltering restraint. But when he opens his mouth, the words spill out like they were always meant to.

“I have dreamed of you since before the first moments of my existence.” The syllables echo across the hall, spiraling forth to caress every rapt attendee in their wake. “Of a love conceived in the heart of a collapsing star and given breath in our adjoined forms to shine forth into the darkness.”

His lips brush your hairline, absorbing the scent of your fragrance and feeling the thrumming rhythm of life radiating from your temples. Here, cocooned in the intimate heart of their unity, the world holds its breath along with the gathered witnesses.

“Nothing could have prepared my soul to be scoured by your brilliance, your resilience … let alone knitted together from the fraying remnants when our path shattered across the cruel stones of fate.” A tremulous inhale, steadying as his gaze flicks across the faces assembled before you — a sweep encompassing every expression of empathy and shared joy piercing back at him.

“Yet here we stand, mon amour ...” The endearment spills forth like rich velvet, textured and avowed as his mouth finds the top of your head once more, the taste of reverence sweet on his tongue. “United into something sacred, something woven from those endless nights clinging to each other across the desolate chasm that could so easily have swallowed us whole.”

He savors the simple elation of your response, of knowing his words resonate through every quivering fiber with the promise of finally reaching what you’ve been steadily ascending to all along.

So he breathes you in once more, chasing the familiar scent of your skin until his very lungs burn with the delight of your proximity. The depths of his gaze find yours again, irises rimmed in the faintest remnants dampness as one final promise takes shape.

“I will love you to the final molecule ...” Quieter now, a molten rasp uttered into the hollow between your brows as fingertips sift through the intricate sweeps of your tresses. “I will walk beside you through each breath and season, every triumph and shadow that marks this existence as uniquely ours. With all that I am, all that lingers when the inconsequential has stripped from my shell — I am yours. Until the last spark is extinguished from this universe and beyond.”

The promise hangs in the reverent stillness as he takes his first full breath after, filling his lungs with the ozone and wildflowers commingling from your respective scents until his senses reel. Only then does he draw back enough to drink in the sight before him — the ethereal swaths of your veil now skirting the contours of your features, the downy lashes beaded with moisture, the trembling swell of your lips as the first stuttered shapes of sound begin forming upon them.

Your reciprocation is a hushed, halting stream of sounds that carry all the solemn gravity of prayers finally granted voice. Each syllable pitches forward, low and overflowing with the fevered weight of their reverence until they resonate through Charles’ bei by like physical sensations trailing electricity along his nerves.

“In the beginning, there was nothing,” you breathe, fingers flexing restlessly against the solid plate of his chest as you struggle to channel the turbulent swell of emotion cascading through every aspect of your existence. “An endless and lightless oblivion that should have terrified me ...”

A faint smile blooms across Charles’ features as he watches the story of a lifetime together play out in miniature across your expression.

“Yet it didn’t.” The syllables part on a whisper of revelation, a new wave of tears flickering in the gleam of your eyes as you find his gaze. “Because I knew you even then.”

[the-oblivious-writer]

The Perfect Girl |prologue|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Prologue of With Her I Die (optional one-shot)

Summary: You and Jackie - your ever so lovely girlfriend - share precious stolen moments away from prying eyes in your very bedroom.

Warning(s): Intimate scenes/implied smut, innuendos, pre-crash, and underage substance use (marijuana)

Notes: How are we doing after ep 4? Yeah. Figured.

masterlist | first chapter

The smoke hangs lazy in the afternoon air of your bedroom, curling around the shafts of golden light filtering through half-drawn blinds. Robert Smith's voice floats from your record player—the one your dad gave you for your sixteenth birthday with strict instructions to "treat the vinyl with respect, for God's sake." You'd promised, never imagining that one day you'd be using his precious sound system to provide the soundtrack for making out with Jackie Taylor.

Jackie—varsity soccer captain, homecoming queen nominee, and the girl whose public image couldn't be further from this moment: her perfect hair mussed beyond repair, wearing nothing but your oversized Sonic Youth t-shirt and a pair of lacy underwear that had made your brain short-circuit when you first saw them.

"You're staring again," she murmurs, taking another hit from the joint you'd been passing back and forth. Her eyes are slightly red-rimmed, her smile looser than the one she wears in the school hallways.

"Can you blame me?" You prop yourself up on your elbows, drinking in the sight of her. "Do you have any idea how many people would lose their minds if they could see Jackie Taylor right now?"

She rolls her eyes, but you catch the pleased flush creeping up her neck. "Please. I'm hardly centerfold material."

"You're right," you agree solemnly. "You're much better."

The way she looks at you then—half-exasperated, half-adoring—makes your chest ache with how much you love her. A year and a half of sneaking around, of stolen moments between classes and elaborate excuses to your respective friend groups, and sometimes you still can't believe she's yours.

"Come here," you say, making grabby hands at her.

Jackie raises an eyebrow, taking her time with another drag before passing the joint back to you. "Demanding much?" But she moves toward you anyway, settling onto your lap with the practiced ease of someone who's been there countless times before.

"Pictures of You" starts playing, and Jackie groans, dropping her forehead against yours. "God, not this song. It's so sad."

"It's romantic," you argue, running your hands up her bare thighs, delighting in the goosebumps that rise in their wake.

"It's about loss," she counters. Her fingers toy with the collar of your shirt, brushing against your collarbone in a way that makes it hard to concentrate on the philosophical debate about Cure lyrics.

"It's about love," you insist, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "How everything fades but photographs and memories."

Jackie pulls back just enough to study your face, her expression caught between amusement and something deeper. "Since when did you become the romantic one? I thought that was my role."

"Don't worry," you laugh, hands now resting on her hips, thumbs tracing slow circles against the fabric of her borrowed shirt. "Your title as 'most likely to cry during romantic comedies' remains unchallenged."

"That was one time!" she protests, but she's laughing too. "And 'The Princess Bride' is emotional terrorism."

"Whatever you say, captain."

Her eyes narrow playfully. "You know, for someone who's currently enjoying the privileges of having me on their lap, you're being awfully snarky."

"Privileges, huh?" You raise an eyebrow, feeling bold from the weed and the warmth of her against you. "And what privileges might those be?"

Jackie's smile turns wicked, a side of her no one at Wiskayok High ever sees except you. She leans down until her lips brush your ear. "Play your cards right, and you might find out."

A shiver runs through you that has nothing to do with the temperature. "I've always been good at cards."

"Hmm," she hums, unconvinced. "Is that why you lost twenty bucks to Shauna at poker night?"

"That was—" you splutter, indignant. "Shauna cheats! She has that whole quiet, innocent act down to a science."

Jackie laughs, the sound lighter than the carefully modulated one she uses at school. This laugh is just for you—unfiltered, slightly too loud, and utterly perfect.

"My point," she says, "is that you might need to work on your bluffing skills."

"I don't need to bluff with you," you say, suddenly serious despite the pleasant haze of the high. "Never have."

Something in her expression softens, the armor she wears so carefully around everyone else slipping away entirely. These are the moments you treasure most—when Jackie is just Jackie, not the perfect student, not the soccer star, not Jeff's sometimes-girlfriend (a convenient cover you both agreed on, with his reluctant cooperation).

"No," she agrees quietly. "You don't."

You reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and she leans into your touch like a cat seeking affection. It still amazes you sometimes, how different she is in these private moments—how the Jackie Taylor who intimidated you during your first soccer practice freshman year transformed into the girl who now melts at your simplest touches.

"Remember when Coach Martinez paired us for drills that first day?" you ask, thinking back to how it all began. "And you told me my footwork was 'almost adequate'?"

Jackie groans, hiding her face in your neck. "Can we please not relive my bitch phase?"

"It was kind of hot, actually," you admit, laughing when she pinches your side in retaliation. "What? It was! All commanding and authoritative."

"You're deranged," she says, but she's smiling against your skin.

"Maybe. But you're the one who cornered me in the equipment shed two weeks later."

"Because you kept looking at me with those eyes!" She sits up, gesturing dramatically. "All... intense and stuff. It was distracting."

"My sincerest apologies for having eyes and using them to look at the prettiest girl on the field."

Jackie rolls her eyes, but you can tell she's pleased. She's always been a sucker for compliments, especially the earnest ones.

"Smooth talker," she accuses, before leaning down to press her lips against yours.

The kiss starts slow, languid with the unhurried confidence of people who know each other's bodies by heart. Your hands find their way under her shirt—your shirt—fingers tracing the dip of her spine, the curve of her ribs. She sighs into your mouth, shifting on your lap in a way that makes you both gasp.

"You know," you murmur against her lips, "we have the house to ourselves for at least three more hours."

Jackie pulls back just enough to look at you, her pupils dilated from more than just the weed. "Is that your subtle way of saying we should move this to a more horizontal position?"

"I was actually thinking we could finish our calculus homework," you deadpan. "You know how I get turned on by derivatives."

She snorts, an undignified sound that she'd be mortified to let slip in front of anyone else. "You're such a nerd."

"Says the girl with a 4.0 GPA."

"That's different," she insists, tracing a finger down your sternum. "I'm academically gifted. You're a genuine weirdo who reads physics books for fun."

"Only sometimes," you defend yourself. "And they have pretty pictures of space."

Jackie shakes her head, a fond smile playing at her lips. "What am I going to do with you?"

"I can think of a few things," you suggest, waggling your eyebrows in an exaggerated way that makes her laugh again.

"Can you now?" she challenges, and then she's leaning in to kiss you again, deeper this time, with an urgency that makes your head spin.

Your hands drift higher under her shirt, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. She makes a soft noise against your mouth that sends heat pooling low in your belly. One of her hands tangles in your hair, the other bracing against your shoulder for leverage as she rocks against you.

When you break apart for air, her lips immediately find your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your pulse point. It's your turn to gasp, head falling back to give her better access.

"Jackie," you breathe, hands now gripping her hips tightly.

She smiles against your skin, clearly pleased with your reaction. "Yes?"

"The record's about to end."

She pulls back, blinking at you in confusion before her brow furrows in annoyance. "Seriously? That's what you're thinking about right now?"

You can't help but laugh at her indignation. "I just thought you might want some more mood music."

"The mood," she says, deliberately shifting on your lap in a way that makes your breath catch, "is doing just fine without Robert Smith's help."

"Fair point," you concede, voice slightly strained. "But you were the one who insisted we needed The Cure specifically for our afternoon delinquency session."

"That was before you started doing that thing with your hands," she counters, leaning in to nip at your bottom lip. "Now I couldn't care less about the soundtrack."

The needle reaches the end of the record, the soft scratching sound barely registering through the haze of desire clouding your brain.

"Besides," Jackie adds, her voice dropping to a whisper as she brings her lips to your ear. "I'd rather listen to the sounds you make when I do this."

Her hands slip beneath your shirt, and suddenly the lack of music is the furthest thing from your mind.

Later, much later, when you're both lying tangled in your sheets, catching your breath, Jackie props herself up on one elbow to look down at you.

"You know," she says, tracing patterns on your bare shoulder, "we won't have to hide next year."

The thought sends a rush of warmth through you that has nothing to do with physical pleasure. College, away from Wiskayok's judgmental eyes and rigid social hierarchies. A place where Jackie won't have to pretend to be someone she's not, where you can walk across campus holding her hand without calculating who might see.

"I can't wait," you say honestly.

Something vulnerable flickers across her face. "You won't get tired of me once I'm not your dirty little secret anymore?"

The question surprises you. Jackie's always so confident, so sure of herself and what she wants. But sometimes, in these quiet moments, you get glimpses of the insecurities she hides from everyone else.

"Are you kidding?" You reach up to cup her cheek. "I've been counting down the days until I can show you off properly."

Her smile is small but genuine, relief softening the tension you hadn't even noticed in her shoulders.

"Besides," you add, unable to resist, "I've invested too much time teaching you good music taste to abandon you now."

She gasps in mock outrage, grabbing a pillow to smack you with it. "Excuse you! I knew who The Cure was before I met you!"

"Name three albums," you challenge, laughing as you try to fend off her pillow attack.

"Disintegration," she says immediately, punctuating it with another swing of the pillow. "Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me. And... uh..."

"That's what I thought," you tease, finally capturing the pillow and tossing it aside so you can pull her down for another kiss.

Against your lips, she murmurs, "You're lucky you're cute."

"I'm lucky, period," you respond honestly, and the softness that returns to her eyes makes your heart flip over in your chest.

The Cure may have stopped playing hours ago, but as Jackie settles against you, her head tucked under your chin, you think Robert Smith would approve of this particular love song—the one written in the rhythm of your synchronized heartbeats and the promise of a future where hiding is no longer necessary.

[randomsuggesteduseername]

waking up with nerdy college steve after a hookup

—MASTERLIST

The sheets feel soft on your skin, uncharacteristically so for the uni beds, and as you open your eyes it’s confirmed that you didn’t make it home last night. Lazily, you let your head turn to the side, the light from the wall-length window almost blinding you as you try to accustom from the previous darkness of your eyelids. He’s sleeping, you notice as much from the rhythmic rise and fall of his back, your eyes exploring shamelessly the expanse of his skin littered in moles and twin pairs of four indents on his shoulder blades. They’re still somewhat red, a gentle reminder of the previous night.

Rolling on your stomach, you keep yourself up on your elbows as you tilt your head curiously, who knew Steve could look this peaceful? You’ve only known him as that boy from sociology you happened to lock eyes with a few times. The first thing you had noticed about him were his perfect eyes and the little stray chestnut strand which was curling down from his forehead all the way to his pretty brown eyes. So wide, framed by black lashes with just the right upwards curl to give him that Bambi look which had you thinking about him for an embarrassing amount of time.

You’d seen the way girls were fawning over him, how he’d politely reject them and try to keep his distance. It made you think he was taken, but how could he be not, those eyes were like gentle traps. Traps in which you fell head first without warning. You’re not in love with him, no…you don’t think you are, but you’re not indifferent to him either which is somewhat vexing.

He’s waking up, a deeper breath and a grumpy sigh fall from his lips first, the scruffing of his pillow audible as he nuzzles deeper into the comfort of the silk. He has his own apartment, daddy’s money is your best guess, which is surprising since he doesn’t have anything in common with the rich douchebags which always make their presence known by flashing their wealth left and right. He’s so different in his own way, which is why you’re surprised that you managed to make it into his bed last night, you suppose Tina’s vodka spiked punch might’ve loosened him up.

You watch him as he sits up, a cute frown resting between his brows as he supports himself with a hand against the mattress before he looks around, spotting you beside him, still wearing his polo from the previous night. It was the closest garment you could grab from the floor.

“Morning…” His voice is deeper than usual, sleep still lingering on him and his features. “You’re still here,” he says as if it’s a miracle, his pink-ish lips pulling up at the corners in a pretty smile.

“Would you rather that I leave?” Questioning teasingly, you hum at the soft pout falling onto his lips, making you shake your head and sigh, reaching a hand to ruffle his already messy hair. “Relax, bambi, I’m just joking.” Sitting yourself up, you climb onto his lap as he leans back against the headboard and gazes up at you, the slightly sleepy look in his eyes making your stomach squeeze.

Slinging your arms around his neck, you let out a hum and push one hand up into his hair, silky strands slipping smoothly through your fingers as you watch his eyes flutter shut and lean back into your touch. You suddenly want him again. Bad.

You thought that last night was enough for you to get him out of your system, but once again, looking at those soft lips, you wish they’d be doing something else right now. Giving his lips a chaste peck, you feel his hands pressing onto your waist with a featherlight pressure, grounding himself in the moment as if just the softest touch of your lips has him floating. Pulling back slightly to watch him, you notice the leftover lipstick marks smeared onto his skin, the reddish tint at the corner of his lips, over his jaw and stretching down to his neck and collarbone.

Tutting gently, you smile to yourself, letting your fingers push his hair back from his forehead before you lean in and stop just a hair’s width away from his lips, your eyes falling shut as you hum and squeeze the back of his neck. “You know, Bambi…” Shifting on his thighs, “there’s something about you driving me crazy.” you tilt your head and before he can think of a response, your lips are on his, lazily kissing him as you shift closer and nip on his lip. His breath fans over your cheek, hands tightening slightly onto your waist as he gets worked up, your kiss turning more heated and rushed. You pant, pulling back, surprised as he leans in and continues mouthing sloppily at your neck.

Offering him the whole expanse of your neck to play with, your eyes stay shut as you feel the accidental scrape of his front teeth against the side of your neck, making you moan and grip at his shoulder, your other hand tugging onto his hair as a reassuring gesture that he's doing well.. His skin is warm against yours despite the shudder which runs through him at the sharp feeling of you tugging onto his hair. He loves it, the type of pain which fuels his fire.

He doesn’t dare to go further, settling for some open mouthed kisses onto your neck, his hands having found the courage to slip under your shirt, which is actually his, but he knows that if you want he’ll let you leave with it. Warm palms spread over your back, you grip his throat and push him back from your skin, his expression mimicking one of a puppy whose toy has been snatched away.

Your lips settling onto his jaw, you suck a mark on the underside of it which makes him jolt, struggling to keep still as you turn his skin a rose colour, finishing it up with a nip. Chuckling at his soft jolt, you murmur a soft praise and pull back to admire his blissed out face, lips parted slightly, eyes shut and his cheeks a matching shade with the mark on his neck.

Sighing deeply, you roll off and lay back, legs parting suggestively as you motion for him to come lay with you with a subtle tilt of your head, watching as his grin widens while he moves to lay between your legs, keeping himself up with the help of his elbows sinking into the mattress as you notice the soft squint in his brows. Blindly reaching a hand to the nightstand, you grab his frames and gently prop them up onto his nose, smiling softly. “There,” Swiping his hair away once again, you smile as he thanks you, his thin frames making his eyes seem just a bit bigger, the nickname ‘Bambi’ even more fitting for him now.

Smiling as his cheeks seem to tint a bit at your gesture, you gently trace his glasses, tucking some longer hairs behind his ear before you settle your hand at the back of his neck, squeezing. “Now,” Trailing off, tone warm, yet holding a certain amount of teasing. “it’s 9, we still have time. So we can have sex, go out for some breakfast and then maybe go to sociology?” Proposing the schedule, his lips part, seemingly focusing on just the first part of the sentence to which he agrees with a dumb nod.

He’s gone to heaven, he thinks. Nothing can convince him otherwise as you kiss him again, ridding him of any coherent thought.

[souliebird]

[[and then I met you || Ch. 33]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary:

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s while Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

chapter masterlist

Words: 4.4k

ao3 link

|| Trigger Warning: Graphic Descriptions Body Horror & Death Regarding Unnamed Children ||

All your life you have heard that there is a beauty in chaos, and while you do agree with this, you also find there is a beauty in organization. 

You like taking all the chaos and putting it into categories. You like sorting the details and finding the mysteries that need to be unraveled. You think it must be similar to how clever people feel when they solve a riddle or a puzzle, but you aren’t running in circles with philosophical thoughts - you are analyzing what is already available and coming to a conclusion. 

It is still all chaos, because everything is always chaos, but it is organized into a way that makes sense. 

And Matt’s stolen duffel bag, when first unzipped and inspected, was full of chaos. 

You, Foggy, and Karen quickly got to work looking over the different papers and forming different stacks based upon agreed parameters. 

It became clear Matt’s guess that he had found some sort of laboratory was correct. The papers all appeared to be results of different medical tests, though at first glance, the three of you could not decipher for what.

But deciphering wasn’t needed at that moment, so it didn’t matter, and once everything was spread neatly across the dining table, the next step of your beloved process began. 

Foggy gave each pile a designation and then the three of you began labeling each paper in the top corner. 

A1. A2. A3. A4. 

B1. B2. B3. B4. 

All your analyzing would be useless if you couldn’t source your data, and it was quickly clear your little group all shared the same brain cell when it came to this idea.

While you worked at the table, Matt and Jessica sat on the floor by the couches, marking up a map. You caught snippets of the conversation - this bit of evidence was heard in that alley, to get to a certain tunnel system you had to go through such and such warehouse. It was fascinating to know that Matt had memorized nearly every square inch of Hell’s Kitchen - even the parts you didn’t know existed - and it was equally amazing that Jessica knew just as much. 

After hearing them talk, it left you wondering if Frank had the same knowledge, but you would leave that question for another time. He had been assigned to the two thumb drives that had been in the duffel bag. You had furiously taken mental notes as he had grumpily explained to Matt the little devices couldn’t just be plugged into a computer. They could have malware on them or trigger tracking or something equally devious and needed to be inserted into a clean laptop that couldn’t connect to the internet. That way, if the laptop tried to send a signal or became a brick, there would be nothing lost. 

Since neither you nor Matt happened to have a spare laptop laying around, Frank went to go procure one. 

That was about half an hour ago and now you are well into your third Foggy-assigned task - highlighting any identifying information in yellow. There’s nothing easy like names or addresses listed out, but you noticed a pattern for patient labels and have determined there are at least five. 

As you jot down that Patient 031517DVA also appears on page D4 in your notebook, you find you are enjoying yourself. This isn’t exactly what you imagined when Matt talked about inviting everyone over to review what he had found, but you think it is nice. Knowing that Matt isn’t out there running around without any sort of plan soothes your nerves and seeing that he is putting in the time and thought into his next actions makes you trust he knows what he is doing. 

No one wants a shady underground lab in their neighborhood, but you need to make sure they are actually shady first and not some weird fringe group researching an unknown breed of sewer rat.

The effort going into helping Matt with this task makes your fondness of Foggy, Karen, and Frank grow even more - and gives you a fondness for Jessica. Everyone is serious about their task, and extremely thorough, and you want them to see you in the same light. You know this is not a game and you refuse to let your part in the research be the weak link. 

As you go to the next row of numbers to examine, you catch some movement in the corner of your eye. You turn your head and watch with a soft smile as your daughter emerges from Matt’s bedroom, clad in her mouse-onesie pajamas. Her sleep mask is pulled down around her neck and she looks upset, but she’s not crying, so you don’t jump to run to her. You let her make her own decisions as she sleepily looks between you and her father and you can’t help but to mentally crow a bit as she starts shuffling towards you, her little mouse-tail trailing behind her. 

Everyone’s attention is on you as Minnie lifts up her arms to be picked up once she’s within a foot of you. You dutifully scoop her up and put her on your lap, fixing her hood and mouse-ears as you do. 

“Is everything okay, sweetheart? Did something wake you up?”

She nods, then flops herself against your chest, mumbling out, “There’s monsters.” 

You begin to gently rub her back, hoping to soothe her worries as you confirm, “there’s monsters?”

Again, her head bobs up and down before she nuzzles into your neck, trying to hide herself. Across the room, Matt is up and making his way towards you, but it is Foggy who speaks up next. 

“Are they silly monsters or scary monsters?”

You smile at the question as Minnie ponders it - her little lips purse against your neck and you feel her breath against your skin as she silently repeats the words. She decides on ‘scary’ - replying in a timid voice as Matt takes his place behind you, sliding his hands onto your shoulders.

“Do you want me to help you tell them to go away?” you ask, having packed your bottle of Monster Repellent for just this cause. Little fists clutch tightly at your shirt as Mouse shakes her head and you give a soft hum in thought. “Do you want Daddy to go scare them off?”

You are sure Matt would run outside to chase away a stray cat or hungry raccoon if his princess wished for it, but she shakes her head against you, so you guess Matt will be staying inside. 

“How about we make the monsters silly instead of scary?” is Karen’s suggestion, and like the others, it falls flat. 

You consider offering to read some stories, but Matt startles you from your thoughts by sliding his hands down your arms to get to his daughter. He gently urges her to let go of you before transferring her to his arms and bundling her close. She absolutely clings to him, looking so tiny against his broad shoulders.

“I got this,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper before he turns and starts making his way back to the bedroom. As you watch him walk away, he buries his nose into her hood, and he begins to rock with each step. The itty bitty fist you can still see tightens around his t-shirt and your heart yearns to follow your family, but you know this is a Daddy-Daughter moment and you need to stay seated. 

You were worried about Minnie getting scared over sleeping in a new place - there’s so many new and different noises but you trust Matt to help her interpet everything. He’s already done such an amazing job of it in day-to-day life and you know he’ll explain away all her monsters and let her know she is safe. 

Considering the company she is starting to keep she is probably the safest little girl in New York. No monsters would dare to lurk in her shadows less they want to face the wrath of the Devil.

You know that this little group you are becoming a part of would join you in jumping in front of a bullet for your daughter and you are pretty sure even her newest best friend - Max the Dog - would not hesitate to bare his teeth if someone upset her. 

She deserves nothing less and it makes your heart soar that she is so thoroughly adored. 

Now that her research partner is on another important assignment, Jessica gets up off the floor and strolls over to the table, “anything interesting?”

“Maybe if we were scientists instead of lawyers,” Foggy replies warily, dropping his pink highlighter in favor of nursing his beer, “and knew what any of these numbers meant. We’re going to spend all night looking up these test numbers and hoping they are real. I mean, look at this,” he motions to the paper he is currently working on. “What the hell is D22S1045? And why is the result 15?”

Jessica takes one look at the paper before scrunching up her nose and blandly stating, “It’s a DNA marker. Haven’t you ever seen a paternity test?”

Foggy’s face goes slack for a moment before he is huffing, “Not since college when we had to study paternity suits, and they looked nothing like this! They were like dots we had to match, not numbers!” He uses his beer to point to you, “did yours look like this?”

Your cheeks heat up at the question and you duck your head, hating all the attention is on you with such a personal question. “No. No, mine didn’t…we just received a letter with the results. Not the data.”

“So, they are doing DNA and blood tests?” Karen asks, taking over the conversation and directing it back to Jessica. “And comparing them with each other. Could they be looking for relationships between them?” 

“I’m not a fucking doctor,” is the reply she gets, but Jessica picks up the paper to examine it more closely either way. “But none of these match. The numbers have to be the same for a parental match, but that might not be what they are looking for. Just because it looks like a paternity test doesn’t mean it is one. DNA markers are used in a lot of shit.”

“It might not be human,” you add quietly. “Matt said the lab smelled of human blood, but we don’t know that these tests are on humans. There’s no dates on these, so they could be years old.”

Karen whips out her phone and is typing away before you are done talking, “What was that DNA marker, Fog?”

Foggy repeats the string of numbers and letters and you watch Karen’s eyes scan her screen.

“It’s human,” she states after a long, tense moment. The scowl Jessica gives is near legendary.

“Great, so we have a bunch of assholes in abandoned tunnels running tests on people.”

“That sounds both sanitary and humane,” Foggy grumbles before throwing back the rest of his beer. 

“OSHA and FDA approved,” you add sarcastically and that earns you a smile from Karen. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before she guides you all back on track.

“We still have no idea what they are looking for, though. This could be cancer research for all we know - we are still at square one.”

“One point five,” Foggy argues, “we confirmed it’s human.”

“We don’t know what the tests are looking for,” Karen repeats, ignoring him, “and I don’t think looking up the significance of each DNA marker is going to do us much good. Can you and Matt go back to the lab and look around?”

As the clear recipient of the question, Jessica huffs then turns away from the table and goes right to the bottle of Macallan Matt keeps on top of his fridge. She pops off the lid, taking a long drink of it before answering. 

“That was the plan, but I’m betting it’s going to be sprayed with bleach after knowing Devil-boy was poking around. It’s not like we will get much, not that there was shit to get beforehand.”

“So, we have no who, no why, and no where,” Foggy points out. “We are doing great.”

The joy you had gotten from trying to organize the chaos of paperwork evaporates and you sink down into your chair a little. Would continuing to highlight and document be useful or was this all for naught? The rational part of your brain told you to keep going, because it was better to have it done and not need it then to need it later and it still be a mess of paperwork.

“We’ve just started, Fog, of course we have nothing,” Karen says, rolling her eyes a bit as she does. “Did you expect them to write their plans in gel pens and leave them lying around?”

“I mean, that would be useful.”

You roll your lip between your teeth, thinking that Karen is right. You don’t have much, and you’ve only just started - of course things look pessimistic. While Karen and Foggy begin to banter back and forth about the use of gel pens in a professional setting and Jessica finishes off Matt’s whisky, you let your mind wander around the facts of the case. 

Someone is out there running medical tests in a gross underground lab, probably trying to hide what they are doing. To do a lot of tests, they probably needed lab equipment, and a few years ago you would have said to follow that trail, but with all the advancements in technology, a machine to run DNA tests on probably only cost a few hundred dollars and was compact enough to move easily. Generators could keep people off the grid and there were enough tunnels under the city that years could be spent exploring them. Everything they would need could be ordered offline, and thus, was untraceable to you.

The only solid clues you had were what Matt had come home with, so you needed to keep digging there and hope that the thumb drives would contain something more useful. 

So, you pick yourself back up, grab your highlighter, and get back to work. 

Soon enough, Foggy and Karen pick their highlighters back up as well, and Jessica takes up a spot on the couch, putting her feet up and getting out her phone to tap at. The mood is much more somber, but you feel the same determination to find answers that is in you coming off of everyone else as well. 

You don’t pay attention to the passage of time, but it is not long after you grab the final stack of papers to comb through that Matt slips out of the bedroom and closes the door behind him. 

He starts towards the dining table only to stop by the couch, tilting his head towards Jessica, “That bottle was a gift from Foggy’s dad.”

