#and of course it could change at a moments notice...

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"Mad Woman"

ok yall im out of school now! this was rushed so don't judge, when i write i just pour out whatever's in my head, that's why it's almost always rushed. i feel like if i don't write it, it'll disappeare! also to everyone hating in my asks, NO ONE IS FORCING YOU TO READ MY WORK!!!! hating does nothing but discourage me and lower my already non-existent confidence in my writing. pls leave me alone, if you don't have anything nice to say; don't say anything. i LOVE all my positive asks and comments, they make my day. don't ruin it for me.

Six months, that's how long it's been since Bruce exiled you to New York and left you alone once again. It's been 387 days since Tiffany Maverick pulled the rug from beneath your feet and ensnared your family in her web of lies and manipulation. For six months, your family ignored you, only Alfred sending you the occasional care package which you promptly threw in the garbage.

You wish Tiffany and Damian were as content with ignoring you as the rest of the family but unfortunately, they went out of their way to rub their closeness in your face by sending you pictures of family movie night, family game night, and the family attending their school events. It made you angry at first, before you saw how funny it was. A family of billionaires, a family of detectives, a family of vigilantes, sitting next to a spy; obliviously feeding her insider information. The Batman, sitting grinning ear to ear next to a girl who could be his downfall.

Surprisingly, boarding school was amazing. The boys were hot, though most arrogant and dumb, they were all loaded and into you. The girls idolized you from the moment you walked in, your word was law around here and the power felt amazing. You decided what was in and out, who was hot and who was not; a huge difference and change of pace from the years of bullying and ridicule at Gotham Prep.

The charm came with your new abilities, most likely. Sure, the first two months were fucking painful and exposed you to pain you didn't think was possible but it was a small price to pay. It was nothing for the power of being able to charm and flirt your way out of just about anything, being able to eject venom with the slightest trace of your fresh set of acrylics, being able to literally bite people with your fangs and have them enjoy it, sensing heat signatures and feeling emotions and eyes on you, having the ability to give literal bone-crushing hugs, and so many things you haven't even discovered.

Not to mention your random overnight makeover! Suddenly, your figure was to die for, perfect in all senses of the word. Your skin gleamed and shimmered in the light, long shed away were all the blemishes and scars. Your hair always shiny and your teeth always pearly white, albeit a bit sharp. You're the image of beauty.

Who cares about the price when the product was this good anyway?

Who needed familial love when everyone here worshipped you? That new view and utter hatred for the family is what convinced you to accept Ariele, your boarding school bff and roomie,'s offer to spend summer break with her family in the south of france. Of course, you wanted to go back to manor for a week before meeting her there. Alfred asked you to come and though you were angry at him, you missed the old man. You swore to yourself that you'd only stay the night, catch up with Alfred, and ignore your 'family' then promptly spend the summer half naked, tanning on a super yacht with your girls.

Little did you know that you'd never make it to france, in fact, you wouldn't even make it out the manor now that Tim discovered the truth and told the rest of the family.

Tim Drake noticed things. Small things. Minute details that other people might overlook. That's how he found the truth.

It started with the cooking. Tiffany had casually mentioned one evening that she’d found some old recipes in the manor’s archives, recipes that you had once written down, hoping to impress Damian with Arabic dinners and desserts. Tiffany had barely glanced at the handwritten notes before she had offered to make dinner that night—a perfect replica of your signature stuffed cabbage leaves, Malfoof, as you called it.

Tim had been there when it happened. He’d recognized it immediately. The dish was one of your favorites, one you had made for family dinners. It was too familiar, too precise for Tiffany, it lacked the usual love and effort.

Then came the awards. It was subtle at first, too. Tiffany casually dropping that she had “entered a local baking competition” and how much fun it had been to win. Tim had known that you had been the one to actually win that competition the year before, he remembered rolling his eyes as you foolishly tried to impress him. But when he checked the award Tiffany had won? It looked eerily similar to the one that you had earned. Tiffany didn’t even bother hiding her gloating as she showed it off, calling it “another step toward making Gotham proud.”

Tim’s stomach churned. It wasn’t a coincidence. Tiffany was stealing your life and he was the only one that saw it. Who knows what else she was stealing.

The pieces clicked into place when he found the old photo albums. Tiffany had been snooping around the library one afternoon, pulling out albums that had been tucked away in the back, ones that hadn’t been touched in years. They were full of memories of your achievements, pictures of family vacations, awards won for charity work and academic excellence. Baby photo's, old camera's, journals, even old clothes.It wasn’t just admiration. It was an obsession.

He saw her dig through and read every one of your old entries, saw her stare at pictures and attempt to manuever her body how you stood, but what really creeped him out was when she started tracing over your handwriting.

Tim couldn’t let it go. This was insane. It was almost as if Tiffany wanted to wear your skin.

It wasn’t that he wanted to make Tiffany an enemy or villainize her, quite the opposite actually, he'd been ignoring her strange behavior and smell for a year now because of how fond he was of her. But this? This was crossing a line. She wasn’t just trying to fit in anymore, this was dangerous.

He now suspected there was more to Tiffany than just her obsession with your life and after putting the pieces together, it was becoming clear: Tiffany was playing a much deeper game. She wasn’t just trying to steal your identity, she was stealing information, too.

Tim’s investigative skills had been honed through years of being the tech guy of the Batfamily, and when something felt off, he didn’t ignore it. Not anymore, he started tracking small anomalies—times when Tiffany’s presence seemed too convenient, moments when crucial data about Gotham’s underworld went missing from the Batcomputer, or when confidential mission details were leaked through channels Tim knew the Batfamily didn’t use. Times when the Joker seemed to know the family's course of action and times when villains knew Duke's plans.

That’s when it clicked.

Tiffany wasn’t just trying to fit in with the family. She was spying. Her affections with the family were a cover for something darker. She had been gathering intelligence for a shadowy organization, feeding them vital information about their operations. This was bigger than him—this was a full-blown infiltration. Tiffany was working for someone else, someone dangerous.

Tiffany’s betrayal ran deep, and her spying wasn’t just about information anymore; it was personal. She had been stealing pieces of your life, your successes, your talents , your family. She had slowly taken everything that you had worked for and twisted it into her own false narrative. It was sickening.

Tim couldn’t stand it anymore. He had dug through encrypted files, tracked hidden transmissions, and pieced together cryptic conversations. Tiffany wasn’t just trying to steal your identity for the sake of becoming the perfect family member. No. She was mimicking your cooking and baking skills, down to the awards she had won for those very talents. She had been trying to erase you and replace you with a manufactured version of herself.

It was almost too much for Tim to handle. But there was something even worse lurking beneath the surface: the deeper he dug, the more it became clear that Tiffany wasn’t just feeding information to criminals. She had been feeding off your spirit, your presence and she had nearly replaced you entirely.

Now he just needed to tell the other.

The tension in the Batcave could be cut with a knife as Tim stood before Bruce, Dick, Jason, Damian, Duke, Cass, Steph, Barbara, and Alfred, ready to show them what he had discovered.

“I’ve been tracking Tiffany’s movements for the last few days,” Tim began, his voice low but sharp. “And I found something that’s... unsettling.”

Bruce, who had been scanning a mission report, looked up with interest. Dick turned to Tim, a puzzled expression on his face. Alfred stepped forward, his usual composed demeanor now replaced with a rare concern. Even Damian looked confused.

“What did you find, Master Tim?” Alfred asked, his tone calm, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes.

Tim didn’t hesitate. He clicked a button on the computer, and the large screen behind him flickered to life. A series of encrypted files appeared—mission logs, surveillance footage, and even intercepted communications. The Batcave was suffocating in its silence as Tim presented the evidence to Bruce, Dick, Jason, Alfred, and the others. His fingers flew over the keyboard, and every new image, every new file, felt like a punch in the gut.

There was a long silence as everyone processed the information. Bruce’s usual stoic expression faltered for a moment, and Dick clenched his fists. The weight of the revelation was hitting hard, but it wasn’t just the betrayal that hurt. It was that someone in their midst had been pulling the strings behind their backs for a year.

The data was damning. It was all there, proof that Tiffany had been copying your recipes, your designs, your machines, even stealing the culinary awards that you had earned over the years. And on top of that, she had been siphoning critical Batfamily intel to an unknown organisation. The information was so sensitive, it could have jeopardized every single one of them.

“Do you see it now?” Tim’s voice was quieter, but his anger was unmistakable. He flicked the last file onto the screen. Tiffany’s false accomplishments, stolen directly from you. The stolen recipes. The mission intel sent out from the Batcomputer under her watch. “All of us have been blind to it.”

“About a month ago,” Tim said, “I found an odd encryption pattern in the Batcomputer—something I’ve never seen before. When I decrypted it, I found a set of mission details. Ones that shouldn’t have left the system. I traced the origin back to Tiffany.”

Alfred's face tightened as he took in the footage on the screen. It was a recording of Tiffany accessing classified Batfamily data, tapping into their most sensitive files.

“She’s been stealing information,” Tim continued, his voice gaining intensity. “Every single time she’s interacted with the Batcomputer, she’s been sending that data out to an unknown address. I can't track where it's coming from, it's too advanced; even for me.

“Impossible,” Bruce muttered, but his eyes were narrowing in disbelief. “Why would she—?”

“Because she’s a spy,” Tim interrupted, “and it gets worse. She’s been feeding them everything. Our weaknesses, our next moves, our schedules. She’s not just a mole in the manor. She’s been working against us this whole time. She's why so many missions have failed.Tim’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not just the family’s accomplishments she’s been stealing. She’s been getting close to each of us, using our trust. She knows things, personal things, and she’s been leaking that information. She’s been feeding it to the highest bidder, giving Gotham’s worst players a playbook for taking us down.”

Dick’s face twisted with disbelief. “She was pretending to be (y/n), taking her accomplishments as her own, but—” He trailed off, his voice faltering. “How could we have let this happen? How did we not notice?”

Jason’s voice cut through the heavy silence, rough and sharp, like a crack of thunder. He stepped forward, fists clenched. “I should’ve known. She’s been playing everyone, pretending like she’s all sweet and innocent, but she was using all of us.” Jason’s eyes flicked to the screen, then back at Tim, his face a mask of fury. “She lied to me. She’s been lying to all of us. And she’s been trying to replace her.” His hand slammed onto the table, and the anger in his voice was unmistakable. “She doesn’t belong here. We trusted her. We all trusted her.” Jason’s anger bubbled over. This betrayal, the way Tiffany had wormed her way into their lives, made him see red

He couldn’t keep it in any longer. “I should’ve known,” Jason spat, pacing in circles, his fists clenched tight at his sides. “I let her get close to me. I let her in, we all did! And now look at this. She’s been pretending to be everything she’s not. She’s been trying to take her place, her rightful place in this family!”

Alfred, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat, his voice filled with quiet but growing fury. “I should have seen it,” he muttered, his gaze darkening. “I was too lenient with her. I allowed her to slip through the cracks, to play at being part of this family. I should have known better.” His usually calm demeanor was cracking, and the regret in his voice was palpable.

Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line as the weight of Tim’s words sank in. His eyes hardened as he stared at the screen, disappointment creeping into his features. Tiffany had been their guest, their supposed family, and this whole time, she had been playing them all. You had tried to warn them.

Duke, who had been standing quietly at the back of the room, spoke up. His voice was low but steady.

“I knew something was off,” Duke said, his eyes fixed on the screen. “I couldn’t put my finger on it, but... she’d been acting weird around me. Always asking questions—asking about the family, the missions, everything. I thought I was paranoid.”

Damian had always been fiercely protective of what he considered his, no one could ever doubt that. He mocked you, saw you as his pathetic bastard older sister, he had wanted to hurt you. But now, as the reality of Tiffany’s betrayal settled in, something darker began to take root inside him. He remember your unconditional love for him, how you took everything he said did to you with grace and compassion. He remembered how good you were to him. He noticed that everything he thought he loved about Tiffany was what she stole from you. His eyes burned with rage as he thought about how Tiffany had wormed her way into the family and his heart, how she’d stolen your accomplishments, and how she’d attempted to erase his sibling from the very fabric of their world.

She was trying to replace her. That thought alone made his fists tighten, nails biting into his palms.

It had been a long time since Damian had felt this kind of protective rage. He was the blood of the Wayne family, the one who deserved to be at the center of it all, but you; his blood sibling, his equal, had always been ignored, undervalued ridiculed and neglected. And now Tiffany, a mere interloper, had dared to manipulate and tear him away from you.

Damian watched the family, his gaze flicking to each of them as they tried to process the betrayal. The anger from his family was palpable, but there was something else there too: possessiveness. Protectiveness. regret. They weren’t just angry at Tiffany for what she had done to you, they were furious at themselves for pushing you away and leaving you alone and unprotected in New York.

You were his responsibility, his blood, and no one; not even Tiffany, was going to steal you away from him. He had always wanted to prove his superiority to the others, but now that wasn’t his focus. His attention was fixed solely on bringing you back to him, where you belonged.

Cass, who had been silently observing, nodded. Her face was unreadable, but the tension in her jaw told Tim that she, too, had been sensing something wrong for weeks.

Steph, ever the sharp observer, had her arms crossed over her chest, her usual sarcasm now tempered with a cold seriousness. “I knew she wasn’t perfect, but this? This is next-level crazy. Are you sure bout this Time?” She leaned forward, her voice suddenly harder.

Barbra was too shocked to say anything. This was not how today was supposed to go.

Alfred glanced toward Bruce. “Master Bruce,” he said softly, “the level of infiltration, this is something I never anticipated. We should have seen the signs.”

Bruce’s expression was steely. “We were too distracted, too willing to accept her presence as part of the family. We let our guard down.”

“That’s not just her fault,” Dick interjected. “We’ve all been too trusting. Especially with everything that happened with (y/n).” His voice hardened as he glanced at the screen again, eyes flicking to Tim. “What now? What do we do about it?”

Tim stepped forward, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “I’ve already notified our allies. The information she’s passed is enough to give this organization an upper hand in Gotham, maybe beyond. She hasn't revealed our identities but she might soon. we can’t let her get away with it. She’s been playing us this whole time.”

Steph threw her hands up in exasperation. “So what, we just let her go? She’s been lying to us, manipulating us for months! ?”

Tim’s eyes were cold, calculating. “We’ll have to trap her. Use the information she’s already stolen to set her up. Once we confront her, we’ll make sure she doesn’t get away.”

Bruce’s fists were clenched at his sides, his jaw set in stone. He had failed [Y/N]—he had failed his child. The weight of that was too much for him to bear. “This ends now. We’re going to fix this.”

Ok yall since apparently 8 ppl think my work is absoulte shit and and SURE i knew how they felt this is pretty rushed and i feel like it sucks! anyway!! i hope at least some people enjoy <33 send in nice aks and questions and ideas pls. its so fun answering them. yall are mind readers and are so creative!! lmk if there's any typos bc I copy-pasted half of it from my notes app. yeah i did write half of this when i was supposed to be in class, and??? Next chapter Tiffany gets confronted, reader comes home, Batfam start groveling and regretting their actions, sort of on their way to yandere-ism and make reader move back to gotham to be closer to "family"

[scriobh-an-iontas]

The dream comes after a particularly bad day. Your children seem to be celebrating, or mourning, Aslan. It's a name you've heard them say, but you don't know who or what this Aslan is. Only that today is "his day". You want to hold them, to tell them that it's alright. You want them to fight like they did, to laugh and love like they did, like they did when the world made sense, and the sky didn't burn from war. You want to howl, to scream, to beg your children who are not children to be your children again. All these, and more, but you cannot. Something has taken this from them, from you, and it wasn't the war, no matter how much you tell yourself it was.

They whisper to each other on this day, and look at you like they've only just noticed you, really noticed you, for the first time since they got back from the country. You excuse yourself, unsure as to why you need to excuse yourself from your children in your own home, but you do, and you go to your bed, and you dream.

You dream of a vast garden, one full of trees with the ripest fruits, fruits you've never seen, but that you somehow know.

"Eat, Helen Pevensie, and be restored," says a deep voice.

You look up, and before you is a lion. Not a tame lion, though. Never a tame lion.

You know you should smell the sweetness of the fruit, but at that moment, you can only smell rot.

"I will not eat. You cannot give me a fruit and expect me to forget what you have stolen from me, child thief," you say. You don't know why you say it. That doesn't make it less true.

The lion ...

The lion diminishes, then looks away.

"They came of their own accord. Even if I had not called them here, if they had come under their own power, they would not have changed in their course, to come, and to stay. Their return was the only mercy I could offer," the lion says, as if that could change what he did.

"But you didn't return them!" you cry, months of sorrow bursting forward and striking the lion like a charger's lance. "You stripped them of who they were and who they had become and sent what was left to me! You broke them into pieces and sent those shards back after you had used them up, and call it a mercy? Jesus protect me from your cruelty!"

The lion winces, then speaks. "Will you walk with me?" the lion asks. "I wish to show you what they were called to protect."

You want to say no, but you think of your children, those strangers in your home, then steel yourself and walk towards, then next to, the lion.

You and the lion walk deeper into the garden, until you reach the ledge of a cliff. You know that it's high above the clouds, or it would be, on any other day. Today, though, the sight is clear.

Below is a beautiful country. Everything you could ever imagine to be a perfect land is here, you know it in your heart. The stories you told your children, when they were still your children, are alive here. Thriving. Happy. You know that if you went into that country, you'd see dryads, talking animals, tree-folk, magic.

"This place is not my country, not truly, but it is dear to me. It was trapped under the power of a terrible witch, until your children came, your sons of Adam and daughters of Eve. They destroyed the power of the witch, and freed it, and ruled it, ruled it well. They spoke of you, Helen Pevensie. They missed you."

You turn to face the lion. His eyes are wet with tears, as are yours.

"I am so sorry. If there had been another way, I would have taken it. There were none. So eat, Helen Pevensie, and be restored."

You take a final look at the land below, knowing somehow that you will never see it again, and go back into the garden. The lion follows you, saying nothing. You go from tree to tree, not sure what you are looking for, until suddenly you do. It looks a bit like an apple tree, and a bit like what toffee might look like if it was a fruit. Yet, in this garden, in this place, it is also moreso. It smells of home, and of here.

You take the fruit.

You eat it.

Each bite brings with it a memory of your children, as they were before they left, and as they are now, and of memories of them in this place. Not perfect visions, but living pictures, perhaps.

When you finish, you turn back to the lion.

"You aren't done with them yet, are you?" you say. It isn't a question, but neither is it an accusation.

"No," says the lion, his great shaggy mane tossing as he shakes his head. "But I will not again keep them away to myself, that I promise you. I will not say that they will return unchanged, but they will return in life and spirit as they left," says the lion.

You don't say thank you. That would be too much, and it would be a lie. The lion has taken so much already. This is the least he could do. But you nod, and you understand.

When you wake up, you feel refreshed, and restored.

When you walk down the stairs from your bedroom into the room your children are in, you feel, for a moment, as if you are their mother again.

You sit with them. You smile at your daughters, and at your sons. Then you speak.

"So. Tell me about Aslan."

