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mcrdvcks · 1 day ago

Text

i hate it here

chapter summary: You meet Bucky at therapy where Dr. Raynor shares a small office with Dr. Cole. You two slowly connect over mystery books and coffee outings. Until one day you don't show up. word count: 3.4k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: i've mentioned a few times offhandedly that i have depression (and anxiety) and i that i have attempted - i don't want pity or anything, just stating a fact. i started therapy like 4 months ago and have been doing much better! anyways, i got to thinking about how one of the only characters who has been in therapy (in the mcu) is bucky. i guess you could kinda count tony, but he was talking to bruce so idk. anyways, that's how this came along. it was kinda my version of journaling, since i suck at it. please read the warnings/tags! warnings/tags: post tfatws, therapy, allusions to depression, alpine mention!, reader has a dog, mentions/allusions to a suicide attempt, some fluff, two people finding each other through trauma, insomnia, nightmares, slight angst, depressive spiral

The Brooklyn office is small—four hardback chairs, a scuffed laminate floor, and walls the color of old oatmeal. You’re already there when Bucky shuffles in, early as usual, hood pulled low despite the July heat.

You’re curled over a paperback, thumb smoothing the crease in the spine. He recognizes the look: concentration hiding nerves. He clears his throat, drops into the chair opposite you.

Silence stretches. Tick-tick-tick from the receptionist’s keyboard. Bucky counts each tap like gunshots until— “Chapter’s not great,” you mutter, not looking up. “It’s supposed to be a detective story, but the villain is obvious by page three.”

Bucky blinks. Small talk, right. He hunts for something non-awkward to say. “Maybe the detective’s just slow,” he offers.

That earns a tiny huff of laughter. You glance up, eyes warm but tired. “You ever read mysteries?”

“Not since… a long time.” He swallows. “But I used to like Agatha Christie.”

“Classic.” You close the book, mark your place with a Metro receipt. “I’m Y/N.”

He opens his mouth—hesitates—then sticks out a flesh-and-blood hand. “Bucky.” The metal one stays shoved under his sleeve.

The receptionist calls your name first. You stand, shoot him a quick, encouraging smile. Something inside his rib cage gives a startled twitch.

---

“Still having trouble sleeping?” Dr. Cole asked. She shared an office with Dr. Raynor, you were just lucky to find a therapist close to your place.

You shrugged, “yeah. It’s just insomnia. I did a sleep test, had to put the mask on and sleep with it for 2 nights. Doctor found nothing, so...”

"Let's talk about what happens when you try to sleep," Dr. Cole said, pen poised.

"I stare at the ceiling," you answered. "Count cracks in the paint, listen to Sparky snore, think about—stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Classes, rent, whether my brother’s eating decent food at school—everything that isn't restful."

Dr. Cole nodded. "Nightmares?"

"More like reruns. Same memories on loop." You rubbed your eyes. "They don't even change; they're just… loud."

She clicked her pen. "Medication helping?"

“I guess. Not with the sleep part though. But nothing helps with sleep.”

Dr. Cole tilted her head. “What do you do between the moment you turn off the light and the moment you give up?”

“Phone. Crossword. Sometimes I Google ‘why can’t I sleep’ like it’s gonna give a brand-new answer.”

“Ever try talking instead of scrolling? Out loud, I mean—narrate the day, get it out of your head.”

You snort. “My dog’ll think I’m confessing state secrets.”

“Sparky might surprise you.” Dr. Cole’s smile is small but real. “Okay, homework: pick one night this week, no screens after ten, narrate the day to Sparky, then lights out. Deal?”

“Fine. If she tattles, that’s on you.”

“Noted.” She scribbles, caps the pen. “Same time next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” You stand, tugging your bag onto your shoulder. The chair legs squeak; the sound feels louder than it is.

---

Bucky’s still in the waiting area, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it owes him money. He glances up when the door clicks shut behind you.

“How’d it go?” he asks, voice low.

“About as fun as a dentist with feelings.” You fish the Metro receipt-bookmark from your book, wave it. “But I got homework.”

“Therapists love homework.” He shifts, pats the chair beside him that you’re about to vacate. “Good luck.”

“You, too.” You nod toward the closed door. “Raynor doesn’t bite, right?”

“She’s thinking about it.” His mouth twitches. “You really hate that book?”

“Detective’s got two brain cells, both fighting for custody. I’m gonna finish it just to spite him.”

“Want a recommendation when you’re done?”

“Only if it’s Christie.” You step backward toward the lobby doors. “I like the classics.”

He lifts two fingers in a mock salute. “Deal.”

The receptionist calls, “Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky pushes up, metal hand still hidden in the sleeve. As he passes, he murmurs, “see you next week, Y/N.”

Your pulse trips over itself. “Next week.”

---

Raynor doesn’t wait for him to sit. “Early again. You practicing small talk in the hallway?”

He drops into the chair. “Maybe.”

“How’s the loneliness doing?”

He thinks of a paperback clutched between your hands and the way your eyes lit when he said Christie. “Less loud.”

“That’s new.” Raynor flips her notepad open. “Let’s talk about it.”

---

A week later you’re back, five minutes early for once. Bucky’s already there—of course—thumb tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh.

“You beat me again,” you say.

“I’m competitive.” He nods to the paperback in your grip. “Finished?”

“Killer was the dog walker. I want my money back.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles. “Brought you this.” From his jacket pocket he produces a scuffed copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.

You take it, thumb the brittle spine. “Vintage.”

“So am I.”

You sit—this time in the chair beside him, not across. Your shoulders almost touch.

Receptionist looks up. “Y/N?”

You rise, clutching the book. “Hold my spot?”

“Always.” He watches you disappear behind the door, heart beating a little less like a war drum. Raynor will call it progress. He’ll call it something quieter: hope.

---

July heat’s worse a week later—New York humidity that sticks to your lungs. You and Bucky leave your sessions at the same time for once, shoulders brushing as the door swings shut.

“Raynor let you out early?” you ask.

“She thinks negative five minutes counts as progress.” He eyes the battered copy of Roger Ackroyd in your hand. “Any good?”

“Ten times smarter than last week’s disaster. Thanks for the rec.” You nudge his elbow. “Coffee? There’s a cart across the street.”

He squints at the sky. “Gonna melt anyway. Sure.”

---

The cart umbrella rattles in the breeze. You order an iced latte and Bucky sticks to plain drip, black.

“Old-man coffee,” you tease.

“Watch it, I’m sensitive.” He sips, winces. “So—you do the Sparky homework?”

“Yeah. She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, then fell asleep halfway through my monologue about rent.”

“Did you sleep any better?”

“Hour, maybe two.” You shrug. “But hey, progress.”

He nods, knocks a knuckle on the paper cup. “Nightmares kept me up. Raynor wants me journaling.”

“Journaling, narrating—therapists love verbs.” You dig in your tote, pull out a slim notebook. “Take mine. Blank pages intimidate me anyway.”

He turns it over. “Purple glitter stars?”

“Judge and I take it back.”

He clutches it to his chest. “No, no—precious now.”

Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it. A beat passes; his smile lingers. Something warm hangs between you—comfortable, tentative.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, tapping the notebook. “For the… sparkly lifeline.”

“Anytime, Barnes.”

You check your phone. “Gotta run—class in fifteen. Same time next week?”

He hesitates, then, “Actually—Raynor’s moving my slot. Thursday, four?”

You scroll your calendar. “I can swing that.” Smile. “I’ll bring a better bookmark.”

He salutes with his coffee. “Deal.”

---

The waiting-room AC’s broken. You fan yourself with your Metro receipt as Bucky strides in, hair damp from a shower that didn’t stick.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey.” He holds up the notebook—half the pages now filled. “Turns out journaling’s just talking on paper.”

“Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

The receptionist calls his name first this time. He freezes. “Switch with me?”

You shrug. “Fair’s fair. Go.”

He exhales, heads in. As the door shuts, you spot the corner of a page sticking out of the notebook—your name scrawled at the top. Your heart skips and you look away fast.

---

Bucky’s session is short—fifteen minutes. He steps out, cheeks pink.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Raynor… uh, suggested social exposure therapy.”

“Meaning?”

“Coffee that isn’t from a cart.” He scratches the back of his neck. “With a friend.”

You grin. “I know a place that sells donuts bigger than your hand.”

“Sound dangerous.”

“Live a little, Barnes.”

He offers an arm—the flesh-and-blood one. You loop yours through without overthinking.

“Hope they have purple-glitter donuts,” he mutters.

You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

Street noise swallows the rest, but the silence between you feels easy, not heavy. Two insomniacs, two notebooks, one slow, stumbling orbit.

And maybe—just maybe—sleep won’t feel so impossible tonight.

---

You push the shop door open, tiny bell chiming. The smell of fried sugar and espresso hits like a hug. Bucky’s already at a corner table, sunglasses perched on his head, studying the menu like it’s classified.

“Morning,” you say, sliding into the seat across.

He looks up, relief softening his shoulders. “Saved you the last maple-bacon monstrosity.”

“You get a medal for that.”

“Working on it.” He nods at your iced coffee. “Still cold-brew loyal?”

“Ride or die.” You sip. “How’s the notebook?”

He pulls the purple-star journal from his jacket, thumb tapping the cover. “Halfway through. Raynor says I’m oversharing—‘but in a good way.’”

“Therapist code for ‘keep going.’”

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “I wrote about… the bridge dream. First time on paper.”

You lean in. “Any lighter?”

“Maybe a gram.” He flicks his gaze to the donut display. “Your turn—sleep narration working?”

“Managed four hours straight on Wednesday.” You raise the coffee in salute. “Progress.”

He grins. “Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

A server comes by to hand off the plates: his chocolate-glazed, your maple-bacon slab.

You rip off a chunk, point it at him. “So—social exposure therapy. How exposed are we aiming?”

“Raynor suggested a museum. Crowds, but no one expects small talk.”

“I’m free Sunday afternoon. Think you can handle the Met?”

He pretends to weigh it. “If they still allow grumpy ex-assassins.”

“Only if they don’t touch the art.”

“No promises.”

---

You both pause at a sarcophagus. Tourists swirl around, soundtrack of camera shutters. Bucky leans close. “Mummies have it figured out. Eternal rest.”

“Jealous?”

“A little.”

You smirk. “Try counting cracks in the ceiling. Works great.”

“Smart-mouth.” He nudges your shoulder. Metal—the sleeve’s rolled up. First time he hasn’t hidden it.

You glance at the vibranium, then meet his eyes. “Cool arm.”

He exhales—some tension you didn’t know was there. “Thanks.”

A kid nearby gasps, whispers to her dad. Bucky stiffens. You step slightly in front of him, blocking the view. “Ignore them. They’re staring at the arm, not you.”

“Same thing.”

You tilt your head. “To me it’s just… part of the package.”

He blinks. “Package, huh?”

“Don’t get cocky, Barnes.”

He chuckles, shoulders loosening. You wander onward, conversation dipping from art to worst cafeteria food, back to sleep tactics.

---

Apartment’s dark except for phone glow. Sparky snores at your feet.

Your screen lights: Bucky Barnes – New Text

“Tried narrating to Alpine. She walked off mid-monologue. Rude cat.” “You asleep?”

You smile, thumbs flying.

“Wide awake, obviously.” “Want to test a theory? Phone call, five minutes max. Talking’s supposed to tire the brain.”

Three dots… then your phone rings.

“Hey,” you whisper.

His voice is low, scratchy. “If this puts you to sleep I’ll be offended.”

“Then be interesting.”

He snorts. “No pressure.”

Minute one: weather complaints. Minute two: misheard song lyrics. Minute three: you yawn.

“Tired?” he asks, softer.

“Keep talking.”

He does—about the Met gift shop, how the snow-globe pyramids looked fake, how he bought one anyway.

“Why?” you mumble.

“For you,” he says. “Figured you could narrate to it when Sparky’s bored.”

Warmth floods your chest. “That’s… weirdly sweet.” There was silence for a few seconds, except his breathing. You blink, heavy-lidded. “Still there?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Don’t hang up yet.”

“Not planning to.” He pauses. “Sleep, Y/N.”

“Night, Bucky.”

Phone still against your ear, you drift. First dreamless night in months.

Bucky listens to your steady breaths, eyes finally closing. Tomorrow’s problems can wait. Tonight, two insomniacs found quiet on the same line.

---

Dr. Cole taps her pen lightly on the pad. "You seem brighter today."

You shift slightly, feeling oddly caught out. "Actually slept last night. Whole five hours."

She raises an eyebrow, gently amused. "And what changed?"

You consider the phone call, the quiet voice on the other end, and shrug. "I think talking helps more than I realized."

Dr. Cole nods knowingly. "Having someone listen tends to do that."

"Yeah." You pick at your thumbnail. "I might be figuring that out."

"Good," she says simply. "Keep figuring."

---

Bucky’s waiting outside when you finish, leaning against the brick wall in sunglasses and a worn ball cap. He pushes off as soon as you step into the sunlight.

"Stalking now?" you joke, nudging his shoulder.

"Just passing by." He falls into step beside you. "Coffee? I need advice."

"Advice?"

He grimaces. "Raynor wants me attending a group session next week. Apparently, that's my next exposure step."

You glance at him. "Sounds terrifying."

"It is. Hence the advice request."

You smile softly. "I don't do groups, but… you handled crowds at the Met fine."

"That was because of you." He shrugs one shoulder, eyes ahead. "You distract me."

Warmth blooms in your chest. "In a good way?"

"In the best way."

Silence lingers, comfortable this time. The coffee cart is in sight, heat shimmering off pavement.

"Maybe… I could wait outside the group room," you offer quietly. "Just for moral support."

He stops, turns to you, eyes bright behind the lenses. "You'd do that?"

You tilt your head, fighting a smile. "I’d even bring a bad detective book."

"Deal."

---

The hallway smells faintly like industrial cleaner. You’re on a metal folding chair, feet kicked up against the wall, paperback open in your lap, Sparky dozing at your feet.

The group-room door opens. Voices murmur, shoes shuffle. Bucky emerges last, eyes slightly wide, tension in his shoulders. He spots you immediately, relief clear.

You shut the book. "You survived."

"Barely."

"Anyone bite?"

"Only verbally." He nods at Sparky. "She allowed?"

"Emotional support dog," you deadpan. "Completely legit."

He crouches slowly, metal fingers gentle against Sparky’s fur. She yawns, entirely unconcerned. Bucky straightens, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. "Thanks for waiting."

"Always."

You start walking toward the exit together, his pace matching yours easily. "Was it worth it?" you ask.

He exhales deeply. "Yeah. Sort of. I talked. Once. About nightmares."

"That’s huge."

"Didn’t feel huge."

"It will tomorrow."

He looks sideways at you, hesitant. "Can I… call tonight?"

Your heart thuds softly. "Every night if it helps."

"It does," he says quietly. "It helps a lot."

The sunlight fades gold over the city as you step outside. Bucky pauses, hands in his pockets.

"You know," he says carefully, "I started therapy because the government made me. I stayed because… I thought it was the right thing to do. But now—"

"Now?" you prompt softly.

