#I just have many emotions about them all T^T

[muchtodoonterror]

it's 3:30am so please excuse this post which is going to feature decapitation and cannibalism and emotions so content warning for those

but i keep seeing people say they've identified fitzjames' body, but they haven't! they've identified not even his skull but his jawbone. his lower mandible with cut marks. and yes the "they ate his face" jokes are right there for the taking, but probably more likely they in fact cut his head off first specifically so they wouldn't have to look at his face while they carried out their task of butchery. and if they were making use of the head....that's the direst of all, because it's the most individual part, it's the part they would have least wanted to consume. there are so few skeletons that were found in their original arrangement so i know it's not necessarily telling, but presuming that they did cut off his head, it really hits home to me even more that all we have identified is his jaw. not even his "face". certainly not a body. his actual body could be somewhere far distant or nowhere because all that's left is this part because these men who he lived in incredibly close quarters with for so long were forced to do the unthinkable to a man who was widely liked and considered an emblem of vitality and who they served under for years. he did funky little drawings in his letter margins and got excited about goodsir's sea creatures and had served with some of these men not just on erebus but for years before!!! he personally hired many of them (which maybe they were not so glad of anymore) because he knew and liked and trusted t hem. maybe they tried to bury his head with dignity to give at least part of him a christian burial. maybe not. but there's something deeply lonely about a jawbone. . . . with cut marks.

[buckydeservesthebest]

*New Bucky theory on Thunderbols*

Ok, now that a few days have passed and I'm thinking things through more calmly, and also because of Seb's comment “he's a little bit of Bucky and a little bit of the Winter Soldier”. I think I came up with a theory that doesn't include mind control, but could explain what's going on with our boy, keeping him in the character Marvel has shown us for 13 years...

I think first of all, Bucky is being forced by the government to work for them, and that's why he's a congressman, which otherwise wouldn't make sense. And let's remember that this is Ross' new government, the same asshole who wanted to have the Avengers under his control, the same one who said Bruce's body is government property, the same one who resents enhanced people, and the same one who didn't care about Bucky's innocence in CW, scoffing at the idea that he might have a legal defense.

His new government no doubt could have modified the conditions of Bucky's pardon, consisting now of having to do compulsory service for them and him being obligated to do only what they allow him to do. Doesn't that sound familiar to the Sokovia Accords Ross insisted on so much? This would explain the court scene in the trailer. Because no, that wasn't a congressional meeting scene as many thought, Bucky is in a courtroom, almost identical to the courtroom scene in Iron Man 2.

I think in addition to the modifications to Bucky's conditional pardon, there could be another type of blackmail, such as the government threatening him to pursue charges against those who helped him and Steve escape in CW and who Cap broke out of The Raft, ergo the remaining living members of team Cap: Sam, Clint and Scott.

Being how cynical the government is, and more so Ross's, I totally see this coming. I also absolutely see the emotional blackmail coming, something along the lines of “you worked for the bad guys, if you really want to repair the damage you caused to society, now get the bad guys”. They know full well Bucky still feels guilty about what he was forced to do as the Winter Soldier, though of course he's an innocent victim in all of that, and they're using that to manipulate him.

And there is no doubt Yelena, John, Ghost and Taskmaster are bad guys in the eyes of the law, 'cause well, literally they are criminals, who have done nothing but take dirty works as job for a living. And the government could have drilled it into Bucky's head that they are a threat to society and their freedom puts the lives of innocents at risk, which isn't too far from the truth to be honest.

I'm sure Bucky would prefer to take more of an arrest approach, and not a final elimination as such. Just like in TFATWS, when he plotted the arrest of Senator Atwood and the Flag Smashers. But if it is now the government/congress itself who ordered Bucky to capture/eliminate the TBs, and I suspect also the paramilitary group that was pursuing them, he could not resort to police intervention, because the mission itself is not one of arrest, and because the police work for the same government.

So, if Bucky is being coerced by the government, and he has no ally to turn to, he would literally have no choice but to do what the government demands of him. All coupled with the emotional manipulation the government would use by taking advantage of the unfair guilt Bucky always has to carry.

I also feel like that Winter Soldier mode is something the government also forced Bucky to adopt. They would want to use him and show him off as their own living weapon just like HYDRA, something like “the Winter Soldier who was the fist of HYDRA is now the fist of America”. Of course this is something our poor Bucky hates with all his heart, but he literally would have no choice... This explains how unhappy and depressed he looks, and why he let his hair and beard grow back as a sign of lack of self-care...

It is more than clear that absolutely with all this, Marvel is undoing their own “happy ending” that they gave Bucky in TFATWS, where they at least left the door open for him to be more than the Winter Soldier.

Of course they're not going to let him shed that name, because they're simply not going to let him develop and be recognized as a hero, even though Bucky has always been a hero in every sense of the word and in his own right...

[lucagray813]

Knock 'Em Dead - Chapter 1

Rating: T

Word Count: 6,577

Main Characters: Macaque, Wukong, MK

Minor Characters: Táng Sānzàng (Tripitaka), Shā Wùjìng, Zhū Bājiè, Áo Liè

Relationships: Macaque & Wukong (Could be interpreted as Shadowpeach)

Summary: MK learns what happened between the Six-Eared Macaque and Monkey King. He's going to wish he hadn't.

Additional Tags: Angst, Canonical Character Death

Chapter: 1/3

Chapter Navigation: 1 | 2 | 3

CW: Heavily implied torture, emotional manipulation

Link to AO3 Version

----

In the aftermath of the Azure situation, MK had promised himself two things. First and foremost, he was never going to be careless with another mystical artefact for as long as he lived. From now on, everything was handled with the utmost care and put straight into the vault with absolutely no exceptions - skeleton keys and memory scrolls had scarred him for life.

And secondly, he was going to commit every detail of Monkey King's life to memory. Mostly because chances were high that the next big bad was another person that Monkey King had pissed off but if he was being honest it was also at least a tiny bit because of Macaque's dig at him for not knowing his Monkey King lore.

Now, he was aware that the various recountings of Monkey King's life didn't have all the details - no book he could find ever mentioned Macaque for example - and so he had decided he would hear it all straight from the monkey's mouth.

It actually became something of a group event, all of them getting together at least once a week to listen to Monkey King's dramatic retellings of his life. Mr. Tang practically hung off every word that was said, while Mei and Pigsy didn't hesitate to start heckling if they felt he was embellishing too much.

MK was somewhere in the middle - part of him still unable to shake the childlike wonder he felt at the fact that he was hearing stories about the Monkey King from the Monkey King and part of him well accustomed to his many, many eccentricities by now.

It had been educational and entertaining and while he'd learned much about details missing from the book - there was still one glaring admission and so far no amount of begging or needling could get Monkey King to talk about his history with Macaque. Despite the fact the two seemed to be on better terms these days.

Macaque frequently invited himself to be a part of MK's training and after some token protests Monkey King usually allowed it rather quickly. His argument being if Macaque was here then he wasn't off scheming so he'd heroically put up with the other to ensure he wasn't causing trouble.

It was a weak excuse, but while the two could be unbelievably snarky and petty, they actually worked together pretty well and MK felt his training was coming on leaps and bounds as a result.

Macaque generally wasn't one for socialising however, and he rarely graced MK with his presence outside of training. But that's not to say MK didn't occasionally catch a glimpse of him around the island and today he was determined he was going to find him and get him to spill all the details Monkey King was holding out on him.

Macaque, of course, quickly cottoned on to the fact that he was trying to talk to him and seemed to take immense pleasure in playing keep away. His laughter rang out after every failed attempt to catch up with him, and it took a small frustrated breakdown for MK to realise that he was getting nowhere.

There was no catching Macaque if he didn't want to be caught and he was probably delighted by MK's growing frustration.

Time to stop and rethink things.

He'd have to make coming and talking to him more appealing than playing games. The solution was obvious in hindsight, and pretty confident that Monkey King was out of earshot, he shouted, "Macaque! I need your help dealing with Monkey King!"

For several long moments there was no response but just as he made to call again, Macaque's lazy drawl could be heard behind him, "Monkey King's beloved successor needs my help? And dealing with the Great Sage himself? My, oh my, who could have ever seen this coming?"

He turned around quickly to see, Macaque reclining on a branch grinning down at him, "What's that idiot done now?"

MK was quick to defend his mentor, "He's not done anything!" The fire left him quickly, "Look, Monkey King has been teaching me about his past but he's not telling me everything."

Macaque hummed thoughtfully, "Not surprising, as if he'd want you knowing the truth. Let me guess, it's me that you can't get any answers on, right?"

"Yes! I saw you both in the Scroll of Memory - I know you were important to him but you aren't in any version of Journey to the West I can find and Monkey King just refuses to talk about it!"

"I'm flattered, kid. But I'm afraid you're not entitled to my life story."

"What! Since when do you pass up on the chance to do something to annoy Monkey King!"

"Ah, but it's no fun if I just straight up tell you."

"Ugh! Well make it fun then! I don't care - I just want answers!"

Macaque titled his head, "That desperate to know you're willing to let me do as I please? That's a dangerous lack of foresight."

MK quickly backpedaled, "Tell me what you want in exchange for answers then - let's make a deal."

Macaque wasn't impressed and he sighed heavily before bringing a hand to rub at his temples, "Kid, don't go around making deals with shady demons."

A little offended he argued, "I'm not just going to agree to anything! C'mon, give me something reasonable to work with!"

"This naïvety is exactly why I stick around to help train you. We're not making a deal but I'll give you a chance to convince me why I should tell you anything."

With a wave of his hand darkness surrounded them - only leaving a cone of light surrounding MK. It was no brighter than it had been but he had to resist the urge to shade his eyes with his hand as he turned this way and that trying to find where Macaque had gone.

Macaque's voice echoed around him, "Stage is yours, kiddo. Knock 'em dead." He then chuckled at his own words, as if he'd said something funny.

He took a moment to try and centre himself and make a game plan. Somehow, "I want to know." didn't feel like it was going to cut it. In fact, that would probably have the surrounding shadows spit him out into the ocean or something.

He tried, "Look, it's not hard to see the pattern here. There's not one enemy I've come across that didn't have some tie to Monkey King, if not an outright grudge with him. I want to be prepared for whatever comes next - whoever comes next. I need to know the whole story."

Macaque hummed, "Not bad. But I'd say it's a little too late for this story to do you any good. Try again."

He hesitated for a moment, before silently asking Monkey King for his forgiveness, "Well, you've told me countless times why I shouldn't trust Monkey King but you've never actually properly explained to me why I shouldn't."

Macaque laughed a little meanly, "Do I really have to? Surely you've figured that out on your own by now. Or should we reminisce on all the ways he's let you down?"

"He's let me down, sure but he's also always come through for me in the end. And he's getting better! He's making a real effort to be open and honest - which is more than I can say for you!"

"Ooh. Ouch. Let me remind you why you're here. For information, the oh so open and honest Monkey King won't share with you."

MK resisted the urge to stamp his foot and instead crossed his arms as he took a moment to really think on what he could say to convince him. He thought back on the shadow play and what Macaque had been trying to teach him.

He took a breath, "I don't want to make the same mistakes that Monkey King did. I don't want to hurt the people I care about. Because that's what happened, right? He hurt you. He hurt you so badly you were willing to do anything to make him feel the same way."

The silence he received in return spoke volumes and he sincerely asked the shadows, "Please, help me stop that from happening again. Don't let me make those same mistakes. Help me to be better. That's why you're teaching me, right?"

The shadows swirl around him and suddenly he was sat front and centre before a dilapidated stage with Macaque standing in the middle, the shadows swirling around his peripherals.

"Not bad, MK. Your showmanship is lacking but we can work on that. Now, let me demonstrate how to really put on a show."

He moved with flair, hand flung out to the wall behind him as the shadows morphed to take the shape of five very familiar figures walking along a road.

Macaque grinned, "Our story starts with our hero and his companions travelling west. They've been on this journey for some time, overcoming every obstacle and defeating every demon that threatened their holy mission. Today's demon of the week is a little different from most though, he has no interest in immortality gained from feasting on monk flesh nor does he have a desire for revenge. He is here for one reason and that is to free the hero from his enslavement."

----

Macaque stared at the rubble that had once been Wukong's prison. For one terrifying moment he thought that Wukong was trapped beneath the carnage, dead or dying. But his ears quickly told him there was no-one alive underneath and when his brain finally started to function again he remembered Wukong's death was an impossibility.

Still, after shaking himself out of his stupor, he had his shadows investigate every nook and cranny and they confirmed that there was no trace of Wukong, which only led to more questions.

What had happened here? When had it happened? It surely hadn't been that long since his last visit? He racked his brain and felt dread bubble up as he realised it had been at least half a decade since he'd been here.

He tried to justify his absence - he'd been busy, between various threats to Flower Fruit Mountain and his research into the seals that kept Wukong imprisoned here he'd had little time for anything else.

Besides five years was nothing in the grand scheme of things.

And yet guilt still made itself known, he never let Wukong know he was here but that didn't mean he didn't try and offer him some comfort - a gentle breeze through his fur, droplets of water against his skin, a rock breaking away to land perfectly in his hand.

On occasion, he took the form of an animal that had somehow found their way into the cave or he would disguise his voice and pretend to be travellers that were unknowingly hiking above the Monkey King.

There was little he could do to break up the monotony of Wukong's punishment but he knew that these small acts were desperately received by him. If he had revealed himself he could have done more but there was only so much abuse he could take.

He understood that the mountain was driving Wukong mad but what good would bearing the brunt of that madness do for either of them?

He had been gone for too long regardless and now to make matters worse he had no idea where Wukong was.

He steadied himself, and searched for somewhere safe that he could Listen. Beneath the shattered mountain there were still caves that would serve as a safe spot. He moved through the shadows and once he reached a deep enough cave, he emerged and got to work setting up some protective seals.

Listening for anything further back than a couple of minutes left him defenseless and he might have to go back years to find out what had happened to Wukong. He was going to have one hell of a migraine after this but he had no other choice.

----

The recovery from the extended use of his Listening took longer than he would have liked, but as he lay there and processed everything he'd Heard he knew his fury at what had occurred in his absence would never be made peace with.

Wukong had been freed only to be chained like a dog expected to meekly obey the whims of an insignificant little human. He felt humiliation and injustice burn through him on Wukong's behalf.

