#I started this version back in December

[vexedallay]

IM SCREAMING THIS TOOK SO LONG BUT ITS FINALLY DONE!!

The Worldport Crew, in all their (traumatized) glory!

[anishenanigans]

Artfight 2025 aevra ref sheet who cheered !!

version w/o cloak under the cut

[idontmindifuforgetme]

the guardian’s review title for nicki minaj’s pink friday 2 album was definitely a choice

[ravencromwell]

The poem evokes human greatness and human vulnerability. People are “godlike” in their courage and skill, but even the greatest mortals fall and clutch the dust between their bloody fingers. The beautiful word minunthadios , “short-lived,” is used of both Achilles and Hector, and applies to all of us. We die too soon, and there is no adequate recompense for the terrible, inevitable loss of life. Yet through poetry, the words, actions, and feelings of some long-ago brief lives may be remembered even three thousand years later.

--Emily Wilson's introduction to the Iliad

[yerimoonlight]

the vault songs were...impeccable

[agenthendersons]

taylor swift: do not bully j*hn m*yer

both taylor lautners:

[mioakem]

Back to December tv has me in actual tears

[ekingston]

SO HERE IS THE WHOLE STORY (SO FAR).

I am on my knees begging you to reblog this post and to stop reblogging the original ones I sent out yesterday. This is the complete account with all the most recent info; the other one is just sending people down senselessly panicked avenues that no longer lead anywhere.

IN SHORT

Cliff Weitzman, CEO of Speechify and (aspiring?) voice actor, used AI to scrape thousands of popular, finished works off AO3 to list them on his own for-profit website and in his attached app. He did this without getting any kind of permission from the authors of said work or informing AO3. Obviously.

When fandom at large was made aware of his theft and started pushing back, Weitzman issued a non-apology on the original social media posts—using 

his dyslexia; 

his intent to implement a tip-system for the plagiarized authors; and 

a sudden willingness to take down the work of every author who saw my original social media posts and emailed him individually with a ‘valid’ claim,

as reasons we should allow him to continue monetizing fanwork for his own financial gain.

When we less-than-kindly refused, he took down his ‘apologies’ as well as his website (allegedly—it’s possible that our complaints to his web host, the deluge of emails he received or the unanticipated traffic brought it down, since there wasn’t any sort of official statement made about it), and when it came back up several hours later, all of the work formerly listed in the fan fiction category was no longer there. 

THE TAKEAWAYS

1. Cliff Weitzman (aka Ofek Weitzman) is a scumbag with no qualms about taking fanwork without permission, feeding it to AI and monetizing it for his own financial gain; 

2. Fandom can really get things done when it wants to, and 

3. Our fanworks appear to be hidden, but they’re NOT DELETED from Weitzman’s servers, and independently published, original works are still listed without the authors' permission. We need to hold this man responsible for his theft, keep an eye on both his current and future endeavors, and take action immediately when he crosses the line again. 

THE TIMELINE, THE DETAILS, THE SCREENSHOTS (behind the cut)

Sunday night, December 22nd 2024, I noticed an influx in visitors to my fic You & Me & Holiday Wine. When I searched the title online, hoping to find out where they came from, a new listing popped up (third one down, no less):

This listing is still up today, by the way, though now when you follow the link to word-stream, it just brings you to the main site. (Also, to be clear, this was not the cause for the influx of traffic to my fic; word-stream did not link back to the original work anywhere.)

I followed the link to word-stream, where to my horror Y&M&HW was listed in its entirety—though, beyond the first half of the first chapter, behind a paywall—along with a link promising to take me—through an app downloadable on the Apple Store—to an AI-narrated audiobook version. When I searched word-stream itself for my ao3 handle I found both of my multi-chapter fics were listed this way:

Because the tags on my fics (which included genres* and characters, but never the original IPs**) weren’t working, I put ‘Kara Danvers’ into the search bar and discovered that many more supercorp fics (Supergirl TV fandom, Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor pairing) were listed.

I went looking online for any mention of word-stream and AI plagiarism (the covers—as well as the ridiculously inflated number of reviews and ratings—made it immediately obvious that AI fuckery was involved), but found almost nothing: only one single Reddit post had been made, and it received (at that time) only a handful of upvotes and no advice. 

I decided to make a tumblr post to bring the supercorp fandom up to speed about the theft. I draw as well as write for fandom and I’ve only ever had to deal with art theft—which has a clear set of steps to take depending on where said art was reposted—and I was at a loss regarding where to start in this situation.

After my post went up I remembered Project Copy Knight, which is worth commending for the work they’ve done to get fic stolen from AO3 taken down from monetized AI 'audiobook’ YouTube accounts. I reached out to @echoekhi, asking if they’d heard of this site and whether they could advise me on how to get our works taken down.

While waiting for a reply I looked into Copy Knight’s methods and decided to contact OTW’s legal department:

And then I went to bed.

By morning, tumblr friends @makicarn and @fazedlight as well as a very helpful tumblr anon had seen my post and done some very productive sleuthing:

@echoekhi had also gotten back to me, advising me, as expected, to contact the OTW. So I decided to sit tight until I got a response from them.

That response came only an hour or so later: 

Which was 100% understandable, but still disappointing—I doubted a handful of individual takedown requests would accomplish much, and I wasn’t eager to share my given name and personal information with Cliff Weitzman himself, which is unavoidable if you want to file a DMCA.

I decided to take it to Reddit, hoping it would gain traction in the wider fanfic community, considering so many fandoms were affected. My Reddit posts (with the updates at the bottom as they were emerging) can be found here and here.

A helpful Reddit user posted a guide on how users could go about filing a DMCA against word-stream here (to wobbly-at-best results)

A different helpful Reddit user signed up to access insight into word-streams pricing. Comment is here.

Smells unbelievably scammy, right? In addition to those audacious prices—though in all fairness any amount of money would be audacious considering every work listed is accessible elsewhere for free—my dyscalculia is screaming silently at the sight of that completely unnecessary amount of intentionally obscured numbers.

Speaking of which! As soon as the post on r/AO3—and, as a result, my original tumblr post—began taking off properly, sometime around 1 pm, jumpscare! A notification that a tumblr account named @cliffweitzman had commented on my post, and I got a bit mad about the gist of his message :

Fortunately he caught plenty of flack in the comments from other users (truly you should check out the comment section, it is extremely gratifying and people are making tremendously good points), in response to which, of course, he first tried to both reiterate and renegotiate his point in a second, longer comment (which I didn’t screenshot in time so I’m sorry for the crappy notification email formatting):

which he then proceeded to also post to Reddit (this is another Reddit user’s screenshot, I didn’t see it at all, the notifications were moving too fast for me to follow by then)

... where he got a roughly equal amount of righteously furious replies. (Check downthread, they're still there, all the way at the bottom.)

After which Cliff went ahead & deleted his messages altogether. 

It’s not entirely clear whether his account was suspended by Reddit soon after or whether he deleted it himself, but considering his tumblr account is still intact, I assume it’s the former. He made a handful of sock puppet accounts to play around with for a while, both on Reddit and Tumblr, only one of which I have a screenshot of, but since they all say roughly the same thing, you’re not missing much:

And then word-stream started throwing a DNS error.

That lasted for a good number of hours, which was unfortunately right around the time that a lot of authors first heard about the situation and started asking me individually how to find out whether their work was stolen too. I do not have that information and I am unclear on the perimeters Weitzman set for his AI scraper, so this is all conjecture: it LOOKS like the fics that were lifted had three things in common:

They were completed works;

They had over several thousand kudos on AO3; and

They were written by authors who had actively posted or updated work over the past year.

If anyone knows more about these perimeters or has info that counters my observation, please let me know!

I finally thought to check/alert evil Twitter during this time, and found out that the news was doing the rounds there already. I made a quick thread summarizing everything that had happened just in case. You can find it here.

I went to Bluesky too, where fandom was doing all the heavy lifting for me already, so I just reskeeted, as you do, and carried on.

Sometime in the very early evening, word-stream went back up—but the fan fiction category was nowhere to be seen. Tentative joy and celebration!***

That’s when several users—the ones who had signed up for accounts to gain intel and had accessed their own fics that way—reported that their work could still be accessed through their history. Relevant Reddit post here.

Sooo—

We’re obviously not done. The fanwork that was stolen by Weitzman may be inaccessible through his website right now, but they aren’t actually gone. And the fact that Weitzman wasn’t willing to get rid of them altogether means he still has plans for them. 

This was my final edit on my Reddit post before turning off notifications, and it's pretty much where my head will be at for at least the foreseeable future:

Please feel free to add info in the comments, make your own posts, take whatever action you want to take to protect your work. I only beg you—seriously, I’m on my knees here—to not give up like I saw a handful of people express the urge to do. Keep sharing your creative work and remain vigilant and stay active to make sure we can continue to do so freely. Visit your favorite fics, and the ones you’ve kept in your ‘marked for later’ lists but never made time to read, and leave kudos, leave comments, support your fandom creatives, celebrate podficcers and support AO3. We created this place and it’s our responsibility to keep it alive and thriving for as long as we possibly can.

Also FUCK generative AI. It has NO place in fandom spaces.

THE 'SMALL' PRINT (some of it in all caps):

*Weitzman knew what he was doing and can NOT claim ignorance. One, it’s pretty basic kindergarten stuff that you don’t steal some other kid’s art project and present it as your own only to act surprised when they protest and then tell the victim that they should have told you sooner that they didn’t want their project stolen. And two, he was very careful never to list the IPs these fanworks were based on, so it’s clear he was at least familiar enough with the legalities to not get himself in hot water with corporate lawyers. Fucking over fans, though, he figured he could get away with that. 

**A note about the AI that Weitzman used to steal our work: it’s even greasier than it looks at first glance. It’s not just the method he used to lift works off AO3 and then regurgitate onto his own website and app. Looking beyond the untold horrors of his AI-generated cover ‘art’, in many cases these covers attempt to depict something from the fics in question that can’t be gleaned from their summaries alone. In addition, my fics (and I assume the others, as well) were listed with generated genres; tags that did not appear anywhere in or on my fic on AO3 and were sometimes scarily accurate and sometimes way off the mark. I remember You & Me & Holiday Wine had ‘found family’ (100% correct, but not tagged by me as such) and I believe The Shape of Soup was listed as, among others, ‘enemies to friends to lovers’ and ‘love triangle’ (both wildly inaccurate). Even worse, not all the fic listed (as authors on Reddit pointed out) came with their original summaries at all. Often the entire summary was AI-generated. All of these things make it very clear that it was an all-encompassing scrape—not only were our fics stolen, they were also fed word-for-word into the AI Weitzman used and then analyzed to suit Weitzman’s needs. This means our work was literally fed to this AI to basically do with whatever its other users want, including (one assumes) text generation. 

***Fan fiction appears to have been made (largely) inaccessible on word-stream at this time, but I’m hearing from several authors that their original, independently published work, which is listed at places like Kindle Unlimited, DOES still appear in word-stream’s search engine. This obviously hurts writers, especially independent ones, who depend on these works for income and, as a rule, don’t have a huge budget or a legal team with oceans of time to fight these battles for them. If you consider yourself an author in the broader sense, beyond merely existing online as a fandom author, beyond concerns that your own work is immediately at risk, DO NOT STOP MAKING NOISE ABOUT THIS.

PLEASE check my later versions of this post via my main page to make sure you have the latest version of this post before you reblog. All the information I’ve been able to gather is in my reblogs below, and it's frustrating to see the old version getting passed around, sending people on wild goose chases.

Thank you all so much!

[hobisexually]

x

[imfromsixam]

My Dream Teen Sleepover (CC Pack for The Sims 4)

It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to dive back into creating something special for teens, but I’m thrilled to share that the wait is over! I’m excited to introduce you to the My Dream Teen Sleepover CC Pack, designed to bring the ultimate sleepover experience to your Sims' lives.

This pack is all about capturing the fun and cozy essence of hanging out with friends. Whether it's playing a spin the bottle game (decorative), indulging in makeup or skincare routines, or gossiping about high school, this pack has everything your Sims need to create unforgettable sleepover memories.

Enhance your sleepover scenes with this CC pack that includes 26 items. You’ll find a new vanity with a classic movie star look, plus comfort items like a bed, chair stool, and a sleep mat. For décor, enjoy posters, face sheets, magazines, flower and heart pillows, a polaroid camera, polaroids, a polaroid wall hanger, a skincare kit, a smartphone stand, a spin-the-bottle game, and a wavy mirror.

Don’t forget the electronics with a speaker and three versions of string lights for perfect ambiance. Store your essentials in a dresser and keep surfaces stylish with a night table and tulip night table.

