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sramoonlight · 12 hours ago

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Like you need to

What if the batfamily had their own spidey?

Content you’ll see here: Batfam, neutral!reader, subtle crossover, weird romcom.

English it’s not my first language so please be patient.

One hundred and ninety six calls, seven counting the one you’re doing right now but still, no one is answering across the phone, your stomach feels like is about to empty itself and you can’t do more than call your mother’s phone over and over again, begging the next time you hear her voice isn’t from a voice mail

Your eyes feel heavy, now that you notice, they’re not heavy just they’re crying not because you’re sad, you’re scared

Where is your mother? You can’t but wonder if she’s okay, if she made out of it alive and you want to know how did she know about this

Your heart is beating fast, faster and faster as you heard someone sitting beside you

— Hey little bird, you need to get out of this — Dick, the person who seemed like he wanted to bond with you caress your shoulders trying to calm the storm in your head — Everything is gonna be alright —

But how could you think that? Your mother, the one who helped you be a spidey and the only one who seemed to care about you, she’s gone

Wait, your mind started to wander, then you realized, she plot this to have you away from the city

King ping? You thought he was in jail, he is supposed to be in jail, did he escaped? Your mother knew?

But that questions were nothing if no one was there for you to answer, your head moved to be on Dick’s shoulders feeling him rubbing your shoulder

— you’re going to be just fine, this will pass — you’re too tired to even care if it okay or not, you just want to rest and wait for you mother to contact you

— Birdie, Bruce went to recognize your mother’s body — a whisper that you tried your best to ignore, you want to pretend she’s still alive and she will call you this night

Dick kept talking about loosing someone, but you could only look at the floor of your room trying to ignore his words, your mom is not dead, she can’t be

But you’re slowly starting to believe it

Another day, you weren’t at school at this moment, just because Bruce let you skip it for you to think about what happened, you still can’t seem to understand why everyone acted like she was dead before you could know it, being called a Wayne even if you’re still a (last name) it just makes your heart yearn for your mother’s love.

You stopped walking, Gotham is a place dark for sure so you had to stop just to see where you’re going, it is not night yet but the city of crimes can have you running for your life in seconds

Until your spidey sense tickled, you look around the street trying to know why it is acting like this, and you went out of breath

King ping was leaving a car, you aren’t imagining things, he’s there! He’s too big for even think is someone else, immediately you put on your hood making your way to where he just entered.

Silence, you can only hear your breath as you climbed into the building, you had to hide beside a window to not be seen and still hear what they’re saying

— I’ve done my part, you have to do yours — you don’t understand what he’s talking about so you took a peeked, is that a man with a black mask?

Your brain started to look for the profile of that person, that’s it! Black mask! Quite fitting name actually, Gotham’s crime lords doesn’t have a point in creativity.

You could see, they had many of their employees around them so you had to be careful, a bad movement and they would see you, probably shoot you

— I know, I’m a man of word, you’ll have what you want on October 20th — October 20th? That’s just a month apart, know you wonder what are they planning and why is taking so long

They shared a hand shake before king ping let the building, so did too looking how he left

Whatever he’s doing, it cant be good

You sat down on the street, it’s your time to think what is he doing

An accident on Alchemax, it’s not quite normal to have one of that kind knowing that they’re a lab, King ping leaving jail and going to Gotham to meet a crime lord, that’s what you got

So convenient, you just came to Gotham and now he’s here

Wait, what position did your mother had? Secretary, no, that’s not-

Assistant

Your eyes widened as you had your first shot, the accident happened at 4 pm, the moment where your mother usually had lunch and the moment where you usually drop by her lunch

If you were there, you could die with her

“I can’t neglect you”

Neglect? That’s stupid, even if she was busy as hell she would never said that

“Gotham is dangerous”

Gotham isn’t dangerous for someone of your type

Your mother hide a code that you didn’t see!

If you were still at New York and luckily you didn’t died, you would be now living at your aunt’s not with your dad at Gotham

You couldn’t see King ping at Gotham

— Mom, why did you send me here? —

…

Let’s start this again, shall we?

Your name is (Reader) (Last name) Wayne, but in your heart you’re still just (last name)

You were bitten by a radioactive spider and for the last two years an eight months, you’ve been the one and only spidey

Of course your job as the New York hero isn’t exactly easy, you still have to fight villains and fight and fight

But no matter what, you will always get up

And now it’s your time to reach your most wanted goal, save the world as your mother commanded you to do.

Gotham has a lot of vigilantes but that can’t do nothing to you, they need you at this city and you’ll give them what they need

You took out your suit, your intuition told you to bring it on your backpack and you can’t be more than thankful, you hide in an alley putting it on as fast you could

Oh! Don’t forget to attach your backpack with your spider webs, now that you’ve done that.

You started swinging across Gotham city, now is your time to show king ping that you’re here.

Stopping little crimes you saw how the civilians seem to know who you were being excited to have spidey saving them

— Can I get a pic Spidey? —

— Of course! —

You posed doing a peace sign, how could you say no to your fans

—You! You’re a New York hero — You jumped out of you place seeing how a yellow suit guy pointed at you, you recognize him as Signal

— Well, Gotham need me too, don’t be mad, we can share the daytime — You chuckled shooting your web to take the selfie

You moved to shake your hand with the vigilante

— Your friendly neighbor Spidey, happy to work with you — the man hesitated before shaking your hand, behind the mask you smiled at him

— I should go now, let’s meet other time — in an instant you shoot a web swinging out of the alley

The vigilante look where you just disappeared, Bruce it’s not going to like this

— They’re so cool, aren’t they? — he almost forgot about the civilian who smiled at him, he needs to admit it, you’re cool.

Let’s get back to you!

The sun was starting to fall and you were sitting at a near roof scrolling through your phone, twitter was blowing up with your name and you let out a chuckle

A chuckle that didn’t last long until you hugged your knees

Spidey things feel good, but the feeling of not having your mother there makes you feel empty

But you know, that’s your mother’s wish

— Ah! I should go to the manor again — You didn’t feel like calling it your home, you swing back to where is supposed to be your new house.

But in the way home you saw how a woman was being robbed, you should just wait for a vigilante to come, Signal was a thing but meeting with someone like Robin would sure get you on trouble with Batman

Fuck off! You can’t let this happen, quickly you shot a web to the thief taking away his gun

— The night starts and you start stealing too? Geez, try stealing someone’s heart — you joked punching the thief, the fight was going to be a short one, not because you don’t like beating the shit out of a bad person

But because the night was the Batman’s moment, you can’t let him see you.

You smiled now that the job is done, patting your hands as you tied the person with your webs

And your spidey sense tickled, you look behind you before someone cuts your arm, a quick movement back to avoid being stabbed

Oh god, you looked at your new opponent, Robin is looking at you with his katana on his hands

— You’re at someone else’s property — his voice sounded too cold for you to think that he’s really a kid, you looked at your arm where the cut was

Your suit arm is ripped, it sucks knowing that it was your mother who used to fix it

— I- you’re pretty rough for a kid huh? Bye! — You escaped before he could do something else

Your arm aches so much, it hurts to even swing around.

How could you not sense it coming before? You know Robin is someone with badass reflex but you didn’t know he had the power to fool your spidey sense

You climbed the manor walls to get to your room, opening the window slowly as you entered the room taking off your mask

— Stupid kid, is he a trained assassin or what? —

Spidey sense

You looked at the door, Tim drake, the man who you didn’t talked to before was standing on the frame looking at you

You could see a plate of food on his hands, fuck, did he went there to give you dinner?

— I- I can explain — you tried to find an excuse, you need to find one

— Sit on the bed — He sighed, leaving the plate on your nightstand, you did what he commanded like a puppy

He walked to your bathroom to grab a first aid kit, did you had one there?

He sat down beside you disinfecting your wound as you look at him, he looks so good at doing it like he does that every day. He was in silence

— How did you get this? A wound like this can only be do in a certain way, god, I can see your beans —

You blinked

Looked at the wound, he meant the yellow dots on it? What a weird way to say it, and it isn’t even that deep right?

— I won’t tell no one I saw you like this, but you need to tell me why are you doing this — the why was a good question

You could tell him your story since you got your powers, but you’re sure he didn’t meant it like that, and you’re still too scared to even say your thoughts

But his eyes are kind, so understanding that you had to say it

— I know my mother sent me here for this, I just know she did — you explained it, your lips starting to trembled sending you a shiver of confusion

Oh, you want to cry

— And I need to do it, it is stupid but the feeling of needing to do something about it makes me do something without thinking and I —

You didnt noticed when he finished his job at your arm, and now he’s holding your hand like his life depends on it

He looks.. like he understands every single word you just said, like he does feel that too

— I’ll help you with that — you blinked, a single tear rolling back on your cheek

He hugged you, and for a moment you just let yourself cry in his arms, the tears you held back for hours are now being let out as you hold him tightly

This man, you didn’t talk to each other before and still he understands every action you take

Your first ally on this fucked up city

Your tears are now dry as you looked at the mask in your hands, you just told Tim what you saw, and also he just told you he’s Red Robin, quite convenient, is your father Batman? Probably now

He walked across the room thinking, with that clues he can’t seem to find an answer just like you did

— My god, I just can’t understand why is he here — he mumbled under his breath before facing you

He sighed, it was pointless to keep thinking about it without any more clues, you looked how he reached for his phone tapping something

— If we want something about Black mask we need Red hood — You raised an eyebrow, so did he noticing your confusion, after a seconds he nodded, of course you don’t know who Red hood is

— He’s a vigilante, well more like an anti-hero, doesn’t matter — of course it is weird to call him, more when he isn’t like anyone could think, weird again.

He sighed, before sitting at your side once again mumbling something that you couldn’t understand but still, you didn’t looked like wanting to.

— First, I’m going to do a quick research about Black mask latest business — He mentioned more for himself as he cupped his chin thinking about it

You fidgeted your fingers before he smiled at you

— what about if we go on patrol tomorrow? You and me — for a weird reason your heart jumped, it was your first time patrolling with another hero.

You nodded on excitement, your mother would be so happy to- oh, right

You looked at your arm, you don’t know how but you need to get this fixed, but as you saw your suit Tim did too

— Take it off — Your cheeks went red in an instant

— Not- no like that! —

— Tim we are siblings, but if you want — You attempted to take it off, in seconds he pulled it up not letting you do that

— I’ll go out! — You chuckled seeing him leaving the room, quickly you changed for more casual clothes calling him once you were ready

He entered the room again, taking your suit

— I’ll get it for you tomorrow night, let’s see us at the Central Park at eleven o’clock —

With that he left the room once again, you sighed thinking of how much you did today

You fall into the bed, groaning at the feeling of your arm aching, it sure hurts but whatever, you’ll be fine

— Good night mom — You whispered for yourself closing your eyes.

Swinging to your meeting point you fell looking for Tim, you can’t see his body near and you had to check your phones clock to know if you had come earlier

— You made it on time — you felt that words like a weird dejavú but still, you smiled at him — I’m always on time —

You turned to see him on his Red Robin suit, if you didn’t knew he was Tim you could just walk away, he handed you a device and you had to take it closer to your eyes to see what it was

Is.. like an earphone? One very small

— Sorry Red, I don’t use AirPods since someone broke one on my ear — you shook your head moving his hand at his body

— Good point, but you need to use it so we can be in communication —

Oh, you took it looking at it, it was actually a comm, how convenient

How could a small thing like this can do such a big job? Without saying a word you pulled your mask up just where your ear started

Quickly, you put in on

— Just don’t press the right button or you’ll change the signal, we don’t want Oracle to know you have one — who’s Oracle?

Whatever, you putted your mask down again nodding at his words, you were more than happy to do this

— We need a duo name — you said as he pulled out a gadget, are you going to swing together?

— Follow me —

You shot your web where he just used that weird gadget, it surprised you how quick it was but as much as you wanted to give him credit

You did better, swinging beside him you two made your way to some building

— How you do that? — He asked pointing at the way your body move along your web

— Im part spider so my body changed to match one — he made a disgusted expression, you know what he’s going to say — No, I don’t shot webs from my butt —

He chuckled surprised that you knew what was on his mind, of course he was interested in this kind of stuff, maybe because seeing a meta human isn’t normal

You shot another web swinging in a quick move, he had to stop in a near roof

— I can carry you — you said stopping beside him, he seemed hesitant — for the to be quick — he had to accept it.

You opened your arms feeling how he hugged your neck as you pulled him by the waist, he’s a little taller than you but you’re used to carrying people on your hands, usually when your mother was late and you had to drop her off.

— Ready? —

— Ready —

You shot your web swinging faster than before, you heard how he made a sound filled with fear making you chuckle

He’s too cute for this, everyone is scared of their first spidey swing but he seemed like he didn’t wanted it to show

— On.. on the right — You smiled at how his voice trembled, he took a moment to clear his voice and that just makes you even more amused

He patted your shoulders after a seconds so you arrived at a roof, he went off of your arms walking to the edge

You took this as a sign to move behind him peeking to see the streets, you can recognize how some King ping’s men are taking something out of a truck giving it to Black mask’s employees

— this is some kind of exchange? — Red Robin mumbled for himself as you looked closer

— This is.. their dealt must be something like a big machine or something — You said thinking about it, if Alchemax is here that means they’re building something

Something that can’t be good

Your eyes kept looking before you lost sight of them, now wandering across the building

What the..?

A door is glitching, what is wrong with that? Is that even possible?

You tried to catch Red Robin’s attention but he kept analyzing the situation, maybe you saw it wrong? Yeah, that should be

— Im going inside — You said getting up, he looked at you surprised but after a seconds he nodded

Quick shot and you were climbing to enter through the window, making your presence unknown you made your way to hide behind a box

— Isn’t your boss crazy too? Mine says that he saw something and now we are here — you heard one of King ping’s man talking to Black mask’s, even bad people can grow tired of their boss, how funny.

You took a peek, the other band member hummed as he wrote something down

— They are all, just mine doesn’t think it exist a multiverse —

— Now that you say it that way, it sounds stupid — the man laughed before taking the papers from the other one, you don’t understand what are they talking about but it looks like something out of their mind

You saw how a person with a lab coat, you looked quickly for handcuffs of something that could mean he’s being kept here without his consent but..

He seems fine

— We’ve done the final test, maybe for tomorrow we’ll have the machine ready to try time travel —

What did he said? You pressed the button on the comm

— Hey Red… uhm, do you believe in time travel? — you didn’t heard something back

Instead you saw how he entered the building hiding from the people down, that was a good way to tell you that he isn’t believing a word you just said

— Thank you, we’ll contact you later —

King ping’s man left the building without saying any more words, you need to leave before they notice you.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #batboys x batsis #batfam x batsis #batfamily #batsiblings #bruce wayne #batsis!reader #damian wayne #damian wayne x batsis #batbros #tim drake x reader #tim drake #spider reader #spider oc

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dippindaz · 1 day ago

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Munson's Little Sister Part 3 - Billy x Reader

You find the other parts here :)

Woohoo! Part 3 is here >:) Sorry this one is a bit shorter than the previous two, I'll try to make sure part 4 is a tad longer. Enjoy!! :)

Warnings: It's casual. Semi-public(?) making out, grinding, Eddie ditches reader.

The weekend is long and painfully uneventful. You spend most of it holed up in your room, avoiding Eddie’s pointed glares and the inevitable conversation that you know is coming.

Of course, he doesn’t let you off that easily. Eddie was on your ass all weekend about it or at least giving you odd looks.

By Saturday afternoon, he corners you in the kitchen while you’re making a sandwich, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like he’s been rehearsing this confrontation in his head.

“So,” he starts, leaning against the counter. “You wanna tell me what the hell last night was about?”

You sigh, not looking up. “Nothing happened, Eddie.”

“Nothing?” He lets out a sharp laugh. “Nothing is when you come home at a normal time, dry, and not with fucking Hargrove.”

You clench your jaw. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” He scoffs. “Jesus Christ. You think he’s some misunderstood bad boy, don’t you? You think you’re gonna fix him?”

You slam your butter knife down. “I don’t think anything, Eds.”

He studies you, eyes dark with frustration. “Then why are you even entertaining him?”

You don’t have an answer for that. Not one you want to say out loud.

Eddie shakes his head. “He’s just gonna screw you over,” he mutters, grabbing a bag of chips and stomping toward the living room. “Don’t come crying to me when he does.”

And that’s how most of the weekend goes. Eddie, brooding and watching you like a hawk. You, stewing in your own thoughts, replaying Friday night over and over. The kiss. The way Billy looked at you. The way it all felt.

You barely step outside, avoiding the outside world like it’ll give you answers. But by the time Monday rolls around, you still don’t have any.

You wake up feeling off. Immediately you thought of Billy.

“You wanna just come out and say it?” Eddie asked Sunday night, sprawled across the couch, strumming lazily at his guitar.

You didn’t look up from where you sat at the table, pretending to be invested in the notes you were scribbling.

“Say what?”

“That you’ve got it bad for Hargrove.”

“I do not—”

“Bullshit.” Eddie snorted, setting his guitar aside. “You’ve been all broody since Friday. You barely left your room, and when you did, you looked like you were thinking real hard about something. That’s not you, dude.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving your notes into your folder. “Maybe I was just enjoying a quiet weekend, ever think of that?”

“Yeah, sure. And maybe pigs will fly outta my ass.”

You threw a balled-up napkin at his face.

But now, standing in front of your locker on Monday morning, you wish you could say he was completely wrong.

Billy isn’t on your mind. Not at all.

Not as you scan the hallway, not as your stomach tightens when you catch sight of his Camaro in the parking lot, not as you force yourself to not look for him between classes.

And yet—nothing.

No cocky smirk. No lingering glances. No suggestive comments while he invades your space just to watch you squirm.

It’s like Friday never happened.

It should be a relief. It was exactly what you wanted.

But it wasn't what you wanted.

You’re sick of thinking by the time lunch starts but you just can’t seem to stop. Robin notices before you even sit down.

You barely get your tray on the table before she’s squinting at you, head tilted, eyes sharp with suspicion. “Alright, spill.”

You blink. “Spill what?”

“That face. You’ve been wearing that face all day.” She waves a fry in your direction. “It’s your ‘something is eating me alive, but I refuse to talk about it’ face.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I don’t have a face.”

“Oh, you definitely have a face.” Robin takes a dramatic sip of her drink. “And it’s screaming that something’s up.”

You stab at your food, trying to play it off, but there’s no use pretending. Your thoughts have been a tangled mess all morning, and maybe you need to get it out. Just once.

With a sigh, you lean in. “Okay, but if I tell you, you cannot freak out.”

Robin’s eyes widen. “Oh, that’s a terrible way to start. Now I have to freak out.”

“Robin.”

“Fine, fine! No freaking out.” She zips her lips and leans in eagerly. “Now, tell me everything.”

So you do. In hushed, rushed words, you spill it all—how Billy convinced you to go to that party, how he took you to the quarry, how you kissed. How he acted like nothing happened today, like it was nothing to him. Like you were just another girl.

Robin listens, surprisingly quiet, and when you’re done, she exhales, pushing a hand through her hair. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot.”

“No kidding.” You mutter.

She studies you for a long moment. “So, what are you gonna do?”

That’s the problem. You don’t know what to do. Your brain keeps looping back to that blue-eyed asshole and how he looked at you. Like you were something more. But if that was true, then why would he act like it didn’t matter? Like it didn’t happen?

Before you can answer, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. The idea of going to class, sitting still while your mind spins in circles, makes your skin itch.

“I’m going to skip next period and think about it.” You said as you stood.

Robin gapes. “You’re skipping?”

“Just this once.”

“Okay, now I am freaking out.”

You laugh, but it’s short-lived. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you weave through the cafeteria crowd before you can second-guess yourself.

Slipping past the parking lot and into the woods—toward the old bench where Eddie does most of his deals. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Exactly what you need. Just a second to breathe.

But, of course, you never get to breathe for long.

You hear the crunch of leaves behind you before you even see him. You glance over your shoulder. Billy. The way he moves up behind you is almost predatory—slow, deliberate, as if he’s been planning this.

You look away, and he says nothing, but you can hear the crunching of leaves growing closer and closer. His footsteps stop a short distance behind you. You swear even from this distance you can smell his cologne.

Finally, after a long stretch of silence, Billy speaks, his voice too casual. “You’re skipping class.”

You don’t answer. But your heart sinks. He sounds so uninterested, like you’re just another girl to amuse him for a moment. You swallow the bitter taste that rises in your throat.

He tilts his head, just enough that you can feel the heat of his gaze on your back. “Didn’t peg you for the rebellious type. Thought you’d be the goody-goody who sits at her desk, doing everything by the book.”

Your lips press into a thin line. “Does this surprise you, then?”

There’s a pause. Then, in that smug tone of his, he responds, “Kind of, yeah.”

You still don’t look at him, but you feel him step a little closer, his shadow falling over you. “So, what? You just decided to sit out here and feel sorry for yourself?”

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?” you ask, your voice flat and cold.

Billy chuckles softly. “You really that mad at me, princess?” He asked, taking another step closer to you, his voice getting lower. “You’re making it harder than it has to be.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Just leave me alone, Billy.” Your words are sharp and honestly, it feels good.

Billy lets out a humorless laugh before moving so close behind you that you can feel the warmth radiating off of him. He leans down, placing his hands against the table on either side of you, caging you in. “Tell me sweetheart, what are you gonna do about it?” His voice is just above a whisper, his breath fanning against your ear.

Your breath catches in your throat, but you force yourself to stay still, to not react, even though every nerve in your body is on high alert. You can feel the warmth of him behind you, his arms bracketing you in like a trap you should want to escape from.

But you don’t move.

You hate that you don’t move.

Instead, you tilt your head just slightly, enough to catch his gaze. His eyes are half lidded and dark. The way he’s looking at you makes your heart stop.

“I don’t have to do anything about it,” you say, your voice steady despite the way your pulse betrays you. “You’re going to get bored and move on, just like you always do.”

Billy’s smirk falters. Just for a second.

Then he laughs, low and rough. “That what you think?”

“I know it.”

His grip on the table tightens. You see his knuckles go white.

Billy leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “If I was gonna get bored, princess, it would’ve happened already.”

A shiver runs down your spine before you can stop it. Damn him.

You turn your gaze forward again. If you want to keep what little bit of your nerve you have left, you can’t look at him.

“What do you want, Billy?” You fight to keep your voice steady, to not let it crack. To not let yourself crack.

“Ain’t it obvious?” He chuckles before leaving a feather light kiss against your ear. You stiffened but before you think of what to say or how to react, his kisses, still barely touching your skin, trailed down from your ear to the crook of your neck.

Billy’s lips barely ghost over your skin, but it’s enough to send another shiver straight down your spine. Your breath stutters, and you curse yourself for it because you know he noticed.

“Billy—”

Your voice comes out softer than you intended, lacking the strength you need it to have. He hums against your neck like he likes the way his name sounds coming from your lips.

“I’ve been patient, sweetheart.” His voice is quiet, a murmur against your skin. “But I don’t think you want me to be.”

Your heart hammers, and your fingers curl against the wooden bench, nails digging in like it might ground you. Like it might remind you of all the reasons why this is a bad idea.

Billy finally presses his lips fully against your neck, slow and deliberate, like he’s staking a claim, and your resolve wavers.

You suck in a sharp breath, and that’s all it takes.

Billy smirks against your skin. “Knew it,” he murmurs before pulling back just enough for you to turn your head toward him. His nose brushes against yours, lips just barely apart. “You gonna let me kiss you again?”

You should say no. You should push him away.

And against all reason, you lean in.

The second your lips fully meet his, Billy groans low in his throat, his hands finally leaving the bench to grab at your waist, pulling you flush against him. His fingers dig into your sides, like he’s desperate for you.

The kiss is heated, slow and demanding. Like he’s memorizing you, like he’s savoring this moment after waiting just long enough.

Billy pulls back, just enough to break your kiss. “You gonna keep pretending you don’t want this?” he murmurs against your lips.

You let out a breathy chuckle, but you don’t have an answer. You don’t know how to answer. You should. But you don’t want to. But also you’re not going to chase after him if he acts like you don’t exist.

He shifts, moving his lips to graze along your jaw. . “C’mon, princess,” he coaxes. “Say it.”

“Are you gonna act like I don’t exist again?” You finally ask.

Billy pauses before huffing a laugh. “You’re not that easy to forget.” He mutters and places a kiss against your jaw.

“Then why act like it?” You press.

He’s quiet for a moment before finally responding. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I just—,” he sharply exhales, lowering his head, his forehead almost resting against your shoulder. “I needed to figure some shit out.”

Billy picks his head up as you shift to turn and face him fully. Your eyes met his icy ones. You’re sure his answer in the closest to honesty you’ll get right now. Maybe that should motivate you to push him away. It should tell you that whatever this is, it’s bound to be messy. But when he leans in close again, his nose brushing against yours, you can’t bring yourself to pull away.

Instead, you grab his shirt and pull him in, your lips meeting once more. Letting yourself fall even deeper. Maybe it’s mistake. Maybe you should care. But right now, you couldn’t care less.

One of Billy’s hands moves to your thigh, the other stays splayed against your back and your arms wrap around his neck. Billy boots you off the bench seat, your legs wrapping around him. He carries to the end of the bench and sets you on top of the table.

One of his hands moves up, tangling in your hair as he shifts, pulling you back against the bench. He leans in, his body pressing against yours.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide. “You got no idea what you’re doing to me.” He mutters, his lips meeting yours again.

Billy’s grip tightens on your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin like he wants to leave marks. His lips move from yours to your jaw, then down to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as he grinds against you.

“You’re fuckin’ dangerous, you know that?” he mutters against your skin.

You don’t know what he means, you don’t care, because your head is spinning and every nerve in your body feels like it’s on fire. His hand leaves your thigh, his fingers skim beneath the hem of your shirt, light and teasing as they creep higher.

Your heart races, and you feel a rush of heat flood your cheeks, but you catch yourself. “Billy,” you warn, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “We shouldn’t—”

Billy hums against your skin. “Why not, princess?”

“I don’t want to get caught,” you manage, your voice slightly breathless.

Billy chuckles. “ Fuck it. Let ‘em catch us.”

You shouldn’t let this go on you know. If you want to indulge in Billy you should at least do so elsewhere. But honestly? His plan sounds so much better right now. But the distant sound of footsteps crunching over fallen leaves cuts through the air. You both freeze, and Billy’s smirk widens as he leans in even closer, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Showtime, sweetheart,” Billy murmured and roughly pressed his lips against yours, kissing you like he was daring someone to interrupt.

And maybe, had it been someone different, that would've worked.

“What the fuck is this?”

Billy barely has time to react before he’s being yanked backward. You gasp as you push yourself up, your heart slamming against your ribs as you take in the sight before you—Eddie, gripping Billy’s shirt in both fists, his face red with fury.

“Shit, Munson,” Billy says, surprise flashing across his face before a lazy smirk tugs at his lips. “You’re early.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie snaps. “What the hell do you think you’re doing with my baby sister?”

“You can’t tell?” Billy glances at you, then back at Eddie, that smug, infuriating smirk never leaving his face. “Been that long since you got some, Munson?”

Eddie shoved Billy with enough force to make him stumble back.

You scramble off the table, rushing between them before this turns into a full-blown fight. “Eddie, stop—”

He doesn’t listen. His eyes are locked on Billy like he’s seconds away from throwing a punch. “You think this is funny, Hargrove?” Eddie spits out Billy’s name. “You wanna use her to piss me off, is that it?”

“You think too highly of yourself, Munson,” Billy says, rolling his eyes. “This,” He glances at you, his smirk softening. “This ain’t about you.”

You swallow hard, your heart still racing from the intensity of it all. Billy's words replay in your mind—this ain't about you. It's the way he said it, the way his smirk softened just a little when he looked at you. Like, for once, Billy wasn’t just chasing something to amuse him.

Eddie scoffs, shaking his head. "Oh, cut the shit, Hargrove. You don’t give a damn about her." His hand finds your wrist, a firm but not painful grip. "Come on, we’re leaving."

You don’t move.

Eddie tugs again, but you plant your feet, your pulse thundering in your ears. "Eddie, stop," you say, firmer this time.

His brows furrow, anger and disbelief flashing across his face. "What do you mean, stop?" He looks between you and Billy, like he can’t believe this is even a conversation. "You can’t be serious right now."

You don’t know what you’re doing, not really. All you know is that Eddie is acting like he gets to make this decision for you, and that pisses you off. "I can handle myself," you say, wrenching your arm from his grip.

Billy lets out a low chuckle behind you, and Eddie’s fists clench. "Are you kidding me?" Eddie’s voice is rising, his frustration boiling over. "You don’t handle guys like him; you stay the hell away from them!"

Billy hums, stepping closer, his voice infuriatingly smooth. "Maybe she doesn’t want to stay away."

You don’t look at Billy. You don’t dare to. Because you can picture the smug expression on his face like he just won. And in a way, he did.

"Unbelievable," Eddie’s jaw tightens, betrayal flashing in his eyes before he shakes his head and mutters, "You’re making a mistake.”

You cross your arms, ignoring the way your chest tightens at his words. “It’s my mistake to make.”

Eddie scoffs. “Yeah? And when he screws you over? What then?”

Billy clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Jesus, Munson, you act like she’s some helpless little thing.” He steps up beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him. “She’s got a mind of her own.”

You don’t miss the way Eddie tenses at that, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to say something—waiting for you to pick a side.

But this isn’t about sides.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Eddie,” you say, keeping your voice even.

Something in his expression flickers. He looks like he wants to argue, but instead, he just exhales sharply and shakes his head. “Fine,” he mutters, voice tight. “Do whatever the hell you want.”

Then he turns and storms off, shouting for Billy to find a new dealer as he does and muttering curses under his breath as he disappears into the trees.

The second he’s gone, you let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

Billy, of course, wastes no time. “You know, princess,” he murmurs, stepping in front of you. “If I had to guess, I’d say that’s the first time you’ve really stood up to him.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, Billy.”