Wukong's pained screams at that cursed circlet echoed in his ears, it haunted his nightmares. He wouldn't be able to rest until Wukong was free of it.

To that end he chased after Wukong and this monk as fast as he could. Forcing himself to stop only to Listen - he needed to know which path they had taken, he needed information on how Wukong was, and most importantly he needed to know how much this monk deserved to suffer for what he'd done.

It took some time to catch up and in that time his resolve and his anger had only gotten sharper.

When they finally came into sight he had to resist the urge to tear the monk and his little disciples to shreds there and then. He needed at least the monk alive in order to figure out how to remove the circlet. But the urge to kill was forgotten momentarily as he laid eyes on Wukong for the first time in almost a decade.

He wasn't truly free but he was freer than he had been - able to move as he pleased, able to bask in the world that existed outside of the mountain. Macaque forgot to breathe for a long moment as he took all of him in for the first time in five hundred years.

All his mind could focus on was how desperately he had missed him and with little thought behind his actions he opened a portal beneath Wukong and brought them both a safe distance away from his captors.

Wukong's surprise at being spirited away quickly turned to disbelief as he realised what had happened. Macaque grinned, and started to move towards him, "Wukong! You have no idea how glad I am that I finally found you!"

His elation was short lived and he stopped short as Wukong glared at him, "Wukong...?"

He got a growl in return, "Finally found me? You've known where I was for five hundred years! You think I want to see you now? After you left me to rot?"

Indignant he responded, "Left you to rot? I've done nothing but try and find ways to free you!"

He sneered, "Oh yeah, great job you did with that. Really appreciate you freeing me, bud. Wouldn't be here now without you." His eyes glowed dangerously, "You couldn't have spared a single moment to see me in five hundred years?"

In the face of his anger, Macaque felt his own rise in kind, "You think it's easy trying to break a seal made by the fucking Buddha? Maybe I would have figured it out by now if I wasn't still trying to tidy up your mess! Every demon and their mother wants a piece of Flower Fruit Mountain because of you!"

None of that seemed to matter as Wukong took an impassioned step forward, "You abandoned me! We were supposed to be in this together but when I needed you most you weren't there! You haven't been there for five hundred years!"

Macaque took his own angry step closer, "I was there! You think animals just wandered in of their own accord? Do you really think you could hear travellers talking above you when you couldn't hear anything else from outside? I was there!"

Wukong looked far from comforted, if anything he was enraged, "You think any of that makes up for the fact that you didn't even show yourself once? Do you have any idea how much I've suffered? You could have done something! If it had been you trapped there I would have been there every day!"

He was so full of it - Macaque would have given it a week before Wukong ran off looking for something to entertain himself with. Wukong couldn't even spend a full month on the island without getting bored and he thought he'd be able to tough it out when Macaque had no way to entertain him?

"Why would I show up every day just to be screamed at? Because that's what happened Wukong - I came to see you every week and you made sure I suffered every second of it! You should be grateful I tried to help you at all after that!"

"Oh I'm sorry! Did being trapped under a mountain make me a little short tempered? Did I hurt your feelings? I'm sure that must have been just so terrible for you. So terrible that even hundreds of years later you couldn't get over it! Five hundred years, Macaque! Is that getting through yet? Five hundred years and you weren't there!"

He felt his anger war with his guilt.

Was he just expected to suffer alongside Wukong? This punishment was the direct consequence of his actions - actions Macaque had tried to talk him out of multiple times. Was he expected to still disregard himself just to be by Wukong's side? Everything he had done in the last five hundred years had been for Wukong and it still wasn't enough.

But then he thought of Wukong alone and agonised under that mountain, the entire crux of Wukong's argument was that all he had wanted was to see him, and his weak heart couldn't take it.

His anger faltered, his entire body letting go of his tension as he conceded, "You're right. I wasn't there and I should have been..." He rallied somewhat desperately, "But I'm here now! I'm here to bring you home! I'm here to free you from this monk!"

Coldly Wukong replied, "I don't need you now. I don't need you to bring me home. I don't need you to "free" me from my master. All I need is for you to leave."

"You can't mean that..."

A loud voice cut across them, "Brother! Where are you?"

The water demon.

Wukong looked in the direction of his voice before he steeled himself and looked Macaque dead in the eye, "Go home. Once I'm done with my mission maybe then I'll be able to stand the sight of you. Until then, I don't want to see you again."

Macaque couldn't comprehend his words. He had Heard what this monk had done to him, Wukong needed him now more than ever.

He shook his head, "No. I know that you're being forced to do this. I've Heard the agony that circlet causes you. You need my help."

Irritation found its way back to Wukong's face, "You're the last person I need help from. My master is the only one who can help me. With this circlet, he's teaching me to be better."

Macaque could only stare. He thought a human that leashed him and forced him to comply with his orders and hurt him when he didn't was helping him? Had he missed the signs when he was Listening of some wicked spell this monk had cast on him. Or perhaps the mountain had finally caused Wukong to go truly mad.

"Brother! You're making our master worry for no good reason!"

The pig demon.

Wukong turned and walked away from him, towards the voices calling for him. He stopped only to look back and warn, "Go home. Don't let me see you again before I return to the island."

Macaque could only watch as he willingly chose to return to his captors.

----

Macaque did not go home.

It was even clearer now that Wukong needed his help - he had been bewitched by this human.

He stayed where he was and he Listened to Wukong as he reassured the demons that all was well, although it was clear to them that whatever had happened Wukong was not at all pleased about it. The pig simply mocked him for being taken off guard.

When they returned to the monk, Wukong was apologetic, "Sorry about that, master. A demon. Just the usual. They've been dealt with."

Macaque seethed.

The monk sounded wary, "Dealt with?"

"Yeah, I gave them a good talking to. We shouldn't be seeing them again."

The pig demon was in disbelief, "You talked to them? Why waste your breath?"

The monk's reprimand was sharp, "Zhū Bājiè!" He got a grumbled apology in return before he addressed Wukong, "Wukong, please tell me what happened. I am exceptionally pleased to hear you handled this situation without resorting to violence."

"Ah, there's nothing really to tell. Just some demon trying to tempt me away from our mission. But rest assured nothing could ever be enough to convince me to abandon you all."

He knew he was Listening.

The water demon spoke up, "What did they try and tempt you with? Don't tell me some poor soul thought they could seduce you?"

The pig snorted, "As if anyone would want the likes of him."

"Please, they don't call me the Handsome Monkey King for nothing but that's besides the point. They just thought mentions of my home would be enough to have me leave my post. As if it won't still be there once we've finished our journey."

The water demon replied, "Compared to most other ploys to steal our master from us this was a pretty weak attempt."

"Eh. It was a different take if nothing else."

The monk was not fooled, "I do not feel you are being honest with us. As much as I would like to believe you have finally learned to heed my words about abstaining from violence I doubt this was the case."

Very begrudgingly Wukong admitted, "Well, it was actually a demon I used to know. He wasn't interested in eating you at all, master. He... Just didn't understand what I was doing here. No need for a fight over that, right?"

The pig was derisive, "A demon's a demon, you should have sent him packing."

"You're a demon, you little idiot! I should send you packing!"

The monk cut in, "Enough. Wukong, it sounds like you handled the situation admirably. Zhū Bājiè, everyone is deserving of compassion, even a demon."

Wukong was tight-lipped about this demon he had known and deflected any questions regarding him. And eventually they let him be and continued to travel westward.

Wukong's submissive pandering to this mortal was almost unbearable to listen to. Had he forgotten who he was? What he was capable of? The circlet was no doubt keeping him in line but to be so subservient was surely beyond what was needed of him.

He supposed pain was a rare thing for Wukong to feel though- perhaps it truly had rattled him enough to hang off the monks every word.

A plan was slowly coming together but unfortunately any plan involving Wukong made his future Hearing all but useless. He created his own destiny, he always had. But it didn't matter, the monk was the key to all of this.

He could work with that.

----

Stealing away the monk in the dead of the night and taking his place had been laughably easy. And while it had been tempting to stay with the monk and torture him until he finally choked up the truth on how to free Wukong from the circlet, he couldn't risk anyone discovering he was missing so soon.

Leaving him in the dark with some sharp shadows however should be a nice warm up. Humans were fragile things after all, so easily frightened. Let him stew there until Macaque had the time to properly deal with him.

It made him both sick and elated to see Wukong look at him with eyes filled with love and devotion. Had he ever truly looked at him in such a way? Love perhaps but devotion?

It was best not to dwell on the answer.

Neither Wukong or his fellow demons had any suspicions. His performance was flawless - between his Listening and being exceptionally well read it was not a difficult role to play.

Eventually they stopped for a break and as the horse slept he sent the other demons away to find food and then he bid Wukong to take a short walk with him.

"Is everything alright, master? Why send away both Shā Wùjìng and Zhū Bājiè for food? One would have been enough surely?"

"You are quite right but I was hoping to have a moment to speak with you alone about this demon you encountered. You were reluctant to share any details the other day and I wanted to offer you the opportunity to speak more on the matter should you so wish."

Wukong deflated, "Ah. There really isn't anything to say. Just someone from back home that had tracked me down and wanted me to go back with him."

"I see. If I may ask, do you miss your home, Wukong? It has been sometime since you were last there, has it not?"

"Well, sure I do. You should see it, master! It's the most wonderful place in the world! I hope once we've received the scriptures you'll let me show it to you!"

He brought a hand to his heart and bowed his head ever so slightly, "I would be honoured. But I am pleased by your commitment, I could understand the temptation to visit your home."

"Of course! I'm a monkey of my word! And like I said, my home will still be waiting for me when we're done - what's a few more years away?"

"I must admit I am curious about this demon that sought you out. He travelled all the way from your home to find you? That is not an easy feat. Why did you send him away? He could have rested with us for a while, could he not?"

Wukong's face was a picture of forced neutrality, "If I'm being honest, he's not someone I was happy to see. Last time we saw each other was a long time ago and it ended badly."

"Yet he came all this way to find you? To bring you home? It does not sound as if he holds the same grudge."

Wukong's tail flicked irritably and he muttered, "He's not the one that was wronged."

Macaque feigned surprise, "He wronged you? And still you handled the situation with civility? I have underestimated you."

Wukong preened under his praise before admitting somewhat bashfully, "Well, I suppose I wasn't totally innocent in how it all went down..." He then looked away, "And he was someone I once considered a friend."

"Ah, it sounds like this is not a straightforward matter. A grievance between friends can be particularly painful. Know that should you wish for my guidance on this you need only ask."

Wukong smiled, "I appreciate that. I'd like some more time to think of it first but I've no doubt I will seek your wisdom."

"Of course. Take your time to reflect on this matter."

----

Macaque was a patient demon, but while he could play this role for some time without issue. The monk could not survive long without food or water so it was with great reluctance that he brought these necessities to him. He of course had to overcome painfully sharp shadows to reach them and that at least brought him some comfort.

His plan was simple - he needed to convince Wukong to go back to the island. Once he was there he could dedicate his time to the monk proper. He could chance it and slip away during the night but if Wukong woke and saw him missing it would jeopardize everything.

Not to mention, he was in a very lucrative position to persuade Wukong to make peace with him. Wukong listened to everything he said as the monk and he doubted he'd have to push very hard to get him to realise that the best way forward was forgiveness.

This was not a plan without risk - he had Heard about Wukong's Vision of Truth and it would only take one glance with those golden eyes for Macaque to be made. But as long as they didn't run into any trouble there really was no call for Wukong to use them.

In the meantime, he soothed Wukong's pain. Until eventually, the right opportunity presented itself.

"Five hundred years, master. I get that I wasn't great company but to just leave me there..."

"I will never understand the magnitude of such loneliness. It was part of your punishment but I can only imagine it was made worse knowing he was able to alleviate such suffering and didn't. I know it brings little peace but it does not sound as if he did this to hurt you."

A little angrily he responded, "No, he did it for himself." He then looked down eyes a little wet, "To protect himself from me..."

"I believe there may be more to it than that. I do not disagree that he likely could have visited you and that he did not out of fear of your reaction but from what you have told me that was not the only reason he was not there."

He mumbled, "He said he was trying to find a way to free me... And that he was busy protecting our home..."

Concerned he asked, "Your home is not often in danger, is it?"

"I... I don't know... But Macaque can handle it. I mean, he's not as strong as me but he's kept it safe this long, right?"

"I can only assume so. I do not know what he is capable of. Although I will certainly pray that demons the likes of which we have faced do not currently threaten him."

A small worried frown appeared on his face but still he muttered, "Macaque, can handle it..."

It did cut at his pride somewhat to sow these seeds of doubt in his ability but it was a small price to pay. He could prove himself capable when all of this was behind them.

He pretended to seriously consider the problem, "Wukong, you are capable of travelling great distances in the blink of an eye. I wonder if you promised not to be gone longer than a day if it would bring you some peace to check on your home?"

Wukong looked at him hopefully, "Are you sure, master? I could be there and back in no time at all. Just a quick check, I could leave some clones, and then when I would be free from any worries about its safety."

"Yes, I think that it is best we nip this worry of yours in the bud before it can distract you from your duty here. Just be back before dawn."

Wukong jumped to his feet, sickening adoration in his eyes, "Thank you, master! I promise, I'll be back in no time! Let me take you back to the others and I'll be on my way. I'll be sure to bring back all of your favourite fruit - oh just wait until you try them from my home!"

He patiently walked with Wukong as he continued to tell him how wonderful the food back home was and then as he explained to the others what he was planning to do. They all cheerfully put in their requests and waved off his lectures to keep their master safe.

Finally, he was gone and the pig and the horse eagerly accepted his suggestion that they rest here until he returned.

It really was exceedingly easy to cast a spell to put them all to sleep.

He returned to the monk, in the pitch black cave, and relished in his frightened sobs as he picked him up by the throat. He spoke with the monk's voice, "So sorry to have kept you waiting for so long but it took some time to convince your good, little disciple to take a quick visit back home. But for the next few hours my attention is only for you."

----

Well the monk had been disappointing to say the least, both in entertainment and in answers. Apparently only Guānyīn was capable of removing the circlet and she would only do so once the journey was completed. But there must be another way.

How to investigate it without giving himself away though...?

