#these two are always standing next to each other???

[neellscapsule]

My Heart — Part Two

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 4.4k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942

previous. next.

The paint stains your fingers in shades of umber and charcoal, seeping into the skin beneath your nails, filling the creases along your knuckles. You’ve stopped noticing how it feels—the slight stickiness of oils, the bite of turpentine on raw fingertips. It’s part of the process. Part of the mess you’ve accepted as your life.

The studio smells like linseed oil, rain-dampened brick, and faint candle smoke from the altar of used coffee cups near the window.

You haven’t eaten. You never do when you’re in this state.

The canvas towers in front of you — a human torso, cut open and reassembled with impossible precision, gothic window tracery bleeding from the muscle, spine bent beneath the weight of cathedral motifs. A ribcage crowned with delicate arches. Veins following the curve of stained glass.

It’s grotesque. It’s sacred.

It’s yours.

You push the brush across the canvas, smoothing the crimson edge of one carved shoulder, teeth digging into your lower lip. It’s not done. It never feels done. You don’t know what compels you to keep building cathedrals inside people. You just can’t seem to stop.

You don’t notice the knocking at first.

The sound seeps through the fog of your focus, faint and rhythmic, knuckles tapping wood. You groan under your breath, setting the brush down beside the palette, fingers sticky with paint. 

It’s probably Pam again. She’s sweet, too sweet sometimes — hovering, asking if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you’ve seen the sun in the past forty-eight hours. It’s not her fault, but you’ve been very clear today.

“Pam, for the love of God,�� you call, not turning away from your work. “I told you, I’m not hungry. You don’t need to hover like a worried mother—”

You turn then, irritation curling your mouth as you wipe your hand absently on the hem of your oversized paint shirt, ready to face the soft-eyed persistence of your assistant.

But it’s not Pam.

It’s Jason.

He stands near the door, arms crossed, helmet clipped to his hip. His eyes are fixed on you, unreadable, sharp like they always are when he’s too quiet, watching you like you’re still the kid he used to mess with, still the little sister too easy to fluster.

Behind him, Damian is already wandering through your studio, his hands clasped behind his back in that overly formal way he’s always had, posture unnaturally straight for a thirteen-year-old, his eyes tracing every painting, every sculpture, every unfinished sketch with the kind of reverence that makes your skin itch.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” The question comes out sharper than you intend.

Jason shrugs. “Nice to see you too, princess.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse stumbles. Childhood memory pulls behind your ribs, unwelcome.

“You didn’t answer the door,” Damian remarks, calmly, as though this is the most natural place for him to be. His tone doesn’t match his age. He’s a teen but speaks like a soldier twice his years. “We assumed you would not appreciate us arriving with excessive fanfare.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You broke into my building?”

Jason lifts a brow. “Didn’t know we needed an engraved invitation to check on our sister.”

You grip the rag on your desk a little too tightly. “You can’t just show up here. This is my space.”

Your older brother strolls further in, his steps deliberately slow. “Yeah? You didn’t really leave us much choice, you know. You’re hard to get a hold of.”

“That’s the point.”

“You invited us.”

“I meant the gallery, Jason,” you snap. “Not my apartment.”

Jason clicks his tongue, mockingly. “Bit touchy, aren’t we?”

“Studio,” Damian corrects quietly, still inspecting the room. “This is not merely an apartment. It’s an artist’s space.”

Your gaze flicks to him. His tone is formal, precise, the way your father speaks in boardrooms, the way assassins speak before they strike.

You know that cadence. You used to wear it too. Before you remembered how tired you were of being sharp-edged.

His focus drifts from canvas to canvas, lingering on the darker ones, his expression carefully neutral. He walks as though he’s in a museum — slow, controlled, absorbing everything. For a second, you think he would enjoy the gallery much more, and you quickly get rid of the thought.

Damian finally turns to face you, his green eyes unsettlingly direct. “We came to see you.”

You cross your arms, suddenly conscious of the paint-streaked shirt, the disheveled hair, the exhaustion under your skin. Your space feels invaded. Claustrophobic. Like they cracked the sanctuary you built around yourself and stepped right in without asking.

“How did you even know where I live?”

Jason’s grin is infuriating. “Come on. Did you really think you could keep that from us?”

“I moved across the country.”

“Yeah. You’re not as stealthy as you think.”

“I used aliases.”

“Cute.”

Damian’s voice cuts through, quiet but deliberate. “Tim found you.”

You blink.

Jason’s smile falters slightly. “Yeah, that helped.”

You glance between them, irritation flaring in your ribs. “Tim hacked into my stuff?”

“Only the necessary. We didn't see any of your dirty stuff,” Jason makes a grimace, completely disgusted. "God, I hope you don't have that stuff 'cause that just made me sick."

“Choke in your vomit while you are at it,” you reply back, eyes narrowed.

Jason pushes off the doorframe, wandering deeper now, hands in his pockets, gaze sliding over your unfinished works.

“You’ve been busy,” he notes casually, though there’s a flicker in his expression you don’t miss. Something thoughtful. Guarded.

“I didn’t ask for company,” you say evenly.

“No, but you sure as hell needed it,” Jason mutters under his breath. “Did you eat? And don't lie. Cause I can and I will talk to Pammy over there. Surely blondie could answer that as well as you.”

You roll your eyes. Damian interrupts, stepping toward a sculpture perched on a pedestal near the back of the studio. His voice is smooth, formal. “This one is exquisite.”

You stiffen immediately.

Jason follows Damian’s line of sight, curiosity dimming into something else when he focuses on the piece. His posture locks, his smirk gone.

The sculpture isn’t large, but you’ve kept it protected, guarded in the corner like it was something precious.

Because it is.

Two figures, with faces that merely touch by an ear to a cheek, no bodies, just faces and necks and only a bit of chest. Her arm protects him, crossing to his shoulder. There is no paint. Just faces. Blank faces that are too sad.

You and Jason.

Younger. Before death. Before he was gone.

Jason steps closer, his lips parting like he might say something, but nothing comes out. He’s staring at the chipped edge where your fingertips almost touch his neck.

The moment feels too exposed, too raw, too much.

You rush forward, grabbing the draped cloth from a nearby chair and hastily covering the sculpture, heat creeping to your cheeks.

Jason’s eyes stay on you. Quiet now. The teasing’s gone. What’s left is… complicated. Damian, meanwhile, has stepped closer, watching the whole exchange with unnerving focus. His eyes are greener up close. Sharper. Too observant for a thirteen-year-old.

“Why is that hidden?” he asks simply, as if the question isn’t a blade twisting in your ribs.

“Because it’s not for display,” you answer curtly, adjusting the cloth, the warmth in your cheeks refusing to fade.

Damian steps beside you, quiet but watching. Always watching.

“You should come home,” he says, direct as ever, eyes locked on yours. “To the Manor.”

The words slam into your chest like a steel door.

You bark out a hollow laugh, shaking your head as you retreat back toward your canvas, grabbing your brush with shaky fingers.

“I’m not going back there.”

“You should,” Damian insists, his voice low but firm, carrying the same command your father always wielded — only softer, more desperate under the surface. “You belong with us.”

“No,” you reply, knuckles whitening around the brush. “I belong here.”

Jason leans against the wall, kicking a stray paintbrush with the toe of his boot. “Look, you don't have to move back into the Manor. No one’s trying to suffocate you. But you don’t have to be alone all the time.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Yeah?” His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You’re talking to a brick wall, painting holes in people, and eating nothing but coffee and stubbornness. Sure doesn’t look like you’ve got a full house in here.”

You scowl. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He shrugs. “Fair.”

The studio falls into a thick, tense silence, the quiet hum of city traffic beyond the window the only sound.

Damian breaks it, voice colder, but not unkind.

“We miss you.”

You stare at him, at the strange, complicated little brother you barely know, the only one who shares your blood — half, yes, but more than enough for him to treat you like you’re his.

Your heart wavers. Because you were always like that with your siblings. Always too soft, too easy to catch. It was not your fault; how could they look at you like that and expect you not to fall?

But you still retreat behind your work, turning your attention back to the cathedral-ribcage and the arches blooming from muscle and bone.

Jason exhales slowly, fingers tapping the edge of a nearby shelf.

“Alfred asks about you, you know.”

Your spine straightens. You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” he continues, softer now. “Old man’s been stuck with nothing but bats and brats. Pretty lonely in that big house.”

The words knife into your chest.

Alfred.

You swallow hard, brush faltering mid-stroke.

“He misses you,” Jason adds, voice rough with something that sounds too much like guilt. “The others— they’re stubborn. But him? He just wants you home.”

Your eyes sting, but you don’t let the tears rise. You breathe through your teeth, steadying yourself as the memories press against your ribs — Alfred’s gentle hands bandaging your bruised knuckles, his voice soft in the dark after failed missions, the way he saw you when no one else did.

“He’s… fine?” Your voice is fragile.

Jason nods. “Tired. Old. Still making those goddamn scones no one likes but you.”

You huff a quiet, broken laugh despite yourself.

Damian steps closer, the stiffness in his shoulders easing as his eyes soften — still sharp, still possessive, but open now. Waiting.

“We’ll leave,” he says carefully. “But you should consider it.”

“I’m not going back,” you repeat, but it cracks more than you intend.

Jason sighs, shrugging on his jacket again.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes lingering on you, old regret buried under forced nonchalance. “Didn’t think you would.”

But they don’t push.

They leave the studio quietly, the door clicking shut behind them, the echo of their presence curling in the corners like smoke you can’t scrub away.

You stare at the unfinished painting, the gothic ribs and spires reaching out like a cathedral begging for worship.

And for the first time in hours, your hands shake too much to keep painting.

2021

You are Gotham’s darling.

You glide through the gala like a practiced storm, a smile stretched soft and convincing across your painted lips, pearls heavy against your collarbones, a custom dress clinging to your figure in all the right ways.

You know what they see.

They see elegance. Charm. The precious Wayne daughter — the pianist, the prodigy, the golden girl.

But they don’t see the cracks. No one ever does.

You know exactly how to play this game.

You lift a flute of champagne from a silver tray — you won’t drink it, of course. You just need to hold it. It’s part of the image.

Your eyes flick across the room, cataloguing politicians, socialites, investors, foreign dignitaries, all humming in the same stale rhythm.

It’s always the same.

And it’s so easy.

A charming laugh here. A delicate touch on the arm there. The perfect tilt of your head, the perfect compliment, the perfect distance. You flash a smile, soft and warm, as another politician’s wife tells you how radiant you look tonight. You accept the compliment like it’s your birthright. You have learned to wear praise like perfume — light, intoxicating, gone in a moment.

They eat it up.

You are exceptional at being what they want you to be.

Across the room, you can see them.

Your family.

Your father. Bruce Wayne, always the shadow, always the gravity around which you all spin. Talking to someone from the Mayor’s office, brow furrowed, jaw tight, not looking at you.

Dick — always moving, always orbiting. Laughing with some acquaintances, tipping his glass toward them, that golden boy glow turned up to full wattage. He hasn’t looked your way in over twenty minutes.

Jason — unfamiliar to these parties, still stiff in his tailored suit, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, eyes darting toward the door like he’s already plotting his escape. You catch him staring at you briefly, but he looks away too quickly, feigning disinterest.

Tim — glued to his phone, tucked in a corner, nodding absently at the older men who mistake his silence for reverence. He won’t make it through the night without ducking out to work on whatever case is currently eating him alive.

None of them are looking at you.

And yet, you are here.

You are always here.

The daughter.

The musician.

The delicate thing to be paraded in pearls.

You love them. You hate them. You love them. You hate them.

It’s always both.

They forget you. They adore you. They neglect you. They would burn the world for you.

But not tonight.

Tonight, they’ve already forgotten.

You remember the first time you played for the public — twelve years old, barely tall enough for your feet to brush the pedals. You’d glanced toward the side of the stage, hoping, aching to see your father there.

He wasn’t.

But Alfred was. He always was.

You play like you’re starving.

You play like it’s the only way you know how to be loved.

Your fingers fly across the keys, weaving through the rises and falls of the piece you’ve practiced to perfection. Every note is a plea. Every shift in tempo is a crack in the armor.

See me.

See me.

Please, see me.

The crowd is enraptured.

Gotham adores you. You know how to keep them in your palm.

When you finish, the applause swells, thunderous, pressing against your ribs.

You find Alfred near the kitchens of the Manor. His face softens the moment he sees you.

“My dear.”

You step into his arms without thinking, without needing to guard yourself. He holds you tightly, his hand gently cradling the back of your head like he did when you were a child.

You were always a child in his arms.

“You played beautifully,” he murmurs.

“Did you listen?”

“Of course I did.”

“You stayed the whole time?”

“Always.”

You swallow thickly, pressing your face into his shoulder.

Alfred has always stayed.

“You should be the one they parade around,” you whisper.

He chuckles softly. “I’m far too old for that now.”

“You’re the best of all of us.”

“You are part of that ‘us,’ you know.”

You pull back, but his hand lingers on your cheek, thumb brushing away the hint of tears.

“I see you,” he says, voice warm and steady. “Even when the others don’t. I see you, my girl.”

You nod, the lump in your throat too heavy to speak.

Alfred gives you a knowing look. “Your father is not always as clever as he pretends to be.”

“I’m not looking for clever.”

“Perhaps not. But I suspect you are still looking.”

You don’t answer.

You’ve already learned that some searches never end.

But you smile for him anyway.

Because you can’t bear to let him see how much it hurts.

PRESENT

The world feels better upside down.

You’ve decided that much after the third drop, when your body spirals through the air, silk ribbons biting into your thighs, your wrists, your waist, the floor disappearing somewhere below.

There’s freedom here, wrapped tight in fabric and gravity’s quiet threat. Up here, it doesn’t matter what your last name is. It doesn’t matter whose eyes you inherited, whose legacy you abandoned. It doesn’t matter how many invitations you wrote that no one showed up for.

It’s just you.

Your body.

Your strength.

Your silence.

The silk coils like a lover around your legs, keeping you suspended a solid twenty feet off the ground. You hang there, breathing slow, the city bleeding in through the open studio window — car horns, distant chatter, the faint wail of sirens that sound far too much like home.

You hate how your chest tightens at that sound.

The pressure wraps across your ribs as you climb, muscles burning, silk cool under your palms. The deep blue fabric coils like water as you flip, twisting your legs, pulling your body upside down, your hair trailing toward the floor twenty feet below.

For the first time all day, your head spins in a way that makes sense.

Up here, it’s just you.

Not the invitations you stupidly wrote.

Not the unanswered questions from Damian.

Not the quiet ache Jason left behind.

Not Alfred’s face, worn and tired, haunting the back of your mind.

You’ve spent hours here, in the studio that isn’t your art studio—the other one, the hidden space in the upper floor you converted into your training room.

“Okay,” comes a voice from below, too familiar, too soft with that unbearable warmth. “Now that’s impressive.”

Your eyes snap open.

Dick Grayson stands beneath you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, blue eyes glinting with quiet awe — and a pride you’ve never seen aimed at you before. Not like that.

“Birdie,” he says, grinning up at you, that old nickname curling off his tongue like honey over a blade.

Your stomach flips, the nickname scraping through your ribs with bitter nostalgia.

You were never a Robin. Never wore the cape, the tights, the too-big legacy that was supposed to mold you into their perfect image.

But you were a bird too.

His bird.

Once.

“You’re supposed to announce yourself,” you say flatly, ignoring the way your pulse skips at the sound of his voice.

“I did,” he teases. “You just didn’t hear me over all your death-defying tricks.”

You exhale through your nose, keeping your face blank as you shift in the silks, body still upside down, legs tangled securely.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is even, practiced, but your heart stumbles anyway.

Dick rocks back on his heels, gaze still glued to you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Is that any way to greet your favorite brother?”

You arch a brow. “Favorite? Bold assumption.”

“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Right through the heart.”

You twist in the silks again, limbs coiling expertly, giving him your back for a moment as you let the tension in your core guide your position. You love the feeling — controlled, steady, detached from the floor, from all of it.

When you finally pivot back toward him, his eyes haven’t left you.

There’s a gleam there — pride, yes, but something heavier buried beneath. Guilt. Sadness. That quiet, unbearable Grayson softness that makes you want to run in the opposite direction.

Or scream at him.

Or both.

“You shouldn’t sneak into people’s studios,” you tell him flatly. “Some artists are territorial.”

Dick chuckles. “Yeah, well, I figured it was safer than knocking and getting the door slammed in my face.”

“Tempting.”

“You gonna come down?” he asks, tilting his head. “Or are we having this whole conversation with you playing Cirque du Soleil?”

You smirk faintly, fingers loosening your grip on the silks.

“Suit yourself.”

Before he can argue, you drop — fast, controlled, the silks unraveling in a fluid blur, your body spinning toward the floor at breakneck speed.

You hear him curse under his breath.

The moment before your feet hit the mat, you hook your legs, slowing the descent, landing clean and balanced with barely a whisper of sound.

Dick’s eyes are wide, hand halfway extended like he thought you might splatter across the floor.

“Jesus,” he mutters, hand scrubbing down his face. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You shrug, peeling the silk from your wrists. “Just keeping you on your toes. You’ve seen me do worse, anyway.”

His eyes roam your frame — not with scrutiny, but with that quiet, admiring calculation you remember from years ago, back when you were smaller, younger, chasing after them in the halls of the Manor with too-big eyes and a heart desperate to be seen.

“I didn’t know you got this good,” he observes, tone dipping softer now. “The aerial stuff.”

“I’ve had time.”

His gaze sharpens, and you know he hears the bite beneath your words.

Of course he does. Dick’s always been good at hearing what people don’t say.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, softer now, the teasing edged away, replaced by something closer to… awe? Pride? Guilt? You can’t tell. It’s always layered with him. His eyes stray to the scattered equipment, the crash mats, the window cracked just enough to let in the faint summer breeze.

“It suits you,” he admits, tapping his thumb against his palm. “The silks. The… flying.”

You fold your arms, stepping back toward the silk rig, giving him space — and putting distance between yourself and whatever sentiment he’s about to throw at you.

“Let me guess,” you exhale, sticky hair clinging to your neck. “You’re here to talk about the Manor. About coming home. Just like Jason. Just like Damian.”

Dick’s jaw flexes.

You straighten, rolling your shoulders, tugging the silks aside as you wipe your palms on your leggings.

“If that’s the case,” you add, sharp and controlled, “save your breath.”

“Birdie—”

“I’m not going back.”

His face flickers, the usual effortless charm faltering under the weight of your words.

He watches you for a long, measured moment.

You cross your arms, leaning against the nearest support beam, heartbeat still settling from the adrenaline of the silks, though the real tension in the room comes from him.

“Did they put you up to this?” you ask quietly. “Bruce? The others?”

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head, stepping closer. “They don’t know I’m here.”

Your brow lifts. “So what, you just… showed up?”

His lips curl faintly, crooked and boyish. “You’re hard to track down when you don’t want to be found. But I’ve had practice.”

A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. “Yeah. Surveillance and interrogation. Real family values.”

“Okay, that—” Dick laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I deserved that one.”

You sigh, dropping your head for a moment before meeting his eyes again.

The weight of his gaze settles heavily between you. Pride. Longing. Regret.

It’s all there, barely hidden beneath the years of distance.

“I’m not coming back,” you repeat, quieter now, but no less certain.

Dick’s expression softens, his shoulders lowering as he closes the last few feet between you, stopping just far enough that you still feel you have room to breathe.

“Look,” he starts gently, voice dipping into the same soothing cadence he used when you were little—before everything cracked. “I’m not here to drag you back. I’m not even here to lecture you.”

You snort. “That’s new.”

He gives you a dry look, but his smile returns, faint and a little sad.

“I just wanted to see you,” Dick admits, glancing around the studio. “See how you’re doing. How… this life is treating you.”

Your chest tightens, unexpected warmth blooming under the guard you’ve spent years building.

You want to believe him. Part of you does.

But the other part—the part that remembers every missed recital, every unopened letter, every time you stood on the edges of family dinners while they laughed without you—knows better.

“I’m fine,” you lie easily.

He frowns, eyes drifting over you, reading you the way only he can.

“You don’t look fine.”

You roll your eyes, turning back toward the silks, fingers tracing the cool fabric as a distraction.

“Don’t start playing big brother now, Dick. It’s been years.”

“I never stopped being your brother.”

Your throat tightens, but you mask it with a shrug, grabbing the silk, twisting it idly around your wrist to keep your hands busy.

“This isn’t the Manor,” you whisper. “You don’t get to show up and play big brother.”

His expression fractures — just a little, the mask slipping.

“I’m building something here,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the studio, the silks, the life outside Gotham’s shadows. “It’s mine. No capes. No patrols. No… disappointments.”

His face twists with something complicated—guilt, frustration, maybe even admiration.

“I get it,” Dick says softly. “I do.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I ran from it too, remember? Blüdhaven. The circus. It’s not so different.”

“It is,” you counter, stepping forward, close enough now that your voices stay low, private. “You had the option to visit. To come back whenever you wanted. Me? I didn’t know if I even belonged there in the first place.”

Dick’s jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“You always belonged,” he says, fierce and broken, eyes burning into yours. “We were just too damn distracted to show you.”

The admission punches the air from your lungs.

You look away, throat tight.

“Jason mentioned Alfred,” you murmur after a beat, the memory of the old butler’s face ghosting over your thoughts. “How… is he?”

“Still the only one holding the Manor together,” Dick answers, his voice soft with fondness. “Tired. He misses you... Everyone does. I do.”

You shake your head, pulling the silks through your fingers, grounding yourself in the familiar texture.

“It’s not that easy.”

“I know.”

“It’s not like I can just walk back in and pretend nothing happened.”

“Trust me, birdie, I’m not pretending.” He pauses. “We screwed up. I screwed up.”

You glance at him, wary.

His eyes meet yours, steady, open.

“I should’ve been there. More. Better. I thought— I thought you’d always be there. That there’d always be time.”

You swallow around the ache in your throat.

“Don’t pull the ‘we were kids’ card.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says quietly. “I was going to say I wasn’t paying attention. That I thought being your brother meant just… showing up for the big stuff. The galas. The battles. I didn’t realize it was the little things that mattered.”

You look away.

“I used to send you letters,” you murmur, voice tight. “Invitations. Notes.”

“I know.”

“I used to save you seats.”

“I know.”

His voice is thick now.

“I didn’t think you wanted me there,” you whisper, fingers tightening on the silks. “I thought you had better things. More important people.”

He steps closer, not touching, but near enough to feel the warmth of him.

“You were always important,” he says. “I just… didn’t act like it.”

You blink rapidly, trying to hold back the stupid, stinging heat behind your eyes.

“I’m still not coming back.”

He smiles softly. “Okay.”

You glance at him, surprised. “Okay?”

“I’m not here to drag you home,” he says. “I’m here to see you. To remind you that you still have a home. That you still have a brother who’s proud of you.”

Your throat tightens.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“It’s true.” His smile grows. “You were always a bird, you know. Not like me, not like the Robins. You were something wilder. Something I always wanted to fly like. My little birdie.”

He gets close, and for the first time you let him, chest aching for the love he once gave you. Dick kisses your temple, looking down at you for a moment.

“There's going to be a gala in four days. Because of the anniversary of the enterprises. Just . .  . think about it. You have my number. And take care of yourself, please.”

[chromehoney]

“AT THE SAME DAMN TIME.”, chap one, chapt two, chap three.

synopsis; After a messy, short-lived situationship with Stack—reckless, flirtatious, and all the wrong kinds of possessive—you swear you’re done with hood boys who can’t keep up. But when you drop something off at his mother’s store and find both Stack and his older twin brother Smoke inside, something shifts.

“Don’t let me walk out this house lookin’ basic.”

You sat in Sevyn’s bathroom, your legs crossed under you while she dipped into edge control and eyed her parts in the mirror. A pile of synthetic hair bundles sat between y’all like some kind of offering. You’d been braiding each other’s hair for years, but today? It felt different. Intentional. A little…competitive.

Because Smoke and Stack were gonna be at that party. And like Sevyn said earlier—this had to be bitch-you-lost-me loud. Your hair was already halfway done—soft, loose boho knotless braids with curly ends that framed your face like silk. Sevyn’s would match. You told everyone it was so y’all could be twins for the summer.

By the time y’all were finished, the sun was getting low, casting that golden hour light on your skin as you both stood in the mirror, checking your angles. Sevyn wore a lime green swimsuit with clear heels. You chose the cherry-red bikini—the one Mary would’ve killed to fit the way you did. You tied a mesh skirt around your waist, hoop earrings in, clear gloss shined up, gold anklet catching the light.

“You look like a damn problem,” Sevyn said, snapping a photo. “Good,” you smirked. “I wanna ruin somebody’s night.”

•several hours later,

The bass from the backyard speakers was deep enough to vibrate through your chest. The crowd was thick—bodies half-drunk, glittering in oil and chlorine. You and Sevyn walked in side-by-side, braids swinging, skin glowing, confidence high.

Y’all mingled with a few people you knew from high school, laughed over plastic cups, and dipped your feet in the pool before finally slipping in waist-deep. The water was warm from the sun, and for a moment—you almost forgot about the real reason you were here. Until you saw him.

Smoke.

Fresh cut, black tee stuck to his chest, chain resting against his collarbone. He wasn’t in the pool, just standing to the side with a drink in his hand, cigar tucked behind his ear, eyes locked on you like you were the only thing worth watching.

But then—him.

Stack.

Leaning back in one of the patio chairs, shirtless, glistening, laughing with his head tilted back. And sitting next to him? Mary. Long-legged. Bikini too small. Hair damp from the pool. And she was giggling like she’d never heard a joke that funny in her life. Your smile dropped. Your stomach twisted. Ugly and mean. You didn’t even notice the way your lips pushed into a pout until Sevyn whispered, “Bitch, relax.”

You inhaled once. Smoothed your expression. Then let a slow smirk spread across your face. “Nah,” you said, wading toward the steps. “I’m good.” You walked up to Smoke, water still dripping from your thighs, mesh skirt clinging to your curves. His eyes followed the drops. Then rose—slow and hooded—to meet yours. “You always watch this hard, or is it just me?”He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “It’s you,” he said simply.

You stepped closer, real close. Chin tilted up. The music slowed into something bass-heavy and slick, and suddenly you didn’t care who was watching. “And what you gon’ do about it?” Smoke set his drink down. Palmed the back of your waist, warm and confident, drawing you into him with quiet heat. “Come here,” he said low.

And you did.

The kiss hit different. Slow. Warm. Wet. His lips moved like he already knew how you tasted. Like he was just confirming what he imagined. Your fingers gripped the front of his shirt, lips parting, and he kissed you again, deeper—his hand sliding down to the small of your back like he’d claimed it.

You didn’t know how long it lasted. But you knew when it ended. Because suddenly, a voice snapped from behind you.“Man, what the fuck?!” You pulled back, blinking. Stack was standing there, arms wide, face twisted up. Mary was beside him, eyes darting from you to Smoke to Stack like she couldn’t believe what was happening. “What is your problem?” she snapped at Stack.

“Why do you care if she’s over there with Smoke?!” “Because!” he barked, hands dropping. “Because it’s her! You don’t get it.”People had turned by now. Faces watching. Eyes wide. Mary threw her hands up. “No, you don’t get it! You been flirting with me, making me think—!” “Man, I don’t owe you nothin’,” Stack spat.

And right there, in front of everyone, they were yelling. Mary’s voice sharp, Stack’s louder. Your name came up once—“You was just tryna get back at her!”—but you stopped listening. Your stomach was tight. Your face hot. Smoke’s arm was still around your waist, but the moment had died. Sevyn found you quick. “We gotta go,” she whispered, already tugging your hand. “They just killed the whole damn mood.”

You nodded numbly. Turned to leave.

But before you did—you looked at Smoke. Reached in your purse. Pulled out a pen and slid it across his hand. Your number. “For when the mess dies down,” you said. You didn’t say it was to get back at Stack.You didn’t say you actually liked that kiss. You just walked off. Braids swinging Heart racing.And Smoke?

Smoke watched you go.