He grins, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

You swat his hand away, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Don’t get used to it.”

Silence lingers between you and Billy. He watches you, that smirk still present, but softer than before—less taunting, more curious.

“You gonna regret that later?” he finally asks.

Your arms cross over your chest. “Regret what?”

“Not runnin’ after him.” Billy tilts his head, watching you like he’s trying to figure you out. “Defendin’ me.”

You hesitate, your stomach twisting. “I don’t know,” you admit. “Depends.”

Billy raises a brow. “On what?”

“On whether or not you make me regret it.” The words come out steadier than you expect.

Billy blinks, his smirk faltering for just a second before it returns, slower this time. “Guess that means you’re still figurin’ out how you feel about me, huh?”

Your heart pounds, but you hold his gaze. “I think that depends on how you feel about me.”

For a moment, Billy doesn’t answer. His smirk twitches, like he’s weighing his options, deciding just how much to give away. But then, he exhales sharply and shakes his head with a chuckle.

“Look, princess, I don’t do the whole… relationship thing.” His voice is casual, like this is just a fact, something you should already know.

You feel like he punched you in the chest. But you nod, slow and measured. “Yeah,” you say, keeping your tone light, indifferent. “Figured.”

Billy watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for you to argue. But you won’t. You won’t beg for him. This is what you expected—what you knew from the beginning.

So instead, you lift a shoulder in a shrug, tilting your head. “So what are we doing, then?”

“Whatever we want.” He voice lowers and his hands find your hips, resting there. “No rules. No expectations.”

You blink, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

Billy huffs a small laugh, tilting his head like the answer should be obvious. “It means we don’t have to put a label on it. No pressure, no strings—just us.”

“So, you don’t do relationships?” You try to keep your voice steady. Casual, no strings, no expectations, that was never your thing, no matter what it involved.

Billy shrugs. “Never saw the point.”

Your stomach sinks a little, though you don’t understand why. It’s not like you were expecting some grand love confession. This is Billy Hargrove—of course he wouldn’t be the type to settle down.

Still, you feel like you should say something. “And what if I said no?”

Billy leans in slightly, his lips curving into that damn smirk that always makes your stomach flip. “Then I’d say you’re overthinkin' it.” His voice is lower now, coaxing. “C’mon, princess. We’re already havin' fun, aren’t we?”

Your throat feels dry. You have been having fun. More than you want to admit. And as much as a part of you wants to push back, wants to demand more—you’re scared.

Because what if you do?

What if you push too hard and Billy walks away?

What if you lose whatever this is before you even get the chance to figure it out?

You force a small smile, ignoring the tight feeling in your chest. “Yeah,” you say, quieter than before. “We are.”

Billy’s eyes flicker with something—approval, satisfaction, something else you can’t quite name. He tugs you forward by your belt loops, his smirk widening. “Glad we’re on the same page, sweetheart.”

You let yourself fall into his touch, let yourself get swept up in the warmth of his hands on your waist, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing he sees.

But there’s a tiny voice in the back of your head whispering—this is a mistake.

You just choose not to listen.

Billy’s hands tighten on your waist, tugging you even closer. His lips brush against yours, teasing, waiting for you to make the next move. And despite everything—despite the nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you this is dangerous, that you should want more, deserve more—you don’t pull away.

You lean in, capturing his lips in a kiss that’s just as heated as the last. Billy groans softly, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch warm against your skin. His tongue brushes against yours, coaxing, claiming, and you let yourself melt into him.

Billy’s hands move lower, gripping the backs of your thighs as he lifts you onto the bench again, slotting himself between your legs. His lips trail down your jaw, nipping at your skin before pressing slow, deliberate kisses to the curve of your neck.

“See?” he murmurs against your skin, his smirk evident in his tone. “Told you we’d have fun.”

You roll your eyes, but it lacks any real bite. “Shut up.”

Billy chuckles, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown, his breathing heavy, but there’s something else in his gaze—something smug, satisfied.

Before you can say anything else, the distant sound of a school bell echoes through the woods, breaking whatever spell had settled over you.

You sigh, pressing your forehead against his shoulder for a moment before reluctantly pulling away. “We should go.”

Billy hums, letting his hands linger on your hips before finally stepping back. “Guess so.”

The two of you walk back to the school in silence, though it’s not uncomfortable. Your thoughts are swirling, trying to make sense of what just happened—of what any of this means.

But when you step into the parking lot, reality slaps you in the face.

Eddie’s van is gone.

Your stomach drops. He left you. He really fucking left you.

“Son of a bitch,” you mutter under your breath.

Billy follows your gaze, then lets out a short laugh. “Damn. Guess Munson’s real pissed.”

You glare at the empty parking spot like Eddie will magically reappear. “Asshole.”

Billy watches you with amusement. “Looks like you need a ride, princess.”

You cross your arms, already regretting what you’re about to say. “…Yeah.”

Billy’s smirk grows as he pushes off his car and opens the passenger door for you. “Well, lucky for you, I’m feelin’ generous.”

You hesitate for a moment, then sigh and climb in.

You’d rather be alone. Or even in the awkward quiet with Eddie’s glares. At least you’d be away from all the confusion that surrounds Billy. Away from everything he makes you feel.

Surprisingly, Billy doesn’t talk much on the drive. That annoys you more than him talking.

The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. You steal a glance at Billy, but his gaze stays fixed on the road, one hand draped over the wheel, the other tapping idly against the stick shift.

It shouldn’t bother you. You should be grateful he isn’t trying to get under your skin like usual. But somehow, it does.

Maybe it’s because you expected him to gloat, to throw out some smug comment about how Eddie ditching you worked in his favor. Maybe you wanted him to—because at least then, things would feel normal. At least then, you wouldn’t be sitting in this unbearable quiet.

You shift in your seat, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “You’re quiet.”

Billy snorts, his fingers tightening slightly on the wheel. “So?”

“So, it’s weird.”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, smirking. “Didn’t think you liked it when I talked.”

“I don’t.” You scoff.

“Then why are you complaining’, doll?” Billy’s smirk deepens. You’re sure he knows the truth. That he’s being silent to mess with you or get in your head..

You roll your eyes and sink further into the seat, glaring out the window. “Forget it.”

Billy chuckles, but he doesn’t push further, letting the silence settle between you again.

You try not to fidget, try not to think about any of this. Whatever this was. You liked it when he was kissing you, giving you attention, being affectionate, normal in your mind. But now, sitting here in his car, the space between you might as well be miles wide.

It isn’t until he pulls up in front of your house that he finally speaks again.

“You’re thinkin’ too much.” His voice is quieter than usual.

You glance at him, frowning. “Excuse me?”

Billy’s eyes flick to you, then back to the road. His jaw tightens. “You’re complicatin’ things. Just let it be what it is.”

His words sink into your skin, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. No rules. No expectations.

The thought makes your chest tighten, but you force yourself to nod. “Right.”

Billy watches you for a second longer before shaking his head with a smirk. “See you around, princess.”

You don’t respond. You just climb out of the car and shut the door behind you.

And as you walk inside, you can’t help but wonder—who is he really saying that for? You? Or himself?

The trailer is quiet when you step inside, save for the muffled thrum of heavy metal bleeding through Eddie’s bedroom door. You didn't need the music to know he’s not in the mood to talk.

Not that you blame him.

You linger in the hallway for a moment, staring at his door, contemplating knocking. But what would you even say? Sorry you found me tangled up with the guy you hate most? Sorry I didn’t push him away? Sorry I kind of, sort of, might want to be with him?

You sigh and shake your head. There’s nothing to say that would make it better.

So, instead, you slip into your own room, shutting the door behind you.

The second you collapse onto your bed, you feel it—the weight of everything pressing down on you all at once.

Billy’s words echo in your head. Just let it be what it is.

But what even is it?

Your fingers curl into the sheets as you replay everything. The way he looked at you, the way he kissed you, the way his hands held you, like you were something he wanted. Something that mattered.

But then there’s the other side of it—the part that makes your stomach twist. The smirks, the games, the way he pulled back just when you felt yourself slipping.

Maybe that’s all this is to him. A game.

And maybe the worst part is… you let him win.

A cold pit settles in your stomach at the thought, and you roll onto your side, staring at the ceiling.

#billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x you #stranger things x you #stranger things x reader #stranger things billy hargrove x reader #stranger things billy x reader #stranger things billy x you #stranger things billy hargrove x you #brother eddie munson #!munson reader #brother eddie munson x you #brother eddie munson x reader

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roots-symphony · 1 day ago

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Putting another readmore because I apparently am incapable of not talking too much

@infestedguest yeah that is true. I originally when I thought this post out had a whole section about that that I was going to put at the end but by the time I got there it was late and my medicine had worn off and I just kinda forgot about it. So, I’m glad you pointed that out. Because like Devon isn’t perfect, she is complaisant, like when her and Ricken were talking after she read his revised book, she did say it wasn’t right but then she was going to walk away, she had to be pushed to say the part about how Lumon is hurting people and he will be too if he goes through it. And she’s a lot like Mark when it comes to keeping things to herself and bottling it up, like how she had been looking into the Gabby for a while but it was only when they needed to use the birthing cabin that she brought up her suspicions to Mark. She did try with Mrs. Selvig, but when Mrs. Selvig rebuffed her (because obviously Cobel would lol) she easily dropped it.

I feel like there are a lot of good conversations to be had about her as a character and her complexities but I feel like instead of going into that, people just get hung up on all the stuff I wrote about in this post so it’s never actually addressed with any nuance. I alluded to it in the post, but I’ve seen way too many posts and comments talking about how she actually doesn’t care about iMark at all and how he should tell her off and all this other stuff so I kinda went probably too hard in the other direction because that’s not true at all.

But it is true that Gemma is more of the priority right now, which I think makes sense. It’s an impossible situation, an impossible and horrific chose to make, but Mark (both outie and innie) is not in the same kind of danger as Gemma right now. Like he definitely is still in danger, but to the outside world, he is alive, he is a person, they can’t as easily disappear him, especially with his sister already being suspicious. At the moment, he’s as safe as he can be from death by Lumon’s hands right now (which is never a zero considering everything but leagues above where Gemma is). At the end of the day, not only is Mark still able to physically leave, but also as long as he’s got that chip in his head, they’ll still be able to find a way to reach and help iMark.

Meanwhile Gemma’s already dead to the outside world and has been for 2 years. Not only is she unable to leave, Lumon also has full control over her at all times in all aspects. They could kill her at any moment and no one would even know, and no one in the outside world would believe that she had been anything but dead for years already. And now they’ve found out from Cobel that the end goal is her death. It’s an unfortunate and tragic reality that Gemma has to be the priority right now.

But that doesn’t mean that Devon doesn’t care about iMark or thinks of him like a lot of the other outies do or anything like that. She does care, and she does want to do what’s best for him and she will listen to w.e he has to tell her, but she can’t do anything to save him before Gemma is saved unless they magically find a way to save them both at the same time but I doubt it. Which honestly has to be a special kind of hell for Devon.

And the thing is, I don’t think iMark would even disagree with this assessment. I don’t think he’d be wrong to feel resentful over it but I do think he would understand and would be faster to accept it than his outie would because he wants to save Gemma too. He was concerned and wanted to help when he thought she was “just a wellness counselor” before he ever even found out that she’s being forced to stay there at all times. iMark cares about people and he would not be okay with letting someone die when he could stop it, especially when he would be the cause of it. (And neither would Helly if she knew about any of this.)

I mean, the only reason iMark gives up on the search and trying to save her is after the ortbo when his faith in himself and the few people he has in this world were shattered. He gave up because he genuinely couldn’t see a way forward since Helena had been there the whole time and knows everything he was doing. But now he’ll have a new way to go about things and he’ll have more information.

And yeah, this is just a lot to say basically that I agree with you. She does care about innie Mark and want to help him, but she is prioritizing Gemma right now because her life is more precarious. It’s her own Sophie’s choice, and I think there are really interesting conversations to be had about it.

Devon slander is going to be my villain origin story I stg

Why did she call Cobel?

Okay, well let’s take a moment to actually think of things from her point of view with the extremely limited amount of information she has managed to claw away at instead of assuming she knows the same as us and reading everything she does with bad intentions:

Starting with the otc, she and innie Mark are able to talk for a limited time, during which Mark tells her that lumon is treating them poorly and doing shady shit (or something along those lines because unfortunately it was not a conversation we were privy to). The only part of the conversation we do get to see is at the end. Devon tells iMark why it would be a bad idea to go to the police and instead says they can talk to journalists Ricken knows* who can break the story. And it’s only then, as an afterthought, that Mark brings up Cobel.

And the way he asks makes it sound like confused and vaguely concerned but not in ‘hey this lady abuses me on the daily’ way but more like ‘that’s weird wtf??’ And when Devon doesn’t know what he’s talking about, her voice gets more freaked out while she comprehends that information while his voice is much more neutral. So, the take away from that (from Devon’s point of view) is that in all the time talking (limited as it was) Cobel while a contributor is not what is torturing her brother.

Unfortunately she can’t find out more information because she’s (rightfully) concerned for the life of her child. Only to find out that not only did Cobel calm Eleanor down, she placed her safely in her car seat so she couldn’t get into trouble and out of the way of Ricken’s friends (i would not trust them with a baby either) before leaving.

After the otc, when they are trying to piece together the night, I don’t see oMark not mentioning that right before it happened he told Cobel he was quitting and she was not only glad, but told him to ‘get away from them.’ I mean, maybe he didn’t say it that night because Ricken was there and then Milchick came, but I have no doubt this information was relayed to Devon at some point, maybe while they were trying to get a message to his innie even. The second conversation Mark had with Cobel before she took off, I think could go either way in whether he told Devon or not. I mean, I think no matter what he kept the end part to himself even if he told her about how Cobel was disappointed in him for going back. But even if he didn’t tell her about, I absolutely believe he told her about the one right before the otc.

Now on to when Milchick showed up to talk to all of them. His reassurances are that it won’t happen again, to blame Cobel, and to say she was fired. Except Devon talked to iMark and it wasn’t Cobel he was telling her about, it was lumon as a whole. So it’s very clear to Devon that not only is he lying but that Cobel is being made to be the scapegoat.

All that plus Cobel has spent two years ingratiating herself with the Scout siblings. Mainly oMark, but Devon would have been a part of that as well because not just because they’re already close but also oMark just lost his wife so she would have been there even more often. It was shown to us in season 1 that she was really the driving force that would get him to go out and socialize (that terrible dinner, setting him up with Alexa) so Cobel would have definitely been friendly already with her and, considering oMark does not have memories of about 40 hours each week, she would’ve probably heard a lot about her from oMark. And yes, it’s was all a lie, but it’s also clear, especially with all the other evidence, that there is some kind of actual care there.

So Devon continued to find a way to communicate with iMark, not just accepting that the light thing would work, which is where she got the idea of using the birthing cabin. The only thing is to do that she would need the help of someone from Lumon. Unfortunately her only two connections to Lumon are her brother (who is only slightly less in the dark than her) and Cobel who had been ousted and scapegoated. She was already thinking of calling Cobel before oMark collapsed, before she even stepped foot in his house honestly because with the limited and terrible options available to her, it was literally the best one, the only one that made sense. She came that night with the intention to argue her case to oMark because obviously she wouldn’t just do it without his consent (unless something wild happened like a seizure that he then wouldn’t wake up from after).

Now why did she actually call Cobel when Reghabi was already there?

I feel like this should be obvious but she does not know Reghabi, all she knows is that she won’t answer her questions, she’s clearly used oMark’s grief and desire for Gemma to agree to experimental basement brain surgery (kinda like Lumon did), she has or had some connection to Lumon, but most importantly: she leaves. Like Reghabi doesn’t even give her an ultimatum, the minute Devon said she would call Cobel, she started gathering her stuff to leave. I mean I don’t blame her, Reghabi told oMark she was the only one who could do reintegration and if that’s the case, then unfortunately for oMark, she cannot take risks with her life. Reghabi already had to kill in cold blood and she may not want to leave Mark (her face was genuinely so worried when she looked back at Mark) but it’s bigger than just him or her or Petey, so she leaves. Which just leaves Devon with an unconscious brother with a hole in his head and she can’t take him to the hospital and she has no one to lean on or who can help. Literally there was no other option. She may not trust Cobel, but she had to trust in her instincts that Cobel would at least not wish Mark’s death.

Last thing I want to talk about is the birthing cabin scene with iMark because I’ve seen multiple times now people talking about how she’s using him or she’s being condescending or she’s why he shouldn’t trust outies, and like all other kinds of nonsense and I’m over it so here goes:

*First let me bring this back because she had said to iMark they would go to Ricken’s journalist friends before the whole ‘she’s alive’ moment. However I do not think that is an avenue that’s actually open to her any longer because Ricken is buying into the Lumon bullshit. Which means while worrying for Gemma and oMark and her newborn baby (which I swear we don’t talk enough about how she’s doing all this as a brand new mom which is already a very stressful thing), she’s now also worrying for iMark and what’s happening to him and if he’s being punished. She told him she would help him and she hasn’t been able to do anything except try to find a new way to communicate with, which she finally did.

She’s probably feeling so guilty and afraid for him and she doesn’t know what he’s been through, so she talks soft and reassuring and is gentle because he’s her brother and she wants him to know he’s safe and he’s okay.

The tragedy is that even though the love is there, she doesn’t know what he’s been through actually so she has no way of knowing how triggering her words are when she tells him if he leaves oMark will come right back in. But she knows her brother and when confronted with negative/overwhelming feelings, his m.o. is to distance himself either physically (getting out of the car after reghabi confirmed gemma was alive; leaving Irving’s funeral as soon as he can) or emotionally (both having said ‘[theyre] not dead, just not here,’ shredding Petey’s map, tearing Gemma’s photo, his confrontation with Helly in the bathroom after the ortbo) or both (attacking Devon at pip’s after she claimed Gemma as her family too and then immediately leaving). So she knows in this situation that he’s going to want to move, to go out the door and just have a moment, which is something he was able to do at the otc, so she’s telling him that it’s not something he can do here because if he goes out the door instead of getting the moment to breathe, he’ll just turn off and then turn on right back in the same spot.

Like Devon so clearly does care for iMark and she did her best to take her cues from him (reaching for him but immediately pulling back and apologizing when he moved away), and while their time may not be as limited as it was during the otc, they still don’t have a lot of it. So, she makes sure he seems good then leads him upstairs to where Cobel is.

Why didn’t she warn him about Cobel?

Because with the limited information she has, she did not know nearly enough to know that it could be potentially upsetting for him as it probably was. Because she knows Cobel cares about oMark so why wouldn’t that extend to iMark because it’s the same for her, Devon. Plus the fact iMark did not seem traumatized by her when they lasted talked and was just neutral (as I already explained), and because she was scapegoated so who knows how much power or control she actually had since she was so expendable. Like if Devon had any idea of how Cobel truly treated iMark, she would’ve gone about the whole thing differently but she doesn’t know.

Also, she had no idea Cobel was going to be auditioning for a role in a new shining movie when they got up there. But also after 2 years of hearing about Mrs. Selvig’s nonsense, I do think she chose to just roll with it.

————

Tldr: put some respect on Devon’s name, she knows the least out of everyone and is doing the absolute best she can for everyone with what she does know. And by everyone, I mean both oMark and iMark and Gemma. She loves them all and just wants them to be safe and happy.

#severance #severance spoilers #devon scout hale #mark scout #mark s #I’ve started to fall asleep while writing this like 3 times now so hope it all makes sense lol #also I think there was something else I was going to add but I can’t remember rn so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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stars-obsession-pit · 6 months ago

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Aftermath.

It was an unfortunate truth of reality that heroes were oftentimes a reactive force. They could only respond to what they knew about.

So whenever the heroes uncovered an illegal lab, it typically had a history. Experiments that had been performed there already. Horrors no one in their right mind would want to bear witness to.

But someone had to go through all those records left behind. To risk the worst of humanity’s crimes in search of any potential clues. Often, they found little that was useful. Maybe some closure for the families of the missing, at most. But sometimes, sometimes they did find things. Their work could save lives.

That didn’t change the fact that few in their departments lasted long, and even fewer could ever sleep soundly.

The man took a deep breath and attempted to steel himself. He knew it wouldn’t help.

He clicked on the file anyway.

GIW Research Logs, Project HLFA, subject DP-01, Experiment #0001.

#thinking about how some poor souls will have to go through all the evil lab things to look for clues #and how that could relate to the heroes finding out about the GIW *after* they’d captured Danny #what’s worse than finding a kid being experimented on? *not* finding the kid but knowing in visceral detail that the experiments happened #is he still alive? did he get out? they don’t know. they can’t know for sure unless they find him or see the outcome on one of the logs #but what if they don’t see him die? is he still out there? they can’t stop looking #and if he didn’t survive? they can’t change a damn thing. all they can do is mourn and try to stop the ones that did it.#dp x dc #dpxdc #dc x dp #dcxdp #danny phantom x dc #danny phantom x dc crossover #vivisected danny fenton #past vivisected danny fenton #ghost investigation ward #giw (danny phantom)#guys in white #i took way too long trying to word this properly and i’m still not 100% satisfied but whatever good enough

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leviiackrman · 9 months ago

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I just found out what happens to dabi at the end of mha. Don’t talk to me.

#personal*#jess talks #mha spoilers #when I say I can’t stop crying. I mean it.#he’s still alive technically but he’s only predicted to last a few more days #he spoke to all his family too #but the part that broke me was shoto asking what his favourite food was #and finding out they both love soba😭😭😭#I’m fuckin… in hysterics #now my brain is like ‘finalise rins story!!!’#but I’m over here struggling to cope with all this #1000% she gets to go see him #like fully bound and no allowed to move but she’s allowed to visit him #cus I predict fuyumi/shoto see the decency in her and know she’s not at fault for what her family made her do #so she’s deffo in prison for a long time #but they let her visit toya #and part of me is tempted to make some changes and get Eri to save him #BUT I honestly don’t know how I feel about that rn #like realistically I know he will die #and that makes the most sense #but if they can have a little longer I would want that😭#they were never gonna get a happy ending that’s for sure #but closure would be enough #maybe a little love confession or something #just an acknowledgment that they did actually love each other #and that /maybe/ she could redeem herself #after all the heroes and cops know she was doing them a favour by wiping out her rivals #but she’s still a villain #and it was take AT LEAST a decade before she would agree to ‘help’ the good guys #like deffo still a crime lord - but an organised one maybe?

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ladyintree · 1 day ago

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tai’s mouth drops, and swats at her arm again. ❝ first of all, you couldn’t handle us, ❞ she taunts, immediately letting out a laugh. ❝ and secondly— don’t joke about that too loudly. my wife may actually kill you, ❞ she warns playfully, though she doesn’t really think that’s much of a joke— because harper is right, mikayla is definitely too possessive, and so is taissa. she looks her over and scoffs. ❝ yeah. what the fuck was up with that? he was prepared to spent eternity out here, and he can’t even spare some real food? ❞ she’s joking, too — because it’s easier than the alternative, the fact that she’s still shaken by what sometimes feels like his presence. her brows furrow, looking at her like she’s being ridiculous. ❝ trust me, i know plenty about body heat. mikayla always took good care of me, ❞ she teases, purposefully allowing herself to give too much information ( maybe she learned that from her wife, too. ) she’s taken back when harper brings up the fire, and she looks down, because as much as she likes taking pride in this things she’s done out here —- and anywhere, really —- that night was such a blur to her. ❝ yeah, ❞ she mutters, taking a deep breath. ❝ well, i’ve gotten pretty fucking good with an ax, so. ❞ she wants to believe they would’ve made it out anyway, though. just like the plane— the first time she did everything she could to get them out of danger. she rolls her eyes, glancing back to her hut. ❝ yeah, we’re working on that. kayla and i are getting pretty crafty, ❞ she insists. ❝ i’m not worried about you two. kind of worried about shauna on her own, though, ❞ she admits, taking a deep breath as she thinks it over. ❝ but i don’t exactly think she’s willing to be a roommate, either. ❞ and surely, mikayla definitely wouldn’t want tai inviting her to theirs.

she rolls her eyes and waves harper off. ❝ no. screw that guy, ❞ she scoffs, as if he’s done something to wrong her. in her eyes, he did, but deep down, she knows he was fine. he was clearly one of mikayla’s better boyfriends, and maybe she should at least be grateful for that. her jaw clenches when harper talks about what’s back home, and tai shakes her head after a moment. ❝ i try not to think about it, ❞ she mumbles, because while she didn’t really have many friends outside of the team, her parents were always good to her, and she can’t bear to think about what they’re going through without their only daughter, especially since she refused to even eat one last breakfast with them. a small smile forms on her face as she nods her head. ❝ yeah. i still will, ❞ she says, more of a promise to herself. ❝ it’ll just look a little different than what i expected. ❞ but she’s not going to let what happened to her hold her back. maybe, she’ll just have someone with her to support her. because she will do whatever it takes to keep mikayla alive out here.

she thinks it over, nodding her head slowly, because so much of her and mikayla’s relationship really has been dependent on some of the worst things that have happened to them since they got on that plane. she tries not to dwell on that. ❝ yeah. no kidding. ❞ and yet, she still hasn’t found a better solution from her failure then. she looks back at her curiously, surprised to hear her talk about soccer, but she can’t help but laugh as she explains. ❝ yeah, the soccer team was the right pick then, ❞ she teases, because even she thought many of her teammates were hot— though, clearly, her attention had always been on one in particular, which is exactly why she was hardest on her. her eyes widen as harper admits to having a crush on her, but a cocky smirk spreads over her lips as she laughs. ❝ of course you did. i was always hot, ❞ she teases, though it makes a younger version of herself feel at peace, because back then, she always wondered if anyone was thinking of her the way she was thinking of others. ❝ you wouldn’t know what to do with me if i wasn’t a pain in your ass. you’re welcome, ❞ she insists, though her compliment does make her feel good, and she appreciates her telling her— even if it comes with admitting something she likely wasn’t ever going to. she laughs, rolling her eyes again. ❝ oh, no you won’t, because then i’d tell mikayla about your big crush on me, and i’ll let her deal with you, ❞ she warns playfully.

"we deserve an award, honestly. a celebratory wedding just isn't enough for all this work. also, i'm not included in that." she teases. "but if you're ever looking for a third..." laughing before she can even finish. they're both too possessive for that. she holds her tools up, "thank you dead cabin guy for being a creepy hoarder and letting us take all your knowledge." it feels more mocking that she would like; she really is grateful for everything the cabin had provided. it was what they had needed. "if only your food hadn't gone rotten." it's light, even though the subject matter isn't at all. she nods at tai's next comment. they were all going stir-crazy in the cabin. "was good for body heat, though. not that you'd really know that." tai spent most of their time up in the attic. "you know, uh, we might not have gotten out if it wasn't for you. i was too focused on it all burning down to care, but, thanks." she doesn't want to linger on the doors being jammed for too long. everyone has latched onto coach scott as the culprit, and...who else could it be? but she doesn't like thinking of him that way. he was one of the few adults that actually believed in her, even if he clearly hated being a soccer coach. "and that is why we need to sound proof your hut." she teases back. "i think van and i will manage just fine. we're used to being together."

harper can't stop herself from laughing at tai's reaction to her mentioning asher. "it was never going to work out, but you don't need to be so obvious. have you ever heard of humility?" harper had a few friends who would have mourned her, but asher probably had an intense amount of attention on him. he and jeff with their missing girlfriends; the entire world must think jackie is dead, but they don't know how right they are. "i can't really imagine what they're going through back home." she admits softly. "they're in their own hell." it may be the biggest news to ever hit that town, and she imagines there will be some vigil for the one-year anniversary, but eventually, all support is going to taper off. they'll be a ghost story. she clears her throat "always the ambitious one. can't let a serious relationship distract you, huh? make plans..." she doesn't know if she believes in God, but this was certainly cosmic doom. "you'd make one hell of a lawyer."

her eyebrows furrow, wondering what she means. it doesn't click until she looks back at her and sees she means them. she remembers that hoodie, and she remembers what happened to it. she can't dive into the romance of that with the reminder. "so much has happened since then." she says instead. 3 of them are dead. she pulls herself out of it again, but it takes a minute for her to find her groove. "you'll be the first to know." she teases. "i'll bore you will all the details." she looks around the camp again, smile faltering slightly. want is a dangerous thing out here, and that is something she wants. unlike tai, it's something she's always wanted for herself. "you know why i joined the soccer team? i mean, i needed to, and i like sports, but it wasn't cause i just love soccer." she smirks. "it was a nice and easy way of witnessing a bunch of hot athletes." she wonders if tai can relate, or if being good at the game was the only thing that mattered. "it's probably safe to admit this now, although mikayla might still hate me for it, but i had the biggest crush on you." she hopes tai can take it in stride. "now you're a huge pain in my ass." she teases. "but yeah, that determination and fierceness? it was hot." she blinks blankly at her, but she decides just as fast that it isn't worth dwelling on. this makes more sense than her prior assumption. she wants to tease her about being scared, but honestly, she's not too fond of the woods anymore. "you better not." she teases back. "or i'll just have to object to the wedding. the reason these two cannot be wed is because taissa turner is a big liar."

#lingeringscars #lingeringscars: harper.#arc: wilderness.#tai immediately using that against her smh

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enigmaris · 8 days ago

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Red Hood held out his now uncovered hand as if to ask for a hand shake. Danny floated a bit closer and reached out with his own gloved finger. He poked into the back of the guy’s hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Dude, what if you’re contagious?”

“Can ghosts get sick?” Nightwing asked.

“There are ghost diseases, yeah.” Danny answered, still poking at Red Hood’s hand. “No ghost antibiotics, though. You just have to tough it out.”

“Is that what I have?”

“No.” Danny said. “You have something easier to fix.”

