synopsis: what comes after the secret you’ve been keeping all your life — that you’re in love with your best friend, manjiro — is revealed in the most unexpected way?
part one
pairings: racer!sano manjiro x fem!reader
content warnings: mature themes, 18+, ns/fw, M.D.N.I.
Dread fills your bones, making your whole body go still on the edge of your bed while the last message sent by Manjiro keeps replaying in your head.
"Let's talk, y/n."
In an instant, it’s like your world crumbles beneath you, stripping away everything that protects you and leaving only your naked, embarrassed self. You didn't expect a situation like this to come — and yet, it arrives when you are at your most defenseless. Nothing could be worse than this.
You feel shameful. Pathetic, even. The tears keep flowing down your face because there’s no way to undo it now — not when the evidence is spitting right in your face: that he answered the call while you were touching yourself, he heard you screaming his name, he listened to you falling apart with him on your mind, and then he texted you, asking to talk. And goddamn, what does any of this mean if not that you have feelings for him?
You thought you could keep your secret locked in a vault for years, only for it to be revealed in the most careless way possible. Now, you can’t do anything but cry, your mind overflowing with the fear that you’ve stained the only connection you have with him — your friendship. The one thing that will now surely meet its end, all because of your selfish desires and the feelings he never asked for.
Weeping eventually leads you to falling asleep. The endless thinking drowns you so deeply that you don't even notice the time passing. You simply fall asleep out of pure exhaustion, and only wake up when your phone alarm goes off.
Just when you thought it was all a dream, you open your phone to turn it off, only to be met with the reality you’ve been living in.
Manjiro's text is still there. As real as everything that happened last night.
You press your palms into your face as a fresh wave of worry sinks in. What now? you think. What are you even supposed to do now that everything is out in the open?
You stare at Manjiro’s last message. He hasn’t followed up, and that somehow makes it worse. The silence feels heavy, loaded with everything you’re afraid of: a disappointed man sitting on the other end, betrayed and disgusted, just waiting for you to finally say it out loud so he can be done with you.
The moment you roll out of bed, you decide you won't face him. Not yet. You tell yourself you need to distance yourself first, that you need time to sort everything out before you can face him.
But deep down, you know that's not it.
The truth is, you're just a coward. And the only thing you can bring yourself to do right now is avoid him completely, at all costs.
So that's what you'll do.
Using every bit of strength you can muster, you prepare yourself for work. Your mind hasn't drifted from thoughts of Manjiro even for a second, but you do everything you can to drag yourself out the door anyway. At least at the office, the pending tasks and deliverables can pull your focus away from him even just for a little while.
But you're wrong about even that.
The moment you step inside, your closest colleagues, the ones who know about your connection to the famous racer, immediately corner you to ask about his performance on the track. Manjiro's wins have been all over social media since last night, so of course they knew, and of course they had to bring it up. You nod along, give them short polite answers, and get to work.
By the time the day ends, it's clear that trying to distract yourself was never going to work. For most of the day, you've been sneaking glances at your phone, waiting for a message from him that never comes. You don't know whether to feel relieved that you haven't heard anything from his side, or more worried because of it. Either way, the dread never leaves your body and you come home that night more exhausted than ever.
This carries on for two days straight — the distance you've put between you and the silence on his end. It starts affecting your performance at work badly enough that you find yourself considering filing for a leave just to sort your head out. But every time you come home to your apartment and are met with nothing but quiet, your thoughts grow louder than anything else — you'd rather exhaust yourself fixing mistakes at work than spiral alone through endless overthinking.
However, this whole avoidance has to end eventually. Whether you are prepared or not, you must face the consequences of your actions, and Manjiro makes sure of that on the third morning when a notification from him finally pops up.
Your heart starts to pound as you unlock your screen with trembling fingers.
Fr: Jiro
y/n…
Are you busy?
That isn't what you were expecting. You were bracing yourself for something devastating, something that would confirm every worst fear you’ve spent two days constructing in your head, not this. However, the innocent message does nothing to ease your mind, and before you can even process it, your phone begins to ring.
He's calling.
The panic hits so fast that instead of answering or declining, you turn your phone off entirely. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your palms against your face.
What are you doing? you think. What are you doing, what are you doing, what are you doing…
And the coward wins again. Instead of facing him after he finally reaches out, you decide to keep your phone off.
You tell yourself it’s just for a few hours, enough time to breathe and figure out what to say. But those few hours become the whole morning, and the morning bleeds into the afternoon. Before you know it, you’re back home, the sun is gone, and your phone is still a dark weight in your hand.
You stare at it for a long moment. Then, you turn it back on. Your heart tightens as the screen instantly floods with notifications.
Fr: Jiro
10:47 AM: I was busy with training, I didn't get to message you.
11:06 AM: Still no reply? Stop ignoring me, please.
11:10 AM: Emma’s birthday on friday. It would be just the usual circle, nothing big. Come, okay?
Before you can even think, your fingers hover over the keyboard and start typing.
To: Jiro
I’m not sure…
The moment you hit send, regret sinks in. It’s too late. Manjiro’s response comes immediately, the notification dinging before you can even look away.
Fr: Jiro
Why? It’s emma’s birthday.
Are you avoiding me…
The familiar nervousness tugs at your heart so sharply you almost drop the phone. His last message sits there like a quiet accusation. Your chest tightens as you spiral: Why is he asking the obvious when you both know what happened that night? Is this a test? Is he waiting to see if you’ll finally be honest, or if you’ll run again?
You stare at the screen for a long time. Then, you lock it.
You can’t reply. Not when your mind can only offer two things: excuses you’re too tired to sell, or a confession that will surely end everything. So, you say nothing. You set the phone face down and stare at the ceiling instead, trying to force your heartbeat to slow down.
It doesn’t.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Then, your phone dings again. You pick it up slowly.
Fr: Jiro
I didn't hear anything, y/n.
The air leaves your lungs. You read it again. Twice, thrice. You search those four words over and over, looking for a hidden meaning.
He didn't hear anything…
Whether he meant he didn't hear your response to his message or he didn't hear anything on the phone that night, you aren't sure.
You aren't sure of anything anymore.
In the crushing quiet of the night, the only response you can muster is a silent sob.
"I didn't hear anything, y/n."
The words echo in your head, a lifeline and a threat all at once. You have to face him now, whether you are ready or not. You have to find out if he truly heard you. You have to see if you are capable of telling the truth, or if you’re just going to fall apart.
Friday arrives before you're ready for it.
You stand in front of the mirror, face adorned with makeup — your best attempt at hiding the exhaustion that five days of sleepless nights have carved into you. Five days since that night, and not once have you had a real moment to think anything through.
You’re still caught in a haze of embarrassment and dread, but the world doesn’t care if you’re ready to face him. Time moves forward, and if you want any hope of returning to a sense of peace, you have to move with it. Even if "peace" means confessing your biggest secret — that you are hopelessly in love with your best friend — and watching it ruin everything you’ve ever known.
You take one last look at yourself in the mirror, grab your bag, and go.
You step into the hotel where Emma's birthday is being held. Somewhere inside that private dining room, Manjiro is already there.
Waiting.
You smooth down your dress, take a deep breath, and walk in.
As expected, the birthday party is an intimate affair. For a moment, seeing the familiar faces of your mutual friends settles the frantic beat in your chest...
But the relief is short-lived.
Your heart begins to thump again the second you spot members of the race team. You know Manjiro's right there. He couldn't be far, and if you just let your gaze wander a little further, you’d find him.
You keep your gaze carefully ahead, focused on nothing, avoiding the edges of the room where you know he might be standing. But before you can blend into the background, someone catches your arm and pulls you into a sudden hug.
"I thought you weren't going to come, y/n! You’ve been radio silent lately!"
It’s Emma. She’s her usual bubbly self, pulling you into a hug so tight it almost forces the air out of your lungs. Your heart slowly eases as you return the embrace, clinging to her just as tightly.
"As if I’d miss your birthday, silly. If I did, you’d never let me hear the end of it" you chuckle. But even as the words leave your mouth, you’re reminded of how close you actually came to staying home, of how you almost disappointed her just because you couldn't face her brother.
You let the thought slip away and focus on Emma, who pulls back from the hug first, beaming at you.
"You know me." She giggles. "Though I really wouldn’t have minded if you were busy. We could always celebrate another day — it's not like there's a law against it."
You squint at her, searching for the lie in her statement, and she laughs at your skeptical expression. "Come on, I’m telling the truth!"
You sigh, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. "Just be thankful I'm here."
You reach out and hand her the gift you've been holding. "Happy birthday, Emms."
Emma beams, clutching the gift to her chest. "Thank you, y/n! And thank you for actually coming. I was lying when I said it would be okay if you stayed home."
The two of you burst into shared laughter, and for a fleeting second, the weight pressing down on your chest vanishes. You bask in the giggles, feeling almost normal again.
Then the laughter slowly fades, and Emma's eyes drift across the room.
"Honestly, I could accept it if you didn’t show up. But you know who wouldn't?" Her gaze lands on someone specific. Even without turning around, the frantic skip of your heart tells you exactly who she’s looking at. "Mikey would have definitely thrown a tantrum. Have you talked to him yet?" she asks, her delight suddenly tinted with a quiet worry.
You don't respond, letting her continue.
"Draken told me he's been kind of off lately. We figured it's the new training — the sponsors have been watching closely with the championship coming up. I think the pressure's getting to him more than he lets on."
The bitterness settles on your tongue before you can stop it. He's out there pushing himself through rigorous training, carrying the weight of an entire season on his shoulders, and here you are, about to add to it. About to walk up to him and drop something that has nothing to do with racing and everything to do with ruining what you have.
Right then, without so much as glancing in the direction of his sister's gaze, you make up your mind.
Not tonight.
"Talk to him, okay?" Emma says, her voice gentle. "He's your best friend. He'd tell you if something was wrong."
You smile at her, small and tired.