Also, I've always wanted to have floor cushions where my Sims could sit, and thanks to Growing Together, I've been able to use the sleepbag functionality to create them.

Ready to turn your Sims' sleepovers into the ultimate teen hangout? Get Early Access to My Dream Teen Sleepover CC Pack now and start the fun!

Don’t forget to share your sleepover scenes and tag me—I can’t wait to see how your Sims enjoy their dream sleepovers!

About this CC Pack

This CC PACK includes 26 items

Activities: Vanity (Requires Glamorous Vintage SP), Face Sheets (Requires Spa Day GP)

Comfort: Bed, Chair Stool, Flower and Heart Floor Cushion (Requires Growing Together EP), Sleep Mat (Requires Growing Together EP)

Decorative: Posters, Face Sheets, Magazines, Flower and Heart Pillows, Polaroid Camera, Polaroids, Polaroids Wall Hanger, Skincare Kit, Smartphone Stand, Spin Bottle Game, Wavy Mirror

Electronics: Stereo/Speaker

Lighting: String Lights (3 versions)

Storage: Dresser

Surface: Night Table, Tulip Night Table

▶ ACCESS INFO

Public access: December 2

GET EARLY ACCESS HERE

[bemusedlybespectacled]

what's happening with James Somerton right now: a probably-incomplete primer

TW: suicide, including suicide as a threat and a manipulation tactic.

The short version:

James Somerton is a former Youtube essayist who focused entirely on queer history, queer media criticism, and queer issues in general. He is also a flagrant grifter who has made tens of thousands of dollars via fraud, both directly (lying about his finances to beg for money and getting donations for films he never even started making) and indirectly (stealing whole essays and articles and books, reading them out loud verbatim for his videos without indicating they were anything other than his own work, and then using the prestige he gained from using their work to get Patrons and sponsorships).

The story as told James and James apologists was that James attempted to apologize twice, was hounded mercilessly on the internet for weeks, and then, driven to the end of his rope, he posted a suicide note on Twitter, was MIA for several days, and from then on has been avoiding the internet.

The actual story, as revealed yesterday, was that James used two sockpuppet accounts to defend himself and parrot his talking points (again, while publicly claiming to be trying to take responsibility for his actions), using one to try to rebrand the con under a different name and another to deliberately stoke the panic caused by his suicide note. He was not only aware of the pain and anxiety he was causing people, but he encouraged it on one alt while hornyposting about his favorite movies on the other.

He is an unrepentant con artist who successfully used a suicide threat to prevent further interference with future cons. The only reason he was caught is because he is apparently incapable of going more than a couple of weeks without trying to get back in the internet spotlight, allowing people to tie his alts back to him. He lies for fun and profit and he should not be taken seriously, ever.

The long version:

In December 2023, Youtube essayist Hbomberguy (Harry Brewis) put out a four-hour-long video about plagiarism on the internet, and devoted two hours to addressing as much of JS's plagiarism as he could. I strongly recommend watching the entire thing, as the first two hours build on the concepts that he uses later in the video.

He also blew the whistle on James' fraud surrounding Telos, a studio James founded using thousands of dollars of IndieGoGo money that never actually produced any films despite him definitely working on them! Any day now they'll be released! Don't you worry!

A day later, Todd in the Shadows, a guy whose entire thing is music reviews, posted his own video debunking multiple outright lies that James had told about history, especially queer history. A few more days later, The Ace Couple, who run a podcast about asexuality, released an episode detailing how they'd lost $1.5k donating to Telos.

I have put the videos, Twitter threads, Patreon posts, and Reddit posts by other people discussing different aspects of James' fraud under the cut.

Every other time James was caught plagiarizing, prior to Harry's video, he would lie about it. Either he'd have some excuse (easily proven to be a lie) or he'd retreat to his favorite deflection: "I'm just being harassed because I'm gay."

This last lie was one he'd use not only to deflect accusations of plagiarism, but all criticism in general, no matter how trivial. Every time, the critic or someone associated with them would somehow dox him, or harass him, or send him death threats, or threaten to falsely accuse him of sexual assault.

This happened to The Ace Couple (who'd tried to correct him on something extremely acephobic in one of his videos), Jessie Gender (who'd tried to correct him when he claimed that there were no queer content creators on Nebula, given that she and a bunch of other queer creators were definitely on that platform), and the person who first blew the whistle on him stealing from Tinker Belles and Evil Queens by Sean Griffin (who was accused of being behind death threats he'd received, and hounded so harshly they had to leave Twitter).

It is important to note that every time James faced potentially damaging criticism, or even just a threat to his ego, suddenly he would claim to be harassed by people connected to the critic, including threats to his life. There has never been any proof of any threats being directed at him, nor evidence that, if the threats were real, that they are actually from people connected to the critic.

In the original video by Hbomberguy, Harry makes a compelling argument that James brought on a friend of his, Nick, as a co-writer specifically as a shield against accusations of plagiarism. "How dare you accuse me of plagiarism! Nick would NEVER do that!" This is even more apparent given subsequent developments which I will get into.

When evidence started dropping about different aspects of his fraud (not only Harry's video, but Todd in the Shadows' video debunking his misinfo, The Ace Couple's podcast about their experience donating to his fraudulent film studio, and Dan Olson's tweet thread about James' obvious lies about his finances), he went into hiding for two weeks, and then put out the first of two apologies. He then deleted that one and put out another one a few weeks later. And then he immediately deleted that one.

While his first apology was rambling, vague, and dramatic (lots of sniffing/crying), and his second was more measured, thought-out, and totally batshit (lots of hilariously and bizarrely implausible excuses for why he'd done what he'd done), they had roughly the same points:

Not ALL of his stuff was plagiarized! Actually, a lot of it wasn't! No specifics as to what, though!

Most of the stuff that was plagiarized was just a failure to properly cite sources, as he had no idea that putting someone's name in your end credits or video description (without specifying what parts are attributable to that person or disclosing that you are using their words verbatim) is not sufficient credit,

Also, he totally had permission, in some cases, to use their work verbatim prior to publishing the video (this is not true, and is disproven both in Harry's video and his own screenshots);

He definitely didn't commit fraud with Telos and would soon have a good explanation for where the money went! (he did not)

He was going to keep the videos up so that he could either donate the funds from any monetization to the fund Harry had set up for his victims or to "help Nick's portfolio" by showcasing his work;

He lost his best friend (i.e. Nick) over these allegations, who absolutely definitely wasn't a scapegoat, except Nick was also responsible for a lot of the stuff James was being criticized for;

He was going to keep the videos up so he could either donate the advertising proceeds to Harry's fund for his victims (first apology) or to "help Nick's portfolio" by showcasing the work he'd done; and

As a result of this entire ordeal, he had attempted either self-harm or suicide (he merely alluded to "doing something stupid").

Again, his response was to 1) downplay the severity of his actions or flat out ignore allegations against him, 2) come up with ridiculous excuses for his behavior, 3) throw Nick under the bus, and 4) claim to be in mortal danger. As far as I am aware, he has never taken any concrete action to make amends to any person, not even donating money to charity.

This was coupled with some kind of attempt to profit: monetizing his apology videos, closing and then reopening his Patreon right before the monthly charge cycle happened (totally to let people unfollow him, not at all as a grab for that money), creating a new Patreon under a different name, and changing his Twitter and Youtube handles to distance himself from the controversy while gathering new followers.

At one point (I forget if this was on Twitter or Instagram), he also said that someone had broken into his apartment due to the notoriety he'd received from Harry's video. I believe that was after his first apology, when people started to point out that he'd just changed the name of his Twitter and Youtube channel and had restarted a new Patreon under a pseudonym. (BTW, the pseudonym he used for his new Patreon was "The Gay Raconteur"; this will be important later).

It had what I think was the desired effect: any attempt at pointing out that he was rebranding his grift now came across as weirdly fixated on minor things he was doing, which certainly wasn't worth putting him in physical danger. (Again, he has never provided any proof of this happening, nor provided any evidence that these people allegedly threatening him were, in fact, in some way inspired by Hbomb).

So along comes March 5, 2024, and James posts a suicide note on his Twitter, saying that he is going to set up his videos to automatically publish (for Nick's portfolio), provide in some way for the ad revenue to go to a suicide prevention nonprofit, and then kill himself.

The immediate response from the internet was compassion and totally chilling any further criticism, since you might be callously criticizing a dead person. Harry and Kat worked for a couple of days to get a wellness check for him while a substantial section of the internet called them murderers.

On March 6, a day after the note was published, Nick tweeted that that he had cause to believe James was fine. Kat confirmed that James was safe on March 11. Due to the drama of the "suicide attempt," however, the chill on criticizing James stayed in place for months.

And then yesterday Lady Emily, one of the cowriters for Sarah Z., drops two more bombs:

James has not one but two alt accounts that he was using to rebrand and start over.

The first one was created between his first and second apologies, and originally was for "The Gay Raconteur" until he changed it to "Will"/"thatgayyouknow" and, later, "The Achillean Boy."

The second one was much older, under the pseudonym "Mikey JB," and used stolen pictures from Grindr instead of his own face. However, it is pretty obvious that it is, in fact, a sockpuppet account and not just some other person who happens to like James, as detailed below.

Both accounts, both between apologies and after his "suicide," talked about how criticism of James was unfair because the plagiarized stuff was "like a decade old" and repeating the same excuses that James had also made.

The "Mikey JB" account not only supported James, but actively threw Nick under the bus, saying that a criticized part of a video "reeks of his co-writer."

On March 6, the day after James' main Twitter posted the suicide note, The Achillean Boy account was hornyposting about Ryan Phillipe. James didn't even take a day or two off of Twitter. If he had been completely off Twitter for a couple of days, that could have been an indication that he really had hurt himself and was unable to access his phone, or at the very least unaware of the panic. But he wasn't. He was aware of it and did nothing. Actually, no! Worse than nothing!

On the same day (March 6), the Mikey JB account was actively contradicting Nick saying he was okay (they "haven't spoken in months" so there's no way Nick could know if he was alive) and saying that "people like you" i.e. his critics, "drove him to it." Not only did he ignore the panic he'd intentionally created, he actively drove it.

He saw people going emotionally through the wringer over the idea that they might have somehow caused his death, and intentionally made them keep thinking it. He say people calling his critics "murderers" for "driving him to his death," and he joined in.

Why am I explaining all of this? I want to make a couple of things extremely clear, and the context is necessary to my ultimate points, namely:

James Somerton didn't merely "credit people improperly;" he conned his followers out of more money than some people make in a year with the Telos con, while raking in thousands more per month on Patreon and buying expensive equipment, while claiming to be near insolvency and in desperate need of money.

James Somerton has never taken full responsibility for his actions or attempted to make amends. He has only ever tried to dodge responsibility, particularly by throwing Nick under the bus.

Every time he has ever been criticized, for any reason, he has lied about threats to his life to gain sympathy and quell criticism. This is a standard part of his MO. He has done this over and over and over again. At this point, I think if he says the sky is blue, someone should go out and check first before doing anything.

"But BB, what if he really is getting harassed/threatened or really is suicidal?"

So, okay: people who are attempting to manipulate you may use legitimate problems as a tool. It doesn't need to be fake to be effective - in fact, it might be more effective if it it's true. An abusive ex who says "if you leave me, I'll kill myself" and genuinely means it and actually attempts it (and possibly even succeeds!) is a lot harder to leave than someone who says the same thing but is clearly just bluffing, because the threat is real.

My rule of thumb in these cases is to treat the threat like it's real, without caving to the intended manipulation. Whether your ex is lying or telling the truth when they say, "I'll kill myself if you leave me," the appropriate response in both cases is to immediately call a mental health service or supportive family member. If it's fake, it's inconvenient for them; if it's real, you reacted appropriately. Your response needs to be the same regardless.

You don't get back together with them because it's a real threat (presumably you wouldn't do that if you knew it was fake and they were never in any danger), and you don't tell them that they're a piece of shit who should be dead (HOPEFULLY you wouldn't do that if you knew for a fact that they were telling the truth).

In this case, I am extremely confident in saying that he was coldbloodedly lying the entire time and was never once threatened, and certainly not to the degree he claimed to be. But even if he wasn't, that does not and should not change anyone's behavior in terms of holding him accountable.

And I mean actually holding him accountable: making sure he doesn't try to start a new con on new people, continuing to point out that he hasn't paid anyone back for his previous con (so long as it's still true), that sort of thing. It doesn't mean people should tell him he should go die for real or, I don't know, try to get him fired if he gets a job at Tim Horton's or Target or something else that's not fraud. That would be wrong regardless of whether he's actually in danger or not. The point is to avoid being cruel without negotiating with terrorists.

