#if you squint marginally less

[mirohtron]

im writing for @kaiwewi for this year's Secret Santa :) their prompt was:

Please write a story about a villain who is more of a mascot for their group of competent 'henchman' rather than an actual boss/leader.

—

Technically, the villain should've had the foresight to see this coming. They should've, probably, mentioned it to their leader, and if not them at least some lower-tier henchman. At least casually. Been like, hey, if I get kidnapped, you'll wanna save me, right? Could be hard to replace me.

Oh, man. 

This wasn't really happening, was it?

A rough, hard punch to the cheek sent their whole world spinning. A pink leather-clad hand yanked them up from the back of their hair to keep them from sinking. The villain considered screaming for help and quickly thought against it. They had to stay put. Had to.

"Got you now," said the crueler hero. What was her name again? Something pretty and harmless that didn't match her dreadful grin. The guy beside her was all red and gold muscle. The villain had seen him grace the covers of a couple magazines before; their mother had been subscribed to Vanity growing up.

Oh, if only their mother could see them right now. Getting kidnapped in a back alley in the dead of night. In civilian clothes too, at that. Embarrassing.

"Took you long enough," the villain replied, and the next punch knocked a tooth out. They spat it out in a bloody glob, staining the red hero's boots. On the black asphalt, their molar looked like a red fucking star. Or perhaps a bloody ship lost at sea. Their saliva was salty and their breath metallic.

Fuck. Fuck, they should've brought this up with their leader at least once.

Red circled Pink like a slinking cat, waiting to strike at her say-so.

"Hurt them," she ordered, and Red drove his knee into the villain's gut, driving all the air out of their lungs, and threw them to the asphalt. Their palms scraped against loose gravel. Their tooth was right beside their little finger. The villain's lungs spasmed and they could barely catch up to their pain.

Their henchmen never hit them. Sure, the villain was used as a mascot, was the assigned 'fall guy' if it all went to shit, but their henchmen never hit them. Why would they? There was no reason to damage your mask... unless they ratted you out to a bunch of heroes.

What a wonderful excuse that would be. Hitting them to build up pain tolerance so they wouldn't go around breaking in interrogations. The villain wasn't even sure what these heroes did to get people like them to break. They'd heard horror stories about electrocution. Hallucinogens. It made their stomach churn.

Pink dug the heel of her boot into the villain's sternum, watching them struggle to breathe. Beside her, Red silently watched the scene occur like a good toy.

"Look at them," she remarked. Her eyes were alight with a predatory glow. "Helpless without their minions."

"Like you without your bitch," the villain rasped.

Pink's expression turned terrible, and she brought her boot down on their face with fury.

The world went white.

—

There is no point in explaining how they got into this position. The only thing you need to know is this: despite the fear surrounding the villain’s name and their face, despite their grandeur, and even despite the terrifying speeches they spent hours poring over before releasing to the public, all the villain was, was a mascot to their henchmen and their shadowy leader. They were powerless, merely a result of perfect cues and perfect illusions. Behind the scenes, they were as replaceable as a magician’s cards.

—

The villain could not see for several hours.

It was possible that nobody was coming. A small part of their mind, harbouring a particularly loud voice, feared that their henchmen were already looking for replacements. Maybe they already had a list of candidates that they were crossing out.

In the most pathetic parts of the villain's mind they considered giving up every bit of information they knew, inclined to believe that somewhere out there, was a body double suited up and in the midst of memorising a script. Perhaps in exchange for information, they’d be offered a stable life. How delusional.

Someone had taken their sweater off, and some skin on their forearms was raw and red from when Red shoved them to the ground, tender in the chilly air of whatever room they were held in.

Rough hands forced their arms to wrap around the backrest of a metal chair. The villain took in a wheezing gasp and struggled as they heard the rustle of a thick cord being unwrapped.

"Ugh," came an apathetic voice, and a third hand wrapped around the back of their neck and forced their head down. They couldn't struggle like this; the metal dug into their flesh and they weren't strong enough to put up a fight.

The cord was fastened, and the blindfold over their eyes was yanked out.

Neon lights as bright as the sun blinded them, and they caught the glint of water just below their vision.

“Now,” commanded a voice, and a red hand caught their hair, and before the villain could register a goddamn thing they were drowning.

The villain made the biggest mistake of their life: they breathed, and their brain went into instant shock as water burned their airways. They opened their mouth to gasp and choked on liquid death, ears popping, their body's temperature dropping. The bowl's edges dug into their neck and jaw and they struggled and struggled, feet kicking the floor, hitting table legs and air and other useless things.

The hand on their neck kept them down, cold, unfeeling. Murderous. The villain's lungs burned; the water remained ice cold. Their heart jack-knifed in their chest, threatened to break out of their ribs. The water suffocated them mercilessly.

They were dying. They were dying and nobody was coming to help.

The world went as white as those neon lights.

—

Cold water ran down their chin, wetting their chest, making their hair stick to their face. The skin on their arms burned from the metal chair. The interrogation (torture?) room was all metal walls and neon lights.

The villain's lungs burned with each breath, but they took in air graciously. Had they blacked out?

A blurry face, pale and cruel, came into view, haloed by the lights. Behind Pink, the villain spotted cuffs hanging from a stained wall. Beside her feet were worn cords, dried blood on them.

The metal on this chair was rusted. They'd need a tetanus shot if they got cut from this, right?

Pink turned to Red, who stood behind them. "Dim the lights."

The hand on their hair left. Pink caught the villain's jaw, leaning down to look at them eye to eye.

The villain took in another noisy, unsteady breath. Their stomach still churned. Their chest felt as cold as their chair.

The lights dimmed until Pink's features were highlighted ghostly white, shadowed menacingly. Red's presence behind the villain felt radioactive.

Someone had to come. Someone had to. They were a good mascot, weren't they? But acrobats were as replaceable to circuses as playing cards were to a magician. They clenched their corded hands into tight, trembling fists.

Her grip threatened to bruise. "I knew there was something wrong with you," she said. "So brave playing the evil guy, treating the city like it's a stage, but without your employers, you're just another regular crook, aren't you?"

The villain’s chest seized at the accuracy with which she’d clocked them, but they forced themselves to give her the most cutting grin they could muster. "We're much more similar than you think, you and I."

Red pulled their head back and pressed something metallic to their neck—a blade. The villain let out a terrified sound, and Pink laughed. "Look at them," she said. "Shaking like a leaf at a blunt knife."

"I could do a lot of damage with it," said Red. He dragged the knife down, rusty just like everything else in this damn room, trailing grime down their skin in its wake. He aimed the point of it at the hollow of their throat, and the villain choked on a noise. "Could poke here with enough pressure, see what happens."

The villain desperately shook their head as much as they could. Pink seemed to delight in their reaction.

Oh, god. They scrambled for some lines stored in their head, from watching movies and reading scripts and writing speeches. "Come on," they tried, struggling to get their voice to adopt a careless lilt. The blunt point of the knife felt suffocating. Was it blocking their blood flow? "Can't we all come to an agreement here?"

They weren’t even expecting a proper response to that. But Pink’s entire attitude seemed to flip, and the look in her eyes went from sinister to eager with such swiftness that it made the villain shiver. "Oh, we could," She said, crouching down and looking up at them with sudden kindness. "Tell me," she said, "what your henchmen are up to." She traced her thumb over the villain's knee. "And I will personally assure your safe withdrawal from them, and you'll never see us or them ever again."

The villain looked down at her in silence, unnerved. A cold drop of water dripped down from their hair, down the bridge of their nose. They wouldn't snitch. They couldn't.

She traced the outline of their kneecap patiently. Behind her, Red stood in silence. His knife was gone. The villain could hear their heartbeat.

"You know," said the villain. "Oddly enough I don't believe that."

Pink lit their knee on fire, broke a fucking bone, did something horrible, because their kneecap lit up in absolute agony and they screamed, and Red was drowning them again.

—

Their chest was soaked, their jaw ached from all of the punches and backhanded slaps they'd received, and their scalp felt bruised from the harshness with which Pink and Red manhandled their head.

Nobody was coming. The lights were dim and the sun was probably rising outside, and a rising sun meant no shadows for their leader to travel with. They couldn't tell how long it'd been.

It'd been long enough for an alarmingly red bruise to start forming on their knee, though. Perhaps a couple hours. Their leader’s right-hand had once told them how long it took for bruises to form. They reckoned this one would turn a hideous purple in a couple of days and stay like that until next week. If they were alive until next week.

They coughed up water and phlegm. Pink nudged them with rough fingers to their temple. Red sharpened that blunt knife with a whetstone, the sound of it piercingly loud in their ears. It wasn't rusty. It bled, staining the water red, making it glint like the devil's eyes in the low light.

Pink held out her hand. "Bring it over."

Like a fucking dog, Red obeyed. Pink flicked the knife around like a magician did their cards. The villain flinched.

She laughed. God, that dreadful laugh. She pressed the cusp of her palm down on their forehead and a whimper eked out of the villain's throat, but they couldn't snitch. They couldn't. Yes, they were expendable. Yes, they knew their henchmen looked down on them to some degree. And yes, all that they were, was a mask for a coalition of bad guys to hide behind. 

But. But.

They didn't have anywhere else to go.

The knife pressed cold against their neck. Red walked over to see, curious like a child. The lights were so dim that the ceiling was pitch black.

The villain stared at Pink with wide eyes, unsure if this was a threat or the real deal. But then the knife began to slice, and the villain jerked and flinched in their restraints.

Oh, god, oh god oh god oh god. The villain strained their wrists against the cords once more, dug their toes into the fucking floor, wishing something would swallow them up.

"I'm sorry!" they said in their absolutely ruined, drowned voice. "I'll—I'll tell! I swear I'll fucking rat those guys out like it's no tomorrow."

"There it is," said Red in his detached voice.

"There it is," repeated a pleased Pink. She turned the knife up and pressed it to a vein that the villain knew was important because the leader's right hand had mentioned it once. The jugular, or something? They choked on a breath. "Let it all come out, honey."

Oh, god, were they really going to do this? The villain looked at the ceiling, praying for something to come and help them. Their legs and arms shook. Their knee ached. They looked at a shadowy, void-like patch tucked away in the upper corner of the ceiling as though it would save them.

The void stared back.

The villain choked again.

One eye, glowing gold like a ring stared at them. Then another. A pair of eyes staring back at them, familiar ones, gold, like...

Their leader’s face emerged from the shadows, a finger pressed to her lips. Burning relief flooded the villain's veins.

Pink stared at them intently, patiently still. Waiting for a response. Their leader slinked back into the shadows, snake-like in her smoothness, and the villain scrambled to put on a mask.

Like an actor on stage, they twisted their face up in pain, anger, hurt, grief. "They're such cruel people," the villain said, staring deeply into Pink's eyes. "Such terrible, cruel people."

Their leader approached.

Pink leaned in, handed the knife over to Red to pocket. "Poor thing," she remarked.

The villain nodded, leaning in with her. "Yes," they breathed. "Poor you."

They kicked her knees and heard a crunch. Pink screamed, stumbling back, and their leader shot out of the darkness, fist curled and glinting—brass knuckles?—and punched the back of her head. She went down like a rag doll.

"Holy shit—" Someone snapped their cords off, and the villain was quickly hauled up to their legs, that same blade pressing into their neck. They seized.

Red's fist shook as he clutched the villain's hair. The knife quivered.

Their leader froze.

"Get down." Red's voice was calm, but his chest rose in unsteady breaths behind the villain's back.

The other raised her hands up placatingly, slipping the bloody brass knuckles off. At her feet, Pink's body twitched, her hair stained, blood pooling around her head and spreading at an alarming rate. Her twitching seemed to make Red tick worse.

The villain's heart felt close to bursting. Their chest was still wet from that water bowl, and their knee threatened to give out on them. The room was growing darker. "Stop that," gritted out Red. "I'll give you your mascot if you leave us alone. I need—I need to fix her."

"You'll remember us. You'll remember them." Their leader carefully gestured to the villain. "I can't let that happen."

Red didn't want to hear that—the blade twitched against the villain's neck. They whimpered in fright. The shadows twitched closer. "You hit the back of her head."

"Yes, I know how to give someone amnesia."

"I can heal the wound, but the brain damage will remain. She won't remember anything, and, and—" Pink twitched again, some horrible noise escaping her throat. Red's glove squeaked with the effort it took to not simply drive the blade into the villain's neck. "I'll give you your goddamn mascot if you take back the shadows, just let me save her."

The leader looked at the villain, no doubt taking in their dripping wet hair, the slowly forming bruises on their cheeks, the steady way the tiny cut on their neck bled.

The shadows retreated. Red shoved them forward and dove to Pink, quickly removing his gloves and hovering a shaking hand over her wound. He whispered soft, soothing things to her and caressed her bloodstained hair as his hand took on a healing, golden glow.

The villain stumbled into their leader's arms, completely wetting the front of their shirt, but the leader didn't seem to mind. Her arms wrapped firmly around them, protective, and pressed them closer. The villain gladly melted into their embrace, taking in trembling gasps.

Their leader bowed her head to whisper into their ear, "You betrayed us."

The villain bodily flinched. They looked up at their leader, but her expression was blank, unreadable. "What?"

One hand left to fish something out of their pockets, the other arm remained to keep the villain pressed close like a cord. Their leader pulled out a gun and the villain froze, paling, but she merely struck the butt of it against Red's head. It was too harsh; his whole body moved with the hit, and he was thrown to the side. His fingers were still stained with Pink's blood. "You broke, didn't you? You must've told them bits and pieces of information, to keep the pain at bay."

"I—I didn't..." The villain didn't what? They knew they should be defending themselves. But their throat was merely closing up. "Madame," they restarted. "She put a knife to my neck."

Their leader cocked their head to the side, as though they were trying to spot a lie. The villain stepped back and looked down at their feet, pressing a finger to their bleeding neck.

Stationed outside of what turned out to be an old, run-down building was their leader's right-hand. They took one look at the villain's limp and clucked, giving them their arm to hold on to.

It was still a couple hours from sunrise. The villain glared at the ink-blue sky stretching out into the horizon and let the right-hand inspect all the bruises and cuts they could see.

Their leader left to pull out the sleek black car they'd be travelling in.

—

So their henchmen hadn't come because they cared. They'd just come to protect themselves. Technically, the villain couldn't blame them—they'd been desperate enough to consider spilling all the information they knew to save their own skin.

But still. But still. They'd been drowned.

The villain stared out at all the buildings and streets they passed and tried to get any depressing thoughts out. They'd get out of this. They'd clear their name. And their leader would trust them less, but at least they'd still have a home.

—

The ache in their knee grew worse with time. To their chagrin, the right-hand carried them into the lair like a bride, and the mascot (they didn't need to pretend anymore) stubbornly stared at their hurt knee, chest still squeezing, heart still pounding. 

The right-hand wanted to take them to the med bay; their leader told him to look after the mascot in her quarters. As the right-hand moved aside paperwork, bottles of ink, and stacks of files and folders from their leader's desk, she went fishing for a medkit in her ensuite.

Right-hand caught their chin, tilting their face up to the light. They brushed a thumb against the corner of the mascot's frowning lip. "They punched you?"

"My tooth's gone."

The right-hand perched them over the expensive wood, their hands steady and oddly comforting. Gone as soon as they were done. "And what happened to your knee?"

"I don't know. One of them squeezed it or something."

"I see." The right-hand brushed their fingers over the front of their damp shirt, frowned, and went to look for drier clothing.

Their leader came back and placed the medkit down on their desk with too much force. The mascot flinched. Their right-hand glanced at them from where they fished for new clothes.

Her expression said: explain. The mascot swallowed.

"I didn't tell them anything," they said.

Their leader tilted their head to the side, and it made the mascot's chest squeeze. She leaned into their space and the mascot clenched their fists. "I'm being very gentle because I know you don't like pain, and I know that that would've made you betray us back in that old warehouse. That red hero knew you were a mascot. What else did you tell them?"

"I didn't—I wouldn't—"

"You would."

The mascot shoved them. The right-hand glanced at the two, alarmed. "If you were as helpless as me, you would crack too!"

Their leader, to the mascot's frustration, showed no reaction to that shove. They went down on their feet despite their hurt knee, putting more distance between the pair. Their hands shook. Some papers flew off of the desk, and the mascot didn't care that they stepped on them.

"I know I would have." Their leader took on a faux-soothing voice. "That's why I'm asking you—what did you tell them?"

"Nothing!"

"You were ready to rat us out like no tomorrow. That's not nothing."

"What?" the right-hand asked from near the wardrobe. 

"Shut up!” yelled the mascot, feeling slightly hysterical. This wasn’t going well. This wasn’t going well at all. “I had a knife to my neck!" They pointed to their cut. They could feel their throat closing, their voice growing croaky. "I was drowning, and they were hitting me, and—" To their embarrassment, wetness was coming to their eyes. They felt terrible. Of course their leader wouldn't trust them; the mascot didn't trust her either. But they felt hurt regardless.

They thought they were worth saving. Weren't they?

"Oh." The leader sounded disappointed. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't cry like that."

The mascot threw a bottle of ink at them. It shattered against their chest, staining it black.

Their right-hand was frozen. The mascot swayed on unstable feet, head pounding. Their leader looked at the mess on their chest in mild shock, eyes imperceptibly wider than before. That didn’t make the mascot feel better.

A tear, traitorously, escaped and ran down their cheek. The mascot covered their red face. They could hear their heartbeat. It drowned out every other noise there could be.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come," they confessed. A soft hiccup escaped their throat, and their body felt tight in their discomfort. "It's not like I shattered. I was afraid the moment they caught me. I was afraid I was going to be replaced up until the moment I saw you. But I didn't say a single thing, not until they cut me, because they were cruel—I didn't want to lose my fingers and teeth to people who would never come to save me."

For a very, very long moment, nobody said a goddamn thing. The mascot wished to disappear. Someone touched their shoulder and they swatted that hand off. "Don't touch me."

The moments ticked on. The mascot stared at the floor in a quiet, tired sort of anger. The kind that a toddler experiences after throwing a tantrum that gets them nothing but a tired body and a tear-soaked face.

They should’ve never been saved.

“I’m sorry,” came the leader’s quiet voice. The mascot glanced up and saw that she was not looking at them. “I have misjudged you. I shouldn’t have.”

It would be the mature decision to accept that apology, but the mascot didn’t want to do that. So they stared at their feet and said, bitterly, “When have you not?”

Their leader’s hand was stained with ink, as dark as their shadows, and they rubbed the pads of their fingers together. “You can retire to your quarters now. I’ll send my right hand to check on you soon.”

The mascot was thankful for that; they stepped out of the room and burst into tears immediately.

— 

The right-hand’s fingers rested on the mascot’s hip as they applied a salve to their hurt knee.

“I’m sorry,” came their quiet apology.

“What are you apologising for?”

They didn’t meet the mascot’s eye. The right-hand gazed at their thumb, which traced circles on the villain’s slowly numbing knee. “It wasn’t a unanimous decision to save you, I admit. There was a fight. But the leader and I wanted you back. We were all divided. But she insisted.”

The mascot laughed wryly. “‘Cause I’d leak information?”

“That’s not what was on the forefront of her mind.”

“Then what was?”

The right hand looked up at them, and they really did seem regretful. They cupped the mascot’s jaw. “I knew you were missing a tooth the moment I saw you. We found it, you know, in a back alley near your apartment. She flipped before we could even confirm it was yours.”

“You…confirmed it was mine?”

The right-hand turned a bizarre shade of pink. “When you first joined us, you gave up your medical records. And that includes your dental records, so…”

“...Oh.”

— 

Crickets chirped past their bedroom window. The mascot stared into the darkness of their room, sleep slow to catch up to them. The salve’s effects were wearing off, the pain coming back in growing aches. Faint rays of five a.m. sunlight trickled into their room through gaps in their curtains, glowing prussian blue.

When their eyelids began to grow heavy, the shadows in their room curled towards them, hesitant to touch, keen on encompassing.

“You came,” the mascot mumbled tiredly. The shadows came nearer. “Because you thought I was hurt?”

I was afraid for your safety, said the shadows. But I didn’t make that clear, and I let my paranoia get ahead of my better judgment. For that, I am sorry.

“But you still came,” they repeated, “To save me.”

As soft as morning mist, the shadows slithered around before their lips. I did, it agreed. Of course I did.

The mascot drifted off to sleep, safe and snug.

[mondaymelon]

₊⊹ "𝐧𝐨𝐨𝐨, 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝…" | xiao, childe, alhaitham x gn!reader

「 "𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐚𝐚𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮!!"」

— in which you've gotten drunk... drunk enough to fail to recognize your own lover.

— silly fluff. soft xiao, had this one in the drafts for far too long and its about time i choke it out... happy white day !!

the moment your slurred words reached his ears, XIAO knew that he never should've let you get your hands on that cursed rice wine.

in a way, he supposed it could be his fault. the one time he had decided to indulge in trivial mortal matters like alcohol due to your constant insistence... well, just look at you.

red-faced, the tips of your ears and cheeks stuck in a helplessly drunken flush, you babbled incoherently with half of your face smushed against the table. xiao could only stare in contempt as you feebly reached towards the already-emptied bottle,

( xiao had taken one sip and refused any more indulgence, claiming it was bitter, when in fact, you had gone out of your way to find a sweeter drink ),

and sigh, massaging the bridge of his nose with a certain disillusionment.

"come on, you're getting to bed." the man was just about done with your hopeless actions. he grabbed your wrist and tugged, only to be met with resistance. you're pouting like a child, brows furrowed lazily as you stare upwards at him.

"nnno. m'not going with you."

"...excuse me?" what in the archons was the problem now? he tugged again, this time with a small margin of force, and was met with an even larger pull back, this time paired with a low whine. "hey, it's late, and all the wine is gone, so just comply with me won't you?"

"i already told you... i have a husband..."

your complaint met the cool night air and the adeptus' silence. his lips were slightly parted as his round eyes blinked once, then twice, in a sort of stunned stupor. "...love, i am that husband."

archons, how had he found himself such a foolish mortal to love?

"don't lie to me!" you shook your head profusely, wiggling around in his grasp relentlessly until the adeptus had no choice but to let go. "i know my husband when i see him... and he's way handsomer than you, stupid..." you stared him up and down with squinting eyes, eyeing the way his ears were beginning to turn pink, and sat heavily in thought as you pondered the man before you.

definitely not your husband.

idiot. with a huff, he easily hauled your body over his shoulder as if carrying something as trivial as a sack of potatoes. you hung loosely over, landing a couple weak punches on his back as you proceeded to prattle on, your defiance seemingly having little effect.

then, you were silent, and xiao had to look back to make sure you hadn't gotten hurt. sure, he had considered once or twice leaving you out there all passed out on the balcony, but not without reason, yet he'd decided against it. you seemed fine, mouth hung slightly ajar as you snoozed peacefully, your eyes shut and cheeks still warm from what you'd downed. the audacity to fall asleep... xiao couldn't deny that his sigh was one of fondness.

"night, this husband of yours loves you."

strange, wasn't the wine from liyue supposedly far less intense compared to the vodka CHILDE had tried back home?

that, or the people here simply were more susceptible when it came to the topic of intoxication. you were no exception — he'd taken you out drinking, his mistake, thinking it'd be an easy, splendid time.

and don't get him wrong, it was! not just, well... conversation was rather hard to make when the other person was practically unconscious. you're practically splayed across the mahogany table, eyes nearly drooped close and fire across your cheeks.

you giggled. it's a muddled sound, when you're mostly mumbling into the table. "hhhey, pour me another glass~"

childe scans your less-than-ideal state and procures an answer in a little under a second. "love, you've had too many."

you seem shocked at his words, leaning forwards a little with narrowed eyes. your figure sways as you shake your head lazily, from side to side. "wwhhhat? nnno, that can't be right..."

the man holds back an amused chuckle. it's entertaining. "and how many fingers am i holding up?" he holds up just one hand, displaying a reasonable amount of three.

there's a beat of silence. "...nineteen?" you blink a couple times, as if to shake you out of your stupor. "...nineteen," this time, with confidence.

childe claps his hands together, a sudden sound that makes you startled, and he moves to apologize immediately. "we're getting you to bed, love. clearly you've had more alcohol than you can handle."

"what, was i wrong??" there's tears forming in your eyes, and your lips tug downwards in a frown. "u-uhm, fifteen? nno, four...?"

"still incorrect, love. i'm afraid it's time for you to go to sleep. you'll wake up with a hell of a hangover tomorrow morning, but..." he sighed, thinking back to his time in shneznaya, then made a mental note to prepare you a hangover drink in the morning. his hand found its familiar place in your hand, unnaturally warm with your skin rosy from the alcohol. he smiled, turning to glance at you, but ceased when he saw you on the ground, tears now falling from your eyes, quietly sobbing as you shook your head back and forth.

panic immediately sets in. what has he done wrong?? "love, what-"

"nnnno, don't call me that..." you squinted upwards at him, looking quite displeased. "no 'love', 'kaaay? i'm not your love, mister."

he paused. wait, you didn't possibly think that... "love-" oh, old habits died hard, and the word had already left his lips before he could process what you'd said.

"i have a husband, you!!" in some sort of fit, or perhaps better worded as a tantrum, you stood, wrenching yourself from his grip and then hitting him repeatedly in the shoulders, chest, anywhere your fists could reach, really. the alcohol had surely affected your capabilities of combat — you missed half the time, and what punches did land caused no pain at all.

as your anger subsided, your step faltered, body swaying in the open air before childe reached over to catch you in his arms. he was concerned, naturally. "lov- are you alright?" his worry only grew when he heard no response, but it ebbed with a chuckle when he saw you were already fast asleep in his arms, snoozing without a care in the world.

"a husband, hm? whoever it is, he must quite be the gentleman..."

ALHAITHAM knew his night was fated to end in idiocy the moment you knocked on his door.

it didn't even strike him that you were holding wine, of all things, when you waltzed into his house like it was your own. sure, it wasn't as if these occasions weren't frequent, but really anyone would be surprised to glance up from a quiet reading session only to see their (annoying) lover pressed against the door, repeatedly calling out his name in a sing-song, satire-like voice.

like... calling a cat. it was a realization he made with not too much contentment. silently, he thanked the archons that kaveh was not home — they knew that he could not handle the both of you.

it was only when you sat down at his table, where he'd been reading up to the point when you barged in, that he noticed. green-tinted glass, a little wind motif on the front... dandelion wine from mondstadt. now, just how did you get your hands on that?

"connections," you had stated. with a note of pride, he might add. what, was he supposed to congratulate you on being able to talk to other people? even he, a person who generally hated people, could do that.

ah, but he didn't hate it. your voice, that is, when you rambled on for hours on end. he didn't have the heart to interrupt you, especially when you were so heated on a topic — be it work troubles, an especially annoying sailor, or you accidentally dropping your pita pocket into the water when walking along the port, he didn't mind.

"...mmbottle. haaithammm, the bottle..." your drunk complaints reach his ears, and he his irritation is more so disrupted with inward amusement as he watches you in the predicament you've landed yourself in.

"the bottle?" he questions, raising an eyebrow. his hands are crossed over his chest; he's clearly getting a ruse out of this. "just what would you need the bottle for, love?"

your eyebrows scrunch together. he can tell your brain is working at its max capacity. "...im. thirsty?"

