#there's no reason for them not to mention and/or show it

[casuallyanidiot]

Group Participation!

Group project for a class where everyone hates each other, but they somehow fall in love with you???

Yandere! m Academic Rival! x gn! Reader x Yandere! m Nerd!

Dead Dove Do Not Eat! MDNI! Tw. Noncon, Yandere, Dubcon, Oral, Voyeurism, semi-public sex, recording

1.7k words

When you got your assigned partners for the assignment, you actually considered just dropping out entirely. The two names on the paper were of the two people that had made your academic career an absolute nightmare.

Yandere Academic Rival is pissed that he has to work with you for once.

It’s not like you guys are nearly on the same level, so Elias just knows he’s going to have to be on your ass to make sure that you’re not going to manage to fuck this up for everyone. His normal opportunity to try and show you up has been dashed, and now he’s passive aggressively adding notes on to literally anything you write.

“I just feel like this is taking too much space. We can cut down on the word count much more if we remove this part.”

“Dude, that's literally just our hypothesis”

“As I said. You should let me write this part. It will be much better.”

He’s so set on taking over bits of your project, but then he whines about how much he has to do. He spends hours nitpicking everything your group does, but he seems to love focusing on you in particular.

“Come on. You should at least come with me to dinner. I’m staying here after hours to try and fix your mistakes."

“What the- no one asked you to do that???”

“Well, we might as well punch in the failing grade ourselves if I don’t. Sit down. You’re not going anywhere until I can thoroughly check what you’re up to.”

Yandere Nerd isn’t much better.

You had hoped that Marcus would tamper down on his creepiness now that there was someone else present when you interacted with him, but you had no such luck. 

He’s a lot more brazen in his advances now. His hand tries to worm its way between your clenched thighs under the table, prodding at your crotch with a mischievous grin like you weren’t sweating bullets. He likes to insert your nudes into the shared draft at ungodly hours at night, making you constantly have to be on the lookout to remove it before Elias would see.

Now, Marcus is smart. Smarter than both you and Elias. Getting him on this project was a guaranteed first class mark in the bag, but it was a goddamn headache making him do anything. You literally had to get on your hands and knees to beg him to do his paragraph on the introduction page. He took a photo, grinned, and finished it flawlessly in less than an hour. You shuddered to think what he would ask of you next.

It wasn’t just him, either. You had been doing your best to manage them both, but it was getting out of hand. Not to mention, but Elias was getting more and more needy.

“You’re working with me today. Not him.” He would scoff in disdain, grabbing your wrist and tugging you off to crowd you against some cafe booth while he tried to get you to drink a coffee you could barely afford. It was hard to keep up with his insults when Marcus would be firing off texts saying “Bby where r u? :(“ followed by a photo of his weeping cockhead. For whatever reason, your so-called rival kept wanting to dig through your phone to see what could possibly be taking up so much of your time. You had to appease him by sneaking off together to the bathroom so you could suck him off so he would drop it.

“God you’re so filthy. I bet you would do this for anyone, wouldn’t you?” He’d hiss between moans. As much as he acted like he was above you, he couldn’t stop the whimpers pouring from his lips as he came down your throat. He couldn’t stop the little admission of love when he thought you were too busy swallowing, either. 

Your days were filled with a delicate balance of trying to finish your work, corralling the two of them into actually making progress, and staving off their demands for more and more time with you by trying to make them cum in random spots around campus. A hand job here, and thigh job there, and you were nearly finished with this stupid ass assignment. You’d done a pretty damn good job stopping them from finding out about each other too. Their whispered threats about what would happen if they caught you with anyone else rang cold in your ears every time they tried to ask for more.

It all came crashing down when Elias snapped one day. You were sitting in a study room that had been booked so you could actually try and edit this damn thing properly and just be done. Your fingers flew across your keyboard, the noise filling the otherwise silent space between you. You didn’t notice when he stopped, but you did notice when he was suddenly right next to you, his shadow looming over the words on screen. You paused, sweat forming on the back of your neck.

It was a blur after that. His hands were tugging at your clothes, bending you over the desk as papers and pens scattered to the ground. “You’re so fucking annoying,” he panted in you ear as his hips snapped against yours. The sound of skin on skin replaced the ambience of a productive workflow, and you were left scrambling and stifling your moans. 

“Always going around, looking at me like I mean nothing. You think you're better than me? You think you don't need me?” He was rambling, his hand on the back of your throat as he held you in place. He was angry, but there was a desperation to his words. It was like he needed you to affirm his words, to tell him everything he'd been hoping that would tumble from your lips for weeks at this point. You were no stranger to getting pounded at this point, but there was an urgency to the way you tried to plead with him to stop. 

“N-ngh~! Elias you gotta hah, y-you gotta stop. Marcus is on his-” He shut you up with a kiss, his lips sliding against yours as he cradled your face.

“Shut the fuck up,” he demanded, his voice ragged as he squeezed your neck in slight warning. “Don't mention that asshole. You're… you're always with him. Do you like him more than me? Tell me. Tell me right now or I'll make it so you can't sit for a whole week,” he demanded, and you could practically hear the insecurity dripping from his tongue. He didn't even give you time to answer. He just shoved you against the table again, your chest flush with the wooden surface. 

From the corner of your eye, you could see your face down phone lighting up. The vibrating notifications were sporadic at first, but the longer you didn't answer, the more frequent they became. Your stifled pleas for mercy were only met with grunts, and it wasn’t before long before your toes were curling and a heat in your belly grew more and more prevalent. But before you or Elias could finish, the door opened. 

Marcus just stood there for a moment, a genuinely shocked look on his face. You could have sworn Elias smiled, like it was some kind of victory to show how you were on the brink of orgasm to the guy he’d been quietly jealous of this entire time. But then, Marcus just grinned. It wasn’t genuine. You knew him well enough to know that.

“Oh? What do we have here?” 

You’d never known his voice to be that smooth, that controlled. Marcus locked the door behind him, his face unreadable as he walked in and pulled out his phone. Elias moved to cover you now that he was done showing off, but the other man put out his hand to stop him silently. You trembled beneath him.

“Oh please, there’s no need to stop for me,” he smirked, practically shoving his screen in your so-called rival’s face to show off a video of you sobbing and moaning while stuffed full of a cock that was certainly not the one currently inside of you right now. “ I’ve already seen it all,” he practically sneered. Elias’s grip tightened painful on your hip, and you panted as you craned your head to see his expression. He went pale before his face flashed with fury.

“You fucking asshole-!”

“Please, like you’re not doing the same thing right now. I should’ve known to keep them on a tighter leash,” Marcus sighed and brushed his hair back as he fixed his glasses and approached the other side of the table you were currently bent over. He wordlessly undid his belt and pants, his dick slapping you across the face as he fisted your hair far harsher than he normally would. You barely got a word in, trying to argue for your innocence before you were choking on his length. You coughed loudly, but they ignored your struggling to stay locked on each other. 

“There’s no point in arguing,” Yandere Nerd’s voice was sharp and cold as his hands worked your head. “We might as well work together until we can figure out how to deal with this,” he sighed, frustration simmering under the surface.

Elias looked genuinely taken aback, but he gritted his teeth as he started up the effort of fucking into you once again. Your eyes widened as you tried to get out of being fucked from both ends. Every time you tried to moan or cry out, Marcus’s tip could shove deep into your throat, causing you to gag. Your toes curled, and your back arched as you spasmed. 

“Fuck you,” he snapped between groans, his breath hitching as he switched between lovingly stroking your lower back and nearly breaking the table. “Fine. We’ll have to keep them in line. I didn’t know they’d be running around getting fucked like some low class- ngh!” He cut off his rambling as he leaned in and suddenly started pressing kisses and bites to your shoulders.

“Maybe a- shit yeah breath baby. Maybe a tracker for good measure,” Marcus suggested between snarls. “We can split the costs.”

Your stomach sank as they started to discuss the logistics about how to keep you quiet and pliant between the two of you while they kept thrusting into you like you weren’t even there. You sobbed, the sound muffled pitifully. Who knew that, this whole time, they’d actually been able to work together just fine?

[cheftsunoda]

Heyy! I love all your fics, they are soooo good! Could you maybe write one where y/n is max fewtrells little sister and landos race engineer but media is being mean to her and saying that she just got the job cause she's a woman and that she doesn't deserve it. So lando has to step in and then they fall in love. If you don't like this you could just ignore it but I'd love to read it:)

not on my watch — ln4

smau + blurbs

lando norris x !race engineer reader

it started shortly after the mclaren announcement was posted— 'yn fewtrell has been named lando norris’ race engineer for the 2025 season.' the internet erupted—accusations of nepotism, blatant sexism, and outrage that they’d hand the job to a 24 year old woman. they don’t know you built half the strategy software they rely on. they don’t know you graduated at 19 and haven’t made a wrong call since. they don’t know lando trusts you more than anyone else on the team. this season, you’re done staying quiet. you’re going to prove them all wrong. even if it means falling for the one person you were never supposed to.

fc : lissie mackintosh

(a/n) : hellooooo mi vida <3 thank you for the love on my work! i appreciate you sm. sorry this took so long but i hope you enjoy 🧚🏻

also i love writing like the engineering side of things. my dad is a retired race engineer and he taught me everything i know and is the reason for my love of the sport. there is your fun fact of the day;) enjoy !

—

mclaren & yn_fewtrell

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, zbrownceo & 7,110,011 others.

mclaren : Please welcome YN Fewtrell as Lando Norris’ new race engineer for the 2025 season. Brilliant, fearless, and ready to lead from the pit wall. Let’s go win some races. 🧡

—

view 772,000 other comments.

username000 : ok but she’s actually a genius? she BUILT half their strategy models. stay mad.

username00 : this is history and y’all don’t even know it yet. she’s gonna run the whole grid one day.

username0 : nepotism is alive and well I see 😐

username1 : she’s 24 and in charge of race strategy?? lmao. hope Lando likes DNFing.

↳ lando : keep my wife’s name out of your FUCKIN mouth.

liked by yn_fewtrell and maxfewtrell

↳ lando : i literally begged her to take the job. she had about a dozen offers for other teams. she is smarter than the whole paddock put together.

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell, mclaren and oscarpiastri

zbrownceo : Brilliant mind. Cool under pressure. Unshakable. Couldn’t be prouder. Let’s do this.

liked by mclaren and yn_fewtrell

↳ username5 : you’ll regret this 2 races into the season.

oscarpiastri : I thought I knew the science behind F1…and then I met YN…and she made me question everything. Congratulations, YN! We are happy to have you.

liked by mclaren, yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell and lando

maxfewtrell : Such a proud big brother moment. Go show them just how genius you are, sis! 🤧🧡

liked by mclaren, yn_fewtrell and lando

pietra.pilao : literally the most intelligent person in the world! no one deserves this more🥺 I LOVE YOU YNNNNN

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell and lando

lando : no one can wrangle me like this one. let’s make history together bub!!

liked by yn_fewtrell, mclaren and oscarpiastri

username17 : Hiring women just to look good, not to win races. Disgraceful.

↳ yn_fewtrell : funny how the people questioning my ability never mention the races i have helped win. maybe instead of whining about my gender, you should learn how to actually win. see you on the podium—if you can keep up. 🧡

liked by maxfewtrell, lando, mclaren, pietra.pilao and oscarpiastri

↳ maxfewtrell : ATE

liked by lando and yn_fewtrell

username37 : Just here to watch her fail and disappear. It’s not like she’s actually qualified.

↳ lando : talk shit get hit. you’re out here bullying a woman behind a keyboard while she stays winning and getting paid.

liked by yn_fewtrell and maxfewtrell

username45 : Bet she got the job ‘cause Max begged, not because she earned it.

↳ maxfewtrell : lando doesn’t even like me that much, if I would’ve asked he would’ve said no.

↳ lando : TRUTH

username55 : This is why F1 is a joke now. Giving a 24-year-old woman a crucial race engineer role? Please. Next, they’ll have kids driving cars.

↳ maxfewtrell : This comment is exactly why she’s needed. You clowns scream about F1 being a joke, but the real punchline is you thinking your fragile ego matters more than her qualifications. She’s 24, a genius, and running circles around engineers twice her age. Stay pressed.

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

—

You’re not sure why your palms are sweaty. You’ve given technical presentations in front of FIA directors. You’ve rebuilt a predictive model with zero sleep and one cracked laptop. You’ve told grown men twice your age their simulations were wrong—and then proved it. But this? Sitting across from Zak Brown and the McLaren technical director with your name printed at the top of an official offer letter? This feels different.

“Relax,” Zak says, grinning like he’s already picturing you on the pit wall. “You’re not in trouble. Unless being a genius is suddenly against the rules.”

You crack a smile. Just a small one. The technical director slides the contract toward you. You already know what it says. But seeing it in writing makes your heart skip anyway.

“We want you in the role officially,” Zak says. “You’ve been running the backend strategy models, fixing everyone’s messes from behind the curtain, and honestly? It’s long overdue.”

“I thought I was too young,” you say carefully. “Too… controversial.”

Zak leans forward, elbows on the table. “You graduated at 19. You built the race strategy AI we still use today. You predicted the Qatar safety car last season three laps before it happened. You’ve saved Lando’s race more times than we can count. If you were anyone else—any guy, with ten more grey hairs—we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. You’d already be in that seat.”

Your throat tightens a little. You swallow it down.

“We know what people are going to say,” the tech director adds. “The media will be brutal. The ‘nepotism’ headlines, the ‘diversity hire’ comments. It’s coming.”

“I know,” you say softly. “But they’re wrong.”

Zak nods. “Exactly. And I want them to say it. Loudly. So we can prove them wrong. Publicly.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where everything shifts—where it all becomes real.

“Lando asked for you, by the way,” Zak says, almost offhand. “Said he’s never trusted anyone more with his race or his car.”

That stops you. You blink. Look back down at the paper. You knew you’d earned this. But hearing that? It hits different. You pick up the pen. And for the first time since walking into the room, you let yourself smile—full, bright, certain.

“Let’s go win some races.”

—

Dinner at Max’s flat was always a bit of a circus. Pietra’s voice filled the kitchen as she narrated her sauce recipe like a cooking show. Max was burning the garlic bread while insisting he knew what he was doing. And Lando? Lando was sitting at the end of the counter, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair, stealing olives out of the bowl you were supposed to be using for the salad. You’d missed this.

The normalcy. The teasing. The fact that no one was looking at you like you were about to become the most talked about person in the paddock.

“You’re being suspicious,” Max says, pointing a fork at you as he slides into his seat at the table.

“I’m literally just existing,” you reply.

Pietra hums. “No, he’s right. You’ve had a look all evening. Like you’re hiding something.”

You glance at Lando. He doesn’t say anything, but he raises one eyebrow, a silent challenge. He’s been patient with you the last few weeks. Supportive, even while everyone else kept asking what team you were going to sign with. Mercedes had called. Ferrari had emailed. Even Red Bull made an offer. You’d kept it to yourself, waiting for the right moment. Tonight was the right moment.

You take a slow sip of your wine. “So… I signed.”

The room goes silent. Max straightens in his chair like you just told him you were pregnant. “What?”

Pietra claps her hands. “With who?!”

Lando freezes. The olive he was about to eat drops back into the bowl. “Wait. Seriously? You signed?”

You nod slowly, drawing it out. “Yep.”

Max leans forward, eyes wide. “Okay, well—Ferrari?”

You shake your head.

“Mercedes,” Pietra tries, gasping dramatically. “You’d look hot in silver.”

You smile, still silent. Lando’s eyes haven’t left your face. He looks nervous. Hopeful.

“I signed with McLaren,” you say finally. “Race engineer for Mr. Norris.”

And then—Chaos. Pure Chaos.

“YESSSSS!” Pietra screeches, nearly knocking over her wine.

Max throws a napkin in the air like it’s confetti. “I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU’D STAY!”

Lando lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for three years. He covers his mouth with one hand and laughs.

“You’re joking,” he says, eyes wide. “You’re actually serious?”

“I signed the contract this morning,” you reply, grinning. “Zak just let them put out the announcement.”

Max is on his feet in seconds, pulling you up into a bear hug. “I’m so proud of you,” he says into your hair, voice suddenly a little thick. “They have no idea what’s coming.”

Pietra joins the hug, wrapping her arms around both of you. “We’re going to make shirts that say ‘fewtrell dominance could bore fans.’”

You laugh into her shoulder. “Please don’t.”

When you finally break away, Lando’s still sitting, eyes soft, lips twitching like he’s trying to hide how relieved he is.

“You okay over there?” you tease.

He stands, coming to stand just in front of you. “I’m great. I’m—actually, I’m really happy.”

You nod, trying to keep your voice even. “You sure you can handle me screaming strategy in your ear every Sunday?”

Lando grins. “Only if you promise to keep calling me out when I whine on the radio.”

You roll your eyes. “Deal.”

There’s a beat where no one says anything. Just you, standing a little too close to Lando in the middle of Max’s kitchen, your heart hammering for reasons that have nothing to do with the job. Max breaks the silence.

“So… do I need to have the talk now, or can I just trust that Lando will behave?”

Pietra gasps. “Max!”

Lando chokes on a laugh. “What?! Nothing’s even happening!”

You try to act innocent, but you’re smiling now—bright and open and a little bit full of something terrifyingly hopeful.

“Yet,” Max mutters, grabbing the garlic bread off the counter. “I’m watching you, Norris.”

You roll your eyes and steal a piece of bread. Because the truth is, you’re watching him too. And you’re not sure who’s more in trouble—you, for finally taking this job. Or Lando, for falling a little harder every time you say his name.

—

Later that night, the laughter fades into tired giggles, and the plates are mostly empty, wine glasses scattered across the table like a celebration that never wanted to end. Max and Pietra are curled up on the couch, half-asleep under a blanket and pretending they’re not eavesdropping. Which leaves you and Lando in the kitchen—cleaning up, sort of. Mostly moving things around and trying not to look like you’re just avoiding saying something.

He’s rinsing dishes at the sink, sleeves pushed up, curls slightly messy from running his hand through his hair too many times. You dry the plates beside him, stealing glances when you think he’s not paying attention. Of course, he is.

“You really had us going,” Lando says softly, finally breaking the silence. “Thought you were off to Ferrari or something.”

You shrug. “I could’ve. But… it never felt right. They wanted the title on my resume. McLaren actually wanted me.”

He smiles at that—wide and full of pride. “We’re lucky to have you. I mean that.”

There’s something heavy under his voice now. Not just pride. Something else.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he adds, rinsing the last glass. “I asked for you.”

You glance over at him. “I figured. Zak doesn’t subtlety drop things like that.”

Lando laughs under his breath, then grows quiet again. “It wasn’t just because you’re smart, or talented, or scary good at reading data. It’s because I trust you. And that’s rare for me.”

You look down at the towel in your hands, your voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you too.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where the air shifts. Where you both feel the question neither of you has dared to ask.

He looks over at you, searching. “Are you scared?”

You nod slowly. “A little. Not of the job. Just… everything else.”

His gaze softens, and he takes a step closer. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth between you.

“Whatever it is,” he says, voice low, “we figure it out together.”

You blink at him. Your breath catches, just a little.

“Even if Max threatens to murder you?” you joke.

Lando smirks. “Especially then.”

The moment hangs there—close, careful, charged. You want to kiss him. You have for years. It is definitely not the time now. But the thought is there, sitting between you, unspoken and inevitable.

Instead, he nudges your shoulder gently. “Come on. You’re off duty tonight. I’ll finish up.”

You hand him the towel and roll your eyes. “Don’t screw up the glassware, Norris.”

He grins, watching you walk out of the kitchen. And when he turns back to the sink, he’s still smiling—because for the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly where it’s meant to be.

—

Australia. Testing Day.

The paddock is humming like a heartbeat—fast, sharp, electric. You walk toward the garage with your headset in hand, credentials swinging around your neck, papaya polo fitted perfectly like it’s been yours all along. People glance as you pass, some with confusion, others with curiosity. You hear your name once or twice in passing—low whispers, half-question, half-gossip. You ignore all of it.

Because you’re not here to be liked. You’re here to run a car. McLaren’s garage is already alive when you step in. The smell of oil and tire rubber hits you first, followed by the warm buzz of quiet chaos. Engineers, mechanics, data analysts—moving like they’re part of a living machine.

Lando’s sitting in the car, helmet off, half-zipped race suit and that usual lazy grin stretched across his face.

“Morning, boss,” he says into the radio, teasing.

You settle into your seat on the pit wall like you’ve done it a thousand times. Calm. Focused. Headset on.

“Morning, Norris,” you reply coolly. “Try not to crash. I just got here.”

A soft laugh crackles through the comms. “No promises.”

Zak appears behind you, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “This is it,” he says, smiling. “Let’s show them why you’re here.”

You nod once and focus on the screen in front of you. Live telemetry scrolls across the monitor. Tire temps. Fuel load. Weather variance. You track it all with sharp, trained eyes.

Your voice is calm when it hits the radio. “Okay Lando, we’re doing a 12 lap run, softs, with gradual pace increase. I want full feedback on braking stability by lap 4. Let’s go.”

“Copy that,” he replies, voice lighter than it probably should be. “Lead the way, genius.”

And then the garage clears as the engine roars to life. He pulls out of the pit lane. The screens flicker to life, and the data begins to pour in. Sector times. Tire degradation. Wind resistance. The other engineers glance over at you—quietly impressed. By lap 5, you’re already adjusting the run.

“Box at the end of 8. Temps are creeping up faster than expected. Want to save the compound.”

“Copy,” Lando says immediately, without question.

By lap 9, he’s back in the garage. You’re waiting with a bottle of water and a raised brow.

“You’re .03 seconds off your previous best in Turn 11,” you say, casually handing it over. “What are you doing in there, admiring the desert?”

Lando takes the bottle, grinning. “Maybe I just like hearing you call me out.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of a smile. The truth is—you’re in your element. The voices in the paddock might still whisper. The media might still doubt.