"Now I'm staying because it led me to you."

You swallow, suddenly shy. "That’s… nice."

He chuckles gently, shaking his head. "Yeah. Nice."

You bump his shoulder. "Don't mock my vocabulary."

"Never." He smiles. "Call you later?"

"Better."

He watches you walk away, heart steadier than it’s been in months.

---

Your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, vibrating against your toothbrush holder. You squint at the caller ID, toothbrush in your mouth.

Dad.

You spit toothpaste, rinse quickly, and swipe to answer. "Hey, Dad."

"Y/N," he starts, tone already tense. "Got a minute?"

You sigh quietly, gripping the sink. "I have therapy soon. Everything okay?"

He pauses. You hear him clear his throat—never a good sign. "Look, I just got your mail. Bill from the hospital came again."

"Yeah, they keep sending it even though I set up payments—"

"I read it," he interrupts, voice clipped. "You know how it feels to read 'psychiatric hold' on a bill addressed to my kid?"

You close your eyes, jaw tightening. "I didn't ask you to open it."

"You're my kid. Of course I opened it. Y/N, we never talked about it. You just went silent, moved on like nothing happened—"

"I didn't move on."

"Then explain it," he says sharply. "Explain why you'd do something like that. Was it us? Your mom? Me? You never gave us a chance—"

"Dad, please stop."

He doesn’t. "We raised you to be stronger than this, Y/N. What happened to you?"

Your chest aches. Tears sting your eyes, hot and furious. "I have to go."

"Y/N—"

You hang up, tossing the phone onto your bed. You sit down hard, head in your hands, breathing jaggedly until your lungs ache. "Fuck," you whisper, wiping at tears you don't want to fall. "Fuck."

Your phone buzzes again. You don't pick it up.

---

Bucky checks his phone again—fourth time in ten minutes. The receptionist taps at her keyboard, and the clock above ticks louder than usual. Still nothing.

He types out another quick message:

"You close? Saving you a seat."

Five minutes pass as his knee bounces. Another text:

"You okay?"

Raynor opens her office door. "Barnes?"

He stares at your empty chair, then back at her. "Can we reschedule?"

She frowns slightly. "Is something wrong?"

"I gotta check on something." He stands abruptly. "I'll call."

Raynor just nods slowly. "Alright. Call if you need anything."

He’s already out the door.

---

He knocks gently at your apartment door, listening closely. "Y/N?"

No answer.

Bucky knocks again. "Y/N, it's me. You missed therapy. Just checking in."

Silence. Anxiety creeps up his spine, icy and familiar. He tries the handle. Locked.

He pulls out his phone again, sends a text:

"Outside your door. Please open."

Nothing. He leans his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes briefly. "Please," he murmurs.

Then, faintly, your voice comes through: "It's unlocked now."

---

Your apartment’s dark, curtains drawn tight. Sparky is curled on the couch, lifting her head as Bucky steps inside. You’re sitting cross-legged in the corner of the couch, eyes swollen, a blanket draped over your shoulders.

"Hey," he says softly, approaching slowly. "Mind if I sit?"

You shake your head silently, eyes fixed on your hands.

Bucky sits carefully beside you, keeping a cautious distance. "You wanna talk about it?"

You don’t answer. He waits, watching your profile, noticing the tightness in your jaw, the subtle trembling in your hands.

"My dad called," you say finally, voice thick. "He got a bill from the hospital. From… a while ago."

Bucky nods slightly. "Didn’t go well?"

A shaky laugh escapes your throat. "He blamed me. Said… said they raised me stronger. Like I chose to be weak."

Your voice cracks on the last word. Tears spill over, quiet and unstoppable. "I didn’t choose this."

Bucky’s throat tightens. "I know."

"He asked what happened to me," you whisper, voice breaking. "I don't know how to answer that."

He moves closer, gentle and slow. "You don’t have to know right now."

You swallow hard. "I keep trying to be better. Therapy, homework, all the fucking talking—but it’s never enough." You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to—"

"Hey," he interrupts gently. "Stop apologizing."

You cry harder, trying to hold back sobs that spill through your fingers. He doesn't say anything more—just reaches out slowly, carefully pulling you against him. You tense at first, then melt against his chest. His arms circle you gently but firmly, his hand stroking your back as you tremble.

"You don't have to do this alone," he says softly, his voice steady in your ear. "I promise."

You nod, unable to speak. Sparky whines softly, shifting closer, pressing warmth into your side.

Bucky holds you until the tears slow, until your breathing evens slightly, his grip never loosening.

"You don't have to explain anything," he whispers finally. "Not to him, not to me—not until you're ready."

You sit up slowly, wiping your eyes, embarrassed. "Sorry," you whisper again.

He squeezes your shoulder gently, shaking his head. "No more apologies."

You sniff softly, leaning your head back against the couch. "I missed therapy."

"Cole'll forgive you. I skipped too."

You glance at him, eyes tired but softer. "They’ll kill us both."

"They’ll deal." He smiles gently, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. "You hungry?"

You shake your head slowly. "Not yet."

"Then we'll wait." He leans back beside you, Sparky settling between you both. "We have time."

You let out a breath, lighter now. The ache still lingers in your chest, but it’s quieter, bearable. "Thank you," you whisper.

He looks at you, steady and calm. "Anytime, Y/N."

sparky is actually the name of my one of my dogs, so you can tell i'm super creative, lol. to lighten things up, here's a picture of her:

we've had her since i was in elementary, so like 12-14 years? she's also around the same age. we think she's have golden retriever, half chihuahua. i know that sounds insane but google that and look at the pictures - a few of them look exactly like her. she's a rescue, so we aren't sure about age, etc. anyways, thank you for reading!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #james bucky barnes #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #abby's works ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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inseobts · 1 day ago

Note

Hello! I'd like to please request a little scenario for multiple characters if possible; I'm especially interested in your take on this with Law, Sanji and Ace given their backstory. If you're open to writing for the ladies as well then adding Robin into the mix would be appreciated! My idea is simple; an S/O with a child, and the aftermath of discovering that fact. I don't mind if it's an established relationship and there just wasn't an opportunity to meet the kid before or something else, I just like the idea of these characters dealing with the concept of surprise family/parenthood, the angst that may arise from dealing with the role of a stepparent if they want a relationship (and its happy ending if possible!) Good luck with all the requests, I hope you have fun with them!

Found Family (Reader with a Kid)

gn!reader

characters: law, sanji, ace, nico robin

tags: under each character + secret child

a/n: I started it with a fem!reader in mind and changed it to gender neutral only later since the post didn't mention the gender, so please if I missed some changes please tell me

words count: around 0.8k - 1.7k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Law:

Tags: Established Relationship, Surprise Family, Angst to Comfort, Fluff

The wind blows soft through the port town. Law steps off the ship, coat flapping behind him, hands in his pockets. He’s quieter than usual, eyes scanning the street ahead. He’s not here on a mission. He’s here for you.

You sent a letter three weeks ago.

Just one line: “I need to talk. Come if you can.”

Law doesn’t like surprises. But he comes.

He finds you standing outside a small house with peeling paint and flower pots on the windowsill. You smile when you see him, but it’s tight, like you’re scared.

He frowns “You alright?”

You nod “Yeah… I just—can we go inside? I don’t want to do this out here.”

Law follows you in. It’s warm. Smells like soup and soap. A small jacket hangs on a hook by the door. Not yours. Too small.

His sharp eyes catch it, but he doesn’t say anything yet.

You lead him to the living room and sit. He stands. Watches you.

You look down “There’s something I never told you.”

Law’s voice is low “I figured.”

You breathe in deep “I… have a kid.”

Silence.

You look up. His face is unreadable. Like ice. You hate that expression, it means he’s trying to think without feeling. To stay calm.

He speaks finally “How old?”

You blink “She’s five.”

He does the math. That means before him.

“She yours?” he asks, even though he already knows.

You nod “Yes. Mine. The... other parent's gone. Completely.”

He nods slowly. His voice is cold, but not cruel “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was scared.” You twist your hands “We met during a war. We never talked about kids, or… futures. Then we got together, and things felt good. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You thought this would ruin it?”

“I thought you might walk away.”

He looks away “You didn’t trust me.”

“That’s not fair,” you say, standing now too “I’ve been through things. I didn’t know how you’d react. You’re not… You don’t talk about family. You barely talk about your past.”

His jaw tenses. You hit a nerve.

You try softer “I wanted to wait for the right moment. But there never was one. Until now.”

Silence again.

Then small footsteps.

You freeze.

Law turns just as a tiny figure walks into the room, clutching a stuffed rabbit.

“Who’s this?”

Her eyes are big, curious. Law stares.

You kneel “Sweetheart, this is Law. He’s… He’s my friend.”

Law doesn’t speak. He just looks. She hides behind your leg.

You don’t blame her.

“She’s shy,” you say “But she’s smart. She reads pirates like storybooks.”

Law kneels too, finally, lowering himself to her level. His voice softens.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he says “I’m just… surprised.”

Your daughter peeks out “You talk funny.”

Law blinks.

You laugh nervously “He’s from the North Blue.”

“Oh.” She tilts her head “Do you have a boat?”

Law nods “A submarine.”

Her eyes widen “Cool…”

She steps forward. He doesn’t move.

Then she offers her rabbit “You wanna hold Mr. Bun?”

You almost cry.

Law takes it. Careful. Gentle. Like it’s glass.

He looks at you over her head. Still unsure. Still quiet.

But he’s here, and he’s not walking away.

The rabbit sits on the table between you.

Law hasn’t said much since dinner. He eats quietly, politely. Your daughter sits beside him, munching rice balls like they’re treasure. She’s talking to him. A lot.

“Do submarines have beds?”

“Yes.”

“Do you sleep in them?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you dream of fish?”

“…No.”

You nearly laugh into your cup. Law sends you a look. It says help me. You shrug. You’re doing fine.

When she finishes eating, you ask her to brush her teeth. She runs off with Mr. Bun in her arms. The house falls quiet again.

Law leans back in his chair.

“You didn’t even flinch,” you say “When she offered you the rabbit.”

He shrugs “She trusted me. I didn’t want to break that.”

You nod, chewing on your lip “That means a lot, Law.”

He looks at you. Eyes sharp but not cold “I’m not angry.”

“Really?”

“I’m hurt.” His voice is honest now “You didn’t tell me. I could’ve helped. Been there. Or at least known what I was walking into.”

“I know,” you whisper “I was scared. I didn’t want to push you away.”

“I’m not made of glass, Y/N. I’ve lost family. I’ve lost everything. But I never said I didn’t want to build something new.”

You look down at your hands “She’s my whole world.”

“I can see that.”

“And now that you’ve met her… what do you want?”

He pauses.

That pause stretches long and sharp between you.

Then, softly “I don’t know.”

You nod. You expected that. You’re not mad. Just scared again.

Law stands and walks to the window “She’s a good kid. Brave. You raised her well.”

You smile a little “She’s got my temper.”

“I noticed.”

You walk over to him. You both stare outside. The moon is bright tonight.

“I’m not asking you to be her father,” you say “You don’t have to… take that role if you don’t want it.”

He turns “What if I want to?”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he continues “A father. A parent. I’m… I’m a surgeon. A pirate. I know how to fight, how to cut, how to survive. Not how to raise a child.”

You place your hand over his “She doesn’t need perfect. Just present. Just kind. Even I didn’t know how to be a good parent.”

He watches you. Something cracks in his expression.

“I want you.” he says.

“I want you too.”

“But I can’t lie to you… I’m afraid. I don’t want to mess this up.”

You squeeze his hand “We’ll learn together. She’s not looking for perfect either. She just wants someone who doesn’t leave.”

That hits hard.

He nods and then tiny footsteps again.

Your daughter peeks from the hallway “Hey... can he read me a story?”

Law blinks “Me?”

She nods “You have a cool voice.”

You laugh softly “What do you say?”

He hesitates. Then walks over.

“Alright, let’s try.” he says “But only one.”

She beams.

You stand in the hallway, listening through the door. His voice is low, slow, careful. Reading a picture book about sea creatures. She’s tucked in, eyes half-closed. The rabbit is between them on the bed.

Law finishes the page. She murmurs, “You’re not scary like someone said.”

You gasp quietly. Betrayal.

Law chuckles “Someone said that?”

“Mhm. They said you’re all sharp eyes and brooding. But you’re kinda soft.”

Law mutters, “I am never going to live that down.”

You grin and walk back to the living room.

He stays. Finishes the story. Even tucks her in.

When he comes out, he looks… changed.

“You did good.” you say.

“I didn’t even sweat.”

“Liar.”

He sighs, then smirks “Okay, maybe a little.”

You take his hand again “So…”

“So.” he echoes.

“You staying the night?”

He raises a brow “You asking?”

You smile “I have tea. And a couch. Or a bed, if you behave.”

He smirks “I’ll try my best.”

── .✦ Sanji:

Tags: Flirting Sanji, Soft Sanji, Humor, Fluff, Unexpected Bonding, Found Family

Sanji flirts with you every time he sees you.

At the market “Ah, Y/N! Did the sun rise just to see your face today?”

At the docks “Want me to carry those for you, my love? Your hands are far too lovely for heavy lifting!”

Even after the battle in your city, where the Strawhats helped “You’re even more beautiful covered in blood. Should I be worried about how much I love that?”

You never fall for it. You roll your eyes. You walk away. You don’t even blush.

It drives him insane.

“You’re difficult to get,” he says one afternoon, following you through town “but I like that.”

“I don’t fall,” you say flatly “Especially not for men with hearts in their eyes.”

“Ahhh, but my heart is sincere!”

You stop and face him “Sanji. You don’t even know me.”

“I want to.”

You pause. He’s annoying, yes. But not bad. He’s never pushed you too far. Never said anything mean. Just flirty. Charming. Too charming.

You sigh “Fine. You want to know me?”

He lights up “Yes! Of course!”

“Then come with me.”

You lead him through town, away from the market, away from the noise. Into a quiet part of the island. A garden path. A small house tucked in the trees.

He’s still smiling “So this is where the beautiful Y/N hides. A date, then?”

You don’t answer. You open the door. Inside, it’s neat. Warm. Lived-in. There are toys in the corner. A tiny pair of shoes by the door.

Sanji frowns “Is this… your house?”

“Wait here.” you say.

You go into the back room. A few seconds later, you return, holding a small child. Sleepy-eyed. Holding a stuffed whale. While another lady leaves the house as if her job there is finished.

You look Sanji in the eye.

“This is my daughter.”

Sanji freezes.

Dead silent.

You wait.

You expect a nervous laugh. A fast goodbye. A dramatic “I’m not ready for this!” speech.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead…

“Her hair’s like yours,” he says softly “She’s beautiful.”

Your daughter rubs her eyes, looks at him “Who’s that?”

You answer “Just... a friend.”

Sanji kneels slowly “Hi, sweetheart. I’m Sanji. Can I say hello?”

She shrugs. He waves. She waves back with the whale.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Whale.” Sanji says seriously.

You blink.

She giggles.

You didn’t expect this.

You make tea. Sanji helps. He insists, actually.

“She can’t have sugar this late.” you say.