He would. But the problem he doesn't know about yet...that's you.
Tonight, like every night before it, you choose to keep your distance.
You immediately try to lose yourself in the room, weaving into casual conversations and forcing yourself to look busy. But despite your best efforts, a restless energy claws at you. A prickling sensation on the back of your neck that tells you you’re being watched.
You aren’t wrong.
A sudden, accidental sweep of the room brings you face-to-face with the source of your unease.
Manjiro is standing beside Takemichi, his gaze fixed directly on you. You catch the slight widening of his eyes when your stares collide. He looks just as caught off guard as you are.
You look away first as the tension rises slowly up your throat, settling there and making itself impossible to ignore.
"You alright?" The voice cuts through the noise as a hand grasps your elbow. It’s Kazutora.
You look at him and quickly clear your throat, trying to find your voice.
"Y-yeah. Of course."
He nods, and the conversation folds back around the two of you like nothing happened. Because to everyone else in the room, nothing did. You are the only one coming apart on the inside, thread by thread, behind a perfectly composed face.
Needing to steady yourself, you excuse yourself to find a drink, desperate to wash down the lump in your throat.
You walk over to the small bar counter and grab a glass of champagne. You down the first one instantly, the sharp bite of the alcohol doing its best to steady your nerves. You reach for a second, but just as you bring the flute to your lips, your eyes traitorous as always, drift across the room on their own. And land on Manjiro.
He’s moving now, weaving his way through the crowd, his eyes locked onto yours. You realize with a jolt of panic that he’s walking straight toward you. Your grip tightens around the glass.
In a frantic attempt to look natural, you set the flute down and pivot, walking away from the bar to lose yourself among your friends again. You let the group crowd you, using them as a human shield.
It’s a game of cat and mouse that lasts the entire night. The moment you find yourself isolated for even a second, Manjiro is there, instantly trying to close the distance between you. His stare never wavers. no matter where you move, you can feel the weight of his gaze.
And you can tell he's growing frustrated. The crease between his brows deepens every time he watches you slip away again, every time you choose a crowded corner over facing him.
The guilt eats at you too. It carves into you steadily the same way it has been for days. But what can you do?
What can you really do?
It's not as if you wanted any of this. But the idiocy had to happen, and now here you are — trapped in this constant, exhausting battle with yourself. If only you could have said it on your own terms. A confession born from courage and not from the embarrassment of being caught, not from something as humiliating as what happened that night.
But could you have, really? Would you have confessed if the circumstances were different? Would you have done it at all?
You doubt it. Because you are a fucking coward.
And you would have kept it buried forever if not for that one mistake over a phone call.
So, for the hundredth time tonight, you bury yourself in the crowd so Manjiro can't get to you.
Then Emma's birthday cake is brought out and everyone gathers to sing. You try to steady yourself, dropping your messy thoughts for her sake. It's the least you can do after spending the better half of the night dodging her brother.
You finally lower your guard, giving Emma the attention she deserves and sing along with the rest.
You don't notice the body that slips in beside you.
Emma blows out her candles just as the last note of the song fades. The room erupts. Clapping, cheering, greetings overlapping from every direction. And in the middle of all that noise, while your guard is still down and your attention is still forward, a hand closes around your wrist.
You're being pulled before you can register it.
Everything blurs. The steps are fast, the crowd falling away behind you, and it's only when the cool air of the balcony hits your face that you understand who has been pulling you all along.
Manjiro releases your wrist and turns to face you.
There is no crowd to hide in. No conversation to slip back into. No way out.
You can’t fucking escape this one.
On the balcony, the crowd you used to hide in is suddenly out of grasp. Even though you’re isolated now, you still don't dare look up. You can’t bring yourself to meet the eyes that have been burning holes through you all night and are now fixed intently on your bowed head.
You swallow and wait for the first blow to land. It doesn't take long.
He lets out a heavy sigh, the sound of someone who has finally run out of patience.
"y/n"
You don't respond but your eyes move. Not toward him. Just anywhere that isn't him.
You’re painfully aware of the relentless beat of your heart. It feels powerful enough to rip through your chest if it keeps up this frantic pace. But you stay still, waiting for him to say the words that will end everything once and for all. Soon, you’ll be left with nothing but your ruined self and a friendship stained beyond repair.
You hear him shuffle, his slow footsteps approaching where you stand. He stops abruptly, just a few feet away, and lets out another sigh.
"Why are you avoiding me?" His voice is leveled, not nearly as cold as you deserve for what you’ve done.
You know that staying silent won't help you escape this. You have to respond, even if your brain refuses to give you the right words.
"I…" you exhale slowly, the sound shaky in the cold night air. "I don’t know what to say. I really don’t."
That's all you have. The only words you could pull from the wreckage of your thoughts.
You still haven't looked up at him but you can feel something radiating off of him in the silence. Something restless. Frustrated, maybe. Or dreading this just as much as you are.
"You don’t have to force yourself to say anything. I understand" he pauses, like he's choosing his next words carefully. "Just… would you stop avoiding me, y/n?"
That’s the cue. You finally find the strength to look up and meet his eyes.
There they are — his midnight irises that have haunted your imaginations, now staring at you, stripped of their usual light and replaced by a hollow, drained expression that almost makes you crumble on the spot.
"What do you mean… I don’t have to say anything?" your voice trembles. You search his face, desperately trying to find the meaning behind his words. Because there’s something underneath them, there has to be. But he doesn't flinch. He just stands there, his gaze fixed on you.
"What do you mean, Manjiro?"
For someone who spent the entire night chasing you, he chooses this exact moment to go silent. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the dark horizon instead of at you. The sudden wall he’s built up agitates you, the uncertainty sparking a frantic need for an answer.
Because what is he trying to say? You don't have to say anything? After all of that and this?
"Manjiro, please" you call out again, your voice rising and shaking. He inhales sharply, the sound suggesting that whatever he’s about to say pains him just as much as it does you.
"I didn’t hear anything, y/n."
His words land like a match dropped into gasoline.
"That’s bullshit!" your voice comes out sharper than you intended. "I was wailing like a mess in there — chanting your name over and over and you were on the other end of that call for a full two minutes. Two fucking minutes, Manjiro! And now you're standing here telling me you didn't hear anything?!"
"What was I supposed to fucking do then?" he snaps in return. The unreadable mask he wore minutes ago is gone, replaced by a raw frustration that matches his voice. "You’ve distanced yourself from me for days. You wouldn’t even talk to me. The only thing I could think to do was tell you I didn’t hear shit, just so you’d stop running away—"
"But you did." It comes out barely above a whisper. The fight drains out of you as quickly as it came.
"You heard everything."
You don't wait for him to fill it. You push forward, even as you shake trying to pick up the broken pieces of yourself in front of him.
"And I was so—" you bite your lip as your vision blurs, tears threatening to spill at any second. "I was so embarrassed."
"y/n—"
"I—" You shake your head, cutting yourself off before he can reach you with your name.
Across from you, Manjiro goes still. His expression torn open, caught between something you don't have the clarity to name right now. He looks like he wants to reach for you. His foot shifts forward as if to close the gap but he stops himself abruptly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.
"I didn't mean for any of it to… I mean, I never—" you bite your lip hard, almost drawing blood to ground yourself and stop your flowing tears.
He says your name again. Softer this time, like he's afraid the wrong pressure will destroy you completely. And that's exactly what undoes you.
Because you feel it rising the moment his voice gentles — that familiar pull of retreat. The same cowardice that has kept you silent for years rises in your chest, already building the excuses, already forming the words: It’s fine, forget it, pretend I said nothing.
Maybe you can salvage this without saying another word and just apologize for the mess you’ve caused. Maybe you could choose to believe his lie. Maybe you could convince yourself that you don’t need to confess. You could take the exit he’s giving you and continue living your life, even if the secret would eat you alive day by day.
Maybe that's enough. Maybe it has to be.
But before the retreat can fully form on your tongue Manjiro speaks.
"We can…" He pauses, his gaze dropping to the floor between you.
"If you want, we can forget this. All of it. I can pretend… if that's what you need."
The most generous thing he has ever offered you and somehow, the most devastating. He is giving you exactly what the coward in you always wanted: an exit. A way back to "before." A way to keep him safely as just your best friend.
But you’re so tired.
You’re exhausted from keeping everything hidden away. You're tired of loving him only in your mind — the only place where you could do so without restrictions, without the feeling of crossing a line, without staining or ruining anything.
You can't have that anymore.
"But I can't."
It feels as if a vault has finally been forced open, the words you’ve tried to bury acting as the key. The feelings you thought would never see the light of day are finally laid bare before him.
"I can’t do the 'pretend' anymore."
"Not when I’ve spent years feeling this way."
Every word feels like blood being spat from your mouth. It makes you shake, but it would be more painful to keep it in than to let it out. You continue, even as your voice breaks. Even as your heart does, too.
"Not when I’ve already crossed every line — willingly, Manjiro. All of it, willingly. Just so I could at least feel like you could finally see where I am."
Tears continue to spill, blurring your sight until he’s barely more than a shape in front of you. You pull a split second of bravery to look directly into his eyes as you spill your heart out. Cowardice be damned. Let him see you break. He already heard you at your highest and it shattered you even more after. What difference does it make if he witnesses you at your lowest, standing here as the same shattered self?
"Turn around and see me, Manjiro...I was here. I still am...I'm in love with you."
And you finally break.
You cover your face, the sound of your own wailing sending a violent shiver down your spine. It's terrifying to hear yourself cry this loudly. To feel the raw, unfiltered sound of your heart breaking in the open air. Your legs feel hollow, and you’re certain that at any moment your knees will give out and you'll stumble.
But before you can fall, you feel a sudden, firm tug at your wrist.
And then you're moving.
No words. No warning. Manjiro pulls you back through the balcony doors and into the hall and you don't have the strength to resist. You don't have anything left. You just follow, face still hidden behind your hand trying to hold whatever remains of yourself together.