They smile back at you, and they begin to chatter.

you have invited strangers into your home, helen pevensie, mother of four.

without the blurred sight of joy and relief, it has become impossible to ignore. all the love inside you cannot keep you from seeing the truth. your children are strangers to you. the country has seen them grow taller, your youngest daughter’s hair much longer than you would have it all years past. their hands have more strength in them, their voices ring with an odd lilt and their eyes—it has become hard to look at them straight on, hasn’t it? your children have changed, helen, and as much as you knew they would grow a little in the time away from you, your children have become strangers.

your youngest sings songs you do not know in a language that makes your chest twist in odd ways. you watch her dance in floating steps, bare feet barely touching the dewy grass. when you try and make her wear her sister’s old shoes—growing out of her own faster than you think she ought to—, she looks at you as though you are the child instead of her. her fingers brush leaves with tenderness, and you swear your daughter’s gentle hum makes the drooping plant stand taller than before. you follow her eager leaps to her siblings, her enthusiasm the only thing you still recognise from before the country. yet, she laughs strangely, no longer the giggling girl she used to be but free in a way you have never seen. her smile can drop so fast now, her now-old eyes can turn distant and glassy, and her tears, now rarer, are always silent. it scares you to wonder what robbed her of the heaving sobs a child ought to make use of in the face of upset.

your other daughter—older than your youngest yet still at an age that she cannot be anything but a child—smiles with all the knowledge in the world sitting in the corner of her mouth. her voice is even, without all traces of the desperate importance her peers carry still, that she used to fill her siblings’ ears with at all hours of the day. she folds her hands in her lap with patience and soothes the ache of war in your mind before you even realise she has started speaking. you watch her curl her hair with careful, steady fingers and a straight back, her words a melody as she tells your eldest which move to make without so much a glance at the board off to her right. she reads still, and what a relief you find this sliver of normalcy, even if she’s started taking notes in a shorthand you couldn’t even think to decipher. even if you feel her slipping away, now more like one of the young, confident women in town than a child desperately wishing for a mother’s approval.

your younger son reads plenty as well these days, and it fills you with pride. he is quiet now, sitting still when you find him bent over a book in the armchair of his father. he looks at you with eyes too knowing for a petulant child on the cusp of puberty, and no longer beats his fists against the furniture when one of his siblings dares approach him. he has settled, you realise one evening when you walk into the living room and find him writing in a looping script you don’t recognise, so different from the scratched signature he carved into the doors of your pantry barely a year ago. he speaks sense to your youngest and eldest, respects their contributions without jest. you watch your two middle children pass a book back and forth, each a pen in hand and sheets of paper bridging the gap between them, his face opening up with a smile rather than a scowl. it freezes you mid-step to find such simple joy in him. remember when you sent them away, helen, and how long it had been since he allowed you to see a smile then?

your eldest doesn’t sleep anymore. none of your children care much for bedtimes these days, but at least sleep still finds them. it’s not restful, you know it from the startled yelps that fill the house each night, but they sleep. your eldest makes sure of it. you have not slept through a night since the war began, so it’s easy to discover the way he wanders the halls like a ghost, silent and persistent in a duty he carries with pride. each door is opened, your children soothed before you can even think to make your own way to their beds. his voice sounds deeper than it used to, deeper still than you think possible for a child his age and size. then again, you are never sure if the notches on his door frame are an accurate way to measure whatever it is that makes you feel like your eldest has grown beyond your reach. you watch him open doors, soothe your children, spend his nights in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea with a weariness not even the war should bring to him, not after all the effort you put into keeping him safe.

your children mostly talk to each other now, in a whispered privacy you cannot hope to be a part of. their arms no longer fit around your waist. your daughters are wilder—even your older one, as she carries herself like royalty, has grown teeth too sharp for polite society— and they no longer lean into your hands. your sons are broad-shouldered even before their shirts start being too small again, filling up space you never thought was up for taking. your eldest doesn’t sleep, your middle children take notes when politicians speak on the wireless and shake their heads as though they know better, and your youngest sings for hours in your garden.

who are your children now, helen pevensie, and who pried their childhood out of your shaking hands?

[lanf1an]

SEASONS lando norris x fewtrell sister - pt.9

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 pt.6 pt.7 pt.8 pt.10

wordcount: 2926

The sunlight streaming through the blinds was sharp and unforgiving, waking you far earlier than you wanted. You shifted under the covers, the events of the night before flashing through your mind. Your stomach churned—not from the alcohol, but from the weight of what had happened.

You glanced over at Lando, still asleep beside you, his chest rising and falling steadily. He looked peaceful, his hair a mess against the pillow, and for a brief moment, you let yourself feel the warmth of it. But then guilt crept in, tightening around your chest. What the hell had you done? 

Slipping out of bed as quietly as you could, you grabbed some clothes and padded out into the kitchen. Coffee first, then… you’d figure out how to handle this.

“Morning,” Lando’s voice startled you, and you turned to see him leaning against the doorway, hair tousled, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. He looked way too good to be feeling even half the hangover you were feeling. 

“Oh, hey,” you said, trying to sound casual. “I was just making coffee. Want some?”

“Sure,” he said, raising his eyebrows, his eyes lingering on you for a beat too long.

The silence stretched as you busied yourself with the coffee machine. He didn’t move closer, didn’t sit down. You knew he was waiting for you to say something.

“Last night…” you began.

“Yeah?” he prompted, quick to reply.

“It was…” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “I’m sorry.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Sorry?”

“It’s just…” You hesitated, the words tumbling out. “So much alcohol. And the break-up. I wasn’t—I don’t know. I’m just sorry.”

His expression flickered, something guarded settling in his eyes. “Right... Yeah, of course. I’m sorry too”

Before either of you could say more, there was a loud knock on the door.

“Thank God,” you muttered under your breath, heading to open it.

Max stood there, looking like death warmed over, his sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair, more like you were feeling.

“Kill me,” he groaned, brushing past you and collapsing onto the couch.

“Good morning to you too,” Lando said, handing him a bottle of water from the fridge.

“What did we do last night?” Max asked, his voice muffled by the pillow he’d shoved his face into.

Lando smirked. “You challenged a group of strangers to a dance-off. And lost.”

“Tragic,” Max mumbled. He lifted his head slightly, squinting at you both. “Anyway, what are we watching?”

Before you could protest, he was scrolling through the options on your streaming service, settling on an over-the-top action flick.

You exchanged a glance with Lando, who gave you a small, almost imperceptible shrug before sitting down on the couch.

Max patted the cushion beside him. “Come on, both of you. Misery loves company.”

As the movie played, with Max sitting between you and Lando, you occasionally glanced over to Lando, whose eyes were glued to the TV. Max made his usual sarcastic comments, keeping the atmosphere light. On the outside everything looked exactly the same, but even as you laughed along, you couldn’t shake the feeling that things weren’t quite the same.

- The following months were a strange blur—a whirlwind of processing the breakup, diving into work, and navigating race weekends. Of course, you still went to the races. Skipping them would have been unthinkable, far too weird. But it felt different. You had decided to keep some distance from Lando, convinced it was the right thing to do. Maybe for him, maybe for you. You didn’t expect him to do the same. It wasn’t overt enough for anyone else to notice. To the untrained eye, nothing had changed. You were still at every race, still part of the usual group settings. But the small moments—the ones that used to belong to just the two of you—those were gone.

No impromptu meet-ups in random cities. No late-night texts or phone calls that had nothing to do with racing. The unspoken routine you’d fallen into over the years had quietly unraveled, and no one else seemed to notice. Lando was having the season of his life, the world around him growing brighter and louder with every race. Media attention surged, fans swarmed, and with the success came a revolving door of new people. Girls. Even Magui made an appearance again.

It all looked perfectly normal from the outside—like you were just giving him space to focus, like his rising stardom left no room for anything else. But you knew better. You felt the distance that had never been there before, even if no one else could see it.

Max noticed, of course. He was the one person who would. “You and Lando good?” he had asked one evening, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

You’d brushed it off with a shrug. “Just don’t love this side of F1,” you’d said vaguely, which wasn’t entirely untrue. You didn’t press further, and to your relief, neither did he. He seemed satisfied enough, happy, in fact, to have more of your time to himself.

The awkward radio silence between Lando and you was interrupted by the buzz of your phone. His name flashed on the screen. Surprised you picked up the phone.

“Hey,” 

“Hey…” he replied, his voice a touch uncertain, like he wasn’t quite sure how to start.

There was a pause, and then he dove in. “Listen, I wanted to ask you something. I’m sorry to bother you with this—you can say no—but, um…” He hesitated, and you could almost hear him scratching the back of his neck through the phone.

“You know how I absolutely hated the FIA awards on my own last year?” he continued. “It was boring, long, and just... the worst. Thing is, you’re only allowed to bring a date, and I was wondering if you’d come with me. Reckoned you’d look better in photos than Max.”

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “So let me get this straight—this is an invite to a boring, long night that you hated? Wow, what a proposition.”

You heard his laugh on the other end of the line, warm and genuine. “Well, when you say it like that, it sounds terrible. But yeah, basically.”

“You owe me for this.” you agreed.

“Big time,” he said, you could hear his grin through the phone.

— 16 december 2025

The invitation to the FIA awards came with more than just a request for your company. It came with a trip—this year, the gala was being held in Cape Town, South Africa. When Lando explained the logistics over the phone, you weren’t sure what surprised you more: that the event was happening on another continent or that McLaren had arranged for the team’s private jet to take you there.

When you arrived at the airstrip, the sight of the sleek McLaren jet against the orange and purple hues of the evening sky made your chest tighten with nerves.

“Finally,” Lando said, a playful grin spreading across his face as he spotted you. He was already dressed casually, a bag slung over one shoulder. “Thought you were going to ditch me.”

“I considered it,” you said with a smirk, adjusting the strap of your own bag.

Oscar appeared next, giving you a quick nod and a grin. “Looking forward to this?”

“Not particularly,” you admitted.

“Good. Neither am I.”

When you were all settled in the jet, it felt familiar. Traveling together like always, the years of friendship taking over, diminishing the awkward last few months.

“Let’s play?” Oscar asked, shuffling a deck of cards. “Lando taught me that complicated game you guys always play.”

Your eyes lit up at the mention. “Oh, really? That’s nice—let’s do it.”

Oscar grinned. “I like it, but I always lose when I play with Lando.”

“Of course you do,” you said with a laugh. “He probably cheats. He always does.”

“I don’t” Lando protested, though the smirk on his face wasn’t exactly convincing.

Oscar narrowed his eyes, glancing at the cards, coming to the realization. “Yeah, sure. That’s what someone who cheats would say.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Trust me, we don’t even count his wins anymore. It’s just embarrassing at this point.”

“Unbelievable,” Lando muttered, feigning outrage as he dealt the cards.

-

Arriving at the hotel, it was as luxurious as you’d expected, with marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city. Your rooms were adjacent, even though McLaren probably did the booking, it was a detail that shouldn’t have meant anything but somehow felt significant, having always shared rooms.

“You’ve got to see the view from my room,” Lando said, leaning against your doorframe with a grin.

“Maybe later, I’m sure it’s exactly the same, we gotta get ready” you replied, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered on you. 

-

The sound of a knock on your hotel room door pulled you from the mirror where you were applying the finishing touches to your makeup.

“Coming!” you called, carefully stepping into your heels before opening the door. Lando stood on the other side, already in his tuxedo, the bow tie slightly askew in a way that was annoyingly charming.

He opened his mouth to greet you, but the words caught in his throat as his eyes swept over your dress—a sleek black dress with a low back.

“You look… wow,” he finally managed, his voice lower than usual.

You felt your cheeks heat under his gaze. “Thanks. You look great too” He looked every bit the world champion he’d just become—poised, confident, yet still undeniably him.

“Yeah, but no one’s going to be looking at me tonight,” he said, his lips quirking into that familiar teasing smile. 

You rolled your eyes, trying to shake off the warmth. “Let’s go before you make us late.”

-

The ballroom was breathtaking. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting golden light onto the polished marble floor. Tables were adorned with elaborate centerpieces, and waiters weaved through the crowd with trays of champagne. It was a scene straight out of a fairytale, and for a moment, you felt like you didn’t belong.

Lando leaned closer as you both descended the grand staircase. “Forgot how glamorous this all is, didn’t you?”

“A little,” you admitted. “It’s easy to forget this is also your life.”

He grinned. “I’d trade this for a karting track any day.”

You both mingled, exchanging pleasantries with familiar faces. Zak Brown greeted you with a wide smile.

“Wow, look at you two,” Zak said, his tone teasing. “A proper power couple. Took you becoming world champion to finally get her as your date, huh?”

Lando’s cheeks turned pink, but he rolled with it. “Guess I had to up my game, huh?”

‘’Wow,” Max Verstappen said as he passed by, giving you an appraising look. “You look... different.”

“Thanks, Max,” you said dryly.

“No, I mean good,” he added quickly, looking mildly embarrassed. “Not like in the paddock, screaming your lungs out for McLaren.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Lando shot back with a grin. “She’ll still be screaming for McLaren tonight.”

-

The formalities of the evening dragged on, speeches blending into one another as awards were handed out. You tried to keep up, but your attention waned as the night wore on.

Lando leaned closer during one particularly dry speech, whispering, “See how I was dying on my own last year?”

You stifled a laugh. “You poor thing.”

“Don’t worry. I have a plan to make this bearable.”

It didn’t take long for you to discover his plan—a subtle drinking game he’d invented. Whenever the FIA would say how amazing the FIA is, you both took a sip of your drinks.

By the time the speeches ended, you were both giddy, the tension from the past few weeks melting into laughter.

-

As the night wore on, the drinking caught up with Lando. You were heading toward the restrooms when he groaned at the sight of the long men’s line, compared to an empty women’s, illustrative of the crowd at the event.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, glancing at the empty women’s restroom.

“Don’t even think about it,” you warned.

But before you could stop him, he ducked inside.

“So this is what the women’s bathroom is like,” he said, looking around with mock appreciation. “Fancy.”

“It’s not a sightseeing tour,” you said, exasperated. “Hurry up.” 

He darted into a stall, leaving you to shake your head in disbelief. When he emerged moments later, you were washing your hands at the sink.

Lando leaned against the counter, his playful grin softening as he caught your gaze in the mirror. “Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now.

“What?” you asked, not entirely sure where this was going.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his tone sincere. “I mean, with... everything? Dylan. The break up. Us.”

You paused, drying your hands slowly. “Why do you always wait until we’re in a bathroom to have serious conversations?”

“Maybe I like the acoustics,” he said, his grin returning briefly before fading again. “Seriously, though. Are we okay?”

The question hung in the air, the tension between you almost tangible.

“I...” You hesitated, not entirely sure how to answer. “I think so. Are you?”

His gaze lingered on you, something unspoken passing between you before he nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

It wasn’t a resolution, but it was enough for now.

-

As the night wore on, the drinks kept flowing. You and Lando drifted back toward the crowd, laughing and joking with Max, Oscar, and a few others.

At one point, Christian Horner walked by, offering a polite nod. As he passed, Lando’s hand casually patted your bum.

“Lando?!” you hissed in shock, your voice low but sharp.

“What?” he replied, feigning innocence.

“We’re in public!”

“So? Is that the only reason I’m not allowed to do that?” he teased, his eyes glinting mischievously.

You gave him a look, fighting the urge to smile.

-

The ride back to the hotel was a blur of laughter and lingering glances. The whole night together had forced some flashbacks from the previous night you spent together. Even though your mind had pushed it away, your body betrayed you, longing for the way it had felt—how good it had been.

You hesitated at your door, fumbling with the key card. Lando stood next to you, his hand resting lightly against the wall as he watched you.

“Goodnight,” you said softly, your voice carrying the weight of everything unsaid.

But instead of moving to his door, Lando took a step closer, his voice low. “You’re just going to leave me alone after a night like that?”

You turned to face him, the air between you charged with tension. “We’ve had a lot of champagne, Lando.”

His lips quirked into a small, playful smile. “Exactly. Perfect excuse for bad decisions.”

You tried to suppress a laugh, but his easy confidence had already disarmed you.

“Come on,” he added, his voice dipping lower. “We’re both thinking it.”

Your heart raced as you opened your door, stepping inside without a word. Lando followed, letting the door click shut behind him.

The room felt warmer, the air heavier with anticipation. You kicked off your heels, the plush carpet soft under your feet as you turned to face him.

“Lando...” you began, but your voice faltered as he stepped closer, his gaze locking onto yours.

“Tell me to go, and I will,” he murmured, his hand brushing lightly against your arm.

But you didn’t.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed like last time. It was slow, deliberate, as though he wanted to savor every moment. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheekbones as he deepened the kiss. It was a contrast to the wildness of your last encounter—a quiet intensity that felt both overwhelming and grounding.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the heat of his body seeping into yours. When his lips left yours, trailing down your jaw to your collarbone, your breath hitched, your fingers threading through his hair.

WN: This was a fun chapter to write!! Long one!! needed after the previous short one. My original story line has 10 chapters :((( But i think im going to continue it a bit longer, I love this story much and dont want to start a new story yet because I like this one too much. Excited to see a new interview of Lando, so cute how excited he talks about Quadrant, but am I the only one who questions his fashion choices sometimes?? The blazer quarter zip combo, I’m not sure. I don’t know why I’m so critical i love him and its not bad but idk hahaha.

tl: @ash88-yep @lewishamiltonismybf @harrysdimple05@lex2205 @il0vereadingstuff @martygraciesversion381 @joannaln4 @obxstiles @chaoswithus @motorsportloverf1 @therovanperaastonmartini @acesofspadess @widow-cevans @irisesinthegarden @ncrsbrg @f1fantasys @norrisainz33 @mayax2o07 @ipushhimback @milkysoop @annimausi

[mrsfancyferrari]

Hey author,

Loved your work! I have a request for a Max Verstappen fiction. Here's the idea:

Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.

The Reader is a badass, known for her fiery press conferences and domination on the court, much like how Max is in racing. Despite being a power couple in front of the world, they are very vulnerable and weak for each other. They know the struggles both have been through—she understands the impact Max's childhood and his father, Jos, have had on him, and he knows the challenges she faces, including attacks and pressures from the media.

They are incredibly supportive of each other. Max attends all her Grand Slam matches, and she visits his races. They are deeply in love and very open with each other, understanding each other's feelings and experiences.

That's the type of story I have in mind. I hope you like it!

Best regards,

Anon.

Power Couple

Summary: Max Verstappen and the Reader have been friends since childhood and started dating when they were 15. The Reader is currently the number one ranked tennis player, with 2 Wimbledon titles, 3 French Open titles, and 2 Australian Open titles to her name. She is the best in women's singles and doubles tennis at the moment.

Song: Slow Down · Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: I hardly had any ideas for this one but I tried my best! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 6.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

It's messy, chaotic, and punctuated by the sharp thwack of a tennis ball and the roar of a finely tuned engine. It’s the story of you and Max, a whirlwind that started when you were both just fifteen, a story that’s still unfolding in the dazzling glare of the spotlight.

You were fifteen and a force of nature on the tennis court, even back then. Your name was already whispered with respect in junior circuits. You carried a racquet like an extension of your arm, and your focus was so intense it was almost palpable.

That summer, your training brought you to a small, dusty tennis club nestled in the Dutch countryside, a far cry from the manicured lawns of Wimbledon, but the perfect place to hone your craft.

He was there too. Not on the court, but lurking near the chain-link fence, a lanky boy with eyes the colour of storm clouds and a mop of unruly brown hair perpetually falling into his face. You'd noticed him, of course.

How could you not? He was the only teenager there whose attention wasn't glued to the endless practice sessions. Instead, he seemed more interested in the growl of the beat-up scooter he’d arrived on.

One day, during a water break, you were staring down at the worn-out grip on your Wilson when he spoke.

"That's a good shot," he said, his voice still cracking with that awkward teen timbre.

You looked up, surprised, and saw him leaning against the fence, an almost shy smile playing on his lips. "You mean the forehand?" you asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, a nervous habit you hadn't quite shaken off.

He shrugged, his eyes dancing with something you couldn't quite place. "I don't know. All of them, I guess? You look like you're trying to kill the ball."

A chuckle escaped you. "It's called intensity."

"Yeah, well, I like it." He pushed off the fence and walked a little closer. "I'm Max."

"You know, I've noticed," you teased, a smirk spreading across your face. "Always lurking by the gate."

His grin widened, making him look younger and somehow much more approachable. "Lurking? I prefer… observing." He paused, then gestured towards your racket. “Do you think you could teach me to hit like that?”

And just like that, a friendship was born, as naturally as the changing of seasons. You didn't actually teach him to play tennis, you decided, though, that he was far more enthralled with the intricate mechanics of his racing kart, and you found yourself drawn to the way his eyes lit up whenever he spoke about the feeling of speed and control.

You spent the rest of your summer evenings not on the court, but tinkering with his kart in his garage, or racing against each other on the empty country roads, the roar of engines a stark contrast to the quiet thud of tennis balls you were used to.

You taught him a little about the precision and discipline you carried from your sport while he showed you how to embrace a more reckless, unbridled kind of passion.

As the weeks passed, those shared moments morphed into something deeper. One warm evening, after a long day at the track, you found yourselves lying on the grass, looking up at the stars.

The silence stretched between you, comfortable and charged, until he turned his head, and his hand brushed against yours.

"You know," he said, his voice low, "I can't imagine not having you here. You're… unlike anyone I've ever met."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You had thought the same thing, again and again. "You're kinda different yourself, Verstappen," you whispered, your gaze fixed on his face.

He picked up your hand, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “Are you going to let me kiss you?” he asked, his stormy blue eyes searching yours.

You didn’t hesitate. You tilted your head slightly, and that soft, hesitant kiss was the start of something bigger than either of you could have imagined.

The next few years were a blur of teenage milestones, shared victories, and the quiet comfort of understanding each other. You traveled the world, following your dreams. You were winning Grand Slams.