[eraserbread]

i LOVE ex husband gojo with all my heart🤞🏻

pls do one where he catches you still wearing the ring 🙏🙏

oh, it's the perfect day to love ex-husband gojo... ✧

→ f!reader, drinking, smoking, angst, suggestive but sfw

for two people who swear they never want to see each other again, you and satoru do have a funny way of always bumping into each other.

living in different neighborhoods, you still frequent the same stores in his—and vice versa. his friends are your friends, and satoru was your friend before you started dating. a part of you wishes it stayed that way. yes, he was a debilitating flirt who made sure you felt his need, but it was cheeky—fun.

now, you're staring at him half-lidded, barely able to see the glisten in his eye from across the room.

you have to give it to your friends. they definitely tried to keep you two apart, but sometimes, it's impossible. suguru knew the bartender here, but shoko didn't tell you that suguru was the one who invited her out—you should've known.

now you're standing with your back to the wall, fingers squeezing the cup's rim so tight you wouldn't be surprised if it shattered in your grip.

satoru is so fucking tall, towering against the doorway, hidden behind dark glasses. his hair is shorter, all mussed up with delicate precision. half-done button-up shirt, tight pants, glossy shoes—you're gritting your teeth.

"who's dying first: you or suguru?"

shoko's leaned over the marble bar, long hair pulled back in a clip. she's cradling a cigarette between her fingers, exhausted but tipsy enough to hide it over against your wound demeanor.

she reads that ugly look on your face, then turns over her shoulder. you can't believe she laughs when that familiar, lanky body comes into view.

"how was i supposed to know gojo would be here?" she replies unenthusiastically. there's no way satoru didn't notice you two here, but you can tell suguru is trying to keep him at bay—perhaps he didn't even know. actually... scratch that. suguru definitely knew.

and it's such a slap in the face because you were sober. it's been two weeks since you crawled in toru's bed. no contact was going beautifully.

"suguru, then. got it." you deadpan, steely eyes cold and harsh as they bore laser beams into satoru's shadow. he's hunching down, talking to some strange girl with a hand on her shoulder. suguru's laughing next to him, no care in the world.

you swallow down the rest of your bitter drink, gulping it twice to quell the aftershock. then, you slam it down on the bar next to shoko, hands shaking as you storm off to the bathroom.

lucky you—it seems like he didn't even notice you. in the oddly pristine bathroom mirror, you're avoiding your ruffled reflection at all costs, hands wet and shaking as you strain and work at your ring finger, trying to rid the evidence of satoru's ring from your skin.

it wasn't even your size—the ring was his grandmother's—but you loved it. he never asked for it back after signing the marriage away, so you kept it—not as a sign of love, but one of wealth and purity. it's a small, priceless ruby rock blending in with your dark outfit seamlessly.

there's no way you drank enough to be struggling and shaking like you are, but not even wetness from the faucet could make it slide off of your hand. it gets stuck at the worst moment—you feel like you're gonna hyperventilate.

just as you feel the metal start to give, the unmistakable creak of the bathroom door renders you silent and still. you're too on edge to look behind you, shaking like a candle in the wind as it draws shut. the lock clicks.

"crazy running into you here." satoru's voice—the one that haunts your dreams—splashes over your back like ice water. you sputter. "it seems like every time I've seen you since, you've been drunk... or high on something. I don't like it."

"i-i-i'm-i'm not h-high." you stammer, squeezing your eyes shut in meek embarrassment. "you s-should leav-leave."

"well, i locked the door... i'm sure we have a few minutes to ourselves." he coaxes, deep voice sweet and tempting as he gives it to you. you're finally able to look up at the reflection, fire spreading through your veins at the sight of him this close. you can't see his eyes under his dark glasses—thank god.

you hope he didn't notice your shaking hand covering the ring.

"you stopped calling me..." he muses, closing in on you and the water-stained sink. you're starting to sweat with nerves, thighs buzzing in anticipation as his heat grows unbearable. "and showing up. made me worry."

"i can't keep running back to you when I need sex. it's not right."

"but, you know i can give it to you exactly how you need it." he whispers, the front of his toned, hard body pressing against your back. you let your head hang, embarrassed that you aren't pushing him away and running for the hills. no, you relax under his touch. your hands fall.

between the kisses satoru is pressing to your neck, he notices the small shine on your finger. your jewelry reflects the light, and you wear a lot of it. most of the silver bands and diamond bracelets were from him, but that ring on your finger...

he reaches out, snatching your hand in his grip. under his glasses, his eyes are wide and focused, gaze quivering like he's staring at his demise.

you choke in surprise. "what?!" his grip is tight, your fingers flex and strain in his hold, heart falling when you realize what he's fixated on. "l-look, I just had it o-

"why did you start wearing it again?"

it's an odd question, but satoru knows you took it off the day you left him. he kissed it the night prior once you tucked into bed—there's no way he'd miss its return. for some reason, this gets him going. his blood pressure rises. seeing his family ring on your finger felt like a leash and collar keeping you connected forever.

his guts swim.

"i-it matched my nails. stupid, i know-

he shuts you up, bringing your spindly finger to his lips. he stares at the pristine, spotless glimmer against the hue of your skin and the shine of water, and just can't help himself.

he leans in, closing his lips around the ornament like he was trying to suck it off.

you feel so trapped, his free hand is crossing across your tummy, thick forearm flexing as you wiggle. you claw at the meaty flesh on his arm, head falling back into his chest.

you hate how good he feels. you hate the security of his body pressed to yours... you're so ashamed, you wish this ground could open and swallow you whole.

[cheriecelestial]

Red Lights Pt.2

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ F1 driver!Jason Todd x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ angst. fluff. suggestive content. themes of mental health and depression. swearing. insecurities. non-canon complacent. jason is an idiot. not proofread.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ So here's part two. I didn't wanna split it but oh well. Requests are open so feel free to send them. Comment, Like and Reblog (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

comment to be added to taglist

Part 1

“Jason, I think you should see this.”

Jason’s brows drew together as Dick held up his tablet. On the screen was a Twitter post already gaining traction—photos of Jason in Venice. Not alone. Y/N was beside him in every frame, though mercifully, her face was either obscured or turned away. Only Jason’s features were clear, caught in candid moments of laughter or strolling beside her down cobblestone streets.

“It won’t be long before the tabloids catch wind of this,” Dick said quietly. “And once they do, you know how fast it spreads. So… is there anything we need to prepare for? A statement? Clarification?”

Jason stared at the images for a beat too long, his jaw tightening. “There’s nothing to announce,” he said, his voice low, laced with simmering anger.

This—this—was what he hated most about the life he’d inherited. The fame, the scrutiny, the constant invasion of privacy. People didn’t just watch; they obsessed, they speculated, they twisted everything into headlines and hashtags. And they never knew when to back off.

He pulled out his phone, opened the app, and found the same post. He scrolled through the comments. Some expressed harmless curiosity. Others congratulated him or gushed about how “cute” the mystery woman looked from behind. But the rest? Cruel. Jealous. Misogynistic. Disgusting.

He could already picture Y/N’s face if she saw them—how her smile would falter, how those bright eyes would dim. The internet could be vicious and if anyone recognized her, they’d tear into her without hesitation. She didn’t deserve that. Y/N was kind, full of joy, and effortlessly warm in a way that made the world feel easier to exist in when she was near. She wasn’t built for this toxic attention and she shouldn’t have to be.

Jason’s fists clenched at his sides.

They could say whatever they wanted about him. They always had. But Y/N? She was off-limits. Untouchable. And he would make damn sure it stayed that way.

Jason shoved his phone deep into his pocket, the screen still burning with the comments he'd been scrolling through—each one a fresh ember beneath his skin. The device felt heavier than it should have, weighted down by implications and what-ifs. Across the room, Dick's gaze lingered on him with that infuriating older brother intuition, the kind that could read silence like an open book. Jason hated it—being seen like that—but more than that, he hated feeling powerless.

“I’ll handle it,” Jason bit out, the words sharp enough to carve distance between them as he moved toward the door.

“Jason.”

Dick’s voice was softer than Jason deserved, laced with a caution that had been earned through years of watching headlines twist and private moments splatter across tabloids. The warning wasn’t judgment—it was experience.

“Just... be careful,” Dick said, the words measured. “You know how this stuff spirals. One photo turns into a headline, and the next thing you know, she’s being followed. Whoever she is.”

Jason froze mid-step, his spine locking. The unspoken implication hung between them: I see you. I see what this means. Dick didn’t press further. He didn’t need to.

“That’s exactly why I’m going to handle it,” Jason ground out, the promise rough in his throat.

A beat passed. Then another.

Finally, Dick gave a single nod—not approval, not surrender, just acknowledgment. Permission to go, if that’s what Jason needed.

And Jason did.

Because standing still meant thinking. And thinking meant admitting how much he couldn’t control—the press, the speculation, the way his pulse kicked at the thought of Y/N caught in the crossfire.

Jason’s thumb hovered over the contact for a long moment before pressing call. The phone rang twice before that familiar, graveled voice answered - the one that had talked him through contract negotiations and sponsorship deals since he was a teenager.

“Uncle Harvey. I need your help.”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth. Harvey Dent wasn’t who Jason wanted involved in this fragile, unnamed thing with Y/N. That honor should have gone to Alfred, with his quiet wisdom and endless patience. Or Cass, who understood the weight of public scrutiny better than most. But this wasn’t about introductions over tea—this was damage control. And when it came to protecting what mattered, Harvey was the most ruthless legal mind in Gotham.

On the other end of the line, Jason could hear the squeak of leather as Harvey leaned back in his office chair, the distant hum of Gotham traffic thirty floors below. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of decades navigating the Wayne family’s most sensitive affairs.

“Son, listen to me carefully.” A pause. The clink of ice in a glass. “You say you’re fond of this woman, but you don’t know how she feels about you. Or this situation. And with the championship rounds coming up?” A humorless chuckle. “It’s like pouring jet fuel on a bonfire.”

Jason’s grip tightened on the phone. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office, Harvey watched a news helicopter circle the Gotham skyline - a reminder of how quickly private lives became public spectacle.

“Driver-presenter relationships aren’t unheard of, no. But let’s not pretend this industry has evolved since Clark Kent and Lois Lane.” A bitter edge crept into Jason's voice. “Unless your girl happens to be a Pulitzer-winning journalist with skin thicker than Lane’s and let’s be honest, you’re no ‘America’s Sweetheart’ like Clark was—she won’t survive unscathed.” The lawyer continued, his dual-toned voice measured.

Jason’s free hand clenched into a fist. He could already see the headlines: “Distraction in the Paddock?” “Is Wayne Racing’s Comeback Kid Losing Focus?” Worse, the vile comments that would inevitably target Y/N— questioning her professionalism, her motives, her very right to be in the paddock.

“So what’s the best course of action?” Jason ground out, hating the helplessness in his own voice.

Harvey sighed, the sound distorted by the scar tissue on the left side of his mouth. “You have three options, kid. One: you walk away now, before this gets complicated. Two: you go public on your terms, with every legal safeguard we can put in place. Or three...” A pause heavy with implication. “You keep this quiet until the season ends, and pray to God no paparazzi catches you two in a compromising position.”

Outside, the first drops of rain began to streak down Harvey’s windows, turning Gotham into a blur of neon and shadow. Just like the night half his face had been melted away by a rival’s acid attack. He knew better than most how quickly the world could turn on you.

“The clock’s ticking, Jason,” Harvey murmured. “But whatever you decide— we’ll handle it.”

We. The word should have been comforting. Instead, it settled like a lead weight in Jason’s stomach. While walking our of the garage, he caught his own reflection in the hallway mirror—jaw clenched, eyes dark with something too close to fear.

Y/N hummed softly to herself as she folded another sweater into her suitcase, the fabric still warm from the dryer. Outside her window, the afternoon sun cast golden streaks across her bedroom floor, illuminating the carefully curated pile of items she was bringing to Zandvoort—a notebook filled with sightseeing ideas, her favorite camera for capturing the Dutch coastline and her prettiest outfits, just in case Jason happened to glance her way during the broadcast.

Every moment with him played on a loop in her mind—his laughter during their disastrous pottery attempt, the way his eyes softened when he thought she wasn’t looking, the rare, unguarded smiles he reserved only for their quiet conversations. She had loved him for years, long before she ever stepped foot in a paddock, back when he was just a face on her bedroom posters and a name she whispered to the TV screen during races. But now? Now, she was falling all over again, deeper and harder than before and it terrified her.

Because how could she ever tell him?

The fear sat heavy in her chest, an anchor dragging her back to reality whenever her thoughts drifted too far into fantasy. Jason had once confessed, in an old interview she’d memorized, how much he despised obsessive fans—the kind who crossed boundaries, who saw him as an object rather than a person. And Y/N? She had been that girl once. She had run fan accounts, written embarrassingly earnest posts, even sketched him in the margins of her notebooks like some lovesick teenager. If he ever found out, would he look at her with disgust? Worse—would he see her as just another face in the crowd, another person who loved the idea of him more than the man himself?

The mere thought made her stomach drop.

Stephanie had rolled her eyes when Y/N voiced her fears. “You’re not some random fan anymore,” she’d argued. “You’re his friend. You know him. Tell him.”

But it wasn’t that simple.

Jason had dated models before—women with legs that went on for miles and faces that belonged on magazine covers. Y/N knew she didn’t compare. She wasn’t polished in that effortless way; sure she could be professional but that's that. She was all sharp edges and nervous energy, too loud when she was excited, too quiet when she was overthinking. And Jason? Jason was a legend. A champion. He deserved someone who matched his brilliance, someone the world would approve of—a supermodel, a pop star, anyone but a presenter whose biggest accomplishment was not tripping over her own words during live broadcasts.

And then there was her career.

Relationships between presenters and drivers were messy. The internet would dissect every glance, every interaction, until the narrative was no longer about her work but about who she was sleeping with. She had seen it happen to other women in the paddock—their credibility erased overnight, their achievements overshadowed by speculation and rumours.

But God, if Jason ever looked at her and asked, she would burn it all down in a heartbeat.

Her career. Her reputation. Every carefully constructed boundary she’d put in place to protect herself.

She’d do it without hesitation.

Because he was worth it.

Worth the risk. Worth the fall.

Even if he never felt the same.

Her eyes fell to the matching bracelets he had bought for them from a night market and a soft smile found its way to her lips. For now, this was enough.

It had to be. 

The buzz of her phone against the bedsheets startled her, pulling Y/N abruptly from her thoughts. She reached for it with slightly trembling fingers, her breath catching when she saw the name flashing across the screen— Jay💞.

The little heart emoji beside his name, something she’d added weeks ago in a moment of foolish hope, now felt like a cruel joke.

Jay💞: Can we talk?

Her stomach twisted. That wasn’t his usual style. No teasing remark, no dry observation about whatever hobby she’d been rambling about last. Just three simple words that carried an unsettling weight.

Y/N: Sure. Wassup?

Before she could even process sending the message, her screen lit up with an incoming call. Her pulse skyrocketed, fingers fumbling as she nearly dropped the phone in her haste to answer.

“Hi,” she breathed, forcing lightness into her voice even as her chest tightened with inexplicable dread.

“Hey.”

That single word confirmed it. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Jason’s voice was strained, the usual warmth replaced by something tense and unfamiliar.

“How are you doing?” he asked, the question stiff, like he was reading from a script.

Y/N’s fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater. “I’m good,” she replied, forcing a laugh. “Missing me already, are we Todd?”

It had only been six days since they’d last seen each other—six days since they’d wandered the streets of Monaco after dark, sharing a single gelato while arguing over which historical monument was the most overrated. He’d tugged her under an awning when the rain started, his arm brushing hers and for a fleeting moment, she’d let herself believe there was something more in the way he looked at her.

“Somethin’ like that,” Jason muttered, but there was no humor in it. No warmth. Just a hollow imitation of their usual banter. The dread in her stomach solidified into something heavier.

“And how—” she started, desperate to fill the silence, but Jason cut her off.

“We should stop this.”

The words hit like a ton of bricks, sharp and sudden, as if he’d ripped them out of himself before he could reconsider.

Y/N’s breath stuttered. The room tilted.

Stop what? she wanted to scream. Stop texting? Stop laughing together? Stop looking at me like I’m the only person in the room?

But all she managed was a choked, “Stop what?”

Please say I’m imagining this. Please say I’ve misunderstood.

“This. Us. The whole thing.” His voice was rough now, edged with frustration—a tone he’d never once used with her.

A voice in her head, cold and mocking, slithered through the haze of her shock.

What did you think would happen? That someone like him would ever want someone like you?

The tears came then, hot and unstoppable, but she clenched her jaw, refusing to let him hear them.

“I understand,” she whispered, the words barely audible past the lump in her throat.

It was a lie. She didn’t understand. Not when he’d looked at her like that in Monaco. Not when he’d kept every book she’d ever given him. Not when he’d promised to take her to see the tulips next spring.

But she wouldn’t beg. She wouldn’t make this harder for him.

“It was fun while it lasted,” she forced out, her voice cracking. “I wish you all the best, Jason.”

She hung up before he could respond.

The phone slipped from her fingers, landing soundlessly on the bed. Around her, the room blurred—the half-packed suitcase for Zandvoort, the notebook filled with plans she’d never get to share, the dress she’d bought because it matched his eyes.

All of it, gone in an instant.

The phone slipped from Jason's fingers, clattering onto the marble countertop with a sound that echoed through the hollow silence of his penthouse. The screen had gone dark, just like the numbness spreading through his chest—but her voice still rang in his ears, sharp and clear despite the distance between them.

“I understand.”

The way her breath had hitched—just once, just barely—before she’d hung up. The way she’d tried so hard to sound composed, even as her voice cracked on those final words.

“I wish you all the best, Jason.”

As if he deserved her kindness. As if he hadn’t just taken something fragile and beautiful and shattered it with his own two hands.

A wave of self-loathing crashed over him, so visceral it knocked the breath out of him. He braced his hands against the counter, head bowed, shoulders trembling with the force of keeping himself upright.

You made her cry.

The realization was a knife to the ribs. Y/N, who laughed in the face of his sarcasm, who teased him mercilessly but never cruelly, who looked at the world with a wonder he’d forgotten existed—he’d hurt her.

Rage ignited in his veins, white-hot and directionless. At the paparazzi who’d snapped those invasive photos. At the team managers who’d warned him about “distractions.” At the entire goddamn world that had made this feel like the only choice.

But mostly—mostly—at himself.

The voices in his head, the ones he usually drowned out with engine roars and podium cheers, rose in a venomous chorus.

She would’ve left eventually. You’re not someone people stay for. You ruin everything you touch.

A sweeter, softer voice tried to interject—You were just trying to protect her—but the others drowned it out with mocking laughter.

Protect her? Or protecting yourself from the truth? That you’re terrified she never loved you at all?

“Shut up!” The words tore from his throat raw and ragged.

His vision blurred. His hands shook. The anger needed an outlet, needed to burn, and before he could think, he grabbed the nearest object—

The ceramic pot.

Their pot.

The one they’d painstakingly shaped at Nonna Gianna’s, their fingers brushing over wet clay. The one Y/N had painted with his racing number in that terrible, crooked script of hers, grinning as she declared, “Now everyone will know the great Jason Todd made this masterpiece.” The one he’d secretly kept on the shelf, where he could see it first thing every morning.

It shattered against the wall with a sound like a gunshot.

The moment it left his hand, he regretted it.

Jason was across the room before the last piece hit the ground, collapsing to his knees amidst the wreckage. His hands trembled as they gathered the broken fragments, as if he could somehow piece them back together.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over, voice breaking.

To the pot. To the memories. To her.

The jagged edges bit into his palms, drawing blood, but he barely felt it. The physical pain was nothing compared to the agony of knowing—

He’d broken something far more precious than clay.

Y/N slid down the length of her bedroom wall, her legs giving out beneath her as she collapsed onto the hardwood floor. She pulled her knees to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them as if she could physically hold herself together. The tears came in relentless waves, hot and suffocating, each sob wracking her body with a violence that left her gasping for air.

She had known this would happen. Had braced for it from the moment she first realized her feelings for him had grown beyond professional admiration. So why did it feel like her chest had been cracked open? Why did it hurt to breathe, as if every inhale was lined with shards of glass?

Her phone buzzed incessantly on the carpet beside her, the screen lighting up again and again with notifications she couldn’t bring herself to check. Calls. Texts. Maybe even an explanation—though what could he possibly say that would undo the way his voice had sounded when he said those words?

We should stop this.

Had he found her old fan accounts? The embarrassing posts from her teenage years? Or worse—had he simply realized she wasn’t worth the trouble? That whatever this was between them had been a mistake?

The questions swarmed in her head like angry hornets, relentless and poisonous. She pressed her forehead against her knees, nails digging into her arms as if the physical pain could distract from the gaping hole in her chest.

Time lost meaning. The sunlight that had streamed through her windows when the call ended had long since faded, replaced by the dim glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. Her tears had dried up, leaving her hollow and numb, her body too exhausted to produce any more.

She didn’t hear the frantic knocking at her front door. Didn’t register the sound of it swinging open, or the hurried footsteps that echoed through her apartment.

“Y/N? Y/N!”

Stephanie’s voice cut through the fog of her grief, sharp with panic.

Y/N barely lifted her head as her friend skidded into the bedroom, eyes wide with alarm. Behind her, Tim hovered in the doorway, his usual easygoing expression replaced with concern.

“Oh my god—” Stephanie dropped to her knees in front of her, hands hovering as if afraid to touch her. “Tim, go get water. Now.”

“Hey, Steph,” Y/N murmured, her voice raw and broken. She didn’t have the energy to force a smile, didn’t even try to wipe away the tear tracks staining her cheeks.

Tim returned moments later with a glass of water, which Y/N accepted numbly. The coldness of the glass against her palm was the first real sensation she’d felt in hours.

“You didn’t show up at the airport,” Stephanie said, her voice trembling. “You weren’t answering calls or texts. And then we saw the news report—”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the glass. “News report?”

Stephanie blinked. “You... didn’t know?”

Tim wordlessly pulled out his phone, swiping through his feed before turning the screen toward her. Y/N set the glass down with a shaky exhale. “That explains a lot.”

Stephanie’s brow furrowed. “Wait, what do you mean by that?”

And so, in halting, broken sentences, Y/N told them. About the call. About the way Jason’s voice had sounded—like he was forcing the words out, like he hated every single one. About how she’d hung up before she could break completely.

By the time she finished, Stephanie’s face had darkened with a fury Y/N had never seen before.

“That motherfucker,” she hissed, pulling out her phone and her hands balling into fists. “I swear to God, I’m going to—”

“Steph,” Tim interjected gently, though his own jaw was clenched. “Let’s just... focus on Y/N right now, okay?”

Stephanie nodded slowly and put her phone down begrudged, “But mark my words, he’s not getting away with this. Not after everything. Not after you.”

Y/N didn’t have the strength to stop her. Didn’t have the strength to do anything but stare at the floor, the numbness settling deeper into her bones.

Zandvoort was everything Y/N had imagined it would be—the roaring crowd, the salty sea air mixing with the scent of rubber, the vibrant banners waving proudly in the stands. The Dutch Grand Prix had always been one of her favorites, and she had been looking forward to this weekend for months.

But now, standing in the middle of the bustling paddock, she felt strangely detached from it all.

The night before had helped, at least. Steph and Tim had refused to leave her alone, bundling her onto their private jet with a duffel bag full of all her comfort foods. They’d let her cry when she needed to, let her rant when she wanted to and then, when the worst of it had passed, they’d distracted her with terrible B-movies and enough popcorn to feed a small village. By morning, the raw edges of her heartache had dulled into something more manageable—something she could tuck away behind a practiced smile and a layer of expertly applied makeup.

She still wore the dress she’d bought for the weekend. A deep emerald green with accents of blue, the color of the ocean under storm clouds. She’d picked it weeks ago, imagining how the fabric would flutter in the coastal wind, wondering if Jason would notice. But of course, there was no use of thinking such thoughts now.

The race had been chaotic, the kind of edge-of-your-seat spectacle that normally would have had her buzzing with adrenaline. Jason had podiumed—P3, when he could have easily taken P1 if not for a series of uncharacteristic mistakes. The commentators speculated about pressure getting to him, but everyone in the paddock knew the real reason. The photos. The rumors. 

She had avoided him all weekend, sticking to the media zones where she knew he wouldn’t venture. But now, as the post-race interviews loomed, her luck had run out.

Cass was first—stoic as ever, gracious in victory, her answers concise and humble. Konner Kent followed, flashing that trademark Kent charm, all cocky grins and playful winks that had the crowd eating out of his palm.

And then, before she could brace herself, Jason was stepping into the interview pen.

“Hello, Jason.”

Her voice didn’t waver. She had spent years perfecting the art of professionalism, and it didn’t fail her now. The smile she gave him was polite, detached—the same one she’d give any driver.

“Mind walking us through your race?”

For a moment, he just stared at her.

The noise of the paddock faded into the distance. The cameras, the reporters, the fans—none of it mattered. His gaze searched hers, desperate, as if he could find some answer in the cool detachment of her expression.

Are you okay? his eyes seemed to ask. Did I ruin everything?

But she gave nothing away.

“Jason?”

Her voice was calm, measured, the perfect cadence of a professional doing her job. The microphone in her hand didn’t tremble. The smile on her lips didn’t waver. But her eyes—those dark, expressive eyes he’d spent months learning to read—were utterly unreadable.

He blinked, startled back to reality like a man waking from a dream. “Uh—yeah. Sorry.”

The apology tasted bitter on his tongue. Sorry for what? For zoning out during the interview? For breaking her heart over the phone like a coward? For the way his chest ached just standing this close to her, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and soft that reminded him of the lazy afternoons in cafes of Milan?

He cleared his throat, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair as he launched into the mechanical race recap every driver had memorized by their rookie year. Tire degradation. Track conditions. The usual corporate-approved talking points.

But his gaze never left hers.

He watched for any crack in her armor—a flicker of hurt, a flash of anger, anything to prove she still felt something. But Y/N? She was impeccable. Nodding at all the right moments, smiling when the script demanded it, her posture relaxed as if this was just another interview with just another driver.

Not the man who’d danced in the rain with her in Austria. Not the man who had a polaroid of them on his nightstand. Not the man who was currently dying inside.

“So,” she continued smoothly, glancing down at the cue cards in her hand, “any plans after the race?”

The question was innocuous. Routine. He swallowed hard. “I did have plans for going to the beach, maybe the museums...” His voice trailed off, the ghost of a humorless laugh escaping him. Plans with you. “But those fell through.”

For the briefest second, something flickered in her expression. Then it was gone.

“Well,” she said, her tone light but her knuckles whitening around the microphone, “I think you should still try to go regardless.”

Their eyes locked. The paddock noise faded to static.

Even if we’re done, her words whispered between them, don’t stop living.

Jason’s throat tightened. He wanted to say so much more—to explain about the lawyers, the paparazzi, the team. To tell her that walking away was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

But the cameras were rolling. The world was watching.

So all he said was, “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

The days after the interview bled together in a monotonous cycle of exhaustion and emptiness. Jason fell back into his old ways—wake up, train, eat, sleep, repeat. The discipline that had once been second nature now felt like a prison sentence, each repetition chipping away at what little remained of his spirit.

He still raced. Still won, even. The muscle memory was too deeply ingrained for anything less. But the fire that had once driven him—the fierce, unrelenting need to prove himself—had been reduced to smoldering embers. Without her in the stands, without her texts dissecting his performance with that sharp insight and playful teasing, the victories felt hollow. The cheers of the crowd, once electric, now grated against his nerves like static, a shrill cacophony that only emphasized the silence where her voice should have been.

And yet, like clockwork, the messages still came.

Every new city, every race weekend, his phone would light up with clinical, meticulously researched recommendations—museum tickets booked under his name, reservation details for hidden-gem restaurants, phone numbers for local guides who could show him the sights. The messages were stripped bare of her personality—no ridiculous emojis, no witty remarks, no absurd cat memes that used to make him groan even as he saved them to his camera roll. Just facts. Just logistics. As if she couldn’t bear to cut him off completely but couldn’t bring herself to be anything more than professionally courteous.

See? She still cares about you, a voice in his head whispered, equal parts hopeful and cruel. Even after everything.