You’re being led through the crowd, still sobbing openly, and you feel the suffocating weight of every eye in the room following your every move. You’re powerless to shield your messy, broken self from the sudden spotlight. Manjiro’s eager, relentless pace doesn’t break until he reaches the table where Emma and his inner circle are sitting.
Emma's face shifts the moment she sees you. The smile she was wearing dissolving first into confusion, then into something closer to alarm when her eyes find yours.
"Mikey, what happen—"
But Manjiro is already moving. He steps in front of you, catches Emma by the shoulders before she can reach you, and holds her steady.
"Mikey, is y/n alright? What's going on—" Emma’s voice is rising toward panic, but Manjiro reaches out and squeezes her shoulder firmly, grounding her.
"I’ll make it up to you. We have to go now" he says.
He presses a swift, apologetic kiss to his sister’s temple before pulling you away again. He offers no explanation to the confused crowd — not to Emma, who tries to follow, nor to the rest of the guests. Only Draken catches his eye, sending a silent, knowing look Manjiro’s way. The raven-haired man simply nods in return, an unspoken understanding passing between them.
Everything follows in a dizzying blur. Cold city air. The sharp ding of an elevator. Until the world finally stops spinning.
Before you can even process the shift in atmosphere, the heavy doors click shut, and you’re being led inside his penthouse.
Maybe it's resignation settling into your bones that keeps you from responding properly to any of this. It all feels like a fever dream. The avoidance. The confession. Him pulling you through a crowded room without a single word of explanation, and you following without resistance. You don't fully return to the reality until you feel Manjiro's grip tighten around your hand.
The gravity of the situation hits you like a physical blow to the chest.
You confessed. You actually did it.
You told your best friend of years that you are in love with him. For all the time you spent locking that truth away in the deepest part of your soul, convinced it would stay a secret you’d take to the grave, it only took one moment of weakness to bring you here. Standing in his room, the door locked behind you.
Across from you, Manjiro's face gives nothing away. Not anger. Not relief. Not even surprise. Just focus as he reaches up to shed his jacket, then moves to step out of his pants, like this is any other night. Like you didn't just crack yourself open in front of him twenty minutes ago.
Your mind begins to spiral, even as your body makes no effort to move. You stand paralyzed in the dark with him, your head filling with questions that make your skin crawl. Why did he bring me here? Why is he undressing? Why isn’t he saying he doesn't love me?
Why won’t you just push me away?
Before your head can split open from the weight of it, the words slip free on their own.
"Manjiro…" It comes out so soft. The way you utter his name isn't a call for attention. It’s a plea for him to end the silence before it destroys you.
Manjiro catches it. His head snaps toward you, and that focused expression dissolves replaced by something uncharacteristically soft. Almost meek. He waits for you to continue.
"Why are we here? What are you doing?"
He avoids your gaze, turning to sit at the edge of the large bed. Stripped down to only his shirt and boxers, the barrier between you finally feels thin.
In the dim light of the room, he looks reachable. He would almost feel safe if you weren't so paralyzed by the confusion of his actions.
"Why did you bring me here—"
"I just need you to rest, y/n"
"And you think I can? After everything that happened — everything I’ve said? Manjiro, we need to address this."
"We can, yeah? We can" he says, his voice low. "But let’s just rest first. You need it. We both need it, y/n."
He stands to approach you and you instinctively step back. A flash of pure hurt crosses his face when you retreat, but he continue reaching for your elbow. Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe it's the deep, aching want to just be held, to stop carrying all of this alone for one moment. Either way, you don't step back a second time. You let him pull you toward the bed.
He pulls you down, laying gently beside you. The proximity silences the frantic noise in your head, replaced only by the steady rhythm of his breathing. He wraps his arms around you like a vice, clinging to your body as he buries your face against the heat of his chest.
"Jiro." His name comes out muffled against his shirt, and you're almost grateful for the fabric between you.
Your voice has started to shake again. "I can't think anymore. I can't think about anything."
"Then don’t think. Just rest" he murmurs. You push slightly against him to look up, only to find him staring directly back at you.
"I'm not going to fall asleep and pretend none of this happened. We can't just—" The words die in your throat as fresh tears spill over.
A flicker of what looks like agonizing pain crosses Manjiro’s eyes. Seeing him look at you like this, a devastating thought takes hold: He’s doing this to compensate.
He’s holding you now because he knows he has to let you go later. This is the last kindness he can offer because he won't return your feelings, and what’s been said can never be unsaid.
So, you don't speak anymore. You just cry.
He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin to muffle your sobs. His hand moves in slow, soft caresses across your back, your waist, and your arms. He doesn't say another word and he just lets you weep.
He stays there as a silent anchor, listening to every broken sob and jagged breath as the night bleeds away. The weight of your grief and the heat of his body slowly drain the last of your strength, making your limbs feel like lead.
Just as the darkness of sleep begins to pull you under, you feel the ghost of lips against your forehead — a pressure so soft it feels like a dream.
"Just so you know" a raspy whisper brushes against your skin. "I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore."
The morning after is a montage of moments you can't quite grasp. You wake up in his bed, and the flashbacks of the night come crashing down with a force that almost sends you into a fresh panic, only for the air to settle the moment Manjiro re-enters the room.
The next thing you know, he is driving you home because you insisted on going. The drive is filled with nothing but silence, but every time Manjiro brakes, he quietly reaches for your hand. He doesn't look at you when he does it. He just finds your fingers with his, squeezing briefly before the light turns green.
But what seals everything into one big knot of confusion is the way Manjiro kisses your forehead as he leaves you at your door. It’s a kiss that lingers, so long and so heavy, that you can still feel the ghost of his warmth on your skin even after he pulls away.
And then he leaves without a word. There is no rejection, but there is no acknowledgment of the confession you made at the party, either. He just disappears back to his car, leaving you standing there with the weight of everything unsaid pressing against your chest.
You're not stupid enough to miss the shift in him. You know something changed. But the only thing stopping you from leaning into those more hopeful thoughts is the massive question mark still hanging over your head. Two terrifying possibilities and you're caught right in the middle of both.
Did Manjiro do all of this out of guilt — his way of softening the blow before he cuts you off? Or does he feel something too?
That doubt turns the full-blown panic of last night into a tight, suffocating knot of overthinking.
What does any of this mean?
And somehow that question leads you here, to your current predicament — lying in bed, checking your phone every few minutes, waiting for a message that may never come.
Would he text you? Or was that kiss on the forehead the end of it?
You wait and wait until the exhaustion of your own thoughts pulls you under without warning. You fall asleep without meaning to, and when you open your eyes again, the sun is already setting outside your window.
You rub your eyes and reach for your phone to check the time...and find three unopened notifications from him.
Fr. Jiro:
What are you doing?
Just took a break from training. You busy?
Can I come over to yours after my training?
Your heart suddenly remembers its existence. It starts to beat again, but it dances to a different rhythm this time. It’s no longer following the frantic steps of panic, instead, it moves to a slow, hopeful sway of excitement.
You:
sure
And as if he's been waiting on the other end this whole time, the reply comes immediately.
Fr. Jiro
I have something to tell you..
Also, I miss you.
Though your heart is still racing, the heavy weight of that massive question mark finally dissolves. It is replaced by a soft, blooming heat for the man you hope will finally answer your yearning and longing.
You barely have time to prepare yourself when you hear the revving of a motorcycle outside your house. It’s a sound you’ve heard a thousand times, but tonight, it makes your stomach flip in a way that’s entirely new. You don’t have to look outside to know that it’s him.
It doesn’t take long before you hear the steady knock on your door. You exhale, readying yourself for another night of facing Manjiro. You hope, god you hope, that all the silent pining, the wishful thinking, and the secrets whispered into the quiet are finally going to be answered, once and for all.
You pull the door open. There he is — the man who haunts every crevice of your mind, the one you secretly call "mine" every chance the quiet nights give you. Your best friend stands there, looking at you with a soft, knowing smile that feels both familiar and brand new.
"Hey," he says, his voice low and steady.
"Hey," you respond, the word catching slightly in your throat as you look at him.
"Can I come in?"
For years, Manjiro has drifted into your space without a second thought, inhabiting every corner of your life as if he belonged there by birthright. But this sudden hesitation, this soft request for permission, is the cue that the old rules no longer apply.
It is the beginning of something entirely new. And as the weight of the day’s anxiety begins to lift, you find yourself feeling lighter, though your heart still hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
You don't answer and simply pull the door wide open. He pauses for a second and stares at you, then he finally steps inside.
He stands in the middle of your living room, eyes still lingering on you. You, on the other hand, avoid his gaze as you make a beeline toward the kitchen.
"Uh... have you had your dinner yet? I can coo—" You hear his soft footsteps following you as he calls your name.
"y/n."
You shut your eyes tightly, your back still facing him. You want to slap yourself for acting this way again, you really do. But you can't help the awkwardness that clings to you like a second skin.
There's no running anymore, though. Right? Please.
"Hmm?"
"Let's talk."
He utters the same words that ripped your heart apart the night he called you — but this time, you don't feel that same dread settling in your chest. What you feel instead is nothing but anticipation. Maybe it's the way he let those words slip out with a quiet, almost imploring tone, as if to say that this is not like that night. He wants to talk, but in a way that won't make you feel like you need to put yourself out of his reach again.
So with a gathered courage, you turn around and face him. You exhale.
"Okay. Let's talk."
Manjiro's expression remains calm as he begins.
"I heard it." His eyes search your face, catching for any small expression that might slip through.
You remain steady, even as you force down the tension rising in your chest from his words. You already knew it — but he had to lie because you yourself weren't ready to accept it. Hence the days of avoiding him. Yet hearing the truth come directly from his own mouth is an entirely different wave to weather.
"I heard it, y/n. All of it" Manjiro shifts his weight, his eyes never leaving yours. He looks as though he is physically weighing the next words to say.
