#and you can just... be you. even if that's terrifying. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

verstappenverse · 24 hours ago

Note

hi! can i request that the reader and max anticipate their first child? he was so worried when the reader had a morning sickness and when the reader was about to deliver the baby? he worried whether he could be a good father or not to their firstborn baby. and how he was so protective, care, and just soft with the reader? thank you! i love your fics anyway, you're doing great! i hope you have a very good day ahead!! xoxo.

What If I Get It Wrong?

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was never afraid of anything, but fatherhood? That’s a different kind of terrifying. As the two of you prepare for your first child, Max is protective, terrified, and completely in awe, and you watch the man you love fall headfirst into fatherhood. (Requested)

4.1k words / Masterlist

You weren’t expecting it to feel like this, equal parts overwhelming and breathtaking. A surreal mix of the mundane and the extraordinary.

Two faint pink lines on a stick, the distant hum of the bathroom fan. The sound of your shaky breathing as you sit on the edge of the tub, blinking down at something that just shifted the axis of your entire world.

Your hands tremble when you press your palm to your stomach. It’s still flat. Still unchanged. And yet… you already feel different. Maybe not physically, but something inside you is new. Expanding. Blooming.

You had a plan.

Of course you did. You’d always imagined telling Max with a smile too wide to hide, maybe over a fancy private dinner at home with the test tucked inside a gift box or a Red Bull baby onesie folded on his plate. Maybe filming his reaction when he opened it. Something worthy of the moment. Something permanent.

You even started writing a card, got as far as, "You changed my life once. Now—."

But when the door opens that night and Max comes in, home late from some media obligations, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, and grumbling about TikTok's and something you can’t quite hear. You don’t even get a word in before he presses a kiss to your cheek. “Sorry I’m late. What’re we having for—”

“I’m pregnant.”

The words leap out of you before you even mean to say them. It’s not soft. It’s not poetic. It’s raw and breathless and a little panicked.

The silence is immediate. Thick. His mouth stays open mid-word. His eyes flick to your stomach, then back to your face.

“I—” you start, already flustered, “I was gonna tell you in some big, sweet way, I swear. With a whole surprise and maybe a stupid cake or balloons, I even wrote like half a card and now I’ve just blurted it out like a maniac and—”

“Pregnant,” he interrupts.

You nod. Your voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”

It takes another two seconds before a breathless laugh escapes him. He crosses the room in one long stride, pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face like you’re something breakable. “You’re serious?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I took the test three times.”

He looks down at your stomach again. Then back at you. Then exhales a shaky breath that sounds like something breaking open in his chest.

“I’m going to be a dad?”

You bite your lip, eyes filling. “Yeah. You are.”

You nod again, and before you can say another word, he’s kissing you. Slow. Deep. His hand presses instinctively to your belly, protective already, and you feel his body tremble as his forehead rests against yours.

The nerves come quickly.

You’re crouched over the toilet, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, on what feels like your fifth straight day of relentless nausea. Your stomach rolls again, and you groan, dry heaving into nothing.

Max hovers like a man teetering on the edge of a panic attack. He’s pacing the bathroom floor in bare feet, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other holding your water bottle like it might fix something if he just offers it enough times.

“Should I call someone?” he says for the third time in five minutes. “A hospital? Maybe your mum, I think, maybe Dr. Hendriks? I’ll fly him in. We have the jet, it’s—”

“Max,” you croak, cutting him off mid-spiral. “I’m fine. Just... a bit gross.”

He drops to a crouch beside you so fast you almost flinch. His hand is instantly at your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over your spine like he’s trying to manually ease the nausea out of you.

“You threw up twice, you’ve barley eaten anything since yesterday, and you can’t even stand up straight. This isn’t fine,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for signs of something worse.

You want to reassure him, but all you can manage is another gag and a feeble wave of your hand.

He makes a frustrated sound under his breath, somewhere between a growl and a groan and presses a kiss to your temple. You feel him shift beside you, still kneeling, still rubbing your back.

You’re pretty sure he was supposed to be on a flight to the Red Bull factory two hours ago. His suitcase is still zipped up in the hallway. His laptop sits forgotten on the kitchen counter next to the tea he brewed for you earlier, the tea you couldn’t even look at, let alone sip.

He didn’t even finish drying his hair. It’s still damp, curling at the edges. There’s a red line pressed into his cheek from where he must’ve fallen asleep beside you on the bathroom floor the night before.

“Max,” you mumble, finally able to lift your head. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, exhausted, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack before the baby’s even here.”

He tries to laugh but it comes out hoarse and half-broken. “I just hate this. Watching you like this. I keep thinking, what if I’m missing something? What if I’m not doing enough?”

You tilt your head up slightly, catching the crease between his brows, the lines of guilt that don’t belong there.

“You made me three kinds of toast this morning,” you murmur. “And cut the crusts off, and you held my hair and Googled ginger remedies until your phone died.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you press a hand to his chest right over the spot where his heart’s racing, fast and wild.

“You’re here,” you whisper. “That’s not useless. That’s everything.”

He exhales shakily, eyes locked on yours and for a second you swear they shine.

“I’m just so scared of getting it wrong,” he admits, barely audible. “This whole dad thing. Taking care of you. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done, and I keep feeling like I’m already screwing it up.”

“You’re not,” you promise, curling your fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt. “You’re already the best dad, because you care so much, because you show up.”

The weeks pass in waves. Ultrasounds. Appointments. Cravings that come out of nowhere at 2 a.m. and leave you both laughing in the kitchen in your pajamas, sharing a jar of pickles and toast with peanut butter. There are stretches of calm, slow, quiet mornings when the Monaco sunlight creeps across the bedsheets and Max wraps an arm around your waist, murmuring something sleepy against your neck. And then there are flashes of chaos, bags packed, schedules rearranged, Max on a video call with his race engineers while still rubbing your swollen feet with one hand.

Somehow, amidst it all, you find a rhythm.

You learn to time what you can around Max’s races, his travel, his returns. You count the days until he’s back, until he’s lying beside you again, one hand stretched protectively over your belly like it’s instinct now.

The first time you hear the heartbeat Max looks like someone knocked the air out of him. His mouth parts. His eyes fill.

“She’s real,” he whispers, the words barely making it past his lips. “Our baby is real.”

You haven’t even found out the gender yet, but he says she instinctively, without hesitation, like his heart already knows something the rest of you don’t.

You tease him about it once, smiling as he folds baby clothes that aren’t even needed yet.

“It might be a boy you know?” you say, watching him hold up a tiny lemon-patterned onesie like it’s the crown jewels.

He looks up from the clothes, something quiet and unshakable in his gaze. “Maybe, but I don’t know, I just feel it, every time I picture the future, it’s you... and her.”

You stare at him, your breath catching somewhere in your throat.

“She’s loud,” he continues, grinning now, his accent curling around the softness of his voice. “Talks too much. Bosses me around. Already a little menace. Definitely your child.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughs, quick and boyish, and leans over to press a kiss to your cheek. “You’ll see. She’s gonna have your fire.”

You don’t say it, but the truth sinks deep into your chest, he already loves this baby with his whole being.

He talks to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep. You catch him doing it all the time, quiet, unguarded moments where his world has narrowed down to two things, you and the life you’re creating together.

When you both lie awake at night, hands intertwined under the duvet, whispering about baby names and nursery colors and what kind of parents you want to be, Max is always a little breathless. Like he still can’t believe it’s real. Like he’s terrified and amazed in equal measure.

“She’s going to change everything,” he murmurs once, voice low in the dark.

“She already has,” you whisper back.

He nods slowly, curling into you like he always does, like you’re the only home he’s ever needed.

Max becomes… soft.

In every possible way.

It’s not just the way he handles you now, like you’re something precious and breakable. It’s not just the way he walks slower beside you or watches your face when you stand up too quickly or how he quietly puts your sneakers on for you when your feet start to swell.

It’s in the little things.

He buys three different pregnancy pillows, a full-body one, a C-shaped one, and some strange ergonomic wedge because he isn’t sure which one will help you sleep better. One night you catch him actually reading a parenting blog in bed next to you, blue light from his phone casting shadows across the duvet. He scrolls silently, occasionally muttering things like:

“Did you know babies can hear our voices by week twenty?”

Or,

“Apparently we’re supposed to play music for her.”

Then there’s the night you find him in the nursery.

It’s late. You’d gotten up to grab water and noticed the light was on down the hall. You pad softly to the doorway, heart already warm with affection and there he is.

Max. Standing perfectly still. The crib is built, assembled a few days ago it sits against the far wall now, freshly made up with soft cream sheets and a stuffed lion tucked in the corner.

He’s just staring at it.

Half terror. Half wonder.

“Max?” you say gently, stepping into the room.

He startles a little but doesn’t turn around.

“Do you think I’ll be good at this?” he murmurs.

You cross the room without answering and slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against the cotton of his t-shirt. He reaches for your hands, holds them tightly over his chest.

“You’re already good,” you whisper.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. The kind that sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for months.

“It’s just…” he starts, and then pauses, struggling to find the words. “I didn’t exactly have the perfect example.”

You nod, letting the silence stretch. You don’t talk about his childhood much but he’s never needed to say much for you to understand. Jos was many things, passionate, driven, ambitious. But he was also sharp around the edges. Affection was earned, not given freely. Max learned young what it meant to perform under pressure. To please. To succeed, or suffer.

“I’m scared I’ll mess her up,” he says, voice quieter now. “That I’ll push too hard. Or expect too much. Or say something I can’t take back. What if she cries and I don’t know how to make it better? What if she needs something I don’t know how to give?”

You pull back just enough to tilt your head and meet his gaze.

“Max, you’re the most patient person I know.”

He snorts, but there’s not much humor in it. “That’s a word I don’t think has ever been used to describe me.”

“You’re patient with people you love,” you correct gently. “With me. You’ve been soft and kind and so careful this whole time, even when I’ve been sick or moody or irrational. You listen. That’s what she’ll see. That’s what she’ll learn.”

You hesitate, then add softly, “I’m scared too, you know.”

His brows draw together, surprised. Maybe he hadn’t realised, maybe you’ve hidden it well. “You are?”

You nod. “Every single day. I lie in bed and think about how much we don’t know yet. About how overwhelming it all feels sometimes. What if I’m not enough? What if she needs more than I can give?”

His arms tighten around you instinctively, like he’s trying to hold the fear out of your body.

“But then I see you,” you whisper. “And I remember… we don’t have to do any of it alone, and that makes all the difference.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just turns in your arms, eyes a little wet, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want to get it wrong,” he breathes. “Not with her. Not with you.”

“You won’t,” you whisper. “But if you ever feel like you are, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

He nods slowly. Swallows. “Promise me you’ll tell me if I ever forget, if I ever slip. If I start to become…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“I promise, but I already know I won’t need to.” you say, holding his face in your hands.

You kiss him then, soft and sure, and he kisses you back like your faith in him is something he never wants to let go of. And in the stillness of that nursery, with your belly pressed to his and the crib waiting quietly behind you, Max lets the fear settle… just a little.

Maybe it’s okay to be scared, as long as neither of you is scared alone.

The last month is the hardest.

Your back feels like it’s been replaced by concrete. Your feet have swollen so much you’ve officially retired every pair of shoes you own except one pair of very ugly slides. You cry at everything, a dog food commercial, a voicemail from your mum, Max just looking at you across the kitchen.

You’re tired in ways you didn’t know were possible. Your body feels like it’s working overtime to grow a person and also remind you of gravity’s cruelest tricks.

Max, meanwhile, has entered full protective mode. As if the impending arrival of your daughter has turned every single instinct inside him up to eleven.

He won’t let you lift anything.

Not a grocery bag. Not a chair. Not even your own overnight hospital bag.

You once reached for a water bottle and he appeared out of thin air swiping it out of your reach with a sharp, scandalized look.

“Max,” you deadpanned, “I’m pregnant, not paralyzed.”

“I’m aware,” he muttered, already unscrewing the cap and handing it to you like a peace offering.

“You think the baby’s going to fall out if I hold a Fiji bottle?”

“No,” he said seriously, “but why take the risk.”

You rolled your eyes then. You do it often now. But secretly?

You love it.

You love how protective he is. How he walks slightly behind you in crowds, like a buffer. How he started driving ten kilometers under the limit the second you entered your third trimester, even though he used to complain that Monaco traffic was basically just expensive cars parked in motion.

You love how he fusses, quietly but constantly. How he now triple-checks that your favorite snack is stocked before leaving the apartment, how he installed a nightlight in the hallway so you wouldn't trip during your nightly bathroom trips. How he downloaded six different white noise apps on his phone so you could try them out in bed. "For practice," he said, “in case she’s fussy.”

But what really gets you, what makes your chest ache with something warm and vast and impossible to describe is the way his face changes every time you talk about the baby.

A softening around his eyes. A slight tilt of his head. The more you speak about her name, about what she might look like, about whether she’ll like racing or painting or maybe dinosaurs, the more he leans in.

He’s never looked at you like this before. Not when he’s on the podium. Not even after winning his first championship. This? This is different.

