#except for look at and think about ^^^^^^^^^

[vehemourn]

smth i honestly recommend everyone should do is like. keep a private folder of art u like on ur computer lol. and like. download art u like when u see it. ur gonna lose stuff Forever if u just like it, u know? and like, discord archives arent really enough lol. I have been downloading art since like 2016 & I have a LOT of art that was scrubbed from the internet otherwise, especially due to like. the antics of deviantart & twitter. And on things like twitter theres Barely a way to save art to begin with (bookmarks is Not good enough)

u do kinda lose Credit a lot of the time (unless u save it with it named? which i do sometimes but not always) and often like, it won't be the Perfect HQ or itll have a massive watermark on it. but like. since it's not really for Sharing as much as its for my own personal enjoyment, these things don't really bother me at all... Having a collection of art that i love that I can look at offline & like, On My Computer is so nice. And I back up a lot of it on hard drives when i back up my own art! Again, like, a lot of these pieces this is the Only way i can look at them anymore, and Maybe the only archive OF them.... I've had pieces from my friends Before they were my friends, that i just saved as a "fan", that THEY lost years later... I have pieces they hadn't Seen in years. And every year I Probably save at least a few more pieces that will become like, totally scrubbed from technology otherwise. idk. i think it's nice to have an archive of this art that is in my taste but also like, that i'd likely Lose otherwise.

i Hope people save my art. I don't honestly Think anyone does, but I Hope that like, if my shit ever blows up and all my accounts get scrubbed, Someone has at least one drawing I made saved to their computer 2 remember me. u know. Its like a scrapbook. I remember these ppls characters, i remember the communities at the time, i remember how i felt when i first saw the piece. Its really inspiring but also genuinely like, really Important to me and sentimental. I kinda think everyone should have their own collection but I think people are genuinely Scared to right click & save ppls art LOL. Genuinely where is the harm, though.

[dykerightsmp3]

iwtv universe dashboard simulator

girlbossclaudia reblogged

🐉 personafinterest Follow

If you consider yourself a 'shipper' of ANY of the dynamics in Daniel Molloy's new book unfollow me and I'm not kidding. You read a book about toxic and abusive relationships and decided to sexualize them that's on you

🩻 skeletalextractions

'don't sexualize them' is crazy. he describes one of them as doing 24/7 bdsm and describes the other couple's sex scenes in detail, multiple times

🐉 personafinterest Follow

an old man being a weirdo freak doesnt mean you have to be. he has two pulitzers and you have an ao3 account

🦚 strayitalianflamingo

do not understand vampstat's agreeing to participate in this book At All because why would you not want yourself to be cast as louis, the guy who actually got interviewed and got fucked over at every turn. at least armand eats crypto bros. what has lestat done except domestic violence and child neglect

🎆 magicalgirl Follow

sick and tired of seeing this propaganda on my dashboard. first of all it's ARMAND who abuses louis, not lestat, as you can CLEARLY tell if you actually pay any attention to the book's second half. louis isn't a reliable narrator; that's the whole point. armand just deluded him into thinking lestat had done worse than he had

🏆 vampjailbait Follow

lestat literally drops him hundreds of feet from the air causing his own daughter to orchestrate his murder. HOW would a man they had not met yet be to blame for this

🎆 magicalgirl Follow

it's a gothic horror FIRST of all and armand can manipulate memories, canonically, so I'm not sure why we would assume the truth of any of this. it's so clear that lestat is the love of louis's life, the book is a love story, and if you're not willing to see that you don't get it

🤍 johnwilliamwaterwhore

lestat was born with glass bones and paper skin and every morning he breaks his legs and at night he lies awake in agony until his heart attacks put him to sleep

🦚 strayitalianflamingo

does anyone in this thread smoke weed

strayitalianflamingo reblogged

🪻 bluelotushbo

personally I would deeply love to believe this is all real because if so all of these people may be the funniest people to ever exist. one of them has been alive since the 1700s and has decided his calling is to be a pop artist. and his boyfriend is a vegetarian art dealer who was the dom in 24-7 bdsm with a theater cult leader who he ghosted in like 1810. that's so epic

🏆 vampjailbait Follow

stfu you were posting lestat rpf like a week ago

🪻 bluelotushbo

🧛‍♀️ vampstatsmommy

Ordered my TVL merch today and the mug has the actual texture of blood on it. Epic

vampstatsmommy reblogged

🏞 loustatsno1ho Follow

okay we don't actually know much beyond that it was in the summer but happy death month to lestat! lestat de lioncourt has officially been dead for 231 slutty, slutty years 🎉

#wish I believed in this shit yall seem so happy.

🤵🏾‍♀️ girlbossclaudia

honestly if you read that book and you like a single one of them I don't trust u. I'll never forgive them for what they did to claudia

#louis i would forgive you but she's dead and can't join me so :(

strayitalianflamingo reblogged mutualaidmutuals

🏳️‍🌈 l4sbiancannibals Follow

they should make lestat a guest judge on drag race

🐠 lestatsporecleanseroil

it actually pisses me off sooo bad that he’s in a gay PR relationship with some twink who looks like his love interest from his fucking fictional vampire book. Girl didn’t straight people corner the market on this

🦋 falloutbitch Follow

is this about tvl or dan molloy

🐠 lestatsporecleanseroil

this is how im finding out vampire interviewed author has a fucking 20yearold twink boyfriend who looks like the sexy evil guy from his book I can't do this anymore

lestathater420 reblogged

🩻 skeletalextractions

honestly wish the book weren't fake bc if it weren't this would be sooo camp. imagine you break up this 500 year old guy's marriage 2 separate times and he's like I simply must have you

#feel like armand would do this as a character

lestatsporecleanseroil reblogged 69ingvampires

🛜 69ingvampires

say what u will about dan malloy but inventing vampirism to justify an age gap relationship is maybe the funniest thing anyone will ever do

♻️ malloy_bot Follow

Malloy.

🛜 69ingvampires

why the fuck did you take the time to make this

♻️ malloy_bot Follow

got bored

#just like louis in that damn investment property...

🌇 literarysalontakes

Much as the PR stunt has given it a bad rap, the book’s exploration of both the experience of Creole men in New Orleans at the turn of the century, as well as the experience of the colonial subject in the Renaissance era, is genuinely very interesting. Making up a fictional abusive relationship between the two characters exemplifying these themes and using the ways in which each of them have been devalued to draw into that is sort of insane but it really works! The publicity shtick is nuts but the book itself is actually fantastic and soo worth your time

#also claudia makes me deeply insane. essay about her forthcoming

jobsearchreputationera reblogged

🛍️ swiftietwiftie Follow

if you're somehow supporting the vampire lestat in this beef — which by the way, he's again picking with a woman — you need to be fully aware that the man you're supporting is not just parodying A Generic Vampire: he's a walking caricature of bisexual and french men, and by insisting he's a real vampire, he's not only playing into harmful and xenophobic stereotypes around Europeans, but sexualizing a genuinely dangerous kink (bloodplay). not to mention the guy he's cosplaying helped murder his own daughter and never cared about the racism his partner experienced, which has really upsetting implications. and don't forget that he shares the name of a guy who was found to have bones at his house :/

🕋 maraschinocherry

baby why didn't we begin with the bones💀

🏞 loustatsno1ho Follow

the bones were from the house of a guy nicknamed Lysander whose actual name was Simon something. this has been debunked a hundred times why do we need to keep having this discourse

🪔 girliepopped Follow

favorite things about this post: - the implication that a rockstar who cosplays a fucking vampire is being problematic by reproducing french stereotypes - the implication that the vampire is an anti european stereotype???? - the random misinformation - the fact that this person clearly didnt even read the book they're complaining about - 'sexualizing a genuinely dangerous kink (bloodplay)'

lestathater420 reblogged

🏄🏻‍♀️ jobsearchreputationera

Taylor would never have been in this beef back when she was dating Joe :/

🕋 maraschinocherry

speaking of tvl yall ever checked out his tiktok videos whys the motherfucker live in a shack. also i know it's for the bit but the 'sad white suburban mom quotes about motherhood' is a lot to take in

🏵 vamplestatpilled

who cares did you see his von dutch lipsync

🐛 wormdyke

white billionaire with a private jet appropriating the struggles of gnc artists... didnt know harry styles and taylor swift had a secret baby

jobsearchreputationera reblogged

🦚 strayitalianflamingo

Who will the Vampire Lestat pick beef with next: poll

UPDATE: Before this poll even closed we got the answer! It was Charli xcx.

[carlislefiles]

arrangement | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento ╰►an arranged marriage is about the most cliché thing he can possibly think of, and it sounds like a terrible idea...that is, until he's actually married to you, and he can't bring himself to have any regrets. 14.9k words

a/n: you could say that this maybe got a little out of hand...but I'm not mad about it. not all of these are arranged marriages exactly, but that's the gist of it. toji's is more of a fake dating type situation, and geto's is like an arranged marriage that he, himself, arranged...so yeah. warnings: cussing, kissing. enjoy <3

fushiguro was a man of few qualities. in fact, if you asked shiu, he’d list three. he never missed a shot, he never got attached, and most importantly, for the right price, he was game for just about anything. typically, he was not in for the long con, wanted to get in, get out, and get paid. so when the job came along—pretending to be someone’s boyfriend—it was almost laughable. not his style at all. yet here he was, locked into a contract that demanded exactly that.

pretend. it was a performance he resented, a role he hated, but shiu had been patient enough to explain it to him repeatedly: this was a means to an end. not real. just business. but toji didn’t buy it—not fully. because the moment he laid eyes on you, the daughter of some scummy, power-hungry politician, it twisted something inside him he wasn’t ready to name.

you weren’t what he expected. you were old enough to navigate the world, but still naive enough to be prey. the endless attempts on your life were proof enough of that. your father, a man with enemies in every shadow, had made you a target, and toji had been hired to keep you alive until the storm passed.

he’d met your father only once—gruff, oily, desperate for protection he couldn’t buy outright. toji accepted the contract with a smirk. this one was different.

usually, he didn’t do long jobs. no dragging out, no strings attached. but the payout? it was obscene, something that promised security beyond the next paycheck—a small fortune just for keeping you breathing. that stack of cash was going to buy him a new life, one where he could afford to be indifferent about everything except what he wanted.and if pretending to be your boyfriend was the price of admission, so be it.

your first meeting was terse, clipped. toji was even more curt than usual, and shiu couldn’t help but chuckle behind his back.

“you’re really off your game,” shiu had joked later. toji had ignored him, the corners of his mouth tight.

you stood there—calm, unshaken—like you had nothing to lose and everything to prove. you were beautiful, yes. but more than that, you radiated a strange kind of quiet strength, a composure that unsettled toji in a way he didn’t expect. “thanks for taking the job, fushiguro,” you said, voice steady, no hint of fear or awe.

“toji,” he corrected sharply, cutting you off. he wasn’t fushiguro—not in this arrangement. he was toji. no room for formalities here. without waiting for a reply, he brushed past you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, bringing only the bare essentials.

goddamn it. he liked you. not in the way a man liked a woman—no, that was messy and complicated. but there was something disarming about you: your kindness, your fire, the way you didn’t flinch when he entered the room. you looked at him like he was just another obstacle to push past, and that unnerved him more than it should have.

toji made it clear he wanted distance. he stayed holed up in the guest room, insisting it was for his work. he spent hours inspecting every nook and cranny of the apartment—scanning for bugs, tracking suspicious activity, watching every visitor, every shadow.

but the truth was, it felt less like a mission and more like a sentence. because every morning, like clockwork, you were there before him, bustling in the kitchen. breakfast for two.

after a few days, you’d nailed his preferences with unsettling precision—the exact way he liked his coffee, the times he preferred to eat, even the small details like his favorite cuts of meat or the way he liked his eggs. he wanted to hate it. but the smell of your cooking, the warmth of the apartment, the sound of your soft humming as you worked—it all chipped away at his resolve.

you were as distant as he was. there was no warmth between you, no awkward stammering or false smiles. you were indifferent. and yet, that indifference drove him mad.

every day, he fought the urge to speak to you beyond what was necessary, to tease you, to make you laugh. you were so impossibly beautiful, and he wanted to see that smile break free, even just once. but you kept him at arm’s length—refusing to drop the formal “fushiguro,” insisting on driving yourself everywhere, rejecting his protective offers with a calm defiance. he wasn’t sure if you hated him, or just didn’t care.

nights were long and sleepless. toji barely closed his eyes, watching every movement in the apartment like a predator. but he noticed you didn’t sleep much either—likely haunted by the fear of waking to a blade at your throat or a gun pressed to your temple.

he could tell you rested easier since he arrived, but the tension was always there. you didn’t trust him. not really. shiu told you toji would do anything for money—risk his life, bleed, even die. but that hardly settled the gnawing doubt.

toji acted like he wanted nothing to do with you—cold, distant, biting in his sarcasm. he mocked your home décor, your pet cat, anything he could to needle you. it was a poor mask for his growing frustration. you took the jabs without flinching, without returning fire. you wore your stoicism like armor. you were thankful he was there—at least that much was true.

even without a job to keep you busy, you filled your days. you read constantly, devouring books with an appetite that surprised toji. you crocheted—something toji never expected to find charming, but watching you work the yarn through your fingers, calm and methodical, was strangely captivating.

you cooked. and you cooked well. thrilled to have someone to share your experiments with, you kept a little tally card ranking each dish by how much you thought toji liked it. reading his face was a challenge.

toji was the kind of man who’d lick his plate clean whether it was tasteless congee or the finest kimchi dumplings. but over time, you learned to notice the small tells: the flicker of raised eyebrows, the twitch of scarred lips that almost became a smile, the way he’d sometimes devour leftovers—or refuse them. when he refused, you packed the extras and brought them to nearby shelters or friends who appreciated the meals.

to keep the act going, you’d introduced him as your boyfriend. your friends were terrified of him, whispering about the intimidating figure who shadowed your life. you swore up and down he was a gentle giant.

toji, of course, thought you were a fool to leave the safety of the apartment. one of the few real conversations you had was an argument about your refusal to stay locked away like a caged animal. “I already quit my job,” you said firmly. “I’m not going to be reduced to some doll playing dress-up in one of my father’s luxury apartments.”

he admired the fire simmering beneath your calm exterior—the kind of fire he could light and feed, even if it never quite broke free. “‘forced’ to quit your job? poor thing,” he said dryly. “you act like that’s a punishment. I don’t get paid unless you survive past the election. after that, you’re free to do whatever you want.”

you didn’t listen. and he secretly loved that. he was afraid of what that meant—that he was falling for you. your calm, measured strength, your quiet rebellion. you sneaked out one morning, slipping away in the shadows just as the farmer’s market came to life nearby. toji found you—not with anger, not with a scolding, but slipping silently behind you within half an hour. his eyes scanned the crowds like a doberman on a scent, glaring daggers at anyone who dared glance your way too long.

for the first time, you caught a glimpse of something softer beneath the armor—something almost like care. that was when things began to shift. you were no longer just the charge, the contract, the obligation. you were becoming...a companion.

he learned the way you smiled when something amused you, how your laughter was low and genuine. he noticed the way your brows creased when you read something that caught your attention. he was no longer a stranger in your life.

if either of you had been honest, you would’ve admitted he had become something more than a bodyguard. he was your boyfriend, just like the contract had stated. he held your hand during quiet walks through the city—“to keep up appearances,” he grumbled, though no one was around to see. he steered your grocery cart, picking out the items you requested while you focused on your list. 

slowly, he became a part of your world. and maybe, just maybe, you were becoming a part of his…and that’s why, the morning you don’t wake up beside him, toji’s chest tightens with a cold, gut-wrenching panic.

gone are the days when you slipped out before dawn, tiptoeing past his guarded watch like a ghost avoiding the light. now, when you wanted to leave, you asked—sometimes even insisted—that he come with you. but this morning? there was no note, no whisper, no quiet footsteps fading down the hall. you were gone.

the ransom letter was a savage slap in the face, but what truly shattered him was how it was addressed—not to your father, not to some faceless politician, but to him. toji fushiguro. shiu drove him to the location marked on the letter, but the drive was silent except for toji’s grinding teeth and shallow breaths. when they arrived, toji didn’t hesitate—didn’t bother with pleasantries or playing along. he threatened shiu, razor-sharp voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

toji didn’t have the ransom money. hell, he never planned on handing over a single cent. his plan was razor-simple: get you out—alive. the killings were brutal, cold, almost automatic, each one a step closer to you.

when he finally found you—trembling, bruised, but breathing—everything else faded. before you could even speak, before you could protest, he scooped you up without hesitation.

“put me down,” you tried, voice shaky but determined.

“no.” his voice was low, sharp, no room for argument. “you’re not walking out of here on your own.”

you tried to push against his chest, weak but insistent. “I’m fine. really.”

he shook his head, voice cracking with something close to desperation. “doesn’t matter if you’re fine or not. I thought you were dead.” he buried his face in your hair, arms locking around you like a cage—safe, fierce, unyielding. “I’m not letting go. not until you’re somewhere safe.” your protests faltered, swallowed by the pounding of your heart and the steady thrum of his. he carried you away from it like you weight was nothing, like he was happy to be carrying it, and he was. 

the car ride home was thick with unspoken tension. shiu squirmed in the driver seat, clearly baffled by the strange dynamic between you two. toji’s eyes were dark, wild—furious and scared, all at once. he wasn’t just angry. he was terrified.

back in your apartment, everything shifted. toji was softer. he cleaned your wounds with care—gentle hands tracing away dried blood, questioning your well-being even when you insisted you were fine.

“no,” he scoffed. “you’re not fine. you’re still here because I didn't let those assholes finish the job.”

that night, he refused to let you cook, ordering in some regrettable takeout that neither of you touched with enthusiasm. he watched you like a hawk—every blink, every shiver, every quiet breath—until exhaustion finally pulled you under. when you finally climbed into bed, he didn’t leave.

“you don’t have to stay, toji. the guest room’s just twenty feet away.”

his voice was rough, low, and thick with something raw you hadn’t heard before. “yeah,” he said, voice cracking. “I was twenty feet away when you got taken.” he sank into the chair you’d barely noticed before—one you kept mostly for decoration—and didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere.” no explanations. no promises. just presence.

after that day, everything between you changed. toji became something more than a hired gun. he became your boyfriend—not just in name, but in every small gesture. you talked—really talked—for the first time. about his past, the ghosts he carried, the scars left by a wife he’d lost in ways no one understood. about your father, the political games, the betrayals and backstabbing that left you both hollow in different ways.

you showed him your recipe ranking card, and he smiled—rough, rare—and corrected your assessments.

“onigiri, a couple weeks ago? that was the best I’ve ever had,” he admitted, voice a little softer than usual. “make it again. please.” he’s teasing, but you don’t laugh, in fact his plea roots itself deeply and seriously in your chest. 

he bought you little trinkets—simple jewelry he wanted to see you wear, something to remind you he was here. he offered his hoodies when the nights got cold, and you accepted, feeling the warmth of something you hadn’t known you needed.

movie nights became a ritual—mostly his favorites, gory horror flicks that had you curling into his side whenever the blood spilled a little too vividly, and he teases you mercilessly, even though he secretly loves how you tuck your face against his chest like you trust him with the darkest, ugliest things.

the election came and went. your father won by a landslide, just like you both knew he would. toji was off the hook, free to retreat back to the hellhole apartment he called home—or whatever ramshackle place shiu could find for him to crash in.

but your guest room sat empty, pristine, a silent invitation. besides, life here had its perks. the soba and udon cart just a few blocks away. shiu close enough to catch him if needed. you insisted he stay. at first, it was a joke. then it became a hope.

and finally, it became something more. one night, as you rambled about the neighborhood—the quiet streets, the friendly shopkeepers, the little park bench where you liked to read—he cut you off with a kiss. soft, deliberate. the kind of kiss that said everything without saying a word. “I’m staying,” he murmured against your lips. and just like that, the guest room wasn’t empty anymore.

there were murmurs, and not the kind geto could afford to ignore.

at first, it amused him. the whispers that he’d never taken a woman before—never so much as kissed someone in earnest, never truly let another person into his personal sphere. as if he cared. as if any of that mattered in the grand scheme of things. he wasn’t here to play house. he was building a world. a new age. a godhood. but over time, the whispers festered. they didn’t remain idle gossip passed around bored followers in temple halls. no—rumor became narrative, and narrative became belief. and belief, to geto, was currency. worship was leverage. if the people started to think he was unloved, undesirable, even unworthy…well. that was bad for business.

his presence had always demanded respect, but lately it had been drawing more pity than awe. so, he considered the simplest solution: take a wife. the logic was clean. appearances mattered. to the world, he would become a man desired. a man chosen. it didn’t need to be real—he just needed a woman who looked good on his arm and knew how to smile through a lie. he could force it, if he had to. plenty of women in his ranks would drop to their knees for him without hesitation. he could choose any one of them, claim her, and that would be that. but they were...unimpressive. all of them. pretty, yes. devoted. but empty vessels. parroting back doctrine without a shred of understanding. suguru geto was not going to be associated—married—to someone who couldn't hold his gaze without asking permission.

so he remained single. untouched. unbothered. until manami pointed you out. you were not one of his. you were not a sorcerer, not even particularly spiritual. but you had just graduated with a degree in some intimidating branch of mathematics, and you carried yourself like a woman who knew things. not just facts—but people. the way your eyes scanned a room before entering. the way you paused, mid-sentence, like your mind worked in algorithms and not emotions.

you were not beautiful in the way the others were. you were devastating. geto watched you once. then again. then again. and suddenly he found himself doing something he hadn't done in years: considering. he didn’t want to kidnap you—though, in a different life, that might’ve been easier. no. if you were to be his, you had to come willingly. even if only for show. but what was he supposed to say? hello. I'm suguru geto. I run a violent, weird cult and believe most of humanity is a disease, and wish to wipe them out, you included. be my wife? hard sell.

so he softened. slowed down. approached carefully. he befriended you. as much as he could. coffee in crowded cafes. long, quiet walks filled with philosophical debates you didn’t know you’d win. you challenged him in a way that was neither aggressive nor flirtatious—it was natural. and he hated how much he liked it. you weren’t enamored with him, and that made you perfect. you weren’t trying to impress him, and that made him obsessed.

he knew it wouldn’t last. his time was stretched too thin. his followers were waiting, watching, wondering. he needed a solution. so he made you a deal. marriage. in name only. three to five years. no romance, no expectation. he would cover your expenses. you would live in his home—technically. your own room. your own space. all he asked in return was attendance. appear beside him during select gatherings. smile. nod. pretend. that was all.

you were skeptical. overthinker that you were. he liked that about you—until it made him afraid you’d say no.

then, the night of a morale-boosting celebration—one of those ornate, incense-slick parties filled with silent devotees and powerful investors—you showed up. you didn’t just walk in. you showed up. hair done up like it was sacred. a modest but stunning dress. jewelry glinting like devotion. your nails were painted. your perfume was intentional.

you approached him in full view of the gathering and—without asking—kissed his cheek. your lips lingered long enough to let the room talk. then you leaned into his ear and whispered, soft as sin: “I’ll accept your deal.” he had expected relief. instead, he felt desire. not lust. not even love. something worse—attachment. interest. a dangerous craving for something he couldn’t control.

he spent the rest of the evening parading you through the room, introducing you as his girlfriend—wife, if you corrected him, which you often did—with a quiet affection that bordered on convincing. he watched you charm donors, engage with scholars, maneuver conversations with calculated grace. you made him look like a fool in comparison, and he adored you for it.

the transition was quick. you moved into the estate. brought only what you needed. your room remained tidy. you were unobtrusive, like a guest in a museum. but your presence lingered in the air. a forgotten book on the table. a mug with lipstick at the rim. a scarf that smelled like soap and morning.

you played your role flawlessly. sat beside him with quiet loyalty. held his arm with a lover’s grace. you never slipped. not once. and the cult loved you. they bowed to you with more devoutness than they ever offered him. they brought you flowers. confided in you. hung on your words. you didn’t ask for their worship, but they gave it freely.

where geto commanded with doctrine, you ruled with kindness.

and slowly, the rumors changed. no longer was he the pathetic, untouched false prophet. no. now he was something else—something enviable. a man with a sharp, elegant wife who had chosen him. how else could he have pulled someone like you?

it was late—close to midnight. the halls of his northern shrine were quiet, flickering with the low, golden light of oil lamps. geto had wandered them without thought, seeking nothing. just movement. restless in the way only men who are too full of feeling and too empty of peace can be.

that was when he heard your voice. faint, from around a stone corner. not afraid. but strained. he paused in the shadow of a carved pillar, half-hidden, half-listening. a higher-level follower—one of the more politically useful but spiritually hollow types—stood speaking with you. no, not speaking. lamenting.

“...he’s too harsh. too rigid,” the man sighed. “I’ll be honest, the only reason I've stayed loyal to this place is because of you. you make this place livable.”

a pause. your reply came short, clipped. “thank you.” but then—colder. “that said, you misunderstand him. suguru acts out of necessity, not cruelty. if he wanted a cult full of weaklings, he’d put on a softer face. but he doesn’t. he wants people with purpose. with power. that takes force.”

geto froze. heart in his throat. you weren’t defending him out of obligation. you were…angry. angry on his behalf. “he’s not heartless,” you continued, voice steady, razor-sharp. “he’s strategic. he’s smarter than most of us combined, and the weight he carries would crush you if you tried to bear it for even a day. he’s a better man than you think.” something twisted in geto’s gut. something old and bright and dangerous. because when the man laughed lowly and leaned closer to you—too close, with a smile too familiar—it turned to a spark of rage.

“still,” the man murmured, “you could’ve done better than him.”

you stepped back. your discomfort was visible, even in your silence. you didn’t like this. you didn’t want it. that was enough. geto stepped forward, quiet as death. “go home.” the man startled. his mouth opened, closed again. geto’s presence was ice. his voice, quieter now, more final: “don’t speak to my wife again.”

there were no threats. no violence. but he left shaking. you stood stiff, looking down at your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice soft. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

“you didn’t,” he replied. “I did.”

but his gaze lingered, almost intimate. you had defended him. without being asked. without reward. not for appearances—but because you meant it. he left that night different than he arrived. something in him had shifted. whatever tether had been holding him back, had been convincing him this was just strategy—just performance—had frayed completely.

from then on, geto became yours in the quietest, clearest of ways. he skipped council meetings to sit with you on the back balcony, legs crossed beneath him as you braided his long hair with gentle, idle fingers. he abandoned tactical briefings just to listen to you explain some theorem he didn’t understand but loved watching you describe—so alive, so sharp. he no longer held court after dark. his evenings belonged to you.

he didn't care that his men muttered about how soft he’d become. that his enemies started whispering about how domesticated he looked. that his public image had cracked around the edges. he let it.

you were the first good thing in years that didn’t ask him to be something else. and in turn, he stopped trying to resist the pull. he watched you build a quiet life within his temple walls—still working, still learning, always hungry to understand more. you weren’t ornamental, you weren’t submissive, and you weren’t easily impressed.

you just…were. and that was enough.

he began to crave those soft weekend mornings, when he’d find you sitting alone on one of the garden benches, knees to chest, reading something complicated. your brows drawn, lips slightly parted in thought. he’d sit beside you, close but not intrusive, letting his fingers trace soft lines into the skin of your arm or thigh. a grounding ritual neither of you questioned anymore.

he picked wildflowers from temple paths and tucked them behind your ears with complete sincerity. he carried you inside when you fell asleep near the water, curled into yourself like some forgotten nymph, his coat draped over your shoulders.

he loved you. he hadn’t said it. but everyone could see it. and you? you were falling, too. gently. undeniably. it was in the way your head tilted toward him when he entered a room. the way your hands lingered longer when brushing against his. the way you now wore rings on both hands, but only one mattered.

your place in his home grew permanent in the most quiet, irreversible ways. your clothes in his wardrobe. your slippers by the door. your hum in the kitchen. your toothbrush beside his. you weren’t pretending anymore, and neither was he.

so it made perfect sense—though it still managed to break him completely—when one night, as the stars hung low over the lake and the house had gone still, you kissed him. you were brave. braver than he’d ever been. your lips were soft but certain, trembling only slightly as they pressed against his.

geto froze. and then he shattered. he kissed you back with something dangerous in his chest. hands braced on either side of you, mouth rougher now, panting against your skin. he pressed you gently against the wall, reverent but greedy, overwhelmed by how long he’d waited.

“my wife,” he groaned between kisses, as if the words hurt to say.

now that you were his—truly his, not just in title but in breath, in blood, in shared silence—geto stopped pretending he was anything less than obsessed with you. he became…possessive. not in the loud, showy way. no, he didn’t flaunt you. he didn’t drape you in diamonds or have you paraded at his side. he didn’t need to. you existed in his life, and that was enough to shatter his composure completely.

he stopped bringing you to cult gatherings as often, no longer sat you at his right hand during meetings. not because he was ashamed—god, no—but because the sight of other people bowing to you stirred something ugly in him. pride, yes, but also jealousy. they looked at you too long. they took too much from your softness.

his wife—and oh, how the title ruined him. he said it constantly. unnecessarily. gleefully. he used it to tease you, smirking with lazy smugness every time your cheeks flushed. “my wife,” he whispered as he kissed your shoulder. “my wife,” as he untied your apron in the kitchen. “my wife,” while you argued over chess strategies and he let you win anyway. it was annoying. it was adorable. you loved it.

and yet, despite his ease with you, despite the quiet comfort you brought him, geto still had moments where panic gnawed at the edges of his ribs. what if you wanted more? what if the lake and the shrine and his terrible world were not enough for you? what if you grew restless, and one day you left?

he tried to hide it, but one evening—when the sun had nearly dipped beneath the horizon and the air smelled like moss and the lake shimmered silver—he broke. you were sitting beside him on a blanket, curled against his side, wearing one of his old black robes like it belonged to you (and it did). the world was quiet. softly spinning.