But on that pit wall, with your headset on and Lando behind the wheel, you’re exactly where you belong. Every call you make is sharp, every number you read makes sense, and the car? The car is singing. And by the end of the day? McLaren tops the timing sheets. Because this time, it’s not just about the car or the driver. It’s about you—and him—and the strategy that only the two of you can build together.

—

The garage is humming with the kind of energy only a race day can bring — tightly wound nerves, soft radio checks, the heavy scent of tire compound, and pure adrenaline wrapped in papaya orange. This time, it’s louder. Bigger. More intense. Because this is your first race. Your race. On the wall. Running the strategy. With the whole world watching. And they’re not just watching Lando. They’re watching you.

You barely hear the murmurs from the media pens—Let them talk. You’re too busy building a strategy that’ll make them eat every last word.

In the garage, Max and Pietra are chaos in human form.

Max is pacing in his McLaren cap like he’s the one driving, and Pietra is waving around a mini flag like it’s actually helping anything.

“Can she even breathe up there?” Pietra asks, looking up at the pit wall nervously.

“I don’t think she is breathing,” Max replies. “She’s calculating.”

Five minutes to lights out. You clip your headset on. Your screen shows Lando’s live data feed. Heart rate slightly elevated, but steady. Tire temps in ideal range. Track temp rising faster than expected.

“Alright, Norris,” you say into the mic, voice cool and even. “We’re sticking to Plan A. Clean start, protect the tires. You hold position in Turn 1 and don’t get spicy until after Lap 10. Copy?”

Lando’s voice crackles through the radio, playful even under pressure.

“Copy, boss. I’ll behave. Ish.”

The lights go out. And so does the paddock. Lando has a flying start.

Shoots past Leclerc like it’s personal, glues himself to P2 before Lap 2, and settles into a comfortable rhythm. You monitor everything. Grip levels. Crosswinds in Sector 2. Fuel consumption. Brake temps. Max is screaming into Pietra’s shoulder behind you. Pietra’s crying by Lap 5. “HE’S DRIVING SO WELL.”

You smile despite yourself. By Lap 17, you see it.

The Ferraris are chewing through their tires. The Red Bulls are too conservative on power. You run the numbers twice. Then a third time. You flick on the radio.

“Box this lap. Undercut window is open.”

Lando doesn’t question you. “Copy. Let’s do it.”

He dives in. The stop is flawless. 2.3 seconds. And when the others finally pit? He comes out in the lead. P1. The garage explodes.

Max is on his feet, yelling something incoherent about “NEVER DOUBTED HER FOR A SECOND.”

Pietra is crying again, but this time she had acquired a hat to cover her face. You stay calm. Mostly.

“Alright,” you say over the radio. “Lead car. Twenty four laps to go. Clear track ahead. I want clean air and zero drama. Think you can manage that, Norris?”

Lando’s voice is steady, but there’s a grin buried in it.

“For you? Anything.”

The last 10 laps are torture. DRS threats. Virtual safety car. A rogue yellow flag that nearly throws everything. Your hands are shaking, but your voice is steady. Every call is precise.

“Brake bias forward by 2 clicks.”

“Harvest more in Sector 3.”

“Hold them off. This is your race.”

And Lando? He drives like he’s on rails. Like every word you say is gospel. Lap 58. Final sector. You stand, fingers white around your headset, eyes locked on the monitor.

Lando crosses the line—

P1.

The radio crackles—

“WE DID IT!” he screams. “YN! WE FUCKING DID IT!*”

Your heart explodes in your chest. You cover your mouth with one hand, tears burning in your eyes before you even realize they’re there.

You press the button, voice breaking just slightly.

“You were perfect, Lando. That was all you.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“No. That was us.”

The garage is mayhem. Mechanics hugging. Pit crew chanting your name. Zak running in from somewhere with champagne already in hand.

Max is sobbing into Pietra’s shoulder. “I KNEW SHE WAS A GENIUS. I KNEW IT.”

Pietra’s recording you with tears in her eyes and yelling, “YOU JUST BEAT HALF THE GRID WITH YOUR BRAIN.”

You take your headset off slowly, still stunned. And then you feel arms around you. Lando’s. He’s still in his fireproofs, sweat-soaked and grinning like he’s never smiled before. He doesn’t care who’s watching. He lifts you slightly off the ground as he hugs you.

“You were magic,” he whispers. “You made that happen.”

You pull back just slightly, your forehead resting against his. “And you made it look beautiful.”

He doesn’t dare to make a move. But his hands linger at your waist. His smile is soft. His eyes are only on you. And in that moment—surrounded by champagne, chaos, and the disbelief of everyone who ever doubted you—you know—This is only the beginning.

—

yn_fewtrell

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, pietra.pilao and 4,708,003 others.

yn_fewtrell : aus was fun, onto the next (p)one🫶🏻

tagged : pietra.pilao, maxfewtrell and lando

—

view 192,005 other comments.

lando : stole my french fries and my car, huh?

liked by yn_fewtrell

↳ yn_fewtrell : that is the price you pay when I lead you to a race win😁

liked by maxfewtrell and lando

↳ username00 : bitch one won race and made it her whole personality already. can’t wait to watch her fail.

mclaren : engineering excellence powered by french fries and gyros🧡

liked by yn_fewtrell

oscarpiastri : leave lando and be my engineer. i will give you all the french fries you want

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

↳ lando : not happening oscarino. she is staying with me 🤭

username10 : how are you THIS smart, THIS cool, and still relatable

liked by yn_fewtrell

username000 : There are people with decades of experience who deserved that role. But sure, let the influencer do strategy.

username11 : If she really cared about the job, she wouldn’t be flirting with her driver. Unprofessional af.

username50 : She’s more concerned about photo dumps and outfits than race data. No wonder people think women don’t belong here.

username33 : Funny how she was handed this position and still makes it all about herself. Typical influencer behavior.

zbrownceo : Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

—

It’s been eight weeks since Australia. Five races. Two wins. Three podiums. Zero strategy errors. One woman behind the radio. And somehow — none of it is enough.

You’re walking through the paddock before FP2, headset looped around your neck, data tablet pressed to your chest like armor. The McLaren polo clings to your skin in the heat, but you don’t notice. You’ve been sweating for hours, and not because of the sun. Every few steps, your name follows you like a curse. Not in congratulations. Not in respect. Just low, biting whispers.

“She only sounds smart on paper.”

“She’s riding Lando’s success like it’s hers.”

You walk faster. You don’t let it show — but God, it’s wearing you down. Quietly. Brutally. You haven’t opened Twitter in weeks. You scroll past Instagram comments like they’re burning. You stopped reading your tagged posts the day someone told you to “go back to fashion school” and said your first win was “handed to her.”

It’s not the media. Not even the sexist podcasters with cropped beards and buzzwords. It’s everyone else. The silence from your colleagues when your name is mentioned. The sideways looks from rival teams when McLaren beats them on strategy. The fans who scream for Lando and ignore you completely — or worse, call you a distraction. And still, you show up. Every day. Every race. Every session. You make the calls. You hit the targets. You win. But today? Today feels thin. Like the ground beneath your feet is giving way just a little.

You take a long breath as you pass the Sky Sports camera crew, nod politely, hoping to keep walking — until one of them turns just slightly and says it loud enough for you to hear— 

“There goes Norris’ lucky charm.”

You stop. It’s not just the words — it’s the tone. Patronizing. Dismissive. Cruel in its casualness.

“Smart of McLaren to hire someone for optics. Keeps the headlines clean while he does the real work.”

Something cracks. Quietly. Deep in your chest. You turn your head — slowly, expression unreadable — and meet the reporter’s eyes.

“I suggest you rethink who’s doing the real work,” you say coolly, though your throat is tight. “I’m the one keeping his car in the points.”

Before he can respond, before he can smirk or backtrack or say something worse— A voice cuts in. Sharp. Dangerous. Familiar.

“Is there a problem here?”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is. You feel him before you see him. Lando. Still in his fireproofs, still flushed from the car, eyes hard and jaw tight.

The reporter chuckles, uncomfortable now. “Nothing at all. Just—complimenting your engineer.”

“Really? ���Lucky charm’ doesn’t sound like a compliment to me. You are patronizing her.”

Lando steps between you and the reporter without hesitation, his voice low and lethal.

“You don’t get to belittle her work because it makes you uncomfortable. You don’t get to reduce her to some narrative you can sell. She’s the reason I’m winning. She makes the calls. She reads the race like it’s written in a language only she speaks. And if you can’t handle that—maybe you should just get the fuck out.” 

The silence is deafening. The reporter stammers something, but Lando doesn’t wait to hear it. He turns to you gently, expression shifting — still sharp, but soft in a way he reserves only for you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You want to say yes. Want to tell him you’re fine. That it doesn’t matter. But your hands are trembling. And you’re so, so tired. He notices. Of course he does. Lando doesn’t say anything more — just steps closer, hand resting briefly on your back, shielding you as he leads you away. Out of the cameras. Out of the noise.

And even as your eyes sting, even as your chest aches with the weight of it all — there’s something steady about the way he walks beside you. Like a lifeline. Like a promise. You don’t say it yet. But you know. He’s in your corner. And when you can’t fight for yourself — Lando will.

—

It starts with the silences. Not the good kind—the ones you used to share in the garage after a long session, exhausted but grinning. Not the quiet that existed between looks and smirks and inside jokes that didn’t need explaining.

This silence is different. Colder. Heavier. Lando notices it first in the little things. The way you leave the debrief as soon as it ends. How you sit at the other end of the table during meals. How your messages have gone from memes and chaos to nothing but numbers and fuel loads. Professionally, you’re sharper than ever. Flawless. But the rest of you?

You’re fading.

He sees it. He’s been seeing it. And it’s not until the night before the Spanish GP, when you skip the post dinner team drinks without a word, that he makes a decision. He doesn’t text. Doesn’t knock and wait. He uses the keycard Zak made everyone take for security reasons, pushes into your suite quietly, and hears it immediately—

Not music. Not the TV. Just the soft rustle of curtains and the distant sound of you trying to breathe quietly. He finds you on the balcony.

Sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to your chest, forehead pressed against your arms. Shoulders shaking. The city lights stretching below you while the tears you’ve been holding back for weeks finally pour down your face. You don’t hear him at first.

Until the sliding door opens behind you and a soft voice says, “Hey.”

You flinch. “Lando—shit. I—I didn’t know you—”

You wipe your face furiously, still refusing to look at him.

“You should go,” you say quickly. “I’m fine. Just needed air—”

“You’re not fine,” he says gently, stepping onto the balcony. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You try to joke. Deflect. “You’re not exactly dressed for an emotional breakdown—”

He sits beside you anyway. Cross legged, close enough for his shoulder to brush yours. Warm and present and so painfully there.

There’s a long silence. And then, softly—

“I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do, Lando.”

Your voice cracks. Finally.

“I do everything right. Every call. Every number. Every strategy. We’re winning, and I’m still losing.”

He doesn’t say anything—just waits.

“They’re never going to see me as more than your little sidekick,” you whisper. “Or Max’s sister. Or the girl who ruined the sport. And I’m so tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Your hands are trembling in your lap. He watches you struggle for air, for composure, for the strength you’ve worn like armor for months.

“I feel like I’m screaming into a void and smiling while I do it,” you admit. “Because if I stop being the girl who can handle it, then they win, right?”

Lando doesn’t speak for a moment. Then—

“I don’t want you to be the girl who can handle it,” he says quietly. “I want you to be the girl who’s allowed to feel it. Who’s allowed to break down on balconies. Who doesn’t have to carry it all alone.”

You look at him. Finally. And what you see isn’t pity. It’s rage. And hurt. And love—undeniably, plainly, terrifyingly there.

“Do you have any idea how much I admire you?” he asks. “Not just for what you do. But for how you survive in a world that tries so hard to push you out.”

Your eyes fill again.

“But I hate watching you shrink. I hate watching you pretend like the comments don’t get to you when I know they do.”

“I can’t let it show,” you murmur.

“You can,” he says. “With me, you can.”

He takes your hand. It’s not romantic. Not yet. It’s grounding.

“I need you to know something,” he continues, voice low and sure. “None of this—none of what we’ve built this season—works without you. Not the wins. Not the podiums. Not me.”

You press your lips together, fighting another wave of tears.

“But I need you to work too,” he says. “Not just the engineer. You. The person. And she deserves rest. And softness. And someone to sit with her on a balcony when she forgets how incredible she is.”

Your heart aches at how gently he says it. Like you’re made of glass. Like you’re allowed to fall apart.

“I don’t know how to let go,” you whisper. “I’ve been holding it all for so long.”

He squeezes your hand, his voice breaking just slightly. “Then let me help. Please.”

And you do. You let your head fall to his shoulder. You let the tears fall without apology. You let someone see you—not just as the brilliant, capable, unshakeable engineer they all expect—but as a person who’s tired and hurting and desperately in need of grace.

And Lando?  He doesn’t move. He stays beside you until the sun starts to rise. And when you finally speak again, voice hoarse but steadier than before, you say—

“I don’t want to do this without you.”

And he replies, without missing a beat. 

“You won’t have to.”

—

Race Day. Mid season. High pressure. Everything on the line. The garage is tight with tension. Dry air. Sharp voices. You can feel it pulsing through your headset like a storm trying to form. Lando’s in P3. The strategy is clean. You’ve run every scenario.

“Stick to Plan B,” you remind him calmly.

“We wait. The softs will come back to us. Hold position, and we pounce after lap 38.”

“Copy,” he says. But you can hear it — the edge in his voice. The hunger. The itch. Lando wants more. Too soon. You hear the switch in his tone by Lap 30. He’s pushing harder. Ignoring lift points. Going aggressive on the straights. And then—he says it.

“Box now. I’m undercutting.”

You sit bolt upright. “No. Lando—no. Tires aren’t ready. The window’s not open yet—”

Too late. He dives in. Pit crew scrambles. The stop is clean. But the re-entry isn’t. Traffic. Cold tires. He rejoins behind a cluster of midfield chaos. Loses time. Loses grip. Loses everything. You stand frozen, eyes on the screen as he drops from P3 to P9 in four laps. The garage is silent.

Your hands are clenched. You barely hear the commentary echoing from the monitors.

“That’s a brutal call from McLaren. Early stop puts Norris behind heavy traffic… was that a misread from the pit wall?”

Your headset is still on when the post-race headlines start posting in real time.

“MCLAREN STRATEGY ERROR COSTS NORRIS BIG FINISH.”

“YN FEWTRELL UNDER FIRE AGAIN AFTER RISKY CALL.”

“Norris’ engineer strikes out — questions rise around her future.”

You don’t even feel your legs as you pull off your headset. Don’t feel Zak’s hand on your shoulder. Don’t hear the apology Lando doesn’t say. You just walk out of the garage.

—

His hotel room. Just the two of you.

“I told you not to pit,” you say quietly, arms crossed over your chest, trying not to shake.

Lando looks at you like you’re the one who ruined it.

“I felt the grip dropping—”

“You disobeyed strategy. You disobeyed me.”

Your voice breaks, brittle and sharp. “And they’re blaming me for it.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “You don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t!” You snap. “I have spent every race protecting you. Protecting this team. Taking the hits so you don’t have to, and you go rogue the second it doesn’t feel perfect?”

“I’m the one in the car!” he fires back. “It’s my instinct—”

“It’s your ego, Lando.”

Silence. The kind that cuts. You look at him, really look at him — and it hits you. Hard. Too hard. You love him. You love him, and it’s eating you alive. And maybe the worst part? He doesn’t even see it. Not through the anger. Not through the noise. You turn toward the door, needing air. Needing anything.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I thought I could balance it all — the job, the team, you. But I’m drowning.”

Lando takes a step forward. “YN…”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “I need space.”

And this time, you mean it.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,570,110 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN Fewtrell in talks with Red Bull??! Lando’s race engineer was seen meeting with Christian Horner this afternoon. She has faced a lot of criticism and backlash working with Mclaren. Will she stay with them?

—

The room is silent, save for the faint ticking of a sleek analog clock and the soft shuffle of pages as Christian Horner flips through your printed track performance portfolio like he’s browsing specs on a new wind tunnel component. He hasn’t said much in the last few minutes. Just let the numbers speak for themselves. You see your call sheets. Tire offset modeling. Degradation analysis. Win probabilities. All the things that made people outside the team mock you — and made people inside the paddock terrified of you.

“This,” Christian finally says, tapping a finger against your Australian GP strategy sheet, “was the best pit call I’ve seen in three years. And I’ve worked with Hannah for over a decade.”

You blink, caught off guard.

He smiles. “We see what you’re doing, YN. Some people only see Lando’s wins. I see who’s putting him in the position to take them.”

Your stomach turns slightly. You should feel proud. Grateful. Validated. But instead, it just makes your chest ache.

He leans back in the chair, lacing his fingers. “If you come here, you’ll be given autonomy. No headlines. No internal politics. No fighting for respect. Just results. And trust.”

You nod, slowly, unsure what to say. His voice is steady. His words, deliberate. Everything you thought you wanted—finally offered. And yet, there’s a pit in your stomach that only gets heavier.

The folder with your name on it sits in front of you, untouched. Contract terms. Role title—Head of Race Strategy.

It would be a promotion. A salary jump. A career-defining move.

But all you can think about is a voice in your headset saying “we did it.”

A hand brushing your back on the podium. A boy with a crooked smile and a voice that only ever softened for you.

—

Lando is exhausted. He hasn’t slept properly since the race. Since the fight. Since you walked out of his hotel room without a backward glance and took all the air with you.

He’s meant to be reviewing simulator data with the McLaren techs, but his head isn’t there. It hasn’t been for weeks. It’s back in that garage. That balcony. That hotel room. He runs a hand through his curls and turns a corner—And nearly bumps into Max Verstappen.

“Jesus—sorry, mate,” Lando mutters, distracted, already half past him.

Max doesn’t miss a beat.

“Hey,” he says, glancing down, “You might wanna keep your eyes up today.”

Lando blinks. “What?”

Max gives him a dry, amused look. The kind that says I know something you don’t.

“Just thought I’d let you know,” Max says, casually taking a sip of his drink. “Horner’s in a meeting right now with your engineer. Could be the last time you call her yours.”

Lando’s whole body stills.

“What?”

Max shrugs. “I mean… she’s good. We all know it. Wouldn’t blame her for jumping ship. You guys made it easy, yeah?”

Lando opens his mouth, but Max is already walking past him, throwing one last glance over his shoulder.

“She looked serious, by the way. Folder and everything.”

Lando’s pulse spikes. He doesn’t ask where. Doesn’t call Zak. Doesn’t wait for security or clearance or logic. He just runs.

Through the Red Bull corridors. Past the press room. Past engineers and assistants who do double takes as he flies by in his team hoodie, looking like he’s chasing something he should’ve protected weeks ago. And he is. Because this time, he might be too late.

—

The contract still sits unopened in front of you. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Christian is mid-sentence again — something about finalizing negotiations after the summer break — when the door slams open so hard the glass rattles. You jolt in your seat. So does Horner. And then you hear it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

You look up and your heart stops. Lando. Flushed. Breathless. Hair a mess. McLaren hoodie halfway unzipped, curls damp with sweat. His eyes are locked on you, not even acknowledging Christian.

You push your chair back, stunned. “Lando—”

He doesn’t wait. He walks straight across the room, past the Red Bull logo, past the executive folders, straight to you.

“Come with me,” he says, voice rough. “Now.”

You hesitate for half a second, glancing at Christian. Christian sighs, clearly already over the dramatics. “Take your time.”

You follow Lando into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind you. The second it closes, he rounds on you.

“Why?” he says, voice sharp with confusion and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “Why would you do this? Why would you just leave?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Was I that awful to you?” he continues. “After everything—after what we’ve built—do I really make it that easy to walk away?”

“Lando, it’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what it’s like.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He’s begging now. And you can’t hold it in anymore. Your chest aches. Your eyes sting. Your hands are trembling.

You swallow hard. “Because I’m in love with you.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “Because I’ve been in love with you and pretending not to be for months. Because the second anyone even suspects we’re close, the hate triples. Because every race I sit beside you and make calls that win championships and people still say it’s all because I want your attention.”

Your voice is shaking now.

“And if I stay—and if this gets out—I know what they’ll say. That I seduced my way into the headset. That I only win because you let me. And I can’t—I can’t survive that, Lando.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Until he speaks. Softly. Carefully. Completely undone.

“You think I care about any of that?”

You shake your head, eyes blurring. “You should.”

“I don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve been in love with you since we were kids and I’ve been waiting for you to see it.”

You stop breathing.

“I have let people talk. I’ve watched them rip you apart online, in meetings, in commentary boxes. And you just kept showing up. Not for the glory. Not even for the team. For me. Because you believed in me.”

He’s in front of you now, so close your hands could just—reach.

“So if you’re scared, I’ll take the heat. If they want to come after us, let them. But don’t run away from what we’ve built just because they can’t handle a woman being better than all of them.”

You blink hard, the tears finally falling.

“I wasn’t trying to run from you,” you whisper.

He reaches for your hand.

“Then stay. Not for McLaren. Not for the team. For me. Stay and let me love you out loud.”

You don’t say anything. You just fall into him. And this time, when he catches you — he doesn’t let go.

—

f1gossipgirls

4,100,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well, McLaren is making it very clear that their engineering goddess will not be making the move to Red Bull. 😌

Last night’s Women in Motorsport event, hosted by YN Fewtrell herself, was equal parts groundbreaking, glamorous, and papaya coded power move. McLaren not only doubled down on their support of their youngest ever lead race engineer—they literally built an entire collection around her. Yes, you read that right.

The new McLaren x YN capsule drop—which happens to be co designed by YN, Lando Norris, and Oscar Piastri—blends garage grit with streetwear genius. 

Oh, and Zak Brown? Sources say he stood off stage during the launch with the expression of a proud dad. One thing’s for sure—McLaren isn’t just protecting YN—they’re elevating her. With the performance she’s delivered this season and the cultural pull she’s building off track, any team who thought they could poach her might want to rethink. 