But you beat him to it. Before he can find the right way to piece his thoughts together, you find your own voice. You don't let the silence stretch any longer. You throw the question at him, the one that has been burning in the back of your mind since the night of the party.
"Then why didn’t you say anything further than that? I know you had to lie because I couldn’t face you, and the truth. But why—"
The rest of the question dies in your throat, the air suddenly too thin to carry the words. Manjiro nods, his gaze softening as if he finally understands the tangled mess of your thoughts without you having to finish the sentence.
He takes a step closer, closing the gap as if the distance itself is a barrier to being understood. It is so different from the night of the party. That night, he was afraid to cross an invisible line, and you were in a blind panic at his proximity while you poured your heart out. But tonight, that fear is gone — replaced by a magnetic pull, a shared itch to be closer. And so you stay rooted to the spot, letting him enter your space.
"I couldn’t say anything more than that because I didn’t know what to tell you anymore that would not make you run away again," he confesses as his stares level yours. "I only brought up excuses to forget, if that’s what you wanted, because I don’t want you to run away anymore. That’s all it was."
His eyes search yours, looking for any sign of the flight instinct that usually takes hold of you. But for the first time, you aren't looking for the exit. You’re looking at him.
"But why… why don't you want me to avoid you?" The words come out sounding more like a flicker of hope than a real question.
"Why do you need me to stay close, when everything I’ve done shows that I no longer see you as… a friend?" You shakily inhale, feeling the lump rise in your throat. And as the silent seconds follow, the tears in your eyes start to well. "Why Manjiro?"
That is his cue. He cuts the little distance left between you, fully invading your space. He reaches out, his thumb catching the first stray tear as he caresses your cheek before finally letting his forehead fall against yours.
"Why do you think, baby?"
Hearing that endearment directly from his lips is the final blow to the charade you have both been maintaining. It is a single word that dissolves years of careful distance, revealing the raw truth of what you truly feel for each other.
"I’ve been a fucking idiot for a long time, y/n" He pulls away to stare down at you, as if he is memorizing every inch of your face, as if it were the first time he has been given a chance to look at you this closely.
In his abyss-colored irises, you are the only one reflected, from before until now.
"If only I focused on what you were feeling rather than focusing on mine… I should have known earlier. I should have told you sooner. I should have loved you more sooner."
Your heart finally beats in a way that doesn’t tell you to run away; instead, it pulsates with elation, a damn neon sign that tells you: finally.
The kitchen, with its humming fridge and dim light, feels like the safest place in the world. Manjiro’s hands are steady on your face, his thumbs wiping away the salt of your tears, and for the first time in your life, you don't feel like you have to find an exit. You are exactly where you belong. In his arms.
"I’m sorry it took me this long."
You immediately shake your head in disagreement, reaching up to cup the handsome face that you love so much. He closes his eyes, basking in the warmth of your hands, and then he says,
"But I’m here now."
And then he kisses you.
A sharp gasp leaves your throat as his lips press firmly against yours. For a heartbeat, you stay frozen, the shock of the contact vibrating through your chest. But as he begins to slowly move his lips, the tension in your shoulders finally dissipates.
You close your eyes. Your hands slide from his cheeks to wrap around his neck and pull him closer. You arch your back slightly, closing every inch of the gap between you and begin to move your lips in sync with his.
Manjiro’s hands tighten on your waist, his grip firm and grounding as he pulls you flush against him. You let out a shaky breath into the kiss, finally surrendering to the heat of him.
When he pulls back, he opens his eyes to gaze at your face, feeling his heart rate quicken at the sight of your dazed expression. He bites his lower lip before leaning in once more to press a few soft pecks to your lips. Then whispers against your mouth.
"Let me stay with you tonight"
It doesn't sound like a request despite the rasp in his voice, but more like a certainty. Like something already decided. And you know —you've always known, that there isn't a version of yourself that would ever turn him away.
The way your fingers are already curled tightly into his shirt is answer enough. But he waits patiently and gives you the space to say it.
So you look up at him. You hold his gaze. And you breathe.
"Please."
Manjiro doesn't waste another second. His arms sweep under you, lifting you off the floor in one fluid motion, and he moves toward your room with a certainty that makes your breath catch. The same room that once witnessed everything you ever did with him only in your mind.
And as he lays you down and hovers above you, you realize, this is the same room, the same mattress, and the same sheets that once held only your longing and your guilt and your secret.
But this time, your fatal fantasies are finally and irrevocably about to be real.
You feel it snap. You watch it fade in real time — the invisible line that once connected you to a world you built in your head, the one where you could have him all to yourself.
You would still believe this was a lie, another trick of your mind, if not for the way Manjiro is currently stealing the very breath from your lungs. If he had given you even a few more seconds before leaning down to snatch the air from your lips, you might have basked in the sweet reality of it. You might have finally processed that this isn't just another vision playing against the back of your eyelids.
But Manjiro doesn't give you time to think. His actions echo his words: he has waited long enough.
You both have.
And so, he effectively destroys the final thread of your imagination by kissing you roughly, his tongue sliding deep to explore the heat of your mouth. He devours the sound of your gasp, his tongue tangling with yours in a messy, desperate rhythm.
There is no such thing as reverie anymore. Not when your fingers thread through his hair to tug him closer, eliminating the space between you until you can feel the heavy press of him against your skin. You open your legs wider, finally accommodating the body you once prayed would ride you instead of his motorcycles. You lock your ankles behind him, tethering him to you, making sure he cannot pull away even if he wanted to.
Settling perfectly between your legs, Manjiro doesn’t waste a second. He grinds his groin hard against you, the sudden pressure punching a sharp whine from your lips. It is a fleeting relief from the restriction of his pants, but a delicious ache to your already pulsating heat.
Driven by a sudden spike of impatience, you grind back against him. Manjiro lets out a low, guttural groan and instantly breaks the kiss. He lifts his head just enough to stare directly into your eyes, his gaze dark and blown wide with raw hunger.
He bites his already red and swollen lower lip, his gaze roaming over your face and your body, taking in how completely undone you look beneath him. His left hand moves from your hair to your face, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. You can’t help but let out a shaky sigh at the contact.
"Do you think everything you did in this room... everything you thought about... I can't make it happen?" His voice is raspy, quiet but tinted with confidence. It’s a challenge.
A shiver immediately runs down your spine as his gaze grows even darker. It is a telltale sign that he isn't going to hold back and whatever you imagined before, he is going to make the experience more and better.
Your hand shifts to caress his face, and he turns his head slightly to press a kiss into your palm. "Say it, y/n. I want to hear it from you."
"Make it happen, Jiro," you whisper, the words coming out breathless and desperate.
"Please, baby... do me."
He dives back into you, his mouth clashing against yours as if your air is the only thing keeping him alive. His left hand roams downward, sliding from your cheek to the curve of your neck before dropping to the swell of your chest. He catches you in a firm, desperate squeeze.
A sharp moan escapes your lips as Manjiro continues kneading your clothed breast, his palm heavy and insistent. His kisses shift from your lips to your cheek, trailing down the line of your jaw until he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He focuses his mouth there, his teeth grazing your skin as he marks you.
The temperature rises as Manjiro continues his ministrations, and you are helplessly responsive. You arch your back to meet his lower body, trying to grind against him again, but Manjiro pins you down with the full weight of his frame.
"J-Jiro..." you whine, the sound trapped between your teeth.
You feel Manjiro smile against your skin. He lifts his head to look at your face, stealing one more kiss before trailing his mouth down your chest. Even through the fabric of your clothes, the heat radiating between you is suffocating.
Manjiro’s hand slides beneath your shirt, his fingers roaming with practiced intent until he finds the lock of your bra. He unclasps it with a sharp click. Moving with a sudden surge of energy, he lifts himself up to pull both your shirt and bra over your head. Once you’re undressed, he goes silent, his gaze burning as he stares at your naked body.
The one who had haunted his dreams as well.
You have no time to be embarrassed, not when you feel the painful throbbing between your thighs. You are pulsating with a desire that only Manjiro can ease, and your body aches for him to finally focus his attention lower. But he isn't in a hurry; he is in a trance of his own, as if it would be a sin not to give every part of you the appreciation it deserves.
He starts with your breasts, massaging the weight of them as if he has done it a thousand times before. You arch your body further, offering yourself to him, and he crouches down to meet you. Manjiro sucks your left nipple, and you let out a sharp whimper at the sudden, wet heat of his tongue circling the tip. Your hands immediately fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands to pull him even closer, pinning him to your chest. His right hand finds your other breast, molding and squeezing the flesh at a pace that matches the rhythmic pull of his mouth.
"Jiro—ah!"
He gives your nipple an experimental tug with his teeth, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core before he shifts his attention to the right, giving it the same ruthless treatment. You keep squirming beneath him, but Manjiro doesn’t allow an inch of space between his mouth and your chest; he buries his face deeper, sucking and biting and licking at you as if he can’t get enough of the taste.
Manjiro finally lifts his head to look at you. You are breathless and damp with sweat from the ministrations he just performed. He licks his lower lip, taking in your completely fucked-out expression.
"Baby, you’re not getting exhausted on me, right? At least, not yet."
He smirks when you can’t find your voice to answer him. You can only whine as your hands reach for your own chest, massaging your skin right in front of him in a desperate attempt to ease the ache.
"Please, Jiro... please..."
Something raw and predatory settles in Manjiro’s eyes. The second your hands paw at his shirt, he’s already stripping it off, ripping the fabric over his head and throwing it to the floor. He doesn’t wait for you to ask about his pants, he rids himself of them in one fluid motion while his gaze never leaving yours. You follow suit, kicking off your shorts too.
Manjiro settles between your thighs again, leaning down for one brief, bruising kiss before he starts his descent. His hands stay busy, roaming and squeezing your curves as he moves. You brace yourself, your breath hitching as you watch him trail kisses down the valley of your breasts, over the sensitive skin of your stomach, and finally to the place where you need him most.
