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zepskies · 4 months ago

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The Honorable Choice - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I thought this idea might be a good fit for this @jacklesversebingo prompt.

Disclaimer: I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only to be safe. Racism/racial slurs, attempted sexual assault (not successful), protective Dean, angst, some violence and some action.

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🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 1: Pride & Prejudice

June 1872

Dean hears some of his men shouting, along with the telltale cracking of bone that would make a less seasoned soldier wince. He spares a look to Benny, his Lieutenant, and sets down his glass of whiskey.

Dean’s path takes him brusquely out of his office and toward the stables. He grabs his gun and his hat on the way there, setting the latter on his head.

Is it too much to ask for one night where he can drink in peace?

Dean comes to find a young woman being detained by two of his men, Kline and Novak. Roman sports a bloody nose and his eye is already beginning to swell. The woman fights against their hold.

Even under the pale moonlight, Dean notes the way she’s dressed: a deer skin dress cinched at the waist, over thin pants and shoes. He surveys her tan skin, her black hair that blends into the night, twisted into a long braid, and the anger in her dark eyes.

“What have we got here?” Dean says. He stows his gun in its holster as he approaches her, resting his hands at his belt.

“I caught her breaking into the stables, Captain,” Roman says. He prods with a hiss at his busted nose while trying to stem the bleeding. That’s going to be a bad break.

She remains tight lipped, stubborn.

“Probably doesn’t even understand English. Savage bitch,” he says. Dean shoots him an impassive look to cover up his annoyance.

“Put a cork in it, Roman,” he orders. Then, he focuses back on her. “You’re a Lakota, aren’t you?”

Aside from their main mission here in the Dakota Territory, the Colonel has been fixed on fighting back against the Lakota Indians, especially after they sabotaged the supply line last month.

The proud tilt of the woman’s chin is her only answer to Dean’s question. Her gaze drags down his form with disdain, like he’s the savage. His mouth twitches mirthlessly.

“The Lakota rear up their own horses pretty damn well. Why would you want to steal one of ours?” he asks.

She glances away from him, first at her feet, then over at the camp’s latest “guest.” Dean, Benny, and a few of his men wrangled up a horse a few days ago. He’s a beautiful Kiger mustang with a nasty mean streak. He barely got through a trim this afternoon, and almost took a chunk out of Rufus when he tried to brand the horse.

The Colonel ordered them to tie the horse up to a post just outside the corral—no food or water for three days. He’d turned to Dean with a firm set to his face and issued a single order.

“Break him.”

Now, Dean catches the furtive look the Lakota woman gives the horse, who flicks his tail. The animal stares right at her, as if into her eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you here for him,” Dean says with a chuckle. “That thing’s a little too much for you, sweetheart.”

That earns her attention, steely and unimpressed.

“He is too much for you,” she says. Her voice is smooth, and would even be pleasant, if not for the circumstances. “He is one of ours. You will never break him.”

Dean's eyes widen a fraction. He glances back at the mustang.

So that's why she's here, he thinks. She's trying to mount a rescue. Dean feels a twinge deep inside, but he can't allow himself to care about that. They've collected a strong horse that will be a good support for their objectives here, once he's broken.

“Ah, well see,” Dean says, tipping his Stetson up to meet her gaze. “That’s kind of our specialty.”

“Sir, should we take her to the stockade?” Novak asks. He seems reluctant to do so to a woman, even an Indian, but he’s always been good at following orders.

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts him off. Colonel Asmodeus Sanderson steps out and takes a look at their captive.

“Not the stockade,” he says, with that Southern drawl that betrays his Kentucky roots. “Not yet.”

He approaches her with a slow, calculated gait. His hands gather behind his back. Dean gives her credit for looking Sanderson in the eye. She seems rightly wary, but not afraid.

“We won’t hurt you. I give you my word,” the Colonel says, “if you’ll lead us to your people’s camp.”

He takes a hold of her chin, turning her face this way and that, like he’s examining a dirty animal, and all that he’ll have to do to make it clean. She spits in his face.

Dean bites the inside of his lip against a smile. She’s got as much fight in her as the mustang. However, he has to school his face back into stoicism when Sanderson rears back in anger.

The harsh smack rings out in the clearing, along with the woman’s cry. Dean doesn’t allow himself to outwardly react, but inside, his spine tightens as he fights his instincts.

Only Kline and Novak’s hold on her arms keeps her upright. She pants for breath, but again, she meets the Colonel with a face that doesn’t give away anything, despite the reddening mark on her cheek.

“The post,” he barks. “Three days. No food or water.”

Dean is kept busy by his duties. He makes sure the camp is running in order, accepting shipments of supplies and ammunition, among other things. Cas Novak is in charge of the stables, caring for the horses and putting them through their training. Jack Kline is young and strong and a good assistant, along with others in his unit.

Right now, Dean and Benny are going over the plans with Colonel Sanderson for continuing construction on the railroad, from here to the Black Hills. It’s a path that cuts straight through Sioux territory—the bands of Dakota and Lakota Indians that occupy the land.

“The natives are fightin’ us tooth and nail,” Sanderson says. “But maybe our guest will be able to help us…negotiate.”

Dean remains quiet, ignoring yet another uneasy twinge in his gut. He didn’t join the army to fight the Indians. He doesn’t always understand their way of doing things, but he understands why they fight—to protect their land, and to protect their own. It’s the same reason Dean fights, when he has to.

He joined the army because…well, it felt like the right thing to do at the time. His father had been a Cavalry Major, and he’d died an honorable death, now about a decade past.

Has it really been ten years? Christ.

Dean wipes his brow. Even with the windows open, the office is humid and smells like ass. He glances outside, where both the mustang and the woman are tied to their posts under a sweltering sun at high noon.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders what his dad would think of him now.

After the meeting, Dean and Benny fall into step together to inspect the camp. The summer sun shines hot on their blue uniforms, and occasionally they raise their hats to mop the sweat from their brows.

Things are running as usual, but many of the men’s eyes occasionally turn to the posts. Dean’s attention wanders there too without him realizing, catching on the woman’s dark hair. It shines even blacker in the sunlight, like a raven’s wing. He knows the shade because his dad used to have a feather kept in his journal, like a bookmark.

“You okay, brother?” Benny asks. Dean realizes what he’s doing, and his attention returns to the task at hand. Get it together.

Always forward, never backward.

“Just fine,” Dean replies. Benny gives him a knowing look.

“A bit unsavory, ain’t it?” he says. “Keeping her chained up without even a lick of water.”

“The Indians are getting smarter, bolder. They’re ambushing our men, going after our supply lines, and now, stealing our horses,” Dean says. “This is strategy.”

Benny shrugs slightly, making a sound of agreement. Dean hesitates, his gloved fingers flexing against his sides.

“If she was a man, you guys wouldn’t give a shit about putting a bullet through her head,” Dean says.

Benny’s gaze shifts downward. He doesn’t reply, but he concedes the point all the same.

They continue their route, and Dean keeps the rest of the conversation on the work at hand.

Mila has gone far longer without drink, but the sun is particularly unforgiving today. She’s prayed and prayed for even one cloud to glide overhead and shield her for a while. It’s not much better for her companion. He paces in place, occasionally tugging his head against the rope that binds him to his post.

She makes a clicking sound at the horse, getting his attention. She calls him by his name, and his ears flicker in her direction. He offers her a short whinny in response.

“I see you, Mato. I am with you,” she says in her native tongue. She hopes the sound of her voice will soothe him. He looks tired and hungry, but his eyes flick hard and untrusting on any man who comes near him. His spirit isn’t broken.

“Hey! Shut the hell up over there,” Roman shouts at her from where he and Cas are taking a short lunch break. Cas gives him a certain look, crossed mostly with annoyance.

Mila resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she closes them and tilts her face back to the sun. In a way, it feels cleansing. Maybe it can wash away the stench of the White Men’s hands on her body, manhandling her, checking her for weapons.

She spends the rest of the day watching the camp. One of their leaders, the Green Eyed One, called this a fort. It does look fortified, with tall walls made of thick wood constructed to form a cage—whether to keep others out, or to keep the men and horses in.

She identifies the Colonel as their chief, of a kind. Green Eyes is second in command, followed by the Bearded One with a strange voice. Even the scruffy Blue Eyed One has some authority, mostly over the Child Faced One. There are too many others to rank them all, but she knows the Loud Mouthed One is arrogant, even after she broke his nose. The way he carries himself, he clearly thinks he has more power than he actually has.

In her mind, Mila conjures up different plans of escape. All of them fall short in some way. The men didn’t find all of her weapons; a small knife is hidden deep in her boot. She could saw at her binds within an hour, but even with Mato to carry her out and away, the problem is escaping this camp without alerting the men. Without getting shot.

She has three days to think.

That night, the moon refuses to give her clarity. Her stomach is too empty, her throat too dry, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her attention shifts in and out of consciousness, until the sound of boots crunching in the dirt trills unease down her spine. More alert, she sits up straighter.

The Loud Mouthed One. The one they call Roman comes to taunt her, offering her water, then drinking for himself instead. He comes closer to examine her. He has a small bind over his broken nose.

“You know, you’re a pretty one,” he says, taking another cold sip as his gaze drags over her form. “For a wild thing.”

His face nears hers, clean shaven, though his thin smile reminds her of a rattlesnake. Dread and repulsion churn at odds in her stomach as she realizes what he's really here for. It doesn't matter if he truly wants her, or just wants to pay her back for his face. Either way, he means to take her here in the dirt.

She looks away, not wanting to let him see her fear, or the dread tightening her stomach, rising into her throat. He winds long fingers into her hair. At first the hold is gentle, deceptive. Then it's tight against her scalp. She hisses in pain when he tugs her head back and forces her to look at him. Her breathing quickens as she tries to pull away.

He draws in close to try and claim her in a kiss, but she head-butts him, hard.

He cries out and stumbles back, his flask falling to the ground.

He angrily grabs her and hauls her up to her feet. He pushes her hard against the post and unbuckles his belt, just to stuff it in her mouth. With his free hand, he begins to undo his pants.

She refuses to cry out, even though she spits out his belt and fights him, trying to kick out his knees.

Suddenly, the man’s body is ripped away from her. Mila loses her footing and falls to the dusty ground, sliding against the wooden beam she’s tied to. The wind is knocked out of her, but when she raises her head, she watches with wide eyes as the Green Eyed One beats the other man into the dirt. It doesn’t take much, just a few well-placed fists.

Roman lies there catching his breath, and he spits a wad of phlegm and blood. His left eye will match his nose, that’s for sure.

Green Eyes looks angry and disgusted. He huffs and puffs while staring down at his subordinate. He pushes back his short brown hair and points an ungloved hand at Roman.

“Get back to the goddamn barracks. You’re gonna be mucking out stalls until shit’s coming out of your ears,” he growls.

Roman doesn’t argue, though it’s obvious that he wants to. He just picks himself up, makes a show of straightening up his open uniform jacket while catching his breath. He walks past Green Eyes with a resentful, angry look. Green Eyes watches him until he disappears inside.

Then, he turns to her. His gaze softens somewhat, but it’s still unreadable. He crouches down in front of her, resting his arms on his thighs. Mila’s gaze briefly falls to his hands. They’re calloused, the hands of a laboring man. He carries himself like a warrior.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

It’s not what she expected. Mila eyes him warily when he moves closer. She presses her back against the post until it hurts her spine. He raises up his hands placatingly.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says.

“That is what your Colonel said,” she says. Her voice cracks with dryness. “I didn’t believe him either.”

His lips flicker at a rueful smile. It wrinkles crow’s feet around his eyes, breaking his stony face.

“Fair enough.”

He reaches for his belt and retrieves a flask, similar to the one his subordinate carried. He extends it out to her.

“It’s water, unless you prefer whiskey. I know I do,” he says.

She raises a brow at him, but hearing the sloshing inside the flask, her thirst takes over her wariness, and even her pride. She tentatively leans forward. He brings it closer so she can press her lips to the opening. Despite his Colonel’s orders, he lets her drink as much water as she’s able. When she’s done, he pockets the flask and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

That, she will not give him. Names are sacred to her people, and this man, while seeming to have a shred of honor, isn’t worthy.

“Don’t wanna even tell me your name?” he says. He nods slightly. “Okay, well, I’m Dean. Captain Winchester, to this band of delinquents.”

He gestures around the camp with a dismissive hand. Mila only watches him. She’s never seen a White act like this, breaking his leader’s rules, being…kind.

What a strange man.

But if he had any real convictions, he would untie her and let her go, along with Mato. She won’t hold her breath.

Dean’s brows raise up toward his hairline, and his full lips form a pout. Realizing he’s not going to get anything more from her, he lets out a tired huff and straightens up.

“Well, goodnight,” he says.

He finally leaves her alone, but she can’t help but follow the swaggering path of his bowed legs and heavy boots. They carry him away and back indoors.

A strange man.

By the morning of the third day, Dean is ready to do what he does best. Or at least, one thing he does best.

He’s no stranger to horses. He grew up on a farm in Lawrence, Kansas, where he and his brother would help take care of the animals. Dean was older, so he helped his father till the land and train the horses. Sometimes he and Sam would sneak off and race their favorite ones, until their mom called them back for dinner.

In fact, part of what earned Dean his rank in the U.S. Cavalry was how well he could command a horse. His own is resting in the stables.

Today, he’s getting in the ring with the mustang.

…Well, not right away. He lets a few of his guys go first to tire him out. Even after three days of no food or water, the horse is living up to his bad attitude. He bucks each of them off after just a few seconds in the corral. Dean can tell it’s becoming a kind of game for the horse. His dun-colored coat shines in the sun, his brown socked legs kicking up dust and manure as he brays angrily at whoever tries to mount him.

Dean notices the Lakota woman watching with an amused smile on her face while she sits with her hands tied to her post. She’s enjoying the show, like she knew this would happen. It seems to give her energy every time another man is thrown off the horse and limps out of the ring.

Dean shakes his head. Pitiful.

He puts two gloved fingers to his mouth and whistles the entire clearing to attention. He saves Kline the chance to bruise his spine and pats him on the shoulder. Dean steps into the corral and positions himself into the stirrups, wrapping the reins around his hand. The horse is breathing hard, but he’s not done. He’s still got fight in him. Dean sees it in his brown eyes.

“All right, mustang. You’re big and bad. I get it,” Dean says lowly. “But I don’t scare easy. Gimme your best damn shot.”

Cas and Benny give him wary looks from where they stand outside the gate.

“Hold onto your hat, Cap,” Benny mutters.

Dean adjusts his hat and rests his gun on the post for safe keeping. He wants to feel as natural as possible, like it’s just him and this horse, out back in his family farm. He holds on tight to the reins. He’s fully prepared for how the mustang takes off at a galloping clip around the ring. He twists and bucks, but Dean claps his thighs tight and holds on for the ride.

The horse gets smarter.

He runs for the water trough just outside the ring. He slams Dean against the side of it once, twice—and manages to throw him off, with Dean landing right in the water trough.

He bursts out from the dirty water, sopping wet and spluttering in anger. He looks over at the horse trotting around, whinnying and tossing his head like he’s laughing. Dean can’t help it. His anger fades, and he smiles.

This guy’s got some brass balls, I’ll give him that.

The Lakota woman laughs. Dean hears it and his head swivels toward her. She bites her lip, but she knows she’s been caught. Despite his injured pride, Dean’s lips curve with a smirk. Just gonna laugh at me, huh?

“I see things are going well,” comes a familiar drawl.

Dean’s face falls as he looks up and finds Colonel Sanderson. Dean pulls himself out of the trough and tries to squeeze some water out of his uniform. He clears his throat.

“Well, uh, it’s going, sir. Just gonna take a little more time than I thought,” Dean says. He quickly reclaims his hat from the ring, giving the mustang a smart berth. After he climbs back out, he goes over to the post where he left his pistol.

“Hold him steady,” Sanderson barks out the order, but not at Dean. The other men wrangle the horse back into the pen, where Sanderson climbs up and mounts the horse himself.

To his credit, he stays on longer than even Dean thought he would. The mustang gallops and circles. He tries slamming Sanderson on the sides of the corral, tries bucking him and bucking him, but the man clings on, even when his hat falls into the dirt.

The horse is exhausted. He eventually stops in the middle of the ring, panting for breath, his legs shaking slightly. Dean straightens at attention.

So does the Lakota woman, he notices. She looks worried, her brows furrowing.

Sanderson swipes a hand over his graying hair and moustache to collect himself. He raises his head with an arrogant smile.

“You see, gentlemen. Any horse can be broken,” he says. He kicks the horse with his spur. “Move along, mustang.”

To everyone’s amazement, the horse obeys him. He moves forward at a slow clip. All the men applaud, even Dean, belatedly.

“There are those in Washington who believe the West will never be settled,” Sanderson continues. “The Northern Pacific Railroad will never breach Nebraska.”

His gaze draws over to the woman. Her eyes are filled with tears as she watches the Colonel makes his rounds.

“A hostile Lakota,” he says in derision, “will never submit to providence.”

She stares back at him with steel in her watery eyes.

Dean doesn’t realize his jaw is clenched tight until he feels the strain in his jaw. He forces himself to relax, with his hand on his dampened belt.

“And it’s that kind of small thinking that would say this horse would never be broken,” Sanderson says. “Discipline, time, and patience. That’s all you need to level a wild thing.”

Just then, the horse stops abruptly.

“Mustang?” Sanderson asks in warning.

Dean tenses. He knows what’s about to happen.

“Sir!” he calls out.

But it’s too late.

The stallion revs and charges, bucking even wilder than before. He swings his head and rears back high on his hind legs with a powerful bray. Sanderson yells in fear and strain, but he stays on the creature’s back.

The horse’s angry eyes take on a darker shade of conviction. When all four of his hooves hit the ground, he finally bucks hard enough to get the Colonel off his back, though he still clings to the reins near the animal’s head. He comes face to face with the horse’s crazed eyes. His own are wide and full of terror.

Hot breath heats Sanderson’s face. Then the horse swings his head and tosses the man out of the ring. In the process, the horse falls on his side and shatters a section of the wooden beams that fenced him in.

While he shakes his head and gets his hooves under him, Dean and Benny help the Colonel up to his feet. His uniform is a wreck, and now, with a bruised body and likely a couple of broken ribs, the man is fuming.

Kline and Roman wrangle the horse’s reins and keep him more or less in place. The Colonel shoves Dean and Benny off of him. He reaches for his gun at his belt and aims it at the mustang. Dean goes rigid in shock, but he knows he can’t interfere. If he does, it could warrant some major discipline.

The Colonel pulls the hammer back on the revolver, but before he can pull the trigger, the sound of cutting rope and a feminine yell breaks the silence in the clearing. The Lakota woman pulls the Colonel’s arms down, and the gun goes off into the ground. Her elbow comes up quick to strike the man between the eyes. He careens back into Benny, who catches him.

Meanwhile, the woman swings up onto the mustang. She grabs a stronghold by the neck and barks something in her native language. It spurs the horse onward, and he breaks through the crowd of men at a gallop.

Dean watches with widening eyes and furrowing brows. “Shit!”