“Boo-hoo, cry me a fucking river, Murdock.”

Despite the venom in Jessica’s voice, Matt chuckles and finishes making his way to you. 

His hands once again find your shoulders and he begins rubbing them, digging his thumbs into just the right spot as he begins his Minnie-update.

“Someone with a really nice sound system is having a horror movie marathon. She was actually hearing monsters.”

“My poor baby,” you instantly coo, your heart breaking for your little one. “Did you tell her it was just a movie?”

Matt hums in affirmation, “That doesn’t help with the noise, though. We walked through turning things off and found something to work as white noise. It’s still hard for her to do it with new sounds, especially so tired, but she’s a quick learner.”

“How long did it take you to learn all that stuff,” Foggy asks, interest clear in his eyes. Karen puts her pen down as well so she can get the gossip. 

“I don’t know, years? It didn’t come naturally to me like it does with her - I would train for hours to be able to pinpoint something, but she can do it pretty easily. I mean, she can’t tell me exact distance because she’s four and doesn’t know what that means, but she can point and say if it’s close or far.” You can feel Matt practically puff up with Pride over his baby girl. “She’s learning inorganic versus organic sounds now. She can tell if a loud banging is someone hitting something or if something just fell over. The other day she told me it was the wind making the window shake, because she couldn’t hear any other noises around the window.”

You smile at the story, having a feeling Matt is going to start going on about all the declarations Minnie had made during the storm and you don’t mind at all. 

“So, she’s as good as you?” Karen teases and you know Matt is just beaming.

“Better. She can actually read a sign.”

Foggy barks with laughter while you and Karen have to cover your mouths to not giggle. 

Once it subsides, you tilt your head back so you can look up at your daughter’s oh so loving father, bumping against his abdomen as you do, “is she down?” 

He gives another positive hum, “In a nice deep sleep. Frank’s on his way back up and I wanted her out before he got here.”

You don’t know if that is from Matt wanting to rejoin the group to know what is on the thumb drives or if it is from him not wanting Minnie to get excited over Frank, but you are thankful she’s conked out either way. The thought of her hearing all your discussions about what lurks in the darkness of the city makes your stomach turn. 

She doesn’t need more monsters to imagine. 

You thank Matt while reaching up to rub one of his arms - letting yourself give him a small bit of affection. You ignore the look Karen is giving you in favor of making sure Matt is all caught up.

“I take it you heard everything?”

He sighs deeply through his nose, and you take that as a ‘yes’. He confirms with his words. 

“Human testing with government trained agents isn’t what I was hoping we would find.”

“I was personally hoping for research on the mutant alligators in the sewers,” Foggy says as he gets up to go towards the kitchen, probably for another beer. “You know the ones they flush down the toilets.” 

“That’s a myth, Fog.”

“Look, with everything else that goes on in the world - weird aliens and giant green men - let me believe in my sewer gators, Murdock. They make me happy.”

“With everything that Stark and Roxon dumped in the waters, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Karen muses, resting her chin in her hand, “I mean, Matt got superpowers from something getting in his eyes. If a rat ate something that was contaminated, it could have gotten super senses as well.” 

You raise your brows up at the idea, a smile coming to your face, “a crime fighting rat?”

“A crime fighting rat that is a ninja,” Foggy chimes, a wide grin on his face and it sends you into giggles.

“How would a rat even learn martial arts?” Matt counters, “There’s not a rodent karate school he could spy on.”

“I don’t know Matt, how did you learn ka-ra-te,” Foggy emphasizes the word to make it sound more mystical. “He would learn from a secret ninja rat clan.”

“What the fuck are you guys talking about?” Jessica asks, looking over her shoulder at the dining table, disgust and confusion clear on her face. 

You and Karen erupt into more laughter while Foggy just grins like he won the world cup as he returns to his seat. Matt gives your shoulders a firm squeeze before letting go and pulling away. He disappears into the narrow passage that is his hallway, and you hear the front door open. Heavy boots signal Frank’s reappearance, and when he and Matt come back around the corner, you offer a small smile. 

The Punisher holds up a clunky looking laptop, straight from your middle school years, “Got it.”

“Does that thing even work?” Foggy asks, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. You trust Frank, but the question is valid - if you saw that in a Goodwill, you would doubt it would even turn on. 

“Of course it works,” Frank scoffs as he delivers the device to Karen. She instantly opens it up to get it started. “Old body, new hardware. Got it built just for this type of shit.” 

Foggy’s lips twitch and you wonder if he wants to say something but is holding his tongue. Jessica joins the table as Matt once again returns to standing behind you. His hands find your shoulders like they are drawn to them, and you wonder if he can’t help but want to touch you. It makes you feel special and wanted and your belly stirs with a certain type of warmth. 

Everyone’s focus is on Karen as she works - the laptop boots up and she fiddles with the first thumb drive until it is ready to be inserted. It feels like you all are holding your breath as she finally plugs it in. You expect there to be a password, but apparently there is not, as she just clicks away.

“There’s two files,” she narrates. “One labeled 082616DUK and one labeled 121417BNY.” 

You instantly recognize the first designation and push your notebook towards Karen, trying to not sound eager as you tell her, “The DUK one is in our files. Can we look at that first?” 

Her face lights up at the prospect of a connection and selects the requested file, “There’s five pictures. Hold on, let me bring them u- Oh my God.”

The little color in her face drains as a horrified expression takes over and her hand shoots up to cover her mouth. You and Froggy scramble up out of your seats while Frank and Jessica crowd around Karen to look at the screen. Matt stays where he is, tilting his head just slightly. 

When you see what is in the file, you wish you had stayed under Matt’s hands. 

The neatly severed head of a boy stares back at you with blank milky eyes, sitting on an examine table. His hair has been shaved away and there is an incision line around his skull that makes it clear someone has probably removed his brain. His mouth is open in a silent scream, showing off that he still had his baby teeth and that someone has taken his tongue. 

You want to throw up and you want to turn away, but you can’t. You can’t look away from this poor child who someone has so thoroughly defiled. Who had done this to this boy and why? You wanted to shake them and scream and demand to know what could possibly possess someone to do this to a baby? Because this was someone’s baby - someone’s little boy - and someone had taken him and ruined him. 

You don’t know how she manages it, but Karen brings up the next image and it fills you with just as much disgust and anger. 

It is that of a tiny hand with its fingers forcibly splayed, stuck with pins to keep it that way. The tips are bulbous and round, different to anything you’ve seen on a human before, and between each digit, there was a thin stretch of skin connecting them, much like the webbing of a duck’s foot. Like the head, the hand has been surgically removed from the rest of the body, and it isn’t hard to determine they go to the same person. 

The next image is of the head again but turned to be facing the left and pre-removal of the tongue, as the appendage is pulled and stretched from the mouth with a pair of forceps. The muscle is an odd shade of purple and coated with some sort of liquidy-white residue, but that is not what is unique about it. The boy’s tongue doesn’t just peek out of his mouth - it extends across the table almost three feet, if the tape measurer under it is to be believed. 

You need to turn away after that and to no surprise, Matt is instantly by your side, wrapping you up in his arms and guiding your head to his neck. “He’s just a baby,” you whisper in horror as you cling to him, not understanding how someone could be so cruel. Even if he had died naturally, there was no reason to treat him like that in death. 

“Did they…” Froggy starts, his voice low and quivering and you don’t know if it's from rage or grief, “Did they make him a frog? Did they mix this kid with a fucking frog?”

“No,” Frank replies, not hiding how he is feeling at all. The fury is clear in his voice. “They did it because he was like that.”

“What’s the other file?” Jessica demands and part of you doesn’t want to know. You bury yourself more into Matt and you listen to Karen click away at the track pad. 

Matt’s arms tighten around you and you can’t imagine what he is thinking. No one has said out loud what the images show, and he has not asked - but he must know it isn’t good. He’s gone tense under you, like he’s ready to jump into action and rip someone apart with his hands. 

And you want him to. You want Matt to find whoever did this and make them pay. You want him to punish those who hurt the child in the photos, the people who ran tests on him. 

You want to help Matt find who did this and for him to make sure they can never hurt anyone ever again.

“She’s…she’s got a beak.” Karen says slowly after a few moments, and you can’t bear to look at another autopsy photo. You hide yourself more against Matt, not at all ashamed of your choice.

“She’s Enhanced,” is Jessica’s reply, almost blank with stifled emotion.

“She’s a kid. They are hunting Enhanced kids.” 

“Why?” Foggy questions, sounding wet, like he’s starting to tear up. You don’t blame him in any way. “Why would they do that?”

Under you, the Devil finally speaks, his voice low and eerily calm, “it doesn’t matter why. We are going to find them, and we are going to stop them.” 

---

:) :) :)

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[lotus-slumbers]

Hi! I saw your requests were open, so I was wondering if you could write a yandere batfam where they kidnap the reader, but the reader is like, super chill about it, and the family’s reaction to this. Tysm!

🪼 anon

A Gentle Place to Land (Yandere! Batfam x Accepting! GN Reader)

Content warning: yandere themes, obsession, mentions of mental illness, mentions of loss of personal anatomy and drugging. Etc.

A gentle breeze caresses you, the sunlight a gentle kiss.

Here, you could experience such a thing. A thing so close to tranquility you would almost dare to say it was. Most, if ever put in your situation, would be losing their minds. Panicking. Begging and pleading with all they could to try and change their fate. To escape.

You knew such a thing wasn't possible. You knew it from the night they had taken you. Looking into the shadowy eyes of the cowl, before the dart had punctured the tender place below your ear and the drugs entered your system, turning the world dark and dreamless.

You knew. If not the fates, they had decided and that was more than you could fight.

But it was a lot better than it had seemed.

At first, it was a ploy. Trick your captors into believing you're not going to do anything stupid and build repor to get them attached so that they won't do anything too bad to you. Hopefully, gaining their trust enough to plot an escape and succeed.

Just like those movies and true crime TV shows you've seen; comply and wait it out, wait for your chance at freedom.

Your feelings started getting mixed up really soon after. Had you forgotten about what Stockholm Syndrome was or had you been blind to the truth in the first place?

Maybe it really wasn't that bad...

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

An almost comically large sunhat place over top your head, feet propped up on the end of the chair and a cold drink in hand. You didn't even care for the sets of eyes lingering on you, you were used to strange people giving you strange looks as you went about your day in Gotham.

They know this isn't a normal person's reaction and they're worried, most waiting for this little peace to be completely discarded once the shock of the situation passes and you truly understand what has happened. Others are trying to pick apart your phycology to see if maybe, just maybe, something really is different up in that head of yours.

You? Well, you're just sipping on your cool drink before the heat makes the ice melt. You don't want Alfred's signature juice cocktail (non-alcoholic, of course, because you'll probably never be seeing a drop of that in your life again) to get watered down and ruined.

"Are we sure we didn't give then to much of that— um," Tim stalled for a moment, giving your impartial face a once over before deciding the trajectory of his sentence. "—sleeping medicine? Maybe it messed with their nervous system or something?"

"I hate to admit it but I think Drake is onto something here. I mean, who in their right mind would ever submit to this tomfoolery? Willingly being stuck with you all? Father and I, I can understand, but—"

"I never thought you'd ever agree with Tim," Jason grinned, making Damian's face turn sour.

Dick moved behind your seat, leaning down and squishing your face between his hands.

"Nothing's wrong with them!"

You gave a bright, closed eye smile that only served to further concern the man watching from the nearby window.

His butler placed a hand on his shoulder when he gave an exhausted sigh. Although, the makings of a smile did seem to tug at the corners of his lips.

"I'll make another therapy appointment, Master Bruce."

Should he be concerned about your nonchalant appearance or was it just your nature? Has some trauma happened to you previously to make you this way? Was it a trick that he was just having trouble seeing through?

Or was he overthinking this all again? Instead of overthinking it and coming up with more safety measures and plans to keep all the way he envisioned, he should be out there with his kids.

Even if it was just all a trick, there was no way you could manage to outsmart or outrun all six of them.

Bruce shook his head, sitting his drink down on the counter and heading towards the door.

"Don't bother."

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

wet

content warnings & word count: swearing, implied sexual innuendo, drug consumption (weed smoking), nostalgia, dean being a dick again, kissing, mild dirty talk, underage drinking, angst, blink-and-you'll-miss-it slut shaming. 7.6k

✧ SCENE SIX — "MONDAY MOVIE MADNESS" ✧ Now Playing: "wet" – Dazey and the Scouts

You wake up drenched in heat.

Monday morning, and the house is quiet. Your parents are already gone for work—commuter ghosts with coffee-breath and plastic ID badges. No one to hear the creak of your bedsprings. No one to care that your pillowcase is damp with sweat and last night’s dreams.

The fan’s doing nothing. Just sputtering in the corner, pushing warm air in circles. Your body feels heavy, sticky. The cotton sheets twist around your legs like seaweed. You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, heart drumming too fast for a girl who just woke up.

You don’t move until your mouth goes dry. You don’t think until the memory kicks in like a knee to the ribs.

Ben’s mouth on yours. Ben’s hand behind your neck. Ben walking you to your front step, his voice low and hoarse saying he wants to but won’t, the burn in his eyes as you waved to him from your bedroom window like a goddamn idiot.

And underneath it all—Dean. That scoff. That smirk. That bone-deep ache you’ve never been able to scrub out of your system.

You kick off the sheets and head straight to the shower.

The water is lukewarm and still too hot. You stand under it anyway—silent, arms braced against the tile like you’re trying to hold up the whole house. The soap runs in slow rivulets down your thighs, clinging to skin that still remembers the weight of Ben’s jacket, the pressure of his chest, the way he laughed after kissing you like he meant it.

You towel off. You don’t get dressed.

It’s too fucking hot for anything more than the threadbare towel wrapped around you, damp at the hem. Your hair drips down your back as you pad barefoot to your desk, sun slicing through the blinds in bright white strips.

You sit in it—all of it. The heat, the ache, the silence.

You roll a blunt with damp fingers. Light it. The smoke curls heavy in your lungs, sits like lead behind your ribs. You stare straight ahead, eyes unfocused.

You don’t cry. You burn. You’re halfway through your first hit when the front door opens. Not knocks. Opens. You pause, blunt frozen mid-air—but you don’t panic, because only one person would let themselves in without calling first. Only a handful of people know Gregory the Raccoon holds the spare key beneath his chipped ceramic foot.

“Hey?” Sam’s voice calls from the foyer. “You home?”

You cough once, then shout back, “Upstairs!”

You don’t move. Just stub the blunt into the ashtray, breathe out a cloud that thickens the already-sweltering air.

A moment later, his footsteps hit the stairs—careful, familiar, because he’s been doing this his whole life. He appears in the doorway with a sweating red Gatorade in one hand and a plastic bag of your favourite shitty lemon cookies in the other. His eyes flick from you—bare-legged, damp-haired, wrapped in a towel—to the rolling tray on your desk.

He raises one brow. “Good morning to you too.”

You roll your eyes, tug the towel tighter. “It’s fucking Monday.”

Sam grins like that’s enough explanation. “Exactly.”

He walks in, sets the cookies beside your lighter like it’s an offering, and hands you the Gatorade.

“I came to check on you. After last night.”

Sam doesn’t comment when you pace. He just sits on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees, watching you move in slow loops across the hardwood—your towel slipping dangerously low, your hair dripping little wet halos onto the floor. The Gatorade sits unopened on your desk. The blunt’s stubbed out beside it, still smouldering faintly.

You’re talking fast. Words tumbling out half-formed, half-true.

“I just don’t get him,” you say, dragging your hand through your hair. “He’s hot and cold and always watching, but the second I look back, he makes me feel stupid for it.”

Sam doesn’t say anything. Just nods once. Waits.

“And like—he’s mean, right? Like, we can agree on that? He’s mean to me. He likes getting under my skin. It’s like a game to him. Like I’m this little thing he can poke just to watch me twitch.”

You stop near the window, bracing a hand against the frame like you’re trying to hold yourself up.

“And I know I shouldn’t care. I know. But I do, and I hate that I do, and—”

Your voice cracks. Not all the way. But enough. You close your eyes, press your forehead to the windowpane. The glass is warm. Everything is warm.

Sam speaks, finally. Quiet, even.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn.

“Hey,” he says again, gentler. “You’re allowed to care. That doesn’t make you weak.”

You shake your head. “He makes me feel stupid, Sam.”

“You’re not.”

You turn, finally, and he’s still sitting there—patient, steady, eyes soft.

“He’s just… Dean,” you mumble, voice small. “I don’t know what I ever did to him.”

Sam sighs, sits back. “Dean’s got a lot of weird… armour. You know that.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, crossing your arms. “It cuts.”

He nods. Doesn’t argue.

You press your lips together. You don’t say what you want to say. That he kissed you that summer. That he tasted like beer and cedar and made you promise—don’t tell Sam. That you waited for something to change after that and nothing did. That now it just lives in your ribs like shrapnel.

Sam stands. Crosses to your desk. He plucks the blunt from the tray, relights it with a flick of your pink Bic lighter. Draws in slow. Then he holds it out to you.

“Come here,” he says. “Sit.”

You hesitate. Then go. You fold yourself onto the bed beside him, towel hitched high on your thighs, hair damp against your neck. He passes you the blunt. You take it. Inhale deep. Sam watches you exhale smoke toward the ceiling, his voice softer now, almost like he’s talking you off a ledge.

“You’ve always taken everything so hard,” he murmurs. “That’s not a flaw. That’s what makes you you. But you’ve gotta give yourself a break.”

You stare at the smoke, eyes glassy.

“He doesn’t get to have that much space in your head,” Sam continues. “Not if he’s gonna be a dick about it.”

You smile weakly. “You’re just saying that because you’re my best friend.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true.”

You lean into his shoulder, just slightly, passing the blunt back. He takes it, breathes you in.

“You gonna be okay?” He asks.

You nod. Eventually. Not now. But eventually. You pass the blunt back and Sam takes it without a word, exhaling smoke toward your ceiling fan. It whirs above you both, stirring the warm air into slow spirals.

There’s a pause. Not heavy—just full. He glances at you from the corner of his eye.

“So,” he says casually, “you hear about the drive-in tonight?”

You blink. “What about the drive-in?”

“They’re doing an overnight horror marathon. Halloween. Nightmare. The Shining.” He nudges your knee with his own. “Everyone’s going. Butcher’s bringing his pickup, couple other cars coming too. Gonna be blankets and junk food and probably way too much yelling.”

You grin before you can stop yourself. “That actually sounds… fun.”

Sam smiles, wide and real. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Then get dressed,” he says, standing. “We’ll hit the beach for a bit first. Chill before we go all scream queen tonight.”

You laugh softly, the knot in your chest finally starting to loosen. “Okay. Lemme change.”

You grab your clothes—something soft, something that won’t cling in the heat—and head to the bathroom. The tile’s cool under your feet as you unwrap the towel, tug on your top and shorts, brush out your wet hair with quick, rough strokes. You look tired. But lighter.

You pad back to your room barefoot and freeze in the doorway.

“Salut, ma petite tragédie,” Frenchie purrs from your bed, stretched across the comforter like a damn cat in cutoff jeans and his striped shirt, one arm flung back behind his head. Sam’s right next to him, cross-legged, sharing what’s left of your first blunt.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” You laugh, closing the door behind you.

“He let me in,” Frenchie says, nodding toward Sam, who’s wearing the faintest, most satisfied smirk. “He said you were sad,” Frenchie adds, lighting up as he pulls out his rolling papers and starts twisting together something new. “Figured I would bring joy. And possibly gummies.”

“You bring chaos,” you mutter, tossing your towel toward the hamper.

“Same thing,” he says with a wink.

You sink onto the bed between them, finally feeling like maybe—just maybe—the day is starting to turn.

When the three of you leave your house, it's in slow motion, the kind of summer-slouched walk where nobody really leads. The heat’s settled into everything—your skin, your clothes, the cracked pavement under your feet—but there’s a breeze now, thick with salt and dry grass and the faint smoke from someone’s backyard grill.

You walk barefoot up the cul-de-sac, past the faded mailbox that’s always slightly crooked, past Sam’s backyard fence with the broken slat that never got fixed. You slip through the shortcut like muscle memory. The trees thin. The light changes.

And there it is.

The stretch of beach no one ever comes to—just scrub and sand and the tide pressing up lazy and low. Hidden and familiar, like it belongs to just the three of you.

You drop the blanket on the softest part of the sand and sprawl across it, sun on your legs, Frenchie muttering about how his socks are a “fucking death sentence” as he yanks them off dramatically.

It’s quiet for a while. The sea hissing. The weed kicking in.

Then Frenchie sighs, lying flat on his back, arms flung out like he’s ready to be crucified by the sun.

“I think,” he says solemnly, “that Kimiko is the only person on Earth who knows how to both ruin me and resurrect me.”

You snort, passing him the blunt. “That’s called love, babe.”

“It is called war,” he mutters, but takes the hit anyway.

Sam chuckles, sipping from the Gatorade he’s still working on from earlier. “You sound like a tragic Victorian poet.”

“I am. Look at me.”

“I am,” you echo, mimicking his accent. “Look at me.”

Frenchie flips you off with both hands, but he’s smiling. You let the moment float—light and soft and dumb, the kind that only exists between people who’ve survived everything together.

Then Sam’s phone buzzes.

He glances down, screen glowing against his leg, and hums. “Huh.”

You raise your head, lazy. “What?”

He lifts his eyebrows. “It’s from Ben. Wants to know if we need him to bring anything to the drive-in tonight.”

That gets your attention. You sit up slightly, tugging your sunglasses down your nose. “Oh?”

Sam gives you a look. Knows you too well to let the casual tone slide.

Frenchie’s already grinning, stretching like a cat. “It is wild, is it not?” He says. “Benjamin Hargrove. The guy who used to be prom royalty is now texting us about snacks and horror movies.”

“He was two years above us,” Sam says, nodding. “Same year as Dean.”

“Exactly,” Frenchie says. “He had that entire... thing. Leather jacket, football captain, hook-up-in-his-truck-in-the-parking-lot energy.”

You shrug, careful. “He’s chill now.”

Sam watches you for a beat. “How was he last night? When he drove you home?”

You stretch your legs out in front of you, toeing the sand. Try not to smile too much.

“He was really nice,” you say, slow and honest. “We grabbed burgers and milkshakes, then he drove out past the bluffs so we could see the stars.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise. Frenchie whistles, impressed.

You keep going. “He didn’t try anything. Just let me rant about Dean, passed me fries, made sure I got home safe. Walked me to the door. Didn’t leave until I was inside.”

Sam nods, visibly relieved. “I’m glad. You deserved someone decent after that shitstorm.”

Frenchie exhales, then tips his head your way. “So… what, you have got a little crush now, ma petite étoile?”

You toss a bit of sand at him, but the answer is obvious. It’s written all over your sun-flushed face.

Time passes like smoke.

You roll another—Frenchie insists on doing it himself this time, muttering something about craft—and the three of you sprawl out beneath the sun like half-feral cats. Talking spirals into silence. Laughter curls into sighs. The second blunt melts the edges off your bodies, and soon, you’re wading into the surf.

The water is shockingly cold, a welcome bite against the heat. It sears your calves, splashes up your knees, and you shriek when a wave crashes harder than expected. Frenchie howls with laughter, arms flailing as he dramatically falls back into the shallows. Sam’s rolled up his jeans and stands grinning in ankle-deep water, watching you with that old, steady fondness that never needed to be spoken aloud.

The wind tugs at your damp hair as you wade back to shore, dripping and light-headed, hearts still thudding from whatever this thing between morning and night is. You towel off with the spare you packed in your tote, skin sun-warmed and tingling.

And then the spell shifts again.

You slip barefoot back through the fence behind Sam’s house, the three of you stepping through the overgrown patch of grass like kids returning from some half-imagined quest.

“Sammy!”

Mary’s voice floats from the porch—her hands in the tomato vines that cling to the edge of the railing. She straightens when she sees you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, smiling wide. “Look at you. You’re so beautiful. All grown up now.”

You blush, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Hi, Mary.”

She steps off the porch and pulls you into a light hug that smells like sunscreen and fresh basil. “How’s college going?”

“I really love it,” you say, honest and breathless. “It’s been good to get away for a while.”

Mary nods, touching your arm. “Sam’s been thinking about it too, you know. College.”

You glance over at him. He’s looking everywhere but at her.

“He’s had his gap year,” she goes on, proud but gentle. “And he’s talking about Stanford now.”

“Mooooom,” Sam groans, already pulling at your wrist.

Mary laughs, hands raised. “I didn’t say anything! She’s your best friend, she should know.”

“She knows everything, and she’s gonna use it against me,” Sam mutters, dragging you back down the side of the yard. You glance back and Mary waves at you, sun lighting up the lines near her eyes.

You wave back. The moment stretches—warm and bittersweet. And then, as you step out onto the road—

The low, unmistakable growl of the Impala.

Your head turns instinctively.

Dean’s driving up the street, window down, left arm hanging lazy out the door. His hair’s a little damp with sweat, skin glinting like he’s been in the sun all day, grease still smudged faintly across one cheek. He’s just getting off work from the garage—you know that. You could set your watch by him.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t smile. Just lifts his fingers in a lazy salute toward Sam as he passes, expression unreadable behind those damn sunglasses.

You say nothing. Neither does Sam. You keep walking, pace unchanged, even as the Impala disappears around the bend in the cul-de-sac like it was never really there.

You stop at yours to gather snacks. The house is still quiet, still humming with heat. You shove chips and candy into a tote bag, toss a hoodie in too just in case the night cools down. Sam raids your fridge for soda while Frenchie digs through your cabinets like he lives here, offering completely unhelpful suggestions like “bring Nutella or we riot.”

Your body’s still tingling from the ocean, from the weed, from the way Dean didn’t look at you—but didn’t not look either.

By the time the three of you step back out into the dusk, you’re high on sugar and salt and anticipation. The day is sliding into something darker, brighter. The drive-in is waiting.

And so is Ben.

You’re almost at the drive-in, the last bend of road curling out ahead like a ribbon pulled taut between heat and dusk, when the low growl of a familiar engine slides up beside you.

Bright cherry red. Windows down. Vicki behind the wheel, one elbow hanging loose, curls whipped wild by the wind. Ben in the passenger seat, sun-kissed and slouched like he owns the road.

Vicki leans halfway out the window, grinning like mischief itself. “Hey!” She yells. “Quit babysitting the stoners—jump in!”

Frenchie gasps. “She gets me.”

Sam glances at you, then grins without hesitation. Ben’s already hopping out, boots crunching gravel, his jaw dusted in golden hour. He rounds the side of the bed and reaches toward you.

“C’mon,” he says, eyes glinting under the brim of his ball cap. “Up you go, sweetheart.”

You don’t even think about it. You reach for him.

His hands are warm, steady as he lifts you into the bed like it’s nothing. Your thighs scrape the tailgate, skin hot under your shorts. Frenchie clambers in after, cigarette already dangling from his lips like he’s ready for war. Sam climbs in more gracefully than Frenchie did.

Ben slides back into the cab, Vicki throws you a wink in the mirror, and the truck rumbles forward—roaring toward the drive-in with dust in its wake.

The lot is packed.

Every available strip of gravel and sunbaked grass is crammed with cars and chaos—blankets stretched between bumpers, lawn chairs pulled into haphazard rows, kids in cutoffs and band tees clinging to coolers. There’s music blaring from someone’s Bluetooth speaker, laughter spilling in all directions, that hum of anticipation thick as smoke in the air.

Vicki backs into a spot with practiced ease, parking alongside Butcher’s battered pickup—already made into a makeshift bed with half the department store’s blanket aisle stacked in the back. Charlie’s half-buried in pillows, legs draped over Jack’s lap, while Cas stands beside the truck holding a can of Sprite like it’s sacred.

Annie’s tiny pastel car is squeezed in nearby, comically small between the two trucks.

“Hughie,” Frenchie drawls as the door creaks open and Hughie unfolds awkwardly from the clown car. “Mon dieu. You look like you were born wrong.”

“I can’t feel my knees,” Hughie mutters, rubbing his thighs as he stumbles free. “That car wasn’t made for humans. It was made for, like… mice.”

“Or demons,” Charlie offers. “Maybe both.”

“Feels good to breathe again,” Annie sighs, stretching like a cat. “I love you, but we’re not driving my car next time.”

Ben jumps down from the cab and immediately starts fixing the bed of his own truck—pulls out two heavy quilts from the back and spreads them like muscle memory, adds a couple pillows from behind the seat. Vicki clambers over the side, immediately commandeering half the setup for herself.

You stay perched on the tailgate, sipping from your water bottle, hair still a little wet from earlier. Sam’s behind you, unloading snacks from the tote, Frenchie lighting a fresh blunt and offering it to Charlie, who snatches it like it’s treasure.

Then—

That sound. Low. Distinct. Unmistakable. The Impala.

Your head turns before your body does, drawn like a magnet.

Dean pulls in with the usual drama—black and gleaming, windows down, stereo off like he wants people to hear the engine. Jo’s riding shotgun, gum snapping between her teeth, sunglasses still on even though the sun’s nearly dipped below the treeline. MM’s in the backseat, sipping something from a thermos and looking like he doesn’t trust any of this.