"you've already drunk two thirds of this bottle." he holds said bottle high above your head, hopelessly far from your reach. "if you're so thirsty, drink water."

"i don wanna."

"..."

"just... one drop?"

"hah..." he pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply, and places a hand on your shoulder. you barely react, and don't even glance at the sudden weight. "love, you're staying over. you're going to bed."

"bed...?" horror crosses your face, paired with evident irritation. "y...you, who do you think you are, to suggest such things!?" your face is bright red, and you're hugging yourself with one arm and pointing an accusing finger towards the male with the other. "i have a husband!!"

ah. "...what's his name?"

"and why do youuuu want to know?" you narrow your eyes suspiciously at him, but seem to come up with an answer to your own question, for you answer him anyhow. "haitham."

"do you love this 'haitham'?" alhaitham's enjoying himself. when he teases the sober you, all you do is retort back, but now... he can see your flustered expression on full display as you stammer out an answer.

"o-of course! a-and, if you wanted to know, he's waaaaay handsomer.. than ... you..."

just like that, you topple over and sink into the couch, knocked unconscious. a trace of a smile crosses alhaitham's lips as he looks at your sleeping form.

"fortunately for you, this 'haitham' you speak of loves you too."

(a/n) bye i was gonna add kaveh to this one too but i realized oh fuck its white day i said id post a month ago what the fuck am i doing so i just like regurgitated this out and spat it onto your dashboard. ahodfjlds

tags (id paste the aesthetic thing but i cant find it so we're just gonna roll w this):

@manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @ @falors, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife, @lupicalbestwolf, @justyoureader,@fiannee, @aether-darling, @ceneid, @avensuersa, @solxima

[felixbit]

employee discount

pairing: jeongin x gn!reader w. 1.5k genre: fluff, coffee shop au summary: you've been going to the same coffee shop ever since you moved to busan. you seem to be the favorite of the cute barista, jeongin, because he started giving you the employee discount. warnings: none part 2

Moving to a new city was difficult. This much you figured out when you'd moved to Busan six months ago. Even with a job and an apartment, things seemed to still be stressful no matter how much you tried to settle in.

There were upsides to the move, though. Getting a coffee before work had seemed to slip into your routine as it did for many. Even if it would cost far less to make your favorite drink at home, it was a habit you weren't breaking any time soon. The atmosphere of a coffee shop was too pleasant to give up, and the coffee tasted marginally better.

It helped that there was this guy that worked there. The first time you'd seen him was the first time you were in the shop, so you were too busy getting yourself oriented to process just how beautiful he was. But every time you'd seen him since, you couldn't help but stare as he made your order.

His pretty smile whenever he saw you, the way his eyes would almost shut and make him look like a fox, was so endearing. He'd memorized your name by the second week of your attendance, and your regular order by three weeks. When you'd walk up to the register, he'd look like he was thinking really hard and guess a drink, sighing dramatically if he got it wrong.

Your days seemed to be noticeably worse on the days you'd get your morning drink and he wasn't there working. You knew that, of course, he was a man with a life and couldn't work every morning. But that didn't stop you from being bummed out about it. You'd yearn to see him almost all day, which made the next time you did that much sweeter.

Any friend you'd talked to since had gotten an earful about the cute barista you saw all the time. The day you learned his name, Jeongin, you might've typed it into your phone five hundred times in texts. For such a cute and endearing man, his name was equally amazing.

The way you obsessed over him almost made you feel like you were in school again. You could picture it: writing his name next to your own in the margins of your notebook with hearts around it. In truth, it was just a little barista crush. Maybe one day you'd shoot your shot, but it wasn't at the top of your priority list.

Maybe you were a little too blinded by love in the moment to notice, but the amount you were spending on coffee had gone down in the last few weeks. You didn't pinpoint the cause being from your coffee budget, so it surprised you when you'd finally figured out what was going on.

It was a day like most others. The late spring warmth was in the air, getting your final taste of the season before summer began. Just like you had every day, you got ready for work and went to the coffee shop.

Stepping inside hit you with the smell of fresh coffee grounds. The soft ambient music playing set you almost instantly into a state of comfort as you looked behind the bar to see a familiar figure. He was looking intently down at the latte art he was pouring out, so you couldn't see his face. You knew it was Jeongin.

Staring at him made you realize just how soft his hair looked. Maybe he bought a new conditioner? Either way, you stepped closer to the counter and watched as his steady hands carefully poured the white cream into the coffee mug. When you really squinted, you could make out that he was making a cute little bear face.

Just as he had finished the design and slid the mug out, calling out the customer's name, he looked up at you and grinned. You felt your stomach stir with butterflies as your eyes met. He waved a little hello as he walked with you over to the register.

"Good morning, Jeongin," You said as you smiled, your eyes looking over his name tag. The writing on it looked done by hand, and it made you wonder if it was his handwriting.

Jeongin briefly looked down at the register, tapping on the screen a few times before looking up at you again. "Good morning, y/n. How are you?"

"I'm not so bad," You shrugged, "Same as always, I guess. How are you doing?"

"Pretty good, actually! I'm moving into a new apartment soon. Got the contract all set and the deposit made," Jeongin explained, "Kind of exciting."

A flurry of questions spun through your head. You took a moment before asking, "A new apartment? Will you still be here in Busan, making coffee?"

Jeongin waved his hand, "Yeah, I'll still be around, don't worry. The new place will actually be closer to the shop," He grinned and looked you in the eye, "I'm not leaving you behind."

Your face flushed a little, but you sighed a little out of relief. "That's good to hear, I wouldn't trust anyone else to make my drink like you do."

Jeongin laughed and shook his head. "Well, I'm not going to be a barista forever.. I hope you'll find a way to cope with that."

"Don't remind me," You said wistfully, "What will I ever do without your expertise before I go to work?"

You could see him flash a look for a moment, as if he had something to say, before stopping and sighing. "I guess we'll see."

Deciding not to pry, you continued on. "Well, I guess you'll need to make my drink today to make me forget that you won't work here one day."

"I can do that," Jeongin tapped the register screen a few more times before you saw your order pop up on the small screen. You took out your card and looked up at the balance before watching it change as he pressed a button.

The price had fallen to half of what it originally showed as. Jeongin looked up at you like everything was normal, but your face only reflected confusion. Looking from the price and back to him a few times, you finally spoke up. "Wait, what did you just do?"

"Hm?" Jeongin furrowed his brows for a second, "What do you mean?"

"The price, it.." You pointed at it, your voice trailing off into nothingness. You weren't crazy, right? "What did you do to it?"

Jeongin paused for a few seconds before chuckling softly to himself. "You just now noticed?" You stared at him blankly until he continued, "I've been giving you my employee discount for like, three weeks."

You were dumbfounded, to say the least. You'd noticed you had a little more money than you expected to, but you hadn't put the pieces together as to why that was. "Why would you do that?" You asked.

He simply shrugged his shoulders and looked down for a moment. "I don't know. Maybe you're my favorite customer."

The outright admission took you by surprise and you couldn't help the smile that crept onto your face in response. "Am I really?"

"What if you are?" He looked up again and met your eyes. His voice sounded a little more confident, but you could notice a slight shake in the end.

You didn't really know what to do with that information. It would certainly explain why he'd done it, but that opened up a whole new avenue of questions. You simply inserted your card to pay for the drink, looking up at him. "That would be.. nice."

His eyes looked uncertain. You could see that he was looking at you for something, but it wasn't clear what it was. He took a breath and watched the transaction go through. He opened his mouth for a second to say something before stopping.

Leaving you hanging, Jeongin picked out the cup for your drink, writing on the order details and beginning to make it at his work station. Still confused, you decided to just watch him work as always. He was strangely precise in everything he did, always making your drinks look pretty and taste great.

You got a little lost in watching his hands work that he was pushing your drink out to you before you knew it. You snapped back into reality, seeing that he had a smile on his face as you picked up the cup with your drink. Taking a sip, you smiled at the taste. Perfect.

"Have a good day, y/n." Jeongin said as he wiped down his work station and finally turned away from you. You were positively bursting with questions but the interaction seemed to abruptly be over, so you walked towards the door while taking another sip.

As you went to take a drink, you noticed writing under your finger that seemed out of place. Moving your hand, you looked at the words in sharpie and couldn't help but laugh. Your heart stirred, turning back at Jeongin, who was totally looking back at you.

don't get me fired 01-1234-5678

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Ten

CW: Mild-ish sexual content?

WC: 6.1k

Notes: if only Ferrari was really this good…

Baku had come and gone.

The street circuit under lights had delivered all the chaos it was known for, and still somehow, it had settled into something nearly predictable. McLaren had been fast. Too fast, if Azzi was honest with herself. Their top-end pace on the straights made overtaking miserable, and their tire degradation had somehow improved overnight. Still, she’d salvaged third. Paige fourth, less than a second behind. Neither of them thrilled, but no damage done. Ferrari still led the constructors’ standings comfortably, and Paige still had a grip on the Drivers’ Championship.

It wasn’t a bad weekend. Just a loud one.

Now they were thirty thousand feet above the ground, somewhere over Central Asia, heading toward the relentless humidity of Singapore. And Azzi, feet tucked under her on the cream leather couch of her jet, was deeply regretting letting Luka and Mateo talk her into this.

Well, not really. She’d offered.

“You’ve never flown private?” she’d asked them after the race, eyes wide with genuine disbelief.

Luka had shrugged like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “Never needed to.”

Mateo had grinned. “We’re team players. We suffer with the staff.”

Azzi had rolled her eyes, already texting her flight manager.

Now they were here. Luka was sitting backward in his chair, ankles crossed on the armrest like he owned the place. Mateo was three snacks in and holding a banana like it was a mic.

And Paige was seated across from Azzi, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, looking more relaxed than she had since Baku qualifying. At least until Luka started squinting at her.

“So,” Luka said, his voice filled with the kind of faux-innocence that immediately made Azzi want to groan. “How was New York?”

Azzi looked up from her phone slowly. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Mateo echoed, like a parrot with a PhD in sarcasm. “Totally random dinner in the same restaurant, same table, same neighborhood, at the same time.”

“Wild coincidence,” Luka added, flipping his phone around to show a photo. “This viral shot disagrees.”

It was the picture from dinner. Dimly lit but sharp enough to see how close Azzi had leaned in. How Paige’s hand had been on the back of her chair. It had hit TikTok mid-week and was still racking up edits with soft piano music and increasingly romantic captions.

“Okay,” Paige said, trying not to smile. “People eat.”

“In the same city?” Mateo asked. “On the same night?”

“We’re coworkers,” Azzi said, deadpan.

“Who fly private together,” Luka offered. “And also disappear at parties together, according to this thread.”

He flipped to another screen. Azzi caught a flash of Dirk’s smug face in one of the photos and looked away before her mood could turn.

“It’s not that deep,” Paige muttered, but the back of her neck was pink.

“No, no,” Mateo said, holding up his banana-mic. “We’re just engineers asking questions.”

Azzi cracked then, covering her face with one hand and laughing despite herself. Paige leaned back with a groan, pulling her hood over her eyes like it might protect her from the onslaught.

They weren’t mad about it. Not really. Just caught. Sort of. Not that there was anything to catch.

Sort of.

“So,” Mateo said after a beat, tossing the banana peel into the trash bin behind him. “Big weekend coming up, huh?”

Azzi nodded. “Singapore’s a good track for us. Hot. Technical. Tight corners.”

Luka tilted his head. “And after that?”

Azzi smiled, folding her hands behind her head. “Austin.”

Her mood shifted warmer at the thought. “My family’s flying in. Parents, Jon, José… even the baby cousins might show if my uncle can figure out how a plane works.”

“Serious crew,” Luka said.

Azzi nodded. “Haven’t seen them since Miami. They’re loud and sweet and will eat like twelve thousand funnel cakes.”

“You hyped?” Mateo asked.

Azzi looked at Paige, who peeked out from under her hood.

“Yeah,” Azzi said. “We both are.”

Paige nodded. “I love the U.S. GP. And I think my dad and Drew are coming to Vegas in November.”

Azzi smiled. “Tell your dad he owes me a rematch in cornhole.”

“I won’t,” Paige said. “He’s still pretending it never happened.”

Luka leaned over and stage-whispered, “So we’re going to pretend this whole flight isn’t basically a Ferrari honeymoon?”

Azzi picked up a pillow and chucked it at him.

–

Singapore was a furnace.

Not the dry, blistering heat of southern Spain or the sunbaked stretches of Silverstone. This was suffocating. Dense. Sticky. Every step outdoors felt like walking through a pot of simmering soup. Even indoors, with air conditioners on full blast, it seeped into the walls, the floorboards, the threads of your clothes.

Azzi hated it.

Or…she didn’t. The city was beautiful. Flashy. Clean in the way ultra-rich cities were. She and Paige had landed a few days early, with Ferrari’s blessing. The travel time back to Italy or the States just didn’t make sense. Too many flights, too many layovers. Too much stress on their bodies, their heads, their sleep cycles.

Better to just land and wait.

So they waited. Spent mornings at the pool and afternoons slipping between meetings and film review. Nights were quiet. Or they were supposed to be.

It was just after 2 a.m. when Azzi gave up on sleep.

The ceiling fan wasn’t helping. The hotel AC unit might as well have been wheezing its last breath. Her sheets clung to her legs like plastic wrap. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck. She turned, then turned again, then flipped her pillow over like that would make a difference.

It didn’t.

And her thoughts—well, they weren’t helping either.

They never did when Paige was two floors below her.

Eventually she sat up, kicked off the sheets, and pressed her bare feet to the cool tile. She pulled on a pair of loose shorts and a tank top. Nothing crazy. Just… Singapore clothes. Weather-appropriate.

It was only when she stood in front of Paige’s hotel door, barefoot and sweaty and half sure she was about to get laughed back to bed, that she hesitated. But her knuckles knocked before her brain could stop her.

She heard movement. Then a click. The door cracked open, revealing Paige, eyes shadowed, hair messy, and very much not asleep.

She blinked at Azzi once. “What are you doing here?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Why are you awake?”

Paige leaned against the doorframe, one hand braced overhead. She was in a black racerback tank and boxers, the fabric darkening slightly with sweat along her collarbone and under her ribs. Her skin glowed, dewy from heat and maybe something else.

Azzi’s mouth went dry.

“I was watching race film,” Paige said, casual, like she wasn’t standing there looking exactly like a Nike photoshoot for trouble.

“At two in the morning?”

Paige gave a small shrug. “It’s hot. Couldn’t sleep.”

Azzi crossed her arms and shifted her weight. “Same.”

A moment passed. Not tense, exactly. But… loaded. Paige was still in the doorway, still sweaty and barefoot, and looking at Azzi like she could read every reason she’d come down here that had nothing to do with heat.

“Wanna come in?” Paige asked, stepping back.

Azzi followed, brushing past her, skin sparking at the near contact. The room was dim. Cool, by comparison. Paige had one of those portable fans humming near the bed, and the curtains were drawn to trap the dark.

Azzi flopped onto the edge of the bed like she belonged there. Paige sat back down in the chair she’d pulled up near the window. Her laptop was open, paused on a corner-speed breakdown from Baku.

“I wasn’t lying,” Paige said, tapping the spacebar and letting the screen go black. “I really was watching film.”

Azzi let her head fall back against the pillow. “I didn’t say you were lying.”

Paige stretched her arms over her head, slow and long. Her tank shifted with the movement, revealing a flash of toned stomach, the low swoop of her hip. Azzi looked away. Tried to, anyway.

“You want water or something?” Paige asked.

“Water would make it worse,” Azzi said. “I’d just sweat it out.”

Paige smirked. “True.”

Another pause. The fan whirred.

Azzi rolled to her side and studied her. “You really couldn’t sleep either?”

Paige glanced over. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”

Azzi’s stomach flipped.

“About?”

Paige tilted her head. “Life.”

Azzi snorted. “You’re gonna get all vague now?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Paige’s mouth, but it didn’t fully land. “You ever feel like the heat makes you think too hard?”

Azzi nodded. “Too much sweat, not enough oxygen.”

“Exactly.”

She stood again, walked over, and grabbed the second pillow off the other side of the bed. Tossed it to Azzi without asking.

Azzi caught it. “I’m staying?”

Paige met her eyes. “Do you want to?”

Azzi didn’t look away. “Yes.”

Silence again.

The tension, sticky like the air, settled in again between them. Thicker now. Not new, but no longer brushed off as nothing. Not in this room. Not after New York. Not after the jet rides and the teasing and the way Paige had said her name during comms last race like it meant something more than just race craft.

Paige sat on the other side of the bed. Not touching. But close.

Too close.

Azzi exhaled. “I didn’t come down here to start anything.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

She turned her head. Paige was already looking at her. Hair sticking to her temple. A faint glow across her chest where sweat caught the moonlight.

Azzi wanted to look away.

She didn’t.

“Still hot,” Paige murmured.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah.”

Paige reached for the remote and clicked the fan up a notch. The air shifted slightly, not enough to matter.

Azzi laid back again, one arm thrown over her eyes.

“If I sleepwalk into your lap it’s because you’re cold,” she muttered.

“I’m not cold.”

Azzi peeked out from under her arm.

Paige’s eyes were still on her. Unmoving. Unapologetic.

Azzi swallowed, pulse loud in her ears.

“Well,” she said softly, “you’re cooler than me.”

Paige didn’t respond.

But she didn’t move away either.

Paige knew what Azzi was here for at 2 in the morning. Though, Azzi had been feeling it for a while at this point.

It had started hours ago, maybe even before she knocked on Paige’s door, when she sat restless in her bed, pretending it was the heat that had her peeling off layers and twisting in the sheets. Now, in the dim quiet of Paige’s hotel room, with the fan kicking up warm air and the curtains drawn tight against the city glow, Azzi could feel that low, pulsing certainty settle in her chest:

She hadn’t come here to cool off.

Paige knew it too.

She lay next to Azzi now, close but still not touching. The kind of distance that a deep breath could erase. Azzi turned her head, slowly, and found Paige already watching her. No hesitation. No teasing smile. Just that steady, quiet focus that always made Azzi feel like she was under a microscope. As if Paige was learning her in real time, one heartbeat at a time.

Paige reached out first. Just a hand, brushing soft along the edge of Azzi’s wrist. Barely a touch.

Azzi let out a slow exhale. “So much for staying cool.”

A hint of a smile tugged at Paige’s mouth. “I said I wasn’t cold.”

Her voice was lower now, sleep rough in it. Or maybe not sleep.

Azzi shifted closer, until her thigh brushed Paige’s. Her skin buzzed at the contact. Paige’s breath caught, and Azzi felt it, that tiny shift in air between them, like gravity had tilted in their direction.

They’d done this before.

But not like this.

Not with something real and fragile humming underneath. Not with a promise quietly blooming between touches.

Azzi rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. “You gonna let me kiss you, or are we still pretending this is about sleep?”

Paige’s eyes flicked to her mouth. “I’m not pretending anything.”

Azzi kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. There was no urgency, no scramble. Just warmth, and closeness, and the soft hum of a fan cutting through the heat. Paige’s hand found Azzi’s hip, steady and sure, and pulled her closer.

She fit there like she always had.

Azzi felt Paige’s fingers trace along her spine, slow and deliberate. Her skin prickled in response. She deepened the kiss, let herself settle into it, let herself feel everything. The softness of Paige’s lips, the low sound she made in the back of her throat when Azzi kissed her jaw, the way her hands didn’t rush but held like she meant it.

This wasn’t a secret, not here.

Azzi felt safe in this room. Hidden. Honest. She didn’t need to perform, didn’t need to hold back.

Paige rolled them gently, shifting to hover above her. Her hair fell around her face, catching bits of light. She looked down at Azzi like she was studying a map, trying to remember all the familiar landmarks.

Azzi’s chest rose and fell, slow and even.

“You good?” Paige asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Azzi nodded. “You?”

“Of course.”

–

Azzi was not a morning person.

She could pretend, sometimes, when cameras were waiting or sponsors needed her bright-eyed and branded. But this morning (body humming and thighs still comfortably aching) she was no actress. She rolled out of Paige’s bed with a wince and a grin, the sheets warm and tangled, the air still heavy with Singapore heat and something softer. Something that lingered in the pit of her stomach like a secret.

Paige was already up, sitting at the edge of the bed with her long legs stretched out and a bottle of water tilted lazily toward her lips. She glanced over when Azzi groaned softly, twisting her torso with the ease of someone who knew exactly what she’d done last night and wasn’t sorry about any of it.

“Meeting in thirty,” Paige said, her voice dry but amused. “Fred.”

Azzi sighed. “God. Do you think he knows?”

Paige’s brow arched. “He’s French. He definitely knows.”

They arrived ten minutes late, hair still slightly damp from rushed showers, Azzi in a loose ribbed tank and oversized linen pants, Paige in a plain black tee and joggers, fresh-faced but unmistakably guilty of something. The meeting was already in motion when they slipped into the cool, air-conditioned conference room tucked into the back of the paddock hospitality suite. Fred sat at the head of the table, glasses pushed high on his nose, flanked by two PR officers and an assistant who looked entirely too caffeinated for the hour.

Fred didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at them. A long, pointed look.

Then: “Do I want to know why you’re late?”

Azzi blinked. Paige said, “Probably not.”

The younger PR rep cleared her throat. “So. As you both know, a photo surfaced earlier this week. From New York.”

Azzi fought the urge to smirk. The photo in question had gone viral within hours. Her leaning back in her chair at the candlelit restaurant, mid-laugh, Paige in a black button-down across from her, arm resting casually close, eyes on Azzi like she was the only person in the room. Which, for Paige, she probably had been.

It was a good photo. Too good.

The rumors had been relentless.

“Obviously, the speculation is getting traction,” the older PR manager added, flipping through a folder of printed tweets, headlines, and one particularly bold Instagram comment that read simply: “Hard launch when??”

Fred tapped the table. “We need a plan.”

“Plan for what, exactly?” Azzi asked, even though she already knew.

The younger rep tried to be gentle. “The public is making assumptions. And if you don’t control the narrative, they will.”

Paige leaned back in her chair. “What narrative are we supposed to offer?”

“A distraction,” the older one said. “Or a clarification. Or ideally both.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “So, what—lie?”

They both looked briefly uncomfortable before the younger one said, “Well… more like shape.”

Fred finally chimed in again, steepling his fingers. “We don’t need a scandal. We need focus. You’re one and two in the championship. Ferrari is winning. We cannot afford the headlines to be about dinner dates and who is or isn’t sleeping with whom.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. She’d known this was coming. She just hated that it was happening in a cold room with fluorescent lights and lukewarm espresso cups.

“So, what’s the best option?” Paige asked. Her voice was calm, but Azzi knew her well enough to catch the flicker in her tone. She was annoyed. Bracing.

The rep didn’t miss a beat. “Option one—one of you is seen with a guy. Someone safe. Familiar. Maybe even someone we’ve used before. Dirk van der Meer’s name came up—”

“No,” Paige said, sharply.

Fred raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not doing that again.”

Azzi stayed quiet, but her lips pressed into a thin line. Dirk had been a necessary evil once. A blurry summer and a PR contract and a few half-hearted smiles for the camera. Paige hadn’t spoken to him since. Didn’t want to.

“Option two,” the older rep continued, “we release a statement. Neutral, minimal. Just something to dispel the noise without denying or confirming anything.”

“So basically saying nothing,” Azzi said.

“It lets the moment pass,” Fred said. “Without adding gasoline.”

“And if we don’t do anything?” Paige asked, even though she knew the answer.

The rep’s silence was enough.

Azzi ran a hand through her hair. The AC was too cold. Her body still ached pleasantly from the night before, but now her stomach was twisting. Not with regret. Just frustration. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Neither had Paige. But the world they lived in, the one with contracts and sponsors and publicists who printed Instagram comments, wanted neatness. Stories they could sell.

“I’m not fake-dating Dirk again,” Paige repeated, quieter now. Firmer. “I’d rather the rumors keep flying.”

Fred nodded slowly. “Okay.”

That surprised both of them.

“But no stunts,” he added. “No more dinners in candlelight restaurants that look like Vogue covers.”

Azzi couldn’t help the smile. “So rooftop burgers it is.”

The older rep pinched the bridge of her nose.

Fred stood. “We’ll manage it. Just keep your heads down until Singapore’s over. We’ll reassess before Austin.”

Paige was already half out the door.

Azzi lingered for a beat, then glanced back at the table.

“Just for the record,” she said, tone light but words clipped, “I’d rather be caught kissing someone I actually like than pretending to be straight for a sponsor.”

Then she left, leaving the PR team in stiff silence and Fred wearing something almost like a grin.

–

Azzi found Paige later that night where she always went when things didn’t sit right—perched on the edge of the hotel’s rooftop terrace, eyes scanning the city below like she could read the skyline for answers.

Singapore at night was golden and electric. Air thick as syrup. Every surface radiated heat even long after sunset. But Paige was still in the same black tee from the meeting, legs folded up on the lounge chair, jaw tight and unreadable.

Azzi didn’t say anything at first. She sat down beside her, letting the silence settle between them like steam.

“It’s not like I didn’t expect it,” Paige said finally, without looking over. “The photo, the reaction, the PR scramble… it’s all part of the game.”

“But it still sucks,” Azzi offered.

Paige glanced at her then. Her expression wasn’t hurt exactly. Just tired. “It’s just not fair, you know?”

Azzi nodded. She did know.

They both sat with it for a moment—what it meant to be watched, packaged, speculated on. What it meant to choose someone in a world that kept asking you to pretend.

Then Azzi shifted, tucking one leg underneath her. “Can I ask you something?”

Paige shrugged. “Sure.”

Azzi hesitated. She hadn’t meant to bring this up tonight, but something about Paige’s quiet stillness made the moment feel right. Like this was a story that had been waiting for a quieter hour.

“Why’d you do another year of F3?” she asked. “You had F2 offers. Everyone knew that. Hell, I got pulled up halfway through my F3 season and dumped into F2 for six months, then almost straight into F1. But you did two full seasons.”

Paige’s brows lifted, caught off guard. “That’s what you’ve been wondering?”

Azzi smiled faintly. “Well, I thought maybe you were being strategic or something. But it always felt a little off.”

Paige was quiet for a long moment. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers picking idly at the edge of the chair cushion.

“You probably already know this,” she said at last, not looking up. “But I didn’t finish the F3 season.”

Azzi blinked. “After I got moved up?”

Paige nodded. “Yeah. That was… sort of the beginning of the end.”

She let out a breath, more weight than air.

“I mean, on paper, I was still on the team. Still under contract. But I didn’t race again. I had this whole… thing. A moment, I guess. Or a breakdown, depending on who you ask.”

Azzi’s heart tightened. She hadn’t known the details. Not really.

“I was seventeen,” Paige said, voice low. “And I was so burnt out. I’d been pretending like I was fine, like I could handle all of it. But then you got pulled up to F2, and it was like… suddenly the bar changed. And I was still there, still grinding in the middle of the pack while they were talking about the next season like it was already decided.”

She swallowed.

“I called my mom. Thought I was calling her to vent. But I just lost it on the phone. I was crying or whatever about contracts and performance clauses and how I didn’t even know if I wanted any of it anymore. And she… did what moms do. She took the wheel. Called my manager. Froze the talks. Told them I was out for the rest of the year.”

