#let's see if being away from her will make him understand now

[anamateurhumanbeing]

That did not change your mind. That man had taken everything from you. Every night for the past 2 decades you see his green eyes when you go to bed, haunting you in your sleep. You spent too much time training for this moment to turn back now. You need this.

At the dead of night you quietly sneak into his house. You hear the television running. Going into the living room you find your target. From your hiding spot you can spot him on his chair, a small child with curly hair asleep on his lap. A man walks into the room. You nearly yelp and give yourself away. He looks so much like the mercenary did the night he killed your family, right down to those green eyes. But he's different enough for you to remind yourself he's not the target, his father is.

The young man picks up the child, his daughter you presume, and carries her upstairs. You wait nearly half an hour, making sure the son won't return. The monster is all alone now. A part of you hesitates. If you kill this man, take him away from his family, what makes you any better than him?

'Because I have a good reason,' you remind yourself. Your doubts fade, but there's still a small voice in the back of your head telling you to turn back now.

You make your move. You sneak up behind him, putting a hand to his mouth. You pull out your knife, bright red in colour, custom made, and hold it to his neck.

"Scream and your family dies too," you whisper. An empty threat, you have no intention of harming them. You don't plan on reveling in this too long.

"Do you remember me?" you ask as you take off your mask, revealing your own brown eyes. The former mercenary shakes his head.

"Please. I'm sorry, do whatever you want to me, just please let my family go," he begs.

That only makes you madder. "Sorry? You don't even know what you did to me, and you have the gall to apologize!" you hiss, careful not to raise your voice too much.

"I killed someone you love, no? It's what I did for a living. I was an awful man. I deserve what ever you plan on doing to me, but please don't do it here. Please leave my f-"

You sock him in the jaw. You have tears in your eyes. How dare this disgrace of a human being pretend to care.

"Why?" You ask. You told yourself you wouldn't ask, that it would not make a difference.

Tha man's expression, while still full of fear, changes into one full of shame.

"I needed the money, I-"

You don't let him finish. Hearing that your family was just a paycheck for him was too much. You scream as you plunge your knife into his chest. You pull it out, then stab him again. And again. And again. When you entered this building you told yourself that you would make it quick. You aren't a monster, you said. Yet you look down, the man's chest torn to shreds, his blood coating both of your bodies. It feels good.

You can't leave him like this. You know it will devastate his family if he disappears, but it would devastate them more if they find him like this. You pick up the corpse, and begin to carry it off, when you're interrupted by a scream. You turn around to see the man's son, holding a golf club in his hand, his face distraught.

The man takes a swing at you, which you narrowly dodge. You drop your knife and raise your hands. "Wait, you need to understand. That m-"

The second sing hits and it knocks you to the ground. He delivers a third swing to your head, you can feel some blood trickling down your face. You manage to grab your knife and slash at your attacker's leg. You attempt to run away, but he tackles you back down to the ground and begins punching your face. Without thinking you take your knife and jab it into his throat. The son falls on top of you. You push his body off of yours, and let your blade fall to the ground. You don't know how long you spend lying there.

You've killed dozens of people. You always had a reason to do so.

'He was going to kill you, you had no choice but to take his life,' you tell yourself. But you know that isn't entirely true. That man would still be alive if you hadn't come here tonight.

You sit up, and your brown eyes make contact with a pair of green eyes. The curly haired girl is standing in the doorway. She quickly runs away. You get up, and you run into the other direction, barging out of the house, out of the town. You don't even notice you left your knife on the floor. You just keep running, until you finally pause to take a breath in the woods.

What have you done? You have no idea how much that girl had seen. You hear voices and footsteps. No doubt an angry mob of townsfolk on their way to avenge their leader and his son. You take off, and eventually make your way back to the base you call a home.

You look into a mirror. Your covered in blood, some of it's yours, most of it isn't. You stay in the shower for long after it's all washed away. You still feel dirty.

You sell off most of your gear. Spend most of the money you made on getting a new identity and move nearly three states away.

You get a job as a self-defence coach. Maybe something good can come out of those years you wasted training. It's through that you meet your husband. You don't think you deserve it. The love. You confess everything, expecting him to go to the police. He says he understands, and he reassures you that you aren't that person anymore. You don't believe him. You eventually have children, twins. They're the light of your life. You try to teach them kindness, to let go of grudges instead of seeking retribution.

You still have trouble sleeping. You still see those green eyes when you close your eyes, but now they belong to a young girl.

You wake up from a nightmare. You quietly get out of bed, making sure not to wake your husband. You make your way to then kitchen for a glass of water, looking at the various family photos you've taken over then past two decades as you walk down the stairs. Once you reach the living room you pause. There's an open window. You definitely remembered closing it earlier.

Looking around the room, you notice your son left his guitar lying around. You mentally note to buy him a new one as you grab it and hold it like a weapon. Cautiously, you walk up to the window. Looking down, you see footprints in the snow leading towards it. You barely have time to process when something hits you in the head.

When you come to, you find yourself bound by ropes. It's too dark to tell where you are, but you can see a human figure standing in front of you. They're wearing nothing but black, and are holding a familiar red knife. You look up at their face, and you see a woman, with green eyes and curly hair.

"Do you remember me?" she asks.

