#or calling backup to drag them away

[blood-loving-leech]

yesterday a weird man in salesman clothes walked up our street and talked to our old ukrainian neighbors while they were watering their yard

the guy then left and didn’t come to our house

today he is standing at the base of the driveway of our mexican neighbors house

he has still not been to our house

both of these families have lived here longer than my family has

i think he’s an ice agent and it’s weird and creepy and i don’t know what to do if he is and im gonna cry because why the fuck are we living in nazi germany right now it’s like the gestapo scouting the streets

[onlyforsebastianstan]

Betrayal

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: When a mission goes sideways, the Avengers are left reeling from what appears to be a devastating betrayal, yours. Believing you've turned on them, the team cuts you off. But the truth is darker than they imagined.

And when you came back, bleeding and broken to warn them of the threat coming… they still turned away.

📎 Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Betrayal & Redemption | Post-Canon | Found Family | Emotional Recovery

⚠️ Warnings: → Heavy emotional angst → Team betrayal / abandonment → Offscreen torture (non-graphic) → PTSD and trauma aftermath → Guilt / grief / emotional neglect → Slow trust rebuilding → Hospital recovery scenes → Regret-heavy

The static had long since faded, but the echo of your voice still lived in the compound. It had been three months since the mission. Three months since Bucky had replayed that final communication over and over, clinging to the dissonance between your words and everything he knew about you.

"Y/N, we're not seeing the files come through. What's going on?" with Natasha on the other end of the line she asks.

"…I was never on your side." The silence that followed was like the pause before an avalanche. "Hail HYDRA." The words crackled through the comms and shattered everything. Then nothing but static. You disappeared. No trace. The intel was never recovered. The facility was destroyed. And every trail went cold.

The team tried to convince themselves it was a trick, a ploy, a forced hand. But evidence piled up. Footage, grainy, but damning, of you walking through the ruins with known Hydra operatives. A bodycam snippet of you smiling. They tried to deny what they were seeing. Bucky didn’t sleep for days, then he stopped talking about it altogether.

No one ever expected you to come back. You stood outside the gates of the Avengers Compound three months later. No weapon. No backup. Just your hands trembling at your sides.

Your voice over the intercom was ragged, uncertain. “It’s me.”

There was a long pause before Friday replied coolly, “They don’t want to see you.”

“I need to expla—”

“They don’t want explanations.”

The gate remained shut.

You didn’t leave. You couldn’t.

They called you a traitor, though never to your face. You heard them whisper. Natasha’s cold stare sliced through you. Steve wouldn’t even meet your eyes. Sam avoided you entirely. But Bucky was the worst of them all.

Because he didn’t yell. He didn’t glare. He didn’t do anything. Just looked at you like he didn’t recognize the person standing in front of him. Like you were a ghost with a stranger’s voice.

You told them you never wanted to hurt them. You told them it wasn’t what it looked like. You begged them to let you explain. But every word that left your mouth just made the wound deeper. So eventually, you stopped talking.

And that’s when Hydra found you again. It happened fast. An explosion rocked the south wall of the compound. Sirens blared. Automatic lockdown failed. Hydra soldiers flooded the halls, and the team jumped to action. They thought it was a coordinated assault. A revenge strike.

Bucky spotted you first. You were dragged into the hangar, struggling against restraints, blood on your temple. Rumlow held the gun to your head, grinning with smug satisfaction.

“You’ve got one shot to back down,” he warned the team, “or I paint the floor with your little agent.”

No one flinched. Not even Bucky. You saw it in their eyes. That fractured trust. They believed this was what you deserved.

"You think we care?” Tony called, his voice sharp but unsteady. “She’s HYDRA. Your kind.”

Rumlow’s laugh was cruel, his gun pressing harder against your temple. You winced but stayed silent. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dripping with mock pity as he looked down at you. “You tried so hard, didn’t you? Begging us to release you, fighting with what's left of your energy, and all those struggles to escape... for this. They really thought you turned.”

Steve’s shield lowered slightly. “What are you talking about?”

Rumlow’s eyes gleamed, still talking to you, his tone taunting. ascended “That little comms stunt? Wasn’t her. We had her locked up, screaming, while our mimic played her voice. You really think she’d join us willingly?” He shook his head, smirking.

"Hail HYDRA" a voice similar to yours was heard. but it didn't come from you. A woman Appeared behind the team as she chuckles. "My my, I guess my mimicking really pulled off." she said still with your voice.

Bucky froze. You weren’t the voice. You never were. His mind reeled. That voice he memorized, clung to, wasn’t even you. It never was.

Rumlow cocks his gun ready to shoot you as you look at Bucky. “And they bought it. Hook, line, and sinker.”

You don’t know what hits the Avengers harder. Rumlow’s confession, or the horror dawning in their eyes as they look at you with new clarity. The betrayal wasn’t yours. It never was.

Steve’s shield is already in motion before the Hydra soldiers can even raise their weapons. It slices through the air with a thunderous clang, knocking two operatives off their feet as if they were nothing more than bowling pins. In the space of a single breath, everything erupts.

Gunfire crackles around you, sharp and stuttering.

Shouts echo, orders, names, warnings.

Metal screams as it collides with metal, the high-pitched wail of blades meeting armor. Somewhere behind you, Wanda’s powers surge like a pressure wave, knocking another Hydra unit into the wall.

But none of it feels real.

The world fractures. Blurs. Tilts sideways.

Your hearing distorts until all you can make out is a high, keening ring inside your skull.

And then you felt the cold, hard ground.

A terrifying, creeping cold that starts in your fingertips and crawls up your arms, settling like a weight in your chest.

Your breath catches.

You look down.

There’s blood.

A startling amount of it. Blooming like a grotesque flower across your abdomen. You don't remember falling, but suddenly you're on your knees. You press a hand to the wound and feel the warm, wet slick of it soaking through your fingers.

So much blood.

Your name is being called, shouted somewhere. Maybe Sam? Maybe Bucky?

But the voices sound so far away now.

The battle rages on around you, but all you can see is the red soaking into the concrete beneath you. All you can hear is that endless, bone-deep ringing.

And all you can think is, they weren’t supposed to shoot.

Then darkness edges in from the corners of your vision, and the world begins to slip away. Spilling from your abdomen, spreading across your clothes, pooling beneath your body in warm, sticky waves. Your legs feel numb. Your fingers tremble as they try to press against the wound. They slide through blood instead.

You didn’t even feel the shot go off.

Rumlow must’ve fired just before Bucky got to him. Maybe on purpose. Maybe not.

But it didn’t matter now.

From the ground, you can hear the crunch of boots. The thunder of fists against armor. Someone screams. Probably Rumlow. You think Steve just knocked out three men at once. Maybe more.

But you can’t turn your head to look. Your body won’t obey.

Your vision tunnels.

You blink slowly, trying to hold on. The ceiling lights flicker above you, too bright. Your breathing is shallow.

You hear a voice, one that cuts through everything else like a sharp blade.

“Y/N?”

It’s hoarse.

Disbelieving.

Then it says your name again, more frantic this time. Closer.

You manage to turn your head just enough to see Bucky drop to his knees beside you. Blood stains his gloves. You’re not sure if it’s yours or someone else’s.

Maybe both.

His face is pale. Like he’s seeing you for the first time again. Like he’s realizing something awful too late.

“No, no, no—stay with me,” he breathes, pressing down on your wound. You choke on a gasp as pain explodes through your side.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, voice cracking.

You try to laugh, but it comes out wet. You can taste copper. “I did,” you whisper.

And you did. You tried. Again and again. They just weren’t ready to hear it. The others gather around slowly, cautiously.

Steve lowers his shield, his entire body tense with grief and disbelief. Natasha’s expression is unreadable, but her jaw is clenched tight. Sam curses under his breath, pacing like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Wanda sinks to her knees opposite Bucky, her eyes wide and shining.

“What the hell did we do,” she whispers.

And then, Tony. He pushes through the crowd, scans the scene, and when his gaze lands on you, everything shifts. His hand twitches like he wants to do something, build, fix, create, but this isn’t something blueprints or tech can undo.

“She needs a med team. Now,” he says sharply into his comm. But even you can hear the doubt in his voice.

Your fingers weakly brush Bucky’s arm. He catches your hand instantly, both of his closing around yours like he could will your blood to stay in your body through sheer force.

“I didn’t betray you,” you manage to say, your voice paper-thin. “I tried to come back.”

He nods frantically. “I know. I know now. Just hold on.”

You offer a faint smile, the kind that costs too much energy. “You hated me…”

He shakes his head hard. “No. No, I didn’t. I hated—what I thought happened. But not you. Never you.”

It’s enough. You close your eyes. Not to give up, but because staying awake is getting harder.

“You’re not going to die,” he growls, like he can order the universe to listen to him. His fingers tremble where they press into your wound. “You’re gonna wake up and yell at us. And I’ll take it. All of it. Just—don’t go now.”

Darkness curls around the edge of your vision. But just before it takes you, you hear the sirens of the emergency med team racing down the hall. You think maybe, just maybe—it’s not too late.

The med bay was quiet, dimly lit by the steady glow of monitors and the occasional flicker of diagnostic screens. The air felt heavy, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

You lay in the center of it all, silent, unmoving, pale. A tangle of wires and tubes connected you to machines that beeped steadily, marking the fragile rhythm of a life that was barely clinging on. The ventilator hissed every few seconds, a mechanical echo that filled the space between heartbeats.

Wanda stood at your bedside, unmoving, her eyes locked on your face. You didn’t stir. Not even a twitch of your fingers. The only movement was the rise and fall of your chest, aided entirely by the tube down your throat.

Behind her, Steve paced. His jaw was tight, arms folded across his chest as he walked the length of the room for the hundredth time. He didn’t speak.

And Bucky hadn’t left.

He sat beside you, hunched in a chair that looked too small for his broad frame, as still as a statue. His metal hand rested on his knee, twitching with restrained energy. But his other hand, his flesh hand, was wrapped tightly around yours. There was no mask on his face anymore. No stoicism. Just raw, open desperation. The kind that didn’t need to be said aloud.

No one had spoken in hours.

Until Wanda finally stepped forward.

“I can try,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced at the others, eyes wide with something like hope, but tinged in sorrow. “If I go into her mind… I might be able to see what really happened.”

Steve halted mid-step, turning to face her. “You sure you’re strong enough after the fight?”

Wanda nodded once, her gaze never leaving your face. “They can’t speak for herself right now. But her mind might still remember.”

Bucky’s voice broke the silence next, hoarse and low. “What if it hurts her?”

She turned toward him, slowly, and said, “I won’t push. I’ll be gentle.”

Steve looked between them both, then at you, and after a beat of silence, he gave a single, solemn nod.

Wanda stepped closer, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached down and placed two fingers lightly against your temple. She closed her eyes.

And the world shifted.

Inside Your Mind

The moment Wanda connected, she was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of emotion. Pain. Desperation. Terror.

There was no peaceful entry. No gentle memories or quiet landscapes to guide her in.

Just screaming.

Searing pain, hot and endless, ricocheted through the mental space like a wildfire. She staggered instinctively, feeling it almost physically, but forced herself to push deeper.

Through the chaos, images began to claw their way to the surface.

You—dragged roughly down a metal corridor by two Hydra agents. Your body limp, bruised, bloodied.

You—thrown into a dark cell, the clang of the door shutting behind you like a gunshot.

Then a room.

Bright lights seared Wanda’s eyes even in the memory. A metal chair. Restraints. You, strapped down.

And Rumlow.

His voice slithered into the scene.

“The comms are still active. Let’s give your little friends a message.”

Wanda flinched as she watched a Hydra tech approach you. A woman. The woman they saw during the fight.

“Target secured. Uploading the data now.”

The sound made Wanda’s stomach turn. It was uncanny. Flawless. There was no distortion. No artificial cadence. Just you.

“Y/N, we’re not seeing the files come through. What’s going on?”

The imposter responded again, using your voice, calm, steady, terrifyingly cold.

“I was never on your side.”

And then Rumlow stepped into frame, smirking as he delivered the final blow,

“Hail Hydra.”

From your position in the chair, Wanda saw your eyes go wide with terror. You tried to scream, but the gag was already back in place.

You screamed anyway.

But no one could hear you.

The team wasn’t listening to you. They were listening to your ghost.

Then came the torture.

Wanda felt it. Not just as an observer, but as if her own body endured every lash, every cut, every jolt. The Hydra agents kept the comms channel open, using the mimic to keep up the ruse. It was all planned. Coordinated. Cruel.

In your thoughts, Wanda saw you praying they'd notice the difference. That someone, anyone, would realize that voice wasn’t you.

But no one had.

Memory after memory cascaded around Wanda, too fast to stop:

You—curled in the corner of your cell, body broken, blood drying on your skin.

You—scraping at a vent cover with trembling fingers, whispering over and over, please… please…

You—dragging your mangled body through an air duct, escaping only to collapse in the snow outside.

You—waking in a stranger’s clinic, delirious, desperate to get home.

You—standing at the gates of the Tower.

Begging.

Screaming your name into the intercom in the pouring rain.

They never answered.

You waited outside all night.

And they never came.

Wanda tore herself free with a sharp gasp, stumbling backward from the bed. Her knees nearly gave out. One hand caught the railing beside you, the other pressed to her heart as if it might stop it from tearing itself apart.

“Wanda?” Steve asked, stepping quickly to her side.

She didn’t respond at first. Her throat worked silently.

Then she looked up, and when she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper.

“She didn’t say it,” she breathed. “That voice on the comm... it wasn’t her.”

The room went still.

Steve froze. Sam’s brow furrowed. Bucky’s hand on yours turned white-knuckled.

Wanda’s voice shook as she went on. “They were already captured. Hydra made a voiceprint clone. They listened to everything through the comms and used it against us. While they tortured Y/N… we were listening to a machine pretending to be her.”

No one spoke.

Not a breath passed between the others.

And then Bucky stood. Slowly. As if rising from the grave.

His face was unreadable, locked in a silent battle between anguish and rage. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles split, blood trickling down his palm.

He didn’t say a word. He just turned and walked out.

He didn’t make it far.

Just two halls down from the med bay before the weight in his chest crushed him.

Bucky staggered into an empty sparring room, the lights flickering to life with a soft hum. He didn’t even notice. His breath was ragged, shallow. His vision tunneled.

The door hissed shut behind him.

And then—silence.

It rang louder than gunfire.

Louder than that damned voice he’d replayed a hundred times.

"Hail HYDRA"

He slammed his fist into the wall.

The plaster cracked. Bone didn’t.

Again.

This time, the drywall caved. Dust rained down. The pain helped. For a second. But it wasn’t enough.

Nothing would be enough.

They’d told him to stop listening to the audio logs. Said it was messing with his head.

But he had to. He had to. Because he couldn’t believe you said those words unless he heard them himself.

Again. And again.

Because maybe this time he’d catch the lie.

Maybe this time he’d hear the hesitation, the wrongness.

But it never came.

So he believed it. He let himself believe it.

You were the one person who never flinched when you looked at him. Who never held the Winter Soldier against him. Who fought beside him and chose him and saw the man behind the metal.

And he threw you away.

Not with a fight.

Not with rage.

But with silence.

He didn’t say a word when they shut the gates on you.

Didn’t move when you begged for five minutes.

Didn’t look at you when you cried in the hallway outside his room one night, curled up against the door like maybe, just maybe, you’d get through to him if he waited long enough.

He waited.

And you stopped coming.

Bucky dropped to his knees in the center of the room.

His hands trembled.

His breaths came out in short, choked gasps.

He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the floor, forehead pressing into the mat.

He couldn’t breathe.

Not because of the guilt.

Not just that.

But because for the first time in decades, he’d trusted someone completely.

And when that trust was tested, he failed you.

He failed you worse than anyone had ever failed him.

He saw your face again, bloody, fading, your voice shaking with your last words before you passed out.

“You hated me…”

And he didn’t say the one thing he should’ve said.

“Never you.”

His fist hit the ground again. And again.

Until he was curled around himself, shaking.

Until the grief crawled out of his chest like a scream with no air.

He wasn’t crying.

Not at first.

But then, He broke. Silently. Violently.

And for the first time since the war, Bucky Barnes sobbed like a man who had nothing left to lose.

Time passed. He didn’t know how much. Minutes. Maybe hours.

Eventually, footsteps came. A pause in the doorway.

Steve’s voice, quiet. “Wanda told us everything.”

Bucky didn’t lift his head.

Steve stepped in carefully, kneeling beside him.

“You couldn’t have known,” he offered.

Bucky barked a broken laugh. “I should have known. I knew her. I knew her voice. How did I not hear it?”

Steve didn’t answer. Because what answer was there?

Bucky looked up at him finally, eyes red, jaw clenched.

“I didn’t lose her when she disappeared, Steve. I lost her the moment I stopped believing her.”

The conference room was too quiet.

Not the usual silence before a mission briefing. Not the kind of silence filled with anticipation or focus.

This was the heavy, suffocating kind, the kind that followed ruin.

No hum of computers. No tapping keys. No rustling papers. Just the cold, hard absence of sound, and the weight of everything they hadn’t said.

Wanda stood near the tall windows, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stared through the glass like she could will time to reverse, like maybe she’d see your figure walking toward the compound, smiling, alive, not a ghost made of their guilt.

Steve sat at the head of the table, the spot usually reserved for leadership. But today, it felt like a place of judgment. His posture was rigid, hands folded tightly in front of him, eyes fixed straight ahead like he was bracing for a verdict he already knew.

Sam leaned against the far wall, jaw set, arms folded like a barrier against the blame, though it did nothing to hide the tension locked in his shoulders. His eyes flicked between the others, waiting for someone to speak first.

Natasha sat at the table, nursing a mug of coffee she hadn’t touched. Her eyes were dark, fixed on the faint ripples in the black surface, like they might reveal some alternate version of the past where they hadn’t let you down.

Bucky didn’t sit.

He stood just inside the doorway, arms stiff at his sides, his face carved from stone. The kind of stillness that meant he was barely holding himself together, that sitting still might shatter what little control he had left.

Tony was absent. Whether by accident or choice, no one asked.

No one wanted to say the first word. Because words meant responsibility. Meant facing it. All of it.

Then Wanda exhaled, a sound that broke the tension like a snap of wire.

“She was awake during all of it.”

The words landed like a blow.

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“She heard Rumlow fake her voice,” Wanda went on, her voice trembling. “Heard us. Heard us believe it.”

Steve flinched visibly. “Wanda—”

“She screamed for us,” she said, cutting him off. Sharper than she meant to. Her breath caught. “She screamed. And no one came.”

Sam opened his mouth, stopped. “Because we thought—” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish.

“You thought she betrayed us,” Bucky said flatly, his eyes staring somewhere distant. “So did I.”

He dropped his gaze to the floor. His voice came quieter, tighter. “I listened to that comms feed every night like it was proof. Proof she lied. That she turned on us.”

A breath shuddered out of him. “I made myself believe it.”

Natasha finally spoke. Her voice was quiet. “We all did.”

Wanda nodded slowly, once. “We didn’t just turn our backs. We exiled her. Left her alone. Let her believe she deserved it.”

Steve’s head shook slowly, his expression tight. “She’s not dead. She’s going to wake up. We’ll make this right.”

Bucky let out a bitter sound. It wasn’t laughter. It was what you got when you tried to laugh with a broken rib, dry, painful, wrong.

“Make it right?” he echoed. “How? There’s no mission plan for this. No clean op. We left her bleeding outside our door. And she still came back to warn us about Hydra.”

His voice grew louder, rawer. “And the worst part? She didn’t stop trying.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged. He let out a breath, shaking his head slowly. “I heard her outside the hangar. That night after the mission. She was asking to talk. I turned up my music to drown it out.”

“You’re not the only one,” Natasha murmured.

Wanda’s gaze swept across the room. “Do you think she’ll want to stay when she wakes up?”

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Because none of them knew.

Because the version of you they remembered, the one who laughed in the kitchen, who stitched up Steve’s side mid-mission without blinking, who fought like the team’s safety was more important than your life, that person was gone.

And the one lying unconscious in the medbay?

They didn’t know if she’d come back.

Didn’t know if she even wanted to.

Steve finally stood, his hands braced on the table. His voice was steady, but low.

“We owe her more than apologies.”

Across the room, Bucky didn’t lift his head.

He just said, quiet and firm, “We owe her everything.”

Darkness wasn’t empty.

It pressed against you, not with silence, but with pressure. Thick and slow, like sinking into a dark ocean where sound bent and meaning vanished. You couldn’t tell which way was up. Couldn’t find the edges of yourself.

Then, a sound. Dull, distant, and familiar.

Beeping. Slow, steady, rhythmic. Life.

A flicker sparked in your fingers. A twitch. Then breath, shallow and dry against the raw scrape of your throat.

Voices emerged from the dark.

“…any change?”

It was rough. Worn thin. But you knew it. Bucky.

A pause.

“No… but she’s breathing on her own now.”

Sam. Steady. Tired, but hopeful.

You weren’t alone.

The darkness began to thin, shadows peeling back from your senses. You floated there, tethered by their voices, by the familiar sound of machines and distant footsteps and something soft beneath your spine.

A bed.

And then, a touch. Not pain. Not intrusion, just a hand.

Calloused. The cold edge of metal across your knuckles, softened by the warmth in his grip.

Bucky.

You didn’t open your eyes. Couldn’t. But your chest lifted just slightly, breath slow and steady beneath the faint weight of blankets and time.

You were alive.

And you weren’t alone.

When you finally stirred again, daylight filled the room.

The sun spilled golden through the wide windowpanes, painting the medbay in soft light. Your body ached. Not just from wounds and muscles unused, but deeper than that. Bone-deep. Soul-deep.

But you felt.

That mattered.

You blinked slowly, vision fuzzy.

The scent in the air was familiar. Warm, subtle. Aftershave. Bucky’s. He’d been there. Maybe only just left.

The door creaked.

Wanda stepped inside, the soft swish of her coat marking her approach. She froze the moment she saw you, your eyes cracked open, barely, but open.

Her hands flew to her mouth, tears rising fast.

“Y/N?”

You couldn’t speak, not yet. But your fingers twitched. Enough.

She crossed the room in a heartbeat, her movements careful but urgent. She reached you, brushing your hair back gently with trembling hands.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick and bare. “I didn’t see you. I should’ve. I should’ve known.”

You blinked once.

And still, she smiled, a sad, grateful thing through her tears.

“You’re safe now,” she said. “They’re all waiting. When you’re ready.”

She stayed a moment longer, her thumb brushing your cheek with the lightest pressure. Then she stood.

At the door, she paused.

“Bucky’s been here every day,” she said. “He never left your side.”

And then she was gone.

Time passed in fragments.

Moments of awareness. Fleeting conversations. Familiar faces hovering above you like dreams.

Natasha. Sam. Steve.

Each came alone, quiet and hesitant. Each one carrying guilt they didn’t know how to put into words, but they tried.

You listened.

You didn’t have the strength to answer. Not yet. But you heard them.

And every time they left… you waited.

Until one day, your voice cracked through the stillness like a match to dry tinder.

“Is Bucky here?”

The nurse didn’t answer. Just smiled and stepped out.

And within minutes, he came.

The door opened softly.

Boots scraped lightly on the tile, hesitant. Then he appeared, shadowed by the doorway, like he wasn’t sure if he had permission to step inside.

You looked at him.

His eyes widened at the sight of yours open, focused.

“Hey,” you rasped.

The sound shattered something in him.

His jaw clenched. He nodded once, stepped inside.

Closer.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Like guilt had been carved into his ribs and he’d learned to breathe around it.

You tried to sit up. Pain flared down your side.

“Don’t—no, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

He moved instantly, metal fingers adjusting your pillows with a gentleness that nearly undid you. His other hand hovered near yours, waiting, not assuming.

When you finally settled, you turned to him.

“Everyone’s already said their piece,” you whispered. “I figured you were avoiding yours.”

He flinched.

“I wasn’t avoiding it,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t… I didn’t know if you wanted to hear it from me.”

You studied him, the lines in his face deeper than before. “I wanted to explain. The night I came back.”

“I know.”

“You wouldn’t even look at me.”

“I couldn’t,” he whispered. “Not because I hated you. I just… I couldn’t see your face and not think of that moment in the comms. Your voice. Telling us you were Hydra. That you’d been playing us.”

You looked away.

“I heard it too,” you said. “While they hurt me. While they let that voice pretend to be mine. I listened to myself destroy everything I cared about.”

His hand twitched.

“I kept hoping… someone would figure it out. That you would.”

He stared at the floor.

“I failed you,” he said, voice rough.

You looked back at him.

“I didn’t question it,” he said, breath hitching. “I didn’t ask for proof. I didn’t listen to my gut. I just assumed the worst.”

A pause.

Then you said it. The truth that still ached.

“You loved me. And you still didn’t trust me.”

His eyes shone, red-rimmed.

“I never stopped,” he whispered. “That was the problem.”

You looked down at his hand, still hovering near yours.

“If I had trusted you,” he continued, “then believing that voice would’ve broken me. I think I was trying to protect myself by not believing in you. But it cost you everything.”

Silence.

And then slowly, painfully, you turned your hand, laced your fingers with his.

“It’s not your forgiveness you need to ask for,” you said. “It’s mine.”

He looked up.

“Do I have it?”

You squeezed his hand.

“You’re going to have to earn it.”

He nodded, fiercely. “Then I will.”

And in that moment, something shifted.

No more silence.

No more pretending.

Just the truth, bruised and raw, between you.

A beginning.

Together.

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[freshloveee]

juno - chris sturniolo

notes - chris getting arrested during juno at your show 😋 + this doesn't take place in my singer!reader au but if u want one that does lmk! credits to @chris-hallelujah and @delilahsturniolo for letting me make this ! go give them a follow and check out their work because their AMAZING

the lights dim in the stadium as you finish playing one of your songs, dumb and poetic. you softly smile as you look out into the crowd. "why hello L.A!" you say into the mic with a slight giggle. chris, nick, and madison all cheer along with the plethora of people in the crowd. chris was still confused on how he got dragged to your show but somehow, he was here.

it was now time for the intro to your song, juno. you searched the crowd for the "hottest" person in the crowd. you gasp softly for dramatics as you point into the vip section. "ladies! get over here!" you called for your backup dancers as nick and madison try to figure out if your pointing at their section.

"you see that guy over there?" you question as you point directly at chris. "which one?" they ask in unison. "that one" you say dreamily as you gesture towards chris. chris looks up from his phone and his jaw drops slightly as he sees his face on the big screens decorating the sold out arena. nick and madison instantly start freaking out but chris finds himself mesmirized by you.

"what's your name, baby?" you ask with a flirtatious tone. "c-chris!" he shouts. "chris baby..i fear your under arrest for being way too hot!" you hold back a slight giggle as the red and blue lights flash around with a siren sound filling the air. "here cutie" you say as you hand the fuzzy pink handcuffs into his hands gently. "t-thanks" he mumbled as he fiddles with the handcuffs. "your welcome." you smile softly at him as you stand back up.

"oh no! chris over here is just way too hot m-my clothes are falling off for him!" you yelp jokingly as your dress reveals your sparkly, baby pink outfit. nick jokingly presses chris's jaw back up since he was staring at you in awe. madison giggles but then looks back up at the stage as you begin to perform.

it was now time for the part that most people were anticipating. the juno pose. you imitated a sex position every show and changed it everytime. "you make me wanna make you fall in love" you sing as you gesture to chris and he is still in shock. "oh late at night im thinkin' bout' you ohhhh, wanna try out some freaky postions?" you sing as you scurry over to the end of the stage. "hey chris, have you ever tried this one?" you say seductively as you smile directly at him. he tries to form one but it comes out as a lopsided grin.

after the show nick, madison, and chris were all chatting about well...everything. "im still in shock not gonna lie" chris admits with a breathy laugh. "me too" madison agrees with a slight nod. "out of all people though you?-" nick was cut off as a security guard comes out. they all tense up but before they can question him he beats him to it. "hey...uh-chris right?" the strong man asks. chris nods, confusion written all over his face. "y/n wants to see you come follow me" he waves him over, all of their jaws drop but chris recollects right away before following him into your dressing room.

they soon enter and you look up from your vanity. "oh, hi chris" you smile sweetly at him. "sup" he says nervously as he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "here come get comfy" you say as you adjust the pillows on the fuzzy white couch for him. "t-thanks" he smiles. "how are you, you looked pretty miserable out there." you giggle. "nah," he laughs softly,

"i just got dragged along by my brother and his friend but im glad i came." he smiles softly. "i recognized you from tiktok to be honest." you make your way over to sit next to him. you giggle slightly as he nearly spits out his water. "your a triplet right?" he is way too stunned to even speak so he just nods. you two end up chatting and around 20 minutes later nick and madison come in as well, you two hang out and sadly part ways but hey, chris got a follow back so he was satisfied. he told matt everything the second he got home.

-the next day-

nick gasps as he runs into chris's room where him and matt are playing fortnite. "both of you check your fucking instagrams!" he shouts excitedly. "what bro" chris asks annoyed as he removes his headset so it rests softly against his neck as he opens his phone.

y/n./n

♫ juno · y/n l/n

y/n.l/n - spoiler alert: @christophersturniolo ended up trying this one

liked by larray and 2M others

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christophersturniolo ur fucking insane

↳ y/n.l/n you like it though

matthewsturniolo BRO ????

nicolassturniolo I-

quenblackwell #thatshouldbeme

↳ y/n.l/n #hmu 🫦

tyummyz oh.my.god.

xoxo4chrisss never speak to me again this is INSANE

thenickgirl DOES CHRIS EVEN REALIZE HOW BIG Y/N IS LIKE HES STANDING NEXT TO ONE OF THE BIGGEST POP GIRLIES RN

↳ nicolassturniolo IVE BEEN TRYING TO TELL HIM THIS

a/n - hope u enjoyed !! :))))

tags/users featured - @tyummyz @xoxo4chrisss @thenickgirl

[akela-nakamura]

DPxDC Prompt

Summoning is an imperfect art, mispronouncing a name or having an incorrect symbol can lead to unexpected, and sometimes explosive results. Summoning can open unexpected doors. No one's prepared for what--or who--steps through when a rising gang tries to summon backup.