Danny floated back so that he was eye level with the two taller heroes. He folded his arms across his chest and looked at Red Hood.

“So, like. Is there a private place we could chat?”

“Private?” Nightwing asked. “Why? It isn’t fatal, is it?”

“Uh no? It's just personal. What’s it called Hippo? The doctor thing.”

“Are you talking about HIPAA?” Red Hood asked, sounding confused.

“That’s it!” Danny snapped a finger and pointed at Red Hood. “It’s personal medical info. We are on a rooftop in the middle of the biggest city I’ve ever been in. Do you want to go somewhere private?”

“I uh... No, here is fine.”

"Okay.” Danny said. “Cool then. So, these Lazarus Pits? I’ve never seen one, but I have heard of them from other older ghosts. Except we don’t call them that. They’re relatively common in the zone, but the locations are secret, you have to know someone who knows someone ya know?”

“Well, what are they?”

“Distilleries.”

“What?” Red Hood managed to look absolutely flabbergasted even with the full faced motorcycle helmet covering his head.

“Ghosts can’t eat human food, right? I mean we can, but we don’t taste anything. We don’t have the physical parts to digest human food and enjoy it like we did when we were alive.” Danny explained. “It’s the same thing for things like alcohol and drugs and things. So, a lot of adult ghosts still want to get drunk even though they’re dead. I died before 21 so I wouldn’t know, but like, there’s a desire for it.”

“What does this have to do with the Lazarus Pits?”

"Well, in order to make something we can taste, it has to be made with ectoplasm. Alcohol is not as easy to make as other stuff for ghosts. Alcohol is made using fermentation, right? Well ectoplasm doesn’t really. Do that. I mean ectoplasm is either inert or charged with emotional energy, if it gets charged enough it will form a ghost or spirit or something. It’s basically impossible to like, make ectoplasm ferment without risking your alcohol becoming the ghost of wines past.” Danny said, throwing a joke on the end there. Nightwing gave him a smile while Red Hood managed to glare at him through the full red facemask.

“There are ghosts who have figured out how to force ectoplasm to ferment. They basically invented ghost yeast, a sourdough starter of horror if you will. It takes centuries for ectoplasm to get good enough to be considered drinkable alcohol. So, what an enterprising barkeeping ghost will do is find like, an abandoned cave or something, fill it with ectoplasm dump the ghost yeast in there and leave it alone for like a thousand years to ripen. Then they’ll come back, bottle it up and sell it in the zone.” Danny continued.

"Are you telling me Red Hood is ghost drunk?” Nightwing asked.

“I’m saying he has a yeast infection.”

#dpxdc #dp crossover #danny phantom #au where the Lazarus pits are the equivalent of a winery in tuskany.#ghosts leave ectoplasm around to ferment for a millenia or two and then come back to bottle it #the ghost of an ancient vinter ia not gomna be happy when he finds out a bunch of disgusting humans have been bathing in his stock #the same emotion one would have after discovering roaches in the kitchen #red hood being partially dead when he got dumped picked up some ghostly yeast thats been giving him the pit rage #his sour dough starter makes him kill people :(

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soaps-mohawk · 19 days ago

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Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 46: My Girl

Summary: The aftermath of your heat brings about a new dynamic in your pack.

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 8,382 words

Warnings: NSFW, smut, 18+, p in v sex, handjobs, heat cycles, mating cycles, heat sex, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, a/b/o, injuries, blood, slight medical stuff, slight angst, emotions, language

A/N: Yeah, prepare yourselves for this one

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

There’s a distinct metallic tang in the air as he’s pulled from the light sleep he’d drifted off into. Exhaustion is pulling at the recesses of his brain, trying to drag him back into the sweet arms of sleep, yet something is keeping him frozen there in the place between rest and wakefulness.

He knows that smell.

His brain feels foggy as he forces his eyes open. He feels almost drunk, his vision blurry, movements slow and brain fighting through the fog to awareness. He shifts his body, but something keeps him from moving too far.

Right. His knot. He’s still stuck inside you.

One arm is tucked under your neck, cradling your head against his bicep. He raises the other, rubbing his face. Clarity begins to return, but he can feel the haze lingering like fog on the horizon. Soon his knot will deflate and his rut will sweep in and take over again and he’ll lose all awareness.

How many days has it been? How much time has passed? How much time is left? He’s desperate to know, but there’s no telling. He gave his phone to Johnny, and you don’t have one. His mouth feels dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He leans over, shifting your body as he reaches for the bottle on the nightstand.

The metallic scent gets stronger as his nose presses against the pillow and he pauses there, hand extended.

He knows that smell.

His eyes flutter open, his body pushing itself up before he can stop it. His arm jerks from beneath you, elbow pressing into the mattress to hold himself up as he stares down in horror.

Blood.

There’s blood staining the white pillowcase.

Fear and panic bubble up inside of him as he stares at the red stains on the fabric. His hand is shaking as it slides around the side of your neck, fingers pressing below your jaw. Your pulse flutters against his fingers, slow and even. Your chest is rising and falling with your breath. You’re fast asleep, not even responding to his sudden movement. Sweat is beading his brow as he shifts his hips, tugging at the knot. You let out a whine, pushing your body back to try and follow him.

He keeps his fingers there, pushed up against your pulse. He waits for it to fade, waits for it to stop, but it keeps pumping steadily against his fingers. Your body is still hot pressed up against him, feverish and coated with sweat, not cold like your corpse would be.

It’s not that bad, he tries to reason with himself. It’s really not that much blood. Not in comparison to what he was expecting. You’re still alive, still breathing. You don’t even seem to have noticed.

He doesn’t want to stare at it anymore. He doesn’t want to see it.

He wraps his arms around you, keeping you pinned close to his chest as he rolls, taking you with him as he faces away from the blood stain. He takes a deep breath, staring at the blood stuck to your skin. It’s dried, an old wound. His stomach twists as he stares at the source, the violent indents torn into your shoulder where his teeth had made their mark.

He doesn’t remember doing it. He’s not sure when he did it. A while ago, he thinks, judging by the lack of fresh blood.

Just how long has it been?

He reaches for the bottle on the nightstand, half drunk and warm but he doesn’t care as he chugs it. He should rouse you, get you to eat and drink something, but he can’t bring himself to pull you out of your slumber yet. You need it. It must be getting close to the end. You’re less responsive, less energetic. You’re burning out. He can tell just by looking at you.

His cock hurts where it sits knotted inside of you. He knows that pain will fade shortly, when his knot finally deflates and another blast of your sickeningly sweet scent floods his brain. You’ll whine and keen, grinding down on him desperately. He’ll lose himself in that scent and fuck you again, ignoring the aches in his body as he gives you exactly what you need. Anything to get you to the end of this hard road where eventually the scent will fade and the neediness will die off and it’ll be back to normal life, like it never happened.

Jesus, how does Price do this?

There’s a release of pressure as his knot starts to deflate, his cock finally going soft inside of you. You let out a quiet whine as he shakes your shoulder, wanting to get some liquid into you before things ramp back up.

“C’mon.” He grunts, easing you onto your back. His cock slips out of your pussy, your body shuddering at the loss.

Hazy eyes stare up at him as he eases you up with his arm. Blood has dried across your chest, streaked by beads of sweat. He lifts the bottle to your lips and you drink, dribbles pouring down either side of your mouth but neither of you care. Just more fluids added to the already damp bed.

A bath is going to be a good idea, he thinks.

He tosses the empty bottle onto the floor and it clacks against another with a hollow sound. He shifts over you, pressing your body into the mattress as your scent starts to sweeten. Your hips lift, pushing against his as he settles his weight over you for a moment. He can feel the hot puffs of your breath against his scraggly face. A week without shaving and he’s already getting scruffy. Your poor thighs must be raw by this point.

A quiet buzzing begins in the back of his head as he breathes you in, pressing his forehead against yours. He lays there for a moment, his cock twitching where it’s trapped against your hip. You’re slick again, legs bending upwards to push against his thigh.

“Easy, girl.” He grunts, wincing as his cock gets caught between his hip bone and yours. “I’ve got ya.”

You’re slick and ready for him as he guides his half hard cock back into you. You let out a sigh of relief, arms lifting to wrap around him. You pull him down with surprising strength. He’s let you lead more times than he should admit, letting you take charge and take what you need from him. You’re fully prepared to do that again, prepared to get what you want whether he participates or not.

He won’t be that cruel. Not this late in the game.

He slowly starts rocking his hips, his cock stiffening inside of your warm, fluttering walls. Slick dribbles out around his cock, sliding down your ass and onto the perpetually wet sheets. The texture might have once driven him insane, but now he doesn’t care. He has bigger things to worry about right now, as his hips begin to move, rocking slowly back and forth as you cling to him.

“I think it’s over.” Johnny says, standing in the doorway.

The harsh scent of sweat, sex, and pheromones is wafting out the door behind him. He’s left it open, standing in the maw of darkness on the other side.

“How’s her temperature?” Dr. Keller asks.

“She’s cold.” Johnny says.

Dr. Keller shares a look with Kyle, both of them rising. “Help him while I get the bath going.” She says, heading for the downstairs bathroom.

Kyle slips into the room, turning on the light. Simon’s got his arms around you so tight he can see the muscles bulging. For a terrifying moment he’s worried he might have suffocated you, but he can see the twitch of your eyelids against the bright light. You let out a quiet whine, Simon shifting behind you.

He approaches the bed slowly, blinking through the haze of humid air and scents in the room. His hand touches your leg, feeling the cool skin beneath his hand. They’d let you sit longer than he might have had you been with Price, unsure whether it was the end or not. It’s been eight days since your symptoms started. They had thought it was the end a couple times, but Johnny came back out declaring a fever still, and shortly after it had started again.

Dr. Keller had assured them time and time again a week was only an average estimate. Some heats lasted longer, some shorter. It depended on a lot of things.

Kyle had just been busy eyeing the dwindling supplies while the hours continued to pass.

They babysat in shifts, taking turns sleeping every few hours. Kyle hadn’t been able to rest much, even though now he had the chance to. His brain was still on high alert, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice. He’s exhausted and he didn’t even participate this time.

His hand trails up the cool skin of your thigh, gently parting them to check. No knot, but Simon is still half inside of you. He lowers your thigh gently before taking another step, his hand touching Simon’s arm gently.

“Simon, mate, come on. It’s over.”

Simon lets out a grunt, squeezing his arms around you until you let out a quiet squeak before he loosens them.

“Let’s get you in a bath. You’ll feel better.”

Simon mumbles sleepily, but lets Kyle slowly ease him away from you. Johnny takes his other side as they get the alpha on his feet.

“I got ‘im.” Johnny grunts, taking Simon’s weight as he leads the half out of it alpha out of the room and across to the bathroom.

Kyle focuses his attention on you. You’ve started shivering from the loss of Simon’s warmth, your body curling up in on itself. “I know.” Kyle says quietly. “We’ll get you in that bath shortly.”

He drapes a clean blanket over you, wanting to keep you warm while he waits for Simon to get settled. He brushes damp strands of hair from your face. It’s come almost completely out of the braid, and he can imagine Simon sinking his fingers into the soft strands, pinning you down onto the mattress. He’d worried for a while that Simon might not have that instinct to make sure you could breathe, that he wouldn’t know to check to make sure he wasn’t suffocating you.

“He’s settled!” Johnny calls from the living room and Kyle slips his arms under you.

You let out a whine of protest at the sudden movement as Kyle lifts you into his arms. He shushes you gently, letting the blanket drop to the floor before carrying you over to the bathroom. It’s steamy in the small space, Johnny hovering in the doorway as Kyle gently eases you into the water with Simon. It rises precariously high, but he tries not to think about that as he lets you drop back against Simon’s chest.

“You sit in here with them, I’ll change the sheets and get the bed ready.” Kyle says to Johnny before leaving the warm bathroom.

The sheets.

He tries not to think about it as he grabs a bin bag from the kitchen. The sheets were new, bought specifically for this in case they needed to be thrown out after. He’s glad they got a new set as he stares down at the damp white fabric. He tries not to look too hard, tries not to stare at the stain up near the pillows. He’s glad they got more of those too.

He swallows the lump in his throat as he strips the fitted sheet, stuffing it in the bag immediately with the plastic protector. He doesn’t bother removing the pillow case, instead shoving the entire pillow in the bag before pulling the drawstring closed. The sooner he can get it out of sight, the sooner he can forget about it.

He makes the bed with clean sheets, putting the comforter back on in preparation to keep you warm. He adds new pillows and a few of your stuffed animals for comfort, arranging them in a way he thinks you might be satisfied with.

Maybe it will drive you to finally nest.

Johnny sits on the closed toilet lid, staring at the water just kissing the lip of the tub. Simon’s knees are bent, forced up by the small size of the tub. He doesn’t offer any complaint, doesn’t offer much at all except the quiet rumbling in his chest. His nose is buried in your hair, his breathing slow and even as he sits there in the warm water.

Despite the steam in the air, you’re shivering.

He swears he can almost hear your teeth chattering as you sit there in the nearly too warm water. It’s normal, Kyle had told him. Just your body responding to the sudden change in temperature.

He tries not to stare too long, especially at your shoulder. There’s still blood streaked on your skin. He should grab a rag and wash it off, but he’s scared to ruin the quiet moment between you and Simon.

It’s the quietest the house has been in eight days.

“Simon?” Johnny whispers, shifting in his seat.

The alpha grunts, cracking his eyes open.

“Ye want a drink or somethin’?” Johnny is starting to feel a bit restless. “Or a rag tae wash yerself with?”

Simon grunts again, finally lifting his face from the top of your head. “Rag would be nice.” He mumbles.

Johnny nods, quickly searching through the cupboards before finding a stack of wash cloths. He grabs two just in case, passing one to Simon. He watches his alpha dip it into the water, getting it wet before he starts to run it over your skin. You’re still shaking, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

He traces the path of Simon’s hand as it gently smooths over your skin in an attempt to clean some of the grime off. You’ll need a proper bath once you’ve settled, a process that will take a couple days at least. He remembers crawling into your nest with you after your last heat with Price, holding you while you slept. He’d needed rest himself after keeping Simon pacified for a week. He remembers the ache in his body after that and can only imagine how Simon is feeling right now.

Johnny nearly jumps out of his skin as you let out a yelp, water splashing over the edge of the tub as your body jolts. Simon’s hand is on your shoulder, holding the rag against the raw skin. He imagines you might have jumped right out of the tub had it not been for Simon’s arm around you. He’s whispering quietly to you as your lip begins to tremble, a quiet sob leaving your lips. It tugs at Johnny’s heart as he watches you, big, fat tears starting to leak out from beneath your lashes.

Kyle had warned him about that too.

Simon takes the other rag from him, wiping your face and hair before maneuvering you so he can wipe himself down quickly. Johnny sticks his fingers into the water, feeling the temperature.

“Gettin’ cold.” He murmurs, debating pulling the plug and refilling it.

“Everything okay?” Kyle appears in the doorway, likely having heard your yelp.

“Wiped down the wound.” Johnny says, glancing up at his fellow beta. “Water’s gettin’ cold.”

“Then we should get them back in bed. It’s ready for them.” Kyle says, grabbing one of the towels from the counter. “Get Simon up and I’ll help dry him off.”

Johnny pulls the plug in the tub before slipping his arms under Simon’s as the alpha struggles to get his feet under him. Your body slumps forward and he’s glad Kyle is there as he quickly shifts to keep you upright in the water. The tears are still sliding down your cheeks, quiet sniffling sobs wracking your body almost as badly as the shivers.

Kyle helps Simon dry before leading him from the room, taking him back to yours. Johnny eases you up out of the tub, quickly wrapping a towel around you to keep you from the cold.

“Easy, kitten.” He shushes you at your whine in protest as he quickly dries you off before lifting you out of the tub.

He heads back across the living room to your room, the overhead light still on. He can’t imagine what it’s like for an alpha doing this alone. How many omegas don’t get the treatment they deserve because of their alpha being alone? How many don’t get it because of their alpha?

He tries not to think too hard about it.

Simon is resting against the headboard when he enters the room, legs spread and ready for you to be deposited back into his arms. He’s still naked, something Johnny is proud of. How far Simon has come in just a couple of weeks. From barely showing any skin, much less his face, to walking around naked. Not that Simon really seems to care much right now. He can only imagine how much pain Simon must be in and just how exhausted he has to be. He looks ready to sleep for the rest of the night.

Johnny eases you onto the bed, setting you between his legs. He pulls the towel from around you, Kyle there ready to tuck the covers up over you as soon as he gets the damp fabric away. Your face is still wet with tears as Kyle steps away, Simon’s arms wrapping around you again. You relax limply against the alpha, pain and exhaustion wearing on you as well.

“It’s hard to watch.” He says, his heartstrings tugging as he stares at the two of you.

“It’s just a natural response.” Kyle says, reaching up to wipe a tear sliding down your cheek. “They’re both tired and being dragged through the sudden change in chemicals in their brains.”

“Knock, knock.” Christine says, leaning into the doorway. “Got them settled?”

“Yeah.” Kyle says, adding another blanket to the pile on top of you to try and regulate your temperature again.

She stands there for a few moments, waiting as Simon turns to glance at her. She doesn’t move, waiting for a reaction from him before taking a step into the room.

She approaches the bed slowly, Simon watching her cautiously but he offers no protest to her getting closer. Johnny can only imagine what’s going on in his head right now. “I just want to check a couple of things.” She says, setting the first aid kit down on the end of the bed.

Simon’s eyes are still on her as she takes a couple steps closer, moving slowly.

“Hi, honey.” She says softly, addressing you as she pulls out the thermometer. “Just want to take your temperature, make sure everything is back to normal.” She presses the thermometer against your forehead. It beeps a few seconds later, Simon’s arms tightening around you for a moment before they relax. “Normal. That’s good.” She says, setting the thermometer down before sliding the first aid kit closer. “I need to look at your shoulder.”

Neither of you move as she stands there for a moment, testing the waters before lifting her hand towards you. Simon doesn’t move, his eyes focused on her hand as it touches you, gently easing your head to the side and the covers down lower.

“You did take a chunk out.” She says, brushing your hair to the side to look at the wound. “I need to clean it.”

She pulls away from you to open the first aid kit, grabbing the antiseptic and some gauze. She pours some of it on the fabric before turning to you again.

Things happen fast, but to Johnny they seem to take a lifetime. Dr. Keller presses the gauze against your shoulder and you let out a yelp similar to the one you let out in the bath. Your body jerks, trying to move away but you’re too stuck under the blankets to move much. Johnny instinctively shifts forward, Kyle moving too before either of them realize it, converging on the bed.

Simon lets out a growl, baring his teeth as his hand darts out faster than they can see to grip Dr. Keller’s wrist so tight Johnny can see his knuckles go white. She holds out her other hand, staying the two betas as she keeps her gaze locked on Simon’s.

“I’m not trying to hurt her.” She says softly, holding eye contact with the protective alpha. “I have to get this wound clean, otherwise it’s going to get infected.”

There’s a tense moment of silence in the room, none of them even breathing as they wait. Simon could easily break Dr. Keller’s wrist. He’s strong enough, in a good enough position to do it. The doctor is fearless as she stares at him, facing him head on in a way that almost reminds Johnny of you. He and Kyle are frozen, halfway to the bed to intervene if they have to.

The tension eases as Simon slowly releases Christine’s wrist. His arm tucks itself back around you, holding you tightly against him, the growl rumbling in his chest quieting. Slowly Dr. Keller moves again, pressing the gauze against your shoulder. Simon holds you still as she cleans the wound, all of them trying to ignore your whines and whimpers of pain.

Dr. Keller dresses the wound before grabbing the first aid kit. “Get some rest.” She says. “You need it.”

Johnny and Kyle pass one last look at the pair in the bed before following her from the room. Kyle turns off the lights, leaving the door ajar just in case.

“That was fucking close.” Johnny lets out a deep breath.

“Territorial alphas aren’t new to me.” Dr. Keller says with a shrug. “He’s just doing what his instincts are telling him and protecting his omega. He’s still sensitive to them and will be for a while.” She lets out a huffing laugh. “I’m surprised he let me close at all.”

“John didn’t react that way.” Kyle says.

“Simon’s never been through a heat before. This is entirely new territory for him. His alpha isn’t sure how to respond right now, especially to someone outside the pack.” Dr. Keller explains.

“Yer hardly an outsider now.” Johnny says.

“Honorary, perhaps, but in the literal sense I’m an outsider.” She says. “We’ll have to be careful for a while around him. No doubt he’s going through it just as much as she is.”

“Thank ye,” Johnny says, grateful for the doctor over the last week. She’s been keeping them sane. “For everythin’. Fer caring.”

“Of course.” Christine smiles softly at him. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.”

“Johnny.”

The beta turns his head, squinting slightly at Simon in the dim light of the room. He’d left the overhead light off to avoid waking either of you. It’s cloudy out and the curtains are drawn, leaving nothing but dim, grey light to see by.

“Hey.” He grins down at Simon, the alpha blinking up at him blearily. “Welcome back.”

Simon grunts, adjusting his body where he lays on his side. You’re bundled against his chest, quiet snores breaking the quiet in the room.

“Can I get ye anythin’?” He asks, stepping closer to the bed. He’d been replacing the bottle of water with a cold one.

“A pint and a cigarette.” Simon grumbles.

Johnny grins. “I can get ye a beer out of the fridge, but you’ll have tae wait on the smoke.”

Simon grumbles something as he presses his cheek against the top of your head. He unburies his hand from the blankets, reaching out for Johnny. It’s warm as Johnny takes it, letting his fingers brush Simon’s rough palm.

“You’re a good lad, Johnny.” Simon says softly, squeezing the beta’s hand. “Wouldn’t have made it far without ya.”

“You’re a good alpha.” Johnny says, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Simon hums, stilling as you shift against him. He tugs gently on Johnny’s hand, trying to pull him onto the bed.

“Alrigh’, alrigh’,” Johnny says, kicking off his slippers before lifting the sheets.

It’s warm under the blankets and for a moment Johnny wishes he would have ditched the sweatpants too. He saddles up close behind you, feeling the warmth of your body radiating against his chest. You’re still naked, and so is Simon as he brushes his hand against Simon’s hip.

“Pretty boy.” Simon hums, wrapping his arm around Johnny and pulling him closer. “Such a good beta f’me and my girl.”

Johnny’s brain starts to buzz happily at his alpha’s praise, his beta nearly preening inside his head. He did a good job, he took good care of his alpha and his omega. You’re both alive and well and breathing.

You let out a quiet hum as Johnny presses up against your back, sandwiching you between him and Simon. It feels right, having you there between them. Things have shifted now that Simon has claimed you as well. He wonders if Kyle felt this way after John claimed you. There’s a deeper intensity to your bond, or perhaps that was because of your heat. He was given the opportunity to assist during such a vulnerable, intimate time and bear witness to something so beautiful and primal.

Perhaps it’s both.

“You’re thinking too much.” Simon grumbles, running a hand over Johnny’s head before it wraps around you both, pulling you both impossibly close.

Johnny snuggles down into the blankets, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment.

You’re sweating.

It’s hot where you are, trapped between two bodies under a mountain of blankets. For a moment you thought you were having an unusual moment of clarity during your heat, but you remember that’s over. It’s been over for almost a day. It’s dark in the room, only the warm glow of the nightlight keeping the darkness at bay.

You push back against the body behind you but it’s solid, draped in place against your back. You need to get out, free yourself from the suffocating heat.

You manage to get yourself seated upright between Simon and Johnny, shoving the blankets down towards the end of the bed.

“What’re ye doing?” Johnny mumbles sleepily.

“’S too hot.” You murmur, wincing as you shift. There’s a steady ache between your thighs and you feel raw and sore.

“Go back to sleep.” Simon grunts, grabbing the blankets before pulling them up again, rolling so his back is to you.

You wipe the sweat from your forehead, grimacing at the grimy feel of your skin.

“Ye doin’ okay?” Johnny asks, pushing himself up to sit.

“Will you help me shower?” You ask quietly, trying not to disturb Simon again. You doubt he’d be so nice a second time. He has to be as tired as you are, but you’re too aware of how gross you feel to think about going back to sleep yet.

“’Course, kitten.” He says, sliding off the bed to stand. He’s in sweatpants, and you don’t know how he isn’t dying of heatstroke. “C’mere.” he holds his arms out and you shuffle over, hiding the pain from the jolting movements.

He slips his arms under you before lifting you easily, carrying you to the en-suite.

He sits you down on the toilet seat as he starts the shower. Your body aches, deep in your muscles and joints. You probably should bathe so you can sit, but the idea of pressure anywhere near the place between your thighs has you wincing at the thought.

Johnny holds his hand under the stream until he’s satisfied with the temperature, turning back to you. You stare up at him, his hair starting to get shaggy again. His mohawk has gotten longer, the hair starting to droop and stick to his forehead.

“Will you help me?” You ask, blinking up at him.

He blinks back before a grin forms on his face. “Sure thing, kitten.”

He seems all to eager to drop his sweatpants and strip off his shirt, revealing soft muscle underneath. He’s lost some of the definition. They all have after being away from the harsh requirements of the military for months now. You wonder how long it will take to get it back, how hard they’ll have to work to get themselves back into the state they were when you met them for the first time. Hardened soldiers dedicated to the machine that is the military.

You know they’re never going to give it up. You’ve surrendered to that fact.

Johnny helps you to your feet, letting you move slowly on shaky legs towards the shower. You definitely should have gone for a bath but you’re determined as you step under the warm spray.

It’s like heaven, gliding over your skin, relaxing tense muscles. Johnny closes the door as he steps in next to you, his hands sliding to your hips to help hold you up as you bask in the water flowing over you. You stand there for a few moments, already feeling better just having water washing away the grime of a week being covered repeatedly in body fluids.

It’s gross, when you think about it. You try not to think too much.

Johnny’s hands leave your hips as he grabs your soap, squirting some onto his hand before starting to lather it over your skin. You lean back against him, letting him wash you. His hands rub over your stomach and up under your breasts. They’re sore, your nipples raw. Whether that’s from friction or Simon you’re unsure. Maybe both.

Johnny is gentle as he washes you, gentler than you might have been doing it yourself, but you’re touched nonetheless. He peppers soft kisses against your shoulders and the top of your head as he works shampoo through your hair. You hum quietly as he massages your scalp, even that sore after Simon’s rough handling.

He took good care of you, though. You can hardly complain about a few aches and pains.

A lot of aches and pains.

You press back against Johnny, feeling something poking you in the ass and you roll your eyes. “Can’t help it, can you?” You ask.

“Yer so fuckin’ beautiful.” Johnny murmurs, wrapping his arms around you. “Ye have no idea what it was like seein’ ye like that.”

Cock drunk and completely ignorant of the world? “I can only imagine.” You say. “Did you…”

“No.” He says, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “Didnae have time, worryin’ about ye. ‘Bout killed me.”

You smirk. “I bet.”

While the idea of sticking anything inside of your body is less than pleasant, you know you can at least do something for him. He deserves it after taking such good care of you and Simon, after all.

You turn in his arms, sliding your hand down your stomach. He stares down at you as you wrap your hand around his cock, squeezing gently. He’s hard and almost throbbing in your hand. You can only imagine the torture he had to endure, listening to you and Simon fuck for a week straight. You’re surprised he didn’t join.

You stare up into his eyes as you begin to move your hand, stroking his cock. His eyes are so blue, almost hypnotic as you find yourself getting lost in his gaze. You wrap an arm around his waist, leaning against him to hold yourself up as you jerk him off, twisting your hand across the sensitive length. His arm wraps around your back, his hand coming to rest on your hip. He squeezes gently and you ignore the ache from his fingers pressing into the sore skin. No doubt you have bruises there from Simon’s hands.

Johnny moans quietly, his face pressing into your hair as you continue to stroke his cock. His chest is heaving with his breath, his other hand rising to rest against the shower wall. His muscles flex and relax, his entire body trembling. You can only imagine how sensitive he is after a week of having to listen to you fuck his alpha.

“You gonna cum?” You ask, staring up at him as you quicken your pace, squeezing your hand gently around him. “You gonna cum for me?”

He lets out almost a whine as his hips buck into your hand. “Fuck, yes!” He moans, his cock twitching in your hand.

You drag your thumb across his tip, teasing the rim of his cock before you start stroking his length again, moving your hand as fast as you can. He presses his face into the top of your head, his body shuddering as he spurts his cum all over your hand. You continue to stroke him, working him through his orgasm.

“Fucking christ.” He breathes, wrapping both of his arms around you. You’re grateful for it as your legs ache from standing for so long. “So fucking good to me.” He kisses the top of your head. “We don’t deserve you, ye know that?”

You pull back to stare up at him, the water starting to go cold. There’s such love and conviction in his gaze it almost knocks the breath from your lungs. You think over his words, the admission coming out of seemingly nowhere, brought on in a moment of passion.

“It’s true.” Johnny says, turning off the water, his arm still wrapped around you. “Ye deserve better than us.”

“Where is this coming from?” You ask as he helps you out of the shower, drying you off gently with a towel. Your legs are starting to shake from exhaustion and you’re ready to crawl back into bed with Simon.

“Just been thinkin’ about it recently.” He says, wrapping the towel around you. “What with John runnin’ off and thinkin’ about what’s gonnae happen next.”

You swallow nervously as he carries you back to the bed. “What do you think is going to happen next?” You say as he runs the towel over your hair to try and squeeze as much water out as possible.

He’s silent for a few moments, the nerves continuing to twist in your stomach. You’d be lying if you said you haven’t been thinking about it as well. The eight days of your heat was a relief from having to worry about anything other than getting fucked and bred.

“I don’t know.” He answers after a moment, fiddling with the towel in his hands.

His answer doesn’t offer you any comfort.

Simon has a dark look on his face as you hold his gaze in the mirror.

