#i will also never be drawing all of those ruffles again

[pucksandpower]

La Regina

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Charles Leclerc x Schumacher!Reader

Summary: a girl raised at her father’s knee goes from rising star to princess to queen (or in which becoming a legend runs in the Schumacher family)

You bounce excitedly in the passenger seat of your papa’s car as he pulls into the parking lot of the karting track. At 5-years-old, you’re too young to race officially, but he promised to let you drive some practice laps after the scheduled competition today.

“Remember, Maus, listen closely to the instructors and stay safe out there,” Michael says, ruffling your hair affectionately before getting out.

You scramble out after him, having to jog to keep up with his long strides across the parking lot. You reach to take his hand, but freeze when a small crowd starts converging around your papa. Men in bright vests are rushing over, cameras flashing rapidly.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” You ask, startled by the commotion.

Before Michael can respond, a curly-haired woman thrusts a baby into his arms. “Oh my god, can you just hold her for one second? I need a picture!”

Your papa looks bewildered but graciously cradles the infant, giving an awkward smile as more and more people start shoving pieces of paper and pens in front of him.

“Excuse me, please, I have my daughter with me today,” he tries saying over the chaos, but no one is listening.

You shrink back, overwhelmed by the pushing crowd and flurry of voices pleading for autographs and photos. Where did all these people come from? This has never happened before when you’ve gone karting with your papa.

Sensing your unease, Michael gently passes the baby back to its mother and kneels down in front of you. “Hey, it’s okay, Maus. Why don’t you wait for me over there?” He gestures to a bench off to the side.

Part of you wants to cling to him, scared of all the strangers crowding around so aggressively. But you also don’t want him to have to worry about you on top of everything else. You nod bravely and make your way through the throng to the little bench, watching apprehensively as your papa tries politely handling the requests.

After what feels like forever, the crowd finally starts dispersing, though a few linger behind like stubborn cats begging for scraps. Michael shakes the last few hands and accepts some papers to sign before gratefully escaping over to you.

“I’m so sorry about that, Maus,” he says, looking apologetic as he plops down on the bench. “I didn’t expect such a scene on what’s supposed to be our fun day.”

“It’s okay, Papa.” You lean against his side, still a bit rattled but comforted by his familiar warmth. “Who were all those people? Why did they want your … uhh …“ You can’t quite remember the word for the scribbles people ask famous people for.

“Autographs,” Michael supplies with an amused chuckle, wrapping an arm around you. “And they wanted photos too, I suppose. I’m … well, I’m quite a famous racecar driver.”

You cock your head, trying to process this concept of your papa being some kind of celebrity. As far as you’re concerned, he’s just your goofy, loving dad who takes you karting and makes the silliest voices for all your stuffed animals at home.

“Really? Like the famous famous people on TV?” You’ve seen the paparazzi swarming the actors and musicians during awards shows, but you’d never imagined that could happen to your own papa.

Michael nods, drawing you closer with a squeeze. “Yes, somewhat like that, though it’s a bit excessive at a small karting event.” He laughs again and brushes some of your wayward hair from your face. “But you’re right, to you I’m just Papa. I don’t expect anything more from my favorite Maus.”

You beam at the affectionate nickname, all the earlier stress melting away. Who cares if strangers want your papa’s autograph or photos? All that matters is you two spending the day together like always.

“Can we go get our karts now?” You ask eagerly, bouncing a little on the bench. “I want to show you how fast I can go!”

“Of course!” Michael jumps up and scoops you into his arms with a playful growl, making you shriek giddily. “My little speed demon is going to leave me in the dust.”

He swings you up onto his shoulders and you cling on tightly as he strides toward the pit area. A few more people spot him and make a move closer with cameras and sharpies extended, but seem to think better of it when they see you perched up high.

The two of you spend the next couple hours karting together, trading places taking warm up laps and cheering each other on. At one point, a young attendant working the pit area approaches Michael somewhat nervously.

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Schumacher?” He’s clutching a crumpled baseball cap in one hand, ducking his head shyly. “I’m just such a huge fan, would you mind taking a photo and signing this for me after your session?”

Your papa smiles kindly at the young man and takes the cap. “Not at all, no problem.” As the attendant walks away, looking elated, Michael turns to you with a wink. “See? That’s how you politely ask for an autograph.”

You giggle and mime zipping your lips. “Don’t worry, Papa, I won’t let the fame go to my head when I’m a famous racecar driver too someday.”

Scooping you up once more, Michael presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek. “That’s my girl. Now, last few laps — let’s see who can go the fastest without ending up in the grass!”

As evening starts falling, the two of you make your way back through the now nearly deserted lot after returning the rental karts. Most of the other karters have cleared out, leaving just you two strolling unhurriedly back to the car.

“Well Maus, despite the, uh, overexcited fans, I’d call this day a success,” Michael says, swinging your joined hands idly. “We both had our fun on the track, and I think you handled that crowd back there like a champ.”

You smile up at him, still so proud just to be his daughter. “I don’t care about all those other people, papa. As long as I have you, that’s all I need.”

Stopping beside the car, Michael crouches down and cups your face in his calloused racing palms, looking at you with such fierce adoration.

“Maus, you have me, always. No matter what happens out there,” he gestures vaguely at the empty track, “When I’m with you, I’m just Papa. My greatest accomplishment, my biggest award, is being your father. Verstanden?”

You launch yourself into his arms, hugging as tightly as you can. “Verstanden, Papa. I love you.”

“Ich liebe dich mehr, Maus,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek to your hair. “Now, what do you say we go get some victory ice cream?”

As the two of you climb into the car, you can’t keep the smile off your face, practically glowing with contentment. Sure, maybe your papa is some big famous racecar driver that everybody wants a piece of. But really, he’s just your papa — and you’re his whole world.

***

The ringing of the house phone cuts through the tense silence like a knife. You shrink further into the couch cushions as your mother rushes to answer it, shoulders visibly taut.

“Hello? No, I cannot make any comment at this time. Yes, I understand there is interest but-” Corinna breaks off, rubbing her temples wearily. “Please respect our privacy as a family right now. Thank you.”

She hangs up and leans against the wall, eyes slipping shut for a brief moment. Before she can even draw a full breath, the phone rings again, shrill and insistent. With a muffled curse, your mother snatches it up.

“What? I told you, I cannot give any statements! This is a private matter. How did you even get this number?”

You watch apprehensively as she responds again, her voice rising in distress. In the days since your papa’s skiing accident, it seems like the entire world has been hounding your family, desperate for any scrap of information.

On the TV across the room, the endless cycle of news reports drones on lowly. Images of your papa’s broken, still body being rushed from the slopes into a helicopter. Flashing advancer texts speculating on his chances of recovery from the traumatic head injury.

It makes you feel ill.

Beside you on the couch, Mick sits blank-faced, looking nearly as pale and worn as your mother. At 14, he understands the gravity of the situation all too well. Your big brother has always idolized your papa, hoping to follow in his racing footsteps one day as well. The thought of him not being there to see the realization of that dream is devastating.

Gina is curled up in the armchair, her shoulders shaking every so often with muffled sobs. At 16, she’s arguably been taking this the hardest of all you kids. She keeps her face stoically dry in front of your mother, but you can see how red and puffy her eyes are from constant crying.

As for you, at 11-years-old, you’re somehow both numb and feeling everything all at once. Part of you still can’t fully process that this nightmare is real. That your hero, your papa, could be lying comatose in a hospital, hovering between life and death. The other part of you is overwhelmed in a tsunami of terror, panic, anger, sadness — any and every emotion crashing through you at all hours.

“Kids, I’m so sorry about this,” your mother says, defeated, as she rejoins you in the living room after ending her latest call. The bags under her eyes seem to have deepened further overnight. “I know this is incredibly difficult and intrusive. But your papa is … he’s a public figure. People are concerned.”

“Incredibly insensitive is what they’re being,” Gina spits, uncurling herself from the chair enough to shoot your mother a resentful look. “We’re going through actual hell and all these people care about is getting a sound bite for the evening news!”

Corinna looks pained but doesn’t rebuke her. “I know, liebling, I know. But your papa has millions of fans all over the world who have followed his career for decades. Whether we like it or not, they care about him … and about us by extension.”

You think back to that day at the karting track all those years ago when you first realized your papa was what people called “famous”. How all those strangers clamored around him so aggressively just for a photo or an autograph. That level of fandom seemed exciting and novel at the time, when you were just a naïve 5-year-old. Now you see it for how intrusive and violating it is, this sense of entitlement people have to the private life of a public figure.

The phone starts ringing again, shattering the fragile quiet. Your mother squeezes her eyes shut and makes no move to get it this time. After four rings, the call goes to voicemail. A moment later, the tinny sound of an Italian voicemail being left blares through the speaker.

“Scusi, scusi, please, if there is any update on the condition of the great Michael Schumacher, any information at all! We are all holding vigils and saying prayers, but we must know how he fares! The world is watching and waiting!”

The words, pleading and demanding all at once, are like a slap across your face. The man’s voice is laced with such desperation, as if your papa’s life is mere entertainment to be consumedby the masses. You feel abruptly furious, incensed that a stranger’s morbid curiosity is given the same weight as your family’s anguish.

“Turn it off,” Mick mutters through clenched teeth, hunching over on the couch. “Just turn it off, Mama.”

Corinna nods numbly and reaches to end the voicemail, her mouth set in a grim line. Buzzing fills the room again as the TV drones on, the reporters’ voices a dull roar that you can no longer discern actual words from as your ears ring with white noise.

The shrill ringing of the phone cuts through once more, like a record scratching in your brain. Your mother flinches violently, hands coming up to clamp over her ears as she squeezes her eyes shut, finally at her breaking point.

Unable to watch this torture anymore, you surge to your feet and storm across the living room. You rip the phone from its cradle and hurl it against the far wall, the plastic casing shattering loudly. The ringing blessedly ends, leaving only an eerie silence in its wake.

Mick and Gina stare at you with wide, stunned eyes. Your mother simply deflates, sliding down the wall to the floor as the adrenaline drains from her body. For several beats, no one dares breathe too loudly. Then, Gina starts to shake her head slowly, tears slipping free.

“Brava,” she murmurs, the barest hint of approval in her voice.

Your mother doesn’t scold you for the outburst. She merely reaches out a hand, silently beckoning you closer until you slowly cross the room again and sink to your knees in front of her. She cups your face in her palms, her own cheeks glistening with fresh tears.

“You’re right, liebling, you’re right,” she whispers brokenly. “This is about our family, not … not the world thinking they’re owed something.”

She pulls your head against her shoulder and you cling to her tightly as she begins to weep in earnest, great shuddering sobs wracking her whole frame. Gina scrambles over and tucks herself against your mother’s other side, and soon all three of you are tangled in each other’s arms, letting the tidal wave of grief crest over you.

Mick stays frozen on the couch, watching over your huddle with dark, haunted eyes. For the first time since this ordeal began, the four of you are united in simply feeling, truly letting yourselves shatter. No more putting on brave faces or pretending to be okay — from this moment, you can finally grieve as a family behind closed doors, blockading out the rest of the cruel, prying world.

Later that evening, after crying yourselves into an exhausted stupor, you drift up the stairs and sequester yourself in your bedroom. You bypass the framed photos of your papa on your nightstand, the sight of his bright smile and twinkling eyes too searing at the moment. Instead, you sink to your knees in the middle of the floor and clasp your hands tightly, bowing your head to murmur desperate pleas.

“Please, please let my papa be okay. I don’t care about all his fame or the stupid reporters. I just want him to get better and come home to us. He’s not just the famous Michael Schumacher to me. He’s Papa. He’s my whole world.”

The words spill out in a torrent, all the fear and longing you’ve been bottling up for the better part of a week erupting forth. You plead to any higher power that may be listening, bargaining away your future, your dreams, anything — as long as your papa pulls through this nightmare.

How many times had you taken for granted those moments of him just being your dad — making you pancakes on Saturday mornings, dozing on the couch during family movie nights, playfully tossing you into the pool when you grew too whiny in the summer heat? You’d give anything to have those simple, precious daddy-daughter moments back.

“The world can have his trophies and titles,” you whisper fiercely, tears slipping free to patter on the carpet. “I don’t care about any of that. I just want my papa. Please, please bring him back to us.”

You curl in on yourself, forehead pressing into the floor as your shoulders shake with silent sobs. All the adoring fans, the fawning media, the hangers-on clamoring for a piece of his glory — they only know the manufactured public persona of Michael Schumacher, legendary racer and famous celebrity. But to you, he’s always just been the quiet hero tucking you into bed at night, the gentle presence reading stories in funny voices, the mighty protector pulling you in for all-encompassing bear hugs.

You miss that wonderful, silly, tender father more than anything in the world. You don’t give a damn about his racing accolades or his fame. You just desperately need your papa back home where he belongs — with his family, the people who loved and treasured him most as simply Michael.

Just Michael. Your one and only papa.

The raw ache of that longing consumes you utterly. You lay there amid the fading light from your bedroom windows, dreams and memories of your papa flickering behind your eyelids as you plead to any benevolent force that may be listening. All you want is the chance to make more joyful memories with him, to hear his rich laugh, to keep basking in his unconditional love for years and years to come.

Please, you beg the universe silently, one last time. Please let this nightmare end. Don’t let the brightest light in my world be extinguished before its time.

Let me have my papa back.

***

A tense hush has fallen over the dining room table, the clinking of utensils against plates the only sound cutting through the thick silence. Gina avoids everyone’s eyes, pushing food around her plate listlessly. Mick stares down at his half-eaten dinner, jaw working like he’s chewing over something weighty. You pick at a bread roll, too knotted with anxiety to muster much appetite.

Your mother is the one to finally break the stifling quiet, clearing her throat. “Kids, I know these last few weeks have been … incredibly difficult for us all.”

You risk a glance up at Corinna. Her eyes are tight at the corners, her mouth a taut line. Just like all of you, the constant vigil at your papa’s bedside, combined with the relentless badgering from the media, has clearly taken its toll.

“But we have to keep trying to be a family, yes?” She reaches across the table to grip your hand. “We’re all Michael has right now. We have to … to stick together for him.”

You nod numbly, swallowing hard around the lump in your throat at the reminder of your papa’s unchanged condition. The waiting, the not knowing if or when he’ll wake up, is a special kind of torment you wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Mick abruptly shoves his plate away, the porcelain scraping loudly across the wood. You all flinch a little at the harsh sound.

“I’ve been thinking ...” he starts, then seems to reconsider his words, shoulders tightening fractionally. “Well, Y/N, you know how I … how I race under Mama’s last name?”

You frown slightly, uncertain where he’s going with this. “Betsch, yes. Because you wanted to make your own name without the expectation and pressure of being Michael Schumacher’s son.”

He dips his chin once, looking almost pained. “Exactly. And I think … I think maybe you should consider doing the same.”

The words sit heavy and convolulenting between you all like a sack of wet cement. You blink dumbly, hardly comprehending what he’s suggesting at first. When the implication hits you, you actually recoil as if he’d slapped you across the face.

“What? No. No, absolutely not, Mick. How can you even say that?”

“Y/N, just hear me out,” he pleads, holding up his hands in a calming gesture. “With Papa … with what happened, the paparazzi and the fans, they’re going to be watching our every move even more than before. Especially you since you’re planning to continue competing-”

“Don’t you dare make this about his condition,” you spit, fury thrumming through your veins like struck lightning. “And of course I plan to keep racing — it’s what Papa would want! I’m not going to hide from his name like it’s some shameful thing!”

Gina is watching the exchange with wide, startled eyes, her food forgotten. Mick runs an agitated hand through his hair, shaking his head firmly.

“It’s not about hiding or shame, it’s about protecting yourself! Don’t you see how crazy things have gotten? All the reporters harassing us, the fans leaving awful messages online hoping for updates ...”

He leans forward, expression almost desperate. “If you race as Betsch, you can compete without having that extra spotlight. You can just be a normal kid on the track without people peering in.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck in waves of humiliation and rage. How dare he insinuate that inheriting your papa’s legacy is some kind of burden to be shrugged off? That the name Schumacher is a burden to bear rather than a badge of honor?

“I’m not you, Mick,” you bite out, fists clenching beneath the table. “Maybe racing under Mama’s name helped you deal with the pressure better and that’s fine. But I’m proud to be Michael Schumacher’s daughter! And if people can’t respect that, if they think it means they own a piece of me, then they can go to hell!”

“Language!” Your mother gasps, both appalled and slightly impressed. But you ignore her admonishment, too fired up to rein it in now.

“What, you think pretending to be someone else is going to spare me from living in Papa’s shadow anyway?” You shake your head adamantly, leaning across the table towards Mick. “It’s not, and you know it. Even if I raced under a fake name, everyone is still going to know exactly who I am and make comparisons.”

Slamming your palms on the table, you surge to your feet, chair screeching harshly against the floor. All the pain and uncertainty of these past few weeks is bubbling over into bitter, biting words.

“So why should I hide it? Why can’t I take pride in my name and my heritage? Maybe it’ll mean more scrutiny, but it’s a million times better than feeling like I have to be ashamed! Like I can’t fully honor Papa and make him proud!”

Chest heaving, you stare down a wide-eyed Mick, almost daring him to challenge you further. He seems to read the conviction blazing in your eyes, features softening into chagrin.

“You’re right ...” he murmurs with a wince. “You’re right, Y/N, I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

You hold his repentant gaze for a long moment before deflating back into your chair with a muted thud. In the ringing silence, you can hear your mother’s soft sniffles from the far end of the table. When you look over, she has her head bowed, hands pressed to her eyes as she cries quietly.

“M-Mama?” Gina ventures in a small voice, reaching across to grasp her mother’s wrist. “What’s wrong?”

Corinna lowers her hands, swiping at the tears streaking her cheeks. When she meets your bewildered gaze, her expression is a complicated brew of pride and heart-wrenching sadness.

“Nothing is wrong, liebling,” she assures Gina with a watery smile, before turning back to you. “Y/N, you’re so much like your papa, do you know that? So brave and determined … so full of that same fighting spirit.”

She dips her chin, lips trembling faintly. “He would be so proud to hear you defend his name like that. To see you ready to take on the weight of wearing it, regardless of what the world throws at you.”

More tears spill forth, but she brushes them away impatiently with the backs of her hands.

“But liebchen, you have to understand … Michael spent decades bearing that scrutiny and expectation. People analyzing his every move, always under a spotlight so harsh it burned. I never wanted that for any of you.”

Sliding her chair back, your mother crosses to kneel before you, cradling your face gently between her palms. Her eyes are shining but intensely serious, almost pleading with you.

“The Schumacher name casts such a long shadow, one so great that your own light can be eclipsed before you ever have a chance to properly shine. I don’t want you smothered by that burden, mein schatz. I want you free to make your own amazing mark on this world, completely unchained.”

You feel your throat grow tight at her words, the weight of them ringing so true and terribly sad. You reach up to circle your fingers around her wrists, holding her hands to your cheeks like vices.

“I know, Mama, I know,” you whisper roughly. “But that light you want me to shine? Papa is the one who sparked it inside me in the first place.”

You meet her watery gaze steadily, willing her to understand the conviction taking root inside you.

“The joy and passion I have for racing doesn’t come from some anonymous dream. It comes from him — from the nights he spent giving me a play-by-play of his biggest victories, from the days we spent at the karting tracks making memories, from everything I want so desperately to honor.”

Leaning forward until your brows nearly touch, you let the pleasing words spill out directly from your heart.

“So please, please don’t ask me to race as anyone other than your daughter, yes, but also proudly as Michael Schumacher’s daughter. That name isn’t a burden or a shadow to me. It’s something I want to carry forward and make blaze even brighter.”

Your mother’s eyes slip shut as she draws in a shuddering breath. For a long moment, she simply holds your face cradled in her palms, seeming to bask in your impassioned words. When her eyes finally open again, they are overflowing with a fierce tenderness.

“Oh liebchen,” she murmurs, voice thick with an odd mix of grief and wonder. “You are your father’s daughter through and through. So determined, so unafraid to face the world head on ...”

She strokes her thumbs along the apples of your cheeks, swiping away the dampness there. “I only hope he knows just how brightly his fire still burns in you. How it is living on in the most brilliant way.”

Surging up onto her knees, your mother pulls you into a fierce embrace, tucking your head beneath her chin. You cling to her tightly, drawing strength from her warmth, her tireless support and love. Over her shoulder, you can see Mick and Gina watching silently, their own eyes overly bright.

When your mother finally leans back, cupping your face once more, her expression has regained some of its usual firmness and resolution.

“Very well, then,” she nods, offering you a watery but determined smile. “If you truly feel ready to take on the world, to claim that name and legacy as yours, then we will face it together. As a family.”

She rises lithely to her feet, drawing you up along with her. Gathering Mick and Gina in with the sweep of her arms, she folds you all in her protective embrace, holding your foreheads together in the center.

“You may be Schumachers, but that name does not define or limit you,” she declares, quiet but firm. “It is simply one part of your identity, one piece of the incredible legacy you inherited. What you choose to make of it, how brightly you make that legacy burn, is up to you alone.”

She pulls back just enough to meet each of your eyes in turn, her own gleaming with resolute pride.

“So let them watch, let them scrutinize and sneer and make their judgments. You will simply keep chasing your passions and living your truths. Yes, the world may know you as Schumachers, but you alone will define what that name represents, now and for generations to come.”

***

The roar of the engines fades as you cross the finish line, taking the chequered flag. The broadcast team erupts in excitement.

“Unbelievable! Y/N Schumacher has done it — the daughter of the legendary Michael Schumacher wins the Formula 2 championship in her rookie year!”

You can hardly believe it yourself as you start your cooldown lap, adrenaline coursing through your veins. The pit crew is cheering wildly, holding up the #1 sign. Your race engineer is on the radio, his voice cracking with joy. “You’re a champion, Y/N! A first-year champion!”