“Then honey,” he says “Gentle on the stomach.”

You watch as he puts her cup in front of her like a butler. Bows. She bows back. You nearly choke on your tea.

“Do you cook?” she asks.

“Oh yes,” he says “Better than anyone.”

She claps “Make us dinner!”

Sanji glances at you. You nod. Why not?

He makes a simple meal. It smells amazing. Your daughter eats two full plates.

After, she sits in his lap and shows him a book of sea animals. He listens. Really listens.

You don’t understand what’s happening.

You were trying to scare him away.

Instead, he’s… perfect.

When she falls asleep, he carries her to her bed. Quiet. Gentle.

He tucks her in, fixes her whale beside her, and kisses her forehead.

You follow him back to the living room in silence.

“Well...” you say, still confused “That wasn’t what I expected.”

He smiles but smaller this time. Softer.

“I flirt because it’s fun,” he says “But I stayed because I wanted to see you.”

You stare at him “You weren’t scared?”

“I was shocked,” he admits “But not scared. You’re a single parent. That’s strong. She’s lucky to have you.”

You look away “I thought it would make you leave.”

“I’m not that easy to get rid of.”

You smile at that and look at him again. This time longer.

Sanji isn’t just charm. He’s heart. He’s warmth.

And… maybe you were wrong about him.

Your daughter’s asleep.

Sanji’s sitting on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest like he belongs there. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled up, and a soft smile on his lips.

He looks so… calm. Like this is normal. Like he wants this.

You sit across from him, legs tucked under you. You sip your tea. Your hands are shaking just a little, but you hide it well.

“Thanks for dinner,” you say “She loved it.”

“She’s adorable,” he says, smiling “And polite. You’ve done an amazing job.”

You stare into your cup “I didn’t do it alone. But… it’s been a long time since I shared her with someone.”

Sanji watches you quietly. No teasing now. Just listening.

You swallow. Here goes nothing.

“So,” you say “I’ve decided something.”

He leans forward “Oh?”

You lift your eyes to meet his “I’m saying yes.”

His brows lift “Yes to what?”

You smile “A date.”

He freezes “Wait. A—really?”

You nod.

“I mean, I’ve been asking for weeks, but I thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” you say “I just didn’t believe you.”

“And now?”

“Now I do.”

He stares at you for a second. Then a slow, beautiful grin spreads across his face. Like he’s won a war. Like the clouds finally moved for the sun.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“You—you have no idea what this means to me, Y/N.”

You chuckle “I might have some idea.”

“Do you want flowers? Candles? Music? Should I wear a suit? I’ll cook, of course—”

You laugh softly “Just come as you are.”

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly flustered “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

You sip your tea again. Calm on the outside.

But inside? Your heart is thundering. So loud it feels like it echoes in your chest. And he doesn't even know your heart is actually beating faster than his own.

You’ve had to be strong for so long. For your child. For yourself. Love always felt like a luxury you couldn’t afford.

But Sanji… he’s something else.

Not because he’s charming.

But because when it really mattered, he stayed.

And now, you let yourself fall a little deeper.

You stand. Walk over. And press a soft kiss to his cheek.

He goes still.

You pull back and say quietly, “Can't wait for the date.”

His eyes widen, then fill with something warm surprised, happy, maybe even a little nervous.

“You… really?” he asks, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

You nod “Don’t make me regret it.”

His laugh is breathless “Never.”

You smile, heart pounding, but you don’t let it show. He doesn’t need to know yet how much this means.

A few nights later for your first date Sanji goes all out, but not in a flashy way. It’s thoughtful. Intimate.

He sets up dinner on the ship’s deck. Small candles, soft music from a den den mushi radio, and a view of the sea under stars. He cooks something warm and comforting, not fancy, just full of love.

You talk for hours. About silly things, quiet things, your pasts and dreams. It’s easy. He listens more than he speaks, and when he does talk, it’s gentle.

No cheesy lines. Just Sanji. Real and warm.

After dessert, he walks you home in silence. Not awkward, just peaceful. The kind of quiet where you don’t need to fill space.

At your door, he looks at you with hopeful eyes but doesn’t move in. He’s waiting for your choice.

So you step closer.

You kiss him.

Soft. Sure. Just once. But it’s full of everything you’ve been holding back.

When you pull away, he blinks like he’s just been hit by a wave.

You smirk “You were taking too long.”

He laughs, dizzy and full of stars.

And for the first time in a long while, so do you.

── .✦ Ace:

Tags: Friends with Benefits, Angst, Humor, Emotional Reveal, Mutual Feelings Hidden, Teasing to Serious, Marine Conflict

The sun burns above you. You’re lying on the deck of your ship, one leg over the other, a half-empty bottle between your fingers. Ace is beside you shirtless, grinning, sweat on his brow, flame flickering off his fingers like it’s breathing with him.

“You always steal my rum.” you say, kicking him lightly.

“You always keep it warm,” he shoots back “I’m doing you a favor.”

You roll your eyes “Your idea of favors sucks.”

He leans closer, his voice lazy and smug “You didn’t say that last night.”

You groan “Get a new line, fire boy.”

He grins wider. You punch his arm. He fake-winces, like it hurt. It didn’t.

That’s the two of you: teasing, biting, half-fighting, half-kissing. No promises. No labels. Just good fun and bad timing.

Pirate life is rough. You take what joy you can.

“Hey,” you say after a long silence, watching the sky “Wanna hear a secret?”

Ace smirks, eyes still closed “If it’s about that thing you did in the galley with the honey—”

“No, dumbass. A real secret.”

That makes him open his eyes. He turns to look at you “Alright. Hit me.”

You sit up. Serious now. The bottle rests on your knee.

“I have a son.”

Ace snorts “You what?”

You nod, eyes still on the horizon “Yeah. He’s five. His name’s Ren.”

He blinks. You go on before he can interrupt.

“I had him before all this, before the piracy, before you. I got caught in something messy with the Marines. To keep him safe, I left him with my parents. Changed my name. Ran.”

Ace stares.

You keep talking “I go see him when I can. Disguised. Just for a day or two. He thinks I’m some traveling doctor or something. He doesn’t know who I really am.”

You pause. Swallow.

“It’s hell, leaving every time. But I’d rather he grow up safe than have him hunted.”

Ace starts laughing.

You blink “What the hell?”

He’s full-on laughing “Holy shit, you got me! I thought you were serious. What is this, some new kink? Roleplay? Mommy pirate stuff?”

You just look at him.

Dead quiet.

No grin. No tease.

Ace’s smile dies instantly. The flame on his fingers goes out.

“…Wait,” he says “You’re not joking?”

You don’t say anything.

His expression changes fast… shocked, confused, then something close to guilt “You really…?”

You nod once “I’m not playing around.”

He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly tense “Shit.”

“Yeah,” you say, dry “That’s usually the first response.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again “Why are you telling me this now?”

You shrug “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re the closest thing I’ve had to a real connection in years. Or maybe I just got tired of lying all the time.”

He stares at you.

You look away “I didn’t expect you to laugh. That sucked.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“No,” he says quickly “I’m serious. That was a shitty reaction. I just… I didn’t think you were the kind of person to hide something that big.”

You exhale “Turns out, I’m full of surprises.”

The silence between you is heavy now. Not like before.

Then Ace says quietly, “What’s he like?”

You blink “Huh?”

“Your kid. Ren. What’s he like?”

You smile a little “Stubborn. Smart. Messy. Loves drawing fishes. Hates carrots. Thinks I have the coolest boots in the world.”

Ace nods, quiet. He looks down, then up at you again.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs “I’m sorry for laughing. And I’m… kinda honored you told me.”

You raise a brow “Didn’t peg you for the emotional type.”

He shrugs, eyes soft “Didn’t peg you for someone with a child.”

Touché.

Ace doesn’t talk much for the next few days.

No flirting. No teasing. Just quiet looks when he thinks you’re not watching.

You try to act normal with some old jokes, same smug grin as always, but you feel it too. Everything changed with that one secret. The space between you now holds more than just fun.

It holds truth. Real, heavy, warm truth.

You’re standing at the helm when he walks up beside you.

“I want to come.” he says.

You glance at him “Come where?”

“When you go see your son.”

Your hands tighten on the wheel “Ace—”

“I’ll stay out of sight. I swear. I just… want to see him. I want to understand what you gave up. What you’re protecting.”

You study him for a moment. His eyes don’t waver. There’s no joke. No smirk.

Just Ace. Real. Honest.

You nod.

Months later — The island is quiet. A small village with stone houses, chickens in the streets, a little bakery that still smells like your childhood.

You pull your hood low. Ace wears a cap, sunglasses... he looks ridiculous, but no one’s looking at him. Just another traveler.

Your parents’ house is at the end of the road. Garden full of wildflowers. Paint peeling on the fence.

Your son is playing outside.

He doesn’t see you at first. He’s chasing butterflies. Laughing. Barefoot.

Ace stops walking.

“That’s him?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod “Ren.”

Ace just stares. His hands slowly curl into fists.

You call out softly, “Ren?”

The boy turns. His face lights up.

He runs to you screaming. You drop to your knees and catch him in your arms. He’s warm. Real. Solid.

Ace looks away.

Inside, your parents keep things short. They know who Ace is. You warned them. They’re not happy, but they trust you.

You all sit outside. Ren sits on Ace’s lap by accident. You try to grab him, but Ace just holds him steady.

“It’s okay,” he says “He’s light.”

Ren shows him a toy ship made of sticks “I made this!”

Ace chuckles “Really? That’s better than some ships I’ve sailed on.”

You stare.

Ren grins proudly “My parent used to tell me stories. About pirates and fire powers. Did you know there’s a pirate who can set his fists on fire?”

Ace raises a brow “Sounds dangerous.”

Ren gasps “But so cool!”

You laugh softly. Ace sends you a small look. It’s gentle. A little sad.

Later, when Ren naps, you and Ace sit on the back porch.

“He’s amazing.” Ace says.

“I know.”

“You’re amazing,” he adds “You left this. For his safety.”

You stare at the grass “I think about quitting all the time. Just staying here. Being at his side full time. But… the world’s not kind. And if they find me—”

“I get it,” he cuts in “You’re doing what you have to.”

You glance at him “I didn’t expect you to care so much.”

He shrugs “Neither did I.”

Then he adds, “But now I can’t stop.”

Your heart stumbles.

“He’s got your eyes.” Ace says softly.

“Don’t get attached.” you warn “This life… it’s dangerous.”

“So is mine,” he says “But that didn’t stop you from letting me in.”

You look at him. Really look.

“I didn’t plan for this...” you whisper.

“Neither did I.”

But here you both are.

And suddenly, fun doesn’t feel like the right word anymore.

The sound of quiet laughter wakes you.

You blink against the morning light, still groggy, still warm under the blanket. It takes a second to remember where you are... your parents’ house, back in your old bed.

And then you hear it again.

Ren’s voice.

And Ace’s.

You sit up, heart skipping.

You slip out of bed, still barefoot, and pad toward the living room. And there they are.

Ren sits cross-legged on the floor, his little wooden ship in one hand, while Ace sits across from him, mimicking an enemy pirate voice.

“Noooo! You got me again, Captain Ren! My ship is sinking!”

Ren giggles and throws a pillow at him “That’s what you get, bad guy!”

Ace dramatically falls back, hands in the air “Ughhh… defeated by the mightiest pirate on the seas…”

Your heart squeezes.

Ace looks so natural. Hair messy. Eyes full of warmth. Like he belongs here.

But then your parents come in.

They freeze when they see the scene.

Ace doesn’t notice at first, he’s laughing with Ren, his smile unguarded.

“Ren.” your mother says, sharply.

Your son turns.

“Come away from him,” your father says quickly, stepping forward “Now.”

Ace blinks, confused “I—”

“Ren,” your mother repeats “Come here.”

Ren looks at you, unsure.

You step in “What’s going on?”

Your father’s jaw tightens “We don’t want him near the child.”

You stare “Excuse me?”

“He’s a pirate,” your mother hisses “A famous one. Fire Fist. He’s dangerous.”

“He’s also sitting on the floor playing ships...” you snap.

Your parents say nothing.

“You trusted me enough to come here with him,” you continue, voice rising “Now you’re trying to pull Ren away like he’s some kind of monster?”

“We’re protecting our grandson.” your father says coldly.

“From what? A man who’s been nothing but kind to him?”

“You don’t know what kind of life he brings.”

“I do,” you shout “I live it too. If you forgot. And yes, it’s dangerous. Yes, it’s hard. But Ace has done nothing but respect my family, protect me, and treat Ren with more care than anyone ever has!”

They go silent.

You’re shaking now, fists clenched.

“And for your information, I love him.”

The words fall like a hammer in the room.

Ren blinks.

Your parents’ eyes widen.

Ace just stares at you.

You don’t move.

You didn’t mean to say it... not like this, not loud, not angry... but it’s out.

And real.

You look at Ace, heart thundering “I love you.”

A beat.

Then Ace stands slowly, eyes locked on yours. He walks to you, quiet. The room holds its breath.

He stops in front of you.

“I wasn’t sure if I should say it first,” he says, voice low “Didn’t want to scare you off. But you beat me to it.”

You blink.

“I love you too.” he says.

He reaches out, gentle, and takes your hand.

Your parents stay silent. Ren looks between the two of you, then claps once like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Can I have pancakes now?” he asks.

You and Ace laugh at the same time, breathless.

And just like that, the tension cracks.

── .✦ Nico Robin:

Tags: Established Relationship, Soft Confession, Emotional Intimacy, Bittersweet Past

It’s late.

Most of the crew has gone to bed, except you and Robin. You're both in the library room. She’s reading. You’re not. You're just holding the edge of a piece of paper... frayed, uneven, and pulsing with life.

A vivre card.

You don’t have to look at it to know it’s still there. Still pointing somewhere far away, where you can’t be.

Robin closes her book softly “Is that what’s been on your mind all day?”

You glance over.

Of course she noticed.

You nod “Yeah.”

She tilts her head slightly “Can I ask who it’s for?”

You hesitate.

You’ve never told her. Not because you didn’t trust her, but because it always felt like a story that belonged to a different version of you. The you from before the sea. Before the Straw Hats. Before her.

But she’s already part of everything now.

So you answer.

“My son.”

Robin says nothing but her gaze sharpens. Attentive. Careful.

“He’s with his other parent now,” you continue, voice quiet “I raised him alone before I joined the crew. He’s the one who said it was okay. Actually, we were always together, in another small crew. Then he wanted a different kind of life. One with… peace. So we contacted his other parent.”

Robin nods, slow “He sounds mature.”

“He was always like that. Smarter than me, I think.”

There’s a short silence.

You look at the vivre card “I haven’t seen him since I joined. We talk through letters, sometimes den den mushi. But I don’t know when I’ll be able to see him again.”

Robin’s eyes soften “Do the others know?”

You shake your head “No. Just you.”

She reaches out. Her fingers brush yours, just enough to touch the vivre card “Thank you for trusting me.”

You smile, small but real “I didn’t know how to bring it up. I didn’t want you to see me differently.”