When you were a child, a mercenary made you watch as he killed your entire family in front of you. You swore revenge. Decades later, you've finally tracked them down- …only to find they're now a pacifistic geriatric who's beloved by his community.

[famoussharkhairdoknight]

Attitude- Jude Bellingham

Wearning: +18,smut, english is not my first language.

In the tranquility of your home, the atmosphere was tense. You leaned with a mischievous smile on the edge of the kitchen table, watching Jude as he cast a look full of frustration and impatience.

"Do you really think you can get away with it?" he asks, his voice still, but with a hint of defiance in his eyes.

You look at him innocently, even though inside you knew what you were doing. "I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jude," you reply, crossing your arms with a smirk that you knew would provoke him even more.

Jude steps towards you, his eyebrows slightly raised, and lets out a long sigh. "Don’t be smart," she says in a low tone, "You know perfectly well that your attitude today is... well, irritating."

You lean slightly towards him, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, really? What’s so annoying?" You ask him, the gently provocative tone.

Jude shakes his head, approaching until you are face to face. "You know what I mean. You keep making jokes, ignoring me when I try to talk seriously. You’ve been all day... unbearable," he says, the tone now almost exasperated.

You smile impertinent, feeling the adrenaline go up. "Maybe I like to see you like this," he whispers with a smile, knowing that those words would trigger him.

Jude looks at you intensely for a long moment, then steps back, hands on hips as he tries to keep control. "Don’t you understand how much you’re freaking me out? I can’t do everything, you know?" he says, almost in a whisper full of restrained anger.

At the end, you give in slightly, trying to hide your smug smile. "Maybe I just wanted to get some of your attention," she murmured, looking down.

Jude sighs, shaking his head with an incredulous half smile. "You are impossible..."

With a little smirk of defiance, you approach again, continuing to tease him. "So, Jude, what do you think you’re doing?" Ask him, letting your voice sound sweet but provocative. You know you’re walking a fine line, but you can’t resist the temptation to poke him again.

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if trying to keep calm. Then he looks at you with a look of exasperation and desire. "It’s not enough, is it?" mumbles. "Do you have to keep teasing me?"

"Where else is the fun?" you answer, with a smile that you know makes him crazy.

And without giving you time to react, Jude moves in an instant. His strong hands grab you by the waist, lifting you from the ground. A little jolt escapes you, but the beat of your heart accelerates when its eyes, dark and intense, are a few centimeters from yours.

"You know I can’t stand you when you do that, right?" she whispers in a low tone, her lips close by. Before you can answer, his lips meet yours in a deep, hungry kiss that leaves you breathless.

He holds you tightly in his arms, lifting you up like a feather. Your hands cling to his back as the kiss intensifies, and you feel the energy between you two grow, as if nothing in the world could separate you.

Slowly, she comes off your lips, her breath heavy, while still looking at you with that mix of anger and desire to throw you on the couch.

You try to get up but he blocks you. "No honey I have to make you understand that this attitude is not right".

And there you were lying on the couch, screaming and moaning as Jude made you come with his clever tongue for the fourth time. "Jude please" you whispered to him no longer being able to bear this pleasure but Jude seemed not to care.

"Come on y/n I know you can take two more," she said and then focused back on your weak pussy as she licked it and sucked it like a hungry man.

You tried to pull off but Jude blocked your hips more strongly "try to pull off again and I will keep on until you pass out" threatened you and you moaned as good as he wanted.

You put your hands on her hair to pull them, making both groan as she tapped you in the pussy and made you come for the fifth time. "Fuck Jude" you murmured softly and couldn’t speak anymore while he licked your juices and kept sucking you and eating your pussy.

Jude inserted a finger in while she alternated her licking with her fingers and continued to lick even more and you screamed and jumped carrying your pussy more into his mouth. You started screaming when you felt how Jude’s tongue was working on you and you felt too much pleasure.

"You say you’re sorry for how you behaved and I stop it" she said again with her mouth glued to your pussy and you moaned while feeling the vibrations. "Sorry I didn’t mean to act bad" you said crying feeling another orgasm coming.

"I promise I’ll be a good girl" you continued. Jude pulled your mouth off your pussy and smiled as he slapped your pussy and chuckled at how wet it was. "Jude please" you said to him as he kept making you moan with slaps on your pussy.

He put his tongue back in your pussy and you squirted it on his face and he chuckled satisfied while he had his face dirty with your juices and licked them then moaning. "So sweet, darling," she said as she looked at you.

[unhingedangstaddict]

It seems a lot of people are looking for a distraction right now so here's me trying to do my part. I don't have a name for this WIP yet but I have posted a few other scenes from this WIP already (this post and this post ).

Buck packed their bags while Tommy called the San Francisco Police Department's number on the business card that had been left. He learned that his sister, Cassandra and brother-in-law, Marcus were hit by a drunk driver who’d run a red light at a high speed. San Francisco PD explained they hadn’t been able to locate Avery (Tommy's niece) but that they’d sent officers to notify Dylan (Tommy's nephew), and Marcus’ best friend and secondary emergency contact after Cassandra.

Tommy and Buck took Tommy’s truck, yet Buck was driving. Tommy wasn’t in the right headspace for it and had calls to make anyway. He started with Dylan.