“What an incredible drive from the young German. Shades of her father with that relentless determination and racecraft. She’s carried on the Schumacher name proudly.”

As you return to the pit lane, you spot Mick getting out of his own car. He has a huge smile on his face, eyes shining with pride. You take a moment to drink it all in as you bring your car to a stop and he’s the first one there, ripping off your helmet so he can hug you tightly.

“You did it! I’m so proud of you!” He’s beaming as he pulls back to look at you.

“Aww, Mick ...” You blink back happy tears, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what you’ve accomplished. “I couldn’t have done it without you pushing me every single race.”

Mick shakes his head dismissively. “This was all you. You were the faster driver this season, plain and simple.” His face falls a little. “I really thought I had you there at the end, but you just wouldn’t give up.”

You grin cheekily. “Of course not! I’m a Schumacher — we never give up.”

“What a beautiful moment between the siblings. You can see the immense pride Mick has for his sister, despite coming up just short of winning the championship himself.”

The rest of the team surrounds the two of you, lifting you both up onto their shoulders as the celebrations kick into full gear. You lock eyes with Mick over the sea of smiling faces and he winks at you contentedly.

Later, after you’ve returned to the garage, you find a quiet moment alone with Mick. He pulls you into another hug, this one more lingering.

“I really am so happy for you, Y/N. You’ve worked so incredibly hard for this.” Mick’s voice is thick with emotion.

You squeeze him tightly. “Thank you, Mick. That means everything coming from you.”

He pulls back, cupping your face fondly. “I remember when we were kids, dreaming of following in Papa’s footsteps. And now look at us!”

You laugh, a few happy tears spilling over. “I know, it’s crazy! I couldn’t have done this without your help, you know. You’ve been by my side every step of the way.”

“A storybook ending for the Schumacher siblings. Y/N cementing herself as a future star, with her older brother not far behind.”

Mick shakes his head adamantly. “No, Y/N, this was all your talent and determination. I just got a front row seat to watching greatness in the making.” His eyes are shining with sincerity.

You throw your arms around his neck, struck by how lucky you are to have such an amazing brother. “I love you, Mick. Thank you for always believing in me.”

He hugs you fiercely. “I’ll always believe in you. You’re a champion now, but I know this is just the beginning for you.”

The team arrives then, champagne bottles in hand and ready to continue the celebration. You pull back and grin at Mick mischievously, cracking open the first bottle with a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you … for now.”

The bubbly liquid sprays everywhere as you both dissolve into laughter, reveling in this perfect moment of sibling bonding and love. Mick pulls you into a wet hug, so proud and grateful to share this with you.

“And an iconic image — the Schumacher children celebrating a Formula 2 title just like their father did in the upper series so many times before. A changing of the guard, with the name Schumacher set to dazzle racing fans once more for years to come.”

Later that night, after you’ve showered off the champagne and slipped into comfy clothes, there’s a soft knock at your hotel room door. You open it to find Mick standing there, shifting awkwardly.

“Hey, you’ve got a second?” His eyes are slightly red-rimmed, like he’s been crying.

“Of course, what’s up?” You gesture him inside, concerned by his demeanor.

Mick enters slowly, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. He seems to be struggling to find the words.

You rest a hand on his arm. “Mick, you can tell me anything, you know that.”

He nods jerkily, finally meeting your eyes. “I really am so happy for you, Y/N. You have no idea how much it means to me to see you accomplishing your dreams.” His voice catches with emotion.

“But?” You prod gently.

Mick’s eyes water again. “But … it’s also really hard for me. This was my dream first, you know? To become a champion like Papa.” He swipes at the tears angrily. “And now you’ve beaten me to it. I’m just … I’m struggling with that a bit.”

Your heart clenches at his quiet admission. You pull Mick into a tight hug, rubbing his back soothingly. “Oh, Mick … I’m so sorry. I never wanted to take that away from you.”

He shakes his head against your shoulder. “No, no, it’s not your fault at all. You earned this, fair and square. I’m just … dealing with some complicated emotions, I guess.”

You push him back by the shoulders, looking him straight in the eyes intently. “Mick, listen to me. You are one of the most naturally gifted drivers I’ve ever seen. This is not the end for you, not even close. You’re going to be a champion too, I know it.”

Mick seems to deflate slightly at your words, the tension easing from his shoulders. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you state firmly. “We’re going to take this to the top level together. And we’re going to make Papa even more proud than he already is.”

A slow smile spreads across Mick’s face. “Together,” he repeats, reaching out to take your hand and give it a squeeze.

You squeeze back reassuringly. “Always together. You and me, just like when we were kids. We’re a team, remember?”

Mick nods, the brightness returning to his eyes. He seems lighter now, the melancholy cloud lifted by your words of encouragement.

On impulse, you throw your arms around him again, nearly knocking him over with the force of your hug. Mick laughs delightedly, squeezing you just as tightly.

“Thank you, Y/N. I needed to hear that from you,” he murmurs shakily into your hair.

You pull back just enough to grin at him cheekily. “What are little sisters for?”

Mick lets out a surprised bark of laughter, warmth and affection shining from every part of his expression as he gazes at you fondly. “You’ll always be my little sis, champion or not.”

It’s your turn to laugh, swatting at his chest playfully. “Well this little sis just kicked your ass this season, so show some respect!”

Mick’s eyes crinkle with mirth. “I’ll remember that for next year, believe me.”

***

It’s a crisp autumn evening at the Schumacher family home in the Swiss Alps. You’re curled up on the plush couch in the living room, flipping through a magazine while your brother paces back and forth anxiously.

“Will you please sit down?” You ask, eyeing him over the top of the pages. “You’re making me dizzy.”

Mick runs a hand through his tousled blond hair. “Sorry, I’m just … worked up, I guess.”

You set the magazine aside. “About what? We haven’t had a race in weeks.”

He stops his pacing to face you. “You know the season’s almost over, right? And Haas still hasn’t said anything about re-signing me for next year.”

“Oh, Mick.” You offer him a sympathetic look. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. You’ve had a solid season.”

Mick flops down next to you, deflating a little. “I don’t know. There are so many other options on the table. What if Haas decides to go a different direction?”

“Then you’ll find another seat,” you say firmly. “Any team would be lucky to have you behind the wheel.”

He manages a half-smile. “Thanks. I just wish I had your confidence sometimes.”

“What can I say?” You flash him a cheeky grin. “It’s a gift.”

The peaceful moment is shattered as both of your phones start ringing in unison. You exchange a puzzled look before digging them out.

“My manager,” Mick says, furrowing his brow as he answers. “Hello?”

You do the same, pressing the phone to your ear. “Hey, Nicolas, what’s up?”

For the next few minutes, you and Mick are silent, listening intently with rapidly changing expressions — yours elated, his crestfallen. When you finally hang up, Mick is staring at the floor, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Well?” He asks, voice tight. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

You take a deep breath, trying to tamp down your surging excitement. “Ferrari wants me for next season.”

Mick’s face falls even further, if possible. “You’re kidding.”

“I wouldn’t joke about this!” You can’t keep the grin from overtaking your features. “Can you believe it? Driving for the Scuderia! It’s a dream come true!”

“Yeah, for you maybe,” Mick mutters darkly.

You blink at his tone, smile fading slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He drags a hand down his face wearily. “Haas declined to re-sign me for next year.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. “What? No, that can’t be right!”

“Afraid so.” Mick’s voice is flat, resigned. “They said something about … needing to bring in fresh blood or some bullshit excuse.”

You scoot closer, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “Mick, I’m so sorry. That’s awful.”

“Don’t be.” He tries for a nonchalant shrug, but it comes off as dejected. “At least one of us is moving up in the world.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?” You protest. “We’re teammates! We were supposed to take on Formula 1 together!”

Mick snorts humorlessly. “Looks like that’s not going to happen after all.”

An uncomfortable silence stretches between you. You open your mouth, searching for the right words of reassurance, but come up empty. How can you comfort him when your own dream has come true at his expense?

“Hey.” Mick’s somber tone breaks the quiet. “I’m happy for you, you know. Really, I am.”

You meet his sincere gaze, feeling your eyes start to well up. “I know. But that doesn’t make this any less shitty for you.”

He manages a rueful smile. “What can I say? I’m a realist.”

“So what are you going to do now?” You ask quietly.

Mick lets out a heavy sigh, leaning back against the couch cushions. “Keep grinding, I guess. Look for another seat, any seat, even if it’s not in F1 next season.”

“You can’t give up on F1!” You protest instantly. “You’re too good for that, Mick.”

“Am I, though?” He lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Face it, Y/N, you’ve always been the better driver. This just proves it.”

You shake your head adamantly. “That’s not true at all! You’re every bit as talented as me.”

“Then why did Ferrari pick you instead of me?” There’s no accusation in his words, just weariness.

You falter, mind churning as you search for an answer that won’t come. “I … don’t know.”

“Exactly.” Mick closes his eyes briefly. “Maybe it’s for the best. At least this way, one of us still gets to live out the Schumacher legacy and race for Ferrari. Carry on the family name, you know?”

“But you’re a Schumacher too,” you say, feeling your throat start to tighten with unshed tears. “It should be both of us out there, not just me.”

Mick reaches over to give your hand a comforting squeeze. “Hey, don’t cry about it. I’ll be okay, really.”

“How can you be so calm about this?” You swipe angrily at the moisture gathering in your eyes. “It’s not fair, Mick. It’s just not fair at all.”

He levels you with a look that’s decades older than his years. “Life rarely is. You know that as well as I do.”

You fall silent, unable to formulate a response. He’s right, you realize with a pang. The two of you, of all people, should understand that success and failure often go hand-in-hand, even for the most talented competitors.

Pursing your lips, you lean forward and pull Mick into a fierce hug. He tenses for a split second before wrapping his arms around you tightly.

“I’m still so proud of you,” you murmur into the crook of his neck. “No matter what happens, you’ll always be my incredible big brother.”

Mick lets out a shaky exhale against your hair. “And you’re the most badass little sister a guy could ask for. Ferrari has no idea what they’re in for.”

You pull back just far enough to meet his eyes, emboldened by the warm affection shining in them.

“Just promise me one thing?” You ask.

He arches an eyebrow quizzically. “What’s that?”

A mischievous grin tugs at your lips. “That you’re not going to take it easy on me whenever you’re back on the grid.”

***

You take a deep breath as you pull your sleek new Ferrari up to the iconic factory in Maranello. This place holds so many memories — some joyful, others bittersweet. Your father cemented himself as a legend here, and you can’t help but feel the weight of that legacy on your shoulders now more than ever.

The door swings open and there stands Fred Vasseur offering you a warm smile. “Y/N, welcome home.”

You return the smile, unable to mask the flood of emotions. “It’s good to be back, Fred.”

He gestures for you to follow him inside. “I’m sure this place brings back quite a few memories.”

“You have no idea,” you murmur, taking in the familiar sights and smells. The rosso corsa that coats every surface, the scent of machinery and high-octane fuel … it’s intoxicating.

A tiny you runs through the hallways, giggling madly as your frantic mother tries to catch up. “Mick! Y/N! Get back here this instant!”

Mick peeks out from behind a workbench, sticking his tongue out at Gina, who playfully swats at him. You spot the perfect hiding spot — a massive green recycling bin tucked in the corner ...

“Y/N? Are you still with me?” Fred’s voice breaks you from your reverie.

You shake your head. “Sorry, got a bit lost in thought there. This place just … feels like stepping into the past.”

Fred nods knowingly. “I can only imagine. But today is about your future with the team.” He leads you through the winding corridors, pointing out various departments. “Over here is aerodynamics, that hallway takes you to the design labs ...”

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Your father’s voice echoes down the corridor, his tone playful but tinged with desperation. You stifle a giggle from your hiding spot as his footsteps draw closer.

“Michael, any luck?” That’s Paolo, one of the mechanics. You chance a peek and see half the team has been enlisted to search for you.

Your dad scrubs a hand over his face. “She’s too good at this game. Should’ve known better than to play hide-and-seek in a place this size.”

You chuckle softly at the memory, prompting a curious look from Fred. “Sorry, just … reminiscing again.”

He gives you an easy grin. “By all means, feel free to share. I’d love to hear some of those old stories.”

You take a breath, composing yourself before launching into the tale. “Well, there was this one time when I was maybe … four or five? Mick and I were causing an unholy ruckus as usual, and Papa suggested a game of hide-and-seek to wear us out. Big mistake on his part.”

Fred’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Let me guess, you proved to be a master hider?”

“You could say that.” You grin mischievously. “I found this big recycling bin, crawled inside, and stayed completely silent while the whole team tore the place apart looking for me. Papa was just about to call in the overalls for backup when Paolo finally peeked in the bin.”

Fred throws his head back with a hearty laugh. “I can just picture your poor father’s face when they found you! He must’ve been both relieved and completely exasperated.”

You nod. “Oh, he wore that particular blend of emotions often when we were young terrors around here.”

The two of you continue chatting amicably as Fred shows you around the various facilities — the simulator room, the engine workshop, even the gym and physiotherapy center. With each new area unveiled, another flood of nostalgia washes over you.

You and Mick sprint into the wide-open workshop, engines and miscellaneous car pieces scattered all around. Gina is closing in, her longer legs giving her an advantage.

“Got you now, you little gremlins!” She scoops Mick up with one arm, then turns her sights on you.

You let out a shriek of laughter, dodging around a massive piece of equipment as your mother joins the chase. “Come here, Maus! It’s time for your nap!”

You shake your head furiously. “No nap! No nap!”

Corinna’s hand finally snags the back of your shirt, and you erupt into a fit of giggles as she pulls you into a hug ...

“That’s some smile you’ve got going there,” Fred notes with a wry grin. “I take it another happy memory?”

You give an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, you could say that. Just … remembering how this place used to be our personal jungle gym. Mick, Gina, and I would run absolute loops around Mama while she tried to wrangle us for nap time.”

Fred chuckles fondly. “I can picture three tiny terrors leaving chaos in their wake.” His expression softens. “It must be incredibly special to be back here after all these years. To follow in your father’s footsteps like this.”

You swallow hard against the swell of emotions. “It’s … overwhelming, if I’m being honest. But in the best possible way.” You glance around at the familiar setting with new eyes. “These halls practically raised me. And now … now I get to write my own chapter here.”

Fred gives your shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “You’ve got a long road ahead, but I have complete faith you’ll make us all proud, Y/N.”

You straighten your shoulders, giving him a determined nod. “I’m ready.”

As you follow him further into the factory, you can’t help but revel in the rush of coming full circle. Yes, this team, this place, is indelibly woven into your childhood. But now … now it’s time to create new memories.

To race.

To win.

To become a legend.

***

The crowd outside the Ferrari headquarters swells as you emerge from the famous red doors for the first time as an official Scuderia Ferrari driver. Shouts and cheers erupt from every direction, fans pressing forward eagerly with pens and photos clutched in their hands.

“Over here, Y/N!”

“Un selfie, per favore!”

“Can you sign this for my daughter?”

You plaster on a polite smile, trying to graciously oblige as many autograph and photo requests as possible. But the throngs only grow more insistent, hands grabbing at you from all angles as the crowd closes in. Your heart races and you feel yourself starting to panic at the lack of personal space.

“Per favore, let her breathe!” An insistent voice cuts through the commotion in lightly accented Italian.

The crowd parts slightly as a familiar, lean figure pushes through — your new teammate. His green eyes meet yours with a reassuring look as he plants himself firmly by your side.

“Give her some space!” Charles barks out in English this time. “She can’t breathe!”

You shoot him a grateful glance as the fans reluctantly take a step back. Charles gently takes your arm and pulls you out of the scrum.

“Sorry about that,” he says with an apologetic smile, running a hand through his tousled brown hair. “I know how intense they can be around here.”

“No, thank you,” you reply earnestly. “I was about two seconds away from an anxiety attack.”

Charles chuckles. “Well, we can’t have the new driver cracking under pressure on day one.”

You make a face at his teasing remark. “Watch it, pretty boy.”

Laughing, Charles puts his arm around your shoulders in a friendly gesture. “Come on, I know just the place to escape the madness for a bit. Dinner’s on me.”

He guides you across the plaza and down a side street to a cozy trattoria — Ristorante Montana, known as the unofficial “Ferrari restaurant” frequented by team members. As you enter, a stout woman with a warm, welcoming smile emerges from the back.

“Ah, Charles! Welcome back. And this must be ...” Her eyes widen as they land on you. “Oh, la piccola principessa is all grown up!”

Flustered, you open your mouth to respond, but the woman has already swept you up in a tight embrace.

“Rossella, you’re smothering the poor girl!” A elderly man’s voice calls out in amused rebuke.

“Hush, Maurizio, and pour us some wine!” Rossella releases you and holds you at arm’s length, beaming. “Michael’s little girl, all woman now. I’ll never forget the first time your father brought you in here as a bambina.”

She gestures to a framed photo hanging on the wall of a much younger Rossella standing next to Michael, who is holding a grinning toddler — unmistakably you.

“He was so proud,” Rossella continues misty-eyed. “Just like I know he would be of you today, following in your father’s footsteps.”

You swallow hard, touched by the warm welcome and memory. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Charles watching you with a soft smile.

Rossella shifts gears abruptly, all business. “Now, what will you two have? The usual for you, Charles? And for you, la principessa, I insist you try the gnocchi al ragú. Just like my nonna used to make it.”

As Rossella whisks off to the kitchen, Maurizio appears with a bottle of deep red wine and two glasses.

“To new beginnings,” he toasts with a wink, pouring for you and Charles.

You raise your glass to clink against Charles’ with a smile. “New beginnings.”

Over pasta and wine, you and Charles fall into an easy rapport, bantering back and forth as the weight of the evening’s earlier stress dissipates. You find yourself repeatedly distracted by the dimpled grin that lights up his face whenever he laughs at one of your quips.

“So is this a regular hazing ritual you put all the rookies through?” You ask innocently. “Get them away from the crowds and ply them with wine so they’re too drunk to be nervous on day one?”

Charles barks out a laugh. “You’ve found me out! Although I do seem to recall my own initiation being a lot harder. Maybe I’m going soft in my old age.”

“Old age? You’re what …12?” You retort, eyes dancing with mirth.

The waiter arrives with the dessert menu, but Rossella shoos him away.

“No, no menu. I’m bringing you the tiramisu to share. My secret recipe.”

Charles groans in delight. “You’re a legend, Rossella.”

She pats his cheek affectionately before disappearing again. A comfortable silence falls between you and Charles as you each take a bite of the rich, velvety tiramisu.

“Mmmm, this is literally heaven,” you murmur happily.

Charles hums in agreement around another forkful.

Your eyes catch movement out of the corner and you turn to see Rossella returning, carrying a large framed photo under her arm. She sets it down on the empty chair next to you with a proud grin.

It’s a glamor shot of you from a recent photoshoot for Vogue Italia — hair and makeup impeccable, lips parted in a secret smile as you gaze directly at the camera.

Rossella rests a hand on your shoulder. “For me, bellissima? So we can hang la principessa right next to il padre.”

Touched, you take the proffered sharpie and scribble out a quick inscription before signing your name with a flourish at the bottom.

“Grazie mille,” Rossella breathes, throwing an arm around you to squeeze you against her ample frame. “You’ve made this old heart very happy tonight.”

When she finally releases you, you see Charles watching you both with a soft, almost wistful expression. You raise your eyebrows at him in question, but he just shakes his head with a smile.

As you and Charles prepare to depart, Rossella calls out once more. “You come back soon, eh principessa? I have more pictures to collect.”

You throw her a wink over your shoulder. “D’accordo, d’accordo. We’ll be back soon!”

Out on the street, you pause, conscious of the evening rapidly drawing to a close. You turn to Charles, studying him properly for the first time. His deep green eyes crinkle at the corners as he meets your gaze.

“Thank you,” you say sincerely. “Really. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t swooped in to rescue me back there.”

Charles shrugs nonchalantly, but his expression is kind. “We look out for our own in Ferrari. That’s what teammates are for, no?”

A beat passes, the momentary tension thickening between you. Then Charles seems to catch himself, clearing his throat.

“Anyway, I should let you get going before your handlers send out a search party. Need me to call you a car?”

“No, no I’m good,” you reply quickly, trying to mask your disappointment at the night ending. “My performance coach has the car around front.”

You start to turn away, then impulsively pivot back. Rising up on your toes, you throw your arms around Charles’ neck and pull him in for a brief, platonic hug.

“Seriously, thank you,” you murmur in his ear. “For everything.”

As you pull back, your faces are just inches apart. Charles’ eyes are warm, his gaze intense. For a dizzying moment, you’re certain he’s going to kiss you. Then just as suddenly, the moment passes and he steps back with a friendly smile.

“Anytime, princesse. I’ll see you bright and early next week for our first time running the SF-23 on the simulator.”

With a wink, he turns and saunters off down the street, hands shoved in his pockets in that effortlessly cool way of his. You let out a long breath, flustered and exhilarated all at once.

Your performance coach has indeed been waiting with the car, looking mildly concerned. “Everything alright?”

You flash her a bright smile, practically skipping to the car. “It is now, Mara. It absolutely is.”

Your first day as a Ferrari driver was certainly more than you bargained for. But as you settle into the plush leather seats, you can’t wipe the silly grin off your face. Something tells you this new chapter with the Scuderia is going to be an adventure — in more ways than one.

As Mara pulls away from the curb, you catch a final glimpse of Charles striding confidently down the street. Even from a distance, you can make out the dimpled smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

Leaning back against the headrest, you think back to the memory of his arm slung casually around your shoulders and sigh contentedly. Yes, you have a feeling this is just the beginning of what’s shaping up to be a very interesting partnership with Charles Leclerc.