This is awe. This is devotion. This is Max Verstappen world-class driver, famously unshakeable completely and utterly undone by the thought of his daughter.

He leans down and kisses your skin. “She’s going to wreck me isn’t she?”

“She already has.”

He looks up at you, eyes shining under the soft lamp light, and for once he doesn’t have a smart reply.

Then the day finally comes.

You wake at 3:13 a.m. with a pressure in your abdomen that steals your breath. It isn’t sharp, not at first. Just a heavy, aching pull deep in your core, like gravity has shifted suddenly inside you.

For a moment you think it’s another false alarm.

You shift under the covers, already rehearsing the mental checklist your doctor gave you: hydration, time the contractions, don’t panic. You ease out of bed, try walking to the bathroom, just like they said to do when you’re not sure it’s real yet, but then the pain tightens, sharp and low and unmistakable. It doesn’t come and go. It grips.

Just like that you know.

You shuffle back to the bed and place a trembling hand on Max’s chest.

“Max.”

He jolts upright as if someone’s fired a starter pistol. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it time?”

His voice is gravelly with sleep, but his body is already moving.

You nod, barely able to get the words out through the rising wave of pain.

“Okay. Okay. Alright, okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, as he flings the covers off and springs into motion.

What follows is like watching a pit stop in human form.

Max moves with sharp, terrifying focus. He’s already helped you into the comfiest clothes he can find, sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts, before you even finish brushing your teeth. He pulls the hospital bag from the front closet, double-checks its contents, grabs your water bottle, chargers, snacks, the car keys.

But the entire time, his hands are shaking.

You notice it in the way he fumbles with the seatbelt when helping you into the car. In the way he presses the elevator button three times like it’ll come faster.

By the time he’s in the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the steering wheel, you’re gripping the side of the door, breathing through another contraction.

“Max,” you whisper, chest rising and falling in short bursts. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing, you need to breath.” he says quickly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror even though the road is deserted.

“No, you’re hyperventilating.”

“I’m not, maybe a little,” he admits, cheeks flushed. He loosens his grip on the wheel, forces one deep inhale through his nose.

You reach across the console and take his hand, squeezing through the contraction.

“You’re going to be amazing,” you say through gritted teeth.

He glances at you, eyes shining under the dashboard light. “You’re the one doing the hard part.”

You laugh sort of. It’s half a wheeze, half a whimper. “Hard doesn’t even cover it.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles at the next red light. “Just keep holding on. I’m right here.”

The labour is long.

Twenty hours of chaos and calm. Of excruciating pain and quiet moments in between, your hand curled tight in Max’s.

He never leaves your side.

“I love you,” he says every few minutes, even when you’re too far gone to reply. “You’re doing so good. You’re so strong.”

He hovers beside you, whispering soft encouragements, brushing sweat from your forehead with shaking fingers.

And then, after everything, comes silence.

The kind that feels holy.

The room stills. You collapse against the pillows, exhausted and trembling. And then it happens.

A sound. Fragile. Piercing.

A cry.

Your baby’s first breath shatters the stillness, high-pitched and perfect and real.

Max sags beside you like his legs can’t hold him anymore. He buries his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since you’ve known him, since the earliest days of cautious flirtation and long-distance calls, since the podiums and the plane rides and the quiet "I love you"s you feel him cry.

“She’s here,” he chokes out. His whole body shakes. “She’s really here.”

When the nurse places your daughter on your chest, something in you clicks into place. She’s tiny. Wrinkled. Red-faced and slippery and making the most outraged little sounds, but she’s perfect. She’s yours.

And Max… Max looks like he’s been struck by lightning. He can’t move at first. Just stands there, one hand braced on the edge of the bed, the other hovering like he’s afraid to touch her. His face is wet with tears. He looks shell-shocked.

“She’s…” he starts, but he can’t finish. His voice breaks again.

You reach for his hand and guide it gently to her. His fingertips brush her hand and her tiny fingers curl around his pinky, as if she already knows him.

“Hi, kleine meid,” he whispers. “I’m your dada.”

Just like that he’s gone.

Hopelessly, entirely, irreversibly in love.

Later, after the visitors come and go after your families cry over tiny fingers and kiss your cheeks with soft, trembling mouths, after nurses shuffle in and out with gentle voices and kind hands the hospital room falls quiet again.

Just the three of you now. The soft hum of machines. The muffled hallway beyond the door. The gentle rustle of a newborn’s breath in the bassinet beside the bed.

Max lies beside you on the narrow hospital bed, somehow fitting his long frame against yours like puzzle pieces. One arm is curled protectively around your back, anchoring you to his chest. The other hand rests on the side of the bassinet, fingers still.

You watch him as he stares at her. He hasn’t looked away in over twenty minutes.

Not since the nurse gently wheeled her over and whispered, “She’s all yours now.”

“She’s got your nose,” you murmur sleepily, the exhaustion pulling at you like a tide, but the kind you’d wade into again without question.

Max smiles, slow and full and a little dazed. His eyes are glassy, bloodshot from lack of sleep and tears he no longer bothers hiding.

“Poor thing,” he says softly.

You chuckle, too tired for more than a breathy laugh. “She’s lucky.”

He looks over to you, his gaze heavy with affection. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there like he’s silently thanking the universe for bringing you through it.

“No,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m the lucky one.”

You curl into his chest a little deeper, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His hoodie smells like hospital linen and baby powder and Max, warm, worn-in, familiar.

“You were worried,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.

He nods without hesitation. “Terrified.”

There’s no bravado in his voice now. No need to pretend.

He exhales, glancing back at your daughter. “I’ve been trying to imagine this moment for months. Her face. The sound she’d make. Whether I’d be good enough for her.” His fingers flex slightly against the edge of the bassinet, just brushing the corner. “And now she’s here. And I just keep thinking… how do I live up to her?”

“Still scared?” you whisper.

He hesitates. “Yeah.”

He glances down at the baby again. She’s sleeping now, her tiny fist curled near her cheek, lips parted in a soft, steady rhythm.

“But it’s different now,” he adds. “I think… how is she real? How did we make her? How is she breathing and blinking and making those tiny sounds like it’s the most normal thing in the world?” His voice catches. “How do I ever make sure she knows how much I love her?”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. He grips yours back immediately, tight, like he needs to feel your pulse to believe any of this is real.

“She already knows,” you whisper. “She’s felt it. She’s felt it every time you talked to her. Every time you rubbed my back or held my hair or teared up during an ultrasound.”

Max looks at you then, and you see it all, the vulnerability, the devotion, the pure, unfiltered wonder that hasn’t left him since the moment she arrived.

You smile through the tears clouding your lashes.

“We’re in this together,” you say.

He nods. “Always.”

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sabxynsweet · 2 days ago

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Okay, hear me out….

Mattheo and sweetheart in the common room and she falls asleep on his shoulder and Mattheo threatens a bunch of first years or whatever who come in loud to stop them from waking her up.

OR OR OR

sweetheart falls asleep on someone ELSE’s shoulder and Mattheo gets mad and jealous, and purposely wakes her up

sweetheart!reader falls asleep on enzo’s shoulder, mattheo's not having it

both these ideas are so cute i think i'll write both <3 here’s your second idea, thank you for the request lovely ! the opening of this is SO dramatic because these boys really are terrified of mattheo it's so silly

They say that right before you're about to die, your life flashes before you like a montage.

Enzo's experiencing that now, memories coming to him like scenes in a film reel while he's frozen sitting at the dining table of the common room.

If it wasn't bad enough that the two of you were paired up for an assignment for a class that Mattheo wasn't in, it was real bad now because you were fast asleep on his shoulder and he couldn't move.

Theo walks past and stops when he see’s Enzo with a look of pure fear on his face, similar to a deer caught in headlights.

"What's up, Mate." Theo asks, Enzo glances over at him with "help me" eyes, unable to move more than his eyes with you hindering his movements.

"Oh." He laughs, "Mattheo's not going to like that."

"Don't you think I know that." Enzo hisses, glaring at Theo who was still laughing, "Let's hope she wakes up before Mattheo see's."

"Before Mattheo see's what?" Mattheo asks, voice cold and low.

Enzo flinches, making you stir a little but, much to his dismay, you're still fast asleep. Theo simply grins and moves back to watch.

"Listen, she was nodding off, I didn't mean to-" Mattheo ignores him, walking closer. Enzo thinks that today he might die.

Mattheo barely even glances at him, instead, he gently taps on your shoulder.

You stir awake - properly this time - and when your eyes meet his, his eyes soften and his annoyance dissolves into nothing.

"Mattheo?" You mumble, your head lifting off of Enzo's shoulder, he breathes a sigh of relief and moves quickly to stand next to Theo.

"Hey." He says, "you fell asleep there."

"Oh." You yawn, "what time is it?"

"5."

"Oh," You say, a little happier now, "it's not too late for a nap right?"

He shakes his head, "no."

You smile, eyes fluttering close again.

"No, baby, you're not sleeping in this position." He snorts.

"Why not." You whine, "M'tired, just let me die."

"You'll hurt your neck."

"You know, it's so totally not my fault that I fell asleep because your common room is so dark."

"I know, Sweetheart."

"Anyone would fall asleep here." You mumble before attempting to sleep again.

He shakes his head, a small smile on his face.

"Come on, you can sleep in my dorm."

"Really?" You murmur, one eye peeking open.

He nods.

"Will you wake me up for dinner?" He nods again, you smile.

"You're my favourite alarm clock." You coo jokingly.

He rolls his eyes but he's still smiling, he reaches out his hand and you let him lead you up the stairs. You lean your body weight on him.

"Unbelievable." He just barely hears Enzo mutter from below, "he was ready to murder me and then she wakes up and he's prince fucking charming."

Mattheo rolls his eyes and continues to guide you, careful not to let you fall.

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authortobenamedlater · 17 hours ago

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I once met a retired F-14 pilot. Being the weirdo that I am, I immediately asked him what it was like to do a night landing on a an aircraft carrier, which is basically trying to put 40K pounds of airplane on a moving postage stamp you can barely see. And the weather might not be good.

He said “Night landings are terrifying. F—-ing terrifying.”

I asked “When do they stop being terrifying?”

This guy who had flown countless night ops looked at me with a straight face and said “Never. Every time I did a night landing, I was scared to death. You just get used to it.”

“Do it scared” doesn’t necessarily mean The Thing will not be scary anymore. Sometimes that happens, and it’s great. But it doesn’t always. Sometimes you have to learn that you can do The Thing even if it’s scary. Sometimes you need to remind yourself that you have put the F-14 on the carrier at night in the rain hundreds of times. Even if it’s f—-ing terrifying, you’ve done it before and you can do it this time too.

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kurizz · 2 days ago

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Pink Poly Club (miromabby)

Summary: It's what happens after Huntrix and Saja boys' joint fansign event. Mira is annoyed at the trending hashtags online, she sees their fans shipping her with SB Romance and Abby. Their manager, thinking it'd be a good idea, organized another joint fansign event the next day.

Word Count: 773

-----

Mira snatched Bobby's phone out of his hands, fuming at the edited pictures she saw. "What's this? Pink Poly Club? No way am I being lumped in with those boys!" She handed the phone back.

Zoey was internally squealing.

"Me and Mystery? Like—" She caught the scary look on Mira's face and quickly backtracked. "I mean, ew, why? He's so NOT my type."

With an exasperated sigh, Mira ran a finger through her hair.

"Should I just dye my hair a different color? Ugh, like hell I would. Why’d they have to have the same color as me?"

"You look better anyway!" Zoey encouraged, flailing her arms. "Don't let them get to you. I’m not letting Mystery get to me, too... although, he is kind of my type—I mean, who said that!"

Bobby tried to get a word in, but the girls were too busy complaining. He didn’t even know where Rumi had gone—she’d just suddenly left. It wasn’t rare for the girls to get chaotic, but that didn’t make it any easier.

"But isn’t this great? It’s what the fans want. Maybe it’d be a good idea to have another one tomorrow..." he trailed off, thinking it might not be such a bad idea.

Oh well. Why not?

And so, here they were: another Huntrix x Saja Boys fansign event, with the same seating arrangement as yesterday. The fans were coming in hot—it even looked like there were more of them this time. Some wore miromabby shirts and held up edited ship posters.

"Hey, it’s nice seeing you again." Romance wrapped his arms behind Mira’s chair, leaning slightly at her side. From the corner of her eye, she could see some fans going wild. She ignored him and looked the other way—only to find Abby already staring. He grinned in that boyish charm of his, also leaning in close. "Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon, but here we are."

Her heart skipped a beat but she snapped out of it, shaking her head. She faced forward and shoved both guys' faces away from her. The fans were in a ruckus, and she couldn’t understand why.

With furrowed brows, she greets the first fan that comes up. Great, he's wearing a miromabby shirt.

"Cool shirt you got there. I don't remember taking it though." Abby commented, giving the guy a thumbs up.

Of course, he doesn't remember. It was clearly fake. A photoshopped picture of them with the two guys wrapping their arm on Mira's shoulders and she just had to be in the middle.