Azzi stayed quiet. Her chest ached.

“I was so mad,” Paige continued. “Like, really mad. Felt like I was being punished for cracking under pressure. But now?” She finally looked over. “I’m glad. That break let let me breathe. Let me figure out if I really wanted this. Not just the career. But the life.”

Azzi exhaled, slow. “I had a bit of that too,” she said. “After F2.”

Paige blinked. “You?”

Azzi nodded. “After I signed with Ferrari, I was supposed to finish the rest of the F2 season. Just keep racing until F1 pre-season started. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep driving when my brain was already somewhere else, and my body was exhausted. So I told them I needed out. Needed a breather.”

She gave a wry smile. “Everyone thought it was strategic. That I was preserving myself. But honestly? I was just spent.”

Paige tilted her head, eyes soft. “And you never told anyone that.”

Azzi shook her head. “Didn’t feel like I could.”

The heat settled around them again, humid and heavy, but this time it wasn’t so uncomfortable. It was grounding. Real.

“I think that’s why I kept watching you,” Azzi said quietly. “Back then. Even after I got moved up. You weren’t trying to force it. You were just… doing it your way.”

Paige looked over, surprised. “I thought you were always too focused to notice me.”

Azzi laughed, low. “I noticed everything, P.”

Paige’s expression shifted then—somewhere between disbelief and something softer. Azzi reached over, took her hand. Their fingers curled together without resistance.

They stayed like that, side by side under the stars, traffic humming far below, the world too far away to interrupt.

“I like doing this with you,” Azzi said, barely above a whisper.

Paige squeezed her hand. “Me too.”

–

Azzi couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t the heat, not this time. The AC in her room had finally won its battle against the Singapore humidity. Her sheets were cool, her body relaxed, but her brain was wide awake, lit up like the track on race night.

She lay on her back, one hand resting across her stomach, the other loosely curled near her head. Paige’s voice echoed softly in her ears, not in any exact sentence, but in that quiet, open way she had spoken earlier. Honest. Unfiltered. Trusting.

Azzi rolled over and checked the time—nearly midnight. Singapore time anyway. That made it late morning in D.C.

She reached for her phone and tapped on the contact saved as Mom before she could talk herself out of it.

Katie picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, baby,” came her warm voice, and just like that, Azzi’s chest loosened.

“Hi,” she said, sinking into the sound like it was home. “You busy?”

“Never too busy for you. What’s up?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She let the silence hold for a moment, then pressed the side of her face into her pillow.

“I just wanted to talk,” she murmured.

Katie waited, sensing something underneath.

Azzi let the words come slowly. “Paige is like… sort of my girlfriend now.”

There was no dramatic pause on the other end. No gasp. Just a quiet hum, like Katie had already guessed and was smiling softly to herself.

“Sort of?” Katie asked gently.

Azzi huffed out a small laugh. “We didn’t do the whole label thing. I think we’re both too stubborn for that. But… yeah. She’s mine. I’m hers. That kind of thing.”

Katie didn’t need more than that.

“Well, I’m happy if you’re happy,” she said simply.

Azzi’s throat tightened. “I am.”

She meant it. Even with the media storm building outside their hotel rooms, even with PR teams drafting fake-boyfriend talking points, even with everything still uncertain—she was happy.

“But it’s complicated,” she added. “With the photo, and the fans, and the… speculation. Fred called us in this morning. They’re all trying to figure out what to do. And it’s exhausting. Like, just pretending everything’s fine.”

There was a pause.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Katie said softly.

“I know,” Azzi whispered. “That’s why I called.”

Katie didn’t fill the silence with advice. She waited, patient as ever.

Azzi sat up in bed, legs crossed under her, phone pressed to her ear. “I miss you guys,” she said quietly. “You and Dad. And the boys. I’ve been thinking about Austin every day.”

“We can’t wait to see you.”

Azzi smiled. “I promised I’d win for you.”

“We’re already proud of you, Az.”

Azzi let her eyes close for a moment, imagining the way her mom might be sitting right now—curled up on the family room couch, tea in hand, wearing one of her oversized sweaters. Her voice always sounded like calm.

“And I was thinking,” Azzi went on, her voice picking up a little, “maybe… maybe Paige and I should post about mental health. Like, in a real way. Not some sponsored one-liner. We’ve both been through stuff. We could make it honest. Not for damage control. Just… because it’s important.”

There was a smile in Katie’s voice now. “That sounds like a really good idea.”

Azzi’s heart swelled a little.

“I think it would help people,” she added. “And maybe it would help us too. To not feel like we’re hiding everything. Plus it’s great for PR…”

Another pause.

Then, lighter, Azzi said, “Also… I’m running a pink helmet this weekend.”

“Your bright pink?”

“The brightest,” Azzi said proudly. “Almost neon. I wanted something that felt like me again.”

Katie laughed gently. “I love that.”

Azzi leaned back against her headboard, smiling into the phone. “Paige’s helmet is lilac this weekend. Or lavender. Whatever you call it. It’s so pretty. I think it’s her favorite color.”

“Is it your favorite color too now?” Katie teased.

Azzi giggled, cheeks warming. “No. But it’s… her. It looks like her. All soft and shiny and—” She stopped. “She’s really pretty.”

Katie didn’t say anything for a second.

“You really like her,” she said.

Azzi’s smile faded into something quieter. “I do.”

They sat in that for a while—just breathing together across the distance.

Eventually, Katie said, “You should get some sleep, baby. You’ve got a race to win.”

Azzi nodded, even though her mom couldn’t see it. “I will. Thanks for picking up.”

“Always. Love you.”

“Love you more.”

Azzi ended the call and set the phone down on her nightstand. The room felt softer somehow. Less heavy.

She slid down under the covers, one hand resting on her stomach again, the other still tingling from holding the phone.

Sleep came easier after that.

–

The lights above the Marina Bay Street Circuit burned like white fire against the inky Singapore night, and even at 9 p.m., the air hung heavy and wet around them like a wool blanket soaked in steam. Race day in the tropics was never pleasant, but this—this was a different beast entirely.

Azzi was drenched in sweat before the formation lap.

The second she pulled down her visor, the air inside her helmet turned into a sauna. Her race suit clung to her like a second skin, heat radiating from every panel. Even her gloves were damp. She hadn’t even put the car into gear yet.

“Let’s keep it clean. Smart start. No drama into Turn One,” came Mateo's voice over the radio.

Azzi didn’t bother answering. She was saving her energy for what promised to be a long, miserable hour and forty-five minutes.

Next to her on the front row, Paige sat stone-still in P1, her lilac helmet glinting softly under the floodlights. She was good here—really good. Fast, smooth, patient in the technical sections, aggressive in the perfect places. Singapore was where Paige had made a name for herself in F3, and now, one year into F1, she looked every bit the future world champion.

Azzi had no plans to make that easy for her.

The lights went out, and chaos reigned.

Paige got away clean. Azzi tucked in behind her. For the first twenty laps, it looked like they might cruise to a textbook 1-2 finish, as planned. No mistakes. No drama. Just the Ferrari girls slicing through the city heat like blades.

Then came Lap 22.

A midfield collision brought out a full Safety Car, and that’s when things started to unravel. McLaren pitted both drivers at once and somehow still managed to gain track position. Red Bull gambled on hard tires, and Mercedes threw soft tires on one car just to see if the world would end. Paige’s restart was flawless—but a lunge from a McLaren into Turn Eight forced Azzi wide, and she had to fight tooth and nail just to avoid contact. She dropped to fourth.

Then it started.

Yellow flags. Debris. Another Safety Car. Virtual Safety Car. One car parked sideways in the tunnel section like it forgot how to exist. Someone lost power steering. Someone else lost a wing. Azzi lost count of how many times she nearly got rear-ended by a Haas.

It was hot. So hot. Her water bottle gave up somewhere around Lap 35. Her back felt like it was melting into the seat. Her hands ached from gripping the wheel so tight.

By Lap 47, she was back in second, chasing Paige down like it was the last lap of their lives. She caught glimpses of the lilac helmet under the streetlamps—Paige was driving like a woman possessed. Clean, relentless, perfect. And sweaty as hell, probably. They both were. Azzi could feel her sports bra plastered to her ribs, and she was almost certain the pink dye from her helmet had leaked onto her neck.

But god, it looked so good.

The hot pink shimmered under the lights, bold and defiant. She might’ve been half-dead from heatstroke, but at least she looked like a flaming dream barreling through Sector 3.

The final laps were survival. Paige held the lead. Azzi kept her distance, defending against Hamilton like her life depended on it. No risks. No unnecessary moves. Just bring it home.

And when the checkered flag finally waved, and Paige crossed the line first with Azzi right behind her, both girls screamed.

Azzi barely made it out of the car before collapsing onto a pit wall stool, yanking off her helmet with trembling fingers. Her ponytail was soaked, her suit stuck to her thighs like glue, her forearms aching from every snap of countersteer she’d needed in that ridiculous, ridiculous race.

She blinked sweat out of her eyes and laughed into the open air.

“What the actual hell was that?” she croaked to nobody in particular.

No one answered. Everyone was still trying to piece together how they survived.

Paige was hoisted onto shoulders by the team before Azzi even got her gloves off. She looked delirious with heat and joy and disbelief. Azzi couldn’t stop laughing. Or sweating.

They’d wanted a calm 1-2.

What they got was a three-act opera of disaster, heat, and brilliance—with a Ferrari double podium at the end.

Azzi leaned back against the garage wall, head tilted to the sky, lungs still burning.

She was going to need three light-years of vacation.

But at least the special helmets looked good.

–

The air was thick and loud and glittering—champagne mist floating in the heat, blinding camera flashes against dark sky, the scent of burned rubber mixing with sweat and something sweeter. Maybe adrenaline. Maybe awe.

Azzi stood on the second step of the Singapore Grand Prix podium, and she was staring. Unapologetically.

Paige was on the top step. Again.

The first time this happened, Jeddah, back in April, Azzi remembered looking at her like this too. Like the whole world had tilted slightly and Paige had ended up at the center of it, smiling, golden, the trophy in her hands an afterthought to the way she carried herself.

And now, here in Singapore, that feeling hadn’t dulled.

Paige stood in front of the massive LED screen, violet-and-orange lights bouncing off her damp skin, hair plastered to her forehead, her suit half unzipped to the waist. The way her chest rose and fell, the way the curve of her jaw caught the glint from the Rolex billboard behind her. It made Azzi dizzy, in the way you get dizzy from looking too long at something you’re not supposed to want in public.

And Azzi was staring. She knew it. So did every camera. She was going to be a slo-mo edit on TikTok in fifteen minutes.

She didn’t care.

Paige held the trophy in one hand, the neck of the champagne bottle in the other, grinning like she couldn’t believe she’d done it again. She looked down toward Azzi just once, eyes catching hers for the briefest second, soft and wild and shining.

Azzi exhaled through her nose and tried not to melt.

This girl had taken a win off her in the hardest, hottest race of the year. Sweated out a pole lap in a car that had no business being that fast through sector three. Danced through two Safety Cars, ten near-misses, and a pit stop that should’ve ruined the whole strategy. And she was standing there now like it had all been inevitable. Like it was just another Sunday.

Azzi wanted to say something. Something about how stupidly pretty she looked under the lights, or how she’d made this godforsaken night race feel like it was worth every aching muscle and ruined manicure. But her mouth stayed shut. There were microphones nearby. She remembered that much.

She was in public.

Damn.

Azzi blinked and looked away for a second too long, just to reset her thoughts. The crowd roared, drunk on chaos and confetti. The Ferrari anthem started to play. She closed her eyes, let the sweat slide down her neck, let the heat settle into her bones.

Her gaze drifted back. Just for one more second.

Paige Bueckers, victorious under a sky of light and noise, was grinning at something the third-place driver said. Probably nothing important. She turned her head slightly, and the shine on her cheekbone caught the edge of the camera flash.

Azzi felt her heart beat once, loud and low.

She was in love with a girl who looked like that under stadium lights. Who drove like that in a furnace. Who laughed like that even after forty-nine laps of hell. And the whole world could watch her look. She didn’t care.

There were worse things to be known for.

She was in love with Paige Bueckers.

[valeisaslut]

Possibly cannon that collide Ellie draws some of her album covers?….. or even some of her singles😗😗

NONNIE. OMG. YOU JUST REWIRED MY BRAIN. I'VE BEEN ON PINTEREST FOR AN HOUR STRAIGHT. it’s SO canon now. also took a little bit of freedom and added so much more stuff!

COLLIDE ROCKSTAR!ELLIE'S SKETCHBOOK

collide ellie isn’t just a rockstar—she’s an artist in the most chaotic, sexy, VERY EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED way imaginable. like yeah she can shred onstage and yell into a mic, but she also stays up at 3am in hotel rooms with a pencil clenched between her teeth, sketching like her life depends on it.

her art style is raw and unhinged—scribbly pencil lines, charcoal smears, ink-stained fingers. it’s messy and moody and SO her. her sketchbooks are war zones. pages torn, corners bent. sometimes it looks like she attacked the paper in a blackout. other times it’s so delicate you feel like you’re intruding just looking at it.

she’s done some of the Fireflies’ most iconic album and single covers:

but here’s the real kicker: she’s got a private sketchbook. not the kind that gets left on the tour bus or tossed into her duffel. no. this one’s hidden. zippered into her guitar case or shoved between mattress and box spring.

and it’s full of you.

you think ellie’s moody and mysterious? babe. she’s sketching the curve of your spine, the indent of your hip, you mid-orgasm in obsessive, excruciating detail like she’s trying to exorcise it out of her system.

not just one drawing. we’re talking a series. a full-blown, chronological, positionally accurate collection of "you riding her into next week." some from memory. some from quick glances in the mirror. some from angles you don’t even remember being in.

her sketchbook is like if a horny Victorian painter had access to lesbian sex and insomnia. it’s less “study of the human form” and more like, “i’m losing my mind over this girl and the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth is compulsively drawing her bare pussy.”

she loves drawing your tits. like, spiritually. artistically. carnally. your thighs too. your eyes. the curve of your back. your collarbones. she’s got whole spreads dedicated to each. and in the margins? little notes. deranged notes. written in her messy handwriting around the edges like she's documenting rare wildlife:

“shaky hands here. she said my name when she came. HOT. why can't i sketch that.”

“draw this angle again but darker. deeper shadow. more tongue.”

“bite marks from earlier. left side deeper.”

“she bit her lip right here. fuck.”

“she always arches like this when i touch her there”

“don’t forget: her thighs shake right before”

“this one’s from that night. THAT night”

“do a side-by-side of the mirror reflection next time”

and the occasional pure chaos like “looks like a renaissance painting if you squint” or “god i’m so fucking in love with her KILL ME” or just "im so down bad."

sometimes they’re messy and fast, like she was racing to capture the memory before it slipped. sometimes they’re painfully detailed. shaded with love. and lust. and obsession.

meanwhile, jesse saw a single page once and practically had a religious experience. he didn’t even mean to. he was looking for a setlist, flipped to a page, and BOOM: a full-frontal, beautifully rendered graphite version of you doing...things. his brain blue-screened. he stared for 10 full seconds and went–

“jesus, your girl looks like THAT??”

ellie almost passed out when she saw it. tackled him to get the sketchbook back “GIVE ME THAT—IT’S FUCKING PRIVATE!! FUCK OFF!!!”

she didn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the day and jesse still won’t make eye contact with you in certain lighting. he's kinda traumatized. but very impressed.

you’ve never seen these. she won’t let you. and if you even joke about it she turns bright red and buries the sketchbook under some old band tees, mumbling “they’re not ready,”

the only ones she’s ever shown you are the soft portraits—your face in the morning light, your hand curled into a pillow, the crease between your brows when you’re asleep. they’re beautiful. you love them. but you know she’s hiding more from you.

and then there’s the other pages. the ones she won’t even talk about. the ones never meant for anyone to see.

they’re raw. brutal. jagged lines and too-dark shading, like she pressed the pencil hard enough to tear through the paper. fractured self-portraits that barely look like her—hollow eyes, clenched teeth, limbs twisted or missing. some of them look like they were drawn during a full-blown breakdown, like she was trying to bleed something out.

eyes. strangers. cameras. flashes. everywhere. watching her. judging her. lines scrawled in the margins like “it’s my fault” and “i will never be enough” and “i never stopped seeing it.”

drawings of joel. not always his face. sometimes just his boots, the outline of his shoulders. him playing guitar in the backyard. once, a pair of hands—his—holding hers. the page next to it was blank, but smeared with something darker, wet-looking.

there’s nightmare stuff too. scratchy renderings of dark woods. of hands reaching. of her own face split down the middle. of you, once, too far away to touch.

“can’t forget what it felt like,” she wrote next to a sketch of her alone at a table, head in her hands, white powder ghosting the edge of the frame.

sometimes, she draws her heart. anatomically correct, messy and weirdly delicate—and cracked. stitched up with tiny letters. your name. again and again. “hold it together,” she scribbled next to one. “don’t let her see.”

you found one like that once. just a glimpse. and she snatched it out of your hands before you could ask anything. just shook her head and mumbled “it’s not for you.” like it would hurt you if you saw it too clearly. like she’s afraid of what it means.

she writes her lyrics in the sketchbook, too—tucked in the margins, between drawings, like they just spilled out of her without thinking. half-finished verses. little poems for you. stuff she’ll never sing out loud but still needed to write down.

“you look at me like im worth something.” “you showed me what real love is.” “don’t know how to be gentle, but i try for you.” they’re raw and messy and heartbreakingly sweet. and they live right next to sketches of your body—like loving you is this chaotic, overwhelming thing she has to get out of her system by every means possible.

she posts her sketches on instagram sometimes, but never the real ones. just a hand in motion. a mouth caught mid-laugh. a silhouette. something cryptic. mysterious. artsy. the comments always go insane: “who is this??” “this looks like album cover material omg” “is that y/n??”

but you already know.

her art is another language entirely—one made of ink stains and graphite dust and pages warped from being clutched too tight. it’s the truth, stripped down and shaking. it’s everything she can’t say out loud. and through every smudged line, every fucked-up detail, every sketch she hides from you—

she’s still telling you.

IMPORTANT: all of these drawings are from Pinterest—credits and deepest respect to the incredible artists behind them. their work captures so much raw emotion and intimacy, and truly helped bring the vision of ellie’s sketchbook to life. nothing but love and admiration for their talent! <33

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-one: hypothetically

word count: 2.5k

warning: fluff overload. like i'm throwin up.

twenty | twenty-one | twenty-two

Outside, the sky had long turned to shades of navy and indigo, city lights bleeding gold through the windows. Inside, her tiny apartment was dim except for the desk lamp and a string of warm fairy lights she’d added since the last time he was here. Lando claimed they looked like a fire hazard, but he simply scoffed at it instead of telling her she should take them down.

She was curled up on the floor, legs criss crossed, with her laptop propped on one knee and a textbook splayed open in front of her. Lando was behind her on the couch, half-lounging, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee, holding a packet of ethics notes he’d been trying to read for the last twenty minutes. 

Key word: trying.

Her living room smelled faintly of cardamom and vanilla. Textbooks were spread across the coffee table, and one of her oversized throw blankets had somehow made its way into Lando’s lap. He scowled when she’d thrown it at him, but he didn’t seem to mind enough to want it off. The fabric was soft, and it smelled a little like her.

She was curled beside him on the floor, back propped against the couch, legs folded beneath her, pen tapping against the corner of her notebook. Her laptop was open to the assigned reading, but the screen had long since dimmed. A highlighter sat abandoned near the spine of a thick ethics textbook, and instead of annotating like she had been, she was now drawing mindless doodles in the margins of her notes.

Lando nudged the back of her hand with the eraser of a pencil. “Didn’t know you could get tired of reading,” he teased. “Isn’t that your whole personality? I thought you and books were, like, in love or somethin'.”

She looked up and shot him an annoyed glare. “We’re on a break. Clearly.”

He chuckled, watching her lazily sketch a cartoon scale with one side weighed down by the words student debt. “That’s tragic. You get tired of reading?” he teased further, nudging her knee with his leg.

“I get tired of you, Li,” she shot back with an overly sweet smile.

Lando smirked, faking a hurt expression with a raised brow. “That’s impossible.”

She huffed but didn’t argue, pressing her pen back to the page.

Her little doodles were careless at first—messy, nonsensical swirls—but then he saw something taking shape. An outline of a figure. A hooded one. Sharp edges. A face that looked just a little too familiar.

Lando’s lips twitched. “You drawing me?”

She immediately covered the page with her hand. “No.”

“That’s crazy,” he mused. “Because it definitely looks like me.”

She gave him a flat look. “I was drawing a grim reaper.”

“Right.” He smirked. “So… me.”

She groaned, her cheeks burning a light pink as she shoved him lightly. “Shut up. You’re supposed to be helping me study, not bullying me.”

Lando chuckled, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. “Alright, alright,” he said, tilting his head like he was thinking about it. “How about we test this virtue ethics thing with a hypothetical?”

She raised her head from where she had dropped it in defeat and eyed him suspiciously. “A hypothetical?”

“Yeah. Like, uh…” He tapped his fingers against the couch, gaze flickering to the ceiling. “Let’s say you’ve got a guy. A businessman.”

Her brow arched.

“He’s got a… company,” Lando continued. “A very successful one.”

“Right.”

“And he’s got a competitor who keeps screwing with his deals. Ruining his reputation and all tha’ – costs him millions.” Lando glanced at her. “So, naturally, he does what anyone would do and has the guy’s car stolen.”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

She squinted. “Liam—”

“It’s a hypothetical.”

Her arms crossed. “Uh-huh.”

He fought the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So. Ethically speaking. If the businessman is already successful, does it make him less moral for going after a guy who wronged him? Or does he get to act in his own interest?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, tilting her head. “I don’t know. That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether or not he’s a good person.”

Hm. Lando hummed, letting the words sit there between them.

She took her pen, tapping it lightly against the page. “A moral businessman wouldn’t have to steal his competitor’s car.”

“Well, maybe the competitor totally deserved it.”

She gave him a look. “And maybe the businessman needs a new hobby.”

Lando snorted. “Yeah, alright. Fair.”

She smirked, victorious, going back to her notes.

Truthfully, he had no fucking idea what half these sentences in this book meant when he tried to read them himself. The letters shifted, danced. Merged. Split apart again like they had minds of their own. His eyes blurred after the second line. It had always been that way. No one ever bothered to catch it when he was younger — too many fights, too many missed classes. Reading became a war of attrition.

But she had a tendency to read out loud. She would explain things, talking with her hands when she got excited about a particular concept. He watched her, and soaked it all in. All he had to do was match her tone when she sounded confident about something, to use her tells to follow the thread.

And he was a hell of a reader when it came to people.

A moment of quiet settled before she spoke again.

“You’re actually not terrible at this,” she said softly, surprised. “I thought you’d be the type to roll your eyes at ethics.”

“Why’s that? ’Cause I wear black?”

She threw her head back and laughed, the sound soft and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

He watched her for a second too long. That laugh—it caught him off guard every time, like the sound of something bright breaking through the darkened clouds on a rainy day in Monte Carlo.

“No,” she said through a grin, shaking her head. “Okay, maybe a little. But mostly because you always act like you don’t care about anything. Even you can’t be that heartless.”

His brow quirked, and his voice dropped lower. Dark hazel eyes met hers, pupils dilated just enough to make the color seem almost lost in the dim lighting.

“Oh yeah?” Lando murmured, his voice suddenly much huskier and his face suddenly much closer. 

Y/N had to swallow.

“And would you rather I care about—” he paused for effect, then smirked, “What was it you said? Reviving the lost art of hand-painted postcards? Or was it ethical beekeeping? I forget.”

In an instant, the throw pillow closest to her transformed into a projectile weapon, hitting him square in the face before he could react. By the time he caught it, he was already laughing—loud, unrestrained,  and triumphant.

“Shut up, Liam! We are not having that conversation again!”

He doubled over, laughter tumbling out of him, rich and easy.

Yeah. Maybe he’d let her hit him with a hundred more pillows if it meant hearing that sound again and again.

“I thought we were supposed to be focusing?” he asked, looking far too smug for his own good.

Couldn’t he see the method to her madness? The doodling was part of the focusing. Duh. She made a face. “I am. I’m just… reading adjacent?”

“Right. Doodling in the margins of Kant is very academic.”

She stuck her tongue out, but didn’t argue.

He smiled, eyes flicking toward the textbook like he might be able to absorb the content through sheer osmosis. The truth was, he’d stopped even trying to read the fine print on those pages twenty minutes ago. The words swam, overlapped, no matter how hard he tried. 

But he knew how to pay attention, knew how to read her. Lando paid attention to every minute detail – her posture when she was sure of something, the way her voice got a little faster when she was more nervous, the exact moment her pen paused when something confused her. 

He’d made an empire on knowing people, gauging risk and emotion without needing anything spelled out. Of course, she was no different. If anything, she was a familiar subject.

Y/N flipped back a page, frowning at one of her underlines. “Okay, so wait. This whole part about moral relativism and applied principles—what even is this?”

Lando leaned forward like he was about to study the page, but really he just watched the way her fingers rested against her notebook. “What do you think it means?”

“Liam, do not go all Socratic method on me. I’m the one studying for the exam.”

“I’m the one helping you get there, yeah?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re guessing.”

“Not guessing,” he said, stretching his legs out. “Strategizing.”

She let out a short laugh. “God, that is so you.”

He grinned. Truth was, he couldn’t explain a single ethical theory if she asked him directly. But he could pose a hypothetical – give her something of his world if it could be of any use to her.

“Hm. Now,” he said, voice a touch more serious now, “what if you had a friend. Let’s call him… Mando.”

She raised a brow. “...Mando?”

He held up a finger, looking extra serious. “Shut up. This is my hypothetical, remember?”

“Okay, okay. Go on.”

Lando sat back, satisfied. “So Mando, yeah? He finds out that this rich bloke –massive sleazeball, by the way– has been laundering money through charity events. He’s, like, using sick kids in the hospital as a front. Gets away with it too, every time! The fuckin’ police would stick ‘m with any charges, f’course. Idiots get paid to look the other way.”

She frowned. “That’s awful.”

“Exactly! Now Mando thinks so too. So now–”

“Wait, how come the other guy doesn’t get a name–” 

“No questioning the hypothetical,” he cuts her, an exaggeratedly stern expression on his features as he shushes her.

“Right, of course. How could I forget,” she rolled her eyes, but the smile as she listened to him was nothing but fond.

“So one night, this Mando, he does something about it. Maybe he messes with the guy’s property, sends him a little message, yeah? The guy’s fine, no one dies or anythin��, but at least the fucker loses enough money to ruin him. The whole operation has to fall apart.”

She’s quiet for a second, contemplating. “You’re asking me if that’s ethical?”

“Yeah. Is Mando the bad guy?”

She absentmindedly curled the corner of a stray sticky note for a moment, thoughtful. “Well… according to the law, yeah. Definitely.”

Not that he gave a shit about the law, but whatever.

“And ethically?”