Video sources and links under the cut:

Links:

It's like Breaking Bad, but backwards: a brief history of how Somerton successfully screwed himself Dan Olson's Twitter thread about the financial fraud My Year With James: Todd's post explaining the backstory of his video (Patreon-locked) DJSO#: Dan Olson's breakdown of James' second apology (Patreon-locked) Lady Emily's Twitter threads revealing James' alt accounts, part 1 and part 2

[achorusofnonsense]

The Pre-Timeline of Dimension 20

Just because I've seen a lot of confusion about this following the release of The Roll of a Lifetime: How Dimension 20 Sold Out Madison Square Garden, in which the story of how Dimension 20 got started is edited in such a way that viewers come away with an odd impression about the timeline, I thought I'd put together as clear and annotated a timeline as I can of how and when the Intrepid Heroes met, got into D&D, and got cast in Dimension 20, plus some of the greater context they were operating in. All of this is publicly available information, gleaned mostly from years of interviews, Adventuring Parties, NADDPod Short Rests, and social media posts.

1998: Noted science-fiction author Elaine Lee signs her ten-year-old son Brennan up for a Dungeons & Dragons game at October Country, a local comics and gaming shop, in order to provide him with a social and creative outlet after having to start homeschooling him due to pervasive bullying at school. Within weeks, he begins running his own games for fellow children.

December 1999: CollegeHumor.com launches, posting user-submitted funny and/or titillating content from around the web. Within a few years, banner ad revenue and merch sales have made its founders young tech millionaires. By 2004 they are hiring writers to produce original content.

August 2006: CollegeHumor is acquired by InterActive Corp. Shortly thereafter, Sam Reich is hired to produce video content on the strength of videos he'd posted online of his improv team Dutch West.

April 2007: CollegeHumor staff writers Jake Hurwitz and Amir Blumenfeld begin posting videos of themselves performing absurdist sketches in their downtime at work; this inspires the long-running Hardly Working series, in which CollegeHumor staff appear as heightened versions of themselves in the office.

2008: Brian Murphy is hired to answer phones at the CollegeHumor offices. He soon begins writing for the website and appearing in videos, striking up a nerdy friendship with staff artist Caldwell Tanner.

2011: Emily Axford is hired by CollegeHumor as part of a wave of new talent as the original CollegeHumor cast moves on to bigger opportunities. She and Murph are memorably cast as romantic interests in Jake & Amir videos; some time later, they begin dating.

Early 2014: CollegeHumor's video team relocates to Los Angeles in order to establish themselves as a traditional TV production house, including shows like Adam Ruins Everything and the Jake and Amir series Lonely and Horny. Murph and Emily are among the cast who make the move. They marry in September and begin developing the TV sketch show Hot Date.

Early 2015: Siobhan Thompson, Zac Oyama, and Grant O'Brien are hired to write and act in sketches for CollegeHumor as cast turnover continues. Emily and Siobhan become close friends, and Zac bonds with Murph and Emily over anime.

August 2015: Jake and Amir, having quit CollegeHumor earlier that year, start the podcast network Headgum, whose initial slate of podcasts is shows by other CollegeHumor alums.

November 2015: Brennan Lee Mulligan wins $50,000 on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, pays back a loan for medical expenses, and begins the process of relocating to Los Angeles to pursue more opportunities in production and development.

July 2016: Siobhan throws herself a birthday party, inviting people she knows from doing comedy in New York and Los Angeles. At the party, Emily overhears Brennan talking about D&D and corners him to ask him to run a game for her and her friends. During the conversation, Zac turns around, asking what they're talking about, and gets invited too. Siobhan, Zac, Emily, Murph, and Adam Ruins Everything producers Jon Wolf and Travis Helwig start playing in a home game with Brennan DMing. Murph plays a paladin, Emily a druid, Siobhan a ranger, and Zac a monk.

Around the same time: Lou Wilson meets Brennan through Upright Citizens Brigade (where Brennan coaches improv) and begins playing in a different home game as a barbarian. Both of these games are played in 3.5, Brennan's preferred edition of Dungeons & Dragons at the time.

September 2016: Murph, Emily and Caldwell start 8 Bit Book Club, a podcast about video game adaptations, on the Headgum network.

April 2017: Ally Beardsley is hired (along with Raphael Chestang and Rekha Shankar) to join the CollegeHumor sketch-video cast, as Siobhan has left to pursue other opportunities and Murph and Emily are busy with Adam Ruins Everything and Hot Date. During this round of hiring, Brennan is considered but doesn't make the cut, although a few months later he is hired part-time to write questions for Um, Actually. Ally and Zac become close friends and perform improv together.

Summer 2017: Zac leaves CollegeHumor to write on a new season of Adam Ruins Everything. Rather than go through another round of auditions and hires, Sam bumps Brennan up to main cast.

Fall 2017: Wanting more of a return out of their investment, IAC insists on CollegeHumor starting its own streaming service. Existing staff are required to pitch original shows. Brennan is halfway through writing a pitch document for a TTRPG actual play, citing the success of The Adventure Zone and Critical Role, when he is called into a meeting and asked how he would feel about DMing an actual play.

October 2017: Brian Murphy guests on If I Were You, Jake and Amir's flagship podcast, and explains Dungeons & Dragons. Jake is intrigued, Amir not so much.

November 2017: Dimension 20 begins the planning stages. For the next three months, Brennan works with producer David Kerns, coordinator Ebony Hardin, director Michael Schaubach and designer Rick Perry to develop a unique set, feel, and pace for the show. After some chemistry test games, the initial cast is set as Brian Murphy, Emily Axford, Siobhan Thompson, Zac Oyama, Lou Wilson, and Rekha Shankar, who has never played before.

December 2017: At a Headgum Christmas party, Jake Hurwitz corners Murph and suggests that they start a D&D podcast so that Jake can play.

January 18, 2018: Murph, Emily, Caldwell and Jake announce Not Another D&D Podcast on an episode of 8 Bit Book Club.

February 7, 2018: The first shooting day of Fantasy High, which will be the first season of Dimension 20. Only a few weeks before shooting, Rekha has a scheduling conflict and can't fit Dimension 20 in between her duties as head writer of CollegeHumor's sketches and developing other shows for Dropout; Ally Beardsley becomes her replacement at the Dimension 20 table. It is Ally's first time playing D&D at all; it is Brennan, Zac, Siobhan, and Lou's first time playing 5th edition. Earlier that day, Brennan shoots the first CEO video, which will net him viral notoriety and a vocal fanbase within the CollegeHumor audience, with an undercurrent of "finally, a straight white man" to the praise.

February 8, 2018: The first campaign episode of Not Another D&D Podcast is released. It releases weekly thereafter, and they are 32 episodes in and have done their first live show before Dimension 20 premieres.

September 26, 2018: The first two episodes of Fantasy High are available when Dropout goes live. It is the immediate breakout hit of the platform, so much so that the second season, The Unsleeping City, goes into production while Fantasy High is airing; but because it will take so long to edit before it's ready to air, a short "sidequest" is filmed in a weekend with Matt Mercer, Erika Ishii, Amy Vorpahl and Ify Nwadiwe from the online gaming world and Mike Trapp and Rekha from CollegeHumor to tide the audience over, establishing D20's production rhythms for the next several years.

[joemama-2]

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 8.4k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation

series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter < spotify playlist

Year: DECEMBER, 2018

It was yet another night of bringing back Satoru from a party you didn’t know he was at. Another night of watching him mingle too closely for your liking with some random girl. A friend’s house party, he had told you. Satoru had sobered up slightly by the time you dragged him from that rich kid’s mansion back to his estate. Sober, but quiet. 

His quietness would usually throw you off, considering he could chat anyone’s ear off. But with the highs and lows of your disordered relationship, the quietness started to become a good thing. When it was quiet, it meant no one was voicing their opinions. And with no voiced opinions, no fighting, no crying, and no words of “needing space”.

So, you’d learned to treasure the silence, even if it was fragile. Even if it always came with that tight feeling in your chest, like walking on a wire you weren’t sure would hold. You preferred this version of him—hushed, head down, hands shoved in his pockets—over the witty, sharp-tongued man who knew exactly how to break you apart without even trying most times. 

The front door clicked shut behind you. He kicked off his shoes without looking at you, then padded quietly toward the kitchen. You stayed by the doorway, coat still on, watching him pull a glass from the cabinet like it was muscle memory.

“You want water?” he asked after a pause, back still turned.

“No,” you answered, softer than you intended.

He filled the glass anyway, drinking half of it in one go. You watched his shoulders rise and fall, tired, worn. Not from the party. From everything. From you, maybe.

“I didn’t want to go,” he muttered.

You raised a brow. “And yet, you did. And then you were the same one who told me to show up.”

“I’m sorry, I completely forgot I texted you. That was an accident.”

“Seems like everything is nowadays,” you easily quip back, arms crossed. He says nothing, looking off to the side as he finishes his cup of water and sets it on the countertop beside him.  You watch his subtle nervous tics—the way he taps his finger against his bicep, the clenching and unclenching of his jaw, and the way his eyes dart anywhere and everywhere, except your own pair. 

“Who was that girl?” You ask again, voice in a whisper. 

“I don’t know,” he says immediately. 

“Then why were you with her?”

“I was drunk.”

“Did you cheat on me?”

“I already said I didn’t.”

A beat of silence.

Your eyes remain fixed on him, but his still won’t meet yours. Instead, he stares at the sink, as if the answer might be written in the metal grooves of the basin or hiding in the drain.

You take a step forward. “So that’s it?”

He exhales through his nose, almost like a scoff, but not quite. “What else do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

“I am telling you the truth,” he snaps, finally turning toward you, frustration flickering behind his eyes. “Why do you keep asking questions you’ve already made up your mind about?”

Your brows pinch. “Because when you lie, you never blink.”

He flinches, barely, but you catch it. You always do. And for a moment, the quiet returns. Not peace. Just stillness. That dangerous kind of silence—the kind that comes right before something breaks. Satoru runs a hand through his hair, breathing hard now. “I didn’t sleep with her.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I didn’t cheat on you,” he repeats, voice flat. “I danced with her. I talked with her. I don’t even remember half of it. But I didn’t fuck her or kiss her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You stare at him. He finally meets your eyes.

“That still hurts, you know?” you murmur. “It still counts.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t apologize. Just looks at you like someone who doesn’t know what else to give. Like he’s already emptied his pockets and come up short.

“Did you want to?” You continue. 

“I didn’t.”

He says it a little too fast. A little too sharply. The kind of defensive answer that tastes more like fear than truth.

You nod slowly, biting the inside of your cheek. “…Right. Just drunk. Just forgot. Just an accident.”

Satoru finally looks at you, and that’s somehow worse. His expression is open, but not apologetic. It’s tired. He’s already lost something and is trying to figure out if it’s worth salvaging. “I didn’t sleep with her,” he says again, quieter now. “I swear to you. I didn’t.”

You believe him. You hate that you believe him. But the ache in your chest doesn’t lessen. Because it was never just about that. Not really.

“Then why’d she look at me like I was intruding?” you ask, arms tightening around yourself. “Why’d she touch you like she had the right to?”

“I—” He falters. “I let her.”

You swallow hard. “And that’s what hurts even more.”

The silence creeps in again. Heavy this time. Not the kind you’d grown to treasure, but the kind that confirmed what you both knew: you were always waiting for the next crack. And maybe this was it.

Satoru steps toward you, slow, hesitant. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You never do,” you whisper. “But somehow, you always end up with the pieces.”

There’s a beat of stillness before he speaks again, voice small. “Do you want to leave?”

You look at him. The man you’ve loved, and lost, and tried to love again. And your voice, steady but hollow, replies:

“Do you want me to?”

He stares and stares, and you resist the urge to look away with a burning onset of fresh tears. Holding your ground is something you’ve learned to do, something he’s helped you do, even if it means using it against him. His lips part, then close. He looks down at your hand before gazing into your eyes. 

He blinks. 

“No.”

The word hangs in the air between you, fragile but heavy.  You swallow the lump in your throat, heart pounding louder than the silence. For a moment, you imagine what it would be like to throw your arms around him, to press your face into his chest and let the tension slip away. To go back to how things were between you before all the mess. But the memory of every harsh word, every cold shoulder, every night spent alone after an argument pulls you back.

Then, his hand reaches out, tentative, trembling even, and you feel the weight of his uncertainty. You don’t pull away. You don’t step back. You let him take your hand, fingers curling around yours with a fragile grip. His other cups your cheek, leaning down to plant a sweet and soft kiss on your lips. His lips linger before drifting to your cheek and down your neck. His arm wrapping around your waist, you feel your body melting into his embrace. 