You mastered the art of the backhand and the perfect serve, while he climbed the ranks in the world of Formula 1, learning the intricacies of high-speed racing and the relentless demands of the professional circuit.

You learned to navigate the complexities of a long-distance relationship, the bittersweet ache of goodbyes followed by the heady joy of reunions.

You’d meet in far-flung corners of the world, a stolen weekend in Monaco, a quick coffee in London, sharing late-night calls across different time zones, finding solace in each other’s voices.

You learned to listen, not just with your ears, but with your heart, understanding the unspoken language of ambition and dedication, of relentless pursuit, from someone who truly understood what was involved.

He was there in the stands when you clinched your first Wimbledon title, his applause echoing louder than the roar of the crowd, his pride radiating across the stadium.

You, in turn, were glued to the screen, every race day a nail-biting affair as you chanted his name like a magic spell. You celebrated his wins with unabashed joy, commiserated over his losses with a fierce loyalty that only a childhood best friend, a lover, could offer.

Your life now is a whirlwind of press conferences, sponsor obligations, and the unwavering pressure to stay at the top.

You glide across the court, a graceful yet powerful force, your focus sharp and unflinching, yet when you catch a glimpse of Max in the crowd, you allow yourself a secret smile, a silent reminder of your shared history, of the kid he was all those years ago. He is a reminder of that simpler time.

There are moments, like now, after another grueling day on the court, when you close your eyes and let the roar of the crowd fade away, replaced by the rumble of his scooter and the memory of his first shy smile.

You might be number one in the world of tennis, a name whispered in awe, but you know, the best title you've ever earned is his girlfriend. And that, you think, is the greatest prize of all.

And, as you’re getting ready for the next press conference, you're thinking of the next time you see him. The thought has you smiling again. . . .

The roar of the crowd is a familiar symphony, a constant hum beneath your focused breath. You adjust the headband, the familiar terry cloth a comfort against the glare of the stadium lights. Wimbledon’s Centre Court is your kingdom, the lush green grass your canvas.

You’re leading 5-3 in the third set against Elena Rybakina, a formidable opponent, your every move calculated, precise. A serve, a blur of motion – ace. The roar erupts, a wave of sound that threatens to lift you off your feet.

You know you've got this, the title within your grasp. You’ve worked for this, bled for this, every single grueling practice session, every sacrifice, all culminate in this moment.

You win the game, the match, and the crowd goes wild. The air crackles with energy, the taste of victory sweet on your tongue. You shake hands with Rybakina, a brief, respectful acknowledgment of the battle fought, then raise your arms in a triumphant arc.

Another Wimbledon title under your belt. You can feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the familiar mix of elation and exhaustion. It’s a high like no other, but underneath that surge of victory there's another feeling, a quiet hum of anticipation.

You know who’s waiting for you.

The post-match media scrum is a blur - flashes, questions, microphone in your face. You handle it all with your usual icy grace, your well-honed responses a shield against the endless prodding.

You’re used to it; it comes with the territory of being the best. But you’re itching to escape its glare. You see your agent, Sarah, giving you a quick nod, and you know it's your cue. A few more polite words, another practiced smile, and then you're slipping away, finally free of the spotlight.

You find him in the players' lounge, perched on a sofa, his eyes tracking yours as you walk in. Max. He stands as you approach, a smile playing on his lips that makes your heart do that familiar little flip.

The harsh lines that often harden his face are softened when he looks at you. He gathers you into his arms, his embrace both fierce and gentle.

"You were incredible," he whispers against your hair, his voice roughened with emotion. "An absolute beast out there."

"Thanks, you," you murmur, breathing in his scent, the familiar comfort of it grounding you after the storm of the match. You pull back slightly, your gaze catching his. “Did you watch the whole thing? Even with your schedule?”

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. You were destroying her. Honestly, you're the most dangerous person I know." You laugh at that, a genuine laugh that’s rare these days, a laugh that only he can draw out of you.

Later, back at the house in Monaco, you sit side-by-side on the balcony, the Mediterranean Sea shimmering under the moonlight. He holds your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your knuckles.

In this serene space, the world outside fades away. The tension that always seems to cling to you both loosens, the relentless pressure of your careers receding into the background.

"You know," Max begins, his voice quiet, "sometimes I still can't believe it. You, the best there is. Not just in the world, but the best there could ever be.”

You turn to him, your eyes searching his. "And you?" you ask him, “World Champion twice? Sometimes I can't believe you’re not some superhuman entity.”

He squeezes your hand, his gaze unwavering. "We both push ourselves to the edge, and beyond," he says. "It's what makes us who we are, isn’t it?"

"Yeah," you agree, leaning your head against his shoulder. "But it's also why we need each other." The silence that follows is comfortable, a space filled with shared understanding, a knowing that transcends words.

The days that follow are a brief reprieve, stolen moments away from the relentless cycle of competition. You spend them walking along the coast, laughing, rediscovering the simplicity of just being together.

But the respite is always fleeting, the demands of your respective careers always looming on the horizon. You’re due to fly out for a tournament in Washington D.C. in a week, and Max is scheduled for a race in Hungary two weeks after that.

The night before you leave, the atmosphere is thick with a quiet anticipation. You’re curled up on the sofa, your favourite movie playing softly on the TV, but neither of you is paying much attention.

Max pulls you closer, his hand slipping beneath your t-shirt, tracing the curve of your back. His skin is always warm against yours, a familiar comfort.

"I wish you didn't have to go," he murmurs, his voice husky. "I hate being away from you."

You turn to face him, your fingers cupping his cheek. "I wish I didn't either, but we know how this goes. We’re just two very busy, very overachieving maniacs.”

He smiles, a flash of his boyish charm. "Yeah, but that's why I love you. You’re as insane as I am." He leans in, his lips finding yours, and for a moment, the world outside ceases to exist.

The morning you leave, the goodbyes are short, a quick kiss on the lips and a promise to call every day. You watch his car disappear down the driveway, a small ache settling in your chest.

It's the same ache you feel every time you part ways, a reminder of your connection, a reminder of what you have to come back to.

The tournament in D.C. is a brutal battle. You're seeded first, as always, and the pressure is immense. You win the first few rounds with your usual dominance, but then come up against a rising star, a young American player who pushes you to your absolute limit.

The match goes to five sets, each point a war of attrition. You’re exhausted by the end, but you win, the taste of victory bittersweet.

That night, you’re in the hotel room, the city lights twinkling outside your window. You’re on a call with Max, his voice a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves.

He’s telling you about his practice sessions, the improvements he’s made to his car, and you’re listening intently, your mind drifting away from the exhaustion and the pressure.

“You were so close out there,” he says suddenly, “your match was insane, I was so nervous.”

“You always are,” you giggle, picturing his intense face watching your match on the TV. “Just like how I feel every race you’re in.”

You’re both quiet for a moment, the hum of the call a gentle lull. “I’m proud of you,” he says, his voice soft, “you always make me so proud.”

“And I you,” you murmur, a lump forming in your throat.

“I love you,” he whispers, and you feel like you're home again, all the way across the world.

“Love you too, always.”

You fall asleep with his voice still ringing in your ears. The next morning, you wake up to a phone call you weren't expecting. It’s Sarah, your agent, and her voice is strained.

"There's been an accident," she says, her voice barely a whisper, "Max... he was in a crash during practice."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. The room spins, the world blurring at the edges. Your breath catches in your chest, a cold dread gripping your heart.

"How bad?" you manage to ask, your voice shaking.

"We don't know yet," she says, the uncertainty in her voice doing little to assuage the terror that’s now flooding you. "You need to come home, now."

The next few hours are a chaotic blur. You’re on autopilot, racing through airports and boarding planes, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You barely register the faces around you, the sounds of the world muted, as if you're underwater.

All you can think of is Max, his face, his smile, his voice. The thought of losing him is unbearable.

You arrive in Monaco in the dead of night. The house feels cold and empty, the silence deafening. You make your way to the hospital, your every step heavy, the weight of your fear pressing down on you.

You find him in a small, sterile room, his body connected to monitors. He’s pale and still, his face almost hidden by the shadows. You feel like you’ve been ripped open, the pain so sharp it steals your breath.

You rush to his side, your fingers reaching for his hand. His skin is cold, but his grip tightens around yours, a small, reassuring squeeze.

His eyes flutter open, and he looks at you, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. "You’re here," he whispers, his voice hoarse.

“Max,” you breathe, a sob catching in your throat. Tears are streaming down your face as you gently cup his face. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

He smiles weakly, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. “I knew you would be,” he murmurs, his eyes closing again, “always, even when I’m an idiot driving a race car.”

You don’t say anything, you just sit beside him, holding his hand, and watching him breathe, a silent promise passing between you, a bond forged in childhood, strengthened by shared triumphs and endured through deep pain - a love that would always, always persevere. . . .

The scent of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel clings to him even before the door shuts. You hear the familiar click of the lock, and then the heavier thud of his boots hitting the tiles of the hallway.

You’re sprawled on the couch, a worn-out copy of “Open” by Andre Agassi resting on your chest. Jimmy, the ginger behemoth, is purring like a motorboat on your left thigh, while Sassy, the sleek black panther, is curled into a perfect ebony question mark at your feet.

They’ve been your constant companions during the lull before your next tournament.

“Hey,” Max’s voice is low, tired, but a ripple of warmth underlies it. You open your eyes, the intense afternoon sun filtering in through the tall living room windows making the world outside a blur of gold and green.

You push Agassi off your chest, feeling the book’s weight leave a slight indent.

“Hey yourself,” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, the Red Bull logo on his polo a vibrant dash of color against the muted tones of the room.

He looks drained, the lines around his eyes slightly more pronounced than you remember from the last time he was home. You know those lines; they’re etched by the relentless pressure of Formula 1, the constant travel, the unending pursuit of milliseconds.

He kneels beside the couch, reaching out a hand to scratch behind Jimmy's ears. The cat pushes his head into Max’s palm, a rumbling purr vibrating through his frame.

“They’ve missed you,” you murmur, running a hand down Sassy’s velvety back.

Max glances up at you, his blue eyes, usually so sharp and focused, are a little softer now, a touch vulnerable and definitely possessive. “Not as much as I missed you,” he says quietly, his gaze lingering on your face.

You feel the familiar warmth spread through your chest. It's crazy how after all these years, the simple act of him looking at you like that can still make your heart do somersaults.

He settles onto the couch, his long legs stretching out and nearly touching your feet. He pulls you into his side, and you nestle in, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting lullaby.

The tension in his body is palpable. “Bad race?” you ask softly, tracing small circles on his arm with your fingertip.

He sighs, a gust of air escaping his lips. “Third,” he replies, the single word carrying a weight that you understand completely. “Just… not good enough, you know?”

You nod, because you do know. You've had your share of crushing defeats, the sting of a missed shot, the frustration of an opponent playing out of their skin. You’ve both built entire empires on a foundation of ambition, a constant striving for perfection, despite the inherent impossibility of it.

You know how those ‘not good enough’ days can feel.

“You’ll get ‘em next time,” you say, your head resting against his shoulder. There’s no need for platitudes or empty reassurances. He knows that you know.

A wry smile touches his lips. “Easy for you to say. You’re basically untouchable on the court right now.”

You chuckle, a low, confident sound that ripples through his frame. “Untouchable? Please. I just know how to make my opponents sweat a little.”

You raise your eyebrows, a mischievous glint in your eyes. He is so well aware of the press conferences where you don't mince your words.

He lets out a genuine laugh then, the sound is music to your ears. It’s raw and real. “That's the understatement of the century,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The way you went off on that reporter after your French Open semi-final was legendary."

You roll your eyes dramatically, though you can't suppress the grin that spreads across your face. “He asked if I was scared of my opponent. Scared. As if. I’d rather face a thousand of those volleys than go through another interview like that.”

He pulls you closer, his arm tightening around you. "You're fierce," he murmurs, burying his face in your hair. "On and off the court. It's... it's one of the things I love about you.”

“And you’re terrifying behind the wheel,” you tease, knowing that a lot of his race opponents are afraid of him on the track.

He chuckles again, a low rumble against your ear. “And you love that too,” he says, the teasing note in his voice back.

You don’t bother denying it. He knows you too well. You know him too well. You’ve built something that is so incredibly strong because it was always built together. You’ve seen each other through the highs and lows, the wins and losses, the triumphs and the heartbreaks.

You’ve navigated the pressures of fame, the relentless scrutiny, the isolating nature of being at the top – together. You were just kids when it started, two teenagers with big dreams and even bigger personalities.

You fell in love navigating the ups and downs of life, and you grew up together, which made things that much stronger.

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the unspoken language that only two people who have known each other for so long can share. You can feel the tension slowly leaving him, as if your presence is a balm to his weary soul.

“Tournament soon?” he asks, his voice muffled against your hair.

“Yeah,” you reply, “Dubai. In a week.” You know the time change between Dubai and Europe will be brutal, but you’ve become accustomed to that aspect of your career.

He lifts his head and looks at you, his gaze intense. “You’ll crush them,” he says with absolute certainty.

You smile, the confidence in his voice a tangible thing. “Just like you’re going to leave them all in the dust next race, huh?”

He grins, that familiar flash of competitive fire returning to his eyes. “You know it.”

You trace the line of his jaw, your fingers lingering on the slight stubble. You could spend hours like this, just the two of you, wrapped up in each other’s presence, the noise of the world fading away.

There’s a vulnerability in him that only you get to see, a softness that he hides from the cameras, the reporters, the rivals. And in return, he gets to see a side of you that very few have been privy to, the quiet tenderness that lies beneath the fiery exterior.

“Want to order some takeaway?” you ask, the thought of cooking suddenly feeling like a monumental task.

“Pizza?” he suggests, his eyes already sparkling with the thought.

“Only if it has pineapple,” you tease, knowing that it is the most controversial thing you could possibly say.

Max groans, throwing his head back against the couch. “You are absolutely going to be the death of me,” he says, but the smile on his face belies his words.

You laugh, the sound light and free. You lean in, your lips meeting his in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s the taste of home, a place where you are both just Max and you, where the pressures of the world are just whispers in the distance.

You know that outside this space, you are both world-class athletes with unwavering determination, but in each other’s arms, you are just two people who grew up together. Who fell in love.

Who, despite the relentless demands of your careers, will always find their way back to each other. You are, after all, each other’s constant. You are, and will always be, each other’s home.

The roar of the engine was a familiar lullaby, a sound that had been a constant soundtrack to your life since you were kids, perched on the sidelines of karting tracks, watching Max whiz by in a blur of red and orange.

Now, instead of a flimsy kart, you were strapped into a beast of a car, the smell of hot rubber and high-octane fuel filling your nostrils. You glanced at the familiar, focused profile of Max beside you, the set of his jaw a testament to his concentration.

This was supposed to be a fun exercise, a publicity stunt dreamed up by Red Bull’s marketing department – the world’s number one tennis player, and the reigning Formula One Champion, taking a joyride. Except, this wasn’t a joyride.

This was a terror ride, and you were pretty sure your heart was currently trying to stage a coup and escape from your chest.

“Max,” you started, your voice a little too high pitched, a far cry from the confident, booming voice that usually echoed through stadium press boxes. “You know I’m used to your speed, right? On the track, where it's meant to be, not on some random circuit at 300 km/h.”

He didn’t answer, just a subtle twitch of his lips hinting at a suppressed grin. You gripped the grab handle on your side of the car so hard your knuckles turned white.

It was no secret that Max, much like you on the tennis court, thrived on pushing boundaries. He was a master of controlled chaos on the track, and right now, you weren’t so sure about the "controlled" part.

The car accelerated, forcing you back into your seat. You let out a yell, a mix of fear and adrenaline coursing through you.

You were used to controlling your own trajectory, predicting your opponent’s next move, the satisfying thump of a perfectly placed serve. This, this was utterly out of your hands, at the mercy of Max’s foot on the accelerator pedal.

“Max! Verdomme! Slow down!” You bellowed, resorting to Dutch as your carefully constructed composure shattered into a million pieces. You could feel the g-force pressing against you, throwing your head against the headrest as he took a corner at an impossible speed.

You braced yourself, bracing your hands against the dashboard, trying to find something solid to cling to.

You could hear him chuckling, the sound muffled but distinct. You could practically see the mischievous glint in his eyes, even though you were looking straight at the dashboard.

“What, is the little tennis star scared?” He teased, his voice laced with amusement.

He downshifted, the revs of the engine screaming higher, and you swore you felt your stomach try to migrate up into your throat.

“Scared?! I’m not scared!” You shouted back, partially for his benefit, mostly for yours. “I’m just… concerned about the structural integrity of this car. And my very delicate internal organs!” You knew you sounded pathetic, not the self-assured athlete the world knew and feared, but you couldn’t help it.

This was Max Verstappen, after all. He had a unique way of bringing out your most ridiculous, human side.

He laughed again, a full, genuine laugh this time, the kind that made your heart flutter even while your stomach was performing gymnastics.

He glanced over at you, a grin playing on his face. “Relax, schatje. I have it under control.”

And maybe, just maybe, you did believe him, for a split second anyway. Then he slammed on the gas and you screamed again, a string of Dutch curses pouring out of your lips as you gripped the headrest with an iron fist.

Each turn was a rollercoaster, each acceleration a punch to your gut. You found yourself cursing in Dutch, English, and even a little bit of French, a linguistic mashup fuelled by sheer terror.

You caught glimpses of the blur outside, the landscape a streaks of green and brown. You tried to focus on breathing, trying to regain a semblance of control over your runaway emotions, but every time he hit the accelerator, you lost it again.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, or perhaps just a few minutes of extreme adrenaline, the car slowed, and pulled into a stop. You were slumped back in your seat, a sweaty, disheveled mess.

“That was… an experience,” you managed, your voice still a bit shaky.

He turned to you, his eyes sparkling as he gave you a wide, triumphant grin. “Fun, right?”

You almost laughed, a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. “Fun? Max, I think I aged at least five years in that car.” You reached up and felt your pulse, which was still trying to break free.

He tilted his head, the playful gleam still dancing in his eyes. “But you said you're used to my speed."

You threw your hands up. “Yes, but I didn’t know you’d be trying to scare me, you… absolute menace.”

He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated in your chest, and then reached over and undid your seatbelt. As he did, he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Maybe just a little.”

You felt yourself blush, despite the fact that you were also on the verge of throttling him. As he stepped out of the car, you took a moment to collect yourself, smoothing your clothes and trying to appear somewhat pulled together.

As you reached up, your fingers brushed something small and hard attached to the car’s dashboard. It was a camera, aimed directly at you.

Your eyes widened, and then everything clicked into place. The teasing laughter, the exaggerated acceleration, the playful comments – it had all been an elaborate, incredibly mischievous ploy.

You burst out laughing, a genuine, unrestrained laugh that echoed around the open space. You couldn't help it. It was absurd, ridiculous, and completely, utterly Max.

You covered your face with your hands, still laughing. He watched you, his eyes sparkling, a smile playing on his lips.

“Did you get all of that?” you exclaimed, still chuckling. “The screaming in multiple languages? The death grips on the dashboard?"

He shrugged, pretending to look innocent, but the smirk on his face told another story. “Maybe.”

You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re unbelievable,” you said, your voice laced with amusement rather than anger.

“Only for you,” he replied, that familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes.

You lowered your hands, a smile now playing on your lips. “I should have known, shouldn’t I? That you would never just do a normal lap with me.”

He took a step closer, his eyes meeting yours. “Where’s the fun in normal, liefje?”

You knew he was right. Normal was boring. And as much as the terror of the hot lap had made you want to wring his neck, you also wouldn't trade it for anything.

It was another reminder of the chaotic dance you and Max had always been in, a dance of adrenaline, teasing, and a love that ran as deep as the engine roar that had been the background to your lives.

This was your Max, and despite your near-death experience, you wouldn't have him any other way. You stepped out of the car, ready to face the world, and whatever else he decided to throw your way. The camera might have captured your terrified screams, but it had missed the grin that was now plastered across your face.

You were ready for your next match but you were also ready for whatever chaos Max decided to unleash next.

Life with him was never boring, and you wouldn't have it any other way. . . .

The crisp December air nips at your cheeks as you step out of the car, the familiar rumble of Max's engine fading behind you. You pull your coat tighter, adjusting your beanie, a small smile playing on your lips.

The holidays. A welcome respite from the relentless pressure of the tennis circuit. A chance to breathe, to ground yourself before the Australian Open looms. And, most importantly, time with Max.

He's already by the padel court, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he bounces a ball. Lando and Charles are there too, bickering about something trivial, their usual competitive energy already buzzing.