You’re still wearing your underwear, but Manjiro can already smell the sweet scent of your arousal. He doesn't waste another second. He presses his mouth directly against the fabric, sucking the sensitive nub of your clit through your panties. The initial contact sends a shock through you — your head falls back, eyes rolling as a ragged gasp escapes you.
"You have no idea what I would have given just to have you like this."
His words make your head spin, but he doesn't give you a moment to recover. Manjiro hooks his fingers into the edge of your underwear, pulling the lace aside to dive in. His tongue finally meets your wet, gushing pussy, tasting you for the very first time.
You swear you see lights flashing behind your eyelids as you throw your head back. You start babbling, the sounds of pleasure incoherent as you feel his tongue continuously swiping between your puffy lips. The sensation makes your toes curl and you close your legs unconsciously, but Manjiro doesn’t let you. He holds your thighs firmly, his grip bruising as he slots his head further between them. He forces you open, giving you no chance to hide from him as he continues his relentless assault.
The pleasure he’s giving you is becoming overwhelming, but he is nowhere near finished, not when he can feel you getting wetter and slicker against his tongue by the second. His eyes lift from your pussy to look at you and watches you squirm as you moan his name. He can’t help the surge of pride. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He knows he’s making you feel incredible, and he’s savoring every frantic move you make.
"Jiro—baby! Ah… nghh… please"
Manjiro pulls away just enough to slide a finger inside you. He bites his lower lip the moment he enters, his expression tightening when he feels your walls instantly clench around him. It gives you another sensation to scream about and if you thought you were the only one electrified by the pleasure, you were wrong. Manjiro is already humping against the mattress, a low groan vibrating in his throat as he finger fucks you while sucking your clit.
"Fuck… I could stay down here for hours," he rasps. He gives you a hard, demanding suck followed by a slow lick, all while his finger relentlessly pumps in and out of you. "Tastes like a fucking dream, if you ask me."
The pleasure is so overwhelming that you don’t know whether to hold on tight until you cum or push Manjiro’s head away because it’s simply too much. But you know yourself, that if you push him away now, you’ll definitely cry. You make a conscious decision to reach for Manjiro’s head, your fingers tangling in his hair to bury him deeper against you. You start to grind small, desperate circles against his mouth, forcing the stimulation even further.
Manjiro lets out a guttural sound against your skin. He continues to swipe his tongue against you until you scream the moment his finger hits that one particular spot. You start to shake, your entire body vibrating with the force of it.
"Ah—Jiro, yes... right there... r-right there—"
Manjiro doesn’t waver. He lets his finger hit that spot again and again, coaxing scream after scream from your throat until the shaking turns into a violent tremor. He knows you’re about to break. Your breath comes in shallow, ragged pants; your vision blurs and your toes curl so tight they feel like they might snap. Then, with one final, deep curl of his finger and an insistent swirl of his tongue, you scream.
Manjiro drinks you in through the spasming, holding you open until your body finally goes limp against the mattress. Once you’ve settled, he begins his slow ascent, kissing his way back up your body until he reaches your face. He peppers your face with soft, loving kisses, his hands now gentle as they stroke your hair.
Your eyes slowly flutter open to see him. Half of his face is drenched, and his jet-black tresses are messy, but his eyes have lost their predatory edge, replaced by a familiar, heavy softness.
"You tired now, baby?"
You push yourself up and kiss him, tasting yourself on his mouth. He kisses you back with the same intensity, only stopping when he feels your hand creep between his thighs. He raises an eyebrow at you as you start palming him through his boxers.
"Not yet. Not when you still have this to give me" you say, your voice raspy from all the screaming. You wouldn't mind letting out a few more cries if it meant Manjiro giving you this one last piece — the last thing he has to give to be fully and completely yours.
Manjiro removes his boxers immediately, his cock springing free from the confinement. He gives himself a slow stroke, staring down at you as you discard your panties and start playing with your pussy.
If Manjiro doesn’t have enough strength, the sight of you, so raw and so goddamn beautiful, might make his knees buckle. If you ever thought Manjiro’s best look was the one he wore after a race, you were wrong. He is the prettiest when he’s above you like this: strong, handsome, and unruly.
And if the world suddenly reverses and forces you to return to the moments where you had to hide and keep everything in, you’re willing to go through all of it again, as long as you’re promised to end exactly where you are now: underneath him, with only his eyes on you.
Bracing his weight on his forearms, he leans down to press his forehead against yours, and you instantly wrap your arms around his neck. He reaches down, his hands steady as he finds the place where you meet. With slow, unwavering pressure, he guides his length into you. You let out a sharp gasp as you feel the slow, heavy breach of the entrance, but neither of you looks away. Manjiro doesn’t rush, despite the heavenly sensation starting to cloud his mind. He wants to feel the pulsing, delicious clench of your walls as he ensures you feel every agonizingly slow inch while he slides deep inside.
You know that when he finally pours everything he has into you, he is in this for the long haul. No more fantasizing. No more imagining. No more looking from afar.
He is yours, from the beginning until however long you want him.
Manjiro kisses your forehead, your nose, and your lips. Against your mouth, he whispers the words that were once allowed only in your mind:
"I love you."
Then, he finally sinks himself fully inside you.
The roar of cheers erupts all over the circuit as the blurring streaks of motorcycles blast through the final lap. As much as you want to close your eyes and pray, the deafening noise is impossible to ignore, and this is not the time to miss the chance to see who reaches the checkered flag first.
The only thing you can do is clasp your hands tightly, your eyes glued to the large display screens that show the play-by-play. It shows that it isn't just one person pulling ahead; there are several frontrunners driving at the same punishing pace. Your heart thumps and nervousness rises when you catch a glimpse of the familiar red and black bike banking to increase its speed, trying to outdrive the motorcycles beside it. It’s the championship race, and everyone knows a win here is a step toward becoming undefeated — a chance to conquer the world.
But you’re not mostly worried about whether Manjiro wins this race, it’s the fact that he’s using critical techniques and pushing his bike to its absolute limit. The risk of an accident is what makes your stomach lodge in your throat.
You can’t help but pry your eyes away from the LED for a second, unable to handle the anxiety that eats at you. But that one second of missing the run is what makes the blonde girl beside you holler. Emma screams at the top of her lungs and starts jumping, pointing at the large screen.
"Mikey! Mikey!"
Your eyes immediately return to the screen to see Manjiro pushing ahead at a terrifying speed — a predatory surge that leaves the other motorcycles behind to eat his smoke. You and Emma face each other and scream in unison, your voices blending with the frantic spectators. Your nervousness instantly fades, replaced by pride as the commentators rain praise down on the crowd’s favorite.
"And look at the inside line! The red and black is screaming through turn four! Sano Manjiro isn't just riding, he’s hunting! He’s pulling away from the pack like they’re standing still — nobody can match that pace, and there it is! There it is!"
The crowd becomes a singular, deafening wave of sound when he crosses the line.
First.
The world seems to blur for a second, the roar of the engines replaced by the sound of your own jagged breathing as the reality sinks in.
"Undefeated! Untouchable! The king of the race track has reclaimed his throne! Sano Manjiro! What a performance!"
You and Emma exchange a tight embrace, both of you shedding tears from the overwhelming excitement. When you pull apart, you pause to watch the screen as Manjiro hops off his motorcycle. The crowd doesn’t falter, erupting further when the camera zooms in on his face. Your heart remains relentless as you watch Manjiro remove his helmet, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He turns the helmet in his hands, pressing a lingering kiss directly to the elegant, bold letters painted on the side before holding it high toward the sky. The camera follows the movement, focusing on the gear to reveal the painted letters Manjiro just kissed.
You cover your mouth in shock, eyes brimming with tears.
It’s your name.
In his helmet, like a victory charm to kiss and raise after a win, and for thousands of people to see.
You don’t have to turn to Emma to see her smiling wildly. You don’t have to hear the questions rising from the crowd, wondering who he dedicated this win to. You don’t even have to watch the screen to see Manjiro being lifted up, his hand still holding the helmet with your name on it high above the world.
You only need to listen to your heart as it screams one thing:
This is for my friend who genuinely thinks Rafayel would pass her up because she has freckles... i don't think she knows the power she holds. That purple haired man would nut on them, just sayin.
hi again i'm the Anon who asked if you take commisions only or requests as well. I love your writing style<3
Soo could you write about Batmom reader, where reader took care of bruce's children as her own. But then bruce gets a mistress, reader still stays becuz of the kids but when everyone started to become cold to her and insult her ' X (mistress) is better mom then you ever were' she leaves gonthem. Then everyone realises she (mistress) was just after their money. They go to batmom's room to apologize only to find it empty. They try to find her everywhere but couldn't. And finally when they do, reader rejects them since she was having the time of her life without responsibilty but gets kiddnapped by the batfam?
Honestly i wanted to commision but i'm flat broke and i'm too busy studying to work and on top of that i don't have my own phone (i use my dad's old laptop) soo yeah... I hope you consider this.
A/N: Loooove this request thank you for sending it in <3 fem reader yandere themes lmk if you want a part two
The (L/n)'s were a wealthy and prominent family in Gotham, right up there with the Wayne's when it came to power over the city, the two families were in business together which is why when Bruce Wayne personal attorney came to you with a marriage proposal, you weren't surprised.
A marriage of convenience. You thought you knew what this would entitle, you knew this wasn't out of love, that this was required of you, it had nothing to do with what you actually wanted, but you were dutiful and signed, inking your name on the paper felt like a deal with the devil.
Bruce hadn't bothered to officially meet you until the day of the wedding, it was beautiful and well done but lacking any form of love of affection, CEOs and other rich folk you didn't recognize filled the pews, the ring felt cold when he slipped it on, his vows perfectly rehearsed, and not an ounce of warmth in his eyes, you knew that night you should have annulled the marriage, but something made you hold on, something your mother had said to you as the makeup artist turned you into the visage of a bride.