—

time skip- end of season

Race 24. Sunset. Victory. The pit wall erupts. Headsets fly. Crew leap from their chairs. Someone screams. Someone sobs. Champagne is already spraying even though it hasn’t even been five minutes since the checkered flag waved and everything changed. McLaren are Constructors’ Champions. Lando Norris is a World Champion. And you? You’re frozen. Still seated, staring at the final sector times like they might dissolve if you look away.

It’s done. You did it. You were the voice in his ear all season. Through every win, every late brake, every risky undercut. You built the strategies. You held your nerve. You called the shot that sealed the title. And suddenly—arms are around you.

Oscar’s the first to tackle you, practically dragging you out of your seat. “YOU DID IT! WITH THAT BIG BRAIN,” he yells, voice cracking as he yanks off your headset.

Then Zak’s pulling you into a bear hug, shouting, “You genius, you absolute weapon—you just made history!”

And then there’s chaos. Cameras. Journalists. Engineers hugging. Lando doing donuts on track with the British flag trailing out of his halo. Mechanics crying. Oscar waving his P3 trophy like it’s a lightsaber.

And somewhere in the madness, someone shouts—

“WHERE’S Y/N?! GET HER TO THE PODIUM!”

You’re still breathless when they drag you through the garage. Your McLaren polo is soaked in champagne before you even reach parc fermé. You trip over a cable. Someone shoves a bottle in your hand. You’re laughing and crying and blinking back tears as fans chant your name from the grandstands.

“FEEEEW-TRELL! FEEEEW-TRELL!”

And then you see him. Helmet off. Eyes wild. Hair flattened with sweat. Lando stands on the car, arms in the air, tears streaming down his cheeks as the team swarms around him. But the moment his eyes land on you, it’s like the world narrows. He jumps off the car and runs. Straight into you.

The impact nearly knocks the wind out of you, but you wrap your arms around him as he lifts you off the ground and spins you, screaming nonsense into your neck. He’s shaking. You’re crying. And neither of you care who’s watching.

“You did it,” you whisper.

“No,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. “We did it. You got me here. You held me together. This championship has your name all over it.”

You want to say something witty. Something cool. But the only thing that escapes is a broken, soft.

“I love you.”

His whole face crumples. Like he’s been holding that in too.

“God, I love you too.”

And he kisses you. Right there. In front of the cameras. In front of the grid. In front of the entire fucking world. And instead of boos, instead of backlash, there’s only cheering. Because finally — finally — no one can deny you. You’re not a PR stunt. You’re not just Max Fewtrell’s sister. You’re not Lando Norris’ distraction.

You’re the architect of this championship. And tonight, the world knows it.

You stay on the podium stage for the celebration, champagne in your eyes, Lando’s hand in yours. Oscar flings his trophy in the air. Zak is pretending he isn’t crying. The team is lifting mechanics onto their shoulders. Pit crew are dancing. Someone starts singing “Sweet Caroline” off-key.

And you? You look around at the chaos, the joy, the sheer disbelief that you finally made it here. And for the first time all season— You feel loved. Not just for what you do. But for who you are.

—

lando

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri and 11,010,290 others.

lando : FUCK ALL YOU BITCHES THAT DOUBTED MY PRETTY BIG BRAINED GIRLFRIEND. SHE SHOWED YOU AND WON ME A CHAMPIONSHIP

tagged : yn_fewtrell

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

[lambiconic]

stalker simon

// 18+ ,, mentions of stalking, breaking and entering, implied improper usage of a pen, male masturbation

No one had ever seen Simon like this. Vocal, excited.. It was out of character and frankly, terrifying.  He was always going on about some girl. No one even knew he had a girlfriend but he talked about you all the time.

About how you’d always forget to lock your car at night but that was fine for when you left things inside so he could get them! About how much he liked the way you smelled, even your dirty clothing was still sweet smelling. About how you slept so deeply you didn’t even notice him crawling into bed with you. 

And that was the thing about you…you didn’t even know how perfect you were! How otherworldly. A piece of trash to you was a relic to him. Something touched by your lips, held between your fingers, stained with the ghost of your warmth. 

Simon stared at the gum wrapper in his hands as he stroked his cock painfully fast, his eyes dilating as the image of your tongue dragging up the paper filled his eyes., The way you took the strip into your mouth before tossing the scrap into the trash can. 

Did you always do it like that? Lick your gum wrappers like a cock hungry whore as you popped it into your mouth? He’d have to teach you not to do that. Imagine how many other people would see you..

His pace increased, almost painful as he hunched over the wrapper. His forehead resting against the desk. 

It made it worse that he KNEW you. That you smiled at him when passing him on the way to class like he was just Simon, sweet, harmless Simon. You shared playlists, swapped notes in class, even brought him to your dorm to study. Friends… that’s what you were. That word made his skin crawl with hunger.

Because friends didn’t get to see what he saw. Friends didn’t memorize the way your lips curled when you said his name, or mark the exact time your bedroom light flicked off each night. Friends didn’t track your scent between classes, didn’t pocket your hair ties, didn’t lie awake rehearsing the moment they’d finally tell you, SHOW you… just how much you meant.

He convulsed against the desk, knuckles white as his release spilled into his hand. His breath came in ragged gasps, chest heaving, the gum wrapper pressed flat against his tongue. A poor imitation of your mouth, but close enough to make him shudder. Like a kiss he’d stolen.

What Simon didn’t know was that you knew about the gum. And the panties he’d stolen from your laundry basket, the key he had made for your car, and the real reason your ex boyfriend mysteriously had a broken leg and decided you two needed a break. 

He didn’t know you’d pocketed a pen in the midst of a study session and..imagined it was more than a pen.

You’d been following him for months, far longer than he’d been following you. 

And now, watching him fumble nervously with that gum wrapper in his hand, you felt a dark satisfaction settle deep in your chest. You’d hoped he’d pick it up, after all. Though, you didn’t expect him to use it as jerk off material. God, he gets cuter everyday.

[sukunahs]

to distant lands - ch.5: temptation | ryomen sukuna

pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (medieval fantasy au)

summary: ryomen sukuna, your father's favourite knight, has been assigned as your personal guard. You find that your dislike of him slowly develops into something else as he tangles himself in your life in ways you never could've expected.

word count: 7.7k

chapter content: 18+ mdni, smut, princess!reader, enemies to lovers, slow-burn(ish), forbidden relationship, jealousy, medieval fantasy setting, protective sukuna, anxiety, depression, suicidal ideation, kidnapping, sukuna and reader are both terrible with emotions, this chapter is really heavy on the angst I'm sorry :(

authors note: listening to you're losing me by taylor swift and crying while I wrote this one

series masterlist | AO3 | chapter one | previous chapter | next chapter (coming soon)

“You can’t possibly be serious about Naoya.” You spat at your father. 

The two of you had taken your leave from the banquet hall for the moment, stepping out to have a private conversation about the events of the evening. Your father having a list of suitors for you to meet was one thing, but not completely closing the door on Naoya Zenin when he expressed an interest in your hand in marriage was something else entirely. 

Your father sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not serious about Naoya. Do you really think that I’d hand my only daughter over to those barbarians? Don’t think so little of me.” 

“Oh, don’t think so little of you?” You asked, a little astounded by his response. “Sorry, it's hard not to when you were in there practically pushing me into his arms.” 

“I was doing no such thing.” Kashimo hissed. “I told him what he wanted to hear, in the hopes that this might further avert war. The longer that he thinks he’s getting what he wants, the more time that we have to figure out what to do when they do attack.” 

Your father looked exhausted, it seemed to you that he was growing weaker and more disheveled by the day.

“I’m sorry if I concerned you.” He said, his voice a little softer now as he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I can’t show them any weakness. But I swear to you that I will not give you to them.” 

Your shoulders relaxed as you let out a breath that you hadn’t realised you were holding. “What were they doing here in the first place? Naoya approached me during the Knights parade - it was terrifying.” 

“He got close to you?” Kashimo asked, his voice panic-stricken. “The guards were supposed to keep him away from you, I’d made that very clear in the morning briefing.” 

“He probably took advantage of it being so busy. Plus he only showed up when Sukuna was away, so I imagine he picked his moment carefully.”

Your father sighed. “That’s not a good enough excuse. One of my men should’ve helped you - these are dangerous times.” He paused for a moment, as if considering whether he should share the next piece of information with you. “The assassin from a few weeks ago, we have reason to believe that he had ties to the Zenins, but nothing conclusive to prove it.”

At the mention of the assassin you felt your heart rate pick up, re-living that moment, your chest tightening. “If- if the assassin was connected to the Zenins, why would you let them come here? He had me alone in that crowd of people, he could’ve stuck a knife in me right there and no one would be any the wiser.” 

“You’re right.” Your father said with a grimace. “That’s a failing on our side, I should’ve had more men looking out for you. As to why they were here… it's a matter of keeping our enemies close. We don’t know what they’re up to off in their Kingdom, Naoya and Mai being here provided us with some interesting insights.” 

You sneered at his logical approach to the situation. “I hope those insights were worth risking my life for.” 

“Nothing is.” Your father said seriously. “As I said before, I had arranged for the guards to be on high alert, I’m livid that they didn’t look out for you as asked.” 

“If you were so worried, you shouldn’t have let Sukuna be in the parade.” 

“Perhaps you’re right. I won’t let this happen again.” Having your father agree that you were right was a rare occurrence, you were going to hold onto this moment for a while. 

“Thank you.” You said. “And for the record, I also don’t want to marry any of the suitors you brought in today.” 

“I’m well aware of that.” He said dryly. “As were all of the suitors. You’re very expressive - you don’t hide disappointment well at all.” 

That wasn’t really news to you. You were a pretty good liar, but when it came to pushing down your emotions you could use a lot of work. No wonder Sukuna was always able to read what you were thinking. 

“I’m not trying to make your life miserable.” Your father said after a moment. “I’m trying to do right by you, whilst also doing what’s right for the Kingdom. I cannot, in good faith, keep you unmarried. However, I’m happy to take your lead on which suitor you choose.” 

“Let me think about it.” You said. “But never let it be Naoya.” Fixing your father with the sternest glare that you could conjure as she pushed your way back through the big wooden door leading to the great hall. 

The banquet was still in full swing, pretty much everyone had vacated their seats now, all either revelling on the dancefloor, or out chatting in the castle courtyard while they downed drink after drink. All you wanted was to find Sukuna and retreat to some quiet place where you could tell him about everything that had transpired in the short hours that you’d been apart. 

You pushed your way through the crowd, doing your best to keep your breathing steady at the thought of just how many people you were surrounded by right now. You were not going to have a panic attack in the middle of the banquet. One of the suitors would inevitably come to your rescue and that would be humiliating. 

As you reached the back of the hall you saw a shock of pink hair, your heart beating a little faster as you made your way towards your Knight. You were grateful that he was so tall, it really came in handy in situations like this. 

You were just about to call out to him when you stopped yourself. 

Standing before Sukuna was possibly the last person that you wanted to see. Yorozu, twirling her long black hair and gazing up at your Knight adoringly. She was batting her lashes at him, giggling obnoxiously as she placed a hand on his armored chest. 

Sukuna wasn’t pushing her away, you couldn’t see his expression from here, but he wasn’t pushing her away, and that was all the information you needed to make bile rise in your throat. You weren’t sure what was happening, you wanted to throw up, you desperately needed air, and more than anything you wanted to cry. 

As you stood there, paralysed to your spot, Yorozu looked at you from over Sukuna’s shoulder, fixing you with a triumphant grin. 

Unwilling to watch the scene unfold any further, you turned on your heel and stormed out of the hall, brushing off anyone who attempted to greet you or ask what was wrong. The image of Yorozu smiling up at Sukuna kept replaying in your mind, no matter how hard you tried to shove it into a box. 

What a detestable woman. 

But why did you even care? It wasn’t like Sukuna was yours, he couldn’t ever be yours. Pursuing Sukuna would do nothing but break your heart in the end - you could never be together. He was free to do whatever he wanted, with whoever he wanted. 

So why did seeing Yorozu so close to him feel like a total betrayal? 

Why did it make you feel like you were going to vomit your heart out onto the floor?

You walked until you made it to the private garden below your window, taking a seat on the bench by the pond, where you and Sukuna had first made peace many weeks ago. And when you were sure that you were totally alone, you buried your face in the silky fabric of your puffy sleeve and sobbed. 

—

Sukuna had not been enjoying his day. 

Although, perhaps that was too harsh an assessment. He’d very much enjoyed the first part of his day, the part where he got to hang out with you, where he got to give you that pretty necklace and have you thank him with an even prettier smile. 

But from that point on everything just went downhill. He had never been a fan of parades in the first place, and had only taken part at the insistence of your father. Not to mention, he had only been informed as they were getting ready to set off on the parade, that Naoya Zenin was in attendance. 

That information had made him furious, because he was here on his horse, in this stupid parade while an enemy of the Kingdom was walking the grounds freely. The grounds that you were also walking, currently unprotected because, again, he was in this stupid parade. 

His day had only gotten worse when he spotted you in the audience, looking up at him with wide eyes and a pale face, your terror poorly disguised by the fake smile that you’d put on for him. You were clinging to Yuki like your life depended on it, and it took a great deal of his willpower to not jump off his horse and go to you right there and then. 

But that would’ve brought too much attention to you, and attention seemed to be something that you couldn’t handle at all lately. 

After the procession he’d planned to get to you right away, unwilling to part himself from you for the rest of the banquet. But Kashimo had been waiting for him at the end of the parade route, joyfully informing him that he had the night off, all but commanding him to go and have some fun and to leave you alone for the time being. 

He’d wanted to object, but what authority did he have to do so? An order was an order, and he wasn’t keen on the King starting to piece together just how much affection he had for you, lest he be removed from the post entirely. 

And just when he thought his day couldn’t get any worse, he had to sit by and watch you be introduced to a seemingly never-ending stream of men. That was painful, each time you shot one of them a smile he felt a pang in his chest, and had to force himself to look away. 

He liked your smile. 

He only really wanted you to smile at him. 

But the frustration he felt from the polite smile that you shot at various suitors was nothing compared to the rage he felt when Naoya approached you. He couldn’t hear what was being said from all the way on the other side of the hall, but he got the general gist of it - Naoya was requesting your hand in marriage. 

That felt like a knife twisting in his gut. He could see that terrified expression on your pretty face as that asshole openly leered at you, and all he wanted to do was walk over to the Zenin Prince and tear his head clean off his shoulders. He was grateful that Choso and Yuki were right there next to him, warning him against doing anything stupid. He didn’t think he would’ve been able to hold himself back otherwise. 

After Naoya had taken his leave, you and Kashimo had left the room. Yuki and Choso had headed off to dance, leaving Sukuna on his own, anxiously waiting for you to return. 

However, it seemed like some vengeful god had it out for Sukuna that day, because instead of being granted one single moment of solitude, he found himself being harassed by one of those unpleasant women from Utahime’s party. 

He couldn’t recall her name, couldn’t really care less about what it was. He’d seen that sad expression on your face after they’d gone to talk to you at that party, and he hated it. By extension he wanted nothing to do with any of them. But this woman was insistent, even as he got up and tried to walk away from her, she followed along. 

He wasn’t quite sure how anyone put up with this lady. Her shrill voice was grating on his ears and she was doing her best to try and proposition him but it just came off as desperate. Ignoring her, he kept scanning the crowd for you, hoping that you’d come back so that he’d have an easy excuse to get away from this woman without causing a scene. 

The woman, who he registered had now introduced herself as Yorozu, was inching herself closer to him, her hand coming to rest on his armor. She was spouting some nonsense about how attractive he was, how she could show him a good time, and how boring it must be looking after you all the time. 

That was the last straw for him. “Get away from me.” He said, tone full of disgust. 

She looked up at him in surprise. “What?”

“You heard me.” He snarled. “Fuck off.” 

Offence and disbelief were written all over her face, but she didn’t pull away, looking at something over Sukuna’s shoulder as a smug grin made its way onto her face. “Fine.” She said, after a few more moments. “I’m done here anyway. Hope to see you again soon.” She said with a wink, her voice overly saccharine. 

Sukuna frowned as she left. You were right, she really was an unpleasant woman. 

It had been a while since you and your father had left the room, and he was growing worried, once again scanning the room for any sign of your presence. He could see Kashimo back at his throne now, but you were absent from his side. Perhaps you’d returned to your chambers already? 

Uninterested in partaking in the banquet any longer if you weren’t coming back, Sukuna slipped out of the back door, making his way towards your chambers. He took the longer, more quiet route back to the tower, opting to cut through the secluded garden that you so often liked to paint in. 

He’d almost made it the whole length of the garden when he heard the soft sniffles coming from beside the pond, freezing in his tracks at the sound. 

There you were, hugging your knees tight against your chest as you sat on your usual bench. Your face was tilted down, body shaking with quiet sobs. He wondered what had happened after your father had taken you out of the room, what could’ve possibly transpired with Naoya to elicit this response from you. 

“Princess.” He said as he approached, his voice laced with worry, hoping that his presence could help soothe whatever suffering you were currently undergoing. 

What he wasn’t expecting was for you to tense up at the sound of his voice. Raising your head to slowly to fix him with a look that was filled with hurt and resentment. Your face was red, cheeks all blotchy from crying. He wanted to reach out and wipe your tears away, but the tension in your body at his presence had him thinking twice. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, taking a seat on the edge of the bench, watching you carefully. “Did something happen with Naoya?” 

You scoffed. “Like you care about that.” 

Now he was confused. What would’ve ever given you the impression that he didn’t care? He’d spent weeks building up your trust, spending every waking moment at your side. He thought that you’d grown to genuinely enjoy his company. Had he misunderstood you? Perhaps he’d done something wrong, but as he racked his brain, he couldn’t think what his transgression might’ve been. 

You were happy the last time you’d seen him, all cute and blushing when he gave you that necklace. What could he have done since then?

“Of course I care.” He responded firmly. “Are you okay?” His gaze flitted over you, checking for any signs of physical distress, almost afraid that Naoya might’ve gone as far as to put his hands on you at some point. 

“Gods just- just leave me alone Sukuna. Seemed like Yorozu had plenty of your attention, why don’t you go and talk to her.” 

Oh. Oh. 

Just like that, everything clicked. You were jealous. You’d seen Yorozu talking to him, maybe even touching him, and had completely misinterpreted the situation. He could correct you on that front in a moment, but what was more pressing was what your jealousy told him.

You liked him. 

His first reaction to that knowledge was elation. You liked him, just like how he liked you. His affection wasn’t one sided, you enjoyed his company, yearned for him just like he yearned for you. 

However, his feelings of happiness were quickly replaced with dread. Dread at what this meant for both of you. Nothing could happen between you, it was forbidden. If you did cross that line it could only end in pain and tragedy for both of you. 

But could he not have you for just one night? Allow both of you something just for the moment. You wanted him too, after all. 

Even with scorn written all over your face, you still looked so lovely. Your elegant features were framed beautifully in the dwindling light of the evening, and he found himself wanting nothing more than to leap over the line that he had drawn for himself and show you just how much you meant to him, show you just how pointless your jealousy was. 

He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. You were going to be married to one of those suitors, if he did anything with you and your father found out, he’d be sentenced to death. And if he had you just for tonight, he’d run the risk of breaking your heart. 

You could never be his. 

But as he continued to gaze at your pretty face, with the knowledge that you wanted him like he wanted you, he found his resolve crumbling to pieces. 

“Oh princess.” He said quietly, gazing affectionately at you. “You’re so foolish.” 

You parted your lips, most likely to really go off at him, to tell him how you were in no mood for his taunting. But before any sound could make it from your mouth he was softly pressing his lips against yours. One of his hands moved to your waist, the other finding its way to the back of your head, pulling you close to him. 

This was selfish. He was selfish. 

But he couldn’t resist you any longer.

He felt you let out a small whimper of surprise at the action, and he smiled against your lips as he felt you kiss him back. It was a little sloppy and uncoordinated - but that was to be expected, this was likely your first kiss ever after all. 

Your hands found their way to his shoulders, goosebumps rising on his skin where your fingertips were brushing against him. His heart was racing desperately in his chest at having you close to him like this. He’d been with plenty of women, but none had ever made him feel giddy like you did. 

All he wanted was to stay right here in this moment, with your lips locked against his, your scent overwhelming his senses.

He didn’t want to let you go, because once you broke apart he knew that the guilt would settle in, the weight of his actions - the reality that pursuing you would lead him only to inevitable heartbreak. 

The reality that from tomorrow, he needed to ensure that this never happened again. 

But for now, with you secure in his arms he could push that all aside, focus on how soft and warm you felt in his grip, and pretend that the rest of the world didn’t exist. 

It was just you and him in that garden, basked in the twilight, clinging desperately to each other. 

—

Reality had hit you like a bucket of cold water that next morning. Your emotions all twisted up and confused about the events of the previous day. 

You could still vaguely feel the ghost of Sukuna’s lips on yours. You’d never expected that your first kiss would be with him, but you were glad that it was - you couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt so happy, so secure. 

So why did it feel like you were falling apart now? 

There was a melancholy feeling that had overcome you in the light of day, a realisation that you’d both crossed a line, one that you’d both need to un-cross promptly if you wanted to survive in this Kingdom. 

The two of you had sat quietly in the garden for a long time that night, his arm wrapped firmly around you. Neither of you had said much after the kiss, both of you letting unspoken feelings hang in the air. You weren’t stupid, you knew that Sukuna would regret this - it was just the way of the world, a Knight couldn’t have a princess. You could never be his. 

And he could never be yours. There was no social merit to your union, your father would never allow it. 

But neither of you wanted to spoil the moment, so you said nothing. Pretending, at least for the night, that you could belong to each other. 

What you weren’t expecting was just how resentful you’d feel the next morning. How much hurt would course through your body when Sukuna was distant with you, when he’d pretend that that previous night hadn’t happened. 

You’d been lying to yourself for a while about just how much you liked him, and now that the dam had broken, there was no holding your feelings back. 

He had to do it, had to push you away, you understood that. He had to play the game, you both did. There were punishments for touching a princess in such a way. But you had no control over how you felt, and what you’d come to realise with his lips pressed against yours, was that you desperately wanted to be with him. 