She exhaled through her nose, pressing her lips together before answering. “Hmm. I don’t know,” she admitted, and he could tell she wasn’t just saying it to say it—she was turning it over in her mind, pulling it apart like a puzzle. “Like, technically, it’s not morally sound to take justice into your own hands. Obviously. But sometimes… sometimes the system doesn’t work, and someone has to do something. If no one else is gonna help you, then you gotta help yourself, right? ”

As they both fell silent for a moment, he watched the notes of chestnut in her eyes, the depth of them. Something in the way she said it made his fingers flex slightly against his knee, as if wanting to reach for her or something equally stupid. In her eyes… there was conviction there. A quiet, unshaken belief beneath her uncertainty.

She’d thought about this before.

He wondered what had made her think that way. Had she ever been let down like that? Had she ever been let down, looked for a way out only to realize that no one was coming to fix it?

His eyes traced over her features before he could think better of it—the soft furrow of her brow, the depth of her eyes, the way they reflected flickers of light from the lamp beside them.

If it were him, he’d never let her down.

What kind of fool would let down someone as good as her?

The thought unsettled him more than it should.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the lamp, the wind against the windowpane—everything else faded into the background, nothing more than a distant whisper making space for the silence.

Even the periphery of the room seemed to blur, momentarily irrelevant. There was only the warmth, here and now. Only earnest eyes and a pure heart that was worth more than any gold in the world.

For a brief moment, his gaze flickered to her lips. It wasn’t intentional, by any means. It wasn’t even conscious. He was simply noticing them, nothing more. Noticing the faint shine of chapstick—some kind of strawberry flavor, perhaps. Noticing the way they still looked slightly raw from where she’d been nervously nibbling at them earlier.

He swallowed.

Then, before the thought could go anywhere, he cleared his throat and glanced back at the book in his lap, forcing his focus elsewhere.

Right. Ethics. Moral relativism, or whatever the fuck.

“Right, uh, erm– So you’d defend Mando then?”

She scanned his face like she was trying to gauge whether she was on the right track. “I… think so? You said no one got hurt or anything, so only if he didn’t set fire to anything, I s’pose.”

“No fire. No blowtorches involved whatsoever,” he lies easily.

“Then yeah. Maybe.”

He lets the corner of his mouth curve into a teasing smile. This part of the dance was easy, familiar “I’ll be sure to let him know then.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’d better not be Mando.”

“I’m not,” he replies indignantly. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

But her smile’s back, and so he was content to sit here for as long as he can until the horrors of the city’s criminal underbelly come knocking.

They fall into a lull where she keeps sketching, her eyes flitting rapidly across the lines on the pages. Lando keeps pretending he’s not watching her, mesmerized by the picture in front of him.

She always made it look so easy. It was unfair, really.

“I don’t wanna read anymore. Think m’one paragraph away from committing a few unethical acts m’self,” he blurted out suddenly, voice low.

Y/N looks up. “Please don’t. There is absolutely no need for such drastic measures.”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t for me. Not good with… words. Not in that way.”

She doesn’t ask for more, doesn't press. Instead, she just closes her textbook a little, tucking her finger in place of a bookmark, then nudges her notebook toward him. “Then you do the hypotheticals,” she says. “And I’ll do the reading.”

Lando stares at her. It’s such a small thing, a nothing sentence. But the words, the effortless consideration for him nestles somewhere in his chest like an anchor dropped into water.

He picks up her pen and leans back on the couch, smirking.

“Alright,” he says. “Let me tell you about a guy who robbed a bank once.”

“Please let it not be Mando again,” she groaned.

“No promises.”

a/n: YOUR HONOR I LOBE THEM

[prongsiepotter]

sunbathing by the black lake | j. potter

summary: your childhood best friend james is being a little shit but in an endearing sort of way while showing his little acts of love

pairing: james potter x childhood bsf!reader

a/n: my first time writing on this blog!! i have a childhood friends to lovers playlist on spotify if anyone wants to listen to it bc i have a feeling it’s all i’ll write abt lol would really appreciate some feedback! enjoy x

──────── 𑁍︎ ‧₊°

There's no way to explain how the energy shifts when James is around. It simply does. Just like how you can feel the sun beating down on you right now. Hence, you can sense his approach without as much as a glance at him, your gaze continuing to drift across the notes Remus left for you in the margins of your essay.

James knows that, of course, as he strides across the grass towards you. You have never really talked about it, but seeing how he can also just tell when you're about to enter a room he's in, you both have made it a habit to not announce your presence. There's just no need.

So when he plops down next to you and rests his chin on your shoulder like it's his birthright, neither of you is surprised. In fact, it’s just right. Like puzzles slotting in perfectly.

For a few minutes, the world consists of birds chirping, a warm breeze, and the distant laughter of a group of Hufflepuff girls sitting a few paces away. You flip the page and let out a huff of laughter. James chuckles, his voice low and right next to your ear as he says, "Wouldn't be Moony if everything he touches didn't have a chocolate stain on it."

"It's like he's marking his territory." You try to rub it off with your sleeve, but the smudge only gets bigger. You squint and hold the paper in front of you, trying to discern if it's that noticeable (it is) but with a shrug you decide you couldn't care less. The movement makes James' glasses slide down to the tip of his nose, and he leans forward to make a dramatic face at you as if you had done him deeply wrong. With a playful eye-roll, you push them back for him and get a signature James Potter smile in return.

"Cheers, love." He beams at you and retrieves a balled-up napkin from the inside of his robe before taking it off. You watch him roll up the sleeves of his white Oxford shirt to his elbows, placing the mystery napkin on your lap. You glance at it curiously. "Unwrap it," he says. "It's for you."

Doing as you're told, you perk up with excitement when the content reveals itself. "Effie sent them?" You hold up the mangled piece of apple crumble like it's the most sacred thing you have ever gotten to hold, which it is. James nods, smiling at your happy dance. "I love her apple crumbles. Thank you!"

"You love everything my mum bakes," he says while lying down on his side, right in front of you with his head propped up on his palm. There's a glimmer in his amber eyes.

You give him a pointed look.

"Because everything that lovely woman bakes is the most scrumptious and amazing thing to exist." You take a big bite from the apple crumble to prove your point and your eyes flutter close as you hum. "This is why we're friends, Potter," you say with a mouthful. "No other reason. This is it."

"Oh yeah?" You hear the amusement in the drawl of his voice. Then he cups the side of your face and you look down at him as he distractedly brushes off some crumbs from the corner of your mouth. He looks up at the sky. "That's a shame because this is the last time you will get anything my mum has baked."

James' gaze is still turned upward, giving the sky his utmost interest as if to check if it's still blue. You stare at him in bewilderment. "Are you insane? Why would you deprive me of Effie's food?"

"I wonder how the weather will be tomorrow," he responds flippantly, and you swear your eye twitches.

"Oh, I'm sorry," you say, narrowing your eyes at him. "I forgot you were satan's spawn."

James does not react. You don’t think he will even reply with the way how he’s squinting and examining the very much non-existent clouds in the clear sky. But then he looks at you like you had asked him to solemnly share his meteorology findings with you, and with undeserved earnestness he tells you, "I think tomorrow will be just as sunny as today."

You blink at him. Then give a long-suffering sigh. "I thought you cared about me."

"I do," James says, rolling over to lay on his back with his eyes closed. "Which is why I can't have you lose your mind over some flour and sugar. I'm doing us a favour. Preserving our friendship." He cracks an eye open to look at you. "We've been friends since diapers, not because of my mum’s food, but because I'm brilliant and extremely lovable. Get your facts straight, woman."

You toss the napkin at his face.

He laughs.

Glancing at the last piece of the apple crumble in your hand, you ask, "Do you want it?"

James shakes his head, looking fond. "You assault me and then offer me the last bite?"

"Force of habit," you say flatly. "I can take it back."

He chuckles and takes off his glasses, resting his arm over his eyes. "You can have it, love. Cheers."

You don't have to be told twice and pop it happily in your mouth. With his other arm, he sweeps the scattered pages aside and pats the spot next to him. "Sleep with me?"

You quirk a brow. "Trying to get into my knickers, Potter?"

A breathy laughter escapes his lips. "Are you offering?"

"You wish."

"Merlin, yes." He sighs dramatically as if all James Potter has known in this lifetime was the pain of longing. He grabs blindly for you and pulls lightly at the hem of your skirt. "A man can dream. But for now just nap with me, yea?"

You bat at his wrist but let him pull you towards him nonetheless. There was never any other option, really.

In the blink of a moment, you're nestled into James’ side. His arm is cushioning your head, fingers absentmindedly playing with your hair as he tells you his thoughts on a book he recently read because he knew you liked it. You listen intensely, enjoying the easy conversation and the sunlight warming your skin. The world feels peaceful, and it doesn't take long before sleep pulls you both into a cosy slumber.

[jjjjeonww]

hong joshua - "Dear, Diary. Damn my academic rival."

genre - romance! ~~in which you've seen joshua as your academic rival for years, but lets see how he sees you in his perspective. (just wanted to switch it up a bit heh) a/n: this is a little thank you for 108 followers hehe<3!! also, this is a fic requested by the one and only, @hanniescookie! you keep coming up with amazing ideas and requests my angel, and im always happy and always honoured to complete them and be the person who receives them <3 ( @wonkierideul, here's your tag my lovie! you've had a tiring day, take a break and rest up. a junhui fic will be coming soon, just for you🤍)

(remember, this is all in joshua's pov!) 28th December 2024 Dear Diary, Today I felt so stupid. Why? I couldn't take my eyes off Y/n as she pored over the latest batch of data, her brows were furrowed in concentration. The flickering lamplight casted shadows across her face, it highlighted the curve of her cheekbones. Honestly, to me, Y/n was a vision of focus and intellect, a force to be reckoned with. And damn if she didn't look gorgeous in the process.

When she glanced up and caught me staring, a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. It was a rare sight, that smile... but it was all the more devastating for its infrequency. I felt my heart stutter in my chest, my breath hitched slightly as I drank in the sight of her.

"You've got that look again," I said. I have no idea how, or why my voice came out more huskily than I intended. I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure. "Like when Tom thinks he can finally eat Jerry. What are you so smug about?"

I saw her smile widening, a glint of mischief appeared in her eyes. "I'm not smug," she said, and I know I heard the stupid note of false innocence in her tone. "I'm just...satisfied with my progress." Note by Joshua: (As if she could do any better than me. Well, she did do better than me this time. Won't let it happen the next!)

5th January 2025 Dear Diary, Today we got our test results. Obviously I looked around to find Y/n and to see her reaction to her grade, only to find her right next to me, holding up her test results, the paper rustled softly in her hand. I leaned forward to see, my glasses slipping down my nose as I squinted at the numbers. My jaw clenched as I took in the scores - hers were higher than mine, by a margin that made my gut twist with reluctant admiration.

"What?" I scoffed, pushing my glasses back up. "You've beaten me again?" I leaned back in my chair, and crossed my arms over my chest. "Damn you Y/n. Next time... don't get too comfortable. I'm not going to let you stay ahead for long." Her smile turned into a full-blown grin, those eyes... they sparkled with that familiar competitive fire. "I wouldn't expect anything less," she said, a note of challenge in her voice. "But don't worry, Joshua. I have no intention of making this easy for you. I want to see you push yourself, to reach for even greater heights."

I felt a surge of determination, a fierce need to prove myself and rise to her challenge. But beneath that, I felt something else, something softer and more intense. A longing to see that smile on her face again and to keep this fire alive. Note by Joshua: (I guess I got another longing; For her to stop calling me by my name and instead call me 'hers'. And I'm cringing at my own joke haha! until next time diary!) 13th January 2025 Dear Diary, The days have turned into weeks, and my isolation and forced collaboration with Y/n only seemed to intensify the charged atmosphere between us. We clashed over theories and methods, our voices raised in heated debate as we paced the confines of the cabin. The air grew thick with tension, but it was a different kind of tension than before. There was an undercurrent of something else, something that made my skin prickle and my heart race.

Note by Joshua: (Today's note of 'love' was a short one. Guess our isolation was bigger than our forced proximity.) 27th January 2025 Dear Diary, Something happened this evening. As I was reviewing our notes by the flickering fireplace, I glanced up to see Y/n staring at the flames, a distant look on her face. She looked gorgeous in the firefight, shadows dancing across her delicate features and highlighting the curve of her lips. I found myself wondering what she was thinking about, what dreams or fantasies played behind those captivating eyes.

"You know," I said softly, to me, my voice was barely audible over the crackling of the flames, "sometimes I wonder what goes on in that brilliant mind of yours."

And she turned to face me, a small smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she teased, a mischievous glint in her eye.

I felt a smirk tug at my own lips, a hint of playfulness entering my voice. "I think about it more than I should," I admitted, my gaze locked with hers. "Especially when you look at me like that."

Her smile widened, a soft blush coloured her cheeks. "Like what?" she asked, a note of innocence in her voice belied by the heat in her eyes.

I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, my eyes never leaving hers. "Like you're trying to figure me out," I murmured. "Like you're seeing right through me, past all the bravado and the competition, to the heart of who I am."

I watched how her breath hitched, and how she swallowed hard. "Maybe I am," she whispered, her voice was barely audible. "Maybe I want to know what makes you tick, Joshua. What drives you, what you dream about, what you...want."

I felt my heart pound in my chest, a fierce longing surging through me. I wanted to tell her everything, to lay bare the secrets of my soul and hope that she would do the same. But I held back, I didn't want to scare her off. Note by Joshua: (Maybe next time, we'll see what'll unfold for me and Y/n. But hey, at least today's 'love' note was a long one right?)

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Sebastian is MC's self appointed spider defense captain,

and other headcanons...

Anytime there’s a spider, Sebastian insists on handling it himself—even if it’s tiny. He’ll scoop it up with exaggerated care, claiming to be saving the day, and expects MC to be impressed every single time despite the fact that MC has fought several acromantulas

He’ll narrate the lives of people in the Great Hall to whoever is sitting nearby, complete with ridiculous backstories and dramatic impressions.

Sebastian probably needs glasses but stubbornly denies it, squinting at the board or subtly leaning over to copy notes from MC. If anyone suggests he might need them, he laughs it off, claiming that it’s just bad handwriting on the board.

Sebastian used to think his curly/wavy hair made him look less serious/imposing, so he tried charming it straight a few times in his earlier years at Hogwarts. Nowadays, he embraces it, but he’s still secretly thrilled whenever someone compliments his curls.

Sebastian keeps little mementos of times spent with MC—pressed flowers, bits of parchment with their notes, anything they might have behind. There's a drawer in his dorm filled with these things, even discarded candy wrappers.

He has a massive soft spot for animals. He’s the type to carry treats in his pockets for the cats around the castle grounds and gives each one a nickname; he can recognize each one from a mile away.

Sebastian secretly borrows MC's novels to read them, just so he can discuss it with them and impress them with his “insight.”

He's a surprisingly good artist; when he’s bored in class, he draws little doodles in the margins of his notes: tiny dragons, his wand, or things he’s daydreaming about (like MC, which he denies).

Sebastian has a habit of finding small “treasures” around Hogwarts or Hogsmeade and giving them to friends. It could be a peculiar rock, a unique feather, or a wildflower he finds.

He has a repertoire of terrible pick-up lines and flirty one-liners he knows will make MC cringe. “Are you a charm? Because I’m under your spell.”

Surprisingly, Sebastian is a good cook. It started as a way to make Anne’s favourite treats, and now he often reads recipe books in his spare time.

When he's alone, Sebastian talks to his parents, sharing his struggles, triumphs, and moments of doubt, hoping they'd be proud.

[f1cflcfic]

Just Because I Called You (Carlos Sainz) - part ii

pairing: carlos sainz jr x fem!reader

summary: y/n knows there's a reason for his contact details to be saved under 'do not interact', but one call does not mean you miss him.

genre: 2.7k words, written au, angst, mentions of alcohol

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons

part i

｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ｡˚｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ｡˚

It’s been ten days. Ten days since you broke your one month streak. Ten days since you slept with your ex. Ten days of constantly oscillating between anger and sadness, of lying to your friends, and trying desperately not to let Carlos Sainz Jr. occupy your every thought.

At least it’s off-season, so the chances of accidentally coming across his face on social media or on billboards in town are a lot less high.

You’re meant to be over him. You were the one that broke up with him, after all. And yet, you can’t seem to get him out of your head.

“Oh come on,” your colleague nudges your shoulder, leaning in to make sure you can hear him. “I thought we would crush this quiz, but you’re not even paying attention!”

Slammers is loud on any given day, but it’s their monthly quiz night that really makes the whole place feel just a tad overcrowded. Normally, it’s something you look forward to, winding down from long office hours – and finally letting loose with colleagues.

Normally, you’re the first one to shout the right answers down the table to whoever’s in charge of writing them down.

Normally, you don’t mind the no-phone policy that lets you actually focus on spending time together, rather than sending off a final email or text.

This time around, you’re just trying your hardest to not zone out completely, give into the irritating urge to grab your phone and obsessively check it for messages, or – worst case scenario, cave and send a message yourself.

You can justify it, too. There’s the hoodie he’d left in your room, after all.

And your key. He still has your spare key.

It’s not because you miss him.

When your coworker pokes you again, you give him a half-hearted grin. “Sorry, I’m just a little bit distracted,” you apologise, making an effort to look over the answers that have been given so far. There’s quite a few items still left wide open, question marks crowding the margins.

“Well, we can’t have that. We kinda need your brainpower to win, as you can see,” he winks.

Wendy pipes up to defend you. “Don’t bother her Dean, she’s still recovering from a breakup. Takes about one-third of the time you were together, so she's got a couple months left to go.”

She means well, but it’s also an invitation for people to jump on the opportunity to talk to you about Carlos. You can’t help but internally roll your eyes when inevitably, someone indeed pipes up to ask for details. “What would really cheer me up is if we’d win this quiz and receive a,” you lean forward and squint your eyes to read the prizes listed on the screen up front. “A dinner voucher for Amù. Good food nurtures the soul, right?”

It’s a good restaurant. You’d been there twice with Carlos, once with his family in tow. That had been a good night. Until you’d gone and ruined it by freaking out afterwards. Everything had seemed a little too serious, his parents being a little too nice, and his sisters wanting to hang out with you. You hadn’t even said “I love you” to each other, and yet they were treating you as if you were already their daughter in law.

Carlos hadn’t understood your reaction, and had gotten upset over you not liking his family. It’d been one of many moments that had inevitably led to your decision to break things off.

Wendy smirks, then raises her eyebrows at the rest of the group. “You heard the woman – no to more personal questions, yes to more pub quiz questions please!”

You’re four drinks in now, and while the pub food has certainly helped stave off full intoxication, you’re definitely well on your way to being drunk. Add to that a pretty challenging quiz, and the zero-phone policy, and you actually were having a great time – finally feeling unburdened by confusion, guilt and lingering hurt.

Of course, it doesn’t last forever. When the last round of questions is announced, it’s clear that your blissful bubble of ignorance is about to burst. First, it’s the fact that the category is none other than Monaco itself. Immediately, you know that’s code for at least one Formula One reference.

Second, it’s the way in which Dean has apparently taken the news of you being single as a green light to getting very comfortable around you. His arm is draped around your chair, and every time you lean back a little, his fingers ghost across your skin.

You wish it wouldn’t be unwelcome. Dean’s hot, and maybe in another life, under different circumstances, you’d be flattered. As it stands, all it does is remind you of the fact that just ten days ago it was Carlos’ lips trailing down your shoulders and you still don't know how to feel about it.

Sighing, you lean forward again, trying to pay attention to the questions instead. Sure, your skin craves contact, but not at the cost of poor decision-making. You’ve done enough of that lately.

The quiz goes exactly as you’d expected, as your ears perk up at the next question. “What did the podium in Monaco look like for its iconic F1 race in 2024? Bonus points if you can name both the drivers and their constructors."

It’s impossible for everyone in Slammers to know that you’re right there – or to even be aware of the fact that you’d been dating a driver up until recently. Still, the question leaves you wanting to run and hide, and you cling to the numbing taste of alcohol on your tongue as you answer the question for your team. “Charles P1, Piastri P2, Carlos P3. Ferrari, McLaren, Ferrari."

At the time, it’d been so exciting. Two Ferraris on the podium, Carlos shifting up in the Driver’s Championship standings. You shiver at the memory of the epic celebration sex that had followed and – no.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him like that, you chastise yourself.

“Hmm. Shouldn’t be thinking about who, like what?” Dean murmurs in your ear, his hand sliding down your back to settle at your hip.

Embarrassed, you twist to look at him, effectively putting some space between the two of you. “Did I say that out loud?”

He nods, smiling as his gaze flickers down to your lips. “I’d be happy to take your mind off of whoever else you’re thinking of.”

You blink once, then twice, as you process what Dean’s offering. “That’s very kind of you. But I – need the bathroom,” you slide out of your seat and hurry away.

The sight that greets you in the bathroom mirror is not one that you recognise. Your skin’s flushed, and empty eyes stare back at you as you try to make sense of what had just happened.

Did Dean really try to come onto you? You sprinkle some cold water on your face, trying to bring some relief and ground yourself.

Maybe Carlos was right, when he said you were so difficult to read sometimes. You can't even read your own reflection.

How fucking infuriating.

“Y/N? Is that you?”

Alarmed, you immediately shift your expression into something a little less fragile – shutters closing again as you paste a happy smile on your face and turn around.

It makes no sense whatsoever, but you find yourself hugging none other than Carlos’ youngest sister Ana just seconds later. “Que suerte!”

“What are you doing here?” You ask, hoping that it doesn’t come across as accusatory as it sounds in your head. Most importantly, you hope that she knows you’re no longer together with Carlos. That news should not be coming from you, and definitely not delivered in a random bathroom in Monaco’s decidedly not-finest establishment.  

“My boyfriend and I are visiting,” Ana starts, but her smile fades a little as she rolls her eyes. “But my brother’s been in a mood, so we’re out here while he gets to be miserable by himself tonight.”

Something about how at ease she seems, makes you all the more uneasy to hear whatever comes next. “How great that I run into you here! Of course, great minds think alike when it comes to escaping one of Carlos’ sulks.”

She definitely doesn’t know, you conclude, as you try not to think too much about the fact that he’s apparently miserable and alone. “It’s good to see you, I hope you’re well,” Ana continues blithely, and you’re torn between telling her the truth or revelling in the lie for a little longer.

“Yeah, I think so. Just out with colleagues now, we do our monthly pub quiz here,” you say, testing the waters a little bit. Maybe this is fine. Maybe pretending for a little bit won’t hurt at all.

Excitedly, Ana claps in her hands. “What’s your team name? Are you winning?”

“Smartinis. And I think we are – last question was about Formula 1, so,” you note with glee. Weirdly enough, there’s a lick of satisfaction that runs through you as Ana smiles at you widely. It’s a genuine smile. At least she doesn’t hate you. Yet.  

Maybe it’s the fact that she looks so similar to her brother, or it’s the alcohol that’s still coursing through your veins. But all of a sudden you feel a lot closer to crying than three seconds ago. The wave of emotion is only further accelerated by Ana’s smile falling from her face as she watches you get more and more upset.

“Are you okay, Y/N? Can I help?” Ana gasps, “did you and Carlos have a fight?”  

A miserable laugh bubbles up from the back of your throat, and the sheer concern in her brown eyes make it easy to decide between the truth and the alternative. “It’s fine,” you squeak. “My co-worker just came on to me, so I fled here to try and figure out how to navigate that. But I can’t even think straight, because I’m drunk and confused.”

It’s not something you’d ever hoped to discuss with Ana, of all people, and definitely not given your current state. She seems a little thrown at the mention of someone else being interested in you, but recovers quickly. “Tipaza, you didn’t do anything wrong - it is okay, no? He made you uncomfortable, that is not okay. But it’s stupid either way. Everyone knows the rules, you don’t date colleagues or exes. Que idiota.”

Who is the real idiot here, you wonder briefly. Had Dean made you uncomfortable? Sure, a little bit. But had you really not done anything wrong? Guilt pools in your stomach as you glance at her, and think of Carlos.

She doesn’t know.

Why did she not know, when Carlos is so close to his family?

“I guess it’s okay. He hasn’t crossed my boundaries, yet. Just hasn’t caught onto the fact that I’m not interested, I suppose. ‘m not ready,” you mutter the last bit. Ana doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m just tired and overwhelmed,” you tack on for good measure. “As soon as I know I’ve won this thing, I should probably just go home.”

Ana smiles at your renewed resolve, and squeezes your arm briefly. “Ah – of course my cuñis is just as competitive as my brother.” She pauses when her phone buzzes, and she glances down briefly before shooting you an apologetic smile. “We’re headed to the next pub. See you?”

She’s gone before you can properly respond, make up your mind about telling her you probably won’t ever see her again, or ask her what cuñis even means.

It’s probably just another nickname, you figure, then splash some more water on your face before making your way back to the table. The whole group is shouting, debating what the answer is to the last question of the night. “Monaco is French! So it must mean something in French,” one of your colleagues says. “No, it obviously comes from monarchy,” someone else argues. “Actually,” you start, and everyone turns to listen. “it comes from Mon Oikos, it’s Greek – Hercules passed through and a lone temple was built to honour him afterwards, as he’d turned away the old gods. It means single/lone house.”

As someone feverishly writes it down, just in time for the quizmaster to collect the team’s answer sheet, Wendy smiles at you. “Truthfully you’re the only Smartini in this entire team. When we win, you’re so getting that voucher, girl. Now go treat yourself to another drink!”

You laugh, and dutifully walk over to the bar to order another martini for the both of you. Maybe it’ll help drown out the lingering guilt towards Ana, or the rest of the night that still awaits you, you think wryly, as you back a shot.

When you return to your table, you make a quick pitstop to deliver Wendy’s drink to her, before realising there’s nowhere else to sit than your original seat next to Dean.

“Whether or not we get that voucher, I’d love to take you out sometimes,” he says, before you can even get a word in otherwise. Part of you admires him for being so bold, but another part is irritated at the presumptuous nature of his request, and the fact he cannot seem to read the room.

“Actually,” you turn to face him properly, shaking your head in an unspoken apology. “I don’t think it’d be a good idea. You’re one of my favorite coworkers, and I’d like to keep it that way. I’m not – I’m not really into dating right now.”

He seems a little taken aback by your answer, and frowns. “I thought you and that driver were done?”

You shrug. “Doesn’t mean I’m ready to jump into the next best thing.”

Dean’s smile returns at that. “I’m not really looking for that either. But I wouldn’t mind spending some more time with you. Alone. Casually. As your next best thing.”

It’s hard not to cringe, and you desperately want to look anywhere else. However, the liquid courage from earlier makes you stare straight at him as you shake your head once more. “I’m going to have to say no to that offer as well.”

He tries to smooth over the dejected look on his face when he realises you’re serious. “Alright, fine. Guess I misread things. You seemed chill this evening.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, but he shrugs as his arm pulls away from your chair. “I mean, we were getting cosy. We’re both attractive, and for the first time in weeks you’re not distracted by this goddamn phone of yours.”

Where you’d previously been pretty hopeful that Dean would handle the rejection well, that changes in an instant. “What do you - why do you have my phone?” You ask sharply as soon as he slides it across the table towards you.

He shrugs. “It went off while you were in the bathroom, and I was closest to the basket. Had to make sure we wouldn’t be disqualified.”

You narrow your eyes at him, then look down at your screen. There’s two missed calls, and your stomach sinks when you see who they’re from.