He pondered his next move as he watched over his sleeping disciples. There was a part of him that saw boundless opportunity by carrying on with this ruse but the risk of Wukong's Vision of Truth was too high. He needed to bring this show to its conclusion.

No doubt he could have a nearby demon kidnap them all. He just needed to explain away why the monk would think it had been almost a week and not only the day it would take Wukong to find them...

Ah, there was an artefact in the vault that might suffice - a little pocket dungeon that one could easily be fooled into thinking time moved differently within.

Easy. Reluctantly patch up the monk, shove him in the box, and hand them all over to the local demon lord. No-one need be any the wiser.

If only that's how it had all transpired.

Instead he only had seconds to leap to his feet at the sound of Wukong's nimbus hurtling towards him, he had even less time to realise that furious, golden eyes were glaring straight at him before having to dodge out of the way of the impact.

He dropped the disguise and immediately dove for a shadow portal. But he choked as his cloak was snagged and he was pulled back out and thrown through a forest of trees to slam against the side of a mountain.

He had no time to ponder the how's, not when Wukong was flying through the air, fist drawn back, and with murder in his eyes.

He managed to leap out of the way just as the mountain shattered under Wukong's strike.

Macaque had fought with Wukong many times over the years - and only occasionally had those fights ever been driven by anger and even then Wukong had never exerted his full strength.

This wasn't good.

Desperately called out, "Wukong, wait! I can explain!"

Wukong roared as he lunged at him, "You can explain!?"

Macaque was on the defensive as Wukong screamed, "You can explain why you were manipulating me!? You can explain why you tortured my master!?"

Wukong managed to catch his tail as he tried to dodge and he wasted no time using it to throw him into the nearest tree, reducing it to splinters.

He never got a chance to scrabble far before Wukong had him by the throat, and he wheezed, "I was doing it for you!"

He wasn't sure how it was possible for those eyes to burn any brighter with fury but his words managed it.

Wukong slammed him to the ground, voice terrifyingly level he said, "I told you to go home. I told you I didn't need your help. I didn't want to see you again." He increased the force in which he held him down, "And this is what you did instead?"

He grit his teeth, "They have you chained like a fucking dog. You're the Monkey King, not some pathetic mortal's pitiful slave."

He was picked up and slammed down again, "Don't speak of my master! You don't deserve to ever have laid eyes on him!"

The drive to survive and the fury of this misplaced loyalty had his shadows rise up and Wukong had no choice but to drop him and dodge their attempts to skewer him.

He stood up shakily, "Everything I ever did was for you... and yet some mortal that'll be dead in not even a fraction of our time together has more of your love and devotion than I've ever had..."

He'd seen it with his own eyes, felt the adoration Wukong had for this monk.

He had achieved Wukong's affection through force.

Is that what it took? Is that where he'd always gone wrong?

He summoned his staff and he watched as Wukong did the same. He took a haggard breath in, and he promised the impossible, "I'm bringing you home."

----

"It was a bloody fight but there's no prize for guessing how it ended. The Monkey King, of course, defeated the foul demon that had endangered his journey for the scriptures."

The shadows depicted a gruesome scene of a pleading Macaque on the floor trying to scrabble backwards as Wukong lifted the staff high above his head.

MK looked away before it could make contact with Macaque's skull.

When he looked back, it was to the scene they had started with - Wukong and the Great Companions walking along.

"And thus the pilgrims continued onwards, an event of such little significance it never even made it into the stories that would be written one day."

The shadows swirled into nothing and Macaque took a bow, "And there you have it folks, the end of the Six-Eared Macaque. Tragic, sure. But hey, not everyone gets a happy ending. That's just life for you."

MK could only stare horrified for a moment before he weakly asked, "He killed you...?"

Cheerfully Macaque responded, "Sure did. I was dead as could be until our old pal the Lady Bone Demon came by and well I'm sure you know the rest."

He didn't know what to say, he couldn't say he hadn't had some suspicions but to have it confirmed and for everything leading up to it to be so awful? It made him feel sick.

And yet his mind was a flurry of questions - How had Monkey King known what had happened? He couldn't have felt nothing about killing Macaque, right? Even if Macaque had done something that terrible - had he deserved to die? The two of them today were sort of getting on - how was that possible? How could you ever move past something like that?

"I can see I've rendered you speechless. I'd like to say it was my incredible performance but alas with a story this good the show is almost negligible."

MK stood, "Stop! This isn't- You can't-! You died! You shouldn't be-"

"What? Making light of it? Finding it funny? Hey now, do I go around telling you how to deal with your death? No, I don't."

He powered through all of that, "There's so much I don't know. How did Monkey King know? What happened after he... After you died?"

Macaque shrugged nonchalantly, "Guess you'd have to ask Old Monkey King that. Maybe he'll be feeling more inclined to share now that you have the other half of the story."

He then stretched, "Now if you'll excuse me - I'm not one for encores or for meet and greets - so I'm off to raid the wine cellars."

He grinned a little manically before falling into a portal, "See you around, MK."

MK didn't waste his breath shouting after him.

He needed to find Monkey King.

[haru-chi]

I really love that Natsume little by little is seeing Seiji as "human being" ..

That there's more to him the more he meet him unlike the very first impression he had of him ..

That even he too has many issues and problems to deals with ...

That even if he doesn't agree with him and still wary of him overall, he now little by little realize that he's more than this one part of him that he so hate ...

He saw his unexpected childish side, his family issue, the real burden of being a Matoba leader etc ..

Natsume slowly but surely seeing him as simply "Seiji" more than "Matoba" ...

Which's what Natori failed to do in the past, I mean Natori was stubborn and prideful to admit or face Seiji for who he really is that he simply run away from seeing any part of him that "humanize" him and cling to a certain impression he had for a long time .. not to mention even when Natori tried to see past that and reached out to him, Seiji wasn't very helpful in that regard 😅 (both of them is just killing me uuugh)

Thus I think Natsume unlike Natori won't run away from such facts or something even if he too doesn't agree or trust Seiji at all ... one of Natsume's strength is his ability in being empathetic and kind .. as this helped Natori and many characters whom met him, I love to see how'll that might also helped or changed Seiji too ... actually some changes might've already happened slowly but surely :)

Even the current Natori start wanting to trully face Seiji properly because of Natsume's influnce ..

I could write an essay about all of this because I just love seeing how those relationship develop overtime and how it'll affect the story moving forward ...

[cosmic-walkers]

Oh I know he was getting tired of them at this point.

[lacallemojada]

If I could, I'd cry once more If I could, waterfall Warm and clear, crystal blue I'd shower you, I'd shower you If I could If I could

[pepprs]

ok actually yeah. i really need to do dishes and go to bed and not stay up late mentalillnessposting a little too viscerally on tumblr the night before i facilitate a workshop in front of the literal president of the university and the vp of my division (LOL about that btw. actively shitting my pants.) but oh my GOD. so saying goodbye to lia was actually fine in the moment. neither of us cried and we talked about all the ways we’ll still be in each others lives and reasons we’ll have to interact in the near future. and she gave me an extremely heartfelt thoughtful gift and we left on a very hopeful note and i felt better and content bc there’s still the rest-of-life and we’ll see each other there. but like an hour before that as i mentioned i was HYSTERICALLY sobbing. in full view of people i know AND people i don’t. and i just sat there and sobbed while everything carried on around me. everything carried on around me!!! and i feel like im about to sob again thinking about it.

[daumat]

going back to uni at Mens Lover Academy (university for the gals and the gays and anyone else personally harmed by being into men) to do my PhD on Why Boys Are Stupid

[gor3sigil]

Before starting T, when I socially transitionned, I was surrounded by radical feminists who saw masculinity as gross and inherently evil, something to avoid, something to make fun of, something to destroy. The other transmascs in my friend group, sometimes, told me that they didn’t knew if they really were non-binary or if they just were scared shitless of saying “I am a man”. Because they saw this as a betrayal to their younger self who had been SAd and abused.

I saw many of my masc friends and trans men around me hate themselves, not outing themselves as men because it would imply so so much, it was like opening the Pandora Box. Even when we were just together, talking about our masculinity was always coated with bits like “I know we’re the privileged ones but…”, “I don’t want to sound like I have it bad but…”, “Women obviously have it worse, but last time…” and we were talking about terrible traumas we experienced while taking all the precautions in the world in the case the walls were a crowd of people in disguise waiting to get us if we didn’t downplay the violence we faced, or like crying and being upset and being traumatized and afraid and scared and to say it out loud would make us throw up the needles we were forced to swallow every second of every day living in our skin.

Most of us weren’t on T yet, some of us were catcalled every day and harassed in the streets or in abusive relationships nobody seemed to care to help them get out of because they were “strong enough” to do it by themselves.

I was using the gender swap face app and cried for ours when I saw my father looking back at me through the screen. The idea of transforming, of shedding into a body that would deprive me of love, tenderness, and safety, was absolutely terrifying. I knew I couldn’t stay in this body any longer because it wasn’t mine, but I also knew that if I was going to look like my dad, my brother, my abusers, it would be so much worse.

5 years later and I’m almost 2 years on T, and almost 2 months post top surgery.

I ditched my previous group of friends. I was bullied out of my local trans community. But let me tell you how free I am.

I was scared that T would break my singing voice: it made it sound more alive than ever.

I was scared that T would make me less attractive: it made me find myself hot for the first time in my life.

I was scared that T would make me gain weight: it did. But the weight I put on is not the weight I used to put on by binging and eating my body until I forgot that it even existed. It’s the weight of my body belonging to me, little by little. The wolf hunger for life.

I won’t tell you the same story I see everywhere, the one that goes “I started going to the gym 8 times a week, I put on some muscles, I started a diet and now I look like an action film actor”, in fact if you took pictures of me from 5 years ago vs now I’d just have more acne, I’d have longer hair and still look like I don’t know what to do with myself when I take selfies.

But the sparkle in my eyes, my smile, tell the whole story way better than this long ass stream of words could ever.

I want to say some things that I wish someone told me before starting medically transitionning.

It’s okay to take your time. It’s your body, it’s your journey, if you don’t feel comfortable taking full doses and want to go slow, the only voice you need to listen to is your own. Do what feels right.

If you feel overwhelmed, it’s okay to take a break, it’s okay to ask for support.

Trans people are holy. Everyone is. You didn’t lose your angel wings when you came out because you want to be masculine. You are not excluded from the joy of existence, from being proud of yourself, from being sad, from being scared, from being angry. The emotions and feelings you allowed yourself to feel while processing what you experienced when you grew up as a girl and was seen as a woman are still as valid as before. Nobody can take that from you. If someone tries to, don’t let them.

It’s perfectly normal to grieve some things you were and had before you started to transition, like your high soprano voice or even your chest. Hatching is painful. You can find comfort in things that don’t feel right, so making the decision to change can be incredibly scary and weird and you deserve to be heard and supported through this. Wanting top surgery doesn’t make the surgery less intense, less terrifying, less painful to recover from. When it becomes too much you have the right to take a break and take some deep breaths before going on.

You don’t have to have a radical, 180° change for your transition to be acceptable or valid or worthy of praise. Look at how far you’ve come already. It doesn’t have to show, you’re not made to be a spectacle, you’re human and it is your journey.

Oh, and last thing, you know when some people say “Oh this trans person has to grow out of the cringy phase where you think that you can write essays about being trans or transitionning or just their experience because it’s weird” ? If you ever hear this or see this online, remember all the people whose writing you read and, even if they were not professional writers, helped you more than any theorists did ? If you want to write, do it. It won’t be a waste. It can help people. Or it won’t, and even then, if it helped you, that’s enough.

Love every of my trans siblings, take care of yourselves. You deserve the world.

[luminarot]

WHAT KIND OF LOVE ARE YOU?

Love as a Threshold.

Your love does not ask for much. Your love does not take. Your love is free, and unquestioned, and here for wherever needs it. When you fall in love, it is as gentle as a breath in the night. It is quiet, and it is effortless. It is tender. If your love was a house, it would readily welcome all who come through. If your love was a hearth, it would warm the hands of whoever stopped by, whether for a day, a month, a year, or forever. When you fall for someone, it is without strings, without conditions, without need. You love for the sake of loving, for the sake of caring for those who need it. You love with a giver’s heart and a giver’s hands and are made so much stronger for it. Being loved by you is to always feel at home. Your love may not always be well-received by those unprepared to linger, but it is unforgettable all the same.

[occudo]

An incomplete list of TMA fics I adore

-beacuse of this ask

(If you liked the fics I previously recommended/made fanart for, I think you'll gonna like these as well, but you know, read the tags, know what you are going into)

Yesterday is Here by CirrusGrey @cirrus-grey

Time Travel Fix-it! Slow burn! So good! So much sass from future!Jon- I doubt I have to introduce anyone this amazing author, but if you somehow missed them till now, this is your time! I highly recommend all of their other fics as well, for example one of a more recent one, The Stranger I Know Best is also a lovely read.

enthralling by Prim_the_Amazing @primtheamazing

Vampire!Martin!! I have no words of how much I love this concept, this story, everything about this. I think I'm going to repeat myself through this list, but I also recommend everything else they've written!

to fill... my heart with music? by godshaper @godshaper so their Martin and Jon design are different from mine, also they made a way better art for this- but still, I wanted to include this really good fic in this list.

Do It All Anew by inkfingers_mcgee or @crit20art

You know the feeling when you read a book that makes you cry, and after that you recommend it to your friend? Well- there is no reason I mentioned this, I'm just so normal about this fic. Or any other fic from inkfingers_mcgee... like Strange Manner of what I made another fanart way back. Also, check out their art!

Anyway, here is Aamal- she is not going to cause emotional damage.

And they were sidekicks (oh my god, they were sidekicks) by arthureameslove @arthureameslove

A lighthearted series where Jon and Martin are sidekicks of supervillains- it's just a really fun fic, also recommend everyting from this author - I previously draw fanart here for an other fic of theirs Like a Lighthouse, Call Me Home

neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well by saintbleeding @saintbleeding

To quote the aurthour: "Post-divorce Jon and Martin in a wedding-based romcom" It's such a comfort read, also has a Tim/Sasha wedding, and lots of cameos! I realised most of these authors I made fanarts for before- like this one for some kind of miraculous bind, this one is oneshot and a bit more serious in tone.