“It’s gonna be a nasty scar.” He grumbles, his eyes dropping to your shoulder. The wound has started to scab over, some bits of it already turning white and scarring. It’s rough and ragged compared to the clean, even bite on the other side. It’s a perfect mirror of your two alphas, you think. Simon rough and ragged around the edges while John is firm and steady.

“I don’t know, I kind of like it.” You say, running your fingers over the sore skin before rubbing more Vaseline over it to keep it moist. “It’s your mark.” He winces, turning away from the mirror. “You’re regretting it.” You say, turning around to watch him as he leaves the bathroom.

“No, it’s just...it was a stir of the moment move.” He says, dropping himself to sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Would have liked to discuss it more before doin’ it.”

“Well I don’t regret it.” You say, approaching him. “I like that you did it. I like the idea of being claimed by you.”

He snorts, focused on the floor instead of you. It’s strange, seeing him become so vulnerable in front of you. There was a time he would have never let you so close, and now he’s sitting in front of you without a mask, both literally and metaphorically.

You wrap your fingers around his wrists, lifting his hands to your face as you come to stand between his knees. “You shouldn’t regret it.” You say softly, his dark eyes finally turning up to your face. “I would have asked you to do it eventually. You just saved me from having to broach an awkward conversation.”

“It wouldn’t have been awkward.” He mumbles.

“It so would have been.” You grin. “You would have made it weird.”

“Little shit.” He breathes, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you close.

You hold his left hand in the air, trailing your fingers over his tattoos. You pause when you spot something that you’ve never seen before. You sit yourself down on his knee, studying the new mark. “Simon...what is this?” You ask, trailing your fingers around the oval shaped tattoo. “Is it...a bite mark?”

“Yours.” He says simply, shrugging when you turn to look at him.

“When did I bite you?” You ask.

“Right before I scruffed you.” He explains. “Sunk your teeth right in. I’ve got tattoos for the others, thought it was a perfect addition.”

“You tattooed my bite mark on your skin?” You blink, turning your gaze back to the tattoo. “Out of all the things you could have tattooed, you chose my bite mark?”

“It’s a reminder that I’m not as destructive as I like to think.” He says. “That maybe I can do some good for my pack.”

You blink back tears as you stare up into those chocolate brown eyes. “That’s so sweet.”

“It’s also a reminder of just how feisty you are, you little shit.” He says, squeezing his arms tight around you and flopping back on the bed.

You giggle as you’re pulled with him, winding up laying on his chest. You smile as you stare down at him, trailing your fingers over his handsome face. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to properly thank you for what you did.”

“You lived. That’s thanks enough.” He says, brushing his fingers over your face.

You lean down, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Someone’s feeling sappy this morning.”

He rolls his eyes, flipping you over so he’s hovering over you. “Someone else is feeling annoying today.”

“I only do it cause I love you.” You say, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He smirks. “You love me?”

“Course I do.” You say, pulling him down for another kiss.

“Good.” He murmurs against your lips before pulling away, pushing himself up to stand.

He stares down at you as you lay there, running your tongue across your lips to savor every last bit of his taste on your skin.

“Bloody fucking hell.” He groans, adjusting his pants.

You smirk, pushing yourself up to sit, staring at the bulge starting to form at the front of his jeans. You flick your gaze up to his eyes, staring at him from under your lashes. You’re still nowhere near ready for a good fuck after your heat, still sore and bruised. You doubt he’d be ready either. He has to be sore too after popping a knot constantly over the course of eight days.

Yet you can feel the bulge of his hardening cock as you push yourself up to stand, your chest pressed against his. You stand there for a long moment, staring up at him before a small smirk forms on your face. “It’s time for breakfast.”

You slip past him, heading for the door.

“You little shit.”

Five days have passed since your heat when you hear the crunching of gravel under tires outside. You glance up from your book, Simon looking up from his. Your omega shifts in the back of your mind, responding to his alpha as he’s suddenly on high alert. He marks his place in the book, your eyes following him as he pushes himself up to stand, moving towards the small window facing the front of the cottage.

You watch nervously as he glances out the window, his shoulders tense, body on high alert. Kyle has risen from his seat at the table, picking up on the alpha’s sudden shift in mood. Both of you watch him, his scent intensifying for a moment before his shoulders drop, his body relaxing.

He moves to the door, you and Kyle sharing a look as he pulls it open. “You could have told us you were coming.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

You’re on your feet at the sound of the voice, moving around the back of the couch. You pause there, waiting with bated breath as the figure appears in the doorway, patting Simon’s arm.

“It’s good to see you again.”

“Been a couple weeks.” Simon says.

“Only a couple.” John says as he steps past Simon into the house.

Tears gather in your eyes as you stare at him, his gaze immediately landing on you. Both of you just stand there, John waiting for you to move while you decide what you want to do. Part of you wants to walk up and smack him, berate him for leaving you like that. Another part of you wants to stomp away angrily and lock yourself in your room to punish him.

You take a few steps forward, approaching your alpha slowly. He doesn’t move, standing still as you come right up to him. His gaze holds yours as you stand there for a moment before throwing your arms around him. He grunts slightly as you collide with him, squeezing your arms around him as tightly as you can. His arms wrap around you, holding you just as tightly against him.

“I missed you.” You whisper, a few stray tears leaking out of your eyes.

“I know.” He says quietly, pressing his nose into the top of your head. “I missed you too.”

His scent washes over you, the fresh scent of petrichor, the deep earthy forest. Your omega purrs happily, the sound rumbling through your chest as you hold him close. He doesn’t let you go either, keeping his arms around you tight. He breathes in your scent, his warm breath fanning over the top of your head. You don’t care that you’re still a bit sore and bruised, you don’t care that you want to scream at him and tell him off for leaving you for so long. You don’t care about much except for the fact he’s here. He’s back.

You never want him to leave again.

Slowly you unravel yourself from him, his hands rising to cup your face. His thumbs are rough as they wipe away your tears, cupping your face gently. You sniffle as you stare up into his blue eyes, a small smile forming on your lips. He’s back. He’s here with you again. The relief flushes out the anger. You’ll get mad at him later. Right now you just want to bury yourself in him and never let go.

He smiles down at you, running a hand over your hair. “Did they take good care of you?” He asks.

You nod. “Really good care.”

His eyes flutter to your shoulder, and suddenly a new set of nerves has started twisting in your stomach. You hadn’t even thought about the fact that Simon marked you. What is he going to think? Will he get territorial? Will he be upset? Will he blame you for letting it happen? What if he kicks Simon out of the pack for claiming his omega as well?

His fingers brush over the quickly healing wound, only a few scabs still lingering from where Simon’s teeth dug in deep. “I see Simon took good care of you too.”

You swallow nervously, nodding. “He did.”

John stares down at the mark for a tense moment before a smile forms on his face. “Good.”

A bit of tension leaves your shoulders at his seeming relief that you were well taken care of. He doesn’t seem angry or upset or even disappointed that Simon marked you as well.

He steps back away from you and you feel a body appear behind you. You turn your head, staring up at Kyle but his eyes are on John. You step out from between them, watching them carefully. Kyle must share some of the same feelings as you. Relief, anger, disappointment. For a moment you think he might be the one to tell John off, throw a punch, but instead his hands cup John’s face and he leans forward to kiss him.

You watch with wide eyes as Kyle kisses John, dragging his body as close as he can. He’s had to miss John as much as you have, if not more. You regret not spending more time with him, discussing your missing alpha, taking comfort in each other. Then again, it’s been a long couple of weeks.

Kyle pulls away from John, still holding his face in his hands. “Don’t ever do that again.”

John smiles softly at his beta. “I don’t plan on it.”

They both turn to look at you, John holding an arm out to you. You step forward into their embrace, both of them wrapping their arms around you, pulling you in close. You breathe in the mixed scents, a tension you didn’t know you were carrying starting to relax in the back of your mind. Your omega purrs happily, the sound rumbling through your chest as well.

Simon stares up at your ceiling, tracing the lines of the shadows cast by your nightlight. He can’t sleep, his mind reeling. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous at John’s return. A lot happened while he was gone, and he hadn’t even considered what John’s reaction would be when he discovered the mark on your other shoulder. Anger, disappointment? He expected the worst, but he hadn’t expected such an...almost relieved reaction.

The door handle turns, Simon’s body tensing. He’s alert, staring at the void of darkness opening up as the door pushes open. You shift against his chest, sensing the change in him even in your sleep. He holds his breath, listening, waiting for any indication of who is creeping in, in the middle of the night.

The tension eases, oxygen filling his lungs as John appears in the doorway, slipping in before closing it again.

“Thought you’d be asleep.” He rumbles quietly.

“Can’t.” Simon whispers.

John hums, moving over to the side of the bed. He reaches over, running a hand over your hair. “It’ll never cease to amaze me how easily omegas sleep.”

“Pretty sure she’d sleep through a bomb if she were tired enough.” Simon says.

John chuckles quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Thank you for taking care of her.”

Simon nods, his thumb brushing your arm. “You asked me to.”

“But you still did it.” John says, staring at his fellow alpha with a pointed look. “You could have said no.”

Simon shrugs. “Figured it was time.” He leans his chin on top of your head. “After all we’ve been through.”

John hums again, trailing his fingers across your back. “Didn’t expect you to claim her too.”

“Didn’t plan on that.” He says honestly. “Was a heat of the moment thing.”

“I’m not mad.” John says. “I’m glad you did it. That was always the plan. If something would have happened to me…”

“But it didn’t.” Simon interrupts him.

“And it won’t.” John says, toeing off his shoes before shifting on the bed to lay behind you.

“He’s really gone?” Simon asks after a moment of silence.

“You saw the pictures.” John says. “It’s what he deserved.”

Simon hums quietly, shifting onto his side. You stir against his chest before settling again, a quiet snore leaving your lips. “Where do we go from here?”

“That’s a worry for tomorrow.” John says. “It’s too late for those kinds of thoughts.” He reaches over, running his fingers across Simon’s cheek. “Get some rest.”

“Easier said than done.” Simon says, fighting a yawn.

John smiles softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Simon’s eyes flutter closed, his grip around you starting to relax as the comforting energy of his fellow alpha eases away the thoughts in his head until only silence remains.

You’re sitting on the couch again when the sound of gravel crunching under tires reaches your ears again. You look up from your book, sharing a look with Johnny whose gaze has been drawn up from his sketch pad. He’s not expecting this either, apparently. He’s immediately on edge, his body tensing as he sits up straighter, dropping the sketch pad on the coffee table.

Both of you turn to look at John as he comes down the stairs, looking far too relaxed for the situation. Someone unknown has arrived to place that’s supposed to be secure. Shepherd is dead, you know that. You trust John’s word, but there was still the threat of those with orders lingering in the shadows, those who the news hasn’t reached yet.

“They’re early.” John says, moving towards you. “Come on, I have a surprise for you.”

You stare at his hand as he holds it out to you. You hate surprises. He knows that, yet he continues to spring them on you. You hesitate but take his hand, letting him pull you up off the couch and to the door. He opens it, letting in a blast of cold air. You’re not dressed to be outside.

You step out onto the porch, staring at the car that’s pulled up. The doors open and you recognize Kate getting out of the driver’s side. It’s an unexpected sight. You haven’t seen her since you killed Phil.

The passenger side door opens and your gaze is drawn there. Another woman climbs out of the car, the back door opening and a man steps out. You stare at them for a moment, your breath leaving your lungs as the woman turns around. You almost don’t recognize her. It’s been a few years, far too many years.

Tears blur your vision, morphing her into nothing but a blurry figure but you know. Deep down you know.

“Mom?”

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#call of duty #call of duty fic #cod fic #poly 141 x reader #task force 141 x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #soap x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #john price x reader #captain price x reader #a/b/o #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #omegaverse

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amoressb · 2 months ago

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───── KISS ME MORE 西村力 N. RK

ꪆৎ ⋆˚࿔ trying to finish his makeup but he just can’t stop kissing you ｡｡ idol bf!riki x makeup artist!reader. fluff & wc. 1.4k ; lots of kissing, skinship, petnames｡｡

──── ARCHiVE

the backstage dressing room of the sold out arena was alive with activity. assistants rushed in and out, carrying outfits and adjusting mics, while the members of enhypen filled into the room, their energy a mix of nerves and excitement. riki, the main dancer, was the last to enter, his stage outfit already clinging perfectly to his frame. his hair was freshly styled and his usual confident grin was firmly in place.

you stood near the vanity, arranging your makeup tools neatly. you glanced up when the door opened and your heart did it’s usual flutter when your eyes landed on riki. despite working and being together for years now, he still had that effect on you.

“hey pretty,” riki greeted, making a beeline for you as the other members settled into their chairs. without a care for the busy room, he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. “riki!” you exclaimed, glancing around to make sure no one had seen, your cheeks flushing pink. “we’re at work!”

“and?” he teased, his voice soft and low so only you could hear. “it’s not like they don’t already know.” you tried to keep your expression neutral, but his adoring gaze was making it impossible. he looked at you like you were the only person in the world, his dark eyes warm and full of affection.

“go sit down,” you finally said, trying to suppress a smile as you motioned to his chair. “you’ve got a show to get ready for.”

“yes ma’am,” riki said with a mock salute before plopping into his chair. the other members exchanged knowing smirks but didn’t say anything, accustomed to their maknaes antics when it came to you.

you approached him with your makeup kit, your expression shifting to one of focus. you grabbed a primer and started dabbing it onto his skin. riki leaned back obediently, watching you the entire time. his eyes followed every move you made—how you tilted your head slightly while working on his foundation, the way your lips pressed together as you concentrated.

“stop staring,” you said without looking up, your voice tinged with amusement. “i can’t help it,” riki replied, a grin tugging at his lips. “you’re too pretty when you’re in your element.”

“flattery won’t get you out of wearing eyeliner,” you quipped, picking up the next product.

he chuckled, staying quiet for a moment as you traced sharp, precise lines around his eyes. but when you leaned in to work on his lips, he couldn’t sit still anymore.

“riki, baby,” you said, holding his chin to keep him steady, “if you don’t stop moving, you’re going to look like a mess out there and i’ll let the fans blame you.”

riki grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “would it really be so bad? they might think the smudges are part of my charm.”

“charm doesn’t cover uneven eyeliner or faded lip tint,” you muttered, dipping the brush back into the product. you leaned closer, focusing on his lips. “well,” he said, voice dropping a bit deeper than before, “if it’s my lips you’re worried about, maybe you should test them.”

“riki,” you warned, but your cheeks flushed at his teasing tone. in response, he leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, leaving a faint mark of coral lip tint behind. “there, a little something just for you.”

you froze, your brush midair, and fixed him with an exasperated glare. “riki! you’ve ruined it again, that’s the third time!” he laughed, utterly unrepentant. “what can i say? your face is more fun to decorate than mine.”

“you’re impossible,” you muttered, grabbing a makeup wipe to start over. “at this rate, you’re going on stage with bare lips.”

“then the fans will get the real me,” he said with a playful shrug.

“no, the fans will get a makeup artist who quits her job halfway through the tour because of you,” you shot back, though your lips twitched in amusement.

as you leaned in again, riki stared at you with unabashed affection, making no effort to hide how enamored he was. the way your brows furrowed in concentration, the way you bit your lip when you worked—it all made his heart race.

“riki, stop looking at me like that,” you murmured without glancing up.

“like what?”

“like you’re about to—”

before you could finish, he closed the distance between you two and kissed you square on the lips. it was soft but lingering, enough to make you forget for a moment that you guys were backstage, mere minutes before showtime. when he pulled back, your carefully applied lip tint was smeared, and his own lips were a mess.

“—do that,” you finished, blinking at him.

he grinned, completely unbothered. “you make it hard to resist, baby.” you sighed dramatically, though your cheeks were pink. “i give up. you’re going on stage like this.”

“no, no, no,” he said quickly, laughing. “i’ll behave this time, i swear.” you arched an eyebrow. “you said that five kisses ago.”

“this time, i mean it,” he said, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands in mock innocence. “scout’s honor.”

the other members started laughing. jake smirked at riki from his chair. “you’ve got it bad, riki.”

“jealous?” riki shot back, unbothered by the teasing.

you sighed, rolling your eyes but smiling as you reached for the lip tint again, applying it with quick, practiced strokes. riki stayed still this time, though you could feel his eyes on you the entire time. “there,” you said at last, stepping back to inspect your work. “you’re ready.”

“perfect,” he said, glancing at himself in the mirror. then he turned to you with a cheeky smile. “almost as perfect as you.”

“flattery won’t save you if you mess it up again,” you warned, though you couldn’t help but smile. a knock on the door interrupted them and the groups manager poked their head in. “you guys are on in five.”

“got it!” riki called, standing up. he looked down at you, his expression softening. “wish me luck?”

“break a leg,” you said with a small smile, your voice gentler now. “and please don’t kiss anyone on stage.” he chuckled. “you know my lips are only yours.”

with a wink, he was gone, leaving you to clean up your station. you could hear the deafening roar of the crowd as the show began and a small smile tugged at your lips. as exasperating as he could be, there was no denying how proud you were of him.

hours later, the concert was in full swing. you watched from backstage, your heart swelling with pride as riki belted out the final dance moves of their song. his moves effortless and smooth, his stage presence captivating as always. by now, he and the other members took their final bows and headed offstage.

riki burst into the dressing room, still glowing with the adrenaline of the performance. his hair was damp with sweat, his shirt clinging to him, and he looked every bit of the star he was.

“y/nnn,” he called, his voice still slightly hoarse. he scanned the room until his eyes found you and his face lit up. without hesitation, he strode over, pulling you into a tight hug.

“riki, you’re all sweaty!” you protested, laughing as you tried to push him away.

“and i missed you,” he said smiling, grabbing your chin, turning you to face him, and leaning in without hesitation to kiss you before you could respond. his lips still tinted faintly with the remnants of his stage makeup. when he pulled back, your own lips bore the faint coral hue.

“you just kissed off the last bit of your lip tint,” you said, your voice soft but teasing. “good,” riki said, his grin boyish and unrepentant. “it belongs on you anyway.”

their moment was interrupted by the other members filing into the room. jake let out a low whistle, grinning as he pointed at the couple. “you really can’t keep your lips off her, huh?”

“you’re gonna wear her out before the next show,” joked jungwon. riki rolled his eyes but kept his arm firmly around your waist. “jealousy isn’t a good look on you guys.”

“sure, sure,” jake said with a laugh. “just try not to kiss off her patience, too.” you shook your head smiling, “too late for that.”

riki leans down to kiss your lips again and looked into your eyes, ignoring the teasing entirely. “lucky for me, she loves me anyway.”

“unfortunately for me,” you muttered, though the warmth in your smile gave you away.

⋆｡°✩ @miukidoll @flufflights

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curryshesus · 10 months ago

Text

jeon jungkook fics that own my mind, body, heart, and soul

in other words, this is a collection of my favorite jk fics on tumblr! if you enjoyed any of these fics as much as i did, pls remember to support the authors by interacting with their post. part 2 | other bts members

➺ bitchin - by @kinktae

summary: the 80s were a time of choices. which perm was right for you? what color neon would you wear next? none of these choices, however, were more questionable than a certain deal you made with jeon jungkook.

➺ idealizations concerning real life relations - by @venusiangguk

summary: jungkook loves to be loved, but he doesn’t love in return.

➺ hotter than hell - by @chateautae

summary: jungkook, lucifer and king of hell, has been cast out of the crimson underworld for a reason he’s unsure of. embarking on his journey for the answer should’ve been easy, if it weren’t for you, the human that nurses his wounded body in her home, and accidentally witnesses the truth of his identity. kickstarting a hellish adventure with the devil himself, you discover lucifer is the most infuriating company ever; and jungkook finds out that maybe his answer to returning home lies within his annoying human confidant.

➺ jump then fall (into you) - by @writtenwhalien

summary: bringing Jungkook along as your date to your ex’s lavish cruise wedding seemed like a perfect idea at first — all of your family and close friends together, nothing can go wrong… then Jungkook’s ex shows up and all of a sudden you’re in a years long relationship with him. You don’t mind though, really, how hard can sharing a cabin and pretending to be deeply in love with your best friend really be?

➺ too late to dream - by @kookslastbutton

summary: You did it. You married your college professor. You even bought a house together. Against all odds, everything had fallen into place. But after two years of marriage, you begin feeling something was missing. You want a baby but your husband can’t say the same.

➺ the forgotten spaces- by @oddinary4bts

summary: you've been dancing on the same dance crew since your teenage years, and you finally have an important role in it. It feels like life is taunting you when your rival comes back after disappearing for a year, ready to tease you every chance he gets. Will the teasing turn into more, or are you going to take him down with you?

➺ when the end comes - by @oddinary4bts

summary: Seven years after you've started dating Jungkook, long distance creates a wedge in your relationship. When the only solution seems to be breaking up, you go your separate ways even though love still lives in the two of you. Will you find a way back together, or has the end come for you and Jeon Jungkook? **sequel to the forgotten spaces

➺ falling - by @starshapedkookie

summary: soulmate (noun): a person who is bound to another through the strongest level of emotional and physical connection. one is given a name on the body upon 18 years of age and any transgressions against the laws of soul-bonding will not occur without harm.

➺ love alive - by @jamaisjoons

summary: a year after you and jungkook break up, the two of you meet at your brother’s party.

➺ changes in between - by @taegularities

summary: Becoming the roommate of Jeon Jungkook is the biggest change you’ve ever gotten thrown into - but little do you know that the addition of another man will bring even further turbulence into your (love) life.

➺ falling skies - by @fortunexkookie

summary: Jeon Jiyeon was your childhood best friend; her brother, Jungkook, was something else entirely. You used to be friends, but then he had gone from endearingly frustrating dumb boy to card-carrying fuckboy so fast it had given you whiplash.

Despite the teasing and fighting, Jiyeon realized how Jungkook felt about you long before he did - it was a twin thing - and if you were her sun, and he was her moon, then she just wished she could show you how he reflected your light.

➺ sugarplum elegy - by @bymoonchild

summary: You know no bounds nor depth with Jungkook. While your fuck buddy loves sleeping in your bed and doing laundry for you with his favourite fabric softener, you are in love with a mysterious honeyed, velvety voice on Soundcloud. All’s fine, until you find out that the voice that metaphors your heart to a sweet sugarplum melody actually belongs to the boy who has been taking up a special spot in your bed and in your heart, strumming at your heartstrings all this while. Or, Jungkook has one braincell, but it’s heart-shaped.

➺ an abundance of mondays - by @diortae

summary: "why the fuck would it be easy? you’re disgustingly in love with your best friend. of course it’s complicated.” he pauses to roll his eyes, as if he hasn’t just laid out the most secret parts of you here in the middle of the campus dining hall.

➺ five dates - by @kpopfanfictrash

summary: “Ten dates,” he nods, smile tugging at his lips. “Ten dates, to decide if you want this – want me – or want me to go. Ten dates to get to know me. Ten dates,” he says, oddly soft, “to fall in love with me.” Which then becomes five.

➺ here comes the bride, all dressed in pride - by @hansolmates

summary: You and your cousin Doyeon have had beef with each other since the sandbox. When she plucks the last straw, you decide to end your long-simmering fight by claiming that you and her ex—Jeon Jungkook, are now boyfriend and girlfriend

➺ if i told you - by @gukyi

summary: in order to pay for university, jeon jungkook decides to market his most valuable asset to the wealthy socialites of campus: himself. donning a suit and tie, tousled hair, and glasses (to look smarter), he becomes every rich daughter’s dream: the perfect boyfriend to bring to balls, dinners, and business gatherings. all while you watch from the sidelines, only able to dream of having that much money to buy yourself what you really want: him.

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5sospenguinqueen · 3 months ago

Text

Papaya Rules | Oscar Piastri x Driver! Reader

Summary: From on-track rivals to reluctant teammates, the trauma of team orders issued by Mclaren bond you and Oscar in a way you never expected.

Warnings: mentions of papaya rules, swearing

Requested: Yes by @1800-love-me (a while ago. oops)

F1 Masterlist

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

2023

f1 posted a new story

itsyn_ln replied and that’s community service for piastri → f1 girl, aren’t you supposed to be in the media pen → itsyn_ln five more minutes → i’m in no rush

mclaren replied no time to explain but we need you to delete this before oscar sees → we need them to get along

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

mclaren just posted

liked by landonorris, jackdoohan and others

mclaren breaking news mclaren f1 racing is pleased to announce that yn ln will be joining the team in 2024, alongside oscar piastri, on a multi-year contract. we cannot wait to see what she can achieve with us

33,814 comments

itsyn_ln thank you for this opportunity! now i need to figure out how to make orange look good on me

→ mclaren everything looks good on you

username1 wait, what? she’s oscar’s public enemy #1 and now she’ll be his teammate?

oscarpiastri and this is how i find out?

→ mclaren we didn’t want to give you a chance to protest

→ pierregasly i knew before oscar did? ha!

→ oscarpiastri don’t make me still target the pink car next year

→ itsyn_ln i’m feeling unwanted

jackdoohan @/itsyn_ln thanks for the seat

→ itsyn_ln i hope i kept it warm for you!

username2 poor osc is going to have to learn to manage this oddness

→ username3 poor osc is probably more focused on having to learn not to strangle her

alpinef1team losing another driver to the sinister evil and orange team

→ itsyn_ln at least you’ll miss me. i’m starting to think pierre lied when he said he would

→ pierregasly of course i did. you were staring straight at me without blinking

username4 don’t get me wrong, i can’t wait to see yn in a better car but i fear this was poor planning on mclaren’s part. they’re going to struggle with managing their drivers

landonorris i’m sorry, osco. i didn’t know me leaving was going to lead to this

→ oscarpiastri you’re not forgiven.

username5 i fear mclaren are not going to have the dream team they were expecting

→ username6 they need to prepare to see both papaya cars dnf’ing all the time next year

username7 i need that jacket!

→ mclaren all yn merch coming soon!

→ username8 they move fast. they’ve already got her in papaya and prepared to release her papaya merch

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

2024

mclaren just posted

liked by patriciooward, gabrielbortoleto_ and others

mclaren and it’s a papaya 1-2 what a race! a phenomenal display of teamwork from oscar and yn

55,098 comments

username9 wtf was that

username10 i can’t decide which one of them was robbed more

username11 so they want them to become friends but then force them to concede wins???

username12 i never want to hear the phrase ‘papaya rules’ again. idk what it means but i know it was shit

username13 the fact that neither of them have interacted with this post shows that they’re not happy with their 1-2

username14 you guys need to chill. they were coming under fire from max, and yn was faster. oscar was holding her up and if they hadn’t have switched, max could’ve had them both

→ username15 there was two laps left. i’m sure they could’ve managed it

→ username14 did you not see all the purple sectors max was setting

username16 i hope oscar doesn’t blame yn for this

username17 unrelated but i love how much shorter yn is than osc in this pic. they’re so cute

→ username18 they’re mortal enemies. don’t start romanticising them

→ username19 they are so enemies to lovers coded

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

oscarpiastri just posted

liked by itsyn_ln, arthur_leclerc and others

oscarpiastri enjoying a week off

44,287 comments

mclaren does this mean we’re friends again

→ oscarpiastri not yet

username1 mr piastri, sir, um, is that a WOMAN?

username2 look, it’s very nice to see that you’re alive and well but we no longer care about that because who is that in the last pic?!

charles_leclerc son, you didn’t tell me about this

landonorris a new teammate and a new partner. i see i’m being fully replaced

→ oscarpiastri don’t fuel the rumours about us

username3 oh so this is why twitter is freaking out

username4 the linked hands

username5 yn liked this? are they friends now??

itsyn_ln just posted

liked by mclaren, landonorris and others

itsyn_ln my boyfriend just won a grand prix, bitches!

73,220 comments

pierregasly was this meant to be posted on the burner account??

→ itsyn_ln oh shit

→ oscarpiastri oh, sweetheart

→ charles_leclerc and everyone thought i would tell!

itsyn_ln well, no point deleting it now. enjoy

→ username6 yn and oscar are dating?!!?

→ username7 and he calls her sweetheart?!?!?

username8 no one understands how precious these two are to me

username9 enemies to lovers come true

username10 these two were written by a wattpad user

alpinef1team sometimes we think we miss you and then you do stuff like this

→ mclaren sure you don’t want her back

→ username11 noooo don’t take our papaya partners away from us

username12 i’ve only had ynoscar for five minutes but if anything happens to them, i will kill everyone

username13 they said i was crazy but i knew! i knew there was passion between their feud

landonorris and you did so good to not kiss him in front of the cameras

→ oscarpiastri she’s more annoyed that now she shouldn’t have bothered

→ itsyn_ln want to smooch you for the world to see

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

requests open

coming soon; max taste part 3 and franco x driver! reader

2K notes · View notes

mononijikayu · 4 months ago

Text

wife — nanami kento.

“I don’t like the way they’re looking at you.” You whisper to him. “Let them, honey.” he said, his deep voice rich with certainty. “That’s all they can do.” He took your hand, calloused but gentle, and squeezed it just enough to send a rush of comfort through you. His thumb traced the side of your hand in a subtle, soothing gesture. The cool metal of his ring finger brushes against your skin with intent. “They should know that I am exactly where I choose to be. I’m a married man, after all.”

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence;

WARNING/S: romance, marriage, nsfw, rated 18 and above, explicit content, kissing, making out, rough sex, p to v sex, toilet sex, orgasm, humor, profanity, pet names (baby, honey), possesiveness, jealousy, characters speaking in sexual innuendo, mention of sexual euphemisms, depiction of explicit sexual content, if your partner isn't nanami kento then don't have him ladies, gents and non-binary friends;

WORD COUNT: 6.6k words.

NOTE: nanami kento won the poll, so here we are!!! its relatively shorter than the current style i have, but i hope you still like it. and yes, i added a spoiler for shoko and geto's sister (since shoko won #2 in the poll, she also gets a fic!!!). they are still together cause god knows they need love and care after all they have been through. anyway, i hope you all enjoy this!!! i love you all and see you in the next one <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

THIS WAS A RARE OPPORTUNITY. You don’t like going to these high social events at all, not even outside Jujutsu society. You were a homebody, you adored having time to yourself. But you can’t ignore Gojo Satoru’s invitation. Even if you want to.