He runs to the stables where he finds Baby waiting for him. Her black coat ripples as she stamps impatiently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he beckons. He leads the mare out of the stable, and after grabbing a coil of rope from the supply bench, he mounts her smoothly. With a subtle kick of his heel, she picks up speed to follow the mustang and his rider.

They’re already approaching the gate where the men are quickly trying to close it. There’s still a window of opportunity for escape, but not only is Dean on their heels, Roman also stands on a pile of crates filled with iron parts that are due to be shipped out in the morning for continued construction on the railroad. Roman holds a rifle. He trains his weapon on the woman, taking deadly aim.

Dean’s jaw clenches and his brows furrow. He knows then, in the breadth of a few seconds, that he has to make a choice. If he does nothing, both she and the horse are as good as dead.

Sam used to call him reckless, stubborn as the horses he spent long hours taming.

Right about now, his brother is probably right.

Dean reaches for his gun, aims, and shoots within the span of those seconds. Roman goes down before he even knows what hits him. His chest plumes with blood after he slides down the crates and flops heavy to the ground. His eyes stare unseeing at the crisp blue sky.

The mustang tears through the narrow opening in the gate, and Dean isn’t far behind. The woman is an excellent rider, far better than he expected her to be. She clings to the horse’s neck and mane, and she doesn’t even use the stirrups. She clings on when the horse leaps over rocks, and when she notices Dean tailing her, she urges the horse at an even faster gallop.

Dean’s face furrows with determination. Baby is built for speed too.

He gives her a little kick with his heel. “Come on, Baby. Go!”

He’s able to keep up with the mustang just a few yards behind, even when they reach rougher terrain, going further up and into a canyon. He follows them through every curve and dip, guiding his horse just as much as she's guiding him.

Dean takes his rope in hand and turns it above his head, but his attempt to lasso the mustang's neck fails; the woman saws straight through the rope with her knife.

"Damn it!" Dean mutters.

He's forced to let go of his frayed rope when he and Baby nearly careen off the edge of a cliff. His heart settles high in his throat as he grits his teeth, but he pulls back on the reins hard and leans in the opposite direction. Baby's able to bank left, saving them from a long way down to certain death.

They continue up the narrow path the mustang has trod ahead. It carves around and through the mountain.

Dean mentally grasps for a plan, aside from just keeping up. Without even a bit of rope, he doesn’t know how he’s going to slow the woman down without hurting her or the horse. He doesn’t want to have to use his gun.

Eventually, the canyon breaks into a patch of desert, and then, grassy plains and tall forest trees. The mustang begins to tire and slow to a stop. His rider murmurs soothing things to him, stroking his neck. She turns back to look at Dean over her shoulder in dismay. She knows she’s caught.

“All right, sweetheart. That’s enough,” Dean says.

He sidles up next to her and intends to grab the mustang’s reins.

That’s when her swift kick comes, dead in his forehead.

AN: And here we go! 😅 Feels right that November is Native American Indian Heritage Month. 🫶🏽 For that reason especially I've done my best to do the Lakota people justice, even in this little series and complete work of fiction.

There's a lot packed in this first chapter, and yep, I did borrow a bit of scene from one of the best scenes in Spirit as an homage. From here on out, we're literally going off road...

Next Time:

Dean falls out of his saddle with a yell, landing hard in the grass. The impact knocks the air out of his chest and his hat off his head, not to mention the pain that rattles down his back.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezes, while trying to get back up.

The woman jumps down from the mustang’s back and all but leaps on Dean. Straddling his waist and grabbing a fistful of his collar, she lets out a battle cry and raises a small knife at him. It’s probably no more than two inches long.

Dean may be on the ground with a smarting forehead, but he’s still got the upper hand. He grabs her knife-wielding arm and whips out his pistol from his belt. Her eyes widen, and she stills above him. The gun lies between them, aimed for her chest. They’re both breathing hard.

Dean has a problem.

Looking into her eyes, soulful and brown, the slope of her nose and her full lips, parted with shock…

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weekendlusting · 1 month ago

Text

A TALE OF FAME

pairing ꪆৎ charles leclerc x ahaana patel ᥫ᭡. f1 driver x bollywood actress au

chapter ꪆৎ 1

summary ꪆৎ she's everything, and he just drives.

note ꪆৎ no hate to any characters used in the story, none of what i write reflects on how they actually are. all my love, happy reading.

────୨ৎ────

Ahaana Patel was an enigma wrapped in stardom. She’d emerged onto the Bollywood scene with a debut that was nothing short of explosive, pro shaking up the industry and catapulting herself into the hearts of millions. She featured in a movie of one of the most celebrated Indian directors, Karan Johar, alongside her costars Varun Dhawan and Sidharth Malhotra, and hasn't looked back since. It was a journey no one, least of all her academically fixated parents in Ahmedabad, could have foreseen. From their meticulously structured plans of engineering degrees and Ivy League aspirations to the glitzy chaos of movie premieres and magazine covers, her story was the epitome of unpredictability.

Now, twelve years later, Ahaana strode confidently through the paddock of the Chinese Formula One Grand Prix. Her steps were light, but her presence was impossible to ignore. The roar of engines, the sharp tang of gasoline, and the relentless buzz of the crowd enveloped her in a world she had come to know well over the years.

Dressed in attire that matched the casual coolness of the paddock air, a fitted white top and denim skirt. Her hair, perfectly styled despite the chaos of travel, swayed gently as she moved, her signature smile lighting up the faces of everyone she passed.

The first race of the 2024 season was underway, and the paddock was a symphony of excitement. Engineers tinkered with machines that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime, journalists scrambled for the perfect soundbite, and VIP guests mingled in their designer ensembles, trying to look like they belonged. Ahaana, however, didn’t need to try—she was a natural here.

“Ahi!”

The familiar Dutch accent cut through the cacophony, and Ahaana turned, her eyes narrowing playfully as Max Verstappen approached. Helmet in hand, the reigning world champion exuded confidence. His movements were deliberate, his gaze sharp, but the moment he saw Ahaana, his expression softened ever so slightly.

“Max,” she greeted, her voice laced with mock seriousness. “Are you ready to win, or should I start drafting my consolation speech now?”

Max rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Your faith in me is touching. Truly inspiring. Maybe you should stick to Bollywood instead of doubting world champions.”

“And miss this circus?” Ahaana gestured grandly at the bustling paddock around them. “Not a chance.”

Their bond was one of playful banter and unspoken trust, forged in the early days of her association with Red Bull. At first, their interactions had been fraught with the awkwardness of two young professionals forced into photoshoots and promotional events. But as time passed, they found common ground in their shared struggles—both carried the weight of their fathers’ expectations and both were determined to carve their own paths. What began as reluctant camaraderie soon blossomed into a sibling-like relationship. Max truly saw Ahaana as a little sister, and always would.

“Where’s Kelly?” Ahaana asked, scanning the crowd for Max’s girlfriend.

“She’s around,” Max replied, shrugging. “Probably hunting you down.”

As if on cue, Kelly Piquet appeared, her presence as radiant as ever. Spotting Ahaana, she broke into a wide grin and pulled her into a warm hug. “Ahaana! I didn’t know you were coming today. Otherwise, I’d have brought P—she misses you.”

Ahaana beamed. “I miss her too. We’re calling her as soon as these boys start driving their toy cars.”

“Toy cars?” Max echoed, feigning offense.

Before Ahaana could retort, another familiar voice joined the fray.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Red Bull’s golden girl.”

Ahaana turned to see Lando Norris, the ever-charming McLaren driver, strolling toward them. His grin was as cheeky as ever, his orange, oh sorry papaya, jacket standing out starkly against the sea of Red Bull merch.

“Lando,” Ahaana greeted with mock disdain. “Lost your way from all the oranges. Here let me show you, its that garage with a mark that looks like a disfigured comma.”

“It’s papaya and you know it. You’re obsessed with me , aren’t you?” Lando shot back, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Admit it—you came all the way here just to see me.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Ahaana replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Couldn’t resist the charm of McLaren’s poster boy.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head. “I can’t deal with both of you.”

The banter continued until race preparations called for Max and Lando’s attention. Kelly and Ahaana waved them off, heading toward the lounge.

The race was a spectacle, with Max clinching victory and Lando following closely behind in P2. The podium celebrations were a blur of champagne showers and roaring applause, but the real festivities began that evening.

The group—Max, Kelly, Lando, Carlos Sainz, Rebecca, Carlos’s girlfriend, and Ahaana—found themselves in a luxurious nightclub, the VIP section buzzing with energy. Neon lights danced across the room, the bass of the music reverberating through their bodies.

“Did you hear?” Rebecca leaned closer to Kelly and Ahaana, her voice conspiratorial. “Apparently, Alex cheated on Charles.”

Kelly’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking!”

Ahaana raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “How do you know?”

Rebecca shrugged. “Word travels fast in the paddock. Apparently, Charles tried to break up with her, but she keeps avoiding the conversation.”

“Classic denial,” Ahaana remarked, sipping her drink.

Kelly shook her head. “Why doesn’t he just cut her off?”

“He wants a clean break,” Rebecca explained. “But Alex is… persistent.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics as the night wore on. Lando, ever the photographer, took candid shots of the group, earning playful protests from his friends.

By 3 A.M., the nightclub was still alive with energy, but Ahaana needed a breather. She stepped out onto a balcony, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the heat inside. The city lights stretched out before her, their glow reflected in the glass of the towering buildings.

She wasn’t alone for long.

“Hey, Ferrari,” she said, spotting Charles Leclerc leaning against the railing, a glass of whiskey in hand.

Charles glanced at her, his expression a mix of surprise and curiosity. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” Ahaana replied, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “But you looked like you could use some company.”

Charles chuckled softly, though the melancholy in his eyes remained. “Maybe I do.”

Ahaana joined him at the railing, their gazes fixed on the cityscape. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence between them comfortable.

“Rough night?” Ahaana asked eventually.

Charles hesitated before nodding. “Something like that.”

Ahaana studied him, her expression thoughtful. “You know, brooding doesn’t suit you. You should try smiling—it might just solve all your problems.”

Charles couldn’t help but smile, albeit faintly. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely,” Ahaana replied, her tone light. “But if you’re not ready to smile yet, I’ll settle for a drink.”

Charles handed her his glass without a word. She accepted it, taking a small sip before handing it back.

“Not bad,” she remarked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Charles looked at her, truly looked at her for the first time. The neon lights from the club painted her features in hues of pink and blue, her hair catching the faint breeze. There was something about her—an effortless charm, a warmth that drew people in.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice softer now.

“Ahaana,” she replied, extending a hand.

Charles took it, his grip firm but gentle. “Charles.”

“I know,” Ahaana said with a grin. “You ready to party now, Red?”

Charles chuckled, a genuine laugh this time, and downed the rest of his drink. “Lead the way.”

And just like that, the night took on a new energy, two strangers finding unexpected companionship amidst the chaos of flashing lights and thundering music.

────୨ৎ────

ᝰ.ᐟ first part! i know this isn't much, but i plan on writing more and this is just the start. i hope you aren't freaked out by the rather rustic writing and keep reading the chapters to come!

────୨ৎ────

tags @seonghwaexile @bookishprophecy @justadesirebel @peterholland04 @bakingpiastries @ricciardosheart @mikefaistgf @ho3smadd

comment to be added to taglist

────୨ৎ────

116 notes · View notes

love-belle · 1 year ago

Text

lo mein kayamat tak hua tera !!!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ in which everyone knows that they want each other, except for them and it's time that they change it.

for when you find out forever waala love. ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

social media au // f1 x platonic!reader // aditya roy kapur x fem!reader

warnings - language

author's note - this is for my desi f1 fans and desi f1 fans only ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by adityaroykapur, lilymhe, maxverstappen1 and 2,681,561 others

yourusername where is my munda kukkad kamaal da

11,986 comments

username the caption is so real like where u @

username SHE'S BACK IN INDIA LET'S GOOO

username Y'ALL PLEASE TELL ME U SAW HER IG STORY 😭😭

-> username NOT Y/N SOFT LAUNCHING

-> username not to mention aditya ALSO posted a girl on his story and she suspiciously looked like y/n ☝️☝️☝️☝️

-> username i'm going feral over this someone call the twitter detectives

username her being back in india means we shamelessly get adityay/n crumbs and im STARVING

username in love with u hello ma'am how r u real

username tere saath saath aisa koi noor aaya hai

-> yourusername don't test me i will cry and marry u on SPOT

username oh i am SO ready for the amount of content we're gonna get from her like winter break!y/n is actually my roman empire

username waiting for aditya and her to just be fucking oblivious in the comments 🙄☝️

landonorris giggling

-> yourusername i will giggle ur ass CHUP ( shut )

-> username 😭😭😭 please free my boy he has done nothing wrong

username 4ever giggling at the fact that aditya was the first person y/n hugged after her podium and they ALMOST kissed like 😭😭

-> username my roman empire fr like i genuinely felt like i was intruding on something

username no one understands her like i do we're the same people and i will make friendship bracelets by braiding our intestines together

-> username i am sorry was that extreme

-> yourusername a bit but i like your commitment

username daniel i expect u to give us updates EVERY HOUR i need to know if these bitches are hopeful or hopeless

danielricciardo i hope you know that adi is currently contemplating what to write and giggling

-> yourusername OH !

-> adityaroykapur this is why i said no to you being in a bollywood film

-> username PLEASE OMG 😭

username i love the fact that so many drivers accompany y/n to india simply bc 1) they want to annoy her 2) they want to annoy aditya 3) they want to star in a bollywood movie so BAD

-> username they're pure of dumbasses your honour

username f1 grid in india where the FUCK is my indian gp ☝️☝️☝️☝️

username howling bc girlie would have her munda kukkad kamaal da if she just became more social

-> yourusername i do not appreciate being called out like this excuse u

username cannot wait for y/n to bully the entire grid into wearing traditionals 🤞🤞🤞

adityaroykapur i love taking pictures of you 💗

adityaroykapur wdym someone prettier than yourusername exists

adityaroykapur wdym i can't keep staring at her posts forever

-> username DUDE GET UP 😭😭😭

adityaroykapur you look leng in a lehenga

-> yourusername thank u :))

-> sidmalhotra actually there's no "leng" in "lehenga"

-> adityaroykapur 😐😐

-> username someone lock away sid PLEASE

-> username my biggest concern is who the fuck taught aditya what leng means 😭😭😭

-> username my bet's on lando ☝️☝️☝️

adityaroykapur glad you liked the jhumkas ❤️

-> yourusername wore them the entire day ❤️

-> username and i'm gone

adityaroykapur chand theri roshni ka halka sa ek saya hai ( the moon is just a slivery shadow of your light )

-> yourusername hayeeee

-> charles_leclerc DATE DATE DATE DATE DATE DATE DATE DATE DATE DATE

-> username omg

≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by yourusername, vickykaushal09, lewishamilton and 2,416,899 others

adityaroykapur black and white

10,729 comments

username i know who he did this for

username oh

username screaming sir why are u so

username OH MY GOD

username he posted this for y/n and y/n only y'all go home

username one chance ☝️☝️☝️

lewishamilton target audience reached 👍

-> adityaroykapur i owe you one 👍

-> username howling at this interaction

username i know that he got this idea off someone from the grid and i know exactly who he exactly got this from

-> username your case here 🎤🎤🎤 georgerussell63

-> username LMAO 😭😭

username giggling oh my god

username PLEASE I LOVE THIS MAN SO MUCH

georgerussell63 plagiarism

-> adityaroykapur you told me to post this ???

username screeching no one's doing it like him

username i love how his acc is just promos and stuff and then this thirst trap for y/n and y/n only likee

-> username my man's dedicated idgaf

username cannot wait to witness y/n have a mental breakdown in the comments over this 😭😭😭😭

sidmalhotra as y/n says "what's the square root of 64"

-> adityaroykapur 8

-> kiaraaliaadvani ATE !!!!!!!

-> username i love stupid men and their chronically offline selves

sidmalhotra this why you had to go to the beach itni subha ( early morning )

-> adityaroykapur i brought you breakfast chup ( shut )

-> username soulmates 🤞🤞🤞

usernsme live love laugh aditya roy kapur

yourusername woah

-> adityaroykapur thank you ???

yourusername you're sooooooo

-> adityaroykapur ???

-> yourusername hey bhagwan ( oh god )

yourusername be my munda kukkad kamaal da ???

-> adityaroykapur is this your way of asking me out

-> yourusername idk is it working

-> adityaroykapur absolutely, i'll see you at 7 meri jaan ❤️ ( my life )

-> maxverstappen1 what just happened

-> landonorris did they just

-> pierregasly oh my god

-> charles_leclerc it was that easy ?

-> georgerussell63 we just had to get him to post shirtless pictures. wow.

≡;- ꒰ °instagram stories ꒱

yourusername added to their instagram stories

≡;- ꒰ °instagram stories ꒱

adityaroykapur added to their instagram stories

≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by adityaroykapur, landonorris, kiaraaliaadvani and 2,528,915 others

yourusername he's my sataaye manaaye rulaaye hassaye all in one ( i don't know how to explain it, these are lyrics from a song "maahi ve" and basically it says that he troubles her, makes it up to her, makes her cry and makes her laugh, so like all in one )

tagged adityaroykapur

13,628 comments

username SCREECHING OH MY GOD

username im cryint i love tjem os mucj

username OHFJJSAJSJHHSS THIS IS INSANE I TELL U

username i prayed for this

username no bc i KNEW it the stories gave you AWAY y'all are not SLICK

username i saw them ask each other out that's crazy to think about actually

landonorris still mad i wasn't notified in advance

-> yourusername stay mad

-> landonorris you don't GET it i had to find out through COMMENTS

username in love with them oh my god

username they're my roman empire ur honour

username oh my god 😭😭😭😭😭😭

username the maahi ve reference imma SCREAM

username the way they're literally the it couple oh my god

sidmalhotra finally ‼️‼️‼️

-> yourusername no thanks to u

-> sidmalhotra badtameez ( disrespectful )

kiaraaliaadvani don't listen to sid, I'M SO HAPPY FOR YOU I LOVE YOU BOTH I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR AGES FOR YOU BOTH TO GET TOGETHER OMGGGGG

-> yourusername KI I LOVE U SO MUCH WE CAN FINALLY GO ON DOUBLE DATES LIKE WE PLANNED ☝️☝️☝️☝️

username sid and aditya on a double date obviously with kiara and y/n

-> username need to see this happen immediately for mental health purposes

username everyday i wake up and see some shit like this. why does the universe hate me

username i wish y'all blocked me before posting this (IM SO HAPPY FOR U OH MY GOD)

username me preparing to spot aditya at EVERY gp this year bc i know my boy is not strong enough to leave y/n for more than 27 mins

maxverstappen1 he breaks your heart, i'll nail gun his.