“Took you long enough, slowpoke,” Max teases, tossing the ball to you.

“Traffic,” you retort, catching it easily. “Besides, someone had to pack the snacks, didn’t they?”

Lando groans dramatically. “Snacks? You brought snacks? This is serious competition, woman!”

You raise an eyebrow, a hint of your on-court persona flickering through. “Oh, I thought this was just a friendly get-together. Unless you’re scared, Lando?”

He splutters, Charles chuckling beside him. “Scared? Of you? Please. Just wait until I unleash my padel prowess.”

Max wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Don’t listen to him, liefje. We’ll crush them.”

That Dutch endearment always makes you melt, and a genuine smile spreads across your face. He knows exactly how to disarm you.

The game starts, and the air is filled with the thwack of the ball, playful taunts, and the occasional groan of exertion. You and Max move with a practiced synchronicity, years of playing (and bickering) together evident in your easy communication.

Max is surprisingly good at padel, his reflexes honed by years of racing, and you find yourself relying on his power, setting him up for winning shots.

“That’s cheating! You have your wife on your team,” Lando grumbles, wiping sweat from his brow after another point you and Max win.

“Jealous, are we?” you retort, grinning. “Maybe you should find yourself a tennis champion girlfriend.”

Charles snorts. “Good luck with that. Finding someone who can keep up with you is a challenge.”

You playfully shove Charles’ shoulder. “I’m not that intimidating.”

Max squeezes your hand. “Oh, you are. Especially when you give those death stares on court.”

He's right, of course. You can be ruthless. You have to be. The pressure to stay on top is immense, the media constantly scrutinizing every move, every word. The expectation is suffocating sometimes.

Later, as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the court, you’re sitting on the bench, catching your breath.

The score is ridiculously lopsided in yours and Max’s favor. Lando and Charles have conceded defeat, blaming everything from the altitude to the snack selection.

Max sits beside you, his arm draped around your shoulders. “You were amazing out there,” he says, his voice soft. “Like always.”

“So were you,” you reply, leaning into him. “You know, for a race car driver.”

He laughs, a warm, comforting sound. “It's all about reflexes, liefje. And a killer instinct.”

He understands that killer instinct in you, the drive to win, the unwavering focus. He sees it because he possesses it too.

It binds you together, this shared understanding of the relentless pursuit of excellence, the sacrifices required, the price you both pay.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his eyes searching yours. “With everything… the media, the pressure. Are you okay?”

It's a question he asks often, a constant check-in, a reminder that he’s there, always. It's a tenderness he rarely shows the world, a vulnerability reserved only for you.

You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder. “It’s tough. The whispers, the judgment… sometimes it feels like I'm living under a microscope.”

“I know,” he says, his voice laced with empathy. “They’re brutal. They try to tear you down because they’re jealous of what you’ve achieved.”

He knows what it’s like to be under that kind of scrutiny, to have every mistake magnified, every victory questioned. He lived it his entire life, his father's relentless expectations and the constant pressure to perform.

You trace a pattern on his jeans with your finger. “It’s different for you, though. You have the car, the team… you’re surrounded by people who support you, who believe in you.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm. “And you don’t?”

You look up at him, your eyes meeting his. “Of course, I do. But it’s… lonely at the top. Everyone wants something from you. It’s hard to know who to trust.”

He understands that too. The isolation that comes with success, the constant questioning of motives.

“You have me,” he says, his voice unwavering. “You always have me. And I know it’s not the same, but Lando and Charles… they care about you too. We all see how hard you work, how much you dedicate yourself to your sport.”

He pulls you closer, his warmth enveloping you. “Don’t let them break you, liefje. You’re stronger than they think. Stronger than you even give yourself credit for.”

His words are like a balm to your soul, a reminder of your strength, your resilience. He sees you, truly sees you, the fierce competitor and the vulnerable woman beneath.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “It’s just… sometimes it gets overwhelming.”

He kisses your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “Then let me carry some of the weight. That’s what I’m here for.”

The sun has almost completely disappeared, and the air is getting colder. Lando and Charles are packing up their things, their boisterous energy subdued.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Lando calls out. “We’re heading back. You coming?”

You look at Max, a silent question in your eyes.

He squeezes your hand again. “Go. I’ll stay a little longer. I want to watch the stars.”

You nod, knowing he needs the quiet, the solitude. He finds peace in the vastness of the night sky, a reminder that his problems, his pressures, are small in the grand scheme of things.

You stand up, giving Max one last kiss. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

As you walk away, you glance back at him. He’s sitting on the bench, his head tilted back, gazing at the stars. In that moment, he looks so young, so vulnerable.

The weight of the world, the expectations of millions, seem to melt away, leaving only a man searching for solace in the vastness of the universe.

You know you would do anything for him, fight anyone who dared to hurt him. You are his anchor, just as he is yours.

Later that night, you find him on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, still staring at the stars. You join him, slipping under the blanket, pressing close to his side.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask, your voice soft.

He lets out a long sigh. “Just… everything. The season, the pressure, the expectations.”

You reach out and take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “You’re going to be okay, Max. You’re the best. You always have been.”

He turns to you, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and tenderness. “And you? Are you going to be okay?”

You smile, a genuine, heartfelt smile. “With you by my side? Always.”

You lean in and kiss him, a long, slow kiss that speaks of years of shared history, of unspoken understanding, of unwavering love.

In that moment, under the vast expanse of the starry sky, you are just two people, connected by a bond that transcends the pressures of fame and the demands of the world.

You are simply Max and you, a team, a partnership, a love that has endured the test of time and the scrutiny of the world. And that, you realize, is all that truly matters. . .

[iamgonnagetyouback]

I’ve read every single one of your works, and I am absolutely obsessed! The way you write and capture emotions is beyond amazing—it’s pure magic. I really hope this isn’t too much to ask 😭, but I just adore your writing so much. If you’re not comfortable with this request, though, please don’t hesitate to ignore it. Thank you so much!

Could I request a James Potter x Reader story? The plot starts with James pursuing Lily Evans, but along the way, he realizes his feelings for her were more about the excitement of the chase. In contrast, with the reader, he feels truly at ease, able to be himself without pretending or changing for anyone. I’d love for Lily’s perspective to be included—how she starts to desire James after noticing how much he’s 'matured' in his relationship with the reader, but she can only stand by and watch as James and the reader create their beautiful love story.

chase ⋆˚࿔

synopsis ⭑.ᐟ james potter x reader where he realizes who he truly loves

warnings: fluff overload, mild angst

word count: 1,836 words

author's note: omg stopppp you’re making me blush ‹𝟹 this is the sweetest thing ever, and i’m so honored you enjoy my writing!! ♡

navigation┆ james potter masterlist┆request here 𝜗𝜚

James Potter had been chasing Lily Evans for years. Everyone at Hogwarts knew it—how he’d flash his most charming smile, throw an arm around her shoulder with a wink, and dramatically proclaim his undying love. It was all in good fun, of course. At least, that’s what he always told himself.

Lily, ever stubborn, had always rebuffed him. At first, she detested his arrogance. Later, she simply rolled her eyes and dismissed his advances, treating him as little more than a particularly persistent house elf. James didn't mind. The chase was half the fun, after all.

"She'll come around, you'll see," James would say after every rejection, running a hand through his already messy hair.

"Mate, she's been saying no for three years," Sirius pointed out, sprawled lazily on the Gryffindor common room couch. "At what point do you consider the possibility that she's actually not interested?"

James gasped, placing a dramatic hand on his chest. "Not interested? Padfoot, please. That’s just what she wants me to think."

Remus sighed from behind his book. "Or perhaps she genuinely means it. You ever consider not making a public spectacle every time you ask her out?"

Peter snickered. "Yeah, Prongs, maybe if you stop serenading her in the Great Hall, she'll stop running the other way."

"That was one time!" James protested. "And I thought she’d appreciate the gesture."

You, sitting cross-legged by the fire, smirked. "James, darling, even I was embarrassed for you, and I usually live for the drama."

Sirius grinned. "See? When even our dear, theatrical doll here cringes, you know you’ve gone too far."

James huffed, crossing his arms. "You lot are supposed to support me."

Remus finally set his book down, giving him a small smile. "We do support you. We just also support your dignity."

James groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Alright, fine. Maybe I’ll try… a different approach."

The boys exchanged glances, and you patted his knee sympathetically. "That’s the spirit, Prongs. Maybe next time, just… don’t propose in front of McGonagall again."

James groaned even louder as the Marauders burst into laughter.

But somewhere along the way, the chase had stopped being fun.

It had started with you.

You, the one he never really had to chase. You, who laughed at his antics but also scolded him when he was being too reckless. You, who had a quick wit but also a kindness about you that softened his rougher edges. You, who never needed him to be anything but himself.

It hadn’t happened all at once. There was no lightning strike, no grand revelation. Just little moments that wove themselves into something undeniable.

The way you tucked a stray curl behind your ear when you were reading, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. James had watched you do it a hundred times before realizing how endearing he found it. The way you argued with Sirius about the best way to sneak into Hogsmeade, eyes alight with mischief as you held your ground against the self-proclaimed master of rule-breaking. The way you always had a spare quill when he inevitably lost his, rolling your eyes fondly as you handed it over with a teasing, "Honestly, James, do you even own quills?"

There was the way you leaned against his shoulder after a long cold day, sighing. "James Potter, you are a human furnace. Please continue existing exactly as you are."

There was the way he found himself seeking you out first—before Remus, before Sirius, before Peter, before anyone else—whenever he had good news to share. The way his jokes felt funnier when you laughed at them. The way his name sounded different coming from your lips, softer somehow, like it belonged there.

One night, after an exhausting Quidditch practice, you had met him outside the changing rooms with a chocolate frog in hand. "For your heroic efforts," you’d said with a mock bow, pressing it into his palm. He had laughed, shoving it into his pocket, but the warmth in his chest lingered long after.

James Potter had always thought he wanted a grand, all-consuming love. He had spent years chasing something he thought would make him whole. But standing beside you, teasing and laughing and existing so effortlessly together, he realized something else.

Maybe love wasn’t supposed to be a chase.

Maybe it was supposed to feel like home.

Lily noticed the shift before James did. It crept up on her, subtle but undeniable, like the slow changing of seasons. He still ruffled his hair like a prat, still laughed too loudly with his friends, still turned every moment into a grand performance. But there was something quieter about him now, something settled in the way he carried himself. The endless pursuit that had once defined James Potter—the grand gestures, the dramatic declarations, the unrelenting chase—had stopped. And he hadn’t even noticed.

At first, she felt relief. She had spent years pushing him away, certain that his attention was something fleeting, something she didn’t want. And now, finally, he had listened.

Then she felt something else.

She caught herself watching him more often. Noticing the little things. The way his grin softened when he looked at you. The way his hand found your wrist when he pulled you toward him in the common room, like it was second nature. The way he listened when you spoke—really listened, with an intensity that made it clear you had his full attention. She had never seen that look on his face before. Not when he looked at her.

And suddenly, she found herself wondering. Had she been wrong about James Potter?

Had she spent all these years dismissing him without ever really knowing him? Had she mistaken boyish bravado for immaturity, mistaking the show for the substance beneath it?

But it didn’t matter.

Because James wasn’t looking at her anymore.

The realization hadn’t struck James like lightning, not at first. He hadn’t woken up one day and thought, Oh, I love her. No, it was something slower, quieter—woven into the fabric of every moment he spent with you.

It was the way you sat beside him in the common room, curled up with a book, the firelight casting flickering shadows across your face. The way you absently played with the hem of his sleeve when you were lost in thought. The way you saw him—not James Potter, Quidditch Captain, mischief-maker, the boy who never stopped chasing—but James. Just James.

And for the first time, he found that was all he wanted to be.

He didn’t need to impress you. He didn’t need to chase you. He could just exist with you, and it was enough.

There was a night—one that stuck with him, long after it had passed—when he had finally put words to the feeling.

You had found him on the Astronomy Tower, shoulders hunched against the cold, lost in thoughts he hadn’t even realized were weighing him down. You didn’t ask what was wrong. You just sat beside him, close enough that your knees touched, close enough that he could feel your warmth.

“You ever think about who you are without all the noise?” he murmured after a long silence.

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

James hesitated. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve spent so much time being—being James Potter, you know? The one who’s always got a joke, the one who’s always chasing something. But with you…” He trailed off, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “I don’t have to be anything but me.”

You blinked, taken aback, before a small smile curved your lips. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

James let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Yeah, it is.”

You nudged his shoulder gently. “For what it’s worth, I like just you.”

And that was it.

Not a grand confession. Not a dramatic moment. Just quiet understanding.

Just home.

Lily saw it all unfold. Saw James fall in love without the fanfare, without the spectacle. And for the first time, she saw him—not the boy who had chased her, but the boy who had finally stopped running.

And it wasn’t for her.

It was too late.

Then came the grand gesture.

James Potter did nothing in half measures, and asking you on a date was no exception. If anything, he seemed almost nostalgic about the whole ordeal—like he had spent so many years planning elaborate schemes for Lily that now, finally asking the right person, he wanted to do it justice.

So, naturally, it started with fireworks.

Not just any fireworks, but ones that spelled out your name across the sky in brilliant, shimmering letters, crackling above the Quidditch Pitch where half the school had gathered after dinner. Then came the enchanted banners floating midair, reading: 'WILL YOU GO ON A DATE WITH ME?' in flashing gold and red, trailing behind a very enthusiastic Sirius, who had volunteered to fly them around on his broom. A charmed choir of singing toads croaked a love song (Remus’ contribution, because, according to him, ‘there needed to be some class in this spectacle’), and Peter had somehow gotten his hands on a bouquet of flowers that smelled like sunshine.

James himself stood in the center of it all, hand on his heart, eyes locked on yours, waiting.

The crowd turned to you, hushed in anticipation. Lily, standing off to the side, watched with wide eyes, an unreadable expression on her face. There was a time when she would have scoffed at something like this, dismissed it with a roll of her eyes.

But you—

You were grinning.

Dramatically clutching your chest, you gasped, staggering back like a swooning damsel in distress. "Oh, James Potter! Whatever shall I say? This is all so sudden!"

James, without missing a beat, fell to one knee. "Say yes, my darling star! For I have loved you since the dawn of time—or, well, since fourth year at least, and that’s practically the same thing!"

You pretended to think, tapping your chin. "Hmm. I don’t know, Potter. It’s an awfully big commitment."

James shot to his feet, grabbing your hands, eyes wide with mock desperation. "I shall spend every day proving myself worthy of your love! I shall carry your books! Share my sweets! Defend your honor against Slytherins and bad hair days alike!"

You sighed deeply, then beamed. "Well, in that case… Yes! A thousand times yes!"

The crowd erupted into cheers, Sirius fist-pumped midair, and Remus groaned into his hands. James, triumphant, swept you up in a spin, laughing so hard his glasses nearly fell off.

Lily watched it all unfold, and for the first time, she felt the weight of what she had lost. Not because she wanted James, not really. But because once upon a time, it had been her he was chasing.

But James Potter had finally stopped chasing.

Because he had already caught what he was looking for.

© iamgonnagetyouback ⋆.˚ please do not copy, translate, or repost any of my work.

[lvrrgirlll]

Knight in Shining Armor

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Pairing: medieval princess ! reader x knight ! Patrick Zweig

Word count: 3k

Warnings: smut, p in v, fem reader, knives mentioned (briefly in a nightmare?), some Christian biblical imagery and mentions of sin/religious related guilt (I was playing into the whole medieval royalty thing idk)

Notes: Thank you guys for all the love on the moodboard/little blurb on this!!! Without all the support I wouldn’t have been inspired to go crazy and write this (I fear this will seem like the most pretentious fic ever written bc I really lent into the medieval thing so the language feels kinda crazy at some points…idk, if y’all were rocking with the last one, you’ll probably rock with this lol) Enjoy!!

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You did your best to avoid Patrick in court the following days. You were unsure if you could even face him after your dream. But, of course, nothing can last forever. An attempted attack on your wing of the castle (which was, thankfully, stopped by the valiance of Sir Patrick) led to a change that would greatly affect your fate.

As you entered the grand hall of the castle to take your seat in court, you noticed Sir Patrick in his armor —something rather unusual to see in the castle, though you didn't mind— speaking to your father, metal helmet in hand. Your father had always favored Patrick, you presumed for his determination and natural swagger, and acted as such. He was the head knight of the royal guard and spoke with the King frequently. Taking notice of your presence, your father addressed you whilst you curtsied. “Good daughter, what fortune you arrive now of all times. In light of the attack on your wing, I have decided to appoint Sir Patrick himself to be your personal guard. Your safety is of the utmost importance to me and this entire kingdom. It is only right I appoint our best knight.” Your father smiled warmly at Patrick then.

“I thank you, your majesty,” Patrick bows before the King. “I shall be prepared to risk my life for the life of our princess.” At that, he turns to you, offering a look so secretly smug you have trouble maintaining your composure. You simply smile and nod, silently acknowledging the workings of your father and the knight that now create a great dilemma for you.

“Father, I am suddenly feeling quite faint. Might I take my leave and rest for the afternoon?” You just want to get away from him. He’s dangerous. You can hardly control yourself around him. And what’s worse is he knows it.

Your father, concerned, approves of your leave, though you feel dismayed when Sir Patrick follows you. “I am perfectly capable of making my way back, myself. Thank you, sir,” you offer, trying to be as strict as you can, for your own sake more than his.

“M’lady, perhaps you did not understand. As your personal guard, I am tasked with protecting you at all times. This would require that I be with you at all times. The King wills it so.” He speaks formally though his tone is far too pleased to be merely dutiful. You had not considered that. Sighing, you merely nod in understanding before turning again to return to your room.

In your room, Patrick takes his station directly outside the door. “I am only a moment away. Do not hesitate should you need me.” He may not know exactly how you may need him…

You nod, though, smiling softly before closing the door, creating a divide between the two of you. You are overcome by desire. You feel dirty, guilty, and wrong…but you know he feels the same. And he is noble; he is a gentleman…would it be so bad if you acted on your feelings? God, you feel foolish. You have hardly spoken to him in the years he has served at the castle. What feelings could you really be harboring?

Sick of your racing thoughts, you resolve that a nap would be the best right now. In your sleep, though, you dream of enemies breaking through your windows and climbing up the tower of your wing. It is utterly terrifying. You can feel yourself stirring, heart racing and sweating profusely, as your subconscious plays tricks on you. In your nightmare, a cloaked figure, face hidden in the shadows of his hood, plunges a dagger through your heart, causing you to lurch awake with a loud cry. You are breathing heavily, trying to adjust to your new, real surroundings and shake the terror of the dream when you hear Sir Patrick through the door.

“Your Majesty? Are you alright…?” You do not answer, still shaken and attempting to compose yourself. “I am entering, m'lady.” And before you can tell him not to, that you’re alright, Patrick burst through the door, already reaching for his sword. Seeing you are merely sat in bed, his urgency leaves him, concern taking over. “Is there not a threat?” He observes, then, the state you are in. Dressed only in your thin, white nightgown (which has grown somewhat see-through on account of your nightmare induced sweat soaking through the fabric), Patrick is reduced to nothing but a mere man in love, forgetting himself entirely. Unbeknownst to you, he adjusts himself in his trousers, clearing his throat.

The room is illuminated only by the cold, pale light of the moon shining through your large paned windows. Shadows dance across his features as a breeze blows the trees outside steadily. He has never looked more beautiful. Both concern and lust play on his face, leaving you to squirm just a bit more than you normally would have under his gaze. Looking down then, you reply, embarrassed. “Forgive me for my foolishness. There is no present threat. I am sorry to have wasted your time and effort, good sir.” You bow your head in remorse. This on its own is a sign of you respect for the knight before you. Technically, he should be bowing to you, but under his gaze you feel so small, yet so regarded at the same time. It is unlike with any other man, though it is rare you interact with many often anyways. You lift your head, meeting his eyes again and feeling your stomach flip.

A pang of guilt runs through you as you realize you are noticeably smiling at him. Despite his nobility, you believe the two of you would never be. The only way your union: emotional, physical, spiritual, or (more officially) marital would ever occur would be if your father willed it. And though Sir Patrick was your father’s right hand man, it was the relationship of that of an employer and his best employee, not that of father and son nor of old companions.