"You'll learn to love each other, your father and I did after all." And she wasn't lying, your parents married for convenience as well but had grown to love one another, so maybe you could do the same?
A year after the nuptials Dick Grayson is thrust into your life. Haley's circus was famous in Gotham for its incredible death defying shows, but on this night death would walk the stage, taking with them Dick Grayson's parents in a horrible display, You and Bruce had consoled the boy for only a moment before Bruce was talking to the officers, he'd decided Dick was coming home with you, of course without asking your opinion, but it didn't matter, you felt such pity and grief for the boy, it made perfect sense to you, he was shut down for the first few months, he called you by your name and you had no problem with it, making it clear you never wanted to try and replace his mother, the ice between you two melted one day, one kind word at a time, he couldn't help but confide in you about school or his friends, because you were more emotionally there than Bruce was.
Like the night you caught him sneaking out, a packed bag in hand and the keys to one of Bruce's many cars in his hand. Instead of yelling for Bruce or Alfred you simply smiled at him, "you should take the audi, it's the safest car here."
"..You're not going to try and stop me?"
You shake your head no, still offering that kind smile.
"You know yourself best Dick, if you're unhappy here I won't stop you from finding your peace." He took a moment before tossing you the keys and reluctantly making his way back inside.
You find out about Batman because of Dick. He'd come home with some nasty bruises and it wouldn't take long to put two and two together. Them both being missing at the same time, Dick started to pull away from you, one night, after hours of trying to get to sleep in a bed much to big for one body, your legs decided a walk was necessary, the halls were dark and quiet, giving the manor an eerie air, quietly you walked the long hallways intending on stopping by the library, as you turned the corner you seen Dick in a hidden elevator, the doors just slamming shut as your eyes tried to register what was there. Seconds after the doors close a wall appears, as if nothing was ever there. It's not long after that you see a brief news clip of the caped crusader and his new sidekick, because the longer you stared at the screen, the more familiar they began to look, that dead tight lipped scowl on Batman's face, it was one you'd had the pleasure of looking at for the past few years.
That night you confronted Bruce, he seemed surprised you'd figured it out, but he didn't deny it. Simply saying, "It's late (Y/n), get some sleep."
You nearly divorced him then and there for endangering a child the way he was, but after a moment of thought, you realized Dick would need a real parent around so you stayed, making Bruce swear to be careful.
Jason comes next and he takes to you a lot faster than Dick. He craved the warmth you offered, you two had inside jokes and a closer relationship than him and Bruce, but that all changes the day he dies. You're broken, a ghost haunting the manor with your presence, and Bruce is no comfort throwing himself into the Batman role, you begin to hate him a little with this particular betrayal.
Tim was another hard egg to crack but you were desperate after Jason's death, so you took his verbal lashings with a smile, were always there to offer a helping hand with any of his projects despite the help never being accepted. Tims wound from losing his father is too raw, he takes a lot of his anger out on you. And you weathered the storm with a soft, warm smile.
Damian hated you, from the moment he arrives, which is bitter enough as is because it meant Bruce was unfaithful, he's spitting out insults and comparing you to his 'perfect' mother.
Things weren't great in your life, but one day they started getting noticably worse. Dick no longer responded to your check in texts, Jason (now reanimated which was a heart attack in and of itself) saw you as the enemy, you didn't leave Bruce after what happened to him, so in his eyes you betrayed him, Tim ignored your existence as best as he could, and Damian? He'd started staring at you with this smug look on his face, like he knew something you didn't.
Bruce had all but ran from you, he didn't sleep in your shared room anymore, he barely spoke to you at breakfast, if it wasn't for the cameras he wouldn't touch you.
And it's all because of a woman named Rachel.
Apparently Bruce had introduced this woman to the family, bringing her around when you weren't, slowly replacing you, it was no wonder they started to pull back.
Alfred is the only reason you find out, having enough of the blatant disrespect, he calls you to come home early one day saying it's a dire matter. Of course you comply, and walk in on a discomforting sight. The whole family was gathered at the dining room table, plus a woman you'd never seen before, she sat close to Bruce, toying with his hand intimately. Her green eyes lock with yours and the smile she gives you forms a pit in your stomach.
There's silence before Bruce stands up, he walks over calmly, "Can we take this in the other room." But it wasn't phrased as a question.
"No" you licked your lips, a nervous habit from your youth. Bruce seemed taken back by your sudden backbone. He nods silently.
"I want her gone Bruce. I am your wife. You will show me that semblance of respect."
"I- of course." You don't wait for the words to settle instead, you calmly walk to your room, face unreadable.
Locking the door behind you, your body slides against the frame, a silent sob wracks your frame, your hands covering your mouth, you wouldn't give them the satisfaction of hearing your cries.
The next morning you wake up to breakfast in bed, a generic yet elegant spread of food lay on a tray in the empty spot Bruce used to stay. The man himself sitting in the chair beside the bed, staring at you with that practiced smile he used to appease people.
"Good morning."
"What's this?" You sat up straight, sleep evaporating from your form as you took in the threat before you.
"An apology. I never meant for yesterday to happen."
"What a comfort that is." Your piercing (e/c) eyes stare at him blankly, unreadable. "How long."
"A year." You scoff pushing the breakfast away from you like it was poisonous. "But its not what you think, Rachel is a childhood friend, a year ago our relationship, evolved into what it is now, but I was never intending to go behind your back."
"Ah of course, your intentions were pure." The words dripped venom, grabbing your robe you quickly dress before standing and walking to the door, "Thank you for the wonderful talk Bruce, really your people skills are top notch." Your hands gesture to the door. He leaves without a word.
The rest of the day is as usual, Bruce avoids you like the plague, the rest of the family acted as if you weren't there. Which made leaving all too easy.
Your lawyers had the divorce papers ready and hour after you called them, signing them felt like the first act of self love you'd done in years. Slipping them into Bruce's study you took the time to analyze the room you never entered.
It matched Bruce that's for sure, pictures of every single person in the family. All except for you.
Walking out the door, wrapped in your ankle length black faux fur coat, the garment whipped in the wind, the designer sunglasses on your face hid your eyes from the world, hair in a slicked back bun, your heels echoed against the pavement, a sleek black car was waiting for you, you look back at the house that had caused you so much misery then got in the back of the car, never looking back.
Life goes on for about a week, your absence goes unnoticed, that is before Rachel is trying and failing to blackmail Bruce out of a billion dollars, she'd collected evidence he was cheating on you with her and presented it to Bruce with a grin, it was only as he went through the pictures of himself and Rachel, did he notice the yellow envelope with his name written on the front.
Hey puts the heartbreaking matter of Rachel's betrayal on the back burner, Bruce opened the envelope and felt his heart completely stop at the word divorce written in bold lettering across the top, your signature was already there, waiting for his to join it.
Ignoring Rachel completely now he turns in his chair, turning the paper over and over as if it would magically change. But it remained the same. Alfred knocking on the door of his study broke him from his trance. "Master Wayne, miss Rachel." He says the latter's name with no warmth. "Escort Rachel to her car Alfred."
"Bruce have you heard a word I've said? I'm serious I'll go to Gotham daily right now if you don't -"
"Now Alfred."
That was all it took for the screaming woman to be firmly escorted off the premises. Bruce all but ran to your room, he didn't bother knocking, and despite knowing in his heart you were already gone, he couldn't help but check anyway.
Your room was empty and cold, he couldn't believe the date he'd read on the divorce papers, it was dated a week ago, meaning you'd been gone for a week and he hadn't noticed. No one had.
That is until Bruce remembers there's someone in the house nothing gets by.
"How long have you known she was gone Alfred?" He asks leaning on his knuckles the divorce papers stared back at him taunting him. "Since the moment she left." The older man replied simply his hands behind his back. "Why didn't you tell me immediately?" Bruce felt himself tense, "Because you've hurt that woman enough Bruce. She deserves at least this." He gestures to the daunting divorce paperwork before turning to leave Bruce with his thoughts.
The news of Rachel's betrayal shook the manor each member feeling violated by their trust being broken. But it was nothing compared to their reaction once they finally realized you were gone.
"That was rough." Jason says after watching Rachel being dragged out of the manor, he blew air out of his cheeks arms crossed over his chest, he looked towards the hallway that lead to your room, you had to have heard that he thought to himself.
Dick sighs through his nose, "Someone should check on (y/n), Rachel was screaming so loud she definitely heard that." No one volunteers so Dick rolls his eyes and heads towards your room.
He lifts his hands to knock but noticed the door was open, pushing it further he's met with a baren room, his brow furrowed in confusion before he makes his way to Bruce's study. "Hey B, have you seen (y/n)? Her room is like weirdly empty."
Dick found his Father where Alfred left him, leaning over the divorce papers silently a storm in his eyes.
As he steps closer and reads the paperwork Bruce was staring so intently at, his heart stopped.
"Holy shit- are those real?"
"Yes." Bruce finally spoke his voice horse. There was a moment of silence before Dick left the room practically running down the stairs to alert the others.
"(Y/n) left Bruce." He said still processing the information, "No fuckin' way." Jason says pushing himself off the counter he leaned on. "Her room is empty and he has the papers, she's gone."
Each member of the family had different reactions to this information.
Dick tries calling you only to be met with a disconnected number, his heart hammering in his chest, he wasn't as close to you as when he was younger sure, but you were a constant in his life, always had been, a pillar of support, and suddenly you weren't. It felt like the floor had gotten pulled out from under him.
Jason curses under his breath, his mind working a mile a minute, he had barely spoken to you since his Resurrection, something he deeply regretted as the information of your leaving sinks in like a brick thrown into a river.
Tim, ever calculating is trying to figure out where you went, you were a figurehead in his life, someone that was literally never not there, sure he wasn't close to you in the slightest but that doesn't mean he wants anything to happen to you, someone as quiet and soft as you on your own in Gotham? It didn't sit well with him. Not one bit.