Dean doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t have to. He salutes Sam with two fingers as he passes. Sam nods back, casual, but you feel his glance flick toward you.

You keep your face blank. Your pulse doesn’t cooperate.

Benny pulls in right behind Dean in his old Ford pickup, throws it into park like it owes him money. He hops out, nods toward everyone. “You lot look like trouble.”

“We are trouble,” Charlie calls, waving the joint in the air. “Come sit down and cry during The Shining with us.”

“Hell naw,” Benny grins. “I already got enough nightmares.”

“You are the fuckin’ nightmare,” Butcher calls from his perch in the back of his truck, cracking open a beer with his teeth like an animal.

Kimiko signs something fast and furious, and Frenchie immediately laughs. “She says you’re lucky she left the taser at home.”

Cas tilts his head, confused. “Why does she own a taser?”

“Why don’t you?” Kimiko signs back, smug.

You watch all of it unfold like a movie—your movie, your summer, the exact life you used to dream about when you were thirteen and heart-sick with wanting.

Ben walks back over to you, brushing his knuckles against your thigh like a secret no one else needs to know. “You good?” He murmurs, voice low under the chatter.

You look at him. Sunset on his skin. Sweat at his collarbone. That smirk. And you say, “Yeah.”

You’re not sure if it’s true. But you’re here. And tonight’s just beginning.

Everyone’s still half-moving, half-settling—blankets unfolding, coolers opening, candy getting passed around in crinkling paper rustles.

Vicki hops down from the truck with a grin, glances your way, then turns to Sam. “Hey, could you come with me a sec, Sam? I promised Cas and Kimiko I’d get them a bag of Sour Patch—Frenchie's already abandoned me.”

Sam blinks, but shrugs. “Yeah, sure.”

They wander off into the crowd, weaving between lawn chairs and truck bumpers. Frenchie’s already halfway horizontal in Butcher’s truck bed, gesturing grandly as he reenacts something that probably never happened.

You stay where you are—curled in Ben’s truck bed, knees pulled up, elbow resting on a folded quilt. The lot’s humming with voices, headlights snapping off one by one as the sky darkens. The first movie’s about to start—Halloween.

Ben shifts beside you. He doesn’t say anything yet. Just settles against the pillows, one arm stretched along the side of the bed behind you.

The screen lights up.

A hush ripples through the lot.

You glance at Ben from the corner of your eye. His silhouette glows faint blue from the projection. He’s watching the opening credits like he’s really paying attention, but his mouth is tilted in that lazy smirk that always feels like it’s aimed right at you.

You shift slightly. So does he. Little by little, your legs stretch toward his. Your thighs brush. Then stay there. Your bare skin against the rough denim of his jeans.

Neither of you move away.

“You cold?” He murmurs, barely louder than the movie’s sound.

You shake your head. “No.”

But the answer’s not really about the cold, and you both know it. His fingers graze your thigh—tentative, asking—and then settle there. Warm and firm. His hand spreads slightly, grounding you.

You go still.

He leans closer. “This okay?”

You swallow. Nod. “Yeah.”

His grin goes sharp. Smug. His fingers tighten just a little, just enough to send a spark up your spine. And you can’t look at him. Not right now. Not without showing too much. So you keep your eyes on the screen. Try to breathe. Try not to think about the way your heart’s fluttering in your throat.

Then—

Michael Myers jumps out from behind a door, the music slashes loud, sharp as a scream—

And you jump.

Your whole body jolts, and before you can catch yourself, you’re pressed full against Ben’s side, your palm flat against his chest, heart racing. His arm closes around you immediately, low on your waist. Steadying. Pulling you close.

You look up. He’s already looking down. Eyes darker now. Lips parted. Breath warm against your cheek.

“Jesus,” you whisper, breathless.

His mouth is right there. His thumb strokes once across your thigh.

“You’re not playin’ fair,” he murmurs, voice thick, heat curling into every syllable. “Not even a little bit.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Because your eyes are locked, your lips are too close, and your pulse is screaming louder than the movie ever could.

Another scare hits the screen—sharper this time. A knife, a scream, a door slamming open. You jump again, and without even thinking, you press in tighter against Ben. Your shoulder to his chest, your thigh flush with his. He chuckles. Low. Warm. Smug.

You tilt your face up toward him, nose nearly brushing his jaw. “What?”

His gaze drops lazily to your mouth before dragging back to your eyes.

“You’re cute when you’re scared.”

You scoff, turning away fast enough to hide the burn in your cheeks. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.

You roll your eyes, reach into your tote bag, and pull out your little weed tin. The clink of the lid, the scent of skunk and sweetness hitting the air—Ben hums approvingly, shifting to watch you closer.

You work fast, fingers nimble, the movie flickering blue light across your skin as you tuck and twist. You can feel his gaze—dragging over the curve of your shoulder, the roll of your damp hair down your spine, your lips tucked between your teeth as you seal the blunt.

“You wanna partake?” You murmur, flicking your lighter to life, flame glowing soft between you.

Ben doesn’t answer right away. Just nods, slow. Eyes heavy-lidded and low.

You light up. Inhale deep. Hold it in as you turn back toward him, blunt pinched between your fingers, smoke curling at the corners of your mouth.

He’s already looking at your lips. Then your eyes. Then back again.

“Feed me it,” he says—quiet, almost reverent, that signature drawl turning rough at the edges.

You don’t blink. You just lean in. Your noses brush. Your mouths hover. And then—softly, carefully—you exhale the smoke into his mouth. Ben inhales deep, eyes locked on yours, the air between you thick with heat and ash and unspoken things.

He exhales slow, the scent of it rushing past your cheek.

Then he licks his bottom lip and mutters, “Nah. Let me show you how it’s done.”

Your heart stutters. He takes the blunt from your hand. Inhales, deep and smooth, eyes flickering closed just for a second. Then he looks back at you—pupils wide, smile dangerous.

“C’mere,” he says, voice husky, the smoke still caught in his chest.

You lean in without a word. He cups your jaw with one warm hand, thumb resting just under your cheekbone. Gentle, but possessive. And then—he pulls you to him, mouth slanting against yours in one fluid motion, and blows the smoke into your mouth.

You inhale, like instinct. Like sin. You whimper against him—too soft, too breathless—and his grin breaks wide and wicked.

“Atta girl,” he mutters, voice rasping like sandpaper and velvet. “You always this easy to ruin, or is it just me?”

You blink at him, dazed. High and something else entirely. He still hasn’t let go of your face. And the movie keeps playing. But you can’t hear a damn thing anymore.

You lean back into the pillows again, blunt still burning faint between your fingers. The screen flickers ahead, white masks and shadowed doorways, but it’s all blur now. Your blood is buzzing, lungs warm with smoke, and Ben’s hand hasn’t moved from your thigh.

Then he shifts. Not much. Just enough.

He reaches down, curls his fingers around your calves and lifts—pulls your legs over his lap with no hesitation. Your breath hitches as your knees settle across his jeans, the inside of your thigh brushing close to his belt buckle, your toes nudging the curve of his hip.

He shifts again, this time leaning back further against the pillows, dragging you down with him until you’re half in his lap, half tucked against his chest. His arm hooks behind your back like it belongs there.

You don’t breathe for a second. Your pulse is pounding in your throat. Ben passes the blunt back to you, eyes hooded, lazy. You take it, fingers brushing his on purpose. Then—from across the lot:

“Who is smoking without me, hein?”

You nearly choke on your hit, twisting around just enough to see Frenchie striding toward the truck, eyes narrowed, exaggerated betrayal written across his face. You laugh, sharp and surprised, and turn your face into Ben’s shoulder, giggling against the soft cotton there.

Ben’s body vibrates with a quiet chuckle of his own. “Jesus,” he mutters, voice rumbling under your cheek, “guy’s like a fuckin’ sniffer dog.”

You snort, lips brushing the edge of his collarbone. “You love him.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, taking the blunt back. “Still a little junkie.”

Before you can say anything else—

BANG—BANG.

Two sharp smacks on the side of the truck bed. You jolt upright, Ben’s arm tightening around your waist instinctively.

Dean.

Standing there in the flicker of the projector light, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes don’t quite touch yours.

“Hey,” he says to Ben, jaw tight. “You got any spare smokes?”

Ben blinks. Tilts his head back lazily toward the truck cab. “New pack in my jacket. Front pocket. You can grab ’em.”

Dean nods once. “Thanks, man.”

The truck rocks slightly as he opens the passenger door, leans in. His silhouette cuts through the light from the screen as he grabs the pack. The door slams shut harder than it needs to.

You don’t move.

Dean doesn’t say anything else. Just walks off without a glance at you, heading back toward the Impala where Jo’s stretched across the bench seat, tossing popcorn into her mouth like she didn’t just watch the whole interaction.

You swallow. Blink once. And then Ben huffs out a breath beside you.

“Fuckin’ jealous pussy,” he mutters under his breath, eyes still on the screen.

Your eyes widen. “Ben.”

He shrugs, completely unfazed. “What? You saw that.”

You turn back toward him, heart thudding hard for an entirely different reason now. And he’s already smirking. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You blink at him, stunned for a second. “Jealous pussy?”

Ben doesn’t even flinch. Just shrugs, still reclined in the nest of blankets like he hasn’t just lit a match and tossed it at your ribcage.

“Not my fault,” he mutters, dragging his thumb across your thigh again, casual but deliberate, “Winchester couldn’t grow a backbone and ask you out sooner.”

Your eyes widen. You turn toward him, half-laughing, half-staggered. “Ben.”

He glances over, smug. “What?”

“He doesn’t see me that way.”

Ben snorts. It’s not even subtle.

You glare, but he’s already turning, one arm sliding around the back of your shoulders, pulling you in a little closer like you belong there.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth tilted toward your ear now, “but I know you ain’t that fuckin’ stupid.”

You blink again. Hard. The air between you thickens—slow, smoky, sweet with something you can’t quite name.

“Oh yeah?” You whisper, breath catching.

“Yeah,” Ben says, low and sure, not even looking at the screen anymore. “I saw the way he looked at you. Like he wanted to set somethin’ on fire.”

You swallow, heart hammering now. Your legs are still slung across his lap, one of his hands ghosting along your calf like it belongs there, and you can’t stop watching his mouth. The blunt’s long gone. The movie’s background noise now. He leans in just a little. Close enough to count your breaths.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about kissin’ you again,” he says, soft and gravelled, like the confession costs him.

You inhale too sharply, lips parting.

“I want you to,” you whisper, barely audible.

Ben groans—actually groans, tipping his head back against the pillows, eyes shutting like he’s in pain.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You gotta stop playin’ games with me.”

You smile. Innocent. Dangerous.

“I’m not playing games,” you say sweetly. “You’re the one who hasn’t asked me out yet.”

His eyes snap open, full of heat and disbelief. “You serious?”

You nod. “Dead serious.”

Ben grins, slow and wicked. “Alright, then.” His voice curls like smoke around the words. “You feel like goin’ out Friday night?”

You arch a brow. “Only on the condition that we can keep kissing until then.”

He doesn’t even pretend to hesitate. His hand comes up fast—fingers strong around your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as he pulls you in.

“Deal,” he says, and then—

He kisses you.

Not soft this time. Not careful. He claims your mouth, lips pressing firm and hot against yours, his other hand sliding up your thigh like it’s instinct, like it’s been waiting all night for the go-ahead. You melt against him, fingers curled in his shirt, breath tangled between you both.

And somewhere in the distance, the movie plays on. But neither of you are watching anymore.

You pull back from the kiss just enough to breathe, your forehead resting against his, mouths still brushing. The movie flickers across your skin—slashes of colour, blood and shadow and screams that feel like nothing compared to the storm inside your chest.

You blink.

Your eyes flick toward the other cars—Annie curled into Hughie, Cas watching the screen like he’s studying it, Frenchie, Sam, and Charlie passing a gummy back and forth in Butcher’s truck bed. Vicki’s nowhere to be seen—probably off making chaos somewhere. Dean and Jo are still in the Impala, seats reclined, windows cracked just enough to smell the beer.

“Hey,” Ben murmurs, voice low and right at your mouth. “What’re you lookin’ at?”

You glance back at him, cheeks warm. “Just… checking.”

His grin goes slow. Dangerous. “You think they don’t know already?”

Your heart kicks. You don’t answer. You just shift—careful, quiet—and climb fully into his lap.

Ben goes very still as your weight settles across his thighs. You press him deeper into the nest of pillows, hands braced on either side of his shoulders, breath catching at how natural it feels—how easy it is to fall into this. His hands find your hips. Stay there.

“You fight dirty,” he mutters, voice gone low and reverent.

You grin against his mouth. “You love it.”

His eyes flicker to your lips again, then your eyes. His fingers flex tighter on your hips.

“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding once. “I really fuckin’ do.”

Then he’s kissing you again—messier this time. Slow but greedy, like he’s trying to taste the way you say yes with your whole body. Your thighs tighten around his lap, and you realise just how warm you are—how wet.

You shift slightly—pressing closer—and Ben groans quietly into your mouth, fingers gripping tighter like he’s barely holding himself together.

“Jesus,” he breathes, lips brushing yours. “I can feel you, sweetheart.”

You whimper, your face going hot, hips jerking slightly before you freeze.

“I knew you’d like dirty talk,” he whispers, cocky and quiet and so close to cruel.

You nod before you can help it. Kiss him again. Your nails curl in the collar of his shirt.

“God, you’re—” he cuts himself off with another kiss, then pulls back just barely, voice rough and teasing. “All wet in those little shorts, sittin’ on me like that. So fuckin’ needy.”

“Ben—”

He shushes you, hands stroking up your thighs now, slow and reverent.

“You gotta wait, baby,” he murmurs, voice like smoke. “You want me Friday, you got me Friday. I’ll take my time with you, I promise. I’ll make you feel so good. But right now?” His lips press behind your ear, breath hot. “You gotta sit here all wound up, bein’ good. Watchin’ movies. Actin’ innocent.”

You let out a soft whimper before biting your lip.

Ben grins against your skin. “Knew it. You love this.”

“I hate you,” you whisper, but you’re breathless and grinning, completely melted against him.

“No you don’t,” he whispers back, kissing you again. “Not even a little bit.”

And you don’t. Not even a little.

The third movie drags toward its final act—snowfall hissing across the screen, Jack’s madness unraveling in blue-tinged static light. Around you, the drive-in has gone soft with sleep and secondhand sugar comas. Kimiko’s curled up in a hoodie against Charlie’s shoulder, Butcher is snoring with his arms crossed and his beer resting dangerously close to his stomach. Somewhere behind you, Vicki is probably off stirring up chaos with a bottle of something hidden in a tote.

But here—here—you are warm. Settled.

Ben’s arms are wrapped loosely around your waist, one leg hooked lazily beneath yours, your body tucked into the solid line of his. You feel the thrum of his heart against your back, the subtle shift of his breathing each time the cold air bites a little harder. His hand rests just under the hem of your hoodie, thumb moving in the slowest circles against your skin. You think maybe you could fall asleep like this—high, full of sugar and warmth and finally feeling wanted.

And then the gravel crunches.

It doesn’t register at first. Just another car door, another step. But you feel Ben tense behind you—just barely. A slight coiling in his chest. The change in his exhale.

You lift your head.

Dean is standing there, half-lit by the flicker of headlights and the violent glow of the screen, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders stiff like he’s bracing for something you can’t see.

“Hey,” you say softly, confused. “You okay?”

His eyes flick to you. Linger. But there’s no softness in them. No smirk, no easy grin. Just something sharp. Something that makes your stomach go tight.

He doesn’t answer.

Then, voice flat and low, he says, “Didn’t think I’d see you crawlin’ into his lap.”

The words hit like a slap across the face. Your smile dies. You blink. Once. Twice.

“What?”

Dean shrugs, the movement sharp and careless. His jaw is tight, eyes hard, but he still won’t look directly at you.

“Just surprised, is all,” he murmurs. “Figured you’d put up more of a fight.”

You feel it then—that creeping, acidic burn under your skin. Shame. Humiliation. And something uglier: confusion.

“Dean,” you say, barely above a whisper, “what the hell are you talking about?”

He scoffs. It’s low, bitter. “Milkshake, a few compliments, and that’s all it takes now?”

Behind you, Ben goes rigid.

The whole bed of the truck stills. The movie’s still playing. Somewhere, someone laughs at something on screen. You hear a can crack open.

None of it feels real. The heat in your cheeks isn’t soft anymore—it’s sharp, blooming like shame even though you’ve done nothing wrong.

Ben tenses behind you, sitting up now too.

“Hey—” he starts, voice low.

But Dean cuts him off, still looking at you.

“Just didn’t think you’d be that desperate.”

The wind goes out of you. You feel it hollow in your chest, like something important just caved in.

You sit up fully, suddenly needing distance. The quilt clings to your knees, Ben’s hands still at your sides, but you shake them off gently and slide toward the edge of the truck bed. You don’t even know what you’re doing—only that you need to move, need to breathe, need to leave.

Then—

“Dean,” Sam’s voice cuts sharp through the night, closer than you expected. He’s already halfway across the gravel. “Sort your fucking shit out.”

Dean turns like he might say something back—but Sam doesn’t give him the chance.

He bypasses him entirely and comes straight to you, eyes darting over your face. You’re blinking fast now, your eyes glassy and hot, the sting in your throat impossible to swallow down.

“Hey,” Sam says, gentle now, “come on. It’s okay.”

You nod—but it doesn’t feel like a real nod. You’re still somewhere else. Floating. Fractured.

Sam climbs into the bed beside you and rubs a warm, steady hand along your back. “We’re going. You don’t have to stay here.”

You bite your lip. Wipe your cheek with the sleeve of your hoodie. You hate that you’re crying. You hate that he made you cry.

Sam turns to Ben. “Can you drive us?”

Ben’s already standing. He doesn’t look at Dean. Doesn’t speak to him. He just nods once, quiet and sure. “Yeah. C’mon.”

You climb down slowly, Sam’s hand still on your arm, Ben waiting by the passenger door. He opens it for you without a word. The gesture feels impossibly gentle. You slide into the seat, legs trembling. Sam gets in beside you. Ben closes the door, walks around.

You don’t look back. Not at the cars. Not at the Impala. Not at Dean. You stare straight ahead, lips pressed tight, the taste of smoke and sugar still clinging to your tongue.

When Ben starts the engine, the low rumble drowns out everything else. And when he pulls away, gravel crunching under the tires like bones, you don’t say a word. But you can still feel the shape of Dean’s voice in your chest. And it hurts like hell.

The ride home is quiet.

Not tense—just heavy, like the air itself is holding its breath.

You’re tucked between Sam and Ben in the wide bench seat of the Chevy, knees drawn up just slightly, your hands resting in your lap like they’re trying not to shake. The lights of the drive-in have disappeared behind you, replaced by the dim rhythm of passing streetlamps, the soft drone of tires humming over asphalt. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the salt-thick night air, warm and dizzying.

Sam shifts beside you, leans forward to glance past Ben at the dashboard clock. Then his voice, soft and familiar, slices through the quiet like a hand reaching out in the dark.

“You wanna do a sleepover?” He asks gently, not pushing, just offering. “Like old times?”

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you, eyes full of concern and something older—something like grief. Ben doesn’t say anything, but you feel him flick a glance your way. You don’t look back.

You shake your head, small and tired.

“I just wanna go home.”

Sam nods like he expected it, like he gets it. You think he always does.

“I’ll come by tomorrow morning,” he says. “Make sure you’re okay.”

You nod again. You don’t trust your voice.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, not even sure what for. Just needing to say something.

Sam turns toward you, and his hand wraps around yours, warm and steady and so familiar it hurts. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

The truck slows, tires crunching as Ben pulls into Sam’s driveway. The engine hums low. Sam squeezes your hand once before he opens the door.

“Thanks for the ride, man,” he says, nodding toward Ben.

Ben just lifts his chin. “Anytime.”

Sam hesitates, glances at you one more time, then climbs out. You watch him disappear up the walk, shoulders slightly hunched, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets. Ben waits until Sam’s made it to the porch, until the door clicks open and closed behind him, before shifting into drive again.

The truck rolls forward, slow and smooth, just a few houses down.

Your house glows soft in the porch light—empty, still, the kind of quiet that feels like it knows something’s wrong. Ben pulls up in front and shifts into park, but doesn’t kill the engine.

For a long moment, neither of you speak.

Then, gently, like he doesn’t want to break you open again, he says, “You need anything?”

You shake your head, eyes locked on the dashboard now.

Ben lets out a breath through his nose, then smirks—just barely.

“I mean, I can knock Winchester on his ass if you want. Real easy fix.”

You let out a broken laugh. It catches in your throat, sharp and wet. You wipe at your cheek with the sleeve of your hoodie and turn your face toward the window.

“If I don’t go in now,” you murmur, voice cracking, “I’m gonna cry in front of you.”

Ben doesn’t tease. Doesn’t smirk. He just leans forward, pulls your phone from your lap, taps his number in without asking, then sets it gently back into your hands.

“Anything you need,” he says, quiet and firm. “You ring me. Don’t matter what time.”

You nod, throat too tight to answer.

You open the door, the warm night folding around you like a blanket you didn’t ask for. You climb out, close it softly behind you, and walk to the porch with your arms wrapped around yourself.

You don’t look back until you’re upstairs, in your room, barefoot and still wearing the hoodie you’d packed. You step to the window, pull it open with slow hands, and lean out just far enough to catch the headlights waiting patiently at the curb.

Ben’s still there. He looks up when he sees you. You raise your hand. Just a small wave. He nods once. Then he drives off slow, red taillights disappearing into the dark.

You close the window.

Strip down to your underwear. Crawl into bed with the weight of the night still clinging to your skin. You lie there for a minute—just a minute—staring at the ceiling, trying to will the sting behind your eyes to settle.

But then you blink.

And the tears spill.

Silent at first, slow trails down your temples and into your hairline. Then harder. Hotter. Until you’re curled in on yourself, gasping into your pillow like the grief is a wound, raw and pulsing and too deep to name.

Dean’s voice echoes in your head. Cruel. Flat.

“Just didn’t think you’d be that desperate.”

You cry harder.

And no one comes.

← PREVIOUS PART NEXT PART →

author note/s: okay, so please don't hate me. dean is clearly going through some shit right now. he's mean af. and i promise, there's a reason behind it... you'll find out within the next few parts. sammy, frenchie, and reader are the best trio. argue with the wall if you think anything else. i am absolutely, utterly, unhinged in my love for this series. i haven't enjoyed writing something this much in a long, long time. this is the sort of story that feels so nostalgic to me. i am really looking forward to you guys finding out more. until the next one, smin signing off. all the love.

soldier boy/ben & dean taglists: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @bruisedfig @angelicjackles @soldiersgirl @tinas111 @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @deansbeer @deanstubble @drakulana @mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @liiiilsss @0ccvltism @itshellfire @sl33pylilbunny @nevercameraready @paristheonewhoreads @podiumackles @suckitands33 @lyarr24 @spxideyver @winchestersbgirl @mj-102009 @kaz-2y5-spn @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @ohgodimgoungtodie @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @ambiguous-avery @imsiriuslyreal <3

[seoafin]

ship of theseus (V) pairing: dick grayson x black widow!reader warnings/tags: word count: ~7.5k

please heed warning tags here

“He’s staring at you.”

You don’t take your eyes away from the spreadsheet open on your computer as you log in returned books. Four books are going straight to the ‘on hold’ pile. Now that The Oresteia’s been returned, you can keep it to the side for James, a highschooler at Bludhaven High who comes in biweekly to prepare for his SAT because he lacks steady internet at home. He wants to go to Gotham University on a competitive scholarship named after some rich gothamite. “Hm.”

Lucy giggles. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see her twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Despite the smile on her face, she grits out your name. “Aren’t you going to say hi?”

You slowly drag your gaze up. Blue eyes overtake yours instantly. Objectively, he’s attractive. Devastatingly so even. You take him in, assessing him with a glance. Clean shaven, with a sharp jawline and full lips and joyful eyes so blue they stand out in stark contrast to his tanned skin. There’s a flirtatious curl to his lips, but not so much crass as it is friendly. Inviting. Like he could make you the most important person in the room just by looking at you. And he carries himself with the confidence of a man who knows it all too well.

You stare at him blankly until the high resting smile on his face slightly falters at the edges.

You return your attention to the monitor. 

Lucy’s grip on the armrest of your chair tightens. “He’s coming,” she rushes out, with a note of reverence in her voice. “He’s walking over. Oh god, he’s so hot. He looks like he smells good. He’s got to be single, right?” She straightens.

You don’t plan on finding out. You rise from your seat, and grab the nearest stack of books to be shelved.

There’s three books in your arms. Alice in Wonderland, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and The Little Prince. You’re systematically rearranging the middle shelf of books, when someone approaches from the other side of the stacks. You can see his face through the gaps of the books. You don’t stop. 

“I haven’t seen you around,” the man says casually, head slightly cocked to the side. The blinding smile is back, revealing pearly white teeth. “I’m Dick. Are you new here?”

It’s not flirtatious as you had been anticipating. He sounds genuinely curious. It doesn’t mean anything. Before you find yourself focusing on the cadence of his voice, the rhythm of his breaths, and the dilation of his pupils, you shelf a book. No more, you think. Not anymore.

Be friendly , Fiona, the head librarian had hissed to you hours earlier. The parents are complaining you’re unsociable.

“Yes.” It had taken a chance job opportunity, a twenty minute hack job, and a fake degree, and you had somehow managed to swing the job interview by playing up your enthusiasm for the dewey decimal system and how you didn’t mind working overtime. What else did you have to do.

“Thought so. I check up on a few kids here, and thought I haven't seen you around before. New to the city?”

You give him a once over, taking in the lax posture, and easy smile. Except. You can tell his weight is evenly distributed on both feet; ready for fight at a hat’s drop. He had walked towards you swiftly, steps light, while also conserving his pace. The gait of a man who thinks quickly on his feet, and moves even faster. His body is subtly angled towards the exit, either suspiciously shifty or keen on observing the people walking in and out of the library. 

Not a cop. Not even special services. Something more. 

“Yes.”

He nods. “I moved to Bludhaven myself a couple of years ago. I’m from Gotham.”

If the man is daunted by your monosyllabic responses, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he seems completely at ease with this one sided conversation. You straighten a few books, and rearrange a couple of books on the wrong side of the shelf. 

There’s a few heartbeats of silence.

He drums a few fingers on the shelf from the other side of the stacks. “So, you like books?”

Only a sliver of his face is visible. You meet his gaze through the singular empty gap in the shelf, just narrow enough for The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Dark blue. You think of the sky just before a storm, and the ocean you tried to drown yourself in.

There’s a look on his face as he regards you. Calculating, amused, and fascinated all at once. It reminds you of her so much you can’t look away. It reminds you of her so much you almost ask him to stay. 

“No.” You slot the book in place, removing his face.

2.

You’re being followed. 

You clock it as soon as you turn the corner. Petty thieves looking to make an easy penny. You’ve never experienced being mugged before. You suppose walking around with a famous six foot something super soldier around the streets of New York practically guaranteed criminals away. You’re almost tempted to let them take your wallet. It’s nice being a normal person. 

Bludhaven is a city of suspicious character. When you first arrived in this world, you had discovered cities by names you didn’t recognize. Gotham. Metropolis. Star city. Central city. Vigilantes abound, protecting their individual cities. In your world, you had observed your government try to enact a law regulating super powered individuals, and the ensuing civil war. You don’t know how these vigilantes would feel about such a thing. But perhaps the group calling themselves the Justice League bypasses it all anyway.

Your google search for Bludhaven’s vigilante yielded easy results. Pictures of dubious quality to pictures shot with professional cameras unearthed a man in skintight spandex. Black with some sort of bird stretching across his chest down his finger stripes. Nightwing. You perused it all: reddit threads dedicated to tracking the movements of vigilantes, facebook fan groups speculating different identities, twitter users liveblogging hero sightings. 

Not so much different from your world. Though your heroes didn’t care much for hiding their identities. Peter was the exception. Except, Peter always seemed to be the exception. 

Out of all the cities in the United States, the general consensus seemed to be that Gotham was the most crime riddled, with its own set of depraved villains that had everybody but the Gotham born and bred wondering why anybody lived there.

Bludhaven, Gotham’s sister city was separated by a forty minute drive on the freeway and boasted the same impressive crime rate. You had chosen this city to be your home. Strange, and bleak, but interesting. Which is why none of this comes as a surprise to you. It’s 2am. You had bid James a goodnight, watching him get onto his bicycle and speed away like hell was on his wheels. You suppose he didn’t want to stick around these streets at night. Now you are walking the full forty minutes to your apartment, right next to the water you’re sure doubles as toxic waste. 

You slip into an empty alleyway with a dead end. You hear footsteps following. Three men. One of whom is slightly drunk. You turn just as they fan out, surrounding you.

“Hey there missy,” one of them says, saggy, patched jeans and a greasy shirt. He smiles, revealing a chipped tooth. “Lovely night, eh?”

You stare at him. 

“This one doesn’t seem like much a talker,” the one to your direct left says. Bald. He leers at you. “But I’m sure I can get some nice noises out of you. Where d’you live sweetheart?”