My little ficlet for this is below the cut:

Smoke. The acrid slam of it in the nose, brought on by the screaming wind. Chanting. A chorus of voices, steady and thrumming. Pain. Everything is hazy, and it’s equal odds on it being from the smoke or the potential head injury. 

Bruce stumbles to his feet, body throbbing. 

This was not how he’d planned this night. 

Of course, he hadn’t planned for Gotham to suddenly be overrun with a new…gang? They claimed to be a government organization, but Bruce has his doubts. He hadn’t had a chance to go through the GIW’s information, but according to Barbara, their claims were sketchy at best.

The shouting about ghosts and waving around sci-fi weapons with no trigger discipline certainly didn’t help their claims. 

Government organization or not, they had no right to raid homes, to drag people out onto the street, or overall threaten his city.

His ears ring, and the chanting rises in volume, impossibly. His chest reverbes with the sound. It’s steady enough to feel like a second heart. His blurry vision locks onto the center of the summoning circle. Because this night couldn’t get any worse, of course. 

First the GIW had rocketed up his list of threats with one simple move. 

They’d gone after Jason.

Jason, who even now was laid out in the middle of the summoning circle, eyes bright, bright, bright green through the haze. 

First they’d taken his son. 

Then they’d used him as a sacrifice. 

Bruce bared his teeth, locking eyes with the closest GIW agent. The man held up his weapon, a glowing baton. His form is weak. 

The baton gord flying, Bruce’s armored elbow slamming the man to the ground. The agent curls up, groaning. Nightwing’s escrima sing electric in the background, followed by the whip of Tim’s bow staff. Damian’s sword glints through the haze, and purple flashes through the crowd of white, white, white. 

He can’t see Cass, but he doesn’t expect too. 

The ground rocks under his feet, and it takes several precious seconds to regain his balance. There seems to be an almost endless flood of agents, with more and more meeting his fists as he tries to make it through the gauntlet. 

Suddenly, the air shifts, the scream of it heading for the circle instead of out. 

The circle glows toxic green, and Jason’s at the center, frozen in the light. 

“No!” Bruce shouts, the sound ripping from his soul. 

It’s echoed by Dick, who stands just outside the circle’s boundaries. His hands are pressed against the light, his blue eyes a shock against the green. 

It’s a confusion of people - GIW white and the summoner’s black. The GIW is here to end whatever it is they need Jason to summon to them. The summoners themselves seem to have broken away from the “agency” and want power from the being they’re calling. It’s a fight on multiple fronts, with the GIW fighting the summoners and Bruce and his family fighting them all. 

The temperature drops. 

“HOOD!” Dick screams, as Jason is swallowed by the green. 

The chant is all he can hear, even as he shoves towards the circle, even as he slams against the same wall Dick’s against. 

The world goes bright and he can’t keep his eyes on Jason. On his son. 

When the light fades, Jason’s not alone. 

A being sits six feet in the air, Jason collapsed over his lap, somehow hovering with the - what is he? He looks human, but there’s something wrong. Off. Bruce can’t quite pinpoint his age. A crown glows on his head, an ever shifting cape spills down his back, dragging close to the floor. His eyes are green as Lazarus, and just as deep. Jason is breathing, Bruce notes. The being’s hands curl in Jason’s hair, playing with it idly. 

The air is *rigid, and everyone’s stopped fighting. No one can draw their eyes away from the being. 

“You dare to summon me with one of my own?” The being speaks, and it’s like crackling glaciers. Someone whimpers. 

“We - wanted to give you a gift,” One of the men in black says, his voice chattering. 

It’s like breathing in ice. 

“A gift?” The being says and the sound is fury, banked in a waiting avalanche. “What kind of gift is this? A denizen of my Realms, trapped and tortured? Used to summon his king, against his will? This is no gift.” 

“B-but we didn’t know,” another speaks, and then obviously realizes he shouldn’t have. 

“Ignorance will not save you,” the being says, and it - he’s? - still holding Jason like he’s something precious. “And I am not the only one you have infuriated. 

“I am not the only one you have awoken.” 

To a man, the GIW agents cry out in panic. Bruce turns, looking for the threat but - the agents are buried to various depths in the cracked concrete floor. The ground is decidedly solid beneath Bruce’s feet but the agents would obviously not agree. They flounder, like the concrete is quicksand. The summoners are next, but it’s ice that gets them, crawling up their bodies until they’re locked into place. 

“My lord!” One cries and promptly finds himself gagged. 

Bruce can’t stay silent any longer. “Hood was used against his will to summon you,” he starts. The being’s eyes meet Bruce’s. “He didn’t want this. Is he alright?” 

“Your son is fine,” the voice is rough, but feminine, and obviously not from the being. It’s around him, dancing through the steel beams and pushing through concrete. “You are mine, my knight. You and yours are mine. The little king will not harm him, nor you.” A figure forms off to his right. 

“Holy shit,” Dick whispers. Bruce has to agree. 

She’s made of concrete, of broken brick and dust, of bone and police tape, of twisted metal and more. 

“Gotham,” Bruce breathes, and he doesn’t know how he knows but he does.

“Hello, my knight,” she says, her form shifting. She turns slightly, and there’s something sharp in her movement. “Hello, little king.” 

“Lady Gotham,” The being - the king? - returns. “You look well,” 

Lady Gotham laughs, a ringing sound - it’s bells and gravel, fresh air on a summer day and rising wind. “How you flatter me, little king. Do you fear me?” 

The being grins, mischief dancing around him, white hair floating high. “I respect you. It’s good to see you awake, Milady.”

“What is happening?” Tim asks no one in particular. Dick shrugs and Steph just leans harder on Tim. Cass holds Damian’s shoulder firmly, watching carefully. 

Bruce wishes he had an answer. 

“It is good to be awake,” Lady Gotham says, and she shifts closer to the circle, fingers skimming against the barrier of light. “How long do you intend to keep my reaper from me?” 

Reaper. Bruce thinks, and it’s a gut punch. 

It makes sense, to describe Jason. Jason can go where Bruce cannot, do what Bruce cannot. 

The king laughs lightly. “The summoning harmed him, Milady. I’m just keeping him safe. I’m not here to undermine you,” the king’s eyes glow. “But remember who is king.”

Lady Gotham smiles. “I’m aware of hierarchy little king.” 

“My son,” Bruce says, because there’s no point in pretending Jason is anything less. He’s talking to - the embodiment of gotham and a king of - something. “He’ll be okay?” 

Lady Gotham sighs. “He will be fine, my knight. The little king cares for his own.” 

“What - what are you the king of?” Tim asks, bold. 

The being smiles. 

“I am Phantom,” he says. “I am the Ghost King.” 

Jason stirs in his lap, and the implications crash over Bruce. Maybe Reaper has more meaning than he’d thought.

[1343401]

captive desires - chapter three

pairing: hybrid bts x reader

status: ongoing

word count: 12.9 k

warnings: depictions of violence, death, family trauma, mentions of blood, yandere-ish, hybrids, animal abuse, implied murder, raw meat, animal attacks

prev | next | m.list

"is someone there?"

the voice comes again, soft, careful.

"who’s there?"

myah freezes.

her grip tightens around her phone, her breath locked in her throat.

it’s a man’s voice. low, smooth, too human.

too normal.

she expected something else. something that fit the unease coiling in her gut. a growl. a snarl. something scratching at the door, desperate to claw its way free.

but this?

this is something worse.

because there’s no panic. no aggression. just quiet, measured patience.

like whoever is on the other side already knows she’s standing there.

"please..."

a second voice now, softer, hesitant.

"please don’t hurt us."

chae-eun tenses beside her, fingers twitching like she wants to grab myah and drag her away.

"we don’t want trouble."

the way they speak, it’s too careful. too controlled.

too intentional.

the words aren't rushed or desperate, not the kind of thing said in a frantic bid for freedom. they're spoken like a warning. or maybe a test.

“myah,” chae-eun hisses, voice tight with warning.

but myah isn’t listening.

because something is wrong.

if they were dangerous, if they were monsters, why would they be pleading?

why would they sound like this, like they expected her hesitation?

she swallows hard, her mind racing.

"we need to go," chae-eun presses, barely above a whisper. her eyes flick toward the door like she expects it to burst open at any second. “now.”

myah shakes her head, her heart pounding. "no, chae-eun, think about it. they’re locked in.”

“for a reason.” chae-eun glares at her. "you don’t know what’s in there."

“exactly.” myah’s voice is sharp, more sure now. “i don’t know. and neither do you.”

“i know enough,” chae-eun snaps. “we found logs, myah. they were keeping something down here, documenting it like science experiments. you saw what they wrote.”

"which is why we can’t just walk away!" myah argues, her pulse hammering against her ribs. "they need help."

“exactly,” chae-eun bites out, frustration tightening her features. "which is why we need to call the Hybrid Protection Unit, not send in two twenty-year-old girls with no plan and no backup!”

"please..."

the voice is softer this time, more fragile, curling into the silence between them like a plea.

it doesn’t sound like something dangerous.

it doesn’t sound like a monster.

because what if they aren’t monsters?

what if they’re victims?

her grandparents had done terrible things. things she didn’t even know about until now.

what if this is just another part of their twisted legacy?

what if they locked them up, experimented on them, kept them in the dark for years.

myah swallows, realization crashing down on her.

it’s been days since her grandparents’ bodies were found. how long have they been trapped down here? without food, without answers, without knowing if anyone would ever come for them? they must be starving, confused, what if,

what if they’re hurt?

what if…

"we don’t want trouble."

her breath shudders.

chaos crashes through her thoughts, battling every instinct screaming at her to run.

but she can’t.

not until she knows the truth.

"we have to get in," she says.

chae-eun stares at her, eyes wide with disbelief. "are you insane?"

myah doesn’t answer. she steps closer instead, fingers grazing the edges of the door, feeling the cold metal beneath her touch.

she knows she shouldn’t.

but she has to.

"there has to be a way to open it," she mutters, eyes scanning the rusted locks, the worn edges of the frame.

"myah." chae-eun grabs her arm, forcing her to turn. her grip is tight, urgent. "this is stupid. even if they’re trapped, even if they sound harmless, we don’t know what they are."

"and if we leave, we never will," myah fires back. her pulse is a frantic rhythm against her ribs, her mind racing. "chae-eun, we don’t know how long they’ve been in there. it’s been days since my grandparents were found. what if no one’s fed them? what if they have no food, no water? they could die down here."

something flickers across chae-eun’s face. hesitation, doubt, the same war waging inside myah’s own head. she swallows hard, jaw clenching.

"this is a bad idea," chae-eun mutters.

"maybe," myah says, voice steady. "but leaving them could be worse."

chaos flickers through chae-eun’s expression. fear, frustration, something desperate, before she curses under her breath.

but she doesn’t stop her.

instead, she exhales sharply, eyes flicking toward the rusted tools scattered across the room.

“if we’re doing this, we’re doing it carefully.”

myah nods.

chae-eun exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over her face. “this is the dumbest thing we’ve ever done.”

myah doesn’t argue. because yeah, maybe it is. maybe this is the point where she finally loses it, where she stops making rational choices and starts making reckless ones.

but something deep in her gut tells her this isn’t just about curiosity anymore.

it’s about guilt.

about the blood on her grandparents’ hands.

about the weight of whatever was done in this house, in this basement.

about the quiet, too careful voices behind the door.

"thank you."

the whisper is barely audible. just a breath of sound curling into the air between them.

chae-eun flinches.

"we haven’t done anything yet," myah mutters, but her fingers are already tracing the edges of the door, searching.

there’s no obvious handle, no visible keyhole. just thick, bolted steel and the weight of something waiting on the other side.

"there has to be a mechanism," chae-eun murmurs, glancing around the room. "some kind of release. if your grandparents were keeping them down here, they had to have a way to access it."

she moves toward the far wall, scanning the rusted filing cabinets, the shelves stacked with dust coated objects.

myah keeps her focus on the door.

"how long have you been here?" she asks, her voice low.

"awhile."

the answer is careful. measured.

not desperate.

not frantic.

just… patient.

like they knew someone would come eventually.

like they’ve been waiting.

myah swallows. “how many of you are there?”

a pause.

"seven."

her pulse stutters.

seven.

seven.

the weight of it sinks deep into her bones.

"myah," chae-eun calls, voice tight. "i think i found something."

she turns.

chae-eun is standing beside an old, rusted panel on the wall, half-hidden behind a shelf. the metal is corroded, the edges barely visible beneath years of dust and grime.

but it’s there.

a switch.

a release.

"i don’t know if it still works," chae-eun mutters, fingers hovering over it, uncertain.

myah takes a slow breath.

her heartbeat thunders against her ribs.

"only one way to find out," she says.

chae-eun looks at her.

"are you sure?"

no.

she’s not sure.

but she nods anyway.

because there’s no turning back now.

chae-eun exhales sharply as she reaches out, pressing her fingers against the rusted switch.

and pulls.

the basement shudders.

the air shifts.

and behind them they hear heavy locks beginning to turn.

the sound of metal groaning echoes through the basement, vibrating through the stone walls, rattling through myah’s chest.

she should run.

she should turn, grab chae-eun, and leave.

but she doesn’t.

because the door,

it’s opening.

the heavy locks shift, one after another, the deep clunk of metal sliding free making her pulse roar in her ears. dust rains down from the ceiling as the old mechanism grinds into motion, the steel groaning as it begins to inch open.

the air changes immediately.

the cold that seeps through the widening gap is different, thicker, weighted, carrying something alive. something watching.

chae-eun steps back, tense, her breath quick and sharp. "myah," she hisses, panic edging her voice. "i don’t know—"

but it’s too late.

the moment the door fully swings open, myah’s breath locks in her throat.

the room is massive, stretching far beyond what she expected. the dim light from her phone flickers against thick iron bars, cages lining both sides of the basement, the scent of rusted metal and something wild thick in the air.

cha-eun grabs her wrist, grip like iron. "you sure about this?" her voice is low, urgent, barely above a whisper.

myah doesn’t answer. can’t.

because now that the door is open, she can feel it. the weight of unseen eyes pressing into her skin, the silence heavy enough to suffocate.

a shape shifts in the darkness. slow. deliberate.

myah swallows hard. "we need to know."

chae-eun exhales sharply, her hesitation a tangible thing between them. but after a beat, she steps forward, shoulders tense, muscles coiled like she’s ready to bolt at any second.

together, they cross the threshold.

golden eyes gleam in the darkness, reflecting the light like fire catching on glass. shadows shift, slow and watchful, movement rippling through the space like something caged but not yet tamed.

she barely has time to process before a voice calls out again,

"please..."

her flashlight sweeps across the first cage, and her breath catches.

a massive lion hybrid sits against the bars, his golden mane wild, tangled, his amber eyes locked directly onto her. his ears flick at the sound of her footsteps, but he doesn’t move, just watches. waiting. his thick tail curls around his paws, the tuft at the end flicking once, betraying the tension in his frame.

in the next cage, sprawled in the darkness, what looks to be a black panther lifts his head just enough for her to catch the sharp glint of his slit pupiled eyes. his inky fur blends into the surrounding shadows, only the faintest twitch of his whiskers giving him away. he doesn't make a sound. doesn’t blink. just tracks her with a slow, deliberate intensity.

"who are you?"

the voice is softer, coming from further down.

her flashlight flickers over a second pair of golden eyes, no, two.

one belongs to a cheetah hybrid, its lean frame curled against the bars, shoulders hunched like its trying to make itself smaller. They’re fully shifted, spotted fur sleek beneath the dim light, its tail flicking anxiously against the floor. honey-gold eyes dart between her and chae-eun, wide and uncertain, like the cheetah is unsure whether to be relieved or terrified.

the other, is human, well mostly.

a tiger hybrid, perched in the corner of his cage, bare feet planted firmly against the cold concrete floor. his thick tail curls lazily around him, but his shoulders are too tense, his expression too carefully blank. golden brown eyes hold hers, unwavering, unreadable.

she grips the flashlight tighter.

they look scared. but not fully.

but something in her gut twists.

because it doesn’t make sense.

her grandparents had locked them in here. that much was obvious.

but why?

and if they were truly just scared, just victims, then why did the air feel so thick with something she couldn't name?

why did their golden eyes gleam too much in the dark?

"please," the soft voice comes again, breaking through her thoughts. "we don’t want trouble."

it comes from the farthest cage, the hybrid curled against the bars, his hazel eyes wide, flickering with something fragile, something aching. his wispy silver-brown hair falls in soft waves around his face, his delicate ears twitching, tail swaying in slow, rhythmic motions behind him.

"are you here to help us?"

myah hesitates.

her pulse thunders in her ears.

"i—" she starts, then stops. because is she?

"we’ve been here for so long," the clouded leopard hybrid murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "we don’t even know how long it’s been."

her chest tightens.

the plea in his voice feels real.

but chae-eun isn't buying it.

"myah," she murmurs, voice low, sharp. "this isn't right."

myah swallows. "they’re locked up, chae-eun."

"and why do you think that is?" chae-eun hisses, taking a step closer, keeping her voice low. "you know your grandparents myah, do you really they just threw them in here for no reason?"

the words sting.

because no, myah doesn’t trust her grandparents. not anymore.

but something doesn’t add up.

her flashlight shifts again,

and that’s when she notices the scars.

not deep, not fresh, but there.

along the lion hybrid’s arms, faint and barely visible against his warm, tawny skin. a slash across the leopard’s hybrid’s collarbone. claw marks raked along the black panther’s ribs.

her stomach turns.

"who did this to you?" myah asks, voice tight, her grip on the flashlight unsteady.

a pause.

the silver haired hybrid’s gaze flickers, something unreadable passing through his hazel eyes before he finally speaks.

"the man who put us here."

the words settle like ice in her spine.

"the man who—" she swallows hard, her pulse roaring in her ears, dots being connected.

no one says responds immediately, but the lion hybrid, broad, golden, imposing even in confinement, lifts his head just enough to meet her gaze.

his amber eyes flicker.

he doesn’t nod. doesn’t confirm.

but he doesn’t deny it either.

myah’s stomach twists.

the silence is enough.

"myah," chae-eun mutters, sharp and urgent. "we need to go." but myah can’t move. because this, this is real. this isn’t just a locked door. this isn’t just another one of her family’s secrets. her grandfather did this.

"how long have you been down here?" she whispers.

"too long."

her chest tightens.

she turns to chae-eun, her breath shallow. "we have to get them out."

"myah," chae-eun hisses, "we don’t even know what they are."

"they’re hybrids," myah snaps back. "they’re prisoners."

"and they were kept here for a reason," chae-eun argues, eyes sharp, voice low. "your grandfather wouldn’t have kept them down here without one."

myah wants to fight her on that.

but she can’t.

because she doesn’t know if chae-eun is wrong.

but she does know one thing.

"we’re not leaving yet," she says firmly. "not until I understand what happened here."

chae-eun exhales sharply, muttering a curse under her breath, but she doesn’t argue further.

instead, she moves toward the shelves, scanning the walls for something, anything that could explain why this place exists. behind the bars however the hybrids stay still.

watching.

waiting.

and myah swears,

just for a moment,

she sees the panther smirk.

as she turns back toward the cages, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. her fingers twitch at her sides, the weight of their gazes pressing into her like something tangible.

she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing.

but she can’t walk away.

"why did he keep you here?" she asks, voice steadier than she feels. "why not just… get rid of you?"

the lion hybrid’s ears twitch, his thick tail flicking once behind him. he’s watching her closely, those deep amber eyes calculating, slow and deliberate.

but it’s the tiger hybrid who finally speaks.

"maybe he liked having pets," he murmurs, voice smooth as silk, golden-amber eyes gleaming in the dark. "or maybe he just liked knowing we couldn’t leave."

the way he says it sends a shiver down her spine.

"how long has it been?" another hybrid hums, tilting his head. "do you know what year it is?”

"of course i do," myah mutters. "it’s—"

she stops. because the way he’s looking at her,

the way the tiger hybrid shifts slightly beside him, the cheetah’s ears flicking, and the jaguars rolling his shoulders like they’re all waiting for something,

her stomach twists.

"you don’t know," she breathes.

none of them confirm it.

but none of them deny it, either.

chaos crashes through her thoughts, her grip on her phone tightening.

"we need to get them food," she says suddenly, turning to chae-eun. "they’re hybrids, not machines. if they’ve been trapped down here—"

"absolutely not," chae-eun snaps. "no way in hell am I leaving you down here alone with them."

"i’ll be fine," myah insists. "just check the fridge—"

"no." chae-eun’s voice is sharp, her jaw tight. "myah, listen to me. we don’t know what they’re capable of. we don’t know anything about them. i’m not leaving you down here like some kind of—"

"bait?"

the voice is too smooth, slipping through the air like a knife.

both of them freeze.

the raven haired hybrid is watching them with lazy amusement, his sleek tail curling around his wrist, golden-amber eyes half-lidded.

"if it makes you feel better," he purrs, "we can promise not to eat her while you’re gone."

chaos erupts.

"nope," chae-eun snaps, grabbing myah’s wrist. "we’re leaving. now."

but myah digs her heels in. "they’re starving, chae-eun."

"and we are not their goddamn saviors," chae-eun hisses. "whatever your grandfather did, it’s not our problem to fix—"

"so you’d just leave them here?" myah cuts in, her voice rising. "leave them to rot?"

"they’re still alive," chae-eun points out. "which means they’ve survived this long without our help. we can’t do this on our own."

silence stretches between them, thick and tense.

behind the bars, the hybrids watch.

assessing. waiting.

"fine," myah mutters. "then we’ll both go."

chae-eun’s eyes flick toward the cages one last time before she exhales sharply. "fine."

she doesn’t look at them as they turn toward the stairs.

but myah can feel their eyes on her.

heavy.

lingering.

like they already know,

she’s coming back.

chae-eun’s car is as neat as she is. clean, organized, everything tucked away exactly where it should be.

except for the backseat.

myah stares at the mess of medical supplies crammed into the space behind them. bandages, antiseptic wipes, surgical scissors still in their sterile packaging. a neatly packed emergency trauma kit sits half-zipped on the floor, a few vials of painkillers barely peeking out. the interior smells faintly of rubbing alcohol and lemon-scented wipes. it should feel sterile. safe.

but now it just feels clinical. like a place built to respond to the aftermath of violence.

it’s not the first time she’s noticed it. she’s ridden in chae-eun’s car more times than she can count. on grocery runs, late-night drives to clear their heads, weekend trips to nowhere in particular. she’s seen the supplies. but she’s never really seen them.

this time, after everything that just happened in the basement, it feels different.

“you never told me how bad it got,” myah says, voice quieter than before, eyes still fixed on the mess of gauze and blood-stained tape peeking from beneath a box of gloves.

chae-eun doesn’t look at her as she starts the car. “i didn’t think i needed to.”

the engine hums low as they pull out of the driveway, the headlights casting long, pale streaks across the empty street. her hands are tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white. the kind of white that comes from trying not to let your hands shake.

myah shifts slightly in her seat, unsettled by the silence, by the weight of what they’d just seen. the hybrids. the cages. the way one of them, unshifted, bleeding had flinched when chae-eun so much as moved.

“you work with hybrids,” she says finally, almost accusingly. “why are you so—”

“those hybrids aren’t the same.”

the words land like a slap. sharp. cold. not cruel, but close.

cha-eun exhales through her nose, gaze flicking to the rearview mirror before settling back on the road. the city lights are beginning to blur past them, red and blue and green glowing against the windshield like reflections from a dream.

“i work in sector four,” she continues, voice clipped, tightly measured. “mostly human and female hybrids. the ones who get hurt the most. the ones who end up on my table covered in bruises, missing teeth, stitched up from some feral hybrid attack or worse.”

myah swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry. she’s heard stories. seen the news reports that play like clockwork every time a hybrid-related crime occurs. not all hybrids are victims. not all of them want help. some of them hunt.

some of them kill.

and chae-eun has seen the worst of it.

“you think they’re different because they looked at you like that,” chae-eun says quietly, her voice flattening into something tired, something brittle. “but scared doesn’t mean safe. it just means desperate. and desperation makes things dangerous.”

myah doesn’t respond. her stomach is twisted too tightly, thoughts tangled too thickly.

the silence stretches between them, thick with everything they’re not saying.

and then chae-eun adds, more quietly this time, almost like she’s afraid to say it out loud: “your grandparents died in a hybrid attack.”

myah turns sharply, staring at her. “what?”

“the reports, they said they were mauled. claws, bite marks. there were signs of struggle all over the kitchen. your grandfather had a shotgun. it didn’t help.”

the blood drains from myah’s face. she feels it leave her fingertips, cold creeping up her spine.

“and in that basement?” chae-eun’s voice is quieter now. measured. grim. “there are seven hybrids in eight cages.”

myah’s breath catches.

“you do the math.”

a cold sweat breaks across her back. she grips the edge of her seat, the world tilting slightly, the basement reassembling itself in her mind, seven sets of eyes, seven shadows behind bars. but she hadn’t counted the cages. hadn’t even thought to.

what if one had gotten out? what if that’s how they died?

what if it’s still out there?

“and you want to help them,” chae-eun continues, voice low, almost pained. “you want to free them. play savior. what if the one that escaped is the one that killed your family? what if the others knew and didn’t stop it?”

myah’s hands tremble. her chest aches.

but her mind,

her mind flashes again with soft eyes and silver hair, the gentle tilt of his head, the way he’d spoken to her like he saw her.

she should be running from this. from all of it.

but she can’t.

because something about him, about them, won’t let her go.

“so forgive me,” chae-eun says tightly, “if i’m not exactly in the mood to play savior to seven unregistered hybrids your grandfather locked in his basement.”

the car goes quiet.

outside, the neon of the city pulses like a heartbeat, flickering in the windows—restaurants, strip malls, pawn shops, each glowing with artificial warmth. it doesn’t reach her. nothing does.

myah turns back toward the windshield, her reflection faint in the glass. she stares through it, but she doesn’t really see.

because all she can think about is  the soft voice that asked her to come back. the way he’d looked at her like she was something safe. Something he knew.

and that’s the part that scares her most.

chae-eun exhales sharply, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the steering wheel, the sound too fast, too tight. “and what exactly are we supposed to tell jisun when we get back?”

myah drags a hand down her face, the weight of the night starting to catch up to her. her head aches, tight and persistent like her thoughts. “i don’t know. that we went out for a drive?”

chae-eun lets out a humorless snort. “right. because that’s gonna fly. we both probably still reek of that place.”

myah goes still.

the basement.

she can feel it clinging to her now that chae-eun’s said it, the stale scent of dust and rust, old blood and sweat and something sharper beneath it all. something animal.

and not just that.

them.

the scent of fear. of power barely restrained. of too many eyes watching her through bars like they already knew her bones.

“i’ll shower before she gets too close,” she mutters.

chae-eun’s jaw ticks. “you could shower in bleach and she’d still know. myah, she’s obsessed with you.”

“she’s not—”

“don’t even try.” chae-eun cuts in, voice flat. “you know exactly what she’s like. the moment you walk through that door with a weird look on your face and half a story, she’s gonna dig.”

myah doesn’t deny it.

she can’t.

because jisun is smart. terrifyingly so. and worse, she’s protective. of myah, specifically. her moods turn fast. sweet like sugar one second, sharp like a snapped snare the next. and if she so much as suspects that myah’s hiding something,

"then we don’t give her anything to suspect,” myah says finally, her voice low. “we keep it surface. vague. just enough to make sense.”

“so we lie.” chae-eun doesn’t say it like a question. more like a dare.

myah glances out the window. the city’s creeping closer now, closer than she wants it to be. neon signs blinking against the dark like slow, mechanical winks. streetlights bending through the windshield, casting soft gold over the dash.

“we don’t tell her about the basement,” she says after a long pause. “not yet.”

“not ever,” chae-eun mutters, hands tightening around the wheel again. “jesus, myah, do you know what she’d do if she found out? she’d drag you out of bed, chain you to the damn radiator, and torch the house herself.”

the image is uncomfortably believable.

they both fall quiet for a beat, the air in the car growing thicker by the second.

“so,” myah says finally, voice barely above a whisper, “we agree, then. we figure it out.”

it’s not a real plan. it’s a compromise born out of exhaustion and panic and a shared instinct not to poke the sleeping bear that is jisun. it’s flimsy. reckless.

but it’s all they have.

“yeah,” chae-eun says after a long moment, the word more like an exhale than a commitment. “we figure it out.”

neither of them says anything else for a while. the car hums forward down the quiet road, the lights growing closer, brighter, sharper. they’re almost back now.

and myah can feel it in her chest—that tight pull, that creeping dread curling around her ribs. the apartment is safe. normal. filled with warmth and noise and the scent of jasmine tea. the kind of place that’s supposed to ground her.

but tonight, it feels too far away.

because the only thing she can hear, beneath the rumble of the tires, beneath the rush of blood in her ears, is that soft voice echoing in her head.

“thank you for not giving up on us”

and she knows, she’s not going to.

no matter what it costs.

they don’t speak again until chae-eun’s pulling into the lot.

the hum of the car engine fills the silence, low and steady, but it’s not enough to drown out the noise in myah’s head.

she watches the familiar curve of the building come into view—the warm orange glow of the hallway lights in their apartment complex, the too-small parking spots, the dented railing someone’s been complaining about fixing for months. it’s home. safe. normal.

and it feels so far away.

cha-eun shifts into park but doesn’t kill the engine.

her hands stay tight on the wheel.

“you’re already planning to go back, aren’t you.”

myah doesn’t answer.

not out of guilt, or because she’s trying to be clever, but because yes. she is. she’s been planning it since the moment she walked away. since she saw silver eyes in the dark and heard a voice that made something inside her sit up and listen.

cha-eun exhales through her nose, her knuckles pale. “of course you are.”