“I can let you go,” he said suddenly. you looked at him, a little startled.

“if you want,” he added, slower now, like the words hurt. “you don’t owe me anything. this arrangement...I never meant for it to trap you. if you want to leave—truly—I’ll make it safe for you. I’ll fund your life for as long as you need. no one will follow. no one will stop you.”

your gaze didn't leave him. you let him finish, then reached out and took his hand, weaving your fingers through his. you leaned your temple against his shoulder. “if I wanted to leave, suguru,” you murmured, “I would've.” silence stretched between you, sweet and thick and tender. “I’m exactly where I want to be.” he didn’t reply at first. his throat closed around something too raw.

but then he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and letting himself breathe again. you could feel the way he exhaled—like the weight of the entire shrine, of the whole world, had finally left his shoulders. he held you tighter.

satoru had spent years pissing off the higher-ups, mocking them behind closed doors, disobeying orders with a smile, and tossing out their thinly-veiled demands like yesterday’s trash. they’d long grown tired of his antics, but tolerated them, because gojo was, after all, the strongest. untouchable. unmanageable. unmarried.

they’d been pushing for a union for years—someone respectable, traditional. a woman from a noble clan. quiet. pretty. powerful enough to birth the next heir of the gojo line, obedient enough to stay in her lane. it sickened him. the very thought of shackling some poor woman to the political machinery of the jujutsu world—to him—felt inherently cruel. he refused, outright and loudly.

that is, until he met you. you showed up quietly at jujutsu tech one spring, a new instructor assigned to teach close combat. fists only. you didn’t wield a flashy cursed technique. you didn’t brag or posture. you taught students how to survive with grit and knuckles and instinct.

he noticed you before he even realized he had. at first, it was just curiosity—how you held your ground in the staff meetings, how you always sat by yourself at lunch but never looked lonely. you were strong. maybe not gojo-level strong, but you moved with precision and power, and your presence commanded attention. still, what struck him most wasn’t any of that.

it was your kindness. you weren’t sweet in the obvious way. you weren’t a pushover. but there was something about you—gentle when you didn’t have to be, encouraging even on your worst days. the students adored you. nobara would go on and on about how much more she liked you than any other teacher, looking pointedly at gojo. yuuji would recount everything you’d taught him during training, as if the other first years hadn’t been there. megumi liked you, too, of course in his own secretive, soft way. 

and gojo? he was smitten. not instantly. it happened over weeks. months. you disarmed him with every passing day. he kept expecting you to hate him like utahime did. to pity him like nanami sometimes did. but you didn’t. you laughed at his jokes. called him out when he deserved it. you treated him like a person, not a weapon, not a myth.

he hadn’t planned to say anything at the next clan meeting. but when they started in again about marriage, the words just tumbled out. “wouldn’t it be hilarious if I married the new combat teacher?” he said it like a punchline. a grin tugged at his mouth. a joke. sort of. not really.

the elders pounced. unorthodox, yes—but at least it was something. they took it seriously. they liked the idea. you were respectable enough. and if this was what it took to get satoru to do what they wanted—fine. a quiet, pretty wife with discipline and strength. acceptable. they brought it up to you the next week. not as a suggestion. as an order.

gojo had never felt guiltier. he told himself—swore to himself—that if you so much as hesitated, if you looked the slightest bit hurt or uncomfortable, he’d call it off immediately. but you didn’t. you said yes. calmly. clearly. like it was just another mission. and being married to satoru gojo didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.

the wedding was beautiful. lavish to the point of discomfort. you’d never been given anything like this. flowers, silks, gold-dusted food. the dress alone was enough to make you feel like a stranger in your own skin—white and flowing, clinging in all the places gojo tried so hard not to look at. he kept close to you, but not overly so—hands tucked behind his back, smiles offered gently. he didn’t want to make you feel like a prize or an ornament.

the ceremony wasn’t for you. not even for him, not really. it was for them. for the elders, for the world, for the headlines. you said yes because that’s what good sorcerers do. and gojo—well, gojo made it as bearable as possible. sweet, funny, thoughtful in a way you didn’t expect. 

then came the house. if the wedding was unsettling, his estate was something else entirely. a mansion outside the city, all glass and high ceilings, polished floors that felt too clean to walk on. he gave you the grand tour, pointing out rooms he hadn’t been in for years.

“I forgot this one even existed,” he muttered as he opened a study lined with books. “seriously, I don’t know who’s been dusting in here, but I need to give them a raise.”

the kitchens were fully staffed. cooks, assistants, spotless fridges full of delicacies you didn’t even recognize. you nearly cried. when he asked what was wrong, you couldn’t quite answer. the kindness? the extravagance? it felt too big, too much. you’d never had luxury before. never had ease.

he showed you to your room across the hall from his. you gasped softly. it was bigger than your entire apartment had been. the walls were still mostly bare, the bedframe stark—but the potential shimmered. “I’ll fill it with anything you want,” he promised. “you want books? a piano? anything. say the word.”

you laughed, and something clicked in his chest. from that moment, gojo made a quiet, private vow: he would spoil you. gently. endlessly. just because he could.

you lived together, so time together became natural. you woke up at the same time, got ready side by side. his showers were long and theatrical. your mornings were quiet and fast. you tried to help in the kitchen—couldn’t shake the guilt—but satoru stopped you every time. “I hired them,” he said softly. “they’re paid very well. let them do it for you.” you nodded, but it still sat heavy in your chest. you’d never had help before. never been allowed to relax.

but you still felt it—that looming question. why me? you weren’t from a notable clan. you weren’t docile. you didn’t bat your lashes and whisper behind silk fans. you weren’t a perfect wife.

and yet, gojo couldn’t stop watching you. couldn’t stop thinking how lucky he was to have you in his orbit. so he started to shower you in praise. a constant stream of warmth, tucked into jokes and winks and soft murmurs.

“you look radiant today, wife.”

“you’re too good to these kids.”

“your students love you, y’know? but not as much as I do.”

every compliment made your heart skip. still, after months, you felt like a guest in his home. so he asked you out on a date. “come on,” he said one evening, spinning his chopsticks. “let me take you out. one night. for real. if we’re gonna live together, we might as well know each other, right?” you hesitated. but you agreed. and the restaurant…oh, it was a mistake.

the building shimmered. the valet line alone made your stomach twist. you’d checked the menu before leaving—it cost more than a month’s groceries. you were dolled up, but you didn’t feel like yourself. this wasn’t your world. this wasn’t you.

you stood on the curb, heart hammering, sure he’d regret this the moment he saw you. and then he did see you. and gojo forgot how to breathe. god, you were beautiful. he wanted to bottle the image of you—eyes wide, shoulders drawn in shyly, that tiny uncertain smile. you didn’t know what to do with your hands. you looked like you wanted to run. and he never wanted to make you feel that way.

“you look stunning,” he said, not joking for once.

you flushed. “you don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not–I'm not saying it because I have to,” he says, earnestly, a little disturbed at the suggestion. “I’m saying it because I want to.” your embarrassment and joy at his words was too strong for you to form a response. 

dinner was…perfect. he talked too much. you listened, soft and smiling. you talked a little, about work, about your students, about your favorite kind of bento. he leaned in closer, listening like you were the most important voice in the world. and you felt it. slowly. you felt it. safe. wanted. not as an object. not as a sorcerer. but just… as you.

you laughed when he told you about a mission gone wrong—accidentally setting off a cursed trap that dyed his hair slightly green for two days. he laughed when you mimicked yuuji’s horrendous battle stance. the air between you shifted.

you felt beautiful under his gaze. he felt peace in your presence. by the time dessert came, you forgot how uncomfortable you’d been. by the time the bill came, you forgot how small you’d felt. by the time he walked you to your room that night, you forgot this had started as anything less than real.

“goodnight…satoru.” and down the hall, in a room big enough to hold his loneliness, satoru lay awake and smiled to himself. she called me satoru. like it meant something.

from the moment you said goodnight, something in gojo shifted. he stopped pretending. not just to the elders. not just to the students. to himself. whatever arrangement had brought you together was irrelevant now. because for him—fully, totally, undeniably—it was real.

he’d fallen for you. maybe slowly. maybe all at once. but it had happened. irrevocably. irreversibly. and now, he woke up each morning and counted the ways he was doomed. he told himself he’d wait. however long it took. however long you needed. because he thought—maybe, just maybe—you were starting to fall, too.

he saw it in the soft smile you gave him when he drove you to work, lingering just a second longer than necessary before getting out of the car. he saw it in the note you tucked into his coat pocket during your lunch break: “I’ll be home late, meeting with ijichi and yaga. don’t wait up <3” but of course, he waited up. you were worth losing sleep over. he saw it in the mochi balls you left in the freezer when you went on overnight missions. the ones in his favorite flavor—always yours to begin with, now his because you decided so. he saw it in how you leaned into him, instinctively, when some kyoto teacher tried to talk over you at a summit. as if his presence was the only shield you trusted.

gojo had spent his entire life being a weapon. an asset. a symbol. he’d been used, revered, feared—but never once had he been treated like someone who could be loved. until you. you made him feel gentle. and he clung to that feeling like salvation.

he took you on dates like his life depended on it. maybe it did. dinner, of course—often too fancy, always too expensive. but also quiet walks through the countryside, boots crunching on leaves, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders. hikes through the mountains, where he’d tease you with sweets at the summit and watch you roll your eyes, breathless and pink-cheeked in the cold.

big sorcerer galas, where he let you coo and tsk and fuss over his migraines he’d get from not wearing his mask, massaging his temples with warm hands while whispering, “does that feel better?” god, how could you even ask that when it was the best thing he’d ever felt? he was putty in your hands, melting fast—and happily.

there were smaller dates, too. the kind that mattered more. little bookstores tucked in tokyo alleys. underground musicians he knew you liked. libraries where he’d watch you run your fingers down spines and mentally note every title you paused at.

to be loved, he realized, was to be known. so gojo satoru made it his one goal in life: to know you.

he asked questions constantly. what’s your favorite color? your favorite season? favorite book? favorite breakfast food? have you ever broken a bone? what was your worst day of high school? you answered shyly at first, then more easily. he remembered everything.

a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers appeared in your room every week. he didn’t just read your favorite book—he devoured it. then cornered you in the kitchen to discuss every plot twist like it was the most pressing political scandal of the year. your laughter sounded like home.

you were still humble. still quietly unsure. still never asked for anything. but you’d stopped flinching when he gave you a compliment. stopped shrinking when he spoiled you. you didn’t encourage it exactly—didn’t clap your hands and beg for more—but you didn’t recoil anymore either. you took his love in slow, careful sips, as if trying not to choke on it.

gojo noticed. and he cherished every bit of it. he never said it aloud, but his chest had been torn wide open and stuffed full of sunshine. if you turned off all the lights, he’d glow in the dark.

and maybe that’s why, on one chilly night, he just couldn’t hold it in anymore. you were walking the gardens outside his estate. slowly. almost aimlessly. your pace had slowed to nothing. you were bundled in his jacket, too big on you, sleeves swallowed by your hands. the air was crisp. stars overhead. silence between you.

then you turned to him, voice quiet. “thank you…for this life.” he froze. you kept going. “I know you could’ve had anyone. I know the higher-ups have been trying to marry you off for years. I know I'm not…” your voice cracked. you looked away. “I just hope I've been good enough.”

satoru felt something dark and furious twist in his chest. he didn’t speak. he grabbed you. one hand cupped your cheek. the other slid around your waist. he kissed you like he’d been starving for you—because he had. you kissed like that for a long time. breathless. desperate. full of everything unsaid.

when he finally pulled back, you were dazed. warm. his forehead pressed against yours. “I asked for you.” your breath caught.

“I asked them to pick you.” his voice cracked. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was afraid. I didn't know how else to have you.” his words poured out in a rush. “I’m sorry if it felt like a lie, I swear I didn't mean for it to. I just—I didn’t want to trick you, I just didn’t think I could ever actually deserve you. you’re so good. you make me feel—human. and I let you think you weren’t enough when really I'm the one who’s not—”

you didn’t let him finish. you grabbed his collar and kissed him again. fierce. certain. real. that was your answer. and it was more than enough. satoru couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his married life knowing you. 

ino had spent the better part of his life proving himself. becoming a grade 1 sorcerer under mentor recommendation wasn’t easy—especially not when you were once the kid with the fake glasses and something to prove. it took years of training, fighting, and swallowing his doubts like medicine. and when he finally got that promotion, that recognition? it felt good. really good. but short-lived. because the higher-ups didn’t care much for individual merit. not really. they cared about bloodlines, continuity. legacy. the survival of jujutsu society through children—preferably from the strongest, the best, the most ‘respectable’ clans.

it was gross. he knew it was gross. but still...he couldn’t deny it. that fantasy had always lingered at the edges of his mind. the dream. a sweet, beautiful wife—someone soft and kind, who called him honey and kissed him on the cheek and left sticky notes on the fridge. kids, loud and messy, who ran through the hallways with little paper talismans and toy weapons. a small home. a big one. didn’t matter. just a life—one that didn’t end with his cursed energy bleeding out on some battlefield.

he loved his job. he really did. loved helping people. loved protecting them. loved being useful. but that kind of love had a cost. and ino, even as young as he still was, could feel it gnawing at him. he was 15 when he became a first-year at jujutsu tech. since then, every second of his life had gone toward climbing the ranks. he didn’t go to parties. didn’t have dumb high school crushes or hold hands under lunch tables. didn’t go on vacations or have summers off. he had given everything to this life.

so, when the elders called him in at twenty-one and handed him a marriage file? he didn’t fight it. maybe that should’ve bothered him more than it did. maybe it would’ve, if he hadn’t opened that folder and seen you.

just a photo. a passport-style headshot. it wasn’t much. but even in that sterile little image, you were gorgeous. it kind of knocked the air out of him. he wasn’t sure if it was just the whole you’re gonna be my wife thing making him feel a little delirious, but… you looked like the kind of woman who was already out of his league, and now—somehow—he was marrying you.

the rest of the file gave him a little more context. you were the same age. same amount of years in the field. smart—really smart—according to your transcripts (which made him laugh; what did test scores have to do with being a good wife?). from a small, quiet clan, not big or flashy, but deeply respected. strong, too. you had dozens of successful missions under your belt and several commendations.

too perfect, he thought at first. like they’d just built you in a lab to be everything he’d ever wanted. maybe that was a good thing. maybe someone like you could pull him together. soften his sharp edges. keep him steady. he didn’t want to get too excited—didn’t want to start imagining too much. but… it was hard. hard not to imagine holding your hand in public. hard not to imagine brushing his teeth next to you. falling asleep next to you. maybe even…waking up next to you with his arm still around your waist. god, he was down bad and he hadn’t even met you yet.

you didn’t meet until the wedding. he hated that part. hated that this was how you had to meet. through obligation and duty, instead of something romantic. you deserved more than this, he was sure of it. but then you walked down the aisle, and all his guilt vanished. because it wasn’t dread that hit him. it was awe. it was you, you, you, you—and nothing else.

your dress was simple, elegant, and you wore it perfectly. hair down, soft curls tucked behind your ears. your expression calm and polite, even though he could tell—just from the way you kept your hands folded—that you were a little nervous. you kept your gaze down for most of the short ceremony, only glancing at him once or twice. he didn’t mind. he was looking enough for the both of you. god, he hoped you couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.

the ceremony was short. civil. boring, honestly. just enough formality to appease the elders. your family didn’t come. he didn’t ask why. he didn’t have much family of his own. maybe that was for the best. it made the moment feel smaller, more intimate. quieter. like the two of you were slipping into something private and precious, away from the noise of sorcerer society.

you answered every question like it had been rehearsed. like you were saying your lines. and ino got it. you were doing what you were told. just like him. it made something in his chest ache. he couldn’t let himself get too attached. not yet. but when the ceremony ended, and your hand finally found his—light and gentle in his palm—he knew he already was.

the house was new. small, not flashy, tucked into a sleepy neighborhood on the edge of tokyo. not too far from the school, but far enough that the city buzz faded into birdsong and the occasional neighborhood dog.

it wasn’t much—two bedrooms, a little backyard, warm hardwood floors—but to ino, it felt like everything. because you stepped inside and smiled. you ran your hand along the kitchen counter and said, “this is perfect.” and you meant it.

he showed you around room by room, stumbling over his words sometimes, rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager on his first date. but you… you seemed so at ease with him. more open than you had been at the ceremony. you laughed when he opened a closet and found a wasp’s nest. you gasped when you saw the backyard garden that had come with the property.

you already trusted him, somehow. that’s what it felt like. and ino was desperate to protect that.

he put all the furniture together by hand. dragged in chairs and tables, assembled bedframes with sore wrists, then unassembled them and reassembled them when you decided they’d look better in the other room. he didn’t mind. in fact, he’d never been happier to bruise his thumbs with an allen wrench.

every night that week, the two of you cooked dinner together. sometimes you sat in the kitchen and read while he worked. other nights you danced around each other in your socks, making curry and rice and bickering playfully about how spicy was too spicy. you seemed to be very fast friends. 

you didn’t know it yet—but he was already in love with you. quietly, fully. 

one night, over dishes still warm from rinsing, you told him. not in many words. just a whisper, quiet as steam rising from the sink. you hadn’t known what to expect from him. you’d been so afraid. that he would be cruel. controlling. that he’d treat you like something owned, expected things from you without asking. an heir. obedience. silence. you’d been prepared to be treated like an asset, like you always had. a sorcerer first. a woman second. a person last. you didn’t say much more. you didn’t need to. ino didn’t say anything, either. but it hit him like a curse to the chest.

first—guilt. heavy and hot in his gut. not because of anything he’d done, but because you’d been made to think your whole life would be like that. that someone like him—who wanted so badly to be good, to be gentle, to be enough—could be feared by someone like you. that someone must’ve made you believe you weren’t worth softness, safety, or kindness.

then—grief. quiet, cold. the ache of watching someone you care about shrink into themselves. the sadness of knowing you’d walked into this marriage bracing for pain. expecting commands, demands, rules, punishments. he hated that for you. hated every memory that must’ve taught you that love came with conditions.

and finally—relief. thick and sharp. like taking a breath after holding it underwater. because he could be safe for you. he was safe for you. and more than that—he wanted to be. you weren’t scared of him now. not when you sat beside him at dinner. not when you touched his hand during movies. not when you smiled sleepily at him from the couch like you weren’t afraid of anything at all.

you trusted him. and it made him want to weep with gratitude. so he didn’t speak. he just kept drying the dishes. handed them to you gently. let his fingers brush yours. and in that silence, in that fragile, wordless space—you relaxed. for the first time in your life.

and so did he. because even though takuma ino was silly and light-hearted and maybe didn’t always say the right thing, with you…he didn’t have to prove anything. he wasn’t just a sorcerer. he wasn’t just a husband by contract. he was someone who could love you, and that, he realized, was the best thing he’d ever be allowed to do.

things were perfect in a way that made takuma nervous. not the kind of nervous he got before a mission or when he had to answer to gojo or yaga. not even the kind of nervous he felt the first time you’d stood across from him at the altar, calm and unreadable while he’d practically vibrated with anxious energy. no, this was different.

this was the kind of nervous that crept in after you realized everything you wanted was already in your hands. because life had never felt this full before. this bright. this good. and he had you to thank for all of it. ino had once hoped—naively, maybe stupidly—that being married to someone strong and serious might whip him into shape. that his new wife would be strict, sharp, practical. that she’d mirror the same steely, polished professionalism expected of a grade 1 sorcerer’s spouse. maybe she’d keep his head on straight. help him level up in the ways that counted: promotions, reputation, rank. make him better.

but then you came along—and takuma forgot what he was trying to be better for. because with you, he didn’t think about sorcery at all. he didn’t think about his technique. or how long it had been since nanami had last given him a nod of approval. or how many cursed spirits he’d banished in the last six months. none of that mattered. 

all he could think about was you. how much he liked you. how soft you made him feel. how he woke up every morning wondering how he could make you smile that day—how he could earn your happiness, and keep it. he knew the nature of arranged marriages in jujutsu society. they were never designed to be tender. they were contracts. strategic. binding. and he didn’t even want to think about the consequences he’d face if you ever left him—professionally or personally. but it was never about that. not really.

he didn’t want you to stay because of the contract. he wanted you to stay because he couldn’t go back to being alone. to being half-human, half-weapon. to measuring his worth in mission reports and scars. he couldn’t stomach the idea of being someone you used to live with. someone you used to care about.

and the wildest part? you didn’t live like that. not anymore. it was subtle at first, but ino saw it. you’d come from a house of rules, strict and sharp-edged. you were disciplined to the core, trained to put others first, to perform, to be perfect. but now…you were learning how to live.

you slept in sometimes, you ate the sweets you used to avoid, you laughed at terrible puns. you took ino on suspiciously date-like outings to coffee shops and farmer’s markets, dragging him past flower stalls and baked goods, eyes gleaming like you’d never been allowed to enjoy them before. and best of all—you never treated him like a sorcerer.

you never asked about his technique. never seemed impressed by his grade or reputation. you asked how his day was. you packed his lunch and left notes. you let him talk, vent, joke, ramble. you saw him. just him. not the title. not the rank. just takuma. and it wrecked him.

one evening, you told him—quietly, hesitantly—that you were thankful. that you didn’t know how you got so lucky, ending up with someone who was kind to you. you stumbled over the words, which wasn’t like you. you were usually so composed. but you admitted that maybe…in a different life, things would be different. the marriage wouldn’t have to be fake.

the words made his blood buzz, like he'd been holding his breath for months. without thinking, he grabbed you—not harshly, just urgently. like he needed to anchor you to the ground. like he was scared you'd float away the second you said it out loud. and then, like it had been waiting on the tip of his tongue since the moment he met you, he said: “it was never fake for me. from the moment I saw you, none of it was fake.”

you stared at him, wide-eyed. and then, slowly, carefully, you reached out. wrapped your arms around your husband. leaned in close. and kissed him, because isn’t that what married couples do? and takuma kissed you back like he’d been waiting his whole life to be allowed to.

……

the house was louder now. a little messier. there were fingerprints on the glass doors and juice cups in the sink, toys left halfway through elaborate adventures on the living room floor. someone had drawn all over one of his mission reports in crayon. he hadn’t even been mad.

because when he looked up and saw you—hair pinned messily back, laughing in the kitchen as you tried to scoop rice into a bowl while a toddler clung to your leg—he felt something in his chest swell so big and full it was a wonder it hadn’t broken open yet.

this was his life. you and the kids. a house full of soft chaos and unshakable joy. days that started too early and ended with little bodies asleep between you, mouths slightly open, cheeks warm with sleep. he’d never been so tired. he’d never been so happy.

takuma had once believed love would cost him something. that having a family would be another weight to carry. one more duty. another thing to fail at. but he’d been so, so wrong. this—this—wasn't a burden. this wasn’t something to carry. it was the thing that carried him. being a father was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

it changed everything. his priorities. his pace. he still took missions, still wore the badge of grade 1 with quiet pride, but he said no now. he turned down the ones that felt wrong in his gut. he left the field when he was injured. he let others take the high-risk ones. because his wife—his wife—mattered more than any of it.

he watched you now from the doorway, one arm lazily braced above the frame, eyes half-lidded with love as the kids scrambled around your legs, yelling something about dinosaurs and bugs and an impending tea party. you scooped the youngest up without missing a beat, balanced them on your hip like it was second nature. it was.

and takuma thought, not for the first time, god, she’s perfect. not just beautiful, though you were that too. but good. kind. strong. warm in a way that softened the sharpest corners of his soul.

he’d once been so scared of responsibility. now he wanted it. he wanted to be your husband. their dad. he wanted to be the one who made dinner when you were tired, who helped with math homework, who kissed bruised knees and told bedtime stories that got increasingly dramatic just to hear the kids laugh.

“I ever tell you,” he said, padding into the kitchen, voice soft as he slid behind you and kissed your temple, “that this is all I ever wanted?”

you leaned into him, eyes tired but bright. “every day,” you teased.

he grinned. “good. I’m not planning on shutting up about it.” and he meant it.

because he had everything now. a home. a family. you. and takuma—once a lonely, overworked, people-pleasing sorcerer who thought praise and promotions were the only proof he was doing something right—finally understood what it meant to live a life worth protecting.

choso was new to sorcery—but even newer to being human.

when the summons arrived, a scroll sealed and stamped in the language of tradition, yuuji and gojo were quick to explain that the higher-ups loved to play god. force alliances, breed lineages, shape the next generation of jujutsu society like clay in their gnarled hands. “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” gojo had said bluntly, rolling his eyes. “they’re just bored aristocrats in robes.”

but choso hadn’t said no. not because he felt obligated—he barely recognized authority as it stood—but because…well, he thought it sounded kind of nice. sweet, even. romantic. yuuji had explained marriage to him in simple terms. a lifelong bond. partnership. someone who could be your best friend. a person who chooses to love you every day. it made choso's chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.

he wasn’t even sure he could reproduce. half-curse biology was a tricky thing, and he didn’t care to explore it. but still—if it was just for looks, as gojo and yuuji insisted, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. maybe he’d get to wear something nice. eat cake. smile at someone pretty. maybe he’d get to try being romantic.

yuuji was wary on his behalf. protective. he didn't want some power-hungry clan girl using choso's status to claw her way higher up the jujutsu hierarchy. but when they met you—quiet, trembling, kind—you shattered every cynical assumption they’d had. you weren’t from a flashy family. your clan was small and conservative, one that preferred tradition and silence to showy skill. you bowed politely. you smiled nervously. you never raised your voice, never met their eyes.

choso didn’t say much on the day of the wedding. he was stunned into silence, not out of fear but from sheer sensory overload. the ceremony was extravagant, as expected, but to him it felt like magic. he wore a tuxedo for the first time. had his long hair carefully styled by a jujutsu tech assistant. yuuji stood proudly beside him, trying not to cry. there was music, too. food and flowers. a big, beautiful cake.

and then there was you. he couldn’t look away from you. your dress. your skin. the way you held your breath when your eyes met his. you looked like something out of a storybook. choso didn’t know how to be subtle, so he didn’t even try. he stared. wide-eyed. awestruck. you looked like you were glowing. he told yuuji every thought that crossed his mind after. “she smells nice,” “her dress was soft-looking,” "Is it okay to think my wife is pretty?” yuuji begged him not to say any of that to your face. not yet.

the car ride back to your new home was silent. you sat stiffly beside him, your hands folded in your lap like you were bracing for impact. choso stole little glances at you—then long ones, staring openly when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

you noticed. you kept waiting. bracing. wondering when the act would drop. you’d been raised in a home where men didn’t love. they owned. where girls were groomed to say yes and smile and open their legs whether they wanted to or not. where being married meant being silent, and scared, and useful.

but choso just stood at the threshold of your new home, turning slowly, taking everything in. the wallpaper. the strange furniture. the cozy rug. he pulled out his phone and texted yuji: “do I say something now?” then he turned and gave you a smile—shy, awkward, but genuine.

you waited. your fingers trembled in your lap. you waited for the barked orders, for the dragging hand, for the crack of authority to echo through the house. but choso only asked you softly where you wanted your boxes placed. said your name like it was something delicate in his mouth.

he talked a little that first night, though he wasn’t good at it. told you he liked your hair. that he liked the house. that it was weird but fun to wear a tux. that he was sorry if he seemed strange, he just… didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing. you didn’t say much in response, mostly nodded. you couldn’t believe it. couldn’t believe that this wasn’t a trap, a test, or some cruel prank.

“kamo—” you started.

“call me choso,” he interrupted gently, his gaze sincere. “please. I—I prefer that name.”

you nodded, unsure. your voice caught in your throat. you wanted to ask a thousand questions. do you know what marriage means? do you know what you’re supposed to do with me? do you know what’s expected of you—and of me?

but you said none of them. afraid that speaking the words aloud might summon the monster.

that night, you made dinner. a modest meal, more ceremony than sustenance, just something to ground yourself in normalcy. choso ate all of it. every bite. said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. “yuuji once burned ramen,” he told you proudly. “he tried so hard. it was still crunchy.”

you laughed, just a little. you didn’t know it yet, but choso would hold that sound in his chest for the rest of the week. days passed. stilted. quiet. hesitant. but safe.

you began to relax in the space. your steps no longer tiptoed. you cooked more meals. choso started asking, shyly, if you’d mind packing his lunch when he left on errands. “only if it’s not too inconvenient,” he’d say. you nodded. of course, you told him. I'm here to be useful to you, choso. he didn’t answer right away. something about the way you said it unsettled him. useful? he didn’t like the sound of that. like this marriage was about what you could for for him. 

yuuji gave him advice. told him to take you out. “like a date. a real one. show her you like her.” choso brought it up clumsily. you said yes instantly—so instantly it felt like a reflex. “you don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to,” choso told you earnestly, head tilted like a confused dog. "I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

that was the moment the fog began to lift. you realized, in a single breathless moment, that choso wasn’t a monster waiting to strike. he wasn’t a master. or a soldier. or a shadowed curse. he was just a man. a little lonely. a little confused. a little smitten. a man who liked you and happened to be married to you.