You wanted him to be yours, for him to warm your bed each night, curling his body protectively around you. 

No suitor had made you feel anything but anxiety, a desperation to avoid marriage. With Sukuna you felt safe, secure. You felt a deep sense of desire and longing unlike anything you’d ever experienced. 

It was clear he felt the same. 

But it couldn’t happen. Neither of you lived in a fantasy. You could take a chance, sneak around behind your father’s back, but you’d get caught eventually - there was no chance for anything long-term between the two of you. 

Heartbreak was inevitable, and it seemed like Sukuna’s policy was to avoid getting dragged in too deep in the first place, because he was doing his absolute best to avoid the two of you ever being alone together, cutting back on the small talk that he’d make as you went about your day, effectively distancing himself from you. 

It was almost like how he was when he first became your guard. Although possibly even worse, because now he wasn’t even going out of your way to annoy you. He was simply doing his duty to the letter, treating you like an asset he had been assigned to protect, rather than a person.

But even with all of his attempts to keep you at an arm's length, he couldn’t hide the flicker of longing that appeared in his eyes when he’d look at you. That broke you even more, knowing that he was desperate for you in the same way you were for him, but he was unwilling to take any further action for both your sakes. 

Days passed like that, and your frustration only grew. You knew that it was wrong to push him, that he was just trying to protect you both, but every night you would dream of his touch and pray that he would give in to his desires. 

So one evening you summoned him into your room, intent on airing out your grievances. He’d regarded you warily as he entered, obviously expecting that this meeting was going to happen sooner or later. He made sure to stand across the room from you, almost as if he thought his body would betray him if the two of you were too close. 

“Do you need something, princess?” He asked, almost mechanically, not allowing affection to seep into his tone in the way it used to. 

“Cut the shit, Sukuna.” You hissed, taking great joy in the flicker of surprise that crossed his face at your coarse language. You stalked across the room, standing close to him, hating the distance that he had imposed between the two of you. “I can’t do this. I can’t just go on pretending like nothing happened.” 

He let out a deep sigh, and glanced away from you, as though he couldn’t bear to look you in the eye as he made his next statement. “It was a mistake.” He said, as he took a step back from you. “It won’t happen again.” 

Your eyes widened in horror. It felt like your heart was shattering, like Sukuna had taken it in his hands and thrown it to the floor, scattering the pieces. He couldn’t even have the decency to look at you when he did it, and that’s what made you most mad, because you knew that it wasn’t really what he wanted - he was just too much of a coward to give in to his own desires. 

But who could blame him? You were being unreasonable, acting like it was simple when there were dozens of barriers between the two of you ever getting what you wanted. 

“You don’t mean that.” Your voice was steady, cold. You were looking up at him, desperately searching his face for something, hoping that he had some magical solution that would make all of your problems disappear. 

His gaze was on you now, his red eyes filled with a sadness that you could feel deep in your chest. “I don’t.” He agreed. “But I can’t let this go any further, for both our sakes.”

“But-” 

He cut you off swiftly. “Please, stop making this difficult.” There was hurt in his tone. “It was easy when you hated me, it's unbearable now I know you want me too. Just- you have to stop. Please.” 

You weren’t used to seeing Sukuna so dispirited, practically begging you for your compliance. He hadn’t struck you as someone who would be so considerate in the first place, the type of man who went for what he wanted with no regard for others, but here he was - unwilling to budge on this situation to make sure that both of you stayed safe. 

“You’re going to marry one of those suitors, they’re going to look after you and make you happy, and I’m going to stand by and do my duty. Because that’s all I can do.” His voice was hoarse, and the pain in his eyes was filling your chest with anxiety. “I’m sorry, princess.” 

His gaze stayed on you for a moment, evidently waiting to see if you were going to fight back, throw a tantrum at him like you used to. But when you remained silent he turned and left the room, leaving you with your heart in more pieces than it had been before. 

No suitor was ever going to make you happy. 

Not as long as Sukuna was still standing at your side.

—

The way that you’d taken to walking around the castle aimlessly after that encounter likely had most of the palace servants concerned. Maids and cooks would regard you with concern as they’d bump into you, taking in your mournful expression and looking at you with great sympathy when you’d tell them that you were fine, and you didn’t need their help. 

No one could understand what had caused this sudden change in behavior, no one but Sukuna. 

It felt like you were cracking. Sukuna’s distance from you was growing greater and greater, to the point where he wouldn’t even bother following you around the castle anymore, mumbling something about how you only really needed a guard when you were outside the castle walls - nothing bad was going to happen while you were in here. 

That loneliness that Sukuna had temporarily lifted from your shoulders in the past few weeks returned in full force. Your father was busy, Yuki and Choso had gone off travelling again, and you were painfully alone. Shoko would listen to you in the brief moments that she’d come to attend to you, but it was evident that you weren’t really friends - she entertained you because she had to. 

So that left you in complete misery. You hadn’t quite appreciated how much space Sukuna had been taking up in your heart, how used to his presence you’d become. Day by day you could feel your anxiety eating at you more and more, and you knew that this time you couldn’t go seeking him out at night to put it to rest. 

Worst of all, in your many hours spent wandering the castle, you’d happened to overhear a conversation between some servant girls discussing your Knight, gushing about how attractive he was, one of them chiming in to say how she’d slept with him a few months ago, and that she was dying to do it again, bragging about how good he was in bed. 

That made you feel like shit. If it was months ago then that was before he had become your Knight, but that didn’t make you feel any better. The realisation that Sukuna had slept with many women, but wasn’t willing to sleep with you, was an ugly thought that nestled itself into your brain. 

He’d claimed that it was because of your roles, because of the potential consequences. But maybe that had just been a convenient way out for him. 

Maybe you just weren’t good enough. 

You weren’t enough for him, weren’t enough for your father. Maybe that assassin should’ve just killed you. What was the point of any of this? 

“Are you okay princess? You’re looking a little faint.” 

You’d been completely lost in your own mental spiral when you were approached by one of the palace workers. A new cook that had been hired around the time of the banquet. You’d seen him around pretty regularly lately. He had an unsettling appearance, with mismatching eyes and scars crossing his face and neck. But his food was top-notch, he’d been responsible for plenty of the dishes that were served at the banquet.

Concern was etched across his face, his brows furrowed. You’d been drifting down the hall nearest to the kitchen, an area that was generally only frequented by servants - he likely wasn’t expecting to see you there. 

“I’m fine.” You said, trying to avoid sounding too aggressive. You had to be polite and princess-like no matter how bad you were feeling. But you were sick of being asked that question. 

“Let me cook you something up.” He insisted, “you’re really not looking too good, you could do with getting some food down you.” 

With very little fight left in you after the last few days, and the desire to be as polite as possible, you relented and allowed the servant to bring you into the kitchen. He sat you down at a chair in the corner, fussing over you while he cooked up some food. 

The kitchen was quiet. It was early-afternoon, that transition period between the lunch servings and dinner prep when most of the kitchen staff took their breaks. Only you and the scarred servant, who had introduced himself as Mahito, were present. 

You weren’t feeling particularly sociable - you hadn’t been feeling up for talking with anyone in a while, so you were relieved that Mahito seemed keen to mostly fill the silence with his own voice. You couldn’t really be bothered to listen, nodding along as he went on and on about his last post and how this job was so much better. 

Your mind was elsewhere - focussed on Sukuna as it always was these days. No matter what you did, you couldn’t get him out of your head. Always picturing that infuriating grin of his, the one that sent your heart racing each time you saw it. Your mind kept straying back to the kiss, how pleasant his lips had felt against yours, how comforting his hand was as it ran through your hair. 

With each passing thought you felt your mood deteriorate further. You wanted to experience that again, for him to hold you close at least once more. But he’d made it abundantly clear that wasn’t going to happen. 

“You look so sullen.” You blinked a couple times as you looked at Mahito, barely registering that he was speaking to you. His hands were on hips as he stared down at you, standing over the pan of food that he was frying atop the stove. 

“I’m fine.” You said with a shrug.

“The other servants gossip about you a lot, you know.” He said, turning back to the pan, pushing around the contents with a wooden spoon. You couldn’t say that came as a surprise to you. What else was there to talk about as a palace worker beyond the royalty that you serve? 

“Yeah?” You asked tiredly, sensing that he was keen for you to engage with him. You just wanted to go back to your room, but the last thing you needed was him spreading gossip that you were rude. 

“Mostly good things!” He clarified quickly with a laugh. “They talk about how kind and patient you are with your people.” 

“That’s nice.” Thank the gods that was what they were saying, considering how much work you put into making sure you came across that way, anything else would be an insult. 

“They’ve all been worried about you recently though. We’ve all heard the rumors that you’re going to be married off soon. You must be feeling anxious.” 

“I guess.” You were beginning to feel a little uncertain about this conversation. You were always content to converse with servants, but it was generally very surface level, you wouldn’t tend to go too deep into your own affairs - allowing anyone to have too much knowledge about you was dangerous. 

You’d only really been willing to make an exception for Sukuna. 

“Who do you think your father will choose for you?” He asked, turning to look at you once more with a little too much eagerness in his eyes. He was clearly fishing for information, keen to share with anyone who would listen. 

“I don’t know.” You said carefully. “And I’d rather not talk about it.” You made sure to keep your tone firm, leaving no opportunity for him to reopen the door to that conversation. You weren’t going to discuss your marriage prospects with a servant, especially not when your feelings around love and romance were so tender right now. 

“Sorry!” He said, putting his hands up apologetically. “I didn’t mean any offense. My friends always say I get a little carried away asking personal questions!” There was something about his demeanor that was a little off-putting, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. Perhaps he was just a little quirky. 

He turned off the stove and dished up the food. He’d made a lovely plate of lamb and potatoes, a mint sauce covering the meat. You had only been eating the bare minimum lately, your appetite disappearing with the anxiety of everything that had happened with Sukuna, but the sight of this beautifully presented dish had your mouth watering. 

“Eat up! You don’t want it to go cold.” He busied himself with cleaning up the cooking utensils while you dug into the food. The meat was so tender that it was practically melting in your mouth, and the potatoes were seasoned to perfection. You ended up wolfing down the whole plate in record time. 

You leant back against the wooden chair as you took a sip of water from a glass Mahito had brought over, letting the food digest. 

He was still talking to you as he cleaned, but the topic he was discussing was completely lost on you, because all of a sudden everything seemed very distant. His voice had been reduced to no more than an echo, and your head felt like it was swimming, your eyes starting to droop as though it were an active effort for you to stay awake. 

For a moment, you’d assumed that your sudden condition was a result of your body being overloaded with calories after not having eaten in a while. 

But as Mahito approached you, a sinister grin on his face, you realised just how dire your situation was.You opened your mouth, trying to call for help, but no sound came out - it was as though your tongue had swollen three times its size. 

“Shhh.” Mahito cooed. “Just go to sleep princess, make things easy for yourself.” 

You couldn’t give in, couldn’t let this man get away with whatever scheme he was trying to pull, but your body was growing heavier by the second, the poison had thoroughly taken hold. Dozens of new servants were always hired around the banquet, Mahito must’ve seized his opportunity, embedded himself within the castle staff all for this ultimate goal. 

In your mind, you were vaguely aware of what your father had told you not so long ago - that one of Geto’s daughters had been held for ransom. If that was Mahito’s plan - if he was going to whisk you far away from the safety of the castle, you had to do something to help them find you. To help Sukuna find you. 

Even if he didn’t want to be with you, he cared for you, didn’t he? He’d come for you. 

As Mahito busied himself with tying up your wrists and ankles, you did the only thing you could think of in that desperate moment to send a message. Craning your head down, you clasped the necklace that Sukuna had bought for you between your teeth and tore it from your neck, letting it fall to the floor.

Maybe it could give him something, some hint of what had happened to you. 

A moment later, everything went dark. 

—

Sukuna felt like shit. 

He shouldn’t have kissed you in the first place, it was wrong. 

And yet, every moment of every day he had to actively convince himself not to do it again. Whenever he saw you, any moment that you were even remotely in his vicinity, he was thinking about how badly he wanted to touch you, to hold you in his arms and kiss you, and never let you go again. 

But he couldn’t, for your sake and for his, he needed to stay away. 

His decision on that had already been made the moment that he kissed you. He knew that it could only be a one time thing. Your roles were so inflexible, things would never work. But what really set his decision in stone was being called to the Throne Room that following morning to talk with the King. 

The anxiety that he’d felt on the way to that meeting was through the roof. He’d been running through the previous night’s events in his mind, wondering if someone had seen the two of you kissing, if they’d told Kashimo about it. He was screwed if that was the case, your father would take his life without a second thought, or he’d have to flee the Kingdom in disgrace, and he’d never get to see your lovely smile or hear your pretty laugh ever again. 

Luckily for him, Kashimo seemed completely unaware of Sukuna’s little encounter with you. Calling him to the Throne Room with a completely different intent in mind - but one that was equally as painful for him. 

Kashimo had summoned him to ask for his thoughts on which suitor would be best matched to you. That’s right. Kashimo wanted him to help decide which man would get to have the joy of being with you. Which man would get to lay with you at night, which man would be able to kiss you freely, which man would get to be yours. 

The list of suitors that the King provided him with served as a cold reminder of the fact that man wouldn’t be him. It would be Gojo, or Yuta, or god forbid Naoya, but it wouldn’t be him - and that thought made him want to rip his own skin off and slaughter every person in this castle until it was only you and him left. 

But he couldn’t do that. You all had your roles to play, and he needed to stay away from you if he was ever going to come out of this with both his head and heart still intact. 

So, as Kashimo asked him to give his suggestion, he mumbled that you’d be happiest with Gojo, knowing that of all the choices that was who you would hate the least. He knew that Gojo would be kind to you, even if he still despised the thought of you being at anyone’s side but his. 

He’d listened to the King run through the other options before excusing himself, claiming that he needed to go and attend to his duties with you. Instead, he’d gone straight back to his room, breathing heavily and trying to centre himself as he thought about the road ahead of him. 

He needed you to hate him once more, needed you to feel so cut-off from him that you’d never want him again. The temptation that he felt each time he saw you look at him with affection was too heavy for him to bear. 

It felt like an impossible task, keeping you at an arm's length. Watching hurt blossom in your eyes each time he dismissed you felt like he was kicking a puppy over and over again. There were so many moments where he wondered if the two of you could run away - just leave this life behind once and for all. But this castle was all you’d ever known, he couldn’t steal you away like that. 

Your affection for him was probably just a passing infatuation anyway, you’d get over it - he just had to do his bit and not let your attachment grow any further. 

But that knowledge didn’t make it any easier, especially not when each day you would appear before him still wearing that hyacinth necklace that he had so gently placed around your neck, an ever-present sign of your continuing desire for him. 

It didn’t help when you’d summoned him into your room either, practically begging him to acknowledge you, your voice shaking and your eyes filled with need. It had shattered him to dismiss you, to ask you to give him space, when your lower lip was wobbling and you looked so full of despair, so exhausted and lacking in hope. 

He was glad that you’d stopped begging him when he’d asked you to, because if you’d just pushed him a little harder he would’ve broken entirely, taking you right there on your bed and proving to you just how badly he desired you. 

But that would’ve been wrong, would’ve made the heartbreak of the two of you not being together worse, and he was already hurting so badly that he didn’t think he could cope with a pain worse than this. 

It seemed that after your last conversation his message had gotten through to you. Though you seemed even more vacant than you had following the assassin’s attack, stumbling through the halls completely expressionless, completely lost in your own thoughts. It hurt him to see you that way, but maybe it was for the best. 

Your hatred for him would grow, and you’d get over him. That was best for both of you. 

It wasn’t until a servant came running up to him one evening that he realised that in keeping his distance from you around the castle, he might’ve made a grave mistake. 

The cook in question, one of the longest-standing servants in the castle, had approached him with a look of great concern on his face. “Have you seen the princess anywhere?” He asked, panic seeping into his voice. 

“No.” Sukuna said, fear already starting to rise in his chest. “She’s free to wander the palace alone - I haven’t seen her since this morning.” 

The servant bit his lip anxiously, before holding out his hand, unfurling his fingers to reveal your hyacinth necklace. The chain was broken, as though it had been forcibly ripped off in a hurry. “I found this on the kitchen floor, a plate had also been smashed.” Sukuna’s heart was beating so fast that he could hear it in his ears. 

“What happened?” He asked, not considering how pointless that question was - if the cook had the answers he wouldn't be coming to Sukuna to ask where you were. 

“We’re not sure.” The servant said uncertainly. “But I rounded up all the kitchen staff and Mahito was missing. One of the serving girls said that they’d seen the princess talking to him this afternoon.” 

“Mahito?” He asked, his hands were trembling with rage. How could he have been so stupid as to assume you’d be safe in the castle? 

“Yes, he’s one of the newer cooks. Lots of scars on his face.” Sukuna knew of him, and had seen him around before the banquet. The man’s eyes had been on you often, to the extent that it had creeped Sukuna out a little. But it wasn’t unusual for people to look at you - you were beautiful after all, so he’d brushed it off. 

Foolish. He felt guilt begin to eat at him. First he had hurt you by kissing you and then icing you out, and now he’d let you get hurt by not being there to protect you. Even though he’d promised that he’d always be there to keep you safe. 

You deserved so much better. 

He was going to get you back. No matter what happened to him, he was going to track down that scarred asshole and cut him up into little pieces, and then he’d make sure that no one ever laid a finger on you again. 

Even if playing your savior was likely going to leave him heartbroken all over again.

a/n: so sorry about how angsty this chapter is but I swear I'll make it up to you guys because I've got some big plans for the next chapter - hopefully I should be able to get it out next weekend :)

Just let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! reblogs and comments are appreciated as always <3

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© sukunahs

[callsigns-haze]

Drunk of a hunk

Pairing: Xaden Riorson x reader

Xaden handles a chaotic bedtime solo while you're out on a wild girls’ night, only to come home to your drunk, unhinged flirting and glitter-fuelled child science experiments. The next morning, you're sick and miserable, Kaheli unleashes a glitter explosion, and Ridoc shows up uninvited with juice and stories. Despite the madness, Xaden holds it all together—barely—because life with you and the kids is as exhausting as it is worth it.

⚠️ Content Warning: This story contains themes of alcohol, mentions of sex, mentions of pregnancy, vomiting, biting, hungover, cursing.

Tyrrendor Stronghold — Years After the War

Peace had come to Tyrrendor like spring sunlight: slow, tentative, and almost too beautiful to trust at first. But trust it they did, eventually. The war was long behind them. Xaden bore its shadows still—worn quietly behind his sharp eyes and etched into the scar on his forearm—but his world now was different. Quieter. Fuller.

And tonight, that world consisted of you, off somewhere across the courtyard with Violet, Imogen, Mira, and Rhiannon on what Kaheli had dramatically referred to as “a battle council of the girls”—and Ridoc, for some unfathomable reason, who had tagged along like he belonged there.

Xaden hadn’t even asked. He knew better.

Instead, he was at home with his children—Liam, nine years old and wise beyond it, curled into the oversized reading chair with a blanket around his shoulders like a small scholar—and Kaheli, seven years old and an unrelenting storm in girl form.

“She has your will,” he’d muttered more than once.

And now she had his boots.

“Kaheli,” Xaden called, exasperated, following the sound of stomping down the stone hallway. “My boots are not bedtime attire.”

“But they make me taller,” came the gleeful voice in reply. She appeared around the corner, all tangled hair and sleepy mischief, the massive black boots flopping around her little legs. “And Liam said I couldn’t reach the cookie jar unless I grew two inches. These are, like… four!”

Xaden pinched the bridge of his nose and took a slow breath.

Through his mental bond, Sgaeyl’s voice curled into his mind like smoke and amusement.

“You command legions, and yet a seven-year-old bests you. Fascinating.”

“I didn’t ask for commentary.”

“She has your eyes, but her logic is all your mate’s.”

Xaden snorted softly and shot back, “You’re not helping.”

Kaheli was now tiptoeing her way toward the kitchen again, boots clonking and giggles echoing. Liam hadn’t looked up from his book.

“Dad,” Liam said evenly, “she’s also using one of your belts to lasso the pantry door.”

Xaden swore under his breath and turned on his heel. “Kaheli Riorson, I swear on every battle I've ever fought, if that belt breaks—”

She yelped and sprinted, leaving the boots behind. By the time he got to the pantry, there was a pile of clothing, half a banana, a wooden sword, and a mangled belt left in her wake. She’d vanished into her room.

Back in the living room, Liam finally glanced up. His black hair was mussed just slightly, one of Kaheli’s glitter stickers still stuck to his pajama sleeve. His quiet, steady eyes—the same shade as yours—blinked up at his father with calm resignation.

“Do I still have to brush my teeth if Kaheli isn’t doing it?”

Xaden ran a hand over his face, then down through his hair. “Yes. Because you’re the eldest. And responsible. And possibly my only hope of maintaining peace in this house.”

Liam gave a long-suffering sigh, like a man forty years older, and slid off the chair. Kaheli, naturally, was now in the bathtub. With her socks still on.

“I needed to give my dolls a swimming lesson!” she declared when Xaden opened the bathroom door and froze at the puddle reaching the hallway.

“You’re not even in the tub—why are you soaked?”

“I fell. But it was heroic.”

Sgaeyl’s voice again.

“This one should command legions, too.”

“She’ll command my grave at this rate.”

“You adore her.”

Xaden crouched beside the tub, plucked a soap bubble off Kaheli’s nose, and kissed her forehead. “You are chaos incarnate.”

She beamed. “Mama says you love it.”

“I do,” he admitted quietly.

It took another forty-five minutes—three false starts, two rounds of Kaheli crawling under her bed insisting she was a cat and therefore didn’t sleep on mattresses, and one emergency hunt for Liam’s missing dragon plushie—but eventually both children were in their beds.

Liam, in his favourite green blanket with his book tucked under his pillow. Kaheli, finally clean, hair braided with soft fingers by her father, one foot still poking out of the covers like a rebellion.

“You know Mama’s gonna bring back chocolate from the market, right?” Kaheli whispered as Xaden tucked her in.