Damian didn't know what he was feeling at the news, he supposed he should feel nothing, after all you were nothing to him, but there was this nagging feeling in his chest that he couldn't quite place. And he hated it. How dare you leave and upset his fragile ecosystem?
Meanwhile in the Bahamas, far from Gotham and the neglectful family you'd left behind, you sat lounging on a private beach, a knitted hammock cradles your body, a designer baby pink bikini covers you, a matching sunhat protects your face from the hot sun, you can't wipe the smile from your face, humming a tune from your childhood you barely flinch when someone takes the seat besides your hammock.
"Do I want to know how you found me?" You ask, eyes still closed as you bask in the warmth. You knew only one person had the sources to find you on your own island, and despite how much you resent the man, even his presence can't ruin your shine in this moment.
"You're my wife (Y/n), I'll always know where you are." Bruce speaks softly as if trying not to startle you. "Former wife." You correct cracking an eye open, a small smirk curling on your lips.
"Not until I sign those papers- which I never will."
"huh, I thought you'd be thrilled." You muse to yourself before folding your tanning mirror and setting it aside, you take off your Louis Vuitton sunglasses, blinking your pretty (e/c) eyes up at him, "Figured you and your little Twinkie would have tied the knot by now." You laugh softly, the sound, unfamiliar to Bruce, sent warm shivers down his spine, it causes his lips to quirk up in a small grin.
"She's gone."
"Well, I don't care."
There's a beat of silence before he's offering you his hand. "Will you walk with me? I know I don't deserve it."
You sigh before getting up, ignoring his hand, you nod your head reluctantly, "Well? Hurry up I've got dinner at six."
His smile remains as he begins leading you along the shoreline. It's relatively quiet between you two as you walk side by side, a peace between you both you hadn't ever felt. "The manor isn't the same without you." He breaks the silence, "I sincerely doubt that." You laugh at the very notion. "It's true- it's colder, quieter, I want you to come home."
"That was never my home, you made that abundantly clear."
He winces as if your words cut him, "I know I haven't been a good man to you, I know I've failed you time and time again but I..I looked at those divorce papers and my heart stopped." He admits running a hand through his hair.
"You can't leave me."
"I can't?." You scoff, your movement halting, "I'm a grown woman- I'm taking responsibility for my own happiness, you can't stop me."
"I wasn't asking." He says softly, his hands in his pockets, he had this fond look on his face, like he was staring at you for the first time, in a whole new light. "You can't make me." You say, brows furrowed, "You belong back home, you're supposed to be with me, till death do us part, remember?" He steps forward making you step back, your eyes wide, hands shaking, you back into a wide chest, spinning to face Dick, who's grinning at you, he's in his Nightwing costume, he gives you a small wave of his hand, you scrunch your face in confusion, "What the hell-" your thought is cut off by a small pinch in your neck, the needle in Bruce's hand is empty in seconds, he's cradling your stumbling form, holding you tightly, "Don't worry - I'll fix this."
Your sleeping body is gently carried to the batplane, Bruce holding you close to his chest as Dick pilots the plane, he whispers promises into your hair, rocking you against him as he swears on his life to make things right, weather you liked it or not.
Hey I really like that Outlast Ren Hana fic. Now it got me wondering some things.
1.) How would the Prime Assets (including Ren) and our Regent friends react to Cuddles being a chubby cow beastkin?
2.) If you had to write a story like this again, what BTD or TPOF character would you write about next?
3.) Did the Murkoff guards kill our friends in the break out, after the breakout , or did Ren send someone?
4.) How would Ren feel if the bear keychain was from an anime?
Anyways have a good week and weekend. Jesus loves you!
Hi!! First of all, I am so glad you enjoyed. To answer you questions:
I think its canonical that Ren likes bigger partners or has a size kink (either with a partner bigger or smaller than him) so I think he would enjoy a chubby partner in general. In terms of another beastkin, I think it would be a plus for him especially in terms of them understanding his more animalistic needs. Also bonus points that cow beastkins are more docile, which Ren would like.
Ren is my main husband but I do have a soft spot for Lawrence or Derek. I think in terms of the outlast universe, Lawrence would be a more interesting choice.
So the files and our friends deaths are a reference to (spoiler for outlast trials), when you 'ascend' which is like an ending/new game plus, your character leaves the trials and is sent on real life missions that usually end up in them dying. So this was a reference to the many endings that you can get in outlast trials. So Ren didn't kill them (he wouldn't really have reason too since our MC is very much not leaving him regardless), he did genuinely want to give us peace of mind, so we wouldn't be left worrying.
I think Ren would find them especially cute! either way they would serve his main aim of being able to pinpoint our exact location anywhere in the facility with our scent on them. I do imagine he would have kept the keychain teddy regardless, it would be the type of thing he would cherish because it reminds him of us!
Rafayel leans back against the railing of his seaside studio, the faint scent of salt and paint clinging to him. He glances at you with that teasing half-smile, eyes glinting like he already knows you’re about to regret asking for a joke.
“Alright, cutie… you asked for it.” He clears his throat dramatically. “Why did the seagull fly over the sea instead of the bay?” He pauses just long enough to build suspense, watching your face.
“Because if it flew over the bay… it would be a bagel.” He lets the joke hang in the air for half a second, then snorts under his breath, clearly amused with himself. “…Wait, I’m not done.” He tilts his head, grin sharpening. “What did the crab say to the seagull after hearing that joke?”
“‘Claw-ful.’” Rafayel groans at his own punchline, dragging a hand down his face before peeking at you through his fingers.
The bag of chips sat open between you on the couch as you both watched TV. Xavier had been the one to open them. He’d also been the one, somewhere along the way, to start reaching in and holding chips out to you instead of letting you grab your own, and you hadn’t really questioned it.
The third time, you took it from his fingers with your mouth instead of your hand, easier that way. You were comfortable, you weren’t thinking about it.
He was.
Your lips closed around his fingers, and you pulled back slowly. The salt dissolved on your tongue in layers; a sharp first hit, then a deeper savory note underneath. The tip of his finger dragged against the flat of your tongue on the way out, then caught—just barely—on the soft curve of your bottom lip before you released him. You turned back to the TV. Completely unbothered, like you hadn’t just taken your time with it.
Xavier turned back to the TV.
His hand didn’t move for three full seconds.
When it did, it went slowly back into the bag, and came out with a smaller chip. He held it out the same way, same angle, and this time he didn’t look at the screen at all. He looked at you, at the way your mouth opened easily, the way your lips pressed soft over the salt-dusted edge of his fingertip. The slow drag of your tongue underneath—collecting every grain before you closed it and let go. Like it was nothing, like you always did this.
He faced forward. The movie kept playing, and he had genuinely no idea what was happening in it.
The next chip was even smaller—barely a fragment—and Xavier was already watching sideways when you took it. His eyes cut hard to your mouth the second his finger grazed your lip. He tracked the part of it, the soft seal, the way your tongue swept slowly along the underside of his fingertip, pressing up into the pad, before your lips drew back in one long, unhurried pull. He felt the warmth of your breath against his skin when you released him.
You didn’t even glance at him.
Something in his jaw pulled tight and stayed there.
He was fully watching you now. Not the screen. You. The line of his shoulders had gone very still, his whole posture recalibrating to you without him deciding to do it. His hand hovered, briefly, like it had forgotten where it was going.
You tipped the bag. Just crumbs.
“It’s empty,” you pointed out.
Xavier stared into it.
“I’ll get more,” his voice came out lower. He stood and was back in under two minutes. He sat down—closer than before, thigh flush against yours, arm almost touching—and without looking at you, reached into the new bag and held out the first chip.
Smaller than it needed to be. He’d checked before offering it.
His eyes were already on your mouth.
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
You had eaten two bites of his pie before you started making it a problem.
The first one he’d offered properly—fork, a clean slice, passed across the table without ceremony. You were the one who said it was sweet. He was the one who—while you were still chewing—picked up a small smear of strawberry frosting on his thumb and wiped it off without thinking.
“Can I try the other one?” you asked.
He glanced at the strawberry slice on the plate, then back at you. “You have your own.”
“I want to compare.”
He held your gaze for a moment, then cut a small piece with his fork and held it out to you.
You looked at the fork, then at his hand, then you leaned forward and closed your mouth around his fingers instead—lips sealing over the knuckle of his index finger, your tongue pressing flat and warm against the glaze before you drew back slowly. The syrup was thick and sweet. His skin underneath was cool, and you could feel the exact moment he went still when your tongue traced between his fingers, chasing the last of it.
The fork stayed in the air with the abandoned piece of pie.
“Really sweet,” you commented. “Can I try the other flavor?”
He set the fork down carefully, cut a piece of the blueberry, and this time, when he held it out, he didn’t reach as far, and when your lips parted around his fingers, you took your time with it. The tip of your tongue traced slowly along the underside of his index finger, dragging from the second knuckle to tip, catching every thread of syrup that had run down. You made sure you got all of it—a slow, purposeful sweep; the pad, then the very tip—before you drew back and let him go with the softest exhale of breath against his skin.
You heard the quiet way his breath adjusted behind his teeth before you pulled back. Like he’d been holding it without deciding to.
“Better,” you decided, straightening. “That one’s better.”
His eyes had gone somewhere darker behind the wire frames, fixed on your mouth with the still, complete focus he gave to things he was actively choosing not to react to. His hands rested flat on the table—the particular stillness of someone keeping themselves exactly in place. The muscle in his jaw ticked once.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.” He looked away. “You have syrup on your lip.”
“Where?”
He looked at your mouth, reached over, pressed his thumb to the corner of your lip, and wiped it clean in one slow pass—the pad of his thumb tracing the soft curve of it longer than necessary, and his eyes didn’t move from your mouth the entire time.
Then, like it was the most natural next step, he leaned in, and licked the syrup off his thumb without a word.