Your arms instinctively loop around his neck, letting out a wistful sigh, eyes closing. His lips reach a particularly sensitive spot he’s grown accustomed to showing extra attention to. Sucking at the area softly, teeth just barely grazing your skin to where it still feels pleasurable enough. You twitch, a moan rolling off the tip of your tongue, head lolling back. 

A low breath escapes him at the sound, fingers tightening just slightly on your waist as if anchoring himself to you—to this moment. His lips trail slowly back up, skimming along your jawline, reverent and slow, until his forehead rests against yours. “I miss you,” he murmurs, voice raw—cracked open in a way you hadn’t heard in months.

Your eyes flutter open, lids heavy, vision hazy from the heat of the moment and the storm of emotions behind it. “I’m still here,” you whisper, though you’re not sure if you mean it physically, emotionally, or as a plea for him to notice you—really notice you—again.

“For how long?” 

It’s like he’s constantly trying to give you ways out—his sorry attempt at saving you, even if it’s far too late. But there’s still that one part of you that keeps you tethered to this moment—to him. The part of you that doesn’t want to be saved. 

So your simple response is kissing him once more, reaching up to smash your lips into his, hands running through his hair. For a few seconds, he doesn’t move, as if debating something internally. And then, he’s all over you. 

His restraint shatters.

Satoru grips you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, like if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, this fragile thread between you will finally snap. His hands roam your back, desperate and warm, pulling you flush against him as his mouth claims yours over and over. Every kiss is filled with apology, with longing, with a thousand things he never found the words to say. He walks you back slowly, blindly, until the back of your knees hit the couch. You sink down together, his weight gentle but all-consuming as he follows you, lips never parting from yours. Fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, grounding yourself to him—to this reckless moment of pretending everything broken between you can be fixed with closeness.

“I feel like I’m losing you,” he breathes between kisses, forehead pressed to yours again, voice barely audible. “I feel like I already did.”

You don’t validate him. You don’t have to. The way you’re clutching him says enough. 

His hands slow, brushing up beneath your shirt with a familiar tenderness, as if asking—Is this still mine to touch? Are you still mine to hold? You nod, just slightly, barely a breath of motion, as if you’re unsure yourself. He waits a few seconds and then exhales shakily. That tiny gesture is enough to keep him afloat. 

His fingers undo the button of your pants, pulling down the zipper with practiced efficiency. Your own unbuckle his belt, throwing it off to the side. 

The clothes come off with the kind of quiet desperation that only familiarity breeds—not rushed, not slow either, just… necessary. Each layer removed feels like shedding another wall, a final plea to be vulnerable, to be seen. Not just skin-to-skin, but soul-to-soul, even if only for tonight.

Satoru kisses down your sternum, reverent again, almost worshipful. His fingers ghost down your sides, brushing the curve of your waist like he’s memorizing you all over again, or maybe making sure you’re still real. His mouth follows, trailing lower with a gentleness that borders on painful. When he comes back up to kiss you again, it’s softer than before, less desperate, more deliberate. His nose brushes yours, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. You think he wants to say something—maybe he almost does—but instead, he just presses his forehead to yours again.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let him in.

Not only into your body—but into the parts of you you’d boarded up. The pieces that still loved him. The pieces that still wanted to love him. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s dangerous. But in this quiet, trembling moment of two people who never really stopped being each other’s, it feels like the only thing that makes sense. You’re not sure where things will go after this, if anything will change, if the damage can ever be undone, but right now, you’re his again. And he’s yours.

Even if only for tonight.

“Satoru,” you moan softly, back arching off the couch at the feeling of the top of his cock hitting your g-spot so deliciously. 

He groans as you squeeze around him, face screwing up. His heavy groans and pants fill your ear, your legs locking around his waist. “God…f-fuck—this—you.”

“Right there…please,” you whisper, breath fanning his cheek. 

His hips jutt, thrusting his thick cock harder. You cry out, nails digging into his back and scraping smooth lines of red down his silky skin. “Like that. Just like that,” he mumbles.

You cling to him like he’s the last thing tethering you to Earth—fingers pressed against the curve of his shoulder blades, mouth brushing his jaw as breathless pleas slip from your lips. The air between you is thick with heat and heartache, every movement laced with a need that goes far deeper than physical.

Satoru presses his forehead to yours again, his breath shuddering as he moves with a rhythm that feels more like an apology than desire. “I’m right here,” he murmurs, voice cracking at the edges. “I’ve got you.”

Your body reacts subconsciously, but it’s your heart that trembles. Raw, vulnerable, and still healing. Every time he murmurs your name, it lands somewhere deep, somewhere old and aching. The way he holds you feels like he’s trying to stitch the broken pieces back together with every motion, every whispered confession that never makes it fully into words.

His hand pinches and rubs your nipple between his fingers, and you bite hard on your lip. It roams down your stomach, feeling around your ribs before his thumb finds your pretty, puffy clit. With ease, he presses down with the flat of it. 

Your toes curl, eyes rolling back. Your limbs feel loose, brain mushy. He rubs before circling the bud, just how you like it. His eyes are laser-focused on your oh-so-pretty expressions. The expressions he’ll miss. He times the thrusts of his thick cock with the swirling of his thumb, fucking you compeltley dumb and boneless until all you could do is slur out meaningless mumbles, mixed with whimpered pleas of his name. 

Satoru leans in, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, his breath uneven against your skin. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, his tone a mixture of awe and regret. “I fucking love you. I love you so fucking much, you make me—fuck—feel so g…good...”

Your hands find his face, thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. For a moment, everything stills. Just the sound of your breaths, your heartbeats crashing together, bodies wrapped in something desperate and tender all at once. It’s more than lust. It’s grief, apology, love, and all the things left unsaid.

When he presses his lips to yours again, it’s slower this time. Deep. Full of meaning. Like he’s trying to tell you something he’s never been brave enough to say out loud.

His tongue slips into your mouth, exploring the wet cavern with desperation. 

His grip on your hip tightens, fingers pressing deep while his thrusts get faster, harder, more intentional. All you can do is cling to him, panting through your nostrils. When he pulls back, a thick line of saliva connects your mouths. His thumb flicks your clit. 

You squeeze. 

His cock twitches. 

“F-fuuuck. Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, g-gonna…yeah—gonna come,” he quivers out, hips snapping against yours in a sloppy motion. 

“M-me too!” You whine, grip tightening into a fistful of his hair. 

You both border on the edge of finishing for more grueling minutes, as it always did when you two had sex. You both agreed it added to the fun and intensity of it all, edging being your second favorite thing. The first was when he’d moan and groan pathetically against you.

But something’s wrong.

You feel it before you hear it—the way his heart thuds irregularly beneath your hand, the way his breath catches not from exertion, but emotion, how his thrusts just barely stutter.

“Y/N…” he murmurs, voice nearly broken.

You shift slightly beneath him, shakily brushing damp hair from his forehead, eyes searching. “What is it?”

His head pulls back, and that’s when you see it. The faint sheen of tears lining his beautiful eyes. It almost breaks you instantly. 

“I…I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know who I am anymore. I know what I want, b-but I know what I don’t…either.”

If he wasn’t fucking you, you would’ve smacked his arm and told him to quit joking. Except he’s not joking, he’s dead serious. It’s almost a little hard to believe him considering he’s confessing in the middle of being balls deep in your cunt, but you assume he couldn’t find any other right time to do so. 

You can’t find your voice, so he continues. The hand that was on your hip traveling up to your cheek, gently cupping it. His thumb swipes the area beneath your eye with tenderness. “…I—I think we need to figure ourselves out.”

“No,” you choke out, unaware of the tears that stream down your cheeks. Your arms tighten around his neck, legs as well. You cling to him like he’s your savior, like he’s the only one you have left. 

And well, he is. 

That’s what makes him feel even more shitty about doing this. 

“S-satoru—”

“I know. ‘M sorry, I’m…I’m really sorry, Y/N.” A tear falls from his cheek down to yours, his thrusts growing slower, but still as pleasurable. 

“Y-you don’t know!” You shout.

His lips tremble against yours, the motion almost reverent now—slow, shaky, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth before it’s too late. He’s still inside you, still moving, but the urgency is gone. Replaced by something heavier. Final.

“Promise me, Y/N. Please, promise me.”

You blink through the tears, breath catching painfully in your chest. “Promise you what?” you ask, voice cracking open like the rest of you.

He closes his eyes as if your question physically hurts him. And it does.

He blinks them open. “We should have nothing to do with each other. I-it’s not doing anything good for us. So…don’t look for me. Don’t do it. And I won’t look for you.”

Your whole body stills beneath him. It’s like someone has pulled the air out of your lungs, out of the room, out of the world. And yet he stays inside you, forehead pressed to yours, as if hoping to stay close enough to soften the blow.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. “You don’t get to hold me like this, do these things to me, say stuff like that—then ask me to pretend we don’t exist.”

He’s crying now. Really crying. Silent tears trailing down his cheeks, his body trembling ever so slightly. “I know,” he breathes, like it’s a confession. “But if I don’t say it now, I won’t be able to walk away. Neither will you.”

You press your lips together to keep from sobbing. Your chest heaves with the weight of heartbreak, confusion, and the cruel irony of intimacy turning into goodbye. Still connected in the most vulnerable of ways, the silence stretches long between you—thick, suffocating, sacred.

“You’re still everything to me,” you say softly, lips brushing his cheek.

“And you always will be,” he murmurs. “But sometimes love isn’t enough.”

Then, with devastating gentleness, he spurts his seed inside you. He lies still for a few seconds before he pulls out of you—like he’s trying not to break you more than he already has—and gathers you into his arms.

For the last time.

The following morning was the last time you saw him for five years. 

He said nothing, he didn’t cry anymore, he didn’t try to stop you from putting whatever valuables you had at his house in a box before his parents came home from a trip. He just watched silently. He didn’t hug you, didn’t kiss you. 

You wanted to slap him. Curse him. Maybe kill him. 

But you didn’t. You blinked through your blurry vision, hiccuping heaving breaths, hands trembling. 

He stood in the hallway like a ghost—like he wasn’t really there, like you weren’t really there either. Just a moment passing through him. Just a chapter he refused to reread. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the shoebox as you stepped past him, waiting… hoping… that he’d reach out. That he’d do something.

But he didn’t.

Not when you brushed past him. Not when you paused at the door, turning one last time with red-rimmed eyes and a silent plea. Not even when your lips parted to say goodbye, but no sound came out.

Was it really this easy for him? He must’ve been preparing for this moment now for ages. You did this, didn’t you?

He just stood there. A statue. An ending.

So you walked out. And the door clicked shut behind you like the final nail in the coffin.

Five years.

Five years of silence.

Five years of learning not to look for him in every man you talk to.

Five years of learning how to breathe without him in your lungs.

You hated him for making it easier with each year that passed. You hated yourself more for wishing it hadn’t been.

And yet—no matter how much time passed, no matter how much healing you forced yourself through—there was still that part of you, small and bitter and quietly aching, that whispered: He didn’t even say goodbye.

That’s why your eyes tear up five years later when you see the way a boyish smile makes way onto his dimpled cheeks after giving you your housewarming gift after officially moving into the new place he got you and Koji. 

Because after everything—after the years of silence, of rebuilding your life without him, of nights spent convincing Koji that no, there was no one else coming to dinner—he’s here.

Standing in your living room like he belongs there. Like he never left.

And it should make you suspicious. Should make you slam the door in his face, scream every unspoken word that’s lived in your chest since the moment he let you walk away without a fight. 

But then he grins wider.

That same crooked, too-charming smile that used to melt you in the middle of fights. That always preceded trouble. That lit up the darkest corners of your life. He holds out the box wrapped in glossy paper like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Thought this would help you get back into the groove of things,” he says, trying too hard to sound relaxed.

You take it slowly. Fingers brushing his. A tremble you try to mask as a chill. “What is it?”

“That’s why you open it.”

Your throat tightens at the simple reply. You hate how familiar this feels. How easy it would be to fall back into old rhythms, into old mistakes. You shouldn’t be letting him stand here. You shouldn’t be letting him smile at you like that.

But your hands are already peeling away the wrapping paper.

Inside is a ceramic watering can—cream-colored, minimalistic, just like the ones you always pointed out in those expensive catalogs you couldn’t afford back then. The ones he used to say were “boring” before secretly bookmarking them. Except there’s a painting of what can only be Koji’s work, including his mother, him, and his father, all holding hands. You swallow hard as you turn it in your hands.

“Since you have a little patio now, I figured you could get back into planting. Maybe some tulips, peonies, or purple hyacinths.” He shrugs, hands stuffed into his pockets. 

Your lip quivers before you can stop it.

“Don’t cry,” he says with that soft, teasing lilt in his voice—the one you used to fall asleep to years ago. “You’ll make me feel like I got you a vacuum or something.”