“Uncle Tommy,” Dylan sounded relieved as he answered the phone. “Did you hear-”

“Yeah, D, I- I heard.” Tommy confirmed.

“I haven’t been able to get a hold of Avery,” Dylan started.

“I did, sort of. She’s sleeping hard at a friend’s after a softball game. I spoke with the friend’s mom, they’ll keep her there until I can get to San Fran.” Tommy explained. “She doesn’t know yet, I figure it’ll be better coming from one of us.”

“I’m trying to find a flight but they’re freaking expensive, why are all these damn flights so freaking expensive?” Dylan huffed, he sounded like he was spiraling and on the verge of tears.

“Hey, hey- just take a breath.” Tommy instructed. Dylan had a lot to worry about right now, but not having money for a flight was not one of them. Tommy hadn't expected Dylan to have that kind of cash just laying around being a university student. “I’ll send you some money, just get the first flight you can, okay?”

“Okay.” Dylan let out a shaky breath. “You on your way to San Fran now?”

Tommy put the phone on speaker so he could send Dylan the money. “Yeah, yeah I am. I’m sending the money now. Send me your flight details as soon as you have them, okay?”

“Yeah, I will.”

Tommy didn’t talk with Dylan much longer, as Dylan needed to pack a bag and get to the airport.

“He’s probably so scared.” Buck frowned. He knew this was hard on Tommy but he had to imagine it was much, much harder for Dylan.

“No doubt.” Tommy agreed.

“Should- do you think someone’s contacted your father?” Buck asked as carefully as he could. He knew Thomas Kinard Sr was not a great father or grandfather to say the least, but he still should be made aware of what was happening.

“I’ll call him later. Him knowing now or later won't make any difference and he’s probably asleep right now and if someone wakes him up he’ll still be drunk and he’ll be pissed. Noon will probably be the best time to call, he’ll be awake and he’ll have a drink or two in him, but he won’t be shitfaced yet.”

Buck just nodded in understanding, and kept his focus on driving.

The timing worked out that it made the most sense to pick up Dylan from the airport before going to collect Avery. Buck and Tommy waited for him at his arrival gate, and soon he approached them. Dylan was about lanky, about 5’10, with short curly reddish brown hair, blue eyes, and freckles. He looked exhausted and lost as he silently approached his uncle and hugged him tightly.

“I got you.” Tommy told Dylan as he wrapped his arms around his nephew and held him close.

Eventually Dylan pulled away. “Hi Buck.” he said politely, then looked at Tommy. “Still gotta get Avery, right?” He guessed.

“Yeah.” Tommy confirmed. “We should get going.”

Tommy drove them from the airport to Avery’s friend’s house and soon they were parked in front of the house.

“She’s gonna know something is wrong the moment she sees either one of us.” Dylan pointed out. “I should be in Intro to Algorithms right now and you should be, doing whatever you’d be going at eleven in the morning on a Tuesday.”

“I know.” Tommy sighed. “I’m gonna go up to the door and get her, then once she’s in the truck we- we’ll break the news.” He told Dylan, then got out and went up to the house. He rang the bell and patiently waited.

Soon the door was answered by a middle aged woman who must’ve been Madison’s mom. “You must be Avery’s uncle.”

“Yes.” Tommy nodded.

The woman nodded. “I’ll grab her, she’s ready to go.” She promised and disappeared further into the house.

After a moment Avery came into view. Avery was 5’6 with an athletic build, and the same reddish brown colored hair as her brother, though her hair didn’t have the same curl her brother’s did. She had the same blue eyes as him though, and more freckles than Dylan. “Uncle Tommy?” She frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ll explain in a moment. We should get going, there’s some people waiting in the car.”

“Okay.” Avery said slowly. She turned to her friend and said goodbye, grabbed her bag, and followed Tommy out to his truck. She opened the back passenger side door and saw her brother. “Dylan?”

“Hey Aves.” Dylan tried to sound upbeat but didn’t quite hit the mark.

“You look like shit.” Avery told her brother as she handed him her bag and climbed into the truck.

“Thanks.” Dylan said sarcastically as he shoved her bag on the floor between their feet.

“Okay, now will someone tell me what is going on? Where’s mum and dad?”

“Avery, they um,” Dylan started, but was having a hard time continuing.

“There was an accident last night. They were hit by a drunk driver.” Tommy continued.

“No. No you’re lying.�� Avery shook her head.

“They’re gone, Avery. They didn’t make it.” Dylan explained.

“And you guys kept it from me?” Avery seemed upset by this.

“Was I supposed to send a text, hey Aves we’re orphans now?” Dylan asked incredulously.

“You should’ve told me! You kept it from me for- well long enough for the two of you to get here.” Avery argued.

“We wanted to be with you, when you found out.” Tommy explained calmly.

“This isn’t happening.” Avery muttered and put her head in her hands.

Tommy looked helplessly at Dylan, then at Evan.

All Buck could do was take Tommy’s hand and try to offer some silent comfort. He had a feeling he’d be doing that a lot the next little while.

If anyone wants to read more lmk I've got a bunch of this story written and I'm happy to share if someone needs something to take their mind off other things for a little bit

[betweensnores]

Dissonance

A/N: My first post! I wanted to create an MC-centric drabble about her emotions after the incident and also the what ifs of her being able to remember bits of her past life, like how would it affect her now? Also this is my first fic for a while, and English is not my first language so expect errors lol TW: None that I know of, MC is grieving. Mentions of death. Unedited and posted via mobile. Might be ooc in some parts but most are canon compliant hehe

Grief embraced me coldly. It stuck with me like moth to a flame. 