“i’m not going tonight,” myah says after a beat. she tries to keep her voice light. it doesn’t work. “besides, you’re working a double tomorrow. you need sleep.”

cha-eun’s head jerks toward her, sharp. “that’s your reason for waiting?”

myah doesn’t answer.

cha-eun exhales hard. “are you planning to go alone?”

“no,” myah says. and then, after a beat too long: “i’ll bring someone.”

“who?” she says, though she already knows.

“…kai.”

cha-eun stares at her for a second like she’s trying to figure out if she misheard before letting out a sharp, breathy sound that isn’t quite a laugh, too horrified for humor.

 “kai. okay. great.”

“he’s a hybrid,” myah says, starting to defend it, already hearing how weak it sounds.

“exactly,” chae-eun snaps. “and do you honestly think that makes him qualified?”

“he understands how things like this work—”

“no, he understands what it means to survive,” chae-eun cuts in, voice sharp. “and the second you drag him into that basement and he sees what’s waiting down there? he’s not going to help you, myah. he’s going to shut it down.”

myah’s mouth opens. then closes.

“you think he’s just going to stand there and smile while you get cozy with a bunch of unregistered, starved, male hybrids?” chae-eun’s voice keeps climbing. “you think he’s going to just let that panther keep looking at you like that?”

myah’s stomach twists.

“kai’s not like that,” she says, too quickly.

cha-eun slams her hand against the steering wheel, voice cracking. “kai would rip him apart. rip all of them apartthe second he felt you were being threatened. and it won’t matter if you don’t feel threatened, because he will.”

the car is thick with silence again. this time heavier. uglier.

“he’s not going to let you go back,” chae-eun says finally, quieter now. “not once he knows what’s actually going on. not once he sees what they want.”

myah looks away, but that hits. hard.

because she knows what it looked like.

and she knows what it would look like to kai.

and he wouldn’t understand, not the way she needs him to. not without exploding. not without violence.

“then what,” myah says, voice tight. “just call it in? let some half-interested social worker show up and ‘assess the risk’? let the hybrids get drugged and shoved in a van and carted off to some overrun shelter in the middle of nowhere?”

“yes,” chae-eun says, like it’s obvious. “that’s exactly what needs to happen.”

“you can’t be serious—”

“i am. dead serious.” she leans forward, eyes flashing. “you’re not trained for this. you don’t know what you’re doing. this isn’t your responsibility, myah. it never was. this is government-level, containment-level shit, and you dragging in another hybrid, especially one who’s already attached to you, isn’t going to make it better.”

that lands harder than anything else.

and it hurts, because part of her knows she’s right. she is. but still, something in myah recoils.

“i need to know what they were doing,” she says finally, voice low. “my grandparents. the house, the cages, all of it.” she shakes her head. “it doesn’t make sense. none of it fits. and nobody else is going to care enough to look.”

“you think you’ll find some neat little explanation down there?” chae-eun snaps. “a confession letter taped to the underside of the freezer? myah, you could dig for months and still end up with more questions than answers.”

“maybe,” myah admits, “but at least i’d know i tried. i can’t pretend it didn’t happen. that basement is real. they’re real. and if it’s connected to my family, then i need to understand how.”

cha-eun exhales, eyes dropping to the dash.

“i’m not saying forget it,” she says, softer now. “i’m saying let it go before it swallows you.”

myah swallows hard.

and for a second, she almost says okay.

almost.

but when she closes her eyes, she still sees the silver-haired one, how he’d looked at her like he knew something. like the answers she was chasing weren’t in the paperwork, or the lawyer’s files, or the old photographs in her grandparents’ bedroom.

they were down there.

in the silence.

in them.

and it’s reckless. she knows it’s reckless.

but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.

“…i just need time,” she says quietly.

“you don’t have time,” chae-eun whispers back.

but neither of them says anything more after that.

neither of them move. not yet.

the hum of the engine is steady beneath them, but everything else is cracking. shifting. realigning into something neither of them asked for.

chae-eun finally leans forward and turns the key in the ignition.

the car goes silent.

myah had barely registered the motion of getting out of the car. her feet felt like they were dragging, her mind too clouded to focus on anything other than the feeling of dread that had settled deep in her chest. as they made their way inside, the building’s lobby seemed colder than usual, and the air hung heavy with the kind of stillness that always felt like something was about to break.

she had barely gotten her keys out when the door to the apartment swung open. there, standing in the doorway, was jisun, eyes wide with concern.

“where were you two?” she asked, her voice soft but demanding, like she knew something was wrong, like she could already feel the shift in myah’s energy.

myah hesitated for a moment, then gave a small shrug, trying to brush it off. “oh, we just went to grab a bite to eat,” she said, glancing at chae-eun for confirmation.

chae-eun nodded, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “yeah, we went to that cute little restaurant my coworkers have been talking about. the one with the soft, fluffy pancakes.”

jisun raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “you went to a restaurant in sector two?” she asked, her voice laced with disbelief. she sniffed the air once, then again, her nose twitching slightly as she processed the scent. her eyes narrowed. “you smell like... ferals,” she said, her voice quieter now, the concern creeping in.

chae-eun tilted her head. “ferals?” she echoed, glancing at myah with a raised brow.

“yeah,” jisun said, her gaze sharpening as she studied myah. “ferals... or someone’s trying to mark you.” she sniffed again, her posture becoming tense. “why the hell were you in that sector anyway? I get you were hungry but there’s a mcdonalds is down the street. you know how dangerous it gets this late.”

“someone marked us?!” chae-eun exclaimed, worry laced in her tone, her eyes darting between myah and jisun. “we didn’t—”

“no, not you,” jisun cut in, taking another deep sniff, her nose circling back to myah with an almost predatory precision. her eyes sharpened as she focused entirely on myah. “just her.”

myah’s stomach dropped at the implication. her chest tightened as jisun’s words settled in the air like a weight. she swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “marked me? what does that even mean?”

jisun’s expression darkened, her lips pressed together in a tight line. “it means someone or something has claimed you, myah. not necessarily in the way you might think, but,” her voice trailed off as she looked myah up and down, her sharp eyes never leaving her. “this scent, this… feeling, it’s not a coincidence. and it’s not good.”

chae-eun shifted nervously beside her, crossing her arms tighter. “but how? how could anyone just claim her? what does it mean?”

“i don’t know,” jisun admitted quietly, her voice softer now, a flicker of concern breaking through the cool edge. “but it’s not something you want to mess with. you’re in danger now. and it’s worse the later it gets. someone’s definitely watching you.”

myah’s heart raced, her breath catching in her chest. “so what should we do? what now?”

“now,” jisun began, her gaze lingering on myah as she stepped closer, lowering her voice, “you stay close to home. you stay away from sector two. don’t go out alone. and if you feel anything off, anything at all, anything, you call one of us, or even that stupid fox, no questions. got it?”

myah nodded quickly, the weight of jisun’s warning settling heavily in her bones. the air around her felt thick with something more dangerous than she had realized, and she wasn’t sure how to navigate it. everything felt too uncertain now.

“we’ll stick together,” chae-eun added, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of concern. “no more risky moves. we’ll figure this out.”

jisun’s expression softened, but her eyes still held a trace of that intensity, as if she wasn’t fully convinced it was safe. “yeah, well. don’t get complacent. that’s how people end up disappearing.”

myah felt her skin prickle at the word. disappearing. it echoed in her mind like a whisper.

"we'll be careful," she said, though her voice felt small against the heaviness in the room.

the warning was clear, stay away from that house, that basement. yet myah knew tomorrow she would be back.

the morning light filtered softly through the blinds, casting a pale glow across the room. myah blinked awake, the gentle warmth of her bed pulling her into a moment of peace before the reality of the day ahead sank in. for a split second, she let herself sink deeper into the mattress, the faint hum of the city outside the only sound in the quiet apartment. it felt like a different world, a world where she could just stay here and forget. but that wasn’t her life anymore.

she shifted in bed, rubbing her eyes and groaning quietly. the bed beside her was empty, the sheets crumpled from when jisun had left for her early class. myah had barely noticed when she’d gotten up, the soft sound of her roommate’s footsteps and the creak of the door the only clues. jisun had always been considerate about her early classes, never wanting to wake myah up. it was one of those little things she did that made myah appreciate her so much more.

she pushed the blankets off her body, sitting up slowly, her limbs heavy from the lack of sleep, though it wasn’t from exhaustion, it was the tension of the night before still weighing on her. her heart beat slower now, but the unease from the warning, from the knowledge of what she had to do, lingered like a shadow.

as she stood and moved toward the window, myah caught sight of chae-eun in the kitchen, her back to her as she prepared breakfast. the soft clink of the kettle being set down, the smell of something rich and warm in the air. it felt oddly comforting. something familiar amidst everything else that had gone wrong.

“morning,” myah mumbled, rubbing at her eyes again, her voice thick with the remnants of sleep.

chae-eun turned with a soft smile, a cup of tea in her hand. “good morning. how’d you sleep?”

myah sighed, stretching her arms above her head as she walked over to the counter. “like crap,” she admitted, settling into the chair, her gaze flickering to chae-eun. “just can’t shake the feeling of... everything.”

“yeah,” chae-eun murmured, setting the cup down before her, her eyes softening as she studied myah. “it’s been a rough night. did you talk to jisun?”

myah shook her head, her hands wrapped around the warm mug. “she had an early class, didn’t want to wake me up.” she sighed again, this time louder. “i didn’t even want to wake up myself. it’s just one of those mornings.”

cha-eun nodded in understanding, but the way she looked at myah, that lingering thought on her mind. it was clear she wasn’t letting this go.

“you sure you’re okay?” cha-eun asked, her voice lighter but her eyes serious. “you don’t look like it.”

myah gave her a tired smile, but it was thin, strained. “i’ll be fine. just a little shaken up, that’s all.”

the moment hung between them for a beat, and cha-eun didn’t press. instead, she moved toward the stove, fiddling with the pots. “well, if you want to talk, i’m here. just don’t bottle it up, okay?”

myah gave a slight nod, watching her in silence as the air shifted, becoming thicker with the weight of their unspoken thoughts. cha-eun, always the one who saw the smallest details, could tell something was off, something deeper. and myah knew the next question was coming. she braced herself, trying to steel herself for the inevitable.

but when it came, it wasn’t gentle.

“you can’t seriously think about going back, right?” cha-eun’s voice was low, but sharp enough to cut through the tension. her eyes narrowed as she turned to face myah, the concern evident on her face. “especially after what jisun said? they claimed you, myah. claimed you. marked you.”

myah’s breath hitched, the word “claimed” hanging in the air, ringing in her ears like a warning bell. her heart skipped a beat, but she pushed it away. “i don’t have a choice, chae-eun,” she said quietly, her voice a little too steady. “i have to go back. i need answers. i need to understand what’s going on.”

“but—” cha-eun stepped closer, her face softening, her hands placed flat against the counter as if grounding herself. “you’re not thinking straight. you don’t know what’s out there, what’s waiting for you. What if jisun’s right, what if they’re not just marking you. they’re hunting you.”

myah opened her mouth to argue, but the words felt too heavy in her throat. cha-eun was right. she wasn’t thinking straight. but she couldn’t back down now. she had to know what happened, what her grandparents were involved in, what she had inherited by stepping into that house. something had happened there, and she wasn’t going to back away from it, no matter how many warnings or how much fear clawed at her chest.

“i don’t care,” myah finally said, her voice firm despite the cold dread spreading through her veins. “i have to go. i’ll figure it out. i just... i can’t leave it hanging over me.”

chae-eun watched her for a long moment, her lips pressing together in a tight line. she exhaled sharply, almost as if giving up, but then the words came, filled with that quiet edge of concern.

“okay, fine,” she said, her voice low. “but you’re going to need more backup than kai. you’re going to need... more.”

“more?” myah echoed, raising an eyebrow. “more backup? what do you mean?”

cha-eun leaned against the counter, her gaze shifting from myah’s face to the window, where the early morning light cast long shadows across the street. “call the police, myah. get professionals involved. you don’t know what’s out there. you’re not just going to walk in there and walk back out. and kai’s not enough. if something happens, you need to be prepared.”

myah swallowed, the weight of cha-eun’s words sinking deep into her chest. she hadn’t thought about it that way. she’d been so focused on going back, on finding out what was really going on, that she hadn’t considered how unprepared she really was. what if something happened? what if they were waiting for her?

“you’re right,” myah murmured, her voice quieter now, weighed down by the growing realization that she couldn’t do this alone. “i’ll call a hybrid service office. one that’s ethical and figure out what to do from there.”

“good,” cha-eun said, her voice softening as she reached over and squeezed myah’s shoulder. “this isn’t your responsibility. your grandparents might have fucked up, but you shouldn’t carry this burden alone.”

myah nodded, her chest tight with the unspoken promise. they would face it together. she didn’t know what was coming, but she wasn’t walking into it blind anymore.

the tension in the room began to lift slightly, the quiet comfort of their usual dynamic slowly returning as cha-eun began to gather her things to head out for work. myah remained seated for a moment, lost in thought. she could still feel the weight of the decision ahead of her, the uncertainty hanging like a cloud over her head. but for the first time that morning, she felt like she wasn’t carrying it alone.

“you’ll be okay,” cha-eun said, her voice light, though there was still concern in her eyes. “just remember to reach out if you need anything. me, the police... call whoever you have to.”

“i will,” myah promised, a small but genuine smile pulling at her lips. “thanks.”

with a nod, cha-eun picked up her bag and headed toward the door. “you’re stronger than you think,” she said over her shoulder, her words lingering in the air. “don’t forget that.”

and with that, she was gone, leaving myah alone in the quiet apartment once more. but the stillness felt different now. not so heavy. not so uncertain.

myah stood up, straightening her clothes, taking a deep breath.

she wasn’t going to back down, no matter how much she wished she could. chae-eun had been right, she needed more help, more backup. but who could she rely on?

her only family just died and everyone else was too far away or busy. school, work, their own lives. they wouldn’t be able to help, let alone understand the gravity of the situation.

and the police?

hybrid services?

the thought made her chest tighten.

her heart ached with something she couldn’t quite name. not guilt exactly, not fear either, something sharper. something heavier. like grief, but still forming. a knot of determination that hadn’t quite settled yet, tangled with something raw and restless and aching to make sense of all of it.

the truth was, if she called it in, if she let hybrid services come in and "handle" it, it would be the end.

they’d be torn from that basement, sedated, evaluated, assigned numbers, and locked away again. not for weeks.

forever.

because most of those hybrids, especially the predatory ones, would never make it out of a shelter once they were placed in one.

not the adults.

not the ones like them.

they were labeled too dangerous. unadoptable. unpredictable. too violent for re-entry into the workforce, too scarred for family placement. society had long since decided they were problems to be managed, not people to be saved.

and once they were in the system, that was it.

they'd disappear.

just like so many others.

but myah had seen them. not just down there in that cold, rotting basement, but years ago, back in high school, volunteering at a hybrid recovery center during summer break. she remembered the ones with hollow eyes and clipped ears, the ones who flinched at sudden movements and kept their heads down.

but she also remembered the way they moved when they thought no one was watching, silent, graceful, brilliant. she remembered the quiet strength in their bodies, the soft, unguarded moments when their masks slipped.

the kind of resilience no government file could capture.

no one ever looked long enough to see that part.

but myah had.

and now, she was seeing it again.

only this time, it wasn’t behind plexiglass and safety protocols, it was behind rusted iron, in the glow of a single swinging lightbulb, with eyes that watched her like she mattered.

and him.

the silver-haired one.

he haunted her thoughts more than the rest. not because he was the most beautiful, though he was, but because there was something in his voice when he spoke to her. something she couldn’t forget.

something human.

no judgment. no bitterness. just…

quiet gratitude.

warmth.

trust.

as if he already knew she wouldn’t leave him there.

as if he’d been waiting for her.

it made her chest hurt. made her wonder what he knew.

what he’d seen.

and that was the other thing, the part she hadn’t said out loud yet, not even to chae-eun.

they were the key to understanding everything.

the whispers sealed in her grandfather’s safe. the secret side of her family she never knew existed. who they really were. what they’d done.

there was a rot at the center of it all, and the only place she’d ever felt close to it was in that basement.

standing in front of those cages.

staring into those eyes.

no one deserves to be locked away.

not forever.

and that was why she couldn’t let it go.

even if it meant risking everything.

even if it meant lying to her friends.

even if it meant stepping straight into something she might not walk out of.

she wasn’t going to let them vanish into the system like they were nothing. she wasn’t going to let her life be defined by silence, by ignorance, by the same kind of cage her family had apparently helped build.

if she was going to get answers,

if she was going to help them,

if she was ever going to understand what the hell her grandparents had really been involved in,

then she had to start by going back.

even if every part of her said she shouldn’t.

even if it already felt too late.

she had to face it.

she shook off the lingering doubt and made her way to the door, grabbing her keys from the hook by the entrance. she stepped out into the hallway, the familiar scent of the building’s damp concrete filling her lungs, but it did nothing to ease the unease crawling up her spine.

the city was alive around her, bustling with the usual chaos, but she felt completely disconnected from it all. she moved quickly, trying to block out the intrusive thoughts, the questions of whether she was making a mistake.

as she made her way to the train station, the streets felt emptier than usual, the buildings casting long, looming shadows over the sidewalks. the rain had stopped, leaving the pavement slick and reflective, but the tension in the air was palpable, like the whole city was holding its breath.

her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she walked, the familiar route to the house feeling foreign under her feet. she glanced around, half-expecting someone to be following her, but there was no one.

just the hum of the city, the occasional car speeding by, the echo of her own footsteps.

when she arrived finally at the house, it seemed even more intimidating in the daylight. it loomed before her, quiet and brooding, as if it had been waiting for her return. myah paused at the gate, her heart thudding in her chest.

the house hadn’t changed, its faded, weather beaten exterior, the overgrown ivy clinging to the walls, the windows dark and lifeless. everything about it screamed abandonment. and yet, it was calling to her. pulling her back. demanding that she come inside.

with a deep breath, she pushed open the gate, the rusty hinges creaking in protest. the sound echoed through the stillness, making her flinch. she moved up the cracked stone steps, each one heavy under her feet, until she reached the door. she paused there for a moment, hand resting on the handle.

do i really want to do this?

 the thought hit her like a punch to the gut, but she didn’t flinch this time. she couldn’t afford to. she had already made the choice.

she turned the handle and stepped inside.

the air was the same as yesterday, thick with dust. the old house holding its breath, as though waiting for her to make her move.

the floor creaked beneath her feet, the familiar scent of must and aged wood filling her lungs. the hallway stretched ahead, dark and silent, the faded wallpaper peeling in some places, revealing the skeleton of the house beneath. everything looked the same as it had when she left. and yet, it felt different. darker.

she made her way through the house, the silence pressing in around her as she moved towards the hatch to the basement. the steps leading down felt narrower than before, the air getting colder as she descended. her heart pounded louder now, the anticipation building in her chest with every step. she wasn’t sure what she expected to find, but she knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

when she reached the bottom, the basement stretched out before her, dimly lit by a flickering light bulb that cast eerie shadows on the stone walls. the cages were still there, stacked in rows against the walls. and there they were.

the hybrids.

the ones she had met just yesterday.

the ones whose eyes she could never forget.

the silence was suffocating. they didn’t make a sound. they just watched her. their eyes, so full of life and longing, fixed on her, waiting. expecting.

one of the hybrids, the lion, shifted slowly inside his cage, the bars groaning faintly as he leaned into them.

his movements were deliberate, graceful in a way that spoke of restrained strength. golden eyes, deep and piercing, locked onto hers, holding her captive in their intensity. the rounded ears atop his head flicked just slightly, attentive to every tiny sound she made, and his thick tail curled languidly behind him, swishing in silent contemplation.

“you came back,” he murmured, his voice a deep, rumbling vibration that seemed to ripple through the darkness, touching places within her she didn't fully understand. it carried a heaviness, something hidden beneath layers of calm control.

myah froze in place, her heart hammering against her ribs. his words echoed through the basement, hanging in the air between them, charged with meaning she couldn't decipher. she didn't know if she felt relief or fear, or some intoxicating mixture of both, but there was no turning back now.

“i had to,” she whispered back, voice barely audible, trembling slightly beneath the intensity of his stare. “i’m not leaving you here.”

he remained motionless for a heartbeat longer, gaze unyielding, a flicker of something unreadable.

something darkly possessive passing through those golden eyes.

his lips curved into the faintest ghost of a smile, subtle enough to almost seem imagined, but unmistakably there. her breath caught as the realization settled heavily into her bones.

the silence stretched between them, deeper and more charged now, until it felt as though the room itself were waiting, holding its breath.

and in that quiet, myah sensed something else begin to take shape, something dangerous, enticing, and far beyond her control.

the silence lingered, dense and heavy, pressing in around her until myah felt like she could barely breathe. she let her eyes drift away from the golden-haired hybrid in front of her, shifting instead toward the others trapped in their cages.

they watched her carefully.

silently.

their eyes, so piercing and full of guarded curiosity, seemed to catch the faint, dim lighting in the basement, each gaze following her movements with a predatory focus she tried desperately to ignore.

she swallowed hard, the lump in her throat painfully tight, before realization suddenly flooded her chest. her heart twisted sharply as she took in the hollowed look to their faces, the subtle way their ribs pressed sharply against skin.

god, when was the last time they had eaten?

"oh my god," she whispered, voice breaking slightly, guilt stabbing sharply in her chest. "you all must be starving."

the golden eyed hybrid’s gaze softened, something almost amused flickering behind the predatory calm in his eyes. he tilted his head slightly, studying her carefully, his long tail flicking lazily behind him.

From across the room another hybrid, with midnight dark hair spoke up,

"you care," he drawled slowly, voice deep and smooth like honey, though an edge lingered beneath the surface, subtle and dangerous. "how interesting."

myah’s cheeks heated at the weight behind his words, but she forced herself to stay steady, stepping a little closer despite the warning bells going off in her mind. she ignored them, shaking off her hesitation. she had to help. she couldn't turn her back, not now.

"of course i care," she replied, voice stronger now, her chin lifting slightly with defiance. "no one deserves this. i won’t leave you hungry."

from one of the cages behind her came a quiet chuckle, a low, husky sound that sent shivers down her spine. turning sharply, she caught sight of another hybrid in the shadows, his silvery-white hair glowing softly even in the dimness, eyes glittering like shards of ice as he regarded her from behind the rusted bars.

"brave little human," he murmured softly, tone playful but dangerously sharp around the edges, "you have no idea what hunger really means."

myah tried not to let his words unsettle her further, tried not to let his icy stare cut beneath her skin. instead, she focused again on the lion hybrid, meeting his steady golden gaze head-on. "i’ll get food. just, wait here."

another amused sound drifted from the raven haired hybrid, his amber eyes peering at her from the darkness. his lips curved faintly into something sharp and unsettlingly knowing.

"we're not going anywhere," he drawled, voice silky but cold, dripping with quiet menace. "take your time."

myah took one last glance at their eyes, sharp, glowing, hungry, and turned quickly, racing back up the creaking basement stairs. her heart pounded painfully in her chest as she emerged into the stale air of the house, her mind spinning wildly.

food.

she had to find food. but what did they even eat?

hybrids, predators, they probably needed meat.

fresh meat.

her stomach turned uneasily at the thought, memories flickering through her mind of childhood visits spent here. her grandfather had hunted regularly, she remembered vividly.

yet, somehow, she’d never once seen a deer carcass or anything remotely like it inside the house.

no, there had never been any raw meat in the fridge. not even once. her grandparents had always kept their kitchen pristine and tidy, a place of warmth and home-cooked meals. there had never been anything bloody or raw tucked away.

so where had it all gone?

myah spun around slowly in the kitchen, pulse quickening as realization dawned on her.

the shed.

her grandfather’s old hunting shed. the little wooden shack that had always felt eerie and had been forbidden during her childhood.

it sat tucked back in the shadowed corner of the backyard, concealed by overgrown bushes and towering trees. she’d never been allowed near it as a child; her grandfather had always warned her away, claiming it was dangerous.

She always assumed it was because her grandparents didn’t want her to get ahold of her grandpa’s rifles and knifes, but now, she understood the true reason.

it must’ve been where he’d stored the meat, fresh from his hunts, hidden away from innocent eyes.

myah rushed out the back door, stepping quickly through the tall grass, the yard eerily quiet around her. the old shed loomed at the edge of the property, dark and weathered with age. ivy crept up its sides, tendrils gripping tightly onto rotting wood. it felt like something from a nightmare, shadowy and foreboding. but she pushed down the dread, forcing herself forward.

with a trembling hand, she grasped the rusty door handle, wrenching the creaking door open. the interior was dark, dusty, smelling strongly of leather, oil, and something sharp and metallic. the air inside felt colder than outside, raising goosebumps along her arms.

she fumbled for the old light switch beside the door, praying it still worked. after a tense moment, the dim bulb flickered to life, casting pale, sickly yellow light across the cluttered space.

her grandfather’s hunting gear lay scattered everywhere, rifles mounted on racks along the walls, knives and traps piled haphazardly on a workbench, old hunting boots lined up beside crates stacked high against one wall. but at the far end of the shed stood something else,

a large industrial freezer, humming quietly.

myah swallowed hard, stepping hesitantly toward it, her throat dry. her heart beat wildly in her chest as she placed her hand on the cold metal handle.

she’d come too far now to turn back.

with a firm tug, she opened the heavy door, a blast of freezing air rushing out to meet her, carrying with it the metallic scent of frozen blood. inside, neatly stacked on shelves, were wrapped cuts of raw meat, large and small. each package labeled meticulously in her grandfather’s neat, cursive handwriting.

deer.

elk.

rabbit.

even something labeled boar.

her stomach churned again at the sight, but relief flooded through her just as quickly. at least there was enough here to feed them. to ease some of their suffering.

carefully, myah pulled out several packages of meat, ignoring the sharp chill that bit at her fingers. she had no idea how much they’d need, but she grabbed enough that her arms strained under the weight. the freezer door slammed shut heavily behind her, echoing sharply in the quiet of the shed.

as she made her way back across the yard, she felt a prickling at the back of her neck, the creeping sensation of being watched. she glanced around quickly, but saw nothing.

just the still, empty yard, the trees looming silently. she shook her head, dismissing the feeling.

she had other things to worry about right now.

by the time she reached the hatch in the kitchen again, her heart was hammering so loudly she feared the hybrids would hear it. she steadied herself carefully, balancing the frozen packages awkwardly in her arms as she descended the steps, back into their cage lined darkness.

their eyes were waiting for her, glowing softly in the shadows, sharp and calculating. watching. hungry.

"i found something, i hope this helps," myah said quietly, steadying her voice as she lifted the heavy packages of frozen meat onto the worn wooden table. her pulse quickened under the weight of their gazes, each hybrid watching her with an intensity she stubbornly refused to show intimidated her.

The same hybrid stepped forward, his amber eyes narrowing slightly, glinting with predatory curiosity. his movements were smooth, deliberate, exuding a controlled menace barely contained behind rusted bars.

"oh, it helps," he purred softly, voice smooth and dangerously alluring, eyes never leaving her face. "you have no idea just how hungry we've been."

myah forced herself not to flinch under his stare, silently holding his gaze with quiet defiance. she wasn't going to let him see how easily he could rattle her. her composure was her armor, and right now, she needed every bit of it.

"interesting," the lion hybrid remarked softly, gaze steady and quietly evaluating. "you returned without your friend this time. was she too frightened to come back?"

myah paused slightly, she vividly remembered how tense chae-eun had been yesterday when they first discovered the hybrids; the way her friend's eyes widened at the creatures who'd seemed so fearful, so vulnerable in their cages. at that moment, they’d looked more frightened of them than the other way around.

myah couldn't help but wonder what had changed. were they simply hungry, exhausted, or was it something else?

"she thought it was better to stay behind," myah replied carefully, keeping her voice even. "after yesterday, i can't say i blame her."

from the cage closest to the stairs, another hybrid chuckled quietly, lounging with casual elegance against the bars. his deep brown curls drawing attention even in the shadowy basement, his tiger-like eyes playful and subtly teasing as he watched her reaction.

"shame," he drawled lightly, a lazy smirk curving his lips. "we barely got a chance to say hello."

myah raised an eyebrow slightly, managing a faint, wry smile despite the unease fluttering in her stomach.

"i think your idea of a greeting might be a bit different than ours," she replied dryly, masking her nerves beneath humor.

a quiet grunt slipped from the cage across from his, containing what looked to be a jaguar.

the hybrid was still shifted, however his gaze held a quiet amusement, silently studying her reaction with careful, thoughtful intensity.

the subtle tension shifted again when a gentler voice drew her attention, familiar, soft, and inexplicably comforting. her heart quickened slightly in recognition. this was the hybrid she’d spoken to through the door yesterday, the gentle voice that had quietly pleaded with her, easing her doubts.

the hybrid who had asked her to return, who she had been unable to forget about.

stepping slightly closer to his cage, she saw his delicate features more clearly, soft hazel eyes wide with sincerity beneath wispy silver hair.

"you shouldn't blame yourself," he murmured quietly, his gaze gentle, reassuring, yet tinged with subtle sadness. "we knew you'd come back. thank you for keeping your promise."

myah’s breath steadied subtly at his quiet sincerity, inexplicably comforted by his voice, his gentle expression. she couldn’t help but trust him, despite the uncertainty that still prickled at the edges of her mind.

"i just want to help," she said softly, earnestness slipping into her tone as she held his gaze briefly.

from the back again, the black-haired hybrid shifted slightly, regaining her attention effortlessly. his eyes narrowed subtly, golden gaze glittering with quiet amusement. "help," he echoed smoothly, voice dripping with subtle skepticism, yet somehow alluring in its challenge. "an interesting way to describe bringing raw meat to caged predators."

myah glanced at him, forcing herself not to react outwardly, though his words did send a small spike of anxiety through her chest. she knew there was truth in his statement, but she refused to let him control the moment. she held her composure steady, lifting her chin slightly.