***

Sebastian looks over the wine list, pretending to be engrossed in selecting the perfect vintage as he peers over the top of the menu. His eyes are fixated on the entrance to the upscale Italian restaurant, waiting for Charles and you to arrive.

This had better work, he thinks to himself. The two of you have been making googly eyes at each other for months now, but are both too stubborn to make a move.

Finally, the hostess leads Charles and you into the dining room. Sebastian ducks down, pulling the brim of his fedora lower over his face and adjusting the fake mustache he’s wearing as a disguise. He watches as the hostess shows Charles and you to an intimate table for two by the window, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating your faces.

“There must be some mistake,” Charles says, looking around in confusion. “I was under the impression we were meeting Sebastian here for dinner?”

You look equally perplexed. “That’s what he told me too. He said to meet at 8 o’clock sharp.”

“Well this is just awkward,” Charles runs a hand through his tousled hair. “Should we wait for him or ...”

Before you can respond, the waiter arrives with a basket of bread and butter. “Good evening, my name is Gerardo and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

“Actually, we’re still waiting on-” Charles begins, but the waiter cuts him off.

“Ah yes, Mr. Vettel asked me to inform you that he will be unable to join this evening after all. A last minute obligation came up. He insisted I take excellent care of you both and that the evening is on his treat.” Gerardo smiles broadly. “So what will you have to drink?”

Sebastian smirks to himself at his cleverly orchestrated ruse from his secluded table in the back corner. He watches with bated breath as a flustered Charles and you exchange an awkward look.

“I’ll have a glass of Chianti,” you say finally, breaking the tension.

“Make that two,” Charles adds with a resigned sigh.

As Gerardo heads off to grab your drinks, an uncomfortable silence falls over the table. “You know, we don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Charles says, ever the gentleman. “I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding.”

“Don’t be silly,” you reply, offering him a warm smile that makes Sebastian’s heart melt a little. “It would be rude to ruin the evening Sebastian so carefully planned, even if he’s not actually here to enjoy it.”

Charles visibly relaxes at your acceptance of the situation. “You’re right, of course. If it’s a free dinner, we would be fools to turn that down!”

You both share a laugh, finally breaking the ice. Sebastian feels a swell of pride watching the two of you start to let your guards down around each other.

Over the next hour or so, Sebastian is delighted to see Charles and you become more at ease, trading jokes and stories over several delectable courses of pasta, veal, and freshly baked focaccia. He’s never seen either of you look so lighthearted and carefree, nor has he witnessed two people connect on such an organic, genuine level before. It’s positively magical to behold.

Gerardo arrives once more, this time bearing a decadent slice of torta della nonna for you to share for dessert. “Compliments of the house,” he announces with a wink before departing.

You immediately dig into the lemony confection with gusto. “Oh my god, this is dangerously good,” you moan through a mouthful of pastry cream and flaky crust.

Charles tries and fails to stifle a laugh at your unabashed enthusiasm. “You’ve got a little ...” he gestures vaguely at the corners of your mouth.

“What? Where?” You ask, attempting to wipe the stray crumbs and smears of powdered sugar from your cheeks.

“Here, let me,” Charles says softly, reaching across the table with his cloth napkin.

Sebastian watches with bated breath, his heart pounding in his chest, as Charles tenderly swipes the napkin along your lips, his thumb grazing your cheek in the process. The moment seems to last an eternity, the two of you locked in each other’s smoldering gaze.

Then, ever so slowly, Charles leans across the table towards you. Sebastian can scarcely breathe as he witnesses the magnetic pull drawing the two of you together. This is it, this is finally happening, he marvels silently.

Sebastian lets out an inadvertent yelp of glee and instantly slaps his hands over his mouth. A table of nearby diners turns to gawk at the strange mustached man.

“Ahem, sorry! Hairball,” Sebastian rasps out in a terrible Italian accent. He slinks down in the booth, burning with embarrassment as the other patrons slowly turn away with disgusted looks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charles and you also turn towards the commotion, the heated moment effectively ruined. Damn it, he was so close!

You and Charles eventually turn back towards each other, the awkwardness having returned. “We should, uh, probably ask for the check soon,” Charles mumbles, unable to meet your eyes.

“Yeah, I’ve got an early training session in the morning anyway,” you reply, the disappointment evident in your voice as you stare down at the table.

Inwardly cursing his rotten luck, Sebastian motions for the bill and slips his black credit card into the folder when Gerardo brings it. He knows the only way to redeem this night is to insist you and Charles stay for one more drink. Maybe add a little more wine confidence to help reignite that spark you both nearly combusted over just moments ago.

As Gerardo whisks away to process Sebastian’s payment, the older German steels his nerves. He removes his ridiculous disguise, straightens his tie, and makes his way over to your table with purpose.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Sebastian asks with an exaggerated wink as he reaches you. “It appears Mr. Leclerc and Miss Schumacher were stood up this evening. For shame!”

“Ah, Seb!” Charles laughs in surprise at seeing his friend and former teammate. “We should have known you were behind this madness.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “You’re a menace! I can’t believe you tricked us like that.”

Sebastian claps his hands together and flashes you both a devilish grin. “What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic who cannot abide two clearly smitten people tiptoeing around each other any longer. Now, Gerardo is going to bring you the finest Barolo they have, on my dime, and you are going to remedy this sexual tension situation once and for all over another bottle or three!”

Charles opens his mouth to protest, but you laugh delightedly and nod towards Sebastian. “You know what, I could go for another drink. What do you say, Charles?”

The older Ferrari driver seems to wilt under the weight of your brilliant smile, Sebastian can’t fault the man for that. “Ah, what the hell,” Charles shrugs, throwing his arm around the back of your chair. “Let’s see where this night takes us!”

Sebastian settles in, pouring you all generous glasses of the deep ruby wine when Gerardo delivers it. He may be getting on in years, but his matchmaking job has only just begun. One way or another, he’s determined to ensure his two protégés quit stumbling over each other and finally discover the romance that’s been blossoming under their noses all along.

Sipping his wine, Sebastian gazes at you and Charles, sees the tenderness flickering in both your eyes as you lean in closer together over the candlelight. He smiles contentedly to himself.

Mission accomplished.

***

The paddock is mostly deserted at this late hour, the muffled sounds of the teams packing up drifting in from the garages. You linger near the Ferrari motorhome, watching Charles sitting alone on a stack of tires, shoulders slumped. He’s been increasingly withdrawn these past few days leading up to the Japanese Grand Prix.

You approach slowly, not wanting to startle him. “Charles? You okay?”

He looks up, managing a small smile when he sees you. “Hey, mon amour.”

There’s a weariness to his voice that tugs at your heart. You take a seat beside him, letting your arm brush against his in a subtle show of support. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Charles is silent for a long moment, pulling his helmet off and turning it over in his hands. “It’s Suzuka,” he finally says, so softly you have to lean in to hear him. “Being back here … it’s difficult.”

Your brow furrows. Right, this is where Jules Bianchi crashed, his accident eventually proving fatal. Charles had been incredibly close with his mentor and godfather. “I can’t even imagine how painful this must be.” You cover his hand with yours. “Having to race on the same track ...”

“I relive that day over and over.” Charles’s accented voice is thick with emotion. “I can still see the footage of his car slamming into the crane, like it’s burned into my mind. He was my friend, my godfather, like a brother to me. And now every year, I have to come back to this place that took him from us far too soon.” He squeezes his eyes shut, a stray tear escaping.

“Oh, Charles ...” You wrap your arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. His body is rigid at first before melting against you, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him tightly as his breath hitches with suppressed sobs, your own eyes stinging. How many times has he bottled up this grief, putting on a brave face for the world?

“I’m so sorry,” you murmur, stroking his back. “I can’t imagine the pain you’ve carried all these years. But Jules wouldn’t want you torturing yourself like this.” You pull away enough to frame his face with your hands, meeting his reddened eyes. “He’d want you to keep living, to keep pursuing your dream that he helped nurture. He’d be so proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”

Charles manages a watery smile, covering one of your hands with his. “You’re right. Thank you, chérie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He leans in, resting his forehead against yours with a shuddering sigh. “I just miss him so much some days. Like an ache I can’t shake.”

“I know.” You brush away the dampness on his cheeks with your thumbs. “Believe me, I understand that ache all too well.”

A crease forms between Charles’s brows as he regards you intently. “Your papa.”

You give a solemn nod. “Everyone talks about him like he’s gone. But he’s not, he’s still here, still breathing. It’s just … he’s not the same man I grew up with anymore.” You blink back tears of your own. “Sometimes I’ll see flashes that remind me so much of how Papa used to be. And then that illusion is shattered and I’m grieving all over again for the person he was.”

Charles’ arms wrap around you fully, tucking your head under his chin. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be. Seeing those glimpses of the man he was, only to have that hope ripped away.” He presses his lips to the crown of your head. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You let out a choked laugh. “Yeah, definitely doesn’t feel like it most days.” Pulling away, you try for a smile. “But we Schumachers are fighters. We don’t stay down for long.”

“That’s my girl.” Charles grins, cupping your face and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “I’m lucky to have you by my side through all of this craziness. I don’t know what I’d do without your support, especially this weekend.”

“Are you kidding?” You turn to fully face him, clasping his hands in yours. “Charles, you’ve been my rock too, you know that? Signing with Ferrari this year, following in my father’s footsteps … the pressure has been immense. But you’ve never let me crumble under it. You’re always there with a laugh or a hug or some silly joke to make me smile even on the hardest days.”

Charles’s grin turns lopsided, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that always makes your heart flutter. “Well, someone has to keep that ego of yours from inflating too much, future champion.” He leans in until his lips are a mere breath from yours. “But in all seriousness, we’re in this together, okay? No matter what the future holds, I’ll always have your back.”

“I know,” you murmur, feeling his words like a soothing balm over the parts of your heart still aching for your father as you once knew him. “And I’ll always have yours. We’re a team, on and off the track.” You close the distance between you, kissing him deeply.

Charles returns the kiss with fervor, his fingers threading through your hair to hold you close. The worries plaguing you both seem to temporarily fade into the background amid the warmth and solidity of his embrace. When you finally break apart, breathless, his emerald gaze holds an intensity that steals the air from your lungs in the best way.

“Je t’aime,” he murmurs, the endearment like a vow falling from his lips. “No matter what happens out there tomorrow, or any other race day, that will never change. You and me against the world, princesse.”

You flash him a coy smile, feeling desire begin to simmer low in your belly. “Is that a promise, Mr. Leclerc?”

“Mmm, I can make it one if you’d like.” Charles waggles his eyebrows, making you giggle as his hands roam freely over your back and sides, pulling you flush against him. His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Maybe I can find more convincing ways to pledge my devotion once we’re back at the hotel.”

“I definitely wouldn’t be opposed to that,” you say breathily, leaning in to nip at his lower lip in a way that makes him groan. “Though if memory serves, I seem to recall you saying something about honoring the team’s curfew tonight?” You trail openmouthed kisses along the sharp line of his jaw. “Wouldn’t want to be … sleep deprived before the race.”

Charles’s fingers flex against your hips as he lets out a shuddering breath. “You’re really testing my willpower here.”

“Payback for all those times you’ve tortured me.” You punctuate the statement with a sharp nip to the sensitive skin below his ear, making him jerk against you with a strangled sound. Pulling back, you smirk at the glazed look in his eyes. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

He blinks slowly, then his gaze narrows in a way that makes heat flare across your skin. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that later.” His voice is low, almost a growl that sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

“I look forward to it.” You lean in until your lips are nearly brushing his again.

“Tease,” Charles accuses, though his kiss quickly swallows any further retort.

You lose yourself in the press of his mouth, the exploring glide of his hands over your body, the undeniable chemistry that still sometimes takes your breath away. When you finally break apart, gasping for air, you stay wrapped in each other’s arms, foreheads resting together.

“Thank you,” Charles murmurs after a long beat of comfortable silence. “For always knowing how to pull me out of my own head. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“That’s what partners are for,” you say simply, brushing back the silken strands of chestnut hair falling over his forehead. His eyes are so warm, so full of love and adoration, you feel it envelop you like a cozy blanket. “I’ll always be here to lean on, just like you are for me.”

Charles catches your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm. “And I’m grateful for that every single day. Facing the good times and bad, together.” His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “I know Suzuka will never be easy, not with the weight of the memories here. But you make the burden feel lighter. Like no matter what, I’ll be okay as long as I have you by my side.”

You lean in, brushing a featherlight kiss across his lips. “Always. No matter what the future holds, you’re stuck with me, Leclerc.”

A slow, utterly content smile spreads across his face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He steals another lingering kiss before glancing toward the pit area, where the last few stragglers are packing up for the night. “As much as I’d love to keep you all to myself, I suppose we should try to get some rest before tomorrow.”

Sliding off the tire stack, he offers you his hand, that warm gleam still dancing in his forest-colored eyes. “Though maybe we could indulge in a long, hot shower first? You know, to … unwind after such an emotionally draining evening.”

You raise an eyebrow at his transparent attempt at nonchalance, but can’t help a smirk from tugging at your lips. “Why, Mr. Leclerc, are you propositioning me?”

“Would that be so terrible?” He tugs you into his arms, leaving a trail of teasing kisses along your jaw. “After all, we did have quite the … charged conversation just now. I’d hate for all that pent-up tension to distract us on track tomorrow.”

You let out a breathless giggle as his wandering hands and lips leave tingles across your skin. “Well, when you put it that way … I suppose a nice, relaxing shower could be just what we need to clear our heads.” Looping your arms around his neck, you meet his heated gaze through lowered lashes. “Lead the way, liebling.”

Charles’ responding grin is nothing short of wolfish. “With pleasure.” Scooping you up in his arms, he heads for the parking lot at a swift pace, leaving the weight of Suzuka and its ghosts behind for the night.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening as you bring your Ferrari across the finish line, tires smoking from the incredible pace. Your race engineer’s voice crackles over the radio, congratulating you, but the words are drowned out by the thunderous cheers echoing around the Autodromo Nazionale Monza.

You can hardly believe it. Your first season with the Scuderia and you’ve just won the Italian Grand Prix — on the hallowed ground that your father once ruled. The sea of fans decked out in red is a sight to behold, celebrating wildly as you complete the cool-down lap.

Pulling into parc fermé, you kill the engine, the high-pitched whine slowly dying away. Undoing the straps, you clamber out, still trying to process what just happened. This is really real.

“You!”

The familiar voice makes you turn. It’s Charles, beaming from ear-to-ear despite settling for second place today. He pulls you into a massive hug, squeezing you tightly.

“I can’t believe you just did that! Amazing drive!”

You laugh, giddy with joy and adrenaline. “I still can’t believe it either! Everything just … clicked.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Charles chuckles, ruffling your sweat-damp hair. “You were incredible out there. Absolutely brilliant.”

Hearing the praise from your boyfriend means everything. You know how hard he’s worked, how much he’s sacrificed to get this far. And he’s still your biggest supporter.

The two of you finally pull apart as the rest of the team makes their presence known, congratulating you with bearhugs and massive pats on the back. You did it — you brought the victory home for Ferrari at the Temple of Speed.

After the chaos of the post-race celebrations dies down a little, it’s time for the podium ceremony. You can’t wait to stand up there, basking in the adulation of the wildly passionate Tifosi. As you make your way out with Charles and the third place finisher, the crowd’s cheers swell to a new eardrum-bursting level.

Climbing the steps, you take your spot on the top level, heart racing as you look out over the endless sea of fans. The air is filled with brilliant red smoke, passionate flag-wavers creating mesmerizing patterns. You’ve seen Grands Prix in Italy before, but being up here, having actually won — it’s on another level entirely.

Speeches are made, anthems are played, and then it’s time to crack open the podium champagne. As the bottles are picked up, a rolling chant starts building in the grandstands:

“La Prin-ci-pess-a! La Prin-ci-pess-a!”

The sound shakes you to your core. Tears instantly spring to your eyes.

Charles, beside you on the second step, grins and nudges you. “Listen to them! You’ve done it — you’ve made them fall in love with you just like they did with your father.”

Looking down at him with misty eyes, you mouth, “Thank you,” so overwhelmed that you can’t speak. He slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close. The two of you share a soft kiss as the chanting grows louder and louder.

As you pull back, gazing out over the surging tide of humanity, faces beaming up at you in adoration, it finally sinks in. This moment — winning at Monza for Ferrari, with Charles by your side, the Tifosi embracing you wholeheartedly — is beyond anything you ever could have dreamed.

The emotions pour out in waves of joy and pride and disbelief. You raise your bottle high, echoing the chants and cheering your heart out to the crowd. They roar back even louder, feeding off your energy in the way that only this group of diehard fans can.

Once the champagne showers subside, giddy fans whistling at you and Charles canoodling on the podium, it’s time to head back down. But the celebrations are just getting started. The team wants to keep the party going.

On the drive over to Maranello, you find yourself sandwiched in the backseat between Charles and your race engineer, Ricky. Everyone is grinning like maniacs, high on the thrill of victory, singing drinking songs at the top of their lungs.

“Solo per lei! Principessa di Monza!” Ricky bellows, gently elbowing you. The rest join in, filling the car with the chant of “Only for her! Princess of Monza!” You can’t stop giggling, leaning into Charles, deliriously happy.

Once you finally roll up to the factory, the party spills out of the car and into the streets. The entire workforce has turned out, waving huge Ferrari flags, beating drums and sounding air horns in celebration. You’re immediately swarmed, being passed from hug to hug as champagne is sprayed in joyful arcs.

They finally manage to sweep you, Charles, and most of your garages inside the factory, where long banquet tables have been set up in the main hall. An enormous cheer goes up as you enter, sparkling wine sloshing from hastily poured glasses all around you.

The meal that follows is a total blur — amazing food, flowing alcohol, raucous toasts, and the happiest pandemonium you’ve ever witnessed. You keep getting tugged from conversation to conversation, everyone wanting to hear how the race played out from your lips. Charles sticks by your side the whole time, looking on with sheer pride.

At one point, you end up going shot for shot with Fred Vasseur, the team principal pouring vodka like his job depends on it. “La mia principessa!” He chuckles, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears of joy. “You’ve made us all so proud today!”

He hoists his glass. “To our Princess! The Princess of Monza!”

The chant starts up again all around you. “La Prin-ci-pess-a! La Prin-ci-pess-a!”

You beam at them all, squeezing Fred’s hand. No words can describe this feeling, being embraced so completely by your team — your family. This is what you’ve dreamed about since you were a little girl. Following in your father’s footsteps, bringing glory to Ferrari, carrying on the legend.

The party rages on long into the night. At some point, you lose track of time completely, delirious with exhaustion from the whirlwind of emotion.

You come around for a moment, blinking in the dim glow of the factory lights. There’s quiet rumbles of laughter around you, echoing off the walls. Looking around blearily, you realize you’ve been tucked into a makeshift bed fashioned from a pile of Ferrari t-shirts, nestled in one of the car assembly spaces.

Charles is there too, cradled against your side, one arm wrapped protectively around you. The rest of the team — your PR officers, engineers, mechanics, everyone — is strewn about in similar nests, all of them totally conked out.

With a contented sigh, you snuggle deeper into Charles’ embrace, feeling his lips brush the top of your head. This bizarre, wonderful scene seems to encapsulate everything about being part of the Ferrari family. It’s chaotic and overwhelming and unlike anything else in the world.

But most of all, it’s home.

As you start to drift back to sleep, savoring the lingering scent of champagne and motor oil, one final chant echoes in your head:

La principessa di Monza.

La principessa di Ferrari.

***

11 Months Later

The last few laps feel like they’re happening in slow motion. Every turn, every gear shift, every tiny input to the steering wheel is magnified tenfold as the circuits count down. The pressure is immense, but you’ve been here before. You can do this.

“Stay calm, stay focused,” your race engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “The calculations look good. Just bring it home steady.”

Nodding to yourself, you downshift entering the stadium section, the roar of the massive crowd surrounding the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez swelling in your ears. This is it — your chance to join the likes of motorsport’s greatest heroes by winning the Formula 1 World Championship.

Your first victory at Monza, being crowned the “Principessa di Ferrari” by the adoring Tifosi, was a dream come true. But this … this is what you’ve worked towards since you were old enough to understand what your father achieved. To etch your name into the history books forever.

The laps tick by agonizingly. Every time the pitboard comes into view, your heart rate spikes. But you’ve got a comfortable gap to second place, managing the race perfectly. Just a few more corners now.

“Final lap, final lap,” your engineer calls out. “Looking brilliant. Stay comfortable and you’ve got this!”

You suck in a deep breath to steady your nerves. Out of the sweeping Curve 3 and onto the pit straight, the crowd’s thunderous cheers are reaching fever pitch. You can see the seas of red-clad fans absolutely losing their minds, knowing the woman they idolize is about to achieve immortality.

Crossing the finish line, you finally let out the breath you’ve been holding for what feels like ages. The emotion is overwhelming — a combination of pure elation, disbelief, and total exhaustion.

You did it.

World Champion at last!

You cruise around, yelling unintelligibly into the radio as the celebrations kick off around the circuit. There’s confetti in the air, smoke flares going off in brilliant shades of red, and a full-throated roar that could probably be heard all the way back in Europe.

Pulling into parc fermé, you switch off the car, letting the weight of the moment sink in. Tears of joy prick at your eyes as the magnitude of your achievement hits home. Ever since you were a little girl, running around watching your papa, this has been the ultimate dream for you.

And now, it’s finally happened. You’re a World Champion. Just like him.

The first person to reach you is Charles. He comes sprinting over from his own car, bounding past the marshals without a second look. One glimpse of the huge smile plastered across his face is all it takes for you to dissolve into giggles and delirious tears.

“You did it! You brilliant, brilliant woman, you did it!” He shouts, grabbing you up in his arms and spinning you around in a whirlwind hug.