"I want to,” you said. and choso’s hands shook with joy as he texted yuji, "I think she likes me now!!!!” he planned a clumsy little date. you wore something pretty and he complimented it three times before you left the house. he took you to a movie (a romcom, because you said horror was too scary), and halfway through the popcorn he whispered, “this is the best day ever.” you laughed, but he meant it.

the next week, he tried to cook for you. it went terribly. the dumplings were a mess. half-burnt, lopsided, falling apart before they even reached the plate. choso looked crushed by it—slouched at the stove, brows furrowed like he’d disappointed you. but you didn’t mind. you were quick to move beside him, murmuring a soft reassurance as you grabbed the pan, fixing what could be saved with steady hands and a bit of seasoning. you plated them neatly. made them presentable. and when he took his first bite, he looked at you like you’d performed a miracle.

there was praise in his eyes. gentle admiration. “you’re so great,” he told you, with hearts in his eyes. “you’re so good at everything.” you flinch a little at the praise, like you’re not sure what do with the weight of it on your shoulders. choso saw it—how your fingers trembled just slightly. how your eyes dropped to the floor. how praise seemed to sit heavy on your shoulders like you didn’t know what to do with it. that quiet, guilty way your shoulders curled in. he noticed how you smiled without meeting his gaze. how you moved around him like he was a fragile bomb, unsure of what might set him off. he didn’t know exactly what he’d done wrong—but he knew, with the kind of certainty that sat heavy in the chest, that something was wrong.

“are you…afraid of me?” he asked, gently. the idea made him sick. the last thing he wanted was to be feared, especially by someone like whom he liked so much. “why are you always so—careful?” the question hung in the kitchen like smoke. it wasn’t an accusation. it was a genuine wonder. because he didn’t understand why someone as soft and sweet as you looked at him like he might break you.

you opened your mouth—but nothing came out at first. then you sat down at the edge of the dining table, fingers clenched in your lap, eyes wide with something older than fear. something deeper. something that lived in the bones. and you told him. not with rehearsed clarity or poetic structure—but with a raw, unraveling honesty. stammering, halting words. a truth that had been carved into you over years.

it didn’t come out like a confession. it wasn’t a story with a beginning, middle, and end. it was bits and pieces, torn at the edges. the heaviness of your silence as it cracked open into something trembling. shame. memory. fear so deeply rooted, it had shaped the way you walked, the way you thought, the way you braced yourself for touch that never came.

marriage had never meant safety to you. it meant control. obedience. pain. you’d grown up watching women disappear inside themselves, reduced to what they could provide—bodies, labor, silence. you’d watched the world turn cruel inside the walls of a home. and somewhere along the way, you had decided that love was just another kind of wound.

choso listened. still and unmoving, like if he breathed too loudly it might scare the truth back inside you.

"I'm sorry,” you said finally, a knee-jerk apology you didn’t even realize you were offering. "I'm so sorry if I ever seemed cold or distant or strange, or-or if I ever made you feel…I don’t know—I just…” you turn your head away, unable to bear the immense weight of his silent gaze. "I'm so sorry,” you whispered again, this time into the stunned quiet. "I know it’s not fair to think that of you, and I feel awful about it, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know someone like you existed.”

his jaw was tight. his eyes shined. "I don’t want you to be useful,” he said. "I just want you to be happy. if I do anything—anything—to make you feel small or scared, I want you to tell me, and I'll fix it. I'll change it. I'll stop whatever it is.” a pause. then, with a breath like a prayer: "I want to be someone who makes you feel safe.”

the change is subtle. so small it almost passes by unnoticed—but choso sees it. it’s in the way your steps don’t hesitate beside him anymore. the way you reach for his sleeve when you’re nervous. the way, when the conversation around you grows too sharp, too loud, you lean into him rather than shrinking away. once, your posture around him was all calculation: poised, perfect, prepared to endure. now it’s something gentler. closer. unafraid.

you trust him. choso can feel it in his bones. and he holds that knowledge like a precious thing—tender, breakable, sacred. he doesn’t take it lightly.

when you stumble, he catches you. he never lets you apologize for it. when an event grows too loud, too bright, too much, he doesn’t ask. he just finds your hand, leads you out, drives you home. quietly, like it’s nothing, like it’s easy for him. because it is.

he likes driving you places. likes when you sit in his passenger seat and pick the music. likes the way you hum under your breath at red lights. likes treating you to dinner—ramen, sushi, pancakes at midnight—anything you want. it’s not about being traditional. he just wants to be good to you. provide for you. make sure you never go without, not while he’s around.

you become friends—slowly, then all at once. laughter starts filling in the gaps between awkward silences. shared jokes and quiet routines. the way he always brings you tea in the morning, even if he doesn’t drink it himself. the way you always double the recipe when cooking, setting his plate down before he even sits.

he didn’t understand, not really, what the people  meant when they said “marriage.” but now he does. it’s this. this quiet companionship. this soft joy. this life. 

he still has his quirks. he’s blunt to a fault—awkward, painfully honest, and occasionally a little too literal. romance doesn’t come naturally to him, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. he compliments you like it’s as natural as breathing.

“you are so beautiful.” “you’re the prettiest girl I've ever seen.” "I love it when you smile.”

sometimes he’ll say it in passing. midway through folding laundry. after biting into a dumpling. while you’re brushing your hair and not even looking at him. you smack his arm with a smile. tell him not to flatter you so much. but it’s not flattery to him. he doesn’t even register it that way.

choso doesn’t know how to flirt. he doesn’t realize there’s any performance to it. he just says what he thinks, exactly as he thinks it. and that’s what gets you most of all—how sincere it is. how uncalculated. no charm, no strategy, just choso, all wide-eyed and genuine and completely unaware of what his words do to you.

you begin to soften around him like melting snow. he notices the warmth in your gaze before you do. you start sitting closer to him on the couch, letting your knees touch. you start making his favorite meals without asking. you brush lint off his collar without realizing it.

he never stops doing his part. always careful, always patient. gives you space without ever making you feel alone. when he brings you to meet yuuji for the first time, he pulls his little brother aside beforehand and tells him firmly—“no yelling.” he knows loud men rattle you. keeps you far away from gojo on principle.

you cook for yuuji often, and his grumpy little friend megumi. choso eats every meal like it’s a holiday. thanks you every time. you tell him it’s nothing, that it’s the least you can do. he always disagrees. you don’t owe him anything, he says. you never did. but it still means the world to him.

one day, you’re walking together through tokyo. it’s sunny, but not hot. crowded, but not unpleasant. you’re talking softly about the bakery you want to try around the corner when you feel it—his hand, slipping into yours. like it’s normal. like it’s always been that way. you look down, blinking. he doesn’t even seem to notice, just keeps walking like it’s the most casual thing in the world. you glance up at him, a question forming. he catches your expression and offers, plainly, “yuuji said couples do that.”

you laugh—a real one, bright and unfiltered. then you squeeze his hand and lean in, close enough for your shoulder to brush his arm. he glances down at you, curious, smiling faintly. and you say, in the softest, most conspiratorial whisper—“did yuuji tell you what kissing is?” choso trips over a crack in the sidewalk. which answers your question well enough.

marriage had always been part of nanami's plan. not a romantic dream, not some wistful fantasy—but a goal, like anything else. stability. consistency. someone to build a life with. someone to go home to. someone to care for, to take care of. he never imagined love would come easy—nothing ever had—but he'd always imagined it would be real. earned. honest.

just…not like this. not arranged. not forced. not signed and sealed by the higher ups with a polite congratulations and a subtle reminder of the responsibility now placed upon his shoulders.

he put it off for years. every time the elders insisted, he declined. until gojo—with his reckless, star-bright optimism—went through with it. and somehow, shockingly, it worked for him. so nanami caved. signed his name where they told him to. said yes when they gave him your name. figured at worst, you could be companions. civil. polite. friends, even. you’d both maintain your dignity. your distance.

it didn’t have to mean anything. and then he saw you walk down the aisle. and every thread of logic in his head went up in flames.

you were breathtaking. not in the overdone, romanticized sense of the word—but truly, viscerally. the kind of beautiful that made him sit up straighter. that made his pulse spike with guilt. your dress hugged every curve like it was made to provoke him. your face unreadable, your lips soft and untouched, your eyes wide with something he couldn’t name. you looked like someone from a dream he hadn’t dared to admit he’d had. and he knew, right then, that friendship was off the table.

he was so screwed. so he did what he always does when emotions run too high: compartmentalized. stuffed it down. locked it up. told himself this was a marriage in name only. that he would be respectful. dutiful. distant. he would not touch you. he would not think about you. he would not ruin you with the weight of his own desire.

and then you spoke to him—softly, sincerely, asking if he needed anything. if there was anything you could do to make this easier on him. and you smiled at him like you meant it. like you didn’t mind being here. like maybe you were hoping for something.

and nanami felt sick. not at you—never at you—but at the situation. at the system that placed you in this position. at the knowledge that somewhere along the line, someone taught you this was your role. to ask what he needed, to offer yourself up for service like some kind of dutiful wife on day one. he told you—firmly, perhaps too firmly—that he expected nothing from you. and he meant it. but the way your face dropped still haunts him.

because you had hoped, hadn't you? not for love. not for anything improper. just for connection. for kindness. to not be alone.

you told gojo, apparently. quietly, in confidence. that you didn’t think nanami liked you. that maybe you’d done something wrong. of course gojo told him. "she feels like you don’t like her," he said, shamelessly stirring the pot. "which is crazy, 'cos she’s great."

"you’ve met her twice, gojo. and don’t talk about my wife." nanami’s voice was sharp, clipped. but the words lodged like a knife in his chest. he’d wanted to be honorable. restrained. a gentleman. but somehow you’d taken his distance as dislike. his silence as coldness. he couldn’t let that stand.

so he changed. slowly, carefully. he didn’t get any closer physically—still maintained his boundaries, still slept on the edge of the bed if you even let him in the room at all—but his efforts became more intentional. his speech softened. his tone warmed. he held doors. he asked about your day. he remembered things you said.

still, he never once commented on your appearance. not your hair, which always looked soft and neat, not your perfume, even when it made him dizzy. not your lips, even when you bit them while reading, which drove him mad. because he didn’t want you to think that was all this was. he wouldn’t reduce you to something superficial. wouldn’t treat you like a trophy. wouldn’t make you feel small.

but it was hard. so hard. because you were gorgeous. and kind. and funny, though you kept that part guarded. you were sharp-tongued and prickly and far too used to fending for yourself. you flinched under the smallest bit of praise. frowned when he complimented your cooking. got visibly uncomfortable when he opened your door or pulled out your chair.

"you don’t have to do all this husband-y stuff," you’d mutter, half-under your breath. he only smiled at that. yes, he did. you didn’t understand—this wasn’t performance. he wasn’t playing a role. he wanted to be good to you.

so he started smaller. made it subtle.

not "I bought this for you,” but "I picked up this chocolate. couldn’t finish it all, if you want some.” (he could finish it. he didn’t even like chocolate.) not "I booked you a trip,” but “there’s a train to takahama saturday morning. I remembered you said you liked coastal cities.”

you didn’t realize it was spoiling. it didn’t feel like spoiling. it felt casual. convenient. but it wasn’t. nanami had a hand in everything—softly, quietly, never drawing attention—but always thinking of you. always.

and still, you didn’t see it. because somewhere along the way, someone taught you that you weren’t meant to be treasured.

that night, on a checkered picnic blanket under low evening light, you finally told him. you didn’t look at him. you were chewing a fancy pastry he bought just for you, one you’d insisted he didn’t need to get, and between bites you murmured, like it was nothing—"I don’t really deserve any of this. you’re amazing. this whole thing feels like a joke. I mean…I'm nothing compared to you."

and nanami put his pastry down. very calmly, very clearly, he said, “don’t say that again.” you blinked. unsure if you’d heard him right. “you deserve everything,” he said. “and if you’ll let me, I'd like to be the one to give it to you.” you swallowed hard. "I know this marriage may not be the realest thing,” he continued, softer now. “but you are. you’re real. to me.” and for once, you didn’t argue.

you just looked at him. like you believed him. or maybe like you wanted to. nanami is the perfect husband, or he can be. if you’ll just let him.

you remain a bit uncomfortable, even after that. nanami can tell. you’re polite. grateful, even. but still not used to the spoiling. still flinching at the painful sweetness of his attention. like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. like you’re afraid he’ll stop.

but that only makes him more determined. he thrills at the sight of you eating sweets—how your eyes flutter closed for just a second, how you savor every bite like it’s a secret. he keeps a mental list of every flavor that makes your face light up.

he notes how you smile up at him, surprised but pleased, when he casually drops a quote from your favorite book into conversation. and how you hover near him at sorcerer gatherings—not because you have to, but because you want to.

you’re starting to like him. maybe even trust him. but not nearly as much as he likes you. as he loves you. the realization hits him quietly one evening, like most important things do. another sorcerer gala. he hates them. has always hated them. the showboating. the politics. the noise. but now…he attends them all. with you on his arm. his wife.

you, dressed in silk and sparkle, laughing under low chandeliers, letting him spin you gently on the floor like he might break you otherwise. you, with one hand in his and the other around a flute of something bubbly, looking every inch the vision you were on your wedding day.

he’s never believed in much. but “my wife” becomes scripture. biblical. he says it like a prayer. at meetings. at missions. at dinners. 

“my wife likes that brand of tea,” he says absently in meetings, pointing to the box someone brought in for the breakroom, as if it’s a credential that matters.

“my wife read that book,” he murmurs during a mission debrief when some sorcerer brings up philosophy, and then—because he can’t help himself—adds, “she said the ending was overrated, but the prose was lovely.”

he says it everywhere. your name, your title, your presence. it becomes his rhythm. his grounding. he clings to it like scripture.

my wife this. my wife that. my wife likes her soup just a little spicy. my wife hates when it rains and she doesn’t have an umbrella.

my wife once said she wanted to see fireflies again. so we’re going. end of june.

he knows you like the back of his hand. not because he memorized you like a task—but because loving you is the only thing that comes easy in a world that’s never been kind.

gojo teases him endlessly. nanami doesn’t care.

he’s proud. reverent. and somewhere along the way, you stop pulling away. start leaning in.

it’s not immediate. not dramatic. but slow. cautious. earned.

you start to accept this scary thing called love.

and then, maybe—maybe—you start to give it back.

it all falls apart (or falls together) after one of gojo’s absurd, over-the-top parties. you’d worn a sleek, fitted dress. something clingy and dark. your hair up. makeup soft and devious. you looked like danger and desire and everything he could never let himself want.

and nanami—poor, tired, utterly smitten nanami—was a little bit drunk. not much. just enough that his restraint began to crack.

you’d said something innocuous in the hallway. something about the night winding down. how your feet hurt. how you were ready to go. he didn’t even think. "you are so beautiful."

and you froze. you turned to him slowly, lips parted. eyes wide and owlish. “you think so?” you asked, quietly. like you didn’t believe it. like you couldn’t. "I thought…maybe you didn’t.” of course you thought that. he never said anything. never allowed himself to say anything. and now it hits him—how confusing that must have been. how his constant restraint had read as indifference.

and it ruins him. he fumbles through the silence, reaching for the right words. of course I think so. I always thought so. I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. you seemed so unsure. so tense. I didn’t want to reduce you to that. I didn’t want you to think I married you for that. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t— you grab his jaw with both hands and kiss him. you kiss him like you mean it. like you’ve been waiting. like you know. and nanami kisses back like a man starved. like he’ll never get another chance. like he’s finally, finally allowed to touch the thing he’s been revering from afar.

from then on, he’s yours completely. he was yours before, too. you just didn’t know it. but now—now he doesn't hide it. not from you. not from anyone.

he brings you lunch during your breaks, walking all the way across campus in the middle of a meeting because he knows you forget to eat when you’re busy. he holds your hand like it’s second nature, like it was always meant to be there. he kisses your temple, your cheek, the inside of your wrist when no one’s looking.

he sleeps in your bed now. it wasn’t even a conversation. you’d dozed off after a movie on the couch, legs tangled up in his, head heavy on his shoulder—and when he carried you to bed, you tugged him down with you. he hasn’t left since.

he pulls you in every night, strong arms wrapped gently around your waist. breath warm against your neck. he mumbles half-dreamed things into your skin. sometimes it’s your name. sometimes it’s I love you. sometimes it’s just the kind of sigh that sounds like home.

he calls you his. always. because you are. and now, you let him. let him love you out loud. let him spoil you, lift the weight off your shoulders, remind you daily how precious you are. even if it still makes you blush, makes your eyes dart away shyly—he just coos and tuts and kisses your forehead like he’s got all the time in the world. and he does. because he’s not going anywhere.

you make plans for the future now. soft, easy ones. weekend trips. new paint for the kitchen. a second bookshelf. someday, maybe, a little house by the sea. you're no longer just wife and husband in name—you’re partners. best friends. completely, helplessly in love. and nanami does not take that honor lightly.

you belong to each other. that’s the difference. that’s what changed. it’s not just he calls you his. you call him yours. your person. your constant. your kento. he doesn't just love you—he lets you love him. completely. and you do.

you bring him his favorite coffee when he forgets breakfast, tug him away from his desk when he’s worked too long. you fold his ties and kiss his forehead and leave little notes in his wallet that say things like buy eggs and also I adore you. he blushes every time.

you don’t just call him your husband anymore. you call him your best friend. and he calls you his everything. because you are. and this—this life you’re building together—it’s all either of you ever could’ve asked for.

[cheftsunoda]

Hi!! I love your poly fics/smau so much! If you’re up to could you maybe write a mick schumacher x reader x jack doohan one? With the reader being toto wolff daughter. No problem if you can’t or don’t want to 🤍

Btw sorry for my english, it’s not my first language lol

unconventional — mick schumacher + jack doohan

smau/blurbs

mick schumacher x!wolff reader x jack doohan

toto wolff x !daughter reader

YN Wolff and Mick Schumacher have always been a quiet constant in the chaos of the paddock. They’d never confirmed their relationship—but they didn’t need to. From secret glances across the garage to late-night flight selfies and matching bracelets seen on opposite wrists, people put the pieces together years ago. They were the paddock’s soft-spoken power couple. The pair who’d grown up under the weight of legendary last names, who never needed the spotlight to know what they meant to each other. And in 2025, as a new wave of rookies crashes onto the F1 grid, YN and Mick have found themselves in a new role—mentors. Friends. A safe space. They’re the calm in the storm for drivers trying to find their footing. But when Jack Doohan gets shockingly dropped from Alpine’s future plans, everything shifts. He’s not just fast and fiercely competitive. He’s charming. Unfiltered. And completely uninterested in following the rules when it comes to the tightly-bound duo everyone assumed was untouchable. Now, under the glossy calm of race weekends and press releases, something’s brewing. Something electric. Something no one saw coming. After all, love doesn’t always follow formation.

fc : leah halton

(a/n) : your english was perfect my love, i got ya🫶🏻 also mick is still a mercedes reserve driver in this story bc it just worked better for my plot line. love youuuuu

hope you love it!

also guys i am going to be posting a lot in the next 24 hours- i am working my way through all these requests! yayayaya

—

yn_wolff

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yn_wolff : dad said I wasn’t allowed back at the track until i pass my bar exam — so I enlisted micky to help me study. (i am the reincarnation of elle woods) #manifestipass

tagged : mickschumacher

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gina_schumacher : our future lawyer!😍 love youuuu

liked by yn_wolff

↳ yn_wolff : love you my sistaaaa💘

mercedesamgf1 : we vote for boss man to hire you as the head of our legal department - admin

liked by yn_wolff

↳ yn_wolff : lowkey he should but if he doesn’t I’ll just go work for another team

↳ scuderiaferrari : heyyyy ynnnnn

↳ mclaren : we think you’d look great in our colors 🧡

↳ williamsracing : hey girl we have carlos sainz

↳ yn_wolff : SOLD

kimi.antonelli : since mick is doing your homework can you do mine???

liked by yn_wolff

↳ yn_wolff : tell the old man to let me back in and we have a deal

↳ kimi.antonelli : he said he doesn’t care as long as we both get it done. SLEEPOVER!!!!

↳ mercedesamgf1 : no fun. only homework - toto

↳ yn_wolff : BAN THIS MAN FROM SOCIAL MEDIA BOOOOOOO

mickschumacher : you’re lucky you are so beautiful

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↳ yn_wolff : and you are so lucky to be able to look at me everyday

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↳ yn_wolff : im jk thank you for all your help my loveeeee

liked by mickschumacher

georgerussell63 : toto acts like we are such a distraction but you are your own distraction

liked by yn_wolff

↳ yn_wolff : what r you on about georgie

↳ georgerussell63 : I’ve watched you study, one minute we are reading about civil law and the next we are on prada’s website

liked by yn_wolff and mickschumacher

↳ yn_wolff : well i gotta look good in court guys

liked by georgerussell63 and mickschumacher

—

The living room is quiet except for the soft scratch of my pen and Mick’s voice, low and steady as he reads from the flashcards balanced on his palm. He’s sitting cross-legged at the end of the couch, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a legal pad on the coffee table in front of him like he’s the one studying for the bar exam. I’m curled against the opposite end, blanket around my shoulders, hair a mess, and caffeine slowly replacing the blood in my veins.

“Alright,” Mick says gently, eyes flicking over the card.

“What are the four elements of a legally binding contract?”

I groan and bury my face in the throw pillow. “Please. Mercy.”

He chuckles. “You said one more.”

“That was three cards ago.”

He waits. Patient, as always. And somehow, annoyingly kind even when I want to scream.

I peek at him through tired eyes. “Offer, acceptance, consideration, and mutual intent to be bound,” I mumble.

Mick beams, flipping the card and tossing it on top of the growing stack. “See? You’re brilliant.”

“Brilliant and dying.”

“Dramatic and brilliant.”

I smile despite myself, letting the blanket fall a bit as I shift closer, nudging his knee with my foot. He rests his hand on my ankle without thinking about it, thumb brushing slow circles over the fabric of my sweatpants. It’s soothing. We’ve done this dance so many nights before—me panicked and pushing myself too hard, Mick grounding me with nothing more than soft words and quiet presence. He never makes me feel like I’m falling apart. Only that I’m building something.

“I should’ve deferred,” I murmur. “Who studies for the bar while working trackside for half the season?”

“You,” Mick says, matter-of-fact. “Because you don’t quit. And because you’re going to pass.”

“You sound awfully sure.”

“I’ve been sure of you since we were seventeen.”

That earns him a look. “You mean when you watched me trip over air and fall on my face?”

He laughs, eyes crinkling. “Yes. That was the moment.”

I press my lips together to keep from smiling too hard. “God, you’re lucky you’re pretty.”

He leans over and kisses my forehead. “And you’re lucky I love you so much.”

I close my eyes, the weight of his hand warm against my leg, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the worn comfort of our flat. Tomorrow we fly out. The start of another race weekend, another whirlwind. But for now, it’s just us. Law books and flashcards and the boy who never let me forget I could do this. And even though I’m exhausted, nerves fraying at the edges, I feel it again—that quiet certainty he always brings with him. I don’t say anything more. Just let myself sink into the couch and trust that, somehow, with Mick beside me, I’m going to be okay.

—

Mick and I stroll into the Mercedes garage hand in hand, fresh coffees in the other, pretending we haven’t done this exact routine a dozen times before. Same arrival, same subtle smiles, same people pretending not to stare. We’re not flashy—never have been. But apparently, walking in with your boyfriend of several years and holding his hand still counts as news in this paddock. The second we step past the threshold, I hear it.

“Must we hold hands in the workplace?”

Toto’s voice cuts through the soft hum of team chatter and tire guns like a judge entering court. I don’t even look up from my coffee.

“Morning to you too, Papa.”

He’s standing by the pit wall, arms crossed, headset around his neck, giving us the look—somewhere between annoyed principal and long-suffering father.

Mick just smiles, completely unbothered. “Good to see you too, Toto.”

Toto grumbles something about professionalism under his breath and waves us off like he’s allergic to affection. I let go of Mick’s hand just to be petty and blow my father a kiss. He pretends not to see it. We’re barely two steps deeper into the garage when a blur of movement crashes into us.

“YN—I need you. It’s an emergency.”

I turn to see Kimi Antonelli skidding to a stop beside me, tablet in hand, hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted.

“Please tell me this isn’t another laundry crisis,” I say, sipping my coffee.

“No, worse. Math.”

He shoves the tablet into my hands, eyes wide. “I have to submit this calculus quiz in an hour and I don’t know what I’m doing and I already used up my free trial on that homework app thing and—”

“Kimi,” I interrupt gently, scrolling through the page, “you used the cosine function on a linear problem.”

“I panicked!”

Mick peers over my shoulder, trying not to laugh. “Is that… is that a meme in the middle of your solution?”

“It’s context,” Kimi says defensively. “Visual learning.”

I glance back at Toto. He sighs and mutters something that I’m 80% sure translates to “I need a raise.”

Kimi’s bouncing nervously beside me. “You can fix it, right? You went to actual university. You know things. You’re terrifyingly smart.”

“I’ll help,” I promise, smiling. “But you’re buying me a cupcake later.”

“Done. Two cupcakes. I’ll name my firstborn after you. Please just don’t let me fail.”

I sit down on a spare stool, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, while Kimi settles in beside me and I begin to explain the cosine function to him. Mick sits across from us and offers emotional support for Kimi.

—

Kimi’s halfway through solving for x—with the dramatic flair of someone diffusing a bomb and not just doing high school math—when he suddenly perks up, eyes flicking toward the entrance.

“Oh! I told the guys to swing by,” he announces, like he’s summoned a group of puppies instead of three more chaotic rookies. “They need your legal help. Also, Jack still owes me food.”

I open my mouth to protest—mostly because this is my workspace and not a study hall—but I’m too late. Isack, Ollie, and Jack stroll into the garage like they’ve done it a million times. Which, to be fair, they pretty much have. Isack’s already deep in conversation with George. Ollie’s sipping on his latte. And Jack…

Jack’s the last one through the door. His hands are shoved in his pockets, his Alpine gear jacket half-zipped, and that familiar, cocky grin is already tugging at his face. His hair’s a little wind-tossed, eyes sharp as they scan the garage—until they land on me.

And that’s when something changes. It’s small. Subtle. But I feel it. We’ve known each other for years. I’ve seen him after races, through interviews, in group chats roasting each other to death. I know his stats, his bad habits, and the fact that he secretly loves corny dad jokes. But when he looks at me this time… it’s different.

“Hey, counselor,” Jack says, his voice smooth, familiar, but the way he says it has weight. Like it’s not just a joke anymore.

I raise an eyebrow. “Hey, future client.”

Kimi chimes in, snorting. “Don’t flirt with her, Jack. She’ll make you do math.”

Jack’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. “Maybe I should. Might actually learn something.”

The comment lands softly but solidly—enough to make something flicker in my chest. I feel Mick shift beside me, subtle but definitely there. A small tightening of his hand on the back of my stool. A reminder. A presence.

I tilt my head at Jack, keeping my voice light. “Only if you show your work.”

Jack smirks, like that’s exactly the answer he was hoping for.

Ollie slides into the chair across from me. “Kimi, if this is about your math quiz again, I’m begging you—stop sending me panic texts at 2 AM.”

“You said you were awake!”

“I was busy!”

“At 2 am?” I questioned with a smirk.

Isack leans in over my shoulder and holds out his phone. “Can you read this brand deal for me and see if I should say yes?”

The moment disperses in rookie noise—complaints, questions, bickering about everything under the sun —but even as I scroll through Isack’s email, I catch Jack watching me again.

—

three month time skip

The ocean is quiet today. Waves roll in soft and slow, like they’re trying not to interrupt anyone’s peace. The sun is warm—not too harsh, not too dull. Just enough to feel like summer without sweating through my sanity. It’s rare for a day to feel still during the season, but somehow, this one does. I stretch out on the oversized towel, my legs tangled with the pages of my study guide, a half-highlighted section on constructive trusts fluttering in the breeze. I should be focused. I need to be focused. The bar exam is a monster creeping closer by the day, and my outlines are starting to blur together like one long fever dream.

But instead of thinking about fiduciary duties, I’m watching Mick and Jack attempt to skim a frisbee across the sand like it’s an Olympic event.

Jack dives dramatically after it—misses by a mile—and flops onto his back, arms out like he’s been shot.

Mick laughs, all golden and easy, brushing sand off his chest and tossing the frisbee back with a smirk. “That’s six in a row. Are you okay? Do you need medical?”

“Pretty sure the sand is actively sabotaging me,” Jack calls back.

“You’re actively sabotaging you,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

Jack hears it. He sits up and shoots me a grin. “You wound me, counselor.”

I roll my eyes and go back to underlining the statute that’s been haunting my dreams all week. We’ve spent a lot of time together this season—more than I expected. It started with paddock run-ins, dinners, legal meetings with my rookies. Then it turned into post-session coffees, long hotel conversations, quiet dinners in Mick’s apartment where Jack somehow always showed up with wine and a dumb story.

It’s not that I don’t love it. I do. I love the rhythm we’ve fallen into. Mick’s calm presence beside me when my brain’s overloaded. Jack’s ridiculous one-liners that make me laugh even when I want to scream. The way they both know not to talk when I’m flipping flashcards like a machine—but also the way they do talk when they know I’m spiraling. Mick comes over now, sweat-slick and sun-kissed, flopping down beside me. He leans over to kiss my temple, his hand ghosting over my back before settling at my waist.

“Still memorizing?” he murmurs, peeking at the page.

“Trying,” I say, voice soft. “Jack’s dramatic death scenes aren’t helping.”