“It seemed like you didn’t want to talk to the person who called you anyways,” he adds, as if it’s no big deal at all and he’s actually done you a favour.

Sure, you might have saved Carlos’ contact under “x do not interact x”, but it’s not up to anyone else to decline his calls. And most of all, that warning had been put in place mostly to keep you from reaching out. Not the other way around.  

“That still gives you no right to pick up my phone.”

Immediately, Dean backpedals, “I didn’t answer – just told him you were busy.”  

It only makes things worse.

“Fuck,” you swear under your breath.

As much as you want Carlos to know you do not miss him, this isn't the way. Feeling queasy all of a sudden, dread settles into your gut as you read the text thread again and again.

She's busy.

Who is this?

Dean.

Why do you have Y/Ns phone?

Hello?

I’m coming to pick you up.

And then, on your third read through, a new text bubble appears. "Outside." “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ｡˚｡ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ₊ ˚ ︶︶✩︶︶‌ ｡˚

Let me know what you think <3 Likes, comments, reblogs, asks are all appreciated. part iii will hopefully be posted in the next five days again.

Update: part iii is available here now.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader X Gojo Satoru X Nanami Kento

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage.

Warnings: Mature Themes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Crack, Mentions of Drugs (Edibles), Unhinged Driving, Dubious Decision-Making, Nanami’s Ongoing Suffering. A/N: This chapter gave me so much procrastination that I posted 4-5 one-shots instead of finishing it, lol. You can see the effort in the chapter name itself. Attached links to help visualize things better, but honestly, just hallucinate them. Linkin Park has never performed in Ibiza, but in this story (and our collective delusions), they have. Also, Chester is alive because I said so. The song they’re screaming at Nanami is this: Faint – Linkin Park For my rap & metalhead babes, I highly recommend this unhinged track instead, but fair warning: Do not listen while driving unless you want to accidentally recreate the Jesko scene. Linkin Park/Slipknot/Eminem-Damage A little headcanon for this series(more at the bottom): Nanami and Reader are metalheads first, people second, while Gojo listens to literally anything, but they all agree on Linkin Park. Also, Gojo & Nanami are millennials in canon, so they probably fucked heavy with Linkin Park. Lastly, yes, I know the Jesko is a two-seater but is being used for plot reasons. You have two options: hallucinate it as a four-seater or imagine Nanami sitting in Gojo’s lap like an incredibly disgruntled boyfriend. Choose your fighter. Linkin Park Fans Rise Up!!!

Previous Chapter 14 (alt ending 2.5) - He's Eldritch (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 15 (alt ending 2.6) - Ibiza

Valentine’s Day,

Few Years Ago – Linkin Park Concert, Ibiza

Ibiza had been a mistake.

Not because you weren’t having fun, but because Nanami was here too—which meant Gojo and you were actively working to drive him insane.

"Put her down!"

"She literally just jumped on me like a goddamn gecko, Kento; at least let me enjoy it."

You were currently perched on Gojo’s broad shoulders, warm thighs wrapped around his neck, arms anchored in his soft hairs as he swung side to side to the live music.

The crowd was electric—Linkin Park’s heaviest guitar riffs were shaking the very air.

None of you could quite recall whose idea it was to choose Ibiza for your honeymoon, but since Nanami rarely got the chance to attend concerts back in Japan, he was exceptionally excited for this one.

Now, however, he was deeply regretting that decision, sighing heavily and pinching the bridge of his nose, half due to the sheer volume of your yelling and half because Gojo had decided to twirl in circles with you on his shoulders.

You weren’t even holding on properly, just tugging at his hair with blind faith (full Ratatouille), your head thrown back in laughter as Gojo stumbled dangerously close to knocking over someone’s beer.

"I’m getting drinks," Nanami grumbled, already walking away.

You and Gojo were screaming lyrics like lunatics.

Directly at him.

Loudly.

“DON’T TURN YOUR BACK ON ME—"

“I WON’T BE IGNORED—"

The babysitter returned twenty minutes later, with three beers, feeling marginally less irritated—until he saw you and Gojo standing in the middle of the crowd, staring blankly at nothing.

His stomach dropped.

Something was wrong.

You were way too still, eyes wide and unfocused, while Gojo was just smiling at absolutely nothing.

You both looked nothing short of zombies.

Then he noticed the small, half-empty bag in your hand.

Gummies.

Expensive imported ones.

The kind people only sold in dark corners and called ‘magic treats.’

“Oh no.”

At the sound of his voice, you and Gojo whipped your heads toward him in eerie synchronization.

“OH NO.”

Gojo blinked at him. Then at the bag in your hand. Then back at Nanami.

“…Did we just drug ourselves?”

Nanami took one deep, suffering breath. “How many did you eat?”

You squinted at the bag. “…How many come in a pack?”

“FIFTEEN?!”

You and Gojo stared at each other.

Gojo: “…Oh.”

You: “…Shit.”

And then it hit.

Thirty minutes later, you both were Ibiza’s Most Wanted.

Gojo was hanging upside down from a railing, laughing at nothing.

You were clinging to Nanami’s back, crying about people wasting glitter.

Nanami was holding both of you by your collars like two feral turkeys.

“THIS IS WHY I DON’T DO THIS SHIT,” Nanami yelled, muffled by the concert noise, physically restraining Gojo from attempting to climb a speaker.

Meanwhile, you started giggling at your phone, trying to take a video for your Instagram story.

“Ken~” you sang.

“NO.”

“I wuve you.”

“NO.”

“Please?”

“…NO—”

Gojo suddenly grabbed Nanami’s face with both hands, his pupils the size of dinner plates.

“I THINK THE GROUND IS MOVING.”

Nanami physically winced, praying to whoever was listening to end him now.

But then—you gasped.

“Ken, I have an idea.”

He already hated it. “NO.”

Gojo gasped. “SHE’S RIGHT, KENTO!” He turned to you, planting a kiss on your head while spinning you around. “You’re a genius, babe,” he exclaimed.

No one knew what the idea was or how Gojo knew (if he even knew at all).

“That’s it. I’ve had it with you two. Give me that!” Nanami snatched the bag of gummies from your hand, reached into the cursed, demon-infested bag, shoved all five remaining gummies into his mouth, and chewed aggressively before swallowing.

He looked up at you and Gojo, smiling maniacally.

It was then that he realized.

You and Gojo had manipulated him into joining you with a disturbing level of unity.

His face paled. You both clung to either side of him. “You look so cute when you’re jealous, Ken,” you cooed.

He sighed.

One hour later, no one was okay.

Gojo was leaning against a palm tree, staring at the sky, mumbling something about the universe. Every few seconds, he’d point at a random star and whisper, “That one’s judging me.”

You, on the other hand, were fully convinced you were Batman. You’d fashioned a makeshift cape out of a cardigan and were crouched on top of a table, growling at anyone who came near. “I am vengeance,” you hissed, pointing at a wild goat. “I am the night.” The goat, unimpressed, stole your entire plate of food and ran off. “Well, well, looks like we have a new villain in Gotham: The Caprine!” you shouted, ready to chase it before concert security glared you down.

And Nanami?

Nanami was standing perfectly still, staring at his hands as if he’d just discovered they existed, realizing for the first time that he was made of matter and atoms. He poked his own arm experimentally, as if expecting it to collapse into a pile of stardust. “This is… unsettling.”

The night was ruined.

Somewhere between Gojo’s existential crisis, your vigilante delusions, and Nanami’s sudden realization that he was, in fact, a physical being, things had spiraled so far out of control that the only logical next step was to start making out.

Which—well.

That’s exactly what happened.

It started with Gojo, because of course it did. He stumbled over to you, still muttering about the universe, and declared, “If we’re all just atoms, then we’re basically the same person. So this isn’t weird.” Before anyone could stop him, he grabbed your face and planted a sloppy kiss on your lips. You, still in full Batman mode, responded by dramatically declaring, “This city needs me,” before kissing him back.

Nanami, still staring at his hands, didn’t even notice at first. But when he finally looked up and saw the two of you, he froze. “What… are you doing?”

“We’re atoms,” Gojo replied, as if that explained everything. “Join us, Kento. Become one with the cosmos.”

Nanami blinked. Then, in a move that shocked even himself, he walked over, grabbed both of your faces, and kissed each of you.

The only silver lining in this entire disaster was that everyone around you was just as messed up as you were. A guy in a banana costume was trying to serenade a palm tree, a group of tourists were arguing with a vending machine, and someone had set up a slip-and-slide using whiskey as lubricant. No one batted an eye at the three of you making out in the middle of it all.

Ibiza had been a mistake. A colossal, unhinged, gummy-fueled mistake.

Around one a.m., you three were doing the walk of shame, except it wasn’t shame, just weed.

The streets of Ibiza were alive—a blur of neon lights, pulsing music, and the three most ridiculous human beings to ever exist, stumbling their way back to the hotel.

Well, it should’ve been a normal walk back, but you all looked like a trio of escaped lunatics.

“Okay, okay—” you wheezed, giggling uncontrollably, “—but imagine... imagine if we were actually in a video game.”

Gojo gasped, clutching his chest. “OH MY GOD. WHAT IF WE’RE JUST NPCS?!”

Nanami blinked slowly, his expression so serious it made it funnier. “I think I can hear colors.”

“See?!” you threw your hands up, nearly smacking Gojo in the face. “He’s the protagonist right now.”

“Not fair,” Gojo pouted. “I wanna be the protagonist.”

“You always act like the protagonist,” Nanami grumbled.

Gojo gasped louder, clutching Nanami’s shoulders. “WHAT IF I’M THE LOVE INTEREST?!”

You burst out laughing so hard that you had to lean on him for support, while Nanami just groaned, rubbing his temples like he was seconds away from throwing himself into the ocean.

Gojo squinted at you suddenly. “You’re way too pretty. You’re definitely the rich main character who has a tragic backstory.”

You gasped, playing along. “Am I an heiress?”

You and Gojo collapsed into laughter.

You weren’t just high—no, that would’ve been fine.

You were also drunk off your asses, giggling like idiots, barely keeping it together.

Gojo insisted on carrying you, except his definition of carrying was throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Nanami, who had officially entered his existential crisis era, was dragging a hand down his face. “I hate both of you.”

Gojo patted your backside. “Lies. You married us. No takesies backsies.”

Nanami deadpanned, his eyes bloodshot and full of regret. “That was a mistake.”

“Oh?” You gasped, hanging upside down off Gojo’s back. “Nanami Kento. Are you saying you regret our marriage?”

“Yes.”

Gojo nearly choked on his laughter, stumbling sideways and almost sending all three of you crashing into a streetlamp.

“You’re so mean,” you huffed, kicking your feet like an upset toddler as Gojo adjusted his grip on you.

“He’s lying,” Gojo whispered loudly against your thigh, as if Nanami wasn’t standing right there.

Nanami deadpanned again. “I married a clown and his assistant.”

At some point, you insisted on walking, so now all three of you were stumbling side by side, giggling at absolutely nothing.

Gojo was elbow-deep in your bag, rifling through it like a raccoon with opposable thumbs. "Where are they?" he whined, tossing out a mascara, a pack of gum, and what looked like a card from some male investor (he discreetly threw that one away). "YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE SNACKS! This is inhumane!"

Nanami, meanwhile, was squinting at a street sign like it was written in hieroglyphics. "Is this… Spanish?" he muttered, tilting his head as if that would help. "Or did they just make this up?" He frowned. “Why are there so many Z’s? What does ‘chiringuito’ even mean? Is that a place or a disease?”

And you? You were deeply, existentially concerned about your shoes.

"Why do they sound like that?" you suddenly demanded, stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes locked onto your heels as if they had betrayed you. You took a step. Click-clack. Another. Click-clack.

"They’re heels," Nanami deadpanned, like a man who had long given up on understanding you. "That’s what they do."

“No, but like—why do they click?” you insisted, bending down to poke at them.

Gojo snorted, pointing at you. “I told you she’s high as fuck.”

“I know. We all are,” Nanami sighed, grabbing your arm before you could walk straight into traffic. “Can we please keep moving?”

"My feet hurt," you whined, pouting so aggressively that it looked like you might actually cry. "I hate them."

Nanami removed his own shoes, then knelt to take off your heels. “Here,” he said, handing you his loafers. “Wear these. I’ll carry your heels.”

You beamed, slipping into his loafers like some kind of victorious little ogre. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, you grabbed Nanami’s face and kissed him on the lips before skipping ahead like nothing had happened.

Gojo, still rifling through your bag while looking for candies you kept in it, yelled, “I’m dying of hunger! Why is there nothing to eat in here?!”

“It’s not Doraemon’s pouch!” you shot back. “You ate everything, and now I’m starving too. Ugh, give it back before you tear it apart, you savage.”

Nanami pointed to a nearby food stall. “There’s food over there, but I lost my wallet. Gojo, did you bring yours?”

“I never bring my wallet. I don’t need to when I have you two treating me like the resident passenger princess.” Gojo grinned, unapologetic, as if this were a reasonable statement.

“Where are my cards?!” you suddenly shrieked, dumping the contents of your bag onto the sidewalk. “And why is there only lip gloss in here?!”

Gojo went completely still. "…It’s so small. Where was I supposed to put it?"

You inhaled sharply. "IN YOUR POCKET OR, BETTER YET, UP YOUR ASS?"

“Kinky.” Gojo smirked.

Nanami, exhausted, muttered, "I am so close to leaving you both here—"

"And to fit ONE lip gloss, you threw away ALL my cards?!" You continued, now physically shaking.

Gojo did what Gojo does best: he ran.

You lunged after him, but Nanami caught you around the waist like a seasoned babysitter. "Enough," he muttered, dragging you toward a nearby food stall. "They probably take online payments. Let’s just eat before I strangle both of you."

At the mere mention of food, Gojo, who had been halfway to a full sprint, immediately turned back, appearing at Nanami’s side as if he had never left.

The three of you stumbled toward the food stall, drawn by the siren call of greasy, late-night sustenance. The stall was a colorful mess of neon lights and handwritten signs, most of which were in Spanish. A stout old woman with a no-nonsense expression stood behind the counter, arms crossed, watching you approach with the kind of skepticism usually reserved for people who try to haggle over the price of a kebab.

Gojo boldly stepped up first. “Hello, madam!” he said, flashing his most charming smile. “We would like to order some food, please!” He never missed a chance to practice his English, still trying to impress you despite being married now.

The woman stared at him blankly, then grunted something in Spanish that sounded vaguely like a question.

“Uh,” Gojo said, his smile faltering. “Food? Comida? You know, like… eat?” He mimed shoving food into his mouth, complete with exaggerated chewing sounds.

The woman raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. She pointed at the menu board behind her, which was covered in words none of you could fully understand. “Elige,” she said gruffly.

Nanami stepped forward, squinting at the menu. “I think... this says ‘patatas bravas’?” he said, pointing at one item. “And this is... pan con tomate?”

You and Gojo collectively swooned over Mr. Worldwide Nanami Kento, who adjusted his glasses smugly.

The woman grunted again, nodding slightly. She pointed at Nanami, then at the menu, and made a gesture that seemed to mean, Hurry up and order.

“I’ll have the pan con tomate, please. And a bottle of water.” Nanami finished, pointing at the water bottles.

The woman nodded, scribbling something on a notepad. Then she turned to you, her expression somehow even more impatient.

“Uh, patatas bravas?” you said, pointing at the menu. “Please?”

She grunted again, jotting it down. Then she looked at Gojo, who was already leaning over the counter, trying to peer into the trays of food.

“Churros!” he declared, pointing at the tray. “All.”

The woman stared at him, then said something in Spanish that sounded like a warning. When Gojo didn’t react, she sighed and grabbed a plate, piling it high with churros. She shoved it toward him, then soon enough handed over the food to you and Nanami and turned away, clearly done with the three of you.

You grabbed your plate of patatas bravas and immediately shoved a forkful into your mouth. The crispy potatoes, smothered in spicy tomato sauce and aioli, were a revelation. “I think I’m in love with potatoes,” you moaned, your voice thick with pure, unfiltered emotion.

Nanami handed you a bottle of water. “We need to hydrate,” he said, his tone practical but slightly amused. “And maybe sober up.”

Gojo, meanwhile, was already on his third churro, powdered sugar dusted across his face like war paint. “Food tastes so much better when high.”

“Oh my god, I agree!” you exclaimed, nodding enthusiastically. Turning to Nanami, you brought some of the food to his mouth, and he ate it instinctively. “It’s good, darling,” he said, nodding in agreement.

You would have offered some to Gojo, but since he wasn’t sharing his, you felt a bit petty.

The three of you found a spot on the curb, sitting down to enjoy your 2 a.m. feast. Around you, Ibiza was alive with the sounds of laughter, music, and the occasional drunken shout. A group of tourists stumbled past, arguing over directions. A guy in a banana costume was trying to climb a lamppost. Someone had set up a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the street, and a crowd was gathering to watch.

You took another bite of your patatas bravas, savoring the flavors. “I could eat this every day,” you said, leaning against Nanami. “Like, seriously. I would marry these potatoes.”

Nanami sighed, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. “Please don’t propose to food in public.”

Gojo, his mouth full of churro, chimed in. “Too late. I already married this churro. We’re very happy together.”

You laughed, leaning back to look at the sky. The stars were bright, the air was warm, and you felt a strange sense of peace.

Once you three were done eating, you, Nanami, and Gojo stood at the food stall, drunk and high as hell, staring blankly at the old shopkeeper, who was now looking at you like she had already called the cops in her head.

"You scammers." She grunted, arms crossed over her chest.

"Excuse me?!" you sputtered, patting down your pockets as if money would magically appear.

Nanami diplomatically sighed. "We’re not scammers. We just... don’t have any cash."

The old lady squinted. "Scammers."

Gojo, absolutely no help at all, was still licking sugar off his fingers like some kind of degenerate. "Damn, these churros were worth the fraud."

"WE ARE NOT FRAUDS!" You turned on him, ready to strangle him.

The last sober neuron in Nanami’s brain was barely hanging on. "Look, we can pay online. Apple Pay, Google Pay, whatever you—"

"NO ONLINE!"The woman barked, shaking her head furiously. "No scammer money! Only cash! Or—" she paused, eyes narrowing at Nanami like she was assessing premium livestock. "Or you leave the Givenchy."

Your eyes snapped to Nanami’s expensive Givenchy dress shirt.

Gojo dropped a churro in slow motion.

Nanami just... exhaled, reaching for the top button of his shirt.

"Gakuganji’s bald head, Kento, NO," Gojo yelped.

You grabbed Nanami’s hands. "That shirt costs more than my liver; she’s scamming us!"

“I will scare her!” Gojo yelled, ready.

Nanami shrugged, already handing it over as payment. "It’s just a shirt."

The old lady grinned, practically vibrating with excitement. "Sí, sí! Is just a shirt!"

"LIKE HELL IT IS!" You were about to climb over the damn counter when she sniffed it like she had just inhaled the cure to all her problems.

Gojo lost it at that and cackled. "Babygirl, please," he wheezed, physically restraining you as you tried to murder the old woman with your bare hands.

"I AM NOT YOUR BABYGIRL!" you screamed, struggling against his grip. "MA’AM, GIVE ME THE SHIRT BACK BEFORE I—"

"No take-backs!" The woman grinned, hugging the shirt to her chest like it was her newborn child. "Good quality. Nice smell."

Gojo was losing his mind. "Babe, please, just let the old lady have it—"

"SHE IS HOLDING NANAMI’S CLOTHES HOSTAGE LIKE A WAR PRIZE, SATORU!"

Nanami placed a hand on your head like you were a particularly rabid kitten. "It’s fine," he said soothingly, his voice deep and warm in a way that had you temporarily forgetting your rage. "I’ll buy another one."

Gojo smirked. "And now you’re half-naked in Ibiza, Kento."

Nanami sighed. "Regrettably, yes."

And that’s how the three of you escaped the debt of a late-night food stall—at the great cost of Nanami’s designer shirt.

The walk back to the hotel was chaotic as hell.

Nanami, drunk and high, was relaxed in just his pants.

And that?

That was a problem.

Because apparently, Ibiza at night was full of thirsty women, and every single one of them was looking at your husband like he was a full-course meal.

You noticed it immediately.

The whispers. The stares. The not-so-subtle glances at Nanami’s broad, muscular frame, the way his exposed collarbone practically shimmered in the streetlights.

You scowled.

Then, without hesitation, you climbed him.

Not fully, obviously—you weren’t a damn spider monkey. But you threw yourself at his side, trying (and failing) to use your tiny body to block out literally six-plus feet of blond muscle.

Gojo doubled over laughing. "Baby, please, you look like a Chihuahua trying to guard a steak—"

"SHUT THE HELL UP, SATORU!"

Nanami just blinked at you. "Are you… okay?"

"No, I am NOT okay, Ken," you hissed, glaring at yet another woman who was eyefucking him. "They’re looking at you."

Nanami blinked. "And?"

"AND?" You almost screamed. "I AND SATORU ARE THE ONLY ONES ALLOWED TO LOOK AT YOU LIKE THAT."

Gojo wheezed. "Holy shit, you’re insane—"

You hissed at him.

Nanami, utterly unfazed, just patted your head again like a kindergarten teacher calming a feral child. "I belong to you. You know that."

That... shouldn’t have done anything to you.

But it did.

Gojo noticed immediately. His grin turned evil.

"Damn, sweetheart," he purred, slinging an arm around Nanami’s very exposed shoulders. "You’re acting like you don’t have two husbands."

"I AM AWARE," you snapped, before grabbing Nanami’s arm and glaring at every woman in a five-mile radius.

Nanami looked at the sky as if begging the universe for patience. "Are we almost back to the hotel?"

"Not fast enough," you grumbled.

Gojo just smirked, winking at one of the women eyeing Nanami. "Hey girl, you can look all you want, but only we get to touch."

"SATORU!"

And just like that, you had a new mission.

Protect Nanami. At all costs.

Even if that meant literally body-blocking him from the general public.

For the next ten minutes, you were practically shoving your loose top at Nanami, determined to restore his dignity.

"Just take it!" you huffed, trying to push it into his hands. "Let me—"

Nanami shoved it back at you. "I am not letting you walk through Ibiza at night in just a bra."

"Why not?!"

"Because it’s inappropriate."

"But it’s fine for you to be half-naked?!"

"That’s different."

"HOW?!" You narrowed your eyes and waited for him to dig himself into a hole because just now, Nanami Kento had walked into a trap all husbands detested—being proven sexist or weak.

Gojo was still laughing. "Sweetheart, let him be. He’s embracing his primal state."

"I WILL NOT LET HIM BE!" You yanked his arm like a stubborn child. "Take. The. Shirt."

Nanami just sighed harder, like he was already calculating his therapy bill. "I would rather die than let you walk around a strange country at night in nothing but a bra."

You narrowed your eyes further. "I thought you were my dark romance husband who says, ‘wear whatever you want, I can fight.’"

Gojo immediately wheezed. "Shit, Kento, R.I.P."

But before Nanami could kick him off, Gojo grabbed his own t-shirt and just yeeted it off in the middle of the street.

"Solidarity, Kento!" Gojo declared, now also bare-chested.

Now you were just standing there, sandwiched between two unfairly ripped men, blinking.

You turned to see everyone staring at what was supposed to be only yours. You could not fight this many people anytime soon.

Nanami, barely reacting, turned to Gojo with the deepest sigh of his life. "Why are you like this?"

Gojo grinned. "Look who’s talking, Mr. Eight-Pack Abs."

Nanami pinched his nose, his last brain cell disintegrating into dust. "Fine." He exhaled sharply and snatched your shirt from your grip, finally putting it on.

You, now finally winning, smirked.

Now, only Gojo was shirtless, twirling his discarded tee like a stripper on payday. "So, are we just walking back like this? ‘Cause I feel chilly."

Nanami didn’t even look at him. "Put your shirt back on, Satoru."

"Make me."

You rolled your eyes, grabbed Gojo’s shirt, and made him wear it like a mom. "I swear to God, if you both walk around practically naked, I will commit murder."

Gojo grinned, winking at you. "Oh? Kinda hot."

Nanami physically dragged him the rest of the way.

After a while of Gojo carrying you on his back, with Nanami walking behind to guard you, the three of you navigated through the crowds enveloped in Gojo’s infinity. Ahead, the 7Pines Resort loomed like a beacon of hope.

Except—

As soon as you reached the gates—

“Oh my God.” Gojo gasped, and you climbed down.

You and Nanami blinked at him in confusion.

“What?”

Gojo turned to you both, dead serious.

“This is a stealth mission.”

By all accounts, you should’ve just walked into your luxury hotel like normal people.

Instead—

“Wait,” Gojo whispered, pressing a hand to his earpiece (which did not exist).

“We’re undercover,” you nodded, eyes dead serious.

Nanami—who was 100% done with both of you—just sighed and rubbed his face. “We’re going to get arrested.”

Gojo shushed him aggressively. “Not with that attitude, Nami.”

Then, without any warning, Gojo flattened himself against a tree, moving slowly, eyes shifting left and right like he was some kind of secret agent.

You immediately followed suit, sliding up beside him.

Nanami stood there, staring at the two of you like he was seriously contemplating whether he could pretend not to know you.

You grabbed his wrist, dragging him into the nonsense.

“You’re Bond,” you whispered dead serious. “We’re your sexy sidekicks.”

“If I’m doing this, then I’m a respected businessman,” Nanami muttered, surprisingly complying.

"Fine,” Gojo hissed. “Now move before they spot us.”

The second you stepped inside the gorgeous, luxurious, marble-floored lobby—all three of you immediately dropped into a squat.

A rich, powerful trillionaire, a stoic ex-salaryman, and a 6’3” menace—all crouching like idiots behind a plant that was not nearly big enough to hide the three of you.

“This is so stupid,” Nanami muttered.

Gojo shushed him aggressively. “You’re ruining the mission.”

You squinted. “Where’s our target?”

Gojo was suddenly the kind of serious the higher-ups wished he was in meetings. “The elevator.”

Nanami whispered, "Follow me.”

Then—like a trio of highly trained spies (read: three unhinged drunk people)—you moved in sync.

Crouch-walking.

Stalking behind ridiculously expensive furniture.

Ducking behind a giant vase (which Gojo nearly knocked over).

Your Nanami’s loafers clicked against the marble, completely ruining the stealth, all because your foot size was not the same as his, making it feel like a child cosplaying an adult.

Nanami sighed in agony, watching his dignity disintegrate as he followed you barefoot.

At one point, Gojo cartwheeled behind a couch. (It was not a cartwheel; he almost got a concussion.)

You rolled behind a decorative plant.

Nanami simply walked normally, hands in his pockets.

You giggled into your hand, clinging onto their sleeves.

It didn’t help that the staff already knew you were high as a kite and actively ignored you.

And then—miraculously—you made it to the elevator without getting kicked out.

Somehow, despite the absolute circus you all just pulled, you reached the penthouse suite without being thrown out.

And that’s when the real problem started.

The second the door clicked shut, Gojo pressed you against the wall, caging you in with his arms.

His lips curled into a grin, but his eyes—God, those electric blue eyes—were dangerous.

“So, uh,” his voice dropped. “What do spies do after a mission?”

You grinned back.