He raised a brow. “That’s not guaranteed.”

“It is,” she insisted. “She always does when she hangs out with Auntie Mira. They have dessert secrets.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Go to sleep, little storm.”

The room dimmed as he stepped out. He paused in the hallway, listening. For once, silence. He leaned against the wall, rolled his eyes, and reached for the bond again.

“They live. I live. Barely.”

“Your female would be proud.”

He smiled faintly.

And somewhere in the distance, through the kitchen door left open, he swore he heard the faintest crunch.

“…Kaheli,” he growled, stalking down the hall again. The crunch echoed like a war cry in the silence that had, for a blissful thirty seconds, lulled Xaden into believing he had finally won the bedtime battle. His eyes narrowed. His shoulders dropped. And somewhere behind his temple, a headache bloomed.

Crunch. Again. Louder this time.

“They’re supposed to be asleep,” he sent pointedly through the bond, only for Sgaeyl to offer what he could only interpret as a mental shrug.

“They are small and fast. You, my bonded, are slow and optimistic.”

Xaden muttered something very un-duke-like and made his way down the corridor again, this time toward the kitchen. The light was off, but the pantry door was cracked open. Suspiciously quiet. Dangerously quiet.

He reached the entrance, nudged the door open—and there they were.

Liam, perched on a kitchen stool, pajama-clad and still holding his book like it was a shield between him and the consequences of whatever came next. And Kaheli, standing barefoot on the countertop, one hand in the cookie jar and the other already stuffed with contraband, cheeks puffed like a squirrel.

“…Really?” Xaden asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “This is the strategy you went with?”

Liam looked up. “I wasn’t part of it. I was just… observing.”

Kaheli grinned, absolutely unbothered. “You didn’t say no midnight snacks weren’t allowed. You just said ‘go to bed.’ Which I did. And then I got back up.”

Xaden closed his eyes.

“You raised this one. She learned loopholes from you.”

“I swear to the gods, if you don’t stop enjoying this…”

He stepped fully into the room now, gesturing for Kaheli to get down from the counter. “Boots. Belts. Bathtubs. Now burglary. What’s next, organizing a heist with Ridoc?”

She gasped, delighted. “Can we?”

“No.”

Liam slid off the stool, brushing crumbs off his hands like he had no stake in the crime. “We were hungry.”

“You had dinner.”

“But we’re growing.”

Kaheli nodded solemnly in agreement. “And growing kids need chocolate. That’s what Auntie Mira said. She has science.”

Xaden exhaled. “Auntie Mira is not a licensed nutritional expert. And she’s banned from this house for a week.”

Kaheli’s mouth opened in a shocked gasp. “You can’t ban her! She brings the good candy!”

“I’m the Duke. I can ban whoever I want.”

“But Mama outranks you!”

He gritted his teeth. “She does, and I hate that you know it.”

Kaheli reached for another cookie, and Xaden plucked the jar from her hand mid-air. “That’s it. Bed. Now. Or I’m telling Sgaeyl to stand guard outside your door.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him with the calculated intensity of a tiny general. Liam quietly backed out of the kitchen, book tucked under his arm, mouthing good luck to his father as he retreated.

Kaheli sighed dramatically, stomped once for effect, and then padded off down the hall. Xaden turned off the kitchen light, placed the cookie jar safely on the top shelf, and stood there for a moment in the quiet.

He let the bond open again.

“Still slow. Still outnumbered.”

“Next time, you’re babysitting.”

“I will eat the pantry.”

He rolled his eyes and headed toward the bedrooms.

When he reached Kaheli’s door, he found her sitting upright in bed, arms crossed, glaring at him like he’d ruined her entire career.

“You’re going to tell Mama, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What if I give you back your belt?”

“…Which belt.”

She produced it from under her blanket with a grin. “The braided one.”

“…The one you used to lasso the pantry?”

“I also tied it to my dresser. For science.”

He took the belt, trying not to laugh. “Sleep. Now. Before I make Sgaeyl your alarm clock in the morning.”

“You wouldn’t.”

He turned off the light. “Oh, I would.”

Xaden glanced at the time, then back at the unsigned form in front of him. His quill stilled mid-sentence. He could feel your bond tug first—buzzing at the edge of his senses with a kind of chaotic, sloshed glee that could only mean one thing.

“You’re almost home, aren’t you?”

The front door clicked.

“Shit.”

He didn’t bother getting up. Just waited.

Sure enough, footsteps echoed unevenly through the hallway. Loud ones. Something clinked against the wall. A thud. A muttered curse. A definite giggle.

Then—your silhouette stumbled into the bedroom, framed by moonlight and the faint amber glow of hallway sconces.

You were holding a nearly empty bottle of vodka in one hand like it was a prize, hair tousled from wind and dancing and whatever else the night had thrown at you.

“Duke Riorson!” you slurred with the pomp of a court herald. “I have returned from battle.”

He looked up from the desk, setting his quill aside, mouth twitching.

“Oh no,” he muttered.

You squinted at him. “Why’re you still awake? It’s, like, tomorrow already.”

“I can’t sleep without you. Also—” he held up a parchment, “—these jackasses in the northern province sent the wrong treaty, again.”

You pointed at him with the neck of the bottle. “You should sleep. You’re sexy when you sleep. Also awake. Also when you’re angry. Also when you yell at people, especially when you yell at people.”

“You’re drunk,” he said flatly, but he was already half-smiling.

You staggered toward him and stopped in the middle of the room like you forgot what your legs were doing.

“My panties are stuck in my ass,” you announced.

Xaden blinked. “…Not where I thought this was going.”

“They’ve been up there for hours. Violet said it’s a metaphor for womanhood.”

“Remind me to revoke her influence in your life.”

You took a sip from the bottle—straight vodka, not a mixer in sight—and then tilted your head, eyes wide and sparkling with mischief.

“Do you wanna help me get them out?”

He barked a laugh, head dropping into one hand. “Gods, you’re a menace.”

You walked over and collapsed dramatically into his lap, limbs sprawling, nearly knocking the ink pot over.

“You know what else is stuck?”

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“My heart. It’s stuck to you.”

He snorted. “That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well, my standards drop when you’re this hot and I’m this hammered.”

You poked at the collar of his shirt. “You know what I wanna do?”

“I truly don’t.”

“Rip this open. Push everything off this desk. Ruin you.”

He held your wrist, steady but gentle. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m in love.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m also incredibly horny.”

“And incredibly uncoordinated,” he said as you tried to shimmy off his lap and immediately lost your balance, nearly sliding to the floor before he caught you around the waist.

You blinked up at him, hair sticking to your cheek. “Are you holding me like a princess?”

“Trying to keep you from smashing your face, sweetheart.”

“You’re so strong. Like scary strong. I wanna climb you like a tree.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, head falling back toward the ceiling like he was praying for strength from the gods.

“Stars save me…”

“I’m gonna lick your abs.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. I’ll be sober in like… an hour.”

“You absolutely will not be.”

“Then I’ll lick them while drunk.”

He cupped your face gently. “Love of my life,” he said softly. “You’re completely gone.”

“I still know I want you naked.”

“You also think the fireplace is judging you right now.”

You turned toward the stone hearth and pointed. “You are, Harold. You judgmental brick bitch.”

Xaden bit back a full laugh and kissed your temple. “Okay. Come on.”

He helped you to your feet, guiding you toward the bed. You promptly faceplanted across it.

“Mmmph,” came your muffled voice. “This is nice. You’re gonna have to undress me though, my fingers forgot how to buttons.”

He crouched beside the bed and ran a hand down your back, eyes softening.

“You are chaos,” he whispered.

You lifted your head just slightly. “But I’m your chaos.”

He brushed hair from your cheek, leaned in, and kissed you once, sweet and slow.

“That,” he murmured, “is the only thing you’ve said all night that makes sense.”

You were sprawled half on the bed, half on your husband, the hem of your dress bunched up around your thighs, and one leg casually tossed across Xaden’s lap. Your arms were draped around his neck like you were trying to pull him into a kiss and/or wrestle him into submission.

“I want you,” you murmured, voice low and hoarse in his ear.

He sighed. “I know.”

“No, like—right now.” You wiggled. “I want you to do that thing where you growl and shove me against something and ruin me for days.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m motivated.”

You tried to slide closer, mouth brushing along his jaw, breath hot against his skin. “I’ve been thinking about you all night. You and your stupid arms and your broody face and the way your hair looks when you’re pissed off and—”

He caught your chin gently, tilting your face up. “You reek of alcohol.”

“Sexy, right?” you whispered.

“I can’t even believe you made it home upright.”

“I was thinking about your thighs the entire walk.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, muscles visibly straining in his jaw. Your hand was already drifting downward, sliding across the waistband of his pants with zero finesse and every ounce of determination.

“Baby,” he warned, catching your wrist.

“But you feel so good,” you whined, rocking against him. “Let me make you feel good. I need it.”

“You need water. And sleep.”

“I need your hands. I need your teeth. I need your—”

He groaned quietly and pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re going to kill me.”

“I promise to resurrect you. After.”

“Sweetheart—” his voice was rough, low, “—if you don’t stop grinding on me, I’m going to lose what’s left of my control, and tomorrow you’ll be yelling at me for taking advantage.”

You pouted. “You always ruin it when you’re being noble.”

“You’ll thank me in the morning.”

“I’ll climb you in the morning.”

“Fine. You can climb me after you’ve had water, slept off the vodka, and stopped calling the fireplace Harold.”

You glanced toward the hearth and gave it a dirty look. “He’s still judging me.”

Xaden kissed your forehead, then firmly rolled you off his lap and onto the bed. He pulled the blankets over you, tucking them under your arms like you were the most infuriating and precious thing he’d ever seen.

You blinked up at him, pouty and pink-lipped. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m the most fun,” he promised, brushing his fingers down your cheek. “You’ll just have to wait ‘til you’re sober to enjoy it.”

You huffed and turned your back to him—but not before muttering, “You better be shirtless when I wake up.”

He smirked. “I’ll think about it.”

And then, quietly, from under the blankets, your voice again:

“I still want to lick your abs.”

“Sleep, menace.”

For the twenty minutes following that, room was finally quiet.

Mostly.

The kind of quiet that came with you flopping around like a disgruntled sea otter tangled in silk sheets.

Xaden had just extinguished the lantern, letting moonlight bathe the room in silver-blue shadows. He was propped against the headboard, shirt unbuttoned, paperwork forgotten on the nightstand as he tried—and failed—to get you to lie still.

But you had other plans.

You rolled over with all the grace of a tipsy thunderclap and landed half on top of him again, cheek smooshed against his bare bicep like it was a cloud forged by gods.

“Mmmm,” you moaned, dragging your face along it like a cat. “This is the best pillow. Ever.”

He looked down at you, blinking slowly. “My arm?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Specifically this one. Left arm. It's got a thicker energy.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

You traced a lazy finger over his tattoo, swirling where the inky lines wrapped around his muscle. “I think about this arm too much, honestly.”

He smirked. “Do you?”

“I think about wrapping both legs around it. Like, just your arm. Not even the rest of you. I could ride this bicep like a—like a warhorse.”

He made a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, head dropping back against the headboard.

“And look at the veins,” you whispered reverently, running your palm up from his wrist to his elbow like you were examining marble. “Like lightning. Like a map. Like fate.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“I want to bite it.”

“What?”

“Just a little bite,” you said, already nuzzling the crook of his elbow. “Like a soft, affectionate chomp. Just to know it’s real.”

“That’s not a thing people do.”

“I do. I bite the things I love.”

He looked vaguely concerned. “You’re not a teething toddler.”

“Shh. Let me love you, arm first.”

Before he could stop you, you sank your teeth gently into the top of his bicep—not hard, just enough pressure to earn a twitch and a surprised inhale.

“Did you just mark me?”

You grinned up at him. “Possibly.”

“Stars,” he muttered.

You licked it, too.

“You licked it?!”

“I had to even it out!”

He dropped his head into one hand. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I’m lucky you’re built like a living weapon,” you mumbled, already cuddling back into his side like nothing had happened. “Your arms should be illegal.”

“Maybe you should be illegal.”

“Too late. I’m your problem now.”

He sighed, threading his fingers through your hair as you tucked your head under his chin.

You murmured sleepily, “Tomorrow I’m gonna try to straddle just one of your arms.”

“Looking forward to it,” he said dryly. “I’ll alert the guards.”

You yawned, kissed his shoulder lazily, and whispered: “Your biceps deserve their own title. Like, ‘Lord of All Forearms.’”

He looked down at you. “Do you want me or my limbs, exactly?”

“Both. But right now? The limbs. Specifically the upper ones.”

He shook his head, biting down a grin. Gods help him, he was going to let you bite him again tomorrow if you asked.

The moon had shifted by the time Xaden felt his eyelids starting to betray him.

You were draped across him like a weighted blanket, your breath warm and steady against the bare skin of his chest. One leg tangled possessively over his, arm flung across his waist. A chaotic goddess in dishevelled silk, your hair tickled his neck and your body radiated heat like you’d stolen the sun itself.

And for once… it was quiet.

No bedtime screaming. No crashing sounds from Liam’s room. No Kaheli leaping onto furniture pretending to be a gryphon. No Sgaeyl mentally snorting her disapproval from somewhere above the stronghold. Just this: you, in his arms, soft and vulnerable and sprawled across him like home.

He looked down at you, unable to help the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He'd never get over this—having you like this. Keeping you. Watching you wreak gentle havoc in his fortress heart and deciding he’d die before he ever let the world take you from him.

You murmured something in your sleep. A soft, slurred little sound like “mmmwarms’good.” Your cheek nuzzled his chest, lips grazing skin, and he melted all over again.

He exhaled, content.

Finally—finally—he let his head fall back against the pillows, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to start slipping into sleep.

And then:

“I want another baby.”

Xaden’s eyes snapped open.

He turned his head slowly, wondering if he’d imagined it. If perhaps you were mumbling again, like you had earlier about how “the fireplace knows your sins.”

But no. You were awake.

Barely.

Your lashes were heavy and your words sluggish, but your hand was now trailing across his chest in lazy, drunken circles, dangerously close to sliding south again.

“You what?” he asked, voice low.

“I wanna make a baby,” you whispered, like it was a secret you were telling the night. “With you. Again.”

He blinked. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m honest.”

“You’re drunk and honest. That’s a deadly combination.”

You turned your face upward, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “You’re a really good dad, Xaden.”

That one landed hard. Right in the sternum.

“I watched you brush Kaheli’s hair this morning,” you continued, your voice dreamlike and sweet, “even though she said it hurt and tried to slap the brush out of your hand. And Liam hugged you before bed last night without you even asking.”

His throat went tight.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy but suddenly sharp. “We made them. They’re ours. That’s real.”

“Of course it’s real,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles over your cheek.

You smiled sleepily. “I want more of you in the world. Little pieces. Loud ones. Wild ones. Babies with your eyes and your ridiculous shoulders.”

“I thought you said my shoulders were built for sin.”

“They are. But they also hold sleeping kids without flinching.”

You nestled closer. “I want to make another baby with you, Xaden Riorson. Not tonight. But soon.”

His breath hitched.

You were tipsy and warm and half-asleep and completely sincere, and it made something ancient in him unravel a little more.

He kissed your temple. “You really mean it?”

You nodded against his chest. “Yeah. I really do.”

Silence stretched between you. His hand moved automatically, brushing back your hair, stroking your spine.

And after a beat, he whispered, “Okay.”

You sighed, content. Already slipping back toward sleep.

But not before you mumbled, “Can I name the next one? I’m thinking something powerful. Like ‘Dagger’ or ‘Moonwolf.’”

Xaden groaned. “Stars, help me.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

You were asleep ten seconds later.

But Xaden?

He lay there wide awake, staring at the ceiling, heart thundering with equal parts dread and delight, his arm curled protectively around you.

You wanted another baby.

And the worst part?

He wanted it too.

6:04 a.m. — Tyrrendor Stronghold Bedroom

Xaden stirred before the sun broke fully over the spires. Something—no, someone—was shifting against him. Warm and twitching. At first, he thought it was Kaheli again, crawling in to steal cuddles like she did half the week.

But then he heard it.

A soft, pitiful groan. Low and raw.

His eyes snapped open. You were still in his arms, curled into him like the night before, but your body was tense now. You were clammy to the touch—damp with sweat—and your face…

Your face was pale, flushed in the cheeks but drained everywhere else. A sharp contrast to the flushed warmth and rosy glow you’d worn home with that vodka bottle gripped in your hand.

“Y/N?” he whispered, lifting himself onto one elbow. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer at first—only whimpered, pressing a hand to your stomach.

Then came the gag.

Sharp. Guttural. Desperate.

You jerked forward with it, clutching your middle, your other hand fumbling toward your mouth like it might be able to stop what was coming.

“Oh no—fuck, hold on—” Xaden was already moving, trying to help you up, he knew he should have set up a bucket last night, but—

It was too late.

You lurched violently to the side of the bed and retched.

There was no grace in it. No time to even aim for the floor properly. It hit the wooden planks in a splatter, your breath coming in hiccupped sobs between heaves. Acidic. Loud. Violent.

You braced one trembling hand against the nightstand and gasped as another wave hit you. Your body convulsed with the force of it, shoulders shaking. And when it finally stopped—when the worst of it passed—you collapsed forward, moaning softly through gritted teeth.

Tears had gathered in the corners of your eyes. The shame of it, the pain of it, the sheer embarrassment of being sick like this—it carved deep.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, breath ragged, voice tight with emotion. “I didn’t make it. I’m so—shit—I’m sorry—”

“Stop,” Xaden said immediately, kneeling beside you without hesitation. “Don’t apologize.”

You were sweating now, soaked at the hairline, strands plastered to your cheeks and neck. He reached for the cloth draped over the armchair from last night, wet it with the water pitcher on the dresser, and gently pressed it to the back of your neck.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, brushing your hair back as he knelt beside you. “You’re okay.”

You were still trying to hold back tears. “I didn’t mean to wake you up…”

“You think I’m sleeping through that?” he said with a breath of dry humor, though his voice was soft, soothing. He rubbed your back, careful and slow, like calming Kaheli after a nightmare. “You’re sick, not an inconvenience.”

You gave a broken laugh, forehead pressed to your wrist. “Gods, I’m disgusting right now.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, firm and unflinching. “You’re mine.”

His voice was low. Steady. Grounding.

And then, gently but without waiting for protest, he lifted you from the floor—strong arms wrapped around you, one hand warm at your back, the other under your knees.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

The warm light of early dawn spilled across the stone floor as Xaden pushed the bathroom door open with his shoulder, carrying you like something breakable. You didn’t fight it—not even a little. You just curled into his chest, exhausted and ashamed, your arms wrapped weakly around his neck.

You hated being sick.

You especially hated being seen like this.

But gods… he made it feel okay. Somehow, he always did.

He set you down gently on the cushioned bench beside the deep, sunken tub, his hands brushing your thighs before he stood.

“Sit. Don’t move,” he said softly, already reaching to turn the taps.

The steam rose quickly, curling in the air, scenting it faintly with the calming herbs he'd mixed into the bath salts weeks ago—juniper, lavender, something else earthy. The same ones you liked when your muscles were sore from training or too much traveling between wards.

You watched him in silence, your heart aching in your chest. He didn’t look annoyed. Didn’t flinch once. His jaw was a little tight—he hated seeing you in pain—but everything else about him was calm, capable. Soft, in that Xaden way that always belonged only to you.

He turned back to you once the water was halfway up the sides of the tub.

“Arms up,” he said gently.

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m helping you undress, love. You’re not exactly steady right now.”

You let out a breath, half a laugh, half a groan, but obeyed, raising your arms as he peeled your wrinkled sleep shirt off. You were still sweating, cold and hot all at once, stomach churning weakly. Your skin felt too tight on your bones.

Still, when he dropped to his knees again and kissed your bare knee, slow and reverent, your throat threatened to close with emotion.

“I threw up all over the floor,” you whispered, blinking fast. “And now you’re—”

“Washing you. Taking care of you. Loving you. Pick one.”

Your mouth opened. Closed.

He helped you into the tub slowly, keeping one hand at the small of your back, the other steadying your arm. The water was heaven—warm, enveloping, a balm against your trembling body.

You sank into it with a soft sigh, eyes fluttering shut as the heat started to unknot the worst of the shakes. When you opened them again, Xaden was sitting beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, a warm washcloth in hand. He reached in, brushing it over your shoulder. Your collarbone. The back of your neck. All in silence.

Until finally, you cracked a smile.

“I really am disgusting.”

“You’re mine,” he said again, dipping the cloth, “and I’ll clean up your vomit a hundred times over if it means I get to keep you.”

You rolled your head to the side, water rippling around your shoulders as you blinked at him. “That’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

He chuckled lowly. “Not exactly how I imagined our morning after your drunken declarations of wanting to name a baby Moonwolf.”

You groaned and sank lower into the tub, covering your face. “Please tell me I didn’t say that.”

“You did,” he said, laughing now. “After threatening to bite my arms and trying to take off my pants with one hand.”

“Stars, end me.”

“Not happening.”

You peeked out from behind your fingers. He was still there. Still smiling. Still steady and warm and real.

“Thank you,” you whispered, voice barely above the sound of the water lapping at the tub’s edges.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead, letting them linger there.

“Always.”

By the time Xaden finished rinsing you off and wrapped you in the softest towel he could find, you were half-asleep again, head lolling gently against his shoulder. He carried you back to bed without comment, tucking you in like he was handling something sacred.

You mumbled something incoherent about toast. Or stars. Or possibly Sgaeyl’s tail. He kissed your temple and whispered, “I’ll be right back,” before disappearing into the hallway.

You barely had time to sigh into the pillows before—

BANG.

The bedroom door slammed open like it had never heard of quiet hours. “MAMA!” Kaheli squealed, flinging herself onto the bed and landing squarely on your hip. “Are you dead?!”

You groaned, rolling halfway onto your side. “Not yet.”

She sniffed you. Actually sniffed you. “You smell like… old grapes and sick.”