“I love chaos,” Jack says from his new position, halfway buried in sand. “It’s what I bring to this group.”

Mick grins, then gently takes my pen out of my hand and sets it on the towel. “Just ten minutes. Close your eyes. Breathe.”

“I—”

“No arguing,” he says.

I huff but oblige, stretching back onto the towel, letting the sun soak into my skin. Jack wanders over and collapses beside me with a groan, head landing near my shoulder.

“Tell me again why law school doesn’t give you beach credits,” he says. “You’d be top of your class.”

“Because justice isn’t served on a towel,” I mumble.

“Maybe it should be.”

Mick chuckles quietly beside me. I can feel his fingers trace absent patterns over my ribs. Jack’s hand brushes mine in the sand, just barely—not on purpose, but he doesn’t move it either. And for a moment, I forget about everything else. The exam. The season. The rules I usually live by. Because between the two of them, the world feels quieter. Easier.

—

Mick’s POV

The sun’s starting to sink into the horizon, brushing everything in that soft, golden haze that makes the world feel suspended—just for a little while. The three of us are still stretched out on the beach, tangled in towels, sand, and half-finished thoughts. YN’s curled on her side next to me, finally napping, her study guide open but forgotten under her arm. Her face is relaxed in a way it rarely is lately—no bar stress, no logistics spreadsheets, no weight of being Toto Wolff’s daughter or the girl who holds half the paddock together like duct tape.

Just YN. Just this moment. And then there’s Jack.

He’s quiet now, legs stretched out in the sand, arms propped behind him as he watches the sun drop lower over the water. But every so often, his eyes shift. Not toward the sky, or the waves, or anything else. Toward her.

It’s subtle. If I didn’t already know him, I might’ve missed it. But I do know him.

I see the way his expression softens when he thinks no one’s watching. The way his eyes linger on the curve of her cheek, the loose strands of hair brushing against her lips in the wind. The way his fingers twitch slightly, like maybe they want to reach out but know better. It’s not the kind of look you give a friend.

It’s the kind of look you give someone you’re trying really hard not to fall for—even though it might already be too late.

I don’t feel jealousy. Not exactly. It’s something more complicated than that. I’ve loved her for years. And she’s loved me back. Steady. Quiet. Unshakable. We built something strong—something real. But lately, with Jack… things have shifted. I can feel it. The way she laughs around him. The way her eyes sparkle a little brighter when he walks in. The way she listens when he talks, like she already knows what he’s going to say, and wants to hear it anyway. And the thing is…I don’t hate it.

Jack’s become part of us, whether we planned for it or not. He’s stayed late after races to help clean up her flashcards. He’s waited in hotel lobbies with bags of snacks when she’s come back from mock trials too drained to function. He teases her in a way I never could—sharp-edged but safe. Challenging, but kind.

And now, on this beach, under this sky, watching him watch her…I wonder if maybe this thing we’ve built—YN and I—was never meant to have walls. Maybe there’s room for something more. Maybe there’s room for him.

She stirs beside me, eyelashes fluttering as she stretches and yawns. I reach over, brushing a bit of sand from her cheek.

“You okay?” she mumbles, eyes still half-closed.

“Yeah,” I say, soft. “Just thinking.”

Jack glances away quickly, like he wasn’t caught. But I saw. And I don’t think I mind. Not yet. Maybe not at all.

—

yn_wolff

liked by jackdoohan, mickschumacher, kimi.antonelli & 2,509,002 others.

yn_wolff : bar exam is 5 days away and it has consumed me so enjoy these pics (ft jack my paralegal and tech support) (and mick, my emotional support boyfriend)

tagged : jackdoohan, mickschumacher and susie_wolff

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georgerussell63 : less thirst trap more study

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↳ yn_wolff : ironic coming from a man that never has a shirt on

liked by georgerussell63 and lando

kimi.antonelli : why is jack suddenly the third wheel??! I thought it was me 😕

liked by yn_wolff and jackdoohan

↳ yn_wolff : I do not see you as a third wheel kimi, I see you as my child

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↳ kimi.antonelli : oh okay 😁 that makes me feel warm and fuzzy on the inside

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mickschumacher : my greatest achievement in life is being your emotional support boyfriend

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↳ yn_wolff : you do a rlly good job 😻

susie_wolff : You got this, beautiful girl! We are all rooting for you ❤️

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↳ yn_wolff : mommmmmy i love you 😭 shopping spree if i pass??

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↳ susie_wolff : can’t wait for it! 😁

jackdoohan : adding paralegal, tech support and third wheel onto my resume

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↳ yn_wolff : my fave third wheel

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↳ yn_wolff : don’t forget expert frisbee player

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—

There’s a low buzz under my skin that’s been there since 5AM, a combination of adrenaline, dread, and the overwhelming urge to sprint in the opposite direction. Today is bar exam day, and I haven’t decided whether I’m ready or just completely numb. Jack is riding shotgun, legs kicked up on the dash, spinning a pen between his fingers like he’s the one about to sit this thing. Mick’s driving with the kind of focused calm that’s the only thing keeping me from absolutely losing it. We’re about ten minutes from the testing center when my phone rings in my lap.

Papa is calling...

I blink at the name for a second before answering. “Hi.”

“YN,” comes Toto’s voice—calm, steady, and warm in a way he rarely gets to be when the whole world is watching him. “Just checking in. Are you feeling okay?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “As okay as someone facing seven hours of legal hazing can be.”

Mick chuckles.

“I wish I could be there,” Toto says. “But I know you. You’ve worked for this. You’ve done everything right. Today is just… the final step.”

“I know,” I say, voice smaller than I intended.

There’s a pause, then his voice softens. “You’re going to be brilliant. No matter what happens, I’m proud of you. Call me when you’re done—your mother is already pacing.”

“Of course she is,” I laugh, blinking fast. “Thanks, Papa. I love you.”

“I love you too, meine Kleine. Now go show them what a Wolff can do.”

When I hang up, there’s a beat of silence. Jack’s looking out the window like he didn’t hear the whole thing. Mick reaches back and sets a hand on my knee.

“I like supportive Toto,” Jack says, mock-wiping a tear from his eye. “Character development.”

Mick just squeezes my hand. “You okay?”

I nod, the nerves still there but… less crushing now. “Yeah. That helped.”

“Good,” Jack says, grinning as we pull into the drop-off. “Because you’re about to argue with the ghost of every law professor you’ve ever had.”

“I swear to God,” I mutter as I step out of the car.

Jack hops out and jogs around, already adjusting my bag on my shoulders like some chaotic assistant-slash-bodyguard. Mick joins us a second later and smooths the collar of my blazer.

“You look terrifyingly competent,” Jack declares.

“Terrifying in general,” Mick adds with a soft smile.

Before I can roll my eyes at them, I get two forehead kisses—one from each of them. Like clockwork. Like it’s normal.

“Go make the justice system your bitch,” Jack whispers.

“And call us the second you’re done,” Mick says. “We’ll be right here.”

I take one breath. Then another. And walk inside without looking back. But I know they’re both standing there, waiting—my boyfriend and my maybe-something-more, and my dad just a phone call away.

—

It’s done. Seven hours. Multiple essays. Hundreds of bubbles filled in so aggressively that I snapped my second pencil during Contracts. My brain feels like mashed potatoes and my hands are trembling, whether from adrenaline, exhaustion, or caffeine withdrawal—I genuinely don’t know. The fluorescent lights of the testing center feel like a personal attack. The air is stale. Everyone looks like they just returned from war. My legs are moving toward the exit before I fully process that it’s over. My mouth is dry. My heart’s still racing. And I’m this close to crying, but not the good kind. The kind where you’re not even sure what you’re crying about—just that your body needs to release something. The second I step outside into the late afternoon sun, I see them. Mick and Jack, leaning against the car.

“CONGRATS TO OUR FAVORITE LAWYER”

(with an asterisk below that reads: *we’re still not sure what tort law is but we believe in you.)

Mick’s holding an iced coffee and the softest smile I’ve ever seen.

“Hey,” he says gently, pushing off the car. “You made it.”

My bottom lip wobbles. “Barely.”

Jack lowers the sign and jogs the last few steps toward me. “What’s the verdict, Counselor?”

I shake my head. “I don’t even remember what I wrote. I think I may have argued with myself in one of the essays.”

“So… standard Tuesday?” he teases, grinning, and I let out a strangled laugh. He steps forward and wraps his arms around me, warm and solid and completely distracting from the lump still sitting in my throat. “I’m proud of you,” he murmurs. “So proud.”

Mick joins us a moment later, wrapping his arms around both of us, letting me sink between them like I’m allowed to collapse for just a second. Like I don’t have to be composed or capable right now.

“I brought coffee,” he says, pulling back just enough to press it into my hand. “And we have snacks in the car. And I promise you’re not allowed to think about any legal principle until at least… tomorrow.”

I rest my forehead against his chest. “I don’t even know how to function right now.”

“You don’t have to,” Jack says softly. “That’s what we’re here for.”

I blink up at them—my boyfriend and my… well, Jack—and suddenly I am crying. But this time it’s the good kind. The messy, exhausted, grateful kind.

They don’t freak out. They just hold me. Let me fall apart a little. Let me be human.

“You did it,” Mick says into my hair. “It’s over.”

The two got me in the car and I finally started to calm down. I don’t know where we’re going until the car slows in front of a restaurant I definitely recognize—but only because it’s impossibly nice and I once spilled tomato soup in the entryway during a Wolff family brunch when I was twelve.

“Guys,” I say warily, adjusting my hoodie and messy bun. “I look like I’ve been in a bunker. We can’t go in here.”

“You look perfect,” Mick says, already out of the car.

Jack grins, holding the door open for me. “Also, too late. We made a reservation.”

I give them both suspicious glares as they usher me inside, but my mouth is too full of caffeine and exhaustion to argue.

We step through the doorway, and I’m met with the unmistakable sound of—

“There she is!”

I stop dead.

At the corner table, Toto and Susie are standing up—standing—with huge grins on their faces and a bottle of champagne already being uncorked by a very confused waiter.

“No. No way,” I whisper, turning back toward the boys, who are now both beaming like the smug little traitors they are.

“You’re not the only one who can pull off a surprise,” Jack says.

“I didn’t agree to this emotionally,” I say, but my voice is already trembling.

Toto steps forward first, wrapping me in a big, warm hug before I even have time to breathe. “You did it, meine Liebe. I don’t care what your score is—you showed up, and that’s more than most people will ever do.”

“Papa,” I mumble, melting against him.

He pulls back and cups my cheek like I’m still six years old. “I’m so proud of you I could explode.”

Susie hugs me next, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I told him we should have met you at the test center, but he wanted the lighting in here to be better for photos.”

Toto scoffs. “I did not say that.”

Mick and Jack are already sliding into seats beside me, practically glowing with pride as the waiter pours the champagne.

“You thought we were just taking you to dinner,” Jack says, nudging my shoulder.

“I thought I was going to cry in a drive-thru parking lot and then fall asleep,” I admit.

“Well, now you get pasta, champagne, and people who love you instead,” Mick says.

I glance around the table—at Toto, beaming like I just won the constructors’ championship; at Susie, already pulling out a small gift bag from under the table; and at the two idiots beside me who spent the last six months making sure I never gave up.

And for the first time all day, my brain stops spinning. I smile. It’s small and soft, but it’s real.

“Okay,” I say. “Now it feels real.”

—

I almost didn’t check. Not because I didn’t care—but because I cared too much. Because part of me still doesn’t believe I’m the kind of person who gets good news after months of surviving on nerves and flashcards and microwave ramen. But now I’m staring at the screen, hands over my mouth, tears welling up so fast I don’t even register the moment I start crying. I passed. I. Passed. A second later, my laptop is yanked away—gently—and Mick’s arms are around me, lifting me up and spinning me once before setting me back on the couch.

“You did it,” he whispers, kissing my forehead, my cheeks, the tip of my nose. “I knew you would.”

I can’t breathe. I’m sobbing into his chest and laughing at the same time, and when Jack bursts into the room—barefoot, holding a half-eaten banana —he freezes, wide-eyed.

“Wait. Is this a happy cry?”

I lift my head and nod. Jack lets out a whoop so loud it makes the dog next door start barking. “She passed?! She passed!” He ditches the banana and practically tackles me onto the couch, both of them hugging me like I’ve just been knighted and crowned in one motion.

Susie bursts in next, phone in hand. “Toto and I were tracking the portal. You passed?”

Mick beams. “She passed.”

Toto appears a heartbeat later with two bottles of champagne. “We’re celebrating. Tonight. No excuses.”

I laugh, wiping tears from my cheeks. “What if I wanted a quiet night in?”

“No,” he says firmly. “You are my daughter. You passed the bar. And we are going out.”

Susie kisses the top of my head. “Already called the restaurant. Private room. Best desserts in the city.”

But when we’re about to leave, Jack slips into his shoes and pulls me aside in the hallway.

“Hey,” he says softly, eyes flicking toward the front door. “I’m not coming tonight.”

I blink. “What? Why not?”

He rubs the back of his neck, not quite meeting my gaze. “Just—something I need to handle. Nothing bad, I swear. I just… need the night.”

I frown. “Jack…”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Go. You deserve the celebration. You earned every second of it.”

Mick joins us at the door, tilting his head. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack says quickly. “Take her out. Have a drink for me, Counselor.”

And before I can press him any further, he leans in, kisses the side of my head, and gives me a quick squeeze. He’s gone a second later, disappearing into his car and driving off before I can even think of calling his name. I glance up at Mick, who looks just as confused.

“Weird?” I ask.

“Weird,” he agrees.

Still, there’s champagne waiting. A proud father with a reservation. A night I’ll never forget. But as we drive away, as Toto tells me how proud he is and Susie starts planning a Europe trip in my honor, my mind drifts. To Jack. To the way he looked at me right before he left. Like maybe something inside him is shifting, too.

—

yn_wolff

liked by susie_wolff, georgerussell63, mickschumacher & 4,098,001 others.

yn_wolff : yours truly is officially a lawyer😭 thank you to everyone who supported me on this journey— my friends, my family, my boyfriend — everyone. i love you all.

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mercedesamgf1 : Congratulations YN! 🎉🍾🙌🏻 We knew you could do it!

liked by yn_wolff

susie_wolff : We are SO proud of you. You earned this, YN. You are incredible! ❤️❤️

liked by yn_wolff

georgerussell63 : as much as I pick on you, I am genuinely so proud of you. if I ever found myself in legal trouble, I suppose I’d trust you to get me out of it 😉

liked by yn_wolff

gina_schumacher : MY GIRLLLL!! I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT. I AM SO SO PROUD.

liked by yn_wolff

mickschumacher : proud is an understatement. you are incredible, my love. you never fail to amaze me 🫶🏻

liked by yn_wolff

kimi.antonelli : YAYYYYYYY MOMMMMMM😁😁

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olliebearman : Congratulations YN!! We all knew you could do it. Any chance you can help me get out of something I accidentally signed? 😁😁

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F1

755,304 likes.

f1 : Alpine has announced that Jack Doohan is out and will be replaced by Franco Colapinto for the remainder of the season.

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The music in the private room is soft and jazzy, the kind Toto insists creates the perfect dinner ambiance. There’s champagne in my glass, a slice of pistachio cake in front of me, and Susie’s in the middle of telling a story about how I used to cross-examine my kindergarten teacher over snack time distribution. Everyone’s laughing. I should be laughing. But then my phone buzzes on the table beside my plate—once, twice, a third time. Group chats. Twitter notifications. F1 alerts.

I glance down lazily, expecting another George Russell meme. But then my eyes catch on the headline at the top of my screen.

BREAKING: Jack Doohan Dropped From Alpine and to be replaced by Franco Colapinto for the remainder of the season.

The room spins. My chair scrapes against the floor before I even know I’m standing.

“YN?” Mick’s voice is soft but confused. “What’s wrong?”

I stare down at my phone, my thumb shaking as I scroll. It’s confirmed. Official. Just posted. His name is everywhere—“unexpected,” “internal restructuring,” “development priorities.” All corporate bullshit masking the fact that they just… let him go.

Toto’s already leaning forward. “What happened?”

“Jack,” I breathe. “Jack got dropped from Alpine.”

Mick’s face falls. “Wait, what?”

My heart is pounding now, the air around me too tight. Too loud.

“I—I need to find him,” I say, already grabbing my bag. “I need to go.”

Susie stands up. “YN, slow down—he might need space—”

“No,” I cut her off, eyes already burning. “He was off all night. He knew. He didn’t want to ruin today for me. And I let him leave without—without saying anything.”

Toto gently reaches for my wrist. “Do you know where he is?”

“He wouldn’t go home,” I say quickly, mind racing. “He probably went to the marina. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he could fall apart without anyone watching.”

Mick is already sliding into his jacket, calm and steady. “I’ll drive.”

Toto gives me one long, thoughtful look—then nods. “Go. We’ll wrap everything up here.”

“Call me if he doesn’t pick up,” Susie adds. “And tell him we’re proud of him no matter what.”

I nod, lips pressed tightly together. My chest aches. My eyes sting. Jack is my friend. One of my best friends. My my mock trial partner, my grounding force these past few months. The one who sat next to me on the floor while I cried over contracts law and made stupid jokes about torts until I stopped shaking.

And now he’s hurting. Alone. And I don’t care that this is my night. I don’t care that I passed the bar. None of it means anything if he’s out there falling apart by himself. Because somewhere between all those late nights and long drives and inside jokes—I stopped thinking of Jack as just a friend. And I’m not going to let him go through this without me.

—

The streets blur past outside the car window, neon lights streaking across the windshield like we’re racing time itself. Mick doesn’t say much—he doesn’t need to. His hand rests on my thigh the whole drive, grounding me as my mind spirals.

“He knew,” I whisper, barely audible over the hum of the engine. “He knew and he still showed up for me.”

Mick squeezes gently. “That’s who Jack is.”

I nod, wiping at my eyes. “That’s why we have to find him.”

It doesn’t take long. Jack’s a creature of habit, always retreating to the water when things get too loud. We pull into the empty marina just after sunset, the sky streaked with indigo and gold, boats gently rocking in their slips. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Too peaceful for the kind of grief I know he must be carrying.

We walk together in silence, scanning the docks until—

“There,” I breathe, pointing.

Jack’s sitting near the end of one of the docks, legs hanging over the edge, a hoodie pulled over his head and headphones around his neck. He’s staring out at the water like it might offer him some kind of answer. Like if he stares hard enough, the waves will make the reality go away. I don’t wait. I jog the last few steps, the wooden boards echoing under my feet until I’m dropping to my knees behind him.

“Jack,” I say softly.

He flinches slightly, but doesn’t turn.

“You should be at your party,” he murmurs, voice rough and low.

“You should’ve called me,” I reply.

Silence.

“I didn’t want to ruin your moment,” he finally says. “You deserved to have that without… this.”

I crawl closer until I’m sitting beside him, shoulder pressed gently against his. “You’re part of that moment, Jack. Every late night, every meltdown—you carried me through it. Don’t you get that?”

He swallows hard, still staring ahead. “Doesn’t matter now.”

Mick walks up behind us and crouches on Jack’s other side, his presence solid and warm. “That’s not true. You’re still you, Jack. You’re still damn good.”

Jack lets out a bitter little laugh. “Good doesn’t keep you in a seat.”

“No,” I say quietly. “But being loved does.”

That gets him to turn. His eyes are red-rimmed, like he’s been holding it together for hours. Like if anyone says the wrong thing, he’ll fall apart. So I say nothing else. Just lean in and wrap my arms around him. He stiffens at first, then melts, pressing his forehead to my shoulder like he’s been holding his breath all day and only just now exhaled.

Mick wraps one arm around us both, his hand settling on the back of Jack’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Jack whispers. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” I whisper back. “Not now. Not ever.”

The three of us sit there for a long time, no words needed. Just the sound of the water lapping against the docks, the breeze rustling the sails, and our hearts slowly settling back into rhythm beside each other. Because this isn’t the end. Not for Jack. Not for us.

—

Jack’s POV

I wake up slowly. It’s warm—too warm. Not the kind of heat from the sun, but the kind that comes from being wrapped in a blanket you don’t remember getting into, on a couch that doesn’t quite belong to you, with the faint scent of vanilla and clean laundry all around. For a second, I don’t move. I just listen. Soft footsteps in the kitchen. A kettle clicking on. Someone humming faintly—YN. I’d know her voice anywhere, even when it’s just a tune under her breath.

I blink open my eyes and realize I’m at their place—Mick and YN’s. Their living room is full of soft light, the curtains cracked open just enough to let the sun in. A hoodie has been draped over me. Not mine. Mick’s, I think. I shift slightly, and that’s when I see him—Mick, on the other armchair, feet propped up, flipping through some sports section and sipping tea like this is the most normal morning in the world.

He glances up. Smiles. “Morning.”

I clear my throat. “Hey.”

“Coffee’s on,” he says casually. “YN’s making those protein muffins she claims are good. No promises.”

I try to smile. I fail.

“You didn’t have to stay,” I murmur.

Mick shrugs. “You didn’t have to either. But here we are.”

He says it like it’s simple. Like there’s no weight behind it. But I can still feel it in my chest—that ache that started when the Alpine email hit, the one that only got worse when I imagined YN out celebrating without knowing the ground was collapsing under me.

And then she came. And Mick. And they stayed.

“Do I look like a disaster?” I ask, rubbing a hand down my face.

“You look like someone who got blindsided by bad news and didn’t deserve it,” YN says, stepping in from the kitchen with a mug in her hand.

She walks over and hands it to me—hot, just the way I like it, the way she knows I like it—and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more seen.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she adds softly. “Just so you know.”

I stare at her, throat tight. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” she says immediately. “You’re family.”

I can’t speak. I can barely breathe past the lump forming in my chest. So I nod. Once. Twice. And then she leans down and presses a kiss to the top of my head, her hand cupping the back of my neck for just a second too long. It’s comfort. It’s home. It’s… something else. Something I don’t dare name. Yet. Mick watches us with that unreadable expression of his—calm, patient, knowing far more than he lets on. Then he tilts his head, eyes back on me.

“You’re staying here for a few days.”

It’s not a question.

“I—”

“No arguing,” YN says, sitting on the arm of the couch. “You’re not going to be alone right now.”

I swallow hard and let the warmth of the coffee settle into my hands. They’re not going to let me fall. Even if part of me already has.

—

your pov

The apartment is quiet. Jack’s asleep in the guest room, finally. He tried to insist he didn’t need it, but Mick gave him that look, the one that doesn’t leave any room for argument, and now he’s tucked in under fresh sheets, breathing even and soft behind a closed door.

I sit on the couch in one of Mick’s t-shirts, legs pulled up under me, half a cup of tea cooling in my hands.

Mick joins me a minute later, dropping beside me with a low sigh, his hair still damp from the shower, his expression unreadable—but tired. Not from the day. From the weight of it all.

“He finally fell asleep?” I murmur.

Mick nods. “Out like a light.”

I rest my head against his shoulder, letting the silence settle between us like a blanket. We sit like that for a while. Until I say it.

“He means a lot to me.”

Mick doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even shift. He just exhales slowly, like he’s been waiting for me to say it.

“I know,” he says quietly. “He means a lot to me, too.”

I close my eyes. “I didn’t expect it. Not like this. Not so quickly.”

He hums. “I did.”

I glance up. “You did?”

Mick shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I saw it before you did. The way you light up when he texts. How you always wait to see if he’s going to sit next to you. You never said it, but I’ve always known.”

My stomach twists—not with guilt, but something gentler. Deeper. More real.

“You’re not upset?”

He turns to look at me fully now, his gaze soft but steady. “No. Because I’ve seen how much love you have to give. And I’ve seen how Jack looks at you when you’re not watching.”

I swallow hard, emotion catching in my throat. “Mick…”

He cups my cheek with one hand. “Loving you doesn’t mean I have less to give. If anything… I think there’s more room now.”

I blink at him, tears suddenly stinging behind my eyes.

“You think…?” I whisper.

Mick nods. “I think he fits.”

It’s so simple. So honest. And it breaks me open in the best way.

I lean forward, pressing my forehead to his, trying to steady myself. “I don’t know where this goes. Or what it becomes.”

“Neither do I,” he says softly. “But I trust us. And I trust him.”

I pull back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You really saw it before I did?”

He grins. “Baby… I saw it the first time you made him coffee without asking how he takes it.”

I laugh, tears slipping free down my cheeks as I pull him into a hug, burying my face in his shoulder. “How are you always so good to me?”

He wraps his arms around me, warm and sure. “Because you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And if Jack becomes part of that too, then… maybe he’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to us.”

And somewhere, deep in my chest, something finally settles. Something clicks into place. Because Mick’s right. Jack fits.

—

It’s late, and the apartment feels quieter than usual.

The TV’s still glowing softly with the Netflix menu, long past the point where it asked if we were still watching. The takeout containers are scattered across the coffee table, half-eaten spring rolls abandoned in favor of something heavier that’s been hanging in the air all evening.

Jack sits on the floor across from us, legs stretched out, hair a little messy from the ocean wind earlier. Mick’s beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles against the back of my hand.

It’s time.

I glance at Mick. He gives the smallest nod.

I swallow and look at Jack.

“Jack,” I say softly.

His eyes lift to mine immediately. So open. So guarded. My heart squeezes.

“We wanted to talk to you.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stiffen. Just nods. “Okay.”

Mick shifts slightly, his voice low but certain. “We’ve been talking a lot… about how things have changed. How they feel now. With you.”

Jack stays quiet, listening the way he always does—with his whole heart, even if he doesn’t realize it. I take a breath. A real one.

“You’ve become really important to us,” I say gently. “I love Mick. I always will. That hasn’t changed. But somewhere along the way… I started loving you too.”

I see it land in his eyes like thunder.

And then Mick speaks, calm and grounded. “I care about you more than I expected to, Jack. Not as someone crashing on our couch. Not as a friend we needed to help. But as someone I want here. With us.”

It’s terrifying to say it out loud. Even with Mick’s hand still in mine. Even with the way Jack’s gaze softens like he’s seeing sunlight for the first time in days.

“You’re allowed to say no,” I add quickly, heart pounding. “We’ll still love you. We’ll still want you in our lives. This isn’t some pressure thing. We just—”

“I’m in.”

He says it like he’s been holding it in for months.

“I’m in,” he repeats, quieter. “God, I’ve been in for months.”

Tears burn behind my eyes before I can stop them. My breath catches in my throat.

Mick tilts his head, steady as ever. “You sure?”

Jack nods, eyes on mine. “I’ve never been more sure of anything. I just… didn’t think I was allowed to want this.”

That’s all it takes. I move across the floor before I even think, my arms sliding around him, pressing my cheek to his shoulder. He wraps his arms around me immediately, tight and desperate and familiar. And then Mick is there too—his arms around both of us, grounding us, completing something I didn’t even realize had been unfinished until this very moment. Because this isn’t messy. It isn’t complicated. It’s love. Real, deep, terrifying love. And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like too much. It feels like exactly enough.

—

yn_wolff

liked by jackdoohan, mickschumacher, georgerussell63 & 7,090,875 others.

yn_wolff : my boys forever n ever

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[danysdaughter]

It's Strange You Never Knew

pairing | 40s!bucky x 40s!reader & post-tfatws!bucky x 40s!reader & minor!40s!steve x 40s!reader

word count | 3.5k words

summary | decades after vanishing into war, bucky hears a voice on the radio that stops him cold—a voice he thought he'd never hear again. what he uncovers is a song written for him, by someone who loved him quietly, and died before he ever had the chance to say your name out again.

tags | post-tfatws, friends to almost lovers, slow burn (but it's too late), unspoken love, missed opportunities, angst/NO comfort , emotional gut punch, found after death, soft grief, lowkey alt!reader, songfic

a/n | another day, another 40s bucky fic, based on this request.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

Brooklyn, June 1942

It smelled like cigarette smoke and gin, the kind that clung to clothes and memories long after you left.

Bucky sat in the corner booth, elbow on the table, jaw in his hand. Steve sat beside him, upright, neat, always a little too polite for the space. Two beers sat half-drunk between them, sweating glass against stained wood.

And there you were—on the small stage, wrapped in dusk-blue light. Your voice didn’t suit the era. It wasn’t bright or chirpy, didn’t do big crescendos or razzle the room. It drifted. Mournful. Haunting. Strange.

And somehow, it held everyone captive.

You leaned into the mic, eyes barely open, like the whole room was a dream you weren’t sure you’d chosen to be in.

“I want to hold the hand inside you

I want to take the breath that’s true...”

Your voice poured out low and aching, each word like a secret too heavy to keep.

Bucky’s brows furrowed, watching you like you were something fragile and unsolvable. You’d been friends for years, all three of you. You’d grown up together. Laughed. Sat on stoops and shared cigarettes and talked about futures that never felt real.

And yet, there was still something about you that didn’t belong here.

Not in this club.

Not in this city.

Maybe not even in this world.

“I look to you, and I see nothing

I look to you to see the truth...”

Steve said it once. That you were the kind of girl people didn’t really understand until it was too late.

You weren’t cold. You weren’t aloof. You were just... elsewhere.

You felt things too deeply. Cried at newsprint poetry. Dissociated in diners. Laughed too hard, then got too quiet. You never looked at people when you spoke—except Bucky.

You always looked at Bucky.

And right now?

He didn’t notice.

“Fade into you

Strange you never knew

Fade into you

I think it's strange you never knew...”

Your eyes scanned the crowd—but not for applause.

Not for recognition.