She furiously signed another fans poster, but doesn't forget to smile and thank them after. Abby and Romance won't stop staring at her and taking up her space.

"Can you two not?" Mira muttered under her breath.

Abby straightened with a dramatic sigh. "I don't like the number two. Let's be three instead."

"Oh my god," Mira groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I’m going to lose it."

Romance leaned back in his chair. "Can’t blame us nor the fans for having good taste."

"You do make a good centerpiece for a love triangle," Abby added.

Heat crawled up to her face and she glared at them both.

"Go bother someone else," she snapped, grabbing a sharpie and aggressively signing the next fan’s poster. The poor girl looked simultaneously thrilled and terrified.

Abby pouted, "Why would we? Don't wanna."

A sudden squeal erupted from the line of fans. A group of them were holding up a massive printed banner: "MiRoMAbby FOREVER 💖"—complete with photoshopped wedding photos and glittery pink text.

Zoey peeked over. "Whoa. That’s, like, next-level editing. I almost believed it was real."

"Don’t say it out loud! They’ll think it’s encouragement!"

These people had Mira stressed out. She glanced at the other end of the table where Rumi and Jinu was in. It was impossible to spot Rumi from the way Jinu was blocking her view with his back. Why's that guy all over her?

"You really should be focusing," Romance took her hand that's holding the pen and guided it to sign the next poster. Their fingers interlocked.

His hand was warm, and it was creeping up to her body. Romance doesn't let go. He stared at her face, taking in the faint blush on her cheeks despite her frown.

"Hey..." He leaned closer to whisper in her ear, "You should come with us after this."

"Shut up." She whispered back harshly, hating how her heart was now beating wildly.

Abby twisted his finger on her hair, playing with it softly. "Pay me some attention too, Mira."

Oh, someone help her.

________

click for part 2

________

first time I posted here. i had the sudden urge and here we are. that's my short contribution to this ship. might write more.

also, idk but huntrix songs>>>saja boys songs for me. their vocals are insaneeee. gotta give my girls more love cus what. their songs on repeat 🤌🏻🤌🏻🤌🏻🤌🏻🤌🏻

#kpop demon hunters #miromabby #fanfic #mira #abby #romance #kdh #saja boys #romance x mira x abby #mira x abby #mira x romance

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dykebehaviour · 19 hours ago

Note

more loser!ellie please 🙏🙏

taking loser!gf!ellie with you for lingerie shopping

cw: fluff, suggestive, loser lesbian!ellie, fem!reader.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

it starts with one sentence. one sentence and a perfectly timed glance over your shoulder while you’re straddling her on the couch.

“i need new lingerie.”

ellie doesn’t respond at first. she just sort of… short-circuits.

you’re wearing her hoodie - the green one with the stretched sleeves and little bleach spots on the cuff - and nothing underneath it. your thighs are bare against the scratchy fabric of her secondhand couch. your lip’s caught between your teeth. and you say it so casually, like you’re telling her you need shampoo. like you’re not already half in her lap, driving her fucking insane.

she’s holding a half-lit joint and stares at you like you’ve just told her the world’s ending.

“i’m sorry,” she says finally. “you what?”

“i need lingerie,” you say again, slowly this time, like she’s old or confused. you stretch, arms up over your head, hoodie riding even higher on your thighs. you blink down at her. “i’m low on pretty stuff.”

she blinks. once. twice. her fingers flex against your hips like she’s trying to ground herself. “isn’t all your stuff already… pretty?”

you grin. “that’s sweet. but no. i want the really pretty kind. the ridiculous kind. bows and lace and way too many straps.”

ellie’s jaw flexes. “oh.”

you let the silence stretch.

then: “you wanna come with me?”

ellie’s eyes shoot up. her whole body goes rigid, like you just asked her to go to war.

“to… to the lingerie store?”

you nod, very nonchalant. “yeah. i need a second opinion.”

“right. because i’m so… fashion-forward.”

“you are when it comes to me.”

ellie says nothing. her fingers twitch where they rest on your thighs. she’s pretending to look cool, but her mouth is slightly open and she hasn’t blinked in way too long.

you raise an eyebrow. “that a yes?”

she clears her throat. “uh. yeah. sure. i mean, yeah. i can do that. just, like… be normal. in the lingerie store. like a normal person.”

you lean in, grin widening. “you’ve never been normal, ellie.”

“yeah,” she breathes. “and it’s about to get so much worse.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

the next day, she dresses like she’s attending your funeral.

dark jeans. beat-up converse. that ratty smashing pumpkins tee she only wears when she’s feeling brave, and a zip-up hoodie over the top. she doesn’t style her hair, just pulls it into a low bun and lets the baby curls frizz around her ears. you kiss her temple as she slouches into the passenger seat of your car, and she groans into her hands like you’ve just kissed her in front of a firing squad.

you, on the other hand, look unfairly hot.

hair pretty. lip gloss on. you even sprayed perfume - the one that makes her dizzy and stupid. you keep twirling your hair around your finger at red lights. keep crossing and uncrossing your legs like you don’t know exactly what it’s doing to her.

“please be gentle with me,” ellie mumbles as you pull into the parking garage.

“no promises.”

she groans again.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

the store is a lot.

it’s pink. everything is soft, glowing, wrapped in silk and tulle. the music is sultry - some slow, breathy remix of something you danced to at a party last summer. the mannequins are tall, leggy, headless, and intimidating. there’s a neon sign above the back wall in soft cursive that says treat yourself, baby.

ellie stares up at it like she’s witnessing a religious experience.

she mutters under her breath, “this place is terrifying.”

you loop your arm through hers and tug her deeper into the racks of lace and mesh.

“i thought you liked terrifying things,” you say.

“i do. usually. but this is… this is uncharted territory.”

you pause in front of a rack of blush-colored balconette bras and grin. “you mean you’ve never been in here before?”

ellie frowns. “i’m gay, not suicidal.”

you laugh, loud and bright, and the sound makes her smile, even if her ears are beet red.

she keeps her hands shoved in the front pocket of her hoodie. doesn’t touch anything. doesn’t even look too long at any single item, in case it kills her.

you, on the other hand, are in your element.

you move through the store like a dream, trailing your fingers over lace, pausing to hold up sheer teddies and corsets, tossing matching panties over your arm like it’s a fashion show and you’re the star. you pick up a strappy red bra and turn toward her, holding it against your chest.

“this one?” you ask.

ellie swallows. loudly. “jesus christ.”

you smirk. “so… yes?”

“yeah. definitely. that’s gonna haunt me in the best way.”

you pick up a few more pieces - pale blue, black silk, something sheer and embroidered with little moons and stars - and disappear into the dressing room with a wink.

ellie stands awkwardly outside, pretending to browse a rack of crotchless boyshorts. she checks her phone. bounces on the balls of her feet. almost asks the assistant if they have snacks, then realises that’s a completely insane thing to do in a lingerie store and shuts up.

then, your voice calls out from behind the curtain:

“babe?”

her heart stutters. “yeah?”

“can you come help me zip this?”

she drops her phone. literally drops it.

fumbles to pick it up. wipes her palms on her jeans. tries to act like her pulse isn’t pounding in her ears as she stumbles toward the back room like she’s walking toward her execution.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

the curtain slides shut behind her.

and ellie’s knees immediately go weak.

you’re standing in front of a full-length mirror in the softest, sexiest thing she’s ever seen. lavender lace. bare back. garter belt. stockings hugging your thighs. your skin glowing under the warm lights, the soft sheen of the fabric clinging to every curve like it was custom made for you.

you glance at her over your shoulder, all doe-eyed and dangerous. “can you zip it?”

ellie doesn’t answer. she just stares.

she looks like she’s in pain. mouth open. eyes wide. her gaze drags from your heels to your thighs to your hips to your back to your shoulders to your lips. she shifts on her feet like she’s trying to adjust herself without making it obvious, but you notice. of course you do.

you always do.

you smile slowly. “you okay, el?”

she clears her throat and steps forward. her hands are shaking as she reaches for the zipper. she’s so careful. touches you like you’re breakable. her fingers brush your spine and she jolts like she touched a live wire.

“i’m fine,” she lies, softly. “so fine. doing amazing. really holding it together.”

you turn to face her, and her mouth parts helplessly.

“do you like it?” you murmur.

“‘like’ is the understatement of the century,” she says. “i’m actually blacking out a little. Is that normal?”

you step closer. she doesn’t move away. she never does.

“i’ve got a few more to try,” you say. “want to help me with the rest?”

she exhales shakily. “this is a trap.”

you hum. “maybe.”

“you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“i hope so.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

you model four more outfits.

with each one, ellie unravels a little more.

the second is all black mesh with star embroidery. the third is a deep red strappy set that leaves very, very little to the imagination. the fourth has tiny silk bows and pearl accents. the fifth, the final one, is so sheer you have to cover your nipples when you step out just to give her a chance.

she stares. frozen. absolutely wrecked.

you cross the room, slide your arms around her neck, and lean in until your lips brush her ear.

“i’m getting this one.”

she makes a noise, something breathless and desperate, and rests her forehead on your shoulder.

“you’re evil,” she whispers. “this is psychological warfare.”

you kiss her jaw. “you love it.”

“i do,” she groans. “that’s the worst part.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

at checkout, ellie carries the bags like they’re sacred objects.

she hasn’t made eye contact with anyone in ten minutes. her ears are bright red. her face is still flushed. you hand the cashier your card and glance back at her, amused.

“you’re very quiet.”

“i’m recovering,” she mutters.

“from what?”

she glares at you, eyes glassy. “you flashed your ass at me in four different colours and then smiled like it was nothing. i saw your nipples through lace. that wasn’t just ‘nothing.’ that was a religious experience.”

you giggle and slide your arm through hers as you leave the store.

she’s still dazed when you reach the car.

you lean against the passenger door and grin. “wanna come back to mine?”

she nods immediately. “yes. oh my god. please.”

“for what?”

“closure. a cold shower. therapy. a full spiritual reset.”

you lean in, kiss her cheek, lips sticky with gloss. “i’ll wear the red one.”

she nearly walks into a parked car.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

perm taglist: @yasmilks , @natsheretic , @lovemiraamira , @ellies-real-wife , @wewerewildandfluorescent , @jullsii , @eyesttokill , @dmenby3100 , @bunchogravie , @oneinameliann , @intheshadowofthestars , @pariiissssssss , @vanpalmertruther , @madsxh1022 , @rbnvrnxoxo , @firefly-ace , @alyaserrax , @silly-pigeon69 , @glassofgreenteapls , @pearlsiie , @aj0elap0l0gist , @sincerelyherz , @imsiriuslycool , @0phantom0 , @ggutpunch , @leeidk87 , @mikellie <3

#lesbian #ellie williams #tlou #the last of us #ellie williams x reader #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us game #tlou fanfic #tlou fic #tlou fanfiction #ellie williams fic #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams tlou #ellie x reader #tlou ellie #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou #tlou2

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peasack · 2 days ago

Text

I have a patent-teacher conference and guys its not okay I'm cooked.

Lowkey a bit of Valentina slander at the end but that's okay cause who likes her anyway.

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦ Parent-Teacher conference headcanons ✦

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

✦ Alexei Shostakov ✦

Immediate big bear grin. “Of course! I would love to! Finally, official father duties! I am ready.”

He’s way too excited. You almost regret asking him because he immediately starts planning what to wear like it’s the Olympics.

He introduces himself as your “papa” and tells wildly exaggerated stories about your achievements that didn’t happen.

“Ah yes, Y/N once lifted a car. Very strong. Takes after me.”

The teacher is just blinking rapidly “I-what?”

He lowkey embarrasses you, but he’s also so proud.

Brags about you non-stop and leaves with his arm around you, even if you’re fake-mad at him the whole way home.

✦ Yelena Belova ✦

Acts super casual about it. “Yes, I can go. Why not? Someone must supervise the situation.” But she’s secretly honored you asked her.

She shows up in the coolest outfit and definitely intimidates your teacher a little.

If the teacher complains about you, she’s like: “No. You are wrong. Y/N is perfect.” (Dead serious.)

If they praise you, she’s smug for the rest of the week.

“You know, you could have asked anyone. But you picked me. Admit it Mouse. I am the best.”

✦ Bucky Barnes ✦

Very quiet, kinda awkward. “Me? Uh… yeah. Sure, kid. If you want me to.”

He sits stiffly, probably wears his nicest jacket. Doesn’t say much unless he needs to defend you.

If the teacher says you’re struggling, he’s all protective like, “What’s the school doing to help them? They’re not doing this alone.”

Absolutely takes your side.

If the teacher complains about you hanging out alone, Bucky’s just like, “Yeah? Maybe the other kids should be less annoying.”

Buys you snacks on the way home.

Barely talks about the meeting, just quietly says he’s proud of you.

✦ John Walker ✦

Blown away. “Wait, you want me to go? Like… with you? Of course! Yeah, I can do that. I’m good at that. Totally. Parental figure. Yeah.”

(He’s so flustered it’s adorable.)