Give Me the Words by rakel @rakel-on-ao3

"Jon and Martin try to make the most of a bad situation in the Scottish Highlands. The situation is worse than they realised." You know that one post about wanting to write PWP, but it keeps turning into character study? Well, this one comes to my mind each time I see that.

i wanna find a home (i wanna share it with you) by heartshapedguy @transgenderboobs

So what would have happened if instead of the cot (tm), Jon offered Martin his own flat to stay? There is no way it's going to change their relationship, right? Such a good read, if you want some fluff, I highly recommend it!

Lucky Stars by magnetarmadda @magnetarmadda

Martin has a lovely family (except his mother) but still, he needs a fake boyfriend, and Jon comes to the rescue. It's one of the first fics I remember reading after I finished the series. It is such a comfort read of mine~

(+enjoy a rare tall Jon from me)

There are so many more fics that also deserve the spotlight, these are just the ones I read multiple times and/or didn't made fanarts for before. If you find something here you like, give them some love! Kudos and comments! They deserve it. (Also, just an extra disclamier some of these are PWP or rated T- just mind the tags)

I tried to link and tag everything, I hope it works.

[icemankazansky]

A Simple Guide to Not Being Afraid to Write Comments to Fic You Read

I've seen a lot of posts about the current state of fanfiction comments. Writers, especially writers who have been in fandom for a decade or more, are frustrated by the lack of comments, and have noticed a definite decline in comments (and all other forms of reader interaction) in the past ten years or so. Many readers feel daunted by the expectation of leaving comments, afraid they'll do something wrong. As a fandom old maid, the latter confused me for a while, until I realized that most of the people who feel that way probably have not been taught this form of communication.

But your loving fandom elders are here for you. Come along as your auntie tumblr user icemankazansky makes this shit easy.

The easiest way to think of fanfiction comment etiquette is to compare it to something you likely already know: Gift Receiving Etiquette.

Fanfiction began as largely a gift economy. And a lot of it still is! You'll see authors participate in exchanges like Yuletide and Id Pro Quo; those are ficswaps in which authors write for a specific person to specific prompts. And even outside that, fanfiction is not written for money; authors write and post it simply for the joy of creation and community with fellow fans. Fic is posted free for anyone to enjoy. Is that not a gift?

So. When you as a reader finish the chapter or story you're reading and you are faced with the comment box, try to follow the same etiquette you would when receiving a gift. (And even if you didn't love this gift and it's not your favorite gift ever, we already know that it's more useful than the products from your cousin's MLM that they're passing off as gifts, because you read the story. At the very least, it entertained you for the time you took to read it.)

The big rule of gift receiving etiquette is not to insult the person who gave you the gift, either directly or indirectly. That's it. Full stop.

I've been seeing a lot of comments lately that are just along the lines of, "Thank you for writing this story and sharing it with us." A+, top of the class, full marks, you're doing amazing. If you don't feel comfortable commenting on the story itself, that is perfect feedback. And that's the most basic way you respond to a gift, yes? Thank you for the gift. Thank you for thinking of me. Thank you for sharing.

Does this rule mean that you cannot say anything at all that might be negative about anything? No, absolutely not. What you want to avoid is saying something that is, at its core, a negative evaluation of the author or their work. Let's do some examples.

Character A's obliviousness about Character B's MASSIVE crush on them made me so frustrated! I was tearing my hair out internally screaming, "JUST LET HIM LOVE YOU."

✔️ Excellent comment! You're allowed to have all sorts of feelings about things that happen in the story, and in fact authors LOVE to hear about any emotions they made you feel. Yes, frustration is not a positive emotion, but the thing you are expressing frustration about is not the author themselves or their shortcomings.

Contrast that to:

I was really frustrated that it took you so long to post this chapter. The cliffhanger at the end of the previous chapter had me tearing my hair out, and then you just left us hanging FOREVER!

❌ Nope! Here what you are expressing is frustration with the author and how fast they come out with new chapters. Imagine your sister buys you a gift for your birthday, but she isn't able to give it to you until the next week, and you respond with: "What took you so long?" I think Emily Post would frown on that.

Reframing

The way you say something and the point of view from which you give feedback can have a HUGE impact on the message you're sending. Let's take the last comment (the one about wanting an update) and see what happens when we reframe the same sentiment as a positive:

I was SO EXCITED to see that you updated this story! I have really been looking forward to seeing what happened after the cliffhanger in the last chapter.

✔️ Now it's not an insult. The author will be happy to know that you are happy to see new work from them.

This idea extends beyond the story itself: to the fandom, the characters, the pairing, the tropes, etc. Let's do some examples.

I looooove reading about these sexy boys SO IN LOVE even though the movie you're writing about is SOOOOO problematic.

❌ Nope! Assume that the author enjoys the canon, characters, pairing, etc. in the stories they write. This comment is insulting to the author because it basically says, "That thing you love is not great, and you should probably feel bad for liking it." Imagine your aunt gifts you a sweater from a popular retailer, and you respond with, "This is so cute, I love it! It's a shame that it was made in a sweatshop." Do you have a valid point about the canon or the retailer's business practices? You very well might. Is this the proper time and place to talk about it? Absolutely not.

Let's do a reframing exercise. You should be very careful about how you approach commenting negatively on anything in the story that appears in the tags list, but you can make it a compliment and good feedback if you have the right perspective. See the difference with these two approaches:

I kind of think frottage is disgusting, but I liked it in this story.

❌ Nope! You just told the author you think their kink is disgusting. That's like telling your poor aunt who is just trying to keep you warm this winter that she has awful taste in knitwear. Try again.

Frottage normally isn't my kink, but I love your other stories with this pairing, so I decided to give it a try, and I'm SOOOOO GLAD that I did! This story was 🔥🔥🔥

✔️ "This normally isn't my thing, but you made me expand my horizons!" Authors love to hear that. That's like telling your aunt, "I never thought this color looked good on me, but I look so cute in this sweater! I'm so glad you helped me step outside my comfort zone, because I'm the better for it."

thank u, next

The last thing I want to address is this new trend I've seen in commenting lately: placing an order. If your mom surprises you with new headphones, you don't respond with, "I wanted the white ones 🙁," or, "You should get me a new phone, too." It's easy to see why that isn't appropriate in a gifting situation, and it's also not appropriate when commenting on fanfiction.

Let's do some examples:

This fic was soooo cute, but it would have been a million times better if Character A had been with Character C instead of Character B.

❌ There are a few things going on here. Number one, you're telling your mom you wanted the white headphones, not the ones she actually bought you. You're also disparaging the A/B pairing that the author chose to write about, and as we discussed, we can assume that the author wrote the pairing because they liked it. Even if it's not their favorite and/or they also write A/C, they made a choice for this story to be A/B, and the comments section of a fic is not the place to question choices the author made in their own work.

You should write a story where Character Z who is not even in this story does [thing that is vaguely referenced in the B plot].

❌ "You should get me a new phone, too."

I want a sequel. 😞

❌ "Thank you, next!"

You can reframe this kind of sentiment if you are careful about it, and it's not all you say.

I really loved this story. I would be so interested to see these ideas explored further if you ever decide to write more in this universe.

✔️ Not "gimme." Not "more." This is, "If you build it, I will come." It is a HUGE difference.

You already know how to do this. You know how to graciously accept a gift; just use that same etiquette, and boom! Now you know how to fearlessly write a comment to fic you read. You're doing amazing. Go forth and comment.

[utterlyazriel]

the green emotion

someone requested jealous!azriel and i... made up a whole plot. i hope it's decent and fulfills the craving ! i'm a firm believer than he's so silly when he gets jealous <3 friends to lovers, about 4k

Azriel was not a jealous Male.

That was what he told himself. Jealousy was something that possessed the likes of Cassian or Rhys, driven to territorial acts that likened them to wild beasts. Fueled by their protectiveness, their senses dulled beyond reason.

Jealousy was a sharp whip with a taunting bite and Azriel was one of few who did not bend beneath it.

He had adopted a strength over millennia, an iron will, that prevented him from harboring such unsavory feelings. He was a stronger male than that, not so easily willed by strong ugly emotions such as jealousy.

That was what he told himself — as he tailed behind you, hanging back far enough you could not detect his presence, his shadows shrouding him.

It was reaching evening in Velaris, the last remnants of the sun's dappled light scattered across the cobblestones. You were clothed in a velvet cloak that reached down to your ankles. Its hood was drawn up, to cover your face.

If Azriel didn’t know you so well, not the weight of your steps and the lithe you carried yourself with, you may have slipped by unnoticed.

But Azriel was the Spymaster for a reason — and you were keeping secrets.

Truly, it itched and picked at him as he turned reason over and over again in his mind as he followed you. What possible reason could you have for skirting around in the dark? To slip from your friends and cloak yourself, wishing to remain unseen on the streets of your home?

It didn’t make sense to him. No thoughts of treason ever breached his mind. You wouldn’t dare, he knew that. You treasured your family as deeply as Azriel did himself, having bled and fought for your space beside them many years ago.

But as Azriel traced the path you walked, knowing you were fully in your right to go about your business however you pleased, it couldn’t be ignored. Logic kept pointing fingers in the same direction.

If he did not suspect you of withholding vital information from your court, then his quiet tailing must be fueled by something else. Something as trivial as an emotion such as…. jealousy.

Azriel bristled at the thought and his wings shook silently behind him, as if shaking off some imaginary snow.

He did not get jealous.

He was simply… ensuring the safety of his court. Which included your own safety. Even the thought made him grimace in the shadows, knowing the smack he would receive from Cassian if his brother ever heard the implication you couldn’t fend for yourself.

You most certainly could. Azriel and Cassian had both spent their fair share of hours battling against you in the fighting ring, training you up.

And it’s hardly likely that the image of you — donned in your fighting leathers, forehead beaded with sweat, chest heaving as you gripped your sword tight and grinned across the ring — was something Azriel would forget anytime soon.

Cauldron boil him if he ever had to admit aloud just how often he thought of that image.

Still, something within him kept his feet moving, footsteps as quiet as the night.

Faelight illuminated across the cobbles, the light of the rising moon, brighter in this court than any other, cast across the doorsteps of the townhouses. You had wound through the streets and ended up two streets stray from the Palace of Threads and Jewels. On a doorstep that Azriel had never seen before.

Your hood fell to your shoulders as you pushed it back gently, revealing the column of your throat and the curve of your shoulders. The faint moonlight glided across your skin, a luminous glow curling up against your collarbones. Azriel swallowed from his place in the shadows.

It was never a surprise to find you beautiful. To revere your enchanting otherworldly beauty — that Azriel was used to. And yet still, even after all these years, he had not managed to master the way it stole the breath from his lungs every time.

A familiar hunger yawned within him. He averted his eyes from you to the door.

He forced himself to take in the details, listening as his shadows whispered things his eyes could not attest. An artist's home. Damaged and rebuilt in the last battle of Velaris. The inhabitant was a Male, living alone.

Something blistered awfully inside Azriel.

Why would you visit a home such as this? Azriel could think of a few reasons that could warrant a visit so late in the evening, with your face concealed and your footsteps light. He felt his stomach turn over. Something foul burned in his gut.

The door before you opened and Azriel turned his face fast, slicing his gaze to the ground before he could see the Fae who greeted you.

Suddenly, this felt too close to an invasion of privacy. If you wished to keep your lovers a secret, as he himself did, this was a direct violation of your wishes.

That was... if this man was, indeed, your lover.

Something vulgar, something ugly reared up in his veins. Azriel clenched his fists at his sides, siphons gleaming, and willed it down.

Jealousy would not become him. Jealousy was not— did not control him.

And yet he could feel it, coursing through his blood, choking up his throat. Azriel tried to push it down, to fight against it with reason, with logic. You were promised to no Male, least of all to him. But...

But he could've sworn.

As quickly as the words appeared in his mind, Azriel stamped them down with an icy fury.

A silent curse followed them, directed at himself for his own foolishness. How many times would he walk this road before he eventually learned?

There had been no heated moments between you, no wandering eyes, no lingering hands; none that he had not imagined. None that his mind had no conjured up in its own twisted hope.

When you sought him out in the night, tormented by your own mind and how it kept you from sleep, you were seeking... a friend, Azriel realised bitterly.

There was nothing deeper to your decision to show up at his door but no one else's. Nothing was hidden in the way you chose a seat next to him at every dinner, nor the way you found a way to be beside him at the tables at Rita's.

Sitting close enough so that he could smell the alluring scent of your perfume. Could see the gleam of your bright eyes as you glanced at him after every joke, almost as if to see what might make him smile.

No. He steeled himself, shutting down every sweet moment of you he had been subconsciously collecting, holding to a greater magnitude than you clearly did.

You were not like Mor or Cassian. You did not warm the sheets of many Fae beds, slipping in and out of them without a care.

You were... alike to himself, Azriel had thought. Dedicated yourself to one.

He scowled at himself in the dark. This— this rendezvous in the dark did not dispel what he knew about you. It did not make it untrue.

It simply meant his feeble hope, that the one, the Fae you might dedicate yourself entirely was him... was just that—a hope.

It did not sway the reality of the world, the matter of truth that you crept out in the night to meet on shadowed doorsteps. Azriel felt his shadows smoking around him, spun into a frenzy at his unwelcome revelation. He snapped in his wings a little tighter.

Coming here tonight, following you, had been a mistake.

—

It seemed perfectly logical after that night for Azriel to take a step back, to rein himself in.

Not that there was not much to rein back — but the small actions reserved just for you, the unrestrained smiles, the inside jokes ribbed back at one another.

The things he had perceived as meaning more. He knew, that if he wanted to protect his heart from further ache, he should stop doing them.

But... maybe the only thing he did better than fighting, he thought grievously, was being utterly lovesick for someone who would never feel the same.

At the very least, he would hold his feelings to secrecy. It began with the smallest retractions, like weaning an addict off their favourite drug.

Azriel knew if he pulled away too quick, it would send him into a sort of withdrawal — and after all these years spent together, he wasn't sure he knew how to live with a deficit of you. Of your brazen smile and sparkling eyes.

Slow and sure. Over the next week, he willed himself to quit bothering you, to empty a space in your life so you could invite in others, those that meant more to you. So, there could be space for your new... lover.