Robin hums “I already see you. Clearly.”

You blink.

She looks at you steady and kind “You carry something heavy. And still laugh with the crew. Still help cook. Still stand beside me in battle. That’s not weakness.”

Your chest aches in the best way.

She pauses, then adds, “If one day… you want to try and see him again, I’d go with you.”

Your voice catches “Really?”

She nods “Of course. I’d like to meet him. He sounds like someone I’d admire.”

You look down at the vivre card.

Still warm. Still burning.

Maybe not as far away as it feels.

It’s just past dinner.

You’re with Robin as she asked you to stay close. A soft excuse about helping her with some documents. You're both sitting on the floor, back against the wall, a soft lamp between you.

You have the vivre card on the table. You don't always keep it out, but tonight you felt the need to hold it.

You glance at the Den Den Mushi nearby.

You hesitate.

Then pick it up and dial a number you’ve had memorized since your hands first held his.

The snail blinks sleepily… then perks up.

“Hello?”

Your chest tightens at the voice.

You smile “Hey, kiddo.”

A pause, then, “IT’S YOU!!”

You laugh, caught off guard by the pure excitement.

“Oh my god—FINALLY! You didn’t forget me, right? You didn’t sail into a storm and disappear forever, right?”

Robin lifts an amused brow, watching you with quiet interest.

“I didn’t forget you,” you say softly “You know that.”

“Just making sure. I’ve been drawing so many sea monsters lately you would not believe. I made a kraken with three hats.”

You laugh again, voice cracking slightly “Three hats? He must be important.”

“Very.” He pauses, then adds, “...I missed you.”

You shut your eyes “I missed you too.”

Robin looks away respectfully, but stays close.

Then, from the snail: “Hey, wait—who’s near you? Are you with someone?”

You glance at Robin, who blinks, caught.

“She’s... a friend.” you say carefully.

Robin speaks, her voice soft “I hope I’m more than just a friend.”

The Den Den Mushi mimics a shocked face.

“...OH MY GOD. IS THIS YOUR GIRLFRIEND??”

You bury your face in your hand.

Robin chuckles lightly, graceful even when embarrassed “Hello. I’m Robin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

There’s a long pause.

“...You sound really cool.”

Robin smiles “Thank you. So do you.”

“Wait—how much do you know about them? Like... do you know about the time they tried to cook without instructions and set the wall on fire?”

You groan “Don’t tell her that.”

“It was a microwave! The noodles caught on fire!”

Robin’s shoulders shake with laughter.

You shoot her a glare that holds no heat “I regret this entire call.”

“No you don’t.”

And he’s right. You don’t.

Not even a little.

Later, when the call ends, you sit in silence.

Robin’s hand reaches for yours “He’s amazing.”

You nod, voice soft “Yeah. He really is.”

She squeezes your hand gently “He has your spark. And your chaos.”

You smile through the ache in your chest “He’s better than I’ll ever be.”

Robin rests her head against your shoulder.

“You’ll see him again. When the time is right. And I'll be with you... if you want me.”

"Of course I do."

And somehow, with her beside you, that feels like a promise you can believe in.

325 notes · View notes

loricciardo · 2 days ago

Text

YOU'RE SO VAIN, a Max Verstappen story.

pairing. Max Verstappen x original female character.

taglist. want to join my taglist for this story? comment or shoot me an ask.

synopsis. Natalie Schumacher is fast, fearless, and absolutely sick of being told she’s lucky. Being the daughter of a legend, she’s been branded “Formula 1 royalty” since she first entered this world as a small newborn.

Enter: Max Emilian Verstappen. Two-time world champion. A God on the track and a mess of contradictions off it--infuriating, electrifying, and raw in a way she just can't shake. At once, his rootlessness upends her routine. And, unfortunately, he is very loud about the fact that he thinks she doesn’t belong.

Max can’t stand Natalie. Not because she’s slow.. she isn’t. And it’s not because she’s soft. If anything, she races like a live wire. No, Max Verstappen hates Natalie Schumacher because she walks around with everything he never had: friends who love her before the podiums, a brother who’d throw punches in her defense, a family whose shadow feels like a blanket of protection, not pressure. She’s surrounded by warmth. But Max? He grew up in an icy cold tundra.

What do you do with feelings you didn’t plan for? What happens when the person you were raised to beat is the one who finally sees you for who you are?

status. on-going, i will try to update every tuesday, however i am writing this as i post, so updates may be slow as i want to properly depict the story i have in my head.

tags. female original character, misogyny and toxic masculinity (F1-typical), a lot of cussing, depictions of mental health issues (post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, bipolar, anxiety), depictions of childhood trauma, slow burn, NSFW themes (eventual smut? who knows..), references to past abuse and assault (physical, mental, sexual in reference to children and adults), abusive relationship in a romantic setting, mentions of michael schumacher’s accident, Max and Natalie are dicks!

Chapters will be marked accordingly. Please read before proceeding and exercise appropriate reader discretion.

DISCLAIMER. This is a work of fanfiction. I obviously do not own FORMULA 1 or any other forms of intellectual property. I do, however, own the original characters of this novel (Natalie Schumacher), as well as the plot lines and the writing itself. Some aspects are semi-based on true events following the 2023 season, but this is overwhelmingly a work of pure fanfiction and is far detached from reality. Additionally, there will be comments made for the sake of this fanfiction that I don’t believe the drivers would ever make. Do not let this story reflect your image on them. Please do not copy, redistribute, plagiarize, or translate this work under any circumstances.

• • • PLEASE DON'T BE A SILENT READER! I love seeing feedback and reactions. It really motivates me as a writer! I hope you enjoy 'You're So Vain.' Thank you for taking the time to read.

: ̗̀➛ 01. so this is how it starts?

: ̗̀➛ 02. too sweet.

154 notes · View notes

shelovesosa · 16 hours ago

Text

CTRL + ALT + LOVE

paring: Fictional!Satoru X F!Reader

art credits to scarlettismm on X!

sum!! After staying up late reading an emotional fanfic, a college student wakes to find the fictional love interest—Satoru Gojo—somehow real and lying beside her. Confused and out of place in the real world, Satoru begins to unravel. As they grow closer, they share laughter, secrets, and something deeper… even as time threatens to take him away. But sometimes, endings aren’t what they seem.

CW: MDNI, Romance,Contemporary Fantasy, Soft Sci-Fi, Magical Realism, Bittersweet, Angst with comfort, Temporary Love, Borrowed Time, Soft Smut, First Time Together, nerdjo cameo, soft dom, Memory Loss / Fading Reality Unexpected Second Chance. WC: 10.9k

It’s 1:41 a.m., your eyes are puffy, your nose is running, and you’ve just finished sobbing over a fictional man named Satoru who doesn’t even exist. And yet, somehow, he broke your heart like he did.

You’re curled up on your side in bed, blanket cocooned around you, the glow of your laptop screen still burning into your tired, emotional retinas. You knew what kind of fic it was going in—CEO AU, enemies-to-lovers, workplace drama. Classic. But nowhere in the tags did it say “character death.”

You sniffle loudly and scroll back to reread the last paragraph, as if torturing yourself again will somehow dull the pain.

“I should’ve said it sooner,” he whispered, blood soaking into the snow, eyes never leaving hers. “It was always you.”

The lights from the city faded behind him. And he didn’t blink again.

[End.]

You slam your hands on the keyboard.

“You’re kidding me,” you mutter out loud, nose stuffy and voice cracking. “You killed him? Seriously?! You made me sit through twenty chapters of slow-burn sexual tension, one shared bed trope, three almost-kisses and a forehead touch—just for this?”

You groan, throwing your arm over your face dramatically.

“God, I hate you, Satoru,” you whisper into your pillow. “I hate your stupid perfect face, and your ice-cold business demeanor, and your secretly soft heart, and the way you just died before you even got to live.”

You roll over, flinging a crumpled tissue at your desk.You sniff, dragging your fingers cross the keyboard to angrily type into the comments.

You:

@shelovesosa HOW DARE YOU. Fix it. Fix it right now or I’ll manifest this man into my bed myself.

“Stupid author,” you add bitterly. “Oh Sosa. May your coffee always be lukewarm and your favorite show get canceled on a cliffhanger.”

You slam the laptop shut and toss it aside.

With a final sniff, you curl deeper into your sheets. Your brain is spinning in post-fanfic grief. You mumble one last thing, more out of sleep-deprived delirium than real intent:

“…I wish he were real.” You fall asleep with the ache of unfinished stories in your chest.

The morning comes too fast. You’re groggy, head foggy from too many dreams and too little sleep. Your alarm bleats somewhere in the background as you reach to turn it off.

Except your hand doesn’t land on your phone.

It lands on something warm. And solid. And breathing. You freeze. Your eyes fly open.

There’s a shape beside you in bed. A weight. The blankets are shifted, your mattress slightly dipped like someone else is laying there. Slowly, you turn your head.

And the world tilts. There’s a man in your bed. White hair. Pale skin. Shirtless. Lean muscle. His face is turned toward the window, but even from this angle— It’s him. Your heart lurches.

Satoru. Not cosplay. Not a dream. Not just similar. It’s Satoru, exactly as he was in the fanfic. Down to the small scar above his brow the author described in chapter six.

Your lips part, no sound coming out. You're frozen. Shaking.

He stirs. Brows knit. Eyes flutter. And slowly, his lashes lift. Blue eyes. He sees you. And everything happens at once.

He jolts upright, sheets sliding off his bare chest. You scream. He flinches.

“Wh—what the hell?!” he chokes, eyes wild. “Where—what is this?! Who are you?!”

You scramble back, nearly falling out of bed. “Me?! Who are YOU?! This is my room!”

He stares at you, chest heaving. “No. No, this isn’t… This isn’t right.”

He looks around, dazed. Confused. His voice is raspy, like it hurts to speak.

“I was in Tokyo,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “It was snowing. I was bleeding. I was with—” He swallows, eyes darting toward you again. “Where is she?”

You blink. “Who?”

He stares. His voice breaks.

“…You’re not her.”

Something cold seeps into your spine. Because you know who he means. The her from the fanfic. The girl he loved before he died.

“But you’re not real,” you whisper. “You’re fictional. You died. I read it last night—I read your death—”

“I remember dying,” he snaps, voice shaking. “I felt it. I saw her crying. And then I woke up here.”

You both sit in stunned silence.

He presses a palm to his forehead. “This is a nightmare. I’m dreaming. Or— Or I was rewritten. Or this is some kind of punishment—”

You crawl slowly to the edge of the bed, still watching him like he might vanish.

“I think I summoned you,” you say weakly. “I cursed the author. As a joke. I said I wished you were real.”

He glares at you like you’re insane. But underneath it all—his trembling fingers, the way he keeps glancing around the room, the panic in his breathing—you see it:

He’s terrified. And it makes your heart hurt.

“…I want to go back,” he finally says.

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know how.”

He stares at you like it’s your fault. Maybe it is.

You clutch your sheets and whisper, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

His voice is flat.

“You’re not supposed to be her.”

You’ve never wanted to faint so badly in your life. He’s still sitting in your bed—your stupid college dorm twin XL bed—with your blush-pink blanket slung over his lap like that’s the most offensive part of all this.

His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and he’s still staring at the wall like it might open up and take him back to wherever he came from. Fiction. Paper. Imagination.

But now he's here. And he’s not pixelated or made of words. He’s real.

“I need to go back,” he mutters again. “She’s waiting.”

You chew your lip. “She’s not real.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I mean, she was real to you,” you add quickly. “But… she’s just words. I read her. She’s a reader-insert. She’s a blank space.”

“No,” he says, voice firm. “She was real. I loved her.”

You fall quiet. What are you supposed to say? Sorry, she was just me with better confidence and no student loans?

You sit down slowly on the edge of the bed. Satoru tenses, but doesn’t move.

“This is going to sound absolutely insane,” you start carefully, “but I think I pulled you out of your story. I was mad at the ending, I said I wished you were real, and then… this happened.”

He scoffs. “So I’m a pity project. Great.”

You frown. “No! You weren’t supposed to actually show up! I thought maybe I’d dream about you or something, not… wake up with you in my bed, very shirtless and very confused.”

You realize you’re staring at his chest. You immediately look away.

“This is a glitch,” he mutters. “Some kind of cruel rewrite. I shouldn’t be here.”

You glance at him. “Do you… remember everything?”

He nods. “Every scene. Every chapter. I remember dying.”

There’s a long pause.

“God,” you whisper. “That’s so messed up.”

He finally laughs—but it’s not a happy sound. It’s dry. Hollow. “Tell me about it.”

You rub your eyes. “Okay. Look. We have two problems.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Only two?”

“One,” you hold up a finger, “we don’t know how you got here. Two… you’re glitching.”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You were flickering,” you say, voice soft. “Just for a second. Like… your edges blurred. Like a dream.”

He doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches, like he felt it, too.

“…So I’m not stable.”

You say nothing. After a moment, he exhales and slumps back slightly.

“God, this is pathetic,” he mutters. “I was the most powerful man in the city. I could ruin a company with one phone call. I had private jets. Now I don’t even have pants.”

You try—try—not to laugh.

“I can get you pants,” you offer.

His eyes narrow. “Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you,” you lie. “I just don’t think walking around shirtless in a college dorm is going to help your situation.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

You grab a pair of sweatpants from your drawer and toss them at him. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You’re gonna have to sneak.”

He catches them with ease and stands, still moving like he owns a twenty-story skyscraper. You try not to stare at his back as he walks to the door.

He turns the knob, then pauses.

“…What’s your name?” he asks, glancing back at you.

You blink. “Y/N.”

He stares for a beat.

Then says, quietly, “I don’t remember that being in the story.”

You smile a little. “That’s because I wasn’t in it.”

He hesitates. Then opens the door and vanishes into the hallway.

You spend the next fifteen minutes pacing your room like it’s about to burst into flames. There’s a fictional man in your dorm bathroom.

You summoned him. You broke something. Maybe the universe. Maybe yourself.

He’s glitching. You don’t know how long he has. And he’s desperate to get back to a girl who doesn’t exist. But for some reason, he’s still here. Still real. And you don’t know what that means yet.

You’re sitting on the edge of your twin bed, clutching a lukewarm cup of instant coffee and trying not to spiral. Because this is real.

It’s not a dream. Not some grief hallucination brought on by staying up too late reading slow-burn fanfiction and eating sour gummies. There’s no typo, no delete button, no author’s note to reverse what’s happened.

Satoru is here.

The fictional man you loved and mourned and cursed the night before is now somewhere in your dorm’s communal bathroom, wearing your ex’s old sweatpants and the expression of someone who’s been yanked out of death and dumped into a college campus like a tossed USB file.

You stare at the door until it creaks open.

He steps inside cautiously, drying his hands on the front of his hoodie. His white hair is still damp, falling slightly in his eyes. He looks softer like this, like less of the towering CEO you met through carefully crafted prose and more like a very lost man who’s trying not to shatter.

You clear your throat. “Everything okay?”

He looks at you, nods stiffly, then glances around the room again like he still can’t quite believe where he is.