Another one laughs. There are pit stains on his dirty white button up. “In fact, why don’t we all have some fun?” He eyes your bag, but he leans on one side of his body. The drunk one. “We’ll make this nice and easy fer ye. Just hand yer bag over—” out of his back pocket he pulls out a 9mm handgun “—and let’s have a nice time at yer place.”

“I’d rather you shoot me,” you intone.

The three exchange a brief look of disbelief. 

The man with the gun tightens his grip, an ugly snarl building on his face. “I don’t think you understand me—” 

There’s a movement in the darkness behind the men. You don’t bring attention to it by not looking. Then a glass bottle shatters on the ground, and a wide eyed blonde girl stares at the four of you in shock, before taking a step back. She looks like she just stumbled out of the nearest dive bar. A college student.

The man swings around, pointing the gun at the girl, whose eyes go very, very wide.

“Well, well, looks like we’ve got another one.”

“Um. I. I. I can give you my wallet.” The girl fumbles with the purse at her side. Her fingers are shaking. “I have money. I can—”

“Shut up.” He’s still pointing the gun at her. The man to your right looks uneasy. The one on your left grins, staring at the girl’s bare legs in her leather miniskirt. Nothing good can come from a look like that. “Get over here.”

The girl flinches. “I—”

“He’ll shoot you!” The bald one cackles. He saunters over to the girl, body locked tight. “C’mon sweetheart, we’ll give you a good time. Promise.” He slides a hand down the girl’s bare back before pushing her towards your direction. 

The man without a gun has her wrist in his hand, her body trembling in his grip. “Just stay still,” he mutters, annoyed.

You don’t move a muscle because you know the man is trigger happy enough to shoot. The appearance of a younger, much more frightened girl has emboldened him. Now, he’s serious. You should have taken these degenerates out on the street. Your mistake.

“We can go to my apartment,” you say quietly. “Without the girl.”

He snorts. “Why have one when I can have two?”

You watch as an epiphany hits his face, and know what he’s about to do. All you need is two seconds. No time to think. One gun.

You hesitate. Normal. You promised yourself. No, you promised her. No, she promised you. No more. Just us . Except there was no you without her. There is no you without the blood on your hands. You feel your stomach curl. No more, you told yourself. No more. 

In the next second, the man has the college student in his clutch, arm pressed to her neck, as he holds the gun to her head. To you, he says, “Take off your shirt.”

The relief cuts against the despair, so stark it snaps you back into the correct mindspace. This, you can do. 

You unbutton your shirt. It drops to the ground.

“That’s more like it,” baldly groans, coming up behind you and pressing his body against yours. He smells of something rancid. 

The girl is crying silently now, eyes pleading with you. You don’t think your gaze conveys much comfort. She closes her eyes. You look to the third man, who doesn’t meet your gaze.

“Don’t leave me waiting now,” the man grins. “Pants too.”

Your pants join your shirt in a crumbled heap.

A whistle right behind you. An arm snakes around your waist, fingers playing with the edges of your panties. “ God damn! Think I need this one on her knees. Let me take a go with her first. You went first last time!” You let him roughly shove you to the ground, on your back. Rocks dig into your skin. 

“Oh god,” the girl whimpers, crying harder. “Oh god.”

He forces your legs open. The man unzips his fly, shoving down his pants. You wait. Until he gets close enough that you can put him to sleep. 

“Shut the fuck up bitch,” he grinds out in her ear. “Just wait until your turn and—”

Two things happen at once. An escrima stick slams the gun out of his hand. It skitters underneath the garbage disposal. The girl is let go of, and she drops to her knees as a blur of a man dressed in black lands a kick straight to his chest, sending right to the ground. The man is ripped off of you. Nightwing throws him into the nearest brick wall, hard enough that you hear something crack, and punches him until he’s unconscious on the ground once more.

The girl stands on shaky legs, and runs out of sight.

The third man starts to run after, but Nightwing catches up easily, slamming a baton into the side of his face. You see blood and a tooth that gleams in the light, both landing somewhere in the dark.

You rise from the ground.

“— scum like you who have nothing better to than—”

“You’ll kill him.”

Nightwing stops, one hand clenched around the man’s shirt, the other bloodied fist raised high in the air. His chest is heaving, but not from exertion. The domino on his face makes his gaze indecipherable. 

In all the pictures you’ve seen, there’s usually a smile on the vigilante’s face. An air of joviality that surrounds him, so that you can discern it, even in pictures. It’s uncharacteristic of a vigilante that operates out of a crime infested city. You think this is a sight he must see often enough. A drunk man, a half naked girl. The anger surprises you, even though you shouldn’t. You know good people exist. 

Nightwing lets go of the man, who falls in a pool of his blood. His fingers curl shut, knuckles briefly going white.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he tries casually, trying to infuse his tone with good humor. There’s a smattering of blood across his cheek. It falls flat. “Are you alright?”

The concern is real. He doesn’t approach, as if you’re some easily spooked horse. It reminds you that you aren’t wearing clothes. 

“Fine,” you say, turning back to your crumbled clothes. Nightwing glances away as you redress, shifting on the balls of his feet as if he doesn’t quite know what to do. His body language is taut, torn between outrage and the need to comfort. He hides it well. You can tell he’s still angry. Angry enough to punch out a few more teeth. 

“The police are coming to get them,” he says solemnly, jaw tight. “I won’t let them hurt anyone else.”

“Thanks.” You rarely have an opinion on the police on a good day other than useless.

You walk away, expecting him to disappear into the shadows or the rooftops or whatever the vigilantes of this world do. Instead, he follows.

At the foot of the alley, connecting to the main street, the girl is crying into her knees on the curb.

You debate on letting good samaritan Nightwing handle it. You’ve never been good with comfort. You can feel his gaze bearing into the back of your head, and know he’ll likely follow you home. You also can’t help but feel…responsible.

You sit down next to her, leaving enough space not to overwhelm her.

“That was scary, wasn’t it?” You say softly.

She lifts her head, tear face puffy. “That was awful! I’m so sorry,” she chokes out. “They were going to—”

“There’s no point in focusing on the what ifs. You’ll drive yourself mad.”

She blinks at you. Her lipstick stained lips warble. “How are you so okay?”

Because there is nothing a man could do to you that hasn’t been done to you already. That you had been opening your legs for men since you were a child. That it’s much easier to be afraid of things you don’t know. You know men.

“I’m not,” you lie, looking her in the eye, “but I will be.”

Nightwing slowly sits down on the opposite side of her, making himself smaller. “Do you have anyone that can take you home?”

She wipes her face with her arm, nodding. “My friends are coming in a cab now,” 

He breaks out in a smile. “That’s good. I’m Nightwing, what about you?”

She giggles, albeit tearily. “You can call me Julie.”

The two make light conversation until a cab pulls up.

“ Omigosh Julie, are you okay?”

A crowd of coeds exit out of the cab. 

“Guys, I’m fine. I’m literally fine. It’s okay!” The girls crowd around her, but more than a few glance at you and then, much more interestedly, Nightwing.

Minutes later, Julie and a couple other girls are waving out the window as the car drives off. Nightwing grins, waving back until the two of you are alone, once again. 

You stand. Nightwing clears his throat. “I can walk—”

“No need,” you dismiss, knowing you’ll be followed from the rooftops anyway. “I’ll be fine.”

He hesitates, pressing his lips together in clear disapproval. You trace the lines of his face in the dark, that familiar runner’s build. “If you say so,” he musters up cheerfully.

There’s a smothered twinge of annoyance. All these ghosts, all these memories. Everything you want to forgot. Tonight is not a good night. “She would’ve been fine. I wouldn’t have let anything happen to her.” That is the truth.

You watch the steel line of his jaw, and you wonder if you’ve hit a nerve. But Nightwing’s voice is exceedingly gentle. “Julie’s not the one who was—”

“Better me than her.”

You hold his gaze in the dark, daring him to say more. 

Then you turn on your heels and walk away.

3.

The restaurant is nearly closing when Dick rushes in. Your server, a college student by the name of Kimberly, who had given you a free glass of wine on the house after you appeared to have been stood up, glares at him. Dick winces.

Approaching your table, he eyes the appetizers and plate of food the servers had heaped upon your table in pity. There’s only you and one other table, a group of friends towards the end of the room. You calmly appraise him. 

“I am so sorry,” Dick says, genuinely upset. “I know there’s no excuse. I had a—family emergency. And by the time it was over, I realized I completely forgot—!”

From the host stand, Kimberly shakes her head in pure judgement, eyes narrowed.

You can tell he’s avoiding weight on his left side, and favoring his right. Bruised ribs, and maybe even a leg injury. 

He clears his throat. “How long have you been here?”

You shrug. “Four hours, give or take.”

Dick blinks, taken aback. “And you stayed?”

Why had you stayed? You had stayed because you had been curious. You wondered if he’d come. You knew firsthand fighting crime could easily become a priority, overtaking everything else in life. It left no room for a life outside it. Some people threw themselves into the life, some people left it for love. Dick Grayson, you think, chooses both. 

“I had nothing else to do anyway.”

He winces again, looking apologetic enough that Kimberly stops glaring at him from the entrance of the restaurant. “Oh god. I’m a dick. No pun intended. Please let me make it up to you.”

He awaits your response with the apprehension of a hostage waiting for a gunman to pull the trigger. You stare at him in silence, as he looks uncharacteristically fidgety.

“Okay.” You stand. “Let’s go.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Right now? I mean, you’re not even going to throw that drink at me?”

“I can if you want to.”

He raises both hands up, a relieved smile teasing at his lips. “I deserve it, and I would definitely understand. Can I say you’re taking this exceptionally well?” He has a dimple. The girls in the back crane their necks to see him, giggling. Even Kimberly looks less apprehensive. 

You incline your head. “I’m reserving judgement.”

“As you should,” he agrees cheekily, offering you his arm. 

The restaurant is about to close as Dick pays for your meal, tipping Kimberly generously, eventually winning her over.

The two of you go to Dick’s favorite pizza joint down a couple of blocks. You’re not as hungry, but you take a square slice to go. Dick talks about himself easily enough. So easily, that not many people would notice how he carefully side steps here and there from revealing too much information. He talks about growing up in a circus. Then with a billionaire after his parents’ deaths. His childhood with Bruce, and eventually wanting to step away from Gotham to become his own person. Not so different from you. You understand the need to step away from everything.

He’s a beat cop, not necessarily out of any love for the job. You don’t ask him why. You can gather it has something to do with an investigation. A more personal one. This is when you’d usually play the role of an interested date and ask all the right questions. Except right now, you find that your curiosity is organic. Genuine in a way you usually aren’t.

You tell him a sanitized version of the mundane life you’ve made up for yourself. You grew up in New York. When your parents died you were shuffled around from one foster home to the next before aging out of the system. A ghost of a grimace flickers across Dick’s face at the mention of the foster system.

He believes you. You haven't given him a reason not to.

Dick has siblings. Bruce Wayne’s adopted brood of children. Siblings, Dick happily goes into details about. You tell him you’re an only child, and ignoring the whiplash of phantom anguish, like vines wrapping around your heart.

By the end of the night, Dick drops you off at your apartment. If he was a mark, you’d kiss him and bring him back to your bed. You don’t kiss him.

You leave him there, on your doorstep. 

4.

Dick is staring at you hard enough that you can’t bring yourself to keep quiet. 

“Is there something on my face?”

He breaks into a smile, but worry lines the corners of his eyes. “Can’t I admire my girlfriend?”

Girlfriend doesn’t imply a permanency you remind yourself. 

You lean back into Dick’s couch, and put down the remote. Something’s bothering you , you’d say. Except that would imply knowing something’s wrong. You watch as he draws a breath, just before the tense lines of him soften, and feign ignorance.

“Lucy told me you've been calling out regularly,” he says lightly. “Feeling better?”

You think Lucy should learn to keep her mouth shut. 

“Just a sore throat. On and off,” you reply. Last week, you spent the day tracking down the girl you had seen off into a cab with Nightwing. Julia Bell. A twenty one year at Bludhaven U whose sorority initiation that night had taken a turn for the worse. You were glad to see her in high spirits again after that whole ordeal. Apparently, getting saved by Nightwing himself made her a celebrity on campus.

Dick’s practiced smile turns a degree strained. “Just that?”

You look him in the eye and say, “Yes.”

He presses his lips together, jaw working as if the words won’t quite come out.

Dick is an exceptionally easy person to talk to in a way you’ve never known anyone else to be but one. A man you regarded more like a brother than a friend, whose devotion to his faith made talking to him feel vaguely like a confessional. You watch him carefully, for the nuances of internal conflict in the planes of his face. Whether to push too hard and reveal his identity or let you be. This the precipice of your relationship: how many lies will he take? How many until he won’t? 

On the other hand, you could tell the truth. It's been months since then. You had hoped it'd be forgotten by now, except it hasn't. You know objectively you haven’t exhibited any behaviors characteristic of sexual assault victims, because the truth is you were never in any real danger. Only Julia. In your previous line of work, in another life entirely, sex was commonplace, one of the many rules that governed the world you lived in. Another asset in your arsenal. 

On account of having had it so many times, your feelings on sex border a blasé indifference, except for the rare times you do want it. A passing pretty girl in the bar, the minister’s wife while you had been on an assignment in a southern methodist town, the one and only man you had ever wanted to be with intimately.

Well, not the only one.

You pick up the remote, turn back to the tv, and press play. Dick had been appalled when you told him you never watched 101 Dalmatians . You didn’t tell him the only Disney movies you were familiar with were all propaganda you were forced to listen to. 

Dick pulls you close into his chest, and you can pick up the slightly elevated pace of his heartbeat. Not enough to be worried, but enough to let you make an educated guess.

Forty minutes into the movie, and Dick is still making smart quips about this and that. But you know he isn’t paying attention. Not completely, when he’s still lost in thought. He hasn’t quite settled, legs tense as if putting effort into not shaking. You feel his fingers absentmindedly rubbing your shoulder. A livewire ready to erupt.

You pause the movie. 

It takes several seconds for Dick to notice. He blinks, eyelashing fluttering. You turn, sliding your palm against his cheek, and kiss him. His hands come to your waist, fingers curling into you, as he presses into you eagerly. Lips slotted against your own, you feel his breaths in your mouth, just before his tongue slides against your own. Bold without being overbearing. Not needlessly dominant. You like that. You feel a tendril of heat spreading to your panties, and feel slick gathering.

The Red Room took too much from you. Every small, unexpected pleasure is a victory. 

He’s a good kisser. It’s your last thought before Dick ruts into you, hard. 

“Bed?” He asks against your lips.

“Sure.” Bed, couch, floor, you don’t really care.

Dick rises, carrying you with him, movie forgotten. He’s stronger than he looks. In normal circumstances, you’d run your hands over his body, assessing. Now you just want to touch him. His is a body built for movement and agility. He had grown up an acrobat, and he’s clearly stayed the course. You’ve seen shaky videos of Nightwing executing flips and turns that should be inhumanely impossible. But he’s no mutant either. Just a flesh and blood human being. 

His lips are on yours as soon as the two of you enter his bedroom. The bed is soft against your back. You lose your jeans, and Dick tugs off his shirt, losing it somewhere in the darkness of his bedroom. Then the two of you are kissing once more, as if he can’t bear to be separated for more than seconds. Your hands trace his lean muscles, the various scars crisscrossing his body. You wonder how he explains his scars to an unsuspecting hookup or two, and if he’s waiting for you to ask.

You won’t. You’re past the need of trying to discern him with uncomfortable questions here and there. You’ll let him keep your secrets. You have too many of your own. 

With one hand, Dick pushes down his jeans, revealing briefs. Your lips quirk as Dick aims a lopsided grin at you while attempting to wiggle out of his pants. 

You push him down back on the bed, straddling him and pulling off your shirt. You hadn’t bothered with a bra. Dick’s gaze darkens, a heat in them that has a fresh wave of anticipation licking at your skin. 

You’re no stranger to a man’s gaze against your naked skin, but like the way Dick looks at you. Without claim. Just fondness. 

You press kisses to his jaw, and your hand sneaks down, lightly pressing the heel of your palm into the wet fabric of his briefs outlining his cock. He exhales, head tipped back, revealing his jugular, the bob of his throat. 

You haven’t killed a man in bed in a long, long time. 

Precum has gathered on the tip of his cock as you slide your hand down the length of him, rough without any lubricant, and squeeze. 

“Jesus,” Dick nearly wheezes, strong thighs bucking into your hand. “You’re killing me.”

You’re glad to know you haven’t completely lost him. You’d rather he lose himself in you than his thoughts.

One of his hands is splayed on your bare back, heated. It strikes you that you haven’t been with anyone in years now. Nobody has touched you since her death. You briefly close your eyes. 

“Are you going to fuck me?” You ask, his hardness filling your hand. You want him to, just as you want to get on your knees and work him into your throat until he’s whining. You want him to hold you down on the floor and fuck you until your knees are bruised. Until you dissolve into nothing. 

“Anything,” he says, and it feels like a promise. He gently tugs your wrist away, before flipping you back on your back, eyes glinting. “My turn.”

Dick’s hand traces the outline of your face, thumb pressing on your bottom lip. You draw two of fingers into your mouth, listening to his breath hitch in his throat, his eyes wide, and suck until saliva runs down his hand. Dick’s tongue is in your mouth as his fingers press into your cunt, opening you up. The tightness burns, and you let out a breath that sounds like relief. His thumb circles your throbbing clit.

The two of you briefly separate after a sloppy kiss. You break the string of saliva by licking your lips. Dick doesn't break from scissoring you open with deft fingers, accompanied by hot sparks of pleasure racing down your spine. You burn with want. Useless, useless, want. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, pretty eyelashes casting shadows on his cheek. “So, so, beautiful.” He looks at you like he’s never had another girl in bed. Flatterer, you think, with the highest regard. But you like that, being just another girl in Dick Grayson’s bed. A normal, boring girl. One he whispers flatteries to in the night because he’s a good man. You won’t do him the disservice of not believing him. 

You raise a hand to his nape, and bring him back to your lips. He sucks your lips, your tongue, swipes his tongue against your lip, all wet heat and need.

“I want you to fuck me,” you say quietly, intently. You want to feel him stretch you open. You want to feel his body drape over yours. 

Amusement fills his face. “We’ve got all night. What’s the rush?” He kisses your cheek. “You’re tight,” he murmurs, lips tracing the shell of your ear. “Gotta open you up.”

“It’s been a while,” you reply.

It’s the wrong thing to say. You know it as soon as it leaves your lips. You’re not used to saying the wrong thing. Never.

Dick’s fingers still in you. His shoulders go rigid, chest beginning to heave. You feel the spike of his heartbeat. The underpinnings of panic on his face. He’s seeing you on the ground, half naked, a strange man between your legs. 

“Dick,” you say. 

“I have to know,” he says, a touch too quickly. “I can’t just—” his eyes are wide, and very blue in the dark. “Do you want this?”

You look at him calmly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He looks torn.

First, you think: someone hurt this man, and you will make them pay. And then you think: it’s unfair that bad things happen to good people. You are different: you deserved everything you got. 

“Do you want me?”

Dick stares down at you, eyes blown dark with arousal. “I—Yes,” his throat works. “Yes.” It’s less a word, and more one raw noise.

He reaches over into his bed stand and quickly grabs a condom in his top drawer, sliding it over his rapidly hardening cock. You don’t bother telling him you can’t get pregnant.

Dick slides into you after pumping himself once, grip tight, and claims your lips once more. You exhale unsteadily into his mouth at the ache. You close your eyes as Dick rocks into you, effortlessly practiced, and too gentle. His fingers stroke your clit in synchronous movements, and you hook your legs into him to bring him closer. You’re dripping, and Dick lets out a small, awe infused huff of laughter that also doubles as a moan when he bottoms out.

“You feel amazing,” he says breathlessly, hand on your face, eyes peering into yours. Looking for assurance. Your hand joins his, fingers running over his scarred knuckles. 

This is normally the time you’d stare at the ceiling and go over every detail of your plan. What you need to take, what you’ll say to him in the morning, how easy it’ll be to disappear. How you’ll contend with her disappointment later. 

Then Dick pulls out enough that your body is immediately mourning his loss, and thrusts back in at an angle that has white edged pleasure turning your nerves alight. Your mouth parts soundlessly. You buck into him, and Dick shoots you a cheeky grin as he spreads your folds wider around him. You could kill him. But his hands are everywhere on your body; your thighs, the plane of your stomach, your breasts, teasing and pinching, sending heat directly between your thighs. 

An easy rhythm is established, and each push is made slicker and wetter. Dick adjusts his hips just enough that you’re throbbing, feeling pressure build in your gut. His hands dig into your hips, holding you down just the way you like it; and then his cock brushes that sweet spot that makes you see white at the edges of your vision, rocking directly into it. 

Something like a moan leaves your lips. Every pound of his cock makes you feel full, and slightly lightheaded: a flood of feelings that makes you feel like it’s all too much. You had forgotten that when it was good, it was good. It could be good. 

“Dick,” you breathe out, and his fingers are pressing against the sensitive bundle of nerves at your core.

“C’mon sweetheart,” he murmurs, without missing a beat, “you’ll come for me, won’t you? I want you all over my—”

You yank him down by the neck and kiss him. He moans enthusiastically. 

Dick thrusts in just right, and your body arches off the bed, feeling wave after wave of pleasure. You shiver, just as Dick slams into your body once more, as if he wants to mark you permanently. He exhales roughly in your ear, and you listen to him breathe, the thump thump of his heartbeat. You had wanted him to come in you.

He pulls off, making quick work of the condom. There’s a slight ache at the side of your neck as he collapses on his side and then his back, and brings you with him, arms curled around your waist, holding you to his chest.

“That was—” he breaks off. He absentmindedly rubs at your back. “Wow.”

The smallest movement at the corner of your lips has him immediately perking, shedding off all post sex exhaustion.

“That was a smile!”

You school your face back into neutrality. “No.”

“You can’t fool me. I know what I saw.”

You don't respond, laying your head on his chest.

He grins, a hand curling around your neck. You feel his fingers brush the spot of throbbing and you meet his sheepish gaze. A hickey. How mundane. You take him in, all swollen lips and tousled hair, and no hint of earlier ghosts in his eyes. This is a man whose entire being is rooted in touch. It could not be further removed from your own touch averse lifestyle. 

Later, when Dick is sleeping, you rise from his bed, slip on your clothes, and walk out his door. He has patrol in an hour.

You’re doing him a favor.

5.

You meet Damian Wayne for the first time at a park in Gotham. You are sitting on a bench, watching a surprising amount of ducks swim around the large lake.

Gotham seems to be a polarizing topic on social media, with many lamenting why anybody would choose to live in a city with villains as absurd as the condiment king and a murderous clown. And of course, the infamous vigilante Batman. The urban myth turned into reality. The city is a mixup of towering modern skyscrapers, and gothic architecture incorporating flying buttresses and gargoyles overlooking the city, and at the center of it all, is Wayne Tower, the highest building in Gotham. 

With the onset of winter, the sky is gray, giving the usual polluted air of Gotham an even more gloomy tone. Even the lake is freezing over on the edges. The cold numbs your fingers, and nothing can prevent the heartache that swallows you up whole. You think of her hand pressed to your heart, the both of you shadowed in the dark. Just the two of you. 

You stare out, waiting for it to pass. It always does.

You hear Dick call your name and turn to see him approaching with a boy at his side. Side by side, they almost do look related. Except Damian’s eyes are a piercing green, just a shade darker than hers. You look away, and stand.

Dick grins, one hand on the sullen boy’s shoulder. You maintain a safe distance footsteps away. No normal twelve year old boy carries himself like a soldier.

He narrows his eyes at you, and then turns to Dick, betrayed. “You are a liar Richard,” he grits out, “You told me you were taking me to the museum.”

You share the boy’s sentiments to a lesser degree. He isn’t the only one who’s blindsided. Though, you suppose you should’ve been expecting it. You had feigned ignorance to his pointed remarks about missing Gotham, and dropping in at the manor to visit his brothers.

“This is Damian,” Dick squeezes Damian’s shoulder in a show of reassurance, but you’re sure it’s more for your benefit. Be good, it says. Don’t do anything incriminating. “My youngest brother.”

The silhouette of the boy’s body gives you the image of a cat crouched low, tail dangerously swishing side to side. He looks like Mr. Wiggles, the feral cat who roams your apartment building as a free agent. You feed him occasionally. 

You don’t step closer. “Hello,” you say, not unkindly, and introduce yourself.

“Hello,” Damian repeats curtly, before crossing his arms, and looking away. 

“Aw, don’t be like that Dami. I am taking you to the museum! I just thought we could make it a fun day out!”

Only Dick could manage to put a positive spin on a forced bonding outing, and truly believe it. 

Damian scowls. “You’re delusional.”

You look to Dick who winks, clearly used to it. 

“This could have all been avoided had Pennyworth stayed.”

Dick squeezes his shoulder once more, in actual reassurance. “C’mon Dami. Even super butlers need their time off.”

Damian scrutinizes you once again, looking distinctly unimpressed. “Your romantic relationships are an exercise in futility Richard.” Then he walks off to crouch low and stare at the ducks squawking at each other. 

“Jeez, that kid.” Dick says, offering you a sheepish smile. “Surprise?”

“He’s definitely someone’s kid,” you say as Dick’s hands cover yours, thumb rubbing at your knuckles. You feel the first warmth of the day in his hands. It becomes easier to breathe. 

“I don’t have to come,” you say, softly. “Really.”

“He’ll get over it,” Dick replies confidently. “He’s just out of sorts because Alfie—our butler—is out for the week. Thank god Bruce is off—” he chokes, stumbling over his words “—out on a business trip. In Nepal. I was going to invite Tim, but he’s in San Francisco for the weekend.”

You accept it. “If you say so.” 

Dick drives you three to the museum in a Rolls Royce that would give a certain man made of iron car envy. Dick doesn’t even attempt to be subtle. You suppose in Gotham there’s always some notorious image to live up to. Lucy has started leaving you glossy covered gossip mags on the shared table in the staff room as if you care whichever supermodel of the week Bruce Wayne is dating. 

You glance at Damian in the back with the front view mirror. Sitting in sulky tempered silence, he glares out the window. You suppose you’re the unwelcome third party here. You know Dick has been busier as of late, some investigation as Nightwing he hides from you. Visits to Gotham have been sparser. 

You understand the childish resentment. Wanting someone’s attention all to yourself. Hating having to share. Wanting it to be just the two of you, forever. Then you grew up.

At the wheel, Dick is rambling about his coworkers, and how despite it all, he hates the fact that there are no Bat Burger chains in Bludhaven. 

Thirty minutes later, at the museum, Damian stalks off for the exhibit he had come for. 

Dick’s fingers slip into yours, and the two of you wander around the museum. Dick points out a few paintings here and there. Turns out, Bruce Wayne has an entire wing of the museum named after him, with a collection of Seurats donated straight from his own private collection, along with a handful of other French post-impressionist artists. 

The two of you circle back around to the exhibit Damian had come for. A photography exhibit. Surprising, but it seems Damian has an eye for art in all forms. You think of Peter, swinging around New York with a camera slung around his neck, and the picture of the sunset he had taken on top of the Statue of Liberty, and feel a knot in your throat. 

You tell Dick you’ll meet him after you use the bathroom, but instead make your way down the emergency exit stairwell until you reach a door leading you to an alley with garbage disposals lined against the walls. You figure Dick and Damian could use one on one time. So you’ll wait out the rest of the day here.

You pull out a box of cigarettes from your pocket, and the cheap lighter you had bought at a bodega before meeting up with Dick and Damian. You light the end and inhale. 

Not your preferred brand, because your preferred brand doesn’t exist here. You’ll make do, as you have. 

You finish your first cigarette, and then your second. You’re on your fourth when the door slams open, hitting the side of the building. Damian steps into the alleyway, car keys swinging in his grip. Of course. 

He freezes when he sees you, eyes momentarily going wide. In the next second, a trained composure settles over him, stance going on the defensive. 

Damian eyes your cigarette, unable to hide the distaste on his face. 

You stay silent, the two of you staring at each other. Your cigarette burns, warming your fingers as ashes fall to the ground and smoke wafts. You stub it out with your thumb, enjoy the dull flicker of pain from the nerve signals in your thumb that haven’t been burned off, and wait for him to speak first.

Damian scowls, as if understanding exactly what you’re doing. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” you lie, and watch him carefully. “I don’t think the cops will take too well to a twelve year old driving, no matter who his father is.”

He stiffens, as if your words have hit him square on the chest. He rears forward, fists clenched. “ You have no idea—”

“No. I don’t.” You don’t bother with fake sympathy. “Dick is looking for you. He was excited to finally spend time with you.” Are you going to hurt his feelings?  

Damian settles, anger dissipating. There’s a flash of uncertainty splayed across his face, but he covers it up, clicking his tongue. “You’re the interloper,” he mutters.

“That’s me,” you say agreeably. “It’s hard to hate someone with good intentions, isn’t it?”

Damian scoffs, crossing his arms, and for the first time since you met him, looks his age.

“...I’m keeping the keys.”