Your smile dropped and so did his. He knew what he was doing, his silent, unspoken, but clear pursuit of you ever since that fateful night was wrong. But he did not care. He had no regard for his own life or death, he was a knight, after all. He risked himself for this kingdom, he would be willing to risk himself for you. He brought a hand up, cupping your face in his large palm, and offering you a sorry smile. “To defend you, threat or no threat, is my life’s honor, m’lady. You have wasted nothing of mine.” His hand brushed your ear as he tucked your hair behind it. Seeing you with your hair down for the first time was something entirely new to him, similar to when you first saw him shirtless that night. In typical court fashion, you would never leave your chambers with your hair fully down. Seeing you so bare, so honest, and unadorned felt novelty. He was grateful for his wit, being able to convince the King that he should serve you personally.

You, however, were so deeply conflicted. You knew better. Your station in society as well as in life did not allow for these endeavors. But your mind, you body, your heart…they longed for your knight in shining armor. His touch, though somewhat chaste, only holding your head in his hands, felt deeply intimate. You considered your options. “Sir, might I ask your discretion in asking a favor?” Your felt fearful of your own desires, but conjured up as much confidence as possible.

“Always, m’lady.”

You tugged your bottom lip into your mouth for a moment, before continuing. “M- might you…kiss me?” It was hard to maintain your composure, overcome with shame as you looked up pleadingly into his eyes. It was only the two of you in your bedchamber, the door closed —yet another forbidden thing.

Softening, a smirk gracing his features, he sighed. “I would be a fool not to.” This was exactly what he had been wanting since he first saw a portrait of you. The strength required of his position kept his feelings concealed, but in this one, small moment alone with you, he could reveal them. He leaned in slowly, closing the gap between you as his lips move against yours feverishly. You can feel his tongue dart out and wet your bottom lip, but you pull away quickly before he is able to deepen the kiss.

“I am sorry. This is…” you search for the words, not wanting to be so harsh but wanting to be clear. “This is sinful.” Your eyes meet his, pleading for him to offer you a reprieve from your consuming feelings by distancing himself. Though, that twinkle behind your eyes and in the corner of your lips betrayed you. He could see you had fallen for him the same as he for you.

He takes a seat next to you on your bed, looking into your eyes earnestly. “If I it is a sin to touch you, I would become a sinner every day till I am dragged to hell, should you allow me?” He was begging you to let him touch you, feel you, love you. And who would you be to deny him?

You were quiet for a moment, considering your fate and whether or not you would be able to find absolution after giving in. Throwing caution to the wind, you allow yourself, for once, to make your own decisions. "Please, good sir. Touch me. Take me, for I am all yours."

He wasted no time, leaning in to kiss you, his armor clanging against itself as he did so. The kiss was passionate, the years of admiring you from afar being poured out in this one moment. Breaking the kiss, suddenly, he stood, leaving you confused until he began swiftly removing his armor. He made sure to set each piece down gently, so as not to alert and servants lingering nearby of his presence in your chambers. You tried to stifle your smile as his form was revealed more and more with each layer of metal gone. It was new and exciting, and his gentleness despite his clear eagerness was unbelievably admirable.

Once he had removed it all, clad only in a white linen undershirt and trousers, he returned to your bed, leaning over you and pulling you into another deep kiss. This time, he slipped his tongue into your mouth, licking softly into it, his nose brushing against your cheek as he pressed closer into you, as if he longed for your two bodies to be one. It was impossible to be any closer, but you did not mind one bit. Though timid at first, your kisses matched his fervor. You could feel his calloused hand combing through your hair as his other snuck lower, carressing you through your nightgown. You let out a shivered breath at his touch.

"Is this alright, my lady?" He pulled back, looking into your eyes longingly. God, forgive you, but you needed this so badly. You both did.

You nodded, lifting your hips to gather your nightgown up and off of you, casting it aside carelessly. Now, you really felt exposed. But something about Patrick made you want to feel honest; made you want to seek pleasure shamelessly. His eyes widened in tandem with his smirk. He was so pleased and so in love.

"I've never...I-...I'm a virgin," you admitted, looking up at him through your thick lashes. His smile only widened, but not in some sort of sick, smarmy way. It was genuine and kind.

"Oh, I know, your highness. Or...I imagined as much. Not to worry, I am well aware of how to please a woman," he spoke softly, trying not to intimidate you. You would have taken offense at his mention of his previous experience, but you had imagined he was experienced in the first place, as many men and knights of his age are by now. It is different for you, a princess, always expected to remain pure. With him, you did not fear impurity after this. You felt strongly that you would steadfast remain pure in his eyes till the end of time.

He leaned in again, placing hot kisses along your neck. He moved to remove his trousers as he did so, working at the string that held them up quickly. As he did so, your fingers found their way to the tie that held his shirt together, pulling at the string with a new confidence, you brought your hands to the hem and he pulled away from your neck to remove his shirt. Both his bandages and bruises were gone, a good sign, but there was a scar where he had been scratched, a reminder of your previous encounter.

His trousers finally hanging low around his legs, he teased himself around your entrance, causing you to jolt and whimper beneath him. The feeling was entirely foreign but oh so enchanting. He reached a hand down, running his fingers through your folds, smirking at the wetness that gathered on his fingers. "You are like the Lady of The Lake...beautiful, otherworldly, and so, so wet..." Patrick murmured lustfully. It was such a dirty compliment, but you were so deeply moved.

Like your dream, you were both under your layers upon layers of white sheets, so warm, close, and intimate. His fingers danced around your clit, circling it at an agonizingly slow pace. You gasped, sucking in a breath quickly and biting your lip so as not to make any more sound. He did not miss this, leaning in to peck you on the lips before reminding you "The walls are stone, the door thick oak and iron. We should be cautious, yes, but you mustn't be embarrassed to make a sound. It is better, in fact, if you do."

His reassurance brought a smile to your face as you dropped your lip from your teeth, a sign that you were allowing yourself the honesty you so craved with Patrick. He resumed his hand movements around your most sensitive spot, causing you to let out a symphony of high pitched gasps. His fingers moved away then, moving down and slipping inside of you, first one, then another. The stretch was unfamiliar and hurt a bit, something your scrunched eyebrows didn't hide, but he did not move them for a moment, allowing you to adjust. "All will be well," he cooed into your ear, lips brushing against your skin. "I just need to warm you up."

His fingers began to move, first only in and out at a steady pace, but soon replaced by him scissoring his fingers deep inside of you, your walls squuezing him tightly. "Good sir..." you sighed in pleasure.

"Patrick," he corrected. "You may call me by my God given name: Patrick."

"Patrick..." you sighed again as he quickened the pace of his fingers. To your surprise, though, he pulled his fingers out abruptly. You almost protested, but he swiftly replaced his fingers with his cock, pushing lightly at your entrance.

"May I," he asked, looking into you eyes unwaveringly.

"Please," you nearly moaned in response. He followed your request, sheathing himself inside of you slowly, allowing you time to adjust to the thickness and length that so differed from that of his fingers. He watched your reaction carefully, taking in the way your breath hitches and your eyes flutter shut, eyebrows knitting together in both pleasure and pain. You inhaled sharply as he bottoms out, feeling as if he was practically prodding at your stomach.

"Are you ready for me to move," he inquired, eyes lidded and breathing already heavy in awe of you beneath him.

Looking up at him then, as if he were an angel or possibly some type of temptation sent by the devil that you had so easily fallen for, like Eve and the apple, you yearned to take a bite. "Patrick," it felt unfamiliar to address him so informally, but there was an undeniable intimacy in doing so as well. "If I should wait any longer it may kill me."

With that, he began moving, his pace quick but not agonizing, instead quite tender. You cried out, moans, sighs, and gasps leaving your lips repeatedly as his hips met yours time and time again. His gaze didn't leave yours, except when he would close his eyes, losing himself in a particularly deep thrust. His skin on yours was warm, a stark difference from your naturally cold body. "God, Princess, you are better than I've ever imagined."

The thought that he had imagined this with you made you feel elated, but you couldn't even bring yourself to offer a witty reply, overtaken by pleasure. "P- Patrick," you moaned, your whole body feeling hot suddenly. He quickened his pace just a bit, leaning in to suck at your neck as his other hand came up to toy with your hardened nipples. It felt so sinful but so perfect and right. How could something this good ever be wrong?

At his added touch, hips still pistoning in and out of you, it all felt like too much. Your stomach began to tighten, walls clenched tightly around him, bringing him to an almost sorry state as his jaw went slack, eyes closing suddenly and his thrusts becoming sloppier. It was impossible to restrain yourself as your hips began bucking up to meet his. "Please, please, please," you didn't even know what you were asking for but you knew you needed it.

"I'm there too, Princess. Come on, let's finish together..." he moved his hand from your chest to you clit, rubbing swift circles as he slammed his hips into yours. Pleasure finally overtook you entirely as you fluttered around him, body stiffening and falling weak as you reach your high. He pulled out of you quickly, his hand moving to finish himself off lazily on your stomach through stifled grunts. When you were both completely spent, he momentarily laid next to you in bed, both of you looking up at the grand vaulted ceilings of your bedchambers.

"Thank you, Patrick, for showing me a kindness I should never know how to repay," you whisper softly. He sits up slightly, turning to you and offering a chaste kiss to your cheek.

"You should never have to 'repay' me. After all, I live to serve you, my dear Princess."

[ghostiequill]

Mihawk x Arranged Marriage AU

Starring: Jealousy and First Kiss :3

(Sorry I've been gone so long , <3)

As the daughter of a noble family there came certain standards that you must attune to, one being a marriage that could further advance your family

You knew what you were for your family, nothing more than a pawn to play in their political games. What hope for the future could you have but to be the dutiful and obedient daughter? 

Year after year after your coming of age, you would present yourself to suitors your family deemed to be worthy of their name. You don't know what was wrong with you, but they would repeatedly reject your advances. 

When your hand had been introduced to the infamous Dracule Mihawk, you had thought nothing of him. Of course you had heard of the passing name but had yet to put a face to the name. 

When he had come to your estate to make his intentions known, you were instantly captivated. His eyes, a maelstrom of emotion you had yet to decipher, were locked onto yours as he brought your hand to his lips to kiss

These were all foolish, girlhood thoughts. This was a marriage of convenience to benefit both families, there was no way he was even open to love. 

There was known tales  of him taking lovers, which made you scared of him using you after your marriage

During your wedding day, everything was picture perfect: decorations of cream and ivory, a soft display of love unfit for such a political union. They seemed to be mocking you. This was a display meant for the love you dreamed of when you were a girl, before you had responsibilities. You could barely hold back tears as you walked down the aisle, eyes boring into you, picking you apart

After the wedding, you were tired of all eyes on you and wanted to get some time alone, you found a secluded room and sunk to your knees, deciding to breathe and shed a couple of tears for your girlish dreams

A shadow overtook your vision and there before you stood your now husband, Dracule Mihawk. He said nothing, but put his overcoat around your shoulders and saying nothing, walked away

You didn't want that small bit of comfort to swell your dreams of a happy marriage, deciding to shake off those intruding thoughts of potential love 

Over the next few weeks, you moved to Mihawk's estate and attempted to settle down there. 

Through the doom and gloom of the gothic architecture and the bleak color scheme, it was a nice place to live. You had decided to add your own touch to the estate, bringing in fresh flowers, attempting to grow your own irises near the entrance and painting small hidden symbols around the castle to amuse yourself

Whenever you were in the library, Mihawk would soon be in the yard facing the window, practicing his swordsmanship or training a young green haired man. You always decided to move when he did so, for your own sanity

Whenever he decided to pass in the hallways or attempt to make small talk you would excuse yourself as swiftly as possible. Not to be rude or that you didn't like him. He provided everything you needed and expected nothing in return, but for the furious beating of your heart when you heard his voice. The girlish dreams of falling in love deciding to force its way into your heart. You couldn't afford a heartbreak, divorce, or dying alone so you decided the best option would be to avoid him.

Things changed when you both got an invitation to the annual Marine Ball

Mihawk was definitely regretting bringing you to the annual Marine Ball

SImple children with their eyes leering onto you, attempting to capture your attention, if only for a fleeting moment. He knew they wanted much more

These simpletons have the privilege of seeing you this evening. Should it not be obvious that you’ve been claimed by the ring on your finger? It was neither simple nor small. 

However, you were too sweet to notice all the lecherous stares. He knew that you thought they were just being nice, but seeing them touch your shoulder or making you laugh was starting to make his blood slowly boil. You were his and his alone to claim.

He hit his breaking point with Vice Admiral Garp. Seeing you laugh as he touched your shoulder made him storm over

He didn’t bother to excuse the both of you and he dragged you away from the party, away from fleeting eyes

The constant avoidance, the fleeing from him , were you so disgusted with him, you couldn't bear to be in the same room?

Before you, Mihawk can’t help but love the quiet. After years of solitude, one can’t help but revel in its familiarity like an old friend. 

Though, he cannot help but start to feel lonely, when there's no one to challenge you, what use is the title of the world’s greatest?

When he first caught a glimpse, he knew he could never be without you ever again. Mihawk has been infatuated with you since the moment he laid his eyes on you. 

You were the gasp of fresh air in the cold world in which he thought he had thrived. 

His only loves before you were the ocean, his sword, and his solitude, but now he realized there was loneliness in his heart that needed to be 

Every time you graced his presence he couldn’t help his breath hitch and his body still

While known to be stoic and quiet, he became tongue tied around you. What words would steal your heart? How could he enchant you the way you have captivated him? 

Your voice broke him from his thoughts “Mihawk, what's with you tonight?” you said as you wrestled your wrist from his grasp

He couldn't help but stare, while he was usually beautiful with words, capable of making negotiations with the Marines with ease, he found himself unable to speak. Why couldn't you get it?

“Do you hate me?” were the words that decided to make their appearance

Your look of surprise made him inwardly cringe at his own blunt words

“No, I cannot say that I hate you” you replied slowly

“Then why do you avoid me” he urged

You looked away, seemingly thinking the best way to let him down. In a moment of weakness, he grabbed your hands, bringing them to his chest

“Do you truly hate me” he asked again, making sure to look into your eyes trying to find what you were truly feeling

He watched as your eyes began to water. “Do you want to know the truth?” your voice wavered as you questioned him. “I do hate you”

Before he could be crushed, you decide to continue

“I hate the way you make me feel. I hate that you give me hope that this could be a successful marriage. I hate the way that you try to talk to me and give me gifts. I hate the way you pretend to listen when we talk and on the night of our marriage you pretended to comfort me. I hate the way you toy with my affection for you” At this point, tears were freely streaming down your cheeks as your voice began to break.

Mihawk could only stare there in shock. When he regained his senses he started to stroke your hands still held in his with his thumbs

“Do you think so low of me that I would do such things” he stated

“I want to comfort you, I see you always conflicted when we talk, I want to reach out and make everything ok. I want us to talk like a married couple and be there for you when you hide such emotions from me, wife” He scolds with a smile. “ I talk to you because I want to hear your voice, everytime Im graced with it, it's like a soothing melody. I want to give you gifts, you should worry for naught and be showered with all I can offer” He proclaims. 

You look up at him with wide eyes, still wet with your dreams

“You’d do that for me” You whisper 

“I would worship you” he whispers back

You can't help but lean in closer as your eyes can't help but fall to his lips. You have never kissed him before, your wedding ceremony not involving such acts. In fact you have never kissed any man before. You can't help but hesitate. 

Mihawk drops your hands and places one of your waist and one gently caressing the side of your face “May i?” he asks

You can't help but smile “You may”

As you both lean in, he brushes your lips with the softest of caresses, one you would not expect from a man of his profession. It felt absolute, like a promise. He was never going to leave you in such emotional turmoil again. 

When he pulled away, you were left dazed and it took a moment before you realized he was laughing. You playfully punch his arm while fighting back a smile yourself

Maybe this marriage wasn't going to be so bad. Maybe there was a fighting chance of your childhood dreams coming to fruition. Maybe it was too late and you were already in love

Anyway, you knew that Mihawk was going to be there, a steady force by your side, waiting to come to your side. He would be the beacon in which you would come home to when you were lost at sea. As you leaned into his embrace, you knew everything was going to be ok. 

[heliosunny]

Hi! I just read your yandere gojo x reader, and I loved it! I would love to request something similar, almost like an alternate path. Like instead of reader getting sucked in she convinces him to come to her world. How would he respond would he be open to the idea or shut it down? 🤔🩷

[part 1] Gojo virtual boyfriend

[part 2] - Virtual world route

[part 3] - Reality route - current

“Let me go!” you shouted, your voice shaking.

He tilted his head, his grin never faltering. “Why would I do that? You chose me, remember?"

Terrified by the thought of being erased like Kaito, you made a bold move.

At first, when you suggested he leave his perfect world for yours, Gojo was suspicious. His sharp mind immediately went to the worst-case scenario: It’s a trick. Another one of your desperate plans to get rid of him, to escape his grasp.

The idea gnawed at him, but he didn’t show it. He couldn’t afford to, at least not yet. If this was your attempt to weaken him, you didn’t realize how much control he truly held, even outside his virtual paradise.

You think my abilities would fade out there, don’t you? he muttered to himself later that night, standing in the garden and watching the synthetic stars twinkle above. That I’d lose my edge in your world.

A part of him almost wanted to see your plan unfold, if only to watch your shock when you realized the truth. But as you continued to speak about your world, not with manipulation, but with genuine longing, Gojo began to see it differently.

You weren’t scheming. You weren’t even pretending. You simply wanted to live.

For a moment, the idea of losing you, of letting you slip away completely sent a surge of anger through him. But then, just as quickly, the calm returned.

Fine, he thought, his lips curling into a slow, dangerous smile. If this is what you want, I’ll come to your world. I’ll play your game.

In his mind, it didn’t matter where you were. Whether in his world or yours, Gojo was confident he could manipulate your life. He could twist the reality you loved so much, bending it to his will just as easily as he had in his own creation. After all, why should the setting matter when the outcome was the same?

“All right, babe” he said, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin. “I’ll live in your world. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”

You blinked, surprised by his sudden change in tone. “You…will?”

“Of course” he said, standing and stepping closer to you. “If it makes you happy, I’ll give it a shot. But just remember—no matter where we are, you’ll always belong to me.”

You forced a smile, nodding as if you hadn’t noticed the underlying warning.

-----

The air of your world was heavier, the sounds sharper, the textures more defined. It was overwhelming at first, but he masked it with his usual nonchalance.

“This is it, huh?” he said, glancing around your apartment with a mix of curiosity and disdain. He ran his fingers over the fabric of the couch, then picked up a photo frame from the coffee table. “Kinda…plain, don’t you think?”

“It’s real” you replied softly.

He chuckled, setting the frame down. “Sure. Real.”

Despite his dismissive tone, Gojo couldn’t help but notice the limitations of this world. His abilities were still intact, but they felt different here—more restrained, as if the rules of reality fought against his will. He didn’t mind. If anything, it added to the thrill.

What intrigued him most, though, was you. The way you moved, the way you interacted with the world. There was something raw and unfiltered about you here, something he hadn’t fully captured in his virtual construct. He found himself drawn to it, even as it frustrated him.

At first, he played along, letting you guide him through the chaos of your world. He marveled at the things you took for granted—the roughness of tree bark, the bitter taste of coffee, the way the wind whipped through his hair. But the more he observed, the more he noticed how easily you slipped back into your routine, as if he were just another piece of your reality.

You didn’t realize it, but you were making a mistake. You thought his presence here meant you were free, that he couldn’t control you in this world the way he had in his own.

But I can, he thought, watching you from across the room as you busied yourself with some mundane task. And I will.

Gojo knew he didn’t need to trap you physically to keep you. Instead, he would become the center of your world, infiltrating every aspect of your life until you couldn’t imagine a reality without him.

-----

At first, Gojo’s interference in your world seemed harmless, even playful. He’d rearrange the furniture in your apartment without telling you, claiming it 'flowed better' that way.

“Your feng shui was awful” he said one morning, lounging on your newly relocated couch as you stared at the completely rearranged living room in shock.

“You can’t just move my stuff around!” you snapped, glaring at him.

“I can and I did” he replied, flashing you a smug grin. “Admit it, it looks better this way.”

You hated to admit that the new layout did make the room feel more open, but that wasn’t the point. “You can’t just…do things like that without asking me!”

“Sure I can” he said, standing and stretching lazily. “This is our home now, babe. I’m just making it more…us.”

That phrase—our home—sent a chill down your spine. You’d brought him into your world to give him a taste of reality, but it was becoming clear that Gojo had no intention of leaving things as they were.

Things got even more complicated when you interacted with other people. Gojo had a knack for drawing attention wherever he went, and his striking looks didn’t go unnoticed.