He’s been so good to your Kento and he’s always making sure that none of the old farts are making his life miserable. So you felt inclined to go. You felt inclined to play a little bit with this world.

The grand hall of Gojo manor was resplendent, a wash of gold and white with shimmering drapes that caught the light of the crystal chandeliers overhead. Gojo Satoru was not thrilled to host the gathering. But since it was his duty as the Gojo clan head and he had to play nice with all these people — he gave in and threw the party.

Of course, he refused to make it exclusively a sorcerer only gathering. He wanted to ensure that it was open to everyone, even yourself. That in itself breaks tradition. More often than not, it was only sorcerers, especially those in the higher echelons of Jujutsu society, who were allowed to come and enjoy such liberties.

But of course, Gojo Satoru was not such a man of tradition. He hated it, as much as your Kento. So, of course, to enjoy you and Kento’s company and to spite all these snobs, he made sure to invite you and everyone else.

You find that you’re at least enjoying the building’s architecture. You were a fan of architecture, in all forms and culture. You and your husband Kento shared that passion, more so when you both were in Denmark or when you both were in the countryside.

Still, Gojo manor was not too bad. You marvel at the intricate carvings on the walls depicting centuries of legendary battles and heroics of history gone by. Each one was a reminder that this was not just a gathering but a showcase of the Jujutsu world's most powerful and influential.

Sorcerers mingled, their robes embroidered with clan symbols and sigils that spoke of generations of power and prestige. Conversations buzzed with a mix of guarded politeness and subtle rivalry.

The room alive with an undercurrent of competition disguised as small talk. The sound of polite laughter mixed with the clink of glasses filled with aged sake, its delicate aroma weaving through the air like a ghost.

You stood near the buffet table, the scent of delicacies. Gojo Satoru did well with getting everything together for this, especially the food, all high quality — only the best of the Gojo clan head’s tastes. You both think the same in that exquisite taste.

That certainly is why you were excited to taste everything. From the perfectly grilled yakitori, dainty bowls of ikura don, to the plates piled with fresh sashimi and brilliantly wrapped hamachi. They were all wafting around you. They were all perfect for you.

“I regret wearing this dress.” You tell yourself in a small mumble. “It’s too tight and I forgot Gojo likes good food like me. I thought he would have left it to his goons to decide the food menu…”

You were dressed in an elegant but simple gown, a deep navy blue that skimmed your figure without the drama of glittering embellishments or the boldness of vibrant silks. Compared to the ostentatious displays around you, it felt almost understated, but it was you.

You could hardly care about the fashions of Jujutsu society. You liked your fashion. And your husband did too. That was all that mattered. You adjusted the silver cuff on your wrist, a small but meaningful gift from Nanami, its cool weight reassuring against your skin.

You glanced around, eyes catching a few familiar faces. There was Nitta Akari from administration and management, gesturing animatedly as she spoke with her colleagues, her face flushed with excitement. Mei Mei stood nearby, her icy beauty undiminished by the cool smirk she wore.

She held court as always, eyes sharp as a hawk’s as she listened, spoke, and effortlessly commanded the attention of everyone within earshot. Hell, there was Usami too — but he was surrounded by those vultures from the conservative factions.

But most of the women were like the wives of powerful clan leaders. They represented their husbands, who thought it too boring to join the gathering or rather were abandoned by their husbands to do other things.

Yet they were powerful women in their own right and they wanted you to know it. They wanted for you to see it, so badly. Their outfits elaborate displays of status, from the gold-threaded kimonos to the jewels woven into their hair. Their makeup was meticulous, brows arched and lips painted in deep shades of crimson or plum.

Most of them were interesting to gawk at. But you were certain they thought the same about you. Especially those specific women. It was those more haughty women, clan women under the big three who glanced your way with subtle, evaluating eyes.

You could feel their scrutiny as tangibly as the satin ribbons brushing your wrists. A fan fluttered as a woman whispered behind it, her gaze cutting sideways toward you. She looked as haughty and dry as her entire face.

“Do you think she really fits in here?” one murmured, just loud enough for the question to reach your ears.

“I heard she’s not even a sorcerer.” came the response, this time with a touch of incredulity. “Yet they let her come near our children, to teach them about a world they don’t dwell in. Pathetic waste of time!”

You pretended not to hear, reaching for a skewer of yakitori to busy your hands. But your pulse quickened, not with embarrassment, but with the awareness of the reason behind their thinly veiled curiosity. They must have been Zenin women, perhaps married to the higher ranked men in Zenin Naobito’s circle. You felt bad for them, yet you also hated them.

But you knew that wasn’t the case for their hatred of you. Not exactly. It wasn’t the fact that you were an outsider, a non-sorcerer working as a window at Jujutsu High, who taught mundane subjects like history and literature to the students.

Nor was it that the students often liked you better, seeking your lessons as a respite from their harsher training. It was the reason these women whispered behind jeweled fans and exchanged glances tinged with envy: you were the much beloved wife of Nanami Kento, the stalwart, handsome, and sought-after grade one sorcerer.

From across the room, you caught sight of him. He stood among a small circle of colleagues, the sharp lines of his tailored suit a contrast to the flowing robes around him. His expression was as stoic as ever, but there was a small shift when he saw you, a softening in his gaze that no one else would notice.

To everyone else, he was the unapproachable, severe sorcerer who never let his guard down. But you knew the way his bright eyes would close just slightly when he was tired, the low chuckle he reserved for evenings spent at home, the way his voice lowered when he told you stories of his youth.

“Good evening.” came a familiar voice that broke through your wandering thoughts. You turned to find Ieiri Shoko standing beside you, her expression one of relaxed amusement.

She was dressed in an elegant black ensemble that perfectly complemented her laid-back demeanor, a glass of sake dangling effortlessly from her fingers. Her sharp eyes glimmered with mischief as she surveyed the room.

“Evening.” You greeted back at her, your lips sharply echoing into a smile. “Why are you alone? Where’s your darling at?”

“Oh, surrounded by those pathetic vultures.” She pointed at the table where she was talking with the Kyoto women, smiling brightly. “Ugh, I hate those freaks. I can’t believe she’s around them. They’re not even worth an ounce of her giggles.”

“Geto–san has to make good with people somehow.” You pointed out to her, humming. “Connections are just connections. But you’re her lover. It’s been some years. Breathe, Sho.”

She rolls her eyes, before smiling. “Yeah, yeah.”

“How have you been?”

“Good, as always.” Shoko retorts back, humming at you. “I just wish I had cigarettes. But she said if I tried to smoke tonight, she wouldn’t let me hit.”

You laugh at her bluntness. “I do the same to Kento too, but with his alcohol. You both have to be kept on a leash.”

“Oh the things we do for love.” She sighed heavily before looking at the ones glaring at you both. It wasn’t hard to notice those clusters of sorcerer wives eyeing you with thinly veiled intentions. “You’re doing well against their scrutiny, I see.”

“Barely. But I do find myself enjoying it.” you admitted, a small laugh escaping despite the tension. Shoko’s company was always welcome; her nonchalance had a way of making everything seem less dire.

Shoko took a slow sip from her glass, savoring it like she savored every moment. She shifted her gaze to one of the wives, a woman with a crimson kimono embroidered so elaborately it looked more like a tapestry than a garment. The woman was whispering behind her fan, eyes darting toward you and Shoko with a practiced side glance.

“Ah, her again. I thought she wouldn’t be here after she got exposed for her affair.” Shoko said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated flair. She leaned closer, voice low but biting. “Careful, she’s liable to sprain her neck with how much she’s been glaring. I heard last time she tried something that intense, she nearly fainted from holding her breath.”

You stifled a laugh, your shoulders shaking with barely contained mirth. Shoko’s dry humor was like a breath of fresh air, slicing through the tension with an effortless charm. The woman in the crimson kimono noticed your reaction and stiffened, her cheeks blooming with indignation.

“Let them look, let them whisper. Let them be jealous of you.” Shoko said, turning her eyes back to you. Her voice shifted to something more genuine, the mocking edge softening. “They’ll keep wondering because they can’t figure it out. You’re different, and they hate not understanding something. It’s their worst fear.”

You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding, the knots in your chest loosening. Shoko’s words were more than just comfort; they were a reminder that your place here wasn’t defined by others’ perceptions but by your own truth and by the fact that Nanami stood beside you, unwavering.

“Thanks, Sho. I appreciate it a lot.” you said, voice steadying.

She gave a small shrug, the kind that said don’t make it a big deal. With another sip of sake, she nodded toward the buffet. “Now, let’s hope they restock the good tempura. If not, someone’s getting cursed tonight, and it won’t be me.”

She winked, then sauntered away, leaving you with a smile and the indelible impression that you weren’t as alone as you sometimes felt. Once she moved to the corner to see about the temperature, you could feel from the corner of your eye.

You saw the clan wives exchanging glances again. Their perfectly painted lips tightened just slightly as Nanami Kento, breaking from his group, made his way toward you, every step a quiet declaration.

“Is it true? She’s the one married to him?” another ignorant one whispered, leaning into a group of women whose gazes darted in your direction.

“Yes, the one with Nanami Kento, the number two of the first grade sorcerers.” another foolish one confirmed, unable to keep the hint of envy out of her voice.

You turned slightly, pretending not to hear as you picked up a small plate of delicacies. You did not care for what they wanted to say about you. You were more focused on your desire to taste the dishes. The laughter and clinking glasses around you felt muted under the weight of the tension gathering nearby.

The whispers turned to sharp murmurs, punctuated by gasps and scandalized looks. But perhaps that bothered them even more, because they started making more comments.

“Who does she think she is, that no name wanna be?” The foolish one whispered, loud enough for people to hear her. But perhaps she does not realize she was not being discreet.

The ignorant one scoffs in disbelief, shaking her head. “What a snob! How can Nanami-san be married to her?”

Shoko heard enough of it and turned around almost immediately from the dishes to the ladies. They jumped out of their seats. She rolls her eyes at them. It was as though she was just as annoyed as she was bored with them.

“Honestly, get over yourselves. You all look like desperate idiots.” she said, a lazy smirk tugging at her lips as she leaned casually against a marble pillar. Everyone was now looking at them. Aren’t you at least going to have the gall to say it to our face, lady Kawami?”

The woman in the crimson kimono, lady Kawami, known for her sharp tongue and her greedy ambition gasped, her painted lips parting in shock. Beside her, another woman with intricately styled hair and a pinched expression scowled deeply.

“How dare you—”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Shoko’s laughter was light and mocking, yet the glint in her eyes held no softness. She tilted her head, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at Lady Kawami’s reddening face. “You think Nanami Kento would like an ugly face and a bad attitude like yours? Ha! You wish!”

The crowd that had gathered to eavesdrop was stunned into silence, eyes flicking between the women like spectators at a duel. The foolish one’s face turned a deep shade of red, while the ignorant one sputtered, looking moments away from summoning her husband and causing an uproar.

“You cannot talk to us like that!” she shrieked, voice pitched high with indignation. “My husband will hear of this!”

“Now, now, lady Kawami, you shouldn’t treat my guests like that.” The familiar, light-hearted voice of Gojo Satoru interrupted the escalating tension. The two women felt their eyes widen. They quickly bow before him. “It’s so disrespectful, don’t you think?”

Heads turned as he approached, dressed in an exquisite black and silver kimono decorated with the Gojo clan crest. Even in traditional wear, he managed to exude a casual, almost irreverent charm. His dark, round glasses perched on his nose added to the effect as he lowered them just slightly, revealing eyes that shimmered with barely concealed amusement.

“Ah, Gojo-sama.” Lady Kawami said, trying to mask her fluster with a demure nod, but the tension in her posture betrayed her. “I didn’t mean any disrespect towards her, but surely you can understand that—”

“Oh, I understand completely, lady Kawami.” Gojo interrupted, a playful grin spreading across his face. He pushed his glasses back up, letting them catch the light so that the rest of the room was reflected in them. “I understand that you’re boring my dear friend Shoko, and frankly, I can’t have that. Her girlfriend wouldn't be so happy, either. And of course, I love my friend’s happiness.”

The subtle ripple of suppressed laughter ran through the more observant bystanders. Lady Kawami’s mouth snapped shut, her eyes narrowing dangerously. It was rare for someone to speak to her like that and get away with it, but this was Gojo Satoru. A man whose reputation as the most powerful sorcerer in the room and quite possibly the world would mean his words carried weight that no amount of social maneuvering could deflect.

Shoko’s smirk widened as she raised her glass in mock toast to Gojo, her eyes gleaming. “Well, look who decided to save the day. Dashing, really, Gojo.”

He winked at her. “Anything to make sure tonight stays interesting.”

The ignorant one, still seething but now cautious, looked between Gojo and Shoko before settling on silence. The power dynamics had shifted too sharply, and she knew better than to push further. No one can go against Gojo Satoru and not face repercussions. No one. And it would have ended up badly for their husbands and their families if they did.

You exhaled, tension releasing from your shoulders as the spectacle unraveled. A small, knowing smile touched your lips as Kento's eyes found yours from across the room, his expression softening just a fraction, and you knew that you weren’t alone in facing these moments. You were surrounded by friends who would always have your back, in their own unique, if slightly chaotic, ways.

The room’s atmosphere gradually loosened, tension shifting back to its usual simmering undercurrent. Gojo’s playful banter had disarmed the scene, leaving only the embarrassed scowls of lady Kawami and her cohort. Shoko took another sip of her sake, the glint of satisfaction in her eyes clear as she watched the women bristle and disperse.

“Good job not throwing that plate, masterful control.” Shoko said to you, her voice carrying a hint of approval. She nodded at the untouched delicacies in your hand. “Would’ve been a waste of good food.”

You chuckled softly, appreciating her humor. “Shouldn’t you be saying that to yourself, Sho?”

“Well, I mean, that’s true.”

Gojo laughs. “Shoko would have done worse than that and we both know it.”

“Hm, but I would have you carry my food to my table.”

“Oh? Then people would be surprised, how anyone can force the Gojo clan leader to do anything on a whim.”

Before you could respond, a presence behind you made the small hairs on your neck stand up in recognition. You turned, and there he was—Nanami Kento, striding toward you with the kind of quiet confidence that set him apart from the rest.

He looked ever so handsome, your husband. But when you get him even more up close? It’s a different story. He looked even more like a god when he stood before you this close.

He took in the scene, eyes flicking over the lingering crowd, Gojo’s smirk, and Shoko’s knowing look. Then his attention settled on you, warm and steady. “I see I missed the entertainment.” he said, his voice deep and even, but with a trace of curiosity.

Gojo lifted a hand in a lazy wave. “Ah, Nanami, you missed Shoko here defending your lovely lady’s honor with an admirable lack of diplomacy.”

Kento’s brows lifted slightly, his gaze darting to Shoko, who shrugged, unbothered. “They deserved it.” she said, as if that were the most obvious fact in the world.

With a quiet exhale, Kento nodded, accepting the unspoken truth that you were protected by bonds deeper than mere duty. He reached out, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. The small gesture spoke volumes, his touch grounding and reassuring.

“Are you alright?” he asked, eyes searching yours for any trace of discomfort.

You smiled up at him, your earlier tension melting away entirely under his gaze. “I am now.”

The corners of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, subdued as always but unmistakably there. The few remaining onlookers, who had hoped to catch a new drama unfolding, exchanged glances before deciding they had better places to be.

Gojo clapped his hands, shattering the delicate silence that had settled. “Well, now that we’ve cleared the air, what do you say we toast to another evening of society’s finest theatrics?” His grin was as wide as ever, his glasses reflecting the chandelier’s light like a pair of miniature suns.

Nanami shook his head, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes as he glanced at you, then back at Gojo. “You never change, Gojo.” he muttered, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.

“And wouldn’t it be boring if I did?” Gojo countered, raising a brow.

Shoko raised her glass, smirking at Gojo before tipping it toward you and Nanami. “Unwavering loyalty and keeping things interesting!” she said.

You lifted your plate with a grin, and Kento, never one for dramatics, simply inclined his head. But the unspoken promise in his gaze, the silent support he offered, said more than any toast or witty comment ever could. In a hall filled with power, it was that quiet moment, surrounded by friends and the one who held your heart, that resonated most.

Soon enough, Shoko returned to her girlfriend with her plate stacked with food on one hand and the other holding a glass of wine. Her girlfriend, Geto Suguru’s younger sister, was waiting for her at one of the tables by the back.

Of course, Gojo Satoru returned to moving about and greeting everyone, but he seemed to have been halted by lord Kawami, probably trying to get things straight and settled. No one likes losing his favor after all. It was better that everything was smoothed out with him.

The incident however did not stop the women from continuing to look at your husband wantingly. One of the clan leader’s wives, her jeweled fan hiding half her face, whispered something to the woman beside her. They glanced over, eyes narrowing as if they could decipher what spell had ensnared someone like Nanami Kento.

“They’re watching again.” you murmured, feeling a twinge of jealousy and self-consciousness.

You immediately caught the glance of a woman adorned with a striking emerald necklace that glittered every time she turned. Her expression was polished and unreadable, but the pointed way she looked at you sent an old, familiar discomfort crawling up your spine.

Kento’s presence next to you was a calm in the storm, an anchor against the waves of whispers and stares. He tilted his head slightly, just enough that the room’s golden glow cast warm highlights across his sharp features. His eyes, serious and unwavering, met yours.

“I don’t like the way they’re looking at you.” You whisper to him.

“Let them, honey.” he said, his deep voice rich with certainty. “That’s all they can do.”

He took your hand, calloused but gentle, and squeezed it just enough to send a rush of comfort through you. His thumb traced the side of your hand in a subtle, soothing gesture. The cool metal of his ring finger brushes against your skin with intent.

“They should know that I am exactly where I choose to be. I’m a married man, after all.”

A silence swept over the nearby crowd, as if Nanami Kento’s words, though spoken softly, carried through the hall like a sudden change in the wind. The clan leaders’ wives, women who could command a room with a flick of their eyes or a whisper laced with intent, shifted uncomfortably. For all their power, their meticulously curated reputations, and the alliances they upheld like prized heirlooms, they had never been the center of such unwavering devotion.

Akari from administration glanced over and offered a subtle nod of approval, a small smile playing on her lips as she resumed her conversation. Mei Mei, sharp-eyed and ever perceptive, caught the moment as well. She raised her glass, her smirk deepening as though to say, well played.

The subtle tension that once swirled around the room, woven through glances and whispers, began to dissipate. Some turned their attention back to their conversations, laughter resuming, but not without the occasional glance in your direction, this time tinged more with begrudging respect than judgment.

“Kento, baby.” you said softly, a small smile breaking through as your heart settled back into its natural rhythm. The weight of self-consciousness fell away, replaced by a warm sense of belonging that his presence always seemed to ignite.

“Hmm?” he replied, his gaze still watching you with an intensity that was rare for him, except when you were alone.

“Thank you, baby.” you whispered, squeezing his hand back.

His eyes softened, the smallest, barely-there curve of his lips showing just the hint of a smile meant only for you. “There’s nothing to thank me for, honey.” he replied, tilting his head as if to read your thoughts. “It’s simply the truth.”

══════════════════

IT HAPPENED AS QUICKLY AS ONE COULD BLINK. But you suppose you can’t help it. Your desire for pleasure was fast when it came to Nanami Kento. Much more so when you’re jealous. BUt you knew your husband liked that. More than he likes to admit to you.

You felt a delicious rush of power as you yanked him closer by his tie, leading him out of the crowded hall. Away from the watchful eyes and mingling strangers, it was just the two of you in the quiet, dim hallway, with only your quickened breaths filling the silence.

The door closed behind you, and before you could say another word, his hands were on you, strong and possessive, pressing you back against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall. His fingers traced over your hips and along your waist, leaving a tingling heat in their wake.

It was as if he was memorizing every inch of you all over again. You looked up at him, catching his gaze; his eyes were heavy with desire, and the way he looked at you made your knees feel weak. He was entirely yours in that moment, and you were entirely his.

Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the warmth beneath his shirt, his heartbeat echoing your own. His mouth was on yours again, the kiss deep and ravenous, filling the space with the sounds of quickened breath and desperate touches. The world beyond the bathroom faded, leaving only the two of you, tangled in each other.

When he pulled back to look at you, you could barely catch your breath. His hand found the curve of your neck, fingers tracing gently along your jawline, and your own hands gripped his shoulders, grounding you as your pulse raced.

“You’re so good….” you managed to whisper breathlessly, your voice trembling as you tried to form words. "Kento….." you murmured, the words spilling out between gasps, each syllable almost a sigh as you clung to him.

The intensity of his gaze made you shiver, your own desire reflected in his eyes. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, and you felt a thrill ripple through you as he whispered your name. His breath felt hot, so tenderly warm against your skin. And even more so when he said your name in that breathy way. That made you feel even more excitement.

For a moment, you both paused, catching your breath as the heat of the moment washed over you. His fingers brushed along your cheek, his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, as though savoring this quiet, charged moment before pulling you back in with the same raw, electric passion.

And in that hidden space, the two of you lost yourselves, caught in the perfect, unbreakable intimacy that felt like a world away from the bustling party. If you both had your way, both of you would have been locked away from the world. All you needed was each other.

His hands explored with a possessive tenderness, each touch leaving trails of fire across your skin. You let out a shaky breath, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he pressed his lips along your jaw, down to the sensitive spot just below your ear. You shivered, feeling him smile against your skin, clearly pleased at the effect he was having on you.

You pulled him even closer, fingers moving from his shirt to his tie, loosening it slightly, just enough to slide it off his neck. Your breath hitched as he leaned in, his eyes fixed on you with a focused intensity that made you feel as though you were the only person in the world.

"Can’t believe you dragged me out here, honey." he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his words sending a thrill through you. "But I’d follow you anywhere. I’ll make love to you anywhere you want me to."

His words made your heart race, and you felt the butterflies from earlier stirring again as he leaned in, his mouth meeting yours with a new urgency. It was as if all the tension from the night poured into that kiss, building into something raw and unstoppable.

As he pulled you closer, his fingers gently brushed your hair back from your face, and you caught his gaze, breathless. You couldn’t help the small, breathless laugh that escaped as you looked at him, both of you a little dizzy, a little wild.

“This is dangerous, you know, baby.” you whispered, a playful smirk dancing on your lips as you tightened your hold on him. But he only raised an eyebrow, his own grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Good.” he replied, his voice a low murmur. "Wouldn’t have it any other way."

Soon enough, you were under his thumb. His movements grew rougher, each thrust deep and unrelenting, sending a surge of sensation through you that bordered on overwhelming. Every press of his body against yours was a heady mixture of strength and passion.

And it was all you could do to cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders as the intensity built. His pace quickened, and you felt your back arch instinctively, unable to control the way your body responded to him.

Your breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps, each one catching in your throat as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge, his touch both possessive and tender. Your senses blurred; the world narrowed down to the feel of him, the heat between you, the way he whispered your name against your skin in a voice that was both rough and reverent.

Every movement, every thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, each one pushing you further until you were lost in the sheer intensity of it all. You gripped him tightly, almost desperately, as though grounding yourself against the delicious onslaught.

His name left your lips in broken gasps, and as you met his gaze, the shared passion and vulnerability in his eyes were enough to undo you completely. Everything about your husband makes you feel alive. Especially at this moment. He was good at making you cry for life.

In that moment, you felt yourself surrender, giving in fully to the dizzying rush, to him, and to the warmth and bliss that consumed you both. You shifted slightly beneath him, the heat of your body still trapped in the shared intimacy of the moment. The words escaped you before you could stop them, your jealousy bubbling to the surface.

"I saw the way they were looking at you tonight, baby." you whispered, your voice a blend of frustration and desire, your fingers gripping his shoulders tightly. "All those women... They were ogling you, making eyes at you, and I couldn’t—"

His breath hitched at the raw honesty in your voice. His eyes darkened, a flicker of something primal flashing across his face. Without breaking his rhythm, he leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he growled, "Don’t you dare think about them. You're the only one I want. I only want my wife. My little precious wife."

His words were a balm, but the way his body moved, the deep, relentless thrusts, were what truly silenced your insecurities. The force of each movement was almost punishing, his hips driving into you harder, making your head spin with pleasure. His hands gripped your hips, steadying you as he picked up speed, his breath ragged against your skin.

"You think I want them?" he asked, his voice a dark, velvety rasp. "No. It's you, only you. Always been you." His words came out in desperate gasps, the intensity of his thrusts growing, pushing you both to the edge. "You’re mine. No one else matters."

You moaned, feeling a thrill surge through your chest, his raw claim igniting something deeper within you. His pace never faltered, and as he rams into you harder.

Each movement seems to strip away the last remnants of your doubts. Your body responded, the tension in you winding tighter, tighter, until you were sure you'd break. You could barely speak, your voice hitching as you met his powerful thrusts with a soft whimper, your body rocking with the force of him.

"I’m jealous, baby. I always am." you admitted, your hands tracing down his chest, grasping at him desperately, the words slipping between gasps. "But you're mine too. Only mine."

"Always have been, honey. Only yours." he replied, his hands pressing you harder into the cold tile as he moved faster, pushing you further toward the edge with each heated thrust.

His voice was a low growl, his rhythm unrelenting, and you could feel him losing himself as much as you were, both of you consumed by the need, the overwhelming desire to claim and be claimed.

The moment his lips crashed into yours, everything else seemed to melt away. The overwhelming intensity of the kiss mirrored the urgency of his movements, his body pressing deeper into yours, each thrust sending waves of heat through you. The kiss was possessive, his tongue claiming yours with the same hunger that burned between you both.

As he pushed deeper, his rhythm becoming relentless, you felt a broken cry escape from you, a mixture of pleasure and raw emotion that you couldn’t hold back. His eyes, dark with desire, caught yours, and for a moment, you saw something deeper than just lust—something primal and protective, something that made your heart race in a way you couldn’t explain.

"You’re so fucking beautiful, honey." he whispered against your lips, his voice rough with the same need he’d been building in both of you. “My wife is so fucking beautiful.”

His hands moved to your hips, pulling you impossibly closer as he thrust deeper, pushing you to the brink, your cries turning into soft whimpers as your body was caught in the storm of sensation. It felt so good, it always has been.

The deeper he is, the deeper the pleasure fills you. The more you cry out and moan. The more he tries to defy the possibilities, thrusting deeper to fill you more and more.

The tears that pricked the corners of your eyes weren't from pain—no, it was something more complex, something that left you breathless. It was the weight of the connection, the force of his touch, and the emotional release that you hadn’t expected.

All combined into something that made your chest tighten with overwhelming feeling. You cried because he was inside you in every way, not just physically but emotionally, each thrust deeper, each kiss harder.

Kento pulled away slightly, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek, his breath hot against your face. His eyes softened for a moment, but the hunger in them never dulled.

"You’re mine, only mine, wife." he breathed, his voice low but full of meaning, before kissing you again, harder this time, as though proving to you what he’d just spoken.

The kiss deepened as he pulled you even closer, his body pressing against yours with a fervor that made your entire being hum with raw need. You could feel every inch of him, every movement of his muscles, and it was as if the world had disappeared entirely, leaving just the two of you tangled in this electric, consuming moment.

His thrusts became more forceful, each one driving deeper, pushing you to the edge of something wild and uncontrollable. Your nails dug into his back, clinging to him for support as his mouth moved from yours, trailing down your neck, biting and sucking as he marked you, claiming you completely.

"Don't hold back, honey." he murmured against your skin, his breath ragged. "Let go for me. I need you to feel this... all of it."

You couldn't hold back, not anymore. Not even if anyone was to hear outside. You didn’t feel bad about being this loud because it was your pleasure. About the pleasure he was giving you. He was making you feel good and you wanted him to know it.

“Good baby, my good little wife. Take me. Take me whole.”

His words hit something deep inside, and you cried out, your voice a broken whisper as your body surrendered fully to him, to the pleasure, to the overwhelming emotions that swirled inside you. His name escaped your lips in a desperate, breathless moan, and the sound seemed to spur him on, his pace quickening as he met you with relentless urgency.

Each thrust pushed you further into a frenzy of sensation, and the pleasure that had once been distant now consumed you completely. The tears that had been building in your eyes spilled over, not from pain, but from the intensity, from the way his body moved with yours in perfect rhythm, from the way he made you feel so utterly seen, so completely his.

Kento’s hand moved to your face, his thumb gently swiping at the tears on your cheek, a tender touch amidst the feverish passion. His eyes softened for just a moment, but then they hardened with desire as he kissed you again, his tongue tasting your lips, your moans swallowed by the deep kiss.

"You're everything to me, honey." he growled, his voice barely audible between breaths. "And I’ll make sure you never forget that."

His words, the way his body pressed into yours, the way his hands held you so firmly. It all built up to something so deep, so visceral that you couldn’t tell where your body ended and his began. Everything inside you snapped, the waves of pleasure crashing over you in a rush, leaving you breathless and shaking in his arms.

Your cries were mingled with his own as he lost himself in the moment, the sound of skin against skin filling the small space as you both gave in to the release, the powerful culmination of everything that had been building between you.

As the waves of pleasure slowly subsided, leaving both of you breathless and spent, the quiet hum of the room returned, only now it felt like a distant memory compared to the electric tension between you. You both lingered in the aftermath, bodies still pressed together, hearts racing in sync.

Your breath was ragged, your fingers tracing the sweat-slick skin of his back, grounding yourself in the sensation of him still so close. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustling of your clothes and the echo of your breaths.

But just as you began to collect yourself, a sound broke the stillness—a soft thud of footsteps, followed by the faint murmur of voices. Your heart skipped a beat as the realization hit. Your boldness had gotten inflated by sanity.