"would you prefer vegetables instead?" she asked lightly, refusing to be baited further. "because i'm not sure rabbits were on the menu."

another soft laugh drifted from near the stairs again. the curly headed hybrid grinning wider now, openly amused by her retort. "see?" he murmured teasingly, eyes glinting with clear interest. "i knew she had claws."

the silver-haired hybrid, sensing the subtle tension rising again, spoke gently, quietly soothing the room once more. his voice was careful, gentle, subtly pleading for calm. "we're grateful for anything you can do," he assured her softly, hazel eyes earnest. "we just want freedom from this."

the quiet sincerity in his voice tugged deeply at her chest, melting some of the tension still clinging to her shoulders. despite everything, she felt drawn to trust him above all the others, instinctively believing the gentle sincerity he offered.

"i’m trying," she promised softly, sincerity clear in her tone. "i won't leave you stuck here."

silence briefly settled between them, and myah felt the weight of their collective stares again, heavier than before, each hybrid watching her carefully, some with amusement, some curiosity, others quiet calculation.

finally, she stepped back slightly, glancing around the basement thoughtfully, determination steadying her again despite the lingering uncertainty inside her chest. "alright," she said firmly, gaze flickering back to the silver-haired hybrid, quietly finding reassurance in his gentle, hopeful expression. "let's see if i can figure out how to get you out."

a charged silence followed her words, the air in the basement feeling suddenly heavy with cautious hope. myah drew in a slow breath, steadying herself as she glanced around again at the cages, searching for anything she might've missed before.

"do any of you remember how you got out last time?" she asked carefully, keeping her voice calm and gentle as she moved closer to the nearest cage, the one containing the lion. she kept her movements deliberate, careful not to startle or upset them.

he regarded her with quiet authority, eyes steady and watchful. after a brief moment, he shook his head slightly, the thick waves of his golden hair shifting softly against his shoulders.

"we've never been out of these cages," he replied evenly, his deep voice resonating softly in the quiet basement, laced with subtle yet firm certainty. "at least, not since we were put in them."

myah’s brows furrowed slightly in confusion, her heart giving a sharp, anxious twist. that didn't make sense. something wasn't adding up. "but, someone got out," she murmured, mostly to herself, recalling the reports of a hybrid attack, the police statements. her grandparents' fate. she swallowed hard, pushing down the sharp sting of grief. there was no time for that now.

the dark-haired hybrid with the intense amber eyes watched her closely, clearly noting her distress. his voice was soft, velvet-smooth, edged with quiet menace.

"perhaps someone’s not telling you the whole truth," he suggested quietly, his amber gaze narrowed and thoughtful, subtly unsettling in its quiet intensity.

she glanced sharply at him, feeling another small flicker of unease.

was he implying something about her grandparents?

about someone else entirely? she forced herself to shake the thought away, not ready to entertain those suspicions yet. not until she had more answers.

determined, she carefully checked the locks and hinges, examining each door for weakness. her fingers brushed against cold, rusted metal; the surfaces worn but still frustratingly secure. each latch held firm beneath her attempts. frustration began to gnaw at the edges of her composure, her pulse quickening anxiously with every fruitless test.

the curly headed hybrid leaning lazily against his bars tracked her with slow, interested eyes. his posture was relaxed, lounging like a cat sunbathing, but there was a flicker of something sharper beneath it.

something watchful.

"you seem pretty determined," he drawled, his voice light with amusement, but the glint in his eyes wasn’t playful. "but i doubt you’ll get these open by hand. believe me, we’ve tried."

myah let out a quiet breath, running a hand through her hair, trying to mask the growing tension pressing in behind her ribs.

"there has to be another way," she muttered, stepping back to scan the room again. "they can’t have just locked you down here without some kind of system."

"oh, there’s a system," came a voice from the farthest cage, low and smooth like velvet over blades. "you’re just not the one they built it for."

she turned sharply. the one in the shadows hadn’t moved much, but his golden eyes glinted in the dim light, watching her with quiet calculation.

like he was waiting for this moment.

"what does that mean?" she asked slowly. "how did the eighth hybrid get out?"

a beat of silence.

the silver-haired one shifted where he sat, his eyes suddenly distant. he didn’t speak.

the one lounging by the stairs stilled too, his expression folding in just slightly, the casual edge softening into something unreadable.

"there was no eighth predator," the black-haired hybrid said finally. deliberate. calm. like it was a truth he’d held in his teeth too long. "that cage wasn’t for one of us."

myah stared at him. "then who was it for?"

"prey," another voice answered, quieter, softer from the left side of the room. "they kept them there overnight. until they were…taken."

"they never returned," said the deep voice in front of her, steady but heavy. "not ever."

her breath caught.

"you mean prey hybrids? like rabbits? deer?"

"among others," the dark headed hybrid said smoothly. he shifted just slightly in his cage, his golden eyes never leaving hers. "kept in that cage. fattened. frightened. sometimes sedated if they cried too much. usually just…quiet. they knew what was coming."

myah shook her head. no, that didn’t make sense. it didn’t fit. "but no. my grandfather didn’t do that. he,” she paused, sucking in a breath, “he hunted, yeah, but he wasn’t like that. he believed in clean kills, in ethical tags and permits and—"

"you think he was dragging whitetail out of the forest?" the hybrid tilted his head slightly, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. it wasn’t a smile. it was a warning. "those went extinct in this region before you could even walk."

her stomach dropped.

"there’s no wildlife left out there," the one with the golden hair said, his voice calm but edged. "you’d be lucky to find a squirrel. the ecosystems are gone. wiped out. pollution, over-harvesting, fires—take your pick. all the original prey species are either dead, relocated, or too protected to touch."

"but he had meat," she whispered as she slid to the ground. "the freezer, there was venison, rabbit, he said he hunted in the northern woodlands—"

"hybrids are the only remaining source," the hybrid’s voice quiet now. almost gentle. "the gene carriers. you want deer meat, you need a deer hybrid. they harvest from us. still do. just not out in the open."

her blood went cold.

"you’re lying," she said. but it came out wrong. weak. like she was asking.

the one sitting near the stairs scoffed, his eyes gleaming. "do we look like the liars in this story?"

she turned toward the table, staring at the empty meat packages, the ones she’d pulled out of the freezer herself. her stomach twisted violently. she’d brought that meat down here like a gift. like an offering.

"no," she whispered, voice cracking. "he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t feed people—"

"who said it was for people?" the black haired hybrid murmured, almost too low to hear. "some of it, sure. the best cuts went to buyers. the rest? maybe to the staff. maybe into his own freezer. maybe right back down here to us, to see what we'd do."

her hands curled into fists. the nausea burned in her throat.

she looked at the cage again. that cage, noticed its smaller size, the lack of locks to hold it shut. it had never been meant to hold someone like them.

it had been a pen. a prep table.

livestock containment.

"i didn’t know," she said. her voice shook. "i didn’t know any of this."

"you do now.”

the words weren’t cruel. they weren’t sharp or cutting.

they were just…

final.

and somehow that made it worse.

myah stood there, frozen, the truth settling around her like dust after a collapse. heavy. choking. inescapable. she could still feel the cold metal of the cage beneath her fingertips, the weight of the meat she had carried down, the flicker of pride she’d felt for thinking ahead. thinking she was helping.

but that meat had come from someone.

someone who had slept in that cage. breathed in this basement. cried out in the dark and gotten no answer.

someone who had never left.

and her grandfather had known.

not just known, he had organized it. built it. maintained it. made it look normal. made it look ethical.

and she’d never questioned it. not once.

"i grew up in that house," she murmured, not to any of them, not even to herself, but to the ghost of something that had once felt solid inside her. "i used to sit on the porch with him while he cleaned his arrows. i used to help him label the cuts. i thought…"

her voice broke. she blinked hard.

"you didn’t put us here," a voice said quietly.

she looked up.

he was sitting near the front of his cage now, close enough to reach the bars, close enough that she could see the way his pale lashes caught the light.

the silver haired one.

his fingers were loose around the rusted metal, not clutching, just resting. like he’d been waiting. like he wasn’t in a cage at all. just keeping her company.

"but you came back." his voice was soft, careful, like he knew her heart was still in pieces. like he didn’t want to step on the shards. "that has to mean something. doesn’t it?"

myah blinked at him.

there was no accusation in his face. no push. just that unbearable calm, that gentle gravity he carried, like he was built to be safe, even in a place like this.

and that was the problem, wasn’t it?

he made her want to believe in something again.

she stood slowly, brushing her palms off on her jeans. her legs ached, but she kept her gaze on him, watching him watch her.

he tilted his head, just slightly.

and smiled.

not wide. not teasing. just this soft little thing that tugged at her ribs.

“you have a name?” he asked, voice low and warm, like it didn’t matter if she answered or not, he’d remember the way she looked when she did.

“myah,” she said, after a moment. “it’s myah.”

his smile deepened, just a breath.

like he was tasting it.

like he already knew it would ruin him.

“myah,” he repeated, slow and deliberate, like it was a word worth savoring. “that’s a beautiful name.”

her stomach did something embarrassing.

something fluttery.

and then he leaned forward, just a little, just enough for the light to catch on the golden flecks in his eyes, and said, softer, almost conspiratorial, “you can call me jimin.”

like it was a secret. like it was just for her.

she stared at him for a beat too long, her lips parting slightly, caught between suspicion and the stupid, impossible urge to smile back.

“thank you jimin,” she said finally, voice quieter than she meant it to be.

“anytime,” he murmured, leaning dangerously close, like the rusted bars weren’t even there.

"excuse me, sweetheart," a voice drawled from somewhere off to her right. "but some of us would like to eat."

her head snapped toward the sound, heat crawling up her neck like she’d just been caught doing something she hadn’t meant to.

the one who’d spoken leaned lazily against the bars, grinning like he’d been watching the whole thing and was thoroughly entertained.

her stomach twisted. because the grin didn’t reach his eyes. and his gaze, sharp and golden, wasn’t just amused.

it was hungry.

she looked back at the table.

the meat was still sitting there, thawed now. bleeding slowly through its plastic.

but when she turned her gaze back to the hybrid watching her, there was something in his expression that made her feel like that wasn’t the dinner he meant.

she swallowed.

hard.

and the room suddenly felt just a little too warm.

a little too quiet. like the real hunger in here had nothing to do with the meat behind her.

authors note: hey... um i am so sorry about how long this took me to get out. idk why this story is so difficult for me to like what i write, but i hope you guys enjoyed it !! finals are coming up soon so it might be a sec for the next part but then it should be good. also i think every member has been mentioned now (two have been quiet in scenes with myah but i wont say who for rn) , but take your guesses as two whos what hybrid (i'm planning on making like a post just about whos what i'll link it here when i do!) thank you guys all for the support, ik this chapter was kinda boring, but i wanted to set up some relationship dynamics, idk if its just me but i personally hate when a story introduces characters but then leaves them super one dimensional so i used this chapter to kinda flesh out chae-eun as well as start exploring some of the grandparents backgrounds. thank you guys once again i hope you enjoyed it !!

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[unconventional-lawnchair]

Can you do a Remus Lupin and Reader where she gets hurt during quidditch and he helps her around the castle? Thank you so much and I love your writing

A/n: Thank you so much for the request!! I literally dropped everything to do this, oml. I will always priorities Reqs but this was so cute!!

Also, just realized requests weren't set to allow annon automatically?? That has been fixed on my end

Break a Leg Not My Heart

Can't Help Falling in Love Elvis Presley

Remus Lupin x Reader

Wc- 4960

Cw; Use of Y/N, Cussing, negative thoughts, reader is unhinged, reader is unsirius, (Tell me if i missed anything!)

taglist- @otterlockholmes

Everyone knew Remus Lupin could be a bit of a push over. 

Now, that's not to say he wasn't stern and serious when he needed to be, when he knew what was best, or just when Sirius said much of anything that started with ‘Hear me out.’

He was a Prefect, he was known for being a certain quality of student. Studious, always in the library studying with Lily Evans and {Y/N} {L/N}. Wise beyond his years, helping anyone who needed it. He volunteered to help tutor some of the first years with {Y/N} most Sunday evenings. Punctural, made a point to be on time to everything. Well, if he could help it, you did like to sleep in.

Not many people noticed the common theme in his actions. The traits that made up the Lycan were so tightly woven into his friendships, well, more particularly his friendship with you. He never gave up who he was, he never went that far, but it was clear that in the forethought of his, you were in every equation. Sirius certainly noticed.

Sirius would bemoan about it all the time, how you both insisted you were friends, absolutely clueless. He stood by it, however, friends don't look at eachother like you do. Remus insisted you were friends. Best friends.

The feeling was mutual, of course it was. Who doesn't want to spend every second of the day with their platonic soulmate? You would make a point to drag him around with you everywhere you went. You were never shy about it, your words slowly going from questioning to affirmatives. 

“Remus, I am heading to lunch now, come with me?”

“Remus, we are going to the Black Lake, it's hot.”

“Remus, I have Quidditch practice.”

That was another trait of Remus Lupin. He could care less about Quidditch, but not much less. He would complain about going, as he followed you upstairs to your dorm to help bring your gear down. Would try to decipher the ridiculous rules while finding a seat in the stands with Lily and Mary, both coming to support their respective partners.

That's how you got here now, same routine. You were floating above the stands, even as a backup beater you still had to attend every practice. You would complain to James about it, seeing as you only agreed to it as a favor, but he would tease you about it every time. He was lucky some stuff he said was funny. He so rarely was.

You watched Sirius, who was currently the one you were assigned to tag out. It was a lot of time wasted, just floating near your friends and talking when you were sure James didn't notice. Eventually, you turned to Remus in the stands and smiled to see him furrowing his brow at the strange reps James was making the two beaters do. 

“Rem!” You called over to him and lowered down to his eye level, still a good few yards away from them. He looked up at you and lifted an eyebrow. 

“Yeah?”

“Knock knock!”

He looked at you confused before Lily nudged him. “The muggle joke?”

He furrowed his eyebrows at her next before they shot up in realization. “Ah! Who's knocking?” He called over and you threw your head back in a laugh as Lily covered her mouth with a snicker. Mary holding Lily's shoulder as Remus looked at you three incredulously. 

“That's the bloody line, right?”

“Who's there?” Lily laughed out, and you began to dry your tears.

“Tank!”

“Tank who?”

“You're welc-” Before you could even finish the line there was a loud thud and your head jerked forward. You were confused for a moment, smile slowly falling as you looked at the three.

Everything was slowing down, and no matter how hard you squinted, your vision continued to blur. Suddenly, and gradually, hot burning pain rushed threw the back of your head. It was so jarring you teared up, and you could faintly hear a bunch of voices, but you couldn't make out what they said. Slowly, your grip on your broom lessened. 

Warm drops of what you could only assume was your own ichor dropped down your face. Then, your vision started to flash. You were far too loopy to panic, images of you on your broom slipped into a slideshow of you falling, that ended right before you hit the ground.

~~~

“She'll need to rest for the next two days for it to heal, her head is fine but her leg will need some getting used to. Two days in a cast should do her fine.”

Madam Pomfrey’s voice filled the room and you stirred with a whine. Eyes fluttering open and blinded by the lights above. 

“Ugh.. my head…” You groaned, bringing your wrist to your throbbing temple. You fluttered open your eyes and looked around you, seeing James pacing the room and Sirius in front him, while Remus seemed to be shouting at him. Your ears began to ring as your blood rushed, so you couldn't hear him, but you could see the vain in his neck bulging out at his irritation. His tanned face a deep red, and Sirius looked apologetic, just taking the verbal battering.

There was a hand on your shoulder and you turned to see Lily and Mary sitting on the chairs beside you, Peter was behind them smiling softly. “Hey,” You couldn't hear him, but you could see his lips moving. You frowned as the words became more elaborate so you couldn't quite track them.

You looked around at your friends' concerned faces. Lily looked past you and you turned, seeing Remus was kneeling by your bed and saying something you couldn't hear. You huffed and rubbed your temple, closing your eyes. The ringing slowly stopped, but the sounds of the room never returned. You opened your eyes and Remus was looking at you, filled with concern. “Starlight?”

That was a mouth shape you recognized. You reached out to touch his hand and squeeze it, blinking a bit before you spoke. “I can't hear a damned thing. But did you get my joke?” 

You watched as Remus seemed to go through the five stages of grief, before he settled on giving you the most unamused, annoyed, dead inside look you had ever witnessed. That made you smile. Well, smirk, mischievously. “That joke is literal gold, you just don't know talent.”

This time, Remus stood up and walked over to madam Pomfrey and after a small exchange she walked off. You looked around the room idly, trying to pretend you weren't anxious, patting your palms against your blanket covered legs. You could see your friends talking, but you couldn't hear a thing. Your nerves were on end. They looked worried, but you tried your best to keep calm and collected. You knew that if you began to worry, show even a bit of panic or upset, everyone else would too. What was the point anyway? Panicking wouldn't fix your hearing.

At least you don't think so-

Eventually, a hand rested on your shoulder. It was comforting and large, your right hand instinctively crossed your body to rest on it. You turned and smiled up at Remus. He held out a parchment to you and it had large chicken scratch on it. You always found how messy his handwriting was hilarious. He thinks faster than he writes.

‘You broke your leg. Pomfrey says it has to stay in a cast for a day or two, as for your hearing, she says it's a trauma response. Your body will return it when it's ready.’

You scoffed and looked at your hands with an offended bravado. “Who says they get to pick when my hearing goes? No appreciation! I keep you alive, you dumb thing!”

You didn't notice how Remus laughed at how ridiculous you were being. He always admired how easily you could brush stuff so big off. Like when you found out about his condition.

“Oh damn. That's.. so not the bee’s knees.’

Not the bee's knees. He had to have Lily explain that to him. Who in their right mind says that? To their friend in the hospital wing after confessing one of his most hated parts of himself?

He didn't know if he hated or loved you in that moment.

It grew on him, even if he denied it. You were just so damn strange.

“Darn, I guess no classes, hm?” You gave a faux sigh of disappointment. You turned to see Remus say something to Madam before turning back to you, smiling and waving his hand the quill began to write.

‘She says I can monitor you for classes, you should be fine.’

You gave him the dirtiest look you could muster.

“Hey, Rem, so you actually suck a lot.”

~~~

Remus had insisted on walking you back to the Gryffindor commons, carrying your equipment the whole way. You had to use a cane for the time being, so the second you tried to pick up the heavy bag you about gave Remus a heart attack.

Sirius, still pouting even after you accepted his millionth apology, coasted behind you both. You really wish you knew what Remus had said to him. 

When you got to your dorm Remus set your things down and set your bed up with a prop for your leg. You continued to complain about the special treatment as he nagged you for your messy side of the dorm while he was at it. You had to admit, Remus was incredibly sweet. It made your heart clench a bit at how much he seemed to care about your current state. 

You sat on your bed, taking off your robe and letting it fall behind you. Watching Remus rant on, for once, a little sad you couldn't hear his lecture. He seemed so determined to make sure you were comfortable.

Little did you know, to Remus, this was the perfect opportunity to return your kindness. To repay you for all the nights you spent with him in the infirmary, the forgiveness and patience you extended to him during the days up to the full moon, and the doting you gave him after. Not to mention, it felt a bit domestic. He would process his guilt over it later, indulging up such a thought with you unaware. 

Eventually, your roommates got annoyed with his rambling. Marlene threw a pillow at him and she grabbed you from behind making you almost scream in surprise. 

She said something to Remus that made him look away bashfully, and he looked at you, mouthing a goodnight that you returned.

~~~

Remus was at your door early in the morning, which gave you a right scare. He offered you his hand and you looked at it before tilting your head at him curiously he mouthed something and you'd don't quite understand, slowly setting your hand in his extended one.

He gave several different expressions in the matter of a second, before he threw his head back in a laugh. Usually, you'd be embarrassed, but you ended up laughing along with him. He looked happy and you knew Remus would never make fun of you out of malice.

He calmed his breathing and lowered your hand back to your cane, before reaching over this time to take your books and make, your mouth opening and a low, “Ooooohhh,” left you. He laughed at that too.

When you made it to breakfast you were talking animatedly and Remus was listening thoughtfully. He would occasionally make a nod or shake his head at some things you said, not able to face you with how your gaze was locked on him to gather all his micro expressions. He had set himself up for disaster.

Once you sat at the table and greeted everyone, you hardly paid attention to Remus. You focused mostly on your food. 

You loved being around your friends, you did, but not being able to hear them was so isolating. You could see Remus talking to James, and by the look on his face, it was likely about something they had done they most certainly shouldn't have. You could see Lily, also giving James the most incredulous look ever. 

Mary and Marlene were talking and glancing at the Hufflepuff table, but you couldn't gather a thing otherwise. Sirius was debating something with Peter who you could only describe as distressed. Some interesting hand movements later and a slap from Marlene, you could assume it was something vile. Soon, you gave in and just soaked up their presence. You didn't need to hear them to be a part of the group, just.. the conversation. 

Suddenly, you gave a small yelp as your leg was lifted. Remus, without stoping his verbal battle with James, lifted your ankle and rested your hurt foot on his lap. You melted a bit, it was always the smaller things he did that let you know you had a best friend in him. 

Just a best friend.

Even as his thumb trailed circles on your exposed knee, his forefingers resting on your inner thigh. Yup. Totally best friends.

~~~

Your leg ended up falling asleep like that. You playfully reprimanded him and he just gave you a laugh that you couldn't hear but your mind filled in the blanks. You noticed how proud and confident he seemed to be, taking care of you. It was sweet.

As you walked from class to class he carried your things and was there at your desk the second the bell rang. Then there were potions.

You shared potions with all of the boys and Lily, so you usually sat with Peter so Sirius could bum off of Remus’s hard work, leaving James to swoon while his girlfriend did all the work. You looked to the board and grimaced, wiggenweld. You knew it was a practice instead of theory day, but you were hoping for an easier potion.

To your surprise, Peter was sitting with a pouting Sirius, your usual spot cleared up. Before you could make a remark Remus put his things down and sat where Peter usually did. You found yourself smiling bright. “What the heck Remus?” You teased and sat down, once again, he lifted your leg onto his lap to keep it elevated.

Like a best friend would do.

“Can't leave me be for a half hour, Remmy?” You teased him as he took out his parchment and began to pull aside ingredients you couldn't reach with your stationary leg.

You were distracted storing out the ingredients by order and scribbling down notes on the more vague steps. You didn't get a chance to notice Remus smiling at you, his eyes sparking with new found fondness. “No I can not.” He muttered to no one in particular.

Not noticing himself as Sirius gestured aggressively to you two in aspiration. Lily laughed at his display and James covered his mouth to hide his smile. Seems Remus was finally clued in.

You began to work on the potion as Slughorn dismissed the class to their assignments. You prepped the ingredients and fell into an easy and fluid motion with Remus. You didn't have a clue why you hadn't worked together before, you did everything together anyway, and Sirius could suck it.

Your friends watched as you smiled down at the horklump, rubbing a spoon over it threw a strainer, giving a laugh as it splattered on your face. Remus watched you, smiling softly. He seemed distracted the whole practical exam, but there wasn't a moment he wasn't listening to you. 

Your test ended with a passing grade, that's all you really needed. Still, Remus apologized for being distracted. 

Remus Lupin was a perfectionist in everything he did. He felt that even in his best moments he was seconds away from failing. He improved himself until there was nothing to improve upon. He aced assignments, mentored underclassmen, pulled off some of the most outrageous pranks in Hogwarts history, he even turned down the head boy position for James, everything he had done in the last seven years felt unsatisfactory. Apathy wasn't a foreign concept to him.

Neither was pity. Those two things were handed out to him in the eyes of everyone he'd ever met. No matter how far Remus came, disappointment was still holding him by his in a silent reminder that nothing would outshine the worst of him. It swallowed him whole most days, his self doubt. So he stayed distracted, chasing the high of praise and approval. 

He was much like Sirius in that regard, but Sirius acted out and Remus did his best to go unnoticed by anyone other than the people closest to him. Unless it was about his achievements.

He wanted to be remarkable and unnoticed, it was the contradiction that was Remus Lupin.

You made him feel those two things, like he was the most important thing in the world, like you couldn't do anything without him. Then, you made him feel like a normal student. Like he was just someone in the herd. He liked that about you.

But having you depend on him, just today, there was something new brimming in his chest. He grappled with the realization that you being dependent on him for a change was more fulfilling than his collective five years of overshadowed achievements.

You seemed him out; when you found him you needed him. Not that it couldn't be anyone else, you chose him. Well, he volunteered, but when you looked up at him with those eyes of yours he knew you had no qualms with it. He felt strong, he felt needed, and he felt like he wasn't the one hurting. 

{Y/N} {L/N} never needed anyone. You made that clear since first year, you were remarkably strange and friendly, you never filtered yourself out for anyone. You were you, that's all you needed to be. You didn't need to be witnessed to live.

But you wanted Remus to witness you.

He was learning that he loved to. To witness you. 

Yet here you were, none the wiser, while Remus realized how far he had fallen for his best friend. And in all honesty;

He wasn't scared.

~~~

Once dinner came around you were reminded just how out of the loop you were without your hearing. You were poking at your meal with your head down, pushing around a bit of your uneaten food. Today had been long, and every break mostly consisted of you trailing after your group and watching them laugh and indulge in each other's presence. 

You knew it wasn't the end of the world, tomorrow morning you would be cut free of your cast and eventually your hearing would come back.

It drove you mad not knowing when though. You knew it wouldn't stay forever, you were self assured in that fact, but knowing the possibility of it being weeks, months, Merlin, even a year? An entire year of not hearing your friends' voices. Dragging Remus down with you.

You didn't notice your friend's concerned look. Eventually, as you stared down at the fork in your hand, a note slid into your peripheral, it was Lily's handwriting, the only person you know to be able to flow her letters so perfectly.

‘Ready?’

You looked up to see people had started packing up. You nodded and began to stand, Remus slipping his hand behind your lower back making you jolt a bit. He flinched away and you immediately cursed, ‘come baaaccck.’

~~~~

Your thoughts followed you to the common room. Before you could escape your friends, go allow yourself to mope, everyone insisted on drinking and talking. 

You didn't want to. You really didn't. Remus was staying behind, however, and you know how much he hated when you'd leave him to be the only responsible drinker. Not that he had to worry too much, Mary always stayed sober to reel in Marlene.

You let yourself believe he just wanted to spend time with you. 

So here you were, sitting on the couch, leaning you back against the arm rest and staring at the group as they talked. Your legs were resting over Remus’s, his lithe fingers rubbing up and down your exposed knee to the bottom of your skirt. Now, this was something Remus would never do, but you didn't even have time to enjoy the satisfying moment of slight intimacy, still too in the dumps.

Your frown deepened as you watched people get up to dance around you. Lily had put a song on the record, you only knew it to be ‘Love Grow(where my Rosemary goes)’ by Edison Lighthouse, because of the album cover she brandished to James with a little wiggle of her eyebrows. One of your favorites. 

At this point, your arms were crossed in a pout as you watched everyone dance but you and Remus. You blinked away those thoughts and turned to Remus. 

“You can go dance, I won't be offended.” You muttered out with a pout. He turned to look at you from the dancing figures. He seemed to come to some conclusion, and tapped your calf. You moved your legs and went back to watching the group before his hand was in your face. You looked up at him confused to see him offering it to you. You carefully took his hand and he lifted you up, leading you on the dance floor. You were wobbly, but he nudged your hurt foot until you arched it up, he took on most of your weight and you leaned into his chest to balance.

He began to sway, you laughed, and he beamed at how happy you seemed. It was ridiculous, you both looked ridiculous, Sirius gave a wolf whistle you couldn't hear and he couldn't give less of a fuck. 

As you got more comfortable he pulled back and began to spin and slide with you. You were a giggling mess and he wrapped his arms around your waist and faced you away from him, making you tilt your head all the way back to see him. He could have died right there. 

As the song faded out, you guys stopped your completely tone deaf moves, and he looked back with a dazzling smile at Lily who put on another song. He was panting, he could see all his friends watching with what seemed to be far too interested looks.

When his eyes went back to you, you were still staring up at him with a bright rush of affection. Somehow, always, Remus knew just what to do. Just what to say. 

The song kicked up and Remus thinned his lips a bit.

‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ by Elvis Presley. 

He knew he shouldn't. He should fool himself with something so intimate. But you were looking back at him with so much excitement, so much love, who the hell was he to say no?

… Wise men say

Only fools rush in

He nodded to you and you spun to face him again, leg swaying a bit from where you kept it up. You moved to put some space between you, but instead, he wrapped one hand around your lower back and took your other hand. His movements were identical to Marlene with Mary and James with Lily, Sirius even managed to get a girl from one of the many onlookers to dance with him. His being much more professional.

But I can't help falling in love with you

You were confused at first, but you wouldn't say you hated it. It was intimate, as he pulled your chest to his and gave you his smile now. You pressed your tongue to your cheek and smirked at him. He gave you a playful wink as you rolled your eyes.

Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin

If I can't help falling in love with you?

He gave you a slow and careful swirl, and when you returned to him, he pulled your head to his chest and rested his chin to your head.

… Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be

He gave you a playful dip and you finally laughed, relaxing fully into the oddly familiar feeling. He's held you before, but never so carefully. Like he could loser you at any point if one thumb was misplaced. 

… Take my hand

Take my whole life, too

He suddenly flattened out his hand against yours. You turned to look from where your face was peacefully nuzzled into his chest. You watched as he spread his fingers, and in turn, yours. Before he interlocked them. You bit your bottom lip and looked up at him. He was mouthing some of the lyrics, and you just managed to watch the last verse.

“For I can't help falling in love with you.”

Your eyes widened. Was he.. was he serious? His eyes were staring into yours like he was putting himself on the line with those words. You took a deep breath and held it, as he leaned down towards you as you both slowed to a stop. You stared at his lips, waiting so patiently for his next words.