“Wow, he’s gorgeous!!” one of your friends whispered after meeting him for the first time.

“He’s a little…intense” you muttered, trying to downplay him.

Gojo, of course, ate up the attention. He grinned at every compliment, charming everyone around him with his effortless charisma. But when the tables were turned, when you spoke to someone for more than a few minutes, especially a man, his mood shifted instantly.

One afternoon, you bumped into an old coworker while out shopping. The two of you chatted briefly, catching up on work and life. Gojo stood behind you, his expression unreadable but his presence looming.

When the man laughed at something you said, Gojo’s hand suddenly found its way to your shoulder, his grip firm but not painful.

“Babe” he interrupted smoothly, his voice dripping with false cheer, “aren’t we on a schedule? You wouldn’t want to be late, would you?”

You glanced up at him, frowning. “We’re not—”

“Let’s go” he said, cutting you off and steering you away before you could argue.

Later that night, he leaned casually against the kitchen counter, his eyes narrowed as he watched you.

“You’re really friendly with him” he said, his tone light but laced with an edge.

“It was just small talk” you replied, exasperated. “Why are you so jealous all the time?”

“Jealous?” He chuckled, stepping closer. “I’m not jealous. I just don’t like the idea of someone else thinking they can take what’s mine.”

“I’m not-” you started, but he silenced you with a finger pressed gently to your lips.

“You’re mine” he said softly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Don’t forget that.”

-----

Gojo’s interference wasn’t limited to social situations. He began altering the very fabric of your world, bending it to his preferences in subtle but undeniable ways.

One morning, you woke up to find that the walls of your bedroom were no longer the soft pastel color you’d chosen but a deep, vibrant blue.

“Gojo!” you shouted, storming into the living room where he was casually flipping through a magazine. “What happened to my walls?”

“I thought you’d like it” he said without looking up. “Blue suits you better.”

“I didn’t ask for this!”

“Yeah, but I know you’ll grow to love it” he replied, finally glancing up with a smirk. “Trust me, babe—I have an eye for these things.”

It wasn’t just the walls. Your favorite chair disappeared one day, replaced by an extravagant velvet armchair that clashed with everything else in the room. Your kitchen utensils were suddenly upgraded to high-tech gadgets you didn’t know how to use. Even your wardrobe seemed to change overnight, with your usual comfy clothes replaced by sleek, expensive outfits that felt more like costumes than clothes.

“You’re welcome” he said when you confronted him about it.

“This isn’t your world, Gojo” you snapped. “You can’t just change things whenever you feel like it!”

“Sure I can” he said with a shrug. “You brought me here, remember? This is what you wanted.”

-----

While Gojo couldn’t stand anyone getting too close to you, he was quick to brush off your lack of reaction to his admirers.

“Did you hear what that girl said about me?” he asked one evening, leaning against the doorway as you washed dishes.

“Nope” you replied without looking up.

“She said I looked like a movie star” he continued, clearly fishing for a reaction.

“Good for her” you said, rinsing off a plate.

He frowned, stepping closer. “You’re not jealous?”

“Why would I be?” you asked, turning to face him. “I know what you’re like. You love attention. Let them fawn over you if it makes you happy.”

For once, he was speechless. Your indifference irritated him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

“You’re no fun” he muttered, but his eyes lingered on you, his expression thoughtful.

As Gojo’s interference in your life became more pronounced, you started to feel the walls closing in. He wasn’t just a guest in your world anymore, he was taking over, reshaping it piece by piece.

“I brought you here to experience my world” you said one day, your voice trembling with frustration. “Not to make it your playground.”

“And I’m experiencing it” he replied with a grin. “I’m just making it better.”

“For you,” you shot back. “not for me.”

The tension between you was growing, but Gojo didn’t seem to care. In his mind, you were already his, and nothing you said or did would change that.

-----

It was a quiet evening when it all came to a head. The kind of quiet that carried tension, where unspoken words hung heavy in the air. You were sitting at the kitchen table, your dinner half-eaten, your focus fixed on your phone. Gojo sat across from you, watching with an intensity that you tried and failed—to ignore.

“You’ve barely said a word to me all day.” he finally muttered, his voice deceptively calm.

You didn’t look up. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy ignoring me?” he asked, a sharp edge creeping into his tone.

Your fingers tightened around your phone, but you still didn’t meet his gaze. “I’m not ignoring you.”

Gojo let out a bitter laugh, the sound cold and humorless. “Oh, sure. You just happened to forget I exist while scrolling through your little apps. Funny how that works.”

“Don’t start, Gojo” you sighed, setting your phone down.

“Don’t start?” he repeated, leaning forward. “You’re telling me not to start, when all I’ve done since I got here is try for you?!”

Your head snapped up at that, your eyes narrowing. “Try? You’ve been controlling everything, Gojo. Rearranging my life like it’s some game!”

“A game?” he hissed, his voice dropping low. “You think this is a game to me? You think I enjoy pretending to be normal for your sake?”

“What are you talking about?”

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he loomed over you. His usual smug demeanor was gone, replaced by something raw and furious.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he said, his voice trembling with barely restrained emotion. “I don’t need to eat. I don’t need to sleep. I don’t even have taste buds, for crying out loud! Every bite of food I’ve taken, every sip of coffee, every damn smile I’ve given you over dinner—it’s all fake!”

You stared at him, your heart pounding.

“I can’t taste anything” he spat, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Do you know how stupid I feel, sitting there pretending to enjoy something I can’t even experience? Do you know why I do it? For you! Because I thought it would make you happy!”

The weight of his words hit you like a punch to the gut. “Gojo, I—”

“No” he interrupted, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and hurt. “You don’t get to talk right now. Do you know what it’s like to exist like this? To not feel hunger or fatigue or even pain, but still pretend I do just to make you feel normal? And for what? So you can brush me off like I don’t matter?”

You were silent, the guilt clawing at your chest.

He continued, his voice cracking. “You wanted me to leave my world and come to yours. And I did it because I love you. But no matter what I do, it’s never enough, is it?”

His words hung in the air, the silence that followed heavy and suffocating.

“Gojo” you said softly, standing from your chair. “I didn’t ask you to—”

“To what?!” he snapped, cutting you off again. “To care? To try? You didn’t ask, but I did it anyway because that’s what you do when you love someone!”

He turned away, running a hand through his hair as he tried to rein in his emotions. For the first time since you’d met him, Gojo looked…vulnerable.

“I gave up everything for you” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “My world, my rules, my power—everything. And you…you treat me like I’m nothing.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. What could you say to that?

“I don’t want your pity” he said, his back still to you.

When you didn’t respond, his shoulders slumped, and something in him seemed to shatter. He turned back to face you, his expression one of pure anguish.

“Wait....You don’t care...” he said, his voice trembling. “You don’t care about me at all, DO YOU?”

The silence stretched between you after his outburst, thick and suffocating. You opened your mouth to speak, to try to mend the frayed edges of the moment, but Gojo was already walking toward the window, his back to you, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he said quietly, his voice eerily calm now. “You think this is just about me being jealous. About me wanting your attention.”

“Gojo—”

His eyes glowed unnaturally, a shimmering blue that seemed to pierce straight through you. “I’m done pretending, babe. Done playing by your rules. If I have to show you how much you need me, so be it.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Gojo tilted his head, his smile sharp and cold. “You’ll see soon enough.”

-----

It started small, just like everything else he did. A missed text from your best friend. A coworker suddenly forgetting about plans you’d made the week before. At first, you thought it was coincidence—people got busy, or maybe you’d misunderstood. But then it happened again. And again.

Your mother didn’t answer your calls, her voicemail oddly generic and devoid of the warmth you were used to. Your bestie, who had been your closest confidant for years, began acting distant, her expressions blank whenever you tried to talk about your shared memories.

“Hey!” you said one night, sitting on the couch beside her. “Do you remember that road trip we took last summer? The one where the car broke down, and we had to hitch a ride with that old farmer?”

She blinked at you, confusion flickering across her face. “What are you talking about? I’ve never been on a road trip with you.”

Your blood ran cold.

You confronted him that night, your heart pounding as you stormed into the living room where he was lounging, as usual, on the couch.

“What did you do?” you demanded, your voice trembling.

He looked up from the book he was pretending to read, his expression infuriatingly calm. “What do you mean?”

“My friends” you snapped. “My family. They’re acting…different. They don’t remember things—important things. What did you do to them?”

Gojo sighed, closing the book with an audible snap and setting it aside. “Why are you always so dramatic?”

“Answer me!”

His eyes met yours, cold and unrelenting. “Fine. If you really want to know.” He stood, taking a step closer to you, and you instinctively backed away.

“I erased them” he said simply.

Your breath caught in your throat. “What?”

“Not all of them” he added casually, as if discussing the weather. “Just their memories of you. It’s not like they need them, anyway. You’ve got me now.”

“You…you erased their memories of me?” you whispered, horror creeping into your voice.

He shrugged. “I didn’t want them getting in the way. They were distracting you, pulling you away from me. And honestly?” He smirked, his gaze darkening. “It’s kind of nice knowing I’m the only one who really knows you now.”

You stumbled back, shaking your head in disbelief. “You can’t…you can’t just erase people’s memories! They’re my family, my friends—they’re mine!”

“Not anymore” he said, stepping closer. “Now, they’re nothing. Just strangers in your life. And honestly? Isn’t that better? No more nagging about your job, your relationships, your life choices. No more pressure to be someone you’re not.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as the full weight of his actions crashed down on you. “You had no right,” you choked out.

“I have every right” he countered, his voice low and dangerous. “You brought me here, remember? You invited me into your world. And now it’s ours.”

“You’re insane...” you whispered, backing away toward the door.

“Maybe” he said, his smile widening. “But I’m yours. And you’re mine. That’s all that matters now.”

You tried to run, but the moment you reached for the doorknob, the world around you warped. The door vanished, replaced by a blank wall. The windows followed, the glass dissolving into solid, impenetrable barriers.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Gojo asked, his tone light but his expression anything but.

“Let me out!” you shouted, pounding on the wall where the door had been.

He laughed softly, the sound sending chills down your spine. “Out? Oh, babe, there’s no ‘out’ anymore. This is your world now—our world. And the sooner you accept that, the happier you’ll be.”

When you turned to face him, your eyes blazing with anger and fear, he raised a hand, and you froze in place, your body refusing to obey your commands.

“Don’t fight me” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You’ll only make it harder on yourself. Just let go. Let me take care of you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Tears streamed down your face as you realized the truth: there was no escaping him. Not in this world. Not in any world.

[monvirtu]

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐇

⋆ precis ~ headcanons on how quackity acts when he has a crush!

⋆ tags ~ profanity, romance, and fluff.

⋆ notes ~ taking c!quackity, q!quackity, cc!quackity, and k!quackity requests. bro's cool so yeah.

⋆       hear me out, it would be hard and easy to know when quackity has a crush on you.

⋆       if you were a streamer like him, he would constantly watch your streams or raid them with his own viewers.

iwatchquackityhaha: RAIDDDDD !!!!!

greenbeans: QUACKITY RAID!!!!

mynamesjeff: THIS IS THE 5TH TIME QUACKITY HAD RAIDED [NAME] HE'S OBSESSED

quackity: @.mynamesjeff SHUT UP JEFF

⋆       his viewers would absolutely call out him on this, but it would be a little tease that happened because it wasn't that big of a deal. he was only watching your streams, and that could simply be because he likes your content. he might be raiding your streams because he feels like it.

⋆       you, of course, never speculated about it either. it was simply him being nice and you always greeted him once you noticed his presence in your chat.

⋆       but then it got to the point where he would donate to you.

⋆       if it was a little bit of money, then no one would have batted an eye.

⋆       but this man would donate hundreds just to see your reaction.

⋆       why? because one, it makes you notice him, and two, he enjoys watching how your reaction changes every time he donates.

⋆       when he first donated, you were shocked and made sure to thank him every minute of your stream. you could be talking about something else and then randomly thank him again for the money.

⋆       then after a few more times, it got to the point where you'd lecture him for donating so much, and it eventually turned into a war with you both donating loads of money back and forth.

⋆       he always won, by the way.

' quackity donated 200 ! '

"hi"

despite the fact you had a robot reading your donations out loud, you still found yourself looking at the screen as you read what quackity had sent.

"did you seriously just donate to tell me hi?" your words echoed throughout your room, and before you could assume that he wouldn't answer, another donation appeared on the screen.

' quackity donated 100 ! '

"yes"

"quackity, we're throwing hands."

⋆       eventually, he would start texting you on discord to ask if you wanted to do a stream with him.

⋆       at first, you believed that streaming with him would be like a one-time thing, but then it became a consistent thing for viewers to see you both streaming together.

⋆       streams with similar titles started popping up all over youtube and twitch.

⋆       "minecraft with [name]" or "playing roblox with quackity"

⋆       things like that.

⋆       and that's when people started to get suspicious.

⋆       i mean, who could blame them? you both just seemed to click, and given how fast it happened, everyone was just curious.

⋆       eventually, everyone's curiosity turned into a chance to ship you and quackity, and that led to fanfics, fanart, and even edits.

⋆       to which quackity reads, views, and watches them all.

⋆       he was amused by people picking up on his little crush, but this is where him being 'a hard person to know when they like someone' comes in.

⋆       he never confirms that he likes you.

⋆       at least to you.

⋆       he'll constantly like and comment on edits or fanart of you both, or repost them to where everyone can see that he did.

⋆       it's never a shock to find you and him trending all because he decided to comment a ';)' on an edit he saw.

⋆       this would happen for a little bit until it got to the point where you started questioning what you and quackity were, so he'd ask you out later on.

⋆       he wouldn't do it on a stream because one, he wouldn't want you to feel pressured, and two, he wanted it to be a moment between you and him. nobody else.

⋆       it'd probably be around vidcon time, and that's because you'd both be in the same place, and you had more time to be around each other.

⋆       he'd invite you to hang out with him for a day, and he seems like the type of person to pull a move out of a romcom.

⋆       like, he studied romcoms a week before because he wanted to do something special.

⋆       if you're at a resturant, he'd write a note on your napkin asking if you'd be his. if you go to a beach, he made sure to write the question with seashells he found prior on the sand. if you don't like big gestures, he'll just ask you while you're on a walk or something.

⋆       but no matter what gesture he ended up pulling, his reaction would be the same to each one if you said yes.

⋆       a wide grin would spread on his face, and he'd probably give you a hug if you were okay with it.

⋆       if he ended up asking you on the beach, he'd jump into the water.

⋆       there's no denying that.

⋆       if you were okay with making your relationship public, he'd probably post a picture of you two kissing or whatnot with the caption telling fanartist to remake it.

⋆       his lockscreen would be that photo, and every art remake his followers made for him.

⋆       now if you aren't a streamer like him, it would be a little bit different.

⋆       he probably met you at your work, or just a random place in general.

⋆       if he met you at your work, you best believe he'll be constantly going there just to talk to you until he gains the confidence to ask for your number.

⋆       and that might take a bit, so you're better off asking for his number first.

⋆       he would text you all the time.

⋆       the type of man to apologize if he left you on delivered for like ten minutes.

⋆       the type of man to quickly text you back when he's streaming to let you know why he might not answer, and then proceeds to talk about you to his viewers for the rest of the stream.

"who are you texting?"

his friends taunting voice rang in his headphones, yet he could only laugh a little bit while he continued typing his message to you.

it wasn't a simple sentence that stated he would be busy, but rather a paragraph saying that he was playing games with his friends, and that he would make sure to text you as soon as he had the time.

"someone i met a while ago." quackity finally responded, and his friend hummed. "you like this someone?"

"like is an understatement."

⋆       eventually, you both would start to hang out, and then he'd ask you out once he felt like the time was right.

⋆       since you weren't a streamer, though, his chat would literally be jumping with joy once they met you.

⋆       they'd give you a nickname to match quackity's, preferably something that refers to a duck, or they'd just call you by your name if you preferred that.

⋆       if you're ever lacking confidence, quackity could sit you down in front of his stream, and with his viewer's compliments towards you, it wouldn't even take you that long to feel amazing again.

   

©𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐔𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓

writings are to not be reposted, translated, or plagiarized. if you wish to show your love for my work, feel free to reblog, comment, or like.

[jacquitries]

The Gravity of Light | F.W.

Fred Weasley has always burned brightly, his laughter filling rooms and his presence impossible to ignore. But beneath the charisma and charm lies a quieter truth. A yearning to be seen for more than his bravado. In you, Fred finds not only recognition but a balance to his flame, a gravity that anchors him in ways he didn’t realize he needed. In this universe, you chose him.

Click here to read an alternate universe where you chose George instead of Fred.

𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘 𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚𓆚 𓆘

Fred has always been a firework, dazzling and fleeting, leaving behind echoes of laughter and smoke in his wake. People couldn’t help but be drawn to him, their eyes following his every move, their smiles growing wider in his orbit. He thrived in that attention, wearing it like armor.

But even fireworks burn out.

There were nights when the applause faded and the world grew quiet, and Fred was left with the weight of it all. The pressure to always be the brightest, to always carry the joke, the confidence, the charm. And in those quiet moments, he wondered if anyone truly saw beyond the shine.

George did, of course. George always did. Fred’s twin was his mirror, his anchor, the only person who could read him without effort. But even George had his limits. His own shadows to wrestle with and Fred never blamed him for that.

And then, there was you.

You didn’t arrive with fanfare. No spotlight followed you, no grand entrance announced your presence. And yet, Fred noticed you immediately. Perhaps it was the way your smile wasn’t drawn out by the loudest voice in the room, or the way your gaze held steady, unafraid to meet his. You didn’t seem dazzled by his theatrics, nor did you dismiss them. You simply… saw him.

At first, Fred didn’t know what to do. He tested you, pushing boundaries with his usual quips and charm, expecting you to respond like everyone else. But you didn’t. Instead, you met his wit with quiet amusement and his boldness with steady resolve. You didn’t get lost in his fire. You reflected it back at him, grounding him in ways he hadn’t known he needed.

It was subtle, the way you slipped into his world. A quiet presence amidst the chaos. You saw through the bravado to the boy beneath, the one who craved more than just laughter and attention. And you gave him that. You gave him more.

Fred found himself seeking you out without meaning to, drawn to the gravity you provided. He caught himself smiling at the sound of your laugh, softer than his but no less intoxicating. He noticed the way you listened, really listened, when he spoke, as though his words carried weight beyond the punchlines.

One evening, as the shop bustled with noise and laughter, Fred found you watching him from across the room. Not George, not the crowd — him. Your gaze was steady, warm, and it lit something within him that even the loudest applause never could.

“Why me?” he asked you once, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

You smiled, a quiet, knowing thing. “Because you’re you, Fred. Isn’t that enough?”

He didn’t have an answer for that. Not then. But in the days and weeks that followed, he began to understand.

George noticed the change, of course. It was impossible not to. Fred, who had always been larger than life, seemed steadier now — his fire burning just as bright, but with a warmth that hadn’t been there before. George, who had spent his life at Fred’s side, found himself stepping back. Not out of resentment, but out of quiet admiration.

Still, that didn’t stop him from noticing other things. Like the way your laughter spilled into a room, tugging at the edges of his thoughts long after the sound had faded. Or the way your gaze softened when Fred spoke, a look George had never realized he wanted for himself until he saw it directed at someone else.

There were moments, though—fleeting and delicate—when your eyes seemed to stray. Not to Fred, but to him. Those moments made something in George stir, something he quickly pushed down. After all, you had chosen Fred. And Fred, as always, shone the brightest.

One evening, after the shop had closed and the air was thick with the scent of burnt parchment from an earlier mishap, George found Fred in the backroom. His twin was bent over a prototype, his brows furrowed in concentration, the soft glow of his wand casting shadows across his face.

“You’ve got her,” George said, his voice low but certain as he leaned against the doorframe. His words hung in the air for a moment, heavier than he intended. “And I’ve got your back.”

Fred stilled, his wand pausing midair. When he turned, his grin wasn’t the sharp, confident one he wore for the world—it was softer, edged with something that looked like understanding.

“You’re alright, you know that?” Fred said, crossing the distance to clap George on the shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding, as though he knew exactly what George wasn’t saying.

“Don’t get sappy on me, Fred,” George quipped, his lips curving into a grin. But his voice held a faint tightness, and his eyes shimmered with an unspoken truth.

Fred chuckled, the sound breaking the tension, but it didn’t erase what lingered between them. George would never say it aloud. How he’d seen you too, how he’d wondered, just for a moment, what it might have been like if things were different.