You both hadn’t noticed the soft creak of the door, hadn’t heard the hushed conversations approaching. And then, before either of you could react, the door was pushed open, revealing the clan wives, standing in the doorway, eyes wide with shock, mouths agape.

Kento’s gaze flickered to the doorway, but when he saw the surprised looks on their faces, he didn’t flinch, didn’t move away. He stayed right where he was, his hands still possessively on you, his lips curled into a confident, unbothered smirk. He looks at you, mesmerized by you. By his want for you. Nothing else mattered. Decency, rules, proportionality — they’re done when he makes love to you.

Yet when you looked at him. Nothing else mattered. You too also didn’t care now. A sense of defiance rose within you, the fire from before still burning strong. Without a second thought, you pulled Kento closer, your hands grasping his face as you tilted your head up to meet his lips. The kiss was fierce and unapologetic, claiming him fully in front of everyone who dared to look.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes, your voice low but steady, a possessive edge coloring your words. "You're only mine, hm? Forever, baby." you whispered, your fingers gently tracing his jawline as you met his smirk.

His gaze softened for a moment, his lips curling into a grin that sent a shiver down your spine. "Always, honey." he replied, his voice a low rumble that held all the certainty in the world. “Forever.”

The clan wives stood frozen once again, caught between disbelief and curiosity, but neither of you acknowledged them again. You didn’t need to. Kento's words, and the way he held you, told them everything they needed to know.

You were his, and he was yours.

Forever.

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gojonanami · 1 year ago

Text

❝ 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈'𝐌 𝐀 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 (𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈'𝐋𝐋 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌) ❞

❝ WHAT HAPPENS YOU TAKE CARE OF NANAMI ALL YOUR LIFE -- AND HE DOES THE SAME FOR YOU ? ❞

✧ pairing: nanami kento x sorcerer!reader

✧ summary: throughout your years of jujutsu tech, you take care of kento, whether its a wound from a curse or a simple cut his finger -- and when he returns he finds you still ready to take care of him -- even after shibuya.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, fluff, hurt / comfort w/ a happy ending, domesticity, jjk canon compliant au (because nanami is alive) reader is the same age as nanami, set during through the events of star plasma vessel to end of jjk, nanami getting hurt and reader taking care of him, reader gets a cold and nanami takes care of her, jealous! nanami, kitchen counter sex, soft dom! nanami, oral (f), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, swearing

✧ wc: 7,657

✧ for my 2k celebration event: item 3 has been sold to two anons!

“Show me,” Nanami furrows his brow in reply, jaw set as he glares, but he knew no amount of staring would get you to let this go. You stood in the doorway of his dorm room — your room was clear across on the other side where the girls resided, so he wondered for a split second how you knew he returned when it had barely been an hour, but answered his own question without having to utter a word (Haibara).

“It’s not bad. It’ll heal by itself—“ and you’re shaking your head, and his lips purse, “it really isn’t worth speaking to Ieiri about — it’s not a wound, just a bruise—“

But still you stood, as immovable as ever — and he finally relented, unbuttoning his jacket, as he shrugged it off, unable to hide his wince as he revealed the large bruise that colored his skin in red, his skin peeling and angry, and surely would turn into a lovely mish-mash of purple and blue.

You brush past him into the dorm room, as you brought a first aid kit in, setting it on the bed, turning your head before tilting it as if to say, “well?”

He repents, as he always did with you — he knew a battle of wills with you was as unwinnable as a battle of jujutsu with Gojo — not to mention needlessly frustrating. He sat at the edge of his bed, eyes fixed to the floor, as you grabbed a washcloth from the kit, heading for his bathroom. He hears the sounds of water running, and the squeak of the faucet closing.

You return as you lift his arm slightly, rolling up the sleeve of his t-shirt to his shoulder.

Your touch is gentle — Nanami was always surprised at how gentle you always were. With the line of work you all did, it was easy to be rough, to find smooth edges corroded and jagged, but no, you remained as smooth and soft as you always were.

He flinches when you bring the wet washcloth to raw skin, and you’re careful even as you seemingly pick out pieces of gravel and dirt stuck in his flesh. And you frown at the sight of it, doing your best to clean every bit.

“So what happened?” you ask, and he gives a terse chuckle.

“Didn’t Haibara tell you?” And you shrug, “I know he told you we’re back,” and your lips curl ever so slightly as your eyes meet him, a small amount of mirth returning.

“Maybe I’m just a stalker,” and he can’t bite back the small smile on his lips, “Haibara told me you didn’t go to Ieiri, and that you got hurt protecting him on your mission,”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his head, “Ieiri was busy dealing with Haibara, he got it worse than I did—“

“Even if your injury is less serious, it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t look after yourself,” and he sighs, as his eyes slide to you, “you need to learn to care about yourself, Nanami,”

And he knew you were right on some level — he didn’t have a delusion of invincibility and he also didn’t have a strong enough desire to strive to be stronger, but — his fingers grasp at his sheets —that didn’t mean he wanted to see his friends die. “You don’t have to do this,” he says again, and you don’t meet his gaze when he looks over at you, your brow set in concentration, “it’s not important—“

“Nanami, you don’t ever seem to value yourself properly,” you finish cleaning his arm, before grabbing bandages and tape from the kit, “you are important — even if you don’t think you are,”

And he opens and shuts his mouth — before a smile pulls at his lips — you were far too kind, especially for a jujutsu sorcerer.

And then you add, “and if you don’t get your wounds tended to, I’m going to tell Gojo you want to take a sweets tour of Tokyo,”

…maybe he spoke too soon.

~~~~

“How did you manage to hurt yourself so badly during training?” You offer Nanami a makeshift ice pack, a small cloth wrapped up with ice from his freezer, and his lips pursed in disgust as his reply, “ah, Gojo,” the mattress shifted under his weight as he sat,

“That arrogant idiot,” Nanami grumbled, as he pressed the ice pack to the back of his head, “his excuse was that he didn’t know his own strength — he’s lucky that he had infinity or I would have—“

You chuckle, “You know he’s just messing with you, it’s just because you react,” and he scowls at his floor of his room, as if his carpet was the six eyes sorcerer itself, “he’s not so bad—“

He raises an eyebrow, his mouth parted in disbelief, “Are you defending him right now?” And you chuckle, as you lean back against the side of his bed, your head leaning back against the soft comforter that you had bought him and guaranteed would help him sleep better (it only guaranteed that you would be asleep underneath it half the time they spent in his dorm relaxing).

You wave him off, “Lower your blood pressure. I’m not defending him, I’m just saying, it can’t be easy being the strongest — all those eyes on you, the way people treat you, the—”

“The weight of your overinflated ego that you have to carry around—” and you roll your eyes, and the action bites at his last nerve, because he thought if anyone would have his back, it would be you — the next words spit like venom out of his mouth, “I thought you were better than those girls that moon over Gojo,”

And he regrets the words as they leave his lips, as you stare at him wordlessly — not with anger, but frustration — which hurts all the more, “If I was so in love with Gojo, then why am I with you instead of him?” He doesn’t have a reply as you rise to your feet and make your way out the door, the click of the door far too deafening, leaving him with a throbbing in his head — but not just from being hurt.

His fingers curled tighter around the ice pack. Because why—why did the thought of you liking Gojo make his chest ache—the idea of your care and time spent on someone else, not even Gojo, but anyone else, made his stomach churn at the idea.

He had told himself when he decided to become a sorcerer, he would do anything to avoid relationships — even friendships if he could do so. When you work a job like this, it can only end in disaster. but— his eyes slide to the closed door you had just left through.

Why did this feel so much worse?”

~~~

“You can’t stay here all night,” your voice cuts through the silence of the morgue — the only life left in the room. Because he too had died along with Haibara.

Or rather he should have.

He kept the towel over his eyes, unmoving from his chair, head resting back against the cold metal — as if it would protect him — from seeing Haibara sliced half over and over, last words dying on his lips said in pure chaos but somehow Nanami could still hear them ring in his ears— just as the sick crumple of his torso hitting the ground after being ripped from his body. The words leaving his lips as the last vestiges of life left his body, fingers twitching as his lips moved—

You got it from here.

The hopeful optimism from a person seconds before death did little to comfort him. Not when that person should have been the one who lived. He had the one thing that was so rare in his shit world of jujutsu — kindness—

The very thing that left half his body lying against a metal slab.

“I can’t leave until…” he trails off, he didn’t wish to leave until his body was inspected and then taken to be…disposed of. He knew it was for the best that his body is turned to ash, but it made it no easier to consider the person that he knew to be his best friend would be nothing but ash in a few hours time, “I won’t leave him alone,”

You nod, and the silence makes him wonder if you’re leaving, but instead he hears footsteps and the slight scraping of a metal chair against the floor. And he feels the slight brush of you beside him as you sit.

And you don’t say a thing. The only thing is that your fingers brush his tentatively and when he doesn’t pull away you intertwine them. And that’s enough—for now.

Until they take his body away.

A sorcerer glances at the two of you, “Do either of you have contact with next of kin? We need to notify—“

“I’ll handle it,” Nanami says, the towel pulled away from his gaze, hoping his dark bags and red tinged eyes aren’t noticeable to you, but he sees the purse of your lips and knows they are.

The sorcerer shifts, “Have you considered asking his family for—“

“That’s not an option,” Nanami cuts him off with a stare, and the sorcerer parts his mouth before shutting it again with a nod, “okay, please allow us to take his body,”

And they do, pulling the sheet down ever so slightly that Nanami sees a flash of his face — no hint of that smile he always unfailingly had on his lips — it too was gone, just like he was. And they carefully wheel his body away — assumedly to be burned. And the door swings shut behind them — leaving only him and you. Silence hangs over the room, the finality of the moment leaves nothing in its wake but regret.

And regret only felt hollow — just as his heart did.

You choose to break the silence, a shaky sigh leaving your throat, as you quickly scrub tears away from your face, clearing your throat, “Come on, let’s go—”

“You can go ahead, I’m going to stay here for a while,” and your eyes try to find his own, but he still stares at the spot where Haibara’s body had laid for hours. The essence of cursed energy was almost too easy to understand compared to the concept of death — a person can be living, breathing, and talking one day to be nothing but a husk the next. And now, he knew it would be a lifetime of feeling as if something is missing — as if something was wrong — and moments where it felt fine would be overcome by only guilt and anger.

What was the point of all of this? His fingers formed into fists, nails digging into his palms — were they nothing but pawns to be used in an unending game that forced sorcerers to not only to put their lives on the line, but their colleagues as well. A twisted game that only ended in a pile of corpses.

“Nanami, you can’t stay here all night—”

“I’m fine,” he rubs at his temples — and how long would it be until he’s staring at your body on that slab? Or maybe you’d be staring at his own—crying over his body just as he had done for Haibara, “you can go—”

“I’m not leaving you, and you shouldn’t stay here — you need sleep—”

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he snaps, his gaze meets yours, “I’m not injured, I didn’t even get hurt— ”

“Yes you did,” you say quietly, as you step closer to him, but his eyes refuse to meet your own.

“No—” and your hand finds his chest.

“This pain is worse than any physical pain you could put in — and I wouldn't leave you to deal with a bruise by yourself, so what makes you think I’d leave you now?” you say softly, and tears burn at his eyes, as your hands gently pull him into your arms, his head buried against your chest, “I’m not leaving you, Nanami,” you murmur quietly, as your fingers slowly run through his hair.

And you didn’t — he was the one who left you.

~~~~

You never get sick. That’s what you loved to brag about — especially yesterday when you got home from spending an entire two days in the rain soaking wet and ice cold without a hint of cold symptoms.

You supposed your bragging was a curse in and of itself because now you were buried under your comforter. You barely manage to text Shoko that you’re sick and you won’t be able to make it to class today. And now you had to wonder if it was worth the effort to get out of bed to take your medication or to simply sleep it off.

But your body made the choice for you as your eyes fluttered shut and you slipped into a fitful sleep, body burning from the inside out.

Consciousness faded in and out, as you felt something brush against your forehead, your eyes heavy as they open ever so slightly, a flash of blue and blond, before you fall back into sleep.

Your head aches, muscles heavy, and the smell of spices wafted through the apartment, “Are you finally awake?” a voice said, as your eyes flutter open, still burning at the corners as your head turns.

“Nanami?” You croak out, throat raw and dry, as if your flesh was raked across coals, “what are you—“

He turns his head from your kitchenette — a ladle in hand, before he sets it down, wiping his hand with a dishcloth. And he steps over to your bed, pulling the washcloth from your forehead, before placing a cold washcloth, “your fever went down a little,” he said, “but I brought cold medicine and I made some soup for you,”

“You didn’t—“

“Have to?” his lips quirked up, “I know I didn’t have to, I wanted to,”

“How did you know I was—“ and his eyes find yours, “Shoko,” and he nods, you relax back into your bed, “how long have you been here?”

He turns back around to finish cooking the soup for you, stirring, the metal of the ladle slightly clinking against the sides of the pot, his eyes flicker to your clock, “About an hour and half, hasn’t been too long,”

“Why are you taking care of me?” you mumble, glancing at his back, as he lifted the ladle to pour into a small bowl to taste the seasoning of the soup, “you don’t owe me anything—“

“I owe you a lot,” he cuts you off, the clatter of the bowl against the counter as he sets it down, the click of the stovetop as he shut it off, “but that’s not the reason I did it,” and your brow is furrowing under the washcloth, as he walks over to you, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Then why?”

And he raises an eyebrow, “Why do you think?” And his fingers brush your cheek, “you’re the only reason I’ve stayed here as long as I have, otherwise I would have left, a long time ago,” and you don’t know how it’s possible for your face to grow warmer but it does from his words and his touch that lingers against your cheek.

And he’s gone as quickly as he came, going over to the stove to take out a bowl of soup for you to drink, “can you stay after I finish eating? Until I fall asleep?” You ask, as he brings the bowl over, as you sit up slowly, head spinning as you do still.

“Of course,” and he does, staying by your side after you eat and take your medicine, hearing your quiet murmur, “thank you, Kento,”

And he realizes, as his lips curl into a smile, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, just how much he liked hearing his name on your lips.

~~~

“How did you manage to hurt yourself on our last mission together as students?” you sigh, the worry in your voice making his lips curl — as the two of you had just found yourselves in his dorm room, as you rifle through his bathroom to pull out the first aid kit you had given him (after you had learned he didn’t own one).

You return to him sitting on the edge of his bed, holding his hand up in such a way that he didn’t drip blood all over his sheets. Your fingers brush his own, and he’s still surprised at how soft your hands are. His hands had grown rough from the years of jujutsu, calloused from the grip of his fingers around his blade handle, but somehow, yours were always as soft as he remembered them.

Your fingers found his, warmth blooming as your brow wrinkled as you scruntized the cut on his hand, “Maybe we should ask Shoko to look at it—”

“There wasn’t any cursed energy that cut me — it was just—”

“Debris, I know,” and this seemingly did little to soothe your worries, had gotten when pushing you out of the way of the curse, “I had it handled — you shouldn’t have dove in—”

“It’s fine, it’s not that bad—” but your glare cuts off his sentence, as you begin to clean the wound.

You shake your head, “What am I going to do with you? Every time you go on a mission, I’m going to be worrying about what trouble you’re going to get yourself into,”

He’s silent, his eyes unable to meet yours — he can’t keep hiding this from you. He had made the decision months ago — and it was only a matter of time before someone else slipped up and told you (most likely Gojo).

“I’m leaving after graduation,” he says the words like ripping off the bandage, but it hurts him all the more when your fingers are still for a moment, your eyes finding his own, as you stare at him.

“You’re—” you cut off, and you don’t protest, you don’t argue — you only ask one question — “Why?”

And that one question was more difficult to answer than any other you could have asked, a sigh stuck in his throat, as he shook his head.

“I can’t do this anymore — I haven’t wanted to since—” he cuts off, mouth impossibly dry — it was easy to tell Yaga he wasn’t going to continue, even easier to take care of half a dozen grade 2 curses at once — but this was— “I can’t stand by and watch my colleagues die one by one beside me — I don’t want to live like this. I’m sorry—”

“You don’t have to be sorry, Kento,” his heart squeezes at the sound of your voice wrapped around his name — what you had taken to calling him recently — “as long it’s what you want. I know it’s been difficult—I was surprised you hadn’t left when—” and your voice falters, neither of you could bear to bring up his name, refusing to even utter it around the other — as if it would summon every horrible memory from that time—and your voice is soft, “I just want you to be happy,”

And there’s nothing more than he wanted to be the one to make you happy — nothing more than he wanted to ask you to be by his side, let him be the one to take care of you, and nothing more he wanted than to ask you to leave with him—

But that was the one thing he could never ask you to do.

Just as you would never ask him to stay for you.

“I want you to be happy too,” he murmurs, as you continue to clean his cut, before your fingers are moving to grab the bandages, slowly beginning to wrap them around his palm, “more than even myself,”

“What’s new?” he wrinkled his brow, and you chuckle, “I mean, you never put yourself first, and I’m glad you are now. You deserve to be happy, even if it’s not….here,” and you finish bandaging his hand, but his fingers curl around yours, “Ken—“

He squeezes your hand softly and his words are just as soft, “You would be the only one who could ever make me happy,” and he hears your breath catch, and it only makes him want to steal it from your lips with his own, “because I know that being by your side would be only thing that could satisfy me,”

Your fingers brush against his cheek, “Too bad I’m apparently in love with Gojo—“ you tease, all too pretty smile as you do, and his lips draw even closer, “Kento—“

“And if you’re so in love with Gojo, why are you here with me?” And he waits, waits for you to pull away, to stop him, to show any indication you didn’t want this—

But you close the gap instead, lips barely brushing his, so chaste, and yet it’s a spark to kindling — a fire neither of you should have lit. And yet, his lips find yours, insistent, his fingers cup your cheek, featherlight touch drawing a shiver down your body that he relishes in.

“Kento—“

“Why is it my name on your lips?” And he kisses you again and again, your noses brushing each other’s, he’s murmuring your name like a prayer, and if it was, he would worship at your altar each day, “Why it is that you’re kissing me?”

And your lips curl against his, as they find his again, “You kissed me first,” and he can taste the sweetness of the melon bread you had shared with him that morning, but something even sweeter that only be you, “so why did you do that?”

But you knew why — especially from the smile gracing your features, one that he wished he could have etched in the inside of his mind, “Isn’t it obvious?” and your lips part to answer, but he cuts you off with another brush of your lips, “I love you,”

And your eyes widen only slightly, but you’re kissing him again, arms curling around his neck, fingers sliding behind his neck — “Figured that out when you got jealous of Gojo, but I’m glad you admitted it,” and your forehead finds his, “and that I love you too,”

You loved him — you loved him — he had to tell himself again and again, but he still couldn’t fathom it. Was it a dream? You were always a dream to him — something he could nearly grasp with his fingers, but always remained just out of reach.

And now he held you in his hands and he never wanted to let go. But he had to — he knew he had to.

So he would — even if it would hurt — hurt that no bandage would fix.

He kissed you again, unless you were the one to place it.

“Why is it that I always find you like this?” Nanami’s eyes slowly met yours — he sat in Ieiri’s office, waiting to be seen, only find you there in the doorway instead, “it’s as if you’re asking to be patched up by me, Kento,”

How long had it been? And somehow he knows the answer before even thinking about it — it had been nearly a decade. A decade since the two of you had graduated — you moving to Kyoto to help run the campus there, while he had moved onto a regular college and then a corporate job — one that had nearly sucked his soul dry of any life he had to begin with. And it was only when he had received gratitude for the first time in a long time — that he remembered the reason he had stayed a jujutsu sorcerer after Haibara…

And now, here was the other.

He murmurs your name, nearly sounding foreign on his lips, “How did you—”

“I ran into your student, Nanamin,” and he furrows his brow at the nickname — Itadori’s little name for him after he had refused to be his sensei. Because he wasn’t one — Gojo may have taken up the mantle of teacher for his own personal ego trip — but he wasn’t ready to form relationships like that. And yet…his lips curl, there you were, “didn’t think you wanted to be a teacher,”

“I don’t, but how can I refuse that white haired idiot?” he half grumbled with a sigh, eyes still slowly grazing over you, “but I don’t want to talk about him right now,”

You draw a step closer, shutting the door behind you, a lilt in your voice as lovely as your grin, “Then what do you want to talk about?” and you stop right in front of him, as your fingers reach out, and he’s nearly leaning into your touch, but he’s wincing, as your fingers press against his bruised body, “because I want to talk about how you ended up in such rough shape,”

A sigh stuck in his throat, his next words nearly along with it, “It could have been much, much worse,” he murmurs, “if Itadori wasn’t there, I—” he breaks off, “that special grade — he could touch my soul and it had caught me in its domain—”

And your arms are pulling you into a tight hug, your fingers running through his hair, “But you’re here, you’re okay,” you murmur softly, your palm pressed against his chest, you can feel his heart pump under your fingers, “you made it,”

“But—”

“But nothing, Kento, you’ll make it back every time,” your fingers cup his cheek, pressing your forehead against his, “right?”

Your touch was the only thing that could truly make him feel whole again — as if every crack in his soul had been mended with gold, “how do you know?”

And your lips curl into a soft smile, your head tilting ever so slightly, “Because you love me, right?”

The chuckle on his lips is nearly enough to bite back his nerves as the words leave his lips, “I’ve loved you for years, sweetheart, that’s nothing new,”

You’re shaking your head, “And all these years, we always found our way back to the other, right?” your hand finds purchase on his shoulder now, the other against his cheek, “so we just have to keep doing that,”

“You make it sound so simple,” he murmurs, and your lips find his — and it makes him wonder how he had spent so much time without your touch, because right now it was the only thing keeping him whole — stealing the doubts from his head and the aches from his body — leaving only heat filling the empty gaps left behind.

“It is simple,” your hand interlaces with his, “if we let be.”

~~~

“I’m starting to think you hurt yourself on purpose around me more now that we’ve moved in together,” you examine the small cut on his finger, a nick from the knife that the ratio sorcerer had been using to slice his freshly baked loaf of bread. Scarlet slipped from the small cut, and his soft murmur of ‘ouch’ unfortunately had not gone unheard by you. He swore you must have selective hearing — you wouldn’t listen when he told you to go to bed, but you’d hear him hiss in pain under his breath even when half asleep on

“It’s not too deep, I think just a bandage should be fine,“ Your brow knit together as you purse your lips, and he bit back his smile, knowing it would only serve for him to get scolded for not being more careful.

“It’s nothing, love, I can take care of it—“ and his breath catches when your lips find their way around his finger, sucking slightly to ease the bleeding, your tongue flicking over the cut, “sweetheart—“ he swears under his breath, a distinct flush burning at the crown of his cheeks, “what—“

“They say saliva can help a cut heal faster,” you smile, before pulling a bandage out of the first aid kit you had pulled out, and your lips press a sweet kiss to his cut again, a smirk as you meet his gaze, “Ken—”

And he’s kissing you, your body tenses a moment only to melt into his touch, your arms wrapping around his neck — he can taste his blood on your lips, raking your fingers through his hair. He can only think about getting closer, closer, closer — he needs you. His hands slide down your back, until they find your hips, squeezing, as he presses himself to you.

“Baby,” you murmur breathlessly, as your lips part his, a gasp that turns to a soft moan when his lips press heated kisses down your jaw. His nose brushes against the soft skin of your neck, as he presses you against the counter of his apartment, his hands slide down, large palms grasping your ass, “I need—”

“What do you need?” his fingers sneaking up and down the sides of your body. His teeth graze your pulse, your head falls back, exposing more of your neck to him, as his tongue soothes the mark he left behind, “because you know I’ll give you anything you ask for, sweetheart,”

And his fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs as he lifts you onto the counter, calloused palms pressing your legs apart — but he barely has to, your thighs already spreading for him. And he finds your shorts nearly soaked through — your drenched cunt visible even through the two layers of fabric stuck together from your arousal.

But you don’t need to ask for him to know what you want — it’s second nature, it’s instinct for his fingers to dip inside the waistband of your shorts and underwear alike, tugging them both down, until you were kicking them off.

“Is all this for me?” he murmurs, pressing a sweet kiss to your inner thigh, as two fingers graze down your slit, gathering your pre on his fingertips, before he meets your gaze only to lick his fingers clean, “I was never one for sweets — except when it came to you. Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,”

Your head lolls back, as his thick fingers circle your clit with practiced ease, pulling back only to drag his tongue up the length of your needy cunt. And your eyes find his again, heady gaze heavy with need and his pretty lips and chin already glossy with your juices.

“Kento—fuck,” your fingers thread through his blonde locks. First, one finger sinks in and then another —

his nose bumping against your clit as his tongue stretches your walls in tandem with your fingers, grinding against his face, “s’good, I can’t—“

But he’s relentless, the wet squelch of your messy walls and your choked out moans ring in his ears and are nearly enough to make him cum right in his pants — already far too tight, blood rushing downwards far too quick.

Another

“Such a good girl,” Kento murmurs, and you are, so perfect — “just let me take care of you,”

“Kento, please, more, need—“ and his lips find your clit, tongue flicking against the hardened bud, before sucking long and hard, while a third finger joins the other two. Your back arches, the coil in your stomach grows tighter and hotter — your slick dripping from your messy hole onto the counter.

His fingers squeeze at your flesh, and he could live between your legs forever — it could be his meal morning, noon, and night — he could spend hours lapping at you until you fell apart over and over. His fingers stretch you out far too deliciously, and your walls are giving that telltale flutter.

“Kento—g’nna cum—I—“ and his fingers are fucking you harder and his lips close around your clit, sucking hard, until you’re moaning his name, muscles growing tight as you fall apart. You’re a mess, your fingers trying to press his head impossibly closer as you grind against him, riding out your orgasm, as your juices gush over his face — and he’s lapping up every drop, as you fall limp against the counter, his arm slipping around your back to support you.

Your eyes flutter open to watch him pulling away with a pop, strings spit and cum connecting you to your cunt. His gaze drags over you, watching your juices drip against the counter, as he murmurs quiet praises, licking his lips clean of your release.

And your fingers find his cheeks, pulling him into a deep kiss, moaning as you taste yourself on his lips, the filthiness of it all enough for his cock to grow even harder against your thigh. And it’s a matter of moments, before your fingers are tugging at his sweatpants and boxers, freeing his erection, his pretty cock all but ready for you — lovely ruddy head dripping with pearly white beads of precum.

“Look at what you do to me, love,” he murmurs, as your eyes meet his, gaze blown out in lust.

“Kento, please,” and his lips curl, his fingers raking through your hair, as he pulls you even closer, his erection bumping against your sopping pussy, “I want—“

He drags his cock over your slit, watching his pre mix with your release, the two of you groaning when his tip catches on your clit, “what do you want sweetheart? Tell me, tell me what you need,” his arms are hooked around your knees, pressing them to your chest.

You keen when his tip teases your sopping hole, “I need you to fuck me—“ and you’re whining as his cock pressed into you, splitting you open on his length — and god you could never get used to how big he was — you could feel very pretty vein and delicious curve—

Fuck, he could bust just looking down at you, at the way your lips parted for him as he had sunk into you, the way he could see how your pussy stretched around his dick — like you were made for him. Pleasure ripped up his spine at the sight — his fingernails digging crescents into your hips.

And he knew that he was certainly made for you.

“S’good, s’full — please,” you’re nearly mewling, begging for him to move, “Kento—“ and he obliges, unable to hold back any longer, as he begins to slowly rock his hips against you, each stroke getting longer and deeper. His balls slap against your hips, as he picks up the pace — your walls squeezing around him.

“Fuck, sweetheart, didn’t think you could get any tighter,” he grunts, his cock stuffed inside your walls, and he’s gritting his teeth, your soft moans and the noises of your pretty pussy becoming too much for him. White ring of release formed around his base — his balls growing tight as he inches closer and closer to blow his load, “you always can f’me, can’t you?”

And he gives a particularly hard thrust, right as his lips find yours in a messy, sloppy kiss — all tongue and teeth, your head falls back when his tip finds your g-spot again and again. You squirt all over his length, soaking him and the counter with your release, as he fucks you through your orgasm, again and again. Your toes curl when he finally comes, his release painting your walls with his thick, hot release — fucking it deeper and deeper, and he’s notching himself inside.

You’re slumping against him, your eyes shut, as he pulls you closer into his arms, pressing sweet kisses all over your face until he finds your lips again.

“I love you,” you mumble, eyes fluttering open as he cups your chin, a soft smile on his lips.

“I love you more,” and he’s slowly lifting you, carrying you over to your shared bed, and you’re burying your face in the crook of his neck.

“But what about your cut?” You mumble, and a chuckle on his lips, as he presses a kiss to your forehead, as he sets you down on the bed, grabbing a damp washcloth to clean you up.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ve done plenty,” he murmurs, as he finishes cleaning you up, only to slip into bed beside you — “let me take care of you.”

~~~

It was over.

That’s what Nanami had thought when Mahito had stopped him in his tracks, his hand pressed against his chest, but more importantly, against his soul.

“I didn’t know you were here,” Nanami said, his eyes unable to tear away from the curse’s.

He could barely feel anything anymore — the stinging had dulled somewhere between his trek down the winding tunnels of Shibuya station. Instead, he could only hear the echo of his footsteps, as he had forced himself to take one step forward over and over and over — and that’s when he had seen them.

The congregation of curses or mutated humans — he didn’t know which they were, but did it really matter at this point? It didn’t. He dispatched them all the same — all while his thoughts were only filled of you — you, you, you and you.

And a beach in Malaysia.

“Yeah, Kuantan would have been nice,” and it would have been — it was only a few months away. The vacation the two of you had meticulously planned out. The days spent out walking the beach, lounging by the water with the books neither of you had never read, and nights falling asleep by each other’s side to the metronome of the waves crashing.

And now, he had found himself, staring death in the face — an echo of his near death from only a few months ago. How had it come to this already? He had always felt he was running out of time — constantly watching the clock, trying to run it out for his retirement, only for it to run out before he could make it to those sandy shores he had dreamed of.