Takes it VERY seriously. Nods way too much. The teacher lowkey loves him because he’s polite and enthusiastic.

If they criticize you, John gets defensive FAST.

“Have you considered that maybe your teaching style isn’t working for them? Just a thought.”

Treats you to dinner after like it’s a whole formal event.

“You did good, kid. Real good. Thanks for letting me be there.”

✦ Bob Reynolds ✦

Looks like you just asked him to hold the sun. He’s so touched. “Me? You really want me to go? Yeah. Yeah, I’d be honored.”

Soft-spoken the whole time. Very respectful but sharp when it comes to defending you.

He listens carefully, makes eye contact, thanks the teacher even if they’re being harsh.

If the teacher praises you, he beams.

Quiet little proud smiles. Might ruffle your hair without thinking.

Gets awkward when you thank him.

“Oh—uh, you don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad you wanted me there.”

He'll be smiling after that all day.

✦ Ava Starr ✦

“Why me?” but not in a bad way—just genuinely surprised you’d choose her.

When you tell her you trust her, she agrees instantly. “I’ll be there. You got me.”

Has the most terrifying resting face. The teacher is so scared to say anything negative because Ava looks like she’ll end them.

If the teacher says you’re doing well, Ava’s eyes soften.

She just mutters, “Told you they were good.”

Doesn’t make a big deal out of it. On the way home she just quietly says, “Thanks for picking me.” But you can tell it meant a lot.

✦ Valentina Allegra de Fontaine ✦

"why would I wanna go to that"

Simply doesn't attend.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Hope you guys liked this one!! My requests are always open<33

Is it obvious that I hate Valentina

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kenntoria · 6 hours ago

Text

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ at a family dinner, nanami watches you cradle a baby—hesitant at first, then heartbreakingly gentle—and sees a future he’ll never rush, but quietly dreams of.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ you dream of that and i’ll dream of you nanamin

the thing about nanami is that he never asks you for more than you’re willing to give.

he never rushes you. not when it came to your relationship. not when you both moved in together. not when the question of marriage hovered between you like an unanswered prayer. and especially not when the topic of children entered the conversation, clumsy and tentative.

not that you ever spoke about it directly.

you weren’t against it, not exactly. but the idea of a child—of diapers and crying and the eternal pressure to be good at something you’d never tried before—was terrifying. there was too much responsibility in the softness of a baby’s head, the fragility of a tiny body. sometimes you’d joke about how you’d probably drop one, or that kids hated you, or that the thought of giving birth was horrifying. and nanami never laughed at you. never called you dramatic. he just nodded, like he understood.

and he did. god, he did.

but he also noticed things.

like the way your eyes lingered when you saw a baby bundled in a stroller. or how you’d go quiet when you saw a toddler waddling with a cookie in each hand. he noticed the way you softened just a little more when children were near—not enough for anyone else to see, but enough that he caught it, caught you, staring before you realized and blinked away like you’d been caught daydreaming.

and you always assumed he didn’t notice. but of course nanami did. nanami noticed everything when it came to you.

that’s why it hits him a little harder than expected when it finally happens.

you’re at one of his family dinners—something warm and rowdy, his relatives laughing too loud and bringing too many dishes. you’re dressed in a little sundress he likes, sipping juice and picking at a plate of fruit, eyes gentle and distant as the evening spins on around you.

and then his cousin, chaotic and overwhelmed, clutches her baby girl to her chest and says your name, breathless.

“can you hold her for a sec? i need to get the cake from the car—i’ll be quick!”

before you can answer, the baby is placed in your arms. warm. soft. gurgling with laughter like the world is nothing but good things.

and nanami watches you freeze.

“uh,” you manage to croak out.

it’s not even a second. just a stutter in your body. your arms hold the baby awkwardly at first, like you’re cradling a bomb you don’t know how to defuse. your brows pinch in confusion. and then—

your arms shift. your body curls inward slightly. and something in your face melts like wax in the sun. the baby touches your face with tiny, chubby fingers, and you giggle—quiet, shocked at yourself, like you hadn’t expected to enjoy the weight of a child in your arms.

and nanami watches you pull her closer. presses your cheek to her soft hair. the curve of your mouth so gentle, so awestruck, that he forgets how to breathe.

the room goes quiet in his head. nothing else exists except the sight of you holding that baby. except the sudden, selfish ache in his chest as his mind races with the what-ifs.

what if it was your baby?

what if you were holding the child you made together?

what if that softness on your face was for a little girl with his eyes and your smile?

he’s still staring when you finally glance up. eyes searching the room for him—and when you catch his gaze, you blink, visibly flustered. your face flushes. you look down at the baby again and then back up at him, almost shy.

nanami smiles. it splits his face slowly, creases the corner of his eyes, lights something deep behind them. he crosses the room slowly, like something sacred is happening and he doesn’t want to disturb it.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice low and fond, crouching slightly to meet your eyes. “you okay?”

you nod quickly, like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him.

“you’re good with her,” he leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder.

“i—no, i’m not. she’s just… quiet. she’s not scary like the others.” you look down, like you are still trying to shake it off.

but the baby coos again, snug against your chest, and nanami swears he’d never seen anything more precious than the way you blink down at her like you aren’t sure what to do with the warmth blooming in your chest.

“you look good with her.”

your eyes widen. “don’t say that.”

“why not?” he says, smile lingering. “it’s true, sweetheart.”

you glance down at the baby, then back at him. “don’t get ideas, kento.”

he lifts his hands innocently, even as his heart burns quietly with the image of you both in a home of your own, years from now, with a baby that shares both your blood and names.

“no ideas,” he says. “just… enjoying the view.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t hand the baby back. you don’t push him away when he presses a lingering kiss to your temple, and he doesn’t say anything when he notices you swaying slightly—instinctively rocking the baby in your arms.

and maybe you’ll talk about it one day.

and maybe you won’t.

but for now, he’s content to let this moment exist as it is: quiet, perfect, and full of a future that doesn’t need to be rushed.

240 notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 18 hours ago

Note

hi honey, i’m baaacckkk!

my love for susie wolff has been reignited, so here i am! susie wolff x reader x toto wolff. it’s me of course so there’s a twist…………………………………….

ferrari team principal reader, yep she stole lewis from toto! i’ll let you decide if they’re already a couple or if they’re falling in love. and for the sake of my little ferrari loving heart, let’s be delusional and pretend ferrari is doing much better than they actually are

love you lots! i can’t wait to see what you do with this, and i can’t wait for a couple of hours to pass before i think of another request for you

finders keepers — toto wolff + susie wolff

toto wolff x !ferrari tp reader x susie wolff

smau + blurbs

when you were announced as ferrari’s new team principal, the motorsport world lost its mind. young, unapologetic, and brilliant — you weren’t just there to shake the table. you were flipping it over. then came the real shock- lewis hamilton signing with ferrari under your leadership, leaving behind a furious toto wolff and a suddenly intrigued susie. they called it sabotage. you called it strategy. "Finders keepers," you whispered into Toto’s ear at the F1 75 event, your hand brushing Susie’s as you walked past. the war was on. and so was the chemistry.

fc : irina shayk

(a/n) : MY WIFEEEEEY. my honey sugar baby loveeeee! you know as soon as you request something, i drop everything and make sure it happens. i love you soooooo much. such a good idea. i had so much fun!!

—

scuderiaferrari

liked by yn_ln, lewishamilton, charles_leclerc and 7,525,002 others

scuderiaferrari : Breaking tradition, making history. Joining us this season is YN LN as our new Team Principal — and with her, she brings none other than 7 time World Champion Lewis Hamilton to the Scuderia. The future is bold. The future is red. 🔴

—

view 501,008 other comments.

lewishamilton : So honored to work beside YN. Let's make history together, Boss! Forza Ferrari. ❤️🔥

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and scuderiaferrari

↳yn_ln : boss makes me feel old...even though i am younger than you;) happy to have you champ! let's do this.

liked by charles_leclerc and yn_ln

↳ username000 : how old is she??

↳ username00 : 35

charles_leclerc : Welcome, boss. Don’t scare the engineers too much 😅They are already terrified.

liked by yn_ln, lewishamilton and scuderiaferrari

↳ yn_ln : aw i like to think im a little bit nicer than old man fred :(

liked by lewishamilton and charles_leclerc

sebastianvettel : This is the kind of chaos I would’ve stayed for. Welcome.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and scuderiaferrari

↳ yn_ln : miss your smiling face. come by sometime this season?

liked by sebastianvettel

↳ sebastianvettel : I’ll be there boss.

liked by yn_ln

↳ username1 : omg if seb loves her. we are GOLDEN.

yn_ln : thank you everybody for the love and warm welcome. i can say with confidence for once that this really is our season. forza ferrari ❤️

liked by charles_leclerc, lewishamilton and scuderiaferrari

↳ username5 : omg i love her already.

carlossainz55 : im not hurt. just a little upset. but this is so iconic i can’t be mad.

liked by charles_leclerc, lando, lewishamilton and yn_ln

↳ yn_ln : you are always welcome, carlos. you are family forever.

liked by carlossainz55

username7 : toto wolff punching the air right now 😭😭

liked by yn_ln

↳ yn_ln : finders keepers 🤷🏻‍♀️

liked by username7 and lewishamilton

↳ username11 : fuck. i really wanted to hate her but i can’t.

username15 : No hate but what’s her actual experience? Or did she just charm her way to the top?

↳ lewishamilton : You think I would just make this decision for anybody? You clearly haven’t done your homework. YN is one of the most intelligent, driven, and strategic minds I’ve worked with — male or female. She earned this. Every bit of it. Put some respect on her name.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and scuderiaferrari

username17 : Ferrari hiring a woman for the attention is insane. This is Formula 1, I seriously don’t think she can take it. I give her 5 races before ferrari collapses again.

↳ susie_wolff : This is Formula 1 — which means it’s about intelligence, strategy, and resilience. All of which YN has in abundance. If you think she was hired for attention, you’re clearly not paying attention. And for the record? I’d bet on her over half the grid.

liked by yn_ln and lewishamilton

↳ yn_ln : thank you for the kind words, susie. you’re a doll.

liked by susie_wolff and lewishamilton

—

flashback

You arrive at the private meeting room in Maranello five minutes early. Of course you do. You don’t become Ferrari’s team principal—the first woman in history to do it—by being late. Especially not when you’re about to attempt the boldest power play of the decade— poaching Lewis Hamilton from Mercedes.

The room is quiet, floor to ceiling glass looking out over a polished test track drenched in winter sun. The espresso in front of you is untouched, more for optics than anything else. You’ve rehearsed every line, every scenario. But nothing quite prepares you for the quiet shift in atmosphere when he finally walks in. Lewis Hamilton. Seven-time world champion. The very embodiment of calm power. He’s dressed in head to toe black, subtle jewelry catching the light as he sits across from you. No entourage, no assistant. Just him. That in itself feels like a test. He studies you. Not in the patronizing way most men in this industry do—but like he’s reading your pressure points, your intent, your truth.

“Ferrari,” he says slowly, eyes flicking across the Prancing Horse logo on the leather folder you’ve laid between you. “Didn’t expect this.”

“I know,” you say evenly. “But you didn’t get to seven titles by playing it safe. And I didn’t come to Ferrari to follow tradition.”

He lets out the faintest breath of a laugh. It’s not unkind. It’s curious.

“You’re young,” he says, not as a judgment, more as a fact.

You nod. “And you’re still winning. That’s why we’re both dangerous.”

That earns you a pause. Then a flicker of something sharper—respect, maybe—passes through his gaze.

“I’m not leaving Mercedes lightly,” he says.

“I’m not asking you to,” you reply. “I’m asking you to finish what you started—with someone who won’t waste your last peak years babysitting board politics.”

He leans back in the chair, arms crossed now. “You think you can run Ferrari better than everyone before you?”

“I don’t think,” you say quietly. “I know.”

The silence after that is thick. You can feel the weight of it pressing down on your spine, but you don’t flinch. You want him to see that. You want him to look across this table and realize that for the first time in a long time, someone isn’t just offering him a car—they’re offering him control. A legacy. He glances down at the folder. Doesn’t open it yet.

“You know Toto’s going to hate this,” he says.

You smile, slow and deliberate. “I know.”

And for a moment, Lewis just stares at you. Measuring. Calculating. And then—smiling.

It’s a real one, this time.

“Alright then,” he says softly. “Impress me.”

—

You watch as Lewis slowly signs the contract, the pen lingering just a moment longer than necessary—not for show, but because he’s savoring the moment. Your name sits at the top— YN LN. Ferrari’s new team principal. The one who just convinced him to leave behind everything he built with Toto Wolff. When he finally sets the pen down, you don’t move. You hold his gaze, calm and steady, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips—like you’ve been expecting this all along.

He looks up, eyes searching yours. “You didn’t even flinch.”

You tilt your head, cool and collected. “Was I supposed to?”

Lewis shrugs and closes the folder between you. “I thought you’d be either overcompensating or underprepared. But you’re neither. You walk in here like you’ve already won.”