“I can’t believe it, Charles! It felt like a dream … like it wasn’t really happening!”

You’re both laughing and crying at the same time, drunk on the euphoria of the moment. Clutching each other tightly, you press your foreheads together, trying in vain to compose yourselves.

“I’m so proud of you,” Charles murmurs, gazing at you with adoring eyes. “You worked so incredibly hard for this. You deserve everything.”

Surging forward, you capture his lips in a searing, passionate kiss. For a few brief moments, the two of you are alone, lost in the depth of your emotions and your all-encompassing love for each other. Nothing else in the world matters but this perfect second frozen in time.

You finally break apart, breathless, when the rest of the team sweeps in to congratulate you. They swarm around in a laughing, whooping mass, jumping up and down, hugging, chanting your name over and over.

“To our champion! The Queen!”

The cry comes from Antonio, one of the veteran mechanics who’s been with the team since your papa’s days. He clasps your hands tightly, gazing at you with pride.

“Sei la regina! The Queen of Ferrari!” He hollers over the raucous din, tears shining in his eyes. “Just like your father, you’ll reign forever!”

Your eyes start brimming over again, overwhelmed. The tears roll down your cheeks, smearing streaks of sweat and grime from the race. But you can’t stop beaming.

All at once, the rest of the crew picks up on Antonio’s declaration. Their cheers and chants coalesce into one booming refrain:

“La Re-gi-na! La Re-gi-na!”

The sheer adulation washes over you in waves, every face beaming up at you in utter reverence. You find yourself struggling to take it all in. In a few incredible seasons, you’ve elevated yourself into the realm of legend in their eyes.

Charles wraps his arms around you from behind, steadying you as your knees start to go weak. You can feel his smile radiant against your neck as he cheers and whoops right along with the rest of them.

“You hear them?” He chuckles, kissing your temple. “It’s all for you, mia regina! My Queen.”

Hearing your love, your partner, your other half call you that sets off a fresh round of giggles and sobs. Turning in his embrace, you loop your arms around his shoulders, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him deeply.

When you finally part, you look out over the still-roaring crowd, many of them carrying elaborate signs with intricate drawings depicting you as a regal sovereign. Some have fashioned ornate crowns out of random merch and foam, holding them high. Others set off flares and smoke bombs in Ferrari red.

For a moment, their euphoric cheers fade into the background, drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the rush of blood in your ears. Closing your eyes, you let the enormity of the moment wash over you, embracing the pride and humility and disbelieving joy.

This is your coronation. The new ruler of the Scuderia — la regina di Ferrari.

“La Regina di Ferrari! La Regina del Mondo!”

You can only chuckle in disbelief, Antonio and Ricky carefully taking your hands to hoist you up onto their shoulders in throne-like celebration. Charles is right by your side, standing vigil as your King Consort.

As the party spreads out around you, confetti and smoke filling the air, you look out across the ecstatic crowd. All you see are fervent faces, worshiping you as their new Queen of the World.

It’s a delirious scene that you never, ever could’ve imagined. And yet it feels so natural, so right. Like you were born to be in the center of this storm of jubilation. This is your true home.

And now, you’ve taken your rightful place as its ruler.

Mexico City burns long into the night in tribute to the newly-coronated Queen. Tomorrow, the party will likely continue all the way back to Maranello. But in this moment, you’re lost in the swirl of ecstasy, allowing yourself to be swept up in the currents of adoration.

La Regina di Ferrari.

La Regina del Mondo.

***

Eight Years Later

Jules can barely contain his excitement as you and Charles help him into the little red race suit. He’s practically vibrating with energy, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Easy there, petit coureur,” Charles chuckles, ruffling Jules’ hair affectionately. “We’ll get you suited up and on the track soon enough.”

“I’m gonna beat everyone!” Jules declares confidently. You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

“That’s my boy,” you say with a wink. “Just like your Papa and me.”

Charles grins and pulls Jules into a hug. “We’ll see about that, won’t we? Today’s just for fun though, remember? No official points or anything.”

“I know, I know,” Jules says impatiently. “But I’m still gonna win!”

You laugh and swing him up into your arms, peppering his face with kisses until he squeals with delight. “Whatever you say, liebling. Now let’s get you out on that track!”

The three of you make your way out to the karting circuit, hand-in-hand. You can already see a small crowd starting to form along the fences, phones and cameras at the ready. A familiar scenario, even at such a low-key local event.

“Mama, Papa, look!” Jules points excitedly. “Those people want to take pictures!”

“That’s right, schatzi,” you say gently. “Your Papa and I are pretty well known in motorsports.”

“Like movie stars?” His eyes go wide.

Charles laughs. “Something like that, I suppose. More like … really famous racecar drivers.”

“Whoa ...” Jules seems to be processing this new realization. “You’re the best ever, right? The bestest?”

You share an amused look with Charles. “Well, we’ve had our fair share of success,” you hedge.

“Your mother is a multi-time World Champion,” Charles says proudly. “As am I. We did pretty okay, I think.”

“Woooaahh!” Jules looks absolutely awestruck, like his little mind has been blown. It’s both adorable and bittersweet — your own child, only just now grasping the level of your accomplishments and fame.

The crowd has grown considerably by the time you reach the pit area, people pressing against the barriers in hopes of getting a glimpse of the royal family of Maranello. A small team of event staff try valiantly to keep order, but it’s a losing battle.

“Excuse me! Y/N! Can we get a photo?”

“Charles! Over here, please!”

“Oh my god, is that little Jules? He’s so cute!”

Jules clings a bit closer to you and Charles, startled by the commotion. You pull him protectively against your side.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “Just some fans who are excited to see us.”

Charles gives the crowd a regretful smile and a small wave before ushering you both past the security team and into the pit area. The calmer, more controlled setting seems to ease Jules’ nerves.

“Why were all those people yelling and taking pictures?” He asks with a small frown.

“Like I said, we’re pretty famous racers,” Charles explains patiently. “A lot of people know who we are and want our autographs or photos with us.”

“Like celebrities!” Jules says, the admiring light returning to his eyes.

You laugh and ruffle his hair again. “Something like that, yeah. Your Papa and I have had a very successful racing career over the years.”

“The best careers,” Charles amends with a wink at you. “Multiple world titles each.”

“World titles?” Jules looks utterly baffled by the concept. “Like … the best in the whole world?”

“Exactly,” you confirm, feeling that familiar swell of pride. “We were the fastest drivers in the world, for a few years at least.”

“Whooaa ...” Jules seems torn between awe and disbelief. “You’re like … superheroes!”

You and Charles both crack up at the adorable comparison.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Charles laughs, “but I suppose to some we come pretty close, eh?”

He scoops Jules up and swings him around, making him shriek with laughter. You watch them with a content smile, suddenly aware of how blessed you are to have this life — your incredible husband, your precious son, the career successes you both achieved. It’s more than you ever could have dreamed.

“Alright,” Papa says, setting Jules back down. “Why don’t you go grab your kart and we’ll get you out on the track? Think you can take on the world champions?”

Jules gives a determined nod, that familiar fire blazing in his eyes — the same look you’ve seen in your husband’s familiar green ones a thousand times over the years. “You bet! I’ll show you how it’s done!”

With one last hair ruffle, you send him scampering off excitedly. Charles slides an arm around your waist, pulling you close.

“He’s something else, isn’t he?” He murmurs against your temple. “So much like us at that age. I can already tell he’s going to be a hell of a driver someday.”

You lean into his embrace with a contented sigh. “He is … and just look at how the crowd reacted to him. He’s barely grasped that we’re famous, and now he’s already getting mobbed himself. Our little star in the making.”

Charles makes a rueful sound. “We’re going to have to get used to that, I suppose.”

“Oh, I think we can handle it,” you say lightly. “We’ve had plenty of practice being in the spotlight, after all.”

He laughs and drops a kiss to your hair. “That’s true enough. As long as we stick together, we can get through anything.”

“Exactly.” You turn in his arms to face him properly, cupping his jaw tenderly. “You, me, Jules … nothing else matters as long as we have each other.”

Charles’ eyes are warm with devotion as he gazes down at you. “My soulmate. My family. How did I ever get so lucky?”

He leans in to kiss you, slow and sweet, the rest of the world temporarily fading away. You lose yourself in the familiar comfort of his embrace, the love you share-

“Ewww, gross! Stop kissing!”

You break apart with a laugh to find Jules making over-exaggerated gagging noises nearby.

“And the moment’s ruined,” Charles teases, keeping an arm looped around your waist.

You bend down to Jules’ eye level with a mock stern look. “You just wait until you’re all grown up with a sweetheart of your own. Then you’ll understand.”

He scrunches up his nose theatrically. “Never! Girls are gross!”

You and Charles share an amused look.

“If you say so,” Charles chuckles. “Now let’s get that kart fired up.”

Jules’ entire demeanor shifts in an instant, that fierce competitiveness surfacing once again. He scrambles into the cockpit of his little kart and takes firm hold of the wheel, looking suddenly years beyond his age.

“You’re going down!” He declares brazenly. “I’ll leave you both in the dust!”

And just like that, the proud parents are replaced by your familiar racing mentalities — the thrill of competition, the desire to win. You share a conspiratorial grin with Charles.

“Is that so?” He taunts playfully. “In that case, no more taking it easy on you two.”

You bend down to kiss Jules’ forehead, unable to resist a parting quip. “Promise you won’t be sad … because Mama always wins.”

With that, Charles heads off to grab his own kart, leaving you and Jules alone for a brief moment. He looks up at you with shining eyes.

“You’re my hero, Mama,” he says simply. “And Papa too. I wanna be just like you when I grow up!”

You feel your heart swell fit to burst, filled with more love than you could possibly put into words. Bending down, you pull your beautiful little boy into a fierce hug, eyes shining with unshed happy tears.

“Oh liebling … you already are. You’re everything we could have dreamed of and more.”

You press a lingering kiss to the top of his head, overwhelmed with affection. When you finally pull back, there are indeed tears shining in your eyes.

“Now go show your parents what you’ve got, baby,” you say with a watery smile. “I can’t wait to see you out there.”

Jules gives you a determined nod, eyes blazing with that trademark fire. “You got it, Mama! Get ready to lose!”

With that, he slams down the visor on his helmet and revs the little engine. You step back with a laugh, watching him peel out onto the track with all the confidence and flair of a seasoned pro. Like parents, like son indeed.

By the time Charles rejoins you, his own kart idling beside yours, Jules has already completed a couple of warm up laps. You can’t resist shooting Charles a smug grin.

“Well, well … looks like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. He drives just like you.”

Charles snorts, clearly trying to downplay his obvious pride. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s all your genes coming through.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a sudden commotion from the fences draws your attention. The crowd has grown even larger, people pressing against the barriers with raised phones and voices calling out excitedly.

“Oh my god, it’s them!”

“They’re so cute together!!”

“Over here, please! This way!”

You share a resigned look with Charles as event staff rush to try and control the growing swarm.

“This is what it’s going to be like from now on, isn’t it?” You murmur. “Our little family, constantly in the spotlight.”

Charles shrugs, slinging an arm around your shoulders as he watches Jules blaze by. “What else is new? We’ve been there our whole careers. At least this time, we get to share the fame together … as a family.”

You lean into his side with a contented smile. Out on the track, Jules whips past in a blur of determination, completely unbothered by the fawning crowd. Just a little boy living out his dream, regardless of who his parents might be.

“You know what?” You say softly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Charles drops a kiss to your hair as the roar of the crowd and engines swells around you. “Me neither, mon amour. I wouldn’t change a single thing.”

[chiscaralight]

HIIII If you're taking requesttt could you do Childe x baby sitter!fem! reader??? Like reader taking care if childe's siblings and he fucks her to smth-?? ITS OKAY IF YOU DONT WANT TO LOL

childe x reader nsfw! breeding kink obviously. i’ve actually had an idea like this in one of my notes so i hope u enjoy this !

childe was insanely skeptical at first. a baby sitter? he could take care of his siblings just fine. it was something he prided himself in. but his work was getting the better of him these days and he’s spending longer hours. so he takes the advice of one of his friends and hires one. he’s only met you once. for the interview. but kaeya swears you’re good, and he doesn���t have enough time on his hands to start individually interviewing a bunch of people on such short notice. so he prays he’s making the right decision.

more often than not, when he finally gets home in the dead of night, the kids are asleep, well tucked into bed and should have been asleep for quite a while before he comes back. when he does have the opportunity to talk to them about you, they swear you’re the best! it’s always fun with you around! he can feel a heavy pang in his chest at that, but hey at least they’re happy.

its your love for the kids that draws him to you the most. watching you with them is so domestic. you’re so gorgeous as you laugh with tonia or ruffle teucers hair, it just sends those electric signals straight to his heart. it also sends them straight between his legs too.

it’s why he’s laid against the doorpost of the room youre sleeping in tonight. the weather was too bad for you to go home, but he doesn’t mind! stay the night. he’ll keep you company for a while, since the two of you don’t resllly get a chance to talk much between his work your taking care of the kids.

the small talk “chat” you guys have ends up him pressing you into the bed not too long after, his fingers pushing down on your tongue in an attempt to dampen those sweet sounds your making. he’s shushing you, moving you around a bit till he has you in a tight press. his voice is soft as he tells you you gotta be quiet, you don’t want to wake the kids, yeah?

so you suck in your bottom lip in an attempt to be quiet, but he’s just getting all the right spots like this! you can swear your vision is starting to darken, but his hand shifting to cover yours brings you back to where you are. his lips leave your neck to curl near your ear, and he’s whispering the nastiest things to you in the sweetest tone.

“you feel so good squeezing around my cock like this. m’so deep in you, might just have to give you your own kid like this.”

and you gasp out a yes, almost begging him too. his lips find yours in a saccharine kiss as his thrusts get harder, skin slapping so heavily against yours.

it’s not long before he’s rolling his hips flat against yours, filling you up with his hot release as you whine under him.

he never pulls out of you. even when he’s laying down behind you, large hand against your belly, he’s making sure you’re plugged up so you get bred just right. he wants a big family after all, so he’s getting an early start! he’ll do it again when the two of you wake up, just to be safe.

[fayes-fics]

Vignette

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: An artist meet-cute in the park.

Warnings: none... this is the fluffiest of fluff

Word Count: 1.2k

Authors Note: Anon request fill (see HERE) about Benedict and an artist having a meet-cute in the park. Unbetaed. I hope you enjoy this, Nonny, and sorry it has taken so many months! <3

A wooden toy hoop whooshing inches from your knee interrupts your quiet refuge amid the flower gardens of Regents Park, breaking your intense concentration on your drawing and almost dropping your charcoal.

Seconds later, a pretty young girl of maybe eleven years old comes running after the errant object, her plaited hair bouncing, her blush pink dress swishing around her knees as she calls out an apology to you and retrieves the hoop from the nearby bush.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her face a picture of impish inquisition as she wanders back to your bench.

“I am drawing,” you smile benevolently; something about her mischievous spirit reminds you of your nieces.

“What are you drawing?” her grin somehow infectious.

“You see those roses there?” you point with your charcoal to a nearby white alba maxima rose bush, stems almost bowing under the weight of the heavily ruffled peach-tipped petals. “Those are in peak bloom, and I am attempting to capture them, their ephemeral beauty...”

“Are you any good?” 

You chuckle at her youthful bluntness, but just as you are tilting your work towards her, you are interrupted by a man rounding into this same quiet corner. 

“Hyacinth! Please refrain from injuring and bother…” his refined voice begins to chastise but suddenly grinds to a halt mid-sentence as soon as he catches sight of you.

But he is not the only one who has lost the power of speech. 

Something vaults hard in your stomach like you are plunging down an invisible chasm. He is handsome in a way you have never seen before in your twenty years on this earth: tall, with a strong jaw and a dandyish colourful outfit that fits him very well. 

There are a few moments where all you do is stare at each other, lips parted, before he appears to shake himself a fraction and bows his head in polite greeting.

“Where are my manners? I would like to apologise for my little sister almost causing you injury, Miss. The fault is entirely mine; I should not have let her play quite so spiritedly in a public park. I-I hope you are not injured?”

“N-Not at all; the hoop merely brushed my skirt. I am more than fine,” you assure hurriedly. “Mr….?”

“Bridgerton,” he offers, nodding to you in a more formal greeting.

You would know that name anywhere—one of the most esteemed families of the Ton. You instantly know he is not the Viscount, having seen him at society events, so you surmise this must be one of his younger brothers. Before you can offer your name, however, he speaks again. 

“You draw?” 

“Oh.. yes, yes… I-I do,” you stumble, a little taken aback by his question, even as you feel his sister’s gaze volleying between the two of you with a bemused expression.

“I draw too,” he explains, placing a hand over his sternum, the sunlight catching upon a signet ring on his little finger. 

“Oh…” you seem inordinately pleased to share such a hobby with this virtual stranger.

“I also know well that charcoal fingers are an occupational hazard..” he adds cordially as he catches you attempting to wipe the dark smears upon your hands with a rag. “May I see your work? If it is not too impudent of me to ask,” he adds modestly.

“I-I am not very good…” you fret, looking down at the partial image you see on your sketch pad. “Tis merely a pastime I use to escape…”

“Believe me, Miss…?”

“Y/l/n.”

“Believe me, Miss y/l/n, it is very much the case for me too - being that I am one of eight. Including such trouble-makers as this one,” he rolls his eyes affectionately as he signals to Hyacinth, who seems to be rapidly losing interest, distractedly spinning the hoop she holds. “Escaping is almost a full-time hobby for me…” 

You cannot help but giggle at his droll humour, and he seems delighted, his face lighting up as you hide a mild blush behind the back of your hand.

“May I?” his ask is so soft you cannot do anything but acquiesce.

“‘Tis just a small vignette…” you excuse meekly as you hand over your sketchpad, suddenly so nervous to hear his opinion. You have never shared your drawings with anyone before, but something about his affable demeanour makes you bold enough to do so.

He is quiet for some time. It feels like an age, even though it is likely only a matter of seconds, but still long enough that butterflies start to roil in your stomach.

“I did say it is just a hobby…” you titter nervously, looking away.

“It is beautiful…” he exhales quietly, tone filled with admiration as your eyes ping back to him.

Your heart flutters as he extols the virtues of your work, effusively admiring your use of shading to capture shadows and the lines you have used to denote the multitudinous layers of petals, his gracious hand gesturing over the picture as he speaks.

“You flatter me entirely too much, Mr Bridgerton…” you demure, even as you feel yourself blooming under his praise, just like the flower you have painstakingly attempted to capture. A warmth in your chest that seems to radiate out to glow all over.

“I assure you I do not,” he smiles, handing you back your sketch pad.

“Benedict,” Hyacinth whines, stamping her little boot on the grass, “you said we would play…”

“I do not wish to interrupt your family time,” you placate, pleased you have learned his first name.

“Hyacinth, I am sure Eloise said something about sandwiches; you want lunch, do you not?” Benedict responds, raising a pointed brow.

“Well, yes, but…”

“Run along then,” he pulls an exasperated face at her that again has you giggling, making a shooing gesture with his hands.

She sighs but departs with a dramatic flounce.

“Sadly, I must also depart; a family picnic indeed awaits. But if I may be so bold, I would very much like for us to meet again. If you would be amendable? With a chaperone, of course,” he adds hurriedly, keen to be gentlemanly. “I think perhaps we would have much to speak of… around art. And perhaps we could… draw together? Here?”

His proposal, so sweet and straightforward, has you rendered speechless again, heart leaping at the very thought.

“I…I would like that very much,” your honest confession out of your mouth before you can swallow it.

“As would I,” his response instant, his face beaming. “Would you be here, perchance, Thursday afternoon around this same time?”

“I would…” The hitch of excitement in your own voice unmistakable.

“Excellent!” his hazy blue eyes seem to dance in the sunlight as he respectfully tilts his head again. “I am so looking forward to it, Miss y/l/n…” are his parting words before he takes his leave.

“As am I, Mr Bridgerton…” you murmur belatedly, the words shared only with the fragrant roses surrounding you, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.

Your stare lingers where he stood long after he has left, an excited buzz over your skin at the thought you have met a kindred, artistic spirit. And one so very handsome, too.

Join my taglist HERE

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[adorabluesposts]

I’m a massively hopeless romantic and hopelessly in love with our short paranoid chaotic duck loving king and the THINGS I WOULD DO TO THIS MAN JUST BECAUSE I LOVE HIM SO MUCH.

Anyway thoughts about he’d react to constant affection because my love is physical affection and maybe sometimes giving him handmade gifts because nothing beats time wasted on handmade shit. I LOVE THIS MAN SM ITS TOO MUCH 😭😭😭

I WANNA CONSTANTLY SHOWER HIM WITH KISSES AND PRAISES PLS.

Basically requesting a fluff with all of the above 💀💀

I also love your writing style sm, hope you’re having a great day/night

buckle up cause this is gonna be SWEET!

Thanks for the appreciation on my writing, I'm still working on it 😭💖 love this sm. This is for the physical affection ppl 🫶🏻

a/n:.. added some acts of service love language too I'm so sorry 😭

NOT PROFFRED.

PROOFREA. PROOFREWD. I can't spell.

NOT PROOFREAD.

(I managed)

divider by @al-of-the-stars. NOT MINE!!

It's not a surprise Lucifer's a sucker for physical attention. Not in a sexual way, just hugs and holding hands in the most unusual times.

At first you started off with 'baby steps', occasionally giving him a kiss on his cheek or lips, holding his hand or playing with his suit when he didn't expect it, just to see how he'd react.

He would get flustered, turn into a blushing mess and pretty much feel like his knees would give out at any minute. He would never admit what an impact you had on him, though.

When the showers of affection got more frequent and he realised what you were doing, every chance he'd get he would basically invite you to do those things for him. He loved tricking you into thinking he didn't know what your love language was and , even if he still got all flustered and was still surprised because he, obviously, didn't know what to expect (a kiss or a hug), he convinced himself he was just acting so flustered to trick you, again.