“Yup. The whole time,” Mahito replies, lips in an easy smile, “Wanna chat? We go way back, after all,”

Nanami’s eyes fall to the floor, the dirtied and bloodied tiles underneath his feet — he didn’t feel like spilling his guts to a curse.

Haibara, what the hell was I trying to do? He asks in his mind, not even daring to say the words aloud, I ran. Even though I ran away, I came back with the vague reason of finding the work worthwhile.

And then he sees Haibara, appearing in front of him, patented smile on his lips, as he points south — points right at—

“Itadori,” Mahito says.

“Nanamin!” his eyes wide as he takes in his state — horror painted on his face, already so helpless — what else had he seen and now he had to see this too? He shouldn’t have had to see this. He should have been a normal kid — worrying about normal things — not fighting monsters in some damned subway tunnel.

But what could he do about what now? What could he do but stop?

Could he finally stop?

No, Haibara. That’s not right. I can’t say that to him. It’ll just end up becoming a curse for him.

But it’s a curse every jujutsu sorcerer had to bear — made to bear until there were either no curses or no sorcerers left.

But he couldn’t regret it now.

“Itadori,” his lips curl, smiling for the last time, “you’ve got it from—“

And then there’s a crash — screaming, the sound of blood splattering. It takes him a minute to realize it wasn’t him.

It was you.

You had crashed between the two of them, sending the curse flying with your cursed energy, the impact drawing blood from you and Mahito alike. Your arm was around his body — and Nanami is whispering your name.

“I told you, Kento, we’re always going to come home — even if I have to drag you there,” you say, your eyes still flickering between Itadori and Mahito, “Itadori, tske Nanami—“

“No, this is my fight,” he shakes his head, his fingers clenched into fists, “I almost let Nanamin die — I have to do this—“

“Yuji—“ you say, but he’s already barreling towards Mahito, and you’re whispering fuck, as you take Nanami in the opposite direction.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” and his eyes are barely able to stay open, as you help carry his weight alone the deserted subway, “I’m sorry—“

“Why are you sorry—“ but he’s barely awake along enough to hear your question, until it’s all black.

It takes him several months to recover. Cursed energy healing could only do so much, especially since Ieiri was spread thin enough with everything between Shibuya, the Culling Games, and everything else that came after.

Most of the brunt of his care had fallen on you — you changed his bandages, tended to his wounds, dealt with any signs of infection with help from Ieiri, and handled everything else around the house.

“Why do you do all of this for me?” He asks quietly, one day while he sits, your back turned while you washed the dishes from lunch — the clinking of plates and the sound of water running that squeaks shut when he asks.

You turn, lips in a frown, “what do you mean, Kento?”

His fingernails dig into his knee, biting back a sigh, as you walk over after wiping your hands off, “it’s been months of you just…taking care of me. I don’t get it — I didn’t understand when we were students when you insisted on caring for me, and now…” he swallows, his throat still impossibly dry—even after all treatment, nothing still tasted the same, “I’ve just become a burden—“

You cup his cheeks, “Kento, you are never a burden to me—“

“But—“

“But nothing — wouldn’t you do the same for me if I was in your position?” But he’s shaking his head.

“It’s not—“

“Kento, do you remember our first mission together?” he blinks, his brow furrowing, but you only smooth it with your fingers, “it was my first mission — I had barely gotten the hang of using cursed energy — I hadn’t even exorcised a curse before, but as always, jujutsu society had left children to bear the burden of survival amongst themselves,” and your fingers find his, “but you never left me alone. I froze in front of the curse. I didn’t know what to do with myself — even while you dealt with two others on your own — you still managed to save me, even though you managed to hurt yourself in the process,” your voice was soft, your hand finding his, lacing your fingers with his, squeezing his hand — but he’s not sure whether it’s to remind him you’re here or to remind yourself that he’s still here, “and you don’t remember it do you?” his lips purse, as his eyes can’t find yours, gaze cast downwards, but he hears you give a soft chuckle.

“I look at you and I see all the ways a soul can bruise — because you’ve taken hits that weren’t yours to take — you’ve taken challenges that shouldn’t have been yours to bear,” your fingers skim over his cheeks, “even in what you thought were your last moments,” your voice breaks, swallowing back tears, “your thoughts were of others — of helping your students, of Itadori, of me—” you shake your head, “and you think I’m doing too much for you? I think you deserve so much more than me—“

“All I need is you,” his voice is breaking, swallowing thickly, “that’s all I ever wanted,”

“Then just stay here with me — that would be enough for me,” you lean close and press your lips to his — and even still, the taste of your kiss was never any less sweet, “all I want is to come home to you, you think you can handle that?”