You smile, subtle but real. “Because I don’t make offers I can’t back up.”

There’s a quiet confidence about you, not loud or flashy, but magnetic. The kind of power that commands respect without demanding it. It’s a presence he hasn’t seen in a long time, maybe ever.

You stand, extending your hand for a formal shake, but when his fingers curl around yours, the grip is steady, controlled.

“I’ll make this worth it,” you say softly, your voice low but certain. “Not just for Ferrari—for you.”

For the first time in years, Lewis feels something new—a spark, a steady pulse of belief. He meets your eyes, honest and unguarded. “I’m not used to being impressed. But you managed it.”

You nod once, silent but clear—Good. As you turn and leave the room, the sharp click of your heels echoes behind you, and Lewis watches the red of your blazer fade through the door. This is no longer just about a contract, a car, or a team. This is about something bigger. You are something bigger. And everyone on the grid better be ready.

—

f1gossipgirls

1,188,009 likes

f1gossipgirls : The Ferrari team has officially arrived at the F175 Event— all looking insanely gorgeous btw— and let’s just say… they did not come to play. New Team Principal YN LN made her red carpet debut flanked by both of her drivers— Charles Leclerc and Lewis Hamilton. Charles looked the happiest we’ve seen him in years, smiling ear to ear as he helped YN down the steps like a man completely at peace with his life choices. Lewis spent time catching up with the Mercedes team — but the real moment? YN coming face to face with the Wolffs for the first time since the signing bombshell. Tension with Toto? Absolutely. But YN held her ground with that signature smug, steel spined composure she’s already becoming known for.

—

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username000 : the way susie smiled at her though… baby the tension is not just between her and toto 👀

username00 : i was a doubter at first but if she delivers on track the way she just delivered on that carpet… i’m ready to repent.

username0 : she is so hot. i am fucking GAYYYYY

username1 : smh ferrari only hired her because she is hot.

username5 : someone said she looked like the villain who wins in the end and now I can’t unsee it

username7 : watching the YN haters slowly become obsessed with her is my favorite subplot tbh

username10 : FERRARI GOT THE SEXIEST TEAM ON EARTH NOW. like sorry. no one else is competing in looks or leadership.

username11 : leclerc in love. hamilton intrigued. wolff enraged. this is the perfect Italian opera.

—

The cameras start flashing before your heels even hit the carpet. You step out of the car into the bright light, black mesh pooling at your ankles like liquid confidence. One side of you is anchored by Charles Leclerc — smiling like a maniac, offering his arm with the ease of someone who’d follow you anywhere. The other, Lewis Hamilton — sharp, composed, and unreadable, but close enough that your fingers occasionally graze. The crowd murmurs the second they see you. Not just because you’re Ferrari’s first female team principal — that story’s been printed and reposted a thousand times already — but because you’ve arrived like you own the entire grid. And maybe you do. Two of the fastest men in the world walk beside you like they’re yours. Like they chose you. And they did.

Charles leans in slightly as the press surges. “You’re making history, you know.”

“I’m making headlines,” you reply coolly. “History comes later.”

He laughs, and you don’t miss how his hand lingers at your lower back, grounding you as the cameras flash. Lewis remains quiet, but his gaze scans the crowd with intention — observant, protective, almost amused by the chaos in your wake. And then you see them. Toto and Susie.

He’s as composed as ever, arms crossed, his eyes following you like a storm cloud with a purpose. Susie stands beside him, impossibly elegant in a satin dress that shimmers like moonlight, her hand resting loosely on his arm. She’s not smiling. Not yet. You could walk past them. Pretend you didn’t see them. But that’s not who you are anymore. So you stop. Charles stills beside you. Lewis glances between the three of you but says nothing — though you feel the shift in his posture, protective and silent.

You take a step forward, heels sharp against the stone, and raise your chin.

“Toto,” you say calmly.

He doesn’t flinch. “YN.”

The way he says your name—like it’s both a challenge and a caution—only makes you straighten further.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he says after a beat, voice clipped. “Though I must say, I didn’t expect you to come for Lewis.”

You smile. “You should’ve. I was taught to never waste potential.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes at that. Maybe pride. Maybe regret. You can’t tell.

“And now?” he asks. “What happens when it all falls apart?”

You lean in, just slightly, just enough that only he and Susie can hear you.

“If it does,” you murmur, “at least it’s mine to rebuild. But I wouldn’t count on it.” Then, softly, with a wicked glint—“Finders keepers, Toto.”

His jaw clenches. You know that look — he only ever makes it when he’s trying not to lose his temper in public. Beside him, Susie exhales a quiet breath, her voice cutting through the tension like silk.

“She always did have a gift for knowing where things truly belong,” she says, eyes still on you.

You meet her gaze, and something passes between you. Not quite forgiveness. Not quite approval. Something heavier. Older. Intimate.

“Good luck,” she says at last.

You smile at her—not smug, not victorious, just steady.

“I won’t need it. May the best team win, Mr. Wolff.”

Then you turn, Charles instinctively stepping closer, Lewis falling into stride beside you. The flashes resume, brighter than before. The cameras can’t get enough. They all saw it. They saw everything. And you don’t look back. Because you don’t need to.

—

The lights shift to crimson as the music swells, pulsing through the speakers like a heartbeat synced to your own. You’re standing center stage, flanked by two of the sport’s most iconic drivers — Charles on your left, Lewis on your right — as the red silk slips away and the new Ferrari is revealed beneath the lights. It’s a monster. Sleek, sculpted, angry in all the right places. A promise made of carbon fiber and blood. Your signature — small, subtle — is engraved inside the cockpit, right beside the driver’s seat. A mark that says—This is mine. I built this. I chose this.

The applause is deafening. Flashbulbs explode. And still, you feel them. Watching. You don’t even have to look to know where they’re sitting — front row, slightly left of center. Toto in a dark suit, arms crossed, jaw locked. Susie beside him, calm, unreadable. But their attention is unmistakable. Fixed. They haven’t taken their eyes off you.

Charles leans in slightly, offering you the mic. “Your moment,” he murmurs.

You take a breath. Smooth your palms over your blazer. And step forward.

“Thank you all for the warm welcome,” you begin, your voice steady and sharp, echoing through the speakers. “This car isn’t just a machine. It’s a statement. Of intent. Of belief. Of red rising again.”

The crowd erupts into applause, but you continue — heart pounding, every word calculated.

“When I joined this team, I wasn’t interested in tradition for tradition’s sake. I came here to win. Not just races, but trust. Respect. And with these two men beside me, we’ve already started.”

You glance to your left. Charles beams at you like you hung the moon. Then to your right — and Lewis is looking at you with something quieter, deeper. Like he sees all the invisible wars you’ve had to win to stand on this stage.

“I believe in this team,” you finish. “And I believe we’re going to remind the world why Ferrari doesn’t follow stories. We write them.”

The audience roars. Charles is the first to speak. “When YN joined Ferrari, I’ll admit — I didn’t know what to expect. But now I do. She’s not here to participate. She’s here to lead. And I’ve never felt more ready to fight for this team.”

Then Lewis, mic low in his hand. He’s always more restrained, but when he speaks, the room listens.

“I came to Ferrari for a lot of reasons. But staying? That’s all because of her.” He nods toward you. “She doesn’t just make people believe. She makes us better.”

You hear it again — the roar of the press, the popping of cameras — but under it all, there’s a silence you feel inside your chest. And in that silence, you feel them. Toto’s stare is piercing, unreadable. Rage? Regret? You can’t tell. But it’s Susie who locks eyes with you. And there’s something else there entirely. Longing. Maybe even pride. Something that twists just below your ribcage and settles deep.

You don’t smile. You don’t flinch. You simply stand tall, two legends at your sides, your car behind you, and your name now etched into the Ferrari legacy. Let them watch. Let them feel what you already know. This is just the beginning.

—

3rd pov

The event had long since ended, but the tension lingered like static in the back of Toto’s jaw. The suite was dim, the windows overlooking London now dark and still. The sound of the crowd had faded, replaced by silence and the occasional clink of glass as Toto poured himself a drink with a hand far tenser than he’d admit. He stood there, unmoving, scotch untouched, staring at the empty crystal like it might offer answers. Behind him, Susie sank into the velvet armchair, heels kicked off, her posture relaxed in the way only someone deeply unsettled could fake. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

“It wasn’t just the car,” Toto said finally. Voice low, quiet. “It was her.”

Susie didn’t respond at first. She just watched him, brow drawn slightly, mouth pulled in that unreadable line she wore whenever she didn’t want to give herself away too quickly.

He turned to face her. “You saw it too.”

She nodded slowly. “Of course I did.”

Toto exhaled, sharp and short. “She looked right through me. Like I was… just another executive in a suit.”

“You were,” Susie said, not unkindly.

There was no bite in her voice. Only truth. Toto’s jaw flexed. “She stole Lewis.”

“She didn’t steal him,” Susie said softly. “She earned him.”

He stared at her, waiting for her to take it back. She didn’t.

“She’s smart,” she continued. “Controlled. Fearless. I haven’t seen that kind of presence in a paddock in years.” A pause. “Not since you.”

He turned away again, as if her words physically struck him.

“I thought you hated her.”

“I never said that.”

“But you should,” he snapped. “After what she did. What she’s doing.”

Susie looked down at her hands, twisting the edge of her bracelet, eyes distant.

“That’s just it,” she murmured. “I can’t.”

He stilled. Slowly turned.

Susie’s voice was quiet, but steady. “I should hate her. For the politics. For the power plays. For what it’s doing to you. But I don’t.”

She looked up then, eyes meeting his, and something in her face cracked open — just enough to let the truth out.

“I’m enamored with her,” she said. “And I can’t help it.”

Toto stared, frozen. There was no fury. No jealousy. Just the weight of knowing he wasn’t alone in what he felt — and that terrified him more than anything.

“She walked onto that stage like she belonged to the sport before it even knew her name,” Susie continued. “And now she’s the one everyone’s watching. Even us.”

Toto looked away, jaw tight, heart somewhere between admiration and ache.

“She’s dangerous,” he said.

“Yes,” Susie agreed, leaning back in her chair, eyes still on the window where the echoes of red silk and spotlight still lived in her memory. “But I’ve never wanted to be closer to danger.”

And neither of them said the rest — That it wasn’t just about racing anymore. Not even close.

—

2nd pov

You weren’t expecting her. The knock at your hotel door is sharp, deliberate — not press or staff. You’re still in your post gala clothes—dress unzipped, heels abandoned somewhere by the minibar, red lipstick half faded. You think about ignoring it. But something tells you not to. When you open the door, Susie’s already halfway through a breath. She’s in a long black coat over silver satin, hair pinned with effortless precision. Her eyes sweep over you, just once, and then she steps inside without waiting for permission. She always had that presence — like permission was implied, or unnecessary.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again tonight,” you say, voice quiet.

She turns, calm and unreadable. “I didn’t think I’d come.”

You shut the door behind her and lean against it, arms folded loosely across your chest. “So what changed?”

She looks at you for a long time, and for a second you think she might say something easy. Professional. Strategic. But then she exhales through her nose and walks past you, slowly, deliberately — toward the wide window overlooking the street lights.

“You didn’t just convince Lewis to leave,” she says, not turning around. “You understood him. That’s what I came to ask you.”

You blink. “You came to ask me how I won him over?”

Susie nods, still facing the city. “Because he doesn’t move for politics. He moves for people. And somehow, you made him believe in you.”

You step away from the door, your voice quieter now. “I didn’t win him over. I listened. I didn’t ask him to change. I gave him a space to be who he already was.”

Finally, she turns to face you. And when she does, it’s slower. Heavier. There’s something in her expression that you can’t place — not anger, not admiration. It’s too soft to be jealousy, too raw to be curiosity.

“I used to think I knew him better than anyone,” she murmurs. “But then I watched the way he looked at you tonight.”

You shift. “Susie…”

“And the way you looked at him,” she adds, but her voice falters slightly — just for a breath. “It wasn’t about victory. It wasn’t about revenge.”

“No,” you say. “It wasn’t.”

She steps closer. Just one, then another. The lights behind her outline her figure in soft amber and shadow. You don’t move.

“And now I can’t stop thinking about you,” she says, and the words land like a stone in the center of the room.

Your breath catches.

“After everything,” she whispers, eyes locked on yours, “after all the tension, all the rumors, all the silence between us… I still watch you like I’m trying to figure out what you’re really made of.”

You swallow hard, the air suddenly thick.

“And what have you decided?” you manage.

Her lips twitch into something that’s not quite a smile. “That I can’t decide. That I don’t want to. That maybe I just want to feel it instead.”

She’s closer now — so close you can smell her perfume, something expensive and subtle and maddeningly familiar. The space between you isn’t wide enough to breathe properly, not with her eyes on your mouth the way they are.

“Susie,” you say again, softer this time, and it sounds more like a warning than a plea.

She reaches up — slowly, like testing gravity — and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers linger there, just a second too long.

“I don’t know if I hate you,” she says quietly. “Or if I want you.”

Your throat tightens. “I think maybe it’s both.”