“That would be the vodka,” Liam muttered as he stepped into the room with far more dignity. He was still in his pajamas, his sleep-mussed hair flopping over one eye.

“Mom doesn’t usually throw up,” Kaheli announced, now bouncing next to your pillow. “Are you gonna throw up again?”

“Not if you stop shaking the damn bed,” you mumbled, dragging the covers over your head.

“You said a bad word,” Liam deadpanned.

“Your dad says worse.”

“Yeah, but he’s the Duke.”

Before you could respond with something equally inappropriate and poorly thought out, Xaden returned—carrying a tray with dry toast, ginger tea, and a glass of water.

“Off your mother,” he ordered, eyes sharp but amused.

Kaheli slid off you dramatically, hands in the air like she was surrendering.

Xaden set the tray down and eased onto the bed beside you. “How’re you holding up?”

You peeked up at him with one eye. “I want to die.”

“Not today, love. You’ve got two tiny monsters with morning breath and too much energy.”

Kaheli stuck her tongue out. Liam climbed onto the bed and curled up beside you, his head on your thigh. “You look better,” Xaden murmured, tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear.

“I feel like boiled trash,” you muttered.

Kaheli brightened. “Can we go to the stables now?!”

Xaden didn’t miss a beat. “No. Not until Mama eats two bites of toast.”

You gave him a long-suffering glare. “You are too good at this parenting thing.”

“Don’t let that distract you from the fact you called me ‘the crown jewel of Tyrrendor’s abs’ last night while trying to lick my—”

“Xaden!” you shrieked, smacking his chest, face burning.

Liam made a face. Kaheli cackled.

You flopped back onto the pillows, hiding under your arm. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, smug, already holding the tea out toward you. “Take a sip, Moonwolf.”

You groaned. But you took the tea.

The tea settled warm in your stomach, easing the nausea bit by bit. Xaden sat beside you, leaning on one arm, one leg draped over the edge of the bed, toast crumbs on his thigh and a patient but mildly exasperated look on his face as Kaheli tried (and failed) to braid Liam’s hair.

“I told you it doesn’t twist like that,” Liam grumbled, batting her hands away.

Kaheli frowned. “Well, mine does.”

“Yours is chaos.”

“Thank you.”

Xaden sighed and ran a hand over his face. “If I get you both dressed, will you let your mother rest for at least one hour?”

“Two,” you croaked from under the blanket. “I need two.”

Kaheli beamed. “Deal!”

And just like that, they were gone—scampering out of the room in a flurry of bare feet and loud footsteps. Liam grumbled something about Kaheli being a feral pony, and she shrieked in delight.

Silence.

You turned your head toward Xaden. “Are you sure we shouldn’t have stopped at one?”

His lips twitched. “You’re the one who told me last night you wanted three more.”

You groaned, burrowing under the covers again. “Drunk me is a menace.”

“She’s also very honest,” he said mildly.

When you peeked back out, he was watching you. Less amused now. More… full. That quiet reverence he never voiced aloud, but always wore in the way he looked at you—like you were the only soft thing that had ever belonged to him.

“You really don’t care I vomited on the floor?” you whispered.

Xaden raised a brow. “You think after years of war and blood and shadow wielding I can’t handle a little sick?”

You bit your lip.

He leaned closer. “You think I didn’t wake up with you multiple times while you were pregnant with Kaheli, cleaning up every time you couldn’t even make it to the bucket?”

“Oh. Right.”

His mouth curved as he kissed your forehead. “You’re mine, remember? At your fiercest, at your weakest. Doesn’t matter.”

Gods, you hated how soft he could make you. No one should be allowed to be this patient and this hot.

Your voice was small. “I still feel gross.”

“You look beautiful.”

“Liar.”

“I’ve never lied to you,” he murmured, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

You closed your eyes and leaned into his touch. “Okay, fine, just a little sexy. Like… dying-forest-dryad sexy.”

He barked a laugh. “That’s new.”

You cracked an eye open. “If I wasn’t seconds from falling asleep I’d jump you again.”

Xaden gave you the most devastating smirk. “And I’d let you.”

His fingers swept your hair back from your face, careful not to disturb the knot of sweat-damp strands near your temple. He leaned down, pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Sleep, baby.”

You sighed. “Only if you promise to never let me near Ridoc and alcohol again.”

“No promises,” he murmured, pulling the blanket over your shoulder. “But I’ll be here when you wake up. Like always.”

_

Kaheli was galloping through the stone hallway, shrieking that she was a dragon-fox hybrid queen of the stables, while Liam trudged behind her with a resigned expression and toast crumbs in his curls.

Xaden stood in the archway, watching them. Arms crossed, mouth twitching.

You were asleep upstairs. Finally. Peacefully. And as wild as it was, as exhausting as this life could be… this was everything he'd ever wanted. A wife with fire in her eyes. Children who shrieked like banshees and made him believe in softness again.

A home that didn’t just have walls—but laughter.

He shook his head, turned, and followed the chaos.

Because honestly?

He wouldn’t survive a day without it.

Bonus scene for my @thelov3lybookworm and @berryzxx in honour of their help and support to my complaining:

10:21 a.m. — Tyrrendor Stronghold, Kitchen

You emerged from the stairwell in one of Xaden’s old war shirts—oversized, threadbare, and your absolute favourite—and a pair of thick socks that kept sliding down your heels.

Your hair was a mess. Your mouth tasted like regret. Your soul whimpered for tea. And yet… you were alive. Barely. You followed the sound of Xaden’s voice echoing from the kitchen. A mix of dry sarcasm and the very specific tone he used when trying not to yell.

“I said no alchemy experiments without supervision.”

“I was supervised,” Kaheli declared proudly.

“By who?”

“Liam!”

Xaden groaned. “He’s nine!”

You stepped into the kitchen and paused.

There was glitter. Everywhere.

Not sparkles. Not a bit of shimmer. No. Full-scale, detonation-level glitter warfare. Coating the stone floor, the counters, Liam’s hair, and the entire left side of Xaden’s black tunic.

You blinked. “Did a unicorn throw up in here?”

Kaheli spun dramatically. “It was for science.”

Xaden turned, spotted you, and immediately crossed the room.

“Why are you standing?” he asked softly, hands bracing your hips.

“Because I didn’t want to die alone in bed while you two summoned glitter demons,” you muttered.

Liam snorted behind you. “I told her we didn’t need the shimmerroot.”

“She dared me,” Kaheli argued, hands on hips.

You looked up at your husband, squinting. “Why does it smell like burnt honey and fear in here?”

Before he could answer, a voice called out from the hall.

“Hey, your guards let me in because I said I brought juice.”

You groaned. “No. No no no.”

Ridoc strolled in, holding three bottles of summerfruit elixir and a smug grin. His tunic was unbuttoned, and there was a lipstick mark on his neck.

“Why are you here?” Xaden asked, his voice so dangerously calm that even Sgaeyl might’ve flinched.

Ridoc shrugged. “Just checking in on my drinking buddy.”

You squinted at him. “I told you to stay behind and distract the tavern keeper while I climbed on the table.”

“Which I did,” he said cheerfully. “Though I think he’s in love with me now.”

Xaden sighed and turned away, muttering, “I need my shadows. I need a drink. I need a damn break.”

Kaheli whispered loudly, “He says that every day.”

You smirked and leaned against the counter.

Ridoc handed you a bottle of elixir and winked. “You told a town guard you were the Princess of Kisses.”

You blinked. “That’s honestly better than what I thought I said.”

Xaden muttered under his breath and wiped glitter off your cheek with his thumb. “You told me your panties had betrayed you and that you wanted to bite my arms like a sandwich.”

Ridoc wheezed.

Kaheli gasped. “Mama!”

You groaned. “I’m never drinking again.”

“You said that after Kaheli’s naming ceremony,” Xaden pointed out.

“She was eight pounds and had claws. I deserved that one.”

Kaheli beamed. “I was powerful.”

Xaden kissed your temple and whispered, “Go lie down. I’ll clean this.”

You narrowed your eyes at Ridoc. “If you glitter my floor again, I’ll throw you in the stable with a chalkboard and let Kaheli teach you history.”

Kaheli gasped with delight. “I love history!”

Ridoc paled. “I have to go.”

“Smart man,” Xaden muttered.

As Ridoc fled and Kaheli began dragging Liam toward her next chaotic activity (“We’re making potions with mud!��), Xaden turned to you and gently steered you toward the stairs.

“Come on, sandwich biter. You need sleep.”

You sighed dramatically. “Only if you come with me.”

“I will. After I scrub this damn glitter out of my soul.”

A/N: I was not intending it to get so long. BUT IM BACK IN BUSINESS BABESSSSSS

Comments, thoughts and reblogs would be really appreciated

Credit to @empyreanevents for the divider

[rosiewitchescottage]

Yes.

She takes the drastic step, which could easily have gone badly wrong, not to mention could have lead to her death, for no other reason than Love for her family.

Her father's an army veteran, honourably discharged because of injury.

But her family still must send someone to fight The Hun, or risk dishonour.

Mulan has no brother who would have gone instead. So she decides to play the part of her own brother.

Imagine the courage that it takes to do that, without supernatural abilities, just determination, courage and family love.

It's that same determination that takes her through the trials of training and action.

She has humiliating failures, but she refuses to let them make her quit.

Even when her cover's blown and they know she's a woman, she is able to persuade them why she is still one of them.

She shows that she still has the same skills and courage that she had when they thought she was a man.

How the heck did Disney think that some boring old hat 'super powers' could make for a better character than this?!

— requested by manbunjon

[cybermannete]

the office. - mac

I LOVE MAC SM THEY WERE THE FIRST ONE I ROMANCED IN THE GAME OK HERE IS A FIC NOW IM ON 200 MG OF CAFFEINE

(contains: some nice, casual flirting with mac, mutual feelings, mentions of "the office" since ive been watching it for the millionth time)

border credit: @enchanthings-a

"Are you seriously watching 'The Office' again?" Mac's voice cut through your ears, interrupting your small enrichment time after your taxing day at work. After being let go from Valdivian, you took on a classic 9-5 job working a help desk. It sucked, but the bills were getting paid and you were eating. Isn't that what matters most?

You sigh as you lean back in your computer chair, your leftover pasta sitting eagerly in your hands. Despite your deep rooted exhaustion from dealing with people all day and staring at the blue light of both your work computer and your home computer, you managed to crack a smile towards Mac, who was gazing at you with a teasing look in their eyes. "I am." You answered, nodding slowly. "Is that an issue?"

Mac rolled their eyes playfully, leaning their head over your shoulder. "I should have known. You have over 1,000 hours alone on The Office. 500 on Friends, too." You felt your cheeks flush red almost in embarrassment as Mac read out the statistics of your viewing habits.

You laugh nervously, "I'm sure it was because I uhm.. left the tab open when I went to bed.." You were grabbing at straws, trying to make yourself look not as uninteresting or boring as those statistics said you were. So what if you rewatched the same show over and over again? It was like a cup of hot chicken noodle soup on a cold day.

Mac laughed, shaking their head as they flicked your forehead playfully. "Mm, I don't think so there, babe." They winked. "I was watching you the whole time, and you were right there watching intently. You were even quoting it to yourself when you thought no one was listening."

Your eyes widened a bit, and you gasped, swatting Mac's hand away. "Wh- Mac! Come onnnn!" You whined a bit as you leaned your head back against the back of her chair. Mac had an amused grin on their face, finding themselves entranced by how you embarrassed you were. You huff. "You can understand though, right?? It's a good show!"

Mac went quiet, and their cheeks tinted pink. Were they.. embarrassed? But why? What reason would Mac have to be..

".. Oh my God. You've never seen it."

Mac winced, wringing their hands as they leaned back in their chair. "Welllll.. I-"

You continued on, "What?! How?! You're my computer, you know absolutely everything I do on there!"

Mac then got a smirk on their face. "Guess I was too busy looking at you to pay attention to what you were watching."

Now it was your turn to get flustered. You feel your ears and cheeks burn hot as you stared slack jawed at Mac, and their half lidded eyes and cute grin on their face. You huffed, pointing to the empty spot next to you. "Get over here. You're watching this with me from the beginning."

Mac groaned, "Do I HAVE to?" They still kept a playful tone in their voice.

You said nothing, only raising your eyebrows in a scolding manner as you forcefully pointed your finger to where you wanted them to move their wheelchair. Eventually, Mac breathed an overdramatic sigh as they moved to sit next to you, watching as you worked on your computer to restart the show from the very beginning.

Deep down, they resisted the urge to smirk and laugh at the fact their little lie worked and now you two were going to be spending a LOT of time together.

[wandasaura]

CRUSH CULTURE

summary — yelena’s never had the freedom of considering her sexual orientation, but she knows that girls like boys, and she knows her sister likes girls, but even when you’re the only person on her mind, she can’t succumb to the suffocating standardized crush culture

warning(s) — established queer-platonic relationships, asexual yelena belova, self-acceptance, pride parade, established blackhill, caught fucking, internalized homophobia, childhood trauma, past sexual assault, mention of the red room, yelena’s first pride, coming to terms with sexuality, crying, light banter, alcohol consumption, pre-gaming, day drinking, men/minors dni

authors note — based off of ‘i’ll never need a reason to show the world how much i love you’ from this prompt list! a little asexual representation for pride!

“Hey Nat,” There’s a soft smile on your face. You brace your hand on the bedroom door, a question on the top of your mind. There’s sunshine spilling in from every corner. Everywhere you turn, one window or another is open wide, and the breeze that sweeps inside dances sweetly with the sheer curtains that don’t block out much light. They weren’t purchased to block light, just to soften it, and keep private moments from the windows of other apartments across the way. Today though, they’re pulled to the side, and anyone who dares to be nosey and glance into your two bedroom Manhattan apartment is welcome to watch the show unfold.

Seven months ago, you’d first thrown this idea around. A year ago, you’d first begun to set the groundwork and lay the expectations. Natasha and Maria, for the most part, had been following your color coded agenda down to the very T. They’d done pride events before, many of them, some of them even with you tucked into their side as a third wheel, still taking everything in, still figuring out who you were. How General Dreykov’s prized possession recognized her calling to lesbianism before you did, you would never know, but years later, it’s your turn to teach somebody else the beauty of being unconditionally and unapologetically free.

“I thought we still had vodka—“ Your eyes sweep across the furniture in your guest bedroom. Unlike Yelena, who lives out of a suitcase, Natasha unpacks whenever she gets somewhere. It’s interesting to watch them handle trauma individually. It’s interesting to witness how Natasha overcompensates with allowing the world into her heart and her mannerisms, and Yelena can’t seem to close herself far enough off from it completely. “Oh my god, Nat!” It takes you a moment to glance at the bed in the center of the room. You’d been captivated by a ripped strip of film sitting on top of the dresser. It’s not yours. It’s the other half of Yelena’s. It’s a photo booth film reel from the years in their life where family had been a core value. Yelena’s cheesy smile is missing a couple of teeth, her hair is wild, falling down her shoulders and her back just until it reaches her breastbone. She’s so little. So full of radiance and innocence. It’s hard to imagine that she’d been only a few months away from the end of her life at that point. It’s hard to swallow that her little face hadn’t ever smiled that sincerely since.

It’s like somebody dumps a bucket of ice water on you — to one minute be considering how Yelena Belova had overcome the worst fate imaginable, and then the next lay eyes on her naked big sister whom you’d established a relationship with before you’d even known of her existence was shocking. It was only subconscious that your eyes raked up Maria’s toned back in the initial shock.

The brunette straddled the redhead, using two pride flags as restraints that kept the reformed assassins hands pinned above her head. The sunset colors looked pretty against Natasha’s skin, and the green of her eyes seemed incandescent as she raised her head from the pillows and tugged her hands out of the restraints like they’d never really held her down anyways. Maria glanced down at her when hands looped around her warm waist, a gleam of annoyance on her face.

“You’re supposed to tell me when they’re too loose, not just force yourself still. Will you tell her that it’s about letting go completely? She won’t let me drill it through that thick skull.” Your cheeks flame at Maria’s brazen question. She doesn’t seem to mind that your eyes glance down at her nipples, or that you flicker back to Natasha with a compulsive need to memorize the way her pasty skin looks speckled with love bites and bruises. This isn’t the first time you’ve walked in on Natasha and Maria like this. This isn’t even the first time Maria’s roped you into a conversation about their sex life, but it’s the first time it’s happened with Yelena down the hall, getting ready in the bathroom with your blow dryer on its quietest setting. It’s still a trigger for her; the sudden loud noise and inescapable heat. She can’t tell you specifically what it reminds you of, you don’t think she knows, or at least can’t distinguish a specific memory through the haze in her mind, but nonetheless it triggers her, and that response is as real as anything else.

“Um, it’s about letting go completely.” You tell Natasha, because you’ll do anything Maria tells you to when she uses that tone of voice. Natasha snorts, sitting up fully, until Maria is cradled in her lap. The veteran. who you’ve never known to be the one getting held in their relationship, wiggles off of Natasha’s lap and stalks toward the closet like she’s equally as uncomfortable. She has a pair of black underwear on, nothing scandalous, but you watch Natasha watch her swing her hips with every step.

Both of them are entirely unphased that their marked skin is exposed to the sunlight and your gaze. Neither of them care that their nipples peak before your attention, either subconsciously or not. Maria’s a veteran, she spent six years stripping naked in communal showers and whatever their sleeping arrangements looked like on base. She’d been deployed to the field, where it’s not a guarantee you come out alive, so stripping a couple layers to pee isn't so embarrassing in front of company. Natasha, she’s just never known privacy a day in her life. Sex has been normalized since she’d sprouted her first pubic hair, and probably before then too, but she’s never told you that, and you’ve always avoided asking. Even when she’d joined Shield, she’d been a lower level agent who wasn’t yet above the communal showers and locker rooms. She might know that her body is her own now, she might value that, but some morals aren’t relearnable. Yelena’s the same way. You’d seen her completely naked before she’d even let you in enough to stop constantly threatening your life. Despite naked Russians and veterans being in your life for years, it never fails to make you blush.

Natasha loves to watch you squirm. That’s just the kind of person she is. Now is no different. Her hair might be pulled up into some kind of intricate half-up half-down style, two little sections pulled away from her face, lifting her hairline and pulling the corners of her eyes just the slightest bit taut, but that doesn’t discredit her natural edge. There’s glitter sprayed into her red hair, there’s a shimmer on her skin from the body oil you’d set out on the counter for anyone to grab, but she’s still deadly. There’s still a knife beneath the pillow she leans against, it might just happen to be wrapped in pink, white, and orange duct tape. That’s one thing Natasha’s learned how to do that Yelena still hasn’t. Natasha welcomes life into her trauma in ways that are beautiful and tragic. She still can’t walk around without a weapon. She feels too vulnerable, like she’s practically asking for an ambush, but she decorates the handles of her blades when there’s something worth celebrating in the near future. Not all of them, not the ones that she’s going to be the most inclined to use in a fight, but the ones that she’ll only reach for if she really needs them; if it's her life on the line. Natasha Romanoff may not be entirely free of the trauma imparted on her aggressively in childhood and adolescence, but she’s free enough to know she wants to die with character, because she’s not made of marble, she’s made of flesh, and blood, and bones, and she’s not just another widow in the endless sea of assassins, she’s a person with a girlfriend and a sister, and a best friend that she considers another little sister at points, but only when she has clothes on and isn’t flush from a third round with her girlfriend.

“What did you need?” Natasha rises from the bed, your bed, the one that you paid for and dressed in silk sheets specifically for her because you know cotton against her thighs reminds her too much of the red rooms' wool blankets after a nightmare. She might have a better grip on reality now, she might not be as prone to flashbacks and panic attacks as Yelena still is, but she’s still a woman living with more PTSD than anyone in your history books. She still deserves to be cared for like she’s delicate and irreplaceable.

She has an outfit already laid out. Maria’s in the closet, and you make a note of how the blue-eyed latina is halfway hidden behind the door as she shimmies into whatever clothes she and Natasha packed with enthusiasm before they came down from the upstate Campus. You giggled as you watched Natasha hold up a white baby-tee with black and red letters. Treat Her Right. It was so boldly on the nose for her. Not in your face pride, not cheesy enough to elicit an eye roll or a grimace, but just casually enforcing that she’s in fact a lady lover when she’s not saving the world. Sometimes even when she is. You recall a few kisses or two happening beneath falling rubble and alien weapons.

“You’re not really going to wear those jeans are you? Skinny jeans, Natasha? Really?” You deadpanned, glancing at the black skinny jeans she hasn’t been able to let out of her sight since she’d first been given a shield credit card and stocked up on whatever she thought fit Western style at the time. She’s gotten more accustomed to comply with fashion trends, and she officially has the coziest oversized hoodie out of everyone you know, but those damn skinny jeans are looking like they’re going to have to be clawed out of her dead, cold hands.

Natasha rolls her eyes, “What did you need, detka?” She reiterates, and you grin at the term of endearment that rolls off of her lips in exasperation. Natasha rolls her eyes at your reaction, throwing the jeans aside again and plopping down onto the edges of the bed in only a pair of underwear and the baby-tee.

Maria finally steps out of the closet, and you manage an amused laugh at her lesbian flag cargo shorts and self-cropped wife beater with rainbow letters that spelled out ‘a little bit fruity’. Sometimes you just couldn’t with them. Sometimes it was impossibly hard to remember that they were the only reason the entire world was still spinning, and that they couldn’t sleep soundly at night because of it.

“Oh! Vodka.” You grinned, perking up slightly as you remembered why you initially entered the guest bedroom. “Yelena used the rest of it to make Jell-O shots last night, and didn’t think to tell me that before we went to bed.” You sighed, trying hard not to let the little inconvenience ruin your entire mood now that you remembered it had happened at all. You wanted this to be perfect for her. You needed this to be perfect for her. Natsaha’s first pride had been perfect. She tells you that every year. She’d gone with Maria and Carol Danvers, and a rather excited Clint who had dragged Laura Barton around New York City pregnant and all. Carol hadn’t known that. She’d just thought Laura was strategically sober and knew how to have a good time without alcohol. Natasha had told you that was the pride she realized she didn’t like men at all; that she only associated feelings of love with them because it was drilled into her head in the red room that men are the ultimate honey trap. Women are harder to break, harder to seduce. Men are easy if you show enough skin. “I think she’s on the verge of a breakdown in the bathroom. So, if I give you money, can you run down to the corner and pick up another bottle?”