Of course Lucifer's love for you gets more and more powerful with every kiss.

His wife left him, after all, so he needs all the affection you can offer. He really loves you.

Even though you noticed he still wears his wedding ring sometimes, you know how hard it is to let go, and you showering him with affection actually helps him get through it!

"Good morning, handsome!" You shower his sleepy face with kisses as he slowly wakes up, watching his grumpy face turn into a weak, tired smile.

"Morning" He smiles and cups your cheek as you pull away, pushing you back in for a kiss.

He notices you're all dressed already and raises an eyebrow, sitting up. "Where are you going?"

"Well, Your Majesty-" He smiles at you, loving how intimate it sounds when you call him that, "-It's Monday. Meaning I have work to get done."

He frowns and you laugh. "Bummer."

"I made you breakfast, so you might as well get changed." You ruffle his hair as he struggles to put it back in place, even if it was tangled already and playfully huffs at you, lecturing you on how his hair must always be perfect as you leave the room.

When he joins you in the kitchen, you gasp in awe, like every morning. You go up to him and praise him for being so good looking, pestering his face with kisses and telling him how you're falling in love over and over again.

He loves it truly, holding your waist as you praise him. He looks at you with lovesick eyes and a goofy smile and only let's go when hunger takes the best of him. He praises you back, too, for being such a good cook (or not burning the kitchen down.. in certain people's cases aka me).

Before you leave, he makes sure to leave one of his ducks in your bag , knowing that by now you have millions if them in your office, as you leave one of your handmade gifts, drawings, or sweets in your shared room.

He almost never wants to let you go to work, turning the radio on to twirl you around in the kitchen and kiss your face or hands until it gets so late you either have to run to work or make him open up a portal for you.

It's not his fault he just loves the way you love him.

Ive never written something so fast in my entire life. THE THINGS LUCI DOES TO ME OMG.

[gravityglitch-blog]

Wishes for Absolution

(The night before the trip to Cabin Fever Labs, N and Uzi lean on each other for comfort.)

Part I: N

He woke up with the fever and the screams running through him again.

N shook himself to loosen the grip of memory. He grabbed a severed drone arm from the stash in the corner of the landing pod, his current home. The oil was old, clotted, but it did the job of bringing down his temperature. He had always felt guilty that his life came at the cost of others. There was no taking back what he had done. He had sworn now to only take oil from already-slain drones.

Robo-God knew, there were more than enough of those. Though it didn’t sate his hunger as well as fresh oil, it would do.

The Worker Drones were corrupted. A problem to be solved. That was the lie he’d been sold, the task he’d been given, and oh, had he done it well. He’d taken no joy in it, that much was true. He’d been driven by survival instinct more than the mission. But all that oil was still on his hands, and nothing would ever wash it away.

Perched atop the landing pod now, the icy wind ruffling his hair and only the moons of Copper Nine for company, N reflected on his victims. They’d all tried to run, at first. Most had pleaded for their lives. Some sad few had fallen limp the moment he got hold of them, accepting their fate. For what felt like the thousandth time, he tried and failed to remember if any of them had a familiar shade of purple hair. If any of them resembled the one and only Worker who had ever fought back, and won. Uzi Doorman.

Even thinking of her now brought a strange mixture of comfort and guilt to his chest.

Comfort, because she was the only one in his strange life who had ever treated him like a real person, who he could name as his best friend without hesitation. Guilt, because if his fear proved true, and he had stained himself with Doorman family oil, he would lose her forever.

He looked to the corpse spire on the horizon, where V preferred to make her home these days. Away from him. He didn’t blame her. They didn’t exactly see eye to eye anymore, if they ever had. During the short time Uzi had stayed with them, the tiny pod had felt crowded, but for the first time, it had felt something like home.

Aside from her schemes to take the fight to Earth, and to the humans who had brought all this upon them, Uzi had also shared with him bits and pieces of her life. He’d listened to her recite the long and sometimes complicated storylines of the anime she had pirated. He hadn’t understood a thing, but it didn’t matter.

He’d been silently overjoyed that someone was talking to him. In return, he’d told her about the dreams he’d been having, which he suspected were memories. He’d told her about how he wished he could have a pet someday, and that he wanted to learn about art. Copper Nine was a bleak canvas of whites and grays, and he found himself longing for colors. Not only had she listened to him, she had even started teaching him how to draw. The walls of the pod were decorated with some of his earliest attempts, done with crayons he’d once discovered on a scouting mission and hidden from J. If she’d found them, she would have destroyed them. There were a few of Uzi’s drawings, too. Normally they made him feel better, but tonight, they only helped highlight his loneliness in neon red.

He looked toward the spire, a monument to his crimes. Broken bodies. Broken lives.

“I know it will never be enough,” he said quietly, as one speaks at a gravesite. “But I am so, so sorry.”

The corpses did not answer.

Loneliness, the ever-present bug in his systems, was eating voraciously at him tonight. It tortured him with all he couldn’t remember and all he couldn’t forget. He couldn’t stay still any longer. His wings snapped open and he took to the dark sky. He told himself it was just a quick flight to clear his mind. But he already knew where he was going.

Part II: Uzi

Uzi trudged back into her room, the skirt of her prom dress swirling around her. It was the fanciest clothing she had, and tonight, she’d had need of it. Her father had been honored with an awards ceremony.

After the colony had struck a truce with the Disassembly Drones, he’d come up with a new invention: windows. “They’re like doors, but for your eyes!”

Everyone had been amazed by this concept. Because it gave her father such a glow of pride, and because he’d been trying so hard to do better by her, Uzi had held back her usual sarcasm. She’d been the first to receive a window in her room. Almost all the living quarters had them now. It was nice to be able to see the sky. She had taken to using one of her spare black hoodies to cover it up during the brightest part of the day. The sunlight made her feel strange and achy. Most likely because she’d never seen so much of it before. The ceremony had been nice, full of happy chatter and congratulations. People were almost willing to talk to her now.

But the noise had eventually made her tired.

So had that oil smell that seemed to hover over the whole gym, where prom had been held not so long ago. They probably hadn’t been able to clean it all up yet. No one else had seemed bothered by it, though.

She’d excused herself, leaving her dad to enjoy his moment.

She changed into the oversized shirt, baggy pants printed with cartoon bats, and fluffy black cat slippers she wore to bed. She was about to put the dress away when something made her stop and stare at it. The memory of the very first time she’d worn it, with N.

A blush rose unbidden to her face. She wished it could have been a normal date. Without all the murder.

A date? Where had that thought come from??

If she was being honest with herself, she missed N. Despite all the differences between them, no one had ever made her feel so understood. She would see him again tomorrow, during the field trip. She’d also see V again, too. This she didn’t look forward to so much. But even she had to admit that V was trying. The friendship that their killer prom queen had struck with Lizzy had slowly been turning into something more genuine. Maybe there was hope for them all yet. Tired as she was, Uzi was still feeling restless. She had just set her beaten-but-tough old laptop to watch something when she heard a series of quick taps at her window.

“What the heck?”

She pulled open her makeshift blackout drapes to see N’s smiling face. He was hanging upside down and waving at her.

“N!” 

She slid the window open.

“Hi, Uzi!”

“Hey,” she smiled. “I thought you’d be resting until tomorrow. What’s up?”

“I wanted to return your book!” He held up the manga volume that had been missing so long she’d almost given up on it. “Also…” he scratched at the back of his head. “I’m having trouble sleeping. Nightmares.”

Uzi nodded, no stranger to nightmares herself.

She stepped aside to allow him space to climb in, but still he lingered out in the cold.

Then she remembered. “You can come in, N.”

He smiled again and clambered through, having some trouble with his tall build. It hit her like a punch in the face that this was the first time he’d visited her home. All her belongings looked small next to him. 

“Will your dad be okay with me being here?”

“Probably not. But he’s not home. The colony is still celebrating the invention of the window.”

She returned the book to its proper place on the shelf before noticing that N had gone strangely quiet. He was staring at her. More accurately, at her stupid, dorky pajamas!

Part III: N

He’d always thought Uzi was cute. Any Drone who thought otherwise needed their optics checked. When he’d seen her in her prom dress not long ago, “cute” had upgraded to “beautiful”, and he’d just barely stopped himself from saying so. But he’d never seen her like this. Wearing a well-loved shirt and pants that draped over her tiny frame. Fuzzy slippers.

But what most caught his attention was her hair. For once, she was without her signature beanie. Her hair was longer and fluffier than he’d thought, gently tousled as if she’d just run her fingers through it. He was wondering what it would feel like to do just that when he pulled himself back to reality. 

“Uzi,” he said quietly, “You look so cu—“

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I swear to Robo-God, if you say “cute”—“

“Cozy!” He substituted quickly. “You look really cozy, like you just woke up.”

Uzi squinted at him, weighing his answer. Finally a small laugh escaped her. “I’ll allow it.”

“Oh, no, did I wake you up?” He asked, feeling guilty now. “It’s okay, I can leave—“

“No, you don’t have to go! I just got back from my dad’s award thing. I…I’m kind of feeling nervous about the trip tomorrow. I was going to watch some anime to help me calm down.”

He nodded, then sank down to sit cross-legged on her floor. He fussed with the hem of his coat. What he wanted to say refused to solidify into words. Uzi perched on the edge of her bed, patient, listening.

It came out almost without him realizing. “I’m a monster, Uzi.”

She didn’t have an immediate reply to that. She hugged her knees to her chest. 

“What brought this on?”

“Ever since we met, I’ve been thinking about everything. All I’ve done. The reason I was made. Everyone I’ve ever…killed.” He looked up at her. His eyes flickered with the threat of tears.

“I almost killed you, the best person I’ve ever met. How can you even look at me?”

Uzi rested her chin atop her knees. “I decapitated you the day we met. I’m hardly in a place to pass judgment.”

She must have sensed how disturbed he was, because she took her time before continuing.

For awhile, the only sound was the distressed pounding of his heart.

“The reason you were made,” she said at last. “You didn’t get to choose that. You didn’t choose killing just to be able to survive. Everything that you did before…I’m not going to say it doesn’t matter. But the way I see it, you were the weapon. You were used. Besides, the company, or whoever’s behind all this, made you reliant on oil. Maybe…if we learn more, dig deep enough…maybe we can find a cure?” The little note of hope in her voice nearly ended him. This girl had his heart in total free fall, and she didn’t even know it. She was still talking.

“There could be something to help, so you won’t need to drink oil anymore. So the sun won’t hurt you.”

His gaze drifted to her window. “That would be something. To see the world by daylight.”

“I’ll show you,” she promised with a gentle smile. “Not that there’s much to see on this rock.”

“Doesn’t matter, so long as I get to see it with you.”

A brief silence and blush lines followed this.

Uzi tugged on her hair, something he’d noticed she often did when nervous.

“Do you want to stay and watch some anime with me? It sometimes helps when the nightmares are bad and I can’t sleep.”

N’s eyes hollowed. “Not the one with the scary book again!”

Uzi was already digging through a box at the corner of her room. “No, not that one. Look, no one even knows I have this anime. I’ve got my reputation to protect. So you can’t tell anyone, okay?”

In answer, N mimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key. He helped her arrange her pillows and blankets into a fort / nest on the floor. Once they were settled in, Uzi hit “play” on her laptop, and the opening theme began.

“Fighting evil by moonlight! Winning love by daylight! Never running from a real fight! She is the one named Sailor Moon!”

N was entranced by the story of these magical girls and their fight to defend love and justice.

Uzi seemed happy to openly geek out, something she hadn’t dared show anyone else. He felt a deep sense of gratitude that she would share this with him.

“Sailor Mars has always been my favorite,” she said, as the character sent a firestorm hurtling toward her enemy onscreen.

“I think I’d pick Usagi for my favorite,” N chimed in.

“I thought you might.”

“Why?’

“She’s just like you. Strong, brave…maybe a little silly, but with her heart wide open.”

Uzi’s eyes grew wide when she realized what she’d just said. N resisted the urge to pull his hat down over his face to hide his furious blush. As the episodes rolled on, N felt the exhaustion finally creeping up on him. He slumped against Uzi’s shoulder like a pillow. He felt her start, but she didn’t push him away. Her skin was pleasantly cool against his cheek, soothing the constant fever. He could hear her heart beat a comforting rhythm. 

He had almost silenced that rhythm forever.

He shuddered and instinctively burrowed more closely into her side.

Never again. He would never let anything hurt her ever again. The vow brought him some peace. He was halfway asleep when she spoke up.

“N?”

“Hmm?”

“When I went out there that first night—“ she hesitated. He looked up at her, eyes curious and drowsy.

“I was so stupid,” she finished sadly. “I thought I was going to be some kind of hero, like in these stories. I was going to be the one to save Copper Nine and we’d all live happily ever after. But what if I’m not meant to be the hero? What if I’m just a screwup like everyone’s always said?”

“How silly,” N said, more asleep than awake now. “Of course, you’re my hero. You’re going to save us all and find a cure, remember? And I’ll be your faithful sidekick!”

Uzi laughed, a wonderful sound to him. “You’re no sidekick. You’re way more than that. You’re my—“

Here she stopped again, unable to find the word she wanted.

He glanced up at her as the silence stretched. What would she say? Friend? Partner? No, that was too intimate…

With a shrug, she gave up and said simply, “You’re my N.”

Sleepiness had lowered his inhibitions. He reached up and gently twirled a lock of her hair around his finger before letting it spring free again. “My Uzi.”

A comforting quiet settled over them, until he felt himself entering sleep mode. Instead of a nightmare, he was met by Uzi’s voice, singing a soft lullaby.

“Deep in my soul

Love so strong

It takes control

Now we both know

The secrets bared

The feelings show

Driven far apart

I’ll make a wish on a shooting star

There will come a day, somewhere far away

In your arms I’ll stay, my only love

Even though you’re gone, love will still live on

The feeling is so strong

My only love”

His last thought before the soft dark claimed him was, What a beautiful dream.

This is the song I imagined Uzi singing, from the 90’s Sailor Moon dub. This song touches my heart to this day.

[fountainpenguin]

Riddle watches New Wish - Post #8

"The Wellsington Hotellsington"

I'm glad Hazel's parents seem chill. They're not strict about "No sleepovers" or anything. They seem more involved than Timmy's (and holy cow, they're better at interactions with their daughter than Chloe's were with her).

Yeah, it's not like I ever doubted (because I loved Chloe's mental breakdown drama), but this and the dino episode are really cementing just how bad Clark and Connie were with parenting, sdkfj.

If Chloe tried to play with her parents at the museum, they'd totally shut down her giddiness and drag her into a lesson on naming or drawing dinosaurs. She'd seem hyped, but... Timmy would know. Timmy always knew.

I miss Timmy "will stay with you for an hour while you have a total breakdown" Turner... I miss the fairy step-siblings. Where's my boy?

... That is actually really interesting that I can't give Hazel a 50-years-of-frozen-time backstory. With Chloe, she blatantly raised herself on Fair Bears and I had a lot of other characters who got their lives screwed up by failing to emotionally mature or physically progress... but Hazel missed all that, so she's got Regular Childhood. And barring what I just said, I'm usually writing Fae in 'fics that span hundreds of thousands of years. Having such a limited timeframe to work with is... a new experience for me here.

Whyyyyy did Hazel and Jasmine not know who Wynn (sp?) is if they've been in the same class for weeks? (Hazel's over 100 wishes and mentioned weeks had passed during "Teacher's Pal"). Does this kid not talk to them? I thought they sat near Hazel, by the door? I'm pretty sure if I go back and look, this kid is 1 or 2 desks to her right.

Dev, don't you have better things to do than stalk Hazel and eavesdrop? This kid has issues. Tell me more.

I'm really glad we have a Dimmadome bully and not a Buxaplenty bully. Fingers crossed that Remy broke the abuse cycle, and also... the Dimmadomes are 100% known for butting into everything. I complained that he shouldn't stalk, but... he's a Dimmadome. Of course he's wandering around waiting for his chance to jump in for a line and brag about stuff.

"Hazard" is a very funny nickname for Hazel. Dev should keep calling her that.

This kid has insecurity issues about... his house? And/or being outclassed, but it's the house that seems to ruffle his feathers. The one thing Dimmadomes are known for is their big buildings. Hmm. Something's going on here...

I was going to make a joke about how Jasmine apparently didn't come over to Hazel's house despite their plans to play together, but Jasmine made it for me. Apparently she HAS been over and is sus. sdflkj.

Wynn is super nice. Hazel is being a creep sdkf.

Whoops, so much for the roof garden. Also, I like how the founder picture for the hotel is just Hazel in disguise.

His parents aren't at his party, huh? I see where this is going...

Either this kid's got a fairy - but he doesn't have brightly colored items or pets we've seen - or something is keeping him riding the border without tipping into miserable. We never got a canon reason why Tootie didn't have a fairy, though it's implied she can't keep her mouth shut and would endanger Fairy World. I wonder if those recording devices following him around are getting in the way, although that's probably not likely.

OR he's lost a fairy (similar to Remy gambling Juandissimo away), which would be hilarious. Imagine him getting a fairy and he's like "I don't want this. I have money."

I'm thinking he's got enough of his heart set in his pride and his things that he's finding enough joy to keep afloat, but I'm keeping an eye on him. Now that I'm thinking about it, Kevin Crocker with a fairy would've been funny. Then again, I kind of gave him Foop as a buddy... and even though he's the deadest kid inside, he was still pretty cheery.

Dev, however, does NOT give me cheery vibes. I'm sus.

Actually, I do not trust Fairy World to be functioning the same way it did in the old days, considering that enough time has passed for Cosmo and Wanda to retire and Jorgen to notably age. There WAS a fairy shortage in Season 10 - and so few Fairies left by Season 7 that they couldn't even fill the stadium when Timmy summoned them - so... hmm. Is he getting Cookie, who was actively looking for a godkid a few episodes ago?

If Fairy World's still under the same protocol it used to be, Jorgen's the only Temporary Fairy on-call, and we HAVE seen him introduced. Hmm...

I'm wondering if this is gonna be a Juandissimo comeback? He's got experience with rich kids, he IS a notable fairy from the early seasons (all the seasons), and he even loves bratty kids who don't listen to him to the point that he couldn't hold a job after losing Remy (because he was crying too much) and ended up defying Da Rules to return Remy's memories. Now that Wanda and Cosmo are so friendly in this portrayal, it could be really interesting to throw him in the mix again.

I liked when Cosmo showed him the "guest room" in "Jerk of All Trades" and then threw him in the freezer. Give me more of that.

This would be very unlikely since it's literally a deleted part of an early script, but... do I dare dream we see the return of "Juandissimo is terrified of only one person and it's Cosmo, whom he refers to as Wanda's cunning and calculating warrior husband?" That would be great! My dream. :)

I like how Cosmo in the OG series tolerated Juandissimo, claiming that he would tell him to stop flirting with Wanda, but he won't because he likes eating Juandissimo's food too much. 10/10 dynamic. It's so underrated; Cosmo's hilarious.

I'm loving early-vibe Cosmo and Wanda... do I DARE dream of a return with early-vibe Juandissimo? My super kind and polite boy who gets invited to at least 4 parties at Timmy's house, makes a point of letting Wanda talk to Cosmo before she makes decisions involving them alone in a room, and runs away at top speed when he clocks Wanda as not being able to consent to hanging out with him (because Cupid's love arrow?) Seasons 1-7 Juandissimo, my beloved... :')

I miss him.

My vague understanding is that this show is ongoing, probably multiple seasons if it does well, so I don't think they're wrapping it up at the end of Season 1... but if they did, I could definitely see a "Hazel gives her blessing for Cosmo and Wanda to go to Dev" plot, which would be an interesting direction (since we never got that kind of closure with Timmy and I doubt they'd do a share program plot twice).

It's kind of a shame we didn't get a separate reboot with the share program- That might've been better received than Season 10. Sparky could've been a shared fairy. Alas.

Okay, the chandelier in the helicopter being an inconvenience is a nice touch.

I'm dead (So are the animals).

Mmmm, the classmates are dunking on Dev for being "not cool." He's not even liked? Seriously, someone call Juandissimo- This kid is catnip for him.

[sailorshadzter]

some random jonsa

somewhat inspired by the mufasa & simba scene in the lion king lol

“.... Father…”

He groans, softly, rolling onto his other side.

“Father…” 

There it comes again, the voice unrelenting as a hand shakes his shoulder.

“Your son is awake,” it’s another voice this time, his wife’s groggy vocals filtering into his brain. 

“Before the morning call, he’s your son,” he replies, attempting to draw her into his arms, but she shrugs him off, rolling onto her other side and drawing the furs over her head. A sigh escapes him and he turns back to face the son that stands at the side of his bed, barely tall enough to come up over its edge. “It is early, my boy,” Jon yawns, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s dark locks, though the child frowns, arms folding over his chest. “Get into bed,” he gestures towards the space between he and Sansa, a place he once slept religiously, but the boy shakes his head.

“I want to learn to use a sword,” he says with all the determination of a boy his age, his gray eyes flashing. 

“Can’t it wait until sunrise?” Jon asks and the boy pouts, bringing a chuckle from his lips. 

“Alright, alright, I’m up,” he says next, pushing back the covers so he can swing his legs over the edge of the bed. Of course his son was far too young to wield a sword, but he recalls those days when he and Robb had begged to do the same, and he softens, deciding he might as well put a wooden sword into the boy’s hands. He’d be King in the North someday, after all, and despite the peaceful times they lived within, it was only fitting he learn the way of the sword. 

And so he rises up and dresses in the dark, putting back on the clothing he’d discarded the night before, stuffing his feet back into his boots. “Will you let me use Longclaw?” The boy asks as they make their way down the hall, pausing only for a moment to peek into the room where the baby slept, unaware that his brother had left his bed. At this rate, it wouldn’t be long before that babe also wanted to learn the art of the sword. 