But Fred was his brother. And for George, that was enough.

Later that night, as you sat beside Fred, your hand brushing his beneath the table, he felt the world shift again. For the first time, he wasn’t afraid of burning too brightly or fading too soon. With you, he was more than the firework. He was the flame, steady and constant, burning for himself—and for you.

And for once, that was enough.

[luimagines]

PALWORLD Meets the Chain

Another Commission!

They wanted Twilight, Wild, and Sky with a Reader who comes from Palworld/interacting with the Pals. I hope I delivered it well enough because I know nothing of Palworld. Friends had to be consulted.

Masterlist

Content under the cut!

Wild

Wild was fascinated. 

There were no other words to describe what he was feeling. He knew, to a degree, that there were animals that one could train and use to help out with day to day life but you… You took it somehow to a whole other level.

The creature that followed you was a lot like the foxes that he saw in his world but the tail was concerningly on fire.

Wild watched you from the sidelines at the beginning. It didn’t last for very long. Without a word from anyone, you’d need only to snap your fingers and the little fire fox would run away, only to return with firewood, placed neatly into a pile by his foot.

“Sorry,” You’d say every time. “They like to be helpful. I didn’t think they’d pick on that you were about to start dinner yet.”

“It’s fine,” Wild would play along. “I don’t mind it. It saves the rest of us the trouble.”

Moving the little pile of wood was easy enough. Setting the stones around them for a proper fireplace was child’s play. Wild reached into his Sheikah Slate for some flint and a dagger to spark a small light. Without warning, the little fox had sneezed and set the little pile of wood into a small blaze.

Wild had froze, staring with awe at the sight in front of him. “...Well that was convenient.” 

The little fox looked proud of itself.

You laughed on the sidelines as the little fox-like creature trotted back up to your side. Wild watched as you pet the furry friend on the head, giving him little scratches behind the ear with a small giggle on your lips as you did so. His finger slips in his distraction and he nicks the tip of his thumb with his knife.

Biting back the curse before anyone could notice, he bit his nail and quickly took care of the sharp stinging pain before blood would weep from the cut.

“Are you ok, Champion?” You asked him, turning to him after the commotion he’s caused.

“Oh, yeah, of course, never better.” He lies with ease. It’s a shame he’s such an obvious liar. Wild’s left ear twitched at the thought. He’s not fond of being caught in broad daylight, however, so he’s quick to change the subject. “What did you want for dinner?”

“Anything would suffice,” You said with a dazzling smile that left Wild momentarily distracted. He failed to notice that the little fox was slowly making its way back to Wild. “You know I’m not picky. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to make. You’re a great cook.”

He tries to give you his flattest look, but the mirth is still on his lips. “I appreciate the compliment but that doesn’t really help me with ideas.” Taking out the cutting board, Wild looked through his slate for a moment, trying to think of what he could make on such short notice. It had been a while since they’d stocked up on food. He was running low. “Chicken?”

He took out a few pieces and placed them on the cutting board. “And come potatoes and carrots?”

“Works for me!” You cheered. 

“Perfect.” Wild grinned and began to take out as many potatoes as his hands could carry.

“How come you never ask us what we want to eat?” Warrior called out from somewhere behind him. “We can give you ideas too you know.”

“I don’t need to ask you,” Wild deadpans, switching to the carrots. “You lot just yell at me what you want to eat while we walk or in the middle of battle.”

“You could still do us the courtesy of asking us-”

“Wild look out!” You cried.

Wild perked up but it was too late. A flash of orange zipped past his leg and away from the cooking fire, sitting itself as far as possible to enjoy the stolen treat. Wild looked back to the cutting board at once and scowled.

“It stole the chicken!” He shouted, outraged and indignant.

You started laughing.

Twilight

Twilight liked to consider himself a man who wasn’t afraid of anything.

When shadows overtook his homeland, he didn’t want his fear to override his need for justice. His loyalty to his friends was second to none and wasn’t about to sit back and allow anything bad to happen to the people he cared about.

When the dust had settled and the light came back, he wasn’t as surprised as perhaps he should have been when the first portal appeared. Without thinking much about the consequences, he went through it, assured that whatever was about to meet him on the other side was messing with things it shouldn’t.

Which brought him to this moment.

A large dog-like creature growled at him, poised to attack at any moment.

He nearly snarled back, reaching behind to grab his sword. Twilight never liked the idea of hurting animals but he wasn’t about to let this canine have his way with him. The creature was larger than he was as a wolf. The maw, legs, tail, and second portion of the mane were white. The rest of the beast was as black as night.

“No!” You screamed from the other side of the trail. “Don’t hurt my Direhowl!”

“How about he doesn’t hurt me instead?” Twilight yelled back, not once taking his eyes off of the Direhowl in front of him.

“Sorry! Sorry!” You say again, running up to him and taking the beast by the scruff of the neck. “I thought he wouldn’t be like this after a while but I guess it’s because you’re a new face. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t he’d be as sorry as you are.” Twilight bared his teeth ever so slightly.

“Bad dog!” You shout.

Both Twilight and the Direhowl perked up at the words and turned to look at you. You were glaring down at the creature, who, to Twilight’s amusement, began to look rather sheepish. His amusement quickly turned to subtle embarrassment when he realized that he was just as affected by your tone as the canine in front of him.

Twilight put his sword back in its sheath.

Clearing his throat with a cough, Twilight patted down his clothes and rubbed his palms. “If that’s everything, I’m going to check the perimeter.”

“Yeah… Yeah, good idea. Again, I’m really sorry about all this-”

He holds up his hand. “Don’t worry about it. No harm done. Just keep a tighter leash on him.”

He leaves it at that, walking far away to be out of earshot. Without thinking twice, Twilight takes out the shadow crystal and transforms into his wolf body. As per usual, his senses change. Colors were no longer as vibrant, his sense of smell strengthened tenfold, his hearing tripled in range, and his vision both sharpened and lowered to the ground.

He began his trip around the perimeter checking for various signs of mischief or danger if possible. It was old hat for him and he thanked the golden three above that there was nothing to report back on once his check was complete.

That is until he heard a now familiar growl.

He growled back without question, poising his body onto the ground to strike if the Direhowl tried anything. “Oh stop it!” He snarled. “You’re not the biggest beast here.”

“Big words for a tiny dog.” The voice responded. It was deeper than Twilight anticipated for his wolf ears. The Direhowl walked in front of him. “Am I supposed to feel threatened?” 

“If you kill me, the others will never forgive you.” Twilight tries a different approach. Because yes, he was, in fact, bigger than him even in this form. “And they’ll take your human and kick them out for the group for treachery.”

That seems to set the Direhowl back a few steps. His loyalty was also unquestionable.

“They wouldn’t.”

“They would.”

A pregnant pause followed before the Direhowl sat down instead. “You’re the one they call Rancher.”

Twilight followed his example and sat down as well with a nod. “I am.”

“...I don’t like you.” The Direhowl glares. “But my human likes you. So I suppose that’s enough to save your skin.”

Twilight had to fight not to roll his eyes. “Charming. I’m forever grateful.” 

Sky 

“This is awesome!” You shout as you fly through the skies around Skyloft.

Sky laughed and followed you, playfully getting a bit closer than strictly necessary. The heat of your bird was undeniable. Sky could feel the heat of the feathers on his cheek. His loftwing was off-put, unsure about the lack of safe space from the creature beside it. 

You pushed off, giving him space to fly in the direction with an indignant squawk. “Hey!”

Sky laughed.

Laughing yourself, you also push him in the air, his loftwing banking left to keep a safe distance between the two of you. “Hey now!” Sky shouted, a large smile on his face. “That’s not fair. Are you trying to set us on fire?”

It’s a tease. He’s well aware that he started it.

Without replying, you bank off to the right and land your bird on one of the many smaller islands around Skyloft. Sky followed you, landing a considerable distance away so that your bird didn’t bother his loftwing. You had warned him before you both set off for the flight that he was aggressive and prone to attack on sight.

As much as Sky trusted you and trusted your judgment, he didn’t want any harm coming to his loftwing.

“Was he getting tired?” Sky asked once the birds were settled. He tossed some treats to distract the loftwing and keep his energy up before jogging to close the distance. “I have extra fruits if that’s what he eats.”

The bird hissed as Sky got close. He paused in his tracks, not taking his eyes off of the volatile bird.

“No, no, no,” You wave him off with a slightly embarrassed smile. “He’s a ragnahawk. I found him living in a volcano and his kind only eats rocks. I have a few in my bag.”

“I’m sorry-” Sky reels back for a moment. “Did I just hear you correctly?”

“Yes. Rocks.” You giggle. “Don’t worry, he has the stomach to handle it.”

“...Right.” Sky awkwardly pockets the snacks once more. Clearing his throat, Sky looked up at the red bird as you tossed it rocks once at a time. He admired the feathers. The colors were much like those of his loftwing’s but the tips of the wings were completely yellow with black lines on the edges. The sickening crunching sound was a little offputting but there was an unmistakable birdy joy as it ate its treats. “So long he’s being taken care of, I suppose.” 

“What does your bird eat?” You pocketed the last of the “snacks” and turned back to Sky. “I doubt it’s rocks like this beast.” You use your eyes to gesture back to the ragnahawk with a bright smile on your face.

Sky shrugs. “Fruit mostly. But they live on their own islands. So we’re not entirely sure what it is that they eat. We just know they usually accept our treats when we give them. Each one has their own taste, though. They’re a bit picky like that.”

You nod. The information sounds familiar. “Each has their own personality. I can respect that.”

The silence turns comfortable as you both look out to the expanse of the Skyloft and the surrounding islands. You let out a wistful sigh and step forward. “Your world is beautiful. I didn’t think I’d ever get to see anything like it.”

“It’s not much,” Sky smiles bashfully. “The surface world has much more to offer than our little island.”

“Nonsense, I like this.” You turned to him. “Will you show me more?”

“Of course! Is your bird ready to fly again?”

“Ready whenever you are!”

Sky laughed, jumping off of the ledge “Perfect! Let’s go!”

[hishumanbelle]

Warnings: Very smut (I'm perv, sorry). +18. Oral sex, sex, bottom/top!Alastor, and you know… pleasure, love, Alastor.

Part one.

The following days you felt a little better, but it didn't last long. With the others you went back to having a tired and sad look, your eyes hollowed out from frequent crying. Alastor noticed this new discomfort of yours and approached you, taking you by the hand and leading you to a corner of the room. "What did you promise me?", he asked with a warm voice but with a hint of disappointment, his face on yours. "To come to you if I still felt like this", you replied with your eyes turned to the ground, your expression showing discomfort. "And...? Why didn't you do it?", he asked, bringing his other hand to your chin to turn your attention to him. "I... I-I don't want to burden y-you with my problems. You're n-not the one who should w-worry about my condemnation. My problems are only mine. I don't want to disturb or distress you", you replied harshly and with tears that flooded your eyes again. "Deborah...", Alastor said feeling helpless and wrapping your head in his arms, holding you close. "It hurts me to see you like this", he said almost in a whisper. He didn't say anything else, knowing that words couldn't do anything. His grip spoke, his chin pressing on your head and his powerful arms holding you tightly to him. The other guys looked at you, but said nothing and Alastor narrowed his eyes to them. Alastor gently pulled away from you and with his hand in yours he took you to his room.

He opened the door to let you in first. The room was painted dark red, of course, and candles scattered around made the environment comfortable. The ceiling was the sky, dark blue and spotted with sparkling stars. In the middle was a bed with red and black silk sheets, and further into the room you could see the forest of shades of blue, green and fireflies that were shining. It was beautiful. "It's incredible! Are you the creator?", you asked in a tone of wonder, and Alastor nodded smiling. His gaze studied you carefully, flattered to see you so amazed, and he would have liked to see you like this always; smiling, happy, enthusiastic. Alastor was still near the door, which he locked and walked slowly into the room until he reached you, his body pressed against your back, his hands rested on your shoulders moving and reaching down towards your hands, grabbing and intertwining them. His chin rested on your shoulder near your neck. "Deborah...", he said breathing in your scent. "You must always be like this, it wears me out to see you like before", he said in a voice broken by torment. "I... can't get away from you, I feel the need to be close to you. To protect you", he said, twisting a finger in your locks. "But if I stopped being like this, you'd leave me?", you said with a hint of sadness in your throat. "Absolutely not, what I feel for you wouldn't change", he replied firmly, brushing his lips across your neck just below your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "And what do you feel for me, Alastor?", you asked with a glint in your eyes as you lost yourself feeling his breath on your neck. "Desire, but not just carnal", he replied, growling and nuzzling your neck near the pulsating carotid artery now. His lips opened to suck right there for a brief moment. "Let me love you", he whispered on your skin. "Let me in", he whispered again turning you towards him, moving his lips lower and lower and lowering itself, tracing a path of kisses down from the neck, down towards the breasts, in the middle of the trachea and further down to the abdomen and to the most intimate area. Your skin burned at the sound of his voice and his passionate touch.

You gasped, rolling his name between your lips. Alastor knelt in front of you, lifting your silk dress, one of his hands went under your knee to lift your leg and place it on his shoulder for a better angle. With his other hand and his teeth he helped himself to slide your panties down your thighs, making them reach your bare ankles and removing them from one foot. His gaze intense on yours. "Don't hold back", he sighed, brushing your intimate lips. With his warm and firm tongue he began to lick your clit, making small circles and gentle licks. With his mouth he took your clit, grabbing it to bite and suck it, making you gasp in pleasant pain. Your hands gripped his horns, arousing in him a pleasure never felt before that made him pant and vibrate in you, responding in turn. His name hung on your lips. While Alastor licked and sucked your clit, he used his hand to caress the outside of your pussy, rubbing between your folds. When you were sufficiently lubricated, he entered first with one finger, pushing all the way in, and then added another. His fingers gently went in and out of you, running over all your walls and touching your most hidden spots. The more his fingers moved inside you, the more pressure he exerted on your clit and not only that… when he felt you squeeze around his fingers, he pushed the tips of them up to your g-spot arching them from above. You were in heaven… lost in the ecstasy of pleasure.. The heat in your abdomen became hotter and hotter, your muscles a bundle of tension ready to come. "Ah-Ah-lastor, I'm about to cum", you said, panting and squeezing his horns tightly. Alastor continued without changing intensity or speed, also panting, fearless of feeling you cum. His vibrations stimulated your cervix and clit, causing you a terrible wave of enjoyment and pleasure. Alastor continued to lick and finger you, slowing down to allow you to fully enjoy the orgasm, inserting another finger into your anus, pushing and making your mind go numb.

Your hands gripped tighter to his horns that were growing out of proportion with excitement. His hungry growl echoed in his chest, amplified in his mouth and echoed on your sensitive nerves. Alastor also grabbed your other knee and brought your other leg to his shoulder, while with a tentacle he held you so you wouldn't lose your balance. His teeth rubbed on your flesh accentuating the sensation of pleasure. Your legs were an incessant tremor and your hips swayed in ecstasy, sailing on his mouth. His gaze was fixed on yours, you were pure nectar to him. Your expressions, your moans... everything belonged to him. Your orgasm hit you like a waterfall in full flow and everything was swept away by that wave. Everything. Your mind completely enveloped in pleasure and by him. Alastor slowed slightly and gently removed his fingers from inside you to bring them to his mouth and lick your juices. "You’re delicious", he said in a sinful tone, "my favorite flavor", a mischievous grin on his face.

You leaned into him, bending over and kissing him deeply; your tongues one with all your desire and you could taste yourself on him while your hands gripped his hair. Your body burned for him. You made him stand up and taking one of his hands you led him in front of the bed, placing him with his back to it. "You're playing a dangerous game, Alastor", you said, leaning towards his ear and grinning, sighing those words in his ear and biting his earlobe. With one hand you pushed him onto the bed, and he fell. "What are you planning?", he asked with a strange grin of vulnerable prey. "Shut up", you hissed. Sinuous and like a lioness you crawled towards him, walking and rubbing your breasts on his thighs and bulge. Alastor was panting slightly. "You know I'm in charge", he said bitterly and with a look of disappointment. Your hands caressed his now naked chest after having unbuttoned and opened his jacket and shirt, sliding them further down towards his pants. With your fingers you took his belt and opened it, your gaze locked on his. Once you unbuckled it you took it and brought it upon his head, taking one of his hands and kissing it, licking his fingers slowly and sucking, and the same with the other hand, bringing them above his head and tying them together. While you were on top of him and he looked at you annoyed, he tried to bite your breasts. "Be a good boy", you said smirking. "I have never been", he hissed, grabbing one of your hard nipples through your dress. A gasp escaped you. Once you finished tying his hands you kissed him on the mouth, going down with your tongue and running along his neck and chest, continuing to kiss him, further and further down, until you reached his protuberance, while your fingers remained on his chest now caressed his pectorals and teased his nipples tickling them, causing him pleasure and pain. His gaze did not leave you and his expression was more and more in despair. Your hand took the tip of his hard cock for you and started to move down and up again. His tight skin followed your movements forming sweet folds of desire becoming more and more rigid. His eyes lit up in the dark fixed on you, his thighs spread and his muscles became tense, the sensation was pleasant for him. Your movements were slow, and as you moved up with your hand, you surrounded his glans with your whole hand so as to tease the little spot under it. Alastor hissed. Looking at him mischievously, you approached his head with your mouth spitting on it slightly, so as to lubricate him to feel more. With the other hand you played with his balls while with the hand that held him you began to move applying more pressure, his more tense thighs trembled from the spasms you sent him.

As you moved it, unexpectedly and as he composed sweet music of pleasure, your mouth engulfed the tip of his cock. "Ah-ah!", Alastor exclaimed. Raising his legs a little and spreading them in a rhombus and moving his head back. Your mouth went further down, fleshy, warm, and the sensation of your warm, wet tongue pressing against his cock made him shiver completely. His mind completely clouded. "De-Deborah", he panted repeatedly. Your mouth continued to move, and your hand continued to tease his balls. With your mouth you went down to the base so as to lick and envelop him completely, and when you went back up you sucked the tip, squeezing harder. The veins of his cock became more exposed, and he spasmed inside your mouth, and the more he did it the more you tightened around it. "Deborah", he said again, sinking his head deeper and deeper into the pillow and starting to move his hips in your mouth.

His cock began to throb with pleasure, desperate to cum. Your movements slowed abruptly and your hot breath was a pained caress on his cock that desperately sought its orgasm. You sucked him once more, staring at him with a cruel gaze, removing yourself and crawling towards him. Alastor spasmed around the cold you had left him, his gaze returning to you, trying to understand what you wanted to do. "I need to make love to you, Deborah, to claim you", he panted abruptly. "Fuck me, then", you replied as from above him you began to rub your wet pussy on his erect cock, without penetration. "Deborah... you're torturing me, even worse than my hellish sentence", a smile made its way onto your face, and he narrowed his eyes. He thrust his hips so that you fell towards him and leaned towards your lips to give you a fierce kiss, and you, in response to his attempt at control, pushed your hips back allowing his cock to enter you. He gasped into your mouth, biting your lip at the unexpected sensation. He was inside you, his cock was penetrating your walls all the way down to its full length. And you were squeezing. "N-no", he gasped loudly. And you squeezed harder. "Ah-ah! You're so t-tight", he said, still gasping and his body tensing. You sat back on top of him, moving your hips slowly, your hands caressing his torso, enjoying the feeling that Alastor was yours for that moment, but your thoughts returned to torment you, your gaze remained in his eyes but your expression changed. He only wanted you for sex, like all men. No one wanted to take the responsibility or patience to love you, to wrap you up, to be with you through everything. And you missed this feeling, you missed THIS. You missed feeling like you belonged to someone, to have deep roots in someone's heart. Alastor noticed the change in mood, he stared at his hands and tried to free them to come to your aid. With his power he freed himself and sat up with his back, sitting under you, inside you. "Deborah, love, what's going on?", he said softly bringing a hand to your cheek, but you pulled away and started to cry. "Dear, it's still me", he said again, trying to get closer to you but trying a different tactic, wrapping you completely in his arms. "What's wrong?", he asked worriedly. "This... this is wrong. Y-you... you're not MINE", you replied crying and holding yourself in his embrace. "You, you don't love me. I need love, I need you, desperately", your tone broke. His arms tightened around you. His expression pained, his smile tight and tight. "You own me", he answered firmly as he stroked your hair. "I own you?", you laughed and his cock moved inside you making you jump. "Alastor, maybe we aren't even friends. You took advantage of my weakness to get closer to me and get what you want—", Alastor moved away to look at you and to silence your mouth with his finger. His cock bigger inside you. "Deborah, you don't understand. If I've come this far it's because I want you, for life. Everything about you drives me crazy and not seeing you drives me to exasperation. Not seeing you smile destroys me. You are everything to me", his hand on your neck that he squeezed as he stirred. "You are everything to me. You are my magnet. I breathe for you, I move with you. Don't you understand? Don't you see?", he asked, bitter and hurt. "Why didn't you ever tell me?", you asked incredulously. "Because I didn't think you felt the same, I am... me. A demon. A monster", he replied, moving his head to the side.