And in the silence that follows, the only sound is the dull roar of your pulse in your ears and the faint hum of the city below. She doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. She doesn’t have to. The want is already humming between you — unspoken, unanswered, inevitable. You don’t move. You just let her look at you like she already knows how this ends. And for the first time since the season began, you don’t feel like the one in control.

—

several weeks into the season…

f1gossipgirls

liked by yn_ln, lewishamilton and 4,010,005 others.

f1gossipgirls : We interrupt your regularly scheduled chaos to celebrate the era we’re living in… Ferrari’s absolute domination — and more specifically, Team Principal YN LN’s reign of excellence and couture. Eight races in. Eight podiums. Ferrari leads the Constructors. Lewis Hamilton leads the WDC. And through it all? YN has served strategy, silence, and looks that could end empires. Swipe for some of her most iconic paddock outfits of the season so far — from the red silk in Bahrain to the chunky black boots in Australia (yes, the ones made her taller than both Charles and Lewis). This woman is running the most powerful team on the grid and turning pit lane into a runway every Sunday.

—

view 875,010 other comments.

username000 : mother is not just mothering. she is mother. matriarch. monarch. menace.

username00 : can’t believe she’s the same woman who stared and chased down toto in miami in six inch heels and a backless dress. a god.

username0 : i’ve never seen lewis this relaxed since 2015. she’s giving him peace and pace. we support.

username1 : i fear ferrari is winning on vibes, vision, and violently hot leadership

username5 : when she wore the red suit in bahrain i started apologizing for things i haven’t even done

georgerussell63 : i need her to drop the skin care routine and her strategy notes

liked by yn_ln and lewishamilton

—

Race morning. The hotel room is quiet, golden sunlight slanting through the open balcony doors, casting long, warm streaks across the hardwood floor. You’re halfway through fastening your watch, hair still damp from the shower, crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar — relaxed, but humming with the low voltage that always sparks beneath your skin before lights out. Your red blazer hangs from the back of a chair like a flag. You haven’t put it on yet. It feels like a ritual now — wait until the last possible second. Let it mean something. You’re calm. Or at least, you’ve gotten very good at pretending you are.

Eight races. Eight podiums. Lewis leading the championship. Ferrari standing tall, loud, and undeniable at the top of the standings. You should be satisfied. Elated, even. But there’s something else tangled beneath the pride. A tension that hasn’t eased since your ascent began. Since that first event. Since they started looking at you like something more than just competition.

You think about Susie more often than you should — the quiet conversations, the moments where her fingers lingered a second too long, her gaze always knowing, always searching. There’s something unsaid between you, coiled and waiting. And then there’s Toto. You’ve known ambition before. But you’ve never known it with charm wrapped around it like silk. He’s relentless in a way that’s almost beautiful — steady and sharp, every glance a challenge, every word carefully placed to get under your skin.

You’d be lying if you said it didn’t work sometimes. You’re still half-buttoning your shirt when there’s a knock at your door. Three firm taps. You pause. No one’s supposed to be here. When you open it, it’s him. Of course it is. Toto Wolff stands in the hallway like he owns it, dark sunglasses perched in his hand, dressed in Mercedes black but smiling like he’s the devil dressed for church.

“Well,” he says lightly, eyes scanning you — shirt undone, sleeves rolled. “Am I early? Or did Ferrari move to a more casual dress code?”

You arch a brow. “This what you do now? Show up at rival hotel rooms to psych out team principals?”

“Psych out?” he echoes, stepping inside without waiting. “Don’t flatter yourself, Liebling. I’m simply visiting an old… colleague.”

You snort. “Colleagues don’t usually flirt like that.”

He tilts his head. “Neither do enemies.”

The air shifts. He stands a little too close. You don’t step back.

“I saw the numbers,” he murmurs. “Another front row. Charles second. Lewis on pole.”

You shrug, slow. “What can I say? We’re good at our jobs.”

“Dangerously good,” he replies. “Almost boring, if it weren’t so… dramatic.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is that what this is, then? You losing so you’re trying to play games before the lights go out?”

Toto smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just wanted to see if the ice queen cracks before the race or after it.”

You match his stare, steady. “She never cracks. You taught her that.”

The words hang between you like smoke. And for a moment, neither of you moves. His eyes flicker to your mouth, just once. You almost let him. But instead, you straighten. Button the last few buttons. Slip the blazer from the chair and slide it on with slow, deliberate precision.

“Nice try,” you say softly, smoothing the lapel. “But I don’t get shaken. I win.”

You turn toward the door. “I’ll see you on the pit wall, Torger.”

And when you glance back, he’s still standing there — watching you the way one studies fire…with awe, with fear, and with the terrible, aching desire to touch it anyway.

—

You’ve stopped trying to describe the feeling. The podium lights. The anthem playing. The scarlet sea of Ferrari mechanics swarming the pit wall. The smell of champagne in your hair and the taste of victory still sharp in your mouth. Another 1-2.

Lewis P1. Charles P2. And you? Standing just below the podium, hands still trembling slightly from the final twenty laps, sunglasses smudged, blazer soaked in champagne and sweat and euphoria. Charles finds you first — he always does — leaping down from the podium and wrapping you in a hug so tight your feet lift off the ground. He’s grinning so hard it makes your chest ache.

“You did that,” he says into your ear. “You made this team do that.”

You laugh breathlessly. “I just gave you the car.”

He shakes his head, stepping back just as Lewis swoops in, equally breathless but more composed. His hands settle on your shoulders, grounding, proud.

“That’s not what I saw out there,” Lewis says, voice low. “What I saw was strategy perfection. Cold blooded timing. And a principal who’s rewriting this sport in red ink.”

You blink once, caught off guard. “You’re being unusually sentimental.”

“I just won a race,” he says, smirking. “Let me have this moment.”

You smile — and for a second, the chaos fades. The screaming fans, the shuttering cameras, the thrum of the grid behind you. You are, in this brief pause, happy. And then, slowly, the celebration begins to shift. Mechanics retreat. Media floods the garage. The adrenaline thins. Drivers disappear for debriefs and obligations. You’re walking down the hallway alone, red heels echoing against the concrete, when you hear your name.

“YN.”

You freeze. That voice is unmistakable — smooth, poised, accented like an invitation and a warning all at once. You turn.

Susie stands there in soft white linen, tan, hair swept up, calm even in the fluorescent light of the paddock tunnels. Her badge is still clipped to her belt, though she doesn’t look like part of the circus. She never does.

“Congratulations,” she says simply.

You nod, unsure how close to stand. Unsure what this is. “Thank you.”

She steps forward. Not close enough to touch, but closer than she should. You can smell her perfume — something light and expensive and maddening.

“I’ve been meaning to say something,” she says. “But you’ve been busy. Winning.”

You tilt your head. “Is that what this is? A truce?”

She doesn’t smile. Not exactly. “It’s an invitation.”

You blink.

“When we’re all back in Monaco… come to dinner,” Susie says. “Our place. Just us.”

Your heart thuds once, heavy and sudden. “Why?”

She exhales slowly, eyes flicking to your mouth and back again. “Because I think it’s time you and I talk somewhere that isn’t full of engines and politics.”

“And Toto?”

“He’ll be there,” she says. Then, softly. “But it’s you I’m inviting.”

The silence between you stretches — taut, humming. You swallow. “I’ll think about it.”

“I hope you do,” Susie murmurs, then leans in slightly, her voice lower now, warm as silk. “You look good in red, by the way. But I think you’d look even better if you were ours.”

And then she’s gone, walking down the hall like she didn’t just set your pulse on fire. You don’t move. You just stare at the empty space she left behind, wondering what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into — and why every part of you wants to say yes.

—

yn_ln

liked by lewishamilton, charles_leclerc, susie_wolff and 7,770,113 others.

yn_ln : solid last few weeks. so proud of my boys ❤️

tagged : charles_leclerc, lewishamilton, roscoelovescoco and susie_wolff

—

view 425,770 other comments.

charles_leclerc : hope you know we’re just trying to keep up with you. ❤️ grazie, boss

liked by yn_ln

lewishamilton : So grateful to be a part of this team and for your leadership. Let’s keep pushing ❤️

liked by yn_ln

username00 : susie??? yn in her stealing arc to the MAXXXXX

susie_wolff : Always a lovely time with you. Congratulations on the season so far, YN.

liked by yn_ln

scuderiaferrari : BOSSSSS LADYYYYYY WE LOVE YOUUU

liked by yn_ln

lando : yn do you forgive me for barking at you yet? idk what happened my primal instincts just kicked in

liked by yn_ln and oscarpiastri

↳ yn_ln : haven’t decided yet. next time get on your knees and do it. ill be a lot more forgiving.

liked by lando

—

The Wolff home is as elegant as you’d expect — minimal in design, warm in lighting, perched above the harbor with a view that would silence anyone less comfortable with luxury. But you are. You’re not nervous. Or at least that’s what you keep telling yourself. You’re dressed carefully — not too polished, not too casual. A thin black dress, red lips, your hair pinned back but soft. You don’t want to give anything away. Not yet. Susie greets you at the door.

She’s in cream silk, barefoot, a glass of wine in one hand. The kind of effortless grace that makes people underestimate how sharp she is. Her smile is warm, but there’s tension beneath it. It lives in her shoulders. In the pause between her words.

“Right on time,” she says. “We weren’t sure you’d show.”

“I wasn’t too sure myself,” you reply honestly.

She steps back to let you in. Toto is already at the table, rolling up his sleeves, uncorking a bottle of wine with far too much precision. The muscles in his forearms flex. You shouldn’t notice, but you do.

“YN,” he says with that slight smirk, like he knows exactly how much space he takes up and exactly what he does to people.

“Torger.”

He pours you a glass, his fingers brushing yours as he hands it to you. Just a second too long. Just enough to make your breath catch — but only slightly. You all sit. The food is simple — pasta, fresh bread, roasted vegetables. Monaco casual. The kind of meal made by people who don’t need to prove they’re rich. But the conversation is… careful. At first, it’s just surface level. Racing. Constructors’ standings. Quiet jabs and dry smiles. A dance you’ve all done before.

“You’ve built something ruthless at Ferrari,” Toto says over his glass. “I can admit that now.”

You arch a brow. “Only now?”

His lips twitch. “You’re very hard to ignore.”

Susie laughs softly. “That might be the understatement of the year.”

The table falls into a short silence. The kind that prickles with everything not being said. Eventually, Susie rises to clear a few plates, and you follow her into the kitchen. The room glows warm, a soft golden spill from pendant lights.

You place your glass down. “I can leave, if this was a mistake.”

She turns, slowly.

“No,” she says. “I didn’t invite you here by accident.”

You swallow. “Then why?”

Her eyes meet yours. Steady. Unflinching. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that night.”

You feel it before you can react — the breath caught, the chill under your skin.

“And I’m tired of pretending it’s only tension,” she says, softer now. “It’s not just rivalry. It’s not just power. It’s you.”

Behind you, Toto’s voice cuts gently through the moment.

“She’s not wrong.”

You turn. He’s leaned against the doorframe, wine glass in hand, watching the two of you like he’s studied the angles a thousand times.

“You walked into the paddock like it belonged to you,” he says, eyes on yours. “And then you took it. Quietly. Without begging for respect. Without softening to make people more comfortable.”

You’re frozen in place. Your pulse is loud in your ears. Susie’s hand brushes against yours. A whisper of contact, but it feels like lightning.

“We didn’t plan this,” she says. “And we don’t want to scare you off.”

“But we’re drawn to you,” Toto finishes.

You blink. “Both of you.”

“Yes,” they say — at the same time. And somehow, that’s what makes your knees almost buckle.

You look between them — the ruthless man who once mentored you like a weapon, and the brilliant woman who’s been in your peripheral vision like a shadow and a mirror all season long. And here they are. Laid bare. Not asking for a decision. Just telling you the truth.

You whisper, “Why now?”

Toto tilts his head. “Because we finally admitted it to ourselves.”

Susie steps closer. “And because you’re winning. And we want to be near you… not just on track.”

There’s no kiss. No touch beyond that single brush of fingers. But the energy in the room is breathless.

“I need time,” you manage.

“We know,” Susie says gently.

Toto adds, “We’re not asking for anything tonight.”

He pauses, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“Except maybe one thing.”

You raise a brow. “What?”

He smiles. “Don’t make us regret inviting you.”

You smile back — slowly, deliberately. “You won’t.”

And deep down, you already know it’s too late to walk away. Not really. Because you’re not just sitting at their table. You’re already part of the fire.

—

You don’t hear from them the next day. Or the day after. But the silence doesn’t last. On the third morning, a delivery man shows up at your penthouse just past nine. You’re still in silk shorts and a robe, coffee in hand, hair pulled into something half presentable when the concierge buzzes in.

The first box is small. Velvet. Inside is a vintage Cartier lighter you’ve mentioned in exactly one interview three years ago. Attached is a note in unmistakably elegant handwriting—

For when you light the world on fire — just thought you should have something beautiful to do it with. —S

You stare at the card for a long time before setting it gently on your counter. By noon, another package arrives.