“You have much to learn before you hold a steel sword, my son,” Jon replies as he puts a hand to his shoulder. Though the boy makes a face, he steers him along, until they reach the main floor. At this early hour there is no one around but them and so he pushes him along, out the double doors and into the twilight hour of dawn. 

“I do?”

Jon chuckles, taking in the sight of his son, a boy that is every inch his, from his dark curly hair to his Stark gray eyes. “Aye,” he replies, gesturing for him to follow him towards the door that opens up to a storage room, which from within he takes hold of two wooden swords. “I too once yearned to learn to swing a sword, to cut down my enemies, to protect my family… But there is more to it than that.” He thinks of every battle, of every enemy, of every moment that had led him to this very one… He smiles, handing one of the swords to his young son, a boy of six, the very same age he’d once been when Ned Stark had taken him and Robb out into this very courtyard. 

Now he stands here with his own son, another Robb Stark, the successor to the legacy left behind by the uncle he’d never know. “Your grandfather always said," The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.” The boy’s gray eyes widen with these words, his young mind trying to grasp the depth of their meaning. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die. Those words still echo in his own mind, all these years later. He thinks of every sword swing that has taken a life and he knows he has lived up to those words his father once said.

Little Robb stares up at his father, eyes wide, wondering what it might feel like to take a man’s life. He knows his father has done it, more than once, including taking the life of a tyrant queen that spared the lives of all those who still yet lived in Westeros. His older foster brother, Samwell, told him often of the stories he’d heard of Jon Snow- now Stark- from his own father, the elder Samwell. A hero, the boy had said, my father says he’s the greatest hero of all time. Better than any of the stories. “Father…” The boy begins, following after him as he steps closer into the center of the courtyard, where the ground was firm, perfect for their first lesson. “Is it true… What they say you did to the dragon queen?” 

Jon freezes, turning back to face his young son, who looks up at him with those same gray eyes he knows he has himself. “Aye,” he says honestly, dropping to a knee so he might look his son in his face. “I did,” he knows the rumors that still swirl all these years later- the truth caught somewhere between the tales. “I did what I had to do to protect my family, to protect my home.” His hand falls into place against the slim shoulder, giving it a tender squeeze. “Someday you too may have to make a difficult decision to protect those you love.” He hopes for a better life for his son, for all of his children, but there was no telling what their future would bring. All he can do is prepare them the best he can for what may come, gods willing. “You must always put your family first, as a man and as King.” The boy is nodding, slowly, his young mind doing its best to fully comprehend the meaning. Jon knows there will come a time where he will recall this conversation, just as he recalled the one with Ned Stark, and know he’s held onto his father’s wisdom all the years of his life. 

And all Jon can do is hope that Robb will smile looking back, thankful for his father’s voice in his mind.

[ihni]

Of pets, chapter 2/2

For @harringrove-flip-reverse-it day 5, prompt "Dog walks" (SFW prompt made sliiiighty NSFW)

~~~

(Read on AO3) (Chapter 1)

~~~

Jim was on his way home after work. He’d just left the station when he remembered that he’d planned to call Steve and ask him if he could pick El up the following Friday – the kid usually drove some of the boys home, and Jim had had to switch some shifts around and wouldn’t be able to make it.

Not particularly keen on turning back to the station just to use his phone, he decided to swing by instead. Harrington’s house was on the way home anyway, so it would save him time in the end.

Pulling up to the house, he parked on the side of the road – he would hopefully be out of there quickly – and walked down the long driveway to the house. He couldn’t see Harrington’s BMW around, but the door to the double garage was closed so the empty driveway didn’t mean that the kid wasn’t home.

He walked up to the door and rang the doorbell. As he stepped back and prepared to wait for someone to open, he heard what sounded like a muffled thud and something like a shout coming from somewhere inside the house. Now, Jim was a cop – a good cop. So when those sounds weren’t immediately followed by footsteps, he frowned and reached for the gun in his belt.

“Harrington?” he called. “You good?”

When there was no reply, he pulled his gun out and tried the door. It was unlocked, so he carefully made his way inside.

His trained senses catalogued everything that was out of the ordinary; there were a pair of beat-up Chucks haphazardly kicked off by the door, at the end of a neat row of more expensive sneakers. There was a jean jacket that was fraying at the seams hanging on a hook, which Jim had never seen Steve wear. And a glance into the kitchen showed two empty glasses and a pair of soda cans on the counter by the sink.

All these things pointed to another person being in the house. It could just be a friend, but Jim would rather be safe than sorry. Besides, if Steve was hanging out with a friend, why didn’t he reply?

“Steve?” Jim called again and made his way to the stairs on silent feet. “Are you in here?”

In the silence that followed, he thought he heard low voices coming from upstairs. When another thud came, he took the stairs two steps at the time. He found himself on the landing, gun at the ready. From here, he could hear hissing and shuffling from what he assumed was Steve’s room – incidentally, also the only room with the door closed.

He walked up to it and – after a brief pause to warn “I’m coming in!” – shouldered the door open.

Steve Harrington, despite the fact that he had to have heard Jim approach, jumped about a foot in the air and whirled around to face him. He was wearing jeans and a shirt with a rumpled collar. His hair was askew, he was barefoot on the carpet, and in his hand he was gripping … a leash.

The other end of the leash disappeared in the crack between the doorway and the closed door to the closet.

Jim’s eyes narrowed.

“Uh, hey Hop!” Steve said, voice cracking. His face was blotchy and red. “I didn’t … hear you there. What’s, uh, what’s up?”

A sound came from the closet, which most resembled a low whine.

“I think I should be asking you that question, son,” Jim said gruffly, but lowered the gun as it didn’t seem like anyone was in immediate danger. He turned his frown on Steve. “What’s going on?”

Steve, wearing the nervous look of any teenager about to lie to the Chief of Police, let out a fake-sounding laugh and said, “Well, I … Uh, you mean this?” He held up the end of the leash that he was still clutching. “I … I told you about my friend’s dog, right?”

“Hargrove’s dog,” Jim confirmed, and didn’t react when a sound came from the closet. “I remember.”

“Well, I’m, uh, dogsitting. And I was … just about to take him for a walk.”

“Uh-huh,” Jim said and raised one eyebrow as he looked Steve up and down, wordlessly drawing attention to the kid’s ruffled appearance. Years of experience had taught him that it was often easier to get a confession if he kept silent. Let the perpetrators talk themselves into a corner.

Steve let out another strained laugh, and attempted to smile. It mostly showed off his teeth. “I … was taking a nap first though. So I was sleeping when you showed up. Just woke up.”

“Uh-huh”, Jim repeated, and couldn’t help himself. “And did you keep the dog in the closet while you slept?” Ignoring the widening of Steve’s eyes, he went on, “Because I’m pretty sure that counts as animal abuse.”

He took a step towards the closet. Steve took a step to the side as if to stop him. Jim’s eyes narrowed further.

“Steve. Who’s in the closet?”

“No, I told you! It’s a … dog.”

So that was the story he was sticking with, huh? Giving the kid one more chance to spill, Jim waited for a second. But when nothing else was spoken, he shrugged as if saying ‘suit yourself’ and went for the closet.

Ignoring Steve’s “No, wait–!” he reached for the handle and pulled the door open.

It was obvious that the kid was trying to hide something, so he was prepared for anything – a shy girlfriend maybe, or a friend trying to hide with the booze, or possibly a real dog that was trapped in a closet – or he thought he’d been prepared for anything. The one thing he hadn’t expected to see was Billy Hargrove staring back at him with wide, fearful eyes.

Billy Hargrove, wearing only a pair of sweatpants – which looked suspiciously like they were worn backwards, like they’d been pulled on in a hurry – and with a leather collar around his neck. A familiar-looking leather collar. Which was what the other end of the leash was attached to.

There were bruises all over Hargrove’s chest. No, wait. On second thought, those were quite obviously hickies.

For a couple of heartbeats, no one moved or even seemed to breathe. Then Jim took decisive action.

By slamming the closet door shut again.

“Nope.”

“Hop –“ Steve started, and there was the same kind of fear in his voice that there had been in Hargrove’s eyes. Jim held up his hand to stop him and shook his head.

“I don’t wanna know.”

“We didn’t –“

Turning to Steve, Jim caught his eye. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. I don’t wanna know.”

But the kid was too upset to listen. “Please, Hop, don’t –“

Jim reached out and somewhat awkwardly pinched Steve’s lips closed, which shut him up effectively. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” Jim said and nodded to the hallway outside the room. “I’m going to go. And you’re going to let … your dog …” A choked sound came from the closet, which Jim bravely ignored, “… out of the closet. Then we’re all going to forget this ever happened, and never speak of it again. Do you understand?”

He let go of Steve and raised his eyebrows until Steve – his face tomato red – nodded and managed a shaky “Yes.”

Clearing his throat, Jim repeated, in a slightly raised voice, “Do you understand?”

A beat, then a subdued and muffled “Yes sir” came from the closet.

“Great,” Jim said, slapping his thighs. “Awesome. All right. Let’s never do this again.”

Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room. He ignored the sound of Steve dashing for the closet and the frantic whispers that followed, and refused to let himself think of the implications of what he had just seen. As well as the implications of his previous interaction with Steve in the pet store. Instead, he walked downstairs, made sure to close the front door after him –making a mental note to tell the kid to lock the doors, goddammit – and then got back in the car.

He was halfway home before he allowed himself to take in the situation, and promptly barked out a laugh. ‘Billy’s dog’, Jim’s ass. And ‘take him for a walk’, sure.

Kids these days, really. They couldn’t even lie properly. Now, Jim would be the first to admit that his teenage years were far behind him, but he remembered being way better at lying than these kids.

He chuckled to himself the whole way back, and it wasn’t until he was back at the cabin that he remembered that he had planned to ask Steve about giving El a ride next Friday. Oh well. He could give the kid a call tomorrow. He had a feeling Steve wouldn’t refuse if he asked for a favor.

[flower-seeks-the-moon]

Summary:

The truth that no one will ever, ever unearth from his tightly clenched fingers - the beating heart that's never been conquered, even if the rest of him is to be shared - is that Baxter Alexander Ward fucking loathes his wings.

Length: 5059 words

Fandom: Our Life: Beginnings & Always

Characters: Baxter Ward, Main Character

Relationships: Baxter Ward/Main Character

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Alternate Universe - Wings

Written for @ficwip5k 2024.

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Baxter's wingcare routine takes up a chunk of his day; from the outside looking in, however, it doesn't seem that way.

He tells himself that the unveiled looks of awe and desire are worth it, that the pride on Adrian and Amelia Ward's faces when their friends offer doting words of praise are a justification for the long and tedious routine of carefully preening, brushing, and oiling each feather upon the six dusty grey wings that bloom from his back. The smile he wears, when a classmate in school comes up and stammers requests for a glance of his their way, and more than mere minutes brushing of shoulders, is that of someone who's used to people's eyes first being drawn to the feathered appendages, then to the sparkling pristine image of a Ward; last, if it ever comes to that, to the young man who lets himself be touched with covetous hands, his body a feast for people's eyes and mouths and fingers, like a bird plucked and then shared among the famished until there's little else but bones.

The truth that no one will ever, ever unearth from his tightly clenched fingers - the beating heart that's never been conquered, even if the rest of him is to be shared - is that Baxter Alexander Ward fucking loathes his wings.

"How do you keep these beauties looking immaculate?" A hand buries itself into the middle wing on his left side, fingers dragging through the feathers. 

Baxter's jaw flexes within a hair's breadth of a frown before it smooths into a smile as he cants a look upwards through veiled lashes. "It's no large undertaking. I've made some rather excellent purchases as of late that have made it all a breeze." A tilt of the head, an empty offer tumbling from his lips that expects no acceptance. "Would you like to see how I care for them? Perhaps," here, his voice drops into a coax, though he dares not hope for more. "You would like to try it on me?"

"I might," the person in his bed laughs. "If you'd also do me the favor?"

He sees them off with a gentle swipe of his uppermost wing against theirs - a sparrow's wings, he knows he'll remember them by this and not the name which will eventually slip from memory - drawing them close one last time with a wistful peck on their mouth. They bow over him and press back, smiling as their feathers rustle against each other; one side enthusiastic to the point of ruffling the other. The sound makes Baxter's stomach twist, and he pulls away to let them step back onto their doorstep.

"You're seriously something else, Baxter Ward." They shake their head in amusement, eyes roaming up and down the length of his body again. "I've got a newfound respect for how much of a pain those things are. Seriously." An awkward pause. "My bad, for the-"

The spot on his lower right wing twinges, the scapular feather that had been wrenched and bent out of shape by an impatient hand. "It's no big deal. Nothing of import, and something that can be easily fixed." 

They look at him oddly. He imagines that the concern in their eyes is his own wishful thinking. Though if it was real, it doesn't last, and soon his friend shrugs. "If you say so. Anyway, Jules's got something cooking this Saturday. See you around, then?"

"Yes, I'd love to." He knows that they won't. The campus is big enough to hold both of them and keep out of each other's orbits.

In the evening, Baxter Ward plucks the errant feather without even flinching and throws it in the bin. It irritates him to look at it, and even then, it'll grow back in time.

His hand snaps out and wraps around her wrist before she can pinch at the tip of her wing and pull. 

"Don't do that." He realizes that his voice is more forceful than usual when her eyebrows pinch together, a startled look on her face.

"Come with me, if I may be so forward." He slips his hand down and twines it with hers, nudging a clenched fist open to make room for his digits. She latches on more gently than he expects out of her. Baxter exhales, casting a look at the way the wings at her hips flex and loosen in an attempt to ease off the restlessness. It's been thrumming through her the moment he opened the door and found her looking so lost, a disquiet that speaks louder to him than she likely wants it to; he doesn't fancy himself an adept coastal dweller who can tell when a storm is coming through the movements of the waves and the specific shades of the sky, but he imagines it like this - one look into Wisteria Blanc's clouded grey eyes, not a glimpse of the sun behind them, and he finds himself just as unsettled.

"It's not a big issue," Wisteria refutes, yet she's allowing herself to be led inside. "And it'll grow back. I was rather careless earlier. Normally, I'm not..."

He allows himself a silent raise of the brow, lip twitching at the near-petulance she trails off with. With a firm push, he settles her down on the couch, shooting her a look as he pats one of the throw pillows down on her lap. "Let me hazard a guess: you'd rather not have Pamela or Noelani noticing?"

She bristles, feathers on either side of her head ruffling in time with the shake of her head. "... Wouldn't be good if they did. Cove would also feel bad, and I'd rather not see that."

Baxter promises to himself that he would get to the root of what this thing is, for it to make a trenchant eighteen-year old mumble and avoid his eyes. What is he to do when he finds out, he doesn't yet know, but there must be something. He lets go of her hand, keeping all his focus on her as he sits down. 

It's experience that makes him keep a respectful distance, after he's interfered with her earlier. 

Wisteria's right wing curls around her; the little bent feather at its very tip flutters with the motion. He makes sure not to comment on it, sensitive to every little motion and the jitters that follow them. After a long moment, she sinks her hands into the pillow, eyes intent on the patternless maroon fabric. "I saw one of my old classmates at work today. We weren't close, but... He was very tactile with everyone in class- And I tolerated it, to an extent."

It's a picture that paints itself, even with the incomplete details that she provides him. He takes a moment to let it sink in, watching her mangle the pillowcase between her fingers, before standing up. His own wings are just as stiff as hers, mirroring her. "I shall be back shortly, we must soak that part in a basin." Is there a shallow enough washbasin around his rental condo? Baxter quietly curses at himself. Of course, his habit of hardly staying inside long enough to know his way around this temporary summer residence - which feels less and less like a prison around her - would come back around to haunt him now of all times. 

Casting a warning look at Wisteria when he spies her hand slipping down to her wing, he leaves her in the living room. 

When he reemerges from his hunt around the condo, he clutches the plastic washbasin in his hand. Precariously balanced on top of them are the products he uses for himself, ones that take Wisteria out of her stupor long enough for her to blink at him in incredulity. He sets it all down on the coffee table, all except for the washbasin, and hurries to the open kitchen. 

The sound of water from the faucet, filling up the basin, is the only thing in the room until she speaks. "... What are these for?" 

"You will see soon," Baxter replies, shutting off the faucet and turning around. 

She's inspecting one of the bottles, holding it up to her face with an upwards tilt to the corner of her mouth. "Guerlain? Abeille Royal Revitalizing & Fortifying Care Feather Conditioner?"

The tight ball in his chest loosens. "I believe the results of my usage must speak for themselves." With a raised brow, he arches his six wings a little higher, a little wider, as much as he could indoors. Flaunting them, dancing around the edge of presenting. His face brightens when hers spread out on either side of her; tentative, and not as forward as she would on another day. 

Baxter has to remind himself that this is the same girl who flared out her wings, a warning in the way she stepped in front of Cove, on his very first day at Sunset Bird.

Wisteria Blanc's wings are ghosts that have haunted his memories ever since that strange little Summer Soiree at a country club. He doesn't think of them on the regular, but every so often he remembers the girl with plumage that looked like white paper halfway dipped in ink. The topmost part of the backs of her wings were a gradient that began from feathers as black as a starless night sky, lightening to varying shades of grey until one's eyes were near-blinded by the immaculate white of the remiges. It was a mirror to the unusual shade of her hair, an inkwash painting given life in silken strands that fell to her back and argent eyes that looked at him with undisguised curiosity.

What stuck out the most to Baxter Ward, fourteen years of age and already loathing the dismal dusty grey of his own plumage, was the tiny pair of wings on either side of her head, like a crown of laurels. 

He had been very young when he had learned that one's wings standing out was not always a good thing. 

A lot of societies since the dawn of the age of man have waxed poetic and built religions out of the appendages that every human was born into this world with. Some claimed it to be a leftover of the age of the divine, when gods and monsters walked the earth and brushed shoulders with mortals. Others claimed it to be proof of the existence of the soul, a physical manifestation of your inner self - an indicator of what kind of person you would grow up to be, the mark you would leave the world with. Yet even other schools of thought out there simply believed that it was a vestigial organ linking man to an older species that had once dominated the skies. Now, flight is more often than not impossible, since the structure of most wings don't make it feasible for them to carry their human bearers. A growing sentiment in the 21st century is that wings are useless limbs on humans, and the option of having them amputated is quickly growing popular. 

But most people are attached to a feature that they had been born with, even as they grow to bear complex feelings about their wings and the way the world would grow to judge you for how you carry them.

Baxter had known that his wings couldn't be an extension of his soul. They didn't reflect who he was at all, not when it took all that grooming and preening to look halfway presentable for his parents. If souls could be tampered with so easily to look as clean as a polished mirror, then perhaps humans are better off not trusting each other at all. Mirrors are dishonest things, the way they prey upon the weaknesses in your heart and morph your countenances into something you loathe once the negative feelings get their claws in.

He had wondered. What did that girl see in the mirror, with her four oddly-placed wings? It is a question that follows at the heels of fond remembrance; her blush stains that black-and-white memory, a shade of red that sometimes takes the edge off of the self-loathing that he feels when he grooms himself.

"You're very considerate," she had told him, back then, as they danced to the steps of a waltz. His wings were tucked in close to his back, painfully aware of the eyes on him. Adolescence had been an awkward, dreadful time with his lengthening limbs and wings, and how he had to make himself smaller, so as to not bump into others. "No need to keep them folded close; I want you to enjoy yourself as much as I am. The dance floor has plenty of room, and you don't need to constrain yourself for others' convenience."

A beat later, she had followed up with that blunt comment about his smile being cuter when it's genuine, and the Summer Soiree girl had found a place for herself in his heart. Autumn and his pretty golden wings, already a lingering ache that was slowly being buried with time, are swept aside by a lone encounter. One dreamlike midsummer evening that could only be topped by the summer of five years later.

His plans for this evening are cast aside; what’s one night spent aimlessly driving, seeking out the next empty attraction to whittle away his time in Sunset Bird, to caring for her? Sitting in his living room, kneeling down at the side of the touch, he keeps his palms spread open. Hovers them by her wing, eyeing her as he poses the question.

“May I touch your wing, Wisteria?” Her expression is at once hard to read and achingly familiar as he continues, “I would like to help you with your wing, if you would allow it.”

With his past flings, he’d readied himself to be rejected with his offers of them caring for his wings, after he’s finished with theirs. Yet he finds himself more mindful of her rejection, while at the same time fully understanding if she is to do it to him.

“We’ve already touched each other’s wings,” she prods, tentatively lowering her eyes to her hands. “I didn’t mind it during our hangout with the others.” 

Baxter remembers fully well what she means. There’s precious few memories that could make him feel like he could fly, wings as useless as they are. He still wonders what possessed him to have such courage at the time: to draw his shirt around her shoulders, enclosing her in three pairs of wings to ward off the cold, right until her friends jeered at them. The moment is as ingrained in him as the taste of the chocolate from her popsicle, when he bent down to try it. It’s the same taste lingering on her lips when he kisses her under the glow of the fireworks, their feathers pressed close to each other as she leans back against him.

“That was then, and this is now,” he smiles at her. “As elated as I am that you’re trying to tell me that I am implicitly allowed to touch you, I would still like to hear a confirmation from you this evening. Indulge me, if you will.” 

She regards him; he wonders what she sees in his face, to bring such a look of relief to her eyes. A gentle smile curves her mouth. “... right.” She takes a breath, and straightens her spine. “I’d like it if you help me, Baxter. Please, go ahead.”

It is a familiar routine to him, the act of soaking a bent feather to soften it up. “Your feather will straighten out,” he keeps speaking in low tones, taking glances at Wisteria. She’s relaxed in just the exact way to let him know that she’s not relaxed, hands lightly clasped atop the throw pillow she’s been clutching since he handed it to her earlier. If she’s mangling it like earlier, it’d probably be more reassuring.