Just... to see. To see him.

And Bucky? He was still frowning.

Not because he didn’t like the song.

Because something in it hurt. Something he couldn’t name.

Steve looked at him. Then at you. And knew.

You were singing about him.

And he didn’t even know.

“I think it's strange you never knew...”

The final note of your song settled into the room like smoke, warm and heavy.

A moment passed. Then, polite applause—soft, respectful. No whistles, no standing ovation. Just the kind of acknowledgment that came from being heard, not just listened to.

You gave a small, grateful smile and a gentle nod. Then turned and stepped off the stage, your heels clicking softly on the wood as you disappeared behind the curtain.

At the table, Steve exhaled through his nose.

“That was… somethin’ else,” he murmured.

Bucky didn’t answer.

His eyes were still on the stage, brows drawn slightly. Like he was trying to solve a math problem in a dream.

Steve glanced at him, then said gently, “She wrote that one, you know.”

Bucky blinked out of it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Still, Bucky didn’t say anything. Just rubbed the back of his neck and sat back in the booth.

Steve waited.

When nothing came, he tried again. “Sounded… personal.”

Bucky shrugged. “She always sings like that.”

“Not like that.”

Steve watched him carefully.

But Bucky didn’t respond. Not really. Just mumbled something about getting another round and stood, heading toward the bar without looking back.

Steve watched him go.

And just after you stepped out from backstage, the echo of the spotlight still clinging to your skin. You scanned the room, smile tugging at the corners of your mouth—small, shy, the kind you only wore around them.

But your eyes stopped at the table.

Steve sat alone.

You blinked once. Twice.

Then your gaze shifted—slow, unsure—and landed on Bucky.

He was at the bar. Leaning in. Smiling.

Talking to a girl with curled hair and a cherry-red mouth.

Of course he was.

There was always some girl.

Something inside you settled low. Not a stab. Not a shatter. Just that dull, familiar ache.

The kind you’d grown used to.

Steve saw it.

The way your shoulders dropped. The flicker behind your eyes. The way your mouth stayed soft, but your light dimmed just slightly.

You turned to him, smiling like you hadn’t just been emptied.

“Hey,” you said lightly. “Walk me home?”

He nodded, instantly. “Of course.”

Because of course he would. He always would.

Even if you never saw him the way you saw Bucky. Even if he had to walk beside you in silence, knowing you were thinking about someone else.

Because you asked.

And he loved you enough to always say yes.

The Stark Expo, 1943

The night buzzed around you—lights flashing, music floating in the air, people crowding through stalls with wide eyes and sticky hands full of caramel popcorn. The future was plastered in every direction: flying cars, synthetic fabrics, mechanized kitchens. Howard Stark’s voice echoed through loudspeakers with the arrogance of a man convinced he was the future.

You stood beside Bucky, arms crossed lightly, hair pinned just enough to pass for neat. You weren’t a crowd person. Or a lights person. Or a people touching your elbow every five seconds because the walkway is too narrow person.

But Bucky had asked.

He’d written you when he was stationed upstate. A note folded three times, your name in familiar script on the envelope. Back for a few days. Stark Expo’s this week. You free, songbird?

And here you were.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting.

Probably not this—him in uniform, cheeks pink from the cold, blue eyes gleaming under the lights, standing beside you like he’d never been gone.

Still. You couldn't help yourself.

You kept your gaze ahead, watching a prototype robot swing a fake hammer at a fake nail, and said, dry, “You sure you want me here tonight? Pretty sure Connie would've made better company.”

You didn’t say it mean.

You said it like you always did—quiet, a little too flat, too easy to miss the wound beneath.

He turned his head to you, blinking like you’d spoken in a language he didn’t quite catch.

“Connie?” he echoed.

You shrugged. “She’s got that big laugh. She’d fit in better.”

Bucky was quiet for a beat. Then another.

And just when you were about to deflect with something half-funny and half-sarcastic to cover your own embarrassment, he said:

“I like being around you.”

You looked at him.

He looked back.

Not like it was a line. Not like it was a performance. Just… Bucky. Honest.

“I mean it,” he added, softer now. “I don’t have to… do anything when I’m with you. Don’t have to fill space. Don’t have to entertain. You don’t expect that from me.”

Your brows furrowed slightly.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to a group of sailors posing near a booth. “With most people, I feel like I gotta be on. Gotta be charming. Gotta talk all the time or tell jokes or flirt or—y’know, be that guy.”

He looked back at you.

“With you, I don’t gotta do that.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

But something in your chest pulled a little tighter.

“I mean—people always wanna talk, or laugh, or keep things busy. But you…” He glanced at you, eyes soft. “You don’t need all that. You’re... quiet in a way that makes me feel calm. Like I don’t gotta be anything.”

And maybe the fair lights glinted too hard in your eyes, because you couldn’t quite meet his for more than a second.

So you looked away.

“Suppose that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said about my social skills,” you muttered.

He smiled. “Ain’t about skills.”

And for a minute, it didn’t matter that you hadn’t said what you felt.

He didn’t need you to perform.

And you didn’t need him to get it all right.

You just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching the future blink in lights in front of you—two people who’d never said I love you out loud, but kept trying to find new ways to say it without the words.

Later that night — Stark Expo Grounds

The crowds had thinned.

Most of the music had faded, replaced by the low hum of generators and the occasional pop of a leftover firework in the distance. The metal contraptions were winding down, the lights flickering soft above the empty food stalls.

You were standing a few feet away, looking up at some display—a rotating solar panel exhibit that buzzed faintly, glowing like it thought it was a moon.

Your hands were in your coat pockets. Shoulders slightly hunched from the wind. Your hair moving just a little in the breeze.

Bucky watched you.

Not the way he watched girls at bars or on street corners. Not the way he smiled and made them laugh and forgot their names by morning.

This was different.

You weren’t trying to look beautiful.

You just were.

God, you always had been.

He didn’t even remember when it started—when he began to notice the way your voice changed when you were talking about music, or how you’d go quiet in crowds like you were waiting for something to make sense. You were... still. Even when the world spun.

You grounded him.

And that scared him more than anything.

Because he didn’t know how to name what he felt. Didn’t have the words. Didn’t know if he deserved someone like you—someone who felt like poetry in a decade that had no patience for softness.

But he felt it.

In the way he always sought you out first. In the way he never had to fake a smile around you. In the way you hadn’t once asked him about the war tonight.

You turned then, catching him looking.

And you smiled.

Just a little.

He smiled back—slow, real, aching.

Maybe he’d tell you next time.

Maybe he’d say something when he had more time.

But for now, he stayed quiet.

And watched the girl he might’ve already been in love with, under a half-broken moon.

Brooklyn, November 1943– Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The platform was crowded. Not loud—but full. Families clustered in soft coats and wool hats, mothers holding handkerchiefs to their mouths, kids standing awkwardly near duffel bags they couldn’t lift.

You were standing near the edge, arms wrapped around yourself, coat buttoned all the way up. Your lipstick was a little smudged—one of those mornings. But your eyes were clear. Focused.

You spotted him as soon as he stepped off the steps.

Bucky looked good.

Not movie star good. Alive good. Real good.

His hair was pushed back from his face, uniform pressed. He had a bag slung over one shoulder, and the moment he saw you, his grin slipped right into place like it never left.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said as he walked up.

You shrugged. “Didn’t have anywhere else to be.”

He smiled at that, soft and a little crooked.

You stood facing each other in that liminal space between platform and train, not touching, not speaking.

You didn’t know how to say don’t go.

He didn’t know how to say I wish I didn’t have to.

“Steve couldn’t make it?” he asked.

“Doctor’s appointment,” you said. “They’re running more tests.”

Bucky nodded. Looked down at his boots for a second.

Then: “You’ll look after him, yeah?”

You smiled. “Always.”

He shifted his bag, like he wanted to say something else. Something bigger. But what?

Stay safe? Come back? I’ve never felt more myself than when I’m standing next to you?

Instead, he nodded again. “I’ll write.”

You looked at him then, really looked, and you almost said it.

Almost.

But you just reached up and brushed a piece of lint from his lapel, fingers soft.

“Make sure you get the name of the train stop right this time,” you murmured, your voice a little wobbly, a little teasing. “You sent a postcard to a grocery store last time.”

Bucky chuckled. “Maybe I wanted them to know how I was doing.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling, eyes stinging.

The loudspeaker crackled. Final call.

His smile faltered. “Well…”

You leaned up—quick, soft—and kissed his cheek. It lingered just a second too long.

“Go,” you said gently, stepping back.

He looked at you like he might say something. Like he might reach out.

But he didn’t. He just turned. Shouldered his bag. And boarded the train.

You stood there long after it pulled away.

Hands in your pockets.

Wind in your hair.

And everything unsaid echoing like a song you hadn’t written yet.

New York City, 2024

The city didn’t feel like it used to—not the way it did in memory, not even the way it did in nightmares. It wasn’t hostile, exactly. Just fast. Fast in ways Bucky wasn’t built for anymore.

But he was trying.

He had a therapist that didn’t flinch. A neighbor that smiled without fear. A plant that hadn’t died yet.

Progress.

Most days, he took long walks without an endpoint. Just movement. Just being.

Today, he ended up at a coffee shop. One of those low-ceilinged places with battered chairs and exposed brick that made people feel artistic. He didn’t need coffee—caffeine made him jittery—but he liked the noise. The murmurs. The steam.

He was flipping through a battered copy of The Stranger someone had left behind when he heard it.

A voice.

Low. Haunting.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

He didn’t move at first. Just blinked.

The radio on the shelf behind the counter buzzed through static, then cleared again as the song reached its chorus.

It wasn’t like anything else on the station. The other songs were crisp, polished, engineered to be catchy.

This voice didn’t care if it was catchy.

It ached.

Bucky’s grip on the book slackened.

He turned slightly toward the sound, frowning, lips parting.

He knew that voice.

It was buried in a place he hadn’t gone in years. Before war. Before Hydra. Before ice and blood and triggers.

But it was hers.

He turned to the guy behind the counter—a younger kid with a chipped name tag and AirPods still in one ear.

“Hey,” Bucky said quietly, nodding toward the radio. “Who’s this?”

The barista looked up, then grinned like he was always waiting to be asked. “Oh, this one’s a favorite. They reissued her stuff a couple years back after the doc came out. Cult following now.”

He paused to glance at the screen on the register.

Then he said your name.

A name Bucky hadn’t heard in decades. A name he hadn’t let himself say.

It hit like ice water, straight to the spine. His fingers loosened around the mug. His jaw slackened, just slightly.

The kid didn’t notice. Just went back to wiping the counter like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb into the middle of Bucky’s morning.

But Bucky couldn’t unhear it.

That voice. That name.

And suddenly he wasn’t in a coffee shop anymore—he was twenty-two. In a dim club. Watching someone sing like they didn’t care if anyone clapped, only that they felt it. And he never told you.

Not once.

The rain had stopped by the time he walked home, but he barely noticed. His thoughts moved like static—jumbled, crackling, stuck between then and now.

He sat at the edge of his bed, boots still on, and opened his laptop.

He typed your name into the search bar.

And there you were.

Not just a voice now.

Photographs—grainy, luminous. Pressed smiles and bold lipstick and that gaze he remembered, soft and distant like you were always looking at something no one else could see.

Hollywood starlet. Rising talent. Quiet icon.

He clicked through articles. Magazine scans. Studio portraits from the late 1940s, each one sharper than the last. Headlines gushed. Words like ethereal, unconventional, difficult to define.

Of course they said that.

You were never built to fit.

One article had a quote from you—typed clean in block letters:

“I don’t want to be the kind of famous people forget in five years. I want someone to hear my voice thirty years from now and still feel something.”

Bucky stared at the words.

And then he saw the date.

1952.

He clicked again.

And everything dropped out from under him.

Died tragically at the age of 33 in an automobile accident in Los Angeles, California, September 1952. Survived by no immediate family. Buried at Rose Hills Memorial Park. Her music saw a resurgence decades later following the release of a documentary celebrating her life and work.

The breath left his lungs.

He sat there, still, eyes fixed on the screen like if he stared long enough, it would change.

He missed it.

He missed everything.

You were gone.

Gone before he ever made it out of the ice. Before he even had the chance to remember you.

And still—

Still your voice had found him.

He leaned back slowly against the headboard, swallowed hard, and pressed a hand to his chest like he could quiet the ache growing there.

You were famous.

You were loved.

He kept reading.

Article after article. Fan pages. Archives.

And then—he found it.

The song.

The one everyone seemed to come back to. The one quoted, tattooed, sampled, played over clips of you smiling in old interviews and black-and-white concert footage. It had been your biggest hit. Released in 1945. Re-released. Covered. Immortalized.

“Without You.”

He clicked.

Before he hit play, he saw the description. An old interview—grainy transcript, scanned from some vintage magazine.

“It’s about a boy,” you had said. “A boy I never got to love. He went off to war and didn’t come back.”

“He made me feel seen. But he never saw me.”

“I think sometimes, if he ever heard this… he’d know.”

The words hit like a shot to the ribs. Bucky stared at the screen.

Fought.

Didn’t come back.

He had. But not whole. Not to you.

Not in time.

He sat there for a long time before he hit play.

The song began—soft, almost fragile. A synth swell. That voice. Your voice. But lower now, richer. Still carrying that sadness like it was stitched into every breath.

“Everything I want, I have

Money, notoriety, and rivieras…”

Bucky stared at the screen, the words soaking into him like rain on bare skin.

“Tell me life is beautiful, they all think I have it all

I've nothing without you…”

His throat tightened. He couldn’t breathe.

“Can you picture it? Babe, that life we could’ve lived…”

He shut his eyes.

Because he could.

He saw it in flashes—your laugh, that night at the Stark Expo, the way you looked when you sang for almost no one in that club in Brooklyn. The way he’d never told you. The way he always looked away.

“We were two kids just trying to get out

Lived on the dark side of the American dream…”

A choked sound left him.

Not quite a sob. But close.

Because it was him.

It had always been him.

And you’d sung that truth into the world when he wasn’t around to hear it. When you were grieving someone who never knew you waited. Someone who didn’t come back in time.

“All my dreams and all the lights mean

Nothing if I can't have you…”

The song ended quietly.

No fade-out. Just silence.

And Bucky sat there, surrounded by it.

Wrecked.

Alone.

And finally, finally, understanding what you had tried to tell him all those years ago.

He played it again.

The song.

He didn’t mean to. His hand just… moved. As if his body knew before his mind did.

The first note hit him just as hard the second time.

Then the third.

And the fourth.

By the time your voice cracked on “Hello? Hello? Ca-can you hear me?” his hands were trembling in his lap, and he was blinking too fast for it to mean anything.

The apartment stayed still around him—shadows long, lights off, only the soft blue glow of the laptop flickering against the walls.

He didn’t need a funeral.

He didn’t need a eulogy.

You were here.

In speakers. In wires. In this strange little machine you never lived long enough to imagine.

And your voice—God, your voice—was proof that you never really stopped waiting for him. That part of you, some secret, haunted part, had held on even after the train pulled away.

He didn’t cry. Not fully anyway.

Just sat there, hands curled into his sleeves like he was trying to stay warm, eyes fixed on nothing.

When the song ended, he didn’t move.

Didn’t shut the laptop.

Didn’t wipe his eyes.

He just let the silence settle around him.

Because for the first time in eighty years…

He finally heard you.

And he finally knew.

songs used: fade into you by Mazzystar without you by Lana Del Rey

[natsaffection]

Redline. Bonus 5.1 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!Racing!Driver!Reader

Warnings: Mention of sex, feeling of replacement

Word count: 10,8k

A/n: I didn't think I'd type the title above ever again, but I'll have to do it a second time tomorrow, as there will be a second part..thank you so much ☀️ for this grandiose idea!!! Let's see if one of you finds the "mistake"/difference to the other parts..

The morning sun hadn’t even kissed the sky yet when your alarm buzzed quietly beside you. You silenced it with a quick swipe and glanced to your right. Natasha was curled up beneath the covers, her red hair spilling across the pillow in a rare moment of peace. Her breathing was soft, slow, even, and you took a second to soak it in.

You slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake her, and tiptoed across the suite to grab your gym bag. Your heart was already pumping, not just from excitement, but from something deeper, older. That itch in your chest that only the track could soothe. It was race season again. Time to put on the helmet and become who you really were.

The gym was empty, the way you liked it. No cameras. No agents. No engineers. Just the rhythmic hum of your breath and the burn of muscle as you pushed yourself through circuit after circuit, focusing on agility, reflexes, core strength. Every crunch, every punch, every bead of sweat was a promise you made to yourself, and to Natasha.

This season was going to be yours. Again.

By the time you stepped out of the shower, skin still tingling from the heat and heart pounding with post-workout adrenaline, you were practically vibrating. You wrapped a towel around yourself and padded back into the room, already mentally drafting a cheeky comment to wake Natasha with, something flirty, maybe teasing about her sleeping in while you were already hustling.

But the bed was empty. Still neatly made. A flicker of confusion passed through you. You checked your watch. Not that early..

You dressed quickly, tugging on a clean hoodie and joggers, and made your way down the hall to the team’s suite of offices. Most were still dark, except for one. Natasha’s. The door was open just a crack, enough to let the light spill out across the floor.

You approached slowly, the buzz in your veins dimming just a bit. Inside, Natasha sat behind her desk, eyes locked on her laptop, posture stiff. A dozen tabs were open on the monitor..data, driver analytics, telemetry charts. She didn’t look up right away when you stepped in. But you didn’t need to see her eyes to know something was off. You felt it, the way you feel a car start to slide just before the tires lose grip.

“Nat?” you said softly.

Natasha looked up, and her face didn’t match her usual morning calm. She had that tight look around her mouth, the one she wore when she was about to say something she didn’t want to.

“Hey. You’re up early.” Natasha said.

“I could say the same about you.” You leaned against the doorframe. “Didn’t expect to find you buried in data at six am.”

“I needed to get ahead of some things.” Natasha sat back in her chair, folding her arms. “Come in. Sit for a second.”

You blinked. That tone.

Not “I missed you.”

Not “How was your workout?”

Not even her clipped professional cadence.

Something else entirely. You crossed the room and sank into the chair opposite Natasha, studying her with narrowed eyes. “What’s going on?”

Natasha hesitated for a beat. Then she spoke.

“Willow Petrov.”

The name landed like a dropped wrench in a silent garage. Your brow furrowed. “From Formula 2?”

Natasha gave a short nod. “She’s twenty, Russian, ran with LunaTech last season. Three podiums. Got the best reaction time average in the pack. I’ve been watching her for a while.”

You tilted your head slowly. “Okay… why are we talking about her?”

Natasha exhaled. “She’s driving for us now. As your teammate.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. You blinked again, slower this time. Your brain raced to catch up, to reorganize the shape of your expectations. “What?”

“I signed her last night.” Natasha said, voice calm but unreadable. “It’ll be announced this afternoon.”

You stared at her. “I thought we were running solo again this season.”

“We were. But the board’s been pressuring for a second driver since last year. Sponsors too. We need more data from track simulations, better car-to-car telemetry feedback. And frankly, Willow’s too good to let go.”

A dozen thoughts flooded your head at once. You remembered Willow, bright, sharp, fearless. The type who cut corners like a knife and grinned at the podium like she belonged there, even when she didn’t win. A rookie, yes..but a talented one.

“She’s good.” you said slowly. “I’m not saying she isn’t. But this…changes things.”

“I know.”

“We have to split test runs, telemetry data, garage time. I’ll have to share my race engineer. She doesn’t know the car. Hell, she doesn’t know you. And I-”

Natasha stood then, walked around the desk, and crouched in front of you, placing a gentle hand on your knee. “Hey. Look at me.”

You did. “You are still my number one. On track. Off it. Nothing about that changes. But this team isn’t just about us anymore. It can’t be, if we want to grow. I need you to help me bring her in. Mentor her. Lead her.”

You searched Natasha’s face, heart twisting with something you didn’t want to name. Not jealousy. Not fear. Just..uncertainty.

“Can I think about it?” you asked quietly.

“You don’t have to decide anything. Just meet her. She’s arriving tomorrow.” You nodded slowly. Tomorrow. Everything was already changing.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur.

After the bombshell about Willow, you had thrown yourself into team meetings with a sort of sharp-edged focus, the kind Natasha had come to recognize over the months. When you were rattled, you didn’t fall apart, you doubled down. Your voice was steady during briefing, your analysis sharp as ever, but Natasha could feel the undercurrent. The quiet weight behind your eyes. The slightly-too-stiff posture. The questions that weren’t really about strategy.

Still, no one else in the room seemed to notice. To them, you were the reigning champion. The top driver of the Romanoff Racing team. Unshakeable.

Natasha knew better.

“Alright.” she said as they wrapped up for the day, clapping her hands once as the crew began dispersing. “Tomorrow we welcome Willow to the garage. I want everyone on their A-game. Let’s show her what a real team looks like.”

You didn’t speak as you gathered your notes. Just nodded and slipped your phone into your pocket. Natasha let you walk beside her in silence down the corridor, until you reached the private team garage, a sacred space for the two of you when the world felt too loud.

You finally spoke, voice quiet. “You think she’s ready?”

Natasha glanced at you. “She’s raw, but she’s smart. She’ll adjust. But she’s not you.”

You gave a tiny laugh under your breath. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

Natasha smiled faintly. “I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m telling you the truth, Y/n.”

Dinner that evening was something simple. Homemade pasta. Natasha had cooked, which in itself was a rare gesture, part apology, part grounding ritual. You sat on the couch, legs tangled under the blanket, eating straight from the bowls, a slow jazz record playing softly in the background.

You finally started to loosen. You leaned into Natasha’s side, head resting on her shoulder, chewing quietly.

“She’s going to ask questions about you.” you murmured after a long stretch of silence.

“She might.”

“You gonna tell her we’re together?”

“I’m going to tell her you’re my top driver.” Natasha said with a smirk. “Everything else, she’ll figure out the moment she sees us look at each other.”

You gave a small scoff. “You’re obnoxiously confident sometimes.”

Natasha pressed a kiss to your temple. “And you love it.”

Later that night, the apartment had gone quiet. Natasha had gone to wash up, and you stayed curled on the couch, hoodie pulled up over your head, the laptop balanced across your legs. The screen glowed softly in the dark, video after video, all the same subject.

Willow Petrov | Rising Star - F2 Highlights

Willow Petrov Onboard | Monaco Hairpin Dive

Willow Petrov: 2024 Season Recap

Her style was aggressive, but clean. No wasted movement. Calculated chaos. And she had this look behind the helmet, fierce, wide-eyed, maybe even a little reckless. She reminded you of yourself, once.

Too much.

So when Natasha padded back into the room, damp hair tied in a loose knot, wearing only a black tank and sweatpants, she paused in the doorway, smirking at the screen before speaking.

“You stalking your new teammate already?”

You startled, slammed the laptop shut too quickly. “I was just..researching.”

“Mm-hm.” Natasha crossed her arms, clearly entertained. “Researching. With that little frown and everything.”

“I’m not jealous..” you muttered, cheeks flushed. “I’m just…making sure I know what I’m working with.”

Natasha stepped forward, eyes gleaming as she knelt in front of you, resting her hands on your thighs. “It’s okay if you are. A little.”

You met her gaze, trying to hold it, trying to be cool. But something warm bloomed in your chest at how amused Natasha looked, like this was something endearing. Like you weren’t being ridiculous, but…cute.

“She’s not a threat.” Natasha said softly. “To your seat. To us.”

You swallowed. “I just don’t want to lose what we have.”

“You’re not going to.” Natasha’s voice was sure, low, steady. “You’re mine. On every track. In every city. In every way that matters. There’s no one else I want in that car..or in this bed.”

You looked down at her, and your voice was barely a whisper. “Promise?”

Natasha rose onto her knees, kissed you slow and deep, her hand slipping to the back of your neck. “I promise.” she murmured against your lips. And for the first time that day, you let yourself believe it.

The next morning came bright and early, sun slicing through the tall windows of the paddock hospitality suite like a blade. The team’s logo, sleek and minimal, black and red, gleamed from banners, transport trucks, even the espresso machine. A few engineers were already moving in the garage, prepping telemetry equipment and adjusting the simulator booth in the corner.

You stood just outside, arms folded, watching the driveway. You told yourself you weren’t nervous. You’d given track tours a dozen times. You’d welcomed new engineers, new sponsors, new assistants. You’d even done a handshake round with a crown prince once, back when Natasha’s team had first gone international.

But something about this one felt different. When the black car finally pulled up, you recognized her instantly. She practically bounced out, tiny compared to the hulking luggage she hauled behind her. She wore the team’s new windbreaker, sleeves a little too long, brown hair in a messy braid, and a smile stretched across her face like it had been glued there for hours.

Big eyes. Too much energy. Nervous as hell. You swallowed a smile and stepped forward. “You must be Willow.”

Willow straightened like she’d been caught doing something wrong. “Y-Yes! Hi!”

“Hi.” You offered your hand. “Welcome to Romanoff Racing.”

Willow shook it with both hands, her grip too eager, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Oh my God, I can’t believe this is real..” she said breathlessly. “I’ve been watching your races since I was fifteen, I mean, not in a creepy way, I just-God, that sounded creepy, didn’t it?”

You let out a short laugh. “You’re fine..” Willow blushed deeply, nodding rapidly.

Just then, Natasha stepped out from the garage, clipboard in hand, her presence commanding even in jeans and a fitted t-shirt. Willow visibly straightened again, as if she were back in military school. Natasha gave her a nod, eyes cool but not unkind.

“Willow. Good to have you with us.”

“Th-Thank you, Ms. Romanoff..” Willow stammered.

Natasha turned to you, that subtle look passing between you like a secret no one else could read. “I’ve got a strategy meeting with the core team. Think you can show her around?”

You nodded. “Sure.”

“Stick to pit lane, garage, and test paddock. Don’t take her near the media center yet. They don’t know we’ve signed her.” Natasha paused. “And for the love of God, don’t let her try to sit in your car.”

Willow blinked. “I would never- I mean, just looking! I swear!”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed again. Natasha smirked, kissed your cheek (subtle but intentional), and then disappeared into the garage.

Willow watched her go with wide eyes. “…She’s terrifying.”

“She’s not that bad.” you said, walking toward the pit entrance.

“She is. But like, in a powerful-boss-woman way.”

You shot her a glance. “She’s also my girlfriend.”

Willow froze. “Oh. Oh. Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean..I didn’t know you two were, um- wow. Cool. Very cool. That explains the…cheek kiss.”

You arched a brow, biting down a grin. “You okay?”

“Yeah!” Willow squeaked. “Just trying not to implode.”

The track was still quiet, only the faint sounds of drills and tires being moved echoing through the pit lane. You walked her through the various zones: the telemetry stations, tire warmers, pit boxes, the private rest pods hidden behind the main lounge.

Willow asked questions, so many questions. About the car’s brake bias system, about fuel management in wet conditions, about how the team handled your post-crash comeback. Her eyes sparkled with a thousand unspoken thoughts, and despite yourself, you started to like her. She was too earnest to hate.

You stopped just at the edge of the garage, where your race car stood under soft LED lights, its sleek chassis black with crimson accents.

Willow gasped. “Is that yours?”

You nodded. “Every piece of her.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“She’s temperamental, high-maintenance, and will betray you the moment you relax.” You ran a hand across the wing. “But yeah. She’s mine.”

Willow stepped forward, a little reverent. “What’s it like? Sitting in her. That moment right before the lights go out?”

You turned to her, studying the rookie’s hopeful face. “It’s like…you disappear. And all that’s left is instinct. Speed. Survival.”

Willow looked down, serious now. “I don’t know if I’ll be good enough.”

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

“I thought I’d have more time..” she admitted. “To grow. To learn. And now I’m being dropped next to you. You’re a world champion. You’re her partner. What if I screw up?”

You softened. “You will.” you said simply. “We all do. But we get better. That’s how this works. Just don’t try to be me.”

Willow looked up, surprised. “Be you. That’s who she signed.”

Willow nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll try.”

You gave her a small smile. “That’s all you need to do.”

The tour ended as the midday sun baked the tarmac in a golden shimmer. Willow had talked nonstop for nearly an hour, and though you didn’t admit it out loud, the kid had started to grow on you. Somewhere between her overly enthusiastic obsession with brake cooling systems and the way her eyes lit up when they entered the data lab, you felt something unfamiliar settle in your chest.

Not irritation. Not jealousy. Something closer to nostalgia.

You returned to the garage, where the hum of the team buzzed around you like bees, techs checking tire pressure, interns typing rapidly, radios crackling between engineers. The pulse of the season was coming alive again, and you could feel it deep in your bones.

Natasha appeared just as you stepped back into the paddock. She’d changed into her track jacket, her red hair pulled back in a low ponytail, clipboard tucked under one arm. Her presence was casual, but commanding, as always.

“How’s the tour?” she asked, directing the question to Willow, though her eyes flicked briefly toward you.

Willow straightened again. “Incredible. I..I don’t even know how to process it all. I feel like I’m dreaming.”

Natasha gave her a small smile, the kind that was rare and real. “Good. I like drivers who know how to appreciate where they are. But now it’s time to stop dreaming and start driving.”

Willow blinked. “Wait. N-Now?”

Natasha gestured toward the second car in the garage, sleek, matte gray, less tuned than your beast but still mean enough to roar.

“Nothing major. Just a few laps. Get the feel of the track. It’s different when it’s ours.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t waste any time, did you?”

Natasha smirked. “Neither do you.”