“Car accidents are the third leading cause of death. It’s estimated that 115 people die daily.” 

“Perhaps if the lung cancer doesn’t kill you first,” he sniffs. 

Charming.

You think of Yelena, for the first time in a long time.

You reek of smoke.

You don’t tell him you’d be surprised if it was lung cancer of all things that killed you. You’ve been subjected to chemicals, radiation, injected with strange substances, and experimented on. It’s made you hardy. You are exceptionally durable. 

Damian goes to open the door.

It’s locked. 

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty: you've been made

word count: 3.0k

warnings: paranoia, unreliable narrator

nineteen | twenty | twenty one

It was nearly midnight when Logan appeared.

Appeared was the only fitting word, really. One blink, and the rooftop of Lando’s estate was empty. The next, he was there, his black hood drawn low and a quiet grace to his steps as if the shadows bent for him. The security system didn’t even register. Of course it didn’t. Logan had written in the blind spots himself.

He moved across the rooftop like a ghost, all nimble limbs and practiced silence, until he dropped down to the fire escape and tapped once against the glass pane of Lando’s office window.

Lando heard a single creaking of the floorboards and paused, but didn’t look up right away. He was already pouring two glasses of something dark, standing in front of the fireplace like he’d been waiting. 

The room was dim—just the silver underglow of the city filtering through Lando’s tall office windows, the lights of Monte Carlo stretching like quiet thoughts in the distance. His tie was undone, draped haphazardly over his desk chair. He hadn’t loosened it himself—he couldn’t remember doing anything with his hands other than checking his phone.

Twice.

No, four times now.

"How’d it go?" Lando finally asked, still thumbing through the photos laid out on his desk, in no rush to turn to face his newfound company. He’d told Logan to just use the front door numerous times, but ironically, the kid had a flair for the dramatics, despite having all the presence of a wraith.

Ah, to be young and stupid.

The ornate mahogany desk was covered in documents – surveillance prints, reports, a building manifest. His fingers slowed only slightly in their movements, waiting for Logan’s response.

"Quiet," Logan’s voice answered from the dark. He stepped into the office like he belonged there, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands in the pockets of a windbreaker. "Margot covered the end of her shift. No incident. Everything shut down on time, register closed, trash taken out."

Lando finally looked up. “You’re late.”

“Had to wait until Margot left,” Logan replied as he slipped through the open window, flicking back his hood. His tone was relaxed, but Lando caught the way his eyes darted to the corners of the room—always on alert. He appreciated that about Logan. Sharp. Loyal. Cautious to the bone. “So tell me,” Lando said, handing him the second glass.

Logan leaned against the ledge, swirling the drink absently. “She called out like you said. Margot covered. Pretty boring stuff,” he sighed.

“And before you say anything– yes, I was careful.” He moved like smoke, all presence and no weight, slipping the door shut behind him. “She stayed in last night. Didn't leave her apartment. Margot dropped by, though. Brought takeaway.” Lando lifted his gaze at that, eyes sharpening. “So they’ve talked.”

“Seems like it,” Logan said. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “They talked for a bit, mostly about school. I didn’t catch much more.”

“Did she say anything about me?”

Logan tilted his head, the hint of a teasing smile curling up one corner of his mouth. “Why? Worried she found your face on a wanted poster?”

“M’not in the mood, Logan.”

Silence stretched between them. 

Way to kill the vibe.

Finally, Logan just shrugged. “She didn’t mention you, boss. Not once. And trust me, I listened.”

Lando’s jaw tightened. He wanted to believe him. But it didn’t sit right. “She called out of her shift. Didn’t even text. Margot didn’t say much either—just that she was taking Y/N’s place for the night.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You sure she’s alright?”

“You’re paranoid,” Logan rolled his eyes, throwing a Skittle in the air and catching it with his mouth. Where did he even get those?

“And no, she didn’t say anything. Not to Margot, not to anyone else. She’s not avoiding you, dude. She’s just... processing, I think.”

Lando leaned back into his chair, arms folding across his chest. “Processing?”

Logan raised an eyebrow, then leaned against the edge of the wide windowsill. “The end of a maybe-relationship with a nice guy she probably wanted to work out. You ever think maybe it has nothing to do with you?”

He hated when Logan was right. 

Still, Lando rubbed a hand across his jaw, considering it. “She called out tonight.”

“Pretty sure she’s allowed to do that.”

“She doesn’t do that.”

“But she did,” Logan replied with a shrug. 

Lando’s fingers curled into his palm, the lines of his knuckles going stark in the shadowed light. Still, he said, "So you’re sure she didn’t say anythin’? About me?"

Logan raised a brow, just a twitch. "Should she have?"

Lando didn’t answer. Logan folded his arms and leaned against the wall, observing him with a kind of muted curiosity. "Oh. You think Margot told her something. About you."

"No," Lando replied quickly. Too quickly. "I just—she's been... distant."

He thought of the way she hadn’t responded to his texts right away that week. How her shift at the café had been traded, not rescheduled. How the note on the rota had been written in someone else’s handwriting.

She hadn’t asked him for a ride since the call. Not even to class the next morning, and she hated having to walk across campus for her Tuesday classes.

He thought of the empty passenger seat of his car, where her half-finished water bottle still rolled around, cap twisted on loosely. Her playlist hadn’t been played in days. He hadn’t dared touch it.

Logan opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated.

Lando noticed it in his periphery and set down his glass. His eyes darkened and his voice dropped to a dangerously low tone – not yet threatening, but a warning enough for the wise. “What are you not telling me?”

There was a pause. A twitch of Logan’s jaw, like he had to decide what mattered and what didn’t. “She looked… sad, I guess. That’s all.”

“Sad?” 

Lando turned toward the fireplace, exhaling through his nose. He rubbed a hand down his jaw, trying to reason with himself. There were too many variables. If Margot had said something, she wouldn’t be obvious about it. She’d be smart, casual – a single comment that could make Y/N question everything.

“So she knows,” Lando muttered again, almost to himself.

“Or,” Logan said slowly, “you’re reading too much into this because you’re scared of her seeing the real you. And this—” he gestured around at the office, the reports, the late hour, “—is the only version of you you know how to protect.”

Silence fell between them. Outside, the city lights bled softly into the fog.

Lando ran a hand through his curls, frustrated. “She should talk to me if something’s wrong!”

Logan gave him a look that was part sympathy, part exasperation. “Lando. She did. That night you picked her up for ice cream? She barely wanted to talk to anyone, but she called you. That means something.”

It did. Lando knew it did. And that was the problem.

Because the more it meant, the worse it would be when she found out.

About him. About what he really did. About the fact that Liam—the guy who drove her home, listened to her complain about her professors, and shared ice cream on a quiet curb—didn’t really exist.

The bell above the café door chimed.

He stepped in, shoulders tensed beneath the charcoal grey of his jacket. His usual rhythm — scan the room, clock the exits, check the corners — happened without thought. But today, it wasn’t danger he was checking for.

It was her.

She was behind the counter in the same apron with the same sleepy, mid-shift posture as always.

But something was off.

She didn’t look up right away, which was unusual. Normally, she seemed to sense him before he even stepped all the way in as if she had some radar attuned to his presence. But today, she was preoccupied with something in her hand, face partially turned toward Margot.

He slowed his steps.

When she finally did glance up, it wasn’t immediate recognition in her eyes. There was a brief flicker, like she had to place him. Like she was working out whether she should smile or not.

It lasted all of half a second, but he caught it. And then she smiled, a little too politely.

“Hey,” she said.

Not Liam. Just hey.

Lando blinked, heart catching in his throat.

Her smile when she saw him didn’t reach her eyes.

Her apron wasn’t tied the way it normally was; instead, the ends were sloppily knotted.

The music playing overhead was too low, as if she hadn’t bothered adjusting the volume since opening.

She got his drink wrong too. The cup he held today was just straight black coffee, with none of the usual spices and whatever that she usually added, the stuff that made it nice. Instead, today he was handed just plain old black coffee. 

It was small things—the most minute details, imperceptible to anyone else. But to Lando, they layered into a chorus of suspicion. Something was off. Off in a way that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

When she handed him the coffee, their fingers didn’t brush like they usually did. She pulled away too fast. Avoided eye contact just a second too long.

Fuck.

He smiled, casual. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she said too quickly. “Just tired.”

His mind whirred.

She knows. She knows who I am. She’s acting normal because she’s scared. She’s trying to pull away without drawing attention. Fuck, did Margot tell her? Did she find out on her own? Is she—

“Liam?” her voice cut through the noise in his head.

He blinked. She was watching him, her brow furrowed in concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, almost startled. “Yeah. Just tired.”

A lie for a lie.

Margot stepped away to the back, and in the seconds that followed, Lando's eyes drifted to the counter behind her. There, half-tucked into her open bag, was a copy of the Monte Carlo Tribune — folded to a page he’d recognize anywhere. The headline in block print:

“Beyond Forgery and Fraud: Reaper's Circle's Drug Empire Rises”

A photo of some wethered and worn factory near the coast took up most of the page. He knew that place, remembered brokering that first deal that would raise his empire anew.

He looked back at her.

“I, uh,  haven’t seen you in a bit,” she said, moving to pour a cup of coffee for another customer. “Did you try coming by the other night?”

He didn’t answer. His voice had gotten caught somewhere between suspicion and hope.

Was she testing him?

Was this her way of setting a trap — soft questions until he tripped?

“Liam?” she asked, tilting her head.

The mug was still sitting in front of him. He hadn’t realized he had sat down.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

She nodded. “Sorry I wasn’t here. I wasn’t feeling too well.”

Something about her tone was too even. Too… measured. And again — maybe it was just exhaustion, or grief, or burnout — but it didn’t sound like her.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“No worries,” he said slowly, before his expressions morphed into something that appeared more sympathetic. “You feeling better now?”

Her lips curved into a tired smile. “Hm? Yeah! Yeah, some tea helped. Ha, you know how it is,” she laughed awkwardly, before turning her attention back to the register.

She didn’t say thank you for checking on me. She didn’t say I missed you. Not that she ever had, but still. Lando felt the tension coil just a little tighter around his spine.

He swallowed hard.

Too many coincidences.

She was quieter, more contained. Everything about her felt conscious, like she was trying to force herself to act normal, trying not to be too obvious.

It was putting him on edge.

And yet, when she looked back at him then, her eyes weren’t stony. They weren’t cold. They were just... tired. A little sad, even.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, a bit softer.

She gave a quiet shrug, eyes dropping to her hands. “Yeah. Just… Just tired. Lots of readings I need to churn through this week.”

Somehow, something about the way she said it — soft, with no edge — began to loosen the knot of panic inside his chest. She wasn’t pretending. She wasn’t testing him.

She didn’t know.

He realized it all at once — how ridiculous he must look, tense in his seat, watching her like he was waiting to be shot. Because nothing had changed, not really.

It was him.

He was the one that had changed. The one who had started needing this version of her — this version of life, where he could walk in from the dark and be Liam, and have her smile at him like he belonged in the light.

And now he was terrified at the thought of losing that escape.

He exhaled — long, slow, quiet — and sat back in his chair, coffee growing cold between his fingers.

Logan shook his head once, steady and sure, leaning against the side of Lando’s office desk like he had all the time in the world for the second night in a row. He nearly rolled his eyes, but decided against it even though Lando’s back was facing him. “Nope. Just said she was sick, I’m telling you! Seemed tired, honestly. Like, the normal kind. Not the I-just-learned-my-friend-is-the-head-of-an-underground-crime-ring kind.”

Lando didn’t laugh. He stared down at his desk, thumb tapping once, twice, against the edge of the wood.

“She had the paper with the article,” he muttered. “On the counter. Folded open to the exact page.”

“So do half the people in this city.” Logan groaned. “You’re not the only person obsessed with yourself.”

Lando glared at him, but Logan just raised both hands, palms up in surrender.

“Look,” Logan said, tone shifting to something between friendly and exasperated, “I’ve been around her. You know I have. She doesn’t talk about you like someone she’s suspicious of. If anything, she’s more normal than ever. Maybe a little quieter, yeah, but I’d bet that’s about her own stuff. Not you.”

Lando didn’t answer.

“She still calls you Liam,” Logan added gently, before laughing softly. “You don’t have to spiral every time she blinks weird, man.”

Lando let out a long breath, dragged a hand down his face. “I just— I can’t lose this.”

“I know,” Logan said, softer now. “But if you keep going paranoid like this, she’s gonna notice something’s off. She trusts you. Don’t give her a reason not to.”

He wasn’t expecting her to be working again the next night. He only dropped in to grab coffee — a real one this time, not some excuse to linger near the counter or “accidentally” ask about her schedule.

But there she was, back in her apron and hair pinned lazily back. He could see a textbook open on the counter in front of her. Her highlighter was dry, and she was stabbing the tip into the paper like sheer frustration might will the ink to return.

He took it all in — the focused crease between her brows, the way her lips moved as she silently read through a dense sentence, the soft wrinkle in her sleeve where she'd leaned on her elbow too long.

His heart slowed.

Normal. So wonderfully normal.

And then she glanced up, caught him watching her. There was a beat — the kind that used to terrify him — where she looked like she might say nothing at all. But then, she smiled.

Not the practiced one. Not the polite one from the other night. The real one.

The one that tilted slightly to the left and showed a flash of uneven tooth and lit her eyes in a way that made the ground under his feet feel less like concrete and more like something he’d fall through endlessly.

He pretended not to care, rolled his shoulders back like it hadn’t meant anything. It wasn’t even that big a deal, anyway.

“Hey,” she said, tucking her pen behind her ear. “Are you gonna be around this weekend?”

He tilted his head, before smirking. “Why? You tryin’ t’ask me out?”

She snorted. “Oh please. I have three exams next week. I was gonna see if you still wanted to help me study.”

He smiled, warm and quiet. “So yes.”

She rolled her eyes, but he saw the way her fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the counter — like maybe she’d missed this too.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll bring snacks.”

“You’re gonna bring, like, gummy worms and a Red Bull, aren’t you?”

He raised a brow. “Red Bull?” he asked, scoffing as if she had insulted his heritage or publicly accused her of high treason or something equally preposterous. “Nah, m’actually more of a Monster kind of guy.”

She bit back another smile, biting her lower lip like she didn’t want to let it show how easily he pulled one from her again.

“I’ll text you,” she said. Lando nodded, stepping back, already mentally rearranging his weekend. She turned back to her textbook, and he turned to the door. 

And somewhere between his hand hitting the handle and the bell chiming overhead, he let himself breathe.

Things were okay.

It wasn’t until a few days later, when she dropped into the car with a soft, absent little hum and immediately launched into a useless story about her professor misprinting the final exam, that he  finally felt the weight on his sternum lift.

She was laughing, talking – not faking it. The creases by her eyes were real this time.

And Lando sat there, both hands on the wheel, and felt his own lungs finally expand again—like he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath.

Her legs were curled up in the passenger seat, iced coffee dripping dew into the cupholder of his luxury car, and she was babbling about something new she had checked out from the library. The streetlights passed over her face in golden intervals, washing her in soft light.

She didn’t know. She hadn’t left. She hadn’t pulled away.

And he –Lando, Liam, whoever the hell he was with her– could finally breathe again.

a/n: sorry for the late post! had a twenty page paper that was kicking my butt but hopefully i should be able to give you guys a bit more content (fingers crossed!) now that i'm on holiday as always, i love hearing what you guys have to say, so comments/reblogs/asks are vv appreciated :)

[pome-seed]

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 33

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Doctor!Reader

Summary: A question you asked yourself, over and over again, through the past year, was is safety real? Is freedom real? Even now, as you lay in a warm, clean bed, surrounded by kind faces, you didn't trust it. Could you ever be safe again?

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: Mention of torture. Needles. Angst. Loss. Missing Bucky.

Authors Note: I loved all the comments on the last chapter!!!! Thank you guys for always messaging me and commenting. I love the interactions. ALSO, if you want to be apart of the taglist, let me know :)

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

Seeing is believing. You’d heard the saying many times before throughout life. And as a scientist, you were one of the people saying it. 

When you see it, you’ll believe it. 

But one day, something changed, and even sight felt like a lie. You couldn’t trust yourself anymore. Your thoughts, your senses, your mind. But even when you started to believe something was real, so real you could feel it, you couldn’t trust that it would last. 

Because safety wasn’t something you could see. It was something you had to be. And you never thought you would ever feel safe again.

Your name is Y/n. 

You remember your name. You remember your family. You remember your past. You remember the pain. You remember the fear. You haven't forgotten who you are. 

You couldn’t.

And yet, everything felt wrong.

You laid in a clean, warm bed. White light surrounded you. Needles stuck in your veins, feeding an IV into your system. Your body was clean. Your hair was combed back out of your face.

You stared numbly at the ceiling, lines of fluorescent lights blinding you. 

Everything was so bright, and felt so clean. 

A stark contrast to the dark, cold hole you’d been left to rot in for weeks.

A figure moved to your left. You didn’t feel the urge to look, to move. You just wanted to sleep. But that figure moved again, now facing you. You blinked up at them, and the kind smile you were faced with. It was a woman, one you’d never seen before. 

The woman fretted over you, but you could barely hold your focus. Your eyes rolled back as she drew close. You succumb to darkness.

The next time you woke, there was a woman with red hair sitting at the end of your bed, staring out the nearest window. Your lashes fluttered in a blink, your lids still crusted together slightly. The woman hadn’t seemed to notice your eyes rolling open. The woman chewed at her thumb nail, her pale nail turning red under the pressure.

You watched her through the corner of your eye, dragging your gaze over her form. She seemed familiar, but you just couldn’t place it. A part of you wondered if it was real at all, if you were real. 

Weeks in solitude turned your mind into a stranger, and over time everything became warped.

You licked your cracked lips. “I-” no sound left your throat at first, your mouth too dry. “I know you,” you whispered.

The woman’s gaze snapped to you, the surprise in her eyes quickly shifting. “Hey,” she stood, slowly approaching the bed. You stiffened, the soft beeping from the machine beside you picking up. The woman raised her hands, offering peace. “I’m not gonna hurt you, you’re safe.”

The woman's voice was deep, slightly scratchy, but kind. Your gaze flickered over her face, recognition slowly dawning on you. “I’ve-” you licked your lips again, clearing your throat. “I’ve seen you…” you whispered, your voice cracking. “On tv.”

The woman nodded, “I’m Natasha. You’re…Y/n, right? I’ve seen you too, on tv.”

You blinked slowly, a shaky breath leaving your chest. You hadn’t heard someone else say your name in a long time. “You have?”

She nodded. “You’ve been on the news a few times. You’ve been missing.”

“Where…where am I?” Your head lolled to the side, seeing the large expanse of a high tech lab.

“You’re in the Avengers tower.” Natasha informed you. “You were being held captive in a Hydra base in Slovenia, out of eastern Europe.” She continued, her voice quiet, almost like she was trying not to make you panic. 

“Slovenia…” you muttered, closing your burning eyes. Hot tears stung and dripped down your temples silently. An ache traveled and throbbed through your skull.

You're in the Avengers Tower. They found you.

They found you.

“Y/n, why were you there?” 

Images of guilty blue eyes burned in your mind. You wondered, absently, how long it had been since you last saw him. It didn’t feel like it had been long, but you couldn’t tell. You dragged a heavy hand up to your left shoulder, sliding your fingers beneath your papery gown. Natasha watched you, confused. 

Without much thought, you pressed gently against the bandages that wrapped around your previously gaping bullet wound. You winced, a sharp ache traveling through the previously torn muscles. The pain was noticeable, but not fresh. It had long since begun to swell closed.

Which could only mean it had been a long while since you last saw Bucky.

“Y/n?” Natasha called out to you.

“How long have… how long?”

“How long what?” Natasha responded.

“How long have I been gone?” A long silence followed, making you turn to look at the woman. The uneasy look on her face made your stomach turn. “Please…” 

Dread built inside your stomach, curling and knotting.

“It’s been a little over a year since you disappeared from your lab.”

Those words, the reality of it all, sent a sickening ache through your body. Your throat closed up, bile rising. Your cheeks soured and you turned your head quickly. Natasha seemed to get the memo, and fetched a small trash can.

You retched, your body convulsing as saliva dripped into the bin. Your stomach was empty, which only made you feel more sick. You pressed your cheek into the pillow, shivering.

A year.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay-”

You shook your head. “I can’t-” you heaved, your spit smearing on the pillow. You squeezed your eyes closed, thoughts of your family and friends- your life- flashing through your head. You’d lost it all. 

You knew it had been a long time. You had seen calendars in the corner stores. You had seen it in the changing weather. You knew time had passed. But actually hearing it changed everything. 

You felt sick.

Your birthday had passed. Christmas, halloween, your friends and families lives. It had all flown past you.

You’d lost so much of your life. And there was a reason you stayed away.

“Y/n-”

“I can’t be here-” you whispered, realization dawning on you. “I was gone- I can’t come back.” You lost that time because there was no coming home. There was no coming back. They would find you. “They’re gonna kill me-” your trembling hands reached for the wires stuck to your chest. You needed to get out of there. You needed to go-

“Y/n, breathe-!” Natasha grabbed you by the wrists, keeping you from yanking out your IV. “Breathe!”

“They’re gonna kill me!” You sobbed dry tears.

“No one is coming!” Natasha urged. “You’re safe! You’re safe, Y/n!” Natasha held you still, slowly wishing she would have switched places with Steve. He was much better at things like this. “You’re with the Avengers, I told you.” Her voice softened. “We brought you straight here, nobody knows we have you.”

Those words took a moment to sink in, but when they did, your entire body went lax. “No-No one knows?” You whispered between staggered breaths. 

“No one knows.” You stopped fighting her, allowing Natasha to slowly release you. “But we need to know, Y/n, why were you there?” 

You took a second, hanging on her first words. No one knows. You’re a ghost, back in the states. The dread you’d grown so familiar with shifted from a sizzling burn, to a warm prick in your veins. 

You released a trembling breath, your muscles relaxing. 

Your ease lasted only a second, as Natasha repeated her question. Why were you a prisoner of Hydra? Why were you there? Your eyes slid closed, horrors flashing in the dark space that was your mind. The question was an easy one. But it wasn’t simple. 

James Barnes was the reason you spent the last year and a half as a ghost. Bucky Barnes was the reason you had slipped into the shadows. The Winter Soldier was the reason Hydra wanted you dead.

Bucky.

Where was he? Was he safe? Had they caught him? They couldn’t have, or else they would have gotten rid of you on sight. He was alive. He was safe. 

Natasha sighed softly, glancing at the machine that tracked your heartbeat. “I’ll let you get some sleep.” She muttered. You heard her footsteps fade, but your consciousness was already fading. 

You were floating. Like a leaf, dropping from its home in the sky to drift along an icy river. You were foreign in your own body, like a dream blurring at the edges.

Nothing was real.

It was all just your broken, warped mind. 

You couldn’t trust yourself. You couldn’t trust anyone. 

You were lost. 

Steve was the next to visit you. You had just woken up, having not realized when you fell asleep. You whimpered when you tried to stretch, your malnourished, bruised limbs aching. You heard the chair at the end of your bed creak, and then he was right there.

“Are you alright? Should I get the doctor?” Were his first words. His blonde hair seemed white under the fluorescent lights. 

He looked different, standing before you now. You’d only ever seen the man in his famous suit, dressed in the flag of freedom. You’d only ever seen pictures. But here he was now, dressed in casual wear, staring down at you with these wide blue eyes.

You blinked up at him in awe. 

Before all of this, before you were taken, before your life was destroyed, you’d had a fascination with his story. You always thought that Steve Rogers was one of the most incredible things the world had ever seen. A man out of time. 

But now you looked at him with so much more than that childhood wonder. You looked at him knowing things he didn’t. You looked at him, your mind reeling and begging to spill everything you knew about Bucky.

But you couldn’t. Not yet. You didn’t know anything yet, and you needed to be sure.

“You…” you whispered, “you’re real?”

He cracked an awkward smile. “Yeah, I’m real, kid.” 

You smiled ruefully, the nickname reminding you of Bucky. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he chuckled. “How are you feeling?” His big blue eyes looked droopy, soft and kind. For such a large man, he seemed so sweet. 

“Awful,” you whispered, your smile wavering. He nodded in response, waiting for you to continue. “What’s going on?”

“We recovered you from a Hydra base located in Slovenia. Natasha said she already filled you in on that bit. Why you're here, that's a whole different matter.” Steve started, his voice steady, like he was still on duty. “You were the only prisoner there. They seemed awfully keen on keeping you hidden, too.”

You listened, staring blankly at the ceiling again. You had never left the small room they kept you in, so you really had no idea if there were others there, in that cold tunnel system.

“We brought you here because it seemed like the safest option,” he continued. “We haven’t alerted the media yet, or your family. We wanted to know what the circumstances were, first.”

“They can’t- they can’t know.” You blurted, your gaze darting back to his. He nodded, watching you with a pinched brow. “No one can know.”

“Why?”

It was such a loaded question, but such a reasonable one. How could you answer without giving everything away? “I…” you trailed, a guilty feeling turning in your gut. Steve waited, patiently. 

What could you even say?

For a moment, you believe it was best to just tell him everything. But then you thought better of yourself. No one would want to find Bucky more than Steve. And that would be the most sure fire way to expose Bucky to the world. To every threat out there waiting for him.

You gaped up at him, shaking your head lightly. “I…”

Steve pressed his lips together, looking dissatisfied, but not surprised. “Alright. That’s okay.” His hand moved forward, but paused mid air, like he was going to pat your shoulder but thought better of it. “Can you at least tell me about your condition? The doctors did what they could to treat your surface wounds, but we didn’t want to do anything further until you woke up.”

You licked your cracked lips. “I, uh- can I get some water, first?” 

Steve’s eyebrows shot up, like he hadn’t even thought about it. “Right- of course!” You watched his figure retreat around the corner of a short curtain pulled beside your bed. He returned after a moment with a plastic cup of water.

With your permission, he helped prop your bed up so you could drink. The water felt like it came straight from a clear glacier, the way it slid down your throat. You gulped it down with a gasp, then clutched the cup to your chest. After catching your breath, you continued. 

“I’ve had more than a few problems…” you whispered. “They didn't carve into me, this time, thankfully.” After they’d scooped you up in Romania, you were expecting the worst. Only, there were no knives or clamps charged with electricity. They used the older methods, simple, like waterboarding, or pressing against the open gunshot wound in your shoulder. But nothing new.

You weren’t important enough.

“All of my internal wounds have… healed, somewhat.” You avoided the man's gaze, feeling the weight of his questions. You knew what he was thinking. She’s been with them for two years. Bucky’s been with them for decades. What had he endured? “I’ve been in the dark for weeks. That’s it. They just…waited.” 

“What for?” He cleared his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing.

“To use me.” You knew the only reason they had to keep you alive was to find Bucky. You were their next best clue. And they would wait you out, if they had to. They wanted their asset back. “I knew something. That’s it. They just…They wanted to know.”

Steve nodded, his arms crossing over his chest. “That something, it's what you can’t say, right?” You nodded. “Alright. So, all of your injuries are either surface level, or somewhat healed? There's nothing pressing to worry about?”

You knew what he was asking. “They didn’t experiment on me.”

He shifted, but nodded. “Right.” He paused. “Look, Y/n, whatever it is you know- what you’re too afraid to say, you’re safe here. We can protect you. We can help you.”

You shifted uncomfortably under your covers. “I just…” you cleared your throat. “I just need time. I need to think, please.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. When you’re ready, we’ll be here.”

But could you ever be ready? What was the right choice? If you told Steve, he would charge through Romania to find Bucky. Bucky would be left exposed. If he were to return to the states, he may just be locked up. He may be set to death. But then again, was Steve Bucky’s only chance? There were too many moving variables. 

You just couldn’t make that decision.

Recovery, as you once said before, was awful. It felt like you were in a constant state of disrepair. Over and over again, your once perfectly healthy body was mangled and abused. You tried to keep a brave face and push through. You tried to tell yourself this would be the last time. 

But you said that last time. 

You said it every time.

You were starting to accept the fact that you may never be fine.

So with that, you started your journey again. From the bottom. You were pumped full of fluids and set on a detox journey from all the drugs that had been flooding your system for weeks. You were finally able to eat again, and real food at that. One of the perks of finding sanctuary in the Avengers Tower was Tony Stark's money. 

Your medical bills were non-existent and your meals were completely free. You knew there was a silent price, but you tried to ignore that in favor of focusing on your recovery. 

You made that choice a lot lately. Pocketing all thoughts for later. The good and the bad. The one that recurred the most though, of course, was Bucky.

It would always be Bucky.

You still had no idea what to do. You wished the decision wasn’t up to you. You wished you didn’t have to make the choice, expose Bucky, or let him sink into the shadows forever. 

But only you had the information. Only you could help him. 

As the days passed, you were set up with a nutritionist and a physical therapist. You could barely stand on your own, after so many weeks without motion. So you desperately needed the help.

They started small, with minor exercises and stretches. It ached and burned, but it felt right. It felt good to move your body again. 

Between moments of fitful rest and physical therapy, you researched. You had requested a laptop be loaned to you, so you could catch up on all the time you’d lost. 