The sterile scent of Akso Hospital did not help in calming my nerves. I sunk further into my seat, trying to make myself smaller as I held my patient file close to me. The only comfort that the regular Hunter checkups brought me was not about getting normal results – it was the gentle demeanor and the still, inscrutable nature of Zayne. 

I know of his fondness for me. This Zayne. And the previous one. And the one before him. And eventually, the Zayne that will come after him. 

The memories of my soul came to me in dreams after meeting the crimson-eyed man who ruled the N109 Zone. 

In a deep slumber a day after coming back to Linkon City, I saw a man donning a blue robe with intricate details. He was holding a staff. In the dream, I see his mouth was moving, but I did not understand what he was saying. I could only understand the tugging of my heartstrings as soon as I realized the face that this man has was Zayne’s. 

That was the first, and it did not stop there. Night after night, my soul showed me memories I did not make myself — rather, it was the previous me, in varying timelines. With the same men. With the same fates. The moment I understood what the dreams were was the moment my grief was solidified. 

It felt like the sky fell on me, with the clouds purposely suffocating my senses and the stars scraping the skin of my back. 

Before I could drown in my despair any longer, my name was called.

Zayne’s office did not change, save for the multiple files that never seemed to dwindle on his desk. 

“Looks like someone is keen on following the regular check-in schedule this time.” He says without looking at me, typing away at his keyboard. The results were all normal, I was told. I looked at his hands, distracted — at the old and the new scars that decorated his skin. Hands that saved countless lives and will save many more.

“I had to, it was the only sense of normalcy I have in my life at the moment.” I meant to say it to lighten up the mood, but Zayne brought his attention to me with a soft look on his face. He knew of the baggage I carried, of Grandma and Caleb, of the incident back at home and of the files Grandma left about the Aether Core. 

“I have a free hour after this, let’s have something to eat together.” He begins placing the files back into the folder. Thank you, I wanted to say. Instead, I smiled at him. It reached my eyes for the first time today. 

The air conditioning at the Association’s office beat down harshly on my skin. I wrapped the fleece blanket I brought with me to work this morning, thankful that I had not forgotten to bring it. “So,” I started, glancing sideways at my mission partner, Xavier, who sat next to me. He leaned back on the office chair, arms crossed. Any minute now I know he would fall asleep. 

“That Wanderer, can you describe it to me again?” I can finish the mission report on my own. Usually, after missions, I let him dose off while I typed away our analysis. But somehow, today, I cannot seem to gather my thoughts, the words failing to leave from the back of my mind and form coherent and decent sentences to properly convey what happened to our mission. 

I felt his eyes on me. Guilt gnawed on my chest, eating away at my nerves. My skin felt colder than before. I also know of him, of the blonde man who wanted to save those he held dear. Eyes bluest of blue. 

He took one of the takeout coffee cups, choosing to remove the lid and brought it to his lips. The air smelled of it, my senses welcoming the scent. I once again jammed the ‘backspace’ key repeatedly. I did not notice I was typing gibberish. 

I hear him re-tell his observations to me, ever so calm and collected, in a voice that belonged to a prince. My soul’s memories showed me of a star tassel, of a distant planet, his home, and a queen who awaited for his return.

I see him reach to me in my peripheral vision, and my body involuntary jolts just before his fingers touched my shoulder. “Your blanket fell off. I was going to fix it for you. Sorry.” He huffed out a small laugh, amused at my reaction. It was a pleasant sound. 

His newest art stood tall against the light of the sunset. His studio gave the best views at this time of the day. 

Rafayel, who was sifting through his brushes, looked up to see me come through the door. He shot me a relaxed smile, a few streaks of paint graced his skin beautifully. 

“Hi,” I say, placing my bag down as I approached him. “Just checking in on you, don’t want Thomas to blow up my phone if I don’t give him an update today.” I managed to chuckle. “He wants me to take a photo of you as proof of life.” 

He grinned at that statement, standing up to his full height. “Well, let’s not keep him waiting then.”

My smile did not leave my face, shaking my head as I pulled out my phone to take a quick photo. I see him pose through my phone’s camera. He is captivating. I sent it to Thomas, feeling Rafayel look over my shoulder to see. 

“Done.” I looked up to see him already gazing at me, my breath caught in my throat at the closeness. I felt my ears getting hot. I hope he doesn’t notice, I think. But nothing gets past him — He let out a small, silent laugh. His massive studio suddenly feels cramped.

“I ordered some donuts for a change, that famous bakery launched new flavors today.” Thankful for the diversion, I followed him to the kitchen. 

“Help me eat them, Miss Bodyguard.” Two boxes lay on the pristine countertop. I hear him talk more as I help prepare our refreshments. 

His was a story of a being stripped of his divinity. I knew of the complex emotions he felt towards me. The memories in my dreams showed me, albeit doing nothing but hurt and remind me of my mortality. If I was him, I would feel that way too. Maybe even think of leaving it all behind and start anew with somebody else.