“I brought some.” Natasha shrugs, nodding toward her duffle bag that's placed in the corner of the room between the nightstand and the wall. Your eyes trail over to the black bag embroidered with her Red hourglass symbol, a ‘seasons end’ gift from Tony the last time they’d momentarily gone their separate ways after a crisis.

“Oh, great!” You beam, a bright smile on your lips before her words catch up to you. “You brought your own vodka to my apparent? When worst case scenario there’s a liquor store on the corner?” You stare at her, lips fluttering. Sometimes, Natasha Romanoff can still catch you off guard after all these years.

“I’m Russian.” Natasha shrugs, and Maria just shakes her head from the corner of the room, willing you to go with it, to just accept that Natasha is a lotta bit weird and a little bit a certified functioning alcoholic. ”Do you want to do a shot?” She changes tune, and you grin eagerly, bouncing on your feet.

Your head bobs up and down, and your eyes glance at the clock on the wall. It’s eight in the morning, almost nine if you consider that it’s exactly thirty-seven after, but the premise stands that people are still down below rushing to work or somewhere prestigious, and here you are, preparing to start the day with a shot a vodka as breakfast. “Yeah. I’ll just bring one to Yelena. I think she needs a minute to just…take in what she’s getting herself into.” You say, knowing Natasha was going to tell you to find her sister before she broke into the bottle of Grey Goose.

Natasha frowns, and Maria inches toward her compassionately. Her fingers rub at spots of collecting tension in Natasha’s shoulders, and while the ginger relaxes, it doesn’t entirely quell her accumulating resentment. “Is she going to be okay?” Natasha’s voice cracks. She knows what it feels like to stare straight down the barrel of a gun pointed at your identity. She knows what its like to battle for control, what it’s like when the first brush of brass against your fingertips shoots through every nerve in your body. Yelena is strong, but Natasha doesn’t know if she’s strong enough to face something like this only a year after getting out. ”I can hang back with her today. You and Maria can go.”

You shake your head, because while Yelena would appreciate having the option, you don't even want that suggestion anywhere near her. “She’s never going to let me help her if you’re always there to guard her corner.” You smile wistfully, because you know that Natasha means well, that she’s only looking out for her baby sister the way she wishes she could’ve all their lives. You know this means a lot to her too. It means a lot that her entire life hasn’t been for nothing. If she never got out, Yelena may never have even had the chance at all to figure out who she loves when her body isn’t being used for profit or murder. Natasha wants today to go okay, for Yelena’s sake, but if it doesn’t, her sacrifice was already worth it for getting them this far. “She just needs a minute to herself. I got her a flag pin and I think she just…I think this is the first time she’s realizing she’s not who she thought she would stay after you killed Dreykov. We both know she doesn’t give herself enough credit as it is, let alone does she ever stand far enough back to realize she’s entirely reinvented herself how she wants to be perceived.” You smile. Yelena’s changed so much since the first time you met her. She’s a sarcastic little shit, she always has been, but she’s less defensive with it now. She doesn’t guard her every feeling like you might use them against her. She cut her hair, painted her nails for a while before she decided she doesn’t like when it chips, and she pierced her ears. She bought a vest, and then she bought a dress, and she realized she hates dresses when she has the option to wear pants instead. Yelena has changed. She has grown. She has healed. You smile knowing that all of that is unconditionally true. “It’s not a bad meltdown, it's just… well it’s the inevitable one.”

“Your meltdown was rather cute.” Maria hums, reminding Natasha that this was normal, this was just another step to Yelena establishing herself as a free agent, not just a hive mind. ”Has she ever told you the story?” Maria’s eyes sparkle as she glances at you, stepping up to be Natasha’s voice of reason before the Russian can convince herself they should just abort while they’re ahead, while Yelena’s still in one piece.

Your lips curve upwards. It’s not often you witness Natasha Romanoff blushing, especially not regarding a story of her recent past. You can’t pass this up, so you shake your head eagerly. Natasha Romanoff can break anyone she wants, but she wouldn’t dream of touching the pure light that shines in your eyes. “What? No. Tell me! Please, please, please!” You gasp, and Maria laughs like you’ve just made her day.

“Oh, I could have so much fun with you.” She notes, and your cheeks flame. Maria is undeniably attractive, Natasha as well. Their sly comments unmake you every time they hit the air, and when Yelena’s around to overhear them, she bustles with laughter that you think could shake the frame of every building in the world.

“You have to stop saying shit like that.” You groan, your hands coming up to hide your blushing cheeks from their equally strong gazes. Natasha and Maria don’t know that you’re not just Yelena’s best friend. They have no reason to assume you’re anything more when all they’ve ever witnessed is an intimate brush of hand against the small of your back that could’ve just been mutually needed at the time. You’ve had no reason to run your mouth and share the news anyway, not when it doesn’t hold any weight in your relationship with them, but a world of difference in theirs with Yelena. Natasha knows her sister is gay. Yelena had told her that before she’d even known there were more umbrella terms and categories to shift through and understand. She doesn’t know that Yelena’s finally found a label that she thinks fits her, or that you happened to be intertwined in the existence of her identity. Even if Natasha knew that Yelena was your partner, you know it wouldn’t stop the comments. It’s just the kind of relationship you have, and you knew her ten years before she ever told you Yelena existed at all. “Will you just tell me the story?”

“Laura kissed me.” Natasha deadpans and your eyes widen, because surely Laura Barton, mother of three, ex-shield agent, long-term committed wife hadn’t kissed Natasha Romanoff three months pregnant in the middle of New York City at the parade, but Natasha was telling you it happened, and Maria was nodding enthusiastically behind her. Maria and Natasha lie, but never to you. ”And I freaked out.”

“She turned to me with the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen and said ‘I think I love women.’ and then proceeded to break down crying about how many years she’d wasted fucking men on her own volition. Clint had to peel her off the corner and apologize to the Drag Queen she fell into while he pulled her away.” Maria laughs and Natasha reaches a hand back to slap at her waist, huffing beneath her breath as she rolls her eyes.

“Whatever. It still took you a year to ask me out after that.” Natasha huffs petulantly and Maria laughs, shooing her up and off the bed. “Shots, right. I almost forgot.” Natasha nods, racing toward her duffle bag with wiggling fingers. “I don’t want anything super loose.” She says randomly, and it takes you a moment to remember you’d thrown a fit about her skinny jeans, and she’d thrown in the towel and put them aside. Her easy compliance was questionable in retrospect, but you didn’t care enough to wade through potential intentions.

“I have denim shorts I was going to wear before I found the skirt I was originally looking for.” You wave her worries off, “I’ll grab them. Don’t start without me! The Jell-O shots on the door, not the shelf, are doubles!” It’s a jumble of words and instructions, but Natasha salutes dutifully as you buzz out of the guest bedroom like a bumblebee — entirely harmless.

The hair dryer is still whirling in the bathroom, the door closed. You can’t hear anything concerning, there’s no crying or soft whimpering, so you assume Yelena’s fine, just taking her time, wrapping her head around all of this as best she can before she lets it all assault her without walls to deflect the contact of the hits. She’s going to go into this with an open mind. She’s going to let herself just be in the moment with you. If Natasha can do it, Yelena knows that she can do it, but she has to get herself to that point first. You let her have however long she needs. After a year of walking this tightrope with her, you know what works best for her now. You know that sometimes, she needs to be alone for a while with her thoughts.

When you return to the kitchen, Natasha’s tipping back what looks like a third Jell-O shot and Maria’s leaning over your countertop, her fingers scrolling through the iPad you have perched against the backsplash. You laugh brightly when Lady Gaga starts playing through the speakers, and quickly you tell her to add another song to the queue, one by a newer artist you and Yelena discovered on a walk through central park a month ago. The little things that remind you of Yelena are your favorite. This song. Kraft. Hot sauce. American Pie. Curly fries. Lightning bugs. She’s everywhere and nowhere, in the little things, not the bigger picture. You think that explains Yelena’s impact on the world and your fragile heart beautifully. After all, even if you’re in the shadows, you’re around for someone to hold onto and protect; darkness can be a beautifully warm blanket when it’s not a death sentence.

Natasha pours you a double, and she slides it down the counter toward you with a lively grin on her lips. There’s a pink Jell-O shot on the counter too, waiting for your touch like it’s meant to be a chaser. It’s another one of the doubles, and you roll your eyes at her intentions to get you drunk before you even step out on the confetti littered streets.

“Ready?” She smirks at you over the rim of her shot glass, her lips curved into a challenging smirk while her eyes throw daggers at you tauntingly. She drips with danger, and it swallows you entirely as you attempt to match her glare and slam the bottom of the shot glass against the counter, and then tip it down your throat. The swallow that comes after all of it sloshes down is thick and unpleasant, and your nose scrunches to avoid coughing at the splatter of a burn against your uvula. Your hand reaches for the jell-o shot, and without breaking eye contact with Natasha, still determined though you’re not sure about what, your tongue eases the gelatin away from the plastic container and flicks it onto your tongue with a hum of readiness. It’s sweet and bitter, it burns when you swallow before it’s soothed by the temperature of the Jell-O. You grin, cheeks flush, feeling warmth bloom in your chest.

Maria, who had evidently taken a shot when your back was turned, comes to you with a High Noon already cracked open. You grin, reaching for it eagerly. It’s pineapple, one of your favorite flavors, and she knows that after many years of supplying it to you beneath tables at Stark events. It soothes the remainder of the burn when you take a sip, and you hum eventually in satisfaction.

“They might be a bit big around your waist.” You hum informatively, glancing at Natasha who's finally stepping into the denim shorts you’d handed over and concealing the lovebites left on her thighs from Maria. She takes a moment to consider your advice, fixing the button and the zipper, pulling the waistband up to her mid-belly. “They look good.” You decide before she can share her own opinion, and Natasha nods agreeingly.

“You’re ass looks great.” Maria interjects suavely, and her pinches her thumb and pointer finger together in a smooth motion, her lips pursing into a pleased frown as she bobs her head. You giggle, taking another sip of your high noon. Natasha rolls her eyes, turning toward the counter again.

”Detka!” You hear Yelena’s voice over the music, and you grin with delight. Natasha’s poured you another shot, and it sits next to one that’s been intended for Yelena all along. Her eyebrows pull together at the endearment that rolls off of her sister's lips and echoes through your quaint little home. Yelena’s not the nickname kind. She’s even less the petnames kind. Natasha can count on one hand the amount of people Yelena’s ever called anything other than their name. The list is short because it doesn’t exist. Yelena doesn’t even call her anything other than a variant of her name.

Your lips curve into a sly grin, and you down the second shot she poured without flinching. “Told you you should stop saying shit like that.” You winked, leaving any direct conclusion up for her to draw herself. Maria laughs, and you grin all the way to the bathroom, not wasting your time with knocking before you enter.

Yelena’s hair is entirely dry, but your hairdryer is on the floor by the toilet, still humming, still blowing hot air into the room at a quiet volume that still sounds too loud. You frown, setting the shot glass down on the counter to reach for it instead, turning it off once its between your soft fingertips.

Yelena yanks you into her chest, her arms wrapping around your body until you’re certain she’s trying to fuse the two of you together. It’s only been half an hour since you left her alone, but it feels like a million years whenever you're away from her. Your head rests on her chest, and the faint pulse of her heart beneath your ear is soothing. The music plays overhead, Maria and Natasha are singing along in the kitchen, but it hardly penetrates this moment with Yelena.

She has a white t-shirt on, and black shorts with silver chains hanging from the pockets. The pin you’d given her is secured to the patch of fabric on the front of her thigh, you can feel the cold metal against your bare skin. It makes you smile, and you know it lightens her heart when you reach down to brush your finger against it.

“Does it feel good? To have a little piece of you to touch? To share with other people without having to explain?” You whisper softly, not wanting to scare her off when you can see that she’s doing her absolute best to open up to you right now. No walls. There’s not a single wall in her usually guarded green stare, and you know just how much effort it takes for her to come at any conversation with a fully open mind and fragile emotions.

“I’m asexual.” She whispers as an answer. You don’t know if you’ll ever get tired of hearing Yelena whisper her sexuality into the limited space between your bodies. You don’t know if you’ll ever get tired of knowing you’re the only person she trusts enough to explore this with; to confide in. “I..I do not—”

“Yelena, you don’t have to.” You shake your head, because you know she’s been trying to find a reason for this in her life. If that doesn’t make sense, it because it doesn’t make sense. You’ve tried to tell her that no single event made her this way, that asexuality isn’t something born of natural consequences and trauma responses, but she’s never been quite able to accept that she was born this way. She’s never been able to accept that Dreykov took something for her that she never had any intention or thought of giving away at all. It’s one thing to take her virginity, to take Natasha’s virginity, to take the virginity of every widow that’s come through its doors, but she feels impossibly violated sitting with the newfound reflection that if she’d never been forced into sex and honey trap missions, she might’ve never even had sex at all.

“I need to tell you why I can’t love you.” She whispers. Her words are a desperate plea, but you can’t give into them no matter how easily you typically crumble. “I want to explain to you. You show me all of this love, and I can’t do more than hold your hand. I— I don’t want to do more!” She’s never been allowed to choose how she expresses emotion. She’s never been allowed to decide whether a victim is sliced with her smallest blade, or ripped apart by her bare hands. She never got to pick who she seduced, or when it happened. It’s been a year, but that’s not enough time to unlearn everything you’ve ever known. Yelena still thinks she needs to be worthy of your love in physical ways. She still tries to tether herself to physicalities to express what she doesn’t know how to say. It’s worked for an entire year, but it’s failing her now.

“You don’t have to do more.” You whisper, because it feels important to match her energy right now, even with Born This Way blaring through the speakers overhead. “Yelena, I’ll never need a reason to show the world how much I love you. Never. Sex isn’t everything in a relationship. Not to me. I love you because I love you. I was just always meant to.”

“Natasha was… Natasha was raped too, and she still enjoys having sex with her girlfriend.” It feels wrong to talk about Natasha’s trauma without her present, but it’s the only way Yelena knows how to encapsulate everything she’s feeling in a way that you can digest. She’s glad that you have no idea what it’s like to attempt to move on with your life when so much of it is haunted, but it puts her even farther out in a sea of isolation when you just have no real way of knowing what she means fully.

“Natasha, is also a lesbian. She’s also something that the General never would’ve allowed either of you to be.” You crane your head to the side, your hands gently cupping Yelena’s cheeks. She thinks so highly of her sister, you don’t think she even realizes that she’s so much like her. “She’s sacrificing normative relationship culture just to call Maria her girlfriend. Natasha’s also had fourteen years to adapt to society, and freedom, and accepting her sexuality. Believe me, she didn’t always have a healthy relationship with sex. I was still with the IT department when her and Maria started sleeping together. Every single day, multiple times a day, like she couldn’t get enough. And she couldn’t. She had a meltdown the first time Maria told her to wait until after their mission debrief. I thought someone had died, she stormed out, slammed the door, didn’t come out of her quarters for two days. She was breaking down, Yelena.”

Yelena looks surprised, like she can’t imagine Natasha ever being in a position any less stable than she is now. You’re happy she doesn’t know what it was like to experience Natasha Romanoff before she’d decided to let the world into her heart again. It would’ve destroyed her to realize how truly broken she’d been all those years ago.

“I am asexual.” She says it again, and you nod just as acceptingly as you’d done the first time. “I was raped. I have sexual trauma, but that did not make me asexual. I was born this way. It is just who I am.”

“You were born this way. It’s who you are — at your best and your worst.” You parot, and a single tear leaks from Yelena’s eyes and she lets her forehead fall into yours. “I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.” You whisper, your lips brushing her cheek. Yelena shivers, she curls her fingers into your top. She holds you tightly against her chest.

“You don’t mean that.” Yelena whispers. It breaks your heart. She breaks your heart just as much as she fixes it. “There’s no way you could mean that.” Her voice is hoarse. Her eyes are wet.

“I mean it with every fiber of my being, Yelena Belova. I wouldn’t change a single thing about you. I wouldn’t change a single thing about how we met, or this last year we’ve had together. None of it. I don’t need your body to have you. You’ve let me have the best and worst parts of yourself without it. What more could I ask for from you?” Your fingers curl into the hair at the name of her neck, and Yelena sighs softly as she deflates into your touch, nodding like what you’ve been telling her for months is finally, finally setting in. “And we both know I have my own methods.” You wiggle your eyebrows, and Yelena goes flush, chuckling softly as she dips her head and agrees that you definitely do have your methods with still finding pleasure.

“Yelena!” Natasha yells, and you shake your head. “Did you take the shot!” Yelena rolls her eyes, but glances down at the counter where you’d placed the counter. Her lips curve into a grin, and she reaches for it as she untangles her limbs from yours. You nod once, glance that she’s in better spirits already.

“Yes!” She calls back once it’s down her throat, and you laugh as she makes a face at you in the mirror as she reaches for your practically empty High Noon. Whatever was left is very quickly gone, and the can makes its way into the garbage can besides an empty bottle of Nair. Only Maria Hill would nail her legs. “I’m excited.” She tells you eventually, when she leans in close to the mirror and takes an eyeshadow brush to her waterline. She sketched in deep purple shadows, and you smile at her willful acceptance of the asexual flag. You know that once the novelty has expired and she doesn’t feel so fragile exposed she’ll find comfort in the community and freedom, but for now she’s just taking it one minute at a time.

“I’m excited.” You tell her, fixing the hem of your skirt. “Nat’s the best to come with. I’m thinking we let her and Maria blindly lead us around, and see how long it takes for her to get pissed that we're not keeping up quick enough.” You get caught in the purple eyeshadow. It’s captivating, but so are her eyes without it. Yelena smiles softly, her hands frame your face.

“YA tebya lyublyu.” She breathes, sweeping down to peck your lips. Your belly buzzes every time she kisses you, no matter if it’s intended to take your breath away or not. Yelena’s kisses are rare, beams of sunshine that spontaneously fall from the sky onto your skin. They’re not something she can give you a lot of the time, trauma to sift through still a priority ahead of romantic relationships, but when she finds the strength to have comfort in her own freedom your heart soars higher than all the lives lost to get here. Phil Coulson would adore Yelena Belova. You think she’d have a friend in him too.

“I love you more.” You whisper, dropping your head to her chest. You press a chaste kiss to her chest where the fabric of her t-shirt covers soft freckles. “So much more than you’ll ever know.”

“You know I do not like that.” Yelena frowns, and you laugh softly, inching out of her arms again to grab the gleaming silver knob in the door. “Natalia brought vodka?” She questions when it dawns on her that she’d never heard anybody leave.

“Yeah.” You snort and Yelena nods, something you only see through the reflection in the mirror before you pull the door open.

“Ah, I knew she would.” Yelena praises and you shake your head, guiding her down the hallway where Natasha and Maria are both working through the Jell-O shots. You assume they’ve made it their mission to individually try every flavor, so when Natasha hands you an orange one without any hesitation and Maria bats a yellow one at Yelena, neither of you hesitate. You trust that they know that you’ll like best, not that you’d complain either way.

“What’s that?” Natasha asks around a mouthful of Jell-O, swallowing after it’s off her tongue and the weight of her curiosity is distributed to Yelena.

“I am an asexual lesbian.” Yelena says simply, shifting her stance to show Natasha the asexual pride pin she’s secured to her shorts proudly. Natasha closes her eyes for a moment, slightly shocked that the first time Yelena’s brought up specifics for her sexuality it’s two terms she wasn’t even sure the blonde knew, but her heart swells with pride and you can tell by the way she shrugs haphazardly.

“Okay.” Natasha nods, and Yelena nods too before her eyes flicker to Maria seeking approval she didn’t know she wanted. Maria offers the same nonchalance and you can visibly see Yelena relax more than she has in the last month.

“Okay.” Yelena whispers softly, a smile on her lips that doesn’t dwindle once throughout the remainder of your day.

[critical-dxrling]

The main reason why you cannot get me to hate any of these indie shows (aside from the fact i like them) and ones i did not even mention is because they are fighting the way capitalism has been ruining mainstream animation.

They remind me of the vibrant creativity of golden era disney films and the early days of cgi animation, before it was solely for money. These days disney wants its souless monopoly to dictate all of animation by creating constant, washed out “live action” remakes (many of which rely heavily on cgi realism). I do not care how ‘impressive’ 2019’s Lion King was, it is the pinnacle example of the downfall of modern mainstream animation, the erasure of creativity for profit.

Indie animation is doing the opposite. It is embracing creativity once more, it isn’t forced to hold back it’s messaging for a wider audience, and it’s taking risks. I don’t care what you think of the creators of these shows, you have to admit this is what animation needs right now. It needs people who choose passion over becoming a monopoly on the industry. Support indie animation and fuck disney and warner and all these companies for deciding that animation has to be combined with live action at all times to exist anymore

I love not pitting indie animation shows against each other and instead embracing all of them. In the midst of ai slop, corporations always choosing live action/CG over full animation, and the rise in conservatism, we have all these shows that just embrace animation (and usually queerness too). I love TADC, helluva boss, hazbin, lackadaisy, gaslight district, murder drones, all of them, just for what they represent. Animation is not dead and it never will be.

[moonfiresonorant]

I find the saja boys very interesting as they hold a lot of mystery as to how the boys(not including jinu) came to be and when?

Some have speculated them to be older than jinu as some of them(mystery in particular) doesn’t seem to be good at controlling themselves when it comes to individual settings such as the time mystery had started barking at a fan.

Im more of a fan of the theory of the saja boys being a boy band that jinu found just recently.

There has been this image in the quack doctor’s waiting room of 4 boys who look quite similar to the saja boys and its led to speculation that the boys were found by jinu and/or by gwi ma himself after they failed to reach their dreams. Seeing jinu this gave them a second chance at fulfilling their dream of becoming a popular idol group. I see this as the more plausible theory as in going into question, where did the saja boys get their singing ability?