And what had he done in return?

The taunts came harder now, unrelenting and deserved. There was no defense, no justification. Not anymore. He had made his choice, and this was the consequence—a half-life, a world drained of color.

He tried, at first, to follow her suggestions. Walked through art galleries, stared at masterpieces he couldn’t appreciate. Sat through a lion dance show in Singapore, the dancers’ passion only underscoring his own numbness. Each attempt ended the same way—with him standing in the middle of some crowded plaza or quiet museum hall, struck by the unbearable weight of her absence.

What would she say right now?

The thought was involuntary, intrusive. He could almost hear her voice, the way she’d poke fun at the overly serious museum descriptions or make up ridiculous backstories for the portraits. The memory of her laughter, bright and unselfconscious, twisted like a knife.

Even reading, once his solace, offered no refuge. The books she’d given him sat untouched on his nightstand. When he did try, he’d find himself staring at the same paragraph, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. His mind, usually so sharp, so focused, was a fog of regret and what-ifs. Half an hour. That was all he could manage before the emptiness became too much. Before he had to leave, shoulders hunched against the weight of missing her.

And then, slowly, he began to notice her absence in the paddock, too. Fewer sightings in the media pen, fewer flashes of her familiar silhouette in the crowd. He didn’t know if it was intentional, if she was avoiding him as deliberately as he was avoiding her, or if the universe had simply decided to spare them both the agony of crossing paths.

A blessing, he told himself. A mercy.

But the truth was worse.

Because every time he turned a corner and didn’t see her, every time he scanned the pit lane and found it empty of her presence, the hole in his chest grew wider.

He missed her.

Not just the idea of her, not just the comfort she’d brought—but her. The way her nose scrunched when she laughed. The way she’d bite her lip when concentrating. The way she’d looked at him, really looked at him, as if she saw something worth saving beneath the wreckage.

And now, without her, he was adrift. A champion with no one left to race for. A man who’d pushed away the only person who ever made him feel alive.

The Mexican Grand Prix had been brutal—not because of the track or the competition, but because every turn, every straightaway, seemed to whisper memories he couldn’t escape. As Jason stood in the quiet of his driver’s room, the adrenaline of the race still thrumming under his skin, his mind drifted unbidden to a conversation from what felt like a lifetime ago.

“You have to try my friend’s abuelita’s quesadillas,” Y/N had told him, her eyes alight with excitement. “They’re legendary. I’ll take you there after the race this time.”

This time.

The words echoed hollowly in his chest. There would be no this time for them. No shared meals, no laughter over burnt tongues from too-hot cheese, no moments where the world faded away and it was just the two of them, tangled in the simple joy of being together.

He slumped onto the couch, scrolling mindlessly through his phone in a futile attempt to distract himself. Then, like a punch to the gut, Tim’s Instagram story appeared.

A photo.

Tim, grinning as always, arm slung around his girlfriend—the blonde stylist Jason vaguely remembered from a few events. And there, standing beside them, radiant in a golden dress that seemed to catch fire under the evening lights, was Y/N.

But it wasn’t just her presence that sent a sharp, jagged pain through his heart.

It was Danny.

Danny, with his easy smile and his arm draped casually around Y/N’s shoulders, pulling her close. Danny, who had known her longer, who had history with her, who was now standing where Jason should have been.

Jason’s grip on his phone tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Anger surged through him, hot and irrational, a wildfire he couldn’t control. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was something deeper, something primal. The sight of her smiling, glowing, laughing with someone else, doing all the things they used to do—it carved something raw and feral out of him.

She wasn’t his.

She had never been his.

And yet, the possessive fury that coiled in his gut refused to loosen.

Why?

Why did the thought of her happiness without him feel like a betrayal? Why did the idea of her moving on, of her finding joy in someone else’s company, make him want to slam his fist through a wall?

It was selfish. Hypocritical, even. He was the one who had ended things. He was the one who had pushed her away. And yet, here he was, seething at the mere idea of her being someone else's.

Pathetic.

He tossed his phone onto the table, the screen still illuminated with that damn photo and dragged his hands over his face. The weight of his own contradictions pressed down on him—the guilt, the longing, the anger, all tangled into an unbearable knot. He had no right to feel this way. But that didn’t stop the ache.

And it didn’t stop him from wondering, with a bitterness that tasted like regret, if she had already forgotten him.

The quiet hum of the garage was interrupted by a hesitant knock, followed by the creak of the door swinging open. Jason looked up from where he sat, his phone still clenched in his hand, the screen now dark as he placed it face-down on the table. The familiar voice that followed sent a jolt through him—one he hadn’t realized he needed until now.

“Can I come in?”

Roy Harper stood in the doorway, his frame silhouetted against the harsh fluorescent lights of the paddock outside. Even after all this time, the sight of him brought a flood of memories—both painful and cherished. Roy had been more than just a friend; he’d been Jason’s fiercest rival, his most trusted confidante, the only person on the grid who ever truly understood the weight of what it meant to race at this level.

And then, in the blink of an eye, everything had shattered.

Jason swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod. “Roy?”

The name came out rougher than he intended, laced with surprise and something deeper—something like guilt.

After the crash, Roy had been consumed by it. The guilt, the self-blame, the crushing weight of believing he’d been the one to end Jason’s career or worse, his life. Jason had heard the stories in hushed tones from the team: Roy’s downward spiral, the overdose, the way he’d disappeared from the paddock entirely. And Jason? He’d stayed away, too, convinced that seeing him—seeing the scars, the aftermath would only drag Roy back into that darkness.

It was almost laughable, in the cruelest way. Roy blamed himself for the crash. Jason blamed himself for Roy’s suffering. And yet, neither of them had ever once blamed the other.

But time, therapy and an insistent, stubborn woman named Y/N had changed things.

Roy had been the first to seek help, pulling himself out of the abyss with a determination Jason had always admired. And Jason? Well, he’d had Y/N. She’d been the one to gently but firmly suggest he talk to someone, too. And when the time came, she’d been the one to nudge him toward reconciliation with Roy, insisting that they both needed it.

“You can’t keep carrying this guilt,” she’d told him, her voice soft but unyielding. “And neither can he.”

Another thing he owed her. Another thing he couldn’t repay.

“I didn’t know you came to see the race,” Jason said, forcing himself back to the present.

Roy stepped fully into the room, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “Jade and I were in the country, so we thought we might as well.” He paused, then added with a grin, “Oh, and Lian came too. Had her wear a mini 02 jersey.”

He pulled out his phone, swiping to a photo of his infant daughter swaddled in a tiny onesie designed to mimic Jason’s livery. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “You’re turning her into a fan already?”

Roy’s grin widened. “Gotta teach 'em young, amiright? And don’t think I forgot—you still owe her a proper godfather gift. None of that ‘signed merch’ crap, either.”

Godfather. The word settled over Jason like a weight—a responsibility, a promise, a second chance he hadn’t realized he needed. Lian had been born not long after he and Roy had finally sat down and talked, after the apologies and the tears and the long-overdue acknowledgment that neither of them had been at fault. That day, Roy had clasped his shoulder and declared Jason the godfather without hesitation, as if it had always been inevitable.

Jason’s thumb hovered over the phone screen, tracing the curve of Lian’s round cheeks in the photo. The tiny onesie, a perfect miniature replica of his own racing colors, sent an unexpected warmth through his chest. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, replaced by something softer, something like wonder.

“She’s perfect, Roy.”

The words came out quieter than he intended, almost reverent.

Roy’s expression shifted, the usual sharp edges of his smirk softening into something more tender. “Yeah,” he agreed, voice thick with a pride Jason had never heard from him before. “She is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the heavy, suffocating kind they’d endured after the crash. This was different—comfortable in a way Jason hadn’t realized he missed. The kind of quiet that only existed between people who had seen each other at their worst and still chose to stand side by side.

It didn’t last.

Roy, ever incapable of leaving well enough alone, broke it with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

“So,” he drawled, leaning back against the equipment crate with practiced nonchalance, “you gonna tell me why you look like someone kicked your puppy or am I supposed to guess?”

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers raking through his sweat-damp hair. The motion did little to dispel the restless energy coiled beneath his skin. “It’s nothing.”

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

Roy didn’t even dignify it with a response. Just raised one eyebrow, the look on his face screaming bullshit louder than any words could.

Jason opened his mouth—to deflect, to argue, to say anything that would make Roy drop it—but the words died before they could form. What was there to say? That he’d been staring at a photo of Y/N like some lovesick teenager? That the sight of her smiling with someone else had carved a hole in his chest he couldn’t seem to fill?

Roy took one look at his face and groaned, dragging a hand down his own. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Jason scowled. “What?”

“You’re moping.”

“I’m not moping.”

The protest was automatic, but even Jason could hear how petulant it sounded.

Roy rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “You absolutely are. Look, if you’re this torn up about it, just talk to her.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, the muscles ticking under the strain. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why?” Roy challenged, leaning forward. “Because you’re scared?”

The question landed like a punch, sharp and unrelenting.

Jason didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Roy sighed, shaking his head with a mixture of exasperation and something dangerously close to pity. “Man, I never thought I’d see the day Jason Todd was too chickenshit to fight for something he wanted.”

The words stung, but not as much as the ones that followed.

“Look, Jay,” Roy continued, shifting forward, his tone losing its edge for something more earnest. “I talked to Y/N once. Really talked to her. And you know what she told me?” He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle. “This whole ‘hobby hunting’ thing you’ve been doing? It’s not about finding some obscure pastime to kill the hours. It’s about you. About you figuring out who the hell you are when you’re not behind a wheel.”

Jason’s throat tightened.

“She wanted you to realize that your worth—your whole damn existence—isn’t defined by what you do on track. That you’re more than just a driver. That you matter, with or without racing.” Roy’s gaze hardened. “And I’ll be real with you—Y/N? She was it for you. The best match you could’ve ever hoped for. Someone who actually saw you—all of you—and chose to stay. Because she knows you're worth it, whether you believe it or not.”

He leaned back then, arms crossing over his chest, his next words deliberate, final.

“So if you let her go? If you really let her walk away without a fight?” Roy leveled him with a look that stripped Jason bare of his defenses. “Then you’re not just scared, Jason. You’re a goddamn fool.”

Jason stayed silent. What could he say? That Roy was right? That he’d known from the moment Y/N walked into his life that she was different, that she saw him in a way no one else ever had? That the thought of losing her for good was enough to make his hands shake?

Roy wasn’t done. “Look at me and Jade,” he continued, voice dropping into something more serious. “Daughter of a rival team’s sponsor. People talked shit—still talk shit—but we made it work. You’re letting your self-hatred and anxiety ruin the one good thing you have.” He jabbed a finger at Jason’s chest. “Snap out of it.”

A beat. Then, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes:

“Also make up with her, because you race like shit when you’re emo. Can’t have Lian watch her godfather embarrass himself like that, now can I?”

The attempt at humor fell flat, but the message was clear.

Jason had a choice to make. But the question was, could he?

Roy’s words lingered in Jason’s mind like an unshakable shadow, gnawing at him long after they had been spoken. He wanted Y/N—desperately, irrevocably but the weight of his own turmoil held him back. The desire to claim her as his own warred violently with the fear of dragging her into the chaos that followed him like a curse. He couldn’t bear the thought of the world’s cruelty—the relentless hate, the hollow pity, the performative sympathy—tainting her perception of him. What if she started seeing him through the same fractured lens he saw himself? The possibility was unbearable.

When one of his managers suggested yet another PR relationship—this time with a model, just to divert attention from that godforsaken Twitter post—Jason nearly recoiled in disgust. The idea of replacing Y/N, even superficially, made his skin crawl. There was no comparison. She wasn’t just another face in the crowd; she was the only one who had ever truly mattered.

Then came Las Vegas.

During free practice, Tim had been called in as a last-minute replacement after Cass sprained her wrist. Jason had expected the usual awkward tension between them—Tim’s hesitant politeness, his quiet deference despite Jason’s habitual coldness. But this time, something was different. Tim moved through the garage like a ghost, his gaze sliding right past Jason as if he were nothing more than empty air. The one time their eyes did meet, Tim’s expression twisted into something sharp and disdainful, a look so foreign that it sent a ripple of unease through Jason.

This wasn’t about racing.

Jason knew, with a sinking certainty, that this ran deeper than motorsports. Tim and his girlfriend were close to Y/N— always had been. If Tim despised him this openly, then Y/N’s feelings toward him now must be even worse. The thought was haunting.

Three times, Jason tried to bridge the gap, to force some kind of conversation. Three times, Tim shut him out with icy indifference. But Jason wasn’t about to back down. He needed answers. He needed to know—how much damage had been done, whether there was even a sliver of hope left. And if there was, he’d claw his way through hell itself to reach her.

By the time FP3 ended, Jason had resolved himself—he needed answers, and Tim was the only one who could give them to him. He waited, patience fraying, until the garage began to empty out, the mechanics packing up equipment and the hum of post-session debriefs fading into the background. Then, as Tim zipped up his bag, shoulders drooping with exhaustion, Jason moved.

He blocked the exit, not aggressively, but firmly enough that Tim couldn’t just slip past him. The younger driver let out a long, irritated sigh, finally lifting his gaze—not in acknowledgment, but in resignation. He knew this conversation was inevitable.

“What is it?” Tim muttered, voice flat, as if he were already bracing for an argument.

Jason swallowed hard. For a man who thrived on confrontation, he suddenly felt uncharacteristically unsure. But he had come this far, he couldn’t back down now.

“How is she?” The words came out rougher than he intended, laced with a desperation he hadn’t meant to reveal.

Tim’s expression darkened. “How is who?” he shot back, feigning ignorance with a deliberate eye roll, his tone dripping with sarcasm. The act was flimsy, almost insulting in its lack of effort.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. Y/N.” His voice was low, urgent. “I haven’t seen her around the paddock lately.”

A bitter smirk twisted Tim’s lips. “Didn’t you hear?” he said, mockingly casual. “She asked her higher-ups to switch her from F1 to IndyCar for presenting.” A pause, then the unspoken words hung between them like a blade: Because of you.

Jason stiffened. “But F1 is the pinnacle of motorsports. Why would she just—throw away everything she’s worked for?” The idea was unthinkable. Y/N had clawed her way into the F1 world through sheer determination. She loved this sport. She wouldn’t just walk away.

Something in Tim’s demeanor snapped. His grip on his bag tightened, knuckles whitening, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw with fury.

“Why the fuck do you care?”

Jason opened his mouth, but Tim wasn’t finished.

“Oh, save it,” he spat, cutting him off before he could even form a reply. “Look, Todd—” The deliberate use of his last name was a slap in the face. “—I never had anything but respect for you as a racer. When I first came to the paddock, yeah, you were an asshole to me. And you know what? I got it. Your life sucked. Fine. But then you had to drag someone like Y/N into your bullshit. You used her and then you broke her.”

Tim’s voice cracked, his composure slipping for the first time. “And it wasn’t just her heart, you selfish bastard. You broke her spirit. She was light, and you stole it from her. So tell me—” He took a step forward, eyes blazing. “—was it fun? Stealing the light from behind her eyes?”

The words hit Jason like a physical blow. He had no defense, no retort. Because deep down, he already knew the answer.

And it destroyed him.

“Tim, please—just listen—” Jason’s voice was rough, pleading, but Tim wasn’t having it.

“No, I won’t listen to this shit!” Tim snapped, cutting him off with a sharp gesture. His usual calm demeanor had completely shattered, replaced by something jagged and furious. “She shouldn’t have to suffer just because you decided you were done with her. Like she was some fucking toy you got bored of. And you know what the worst part is?” His voice dropped, trembling with barely contained rage. “She still doesn’t blame you for it. Even now, after everything, she defends you even after how you played with her.”

That stung worse than any insult.

“I DIDN’T PLAY WITH HER!” Jason roared, surging forward before he could stop himself. His hands fisted in Tim’s collar, shoving him back against the garage wall. His entire body was coiled tight with fury—because as much as he understood the young driver's anger, as much as he deserved it, this accusation was too much. He loved Y/N. The idea that he had treated her like some fleeting amusement was revolting.

Tim didn’t even flinch.

“Then what, huh?” he shot back, voice icy despite the fire in his eyes. “What was that cowardly bullshit of telling her over the phone? If she meant so much to you, why couldn’t you even look her in the eye when you broke her heart?”

Jason’s grip faltered. The fight drained out of him as suddenly as it had surged, his hands dropping away from Tim’s collar like he’d been burned. He took a shaky step back, dragging his hands through his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as if he could physically pull the right words out of his own skull.

“I—I wasn’t playing with her,” he said, voice cracking. The admission came out raw, stripped bare. “I love her. I was just—”

His throat closed. The words wouldn’t come.

Hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision. He blinked hard, refusing to let them fall, but the weight of Tim’s glare—of Y/N’s absence—pressed down on him like a physical force.

Tim didn’t relent. “People who love people don’t ditch them over the phone like that,” he said, each word a precise, deliberate strike. “If you really loved her, you would fight for her. Not run.”

Jason exhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the air out of him. “I was scared, okay?” The confession tore out of him, ragged and desperate. “I was scared of how the media would react, the pressure it would put on her. I did it to protect her.”

Tim let out a mocking, incredulous laugh. “You don’t get to decide what she can and can’t handle,” he said, shaking his head. “So tell me—was it really to protect her? Or was it to protect yourself?”

Jason stood there, the weight of Tim’s words pressing down on him like a physical force. They were the same ones Roy said, the same ones the voice in his head asked. His chest ached with a pain he couldn’t articulate— part guilt, part longing, part sheer desperation. The garage around them felt suddenly suffocating, the distant sounds of mechanics working and engineers talking fading into a dull buzz in his ears.

“I thought...” Jason started, then swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I thought if I pushed her away first, it would hurt less when the world inevitably turned against us.” His voice was barely above a whisper now, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “But I was wrong. God, I was so fucking wrong.”

Tim crossed his arms, his expression unyielding. “You don’t get to make those choices for her. She’s stronger than you gave her credit for.”

A bitter laugh escaped Jason’s lips. “I know that now. Christ, do I ever know that.” He looked down at his hands— the hands that had held her, that had pushed her away. “She deserved better than a phone call. She deserved... she deserves everything.”

For the first time since their confrontation began, Tim’s stance softened slightly. “Yeah, she does.” He studied Jason’s face, seeing the genuine torment there. “But it’s too late for regrets now. She’s gone, Jason. She left F1 because being here hurt too much. Because everywhere she looked, she saw you.”

Jason’s head snapped up at that. “Where is she now?” There was a new urgency in his voice, a spark of something that hadn’t been there before. “Tim, please. If there’s even a chance—”

“A chance for what?” Tim interrupted. “For you to waltz back into her life and mess with her head all over again?”

“No.” Jason shook his head vehemently. “For me to apologize properly. To tell her... to tell her I was an idiot. That I love her. That if she’ll let me, I’ll spend every damn day proving I’m worthy of her.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words and lingering anger. Finally, Tim sighed. “She’ll come to watch my race in Qatar, I’ll arrange for you to talk to her.” He fixed Jason with a hard look. “But if you hurt her again, I swear to God—”

“You won’t have to do anything,” Jason finished quietly. “Because I’ll never forgive myself if I do.” He took a deep breath, his mind already racing with plans. “Thank you, Tim.”

Tim just nodded tersely before turning to leave. As he walked away, he threw one last comment over his shoulder: “Don’t thank me yet. She might not even want to see you.”

Jason just nodded. “I know but i have to try.”

The Qatar Grand Prix arrived before Jason had time to process his swirling emotions. From the moment he stepped into the paddock, there was an electric energy coursing through him— a singular focus that hadn’t been there in months. Every turn of the wheel, every press of the accelerator brought him closer to his real finish line: her. Tim’s reluctant information about Y/N’s hotel and availability window after the race had become his holy grail, the coordinates that had rewired his entire nervous system to operate on one frequency— get to her.

As he strapped into the car, the usual pre-race adrenaline felt different. Sharper. More purposeful. The commentators noted how Jason Todd drove like a man possessed. Every overtake wasn’t just for position— it was another minute shaved off the countdown to seeing her. The chequered flag wasn’t just the end of the race— it was the starting pistol for the only competition that truly mattered now.

When P1 flashed on the boards, there was no surprise in his team’s eyes. They’d seen this laser focus before races before, but never with this... hunger. Jason barely registered the champagne spray, his eyes constantly flicking to his watch. The carbon-fiber face ticked away mercilessly, each passing second tightening the knot in his chest. He gave clipped answers in the post-race interviews, the smile not reaching his eyes— the world only saw the champion, not the man counting down until he could escape the spotlight.

The moment the live feed cut away, Jason was moving. Not the usual victorious stroll, but the determined stride of a man on a mission. He bypassed the debrief, the data review, everything, heading straight for where he’d parked his personal car earlier. Not just any vehicle, but the one that still carried fragments of her presence: the scarf she’d left during that rainy weekend in Monaco— he’d never returned it, both because the faint trace of her perfume lingered in the fibers and because she’d complained the fabric texture aggravated her sensory sensitivities, the forgotten fidget toy wedged in the dashboard cubby, even the passenger seat still adjusted to her preferred position. 

The drive to the hotel was a blur of speed and suppressed panic. Jason barely registered handing his keys to the wide-eyed valet, the young man’s mouth falling open as he recognized both the car and its still-suited driver. The lobby’s polished floors echoed with the sound of his racing boots as he approached the front desk, his breathing uneven from the sprint from the parking lot.

“Room 1608 - is the guest available?” The words came out rushed, tinged with a desperation that made the concierge blink. The poor man’s professional composure faltered as he took in the sight: Jason Todd, still in his fireproof race suit, smelling of champagne and gasoline, hair damp with sweat, eyes wild with something between hope and terror. The concierge’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, caught between protocol and the surreal reality of a Formula 1 legend panting before him.

“Y-yes, Mr. Todd. The guest just checked in about...” A glance at the computer screen. “...twenty minutes ago.” His eyes darted to the room key card dispenser, then back to Jason’s face, clearly wondering if he should ask for ID from someone whose face was currently on every sports channel worldwide.

Jason didn’t wait for formalities. A curt nod and he was moving again, weaving through the lobby with the same precision he’d shown on track earlier. The elevator ride to the 16th floor lasted both an eternity and no time at all, his reflection in the mirrored walls showing a man he barely recognized— someone capable of throwing away every carefully constructed defense for one chance, one conversation, one... her.

When the doors slid open, Jason realized he hadn’t actually planned what to say. The hallway stretched before him, room numbers ticking up with each step: 1602... 1604... 1606...

And then there it was. 1608.

The moment of truth, marked by a simple brass number plate. Jason’s hand hovered near the doorbell, his breath coming too fast. This wasn’t a racetrack. There was no engineering solution here, no team radio to guide him. Just a door, a choice and whatever lay beyond it.

The chime of the doorbell echoed through the hallway, sharp and final—like a starting gun signaling no turning back. Jason’s pulse hammered in his throat, his body still thrumming with the residual adrenaline from the race. His fingers flexed at his sides, still gloved, still streaked with traces of rubber and sweat. He hadn’t even bothered to change. Every second had mattered. Every second still mattered.

Silence.

Then—movement. The faint shuffle of footsteps from inside the suite, the muted click of the lock disengaging. The door swung open, and there she was.

Y/N stood framed in the doorway and the sight of her hit Jason like a train. The subtle changes in her were devastating— the slight hollowing of her cheeks that spoke of missed meals, the way her shoulders carried a weight that hadn’t been there before. But it was her eyes that destroyed him most— those eyes he’d once seen spark with laughter now dulled, the vibrant light dimmed beneath a film of quiet melancholy. The ghost of a smile that flickered across her lips never reached them, dying before it could truly form.

Tim’s words roared back in Jason’s skull with brutal clarity: “You stole the light from behind her eyes.” His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The urge to turn around and drive his fist through a wall warred with the need to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness. He remained frozen instead, caught in the devastating gravity of what he’d done.

The silence between them wasn’t just absence of sound— it was a living thing, thick with all the words they’d never said, all the moments they’d lost. Jason could hear his own pulse thundering in his ears, could see the subtle rise and fall of Y/N’s chest as she breathed. Waiting. Always waiting for him to catch up.

“I, uh—” His voice emerged rough, cracking like dry earth after a drought. He swallowed against the desert in his throat, tasting copper and regret. “I didn’t know if you’d answer.”

Her eyes flickered over him— his disheveled hair, the racing suit still molded to his body by sweat and effort, the faint tremor in his hands that had nothing to do with adrenaline crash. “You drove here straight from the podium,” she observed, not a question but a statement.

No greeting. No ‘hello Jason’. Just this— an acknowledgement of his reckless, desperate need to see her that he couldn’t disguise if he tried.

“Yeah.” The single syllable carried the weight of his truth. He’d abandoned post-race protocols, interviews, celebrations— all of it meaningless compared to this moment.

The quiet stretched between them, fragile as spun glass. Then, so soft he almost missed it: “You won.”

Jason didn’t hesitate. “I had a reason to.” The words dropped like stones into the space between them, ripples spreading through the charged air. He’d driven today not for glory or points, but for the chance to stand here now. Every overtake, every perfect apex had been measured in seconds ticking away to his arrival time.

Y/N’s lips parted slightly— a sign he knew so well, the prelude to words carefully considered. But whatever thought had formed died unspoken as she exhaled, a slow release of breath that seemed to deflate her slightly. She stepped back, holding the door wider in silent invitation. “You should come in,” she murmured, her voice carrying a weariness that aged her. “Before someone recognizes you in the hallway.”

Jason crossed the threshold in two strides, the familiar scent of her perfume wrapping around him like a ghost’s embrace— that light floral note with a hint of citrus underneath, so intimately known it made his chest ache. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound final as a judge’s gavel.

When Y/N turned to face him fully, the question came not with anger or accusation, but with a quiet resignation that cut deeper than any blade: “Why are you here, Jason?”

The detachment in her tone was worse than shouting. Worse than thrown objects or tears. This calm acceptance, this emotional distance— it meant she’d already begun the process of letting go. And that realization terrified him more than any outburst ever could. Because anger would mean she still cared. This? This sounded like goodbye.

Jason’s words tumbled out in a raw, unfiltered torrent—each syllable laced with months of pent-up regret and longing. His voice cracked under the weight of his confession, rough with emotion.

“Y/N—” His throat tightened, as if his own body was resisting the vulnerability he was forcing himself to show. But he pushed through, the words spilling out like a dam breaking. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so fucking sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I thought—” He dragged in a shaky breath, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides before clenching into fists. “I thought if I pushed you away first, I could shield you from the media circus, from the scrutiny, from all the bullshit that comes with being tied to me. But it was cowardly. It was selfish. And I—” His voice wavered, eyes burning with unshed tears. “You’re the only person who ever made me feel like I was more than just a driver. Like I was worth something beyond the track. And I get it if you can’t forgive me, but please—” His voice dropped to a whisper, ragged with desperation. “Please don’t let me lose you.”

Y/N stood frozen, her lips parted in stunned silence. Her eyes, those eyes he had memorized in every shade of emotion, widened in disbelief. All this time, she had believed his rejection was about her, about some perceived inadequacy on her part. That he had been ashamed of her. That she hadn’t been enough.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

The realization struck her like lightning, stealing her breath.

“Say something,” Jason pleaded, his voice rough. “Please.”

Y/N exhaled shakily, her own emotions threatening to spill over. “Jason, I—” She swallowed hard, her fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her top. “I thought you did it because you didn’t want me ruining your image. That you were—” She cut herself off, unable to voice the insecurity that had festered in her chest for months.

Jason’s expression twisted in anguish. “I was what?” he demanded, stepping forward without thinking, his hands rising to cradle her face. The contact was instinctive, electric—his calloused thumbs brushing against her cheeks as if to wipe away every doubt she’d ever had. “Embarrassed of you?” His voice dropped, low and fierce. “Fucking hell, doll. You’re the best goddamn thing that’s ever happened to me. Why the hell would I be embarrassed of you?”