He lips thin, pressing together as he turns his focus back to the ruffled feathers. “If I may ask. Is this your first time?”

“My first time having someone else care for them?” She shakes her head. “I groom my wings together with my family, once a month.” 

Baxter hasn’t ever seen his parents tend to each other. They had people they paid to do that for them, so what was the point? It had also been the way with him, growing up as a young boy, until he had one day visited the Murrays with Qiu, seen Mrs. Murray’s gentle hands preening her kid’s feathers. Of course, his friend had blushed so furiously when they both noticed that Autumn and Baxter had arrived early. 

It hadn’t seemed like a thing to be flustered about. Being preened by someone else looked warm and comforting, like a blanket around his shoulders as he sat in front of the fireplace in his big house, a cup of tea heating his palms.

He shakes his head. “Ah, I meant something else. Was earlier your first time,” he murmurs, hands drifting up to groom her feathers as the tip of her wing is left to soak in the basin. “Having your wing grabbed without your permission?”

She stiffens, the topic they had been dancing around brought to the spotlight. He briefly regrets bringing it up, before he remembers that she came to him of all people. Walked up to his doorstep, to her temporary neighbor, when she could have sought refuge at Cove’s, or even Terri and Miranda’s places. There are a good number of others that would have taken care of her, but she had come to him instead. It’s a callback to that day on the yacht, the way she had looked green around the gills and still refused her sister’s concern, only to allow him down in the cabin with her.

“No,” she sighs out. “It’s not.” 

Her wings are healthy, and carefully tended; a life being well-loved writ in glossy flight feathers and soft underwings. He’s seen her and Cove sometimes straighten each other’s feathers out in casual motions, barely taking a thought to do it for each other, and felt an odd twist in his gut. It’s not quite grooming each other, but Baxter could never have afforded to be so casual with someone else in such a way. Not after he had long left Golden Grove and the days of his boyhood behind.

“I find myself sincerely hoping that your manager had words with your old classmate.” He pauses for a moment when she squirms against his hand, realizing that her scapula feathers are ticklish. “If they were a customer.”

“You don’t have to keep hoping about that,” Wisteria’s reply comes out dry. “Yes, he kinda got kicked out of the restaurant and blacklisted. My manager is at least good about that, or maybe she didn’t want me to end up punching a customer on the job.”

This breaks a laugh loose from him. “Would it be too remiss of me to say that I would have loved to see that?”

“What, me getting fired?” There’s mirth dancing in her eyes. “Or punching someone?”

“Speaking any further would incriminate myself,” Baxter says, primly stepping away from answering that . He gives her a soft grin. “Thank you for coming to me this evening.” For ending up on his doorstep, just in time for him to stop her from plucking at her feather when she deserves a place to feel safe. For asking for him on the yacht when Liz, Lee, and Cove would have gladly gone. For making his evenings feel much less empty, even when she bumbles about it.

Later, she ends up half-asleep on his couch when he’s finished grooming her wings; having deemed it a long enough soak to soften her flight feather, he straightens it and feels a deep sense of satisfaction.

After the ice cream truck, the sun shower might be one of the quintessential summer experiences that could get him near-giddy.

Running through the sprinklers in a suburban neighborhood is one thing. Rain drizzling down like a lingering remnant of the clouds that have drifted far away, splashing the unsuspecting, reminds him of the weather in Golden Grove. It often rained in Golden Grove, particularly as autumn drew close; it was a much different experience, with cloudy grey skies offsetting the deep reds, golds, and browns of the trees far below, the rain like tears that tried to cleanse the deep ache that had made its home in his heart and brought him to flee the nest.

It reminds him of Golden Grove, and yet it is everything that a rainy day in his old hometown is not.

The sunlight is still out in full force. Rain droplets, caught in the sunbeams, lit up and glinted gold as they fell and cascaded down Wisteria’s face. It is the sight of them that snaps him out of his stunned delight, long enough to remember-

He brings her in close with one arm, shutting the car door she had just come out of with his other hand. Chiding himself for having no umbrella on hand, he brings his wings up above the both of them to shelter her from the unexpected drizzle.

The sunshower continues for a few minutes more; he wonders if Wisteria can feel his heart pound against his ribcage, her face tucked against his neck. He is at once both peaceful and unmoored, in awe of how the rain can feel so gentle. They stand there, Baxter unbothered by his feathers becoming damp, the droplets seeping through the topside to run in unseen rivulets down his plumage. 

For once, his seraph wings feel useful. 

When the rain ebbs, he lowers his wings with a sigh. A part of him feels almost wistful; it’s another moment that passed him by so quickly, one that he will look back on from time to time.

She is suspiciously still, wrapped up in his arm, up until she pulls away. “You didn’t have to do that,” Wisteria squints at him. “Your wings are all wet.”

Baxter grins at her, broad and unabashed. The tips of her ears are very red. “I would rather not see you beset with another cold, and right after our date. My wings will simply dry off.” 

Wisteria’s look is supremely unimpressed. She ruffles her wings, the ones on either side of her head flattening against her hair, and reaches out to take his arm. “Come on. We’ll dry off together inside my house.”

She brings him past the Blanc home’s threshold, pausing when they’re both inside. 

Elizabeth has once again made herself at home on the living room couch, hunched before her laptop with a frown to rival the size of Pamela’s Cheshire cat grins she sometimes sends her beleaguered daughters. Her wings, in fiery hues of deep orange and pale gold, flex about in annoyance behind her. He suspects that her summer courses are going on rather challengingly, and he and Wisteria both pause when brown eyes flicker to their entrance and narrow.

“That drizzle just now got you two, huh?” She eyes Baxter’s wings. He tenses, ready to be turned out the door for dripping all over the floor. Instead, all the elder Blanc sister says is, “Why is he soaked?”

Ria shrugs. “He thought that I needed an umbrella. And then decided his wings would work out.”

The frown that had seemed near-permanent for this afternoon melts from Liz’s face. “Huh.” She regards Baxter with an odd little half-smile, an impish tilt to her eyes and lips that has her little sister immediately on guard around her. “Well, hurry to the bathroom and help the poor guy, won’t you?”

Before Liz can say anything more, Wisteria shoots her a flinty look and tugs Baxter after her. They go to the bathroom on the second floor, and she gives him a little push on his back when he hesitates at the doorway. “Come on.”

The drying fans whirr to life, pelting them on either side with warm breezes that penetrate through the top layers of their feathers. He sighs as the temporary chill - brought on by stepping inside an airconditioned home with his feathers soaked through - melts away with the heated blasts of air. 

“I forgot to say this earlier,” Wisteria begins, prompting him to turn towards her. “But thanks for that.” She steps up, close and personal, towards him. “I would like to do something for you, in turn.”

His smile grows mischievous, from languid to heated at the drop of a hat. “I would adore anything from you, Ria, but you needn’t insist on a repayment.” He pauses, letting his gaze point to the closed bathroom door meaningfully. “I believe that a bathroom at your home wouldn’t be the most appropriate, though, would it?” His tone is idle musing and faux demureness. 

Cocking her head, Wisteria frowns. Her tone carries a distinct note of confusion. “I was about to ask you if I could groom your feathers after they’ve dried off.”

“What.” 

He… He didn’t mishear her, did he?

She grins at him, sharp and pointed. “You didn’t think I’d let you take care of me without doing the same for you in turn, did you, Baxter?”

He’s discombobulated, more than just a little stunned, and despite it all, so damn comfortable. Lying on his stomach atop her bed, he represses a shudder when lithe fingers smooth the downy insides of his wings, preening and tugging at long flight feathers.

“I’m sorry we don’t have the-” Wisteria pauses. “Guerlain products you use, but my Ma has something similar that she mixes herself.” She tilts her head. “I don’t really need additional oiling for mine, but Mom needs additional care for hers since she doesn’t produce as much oil naturally, and that’s why Ma picked the practice up. I suspected that it might be a similar case for you, considering the volume of six wings.”

An involuntary giggle escapes him when she pulls away from his flight feathers to run her fingers through the tiny feathers along his spine. He’s ticklish there, and he didn’t even realize until someone touched him gently enough to make the reflex kick in.

Baxter bites his lip afterwards, his face burning red.

There’s a pregnant pause, and then the fingers return to dancing atop the feathers up and down his spine. With a vengeance, and the deftness of an experienced piano player.

He tenses, doesn’t try to hold back that hard, and laughs; he fears that Elizabeth downstairs would hear the snorts and giggles that Wisteria evilly pries from him with her quick hand. 

Once the impromptu tickle attack has ceased, and Ria has taken pity on him, Baxter huffs and glares at her headboard. “You devious little - I swear, one day I will yet have my turn.” He sends her a look over his shoulder, promising playful vengeance.

“You relaxed.” Wisteria hums, turning her attention back to his upper right wing. He tries to ignore the ache in his chest. “I’m glad.”

His throat tightens, and he rests his head against her pillow. It’s fragrant with the scent of her shampoo, sweet and entirely her. “Tending my wings will be quite the hassle, I did not wish to impose it upon you.”

“... Baxter, I help three other ladies in this house with their wings every month. Well, two, since my sister is away at college more often than not.” Wisteria’s gaze burns into the back of his head. Her voice is quiet, laden with a meaning that he’s not yet ready to comprehend. “It’s really not a problem for me.”

There’s a lull in conversation afterwards, and he finds himself near to dozing off, eyes slipping shut more than once. She takes her own pace, moving like she has all the time in the world to focus on each and every feather. It makes thinking - more importantly, dreading - so much more laborious when there’s a gentle hand in his middle left wing, treating it like it’s a cherished part of him.

Wisteria speaks, voice barely above a hushed whisper. 

“In the one moment I got to take a good look at you before you hid me from the rain, Baxter Alexander Ward, I thought I was looking at an angel.”

In the hazy in-between limbo straddling consciousness and dreams, the part of him that listens recognizes the feelings that linger behind her words. He keeps his silence, letting her go on to think that such an admission went unheard.

“I think I’d prefer you over the popular interpretations of angels… You’re wonderful. You contradict yourself so often that I’m often confused. And you’re infuriating sometimes, and I can’t stop looking away from you. I don’t think real angels could ever be like that. So please, just remain as you are without trying to live up to them, or anything else.”

It’s not the first time someone has called him an angel. Rather, it’s an on-the-nose nickname from past flames, considering the three pairs of wings that he carries.

But it is the first time that someone has breathed it into the silence like it’s a secret, not meant for him to hear. Not meant to flatter him. 

Why, then, are they worth millions more than the praises so easily bestowed upon him?

It’s evening when he wakes up, just in time for a dinner at the Blanc household. There’s a sharp tease at the ready for him and Wisteria when they come to the table, courtesy of Elizabeth.

As Wisteria passes him a dish of mung beans, his hand brushing against hers, he swears to carry her words and their glow with him for as long as he could.

They say that humans have long become incapable of flight, their wings not physically capable, their wings a vestigial trait left over after millennia of evolution. To fly is a pipe dream, and humans can only look to the heavens with coveting eyes or resort to contraptions of steel and technology to mimic what they once took for granted.

But he thinks they found the feeling of flying attainable in other things, in the words one can say when they think the other is asleep.

fin.

[a-gal-with-taste]

What Is Seen (Oneshot)

Summary: The scars are not all you see, when you look at him. And in this moment of peace, warmth and closeness, you take the time to study them... and perhaps, finally, tell the Eye of Zaun what you truly see, when you see him.

Tags: Winter/Holiday Fic, cuddling, mentions of hurt/comfort, romance, some humor, established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff because I said so, sleepy kissing, Happy Holidays!

Silco X GN!Reader | 1397 Words | AO3

Too many gave too much attention to his scars, in your humble opinion. 

Admittedly, you had been the same when hired. Momentarily frozen under the sight of crackled-gray, fitted with blood red enveloped in pitch-black. 

It had struck you, haunted you long-after that first meeting, and lingered in your mind. Standing out as a permanent fixture in your thoughts, for days to come, until your next meeting. 

The meeting following after that meeting, you stopped paying attention to the scars. And, though he'd never truly admit it, you imagined that's when Silco began to pay attention to you as well. 

Love didn't come quickly, but the attraction certainly did. Magnetic forces brought together under the guise of business as he built-up his empire, and you eased-in the supplies with a finesse he quietly appreciated. 

But it wasn't your tactics and reliability that made him call you back, and likewise, it wasn't his scars that drew you in. 

Many claim his ruin-eye to be one of fire. True, but also nonsense; the green is far more in its bare intensity, often barely holding back tides of pure, raw thoughts and emotion in that seagreen gaze. 

It was that seagreen that drew you in, lost you in its depths, again and again, until you forgot the scars entirely. 

Forgot who Silco was sometimes, even. The danger of the sea didn't scare you, after your presence became something more than occasional - in fact, a part of you welcomed the drowning. 

And when at last, talks of business ceased, soon with all attempts at speaking failing as your lips found his, you indeed found the drowning delectable, addictive, and magnetic... 

You were more than happy to drown, again and again. 

Silco, though he never said it aloud, was more than pleased you were so-willing to fall to the depths with him. 

And so, you forget the scars. Quite impossible, yet so simple to cast them from your mind as time goes by, as brushes of skin and lips become more frequent, and less hidden. They simply didn't matter, and you so rarely took notice of them when his low-words and expert hands were far, far more all-encompassing. 

Which is why, in this moment of peace, you study your love - and more importantly, those scars everyone seems to fixate on. 

The fire before you both no-longer roars, but exhibits a heat that has long-since sent the Industrialist in a sleep, one that is much needed. You have no doubt your own body, and the comforter you both share, helped get him to such a relaxed state. 

Head tilting-back on the couch, jaw slackened to let soft little breaths whistle through chipped-teeth in his snores, it's a herculean task not to smooth back the ruffled dark-hairs that have fallen askew over forehead and temple. A task failing quick, as your hands begin to ghost up from its placement along the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart, and coasting further up to gently shuffle those dark locks back.

His breathing hitches, and your own stills.

When it resumes, you draw your hand away, tucking it back beneath the blacket, and against Silco’s chest with a tenderness that still, after all this time, feels unreal. It feels unreal, that you are capable of being this close to the man, and likewise, that he remains so close and so trusting to you.

It feels impossible to think a man like Silco can learn to trust again, when you give attention to the scars.

Guessing his weariness would be long lasting, the patch was placed on to hide away the toxified-eye in his rest, but it does nothing to hide the scars you trace with your eyes. Scars that define him. That changed him, fundamentally and morally, into the Eye of Zaun the Undercity knows of today. A man of ruthless and unapologetic nature, a creature of spite and maliciousness, taken human-form…

Others would flinch. 

You simply lean up to brush your lips against the blackened-grooves, the rigid flesh of his marred cheekbone.

It causes Silco’s breath to hitch, and return from the depths of snoring he had fallen into. You say nothing as he awakens with your name on his lips, only traveling your own to follow the line of his cheekbone beneath ruined skin, layering another slow kiss there, as he lets out a dry sigh.

“You realize, the nerves there are mostly dead,” Silco murmurs, in a perplexed question of sleepy affection, masked as dry sarcasm as he fights back a yawn. “I can neither feel nor sense you there, not in the correct capacity. It’s all… muted.”

“Even when I do this?” Another kiss, this one delivered closer to the hollow of his angular cheek, rather than the sharp-bone beneath. The action only earns you a hum, and the arm slung around your hip tightening.

“How about this?” Closer, edging-along the patch that hides his eye. Silco doesn’t even attempt to struggle back the deep yawn this time, but ends it with a tired sound of your name, that you know is secretly amused beneath the exhaustion.

Traveling your mouth closer to the lobe of his ear, you murmur in that honey-sweet, low pitch that you know has him shuddering. “And this-?”

Lips barely make it there, before he is turning, and capturing your lips with his own. 

You melt into him, and it’s not because of the fireplace that lays before you both. The warmth that spreads through your body, at the simple, nearly chaste kiss he offers, is not one that can be born out of such a physical-element as fire. Rather, it originates from something stronger, more heated and powerful, all encompassing, and burning in your veins, through your heart…

Enough to keep you warm, long after he pulls away to lean his forehead on yours. 

“Amusing yourself with my battle scars?” He questioned, more curious than hostile, but the green-gaze of his flickers over your face regardless. Largely from the force of habit, which you don’t blame him for.

“Not exactly,” You murmur, sliding your hand up once more, to cup the unscarred cheek. “Studying, more like.”

“Indeed?”

“Yep.”

“Care to share your findings?”

A smile dances on your lips, shadowed in the dancing of the flames, as you lean closer to murmur against his mouth once-more with hooded eyes. “They aren’t all that scary.”

“Ha.” Silco rolls the singular eye that remains. “I beg you don’t tell the populace. Or else, I may have to find a new career.”

“I could sponsor you.”

“And I would bleed-you dry,” He says in a dark-sweetness akin to bitter honey, as he nips at your bottom lip in a way that has you squeaking, biting back your own grin in an attempt to stay serious.

“I mean it. I don’t normally take notice of them… don’t normally see them, to be honest.” His brow raises, and you shrug, speaking your truth simply. “They aren’t the features I think of most, when I think of you. Not the focal point, and not what I see, when I think of you.”

“What do you see, then…?” His question grows quiet, as your hands travel up to cup at either-side of his face. Angular, sharp, and rough against one of your palms… but you hold his face with all the tenderness that comes when holding something precious, and gazing at him, as though he is indeed something precious to behold.

“What do you think, Silco?” You murmur simply, hand sliding further upward to push away the patch and returning to his cheek the moment it’s off. “What do you think I see?”

Slower, mismatched eyes flick between your own - from habit, ever-assessing, even with you. It’s not one you would fault him for, and you do not fault him now. Only smile, thumb brushing along the rough ridge of skin beneath the infamous eye, as you look at him. 

Look at the man you love. The man you’re happy to drown into, with those seagreen eyes, and happy to burn for, as you hold one-another close before the flames, and all-knowing he would do the very same...

Love. That’s what you see.

Silco never ends up answering your question.

But you think the long kiss he offers you next, as you lay together in the warmth of a crackling fire, says more than enough.

[ackerfiction]

Hello, should I request a new canon! Levi x Wife-Princess! Reader - where reader finds a death treath of plans to assassinate her, and she confide her fears to Levi who was shocked, angry and at the same time protective over her, while comforting her that's everything is going to be okay.

You can do what you want, and thank you so much <33

Y/N ruffled through the papers, having bumped into a MP and dropping them all over the floor, she was keen to ensure she had all of her and Levi’s letters. She rifled through, eventually stopping at an envelope with the seal of Marley Officials. She slid the papers out of the envelope, unfolding it carefully. Why was it open? Her eyes widened as she read the words on the page, a gasp escaping her lips.

Jackson,

As you know, Ackerman is our biggest threat. As discussed, the best way to get him out of the field is Y/N. It has been decided that we no longer intend to hold her hostage, but to exterminate her.

Given her position in the Royal Family, we believe it was also significantly weaken Paradisian forces. Meet with our agent tonight, draw the Princess out as discussed. We will have her and bring down the Devils.

-K

“Are you okay?” Levi looked up from his cup, the steam curling in the air. Y/N’s face was pale, hands shaking. He stood, taking the letter from her hands.

His face darkened.

“Levi, what do I…” She swallowed, the lump in her throat too painful to continue.

“You go tonight. You play along.” The look on his face was one of legend, the look of a man enraged by the loss of those he loved. Only seen a handful of times before. It was the look of a man out for blood.

Y/N took a breath, she’d noticed one of the MP’s staring at her all day, shadowing her every move. She kept her hands in her pockets, palms sweaty.

“Hey.” Levi had taken her head in her hands, pressing a small kiss to her lips, “I won’t let anything happen to you. Trust me.” She nodded and his softness melted, “I can’t promise the same to those shits though.”

She played his words over and over in her head, as the MP approached her, a smile and a letter in hand.

“Your Highness.” He bowed, extending his hand with the letter, “I am sorry, I believe I have accidentally picked up one of your envelopes in this mornings mix up.” She steeled herself, Levi was trained for this, and while she wasn’t, he would protect her. He never failed her and he wouldn’t now.

She reached for the letter. The MP grabbed her wrist, pulling her into him. Y/N became alarmingly aware of how empty the hall was. “To the roof.” She felt his breath on her neck, the point of a knife on her back. “Scream and you die. Take one step away and you die.”

She obeyed. Her heart raced, pounding harder with every step. Tears threatening to spill with every person they passed. She forced a smile, nodding politely.

They reached the roof, the MP closing and barring the door behind them. He pushed her towards the edge. She whipped around, where was Levi? He should be here and yet- it hit her. She really was alone. The wind whipped her hair in her face, her legs weak. She prayed he would kill her quickly, was falling or bleeding faster? No. A cut to the neck was. She knew that much. Trust me. She fought to trust Levi, but where was he?

“You.” The MP stepped forward, “You are a catch, I can see why Levi likes you.” He chuckled, “Shame such a pretty body has to go to waste. Such a shame that the Princess would rather jump from the roof than be with her husband.”

“Think again, Dipshit.” A blast of gas, wires reeling in. Before either of them could move, Levi appeared in the air, Y/N felt relief flood her. He landed between the pair, scouts landing either side of the MP. Horror flashed across his features as Levi stepped forward. “Did you really think you would be able to hurt her under my watch?” He asked, “Pathetic.” He glanced back at Y/N, “I think we should send something back in the post, don’t you? A finger maybe.” The MP began to scream as he was dragged off of the roof and down the stairs. Levi turned to Y/N, she ran into his arms, tears of relief flowing.

“I told you.” He pushed her hair out of her face, eyes softening, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” She asked, Levi let out a breath.