-> yourusername alright edge lord no more wednesday for u

-> username CRYING 😭😭😭

username im so HAPPY y'all don't GET it i've been waiting for this for YEARS

username i screeched and my baby cousin woke up y'all im NOT playing around

username since no one's gonna ask the important question here I WILL

-> username what the story behind aditya and the jhadu photo ( broom )

-> yourusername he was trying to make a point and said that if acting doesn't work out he can start a cleaning service

-> adityaroykapur gaadi waala aaya ghar se kachara nikaal

-> yourusername no we cannot get rid of lando and charles

-> landonorris fuck you

-> username NO BC WHY ARE THEY CATCHING STRAYS AT EVERY POINT

adityaroykapur PRETTY word is real and it belongs to her and her only

adityaroykapur a living angel

adityaroykapur making my pupils dilate

adityaroykapur prettiest 💗💗💗

adityaroykapur my phone just did a backflip

-> username lord when will it be me

adityaroykapur i have NEVER made you cry

-> yourusername false u called me a daayan yesterday when i had my hair down ( witch )

-> adityaroykapur BECAUSE YOU LOOKED LIKE ONE

-> yourusername WOOOOOOOW.

adityaroykapur we're cute together or whatever 🥰

-> yourusername whatever 🤨

-> adityaroykapur we're cute together 🥰 ****

-> yourusername perfect 🤞

adityaroykapur all i'm saying is, it would be a GOOD cleaning service

-> yourusername never quit your day job we'd go broke so FAST 😞

-> adityaroykapur what happened to "sheesh mahal na mujhko suhaye tujh sang sooki roti bhaaye" ( basically the hindi version of "i like shiny things but i'd marry you with paper rings" )

-> yourusername that's very rich coming from u considering ur roti looks like a different country every time

-> adityaroykapur wow.

username in love u don't get me

≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by yourusername, sidmalhotra, lewishamilton and 2,368,257 others

adityaroykapur i promise to take photos of you forever if it means i get to be by your side. lo mein kayamat tak hua tera ( i'm yours till the end of the world )

tagged yourusername

13,178 others

username im crying btw

username GOING FERAL OVER THE CAPTION WHAT THEBFUCK KK

username i audibly gasped i want what they have ‼️‼️‼️‼️

username THEY'RE MY PARENTS EVERYONE SHUT UP

username taylor swift writes songs about them btw

-> username ARIJIT SINGH writes songs about them more like 😭😭

username forever cackling bc sis really asked him out in the comments section

-> landonorris she got no game 😞❌

-> yourusername still pulled a bitch before u

-> landonorris she called you a BITCH adityaroykapur

-> yourusername WATCH UR BACK AT TURN 1 IN BAHRAIN I WILL ANNIHILATE U

-> adityaroykapur ...

username crying bc we're gonna get aditya at EVERY gp like im not even wrong bc that man's down BAD for her

-> username simply existing gf 🤝 obsessed bf

username god i see how kind u have to others

username alright y'all time to hug a tree 362 kmph

username O MAAHI LYRICS I AM DEAD I AM GONE I AM DECEASED I AM DECOMPOSING I AM SIX FEET UNDER

sidmalhotra happy for you both 🙄🙄🙄

-> sidmalhotra 🥰🥰🥰*****

-> yourusername stay mad bc i stole ur bf ☝️🙄

-> adityaroykapur did i unintentionally start another fight ⁉️

sidmalhotra finally no more talks about how much you want her 🥳🥳🥳

-> adityaroykapur that was CONFIDENTIAL

-> yourusername tell me more ☺️ sidmalhotra

username AND WE ALL CHEERED FINALLLLY

username the it couple of bollywood AND f1 i said what i said

username need me a guy who will post me like this or wtv 🙄🙄🙄🙄

yourusername bold of u to assume i'm leaving after the world ends 😕

-> adityaroykapur we'll haunt sid together 🤝

-> yourusername OMGGGGG YES

-> sidmalhotra MEINE KYA KIYA ( what did i do )

yourusername why do u always catch me off guard i look so bad 😭

-> adityaroykapur jhoothi you look perfect ❤️ ( liar )

yourusername i love u

-> adityaroykapur i love you so much more

-> oscarpiastri we get it MOVE ON

-> yourusername 😐😐😐

-> username LMAOOOOO

username i'm in awe WE'RE FINALLY HERE PEOPLE ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

#f1 x reader #f1 x female reader #f1 imagines #social media au #fake instagram imagines #f1 imagine #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #charles leclerc x reader #lewis hamilton x reader #pierre gasly x reader #carlos sainz x reader #oscar piastri x reader #lando norris x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 x platonic!reader

466 notes · View notes

kumbhakarni · 1 year ago

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It's chandramukhi who Paro is goggling at, her hithertho latent stirrings NOW at their unstoppable best.

@albaharu maybe you didn't intend a sapphic au but you don't know what you've unlocked. Thank yooouuuu.

Hey dola re dola re dola re dola

I am discovering the world of indian movies and im loving it. Here you go some Paro and Chandramukhi from Devdas request of @safehousebooze <3 ty for showing me the movie

#for the chandravati au #with a vibe like DAT #you can't tell me otherwise #chandramukhi #parvati #devdas #paro #my kweens #Madhuri Dixit #Aishwarya Rai #bollywood #indian movies #sapphic #desi sapphic #desi pride #lgbtqia #lgbtq

322 notes · View notes

deadpeopleinc · 2 months ago

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Alright chat, here's a list of fun facts/headcanons for my Marauders era au (out of context)

The concept of songbirds has done irreversible damage to Sirius' mental health

Sirius was painfully aware of the fact he was put in the wrong Hogwarts house, while Regulus was (for once) oblivious to the fact he was put in the wrong one

James is deathly afraid of clowns and anything clown adjacent

It takes Remus about 30 seconds to decide if he likes you

Peter can cry on demand, but the fact he cries pretty easily already makes this skill useless

Sirius loves clowns and anything clown adjacent

While Marlene is 3rd in student rankings, she can't brew a potion correctly if her life depended on it

Despite her calm demeanor, Dorcas is a holiday fiend and will find any reason to go all out

Pandora has managed to trick most of the Hogwarts population into thinking she's a seer. She's not, just really observant

Rosekiller started flirting with Peter as an on the wim joke, and fell in love on an even bigger wim

It takes a 2 minute conversation with Pandora for Lily to fall in love

Peter is scarily into horror movies

Sirius is an intense gingerbread fan

James has a habit of getting weirdly poetic with his speech, but only in short bursts

James is the 'eyes always closed anime character' of Hogwarts. Sirius didn't actually know what his eye color was until 3rd year. He gets this from his father

Sirius gets incredibly defensive of his family, but will deny it like his life depends on it

Partial albinism is a Black family trait, most just choose to hide it. Narcissa and Regulus are the only ones who don't

James was the only marauder with a regular (posh) British accent until like 2nd year. He still somehow managed to understand them perfectly fine

Marlene needs glasses but would actually rather die than wear them

Sirius is left-handed, Snape is too and they both hate it because of that

Lily was a horse girl

Sirius is autistic, Snape is too and they both hate it because of that

Peter bakes and Sirius cooks

Remus manages to burn water and James isn't allowed into kitchens. Not because he's bad at cooking, he's actually really good, he just gets really controlling

James is Indian, Mexican, and Chinese

Sirius would die to be taller, but (simultaneously) finds he and Remus' height difference hot

It takes Remus 4 years to fully realize how much taller he is to everyone else

Peter love gardening

Sirius has really neat handwriting, like every essay he writes is in beautiful cursive and he hates it

Snape's favorite color is pastel pink

Snape and Sirius' friendship starts right after a fistfight in a potions classroom

It takes everyone else 6 months to find out about said friendship

When his concealing charm isn't on, Sirius' partial albinism covers the whole left side of his body. He has the most "coverage" in the entire family

James always cries during the dramatic kiss scenes in romance movies

Remus was under the impression he was bi for the longest time because he only ever had crushes on fem/androgynous guys. It took until 6th year for him to realize that didn't count because they were all still guys none the less

James thought everyone didn't see gender when it came to crushes until around 3rd year

This will almost definitely have a part 2, but this is what's on my brain at the moment.

122 notes · View notes

nanamineedstherapy · 7 days ago

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Heat & Dust: Where the Wind Calls Her Name

Modern AU: Nanami Kento x F!Wife Reader

Summary: Nanami & his wife were happy. That was before Rajasthan. Because when the wind howls through the ruins, the whispers call's a name. (A slow-burn tragedy about a love lost & a man who never stopped looking.) Trigger Warnings: Smut (so minors & ageless blogs please touch grass), Heavy Angst, Unreliable Narrator, Shakespearian Tragedy, Haunting Love Stories, Loverboy Kento Nanami, Emotional Torture, Rajasthan & Indian Folklore Lore, Death (Past & New), Ghost Prince GS, Hopeless Romanticism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Reader is of Indian decent but you can hallucinate whatever you want, body type, skin complexation, etc. descriptions have not been used. The town is real & abandoned overnight for hunting reasons, but the palace described is fictional. A/N: Welcome to My Ted Talk on Why Nanami Kento Can’t Have Peace. So yesterday, I watched an Indian horror movie, & then I remembered a convo I had with my Indian atheist friend (hardcore non-believer), who casually dropped the fact that in India, “Oh yeah, we don’t dress up too much around ruins.” And I was like… excuse me???. Apparently, this isn’t just a "women beware" thing—even guys warn each other about this, because it’s not just women—cute men have also disappeared or gone insane. So instead of reacting like a normal person, my brain said: “What if Nanami Kento went full Majnu?” So naturally, this is now Nanami’s problem. Also, why do I keep making this man suffer? I love him, I really do, but if he’s not in maximum emotional distress, am I really doing my job? Anyway, Nanami is suffering & the narrator is a liar. Believe nothing. Enjoy the pain, bestie. 🖤

Rajasthan was a furnace in late autumn. The sun bled into the horizon, streaking the sky with burnt oranges and bruised purples as a foreigner husband and his local wife trailed behind their tour group.

"Are we really doing this?" She murmured, her fingers lightly brushing his wrist. The tour guide was droning on about the history of Kuldhara, the abandoned village known for its curse. But their real interest lay in the looming structure ahead—the palace of a prince, a name lost in history but kept alive by local whispers.

The palace was breathtaking, a relic of Rajasthan’s royal past, its sandstone walls glowing amber under the setting sun. Nanami Kento had never been one for grand romantic gestures, but even he couldn’t resist the allure of this Mahal, with its intricate mosaics and whispered legends. His wife had been the one to suggest the trip. “It’s a place for lovers,” she’d said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And we could use a little adventure, don’t you think?”

They had been married for five years, a union that defied cultural expectations—a half-Danish, half-Japanese man and an Indian woman who had met in the unlikeliest of places: a student exchange in Tokyo. Their love had always been quiet but fierce, built on mutual respect and a shared disdain for the supernatural. They were atheists, both of them, grounded in logic and reason. Ghosts, spirits, curses—these were the stuff of fairy tales, not their reality.

Nanami adjusted his sunglasses. "It’s just a palace. You wanted to see something ‘haunted,’ right?"

She scoffed. "I was joking."

"You were not."

A smirk tugged at her lips. "Fine. Maybe a little."

The group paused in front of the arched entryway; the marble cracked and overgrown with creeping vines. A hush settled over them as the guide began to recount the tale:

“This story isn’t in most history books, but ask the locals, and they’ll all tell you the same thing. Hundreds of years ago, a foreign prince came to this land—as a conqueror, though he stayed because of a person who lived here. Some say it was a woman, others say a man. The details were lost over time, but what we do know is that he had wealth, power, and control over vast territories. Yet, despite all of that, he chose to stay here, in a kingdom that wasn’t of his customs.

The prince was renowned for his striking beauty—his unique hair and captivating eyes—a ruler of immense charm but even greater misfortune. He built alliances, settled disputes, even took on the customs of the land. He was even undefeated in wars, a genius strategist. Some say he did it all for them—for the one person he couldn’t bear to leave behind.

But love like that rarely ends well.

One night, he vanished alongside his lover, a woman likely, promised to another. Some say they were caught and killed before they could run. Others say the prince’s enemies set a trap, making sure neither of them left these walls alive. But the strangest stories come from those who claim he never left at all.”

Nanami’s wife rolled her eyes. "He sounds like a tragic anime protagonist."

Nanami exhaled sharply—a rare, barely-there laugh. "You watch too much TV."

She elbowed him, and he caught her wrist, pulling her closer. The air between them shifted—heavy, charged.

"Come on," she whispered. "Let’s go somewhere less... crowded."

His hesitation was brief, a flicker of logic against the pull of her hand. They drifted past a crumbling archway, slipping into the shadowed halls of the abandoned palace. The moment the voices of the group faded behind them, the atmosphere thickened.

It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation.

She tugged him into a hidden alcove, her back pressing against cool stone. "No one’s here," she murmured, fingers curling into his shirt.

"Careful, darling, you sound too eager," he smeirked, his voice lower and rougher.

"Maybe I just believe in you more than the ghosts," she teased.

But the Mahal had other plans.

He kissed her before she could say anything more—slow, deliberate, consuming. The taste of sweat and dust mixed with the softness of her lips, and for a moment, nothing existed beyond this—just the weight of her body against his, the sharp intake of breath when he gripped her waist beneath her t-shirt, the warmth of her skin beneath his palms. Her lips kissing his with a hunger that made his chest ache.

They kissed like they were the only two people in the world, the cool marble at their backs and the faint scent of eucalyptus in the air.

When they finally pulled apart, she laughed, her voice echoing strangely in the empty hall. “This place is magic,” she said, her fingers tracing the patterns on the wall. “Can’t you feel it?”

Nanami smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I feel you,” he replied, his voice low. “That’s enough magic for me.”

And then—

The wind shifted.

A whisper of cool air, unnatural against the desert heat, coiled around them.

She shivered.

He pulled back slightly, brows furrowing. "Are you cold?"

She shook her head. “I just... felt something.” Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if she couldn’t quite put it into words.

A beat of silence hung between them, heavy and unspoken as he waited for her to elaborate.

Then she laughed, the sound light and airy, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Forget it. Let’s go back,” she said, her smile returning as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Her lips brushing against his ear, voice dropping to a whisper. “I want us to start trying for a baby.”

He shivered, a mix of surprise and warmth flooding through him. He’d wanted to have a family with her ever since he’d laid eyes on her.

Without a word, he pulled out his phone and called the driver, his voice steady but tinged with urgency.

As she stepped away, though, she hesitated.

Just for a moment.

Her gaze flickered toward the shadows of the palace, her smile faltering.

But then she shook it off, linking her arm with her husband’s waist, who kissed her forehead and pulled her towards the exit.

---

The first time he noticed something was wrong, it was subtle.

She was quieter on the ride back. Thoughtful. Her fingers tapped against the car window, her gaze unfocused.

"You’re not feeling sick, are you?" he asked, eyes flickering toward her.

She turned to him too slowly, blinking as if shaking herself from a daze. "No. Just tired."

He accepted it. At first.

But the things were going to change forever.

The moment the words had left her lips—“I want us to start trying for a baby”—Nanami’s world had narrowed to her, like it already didn’t revolve around her. His hands, usually so controlled, had trembled as they gripped her hips, pulling her closer. His lips had found hers in a kiss that was equal parts desperation and reverence; his breath had hitched as she melted into him.

“Are you sure?” He’d murmured against her mouth as soon as they walked inside their hotel room, his voice rough with need. When she nodded, his restraint had shattered.

He had been everywhere at once—his hands roaming her body, his lips trailing down her neck, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that made her gasp. He was drunk on her, consumed by the idea of her carrying his child, and it showed in every touch, every kiss, every ragged breath. His composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a raw, primal hunger that left her breathless.

Nanami had been relentless, each thrust drawing a gasp or moan from her lips. He’d already brought her to the edge multiple times, his hands and mouth working in tandem to unravel her completely. But now, as he hovered above her, his hips moving with a rhythm that was almost possessive, he was focused on one thing: filling her. The thought of it—of her carrying his child—had him teetering on the edge of control.

“K…Ken…Ahh,” she had whimpered his name, her nails digging into his back as she arched against him. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, his forehead dropping to hers.

“I’ve got you,” he’d murmured, voice rough, breathless. His hand had slid between them, thumb circling her clit as he felt her tighten around him again. “Come for me one more time, love.”

She had, her body shuddering as she cried out his name. He was about to follow her over the edge.

But then, she had frozen. Her eyes wide, as she’d turned her head sharply toward the window. “Do you hear that?” she’d whispered, voice trembling.

Nanami had stilled, his brow furrowing as he tried to catch his breath. “Hear what?” he’d asked; his tone had been calm but tinged with concern.

“Music,” she’d said, her voice barely audible. "It's... it’s faint, but it’s there. Like a sitar or something.”

He had seriously listened but had heard nothing except the sound of their breathing and the faint rustle of the curtains. “I don’t hear anything,” he’d said gently, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Are you sure?”

She’d nodded, eyes wide with confusion. “It’s there, Kento. I’m not imagining it.”

Nanami had studied her face, his analytical mind kicking into gear.

He had known her well enough to recognize when she was serious, and right now, she looked genuinely unsettled.

“Alright,” he’d said softly, pulling out of her and sitting up. “Let’s figure this out.”

She’d blinked, surprised by his calm reaction. “You believe me?”

“I believe that you heard something,” he’d said carefully, his tone measured. “Whether it’s real or not, we’ll find out. But I need you to be honest with me—are you sure you’re ready for this? For us trying for a baby?”

Her eyes had been filled with tears, and she’d shaken her head. “I’m not lying, Kento. I want this. I want us. But I heard something, and it's...”

He’d sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, let’s take a breath and figure this out together.”

As he’d reached for his robe, she’d grabbed his hand, her grip tight. “I’m sorry,” she’d whispered. “I didn’t mean to ruin the moment.”

He’d turned back to her, his expression softening. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he’d said, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “We’ll figure this out. But for now, let’s just... breathe.”

She’d nodded, but the unease in her eyes remained.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Nanami had muttered before walking away.

She’d sat there, alone and confused, the faint strains of music still echoing in her ears.

Later that night, as they lay in their bed, she had sat up abruptly, her eyes wide. “Did you hear that?” she’d whispered.

“Hear what?” Nanami had asked, already half-asleep.

“A voice. It was… singing.”

He’d dismissed it as a trick of the wind or her exhaustion, but the next day, she’d insisted they return to the palace, her tone urgent and her eyes wide with something he couldn’t quite place. “I need to see it again,” she’d said, her tone urgent. “There’s something there, Kento. I can’t explain it.” He had to spend two hours convincing her it was nothing and they’d stick with their itinerary with the hotel.

Maybe it was the stress of traveling. Maybe the unfamiliar environment was playing tricks on her senses. Or maybe, just maybe, she was overwhelmed by the idea of starting a family. He’d convinced himself it was temporary, something they could work through together.

But then it started happening every time.

Just as he was about to cum inside, she’d flinch, her body tensing as she turned her head sharply, her eyes darting toward some unseen corner of the room. “Do you hear that?” she’d whisper, her voice trembling. “Music. It’s… it’s faint, but it’s there.”

And every time, he’d stop, his patience wearing thinner and thinner. He’d listen, his brow furrowed, but hear nothing. “There’s no music,” he’d say, his voice calm but tinged with frustration. “It’s just us.”

She’d insist, her eyes pleading with him to believe her, but he couldn’t. Not when it kept happening. Not when it felt like she was pulling away from him in the moments they should have been closest.

Nanami was a logical man. He prided himself on his ability to analyze situations, to break them down into manageable parts, and find solutions. But this... this defied logic. He’d run through every possible explanation—stress, fatigue, even the lingering effects of jet lag—but none of them fully accounted for her behavior. And the more it happened, the harder it became to ignore the gnawing doubt in the back of his mind.