The warmth of Jason’s hands against her skin sent a shockwave through Y/N’s system, awakening sensations she’d tried so hard to forget. His touch had always been her undoing— those strong, capable hands that could manhandle a race car at 200mph now cradling her face with heartbreaking tenderness. She could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his breath hitched when their eyes locked.

“You really thought that?” Jason whispered, his voice breaking. “That I could ever be ashamed of you?” His thumbs traced the curve of her cheekbones, wiping away tears she hadn’t realized were falling. “Y/N... you’re everything. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last before I sleep. Even when I was being a stubborn bastard and pushing you away, you were all I could fucking think about.”

Y/N felt her pulse stutter at the intensity in his gaze— that particular shade of stormy blue green she’d always loved. Now those same eyes bored into hers with near-frantic sincerity, the kind that couldn’t be faked. The kind that left her foundation shaking.

When she finally spoke, her voice emerged softer than intended, frayed at the edges. “You let me believe...” A shaky inhale. “For months, Jason. You let me think I wasn’t enough.”

Jason’s entire body flinched, his hands sliding back to cradle her head as if offering protection from his own failures. “I know,” he choked out. “Christ, I know. And I’ll spend every fucking day making that up to you if you’ll let me.” His forehead dropped to rest against hers, their noses brushing. “Just tell me what you need. Scream at me. Throw something. Hell, slap me senseless— I probably deserve it.”

A watery laugh escaped her, the sound startling them both. It was so quintessentially Jason— this brash, all-or-nothing approach that had first drawn her in. The same intensity that made him a champion on the track, now turned entirely toward her.

Her hands, which had hung stiffly at her sides, finally lifted to grip his wrists. Not pushing away. Not pulling closer. Just... holding. Anchoring. “I need you to stop deciding what’s best for me,” she whispered. “I need you to trust me enough to choose for myself.”

“Done.” Simple. Absolute. The way he said everything when he meant it.

The words left Y/N’s lips before she could stop them—lighthearted, teasing, a fragile attempt to diffuse the tension still humming between them. “So... are we like friends again?”

Jason’s breath caught almost imperceptibly, his fingers stilling where they’d been tracing absent patterns along her arm. He would’ve been lying if he said the word didn’t prick at him, sharp as a needle to the chest. Friends. After everything—after the way his heart had just laid itself bare at her feet—that label felt painfully inadequate.

A forced chuckle escaped him, low and rough. “Darling,” he murmured, his thumb rising to brush deliberately across her bottom lip, “I don’t think what we have can be labeled as just friendship.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight through her, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. Was this really happening? The moment she’d fantasized about since the first time she’d seen him—since that initial, earth-shattering realization that Jason Todd wasn’t just another arrogant driver but someone who could unravel her with a single glance—was it finally unfolding right in front of her?

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to kiss him with every ounce of pent-up longing she’d been carrying for months.

But fate, ever the cruel puppeteer, had other plans.

The shrill ring of her phone shattered the moment like glass, making both of them jump apart. Y/N turned away with a frustrated exhale, her fingers closing around the offending device where it lay on the table. The caller ID glared up at her: Dan-Dan.

Goddammit, Danny.

She swiped to answer, pressing the phone to her ear just as Danny’s voice exploded through the line, frantic and tinny. “Y/N, I think I’ll be late. Jason just took off to god-knows-where after the race, and we can’t reach him. I swear, if he keeps pulling this disappearing act—” A heavy sigh. “—this is going to ruin our entire championship run.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked reflexively toward Jason, who was watching her with an unreadable expression. “Okay, Dan,” she muttered, her voice carefully neutral. “Take your time. There’s no hurry.”

She ended the call before Danny could respond, her pulse hammering in her throat. Before she could even turn around, she felt him— the heat of Jason’s body pressing against her back, the solid weight of his arm sliding possessively around her waist. His other hand came up, fingers brushing the hair away from the nape of her neck with deliberate, agonizing slowness.

Then his lips were at her ear, his breath warm against her skin as he murmured, “So. This Dan of yours... does he know about us?”

The question—low, teasing, laced with something darker beneath the surface—sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine. She froze, her fingers tightening around her phone.

Wordlessly, she shook her head.

The world narrowed to the searing heat of Jason’s touch, his fingers leaving invisible brands through the thin fabric of her shirt. His voice curled around her like smoke— dark, intoxicating, impossible to escape. Every coherent thought evaporated from Y/N’s mind, leaving only the frantic hammering of her pulse and the dizzying awareness of how close he stood. She couldn’t have strung together a sentence if her life depended on it— not when his breath fanned on her skin, not when every nerve ending screamed for more of his touch.

Y/N gasped as electricity crackled down her spine, her fingers clutching the edge of the table for balance. Then realization struck like lightning— he thought... he actually thought...

“How can you be with another man,” Jason continued, his voice dropping to a growl that sent shivers through her, “while wearing my racing number at the back of your neck like you’re mine, hmm?” His teeth grazed the sensitive skin where her tattoo lay hidden beneath her hair, the digits inked there in his signature font.

The possessive anger simmering beneath his words finally jolted Y/N into action. She whirled around so fast she nearly lost her balance, her hands coming up to brace against his chest. “Jason,” she blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush, “Danny’s my brother.”

The moment their karts screeched to a halt in the pit lane, Jason ripped off his helmet with enough force to make the straps snap. His face was flushed with adrenaline and indignation, sweat-dampened hair sticking to his forehead as he stormed toward Danny.

“Hey, dude! You totally pushed me off on Turn 5!” Jason yelled, his voice carrying over the hum of engines and the chatter of nearby spectators. His hands gestured wildly, replaying the move in the air between them. “That wasn’t racing—that was attempted murder!”

Danny, already unbuckling his own helmet, shot him an unrepentant grin as he hopped out of his kart. “You gave me no choice!” he called over his shoulder, already striding toward the pits where his family waited. “You left the door wide open!”

Jason gaped after him. “That’s not—! Ugh!” He threw his hands up in frustration before stomping after Danny, muttering under his breath the entire way. “Wide open, my ass. I was taking the racing line. Since when is ‘door open’ an invitation for vehicular assault?”

When they reached the pits, Danny peeled off toward his team, leaving Jason to fume alone. But Jason had a plan. If Danny wanted to play dirty, then fine—Jason would escalate this properly. He beelined for his own pit area, where Alfred stood waiting with his usual unflappable calm, a neatly wrapped sandwich in hand.

“Now, now, Master Jason,” Alfred said, his voice the epitome of reason as he extended the food toward the seething teenager. “Might I suggest refueling before launching your campaign for justice?”

Jason snatched the packet, tearing into it with a vengeance. “Danny totally pushed me off,” he declared through a mouthful of bread and filling. “It was clear as day! It was unfair. And worst of all—” He swallowed hard, pointing an accusing finger in Danny’s general direction. “— I know he smiled while doing it!”

Alfred’s lips twitched, though his expression remained otherwise neutral. “A truly heinous crime,” he agreed solemnly. “What do you propose we do about it?”

Jason’s eyes lit up with the fire of a thousand war strategies. He swallowed the last of his sandwich in one heroic bite, then jumped to his feet. “We fight him. And his team.” He jabbed a finger toward the offending party. “Full-scale retaliation. No mercy.”

Alfred chuckled, unable to fully suppress his amusement any longer. “Shall we call Mr. Dent as well, in case we require legal support for this… operation?”

Jason paused, considering this with all the gravity of a general preparing for battle. Then he nodded sharply. “That would seem prudent.”

Jason strode toward Danny’s team garage with the exaggerated stance of a warrior preparing for battle—chin lifted, shoulders squared, chest puffed out with righteous indignation. Behind him, Alfred followed at a measured pace, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth as he observed his young charge’s theatrics.

But the moment Jason crossed the threshold into the rival pit area, the wind was abruptly knocked from his sails.

What he had expected—stern mechanics, maybe a few glares from Danny’s teammates—was nowhere to be found. Instead, the garage had been transformed into something out of a child’s fantasy. Vibrant streamers crisscrossed the ceiling, balloons in every color bobbed along the floor, and a cacophony of laughter and chatter filled the air. It was chaos. It was celebration.

Before Jason could process the scene, Danny’s mother spotted him. Her face lit up with recognition, and before he could protest, she had him by the shoulders, steering him firmly toward the center of the festivities. “Jason! Perfect timing!” she exclaimed, as if his arrival had been eagerly anticipated rather than an intrusion.

And then he saw her.

Perched proudly beside a lavishly decorated table stood a little girl—Danny’s sister, he realized. She couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, dressed in a frilly pink-and-purple dress that shimmered under the garage lights. A tiny plastic tiara sat slightly askew atop her head and in one hand, she clutched a glittering fairy wand. Before her, a similarly coloured cake proclaimed “Happy Birthday!” in looping, pastel letters.

Jason froze.

Danny had mentioned his sister in passing—usually with a mix of exasperation and affection—but Jason had never actually met her. Now, faced with this tiny, beaming human, all his earlier fury evaporated like morning dew.

The birthday song started up and Jason found himself clapping along awkwardly, suddenly hyperaware of his grease-streaked racing suit amidst the pastel decorations. Any thoughts of confrontation fled his mind entirely when a paper plate bearing an enormous slice of cake was thrust into his hands.

Soon, he was perched on a stack of tires, happily devouring his cake with the single-minded focus of a teenager who’d been deprived of sweets for too long. Bruce monitored his diet with the vigilance of a prison warden—every carb counted, every calorie tracked. This impromptu sugar rush felt both like rebellion and reward.

Jason was so engrossed in his illicit cake consumption that he didn’t notice the tiny figure approaching until a shadow fell across his plate.

The birthday girl stood before him, her frilly dress swaying as she rocked back and forth on her shiny Mary Janes. Up close, her tiara glittered even more and her smile was so bright it could’ve powered the entire racetrack.

“Hello,” she chirped, her voice dripping with the effortless confidence of someone who’d never known rejection.

Jason blinked, hastily swallowing his mouthful of cake. “Uh. Hey,” he managed, wiping frosting from his chin with the back of his hand. His usual bravado had abandoned him entirely—what did one even say to a tiny human in a princess costume?

Undeterred by his awkwardness, she clasped her hands together and leaned in conspiratorially. “So I made a birthday wish,” she announced, as if sharing state secrets. “Mama said I shouldn’t tell anyone my wish or it won’t come true... but it’s you, so it’s okay.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up. There was something deeply alarming about being entrusted with this information. “What did you wish for?” he asked, against his better judgment.

“You!” she declared, bouncing on her toes with enough force to make her hair bounce.

The piece of cake Jason had just shoveled into his mouth became a dire choking hazard. He coughed violently, pounding his chest as frosting threatened to exit through his nose. “W-what?” he wheezed, eyes watering.

She beamed, utterly oblivious to his near-death experience. “I wished to have you as my boyfriend,” she clarified, butchering the word with adorable finality. “Mama said birthday wishes always come true. So...” She clasped her hands behind her back and batted her eyelashes. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

Jason’s brain short-circuited. His gaze darted around the garage in panic, searching for Alfred—surely the man wouldn’t abandon him to this nightmare—but he had vanished without a trace.

A cold sweat broke out along Jason’s forehead. This was a minefield. Say no and he risked reducing a birthday princess to tears—an unforgivable sin. Say yes, and he’d never hear the end of it from Danny. 

“I, uh...” Jason’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, scrambling for a diplomatic out. “That’s... that’s really flattering, but—”

Her lower lip began to tremble.

Oh god.

Jason’s stomach plummeted. He was not equipped for this. Where was Alfred? Where was Danny? Where was a natural disaster when you needed one?

 He shifted uncomfortably on the stack of tires, suddenly finding the remnants of his cake far more interesting than the expectant gaze of the fairy princess looking girl before him. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he searched for an escape route that wouldn’t end in tears.

“Umm, I’m kinda... concentrating on karting right now,” he hedged, gesturing vaguely toward the track outside. The words came out stilted, his usual cockiness nowhere to be found. “So, you know... not now.” He punctuated this with an awkward shrug, hoping it would be enough.

The birthday girl’s face fell slightly, her fairy wand drooping in her grip. “Then when?” she pressed, her earlier enthusiasm dimming just enough to make Jason’s stomach twist with guilt. The tiara atop her head seemed to lose some of its sparkle under the fluorescent garage lights.

Jason’s mind raced. He needed an out - something that would satisfy her without making any actual commitments. “When I make it to F1, maybe?” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could reconsider. That should buy him at least a decade or so, he reasoned. By then, she’d have forgotten all about this ridiculous conversation— probably forgotten him entirely.

But her reaction wasn’t what he expected. Her eyes lit up like fireworks, all traces of disappointment vanishing in an instant. “You promise?” she gasped, bouncing on her feet with renewed excitement. 

He hadn’t anticipated this turning into some sort of binding agreement. “Uh...” he stammered, his gaze darting around the garage for any possible escape. Alfred was still conspicuously absent and he could feel multiple sets of eyes on him now— Danny’s family watching with barely concealed amusement, mechanics pretending not to eavesdrop. 

Before he could formulate a proper response, she extended her small hand toward him, pinky finger raised with solemn determination. “Pinky promise?” she demanded, her voice taking on an unexpectedly serious tone for someone dressed head-to-toe in princess attire.

Jason stared at the tiny outstretched finger like it was a live grenade. With a resigned sigh that seemed too world-weary for a fourteen year old, he reluctantly hooked his own pinky around hers, the gesture feeling absurdly formal.

“Promise.” 

Jason’s laughter rang out, rich and unrestrained, as the pieces finally clicked into place. “You’re her? The fairy princess with the tiara and wand?” His eyes sparkled with delighted amusement, shaking his head in disbelief. “All this time I was ready to throw hands with Danny and he’s just your brother? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Y/N’s cheeks burned crimson as she fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, unable to meet his gaze. “Because it was mortifying enough the first time!” she burst out, her voice climbing an octave. “I didn’t need my childhood... whatever that was... haunting me now that we’re adults.” The memory of her ten-year-old self boldly proposing to a flustered teenage Jason still made her want to crawl into a hole.

With a tenderness that contradicted his usual brash demeanor, Jason crooked a finger beneath her chin, gently tilting her face up until their eyes met. “Hey,” he murmured, his thumb brushing along her jawline, “you made me promise you something pretty important that day, remember, doll?” 

Y/N’s breath hitched. The warmth of his touch, the proximity of his body, the way his eyes darkened with unspoken meaning— it sent her higher brain functions into overdrive. Panic flared through her system and before she could stop herself, she planted both palms against his chest and pushed him back with surprising force. “We can’t do this now,” she blurted out, her voice unsteady.

Jason stumbled half a step, confusion and hurt flashing across his features. “Y/N—”

“You have a race in a that will decide the entire season! The driver’s championship, the constructor’s championship— Bruce is counting on you, the whole team is counting on you.” Her words tumbled out in a frantic rush. “You can’t afford distractions, especially not... not because of me.”

Jason opened his mouth to protest, but Y/N - suddenly unable to bear the intensity of the moment— pivoted with forced lightness. “Besides,” she said, adopting a teasing lilt she didn’t quite feel, “my standards for a boyfriend have gotten significantly higher since I was ten.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up, catching her shift in tone. Crossing his arms, he leaned back with exaggerated nonchalance. “Alright, princess, let’s hear these lofty standards then.”

“Okay,” Y/N began, tapping a finger against her lips in mock contemplation as she circled him. “First, he has to be kind. Like, genuinely kind, not just when people are watching.” She held up a second finger. “Sweet, but not cloying— there’s a difference.” A third finger joined the count. “About... yea high,” she stretched onto her toes, holding a hand level with Jason’s forehead.

Jason snorted. “Demanding.”

“Blue eyes,” she continued, ignoring his interruption as she stepped closer, “with just enough green in them to make you wonder what color they really are.” Her finger came up to trace the air near his face, not quite touching. “Devastatingly handsome, obviously.” She took a final step back, folding her arms with a challenging smirk. “And a four-time world champion. That last one’s non-negotiable.”

Jason pretended to consider this, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. So I’ve got the height, the eyes... the devastating handsomeness is subjective I suppose.” He shrugged. “That last one though... guess we’ll have to see about that.”

Y/N’s smirk softened into something more genuine as she reached up to adjust his racing suit collar. “Oh, that last one’s the most important part,” she murmured, her fingers lingering against the fabric near his pulse point. “But something tells me you’ll manage. We’ll finish this conversation then.”

Jason’s answering smile was slow and devastating—the kind that had melted hearts on magazine covers worldwide. But this? This was just for her. Without a word, he held out his hand, his pinky finger extended in silent question.

Promise?

Y/N’s breath caught. The gesture—so simple, so them—unraveled something deep in her chest. She nodded, her vision blurring with unexpected tears as she hooked her pinky with his, their hands slotting together like they were made to fit.

“Promise,” she breathed.

When they unlinked their fingers, Jason did something that stole the air from her lungs—he brought his thumb to his lips, pressing a kiss to it before gently transferring the touch to her mouth. The warmth of it lingered long after he pulled away, a silent vow sealed between them.

The scorching Abu Dhabi sun beat down mercilessly on the Yas Marina Circuit. Long shadows stretched across the pit lane like grasping fingers as mechanics made their final adjustments, the air thick with the smell of burning rubber and high-octane fuel. Jason Todd stood motionless at the edge of Wayne Racing’s garage, his custom-painted helmet tucked under one arm, its polished surface reflecting the frantic activity around him. His eyes tracked down the start-finish straight with laser focus, watching as the last of the support vehicles cleared the track.

This was it.

The culmination of an entire season’s worth of blood, sweat and tears distilled into a single race. Twenty-two punishing turns of the most technically demanding circuit on the calendar. Fifty-eight laps that would determine whether all his sacrifices had been worth it. 

The championship standings couldn’t have been tighter— Jason and his arch-rival Kyle Rayner sat deadlocked on points coming into this final race. Winner takes all. No second chances. And if he somehow pulled this off, it wouldn’t just be his own driver’s championship on the line— Wayne Racing stood to claim their constructor’s title, continuing their stranglehold on the sport. 

Logically, he knew Y/N would stand by him regardless of today’s outcome. She’d proven that much already, weathering his storms with a patience he didn’t deserve. But that knowledge chafed against the raw, hungry part of him that needed to prove—to her, to himself, to the damn world that he was worthy. That Jason Todd could deliver on his word when it mattered most.

A familiar weight settled on his shoulder as Bruce stepped beside him, his grip firm and grounding. “No heroics out there,” the team principal and father murmured, his voice barely audible over the garage’s controlled chaos. His steely gaze held Jason’s. “We don’t need spectacular—we need smart. Bring it home clean.”

Jason gave a terse nod, his racing instincts already kicking in, but his attention was inexplicably drawn past Bruce to the timing screens. There, amidst the sea of engineers and data analysts, stood Y/N. Her arms were crossed in that deceptively casual way she had when trying to appear professional, but Jason had spent enough time studying her to recognize the subtle tells— the tension in her shoulders, the rhythmic tapping of her fingers against her elbow, the way she kept biting the inside of her cheek when she thought no one was looking. 

Their eyes met across the bustling garage. Without breaking contact, Jason’s lips quirked into a half-smile and he winked at her subtly.

The effect was instantaneous. Y/N’s professional mask shattered as a furious blush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks crimson. She immediately looked away, pretending sudden intense interest in a clipboard one of the engineers was holding, but not before Jason caught the way her breath hitched.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Alfred reminded him he probably shouldn’t be distracting himself right before the most important race of his career. But seeing her flustered reaction sparked something warm in his chest, cutting through the pre-race tension like sunlight through storm clouds.

The FIA official began waving drivers to their cars. As Jason turned to leave, he caught Y/N’s gaze one last time. No words were needed— the determination in her eyes mirrored his own as she gave him a slight nod. Whatever happened today, they were in this together.

Now all he had to do was win that world championship.

The moment the lights went out, the world erupted in a deafening rumble of raw power and desperation. Twenty Formula 1 cars exploded forward like bullets from a barrel, their engines screaming in unison, tires screeching as they fought for every inch of tarmac into the treacherous Turn 1. Jason Todd, locked in his #02 Wayne Racing machine, clenched his jaw and held his line with the precision of a predator—elbows out, refusing to yield an inch.

Kyle Rayner, in his blinding #10 neon green LC25, lurked in his mirrors like a specter, his front wing nearly touching Jason’s rear diffuser as he tried to force him toward the wall. The move was aggressive, borderline reckless, but Jason had expected nothing less.

“He’s playing dirty already,” Jason growled into the radio, his fingers tightening around the wheel.

“Ignore him,” Dick’s voice came through, steady as a metronome despite the chaos unfolding on track. “Stick to the plan. Tire management first. The race comes to us.”

For the first half of the Grand Prix, Jason did exactly that—measuring his pace meticulously, nursing his tires, preserving his fuel, all while keeping Rayner at bay. The laps ticked by in a blur of adrenaline and concentration, the desert heat baking through his visor, sweat trickling down his temples beneath his helmet. The championship hung by a thread—every overtake, every defensive move, every millisecond counted.

Then—disaster struck.

A backmarker, caught in the turbulence of the leaders, lost control in the final sector, spinning violently and slamming into the barriers. The safety car was deployed instantly, the field bunching up like a coiled spring, erasing Jason’s hard-earned three-second lead in the blink of an eye.

“This is it,” Dick’s voice crackled over the radio, the usual calm replaced by quiet intensity. “Final stint. No more calculations. No more waiting. It’s all on you now.”

Jason exhaled sharply, his grip on the wheel turning his knuckles white.

Just a little more.

A little more speed.

A little more courage.

A little more of himself poured into these last, fateful laps.

The moment the safety car lights went out, the pack surged forward like wild horses unleashed. Jason’s foot slammed the throttle just as the green flag waved, his car leaping forward with a vicious snarl. The final ten laps stretched before him. If he could just hold on, if he could just win, then he wouldn’t have to choose. Not between his love and his legacy. Not between Y/N and the championship. 

He could have it all.

The high-speed Turns 5-7 complex stretched before Jason like a ribbon of liquid asphalt, its sweeping curves demanding absolute precision. His Wayne Racing machine danced along the knife’s edge of adhesion, the Pirelli tires screeching in protest as he carried impossible speed through the esses. The g-forces pressed him deep into his seat, his neck muscles straining against the lateral load as the car flirted with the track limits.

In his mirrors, the neon green livery of Rayner’s Lantern Corps F1 car filled his vision, its menacing glow reflecting off his rear wing. The rival machine clung to his gearbox like a vengeful specter, never more than half a second behind, waiting for the slightest mistake.

“He’s saving battery,” Dick’s voice crackled through the radio, tense but controlled. “Expect an attack on the back straight.”

Jason’s eyes flicked downward for a millisecond, just long enough to register his energy display. One last push remaining—a precious 4 seconds of overtake boost. He’d have to time it perfectly, deploy it at the exact moment when—

The track opened up onto the massive 1.2 kilometer back straight and suddenly the battle erupted in earnest. Rayner’s car darted left, then snapped right, his movements unpredictable as he searched for any sliver of clean air to mount an attack. Jason countered each feint, weaving defensively while trying to maintain his racing line.

At 310 km/h, the concrete walls transformed into a dizzying blur, the sheer velocity making the world narrow to a tunnel of light and noise. Jason’s heart hammered against his ribs, each beat counting down the meters to the critical Turn 8 braking zone.

Then Rayner made his move— a desperate lunge down the inside. His front wheels locked momentarily, sending up puffs of smoke as he outbraked himself. For one terrifying second, Jason saw the neon green nosecone edging perilously close to his sidepod before Rayner somehow regained control, the cars avoiding contact by centimeters.

But the mistake cost Rayner dearly—his abrupt correction sent him wide, losing crucial momentum.

“These tires have no grip!” Jason snarled into the radio, his voice raw with adrenaline coursing through his veins. The once-reliable rubber now felt like blocks of ice beneath him, the degradation robbing him of the precise control he needed.

Through his visor, he could see the championship—his promise to Y/N—slipping away with every degrading lap. The desert air burned in his lungs, his fingers aching from their death grip on the wheel. Somewhere beyond the roar of the engine, beyond the screaming tires and the deafening rush of wind, he could almost hear the clock ticking down—

The final battle was coming. And neither man would yield.

“Push, Jason. Push.”

Dick’s voice cut through the radio, deceptively calm, but Jason could hear the razor-sharp intensity beneath the words. This was it—the moment that would define his legacy. Jason’s fingers locked around the wheel, his breath hitching as the walls of Turn 12 blurred past—too fast, too close. For a heartbeat, the track vanished.

Bahrain. The screech of tearing metal. The smell of burning rubber. The world flipping, crashing, darkness—

He blinked hard, forcing himself back into the present. The car shuddered beneath him, alive and responsive. Not then. Not now.

His eyes locked onto Rayner’s car ahead, studying every subtle movement. Then he saw it—the twitch in the high-speed corners, the slight hesitation as Rayner’s car fought for grip. His tires were fading. Fast. The rational part of Jason’s brain recognized the opportunity—the rubber was going, the gap was there but his pulse roared in his ears, a drumbeat of panic.

Breathe. Just breathe.

He could hear Y/N’s voice calling to him. She had held his hand and helped him out of a panic attack in his Monaco apartment. Soft, gentle, serene.

Jason held back, resisting the urge to pounce too soon. He conserved his battery, managed his energy, biding his time for one perfectly calculated strike.

The final lap began.

Through the sweeping Turns 11 to 14, Jason carved into Rayner’s lead, the gap shrinking to a razor-thin 0.3 seconds. The grandstands erupted as the two titans of the track roared past, engines howling, the air between them charged with rivalry. The crowd was on their feet, the roar of their voices lost beneath the scream of horsepower.

Then—Turn 19.

Jason played his hand. He feinted left, jinking toward the inside line, forcing Rayner to defend. This was chess at 200 miles per hour—every feint, every adjustment of throttle and steering wheel a calculated gambit. For a split second, Rayner’s focus flickered, his car drifting just a hair too wide on the exit. It was all Jason needed. And in that instant, Jason’s vision fractured.

The scent of scorched carbon fiber flooded his senses. The stomach-lurching sensation of his car crashing in Bahrain—the impact, the deafening silence afterward. His foot hovered over the throttle, muscles locking in phantom pain.

No.

He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. This isn’t Bahrain. This is now. And I’m not breaking.

Instinct took over.

Jason wrenched the wheel right, his car slingshotting to the outside with a violence that made his tires scream. The gap was barely wider than his car itself, but he hurled himself into it anyway, metal flashing past metal so close he could see the heat waves rippling off Rayner’s exhaust.

The world dissolved into sensation—the guttural roar of engines, the acrid taste of burning fuel, the vibration of the chassis trembling beneath him like a living thing. Rayner held firm, his car crowding Jason’s line, neither yielding an inch. For a heartbeat suspended in time, they were equals, locked in a duel where the smallest twitch meant triumph or disaster.

Then Jason’s mind cleared.

You don’t get to take this from me. 

His car inched forward. Millimeter by millimeter, he clawed ahead, his tires biting into the track with vicious determination. The nose of his Wayne Racing machine broke free first, then the hood, then the cockpit—until suddenly, irrevocably, he was leading.

The checkered flag unfurled in his periphery.

1. TOD 2. RAY +0.2

The radio erupted in a deafening crescendo of pure, unfiltered joy—a chaotic symphony of screaming engineers, clattering headsets, and the thunderous roar of the Wayne Racing pit crew losing all semblance of professionalism. Dick’s voice, usually so measured and calm, shattered into raw, unbridled emotion as he shouted himself hoarse, the words barely coherent through the static. Somewhere in the cacophony, Jason heard his own name chanted like a war cry, over and over, as if the team couldn’t believe what they’d just witnessed.

But to Jason, it all sounded distant, muffled, as if he were hearing it through several feet of water. His hands, usually so steady and sure on the wheel, now trembled with the aftershocks of the race. As his car coasted down the main straight, the world seemed to move in slow motion around him. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven gulps, each breath burning through lungs that had been holding tension for fifty-eight grueling laps.

The adrenaline was still there—a live current under his skin, making his fingertips tingle and his pulse roar in his ears. But beneath it, something deeper pulsed. Something quiet. Something heavy. It settled into his bones, into the marrow of him, a weight that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

Four-time world champion.