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
He’d been cooking for forty minutes and narrating for thirty-five of them—about timing, about heat, about how people who overcooked shrimp and people who didn’t understand ochre were probably the same people. A connection you couldn’t quite follow but didn’t interrupt.
He turned from the stove and held a shrimp out, sauce gleaming on his fingers—long and elegant, the kind of hands that belonged in paintings.
“Tell me what you think,” he said.
You leaned in and took the shrimp, and then, because the butter had run all the way down to his finger and it seemed a waste, you gently drew his hand toward you. Your lips parted over the base of his index finger, and you drew back—tongue pressing flat along the underside, tracing every ridge of his skin from base to tip. Salt, garlic, warm butter, the faint clean scent of him underneath all of it. You took your time. All the way to the tip, where you closed soft and let him go with the quietest sound.
You released his hand.
Rafayel’s eyes were wide. Pupils blown, mouth slightly open. Those pretty hands hovered in the air between you like he’d forgotten they were his. Like they were still feeling you.
“Hm,” you hummed in approval. “The seasoning’s good. The garlic isn’t—”
“Try another one.”
“I’m still talking—”
“Different piece.” He’d turned back to the stove, but his ears had gone pink, and his eyes were a little too bright when he glanced back. “The flavor isn’t consistent across the pan, it matters which one you try. You need a proper comparison.” He held another shrimp out, fingers extended toward you with patience, his eyes watching you expectantly.
You took it, and took your time with his fingers—lips sealing slowly around the very tip first, tongue sweeping the pad before you slid further down, taking the full length of his finger between your lips. You felt him go still. Your tongue moved along the underside—a long, dragging pull from base to tip, pressing into every ridge, tasting salt and butter and warm skin—before you released him with the softest sound, lips catching at the tip on the way off.
The pan handle creaked under his grip.
“One more.” He turned back to grab another shrimp.
“If you keep feeding me one at a time, I’ll finish everything before it’s served.”
“I’ll make more.”
“You’ll make more,” you repeated.
“However much more.” He held another piece out, the elegant line of his fingers extended toward you patiently, sauce catching the kitchen light. “This one’s different. It’s important that you try it.”
It wasn’t different. You wrapped your lips around his fingers anyway—a little slower this time, your tongue sweeping from the first knuckle all the way back, pressing up into the pad—and felt him go very still against the stove. His breath left him in one careful exhale through his nose. You pulled back slowly, letting him go gently.
He didn’t move for a moment.
“Well?” you asked.
He turned back to the pan, his free hand gripping the counter edge. “...Same as the last one,” his voice came out slightly unsteady. He was already reaching for another piece. “Which is interesting. Try this one.”
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
Five dressings. Lined up like a decision that mattered—which, to Sylus, it probably did.
“Choose.”
You pointed to the third. He dipped his index finger, brought it to his own mouth—tongue pressing flat against the pad and dragging clean to taste it.
“Good call,” he nodded.
“Wait.” You leaned forward and caught his wrist before he could reach for a dish. He paused—eyes dropping to your hand, then rising slow to your face.
“You already picked one.”
“I want to make sure.”
You raised his hand and drew his finger into your mouth. Your lips sealed around his skin—the same finger, still faintly sweet with the dressing, and him. You felt him watch you do it. Your tongue pressed along the underside, tracing the full length from third knuckle to tip, tasting the tanginess of the dressing and the salt of his skin underneath. All the way to the tip, where you closed your lips soft and pulled back, letting him feel every inch of the drag before you released him.
His eyes tracked to your mouth, and they stayed there.
“The second one,” you nod again. “I want to try that one, too.”
“Didn’t you already make your choice?”
“I want to compare.”
He said nothing. He dipped his middle finger into the second dressing and held it out—closer this time, making you reach for it. Your lips parted around the tip, sliding down slowly, your tongue flat and warm as you sealed around him. The dressing was sharper here, with a bite that made your tongue press in to find the edge of it—along the underside, then back up over the pad, tasting every note before you drew back in an unhurried pull. You felt his wrist go very slightly tense in your grip.
“Third,” you said.
He dipped his ring finger, and held it out.
You took that one, too—slower than the last, lips pressing soft at the base first, like you were settling in, before drawing up in one thorough sweep. Your tongue traced all the way back, pressing into the warmth of his skin, tasting the sweeter dressing and the particular heat of him underneath. A long pull from base to tip, lips dragging softly all the way to the end.
You released him. Looked up.
“Which one do you think is—”
He raised his index finger again with fresh dressing, and offered it toward you without a word—patient, dark-eyed, the ghost of something at the corner of his mouth that hadn’t decided yet whether to become a smile.
Waiting. Just to see if you’d take it.
And you did—lips parting around him, eyes up on his face this time, watching the way his expression shifted and held very, very still as your tongue pressed against his skin.
“Well,” he hummed.
This time, you waited.
“I think,” he set the bottle down without looking away from your mouth, “you’re not actually interested in the salad.”
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
It had been forty minutes. You had asked three times.
“Almost done,” was all he’d said, each time, with the kind of breezy confidence that meant he was absolutely aware of how much you were suffering, and had decided that was funny.
The steak looked incredible. The whole apartment smelled incredible. You’d watched him sear it, let it rest, and slice into it with an easy familiarity that made you want to commit at least three minor crimes. He cut a small piece to check it, pressed lightly on the surface, and nodded to himself.
“Can I have a bite?”
“Not yet.”
“Caleb—”
“We need to let it rest for five more minutes.”
“Just one bite.”
“Sit down.”
“I just want—”
“I know what you want, and the answer is five minutes—”
You grabbed his wrist.
He stopped.
His hand was right there—pan drippings across the fingers from basting, glossy and warm—and you held his gaze, making absolutely sure he was watching. Then you drew his index finger slowly into your mouth. Your lips sealed around the tip first, before you slid further down—tongue pressing flat against the underside, dragging back in one long, thorough pull. Salt, butter, the deep savory richness of the drippings soaking on his skin. You didn’t rush it. You pressed your tongue up into the pad of his finger, tracing the ridge all the way back to the tip, taking your time like you had all of it. His skin was slightly hot from holding the just finished steak. You could feel his pulse. You held for just a breath—before pulling back in one slow, soft drag, lips closing gently at the very tip on the way off.
You let his hand go.
Caleb was staring at you.
His eyes were wide and fixed on your mouth, pupils dark—and then something behind them simply stopped. Every coherent thought about cooking times, resting meat, plating, the rest of the ingredients—all of it evaporating in sequence, one after another, like dominoes, until there was just you. Just your mouth. Just what you’d done and the warmth still on his skin where your lips had been.
He didn’t move.
“Tender,” you commented. “You were right about the recipe.”
His mouth opened, closed, opened, and closed again. His eyes dropped to your mouth—the glossiness of your lips—like he was deciding whether what had just happened was real or whether he’d imagined it. He hadn’t imagined it. The warmth of your tongue was still there.
“The steak,” you pointed.
“Right.” He cleared his throat. It came out low and rough and nowhere near as steady as he’d aimed for. His gaze lingered on your mouth one second longer—shamelessly—before something shifted in his expression. He set the tongs down on the counter.
He didn’t turn back to the stove.
“You know what,” Caleb sighed, like a man defeated by something much larger than himself, “the steak can rest a little longer.”
you get a comment on tumblr. it's a bot trying to scam you. you get a DM. it's a bot trying to scam you. you get a message on instagram. its a bot trying to scam you. you're an author and you get an email telling you how much they loved your book and want to showcase it at their bookclub. it's a bot trying to scam you (and it uses bad AI to pretend it knows your story). you get a comment on ao3 saying how much they love your fic - and they made you fanart!! it's a bot trying to scam you. you get a hate comment on ao3 which insults your writing or calls you a monster for writing something "problematic". it's a bot. but at least that one isn't trying to scam you.
there's just something really cruel and insidious about this wave of scams going after creatives. You get an email and think someone genuinely loved what you made but - no. It's another scam. It's someone trying to trick you into sending them money. On AO3, it might literally just be a bot someone made specifically to be a hateful little shit.
putting the stuff you've made out there for everyone to see is hard and scary and we're all just bumping around looking for a bit of appreciation and love and connection and these bastards are using that to try to rob us. I hate it.
If this page suddenly goes silent one day, know that my brother Samer didn’t make it. I will never forget those who saw him suffering from severe bombing injuries, lacking his vital medications, yet chose silence and kept scrolling.
I feel completely shattered and deeply ashamed begging strangers for help every single day. This endless nightmare has stripped us of everything, forcing me to sacrifice even my own dignity just to keep my brother and my family alive.
I want nothing from this world except to see Samer healthy and free of pain, and to save my family from this slow death. Please donate so we can afford his essential psychiatric and medical treatments before it’s too late.
Friends, thank you so much for the massive support and these 15 recent donations!
While this high engagement gives us hope, we deeply wish to see more donations matching this incredible reach. Our lives and Samer's survival depend entirely on your financial help. Please keep this momentum going.
Thank you so much for the 12 additional donations! My family consists of 12 people. We have already lost my father and my brother to this war, and we cannot afford to lose Samer.
36 kind souls proved my family of 12 are humans, not just numbers. But 36 drops cannot fill an ocean of urgent medical bills. Samer’s life depends on the next hand that reaches out. Please don't just scroll past. Help us keep his heart beating.
I am possibly thinking about making a serial killer analog horror tape without any supernatural elements in it. It is based off the Poughkeepsie Tapes movie and it takes place in that universe and has some inspiration from The Painter by Urban Spook.
I am still coming up with the name of it and I would like some tips because I never made one before.
I especially would like some tips on how to write the disgusting parts like P3dophila without making it like I’m using it for shock value. My serial killer is a disgusting person and I would like to write their actions without coming across it wrong and making it seem like I’m only doing it for shock value.
Anyways Jesus loves y’all and I hope you guys have a great summer.
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Sneak peek of the killer (Made on PotatoLord’s Picrew)
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