Maybe she doesn’t want this. Maybe she doesn’t want kids with me. Maybe she doesn’t want me.

The thought was like a knife to his chest. They’d been together for so long—twelve years of knowing each other, five years of marriage. He’d fought for her, convinced her family to let him marry her, to leave everything behind and build a life with him. He’d never doubted her love before, but now... now he wasn’t so sure.

He didn’t want to believe his intrusive thoughts; he really didn’t.

She loved him, right? She married him.

But then why did this trip feel like he was better off back home than traveling the world with the love of his life?

So next time he hadn't been as kind to her.

“Ken baby,” she’d breathed one night, fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer. They had been in their hotel room, the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Her touch had been warm, familiar, and for a moment, he let himself believe everything was okay.

He’d kissed her deeply, his hands sliding under her thighs to lift her onto the bed from the table he’d been fucking her against. His movements were urgent but reverent, as if he couldn’t believe this was real. He wanted her, wanted this, wanted the future they’d talked about for so long.

But then, as he’d continued to roll his hips, tettering on the edge of her and his own release, his eyes dark with desire, she’d froze.

Her head snapped toward the window, her eyes wide with fear. “Do you hear that?” She’d whispered, voice trembling.

Nanami had stilled, jaw tightening. “Hear what?” he’d asked, tone clipped.

“Music,” she’d said. “It’s… it’s coming from somewhere.”

He’d stared at her, his frustration bubbling over.

“There’s no music,” he’d said flatly, voice tight. “Are you... changing your mind? Is that what this is?”

“What? No!” She’d protested, voice rising. “I heard something, Kento. I’m not lying.”

He’d clenched his jaw and pulled out and away, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “If you’re not ready, just say so. Don’t make up excuses.”

Her eyes had been wide, hurt flashing across her face. “I’m not making anything up! I heard music. Why won’t you believe me?”

“Because there’s nothing there!” He’d snapped, voice sharper than he intended. He stood, pacing the room, his frustration boiling over. “If you’re not ready for this, fine. But don’t play games with me.”

She’d stared at him, her chest tightening. “I’m not playing games,” she’d said quietly, voice breaking. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m not lying to you.”

Nanami had sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to take a shower,” he’d muttered.

He’d grabbed his robe and left the room without another word.

She’d sat there, alone and confused, the faint strains of a voice singing her name still echoing in her ears.

Kento didn’t know that was the last time he was ever going to have sex with her.

---

Then, back in Tokyo, small things had began piling up.

She flinched at things he couldn’t see.

"You’re being ridiculous," he said one evening when she refused to step into their dimly lit living room. "It’s just shadows."

"You don’t understand," she whispered.

"You’re right," he snapped, patience thinning. "I don’t."

She recoiled as if struck.

Then she’d begun walking in the night, her side of the bed cold. She claimed she heard music, faint and haunting, like the strains of a sitar playing in another room. Nanami would check the apartment, of course, but there was never anything there.

“It’s stress,” he’d said one evening, his tone gentle but firm. “You’ve been working too hard. Maybe you should take some time off.”

She’d glared at him, her usually warm eyes icy. “You think I’m imagining this?”

“I think you’re exhausted,” he’d replied, reaching for her hand. She’d pulled away.

And then there were the whispers—half-heard murmurs when she thought he wasn’t listening.

She’d started to wake up in the middle of the night, staring at the corner of their bedroom. Sometimes mumbling under her breath, as if answering a question.

The fights started small—her frustration at his refusal to believe her, his exhaustion at her growing paranoia.

But resentment festered like a wound left untreated.

She’d insisted she wasn’t crazy and that something—or someone—was following her.

Nanami, the pragmatist, had suggested therapy. “Just to rule things out,” he’d said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Please, darling. For me.”

She’d agreed, but the sessions only seemed to make things worse.

The therapist diagnosed her with schizophrenia, a word that hung between them like a death sentence.

She stopped going to work, retreating into herself. She spent her days at home, staring out the window or pacing the apartment, her once-vibrant personality dulled to a shadow.

Then the arguments got more frequent.

When he suggested starting medication, she laughed.

It wasn’t a kind laugh.

"You think I’m crazy?"

"I think you need help."

Her lips curled. "Of course you do."

She stopped sleeping beside him.

Stopped talking to him unless necessary.

Work became a distant thing, then a nonexistent one.

Nanami tried to be patient, but the distance between them grew. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing her. The woman he’d married—strong, independent, full of life—was slipping away, replaced by someone he barely recognized.

And one day, he came home to find her in the dark.

---

Nanami had come home to the sound of laughter. It was a sound he hadn’t heard in months, and it stopped him in his tracks.

It had been rich and warm, spilling from her lips like it belonged there.

A weight had lifted from his chest, and for a moment, he allowed himself to hope.

Maybe she’d been getting better. Maybe they’d find their way back to each other. Maybe she’d been finally healing. Maybe—

But as he’d stepped into the living room, his heart sank.

She’d been sitting on the floor, her back to him, knees tucked beneath her, hands gesturing lightly—casual, intimate. Her shoulders had been shaking with laughter as she spoke to someone, voice soft.

Except there had been no one there.

“Darling,” he’d called, his voice trembling.

She’d turned then, still smiling, but the moment she’d seen him, her expression had shifted—a flicker of something unreadable before she’d schooled her features.

Her eyes had still been bright with a joy he hadn’t seen in so long. “Kento. You’re home.” She’d greeted him like he was an afterthought.

He’d forced a smile, though his pulse had thundered in his ears. “Who were you talking to?”

Her expression had faltered, just for a moment. “No one,” she said quickly. “Just… thinking out loud.”

“What was so funny?” he’d pushed.

She hesitated. Then, softly added, "you wouldn’t believe me."

His fists had clenched. "Try me."

Then her eyes had flicked—just slightly—to something over his shoulder.

And that was when he’d felt it.

The air had moved.

A cold breath against the back of his neck.

A presence too close, too real.

He’d turned.

And for the first time in his life, Nanami Kento saw a ghost.

Tall. Pale. Dressed in fine, outdated robes.

Beautiful eyes and hair.

Beautiful white hair and piercing blue eyes.

The man—the prince—was watching him with an unreadable expression.

Like a king appraising a pawn.

Like a conqueror surveying his land.

Nanami’s knees had buckled, and he’d fallen.

His wife had rushed forward, instinct taking over, her hands gripping his face, her touch grounding—alive, but her hands had been cold against his skin.

"Kento—!"

But he wasn’t looking at her.

He’d been looking at him.

And the ghost, Prince Gojo Satoru, had simply smirked.

Like he’d already won.

Nanami had realized then—this wasn’t just madness.

It wasn’t a break, a disorder, a cruel trick of the mind.

She hadn’t been losing herself.

She’d been taken.

And he had let it happen.

The pieces had fallen into place with cruel clarity.

The voice she’d heard in the palace, the laughter, the way she’d become distant—it wasn’t schizophrenia.

It had all been Gojo.

The ghost of a prince who had taken a liking to her, who had followed her home and woven himself into her life.

Nanami felt sick.

He had failed her.

He had dismissed her fears, convinced himself she was ill, when the truth was far more terrifying.

And now he was losing her to a man who wasn’t even alive.

“I’m sorry,” he’d choked out, his voice breaking. “I should have believed you.”

Her face had crumpled, and she’d pulled him into her arms. “It’s not your fault,” she’d whispered. “I didn’t want to believe it either.”

But as they clung to each other, Nanami couldn’t shake the feeling that it was too late.

---

In the weeks that followed, she’d grow weaker, her once-vibrant spirit fading like a dying flame.

Nanami watched helplessly as the woman he loved slipped further and further away, her laughter now a ghostly echo in their empty home.

And in the corner of the room, Gojo watched, his smirk never wavering.

But as he’d sat by her bedside, holding her hand as she slept, he’d make a silent vow. He would find a way to bring her back, even if it meant confronting the dead monarch himself.

After all, love was the only magic he had ever believed in.

Then Nanami had tried everything—doctors, therapists, even a desperate visit to a priestess who had taken one look at him and shaken her head. “There’s nothing I can do,” she’d said. “This is beyond me.”

And now, she was gone.

She died on a quiet morning, as if the universe itself was too ashamed to make a sound.

No violence, no struggle—just silence.

Nanami had left for groceries, and when he returned, the door was ajar.

The air inside was stale, thick, suffocating.

He’d called her name.

No answer.

He found her curled on their bed, her body unnaturally still, her hands resting lightly on her stomach as if she had merely dozed off. Her lips were parted, and for a moment, he swore he saw them move.

But she was cold.

Kento stood there for a long time, unable to move, unable to breathe.

It wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

He shook her once, twice. "Darling."

Her head lolled to the side.

His fingers clenched around her shoulders. "This isn’t funny."

Nothing.

A sound escaped him—raw, broken.

They told him it was heart failure. A tragedy. Sudden. Unexplained.

But he knew better.

The days that followed were a blur.

Nanami moved through them like a ghost himself, his grief a heavy cloak that suffocated him.

He expected to see Gojo’s ghost lurking in the corners of their apartment, taunting him, but the white-haired figure was nowhere to be found. It was as if Gojo had vanished the moment his wife had taken her last breath.

Nanami hated him for it.

Hated him for taking her, for leaving him alone, for existing at all.

But most of all, he hated himself for not being able to save her. For not believing her in time.

The days stretched into weeks. He drifted, weightless, his mind full of echoes.

He stopped speaking to people. Stopped working.

The world became a distant thing, muffled and unreal.

But the pull remained.

---

It was a month after her death when Nanami stood in the shadow of the Mahal, its sandstone walls glowing in the afternoon sun, looming over him like a specter from a past he couldn’t escape. It didn't hold the same allure anymore.

Now, it felt like a tomb.

He didn’t know why he’d come. He hadn’t planned it.

He hadn’t planned on anything at all.

Maybe it was desperation, or maybe it was the faint hope that he could confront Gojo, demand answers, scream at him until his voice gave out.

But deep down, he knew the truth: he was here because he had nowhere else to go.

The palace was empty; no tourists.

Nanami wandered the corridors, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

He found the alcove where it had all begun—the place where he had shared that fateful kiss.

The memory was sharp, painful, and he clenched his fists to keep from breaking down.

There was no sound, no music, only the faint rustle of wind through the palace’s ancient halls. Nanami sank to his knees, his anger giving way to despair. He whispered, his voice cracking. “Why? Why her?”

Still, there was nothing. No ghostly figure, no laughter, no sign that Gojo had ever been there at all.

Nanami felt a surge of frustration.

Had it all been in his head? Had her illness been just that—an illness—and he had been going insane and started seeing it too?

As he sat there, his mind racing, the air got heavy with the scent of eucalyptus and decay, and a faint sound reached his ears.

It was music—soft and haunting, reminiscent of the tunes she had described hearing all those months ago.

But this time, it was accompanied by the gentle jingle of the anklets she’d worn on their wedding day and during Karwachauth ever since.

Nanami’s breath caught in his throat.

He stood, following the sound through the palace’s labyrinthine corridors until he reached a small, hidden chamber.

Inside, the walls were covered in intricate carvings, their details illuminated by the faint light of a single oil lamp.

And there in the center of the room—

She’d looked just as she had in life, her eyes warm and full of love, voice soft. “You shouldn’t have come.”

Nanami stumbled forward, reaching for her, but his hand passed through her like smoke. “Darling,” he choked out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

“What are you talking about?” Nanami demanded, his voice rising. “You didn’t choose this! He took you from me!”

She shook her head, her form beginning to fade.

“No!” Nanami shouted, lunging for her, but she was already gone, the music fading with her.

The next moment, there was nothing.

Only silence. Vast and consuming.

Then—a shimmer in the air, warping the space around it, like heat rising from the desert sand.

A figure materialized.

White hair. Piercing Blue eyes. Pale skin. A presence that did not belong.

Nanami could barely breathe.

Gojo Satoru stood before him, his gaze vacant, his posture relaxed in a way that felt unnatural—like he was here, but also elsewhere. His voice, when it came, was soft. Too soft.

"Why her?"

There was no malice, no satisfaction. Just neutrality. An absence of feeling.

Nanami swallowed, his throat dry. His fingers curled into trembling fists. "You really don’t know, do you, Kento?"

Nanami’s jaw clenched. "Enlighten me."

Gojo tilted his head slightly, as if considering the request. When he spoke, there was no anger, no cruelty—just a simple, unwavering truth.

"You married an Indian woman. Lived with her. Loved her. And yet, you never learned the most basic rule."

The air around them shifted, thick with something rancid. The wind through the broken palace walls carried the scent of decay, of age, of something that did not want to be disturbed.

Gojo’s voice remained even.

"In India, there’s an unspoken rule—one even atheists follow."

The air grew colder.

"You do not show off your women in ruins."

Nanami’s stomach twisted.

Gojo blinked slowly, like a creature that had forgotten how to mimic human expression. "You don’t dress them up and parade them around cemeteries, old buildings, palaces." His voice lowered. "People get possessed. Things follow them home."

Nanami felt his breath leave him.

The memory came back. The moment he lost her.

The way she had laughed in that alcove, her lips swollen from his kisses, her body pressed against his, flushed and breathless. The gold that had glinted at her wrists, her throat, catching the dying sunlight—making her glow. The way her voice, filled with love, with life, carried through the hollow halls of a palace where no living thing should have heard it.

They had looked so blissful.

But now, the memory felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

Because he’d been watching.

“You looked so happy,” Gojo murmured, his voice almost thoughtful. “So in love.”

There was no malice. No regret. No sympathy.

"And I…" Gojo’s voice barely wavered. "I wanted that."

Nanami’s heart threatened to crawl out of his throat.

Gojo blinked, his expression unchanging. "My love left me," he said. "Married another. Her family pushed her into it, and she stayed once she met him. I waited for her. I waited for her to come back."

His head turned slightly, looking out the window, gaze distant. Like he was watching a memory. Like he was watching something only he could see. "She never did."

The stillness in his voice was unbearable.

Nanami’s vision blurred with rage. "So you took mine instead?"

Gojo turned to face him, eyes boring into Nanami's.

His face was still empty. Void of anything human.

"Maybe I did," he said. "Maybe she left. Maybe she came back to me. Maybe you stole her from me in another life. Maybe she chose you. Maybe she didn’t love me as much as I thought. Or maybe—" Gojo exhaled softly. "Maybe I see why she fell in love with you."

Rage coiled in Nanami’s chest. His hands trembled, nails biting into his palms.

Gojo watched him without blinking. Without caring. "After everything I lost—after she left me to marry someone else because her family pushed her into it—I wanted what you had."

Gojo’s voice did not rise. It did not falter.

"So I took it."

Nanami’s body locked up, something primal and violent rising in his chest. His throat burned. His vision swam. His grief was a wildfire, an avalanche, a noose tightening around his own damn throat.

“You’re a monster.”

Gojo continued, reactionless. "Maybe," he admitted.

Then—Gojo’s head tilted ever so slightly.

"But you’re the one who brought her here."

The words slammed into Nanami’s ribcage like a hammer.

"You didn’t protect her," Gojo murmured. "You thought she was insane before you believed her."

The words hit Nanami like he was being set on fire.

Because he knew.

He knew.

Deep down, he knew the truth in them.

He’d been so focused on their future, too confident in logic and reason, on starting a family, that he’d ignored the warnings—both spoken and unspoken—the unease in her eyes, the way her voice had shaken when she begged him to listen, to believe her.

And now she was gone.

He would never see her again.

She had slipped through his fingers like smoke, like an illusion he was never meant to hold onto in the first place.

He stood there, rooted in the ruins of a past that no longer existed, a future that had been severed clean from his grasp.

Gojo did not smile.

He did not mock.

He simply stood there, blank and unfeeling, watching as Nanami shattered into something that could never be put back together.

"Give her back."

Nanami’s voice cracked, raw and desperate.

It was not a demand.

It was a plea.

"Please." His fingers twitched, reaching for something that wasn’t there. "Just give her back."

For the first time, Gojo’s expression shifted. Not in pity. Not in regret.

Just something fleeting. Almost human.

"I can’t."

His voice was quiet. Unshaken. Final.

"She’s not mine to give."

And then he was gone.

No shadow left behind.

No footprints in the dust.

As if he had never been there at all.

And maybe he hadn’t.

Nanami never saw Gojo again.

Not in the palace.

Not anywhere.

And neither did he see her.

Not that day.

Not the next.

Not in the ruins where he had kissed her for the last time.

Not in the house where she had once lived, where the echoes of her voice had turned to silence.

But still, he searched.

Through the palace.

Through the crumbling ruins.

Through the empty villages.

Through the desert, where the sand swallowed footsteps whole.

Through the places where even the ghosts had grown tired of lingering.

But there was nothing.

There had never been anything.

No ghosts.

No answers.

Just silence—cold and unrelenting, stretching on and on until it hollowed him out from the inside.

Or maybe—maybe he had seen her.

Maybe she had whispered to him in the dead of night, her voice curled around his ear like a secret. Maybe he had caught glimpses of her in reflections, in the shimmer of heat rising from the sand, in the spaces between dreams and waking.

Or maybe it had all been in his head.

Maybe she had never been there at all.

The whispers started soon after.

Of the foreigner with blond hair who wandered through the ruins, his steps slow, his gaze hollow.

Of the man who murmured to the crumbling palace walls, who spoke to shadows, who waited for a love that would never return.

At first, people tried to help.

They approached him with cautious kindness.

“Are you lost, sir?”

“Do you have family we can call?”

“Here, drink this—eat something.”

But Nanami did not answer.

Did not acknowledge them.

Did not even seem to hear them at all.

He knew you’d be mad.

You never liked when other women gave him attention.

He would sit in the dust, his fingers tracing invisible patterns into the stone, lips moving in silent conversation.

With whom, no one knew.

And slowly, they learned to leave him alone.

He became part of the ruins themselves.

A figure wrapped in dust and sorrow.

A cautionary tale whispered to children.

"Don’t wander too far, lest you meet the mad foreigner who searches for his dead wife."

The weeks passed. Then the months.

His hair grew long and matted, strands clumping together, dirt and sand tangled in the once-golden locks.

His clothes frayed at the edges, sleeves torn, fabric thinning from exposure to the harsh desert winds.

His face, once sharp with quiet confidence, sank inward—cheekbones too prominent, lips cracked, skin burnt raw by the unrelenting sun.

A living corpse.

The police and NGOs found him once, coaxed him into a rehabilitation center, gave him food, bathed him, handed him clean clothes.

But the moment they turned their backs, he was gone.

He ran.

Back to the palace.

Back to the ruins.

Back to the last place he thought he'd seen her.

He was twenty-seven, but to those who saw him, he was ageless.

A mad saint.

A lost soul.

A pagala baba, dressed in tattered rags, muttering prayers that weren’t prayers—just a name, her name, over and over again.

Still—he walked.

Because maybe, if he searched long enough—

If he wandered through the ruins until his feet bled—

If he kept looking, kept listening, kept believing—

Maybe one day, he would find her again.

Maybe she had just stepped away for a moment.

Maybe she would return.

Maybe one day, he would wake up and she would be beside him.

And the desert, mercifully, swallowed his grief whole.