The words flashed across the timing screens in bold, triumphant letters. The commentators bellowed it into their microphones, their voices cracking with excitement. The crowd chanted it back like a mantra and fireworks coloured the skies. But the number meant nothing compared to the truth behind it. They didn’t account for the brutal crashes that had left him bruised and broken, the surgeries that had stolen months of his career, the endless rehabilitation sessions where he’d fought just to move without pain. They didn’t reflect those endless nights in anonymous hotel rooms, staring at water-stained ceilings while his mind replayed every mistake, every near-miss, every whisper of doubt that maybe— just maybe— Bahrain had broken something in him that couldn’t be fixed.

The doubt had been his constant shadow, a ghost that haunted every practice session, every qualifying lap, every overtaking attempt. It whispered in his ear when he pushed the car to its limits, reminding him of what happened last time he danced this close to the edge.

But today... today he’d grabbed that doubt by the throat and roared right back in its face. Every perfect apex, every daring overtake, every calculated risk had been a middle finger to his fears. That final, breathtaking pass hadn’t just been about beating Rayner. It had been about proving something to himself, to the world, to every person who’d ever wondered if he was done—that he wasn’t just back.

He was better.

“THE CHECKERED FLAG WAVES! JASON TODD, YOU ARE A FOUR-TIME WORLD CHAMPION! THE WORLD CHAMPION! The Wayne Racing garage has LOST THEIR MINDS— Dick Grayson is vaulting over the pit wall like a man possessed, the mechanics are screaming themselves raw—and look at Todd in that car, absolutely spent, but MY GOD, WHAT A DRIVE!”

This wasn’t just another championship added to his record. This was redemption made tangible, a phoenix moment forged from fire and steel and sheer, stubborn will. History books would record it as another victory, but Jason would always know the truth.

He hadn’t just made history today. He’d seized it back with both hands.

The moment Jason Todd climbed out of his car, the world seemed to hold its breath.

He stood atop the scorching-hot chassis, his racing suit streaked with sweat and the ghosts of past battles. The grandstands, a sea of color and noise just seconds before, fell into an eerie silence—thousands of eyes locked onto him, waiting. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Jason clenched his fist and thrust it skyward.

The crowd exploded.

The roar that followed was deafening—a tidal wave of sound that shook the very foundations of the circuit. Cheers, screams, the thunder of stamping feet—it all blended into one overwhelming symphony of triumph. Jason let it wash over him, his chest heaving, his body still vibrating with the remnants of adrenaline. For a moment, he simply existed in the pure, unfiltered joy of it.

Then exhaustion hit him like a freight train.

He stumbled slightly as he stepped down from the car, his legs unsteady after two hours of punishing focus. But he still managed to wave at the crowd again, a tired but genuine grin tugging at his lips as he turned toward the pits.

His team descended upon him like a hurricane—hands clapping his shoulders, voices shouting in his ear, bodies pressing in from all sides as they celebrated their hard-earned victory. Every thump on his back, every shouted was a testament to the battle they’d all fought together.

But Jason only had one thought in his mind.

Y/N.

And then—there she was.

A glimpse of her through the chaos, standing in the Wayne Racing garage, her face alight with pride. She was wearing the team’s hastily printed “FOUR-TIME WORLD CHAMPION” shirt, just like everyone else, but on her, it looked different. On her, it felt like his.

Their eyes met.

For half a second, hesitation flickered across her expression—her gaze darting to the cameras trained on them, the ever-present vultures waiting to dissect their every move. But then something shifted. A quiet defiance. A silent “Screw it.”

And she ran.

Jason barely had time to react before she was crashing into him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her body pressing flush against his sweat-soaked suit. He could feel the dampness of her tears against his cheek, the way her fingers trembled where they tangled in his hair. Without thinking, he hooked his hands around her waist and lifted, spinning her in a tight circle as she let out a breathless laugh.

His helmet hit the ground with a clatter, forgotten.

Forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in, Jason felt something settle inside him—something warm and sure and right.

“So,” he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion and emotion, “that’s another one off the list.”

A shaky exhale against his lips. “Yeah,” she whispered back. “Yeah, it is.”

He swallowed hard, his grip tightening around her. “I know there’s still a lot of work left. A lot of races. A lot of battles.” A pause. A heartbeat. “But Y/N... will you be mine? Really mine?”

She let out a choked laugh, her eyes shining. “Jason Peter Todd Wayne,” she breathed,“ I’ve been yours for a very long time.”

As Jason set Y/N back down on her feet, the team descended upon them in a wave of unrestrained joy.

Dick was the first to reach them, throwing an arm around Jason’s shoulders with enough force to nearly knock him off-balance. “You absolute madman!” he crowed, shaking him slightly, his grin wide enough to split his face. “That last overtake—I almost had a heart attack!”

Danny slapped Jason’s back hard enough to make him cough. “We were screaming so loud in the garage, the FIA probably thinks we’ve lost our minds!”

“Too late for that,” another engineer chimed in, shoving a hastily opened bottle of champagne into Jason’s hands. “We lost those years ago working with you lot!”

Jason laughed, twisting the cap off and taking a long swig before passing it to Y/N, who wrinkled her nose but took a sip anyway. The second the liquid touched her tongue, she made a face, and Jason barked out another laugh, pulling her closer.

“Oh, come on, don’t be a lightweight now,” he teased, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“I’m not!” she protested, shoving at his chest half-heartedly. “That’s just objectively terrible!”

“It’s tradition!” Dick argued, snatching the bottle back and taking a dramatic swig before shaking it vigorously, sending foam spraying across the nearest group of mechanics. A chorus of shouts and laughter erupted as they retaliated, grabbing whatever bottles were within reach and shaking them like they were in a goddamn riot.

Bruce appeared at the edge of the chaos, looking as composed as ever—though the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes betrayed his amusement. “Try not to drown the entire team in alcohol before the podium ceremony,” he said dryly.

“No promises dad,” Jason shot back, grinning.

Someone—probably Tim, because he was a little shit like that—sneakily dumped an entire bottle of cold sparkling water down Jason’s back. Jason yelped, twisting around to glare at the culprit, but Tim was already ducking behind a grinning mechanic, hands raised in mock surrender.

“You’re dead, Drake!” Jason threatened, lunging for him.

Tim bolted, cackling and Jason gave chase—only to be intercepted by Alfred, who appeared with a towel in hand. “Master Jason,” he said, voice dripping with disapproval, though his eyes were warm. “You’re tracking champagne and sweat all over the garage.”

Jason grinned, unrepentant, but took the towel anyway, ruffling his hair with it before slinging it over his shoulder. “Sorry, Alfred. Got carried away.”

“Indeed,” Alfred sighed, long-suffering. “However, it is well-deserved”

Y/N appeared at Jason’s side again, her fingers tangling with his. “You’re a mess,” she informed him, though she was smiling.

Jason tugged her closer, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Your mess.”

She rolled her eyes, but the way her fingers tightened around his told him everything he needed to know.

The team’s celebrations continued around them—champagne spraying, voices raised in laughter, the occasional curse as someone slipped on spilled alcohol. The cameras still hovered at the edges, capturing every moment, but for once, Jason didn’t care.

Let them see.

Let them see the team, the family, the love.

Let them see what it meant to fight—and to win.

The celebration swirled around them—champagne foam catching in the golden afternoon light, laughter ringing like church bells, the scent of tires and triumph still clinging to the air. But for Jason, the world had narrowed to this: Y/N’s hand in his, her fingers laced through his own like they had always belonged there.

The team moved around them in a blur of joy—Dick draping an arm over Tim’s shoulders as they both laughed. Bruce stood slightly apart, his usual stoicism softened at the edges, pride glowing quiet but undeniable in his eyes with Alfred quietly wiping the stray tear at the corner of his eye. And Cass stood off to the side, that rare, soft smile playing at her lips as she watched her family. The garage was alive, electric, every heartbeat in sync with the pulse of victory.

Jason turned to Y/N, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The noise faded into something distant, something unimportant.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

“Yeah,” he admitted, unrepentant. His voice was rough, scraped raw from shouting, from the sheer weight of everything he couldn’t put into words. “Just memorizing this.”

Her expression softened, something unbearably tender flickering in her eyes. “You don’t have to,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And that—

That was the real victory.

Not the gleaming trophy waiting on the podium. Not the headlines that would scream his name across the world tomorrow. Not even the deafening roar of the crowd still vibrating in his chest, echoing like thunder long after the storm had passed.

It was this.

Her.

The way her eyes held his like he was something worth keeping. The way she had stood by him through every crash, every setback, every moment he had doubted himself. The way she was here now, her palm pressed against his racing heart, as if she could feel the truth of it beating beneath her fingertips.

Jason leaned in, forehead resting against hers. Around them, the world kept moving—champagne bottles popping, cameras flashing, the announcer calling his name. But here, in this breath between seconds, it was just them.

“I love you,” he said, simple and sure.

Y/N’s smile was brighter than any checkered flag, any winner’s trophy, any sun-drenched finish line. “I know,” she whispered back, her voice thick with everything she didn’t need to say.

And when he kissed her—there, in the middle of the chaos, with the taste of victory and something infinitely sweeter on his lips—Jason knew, with absolute certainty, that this was the moment he would carry with him forever.

Not as the end of a race.

But as the first, glorious note of everything that came after.

╰┈➤ Masterlist

╰┈➤ Event masterlist

Tags: @joekitsu @sophiethewitch1 @hana-no-seiiki @thisisafish123 @ceramic-raven @millyhelp @blamedbisexual @trunkswithlonghair-blog @jasontoddthings @deans-spinster-witch @12134z03 @johnnysilverhandeeznuts @yasmin-oviedo @rosecentury @pierayanna @jinviktor @crybaby-21 @solarrexplosion @sahana28banana @ari-sama21 @princessbl0ss0m @fictionalwhor3 @leeleecats @lalalozer @shkosm @swamiiyasssss @lilyalone @cxcilla @one-pea-in-a-pod-blog @cooki3dough @misaki-kira8 @br0ke-b1tch @cherriespopsicle @lilithskywalker @multifandom-simp @hayleym1234 @sukaretto-n @idontwantthis22 @sarveshishwarishsuta @eclipse-msoul @aaaashiiii @wandabillywrites @star-born-mars @sinnamon-bunn @theendofthematerialgworl @mercuryathens @sugarwhiterose @lar3ine @raven-with-adhd @pezzeronii @federalprison78-4 @panacademics @itzmeme @pb-n-aj @4rachn3

A/n: I just winged the technical part of the race so please excuse that if there are any inaccuracies. There was so much more that I wanted to include, so i'll probably make another post with snippets of moments during, before and after the story. Feel free to request if you want to read anything in particular :)) Also do y'all want a smut fic of the championship celebration night with Jason? Lmk in the comments!!

© cheriecelestial - arabelle | 2025

[jo-com]

pls alex albon fic next🙏🤞parang awa mo na teh

──★ ｡🫧⋆｡˚ The Backup Plan

Alex Albon x Fem!Reader

୨ৎ Summary: You’ve had a long-standing pact with Alex: If you’re both still single by 30, you’ll marry each other...You’re engaged to someone else now… until Alex drunkenly posts the pact on Twitter. It blows up—and fans vote that you should dump your fiancé.

୨ৎ Genre: Slight angst?, a little smau and a happy ending or nah? read to find out ;)

୨ৎ Note: Send request y'all, also hope you like this! has some grammatical error and stuffs

ARCHIVES ⭑.ᐟ

They were sitting on the roof of his apartment, legs dangling over the edge, two beers between them and an entire city below. It was 2:08 AM, the kind of hour that made everything feel quieter, closer, truer.

You were both twenty-one. Young enough to believe in forever, dumb enough to talk about it like it was something you could schedule.

“I’m never gonna find someone,” Alex said, head tilted back to look at the stars. “They either want the driver or the version of me they think lives on yachts.”

You snorted. “Yeah, god forbid someone loves you for your sparkling sarcasm and sleep deprivation.”

He smiled, soft and sideways. The kind he only gave you. “You’re not exactly thriving in the romance department either.”

You leaned back on your elbows, the breeze catching your hair. “I’m holding out for a golden retriever in a human man’s body. Loyal, dumb, likes snacks.”

“That’s literally me,” he said, deadpan.

You turned to him, smirking. “You’re not dumb.”

He blinked. “That’s what you took from that?”

You were quiet for a moment, the laughter settling into something gentler.

And then you said it—half a joke, half a wish:

“Okay, if we’re both still single at thirty, we get married.”

Alex didn’t laugh. He didn’t even hesitate. He looked at you with that warm, steady certainty that always threw you off.

“Deal,” he said, holding out his pinky.

You looped yours with his.

“We’ll probably forget we even said this.”

But deep down, you knew you wouldn’t.

Neither of you ever did.

...

Years slipped through your fingers like sand—quiet, unnoticed, until they weren’t. Now, at twenty-eight, you and Alex were two almost-strangers orbiting around what used to be everything. Birthdays, wins, late-night calls—once sacred little rituals—were now reduced to muted texts and empty-hearted “miss you’s.”

The milestones still came. But they came alone.

The big 3-0 was creeping up now—no longer a distant joke or a silly pact sealed on a rooftop, but a deadline that loomed like a memory you hadn’t made peace with. It sat in the corners of your thoughts, like dust you kept forgetting to clean.

Only this time, something was different.

You were engaged.

To someone steady. Kind. Good. To someone who wasn’t him.

And for the first time since that night on the roof, the deal—the pinky promise you once held like a lifeline—felt like something you had quietly buried in the past. Not because you forgot.

But because remembering it hurt.

...

The proposal had been perfect.

A quiet dinner. Your favorite restaurant. Warm lights, soft music, a ring that sparkled in just the right way. He’d gotten down on one knee and asked, and you’d said yes with a smile that felt real.

It was real. But it wasn’t whole.

Because the first person you wanted to tell—the one person who would’ve rolled his eyes and said “finally, someone’s dumb enough to marry you”—wasn’t there. Not in your inbox. Not in your messages. Not even in your life the way he used to be.

You sent him a picture of the ring anyway.

No caption. Just that. He didn’t reply.

And maybe that should’ve been enough for you to let it go. To finally move forward with both feet planted where they should be.

...

username NOT ALEX ALBON SOFT LAUNCHING HIS HEARTBREAK AT 3AM 😭😭😭

username whoever that girl is… break up with your fiancé. it’s for the grid. for the sport. for the legacy 🏁💍🚩

username no bc if alex tweeted this about ME i would be at his door in a wedding dress IMMEDIATELY 👰‍♀️💅

username the way this man just said “i’m emotionally unavailable but loyal” in one tweet 🥲

username imagine being engaged and the ENTIRE F1 fandom is telling you to go back to alex albon. i would simply fold.

username this tweet has more chemistry than most paddock couples. i fear this ship is sailing with or without her 😭🚢

username alex albon said “what if i caused emotional damage AND chaos in 140 characters” and honestly? he succeeded ✨

username “they forget” — YOU KNOW SHE DIDN’T FORGET BRO 😭 this is pain. i’m feeling it in my chest.

...

Two months later—on a regular Tuesday, when the sky was gray and your phone was face-down—he tweeted it.

Your eyes widened instantly as you red between his tweet— Your breath caught without permission.

And that feeling—the one you'd spent months, maybe years, trying to bury—rose fast and vicious in your chest. That familiar tightness. That ache between your ribs. The one that only ever belonged to him.

Confusion hit first. Then came the anger.

What was he thinking? why now? why publicly?

And then came the other realization.

Why do i care so much?

Because everything was different now. You had a ring on your finger. A man who loved you. A wedding date marked in ink.

You were getting married.

Just not to the boy who once pinky-promised you forever at 2:08 a.m.

And that’s the problem.

...

You didn’t hear him come in.

You were still sitting on the couch, phone limp in your hand, the tweet burned into your retinas like some kind of confession you hadn’t meant to write—but somehow belonged to you anyway.

“Y/N?”

Your head snapped up. He was standing in the doorway, coat still on, holding a takeout bag and a look that made your stomach twist.

You swallowed. “Hey. You’re back early.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just walked in slowly, set the food on the counter, and stared at you in that quiet way he always did when he was thinking too hard and trying too hard not to show it.

“You’re trending,” he said.

Just like that.

You opened your mouth, but there was nothing ready to come out. Not an excuse. Not an explanation. Nothing that could make this better.

He sat across from you. No anger. No raised voice. Just… restraint.

“That tweet,” he said softly. “The one about the marriage pact.”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

He let out a breath. It wasn’t a laugh. It wasn’t a scoff. It was disappointment, paper-thin and sharp.

“Do you love him?”

Your heart stuttered.

“No,” you said too quickly. “I mean—not like that. Not now. I don’t—”

“But you did.”

Silence.

He nodded, slow and defeated, like the answer had already been written in every pause, every time you’d flinched at Alex’s name, every time you smiled too softly at an old memory.

“I know I’m not him,” he added, barely above a whisper.

And the worst part was—you didn’t even know if that was meant to comfort you or remind you.

“I’m trying, Y/N,” he said. “I’ve been trying. But I feel like I’m holding a place someone else still owns.”

The room felt small. The air too still.

“I chose you,” you whispered. “I said yes.”

“But have you let him go?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it?

[iluvsanrio444]

╭┈ • ┈ ୨୧ ┈ • ┈╮

chapter one plot ⋆˚࿔ : Ever since interactions between Huntrix and The Saja Boys, Romance had been eyeing you down. The exchanged glances and personal space not being a thing each time till the point you find yourself in a fling with Romance. That’s how you thought to view it as, no more than a fling, right? Humans and demons aren’t capable to love each other. Even hunters wouldn’t be capable. What makes you expect this would actually turn out right?

word count -> 2,624

#Fluff #mild-angst #comedic #romcom #movies-plot #context based

ʚɞ A/N: Depending on the performance for this chapter, i’ll turn this into a series with many more chapters to come by! Any suggestions after this feel free to send me anything or maybe feedback :3 ENJOYY!!

╰┈•┈୨୧┈•┈╯

There were a millions of reasons why this shouldn’t be happening. Not like this.

It started with innocent long glances between the two when both HuntriX and The Saja Boys would conflict with each other. Nothing out of the norm, right? However, whenever interactions like these happen, you can't help but always feel a pair of eyes on you, you only. The way he lingered a little longer before following the others to exit. Softening gazes when you did make eye contact, one where.. he— he meant no harm? Nonsense, he's a demon. All demons are nefarious.

Even knowing this, being the odd one out it felt weird at first, but soon after it tingled within your heart, the strings being tugged on like wireless cables. This was only the result of Celine's parenting, continuously doting on Rumi even after knowing both you and she possess your father's demon traits. The only difference was she had it all: the talent, the aspiration, the ability, and the power. Everything. You? …Yeah maybe some aspiration and some strength but never the talent. At least not up to Rumi's level.

As days passed by, there were challenges between the sisters, but this played out well since it did make them grow fonder and understanding of each other, trying to accept their roles. It wasn't so bad; you didn't have to hide the staggering markings with Rumi and Rumi too. It only hit you meticulously at times, looking at the group performing from the wings, fans cheering them on..being loved, acknowledged for who you are, and recognised for you.

You were supposed to be up there if only your mother had just… put a little oomph into you, you know? Instead, you were just their helper, a personal manager next to Bobby. Although you did have trouble accepting this, the only way was to force yourself. It was, in fact, inevitable at the end of the day.

Who the hell would be contempt with this? You must be Buddha to be!

Every time it was like someone immensely poking drumsticks at your abdomen each time fans recognised the trio whilst you had to stand at the sides. Invisible. To you it felt like you were their clerk at times, nothing less different than from a Joseon princess's eunuch; you might as well scream jeonhaaa. Ugh. Anyone who knew your situation would take pity on you or, matter of fact, just clown you for it. Yeah, you were the clown near the trio, - it felt like putting rouge on a corpse.

Being Rumi’s sister, you were already built to despise the Saja boys ever since they debuted with their song “Soda Pop”. Even Zoey, who always was headed to whichever guy she comically popped popcorn out of her eyes and even bopped her shoulders to their song, had some hatred for them. Yet here you are, hands limp on the metal railing, tinging your forearms with its mint. Again he had come by one of the members in the same very group you were told to despise. Romance. The palpable, effortlessly charming, labelled ‘playboy’ in the group, the annoying sugar-gazing... loveable… enduring — okay, what the flip. As your eyes followed the pink-haired man swiftly but silently jumping over the railing, a sigh left, knowing where your thoughts were headed about this overly love-addict bastard.

“You’re here..- again?” Your eyes still focus on Romance, clearly not fazed by this in the moment. You didn't have any energy to be bothered. It was already midnight, and Huntrix was making their comeback song “TakeDown” for the idol awards. A long day being a dog, to be honest. At least Romance came by then and there; honestly, his timing is really meaningful to you, obviously. He's a weird demon or whatnot; what feelings does he have?

Romance gave that same earnest gaze along with that bitchboy smirk, “Don’t act like you enjoy it—“

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t Romance.”

“Oh yeah?” He took his place beside you, having his elbow rest on the railing whilst the other hand cupped his cheek, hunching his back a bit to your height, looking down. “Then why did you even notice me in the first place?”

A scoff leaves your mouth, “Who the hell wouldn’t notice a tall ass pink heart shaped hair climbing onto my damn balcony?” Romance couldn't help but let out a laugh seeing how pent up you had gotten. He was the ‘playboy’ in the Saja Boys, but that didn't stop him from being a damn heartthrob who noticed even the littlest things. That charm of his grabbed you, and he knew it.

“What's so funny?” You gave him a sideways glance, “You, getting so worked up.” Your entire head was facing him with your face getting more of a scowl in annoyance, “How does Jinu even handle you..”

In response, Romance dramatically tugged on his shirt, his hand on his heart and a grunt in pain, “Mentioning another man when I'm here… ack—!” Followed by that adoring smile his fans go ballistic for, “Y/N!”

Rolling your eyes, a staggering smile threatening to appear on your lips. You nudged him a bit by your elbow near his ribs, “Shut it, you sound like a damn rat dog.”

“RAT DOG?!”

Romance made even more grunting in comical pain, intentionally making it louder for the trio to hear him. In a haste you snapped your head to your room door and back to him. What if they heard? “Aii! Okay okay..” She placed her hand now on his forearm. “A— uh.. Pomeranian dog okay? Happy?” He bent down a bit more to meet her eyes. “Happy.” The sudden closure brought both of you to an airtight silence, feeling the rise in warming tension between the two, face to face. It stayed like that for a while, with not many words or bickering said but a lot more meaningful intent. This thing you and him had going on… this fling – who knows what can happen to them? A mouthy ‘why’ tried to escape your mouth but was immediately greeted by Romance having another hearing of Gwi-Ma's malicious announces.

Already weakening his knees, he was forced to buckle down onto the floor whilst his hands hastily made their way to his ears. Trying to block out any sound or just Gwi-Ma's voice in general. Moments like these made you question if all demons were truly wicked. You didn't have the slightest clue what to do, but you went through it, kneeling down to his height. Taking in what was going on, you knew it was Gwi-Ma's daily threats he told you about, seeing how he blocked his ears, his eyes trembling, sweat running down and, most importantly, his demon marks showing through. You never had any of these Gwi-Ma stuff for whatever reason, but the least you could really do is comfort the poor gu— demon.

Your hand made its way to his back; at first he flinched away slightly but soon realised that your hand made gentle pats. Soothing your hand up and down his back with small pats filled with genuine worry, soft enough to not throw him off yet enough to signal him you’re here. “Aii rat dog, I'm here, okay?” With a small smile, you jokingly cooed to him, just trying to get his mind out of the gutters in Gwi-Ma's constant threats. What if some demons aren't that bad? Your doubt with Celine's life teachings against demons only grew the more you saw Romance in pain.

He flashed a quick smile hearing what you called him again, giving a weakened expression, one that was vulnerable. Nevertheless, only you saw the one he felt most comfortable with. “Seriously? Is 'rat dog' going to be my new nickname or what?” The snigger left before you could even reply, giving out a smile that was once hidden with others. Even your own sister. “It suits you.” However, despite the sniggers that escaped, you felt his eyes only on you. He didn't laugh with you; he followed you with that adoring gaze yet again, only smiling in response, admiring your raw self.

“Whatt?” You asked as you calmed down from the high in the joke, your smile still in contact. A small “hm” noise when she tilted her head left and right, patting her hand on his back more. “Romance?”

“Cute.”

“Eh?”

“Sometimes you can be adorable, Y/N, even when I get under your ski—.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A snap back to reality caused you to shoot up from the floor; the beaten red look on your cheeks went against you. Hitting him multiple times on the shoulder, causing him to go, “Ah! What the hell?!” You quickly dragged Romance up on his feet and pushed him into your room. “Yah! Y/N? She's going to see me, dumbass; I'm too big-!” He retaliated against you trying to keep himself outside of the closet. You gritted your teeth, “Shut up and get in the damn closet!” In one big push you managed to shove him into your closet. Whilst being practically plunged into the closet, he put his hand on top of his heart-shaped hair and yelled in a long whisper, “No, my hairr..!”

Thud.

Knock, knock, knocₖₖₖₖₖ

“I’m coming!” You yelled out at the continuous knocking, Who the hell was it? Looking around your room for any hints that Romance, who is literally here, left to indicate his presence. Why? Well, I don't know. Maybe because Huntrix HATED him and his group's guts? You didn't see any signals that would suggest Romance being here, so in a swift gallop skip, you opened the door to see the three: Rumi, Mira, and Zoey.

“What took you so longg?” Zoey asked in her high-pitched tone, draping her arm around your shoulder whilst Mira walked inside, no questions asked, “Took you long enough; the hell were you doing?”

“Oh, me? “Uh...” you quickly retorted in a giggle whilst scratching the side of your neck, letting out a believable yawn, “I was trying to sleep.” Zoey, Mira and you were already up to the shenanigans before Rumi walked in. “We need to talk.” Everyone's head snapped to Rumi with a curious yet nervous look. “Together. All of us.” This made your personal nerves even more tense knowing that Romance was in your closet doing God knows what.. probably worrying for his hair like usual. However, it wasn't just that; it was the look on Rumi's face. A look that she was familiar with whenever something happened with guilt.

Rumi sat everyone down in the living room, —Zoey on the singular rounded chair, Mira cross-legged beside me, and Rumi leg crossed in the centre. An uneasy feeling was known for a bit which didn't stop you from glancing at your bedroom door, worried for that pinky who was in your closet still. Hopefully. Ugh..you prayed to whatever god up there that he wasn’t snooping about and just stayed in your room like a good dog. Ironic.

Rumi took a deep breath and looked at everyone, “I know we don’t keep secrets between each other.” She startled you, thinking it was about time that Zoey and Mira knew about the half-demon breed you and Rumi are. But as soon as you heard the name, ‘Jinu’ you leaned back on the couch and exhaled, knowing where this one was going. It was obvious – maybe not to Zoey or Mira, but to you it was your sisters at the end of the day. Nothing can go unnoticed between the two… That being said, did Rumi know about your fling with Romance? You shook your head slightly, knowing you had to focus on what Rumi had to say.

Zoey and Mira were almost at the edge of their seats as soon as Rumi brought up Jinu. Zoey, of course, was giggling her ass off, whilst Mira had a weirded-out expression. “So.. I and Jinu have been talking…” Zoey was the one to scream first, “Talking as in how?!” Rumi couldn't keep her eyes on us. Keeping her hand grasped onto her forearm in embarrassment, she finally awkwardly responded, “I think we all know.. how..”

“Rumi, you were the one who told us not to get close with them.”

“I know..”

“Rumi, what's going to happen?”

“I don’t know.. but we’re trying to figure it out.”

“What about Gwi-Ma?” Your arms were crossed and dead set on Rumi. The only reason why you were serious in this question was because of.. Romance. What if there was a world where manipulated demons could live by with humans? Hunters? Why the hell did you care either way, let alone for Romance, its a damn fling. The three ladies had turned their eyes onto you, whilst Rumis widened slightly, “That.. we don’t know… It's only based on a theory.”

“Which is?”

“If we seal the honmoon before Gwi-Ma can even get fed more soul, the weaker he gets, right?” We all nod.