“I love you, {Y/N}.” 

The words looked so natural on his lips. You didn't know what to say. You knew what he said. You didn't have a doubt in your mind about it. You suddenly moved in and kissed him, eyes closed before you pulled away. It was quick, it was a bit hard. His lips were chapped and his eyes were still on yours when you opened them. 

He looked stunned, and you couldn't hear the loud, “Finally!” From Sirius.

Nor could you hear Lily’s delighted gasp when he moved in and kissed you again. His hands left your side and hand, grabbing your cheeks. His fingers loosen when you meet him halfway, moving down to your neck and resting his thumbs on your cheeks.

You broke the kiss again, forgetting how to breathe. His lips followed yours before his eyes fluttered but stayed closed. You looked at him in pure shock. What do you do now? What do you say? Did it matter?

Suddenly his face scrunched up and you narrowed your eyes a bit.

“Ow ow ow ow..” Remus muttered and you flinched back when you read his lips. You had rested your casted foot against his toes. Wincing and apologizing like crazy, you moved too quickly and the weight shift caused you to fall back. He quickly caught you in a very deep dip. One hand around your neck and the other around your lower back. Your arms wrapped around his neck and everything was slow.

What a lovely cliche. 

It got even better, as he lifted you closer and kissed you again. His hand from your neck sliding down to help keep your casted leg bent to his hip. 