Because one day—

He disappeared.

No one saw him leave.

No footprints in the sand.

No body was found.

Just gone.

But still—the whispers remained.

At night, when the wind howled through the ruins, when the air was thick with the weight of something unseen—

Some swore they heard it.

A hum.

A laugh.

A faint, lingering strain of music.

Some claimed they saw a figure—tall, blond, beautiful, with kind eyes.

A man, waiting. Searching. Wandering.

Still looking for the love stolen from him.

Still lost in the ruins, long after his body had faded into the sand.

Still hoping—

That maybe, this time, he would find her.

Or maybe he already had.

No one knew.

No one ever would.

But they all agreed on one thing—

That sometimes, in the dead of night, when the desert wind carried the echoes of the past, those who listened closely could hear it—

A faint hum of laughter.

The ghost of a love stolen.

Or the sorrowful strains of music that followed him wherever he went.

A/N: So, my dear readers… how did you like Schizophrenia? No, Just a Rajasthani Prince With No Bitches. Did Nanami ever find her? Did Gojo win? Or did our beloved blond idiot just walk himself into an early grave Majnu-style? Comment below: 🔘 “They were reunited” (Delusional Romantic) 🔘 “Nanami died searching” (Realist Pain Enthusiast) 🔘 “Gojo gaslit gatekept girlbossed all of us” (Clown) Let me know which version of suffering you believe in. Your engagement fuels my villain arc. 💀✨

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themareverine · 2 months ago

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Toy Soldiers | part one | worst!wolverine x namelessfem!OC

synopsis: He was just a one of those fast food kid’s meal toys from 1993—key word, was. now he’s Hugh Jackman incarnate, standing in the master bedroom of her midwestern apartment, lost in time and infinity. she’s gotta get him back to his world, where he’s the worst Wolverine, where he belongs—or, maybe not?

warnings: Indian in the Cupboard themes (iykyk), fluff, AU, not entirely sure what else at this point, nameless!femOC with blue eyes could be interpreted as reader, mentions of a best friend named Rose, etc, literally based on this silly little toy I rescued and now have crafted extensive lore for.

a/n: i didn't ask for this to become a multi-chapter thing. i really didn't, ok? this got away from me, but i really love these two so much already. this was fun to write, and she's a fun character to develop. worst!wolverine is just occupying too much brain space.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Dreaming in color is a pro, when you weigh it against the cons—usually.

She’d been dreaming in movie-like quality since she was a kid, could pinpoint almost to the exact timespace when she first realized her dreams were akin to Hollywood flicks roving about her brain like Spielberg classics.

She’d been six, maybe seven. A hopeless crush on Wednesday night’s Steve Irwin had somehow twisted the innocent power of her brain—the only, almost divine dreamstate visit to Australia she’d ever taken. Still she can taste the hot air, thick with sweat and arid desert, from the back of an obscure Land Rover, jostled and bouncing along forgotten roads and who-knows trails. Eyeballing open sky and endless outback sands, the Crocodile Hunter and his darling wife, Terri, vivid imaginations to a childhood fantasy yet, mostly, unlived.

And ever since this God-granted, she’d always assumed it was a gift and thus titled it so, she’d been dreaming vividly most of the last twenty four years. Forgetting her dreams was the exception, black and white—unheard of. Tasting, speaking, reading, touch was wrapped up in REM and weighted blankets, vicarious life she’d never, really, lived in her waking moments—everything from the supernatural to gut-wrenching. Martial bliss and familial tragedy. Combat she could only ever hope wasn’t accurate. Fame and fortune. R rated filmstrips that left her stomach light and fluttery every morning, promptly, at 4:45—alarm shrieking in her ear, viscerally ripping her back to the land of the living with frothing teeth, the Greatest Showman custom alarm all but a slap in the face.

It’s, as usual, dark when the numbers on her phone roll over to 4:45—sucked out of a dream like the vacuum of space itself lays claim to her soul, her eyes flutter open heavily to stare at the alarm. Hugh Jackman would never be so unwelcome as he is now, blaring from little iPhone speakers—she manages to lift a noodle-esque arm to slap at the noise hanging out in the darkness around the vicinity of her nightstand.

Fingers locate the smooth screen, swipe away the prompt for snooze. Roll over. Hand over her eyes—it’s Saturday The day after Friday, her first day alone all week. World beyond is closed away behind walls and empty schedules, priorities otherwise left-fielded for such days as this.

Warmth simmers beneath heavy weighted covers, trapped against her body. Clawing up through her mattress, threatening to pull her back into oblivion. Pharaoh’s hadn’t been so mummified, entombed as she is now, but that’s the beauty of a queen mattress left unshared—solidarity. Armies only wish they held such control over real estate as she did these sheets, this bed frame—very little could remove her from the ecstasy that is this Eden, the one place that did not require compliance, performance, untenable perfection.

Here she could rot for hours, engage in adventure that the earth would never understand—that man would jeer.

Heaving a sigh melts her deeper into her astronaut-designed mattress, stomach suddenly flatter than it’s ever been as gently fingers tease at the strip of skin exposed. Back arching, stirring nearly-paralyzed muscle. Toes skip over warm satin sheets as she navigates to her side, arm tucking beneath her pillow. Drawing blankets to her chin, another deep breath closes her eyes, shuts off her brain—all but ready to return to dreamstate, the screen on her phone illuminates again—diiiiing.

Light explodes, lighting up the area of her nightstand just enough to give purpose to her surroundings.

Nose scrunching in an effort to unhear and forget the notification, her eyes slowly pull open as she considers the phone. It’s her best friend, she knows it is—Rose is up early. All the time. Taking care of her little family at the base of the Teton mountains, as if this is Little House on the Prairie and such things were the norm.

Her inability to ignore anything from Rose props her up on an elbow, has her reaching for her phone—thumbs the passcodes. Opens the text, eyes scanning the message from last night.

It’s a photo message. She’d sent it last night, proudly showing off the latest addition to her childhood nostalgia collection—a thrift store find, the little McDonald’s toy is hardly noteworthy. Scuffed and worn, it had seen adventures, surely, in its pre-her-possession life. Surprise had knocked her between the eyes like a stone when she’d managed to spy 1993 printed on the little action hero’s foot, in barely-there legalese.

At thirty-one years old, one may have expected the little five-cent made-in-Taiwan to end up in the landfill, rotting alongside near-radioactive diapers or kill-the-turtles plastic straws.

Nope, not this one—Marvel’s very own little Wolverine. Dolled up in a cute little sci-fi bronze suit, ready for a fight. Retractable claws, the hardly-scuffed cowl, a proud encircled X in all its glory—wrapped up in a little sandwich baggie marked down at the thrift. She’d almost felt sorry for him in that cute aggressive way.

And almost giddy at the fluke cocktail of age and condition, she’d pocketed the little guy. A pleased smile, her very own little Wolvie nestled in the leathers of her jacket, then the bottom of her purse. He’d adventured to work with her accidentally on Friday, plastic eyes watching her pass the time at the office from his little perch beside her keyboard and Starbucks. Almost had forgotten him, poor thing—he’d landed on her nightstand among the other needs-put-away items for the weekend, proudly standing in his posed little battle stance.

All he needed was matching Sabretooth, maybe Magneto, and he’d be good to go.

Looky who came home with *me*, shot over to Rose with a little thrill, a Snapchat-like photo of him perched alongside her night cream and phone charger. More of a proud sentinel guarding her bedside table than anything, she’d regarded him playfully, like a child—had told him to close his eyes when she’d undressed. Had asked him about a movie to watch in bed as she managed hip-opening exercises, relaxing breathing techniques. All but kissed him goodnight, promising to get him settled among her other collectable childhood wonders in the morning.

After coffee and cardio, wouldn’t Hugh be proud.

Rose’s LOL text all but smiles back at her, and she’s a little cross-eyed from the brightness of her phone. It improves when her eyes skate away from the phone, to the little Wolverine—wait.

Brow furrowing, his absence from the nightstand sparks more panic than she’d be willing to admit in therapy—she bends over the side of her bed, fingertips skating the floor in search of her little plastic wonder. Nothing but plush carpet, abandoned laundry she’d failed to relocate to her drawers—her phone slips from her hand as she hauls herself over the bedside, to peer beneath.

It’s dark, duh, and she fumbles upside-down with the flashlight on her phone. Sun levels of intense light, she makes arching passes beneath her bed, but no dice. Nada. Zilch–zippo on the Wolverine toy.

“Well this is just a little ridiculous,” her mumble rolls off a dry tongue, from messy hair as she works herself back up from hanging over the bedside.

Forcing off her weighted blankets has never felt more urgent, importance spiking her blood with ill-placed adrenaline she doesn’t understand—why she cares so much about a little three-decade-old McDonald’s toy she’ll never understand, but the thought of him lost in the abyss of her house is more unsettling, again, than she’d admit in therapy.

Legs swinging over the bed, she plucks her glasses from the tray on her nightstand, grabbing for the light robe dragging the floor from one of the nightstand’s knobs.

Wrestling a steer would’ve been easier than un-inside-outing the garment, still hazy and half-asleep and wholly uncaffeinated, but she manages. Another scout under her bed reveals that, no, little Wolvie isn’t among the dust bunnies and lint of her carpeted under-bed floor.

Brow furrowing, her glasses slip down her nose as she hauls herself back to her feet, sleep-stiff muscles protesting as she massages the back of her neck.

Hands on her hips, she reaches for her phone. “Had I known you had teleportation powers, little Lo, I’d have sold you off to NASA—come on,” Triggering the flashlight on her phone again, she dives to check between the headboard and mattress, to see if her Logan lookalike decided to magically dive headfirst into the almost-abyss—

“—you make a habit of talkin’ to open air, girlie?”

Two things happen immediately in her body.

First. Alarm jumps up in her chest like a devil, deep claws sinking into the meat of her chest only to rip away any sense of safety taking up residence behind her ribs, in her bones. Heart forgetting to throb, blood all but stands still in her veins, asystole in her arteries—she can feel the lining of her stomach twist into a viper-like coil so cold, she fears frostbite has set into her organs.

Fear knocks hard on the door of her sternum, ripping the wind from her lungs. Terror opens up her vocal cords and bludgeons a song from her throat, but it’s so dry in her apartment that the fleshy membranes of her mouth have all but become cragged Sahara sands. Tongue swelling to the size of her fist, she fears she’ll choke on it. Forces it against the back of her bottom teeth, jaw clenching with enough force to break open the world.

Legs somehow managing to propel her up onto her mattress, across the bed, to the farthest corner of the space. Cold sweat raises to a dance across her skin, satin sleeping pants clinging to the flesh of her thighs as sapphire eyes attack the figure cutting through the threshold of her door—hands low and open, in placating surrender.

Brow furrowed with canyon deep lines, dark eyes flick over her frame as she takes a step back for each of the ones he cautiously makes into the room. Invading her privacy, an unwelcome intruder.

“Easy, sweetheart,” early morning gravels his words, which hang low in baritones not at all unfamiliar, “‘m not gonna hurt you. You breathin’ ok?” Genuine concern passes through his eyes, deep and alive, but—not in a bright way. The corner of his lip tips up, “Don’t mean to scare ya, pretty.”

Pretty? Sweetheart? Who the hell is this—?

Any familiarity his face holds is lost to the bite of adrenaline, slavering teeth trenching into the back of her brain. Seeming to lap at the spinal fluid all but bubbling down the length of her back. Chest heaving with effort, she fears her ribs might break. Cardiac muscle behind her chest bones all but explodes with every heavy heartbeat, reminding her to stay alive. That she, still, is living.

Stomach sour, twisting like corded steel, she lunges for the foot of her bed—snatched the first thing she can retrieve. Face all but a blazing inferno of heat, nails all but pike into the soft plush of a stuffed animal. Her favorite. Or, rather, was—now little more than a weapon, it stands between her and the invasion like a fortress.

“What the hell are you doing here,”she challenges, taking a half step back. Memories of kickboxing classes, somewhere in her youth, escape through the fingers of memories in the back of her head. More boxing posture than anything, she lifts her arms to chin level. Fingers tear into the stuffie like it’s a lifeline, like it’s protection. And for now, it is.

Not giving him the chance to answer, his mouth hangs open in muted response, “This is my apartment—you can either leave or I’ll–I’ll forcibly remove you.” It would take a 911 call—it would mean grabbing her phone from the nightstand, punching the emergency button, and staying away from him during response time. All unlikely, given proximity. The size of the apartment. How he blocks the only damn exit with his huge-ass frame.

Jaw snapping closed, a thick brow pops up. He chuckles. He think this is funny, “Whoa, take it easy, bub—”

“—shut up! Stop talking!” Pointing a strong finger at him, she shuffles back on light feet. Bobbing as best she can, trying to appear light. Prepared. But everything in every manual in the world wouldn’t have prepared her for home invasion—all those home defense classes. The hours shooting clays and targets with her father. Worthless.

I am so going to die.

Another step into her sanctuary, holy of holies. “Quit moving, damnit!”

The stranger stops mid-stride, brows arched in surprise at her tone of voice. Squinched nose, and tightly shut eyes add to what must be a comical look on her face. Coupled with crimson cheeks and the shake setting into her hands, she surely looks—well. A sight, if little else.

Realizing nothing short of an eternity has lapsed in the cool peace and blissfully ignorant darkness of closed eyes, hers pop open. She watches has near-pawlike hands, mapped with raised veins and pronounced callous, drop to his sides for all of a minute. Her heart cuts against her ribs like an ax laid to roots, willing to break something loose—he chuckles. Laughs. Some faraway light catches the darkness of his eyes, brightens his face in a way that only ever seemed so Hollywood, but is now real.

And he laughs with his entire body for all of a few seconds, wrinkles at either side of his eyes deepening into canyons that seem to fill with his amusement, at her expense.Mind short circuiting, her toes curl into the carpet, calluses on her heels catching frayed fibers as she does her best, again, to stay light on her feet. Nothing about her is light, certainly, and she attempts to calculate distance, how many seconds it would take her launch her body forward, toward the door. Past him, into the corridor, out the front door.

HIs hand extends, palm up. Waving her forward, as if she were some thing to beckon—

—until her stuffie chucks directly at his face, a blur of hot-pink fur and fluff.

The moment she arched her arm and sent Mr. Hearts on his first-ever attempt of flight, her feet springboard off the carpet, launching her forward at a speed she never thought possible. Adrenaline jumpstarts every one of her cells, lacing through her veins like rocket fuel—and the world spins by in a blur of color, her chest racked with pain as her heart racehorses behind bones that are no less than temperatures akin to magma.

Tunnel vision blocks out the world, save the nearly sparkling promise of the room’s exit. Tears bubble up on her lash line, hot and intruders on any clarity of brainspace she’s trying to will forward. Hot, breathy fear closes her throat, nothing but blood rivers through her ears—nothing except the ache of her throbbing heart, the painful push and pull of her lungs expanding and retracting.

They say hearing is the last thing to go when your soul begins to fade into death, but it’s a lie—she can’t hear a damn thing. And she’s more than alive.

Missing completely the soft snikt!, the what-would-usually-be unmissable split of skin, there’s a muffled tearing of fabric as once beloved Mr. Hearts suddenly becomes two halves of himself. Puffy stuffing explodes into the air, faintly she can feel her beloved stuffed animal hit the floor mutedly. In some back door of her brain she knows what’s happened, but survival carries her feet—pumps her arms. Zeroes her gaze on the door, blocks out anything other than the gut instinct to run, run, run hard.

Finger reach to grab the doorway, hurl herself around the corner—but it’s too late. Electric movement snaps through the air, a microsecond passes before a thick, heavy arm catches her around her waist. Hauls her backward, sucks her from the door like something from Star Wars, the world spinning by in a Picasso of color and tears as she’s manhandled, forced back. Kicking her feet into the air, she wills him to break, throwing her body mass back, against him. Arches her back. Wrangles and claws at the hair on his arm, the muscle that is taught against her rebellion.

Throat splitting with a shriek, she’s silenced when his enormous palm claps hard over her mouth. It feels like centuries have passed, but in reality, it’s been seconds. Breaths and heartbeats. Tears trailblaze hot down her face, her throat all but reverberating with sobs. Body heat wraps around her, butter down her spine as the arm around her middle pulls her tighter. Closer. Keep your enemies close—

And he’s tall, legs anchored behind her. Like a brick house. Snot begins to empty her sinuses in a slick, sticky mess. Her mouth attempts to open behind the palm of his hand,all saliva and spit. Doesn’t seem to do much. Digging her heels into the floor, her foot skims the floor. Looks for one of his. Finding it, she slams her heel against would-be soft bones, and he hisses. Grunts like an animal.

“Knock it off,” his baritone rumbles, a dangerous growl over her ear, “not here to hurt you, darlin’.” A lie. She doesn’t believe him, digs her heels farther into the soft flesh of his feet. Buries her nails into his muscle, the soft flesh of that tender spot under the wrist. Veins, lots of blood there.

Something obscene slips past his lips. Fighting back more stinging tears, his fingers curl around her wrist bruisingly, and with herculean strength, he whips her about-face, suddenly chest-to-chest with her as his fingers fist in her hair. Pulls sharply, “fuckin’ hell—calm the fuck down,” his fingers fall from her hair, instead grab her chin with an almost bruising grip, “stop bawlin’, for Christssake,”

Her nails milk as they dig into his wrist, deep red lines canyon the hand holding her face with a patience lost to most members of his sex. Hard, dark eyes hold hers with a fierceness that numbs her intestinal tract. For a moment, an arctic swirl is born and dies in his gaze, resurrected instead a hint of grief and—empathy, maybe. A lostness she can’t describe. Confusion punches lines between his knitted brows, etching deep into ruddy, masculine features a kind of unwordly handsome, had he not been sent to kill her.

Oh God, please—Shaking, her eyes pinch closed again, unwilling to let him see any more of her soul. More snot and tears, saliva pearls between the seam of her lips as she tries, and fails, not to blubber. Knees buckle. Hangs there, full weight of her body supported on her chin between his fingers, jaw suddenly alive with inferno pain. It lasts seconds before he lets her go, and she sinks to the floor, slackdoll and sobbing. Staring across the floor, her cheek burns against the harsh fibers of the floor.

Her belt. Abandoned, on the floor last night after a work dinner. It’s the only thing, and her brain conjures images of just exactly how she’d use it, suddenly Jackie Chan or GI Jane or some shit she’s seen a thousand times on film, has never executed. Hiccuping in short breaths between sniffles and sobs, tears leak into the carpet off her cheek. Her heart pumps blood that may as well pool into her chest, leak between the cracks in her confidence.

Stepping back, he looks at her. A cocktail of surprise and irritated, he sinks to a crouch. Shakes off red marks that still linger on his arm, wipe her snot and saliva on his-–are those yellow?-–pants. No time to notice, to care—her nails catch against the fibers of the carpet. Begin to push her bodyweight up, on an elbow.

Unburdening a sigh, his hand scrubs his face as hers darts across floorspace. Snatching the belt with a speed she’s never fostered, he doesn’t even have time to put two and two together before the leather snaps like a whip, thick silvers from a rodeo buckle landing fully on the bone of his jaw. Cuts a deep line that flashes scarlet, rips open flesh like a fillet knife.