I feel the same guilt from earlier today while I listen to him. Every lilt of his voice, every syllable he spoke — He’s happy I came by today, I thought to myself. I sat down. We talked about our day, his new collaboration with a famous brand, my discoveries during my mission, the upcoming Linkon City events, and more. 

During the lull in our conversation, I absentmindedly fiddle with Caleb’s necklace. I began carrying it with me shortly after the incident, wanting to keep a part of them with me at all times. The material was cold on my fingertips. 

I can feel Rafayel’s watchful gaze. “You know you’re always welcome to my studio, right?” You don’t need to keep it all to yourself.

“I know.” 

The uncrowned king of N109 Zone is full of surprises. At exactly 10 PM, he appeared on my doorstep. 

I had exchanged messages with him earlier today that I would not be able to visit him. My day was long and my thoughts are plaguing me more than I care to admit. They are like flies and I, the corpse.

He made himself welcome in my home. I watched him lazily as I lounged on the couch, a half eaten biscuit lay forgotten on the coffee table after my shower. 

“You smell nice.” He jests, eyeing my damp hair and the pajamas. My eyes stared at the takeout box he was holding. I pointed at it. 

“Our dinner.” He casually says. I made space so he can sit comfortably. Our thighs are  pressed against each other. You feel warm, I wanted to tell him. It’s nice to stay like this. 

I thanked him, and indulged myself with the food that he brought. We ate in comfortable silence. I steal glances at him. He was wearing his gray sweatshirt today. He looks bewitching, his presence a hypnotizing sensation that I allow myself to get pulled into. 

“Mephisto says you cried today,” He muttered. It was out of character for him. He always spoke so surely. The head of Onychinus is a force to be reckoned with, but the man next to me is just a man with melancholic feelings. 

“Ah, the bird snitches on me.” I reply, laughing a little. He seems to choose his next words carefully. “No one can tell you how you should feel, not even me. I’m just here to remind you that you are free to come and go from the N109 Zone, you will not be hurt. I’ll make sure of it.” 

I don’t know what to make of his expression. All I know is that wherever I go — if Sylus is with me, I am safe. 

The dreams about him hasn’t come yet. I dread the moment that my soul will reveal what I was to him. What I did to him. The vision I saw when we first met was a snippet of what could have possibly happened. But the blood that has tainted my skin, is blood that my soul will carry. 

I look at him with silent gratitude. I lean over and let my forehead touch his shoulder. I fear for the worst.

[sheerfreesia007]

Little Bit of Time

Pairing: Hyunjin x Reader

Word count: 2,646

Content warnings: Fluff

Summary: Hyunjin unknowingly steals a promotion from you that you’ve been working towards for years and it causes your new friendship to sour slightly as you try to come to terms with being passed over for the promotion. What happens when he tries to get back into your good graces with the help of his shiny motorcycle?

“So did you see the new episode yet?” Asked Vicki as she walked out of the office building with you towards the parking lot where you both parked. It was the end of another busy workday and you were eager to get home so that you could relax and catch up on your shows before heading to bed.

”No, but I have it saved on my DVR. Going to hopefully catch up tonight once I get home.” You tell her as you hike up your messenger bag onto your shoulder. You both walked along the courtyard in front of your office building before she giggled brightly causing you to look at her confused before noticing she was looking towards the parking lot. Turning your head to the parking lot you groaned loudly and she giggled loudly again as the sound of a motorcycle engine rang out in the parking lot.

Hwang Hyunjin straddled his motorcycle with a seductive smirk on his face as he watched and Vicki walk towards the parking lot. He sat there dressed in his button up charcoal gray shirt with his blood red tie loosened around his neck while a pair of black dress pants hugged his lower half perfectly. He leaned forward on his motorcycle as if he was lounging in his bed and smirks softly at you as his eyes follow you.

Rolling your eyes you sigh softly, he couldn’t just let you have a day without crossing your path. Hwang Hyunjin was a gorgeous human and he knew it, but while you found him utterly ethereal there was one sole reason for you not to be happy to see him right now.

You had been working at the company for at least two years before he was hired on in the same department as you about three months ago. You had been on the fast track for manager and had been toiling away trying to show your supervisors that you were ready for the promotion and that you would be a perfect fit. And while when Hyunjin had first started in your department you had befriended the man and would often help him out with anything he didn’t understand or was struggling with. You had become fast friends but soon you noticed your supervisors began to favor him and ultimately chose him as the new manager when the position became available.

Ever since the announcement had come out two weeks ago that Hyunjin had been chosen for the manager position you had pulled away from the gorgeous man and now he was your new manager. It made you so angry that your supervisors had chosen him over you and he was so knowledgeable because you had helped him along the way! Every time you had to interact with him at work now always seemed to enrage you and sadden you. It was like you were being pulled in two different directions at the same time and it was starting to drag your mood down each day.

”You ladies need a ride home?” Hyunjin called out friendly and you scoffed softly as Vicki giggled softly before shaking her head.

”No thanks, Hyunjin. I drove today. But maybe she does?” She suggested as she waved her hand at you causing you to scowl darkly at her.