It was perfect.

~~~ Bonus Scene ~~~

You woke up to the sound of Marlene and Lily talking idly in your dorm room. A few days after the dancing and you and Remus had slipped from friends to more in such a simple and seamless mesh. 

A mesh of messy kisses and rushed ‘I love you’s in the hall. Late night rendezvous in the common room grossing out your friends with all the stolen kisses and messy cuddles where limbs weren't easily identifiable in the dark.

You smiled softly, unable to tame how your heart clenched and a goofy smile took your lips. Then it hit you. You could hear.

You shot your head up and began tos scramble for Remus’s jumper he left over last night. Marlene and Lily snapping over to look at you but not getting a word in before you were dashing out of the room in just your pajama pants and his sweater. 

You don't know how quickly you were running until you made it to his dorm. Your healed leg throbbing from lack of use but you couldn't care less. You slammed your way into the prefect dorms, Remus long since given you the password.

You ignored fussy prefects and walked right up to Remus’s dorm. You knocked in a rush, and the door opened to show James. You'd didn't even care to ask him why he wasn't in the Head Boy dorms, just shoving past him to hurry into the room. 

Sirius looked up from a lounge chair in the corner and smirked when he saw you, opening his mouth to make a smart remark before you interrupted him. 

“Remus?”

“Starlight?” Remus called out from the closet, stepping out in pajama pants as well, no short, and a towel in his messy hair. He couldn't help but smile at your rosey cheeked winded gasps, despite his confusion. “What are you-”

“Say it.” You demanded quickly and closed the gap between them. He looked at you confused before it suddenly hit him that you had responded and reacted to his words. You could hear him.

He let the towel fall from his hair to his shoulders as he wrapped his arms around your waist and brought you close. “Say what?”

“You love me.” You commanded with puffy flustered cheeks. Suddenly so much less confident now that you faced him. He laughed and moved his hands to your cheeks.

“You came running all the way here for that?”

“Remus, I've been waiting years.”

“I love you, {Y/N}.” He whispered and pulled you into a kiss. You smiled and gave a sigh of bliss into it. This time, you were able to hear Sirius wolf whistle behind you.

[revelboo]

Everything Is Alright

Chapter One

Rolling through the clouds, Starscream almost feels free. Everything dragging at him left behind far below. Up here, the paranoia and anger can’t hold him. He can think. So it’s an effort to make himself land, transforming at the last minute so his peds gouge up dirt and rocks as he slides. And reality sinks back in like it always does as soon as he’s grounded again. Up there, he sometimes just thinks about not stopping. That maybe he could just fly away and leave the hurt and frustration behind. He never does, though. He can’t.

There’s nothing really here, just thickly wooded land and a winding ribbon of asphalt running through it. Nothing to indicate there’s energon here. Venting softly, he maps out the terrain. It’s such a little thing that he almost misses it. A branch among the trees cracking. And he turns toward it, arm lifting.

That small move saves his life. There’s no mistaking the Autobot spy lunging at him, denta bared like a feral beast. A blade humming in his fist that almost sheers through a wing and drives into his side. Reeling back with a cry, he spots the little scout raising his own weapon. And he’s transforming even as his wound pour energon and scream at him. Thrusters igniting and bowling Jazz over. Knowing he’s not bought himself any time at all.

Scrap. Just like every other time he reaches, everything’s gone sideways. All the intelligence Starscream had received in his reports had indicated that the Autobots were unaware of the energon deposit the Decepticon scouts had picked up on their scanners. Supposed to have been only a recon mission to get a better lay of the land. Not an ambush. Meaning someone had set him up. He should be used to it by now, it shouldn’t still have the power to hurt him.

Turbines screaming, Starscream can feel the wound in his side and wing pulling. Too much damage to get any altitude, so now he’s down over a wooded stretch of road. Every attempt to climb sending darts of tearing pain through him and spurring the Autobots to double their attacks. Trying to ground him, because once they do it’s over and they know it as well as he does. Pain burns white hot as his own fury through him even as he steadily loses altitude and any hope of just flying away from his pursuers. No, that wing is hanging on by a prayer to Primus and pure, unadulterated spite as he drops even lower. His wingspan too wide for the narrow road he’s flying over as he dips down below the trees and feels the tips of his wings cracking branches to rain down into the road. Every impact jarring through him, trying to tear him apart.

Not that the debris is doing a blasted thing to deter the two Autobots in pursuit. No, Bumblebee and Jazz are right there, still firing on him as they swerve around the bigger branches. It’s almost funny that he’s going to be brought down by only two of them. It’s insulting.

He rolls slightly around a curve, wingtip scraping the asphalt in a spray of paint-scraping, painful sparks. Knows they won’t give up the chase. Can’t now that he’s bleeding energon and running like a startled turbo fox. Because while he isn’t exactly outgunned, he has little doubt that they’ve already called in for backup. Fury twisting about his spark, desperation claws at him.

Calling in his own? Having to beg for help even from his own trine? Weak. And weakness doesn’t survive long among the Decepticon ranks. Maybe Thundercracker and Skywarp won’t exploit that weakness to ursurp his spot, but Megatron would feel that it’s a teaching moment. And beat it into him with his fists. Besides, someone had tipped off the Autobots that he’d be out here. Betrayed again, even though at this point it really shouldn’t be a surprise.  Another tight corner. So tired, but then that spark deep exhaustion is something he’s well and truly used to. He’s on his own, but that’s nothing new. When you can’t trust anyone, you learn to rely on yourself. To push harder, fight with the desperation of the cornered. They might bring him down, but he’ll drag at least one to the Pit with him.

Weapons fire peppering him, he swings another curve and there’s a car up ahead in the distance. For a moment, he thinks it’s over. That this is the reinforcements the Autobots must have summoned. But, no. It’s only a human. And an opportunity.

One more mile to get it together. Except, you’ve been telling yourself that for how many miles now? It’s been halfheartedly misting rain for the last several minutes, but you don’t bother to roll the windows up on your old sedan. Not when you desperately need the chilly feel of the wind sinking icy fingers into your hair and tearing at your ponytail to help numb the anger and stress just there under the surface. Because it always falls apart when you think that maybe this time you got it right.

But even with the speedometer pushing 65 on the wooded country road, there’s no outrunning yourself. Or stopping your mind from sifting through the fallout from your latest boyfriend. Letting the intrusive thoughts in. Like maybe he’d been right, and you hadn’t really made enough time for him. Even if you both worked crappy, full-time jobs that consumed more than their fair share of your time and energy.

If anything, it was as much his fault as yours, right? Hands going white knuckled on the wheel, you crank the rock and roll even higher to let the thump of the bass roll through your bones and send your thoughts flying. You’re out past the county line now, the road just an inky ribbon of asphalt snaking through the woods. Occasionally, the setting sun dazzles you through the gaps in the trees in piercing, painful flares of red and gold.

From the depths of your mind comes the thought that you could just keep driving. See where the road went until it ended somewhere on the coast. It was a lovely dream, but just that. You weren’t brave enough to just go. That’s why you still lived in the nowhere town you’d grown up in. Your foot settles a little more firmly on the gas pedal, slaloming around lazy curves as you try to shake off the mellow ache, because now you’re angry with him and yourself.

You could do it. Flip the proverbial bird to everything you know, especially your awful boss, and just nope off into the sunset without a plan. Probably end up living in the car if it didn’t break down before you even managed to cross the state line. It was funny in a decidedly unfunny way, because your own worst enemy? You. It’s always you.

Snorting at yourself, it takes a minute to register the new sound over the wail of an electric guitar pouring tinnily through your speakers. What is that? The fine hair at your nape prickles as it rolls over you, a thunderous scream that locks the breath in your lungs. Eyes darting up to your mirror there’s a moment of blank disbelief, because no. That’s not a jet right behind you, flying lower than a jet has any reason to as its huge wingspan sheers off branches in its wake. It can’t be.

There’s no time to argue with the impossible vision because the belly of the jet slams and scrapes along the roof of your car with an awful shriek, and panic lights you up. You haul at the wheel, foot slamming down on the brake and then you’re sliding on the wet road. Things get a bit funny after that. Trees right there and the noise of the impact. Your forehead bouncing off the wheel and then slamming back as the airbag deploys with enough force you’re stunned again.

Your world blurs into a confusing smear of impossibility when you lift your head and feel your heartbeat throbbing at your temple. For a moment, you can’t figure out the seatbelt, everything hurts, and your mouth tastes like old pennies.

In the distance, a rumble of thunder rolls as the buckle finally unclips. The door is partially dented in by the impact, so you crawl out the window, head pounding to match the thunder. But thunder doesn’t sound like that. This is a staccato thumping that makes no sense. Guns? Probably that jet exploding. Your awkward slide out of the car via the window isn’t dignified or graceful. Twisting to land on your hip instead of your face, you lift your head. Everything’s muddled and you definitely have a concussion. That’s the only way to explain whatever the hell it is you’re looking at. There are giant robots in the road and one of them has wings painted like the stupid, low flying jet that had tried to kill you. And they have guns. You don’t even know what to make of this particular hallucination playing out in front of you. Staggering up out of the ditch and onto the road, it feels like you’re on a ship, the ground pitching and rolling under your feet as your stare up at the nonsense. You definitely brained yourself good. Most likely, you’re still in the car bleeding out and this was your mind’s idea of a consolation prize. Except you’d never actually liked sci-fi or robots.

Turning unsteadily as your whole body screams in pain, you stare from the jet and its fiery red eyes to the other two imaginary head trauma robots. One’s yellow and the other is white with red and blue accents. And they’re not shooting the jet anymore. They’re just staring down at you in the same kind of dumb stupor that's weighing you down. Your legs get a bit cute on you and your knee thumps onto the road. Feeling the grit and loose gravel digging into you cuts through the hazy fog of pain and disbelief.

Because it’s real. And then the panic rears its head, screaming at you to run even as you freeze. You’d always kind of assumed you’d do well under pressure. That you’d at least do something. Kneeling there as the misty rain slowly chills your skin, you don’t move. You can’t. Not even when you see the jet monster lunge right at you, big hand reaching.

It's almost serendipity when the human staggers up into the road between him and the two Autobots. Gaping up at them with no sense of self-preservation or fear. Staring at him in the optics like he’s no threat to you. Brave, but so stupid.

Because his options are limited. How long until the Autobot’s backup arrives? Feeling the wound in his side pulling as he lunges, he’s only barely aware of Jazz’s cry. The human is softer than he expects, that soft flesh giving horribly against his servos as he catches you and lifts you out in front of him like the most ineffective shield ever. Aside from a wheezing sound halfway between a gasp and a moan, the human just hangs there in his grip, unresisting. Maybe broken.

All that matters is that Jazz and Bumblebee have frozen. Maybe it isn’t so ineffective. Because the Autobots are forbidden from harming organics. Especially humans. Baring his denta in a feral smile, he backs away from the two.

“Let the human go, Starscream,” Bumblebee says, voice as steady as the weapon still raised toward him in threat.

An empty threat. A laugh escapes him, his smile turning nasty. “No, I don’t think so.”

Whatever is inside humans is hot, sticky, and leaking unpleasantly against his servos. The sensation is almost enough to make him chuck you at the two idiots to buy himself some time. Small hands push at his servos as the thing in his grip shudders. You’re silent, though as you look up at him with big, terrified eyes.

Spark thrumming, he keeps moving back. They’re really going to let him go just because he’d nabbed a human with no survival instincts whatsoever. It’s too sweet to believe. Eerily quiet  in his grip as you sluggishly leak red fluid from a gash on your head, those wide eyes meet his optics. Turning on his heel, he pulls you into his chassis as he transforms, pain rippling through him. There’s a terrifying moment of very real fear that his wing won’t hold. That he and his hostage will crash back down, but his turbines roar and he’s gone. Still can’t get any altitude, but they’re not firing on him. Not pursuing all because they might hurt the weak little organic he grabbed. It’s almost too funny to think something so stupid just saved his life. This pitiful thing’s life is worth more than his to them.

You’re no longer silent, he can hear your rasping gasps. Maybe transforming around you had finally broke through your shock. Something definitely had. He can feel your little hands scrabbling at his interior in a panic, the sensation causing his metal flesh to crawl all over. Because you’re inside him. Touching everything. Leaking that sticky red stuff inside him. The only consolation at all was that you aren’t screaming.

Yet.

“Keep your filthy little hands to yourself,” he snarls as you paw at the seam of his cockpit as if you want to be jettisoned. Nearly begging for it. As tempting as that thought is, the docile, little thing has potential. Namely as a way to keep the Autobots from firing at him.

Snatching your hands back, wide eyes dart around his interior. So, you aren’t quite as addled as he’d thought. Surprising. “It’s talking. The giant, metal death robot is talking,” you mutter, voice soft and raspy with pain as you tuck your hands against your chest.

“Starscream.” The annoyance is immediate and the human flinches at his tone, shoulders hunching. You don’t respond, though. Just make that weird, gasping sound as you look around for an escape.

Aside from a low, moaning when he transforms around you a second time, you’re silent as he keeps you trapped inside his canopy. One of your soft hands slaps against the glass to make him shudder, hearing your breathing becoming louder and more frantic. There’s the fear he’d expected. By some miracle, he makes it inside the base and to his quarters without getting stopped. Though, Skywarp gives him a look as he limps past. A low growl and a flash of denta enough to discourage his trine brother from needling him for the moment. Wondering if he walks past if he’s the one who betrayed him.

Closing the door behind himself, the pain of his ruined wing crests and threatens to wash over him. Servos gingerly touching his side and wincing when they come away wet with energon, he picks up an empty energon cube and pops his canopy. With a startled cry, you fall out into his palm, and he drops you into the cube. The walls are high enough that he doubts you can manage to get free and even if you do, where will you go? Placing the cube on a shelf, his optics narrow as you scramble to the far side of your prison, eyes wide.

Whether or not you’d meant to, and it’s definitely not, you’d saved his life. And he’s not sure how he feels about being in the debt of a human. Venting softly, he turns and leaves you to go find the medic.

You slide slowly down the smooth glass wall to land on your butt as your legs just give up. The apparently not hallucinatory, brain trauma induced, giant robot stuck you in a big, square aquarium and even though the top is open, you can’t get enough air. Or stop shaking as panic sank its teeth into your throat.

Reaching up, you gingerly touch your temple. There’s blood there, but sticky and not actively bleeding you think. And even if you’re not imagining all this, you probably, definitely, do have a concussion. You can’t motivate your shaking, noodle legs to stand, so you crane your neck to study your prison. The walls are much higher than you are tall and featureless. No way to get a good grip to climb out, even as you very briefly entertain and dismiss the idea of parkouring up the corner of the box to freedom, because that isn’t happening, and you know it.

Which leaves you all alone to wander the shores of melancholy regret in the silence of the empty room. There’ll be no seeing where any other roads go now. No second chances. You tunnel your fingers through your hair, pulling on it as you try to gather yourself. To think it out. Feeling miserable, you look around the big room. It's giant robot sized and surprisingly spartan. There’s a flat metal berth along one wall, a desk and chair, what might be storage drawers, but blessedly little else. No mementos of a life lived. No trinkets. Something about that nags at you, but you don’t dwell on it.

You’re not sure how long your big, evil robot, Starscream, is gone. Hours? You’re almost drowsing in your corner even as you shiver uncontrollably in the icy room. Apparently cold doesn’t bother giant robots, but then, it’d been very warm when you’d been trapped inside its interior. Any other time you’d have been ecstatic about riding in a jet. Fear for your life had soured the experience. You’d explored your head wound with tentative fingers and decided it wasn’t that bad. A little gash at your temple.

You bang the back of your head on the glass wall of your cage when the door opens, and your kidnapper returns. Those glowing red optics slide your way before dismissing you. That stare is weighing you and finding you lacking. Shifting to drag your legs against yourself, you watch it move to an oversized chair and slump. Teeth chattering, a new concern surfaces. This horror knows you need food and water, right?

“Almost brought down by two weak Autobots,” it mutters, dragging a hand down its face in a disturbingly human gesture. For an alien robot murder machine, its face is uncannily human. It reaches back to prod at one of its wings. It looks better than it had, you realize. “Nearly ripped my wing off.”

Was it talking to you? Unsure, you dart your tongue out to wet your lips. Somehow you hadn’t yet won yourself a Darwin Award even though you’d blundered into the middle of a fire fight between huge, angry robots while gawping like a hick tourist. Did you dare push your luck? “How dare they,” you say, voice a barely-there, raspy whisper. Mostly being sarcastic, although it’s more tired than anything else.

It hears you, though. That big head turns to stare at you, and you wilt as its wings flit up a little higher and the silence stretches. You shouldn’t have said that.

“Right?” Starscream demands suddenly, growling voice full of irritation. It sounds like a he, you decide. Though since it is whatever the hell it is, who knew. Staring right at you, he bares his denta in a smug snarl. “I could have destroyed them then and there with one servo.”

It’s almost funny as the alien death machine actually puffs out his chest a bit when you nod in agreement, teeth chattering. And then you run with it, playing devil’s advocate, because staying on his good side? Definitely a good idea. “They wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Of course not,” he sneers, rising to tip his head at you with almost predatory interest. Drifting away to a wall, he retrieves a huge blanket and drops it unceremoniously on you. The material is soft as silk, but some chemical smell clings faintly to it. You still cocoon yourself in it, face poking out to watch your evil robot return to his chair and his sprawl. And the silence spreads between you, studying him since he’s studying you in return.

The shivers slowly ease, but don’t go away altogether. That doesn’t stop you from drifting off, though. Your sleep is thankfully a dreamless void that sinks its claws in and drags you under. It’s almost pleasant up until something bounces off your head and the pain you’d left behind in sleep screams through you. Along with the realization that you’re being buried alive. Clawing your way free, you fall on your face, swearing.

And look up to find Starscream staring down at you, his lips twitching in cruel amusement at your expense. Your heart runs wild, rabbit-fast in fear. Red optics shift behind you then back. Wary, you turn to look and find he’d buried you in a mountain of beef jerky, chips, soda, and- its food. He’s brought you food. That has to be a good sign, right? Why bother to feed you if he’s just going to squish you.

Sure, he could have not dropped it all on your head, but you aren’t about to tell him that. Just like you aren’t going to think too deeply about where the food came from either. It’s not like he can just waltz into a store and buy stuff. You’re snapped out of thoughts of sirens and explosions when you realize those fearsome optics are scrutinizing you. Waiting for your reaction?

“Thank you?” Your voice is soft and uncertain, but the big, scary robot freezes all the same. Those wings on his back flip up then back down. Like he’s surprised that you’d thanked him. Just like the complete 360 he’d pulled when you’d agreed with him before. Like your captor isn’t too used to being listened to or appreciated. And he not only loves the attention, he might just crave it. Fawning over him is a small price to pay for your life. And that smug, preening smirk paired with those little wing flutters? For a kidnapping, killer robot, he’s kind of adorable. Not that you’re ever going to admit that out loud. You like living too much for that.

You freeze when he reaches into your cage before scooting back from that massive hand. Unwilling to give up your warm blanket, you drag it with you and suck in a sharp breath when he cages you in his hand and lifts you out. His grip isn’t as rib crushing as the last time he’d snatched you up and you cling to his servos, heart racing as he places you on the desk.

Scrolling through reports, Starscream keeps an optic on his new- what, pet? Yes. A pet. Letting out a long-drawn vent, he works and tracks the human as you stand up still wrapped in the cleaning cloth he’d given you and dragging it along as you cautiously move around his desk. It only takes a low growl under his breath to discourage you from getting near the edge. Those big eyes dart up to him in surprise before moving away from the drop.

Satisfied that you’re not going to launch yourself to a stupid death, he resumes perusing reports. “Can you believe those idiots?” He grumbles to himself out of habit. “I told them that mine was unstable.”

He hears your quiet steps as you move closer to him, little face tipped up toward him. “They should have listened to you,” you say, the words surprising him.and he studies you. While your hair is matted with dry blood, it doesn’t look like the wound is serious since you’re up and about.

Were humans usually this astute or had he just picked a particularly smart one? His wings adjust slightly as he turns his attention to the tiny creature. “They never listen to me.” Reaching out he ghosts the tip of a servo over your head, surprised by how soft your hair is. And you go still under his touch, head lowering as he slides that finger down your back. Feeling the rapid beat of your heart against his servo.

He'd had a petro rabbit once, the tiny, fragile thing so trusting. It would eat from his hand and come willingly to him. Petro rabbits weren’t exactly clever, though. Couldn’t distinguish him from Skywarp and had died for it. And even though Skywarp had claimed it had been an accident, Starscream had never really let it go. Or believed him. Suddenly unsettled, he gently strokes over your head again. Soothing himself and his new pet.

Because this time would be different. He freezes as you lean into his palm, slowly relaxing. Your skin is colder than he remembered, and he frowns as he carefully curls his servos around you. And you shift eagerly into his warmth with a little noise of pleasure. His optics flit to the empty energon cube as you relax further against him, your own big eyes peering up at him trustingly. He'd never actually been this close to a human, he realizes. Certainly never touched one.

Venting softly, he uses his free hand to pull his datapad closer so he can finish going through the reports. Stiffening when you lay your head on his servo, little hands clinging as you soak up his warmth. Not sure what to make of your trust when he can’t trust anyone. So how can you trust him when you don’t even know him?

Next

[sha-n-dowbannedlol]

Miguel O'Hara — Love Sick

a/n: i've been slaving over genetics (and biochemistry) lately, and when i was scrolling on tiktok during my break i saw this one superbat imagine and thought of writing it with my favorite geneticist

cw: uh just fluff ig, miguel o'hara is not good with feelings, miguel o'hara is emotionally constipated

You haven't always had the best of luck in your life.

It wasn't so bad that it made you hit rock bottom, but you've had your fair share of moments where you ended up drawing the shortest end of the stick in the game we all call life.

And as you stare at Peter's hand balled to a fist, and yours with two of your fingers pointed out, his hand forming a rock and yours forming scissors, you quickly conclude that this is one of those moments.

Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't put losing to Peter in rock, paper, and scissors as top 5 of the worst moments of your life; however, this is different. To explain just how different it was, we need to go back to a few minutes ago, the reason why you and Peter had to play in the first place.

Not long ago, you received an alert from the Spider-Man 2099 himself asking for backup. You didn't bother to respond as Jess had already reassured you that she's got him—as it turns out, she, in fact, does not have him when she teleported back with an unconscious Miguel draped over her shoulder.

That, in itself, is already worrying enough. But what worried you more was Lyla's report on your boss' situation, relaying the information to Miguel's inner circle of most trusted Spider-people, including you.

"He's been hit with a love potion, an incredibly potent one at that," Lyla reports, her holographic form adjusting her heart glasses and typing away on her holographic computer. "It hasn't kicked in yet, but it will the moment he wakes up," Lyla adds before looking up from her computer, disappearing and reappearing in the middle of the huddled-up spiders

"And when he does, he'll be head-over-heels in love with the first person he sees," The AI informed them in a serious tone, before grinning like the mischievous rascal she is.

"So... Who will the lucky person be?"

It has been decided amongst your group that whoever loses shall be the unfortunate soul that needs to deal with Miguel's affection until Lyla and the other Spiders have concocted an antidote for everyone's admired boss.

And now, you stare back at your hand, then at Peter's, and back at your own hand again. Silence fills Miguel's spacious office as all eyes land on you, and you can feel your cheeks already starting to warm up.

"Can't we just blindfold him?" You spoke before anyone else could, looking over at the holographic AI, who seemed a bit too pleased with the results. "Or lock him in a room or something?"

"Don't be so barbaric," Peter spoke with amusement in his voice.

"Right. Besides, it can't be that bad!" Lyla spoke, her voice with a hint of something that you can't quite put your finger on. Mischievousness? Teasing? Hinting at something she knows but you don't? You didn't know for sure.

"I think Miguel would prefer being locked in a room than being lovesick for an entire day." You respond with a sigh as Peter practically drags you toward where Miguel is currently lying unconscious, and you have no other choice but to let him.

You were a person of your word. You can't possibly back out now just because you lost.

You tense slightly as your spider sense alerts you that Miguel is starting to wake up, feet glued to the floor when he starts to stir.

"You'll be fine," Jess tried to comfort you with a poorly hidden amused smile on her face, followed by Peter patting your back, and you didn't have to turn around to sense that he'd already whipped his phone out to record the whole scene.

The whole room was tense, or perhaps it was just you. Ice ran through your veins the more Miguel moved, and you could feel everyone's eyes on you as his hand moved to rub one eye before finally, finally.

His eyes flutter open.

Ruby red irises land on your form, and you can see a hint of your reflection from his intense gaze. The first person he saw as he awoke.

He stares at you in silence, gaze glued to yours, raking over your visibly tense form as you stare back at him. His face remains neutral, and you're already bracing yourself for his affection—may it be in the form of verbal affection or physical affection.

Miguel then leans forward to sit, before slowly standing up.

You watch as he takes steps toward you, his hand already rising and about to reach out. Your heart skips a few beats, trying to beat right out of your chest to meet his own halfway.

When he was closer to you, you tense up even more, ready to be pulled into his arms...

Except... he just slipped past you.

The hand he raised earlier ran through his hair, his eyes now on Jess.

"Mission report," Miguel demanded in his usual neutral, gruff tone as everyone looked at him with jaws dropped, all dumbfounded by his casualness.

The drowsiness seems to have left Miguel by then as he looks at everyone. He raises a brow in confusion as he notices everyone's stupified expressions and Peter's phone still pointed at him as if they were expecting something from him.

"What?" He asks, brow still raised.

"That's... This isn't how it's supposed to go!" Peter was the first to speak, begrudgingly putting his phone in his robe's pocket.

"Peter, I'm already not feeling well." Miguel responds, brow scrunched as he turns to face Peter, "I have no time for your antics, and that goes for you, too." He adds, pointing towards you on the last part.

Lyla's hologram hen shows up on Miguel's shoulder, bent over and examining Miguel's face, a hand on her chin as she hums. Her boss raises his brow again at this, trying to shoo her away, only for her to keep insisting.

"You were hit with a love potion, Miguel. Quite a potent one, too." Lyla informs the man who's looking at her with a skeptical look in his eyes as she continues, "I calculated its effects would include being down bad in love with the first person you see when you regain consciousness."

Miguel blinks at that, his eyes landing on you, and you recognize the flicker of understanding in his gaze as he does before looking back to Lyla and to the disappointed Peter and the less-visibly disappointed but still very much disappointed Jess.

"Well, it didn't work." Was his simple response, which caused a groan to resound from Peter and a shake of a head from Jess.

"Come on, not even a bit?" Peter asks, looking at Miguel with narrowed eyes. "Look at them, don't you feel like pulling them into your arms and kissing them until the sun sets?"

"First off, that's highly inappropriate," Miguel responds, his hand coming up to pinch his nose bridge in between his fingers to nurse a headache already starting to come up. He says your name exasperatedly, "Please don't mind him. You know how he is."

Before Peter can voice out the offense he took to Miguel's words, Jess speaks up with curiosity and a hint of suspicion in her voice.

"But how come it didn't work?" Jess asks, her brows furrowing in confusion, looking at Miguel, whose face remained neutral despite her questioning. "Lyla was so sure it affected you, and it affected you enough that you lost consciousness, and suddenly it just... didn't have an effect?"

Miguel clears his throat at that, subtly looking to Lyla to give Jess an explanation that would sate her curiosity and make her suspicions die down, but you suddenly spoke to his rescue.

"Perhaps it has something to do with his DNA?" You infer, humming softly to yourself, "His DNA is different from ours, and most of the time, he's immune to potions and poisons because he isn't human enough to be affected by them. Right?"

Your eyes meet Miguel's as you ask for confirmation, and your breath hitches at the sheer intensity of his gaze as he looks back at you. Still, this wasn't anything new. Miguel can be kind of intense and intimidating, even if he doesn't mean to.

"Pretty much." It was Lyla who confirmed your theory on behalf of Miguel, and before anyone could speak, Miguel swiftly interjected.

"Alright, the show's over." He spoke, looking over at everyone and individually giving instructions in order to get all of you off of his back.

"Jess, I need that report before the end of the day. Peter, weren't you supposed to go home early today? Look after your pregnant wife." Miguel spoke before turning to look at you, "And you, I have a mission for you."

One by one, the three of you leave his office, with you being the last one after he briefs you on the mission with Lyla's assistance. Miguel's eyes were glued to your back as you left, much to your obliviousness.

"It worked, didn't it?" Lyla coos suddenly, snapping Miguel out of his thoughts, making him jump slightly and snap his eyes from your figure and towards his holographic AI.

"What worked?" Miguel tried to feign innocence, looking away from Lyla as he turned toward his many screens.

"The Love Potion. It worked." Lyla continues to tease him, grinning at him knowingly as she lays on her stomach in the air, kicking her feet. "You're just so in love with them already that it didn't make a difference."

Miguel remained silent for a while at her teasing words, but the reddish tint blooming on his tan cheeks was enough of an answer to the AI already. Besides, she's the one subjected to Miguel's eyes, always following you around like a lost puppy whenever you're in the room.

"If you tell anyone, I'm shutting you down."

"No, you're not."

".....No, I'm not."

[ryukatters]

a/n: Inspired by that one scene from the apothecary diaries of jinshi interrogating maomao lamaksomsosk (kaiji tang you will always be famous) but with a diff twist

pairing: satoru gojo x gn! reader

content: jealous! Gojo, Gojo really likes reader but reader is kind of dense, reader is a grade one sorcerer younger than Gojo

You give Yaga a quick yet thorough debrief of your mission. You made Nanami go home, insisting that you’d handle all the technical work, since he went out of his way to save your ass when you called him for backup. Your mission had taken an awry turn from a simple investigation of some odd activity near a detention center to having to fight off not one, but two special grade curses.

Sometimes missions don’t go the way you expect them to. That’s normal. Checking in with Yaga after coming back from said missions is also customary. What isn’t normal though, is the way Satoru Gojo is standing behind you grumbling under his breath with each sentence you speak. You can practically feel the menacing aura emanating from his very being. It seeps into your bones and you have to suppress a shiver.

There’s not much you can do. The Jujutsu world’s strongest sorcerer can do whatever he wants. And if he wants to breathe fire down the neck of his poor junior? Then so be it.

“That’s all for my report, sir.”

You bow to Yaga before turning around to get the hell out of the office, far away from him. You give Gojo a slight nod of acknowledgment with the full intention to skitter out of there, but you’re stopped by a large hand gripping your shoulder firmly.

Satoru leans down to whisper into your ear, “I’ll be waiting for you in my office.”

You can’t suppress the way you shudder at his touch and the low timbres of his voice.

And with that, Satoru whips around with a slight ‘hmph’ before sauntering down the hall.

You hear Yaga sigh behind you as you shut the door. You take your time walking, dragging your feet as the ball of anticipation in the pits of your stomach sinks deeper and deeper. You take a deep breath as you grip the door handle leading to Gojo’s office.

Gojo’s sitting down when you enter. Even with his blindfold on, you can tell that his expression looks miffed. His body language too— impatiently drumming his fingers against his thigh. His uncharacteristic silence seeps into every nook and cranny, filling you with an even deeper sense of dread.

Was he upset with you? You hope you’re overthinking things.

“You asked to see me?” You start.

“So…your mission. Heard you had to fight two special grade curses.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Which gives you the inkling feeling that Gojo isn’t all that interested in actually speaking about your latest assignment.

“I did.”

(You want to remind him that he was in the room when you told Yaga, but you bite your tongue.)

“I see,” he hums noncommittally.

“…And?” You can feel the way his six eyes sear into you even with that stupid blindfold on. You wish he’d just cut to the chase already.

“And when you needed back up, you decided to call Nanami?”

“Yes,” you say with a slight hint of hesitation. You’re not entirely sure what he was trying to get at here. “He was the first sorcerer I saw on my recent calls.”

“Funny how I called you this morning yet you didn’t think about seeking me out for help,” Gojo pouts, idly playing with some empty candy wrappers that were on his coffee table. “Or do you just prefer Nanami over me?”

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to say,” you respond honestly. Because you don’t. Why is he making such a big deal out of this in the first place?

Gojo looks at you, flabbergasted. He groans in exasperation. Were the random (but constant) phone calls, lunches (and dinners), and just generally wanting to be with you not enough? What more does he have to do to make you realize?

Jealousy is a fickle thing. Satoru hates uncertainty, especially when it concerns him. It makes him feel weak. The good thing about fickle feelings is that they can be replaced by something more consistent, more complete, more gratifying. And he’s pretty fucking sure that he loves you by now, even when you’re too thickskulled to recognize that.

Satoru stands up and makes his way in front of you. He towers over you easily, bringing a hand to cup your chin and look at him.

“The next time you need something, and I mean anything— you tell me,” he says. He lacks his usual air of playfulness, instead replaced by a more stern tone— one that forces you to listen. “I can give you whatever you need.”

It’s your turn to stare now. You can feel your ears run hot at the implications with what your senior just said. “Okay, I will,” you whisper. “Thank you, Gojo.”

“Satoru.” he all but demands.

“Thanks, Satoru.”

*throws this into the tags to distract everyone from the fact I haven’t finished his bday fic*

[sashi-ya]

Hi, hi! for the emo boy event can I request a Byakuya fic? f! reader please, and nsfw 💞

𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝗸 𝗿𝘂𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻. kuchiki byakuya x f! belly dancer! reader. nsfw

a/n: hi anon! sure! I hope you enjoy a sudden idea that came up while I was listening to some Arabic music to relax 💙 tw: +18 mdni. our reader is a belly dancer on a "dancing house" you can say it is something like a brothel since she can be "bought", so if you are sensitive towards prostitution or related topics please be aware of this. sexy belly dance (i'm not saying that's the whole purpose of belly dancing, please keep that it mind). masturbation. nipple play kinda. byaku becomes a little savage, so kiiiinda hard sex. creampie. wc: 3.5k masterlist

The Kuchiki clan, where powerful men decide and brag fortune. A group of men dedicated to keeping the Soul Society’s history, and to be rich… stupidly, disgustingly rich. So rich, even their clothing and accessories are worth more than a mansion… 

“Get ready, you are dancing tonight… for very important people. You were personally requested… the best odalisque!” you get informed; the tone filled with both seriousness and a pinch of envy. 

You roll your eyes; you don’t mind if the people you are dancing for are important or not, you are only there to dance. 

Covered in fine silks, your “uniform” looks impeccable. The chains and jewels tingle with each motion, and the more they do, the better. Your exposed belly gets a little cold, as tonight winter seems to be taking over every corner of your city. 

The sound of chariots and a subtle bustling outside catches your attention; you watch several men entering the dance house from your window. All of them are dressed like they are indeed very wealthy people. 

You only know them as a part of history, since they don’t live in your lands, but rather far, far away. You also know their clan leader became a widower a few years ago yet still know nothing about his appearance nor any characteristic. 

 The drums begin to play, soft music comes from the dining room area, they must be filling their never hungry bellies with the finest delicacies your chefs are able to prepare. 

You also prepare to be devoured by their lustful eyes; you are used to; men, no matter their social class, are all the same. Right? 

“The clan leader will be here as well, try to please him… even if they say it is pretty difficult to do so…” one of the backup dancers whispers. Maybe she is trying to cheer you up, or maybe she is trying to put more pressure on you. 

You nod, sighing. Your hips will do the best they can to follow the musicians; you are sure that “old geezer with lots of money” will enjoy the show. 

The lights begin to dime; the music to slowly growth in rhythm, and the darbuka to peal. Your body drags towards the scenario, with the motions of a cobra; sexy as a deadly snake, ready to imbue their bloods with the passionate venom of a lustful dance. 

You cover your face from your nose down, letting your irises scan the faces of each man watching you dance. Old guys, some wearing metallic hair accessories, and white coats. 

Old guys, and a young one. From them all, he is the one whose eyes seem to be drunk in superiority and arrogance. 

“He must be the youngest of them all, perhaps one day he will become the leader…” you think. “He is probably the grandson of the leader; that guy with a moustache looks like an old version of him”

In any case, you don’t care; you just need to dance. Your muscles move with the beats of the drums, your hips accompany you well, your belly like sea waves show the great expertise and why you are called “the best dancer”. 

And you can tell they are indeed enjoying it by the looks of hunger and drooling dressed up as smirks. They drink while they watch you own the wooden floor with your naked feet. The anklets jingle to their movement, as well as the hip belt. 

You can see every single man smirking, pleased with your performance. Every single but the youngest of them. He hasn’t smiled once, yet his eyes were unable to divert from your body. He seems to analyze, to mentally record every motion, every dance move you make. 

You still have the grand finale, the sexiest dance of them all; the one where you get down the scenario and dance closer to them… so close, that, as much as you wish to, they can interact with you. 

But the one who is interacting tonight, will be you. You, for some strange reason, feel the desperate need to rip a smirk from that youngster… from that handsome man.

You take some air before the last dance; slowly, slowly the music goes as slow it could go while you get down from the scenario. 

Every man tenses, interested. They think you are dancing for them, but you are certainly not. Him, the one exuding haughtiness, has become the main target. The scarf around his neck will be especially useful for the grand finale. 

You slither his way, shaking your hips closer and closer. So close the tip of his nose can almost touch your stomach. 

That man won’t move; the more you dance next to him his eyes only focus on one single thing; your eyes. It’s almost intimidating; such serious frown, with night-coloured sharp eyes burning holes into your orbs.

But you won't let him win, you aren’t done just yet. Sexily and slowly, you snatch the scarf around his neck, entangling all your body with it as you pull. His long onyx hair graces the back of your hand… how silky… 

His frown changes; his expression is now a little more on the insulted side. On perhaps, the “how dare you touch me?” side. 

You giggle underneath the expensive silk you just stole from him; it smells so good, clean but still with a hint of manly bodily scent. You can tell he’s been sweating. Has he been feeling hot? 

You turn your back to him, the lights filtering through your figure and in between the tiny pores of his scarf while flowing in the air. 

Byakuya’s lips separate just a little; a tiny gasp comes right after. The beauty of the moment, just like a living piece of art, seems to blow his mind… she is alluring. 

Your movements are like liquid gold, each step precise and deliberate, yet flowing with a natural grace that captivates every onlooker. The room is silent, save for the rhythm of the drums, guiding you every motion.

As you spin, the scarf dances along like a serpentine companion. You can sense the weight of your target’s gaze, intense and unyielding. Yet, you don’t mind, it only fuels your show; you want to see him break, to see the facade of indifference crack under the pressure of your enchanting hips. 

With a final flourish, the scarf gets thrown in the air, falling on you like a veil, running down your skin. It slips, as if, that fine silk yearned to kiss all of your flesh. 

You bow, stepping back right after, surrounded by the stolen stole. Your eyes are still locked with his, challenge him; invite him. 