You laugh, but it cracks, just a little. Your eyes sting as you set the water can gently on the counter. And then you look at him. “Thank you, Satoru. I—You’ve done a lot for Koji and me when you didn’t have to. This means a lot to me and I really appreciate it.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he sighs, looking off toward the living room where Koji is already making a mess of his excessive number of toys. “I know our…situation is different, less than ideal. But I still have an obligation to my son and his mother, which starts with a safe home. One where his mom can get back into her old habits.” He gestures to the watering can, looking back at you. 

You nod, fingers tightening around the edge of the counter behind you as if bracing yourself. “It’s a beautiful gift. Koji must’ve had fun painting it.”

“He was insistent that I draw myself taller,” Satoru chuckles, gaze softening. “I told him I’m already the tallest person he knows. He said I needed to look more like a tree.”

You smile, genuinely this time, but there’s still that ache behind your ribs. Like a door that was supposed to stay locked has started to creak open again. Silence settles between you for a moment, filled only by the muffled sounds of Koji’s playtime.

Then, more quietly, you say, “Can…Can I give you a hug?”

Satoru looks at you for a beat too long, the kind of pause that says he wasn’t expecting that. The kind that makes you immediately regret asking. But then his mouth twitches, softening into something you remember—something warm, steady, like the way he used to reach for your hand in the middle of the night without even waking up.

“You don’t have to ask,” he says, already closing the distance.

You meet him halfway, arms wrapping around his middle as his come up around your shoulders, firm and gentle all at once. He holds you like he’s afraid you might disappear, like he’s only just now realizing how long it’s been since he got to do this. And for a moment—just one brief, fragile moment—you let yourself lean into him. Let yourself be held.

You breathe him in. That familiar, dangerous cologne with faint traces of Koji’s toothpaste on his sleeve. The warmth of him against you brings you boosted levels of serotonin. Your hands tighten on the fabric of his jacket.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur into his chest.

His arms tense, then relax again. “Don’t be.”

You pull back slightly to look at him, and his hands linger at your waist like he doesn’t want to let go just yet. “I mean it,” you say. “For the way things ended. For keeping him from you. I thought I was protecting Koji. But maybe…I was just trying to protect myself. I don’t think I can ever apologize enough for what I did.”

Satoru’s smile falters, his eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing every part of this version of you, this quieter, softer one shaped by years apart and everything unspoken between you.

He exhales slowly, thumb brushing against your side like he’s grounding himself. “You were scared,” he says, voice lower now. “You had every right to be. I was reckless. Arrogant. Hell, I didn’t even know what I wanted until it was too late.”

You shake your head, guilt pinching at your ribs. “No, don’t make this about you. I made choices too. I chose to run instead of letting you try.”

Satoru leans in, forehead nearly resting against yours. “And now?”

You hesitate. The weight of everything hangs between you. The years, the pain, the distance, the child just in the living room. 

“Now…I’m trying to stop running. At least from you.”

That’s when his hand rises, gently cupping your cheek. “Then let me catch up,” he whispers, the plea in his voice trembling at the edges.

Your breath stutters in your chest. This moment, it’s too much, too intimate, too soon. And yet you don’t move. You can’t. But just as his lips barely brush your forehead, a loud crash erupts from the living room, followed by Koji yelling, “I didn’t mean to!”

You both freeze, the air between you crackling with what almost was. Then Satoru pulls back with a quiet, rueful chuckle. “Sounds like our son just broke something valuable.”

You blink at the words—our son—the way he says it so naturally now. You offer a soft smile. “I hope it wasn’t your expensive Lego set.”

“Please. Those are a business investment,” he grins, already heading toward the culprit.

As he walks off to check on Koji, you’re left leaning against the counter, heart thudding. The watering can still sits beside you. A little crooked painting of your family stares back at you. And for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like a dream you don’t deserve.

It feels like the start of something you might be brave enough to hope for again.

“My buddy Nanami says these are good for kids.”

You blink down at the box he’s holding. “Those are literally dried seaweed snacks.”

Satoru shrugs, tossing them into the cart anyway. “They’ve got iron. And they’re crunchy. Kids love crunchy things.”

You roll your eyes, amused despite yourself. “Your buddy Nanami probably meant for kids who don’t gag on anything green.”

“Koji eats crayons, I think we can get him to chew some seaweed.” He rolls his eyes before strolling ahead, pushing the cart like he owns the place.

You follow, biting back a smile. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, and shelves are packed with items that seem way too expensive. Luckily, it’s not your bill. 

“Do you even know what I need?” you ask as you catch up.

“I know you need snacks, juice boxes, and something for dinner that won’t involve me setting the kitchen on fire.”

“So, takeout?”

He gasps dramatically. “Have some faith in me, woman. I can make spaghetti. With meatballs. That’s like…parenting level five.”

You laugh softly, reaching for a can of tomatoes and dropping it into the cart. “We’ll see if Koji makes it past one bite.”

“Mama! Can we get this one?!”

You turn just in time to see Koji waddling over, arms wrapped around a neon-colored cereal box that definitely wasn’t on your list.

“Koji, that’s all sugar,” you warn gently, crouching down. “We talked about this, remember? Something with less…rainbows.”

“But it has marshmallows shaped like planets!” he insists, eyes wide, shaking the box for emphasis. “And a rocket ship toy inside!”

Satoru leans over your shoulder with mock seriousness. “You’re outnumbered. Planet marshmallows are a once-in-a-lifetime culinary experience.”

You sigh, standing and fixing him with a look. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m building morale,” he says, taking the cereal from Koji and dropping it into the cart with a wink. “Also, I want to see what the Saturn marshmallow tastes like.”

Koji cheers, scampering ahead toward the snack aisle like he’s won a war. You watch him go, shaking your head with a reluctant smile. “You’re spoiling him.”

“He’s a kid,” Satoru replies, casually tossing a pack of onigiri into the cart. “Isn’t that our job?”

You hum, thoughtful. It’s strange, standing here like this—shopping for dinner, bickering over snacks, making tiny compromises. It feels…normal. Too normal. Like the calm before a storm. But even as you brace for it, there’s something comforting about how easily he fits into this picture.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you murmur as you walk beside him.

He smirks. “What gave it away? The cereal or the emotional intimacy?”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Definitely the cereal.”

“Not the meatballs?” he grins.

You roll your eyes. “Go look for the rest of the stuff on the list, please. I’m gonna go make sure Koji isn’t raiding the snack aisle.”

Satoru offers a lazy salute. “Yes, ma’am. Anything to avoid being guilt-tripped over cereal.”

You shake your head as he strolls off, already distracted by a wall of oddly-shaped pasta. Turning on your heel, you make your way down the bright aisles, eyes scanning for that familiar mop of messy, white hair and sticky hands. It doesn’t take long to find him—Koji is sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by three open bags of chips and a very confused store clerk hovering nearby.

“Koji,” you sigh, walking over. “Baby, you can’t open things before we pay for them.”

“But I was taste testing!” he beams up at you, crumbs all over his shirt. “This one is too spicy, but this one tastes like pillows.”

A poor teenage employee glances at you, clearly panicked. “Uh—ma’am? Should I—do I need to…get someone, or…?”

You gently place a hand on Koji’s head and offer the boy a tight smile. “It’s fine. We’ll pay for everything.” Then, to Koji: “And you’re not supposed to eat things that taste like pillows. We’ll talk about that in the car.”

You usher him to his feet and start dusting crumbs from his pants. You grab the bags he’s opened with one hand, using the other to hold his hand. “No more snacks, Koji. We need to go to the other aisles now.”

Koji pouts but doesn’t protest as you guide him over to the produce section. Diligently eyeing your next few purchases, ensuring the produce looks right. As you’re leaning over a bin of apples, testing for firmness, Koji clings to your thigh with one arm and gnaws the corner of the chip bag you couldn’t pry from his hands. You’re too focused on choosing between Gala and Fuji to notice the man approaching until his shadow falls over the fruit.

“They really upped the price for these.”

You startle a bit at the nonchalance of the newcomer. Looking to your left, a tall man with brown hair is picking up one apple, inspecting it. He sighs, then gives you a polite grin. “Inflation, am I right? Remember when they were just a couple bucks.”

You offer a polite smile, shifting slightly so Koji is tucked closer to your side as his tiny hands cling to your skirt. “Yeah… everything’s gone up lately.”

The man chuckles, tossing an apple into his basket. He’s good-looking in a clean-cut, office-worker kind of way. Nice watch, rolled sleeves, the faintest whiff of designer cologne. “They say it’s the economy, but I’m convinced it’s just a clever way to make me pay more for mediocre fruit.”

You let out a soft, polite laugh, already glancing back toward where Satoru wandered off to.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” the man continues, taking a casual step closer, clearly encouraged by your response. “New to the area?”

You tense, but keep your tone neutral. “Kind of.”

He nods, glancing down at Koji. “Cute kid. He yours?”

You nod, placing a hand gently on Koji’s back as he reaches toward the display of grapes. “Yep.”

“Well,” the man says, smile widening as he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone, “If you ever need help navigating the neighborhood—best parks, cafes, good wine shops—I’d be happy to give you a tour. I’m Mark, by the way.”

You hesitate, blinking. He’s not being aggressive, just… confident. And that somehow makes it worse. “Oh, I—that’s okay. I don’t need a guide.”

Mark chuckles, undeterred by your polite decline. “Sure, sure. No pressure.” He lifts his hands in mock surrender, still holding that easygoing smile. “Just figured I’d shoot my shot. Hard not to when you’ve got such a lovely face.”

You force another tight smile, your fingers brushing over Koji’s tiny waves, grounding yourself. “Thanks. But I’m really not looking for anything.”

“Fair enough,” he says, but then—he lingers. His eyes drag a bit too long across your face, down to your hand on Koji’s shoulder, then flick quickly to your left hand. No ring. His smile flickers with something a little more interested now. “So uh…how old's the little one.”

“Kindergartener,” you reply cooly, looking away and stepping over to the celery and avocados. 

“Ah,” Mark nods, subtly following your side, pretending to look at the same things you are. “Is he albino?”

You stop and look at him, head tilting slightly. “No,” your voice is steady, “his father just has very light features.”

“He said we can’t talk to strangers,” Koji’s mumbled voice speaks up, but he clears it and grabs your hand, leading you a few steps away. 

“Is that so? Well, your daddy must be a smart man.”

“Yep, and daddy’s around here somewhere.” You nod briefly, a silent marker that you’re heading your own way now. 

“Daddy’s right here.”

You jolt slightly at the sensation of a warm arm sliding around your waist, Satoru making his presence known as he stands between you and Mark. Nonchalantly ripping the avocado out of Mark’s hand. He hums and tilts his head before tossing it back into the pile. He feels around for a ripe one. “And who’s this?” He gestures with his head towards Mark. 

Mark blinks, momentarily thrown off. His smile falters just a little—but not enough. “Just saying hi,” he replies, straightening up. “Didn’t realize you were…uh, together.”

Satoru hums, tone light but razor-edged. “Yeah, easy mistake. Not everyone’s bold enough to flirt with a mom while our kid’s holding her hand.” He smiles as he lifts a ripe avocado to eye level. “But hey, you gave it a good shot. Ten points for confidence.”

Mark’s smile falters again. “Wasn’t trying to cause trouble.”

“Mm. That’s good,” Satoru says with a nod, finally releasing the avocado he’s selected and dropping it into the cart, you didn’t even notice him roll over. “Because I’d hate to cause a scene. Produce sections are sacred.”

“I was just making conversation,” Mark says smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “Like I said, I didn’t realize she was with someone.”

“Yeah, well,” Satoru says airily, squeezing your hip for emphasis, “Now you do, yeah?” He offers a bright, toothy grin—one that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

You huff a quiet breath—amused, relieved, a little embarrassed—but you don’t pull away.

Mark, for his part, seems to pick up the shift in tone. His smile vanishes into something tight. “Right. My bad.”

Satoru hums, finally facing him completely. He’s taller than Mark, having to angle his neck down slightly. “No harm done. Just don’t go getting too familiar with other people’s families.”

Mark meets his gaze for a long beat, the air thick between them. Then he lets out a short, humorless chuckle. “Sure. Good luck with the shopping.” He takes a careful step back. “Nice meeting you both.”

Satoru raises his fingers in a lazy farewell. “Likewise. Try the bananas next time.”

You watch Mark retreat down the aisle, and only then does Satoru sigh, turning toward you with a casual lean. 

Silence lingers for a second. Then:

“I was gone for five minutes,” Satoru mutters, leaning against the cart with a sigh. “I leave and some discount finance bro tries to slide in?”

You exhale, still holding Koji close, trying to shake the edge of unease that lingers. “He was… persistent, to say the least.”