His lips find yours again, as they always would, “I’ll show you.”

~~~

“It doesn’t hurt that bad,” and Nanami chuckles, his hands hooked around your knees and thighs, as your arms wrapped around his neck, your head resting on one of his shoulders, “Kentoooo, you don’t have to—“

“I want to, and I’m not going to risk it getting any worse by letting you walk on the sand — the sunset was painting the water in hues of gold, pinks, and purples — and the beauty of this beach was only made better by your presence, “just let me do this for you, love,” and you sigh, relenting, as you bury your face in the side of his neck.

“My husband is so doting, just a small cut on sea glass makes you this crazy?” and he shivers slightly, but it’s not from the slight sea breeze tickling his nose, but from your nose brushing against your neck, “are we headed back already?”

“How else will we treat your foot?” your hands slide over his bare skin — the skin still scarred as it always would be, an eye tucked away under an eyepatch — unable to be saved — but your husband was saved all the same, “unless Ieiri taught you how to used reversed cursed technique before our vacation,”

“It’s really not that bad—”

“Is this your first time being a patient?” and you pout, as he chuckles, vibration of his sweet laugh against your chest as you press yourself impossibly closer, especially when you see the looks of others as the two of you walk by.

“It’s embarrassing to be carried like this,” you murmur, “come on baby, I can walk the rest of the way,” but he only hums, casting a small glance over his shoulder.

“I like carrying you like this,” his lips curled in a smirk, “everyone knows you’re mine this way,” and your cheeks burn, and you kiss his cheek, pouting as you do, “we’ll be back on the beach soon enough — we have all the time in the world sweetheart,”

And you did — you bury your face in the side of his neck again — with him—

Always.

✧ a/n: this has been a long time coming!! i feel like with every one of these fics i'm never happy with them, but then they end up being better than i remember. apparently i just don't like my writing very much haha. i hope you guys enjoy <3 it's been so long since i wrote nanamin, so i hope it came out good <3

✧ taglist: @1angel-digits1, @i-spilt-ink-on-my-phone, @freaky-show, @strangehuman101, @nanamis-baker, @hanxyy, @chosobeee, @luneriaa, @being-me-is-not-a-sin, @forest-fruits-jam, @unorthodoxfaithxx, @caelestine-the-caelicatto, @kenmei, @somrou, @spider-fan72, @missukiyo

#sab [mlist]#nanami kento x reader #nanami kento smut #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento x you #nanami x reader #nanami smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #nanami kento fanfiction #nanami x you #kento nanami smut #kento nanami x reader

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pucksandpower · 5 months ago

Text

Second Heart

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lewis Hamilton x Senna!Reader

Summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to be able to race just like your Papai … no matter the cost (or in which always going for a gap that exists runs in the Senna family)

You sit cross-legged in front of the TV, shoulders hunched, the remote clutched tight in your little hand. The screen crackles, and there he is — Ayrton. Papai. His yellow helmet blazes under the bright afternoon sun, the car flying down the straight, smooth as a bird on water.

Your eyes don’t blink. The sound of engines growls through the speakers, vibrating all the way to your heart. It’s like he’s right there. Alive.

And so fast. So, so fast. You almost feel like you’re in the car with him, that if you close your eyes, you could taste the gasoline and the rubber, the wind whipping across your face.

“Papai …” you whisper, pressing the volume button louder.

Adriane steps into the room, the clink of her bracelets soft but steady. She pauses when she sees you, arms crossed, one hip jutted out.

“I thought you were doing homework.”

You don’t answer, too lost in the footage. The video cuts to a slow-motion shot of Ayrton weaving through the rain, tires spinning in the spray like magic. They call it genius — what he did at Monaco, at Suzuka, at Donington Park. To you, it’s just your Papai being Papai.

“Turn it off.” Your mother’s voice sharpens now. She hates it when you watch these tapes. You’ve heard her say it before, more times than you can count — It’s not healthy. You shouldn’t keep living in the past. But you don’t feel like you’re living in the past. You feel like you’re meeting him for the first time, every time.

“Just five more minutes,” you plead without looking away.

“No.”

“But I-”

“I said no, agora!”

Her tone makes you flinch. The remote slips from your hand onto the floor with a dull thud. But you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen, where Ayrton’s car crosses the finish line, the Brazilian flag draped over his shoulders as the crowd roars. Your heart beats faster. There’s a strange energy in you, like the buzz before a storm. You push yourself up to your knees, your voice small but determined.

“I want to race.”

Adriane’s laugh is immediate and sharp, like glass shattering. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly!” You twist around to look at her now, the words spilling out. “I wanna race, Mãe! Like Papai!”

Her face changes. The air shifts, heavy and strange. You see it happen — the tightness in her jaw, the way her smile falls away like it was never there.

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” She snaps, louder this time, and it makes you shrink back. “Absolutely not. Never.”

You bite your lip, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. But you don’t stop. Not yet.

“Why not?” You whisper.

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose, as if the question alone is an insult. She crosses the room in two quick strides, crouching down until her face is level with yours. Her hands, delicate but strong, grip your shoulders tighter than usual.

“Because racing is dangerous,” she says, enunciating every word like she’s trying to hammer them into your skull. “Do you understand me? It’s not a game. It took your father from us.”

Her voice wavers on the last sentence, but you don’t care. There’s something stubborn growing in you, something you don’t quite recognize yet.

“Papai loved it.”

“And look where it got him,” she shoots back, her voice sharp as a knife.

You blink, stunned by the words. She’s never said it like that before. She sees your expression — hurt, confused — and her face softens, just for a second.

“Sweetheart …” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. Every single day. But I won’t let racing take you away from me.”

“But it won’t-”

“Enough.” Her voice is final, the way grown-ups’ voices get when there’s no more room for argument. “This conversation is over.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. She’s already standing up, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. The TV hums in the background, the commentators babbling about pole positions and podiums.

Adriane snatches the remote from the floor and jabs the power button. The screen goes black, as if Papai never existed at all.

You feel hollow.

Your mother stands there for a moment, the silence thick between you. Then she crouches again, her hands cupping your face this time, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “I lost your father. I can’t-” She stops, swallows hard. “I can’t lose you too. Okay?”

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just stare at her, your little heart breaking in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m serious,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “No racing. Not ever.”

And then she kisses the top of your head, soft and lingering, as if that alone could erase the conversation, the dream, everything. She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen, fists clenched in your lap. Your chest feels tight, like something inside you is being squeezed too hard.

You think about Papai. About how he smiled in the cockpit, how the car seemed to dance under his hands, how the crowd chanted his name like a song. He wasn’t afraid.

And neither are you.

You pick up the remote again. Your thumb hovers over the play button, hesitant for just a moment. Then you press it.

The screen flickers back to life, and Ayrton is there, flying through the rain like a miracle.

You smile.

One day, you think.

One day, you’ll race too.

***

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the house, dropping your school bag with a heavy thud. You bend down to untie your sneakers, already rehearsing what you’ll tell your mom — how your science project earned a gold star, how you managed to trade a snack with João without getting caught. You have it all planned, down to the way you’ll grin when she offers you that after-school snack.

But as soon as you straighten up, the voices hit you.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

You freeze, one hand still on your shoelace.

“You have no right — none — to tell me how to raise my daughter!” Your mother’s voice is sharp, like glass breaking. She’s in the living room. You can’t see her from the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can imagine her perfectly — the tight set of her mouth, the way her arms probably cross over her chest.

And then, another voice, familiar in a strange way. Low and hard. “I’m not telling you how to raise her, Adriane. I’m telling you what she told me — how she called me crying because you refuse to let her chase the only thing she’s ever wanted.”

Alain.

Your heart skips. You know him. Everyone knows him. Papai’s fiercest rival — and, in the end, his friend. The man from the stories, from old photographs your mother keeps locked away. Alain, who came to the funeral and cried even when the cameras weren’t on him.

Why is he here?

You step closer, drawn by their words like a thread pulling you tight. You press yourself against the wall and peek around the corner, just enough to see them.

Adriane stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed exactly like you pictured. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, but her face is tight, her jaw locked in anger. Alain stands across from her, looking just as frustrated. His hands move as he talks, fast and insistent, like he’s trying to grab hold of the air between them and shape it into something that makes sense.

“She’s seven!” Your mother snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. “She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“She understands better than you think,” Alain fires back. “She understands perfectly. She called me in tears — tears, Adriane — because you shut her down without even listening.”

“I listened.” Her voice drops, low and furious. “And I said no.”

Alain scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You said no because you’re scared.”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Of course I’m scared! She’s my daughter! You, of all people, should understand-”

“I do understand.” Alain’s voice softens, but only just. “I carried his casket. I watched you cry over him. But that’s exactly why you can’t do this to her.”

Adriane’s face crumples for a split second, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching so closely. “He’s not here, Alain,” she whispers, and it sounds like a confession and an accusation all at once. “He’s not here to see this, to say if it’s right or wrong. And he’s not here to save her if something goes wrong.”

Alain’s voice drops, steady and determined. “And you think Ayrton would want you to stop her? You think he would want her to live her whole life wrapped in fear because of what happened to him?”

“She’s my child.” Adriane’s voice cracks like a whip, but there’s something desperate underneath it now, like she’s fighting to keep her footing in a conversation she knows she’s already losing. “And I will not lose her.”

Alain’s eyes narrow. “You’re not protecting her. You’re imprisoning her.”

Your mother stares at him, her breath coming fast and uneven. For a moment, everything goes still — so quiet you can hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.

Then Alain steps forward, his hands on his hips. “If you won’t help her, I will. I’ll teach her to kart myself if I have to.”

Adriane barks out a bitter laugh, but it’s laced with pain. “You can try,” she says, her voice brittle. “But don’t expect me to come watch. I refuse to set foot at a race, and I won’t look at her as long as I know there’s a chance she won’t come back.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. You feel like you can’t breathe. You press yourself harder against the wall, your chest tight with emotions you can’t name.

And that’s when the floor creaks.

Both of them turn at the sound.

“Meu Deus …” your mother whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re home.”

Alain’s face softens instantly. He kneels down, arms open. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, just for a moment. Then, without thinking, you bolt from your hiding spot and run straight into Alain’s arms. He catches you easily, wrapping you in a hug that feels like safety. Like warmth.

Adriane stands frozen, her hands still over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mix of heartbreak and anger and something you don’t fully understand.

Alain pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding.

“How would you like to come to Switzerland with me?” His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You could learn to kart there. I’ll teach you myself. What do you think?”

Your heart races. Switzerland. Karting. Learning to drive. It feels like a dream, one you didn’t even know you could have.

But then you look at your mother.

Adriane’s face is pale, her hands still clutched tight over her mouth like they might stop her from saying something she’ll regret. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and there’s a kind of pain in them that makes your chest ache.

You know what this means to her. You know how much it hurts.

But you also know what it means to you.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember — for as long as you’ve been able to understand what racing is. And here it is, right in front of you. A chance.

You swallow hard and look back at Alain. His expression is kind but serious, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No one can make it for you.”

You take a deep breath. Your hands shake a little, but you ball them into fists to steady yourself.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

Your mother makes a soft, choked sound — like someone punched all the air out of her.

“Minha filha …” Her voice breaks.

You look at her, and it feels like your heart is splitting in two. “I have to, Mãe.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her hands tighter to her face. For a moment, she just stands there, trembling. Then she drops her hands and wipes her eyes with quick, angry swipes.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice raw and broken. “Okay. Go, then.”

The words sting, sharper than anything you’ve ever felt. But you nod. You have to.

Alain gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We’ll call every day,” he promises, glancing at Adriane, though she won’t look at him. “Whenever you want.”

Your mother doesn’t answer. She just turns away, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on her.

Your heart feels heavy, but there’s something else now too — something lighter. Hope.

You glance up at Alain, and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Switzerland, huh?” You say, trying to sound brave.

Alain chuckles. “Switzerland.”

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can finally breathe.

***

Life in Switzerland feels like a dream. Every morning, the mountains rise outside your window, peaks dusted in snow even as the spring sun warms the air. The international school Alain enrolled you in is small, the kids friendly. They speak a mix of languages — French, German, Italian — and though it’s strange at first, you like how every word feels like a little puzzle to solve.

But school is just the beginning of your day. The real magic happens afterward.

Every afternoon, Alain picks you up in his car — a sleek, silver Audi with leather seats that always smell faintly like coffee — and takes you straight to the karting track just outside town. There’s a rhythm to your days now: school, then the track, where the scent of gasoline and hot rubber fills the air.

“Come on, petite championne,” Alain says every day as you hop into the kart, the nickname slipping off his tongue with an easy smile. “Let’s see if you can make me proud today.”

The kart rumbles beneath you, a buzz that shoots from your hands to your heart. The moment your foot touches the pedal, the world falls away. The wind rushes against your face, the engine purring with every twist of the wheel.

Here, in the kart, you feel free — like nothing can catch you, not even the pieces of your life that feel too big or too broken to understand.

Alain watches from the sidelines, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face calm but focused. He takes notes every time you race, shouting tips when you pull up to the pit lane.

“Don’t wait so long to hit the brakes before that hairpin, you lose too much time,” he’ll say. Or, “You’re getting faster through the straights. Don’t get greedy on the corners, though — you’ve got to feel the grip.”

You listen to every word, hungry to learn. And when he grins after you complete a lap, clapping his hands like you just won a Grand Prix, your heart swells.

By the time you drive home, your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind — the kind that comes from chasing a dream.

And every night, after dinner, there’s dessert.

“Glace au chocolat tonight?” Alain asks one evening, pulling two tubs of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

You grin. “With whipped cream?”

“Obviously,” Alain replies with mock seriousness. “What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

He adds a mountain of whipped cream to both bowls, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch with his own.

As always, an old race plays on the TV. Tonight, it’s Monaco — 1988, the race your father dominated, right up until the moment he crashed into the barrier. The screen flickers as the cars glide through the tight streets, their engines howling between the stone walls.

Alain leans back against the couch cushions, spoon in hand. “See that?” He says, pointing at the screen with a mouthful of ice cream. “Your papa’s line through the Swimming Pool section — perfection. Like poetry in motion.”

You tilt your head, studying the way the yellow helmet zips through the narrow chicane. “How did he do it?”

Alain smiles, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. “He just knew. Ayrton could feel the track better than anyone else. It was like … like he was connected to the car in a way no one else could be.”

You lick your spoon thoughtfully. “Did you hate him?”

The question catches Alain off guard. He freezes, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate him? No.” He pauses. “Not really, anyway.”

“But you fought a lot.”

“Oh, we fought.” Alain smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He drove me absolutely mad sometimes.”

You giggle. “Why?”

“Because he never gave up. Not even for a second.” Alain gestures toward the TV, where your father’s car rockets through the tunnel. “Ayrton wasn’t just racing other drivers — he was racing himself. Always trying to be faster, better. It was exhausting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s warmth in his voice, too. You can hear it.

“And that drove you crazy?” You ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Alain laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Completely crazy.”

You curl deeper into the couch, your ice cream bowl balanced on your lap. “But you were friends, right? In the end?”

Alain’s smile fades a little, but it stays, softer now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In the end.”

There’s a silence between you, filled only by the hum of the TV and the occasional scrape of your spoons against the bowls.

You glance at Alain, his expression lost somewhere between memory and regret. “Do you miss him?”

Alain looks at you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll answer. Then he gives a small nod. “Every day.”

You nod, too, even though you didn’t really know your father — at least, not in the way Alain did. But somehow, you miss him all the same.

The race continues on the screen, the cars weaving through the streets of Monaco, chasing the perfect lap.

“You’ll be just like him one day,” Alain says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Alain replies, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve got the same fire in you. The same stubbornness, too, I think.”

You laugh, and Alain grins, pleased with himself.

“You just need to tweak your braking,” he adds with a playful smirk. “You brake like me, not like him.”

“Hey!” You protest, shoving his arm lightly.

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m just saying! Ayrton would fly into corners like a madman. Me? I was always a bit more … sensible.”

“Sensible is boring,” you tease, scooping up the last bit of ice cream.

Alain pretends to be offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Boring? Sensible is what win me four world championships, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

The credits for the race coverage roll, but neither of you makes a move to turn off the TV. These moments — curled up on the couch with Alain, the scent of whipped cream still in the air — feel like they could stretch forever.

And maybe, just maybe, they do.

***

Four years blur by like the laps on a familiar circuit. Days turn into months, and months into seasons. You grow taller, sharper, and faster. The kart becomes a second skin, every turn and apex something you know instinctively, like breathing. The track is your playground now — your sanctuary.

Alain teaches you everything: not just how to drive but how to think, how to be patient when you need to be and ruthless when the moment calls for it. He tells you about strategy and racecraft, how to listen for the slightest change in the engine’s pitch, how to make yourself invisible in the slipstream until the perfect moment to strike.

Some lessons come easy. Others, not so much. Like when he makes you practice for hours in the rain, your hands frozen, your kart slipping through puddles. Or when you spin out during a practice race and Alain doesn’t even flinch. He just waves his hand in the air.

“Again!” He shouts from the pit lane. “You have to get comfortable with making mistakes, petite. No champion gets there without a few bruises.”

And so you go again. And again. Because this — this dream — is the one thing you want more than anything.

Now, after all those years, the day has finally arrived. You’re old enough to compete in the FIA Karting Championship. This is what you’ve been working toward.

But Alain surprises you one quiet evening at home. No ice cream, no old races on TV — just you and him, sitting across the kitchen table with two mugs of hot tea. His face is serious, but kind.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug. “You have a choice to make.”

You lean forward. “What kind of choice?”

Alain tilts his head, his sharp hazel eyes studying you carefully. “Your name.”

You frown. “My name?”

“Yes. You’ve been racing locally for a while, but things are different now.” Alain takes a sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. “The FIA Karting Championship is international. There will be journalists, scouts, team representatives. If you race under your real name, everyone will know exactly who you are.”

You sit back, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

“You can use a pseudonym if you want,” Alain continues. “Plenty of drivers do it, especially when they want to build their career on their own terms.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’ve thought a lot about racing — how fast you want to be, how badly you want to win. But this? The idea of hiding your name? It’s a curveball you didn’t see coming.

Alain gives you time to think, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug. “There’s no shame in it, petite,” he says gently. “It’s not about denying who you are. It’s about deciding how you want the world to see you.”

The words hang between you. He’s not pressuring you — Alain never does that — but you can feel the weight of the decision anyway.

You toy with the edge of the mug in front of you, tracing the rim with your fingertip. “Do you think … if I use my real name, people will only see Papai?”

Alain shrugs, but his expression is thoughtful. “Some will. There are people who won’t be able to separate you from Ayrton. They’ll compare you to him before you’ve even taken a proper lap.”

You nod slowly. You’ve known this would happen — how could you not? But hearing it out loud makes it more real.

“At the same time,” Alain adds, “it’s not something to be ashamed of. Ayrton was … well, he was Ayrton. If anyone has the right to be proud of their name, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, the edges of uncertainty fraying inside you. “What would you do?”

Alain smiles softly. “It’s not my decision to make, ma chérie. This is about you. Your future.”

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tiny ghosts. A part of you aches at the thought of hiding your father’s name — like you’d be denying him, pretending he didn’t matter. But there’s another part, quieter but insistent, that wants to know what it’s like to stand on your own. To earn your place without the shadow of a legend following you everywhere you go.

You tap your fingers against the table, the rhythm matching the beat of an engine in your mind. And then, suddenly, the answer clicks into place.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I want to use a different name. Just for now.”

Alain raises his eyebrows, curious but approving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more certain now. “It’s not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I want people to know one day. Just … not yet.”

Alain leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

You grin, the excitement building in your chest. “I’ll race under my mother’s last name. And when the time’s right — maybe after I win a few championships — I’ll tell them.”

Alain chuckles, shaking his head. “You think they’ll like the surprise?”

You laugh, a full, bright sound that feels like relief. “Can you imagine their faces?”

Alain grins, clearly amused. “I can already hear the headlines.” He adopts an exaggerated announcer voice: “The karting prodigy who stunned the world by revealing she’s Ayrton Senna’s daughter!”

You burst out laughing, the tension from the conversation melting away. “They’ll lose their minds!”

“And you’ll love every second of it,” Alain adds with a knowing smirk.

You grin, unable to hide the spark of mischief in your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head fondly, ruffling your hair as he stands up from the table. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Comes with the territory,” you say, beaming.

Alain gathers the empty mugs and places them in the sink, still chuckling to himself. “Well, I think it’s a smart choice. Gives you time to find your own rhythm.”

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Alain leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you. There’s pride in his eyes — quiet, steady, and unmistakable. “Your papa would’ve been proud of you, too,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens, but you smile through it. “Thanks, Alain.”

He nods once, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward the living room. “Let’s celebrate with some dessert. I think we’ve got tarte au citron in the fridge.”

You follow him, your heart light and your steps easy. The road ahead is still long — there will be races, wins, and losses. But for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to drive.

And that? That’s the best feeling in the world.

***

The drive from Switzerland to Imola is quiet. You sit with your thoughts, the hum of the engine beneath you and the road stretching endlessly ahead. Alain offered to come with you, but you declined. This is something you need to do alone.

It’s not that you didn’t want his company, it’s just … how do you explain to someone — even someone who knew your father so well — that you need to meet this place on your own terms?

For eighteen years, you told yourself you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be. But here you are, taking deep breaths as you steer your way closer to the circuit where it all ended. Where everything about your life changed before it even really began.

When you finally arrive, the gates to the Imola track feel strangely peaceful, nestled under a canopy of autumn leaves. The air is crisp, and the sky is that soft, pale blue you only get in early fall. You park the car and head toward the Ayrton Senna memorial, your footsteps crunching through the leaves littering the path.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your pulse loud in your ears. You try to steel yourself — this is just a monument, just a place. You’ve been to a thousand race tracks in your life. But this one is different. This one holds pieces of someone you never got the chance to know.

As you approach the monument, you expect silence. You expect to be alone. But then you notice someone sitting there — another figure crouched near the bronze statue of your father.

The man shifts, startled by the sound of your footsteps on the gravel. His head turns, and you recognize him almost immediately.

It’s Lewis Hamilton.

He blinks up at you, clearly not expecting company either. There’s a moment of awkwardness, both of you standing there, caught off guard in a place meant for solitude.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Lewis waves off the apology, his face softening. “No, no. You’re not bothering me.” He pulls himself up a little straighter, brushing leaves from his jacket. “I always stop by here before Monza. Helps me … I don’t know. Reset.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. There’s something strange about seeing him here — Lewis Hamilton, one of the biggest names in motorsport, sitting quietly in front of your father’s monument like he’s just another fan.

“I came for the same reason,” you admit. “I’m Brazilian. Wanted to pay my respects.”

At that, something shifts in Lewis’ expression — understanding, maybe. “You’re Brazilian?” He repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That explains it. Every Brazilian racer I know carries Senna with them like … well, like a second heart.”

You laugh softly, kicking a stray leaf with your shoe. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lewis shifts, resting his forearms on his knees as he looks back at the monument. The wind stirs the leaves around your feet, scattering them across the ground.

“He’s always been my hero,” Lewis murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even before I really understood what racing was, I just … knew he was special.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze fixed on the familiar features of the bronze effigy — your father’s intense, focused expression captured in metal. It’s strange, standing here with someone who feels the same reverence you’ve always felt but never quite known how to express.

Lewis glances at you again. “What do you race?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “Formula Renault 3.5.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “That’s a serious series.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though there’s a flicker of pride in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been good so far.”

“Good enough to think about Formula 1 one day?” Lewis asks, a knowing smile on his face.

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in the cool air. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your name?”

For a split second, you hesitate. But you remind yourself — he doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just … Y/N,” you say casually. “For now.”

Lewis tilts his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t press. “Y/N. Got it.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence. But it’s not uncomfortable — just … quiet.

“You said you come here every year?” You ask after a moment.

“Before Monza, yeah,” Lewis confirms. “It’s become sort of a ritual. Helps me feel grounded, I guess. Reminds me why I do this.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. There’s something about this place — this simple, quiet memorial — that strips everything else away. The politics, the pressure, the noise. It leaves only the pure love of racing behind.

Lewis stands then, brushing dirt from his pants. “Well,” he says, “I should probably get going. Got a long weekend ahead.”

You nod, though part of you wishes you had a little more time to talk to him. There’s something easy about the way he carries himself — no arrogance, no pretense. Just a racer who loves what he does.

Lewis glances at the monument one last time, his gaze lingering on your father’s face. “He would’ve loved to see how many of us still race because of him,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

He gives you a nod, something warm and reassuring in his expression. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be watching.”

With that, he turns and walks down the path, his footsteps crunching through the leaves. You watch him go, the wind stirring around you again, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and autumn.

For a long moment, you stay there, standing in front of the monument, just you and the bronze figure of your father. You don’t say anything — there’s nothing that needs to be said. But in the quiet, you feel a strange sense of peace.

Maybe it’s the years of racing, the laps you’ve turned, the lessons you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just knowing that people like Lewis exist — people who carry your father’s spirit with them, even though they never knew him.

You brush a hand over the cool surface of the monument, tracing the edge of the plaque with your fingers. “I’m gonna make you proud,” you whisper.

And this time, you believe it.

The wind picks up again as you turn away from the monument, heading back toward the car. Monza is waiting. And so is the rest of your story.

***

The paddock feels like a world unto itself — buzzing with life, engines roaring in the distance, team personnel hurrying from garages to pit walls.

You’re barely a day into your first GP2 weekend with DAMS, and it’s already overwhelming. The DAMS crew is friendly but businesslike, and the constant stream of engineers, mechanics, and journalists passing by your garage is a reminder that you’ve officially stepped onto the big stage.

Your heart pounds as you adjust the collar of your race suit, nerves crawling under your skin. You spent the morning doing seat fittings, debriefs, and media duties, but now you’re finally free for a few minutes before the next round of meetings.

Alain walks beside you, calm and collected as ever, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He’s been like a steady lighthouse in the chaos of this new chapter, guiding you through the storm with quiet assurance.

“Remember,” Alain says as you both weave through the paddock, “it’s just another race. Keep your focus. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, scanning the sea of faces for anyone familiar — or anyone dangerous, like a journalist with too many questions.

Alain smirks knowingly. “That’s why you have me.”

You can’t help but grin, a flicker of relief easing the tension in your chest. Alain’s been by your side for so long now that the idea of navigating a race weekend without him feels unthinkable.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone you weren’t expecting: Lewis.

He’s walking toward the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by team personnel and a PR officer trailing closely behind, clipboard in hand. You see the moment recognition flickers in his eyes — he stops mid-step, gaze locking on you like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“Y/N?” He calls, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alain glances sideways at you, bemused, but you can’t help the small, slightly guilty smile tugging at your lips. You wave at Lewis, feeling a little awkward but genuinely happy to see him.

Lewis strides over, his PR officer groaning softly but trailing after him anyway. “I thought I’d see you around here eventually,” Lewis says with a grin. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”

You shrug, playing it casual. “Surprise.”

His eyes flick to Alain, standing quietly beside you. “And you … know Alain Prost?”

Alain raises a polite eyebrow, but there’s an amused glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how you’ll answer this one.

You shift on your feet, aware of Lewis’ confusion. “Yeah, he’s … been my mentor for years.” You keep your explanation vague, not ready to drop the full truth just yet.

Lewis frowns slightly, processing the unexpected connection. “You’ve been working with Alain Prost?”

You nod. “Since I was a kid.”

Lewis lets out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with new appreciation. “Wow. That explains a lot.”

Before you can respond, his PR officer steps in, clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “Lewis, we really need to-”

Lewis waves her off without breaking eye contact with you. “Five more minutes. It’s fine.”

The woman hesitates, then sighs in frustration and backs away to give him space. Lewis turns his full attention back to you, his easy grin returning.

“So, GP2, huh?” He asks, hands on his hips. “How’s it feel to finally be here?”

“Terrifying,” you admit with a laugh. “But also kind of amazing.”

“That’s how you know you’re in the right place,” Lewis says, his tone encouraging. “The nerves mean you care.”

Alain watches the exchange quietly, and you can tell he’s measuring Lewis, sizing him up — not in a competitive way, but in that protective way he’s always had with you. It’s subtle, but you know Alain well enough to see it.

“I’ll make sure to catch the feature race,” Lewis promises, his grin widening. “I’ll be cheering you on.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how much that means to you. “Oh yeah? You sure you have time to slum it with us junior drivers?”

Lewis laughs, genuinely amused. “Come on, now. I started in GP2, remember? I know exactly how tough it is.”

“Guess I’ll have to put on a good show, then.”

“You better,” Lewis says, mock-serious. “Otherwise I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

The two of you share a quick, easy laugh, and for a moment the chaos of the paddock fades into the background. It’s just two drivers, standing in the middle of it all, sharing a moment of understanding.

“You’re going to crush it,” Lewis adds, his voice low and certain.

Something in his tone makes you believe it — makes the nerves that have been simmering all day settle, if only for a moment.

Alain clears his throat softly, a reminder that time is ticking. “We need to get back to the team,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

Lewis nods, taking the hint but not before offering you one last smile. “Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you out there.”

You return the smile, feeling lighter than you have all day. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He gives Alain a respectful nod before turning to leave, his McLaren team falling into step around him as he disappears into the paddock.

As you watch him go, Alain leans in slightly, his voice quiet but laced with amusement. “Friend of yours?”

You smirk, still watching Lewis disappear into the crowd. “Something like that.”

Alain chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar — like the engine note of a car you’ve driven a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently. “We have work to do.”

You follow Alain back toward the DAMS garage, the nerves still there but tempered now with something else — excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little confidence.

Because this is your moment. Your chance to show the world what you can do. And with people like Alain and Lewis in your corner, you know you’re not facing it alone.

***

The Bahrain sun beats down relentlessly, the heat pressing against your skin even through your race suit. Sweat clings to your brow, mixing with the overwhelming, heady cocktail of fuel, rubber, and victory. You’re breathless, exhausted — but none of that matters.

You did it. You won.

The feature race trophy feels almost weightless in your hands as you stand on the podium, the sound of the Brazilian anthem thundering in your ears. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and for the first time since you entered GP2, you allow yourself to savor the moment. You close your eyes for a second, letting the anthem sink deep into your bones, and think of your father.

When the rose water sprays, it feels like you’ve broken through a barrier — proof to yourself and to the world that you belong here. That you’re not just someone chasing the shadow of a name, but a racer in your own right.

The post-race chaos is a blur — interviews, debriefs, more interviews. It’s not until you’re finally allowed to step away from the DAMS garage, damp with sweat and floral liquid, that the realization hits you again: you won your first GP2 race. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, but beneath it, there’s a quiet hum of contentment.

You round the corner of the paddock, searching for a quiet moment to collect yourself — when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N!”

You turn, and there he is: Lewis, dressed casually in his McLaren team kit, that signature grin stretched across his face. His eyes are bright under the paddock lights, and his presence feels like a cool breeze against the heat of Bahrain.

Before you can say anything, he’s already jogging up to you, wrapping you in a quick, spontaneous hug. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air between you — spicy and warm, like cedar and citrus.

“That was incredible!” Lewis says, pulling back to look at you. “Seriously, you drove like a pro out there.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You saw the whole race?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s obvious, as if there was no way he could have missed it. “I told you I’d be cheering you on, didn’t I?”

“Guess I didn’t disappoint, then,” you say, teasing.

“Not even a little.” His grin softens into something warmer, more personal.

The way he looks at you — like he’s genuinely proud — makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. It’s strange, but comforting, the way he’s here, grounding you in the whirlwind of it all.

“Come on,” Lewis says, gesturing toward the paddock hospitality area. “You deserve a proper celebration. We’ll grab something to drink, at least — water, preferably, because you look like you’re about to melt.”

You laugh. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m not passing out just yet.”

“Still,” he insists, walking beside you. “Gotta take care of the winner, right?”

You follow him, your steps lighter than they’ve felt all weekend. It’s easy with Lewis — talking, walking, just existing in the same space. You can’t tell if it’s the lingering buzz of the win or something else entirely, but there’s a sense of ease between you that you haven’t felt with anyone in a long time.

He leads you to one of the quieter corners of the paddock, where a small group of McLaren personnel are relaxing. Lewis grabs two water bottles from a nearby cooler and tosses one your way.

“Catch.”

You catch it easily, the cool plastic a relief against your palm. “Thanks.”

Lewis leans against the back of a chair, his posture relaxed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “So … how does it feel?”

“To win?” You twist the cap off your bottle and take a sip. “Like … I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe again.”

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “First win’s always special. But there’ll be more. I can feel it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You think you’re a psychic now?”

Lewis chuckles. “Nope. Just good at spotting talent.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no denying the warmth his words spark inside you. You glance away for a moment, trying to shake the strange flutter in your chest.

“So,” he says after a beat, “what’s next? A second win in Spain?”

“I mean, that’d be nice,” you say, grinning. “But I’ll settle for finishing with all my wheels intact.”

“Good plan,” Lewis agrees, laughing. “That track’s a nightmare.”

The conversation drifts easily from there, flowing from racing to random paddock gossip to stories from his early days in GP2. You’re both standing close — closer than two people probably need to stand. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it feels … nice.

He pauses for a second, watching you with that thoughtful expression he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on beneath the surface.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says softly, almost like it’s just for you to hear.

The words catch you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Just doing my best,” you say, trying to play it off, but your voice sounds quieter than you intended.

Lewis’ eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something between you — something unspoken, but not unwelcome.

Before either of you can say anything more, a loud cheer erupts from a nearby group of mechanics, jolting you both back to the present. You laugh, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Guess the celebration’s already started,” you say, motioning toward the rowdy crowd.

Lewis grins. “Looks like it. You coming?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to celebrate, but because part of you likes this quiet bubble you and Lewis have found.

“I think I might stay here for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of water.

Lewis doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stays where he is, like maybe he feels the same pull to stay in this moment, too.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and a little more serious, “I meant what I said earlier. About you being something special.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s no teasing in his expression now — just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the word not nearly enough to convey what you’re feeling.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll just have to keep watching and see what you do next.”

“Guess so.”

And just like that, the air shifts between you — charged with possibility, like the moment before a green flag drops.

You don’t know what’s coming next, but for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of it. Not when Lewis is standing here, smiling at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And somehow, you think, this might just be the start of something worth chasing.

***

It’s late in the evening, and the Monaco paddock has fallen into a rare lull. The energy of race day — mechanics scrambling, journalists hounding drivers, engines screaming — has settled into a quiet hum. Most people have retreated to their yachts or hotel rooms by now, leaving only the occasional team member wandering through the maze of garages and hospitality areas.

You sit with Lewis on the edge of the harbor, the two of you tucked away from prying eyes. The water laps gently against the docks, and the principality’s golden lights reflect across the surface like scattered coins. Neither of you say anything for a while, content to let the quiet fill the spaces between you.

It’s been like this more often lately — stolen moments between races, conversations that drift into the small hours of the morning, and the unspoken pull that keeps you near each other, even when there’s no real reason to be.

Lewis shifts beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “You ever just sit somewhere and wonder how the hell you got here?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face. “All the time.”

He gives a small laugh, running a hand over his braids. “Monaco’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Feels like the kind of place people dream about … like it’s not even real.”

He looks over at you then, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not sure what’s real sometimes.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. And for the first time tonight, the quiet between you doesn’t feel as comfortable. It feels loaded, like you’re both waiting for the other to say something neither of you know how to say.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You okay?”

Lewis exhales slowly, glancing out over the water. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how to begin. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately … about the future. About what I want, and where I want to be.”

You shift closer to him, sensing that this isn’t just idle talk. “What do you mean?”

He leans back on his hands, staring at the water like it might hold the answer. “I’ve been with McLaren my whole career. Since I was a kid. But … I don’t know. Lately, it feels like I’m stuck. Like I’ve hit a wall.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

He looks at you then, and there’s something raw in his expression — something vulnerable. “I’ve decided to leave McLaren at the end of the season. I’m signing with Mercedes.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Mercedes?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“But … McLaren’s your home.”

Lewis shrugs, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was. But things change. And if I don’t take this chance now … I think I’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning. “Do people know yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not many. Just a few people on the team. I wanted to tell you before it got out, though.”

You chew on your bottom lip, absorbing the weight of his words. “That’s a big decision, Lewis.”

“I know.” He looks at you, his gaze steady. “But it feels like the right one. Even if it’s scary as hell.”

You let out a breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions — pride, worry, something you can’t quite name. “Well … if it’s what you want, I guess it’s the right move.”

He smiles, but it’s a small, almost hesitant thing. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. Like something has shifted — not just because of what he said, but because of the way he’s looking at you now.

“You’ve been there for me a lot lately,” he says softly. “I don’t think I’ve said how much that means to me.”

Your heart beats a little faster. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.” His voice is low, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath catch.

He shifts slightly closer, and suddenly the space between you feels impossibly small. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle brush of his shoulder against yours.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up at him, and the world seems to narrow down to just this — just the two of you, sitting on the edge of the harbor, the night air thick with something electric.

And then, slowly — almost hesitantly — he leans in.

For a split second, you think about pulling away, about the million reasons why this might not be a good idea. But before you can overthink it, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

It’s not the kind of kiss that demands anything — it’s the kind that promises everything.

When you finally pull back, your heart is racing, and your mind feels like it’s spinning in a thousand different directions.

Lewis looks at you, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his breath warm against your skin.

You smile, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and disbelief. “Yeah?”

He nods, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. The world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you, floating in your own little bubble.

Finally, Lewis pulls back slightly, though his hand lingers on your face. “So … what now?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and easy. “I have no idea.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your chest feel warm. “Guess we’ll figure it out, then.”

You nod, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I guess we will.”

And somehow, even though nothing feels certain — his future, your career, whatever this thing is between you — there’s a strange sense of peace in the not knowing.

Because whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.

***

The air in the McLaren garage is thick with anticipation. Cameras are set up, media personnel are adjusting their equipment, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air as the press conference prepares to start. You stand just behind the curtain, your heart racing. You can hear the hum of voices in the room beyond, reporters murmuring to one another, waiting for the big reveal.

The past few months have felt like a whirlwind — a blur of contract negotiations, meetings with McLaren’s team principal, and the quiet, creeping excitement of finally getting the chance to do what you’ve always dreamed of. But now that the moment is here, the weight of it is settling in. You’re not just about to become the first woman in F1 in decades, you’re about to step into the spotlight as Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

You take a deep breath, glancing down at the McLaren-branded polo shirt you’re wearing, the crisp fabric somehow making everything feel more real. This is happening. After all the years of hard work, all the sacrifices, you’re about to make history.

Alain stands beside you, his face calm, but his hand on your shoulder is firm and reassuring. “You ready?” He asks, his voice low, but steady.

You nod, swallowing down the nerves. “I think so.”

“Just remember why you’re doing this,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. “This is about you. Not your father. Not anyone else. You.”

You offer him a small smile. Alain’s always been good at grounding you, at reminding you that you’ve earned this, regardless of who your father was. He’s been there through it all — your highs and lows, your victories and failures. And now, here he is, standing beside you as you take this monumental step.

The curtains part, and the team principal, Martin Whitmarsh, steps onto the stage. The room quiets as he approaches the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today,” he begins, his voice carrying through the room. “It’s not often we get to announce something of this magnitude. Today, McLaren is proud to welcome a new driver to our team for the 2013 season. Not only will she be the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in over 20 years, but she’s also someone with a legacy that speaks for itself.”

There’s a murmur of curiosity from the crowd, and you know the moment is coming. The reveal. The truth that you’ve kept hidden, even from the people closest to you.

“Please join me in welcoming, Y/N Senna.”

The sound of your name, followed by your father’s, echoes through the room like a ripple of shock. For a brief moment, there’s stunned silence. Then, the cameras start flashing, the murmurs turn into a roar, and all eyes are on you.

You step onto the stage, trying to steady your breath. The weight of the announcement, of who you are, feels heavier than you expected. But you push through, meeting the gaze of the journalists, the photographers, the team members standing off to the side. You can’t see him from here, but you know Alain is watching from the wings, his quiet support steadying you.

Whitmarsh continues speaking, but the words blur together as your mind races. It’s not until you hear the murmured whispers in the back of the room that your attention snaps back.

“Senna?”

“Ayrton’s daughter?”

“Why didn’t anyone know?”

As the press conference wraps up, and you’re led off stage, the questions start flooding in. Journalists swarm, desperate for a quote, for more insight into the mystery that you’ve kept hidden for so long.

But before you can respond to any of them, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. You know that voice. You turn slowly, and there he is — Lewis, standing just a few feet away, his face unreadable.

The PR team tries to shuffle you away, but you shake them off, making your way over to him. “Lewis …”

He cuts you off, his expression dark. “You’ve been racing for all these years, and you never thought to tell me? Not once?”

The sting of his words catches you off guard, and you open your mouth to respond, but he continues, his voice low but sharp. “I thought we were close. I thought we were-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “You let me fall for you, and you didn’t even tell me who you really are.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “Lewis, it wasn’t like that-”

“Wasn’t it?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours, hurt and confusion written all over his face. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want people to treat you differently because of your name. But me? I thought we were past that.”

“I didn’t want to use my father’s name to get ahead,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to make a name for myself, first. And I didn’t tell you because … because I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“Well, it’s changed everything now,” he snaps, his voice tight with anger. “I thought I knew you, but clearly, I didn’t.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Lewis, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t mean to hurt me? You’re Ayrton Senna’s daughter, and you never even mentioned it once. How could you keep something like that from me?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Well, it has,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still laced with pain. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. The distance between you feels insurmountable now, like a chasm that you don’t know how to cross.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lewis looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, but the hurt still lingers in his eyes. “I need some time,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I just … I need to figure this out.”

You nod, the tears finally spilling over. “Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy and your world spinning.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you.

***

The air at Imola is still. The late-summer heat clings to your skin, and the only sounds around you are the distant hum of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You stare at the stone memorial, the bronze relief of your father’s face, the flowers people have left here over the years. Some are wilted, some fresh. There’s even a small Brazilian flag tucked against the base.

You exhale slowly, your hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your jacket. It’s been exactly a year since you first stood here, heart in your throat, hoping to find some kind of connection, some kind of clarity. The weight of the past year presses down on you now — signing with McLaren, the media frenzy, the fallout with Lewis.

And Papai. Always Papai.

You kneel, brushing a hand over the smooth stone, fingers tracing the engraved letters. “I made it,” you whisper. “I’m almost there.” Your voice catches on the words, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish you were here to see it.”

You close your eyes, trying to imagine what he’d say if he were standing beside you. Maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d tell you to push harder, go faster, never settle. Or maybe he’d tell you to slow down, to find a way to reconnect with your mother before it’s too late. But he’s not here. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

A soft rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts. Footsteps, deliberate but hesitant, approach from behind, crunching through the dry leaves scattered on the ground. You turn, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Lewis.

He’s wearing a hoodie, hands tucked into the front pocket, his brows peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. He stops a few feet away, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. There’s something guarded in his expression, but there’s warmth there, too.

You straighten slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis shrugs, his gaze flickering to the memorial and back to you. “Monza’s coming up. Thought I’d stop by first … like I always do.”

The tension between you feels like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching out like a canyon.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.”

You bite your lip, looking away toward the memorial. “I needed to. Before the race. I … I haven’t been here since last year.”

Lewis shifts, the soft scrape of his shoes against the ground. “I remember.”

The air feels heavy between you, thick with all the things you haven’t said to each other. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, but they feel tangled, impossible to untangle without breaking.

Lewis is the first to speak again, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what happened. About everything.”

You swallow hard, your hands clenching into fists in your pockets. “Me too.”

“I was angry,” Lewis admits. “Hurt, too. But … I get it now. Why you didn’t tell me.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself, like the world’s already decided who you are before you even get a chance to show them. I just … I wish you’d trusted me with it.”

“I wanted to,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I did. But … it’s complicated.” You look down, kicking at a stray leaf with your shoe. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be his daughter without being defined by it. And now … now it’s all out there.”

Lewis steps closer, closing the gap between you. “You’re not just his daughter, Y/N. You’re you. And that’s who I fell for.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You blink quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. They spill over anyway, and you wipe at them angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“It’s not just about the name,” you whisper. “Racing … it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But it’s also what took me away from my mom.” You take a shaky breath, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She can’t even look at me without seeing him. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in years. The last time we talked was my birthday. And it was just a two-minute call.”

Lewis’ face softens, and he reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I��m sorry.”

You shake your head, sniffing quietly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just … hard, you know? I love racing, but it feels like it’s cost me everything else.”

He takes another step closer, his hand lingering on your cheek. “You’ve got me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat. “Do I?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. You do.”

The world feels like it tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to just the two of you standing here, beneath the shadow of your father’s memory. And before you can think too hard about it, before the doubts can creep in, you lean in, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first — tentative, like neither of you wants to break the fragile peace that’s settled between you. But then his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of everything unsaid dissolving in the warmth of his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.

“I missed you,” Lewis whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“I missed you, too,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Eventually, Lewis pulls back slightly, his hand still cradling the back of your neck. “So … what now?”

You smile, a small, genuine smile that feels like the first one in a long time. “Now … we go win at Monza.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right we will.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and free, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest lifts.

As you stand there, hand in hand with Lewis, you glance back at the memorial one last time. “I think he’d be happy,” you say quietly.

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know he would.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens. You’re still Ayrton Senna’s daughter. But you’re also yourself. And that? That feels like enough.

***

The crowd roars so loudly that it feels like the earth itself is shaking. São Paulo is electric, the grandstands packed with people draped in green and yellow, waving flags, and chanting. You’ve been in big races before, stood on podiums, and tasted victory. But this … this is different.

This is Interlagos. This is home. And for the first time in your career, you’re leading an F1 race in front of your people.

“Alright, Y/N,” your engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “Five laps to go. Everything looks good on the telemetry. Just bring her home.”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you navigate the tight curves of the circuit. Every bump, every rise, every dip feels familiar. You’ve studied this track since you were a child. This is where your father was a legend — and now, it’s where you can make your own history.

The tires hum beneath you, vibrations pulsing through your hands and feet. The sky is dark with heavy clouds threatening rain, but the track is still dry, for now. Behind you, Sebastian Vettel is chasing hard in second place, his Red Bull a glimmer in your mirrors, but you don’t think about him. Not now. This is about you. About crossing that finish line first.

Four laps. Then three. Every second feels like an eternity. You can hear the crowd over the sound of the engine, their voices rising every time you fly past the grandstands. “SENNA! SENNA!” they chant, over and over, as if your name — your real name — was always meant to be called alongside your father’s.

“Two laps, Y/N. Gap to Vettel is two seconds. Stay focused.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel. You shift gears, your mind and body moving in perfect sync with the machine around you. The wind whistles past your helmet as you race up the hill toward the final turn.

On the final lap, it starts to drizzle — just enough to slick the track and make things dangerous. Your car twitches as the tires search for grip.

“Be careful, Y/N,” your engineer warns. “You’ve got this. Just stay calm.”

You breathe in. Breathe out. And then the chequered flag waves ahead of you, and the world explodes into color and sound.

“P1, Y/N! P1! You’ve won the Brazilian Grand Prix!” Your engineer’s voice is hoarse with excitement. “That was incredible — you just won at home!”

Your heart leaps as tears spring to your eyes. You punch the air, screaming into the radio, not caring who hears. “YES! YES! WE DID IT!”

The car coasts into parc fermé, the engine humming its final notes as you switch it off. You rip off your gloves and helmet, letting the cool air hit your damp face. The grandstands are still shaking with the cheers of thousands. Your name — Senna — is on every banner, every poster, and every fan’s lips.

You climb out of the car, adrenaline still surging through your veins, and jump onto the chassis. The crowd roars even louder as you throw your fists into the air, pointing toward the sky. The thought flashes through your mind: This one’s for you, Papai.

You jump down and make your way to the barriers where your team waits, already celebrating with hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. You push through the throng of mechanics, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. And that’s when you see her.

Among the sea of McLaren team uniforms, standing stiffly with her arms wrapped around herself, is your mother.

Your steps falter for a moment, shock flooding through you. She’s here. She’s really here. You blink, wondering if the tears in your eyes are playing tricks on you, but no — there she is. Adriane.

She’s thinner than you remember, her hair streaked with more silver now. She looks out of place among the mechanics, but she’s here. Her eyes, so much like your own, are filled with something you haven’t seen in years — pride. And something more. Regret.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run the other way. Then her face crumples, and she takes a tentative step forward, her arms reaching for you like she used to when you were small.

That’s all it takes. You close the distance in an instant, throwing yourself into her arms.

“Mãe!” The word leaves your mouth in a sob, and before you know it, you’re both crying, clutching each other like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, minha filha. I was wrong. I should’ve-”

You shake your head against her shoulder, holding her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands like she used to when you were little. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she admits, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid I’d lose you too. But then … then I watched you out there today.” Her voice cracks, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “And I saw him. I saw Ayrton. But more than that, I saw you. My daughter.”

You can’t speak — your throat feels too tight, and the tears won’t stop. So you just nod, leaning into her touch as the noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Adriane pulls you back into a hug, and for the first time in years, you let yourself feel it — the warmth, the love, the mother you thought you’d lost. And somehow, standing here with her in your arms, it feels like you’ve come full circle.

After a long moment, she pulls back and wipes her tears, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Look at us. Crying like fools.”

You laugh too, sniffling as you wipe your own face. “It’s okay. It’s a good day to cry.”

A voice cuts through the noise — your team calling you for the podium ceremony. You glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. You turn back to your mother, hesitant. “Will you stay?”

She smiles, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, squeezing her hand one last time before you let go and jog toward the podium. The crowd’s roar is deafening as you step up to the top step, your name flashing on the giant screens around the circuit. The Brazilian flag rises slowly, and as the national anthem plays, you close your eyes and let the moment wash over you.

It feels like home. It feels like peace. It feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Later, after the champagne has been sprayed and the trophies have been handed out, you find Lewis waiting for you in the paddock, a grin stretching across his face.

“Not bad, Senna,” he teases, pulling you into a warm embrace.

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Not bad yourself, Hamilton.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, the chaos of the paddock swirling around you, but all you can feel is the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“Your dad would be proud,” Lewis murmurs, his voice soft in your ear.

You smile, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think he would be.”

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, casting the apartment in soft golds and pinks. You let yourself in quietly, the cool metal of the front door clicking shut behind you. Training was brutal today — your arms ache, and every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. All you want is to find Lewis, maybe curl up on the couch together and recover with some takeaway.

You kick off your sneakers, already untying the knot in your ponytail, when you hear voices from the living room. You pause mid-step.

Lewis is talking to someone — no, two people. You creep forward on silent feet, heart quickening as the voices grow clearer.

“-I love her more than anything,” Lewis says, his voice low but certain. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Your breath catches. You flatten yourself against the wall, just out of sight. It feels like you’ve stepped into some kind of dream, one where the pieces of your life are rearranging themselves into something both surreal and perfect.

Then you hear your mother’s voice — gentler than it used to be, softened by time and the walls you’ve slowly chipped away.

“You want my blessing?” Adriane says, her words slow, as if she’s tasting them, feeling their weight.

“I do,” Lewis replies. “I wanted to ask both of you. It felt right.”

Both of them? You inch closer, daring to peek around the corner. And there they are — Lewis, sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. Across from him sit your mother and Alain, side by side like a pair of mismatched bookends.

Alain leans back, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You realize what you’re getting into?” He asks dryly. “She’s more stubborn than Ayrton ever was.”

Lewis chuckles, but it’s a little nervous. “Yeah, I know.”

Adriane tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to see through to his soul. “And if she says no?”

Lewis’ face softens, a quiet kind of love settling into his expression. “Then I’ll still be with her. Because I don’t need her to marry me to know she’s it for me.”

Something cracks open inside you. It feels like standing on the podium in Brazil all over again — overwhelming and humbling and impossibly full. You press a hand to your mouth, as if that will steady the emotion threatening to spill over.

Your mother leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There’s a moment of silence so thick it hums.

“When Y/N was seven,” she begins slowly, “she told me she wanted to race. I told her no. I thought if I kept her away from the track, I could protect her from the same thing that took Ayrton from me.” She sighs, her gaze dropping to her hands. “But all I did was push her away.”

Alain clears his throat, glancing sideways at her. “It’s not easy,” he murmurs, more to Adriane than to Lewis. “Loving someone who belongs to the track.”

Your mother nods, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve made her happy. You’ve given her the space to be who she’s always wanted to be.” She pauses, blinking quickly. “And I see Ayrton in that. In you.”

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “That means more than you know.”

“And you promise me something,” Adriane says, her voice gaining strength, as if she’s gathering all her fears into this one request. “That you’ll never try to stop her. Not when things get hard. Not when it scares you.”

Lewis leans forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I swear. I’d never take that from her.”

Your mother exhales, like a weight she’s carried for years is finally lifting off her shoulders. “Then you have my blessing,” she says quietly.

Alain smirks, slapping Lewis on the back. “Looks like you’re in for the ride of your life.”

They laugh softly, the kind of laugh that comes with hard-won understanding.

And that’s when the floorboard under your foot creaks.

All three heads whip toward the sound, and you’re caught, frozen halfway between hiding and stepping forward.

Lewis’ eyes widen, and then a slow, guilty smile spreads across his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

You step fully into the room, arms crossed but fighting back a grin. “Long enough to hear that you’re plotting something.”

Alain chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” He winks at you, patting Lewis on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Alain,” Lewis mutters, rubbing his palms against his thighs, clearly nervous now.

Your mother rises as well, hesitating for a moment. She looks at you, her eyes soft. “I’ll call you later,” she murmurs, reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly before following Alain out the door.

And then it’s just you and Lewis, standing in the golden light of your apartment, the door clicking shut behind your mother and Alain.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice light. “So … what was all that about?”

Lewis steps closer, and suddenly the nervous energy from earlier melts away. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your palm.

“Y/N …” he begins, and there’s something so tender in the way he says your name that it makes your heart skip a beat. “I wanted to do this the right way. To ask the people who mean the mos to you.”

Your breath catches as he drops to one knee, right there in the middle of your living room.

He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light like starlight on water. It’s simple, elegant, and perfect.

Lewis looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with love, nerves, and hope. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at Imola. And I want to spend every day from now on making you as happy as you’ve made me.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, tears already welling up in your eyes.

“So,” he says with a smile that’s both warm and a little crooked. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”

For a moment, all you can do is nod, words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat. Then you finally find your voice.

“Yes,” you whisper, your smile breaking wide and free. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Lewis’ grin lights up the room, and he stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. You kiss him, slow and deep, and in that moment, it feels like everything — the years of struggle, of loss, of love — has brought you to exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you finally pull away, breathless and giddy, Lewis leans his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face.

“Guess Alain was right,” he murmurs, grinning. “This really is the ride of my life.”

You laugh, pure and full, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Buckle up, Hamilton,” you tease. “It’s only just getting started.”

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