Byakuya remains still, but there's a flicker in his eyes, a spark of something raw and unrestrained.

You know, deep inside, you’ve won. You’ve struck a chord. Now, the performance was really a success. 

You offer a sweet smile before turning away, leaving that man with the echo of your dance, the memory of your delicate touch, and without his scarf. Perhaps, like a trap, you use it as a bait… come and get it by yourself, Mr. arrogant. 

You run to your room, flopping down your bed. Still covered by that scarf, you take a couple of seconds to inhale the perfume before it gets taken away. Because you know, you can feel him getting closer… his aura; is he a Shinigami? 

The knock on the door, announces some minutes after, he is indeed there to claim what’s his. And maybe, all of the rest as well… including you. 

“The scarf” he simply says, standing right by the entrance as you open the door. He seems, once again, filled with conceit and disgust towards anyone but him. 

“Would you like me to clean it, sir? You see, we always try to interact with the publ-“ you want to keep on explaining something he doesn’t really care about, getting interrupted by his gloved hand lifted slowly in the air. 

“And what would you know about cleaning such expensive fabrics?” he asks, visibly more annoyed than before. Even if his cheeks were becoming slowly pink the more he looks at you. 

You smirk; you might be wealthy, but not -yet- my owner. 

“You are most definitely right, Sir… uh, what’s your name? I’m not a cleaning lady; I am a dancer. The best from my region” you answer back, tinting your speech in at least a small amount of his arrogance. 

His eyes squint, his frown intensifies; is this some kind of disrespect crusade towards him, the Kuchiki clan leader? 

“You don’t know my name? haven’t you ever heard of Kuchiki Byakuya? you really don’t know who you stole that scarf from? Weren’t you informed of who was coming here tonight?” he asks, coming closer to you in a menacing, powerful way, but still calm and collected. It seems to you as if he were fighting to keep his real self, tamed. 

You blink, looking up at him, taking small steps backwards. 

“The Kuchiki clan leader and family” you murmur.

“And who do you think the clan leader is? Mh? Why don’t you guess?” he asks, grabbing the scarf in between his index and middle finger. 

You swallow; why is he getting this mad? 

“I… I don’t know, Sir… I- that man, the old man with a moustache? I know the clan leader became a widower some years ago, so it must be him? You look similar to that man, so I’d say that’s your father or your grandfather” you let him know. 

Byakuya does a little head shake, confused. 

“That’s indeed my grandfather, and yes, he WAS the leader. Now, I AM the clan leader; I am the widower…” he corrects you. 

You gasp; a widower at such a young age? No wonder why he seems so embittered. 

“I am sorry, Kuchiki-sama” you immediately change the way you refer to him. “Can I compensate you with a special, unique, private dance?” you continue, offering him something to cheer him up -and maybe, like Sherezade, a reason to distract him from wanting to kill you-

Byakuya lets the scarf go; he has been holding a pinch of it in between his fingers but never once tried to pull it away from you. He thinks; and while he does he looks at you from above and slightly to the side… ah, what an annoying -ethereal and beautiful- creature.  

The noble, whose eyes show the desperate need to say yes, takes his sweet time to cover up his real desires. Yet, ultimately, he says yes to your proposal. It didn’t take much for him to accept, as your eyes became almost a hypnotic instrument to control that man. 

“Sit down, please” you command, turning him around, feeling the electricity on the palms while you touch his arms. 

Byakuya, impassible, sits down in your bed and crosses his legs; a clear sign of his undeniable arousal that he might want to conceal… at least for now. 

An old music player from the world of the living, brought by a Shinigami that visited your lands a few years ago, starts playing one of your favourite songs; that song you use to dance alone, just to practice and to enjoy the musical notes flowing through your body like the blood in your veins.  [a/n: listen to the song here]

Your hips begin to move, up and down, to the beat of the drums. It starts slow, increasing the rhythm little by little when the rest of the instruments join the melody. 

With closed eyes at first, you don’t need to look at him while you dance; you can already tell he’s been bewitched by the sloughy flow of your flesh. 

To Byakuya it is more than sensual; it’s daring. You dare, you challenge him to break a self-imposed celibate, to enjoy the lust of watching a woman dancing for him, and only for him. 

So much he enjoys and gets lured to be a part of your sensual dance that his gloved hands reach for your body. His fingertips search for your skin in between the flowing scarf you dance with. 

You get closer and closer, allowing his hands to finally land on each side of your waist. The contrast of his cold palms with your warm hips makes you get little bumps all over. Though it is most probably because of the delicate and still dominant grab of a man so handsome. 

Unhurried, Byakuya pulls you closer to him, receiving you on his lap. 

You straddle your hips on his legs, with his scarf on your shoulders. Stretching your arms and back, moving side to side like an ophidian woman, you throw yourself backwards as his fingertips travel from your chest down to your belly. 

Oh, and how good this feels to him… you can feel his hardness growing, with the vengeance to penetrate, to impale. 

Byakuya can’t hold back a minute longer; his hands pass through your waist and serve as support for your back. He bends forward, kissing right where your sternum ends. And then up and down, leaving a trail of wet pecks on your skin. 

You reach his head, brushing back his beautiful dark hair. Smooth, soft, silky; you wish to witness it rain down his nude back. In fact, you wish him to be naked, desperately. 

And as desperately as you, that’s exactly what Byakuya wants; to have you naked in between his arms, onto that bed, laying your delicious anatomy back for him to devour. 

He turns you around, throwing you -now with less delicacy, forgetting maybe his noble status- back into the mattress. 

Byakuya crawls in between your legs, spreading them, looking so manly and dominant. His eyes have become sharper, imbued in lust and desire, only focused on one thing… ripping your beautiful dancing clothes off. 

Like claws, his hands pull down the semi-transparent top that only covers your breasts, exposing them. About to gloat, you can hear a manly grunt leave his silent lips. It makes you shiver; an aura of pure superiority forces you immediately to submission. 

The head clan lifts your leg up to his waist, passing his hand through the cut on your harem pants. 

“Is this included in the private dance?” he asks, with his lips grazing yours. You can tell he is about to break; the level of arousal in his voice, on the way he exhales so agitated… 

“This might need for you, Leader Kuchiki, to buy me” you whisper back, as agitated, as needy, and desperate as he is. 

Byakuya smirks; if there is something he can do is exactly that; buy you, acquire you. 

“I’ll pay anything” he answers before his lips crush with yours in such a concupiscent kiss it could scandalize the mere snake that tempted Eve in Paradise. 

Ah, and speaking of paradise, that’s exactly what awaits you from now on.    

Your nails carve on his neck, scratching his skin yearning for his clothes to finally slide down his body. You crave his nudity, as well as his sex deep inside your womb. 

Byakuya unties the sash around his waist; it all gets loose except his muscles and dick. You are now able to pull his fabrics down, exposing what you have already been imaging; a lean, pale, perfect and velvety bareness. 

You are so tempted to bite such precious flesh, but the weight of his hand getting around your neck stops you right away. 

The noble’s fingers curl and carve on your mandible, holding your face down, unable to move. You lay your head and hair on his scarf, giving you a frame worthy of  comparing you with “The Birth of Venus.” 

“You look so beautiful resting on my Ginpaku” Byakuya murmurs, who would have thought he could be romantic during the heat of the moment? 

You bite your lower lip and look to the side; it takes a lot for a man to make you flush and this one has made it possible. 

“Look at me…” he continues, forcing you to fix your sight on his, while his free hand works its way towards your panties. 

A tiny triangle covers your sex; a tiny triangle now dampened in arousal and sweat, exactly like Byakuya’s. He doesn’t care, in fact, all he wants is to take it off. 

He does, pulling them to the side to allow his index to slide right in. He moves in and out, so painfully slow, it drives you crazy. His thumb makes his big entrance then, when it lands on your clit. It traces circles, just to push you to hell and ascend to heaven right after. 

In reality, Byakuya is simply preparing your entrance, getting a little taste of what his sex will soon experience; the warmth of your insides, the spasming of your walls around his dick. All and everything at expenses of your pleasure, a perfect deal for a business man like him. 

“I’m in great need of fucking you, now” he grunts, after biting your right nipple. 

Your back arches; the way his beckoning fingers masturbate you, the way he nibbles on your breasts, the straightforward words coming from his delicious mouth… 

Shivering, you are only able to nod. Your legs quiver, soon climax will arrive; soon, very soon. 

You grasp from his black hakama, pulling them down completely the best you can, exposing an exquisite dripping hardness. Just like him, his sex is; impetuous, straight, even violent in a deadly sharp daintiness. 

Your harem pants get ripped as well, that man isn’t playing about being in “great need.” Your legs, get arranged by him to be resting on his chest; apparently Byakuya enjoys going deep from the very beginning. And who you are to contradict the Kuchiki clan head leader? 

With your ankles on each side of his face, and his long hair tickling on the bridge of your feet, Byakuya guides his sex into your overflowing sex. Both moan and close your eyes during that first slide that feels so good. 

You instinctively try to close your legs, but he won’t let you just yet. Byakuya’s body bends forward, going even deeper on each ram; are those hips made of what? How is he able to fuck you this hard? 

Grunting and moaning mix in one; you can feel his dick reaching your limit. Yours, but not his. The slap of his thighs against your legs becomes louder as he fucks you harder. 

His forehead gets bathed in sweat, your skin burns. Eventually, Byakuya allows your legs to join not before kissing the instep of your feet; only to push them to the side then and keep fucking you that way. 

Your hands grip to his scarf that still lays, all wrinkled, under your head. He smirks; your cheek also gets pressed against it as you turn your face to the side in pure raptured distress. 

You feel your orgasm coming, opening your eyes to let him know, only by your look of pleasure, you are about to come. 

Byakuya catches it quite well, as he maintains the rhythm just the same. “Come… come” he pants, with sloppy eyelids and his own climax right around the corner. 

You nod, pulling him to kiss you while you do. The kiss only lasts for as long as you can endure coming without gasping and wheezing. Panting he inhales and enjoys, as the very last drop of fuel needed for his own explosion. 

And an explosion is what it is; you can feel his cum flooding your womb, filling it up with throbbing intervals of white release. Seed overflowing, with pressure and hot, hot temperature… 

With not much to say, both flop into that bed that’s now covered in sweat despite the freezing winter of the outside. 

“I hope this made up for taking your scarf, Byakuya-sama ~” you purr, as he pulls you to rest on his chest. “I’m not over yet… my precious dancer”

The morning after. 

You wake up, still tired, with sore muscles and the scent of that man still lingering in the air. Yet, you are alone there; he’s gone. 

“And here I thought he was going to buy me for real…” you mutter, turning around to discover a little surprise of what temporarily had been his side of the bed; his scarf perfectly folded with a paper on top written in perfectly calligraphy.

𝐾𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑖𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝐼 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛; 𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑢𝑎𝑙 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑟. 𝐴𝑙𝑠𝑜, 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑤. 𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦, 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤. - K.B.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ➡ TO BE CONTINUED. 

yes! there is a following fic that will fulfill another request; basically the next one will be a continuation of this one! being then, the same "reader" (I know I said one per character, but you know we love byakuya here)

[violetbutterflix]

Kinktober Masterlist here!

4.Detective/ADA Chuuya:

Warnings: fuck or die, spanking, degradation, and fem!reader

Chuuya’s impatience grows with every ticking second; the thick, quiet tension in the interrogation room makes it harder for him to stay focused. He slams his hands on the table in frustration, his blue eyes glaring at you. “Will you finally fucking speak up?” He shoves the documents in front of your face, pointing to them as he accuses your organization of being behind all the criminal activities.

Despite the clear evidence, you shrug it off, denying all accusations and not speaking a single word. You have to watch your words carefully now that you're in enemy territory—the Armed Detective Agency. Anything you say could jeopardize your organization. You know that once this is over, you’ll be scolded by your partner and likely your boss too. It’s not like you wanted to get caught; you could have easily gotten away, but the detective in front of you managed to stop that. Sure, you could’ve put up a fight to increase your chances of escape, but damn, he looks too hot to say no to. So here you are, sitting across from him, with only the hard wooden table separating the two of you. You stare into his eyes, resting your chin on your hand as your forearm rests on the table, smiling as you admire his appearance. Honestly, you’ve told him everything—if you weren’t risking your job and the good money (and it’s tough in this economy with the high inflation rate), you’d ask him on a date later.

Chuuya hisses at your nonchalant response; he doesn’t understand it. He has dealt with a lot of criminals in this same interrogation room over the years, but he has never met someone like you. He can’t seem to understand you—not in this moment—with that smile curving on your lips as if you're challenging him. Could this be part of your evil plan to distract him, tricking him into falling for it easily?

“Spill it out: it was your doing, wasn’t it?”

"I'm hurt, detective." You place a hand on your chest, giving him a fake sad smile. "Do you really think I did that?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair with an annoyed expression. Chuuya could’ve saved so much time if it weren’t for you. Originally, it was supposed to be his mission partner—Dazai—interrogating you, but Chuuya stole his spot. Chuuya couldn’t stand that idiot being too close to you. You’ve been his target since day one, ever since he laid eyes on your file in the meeting with his boss. Not Dazai’s, not anyone else’s in the agency—just his; you are his.

"Blackmail, robbery, identity theft, kidnapping, arson, and murder." His eyes narrow as he lists your crimes. "The real question should be: is there anything you haven’t done?"

Damn, Chuuya really did his research on you. You cough, "But detective, I have nothing to do with this case." You can’t deny he’s on the right track, but this time, it’s not your doing. You didn’t even get a chance to act—he appeared out of nowhere and dragged you off just as your day was starting (though you went along willingly). You managed to call for backup without him noticing. Now, you’re just playing with him to kill time while waiting for your partner to rescue you. You know the ADA has had their eyes on your small organization for a while, and everyone’s been bracing for the worst-case scenario: getting caught. How unlucky that you had to be the first. (At least the situation is a little more enjoyable with such a handsome detective.)

“You’re saying that you’re innocent?”

“Yes I am-”

Suddenly, a loud warning siren blares through the room at maximum volume, so deafening that your ears can barely handle it. A strong, sharp aroma fills the air, stinging your senses.

"THIS IS AN EMERGENCY! I repeat, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY. We are under attack. The area is being surrounded by an unknown ability. We are working to identify the ability user responsible for this. In the meantime, please remain calm and find somewhere safe-”

The signal cuts off abruptly, leaving the room in dead silence. Chuuya glances up at the speaker on the ceiling, then back at you, a frown deepening on his face. There’s no way this could be happening right after you confessed your innocence—it can't be a coincidence. You’re grateful that your partner is here to rescue you, but the timing definitely needs improvement in the future. The sweet, heavy scent rises to your nose, and your body begins to feel strange—weak and feverish, as if you’re stranded in a desert, scorched by relentless heat. You notice Chuuya is affected too.

As you ponder the possibilities, the realization hits you: sex pollen. An experiment your partner mentioned a month ago that significantly increases hormones—and if you don’t get laid, death will welcome you to the other side. You thought she was joking at first, but this situation proves otherwise. You wouldn’t have minded her testing it on an enemy organization, but the problem is, you’re in their territory. Of all the days in the month, she had to choose today. You swear you’ll kick her ass after this.

“It’s sex pollen,” you warn, breathing heavily as you explain the situation. “We have to have sex, or we die.”

“Haa?” His eyes widen, looking at you as if you’ve said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “Don’t make me laugh. You think you can joke around at a time like this?”

A fly—how it got in here is a mystery—appears between the two of you and suddenly collapses, falling to the floor. It’s unsettling; it makes no sense for an animal to die out of nowhere, confirming your suspicion that the pollen is to blame. “Well, detective, did you see that fly? It just died!” It’s just a consequence of not having any sexual interaction, after the unlucky speaker couldn’t finish their announcement. “None of us even touched it; it has to be the pollen. Either we fuck or we die.”

He gasps at the sight, unable to believe what’s happening before him. This whole situation feels like some kind of twisted fantasy that Dazai would be into. Chuuya’s body aches, scorched by an overwhelming heat. He can’t believe he has to trust a wanted criminal for a solution. He stands up from his chair, moving behind you. His hands slam down on either side of yours, hitting the table with more force this time. You spot cracks forming beneath his palms. Is he using his raw strength?

His head spins, thoughts consumed by you in this moment. Perhaps it’s the smell that makes him feel this way toward a criminal. Chuuya leans in closer, his hot breath brushing against your ear. He’s resolute in staying with you, ensuring you can’t escape—there’s no way he’ll let you get away. For once, he defies orders. “I’ll make you tell me everything I want to hear.”

-

“Beg for it, you bitch.” Chuuya's hand delivers a hard slap ass, showing no mercy on you or your reddened buttcheeks. His other hand grips your cheek tight as he lands another hard slap. Chuuya moves his hips, rubbing his hardened, thick cock against your wet cunt. “This whore wants me to fuck the shit out of her? Then you better beg for my dick.”

You moan and cry, caught between the sting of pain and the rush of pleasure, each feeling like waves crashing over you. You've lost count of how many slaps you've received from him; it's becoming too much to handle. It feels like hours have already passed. He knows he’s doing this to torture you, trying to make you confess. Your resistance is vanishing, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through your body. The mix of pain and pleasure isn’t enough to satisfy you; your body craves more of him. You turn your head, locking eyes with him—his gaze filled with anger and lust. His hair is messy, and his breaths are heavy, turning you on even more at the sight.

“Please…I need you...Please fuck me...I want your dick...” you beg again, throwing away all your dignity for him. In this heated moment, you're no longer thinking straight.. “I’ll tell you everything you want. So pleaseee…”

"Took you long enough... You were into this, weren’t you, fucking slut?" A smirk forms on his lips, like a madman achieving his goal—his victory over a poor, defeated enemy. Yet, Chuuya can’t cruelly refuse a pretty girl’s plea, especially when your voice trembles with need, stirring something deep within him and making him eager to give you what you desire most. Chuuya enters your entrance, causing you to gasp. Your body shivers at the unexpected movement. His cock twitches inside as he begins to move deeper into you. His pace quickens, driving into your sweet spot as he whimpers your name, cursing how good your body feels for him. Chuuya is lost in his feelings, unable to stop thinking about you, consumed by the pleasure you both share. Your eyes roll back, thighs trembling as your hands grip the edges of the table. In the heat of the moment, you accidentally reveal a secret you shouldn’t have, and now there’s no turning back. You feel like the biggest disappointment to your organization, but hey, at least you’re getting fucked good. There’s some luck in this misfortune that will make you feel a bit better after it’s all over.

[81pastrys]

Their Mechanic

Part 5 / 10

Summary— When she’s late and in her backup car, Oscar shows up with her keys and Lando gets a call to drive her to get it.

Warnings— bad flirting

A/N— I’m still tweaking this one

Series List

The next day, I woke up and checked the time. “Shit!” I’m 3 hours late for the shop. I get up, throw my hair in a bun, and change my clothes. I wash my face and don’t see my keys. “Ruby Red it is.” I sigh.

I stop for coffee on the way and then arrive at the shop. My dad’s face contorted towards anger as I pulled in with my ruby-red Carrera. I get out and rush into the lockers. “Where’s your Taycan?”

“I was too drunk to drive it home last night,” I say. The headache resonated while he spoke loudly within the lockers. “I’ll get it later, Pa, don’t worry.”

“I don’t want that pretty car damaged.” He warned. Even though I’d be the one fixing it. I walk back out and see Oscar leaning up against my pink toolbox. “Damn McLarens.” My dad whispered, walking past.

Oscar dangles my keys from his finger. “Forgetting something?” He asked. I don’t have the energy for his ditsy-ness right now, so I roll my eyes.

“Ollie brought me home.” I sigh. “I was way too drunk to think straight.” I grab the keys, and he pulls me closer.

“Could’ve stayed the night with us.” He whispered. Chills ran through my veins as he spoke, and my breath hitched in my throat. I back away, and he sets off to his car.

I focus on the shop for the rest of the day and then head home late. When I get home, I call Lando. “Hey, trouble.” He answers.

“Hey Lando, I was wondering. Care to give me a lift to Oscar’s?” I ask. He came over, and I took a shower. I left my front door unlocked in case he’d arrived before I finished freshening up. He did, and I texted him to say it was unlocked.

“Trouble.” He dragged out.

“I’m drying off. Give me about 3 minutes.” I respond. I dry my hair and then throw on sweats and a tee. I walk to the main room, and he sits at the bar. “Sorry, I had to shower.”

“No worries, ready to go get your precious car?” He teased. I’ve mentioned my love for the car so many times.

“Yes, let’s go.” I usher him out and lock the door. We drive the streets and talk. We get to the parking garage for the complex, and he gets out. “Woah, where are you going?”

“See my teammate?” He smiled, and I almost crumbled to my knees. “I told him I was bringing you to your car.”

“Oh, okay,” I respond. I didn’t realize they were teammates. “I’m gonna head back home; it’s kinda late.”

“Sounds good, trouble.” His smile widened. “I’ll text you later.” He doesn’t usually ‘text me later,’ but I smile and feel the blush forming on my cheeks.

“Keep that car of yours out of my shop, Norris.” I giggle. “I love working on her, but you need to stop making excuses to see me at the shop and ask me out.”

He fakely laughed at my comment, but I could see the blush on his face. “I might.” He shrugs.

“If you don’t, I might have another driver under my arms soon.” I tease, knowing damn well he’s the only driver I want out of all of them.

“Oh please, they wouldn’t be able to handle you trouble.” He’s flirting back now, noticing my tactics. “The attitude you have and the independence, they’d crumble after one date.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I smirked, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“Well, I’m sure you almost refused at least one of the guys I sent you.” He scoffed. I scrunch my face in admittance. We laugh. “Who was it?”

“Oscar and Max..” I say as if it was guilt. “Oscar, Max almost denied me the chance to work on his car.”

“Oscar?” He asked, raising his eyebrows. “The introverted man upstairs?”

“He’s very cocky,” I say. “Acted as if I didn’t know what I was doing.” Which I did.

“Well, what made him believe that trouble?” He smirked, knowing the answer would be mumbled.

“I touched a hot spot on his McLaren.” I tilt my head and drop my arms from being crossed. “I did the same on yours.” However, he laughed it off in the moment. He didn’t doubt me when I made a simple mistake.

“Yeah, but I already knew there were hotspots.” He chuckled again. “I can fix my car trouble; I just noticed you do it better.” He winked at me.

I blushed at the compliment. His teammate called, and he motioned for me to follow him. I rolled my eyes with a smile and followed the man upstairs.

Where is this going?

[thatwritterbeach]

One messed up bat pt.1

Dc masterlist all other parts found here

Batfam x femreader Jason x reader eventually

Warnings: angst, self harm, self hate, depression,

Summary:Y/n gets caught self harming by Damian, and Tim calls in some backup

A/N: I do not own dc booohooo ooc Tim, I don't spend much time watching/reading his robin sorry **^ so I can't remember if it's canon or from a fic but at this point who cares the storyline is all fucked so in this story I'm saying that Jason tried to call dick for help with his mom but dick was asleep/didn't pick up so Jay went alone and died, now Dick CAN NOT miss a phone call it sends him into a panic attack, thank you for coming to my trauma talk

ok so we all know the timeline is shit so this is the ages for this story only found it on a reddit post, fight me at dawn if you don't like it

Bruce Wayne (Batman) at 45

Barbara Gordon (Oracle) at 27

Dick Grayson (Nightwing) at 25

Jason Todd (Red Hood) at 22

Tim Drake (Red Robin) at 18

Damian Wayne (Robin) at 11

Y/n 21

not my gif^

(2 weeks ago)

"Y/n, you can't keep acting like a child you're twenty-one," Dick whisper shouted in the corner of the batcave.

"Dick, I'm not going to apologize for helping people-"

"You disobeyed a direct order. You could have been hurt, you can't be that kind of influence to Tim and Damian."

"You don't even live here, Dick, you can't just-"

"You're benched until further notice."

"You can't-"

"Benched," Bruce confirmed stepping over to them.

(1 week ago)

"Hey, Dick, do you have a sec," she asked into the phone then immediately bit firmly into her hand to hold back a sob.

"You're still benched," he said without remorse.

"That's not-you know what never mind." She hung up on him and threw the phone onto her bed heading to her en-suite bathroom to release the itch.

(present)

"Beloved! Beloved, look I-," Damian shouted with glee but cut himself off with a scream when he opened her unlocked bathroom door. He thought she was doing her face masks not...in the bathtub with blood dripping from her arms into pink bubble filled water.

"Damian wait," she called after his retreating form. Shit, shit. She hurried to drain the water and throw on her over sized t-shirt just managing to pull some boxers on when Damian burst back in with Tim, practically dragging him into the space.

"Damian what's the problem-"

"Fix her," he shouted with haste and was about to shove Tim into the room when he noticed y/n standing there looking fine.

"Damian, I'm ok, I promise," she tried to convince him softly. He looked from her to the tub, not even a drop of evidence in sight.

"No, you-I saw the blood. Tim she cut herself I saw it," he told the older boy trying to lunge for her arm but she side stepped him.

"Damian, give us a minute," Tim tried to gently shoo him away. Damian shook his head aggressively and latched himself onto her side, clinging to her like a koala. She combed her fingers through his hair and gently detangled him.

"Dami, Tim and I just need to have a quick chat, he's gonna fix me right up, aren't you, Tim," she asked, sending him a look that clearly gave direction.

"Yeah, kid, I'll take care of her, she'll be right as rain."

"You won't hurt yourself again?" He was giving her puppy eyes, looking his own age for once and it pulled on her heart strings.

"I won't," she agreed patting him on the head and crossing her fingers behind her back with the other hand. Damian gave her one last hug then hurried out of the room. There was an awkward silence as Tim stood blocking the doorway, his jaw ticking and toe nearly tapping.

"You know I have to tell."

"Please don't." She shook her head then grabbed the first aid kit beneath the sink.

"Let me," he said softly, taking it from her and getting out the supplies. When she set her arm on the counter for him to work he sucked in a breath. "Those are deep," he accused.

"I wasn't trying anything. I'm not stupid, just a heavy bleeder." She rolled her eyes where he couldn't see and hissed when he dumped alcohol on her arm.

"They almost need stitches."

"Butterfly stickers are fine," she said digging them out of the kit one handed.

"I at least have to tell Dick-"

"NO," she said so firm he actually stepped back to look at her.

"I have to tell someone, I can't watch you 24/7."

"I don't need babysat," she seethed.

"I can tell Bruce or I can tell Dick first. Either way you aren't doing this alone."

"I cant stop you?"

"Not a chance."

"Dick told me I needed to be a better influence for you. Sorry for fucking that up, but to be fair there's worse things about me. I tried to call him a week ago, I was feeling the um...the 'itch' so to speak but as soon as he picked up he told me I was still benched. I was so pissed that he immediately thought that's what I called for I told him never mind and hung up. You can't tell him that, after Jason you know he-"

"Hates missing phone calls," Tim finished for her. **^

Tim had every intention of telling him, he knew it would hurt but come on, she tried to get help. Of course she didn't ask anyone in the house, but he wasn't about to be offended she didn't ask the child or his newly adult self for help, and he sure as hell got the not wanting to tell Bruce.

"Why not Alfred?"

"Hmm?"

"Why didn't you go to Alfred for help."

"He deals with enough shit from the rest of you, coming in half dead each night."

"That doesn't mean you come second, and sure as hell not last, we love you."

"Yeah, well it doesn't feel like it most of the time." He was finished with her arm and she resisted the urge to yank it away from him. One of Jason's flannel was on a towel hook on the wall and she quickly put it on to hide the bandages.

"I'm gonna go make sure Dami's ok," she said gently moving him out of the way. The second she was gone he hurried back to his room for his phone, that he'd left on the charger and yanked the cord out. He hit speed dial 3, Dick's cell, and held the phone to his ear while he headed out on his balcony to totally not scale down the wall instead of taking the stairs. Dick picked up on the 4th ring with a tired sigh and a 'this better be good' Tim told him to wait a sec while he got way out of hearing range.

"Did Y/n call you last week?"

"Uh, yeah, why?"

"Did you jump her case and not give her a second to speak?"

"You sound a bit pissed timbers, cut to it and tell me what I did. I haven't slept in 37 and a half hours."

"And you call me an idiot," he snorted.

"Tick tock bro," Dick mumbled head already sinking into his pillow.

"She'd been cutting herself and she called you to ask for help, well, she didn't say that word, but she was calling to tell you what she'd been doing to herself," Tim stated with little to no remorse for the heart attack he'd just given his brother.

"She what," Dick shouted throwing off the blankets and grabbing his go bag.

"I assume you'll catch the next train?" The sound of Dick falling and cursing while he hopped into pants could be heard and Tim nodded and hung up. Thankfully because the author said so Dick had switched from his police job to a remote roll in Wayne industries he just stayed in Bludhaven to have his independence and not deal with Bruce more than he had to. Alfred insisted he come for monthly dinners and he did.

Tim went back inside to hunt for Y/n and Damian and found them having mugs of hot chocolate together on the kitchen counter.

"So, you're ok," Damian asked in a small voice using a stir stick to hold his marshmallows under the liquid.

"I told you, Tim fixed me, and he probably ran off to call Dick so he could come make double sure I'm ok. You don't need to worry, I promise I'll always be here to have hot cocoa with," she replied, crossing her heart and holding out her pinkie to him. He hooks his with hers and to her surprise continued to hold on, not moving to actually hold her hand but simply letting their hands rest on the counter pinkies linked. Not wanting to interrupt Tim quietly made his way back out, he still had some calls to make.

Jason picked didn't pick up on the first call, or the second but finally on the third he answered out of breath and with gunshots loud in the foreground.

"The hell dya' want," he all but shouted into the line dodging hits and getting in several of his own.

"Sorry, I'll call back later-"

"No, talk now, I got it under *way too loud thud* control."

"Just uh, get here as quick as you can, nobodies dying so-"

"Make it quick but don't freak, got it." And he hung up. Next was Bruce who surprise surprise didn't answer a call or text, so Tim left a message.

"Get off Selena and come help your kid," he said with more aggression than snark. (this doesn't feel at all like something Tim would say but i'm not familiar enough with his character to fix it)

This time when he went to the kitchen it was just Y/n on the counter Damian had gone who knows where.

"So who all did you tell?"

"Just Dick so far, he's on his way. Jason was in the middle of a fight so he's coming later but I didn't tell him and Bruce didn't pick up-"

"Shocker, dude nabs all these kids then can't be bothered to spend time with them outside of a Halloween costume," she scoffed rolling her eyes.

"You're not wrong but-"

"Oh, don't start Stan." She waved him off hopping down to wash the mugs not willing to leave them for Alfred.

9-20-24

[xochiackiller]

Hello! >o<

I read your rules and I believe my request will abide by your rules!

I wanted to ask if you'd write a villain Katsuki x pro hero reader smut. Obvi a time skip-so maybe they're 24-25 y/o. Anyway, I'm not sure if you take prompts or just write it yourself but I'll provide a prompt anyway if you do use them. ⍢⃝

Prompt here!!: Reader is patrolling and runs across an "old friend" causing mischief throughout the city. Katsuki went to the 'dark side' after the paranormal liberation war. Reader finds themself in a sticky situation..

I wanted to ask if you'd do oral (fem receiving) and rough sex😁👍

Anyway, if you don't want to do it or you aren't feeling up to writing it, that's completely fine! Take your time and don't forget to stay healthy! ☆

a/n: ahh ily tysm! stay hydrated and healthy hun! I love love love ur prompt, so here you go bookie butt <3

Pairing: Villain!Katsuki(25) x Pro-Hero!Reader(24 | MDNI - 18+ | total wc: 794

You weren’t supposed to be patrolling this sector.

The rest of your team had rotated off hours ago, the city's smoky skyline blanketed by the last breath of twilight. You’d stayed behind—just in case. Old instincts. Stubborn heart. A hero to the end, even if the world barely knew what that meant anymore.

It was quiet… until it wasn’t.

A shockwave rattled through the buildings five blocks east. A plume of dust rose into the air like a firework with bad intentions. You didn’t hesitate.

Your boots hit pavement fast, slicing through alley shadows and cracked pavement. Your communicator crackled, but you ignored it. The moment you turned the corner, your stomach dropped.

Boom.

Smoke. Flames. Heat simmering in the cracks of the concrete.

And him.

He stood in the middle of the destruction like he’d been born from it. Katsuki Bakugo. Not the boy you once trained beside, but the man who now lived in headlines labeled "missing" or "turned rogue." His hair was longer, wild. Black tactical gear clung to his frame, half-unzipped at the throat, sleeves torn.

He turned slowly. Crimson eyes locked on you.

“Well, fuck,” he muttered. “Didn’t think they’d send you.”

“They didn’t,” you said, voice tight. “I volunteered.”

His smirk cracked like lightning. “Still the overachiever, huh?”

You stepped closer, your hand flexing near your thigh. "You're supposed to be underground. Off the grid. Not blowing holes in midtown."

“You always did like bossin’ me around,” he drawled.

“Katsuki—”

“You gonna stop me?”

The air sparked. Your heart beat faster—not with fear, but with memory. You’d seen him like this before. Back when you both bled for the same side.

“I should.”

“But you won’t.”

And maybe he was right. Because when he took a step toward you, you didn’t back down.

“You still wearin’ that hero name like it means somethin’?”

You glared. “And you’re still hiding behind fire.”

His grin sharpened.

You moved first. Quirk lighting in your fingertips.

He dodged, faster than you remembered, grabbing your wrist and pinning it over your head before you could even react. Your back slammed against the alley wall, breath knocked from your chest.

“I fuckin’ missed you,” he growled.

You should’ve pushed him away. Arrested him. Called for backup.

But his mouth was hot on yours before your logic caught up.

You moaned into him—sharp, unrestrained—and he groaned like he’d been starving. His hand slid beneath your top, dragging it up with desperate fingers until his palm met bare skin, warm and trembling. His fingers trailed downward, over your ribs, across your waist, and lower—between your legs, through the thin seam of your soaked underwear. When he felt the damp heat there, his breath hitched.

“You’re soaked,” he hissed.

“Rain,” you gasped.

“No,” he corrected, eyes blazing. “That’s you.”

He dropped to his knees.

There was no gentleness. Just hands tearing at your suit, exposing your thighs to the cold air and his burning breath. He licked you once—slow and deliberate—and your knees buckled.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger. “Still taste so fuckin’ sweet… like I could live between your legs and never get tired of it.”

Your hands found his hair, tugging as his tongue flicked over your clit. He groaned and buried his face deeper, the bridge of his nose grinding against you as he worked your body with unholy skill.

“Still so loud,” he growled against your heat. “You always were my favorite sound.”

You came hard, breath breaking, hips jerking.

Before you could recover, he stood, mouth slick, eyes darker than smoke.

“I want you,” he growled. “Here. Now.”

Your back hit the wall again, your legs wrapped around his waist. He undid his belt with one hand, shoving his pants down just enough to free himself.

You were already dripping when he thrust in.

The stretch stung. The depth made you see stars.

“Katsuki—”

“Say it again,” he rasped, slamming into you. “Say my fuckin’ name.”

“Katsuki!”

His mouth was on your neck, biting, sucking, bruising. His pace was brutal—fast, relentless, wild. You clawed at his back, your body shivering with each snap of his hips.

“Still mine,” he grunted. “Even now.”

You came again, crying out, your walls clenching hard around him.

He cursed and spilled inside you, hips grinding deep.

He stayed like that for a moment—panting, forehead pressed to yours.

Neither of you spoke.

Eventually, he pulled out, adjusting his pants, eyes never leaving you.

You slid to your feet, shaking. He helped you balance without comment.

“What now?” you whispered.

Katsuki smirked. “Guess that depends. You gonna turn me in?”

You stared.

“No,” you said.

“Didn’t think so.”

He kissed you again—slow and possessive—then vanished into the smoke.

And you let him.

Author Note: thanks for reading o(≧v≦)o stay healthy babes! request are open <3

[mochinek0]

Daminette December: 26-Robin My Heart

"Get down and remain silent." Robin growled.

Marinette looked away, his silhouette catching her eye. She quickly threw her black scarf at him.

"What did I-" he began.

"Hide your face until you can get another mask." she declared.

Damian reached up and touched his face. Half of his mask had been destroyed in the blast from Joker's bombs. Damian quickly called in backup and the need for another mask, declaring he was with the victim.

"One is on the way." he spoke, trying to hand it back.

"They could be watching." she whispered, angrily, "Or don't you care about your identity. I haven't seen you, yet. They shouldn't know you. They could target your family. Isn't that in Hero 101 or something?"

Damian smiled and used morphed the scarf into a veil, similar to how his mother had taught him. As they waited in silence, the Joker's cackles echoed from room to room. It wasn't long before Red Hood found them together and handed him his spares mask. Red Hood watched as the girl kept her back towards them until Robin declared his mask was secure.

"Thank you for rescuing me, Little Robin." she smiled.

Red Hood cackled, infuriating Robin.

He towered over the girl, "I am not little!"

"Well, it was….an experience to meet you." she declared, "Have a good night."

Robin quickly grabbed her wrist, "I need to make sure you get home safely."

"I'm a big girl." she retorted, "I can handle myself."

"You were just kidnapped." Robin growled out.

"Wrong place; wrong time." she sighed, rolling her eyes, "It's not like I was the target."

"Let's go." he commanded, dragging her away.

"Boys." she groaned, causing his family to laugh.

Damian was caught off guard to a familiar giggle, he hadn't expected to hear at university. He glanced around and spotted the girl from the other night. To his shock, she was wearing a jacket designed after his vigilante persona. Damian could feel his cheeks warming as he stared at her bright smile.

"So, how did your family find out?" Asked one of the girls near her.

"I don't know!" Marinette cried out.

"What did they say?" Asked another.

She sighed, "My mother asked 'What use is your training, if you're not going to use it?'. Not my fault they pepper sprayed me, first."

"And your dad?" Someone questioned.

Marinette groaned, "He asked if he was 'Robin my heart'."

"By the jacket, I'm assuming yes?" A girl giggled.

"Nope." Mari stated, "Though, I can appreciate that he took down everyone himself and rescued me. He didn't need the others."

Damian gulped at the unexpected praise. He knew he did his job; it was expected of him. Yes; he had been told he had disappointed his parents, but a job well done?

"Think you'll see him again?"

"Nah." She replied, "I don't plan on be kidnapped any time soon."

Damian walked right past her and smirked.

'I think Robin should make a stop at her balcony, tonight. '

@maribat-calendar-events

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[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Eight

A/N: ...a day late, and we did not progress to the point I wanted to post up to tonight, but I had to split this chapter because this first half is TWENTY-TWO F-ING pages (!!!!!!). Which means I need you to hang on just a wiiiiitle bit longer <3

Series Masterlist

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Zandvoort smells like salt and rubber.

It’s not as sharp as Spa, not as mythic. There’s no fog curling through the trees or looming, mist-draped corners that make you feel like you’re racing inside someone’s memory. But there’s a charge here, still- electric, coastal, heavy with the kind of history that hums through your bones when you stand trackside long enough. You’d almost call it pleasant. Almost.

More importantly: it’s not the Verstappen estate.

The sea air hits you the moment you step out of the car, and you inhale like it might fix something. It doesn’t. But it helps. A little. Your hands still twitch with leftover tension, your back still feels too straight from three weeks of trying not to exist too loudly. But for the first time in days, you’re alone. Not watched, not dissected, not pushed into anyone’s orbit.

Just... here. At the track.

You showed up early. Again.

They didn’t ask you to. Nobody sent a schedule, nobody told you when to arrive. But your paycheck hit your account on Friday, and you took that as proof of life. It could still mean anything- admin lag, accounting oversight, hush money to keep you quiet while they finalize your release.

But if they were done with you, really done, someone would have said something. Right?

Still, the math doesn’t add up.

Yuki’s recovery has been a black hole. No updates. No timelines. No whispers in the paddock or quiet press leaks about his condition, but an appendectomy is typically a small delay, not a season ender. Not a single word about whether there will be a seat this weekend- or if that seat will be yours. 

What you do have, however, is a meeting on the books. Suspiciously nondescript. Midday tomorrow. Just one vague, intentionally non-committal calendar hold marked Meeting - Internal at the Red Bull Energy Station. No context. Just enough to ruin your week. No subject line, no agenda. Just a time and a location buried in a forwarded email chain. Which… never bodes well.