”Yeah? Need a ride home?” He asked hopefully as he leaned further across his bike to get closer to you. “I could give you a lift.” He said eagerly before he patted the seat of his motorcycle. Your eyes followed his hand movement and you frowned softly at it, you weren’t very keen on motorcycles preferring to be in a car or a bus. Motorcycles make you nervous. You were always worried about the riders falling off their bikes or skidding along the pavement.

”No thanks, I’m gonna take the bus.” You said dismissively as you waved your hand. Hyunjin’s hopeful look fell suddenly from his face and he looked at you dejectedly.

”My bike would be quicker than the bus.” He offered and you shook your head again.

���No thanks.” You said as you walked around his bike and him as he pouted softly at you. Suddenly he reached out and grabbed onto your wrist tugging you back towards him and you turned to scowl at him.

”I swear I didn’t purposely try going for the manager position.” He said softly to you and you looked up at him surprised as your mouth hung open slightly. “I was just trying to make friends and learn the ropes of the job from you. But when they offered me the position I couldn’t pass it up, especially with the pay upgrade.” He said honestly and you furrowed your eyebrows at him before you sighed softly at his reasoning. You understood it completely but it still stung you when he was chosen for the position over you when he had only been working there for a few months in comparison to your years of hard work.

”I get it. It still hurts though.” You told him softly. “Just give me some time to get over the hurt. I had been working for that position for two years and they chose you after only a few months. It’s frustrating and disheartening.” You told him honestly and he nodded his head at your words.

”I know, I’m sorry.” He said softly and you smiled bitter sweetly as you nodded your head at him.

”I gotta get going, the bus will be here soon.” You told him and he nodded quickly before letting go of your hand.

”I could still give you a ride.” He suggested and you shook your head.

”Bikes make me nervous. I’ll stick to the bus.” You told him honestly and he looked at you quietly before tilting his head at you with a curious look on his face. “What?” You asked cautiously.

”Just never pegged you as someone to be afraid of anything.” He said with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

”I’m not afraid.” You insisted and he smirked softly at you teasingly. “I’m not. I just don’t trust them.” You told him haughtily and he chuckled softly before leaning towards you with a seductive smirk on his face.

”It’s not the bike you should trust but the rider.” He said softly and you gasped quietly as your head whipped up to stare into his eyes. “You better run, I think your bus is pulling up.” He teased softly and you quickly turned to see that your bus was slowly pulling up to the bus stop. You cursed softly and began racing for the bus as Hyunjin chuckled softly behind you.

Thankfully you had managed to catch the bus in time and as you sat down in a seat you silently watched out the window as Hyunjin waved at the bus before putting his helmet on and starting his bike and riding off. You sighed quietly to yourself knowing that it wouldn’t take you long to get over the sting of being looked over for the promotion; it would just take you a little bit to get used to.

*-*-*-*

The next week Hyunjin steps into his new role as manager and you’re tasked with being the lead on a new project for the department. The two of you have to work closely together since he’s the manager overseeing the project while you’re the lead and have to report to him. You hug your binder to your chest as you walk over to Hyunjin’s office and knock on his closed door.

”Come in!” He calls out and you slowly open the door to peek inside at him.

”Do you have a moment to go over the project? We found a slight issue with the coding on one of the programs and I.T. Is giving us a hard time about getting it fixed.” You advised and he nodded his head beaconing you forward. As you waited for him to review the binder you looked around his office noticing that he still hadn’t gotten all of his decorations up. The office was spacious but not too big, just the right size with some large windows that brightened up the room. It made you slightly envious as you sighed softly as your hurt rose up inside you once more.

“Alright, let me talk to the manager over I.T. And I’ll see what I can do.” He said easily and you nodded your head as you turned to look at him.

”Thanks boss.” You said before walking out of his office not catching the soft frown on his face.

*-*-*-*

The week after that is the presentation for the project to upper management and you’re a nervous wreck. You’re sitting in a chair around a large conference room table with Hyunjin sitting next to you. Suddenly you feel a hand slip over yours underneath the table and you look down at it before looking up at Hyunjin with wide confused eyes.

”You’re going to do great. You know this project inside and out. Don’t worry about anything and just explain the project to them.” He said softly as he leaned over towards you. You sucked in a soft breath and nodded your head at his words feeling your confidence rise with a boost.

With just his simple reassuring words you were able to successfully present the project to upper management and had done so well that they had agreed to accept the project as is and move along with it on the spot. You had been shocked that they agreed with the project and accepted it so easily but as you turned to stare at Hyunjin he had a wide pleased smile on his face as he stared back at you with soft knowing eyes.

*-*-*-*

That night as you’re cleaning up your desk space Hyunjin walks out of his office and notices you are still in the office. You don’t notice him coming up behind you until he’s right by your side and you’re jerking back away from him in surprise.

”Geeze, you scared the life outta me.” You tell him as you press a hand to your chest as you feel your heart racing from the fright.

”Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He said softly as he watched you continue to clean up your desk. “What are you still doing here? It’s late.” He asked curiously and you smiled softly at his concern. No matter that he was now your manager there was still the friendship you had built together, it was like a flowing river between the two of you.

”I had some to take care of tasks that I had to set aside while working on the project. I was lucky to be able to get them done.” You explained and he nodded his head at your words.

”The bus won’t run this late will it?” He asked softly and you shook your head as a soft smile slipped onto your lips.

”I’m going to call a cab to take me home. Don’t worry.” You told him and he stared at you silently for a moment.