It was true. But you wanted it for more than that. You needed to know what was out there about you, about Bucky, about Hydra.

And god, did you learn. 

You learned that your family spent months in constant search of you. There were GoFundMes, blogs, news articles, and fliers posted all across your old corner of the city. Your dad never gave up hope.

You learned from your sister's instagram that she got pregnant with her first child shortly after your disappearance. A little baby girl. On the celebration post announcing her birth, it showed the child's middle name as Y/n. 

Your sister posted about you every month on the anniversary of your disappearance. She raised hell for you.

You sobbed into your fist as you scrolled through her posts, and those of your friends, aching and weeping over all that you’d lost. All that they’d lost. 

And god, you were so close you could almost taste it.

You wanted to go home and throw yourself into your loved ones arms, but you couldn’t yet. It was too dangerous. You had to stay gone until you knew it was safe. Until you knew that Hydra was gone, or until your worth was outweighed. 

Over time you met the world renowned Avengers. 

You met most of them in passing, seeing them through the med bay windows, or as they stopped by the lab. You were basically chained to your bed, your legs barely able to hold your own weight. 

Natasha and Steve stopped by the most. As well as another woman named Wanda. You’d heard of her, back when Sokovia was under fire. You watched the news. But in person, she recluse. Human. 

She originally stopped by out of curiosity, but then was put on watch duty. It wasn’t that they didn’t trust you, they just didn’t take chances. And you were one of the biggest chances around.

Wanda was a kind woman, though sometimes a bit sharp and melancholy. She had a dry sense of humor. And she was always able to help lull you to sleep when your nightmares woke you. 

Tony Stark was one of the people you were most aghast to have met, though. He was exactly like you expected him to be. Self absorbed, boisterous, always lacking a certain room-reading skill. He had an out of tune quip for just about everything. He felt particularly awkward with you though.

A woman who spent the last year and a half teetering on death. How did one make light of that?

Although, he had his own experience with it, so he was able to make light of his own trauma to ease you. He popped by the lab the most. Your little corner was in the med bay, which was a few glass doors and a bridge away from the lab. But he always popped by. 

When you started your physical therapy, a week in, he started offering solutions to your heavy limp. “We could get you into surgery for that, you know. Unless you want to keep hobbling around like that.” He pointed at you with the tip of a pen. The physical therapist beside you was silent, continuing to help you step along. 

“For my leg?” Your brows lifted. 

“No, for lipo. Yes, your leg.”

You fought the urge to clench your jaw. The offer was actually something you hadn’t dared to dream of. “I…I would love that. But- wouldn’t I have to go to a hospital?”

Tony rolled his eyes, setting something metal on the counter top. “If you’re still keeping your secrets locked up, then no hospital. You make me feel like a prison guard, you won't even get too close to the window.” He lifted a brow. “We could have it set up here.”

You released a breath of relief. “I’d like that, just-” you paused, staring down at yourself. “Not yet.” Your body couldn’t take another recovery, not like this.

“You’re basically a walking wound. It makes me feel icky.” He muttered, turning back to whatever he was working on.

“Thank you.” You huffed, taking another slow step with your PT.

One dark night, as you stared up at the sparkling lights of the city scape, you decided. 

It had been days. Weeks. Too long. You didn’t know what was happening out there. You didn’t know what the chances were. But you knew one thing. Bucky’s only chance at a free life was Steve. 

“Hey, kid.” Steve popped his head around the corner of the privacy curtain. “You wanted to see me?”

You fisted the knit blanket thrown over your lap. “Yeah…” you nodded. “Can you sit?”

He dragged over a stiffly modern chair and sat at your bedside, his brows furrowed with patience. He watched as you picked at your nails, chewing your words. Your mind was a whirlwind of fast thoughts and half baked confessions. 

“I’m a doctor, you know?” You blurted.

He nodded. “Yeah, I read your file.” He said thoughtfully.

You chewed at the inside of your cheek. “They took me because I’m a doctor. I’m good at what I do.” You paused. “Not to boast about myself, it's just a fact. That's why they picked me.”

He watched you silently. You couldn’t bear the weight of those big blue eyes.

“You’d wonder why- I mean, Hydra has an arsenal of everyone they might need.” You squeezed your eyes shut, remembering the descriptions of the fate of the doctor before you. “They’re impatient people, you know? They had a patient and they wanted results. I could give that to them.”

“Are you saying there’s another hostage?” Steve interrupted, his back straightening slightly.

You shook your head. “No, not any more.” You turned to look at him now. “The patient-” You paused. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t bear this weight. “The patient was Bucky.” The words slipped out before you could think to word it better. Steve's brows shot to his hairline. His throat bobbed as he physically swallowed your confession.

“What?”

“I…I was taken because The Winter Soldier was experiencing unknown side effects from his cryo chamber- and their shotty serum. He was experiencing heavy muscular degeneration and weakness.” You rattled off, slipping into the safest world you knew: doctor. “He was sick, but I fixed him.”

Steve stared at you with a slackened jaw. “He was there? At the compound?” He rushed out the words like he was already finding new ways to blame himself for failing his friend. 

“No! No, he wasn’t.” You urged. “He wasn’t there.”

“Where is he?” His brows knit tightly together as his jaw set. 

“Romania. Bucharest, Romania. That’s where we were hiding out- but we got separated.” Your voice grew quiet. Your gaze drifted to the blankets. “It was my idea, my fault.” You huffed. “But it happened, and we got separated.”

“Where in the city? I-”

“He won’t be there anymore.” Your own words hit you with a deep ache. “We planned for this. If something happened to me, he was supposed to relocate to somewhere I don’t know about.” You snubbed his lead short. “I’m…I’m sorry, Steve.” You whispered. 

The hopeful glint in his eye didn’t die out. In fact, he looked more determined than ever. “Could you please tell me everything in your plan? Safe houses, routes, drop sites, anything.”

You blinked at him, your stomach twisting. “You have to be careful.”

He tilted his head, confusion mixing in his expression. “What?”

“You’ll lead them to him.” You whispered, your body almost seizing up with panic at the mere idea. “This is what they’re waiting for. I read online- well, there’s a lot on there about this but- I read that you are the reason Pierce is dead. Right?”

He nodded thoughtfully, quietly hearing you out.

“People seem to think that what happened a year ago- the fall of Shield and Hydra- means Hydra is actually gone. But it’s not. They never will be- they’re buried so deep, you don’t even know.” You rambled, panic swelling in your chest. “They’re like a weed. I read that the Avengers routinely clear out old bases. So you think you’ve squashed them. But you haven’t. They’re waiting for this. They want to find him.”

“Hey, breathe,” Steve reached a hand out, patting your arm. You hadn’t even noticed you’d started to hyperventilate. “I know, okay? I do. I know how corrupt this world is.” His deep, steady voice washed over you. “I know how deep it all is. But if I don’t get to him, then they will. So please, help me find him.”

In that moment, as you looked at Steve, he looked just like the boy Bucky once told you stories about.

The search for Bucky died almost immediately, as Steve was called away on an urgent mission in Lagos Nigeria. He’d taken half the team with him, and a whole lot of your hope.

The night of your confession, you spent all hours until dawn telling him everything you knew. You told him about your capture, about Bucky’s health, about the conditions of your captivity, about your escape. You told him about the countryside, and your first decent into the city. You told him about the first ambush, and then the second.

After all the critical information was shared, Steve paused. He took a second to look at you, really look at you, and ask about Bucky. 

"What's he like?"

In some way, you were the only person that really knew the Bucky of this world. The Bucky that lived on. The part of Bucky that survived the fall.

You smiled softly to yourself at his questions. “He’s kind.” You whispered. “He’s stubborn, but kind. He’s still good, Steve. That good never died.”

The answer made him smile. It eased something in him. 

But the drive to find Bucky, however strong, was still pushed to the sidelines.

You watched on the tv in the corner of the med bay as live news rolled in from Lagos. Something big was going down. Something important. It didn’t hit you just how big it was until Rumlow’s picture flashed across the scene. 

You flinched, those dead eyes boring right into you. You hadn’t seen his face since he dragged you from Bucky’s cell, over a year ago. But you still remembered him. You remembered the feeling of his boot driving into your stomach. You remembered his fists.

You remembered it all. 

And as you panicked about Hydra, and Rumlow, and Bucky, the world of the Avengers erupted into political turmoil. You had no right, nor knowledge on the technicalities of what was going on. 

You’d only recently been moved out of the med bay and into a room of your own in the tower. You had only recently begun to settle, begun to heal.

So as you peered around the corner through the glass walls of the briefing room, you felt dread. You had no idea what was happening, but you knew it was bad. 

Whatever was happening in that room drew you no closer to finding Bucky.

A/N: Wow, I think this is the longest chapter of this series that I put out. I like it like this, so I think I'm gonna focus on writing longer chapters. GUYS... Every time I start to move towards healing and safety I start thinking I rushed and didn't add enough pain and torture....maybe I'm just too deep in the angst stuff. But if you feel it was rushed, I'm sorryyyy.

@rafesgurl @pleasecallmeunhinged @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @frog-fans-unite @lonelyghosts-stuff @cherryandsugar @a-world-with-pure-imagination @unicornqueen05 @cupids-mf-arrow @sharkylalala @littlesuniee @meineguete @hawkinsavclub1983 @theconsultingdoctor10 @dollface-xoxo @bloodmocha @natalia42069 @nicolebarnes @fallen-w1ngs @justachillgirllui @avaout @local-crazy @nynxtea @cherryheairt

[writhyv]

⋆｡°✩ [ch.2] for when you see me

Songs on the charts, sold-out shows, the kind of career most musicians dream about—everything’s perfect. But success doesn’t fill the emptiness. And then, just when you think you’ve moved on—there he is. Your past, standing in front of you like a love song you never finished.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park jongseong x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 1.8k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, jay x reader, estranged exes to lovers, famous singer!reader because we're built like that, is this angst? i have no clue, memories of your past together just hits hard ughhhh, jay has a new lover omg the drama-mama-mamah, you are dramatic as hell but we love you for you, you are insane to still think of him, i understand though you are in love with jay we see each other WE SEE EACH OTHER, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, has some implied relationships, swear words, mentions and use of alcoholic substances, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl, story update lengths may vary~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

The whiskey still burned in your chest when you woke up. You hated the feeling of alcohol within your system, but god does it soothe your tangled mess of a head.

Sunlight stabbed through the blinds, unforgiving. You groaned, rolling onto your side, half-expecting the bed to dip under someone else’s weight. But the sheets were cold. Empty.

Just like always.

The CD player had long since shut off, but the song still looped in your skull.

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes until colors burst behind your lids.

Pathetic.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Leah’s name flashed across the screen, followed by a string of texts:

Leah: u alive?

Leah: also sarah says sorry abt last night. she didn’t know it was ‘that song’

Leah: …u gonna answer or am i sending mira over?

You typed back with one thumb.

You: i’m fine. don’t worry.

A lie. But what else was new?

The boxes in the corner taunted you. You’d only opened one last night, and already it felt like picking at a scab. The rest were a minefield of old playlists, ticket stubs, and the kind of photos that made your ribs ache.

You kicked the nearest one under the bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

The day was bright and bold. You set yourself up on your feet and got ready. Today is work day.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

“Going to Floor 26.” The pristine elevator voice echoed around you as you got in it.

The studio was your sanctuary. Or at least, it was supposed to be.

Atlas Records had given you the space after your first album surprisingly went platinum immediately after it was released (only days before it went double.) It was a token, a ‘reward,’ they’d called it. As if the pristine soundboards, the premium tech setup and gears, and some Grade-A acoustic paneling could make up for the fact that they owned you.

You slumped into the chair, scrolling through the latest track list your producer had shoved at you: that and a mere bunch of memos from the people upstairs.

Upbeat. Radio-friendly. More of what’s working, just like last cycle.

You crumpled the stupid paper into a ball and threw it straight into the can.

"Rough night?" You almost flinched as you heard a booming voice behind you.

Mira, your manager, leaned against the doorframe, sipping a matcha latte with extra foam. Walking just enough meters beside you, she offered another cup with the same taste — your favorite.

"Something like that," you muttered, taking the cup and popping the lid off instantly. You smelled the fresh aroma, before sipping soundly.

She arched a brow. "Leah’s wedding, right? Tell me about it."

You strummed a dissonant chord on the nearby guitar. "Played ‘Wonderwall.’ The crowd loved it."

Mira didn’t laugh, sitting with her back against one of your designer chairs. "Liar liar, pants on fire."

You shrugged. "It’s in my contract. Must lie convincingly to press."

“Press!? We lived in the same roof for a year and that’s all I am to you?”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m famous.”

She groaned, taking it lightly. But then her eyes flicked to your hands—the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly against the strings.

"Who was it?" she asked, softer.

You didn’t answer. You could feel her eyes burning through your thick skull as if almost reading the contents of your brain.

She exhaled. "Take the day, hmm? Sleep it off. We can push the schedule to—"

"I’m fine." You grabbed the nearest lyric sheet, jaw tight. You sat across her in your leather chair, focusing on sorting out the busy contents of your workspace before speaking yet again. "Let’s just work. We’ve got three hours before we go, yeah?"

Mira studied you for a long moment before nodding. "Yeah.”

After taking a long winding breath, she slowly went to the door to take her leave.

“If you start crying into the microphone later, I’m charging you for ruined equipment." She retorted one last second.

“Blah blah, go do your manager things!” You smiled as you tried to throw a crumpled sheet to her.

“Alright, alright!” She shut the door gently, leaving you alone on your vices.

Right ... you were going to sing today. A lot.

When you least expected it, the skill you had fun as a hobby had already become a chore.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

The neon sign outside flickered—YE OLD TAVERN—in all its peeling, ironic glory.

You hadn't set foot in this place since your university years. Back when sticky tables and cheap beer felt like an adventure, not exhaustion. Back when he was still beside you, laughing into his drink as you butchered a karaoke song.

Now, the bar was packed—word had spread about the "intimate, unplugged" tour Atlas had forced you into. Authenticity sells, they'd said. Fans eat this shit up.

You just wanted nothing but sleep.

"Five minutes," Mira muttered, nudging you toward the old stage—a vintage relic of this bar’s storied past, all with a single mic stand waiting.

The crowd was a blur of your fans; young adults like you, some adults that you remind of their youth, and a lot of younger people that definitely fit the criteria of modern fans, holding up LED signs and phone screens. You adjusted the guitar strap digging into your shoulder and forced a smile.

Your signature voice flowed through the space like a gentle autumn breeze, carrying warmth and nostalgia with every note. The raw emotion in your delivery resonated deeply with your supporters, who hung on every word and inflection.

You can definitely see it in their eyes. They were enamored by you.

Your voice filled the room with a simple kind of magic. The crowd melted into the music as you sang, each word honest and raw. This wasn't just another show - it was real, and everyone could feel it.

Then you saw him.

Blond hair, roughly swept back to the side like he'd run a hand through it one too many times. Broad shoulders under a fitted black shirt. That face—sharp, unfairly handsome, watching you with an intensity that made your fingers twitch against the strings.

Jay.

Right there. On the side of the bar area, sat on a comfy wooden stool.

Your breath caught. And his too.

He hadn't meant to come.

But then he'd seen the posters outside the tavern—your name in bold letters—and suddenly he was nineteen again, sneaking in with his new ID just to see you play again and not miss his shot.

Now, he‘s frozen as he sees you perform so whole heartedly under the might of a single incandescent light.

You looked beautiful. Real.

Not the polished version from magazines or Leah's wedding—where you'd stiffened the second Sarah requested that song. Where your voice had cracked on the chorus, raw in a way no studio could autotune.

Where he’s just able to see you again.

And now here you were, strumming the opening chords of something new—voice low, rougher than he remembered. The crowd swayed, but Jay didn't move.

Couldn't.

Not when you glanced up mid-verse, gaze snagging on his like a caught breath.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

You finished the set in a daze.

No one noticed the way your hands shook. No one except him.

Backstage—if you could call a storage room with a large old leather loveseat a ‘backstage’—Mira shoved a bottle of branded distilled water into your hands. "Good crowd. Atlas'll be happy."

You didn't answer.

Mira sighed, looking at you with that same concern yet again. She knows your situation, and she feels bad being so helpless and useless to ease your pain the way you want.

She taps your shoulder and presents a light grin back at you. "Van’s out back. Avoid the fans, yeah?"

You nodded, seeing her leave the room shortly.

Until when can you stomach this feeling? This sensation? Being trapped in world you dreamed of was never in your plans, yet here you are, sitting inside your gilded cage.

As you took a deep breath, you fixed your hair and showered yourself in your favorite perfume yet again. You took a faithful step and approached the exit.

When your senses met the stench of New York’s streets opposite the alley door, Jay was already there. Leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed, like he'd been waiting for years.

"Hey," he said.

The streetlight caught the gold in his hair. God, he looked good.

"Hi." Your voice came out hoarse. You walked slowly, approaching him with some needy caution. Just for yourself.

A beat of silence passed. Then Jay pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "You killed it in there."

You scoffed. "It was a dive bar, Jay."

"Yeah. Our dive bar."

The words hung between you. Quiet, and more of that still silence.

“The dim lights suit your features.”

You shot up a glance towards Jay, hearing him say such a ridiculous thing in the middle of your self-inflicted turmoil.

You could say the same for him.

Right then, you forced yourself to look away. "Shouldn't you be with … Naomi, right?"

Jay's jaw tightened, his hands flexing against his sharp jaw. "I … wanted to see you."

Why?

You didn't ask. Couldn't possibly.

Instead, you watched as he pulled something from his pocket—a crisp white card.

PARK JONGSEONG, with some unreadable fine print at the side you couldn’t see much under the street lights. His name is embossed in sleek black and accents of regal purple.

"If you ever want to grab matcha," he said, holding it out. "No pressure."

You stared at it. Four years ago, you'd have taken it without hesitation.

Now?

"Jay," you said softly, "what about … her?"

As he opened his mouth—

Ring.

His phone lit up. As your curious eyes darted over, the name span the screen. Naomi.

Jay cursed under his breath, still not answering as he held out for your advise.

"I should—"

"Yeah." You stepped back. "I don’t mind."

He hesitated, card still extended. "Just please... think about it."

Nervous as you can be, you took the card in hesitation.

“A card, huh?” You flipped the sheet of stiff paper on your fingertips.

“Yeah.” Jay perked up his one-sided smile, genuinely happy at the gesture. You couldn’t help but smile back — it was contagious when you see Jay act that way.

“Park Jongseong … got your whole government name here too, hehe.” Jay couldn’t help but chuckle a little at that comment, and neither could you.

Then he was gone—turning by the corner—swallowed by the city lights.

You stood there, fingers clenched around his card, until Mira honked the car horn.

“Drive or bust, superstar!”

Lost in thought, his voice played like a broken record in your head.

Think about it.

As if you could do anything else.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — HAHAHA THE GODS HAVE GIVEN ME THE SIGN SO ITS UPDATE TIME AND OH WE'RE IN CHAPTER 2!! what is all the juice abouttt, find out next chapter~ also excited for en-chella!! GO TEAM WOOOOOO

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ story taglist — tagging @kaiyunsim @firstclassjaylee @ryes-brownies08

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ can i join the masterlist? — sure! i do frequent posts and updates so just be warned! leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates, much love~ 

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER]

my masterlist! | don't forget to reblog! | made by writhyv 💘

[supernatural-bias]

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐛 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐋𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

↳ notes: lars content yay! as far as i can tell, i'm one of the few to do anything on him, so i hope there's more than ten people out there interested in him

↳ warnings: none

↳ song: she blinded me with science—thomas dolby

masterlist | commissions | carrd

• This guy is a snacker

• Take one look at him. You can't tell me that he doesn't constantly skip out on meals in favor of research, usually just pulling a granola bar or stained tupperware from his desk drawer to eat while he works

• Don't get me wrong, Lars can still devour a good bit of food. Sometimes you like to make fun of him for how much good he'll get on his face in the process

• "You're looking at me weird." He frowned at you one day from behind the rims of his glasses

• "Uh, yeah. Wonder why." You grin with mild surprise, watching as leftover rice and beans from the burrito in his hands stuck to the corners of his mouth like glue. He was quick to wipe it all off, ignoring you as you laughed at him

• Aside from that, Lars usually keeps his workplace pretty clean. It's cluttered, sure, but you don't think you've ever seen him wonder where something went. He just always knew where things were. It was like he had a system in his head, and the more you thought about it, the more you decided he definitely did

• The one time someone had even tried to clean his place up, you watched as he immediately jumped in, convincing them that they were needed elsewhere and sending them off before they could mess with his set-up

• Often times, when it's just the two of you alone in the offsight lab, you'll bounce a tennis ball off the wall while Lars types away, only ever looking up to squint at you when the ball gets to close to his head

• "You should really give that to the possesor. I'm sure it'd appreciate it." He hums to you at one point while spinning around in his chair to reach something. Behind you, you hear the unmistakable sound of a metal chair tapping excitedly on glass, and you make a tsking noise

• "Pretty sure you just want me to stop distracting you with my awesome skills." You boast, attempting to do a trickshot only to smack Lars in the back. He glares at you, and you inch backward with a nervous chuckle

• "You know what, I think I'll give it to the possesor."

• "What a brilliant idea." Lars says monotonely. You were quick to get rid of the ball

• He hums while he works!

• It's not anything discernable. In fact, most of the time he isn't even singing real songs. Just little tunes he'll make up on the spot for himself; often as a way to pass the time and make minute tasks fly by

• You notice it quite a lot, but don't really say anything. It's quite entertaining, if you're being truthful

• "Sittin' and waitin' for food. Sittin' and waitin' for food.." He'd improvised once while waiting yet again for a t.v dinner of his to finish its cycle in the labs shared microwave

• "Wow Lars. Voice of an angel, you have."

• "Stuff it."

• Lars doesn't often need help with his work, there's a reason he landed the job after all, but when he does, you're always the first person he goes to. It's a side effect of having spent so much time with you at work, and even outside of it—if you counted lunch breaks and independent experiments as a non-work environment

• He likes being able to get a fresh set of eyes on whatever's stumping him, and it usually doesn't take long for the two of you to work around whatever was holding him up

• Overall, you couldn't think of a better friend/co-worker to have, and the same applies for Lars. Your relationship will only strengthen as time goes on, even withstanding the bizzar experiences that Garraka eventually brings later that year

• But that's for much later. Right now, the two of you are content to sit in the aquarium-turned-headquarters, watching as the hours ticked by without a care in the world

[fallingforfelix]

❛❛midas touch❞

큐피드의 화살은 눈이 멀 수도 있지만 항상 마음 속에 그 표시를 찾아냅니다.

cupid's arrow may be blind, but it always finds its mark in the heart.

.° ༘🎀⋆🩰₊˚ෆ

synopsis: kinktober day #1 — hair pulling (trichophilia)

pairing: roomate!felix x fem!reader

content: 18+/explicit (MDNI tyvm), viewer discretion advised, so highly suggestive it’s probably considered smut, college au, second person view, older fem reader, mature and unestablished relationships

warnings: noona kink, colour word system used, profanities and suggestive language, teasing, bruising and consensual pain, bdsm power play and loss of control, mentions of orgasms, age gap, coercion, whiny kink, dom reader and sub lix, hair tugging, begging kink if you squint, mentions of oral sex, pain kink i guess, dry humping, begging, pet names (pretty boy, angel, doll, good boy, love, sweetheart), hickeys

word count: 2.3K (2392)

note: i wanted to commit to the ‘kinktober’ trend, but…four days in and not looking very strong😓😓 i also wanted to post something for channie’s bday yesterday but that didn’t happen either :( the smut scene was supposed to be wayyyy longer but i kept on having unsystematic bursts of motivation and really needed to upload some content. i think tmrw i’ll try to write smth, maybe fake texts or a short story where the reader/felix/another member comes to terms with their kink but nothing smutty actually happens. i might even be able to sneak in a fluffy kinks drabble later tonight but that’s probably just a load of big talk. anyways i hope you guys really do enjoy this🫶

inspired by: rosy by @rosylix, slowly to me by @jilixthinker, and pretty please by @naeviskz

song reference: midas touch by kiss of life

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“lee felix!”

you had entered the dorm, only a few minutes prior to felix’s arrival. and much to your dismay, the sight of an empty cookie jar greeted you, its desolate state an affront to your cravings.

the racket of keys stirred your senses, and the squeak of his high tops along the wooden floor announced his arrival. you called out, your tone laced with disappointment.

the aussie‘s head protruded from

the around the corner. “is something wrong noona?”

your gaze narrowed. “you know exactly what’s wrong, lix. i’ve been craving those cookies all day!”

a sheepish look crept across his face. "oh, uh, about those..." he began, scratching the back of his head.

you sighed heavily. “you owe me.”

“yeah, yeah,” felix drawled as he advanced towards the couch on which you were accommodated.

as he walked over to you, his blonde locks caught your eyes. felix’s hair was styled in two braids that were gently woven from the crown of his head, cascading down either side of his head like two delicate rivers of gold. each braid was tightly woven, with subtle wisps framing his face.

he plopped down beside you, his nonchalance testing your patience. a lecture about the sanctity of shared snacks brewed on your lips, but a mischievous spark intervened. your hand darted out, tugging at one of felix’s braids in protest.

you expected defiance, not a high-pitched whine that fled his lips as he tried extracting his braid from your grasp.

you stared at him, your heart skipped a beat at the unexpected vulnerability, and it took him a moment to cognise what he just did. felix’s face flushed pink, his relatively small hand rose to cover his pink, plump lips, and he breathed in shakily.

for a moment, the dynamics shifted, and perhaps it was a hormonal surge, or some other weird psychological phenomenon, but suddenly you found yourself conquered by a newfound self-assurance.

felix’s eyes met yours, a flicker of euphoria in his gaze, ignoring the unspoken tension that had just become palpable to him too.

“well, well, well,” you smirked, your vision tracing the blush that now dusted felix’s cheeks. “that was quite the intriguing sound you just made, pretty boy. mind if i uh…hear it again?”

felix’s dark eyes clouded with guilt as he hesitated, but you tightened your grip on his braid, the motion eliciting another sharp whine from his lips.

“n-noona. please,” he spoke breathily.

“captivating,” you purred, the fingers on your spare hand tracing the contours of felix’s jawline. “i didn’t realise you could make such…arousing noises, love.”

“you’re enjoying this…aren’t you?” he asked, his voice trembling.

you chuckled, otherwise ignoring his question. “you know, i’ve never thought about this before,” you mused as you continued to hold felix’s braid. “but these braids of yours really suit you.”

felix’s breathing was now noticeably shallower, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. he tried to speak, but the words got caught in his throat, replaced by another whimper as you wrenched on his braid, this time even harder than the last.

“please,” he managed to say, his voice a hoarse whisper, “i can’t...i need—“

your smirk widened as you heard the desperation in felix’s voice. you could feel the heat and tension radiating off of him, and it was clearly affecting him just as much as it was affecting you.

“hearing you like this…it does something to me,” you whispered, voice low and husky, cradling his braid.

“please,” he asked again, his voice thick with need. “touch me. i n-need to aah feel you. please.”

your heart was racing now, the sound of felix’s voice and the way he was begging for your touch driving you wild. you wanted nothing more than to give him what he was asking for, but there was a part of you that wanted to tease him just a little more.

“i think i’ve discovered a secret of yours, angel,” you murmured, leaning closer to felix. his ears flushed crimson as he attempted to turn away.

slowly, you reached out to his other braid, toying with it between your fingers before giving it a light pull. felix involuntarily let out a soft whimper, his eyes widening in surprise at the sudden intensity.

your lips curled into a sly smile, relishing the effect you had on him. “it seems like i’ve got a little weak spot, don’t i?”

felix’s voice dripped with smug satisfaction. “oh, you definitely do,” his words laced with a thick, raspy undertone, which, despite your dominant position, left your head reeling.

you released one braid, your fingers drifting up to softly cup felix’s chin, guiding his gaze to meet yours. his eyes were now visibly darker, a mix of shock and arousal, as he struggled to regain composure.

“you have no idea how much it excites me to hear you making these sounds,” you whispered, your thumb tracing the lines of his parted lips. “absolutely intoxicating, lixie.”

“feels like you’re shre—shredding my sanity, noona…” felix gasped.

“oh but look at you doll,” you purred, your eyes roaming all over his flushed face. “all red and flustered, it’s adorable.”

“i am not adorable. i’m supposed to be…to be hot mm. you’re supposed to be c-cumming at my blissedth state,” big talk for someone who was still trying to gather his thoughts, felix’s mind a jumble of sensations. and with each passing second, your words and touches were making him more and more unravelled.

“hot? you’re incandescent, felix, burning me up with every whimper. but let's see who breaks first—your control or my restraint,” you replied.

“i don't know how m-much longerrr i can...ah, fuck,” another drag at felix’s braid, securing a lewd groan from him.

“i could get addicted to these little noises you make,” you continue, your fingers now delicately outlining his jawline. “i’d make you whimper and whine and beg for more.”

“y-you’re already making me. you’re, you’re playing dirty…stop gloating mm,” he spoke, trembling.