“Fuck!” it’s harsh, bestial.

Reeling back, she finds time to scramble to her feet like a clumsy foal, looping the belt around her fist once as he pops tall. Backpedaling away from arm’s length, she pistons towards the door, on fire and pumping adrenaline like a sieve.

And she flies. Out of the bedroom. Down the corridor. Somehow she manages to find her keys on the kitchen table as his heavy, earthshaking feet pump down the hall. Fumbles over her own feet at the front door, slams into it hard, bounces off. Fingers suddenly unable to communicate coherently with her brain, the chain lock on her apartment door is all but burning as she tries, and fails, to work it just so.

“Come on, come on! Work, you piece of shit—” she’s never sworn more in her life than she has now, and it’s sour, like bile splashing up on her back teeth. But it rips from her throat all the same, bitter and hot, as she mutters fuck, fuck, fuck me! under short, airy breaths that do nothing to put oxygen back into her body. May as well be a drowning soul, the way she sucks in air. Gasps for breath. Drowning or an emphysemic.

Ignoring the hard breathing behind her is impossible. Whirling around on the ball of her foot, he’s close enough to lock her against the door. Her head falls back hard enough to knock against the door, rattle her teeth. And as her vision begins to settle from the bouncing in her cranium, she sees the three blades bury to the knuckle—the knuckle?—in her heavy, pristine oak front door. Rattles the wall, splits the sheetrock.

Pupils blown wide, she can feel all the blood leave her body. Terror locks her spine between slavering, hungry teeth. Gaze welded to the blood pearling from fresh wounds between white knuckles, the hinge of her jaw fails. Her mouth opens mutedly, enough for him to count her teeth if he so desired.

And maybe he does. “Goin’ somewhere, honey,” it isn’t a question. That grin is animalistic. “Stay awhile, huh?”

He closes in. Her head snaps forward to find him. Nose to nose, he sneers at her, and her eyes think to move to the fillet of open flesh her attack has left on his jawline—or, had. No evidence of even so much as a mark on the sharp line of his jaw, just dark facial hair and sweat that’s bubbling up on his skin, angry red that fans up his neck. Swearing to God she can see the vein in his temple throb with blood, her grip on the leather belt tightens before reality sets in.

Ohmygod, ”You’re—” her stomach resurrects up her throat. ”—Jesus,” and it isn’t so much a curse as it is a prayer, a hope. A lifeline—grasping at straws, praying something sticks.

Reality begins to fall away, through boneless fingers. Feeling the belt slip from her control, her throat suddenly constricts to the point of oxygen deprivation. Gaping like a fish, her tongue swells to a thick cotton she can no longer feel.

Numb—everything buzzes with that painful, white-noise needling.

And she does the only thing her body can manage. Shoves past him just enough to upset a chair—

—-and throws up.

still working on my taglist but: @thevoicefromanotherworld @sidkneeeee @misscrissfemmefatale @eternallyfrustratedwriter and those who showed interest: @ayamenimthiriel @pandapetals @theoreticalfreak @definitely-not-chill @ghostytoasty17 @werewolfpilar

#hugh jackman #wolverine #logan howlett #logan #x men #worst!logan howlett #worst!wolverine #worst!logan x reader #worst logan #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x oc #logan howlett oneshot #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett imagine #wolverine logan #hugh jackman wolverine #deadpool and wolverine #worst wolverine #wolverine x reader

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thekatebridgerton · 2 years ago

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A Bridgerton AU with SOME Om Shanti Om elements?

The Spouses get murdered in a fire by their evil relatives/foes (Cressida, Mary’s parents, Araminta, Rosamund, Simon’s father, Philip’s father, Lucy’s uncle, Gareth’s father). They set fire to Aubrey Hall and ensure they were all trapped but the Bridgertons all tried to save them. The spouses dying, the Bridgerton burnt but slightly breathing. Horrified, the villains buried the Bridgerton bodies alive.

The spouses bodies were found and it was depicted as accidental/or the villains made it seem it like they deliberately killed themselves in the fire. The Bridgertons Siblings were never found…

Twenty five years later, the spouses reincarnated and they start a romance with the look alike of their spouse from the other life. Each couple married and the spouses had the pleasure to befriend each other and they decided to collectively buy and rebuild Aubrey Hall. But Strange’s occurrences start to happen as they start gaining flashbacks, old Dowager Violet insisted that they were her beloved son and daughter in laws, finally they see the villains and memories came back.

Shenanigans and stuff, a bittersweet moment where the ghost of their dead loves saved them and smiled sadly at them as Simon, Kate, Sophie, Penelope, Phillip, Michael, Lucy, and Garett embraced their new loves (Bridgerton look alikes) tearfully looking over their shoulders as the Bridgerton Ghost bid farewell with tears in their faces before running into the light.

All they ever wanted was their spouses’ happiness and don’t worry… a piece of their soul resides within the look alikes.

You guys assume I watch a lot of Indian movies.... And it's true. So let me gush a little bit about 'Om Shanti Om' and how much I used to fangirl over Shah Rukh Khan when I was younger than I am now. ❤️❤️❤️SRK my honey 😙😙

But back to the Bridgerton au, yes I agree with everything you said here and we should definitely have a 'Om Shanti Om' au for the Bridgertons I would read the heck out of it and so would everyone else. Someone, anyone, please write this. 🥺🥺🥺

#bridgerton #indian movies are the best #movie recs #reincarnation au with a twist

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ivyyisbored22 · 26 days ago

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𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞—𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘹 (𝘧𝘦𝘮) 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

A Mafia AU, Stray Kids one shot

𝑾𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒐 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒍?

Synopsis: When his enemies strike during a family visit, the truth shatters their world; Chris is a mafia Capo. Forced to leave him for your safety, you tried to avoid him, but Chris convinces you to stay. You built a happy life together, until Christmas brings a devastating loss. Leaving Chris to exact the only gift he can give in return.

Warnings: Reader's death (the idea was voted yes in this poll). Mention of blood, guns, violence, explosions, tears(LOTS of it), angst. OC!enemy. Dad Chris. Reader is a doctor and is called 'Dove'. Might have overused some words.

Minors do not interact!!!

Note: This is my first writing outside soft, contemporary romance. It's probably not my best work, but I wanted to write it while the motivation was lingering. The story is HEAVILY inspired from a south Indian movie, it's basically in that universe but switched to Mafia.

If this isn't your thing, you're more than welcome to skip it. Reblogs, likes, comments and feedbacks are always appreciated.

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪʟʟɪᴏɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.

Word count: 7.6k

𝑬𝑵𝑱𝑶𝒀!

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Shoot! Bang!

The gunshot vibrated through the air, the echoes ricocheting off the cold, concrete walls. For a moment, time stood still, then the heavy thud of a lifeless body hitting the floor shattered the silence.

Blood spilled out in thick, crimson waves, pooling beneath the corpse, the metallic scent tainting the air. No one dares to step in his territory.

Chris stood over it, his chest rising and falling with steady control, the barrel of his gun still smoking, though his eyes burned with something dark and cruel.

Around him, the others shifted in the dimly lit room. Jisung exhaled, while I.N knelt to check the pulse—unnecessary, but instinctive. "It's done," he muttered, wiping his hand on his jeans, the stain spreading like ink.

Hyunjin leaned against the wall, running a hand through his hair, his expression unreadable. “They’re getting too close.” His voice was low, laced with tension.

Chris didn’t respond. His grip tightened around the gun, the weight of it familiar, grounding. He had made his decision long ago. This life came with taking blood and brutality.

There was no other way.

Then Chris’s phone tinged, a sharp contrast to the suffocating silence.

He pulled it out, and the moment his eyes landed on the screen, his heart faltered when he saw your name.

Dove: Can we meet? There's something I need to tell you. Cafe at 5?

For a second, he forgot where he was—forgot the blood, the bodies, the weight of the life he led. His thumb hovered over the screen, the tension in his chest was unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable.

“Who is it?” Changbin asked, arching a brow and walking towards Chris.

He hesitated before slipping the phone back into his pocket. "No one.” He shrugged nonchalantly, straightening his leather jacket. “No trace of him should be found,” Chris pointed the gun at the corpse, “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Changbin knew better than to push Chris with more questions, he nodded and walked toward the body. Chris turned around, walking into a changing room and changed to an entire different outfit that hid his true identity perfectly.

After a while Chris reached the location you had texted him, you waited outside, nervousness crawling across your skin. He was always punctual, but today he was just a teensie bit, five minutes late.

You spotted him walking towards you, removing his sunglasses, the hoop hearings glinting under the shining sun, a dimple grin that made your heart flutter.

“You’re late,” you huffed, crossing your arms, a pout forming on your face. “Five whole minutes, Chris. I was starting to think you stood me up.”

Chris sighed dramatically, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips as he leaned down, pressing his lips on yours. “Sorry, love,” he murmured against you. “Traffic was hell.”

You rolled her eyes, but the ghost of a smile betrayed your irritation. “You always say that. But anyways, I'm nervous. Come fast.” You hand wrapped around his wrist as you pushed the door open and pulled him inside.

“What happened?” Chris asked, his brows furrowing as you walked inside the huge restaurant cafe.

“You're going to meet my father.” You said nervously as you kept walking. Chris stood on his feed, as if he was chained, making you stop.

“Baby you could have told me earlier, I would have prepared something.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Is this an exam? For you to prepare?” You bit your lip, nerves building in your stomach.

“At least give me a clue about him, Dove.” His fingers lingered across your cheek.

“The word he despises the most in the English language…”

You started walking again. “Is it sorry?” He asked jokingly.

You eyed him head to toe. “Police.”

Chris’s heart skipped a beat at your words, remembering that you never knew about what he truly does, but he quickly masked his reaction with a small chuckle, slipping his hand into yours as you led him deeper into the bustling restaurant café.

“I see,” he said smoothly, offering you a reassuring smile despite the unease simmering beneath the surface. “So, no cop jokes, then?”

You shot him a nervous glare, your fingers squeezing him. “Chris, I’m serious. He’s… intimidating. Just be yourself, okay? My dad’s really protective.”

You finally reached the table where your family sat, and Chris instantly felt the scrutiny in your father’s gaze. He was a tall man with a sharp jawline, streaks of silver in his dark hair, and eyes that seemed to pierce right through him.

Your mother, on the other hand, was warm and welcoming, a kind smile tugging at her lips as she observed Chris. And then there was your younger sister, who looked at him with curiosity.

“Mom, Dad… this is Chris,” you introduced, gesturing toward him with a small, hopeful smile.

Chris stepped forward, extending his hand confidently. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said, maintaining steady eye contact with your father.

Your father didn’t immediately take his hand. Instead, he studied Chris with a hard gaze before finally shaking it, his grip firm and unyielding and gestured to him to take a seat.

You sat next to Chris, taking a deep breath, waiting for one of them to start a conversation. Right when Chris cleared his throat to say something, your father interrupted.

“I have no intention of seeing my daughter with you.” He cut straight to the chase, his tone sharp leaving your heart to sink like a stone thrown in an ocean.

“Dad—” you spoke but his icy gaze pinned you down and Chris held your hand tightly beneath the table.

He felt you tremble slightly in his grasp but he gave it a reassuring squeeze, his thumb brushing gently over your skin. He could sense the tension in the air thickening, pressing down on both of you like an invisible weight.

His jaw clenched, but he kept his expression calm, composed—even though your father’s words hit him like a punch to the gut.

“I understand your concern, sir,” Chris said, his voice steady but gentle, careful to show respect without backing down. “I know how much she means to you.”

Your father’s eyes narrowed, a storm brewing in their depths. “You think you do.” His words were cold, slicing through the air like a blade. “She’s my daughter. My responsibility. And I won’t hand her over to just anyone, especially someone who arrives five minutes late.”

You stiffened beside Chris, your cheeks burning with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. “Dad, please…” you pleaded softly, but Chris gently squeezed your hand again, signaling that he had this under control.

“I apologize for being late,” he said sincerely, looking your father in the eye. “It wasn’t intentional. But with all due respect, sir, my commitment to her goes beyond being on time for dinner. Now it’s my responsibility to protect her, to cherish her.”

His voice was firm, yet there was an underlying warmth to it that made your heart ache in the best way.

Your father leaned back in his chair, studying Chris with an expression that held skepticism, like a man weighing the worth of the person before him.

“You say you’re in law enforcement,” he said finally. “That’s a dangerous job. You’re putting yourself in harm’s way every day. What happens when that danger follows you home?”

Chris met his gaze head-on, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. If only your father knew just how deep that danger already ran. That he was beyond just a loyal cop. That his job was with violence, guns and blood.

But instead, he answered with practiced ease. “Sir, danger exists everywhere. My job is to keep it as far away from her as possible. I would never put her in harm’s way.”

Your mother, sensing the rising tension, placed a gentle hand on your father’s arm. “Let the boy speak, dear,” she said softly, offering Chris a kind smile. “He’s here because he cares about our daughter.”

Your father sighed, rubbing his temples. “Care isn’t enough,” he muttered, his voice gruff. “What happens when things get hard? When work comes before family?” He leaned forward, his sharp gaze piercing. “Because I’ve seen men who thought they could handle it, and they ended up failing their families.”

Chris nodded, his grip on your hand firm but comforting. “I won’t fail her, sir,” he said without hesitation. “Your daughter means the world to me. I know my job isn’t easy, but I assure you, her happiness, her safety, our life together will always come first. I’m not here to make empty promises. I’m here to prove to you that I’m worthy of her.”

You glanced at Chris, your heart swelling with emotion. The conviction in his words, the way he spoke with such quiet confidence, made you fall for him all over again.

Your father’s gaze softened. Just a fraction. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “Big words,” he muttered. “We’ll see if you can back them up.”

Your little sister leaned forward with curious eyes. “So, you’re really a cop? Like… badge and everything?”

Chris chuckled, leaning in conspiratorially. “Top secret, but yeah. Badge and everything.”

You laughed, nudging your sister. “Leave him alone, will you?”

As the evening went on, Chris found himself slipping into the conversation effortlessly. He complimented your mother’s cooking, shared amusing stories that he carefully crafted to fit his “police officer” persona, and even managed to get a small chuckle out of your father. Slowly but surely, he was winning them over.

But just as those smiles were about to last a bit longer, Chris caught a reflection of a masked man walking behind him from the mirror hanging from the wall in front of him.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder, his other hand flying to the gun resting on the waistband of his pants and before you could register what was happening, he screamed.

“ON THE FLOOR!”

The restaurant, once filled with warm chatter and clinking silverware, was now a battleground of panic and confusion. The masked men charged forward, their heavy boots pounding against the tiled floor.

“Get the Capo!” one of them roared, his voice slicing through the chaos like a blade.

Capo? The word echoed in your head. Isn't that the term used in the Mafia?

Your father stood frozen, eyes wide in shock as Chris drew his gun with precision and fired. The sharp crack of the shot echoed through the room, sending one of the masked assailants crumpling to the ground.

A second later, Chris was moving. Swift, calculated. He overturned a table, using it as temporary cover while bullets whizzed past, shattering glass and porcelain.

Screams filled the air, people scrambling for the exits, but Chris stayed rooted to the spot, shielding you with his own body. “Behind that door!” he shouted, motioning toward the back exit.

You hesitated, your eyes locked onto him, filled with fear and confusion. “Chris—”

“GO!” His voice was sharp, but his eyes softened for a fleeting second.

Your father finally snapped out of his daze, grabbing your arm and pulling you along with him. Your mother and sister stumbled behind, clinging to each other. Chris fired another shot, buying time as he watched you disappear behind the door. Relief surged through him, but it was short-lived.

More men stormed in, their weapons raised. Chris’s muscles tensed as he ducked behind a column, swiftly reloading. “So it’s you lot?” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. “You picked the wrong fucking night.”

He lunged forward, taking down another man with a precise shot to the leg before slamming his elbow into another’s jaw. The fight was brutal, relentless. Fury and sweat soaked the air. Chris was outnumbered, but years of experience and instinct guided him.

Fists flew, gunfire rang out, and blood stained his knuckles, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

You watched Chris through the glass window, not missing a single move and breaking the arms of anyone who came in his way. The banging sounds of the guns made you shake, cover your ears and close your eyes.

Finally, the last man fell, groaning in pain on the floor. Chris wiped the back of his hand across his brow, chest heaving. His ears still rang from the gunshots, but the only thing he could focus on now was you. He turned sharply, heading towards the door you had escaped through.

But his heart sank when he saw it.

Through the shattered window, he spotted your father pulling you away, your eyes wide, pleading, your lips forming silent protests. “Dad, please! Christopher—”

But your father’s grip was firm, his face set in grim determination. “You’re done with him!” he shouted, dragging you away.

Chris’s chest tightened. He took a step forward, but the weight of the moment crushed him. Your father’s eyes met his. Full of fear, anger, and something he couldn’t quite place.

And then, just like that, you were gone.

The weight of what just happened settled over him like a suffocating fog. His cover was blown, and worse. He had dragged you into his world of blood and violence.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, sliding his gun back into the waistband of his pants.

But one thing was clear. He wasn’t letting you go that easily.

It’s been 3 weeks. Chris’s calls and texts were unanswered. He went to the hospital you were working at, but they refused to give your details. He wasn’t one to beg, but for you, he had swallowed his pride more times than he cared to count.

Tonight, he was done waiting.

Chris leaned against his black car parked discreetly across the street, watching the entrance of the hospital with sharp, dark eyes. The hood of his jacket was drawn low, shielding his face from prying eyes, but there was no mistaking the tension in his stance. His fingers twitched at his side, itching for something.

For you.

And then, finally, you appeared.

Chris straightened the moment he saw you step out of the hospital doors, the soft glow of the entrance lights framing you in a way that made his chest ache. You looked exhausted, the white coat hanging on your arms, your hair hastily pulled back. The familiar warmth he once found in your eyes was absent, replaced by something colder and distant.

He pulled his phone out and dialed your number, your phone rang in your hands but when you saw the name on the screen, you pressed the volume button, silencing his call.

Anger and rejection fueled his chest, you hadn’t noticed him yet, too busy rummaging through your bag as you made your way towards the street. Then unintentionally your eyes landed on a familiar pair of dark eyes.

Chris took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest as he pushed off the car and stepped into your path. “Dove.”

You looked at him and then turned away, as if you didn't hear him. Frustration took over him, you halted frozen when he called you by your name.

You turned back around, your gaze on the ground, heart in your throat. You couldn't look at him the same anymore. How could you? He wasn't who he told you he was.

His identity was revealed that evening, surrounded by chaos and danger. Your father was right.

But you weren't mad at him for hiding that he's a Capo. If anything you were scared. Scared of what dangers and threats that would follow him.

Chris walked towards you until his figure enveloped you, the strong scent of mint and leather engulfing your senses.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice was tired, but sharp.

His jaw clenched, his eyes searching yours desperately. “You haven’t been answering my calls.”

You hugged your bag closer to your chest, stepping back instinctively. “I thought that was pretty clear.”

Chris exhaled sharply, taking a cautious step forward. “You can’t just shut me out, Dove. Not like this.” His voice softened.

“It doesn't matter Chris, I don't think this isn't going to work out.”

“What honey?”

“OUR LIFE!” Your voice cracked, tears threatening to spill. Chris's breath was clogged in his throat, unable to see the fear and pain etched across your face.