“Don’t you worry about it. Just know that I will never leave you in danger, I will go to the ends of the earth for you. Nobody will ever hurt you.” He held her for a moment longer. “I promise.”

[sublimecatgalaxy]

“you didn’t just break promises, you broke me” and “how many times am i supposed to forgive you?” angst with daryl please?

(sorry for getting carried away 😅)

YEPPPPP LOOOOOOOVE! Also this is such a plot twist- when do we ever have the READER who did the wrong thing😃

I know that he never expected to see me again.

The day I walked away from Alexandria, going on my separate way from the group. No goodbyes, no explanations, nothing. I gathered my things, I kept the secret growing inside me and left. I knew that the rest of the group would only draw in trouble, Rick's careless decisions only putting us into more harms way.

I couldn't let them hurt me, hurt him.

I don't scream or cry for mercy as they point their weapons at me from the tops of the towers, I'm sure they wouldn't recognize me after almost three years. All I do is set the squirming child on my hip down onto the ground beside me and slip the hood from my head, looking up at the three people lining the walls through squinted eyes.

Maggie figures it out first, her jaw dropped along with her bow, her head shaking as she takes a step back. Daryl takes a few seconds before a look of pained realization passes across his face, the air getting knocked from his lungs as he turns to look back at Maggie.

I try to ignore the painful twisting in my chest as my son looks up at me and babbles a few words, a happy smile on his face as he points to the gate that's opening before us. My stomach swirls anxiously as I meet them at the door, my hand holding a smaller one.

Daryl looks to my- our- child first, his chest rising and falling in anxious gasps, eyes fluttering shut. Maggie's the first one to get to me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders as relieved tears spill from her eyes.

"You're back." She whispers in relief, hugging me tighter than I've ever been held, my head bobbing in a simple nod as she pulls away from me. "Who's this?" She asks, kneeling down to get down to eye level with him.

"Colby." I whisper, ruffling his messy, dirty blonde curls as Maggie sniffles, brushing the tears from her cheeks as she holds her hand out for Colby to shake. He does with a huge smile on his face, trusting her immediately like I did all those years ago.

Daryl approaches from the left, a nervous scowl on his face as Maggie gives me a look, reaching out to take Colby's hand and lead him towards Alexandria.

"Hi Daryl-"

"Hi Daryl?" He repeats, deadly fire in his voice as I visibly recoil, taking a step away from him. "You left." He grits, eyes glancing away from mine every once in a while to keep his composure. My heart is racing, cheek bleeding from how hard I'm biting at it.

"Can I explain-"

"Is that my kid?" He asks, eyes dead serious as he turns to look at Colby who's jumping in puddles with the help of Maggie, a bright smile on his lips. "You left cuz you were pregnant?"

"I left because Rick was going to get us killed. I wasn't going to let that happen to me or Colby." I answer simply, trembling fists clenching at my side as Daryl's tough exterior breaks, his bottom lip trembling and he takes a step towards me. "Rick needed you, I couldn't tell you."

"I needed you." He mutters, bloodshot eyes flickering over my tired expression. "You promised me, you were gonna stick by me." My heart breaks all over again, just like the day I packed up my stuff and walked my way down the street, tears running down my cheeks. "You didn’t just break promises, you broke me- I was nothing after you left." He grits, cheeks red and eyes wide as I shrink in on myself, eyes fluttering to look down at the ground, shivering in shame. "So you leave me and then you go off and have my kid in fucking secret?" He asks, voice cracking as he blows out a breath of air, running his fingers through his unruly hair. “How many times am I supposed to forgive you?” He asks and a choked sob leaves me and I bury my face in my hands as a shiver runs down my spine.

"You don't have to." My head shakes and I look over to Maggie who holds our son tightly in her arms, her sad eyes giving me a tired look. "But it's not his fault. If you're going to give anyone a chance, give him one."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o- Taglist: @bubblebuttwade @rafelover2405 @leslienjazzy @sorceresss @grxnde-dwt @alex–awesome–22 @bunnietoof @niyamar1e @serialghost @plantlungs @geniusohn @akaliltimmytim @lilaalouuxx @xshariex @elliotsbeigeguitar @elle4404 @lelieja @srhxpci @joselyn001 @taysirene @spinkspanther @thedivineuphoria @peter-maximoffs @tsukishimawhore @poohkie90 @szlaco @distantsighs @nstyles4299 @wolflover384 @givemefoodandlovesstuff @vane28282 @yeswhatever33 @amirrahfranson @vvaalleennttiinna @f-mu @yaspillz @jeyramarie @skylievin@abbybarnes17 @jointherebellion215 @visiondaddy @steezysimfinds @its-ya-gay-boi-luigi

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[lady-of-endless]

My Hero Academia and Jujutsu Kaisen matchup exchange for lovely @kaycode1999 🌹

Author's Note: I'm sorry it took a little longer but I hope you'll enjoy it!

(gifs are not mine, I'm thanking the owners)

From MHA I ship you with...

Taishiro Toyomitsu

- Your ability to get along with most people is the first thing that draws him to you. He's always friendly so of course you'll get along well from the start. Gradually, you two would become amazing friends. Although, in time, he realizes how much you brighten up his day, more than a friend ever could, and he understands what's going on. Oh...He starts thinking more about you...oh no.

- I can imagine that one day, you jumped to help him, and since then, he's been whipped. He's gone. Why? Because you did it so naturally and you were so careful with him.

- He might get worried about your pale complexion at first. The poor guy thinks you have a type of anemia and is panicking, so he starts showing up with snacks, sweets, fruits, veggies, more water, etc.

- With this, you realize how attentive he is to you and your needs. You'll be spoiled as well.

- So you're a sweetheart, you get along with everyone, you're gorgeous too, and you even surprise him with gifts randomly? He's pretty sure he doesn't deserve you.

- His love language is probably words of affirmation, never hesitating to let you know how much he cares for you. He'll also hype you and show you off.

- However, even if he likes to be more vocal when it comes to showing affection, he also loves to ruffle your hair randomly and pick you up from time to time to hear your surprised reaction.

- Loves it when you get feisty. Even if he's the extrovert, when you get like that, he'd just step back and admire you with a wide dopey grin on his face.

- He wishes he could meet your relatives one day but won't pressure you.

- Movie nights are a must. He always lets you pick the movies as long as you let him pick the snacks.

A song he has in mind for you: Adore You - Harry Styles

Runner-up: Keigo Takami - He wonders how could someone be so nice and friendly with everyone. He wants to see what's underneath all that.

..........................................................................................

From JJK I ship you with...

Nanami Kento

- From your MBTI, I can tell that you might enjoy deeper conversations and connections with people. That's something he enjoys, too, in moderation. He also likes your introverted nature as he's usually surrounded by extroverts. It's a nice change.

- Nanami might be a little bit overprotective because you're getting along with many. He is cautious of those who might want to benefit from your kindness.

- Grumpy x Sunshine all the way with you two. It's so lovely that Gojo will always tease him about it.

- He secretly enjoys seeing you get assertive with rude people.

- Even if his main love language is quality time, when Nanami goes to his favorite bakery, he always buys something for you, too.

- Is always surprised by your gifts and trinkets. In a good way, of course. He comments about how you're too nice, too kind but accepts everything with a softer expression.

- If you'd be a sorcerer too, he will want to join you on missions. Everyone knows how significant this is since he prefers working alone.

- If you'd be a non-sorcerer, he'll most likely try to keep you away from that life as much as he can without lying to you. It's going to get complicated as you discover more and more because he can't and won't stop you.

- Reading dates are your thing. You two in his apartment, both reading in silence on the couch, legs intertwined, a glass of wine or a cup of tea on the coffee table...It's his heaven.

- He sighs every time he catches himself being distracted by your blue eyes.

A song he has in mind for you: Too Sweet - Hozier

Runner-up: Gojo - You seem so sweet and also so fun. How can he stay away?

Author's Note again: I swear, the fact that they're almost all of them blonde is just a funny accident. But I guess you don't mind. I hope.

[eepop-stuffs]

So, because i have a love for media preservation, and recently got a VPN, I figured I could compile some stuff from websites I couldn't visit before, like the Minmie website. The Minmie website is region-locked for the US, so I'm on a Japanese server. I chose Japan because this is a region that I know Minmie products were sold in. Like the Fulla website, it's partially lost. For the same reasons as the Fulla site, too. Ruffle simply can't open a lot of the archived pages. However, because Minmie was smart, we can actually see the home page due to the site not opening on a flash-based loading screen.

Much more after the cut!

This capture is from February of 2006, two years after the site was launched and six before it would be taken down. The 2004 capture's flash elements are inaccessible (but still there!), and for some odd reason the animation of Minmie and her man(?)* on the Vespa is inaccessible on every later capture.

*Edit: It's her brother. I was writing this as I was going along, I had no clue who he was at first😭

That blue part of the background is animated, and the text scrolls. I forgot to capture it in the video I think, but the red mailbox hops up and down when you hover on it.

The top animation seems to restart after a certain amount of time.

The 10 squares at the bottom bring you these images, and they're the same in every capture.

Slightly problematic "Attack Gangster" caption aside...

It's kind of weird how low quality these are, right?? This is the official website. These images literally come directly from the page those squares lead to. Also that last one of the boy character terrifies me. Also....does the seventh image imply that the boy's name is Min and the girl's name is Mie?? It would be hella weird if it did, considering that after the DJ Min image, the name Minmie was exclusively used to describe the girl in merchandising. Because they never used the boy again. I didn't even know he existed until now.

I love Minmie's art style so I'm kind of disturbed by the way male characters look in it-

I find it really interesting the way they draw her jawline sometimes, it's very round. They only seemed to do this in the 2000s, after 2011 she had an exclusively sharp jaw.

It's surprisingly low effort on everything but those little animations and transitions, there. The pages listed on the buttons are inaccessible no matter what capture you're on, although in the October 2008 capture, the "Character" button leads to a different page with content that Ruffle can't run. This is different from the others in which the buttons don't do anything at all when you click on them on the front page's archive. The "mail" option leads to an error page in the 2006 capture, although similar to the Character page, in every other capture it doesn't do anything at all. The "Shop" option leads to a site to purchase the Minmie domain instead of an archive for some reason. The "board" button seems to have lead to either a chat room or image board, but it's not accessible from the main menu and the URL is a swf, which I can't access. There's an "about me" page in the URL tab on the archive, but nothing loads.

HOWEVER!

We still have the site map, and the site map actually gives us the pages the buttons led to.

The shop page looked like this. I don't find it necessary to screenshot all of the options on the menu because all of them are pretty much the same, just with a different title, sometimes a longer page, and different inventory (the photos of which were not archived). Although I think it's very amusing how one of the shop pages is just named "bunch of keys". The "New Product" gif's background would rapidly flash black and white.

Here's the New Product pages (there's two for some reason).

New Product 1

New product 2

Like I said earlier, the pages look mostly the same. Because of this I only screenshotted the pages that had a different layout. Sadly the shop page is the only part archived through the site map.

Now we look to the URL tab. There's several gifs that are unavailable, and while it was also unavailable there's two gifs with the word "avatar" in their titles. This might also be nothing, though. The domain squatting sites were and continue to be archived even after the original site went down, so a majority of the URLs are from those. A lot of the old Minmie files lead to a blank or unavailable screen, however.

But back to what I did find:

There's this strange part of the site I found, and it's a menu with some futuristic graphics. It has a lot of moving parts, and buttons.

I have no clue what any of these lead to, the URLs that have names relating to some of these buttons just lead to the menu, again. The image to the side is blocked, and there's only one date of capture for the three URLS, so for now that's a mystery. I assume the background was a repeating pattern based on the order of the missing images in the back. Green binary over a black background, perhaps?

I found parts of the index page from 2012/11. Any other captures of this iteration of the site are fully unavailable, with many of the assets meeting the same fate as the right image in the futuristic menu page. These are super cute.

The red text is an error message. The catalog has the same layout. I think the most interesting thing about this version of the site is that one of the catalog pages has an option that says "Minmie doll". I would love it if anyone could give me any insight about that.

There's two images here that show the site when it was active during the early 2010s.

Both are from @tmgc's blog.

The 2011/12 site also has Wallpapers listed. They are all unavailable. there's multiple game pages (for both versions of the site, actually) but they both have nothing at all archived.

There's some more from this version of the site, I'll reblog with those images though. There's this huge image gallery of images from several events that I won't be able to fit in here

And now, we have some comic pages! They confirm the boy and girl are named Min and Mie respectively. I refuse to ever give that idea any credibility. I put them in a webtoon-adjacent order for more convenient reading :)

[page 3-6 are missing]

[Pages 9-14 are missing]

I have a feeling I know why these pages in specific were archived...

I'm kind of pissed about this comic??? Like why put Mie all over the marketing and merch and then....do this??? I was wondering why the brand failed so bad and the site died so quick, but now I think I may have my answer? I seriously think the 2010s cutting Min out of the picture was a good thing, if he acted like this.

As stated earlier I'll be reblogging this with more images, specifically from the 2011/2012 version of the website's event image galleries.

[dxwnfxll]

HIII it me again(I’ve been really hyper fixated on saints row and them being dads😭)I was wondering if you could do a platonic relationship with Troy Shogo Maero Johnny with a child!reader that’s like a totally a daddy’s girl just looks up to them so much and and follow them everywhere and how would they feel about it 🥹🫶(you don’t have to get it done right way take your time and take care of you self❤️❤️and get more sleep!!)

Omgg super sorry I never got to this but yeah!!

These will all probably be that child!reader is related to them just fyi!

••Saints row dad's••

Troy

It had always been just you and your dad since you could remember, he was a police officer and as you heard many of his colleagues say 'a damn good one'

You always looked up to him wanting to walk in his very footsteps, but..

Troy wasn't so keen on that idea, the cop had seen how evil Stillwater could be. He'd watch many of his own men die and even criminals he had gotten attached to.

He put his foot down a lot on you being a cop but you always persisted, he couldn't get mad at you wanting to be like him though.

You were his little girl always right at his hip and making a fuss when you couldn't be there.

He'd always read you to bed and ruffle your hair, he enjoyed taking you to school before he had to go back to the Saints.

He framed your drawings, let you do makeup on him and he cried once he finally saw you grew up

Once he sat in a crowd watching as you graduated police academy, even though you wore the uniform you always still looked like the little girl with messy pigtails and skinned knees to him.

He'll always be proud of you

Shogo

You were conceived from one of his ex's, the only reason at the time he kept you was because of his father.

'Take some responsibility!' His father would yell while he bounced you, at that moment he thought he'd hate this and hate you eventually

But one day he saw you take your first steps towards him and he was so..proud.

Ever since then you were a spoiled princess, anything you wanted you got!

He has his own parental issues and tries his hardest to not be like his own father but sometimes it happens

Even then though you still love him and still looked up to him with those big [e/c] eyes of yours

He'd always be doing 'work' while you sat in the same room either playing with blocks or your other various toys

He couldn't ever go anywhere without you, not cause he couldn't stand it but because you'd attach yourself to his leg and beg to come with

You never did find out where he went

Maero

You were such a small thing compared to him, this tough ass dude was scared to hold you for the first time.

He had you with a ex he's still friends with, the two of them sharing custody. But you always seemed to like him more

Your first word was 'dada', your first steps were at his place and you always bugged him whenever you could

He was extremely protective of you, if someone even made you cry that person would never be seen again (unless you count the news)

He wasn't the best dad though, he did a lot of messed up shit and he didn't even try to hide it from you.

Always stating it was some 'family business' type thing, that one day you'd be just like him

Also y'know that meme with Peter holding a shot gun going 'i'm just gonna talk to him' yeah that's him if you ever even get a crush on another person

Yeah he's one of those dads def sorry LOL

He's almost always carrying you around too and if anyone looks at him funny he sends a nasty glare

He cares a lot about you, you were the last thought in his head after he died

Johnny

Johnny is honestly probably the second best dad in the list (not including extra), he did his research before you came in the world

Obviously you're his and Aishas lil girl, and Aisha almost had to get up and fight him to finally hold you. He just didn't wanna let you go

It was sad that he got locked up soon after your third birthday, but he always wrote you letters and coloring pages he colored sometimes drawings

Once he got out you were the first person he hugged, you were playing in the yard when he pulled up

He calls you various nicknames Tater tot, Baby doll, trouble maker, thing one, and cheeseball

He takes you with him (much to Aisha's disapproval), don't worry though he only takes you on safe jobs

You'll be in your car seat as the boss jumps in 'hey johnny the fu-' instant head smack 'hey there's a damn kid in the back seat'

He's got the spirit at least

You follow him around everywhere even once you get older and your dad is famous

And of course Johnny would burn the world to protect you especially after what happened to Aisha

Extra

Carlos

Of course once Carlos joined the Saints you also technically joined

He'd call you 'lil Duck' because you'd always be following him around like one

He'd mess your hair up or put his beenie on you, and laugh as the beenie was too big and would fall over your eyes

He was a great dad, he tried his best to shield you away from all the bad stuff but he was a single father and there was little he could do

He'd be one of those dads that would let you sleep in his bed if you had a nightmare

And he'd always hold your hand whenever y'all were in public

Of course you looked up to your dad while having little knowledge in what he actually did

You still wear his beenie even as an adult

Donnie

Donnie was a scared for life dad, instant panic as soon as you were placed in his arms

He thought he'd be an awful dad and that you'd hate him but the complete opposite happened

Sure he made a few mistakes here and there but you never hated him, you always followed him around and stayed in his shop when you weren't at school

Hell you even tried to go against the damn boss of the saints themselves after they busted into his mechanic shop and started wailing on the poor guy

To which Donnie immediately spilled everything fearing they'd hurt you (they wouldn't)

You'd always beg him to play princess with you or to do his makeup

He isn't that terrifying or strong as Johnny or Maero but he'd do everything in his power to protect you

You're his only hope in life at the moment < 3

Sorry if these seemed rushed or not what you requested i'll be happy to redo them and i'll try to get any other requests done

Hope you enjoyed!

[rose-tinted-vision]

Fic: 雪 | Snow

Relationships: Xue Tongzi & Xue Gongzi

[also on ao3]

spoilers for the ending of My Journey to You (云之羽)

"It's fine if you forget me too, I can't bear for you to hold a grudge against me"

Elder Xue had been furious when he learnt about Xue Tongzi’s decision to stop his Burial Snow Heart Sutra cultivation path, far angrier than anyone had ever seen the placid Elder get. The temperature of the entire estate dropped abruptly, even chilling the ever-burning kilns of the Hua Forge slightly.

It was a selfish decision, but between a stronger cultivation level and two decades worth of memories, the choice had been easy.

“Giving up your cultivation path because of a servant!” Elder Xue exclaimed, “Ridiculous! I forbid it!”

(Xue Gongzi was not just a servant. He was his friend first and foremost. A brother, a caretaker, a guardian. They only had each other in the snowy cavern, after all.)

Xue Tongzi had sighed then, releasing the sutra he constantly cultivated in his core, “I was merely informing you, Elder Xue. not asking for permission."

“Ridiculous” Elder Xue scoffed, face turning a blotchy red, “impudent! How dare you-”

“Elder Xue, according to the sect rules, each individual is allowed to choose their own cultivation path,” Elder Yue said gently.

“The Burial Snow Heart Sutra is-”

“Sacred to the Xue lineage, I am aware,” Xue Tongzi cut in calmly, “It is the path chosen by every guardian of the back hill. I will give up my position and choose a successor to be the next guardian.”

Seeing the determination written on Xue Tongzi’s face, Elder Xue deflated, dragging a tired hand down his face.

“You worked so hard for the guardian position, why give it all up now?"

"My friends are all gone, Elder Xue. It would not do to dishonour their memory by giving it up for more power." Xue Tongzi averted his eyes, unable to bear the stricken expression on Elder Yue’s face.

“But without your Burial Snow Heart Sutra, your fighting prowess will weaken tremendously, and you will start ageing again,” Elder Xue warned, his expression grim but soft with understanding.

Xue Tongzi knows. He can feel his body starting to age already, all those years that he froze catching up to him now. He no longer feels as light, no longer as impervious to the chill in the air.

---

"How could I hold a grudge against you?"

Xue Tongzi could never hold a grudge against Xue Gongzi, not when the other had been forced to give up his freedom to remain in the cavern with him.

He knows how much the other longed to venture out, remembers the contemplative expression that crossed his face whenever when Hua gongzi mentioned sneaking out, knows that the other had been waiting for the day that Gong Ziyu will fulfil his promise, and finally bring Xue Gongzi to explore the outside world.

They did make it out, but not in the way he expected.

Are you lonely? Xue Gongzi had asked once, his eyes sparkling with the innocent curiosity of a child. He had just learnt the word from a book he read, and was experimenting with the ways he could use it in sentences.

No, Xue Tongzi had smiled, ruffling the others hair, As long as you are here, I won't get lonely.

Nowadays, Xue Tongzi feels like a reanimated corpse even on his best days, even with a dedicated, eager successor to train. He draws boundaries, tries not to let him get too close. It would feel too much like he was replacing Xue Gongzi otherwise.

He is not lonely, he tells himself. How could he be, with a young upstart to keep in check most of the time? But sometimes the cedar tree looks terribly accusatory, as if it can look through him and see how empty he feels.

Training his successor in the courtyard is even worse, it feels like Xue Gongzi is watching them train, and the guilt eats at him.

It gets better on certain days, between training and cultivating again. It helps to keep busy, keep his mind off the dead.

Especially since Elder Yue rarely visits, coping with his own grief by similarly throwing himself into researching various poisons with the third Gong heir. He barely sees the hide or hair of his friend nowadays.

Though the loneliness only truly sets in when his successor has turned in for the night, and Xue Tongzi is left on the deck overlooking the snow lotuses that Xue Gongzi lovingly nurtured. Sitting alone, it feels colder than it did back then.