He scrubs a hand down his face. “You attract the weirdest types. Like moths to a flame.”

“I think it’s the fact that I don’t walk around swinging like a wrecking ball of intimidation,” you mutter, heart still beating a little too fast.

Satoru leans in with a grin, brushing a barely-there kiss against your temple. “Nah. It’s ‘cause you’re hot and look like you need saving.”

“I don’t need saving,” you grumble, adjusting Koji’s sleeve.

He shrugs and pulls back, pushing the cart as you follow. “Yeah, but it’s more fun when I pretend you do.”

Koji tugs at your shirt. “Mama, who was that?”

“A stranger, baby.” You move some hair out his face. 

Koji frowns in thought. “That man was weird.”

“He was,” Satoru agrees, dropping iceberg lettuce into the cart. “Probably sells fake crypto courses online.”

You sigh heavily, pausing by the parsley. Satoru stops with you, noticing your expression. His voice grows quieter, hand gently patting your lower back. “You okay?”

You nod, reaching to grab a bundle of parsley. “I’m fine. Just weird.”

Satoru watches you for a second longer, his teasing demeanor slipping into something more careful. Protective. He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts closer, hand still on your back like he’s anchoring you. 

“Let’s get out of here soon,” he says quietly, his voice low enough that only you can hear it. “We’ve got most of what we need. Spaghetti’s easy. You, me, Koji—one normal night.”

You glance up at him, grateful. “Normal sounds nice.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” He smiles, giving your back one last pat before going over to the checkout with you and Koji in tow. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go for it,” he responds, opening the cupboard to put the new pots and pans he bought for you away. 

You’re currently storing all the food that could probably last you an entire month in the pantry. You hesitate, unsure of how much of a sensitive topic this could be, but you bite the bullet. “How’s Suguru?”

He pauses, not sparing a glance over at you. He clears his throat and continues. “Fine, I think.”

“You think?” You look at him. 

“Yeah, I think. I haven’t spoken to him in a while.”

Guilt shoots up your spine, a frown pulling at your lips. Memories flood you of that dreadful night. The one where you almost kissed his best friend, and you thought you’d have to break up a man fight. Knowing you’re the cause of the small hiatus put on their friendship makes you wish you could turn back time. “I’m sorry.”

Satoru doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps arranging the pans, movements slower, more thoughtful. The air feels heavier now, less like home, more like a pause neither of you wanted to admit was coming. Finally, he exhales through his nose, closing the cabinet gently before leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “It’s not your fault,” he says, voice even, but his eyes flicker with something more tired than usual. “Suguru makes his own choices. Always has.”

You swallow. “But if I hadn’t—”

He cuts you off gently, shaking his head. “It wasn’t about almost kissing him.” His voice is softer now, but there’s something unspoken threading through each word. “It was about the fact that he didn’t stop it either.”

That stings. You look down at the box of granola bars in your hand, heart thudding with that old familiar guilt. “I didn’t want it to happen. I just… I was in a bad place.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know that now.”

You nod slowly, setting the box down and bracing your palms against the counter. “I just wish you two could fix things. You’ve been friends since forever, and now it’s like—”

“Like we’re strangers,” he finishes for you, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. Trust me, I feel it too.”

Silence stretches between you for a beat, and you gauge his expression. “You should talk to him. He’s already set a boundary with me after it happened. But I don’t want to be the reason you guys aren’t close anymore.”

Satoru watches you for a long moment, eyes unreadable, jaw clenched like he’s holding back words he doesn’t want to admit. Then he drags a hand through his hair, sighing hard as he drops his gaze to the floor. “I’ve thought about it,” he says finally, voice low. “More than once. But every time I get close to reaching out, I think about that night… and I don’t know what I’d even say.” His fingers drum anxiously against his bicep. “Like, how do you come back from that?”

You step closer, hesitant. “Maybe it’s not about fixing everything in one conversation. Maybe it’s just… showing up. Letting him know you still care.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can tell he’s deep in that mental space where his pride and pain wrestle with each other. Eventually, he mutters, “We were supposed to be unshakable, you know? Like, no matter what. And then it got real messy, real fast.”

You nod quietly. “It did. But you’ve forgiven me. Maybe part of forgiving him is just… letting him know that.”

He finally looks at you, eyes softer now, tired but warm. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Maybe.”

You finish putting the groceries away. “Just call him, it wouldn’t hurt, right?” A gentle suggestion. 

Satoru watches you close the pantry door and wipe your hands on your skirt like you’re trying to wipe away the tension, too. You look over your shoulder at him with that soft, hopeful expression, the one that always makes it hard for him to say no. 

He shrugs one shoulder, casual in appearance, but you can tell he’s still turning it over in his head. “Wouldn’t hurt,” he echoes, but there’s a hint of uncertainty in his tone. “Might hurt a little, actually. But maybe that’s the point.”

You step toward him, closing the distance just enough to gently nudge his arm. “Even if it’s awkward at first. Even if he doesn’t pick up. At least you tried.”

He gives a breathy laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “You always make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” you admit. “But neither is letting someone you love slip away.”

That lands. You can tell by the way his mouth twitches—like he wants to say something else, something deeper—but instead, he pulls out his phone and taps the screen a few times before holding it up in a silent offering.

You blink at him. “You’re calling him now?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” he smirks, though it’s a little shaky around the edges. “I’m impulsive, remember?”

The dial tone fills the space between you.

“Stop stringing her along, okay? I want no drama.”

“I’m not, cousin!” Naoya huffs childishly. 

“Really? So what do you call using her for information on Gojo for our own personal gain?” Toji raises a brow, buff arms crossed over his chest. 

“Look,” he rolls his eyes. “Hana’s a nice girl, what if I like her just to like her?”

“You have higher standards than any woman I know.”

Naoya snorts, shaking his head with a grin. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m just lowering the bar for once.”

Toji smirks, stepping closer, voice low but teasing. “Careful, or you’ll end up stuck with a lifetime supply of disappointment.”

Naoya laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Better than being stuck alone, right?”

Toji raises his hand, flicking his cousin’s forehead. “End it. We don’t need you playing secret agent.”

Naoya winces at the flick, rubbing his forehead with a scowl. “You act like I don’t know how to handle her.”

“That’s the problem,” Toji retorts, stepping back and leaning against the counter with a look that borders on both exasperation and warning. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, but she’s not just some pawn. If she finds out you’re using her—”

Naoya scoffs, but there’s a flicker of unease in his eyes. “She won’t.”

Toji levels him with a sharp look. “You sure about that?”

A beat passes.

Naoya looks away first, lips tightening into a thin line. “She trusts me.”

Toji snorts. “Then all the more reason to quit while you’re ahead.”

The silence that follows is heavier than either of them wants to admit. Naoya doesn’t respond right away, instead pulling his phone from his pocket and glancing at a message from Hana—something innocent, casual. A little too kind for the way he’s been treating her.

A pitter-patter of tiny feet is heard against the polished tiles. Toji’s attention is immediately torn away from his idiotic cousin to his six-year-old son. A smile graces his lips, his scar stretching up. “Sup, buddy. How was school?” 

Megumi’s black spiky hair looks messier than when he left, taking off his school backpack. His uniform has splotches of green paint, arms reaching up for his father. “Okay,” he mumbles back. 

Toji bends down and scoops Megumi up with ease, holding him against his hip like it’s second nature. “Green paint, huh?” he teases, brushing his thumb against a streak on the boy’s collar. “You wrestle an art project or something?”

Megumi nods with a serious little frown. “We painted frogs.”

“Frogs?” Toji grins, walking toward the kitchen table with him. “Lemme guess—yours was the coolest?”

“No,” Megumi says flatly. “Mine looked like a blob. Teacher said it was ‘expressive.’”

Toji chuckles, setting him down on a chair and ruffling his hair. “Well, expressive blob or not, sounds like a masterpiece to me.”

Naoya watches the scene quietly from the side, arms crossed, lips pulled in a tight line, though there’s a flicker of something softer in his gaze. He clears his throat, forcing a grin. “Kid’s got more personality than half the people in this house.”

Toji shoots him a glare. “Don’t start.”

Megumi blinks at Naoya, then turns to his dad. “Is he staying for dinner?”

Toji smirks. “Only if he promises not to be annoying.”

Naoya holds up his hands in surrender. “No promises, but I’ll keep it PG for the kid.”

Megumi huffs, already pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from his bag. “I drew a ninja too. Want to see?”

Toji leans over, genuinely interested. “Hell yeah, show me.” 

He motions to be let down, and Toji complies. He zips open his backpack for the ninja piece. “Mr. Tanaka said we’re getting a new student soon, I can show him my drawing.”

Toji crouches beside him, watching as Megumi pulls out the wrinkled sheet of paper, proudly smoothing it across the table. “Think he’ll like ninjas too?” he asks, studying the tiny stick-figure warrior with a sword and an oversized headband.

Megumi shrugs, not looking up. “Maybe. But if he doesn’t, I’ll show him the frog.”

Toji chuckles, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Good plan. Win him over with options.”

Naoya leans against the counter, watching with a lazy expression. “You’re already working on your charm, huh? Got that from your old man?”

Megumi looks at him unimpressed. “I got it from TV.”

Toji bursts out laughing. “Smart kid.” He ruffles Megumi’s hair again, softer this time, his voice a bit more thoughtful. “New student, huh? Be nice to him, yeah? It’s tough being the new kid.”

Megumi nods without hesitation. “I will. Yuuji and Nobara said the new student could play tag with us at recess.” 

For a fleeting moment, Toji’s expression flickers—something distant and unreadable passing over his face. But it’s gone just as fast, replaced by the usual crooked smile. “That’s my boy.”

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[sangsterizada]

Warmth

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You help Bucky start to enjoy winter again.

Warnings: bucky (he's a warning), established relationship, a bit of soft angst i guess?

A/N: i'm new to this, but decided to give it a try because it was the only way to get this prompt out of my head lol. thought someone else might enjoy it too.

Winter never really ended for Bucky Barnes.

Even when the snow melted. Even when the air was warm enough to wear a t-shirt. Even when the world called it spring. It lingered in the corners of his mind—quiet, sharp, and cold. Because for too many years, winter was more than a season. It was a sentence.

He still remembers the sterile chill of metal walls. The hiss of gas before the dark took him under. The way his skin would sting as it thawed. Not from nature’s winter, but from Hydra’s version of it.

So when December rolled in, and snow started to dust the windows of the apartment you shared, his jaw would tighten just a little. You noticed, of course. You always noticed.

“Hey,” you’d say softly, handing him a mug of tea so hot it almost burned your fingers. “You’re clenching again.”

He took it from you with a quiet hum of thanks, wrapping his flesh hand around the mug and letting the heat seep into his bones. The other—metal and unfeeling—rested on the table, unmoving.

He didn’t talk about it. Not right away. But you never pushed.

Instead, you made a silent plan.

The first snowfall of the season, you pulled him to the window. “Look,” you said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

He stared for a beat too long before answering. “I guess.”

But later that night, when you crawled under the covers with him and wrapped yourself around his back, tucking your cold toes between his legs, he didn’t complain like he usually did. Just sighed.

"You always do that," he mumbled into the pillow.

"I'm always cold," you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "But you’re warm. You're my favorite heater."

He let out a small, reluctant laugh. The sound surprised even him.

That winter, you made sure the apartment smelled like cinnamon and clove. You bought the softest blankets and piled them high. You left steaming mugs of tea by his hand while he read. You started lighting candles in the evening, not for scent or light, but for warmth. For the feel of home.

And little by little, winter stopped being so cruel.

The turning point, though, came one night when he walked in from patrol, soaked and shivering from snow, and you met him at the door with a towel and a smile.

"Hot shower’s ready," you said, pressing the towel to his hair. "Go warm up. I’ll make you something."

He almost told you no.

He almost said he’d be fine.

But he saw the way your eyes softened with worry. And he was tired. So tired.

So he nodded and stepped into the bathroom. The moment the water hit his skin—scalding, soothing—something cracked open in him.

He stood there longer than usual. Maybe too long. But when he came out, there was a mug of tea on the nightstand, your hands pulling back the covers, the sheets warm and waiting.

He slid into bed, damp hair and all, and you didn’t even flinch. Just wrapped yourself around him and kissed the hollow beneath his ear.

"This is what winter should feel like," you murmured.

He didn’t speak. Just held you tighter.

And maybe—for the first time in decades—he agreed.

---

The next day, snow had been falling since before dawn.

Thick, lazy flakes drifted outside the window like feathers shaken from the sky, covering the world in white. The kind of snow that made everything quieter. Softer. Still.

You woke first, but didn’t move. Bucky was still wrapped around you, his arm heavy across your waist, breath warm against the back of your neck. His metal hand rested at your hip, cool even through the fabric of your pajama pants—but not uncomfortable. Never uncomfortable.