Your chest rose and fell with the weight of emotions you had tried so hard to suppress.

Chris stared at you, his jaw tightening, his eyes dark with unspoken emotions. "Dove..." he reached out, but you took a step back, shaking your head.

"I love you," you choked, your fingers clutching the strap of your bag so tightly that your knuckles turned white. "But love isn't enough when I'm scared every second of what might happen to you! When— when those men came at you, almost shot you, I—"

His hands gripped your shoulders, making you calm down, his index on his lips asking you not to shout.

Your gaze locked with his, pleading. "I can't afford to lose you, Chris. And if you love me too... you'll find a way out of this.”

Chris swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he took a hesitant step toward you. "Alright, then tell me what you want me to do." His voice was soft but laced with desperation, his fingers brushing away the cold tears streaming down your face.

"You give me a solution for this.”

You looked at him, hope flickering in your eyes despite the pain. "Leave it all, Chris."

He blinked at you.

"Whatever you're doing, whatever mess you're tangled in, just leave it behind. We can go somewhere far away, where no one can find us. We’ll get married, start over... just you and me."

Your voice broke, tears slipping down your cheeks. "Please... if you can’t do that, then…”

Your voice wavered as you took a deep breath. "If you can't, then hail me a taxi. And we'll end this right here, right now.”

He watched you, his heart pounding violently against his ribcage. He wanted to say no. He wanted to promise you a life far from the blood, the danger, the lies. But deep down, he knew, there was no walking away from this world.

Silence fell between you like a heavy storm cloud, suffocating, pressing in from all sides. Chris's lips parted, his hands twitching at his sides. The war in his eyes was painfully clear, and for a fleeting moment, you thought he might choose you.

But then, without a word, Chris lifted his hand and flagged down a passing taxi.

Your breath hitched in your throat as the yellow cab slowed to a stop in front of you. The cold night air felt heavier, suffocating. You blinked up at him, disbelief washing over your features.

His jaw clenched, his eyes filled with unspoken regret, sorrow, love. He reached for the door handle and opened it for you, your heart shattered into shards.

Right as you were about to get in, he said, “Won't you give me one last goodbye hug?”

His sense of humour at this situation made you rage, your bloodshot eyes stung as you got inside the taxi without sparing another glance at him and closing the door shut.

“Okay, I'm sorry.” He raised his hands up in surrender and turned to his back, not wishing to watch the cab pull away.

He pinched the bridge of his nose closing his eyes, swallowing the hard lump in his throat when he heard the breaks behind him, that made him chuckle.

You got out of the car, running to him, slapping your coat against his body.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?! Huh?” Another hit and Chris laughed in response. “Are you trying to chase me away?!”

Chris let out a chuckle, catching your wrist mid-air before you could land another hit.

“Silly girl, I knew you would come back,” his fake laugh was uncontrollable, “But I didn't think you'd come back this fast.”

You slapped your hand against his arm, your chin wobbling.

His fingers curled gently around your hand, his thumb tracing soothing circles over your skin. "Dove," he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken emotions. "You know how much I love you.”

"And I love what I'm doing now as Capo as well," he admitted, his voice soft but unwavering. "But I will never give up or lose you for it. Okay?"

You stared at him, your chest rising and falling in time with his, then you wrapped your hands around his body, burying your face against his heart.

His arms wrapped you tightly, his heartbeat thundered beneath your ear, steady and strong, but the warmth of his embrace did little to soothe the fear still clinging to your heart.

You looked up at him, your breath warm against his skin. “You will never leave me right?” You asked, your voice shaking.

Chris’s fingers sank in your hair, pressing your face flush against him.

“I promise… I will always be with you sweetheart.”

The warmth of his body, the way his arms caged you in so securely, made you want to believe in his words, made you want to trust that he could protect you from the cruel world that kept trying to tear you apart.

You sighed, the tension in your body slowly melting under his touch. "Okay," you whispered, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. "But if you ever get a bullet wound, I swear I’ll kill you myself."

Chris laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your cheek. "Noted," he said, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead and taking your lips in his, erasing away your fears and doubts as the world blurred around you.

1 year later. On the night of Christmas Eve.

One whole year passed by in peace. You and Chris built a beautiful life together, you got married a few weeks later, Chris managed to convince your father who in the end only wished for his daughter's happiness.

You moved into his mansion, a strangely comforting place that slowly began to feel like home. It was far from the chaos you once feared, tucked away in a quiet part of the city where you could pretend, for just a little while, that Chris wasn’t who he really was.

Each morning, you woke up wrapped in his arms, sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains, casting golden hues over his face. He looked so peaceful when he slept, his guard down, his breathing slow and steady.

He came home every night, exhausted but safe, his arms always reaching for you, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in his life. And you were. Every night he made love to you, sometimes fast, rough and hard, other times long, sweet and slow.

But there were moments when the illusion cracked. When you caught glimpses of the weight he carried in his quiet stares out the window, or when he’d disappear into his office for hours, his voice low and serious on phone calls you pretended not to hear.

You never pushed. Because deep down, you knew the truth. The world he came from, the one he tried so hard to keep you away from, could never truly disappear.

When you surprised him with a small box that contained a pregnancy test, he was overjoyed. You brought light into his dark world, and from that moment on, Chris changed in subtle ways.

He became softer, more attentive, and even more careful. He pulled away from some of his more dangerous work, delegating tasks to his most trusted men, ensuring that his time at home with you was sacred.

Tonight, on Christmas Eve as you were stacking away the presents for your family to open tomorrow morning, Chris came downstairs, exhausted but a smile spread across his face after putting your baby to sleep.

He spotted you in the living room, fixing the lights on the huge Christmas tree, he walked towards you and wrapped his arms around your waist.

“Sweetheart…you seem very happy,” he murmured between the kisses he kept brushing on your neck.

You turned to him, his gaze piercing with yours, you could count each lash that was brimming his whiskey eyes.

“I feel complete.” you said lowly.

“Hmm?” He tilted his head to the side. “Give me details Dove.”

“I have a loving husband. A beautiful home. An angel as a daughter. What else would I need?” You smiled.

“So I feel complete.” You pecked his nose sweetly and he playfully scratched it.

Chris’s hands tightened on your waist when he kissed you, murmuring against your lips, “I'm over here about to tell you that our angel might want a baby brother to play with…”

Pink crept your cheeks but you turned away nudging him with your elbow. “Honey, not interested. Our angel is more than enough for me.”

“Okay,” he chuckled. “Our angel is more than enough.”

“But I wanna know something sweetheart,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know that you still dislike what I do…” you chuckled and he continued.

“That you accepted this life for me and you made a lot of sacrifices for me…” The lights on the Christmas tree sparkled in his eyes as he spoke and you watched him carefully.

“What is your dream, Dove?”

Your breath hitched in your throat, caught off guard by the tenderness in his voice. You swallowed hard, your eyes flickering to the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree before returning to his gaze.

“My dream?” you echoed softly, a wistful smile tugging at your lips. “You can't fulfil it.” You joked, innocently tapping his face.

His brows furrowed slightly, the faintest hint of sadness crossing his face but not noticeable enough. “At least tell me,” he said, encouraging you to speak about the life you always dreamt of.

You leaned into him, your fingers tracing over his black t-shirt.

“Mm, in a long far away land, in a small village, we're living in a cozy cottage. I wanna hear the chirping of the birds every morning, with a beautiful climate that's sunny but also rainy.”

Chris watched you, patiently listening.

“Hubby should have a boring job that requires you to go late and arrive early.” He couldn't help but chuckle softly.

“And a small cat!” You jumped, “and his name should be… Simba,” you couldn't stop smiling as you kept speaking.

Chris’s lips curled into a soft smile, his eyes never leaving your face as you painted your dream with such innocent delight. He could see the longing in your eyes, the sparkle of hope despite the life you were already living with him.

“And what about our little angel?” he asked, his voice low and gentle, his fingers tracing slow patterns on your back.

You grinned, your eyes lighting up. “She’ll grow up surrounded by fields of flowers, climbing trees, and chasing butterflies.” Your voice grew softer, more wistful. “She won’t have to know about fear, or danger, or the shadows that lurk in the corners of this world.”

You sighed, the smile never leaving your face. “I want a simple life, just the three of us in a world with no threats, no danger… no worries.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. “You had it all planned out, didn't you?”

You shrugged playfully. “A girl can dream.”

Chris held you closer, his chin resting atop your head. His voice was thick with emotion when he whispered, “I wish I could give you that, Dove.”

You pulled back to look into his eyes, your heart twisting at the conflict in them. “I know, Chris,” you said gently.

“But tell me this,” you pecked his chin.

“How do you feel about me as your wife?”

His dimple deepened when your arms rested on his shoulder, his hands cradling your sweet face.

“I feel…that you are…”

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the house, followed by a deafening silence that sent chills down his spine.

You gasped, a sharp intake of breath, your body slipping from his hands onto the floor before he could react. His heart seized, eyes widening in horror as a pool of blood gathered from beneath you.

"Baby?" His voice was a strangled whisper, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. He pressed his trembling hands over the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding, but the warm, sticky crimson seeped between his fingers.

Before he could process the nightmare unfolding in his arms, another gunshot cracked through the air. Instinct took over. Chris whipped around, shielding your limp form with his body as his eyes locked onto the figure stepping through the broken glass.

A figure dressed in black, his face partially obscured by the shadows, strode inside with chilling composure. Chris recognized him immediately—Damian Voss, the younger brother of the man Chris had killed a year ago.

“You thought you could just walk away, Capo?” Damian sneered, lowering his gun slightly, his eyes dark with vengeance. "Did you think I’d let you live a fairy tale while my brother rots in the ground?"

Chris's chest heaved with rage, his arms trembling as he carefully laid you down on the floor. Your face was pale, too pale, and your shallow breaths tore at his heart. He had to end this, fast.

He surged to his feet, a deadly glare replacing his fear. “You son of a—”

But before he could do anything, a sharp brutal force of an iron rod slammed the side of Chris’s head. A blinding pain exploded in his skull as he staggered back, his vision blurring.

He hit the floor hard, the taste of blood filling his mouth. The room spun, distorted voices echoing in his ears.

Damian crouched beside him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, yanking him up so their faces were inches apart. "You took my brother from me, so I'm taking everything from you," he hissed.

Blood trickled down from the corner of Chris's mouth as Damian dragged his body and layed him on his back against the couch.

His foot landed on Chris’s chest, the force of it made him gasp your name, you could hear the tortures he was going through as a tear leaked from the corner of your eye but you were unable to move at all.

“You know killing you right away won't make me satisfied Chris…you should die slow. So…fucking…slow…” Damian sneered as he fired the gun upwards, calling out his soldiers.

“Plant that bomb. The explosion should erase every last evidence of this fucker’s existence.” Damian ordered his men and walked out of the door.

As the soldiers fixed the countdown of your lives and filed out of the house, their heavy footsteps fading into the night, the silence that followed was deafening.

Until a ragged gasp tore through the air.

Pain shot through your body like a thousand knives piercing your skin. You took deep breaths and with trembling arms, you made yourself get up, holding your wound and dragging your weak body across the cold floor, pain flaring with every inch you gained.

Metallic red liquid smeared all over your dress as you crawled, inch by inch, toward Chris who was drenched in blood, his back pressed against the couch.

“Chris,” you shook his shoulder, your voice was barely audible, tears streaking your face as you reached him.

Chris's head lolled to the side, his face pale, his half-lidded eyes blinked sluggishly, trying to focus on you. "D-Dove..." he coughed, his voice rasping with pain and despair.

The blinking red light of the bomb timer flashed in the corner of your vision, a cruel reminder of how little time you had left.

Summoning every ounce of strength, you pushed yourself up, biting down a scream as pain shot through you. Gritting your teeth, you crawled upstairs, gripping the railing to keep yourself steady.

Reaching the nursery, you flung the door open with trembling hands, your eyes locking onto your daughter’s sleeping form in her crib. Relief flooded through you, but it was quickly overshadowed by fear.

You gathered her into your arms, biting back the renewed scream that threatened to escape your throat as fresh pain shot through your side. Her tiny weight pressed against you, grounding you, forcing you to keep moving.

Descending the stairs with careful, painful steps, you fell and knelt beside Chris, tears streaking your face as you cradled your daughter close and shook him, trying to get him up.

“Christopher!” You hand cupped his chin, jolting him awake.

“Chris, please get out of here—,” you choked fisting his shirt. “please get out…take the baby and go…and leave me back…” your hand fell from his shoulder, breaths began growing slow and shallow, "...I won't survive..." he gripped your arm, his head falling back.

“...there's no point.”

The taste of pennies coated his tongue as he swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he reached to hold your daughter, before you hugged her close to your chest.

“Even…after this,” your voice broke, “you wish to be Capo…” You said through gritted teeth. “leave her with me.”

Your voice wavered, but your resolve was firm, fisting his shirt tighter. “But if you love me… if you ever loved me, vow to me—right here, right now, you will be a good father to her. That you will protect her, raise her away from this hell.”

Chris felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. He shook hard as his head fell back, his cries bouncing against you. His world was crumbling right in front of him, slipping through his fingers, and he was powerless to stop it.

His jaw clenched, tears pooling in his eyes as he swallowed hard. “I swear,” he whispered, his voice thick and rough. “I swear, I’ll keep her safe. I promise…”

A faint, tearful smile touched your lips as you gazed at him, your eyes clouding with exhaustion. “Thank you…” you breathed, your head resting against his chest, handing the swaddled baby over to him.

His eyes, heavy with pain and exhaustion, searched yours desperately, his breath ragged as he clutched at your weakening form. Chris pulled you closer, his body trembling with sobs he could no longer hold back.

“Dove, please stay with me,” he begged, pressing desperate kisses to your temple, your forehead, anywhere he could reach. “Just… just hold on a little longer, baby. Please.”

Your breath hitched, your lips parting slightly. “Hubby…”

“How do you feel about me as your wife…?” you asked him one last time.

“You are the reason for breathing my love.” He cried, burying your face in his neck, his voice so painfully loud, it could shred diamonds.

“You're my peace, my home, my whole life. I didn’t deserve you, but you loved me anyway. You saw the man I tried to be, not the monster I was.”

Tears streamed down your face as his words wrapped around you like a blanket, soothing the ache in your heart. You struggled to keep your eyes open, to stay just a little longer in the warmth of his embrace.

Your eyelids fluttered, and with the last shreds of your fading consciousness, you whispered, "I love you, Chris…” and your eyes closed, your last breath fanning over his blood stained skin.

The moment your breath stilled, a ragged scream tore from his throat. He couldn’t breathe. He held you tighter, rocking your lifeless body in his arms, his sobs raw and unrestrained.

And then, a tiny cry pierced through.

His daughter.

Chris blinked through his tears, his chest heaving. He looked down at the fragile, innocent life cradled in his arms, her tiny hands clutching weakly at your dress.

He pressed his lips to your temple, his body trembling violently. “I love you,” he whispered, voice broken beyond repair. “Forever.”

He gently laid you down on the marble floor and staggered towards the door, his legs barely holding him up.

The blinking red light of the bomb ticked down, a cruel reminder of the life he was leaving behind.

You had given him a new life and took his death along with you.

2 years later.

Capo Christopher Bang’s death was the biggest talk of the underworld. The news spread like wildfire, whispered in hushed voices across darkened alleyways and smoke-filled clubs. Some called it a tragedy, others a long-overdue fall from power. But no one knew the truth.

In a quiet, picturesque village far from the city's chaos, Chris was living the dream you once painted for him. He resigned as Capo, living in a quaint cottage surrounded by endless greenery, birds chirping in the mornings, and a peaceful routine that revolved around his daughter, the last piece of you he had left.

She believed her father had a simple job, working as a librarian and returning home just in time to tuck her into bed, reading fairy tales under the soft glow of the lamp. She knew nothing of the weight he carried in his heart, the life he left behind, or the silent war brewing in his eyes.

Chris’s men were still in the underworld but were loyal to him, played along, treating this quiet life as their own, shielding your daughter from the darkness that still lurked beyond their haven.

But tonight, on Christmas Eve two years later, the past came knocking once again.

Chris was laying next to his daughter who was drifting into a deep sleep, he bent down, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, inhaling the sweet scent of baby lotion and warmth.

“Daddy?” her sleepy voice murmured.

“Shh, angel,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Go back to sleep or else Santa won't come home.”

She blinked up at him drowsily, a soft smile playing on her lips, her small hands touching his face. “Merry Christmas, Daddy.”

His chest tightened. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

Once your daughter was in her slumber, Chris straightened, his eyes hardening as he turned to the two tall figures guarding the doorway.

“She’s your responsibility tonight.”

Felix gave a firm nod. “You don't need to worry.”

Seungmin placed a reassuring hand on Chris’s shoulder. “She’s safe with us. Go finish this.”

Chris exhaled deeply and walked to the front door, where Minho and Hyunjin were waiting. Both were dressed in black, three bikes parked in front, their eyes sharp and filled with the same rage that had festered in him for two long years.

“Are we doing this tonight?” Hyunjin asked, flexing his fingers and cracking his knuckles as he slipped on the gloves.

Chris’s jaw tightened, his voice cold and unwavering. “That bastard took my wife from me and I'm not stopping until I feel his blood in my hands.”

Minho smirked, the glint of a blade visible beneath his coat. “Let’s make it count.”

As they stepped out into the bitter night, three beast engines roaring to life, Chris took one last glance at the small, warm house behind him. It was a life he swore to protect, a life you had dreamed for him.

But tonight, he was stepping back into the shadows—one. last. time.

For revenge.

Silence fogged the air when the club's lights went off, leaving the room in dread darkness. Damian reached for his gun on his waistband but found his pocket empty.

He turned around fast, cracking his neck as he felt something crawl up skin and before he could breath, a ragged cloth closed around his head, blocking his airway.

Outside the bar Hyunjin shot and fought Damian's guards until he was standing on a pile of men with broken limbs and cracked necks.

Damian kept fighting until he was pushed against a chair, Minho standing behind him as he removed the cloth off his head, revealing a deadly, wrath fueled Chris standing before him.

“You fucker…you're still alive.” He hissed and shot forward, aiming his fist at Chris who whipped a thick, iron bar resting on his shoulder, slamming the side of Damian's head in a brutal force.

Blood splattered out of his mouth, a harsh, loud, strangled scream ripped from Damian’s throat echoing off the walls, as he fell on the ground, feeling his brain vibrate.

Chris landed a kick with the same force Damian kicked him in the chest two years ago, his hand gripped the bar tightly before swinging it back again at his head, shoving another slam on the other side his face, cracking his skull, blood gushing out Damian's nose.

The metallic smell soaked the air, each breath he took sharp and bitter. Relentless torture was aimed at the man who took Chris's life away from him, until there was nothing left for him to break.

Chris stood still, the bar in his hand trembling slightly from the force of his previous blows, dripping with blood, his knuckles were raw, bruised from the reckless pounding, but it was the anger that still coursed through him that made him feel alive.

“Christopher…” he croaked, his eyes bloodshot and wide with fear.

Hyunjin and Minho tied Damian on the chair, injecting injecting pure adrenaline into his failing body. He trembled violently, the sudden rush of chemicals forcing him to consciousness despite the overwhelming pain consuming him.