”Or…” he began to say and you looked up at him with a furrowed eyebrow. “I could drive you home.” He suggested gently and you frowned softly at his suggestion.

”On your bike.” You said uneasily and he nodded his head quickly as his eyes sparkled with hope.

”I swear I’ll be extra careful with you behind me. You can hold onto me as tight as you need to. I won’t speed.” He began to rush out quickly and you frowned softly as you crossed your arms over your chest as you regarded him quietly. You were still uneasy about bikes but with the way Hyunjin was trying to reassure you that it would be okay and that it would be safe made you want to trust him. Taking in a deep breath you looked up at him for a moment as he stood there staring down at you.

”You promise to be extra careful?” You ask softly and he quickly nodded his head in reassurance.

”Yes, absolutely.” He said just as softly as he tried to curb his excitement at driving you home.

”Alright, fine. But this won’t be a habit.” You tell him firmly and he nods his head quickly at your words.

”Of course not.” He says before quickly grabbing your hand and walking you out of the building to the parking lot where he had parked his bike. He grabbed one of the helmets that he had strapped to his bike and placed it on your head before buckling it underneath your chin securely. He grinned happily as he tapped it a few times making you cry out as you batted his hands away causing him to chuckle happily at your antics. You watched as he put his own helmet on and secured it under his chin before he swung his leg over the bike and straddled it. “C’mon, hop on behind me.” He told you as he waited for you to climb on behind him.

You slowly swung your leg over the bike making sure not to hit him accidentally before you too straddled the bike but with a little bit of a struggle. The bike was large underneath you and your legs weren’t as long as Hyunjin’s so you had a slightly more difficult time straddling the bike. But as he directed you on where to place your feet you soon were settled on the bike and he slid back towards you until your front was flush to his back causing you to blush lightly at the contact. You then wrapped around arms around his waist and settled your cheek against his back.

When he started the engine you wrapped your arms tighter against his waist and heard him chuckle softly before he patted your hands gently. He then began to ease the bike out of the parking spot before slowly driving around the empty lot a few times before exiting out on the main road. You sighed softly thankful that he had driven around the parking lot allowing you to get used to the feel of the bike before getting onto the road. 

As you both drove along the roads you kept your eyes partially closed still feeling uneasy and nervous on the bike. But soon your eyes began to open as you felt the cooler air rushing around both you and Hyunjin. It woke you up and made you feel as if you were racing along the road even though he was driving at a slower speed like he had promised. You even began to take in the lights of the city as they rushed past you and you couldn’t help but admire the pretty picture they made.

You cuddled closer to Hyunjin’s back and slowly began to relax against him as you got used to his driving and his bike underneath you. One of Hyunjin’s hands came to rest over yours gently as he pulled up to a red light and you hummed softly along with the purr of his engine.

”So do you trust the rider more now?” He asked teasingly over his shoulder and you laughed softly at his question.

”I’m starting to.” You answered cheekily and he flicked the top of your hand causing you to laugh loudly in the nighttime air.

”I’ll take it for now. Eventually I’ll get you to completely trust me.” He teased back and you hummed softly as you rested your cheek against his back once again as he began to drive through the green light. Your eyes eagerly took in the lights of the city as he drove you home knowing that eventually you would come to trust him completely. It would just take a little bit of time.

SKZ Taglist: @intartaruginha, @kayleefriedchicken, @babigriin, @simpforleeknaur, @inlovewithstraykids

[orangepeelshortbreadcookies]

Unpopular Opinion: It could be good that the Crabtrees not show up in the show

Allow me to make my case in bullet points:

I understand their comic relief role in the book. However, I don't believe their brand of comedy is necessary in the show. Why? Because we already have Luke Thompson, the comedic genius, that's why. Let him do his thing.

There are ENOUGH characters. We don't need to conjure yet another storyline vying for attention within the already crammed 8 episodes. It's better, to me at least, to enhance the intimacy at My Cottage instead of watering it down.

Their absence would give Benophie the whole house to themselves. More Benophie screentime, them be alone together, unchaperoned, which is what we want. Sophie will be allowed, for the first time in her life, a place where she can breathe, relax and just be herself, without anyone reminding her to remember her station. It would strengthen her attachment to My Cottage, how quickly she can find herself at home there. And without a moderator to uphold the status quo, it would just be so much harder for both Benedict and Sophie to maintain behind their class barriers.

No Mrs. Crabtree means no woman's clothes, meaning Sophie would have no choice but to walk around My Cottage drowning in Benedict's baggy shirtsleeves and trousers. The entire time. Admittedly, this one is for me personally, but I don't think I need to elaborate on the delicious potential this would bring.

That speech Sophie gave Mrs. Crabtree about being unsure of her standing in the world and her insights into social conventions? Let her give that to BENEDICT. Let him process that. Let him grapple with learning this astute observation from her and how to reconcile it with his growing attraction to Sophie. Let him spiral. Now why wouldn't you want to see Benedict spiral?

Benedict has the opportunity to become the Bridgerton who knows how to operate a stove. Sophie teaches him how to brew his own tea. He eagerly aids her as she cooks, carefully collecting the bits and pieces that she reveals about herself. He makes her laugh with his earnest novice behaviour. The first time he touches her chin (he does that a lot in AOFAG, it's insane how cute that is), is to wipe away a smudge of soot or flour that lingers on her skin, etc...