“No souls being fed is equal to no Gwi-Ma; he wouldn't be powerful enough.” Rumi kept doting on either of us as she explained the theory, “Don’t forget that the honmoon will seal the demons out for good, the demons alongside Gwi-Ma himself.”

“If, in some miracle, Jinu and probably the other Saja Boys don’t get into that sealing process, then maybe… just maybe they can get a second chance, a second life here… away from Gwi-Ma's torturous attacks.”

It was silent. Piercingly silent. You, Zoey and Mira were processing what the hell Rumi's theory was going on about. To be honest, in her case, it was making sense, and it did line up perfectly, but... where's the evidence? What happens if-

“What happens if it doesn’t work, Rumi?” Ah, Mira already caught you to the chase. “It will work, Mira. If we could tell Celine this and what she's told me beforehand, it will wor—“

“She told you stuff…?” Mira focused on that part. Shit. You already knew what Rumi was going on about, but these two don't know. You looked at Rumi in urgency as her own eyes flickered to yours in a second. “Celines told us about the honmoon no?” You chimed in, trying to save Rumi out of the corner, “She’s made it clear if the honmoon is sealed, the demons within that seal are gone for good. We never knew Gwi-Ma would even think to make a demon boy band and allow them to roam freely in the human world.” After my saving, Rumi could finally breathe, seeing Zoey and Mira buy into it. I gave a quick smile and half-hidden thumbs up to Rumi, in which she smiled back gratefully. It did make sense what I said. Its just.. the risk behind it.

“Would the Saja Boys even agree with this?” Zoey asked, already Googling, on the fact that she could keep that purple-haired, face-covered strange guy, Mystery. It made you laugh seeing Zoey always admiring mystery even though she denies all claims so freely. A tug on the dumbbells latched on your heart each time she did, though. Supposing that could be Romance and you… even if it was a fling or just interest.

“We can convince them!” Rumi declared loudly when Mira just smirked like she was the devil herself, cracking her knuckles, “If they do anything funny, I swear I’ll kill them all.”

Amidst everything going down and between the exchanged laughs and perseverance in comedic speeches about the Saja Boys, you noticed something off. At the edge of your vision, you spotted your bedroom door opened ajar. It dawned on you the possibility that Romance had heard everything; how much did he hear?

[kdh-tally]

Baby x Reader Headcannons

Prompt : Headcannons of Baby and his Partner.

Author's Note : I might do one of these for each of the Saja Boys and Huntr/x girls. I started with Baby though because he currently has no pairing (and is actually my favourite Saja Boy lol)

You work at a small convenience store somewhere in the Hongdae shopping district. 

Your store is close to one of the popular schools but it’s small so most don’t even notice that there was an actual convenience store there.

One day the bell chimed, alerting you that someone came in.

You looked up from your phone only to come face to face with some cat eyed, blue haired boy. He looked familiar. Kinda like one of the boys on the ramen cups that were flying off shelves (when people actually came into the store).

“Welcome to Y/N’s convenience, what can I get you?”

He tilts his head, as though studying you, and all of a sudden you feel self conscious.

“You have anything spicy here?”

Your eyes widen noticeably in surprise. You didn’t expect his voice to be so deep or rough, especially when he had such a baby face.

Clearing your thoughts, you motioned to the back shelves with your head. “There should be some stuff back there. If you need help don’t be afraid to ask” you nodded before sending him off and leaning back into your seat.

As you opened your social media account, the very first video that popped up had the guy's face on it. “Join the pride,” he smirked at the camera as he stood next to a group of 4 other guys. 

Before you could look into it even more, the guy slammed a thick bottle of jalapeno sauce on the counter. You began to ring him up when he asked, “You wanna hang out?”.

Baby definitely came back the next day and every day after. 

He'd pretend to try new spicy combos, but really he's just standing in the ramen aisle waiting for you to notice him.

When you ask, “Didn’t you come in yesterday?” he just shrugs and responds, “I missed the vibe.”

You didn’t say it out loud, but you fixed your hair the next day before your shift.

He ends up really enjoying your presence, and really enjoying how much he can annoy you.

He’ll “accidentally” knock over the chip display just to hear you sigh and call him a menace.

Would bring you random drinks to “taste test” but makes you guess which is which by sniffing them. 

It was something he had tried on Mystery back in the dorms when Jinu was busy yapping to them about how they would be defeating the hunters. 

He eventually earns what he likes calling ‘behind the counter’ privileges. 

Basically means you allow him into the workers area, and behind the cash register so he doesn’t have to talk to you from across the counter.

He doesn’t do much working though. Mainly just watched youtube on his Ipad.

He always acts like you’re the one flirting with him. 

If you ever blush around him, he has his hands up as though surrendering or calming a rabid animal. “Woah, relax. I’m just here for the spicy chips.”

He calls you “Cashier-nim” for the first two weeks of knowing you, then switches to “pretty thing” whenever he feels like teasing you.

The day you finally found out he was actually THE Baby from Saja Boys, you were mid-bite of your snack and almost choked.

“Wait. You’re famous?”

“Duh.”

“Why are you HERE?”

“You’re here.” he says deadpan.

He once livestreamed from the store without telling you, and suddenly you had a line out the door and business took off.

He likes that you didn’t fangirl or scream when you found out. It makes him feel like a real person.

He also likes how calmly human you are. You’re one of the few that don’t go crazy because of his idol image but also don’t want to kill him. Not that you knew he was a demon anyways.

You’re one of the only people who can see past his teasing and know when he’s actually tired or stressed.

You don’t know why but you're pretty sure it's probably pressure from being an idol or something else.

He’ll sneak into the shop near closing time, hoodie pulled low above his head, hands in pockets, and just sit behind the counter with you while you do restock. No words, just chilling.

If fans ever asked if he was dating anyone, he’d smirk and go, “Maybe.” Not only are the fans shocked but so are the other boys.

They didn’t expect baby of all people to actually fall for a human and not tell them

They insist on meeting you but Baby refuses. He’s so calm about it too. 

Easily avoids all of them and poofs out of the building before they can follow him.

You two don’t do super fancy dates. You’ll walk the streets of Hongdae with spicy corn dogs and bubble tea, trying every new snack he spots.

He loves making you try unnecessarily spicy things just to watch your reactions, knowing you won’t be able to handle them. “C’mon, you survived me. You can survive this.”

He takes horrible selfies with you.

 Tongues out, fake gang signs that make him feel cool (he saw them on tiktok) and captions like “me n my boss lady”

Does he get jealous?

Baby? Nah, not really… Okay fine, a little.

If some schoolboy flirts with you while buying gum, Baby will suddenly “appear” from behind a shelf with 20 spicy ramen cups in his arms like “Pretty thing, help me figure out where to box these up yea?”

He’d dump the cups in your arms so he could take over the cash register and would absolutely glare into the boy's soul as he rings up his order.

The boy leaves.

He would call you things like: 

Cashier-nim : when you first met.

Boss Lady : Whenever you order him around.

Snack : When he tries to resist the urge to bite you. 

Trouble : When he wants to accuse you of flirting with him.

Pretty Thing : To get you flustered

Y/N-ie : Only calls you by your name during quiet and VERY sincere moments.

You call him things like: 

Spice King : You watched him down like 5 ghost peppers with ease.

Little Brat : Whenever he’s being annoying on purpose.

Incompetent toddler : You see the pattern?

Pretty Boy : Only when he’s being sweet.

Baby : It’s literally his name

He would confess to you by leaving a sticky note on the counter that says “Employee discount for boyfriends??”

Though its not super duper straight up, he’s still pretty to the point with it.

When you look up confused, he just winks and says, “I like you. Now say yes before I buy out your whole damn store.”

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Xavier's non-MC significant other. Part 3

Imagine the way the silence lingered the night. Not sharp anymore, not stiff. Just... final.

Imagine the way Xavier stood there, frozen with the weight of too many unspoken truths pressing against his chest. You had looked at him with such quiet resolve, like someone who had already grieved, someone who had already let go. Just waiting for him to catch up.

Imagine the way he remembered wanting to speak, to say anything, but words had never been his gift. And now, in the moment that begged for them most, he had none.

Imagine you had always read him better than anyone. And so, maybe you knew he was sorry. Maybe you felt it in the way his shoulders slumped or the way his gaze lingered on you like he was memorizing your shape for the last time. Maybe that was the only apology he knew how to give.

Imagine there was no fight. No raised voices. No tears. Just two people standing in a space that used to feel like home and now felt like a memory. You didn't ask about MC, didn't demand an explanation. You didn't need one. That's what made it worse.

Imagine the way he sat on the edge of the bed while you moved through the room, gathering your things slowly, gently. Like you were leaving something sacred behind. And maybe you were. Maybe both of you were.

"Was I not enough?" You asked suddenly, your voice breaking the fragile stillness. You weren't looking at him. You couldn't. His answer came too late, and too quiet. "You were." And that was the truth.

Imagine, you were enough. More than enough. But he had been careless with your love, with the trust you gave so freely, with the silence you shared like a language. He had let his attention drift, not in betrayal, but in neglect. In distraction. And he hadn't noticed you fading until the light in your eyes turned dim. Until your warmth turned to restraint.

"I got used to your quiet." You said, your back still to him. "I thought it meant something solid. Safe. But lately... It's like I'm shouting in a room where no one's listening." He closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Imagine that was the moment he finally admitted it to himself, he had hurt you. Not with cruelty. But with silence. With absence. With the kind of forgetting that doesn't mean you stop loving someone, just that you stopped showing them how.

and Imagine, the worst part was... He still loved you. So he stood up and walked toward you, reaching out but stopping short of touching. "I never stopped choosing you."

Imagine you turned to face him . And he could see it. The love still there, fragile and flickering. But also the exhaustion. The kind that doesn't come from one moment of pain, but from hundreds of small heartbreaks stacked on top of each other.

"I know." You whispered. "But love isn't enough when it’s only said in silence."

The goodbye wasn't loud. It didn’t need to be. You stepped forward and he held you, maybe for the last time. His arms wrapped around your shoulders the way they always had. Protective. Familiar. But something had shifted. Something had ended. And yet something remained.

"I hope." You murmured against his chest. "That one day, when we meet again, we're both a little braver." His hand tightened slightly. "I hope I deserve that chance."

Imagine you pulled away first gently. No drama. Just quiet acceptance. Maybe this wasn't forever. Maybe it wasn't the end. But it was goodbye. For now.

"I'll still think of you." You said not as a plea, not as a punishment. Just truth. "Every time I feel safe in silence. That'll always be you."

Imagine Xavier didn't cry. He rarely did. But there was a tremble in his jaw, a shine in his eyes, like he was watching something beautiful slip away and knew he had no one to blame but himself.

"When I get it right next time." He said softly, his voice nearly breaking. "I want it to be with you." And it was your turn to pause, your turn to ache. Because you still loved him. But you were done making a home in someone else's shadows. "Maybe." You said. "If we find each other again and we both know how to speak."

Imagine you stepped past him, your shoulder grazing his. One last warmth, one last connection. And then you opened the door.

Imagine neither of you said goodbye. Because sometimes love doesn't end in endings. It just pauses, quietly, waiting for a version of you both that might know how to stay.

so Imagine as Xavier stood in the doorway, watching you disappear into the hall, he felt something ache deep in his chest. Not just for what he lost. But for what he never said.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

[waitingandwishing]

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Word Count: 2k "𝖫𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌" ━━ Ever since you were a kid, all you wanted was to be cared for.

You hummed under your breath as you walked down the street with a packet of dried fruit. It was odd, usually you never craved fruit like this, but this week seemed to be different. 

As you walked down the oddly lonely street, an unnaturally blue color down an alleyway caught your eye. You turned your head only to see nothing there once again. You dug your hand into the bag, eyes still on the alleyway, and chewed another piece.

A bird suddenly flew down at your feet, looking at you with a little hat perched on its head. You knelt down, tilting your head to the side. It followed with its yellow eyes suddenly bursting into three. You grimaced, backing up.

You looked back up to see another pair of round yellow eyes staring back at you from the alleyway. Was the fruit getting to your head? The yellow eyes moved forward, appearing in the sunlight to reveal itself. It was a… Giant blue tiger?

You hesitated before walking forward, causing the bird to fly away. “Hi?” You spoke, reaching your hand out to pet it. It eyed your hand, frog-blinking before rubbing into it. “Aww… Hi…” Your tone changed from confused to soft in a matter of seconds. “You’re so cuuute.”

“I know.” A familiar said behind you. Although you couldn’t see his face, you could tell his face was smug.

You turned to see Jinu standing with his hands in his pocket. You leaned on your hip, the smile on your face replaced with a serious look. “What are you doing?”

“Just… Talking. I was planning on meeting you last night but you kind of…” He pointed to the bruise on his face and the cuts on his cheek.

You pursed your lips, yeah you really did rough him up… You did feel bad. He wasn’t exactly planning on killing Rumi right? And you trusted her judgement on deciding not to kill him while he was monologuing. And just because he was annoying didn’t mean that he deserved to be roughed up like that right? 

You sighed internally. This was just like you. Oh! I wanna punch this guy, but then you hurt him and all of a sudden feel bad? Ugh… Your emotions always made you do things that contradicted them. 

“Sorry… About that.” You said, rubbing the back of your neck with a guilty expression before clearing your throat. “What were you doing with Rumi?”

“I saw her markings.” Jinu said, “And I know you have them too.”

“How did you know that?” You asked. You doubted that Rumi would’ve told him, and no one else knew, not even Celine.

“I… You really don’t remember me?” Jinu asked. 

“Of course I do? We literally fought yesterday.” You blinked, well, maybe this guy wasn’t an evil demon, but he was definitely… Crazy.

“Right, of course.” Jinu nodded, clearing his throat. The two of you stared at each other, the silence even more awkward with his cat rubbing on your legs.

You smiled immediately, scratching the cat’s ear. It surprisingly purred at the movement, his eyes closed with a smile on his face. You laughed, cupping the cat’s face.

Jinu watched you with wonder, staring at you with a slightly dazed look. You were so… Pretty. Perfect. It had been so long since he’d heard laughter that wasn’t careful or performative. Yours was small, sudden, almost like you regretted letting it escape. He didn’t. He wanted to make you laugh again. 

You cleared your throat, looking at Jinu. “The only reason why I haven’t killed you right now is because… I heard what you had said. About your family… And your lover.”

“I understand how it is to care about people. I guess I sort of… Understand why you sacrificed your soul for that.” You said. You couldn’t believe what you were doing! It was stupid to try and understand, you knew that. Not because you didn’t mean it but because you did. “But if you ever think about using Rumi or mine’s secret against us, I won’t hesitate on killing you.”

“... Right.” Jinu swallowed. You didn’t remember him but… He remembered you. That was what counted right? This kindness you had knew no bounds. Even when you hated him. He’d rather have any connection with you then no connection at all.

He watched as you turned away, giving one last pet to the tiger. Derpy (Yes, I believe the tiger's name is Derpy) made a noise of discomfort, standing up from his sitting position to follow you before looking back at Jinu. Depry let out a grumble, sitting down on the ground almost like a child crossing their arms and pouting.

“It’s okay. We’ll meet her next time.” Jinu said, stroking Derpy’s head as his bird flew down and landed on his shoulder.

- - -

“You know you’ll never beat us. Your plan will never work. We’re gonna…” Mira and Zoey both said before mumbling. You groaned alongside the two of them.

“This is… Really bad.” You said. Anxiety was creeping into you, not just because the Idol Awards was coming soon and you guys had no idea how to write this song, but also because Jinu now knew yours and Rumi’s secret. 

“We only have to write the best diss track ever to crush the Idol Awards, or there’ll be a demon apocalypse.” Mira said sarcastically, flopping onto the bean bag and throwing three darts that landed on Jinu’s face perfectly.

“Yeah! We gotta get up close and insult their stupid faces!” Zoey said, crawling from her chair to the floor. “Their nasty, disgusting, not beautiful… Perfectly dewy, symmetrical, shimmering…”

“Zoey…” You sighed.

“Okay, enough! I’m taking these down!” Mira finalized, ripping off the multiple posters and pictures of the Saja Boys. “Just like how we’re gonna take down these boys!”

“Take down?” You muttered, turning to Rumi who perked up at the word.

“Takedown!” Rumi stood, “That’s the song! It’s a takedown!”

“So sweet, so easy on the eyes…” Zoey started, thinking hard as you came up beside her. “But hideous on the inside.”

“Nice.” Mira nodded.

“You like it?” Zoey asked excitedly.

“Sounds great, Zoey!” You complimented, to which she practically jumped for joy at.

“Whole life spreading lies but you can’t hide…” Mira declared.

“Baby, nice try.” You finished.

“Woah, that’s sounding good.” Mira smiled, crossing her arms. 

Rumi nodded, finding the rhythm of the song. “I’m ‘bout to switch up these vi-” She coughed, her voice suddenly giving out. “Sorry guys.”

“No, take it easy.” Zoey placed her hand on Rumi’s forearm.

“Yeah, rest that voice for Idol Awards.” Mira reassured her.

“I’m sure your voice’ll be better in a few days, Rumi.” You nodded, “After all, Huntrix wouldn’t be Huntrix without you!”

The three of you sat down, now brainstorming the background music and more of the lyrics. 

“You think this is good?” You asked before repeating the lyrics you wrote down, “'Cause I see your real face and it's ugly as sin. Time to put you in your place 'cause you're rotten within’?”

“Yes! Ohhh I love that!” Zoey nodded, “And then we could add, ‘When your patterns start to show, it makes the hatred wanna grow outta my veins’?”

“I like that.” Mira nodded. You and Rumi exchanged glances before nodding. Was this hypocritical of the two of you? That you were talking about their patterns but had ones of your own?

No… No because this was technically about themes stealing others souls. You and Rumi haven’t hurt or killed anyone in your lives. 

“Oh! How about ‘A demon with no feelings. Doesn’t deserve to live’?” Mira suggested excitedly.

“It’s so obvious!” Zoey said.

“That could be what comes after. That it’s obvious what they’re doing?” You suggested.

“Yesss! Oh this song is gonna crush them!” Mira wrote down the lyrics onto her piece of paper, the three of you doing the same as well.

All of a sudden, a pink pulsing echoed throughout the studio and you all exchanged glances. You nodded, leaving the studio and quickly going after the demons. You’d be able to figure out the song once this next wave was done.

- - -

“All right, team, I know everything is all Saja, Saja, Saja but we’re gonna turn it into Huntrix, Huntrix, Huntrix! Yay!” Bobby said, his jazz hands adding a bit of flair to his words. “These fans slept on the sidewalk, overnight!”

“Thanks, Bobby.” You smiled as he tapped away on his phone. You turned to the three of them, lifting up your pen.

“Happy fans, happy Honmoon!” The four of you cheered before separating. 

“Let’s bring them in! Welcome.” Bobby announced. A wave of fans dressed in purple came through the door, all practically running to see you.

You smiled at the amount of people that had come. You didn’t know that this many people really liked Huntrix. Well, you did, but you weren’t expecting to see it fully. You usually didn’t attend many signings like this.

“Hey, hey, single file, no pushing.” Bobby said to the five people dressed in sleeping bags.

“And who should I make this out to?” Rumi asked.

“‘To our biggest fans.’” 

The sleeping bags piled to the floor, revealing the Saja Boys. “It’s the Saja Boys!” The crowd murmured, clearly excited by the second Kpop group.

The four of you groaned, glaring at them with a very reasonable amount of anger. “It is an honor.” Bobby smiled before yelling, “Table, now!”

As soon as the table was set down, half the crowd went to where the Saja Boys were signing. You and Rumi exchanged glances, realizing the stakes. You stood up, a soft smile hiding the annoyance underneath. “THe Saja Boys can sit with us!” You said, “We wouldn’t mind.”

“What? Y/N!”

“Y/N, what are you doing?”

“We need all the fans we can get.” You said, Rumi nodding in agreement. Security pushed the table next to yours, causing the fans to go back into their original line.

Jinu sat down on your right, leaning in close. Uncomfortably close. Rumi eyed you, you glanced at her before nodding. She paused for a moment before nodding as well and going back to signing her posters.

“I didn’t think you liked sharing.” Jinu said, resting his head on his hand.

“There are some things that I’m fine with sharing.” You said, turning to the fan in front of you and giving them a smile as well as a signed poster.

Jinu opened his mouth to retort before quickly closing it. He was going to mention your secret, but he knew you. You never really liked going back on your word. And when people you cared about were in the mix, he was sure you’d actually kill him.

He turned to Rumi, talking to her for a moment. You eyed the two of them, scoffing before pausing. For some reason, you didn’t feel like being around them anymore. Something about them talking to each other rubbed you the wrong way? You must’ve been irritated about something happening earlier this week. Why does it feel like there’s something wrong with you then? You must’ve been stressed too.

You breathed in, calming yourself as you handed out another signed poster. “Hello!” You smiled at four girls standing before you. Jinu turned back towards you, watching how easily you could mask your annoyance. He guessed that some things never changed.

“Hi!” The four of them waved. “We actually, uh have something for you!”

“Oh, really? You didn’t have to.” You smiled. The four of them handed you a letter with their names signed on it. “Thank you girls so much.” You signed the poster with their names and handed it to them.

You loved fans that were like this. You enjoyed reading their letters, minus the creepy ones, and seeing how much of an impact you made on them. As they walked off, you turned to see Jinu staring at you. “What?” You asked.

“Nothing.” He turned back, giving out a signed poster of himself to a fan. “And here I thought we’d be getting along after our last meeting.”

“I’m not trying to associate myself with someone who’s helping Gwi-Ma.” You accused, handing out another poster.

“I’m helping myself.” Jinu fumed. “He’s promised to erase my memories, and those voices in my head will be gone.”

“Are you whispering?” A fan suddenly asked. The two of you glanced at each other before quickly signing a poster and handing it off to them.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” She said, pointing to her shirt. You blinked before giving her a tense smile as she walked off. You forgot how weird fans could be sometimes.

“Just because Gwi-Ma is erasing all your memories doesn’t mean you won’t keep your shame. It’ll still be there.” You challenged, now staring directly at him, “Have you ever considered that the shame of hurting others because of your own selfish desires is the real reason you're a demon?”

Jinu widened his eyes, a flash of recognition appearing across his face. He’d heard that line before. He’s heard you say it time and time again which meant that on the inside, you were still you. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Jinu.” A voice snapped him out of his staring, causing him and you to turn to a little girl standing before you. “I made this for you.” She said, lifting up a piece of paper.

“Uh, for me?” He asked, taking the sheet of paper and looking over it with a surprising amount of care.

You smiled at the cute girl before turning to Jinu, “You really wanna be working for a demon who wants to end a world that she’s living in?”

Jinu paused, the cheers going deaf to his ears. He glanced at you, longing evident, before looking at his drawing once again.

You clapped alongside the crowd, “Woo Jinu.” You said, laughing at his expression. He looked so similar to a lost puppy. 

Rumi followed your movements, clapping alongside you as well, “Give it up for Jinu!” She clapped.

The crowd cheered louder, bouquets of flowers being thrown at the Saja Boys. Mira leaned forward, catching you and Rumi’s cheering. “‘Give it up for Jinu’?” She repeated with a raised eyebrow.

“Unfortunately, the Saja Boys have to run. Thank you, everyone.” Jinu announced, his hand tightening around the drawing as the Saja Boys exited the stage.

You let out a breath. Why was Jinu’s presence so suffocating? You could feel him everywhere and it seemed like every time HUntrix went out for anything the Saja Boys were there. Was he tracking your guys’ movements?

Bobby came up with his phone, a grand smile on his face as he showed you, Zoey, and Mira the new posts on Instagram. “The Internet loves this, and the internet is never wrong!” He said, scrolling through the feed. “Y/N x Jinu! I don’t know what fanfiction is but it sounds important! Zoeystery. Where did they come up with that?”

“Miro-mabby?” Mira gritted her teeth. 

“Aw, you’re so cute together!” Zoey awed. You stared at the feed before rubbing your temples. You were too tired to do this… 

(A/N: What if I told ya'll I'm making another verse for Y/N?)

taglist: @the-bookish-artist @nisarelle @iviorienne @justanindiangirl12 @t4naiis @usuallyunlikelyfox @livsh20

[noirscript]

Inked Possession | part two

pairing: yandere artist x erotic book writer!reader description: At his exhibit, Eleazar’s jealousy ignites with a stranger’s laugh—and by nightfall, you’re blindfolded, bound, and painted in his studio, every touch a possessive reminder that you belong only to him. warning/s: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, explicit sexual content, bondage (restraints), blindfolding, jealousy, emotional manipulation, exhibitionism (implied), power dynamics, obsessive love, rough sex, worship/adoration, noncon/dubcon undertones. note: enjoy!!! the pre-order for Callixto's ebook will end next week (Monday) so make sure to reserve a copy of the ebook PLUS the exclusive freebies that comes with it! The freebies will only be available during the pre-order period.

It begins with a laugh.

Not yours. And definitely not Eleazar’s.

The gallery hums with polite chatter and soft music, all of it bleeding into the undercurrent of hushed awe and too-hungry eyes. It’s a private preview of Anatomy of Devotion,

Eleazar’s newest exhibit—his obsession rendered in brushstrokes. You. In shadows and warm light. Draped in his shirt, curled into his bed, arched across canvas like you belonged there more than in your own skin.

And you do, don’t you?

You feel exposed, not because of the nudity or the rawness of each painting, but because you know he painted them while you slept, dreamed, moaned. The audience doesn't see that part. But he does. And you do. And it burns beneath your clothes.

From across the room, you sense his eyes on you. He’s dressed in black again—casual in a way that still looks powerful, shoulders straight and jaw tense. His dark hair is slightly messy, a curl brushing the edge of his cheekbone. He watches you with an intensity that borders on unnerving. You offer a small, reassuring smile, a signal: I'm fine. I'm just talking.

He doesn’t smile back.

You turn to excuse yourself politely from the nearby crowd, but someone steps in.

“This one,” a voice says beside you, male, amused, too relaxed for your comfort. “Damn. That’s my favorite.”

You follow his gaze and immediately regret it. He’s pointing to the massive oil painting of you in Eleazar’s studio chair, one leg folded under the other, wearing nothing but his ruined, paint-smeared shirt. The same one that now hangs like a shrine in your shared bedroom.

“The way you’re looking in this?” the assistant says, sipping his champagne with a crooked grin. “Like someone just dragged you out of a fever dream. Fucking raw. He nailed it.”

You offer a tight smile, holding your glass a little too firmly. “He captures what matters.”

He leans in slightly, voice dropping as if you’re already conspiring. “If I had someone like you in my studio, I’d never stop painting. Or touching. I mean… ever considered posing for someone else?”

The comment slides across your skin like rot. You pull away a fraction, breath caught in your throat—but it’s already too late.

The man doesn't notice. “I’ve got a setup. Nothing big, but I can be a lot more fun than your guy.”

The flute nearly slips from your hand.

It doesn’t shatter. It doesn’t have to.

Because Eleazar is suddenly behind him.

The temperature of the room changes. The quiet turns heavy. The gallery’s background noise continues—oblivious—but here, where Eleazar stands, the world becomes razor-sharp.

The assistant laughs nervously, stepping back as if he’s only now aware of the storm forming inches from his face. “Oh—hey. Didn’t see you there, man. Just a joke. Your wife’s stunning, really. You must be proud.”

Eleazar’s smile is slight and sharp. It looks polite. It isn’t.

“I’m always proud of what’s mine,” he replies, calm and low, too calm. “But you strike me as the kind of man who doesn’t understand boundaries until he’s bleeding.”

The man blanches, and you can practically smell the fear start to rise off him. You reach out to place a hand on Eleazar’s arm, grounding, a silent plea not to cause a scene here.

He doesn’t need to.

He takes your hand instead and guides you through the crowd, slow and silent, his grip firm but not harsh. You follow without protest.

---

The drive home is quiet. Not cold—just sharpened into something that leaves no room for distractions.

Eleazar keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, flexing every now and then like he’s holding back something primal. His jaw is tight, his profile locked in shadow, and even the air feels afraid to stir.