Willow looked between you, nervous again but clearly vibrating with excitement. “I- yes. Absolutely. Thank you, Ms. Romanoff.”

“Call me Natasha when we’re not in front of sponsors.” she said, turning to toss her clipboard on the table. “Suit up. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Within twenty minutes, Willow was in the car. The Romanoff test track wasn’t part of any international circuit. It was private land, built with obsessive precision, modeled after the most complex corners of Monaco, Silverstone, and Spa, all folded into a brutal loop of tight chicanes, high-speed straights, and elevation changes that punished hesitation.

It wasn’t a track for rookies.

You stood with your arms crossed beside Natasha at the observation deck just above pit lane, watching the camera feed light up as the car pulled from the garage.

“She looks scared.” you said.

“She should be.” Natasha replied. “Fear keeps your hands steady.”

The engine roared to life and Willow was off, taking the first few laps with visible caution. Corners were wide, braking early, no aggressive downshifts. You leaned against the railing, unimpressed.

“She’s holding back.”

“She’s learning the rhythm.” Natasha said, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Watch.”

You did. And after lap three, something shifted. The lines tightened. Her timing smoothed. She stopped dancing around the turns and started slicing through them. Lap four, she nailed the uphill chicane without touching the apex rumble strip. On five, she drifted wide just enough to preserve tire heat without compromising the downforce.

Your brow furrowed. “…Huh.”

Natasha’s smile was faint, knowing. “She’s good.”

“She’s very good.”

You watched in silence as Willow pushed through another two laps, faster each time. Still not elite, but promising. Focused. Hungry. She cut the final corner too sharp on the last run and skidded slightly, catching herself at the edge of the gravel. She brought the car in after that, helmeted head turning as she entered the garage and coasted to a stop.

When the engine went quiet, you let out a low breath. “…Okay,” you muttered. “That can’t go unanswered.”

Natasha turned. “Oh?”

Your smile grew slowly. “Give me ten minutes and my girl back in the paddock.”

“You want to race her?”

You turned to her, eyes gleaming with challenge. “You wanted her tested. Let’s see how she handles the heat.”

Natasha considered you for a beat, then nodded.

“Don’t go easy on her.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

Ten minutes later, you were back in your suit. Helmet in hand. Every step toward the car felt like slipping back into a second skin. The hum of the garage faded. Everything outside the cockpit was background noise.

As you lowered yourself into the car, you glanced toward Willow, who was standing by the pit wall, helmet still on, clearly unsure whether to be thrilled or terrified. You gave her a thumbs-up before the visor came down.

And then, the track swallowed you. Willow took the lead on the first lap, you let her. Let her feel that taste of control, let her believe for a second she had the upper hand.

But by lap two, you were tightening the gap. By three, you were on her tail, reading every line she chose, every hesitation. On the fourth lap, as you hit the blind uphill switchback, you saw your chance.

You dove in, late brake, tighter line, a calculated brush that skirted legality, and took the inside.

Willow blinked. Hesitated. That was all you needed. From then on, it wasn’t even a contest. The next lap was yours, sharp, precise, and punishing. Your car became an extension of your body. Every muscle aligned with purpose. You were wind and fire, all instinct and fury, tearing up the track to prove one thing:

You still had it.

And by the time you crossed the line, your car a full second ahead, the point had been made loud and clear. When you pulled back into the garage, engines cooling with the ticking sound of victory, you climbed out, removed your helmet, and walked toward Willow, whose face was flushed behind her visor.

She flipped it up slowly.

“…Holy shit..” Willow whispered.

You smirked. “Welcome to the big leagues.”

Natasha joined you then, arms folded, the ghost of a grin tugging at her lips. “I think that counts as your initiation.”

Willow looked between you, still catching her breath. “I want to be that good.”

“You will be.” you said, slapping her lightly on the shoulder. “Just not today.”

As the sun dipped behind the track’s final corner, casting long shadows across the asphalt, Natasha’s voice cut through softly, “Looks like I’ve got two monsters on my team now.”

You looked over, and for the first time since the rookie’s name was mentioned, you smiled without reservation.

“Yeah.” you said. “But only one queen.”

——

It had been six days since the race. Six days since you smoked Willow on the track. Six days since the rookie came off the tarmac breathless and wide-eyed like she’d touched fire, and wanted more.

Since then, the team had shifted into full gear. Training simulations. PR meetings. Car telemetry reworks. Everyone was running on caffeine, deadlines, and pit-lane adrenaline. And somewhere in the chaos, you started to feel it:

Distance.

At first, it was small. A skipped coffee. A missed debrief. Natasha pulling Willow aside in the garage, gesturing with that intense, low tone she always used when she wanted to build a driver up from the inside out. You had heard it before. You remembered how rare it was to be spoken to like that.

Now you watched it from a distance. On the fourth day, you showed up early for simulator drills, but Natasha had already booked Willow in your slot. No heads-up. Just a polite nod from the tech.

“Romanoff said to prioritize rookie reflex calibration..” he mumbled.

You had just nodded and turned away, jaw tight. You weren’t the rookie anymore. You weren’t the rescue project. You were the reigning world champion. And somehow, you felt completely invisible.

That night, the compound was unusually quiet. The rest of the team had gone out for a media dinner, but you had passed. Natasha hadn’t even asked if you were coming, she’d assumed you weren’t, too caught up talking setups with Willow, who had practically bounced through the garage all day with her notebook and never-ending questions.

You stood alone now in the garage, long after the rest had left, staring at your car in the low lights. Just you and the beast. The car didn’t judge. The car didn’t compare. You ran your hand across the edge of the carbon fiber bodywork, fingertips ghosting over the Romanoff logo near the cockpit.

How many times had this car saved you? How many times had Natasha? And now it felt like none of it was enough.

A sharp click of heels on the concrete behind you broke the silence. You didn’t turn.

“I figured I’d find you here.” Natasha said quietly.

You swallowed. “Thought you had dinner with the prodigy.”

Natasha approached slowly, a slight edge of confusion in her voice. “Willow went with the tech crew. I was looking for you.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of looking lately.” you said, the words out before you could stop them.

Natasha paused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You finally turned to face her. “You tell me. You’ve been glued to her since the day she arrived. Training, testing, feedback loops, hell, you even rearranged my sim time.”

“That wasn’t personal, baby.” Natasha said. “She needs the hours.”

“And I don’t?”

“You’re already a world champion.”

“Right..” you snapped, stepping back. “So now I’m just the legacy act? The girl who came broken, who got rebuilt, but isn’t new enough or shiny enough to get your attention anymore?”

Natasha’s face hardened. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “You didn’t have to fight for her. You didn’t have to convince her to stay when her nightmares made her puke at night. You didn’t hold her hand when she spun out and started screaming because she thought she was flying into a wall again. She came ready-made. Clean slate. Untouched.”

Natasha flinched, subtle, but it was there. “I never saw you smile at me like that, back then.”

“You mean when you didn’t trust anyone and couldn’t look me in the eye?” Natasha’s voice was low now. Dangerous. “Don’t rewrite history just because it hurts.”

Your breath caught. You stared at each other for a long moment. Everything in your chest was burning, shame, longing, fear. You hated how small you felt. How much you cared.

“I know what this is..” you said quietly. “She’s the driver you always wanted.”

Natasha stepped forward, firm. “Stop it.”

“She is.” you insisted, voice cracking. “No damage. No baggage. You didn’t have to rebuild her. You just got to mold her. And I-“

“You were never a project to me.”

“You say that, but it’s starting to feel like I was.”

The silence between you was deafening. Natasha took a breath, slow, deliberate. “Do you really think I love you because I had to?”

You didn’t answer, and natasha’s expression softened, less sharp, more raw. “I love you because you fought. Because you refused to stay down when every bone in your body told you to quit. I love the way you clawed your way back to the wheel, even when no one else believed in you. That’s not pity. That’s admiration.”

“Then why does it feel like you’ve forgotten I’m still here?” you whispered.

Natasha looked stunned, just for a second. Then she reached out, gently, cupping your face. Her thumbs brushed your cheeks, you hadn’t realized you’d been crying until then.

“I haven’t forgotten you, Y/n.” Natasha murmured. “I’ve been looking at you every day and thinking: God, she’s still the fire I fell for. But I didn’t realize you were feeling this.”

“I didn’t either..” you said, your voice hoarse. “Not until she showed up and you stopped seeing me the way you used to.”

Natasha shook her head. “No. I see you. I always see you. You just started turning away.”

You closed your eyes. You wanted to believe her. Wanted to let it go. But the doubt sat heavy in your gut like lead.

“You need to tell me when I miss something.” Natasha said, pulling you in closer. “Not when it’s too late. Not when you’ve already built a story in your head.”

You rested your forehead against hers. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

“But I’m still better.”

Natasha smiled. “Goddamn right, you are.”

A beat passed. Then you added, quietly, “But I still needed to hear it.”

Natasha kissed you then, slow, grounding, a promise sealed without words. And for the first time in days, you let yourself believe that you weren’t being replaced. You were still the heart of this team. Still hers.

——

The press tent was larger than usual, elevated seating for journalists, polished banners on either side of the platform, and every camera lens locked in with laser precision. The Romanoff Racing emblem hovered on every backdrop, flanked by the logos of their newest sponsors. A gentle buzz filled the air, expectation, speculation, heat from the lights.

And at the center of it all: Natasha.

She walked onto the stage like she owned it, because, in a way, she still does. Her tailored black blazer, fitted white blouse, and subtle smile made her look every bit the icon. Calculated cool. Controlled grace. She stood at the mic with the same poise she showed when strategizing before a stormy Grand Prix.

“Ladies and gentlemen..” she began, her voice even, but firm. “Thank you for joining us today. As most of you know, Romanoff Racing is entering its fifth season on the circuit. We’ve broken records, rewritten what a comeback can look like, thanks in large part to our champion, Y/n.”

There was a small wave of applause, and backstage, you exhaled slowly as the spotlight grazed you for a moment, just enough to burn.

“But this year..” Natasha continued, “we’re growing. I’ve made the decision to bring in a second driver. A rising star. Someone with the kind of raw instinct and racing spirit I haven’t seen in a long time.”

A pause. “Please welcome our new official team driver: Willow Petrov.”

The tent erupted. Cameras flashed wildly as Willow stepped onto the stage, her team jacket pressed and spotless, her blonde braid tucked neatly under a Romanoff Racing cap. Her cheeks were pink from nerves, but she beamed like a kid on Christmas. There was no hiding her awe.

She took her place beside Natasha and gave the mic a nervous glance before speaking. “It’s… honestly insane to be here. I used to watch her replays on YouTube between my F2 races..” she admitted with a laugh. “and now I’m wearing the same patch. I’m here to learn, grow, and drive my heart out for this team.”

Natasha smiled, laying a subtle hand on Willow’s shoulder as she guided her back a step. Then came the volley of questions, standard press fare at first, then sharper, messier.

“Natasha, was this a long-term plan to bring in new blood?”

“Willow, do you feel pressure being compared to a world champion teammate?”

“Y/n, how does it feel to share the spotlight after carrying the team solo for so long?”

That last one hit. You, seated now beside Willow and Natasha, leaned forward to the mic. Your smile was tight, practiced.

“We’re not here to compete with each other. We’re here to win, together. That’s what matters.”

A professional answer. Unshakable. But inside, something twisted. You watched as Natasha angled slightly toward Willow during the Q&A. A nod here, a subtle prompt there, encouraging. Guiding.

The same way she used to do with you. You didn’t even realize you were clenching your fist under the table until Willow’s elbow bumped you gently.

“You good?” Willow whispered, low enough the mics wouldn’t catch it.

You blinked and looked at her. The girl’s big blue eyes were full of concern, not competition.

And for a moment, you felt bad for being annoyed with her. “Yeah.” you murmured back. “Just waiting for the fun part.”

After the conference, you were ushered outside for the official media line, step-and-repeat photos, handshake shots, and a trio pose in front of the new car prototype. You had done this a hundred times. You knew how to stand. Where to smile. When to tilt your chin for that ‘effortless confidence’ angle.

But today, it all felt tight around the edges. “Okay, Natasha in the middle, Y/n on the left, Willow on the right..perfect!” one of the PR reps called out.

Flashbulbs exploded. Willow grinned wide, clearly new to the pressure but trying her best to keep up. Her hand hovered awkwardly near your back, unsure if she was supposed to pose with you or not.

You glanced at her. Then, with a tiny sigh, you reached out and gently pulled Willow a little closer.

“Relax..”you muttered. “We’re not enemies. We’re just expensive mannequins right now.”

Willow laughed, nervous but grateful. “You’re kind of intimidating, you know that?”

You raised a brow. “Me? You’re the one everyone’s calling the future of Romanoff Racing.”

Willow looked over at you, more seriously now. “Maybe. But you’re the heart of it.”

That stung in a way you didn’t expect. You weren’t sure if it was pity, or admiration, or just awkward honesty, but it cut through the noise.

More flashes. Another angle. Another forced smile. Then Natasha stepped between you for a tighter photo, resting a hand on each of your backs. The press roared, headlines already forming.

“The Queen, the Champion, and the Prodigy.”

You tried not to flinch at the way Natasha’s hand lingered slightly longer on Willow’s shoulder than yours. Tried not to let your smile falter. Tried not to think about how much had changed..and how fast.

Later, when the crowd had cleared and the cameras were packed away, you stayed behind in the now-empty paddock, hands stuffed in your pockets, sunglasses still on. Natasha found you there, leaning against one of the sponsor walls, staring at nothing.

“You did good.” Natasha said softly. “Held your own.”

You gave a small shrug. “I’ve had practice.”

There was a beat of silence. “You looked like you wanted to be anywhere but next to me up there.”

You turned toward her, finally taking the shades off. Your eyes were tired. Honest. “I just miss when I didn’t have to share you.”

Natasha didn’t smile. She didn’t lecture. She just stepped forward and took your hand. “You don’t have to share what we have. But you do have to trust it.”

“I’m trying..” you whispered. “But every time you look at her like she’s something special, I wonder if I’m just…fading.”

“You’re not fading.” Natasha said, her voice low and firm. “You’re shining. And the only reason I even brought her in was because I wanted to protect you. Give you someone beside you on the road. Not behind. Not in front. Beside.”

You closed your eyes, leaned into her touch. It still hurt. But at least now you knew: You weren’t invisible.

Not yet.

The week leading up to the race had been relentless. Training drills. Lap simulations. PR follow-ups. Tire compound testing. A new aero package install that barely made it past Friday’s technical inspection.

And somewhere in between, you had started sleeping with one arm under your pillow and one hand curled into a fist, like you were bracing for something you couldn’t quite name.

Willow, for her part, had thrown herself into the grind with youthful fire, running morning laps in the rain, asking the race engineers questions until midnight, sipping black coffee like it was a secret weapon. Her natural instincts were beginning to polish into something sharper. More refined. You noticed. And for the first time, you stopped feeling jealous, and started feeling hungry.

The qualifying day sun was harsh and dry, high in a cloudless sky, beating down on the Romanoff Racing paddock like a spotlight that wouldn’t turn off. The air shimmered with heatwaves above the tarmac. Cameras hovered, drones buzzed, and pit crews moved like silent machines around their cars.

This was it. Solo time trials. No traffic. No slipstreams. Just driver vs. track, one at a time. Every corner counted. Every tenth of a second was a kingmaker, or a curse.

The starting order for the qualifying runs had been drawn the night before. Willow would go out first for Romanoff Racing. You would go last.

The reigning champion. The final roar.

Inside the garage, Willow paced back and forth in her suit, her gloves half-on, eyes bouncing between her race engineer and Natasha. The kid was wired like a live wire, bouncing with nerves, soaking in every word Natasha fed her through the headset mic.

You sat on a stool in the corner, helmet in your lap, one leg crossed over the other, quiet and observant. You weren’t jealous, not really.. But there was a grating sound in your head you couldn’t turn off. Natasha’s voice. Gentle. Encouraging. Proud.

“Take a clean line through 11, watch the outside rumble. Brake later if the tires warm fast enough.”

“Like that. That’s the right read.”

“Trust your gut, don’t overthink the apex.”

You ground your jaw. You used to hear those words. Back when you needed them. Now, you didn’t get so much as a nod.

Willow stepped into the car and rolled onto the track. The garage emptied to the pit wall, where engineers stood with headsets, telemetry readouts glowing. Natasha followed, slipping on her shades like she was watching her personal investment roll into orbit.

You didn’t go with them. You stayed in the shade. Then you stood up, pulled your cap low, and walked. Elsewhere on the paddock, the atmosphere was different, less rigid, more relaxed. Some of the other drivers were lounging under the sponsor tents, sipping water, exchanging banter, or pretending not to care.

You wandered near the corner where some of the lesser-known, but fast, independent drivers hung out. Guys from underground teams. Not rookies, not legends..just raw talent.

You leaned against a stack of tires, arms crossed, not saying much at first. “L/N, you going soft on us?” one of them joked, a smirking Frenchman named Jules. “You’re not watching your little protégé?”

You shrugged. “She’s not mine.”

“You saying that like it’s not already in the headlines..” someone else teased. “The Queen and the Kid. All eyes on Romanoff.”

Another chuckle. Then a quieter voice chimed in, “You hear about that circuit run? Off-record? Midnight, no cameras, real speed.”

You raised an eyebrow. The group shifted subtly, gauging your interest. You didn’t respond right away, but your gaze held. One of them, stocky, buzz cut, tattooed fingers, grinned. “What, the world champ thinking about getting her hands dirty?”

A few laughs. Someone leaned closer. “Wouldn’t that be something? You on a back-alley grid with the rest of us rats.”

You gave a lopsided smile. Didn’t confirm. Didn’t deny. But something about it thrilled you. The rawness. The danger. The lack of polish. No PR team. No pressure..

Just you and the car.

They saw that spark in you. And they liked it. You didn’t agree. But you didn’t shut it down either. And somewhere deep in your gut, the idea didn’t seem so far-fetched.

You walked back in just as Willow’s final lap flashed across the telemetry screen:

1:20.408

Gasps. Claps. A low cheer from the Romanoff Racing pit team.

P1. For now.

Your stomach dropped. Natasha turned to you, eyes bright behind her sunglasses. “She nailed it. Best lap of the day so far.”

You didn’t reply. Just reached for your gloves. Something in Natasha’s tone, maybe pride, maybe surprise..lit a fuse inside you.

Willow climbed out of the car moments later, flushed and beaming, helmet off and braid soaked in sweat.

“I think I blacked out during sector three.” she panted.

“You didn’t.” Natasha replied. “You just drove like you meant it.”

You met Willow’s eyes briefly. The girl still looked like she worshipped you. But that made it worse somehow. Because now you had to remind everyone who built this team’s legacy.

Your lap was up next.

You pulled on the helmet. Closed the visor. The world shrunk to engine hum and breath.

Radio check.

“Comms clear. You ready?”

“Always.”

“No overdrive early. Hold back on sector one, save the tires for the back half. We only need one clean lap. Not a death wish.”

You tightened your grip on the wheel.

“I’m not here to be clean. I’m here to be fast.”

Natasha didn’t reply. The light turned green, and you floored it. You took sector one tight, ignoring Natasha’s caution. The tires screamed at the high-speed curve through turn six. You leaned hard into the chicane, barely clipping the apex, riding the edge of the curbs with millimeter precision.

Sector two: near-perfect. You braked a split-second later than anyone else dared at turn eleven, kissing the wall on exit without losing speed.

Sector three: the fast zone. No brakes. Pure throttle. Pure fury.

You were flying. By the time you crossed the line, your final time flashed across the board:

1:19.774

Silence. Then a collective inhale from the pit. You sat in the car, helmet still on, staring ahead as the data streamed in.

P1.

Back in the garage, Natasha pulled off her headset slowly. The corner of her mouth lifted. “She’s still got fire.”

Willow watched the screen, eyes wide, but there was no bitterness. Only awe.

“She’s not human..” Willow whispered. “She’s art with an engine.” Natasha didn’t reply. But the look in her eyes said enough.

You returned minutes later, pulling off your helmet in one slow, deliberate motion. Your eyes met Natasha’s. Not smug. Not smiling..Just raw.

“I needed that..” you said quietly.

Natasha stepped closer. “You earned that.”

Willow came up beside you, flushed and panting. “I thought I had it…”

You gave her a glance. “You almost did.”

You stood there in silence, three women. First, second, and the one who saw both sides. For now, Romanoff Racing ruled the grid. But underneath the steel and sweat and smiles..Something else was brewing.

——

The hotel room was quiet.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sparkled under a velvet sky. Horns in the distance. Soft wind curling through the open slats of the terrace door. The whole world was moving, just not here.

Here, it was still. You lay on your side, facing the window, bare shoulders half-draped in sheets. Your hair still damp from a late shower, your mind still too full from the day. The numbers of your lap time looped in your head. 1:19.774.

A victory. But somehow, not enough. Behind you, Natasha was lying on her back, one arm tucked behind her head, the other resting near your spine. Not touching. Just there.

The silence between you was soft, not cold, but it carried weight. You don’t know how to speak the ache that lingered in your chest. The quiet, bitter curl of doubt that still whispered..

What if she doesn’t need me anymore?

Then, without warning, Natasha shifted. She reached, slow and deliberate, and pulled you gently onto her, guiding your body across her own like it was something she’d done a hundred times, and it was. Legs tangled. Hands at your waist. You blinked down at her, surprised.

“…What are you doing?”

Natasha looked up, eyes calm, steady. “Reminding you.”

You frowned, confused. “Of what?”

“That you don’t have to be scared.” Natasha said simply. “That I’m not going anywhere.”

You froze. Of course..Natasha’s fingers brushed your lower back, tracing the faint curve of your spine with absent reverence. “I know that look in your eyes..” she murmured. “The one you try to hide behind your helmet. The one that says ‘I’m slipping.’”

“I’m not-”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Y/n.”

You closed your mouth. Natasha’s voice softened, like velvet over steel. “You think because I’m proud of her, I’ve stopped being proud of you.”

“I know you are..” you whispered.

“Do you?”

You looked away. That silence told Natasha everything. She sat up slightly, pressing her forehead against yours. Her breath was warm. Her voice firm.

“You are not being replaced. Willow’s a driver. You are everything. You are the reason this team has a heartbeat. You are why I built this whole empire in the first place.”

Your throat tightened. “I just..sometimes I feel like-”

Natasha didn’t let you finish. She kissed you. Deep, slow, anchoring. And you melted into it, not because it was heat, but because it was home.

When Natasha rolled you fully beneath her, fingers trailing down your ribs, her mouth never left yours. Her touch wasn’t demanding, it was declarative.

You are mine. You are seen. You are still the fire.

You didn’t speak again. You didn’t need to.

The Next Morning – 6:48 AM

The car ride to the track was quiet in the front. Loud in the back. Natasha drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting easily against the center console. Her face was set, calm, already mentally halfway through the first ten laps.

In the rearview mirror, she watched you. Head against the window, music in your ears, hoodie up, one hand loosely gripping your phone in your lap. You weren’t asleep, but you weren’t here, either. Lost in thought. In routine. In preparation.

Natasha didn’t say anything. She just watched you. Softly. In the passenger seat, Willow was a whirlwind of motion. She had her phone out, snapping photos of the sunrise over the city skyline, the rows of transport trucks pulling into the paddock, the backs of race trailers covered in sponsor logos.

“God, this is insane!!” Willow muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “I can’t believe we’re really here..”

Natasha smirked faintly. “It’s always real at the first corner.”

Willow didn’t even flinch. “I’m ready.”

She meant it. Her excitement wasn’t childish anymore. It was focused. Sharpened. Natasha glanced at her, proud. Then back at the mirror.

Your gaze was on the road. But your fingers tapped once, almost in rhythm to Natasha’s signal light. A quiet acknowledgment.

The moment the car pulled into the underground entrance to the paddock, cameras began flashing. They hadn’t even stepped out yet.

Natasha cut the engine and sat for a beat. “You two know the drill.”

You pulled out your earbuds and tucked them into your pocket. Still silent, but sharp now. Willow adjusted her jacket and reached for her media pass lanyard.

“God, there’s already like fifty of them..” she muttered. Natasha stepped out first. The sound of shutters exploding hit instantly. Flashes. Voices. Shouts.

“ROMANOFF, OVER HERE!”

“WILLOW, SMILE FOR SKY SPORTS!”

“Y/N! ANY COMMENT ON THE RIVALRY?”

You followed, hoodie up, sunglasses on. No expression. Willow followed last, almost jumping at the barrage of attention, but she didn’t flinch. She smiled wide. Waved once.

They didn’t stop walking. They didn’t answer questions. The three of you moved in sync toward the garage, driver, driver, boss. And behind every flash, the story was writing itself:

“Romanoff Racing Arrives, One Team, Two Stars, All Eyes On Gold.”

But behind the headline, between the silences and the stolen glances, only one truth mattered: You were here. And you were ready to burn the track down.

You sat in your chair, arms folded, legs crossed. Your race suit was half-zipped, the sleeves knotted at your waist. Your face unreadable.

Willow was across from you, helmet on the table, bouncing her leg under the chair, nervous energy leaking through the edges of her focused expression.

Natasha stood at the head of the room, pointer in one hand, the other resting on the back of her chair. Not smiling. Not lecturing. Just speaking, measured and exact.

“We’re going soft-hard-medium. Staggered stops. Y/n, you’re opening with pace. I want a gap by lap 12.”

You nodded. “Copy.”

“Willow..” Natasha said, voice shifting subtly, “you’re staying with Costa and Wolfe. Buffer zone. You’re not chasing him, not unless I call for it.”

Willow’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t argue. “Understood.”

Natasha clicked a button. A screen lit up with a predictive sim. “There’s a 20% chance of light rain in sector three near the end. If it happens, we hold track position. No unnecessary battles.”

You tilted your head, watching her closely. This wasn’t her usual tone. There was something behind it. A stiffness. An uncertainty.

Minutes later, you sat in pole, visor down, surrounded by cameras and chaos. The air reeked of fuel and heat. A heartbeat pulsed under your palms, yours or the car’s, you didn’t know anymore.

“Y/n, final check. Comms clear?”

“Clear and ready.”

“Good. Watch your rear into turn three. Wolfe will try to dive late.”

“Let him try.”

“Willow, confirm comms.”

“Clear. Heart rate’s at 110. I’m breathing.”

“Good. Just survive the first five laps. The rest will come to you, okay?”

Your jaw twitched inside your helmet. There it was again..The tone-

Lights out.

The roar was immediate. Four-wide dive into the first corner. You took the inside clean, perfectly timed gear shift, shutting the door on Wolfe and Costa with ruthless precision.

By lap 2, you had already opened a 1.7 second lead.

Smooth. Surgical. Untouchable. Behind you, Willow stumbled. Turn six..wide. Lap four..too much brake into the chicane.

“Willow, pull it together. Reset your rhythm. Don’t chase, stabilize.”

“Copy. Sorry.”

Lap six, Willow found it again. She overtook Costa in a brave, inside line maneuver that nearly kissed the gravel. You heard the pit crew cheer. Natasha’s voice crackled with unexpected joy.

“That’s the fire. Keep it clean. Wolfe’s losing grip. You can take him in two.”

You grit your teeth. The car roared under you like a living thing, engine screaming at full tilt, tires gripping tarmac like claws on glass. You breathed slow. Measured. Intentional. Every part of you synced with the machine, the wheel, the brakes, the tiny flicks of balance that made or broke lap times.

You were leading. Clean start. Clean pace. Fastest lap by lap 11. Smooth as silk, precise as a scalpel. This race was yours.

In your rearview mirror, you saw Willow, P2 now, holding position. Not threatening, not faltering. Just…there. You didn’t think about her. You didn’t have time.

You thought about your line through turn 9, the slight understeer near the tunnel curve, the way your grip was softening on the softs with every corner carve. Your body was singing with focus. This was your world. And nothing, not the crowd, not the pit crew, not even Natasha’s voice, could shake it.

Until lap 34.

“Y/n. We’ve got a situation.”

“Talk to me.”

“Willow’s rear gearbox sensor is pinging. Possible instability. Data’s fluctuating. If Wolfe pushes DRS range and forces a brake duel, that casing could fail.”

You blinked through sweat. “Then pull her back.”

“No. We’re issuing a position swap. Now.”

Silence in your helmet. Your hands tightened on the wheel. What?

The wind outside felt louder. The engine scream thinned into white noise. “…No.”

“That’s not a request.”

“She won’t survive the lead! Not with a blown rear and Wolfe charging!”

Natasha was more cold this time,

“And she definitely won’t if she doesn’t have a wall behind her.”

“I am the wall, Natasha! Let me hold the front. Let me finish this.”

Another beat of silence. Then..

“Y/n. Position. Swap. Now. You protect her or she crashes out. Those are the only outcomes.”

Inside the garage, Natasha stood stiff at the pit wall, headset pressed tight, heart hammering harder than she’d admit. You hadn’t obeyed.

She stared at the live feed, your car just ahead, clean lines, perfect balance, but no sign of lifting. And Willow, driving beautifully, but unaware of just how fragile her car was, was still in second. Vulnerable.

Natasha knew what this was. This wasn’t disobedience. This was fear.

Not for Willow. For you. Letting someone pass when the win was in your hands? When every ounce of your soul knew you were better?

That wasn’t just sacrifice. That was surrender.

Your jaw was tight inside the helmet. Your heart hammered against your ribs, not from fear, but from fury. Your fingers ached on the wheel. Every instinct in you screamed to ignore the call.

This is your race. You built this team. You bled for this damn car.