This one is heavier — a bottle of red wine from a vineyard you only ever drink from after wins. The tag is embossed with a single word—

Deserved. —T

You smile — helplessly. By sunset, the penthouse is beginning to look like the aftermath of a very luxurious heist— fresh flowers on the marble island, a dozen handwritten notes, and a cashmere scarf in Mercedes black. By the fourth gift, you’re done pretending you’re not utterly charmed. You text them. One message. Simple. Deliberate.

Tonight. 9. Come over.

The doorbell rings at 8:57. You open it without hesitation. Toto is in a black linen shirt, sleeves rolled, watch glinting at his wrist. Susie is behind him in cream silk again — always silk — her hair down, her eyes trained on you like she already knows what happens next. They don’t speak right away. You step aside, letting them in. The penthouse smells like fig and bergamot candles. You’ve made sure of it. A bottle of champagne sits uncorked on the counter, glasses already poured. No one mentions the gifts. No one needs to. Toto takes in the view, the subtle lighting, the thin black dress you’re wearing like it’s a threat.

“You meant it then,” he murmurs. “The invitation.”

“I am not one to do anything half-assed.,” you say, voice low.

Susie smiles faintly. “We’ve noticed.”

You hand them each a glass.They clink. They drink. And then the silence returns — not heavy, not awkward. Charged. Like the air before a thunderstorm.

You speak first. “I haven’t stopped thinking about the dinner.”

Susie tilts her head. “Neither have we.”

Toto sets his glass down. “You’ve been in my head for months.”

“I’m not interested in a game,” you say softly.

“Neither are we,” Susie answers, stepping closer.

She reaches out — slow, deliberate — and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers grazing your skin. It’s so gentle it makes you dizzy.

“I want this,” she murmurs. “You.”

Toto moves behind you, his voice warm against your spine. “We both do. Entirely.”

You exhale, and it sounds like surrender. You turn, facing them both. No more politics. No more tension pretending to be rivalry. Just want. And when you lean in to kiss Susie — soft, sure, tasting of champagne and longing — Toto’s hand slips to your hip like he belongs there. It’s quiet. Intimate. The kind of kiss that says finally. When you pull back, Susie’s lips are slightly parted, her eyes searching yours.

“I thought this would scare me,” you whisper.

“It still might,” Toto says.

“But not enough to stop,” Susie finishes.

You look at them — the two people you were never supposed to fall into orbit with. And yet here you are. The most dangerous thing in racing… is no longer the cars. It’s this. And you want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything.

—

The first thing you register is warmth. Not just the soft sheets tangled around your legs or the filtered Monaco sunlight spilling through the windows — but bodies. Breath. The quiet rhythm of two people asleep beside you. You blink your eyes open slowly. Toto is to your left, arm still wrapped loosely around your waist, his bare chest rising and falling beneath the rumpled edge of the duvet. He’s impossibly serene like this — the usually guarded steel in his expression replaced by something soft, almost boyish.

On your right, Susie sleeps facing you. One hand curled beneath her cheek, the other resting where your arm meets your shoulder. Her hair has fallen loose. There’s the faintest smudge of red at the corner of her mouth, a reminder of last night. You breathe in, long and slow.

You haven’t known quiet like this in weeks — months, maybe. Not since the season began. Not since the wins started piling up. Not since the world started watching you like a hawk, waiting for the cracks to show. But here, in this bed, there are no cracks. Just closeness. A calm you didn’t know you’d been starving for.

You shift carefully, trying not to wake them — but Susie’s eyes flutter open the moment your fingers move beneath the sheets. She blinks once. Then again. And then she smiles. It’s small, real, private.

“Good morning,” she whispers, voice like velvet.

“Morning,” you murmur.

Her fingers trace your arm absentmindedly, slow and affectionate. “You didn’t leave.”

You smile faintly. “Was tempted to. Just to be dramatic…but then I realized this is my house. ”

Toto stirs beside you, groaning softly, dragging a hand through his hair before cracking one eye open.

“If you left,” he says, voice still thick with sleep, “you’d be back by lunch. We both know that.”

You chuckle. “Arrogant.”

“Experienced,” he corrects, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

You let your head fall back onto the pillow. It’s dangerous, how natural this feels. You should be thinking about the team. The media. The optics. About what it means for you — for Ferrari. For everything you’ve built. But all you can think about is how good it feels to let yourself be here. With them. No audience. No paddock. No performance. Just this.

Susie props herself up on one elbow. “How are you feeling?”

You glance between them, then answer honestly.

“Like I don’t want to leave this room for a very long time.”

Toto laughs quietly, low in his throat. “Then don’t.”

And you don’t. Not for a while. Because for once, you’re not chasing something. You’ve already arrived.

—

He wasn’t supposed to happen like this. You’d planned on easing Charles into the reality of your new… entanglement. Maybe over a glass of wine. Or during a quiet post-race dinner. Something calm. Controlled. Definitely not in your kitchen at 9:14 in the morning.

And definitely not while Susie Wolff has you backed up against the marble island, her lips pressed to yours, one hand tangled in your hair, the other splayed against your waist like she owns you. You’re too far gone to notice the door opening at first. Too distracted by the heat of her mouth, the hum beneath your skin, the way you’re smiling into the kiss like someone with no regard for consequences.

“Mon dieu.”

You both freeze. There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“NO. Nope. Nope nope nope. WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”

You wrench away from Susie, both of you snapping toward the doorway.

Charles stands there, coffee in one hand, wearing an oversized hoodie and horror in his eyes. He looks like he just walked in on his parents doing something irreversible.

“I—this is—I CANNOT UNSEE THIS,” he shouts, physically turning around and pressing a hand to his temple like he’s trying to reboot his brain.

You clear your throat, trying and failing to sound composed. “Charles—”

“No. Don’t speak. Don’t say words. I’m already unwell.”

Susie, ever composed, takes a small step back, wiping the corner of her lipstick-smudged mouth with the pad of her thumb. “Good morning, Charles.”

“Don’t say good morning to me like we’re in a normal family household,” he cries. “You’re literally making out with my boss in her kitchen.”

“My penthouse,” you correct, deadpan.

“IT DOES NOT MATTER,” he wails, pacing toward the living room, hands in his hair. “I was coming over for pancakes and therapy and instead I get psychological warfare.”

You follow him slowly, while Susie suppresses a smile behind you.

“Charles, I was going to tell you—”

“When? After I walked you down the aisle? During a strategy meeting? In the middle of the Monza debrief?!” he gasps, eyes wide and fully wounded. “What next? Are you secretly with to Toto too?”

There’s a beat. Your silence says more than anything else could. Charles stares at you. Then at Susie. Then lets out a strangled sound so pitiful you almost feel bad for him.

“I need to lie down.”

He collapses dramatically onto the couch, flopping like a fainting Victorian woman, muttering into a cushion. “I can’t do this. This is above my pay grade. I am a race car driver. I don’t know how to process this level of emotional betrayal.”

You sit beside him, gently patting his back. Susie leans against the doorway, arms folded, watching with far too much amusement.

“I still love you,” you tell him softly.

“I DON’T BELIEVE IN LOVE ANYMORE,” he snaps into the pillow.

You laugh. You can’t help it. Susie walks over and places a glass of orange juice on the coffee table in front of him like he’s a patient recovering from a great trauma. Charles peeks out from behind the pillow.

“I swear to God,” he mutters. “If I ever walk in on Toto, I’m moving to Redbull.”

—

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eznin · 3 days ago

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Just imagine 22 years old in-okay-terms-with-the-bats Jason meeting 19 years old murderous-hell-bent-on-revenge Jason

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Teen Jason, absolutely horrified that he not only failed to kill the Joker but he also managed to be re-adopted: How the fuck did this happen?!

Adult Jason, who is also not sure : Idk, Dick just kept inviting me to go get lunch and it all went downhill from there.

Teen Jason: Did we at least kill him?

Adult Jason: Timothy? No, but he fixed our helmet the other day.

Teen Jason: ...you are pathetic.

Adult Jason, still struggling a bit with self esteem issues: And this is why no one likes you.

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Bruce is loosing it with having to find a way to solve this time travel mess while simultaneously keeping Teen Jason from killing someone.

On the other hand Tim is looking at Teen Jason, who is the same age as him and still has a little bit of baby face even after the pit, and wonders at how was he terrified of this dude for so long.

Dick, Steph and Cass just refuse to acknowledge any of Teen Jason's threats and have a lot of fun doing it.

Steph: Baby Jay, do you want pancakes ?

Teen Jason, who just tried to stab Dick with a dinner knife only to have his arm twisted in the most casual and infuriating way possible: I hate all of you.

Cass, already stacking pancakes on his plate: Love you too.

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At one point they consider tying Teen Jason to a chair because he keeps trying to shot Bruce and Tim (and sometimes Dick) in the back.

Bruce, looking at the Batcomputer: So this way we might finally get younger Jason back to his time.

Teen Jason, who was let into the cave after promising to behave: That's an actually good plan, just a sugestion...

Teen Jason suddenly pulls out a revolver and unloads the entire cylinder into Bruce’s chest, who started always wearing bullet proof clothes until the mess is solved and only rubs his temple in response.

Bruce: I told you to keep him away from guns.

Tim: We did, I don't know where he got that from.

-------------

The only ones Teen Jason tolerates are Damian, because he just recently left the League and still has a bit of a protective streak. Duke, because there is no bad blood and he isn't too annoying. And Alfred, because he is Alfred.

Adult Jason can never ever be near Teen Jason or they will fist fight, although the worst part is the psychological damage. They know exactly what to say to make the other flinch.

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Teen Jason does everything in his power to be an absolute nightmare, because if he doesn't he will have to think about how these people somehow don't hate him. And if they don't hate him then there is a chance his Bruce and the bats back home also don't hate him and that's too much for his heart to take.

Teen Jason, nearly crying: How can you not hate me?

Bruce, in the softest voice possible despite Teen Jason having exploded the Batmobile with an home made bomb in an attempt to push Bruce over the edge: I could never hate you, Jaybird.

Teen Jason's eyes go so wide and poisonous glowing green that everyone goes tense waiting for him to spontaneous combust out of rage.

Then there is a sob.

Oh, fuck he is crying.

-------------

Past Bruce is a mix of surprised, suspicious and hopefull when Jason shows up again after being inactive for two weeks and is not only not trying to torture them with shakespearian plots but also accepted one of Dick's lunch invites (Dick is just as surprised, he had been making them as a joke)

#batman #just to make sure when I say Dick made them as jokes is not in a mean way but in a “he will never accept but why not” way #batfam #bruce wayne #tim drake #dick grayson #jason todd #damian wayne #duke thomas #cassandra cain #jason todd headcanon #batfam headcanons

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yuwritesstuff · 1 day ago

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Headcanons about Satoru as a Girl Dad 🌺✨

He cried the first time he held her. Not in front of anyone else — he was joking and cocky and obnoxious at the hospital, trying to hide all the worries. But when it was just the three of you and she curled her tiny fingers around his pinky, he broke. Quietly. Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he cradled her and smiled happily. He had the whole world in his arms, given to him by his loved one.

She’s the only one (except her mom, of course) who can boss him around. “Daddy, sit.” And he does. “Daddy, today I choose what you’re gonna wear!” And these are the most mismatched pieces of his wardrobe, an absurd combination. But he puts these on and goes to meet with the higher-ups. “Daddy, put me on your shoulders!” And the world becomes even more interesting for her from the perspective of his height.

He’s obsessed with her laugh. He’ll spend hours doing the dumbest things just to hear it — ridiculous dances, jokes, and parodies. That sound is his favorite in the world. It means she’s safe. She’s happy. She’s so real, his little sweet baby. He hopes that this will be one of the things she’ll remember best from her childhood. That laughing is always allowed, even for adults.

She’s just as sharp as him — and it terrifies him. One time, she tricked him into giving her dessert before dinner. A four-year-old. He was both horrified and deeply, deeply honored. “She’s definitely my kid,” he said, wiping away a proud tear. But of course, he often falls for her tricks just because he likes to spoil her.

He teaches her how to stand up for herself. From day one, he tells her: “You don’t have to shrink for anyone. You don’t owe the world softness unless you choose to give it.” And she listens. She learns. It’s like a protective mantra that he whispers to her as she falls asleep, hoping that these words will stay with her and she will realize its meaning later.

He has zero resistance to her tears. If she starts crying, his whole world stops. No jokes. Just soft panic and immediate scooping up. “Who do I have to fight?” he whispers. “What made my baby cry?” His heart is aching, and he’s ready to do anything to make her feel better. It’s hard for him to say “no” if it’s tears of demand, so she’s already spoiled by him from a very young age.

He sees her mother in her constantly. Sometimes he quietly watches her, observes her gestures and behavior, and sees you in her. Mom’s features are intertwined with dad’s, and it strikes him to the core — this is a little person made of both of you. You soulmated so hard that you created another heart, a cute little friend for both of you. She’s everything.