“Celebratory sex,” Nanami deadpanned from behind you.

Gojo snapped his fingers. “Exactly.”

“You know,” he murmured, voice low, “I think we deserve a reward.”

Nanami, putting away your heels, exhaled slowly behind him. “We need water first.”

Gojo ignored him, and the heat in the room shifted instantly. He dipped down to press his forehead against yours.

“You look so fucking beautiful right now,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your lips.

You shivered.

Gojo chuckled, his voice thick with amusement.

“She’s still high,” Nanami pointed out, taking off your t-shirt.

Gojo leaned closer, his lips ghosting against yours. “So am I.”

And then—

Nanami’s hand slid to your waist, warm and solid against your skin.

Your heart pounded.

Your back arched.

Then Gojo missed your mouth completely and kissed your cheek.

And then your nose.

And then somehow your eyebrow.

You snorted so hard it broke the mood entirely.

Gojo pulled back, blinking in confusion. "Did you just—are you laughing?"

"You kissed my eyebrow."

Gojo’s eyes widened in betrayal. "No, I didn’t."

Nanami, tired of your combined antics, sighed. "You did."

Then the second Gojo kissed you, it was over.

Your high-ass brain forgot everything—your name, your life, why you were even standing up—because all you could feel was warmth.

Nanami’s hands moved to your breast, kneading, drawing out a deep gasp while he bit your shoulder.

The high made everything—every touch—ten times more intense.

Gojo’s lips brushed against yours, teasing, grinning against your mouth.

And then—

Your legs gave out.

“Oh—shit—” Gojo yelped, grabbing you like a sack of potatoes.

“Are you okay?” Nanami immediately snapped to concern, but his shirtless self looked so serious that it just—

It just made you laugh.

Like really laugh.

And Gojo, the idiot, caught your giggles like a contagious disease.

“What—why are you laughing?” Nanami asked flatly, but Gojo was already bent over, wheezing, dragging you down with him.

You were giggling uncontrollably in Gojo’s arms, tears in your eyes, because none of this made sense, but it was so funny.

Nanami sighed, rubbing his temples.

The next few moments were a blur of—

Gojo kissing you like a starved man, hands greedy, palm pressed flat against the small of your back.

Nanami tilted your chin up, kissing you slow and deep, fingers dragging up your spine as Gojo pressed against your back.

All three of you collapsed onto the giant bed, a tangle of limbs and heat.

Gojo cursed under his breath when you pulled his t-shirt off, fingers dragging over his abs.

Nanami groaned when you got impatient and yanked his trousers loose.

Then—

“Wait.”

Silence.

Gojo paused mid-kiss, blinking.

You and Nanami looked up, waiting.

Gojo squinted, frowning. “Are we—” he paused. “Is this high making us extra horny?”

You blinked. “Has he never had an edible before?”

Nanami answered you both. “Yes.”

Gojo nodded. “Cool.”

Then he immediately went back to kissing you.

Nanami just shook his head and returned to leaving hickeys on your décolletage.

After some time, Gojo was grinning like a fool, straddling your waist and pressing kisses all over.

“You’re so fucking hot, baby, holy shit.”

Nanami was pressed against your back, his hot breath on your ear sending shivers down your spine.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” he muttered, but he was smirking against your skin.

Gojo smiled like an overexcited puppy. “We’re high, Kento!”

Nanami sighed, but his hand was already sliding up your thigh.

And then AGAIN—

Gojo gasped. “Oh my God—I’m in a threesome!”

Nanami froze.

You froze.

And then, like the traitor you were, you burst out laughing.

“WE’RE MARRIED, SATORU.” Nanami groaned, burying his face in your shoulder, hiding his laughter.

Gojo was giggling like an idiot, collapsing onto you.

And somehow—somehow—that giggling turned into kisses.

Soft.

Warm.

Lazy, slow, sweet.

You were all a mess, breathless and tangled, forgetting the world outside this moment.

In the soft haze of high and heat, all you could think was—

God, you loved them.

Ibiza had been a mistake.

But, holy hell, what a delightful one.

And the real honeymoon finally began.

---

Present Day, Japan

Warmth surrounded you.

Soft. Safe. Home.

You burrowed in deeper, letting yourself drift again, somewhere between sleep and waking, your mind blissfully blank. A slow, steady heartbeat thumped against your ear, and you sighed, nuzzling closer into the familiar, comfortable warmth of a fireplace.

Then something hard pressed against your lower back.

Your hazy brain barely registered it before all the pregnancy hormones you had been suppressing for months suddenly kicked the door down. A slow heat bloomed deep in your stomach, and before you could stop yourself, your hips rolled back, instinctively seeking friction.

Behind you, a slow, sharp inhale was taken against your hair. The arms around your waist tightened.

Encouraged by the response, you shifted again, pressing closer, rubbing against the firm heat.

It felt good.

Right.

Your body felt alive, sensitive in a way it hadn’t been in forever.

And then—oh. Oh.

A low, gravelly groan rumbled behind you, vibrations running down your spine.

The weight around your waist shifted, and suddenly, you were pulled flush against someone’s broad, solid chest. A large hand splayed over your belly, possessive yet reverent, while the unmistakable pressure of him aligned perfectly against the curve of your ass.

A hot exhale ghosted over your ear. "Fuck."

Your fingers clenched into the fabric you had been clutching in front of you, only to realize—

You were holding onto Nanami.

Face pressed into his neck, drooling onto his sweater.

Your body went rigid.

You wondered who Gojo was thinking of right now. Was it Nanami? Of course, it must be.

Another slow, gritted groan came from behind you. “Don’t go. I’m so sorry, baby. You’re my sun, and I won’t survive this void without you.”

Gojo’s hands moved and tightened over your sore, heavier-than-normal breasts, his face tucking against your neck as he ground against you once, just once, as if his asleep body was responding to yours on instinct.

Your stomach flipped—but not with affection.

Carefully, you started untangling yourself.

Nanami shifted first, a small frown pulling at his brows as he reached out for you in his sleep. You grabbed a pillow and shoved it in your place.

Like an idiot, he took it, pulling it to his chest with a small sigh.

A laugh tried to escape you, but you smothered it.

No. Focus.

Gojo was next. His breathing was steady—still asleep. Good.

You tried to sit up.

His arms, already firm around you, suddenly locked.

Tighter.

Jail-tight.

You sighed, pausing to wait for an opening. But he was clinging, his grip protective, securing you as if you were something precious that could slip away.

Seconds turned into minutes.

His warmth. Their warmth. Their familiar scent surrounded you.

Your eyelids grew heavy again.

And against your better judgment, you fell asleep again.

A few minutes later, you woke up to find Gojo nowhere to be seen and Nanami on the floor.

It wasn’t a surprise; how the hell were two massive men and your submarine-sized self even fitting on a couch?

By all logic, Nanami should’ve been on the floor long ago—he had been on the outside edge, after all.

Now, he was bundled up under a ridiculously heavy blanket, curled around a pillow like a koala—the one you’d shoved toward him. He must have fallen along with it. Thank God, or he would have taken you with him into the abyss.

His face was completely buried in it, soft blond strands spilling over the fabric, rising and falling with his slow, even breathing. He looked so peaceful, like a sun hidden behind storm clouds.

Like he wasn’t currently competing for the title of Captain Clueless McGee against Gojo these days.

“Don’t wake him up yet; his cursed energy needs a bit more to recharge,” came a voice from somewhere.

Yeah, like you were going to anyway.

You sighed, sitting up—luckily, no morning sickness today—and rubbed your eyes.

“Here,” a coffee mug with ‘The Strongest Pussy Eater’ and Gojo’s face was shoved close to your face.

You blinked at it, then up at Gojo, who was holding his own cup—which was yours, reading ‘Boobs Make Me Smile.’

You took your mug and placed it on the side table.

Gojo plopped himself down next to you, stretching his long limbs in a spidery way.

You stared blankly at nothing in particular, waiting for your brain cells to clock in for work.

Minutes passed.

Eventually, you picked up the coffee and took a sip.

…Butterscotch?

You frowned and took another sip to confirm.

Lo and behold.

Suspicion crept in. You peeked over the rim of your cup at Gojo, who was very obviously trying to hide his stupidly wide grin behind his own mug.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

In a voice low enough not to wake Nanami, you finally asked, “Are they yours?”

Gojo blinked, confused at first.

Then—like watching one single brain cell connect two dots—his expression slowly shifted.

Hesitantly, he replied, “He should be part of this conversation, right?”

He pointed toward Nanami, who was now halfway under the coffee table like a giant, well-insulated cockroach.

"Yeah, like you two kept me in the loop while che—" Your brain stalled.

Damn it, why did he look so cute?

Oh.

Right.

Hormones.

Definitely hormones.

Gojo was watching you, pretending he wasn’t, but his poorly hidden grin gave him away.

You cleared your throat, trying to reset your focus.

Before you could say anything, a deep, groggy voice came from the floor.

“You’re awake.”

Nanami’s voice was rough with sleep, his arms loosening on the pillow as he blinked at you, sleepily gauging your expression.

Gojo mock-stirred, rubbing his eyes like a spoiled prince. “Mmm, morning, pretty boy.”

Nanami immediately pulled his blanket over his head, obscuring his entire being, and groaned, “It’s too early for your shit.”

Gojo wasn’t deterred. “Our wife wants to know if they’re mine.”

Silence.

Nanami’s blanket lowered slightly. “…What?”

You took another sip of your butterscotch and sugar-overload disaster that should be declared a Turkish delight at this point and let out a small, unintentional hum of satisfaction. Fuck.

Gojo caught it.

His eyes gleamed as he leaned in, his voice way too smug for the morning. “Sugar cravings, huh?”

You tried to burrow into your blanket to escape the judgment.

Like a damn professor, Gojo took a very serious sip of his own coffee before announcing, “Sugar helps replenish energy and glucose levels faster.”

You glared. “I’m not gonna repeat myself. I know you can tell. From the cursed energy or whatever.”

Nanami, still half-dead on the floor, finally muttered, “Both ours.”

“Like spiritually or genetically?”

“Genetically.” He didn’t elaborate further.

You nodded, then your gaze snapped back to him. “Wait, that’s possible?”

Nanami looked caught off guard.

Gojo interjected, "Yeah, very rare. We are very lucky, baby.” He added a small chuckle, but underneath, he was sweating.

Then, folding his arm under his head, Nanami studied you carefully.

You poker-faced it.

Internally, though?

Something in your chest squeezed—a feeling you refused to name.

At least you wouldn’t have two Gojo clones harassing you for the rest of your life.

You simply hummed, grabbed your phone, and started texting people to take over arrangements at work. No way in hell were you going in today.

Nanami, satisfied with your reaction (or lack thereof), simply turned over and went back to sleep.

Gojo’s hand ghosted over your belly—a touch he didn’t complete.

You said nothing.

Instead, you stood up, stretching out the stiffness in your limbs. Gojo’s stupid grin faltered, softening into something smaller, something quieter, something so gut-wrenchingly fond it made his chest ache.

You ignored it and glanced at your phone, which was vibrating with a new text.

Yu 🐒: Hark, fair maiden! Prithee, unbar thy portal and grant us entry, for we hath arrived bearing the most fearsome of beasts—a creature of untamed spirit and claws sharper than the wit of your court jesters! Behold, the feral cat, a beast both noble and wild, hath graced us with its presence. Open thy doors, lest we be forced to parley with this tiny, hissing dragon upon thy stoop!

Yu 🐒: Pray, do not mention the scratches upon mine armor. 'Tis but a badge of honor.

Right on cue, a loud, impatient knock rattled the door. You perked up immediately.

“I got it,” you announced, already on your way.

The moment you opened the door, Haibara strolled in like he owned the place, several bags in hand, showing zero regard for personal space or the sanctity of your home.

Megumi, right behind him, handed you a tiny, squirming baby raccoon. It stretched its tiny arms toward you, and you gingerly cradled it against your chest.

“Wait—it’s albino?” You blinked, peering down at the little baby’s clean, impossibly soft fur.

Megumi wandered in. “He. And yes, at this point, you have a knack for collecting albino men.”

“I’m not albino. It’s the amount of my cursed energy you can’t even imagine that makes my hair white!” Gojo bellowed from the kitchen, slamming pancakes onto the griddle with the force of a man trying to prove he wasn’t eavesdropping. He was very invested in breakfast—or at least he wanted you to think so. But every few seconds, his eyes darted toward you, betraying his true focus: the raccoon.

Oh, the raccoon.

Because for Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, the man who could level cities with a flick of his wrist, had one singular dream: to become the Raccoon King. Or, more accurately, Raccoon Dad. He wanted to hold it, become best friends with it. He wanted to whisper sweet nothings into its tiny, masked ears and maybe teach it to steal Nanami’s ugly glasses just so he could watch Nanami searching for them, grumbling. (Little did he know that within one night, Haibara had already one-upped him on that.)

But no—there you were, cradling the raccoon like it was the most precious thing in the world. Your arms wrapped around it instinctively, protectively, swaying just slightly as you soothed it.

And that’s when Gojo’s brain short-circuited.

Because if you could hold a raccoon like that—like it was a fragile, beloved treasure—would you hold his babies like that? Would you let him hold his kids? Would you—?

Gojo’s thoughts descended into chaos.

And then, like a lead balloon, he sank.

Right into the pit of his own existential despair.

So he pouted. Hard. Stirring the pancake batter with the intensity of a man questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment. The whisk clinked against the bowl like a funeral bell, and Gojo wondered if raccoons could sense emotional turmoil.

He glanced at you again. You were still holding the raccoon.

Still swaying.

Still looking like the kind of person who could effortlessly raise a family of tiny, chaotic beings.

Gojo sighed, stirring harder.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

It was not fine.

Meanwhile, Megumi had already moved on, fully ignoring Gojo's spiral. He eyed you with thinly veiled judgment. “Why are you not dressed yet?”

You, now completely wrapped up in coddling the raccoon, hummed, “I’m taking maternity leave starting today.”

At that, Megumi stilled while Gojo internally fist-pumped.

Haibara, however, was too busy bullying Nanami.

He had just discovered Nanami sleeping halfway under the table and was now poking at his ear like a child tormenting a bear.

Nanami grunted and batted at it a few times like a mosquito before suddenly startling awake, immediately two seconds away from committing murder. “Why are you poking me?”

You stifled a giggle.

Haibara, unfazed, just grinned at him smugly as if this were the greatest joy of his life. “I dunno. Feels right.”

Nanami, who had only just woken up from his half-under-the-table depression nap, sat up, dead-eyed and exhausted, then stood and dragged himself toward the kitchen to begrudgingly help Gojo.

Haibara, satisfied, collapsed onto the couch beside you.

You started, grinning like you were about to ask for his last bite of cake. “I need a huge favor.”

Megumi sighed, already knowing where this was going. “What?”

You glanced between him and Haibara. “So,” you began, shifting slightly to accommodate your ever-growing twin-infested belly, “in my absence, since there are jackals—” You spoke louder, glaring at the two traitors in the kitchen, “—who would just love to take over the company I built from scratch given my unusual circumstances—”

Both Gojo and Nanami visibly flinched.

“—I need you and Haibara to take over in my absence.”

Megumi just stared. Haibara, thrilled, looked ready to commit war crimes.

You continued, already prepared to argue. “You don’t have to do anything major. My execs will handle the details and keep me updated, but sometimes things might require your attention. And Megumi, I know you already have your own company, and Haibara, I know you’re technically retired but still somehow more dangerous than an entire intelligence agency, but you two are the only ones I trust right now.”

You paused to let that sink in.

Megumi, without hesitation, said, “I’ll do it. Don’t worry about it.”

“Not so fast,” Haibara said, his tone dripping with that unnervingly cheerful negotiation energy.

Your stomach dropped. If Haibara was feeling negotiation-core, you were doomed. You were already out of options—ideally, you’d have gone to Nanami, but handing him such power felt like signing your own death certificate. He’d probably screw you over in the name of “love” or some other nonsense.

You turned to him, already dreading whatever ridiculous request was about to come out of his mouth.

“What’s the car privilege like, and can I have my own jet?” Haibara asked, very serious.

You exhaled, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You will have access to all executive privileges I have. And you will be compensated at my salary level.”

Megumi’s eyebrow twitched. He looked like he wanted to strangle Haibara with his bare hands.

Haibara, unfazed, asked, “How much do you make?”

“You have no shame.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “And you have even less survival instinct to ask a woman that question.”

Megumi, still seething, muttered, “She’s a trillionaire.”

Haibara shrugged. “Exactly. You were thinking it too.”

Before you could throw hands, Haibara swung an arm over Megumi’s shoulder and turned slightly, as if you weren’t right there. “I would like a minute to discuss this with my associate.”

Then, in a very serious, very confidential whisper, Haibara asked, “What’s your favorite Pokémon?”

Megumi stared at him. “How many times did you hit your head in MI6?”

Haibara smirked. “Too many to count, but you should see the others.”

Then he turned back to you, completely deadpan. “I have discussed it with my associate, and we’d like to consider your preposterous proposal.”

You rolled your eyes because, one, you had heard every word, and two, they had not discussed anything. “Great. I’ll call my CHRO and get the paperwork started.”

Haibara opened his mouth immediately, but you cut him off. “No, you cannot throw parties. Yes, you can use the AR/VR hall.”

Haibara beamed. “Pleasure doing business with you. I’ve always wanted to be a CEO. Never got to cosplay that in MI6.”

He turned to high-five Megumi, but Megumi didn’t raise his hand, so Haibara high-fived Megumi’s face instead.

As Megumi pushed Haibara off the couch, you laughed while texting your CHRO, who lived just a few floors down and would be arriving in a few minutes.

---

A few minutes later, the scent of breakfast filled the air, but you weren’t impressed.

Instead, you sat on the couch, wrapped in your rage like a blanket, one hand absentmindedly stroking the tiny albino raccoon curled up against your swollen belly. It purred, content.

Meanwhile, you?

Not content.

Your husbands—traitors, both of them—were in the kitchen, pretending they weren’t the prime targets of your wrath.

Across from you, Megumi casually sipped his coffee, every bit the Corporate Toji Hybrid he was: effortlessly powerful, composed, and completely indifferent to the tension in the room. Next to him, Haibara lounged like a cat that had just knocked over a vase on purpose, his shit-eating grin locked directly on Nanami.

Megumi had already moved on, focused entirely on the tiny albino raccoon baby sleeping against your belly.

“I left his medical notes and care instructions in there,” Megumi murmured, gesturing to the bags he’d brought. He gently petted the baby raccoon’s tiny head, his voice soft. “He’s already fed, so you don’t need to worry about that. Next feeding is at 12 PM. A few more days, then he’ll be three months old, and we can move him to other food. Call me if you need anything or want me to babysit him.”

You nodded as the CHRO finished taking pictures of the baby. “He’s so smoll and adorable.”

Then she switched back to her regular demeanor, adjusting her blazer and perking up as she took her seat just as the housekeeping staff arrived with freshly brewed coffee and a plate of neatly arranged breakfast. She nodded in thanks before turning to you with a level-headed, professional tone.

“You can’t go on leave immediately,” she stated, glancing over her tablet. “As per Japanese labor laws, maternity leave must be announced at least six to eight weeks in advance. However—” she took a sip of her coffee, narrowing her eyes at Gojo and Nanami, “—we can work something out if you can provide a doctor’s note.”

You, already prepared, slid Shoko’s note across the table. “I figured as much. This should do.”

She skimmed the document, nodding in approval. “It’s solid. Given your condition, we can argue medical necessity.” She added it to her folder, then added, “Now the real problem is the board of directors. Those idiots won’t easily turn over. Pardon my language; it’s too early.” She took another long sip of her coffee, clearly needing it.

Gojo and Nanami pretended not to hear, their focus on the breakfast spread.

You chuckled, “I know. But considering they’ve been crying for me to step down, I think they’ll be more than happy to approve my leave.”

“Not with your candidates.” She lifted her gaze, deadpan, as she gestured toward Megumi and Haibara. “No offense.”

Haibara, utterly unbothered, waved a hand dismissively, leaning back into the couch with a relaxed posture. Megumi didn’t even look up from his phone, his expression unreadable as he took another sip of his coffee, unfazed by the conversation.

Your CHRO tapped a manicured nail against the table, deep in thought. “However… I believe we could expedite things by bringing in a certain classy lawyer. Someone who can bury them in so much legal jargon about the Child Care and Family Care Leave Act that they’d have no choice but to comply.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Classy, huh? Want me to stage a little run-in?”

She glanced up from her coffee, her smirk mirroring yours. “No need. He’ll come to me. We’ve got history.”

You couldn’t help but grin. This—this—was why she was one of your most trusted allies. She wasn’t just competent; she had a knack for understanding people. She knew exactly how to pull the right strings, when to push, and when to sit back and let them walk right into her hands.

Unbeknownst to both of you, the four men in the room were watching like spectators at a tennis match, their faces a mix of horror and disbelief. Gojo and Nanami, in particular, looked like they’d just been handed a life sentence. Nanami had been quietly spiraling since Hiromi saved them on your request from going to jail again, his mind racing with the unbearable thought that you might leave them for Higuruma—calm, competent, and painfully similar to him. Meanwhile, Gojo had been one wrong word away from flinging himself off the nearest rooftop, convinced that his charm and good looks were no match for Higuruma’s “mature lawyer vibes.”

It was tragic, really. Two grown men, utterly defeated by the mere possibility of being replaced by someone who probably ironed his socks.

“Don’t worry about the board; call a meeting. I’ll take care of it,” Megumi interjected.

What board was left anyway? He and Haibara had removed all the prickly members, not that they were going to share that with the class.

“Great!” Your CHRO glanced at her watch. “Alright, it’s getting late. Once everything is finalized, we’ll move forward with the announcement. We’ll need to notify the Tokyo Stock Exchange and the Financial Services Agency, given your company’s listing.”

Then she turned to you, finishing the last sip of her coffee. “A word in private?”

“Sure.”

Your brows furrowed as you pushed yourself off the couch, but you immediately froze—the baby raccoon was determined to crawl inside your t-shirt.

You sighed, reaching out blindly to shove the fluffy menace into Gojo’s arms as he passed by.

Gojo, mid-bite into a stolen biscuit, blinked in surprise before cradling the raccoon as if it were your firstborn. The little creature immediately latched onto his shirt, climbing it like a tree.

“Traitor,” you muttered under your breath before nodding at your CHRO. “Let’s go.”

Little did you know, that was the best day of Gojo’s life as he cradled the baby in his arms.

The morning air was crisp as you stepped onto the rooftop, the city skyline buzzing below. People rushed to work or school. Your CHRO leaned against the railing, her expression unreadable.

“An investor has contacted me,” she said, her tone measured.

You crossed your arms, frowning, still unsure why she was bringing it up. “Let Megumi handle it from now.”

“That’s the problem,” she countered, watching your reaction. “They insist on meeting you personally. No exceptions.”

You exhaled sharply. Of course, they did.

“That’s not creepy at all,” you deadpanned, not at her, but at the entire concept of this mystery investor.

Your CHRO continued, unfazed. “The money is substantial. More than enough to drown out the sharks circling us right now. And…” she hesitated, then added, “He’s got a remarkable PR track record. Think ‘Bendgate’—turning PR disasters into status symbols. He’s suggesting that instead of fighting the backlash, we own it. He even thinks we frame your maternity leave as a power move rather than a retreat.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Looks like he wants to do more than just invest.”

Her lips curled slightly, impressed as always by how quickly you saw through things.

“He said—and I quote—‘I protect my assets.’”

She studied your reaction. “So, if nothing else, he’s definitely planning to keep his investment safe. And if that means getting us out of negative publicity, we might as well let him.”

Your fingers drummed against your arm as you mulled over the idea. It was a good move—maybe even an excellent one. But the way this investor was approaching it—insisting on you, personally—set off more alarms than you’d like.

Still, you were never one to dismiss a game just because the opponent seemed strong.

“I’ll think about it,” you finally said, then shot her a sharp glance. “Now go.”

Your CHRO grinned knowingly but didn’t push further. She nodded and followed you back inside.

Back in the living room, Haibara immediately pulled you into a suffocating hug, taking your leave with enthusiasm.

Megumi, standing beside him, simply reached out and ruffled your hair. You glared up at him, swatting his hand away, but he just smirked in response.

And then just as they were about to leave, Haibara turned back with a-too bright for morning-grin.

“Oh, by the way—say hello to your new neighbors.”

Your entire body tensed.

“What?”

But before you could demand answers, Haibara and Megumi were already gone.

Nanami and Gojo were visibly frozen.

Gojo’s jaw hung slightly open, as if he were processing the worst possible outcome.

Nanami, on the other hand, looked like he was seriously debating throwing himself off the balcony.

After a beat of silence, you closed the door.

You didn’t say a word.

You simply went straight to the shower.

Meanwhile, in the background, Nanami was already deep into an argument with the housekeeping staff about something probably insignificant—because, as had been established long ago, you were not socially extroverted enough to ask them for anything, and Gojo sure as hell wasn’t responsible enough to handle it.

So, by default, it was Nanami’s job.

And judging by the increasing frustration in his tone, he was acutely aware of this injustice.

---

By the time you finally lowered yourself into a chair at the dining table, breakfast was already waiting—your favorite meal, prepared with precision, the portions adjusted to what your body could currently tolerate.

The scent hit first: warm, familiar, comforting.

And yet, your stomach twisted.

Gojo slid a glass of milk beside your plate, his voice deliberately light. “Gotta keep those bones strong, mama.”

You stared at the glass.

Your face remained blank, but deep inside, you were already dry-heaving in spirit.

Milk. Plain, disgusting, childhood-trauma-inducing milk.

The sheer audacity of this man.

In all the years of your relationship, not once had you willingly consumed a glass of milk. Not once.

Nanami, oblivious to your mental betrayal arc, set a peeled orange next to your plate—a habit he’d developed after his Ph.D.-level pregnancy research phase. “Eat slowly,” he advised, watching you carefully as he took a seat across from you.

You stabbed your fork into your food. The tension was suffocating.

You chewed quietly, the atmosphere thick with unspoken words. They were waiting for you to say something—anything—but you didn’t. You just kept staring at the glass of milk, trying not to grimace. Honestly, you didn’t care if anyone called you a toddler; you absolutely hated plain milk. It tasted so disgusting that you felt like throwing up every time, and it brought back memories of your mom trying to force-feed it to you.

Everything felt awkward, and the housekeepers were eyeing you with sympathy, like a zoo animal under observation.

Gojo, who had never handled prolonged silence well, fidgeted. “Do you... feel okay today?”

You looked at him, then at Nanami, and finally back at your plate.

“Fine,” you muttered.

It was a lie.

But it was also a functional answer.

The relief on their faces was immediate—like you had just spared them from the gallows.

They had no idea.

Because inside you, the twins were awake.

And they were moving.

Your hand subtly pressed against your stomach as you felt a now-familiar pressure beneath your ribs.

Like a second heartbeat thrumming beneath your skin.

You swallowed thickly.

Neither Nanami nor Gojo noticed. They were too focused on watching you eat, too distracted by their own guilt.

But then a tiny whine sounded from beneath the table.

You blinked, looking down to find the baby raccoon furiously trying to climb your leg.

Your heart cracked open.

You had read somewhere that baby raccoons did this specifically to get their mother’s attention.