You’ve seen this kind of thing before. From the Indy side. The language of corporate dismissal is universal- vague meetings, no attached notes, a suspicious uptick in HR visibility. No one says the word termination out loud, but everyone walks in knowing it’s on the table.

So yeah. You're nervous.

No. You’re scared.

Not wide-eyed, frantic fear- but the other kind. The deep, gnawing kind that sits low in your gut and mutters, this might be it. This might be the end. After everything. After Spa. After the praise and the politics and the hollow smile Jos called approval. After the goddamn Verstappen dinner from hell.

It could all still mean nothing.

But this time- this time- it wouldn’t be the same kind of death.

Because unlike before, when you clawed your way into Spa with nothing but desperation and a too-tight fire suit, you have options now. Not many. Not flashy ones. But there are teams- teams who saw what you did at Spa, who watched you drag that car past the line with P7 on your back and fire in your fucking eyes. Someone will take you. Somewhere, on some circuit. You’ll have a job.

Logically, you’ll be fine.

Logically, your life isn’t over if this doesn’t work out. Not the way it could have been last month.

But logic has never been the point.

Because no matter how many backup plans you can scrape together, how many polite emails from lesser teams float into your inbox, you know none of them can make you feel what that car made you feel. None of them replace the way it settled around your body like a second skin. The way the world melted away when you were flat through Eau Rouge, fingers light, everything inside you aligned.

Nothing else even comes close.

You need this. Not because it’s your only option- but because it’s the only thing that feels like you.

You will do whatever it takes to be in an F1 car again. You will smile when they tell you to smile. You will jump through flaming hoops if it means getting your hands on the wheel. You will make yourself indispensable, undeniable, un-ignorable. Because you've tasted heaven now, and they are going to have to rip it out of your cold, dead hands to send you back.

So you show up early.

You unpack your laptop. Your notebook. Your entire obsessive catalog of driver data and strategy breakdowns and pit delta margins. You start building your space into a command post before they can tell you not to.

You haven’t been told if you’re driving.

But you’ve been paid.

And until someone has the spine to sit you down and tell you otherwise, you’re going to act like you belong. So for a day and a half, you do everything you think you’re supposed to. Everything you know you’re supposed to. Because that’s how you operate.

Always work twice as hard as they expect you to. Always care. Always give a shit.

Some of it is discipline. Routine. Muscle memory that runs deeper than blood. But a lot of it- if you’re being honest- is just you. It’s how your brain is wired. You don’t know how to do this halfway. You never have.

So you wake up early. Schlep your little rental car back and forth between the budget hotel you booked yourself and the paddock that’s still half-empty, still finding its shape. You’ve got the same room as a dozen mechanics across the street- basic, clean, the smell of industrial-strength cleaner clinging to the sheets. It’s perfect. It’s real.

You park in the gravel lot and walk in by yourself, pass after pass, head down but alert, absorbing everything. The smell of fresh asphalt and steel, the faint tang of tire rubber off-gassing in the sun. You talk to the crew laying out the scaffolding for the Red Bull Energy Station, watch as they transform a convoy of trucks into a two-story temple of branded opulence. It’s absurd, really- how fast it all comes together. Steel and aluminum and cables everywhere, like some corporate miracle happening in real time.

You stand nearby with your coffee and make conversation. Ask questions. Watch.

They seem surprised by you- pleasantly, but still. Drivers don’t usually talk to them. Not like this. Not unless there’s a camera around. But you’re not most drivers.

You grew up middle class, surrounded by people who worked with their hands. Farmhands, ranchers, truckers, the kind of men who fixed things with duct tape and brute force and always had dirt under their nails. These guys? These guys feel like home. Like your uncles, your dad, your neighbors back in the northwest. You know how to talk to them. You know when to chirp and when to listen. You know that compliments go further than questions, and that remembering someone’s name always earns respect.

You’re good in boardrooms. Of course you are. You’ve trained for that just as hard. But that world is performance. Staged smiles and waiting your turn and hoping someone in a tailored suit decides you’re useful enough to keep around. It’s a talent you didn’t come by easy. It’s never honest.

But this? This is easy.

You’re crouched near the back of the garage, balancing a half-eaten slice of lukewarm pizza on your knee and trying not to get grease on your notebook. It’s the cheap kind- basic crust, sticky cheese, a few lonely slices of pepperoni- but it’s free, and you’re not about to turn your nose up at it. Especially not when you’ve been living on protein bars and meal-prepped chicken since Spa.

The crew is mid-garage-setup, all hands on deck, pushing flight cases and assembling equipment like it’s second nature. You’ve been watching for the better part of an hour now- content to loiter, taking bites between scribbling half-legible notes, trying not to look like you’re hovering. You should probably be somewhere else, doing something more official. But this feels… better. Realer. Like something you recognize.

You’re mid-bite, trying to fold the tip of the slice to keep it from flopping, when a voice cuts in behind you.

“Careful. Too much longer and someone’s gonna assume you belong to us.”

You glance up, squinting into the light. He’s standing just behind a stack of flight cases, arms crossed, wearing the telltale team polo and a high-vis vest slung over top. Mid-thirties, maybe. Tall-ish. Lean. Dark hair that looks like it might be perpetually one day overdue for a trim. Handsome in that easy, casual way. Not your type- not that you have the luxury of thinking about that right now- but still. Not hard to look at.

He’s also watching you with amused curiosity, like he’s trying to figure out what you are. Driver? Nuisance? Stray animal?

You chew quickly and swallow. “Was hoping no one would notice.”

He gestures at the crust in your hand. “Hard to stay under the radar when you’re making off with the crew’s lunch.”

You grin, not bothering to be defensive. “Hey, you leave a box open in a pit garage, you’re asking for trouble. Everybody knows- food on a toolbox is off limits but the workbench is fair game- can’t imagine garage rules change too much from circuit to circuit.”

That gets a laugh- low and genuine. “Gavin Marks,” he says, offering a hand. “Garage coordinator, junior engineer when all this,” he gestures around him, “is finally in one piece.”

You shift the pizza to your left hand and shake, open your mouth to introduce yourself, but never quite get that far.

“Oh,” he says, cutting you off, like that explains something. “I know.” He steps around a stack of wheel covers and leans a hip against a crate, folding his arms. He doesn’t feel like he’s here to check a box- doesn’t feel like he’s going to ask for a selfie or talk about Spa like he watched it on Sky and now he knows your entire life. He’s just… curious.

“I’ve gotta ask,” Gavin says, nodding toward your notepad and your semi-claimed corner of the garage. “How’d you end up here?”

You push yourself up with one hand, brushing the back of your jeans off with the other. “Free pizza,” you say, still chewing, “I’m just here hoping no one remembers they forgot to fire me.”

He snorts. “Right. You’ve caused a bit of a stir, you know.”

You nod, feigning solemnity. “I’m very disruptive.”

Gavin studies you for a second, something a little sharper behind his easy demeanor. “You’re not…typical.”

You shrug again, casual. “I don’t have a pedigree. Or the budget for bespoke luggage. Or the budget for…anything, really. So yeah. I hang out with the guys who know how to operate a pallet jack.”

He raises a brow. “You're saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” you say.

There’s a pause, and then he asks it again. Not the way the press asks it. Not the rehearsed, sanitized version. “How’d you really get here?”

You glance at him, but the tone isn’t suspicious. Just curious. Like maybe he actually wants to understand it. So you wipe your fingers on a napkin and toss the crust in a nearby bin. “Your guess is as good as mine. I wasn’t exactly asking questions when they called. Said yes to a Friday seat when I probably shouldn’t have. And then Spa happened, and I think I’m an actual problem now.”

He whistles low, like he already knows the story but it’s better hearing it from you. “No backing?” he asks.

“Only the emotional kind,” you say. “And even that sometimes costs me postage.” He laughs again- low and a little surprised, like he hadn’t expected you to say something that honest. Or maybe like he hadn’t expected to like you this fast.

You shift your weight, suddenly aware that if you linger too long, you might start feeling comfortable. And that’s dangerous. Comfortable means forgetting what this place is- how fast it can spit you out if you let your guard down for even a second. Comfortable means forgetting about the guillotine hung over the neck of your career tomorrow at eleven A.M. sharp.

You glance back toward the paddock. “I should go check if the sim rig’s up yet.”

Gavin tilts his head. “Already?”

You shrug, slinging your bag over one shoulder. “I don’t get to coast off one good race. And besides- if I don’t get my hands on the steering wheel soon, I’m gonna start bothering people.”

“You’re already bothering people,” he says, easy grin still in place.

“Exactly,” you shoot back, already walking.

Behind you, he chuckles again, but doesn’t follow.

The meeting is held in a glass-walled conference room overlooking the paddock. It’s too clean. Too bright. Too cold. Not literally- climate controlled to a corporate 22°C- but emotionally, unmistakably cold.

You’re early. Of course you are. Hair neat. Notes prepped. Quarter-zip pulled to your collarbone, the corners of your collar tipped out just so. You’ve done everything right. Again.

You showed up early. You drove the hell out of that car. You smiled and nodded and never once complained- not about the uncertainty, not about the silence, not about the way they’ve kept you suspended in this strange little purgatory.

Franz isn’t here.

That’s the first thing you notice, and it doesn’t sit right. You glance around the room, trying not to let your confusion show- trying to match the energy in the space even as your stomach twists. There are fewer people than you expected. No Mattia. No AlphaTauri race engineers. No team principal. No sign of the people who held your hand through Spa, who watched the lap times drop, who rallied around your P7 like it meant something.

Instead, it’s Christian Horner, Helmut Marko, and two of the same legal guys who helped rush-sign your temporary contract in Belgium. That’s it. Your brain starts spinning through possibilities like a fan set to high.

Maybe Franz is busy. Maybe this is just a formality. But no, Franz would never miss a meeting about his own driver’s future. Not unless…

Unless this isn’t about AlphaTauri at all.  Unless Red Bull is making you an offer directly. Unless- No. No, that’s delusional.

Your pulse ticks faster in your throat as you try to make sense of the room. You glance toward Helmut, trying to read him the way you would an engineer mid-debrief- searching for the tiniest tells. Something in the eyes, the corners of the mouth, the tightness of the jaw.

But Helmut Marko is unreadable.

The man has the permanent expression of someone who’s already disappointed in you. Sharp mouth. Set jaw. One blind eye that never moves, and another that’s somehow more unnerving because it does. You try to get a read anyway- because your future might depend on it, and it’s not like anyone’s going to offer you a copy of the agenda.

You fail.

If he were bluffing, you wouldn’t know it. If he were ecstatic, you wouldn’t know that either. He could be about to offer you a five-year seat or a restraining order, and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Christian, for his part, has the soft smirk of a man who enjoys playing the long game. It makes you uneasy.

Helmut’s the one who speaks. “Yuki’s been cleared,” he says, voice flat. “He’ll be driving this weekend.” That part? You were ready for that. You nod once, polite, expression neutral. You don’t ask for more explanation. You don’t flinch. That’s his seat. Fair is fair.

But then Christian leans forward, fingertips steepled on the table like he’s about to give you a gift. “We’ve all been very impressed,” he starts.

The words slide across the table like an olive branch wrapped in silk. It’s smooth, deliberate, carefully placed- not warm, exactly, but not cold either. There’s a certain polish to it, the kind that comes from a man who’s had to deliver both triumphs and exits with the same smile. And still, something in you perks up. Just a little. The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slips out quietly through your nose.

“Your feedback was strong. The engineers had nothing but good things to say. We think you could be a valuable long-term asset to the organization.” That word- valuable- sticks for a second. Not impressive, not exceptional, but valuable. Functional. Useful. And yet, it's better than nothing. Better than what you’ve been handed since Spa. The phrase long-term asset lights up the corners of your mind before you can stop it, whispering promises it has no intention of keeping.

You sit a little straighter, shoulders pulled back against the sudden flicker of hope. It's not a seat, but it sounds like movement. Like traction. Like someone in this room might actually see you as more than a one-off novelty or a PR stunt that over-delivered.

You wait, eyes on Christian, searching for more. A timeline. A role. A plan. A future.

But it doesn’t come. Just could be. Not are. Not will be. Just… could. The flicker begins to dim. And then Helmut speaks again, slicing the moment clean in two. “Christian’s offered you a role with Red Bull Racing as a development driver,” he says, tone already sliding into neutral. “Factory-based. Full-time simulator work. Possibly component testing, if the opportunity arises.”

It hits like static- harmless at first, just background noise, until you try to move through it. The language is too clean, too rehearsed. You blink once, trying to process the shape of what was just said, and then again, like maybe the repetition will help the math make sense.

Factory-based. Full-time sim work. Possibly testing.

That’s... it?

No reserve contract. No mention of next year. No guarantee of even touching a real car again. No practices. No pathway. No scaffolding. No clear language about what you’re being groomed for- or even if you’re being groomed for anything at all.

Just labor. In silence. Behind the curtain.

The kind of job you give someone you want to keep quiet. The kind of title that sounds impressive on paper, just long enough to bury ambition under access badges and tire data. A role where you’ll spend more time tuning a sim data than actually using it, where your name won’t appear on any race weekend briefings unless you’re listed as a backup to a backup.

It’s not a ladder. It’s a leash.

And suddenly, everything in your chest feels too tight. Your heart drops, but not with drama- there’s no space for that. It just sinks quietly, the way a heavy object does when there’s no one watching.

You’ve been waiting for your future to begin. Waiting for someone in this room to look you in the eye and tell you that you belong here, that Spa meant something. That it wasn’t a fluke or a marketing opportunity or a miracle that won’t repeat itself. You wanted a map. You wanted a plan. You wanted a goddamn chance.

Instead, you got this.

And whether they know it or not- whether they meant to or not- they’ve just handed you something much worse than rejection. They’ve handed you a cage, wrapped in thank-you language, lined with velvet, and left the door wide open like you’re supposed to be grateful it exists at all.

You want to scream. You want to laugh. You want to pick up the table and throw it.

After everything? After Spa? After what you pulled off in that car, with no prep, no notice, no support- and they’re still fucking measuring you?

You were supposed to be disposable. You proved you weren’t. And they still won’t invest.

You feel your pulse pounding behind your eyes as your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “What would that look like… in terms of transitioning to a race seat?” It’s such a reasonable question, but it feels pathetic coming out of your mouth.

But the second it leaves your mouth, it feels small. Like you’ve just revealed too much- shown your hand in a room full of men who aren’t used to being asked for timelines by someone like you.

Helmut waves a hand, like he’s brushing dust off his sleeve. “We’ll see how you perform. There are always opportunities. Things change.” That’s not a path. That’s a placeholder. You're not being groomed. You’re being stored.

He says it like it’s magnanimous. Like the shifting sands of F1 are a gift, not a threat. But it doesn’t feel like a roadmap. It feels like a muzzle.

Held close enough that someone else can’t grab you, but far enough they don’t have to bother nurturing you. You nod, slowly, like the motion will hide how sick you suddenly feel. You don’t trust yourself to speak. Not properly. Not yet. And then, because you have to know, because you can’t let them bury you quietly and call it favor- 

You nod. Or maybe your head just tilts slightly. It’s hard to tell if the motion was voluntary. There’s a buzzing in your ears now- low and deep, like a pressure shift you can’t equalize. Your hands are cold. Your chest is too tight. You should be asking questions. The smart ones. The cover-your-ass ones. The ones your mom would ask. 

But you can’t think.

You can’t even remember what you wanted out of this meeting anymore. You had notes. You had a plan. You were supposed to walk out of here with direction, with answers. Not this... fog.

You feel yourself drifting. Slipping into silence.

And then- 

Wait.

It slams into you. The one thing you have to know. The thing they’re counting on you being too overwhelmed to remember to ask. Your voice cuts in- sharp, but late. “And- legally- ”

You have to stop. Breathe. Swallow. Try again. You lift your eyes, making them look at you. “Am I… legally allowed to explore other driving opportunities? In or out of F1?”

The pause is immediate. Heavy. Sharp.

Helmut doesn’t answer. His eyes narrow- just slightly- but you catch it. The tightening of his jaw. The minute flare of irritation, like your question personally offends him. Like you’re meant to be grateful, not strategic.

Christian’s glance to legal is quick, but pointed. A silent directive. Answer, but don’t start a fire. The legal advisor doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes,” she says smoothly, “as long as your obligations to the team are met, you’re permitted to accept other driving offers.”

It’s clean. Precise. A line they can't cross. One measly footnote line of anti-compete that protects Helmut Marko from owning you completely, even if only just. He hates that you asked. It’s written all over the way his jaw flexes. His fingers tap once against the table before stilling completely. He doesn’t speak, but his silence says everything: That’s not how this is supposed to work.

Christian, sensing the tension, steps in with the soft touch. A politician in a fireproof suit. He leans back just slightly, mouth curving like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with charm. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says, lightly. “We like to keep it in the family when we can.” It’s framed like a joke. It isn’t one.

You just nod once, sharp enough to leave a paper cut. They don’t want you to go looking. You know that now. They won’t say it. But they’ve said enough.

You smile. Barely. Just enough to show teeth. Let them see whatever they want in it. Compliance. Confidence. Threat. You don’t have the fucks to give to make the micro-adjustments, to project whatever emotion you think they want to see on your face. Not right now. 

“Understood.” You nod once, just enough to acknowledge it, just enough to say, I heard you. Not I agree. You start to rise. You’re already shifting your bag onto your shoulder when Christian speaks again, like he’s just remembered something rather important.

“Oh- ” You stop. Turn back toward the table. “We’d like you to keep this quiet. For the weekend.” He says it with that same smile, but there’s a new edge now- something just slightly firmer. A reminder. A request that’s not really a request.

“There’s a lot of press attention around you. We think it would be best- for everyone- if you maintained a low profile about the development role until you’re back in Milton Keynes.”

Helmut finally glances up then, as if to reinforce the point. His eyes don’t blink.

Christian folds his hands. “You’ll still be here anyway, so if you’re comfortable stepping into some media duties- like a reserve might- we’d appreciate it.” It’s not framed as pressure. But you feel it. Every unspoken inch of it.

Of course they want to trot you out in front of the cameras. You’re hot right now. Marketable. A podium without a contract. It looks bold. It looks deliberate. As long as no one knows you’re being benched, you’re a win for their narrative. You force a polite nod. “Of course.”

And just like that, you’re not a rising star.

You’re just another tool in the Red Bull factory.

You make it as far as the rear door before it hits you.

The rage. The humiliation. 

The grief.

You grip the edge of the railing along the window, fingertips white with pressure, trying to keep your knees from buckling.This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You knew it could. You knew. You braced yourself for it, ran the scenarios in your head, tried to be logical. Prepared. Professional. But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow the truth laid out in front of you like a cheap consolation prize.

They never meant to give you anything real.

They saw what you did. They know what you did. You dragged that car into P7 with no prep, no sim time, no setup, no support- not even a proper damn seat fitting. You gave them everything, and what you earned in return was a desk in a windowless room in Milton Keynes and a headset with your name taped to the side.

A development role.

A sim seat.

A job that keeps you near enough to pat yourself on the back but just far enough that you’re never really in the room when it matters. Close. Controlled. Useful.

Forgettable.

You press your hands to the cool railing outside the media center, suck in a slow breath and try not to shake. The air’s thick with the smell of tire rubber and concrete dust, but it barely registers. Your chest feels hollow. Your skin’s buzzing.

Your eyes stay locked on the horizon, where the track dips just out of view behind temporary fencing and hospitality trucks. You can’t see the finish line. You’re not sure you ever will.

Yuki might already be on site. Already back in the car. Already replacing you. You wonder if he even gives a shit that you were in the seat at all. If he looked at the telemetry. If he watched the onboard.

But what you’re really wondering- what you can’t stop thinking- is how you were stupid enough to believe it would be different this time.

Why does this feel like Dale Coyne all over again?

Why does this feel like every goddamn time you’ve come through for people who never had any intention of building a future with you?

You think of all those nights on the Indy circuit, putting that car together with duct tape and spite. The way you’d show up early, stay late, write your own debriefs when no one asked, burn your fingers helping the crew tape heat shielding because you were too afraid of being seen as dead weight.

You gave that team more than you had. You held the line with no support, no funding, no name, no family backing. And when it came time to plan next season?

You were always the first one up for the cutting discussion.

Too young. Too poor. Too different. Too… female.

And now you’re here. Formula 1. The supposed dream.

And it’s the same fucking story.

Different logos. Same men. Same stitched polos and cold eyes and fake encouragements. They hand you a title that doesn’t mean anything- Development Driver- like it’s a blessing instead of exactly enough rope to tie a noose.

You clench your jaw hard enough it hurts. Because the worst part isn’t the disappointment.

It’s the part of you that still aches to say thank you.

That still wants to be grateful for a job that’s not a demotion- not technically- that still exists in the world of racing. That will still keep you inside the room. That could, one day, maybe, possibly lead somewhere.

And you hate that part of yourself. You want to rip it out of your chest and hurl it against the concrete.

You want to scream. You want to spit. You want to walk into that boardroom and light the damn NDA on fire. Because this isn’t just about a job. It’s not even about a race seat.

It’s about the lie. 

The lie you let yourself believe- again. That maybe, this time, they’d see you for what you are. That maybe, this paddock would be different. It’s not.

Your throat tightens so fast it’s almost a gag. You blink hard, force the tears back. You will not cry here. Not in this hallway. Not where someone could see. But the spiral is already happening. Sliding fast. Like your brain is eating itself from the inside.

What else were you supposed to do?

What more could you have possibly done?

You delivered. You fucking delivered.

And they’re still testing you. Measuring you. Seeing how you “perform” before deciding if you’re worth so much as a backup seat. Are you fucking kidding? You’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. You press a hand to your chest like that might anchor you, might hold something in place. It doesn’t.

You feel like you’re being erased in real time. Like if you blink too long, you’ll disappear completely. Folded back into the shadows of the garage. Another almost. Another girl with talent and no funding. Another body they kept on the shelf because they could.

And you hate that it’s working. You hate that you’re standing here, shaking, grateful they didn’t fire you outright. Grateful they still want you at all.

You hate that you said yes. You hate that you meant it.

And still- still- there’s a voice in your head whispering, it’s not over. That if you can just hold on, if you can just survive the factory job, the endless sim hours, the silence, the waiting, the never-quite-enough of it all… maybe, eventually, someone will put you in a car again.

That hope? That’s what hurts the most.

Because no matter how many times they shut the door- you keep walking back.

Because here’s the ugliest truth of all:

You’re going to go to that factory. You’re going to sit in that simulator until your back locks up and your fingers go numb. You’re going to smile for PR shoots and answer media questions and keep trying, keep hoping, keep fucking believing that if you just push hard enough, sacrifice enough, suffer enough, they’ll finally decide you’re worth it.

You’re going to work yourself raw for people who haven’t earned it.

You’re going to fight and bend and beg- again.

You’re going to get on your knees for this sport like it’s a god.

Like it deserves your worship.

Like they deserve your worship.

And you hate that.

You hate how deep it runs. How much it owns you. You hate that you still want it.

Because this isn’t just ambition. It’s not just drive or hunger or “love of the game.”

You’ll go home- wherever that is now- pull your hair into a bun, put on the team polo like it means something, and log twelve-hour sim days for people who do not give a shit if you ever race again. You’ll show up early. Stay late. Run tests until your vision blurs. You’ll fine-tune tire models and engine mappings and pretend like you’re happy to be contributing “behind the scenes.”

You’ll do it all. Because you have to. Because you’re already hooked. You love racing like an addict loves heroin. Like it burns going in, like it eats you from the inside out, but the high is the only thing that ever made you feel real. It’s pathetic.

And it’s the truest thing about you.

You think about the first time you sat in a kart. The first time you beat the boys. The first time you scared yourself and went back for more.

You’ve built your entire life around this, and now you’re staring down the barrel of obscurity and telling yourself it’s fine. That there’s still a way in. That if you just endure, just make yourself useful enough, quiet enough, harmless enough, they’ll change their minds.

They won’t.

They never do.

And still, you’ll work. You’ll scrape your knees bloody on the concrete of their expectations. You’ll crawl into their systems and make yourself small and efficient and fucking indispensable- and it still won’t be enough.

You want to scream.

You want to find Franz and Helmut and shake them and make them explain why Spa wasn’t enough. Why P7 in that car wasn’t enough. Why you are still a question mark to them, still a possibility, still a test case.

You want them to tell you what you did wrong so you can fix it- because that’s what you always do. You adjust. You improve. You perform.

And they just keep moving the bar.

You hate that you’re not done trying to hit it.

You don’t know who you are without it. You don’t know what you are if you're not chasing tenths and downforce and perfection in the shape of apexes. You don’t know how to walk away, even when everything inside you is screaming to run.

It’s like loving a toxic ex. One you know isn’t good for you. One who ghosts you for weeks, then texts you “u up?” at midnight and you’re already in the car before your brain catches up. You hate yourself the whole drive over. But you go.

Every. Time.

And that’s what racing is.

That’s what this is.

You’ve tasted the thing that makes you feel whole- and now you’d let it chew you up and spit you out just to feel that way again. That’s the part you hate the most. Not them. Not even the deal.

You.

Because you know better.

And you’re still going to do it anyway.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Thursday arrives.

You barely slept. Woke up wired and raw, your body vibrating with everything you didn’t say in that glass box of a meeting. Your face hurts from how much you pretended to smile yesterday. Your stomach is still twisted up from swallowing disappointment and pretending it tasted like gratitude.

But you show up.

Because that’s what you do.

You tug on your team polo, comb your hair back into something tidy, and walk into the paddock like you didn’t spend half the night journaling just to stop yourself from screaming into a pillow.

Media day is already in full swing- cameras flashing, boom mics swinging, PR reps jogging between hospitality units like the place is on fire. A hundred voices blur into one: clipped apologies, requests for soundbites, reminders to smile. It’s the usual chaos. You’ve lived it before.

A clipboard is shoved into your hands without warning. “Here’s your driver schedule,” someone says- cheerfully, like the word isn’t acidic on their tongue. You look down. The word driver is printed across the top of the page in bold, capital letters. Right there. Centered. Like a joke written just for you.

It makes your skin crawl.

Driver.

Like you still are one.

Like they didn’t sit you down two days ago and sentence you to a windowless sim rig at Milton fucking Keynes. Like they didn’t hand you your ambition, gutted and dressed and hung up like a market pig.

It feels like mockery. Like performance art. Because you’re not driving. You’re not even pretending to get in the car this weekend. There’s no prep, no debriefs, no new parts with your name on them.

But here you are. Listed like the others. Slotted in for interviews, panels, branded content. The schedule wants you to sit beside real drivers and smile like you still belong.

You’re not being honored. You’re being used.

They want your story, not your skill. They want your face. Your quotes. Your traction on social media. They want you to show up, sit in front of a camera, and remind the world that AlphaTauri is innovative, inclusive, flexible.

Meanwhile, you’re sitting on a secret that tastes like ash- your relegation, your exile, your tightly worded exile to a simulator you didn’t ask for.

You shift the clipboard under your arm and nod like it’s all fine, like this is normal. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots since they told you you'd be taking up residence in almost. Almost a driver. Almost a contender. Almost good enough. You follow the PR rep toward the first media pen.

And all the while, the word driver presses against your ribs like a bruise.

You’re mentally steeling yourself for another long morning of talking around the truth when someone taps you on the elbow. You turn- and there he is. Your press-pen buddy for the day.

Yuki Tsunoda.

All 5’2” of him. The same height as you, which is already disorienting. Everyone else in this paddock is built like they were engineered in a wind tunnel. Yuki looks like he wandered out of a frat house and remembered last minute he was an F1 driver.

His AlphaTauri polo is rumpled, like he either doesn’t know how to use an iron or just doesn’t care. There’s a Red Bull in his hand, also somehow crinkled, as if the can itself has resigned to being a part of the theme. His hair’s a mess. He looks like he just rolled out of a nap and into the paddock. He might have.

You kind of love it.

He squints at you, like he’s trying to place you. “You’re the girl who stole my car.”

You blink, caught off guard. “I- what?”

He grins. “My seat,” he clarifies, mouth full of- where the fuck did he pull that out of- some sort of pastry you’re certain he hadn’t had in his hands when he approached. “Fucking appendix. Spa. You steal it. Grand theft open-wheeler.”

You blink again. Yuki shoves the rest of his pastry in his mouth.

You stare at him for a second before realizing he’s joking. Badly. But still. Then- God help you- you laugh- really laugh- for the first time in what feels like days. Yuki’s grin widens instantly, pleased as hell with himself. “Ahh, good. You laugh. People here- ” he waves a hand around vaguely at the paddock, “too serious. No one laughs.”

“Maybe because you’re out here accusing people of grand theft auto.”

“Is funny!” he protests, but shrugs, unbothered. “Was weird watching someone else in my seat. But you didn’t crash, so okay. Better than Liam.”

You’re still trying to decide how to digest him when you tilt your head, more curious than cautious. “So, how are you feeling? Like, seriously?”

Yuki takes a sip of Red Bull, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and shrugs. “Good. Nurse was hot though- made it hard to sleep.”

You choke. “What?”

He nods solemnly. “Kept asking if I was in pain. I said ‘only when you leave.’ She didn’t laugh.”

Your jaw drops. “Yuki!”

“What? Is compliment! Western girls don’t like flirting. I am learning this.”

You double over, hand clapped over your mouth to muffle the full-body bark of laughter that rips out of you.

It’s not just a giggle. It’s not just a chuckle. It’s a goddamn release. The kind of laugh that cracks something open, shoves light into a week full of tightly held breath and buried panic. It escapes you before you can stop it, loud and stupid and ugly, and you don't even care. You’re cackling now, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and Yuki is just standing there, proud as hell, crinkled RedBull can in hand, like he’s won.

“HR’s gonna fucking assassinate you,” you wheeze.

“Not if I’m cute,” he replies breezily, then smirks. “Also she gave me extra Jell-O. So maybe she liked it.” He shrugs again, casual as ever. “No one else makes jokes. You look like you need jokes.” He’s not wrong. You really do.

You like him.

Instantly.

There’s no posturing, no awkward alpha bullshit, no sizing you up. He’s just short, funny, vaguely inappropriate, and deeply committed to creating problems for himself- you can already tell. It’s refreshing. Grounding. Especially after weeks of being measured, weighed, and quietly dismissed by every power broker in a pressed shirt.

And when you sit beside him for the team interviews- both of your legs swinging a little because neither of your feet fully touch the floor- you realize that you're not faking the smile on your face.

He talks about his recovery. You talk about Spa. He interrupts you at least three times. You don’t mind. You kind of appreciate it. At one point, a reporter asks how it felt to “borrow” the car. You open your mouth, unsure of how diplomatic you need to be- but Yuki beats you to it. 

“Not borrow,” he deadpans. “Steal. Very fast.”

The room laughs. You do too.

And for the first time since you got that awful job offer, for the first time since they told you “we’ll see how you perform” instead of you belong here- you remember that this is supposed to be fun.

Maybe not always.

But sometimes.

And maybe, just maybe, this weekend won’t kill you after all. 

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’ve been in a daze since Wednesday- since the meeting that ended with your name on a contract you didn’t want, and a polite nod that might as well have been a dismissal. “Development driver.” It still clings to you like something sticky and sour, no matter how many times you try to tell yourself it’s a job. A real job. In Formula 1.

But it doesn’t feel like a beginning.

It feels like exile.

You’d spent most of Thursday just trying to act normal. Sticking to your media duties, floating through hospitality like your badge still meant something. And then, somehow, you met Yuki.

Yuki, with his rumpled polo and broken filter. With his shit-eating grin and complete inability to take anything seriously for more than two seconds at a time. He called you a car thief before even saying hello. Told you his nurse was hot and gave him extra Jell-O. Swore he healed “like an anime character.”

He’d made you laugh so hard you had to look away. You hadn’t even realized how much you needed that until the sound was already coming out of your mouth.

That had helped. A little.

But now it’s Friday, and the knot in your stomach has returned, tighter than ever. You’re not driving. You’re not anything. You’re here to “support the team”- whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean when the team doesn’t seem to want you beyond your press value.

And now you’re here, standing just outside the AlphaTauri garage, flipping through a folder of media talking points and trying to pick an outfit that doesn’t make you look like you’re compensating for the fact that your name isn’t on the timing sheet.

You spot her before she spots you.

Kelly.

Standing just outside the hospitality unit, phone in one hand, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She’s dressed like she belongs in an art gallery, not a paddock- every piece perfectly tailored, breezy but curated, her long dark hair catching light like it’s staged. Kelly Piquet moves like she owns the asphalt, like she’s never once tripped in heels or said the wrong thing at a dinner party.

You hesitate.

Because the last time you were in the same room, it was that dinner. Jos holding court like a kingmaker. Kelly arriving just late enough to blow the whole dynamic to hell. She hadn’t spoken to you that night. Barely looked at you, even.

And it wasn’t hard to do the math.

She had a bone to pick with Jos. You’ve been parked at his estate like a well-groomed house pet for three weeks. It wouldn’t be insane to think her issue had transferred.

You’re still deciding whether to play invisible when she catches your eye and lights up like you’re a familiar face in a sea of cameras.

Okay. Not invisible then.

She straightens, tucking her phone into the crook of her arm, smile cooling into something softer. Less camera-ready. More real. "Hey, you," she says, like it's nothing. Like there isn’t a single jagged edge between you.

You stop, offering a nod, unsure if she’s being polite or political.

"Didn’t think I’d get to see you before practice," she adds, stepping closer. "You’ve been everywhere this week. Media’s obsessed."

There’s no heat in it. No jealousy. Just a matter-of-fact observation. You exhale- quietly, so it doesn’t look like relief. “Trying to make the most of it,” you say, and it sounds humble enough to pass.

Kelly grins. “So I’ve heard. It’s been a while since anyone shook things up that fast. I like it. Keeps them on their toes.”

You study her for a second. The way she tilts her head, the way her eyes scan you- not judgmentally, just curiously. She doesn’t look put off. She doesn’t look territorial. She just looks… interested. A beat passes. The sun creeps higher above the paddock. You shift awkwardly, glancing at the phone in your hand. Ah shit, what the hell do you have to talk to her about that isn’t cars or weird ass Verstappen dinners?

You take a chance. 

“So,” you say, tapping the screen, “I have to go play pretend for the cameras in about an hour, and I cannot decide what to wear. You seem like a credible source.” You gesture to her perfectly curated ensemble- easy, breezy, beautiful. Covergirl- in every sense of the word. 

You swipe twice, then tilt your phone toward her. “Option one,” you say, pointing, “makes me look serious, professional, credible. Option two makes me look serious, professional, credible…but also a little…?” You just trail off, not even bothering to find a word for it, but it speaks for itself. It’s nothing bold, nothing scandalous, but you’re not sure if having shoulders is a crime for a driver in possession of tits.

Kelly nods, considering both. She seems to understand your wordless dilemma.

“And which one,” you add dryly, “says ‘I’m hot enough that you want to help me, but not so hot you assume I slept my way here?’”

Kelly bursts into laughter- an actual laugh, open-mouthed and unapologetic. “Oh, that’s good,” she says. “God, I should’ve asked myself that more often.”

You laugh too, because it’s either that or scream. “It’s exhausting. I’ve had to explain to five people today that I’m not driving this weekend, just doing press.”

Kelly makes a face. “They keep assuming because you’re competent. What a concept.”

You grin. “Right? How dare I not crash the car.”

She taps the screen again. “Wear this one,” she says, pointing to the second outfit. “It says, ‘I am taking this seriously,’ but it also says, ‘you should be just a little afraid to interview me.’”

You huff a small laugh, glancing down at the outfit in question. A sleeveless blouse with sharp lines, high-waisted trousers that still move like second skin. Sleek, strategic. No fuss, no apologies. You’d picked it half-seriously the night before, too tired to overthink and too bitter to hope it mattered. Now, looking at it through her lens, it actually feels… not terrible. 

“Sold,” you say, sliding the phone back into your pocket.

Kelly smiles, smaller this time- quieter- but the warmth in it doesn’t waver. It’s a real smile. One that asks for nothing in return. And in this place? That’s rare.

“I meant what I said,” she adds, adjusting the sunglasses perched on her head. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You nod once, letting it land properly this time. “Me too.”

You’re about to say something else- maybe even thank her, maybe something about how it’s nice to talk to someone who actually feels like a human being in a paddock full of manufactured soundbites- when it happens.

Your name tears through the hum of the paddock like a whipcrack. Not casual. Not polite.

Urgent. You turn on instinct.

Gavin is running. Not walking. Not striding. Running.

He’s weaving through bodies, gear crates, and camera rigs like he doesn’t see any of it. Your race bag is slung over one shoulder, bouncing against his back with every step. One of your gloves is dangling out the side, flapping in time with his pace.

Your stomach flips.

“What-?” you start, stepping toward him.

He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t greet Kelly. Doesn’t ask if it’s a good time.

“Get changed,” he says, voice short and breathless, already thrusting the bag into your arms. “Quali starts in forty.”

For a beat, your brain doesn’t register what he’s just said. The words make sense individually, but they don’t compute. It’s like someone flipped a switch inside your chest and shorted the circuit. Like a differential gear with every tooth sanded smooth- spinning and going nowhere fast. 

“Wait- I’m not- ” You fumble, still clinging to the fact that you have a press schedule in your back pocket, still halfway inside the moment with Kelly, still trying to remember which lipstick you packed.

Gavin shakes his head, sharp and definitive. “You are now. Yuki’s out. He’s in a bad way. They just pulled him ten minutes ago. You’re in.” The paddock tilts around you. Not literally- but close enough. For one wild second, it feels like you’re going to fall forward and keep falling.

Kelly’s eyes widen as she glances from Gavin to you, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. You can feel the shift in her, too- how one moment ago you were talking about outfit optics and now you’re standing on the edge of fire.

You nod. Once. Fast.

And then you move.

The bag is heavy in your hands, the shoulder strap digging into your collarbone as you pivot on your heel and sprint toward the motorhome. Every breath tightens the knot in your chest, but there’s no time for that now. No time to feel anything except the familiar roar building in your ribs.

You’re in.

You’re fucking in.

You’re stepping into your fireproofs before you’re fully convinced this is real.

The engine fires. The car lurches.

And you go.

On Saturday, you qualify P8.

You pull into the garage shaking, lungs full of adrenaline, hands still twitching around the wheel.

You’re not supposed to be here. Again.

But you are. Again.

P8. Not a fluke. Not a charity lap. Just a pure, clean, fuck you kind of speed.

You try to let it sink in as you wind down, the garage going quiet, the paddock thinning out, the engineers going home. Try to tell your body to settle, to rest, to prepare. But your body doesn’t know how to settle anymore. Not after this week.

So you eat half a sandwich, lie awake until 2AM, and stare at the ceiling until your call time rolls around. By lights out, you’ve burned through every scenario imaginable. But none of them look quite like this.

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Series Masterlist

Whoo. You made it. Promise we see Max tomorrow- and just about every chapter after that. I was trying to cram it all in and it just wasn't working.