Even the word sounded bitter in his mind.

Azriel opted for longer training in the morning. Let his sparring sessions with Cassian bleed longer and longer, not leaving the blazing hot rooftop even when Cass winds up limping inside.

He had received a halfhearted scowl from the warrior, undoubtedly for how unrelenting he had been in his fighting this week.

The time he usually sets aside for you, to read side by side in the library, to bake, to enjoy each other's company — Azriel swept it aside for you, to free up your schedule.

Noticed how you spend your free time down in Velaris. He doesn't dare tail you again.

The week crawls by slowly, stretching out thick, black tar.

Come Sunday, a day you normally reserved for spending with him, Azriel knows his extra insistence on training isn't enough of an excuse to keep you away. He trains late anyway.

True to his suspicions, it takes less than an hour for you to appear— having come to find him.

Azriel can sense you, even before his shadows murmur sweet things in his ears about the most beautiful Fae watching him through the window.

You're lingering at the door, unusually reserved. He can feel your hesitancy, even as he works his aching muscles through yet another set of exercises. His shadows stay in close, the edge of his body whispering in and out of darkness, his siphons gleaming.

You wait, watching quietly, until the sword he's wielding, a strong, broad Illyrian blade, is placed down to rest. Then, there's the soft pad of your feet as you step out into the training area. He hears you coming but he does not turn to face you.

“I've missed you this week.”

Even with his back turned, Azriel fights to keep his expression neutral, even as his eyes flutter at your admission. There's a tug on his shadows, their desire to wisp across to you proving a challenge to resist. He holds himself still, stern, and doesn't even a ruffle of his wings to indicate he's heard you.

"I—" Azriel begins. He still can't bear to turn to face you. "I'm sorry to hear that."

He can hear the noise of confusion that slips from your throat — evidently, it isn't the response you're expecting.

Azriel focuses on the sword before him, his bicep bulging as he lifts its weight and wanders to the stand of weapons. He pretends to be immersed in the decision of which to train with next, even though he's been out here for hours.

Even with his silent cold shoulder, he can still hear you behind him, your feet dragging softly across the ground in what is surely a hesitant nervous action. But still, you haven't left.

"Well, maybeee…" You continue on, voice still aiming for light and breezy, as if he hasn't been avoiding you. You're still trying.

Azriel's chest tightens up with a familiar ache, one that always lingers around you. Since seeing you that night, on another Male's doorstep, its sting has become particularly cruel. Jealousy has a cold bite.

"If you’re nearly done... I mean, if your somewhat obsessive workout regime is finally complete..."

You're winding on, taking jabs that would normally make him smile. You'd take a gentle rolling of his eyes at this point. Azriel turns to you, his face remaining passive.

"I was wondering if you wanted to come sit with me in the library," You say, voice suddenly softer now that he's facing you. "If you’re not too busy, that is.”

Azriel steels himself, eyes cutting to the ground as he forces himself to not wilt beneath your hopeful gaze. He knew it would be hard to pull himself away from you but this? This is nearing torture.

He clears his throat. “I am.”

He turns and begins to peel off the layers of Illyrian leathers from his torso, remaining diligent at keeping himself from caving to you. He can feel the ugly emotion rolling just beneath the surface, a gruesome green monster that threatens his usual composure.

Behind him, he hears your soft, saddened oh. His wings give a tiny shiver at it, even as he continues the methodical process of unwinding after training.

Piece by piece, his armor comes off, until even his shirt has been shed. His skin glistens under the shine of the afternoon sun, the muscles beneath rippling and sore from exertion.

There's a moment of silence and Azriel keeps his head bowed as he gathers himself, prepared to bathe the sweat and grime off himself. It wasn't a complete lie he had told.

Perhaps, he thinks wistfully, he could wash some of his unjust jealousy away with it. Being so unwound by his feelings is taking its toll on him, considering how unused to it he is. He waits, ears keenly listening for the sign of your departure.

After a minute of quietness, he can only assume you've slipped away silently. He sighs, half in relief and half in his sorrow.

"What are you busy doing?"

Your voice pipes up and Azriel glances behind him, surprised that you haven't left after all. His wings tuck in a little tighter.

"y/n." He murmurs your name and it comes out almost as a plea. Now, faced with you pulling apart his loose lie, Azriel finds he doesn't have it within him to lie to your face. "Please."

You don't say anything.

Azriel's shadows dance around him, agitated and frenzied, and he wills them to calm— though, that had always been an impossible request in your presence. He takes a sharp inhale and walks towards the door, leaving you behind on the rooftop.

He gets halfway down the hallway, heading for his room before your voice calls out again.

"Busy avoiding me?"

You've followed him from the training ring and now you stand at the end of the hallway, your arms crossed firmly across your chest. Your face is contorted into a hard expression, a furrow between your brows.

Azriel sighs and turns back to you. He hadn't been able to keep his secret from Mor — why, oh why did he think that he would have any more luck when it came to you?

You— enigmatic, wonderful you. Maybe, all Azriel hopes to do today is to delay the inevitable rejection for a different day. An easier day.

A day where he isn't feeling so easily undone by his the enormity of his envy. Envious of what he can't have but so desperately desires.

As he turns to face you, it's impossible to miss the way your eyes dart down to his bare chest. You stare for a moment too long and it looks like it takes an effort to drag your eyes up. You swallow heavily, the bob of your throat unmissable. Even from afar, Azriel swears there's a glow to your cheeks.

No. No, he wasn't doing that to himself anymore! He wouldn't— he couldn't be having those thoughts about you anymore. You had a lover for Mother's sake.

"I'm not—"

"Oh my Gods, don't even try to say you're not avoiding me." You interrupt him sharply. You begin to stamp your way down the hallway, eyes narrowed, your annoyance clear to see.

A door in the hallway opens. Distracted by something over his shoulder, Cassian takes a blundering loud step out into the hallway before he freezes.

He spots you first, eyes widening and wings bunching up at your obvious fury. His head turns, finding Azriel down the other end of the hallway.

"Oh... Mother, this is happening now, huh? I'm just gonna— uh, get food later." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, quickly turning and disappearing back into his room. His door closes with a quiet snip.

In the moment of distraction, you don't notice how Azriel has moved away stealthily— his shadows aiding his quiet getaway. He's not entirely sure what his plan is; he doubts he can avoid this argument by simply shutting himself in his room. Turns out, he's selfish enough to be willing to try.

Sure enough, it takes another moment before his wings twitch, his shadows reporting on your incoming footsteps moments before he hears them himself.

He busies himself with digging through his drawers and sends a silent request to the House, praying it might keep the door locked against you.

He can do this— he can swallow down his burning heart and keep your friendship he values so dearly, he swears he can. Just not today.

He hears the door open.

Glancing up, he narrows his eyes at the House and calls it a foul word in his mind. The Faelights of his room seem to twinkle mischievously in response.

"Az," You breathe softly.

His name sounds unbearably tender coming from your lips. His wings give a little rustle, curling closer around himself.

Despite his lack of reply, you aren't deterred. He can hear your footsteps, gentle and not at all like your prior furious stomps down the hallway, as they wind around his bed.

Chest stirring with an old ache, he keeps himself facing away. He slips a shirt on and prays you give him one more day to rein in his treacherous heart. One more day. He just can't do it today.

"Did I... Did I do something?"

Your voice is suddenly a lot smaller.

Azriel softens instantly at the sound of it, feeling his resolve begin to crumble. He crushes his eyes closed and thinks of what he had seen down in Velaris — forces himself to imagine you with another Male, in his arms, in his bed.

But even if his jealousy is so terribly unwarranted, he cannot bring himself to lie to you.

"No," The word grates out his throat roughly.

Because it's the truth. You hadn't done anything wrong and— and Azriel refused to hurt you just because he couldn't contain a few rampant feelings.

"Really?" The tinge of annoyance is back in your words and Azriel can't even blame you.

"Because then why it is that you have been avoiding me since— since the day I was-"

You cut your own words off and Azriel fills in the blank on his own. Since the day down in the city—where I saw you entering another Male's home, hidden in your cloak, like you were meeting a lover— and even though you're completely allowed to do that, I am like every other gods forsaken jealous Male in Prythian, getting upset over this, even if you are not truly mine.

He turns to you finally, his hands clenched at his side and he wills the next sentence out.

"What or who you choose to spend your free time with—" He inhales a long breath, forcing his face to remain neutral even as he feels his teeth grit together. "—is none of my concern."

Your face scrunches up, confused. Then the furrow between your eyebrows is back and Azriel feels a tad nervous. You aren't often angry, least of all with him.

"Cauldron boil me," You bury your face into your hands for a second. Then you drag them down languidly with a groan, peeking up at him over your hands.

"Did you follow me?"

Azriel feels a bit off-guard. His voice isn't as sure when he says, "It is my duty to survey my court."

You bristle a little at that and the nervousness within him grows a little bigger.

"'Who I choose to spend my time with?'" You repeat his words back to him with a tone of incredulity, your hands motioning wildly before you. Faintly, Azriel begins to sense the feeling of foolishness rising within him.

"For Mother's sake, Az, I was buying you a birthday gift, not sleeping with him!"

The moment the words burst from your lips, two things happen. Azriel stiffens, the true nature of your stealthy endeavor through Velaris making a fool of him indeed.

You were... cloaked and hidden because you had been planning a surprise. For him. For his birthday. Something he hadn't even considered was around the corner as it held no high merit with him. His eyes widen and his lips part an inch.

And you — you straighten up, eyes wide, looking as though you've been struck by lightning.

"You were jealous." You gasp.

Not a question, a statement.

"No," Azriel denies, without thinking. His heart rabbits in his chest. The irony of acting out the way he did, because jealousy had blinded him in the first place, is not lost on him.

Suddenly, all his envy is washed away, replaced quickly by a bumbling foolish embarrassment. He wishes he could winnow out of the House. He considers the window behind him for a moment, if only to spare himself from revealing his true feelings to you.

One glance back at your face, your expression edging towards crestfallen, and any thoughts of running away vanishes.

"Yes." He quickly amends, voice meek.

His wings give a little shudder, twisting in closer as he realises what he's admitted aloud. How there was no coming back from this.

No one had ever made him as loose-tongued as you do. Azriel is embarrassed to be caught stumbling over his words.

"I realise..." He croaks out, suddenly finding the slats of the floorboards immensely more interesting. His shadows have slowed from their nervous frenzy, making lazy motions instead, as if to soothe him. "That may not be ideal. My feelings, that is."

A beat of silence. Azriel studies a spot on the floor intently. His heart flounders wildly behind his ribs. His embarrassment seeps something closer to mortification.

Your shoes peek into the edge of his vision and Azriel's head shifts up slowly, his hazel eyes finding yours and burning into them.

His shadows whisper a thousand things to him — but all of them are dulled, quietened, as he simply stares at you. Feels something between the pair of you hang in the balance, just a breeze from unraveling.

Your eyes are bright. Acutely, he realises he can smell relief rolling off you in heavy waves. Amongst it, too, is a hint of... happiness. Happiness.

“Oh, you big Illyrian baby,” You coo, a teasing lilt to your tone.

His cheeks grow warm. Something white-hot tips down his spine as you step in closer, swaying into his space. He can smell the alluring scent of you and his heart thrums in his chest at your nearness, aching to be closer.

"Some spymaster you are, huh?" You say, voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel stays silent but his head tilts to the side just an inch in his puzzlement, his eyebrows knitting together. Hazel eyes peer at you with such an intensity that it sends goosebumps crawling across your skin— his eyes searching your face for answers to his thousand questions.

"Knowing everything except for this." You continue, words feather-soft.

You don’t say what this is but Azriel thinks he knows. Hopes he knows. His hands at his sides clench tighter, his fingers curled up into fists, and the motion catches your attention.

Moving so slowly, you reach out and gingerly take his wrist between your delicate fingers. Azriel lets you. A whine crawls up in the back of his throat and his swallows it back down.

He watches closely as you pull his hand up, forward, cradling it with your own two. His fingers twitch, so unfamiliar with such tender touches.

The shadows scouring around his shoulders burst into a frenzy, circling down his arms and twirling around your intertwined hands. It's as though they're... dancing, Azriel thinks.

"I... hoped." He admits quietly, his voice full of longing.

You shift his mottled hand, turning it gently so his palm is facing yours. Then you hold your own up against it, like you're comparing hand sizes.

Azriel can barely tear his eyes off where your hand presses into his to look up at you. Something molten hot begins to scorch through his veins. A realisation. A dream that may be finally answered. It feels like pure starlight.

Your hand is dwarfed against his own scarred one — and when Azriel curls his fingers, they hug the top of yours gently. You press back against his hand, like the smallest hug back.

You murmur back. "You don't need hope."

Your gaze skirts up from your joined hands, your lips twitching into a nervous smile.

Your eyebrows have drawn together in the middle, just a bit, as though what's happening is something you find devastatingly beautiful. As though you think that way about him. About the two of you, together.

Azriel finds himself thinking of all he would give in the world —all the mountains he'd move and dragons he'd slay— for you to keep looking at him that way.

"You already have me."

[pucksandpower]

Legends Never Die

Carlos Sainz x Senna!Reader

Summary: sometimes the hole in your heart left behind by the passing of your father becomes almost too much to bear, but Carlos and his family never fail to ease the ache

Brazilian Grand Prix, 2023

The roar of the crowd is deafening as you step out onto the podium at Interlagos after winning your home race — the Brazilian Grand Prix — for McLaren.

You wave to the sea of fans, trying to keep your emotions in check. But it’s impossible. Everywhere you look there are reminders of your father.

Fans wave Brazilian flags emblazoned with his iconic yellow and green helmet. Others wear t-shirts bearing his name and race number. Signs reading “Senna Forever” make your chest tighten.

He’s everywhere … except where you need him most. In your memories.

You were just a baby when he died in that fateful accident at Imola in 1994. You only know the sound of his voice through crackling video footage, his infectious smile from yellowing photographs. But you don’t actually remember him. Your own father, the man whose immense legacy you carry on your shoulders each time you slide into the cockpit of a Formula 1 car.

By the time the national anthem plays and the champagne corks pop, you can barely see through the tears welling in your eyes. You blink them back rapidly, hoping the cameras don’t pick up on your emotional state. As soon as the ceremony ends, you practically run off the podium, heading straight for the sanctuary of your driver’s room.