You try once, softly. “Eleazar—”

“Don’t.”

You flinch. Not because of the volume—he doesn’t raise his voice—but because of the meaning behind it. He rarely interrupts you. When he does, it's because he's trying not to unravel.

“I could smell him on you,” he says after a while, his voice calmer now but laced with restrained venom. “Like a stain.”

“He didn’t touch me,” you whisper. “He was being inappropriate, yes, but I didn’t engage.”

“You laughed.”

“I didn’t mean to. It was uncomfortable. I was trying to be polite—”

“You laughed.” His knuckles tighten around the wheel, the leather creaking. “Do you know what that does to me? Hearing that sound, knowing it wasn’t for me?”

You stay quiet.

“I won’t punish you for his stupidity,” he says, more to himself than to you. “But I will remind you what your smile belongs to. What you belong to.”

---

He doesn’t even wait for you to enter the apartment. He leans down as he opens the car door, presses a soft kiss to your temple, and murmurs, “Studio. Now.”

You obey.

Inside the space where he paints you daily, the scent of varnish and oil hits you like memory. It’s thick in the air—intimate, private. You notice immediately the cloth and basin of warm water, the soft silk rope, and the blindfold folded neatly on his stool.

It’s not a punishment.

It’s a lesson.

He enters a moment later. Locks the door behind him. Doesn’t say a word as he moves behind you and begins unzipping your dress. It slips from your shoulders like surrender, pooling at your feet.

You don’t fight him when he lifts you into the studio chair—the one you’ve posed on countless times, the one he’s immortalized you in. He moves slowly, methodically, securing your wrists behind the chair with the silk rope, then spreading your ankles to tie them to the legs.

The blindfold is the last thing. He slides it on gently, fingertips brushing your temples.

Darkness falls.

You can feel the shift in the air as he steps back. The silence lengthens. Then you hear it—the sound of his fingers dipping into paint.

When his touch returns, it’s cold and deliberate. He draws a line across your collarbone, slow and thick.

“This one’s black,” he says near your ear. “Do you remember what black means?”

You nod, throat dry. “Mine.”

“Good girl.”

He paints over your chest, dragging his fingers in spirals around your nipples until they harden. Down your ribs, across your stomach, then along your thighs—everywhere but where you need him most. He avoids your core deliberately, punishing you without pain.

The next color is red. “This is for shame. For forgetting—even briefly—that your smile is sacred. That it belongs only to me.”

The red stains your inner thighs, the underside of your breasts, your throat.

Then comes gold. He doesn’t speak as he paints a streak from your heart to your navel, a line of reverence amid chaos.

You sit there—tied, blindfolded, dripping in black and red and gold. Helpless. Waiting.

And still, he doesn’t touch you there.

He disappears briefly, and when he returns, it isn’t with fingers or paint.

It’s with warm cloth.

He parts your thighs and presses the soft towel to your center, cleaning you with the kind of care that borders on sacred. Each pass is gentle, almost worshipful, as he murmurs, “You think I’d risk your body for a lesson? No. I’d never hurt what’s mine.”

The moment the cloth drops away, so does his restraint.

He goes to his knees, and when his tongue finally touches you, it’s not tentative.

He eats you like a starving man—devouring every moan, every shudder, holding your thighs in place as you buck and cry out against the ropes. He doesn’t stop, even when you beg him to, even when you sob that you’re close.

Especially then.

He forces it out of you like confession, like sin.

When you fall apart, trembling and sobbing, he rises slowly. His belt unfastens. His zipper follows. You can hear the scrape of fabric, the rustle of movement, and then he’s there—pressing into you, filling you with a single, brutal thrust.

Your scream echoes.

He groans above you, voice rough with need. “You’ll never laugh for anyone but me. You’ll never write another smile that doesn’t belong to me.”

“I won’t,” you cry, already breaking again.

“You’ll write me into every draft. Every kiss. Every fuck.”

“Yes—yes—only you—”

His pace is merciless. The chair creaks beneath your bound frame as he drives into you, each thrust branding, each moan a claim carved into your bones.

You lose track of how many times you come. It blurs into rhythm—him, you, the ropes, his voice, the heat. You sob out his name, not from pain, but from surrender.

When he finishes, it’s with a growl pressed into your neck.

He unties you slowly. Carefully. Then carries you to bed like something fragile and beloved, laying you down in clean sheets even as your skin still bears his paint.

You don’t need to speak. His hands say it all. So do the kisses he trails across each bruised thigh, each paint-streaked breast.

---

The next morning, your coffee is hot, the sheets are clean, and your laptop is open.

There’s a new document saved on your desktop.

Eleazar – Part I

Beneath it, in the document’s header, a single note:

“Only I get to read you, darling. Write accordingly.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

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[spritesimmies]

Update 06/24/25 - The San Myshuno/Forgotten Hollow Update

Hey all, long time no post! I've still been keeping up with this challenge, just had my own life challenges in the way. Probably no regular posts for me or anything but I do wanna keep this challenge going!

Update Under The Cut

San Myshuno

Live in all 4 districts

Complete the snowglobes/posters collections

Spice Market - The Flavor Town Fan

Move your heir into a dingy two bed apartment

Must have the Master Mixologist Aspiration

Give them the Self-Assured, Foodie, and Ambitious/Bro traits

Have them working as a bartender and befriend a fellow coworker

When your heir reaches level 5 of the culinary career, open up a restaurant in the Spice Market

Work there after your day job and on weekends with your roommate

Meet and fall in love with a customer who comes to dine alone (or with a date if you’re feeling messy…)

Set your roommate up with a sibling/friend of your spouse sim

Master the Mixology, Homestyle, and Gourmet Cooking Skills

Try all the food from every stall in the Spice Market

Attend all the festivals in the Spice Market at least once

Have only one child and have them complete the Artistic Prodigy Aspiration

Make your restaurant achieve 5 stars before your heir is an elder sim

Arts Gallery - The Critic

Have the Creative, and High Maintenance Traits 

Enter the Art Critic Career

Buy all your art from festivals/garage sales

Each room in your heirs apartment should have a monochromatic color scheme

Become a graffiti artist and make graffiti in each district

Gain 50,000 simstagram followers

Fall in love with a busker on the city streets

Have a small garden on a terrace 

Master Painting and Gardening

Have two sets of twins and give them matching names

Become enemies with a coworker

Always introduce your heir with a rude introduction

Only befriend sims living in the Uptown district

Pick a favorite child (this will be your next heir)

Fashion District - The Fashionista

Be the favorite child of your previous heir

Have the City Native Aspiration 

Have the Outgoing Trait

Enter the Style Influencer Career 

Gain 20,000 followers on simstagram and then open a fashion boutique 

Change your Sims Everyday wardrobe once a week

Master the Charisma, Comedy, and Wellness Skills

Gain the People Person Lifestyle 

Be married 3 times, each with an extravagant wedding in a new world each time

Have at least one pregnancy with each spouse 

Have all your kids dressed to impress and take pictures of their outfits 

Your oldest and youngest should be close, leaving your middle child the odd one out

As an adult, repair any bad relationship/become close to your siblings

Uptown - The Trust Fund Kid

Move into a really nice apartment 

Have the Jungle Explorer Aspiration

Master the Fitness, Logic, Writing, and Handiness Skills

Visit the Gym every other day

Go for a jog every morning

Join the Writer career but quit once you reach level 6

Live off of a healthy inheritance from your previous heirs 

Journey to Selvadorada every weekend

Go on every exploration 

Only befriend people you meet in Selvadorada 

When you are halfway through the Aspiration, meet and have a one night stand with a local in Selvadorada that results in a child 

Every time you return home, write a new book about your exploration

Decorate your apartment with treasures you find on your explorations 

Take photos of scenic locations in Selvadorada to hang up in your apartment 

Eat only healthy foods and feed your child only healthy foods 

Forgotten Hollow - The Coven Sidequest

Live in any lot in Forgotten Hollow and make it your own vampy lair

Pick your own collection that you feel matches your vampire vibe 

Master Vampire Lore skill and Research

Have the Gloomy/Macabre trait

Complete the Vampire Aspirations in this order: Master Vampire, Vampire Family, and Good Vampire

Take some of that exploration money and move into a victorian mansion in Forgotten Hollow and/or turn it into a vampire compound if you have For Rent

After the death of the previous heir/parent, seek out a vampire in the world and convince them to give you eternal life

Become a master vampire 

Have your vampiric offspring pick whatever vampire traits that the heir does not have

Develop at least 5 negative human relationships due to being a mean vampire before completing the Good Vampire aspiration 

Bonus: Dress your offsprings dark forms as different goth archetypes 

Once you’ve completed all the vampire aspirations, start a romantic relationship with a human sim who is a young adult

When you heir sims partner ages up to adult, have your sim humanize themselves

Rules Under The Cut

I'll be updating with more neighborhoods soon! Please feel free to add or suggest different things, the main thing is to have fun and play with things you might not always do with your legacies.

Overall Aspirations

Build Your Own House In Each Neighborhood of Each World

Complete Each Career and Aspiration

Master All Skills

Each Heir Must Have a Spouse/Partner (unless stated otherwise)

Complete Each Collection

Willow Creek

Live in all three neighborhoods

Complete Gardening Collection

Foundry Cove

Start with your founder (you can give them a spouse in CAS if you want)

Founder will be unemployed with the Freelance Botanist Trait

Founder’s Spouse must have the Flower Arranging Career and the Soulmate Aspiration

Founder must master Gardening, Singing, Herbalism, and Both Cooking Skills.

The Founder's Spouse must master Gardening, Flower Arranging, and Charisma skills.

Create a holiday where you go camping(timing and duration is up to you)

Decorate the house with both contemporary and old farmhouse styles.

Your founder must only have twins (use cheats if necessary)

Bonus: If your founder meets their spouse in game, throw a small wedding with the only guests being other couples that your founder and their spouse have befriended.

Your Children Must be Polar Opposites, with one gaining the responsible trait and the other gaining the irresponsible trait. This will be important for the next generation.

Courtyard Lane

Once YA’s, use the family funds to move the twins/two siblings into a place of their own in the second neighborhood.

The house should be decorated in two vastly different styles.

One sibling should be given the Neighborhood Confidante/ Friends of the World Aspiration while the other sibling should be given the Villainous Valentine/Serial Romantic Aspiration (Complete in that order)

Give them two very different careers OR one career but have them follow opposite branches.

The twins must use two mean interactions on each other everyday (bonus if you give them a bad relationship growing up)

Once they’re completely fed up with each other (Either Neighborhood Confidante or Villainous Valentine is complete) pick one twin to stay as the heir and the other twin must move back in with the parents.

If you pick the Responsible/Friend of The World Sibling, then give them a nuclear family with a husband in the doctor career, a boy and a girl, and a dog.

If you pick the Irresponsible/Serial Romantic Sibling, give them a messy life. For example, multiple partners/kids, always changing careers, leaving somebody at the altar, streak in all the public parks. Whatever messy means to you.

Pick the next heir from your chosen sibling’s children ONLY.

Pendula View/Sage Estates

Your heir must have the family oriented and bookworm traits.

Give your heir the Super Parent Aspiration.

Your heir should become a part-time Babysitter, have them keep this job until they have kids.

Have your heir marry their High School Sweetheart.

Your heirs spouse must have the Mansion Baron Aspiration and put them in the Business Career.

Your heir and their spouses relationship should stay perfect up until they have kids.

Your heir should quit their part-time job and become a stay-at-home parent, have their spouse start working harder as a result of this.

Have your heir’s spouse gain the Workaholic Lifestyle.

Every time the Spouse is tense after work, have them either take it out on the kids or on your heir. Whoever it is taken out on should seek solace in who it wasn’t taken out on (i.e. if they take it out on the Heir have them go to the kids for comfort)

The spouse should be the strict parent while the heir should be the more gentle parent.

Have a minimum of three kids.

When your heir reaches the middle of adulthood, flip a coin. If it’s heads, have your heir divorce their spouse. If it’s tails then your heir must stay with their spouse and either work it out or spend the rest of their days in an unhappy marriage. (third option: they stay together and they cheat on each other to cope with their unhappy marriage and if caught must divorce and remarry to their Affair Partners)

Bonus Option: Have your sim and their spouse gain the Hungry For Love Lifestyle early in their marriage and then have them lose it when their relationship falls apart.

Oasis Springs

Live in 3 Neighborhoods

Complete The Fossil and/or the Gem Collections

Bedrock Strait

Choose a successor from your previous heirs three children and move them to Bedrock Strait

This heir must have either the genius or geek trait, and the self-absorbed trait if possible

Have the Chief of Mischief Aspiration

Master the handiness, logic, and charisma skills. (Bonus: Go to college for engineering)

Join the Scientist Career and become a mad scientist

Build a secret(or not so secret) lab under your home

Use serums on your neighbors at least 5 times

Put a satellite on your home, communicate with aliens twice a week

Be abducted and have an alien child

Raise the alien baby on your own, but be a distant parent. Your heir is more focused on their work and is really only interested in their child when it comes to research purposes.

During adulthood/ when your heir reaches the mad scientist level of their career, have them settle down with a regular sim and have a non-alien child

Your alien child and your spouse don’t get along, ground your alien child anytime they fight with your spouse

Have a neutral or slightly bad relationship with your alien child by the time they are ready to move out

Bonus: Become enemies with any Landgraabs. Why? That's up to you.

Parched Prospect

This heir must be your previous heir’s alien baby

Move out in the dead of night on your heirs young adult birthday. Take half of whatever household funds. Never contact the previous family again, although you may decide if the alien heir has a good relationship with living grandparents/aunts/uncles/etc

Have the Big Happy Family Aspiration

Have the loner trait

Have your heir join the astronaut career

Master Logic, Parenting, and Rocket Science for both your heir and their spouse.

Befriend a coworker sim,(bonus if they are a loner as well but CANNOT have the outgoing or bro traits) eventually fall in love with and marry this sim. Make one other friend in a neighbor but have no more than this one friend outside of your heir’s spouse.

Have 4 kids, give each one a space themed name

Have each kid gain a positive trait from your heirs parenting

Do a school project together as a family once a week

Take a family vacation at least once

When one of your heirs' children becomes a teen, begin building a rocket on your property. Make it a family project.

Gain the “Tight-Knit” Lifestyle

Adopt an oddly colored family pet

Skyward Palms/Acquisition Butte

Have the Geek, Clumsy, and Unflirty

Have the Musical Genius Aspiration

Master Guitar, Piano, Violin, and Singing

Join the Entertainer Career, go into the musician branch

Busk at the park every weekend

Make and keep one close friend, after that all relationships should not surpass friend and should be left to fade

Bonus: this heir gains B-Lister level fame

Have 3 awkward encounters with trying to flirt with other sims

Never marry or enter a committed relationship

Go to a club or bar every Friday Night

If your heir is still alien, adopt a non-alien child

Spoil your child so they gain 2 negative traits (i.e. bad manners, etc) but still keep an extremely positive relationship

[nuelles]

Ring Light, Ring Finger

A month after secretly eloping with Spencer Agnew, you're back to 'normal' life at Smosh - only for you to forget to take off your rings, and fans instantly zoom in. Let the teasing from your fellow Smosh fam, the edits from fans, and overall chaos begin.

Spencer Agnew x F!Reader ft. Smosh Cast

tried to keep it gender neutral, but the bonus scene has a photo with a female presenting human.

warnings: fluff, romance, crack, secret relationship, smosh chaos, eloping, not proofread

wc: according to Google Docs 3k

author's note: nothing to do with my other series, this is a stand-alone :) what game are they playing no clue! Also, creds to @cafekitsune for the star divider/banner

It started with a ring.

Two, technically.

Yours–sleek, minimal, and gleaming beneath the studio lights.

And his plain silver, always partially hidden by his hoodie sleeve.

The studio was buzzing with familiar energy, soft banter, and dice clattering across the table, as someone had already accused Angela of cheating, probably with good reason. Being back with the Smosh Games crew felt like slipping into your favorite hoodie: comfortable, cozy, and just chaotic enough to keep you on your toes.

Your first filming day back, and they'd thrown you right into Board AF. Of course. No warmup. No easing in. Just instant conflict, weird rules, and loud accusations wrapped in plastic game boxes.

It felt good.

Except for the very real, very shiny ring on your left hand.

You had meant to take it off that morning. Swore up and down you wouldn't forget. You and Spencer had even gone shopping for a nice ring box where the ring would live when you two went to work. Every morning, you told yourself, "Left hand, dummy," as you would walk past your mirror, the shiny sparkle catching your eye.

But then Spencer, distracted you wandering into the shared bathroom, hair a mess, asking if you slept well and wanted to grab breakfast before heading to the studio together.

And you forgot just like that.

So now, there it was, the physical embodiment of a very recent Vegas wedding. One month ago to the day. Not even thirty full days since you said "I do" in front of an LED sign that read 'Til Death' and promised to love each other forever in front of a guy named Dennis, who was dressed as Elvis, and who also charged by the hour.

And you were wearing the proof of it.

On camera.

In 4k.

Next to the very man you married, who was currently trying to hide his matching ring beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, like that was going to fool the internet.

"Okay," Damien said, dramatically flicking the dice into the center of the board, "I'm just gonna say it, if Spencer wins again, I'm quitting the channel."

"You said that last time," Spencer chuckled, leaning back lazily in his seat. "You were back the next day."

"Don't challenge me, I've got dignity!"

Angela leaned in, "He really doesn't."

You smiled, trying not to look suspicious. Your hand itched to hide the ring, but moving it would draw more attention. Next to you, Angela was squinting at the rules like they were written in ancient Greek. "Okay, wait, so if I land here, I lose a coin unless I shout the name of a vegetable in under two seconds?"

Alex Tran, joked from offscreen, "Welcome to Board AF!"

You and Spencer shared a subtle look. Just a flicker of amused eyes, like a secret passed under the table.

It had only been a month, and you still felt like you were learning how to wear the title of spouse. It wasn't weird, but it was tender. A new kind of closeness. A little thrilling. A little terrifying.

And very, very private.

"Y/N" Angela asked, nudging you with her elbow, "you with us or are you calculating your next betrayal?"

"Huh?" You were startled back into reality, "Oh. Sorry. Betrayal, obviously."

"Hell yeah," Damien nodded. "Marriage material, honestly."

Spencer coughed, badly hiding a laugh.

Your face flushed. He looked away.

No one noticed. But the camera was still rolling.

And when you reached across the table to grab a game piece, your hand, your left hand landed perfectly in frame. The studio lights caught the ring just right, making it sparkle like a flare gun into the sky.

You didn't notice the slip.

Neither did the crew.

But the fans would.

The video had barely been up for twelve hours.

At first, it seemed like a normal upload day. Comments rolled in as usual, people yelling about dice rolls, calling Angela a menace, asking why Damien was so competitive over board games that made no sense.

Until one comment changed everything.

@smosh_xoxo: "Wait....is that a ring on Y/N's finger??? 👀💍"

It had five likes at first. Then twenty. Then two thousand.

And finally came the edits.

🎥 TikTok by @detectivestans4life Caption: “They thought we wouldn’t notice 😏” Audio: The “They don’t know” meme song Footage: A slowed-down clip of you reaching for the game piece. Zoomed. Cropped. Circled in red. Frame freeze. Cut to: Spencer, arms crossed, hoodie sleeve slipping just enough to expose his ring.

The comment section? A minefield of spiraling.

@spencersbajaqueen: “STOP. PAUSE. ENHANCE. HE’S WEARING ONE TOO. THIS ISN’T A DRILL.” @y/nstansince2019: “We’ve officially entered the soft launch apocalypse.” @smoshwitnessprotection: “So what I’m hearing is… they got MARRIED and thought we wouldn’t notice?? Oh, honey.”

Someone had found screengrabs of previous videos where Spencer was looking at you with loving eyes, how he laughed just a little harder when your turn on TNTL was up, and last but not least, the matching rings.

Someone else zoomed into your tagged photos and noticed a matching band on your left hand at a coffee shop in Silver Lake. One week post-wedding.

A third person posted a TikTok with side-by-side screenshots of every shared glance, subtle smile, and awkward shoulder brush between you and Spencer from past Smosh videos.

Other fans jumped in with unsettling speed and spreadsheet-level efficiency:

Timeline screenshots of Spencer and you both “going offline” a month ago for three days.

An old tweet of yours: “brb, making a questionable but romantic decision 👀”

A photo of a Vegas sign from Spencer’s private Instagram story (how they got it, you were clueless) that was posted exactly four weeks ago.

A blurry mirror selfie where a silver band could maybe, possibly, definitely be seen on your finger.

@gayforthechaos: “So let me get this straight… they ELOPED A MONTH AGO and have been lying to our faces ever since???”

@fbiwifeysquad: “They didn’t soft launch. They whispered it under their breath and hoped we’d never hear it.”

@spencersbajaqueen: “The ‘just married’ glow is literally in their faces. Look at how Y/N is smiling. LOOK AT HOW SPENCER LOOKS AT THEM. I'M IN SHAMBLES.”

The term #smoshwedding began trending by midnight. Followed by the theories of said wedding.

Had you eloped in Vegas? Was Courtney the maid of honor and just playing dumb? Did Shayne officiate while dressed as The Chosen?

And still, you and Spencer stayed silent.

No posts. No clarifications. No “haha guys calm down.”

Just... quiet.

Which only made it worse.

@softmarriedenergy: “THE WEDDING WAS A MONTH AGO?? ARE THEY STILL IN THE HONEYMOON PHASE RIGHT NOW??”

@smoshdramaqueen: “I’m not okay. I feel like I just found out my best friend got married and didn’t invite me even though I live in their phone.”

Some fans cried. Some made fan edits. Some were dangerously close to organizing a digital reception with a shared Spotify playlist titled “Songs They Definitely Slow Danced To in Vegas”.

The internet was losing its collective mind.

And back at the Smosh Studio?

None of the team had noticed. Not yet.

But the group chat was starting to buzz.

And Courtney Miller was about to open their TikTok For You Page.

Which meant the countdown to total chaos... had officially begun.

It started, as most Smosh-related meltdowns did, in the studio break room.

Courtney was sitting cross-legged on the couch, eating cold leftover pad thai straight from the container. Shayne sat across from them with a LaCroix in one hand and his phone in the other, doom-scrolling with the focus of a man trying to avoid responsibility.

“Did we ever figure out if Damien cheated last video?” Courtney asked, casually twirling noodles with their fork.

“Statistically speaking, yes,” Shayne said, without looking up.

He paused mid-scroll. Blinked.

Then sat up straighter.

“Wait… what the hell is going on in the comments?”

Courtney’s head tilted like a curious golden retriever. “On what?”

“Board AF. People are losing it. Half the comments aren’t even about the game. They’re like... zooming in on hands or something?”

Courtney opened YouTube.

Found the video.

Scrolled.

Froze.

“Is [Y/N] wearing a ring???”“Wait. Spencer has one too. Y’ALL.” “SOFT LAUNCH MARRIAGE DETECTED.”

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Then lunged.

Two taps and she was on TikTok. Their For You Page? A crime scene.

🎥 @chaoswithintent: “Evidence that Y/N and Spencer got married a month ago and thought we wouldn’t notice.”

The video played—slowed-down footage of [Y/N]’s hand on the game table. Zoomed in. Circled. Sparkling. Cut to Spencer adjusting his hoodie, the ring on his finger peeking out for exactly 0.4 seconds.

Courtney shrieked like she’d just seen Bigfoot propose to Mothman.

“OH. MY. GOD.”

“What?” Shayne asked, eyes wide.

“THEY’RE MARRIED!”

Shayne nearly dropped his LaCroix. “WHO’S MARRIED?!”

“Y/N AND SPENCER!”

“WHAT??”

Courtney thrust their phone in his face. “LOOK. ZOOM. FREAK OUT WITH ME.”

He stared at the screen. Watched the edit. Looked like he was trying to compute calculus while on fire.

“No. No. They wouldn’t-” “They DID.” “They’ve only been back for ONE VIDEO.” “AND THEY GOT CAUGHT IN IT.” “THE WEDDING WAS A MONTH AGO???”

A silence fell between them.

Then

“I feel betrayed,” Shayne whispered dramatically. “I thought we were friends.”

Courtney placed a hand over their heart. “I swear to god, if Elvis officiated and we weren’t invited...”

They stared at each other.

Then, at the same time:

“GROUP CHAT. NOW.”

📲 Group Chat: “Smosh Chaos Line 🔥”

Court: EXPLAIN YOURSELVES RIGHT NOW 👀💍👀💍👀💍👀💍👀💍

Shayne: We saw the ring. We saw HIS ring. Y’ALL GOT MARRIED???

Damien: wait WAIT are we yelling?

Amanda: I leave the chat alone for two hours and come back to a full wedding scandal??

Alex T.: I TOLD you they were acting weird. I SAID it.

You and Spencer didn’t even make it past the front door.

One second, you were walking into the Smosh studio like everything was normal—the two of you sipping iced coffee like you hadn’t just become the Internet’s newest married couple overnight.

The next?

Courtney and Shayne were standing in the entryway with the kind of energy usually reserved for dramatic courtroom reveals and surprise baby announcements on soap operas.

Courtney was holding her phone like evidence.

Shayne had a whiteboard that said “EXPLAIN YOURSELVES” in neon pink Expo marker.

“Oh no,” Spencer muttered under his breath.

“Oh YES,” Courtney snapped, marching toward you. “You thought you could soft launch an entire marriage and we wouldn’t notice?!”

“Soft?” Shayne repeated, scandalized. “This wasn’t a soft launch. This was a whispered launch. This was a secret side quest with no map!”

Spencer raised a brow. “Aren’t you the same person who hard-launched your relationship on Instagram.”

“That’s not the point!” Courtney barked. “The point is YOU GOT MARRIED.”

You blinked. “Okay, technically…we got married a month ago.”

“A month,” Shayne repeated, as if that was somehow worse.

“That’s thirty days of keeping the secret,” Courtney added.

“Thirty days of lies. Betrayal. DECEPTION.”

You raised your hands defensively. “We weren’t trying to deceive anyone. We just…didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“Then why did you do it in LAS VEGAS?”

“Because it was cheap,” Spencer said.

“AND ROMANTIC,” you added quickly.

Damien wandered in holding a bag of chips. “So wait. This is real? I thought this was just another weird fan theory.”

Shayne whipped around. “LOOK AT THEIR FACES.”

Courtney waved their phone again. “LOOK AT THE RINGS. LOOK AT THE GLINT.”

Spencer sighed and lifted his left hand.

The ring gleamed under the overhead light.

Courtney made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a victorious war cry.

Alex appeared from the hallway with a clipboard. “So are we filming the Q&A today or tomorrow? Because I’ve already booked the couch, prepped the mics, and made a slideshow titled ‘Love and Lies: A Smosh Games Retrospective’.”

You groaned.

Shayne was still spiraling. “I just… I made so many jokes about you two being married over the years. I didn’t realize I was prophesying.”

Courtney smacked his arm. “We ALL made those jokes. THEY WERE DROPPING HINTS.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Were we?”

You elbowed him. “You literally tweeted ‘marriage is cool if it’s with someone who makes you laugh during dentist appointments.’ Two weeks ago.”

Damien squinted. “Wait. Is that about the time y’all disappeared from the group chat for three days and said you were ‘redecorating a closet’?”

Courtney gasped. “THE CLOSET WAS A METAPHOR?!”

Spencer sighed. “We went to Vegas. We got married. We had tacos. Elvis said we looked like trouble. It was great.”

The room went still.

Courtney blinked. “...You had tacos at your wedding?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Carne asada. And Baja Blast.”

Shayne clutched his chest. “You didn’t even invite me to the Baja Blast wedding?”

Damien snorted. “Alright. This calls for full content chaos. Mic’d up. Fan questions. No script. And we need a post-ceremony reenactment. Shayne’s officiating.”

Matt was already scribbling notes. “We’ll drop it next Friday. ‘Smosh Games Reacts to a Secret Marriage.’ It’ll trend. I want glitter. Maybe a cheap veil.”

Spencer looked at you, then looked around at your friends,these completely unhinged, overreacting, wonderful, weirdos, and sighed with a tiny smile.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But I’m not wearing a tux t-shirt again.”