“I counted six women brushing their teeth in one bathroom,” he says, sitting on the desk chair like it offends him. “One of them offered me dry shampoo. I don’t know what that is.”

You snort into your cup. “Welcome to dorm life.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just studies you with unreadable eyes. Sharp and searching. Like you’re an answer he doesn’t want to need.

“This place…” he murmurs, gesturing vaguely to your walls cluttered with sticky notes and fairy lights, “this isn’t… scripted.”

You raise a brow. “No. That’s kind of how real life works.”

He leans back, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

“You said I’m not supposed to exist here. So what does that mean? Am I… fading? Am I going to just—stop?”

Your throat tightens. You’ve been wondering the same thing.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But you’re still here now. That has to mean something.”

He exhales, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling.

You watch him in silence. His hands are resting on his thighs, long fingers twitching slightly like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something. A phone. A pen. Her. You put your coffee down.

“Look,” you say softly, “I know I’m not her. And I didn’t mean for this to happen. But until we figure out what’s going on, maybe you should just… stay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Here?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “Just for now. You clearly have nowhere else to go. And I don’t think you're ready to navigate student housing or explain why you don’t have ID.”

Satoru stares at you like the concept of help is foreign. Which, based on the version of him you read about, it probably is.

Finally, he murmurs, “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” you say gently. “It’s a blanket and some time to breathe.”

He looks at you, expression unreadable. But he nods once.

You set up a sleeping bag on the floor that night. It’s the best you can offer in a room barely large enough to fit two people standing up. He lies stiffly on top of it, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling like sleep is a stranger.

You lie in bed, eyes open.bYou think about how he held the love of his life while he died. And now he’s here. Not holding anyone.

“Do you miss her?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, his voice is soft.

“I think I miss the way she made me feel. Like I wasn’t just a weapon in a suit.”

You’re quiet.

He adds, a beat later, “But maybe that feeling wasn’t even mine. Maybe I only loved her because someone wrote me that way.”

You turn to look at him. But he’s already looking at you. Neither of you says anything after that.

You wake up to the smell of something burning. Your eyes shoot open, heart already sprinting.

You stumble out of bed, nearly tripping on the sleeping bag where Satoru isn’t anymore. You hear the clatter of pans, the groan of the microwave, and a very muffled, very confused “Why is this machine yelling at me?”

You rush into the kitchenette area down the hall, still barefoot, to find Satoru standing in front of the microwave, poking at the buttons like they insulted his mother.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, half-laughing, half-panicked.

He points at the microwave indignantly. “It said ‘popcorn’ but there were sparks! Sparks, Y/N!”

You grab the bag—oh god, the foil kind—and toss it in the trash before it sets off the building alarm.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, hair slightly messy, wearing your oversized hoodie and sweatpants like he’s a very lost, very pretty houseguest.

“Have you never used a microwave?”

“Why would I?” he asks, completely serious. “I had a private chef in Tokyo.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And then, maybe for the first time since he showed up… you both laugh.

Real laughter. Yours high-pitched and breathless, his deeper, more surprised. It crackles in the small space between you. And for just a second, he doesn't look like a man unraveling.

He looks like a boy. New. Unwritten.

Later, you’re sitting on the floor together, eating cereal straight from the box. His hair keeps falling in his eyes. You reach out without thinking and brush it back.

He freezes. So do you. His eyes meet yours. And for a second—just a second—there’s something like electricity in the air. Not sparks from microwaves. Not glitchy fiction magic.

Something real. You pull your hand back quickly. But he doesn’t stop looking at you.

“…I didn’t feel this way in the story,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

You glance at him, heart thudding. “Feel what way?”

He doesn’t answer. But his knee brushes yours, and neither of you moves.

That night, he glitches. You're the first to notice. It’s small, at first. You're talking about breakfast cereal—how you mix Frosted Flakes and granola together like a heathen—and he tilts his head, eyes clouding slightly.

“I’ve never had cereal,” he says.

You blink.

“Yes, you did. This morning. You ate like half the box.”

He frowns. “No, I didn’t. We went to that place. With the… tiny pancakes.”

“…Satoru,” you say softly, “that was from Chapter 11. Of the fanfic. The Paris trip.”

His expression blanks. And then something in his face glitches. Like static behind his eyes. It only lasts a moment—but it’s long enough.

He exhales, hand pressed to his forehead. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

You don’t know what to say.

He looks at you, voice quieter now. “I’m not built for this world. I’m already forgetting.”

You kneel in front of him, gently placing your hand on his. “Then we don’t waste time.”

His breath catches. You hold his hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him here. And maybe it is.

You don’t go to class the next day. You don’t even pretend to.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re “monitoring the anomaly” or “preserving the fabric of reality.” But really, it’s because Satoru wakes up on the floor with the most lost look on his face and whispers, “Where am I again?” and it breaks your heart clean in half.

You sit with him until he remembers. Your name. The coffee spill. The dorm microwave. He laughs about the popcorn again, a little shakier this time. But it still counts. After that, you don’t leave his side.

The two of you walk the campus late at night when no one’s around. He keeps staring at trees like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“I didn’t have these,” he murmurs. “Not like this. The ones in the fic were always perfectly sculpted. Background props.”

You smile softly. “These ones grow crooked. They drop leaves. Sometimes birds poop on you.”

He tilts his head. “I like them better.”

You take him to the library next. He walks the rows of books with reverent hands, trailing fingers across every spine like he’s scared they’ll vanish.

“I thought I knew words,” he says, voice low. “But this is different. These were made by people. Not an author playing God. Just… people.”

You nod. “People with lives. Mistakes. Ugly handwriting and messy endings.”

Satoru turns to you.

You don’t know what he sees in your face, but it’s enough to make him pause.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Expected from what? Fanfiction?”

He shakes his head. “No. From reality.”

You teach him how to use your phone. He FaceTimes the pizza place by accident and panics when someone picks up.

You try to explain memes, which leads to you both scrolling through TikToks on your bed for an hour straight. He becomes obsessed with cooking videos.

At one point, your head drops onto his shoulder. He doesn’t move. His breathing slows, steadies, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Neither of you says anything about it.

You stay up one night talking. Really talking. You're lying side by side on your bed, not touching, but so close your arms are brushing.

“I used to think I was in love with her,” he says.

You stare at the ceiling. “The version of me from the story.”

He nods. “But she didn’t challenge me. She didn’t argue. She was soft in all the ways the author needed her to be.”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure how to feel.

He turns his head to look at you. “You’re not soft.”

You blink. “Gee, thanks.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmurs. “You’re… messy. Complicated. Real. You snore.”

You shove his arm lightly, and he grins.

But then his smile fades.

“I’m scared I won’t remember this,” he whispers.

You turn your head slowly. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing you.

“I’m scared I’ll forget you.”

Your chest tightens.

You whisper, “Then I’ll remember for both of us.”

Something shifts in the space between you. Like gravity pulling tighter.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But his hand inches closer to yours. And this time, when your fingers touch— You hold it tighter.

It starts small again. A pause mid-conversation.

A moment where Satoru tilts his head and says, “Remind me what this is again?” while pointing at something he’s already asked about twice.

You want to pretend it’s nothing. That he’s just distracted. But then you catch him standing by the window later that evening, staring out at the streetlight like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“Do you remember this morning?” you ask quietly, stepping beside him.

He turns slowly. “…Was there cereal?”

You nod.

He gives you a sad smile. “I forgot the flavor.”

You don’t know what to say. So you walk over, wrap your arms around his torso, and press your cheek to his chest.

His breath catches. You feel his arms come up, slowly, hesitantly. Like he’s afraid he’ll crush you. Like if he holds you too tightly, he might disappear completely.

His chin rests on top of your head. His heartbeat is loud beneath your ear. Neither of you moves for a long time.

That night, he doesn’t want to sleep on the floor.

“I know I said I would,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the sleeping bag. “But I just… I don’t want to feel far from you right now.”

You nod. You move over. He climbs in beside you. He stays on his side at first. Doesn’t touch you. But eventually, in the dark, his fingers find yours beneath the covers.

He holds your hand like it’s the last thread connecting him to the world. And maybe it is.

You dream of water. A soft tide pulling you away. Something fading. When you wake, he’s already looking at you. His hand is on your cheek. His thumb brushes just under your eye.

“I had a dream,” he whispers.

You hum sleepily, not opening your eyes. “What about?”

“I was back,” he says. “In the story. She was there. The office. The desk. The skyline.”

You open your eyes. He’s quiet for a long time.

Then: “But I didn’t feel anything.”

You turn to face him. “What do you mean?”

“I saw her. But she didn’t look like you. She looked like a blank space. Like a fill-in. She smiled at me, but it wasn’t you.”

He reaches for your face again.

“This world is loud. Messy. Exhausting. And I still want to stay in it.”

Your throat burns. “You might not get that choice.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“I know.”

Silence. Just your breath and his. Then he whispers:

“But if I’m going to vanish, I want to remember you.”

It’s quiet in the room. The kind of quiet that hangs between words never spoken. Between goodbyes that haven’t happened yet.

You lie beside him, breath soft, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. His hand is still resting over yours beneath the blanket, fingers loosely entwined like a tether to reality. His thumb brushes gently along your knuckles.

“Satoru,” you whisper, your voice nearly lost in the hush of the room. “Are you okay?”

His eyes are already on you. He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then: “No.”

Your heart twists.

“I feel like I’m slipping,” he says, voice low, a little raw. “Like parts of me are coming undone. I try to remember the story, the office, the people... it’s all fog. But you—” His hand tightens around yours. “You’re the only thing I still feel.”

You swallow, throat thick. “Then hold on to me.”

His gaze drops to your lips.

“Can I?” he whispers. “Really hold you? Just once. Before I forget?”

You nod. The moment stretches. And then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Uncertain at first, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish too. But when you sigh against his mouth, it deepens—his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you fully. Thoroughly.

He kisses you like he wants to taste your memory. Like he’s carving the shape of you into whatever part of him still exists beyond the glitch.

You shift closer, and his hand slips beneath your shirt, splaying across your waist. His palm is warm. Steady. You shiver at the contact.

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You,” he says. “Slow. Real. I want to make it count.”

You sit up slightly, letting him pull your shirt over your head. His eyes trail over you, and something in them breaks. Reverence. Hunger. Grief.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I almost didn’t get to see you like this.”

You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thudding beneath your palm. His hoodie comes off next, followed by his shirt, and you press your lips to his skin—his collarbone, his sternum, the small scar just under his ribs like the one described in the story. But it’s different seeing it here. Seeing him here. Alive. Real. Yours, even if only for tonight.

He lies back and pulls you with him, hands exploring your body like you’re something precious—trailing down your sides, across your back, fingers gripping your thighs with quiet desperation.

When you grind against him slowly, feeling the thick press of him through his boxers, his breath catches hard in your ear.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so soft—so warm—I didn’t know this part of the world could feel so… good.”

You roll your hips again, and he groans deep in his throat, hands locking tight on your waist.

“Need to feel you,” he whispers. “All of you.”

You shift your weight and reach down, guiding him free from his boxers, his cock hard and hot in your palm. His breath hitches as your fingers wrap around him gently, stroking once—slow and curious.

His voice is ragged. “Please.”

You press a kiss to his lips, then rise just enough to line yourself up.

And when you sink down onto him, he gasps—eyes fluttering shut, head falling back against the pillow.

“Oh god—”

You’re both breathing heavy now.

You pause, adjusting to the stretch of him, the tightness between you. His hands slide up your thighs, then settle at your hips, holding you still as he tries not to lose control too soon.

“You feel… perfect,” he chokes. “Better than anything I’ve ever known.”

You begin to move, slow and careful, your bodies rocking together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. His hands roam—palming your breasts, sliding up your spine, gripping your hips as you roll against him with aching tenderness.

“Satoru,” you whisper, leaning over him, your forehead pressed to his.

He opens his eyes. And in them—desperation. Need. Love.

“I don’t want to forget this,” he says again, voice breaking.

“Then remember me like this,” you whisper. “Remember the way I feel. The way I look at you. The way you make me feel so full, like I was meant to hold you.”

He groans at your words, thrusting up into you with more force. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders, meeting him with matching urgency.

It builds between you—need turning sharp, trembling, sacred.

You come first—tightening around him, breath catching as you moan his name through clenched teeth, nails digging into his back.

He follows you seconds later, holding you tight to him as he spills inside you, your names tangled in breathless gasps.

Afterward, you lie on his chest, both of you still shaking. His hand runs gently down your spine. You feel him press a kiss to your temple.

“You’re the best thing I never got written for,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You just hold him. Because you know what’s coming next. And he’s slipping again.

you lie with him for a long time. His body is warm, tangled with yours beneath the blanket, his breath steady against your shoulder. One hand rests lazily over your stomach, like he’s anchoring himself to your skin.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that—wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after something true.

But eventually, you feel his fingers twitch. Then still. Then again.

“Satoru?” you whisper.

He blinks slowly, then furrows his brows like something's wrong.

“…What was your name again?”

Your heart drops.

You sit up, brushing hair out of his face. “Don’t joke.”

“I’m not,” he says, voice quiet. Distant. “I know you. I feel like I know you. But it’s slipping. Like I’m trying to hold water in my hands.”

You press your palm to his cheek. “You’re still here. You’re still with me.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. That’s when you realize—This is it. He won’t last much longer. Whatever brought him here—whatever magic, glitch, miracle—it’s running out.

And if he goes like this, half-glitched, half-lost, it’ll break both of you. So you do the only thing you can.

You get out of bed. Pull on a hoodie. And sit at your desk. The words don’t come easy at first. But then your fingers move. Not on your phone. Not in a fanfic comment thread. On paper.

With a real pen, real ink, real hands. You write him an ending. A soft one.

Where he’s not a CEO haunted by guilt. Not a tragic man doomed to die before he can fall in love. You write him waking up in a quiet home, sunlight through curtains, coffee in a chipped mug, a cat that curls on his lap. You write him laughing. You write him safe. You write him at peace.

And you write that he gets to say goodbye. When it’s done, you read it aloud to him. Your voice shakes.

He listens, seated on the edge of your bed, blanket wrapped around his hips, eyes full of something that doesn’t feel like a glitch anymore. It feels like gratitude.

When you finish, you look up. He’s smiling softly.

“You did it,” he whispers.

“I gave you an ending,” you say. “You deserved one.”

He stands. Walks to you. And kisses you again. This one is slower. Full of something final.

“Thank you for writing me something better,” he says against your lips.

Tears well in your eyes. “Thank you for being real. Even just for a little while.” His fingers linger on your cheek.

He vanishes in the morning. Not with fanfare. Not with light or thunder or spark.

Just… A flicker.

You’d gone to brush your teeth. You’d left him tangled in your sheets, watching you from the bed with sleep-soft eyes and a crooked smile.

You came back— And the sheets were cold. You say his name once. Then again, louder. But there’s no answer. No trace. No indent in the pillow. No warmth in the blankets.

Just a silence so sharp it cuts. You don’t cry at first.

You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, blinking at the place he had been just hours ago. You try to replay his voice in your head, his laugh, the things he whispered against your skin. You press your face into your pillow and breathe deep, desperate to find even a trace of him.