You barely make it through the door before the sobs start wracking your body. You sink down onto the couch, drawing your knees up and burying your face in your hands as the tears flow freely.

How can you feel so alone when surrounded by so many who loved him?

A soft knock at the door cuts through your cries. You know immediately who it is without having to ask.

“Come in,” you manage to choke out, swiping at the dampness on your cheeks.

The door opens and there’s Carlos, looking concerned but unsurprised to find you in this state. Of course he knows. By now, he can likely sense when these waves of emotion are about to crash over you.

Carlos crosses the room and settles onto the couch, gathering you into his arms. You immediately curl against his chest, comforted by his familiar warmth and scent. One of his hands comes up to soothingly stroke your hair as the other rubs circles across your back.

“Let it out, mi amor,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m here.”

The gentleness in his voice is your undoing. You let out a gasping sob, tears soaking through the material of his firesuit as you finally allow yourself to unravel completely in his embrace.

“I-I don’t remember him,” you hiccup between harsh breaths. “I w-won my home race and all I could see out there were ghosts. He was everywhere b-but in my own mind!”

“Shh, I know,” Carlos soothes, rubbing your back. “I know it hurts, mi vida. But he’s here.” He places his palm over your heart. “Your dad lives in here, just like you live in his.”

You lift your head, seeking out his warm brown eyes through your tear-blurred vision. “How can you be so sure? I don’t have a single first-hand memory of him. I know Ayrton Senna the legend, but not my own father.”

A small, sad smile tugs at the corner of Carlos’s lips. “Because that’s how it is for all of us who didn’t get the chance to really know him.” His thumb brushes away a stray tear trailing down your cheek. “We keep him alive in our hearts through the way he inspired us, the lives he touched without ever realizing it. And for you ...” His expression turns amazed, eyes shining with an emotion you can’t quite place. “For you, he’s here.” He runs his hands over the sides of your body, splaying his fingers wide. “A part of him lives on, in you and through you each time you drive. You embody everything he represented behind the wheel — passion, adrenaline, an unquenchable desire to be the best. That’s your father’s legacy beating within you.”

You stare at him, trying to make sense of the jumbled tempest of feelings swirling inside you. Part of you wants to protest, to insist your longing for a tangible connection to your father can’t be satisfied by philosophical musing.

And yet … Carlos’ words reverberate within you, striking a chord. You think of the split-second decision making, the fearless way you attack corners, your refusal to ever give any less than your full effort.

Those are all traits you’ve been told time and time again you inherited from Ayrton. And maybe Carlos is right — maybe that is how you’ll know him best in this life.

Slowly, you reach up to cradle Carlos’ face in your palms, searching his caring gaze. “How did I get so lucky?” You whisper, a few rogue tears spilling over. “To have someone who understands me, understands this hole in my life, and loves me enough to fill it as best he can?”

The look of utter adoration on Carlos’ face steals your breath. Gently, he leans in to capture your lips in the softest, sweetest of kisses. The tenderness, the depth of emotion in that one simple gesture is enough to make your knees go weak.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “I’m the lucky one, mi amor,” he murmurs, the words ghosting across your lips. “To be loved by you ...” He shakes his head slowly in seeming awe of you. “You make me feel blessed every day just by letting me share in your existence.”

You let out a watery laugh, rolling your eyes but unable to fight the giddy smile blooming across your face. Trust Carlos to somehow make you feel like the luckiest, most special person in the world after you’ve just spent who knows how long crying on his shoulder.

“You big sap,” you tease, booping him on the nose. You search his expression, your chest filling with warmth at the laughter lines crinkling around his eyes. “I love you, you know that right?”

The words hang there, heavy and significant. You realize you’ve never actually said them before, not with such simple yet loaded sincerity.

From the look of surprise and unbridled joy that overtakes Carlos’ features, he realizes it too. His hands come up to cradle your face, fingers threading through your hair as he holds you tenderly.

“Mi alma ...” he breathes out reverently. “Te amo, mi vida. I love you with all my heart.”

The depth of emotion in his voice, the Spanish words of love and adoration tumbling from his lips, it’s all too much. You surge forward, claiming his mouth in a searing kiss as the last of your tears, these born of happiness and love rather than sorrow, streak down your cheeks.

Carlos kisses you back with an intensity that leaves you lightheaded. His fingers tighten almost possessively in your hair as the kiss deepens, growing more heated and passionate. You’re vaguely aware of him shifting until you’re nearly in his lap, bodies aligned and thrumming with a very different kind of electricity than you’re used to on the track.

Eventually, the need for air becomes too insistent to ignore. You break apart, both of you panting heavily. Carlos’ lips are red and swollen, his pupils blown wide. He looks like a man thoroughly ravished.

You can’t help the impish grin. “So I take it you feel the same way?”

His laugh is low and gravelly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Oh mi amor ...” he rumbles, nuzzling his nose against yours. “You have no idea.”

You bite your lip, about to suggest taking this celebration elsewhere more private. But a new thought suddenly occurs, giving you pause. Slowly, almost shyly, you meet his heated gaze.

“Carlos … do you really think he would be proud of me?” The uncertainty in your voice is painfully obvious. “My father, I mean. You think he’s ...” You swallow hard. “You think he’s watching over me and approving of the person I’ve become?”

The seriousness of your question douses some of the blazing desire in Carlos’ eyes. But it’s quickly replaced by a look of such fierce conviction, such affection for you, it makes your breath catch.

“Cariño,” he begins, voice thick with emotion as he tucks an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “Your father was the embodiment of passion and integrity in the pursuit of greatness. On the track, he gave everything. He put his heart and soul into being the best driver, the best competitor he could be. And that’s exactly what I see when I watch you race.”

Carlos leans in, resting his forehead against yours as his fingers tenderly trace the line of your jaw. “You drive with the same fire, the same refusal to let anything less than your full ability shine through. And off the track?” He lets out a soft huff of laughter, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, let’s just say the determination, the sheer force of will I see in you would make any parent proud.”

You bite your lip, struggling against the swell of emotion building in your chest at his words. “Really? You don’t think he’d be … disappointed? That I’m not living up to his legacy or-”

“Hey.” Carlos cuts you off firmly, holding your gaze. “Your father didn’t just leave a legacy of winning championships or setting records, mi amor. He left a legacy of spirit. Of personality. Of being a loving, passionate human being who inspired millions.” His thumb strokes along your cheekbone as his eyes shine with complete sincerity. “And let me tell you — in that way? You are so perfectly your father’s daughter it’s unreal.”

The tears that have been threatening finally spill over, but this time they are born of relief, of love and reassurance. You manage a watery smile, curling your hand around the back of Carlos’ neck to pull him close until your foreheads touch.

“Thank you,” you whisper fervently. “For understanding. For loving me through the shadows and the ghosts. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His arms tighten around you, holding you flush against his body in an embrace filled with devotion. “Well, you’ll never have to find out,” he murmurs lowly, lips brushing tantalizingly against the sensitive skin just below your ear. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.”

A delighted shiver runs through you at his tone, at the deliciously possessive edge to his promise. Shifting in his lap, you capture his lips in a searing kiss filled with all the love, the passion, the longing you’ve been holding at bay.

Carlos responds with equal fervor, one hand burying in your hair while the other maps searing paths across your back, your sides, pulling you ever closer until there’s no space between your bodies. The room seems to simultaneously tilt and burn away until there is only the two of you, tangled together in a heated spiral of want and need.

At some point, you become vaguely aware of Carlos rising to his feet, your legs winding instinctively around his waist as he lifts you effortlessly. Your back presses against the nearest wall and you moan softly into his mouth at the delicious friction. His hands are everywhere, stoking the fire burning through your veins with every scorching caress.

Finally, and reluctantly, you pull your lips from his with a gasp. “Carlos … if we don’t get out of here soon, I can’t be held responsible for what might happen.”

He grins wolfishly at you, pupils blown wide with desire. “Is that a promise, mi amor?” His voice is low, gravelly, and sends sparks of pure hunger fluttering through your stomach.

Holding his heated gaze, you slowly drag your nails down the back of his neck in a deliberate tease, relishing the way his eyes darken even further. “Take me home, Carlos,” you purr, leaning in to brush your lips against his once more. “And I’ll show you just how promising I can be.”

His response is to capture your mouth in another bruising kiss, pressing you harder against the wall as a growl rumbles up from deep in his chest. Then, without warning, he’s turning and striding towards the door, carrying you easily as your legs remain locked around his waist.

Breathless with wanting, you finally pull away as he reaches for the doorknob, laughing softly. “I see someone’s eager.”

Carlos’s eyes gleam with pure, undisguised hunger as he looks at you over his shoulder. “For you, mi alma?” He leans in, lips hovering tantalizingly close as his beard brushes your tingling skin. “Always.”

With that, he’s swinging the door open and striding out into the hallway, completely uncaring of who might see. His focus, his entire world, is solely on you in this moment. Just as yours is on him.

As the adrenaline of victory fades and the ache of longing for your absent father eases into a dull, familiar ache, you’re reminded once more of the incredible gift you’ve been given.

Carlos’ love, his understanding and acceptance of every broken, yearning part of you is a blessing. One you vow never to take for granted.

Winding your arms securely around his neck, you let yourself get lost in the heat of his gaze, the depth of emotion shining there. And you realize — with him, you don’t feel so alone.

Even if your father isn’t here in person, some piece of him does live on. Not in memories or old recordings. But in the love you hold in your heart. The love you pour into everything you do, every dream you dare to chase. The love that connects you to Carlos so wholly.

Maybe, just maybe, your father is prouder than either of you can fathom as he watches the remarkable life you’ve created together unfold.

Smiling softly, you lean in to feather a kiss along the sharp line of Carlos’ jaw, breathing in his familiar scent.

“Take me home, meu amor.”

Australian Grand Prix, 2024

The podium ceremony is pure pandemonium. Carlos stands on the top step, beaming and cheering, having just claimed his first win of the new season. You’re on the second step beside him, arm raised in celebration of your own P2 finish. The energy from the crowd is electric, filling your veins with the same adrenaline rush as when you crossed the finish line.

You should be deliriously happy. Scoring such a strong result alongside your boyfriend at the third race is the dream start to your championship chase. And yet … something feels off. A strange melancholy tugs at the corner of your heart even as the champagne sprays and camera flashes bombard you from all angles.

Then you spot him — Carlos’ father, beaming at his son from the front of the crowd gathered below the podium. His chest is puffed out with undisguised pride, eyes crinkled at the corners behind his designer shades.

As you watch, father and son’s gazes meet and lock, and the sheer depth of emotion in that one look breaks something inside you.

Oh.

That’s what’s missing.

The realization hits you like a punch to the gut, stealing your breath. You barely register the Spanish national anthem playing as your eyes stay glued to the tender scene before you.

Carlos shooting his father a brilliant grin, chin dipping in acknowledgment of the pride shining through. Carlos Sr.’s face split by the biggest smile you’ve ever seen him wear. It’s such a simple gesture, but one utterly steeped in parental pride.

You should look away before it gets to be too much, but some masochistic part of you can’t tear your gaze from the heartwarming display. Seeing that effortless bond between father and son, witnessing their silent communication and affection laden with years of inside jokes and childhood memories … it awakens a hollow ache, one you’re terribly familiar with.

By the time the ceremony finally winds down, hot tears are stinging your eyes. You blink rapidly, ducking your head in hopes that the dark tint of your sunglasses conceals your fragile state. But of course, Carlos notices immediately.

He pauses mid-celebration, halfway through accepting some prize filled with the event sponsor’s product. Frowning, he leans in close under the pretense of thanking you for pushing him all the way. “Mi alma? What’s wrong?”

You nearly choke on your own breath at the naked concern in his voice. Trust Carlos to pick up on your inner turmoil even in the middle of what should be an incredibly joyous occasion. Steeling yourself, you manage a smile that you hope passes as genuine.

“Nothing, I’m just ...” Your excuse dies in your throat as you look past him towards the crowd once more.

Carlos Sr. is shouldering his way through the mass of staff and media, pushing towards his son. He’s waving and grinning from ear to ear as Carlos straightens up, delight overtaking his features. The second the older Sainz’s feet cross the barriers, Carlos drops everything and bounds over, hauling his father into a tight embrace.

They laugh and cheer as Carlos pumps a victorious fist in the air, the other arm wrapped securely around Carlos Sr. You can’t hear what they’re saying over the noise of the crowd, but it doesn’t matter. Their body language says it all.

Pride. Joy. Celebration. A bond forged in the fires of hardship and sacrifice, of a lifetime pursuing the most elite level of a deadly sport.

Father and son, reveling together in the sweetness of hard-earned success.

Your throat constricts painfully as you watch them, your own arms wrapping protectively around your middle. How many times had you dreamed of recreating this exact moment as a young girl? Crossing the chequered line in first place, only to be swept up in a boundless hug by a beaming, triumphant father?

You remember pretending with your childhood race cars, standing on an overturned bucket that served as your make-believe podium. You’d mimic the anthems and champagne sprays, then launch yourself off the “top step“ and into the arms of an imaginary Ayrton, dreaming about what it would feel like to bury your face in his shoulder as he swung you around, both of you dissolving into happy laughter as you celebrated together.

Of course, those were only childish fantasies even then. By the time you were old enough to understand racing, to grasp what your father did and meant to the world, he was already long gone. You never got the chance to make those podium daydreams a reality.

And you never would.

The harsh truth is like a bucket of ice water over your head. You’re vaguely aware of your sunglasses slipping down your nose as your eyes burn with unshed tears. Angrily, you blink them back, steeling your jaw.

Now is not the time.

You plaster on the brightest smile you can muster as Carlos and his father turn back towards you. Throwing propriety to the wind, Carlos Sr. comes up to engulf you in a tight hug, the scratch of barely-there stubble rasping against your cheek.

“Another stellar drive, mariposa,” he praises in his thick, warm accent as Carlos laughs in delight beside you. “Keeping this one on his toes, I see.”

Despite your fragile emotional state, you can’t help but grin at his spirit and affection. “Always,” you reply, squeezing him back firmly before pulling away to make room for Carlos.