Oh, but she definitely has his temper too. She once looked up at him mid-lecture and said, “Is this gonna be long? I have blocks to build.” He nearly exploded with laughter. “Siblings? What are the pros and cons of that?” she wonders seriously when you ask if she wants a brother or a sister. “If they’re as cool as me... hmm, I’ll think about it!” she sticks out her tongue and giggles. His little smartass.

He keeps her drawings in his wallet. Folded, worn, cherished. Even when he’s across the world on duty, her crayon versions of the three of you remind him why he fights. When he comes back from work, they draw together, and his own drawings are no better than a child’s spontaneous doodle, but she praises him so sincerely that he melts.

They have wild inside jokes no one understands. Even you, her mother. It drives you crazy sometimes because they act like real idiots. But they’re your favorite idiots. Like synchronized “dramatic faints” at the breakfast table. Or gossiping about you quietly with a sly smile on their faces. Or their secret handshake that takes 40 seconds (you counted). Sometimes they just treat life like a game they’re winning together.

She shares his love for sweets. He buys her all kinds of goodies and treats her with the best desserts in the city, on weekends he pampers her with custom-made sweets from a pastry shop. So when it’s time to visit the dentist, you send him with her to the doctor as a lesson. He taught her to brush her teeth well. It’s nobody’s fault she has a sweet tooth like him!

He loves to put her to bed. He reads her fairy tales and tells her funny stories, assures her that there are no monsters under the bed and checks it several times if she’s scared. “Your daddy is the strongest monster fighter!” he winks. And when she falls asleep, he kisses her on the forehead and just lies next to her for a while before going to his beloved wife to make another such cutie pie.

He talks to her like an equal — always. He doesn’t baby her thoughts or shield her from the truth. He explains the world gently but with honesty. She asks hard questions. He never lies. It’s not easy when she realizes what a complicated world she lives in. Every time something inside him breaks when she gets a little more mature. But he knows that this is part of the journey too.

He’s incredibly protective, but in stealthy ways. He won’t be the loudest dad at school (surprisingly). Instead, he’ll silently ward off anyone who makes her uncomfortable — a quiet glare, a sudden presence. Nothing gets past him. He doesn’t want to get into things that she has to experience on her own, but he also doesn’t want to be on the sidelines if something hurts her.

He’s terrified of failing her. Beneath the jokes and playfulness, he carries a deep fear — that the world will hurt her the way it hurt him. So he watches closely, listens deeply, holds tighter when she sleeps. He knows that there will definitely be challenges and pain in life, but while she is so young, he will protect her and her childhood with all his best. She will have a different, better life.

He tells her every day: “You’re loved. Always.” Not just “I love you” — but “you are loved”. By him. By her mom. By the universe itself. He wants her to know it, feel it, believe it in her bones. Despite all the hardships, there is so much beauty in the world, and it’s a true miracle that we are all here, so fragile and eager for love and validation. He deeply realizes it when he becomes a father. And he wants her to feel it too.

He dreams of seeing who she’ll become. Whether she becomes a sorcerer or an artist or a chaos gremlin scientist — he’s there. Sometimes he forgets about all his bravado and feels something that he hasn’t felt much before. Fear of leaving this world too soon, not being a present father and partner. He wants to have a future in which he will see his child grow up. Happy, no matter what path she chooses. “This is her story now, and I just wanna be a part of it for as long as possible!” he smiles.

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sillyswriting · 3 days ago

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: ̗̀➛ father johnny 'soap' mactavish - 02

cw : angst, comfort, can be read in the same universe as this.

ㅤㅤ ㅤ collection

The house was quiet.

It was a rare moment of peace in the Mactavish home. Seven kids, it hadn’t been easy, but there was nothing Johnny would change about his life. He loved the noise, the mess, the laughter, the tears… all of it. If anything, he would’ve had even more kids. But that hadn’t been possible.

The last pregnancy had taken a heavy toll on you. After six deliveries, anyone would’ve thought your body was used to it. And with modern medicine, it should’ve gone smoothly.

But it didn’t.

You lost a dangerous amount of blood. The baby had nearly died, choking on his umbilical cord.

It had been a nightmare, for you, and for Johnny. It changed everything. Any desire for another child vanished overnight. He went as far as getting a vasectomy. He wasn’t going back to condoms, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to put you through any contraception that might mess with your body.

So, a vasectomy it was.

Now Johnny was enjoying a cigarette, sitting with a cup of tea in the middle of his kitchen. The night was winding down. His babies were safe in their beds, his wife sound asleep, warm, soft, waiting for him.

Only one was missing.

Callum had gone to a party tonight. He was due back in ten minutes, so Johnny waited. He always waited. He needed to know where all his bairns were before he could close his eyes. That nagging feeling never went away when one of them was out for the night—sleepovers, school trips, didn’t matter.

He couldn’t help it. It was just in him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of keys in the front door, right on time. He’d raised them well, his babies.

Johnny smiled softly, but the smile vanished the second his fifteen-year-old son stepped into the kitchen. Callum looked devastated, tired and scared. Johnny’s heart cracked at the sight.

He stood up quickly, hurrying over to him, eyes scanning from head to toe, searching for anything, an injury, a burn, a scratch, anything that might explain why his boy looked like that. His hands landed gently on Callum’s shoulders as he met his son’s tear-filled blue eyes.

It happened in an instant, Callum burst into tears and threw himself into his father’s arms.

If there was one thing Johnny had always been good at, aside from demolition, it was being a dad. He never raised his voice, never laid a hand on his bairns. He hugged them, kissed them, made sure they knew they were loved. Even his teenage boys weren’t ashamed to ask for a hug now and then. That’s how Johnny knew he was doing something right. His was his kids' safe place.

He held Callum tight, steady and strong, the way he always had.

“What’s going on?” Johnny whispered, anxiety chewing through him like acid. He’d take a bullet to the head a second time if it meant keeping his babies safe. “Are ye hurt, baby?”

Callum shook his head between sobs, his whole body trembling. He clung to Johnny like a drowning boy clutching a lifeboat, desperate and terrified. Johnny could feel the panic radiating off him, could hear it in every broken breath.

Something had happened. Something bad. And Johnny’s gut twisted with a fear he hadn’t felt since his days on the battlefield.

That’s how they stayed for a few minutes, standing in the kitchen, the clock ticking toward midnight, while the youngest cried heavy, aching tears into his father’s shirt.

It was a sight Johnny never wanted to see, one of his grown bairns breaking like that, crying their heart out. To him, they were sacred. Precious. Pure souls who shouldn't have to carry pain of any kind.

Not his kids. Not ever.

“Tell me what happened,” Johnny asked gently, his voice low and steady. “Ye ken you can tell me anything.” He whispered again, softer this time, trying to soothe his boy.

One hand moved slowly up and down Callum’s back, the other gently stroking his hair, reassurance in every touch.

“It’s Ethan…” came the answer, barely louder than a breath. If Johnny hadn’t been listening so closely, he might’ve missed it.

Ethan. Simon’s son. Callum’s best friend.

“Is he hurt?” It was the first thought that hit Johnny like a punch to the chest.

Those boys were tied together like true brothers. He couldn’t imagine Ethan ever doing anything to harm Callum. And he couldn’t imagine Callum breaking like this unless something serious had happened.

Johnny trusted Simon, he knew the kind of father he was. A bit more stern than Johnny himself, maybe, but firm in love and always ready to listen. Their sons had grown up in that shared foundation.

If something had happened to Ethan, Johnny needed to know. He had to.

“No,” Callum whimpered, barely above a whisper, looking up at his father.

There was something in his eyes. Something Johnny hadn’t expected. Fear.

Johnny’s chest tightened. It wasn’t fear for something, it was fear of him. And that shattered him.

For a moment, he just stared, eyebrows furrowed deep, trying to understand. Hadn’t he always been gentle? Hadn’t he held them through every scrape and heartbreak, never raising his voice, never judging? Hadn’t he proven, time and again, that he would protect them from anything?

How could his boy—his boy—be afraid of him?

“Tell me, baby,” Johnny whispered, his voice thick as he pulled Callum’s head back against his chest. He wasn’t ready for his son to see the tears gathering in his own eyes. That look, that fear,had cut deeper than anything else ever had. “Ye dinnae have to be scared, Cal. Not with me. Never.”

After those words, Johnny felt his son’s arms tighten around him, so tight it was almost suffocating. Callum clung to him like he was the last safe place in the world, and the tears didn’t stop. His sweet boy, always the pleaser, was trying to stifle his sobs, biting them back so he wouldn’t wake his siblings or his mum. Even in his own pain, he was thinking of others.

That only broke Johnny’s heart more.

“I’m scared to tell you, Dad,” Callum murmured into his father’s chest, his voice shaky and muffled. He still couldn’t bring himself to lift his head from the comfort Johnny gave him. “I don’t want you to think different of me.”

Johnny sighed softly, shaking his head against his son’s hair. “What are ye on about?” he whispered. “Ye could kill someone and ye'd still be my sweet son, Callum.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his boy’s head, slow and steady, hoping it would soothe him enough to speak.

“I need to ken, son,” he added quietly, not wanting to push, but aching for answers. “It’s killing me to see ye like this. Ye can tell me anything. Me and yer mum, we’re never gonna judge ye. Never.”

Callum took a deep breath, sniffing one last time before finally pulling back from the embrace. He looked up at his father, eyes wide and glassy, big tears threatening to spill down his flushed cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose red from all the crying and rubbing.

“Ethan, he…” he started, voice barely a murmur. Johnny could see how much it cost him to even begin. “Me and Ethan… we, um…”

Callum closed his eyes, gathering the last of his courage. His chest rose with another breath, this one deeper, shakier.

“I’m gay, Dad.”

The words slipped out in a whisper, hanging in the stillness of the kitchen like a secret finally set free. The clock ticked quietly past fifteen minutes past midnight.

After a few seconds of silence, Johnny let out a long, relieved sigh.

“That’s it?” he asked, brows lifting slightly.

“What?” Callum opened his eyes, blinking in confusion. “You’re… you’re not mad?”

Johnny frowned, but this time not out of confusion, this time, it hurt. Deeply. That his boy could think he’d be angry, or worse, disgusted just for loving someone. There was nothing his kids could say that would ever make him stop loving them. And certainly not who they loved.

“Baby,” Johnny murmured, shaking his head. He reached for Callum again and pulled him into his arms without hesitation.“I dinnae know what I did, or didnae do, that made ye think I’d be angry because ye like boys,” he said gently. “And I mean this in the kindest way, I truly dinnae care who ye love, Callum. As long as they’re good to ye, good people… that’s all that matters to me.”

He pressed another soft kiss to the top of his son’s head, holding him close like he had when Callum was little, like he always would.

“I was so scared, Dad,” Callum whispered, another heavy tear sliding down his cheek. “And Ethan said he didn’t want to hide anymore, but I didn’t know what to do… so he left, so angry. And he hasn’t been answering my texts…”

“Shhh, it’s alright,” Johnny cooed softly. “Everything’s going to be fine, Cal. If Ethan’s anything like his dad, he gets angry fast… but then the guilt eats him alive.”

Johnny chuckled, remembering all too well how Simon’s temper could flare.

“You really think so?” Callum looked up at his dad, eyes wide with hope and trust.

Johnny brushed a stray tear from his son’s cheek and nodded slowly, a soft smile spreading across his face. “I ken so.”

After a few seconds of silence, Johnny gently guided his son to sit at the kitchen table. He filled a small cup with the still-warm tea, adding just the right amount of milk and sugar—just how Callum liked it.

The moment the cup was set in front of him, Callum’s phone buzzed. Then again. And again.

Messages. From Ethan.

“Told ye,” Johnny smirked, pressing one last kiss to his boy’s head. “Don’t forget to turn the light off. I love ye.”

And with that, Johnny headed upstairs, feet quiet against the floor. He crept into bed, careful not to startle you as he slid in beside your warmth. Slipping an arm around your waist, he pulled you close, breathing you in. He had longed for this all evening, the comfort of your presence.

But even as he lay there, wrapped in everything he loved, one thought refused to leave him. Callum had been scared to tell them he was gay. And that, that would sit with Johnny for a long while.

“You alright?” you murmured against his neck, your hand slowly caressing his chest, feeling how damp it was with the remnants of your son's tears.

“I dinnae think so,” Johnny sighed, nuzzling his nose into your hair. “Callum was scared to tell me something… and it broke my heart a little.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his neck and tightened your hold around him.

“They’re kids, Johnny. They’ve got a whole world outside this house. So many voices in their heads, telling them horrible things. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Your voice was thick with sleep, but still steady, still sure. “Society’s just pure shit, my love.”

Your words made sense. Johnny could shelter them all he wanted, but the outside world would always be vicious. All he could truly do was be their safe place, their comfort, their reassurance. Just like tonight. That was what really mattered.

Because in the end, Callum had come to him. Scared, vulnerable, but trusting. He’d still sought out his father’s arms, his love, his words.

And that meant everything.

“Yeah… yeah,” Johnny whispered, his voice thick with sleep. “Ye're right, my darling.”

happy pride month !

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