Oh.

Oh...

How long had he kept those feelings for you quiet? Now everything made sense. In your mind the puzzle was pieced together and indeed Alastor had always been attentive to you, but you saw it as a way of controlling. You knew that he had been and was alone all his life and that he wasn't interested in all those sappy or sexual things like the rest of you sinners. And yet, there he was... he took care of you. He worried and cared about you. He made himself available to erase your pain. He was yours and you didn't know it, waiting for you, for a step from you to make him understand that you were there with him too. Your body was exploding. The man you loved had just confessed his feelings for you? Your chest was filled with air, the burning sensation was spreading from your pelvic area to your chest. You wanted to scream, shout to the world how much you loved him. "Ally, I love you", you began to rock on top of him again. Alastor’s nails ran down your back, not scratching you too much. "What are you d—", he asked, but you cut him off by kissing him. Your movements became more frantic, and your hands flew to his face, your gazes locked as your breaths met in midair. His words had ignited desire in you, bringing you to the point of orgasm. "Alastor", you repeated, "tell me I’m yours, only yours", you panted as your foreheads met, moving against each other with your swaying bodies. "You’re mine, Deborah, you’re mine forever, forever... I've got you, I'll never let you go", he panted back, his breath hot on your face. You thrust faster and faster, panting more frequently, as Alastor held you tighter as you rode out your orgasm. "I’m yours", you screamed, and Alastor continued to pump his cock into you, riding your orgasm and squirting inside you. "I love you. I’ve always loved you", he said pressing his lips to yours. He gently pulls away from the kiss to look into your eyes, your foreheads still joined softer than ever, and with one hand he caresses your cheek. "You're stuck with me for eternity, now".

[mimipolo]

I know your expertise is nam-gyu, but would you be willing to right for another underrated squid game character: choi woo-seok. There is literally no fics about him, I would owe you my life (I'm being dramatic no pressure at all :) )

Choi woo-seok x reader

YOU'RE SO RIGHT ANON HES SO UNDERRATED I thought I was crazy when I sent my friend an edit of him and they said I was wrong

Not proofread sorryyyy will probably edit later

₊˚⊹ᰔ

It was his birthday, it was all coincidence. Honestly. They had decided to go to a nice restaurant instead of the dodgy bar they typically frequented. Nicer pay meant nicer things thanks to the random return of Gi-hun. He hadn't thought he'd chance upon someone like you, not once.

He had noticed you from the moment you welcomed him and his several unbiological brothers into the restaurant. All pretty eyes and glossy smiling lips. Immediately standing up taller when your eyes land on him and gesture to a suitable table, hoping he hadn't let his mouth actually gape upon seeing you.

He's decent at acting at least a respectful level of normal but of course his boss picks up his change in behaviour, eyeing him weirdly before following you, their waitress for tonight.

| ₊˚⊹ᰔ

"Please take a look at the menu." you say with clear experience, leaning over Woo-sok slightly to point to different areas on the menu in his hands, "Here are the main courses, drinks and desserts."

"Wave me over once you've all decided."As you stand upright again you're met with a grouped murmur of agreement yet fail to notice the pair of eyes on you the entire time, bright endearing eyes ,as if you took his gaze for your own. It was a look his boss definitely* could not miss.

Inclining your head slightly as you walked away to tend to another table Jeong-rae is already turning to him, so quickly it startles Choi, snapping him out of his thoughts and turning to his boss with wide confused eyes.

"You like that girl?"he asks a plotting grin already making way onto his face.

"Huh- what makes you say that I didn't even say anything, if I thought so I would've said and-" he stops speaking when he has to catch his breathe, accepting his rambling alone gave him away.

He sighs defeatedly as he holds his head in his hands and groans, hoping his hands would cool down his face, it wasn't a working. Mr.Kim only laughed heartily causing the rest of them to burst into laughter. He immediately knew it couldn't end well.

| ₊˚⊹ᰔ

Before he knew it he was outside of your workplace, hair freshly tossled by several hands and a pretty bouquet of tulips in hand.

It all happened too quick for him to realise what was happening. Dinner was good and his boss made sure he tipped you good*. Nudging him and shout whispering to you about how he makes so much yet still stays so humble. Your small chuckle made his whole body burn and then you thanked him for the generous tip and his heart skipped one too many beats. Of course his wide eyed expression was seen by everyone at the table making them all nudge and tease him. He wasn't bothered by their comments though, he was being delusional and already thinking of how he'd propose.

That's how he ended up here.

The night air licked his neck and he involuntarily shuddered before quickly trying to shake it off. Internally trying to hype himself up, he knew he at the very least couldn't embarass himself because he knew not too far away his boss and the others were probably snooping.

All the confidence he'd been so carefully working up disappeared the moment you walked out, you're just about shrugging your bag onto your shoulder when you spot him, a slight confused smile on your face as you tilt your head.

"Hey I uh- I thought you were beautiful, really." His words are rushed but clearly thought out, your smile softening when you realise the bouquet was for you which he confirms when he holds them out to you, an audible sigh of gladness leaving him when you accept them.

"Could I take you out someday?" He's watching you nervously now, the store sign of the restaurant shed a dim romantic light on your features that has his heart racing. You're carefully appreciating the assortment of tulips in your arms, despite him only getting them recently they looked professional. Then you're smiling, wide, and he swears you're going to be his cause of death.

"I think...I'd like that. See me after work tomorrow?"

He's nodding his head frantically, "Yes, of course- perfect." You give him one more smile with the dip of your head and you're off towards your car. Unfortunately for him he's already smitten as he stares after you, unfazed by the deep chorus of cheers that suddenly comes from behind him.

He hadn't thought you'd say yes.

| ₊˚⊹ᰔ

This man married you as soon as he thought you were ready, because if you asked him he would've confidently married you right on the mark of your seven month anniversary. But he waited, the last thing he wanted was to pressure you, so on your third year anniversary he's proposing in your apartment, the prettiest gem with the band you've dreamt of. He's grinning nervously up at you, anxious if he'd chosen the right time. All his worries are washed away though when your arms immediately wrap around his neck and you're kissing his face all over, he feels like he won't the lottery with you.

The most doting husband, the type that makes other wives jealous and ask why their husbands aren't as proactive. Knows your orders by heart, gives you the best seat anywhere, regular cheek kisses. An absolute dream. And a suspicious amount of wealth he claims to earn from his job as a car manufacturer but oh well.

On your wedding day his boss constantly likes to remind you it was him that pushed Choi to ask you out. At the ceremony, the speech, the after party. He wears the fact like a badge of honour. It was honestly just funny seeing Woo-seok dramatically wave him off whenever he was about to start.

One of his biggest dreams is a family with you, boy or girl (preferably girl). But seriously he's ready whenever you are, definitely the type to have a list of baby names ready the moment you come to tell him you want one.

As great a father as he is a husband, would put everything on the line for the both of you without thinking. Something you wish he did more often. He's selfless to the point he forgets himself and you love him for it but how could you forget to book yourself at the reservation at the hotel tonight?

Anyways this man is absolutely smitten for you, would probably do anything you said because nothing you'd ever say could ever do him wrong. Fiercely loyal too, all he needs from you is a kiss when he goes to and from work till he dies. Do that and he'll never have a complaint.

[nameless-jamie-blog]

Offside Tension - Jamie Tartt x Y/N

A/N: short but important chapter.

Masterlist - Next Chapter

Chapter 3: New Alliances

Y/N arrived early the next morning, well before the players or even most of the staff. She liked the stillness of the stadium before it came alive with activity, the echoes of her footsteps on the empty pitch. It gave her a sense of clarity—a moment to remind herself why she was here.

She set down her bag near the sideline and began prepping for the day, jotting down notes and organizing drills for the players. The events of yesterday—the impromptu match, Jamie’s grudging respect, and Roy’s unexpected kindness—lingered in her mind. Her competitive side had loved the win, but the weight of opening up about her injury to Roy left her feeling exposed in a way she hadn’t expected.

The faint sound of footsteps broke her train of thought. She turned to see Coach Beard strolling onto the pitch, his expression as inscrutable as ever.

“You’re early,” he said, his tone neutral but tinged with a hint of approval.

“So are you,” Y/N replied, meeting his energy with her own.

Beard tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking into the smallest of smiles. “Touché.” He paused, studying her for a moment. “Nice job yesterday. Tartt needed a little humbling.”

Y/N smirked. “Happy to help.”

As Beard wandered off, Nate and Will arrived, the former offering her a polite nod while Will beamed at her.

“Morning, Coach,” Will chirped. “Heard you wiped the floor with Jamie yesterday. Nice one.”

Y/N chuckled. “Thanks, Will. It was… satisfying.”

Nate, ever the perfectionist, cleared his throat. “It was a good match, but don’t let it go to your head. Jamie’s not one to take a loss lying down.”

“Noted,” Y/N said with a grin.

The morning routine unfolded smoothly, the players trickling in one by one. Jamie, of course, arrived last, his signature swagger on full display. He shot her a look—half smirk, half challenge—as he passed her on the pitch.

“Morning, love,” he said, his voice dripping with that infuriating charm.

“Morning, Tartt. And it’s 'morning coach' on the pitch for you,” Y/N replied coolly, refusing to let him see how much the nickname made her pulse quicken.

"What is it off the pitch then?" he replied, flirtier than she’d expected. Not waiting for an answer, he swaggered to his usual spot.

Practice was normal that day. Y/N noticed a slight change in Jamie’s demeanor, though. As if he suddenly was very eager to learn from her. A hint of mutual respect seemed to float in the air.

Ted caught Y/N just as she was packing up after practice. “Hey, Y/N,” he said, his usual upbeat tone carrying a hint of something mischievous. “Got a little surprise for ya. Rebecca and Keeley want to meet you—thought it’d be nice to give you a proper welcome.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. She hadn’t expected the boss and her PR maven to take an interest in her so soon. “Oh, um, sure. That sounds great.”

Ted beamed. “Perfect! They’re upstairs in Rebecca’s office. And don’t worry—they’re lovely. Like, warm-scone-and-butter kind of lovely.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Y/N said with a laugh, following him up the stairs.

Rebecca’s office was as grand and intimidating as Y/N had imagined, but the woman herself was the exact opposite. Rebecca greeted her with a warm smile and an outstretched hand.

“Y/N, so lovely to finally meet you,” she said, her voice rich and welcoming.

“It’s an honor, Ms. Welton,” Y/N replied, shaking her hand firmly.

“Oh, please, call me Rebecca,” she said with a wave of her hand.

Keeley, sitting on the couch with a bright smile, practically bounced up to hug her. “You’re the new coach, right? I’ve been dying to meet you! You’ve already made quite the impression—Jamie’s still sulking about losing to you.”

Y/N laughed, feeling some of the tension ease out of her shoulders. “I’m glad I could provide some entertainment.”

Rebecca gestured for her to sit, and Keeley immediately began peppering her with questions about her background, her coaching philosophy, and her thoughts on the team.

As the conversation flowed, Y/N found herself relaxing. Rebecca’s sharp wit and Keeley’s infectious energy made her feel like she belonged. They shared stories about the team, teased each other gently, and even got Y/N to open up about her early days in football.

“You’re going to fit in here just fine,” Rebecca said, her tone reassuring. “And if you ever need anything—advice, a sounding board, or just a drink—my door is always open.”

“Mine too!” Keeley chimed in. “We’ve got to stick together, right? Girl power and all that.”

Y/N smiled, genuinely touched. “Thank you. That means a lot.” Finally, someone she could open up to without feeling too exposed. Roy is cool and all, but he’s not great with emotions.

As Y/N made her way back to the locker room, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of warmth and camaraderie. The day had been long, but it was worth it. She was starting to find her place here, even if Jamie Tartt continued to test her patience in many ways.

Speaking of Jamie…

She spotted him lingering by the training equipment, his expression uncharacteristically serious. He seemed to be debating whether or not to approach her.

“Need something, Tartt?” she called out, stopping a few feet away.

Jamie looked up, his usual smirk slipping into something softer. “Nah. Just… wanted to say good match yesterday.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Is that an apology for being a pain in my ass?”

He grinned, the cockiness returning. “Don’t push it, love.”

She shook her head, biting back a smile. “Goodnight, Jamie.”

As she walked away, she could feel his gaze on her, lingering just a little too long.

[kittenfangirl20]

Adam placed his hand over his heart, the fluttering feeling still there. After spending time with Lucifer he noticed his handsome he was, how happy he made him feel.

Adam: If this what true love feels like?

Adam looked up sadly as the sun set, but he saw Lucifer run towards him ready for battle.

Lucifer: Please don’t put on the helmet yet, I miss seeing this form of you.

Adam: How could you stand looking at me like that? At least like this I am beautiful.

Lucifer: Any version of you is beautiful to me.

Adam dropped the helmet in shock because of how genuine those words were. Adam felt his body change, but the look of admiration on Lucifer’s face stayed. In fact he got the feeling that Lucifer preferred him looking like this which started to make him love this form.

Lucifer: I know this may be inappropriate to say to my commanding officer, but I remember our wedding night. You told me I was the first man you would be with. Everything about your body was so perfect and I couldn’t believe that you were my husband. I knew that night I only wanted to be with you in such an intimate moment. You ruined everyone else for me.

Hearing these genuine words of love made Adam smile for the first time in a very love long time. Seeing Adam smile made Lucifer give him a very seductive smile that made his heart really flutter. He blushed realizing that his little tail was wagging in a very excited manner.

Adam internally: He is so handsome.

Lucifer: There is that beautiful smile I love.

Lucifer took his hand and kissed it. If he truly was married to Lucifer in another life he could see it. This man made him happy in ways he never thought possible.

Adam: We need to get ready for battle.

Lucifer: Of course.

Adam put on the helmet, but he still smiled which showed itself on the mask that covered his face. Just then Vaggie who was holding Charlie flew over.

Vaggie: Mammon’s troops are attacking.

Adam: Everyone, get ready for battle.

@things-arent-what-they-seem66

(Shrek AU)

A long time ago there was a beautiful garden called Eden. In the garden, Adam and Lilith the first man and first woman were created. He was so beautiful that the angels came from Heaven to marvel at the beauty of the first humans. Adam fell in love with the most beautiful of all of God’s angels, Lucifer. But Lucifer was swayed by the words of Lilith and ran away with her. Lilith convinced Lucifer to convince Adam to eat the Forbidden Fruit. Because of this Adam was cursed when he died. By day he was a beautiful angel, by night he was a fallen and demonic angel. Only the kiss of true love could break that curse and then he would take on the form of his lover. Adam was put in a tower in Purgatory guarded by a brave angel named Vaggie.

Charlie: I got all the papers dad, I hope that Michael will listen to us.

Lucifer: I doubt it, he may be your uncle, but he never cared for me.

Charlie had a plan to open a hotel to redeem Sinners, but she needed the backing of Heaven to make this dream come true. She had the hotel set up, she just needed the blessing.

Alastor: Don’t worry dear, I will protect the hotel while you are gone.

Lucifer gave Alastor a death glare while he gripped his staff. It had been seven years since Lilith left them and Lucifer was doing everything in his power to prove he was a good father. But it felt like Alastor was trying to steal Charlie from him as the manager of the hotel. The only guest of the hotel Angel hugged Charlie and wished her luck as they made their way to the Embassy of Heaven. They were greeted by Michael who looked exactly like Lucifer except for one thing. He only went up to Lucifer’s shoulders.

Charlie: I didn’t know that that the great warrior angel was shorter than you.

Lucifer couldn’t help, but laugh, Lucifer knew he was short, but Michael made him look tall. It was a sore subject for the warrior angel.

Michael: I should deny your request for that.

Lucifer: I guess that is why I have always been the bigger man.

He should have kept his mouth shut, but he was angry for how his brother was acting towards Charlie.

Michael: But I am merciful today, I am to be married and I need you to get my blushing bride from Purgatory.

Lucifer: Who is the poor soul that is going to be bound to you for an eternity?

Michael: Adam, the first man who is now an angel.

Lucifer gulped, he thought of Adam and how he wished that he could have chosen him over Lilith. He thought of the beautiful man in the garden who begged to be held by Lucifer as he flew up in the sky. It might be for the best that he make it up to Adam by bringing him to Heaven and be married to Michael.

Lucifer: So if I bring you Adam to marry you, you will get Heaven’s blessing for the hotel.

Michael: Yes.

Lucifer: Then we have a deal.

Michael went back to heaven leaving the two alone.

Charlie: Where is purgatory dad?

Lucifer: It's like an in-between land, it's neither holy or hellish. There is only one entry and exit. It's filled with all of God's rejected creations that weren't pure enough for heaven and too dangerous for Hell.

Charlie: So, Adam is a reject?

Lucifer winced: I wouldn't say that. He was God's favorite creation, I have no idea why he's there in the first place.

They went to the edge of Hell where it met with the path to Heaven, there was a grey archway with a portal in the middle of it.

Walking through, the whole world of Purgatory was shades of grey, all the plants looked narly and twisted.

Charlie: Oh my.....

They had no idea how long it would take to find Adam, but they didn't have all day.

-

Adam looked out his tower window sadly, another day stuck in his own personal Hell. He was so sick of the color grey.

Even the lava around the castle was a bright shade of grey.

When Vaggie would make her rounds to ensure that no monsters showed up and that Adam was safe, that was the only time he got to talk to someone.

He wished he could leave this place.

[speltfields]

NO WAAAYYY YOUR NEW WIP 😭😭😭😭 YOURE TRYING TO KILL US !!!!!

and about music he listens to it's so hard for me to decide some genre i've listened to all the shane playlists on spotify and i can't decide

what about you????

-🫶 anon

ok so first off to my non stardew followars (sorry) im gonna start tagging everything with #sdv posting so u can blaclklist. love u

answer under the readmore to save u all from the harmful psychic rays of my thoughts

i habe been thinking about the answer to this question for SOOOO LONGGGGG because i feel this has layers like here's all the different factors I have to consider

[and willfully ignore because hes my wet pathetic doll i can do whatever i want with]

1. stardew takes place in like the 80's yeah? 🤔🤔🤔 i ignore this one most of the time. giving them cellphones is funny. its the 2020s they all just have bad cell service and dial up still

2. emilys 8 heart event shane dresses like a punk. Dude gives off "i wanted to be a goth in middle school but couldnt afford tripp pants from the mall but now im an adult and too lazy to try" vibes. maybe his music taste reflects this

3. Umm he's "old" Lol (affectionate) I see him like late 30's early 40's...

4. But is he like COOL old or THINKS hes cool old (important distinction you have surely been around both types of men before and know the difference)

these are all of the factors i have to consider when choosing what music he would listen to.. the like "game takes place during the 80s" thing is the rule i play fast and loose. I only care about it if its funny contextually. usually its funnier if its not the case. Anyways onto the actual headcanons

I think shane would have pretty bad taste in music but once u are friends with him he's open to listening to new stuff and if you show him something new he hadn't heard before he'd say "Huh you're kind of weird aren't you 😏" making fun of you for it but secretly he'd think it was good/ he is def open to listening to new stuff. He secretly does like old school country as well. Noone knows this. You discover john denver/johnny cash cds buried under his bed (he listens to them to feel cool)

I think he would believe he had an eccentric music taste but then you'd go through his collection and its like... weezer. rhcp. maybe some metal. and ur like. This is Dad Rock Radio Tier and he'd be like "WHAT green day isnt dad rock" (i dont believe this yet but id say it to him anyway to make him mad. you understand)

you'd show him some shit like roswell kid and he'd go crazy for it even though its kinda cheesy. also he's randomly into stuff like aphex twin too.

I feel compelled to make him listen to the music i like but i know that that's wishful thinking. he's a dork that's why i like him. i might have to compound on this later when my brain works better (it takes me several weeks to form a single creative thought)

I haven't listened to any shane spotify playlists maybe i should... i do have my own playlist of songs that REMIND me of him but not necessarily stuff i think he'd listen to. I'm too embarrassed to post this 😈