The camera blinked red. The room buzzed. You could practically taste the drama in the air.

Courtney sat in the center like a talk show host who’d been personally wronged. Shayne flanked her, whiteboard in hand. Damien had cue cards. Amanda and Angela had popcorn. Alex was in the back with a clipboard and a fire extinguisher for "just in case."

You and Spencer?

Sitting on the infamous white couch, holding hands like two kids about to be grilled by divorced parents who teamed up for once.

“Welcome back to the channel, where today we’re confronting two of our coworkers who LIED to us for an ENTIRE MONTH.” Courtney's cheerful but menacing voice started the video.

“That’s right. A whole marriage. Hidden. In PLAIN SIGHT.” Pouting beside his wife was Shayne, fake crying with a box of tissues next to him.

"Let’s begin the trauma bonding," Damien slapped the cards against his lap as his mischievous smile grew.

[ROUND 1 – FAN QUESTIONS]

“@chaoscakes says: ‘Who proposed, and was food involved?’” Courtney read off the first cue card.

“Spencer did. Outside a Taco Bell. At like, 3AM.” You smiled sweetly, remembering it fondly.

“In my defense, it was romantic. And the moon was out.”

Shayne scoffed, “What did you say? ‘Marry me before the nachos get cold?’”

Deadpan Spencer explained “Actually: ‘If I’m gonna do this dumb life thing, I wanna do it with you.’”

Cue the collective 'aww' from the cast and crew behind the camera who had gathered to watch.

Damien read off the next question “Next: ‘Did you elope in Vegas or did you black out and wake up married?’”

"Both." Responding at the same time, a chuckle rippled through the crowd again.

“Look, there was an Elvis impersonator, a vending machine that dispensed White Claw, and we just went with the vibes.” Spencer explained.

Finally, Shayne's turn came, he read the card to himself first and nodded along like he agreed with the question “@bajablastbabes asks: ‘Why didn’t you tell us?!’”

“We wanted something just ours. Quiet. Simple.” You softly explained wanting to let everyone, fans and friends alike, know that it wasn't personal, just a decision to stay in your married bubble for a little longer before having to be swept up in the chaos.

“Also, we knew you’d react like… this.” Spencer gestured to the three, specifically Courtney and Shayne. Damien really was just there for shits and giggles.

"Valid." Courtney shrugged it off.

[ROUND 2 – SMOSH QUESTIONS]

The cameras turned to the group watching them. Amanda stood up, but not before passing the half-eaten popcorn to Angela. “What was your first fight as a married couple?”

“He ordered pineapple on pizza. In front of me. Shamelessly.” And as if remembering that disparging event, you scooted away from him. Spencer gasped, pointing his finger at yo,u “You left the cap off the toothpaste. Again.”

“Divorce is sounding real mutual right now.” Damien chuckled as he looked at the way you both jokingly had your backs turned away from each other.

Next was Ian, who had congratulated you both before the shoot began, “Did you cry during the ceremony?”

"I cried," You admitted going back to your original sitting position.

“I cried harder,” Spencer admitted on camera. You both smiled softly at each other before grabbing each other's hands. The group once again awed at the display.

“You would.” Shayne agreed with his friend, whom he was no longer feeling betrayed by.

Courtney shook her head before sitting up straighter like she was getting ready for something big. You were worried about what she would ask. Nothing too bad, right?

“Okay, final question—do you take each other all over again in front of us, your ridiculous chosen family?”

You both laughed.

But the laughter soon ceased as Shayne pulled out two blindfolds from behind his back. An evil smile was proudly displayed on his face.

They had changed the set. In like, two minutes.

There were streamers duct-taped to the walls. Someone (probably the art department) set up an arch made from unused lighting stands and plastic ivy. A speaker played the Wii Mii Channel theme softly in the background.

Courtney had changed into a faux priest outfit made of a curtain, sunglasses, and righteous vengeance.

“If Elvis could do it, so can I.” Courtney grinned at the camera. Both of you were still stunned by the display.

“I’m your flower boy.” Shayne giggled from behind the camera, throwing cheetos like rose petals as he made his way down the make-shift aisle.

“They grow up so fast.” Damien was putting the tissue box Shayne was previously using as a prop to good use.

You and Spencer stood under the arch, rings still on, grinning helplessly.

“Do you, Spencer Agnew, take Y/N L/N, to be your lawfully wedded co-chaos gremlin, partner in crime, and best friend who tolerates your caffeine habits?” putting on a more 'serious' and 'officiant' voice.

“I do.” His smile brought the stars to shame, you thought.

“And do you, [Y/N], take Spencer, knowing full well he once drank expired soda and said ‘it builds character’?” She looked at you, knowing very well you couldn't take it back even if you wanted to.

With a sigh and a shake of your head, “Unfortunately, yes. I do.”

“Then by the power vested in me by YouTube, a borrowed ring light, and the comments section… I now re-declare you married as hell. You may high-five your husband.”

You and Spencer high-fived. Then kissed anyway.

The team cheered. Confetti poppers went off way too close to your ears. A cake was brought in, shaped like a dice with “You Rolled a Nat 20 on Marriage” written in icing.

The whole cast gathered around the cake, screaming laughing, while Spencer smashes frosting into your face and you try to stab him with a plastic fork. The caption fades in:

“They got married. The internet found out. We made it weird.” #SmoshStyleWedding 💍✨🎲

Bonus Scene:

The day after the video went live, the Smosh YouTube channel was still on fire.

The comments were a mix of screaming, crying, begging to be invited to the real honeymoon, and at least twelve conspiracy theories about what else the cast was hiding.

You woke up in bed, half-buried under a blanket, with your phone buzzing non-stop. Spencer lay beside you, one arm draped lazily across your waist as he scrolled through the chaos.

“I feel like people think the glitter wedding was the real one,” you murmured.

He blinked. “We literally got married by Elvis with a chihuahua in the background. I don’t think anything we do can be taken seriously.”

You snorted. “Should we… I don’t know… post something real? Like a photo?”

Spencer looked at you, head tilted.

Then he grinned.

“Yeah. But I’m doing it my way.”

@spenceragnew One month ago, we said ‘I do’ with churro dust on our hands and soda in our veins. It was the best impulse decision I’ve ever made. Love you, wife. 💍💙 #ActualWedding #NotAFakeSketchThisTime #BajaBlastForLife

[sxuma]

The space between us -- itoshi rin x itoshi sae x sibling fem!reader

notes: You were their whole world yet they left you behind. What could possibly bring them back to you again? cw: Angst-fluff, healing relationship, wholesome -3.5k words-

You used to believe the three of you were unbreakable.

You, Sae, and Rin. The Itoshi siblings. A perfect trio.

The memories felt like something out of someone else's life now. But once, they were the best part of yours. The late nights spent building pillow forts in the living room, whispered secrets during thunderstorms when Sae let you hide under his blanket and Rin pretended he wasn’t scared too, or heated fights over who got the last rice ball or who got to pick the next show on TV. It always ended in laughter. Always. Sae always gave in first, sighing like an old man. Rin would make the dumbest faces, eyes crossed, tongue sticking out just to make you giggle.

And you? You had been the center of it all.

You weren’t just their little sister. You were their sidekick. Their princess. Their biggest fan. You were the bridge between them, the glue, the one they always tried to impress.

Especially when it came to soccer.

They taught you, once. Back when Sae was still home and Rin still looked at him like he hung the stars. You remember the afternoons in the park, the way Rin would roll the ball toward you with exaggerated slowness, grinning as you fumbled to stop it. Sae was way more serious about it, he’d try to correct your posture, gently guide your foot, explain how to kick “with your laces,” whatever that meant. You could barely keep your balance.

They’d both get frustrated, but never at you. Only at each other.

“She’s not doing that because I told her to,” Rin would mutter.

“Well, she should,” Sae would snap. “Because you’re teaching her wrong.”

“I’m not! I’m just trying to make it fun!”

You’d stand there in the middle, clutching the ball, trying not to cry.

But then Rin would sigh dramatically and flop to the grass arms spread wide as Sae would groan like he couldn’t believe he was stuck with two idiots. And you’d laugh, because they were idiots, but they were your idiots.

After every “training session” Sae would take you to the corner store. He always let you pick out whatever candy you wanted. And then he'd buy two extra, every time, without fail. “in case you drop one” he’d say, handing them to you like a secret between the two of you.

They used to be your entire world.

And for a while, you were theirs too.

But things changed.

It wasn’t sudden. It crept in quietly, like a crack in a glass window you didn’t notice until it shattered. One day, you woke up and realized they were speaking to each other less. Another day, you noticed Rin didn’t cheer during Sae’s matches anymore. Then they stopped coming home together. Then they stopped speaking altogether.

Then it was just you. Alone in the middle of two people who once held your hands like you were everything.

They left home, each in their own way. Sae to Spain. Rin to Blue Lock. They said goodbye with quiet voices and soft smiles, telling you to be good, promising to text. And they did. For a while. But the messages turned from real conversations to short replies. From “How was school?” to “Happy birthday.”

They never forgot your birthday. Every year, without fail, there were gifts. Expensive. Neatly wrapped. Rin sent hoodies and plushies with sarcastic notes. Sae sent shoes, gadgets, perfumes you couldn’t pronounce. But it was never them. Never their voices. Never their arms around you. Never their laughter.

-

Your birthday felt like a hollow performance. You used to cry when you were younger, when the gifts arrived without them. Now you just smiled at your cake and told your parents you were grateful.

They didn’t come home anymore.

They didn’t even call.

And still, every weekend, you’d turn on the TV. You’d see them. The whole world saw them. Sae with his cold, perfect passes and impassive face. Rin with that fierce stare and explosive speed. You watched, feeling proud...and unbearably bitter.

You watched them glare at each other on the field. You watched the distance that used to be inches stretch into miles. You watched two people you loved forget how to love each other.

-

You started keeping track of the last time you heard their voices.

It had been nine months.

The day everything fell apart started like any other. You went to school. You smiled when the teacher called on you. You answered politely. You kept your head down.

But someone had posted a video the night before. A slideshow of photos. One was of you and your brothers when you were kids, maybe eight or nine, beaming in your matching jerseys. Sae’s hand on your head. Rin’s arms around your shoulders. It had once been your favorite picture.

Now it was being picked apart in the comments.

“No wonder Rin and Sae don’t talk. Look at the sister LOL.”

“She must be the disappointment.”

“Did they adopt her??”

The whispers at school were louder than usual. The stares longer. Someone knocked your bag off your desk during class. You didn’t even look up to see who. At lunch, a bottle of juice exploded all over your uniform. You stood there, dripping, blinking back tears. No one helped.

You tried to laugh it off. You tried to stay calm. But it built up. And when one of the girls leaned over and whispered, “Do you think they even remember you?” something inside cracked.

You ran. Out of the gates. Down the street. Past the bakery Sae used to take you to when you got good grades.

You didn’t remember unlocking the front door. You didn’t remember kicking off your shoes. All you remembered was the ache in your chest. The horrible, sharp pressure that wouldn’t go away.

The house was quiet.

Your parents wouldn’t be home until late.

You were too dizzy to think. You didn’t know who else to call.

Your thumb hovered over the group chat. The one that hadn’t been active in months. "Itoshi Bros + Lil Sis."

It was probably muted.

You didn’t care.

You pressed the video call button.

And to your shock, Sae picked up.

His face filled the screen. He looked tired, hair slightly tousled, brows furrowed in concern. “Hello?”

Then Rin picked up too. “What the hell?”

You couldn’t speak.

You just sobbed.

Heavy, ugly sobs that cracked through your throat and left you breathless.

Neither of them spoke right away. You heard Rin whisper your name like he hadn’t in years. Sae’s face went stiff.

“What happened?” Sae asked. His voice was low. Controlled.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

You were curled up on the floor of your room, hugging a pillow, your phone clutched in your hand like a lifeline.

“I’m coming home,” Sae said quietly.

You thought he was lying.

But then Rin said, “I’ll be there first.”

You cried harder.

Sae landed that night.

Rin arrived thirty minutes after.

They didn’t knock. They had their keys.

You heard the door open, and for a terrifying second, you wanted to hide.

You heard footsteps. Running.

Rin came in first.

Then Sae.

You weren’t dressed nicely. Your face was blotchy, your eyes red. But they didn’t seem to care.

Rin dropped to his knees beside you. “What the hell happened?”

You broke again.

It came out in stutters. Between sobs. You told them about the bullying. The video. The messages. The juice. The way you felt like everyone hated you for being related to them.

They listened.

They didn’t interrupt.

Not once.

When you finished, your throat was raw. You expected silence. You expected them to leave again, maybe pat your head and say they’d take care of it.

But Sae surprised you.

He sat beside you and pulled you into his chest.

Rin didn’t even hesitate. He curled against your other side, resting his chin on top of your head like he used to when you were five.

“I hate this,” you whispered.

Sae’s arm tightened.

“I hate that you guys don’t talk anymore,” you said, voice trembling. “I hate that we’re not a family anymore. I hate that I’m the only one who seems to miss it.”

“Don’t say that,” Rin said. His voice was quiet.

“I do! I hate watching you fight on TV. You’re my brothers. You were my best friends. Now I don’t even know who you are anymore. I feel like I’m not even part of this family—”

“You are,” Sae said, cutting you off. “You always were.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, you added, “I just… I just want to go back. Just once. Can we just… I know it’s dumb, but can we cuddle? Like when we were kids?”

You expected them to laugh.

But neither did.

Sae sighed softly and stood up, helping you to your feet. Rin followed without a word.

They led you to the living room.

You laid on the couch, squished in the middle. Rin curled around your left side, arm over your waist. Sae took your right, hand resting on your shoulder.

It was cramped. It was awkward.

But you hadn’t felt that safe in years.

-

You woke up to the smell of toast and the sound of footsteps.

The couch was empty.

You blinked, sat up, and looked around.

A note was on the table.

“Be back by lunch. Business to handle.”

You didn’t know what that meant until your phone exploded with messages.

“DID YOUR BROTHERS JUST SHOW UP TO SCHOOL???”

“BRO RIN AND SAE ITOSHI CAME TO OUR CLASS.”

“Did they beat him up? They LOOKED LIKE THEY WERE GONNA.”

You stared at the texts.

Then another one came in. From Sae.

“Handled it. Also switched your school. Private tutoring starts next week. We’ll be home for a while.”

Then Rin sent a photo. A selfie of the three of you from the night before. You were squished and half-asleep in the middle, cheeks puffed from crying.

Rin: “Next time, call sooner, dummy.”

And attached, just beneath it, another photo.

A picture of a soccer ball.

Then a second photo: a pile of candy on the kitchen table.

Sae: “Training starts again today. We’ll go slow this time.”

You cried again.

But this time, it was the good kind.

[soft4changbin]

Watch your mouth

Han Jisung x protective!girlfriend

Summary: Jisung’s bold girlfriend defends him after someone insults him, showing how fiercely they protect and love each other.

Word count: 1,003

You weren’t the type to sit back quietly. Never had been. You’d always met the world head-on, fists metaphorically—and sometimes literally—raised. Which is probably why everyone who knew you and Han Jisung thought the two of you made an unlikely pair.

Because Jisung? Sweet, chaotic, sunbeam Jisung?

He was energy and laughter and overflowing affection. He wore his heart on his sleeve and got flustered when you looked at him a second too long. But he adored you. Worshipped you, actually. The way you stood your ground, the way you could shut down a room with one look, how you never let anyone walk over you—or him.

“Remind me again why I’m the one with the badass girlfriend?” he mumbled one day, sprawled across your lap, his hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands.

You smirked, fingers carding through his messy hair. “Because the universe knew you needed someone to throw punches for you.”

He grinned up at you. “And kiss me after?”

“Obviously.”

Things were good. Great, even. Until the comment.

You and Jisung were out grabbing coffee, his hand in yours, your voice raised in a stupid debate about which season of Attack on Titan was the most emotionally devastating. It wasn’t exactly a private conversation—you weren’t known for speaking softly—and Jisung was giggling, eyes sparkling.

Then someone said it.

Loud enough for you to hear. Quiet enough to be cowardly.

“You’d think someone pretty like her could do better.”

Your spine straightened immediately, and Jisung’s laughter cut off mid-sentence. You stopped walking. His hand slipped from yours.

“What?” you asked, head tilting slightly, eyes scanning the group of three sitting near the café entrance. One guy had his phone raised halfway to his face, a smirk curling his lip. He was already regretting opening his mouth.

Jisung touched your arm, voice low. “Babe, let it go.”

But you didn’t.

You stepped forward, movements calm but charged. “You said something?” you asked the guy directly.

He blinked. “Wasn’t talking to you.”

“Great. Then you won’t mind repeating it to my face.”

The smirk wavered. “It’s not that serious.”

“No, it is.” Your voice dropped a register. “You insulted my boyfriend. Out loud. In public. So either own it, or shut your mouth.”

There was a pause—long enough to get awkward—and Jisung stepped beside you, his hand brushing yours again. “C’mon,” he murmured, trying to guide you away.

But you didn’t budge. You looked at the guy like you were reading every dumb thought in his head. Then you leaned forward, voice quiet but cutting.

“Next time you open your mouth about someone, make sure you’re not doing it in earshot of a girl who has no problem breaking noses.”

Jisung tugged your sleeve, and this time you let him pull you back. You didn’t look away until the guy did. Coward.

The silence between you and Jisung lasted about a block.

“You shouldn’t’ve done that,” he said finally.

You glanced over. “He insulted you.”

“I know,” he mumbled. “But I don’t want you getting into fights because of me.”

You exhaled. “I wasn’t gonna fight him. Not unless he wanted to get really brave.”

Jisung smiled a little, but his brows were still furrowed.

“I just…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t want you carrying that weight. Protecting me like that.”

You stopped walking and turned to face him fully. “Han Jisung,” you said. “I love you. You think I’m gonna stand there and let some nobody talk down on you like you’re not everything?”

His lips parted, a soft inhale.

You continued. “You protect me in your own way. You make me laugh when I’m furious. You hold me when I pretend I don’t need it. You’d burn the world down for me, I know that.”

He looked up at you, eyes glassy now.

“So let me be the one who throws a few verbal punches when you need it. That’s what this is. We protect each other. Got it?”

He nodded slowly, biting his lip. “You’re incredible.”

“I know,” you teased, grinning. “Took you long enough.”

That night, he wrapped himself around you like a blanket. Face buried in the crook of your neck, fingers tracing idle patterns against your back.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice so soft you almost didn’t catch it.

“For what?”

“For making me feel like I’m worth standing up for.”

You turned your head and kissed his hair, your voice just as quiet. “You always were. I’m just the loud one who says it out loud.”

[hy6erion]

hi i loved your recent work with Vi Mel and Caitlyn 💕 i was wondering if you could write something similar with Sevika and Greyson?

sweet violence — sevika, grayson (separately)

synopsis: two filthy makeouts with the deadliest women in piltover and zaun

cw: fem! reader, explicit/ suggestive, slight thigh grinding (sevika), mention of bratty! reader (sevika), looots of wet kissing

part 1

Sevika .𖥔 ݁ ˖

It starts like it always does with Sevika — fast, rough, no warning.

One second you’re mouthing off, smirking like you want her to snap and the next you’re being shoved into a corner of the bar’s backroom with her mouth crashing into yours like a punch to the gut.

She grabs your wrists, slams them against the wall above your head and pins them there with one hand — metal pressing tight, unrelenting — while the other palms the inside of your thigh, dragging your leg up to hook over her hip like you’re something easy to open.

“You talk a lot of shit” she mutters against your mouth, her voice all gravel and heat. “But look at you now.”

Her kiss is mean. Tongue deep, lips parted, like she’s trying to shut you up from the inside out. Spit slicks your chin as she takes her time with it — not sweet, not gentle — all tongue and breath and the filthy sounds of mouths working over each other.

You moan, just a little, hips grinding helplessly against her thigh. She doesn’t stop kissing you. Doesn’t stop holding you down. If anything, she leans harder into it, tongue curling into your mouth like she’s testing how far she can get before you beg.

“Keep your hands where I put them” she growls when you twitch, teeth catching your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp. “You wanna be good, don’t you?”

You nod.

She kisses you again — slow now, but deeper. Devouring. Like she could kiss you until your knees give out.

Honestly? She probably will.

Grayson .𖥔 ݁ ˖

You’re standing in her office, saying something — you don’t even remember what, because Grayson steps in close, takes the pen from your hand, sets it gently on her desk like she’s about to ruin you, and says:

“You came in here to be kissed, didn’t you?”

And she’s right.

Her hand cradles the back of your neck, thumb brushing up behind your ear as she tilts your face toward hers — not rushed, not rough, just deliberate. Controlled. Like she’s making a point. Then her lips brush against yours, slow and firm, and your whole body pulls tight at the contact.

It’s only a kiss, but it wrecks you.

Grayson kisses with weight. With precision. Every slide of her tongue is perfectly timed, the pressure just right, her lips parting over yours like she knows your mouth better than you do. Her hand stays at your neck, grounding you, and when she deepens it — tongue sliding past your lips with that low, satisfied hum in her chest — it makes your stomach drop.

She sucks your tongue into her mouth like she wants you messy, like she’s trying to see how long she can keep you on the edge of breaking without letting you fall.

“You always get like this when I touch you” she breathes between kisses. “Can feel it. You go quiet.”

You nod, dazed, mouth already kiss-swollen and slick from how thoroughly she’s worked it. She kisses you again, slower now, tongue dragging against yours in lazy, wet strokes.

Grayson’s kiss is quiet power. Unshakable. Intentional.

And you’d let her devour you like this until your name’s long forgotten.

[gooseraider]

hey! i saw that ur requests are open! 🌱 so i thought i’d drop something here if u’re interested.

so maybe something sweet with loser!ellie on the first date with reader and it’s just so sweet - maybe ellie’s trying to impress reader but she already really likes ellie? 🪽

write it if you want to - no pressure ☀️

love, hallow 🦋

first dates & fun facts

a/n: i’ve never been on a date so i don’t know the first thing about first dates, anyways hope you enjoy!🪿

you’re applying the finishing touches to your look, making sure the curls in your hair looked perfect. you receive a text from ellie saying she’s outside your house.

hurrying to finish getting ready, you hear a knock on your front door and after dousing yourself in perfume, you run down the stairs and open the door.

“hi.” you say, slightly winded from running to the door.

“hey, i- uh.. i got you these.” ellie says, pushing a bouquet of pink daisies towards you.

“sorry if you don’t like them, i was running late and couldn’t decide which flowers you’d like the best so i just got those because they’re pink and you said your favorite color was pink and-“

you cut off her rambling with a kiss to her cheek, “i love the flowers ellie, thank you.”

“okay cool cool, im glad you like them.”

ellie stands awkwardly in your doorway, fiddling with the loose threads on her sweater. “you ready to get going?” you ask.

“yeah, let’s go.”

ellie leads you to her car and opens the passenger door for you.

”thank you.”

“yeah no problem.”

you can tell ellie is super nervous, deciding to ask her some questions to ease the mood.

“so where are we going? you never told me.”

“oh shit, sorry, we’re going to the boardwalk. figured you’d like it y’know, there’s beaches and rides and stuff.” she says, playing around with the radio trying to get it to the right station.

“that sounds fun.”

“you sure? cause if you don’t want to we can totally like go somewhere else, i don’t mind honestly.”

“i’m sure, i love the beach and rides and stuff, especially if im going with you.”

ellie’s face turns completely red, she doesn’t speak for the rest of the way there, to flustered to form a coherent sentence.

you guys arrive at the boardwalk, ellie comes over to your side and opens the door for you. “thank you.” you say.

ellie reaches for your hand, her own hand trembling as she does. you take her hand immediately noticing how shaky she is. “hey you okay there?”

“yeah, sorry uh.. i’m just not used to going on dates y’know, especially with someone as pretty as you.”

you blush, “if it makes you feel better this is my first date as well.” you admit.

“really? no way, how?” ellie says clearly confused by your confession.

you shrug, “i don’t know, i guess i just haven’t found someone i’d want to go on a date with.”

“oh.. well i’m glad i get to take you on your first date.”

“and i’m glad you’re taking me on my first date ellie.”

you two walk along the boardwalk for a while, talking and getting to know eachother. you just found out about ellie’s hamster named saturn, and her cat named slushy.

“aww they’re so cute.” you say as you look at the photo of her cat and hamster next to each-other.

“you should come over and meet them sometime.”

“really?”

“yeah, they love meeting new people, especially slushy, she always coughs up new hairballs for guests.” ellie says while laughing.

“well now i have to meet them.”

“next date i’ll take you to see them.”

“next date? that fond of me already williams?”

“what can i say, you’re easy to fond over- wait no that makes no sense sorry i don’t know what im saying anymore.” she says, looking down trying to hide her face that’s now beet red.

“it’s okay i get what you’re trying to say, and if it helps, i’m fonding over you too.” you say, shooting her a wink.

you spot an ice cream shop ahead, “ooo look let’s go get ice cream.” you say, pulling ellie with you in the direction of the ice cream shop.

yall successfully get your ice cream and now you two are sat on a bench that overlooks the ocean. “how many sharks do you think live on the ocean?” you ask ellie

“well, we don’t know exactly how many sharks are in the ocean but it’s estimated that over a billion sharks live in the ocean.”

“woah that’s a lot.”

“yeah, there’s over 500 different species of sharks, with great white sharks being the deadliest species.”

“how do you know so much about sharks?”

“i don’t know, i guess they’re like super cool so i just research things about them.”

“okay little miss shark genius, tell me more information about sharks.” you declare, turning to face ellie.

“well uh… sharks have a sixth sense. they have an organ called ampullae of something… uh i forgot… but anyways they use it to sense electrical stimuli and hunt animals hidden under the sand in stuff.”

“wow i didn’t know that.”

“not a lot of people do, sharks are one of the most misunderstood sea creatures. everyone thinks they’re like some evil blood thirsty creature but in reality they’re just a protective species.”

you stare at her in awe, finding her random shark facts really interesting. “so… did i impress you with my shark facts or did i just ruin the date and you think im weird and you never wanna see me again.” ellie says, scratching her neck nervously.

“you did actually, now i get to say i went on a date with a pretty girl and i learned something new about sharks.” you say, taking another bite of your ice cream.

ellie continues to stare at you, you suddenly worried you said the wrong thing, “why are you looking at me like that? did i do something wrong?”

“no, shit- sorry, you just have ice cream on your face.”

“oh.” you try wiping it off, only to miss. ellie reaches over and swipes the ice cream off your lip.

you two are now realizing how close you actually are, you notice how both of your knees are touching, how you have a clear view of ellie’s eyes, and how you can feel her breath on your face. you see her glance at your lips then back to your eyes, you decide it’s now or never and you lean in, connecting your lips with hers.

the kiss is short but sweet, “sorry, i didn’t mean to do that you probably didn’t want to-“

you’re cut off by ellie leaning back in and kissing you again, this time her hand comes up to hold your face. tasting the mint flavor on her lips, you pull away.

“i’ve been wanting to do that all night.” you admit.

“took you long enough.” ellie teases.

“oh hush, we both know you wouldn’t have the balls to kiss me first.” you giggle.

the ride back to your house is much more comfortable, music playing softly in the background. ellie’s hand is resting in yours the whole way back to your house.

when you arrive at your house, ellie gets out and walks you to your front door. “i had fun tonight, thanks for going out with me.”

“i had fun as well, and thank you for teaching me random facts about sharks.”

neither of you wanting the night to end, you both settle on one last kiss to end the night.

“i really did have fun tonight, thank you.” you say, pulling away from the kiss and pulling ellie into a hug.

“same time next week?” ellie jokes.

“i’d love to.”

“wait, actually? i didn’t think you’d want to go on another date.”

“you’ve got to be kidding, i just kissed you three times tonight and you think i don’t want to see you again?”

“well not when you you say it like that.”

you roll your eyes, pulling ellie closer, “goodnight ellie, get home safe.”

“goodnight.” she says kissing the top of your head, heading back to her car.

you two wave goodbye to each-other as one last goodbye.

“god, what is this girl doing to me.” ellie says, laying her head down on the steering wheel.