But all you smell is fabric softener and loss. He’s gone. Like he never belonged here at all.

You grieve quietly. You carry his memory in the scribbled pages of your notebook, worn at the edges from being opened again and again. But you don’t write for him anymore. You write for yourself.

You don’t talk about it. How could you? You go back to class. You go back to microwaving leftovers. You scroll past fanfiction tags and never click again.

Some nights you still whisper his name in the dark, just in case he hears it. But he never answers. You begin to believe maybe he was just a dream after all. A beautiful, impossible dream.

Three months later, on the first warm day of spring, you’re sitting outside the library, notebook open, headphones in, sunlight catching in your lashes.

You almost don’t hear it.

“Excuse me—,” someone says.

You look up. And your heart stops.

A young man stands hesitantly before you, holding a crumpled campus map. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, his hair tousled from the breeze.

He looks unfamiliar yet somehow familiar.

“Could you help me? I’m completely lost,” he says, voice gentle but uncertain.

“Do you know where the science building is?” he asks, sheepish. “I’ve been walking in a circle for like twenty minutes.”

You stare. He’s different. No polished arrogance. No CEO swagger. No tailored suit. But it’s still him. That face. Those eyes. That voice.

You slowly take out your earbuds.

“…What’s your name?” you manage, breath shallow.

He smiles at you—confused, but kind.

“Satoru,” he says. “Satoru Gojo.”

Your lips part. His gaze lingers on your face for a moment too long. Then—

“Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No, we haven’t met,” you whisper.

He chuckles, eyes bright.

“Maybe it’s a good thing. A new story.”

And as the sunlight pools around you both, you realize some endings are just beginnings in disguise.

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juney-blues · 2 days ago

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amazing digital circus would be so alright if it was good

#juney.txt #it's not a show i hate but wow the writing just isn't there #there's a whole lot of #shit just arbitrarily happens. we're doing this emotional scene where we SUBTLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!:tm: hint at lore or character development #uhhhhh just because the writer says so i guess. it doesn't really feel natural or properly built to it usually just kinda happens.#there are moments it *doesn't* feel like that. the kinger and pomni stuff comes to mind as a rare exception #but for the most part it feelsss. cobbled together. inelegant.#half of episode one is just characters going ''huh?? what??? what is happening i don't understand???''#and it's usually to things the audience has figured out the general gist of within two seconds of seeing it. it's very awkward #idk i'm too sleep deprived to put my criticisms more concretely and into words. hence putting all this in the tags #writing is hard. the team behind the show just kinda don't have a grasp on what to do with it.#everything else about the show is technically competent #editing. cinnamon topography. animation. sound design. lighting and colour.#acting is a little rough but to be fair. like i said they're not working with the best writing #and also find me literally any piece of media from the past ten years with good acting #it's a dying art i tells ya

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dykehelly · 3 days ago

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u know I complain a lot about boring aus but the real enemy in the yj ao3 archive is the people writing 100k+ male oc insert fics. the fluffy aus are just not to my taste but the male oc fics are genuinely offensive and honestly misogynistic

#text tag #theres one in particular that its SO hard not to leave hate comments on #oh your male character is more ''rational'' and ''measured'' than the girls? die by my sword

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i-got-the-feels · 5 hours ago

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Not to forget how queer people in the industry legit can't win. If they act comfortable with their coactor (it's oh they fuck). Not just fuck - they fuck as their characters do like top and bottom instead of being sexual preference become a personality traits (daou had to tell people to shut up when they were like he can't bottom)

If they aren't comfortable or get annoyed by fans questioning their sexuality they are homophobic and if he acts with someone else he is doing it for money or because he flopped in straight shows or he is an UNGRATEFUL TRAITOR to act outside his ship (krist my son I love you and will forever hold grudge against assholes, you may forget I don't). If they have a partner in real life if it's a girl the company won't support you (like bright was thrown out of gmm don't tell me) bright and win bought a lot of profit but since bright didn't hide his girlfriend company was like kay bye and Listen there is no way he didn't try everyone likes job security and he is practical so I fully believe gmm didn't offer support. Also stop forcing ships ohm nanon fans are just creepy? Nanon doesn't wanna do gay shows ohm does! Let them do their own thing god. If they are queer they can only be queer with their coactor (tay off gun new fiasco which shouldn't even be one) The openly queer directors are accused of being creepy if they compliment a male actor (pjojo for being creepy towards ohm and pond?) Like I will never fathom how the “fans” simultaneously infantalise and fetishizeWith queer women? We have just started getting shows centring them! Like x ship isn't good their kisses are not as good as y ship SHUT UP Can we not ruin it with ship wars and appreciate the variety of stories and actors we are getting?Wait I remembered something else. Hating actors for being comfortable in acting out sexual scenes and calling them whores (Pavel) And also hating them and calling them homophobic if they said they were nervous and needed to drink before they shot a sex scene (jes)

The tags essay came into the main because the tags were eating up my words

I know you think having a gf thing is a joke and honestly I don't think it's a problem when bl actors have gfs or bfs, but they do get massive hate for that for real. do you know that new got so much hate for having a girlfriend? he still gets hate comments from toxic shippers that he should die for heart failure because he got heart problem? and that account that was hating on dunk was really pushing for hate. so of course it was the problem. the number one reason bl/gl actors get massive hate and death threats is literally having a gf/bf. it's a sad reality but i don't think you should treat it lightly.

I don't think this situation is a joke.

It -is- a joke.

And to show you how serious I am about this, I'm not even going to include images. This is just a giant wall of text.

Because outside of the BL-sphere, what are the repercussions of Dunk really dating a girl? What issues would he face if he was really straight? I'm going to skip over bisexuality because Lord knows half these fans don't even register that as a thing. So what harm would come his way if he was an actual heterosexual man?

Nothing. None. Nada.

If he was dating a girl, it would hurt his branded pair, but he could pivot. He could still work in other roles outside of the pair which he has done because being straight or being perceived straight isn't an issue. He would still have a job. He could even do something else outside of the industry. He'd be fine.

Because the issue isn't Dunk having a girlfriend. The issue is him stepping out on his branded pair because people are real weird about monogamy, especially when it comes to two boys because queerness actual queer people are scary to them.

So since you wanted to start with Tay and New, let me remind you that New get threats for having a girlfriend, but when Gun and Tay kissed during New's live, people went out of their way to call Gun, who is perceived as the more effeminate one, a straight up fag in the comments of his posts. Tay also got so much hate that he made a video and people's biggest issue was how could he go from such a masculine guy like New to such a twink like Gun who has never stated his sexuality. Because the issue wasn't Tay 'cheating' on his partner (with the partner literally being right next to him), but was the possibility of Tay kissing an actual gay guy.

Milk of MilkLove was rumored to be dating Noeul of BossNoeul and both of them received online hate at the mere thought they were breaking up their ships, but Noeul has received far more online and in-person hate once he started dressing and presenting a bit more effeminate than previously.

Freen of BeckyFreen was dating Seng formally of BillySeng. The hate was ridiculous and it has followed Seng even after he departed from Idol Factory, which can easily be seen in the comment section of his posts. I genuinely feel bad for the boy, yet he still is working.

So you know who I do feel bad for all of the time? Publicly out queer folks in this industry!

Max of MaxTul dates women. People knew that and hated it because he was 'cheating' on Tul. But he still had work, and he still has work now. Because being straight does not harm people. Online hate is real. Cyberbullying is real. But Max could pivot if he wanted to like Nanon, Bright, and Win. But you know who never said he was dating anyone? The actual gay guy, Tul! And who retired from acting before he announced he was dating a man? Tul.

Cooheart has gone on record stating that being an openly gay man in the BL industry has severely limited his options. He will not be able to play a straight character because people know he is gay, so the online harassment he receives isn't because of not being faithful to a branded pair, but because he is actually gay, and that harassment has translated into him getting less jobs. He cannot pivot. He is essentially stuck.

When Supanut was hanging out with Sailub, he received more online and in-person harassment because he is the openly queer man. Sailub received comments that he was disrespecting Pon per the usual, but Supanut received comments that were directed not at him just trying to break up a ship, but about him being queer. People were equivocating him to being basically a gay hussy, who just wanted to wreck all the ships, which makes me very interested in what fan interactions will look like once I'm the Most Beautiful Count airs.

Daou gets lots of comments about disrespecting Offroad by hanging out with other guys, but the comments that really upset him were the ones saying HE WAS DISGUSTING FOR POSSIBLY BOTTOMING! Offroad stays quiet mostly, but he was bothered by people saying he was BULKING UP TOO MUCH AS A QUEER MAN!

I'm not even touching Mew and Gulf, but only one of them was labeled a predator and it wasn't the straight one!

So just because some of y'all want to take Joong liking a post about Dunk having a girlfriend seriously does not mean I need to. The online harassment is disgusting because people have parasocial relationships with actors who are simply doing their jobs, but I am not going to sit here on Tumblr dot com slash Respect the Petty and entertain this made up drama that stemmed from Joong liking a post about Dunk being perceived as a straight guy when openly gay people are being significantly more harassed, targeted, and limited for being gay in an industry that profits off of gayness.

Take all this energy you have for me and meet me in the My Sweetheart Jom chat on Friday, so every time someone mentions how Saint isn't believable in his role because he is a 'bottom,' you can give them the same lecture you want to give me about the seriousness of online harassment and its real-world repercussions.

Kay? Okay!

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kamospeach · 18 hours ago

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(any pics without tags are bc i didn't know who they belonged to!)

plot: suguru's getting antsy, his ex-lover isn't looking his way on the field anymore

content warning:my sweet sugu is a little perverttt (we won't be seeing that yet), angstyyy, i love writing about trust issues and character development

dean's (aka peachy) yap: the last of the angst i promiseeee

“touchdownnnn!” the announcer yelled through the speakers of the stadium. that was the sound of the star football player of your university throwing a 45-yard pass. this was his third time making a play like that in this game alone. you wish you weren’t even there at this specific moment and time. you hated having to cheer on your ex as he won yet another game.

so it started a cycle, geto threw a pass, and you cheered. a pattern that was performed every saturday, in your home stadium or away. your reaction was what fueled his passion to play. yeah, you heard me right, he made plays and did the most because of you. whenever he assisted a touchdown, there you were cheering on his team. i mean, you had no choice, of course.

so that was why whenever suguru did something in the game, he’d look at you, always finding you looking right back at him. he read you like a book he knew you missed him, that or he was too cocky to admit that he missed you and he was now projecting.

when the game was over, you sat around with the cheer team, talking about any and everything. the football team had won, of course, thanks to suguru’s never-ending efforts. before the game, suguru asked you to stay behind so both of you could talk.

if you weren’t still slightly in love with him, you would've said no, but here you were waiting behind just to see him. he sauntered out hair down, wife-beater, and sweats. he walked towards you with a cockiness that clearly showed he was expecting you to stay behind.

“what?” was all you said, and he smirked. he had always loved your fiestiness.

“how did i do?” he asked, getting closer to you so he could tower over you. suguru was a self-proclaimed pervert; he liked seeing you look up at him. it reminded him of all the times you were on your knees, lips wrapped around his-

“seriously?” you scoffed, walking away from him, and he grabbed your arm. “let me go sugu… i mean- suguru- geto? fuck it just let me go.” you were conflicted on what to call him and he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t love the way you said his name.

“you can still call me sugu…” he says, letting go of you like you asked. “you’ve always liked calling me that,” he gave you his signature smile, and you laugh. it wasn’t funny, but the audacity of this man was hilarious. he knew you saw him as goofy, at least that’s what you called him when the two of you broke up anyway.

“really? you care what i like now? you’re full of shit geto.” you spat turning around walking to your friends. they were waiting for you so you all could go get ready for the after-party.

“ya okay love?” your friend asked, rubbing your shoulder, knowing how you get about geto. you

were very, very, very in love with him. you would do anything for him. he knew that you knew that, and yet your relationship still failed.

“i’m fine, yeah.” you say as you look out the window, reminiscing on the times you and suguru spent together, the breakup, all of it.

4 months ago

“see you tomorrow!” you yelled out to the other girls on your cheer team. practice was over, and you waited in your car for suguru to get out. he had a spring football game tomorrow, a few hours away from the university. you were supposed to cheer at the basketball championship game, so the two of you won't be able to spend time together.

so you waited an hour after your practice for suguru, the clock finally hit 8, meaning they should be done. but one hour turned into two, and two into three, three into four, and so on. you ended up falling asleep, and when you woke up, it was 1 am, going on 2. you checked your phone, seeing one text from suguru.

‘can’t come practicing late.’

he sent that at 9:30, about 45 minutes after you had fallen asleep. no missed calls, no extra texts, nothing. he didn’t even try to make sure you were safe, and that was the worst. so, without hesitation, you made your way to his apartment.

you were prepared to make a scene, sure you had shame and self-control, but not today. you were about to make sure this conceited cocky- the door swung open to suguru with his eyes half closed. just boxer's, hair messy, and sleep in his eyes.

“you open the door like this for everyone?” you asked, and he just blinked, not sure what you were doing at his apartment. “why did you text me instead of calling me and telling me you weren’t coming anymore?” you asked, and he cleared his throat.

“thought you were asleep, so i just texted you and hoped you’d see,” he said voice still groggy, and he rubbed his eyes trying to adjust to all the lights you turned on around the apartment. “i didn’t get in until 12 anyway.”

“so you practiced until 10?” you asked, lightweight, not believing him, and he sighed, nodding.

“it’s our first game back since the fall, of course, i want to do the best i can,” he explained, and you nodded. you both were working on your trust issues he was getting better but you seemed to be stagnant.

“i don’t like when you don’t respond it makes me over think.” you explained trying to use your hands to further explain your point. his face was deadpanned almost as if he was angry at you.

“look no offense but i don’t care about what you like or whatever. we were supposed to work on our trust and i’ve done that for you but if you can’t focus on improving with me then do it without me.” he ranted and your eyes got wide. was that his shitty way of breaking up with you.

“are you breaking up with me?” you asked confused and he shook his head dropping on the couch. he didn’t say much just ran his hand through his hair as he thought.

“i’m not, i’m just saying that you’ve been fine since we’ve been close together for a while. we got together when things were slow and when i wasn’t as busy. so you haven’t had a chance to work on your trust issues, and so i guess the blame is halfway on me,” he grumbled head still in his hands and you stood there frozen as you listened to him.

“so do you think i’m better off leaving then?” you raise a brow and suguru sighs with a shrug.

“i think i’m stunting your growth. if we do break up it would only be because i want you to be better,” he admitted. truthfully suguru didnt know the best decision himself. he wanted to be your boyfriend and to graduate with you, he even thought about after. how a few years later he’d work on getting married to you. but if you can’t trust him you’d just suffocate him.

“so then let’s breakup. that’s what you want that’s what we’ll do.” you nodded tears now running down your face. you wiped your tears but it was futile as the waterfall poured. suguru knew your crying voice and took it upon himself to engulf you in a hug.