“dirty? you have no idea how filthy i can be. and i'm just getting started. unless you want me to stop? or do you want me to push you further?” you grinned like a crescent moon, knowing felix’s resolve was crumbling with each passing moment.

“you’re insane... but i think i’m cra-zier for ngh wanting more,” felix slurred.

your breath hot against his ear, you whispered. “just imagine how you sound when i do…this.”

with a single, swift movement, you tugged harshly on both braids, pulling his back to expose his neck. felix let out a guttural moan, his eyes fluttering shut as the sensations coursed through him.

“oh, god…” felix whined, his body arching, yielding to your touch.

you took your chance. holding your breath, you leaned towards felix’s exposed neck, and you latched your lips onto the upper edge of his collarbone. gently at first, although the sudden contact seemed to have already aroused him judging by the way his body jerked at your touch.

a stifled gasp slipped from between felix’s lips as your tongue darted across his skin, making his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed heavily, fighting the urge to make any more sounds.

“aw don’t get all shy now pretty boy. let noona hear those angelical noises,” you teased, detaching yourself from his skin with a slight drag of teeth.

you licked a strip across the sensitive skin of where you just kissed him. felix did not hesitate this time, eluding a low groan which contrasted from his whines.

you began to suck at a new spot on his neck, closer to where his adam’s apple was, his braids still tightly in your grasp. you could feel the way his pulse was thrumming though his veins under your lips. felix’s hands, which had been laying uselessly at his side, jerked up to grip at your waist as an act of steadying himself.

his grip on your waist was hard, his fingers practically digging into your skin as he struggled to keep himself from trembling. felix’s breathing hitched in his throat as you continued to lavish his sensitive spot with attention, your tongue leaving a wet path in its wake. 

your hand progressed upwards, solidifying itself at the base of felix’s hair, holding as tight as ever. he let out sobs in pain and pleasure.

he started to feel light-headed, tipsy, overwhelmed by the feeling of heat rushing through him, spreading lower throughout his body. felix’s usually rational mind was fogged by the sensation of your hand in his hair, and your mouth on his throat.

he was losing control, and he knew that he couldn't take much more of this.

and neither could you.

you could feel the heat pooling in your stomach, your own desire growing stronger by the second. you couldn’t resist him any longer. the way felix was unraveling under your touch, the sight of him desperate and needy, was too much to handle. you wanted him, you needed him just as badly.

you gave felix a particularly hard suck, pulling his skin in through your teeth. the whine that followed ripped at your core and you almost combusted on the spot. that had to have been the highest moan you had heard from him, from anyone at that. 

you lift your head up, gazing at the boy below you who was losing all coherent thought.

“colour, pretty boy?” you inquired, your lips throbbing from all the sucking.

“green…d-don’t stop. don’t ahh- fucking stop, noona-yah,” he panted, words illiterate.

your spare hand came up to rest upon felix’s right shoulder, rubbing smooth, consoling circles around the area.

you swooped your head again, your warm breath dancing across the skin of his neck for mere seconds before you latched yourself onto his neck, now directly on top of his adams’s apple.

“ooh…ooh f-fuck noona! ye-yes! mm, harder…” the noises he was making were blood curdling, toe curling even.

you swear you just cummed. you gushed with slick, your own body quivering now. the temptation to let go of felix and please yourself seemed like a losing battle.

instead, you relaxed your full weight upon felix’s lap, rocking your hips onto his erection, and oh boy, he was rock hard.

he exhaled another huff, followed by a string of curses and other incoherent words. you lost suction of the hickey you were forming, smiling lowly into his skin. as if it wasn’t already obvious that you had him right where you wanted him, and still pushing him over the edge.

you attacked his adam’s apple for the second time, opening your mouth wider to tease a larger area of his skin. his hips subconsciously bucked upwards into you, earning a sigh on your end. your warm breath on the newly-formed hickey sent felix into complete overdrive.

his hands slipped past the upper edge of your sweatpants, expertly finding the waistband of your panties, pulling the lace into view and rising it up level to your hip line. you winced in pain as felix began fingering your lingerie, occasionally bumping the side of your hip, where he had left bruises from his tight grip earlier on.

the hand that was on felix’s shoulder jerked up to his braids once more. you ran your fingers through the plaits, unravelling them like you unravelled their owner, leaving waves in his milky blonde tousles.

you kissed the spot where you were marking your possession, moving your placement to the underside of his defined jaw, teeth gnashing at his freckled skin. his laboured breathing echoed through the room, a symphony of surrender.

“s’good…oh you’re so g-good noona. what have i…been m-missing out onn?” felix spluttered.

you just yanked his hair in response, his braids now completely unthreaded. every word and every sound he expressed ignited your nerves, set your heart alight. your oxygen was depleting steadily, but you weren’t going to stop and take a breathe. you were going to suck felix’s skin to the death and die a happy woman.

but as that thought was revolving around your brain like an eagle circling it’s prey, felix came to an abrupt halt, releasing your lingerie and letting it hit your skin like rubber ricochetting. he mustered the strength to grip your shoulders, before gently prising you off him. a look of concern came over you, worry concealing the lust in your eyes.

“felix, sweetheart, i’m so sorry…are you hurt? what did i do?“ you voiced, exasperated.

“noo i’m all good…y-you’re all good, noona-yah. oh you’re fucking, fucking phenommmenal, god. i just…i need a favour,” felix tripped over his words.

“of course. anything, felix, you’ve been such a good boy. just tell me what you need. let me take care of you,” you replied.

your expression was filled with concern, worry, and just a hint of lust as your eyes travelled over his body, taking in his red face, messy hair, and heaving chest.

felix’s heart slammed into his rib cage, as his eyes locked with yours. he took a deep breath, feeling the air catch in his throat as he tried to speak.

“n-noona,” he murmured, his cheeks flushed an even darker shade of red. “i need you to…can you let me…?”

your heart skipped as you heard the hitch in his voice, they way it trembled with need and desire. you knew what he wanted, you had made him fall apart under your touch just a moment ago, but you had to hear him say it.

you leaned closer, moving your body against his, letting your breath brush against his ear as you encouraged him.

“tell me, pretty. tell me what you need.”

a full body shiver ran through felix as your breath ghosted over his skin, sending a wave of heat straight to his core. he closed his eyes, drowning in the sensation of your body so close to his, the weight of your words in his ears.

he swallowed hard, his voice quiet and husky again as he finally spoke.

“…can you hold my hair back…whilst i ea-eat you out? please?”

oh. well, you thought that he was going to ask you to suck hickeys onto him further down, on his chest maybe. or he might’ve asked for you to kiss him.

but when your pretty roommate offers to give you head, are you really one to decline it?

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part 2??

©fallingforfelix, 2024 tag if inspired

[ismyevilregal]

Tethered Shadows

Warnings: I have no idea what I'm doing.

Chapter One: Quiet Collisions

The insistent buzzing of my alarm dragged me from a dream where I was flying—weightless and free—over a city bathed in an ethereal, otherworldly light. Disappointment, sharp and sudden, pierced through the grogginess. 7:00 AM. Another day, another grind. I slapped the snooze button, the insistent buzzing replaced by a gentler hum.

Five minutes later, the alarm shrieked again, more insistent this time. I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. The scent of stale coffee and something vaguely metallic—the lingering odor of last night's takeout—assaulted my nostrils. Finally, I surrendered, throwing back the covers and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The floor was a cold, unforgiving slab against my bare feet.

Morning light filtered through the blinds, painting thin stripes across the room. It wasn’t much—just a small studio apartment I’d been calling home for the past year—but it was mine. A safe little corner of the world. But at this particular moment, this studio apartment, once a source of pride and independence, now felt more like a prison cell. The peeling paint on the walls, the perpetually flickering fluorescent light above the kitchenette, the constant drone of traffic from the street below—it all seemed to conspire to dampen my spirits.

First, I stumbled toward the bathroom, the world a blurry kaleidoscope of colors. The mirror reflected a stranger—eyes bloodshot, hair a tangled mess, a faint shadow of a beard clinging to my jaw. I splashed cold water on my face, the shock momentarily invigorating.

Then I shuffled to the kitchen, bare feet padding against the cool floor. The coffee maker, a relic from a previous roommate, whirred to life as I poured water into the machine, the comforting hum filling the quiet. Something about the morning ritual was soothing, grounding me before the day's chaos. While waiting for the coffee to brew, I leaned against the counter, scrolling absentmindedly through my phone. A few unread messages from classmates about an upcoming group project. I made a mental note to respond later.

By 8:15, I was out the door, backpack slung over my shoulder and earbuds in, a playlist of lo-fi beats helping me navigate the crowded sidewalks. College was only a short bus ride away, and I used the time to skim over my notes for class. Balancing work, school, and what little social life I had was a juggling act, but I’d managed to make it work so far. Mostly.

My first lecture of the day was lively—a class on film theory that hooked me from the moment I walked in. The professor, an eccentric older woman with a penchant for dramatic hand gestures, paced the room as she deconstructed scenes from classic films. Today’s focus was on Hitchcock’s use of tension, and I found myself scribbling furiously in my notebook as she dissected a pivotal scene from Psycho. It was one of those rare moments where learning felt less like work and more like inspiration.

The grand entrance hall, usually filled with the hushed whispers of tourists, was eerily silent. The air was thick with anticipation, a palpable tension hanging in the air. I spotted Greg near the entrance, his face pale and drawn.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," I said, trying to lighten the mood.

Greg chuckled nervously. "Try surviving Professor Sharma's lectures. It's enough to make a grown man question his life choices."

After class, I grabbed a quick coffee and headed to my part-time job at the campus library. The familiar scent of old books greeted me as I walked in, and the quiet atmosphere was a stark contrast to the bustling campus outside. My shift was predictable: shelving books, assisting students who couldn’t figure out the catalog system, and occasionally sneaking a peek at my own assignments during the slower moments. I spent part of the afternoon helping a fellow film student locate obscure texts on 1970s cinematography, exchanging quick opinions about the underrated brilliance of The French Connection before returning to my duties.

It wasn’t glamorous, but I liked it. The library felt like a sanctuary, a place where time slowed down and the rest of the world melted away. Occasionally, I’d catch glimpses of students huddled over laptops, editing films for their projects, and it reminded me of why I loved what I did. Cinema wasn’t just a major—it was a lens through which I saw the world.

By the time my shift ended, the sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, painting the horizon in shades of orange and pink. I grabbed a quick bite at the cafeteria—a less-than-impressive turkey sandwich—before heading back to my apartment. The bus ride was quiet, the city lights flickering outside the window as I leaned my head against the cool glass. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fished it out to see a text from Tara.

Tara: Hey, can you meet me at the diner around 6? I have someone I want you to meet.

Y/N: Someone?

Tara: Just trust me. You’ll like her.

Y/N: …Should I be worried?

Tara: Nope. Promise.

I stared at the screen for a moment, debating. Tara’s matchmaking efforts weren’t exactly a secret, but she’d never been this cryptic about it before. Still, I trusted her. If she thought it was worth my time, it probably was. Plus, it was a good reason to go out and relax a bit after a long day.

Y/N: Fine. I’ll be there.

The remainder of my evening before the meeting passed in a blur of small tasks: drafting ideas for a screenplay assignment, organizing my cluttered desk, and watching clips from a documentary on the rise of independent cinema in the 90s. By the time 5:30 rolled around, I was shrugging into a hoodie and heading back out the door, the crisp evening air waking me up a little more with each step.

The diner buzzed with a low hum of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of cutlery against ceramic plates. I wasn’t sure why Tara insisted on meeting here, but then again, Tara always had a way of picking the most unassuming places for moments she swore were important. The chipped laminate table beneath my fingertips felt oddly grounding, even as a sliver of unease twisted in my chest.

“She’ll be here soon,” Tara said, glancing at her phone. Her tone was casual, but her eyes gave her away. There was an eagerness, a spark that told me this was more than just another introduction. “She’s just…” Tara hesitated, searching for the right word. “She’s not great with people. Don’t take it personally.”

“Noted,” I replied with a small smile, though I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to feel. Curiosity? Anxiety? The mixture of both left my coffee cooling in its mug, untouched.

The bell above the door jingled, and Tara’s head snapped up. I followed her gaze, and that’s when I saw her. Sam Carpenter wasn’t what I expected, though I couldn’t have said what I had been expecting. I turned my head quickly to glare at Tara for a moment, but it didn't last long before my attention was back on her bigger sister again. Her presence was immediate, sharp-edged, and deliberate like she carried the weight of her own gravity. Dark hair framed a face that might have been soft once, but the years had hardened it into something unreadable. Her eyes were the kind that didn’t just look at you but through you, as if she were cataloging every detail.

She paused just inside the doorway, scanning the room with a wariness that felt almost instinctual. When her gaze landed on Tara, some of the tension eased, but only just. Sam crossed the diner in a few strides, her boots scuffing against the tiled floor.

“Hey,” Sam said, her voice low and even, almost flat. She slid into the booth beside Tara, her movements economical, like she’d planned each one. For a moment, she didn’t even look at me, her attention fixed on her sister.

“Sam,” Tara said, her tone light and encouraging. “This is my friend, Y/N. The one I told you about.”

At last, Sam turned her head toward me, and I felt the full weight of her gaze. It wasn’t hostile, exactly, but it wasn’t welcoming either. It was searching, measuring. The kind of look that made me want to shift in my seat but refuse to out of sheer principle.

“Hi,” I said, offering a small, non-threatening smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, her eyes flicked to Tara, then back to me. I guess she was just as confused as I was. “You too,” she said finally, though it sounded more like a formality than anything genuine.

The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. Tara, ever the fixer, jumped in to fill the void. “Sam just got back in town,” she said, her voice a little too bright. “It’s been… a lot, but she’s settling in. Right, Sam?”

Sam’s jaw tightened slightly, but she nodded. “Something like that.”

I didn’t miss the way her shoulders stiffened at the words. Whatever she’d come back from, it wasn’t something she was ready to talk about. The walls around her were practically visible, brick and mortar and steel, built to keep anyone from seeing too much. But it wasn’t my place to pry, not when I’d just met the woman.

“Well,” Tara said, leaning forward, “the two of you have a lot in common. I think you’ll get along great.”

Sam’s eyebrow arched slightly, as if she didn’t quite believe her sister. “Is that so?”

“Definitely,” Tara said, undeterred. “Just give it a chance.”

Sam’s gaze shifted back to me, and for a moment, there was something almost challenging in her eyes. “Guess we’ll see.”

It was then I realized just how much smaller I was next to her. Tara often joked about my height when she was feeling particularly mischievous, but we both knew we stood eye-to-eye. Sam, however, was a solid presence—a towering figure that only added to her intensity. The size difference was almost laughable, but I wasn’t about to let it shake me.

I wasn’t sure what Tara was trying to accomplish here, but one thing was clear: Sam Carpenter would be a puzzle. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to solve her or if she was better left a mystery. But before I could settle too much into my thoughts, Tara cleared her throat, bringing my focus back to the moment.

"So," she started, a little too enthusiastically, "what do you two think of… Hitchcock?"

The question felt forced, like Tara was trying to find the safest possible common ground to get the conversation rolling. My lips twitched into a smile, appreciating the effort, but I wasn't sure it would land.

"Hitchcock?" Sam asked, her tone flat. Her arms crossed as she leaned back against the booth. "Never really saw the appeal."

I blinked, momentarily thrown. Not because I couldn’t understand the opinion—plenty of people thought his style was overrated—but because the way she said it felt almost deliberately provocative, like she was daring me to disagree.

Tara winced. "Sam…"

"No, it’s fine," I said quickly, leaning forward. I could feel that challenge in her gaze again, and something in me itched to meet it. "I get it. Not everyone likes the classics. What’s your style, then?"

Sam’s brow furrowed, as if she hadn’t expected me to push back so easily. For a moment, she didn’t answer, her fingers idly tracing the edge of the table. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, less sharp. "I guess… I like stories that feel real. Messy. People making mistakes, doing stupid things… stuff that actually matters."

Her words hung in the air, heavier than I anticipated. Tara shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and I wondered just how much of that statement was tied to Sam’s personal history.

"That’s fair," I said softly, not wanting to press too hard. "Sometimes the most compelling stories are the ones where you don’t know how they’ll end."

Sam’s gaze flicked to me again, and this time, there was a flicker of something in her expression. Not quite warmth, but maybe a hint of curiosity. "Yeah. Exactly."

Tara exhaled dramatically, breaking the tension. "Okay, great. We’re talking. Progress!"

I laughed, shaking my head at her antics. "Subtle, Tara. Real subtle."

"I try," she said with a wink. "Anyway, I’m gonna grab some pie. You two want anything?"

I shook my head, and Sam muttered a quiet "No," as Tara slid out of the booth and made her way to the counter. The silence she left behind felt different now, less heavy and more… expectant.

"So," I said after a moment, "what’s your story?"

Sam’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were deciding whether or not to answer. "Not much to tell."

I raised an eyebrow. "Everyone’s got a story."

She huffed a quiet laugh, though there wasn’t much humor in it. "Trust me, mine’s not the kind you’d want to hear."

For a second, I considered dropping it, letting her keep her walls intact. But something about her intrigued me and made me want to dig a little deeper. "Maybe. But how would I know unless you tell me?"

Sam studied me, her expression unreadable. Finally, she shrugged, leaning back in her seat. "I guess I’ll have to keep you guessing."

It wasn’t much, but it felt like a small victory. A crack in the armor.

For a moment, the conversation settled into a quiet lull, the din of the diner filling the space between me and Sam. I tapped my fingers lightly against the table, debating whether to push further or let the moment breathe.

"You always this mysterious, or is it just part of the charm?" I asked, a teasing edge creeping into my voice.

Sam exhaled a short chuckle, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "I think it’s more of a defense mechanism than anything else."

I nodded, sensing the weight behind her words, but before I could respond, she glanced at me with something close to curiosity. "What about you?"

I tilted my head. "What about me?"

"You don’t seem like someone who gives up easily," she noted. "Why bother trying to figure me out?"

There was something almost challenging in her tone, like she was testing me. Maybe even daring me to step back. But instead, I met her gaze and shrugged.

"Guess I like a good puzzle."

Before she could reply, Tara reappeared, carefully setting the plate of pie between us both. "Mission accomplished," she declared, sliding back into her seat with a satisfied grin. "And I even got extra whipped cream."

She shot a look between the two of us, picking up on the shift in atmosphere. "Did I miss something?"

Sam reached for her fork, her expression once again guarded but softer than before. "Nothing important," she said, but the way her gaze flickered to me told a different story.

Tara arched a brow, clearly not convinced but choosing not to push. "Alright, well, I’m eating before either of you try and steal a bite."

I laughed, reaching for my own fork. "No promises."

As the three of us settled in, the conversation drifted into something lighter, but the undercurrent of that moment with Sam lingered—unspoken but present, like a secret waiting to be unraveled.

------

The next morning unfolded in slow motion, sunlight creeping in through the blinds like it had all the time in the world. But something was different. I felt lighter, more awake than I had any right to be. Maybe it was the residual warmth of last night—the easy conversation, the feeling that I had nudged a door open just a little.

A buzz from my phone pulled me from my thoughts. For a brief second, my pulse skipped—Sam? But no. Tara.

Tara: Morning! You survived my sister’s brooding. Congrats. Wanna grab coffee?

A grin tugged at my lips. Even through text, Tara’s energy was infectious.

Me: Morning. I’ll take that as a badge of honor. Where and when?

Her reply was quick—café, mid-morning. Just like that, the day had direction.

As I got ready, I caught my reflection in the mirror, my gaze lingering longer than usual. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just another day. But for the first time in a while, something about it felt... new. Like the start of something. And I wasn’t sure if that excited or terrified me more.

The café was quiet, the air thick with the scent of fresh coffee and the low hum of early risers buried in their screens. I stepped inside, the soft chime of the door marking my arrival. I ordered a coffee to go, restless energy thrumming beneath my skin. My mind kept circling back to last night—Sam, the weight of her silence, the push and pull I couldn’t quite decipher.

Lost in thought, I barely noticed Tara until she breezed in, her presence a sharp contrast to my uncertainty.

"Hey, look who actually showed up!" she called, grinning as she made her way over.

I laughed, the tightness in my chest easing. "Wouldn’t miss it."

Tara pulled me into one of her signature hugs—warm, slightly suffocating, but somehow exactly what I needed.

"You ready for coffee? Or are you still in the ‘don’t talk to me yet’ phase?" she teased, eyes gleaming.

I exhaled, the tension unraveling bit by bit. "I think I’m awake now."

We settled into a table by the window, the city stretching beyond the glass, bathed in the soft glow of morning light. Tara had that effect—making even the most mundane moments feel like something worth being present for.

"So," she started, casual, but sharp. "How’s it feel surviving the Sam experience?"

I took a sip of my coffee, choosing my words carefully. "It’s... different. She’s complicated."

Tara smirked. "You don’t say. You’ve figured that out already? Impressive."

I hesitated before admitting, "I’m just trying to figure out where I stand with her. She’s got this wall up, but it doesn’t feel like she wants it there. I can’t tell if she’s just playing it cool or if she really doesn’t care."

Tara leaned back, tapping her fingers against her cup. "Sam doesn’t do anything unless it matters. She doesn’t waste her time. If she’s acknowledging you, that’s something." A flicker of something softer passed over her face. "She’s been through a lot. Letting people in isn’t easy for her. But if she’s letting you orbit, even a little? That’s progress."

I nodded, mulling over her words. "I just don’t know what she wants from me."

Tara’s grin widened. "Maybe she doesn’t know either. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to find out. Just... don’t let her push you away. She’s good at that."

The words settled deep. Sam was a puzzle I wasn’t sure I should be solving—but the curiosity wouldn’t let go.

"Thanks for the advice," I said, half-smiling. "Guess we’ll see where this goes."

Tara raised her cup in a mock toast. "That’s the fun part. The not knowing."

I sat there, watching the world move outside, feeling the quiet shift in the air. Sam, Tara, all of this—it was unfolding in ways I hadn’t expected. And maybe, just maybe, that was the point.

Tara, ever perceptive, tilted her head, a sly glint in her eyes. "You should text her."

I blinked. "What? Now?"

"Why not? What’s the worst that could happen?"

A lot, I wanted to say. But I didn’t.

Instead, I unlocked my phone, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Tara leaned in, smirking. "Be honest. Keep it simple. Something like, ‘Hey, I was thinking about our conversation yesterday. It was cool talking to you.’"

I huffed a quiet laugh, shaking my head. But she wasn’t wrong.

Hey, I was thinking about our conversation yesterday. It was cool talking to you.

Before I could second-guess it, I hit send.

Tara watched me, satisfaction written all over her face. "There. Easy, right?"

I let out a slow breath. "Not sure if easy is the word, but... it’s done."

She lifted her cup in a knowing gesture. "Now, we wait."

And so I did. Through the rest of our conversation, through the rest of the morning, through every casual check of my phone, heartbeat spiking each time it buzzed. But it was never her.

By the time I got home, the weight of the day had settled in my bones. I tossed my bag onto the couch, my phone still in my pocket, untouched. I told myself not to check it. Not to let it matter so much.

I busied myself with the little things—sorting through the scattered notes on my desk, flipping through a book I had no real intention of reading, absentmindedly scrolling through social media before locking my phone again. The air in my apartment felt heavier somehow, like I was waiting for something I refused to admit.

Eventually, I sprawled out on the couch, arm draped over my face, willing my mind to focus on anything else. It wasn’t working.

And then—

My phone buzzed.

I sat up too quickly, pulse hammering as I fumbled to grab it, screen lighting up in the dim room.

Sam: You too.

Just two words. But they unraveled something tight in my chest.

I stared at the message, reading it once, twice, three times, as if deciphering some hidden meaning within it. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And something was more than nothing. When it comes from Sam, as I'm learning, something is actually a lot.

A slow smile crept onto my face as I leaned back against the couch, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

[ssa-dado]

6 - Synthesis

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader

Genre: angst, fluff, slow burn

Summary: After an intense case, you and Hotch struggle with unresolved tensions from a previous argument. On the train back, Hotch overhears Peter comforting you about a recent tragedy, realizing he’s been blind to your pain. Later, Hotch unexpectedly shows up at your apartment, opening up and apologizing for his emotional distance, leading to a heartfelt moment of mutual vulnerability. That evening, you attend Peter’s welcome-back party, feeling lighter and reconnecting with the team. That's when Peter makes an unusual bet with you.

Warnings: death, grief, emotional abuse, domestic violence, family dysfunction.

Word Count: 7.6k

Dado's Corner: Phi posting two chapters in less than 12 hours? More likely than you think. I was supposed to wait until tomorrow, but I just couldn’t help myself. Thank you all so much for the love and support you’ve shown for the series so far! Each of you holds a special place in my cold little heart. Please don’t hate me after this - it hurts me, too - but hey, there’s some interrogation room Aaron to sweeten things up. I’m particularly proud of this cute, lovely chapter. It doesn’t make me want to jump out the window. Not even a little bit. Embrace the pain.

previous part ; masterlist

Gideon smiled knowingly, his eyes shifting between you and Hotch. “Thesis, antithesis, and synthesis,” he mused, almost as if he were speaking to himself but loud enough for you to hear. “Funny how life always seems to come back to that, doesn’t it?”

●

The observation room was dimly lit, casting long, uneven shadows over you and Peter as you stood behind the two-way mirror, your heartbeat seemed to echo in the quiet, barely audible over the hum of the fluorescent light. You watched Hotch on the other side, preparing to interrogate the suspect, he appeared calm as usual, wearing his mask of stoicism proudly on his face, but you could tell the tension was palpable.

The room beyond the glass was stark, the suspect sat at the metal table gleaming under the harsh light with a smug expression, arms casually draped over the back of his chair, utterly unbothered. Te view was borderline infuriating.

The hair on your arms stood up, not just from the cold, but from the overwhelming sense of helplessness that had settled over the case. You couldn’t shake the nagging thought that you were grasping at straws, the weight of the local police’s blunders pressing heavily on your chest. They had fumbled, and badly. Critical evidence had slipped through their fingers, lost or contaminated in the chaos. You didn’t even want to hear the whole story—you were too furious, your senses shutting down as the same detective who had once doubted your work stumbled through a pathetic apology. All you had now was Hotch. No physical proof, no solid evidence to tie this man to the crimes you knew he’d committed.

Your gaze flicked back to the suspect, his arrogance nauseating. He knew the game, knew the system, and worse, he knew how to manipulate it to his advantage. There was a clock ticking in your mind, every second precious, the sense of urgency suffocating. If Hotch couldn’t break him - if he couldn’t find a way past the layers of lies and smug indifference - you’d lose him. You couldn’t afford that, not now.

Peter’s jaw clenched as he observed the scene, his frustration evident. “This was a mistake,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “We warned them not to bring him in without something solid. Now we’re stuck trying to clean up their mess.”

You nodded, your mind still reeling from the argument with Hotch the night before, as if all of this mess wasn’t already enough for your nerves to handle. The tension between you two had lingered, unresolved and heavy, adding another layer to your frustration. You tried to shake it off, but it clung to you, making it even harder to focus. “Yeah, and now Hotch has to pull off a miracle,” you said, your voice tinged with both a tinge of annoyance and worry. “He’s got one shot to get this right.”

Peter turned his attention back to the interrogation room, his eyes narrowing as Hotch sat across from the suspect. “If anyone can do it, it’s him. I’ve seen Hotch work multiple times, and somehow he even looks sharper, more intense.”

Inside the room, Hotch began his interrogation with a measured calm, his eyes locked on the suspect, who lounged back in his chair, exuding a quiet confidence. Hotch started with the basics, the routine questions meant to establish rapport, but the suspect was playing his own game, answering with a smug smile and evasive nonchalance.

Hotch leaned back, crossing his arms as he observed the suspect’s every move, every twitch. “You’ve been careful,” Hotch said, his voice steady but probing. “I’ll give you that. You’ve covered your tracks well. But you slipped up, everyone makes mistakes, especially when they think they’re untouchable.”

The suspect smirked, feigning boredom. “You’re wasting your breath, Agent Hotchner. You and I both know you have nothing on me - no evidence, no witnesses. You’re grasping at straws.”

Hotch’s gaze remained unflinching, but you could see the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way he leaned in just slightly, narrowing the space between the two of them. “You’re right, we don’t have physical evidence, but we do have you, and that’s enough. Because here’s the thing - you’re not as smart as you think you are. You’ve made this personal, and personal is messy.”

The suspect chuckled, tapping his fingers lightly on the table as if this were a game to him. “Oh, please. I’ve seen every tactic in the book, and I’ve got an answer for all of them. You can’t intimidate me, Hotchner. I know my rights. You’ve got nothing.”

Hotch’s expression remained stoic, but there was a flash of determination in his eyes. “You think this is about intimidation? You’re missing the point. This isn’t about fear, it’s about you and the mistakes you’ve made. You’ve left a trail, little hints of who you really are. You think you’ve hidden them, but they’re there, buried in the details.”

The suspect’s confident facade faltered for just a second, but he quickly recovered, scoffing. “You’re reaching. This isn’t some TV show where the bad guy breaks down in a dramatic confession. I’m not saying a damn thing without my lawyer.”