Almost automatically, you take a step back to give them space. You have no wish to intrude on what should be their private moment together. And sure enough, no sooner have you retreated than Carlos is wrapping his arm around his father’s shoulders, guiding him towards the edge of the pit lane where Ferrari representatives are waiting.

You hang back, a sad smile playing across your lips as you watch them go. All the teasing and laughing, the play-fights and unbreakable bonds of family you wish you could have experienced for yourself play out in vivid detail before your eyes.

Off to the side, almost like an afterthought despite your place right beside him on the podium. Just … watching.

Slowly, you turn away, the roar of the fans and celebrations fading into the distance as you head up the ramp to the McLaren motorhome.

A thousand wistful memories drift through your mind. Muted footage of you as a newborn cradled in your father’s arms, grinning up at him in pure innocence and adoration. Photos of Ayrton gazing down at his infant daughter with a look of such unconditional love that it breaks you all over again.

No matter how many trophies you win or records you break, that will always be the one achievement he never had the chance to witness. You’ll never experience a father’s unadulterated pride at his child’s success.

Your breath hitches as you finally reach the solitude of your private room, sinking onto the plush sofa as the tears begin rolling in earnest. Who are you kidding? As much as Carlos and his family envelop you in their warmth, as much as you are unquestionably part of their clan now … there is always going to be an empty space in your heart where a father’s love should be.

You bury your face in your hands, ignoring the wet streaks smearing across your knuckles as you try in vain to compose yourself. You can’t be like this, falling apart every time. Carlos deserves to revel in one of the greatest wins of his career. He shouldn’t have to devote energy to consoling you, not after a spectacular drive like that.

A soft knock at the door startles you. Swiping hastily at your cheeks, you suck in a shuddering breath and call out. “Come in.”

The door opens, and of course, it’s Carlos. Because even in the midst of unbridled jubilation, he senses your inner turmoil. He steps inside, the happiness draining from his expression as he takes in your blotchy complexion and reddened eyes.

“Mi amor,” he breathes, crossing to you in two quick strides and gathering you into his arms. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his sweat-damp race suit as he rubs soothing circles across your back. “Talk to me, cariño. What’s got you so upset, hmm?”

You want to explain, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you simply shake your head, a few errant tears slipping free to wet the material covering his shoulder. Carlos doesn’t push, just holds you close and lets you cry it out against him.

Eventually, you find your voice, thick with emotion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your celebration like this. You should be out there enjoying your win, not consoling your mess of a girlfriend.”

“Hey now,” he chides gently, tipping your chin up to meet his concerned gaze. “None of that, mi alma. Your feelings are never something to apologize for.” His thumb brushes away a stray tear from your cheek. “I know today was … difficult. Seeing me with my dad, it brought up a lot of old hurts, didn’t it?”

You let out a watery chuckle, amazed as always by his intuition when it comes to your innermost struggles. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only to someone who knows and loves every facet of you,” he replies simply, stroking your hair back from your forehead. “Will you tell me? Let me in on what you’re feeling so I can try to understand?”

Taking a shuddering breath, you nod and disentangle yourself enough to sit beside him on the couch. You keep one of his hands linked with yours, anchoring you as you gather your thoughts. “It’s just … out there on the podium, when I saw you and your dad together ...” You pause, blinking rapidly against a fresh swell of tears. “It reminded me all over again of what I’m missing. What I’ll never get to have.”

Carlos’ expression softens with understanding and he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, silently urging you to continue. You draw strength from his presence beside you.

“You two have this … bond. This connection, like you’re the only ones who truly understand each other’s perspectives. And I’m envious, Carlos. So envious of the lifetime of love and memories that exists just in the silent communication between you.” You let out a mirthless chuckle, swiping at the dampness on your cheeks. “God, that sounds so pathetic when I say it out loud.”

“No, mi vida.” Carlos is firm, his eyes shining with sincerity. “Not pathetic at all. You’re allowed to feel that longing, that sadness over being deprived of something so integral.” His free hand comes up to cradle your jaw, calloused thumb stroking along your cheekbone. “You miss your dad. You mourn not having that relationship in your life. Those are entirely valid feelings to have, especially on days like this when I got to share my joy with my own father.”

You lean into his touch, fresh tears spilling over at his words as your breath hitches. “It’s like … no matter what I accomplish, no matter how successful I become, there will always be this hole.” Your hand comes up to clasp his wrist, holding him close. “Because he never got to see it. He never got to be that person cheering me on, taking pride in my achievements. Instead, I’m left imagining what it would be like, watching you and your dad and aching for something I can’t have.”

Carlos’ eyes turn molten, brimming with empathy and sorrow for your pain. Slowly, he guides you forward until your foreheads are pressed together, his breath fanning across your lips.

“Mi amor … I can’t replace what you’ve lost, or take away that regret and heartache. All I can do is promise to spend every day showing you how proud I am of you.” His fingers thread through your hair, cradling your head tenderly. “You are the strongest, bravest, most amazing woman I have ever known. Watching you out on the track, giving everything you have with that same fire and spirit as your father … words can’t express how awestruck I am. How honored I feel to witness your brilliance and passion race after race.”

You suck in a sharp breath at the reverent tone in his voice, fresh tears streaking down your cheeks at the depth of feeling behind his words. Carlos tugs you even closer until there’s no space between your bodies, until you’re sharing the same air in an intimate embrace.

“I only wish he could see you the way I do,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours with each word. “I wish he was here to feel the immense pride and adoration I feel every single time you leave me breathless behind the wheel.” A tender, lingering kiss punctuates his words. “You are your father’s greatest legacy, mi alma. And I will spend every day showing you that, if you’ll let me.”

A choked whimper escapes your lips as you surge forward, capturing Carlos’ mouth in a searing, fevered kiss. You pour every ounce of overwhelmed emotion, every bit of ardor and heartache and gratitude into the heated glide of your lips against his. His arms band around you like steel cables, holding you impossibly close as the kiss turns bruising, desperate, all-consuming.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both panting harshly. Carlos’ pupils are blown wide, lips red and swollen and thoroughly kissed. He stares at you with such naked adoration, such devotion, that it steals what little breath you have left.

“Thank you,” you rasp, cradling his face in your trembling hands. “Thank you for loving me so completely. Despite all my broken pieces, you see me at my core and still chose me.”

He leans into your touch, lips brushing your palm. “There is nothing to thank me for, mi amor. You are the sun, I’m merely lucky enough to orbit you and bask in your warmth.” He places another soft, lingering kiss to your wrist, right over your thundering pulse. “I am yours, corazón. Every piece of me, for every piece of you. Never doubt that.”

A fresh wave of emotion rises up, this one filled with pure, dizzying love and affection for the incredible man kneeling before you. Pulling him up, you simply hold him for a long moment, relishing his solid strength surrounding you in the protective circle of his arms.

Here, in his embrace, the ache of your father’s absence dulls to a faded echo in the corners of your heart. Here, you can breathe easy, reassured and loved down to your very core.

Eventually, the sounds of celebration filter in through the door — your team must be getting restless waiting for their driver. Carlos seems to hear it too, huffing out a quiet chuckle against your hairline.

“We should get out there, hmm? Before both of our teams send a search party for their drivers.”

You nod, but make no move to disentangle yourself, soaking up his warmth and steady presence for a few more selfish moments.

When you do finally pull away, there are fresh tear tracks on your cheeks but also a peaceful smile gracing your lips. Reverently, you run your fingers through the sweat-damp curls at Carlos’ temples as his eyes flutter closed, savoring your touch.

“I love you,” you murmur, the words seeming impossibly inadequate to convey the depth of feeling they represent. “Endlessly, meu amado.”

Carlos’ gaze when he opens his eyes practically glows with emotion, pure elation and adoration radiating from his expression. “As I love you, mi alma,” he husks, stealing one more searingly tender kiss. “Always.”

With twin smiles and your hands linked tightly, you exit the room together into the raucous cheers and celebrations. Outside, you can see Carlos Sr. surrounded by a sea of red, laughing and beaming with incomparable pride and joy at his son’s success. Your breath catches when he spots the two of you emerging, arms flinging wide.

“There are my superstars! Vámonos, we have a victory to toast!”

As Carlos tugs you forward into the chaos, his father enveloping you both in a crushing embrace and peppering your cheeks with scratchy kisses, you feel a sense of peace settle over you.

Yes, there will always be an absence where your father should have been, a hollow space in your heart shaped perfectly to his memory. But you’ll never truly be alone.

Not with Carlos beside you every step of the way. Not with his family’s boundless love and affection enveloping you, treating you as their own daughter. They are the salve for when that empty ache becomes too much to bear.

So you let yourself sink into the celebration, into the warmth of the Sainz clan and the sheer euphoria of your personal success. As long as Carlos keeps chasing his passion with the same fanatical devotion as his father … as long as you chase your own with every ounce of vigor and spirit that your father passed down through shared blood … then Ayrton will never stop watching over you both with immeasurable pride and a heart overflowing with love.

And for now, for today, that will simply have to be enough.

Days Before the Miami Grand Prix, 2024

The Miami sun sinks lower in the sky, bathing the hotel balcony in a warm orange glow. You lean against the railing, staring unseeingly at the cruise ships dotting the horizon. Your eyes are glassy, your mind a million miles away.

It’s been thirty years to the day since your father’s life was snatched away. Thirty years of living in his immense shadow, constantly reminded of the racing legend you never truly knew.

Your phone buzzes incessantly in your pocket, a steady stream of texts and calls offering condolences. Old acquaintances you haven’t spoken to in years, suddenly reaching out on this morbid anniversary.

What can you possibly say that the world doesn’t already know? That they haven’t already dissected and analyzed a million times over?

The harsh truth is that so many strangers have more vivid memories of Ayrton Senna than his own daughter. It’s a sobering reality, one that reopens that wound all over again every May 1st.

You feel numb, gutted, emptied out.

“Amor?” The familiar voice pulls you from your reverie. You turn to find Carlos staring at you with soft concern in his warm brown eyes. “Are you alright?”

You try for a reassuring smile, but it feels stale on your lips. “I’m fine, just … thinking.”

He sees right through you, the way he always does. Crossing the balcony, he wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting atop your head. You lean back into his solid embrace, drawing comfort from his presence.

“You know you don’t have to put on a brave face for me, right?” He murmurs against your hair. “Not today.”

You let out a shuddering breath, blinking back the sting of tears. “I know. It’s just … it never gets any easier, you know? All these years later and the wound still feels fresh.”

His arms tighten around you. “I’m so sorry, mi amor. I wish I could take the pain away.”

“You help more than you know, just by being here,” you reply thickly. A tremulous smile curves your lips as you cover his hands with yours. “Thank you for putting up with my melancholy every year.”

“You never have to thank me for that,” he says fiercely. “I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

The sound of the balcony door opening draws your attention as Carlos Sr. steps out onto the balcony, his eyes kind but assessing as he takes in the two of you embracing.

“Ah, lo siento,” he says apologetically. “I did not mean to intrude on a private moment.”

“No, no, you’re not intruding,” you assure him, reluctantly extracting yourself from Carlos’ arms. You turn to face his father, subtly wiping at your damp eyes. “What’s going on?”

Carlos Sr. hesitates, shooting his son a questioning look. Carlos nods almost imperceptibly.

“Actually, hijo, do you mind if I borrow Y/N for a few minutes?” Carlos’ father asks. “Hombre a hombre, as they say.”

Your brows knit in confusion, but Carlos just smiles faintly and drops a kiss on your temple. “Of course. I’ll be inside whenever you’re ready, mi vida.”

With a final squeeze of your hand, he disappears back into the suite, leaving you alone with his father on the balcony. The older Sainz settles into one of the plush lounge chairs with a slight groan.

“Please, join an old man,” he says, patting the chair beside him. You hesitate briefly before sinking into the indicated seat. An awkward silence stretches between you both.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Carlos’ father begins at last. “I am not usually at such a loss for words. But I find myself struggling to know what to say on a day like today.”

You manage a watery chuckle. “Trust me, you’re not the only one at a loss. I don’t even know what to say to myself half the time.”

He regards you with such tender understanding that it steals your breath away. “My dear girl, you have carried such a heavy burden on those young shoulders for far too long. No child should have to grow up in the shadow of tragedy the way you have.”

Tears well up anew in your eyes. “I just … I wish I could remember him, you know? Really remember him, not just what I’ve seen in videos or heard in interviews. It feels so unfair that the whole world has vibrant memories of who he was, but I’m just … left with echoes and fragments of a man I never truly knew.”

Carlos Sr.’s eyes glisten with empathy as he reaches over to take your hand, enveloping it in his calloused grip. “Listen to me, mija. While I cannot begin to understand the depth of your loss, I do know this — it is never strange to mourn someone you loved, even if you cannot recall the time you spent together.”

His words are like a soothing balm on the ragged wound of your heart. You squeeze his hand fiercely, struggling to keep your composure as he continues.

“Your father was ...” He pauses, seeming to carefully weigh his next words. “Your father was an incredible man, one who touched countless lives all over the world. But to you, he was simply your father. And that bond, that love between a parent and child, transcends memory. It lives on in here.” He taps his heart with his free hand. “In a way that no amount of biographies or documentaries could ever capture.”

The tears spill over, streaking down your cheeks. You make no effort to stop them this time. Carlos’ father merely watches you with infinite tenderness, his thumb brushing soothingly over your knuckles.

“I know I cannot replace the father you lost,” he continues softly. “Nor would I ever try. But I hope you know that our family … we love you as one of our own, mija. You will always have a home and a family with us, for as long as you desire it.”

A broken sound escapes your throat and Carlos Sr. immediately rises from his chair to gather you into his arms, his embrace warm and secure and achingly paternal. You bury your face in his shoulder, body shaking with muffled sobs as the floodgates finally burst open.

“That’s it, let it all out,” he murmurs, one broad hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Holding in such grief for so long, it’s a wonder you did not crumble beneath the weight of it long ago. You are stronger than you know, mija.”

You cry until you’re completely spent, until the front of Carlos Sr.’s shirt is damp and your eyes are swollen and puffy. When at last the tears subside, leaving you wrung out but strangely peaceful, he produces a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabs at your cheeks.

“There now, that’s better isn’t it?” He asks, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles down at you. “I think my son may have plans to cheer you up, if you’re amenable?”