“i don’t want to but i love you and i want you to trust me the way i trust you, before i end up resenting you.” he whispered in your ear and you nodded. you both pulled away from the hug he wiped your tears kissing your lips one more time before you left.

present time

the party was everything you expected it to be, loud, smelly, hot, and chaotic. you liked it because it meant you were bound to get crossfaded. you and your friends held each other’s hand as you navigated through the dense crowd. once you made it to the kitchen of the frat house drinks on drinks were poured.

you were throwing shots back like there was no tomorrow wanting to forget about suguru for a while. but just your luck you had a filthy nerdy leech that was a constant reminder. satoru gojo.

“what are you doing here?” you asked satoru who shrugged looking just as confused as you.

“suguru invited me i’m just tagging along. met a girl too, she invited me so i’m following the crowd i guess you could say.” he laughed and you nodded understanding. you were kind of in the same situation as him just following the crowd.

“i getcha.” you say as you passed him a shot that was passed to you and he denied it. you shrugged your shoulders taking both shots in front. “well looks like my crowd moving, see you later yeah?”

“yeah see ya.” he smiled as you walked away with your friends and they went to hang out with the football players. as if running into satoru wasn’t enough now you’re sitting in a circle of people. and dead across from you is suguru who was smiling and laughing with his friends.

the lighting was great but just for him, his jawline was enhanced in the light. this couldn’t be real here you are drunk (and in the process of getting high) staring at your ex almost lovingly. minutes were going by and your were getting higher and higher. and while you were getting crossfaded suguru was getting finer and finer. you felt it was practically illegal to feel this way about someone who you were no longer romantically affiliated with.

“are you okay?” one of your friends asked and you sent him a small smile.

“just peachy.” you mumbled standing up to go get water until someone came up to you. you’ve never seen him before but he was clearly flirting. his words were started to blend together and his face was almost not even there. he started to sound like a friend you knew so your body became laxed.

his hands gripped your waist and you spoke with him casually. you were now drinking whatever your ‘friend’ had poured for you. all you knew is that your blinking felt extra slow and the floor was spinning.

after a while your friend who asked if you were okay came looking for you. he was getting suspicious as to what took you so long to come back outside with the group. until he saw your almost limp body leaning on some guy who he had never seen before either. he stormed towards the two of you both snatching the drink out of your hand.

“what are you doing?” he asked you and you shrugged not even sure who he was at this point. he watched your behavior and then looked up at the man who was with you. “who the hell are you?”

“does it matter? who the hell are you?” he copied his question whispering in your ear to calm you down. but now it felt weird and your brain seemed to register that you may or may not be in danger.

“do you even go to this school? i’ve never seen you before.” he questioned the man and his body became stiff against yours. strangely this was the only thing he did that raised red flags for you.

“so? do you know everyone at this school or somethin’?” he grumbled and your friend found him suspicious so he grabbed you arm to pull you away from the man but he didn’t get anywhere with that. “don’t touch her, come on let’s go. you do want to leave with me right?” he asked you and your head slowly tilted to the side as you looked up at him. you were still struggling to make out his face.

“no you won’t, she doesn’t even know you, she’s coming with me.” he said lightly pulling you towards him. you were now caught inbetween the two men one wrist in the strangers hand and the other in your friend’s.

“i-...” was all you could manage before you heard a voice. the only voice that you could identify throughout the foggy haze that was your brain.

“neither of you will be taking her home.” he said as he walked over to you. you didn’t need to see suguru’s face to know it was his. his long hair was enough for you to know it was the man you once and still do love.

“sugu…” you said walking towards him and the two men had no choice but to let you go. before you knew it suguru had his hand around your waist.

“he didn’t hurt you did he?” he asked and you shook your head. even though you weren’t exactly sure how you got into all of that. you both made your way outside to his car that you wasted no time getting. he pressed the 1 button, and it immediately went to your settings, the way you liked it.

“you never took that off?” you asked looking up at him with eyes that had him questioning his actions 4 months ago.

“why would i? this’s your seat.” he said putting on your seatbelt but before the door closed you had to say one more thing.

“thank you, sugu.”

“anything for you.” was all he said before he closed the door and got in the driver’s seat to take you home.

to be continued...

one two three four five six

university masterlist

taglist (open):

@grignardsreagent @stardollwrites @keraawrites @soldmysoulto @k-a-m232 @ac27dj @buttershea07 @ane5e @satorupied @charminstasia @miksolosss @nanamisbbygirl @beabamboo @sweetshrew @gurllss @rhicambo @v3rdee @vamppirez @y8zuriha @probablynotleahhhh @snapcracklen @emma-37 @thabiddie23 @sunset-euphoria @ami-s-k @angelita-uchiha @antikaiii @meganwiththebody @certifiedchangbinlover @desirehorizon @meowshiki

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princess-charlie-of-hell · 2 days ago

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Honestly, I’m so happy that I found people who are also anti r@dioapple. It felt like an endless sea of people who love the ship and/or even think that it’s going to be canon because of that fake Viv tweet.

I’ve always been an Alastor x Charlie/Mimzy/Niffty shipper as I can’t even picture him with another man (he clearly hates men so why ship him with one?)

I feel you

Sometimes it feels like everyone ships it, i personally got frustrated and overwhelmed with seeing it everywhere. I blocked it on Tumblr and still see it sometimes because not everyone is able to tag properly

Or in my own post which both were specifically tagged as Charlastor there were people making it about RA despite me tagging one as anti RA and making fun of the ship and the other not even mentioned it all

I don't understand people who believe that it will be canon even with an obviously fake tweet of viv like i think you mean the one which said that Lucifer and Alastor are going to have an old man yaoi arc or something

I honestly don't think they can make them work out unless they take a lot of time to develop their relationship

Like that is the last thing the show needs,we already have multiple canon m/m couples in the hellaverse and instead of making new ones especially a forced on like this they should focus on using the time to focus on female characters who need development

Also I don't think that it makes sense if they end up together, it was shown multiple times that Lucifer is still married and in love with Lilith and that Alastor hates men. I also didn't really saw much chemistry between them

And if i were Lucifer then I wouldn't want to date the guy who dropped a Piano on me,tried to get between me and my daughter ,is manipulating her and touches and locks at her like this , instant red flag

The only thing i could see Alastor desiring from Lucifer is his position as king but he could just marry Charlie instead. As Alastor i would choose her over Lucifer anyway, sorry but Charlie is the more attractive option to a man hating gentleman like Alastor

Talking about it, i also prefer Alastor x female character than any Alastor x male characters like i still ship him with Vox, Angel dust and Zestial, first one because i am curious about their past and how their dynamic was, second because I just find it hilarious and third because i loved how they interact

But that's nothing in comparison to how much i love ships like Charlastor ,Radiorose and Emily x Alastor. it makes me smile thinking about how he interacts with women in general like in the comic where he helped a lamb sinner

Alastor respects women so much while being openly annoyed and disgusted with men,he is for me a misandrist like Adam is a misogynistic, the only men i can think of Alastor doesn't seem to dislike as much is Zestial where i am not sure how he actually feels about him

Once season two comes out i definitely will talk about more things why i hate this ship as i saw something in a leak which makes it even worse but i will wait till the scene actually drops before i talk about it

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house-on-sand · 1 day ago

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addendum to this post that i doubt anyone will see or care about but remember! you're allowed to hate the character all you want but ill come for your fucking knees if you're an asshole to people who like that character or talk about how much you hate them in their main tags or on positive posts about them. remember there's a difference between not liking something + having your own opinions and being a bully just because you think one way about a topic.

be a hater but dont be rude okay. let people enjoy things even if you don't. its okay, its absolutely alright to be kind when you disagree about something.

everyone is allowed a character that they dislike purely because of how the fandom acts about them. it is okay and it is allowed

#sr

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cheol-e-kat · 1 day ago

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𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒘𝒔

06.25.25

> mingyu x f!reader enemies to lovers where the hate is maybe real

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒆

pairing: kim mingyu x f!reader

genre: friends to enemies to lovers, second chances, forced proximity, only one bed

full fic summary: you’ve known mingyu since college and after he stood you up in second year, you’ve never gotten along - good thing you’re stuck sharing a room at a destination wedding party

preview: flashback to mingyu asking mc out for the first time...

a/n: poor mingyu ... his thoughts are so omg i can't ever hate him but the mc can T-T

the random bolded paragraphs mean literally nothing, just a weird copy and paste issue and omggggg this fic is longer than i intended but idk that’s fine because i want to go back to writing longer fics anyway

srry tho that my characters have a tendency to get away from me and prolong my planned posting dates

⋆˙⟡♡ 𝒌𝒂𝒕

♡ master list & tag list

♡ mingyu master list

[wips tag list]

☁︎ @aaronwarners69thwife [e + wips] ☁︎ @daisymbin [e + wips] ☁︎ @babilou-pov [e + wips] ☁︎ @sseungcheols [ e + wips ] ☁︎ @keyrecsfics [ e + one/multi & wips] ☁︎

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drfruitcake · 2 days ago

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Catastrophic Blues

Mel King x Frank Langdon

Rating: PG Word count: ~2,800 Tags: third person POV, angst, yearning, pining, workplace relationships, random drabble, no beta because idk wtf this is

Summary: Mel King hates how she feels after Dr. Langdon criticizes her during an ER shift. Frank hates how he feels, because he's clearly conflicted over his feelings for her.

Notes: This is literally just a random drabble that spilled into a Google doc because I wanted to challenge myself to write something that isn't Dr. Robby x Reader smut. I honestly have no clue what this is or if it'll become anything. I just like to imagine the complexity of a potential Mel x Langdon relationship. On one hand, it's fun to think Langdon will return from rehab divorced and ready to sweep Mel off her feet. But the reality is, it'd likely be incredibly messy and complex. Anyway, don't overthink this one, it's literally just drabble.

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Mel King doesn’t go out much. Most nights, she picks Becca up after work and they head straight home. They eat dinner together, find something to watch (it’s always one of three choices) and head to bed.

But tonight’s different. Tonight, Vera, Becca’s home health aid, is staying with her, meaning Mel has a night to herself if she wants. When Samira Mohan finds this out, she declares it girls’ night.

That’s how Mel ends up in some dive bar with Mohan and Santos. It smells damp, like an old nursing home, but Mel’s grateful Samira was thoughtful enough to pick a bar without bright lights or pulsing music, which irritate her.

One Moscow Mule turns into two, which evolves – or perhaps devolves – into a round of tequila shots. Those are the beginning of the end.

Mel doesn’t drink. She can count the number of times she’s been drunk on one hand. But she adores her colleagues and the idea of spending more time with them outside the chaotic confines of The Pitt. And she likes the idea of having someone to talk to about her feelings for a certain senior resident.

Mel never meant to develop those feelings. She’s always considered herself to be morally intact, of solid character and sincere intentions. She’d never intentionally eye another woman’s man, especially one who’s married.

But their connection feels different from any Mel has experienced. They bonded immediately. She learned from him, but more importantly, he learned from her – and he wasn’t too above her to admit it.

Then he disappeared. Well, not really. He went to rehab. It left Mel feeling abandoned and disappointed as she awaited his return. She knew it was probably irrational – they’d only worked together for one day – but she felt like she’d found someone who would be more than a colleague. Maybe he’d be a mentor, maybe a good friend, maybe something more romantic; Mel wasn’t sure. But it also left her frustrated. While others murmured about Frank Langdon’s absence with hushed tones and judgmental smirks, Mel worried about him.

He’s a good man and a damn good doctor. He cares about his patients and cares about saving lives. And he cares about turning his residents into good doctors, too.

When he returned from leave, he was different on the surface – separated from his wife, fighting for time with his kids, and embarrassed by the reason for his absence. The Pitt staff welcomed him back with kindness and sympathy, but Mel could tell Frank’s faith was shaken.

“It’s good to have you back,” she told him excitedly. “We’ve really missed you around here.” What she meant to say – or wanted to say – was that she really missed him. But as Frank peered at her that morning with uncertain blue eyes, their unspoken connection returned – not that Mel ever believed it was severed to begin with.

Mel can’t stop chasing the high that is Frank Langdon.

Now, five months after Langdon’s return, the hallways of The Pitt have shifted to normalcy. Staff treat him the same, with sarcasm and friendly snark, but Mel doesn’t want to join their performative banter. She wants to ensure Frank is okay, that he’s healing and comfortable having a past tainted by poor decisions. She wants him to know she still sees him as the brilliant Dr. Langdon, but she also wants to acknowledge that she’s proud of him.

Mel and Frank have become close. It’s not an odd occurrence in The Pitt. Most everyone has found a partner in crime, a shoulder to lean on, that one other doctor who shares their wavelength – Robby and Collins, Abbot and Mohan, Santos and Garcia. But Langdon is still on the heels of his separation from Abby, and the last thing he – or Mel – wants, are rumors. Even if there are wisps of substance to them.

So when Mel has tried to get closer to Frank, she’s been met with two versions of the man, and she can never predict which one will show up. Sometimes he gives in to the temptation to let her in, just a little. It leads her into thinking their chemistry is more than mentorship. He’ll laugh a little too loud at her jokes, stare a little too long when she speaks, or check on her one too many times throughout their shift. It’s not outright flirtation, at least as far as Mel can tell, though she sometimes struggles to identify when someone is flirting. But it’s enough to plant the tiniest seeds of hope within her.

But other times, she gets the distant Frank Langdon; the one who averts her gaze, who slips into bouts of silence, who doesn't like to be alone with her.

That was the Frank she encountered today. And that’s why Mel asks for another shot of tequila.

“You good?” Samira asks as Mel scrunches her face up in disgust at the liquor’s burn.

“I’m good,” Mel says assuredly. “I’m just not used to that.”

“Maybe we should hold off on the drinks for a little bit,” Samira offers.

“And maybe you can tell us what’s bothering you,” Trinity cuts in.

“What do you mean?” Mel asks blankly.

“Oh come on,” Trinity continues, blunt as ever with her elbows on the table.“It’s obvious you’re trying to drink away some sort of problem. So spill, what is it?”

Mel gazes back at her friends, who watch her with patient and curious eyes. “It’s Langdon,” she blurts out. The words tumble off her tongue before her brain can stop her. Samira lifts an eyebrow and Trinity offers her a knowing smile.

“Yeah, what’s going on with you two?” Trinity asks between sips of her Jack and Coke.

“Nothing,” Mel replies quickly. “I mean, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Do… do you think something’s going on between us?” Mel asks honestly.

“Well, you two have always been close,” Samira says carefully. “But you haven’t actually worked together very long. I mean, the day you met was the day he got suspended.”

“But he does cling to you like a moth to a flame,” Trinity points out. “You’re obviously his favorite.”

“You think so?”

“Duh.”

“But he’s married,” Mel notes.

“Separated,” Samira corrects. “And rumor has it, that status will soon be updated to divorced.”

“Who told you that?” Mel asks.

“Abbot,” Trinity interrupts knowingly. Samira merely shrugs.

“Even if he is getting a divorce, that doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Mel says. “And it doesn’t mean anything would happen, right?”

“Do you want something to happen?” Trinity asks.

“I… don’t know?” Mel answers honestly.