You turned your head just slightly, catching the smallest glimpse of his face: peaceful. Still sleeping. And, for once, completely unburdened.

A rare sight.

You stayed like that for a long while, listening to the hum of the radiator, the faint crackle of the wind against the window. The world could wait.

Eventually, Bucky stirred. His nose brushed your shoulder. “What time is it?” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

“Too early,” you whispered. “But… it’s snowing.”

That earned a quiet groan from him. “Of course it is.”

You turned in his arms, resting a hand on his chest. “Not the bad kind. It’s beautiful. Look.”

He followed your gaze toward the window and blinked at the view. Snow blanketed the street below, untouched and perfect. The neighbors’ roofs were capped in white. Icicles hung like tiny chandeliers from the balcony railing.

No cars. No rush. Just stillness.

He let out a slow breath. “Huh.”

You smiled. “Snow day.”

“You’re serious?”

“I checked the alerts. Streets are closed, everything’s canceled. We’re officially snowed in.”

Bucky blinked again. “You’re excited.”

“I am,” you grinned. “Because I’ve been waiting all year for this.”

He raised a brow. “For what?”

“For this,” you said, tugging him back into the blankets. “A whole day where we do nothing. No missions, no errands, no Hydra-related trauma. Just warm drinks, fuzzy socks, and maybe a really cheesy movie marathon.”

Bucky chuckled—a low, scratchy sound that vibrated through his chest. “You really think I’m gonna sit through those awful rom-coms again?”

“Yes,” you said sweetly, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Because I make popcorn the way you like it.”

He paused, then narrowed his eyes. “With the extra butter and caramel drizzle?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“…Fine.”

You laughed and rolled out of bed, grabbing the thick socks you saved for snow days and tossing him a sweater. He caught it mid-air, shaking his head with a crooked smile.

You made hot chocolate—real cocoa, none of the powdered stuff—and piled marshmallows on top until the mugs looked like clouds. Bucky didn’t complain. He even let you tie his hair back messily when it kept falling into his drink.

Hours passed in soft laughter, shared glances, and the warmth of bodies curled under blankets while snow kept falling outside. He let you pick the movies (even the worst ones), and somewhere between a stolen kiss and the third mug of cocoa, Bucky leaned his head on your shoulder and whispered:

“I think I finally like snow.”

You turned your head to him, brushing your nose against his temple. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Because you’re here.”

Outside, winter raged quietly.

Inside, Bucky Barnes was finally warm.

--

in case anyone reads this, I hope you enjoyed it. I'm a bit scared of getting some negatives on this platform, but I'll hope for the best. Polite criticism is very welcome, though.

btw: i've never seen or felt snow before in my life, so if something sounds a bit weird, maybe that's why lol

@brewnt

[ribbonskiss]

THE LEANOVER -> OP81

Part 1 of 2. Read Part 2 here.

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader

Summary: You come home on uni break to find your brother’s best friend, Oscar, is visiting. You both fall back into old habits, but some things are not the same.

Tags: brother’s best friend, friends to lovers, slow burn? kinda?, fluff, suggestive content (18+), very gentle reading tbh

A/N: Here it is finally, the highly requested full length version of the drabble I posted. Sadly I’ve reached my limit of dividers for this one and have to split it into two parts :( Very funny that it took off so much because it was honestly just a warm up for writing 😭 Anyway, I hope it was worth the wait, enjoy <3

“You’ve gotten soft, kiddo.”

He leans against the doorframe, that same mischievous smile on his face as he watches you do the dishes.

“Well,” you say, rinsing a cup over the running faucet, “Some of us have to.”

Oscar quirks up an eyebrow, arms folding over his chest. “Really? Fascinating. I had no idea.”

“And some things never change, I see,” you chuckle.

It’s December, and you’re home for the first time since moving away for university. It’s been an eventful year, one that’s brought about many successes, mistakes and surprises. Your mother marvels at how much you’ve grown; you’ve ditched the old frumpy haircut, started slouching less and finally found the perfect shade of lipstick. Your father is just glad you’ve managed to achieve a pretty impressive grade average.

When Oscar arrived, he caused so much commotion you had to stumble down the stairs to see what all the fuss is about. His presence was a surprise, but a welcome one. He was always your mum’s favourite—you remember the day he set off two years ago to pursue Formula One full-time. She cried as if he was her own kid. (Your brother stayed in Melbourne, so it’s dubious whether or not she would’ve cried harder if he moved away. For what it’s worth, when you went off to ANU yourself, she cried about the same amount.) Always a charmer, he came bearing big bags of gifts for everyone, and your family gathered around him like bees to honey.

He pulled your brother in for a hug. They’re too close to just settle for a dap-up after another year apart. “Looking good, mate,” your brother chuckled. “Look at this guy. Dapper, eh?”

“Says you, man, look at yourself,” Oscar laughed, throwing his head back in delight before patting him roughly on the back. “Fucking hell, you finally filled your beard in.”

From a distance, you smiled, watching as they started to roughhouse, laughing as they wrestled and wrung one another. Eventually your brother released him from his headlock, throwing him out of his grip, and Oscar ruffled his hair back into place before turning and spotting you, standing at the staircase.

He smiled at you fondly. You’d forgotten how nice it feels to be the recipient of it. He’d forgotten how he can recognise what every expression you make means.

You’ve grown a lot. Maybe not physically, but definitely mentally. He never had a problem with you before, far from it, but he likes this new you a lot—more graceful, tactful, a skilled conversationalist eager to help out whenever. Not to mention he didn’t even realise you could grow even more beautiful. Well, you’ve managed it somehow.

Now dinner is over and he’s still standing there, watching as you shut the dishwasher close. “Just can’t be fucked,” you sigh with relief. “Too many fuckin’ dishes.”

He comes closer, ruffles your hair with a hand while the other wraps around your waist, pulling you to him. The action is familiar, but the feeling that arises in you from it is not. “Well, you used to just not do them at all, so,” he reminds you. “This is a big improvement, Tiny.”

You flush. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I remember everything,” Oscar smiles at you. “Why would I forget anything?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “it’s normal to forget the little things.”

But his smile never falters. “They’re not little to me.”

“Well fuck, you’ve put me in a difficult position.”

The two boys you’ve known your whole life stand in front of you in the living room, where you’re sitting on the couch, legs sprawled over its full length, reading your book. Your brother sighs. “I just wish you’d told me beforehand, like, I know you wanted it to be a surprise but,” he continues. “If you told me you were coming, I wouldn’t have booked the trip—”

Oscar shakes his head. “Nah, don’t sweat it, come on,” he says. “It’s fine. Either way I’m back home, I can catch up with some guys from school, and your folks are lovely to me.”

Your brother starts up again, but Oscar puts his hands up. “Mate, really, it’s fine. I’ll be right on my own.”

“Say swear?”

“On my life,” he nods. “You just enjoy Bali with your missus.”

Your brother looks at him for a moment, shakes his head and smiles. He nudges him on the shoulder. “Don’t let her do anything stupid.”

“What, that little thing?” Oscar smiles, turning to look over where you sit on the couch. “She’ll be right. I got her.”

They talk for a little longer before one of them bids the other goodnight, retreating into his room. Oscar stays, looks at you for a moment as you pretend to not notice, eyes scanning over the pages of your book like your life depends on not looking back at him. He runs his fingers through his hair, lets out a breath before he comes closer.

“Looks like it’ll just be you and me this holiday season, Tiny.” No one calls you that except Oscar. He stands in front of you, towering over your sitting figure. You can’t find the bravery to look up at him, but you just know he’s smiling again.

You flip to the next page. “Where’s your family?”

“Off to the Alps,” he shrugs. “But I’ve just been last year with a few guys.”

“How convenient,” you comment, earning a chuckle from him. Oscar nods his head, smiling still, unashamed.

“Very convenient.”

“Good morning, sleepy.”

You stand in the kitchen, rubbing your eyes with the sleeves of your jumper where the counter is. He brushes past you to the coffee machine, and you feel his warmth close by for a split second. “Don’t do that,” he tuts at you, chuckling at your sleepy state. “It’s bad for your eyes.”

“Is he awake yet?” you ask, and your voice is still hushed, soft from slumber.

“No,” he says. “But I’m making coffee anyway. He’s a bit of a cunt in the morning.”

You suddenly remember that he’s sleeping on the spare mattress, very inelegantly smack dab in the middle of the floor in your brother’s room. You can’t help but snicker. “You know him too well. You’re like an old married couple,” you tease him. “Aren’t you too old to be doing sleepovers still?”

“Aren’t you too old to be reading your porny little novels on a Friday evening?” he retorts. You feel yourself flush almost immediately, the blood rushing to your cheeks as embarrassment overwhelms you, knowing you’ve been caught. Oscar glances over at you from where he stands, pouring out cold milk while the espresso shots continue to drip into his mug, and he chuckles.

“I’m right, no?” he continues. “You’re all grown up now, Tiny. My question is, why stay in? Why read about fucking a soccer player when you could just, you know, actually do it?”

You glare at him, but the sight of him this early in the morning with his soft sleepy smile and tousled bedhead hair makes you falter a little. “That’s not even a book I own.”

“I know that,” Oscar nods, holding the little pitcher to the steam wand, gently frothing the cold milk inside. “But I have seen one on your desk. Think it was about another sport, actually.”

Then the frothing stops, and he pours the milk foam into the mug slowly, carefully. He snickers. “It was about racing, wasn’t it?”

Your cheeks grow hot, hotter than you thought was possible, and your eyes drop immediately to the ground at his words. It amuses him to no end. He hands you the mug; it’s a latte, with a cute little heart on top of it. Now he’s just being cruel.

You take a sip of the searing hot coffee immediately just to avoid having to speak about this topic any further. “This tastes like shit.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and grins. “You’re welcome, love.”

“Can you even speak to me this way?”

“What way?” Oscar says, cocking up an eyebrow again. “You’re a big girl now. What, you can read about sex but you can’t talk about it—”

“Keep your voice down,” you whisper-yell, shushing him in a panicked tone, but he can barely take you seriously, chest rumbling with soft laughter.

“Alright,” he nods. “If it’ll please you, Tiny, I’ll do it.”

Then he leaves the kitchen, retreats into your brother’s room and starts yelling at him to wake up. You’re left on your own to figure out why he put so much emphasis on the word please.

“You’re leaving?”

Alright, now it’s getting fucking ridiculous. You’re sat in the back of your dad’s car after sending your brother and his girlfriend off to the airport, absolutely flabbergasted by what your parents have just said.

“You’re leaving me alone for two weeks,” you continue. “Since when? How long has this been in the works? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“God, no, it’s not like that,” your mum sighs, turning to you from where she sits in the passenger’s seat. “They invited us to their beach house in the Central Coast a month ago. We said no because we knew you were coming but, with Oscar here now… Why not?”

“We just thought it would be nice to have some time to ourselves,” your father continues, eyes still on the road. “With our friends. And you’re on break for ages! We’ll only be gone for two weeks.”

“You’re an adult now,” your mother smiles hesitantly. “And with Oscar… Well, I honestly trust him more than your own brother to take good care of you.”

Oscar is touched, but you’re less than satisfied by all this still. “I’m sorry, honey,” your mum starts again, but you shake your head.

“No, no, I get it, it’s fine,” you say, waving off her concerns. “I just wish I had a heads up, but I get it.”

Looking out the window now, you feel Oscar place a comforting hand on your shoulder, his touch soft and warm, wordlessly assuring you things will be okay. He means well, but it worsens your worries. Your stomach feels strange. Now you can’t escape how you feel.

You look out the window, waiting for the bread slices in the toaster to pop out. In the back garden, Oscar is dutifully watering the plants blooming around the wooden benches and table where your parents like to host barbecues. (It’s one of the many tasks listed in the list of chores your mum left the two of you.) He takes careful steps, acutely aware of the blossoming flowers near his feet, and slips his gloves off where the shelf with all the necessary gear is.

He calls out to you, nudging the watering can with his foot to where it should be. “Smells good in there.”

“Almost done now,” you call out back to him, turning back to the kitchen counter where two dishes are lined with omelettes and chorizo sausages. When the slices pop out, you smear smashed avocado all over one side of them. When he finally comes through the back door, you’re finishing the already-salted avocado toast off by grinding up some pepper. Oscar stands behind you, watching as you do it.

“Looks amazing, too,” he chuckles. “Or maybe I’m just real hungry.”

“I think you’re just real hungry,” you say. “What took you so long?”

He shrugs, taking both plates from the counter to the dinner table. “Your dad’s tool shelf is weird as fuck.”