You let out a watery chuckle, feeling lighter than you have in days … weeks … months maybe. “That does sound nice.”

The elder Spaniard presses the handkerchief into your hand, then steers you back towards the balcony door with a gentle hand on your back. “Then what are we waiting for? That boy may look like me, but his sweet tooth is all his mother’s doing.”

You pause in the doorway, impulsively turning to throw your arms around the man who has, in many ways, become a second father to you. “Thank you,” you whisper shakily against his shoulder. “For everything.”

His arms tighten around you briefly. “De nada, mija. That’s what family is for.”

When at last you disentangle yourself, Carlos is waiting just inside, a bright smile lighting up his face at the sight of the two of you. On the counter, a cheerful array of pastries and confections beckons, the delicious aroma of fresh Brazilian baked goods enveloping you in a warm, sugary hug.

Carlos’ eyes are shining with love and relief as you cross the room to plant a lingering kiss of gratitude on his smiling lips.

“I love you,” you murmur when you finally pull back, cradling his face in your palms. “Thank you for being you.”

His forehead drops to rest against yours. “Always, mi alma. I’ll never stop loving you and being here for you, no matter what.”

You hold him tightly for a long moment, savoring his warmth and solidity. When you finally part, Carlos’ arm stays looped around your waist as he turns towards the dessert spread.

“So, I may have gone a little overboard at the bakery,” he admits with an unrepentant grin, waving his free hand at the sugary bounty. “But it’s been a rough day and you deserve to indulge a little.”

You can’t help but laugh, feeling some of the lingering heaviness dissipate at the pure, infectious joy on his face. Leave it to Carlos to try and solve everything with baked goods and affection.

“Well, when you put it that way,” you tease, leaning into his side, “I suppose I can’t say no to that face.”

“That’s the spirit!” Carlos crows, beaming at you with such adoration that it makes your heart squeeze. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he scoops up one of the frosted confections and holds it up to your lips. “Open wide, mi amor.”

You obediently take a bite of the sugary pastry, the rich flavors of doce de leite and buttery dough melting over your tongue. Carlos watches you with rapt attention, his eyes darkening slightly as you slowly lick a stray bit of frosting from the corner of your mouth.

His father clears his throat loudly behind you. “Ay dios mio, get a room you two!”

Carlos has the grace to look abashed, but you just grin unrepentantly at your future father-in-law as he shakes his head in mock exasperation.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Carlos says cheekily, surprising you by suddenly sweeping you up into his arms bridal-style.

You let out a squeak of surprise that quickly dissolves into delighted laughter as he starts carrying you toward the bedroom, peppering your face with noisy kisses. Over his shoulder, you catch Carlos Sr.’s indulgent smile and parting wink before the door swings shut behind you.

The rest of the evening passes in a sugary, affectionate haze. For the first time in as long as you can remember, the grief feels bearable, soothed by the love of your chosen family.

While the ache may never fully heal, you have a newfound sense of lightness in your heart.

As you lay tangled in the sheets later that night, Carlos’ arm a grounding weight around your waist, you send up a silent thank you to whatever cosmic forces brought this incredible man into your life.

And maybe, just maybe, your father can finally rest easy knowing his little girl found her way to happiness after all.

[forlix]

· . ˚ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

— the moments in which the members of stray kids realize how they truly feel about you.

words・1.4k / pairings・ot8 x gn!reader / warnings・depictions of conflict and anxiety in hyunjin's and han's / genres・domestic fluff, smidges of hurt/comfort, established relationships

a/n・thought i'd try out a new fic format :-) i had so much fun writing these and hope you like reading them just as much. any and all feedback is appreciated, as always!

chan is in a heated staring contest with his notepad when the door opens, and he knows that it’s you who comes in, but his head is miles away, tangled in an amalgamation of syllables and rhythms. he goes on to forget that you’re here for a short while, poring over the unfinished lyrics in front of him with undivided focus. that is, until he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder.

you’ve just pulled a chair up next to his desk. “lemme see,” you say, gesturing to the notepad. there’s a surprised pause, and then chan places it in your hand, scoots closer to you.

you spend the next two hours talking him through his block, but there are periods when you fall silent to brainstorm or to write something down, and chan takes those quiet opportunities just to look at you: wearing one of his old t-shirts, your hair still damp from your shower, completely concentrated. and he knows, then, that he wants to marry you.

minho doesn’t realize he loves you in a singular moment. rather, he has a faint inkling for some time, and then the rug is randomly pulled from beneath his feet, and all of a sudden he can’t remember a version of his world that didn't have you at its center.

there are times when he’s especially aware of his feelings, though. like when he throws a witty remark in your direction and your retort comes back twice as sharp. when your eyes and smile light up like lanterns as you talk to him about your passions. when one (or all) of his cats hover at your side as you go about your day. when he returns home after a grueling practice and you’re there to offer him your comfort, no matter his withdrawn demeanor or sweaty skin.

he is a quiet lover, and sometimes he worries that he’s too quiet, that you have no idea what’s going on inside him every time he looks at you. but words have never really been necessary with minho. you know. you just do.

changbin is greeted by a chilly breeze when he emerges from the gym, and he silently chastizes himself for forgetting to bring an outer layer yet again. but the temperature moves to the back of his mind when he spots you, waiting on the sidewalk, as you said you would. a familiar grin breaks across your face when you see him, and he feels its shape against his lips when he runs over and kisses you, in lieu of hello.

“what are you feeling for dinner?” you ask once he’s pulled away, and he realizes that you’ve pressed something to his chest: one of the hoodies that he keeps at your place, still soft and warm from just coming out of the dryer. and boom—the epiphany hits him, instantly and unequivocally.

he is dumbfounded for a moment, just processing the newfound discovery; and then, out of nowhere, the two of you say the name of the same restaurant at the same time. he swears he never believed in soulmates until he met you.

hyunjin has always held so many emotions in his heart so fervently, to the point that they sometimes overflow in the form of words that he doesn’t believe, in a tone that he doesn’t intend. and it happened again today, when he spoke to you the wrong way in a moment of pure impulse, and the surprise on your face morphed into poorly-disguised hurt.

a few hours later, the weight of his actions sits heavily on his shoulders. when he lifts his phone to call you, his hands are shaking a little, and a breathy apology spills from his lips the moment he hears you on the other end: “i’m sorry, angel. i’m trying, i promise. i really am.” to which you answer, “i know, hyune. i forgive you. we’ll keep trying together, okay?” and your words pull his heartstrings in a new direction entirely.

he asks if he can come over, you say yes, and he tells you he loves you as soon as you open the door. he’s done hiding his heart from you.

jisung’s contagious grin and raucous cackle come easily to him for the most part, but there are times when he forgets how it feels to laugh or to breathe, times when he wants only to hide from the world and all of its scariest parts. and when you see his figure in the doorway tonight, his face cast in a nameless shadow, his shoulders sunken in quiet defeat, you understand immediately that this is one of those times.

“do you wanna talk about it?” you ask as he approaches you. silently, he shakes his head: not tonight. but his body language asks for what he cannot verbalize. you extend your arms toward him, and he buries himself in them the second he’s close enough to, his face nestling the crook of your neck, the tension in his limbs melting at your gentle touch. you stay there for a long time, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades, coaxing him back to the ground, back to you.

wherever he chooses to hide, he thinks he’d like to take you with him.

when felix opens his eyes, the space in the bed next to him is empty, and the faint scent of flour and sugar wafts through the gap beneath his door.

he gets to his feet, throws on some clothes, and wanders in the direction of the smell, rubbing the sleep from his eyes—and the sight that awaits him makes him wonder if he’s still dreaming. you’re standing at the stove, still in your pajamas, hair slightly disheveled from your rest, and there are pancakes in the frying pan before you; sliced strawberries on the cutting board next to the stove. and the look of sheer focus on your face, as if staring at the pancakes will cook them faster, absolutely destroys him. (and he knows in that moment that he wants to wake up to you for the rest of his life.)

with an enamored smile, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulls your back to his chest, and presses a light kiss to the nape of your neck. “morning, beautiful,” he mumbles sweetly. “how fucking lucky am i?”

being around you makes seungmin feel like a kid with a crush. he smiles brighter and laughs louder. he opens like a lotus in bloom when you say his name. the floaty sensation he gets when you kiss his cheek or hold his hand persists for hours afterward—and none of it makes any fucking sense to him. it’s not that he doesn’t believe in love, but he’s never believed that love could feel like this, straight out of a sonnet.

now, your head is on his shoulder, your body rising and falling in your slumber. seungmin looks at your interlocked hands where they rest on his knee, and at the current track displayed on his lockscreen: “still” by day6, a song about losing and loving, about regret and reminiscence. those bright days between us are over, the lyrics go, and he makes a silent promise to your sleeping form that the bright days between the two of you will never end.

the word "love" still doesn't cross his mind, but it is etched all over his face, and carved into his soul.

you and jeongin are telling each other about your days over dinner when your phone lights up with an incoming call, and he nearly spits out his mouthful when he sees who it’s from. for a few seconds, the two of you just stare at each other in flabbergasted silence. but then, you raise your phone to your ear: “hi, grandma! to what do i owe this pleasure?”

and the voice of his grandmother comes back through the receiver. she tells you that she’s just gone on an evening walk and found herself thinking of you, so she wanted to see how you’re doing; if you’re taking care of yourself. you rush to thank her, looking entirely flustered, and a bit like you’re about to burst into tears.

with that, the two of you launch into chatter about everything under the sun: grocery store discounts, the recent humidity, jeongin’s bad habits, you name it. and it finally dawns on jeongin how inextricably embedded in his life you have become—and that he doesn’t want it any other way.

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · all works are pieces of original writing and all characters and relationships are purely fictional. please do not repost or reuse for any reason.

[talkingattumble]

Hi guys! Here’s some advice from a cane user on how to spot a fake cane user/disability faker!

YOU CANT

You can not spot a “fake disabled” cane user. You can not know if someone’s “really disabled”, much less by just looking at them. Here are some common misconceptions.

“Cane users always need their canes. If they walk without it or put it away when it’s inconvenient, they’re faking”: WRONG! Many cane users are what we call “ambulatory” cane users. This means they don’t always need their canes to walk. I’m an ambulatory cane user, and I experience really horrible leg pain on the daily. However, I don’t always use my cane, and when I don’t need to walk or stand a lot in a certain place I don’t use it. And when I do use it, I may lift it off the ground or carry it in places that are sandy, gravelly, or otherwise hinder my cane.

“Cane users walk abnormally without their canes, someone who walks normally without their cane is faking”: WRONG! Many ambulatory cane users can walk in a way that seems “normal”. This doesn’t mean they’re not in pain, or not “really disabled”. This just means that their condition doesn’t cause a noticeable difference in walking, and likely manifests in a different way.

“Cane users always need their cane, someone who doesn’t use their cane at home is faking”: WRONG! Cane users may not use their canes at home, because at home they may be able to do things like sit down wherever and whenever, regain more spoons, and use other mobility aids. Additionally, some ambulatory cane users only need or use their canes when they are doing something physically taxing, like going on a hike or standing in a long line.

“My cane user friend told me this person looks like they’re faking, so it must be true”: WRONG! Being a cane user doesn’t immediately make you an expert on all different conditions and experiences. Your friend does not know the random cane user walking down the street, they are going off looks and stereotypes. Disabled people are not immune to being ableist.

“They enjoy their cane too much/they’re too happy/they decorate their cane, so they can’t actually be in enough pain to need a cane” WRONG! We’re people like everyone else, and we experience positive emotions too, even if we go through a lot of pain. To me, customizing my cane is like getting a tattoo or putting streaks in my hair, it’s a way of self expression. And we deserve to be able to talk openly about our full experience, which include the parts we’re neutral or happy about.

“They’re one of those cringey teenagers who name themselves arson and like dsmp, so they’re probably faking” WRONG! Do I even have to explain why saying someone isn’t disabled because of their name and interests is messed up and also stupid? Or did you already know that and just wanted to make fun of a disabled teenager?

“They’re too young to be using a cane, so they must be faking” WRONG! there are lots of disabilities or injuries that can cause young people to need a mobility aid. For example, I use a cane for my fibromyalgia.

“They only use it in private places, and never in places where people recognize them, so they must be faking” WRONG! In a world where anyone can just randomly take out their phone, take a picture of a cane user, and post them online to be made fun of, it can be stressful to use a cane in public areas. Also, they may not want people to ask questions, or they may feel embarrassed about it.

“I saw them switch hands, so they must be faking” WRONG! There are different reasons a cane used might do this, but I’m going to use my experience as an example. My fibromyalgia is not consistent. Sometimes one leg hurts more then the other. But as I said, fibromyalgia is inconsistent, and sometimes my other leg will start to hurt more or need more support, which is when I switch hands. And when both my legs hurt equally, I may switch my hand if it’s getting too sore.

“They told me they feel like they’re faking when they use their cane, doesn’t that mean they don’t really need it?” WRONG! Imposter syndrome is strong in a lot of disabled people, especially when for a lot of our lives we were told by doctors that we were fine and just being dramatic. Anxiety is also comorbid with a lot of physically disabilities, which only strengthens this. To add to this, something that I’ve felt and seen other disabled people talk about it, when their disability aid lessens the pain, they start thinking “well I’m not in that much pain so I don’t really need it” even though the reason they’re not in that much pain is because of the aid. I know it seems dumb, but imposter syndrome can be that strong and affects disabled people a lot.

“They don’t have a diagnosis, so they must be faking” WRONG! First of all, diagnoses are expensive. On their own they’re often already expensive, but counting the tons of tests you have to take to confirm the diagnosis? Absolutely ludicrous. Some may also choose not to get a diagnosis, so that they don’t have to deal with the prejudice and setbacks of being diagnosed. Also, some people use a cane for injuries, and for stress or fatigue related pains.

These are only a few of the things I commonly hear from fakeclaimers, and I wanted to just put out a reminder that fakeclaiming hurts the disabled community much, much more than it does ableists. Next time you see someone with a cane switch hands, or someone with a wheelchair stand up, or someone with crutches put them down, before you immediately call them out to a friend, take a picture, or write a post: does your fakeclaim rely on stereotypes? Are your reasons things that apply to ambulatory aid users?

If so, just stop. Be mindful. Please.