But you couldn’t bend over under the table, not with the ever-expanding horror that was your current body. So Gojo, sensing your dilemma, reached down and scooped up the tiny menace.

The raccoon, immediately noticing Nanami, turned full feral.

Before anyone could react, he launched himself onto Nanami’s sweater, claws sinking in as he scrambled up like a tiny, aggressive mountaineer.

Nanami jerked, startled.

The raccoon kit, small but packed with the kind of raw, chaotic energy that only an orphaned, two-month-old menace could wield, had reached his final destination—Nanami’s head.

Perched like a crown atop the golden locks, the little beast surveyed his kingdom with an air of unearned confidence. Then, with the audacity of someone who had never known consequences, he latched onto Nanami’s hair and pulled.

Hard.

A sharp inhale. A barely restrained flinch. A flash of sheer suffering crossed Nanami’s face before it was promptly buried under his usual look of long-suffering exhaustion.

"…Get him off, Satoru," he said, his voice calm but teetering on the edge of homicide. "It hurts."

Gojo, who had been waiting for this moment his entire life, was nearly vibrating with glee.

"Why would I do that when he’s clearly bonded with you?" Gojo cooed, shaking a plastic container of raccoon-safe treats like he was summoning a beast. "Come here, little guy. Look, I got the good stuff~!"

The raccoon did not come.

Instead, the raccoon opened his mouth and started chewing on Nanami’s hair.

You, composed as ever, lifted your cup to your lips, the picture of grace despite the absolute clownery unfolding right in front of you. Your hands trembled with the effort of keeping a straight face, but you held firm, fighting for your life not to laugh (that would not be very nonchalant of you).

Very nonchalant. Unbothered. Above it all.

Nanami was none of these things.

With the measured patience of a man who had seen death and returned more disappointed than scared, he reached up, pried the raccoon from his scalp, and held him out like an HR complaint. The kit, dangling from his firm grip, wiggled his tiny limbs in protest.

"He needs a name,” he mused, just as Gojo immediately snatched the baby from Nanami’s grasp and cradled him like a long-lost son.

"Say less," Gojo grinned, his eyes sparkling with the raw, unchecked power of a man who had never been stopped from making bad decisions. He grasped your shoulder, deadly serious. "Feral Slay."

A beat of silence followed.

"You’re never naming anything. Ever," Nanami stated with the firm finality of a judge handing down a life sentence.

"Okay, okay, fine," you said, waving a hand before Gojo could start rattling off worse options. You turned to the raccoon, tilting your head. "He kinda looks like a... Bean. No, wait—Clout Save."

Gojo stared at you, horrified. "Clout Save?"

"Clout Save."

"Clout Save."

"CS for short," you added helpfully.

Gojo dragged a hand down his face. "You can’t just name him like he’s some little meow meow—"

"His name is Takahashi the ETA."

Both you and Gojo turned slowly to look at Nanami.

Nanami, straightening his sweater cuffs, exuded an air of absolute finality. "Takahashi is respectable. It suits him. ETA stands for Executive Trash Associate."

The raccoon, now named Takahashi-Clout Save-Feral Slay (depending on who you asked), chirped happily and shoved his tiny face into Gojo’s chest, burrowing close.

Except he was not actually burrowing; he was looking for skin.

Once he found it, he bit Gojo, who yelped and put him back on the table, rubbing his neck.

The baby immediately ran toward you.

And that’s when you realized he was in love with you.

Oh, not in a pet way. No, no. The baby raccoon, for reasons known only to himself and whatever god oversaw creatures of chaos, had decided that you were his one true love.

Your fate was sealed the moment you fed him milk.

"You’re his mom now," Gojo declared, delighted.

Nanami was hiding a smile behind his mug.

The raccoon, completely serious, squeaked and nuzzled closer to you, heart and soul dedicated to his cause.

Except for the fact that, beneath your ribs, your unborn child shifted again.

This time, it hurt, and your face twitched.

Nanami saw.

Gojo saw.

Their amusement faded instantly.

But you, determined to keep your composure, simply reached for the glass of milk—

And slid it across the table.

Towards Gojo.

Without a word.

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to protest. But he didn’t.

Instead, he just took the glass.

And drank.

Because if there was one unspoken rule in this house—

It was that they would have to do anything for your forgiveness, and you wanted to test that theory.

You spent most of the day curled up on the couch, flipping through a book, deliberately ignoring how they hovered like ghosts of their own making.

Nanami busied himself in the kitchen, reorganizing the medicine cabinet so that your prenatal vitamins sat front and center—impossible to miss, impossible to ignore.

Gojo, restlessly, moved in and out of the room, each time bringing something new—first, a blanket. Then, pillows. Then, a heating pad, which he placed beside you with careful hands, his voice soft.

"For your back," he murmured, stepping away as soon as he saw the distinct lack of response.

You did not acknowledge him.

You did not acknowledge any of them.

Except, at one point, you finally shifted—moving toward the new-looking foot massager sitting in the corner.

And like a cursed spirit sensing weak prey, Gojo materialized.

"Let me help," he said, already fiddling with the controls.

You narrowed your eyes.

This was your favorite part.

Gadgets were your thing. You were the tech CEO.

Was he mansplaining?

A slow inhale.

A calculated exhale.

You were two seconds from walking away when something caught your eye. Something... off.

Your gaze narrowed at his head. "Why is this video call enabled?"

Silence.

Gojo’s hand froze mid-button press.

Nanami, standing by the counter with Takahashi in his arms, went perfectly still—then, very deliberately, took a step back, adjusting his grip on the raccoon as if he were getting comfortable to watch something catastrophic unfold. Something he’d warned Gojo about.

Gojo, caught like a rat in a cage, let out a nervous laugh. "Ahh... well... you know, in case of emergencies—"

You stared at him.

He sweated.

Then, you looked at the camera angle.

It was positioned near your foot.

If you ever used this thing, all your fifty double chins and ginormous stomach would make a guest appearance on whatever poor sap you graced with your face.

You blinked.

Gojo took a step back.

Nanami—who had stayed silent this entire time—took Takahashi’s tiny paw and slowly high-fived it, as if they were both watching history in the making.

You ignored him and sighed in relief when the machine began working on your swollen feet.

---

You didn’t realize what day it was until Gojo set a small box in front of you at lunch.

You stared at it.

His fingers drummed against the table, uncharacteristically nervous. "Just… something we got a while ago. For today."

Nanami exhaled. "It’s Valentine’s Day."

And you—

You laughed.

Before you even fully processed the words, before your mind could catch up to your mouth, your body rejected the notion so violently that it left you breathless, doubled over in sheer, uncontrollable mirth.

"Who gives a shit?"

Valentine’s Day? Valentine’s Day?

You had lost track of dates entirely. You had spent months alone, unheard, unseen. A single holiday didn’t matter.

Your laughter twisted into something raw, something ugly, something just shy of manic.

Then your eyes flicked to them.

And they looked...

Genuinely hurt??

A moment of disbelief cracked through your amusement. Since when did men start caring about things like this? Especially after ignoring you on your anniversary—a day you had actually built with them.

Your laugh pitched higher, bubbling over again.

Confused? Disbelieving? Maybe just psychologically broken? Unhinged? Who the hell knew anymore?

Gojo leaned forward, blue eyes searching yours. "We know we messed up. We know you don’t forgive us yet. And we’re not expecting you to."

Nanami’s voice, steady as always, followed. "But we want to do better. Every day. Whether you believe us or not, we’ll prove it."

Your chest tightened.

Your fingers twitched, but you didn’t reach for the box.

You didn’t push it away, either.

Gojo took that as permission and nudged it closer, his fingers brushing against yours. "Come on, open it."

A sigh slipped through your lips—quiet, almost reluctant. And then, finally, you lifted the lid.

Your breath caught.

A Canon EOS R1, the latest mirrorless DSLR. Pristine build. Four lenses—RF 100-500mm f/4.5-7.1L IS USM, RF 24-70mm f/2.8L IS USM, TS-E 50mm F2.8 L Macro. High-end, thoughtful, expensive as hell.

This wasn’t just an apology gift—this was specific.

They had remembered. Somehow, through all their fuck-ups and negligence, they had still managed to retain one crucial piece of information—your preferred camera brand.

Your fingers grazed the smooth body, and something stirred in your chest.

It had been so long.

Too long.

And—before you could stop yourself—you started word vomiting.

"First of all, this lens is unnecessary." You pointed at one. "I only take portraits. Most of the time, the subject is close to me, and if it’s a stray cat, then—okay, fine, I’d use a zoom lens. But even then, the cat would run away before I could switch the damn thing, so I used to walk around with a zoom lens anyway. Then again, this new model is way faster, sharper—and it also has better pet eye focus, so Clout can be in his element without me having to hold him down and still end up with shaky photos—”

You looked up and stopped.

They were smiling.

Like fools.

Like absolute, pathetic fools.

Your frown deepened. Why?

Gojo snapped out of his daze and scratched the back of his head, grinning. "We, uh—"

"We don’t really know much about this stuff," he admitted, shrugging. "But we know you love it. And we thought maybe, y’know..." He gestured vaguely. He was getting flustered because it was the most you’d spoken to him after months, and you hadn’t berated him.

Nanami, always the one to articulate better, leaned forward. "We thought you could take maternity photos. If you wanted. Takahashi’s too."

You hadn’t even thought about that.

You wanted to.

You really, really did.

Your grip on the camera tightened, but you fought the warmth creeping into your chest, resisting the ridiculous impulse to let them see that they had done something right.

You glanced between them. "But you don’t even know how to use this, do you?"

Gojo, pleased as hell, grinned wider. "Nope."

Nanami sighed, patient. "No, but we can learn if… you’re willing to teach..."

Your lips twitched.

You didn’t outright accept their gift, but you didn’t reject it either.

And they saw it.

The way you lingered over the camera. The way your fingers drifted to adjust the settings, the way your expression softened—just a fraction—as you tested the weight in your hands.

They took it as a win.

---

Thirty minutes later, your laptop sat open in your home office, Behance boards filling the screen—soft, dreamy maternity shoots, golden hour lighting, flowy dresses—

And then, a sharp left turn into gothic drama.

Dark veils. Heavy shadows. The Morticia Addams aesthetic. For some reason, your mind went there. The twins kicked softly, and you took that as agreement.

Your fingers moved with purpose—envisioning details.

Clout Save blissfully chewed the corner of your screen. You didn’t even bother stopping him. You had given up on that battle long ago.

Nanami noticed first.

He set a plate of cut fruit beside you, silent for a moment. Then he asked, "Need anything for the shoot?"

He was trying hard not to remember how he used to sit in this very room, hands shaking, drowning in thoughts he refused to name. How, after you had disappeared, he had spent hours here, alone—desperate, unraveling, harming himself, dangerously close to doing something irreversible.

But you were here now.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t still terrified you’d disappear again.

You hesitated, then barely mumbled, "A few things."

Nanami exhaled, slow and careful, keeping his voice light. "Prepare a list. Let’s leave in an hour. Do you want clothes or other things too? Like something for Takahashi or..." He paused, and then—softly, deliberately—he dropped the N-word.

"The nursery."

Your hands froze over your keyboard.

Your entire body stilled.

You squinted at your screen, refusing to make eye contact with him.

The nursery.

That plague you had been actively avoiding.

Your teeth clenched.

Fine. Fine.

Megumi hadn’t called, which meant things on his end were fine. You had nothing else to do anyway.

"Fine," you said, your tone final. "But I will drive."

---

Unbeknownst to you, Gojo, pacing in the other room, had his phone pressed to his ear.

"Is mania common in pregnancy?" he demanded, his voice serious. "We told her it was Valentine’s Day, and she just started laughing—like, actually losing her mind, saying ‘who gives a shit.’"

A pause.

"She never reacted like this before. She used to be busy with work, but she still planned dinner dates, even went overboard with gifts sometimes—"

Shoko, on the other end, giggled.

"I’d laugh too, bro."

Then the line cut.

Gojo stood there, scowling.

---

Forty-five minutes later, nothing fit your six-months-pregnant-with-twins body.

The rest of your clothes were too formal for the amount of walking you’d have to do.

So—without a word—you stole Gojo’s sweatshirt and Nanami’s overcoat.

The fit was loose, but you looked good. Expensive. Like some hot tomboy off-duty CEO.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

Smirked.

Then grabbed your keys and left the house, leaving the housekeeping staff to stay until you returned.

---

The Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut purred to life as you slid into the driver’s seat. There was a reason you hadn’t driven your favorite car since you got pregnant, and the men were about to learn it the hard way.

Gojo got in next to you, pouting. He had wanted to drive.

The fucker had always had his eyes on your cars, but you were no longer letting him touch them.

You’d usually just give in and let him drive, even though driving was something that soothed you. It gave you a small feeling of being in control and provided that little adrenaline hit in your otherwise overbooked, responsibility-packed life.

And Nanami, in the back, was even more annoying. The dude was obsessed with playing chauffeur, insisting on picking you up and dropping you off everywhere like some kind of overprotective GPS. Meanwhile, your cars were just chilling at home, collecting dust and probably crying from neglect.

The only ‘action’ they got was either when they were being maintained or when Gojo got Ijichi to drive him to his missions in your sweet babies while he lounged in the back like some prince.

Not today.

Clout Save was left at home, much to his dismay. You still didn’t have a seatbelt for him.

Then, without warning—

You shifted gears and slammed the gas pedal.

The car shot forward like a goddamn rocket.

It wasn’t just a car; it was the fastest production car in the world. A machine designed to dominate, to devour pavement, to leave everything in the dust—including common sense and self-preservation.

And you were behind the wheel.

Six months pregnant. With horror twins.

Gojo’s entire soul left his body.

Nanami, who had been reaching for his seatbelt, yanked it as if it were the only thing standing between him and a fiery death.

"Okay—okay—SLOW DOWN—"

You ignored him.

The engine roared, the car sliced through the streets, and the world blurred into streaks of color as you weaved—flawlessly, effortlessly, elegantly—through traffic.

Wind whipped through the open windows, tangling your hair, teasing at the loose collar of Gojo’s sweatshirt.

And Gojo was staring.

It wasn’t just the speed—it was the way you drove.

One hand steady on the wheel, the other shifting gears with Formula One ease. Your foot pressed down on the accelerator like you were testing fate itself, and you smirked—eyes bright, adrenaline humming in your veins, completely, utterly in your element.

Gojo swallowed.

Nanami gripped the door handle, jaw tight, knuckles white.

Gojo leaned sideways, his voice barely above a choked whisper.

"I hate that I find this hot."

Nanami was thinking the same thing.

Unfortunately, terror outweighed attraction.

"Slow down," Nanami snapped, his tone edged with something dangerously close to panic. "You. Are. Pregnant."

You increased speed.

The car growled beneath you, the road stretching open like a runway to insanity.

"WHO TAUGHT YOU HOW TO DRIVE?!" Gojo shouted, his voice cracking as you narrowly dodged a car, slipping through a gap that shouldn’t have existed.

You smirked.

Shifted gears.

Glanced at him through half-lidded eyes, as if this was the most natural conversation in the world.

"Toji."

Gojo turned ashen.

Nanami let out the longest, slowest sigh of his life.

"Of course he did."

---

Everything was almost fine.

Until an oncoming truck.

A massive, hulking beast of steel and certain death.

Nanami and Gojo braced themselves, hearts hammering in their ribs, the realization sinking in like cold, hard gravity.

This is it.

She’s going to crash.

They were both yelling now, overlapping, frantic—

"SLOW DOWN—"

"ARE YOU EVEN SEEING THAT—"

You smiled, innocently.

As if you held a secret—like you were dancing on the edge of something dangerous and laughing about it.

Then—

In one smooth, impossible motion, you twisted the wheel, shifted gears seamlessly, and threaded the car through the narrow gap—slipping past the truck by mere centimeters.

Gojo and Nanami felt their lives flash before their eyes.

They narrowly escaped the truck, with only centimeters to spare.

The pinnacle of modern machinery stabilized.

The only sound in the car was the steady hum of the engine.

The men were panting.

Shaken.

Physically unharmed, but spiritually wrecked.

—finally—

Nanami snapped.

"What the hell was that?!"

You didn’t even blink.

Instead, you smiled.

"You both wanted to bring me back."

Your voice was smooth, effortless, razor-sharp with something dangerously crazy.

"So this is what you’ve brought back."

They stared at you, still too stunned to speak.

Then—casually, effortlessly, unbothered—you leaned back against the seat, adjusting the loose sleeves of Gojo’s sweatshirt, shifting your grip on the wheel as if you were born in this car.

And added—

"Besides, didn’t you promise you’d protect me and shit?"

The smirk widened.

"So protect."

Then, as if nothing had happened at all, you parked inside the mall.

Effortless. Precise. Clean.

Like you hadn’t just defied death at 500 km/h (310 mph).

Gojo and Nanami didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t dare look at each other.

You got out of the car.

Tossed the keys in your palm.

Stretched—unbothered, untouchable, glowing with that reckless, intoxicating fire in your eyes.

Then you turned, taking them in.

Pale. Silent. Processing their survival.

"Are you two coming or not? I might need some ‘protecting’ from the salespeople. And just so you know, I didn’t bring any money or have a phone, so you both will be paying for everything."

Nanami exhaled slowly, forcing composure back into his bones.

Gojo ran a shaky hand through his disheveled hair.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them could.

Wordlessly—like men who had seen God and Death shake hands—they got out of the car.

And followed you inside.

---

Bonus

In your old bedroom later that evening,

"You have to accept that I’m the bigger menace," Gojo said, watching as the raccoon kit attempted to wrestle a sock off of Nanami’s foot with the tenacity of a gremlin.

Nanami glanced up from his book. "He tried to suffocate you in your sleep."

"Okay, rude; I think he just likes climbing on my handsome face," Gojo shot back, a playful grin spreading across his face.

You, who had walked into the room just in time to hear this, exhaled sharply and turned around, leaving the room in a huff.

Gojo called after you, "Oh my God, you’re jealous—"

You slammed the door behind you.

ETA Takahashi-Mochi Blanc-Sir Snowdrop the Pale-Clout Save-Feral Slay chirped happily, victorious.

---

Memes Haibara bombarded you with about your mentally insane albino criminal.

Raccoon Headcanons, (I know one of these isn't one)

A/N: So. The raccoon needs a name. Since y’all are unhinged, I’m leaving it up to you.

Bonus 🔥 Poll: What would you do if Gojo installed a video call-enabled foot massager in your house? A) Use it for evil. B) Yeet it out the window. C) Let Gojo suffer. D) Accept that privacy is a myth. What’s your theory on the investor? Business move or secret villain?? Also, a lil headcanon: Did Banana Man (Haibara) see Reader in Ibiza, or was it a parallel mission? Discuss. Share your own headcanons about this story with me please, I beg.

Another Alt Universe for this story - Glass House (Tumblr/Ao3)

Next chapter 16 (alt ending 2.7) - Placeholder: This Should Have Been Love (Tumblr/Ao3) :P

All Works Masterlist

Tag-list = @lady-of-blossoms @stargirl-mayaa @dark-agate @tqd4455 @roscpctals99 @sxlfcxst @se-phi-roth @austisticfreak @helloxkittylo @itoshi-r @kodzukensworld @revolvinggeto @luringfantasy @xx-tazzdevil-xx @unaaasz @thebumbqueen @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni

Taglist Open.

[youngsadlesbian]

REFLECTION OF ANOTHER STAGE

pairing: taylor swift x daughter!reader

summary: while taylor swift is dominating the stage and winning over crowds, you’re discovering your own talent—but not in the music spotlight. theater and acting have caught your eye, and every school play or amateur short film is a chance to shine. the problem? taylor is so immersed in her tour and career that she never realized how much you’ve fallen in love with another art form.

a/n: i'm completely obsessed with taylor swift x daughter!reader stories and i decided to bring this one (and others) here. hope you like it!

word count: 1k

warnings: pure fluff

Taylor Swift’s return home was quiet—at least, as quiet as it could be when you’re Taylor Swift. The house felt untouched, save for the subtle changes that only a mother would notice. A new plant by the window. A different candle burning on the kitchen counter. And a script, thick and dog-eared, sitting on the couch as if someone had just been rehearsing.

Taylor paused mid-step, brow furrowing as she picked it up. Scribbles in the margins, highlighted lines, and character notes sprawled across the pages.

“What in the…” she mumbled, flipping to the cover.

“The Phantom of Middlebury – A Theatrical Experience by the Senior Drama Club” And there it was. Your name, bold and unmistakable, under the cast list.

Taylor’s eyes darted to the kitchen, where a colorful flyer was pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a cat.

“OPENING NIGHT: FRIDAY! COME WATCH THE MAGIC UNFOLD!”

Taylor squinted at the words as if they might rearrange themselves into something less surprising.

How did she miss this?

\*/

That night, as you sat at the dinner table scrolling on your phone, Taylor casually brought it up.

“So… this play on Friday?” she asked, ladling pasta onto your plate. “I saw the flyer.”

Your fork hovered mid-air, and your eyes flickered to hers in alarm. “Oh. Yeah. It’s just a small thing. School play.”

Taylor’s head tilted, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Small thing? There’s glitter on the flyer, and it’s literally the only thing on the fridge. It’s practically screaming for attention.”

You laughed nervously. “I didn’t think you’d be that interested. It’s not like… y’know, music or anything.”

Taylor leaned forward on her elbows. “Let me get this straight. I can write ten-minute ballads about the most niche feelings, and you think I wouldn’t want to watch my own daughter perform on stage?”

You shrugged. “It’s not the same. Acting is just something I do for fun.”

“Fun is where it starts.” Taylor pointed at you with her fork. “Don’t underestimate fun.”

\*/

Taylor was not subtle.

She arrived at the school auditorium a full thirty minutes early, armed with oversized sunglasses, a hoodie, and, to your horror, a giant sign that read: “YOU’RE MY ARTIST OF THE YEAR!”

The auditorium was dimly lit, and she sat front row, smack in the middle, like a VIP section had been reserved just for her.

As you peeked from backstage, dread filled your stomach.

“Oh my God,” you whispered to your friend, “she brought a sign.”

Your friend stifled a laugh. “Is that Taylor Swift? With a handmade poster?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

And there she was—Taylor Swift, internationally recognized superstar—grinning ear to ear with glitter penmanship like it was her first concert ever.

The play began.

Each time you stepped on stage, Taylor leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, fully absorbed.

When you delivered your monologue, she whispered (loudly): “She’s so talented… I mean, look at her.”

A couple of parents chuckled nearby, and your teacher threw a glance in Taylor’s direction.

At the dramatic climax, Taylor let out a very audible, “YES! THAT’S MY DAUGHTER!” accompanied by a clap that echoed across the auditorium.

By curtain call, your cheeks burned. As you bowed, you could practically hear Taylor snapping photos with the enthusiasm of a proud soccer mom.

When you finally escaped backstage to peel off your costume, Taylor was waiting in the hall, holding a bouquet of roses and… cupcakes?

“Cupcakes, Mom? Really?” you teased, plucking one from the box.

Taylor grinned, shrugging. “I was going for a whole ‘proud mom but also dessert enthusiast’ vibe. Nailed it, right?”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but warmth filled your chest.

\*/

A few days later, Taylor knocked on your bedroom door with an excited glimmer in her eye.

“I’ve been thinking,” she began, sitting cross-legged on your bed, “I’m filming the video for ‘right where you left me’ next week. The director’s been looking for someone to play the lead actress in it.”

You nodded slowly, not sure where this was going.

“And… I thought maybe you could do it.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, what? You want me to be in the music video?”

Taylor nodded earnestly. “You’re already in acting mode, and it’s not a flashy video. It’s… very folk, you know? Moody, emotional. I think you’d be perfect.”

You hesitated. “Isn’t that… nepotism or something?”

Taylor laughed. “Nepotism is hiring you because you exist. I’m hiring you because you’re good.”

You stared at her, unsure. But the excitement in her voice, the softness in her gaze—it was real.

“Alright,” you said finally. “I’ll do it.”

\*/

The set was a rustic café, straight out of the evermore universe. Dusty light streamed through the windows, illuminating vintage furniture and chipped cups.

You sat at the table, dressed in a muted vintage gown, the air heavy with silence. The director adjusted the camera as Taylor hovered nearby, watching intently.

“Okay,” the director called. “Action.”

You stared off into the distance, eyes glassy, hands trembling slightly. The scene demanded heartbreak—the weight of being left behind.

Taylor’s gaze never left you.

During a break, she leaned over. “You’re incredible. Seriously. I almost cried.”

You smirked. “Almost?”

“Fine. I cried a little. Whatever.”

She pulled out her phone, snapping more behind-the-scenes photos. “Hold the cup like that—yes! You’re the actress of the year.”

When the video finally premiered, social media lit up.

“WHO IS THIS GIRL IN TAYLOR’S VIDEO??” “Wait… is that her daughter? She’s SO good!”

Taylor wasted no time.

“Yup. That’s my girl. ❤️” she posted, sending fans into a frenzy.

The hashtag #TalentSwift trended for days.

You watched the flood of comments, half embarrassed, half exhilarated. For once, it wasn’t just about being Taylor Swift’s daughter. It was about you.

“You know,” Taylor said one night as you scrolled through your phone, “I always thought the stage was mine. But I think it might be yours too.”

And sitting there beside her, you realized she was right.

[alltheglowingeyess]

i'll find somebody who will stitch me up

(i think i'm going to use chapter title instead of the numbers for posting here :P some more early solangelo stuff from my rewrites series! posted on ao3 here!)

In Will’s five-year tenure in the infirmary, he had never dealt with a patient quite as infuriating as Nico di Angelo.

It takes a lot to earn that title, seeing as most campers are innovators in the field of convoluted forms of maiming yourself, but Nico did it. Granted, Will had expected him to be a challenging case—he’s pretty sure there has to be some sort of genetic factor that makes big three kids so accident-prone—but some of the situations he finds himself patching up are truly ridiculous.

His exposure to said ridiculousness came the week after he had released Nico from his post-war infirmary stint. Not to say that Nico was an angel during the three days lockdown, but it seemed that general exhaustion from Fighting For His Life seemed to overtake his need to be a menace.

But fresh off his stay and marginally healthier than before, he had been itching to leave. And Will, despite wanting nothing more than to condemn the other boy to at least another two weeks in the infirmary, let him out on the condition that he would continue to hold off on using his underworld-y magic—a rule that Nico whined about for a solid hour but eventually appeared to agree with.

Appeared to being the key words, because less than twenty-four hours after his release, Will watched as a panicked Jason Grace all but dragged Nico through the infirmary door, his hand shadowy and half-fused with a paintbrush after trying to be a big man and summon an undead rat.

So when Nico waltzes into the infirmary with a chest-rattling wet cough and a slight limp, Will can’t say he’s too surprised.

…He also can’t be faulted for being slightly ticked off.

“What’s happened this time?”

Nico raises an eyebrow. “Why do you assume something happened? How do you know I’m not just here to say hi?”

“You’re actively bleeding on my floors.”

Nico frowns, glances down at himself. Sure enough, there is a (albeit small) drip of blood from his hand. He squints at what appears to be a long cut across his palm. “Huh. Funny story, this was not was I came here to get treated.”