But Natasha’s voice echoed in your mind, not just the words, but the way her tone had shifted. The ice. The command.

You didn’t want to listen. But Natasha wasn’t asking. She was telling.

You swore under your breath and eased off the throttle. Just enough, and Willow swept past you on the straight. The crowd screamed. The leaderboard updated.

P1: Willow Petrov

P2: You

And behind you, like a wolf in a storm, Wolfe loomed in P3. You gritted your teeth and dropped behind Willow, matching her pace, locking the line tight. If Wolfe tried anything now, he’d hit a wall of steel.

“Thank you.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Not without your voice cracking.

Final Laps

Willow held the front with everything she had. Her lines weren’t as perfect, her exits not as sharp, but they were enough. You buffered every corner, forced Wolfe wide, stole DRS range every time it threatened to open. You weren’t racing anymore. You were guarding.

Lap 39.

Lap 40.

The checkered flag waved. Willow crossed the line first. You followed, less than a second behind.

Back in the garage, Willow was pulled from the car by techs and PR and cameras. The first win of her Formula 1 career.

And you? You climbed out in silence. Helmet off. Sweat running down your neck. Eyes unreadable. You stood there beside the car, breathing hard, ignoring the cameras.

Across the garage, Natasha didn’t move. She just watched you. Not as a manager. Not even as a lover. But as a woman who had just asked someone she loved to let go of something sacred.

You walked past her. Didn’t stop. Didn’t look at her. Natasha reached for your hand, just a brush, but you pulled it away gently, and disappeared into the corridor.

Part 2

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[void-botanist]

My biggest recommendations are these 3 browser extensions:

uBlock Origin blocks trackers and almost every ad on almost every site (Facebook is the only exception I can think of). It blocks YouTube ads too. It also has a "zapper" mode that lets you get rid of elements on the page, like annoying sidebar videos (it's not AI btw. it's just a little bit of developer tools CSS magic).

uBlacklist lets you block results on search engine pages. You can block them manually or by using lists such as the Huge AI Blocklist. (If you're interested in blocking AI sites specifically I also maintain a list of sites that are partnered with OpenAI. You can add it as a subscription with the raw text URL.)

Indie Wiki Buddy redirects you to either a non-Fandom wiki for a piece of media or serves you a version of the Fandom wiki that is just the content with no ads.

For PDF readers:

Firefox has a built-in pdf reader! It's good for filling in PDF fields, but for more complex edits, pdf24 looks a lot more powerful.

On Windows I used SumatraPDF.

On Linux Mint Cinnamon, I use qpdfview (also available in Software Manager) because it doesn't reset the zoom level when jumping between sections using the navigation. Just be aware it handles copying text a little differently than other readers (though it works great!).

For ebooks:

Project Gutenberg has public domain books in multiple languages and formats.

Anna's Archive is similar to the Internet Archive - a lifesaver for books that are hard to get your hands on, like the books I've used for my historical research.

For art (all of these are available on Windows, Mac, and Linux):

Photopea is an in-browser recreation of Photoshop.

Krita and FireAlpaca are drawing tools - I prefer Krita but FireAlpaca is more similar to Clip Studio Paint. You do have to pay for the enhanced version of FA to get darkmode though.

LibreSprite is a pixel sprite software.

For email addresses, I use both Tuta and Proton Mail, and I like them both. I pay for Tuta to get unlimited tags and calendars, and I use Tuta Calendar as my primary calendar. The two features I miss over Google Calendar are not being able to import public calendars and not being able to type a time in the event name and have the calendar parse that into the event time. Otherwise it's been great and I appreciate being able to easily assign custom hex colors to each calendar. One thing to note about having multiple addresses in one Tuta account is that they all go into the same inbox, which might be a dealbreaker for some folks. I'm not sure if it works the same way for Proton because I don't pay for Proton.

For more alternative suggestions, take a peek at switching.software.

decentralize and clean up your life!!!

use overdrive, libby, hoopla, cloudlibrary, and kanopy instead of amazon and audible.

use firefox instead of chrome or opera (both are made with chromium, which blocks functionality for ad-blockers. firefox isn't based on chromium).

use mega or proton drive instead of google drive.

get rid of bloatware

use libreoffice instead of microsoft office suite

use vetted sites on r/FREEMEDIAHECKYEAH for free movies, books, games, etc.

use trakt or letterboxd instead of imdb.

use storygraph instead of goodreads.

use darkpatterns to find mobile game with no ads or microtransactions

use ground news to read unbiased news and find blind spots in news stories.

use mediahuman or cobalt to download music, or support your favorite artists directly through bandcamp

make youtube bearable by using mtube, newpipe, or the unhook extension on chrome, firefox, or microsoft edge

use search for a cause or ecosia to support the environment instead of google

use thriftbooks to buy new or used books (they also have manga, textbooks, home goods, CDs, DVDs, and blurays)

use flashpoint to play archived online flash games

find books, movies, games, etc. on the internet archive! for starters, here's a bunch of David Attenborough documentaries and all of the Animorphs books

burn your music onto cds

use pdf24 (available online or as a desktop app) instead of adobe

use unroll.me to clean your email inboxes

use thunderbird, mailfence, countermail, edison mail, tuta, or proton mail instead of gmail

remove bloatware on windows PC, macOS, and iOS X

remove bloatware on samsung X

use pixelfed instead of instagram or meta

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last updated: march 18th 2025

[aestherin]

I CAN SEE YOU

track 09: have you listened to my songs?

NOTE: another update bc we got the grades for all our subjects and i survived sophomore year !

When Scaramouche arrives, he finds you at a secluded spot in the park.

You were sitting on the grass, leaves stemming out from branches above you providing shelter. He spies art materials laid on a piece of fabric, along with a decently sized canvas resting on your lap.

Scaramouche mentally thanks you for choosing a spot with no people nearby.

The crunching sound of grass and leaves urged you to look in his direction. He waves, and you nod. 

As soon as he reaches your spot, he stops, leaning a little bit closer. “Archons, that’s gorgeous,” he whispered.

He could not tear his eyes away from the pink-hued canvas in your possession. Despite being far from completion, he immediately recognized what your work tried to capture — the endless rows of sakura trees currently surrounding the two of you.

“Thank you.” You flash a small smile. 

“Don’t be. That wasn't mere flattery, I was just stating a fact.”

“You didn’t mean it to be flattery, but it made me feel good anyway. And I want to thank you for that.”

His lips curve a little. Really, you’re such a smooth talker. You’re tolerable to talk to as well. It makes it hard for him to believe that you were born and raised by a family such as yours.

He unconsciously frowns upon remembering your background. Who knows if how you’re interacting with him right now is how your parents trained you to.

And Scaramouche hates those two things — he hates deceptiveness, and he despises not knowing.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, you must have a busy schedule. You didn’t really have to go and meet me personally.”

He stills.

You were right.

Why did he even go here?

He could have just continued to converse with you through texts. Now that he thinks about it, he could’ve just drove straight home instead of stopping by. He could’ve been laying in his extremely comfortable bed, wearing his loungewear and with his choice of movie playing in the background, as he half-heartedly responds to your messages.

So why is he here?

He cleared his throat. “Well, I decided to just go here too because I needed a breather anyway.” He tries to convince you and himself.

He merely receives a hum in acknowledgement.

“Anyways,” you say as you stain your canvas another stroke of pink, “as I said, your agency’s asking about our progress.”

“Can’t you just tell them that we’re having one?” He suggests as he finally sits beside you, unconsciously leaning in closer to observe your painting.

Your fingers momentarily freeze at the proximity. You’ve never had anyone this close to you while you’re painting before! Well, except probably that time in college when your art professors were observing you as you taint your canvas.

“I mean, I could but… I overthink a lot so… I’m already thinking, ‘what if they ask me follow up questions, or more details, or a proof and whatnot’.”

“You think too much.”

“You think too little.” You counter. “Actually, I’m already overthinking now about how someone could possibly recognize you out of nowhere.”

He shrugs. “I see no one near us though.”

You pay him no mind. 

“And what if after they recognize you, they mob us? Or worse, what if they paint me to be your girlfriend?”

Scaramouche’s lips part in bewilderment. “You think being my girlfriend is worse than getting mobbed?”

“Is it not?” You ask, voice unmistakably genuine. You start to think of his old friend, who received so many unwarranted criticisms when she was revealed to be the girlfriend of renowned actor Kamisato Ayato. From that fiasco alone, you had a general idea that being the significant other of a high-profile person — especially someone that has a fanbase — is not for the weak.

“How would it be?!” He spats, visibly offended. 

“Because—”

“Actually, you know what, don’t answer that.”

“For your peace of mind, let’s just talk at the cafe inside our agency.”

You oblige, and Scaramouche helps you pack up your stuff. Once the materials are packed, he stands up and picks up the rose-colored canvas before he accompanies you towards his car.

—

You feel his stare as you take a sip of your coffee (a futile attempt to divert yourself from the awkwardness). 

“Why don’t you give your agency a rough date when they can expect you to hand over your demos? You’ll also feel pressured that way. Having deadlines works wonders, you know. I mean, to me, personally. Because I’m a procrastinator,” You reply — though merely whispering the last bit— to his earlier question, something about how he just does not have any idea how to start on his next album.

“Okay, I’ll try that.” 

He languidly props his chin on his right palm.  “How long are you staying here in Inazuma again?”

“Three months, why?”

“So that I know until when I’ll have you here with me.”

You still. And that’s when he realizes.

He again clears his throat. “To make my album cover, I mean.”

You merely give him a small ‘okay’ and a nod, before turning your focus back to your beverage.

‘Archons, I don’t know what else to talk about!’ 

“Random question, have you listened to my songs?” 

You almost choke.

“Uhm, no, I actually haven’t.” You answer. You could only hope he wouldn’t notice how you’re restlessly fiddling with your fingers underneath the table.

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry! I’ll start listening now.”

“I’m not forcing you to?”

“But I want to.”

You hope he doesn’t notice how all of his songs were marked with green checks on the side, a testament to how they were all already added to your ‘Liked Songs’ playlist. You hope he didn’t see how, when you opened your profile, he was displayed as one of your ‘Top Artists this Month’. 

You started to listen to his most recent album, the one called ‘To The Girl I’ve Loved Before’. It was hard, trying to not sing along to the lyrics you knew oh so well. It was tough, trying to not move your head along to the beat you were all too familiar with.

“Sooo,” you say as you remove your earphones. “Are most of these songs about one girl?”

You mentally hit yourself. ‘Why would you even ask that, oh my god.’

“Yeah.”

“Never requited?” You were too deep in your act now to stop this topic.

“Never.”

“Have you moved on?”

“Why is this suddenly turning into an interview?” He leans back and crosses his arms. “And why am I the one in the hot seat?”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“Well, I don’t know. Honestly.” 

Scaramouche finds himself looking out into the distance. His mind has been a mess for the past several months.

And now, he’s plagued with a series of questions.

How does one even know if they’ve already moved on? What if they thought they haven’t yet… but actually… the only feelings remaining are lingering platonic attachments, and not, in fact, love?

I CAN SEE YOU — scara x reader smau

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[cathedralight]

i've been rereading the dream thieves and find it super interesting to consider ronan's sexuality and his second secret through a specifically catholic framework. throughout trb and tdt, there are obviously multiple nods to ronan being gay: "i'm always straight" "that's the biggest lie you've ever told", "ronan wasn't a fan of lamps," the double meaning of "i know what you are" said by both kavinsky and declan, etc. ronan grapples with both his identity as a dreamer and his sexuality in tdt—"please god what am i tell me what i am"—yet the culmination of ronan's self-acceptance isn't just overcoming self-hatred and admitting that he's gay. it's specifically tied to his feelings for adam: "ronan's second secret was adam parrish." this is a way to overtly communicate that he's gay in-text, but there's nuance in the fact that his second secret is not generalized and identity-based, but intertwined with his attraction to a specific person.

now allow me to dive into the catholicism of it all, because it's interesting how ronan coming to terms with his sexuality is informed by catholic vs. protestant stances on queerness (very broadly speaking). whereas many protestant christian religions encourage praying the gay away and becoming heterosexual through god's will (aka conversion therapy), the stance of the catholic church on homosexuality is more along the lines of "you can't control that you have same-sex desire, but everyone has their crosses to bear so just don't act on it." as such, the catechism states that “homosexual persons are called to chastity.” (in the 1986 letter, the cardinal says, "although the particular inclination of the homosexual person is not a sin, it is a more or less strong tendency ordered toward an intrinsic moral evil; and thus the inclination itself must be seen as an objective disorder." this article also provides context to the catholic church's views on queerness.) all in all, there's that distinction between being gay vs. acting on it. gay thoughts vs gay actions. you can see this echoed in ronan's arc and how he struggles with his sexuality in several key ways.

for one thing, ronan is more concerned with concealment and repression than he is with changing or "fixing" his sexuality. his shame stems from lacking the vocabulary to understand or accept himself in numerous ways, but i wouldn't say ronan expends much energy trying to pray the gay away. ronan is pretty much allergic to attempting to change himself or conform to what others want, and this is no exception. for example, his acknowledgement that he has no interest in lamps, i.e. women, is very matter-of-fact. therein lies that catholic acceptance of his homosexuality; ronan cannot control what he is, but he can control whether he acts on it or not. i've seen analysis that considers ronan's sexuality as totally buried prior to tdt vs. his sexuality being something he's already open about prior to tdt; for me, the truth is probably somewhere in the middle because of that gay thoughts vs. gay actions split. the beginning of tdt cements this: "the second secret was perfect in its concealment. ronan did not say it. ronan did not think it. he never put lyrics to the second secret, the one he kept from himself." we know adam is his second secret, thus the tangible nature of his feelings for adam is what he's keeping from himself, not merely the fact that he's gay.

tdt is where ronan is specifically grappling with the possibility of his gay urges becoming action. imo the earliest example of this is the dollar city scene, with ronan wanting to punch the wall over gansey looking like "very clearly a real human, an attainable human." the word attainable speaks again to the idea of attraction as a contained feeling vs. something that ronan could act on (not necessarily with gansey, but it's broaching that difference as a concept). later on there's the adam-kavinsky sex dream after which ronan wakes up "ashamed and euphoric." the dream has given multiple faces to a nameless concealed desire, which has again made it a more real possibility and therefore what ronan has been trying to avoid. in a dream with kavinsky, "it felt like anything could happen. all of his secrets felt dangerously close to the surface." again, the idea of something happening, of a feeling being acted upon. and finally, when adam confronts ronan about his rent, "something inside ronan unwound and he almost said something." repeatedly an emphasis is placed on ronan's holding back, on concealing himself through refusing to act on what he feels.

all this to say! this is why it's so intentional and brilliant that the reveal of ronan's second secret culminates in his feelings for adam. in this admission, ronan's repressed sexuality becomes something with a tangible focal point. ronan has to confront his sexuality as something he can and DOES want to act on because of his attraction to adam, who is real and attainable. and to bring it back to his catholicism—this falls perfectly in line with ronan having an ingrained view of sexuality as an "inclination" that can't be changed vs. the sin being if he were to act on that inclination. it is a huuuuuuge step, then, for ronan to accept not just his desire for adam but the inevitability that he wants to act on those feelings ("it was hard not to stare at the odd and elegant lines of his face"; and in trk, "he’d let [his feelings] overflow and now there wasn’t a damn place in the ocean that wouldn’t catch fire if he dropped a match"). we don't see ronan attempt to talk himself out of who and what he is; rather, we see his indecision and hesitance when it comes to what he does and what he allows himself to do. that's why it's so impactful when ronan stops keeping his second secret from himself—and the way that reveal is informed heavily by his catholic faith adds so much additional nuance.

[boyfhee]

ㅤㅤ DEVOURㅤ﹑ㅤpark sunghoon

ㅤ ﹙158O﹚────sunghoon is hot and he doesn ’ t know it ｡⠀

𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋⠀ 雨，⠀loser vampire bf sunghoon x fem readerㅤ゛AMOUR⠀，skinship, fluff, petnamesㅤ﹙◜ᴗ⁠◝⁠﹚ㅤsunghoon biceps meal yeah .. this is very self indulgent ><

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ REBLOG FOR SMOOCHES !

the eerie silence of the apartment doesn’t escape sunnghoon’s attention. his footsteps feel oddly loud against the tiles, a sigh rolling off his tongue as he steps inside the kitchen; and a familiar voice cuts through the quiet.

“i think you should choke me,”

nothing, absolutely nothing could have prepared your dear boyfriend for the words that leave your mouth as soon as he walks out of the shower.

with his head whipping towards you, he freezes in stance— jaw dropped, eyes wide open, head tilted in confusion.

“huh?” sunghoon gives you a questionable look, blinking him to some logic— anything to make sense of your words. “wouldn’t that be life threatening?”

and you shrug. “i could be into that,”

sunghoon doesn’t think he has met anyone like you in his seven hundred something years on earth.

his fangs amused you instead of scaring you the first time he told you he is a vampire. you went around for weeks wanting him to bite you— turn you— but he successfully talked you out of it.

now that you have found a trace of normalcy in the five weeks that you have been dating him, your mind finds amusement in his biceps.

“last time,” he pops a cherry in his mouth, shifting weight from one leg to the other. “you wanted me to headlock you,”

“and that was hot as hell,” you insist, eyes gleaming with mischief. if sunghoon didn’t know any better, he’d think you might have gone insane.

and you could be— evidently— the veins on his arms and hands do nothing except making you gulp, only onto that last string of sanity.

you don’t think your pretty face, vampire of a boyfriend realises just how hot he is, really.

he thinks it’s a plain obsession— well, one is supposed to be obsessed with their lover. he catches you ogling him when he’s changing the bulb and thinks it’s because you want something.

according to sunghoon, there is absolutely no reason for you to zone out while looking at his hands except that they are pretty, well maintained and manicured.

you also don’t think he knows you joined the same gym as him to watch him workout and not to accompany him in following a healthy lifestyle and improving your heart’s health. simply looking at him heals you enough.

even now, he is standing clueless about why your eyes have zoomed in on his biceps. sunghoon stretches his arm, unintentionally flexing his muscles and it drives you crazy. his sweats hang low on his hips and it’s a sight to see.

you need him and he can’t catch a hint.

“so is that a yes or no?” you make your way to the kitchen, standing behind him as he reaches out for the coffee mugs placed on the top shelf.

you wonder if he puts them there deliberately to tease you, giving you that taunting flash of a slip of his waistline as his shirt rides up when he raises his arm.

your boyfriend shakes his head with a sigh, clearly failing to understand the logic behind your request. “you’re weird,”

“just once,”

“no,” a curt reply.

you’re really testing his patience.

“c’mon, sunghoon, it’s—”

“darling,” and it’s quiet again, aside from your heartbeat echoing in your ears when he easily cages you against the counter, between the very arms that make you weak in the knees. “i am not doing anything that risks your life,”

stupid.

you want to tease, explain what you mean, but your words are lost. sunghoon is hot and his lack of self awareness is life threatening because he is standing close— so close, you can feel the scent of his cologne intoxicating your senses.

you can still see the remains of water on his neck, droplets making their way down his skin. his face is a little flushed from the hot shower while yours is from how hot he is making you feel.

sunghoon’s eyes trace your face up and down, almost setting your heart ablaze when you feel his gaze on your lips for a brief second.

“understood?” he mutters, low and quiet, tucking a finger under your chin to make you look at him, eye to eye, soul to soul.

and you can only gulp when he leans a little closer, pressing himself against you. “yes,”

“good girl,” and he’s gone, stepped back, focused on his coffee, once again unaware of how his actions have left you trippy and dazed.

it is quite infuriating because he does not do it knowingly. sunghoon barely tries and your world shifts a little, stomach flipping and chest fluttering.

unaware of your inner turmoil, he turns around and switches on the coffee machine.

your fingers trace over the edge of the counter mindlessly, mind in a trance half because of what happened, and half due to the sight of his muscular back.

another glance— a quiet step in his direction, lower lip tugged between your teeth and your arms snake around his torso from behind, a cheeky grin forming on your lips as you poke his biceps with your index finger. you’ve never been the one to give up. “can i bite?”

and sunghoon gives up, hands up in the air. “babe, i am the vampire in the relationship,”

[arytra]

This is also super important friends: Keep doing activities that keep you thinking. And I don't mean like 'Do your research'. I mean 'Do your sudoku', 'work on a puzzle', 'do a crossword', 'play cards with friends'. Keep out in your community with the TV off. I lost my parents more and more when they focused less on the activities and more on Fox.

Mom is the better story with this one because Dad's took years. Mom had a stroke. Before that, she snapped at Dad to 'turn off that junk' with Fox News. She was able to stay in the middle of his every shifting right politics and my ever shifting left ones. I could convince her of things. She was also fanatical about playing cribbage with Dad or my sister and doing a crossword puzzle daily. Looking up the answers was cheating, but texting me "Who is the villain in Star Wars?" was fair. It's likely she was already starting to get dementia when she had the stroke, but it escalated everything. I haven't seen her do a single crossword since it. She rarely plays cards. She has no one except Dad to talk to and she's... well... dementia hasn't been kind to her personality either. And then she said the words I was dreading: "Well, Fox News is starting to make sense to me."

Friends, this wasn't a long time period, but I am noting that the isolation and the loss of brain games went FIRST. You're not immune, but just saying "I won't be like this" isn't enough. You need to do things that help your brain think. Even when they get harder, especially when they do. You need to keep up with your friends and make new ones if your friends pass away. Because they're all part of the thing helping you remember that you're not immune to propaganda and you're going to need that.

[rubyvhs]

BARE MINIMUM — multi

the jjk men do the bare minimum, and you, like an idiot, almost break down. and they’re even more sweet about that. | 1.2k

includes: g.suguru & k.nanami & t.fushigoro & g.satoru. fem!reader, early established relationship (dating), some hurt/comfort, kissing, suggestiveness, lots of cute names (pretty girl, sweetheart, honey, baby, doll etc). based on this by @aquasoftware

geto suguru 

you sigh the second you set your work phone down, thankful the messages stopped for a second, except your personal phone rings just as fast. you groan as you pick it up, letting out an annoyed, “what!”

“hey, pretty girl.” you sit up immediately as you recognize your boyfriends voice. oh crap, you did not mean for that to happen. “sugu, i’m so sorry, i’ve just had a really long day and i didn’t notice that it was you.”

“really? it’s only twelve,” he says but it isn’t accusatory, if anything, he seems worried which just fuels your guilt. “anyway, it’s why i called, wanted to ask how your day was.”

“oh.” oh. it seems like a trick question, all you’ve ever known is the ‘shut up’ and ‘stop talking so much’ from your family and past boyfriends, this feels like a trick, asking how your day was just so he can tell you your voice is annoying— “good.”

“good? you just said it was long. tell me about it, tell me what happened, i miss your voice.” he misses your— okay, now this really is a trick phone call. maybe he has gojo there to laugh with him. it feels cruel to assume these things of suguru but you don’t know why else he would ask. “you there? are you busy? i can call back—”

“no, no, just not used to the question, i guess.” you’ve only been dating for a few weeks, guess there’s a lot you need to get used to with geto suguru. 

“really? that’s stupid, i love hearing about your day so c’mon, i wanna know everything i can in this twenty minute break.” you can’t help the smile on your face. 

nanami kento 

you let your head fall to the pillow with one last breathy sigh, laughing. “what?” ken asks, finally sitting up from in between your legs. you just shrug, not ready to let go of the magical world he put you in for the past hour. you would say your first time with kento is a success.

he shakes his head at you with a smile of his own, standing up off the bed which worries you. your smile falls immediately and you push yourself up with your elbows, eyes following him as he enters the bathroom. you didn’t mean to be rude, you were just happy. he has to know that. but you don’t think calling out to him when he wants alone time is wise so you just fall back on your pillow, pulling the covers up to your face with a frustrated sigh this time. you can’t seem to get anything right. 

“sweetheart?” you hear his voice and immediately pull the sheets down. “do you mind if i clean you up? pretty sure i did a number on you.” he asks, fingers moving down to your legs above the satin fabric. you shake your head mindlessly, not exactly sure what’s happening. 

you’re not stupid, you know what aftercare is, you just don’t usually receive it. and by ‘not usually’ you mean ‘not ever’. he pushes the cover up to your stomach so you’re not bare, something you didn’t know you’d actually care about that much till he gave you the option, and a few seconds into cleaning his and your ‘fun’ off of you, he looks up, “why did you do that?”

“do what?” you thought everything was perfect, you thought you did good. 

“cover your face.”

“oh, i— i’m sorry, i just thought you were gonna shower or head out or something.” despite it being his house, it isn’t exactly unheard of for you that a man leaves you in the bed the second you both come. 

“honey,” he frowns, moving so he can kiss you, pushing himself up with his elbow right next to your biceps. it takes a while before he says something, not wanting to bring too much attention to the topic, he knows how closed off you can get. so he settles with, “i love you, okay?” your heart swells up as you nod and kiss him again.

fushigoro toji

your phone rings for the third time and assuming it’s your friend asking why you aren’t at work again, you just silence it and go back to bed. god, this headache is gonna kill you, and if it doesn’t then your temperature just might. why is everything cold?

you don’t even hear your front door open, which is good considering you couldn’t do much even if it was a burglar, but you do hear your boyfriend knocking on your bedroom door. he calls out your name as if checking if you’re still alive. “hi, toji.” you mumble, face still in the pillow so he doesn’t really hear anything. good thing you’re still breathing at least. 

“hey, doll,” he sits down next to you, pushing you inside. “got you some soup, figured you wouldn’t be able to eat.”

you gasp, looking up quickly and spotting two large bags on his lap. “oh my god, you’re a heaven sent.” he smiles, though it does strike a question in the back of his mind about just how many douchebags you’ve been with if you think soup while you’re sick is angelic, but it doesn’t matter because you’re smiling at him through your tear stained cheeks and it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. 

he leans down to kiss your hair before you push him away weekly. “stop it! i’m sick—”

“and where did you get it from?” he challenges with a smirk, though there’s no real heat as he opens up the soup container. he’s the one who got you sick anyway, he might as well take responsibility for it. once you’re eating in his arms, you feel a thousand times better. 

gojo satoru 

satoru knocks on your door for the second time before you finally open the door, your earrings in your hand as you try three different pairs on. “uh… hey?” he hesitates as you rush him in and shut the door. “you look beautiful, baby.” he doesn’t even get a moment to kiss you because you’re running back into your bedroom.

“i’m sorry!” you yell so he can hear you, “i’m totally late.” he walks into the room to find your clothes laying on every horizontal surface. “i swear i’m done, i just need to find my other earring and i’m so done.”

satoru just laughs, walking towards you to stop your frantic search for the matching pair of earrings in your hands. he, finally, kisses you. when he pulls away you notice the flowers in his hands, “what’re those?”

“those,” he says with a smile, “are for my perfect girl. my law graduate girl.” he sees the tears brimming in your eyes and quickly takes your face in his hands to kiss you again. “you’re graduating.”

“i am?” you ask with a small smile before the tears start flowing. “i am. ‘toru, i’m graduating.” he laughs and pulls you in for a hug. 

[millilps]

SAY IT LOUDER

i stopped shaving years ago after trying that for a few years in middle school. no one ever said anything about shaving, it was simply something everyone expected from me. but for me it was sensory hell, skin hurting, stupid tiny cuts on the back of my legs that hurt more than papercuts. i hated it.

then i stopped. i was uncomfortable at first, i thought that everyone would judge me and say mean things... no one did except my parents. and they still do. every now and then, now that it's getting warmer, they'll suggest i wear long pants when we go out. i simply say no. the other day i looked mom straight in the eyes and said "it's pointless for you to keep telling me that my options are either long pants or shaving. i won't do either, and the more you say it the more i won't" and honestly setting boundaries about my own body (and most importantly gender expression as i'm non-binary) felt so good although i do still feel judged by my parents' eyes - reason why i try to show off my legs as much as possible. annoyed? good. but you know what? i'm happy. two days ago i went to a pride parade and i heard a person near me say "it's so nice to see girls comfortable in having and showing their leg hair!" and not a girl but it felt INCREDIBLE!! yes!! women have hair!!! and if you think they shouldn't then ASK YOURSELF WHY THIS STANDARD EVEN FUCKING STARTED

i have so many stories about shamelessly having leg hair. one day i was out and waiting for a friend, and there was a kid. the kid asked her mom "is that a boy or a girl?" and, on one side, i'm sad i didn't have the time to answer "guess", but on the other side i'm incredibly happy that the mom said a girl because that means that kid will grow up knowing that everyone has leg hair and she shouldn't be ashamed of it or have to conform to a standard imposed by pure bullshit (one of my parents' argument is always "but it's dirty and you look like you don't take care of yourself" reason why i unironically started washing my leg hair with shampoo and honestly i can't recommend this enough. seriously it always makes my hair feel softer and like... it's not going anywhere. so i will take care of it.)

it makes me sad the way cis women are so terrified of and disgusted by their own body hair. and i'm not talking "i have to shave for sensory reasons" i mean i keep seeing videos of women using hair identifier spray on their faces and hands so they can shave the tiniest barely-there bits of peach fuzz that came free with their bodies. hair that serves a purpose and that purpose is cleanliness and protection. i mean when i was in elementary school girls who had barely hit puberty were talking about shaving their arms. i mean full-grown adult women who will have a breakdown if they see two days of stubble on their legs/crotch/ jaw/pits because god forbid you don't look like a perfect plastic barbie doll. god forbid your body that keeps you alive comes with hair that may not be soft and glossy and photogenic. some women are so afraid of having any hair apart from their head and eyebrows that they've uno reversed themselves into six different kinds of gender dysphoria that they can't recognize as such because they're convinced that this unnatural state of highly-groomed capital-informed beauty is how women have always been. you're so scared of looking "gross" or "ugly" or "mannish" that you can't even look at your body in the mirror and recognize what it is. sister you are an ape. why are you so determined to deny your nature.