The truth is, Mel has feelings for Frank. But she’s also conflicted by those feelings. After all, he’s married with two kids – and he’s her senior. Mel thinks she should be focused on her career, not romance – especially with a married man. Not to mention all of the stigma that accompanies a workplace relationship.

There’s also the fact Mel’s not even sure if Frank would ever see her romantically to begin with. She’s never been good at these things, but especially with men who are the dark-haired-blue-eyed textbook cliche of “hot.”

She knows those blue eyes should be red flags. Instead, they’re magnets.

“Look,” Trinity sighs. “It’s obvious you have a thing for him and he has some kind of fondness for you. But nothing’s going to happen if you both sit on your hands.”

“But he’d never be interested in me like that – romantically,” Mel continues.

“You don’t know that,” Samira notes.

“And even if he’s not, he still needs you,” Trinity says matter-of-factly. “He fucked up royally and became subjected to scrutiny from everyone he works with. He almost lost his job and career. He needs a friendly face. He needs someone to trust.”

“I guess sometimes I just don’t know what to make of our relationship,” Mel sighs. “Sometimes he really opens up to me, he really seems to value me. Other times, he becomes so distant.”

“He’s a man,” Trinity mutters. “Inconsistency is in his blood.”

“I just find it so confusing,” Mel says. “Like today, he completely dressed me down in front of a patient.”

“Been there,” Trinity mutters dryly.

“I understand he has to teach and correct me,” Mel continues. “Sometimes he’s just so harsh and it comes out of nowhere, like he’s got some kind of pent up resentment.”

Tears sting her eyes as she recalls how she felt under Frank’s scrutiny. She doesn’t mind criticism – she can handle it – but the blade always feels sharper when coming from him. He’s usually gentler with her, and he usually entrusts her with the patience required to treat her patients. He often speaks to her in awe of her bedside manner and attention to detail.

But today was different. Today, Langdon’s blue eyes pierced Mel with aggravation. He scolded her for taking too long to come up with a diagnosis for a patient, then stormed out of the room.

He left for the day before Mel could find him again. It struck her with a sinking feeling, like a hole had been carved into her chest. It wasn’t the way Langdon scolded her, or even the way he raised his voice at her. It was the flash in his eyes; something that blended disappointment with something much more acrid – almost like disgust.

And nothing shredded at Mel’s insides more than the notion that she could disappoint anyone. It whittled her down and stripped her bare, void of the confidence she desperately fought to maintain each day. But the knife was especially sharp when Frank was on the other end.

Mel considers ordering another round of drinks. She thinks they help wane her misery. She doesn’t yet realize they’re simply nudging her toward the purgatory that always lurks when one tries to drown their sorrows in a liquor bottle.

“Hey, cheer up,” Trinity says as she spots the sadness in Mel’s eyes, and the tears that sting their corners. “No one’s worth crying over, especially Langdon.”

Those weren’t the right words, especially coming from Trinity, who’d had a rocky history with Frank. They’d repaired most of their working relationship since his return, but she wasn’t exactly the best candidate when it came to hyping him up – or discussing him romantically.

But Mel decides she’s right. She isn’t going to be the type to cry over a married man. Even one with the most hypnotic blues eyes to ever claim her affection.

—

Frank Langdon hates the stench of the staff lounge. It always smells like microwave dinners – the kind that come in cardboard sleeves and feature watered-down versions of mac and cheese or fettuccine alfredo. The scent reminds him of home now; the kitchen inside his sterile, shitty apartment, void of any love or laughter; the microwave that’s been used too often and cleaned too little; the meals he’s eaten alone in front of the television.

The staff lounge is a screaming reminder that Frank is one of those guys now – one of those (soon to be) divorced dads who only sees his kids every other weekend. It’s all his fault, he knows. Abby didn’t tell him to get hooked on benzos. Abby had her own shit to deal with. Frank merely added to that shit. And that’s why he lost her.

But now, Frank has another vice to resolve. The one in the form of the 5’5” resident he bonded with the day of Pitt Fest. He’s grown fond of her. And that’s a problem.

Mel King is the type of woman Frank doesn’t think he deserves. It shreds his insides because he wants to be the kind of man she could be proud of. But he also doesn’t want to be the kind of man who gets romantically involved with a resident – especially when he’s already been labeled an addict and the type of man who steals lorazepam on the job, who had to go to rehab to salvage his career. Yes, Frank Langdon is definitely one of those guys, if you ask him.

But Mel has him completely and utterly consumed. He should be trying to resuscitate his marriage. Instead, he finds himself in a wayward freefall, tumbling toward another temptation when he should remain on track, head down and free of any more turbulence.

Frank knows he’s the only one who can save himself. They made that crystal clear to him in rehab. He can’t turn to anyone else to rescue him – not Abby, not his kids and certainly not Mel. But what Frank doesn’t know is that Mel doesn’t want to save him. She doesn’t view him as someone in need of fixing or redemption. She views him as someone whose faults are merely stars within the greater constellation that is Frank Langdon. She searches for them in every night sky.

But Frank keeps fighting the pull. He resists the draw he feels toward Mel in fear of where it could lead him. And he resists because he doesn’t want to poison Mel the way he’s tainted everyone else in his orbit.

All Frank wants is to be a good man. He doesn’t know Mel already sees him that way.

He also doesn’t know how his words cut her to the core when they’re harsh. He knows Mel is sensitive – it’s his favorite thing about her – but he also knows she’s tough. He’s seen her resilience on dazzling display day in and day out. That’s why he doesn’t overthink the weight of his words when he lashes out or bites at her with impatience. Of course, it’s never Mel who is the actual problem. Frank merely takes out his frustrations over his infatuation with her by swinging back with criticism. He knows it’s an unfair way of masking his feelings.

He doesn’t know Mel treats his every word – praise and critique – like gospel.

It wasn’t until earlier that day, when Frank barked at Mel for stumbling through a diagnosis, that he saw a flash of hurt in her eyes. He was pulled from the room for an incoming trauma before he could apologize and spent the remainder of the day feeling too awkward to check on her.

Now, the guilt gnaws away at Frank as he scrolls through his Netflix feed for the tenth time in search of something he’ll never watch. He revisits that moment with Mel with guilt and shame.

Frank’s therapist has told him to be more honest with himself in the present, meaning he’s supposed to pause and reflect on his truths before he acts.

“Ask yourself, what is the reality of my situation and what control do I have over it?” she advised him.

When he does so, he decides the reality is he’s miserable and his senseless game of push and pull with Mel is getting him nowhere. If anything, it’s driving a wedge between him and the one person who hasn’t changed the way she treats him. She doesn’t look at him with sympathetic stares. She doesn’t offer to take all of the patients who present with symptoms of substance use disorder. She doesn’t walk on eggshells or speak in hushed tones. She doesn’t see Frank any differently. And that’s what he cherishes most about her.

Frank sighs and checks his phone. No texts or missed calls. Abby took the kids to the movies, meaning there’d be no goodnight phone call tonight. Instead, he opens his texts.

Mel insists on walking home alone, but Samira knows better. She offers to walk with Mel and then calls Abbot to pick her up. Mel smiles and waves at Jack when he arrives in his old pickup truck, then hugs Samira goodbye.

“Hang in there,” Samira says kindly in Mel’s ear. “See you tomorrow.”

Mel appreciates Samira’s friendship. But as she watches Jack greet Samira with a swift kiss from the driver’s seat before they drive off, she’s crippled by another wave of melancholy.

She shakes it off, determined to be chipper when she walks in the door to her apartment. But the ping of her phone makes her pause in the hallway.

Frank: Hey you. You OK? Just wanted to apologize for earlier today. I was in a shit mood and I took it out on you, which was unfair and uncool. I need to work on my emotional intelligence in situations like that. I hope you realize how much I value you. There’s no one like you, Mel.

Mel holds her breath as she reads the message twice, then a third time. Frank’s apology doesn’t negate his behavior, nor does it make it okay. But she appreciates his acknowledgment of his actions and his need to be better.

But she doesn’t need him to improve. She simply needs him to be Frank Langdon.

#the pitt #melangdon #mel king #melissa king #frank langdon #kingdon #the pitt fanfic #the pitt fanfiction

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sylvieserene · 19 hours ago

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cannot be the only one who hates when people ship the fairy costume x shadow milk cookie. Like ship whoever you want, but the costume is made specifically for Purelily shippers. I don’t wanna be that person, but it’s like they’re asking for hate ☹️

I personally dislike it but because of a few things that ultimately traces back to the hypocritical nature of this fandom.

I think most folks know that this costume is probably the MOST hated set in the game and if you visit twitter, you...just won't like it in there to say the least. From hating to attacking, everything goes for that set.

It is hated by both ShadowVanilla + Elderlily shippers (ofc) cuz:

"It should've been EF!! THEY WERE ROBBED"

"If not EF then SM plz."

"PV is ugly. Get him out."

"Ew he's molesting WL."

"WL is the one carrying this set. It should've been just her."

"This costume set was a mistake."

"I hate this."

The list goes on.

Most folks do keep mentioning the fact that WL slayed etc which she did, the costume is really pretty and on surface level? Everything seems alright but if you dig a lil deeper on the said users, you'll find NO history of them even caring, let alone talking about her outside Elderlily or in a lot cases, at all.

The same people who hate PV just being there, the "ugliness" (yes, the word ugly is being heavily used when it comes down to him) that comes down with him and how he should not have been there in the first place are the same folks who rejoice when PV is drawn in that same "ugly-ass" costume with SM.

Same folks like, reblog and comment like it's the second coming of Jesus and treat it as some holy event lol

This hypocritical behaviour is vast and funny at the same time lol

What I find the most funny is, this costume came from an explicitly Purelily content, but suddenly none of it is good cuz it's about PV and WL and it should've been just her but at the same time, they'll drag PV's costume with them to ship with SM.

Now some ppl will say that "HEY THATS CUZ WL SHOULD SHINE ON HER OWN NOT WITH JUST A GUY."

But is it REALLY about just that?

Because if it is so, why does this costume set gain the hate? Why should it have been Elder Faerie?

Why do all these folks feel the need to keep mentioning how WL looks amazing but PV has to go but then at the same time, treat that very costume as the most beautiful thing ever when it's SM?

So is it REALLY about just the costume or WL or is it about a misogynistic view on WL and the urge to fit shipping agendas?

Because I'm willing to bet if it was EF, the costume set wouldn't faced any heat. Suddenly it being an AU scenario wouldn't have mattered and it would've been the ultimate "proof" that Elderlily is canon but since it's Purelily, it sucks.

Like someone who borrows your work but never credits you.

It’s just like someone copying your art project, using the parts they like, and then trashing your name when people ask where it came from.

Cuz that's exactly whats happening here.

The said-fans consistently hate this set cuz it's "ugly" but at the same time, when taken seperate, they suddenly love everything about it.

The same folks who felt it's "terrible" just a few moments back when tagged with WL and felt the overwhelming urge to keep writing how she slayed every other comment.

It's like that one meme where when a fan tears down a character all the time but, the moment they're called out, they say "But I like her too! I reblogged fanart once!" as if that magically excuses all the other behavior.

So the question is,

Do they even mean it?

Or they're saying so to not come off as misogynistic?

I personally feel it's the latter because they never talk about WL meaningfully beyond that. If you check, almost all their history is filled with ShadowVanilla and Elderlily content which isn't wrong but the way they show their concern as if it's affecting WL's very autonomy (when it's literally not) and how they're concerned about it is incredibly hypocritical.

Because these same ppl also have expressed posts and comments with thousands of likes and reblogs on how WL should've married EF and stayed in the Faerie kingdom forever.

Heck they even say that EF and WL got married in this AU set WHEN THERE'S NO EVIDENCE FOR THAT :D

Ultimately, I just really hate that folks who hate Purelily and this costume set so blatantly, get their attitudes changed in a sec when the narrative is changed to their agendas and would attack you aggressively if you say anything against that cultivated narrative but wouldn't hesitate in doing so to the Purelily community. Heck, they won't even THANK the ship for the beautiful set they love interacting and using for themselves let alone even talk about it outside of criticising it.

It's almost as if the word "Purelily" burns them if they say it.

They certainly would hate on it, not acknowledge its positives but def rip off from its positives.

So yeah, I personally hate this particular behaviour regarding the set.

Not to mention the mischaracterisation that accompanies it all.

Viridescent PV is labelled as just a simp and all his other personality traits are completely erased. Like even under the potion, he simply just proposed to WL, nothing beyond that. He didn't "simp", he simply proposed to the woman both of his dreams and love (literally and metaphorically) to be his wife, a person who through tears had to say that they can't be together forever cuz duty and reminds him of his as well which he accepts and starts wondering how he'll get over her in the morning.

Even under the potion, Viridescent PV def had his nuances and even a personality of that of a benevolent responsible king who just was in love with another who can't be his forever as well.

That's exactly the reason it's a tragic comedy because the situation is not only ironic but also happened due to what's a potion (which may or may not have been the reason PV is acting this way cuz it's the faeries who assume so, we have no idea if it's true cuz unreliable narrator)

But nope in CRK fandom, it's nothing but just a simp costume and reserved for simping. If it's with WL then bad but with SM? Very good!

So yeah, this is basically my thoughts on it.

TLDR, I don't mind if someone uses his costume for shipping it with SM, Idt its waiting to be hated on either but I really, REALLY hate it when they act like it's the worst thing ever when it's with WL when they don't even care about her outside shipping and are hating SOLELY because she's there with PV while also being self-aware that this may come off as misogynistic so actively doing damage control as well.

If you’re gonna use the aesthetics or symbols from a ship you don’t like, at least stop pretending that ship is trash. Don't profit off it and then spit on it.

It's really garbage behaviour.

#cookie run kingdom #pure vanilla cookie #White Lily Cookie #shadow milk cookie #Purelily #ShadowVanilla #Asks #viridescent daydream #Sorry for the rant #But I am tired of this hypocritical behaviour of the fandom ngl #Its really immature #Like...just mind your own business lol if you're using someone's asset..stop sh!tting on it lol #It's not that hard #It's like someone is eating your cake and criticising you for being a bad baker because of not baking it in their fav flavour #But suddenly you're a Godly baker when it's their fav flavour #pure vanilla cookie x white lily cookie #pure vanilla x white lily #white lily cookie x pure vanilla cookie #white lily x pure vanilla #shadow milk cookie x pure vanilla cookie #shadow milk x pure vanilla #I just really find it funny that with WL it's a terrible set for ppl but with SM? suddenly an amazing one #Like make it make sense lol #Are you hating the fact PV is with WL or because he's NOT with SM?#Unfortunately WL is treated as some sort of baggage for the fandom who is getting in the way of everything so she must isolate herself w/EF #It's a very misogynistic outlook #This is why I say don't care about what “majority” does folks: more often times than not you'll lose more braincells than anything else #Cuz ppl are insanely hypocritical in this fanbase lol it's better to mind your own business and leave others be #This degrades PV too cuz ppl appreciate and love him when with SM but hate him when with WL #This just means you don't like him. You just see him as an object to fulfil your shipping needs. You're not a fan.

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