Hotch’s demeanor shifted, a cold, calculating edge creeping into his voice. “Your lawyer? You think your lawyer’s going to save you? They’ll do their job, make sure you’re comfortable, make sure you feel safe. But at the end of the day, they’re not in here with you, they’re not the ones facing the consequences of your actions - you are. And you’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

From the other side of the glass, you watched Hotch methodically chip away at the suspect’s arrogance. Each line of questioning was a carefully placed strike, designed to weaken his resolve, but the suspect wasn’t giving in easily. He deflected, twisted Hotch’s words, and tried to turn the conversation back on him.

“You think you’re so righteous, don’t you?” the suspect sneered, leaning forward with a glint of disdain in his eyes. “Sitting there, acting like you’ve got the moral high ground. You don’t know me, Agent Hotchner. You don’t know a damn thing about what I’ve been through, the people I’ve dealt with - you think you’re better than me?”

Hotch didn’t flinch even if the last words reminded him of the argument he had with you down at the lobby. “No, I don’t think I’m better than you, but I do know who you are. You’re the guy who blames everyone else when things go wrong, the guy who hides behind his intellect because he’s too scared to admit he’s just another coward trying to prove he’s not afraid. But guess what? That act doesn’t work on me.”

The suspect’s composure slipped, his anger flaring as Hotch hit a nerve. “You don’t get to judge me! You sit there like you’re some kind of saint, but you’re just as flawed as the rest of us. You have no right—”

Hotch cut him off sharply, his voice cold and unyielding. “You’re right. I’m not perfect. I’ve made my mistakes, and I own them. But I’m not the one hiding behind excuses, you are. You’re the one who thinks he can play God, decide who deserves to live or die based on your twisted sense of justice. But here’s the thing: you’re not in control, not anymore.”

From the observation room, you felt your chest tighten. Hotch was relentless, pushing the suspect further than you’d ever seen him push anyone before. It was as if he’d tapped into something raw and unforgiving, something that drove him to keep going, to tear down every last defense the suspect had.

Peter glanced at you, his brow furrowing. “I’ve never seen him go this hard. It’s like he’s on a mission.”

You nodded, the tension from last night’s argument still simmering inside you. You knew why Hotch was pushing himself like this: because of you, because of the unresolved words between you, and because he needed to prove something, maybe even to himself. “He’s not going to stop until he gets what he wants.”

Inside the room, the suspect’s attitude was crumbling. Hotch leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, laced with a quiet menace. “You think you’re untouchable, that you’ve covered all your bases. But I’ve spent years in courtrooms taking down men just like you, men who thought they were too smart to get caught. I know every trick, every lie, every pathetic attempt to weasel your way out of the truth.”

The suspect’s face tightened, his hands clenching into fists as he tried to maintain control. But Hotch was unrelenting, his gaze piercing through every layer of the man’s defenses. “You don’t want to admit it, but you’re scared, I can see it in your eyes. You’re terrified that the truth is going to come out, that all your carefully crafted lies are going to fall apart right in front of you - so, here’s your last chance. Tell me the truth. Tell me why you did it.”

There was a beat of silence, a heavy pause as the suspect’s composure finally shattered. His shoulders slumped, his defiance giving way to resignation. He looked up at Hotch, defeated and angry, his voice breaking as he finally confessed, each word a bitter surrender. “Fine. Fine, you want the truth? I did it. I killed them. But you have no idea why. You don’t know what it’s like to be powerless.”

“No you’re right, I don’t.” Hotch sat back, a flicker of triumph in his eyes, though his expression remained guarded: he had what he needed. The confession was out, raw and unfiltered, pulled from the depths of the suspect’s desperation.

Peter let out a low whistle, still reeling from what he’d witnessed. “That was... intense. I’ve never seen Hotch like that, he’s kind of intimidating.”

You nodded in agreement, your gaze still fixed on Hotch as he calmly gathered his notes, preparing to leave the room. You could see the toll it had taken on him, the emotional weight he carried even as he walked out victorious, and as much as you wanted to celebrate the success, the confrontation from the night before still lingered, leaving you with the unsettling realization that this fight wasn’t just with the suspect - it was within Hotch himself.

When Hotch stepped out of the interrogation room, the tension in his posture seemed to ease, but only slightly. His face was set in its usual mask of calm control, yet there was a heaviness in his eyes, a flicker of something raw that he couldn’t quite hide. Peter clapped him on the back, a mix of admiration and relief in his expression. “Hell of a job, Hotch. You tore him apart. I’ve seen you work, but that was something else entirely.”

Hotch gave a tight nod, his jaw still clenched, but his gaze was already shifting past Peter, landing on you. His eyes were searching, almost like he was trying to gauge your reaction, seeking some unspoken acknowledgment from you. “Thanks,” he said, his voice measured but tinged with exhaustion. “It had to be done.”

You stood there with your arms crossed, leaning against the wall, trying to maintain a composed exterior, but inside, you were anything but calm. Watching Hotch in that room, ruthlessly tearing down the suspect’s defenses, stirred something deep within you. It was impressive, yes, but also unsettling. You had never seen him so relentless, so driven - and you knew exactly what was fueling his determination.

As Hotch’s gaze lingered on you, there was a silent understanding between you, a shared acknowledgment of the emotional battlefield you both were navigating. The words from your argument the night before still echoed in your mind, sharp and unresolved, like an open wound that hadn’t had the chance to heal. The case had forced you both to set your personal issues aside, but now, in the aftermath, they were still there, hovering between you like a shadow neither of you could ignore.

Peter glanced between the two of you, sensing the charged atmosphere but choosing not to comment. He knew better than to pry, but even he could tell that whatever was going on between you and Hotch went deeper than the usual tension of a difficult case. “We got what we needed,” Peter said, trying to break the silence. “That’s what matters. Now we can finally put this bastard away.”

Hotch nodded, but his eyes never left yours, and in that moment, it felt like the rest of the room had faded away. It was just the two of you, caught in a silent standoff where neither of you knew how to take the next step. You wanted to say something, anything that would bridge the gap that had formed between you, but the words caught in your throat, tangled with the emotions you’d been trying so hard to keep in check.

The triumph of the confession felt hollow against the weight of what was still left unsaid. You and Hotch had always been able to read each other, but now, standing on opposite sides of this unspoken rift, it was as if the connection you’d relied on had fractured. There was so much you wanted to ask him: why he’d pushed so hard, why he seemed so desperate to prove something today, and why he couldn’t let his guard down, even for a moment. But instead, you just nodded, swallowing back the questions that burned at the back of your throat. “You did what you had to do,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, though it wavered slightly. “Good work, Hotch.”

Hotch’s gaze softened for a brief second, a flicker of regret or maybe gratitude crossing his features, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Thanks,” he replied, his voice lower, more personal than before. “We all did.”Peter’s presence was a reminder that you weren’t alone, but it didn’t ease the tension that thrummed between you and Hotch. As Hotch turned to leave, the weight of your argument still hung heavy, unresolved, and painful. You watched him go, the distance between you feeling wider than ever, despite being just a few feet apart.

And as you stood there, with Peter by your side and the echo of Hotch’s footsteps fading down the corridor, you realized that the hardest part of this case wasn’t just about catching a killer, it was about facing the fractures in your own relationships, the ones that no amount of profiling or interrogation could ever fix.

The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels against the tracks was a dull, constant noise that filled the otherwise quiet cabin. You sat alone, your head down and your pen moving steadily across the paper as you filled out your case report. It was a task you’d thrown yourself into, your way of avoiding the one thing you weren’t ready to confront: Hotch.

Hotch sat a few rows behind you, his back to you, mirroring your actions as he worked on his own report with a similar intensity. It was almost poetic how the two of you were so much alike: both of you throwing yourselves into your work to avoid the harder truths, and neither willing to make the first move toward reconciliation.

As you focused on your writing, you heard footsteps approach. You didn’t need to look up to know it was Peter; you’d recognized the casual confidence in his stride from a mile away. He slid into the seat beside you without asking, his presence a familiar and oddly comforting interruption.

Peter glanced at your half-filled report, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You never could sit still, could you?” he said, his voice soft but laced with a hint of fondness. “Always working, always thinking.”

You tried to muster a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just trying to get this done before we get back,” you said, your tone evasive. You knew why he’d come over, and you weren’t sure you were ready for the conversation you’d been avoiding since you’d seen him again.

Peter watched you for a moment, his expression shifting from casual to serious. He took a deep breath, glancing at the report before returning his gaze to you. “Y/N,” he began, his voice quieter now, “I’ve been wanting to tell you this since I got back, but I didn’t want to bring it up while we were in the middle of the case.”

You stiffened, knowing exactly what he was going to say but hoping he wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for your dad’s funeral,” Peter said, his voice heavy with regret. “I wanted to be, but I was stuck overseas. I hate that I wasn’t there.”

You clenched your jaw, staring down at the paper in front of you, your pen hovering uselessly above the page. The memories of that day flooded backstanding at the grave, the heavy weight of loss pressing down on your chest, and the overwhelming feeling of being completely and utterly alone. You’d been surrounded by people, but none of them had truly understood, none of them had been him.

“It’s fine, Pete,” you said, though your voice was shaky. “You were doing your job. Besides, it’s not like it would’ve changed anything.”

Peter shook his head, frustration flickering in his eyes. “No, it’s not okay. You were always there for me, even when we were just kids trying to figure out what the hell we were doing with our lives. And I couldn’t even show up when you needed me the most.”

Peter studied you, his eyes searching yours. He could see the cracks you were trying so desperately to hide, the way you were holding yourself together with sheer willpower. “I should have been there,” he insisted gently. “I know how much you went through with him… I remember everything you told me about him.”

A knot formed in your throat as you thought back to your childhood, your father’s relentless work ethic, his unyielding drive for perfection. He had been your hero in so many ways, but he’d also been your downfall. You’d inherited his toxic trait of overworking yourself, the constant need to be better, to be more. It was how you’d coped with the chaos at home, the screaming matches between your parents that had been your daily soundtrack. Your mother, exasperated and exhausted, would often switch languages mid-argument to keep you in the dark, to protect you - or maybe just to exclude you - from the mess they had created.

“I was just a kid, you know?” you said quietly, your voice tinged with bitterness. “All I wanted was to understand why they were always fighting. I started learning every language my mom switched to, Italian, Spanish, anything that would give me a clue, but instead of finding answers, I just… found more reasons to stay away.”

Peter’s eyes softened, a flicker of pain crossing his features as he listened. “You drowned yourself in books, in knowledge, just to escape,” he said, his voice low. “I remember you telling me that once, how you’d sit in those lecture halls at the university, absorbing everything because it was better than being home.”

Your childhood had been filled their voices rising in heated exchanges that always seemed to end in silence, your father retreating to his study to bury himself in more work, and your mother seeking solace in her books. To escape the turbulence at home, you’d thrown yourself into your studies with a fervor that bordered on obsession. You’d devoured literature, philosophy, psychology, anything that could distract you from the reality of your parents’ failing marriage, to gain a semblance of control in a world that often felt chaotic and out of reach.

You had become fluent in the languages they used to hide their pain from you, and in doing so, you became fluent in the art of distancing yourself from your own emotions. The habit of overworking, of pouring yourself into every task with unrelenting focus, was something you had learned from your father, a toxic legacy that you couldn’t quite shake, even now. It had been the source of countless arguments with your mother, who had begged you not to follow in his footsteps, to find balance, to live a life that wasn’t dictated by the demands of work. But it was easier said than done, and as the years went on, you found yourself mirroring his habits more than you cared to admit.

You nodded, swallowing hard against the emotion that threatened to choke you. “I kept pushing myself, kept chasing after something I couldn’t even name. My dad… he always told me that hard work was the only thing that mattered, he never slowed down, never stopped, and neither did I. Even when their marriage fell apart… even when he got sick. I just… I couldn’t stop.”

You hesitated, your eyes welling up with tears that you refused to let fall. “I didn’t even cry at his funeral, I just stood there, feeling nothing. And I haven’t been to visit his grave since.”

Peter gently reached out, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder, tightly hugging you. “It’s okay not to be okay, Y/N,” he murmured. “You don’t have to carry this all on your own. The least I can do is be the shoulder you can lean on.” Peter squeezed your shoulder gently, his eyes filled with compassion. “Your dad was tough, but he loved you, Y/N. And you don’t have to prove anything to him, not anymore. You’re allowed to grieve, to feel lost, to not have all the answers.”

You nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. “I know. But sometimes it’s hard to remember that.”

Hotch sat just behind you, his back facing yours, he had intended to keep to himself, to give you the space you needed, but the quiet murmurs of your conversation had carried over. He couldn’t help but overhear Peter’s words, and as he listened, a wave of guilt and realization washed over him.

Hotch had always prided himself on his ability to read people, to see through the masks they wore, but he hadn’t seen through yours. He hadn’t seen the pain you’d been hiding, the grief that had been eating away at you just beneath a slim surface. And suddenly, your words from the night before came crashing back: how he didn’t know you, how he’d never bothered to look beyond the professional facade you’d built.

His own mind flickered back to his childhood, the memories of his father’s anger, the violence that lurked behind every door. Hotch had spent years burying and hiding those scars, never letting anyone see how deeply they ran. He had kept it all locked away, just as you had, believing that the only way to survive was to keep moving, to never let the pain catch up.

For the first time, Hotch truly understood why you had lashed out at him. You had seen in him the very thing you feared in yourself: the relentless drive to work, to control, to avoid facing the hurt that lingered beneath. He realized now that you were so much more alike than he had ever imagined, both of you haunted by the ghosts of your pasts, both trying to outrun the pain that always seemed to catch up.

As Hotch stared out the window at the passing scenery, he felt a deep sense of remorse. He wished he had known, wished he had been able to offer you the support you so clearly needed. But all he could do now was hope that you would one day trust him enough to let him in, to share the burdens you had been carrying alone for far too long.

Peter’s voice broke the silence, pulling Hotch from his thoughts. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, you know that? But it’s okay to let someone else be strong for you, too.”

You nodded, wiping away the tears that had finally escaped. “Thanks, Pete. It’s just… it’s hard.”

“I know,” Peter said softly. “But you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Hotch listened to the quiet exchange, the raw honesty between you and Peter striking a chord deep within him. He knew now that he couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine, that the walls he had built were enough to protect him or you. As the train sped toward Quantico, Hotch made a silent promise to himself: he would do better, he would be better. For you, and for himself.

Because in the end, you both deserved more than just the comfort of solitude. You deserved to be understood, to be seen, and to finally let go of the burdens you had carried for far too long.

Peter on the other hand had always been the kind of friend who could read you like a book, even when you tried to keep the pages closed. And after this emotional confrontation he knew he didn’t have to push further. He could see the exhaustion in your eyes, the way you were holding yourself together by the thinnest thread. So, he did what he always did best, he tried to lift your spirits, if only for a moment.

He leaned back in his seat, studying your expression with a knowing smile. “You know, Y/N, you don’t have to unload everything on me right now. You’re allowed to keep some things to yourself. You don’t owe anyone your pain.” His tone was light, but there was a deep, unspoken understanding beneath it. He knew you were struggling, and he wanted you to know that it was okay to take your time.

You gave him a small, tired smile, grateful for his patience. “I know, Pete. It’s just... hard to talk about. I’ve been so focused on work, it’s easier that way. It’s all I know.”

Peter nodded, his eyes softening with empathy. “I get it. But maybe it’s time to leave work behind, just for a little while. You don’t have to think about everything right now. Start small. Maybe try coming out of your room every once in a while?” He said it with a teasing grin, nudging your shoulder playfully, hoping to coax even the smallest laugh out of you.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking your head at his attempt to lighten the mood. “I know, I’ve been a bit of a hermit lately. I guess it’s easier to just shut myself away.”

Peter’s smile widened, and he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, lucky for you, your presence is strictly required at my welcome-back party tonight. The team’s putting it together, and you have no excuses not to come. I already told them you’d be there.”

You groaned, though there was no real annoyance behind it. “Seriously? Peter, I don’t know if I’m up for-”

He cut you off, holding up a hand. “Ah-ah, no excuses. We’ll be back by early afternoon, you’ll have plenty of time to rest, take a shower, and then you’re going to show up and have a good time, even if I have to drag you there myself.”

You rolled your eyes, but his enthusiasm was infectious. There was a warmth in his insistence, a reminder that you weren’t alone and that there was still joy to be found, even in the smallest of moments. “Fine, fine. I’ll be there. But only because you’re the most obnoxiously persistent person I know.”

Peter laughed, giving you a mock bow from his seat. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But seriously, Y/N, it’ll be good to see you outside of the office for once. We all miss you, and I promise, you’ll be glad you came.”

You nodded, feeling a small flicker of anticipation amidst the exhaustion. For the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to look forward to something that wasn’t work, something that didn’t involve endless reports or painful memories. It wasn’t a solution to all your problems, but it was a start—a chance to reconnect with the people who mattered, to take a breath and remember that there was more to life than the shadows that had been chasing you.

As you looked at Peter, his familiar smile reminding you of all the good things you’d shared over the years, you felt a small surge of hope. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The train ride back to Quantico had felt endless, but the weight of the unresolved emotions made the journey back to your apartment even more suffocating. Peter’s words lingered, tugging at wounds you hadn’t dared to touch, and Hotch’s distant presence weighed heavily on your mind. The familiar solitude of your apartment was supposed to be comforting, but tonight, it felt more like a reminder of all the things you’d been running from: your grief, your past, and the fragile, fraying connection with the person who had come to mean so much to you.

You dropped your bag onto the floor, letting it fall with a thud that echoed through the empty space. You leaned against the kitchen counter, feeling the cool surface against your palms as you tried to ground yourself. You wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. It was as if you’d locked them away, buried them beneath layers of duty and distraction.

But then there was a knock at your door, soft and tentative, almost like the person on the other side wasn’t sure they should be there. You hesitated, wiping at your eyes quickly as if to compose yourself, and moved to answer. You half-expected to find Peter, still worried about you after the train ride, or maybe even no one at all, just a mistake. But when you opened the door, it was Hotch who stood before you.

He looked different, more vulnerable and uncertain than you had ever seen him. His usually composed demeanor was frayed, and there was a rawness in his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and heavy burdens. He stood there awkwardly, clutching the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him upright, his face etched with a mixture of hesitation and determination.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you like a fragile thread, one wrong move away from snapping. Hotch looked down, swallowing hard as if searching for the right words. He wasn’t in his usual pristine suit but rather dressed in a simple shirt and jeans, his attire as out of place as the uncertainty written across his face.

“Hotch?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, tinged with both surprise and concern. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looked at you, as if he was struggling to find the right words, struggling to let down the walls he had spent a lifetime building. He stepped inside, and you quietly closed the door behind him, your heart pounding as you waited for him to speak. He took a few slow steps into the living room, glancing around as if trying to ground himself in the unfamiliar space.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, his voice strained and brittle, every word heavy with unspoken pain. “I know this isn’t… I shouldn’t have just shown up like this, but I needed to talk to you. About… about what you said last night, and today on the train. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear your conversation with Peter.”

This wasn’t the composed, confident man you knew at work, this was Aaron, someone you never got to see, someone who was barely holding it together. “ You were right, Y/N. You were right about everything.”

You stood there, frozen, as his words hit you like a wave. You had never heard Hotch sound so vulnerable, so broken. He was always the strong one, the unshakable agent who never let his guard down, but tonight, he was just Aaron, and he was struggling.

“I’ve spent my whole life trying to keep things separate,” he began, his voice trembling. “I thought if I could just focus on the work, I could ignore everything else—everything that hurt, everything that felt out of my control. But I can’t keep doing that. It’s not who I am, and it’s not who I want to be anymore.”

Hotch’s hands shook as he tried to steady himself, his eyes brimming with emotions he had kept buried for so long. “My father... he was abusive. He was cruel in ways that I can’t even put into words. He’d tear me apart with his words, his fists, anything to remind me that I was never good enough. I grew up in a house that felt more like a battlefield than a home, where silence was never safe and every day was just another fight to survive.”

His voice cracked, and you could see the weight of those memories in his eyes: the fear, the shame, the endless need to be perfect because nothing less would ever be enough for a man who thrived on control. “I tried so hard to protect my mom, my brother, but I was just a kid. There were nights when I’d lie awake, praying he’d leave us alone, praying I’d be strong enough to make it stop. But it never did. And I swore that when I grew up, I’d never be like him. I’d never let anyone see that weakness.”

You listened, your own tears finally breaking free as his pain washed over you. You had never imagined Hotch’s past had been so brutal, so deeply scarred by violence and fear. He had always seemed so put together, so composed, but now, you could see just how much he had been hiding, how much he had been carrying all this time.

“I thought if I kept that part of myself locked away, I’d be able to move on. I thought… I thought if I became Hotch, the profiler, that it would erase all the things he said I’d never be. But it’s just made me more closed off, more afraid to let anyone in. And I’ve been doing it for so long, I don’t even know how to stop.”

He looked at you, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, and you could see the desperation there - the plea for understanding, for forgiveness, for something he couldn’t quite name. “I don’t know how to let people in, Y/N. I don’t know how to not be this… this guarded version of myself. But if I’m going to try, if I’m going to let anyone see me, I want it to be you. Because you were right when you said I don’t know you, but I want to. And you deserve to know me, too—the real me.”

The vulnerability in his voice shattered something inside you, and without thinking, you closed the distance between you and pulled him into a tight, desperate hug. Hotch tensed at first, unaccustomed to such unguarded intimacy, but then his arms wrapped around you, and you could feel him finally letting go. His head bowed against your shoulder, and his entire frame shook with the silent sobs he’d been holding back for too long.

You clung to him, your own tears mingling with his, and in that moment, it felt like the dam you’d both been holding back had finally broken. You were no longer the stoic agents who always had the answers, always kept it together. You were just two people, scarred and hurting, trying to find solace in the only way you knew how: by holding on to each other.

Hotch’s hand moved to the back of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your hair as he held you closer, as if you were the lifeline he had been searching for. He whispered apologies between his tears, his voice cracking with the weight of his regrets. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you.”

You shook your head, burying your face into his neck, your tears soaking through his t-shirt as you let out all the grief you’d kept buried: the loss of your father, the unresolved pain of your parents’ broken marriage, the way you had thrown yourself into work to keep from falling apart. You had been running for so long, hiding behind your accomplishments, just like him.

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Aaron,” you whispered through your tears, the use of his first name slipping out naturally in this moment of raw honesty. “I had no idea. I was so angry, and I—”

He shook his head, his voice soft but firm as he whispered back, “You don’t have to apologize. You were right… about all of it. I needed to hear it. I needed to face it.”

The two of you stood there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped up in each other’s pain and understanding, the weight of your shared burdens finally feeling just a little bit lighter. There were no perfect words, no easy fixes, but in that embrace, you found something neither of you had expected—comfort, solace, and the beginning of a new kind of trust.

“It’s okay,” you whispered through your tears, clutching him tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

For the first time, it felt like you were truly seen, truly understood, and the relief of it was overwhelming. You didn’t have to pretend anymore, didn’t have to be strong or perfect or put together. You could just be, and he could just be, and that was enough.

Hotch pulled back slightly, your eyes finally met, both of you still teary but no longer hiding. There was a silent understanding there, a promise that from now on, things would be different. “No more walls. No more hiding.” He murmured, his voice shaky but filled with a quiet determination.

You nodded, and for the first time in a long time, you believed it. You didn’t know what the future would hold, but as you held each other in that quiet, tear-stained moment, you knew that you weren’t alone anymore. You had each other, and that was a start. It was messy, and it was painful, but it was real. And in that, you found hope - hope that maybe, together, you could begin to heal. You weren’t just partners in the professional sense anymore; you were something more—two people learning to let each other in, to lean on each other’s strength when your own wasn’t enough. And in that simple, fragile moment, you both knew that whatever came next, you wouldn’t have to face it alone, that your new friend would be right there at your side.

The evening had settled over the city, and the Irish pub next to your apartment block was buzzing with energy. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to feel a glimmer of lightness, excitement bubbling at the thought of spending time with Hotch, Peter, and the rest of your colleagues from the BAU. After everything that had happened, the weight of unresolved emotions had eased, if only slightly, and you found yourself looking forward to reconnecting with your team outside the pressures of the job.

Earlier that afternoon, you’d stopped by a bookstore, the small shop tucked between a row of cafes and boutique stores you often passed but rarely visited. As you browsed the shelves, your eyes fell on a book titled "Hegel for Dummies." It was a perfect, lighthearted gesture, a small symbol of your newfound friendship with Hotch, and a callback to the night you’d spent poring over Frank Lloyd Wright’s designs at the library. You thought that maybe, after his recent dive into architecture, he might take an interest in philosophy too, especially Hegel, one of your favorites. The book felt like a tiny olive branch, a way of letting him into your world a little more, just as he had let you into his the night before.

You imagined him reading it, piecing together Hegel’s ideas on thesis, antithesis, and synthesis, and maybe learning something about you in the process. And who knew? Maybe one day, if you were lucky, he’d hand you one of his favorite books, offering you another glimpse into the parts of himself he rarely showed.

When you walked into the pub, the warm light and chatter were an immediate comfort. You spotted your team at a long wooden table near the back, and to your surprise, you saw Gideon sitting there, crutches leaned against the wall, his leg injury having kept him out of the latest case. Rossi was beside him, the two of them looking as inseparable as ever, trading stories and laughs over pints of beer. It was a sight that immediately lifted your spirits.

“Look who finally made it!” Rossi called out, waving you over. “Come on, we saved you a seat.”

You grinned, making your way through the crowd. “Rossi, Gideon, you two didn’t tell me you’d be here.”

Gideon leaned back, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, you didn’t think we’d miss the party, did you? Besides, someone has to make sure Peter doesn’t get too full of himself.”

Peter shot you a wink, raising his glass in greeting. “They’re just here to bask in my glory, Y/N. But don’t let them fool you, they’ve been talking about you all night.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you took a seat between Gideon and Peter. “I’m sure they have. So, what did I miss?”

Before anyone could answer, Hotch walked in, his presence as commanding as ever, though there was a new softness in his eyes when he spotted you. You exchanged a smile, a silent acknowledgment of the night before, and of the steps you were both taking toward something new, something vulnerable.

“Hotch!” Rossi greeted, patting the empty seat beside him. “Come sit, we’re debating where Peter’s new desk should be. Since Y/N’s parked herself at his old one, we might need to reshuffle the whole bullpen.”

Hotch took his seat, glancing at you with a teasing smile. “I think she’s gotten too comfortable. I doubt she’s giving it up.”

Peter leaned in closer to you, his voice low and conspiratorial whispering into your ear “Wanna make a bet?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “See that woman behind Hotch’s shoulder? If she doesn’t come talk to him, you get to keep your desk.”

You eyed the woman briefly, noticing her casual yet elegant demeanor, but she seemed engrossed in her own conversation. Hotch was engaged in a discussion with Rossi, showing no sign of noticing her. You were confident this would be an easy win, especially given Hotch’s typically reserved nature. “Alright,” you said, turning back to Peter. “And what do you get if you win?”

Peter’s grin widened, the playful edge in his voice unmistakable. “A date. With you.”

The unexpected proposition caught you off guard, and for a moment, you felt your cheeks warm. You glanced at him, trying to gauge if he was serious, but his expression remained light, teasing. You brushed it off with a laugh, pretending he was just messing with you. “Okay, you’re on.”

But no sooner had you accepted the bet than the woman, as if she had somehow overheard your conversation, moved toward Hotch with an expression of surprise. You watched in stunned silence as she approached, her voice soft and familiar. “Aaron? What were the odds?”

Your heart sank as Hotch’s face lit up, a rare and genuine smile crossing his features, his cheeks flushed slightly, and there was a familiarity between them that made your chest tighten. You felt Peter nudge you, his voice breaking through the shock. “Looks like you owe me a date.”

You barely registered his words, too fixated on the interaction unfolding in front of you. Hotch returned to the table with the woman by his side, her presence seeming to fill the room in a way that made you feel suddenly small and out of place. Hotch’s voice cut through the noise, introducing her with a casualness that belied the weight of the moment. “Everyone, this is Haley.”

You barely managed to hold your composure, the pieces of this unexpected puzzle falling into place as you processed Hotch’s flushed expression and the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. This wasn’t just anyone, this was someone from his past, someone who clearly was very close and definitely had shared some sort of romantic history with him. The bitter thoughts stung more than you wanted to admit.

Before you could say anything, Gideon, ever the observant one, leaned over, catching sight of the corner of a book sticking out of your open purse. “Hegel for Dummies?” he asked with a raised eyebrow, amusement flickering in his voice as he picked it up to inspect.

You nodded, still too stunned to fully engage, your mind elsewhere. “Yeah. It’s… it’s just a little joke,” you managed, though the words felt hollow in the moment.

Gideon smiled knowingly, his eyes shifting between you and Hotch. “Thesis, antithesis, and synthesis,” he mused, almost as if he were speaking to himself but loud enough for you to hear. “Funny how life always seems to come back to that, doesn’t it?”

The words hung heavy in the air, and as you sat there, watching Hotch interact with Haley, you couldn’t help but feel the truth in them. Life was messy, a constant push and pull of opposing forces, and you were caught in the middle of it, trying to make sense of what it all meant.