You don’t question it; he’s probably right, your dad is weird as fuck in general, so you just take knives and forks to the table. “Dig in,” you tell him, placing a fork down where he’s sat. He turns his head to look up at you, smiling.

“Thank you,” he says, softly, and Oscar’s looking at you with genuine delight. You turn away. Your chest is tightening. You go to sit where he’s put the other dish, and he watches as you take a small bite of your toast.

“So,” he starts up again. “They’re all gone. It’s just the two of us. Should we throw a rager?”

You chuckle at his words, and he beams, eager to make you laugh. “Yeah,” he nods, smiling gently again. “Wasn’t feeling like it either.”

“We don’t really have to do anything today,” you say, chewing on your food. “We’ve still got a whole two weeks ahead of us.”

“That’s true,” Oscar hums. “Well…”

You look up from your plate, giving him a curious look. “Well?”

“Well,” he continues, “I just haven’t had a chance to say—well, I’ve just wanted to say… It’s nice to see you again. You’ve grown a lot. You look good. Really good.”

You must be bright brick red in the face now. “Thank you,” you mumble back, and when you both finish your food he helps you load the dishes into the dishwasher before vacuuming the living room, ticking off another thing on the list.

“Tiny, I’m sure you look amazing,” he says from the other side of the door. “Can you please come out now?”

You look at yourself in the mirror, huffing. “No.”

Oscar frowns to himself. “Well, can I at least come in?”

“No!” you exclaim, the thought of him seeing all the clothes tossed onto your bed embarrassing you too much to even consider opening the door.

“You’re not naked in there, are you—”

“Oh my god, Osc, no.”

“We’ll miss the whole thing at this point, we’re late as is,” he tries to reason with you. “Please, Tiny, I could help you.”

“Yeah, because you’re so fashionable. I can’t just throw a linen shirt and beige shorts on like you do.”

You hear him snicker from outside. “Mee-ow. Touché.”

Sighing, you come closer to your door. “Just,” you say. “Don’t be cruel, okay?”

Oscar leans his head against the door. “Of course,” he mutters quickly. “I mean, obviously. Yeah.”

With another big huff, you unlock the door, and his eyes widen at the sight of you in a dress, soft blush pink silk hugging to your curves all the way down to your ankles. The thin straps leave little to the imagination, your collarbones and shoulders exposed to the sunlight filtering through your curtains. Oscar wonders how soft your skin must be, supple arms smoothing over your waist.

“I don’t know if I feel good in this,” you say, and his eyes dart back to your face, wincing in worry. “I don’t know if I necessarily have the body—”

“You look fantastic.”

You turn around to face him. He’s standing behind you, a little flushed as his eyes rake over your figure again. “You look great, I mean,” Oscar says. “Just… bring a cardigan.”

You chuckle. “It’s the middle of summer—”

“It could get cold at night.”

There’s a bite in his voice that makes you shiver, especially as you turn back around to face your mirror and he comes closer, towering over you.

“Who knows how long we’ll be out for.”

The Christmas market stays open until late. It doesn’t get dark by the evening hours in the summer, so you never slip on the cardigan. Instead, Oscar insists on having his arm around your shoulders the entire time, leading to more than one stall owner mistaking you for a couple. The commotion makes you blush every time.

“What are you so embarrassed about?” he chuckles. The two of you meander through the paths of the market, barely taking note of any of the stalls at this point. “People used to mistake us for a couple all the time in school.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Nuh uh,” you retort. “They thought we were siblings.”

Oscar gags. “What? Christ, no.”

“Exactly,” you chuckle. “Or they thought we were cousins.”

He looks at you, cocks his head to the side curiously. “Well, what’d you tell them?”

You shrug honestly. “I don’t know. I told them you’re my Oscar,” you say, and your answer makes him laugh softly.

“And what exactly does that mean?” He prods.

“Well, there’s no other way to put it.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “We’re not friends?”

Well, I hope not, you think. “You’re my brother’s friend,” you say. “And I think even he detests you sometimes.”

Now you’re approaching where the crowds are down the street. As you slip through the mass of people, the heat starts to rise even more in temperature, making his skin stick to yours in the humidity as he holds you close still.

“But we’re close,” you nod. “Not friends, not family. Just… My Oscar.”

He chuckles. “Your Oscar?”

“Ha-ha,” you roll your eyes, though the heat starts to get to your cheeks now. “Yes. My Oscar.”

Well, he likes the sound of that. It’s very intimate, he thinks. And he definitely likes that. “You know,” you continue as you finally escape the crowd, walking down the street and away from the market now. “They never stopped asking me.”

“Asking what?”

“About whether or not you were single,” you giggle.

Oscar sighs dramatically, halting to a stop as he shakes his head in great disappointment, making you laugh even harder. As the years went by, Oscar’s racing aspirations became more and more apparent to the student population, propelling him to celebrity status at school. It’s funny; the more lenient his schooling arrangements became, the less he showed up at school, and rumours started spreading, making him a sort of mythical figure that would drive girls wild whenever he did show up to class.

“You know I always fucking hated that,” he grumbles to you, eyes narrowing. “Fuckin’ hate how they treated you—I mean, you’re not my guard dog, you’re a human being.”

“It’s not that serious,” you snicker. “Schoolgirls are schoolgirls. You were a heartthrob, you know?”

Oscar lets out a hesitant chuckle. “Not by choice. I didn’t have time for girls,” he says, turning the corner towards the train station. “Well. Maybe just the one.”

“Oh?” you laugh. “How did I not know about this? Who was it?”

He smiles, turns to look at your curious face, and ruffles your hair like he always does. “The tiniest girl I’ve ever known.”

But you’re not that girl anymore. Later that night he knocks on your own door just before bedtime; you tell him to come in, and when he does, you’re standing in front of your mirror, clipping your hair back. In the sweltering heat of Australian December, your choice of pajamas is a camisole that wraps loosely around your bare chest, the shape of which is too apparent for him to not flush, and heather grey shorts that are dangerously short. It is now that Oscar realises that the tiny little girl he used to play wrestle with as a child really is, as he had told you before, all grown up now. When you turn around, smiling so sweetly and innocently and wishing him a good night’s sleep, he dryly swallows and silently nods, closing the door when you wave goodbye. If he didn’t leave right that minute he would’ve put his hands all over you, feeling that soft skin he’s been wondering about all day.

It’s not that that girl you were or the boy in him has vanished. But now you have both come to a situation where a certain passion shows its naked face, and that girl and that boy can now see the true spirit of the relationship they share, and it was there all along. Oscar sleeps scarcely that night, stirring in your brother’s bed in a cold sweat as his mind replays the images of your figure standing in front of your mirror, blissfully unaware of how gorgeous you have always been in his eyes. The ultimate standard of the perfect girl in his mind. What a pleasant affliction this is, a small price to pay for his heart to blossom.

He ignores the tent in his boxers and shuts his eyes. Your brother’s going to kill him.

Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? Questions? Leave them all in my askbox, and sorry for any mistakes/typos!

[meazalykov]

friend to wife

ingrid engen x reader

summary: to your family, she was just a friend until she became your wife

warnings: coming out, mentions of comphet, angst but comforting overall!

it’s quiet when you and ingrid step out of the car, the crisp december air nipping at your cheeks as you glance toward the familiar silhouette of your childhood home. 

christmas lights twinkle along the roofline, a warm glow spilling from the windows, and for a brief moment, you hesitate. your heart pounds in your chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation coursing through you. 

ingrid steps closer, her gloved hand finding yours, squeezing gently.

“you okay?” she asks, her voice soft, her norwegian accent wrapping around you like a comfort blanket. her eyes, steady and calm, meet yours, and you nod despite the tightness in your throat.

“yeah,” you murmur, although the weight of what you’re about to do feels monumental. this is your family. your parents, who have always pictured a version of you that you’ve long since outgrown. 

your younger siblings, who probably suspect more than you’ve let on. and now, you’re about to introduce them to ingrid—not as your best friend, not as your teammate, but as your wife.

your wife.

the word still feels surreal, even though it’s been three weeks since the day you and ingrid exchanged vows in a small, intimate ceremony at a courthouse in barcelona. it had been perfect, just the two of you with alexia, fridolina, marta, and caroline as witnesses, the simplicity of it feeling right for who you both are. 

ingrid hadn’t wanted to wait until next summer, and you, always understanding, had agreed. the euros would come and go, but this—your love, your commitment—couldn’t wait.

“we’ll be okay,” ingrid reassures you, leaning in to kiss your temple. 

“your family loves you. they’ll love us.”

you take a deep breath, letting her words ground you, and together, you walk toward the front door.

the inside of the house smells like pine and cinnamon, the comforting scent wrapping around you as soon as you step inside. your mom appears from the kitchen, a warm smile lighting up her face as she pulls you into a tight hug.

“there’s my oldest girl,” she says, holding you close before turning to ingrid. “and ingrid! it’s so good to see you again.”

you exchange pleasantries, your dad appearing from the living room to join in the greetings. your younger siblings peek around the corner, grinning as they call out your name and wave at ingrid. 

it’s all so familiar, so normal, and for a brief moment, you wonder if you should keep the truth tucked away a little longer. but then ingrid’s hand brushes yours, a silent reminder of why you’re here, and you steel yourself.

“actually,” you start, your voice a little shaky. you clear your throat, glancing at ingrid before looking back at your parents. 

“we have something to tell you.”

your mom raises an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in her eyes, while your dad leans against the counter, his arms crossed. your siblings exchange glances, their expressions a mix of intrigue and anticipation.

“ingrid is here with me because– well– she isn’t just my best friend,” you say, the words tumbling out faster than you intended. 

“she’s now my wife.”

silence.

for a moment, the only sound is the faint hum of christmas music playing from the living room. your mom blinks, her smile faltering slightly as she processes your words. your dad’s eyebrows shoot up, his mouth opening as if to speak, but no words come out. 

your siblings, on the other hand, seem less shocked. one of them—your youngest sister—lets out a quiet “i knew it,” earning a nudge from your brother.

“your wife?” your mom finally says, her voice tinged with surprise but not unkind. she looks between you and ingrid, her gaze settling on the norwegian. 

“you two got married?”

“we did,” ingrid confirms, her tone calm and steady. she steps closer, her hand finding yours again, and you draw strength from her presence. 

“three weeks ago, in barcelona. it was a small ceremony, just the two of us and a couple of friends.”

your dad exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair as he looks at the rings placed on the ring finger of your hand. 

“why didn’t you tell us sooner?” he asks, his tone more bewildered than upset.

you swallow hard, your grip on ingrid’s hand tightening. “it wasn’t easy for me to accept who i was, for not being what I thought was ‘normal’,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“for so long, i thought i was... someone else. someone straight. and it wasn’t until i met ingrid in wolfsburg that i started to understand myself and everything else.”

your mom’s expression softens, her eyes filling with something you can’t quite place—understanding, maybe, or compassion. she steps closer, reaching out to touch your arm.

“sweetheart,” she says gently, “you could’ve told us. we love you, no matter what.”

“i know,” you say quickly, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. 

“but i was scared. scared of disappointing you guys,.”

your dad steps forward then, placing a hand on your shoulder. “you’re our daughter,” he says firmly. 

“that’s never going to change. and if ingrid makes you happy, then we’re happy for you and our new daughter-in-law.”

the relief that washes over you is almost overwhelming, and you feel the tears spill over as you nod, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. ingrid squeezes your hand, her own eyes glistening with emotion.

“thank you,” she says softly, her voice directed at your parents. 

“that means a lot to both of us.”

your mom smiles, wiping at her own eyes before pulling ingrid into a hug. “welcome to the family,” she says, her voice warm and sincere. 

“we already loved you, but now you’re officially one of us.”

your siblings chime in then, teasing you about keeping such a big secret while also expressing their excitement. your youngest sister, always the bold one, asks if she can call ingrid her sister-in-law now, and you can’t help but laugh.

“you’ll have to wait for the ceremony in 2026,” ingrid jokes, earning a round of groans and laughter.

“2026?” your mom repeats, her brow furrowing. “why so far away?”

“the euros,” you explain. 

“ingrid will be playing for norway, and i’ll be with our country. it’s going to take up most of next year, so we figured 2026 would give us time to plan something special.”

“well,” your dad says, clapping his hands together, “we’ll be there, no matter when or where it is.”

the rest of the evening is filled with laughter and stories, the initial tension melting away as your family embraces the news. sitting at the kitchen island later, you watch as ingrid chats with your mom, their voices low and easy, as if they’ve known each other forever. 

your dad is in the living room with your siblings, showing them old photo albums, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a deep sense of peace.

this is what you’ve always wanted—acceptance, not just from your family, but from yourself. and now, with ingrid by your side, you finally have it.

masterlist