He was unrecognisable because of the destruction Chris had made on his face.

"You don’t deserve a quick death." Chris whispered, his voice eerily calm. And that was all he said.

Hyunjin tied a time bomb around Damian’s torso, the almost unconscious man looked up at Chris, his eyes begging for mercy.

His gaze searched Chris’s face, as if trying to find a sliver of mercy in his hard, unforgiving eyes. But there was nothing there.

Hyunjin stepped backward after fixing the time bomb, twisting it to its final setting. “Time’s up,” he said, his tone emotionless.

Damian's desperate, pleading eyes met Chris's one last time. “Please… don’t do this,” he croaked, his voice barely audible.

But before he could finish, the bomb clicked into place, its red LED countdown flashing ominously.

Chris straightened up, taking one last long look at the man who had ruined his life. He could feel the weight of his actions settle on his shoulders, the finality of what he was about to do.

This was it. The end of the road.

With one last deep breath, Chris turned away, his hands stained red, his heart pounding in his chest.

Hyunjin, Minho, and he walked out of the room without a single word, the sound of Damian’s desperate, agonizing cries of pain fading into the silence behind them.

The building was swallowed by the night, a hollow shell of destruction as the countdown echoed through the walls.

Once the time reached zero, the loud explosion made the birds resting in the nearby trees fly away flapping their wings in terror.

Chris pulled his phone out, the wallpaper of you and him on your first date appearing on his screen.

"finché non ti rivedrò, amore mio." He whispered to himself.

until I see you again, my love

***

The next morning, your daughter came out her bedroom, rubbing her eyes and spotted her father on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate sitting next to him.

“Daddy!” She squealed, running towards him, wrapping her small arms around his neck. Chris hugged her back tightly, pressing his lips on her hair and she nestled close to his chest.

“Where did you go last night daddy?” She asked, her eyes wide and curious, her voice innocent, unaware of the darkness her father went through.

“I didn't go anywhere baby,” Chris said, kissing her cheek that made her giggle. “I will be with you always.”

She grinned up at him, her eyes filled with wonder, and without warning, she slipped her little hands into his, pulling him onto the floor and began opening her presents.

Lavish toys, clothes and books her Mafia uncles spoiled her with.

After a while, her tiny hand wrapped around Chris’s huge arm. “Daddy, can we go outside?”

His smile deepened as he nodded. “Of course, darling.”

Lifting her with ease, he carried her in his arms as they stepped out into the crisp morning air, the golden light spilling across their quiet little yard, a fluffy orange cat following behind them.

Your daughter's head rested against Chris's shoulder, the soft rustling of leaves the only sound accompanying their steps.

The weight of the night’s events still hung in his chest, but he focused on the feeling of her small body in his arms, the steady rhythm of her breath, the calmness that had returned to his world since she had been born.

As they reached the center of the garden, Chris followed her eyes which was glued to a bird gliding gracefully down from the sky, landing softly on the lush green grass.

Its wings beat gently as it settled, its pure white feathers standing out against the vibrant colors of the morning.

“What bird is that, Daddy?” she pointed at it, her gaze full of wonder.

Chris smiled, his heart swelling with love and a deep, unspoken sadness. “That’s a dove, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and tender as he spoke.

“It’s so pwetty,” she murmured, her hand reaching out toward the bird as if she could touch its serenity.

“Do you think it’s here for us?”

Chris’s smile faltered just a fraction, his heart heavy with memories of the past and the promise he had made to you.

He looked at his daughter, the only living hope of his life you gifted to him. He nodded, though his voice was thick with emotion.

“I think it is,” he whispered. "I think it's here to remind us that even after all the darkness... there’s still light.”

She rested her head back on his shoulder, a contented sigh escaping her lips as she watched the dove slowly strut across the grass, the little cat's bushy tail brushing Chris's leg.

The dove took flight again, its wings stretching wide as it soared into the morning sky, leaving Chris, his daughter and Simba standing beneath it, in a world that had both healed and broken him in ways his daughter will never fully understand.

Enjoyed this one shot? Consider checking my masterlist for more. Requests? Check 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 (& 𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜)

Thank you for reading!

xx,

Ivyy

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shiny-jr · 2 months ago

Note

Loved all your info about Empyrean with my last ask and left comments/reblog to it, and so sorry to spam your asks especially when you’re still working on this idea, but I’m just curious and want to hear whatever ramblings you’d like to share!

You mentioned Heartslabyul being inspired by Europe with a dash of volcanos via borders and I’m sure there’s going to be lots of references to the regions of origin for the fairytales/Disney movies for each. But are there other places of the world you’re drawing inspiration from, whether in real life or from Genshin too?

You’ve given teasers about Leona and Idia, along with the original premise post for a few of the other archons, are there any other backstories you’ve been developing for the archons or even the other characters?

Again, sorry to spam your asks but the more I look into Genshin, the more I’m excited by Empyrean and wishing you all the best in writing~!

So if y'all recall, my biggest qualm with Genshin Impact was the amalgamation of cultures and cultures as costume. I am NOT trying to do that here. However, here's the problem when it comes to implementing the twst x genshin au: a majority of the stories are based in Europe or have European origins. So that means that most of the world, if we go by that logic, would be European, which doesn't sit right with me.

So for story's sake, I think I'll imply in the story that the seven nations are the ones of the known world, and the most recognized due to their archon's power. I've considered maybe changing the setting of a nation, but that doesn't exactly sit right with me either. So that's why I stated here and like I said, it will be implied in the story, that there is another part of the world not even really known. That being said, I probably won't lean too heavily into the cultural aspect of the story. However, there will be mentions here and there. Keep in mind though, I belong to none of these cultures, so I'll try to research to the best of my ability but it's also why, like I just said, I don't want to heavily into the cultural aspect of the story, because by no means do I want to get something wrong and offend anyone.

Here's my thought process for the inspiration of each. Keep in mind, this is still very much a work in progress.

Heartslabyul: British Isles

If you thought this was gonna be any other place, then what the hell are you thinking? Riddle definitely has a British accent. The tea, the tarts, all that stuff? Very British, if you ask me. Of course there's the fact that the original author of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland is from Britain.

Savanaclaw: East Africa

After bit of research, I found several things. Such as the fact that many of the names from The Lion King movie are based off the Swahili language. Zulu is apparently also spoken in the opening song, The Circle of Life. Additionally, the Pride Lands are said to be set in either Tanzania or Kenya.

Octavinelle: Scandinavia(?)

I know a lot of people like to debate where The Little Mermaid takes place, but I'm basing this on the origins of the author, as he is Danish. Also, if you recall, I believe there's in game dialogue where one of the Octavinelle characters mentions how ice often makes it difficult for them to return home, thus suggesting that their homeland is very cold. Originally I did want to add a tropical location, but this complicates things.

Scarabia: Arabian Peninsula(?)

Yes, yes, there's the fact that the movie of Aladdin takes inspiration from Indian and other Southeast Asian cultures, but from what I've seen, the story seems to mainly derive from Arabic cultures. Aside for the fact that the story of Aladdin is said to come from the Islamic Golden Age and is from a collection of Middle Eastern folktales. If you research names like Kalim or Jamil, they do have Arabic origins.

Pomefiore: Central/Eastern Europe(?)

We all know the Brothers Grimm, yes? Authors of many fairytales, one of which being Snow White. Well, they're German. And, I mean, the archon is going to be Vil SCHOENHEIT, if that's not German sounding last name, then I dunno what is. Why did I include Eastern Europe? Because I personally HC a lot of the characters with accents and the accent I imagine Epel with is some type of Slavic. God, I love creative freedom.

Ignihyde: Greece

This one isn't even a debate. I don't gotta say why.

Diasomnia: Western Europe(?)

It is said that one of the earliest records of Sleeping Beauty was in a French book. If we look at some of the inspiration from the movie, it's said to take place in a French medieval kingdom. So yeah, it just made sense in my mind.

#shiny speaks #empyrean twst au

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redbullgirly · 1 year ago

Note

hi i saw your requests are open!! i was wondering if you could write a lance x indian!famous!fem reader where shes an actress and shes always getting shipped with other indian actors and she decided to hard launch her and lances wedding. fc - janhvi kapoor

thank you 💗

THE WEDDING [LS18 smau]

Lance Stroll x indian!famous!reader

Masterlist

Summary: Y/N Y/L/N is a loved celebrity and her fans often speculate about her dating life, shipping her with other Indian actors and men. But what if, one day, she decides to hard launch her wedding with someone as unexpected as Formula One driver, Lance Stroll?

Warnings: I don't know many things about famous Indian actors, movies or series, and same goes for Indian culture. If you find any errors in this matter, please let me know! :)

Author's Note: Hi Anon, thank you for this request. I have to say it was probably the hardest social media au I have ever done, because I don't know basically anything about Indian movies, celebrities, actors and everything else... I found some random actors, but if some of you know them and I didn't portray them correctly, sorry about that! Though I hope you and everyone else will like it and enjoy it. Also thanks for the face claim, it helped me orient at least a little bit.

yourusername posted on instagram

liked by shahidkapoor, bellahadid, ishaankhatter, lance_stroll and 2,349,122 others

yourusername time for loveee 🤍🌻👡

view all 3,206 comments

user1 step on me. i beg

user2 Loveee💜🔥

shahidkapoor Always need time for love!💕😁

user3 i'm sensing something here 👀

user4 Wow okay Shahid... are you hinting something??

user5 always time for love you say😏

user6 PLEASE YOU AND Y/N WOULD BE THE PERFECT COUPLE

user7 Guys he's literally happily married. Calm down 🙄

user8 well he can dump her ass and marry y/n instead lol

user9 Y/N & Shahid nation STAND UP he commented😍😍

user10 So elegant so beautiful just looking like a wow 😳

user11 dream girl with dream life

user12 I don't like the Shahid and Y/N shippers in this comment section... c'mmon guys it's not gonna happen you can chill

user13 exactly if she's dating someone then it's obviously ishaankhatter 🤭

user14 giiiirl tagging him is WILD😭 but same tbh, I also think they'd be better couple🤷‍♀️

user15 naaaaah y/n and shahid 4ever

ranveersingh 💜🖤

user16 OMGGG

user17 he's here. I repeat: THE KING ARRIVED🗣🗣🗣

user18 ohhh I kinda see the potential of y/n and him being the IT couple😻

user7 Why the hell do you keep shipping this poor woman with older married dudes? Stop!

user19 jesus user7 let us live we do it just for fun🖕

user20 Idk about you guys but I don't do it just for fun... I live for this😂

user21 yeah same user20

user22 Can we talk about the fact he used the black heart he often uses in his captions plus the purple heart that Y/N just used in her caption?? Like hello? This has to mean something!!

user23 omg right? they're definitely hinting something🤨

user24 Hear me out, I'm Y/N's fan and ship her with multiple actors... but now you're being delusional, it's literally an emoji xd

user23 nah user22 convinced me there has to be something more to it🫡

user24 Perfect💯 wife material

harnaazsandhu_03 Need your makeup tutorial asap!✨🔥

user25 ME TOO PLS

user26 guysss what if she's trying to hint she was on a date or sm??!!!

user27 THAT'S WHAT I'M SAYING!!! Sry but the rose filled tub looks like it can fit two 🫢

user28 who do you think it is then?

user29 Pls Shadid Kapoor🫣

user30 I'm actually praying it's Ishaan rn🙏🙏🙏

user23 and i'm a new member of y/n and raveer singh nation... like imagine the matching outfits they'd slay together😩

user31 Unpopular opinion but I see Y/N with Varun dhawan

user33 yeah real unpopular 'cause he just announced he's engaged like two weeks ago girly 💀

user34 youu>>>>>>>>>

user35 Medical science has really reached another level with your plastic operations🥴

user36 stfu

dior 🤩💜

liked by the author

user37 help not liking dior comment being y/n's only interaction under this whole post

user38 Poor her she probably doesn't want to have even more dating rumors going around because of replying to someone's comment...😕

user39 lmao don't make her into some tortured soul, she's probably just too busy XD

user40 your photos are so aesthetic🥰

user41 I WANT HER TO FINALLY DATE SOMEONE SO BAAAD

twitter & messages between Y/N and Lance

yourusername posted on instagram

liked by dhramamovie, tigerjackieshroff, lance_stroll, ranveersingh and 5,207,155 others

tagged: vogueindia

yourusername thank you for this amazing photoshoot!🖤☀️

view all 5,908 comments

user1 Absolutely gorgeous 😍

user2 omg guys she used the black heart!!!

user3 No way, that literally has to be a sign🫢

user4 wait im so confused... what is happening?

user5 It's about Ranveer Singh using the black heart emoji in his captions pretty often, commenting it under her last post and now her having it in her own caption

user4 wtf? you ranveer girlies are CRAZY 😭

user5 stfu user4 they're meant to be together🥰🥰

priyankachopra Beautiful girl!❤️🙏

yourusername thx!!

user6 y/n finally replied to someone's comment🫣

user7 Noooo why is it Priyanka Chopra??! Reply to Shahid or someone you're dating😓

user8 guys let her live... this is exactly why she isn't replying to anyone

user9 TWO QUEENS INTERACTING 😻

user10 Absolute Stunner 🖤🖤🖤🖤

vogueindia Our pleasure collaborating with you!🫶

liked by the author

user11 even vogue is Y/N's fan😌

user12 Why are some f1 drivers in this woman's likes???🤨

user13 'cause she's famous lol

user14 Lance and others are always in Y/N's likes, I guess they know each other from some event or maybe they like Indian movies she's been in... idk, the world can be really small XD

user12 It's still kinda suspicious🧐

user13 naaah it really is not

user14 tasteful🌹

therajakumari Icon

user15 we love women supporting women

varundvn Didn't see you for a while and suddenly you're dressed in black... any more surprises coming? 🤔🖤🤍

user16 WHAT DO YOU KNOW VARUN

yourusername hmmm let me think 🤔

user17 I can't believe my eyes... did Y/N just reply to a man in her comments?😨

user18 OMGGGG

user19 no but what does it meeaaaannn?!

user20 This is a good day to be Varun and Y/N shipper🤭

user21 the emojis HELLO

user22 nothing will ever convince me they aren't secretly in love and dating 🥰

user23 Ehm... he literally has a fiancé?

user22 and what? maybe she's just a cover for him and y/n 😉

user24 I wanna be heeer

user25 I wanna be WITH her

voguemagazine 📸📸📸

liked by the author

user26 Bohot sundar 😍 [Very beautiful 😍]

messages between Y/N, Varun Dhawan, Shahid Kapoor, Ranveer Singh and Ishaan Khatter

yourusername posted on instagram stories

seen by lance_stroll, ranveersingh, chloestroll, fernandoalo_oficial and 3,209,877 others

lance_stroll replied to your story: Can't wait to see my beautiful bride! ❤️

yourusername ohhh baby i'm so excited and nervous for tomorrow 😭🥰

lance_stroll Me too... but as long as we have each other, it's going to be okay

yourusername ofc lance 🫶

lance_stroll And if you change your mind about going public, just let know, okay sweetheart?

yourusername thank you, but i won't

yourusername it's time for the world to see my man 😘

lance_stroll ❤️

user1 replied to your story: y/nnnn what's happening

user2 replied to your story: I'm praying for you & Shahid rn 🙏

user3 replied to your story: Girlie isn't that the song you once said you want to play at your wedding???🫣

user4 replied to your story: So pretty

user5 replied to your story: 😍

varundvn replied to your story: Let's go! 🔥

yourusername are you srsly trying to hype up rn? 😭

varundvn ... Is it working?

yourusername ...maybe

varundvn Then let's go you're going to smash it in the wedding dress!🔥

yourusername u have no idea how much i'm glad crazy people ship us 'cause we got to meet thx to that 😭

user6 replied to your story: Bf reveal!!!!

user7 replied to your story: pls tell me you're finally going to announce you're dating one of your co-stars

user8 replied to your story: HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO FALL ASLEEP TODAY KNOWING TOMORROW IS HAPPENING SOMETHING BIG😩

yourusername and lance_stroll posted on instagram

liked by f1, shahidkapoor, charles_leclerc, kellypiquet and 20,344,109 others

yourusername Y/N & Lance Y/L/N Stroll 🤍💍

view all 34,029 comments

user1 I did NOT expect that

ranveersingh Congratulations to my favourite couple! Memorable day and beautiful ceremony.

liked by the author and lance_stroll

user2 my heart is breaking rn💔

user3 OMG RANVEER WAS THERE?!!

user4 i feel stupid for shipping him w y/n 😃

user5 But can we talk about how sweet it is he attended her wedding???🥺

user6 nooooo my favourite ship

user7 I guess at least they're close enough to go to each other's wedding 🫠

user8 this was definitely not on my 2024 bingo card

fernandoalo_oficial my first indian wedding but definitely not the last 🤪

lance_stroll Already planning on changing us for someone else?

fernandoalo_oficial no, but you can have like a golden wedding in twenty years 😄

yourusername you'll be definitely invited

user9 never in my life did i imagine fernando alonso and y/n y/l/n interacting with each other

user10 RIGHT? it still feels like a fever dream😭

user11 the wedding looks so beautiful!🥹🫶

shahidkapoor Forever & Always

liked by the author and lance_stroll

user12 that was supposed to be your wedding to Y/N dude

user13 MY FAVOURITE SHIP IS IN RUINS

user14 rip shahid and y/n girlies... 💔🥲

user15 Guys, let him be. He is married and so is Y/N now. It's actually sweet that he wishes them well.

user16 QUEEN😻

user17 who's here from f1 fandom ⬇️

user18 me and i can't believe lance stroll pulled some hot famous indian actress

user19 yeah, today has been crazy... 🤠

user20 I just saw one of her films and damn it's actually good xd

user21 how did we know NOTHING about lance being in a relationship???

user22 Idk I was just so shocked when I saw this post lol

user23 the twitter detectives got played this time😭

user24 No but why do I kinda understand why Y/N and Lance fit together perfectly-

user25 WE SEE THE VISION SIS

varundvn We can't send each other funny theories about our secret relationship anymore... 😓

liked by ishaankhatter, shahidkapoor and ranveersing

varundvn Anyway, congratulation so much! I bet I was the best bridesmaid you ever saw! 🫶

liked by the author and lance_stroll

user26 LOL not him being at the wedding as well 😃

user27 Why are all the men she was shipped with coming into these comments dropping hints about being besties and going to the wedding?!

user28 guys they were making fun of us the whole time🙃

user29 THEM SEDING EACH OTHER THEORIES HELP

f1 We hope to see Y/N in the paddock next season!🤩

user30 she will slay

user31 she will eat

user32 If we get Y/N in the paddock, maybe I can get over my favorite ships being turned into dust🫢

user33 I'M DEAD

isahernaez Dreamy wedding 🎀🤍

yourusername dreamy girl right here 😻

user34 i mean... congrats, but what the hell-?!!

user35 🥰🥳

user36 THIS IS MY ROMAN EMPIRE

THE END

Author's Note: Thank you for reading this social media au! I hope you liked it and I'll appreciate likes, comments, reblogs, follows and every other way of support. If you want to send requests for either social media au or normal written fanfiction, don't be shy. Have a great day!

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