“So funny,” Will grumbles. Gingerly, he guides Nico to the nearest cot before placing a hand on his upper arm. After a few seconds, information regarding what’s wrong overloads his brain. Spoiler alert: it’s not great.

“Well, congratulations, you broke a rib. Everything else seems as fine as it can be, I guess. Are you having any trouble breathing?”

Nico shrugs, wincing almost immediately. “A little? To be fair though, I didn’t realize there was any issue until the cough started this morning.”

Will huffs, grabbing a strip of bandages and taking Nico’s hand. Might as well start with the less intensive issue. “What even happened? You were fine, like, two days ago. And word of advice—if you’re struggling to breathe, just come to me. Please.”

He fishes out a small piece of ambrosia and shoves it Nico’s way as he begins bandaging. Nico nibbles at it before replying. “Went on a quest for my father. Got run over by a hellhound. It happens.”

“It happens my ass—“

“And per your word of advice, I thought it was just the allergy stuff.”

Will rolls his eyes, securing the bandaid before he helps to move Nico to be recumbent. “Even if that’s the case, you should swing by for a check up. You don’t have to be uncomfortable just because you think it’s a minor issue.”

Nico snorts. “Did you not tell Cecil to, and I quote, ‘walk it off’ when he sprained his ankle?”

“Cecil is an exception. If I tried to treat every issue that boy comes in with, our stock would be clean out by the end of delivery weeks.”

“Something, something, medical malpractice.”

“I’ll medical malpractice you.”

“I want a new doctor.”

Will can’t contain his laugh at that, sprinting to the nearest cabinet to grab some painkillers and water. “Not a doctor. Anyways.” He taps out two tablets for Nico, handing them over as he opens the water. “My point is, I’d appreciate that in the future, if you have any sort of random pains or discomfort or whatever, you haul ass here, okay? Just because there aren’t any visible injuries—I mean, internal bleeding is honestly one of the biggest issues at this camp because y’all just move on too quickly if you aren’t spitting blood from your mouth.”

Nico grabs the tablets, squinting at them for a moment. “Internal bleeding, hm. Isn’t that where the blood is supposed to be?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, fully ignoring the water bottle Will is holding out as he swallows the medicine dry. He also seems to misses the dawning horror on Will’s face as he processes what the fuck he just heard.

There’s a voice in his head, one that sounds suspiciously like a squeaky-voiced Michael, that cheers. Can’t believe you’re down bad this guy.

If he wasn’t in the presence of another person, he probably would’ve smacked his head a few times—you know, just to show the voice who’s boss. Instead, he shakes his head minutely, placing the water on the stand next to the cot.

“Oooookay then. We are going to have an important conversation later about, like, The Human Body. But for now, you’re on bedrest for at least two days—and that means staying as still as you can. The ambrosia should accelerate your healing and let you skip some of the rougher bits, but the more you irritate it, the longer you’ll be dealing with the healing process.” He places the small remote connected to the cot on the table. “You have any more pain, you press the button and I’ll bring over some more painkillers if possible, okay?”

Judging by the completely glazed look in his eyes, Nico did not listen to a thing he said. “When are you going to start your glowing thingy?” To emphasize his point (and really, completely ignore Will’s very simple instructions) he does a small pair of jazz hands.

Dork. “I’m not. You keep dragging yourself in here all broken down every five minutes, so I’m going to have you do this healing the mortal way.”

Nico drops his hands, blinking slowly. “I’m getting the Cecil treatment.”

Will tamps down a smile at the genuine horror in the other boy’s tone. “‘Fraid so.”

Nico groans—loudly and excessively, like the brat he is—but otherwise ceases his complaints. His eyes begin to droop a little, and Will wonders how much sleep he had gotten the night before. Setting aside any lingering irritation, he moves to pull the thin blanket over the other boy. By the time he’s finished his fussing, Nico seems to be fast asleep.

He steps back, pausing for a moment before gently brushing their hands, doing a final checkup on his state for the time being. Then he turns away, crossing the room to his desk and sinking into the chair with a sigh. Paperwork waits—huzzah—but he doesn’t mind the silence.

Behind him, Nico’s breathing is slow and steady, soft in the stillness.

Will grabs an empty accident report, filling it out as standard. Through, when he gets to describing the incident, he can’t help but add a few notes for his own satisfaction.

Annoying, reckless, impossible.

And still—he smiles to himself—his favorite patient anyway.

[edenspoem]

Ellie trying to teach kiddo how to play guitar for the first time..♡♡

YES YES YES ok so obviously, context preluding, we're (voices in my head) thinking older kid. seven maybe? around there. ♡

"kay' so, press here.. and your middle here— andd.." the delicacy of her long digits shrouded over a pair of stubby ones, pinching and plucking them to particular spots along a column, "there— go ahead n' strum."

ellie was dead set determined on teaching the mastered art of acoustic guitar to your kid. like— earthbent on it. a promise spoken to soil and vicariously explored through you, and now your sweet baby. your little–more–than–a–babbler, little–less–than–a–tween now sat atop you and ellie's shared bed, just between the hurl and crease of blankets bedraggled, and with a bay oaken apparatus as big as them sloped in their lap— the one joel bestowed. and you always idled as a bystander, watching, leaning on that jutted doorframe.

their blunt fingertips pecked the chords in a row, the lovely resonance lighting something in the white of your child's eyes, "woahh, that sounded like how you play it.." they awed, their jupiter-like eyes darting up to hers for a token of validation— 'did i do it right mom?'

a token she gave, pearl teeth revealing under the fat stretch of her coral lips, "yeah buddy, cus' you're a natural." oh my goddess, the enthusiasm cracking in her voice. ahh, swoon.

"yes.." they exclaim quietly, their forearm perched on the guitars waist pulling back and jubilating with a backwards fist pump. just like mom.

'picturesque, beyond camaraderie', you deemed the whole diorama before you; streaky mix of light and gray���blue shade over their features, faces that proclaim content, the narrow sliver separating their knees, matching criss–cross apple sauce positions, the oval crater both their weights burdened in the mattress, the macro view. 'heartwarming, entangling endearment', if you cherry–pick the easily neglected traits; synchronized cocks of their heads whenever a strum rings, fiddly tapping of her fingers on their tucked shin and how it lowers into a full grasp when she expresses avidly how proud she is, thumbprint–sized dimples mirrored on both margins of their mouth, and funnily— the mismatched socks on hers and their feet. one a pattern of dinosaurs, one a spangle of stars. in gospel truth, they are a likeness of the same flesh and bone, indistinguishable. undeterred by the genetics, the same person.

"keep it up n' maybe we can start a band together." ellie proposes, clear as spring bloom to be an fun promise, nothing sworn, but the idea swirls their young mind a kernel of imagined prospect. she and they upon a stage, grandpa in the crowd, his smile tender in wrinkles boosting morale among the many elated face.

"really?" and he sounds so filled of that idea, eyes popping from their hold.

"mhm," she untucks her own feet and sprawls them, stooping her torso straight and lightly booping them on the nose, a golden orb so happy left under that gesture, "only if you pick a cool name." and weighing her elbow into her thigh, head laying and perched.

"oh, i'll pick a better name than you can."

and suddenly her head is perking back up, "what's that spose' t'mean?" 'offended.

"you tried to name mr. snuggles 'bootyhole bandit'!"

"ey' you can't say that word!" she grimaces fakely atop a curling lip and squints her thick auburn worms, positioning balled fists on her hips like a distressed mother. so esentially just mimicry of you. oh, how ellie cackled buffoonish along with your kid on any occasion you held a scold to their faces, pointer at their noses.

"pbbhhhh." their tongue peeks out and a known all-too-well blowing sound grates the air, only to be tackled by your lanky-limbed girl, guitar discarded to the sloven pillows far opposite of you.

this shall be an anecdote, unforgettable. "hmph, dorks."

have I worsened your domestic!ellie fever yet?

[darkintothedawn]

DAY FOURTEEN || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x Gender Neutral reader

Summary — Day fourteen of 'THE BOYFRIEND CODE'. Coach has probably gone insane during his economics lesson and Stiles and you stirring the pot isn't helping.

14. Thou shalt not let Coach Finstock know that thy boyfriend has, in fact, finished his economics homework. He thrives on the chaos.

Memo— You can find the rest of the 'THE BOYFRIEND CODE' here. Sorry this is kind of short.

Word Count — 3733

Warnings — Fluff. Some suggestive content.

Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures

Coach was on one today.

What had started as a lecture on supply and demand had somehow spiralled into an impassioned rant about the fall of Blockbuster, which then derailed even further into something about pirates and the gold standard. At this point, you weren’t even pretending to take notes. Your pen had been hovering over your paper for the last five minutes, frozen in place, because there was simply no way to keep up with whatever chaos was unravelling at the front of the room.

Beside you, Stiles was just barely holding it together, pressing his fist against his mouth to keep from outright laughing. His knee bounced under the desk, a tell-tale sign that he was itching to comment, but somehow, miraculously, he was keeping his mouth shut.

For now.

You nudged him with your elbow, leaning in slightly. “Did I black out for a second, or did we just make a hard left turn?”

Stiles barely bit back a snort. “I think he started talking about inflation, and then something about gas prices, and then—” He gestured vaguely toward Coach, who was currently pacing at the front of the room, voice rising in intensity. “Now we’re here.”

You both turned your attention back to the spectacle before you.

Coach was in full dramatic form, waving his arms as he bemoaned the loss of “The good old days” when a tank of gas cost less than a fast food meal, and you didn’t have to take out a small loan just to buy groceries.

“Do you think he knows he’s completely abandoned the lesson plan?” Stiles whispered, grinning.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Should we—”

“No.”

Before Stiles could respond, Coach’s booming voice suddenly cut through the room like a gunshot.

“STILINSKI! STOP DISTRACTING YOUR CLASSMATE!”

You both jolted in your seats, eyes wide as you snapped your attention forward like guilty children.

"ME?" Stiles squawked, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. "I—Coach, I was literally just sitting here!"

Coach squinted at him, suspicious. “Uh-huh.”

Then, as if the interruption had never happened, he turned back toward the board and continued his completely derailed speech, now on a tangent about how kids these days don’t appreciate real struggle.

For a moment, you and Stiles just sat there, staring at the back of Coach’s head in stunned silence.

Then, at the exact same time, you turned toward each other, barely holding back another wave of laughter.

Still grinning, you leaned in again. “Do you think he actually knows we’re dating?”

Stiles blinked at you, then glanced between you and Coach as if suddenly considering the question for the first time. “…I honestly don’t know.”

You smirked. “Should we tell him?”

“Are you kidding? No. This is so much funnier.”

That time, neither of you managed to hold back the laughter, shoulders shaking as you tried—and failed—to avoid drawing Coach’s attention again.

Coach carried on his rant, the lesson plan completely forgotten at this point. The whiteboard still bore the remnants of some hastily scribbled notes about microeconomics, but whatever thread of actual teaching had been happening was now long gone, buried under layers of personal grievances, outbursts, and the kind of passionate tangents that had absolutely nothing to do with supply and demand.

The class had split into two groups—those who had completely checked out, slumped over their desks, doodling in the margins of their notebooks or scrolling through their phones with carefully hidden screens, and those who were still half-listening, watching the unfolding chaos with a mix of amusement and mild concern, like they were witnessing a freeform stand-up routine that might go off the rails at any second.

You and Stiles? Firmly in the latter category.

He was practically vibrating in his seat, the effort of keeping his laughter in check making his shoulders twitch every time Coach said something particularly unhinged. His fingers tapped restlessly against his desk, like he was itching to make a comment, to add fuel to the fire, but he knew better. He’d already been called out once, and testing his luck again would probably earn him laps around the field after school.

Coach continued pacing at the front of the room, arms gesturing wildly, voice rising and falling like he was giving a dramatic monologue in a one-man play that only he understood. “And another thing—college tuition? Don’t even get me started! It’s like they expect you to sell a kidney just to afford textbooks! And then, THEN, they’ve got the nerve to—”

He stopped suddenly, his eyes snapping toward a random student in the middle of the room with the kind of laser focus that sent a chill through the class. “HEY, GREENBERG.”

The poor kid nearly jumped out of his chair, his spine going stiff like he’d been caught in the middle of committing a crime. “Uh—yeah, Coach?”

Coach narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest like a disappointed parent. “Where’s your homework?”

A collective wave of tension settled over the class, the kind that came when someone else was about to be thrown to the wolves. Stiles shifted slightly in his seat, leaning toward you, his voice low but fully entertained as he whispered, “Oh no. He’s found a new target.”

Davis swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edge of his desk like he was holding on for dear life. “Uh… I—well, see, what happened was—”

“DIDN’T ASK FOR A STORY,” Coach barked, cutting him off before he could even attempt an excuse. His voice boomed through the classroom, shaking Greenberg’s already fragile confidence. “I asked for your homework.”

Greenberg visibly wilted under the weight of Coach’s glare. His shoulders slumped, and his voice dropped to a barely audible mutter. “I… don’t have it.”

A slow, exaggerated nod from Coach, his expression blank but dripping with disappointment. “Uh-huh. Classic.”

Then, without missing a beat, he turned back toward the whiteboard and immediately resumed his completely off-the-rails speech like nothing had happened, launching right back into his grievances with tuition hikes and the downfall of modern education.

You and Stiles exchanged looks, barely holding back another fit of laughter.

Stiles smirked, his lips twitching as he leaned in just slightly, his voice laced with amusement. “You know, I almost feel bad for Greenberg.”

You grinned, biting back a laugh as you whispered back, “Almost.”

Coach continued his slow prowl around the classroom, stopping at random desks like he was a predator hunting for signs of weakness. One by one, he called out names, demanding to know the fate of each student’s homework. Some had excuses—some had nothing at all. Each time, Coach reacted with the kind of exaggerated disappointment that made it feel like he was personally betrayed by their lack of preparation.

Then, he got to Stiles.

Coach squinted down at him, arms crossed, suspicious.

“Stilinski,” he said, voice dripping with expectation. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

Stiles straightened in his seat, a picture of calm confidence. Too calm. Which was already a bad sign.

“Coach,” he said smoothly. “You’re not gonna like this.”

Coach sighed. “That’s not new information, Stilinski. Just tell me—where’s your homework?”

Stiles held up his notebook, flipping it open to reveal actual work. Completed work. Entire pages filled with notes and answers. Done.

For a moment, Coach looked genuinely surprised. His eyes narrowed, gaze flickering between Stiles and the notebook like he was waiting for some kind of trick.

Then Stiles smirked. “But,” he said, drawing the word out, “I haven’t finished it.”

A beat of silence.

Coach closed his eyes, inhaled deeply.

You immediately turned your face away, biting your lip to keep from laughing.

Stiles, the absolute menace, just leaned back in his chair with the most self-satisfied expression imaginable.

Coach exhaled slowly, muttering under his breath before pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what, Stilinski?”

“Yes, Coach?” Stiles said cheerfully.

“I don’t even care anymore,” Coach grumbled, rubbing his temple. “I don’t have the energy for your nonsense today.”

You could practically see Stiles thriving on the chaos. His eyes were bright with amusement, his mouth twitching like he was holding back a grin.

“But I did do it, though,” he pointed out innocently. “Technically.”

Coach groaned, looking like he regretted every life choice that led him to this moment.

“Why are you like this?” he asked, more to the universe than to Stiles.

Stiles just shrugged. “You know, I ask myself that every day.”

Coach stared at Stiles like he was genuinely contemplating whether or not it was worth it to just throw him out a window. His eye twitched. His grip on his clipboard tightened so much that you wouldn’t have been surprised if the thing just snapped in half from sheer frustration. His jaw worked, like he was trying to chew through the urge to start yelling.

“You did do it,” Coach repeated, his voice strained, stretched thin like it was physically painful for him to process this information. “But you didn’t finish it.”

“Exactly,” Stiles confirmed, nodding along like he was leading Coach to some great revelation instead of just being a menace. His expression was perfectly neutral, almost like he was patiently waiting for Coach to catch up.

Coach took a slow, measured breath through his nose, the kind of inhale that suggested he was seriously reconsidering all of his life choices. “Stilinski, do you just wake up every morning and choose violence?”

Stiles tilted his head, pretending to genuinely consider the question. He even tapped a finger against his chin, as if deep in thought. Finally, after a dramatic pause, he shrugged, completely casual.

“Not every morning.” Then, flashing a smirk, “Some days, it just happens naturally.”

You snorted—loudly. There was no way to hold it back. It came out before you could even think about stopping it.

Coach whipped his head toward you, his glare sharp and full of betrayal. Like you had just personally stomped on whatever last shred of hope he had left. “Oh, don’t encourage him! I thought you were supposed to be the sane one!”

You just shrugged, still grinning. “I never agreed to that.”

Coach let out a deep, suffering sigh that felt like it had been building for years. He pointed his clipboard at both of you, shaking it wildly like he was trying to ward off some kind of demon.

“I swear, Stilinski, if you ever end up in law enforcement like your father, I’m moving to another country.”

Stiles gasped, a hand flying to his chest like he had just been mortally wounded. “Coach! That is so hurtful. And, frankly, unpatriotic.”

Coach just closed his eyes for a long, exhausted moment, as if praying for strength. Then, he shook his head with a muttered, “Why do I even bother?” before dragging himself away like a man who had truly been defeated.

It was honestly impressive how much Stiles could break a man’s spirit with just a few words.

You leaned toward Stiles, grinning wide, ready to stir the pot alongside him. “So… when exactly are you gonna finish it?”

Stiles met your gaze, smirking, before flipping his notebook closed with the kind of dramatic finality that suggested he was sealing a sacred pact.

“Oh, I’m not.”

Coach froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned back around, his expression torn between exhaustion and disbelief. "You’re not?" he repeated, his voice dangerously close to that tone—the one he used when he was debating whether or not to start throwing desks.

Stiles, ever the agent of chaos, shrugged. "Nope. Feels too easy. Too predictable. I like to keep things interesting, you know?"

Coach opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, looking like he was about to combust. "Oh, you like interesting, do you, Stilinski? You like the thrill of academic irresponsibility? Well, guess what, buddy? I like assigning extra essays."

You could already see where this was going, and before Stiles could dig himself deeper into his own grave, you snatched his notebook right out of his hands.

"Actually," you announced, holding it up like evidence in a courtroom, "He’s lying."

Stiles gaped at you, betrayed. “Excuse me?”

“He finished it,” you continued, ignoring him. “All of it.”

Coach narrowed his eyes, skeptical. “No, he didn’t.”

You flipped open the notebook to the very last page and turned it so Coach could see. "Then what’s this?"

Coach squinted at the fully completed assignment. He tilted his head, as if expecting it to disappear if he looked at it from a different angle.

"You little—" Coach turned to Stiles, jabbing a finger at him. "You had this done the whole time?"

Stiles shrugged again, recovering quickly. “What can I say? I like to keep you on your toes.”

Coach threw his hands up. "You are insufferable."

"You say that," Stiles said, grinning, "But I know deep down, you’d miss me if I wasn’t here."

"Get out."

"Class isn’t over yet."

"Then shut up."

Stiles leaned back in his chair, smug, and you just shook your head, handing Coach the notebook for final proof. Coach snatched it out of your hand like it personally offended him.

"You," Coach muttered, flipping through the pages, "Are a menace to my blood pressure, Stilinski."

"You should probably get that checked out, Coach," Stiles quipped.

Coach pointed at him. "One more word and you’re running laps."

Stiles opened his mouth—

You clamped a hand over it. "We’re done here. Thanks, Coach!"

Coach grumbled something unintelligible and stomped back to his desk.

As soon as he was out of earshot, you pulled your hand away and turned to glare at Stiles.

"You were going to let him fail you just for the bit?"

Stiles grinned, completely unapologetic. "And what a glorious bit it would’ve been."

Stiles leaned in, his smirk sharp and self-satisfied, like he had just won something—and, knowing him, he probably thought he had. His voice was low and smooth, just for you, dripping with amusement as he murmured, “You know, you just broke rule fourteen.”

You exhaled through your nose, already regretting the betrayal.

He tilted his head, all faux sympathy. “And you know what that means, right?”

You rolled your eyes, feigning boredom, but you both knew better. “Oh, please, enlighten me.”

His grin widened. Slowly. Smug and dangerous. He was relishing this. “It means,” he started, dragging it out just to watch you squirm, “That you’ll have to pay for that later.”

And then—like he had timed it specifically to wreck your composure—his hand dragged along your thigh. Casual. Effortless. Like it wasn’t absolutely testing your self-control.

Your breath hitched. Just slightly.

He caught it.

His grin turned positively wolfish.

You narrowed your eyes, refusing to give him any more satisfaction. Two could play this game.

“Oh, yeah?” you said, matching his energy, voice just as low, just as teasing. "And how exactly am I supposed to 'pay' for my crime, Stilinski?"

His fingers tightened just slightly on your thigh, his thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles into the fabric of your jeans. He was having too much fun with this.

"You'll see," he murmured, way too cocky. Way too confident.

It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t fair.

The air between you was thick with something neither of you were acknowledging, but it was there. Tension, heat—whatever you wanted to call it, he was winning.

You refused to let that stand.

“See, that’s funny,” you mused, tilting your head, “Because I’m pretty sure that I’m the one in control here.”

Stiles huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “That so?”

“Mm-hm.” You leaned in, just enough to throw him off, just enough to feel the moment his muscles tensed under your touch. “You’re awfully confident for someone who just got his perfectly chaotic dynamic with Coach absolutely wrecked by me.”

His fingers tensed slightly, gripping your thigh before flexing, his touch deliberate and far too knowing.

“That’s cute,” he said. “You think I won’t find a way to make you pay for it?”

You smirked. “I think you should focus on surviving this class first, Stilinski.”

His gaze flicked down to where his fingers rested against your thigh, his smirk shifting into something more thoughtful. More intent.

“Oh, trust me,” he said, squeezing your leg once before pulling away, his expression pure mischief. “I can multitask.”

[five-rivers]

Alien

Danny doodled absently in the margins of his homework.  He’d gotten into the Astronomy elective this year, and although he’d finished that homework, he wasn’t ready to start on his Language Arts homework.  Instead, he daydreamed, his thoughts drifting slowly from the sun, to satellites, to stars, to planets.  

“Clockwork, are there ghost portals on other planets?  I mean,” he said, revising his question, “could a person travel to another planet, like, um, Mars, using natural portals?”

For a long moment, Clockwork didn’t answer, and Danny sighed, aware that he did sometimes push his luck when it came to Clockwork and questions.  As Clockwork said, he couldn’t give Danny all the answers.  

“That’s an interesting question,” said Clockwork.  

“It is?” asked Danny, sitting up on the couch (which bore a remarkable similarity to the couch Danny’s parents had blown up when he was six).  

“Yes,” said Clockwork.  “It is.”  He moved to the side of the time screen he’d been looking at, letting Danny see it.  

The screen showed a starscape, detailed, bright, and familiar.  Earth’s night sky.  

“A portal may form anywhere that sufficiently captures the soul,” said Clockwork.  

“Like… imagination-wise?”

“That is the most common element in these situations, yes.”  

Danny squinted at Clockwork.  “The way you phrased that is weird.”

“But no less true.”  

“People imagine Mars all the time,” said Danny.  

“So they do,” said Clockwork.  He flicked his hand and the image on the screen dispersed into static, only to resolve into what Danny quickly recognized as the beginning of Sam, Tucker, and his disastrous trip with the Infi-Map.  "But natural portals do not only pierce through space."

Danny floated up off the couch, abandoning his homework.  "Is this your way of telling me that we're going to start finding weirdly old bodies on Mars and stuff?"

"There are other planets than Mars," said Clockwork.  "And more than humans pass through portals."

"Yeah, I know, but Mars was–" he stopped.  "You don't mean planets in this solar system, do you?  You mean– you're talking about things from Earth going to other solar systems."

"It is a possibility."

"But," continued Danny, approaching the screen, "people didn't know about exoplanets until pretty recently.  So, were the portals just aimed at the stars, or…?"

Rather pointedly, the Danny on the screen tumbled from the sixteen-hundreds to Rome.  

"Right.  I guess time, um."  He winced.  "Portals can form regardless of time."

"Nice save," said Clockwork with a raised eyebrow.  

"I'm trying to follow your clues," complained Danny.  He continued to watch the screen.  "Is that just one sided, from the future that knows about things, to the past that doesn't?"

"Were you trapped in the past?"

"No," said Danny, "but we also knew about the future."

"Hm," said Clockwork.  

"I guess I'm trying to ask…  If you had something in, like, I don't know, the time when bacteria started producing oxygen–"

"The Siderian Period."

"Yeah, then.  Could a portal open then, in the, uh, the Siderian Period on Earth, and go through the Ghost Zone, and have the other side be on planet that it could, um.  Live on?  That wasn't Earth?"

"The chances are small," said Clockwork.

"But they exist?" pressed Danny.  

Clockwork waved his hand again, and the screen flickered, going from Danny and Vlad fighting in a coliseum to a cloudy blue-green ocean.  A neon green whirl came to life among the blue, and the point of view zoomed through it, coming to a stop above a gray ocean under a whitish sun.  Bluish water trickled through the tiny portal, splashing into the gray sea.  The color diffused, slowly.  

Danny bounced in the air, excited.  "And it could live?"

"I believe you are the one who told me humans had calculated the odds of a mouse surviving on the surface of the sun for a week."

"Then that means, that means that there could be real alien life that ultimately came from Earth."

"What makes you think this is not Earth?" asked Clockwork, tilting his staff at the screen.  "The sky you know takes much of its color from the composition of its atmosphere.  What makes you think either of them were Earth?”

Danny’s mouth slowly formed an O of surprise.  

"But then," said Danny, “you could basically have a chain.  Life going from one planet to the next and the next after that…  Would things get traded back and forth like that?  Is that where missing links go?”

“Most holes in the fossil record are simply due to chance, or certain organisms being difficult to preserve.”

“But not all of them?”

Clockwork hummed noncommittally.  

“That’s so cool,” said Danny.  “Like, aliens had to exist, either way.  Life happening in one place and not anywhere else– Well, that’s way too unlikely.  But this is really cool.”

“As you have said.”

“But if the crossover is consistent… if it’s consistent, wouldn’t someone have noticed?  I know people disappear all the time, but people showing up out of nowhere is different.  Isn’t it?”

“Remember,” said Clockwork, “the current awareness of your world is a relatively recent development.  For most of human history, if a new group of people arrived in an area, and local people were not able to recognize where they came from, they simply assumed they were from somewhere far away, but still knowable."

"Well…  okay.  I can see that.  Just.  Wow."  He leaned back in the air, still caught in a sense of wonder.  "There could be whole civilizations out there…  Imagine if we could make portals that go to those places and visit.   I know there's the Infi-Map, but still."

"There are reasons that ghosts no longer seek such things out, except for the foolish and the power-hungry."

"Oh," said Danny, but he only deflated a little bit.   

"Daniel."  

Danny righted himself to look at Clockwork.  "Yeah?"

"It may come, someday, that you will ask a question that seems to have no answer, or encounter a situation to which there seems to be no solution.  Think back to this when you do."

"Okay," said Danny.

"Now, get back to your homework. I know you haven't done it all." 

Danny stuck out his tongue and flitted back to the couch.  Clockwork was right, but he didn’t have to say it.