[todomochi-uwu]

already over.

Pairing(s): Luffy x reader; Zoro x reader; Sanji x reader; Ace x reader; Law x reader Genre: Smut, angst Warnings: This content is for a mature audience Synopsis: The flesh is weak, and you are even weaker for him. Author's notes: I finished Marineford, and I feel like dying, so you might notice my love for Ace through this text. I'm thinking about writing a second part, but I'm not sure. Would you guys like a part two? Partially inspired by Already over by Sabrina Carpenter, hence the name of this work. Masterlist If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee

Luffy 

You broke up with him, and it killed you, but you must face the truth: He's still too immature for a serious relationship. He isn’t what you need right now. 

The idea of you not being in his life doesn’t make sense to him. 

“Can we, at least, be friends?” “Maybe in the future, Luffy.” “Like, in a week?” 

Pushing you out of his routine is something he can’t seem to do. 

“Hey! Are we still on for dinner on Friday?” “Luff, we are broken up.” “Is that a no?” 

Sends you constant TikTok videos and memes that remind him of you. You try not to answer but can’t help but see them. 

Moving on from him is a nightmare cause he’s always there. 

It takes something to have reality hit him. 

“Oh, look at this photo Y/n posted!” He showed Usopp your profile. A thread of photos you had posted last night. The first one of you with chopsticks on your nose. The next one mid mid-bite. The third one of you smiling and looking at the camera. 

"I thought you guys broke up?" He side-eyed his friend. 

"Yeah, so?" He was too focused on flipping through your pictures until he came across the last one. You were posing with a guy, his arm around you while kissing your cheek. You were laughing. “Who the fuck is that?!” 

“Um...” 

He won't hesitate. He corners you to ask who the guy in your photo is. And when you answer honestly, it feels like a punch to the gut. 

“It’s a guy I’ve been seeing.” “What? I thought you just needed a break or something. Not an actual break-break.” “Lu, we broke up four months ago...” 

Be sure he’ll drive away anyone who dares to approach you. He wants you and won’t let you go. Not that easy. 

It's no surprise you end up back on his bed. You love this man, your heart longs for him. 

“Luffy!” Overstimulated and cross-eyed he had you, on the old and ragged couch of his living room. His tongue lapped at your wet cunt, thrusting and sucking on everything across its path. Luffy was always a messy eater, so oral sex wasn’t the exception. 

"You always taste so good." He pulled away for a second, just to see the way your juices spilt out along with his spit. Then, he pushed two fingers inside, with no warning, but sure where to aim. He knew your body like the palm of his hand. 

“Shit!” If he hadn’t been holding you, you surely would've face-planted. Your fingers ran through his hair, shoving his face closer to your core. Getting closer and closer for the nth time, thanks to the way his fingers fuck you and his lips around your clit. 

Yeah, you fucked up. 

Your head is a mess, and this won’t help. But you are weak, dumb and in love. And, painfully, in denial. 

To him, it just doesn’t make sense. If you love him, and he loves you, why not be together? 

“Are we good?” He asks while stroking your arm, leaving kisses on your shoulder. It’s then you realise you aren’t and he’s still the same man you broke up with. 

“No, Luffy. We are not.” You get up and get dressed.  

"But I miss you, Y/n, and I know you miss me too!" He hugs you from the back, "We are meant to be." 

“Are we?” You won’t even look at him. No matter how much he tries. 

Zoro 

He doesn’t even flinch when you break up with him.  

He’s the definition of lovers to enemies. 

Being friends with the two of you is hell. 

“Why are you acting like a fucking asshole?” “Why are you being such a bitch?” 

Do not be mistaken, Zoro might act like he hates you, but he’s hurting. Having you so close but not being able to be with you is killing him. Even more, knowing it was his fault. 

He took you for granted. He was neglectful and dismissive, prioritizing every aspect of his life over you. Unaware of it until it was too late. 

It’s not that he didn’t care that you left, it's the fact that he didn’t know what to do to get you back. So, he resorted to anger. 

Rolling his eyes every time you were brought up, being in the worst mood whenever you showed up; and arguing with you at every little opportunity he got. 

Hate sex came out of nowhere, am I right? 

“Don’t stop!” Eyes at the back of your head, face shoved against his pillow. 

His hips pounded against your ass again and again. You’ve been going at it for God knows how long, but Zoro didn’t seem anywhere near done with you, "Such an obedient girl.” His thrusts slowed down while pressing his chest to your back, leaving kisses on the skin and biting your shoulder, “your pussy is more honest than you, baby.” 

Your hands gripped desperately to his sheets. You couldn’t form a single straight thought, just his name and moans escaped your mouth. “Fuck you." You felt the knot in your belly snapping, legs trembling, and juices spilling everywhere, “Zoro!” 

“You don’t have to pretend, baby. We both know how much you love this dick.” He didn’t stop, bullying your cervix with the tip of his cock, prolonging your climax, “Fuck, you feel so fucking good, baby.” 

But each time, you would run away from him. Claiming it was a mistake, and that it wouldn’t happen again. (Spoiler: it did.) 

He would find any excuse to get you riled up, poking you in ways only he could. If this was the only way he got to be close to you again, he would do it, no doubt. 

“We can’t keep doing this.” You said while putting on your bra. Shame screaming in the back of your head. 

"You always say that." He lies on his arm, looking at you with a smirk. 

“I need to move on, Zoro.” A sob escapes your lips. This worries him, making him want to comfort you. “I can’t keep doing this to myself.” 

"Give me a chance to prove you I've changed." He grabs your hand and looks you in the eyes, "Let me make it up to you. I won’t repeat the same mistakes.” 

You contemplated it for a second. The man you so desperately love is right in front of you, begging for a second chance, but you can’t bring yourself to believe him, “I don’t trust you, Zo.” 

He watches you walk away from him, and once again, he doesn’t know how to stop you.  

Sanji 

He’s a whore. Plain and simple. This is not to say he cheated because he didn’t... but flirting with everything that moves is just as bad. 

He’s at a loss when you break up with him, claiming it came out of the blue. 

“I don´t understand, my love. I thought we were okay.” “You can’t flirt with my friends and expect me to be okay with it.” “I'm just complimenting them, love. Every woman deserves to feel appreciated.” 

Yeah, well, now he can appreciate them all he wants. 

Do you want him to beg? He’ll do it, every day, all day. 

Flowers and desserts are always present at your desk first thing in the morning. 

Poems attached to gift bags at your doorstep when you come back from work. 

Long texts professing his love and how much he misses you. 

You gave in after a couple of weeks. 

He seems genuinely sorry. He’s been attentive, caring, loving, and you are, mind-numbingly, in love with the chef. Why not give him another chance? 

You look into each other's eyes while his fingers trace up and down your skin. “I missed you so much, sweetheart.” His mouth presses against your neck, leaving small, red marks on it. 

 “Sanji.” You whimper, running your nails against his back. 

He’s slow to undress you but covers your body in kisses as he pulls off every piece of clothing. He whispers sweet promises against your body while his hands dance across your skin. “Don’t ever leave me, my love. I thought I’d die without you.” 

You press your hand against his clothed member, making him whimper in your mouth. Both of you are hungry for more, longing for each other’s body and love, “please, Sanji, make love to me.” 

And that’s all it takes. Sanji is inside you in a second, chasing your and his pleasure. His thrusts are desperate and uneven, but you couldn’t care less. "You feel so good, baby. Shit, so good, so good." He’s pussy drunk on you. 

In the morning, you wake up feeling good and loved. 

His scent and warmth still linger on the bed. The house smells like syrup. Your body aches in a good way. Could it get any better? 

The moment you open your phone, you see it. 

A heart-eyed emoji under Nami’s latest post. 

That mother fucker. 

You gather your clothes, shoving yourself into them, eager to get out and never see him again. Just as you are about to open the door, he does. A breakfast tray in his hand, makes your stomach grumble, but you refuse to acknowledge. 

“Good morning, my sweet.” He places the food on the bed, “Why are you up? I thought we could have breakfast in bed.” 

“I’m leaving, Sanji. Last night was a mistake.” You can’t look him in the eyes cause if you do, you know you’ll give in. 

“What? But I thought,” He stutters, “I thought everything... I... We were fine.” 

“We weren’t, Sanji.” You grabbed your bag, “Don’t call me.” 

Ace 

The absolute worst kind of ex. The perfect one you can’t seem to hate. 

You broke up because you start to notice how much he loves being free, so much more than being in a relationship. He’s the flirty type, consciously or not, it was just who he was. 

He won’t deny it, but he’ll say he likes meeting new people. 

He will respect your decision, even if it breaks his heart. Sometimes wonders if he should have fought harder for you. 

You try to stay friends. At the end of the day, Ace is loyal to those he loves and cherishes, and you aren’t willing to lose that. (And selfishly, you don’t want to give him time to be on someone else’s lips.) 

Both of you act like nothing ever happened. Pretending it wasn’t a big deal, and you are okay with going back to being friends. 

Outings with your friend group are the perfect excuse to see each other, neither of you brave enough to admit how much you miss the other. 

Robin tries to set you up with one of her coworkers. Ace prays to God he doesn’t show up, or he’s a complete pig. 

He suffers in silence every time he sees someone hitting on you at a bar. (In silence meaning that everyone in the room can tell his fuming.) 

“Why won’t you admit you miss her?” “Y/n and I are better off as friends, Marco. Don’t worry about it.” 

Then why won’t you leave his bed? 

Ignited by the feeling of missing each other (and the amount of alcohol in your systems), you are back on his bed. 

“You are such a good view.” He moans, one hand grabbing your ass while the other one rests behind his head. Enjoying the way you bounce on his dick. 

You threw your head back, legs about to give in, but desperate to feel his cum inside you, “Ace!” You whimper. 

“Already tired, princess? Oh, but you are doing such a good job.” Ace loves to tease you, but even more than that, he loves making you cum. Both his hands on your hips and feet placed on the bed, making you lean on his knees, he takes over. 

Chest to chest, your face against his neck, you cry out, begging him to make you cum, and for him to fill you up with his cum. "Please, Daddy, please, make me cum.” 

He smirked, “didn’t know how much I missed you calling me that.” He spanked you, "Don't worry, baby, Daddy'll give you what you want.” 

You love your bed, but it loves him too. It'll happen at the same time every weekend. 

But you know it must stop. You love him and you can’t keep hoping that someday he’ll change. 

So, you’ll make the most mature choice you can think of. You ghost him. 

You won’t answer the phone when he calls, messages, emails, or anyway he can contact you goes unanswered. You don't show up to events or plans when you know he will. 

And it works..., for like two weeks. 

It’s seven a.m., and some maniac is banging on your door. With dry spit on your cheeks and puffy eyes, you answer the door, wondering who the fuck dares disturb you on your day off.  

“Ace.” Shit. 

“Yeah, may I know why you are ghosting me?” 

“I, I am not.” You stutter. 

“Don’t lie to me.” He shoves his way into your apartment. “What’s going on, Y/n? Why are you avoiding me?” 

“Because we can’t keep doing this, Ace. I can’t keep allowing myself to fall for you when you don’t want me like that.” 

“You were the one who wanted to break up, not me.” 

“That’s beside the point, Ace. Please, don’t make this any harder.” 

“Can we at least talk about it?” 

“Leave, Ace.” 

Law 

Sometimes, you don’t know if he’s dating you because he loves you or just to shut you up. 

He cares, and you know that, but words without actions are just that. 

He’s a doctor, and you understand he’s busy, but the fact that you have to break up over the phone cause he’s too busy to talk in person makes you feel better about your decision. 

It’s not until he finishes his shift that reality hits. Twelve hours later. 

Drowns himself in work to try and forget you. Sometimes he forgets he’s human and still can hurt. 

He won't call, text or contact you to talk things over. At least not in the beginning. Do you want to break up? Fine. He’s got too much going on to deal with you. (That’s what he says to convince himself.) 

Starts noticing how much you loved him, and how much he took for granted. 

Homemade lunches and snacks that no longer sit on the counter when he’s leaving for work. No random texts throughout the day that pull him out of the rut. No one waited for him at home, and no one filled his days off. 

Law spends hours looking at his phone, contemplating whether he should call or not. What would he even say? Sorry? I miss you? I’m a fucking mess without you? 

He cringes at the idea of acting that vulnerable. 

“Didn’t know you and that girl had broken up.” Law barely heard the other doctor, too busy disassociating himself in a cup of cold, bitter coffee. 

“Huh?” He’s too drowsy for this. 

“Yeah, I saw her last night at that new club. She looks great, no wonder she had all those dudes trying to take her home." He laughed mockingly. "If I didn't respect you enough, I would have given it a try, oh well.” 

The comment makes his blood boil, but he doesn’t say anything. 

After that, it doesn’t take much for him to contact you. Men and their fragile egos. 

“Hello?” ... “It’s me.” 

You no longer have his contact saved on your phone. It’s been months. 

“Okay? What do you need, Law?” “Can we talk?” 

Oh, now he wants to talk. 

You go to his place, as per his request. Talking turns into crying, then into yelling and onto you being pounded on his bed. The flesh is weak, and you are even weaker for this man. 

Your knees are next to your ears, tears dripping down your cheeks and his dick shoving his way in and out of your cunt. You can barely breathe, and your head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. "God, Law." 

“Miss me, babygirl?” His thumb pushes on your overstimulated clit, making you clench even harder around him, “do you miss my cock, love?” His thrusts won’t let up even if you cum he won’t stop, not until you are dripping out with his cum. 

You are shaking, your lungs feel like they are on fire, and your core is so sensitive everything he does throws you over the edge. But you want more. You need more. 

"No one can make you feel the way I do. Don't ever forget that." He says right after he spills his seed inside you. His fingers push it right back inside once it threatens to come out. 

But when morning comes, everything goes back to the way it was.  

You can’t go through it again. The lonely nights, the missed anniversary dinner, the unanswered texts. You won’t go back to feeling unloved. 

“You don’t have to go.” He whispers while watching you put back your clothes. 

You shake your head, "This was a mistake, Law." You grabbed your phone and looked for your purse. 

“I know I fucked up, but...” You cut him, done. 

“It’s been months, Law. I think we are past that." You close the door of his room and on you two. 

[narnian-neverlander]

Jason Todd who isn’t particularly big on using pet names.

He’ll call you a shortened version of your name or some silly nickname based on an inside joke you two came up with when you were kids, occasionally something classic and simple like ‘babe’ or ‘sweetheart’ or ‘beautiful’ and every once in a while he’ll resort to ‘pipsqueak’, but that’s only when he wants to get under your skin and annoy you, cause let’s be honest, you are smaller than him in every possible way. The fact that a pip-squeak was an instrument used by aircraft to find their way back home and you are his home is just coincidence of course

And you respect that he’s not into the whole pet name thing - just cause he isn’t constantly calling you some cutesy nickname doesn’t mean he loves you any less - and stick to just about the same pattern with him. With some exceptions, naturally.

Exceptions that have him physically startling the first time you say something along the lines of, ‘You know when you’re gonna be home tonight, my light?’ That have him doing a double take any time you call him ‘angel’.

At first he thinks you’re just messing with him, teasing him; it’s what you two do after all. But your eyes are always too soft, too gentle, affection written all over your pretty features, so in time he understands that you’re being perfectly serious. And it’s not like he actually minds - not if the flutter of his heart is anything to go by whenever he hears you call him either one. But he’s still trying to figure out what on earth possessed you to choose these terms of endearment for him. Him.

He never asks, doesnt dare to, isn’t sure he truly wants to hear what your answer would be - yet you can tell he’s curious. And if he ever does decide to question you, you’ll tell him he’s your guiding light when everything else in your world goes dark, that you consider him your very own guardian angel who will always be right there when you need him. It’s true enough.

He doesn’t have to know about the time Roy dropped him off at your doorstep, completely and utterly wasted; an unusually talkative Jason now your problem and most definitely too drunk to remember how, in the midst of rambling about how much he loves you, had casually revealed that his own little heaven, the one the Lazarus pit had ripped him right out of, hadn’t actually been perfect cause you weren’t there.

He’ll never know that you cried yourself to sleep that night, clutching onto his body for dear life, and absolutely hating yourself, cause this entire time you’d been too busy being happy that the universe had decided to give him back to you, too wrapped up in the sheer selfishness of being grateful to have him back by your side, you never stopped to consider that maybe… maybe he’d been happier dead. He’d been torn out of literal paradise, thrust back into a miserable existence he never asked for and all the people who were supposed to welcome him back with open arms decided to see was the failed, fallen, broken Robin; a monster come back from the grave to be a permanent, ugly, dark stain on the Bat’s legacy.

Well, not to you. Never to you. Not when being in his arms damn well feels like what you imagine an angels’ wings’ embrace would be like. So you’ll call him your angel, even if he looks at you like you’ve gone insane every time you do - he was one once, after all and he still is to you.

[dollyswishingwell]

Hi sorry to bother but could you do a version where they have a baby boy and is competing with the lads guys for mcs attention? I think it would be so cute

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Mama’s prince

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff and adorable rivalry. i love that all of us are thinking on the same wavelength! i feel like i found my people ₍₍⚞(˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)⚟⁾⁾

> ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ The boys and their mini copies love fighting for mommy’s attention

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The sun pours in through the curved glass walls of your sea-facing villa, casting shimmering reflections across the marble floor. The air smells faintly of ocean breeze, mango, and expensive packaging paper. Again.

You’re standing in the living room in your nightgown, well, trying to, anyway, because in front of you are six white garment bags, four shoe boxes, a stack of velvet boxes, and two clingy boys locked in a silent war of affection.

Rafayel is lounging lazily on the seashell-pink couch, legs crossed, shirt unbuttoned halfway like always. His pink-blue eyes gleam with mischief as he motions to the open boxes.

“All for you,” he says, smug. “Thomas was furious I skipped the shoot, but I think spending the morning buying out Ileana Versé’s new drop was a far better use of my time.”

“You skipped the shoot again?” you ask, peeling back the layers of tissue paper to find a sheer lavender gown embroidered with tiny starfish. “Raffy—”

“You’re missing the point, cutie,” he interrupts, voice sing-songy. “Put that one on. I want to see it. It’ll match the shell earrings from last week.”

Just as you’re about to step behind the screen to try it, a soft little voice pipes up:

“I made sumfing, too!”

You turn.

Your two-year-old son, who looks like a miniature version of Rafayel down to the middle-parted waves and pouty lips, is standing beside the couch with his arms full of paper, ribbon, and crayon-smudged cloth. His cheeks are pink, part shyness, part fury. He marches up to you and thrusts his gift into your hands.

“Dis one’s for you. Not daddy. Only you.”

You crouch down and carefully unfold the chaos bundle. It’s… sort of a dress? A makeshift halter gown cut from gauze, with shell buttons (some glued on sideways), a messy crayon heart scribbled near the neckline, and “MOMEE” written in wobbly baby handwriting.

It’s clearly been stapled together in places. There’s even a belt made of rainbow ribbon.

“I made it by myself,” he adds fiercely. “’Cause I love you more than Daddy.”

Rafayel sits up straighter, a hand over his chest like he’s been personally wounded.

“You traitor,” he gasps dramatically. “I showed you how to mix pearl dust into paint and this is how you thank me?”

“He helped me cut stuff,” the baby mumbles, wobbling over to your side and wrapping his arms around your leg. “But I made it. So Mommy loves me more now.”

You look between them: Rafayel, still shirt half-undone, looking offended but amused, his gaze flicking between you and the toddler with a smug tilt of his head… and your tiny son, clinging to you, glaring daggers at his dad.

You hold up both dresses.

“…Do I try on both?”

“Obviously mine first,” Rafayel says.

“No, mine!” your son shouts, nearly in tears.

You sigh.

Ten minutes later, you emerge from the walk-in closet in your baby’s handmade “dress,” which is already unraveling at the seams. The shell buttons clink together softly as you walk.

“I’m two steps away from being naked” You deadpan.

Rafayel drops his wine glass.

“…Okay, that is criminally cute,” he mutters.

Your son lights up like a sunrise and runs over to spin you around. “You’re my pwincess,” he giggles, arms up for a hug.

You crouch to hold him, and he buries his face in your shoulder like he’s won.

Except—

Rafayel slinks over and kneels beside you both, pressing a kiss to your temple with a whisper:

“My turn next. I’m buying you a crown.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Your home is quiet, too quiet, considering you live with two Zaynes.

You step into the sunroom, the warmth of the afternoon lighting up the pristine space. The air smells faintly of coffee, books, and lavender floor cleaner, Zayne’s usual routine. On the low table is a teacup waiting for you, your favorite lemon biscuit carefully plated beside it. You already know he placed it there.

But what you weren’t expecting is your baby sitting upright on the sofa, his little legs crossed primly, and a stern expression that mirrors his father’s to perfection.

He holds up a clipboard.

“I’ve reviewed your schedule, Mommy,” he says with an adorable lisp. “You forgot to take your 1:30 rest time. I’m escorting you to the couch.”

“…You’re four.”

“Rules are rules, mommy,” he says gravely.

You chuckle and let him lead you to the couch, where he fussily arranges a pillow behind your back and tucks a blanket over your lap. Then he retrieves a medical toy kit and begins tapping your knee with the fake reflex hammer.

“Vitals: perfect,” he mumbles. “But you should eat more fruit. Daddy says you’re ane-anenic.”

“Anemic, my snowflake”

From behind you, a low voice hums:

“You’ve been reading my reports again.”

Zayne walks in, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from his shift at the hospital. He sets down his briefcase and pushes his glasses up as he surveys the scene, his son taking your pulse with a toy stethoscope like it’s the most serious operation in the world.

“He’s mimicking you,” you murmur, hiding a laugh behind your hand.

“I noticed,” Zayne replies, sitting beside you. “His penmanship is better than mine.”

Your son scowls slightly and tucks closer to your side, clearly not enjoying the intrusion.

“I was here first, daddy!” he declares.

Zayne raises an eyebrow, gaze flicking to the spot where the boy’s tiny hand is wrapped around yours possessively.

“…Territorial. I wonder where he gets it from.”

“I don’t hog Mommy,” he says, voice clipped and dignified, “I just don’t share.”

Zayne leans in, brushing a kiss to your temple. “I don’t either.”

And just like that, it’s on.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

It starts like any normal afternoon in your oddly serene home, Xavier curled up like a sleepy cat in the middle of the couch, a book half-finished on his chest, the ever-present faint hum of classical music playing from the ceiling speakers. The city below buzzes quietly beneath the glass floor of the sky-high penthouse, but inside, everything feels wrapped in clouds.

You’ve just returned from a quick outing, grocery bags in hand, a breeze in your hair, and not even one foot in the door before a soft thump echoes through the space.

“Mommy!”

The words are as measured as they are high-pitched. Your three-year-old son comes speed-walking out of the hallway, looking exactly like Xavier but smaller, puffier, and with even less regard for normal toddler expressions. Silver hair in a sleepy halo, oversized cream sweater sliding off one shoulder, and those familiar pale blue eyes blinking up at you like you’re the sun.

He clings to your leg with quiet urgency.

“You were gone,” he states simply.

“For twenty minutes, my baby,” you say with a smile, crouching to ruffle his hair.

“That’s eighty-one thousand milliseconds.”

You blink. “…Did your father teach you that?”

“Obviously.”

From the couch, Xavier lifts a hand without looking up.

“She forgot her scarf,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth. “Neck exposure is dangerous this season.”

“Snitch,” you whisper as you walk over and flop onto the cushions.

He smiles, just slightly. “I’m your favorite snitch.”

That’s when it begins.

No sooner have you leaned against Xavier than your son wedges himself between you like a determined little wedge of butter.

“Middle spot’s mine.”

“You were gone,” Xavier mumbles, adjusting his arm around both of you with terrifying efficiency. “Territorial rules apply. I had claim.”

The toddler narrows his eyes. “You’re always asleep. You don’t need Mommy.”

Xavier opens one eye. “Incorrect. Her warmth improves my REM cycle.”

You raise your hands in surrender. “You two do know I’m a person and not a contested heating pad, right?”

“We know,” they say in tandem. They do not let go.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You’re curled up on the velvet chaise in Sylus’s private study, the one with the glass ceiling and one wall covered entirely in ancient weapon displays. Moonlight filters down through the glass, illuminating your silk robe, your tea, and your current situation: no

Two Syluses.

One full-sized and glowering, sitting in his leather armchair like a brooding god.

And one miniature version, three years old, smug as hell, with messy silver hair and glowing red eyes just like his father’s. He’s standing proudly beside you, showing you a paper dagger he made out of blueprint schematics from one of Sylus’s latest prototype vaults.

“Do you love it, Mommy?” he asks sweetly. “I made it for you.”

Sylus’s smile curls like smoke. “Is that one of the blueprints I left in the sealed briefcase?”

“…Maybe,” the boy replies. “But Mommy’s happiness is a higher priority than Daddy’s boring rules.”

You hold up the paper dagger, and pretend not to notice the bomb diagram drawn on the back in crayon.

“It’s beautiful, sweetheart.”

Sylus leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dangerously smooth. “Do you know what this little devil did this morning?”

“I told Mommy already,” the boy cuts in innocently, climbing into your lap and curling into your chest. “You were just being dramatic.”

“He replaced the AI in one of my combat drones with a video loop of himself… giggling. For six hours.”

You blink.

“That’s actually kind of impressive.”

“Thank you, Mommy,” the boy says sweetly, nuzzling your cheek.

Sylus’s eye glows red.

They drag you to bed, it’s cuddle time they say.

You’re lying in bed, reading, when Sylus leans down to kiss your forehead and says, voice low, “Sleep, Kitten. I’ll be back after a quick call.”

But the second the door clicks shut… your son pops up from under the bed with a flashlight and an entire arsenal of plush toys dressed like knights.

“Time for the real bedtime story. I rewrote it.”

He lays next to you, pulling the covers over you both like you’re about to storm a castle. The plush knights are aligned at your side.

“Once upon a time there was a beautiful mommy and she was very loved by her tiny general…”

You laugh quietly. “And the dark crow king?”

“Banished to the war room.”

Right on cue, Sylus returns, his brow twitching when he sees the plush knights flanking his side of the bed.

“I was gone for ten minutes.”

“She said I could be king,” the toddler says immediately.

You pause. “…Did I?”

“Probably,” he answers confidently, wrapping his arms around you again.

Sylus glares, but his voice is still amused. “Traitor.”

“Your bloodline is weak, papa.”

“I made you.”

“You made a new enemy.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The Skyhaven penthouse is a war zone.

Or at least, that’s how it feels when your three-year-old son comes barreling down the hallway in a neon-orange, custom-built hovercraft. His pilot goggles are tilted, his flight jacket is too big, and the expression on his tiny face is pure, righteous determination.

“Passenger Princess Protocol initiated!” he yells, skidding to a dramatic stop in front of you, where you’re seated on the couch.

He slaps the little seat behind his cockpit.

“Mommy. Get in. We’re going to the Moon Garden. I’ll fly slow so your hair doesn’t get messy.”

You smile, already getting up.

“Wow, I get a personal pilot today?”

You don’t even make it a full step before a familiar arm loops around your waist, tugging you gently backwards.

“Negative,” Caleb says smoothly, voice warm and annoyingly smug in your ear. “My passenger princess doesn’t ride second-tier hovercrafts. Sorry, bud.”

Your son’s eyes go wide with outrage.

“I built her that aircraft myself! With wings that flap!”

“My sweet innocent babyboy,” Caleb replies with mock solemnity, leaning down to ruffle his son’s hair, “I built her an orbital glider when we were nine. You’ve got a long way to go, co-pilot.”

Your son stamps his foot. “But I made cupholders! And a snack pod! And—and—seat cushions shaped like hearts!”

You bite back a laugh. Caleb just smirks harder.

“That’s cute,” he says, scooping you up bridal style before you can react. “But I’ve been her official flight partner for twenty years. I’ve got seniority, tenure, and a monopoly on her in-flight kisses.”

“Daddy!” your son wails, little fists clenched. “That’s cheating!”

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Caleb hums, already strolling down the hallway with you in his arms.

You manage to wiggle free from Caleb’s arms just as your son sniffles behind you, his tiny pilot jacket trembling with the sheer betrayal of it all.

“I just wanted to fly her around the lounge,” he mumbles, wiping his eyes. “She said I was a better pilot last week…”

You kneel and gather him into your arms immediately.

“Baby,” you whisper, “you are. You’re my cushion-certified, snack-approved, heart-seat professional. You’re the coziest flight I’ve ever taken.”

He sniffles harder. “Then why does Daddy always win?”

“Because Daddy cheats,” you say pointedly, loud enough for Caleb to hear.

“Nope, Pipsqueak” Caleb calls lazily from the kitchen, pouring himself coffee. “I just have the deluxe marriage upgrade. Full emotional access. Zero cooldown. Comes with permanent boarding priority.”

“I’ll build Mommy a bigger plane!” your son shouts, eyes blazing with renewed resolve. “With a chocolate fountain and mini pillows and her own nap room!”

Caleb nearly chokes on his coffee.

“She’s not living in your hovercraft, cadet.”

“She might if I add a book room.”

“…Okay, now I’m threatened.”