I don’t believe it to have been given to them by gwi ma or jinu but rather something they already had before coming down into the other realm. A lot of singers are very talented but aren’t seen or given recognition because of different reasons. First off, looks, in K-pop(and honestly in more general music genres) aesthetics is the top priority. If you’re not conventionally attractive or bring anything that could impress someone from their first glance then you’re dropped. The picture shows that they’re not that far off from how they look when they’re transformed out of their demon forms, in fact, they’re quite attractive even back then. Now I’m going to give it a stretch and say that the boys were upcoming artists who were rising fast, so fast that they couldn’t keep up. Their popularity declined after a while of nothing groundbreaking and people moved on, because of this they wanted more, they weren’t satisfied with what they were doing now so they sought out different ways to improve themselves and this led them to the quack doctor. I also believe that either something happened to one(or all) of the boys voices or they believed that their voices weren’t good enough and in their desperation had found its way into Gwi ma’s maw and he struck at them when they were at their weakest, granting them their desire before they fell victim and became demons.

Unfortunately the image doesn’t show when it was taken or how long ago it must’ve been but id like to believe it was about 5 years ago or more. 5 years at the least because huntrix had debuted 5 years ago and not a single mention of this boyband ever popped up. But yeah thats it, if any of you guys have an idea of what might’ve happened to the saja boys before the current events I’d love to hear it!

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

This is a (very short) thingy for @bucktommysummerfest...

Prompt: episode re-write (7x6, There goes the groom) / Rated G

“That was close,” Tommy said softly, straightening Evan’s tie with careful fingers.

It was surprising enough to see him in a tie today—Tommy just wished someone had mentioned there was a dress code. The mirror behind them showed he still looked decent in his dark blue two-piece. But it couldn’t really compare to Evan, whose Bambi-like legs somehow looked even longer in that smooth, capri-colored suit.

“Hm?” Evan turned to look at him, his eyes just another shade of blue; calm and captivating. “It fits perfectly.”

“I meant Howie. It could’ve easily gone wrong.”

Evan glanced down, noticing Tommy’s hands were still fidgeting with the tie, threatening to undo what he’d just fixed. Without a word, Evan gently caught them and held them in his.

“But it didn’t,” he said. “Chimney’s recovered quickly, his hospital stay only pushed things back a few days. Honestly, Maddie probably needed the breather. You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

“Second thoughts?”

“Well... about today. About being my date.”

“Your date to your sister’s wedding. Where I’m being introduced to your family as your boyfriend,” Tommy said with a raised eyebrow. “No, Evan. I’m completely relaxed about this.”

Evan crossed his arms, but his expression stayed curious. “That’s what you’re nervous about?”

“Nervous isn’t exactly the–”

“I can’t introduce you as Tommy, the pilot. You already ruined the dramatic reveal.”

Tommy smiled, eyes crinkling. Evan didn’t stop there, of course not. He stood in front of him, annoyingly handsome even with his curls styled down into something more formal. He tilted his head slightly, something he always did when he was trying to be charming—whether he realized it or not.

“What about partner?” he offered, his lips curving into a disarming little smile. “Acquaintance doesn’t feel right, and bed buddy kinda undersells it.”

“Yikes,” Tommy muttered, grinning. “I think boyfriend is safe.”

“Too much?” Evan asked. “Too soon?”

His tone was light, but hesitation lingered in his smile. Tommy recognized it instantly, that quiet pull inward when the doubts started circling. They both had their reasons to hesitate, right?

Tommy took a breath. “No. It’s just... it’s the first time.”

Evan’s expression shifted, brow furrowing just slightly. “You’ve had relationships before me.”

“I did.”

“So you just never said it? Or…?”

“Or,” Tommy replied quietly. “It’s not the easiest topic. Especially not today. But yeah, there are a lot of closeted men out there. I was one of them—for a long time.”

Evan nodded slowly. There was understanding in his face now, mixed with something softer. “You have a type, huh?” he said with a small smirk.

Tommy gave a dry laugh. “Apparently.”

Evan reached out and lightly squeezed his shoulder—a quick gesture, but familiar, comforting. “You’re right. Today’s not the day to unpack all that, this is about Maddie and Chimney. But we will. There may be a few things from the past I haven’t mentioned either.”

“Oh yeah?” Tommy raised a brow. “You mean besides Taylor, Ali, Natalia, and, uh—”

“Hey.” Evan bumped his arm. “I’m thirty. There were a few more.”

“Looking forward to the full list,” Tommy said with a grin.

“Now you’re just messing with me.”

“Maybe.” He checked his watch. “Okay, time to go. Are you ready?”

Evan hesitated briefly. Then, he smiled in this unparalleled way that outshined the sun.

“Ready,” he said.

[korkorali]

I don’t know if anyone else has mentioned it, but if you’re going to take inspiration from the first two firestarters, you also need to take inspiration from how he handles those firestarters.

Anything involving fire involves some amount of danger (which can be negated through proper care and preparation, in most cases), and that danger is almost always going to be increased if you’re using a liquid propellant in any way.

This is because liquid propellants are, well, liquid. Even if they’re soaked into something, or made into a gel, there’s still a chance of getting that liquid on you, should you be handling it poorly. And if you’re covered in a liquid propellant while you’re creating a bunch of sparks…

That said, these firestarters aren’t guaranteed danger. They just require more care- and to the video’s great credit, it shows this care! The soaked charcoal is handled with makeshift tongs, and the gel is handled with a bark spoon.

Additionally, given how these things are shown in the video, you can tell that they’re meant to be created in advance and used when you need them, not created right before making a fire. The creation of these firestarters requires using your hands to handle a lot of the flammable material- so it’s good to wait a little while (and at the very least wash and dry your hands thoroughly) before then creating a fire- for the same reasons as not touching these firestarters directly when actively using them.

[bright-side20]

I don't understand why people take quotes from Acofas to say that Elain is hiding her sadness and still wants to be human, while completely ignoring the huge development in Acosf ,where it's clearly shown that she has friends, a job, and is no longer mourning her relationship with Grayson. It also shows very clearly that she has feelings for Az.

Elain had her life planned out as a human and was stripped of that against her will. She had a stranger tell her she was his mate while she was just out of the void. And the man she loved chose his hatred for the Fae over his love for her, which hurt her even more. Of course she wouldn't get over that over a night. Of course she'd struggle a lot. But eventually she chose to heal and took real steps toward that. Azriel was there with her during that journey along with Nuala and Cerridwen who became her besties.

Elain is very different from Nesta. She's been presented since the beginning as someone who looks at the hardness of life and still chooses love and kindness. And that's exactly what was reflected ,she was devastated, she was hurt but she eventually chose to learn a new hobby, make new friends, build gardens, fall in love again, and explore her powers. She managed to accept the change and what she went through at her own pace.

Elain's arc is not about self-harm. It's about finding her voice, being able to make her own choices regardless of what others think is best for her, and confronting people instead of constantly trying to please them just to avoid conflict. And that was clearly shown in Acosf when she confronted Nesta for the first time. It was emphasized even more in Feysand's bonus chapter, where Feyre said she had never seen Elain be confrontational and Rhys literally summed up Elain's arc in:

“I wonder if everyone has spent so long assuming Elain is sweet and innocent that she felt she had to be that way or else she’d disappoint you all.” He sighed toward the ceiling. “With time and safety, perhaps we’ll see a different side of her emerge.”

(This is one of the reasons I think Rhys will end up being Elain's bestie, he understood what she was going through when even her sisters didn't.)

Elain's arc is about reclaiming her agency. It's about making her own choices and expressing herself without being afraid of how others will perceive her, something she struggled with her whole life. It's about no longer being a people pleaser. And Feysand mentioning that they'll help her next was literally about this not about self-harm or pretending to be healed.

She's definitely not running to Koschei to bargain with him to become human again. She'll take a trove and fuck him up.

It really baffles me how people would rather say she's acting or self-harming to explain why she's indifferent toward Lucien, instead of just accepting the simple fact that she's not attracted to him and doesn't want him. And no one has the right to force her to give him a chance even if he's her mate.

Elain rejecting the bond is a major moment in her arc. Who else could say fuck you to the Cauldron's fate if not a seer, someone who was groomed her entire life for an arranged marriage meant to serve her family's advantage? Like I genuinely don't understand how her accepting Lucien, just because it's expected due to the bond and her securing political advantages for the Night Court, is any different from what her mother tried to do to her. How would that be growth? How would that be development in her character? It would just be another version of her being used, her choices erased for the sake of others.

It's a powerful thing for Elain to say no, I don't want this bond and to refuse to surrender to the expectations of others. It's absolutely not easy for her to choose the one her heart wants, over the mate fate tied her to. The real development is her choosing herself, choosing what feels right in her heart even if it means carrying the guilt of possibly disturbing the fragile peace and putting her family at risk. Especially when she knows all too well what war looks like.

[factual-fantasy]

28 Asks! Thank you! :)) 🪆

@thelatter0verview5

I got a few petty reasons, but a very justified reason is because he is extremely disrespectful and treats everyone around him like garbage. Goose herself said that Jax is a bad person and the Jax simps need to reel back on the excuses they make for his behavior.

"But he's just pushing people away to cope" "But he's just mean because he lost a friend." "But that's just his way of showing love"

Yeah those may explain his behavior but they do not justify it. No matter the reason, Jax is responsible for how he treats other people, and he treats them all like trash. Jax should be held accountable for that.

Now just because I hate him, doesn't mean I have to take Ribbit away in my AU. I hate Jax as a character, as he was designed to be up to this point. But I wouldn't wish the death of a friend on anyone. So honestly for my own sake, not having to write something so sad, I added Ribbit to my AU.

Honestly I like Ragatha a LOT more after episode 5. She's actually becoming one of my favorites.

For starters, I could so easily put myself in her shoes when she mentioned Ribbit. Jax has been a PHAT JERK for a VERY LONG TIME. He has been grinding her gears FOREVER. Because of this she lets a nasty comment slip. "Not anymore.." but after that she IMMEDIATELY back peddles, realizing that what she said was very out of line. I can see myself being bitter and sipping up just like she did.

Right after she frantically yet genuinely apologizes and then flees to give Jax space from her.

Later on, when Jax has been a jerk AGAIN and pushes her buttons with a stupid "what no apology for me?~~💅💅💅"? I would not have had the strength to be kind to Jax. I would have told him to screw off and turned away most likely. But Ragatha had a bigger heart than that.

Despite how rightfully TICKED OFF she is with Jax's horrible behavior, she swallows her pride and apologies again for bringing up Ribbit. And again, walks away to give each other space.

I think Ragatha was awesome and showed how big her heart is in this episode. When she has these outbursts due to stress or other she immediately takes accountability for what she said and genuinely apologizes. That is a millions times more than Jax can say.

@local-dairywizard

The Caine in my AU is very different from canon. So much so he's hardly Caine anymore, but I'm ok with that.

My Caine has 2 goals, of which he was not programmed to do, but has made for himself none the less. #2 is to keep the humans as mentally healthy and calm as he possibly can. And 1# being the most important, get the humans out of here ASAP and back into the real world.

So while Caine in canon was freaking out about the humans liking the suggestion box adventures more than his own, my Caine would be THRILLED! He's be so relieved that the humans have some time of peace where they're getting along and socializing. In fact he would probably toss in a few little distracting activities like more food options, some more pretty bugs and a few more pretty colors in the sky.. before leaving the humans there in peace while he works extra hard on finding an exit for a bit.

In my AU, Caine cannot control or alter the minds of the humans in any way. And he is very transparent and honestly about his inability to do so. Which ngl the circus members kind'a wish he could-

If Caine could alter the minds of the humans, he could shut down their panic attacks, remove their deep depressions or paranoid delusions, and even cure abstraction. But alas, he cannot..

(Referencing this post)

Thank you so much!! :DDDD💞💞💞

Honestly, the only ramen I really remember the taste of is chicken. And its been a VERY long time since I've had that.. so its hard to say what they'd like <XD

But Cici and Gerald aren't picky, they'd probably try any ramen! Maybe they'd even favor a spicy kind! :00

I think that would be pretty fitting! :0 I wouldn't be surprised to see a teddy bear character on one of the crossed out bedroom doors..

(Referencing this post)

XDD I'm glad you like it! :))

That's gotta be on the list of the most wholesome and warm compliments I have ever received.. thnk yu... 🥺💞

@neo-metalscottic (Referencing this post)

Thank you so much! :DD And don't worry about the Shockwave post, <XD in hindsight I should have just waited a day or two before answering.

As for the Dinobots, I don't think I can promise anything 😅 I mean, you said they were normal Cybertronians that were experimented on and mutated to look like dinosaurs, right? Well in my AU it obviously wouldn't make any sense for Shockwave to have modeled them after Earth creatures- if he even could make them perfect like that.

Instead, they just probably became these horrible masses of mutated metal and grime. Their legs and spines were elongated, forcing them to arch and crouch their legs. Kind'a looking like a dino but not really being one- Idk how I can make that NOT horrific 😓😓

And tbh, I'm back and forth on Shockwaves arm. If he was primarily a scientist, wouldn't be illogical to replace one of his arms with a blaster? It would make more sense to replace his arm with another working hand, and maybe give himself some kind of body mounted gun for protection. Like Megatrons arm blaster or Breakdowns shoulder cannon.

That's probably what I'll do. But his other arm could look different or odd. Maybe it was taken from someone else's body and so the paint and finger shapes are different. But ultimately its just a normal hand.

Also, Shockwave using Arachnids mind as a blueprint for the Insecticons is really clever! It would make a lot of sense that they would worship her. I'll have to think about that! :00

And lastly, thank you for the well wishes! My symptoms have been pretty bad today, so after these two posts are up my day will come to an end and I will go crash <XDD

I honestly didn't care for any of them, but I liked evil Orbsman. His voice made me laugh for some reason XD

SCREAMSSS THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!! 😭😭🥰💞🥰💞💞💞

@palettepainter

Thank you so much!! :D Though unfortunately- since Ribbits ref was released, some changes are in the works-- <XD

I'm thinking Ribbit will actually be a 17 year old girl. I'm considering making her a mischievous "little" sister to Jax and they (lovingly) prank the crap out of each other all the time XDD

Anything beyond that, like if they knew each other before the circus or anything- has yet to be decided 😅

I got through all of Markipliers videos on it thus far, which as of typing this he has 8 parts up.

And yeah, at first I liked it. But by that first ending I completely rejected that entire game from the FNAF lore. It implies and changes WAY too much. Especially when it comes to Henry, William, the history of Fazbear entertainment, the springlock suits, the original 4 bots- its just a huge mess. As far as I'm concerned, for my AUs at the very least, that game is not canon. at all.

HOWEVER, I did take a liking to the animatronics/costumes. Much more than I thought I would. In fact I have some drawing plans for them! :DD

@briandraws (Referencing this post)

JSNDKJSN SORRY XDDD (I'm glad you liked it! :DD )

Also thanks again!! :DD But don't get too attached to it, after seeing Ribbits official ref sheet that seems to imply she's girl, I will be making some changes to her design.. whoops! 😅😅

@cherrycreamfairy

AAA THANK YOU SO MUCH!! :DDD That's the part of the drawing I try my hardest to get right! 🥰🥰

I believe I've watched the.... 2....? movies about it. But it was a very long time ago so I don't really remember much 💔

@dragonsgirl572 (Referencing this post)

AWE!! Thank you so much!! :DD

And thank you for the well wishes. My symptoms have tough and our more recent cure attempt came back with no results. Hoping I get better soon too <:') 🙏

@beryl-shade

The design of the Tiger had me HOOKED! He looks so drawable! If its a movie and not a show I'll have to give it a watch!! :DD

@misscherrypie

I've seen it floating around and people saying its surprisingly good. I might have to look into it! :0

@minnesotamedic186

Honestly this season has been very gloomy, and it hit too close to home one too many times. I'm anxious for it to be over.💔🕊️

You can look at my tier list here :0 my rankings haven't really changed after episode 5. Other than moving Ragatha and Pomni up a tier and moving Caine and Bubble down a tier. Also adding Evil Orbsman to s-Tier XDD His voice was really funny. "whAt tHe f R I c K???"

@pewpewae

SCREEAMING AND CRYING WAAAAJHG THS IS SO SWEET THANK YOUU!!! PUTTING THIS ASK IN THE TINY SHIRT POCKET IN MY HEART😭😭😭💞💞💞💞

@candyglumboy (Referencing this post)

I can imagine they love pranking and screwing each other over in adventures. Its all light hearted and nothing too painful though dw- XD

(Referencing this post)

XDD Indeed!!

Awe, thank you! I can confidently say I don't do that because I've actually tried it before with Bowser <XD

I don't hate Bowser- but after the Mario movie made an absolute fool of him, I wanted to make him a vicious, irredeemable villain in my AU. Just an absolute monster, I WANTED people to fear and hate him. But in the end he felt bland.. it almost felt like I made a fool of him too but just on the opposite end of the spectrum.

I have since then learned my lesson and now try to take characters I don't like and give them some grace. I hope I was able to do that with TADC and TFP! <XDD

@virtualworldfp5

Very cool! :D

❣️🌟

☺️🫴

[boopdeshmoop]

Im really starting to hate this sort of rhetoric because while it is perfectly reasonable to expect people to be able to teach themselves and continue their education on their own it is with great annoyance that everytime I see this expressed it's always with the implication of there being "no excuse". As if the only blockade from someone learning is their willingness to do so.

On first glance, this argument is trying to promote adult learning, but really it's villainizing those who do not do so. Whether the adult in question is capable of doing so is not in question. The argument assumes that we are talking about someone who faces no challenges to adult education, and bringing examples of those who can't or struggle is simply met with "why don't they do x?" Meaning in order to disprove the notion one must show every single way a person would either not be able to or would struggle with continued education. Frankly right now I struggle with not listing every single way an adult may be unable to continue their education.

Because the most insidious thing about this rhetoric is that in truth it argues that it is a great moral failing for an adult to not continue to educate themself regardless of circumstance. This does not promote learning, it stifles it. It takes the joy of learning something new and turns it into a burden.

This does not argue that an adult should be able to continue their education, it argues that an adult should be able to continue their education /regardless of circumstances and obstacles blocking them from doing so/

This argument assumes that education is easy and within grasp for every single adult, but fails to see what anyone of the lower classes see on a daily basis, that that simply is not true.

Again, there are millions of reasons an adult may be unable to continue their education, one of which DOES include willpower. (You can't have diagnosed depression and NOT mention that). But for those that we can all agree are unable to do so, this argument calls them lazy and apathetic. To enter the dialogue on the side of the uneducated, you must first defend their morality, you must argue that the average uneducated adult is not inherently careless and lackadaisy.

And the defense just turns into a self fulfilling prophecy, so busy trying to prove an adult not to be a terrible person we lock ourselves into this idea that this defense is so good and true that now there is no way for the adult to learn in the future, as then that means they could always learn and thus they have always been lazy.

It just pisses me off because this is just people patting themselves on the back for being "good", for educating themselves where others haven't. This is the argument of the upper class when faced with the problems of the poor. "Why don't you just try harder?"

we need to legalise learning for adults

[hannyhann]

daryl dixon scenarios/headcanons (swf + nsfw)

hey yall! I’m back, work has been beating my fucking ass recently but I’m back for more headcanons <3 this one’s a mix of sfw and nsfw so enjoy. minors dni !!

ACTS OF SERVICE!!!!!! this man would go out of his way and almost get killed just to get you some shampoo or lotion you wanted

taking you for rides on his motorcycle

you would get stuffed and overwhelmed being in the prison so he would definitely take you for rides to get away when it’s safe

sex on his motorcycle….hear me out

obviously you can’t do many things other than riding but it would be so 0//0

he would bring you flowers all the time, even if it’s just weeds, you have them

he would first do it at Hershel’s farm, initially you think it’s from Lori or one of the girls but when you confront Dixon about it he just scoffs and goes “don mention it”

LOYAL LOYAL LOYAL

he would be so loyal that when you first have sex this poor man wouldn’t know what to do with himself

he wouldn’t want to hurt you so I imagine he takes his time <3

when lil ass kicker (judith) is first born and he says her name you’d get such baby fever

which you feel guilty of because lori and your friends just died

seeing him get formula for her with Maggie would make you so flustered

when Daryl loses you after the prison falls, he spends all night crying when beth is asleep

he hates showing other people his deep emotions besides you

loves cooking for you

listen to me now, Daryl would cook for you and have mini dinner dates to make up for the world falling

scavenging candles and girly things for you even if he doesn’t understand

this man would get makeup for you, even if it’s expired he knows how much you miss it

the two of you would run out of condoms so fast

his favorite positions missionary

he loves looking down and seeing what’s his own :3

sneaking up behind you to kiss you

you’d love whenever he’d jester for you to follow him with a head nod or a whistle because you know the two of you are about to fuckkkkk good lord

he’d hate pda

the most pda he’d do is holding a pinky but when your alone he’s the most clingy man ever

people would think Daryl’s a prude until they hear you in the bedroom in Alexandria

you both would be scared to bring kids into this world but the moment he finds out your pregnant before Alexandria it gives him more of a reason to keep going

when Daryl and Rick interrogate Aaron in the barn, Daryl would reveal your pregnant and would be so protective to the point he almost kills Aaron

Aaron would be like “why would I want to kill your future baby and Judith??” And Daryl kind of puts his guard down when you say it’s worth a chance

you’d feel bad Daryl would get you extra food from the pantry but everyone would insist you need it more than anyone

giving birth while Daryl is taken by negan

youd sob and beg for him during labor to the point you beg for Rick to convince negan to let him go

of course when Daryl comes back he sees you with the baby in the commonwealth and feels so guilty but he’s absolutely over the moon :((

you both would have a small home in Alexandria, it would be so cute

you’d find him rocking your baby to sleep every night :(((

I hope yall enjoyed!! I haven’t made a proper post in months 😓 so I hope this makes up for it!