The casual comfort and intimacy at My Cottage would give way to whiplash effect with sharper contrast when they return to haughty Mayfair without the presence of another downstairs-couple beforehand to soften the blow. The constraints of high society descending upon them literally the second they set foot in the city, customs both know they're required to acquiesce yet neither can bear to comply. The harsh realisation of their class disparity being brought into painfully glaring focus, visually. Can you just taste the angst??

In conclusion, if the Crabtrees are already cast, it'd be fine. But if they aren't, I'd prefer the show keep it that way

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

Possession: a Jey Uso x Rhea Ripley x Jimmy Uso fanfic.

Chapter 4: I’m a survivor..

Jimmy held Rhea close, feeling the way her body shook with each quiet sob. He hated seeing her like this—vulnerable, raw, breaking. And he hated Jey even more for being the reason behind it. His hands instinctively tightened around her, a fierce protectiveness rising in his chest, a silent vow that he’d never let anyone hurt her like this again.

“Let him cool off,” Jimmy murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head. “He’ll talk when he’s ready. Right now, you need to take care of yourself.”

Rhea nodded slowly, her face buried in his shoulder, absorbing his warmth and steady presence. His words were like an anchor, grounding her amidst the whirlwind of emotions tearing her apart inside. She took a shaky breath, finally starting to feel a bit of calm wash over her.

After a few minutes, she gently pulled away, her fingers brushing away the tear stains from her cheeks. She gave him a small, grateful smile, though it was laced with exhaustion. Without a word, she reached for their gear, gathering up her bag and his as well.

“Let’s get back to the hotel,” she murmured, her voice still thick with emotion but steadier now.

Jimmy nodded, watching her carefully, making sure she was okay to walk. As they made their way out of the locker room and down the quiet hallway, he stayed close, his hand resting protectively on the small of her back, guiding her gently.

The car ride to the hotel was mostly silent, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Rhea appreciated Jimmy’s presence, the way he didn’t push her to talk or demand answers. He just stayed by her side, a quiet pillar of strength, making her feel safe.

Once they arrived at the hotel, Rhea fumbled with the keycard before finally opening the door. The room was dim, shadows stretching across the floor from the muted streetlights outside. She dropped their bags by the bed, her shoulders sagging with the weight of everything she’d been carrying all day.

Jimmy closed the door behind them and watched her for a moment. She looked small, vulnerable, like the weight of the world was pressing down on her. He hated seeing her like this, and the anger he felt toward Jey for causing her this pain flared again.

“You don’t deserve this, you know?” Jimmy said softly, breaking the silence. “You shouldn’t have to feel guilty for wanting your own happiness.”

Rhea looked up at him, her expression weary but touched by his words. “I just… I never wanted any of this to happen. I wanted to make it work with Jey, to be there for him, but… now everything’s so messed up.”

Jimmy moved closer, gently reaching for her hand. He didn’t say anything, but his touch said everything. It was steady, warm, grounding. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, a quiet promise that she wasn’t alone in this.

“Rhea, you don’t have to carry this all by yourself,” he murmured. “You’ve got me here. I’ll stay with you, no matter what happens with Jey. You’re not alone.”

Her lips trembled as she looked at him, and for a moment, she felt her walls start to crumble again. She nodded, her hand squeezing his, drawing strength from his presence. Jimmy’s gaze was intense, but it was soft, understanding. There was a depth in his eyes that told her he meant every word.

Without another thought, she leaned into him, letting him wrap his arms around her once more. In his embrace, the weight on her shoulders felt a little lighter, the ache in her heart a little duller. She took a deep, steadying breath, letting herself savor the comfort he offered.

“Thank you, Jon..” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “For everything.”

Jimmy just held her tighter, his arms a cocoon of warmth and safety around her. For that moment, it was enough to just be there, together, sharing the silence and the solace it brought.

—

After Jimmy finished his shower, he stepped out into the dimly lit hotel room, towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water still clinging to his skin. The air was thick with unspoken emotions, the tension between them lingering even now, quiet but palpable.

Rhea lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, the events of the day playing over and over in her mind like a film she couldn’t turn off. Her alarm was already set for the PLE tomorrow, but sleep felt like an impossibility. She couldn’t shake the ache left by her fight with Jey, the emptiness gnawing at her, an endless void she yearned to fill with something real, something comforting.

As she heard Jimmy step out of the bathroom, she sat up, her eyes finding him in the soft light. “Jon?” she called out, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jimmy stopped, his gaze shifting toward her, the sound of his real name falling from her lips catching him off guard. She was reaching out to him, not just his stage persona, and that single word grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“What’s up?” he asked, his voice soft as he crossed the room, towel still wrapped around his waist.

Rhea’s gaze met his, vulnerable and pleading. “Can… can you sleep with me? I just… I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Jimmy’s heart skipped, but he didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he replied gently.

He slipped into the bed beside her, careful with each movement as he lay down. The space felt warmer, more intimate with him there. Rhea shifted closer, her eyes searching his, and she asked quietly, “Can you hold me?”

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, his hand resting against her back as he cradled her to his chest. Her head nestled against him, and he could feel her breath, slow and deep, her body melting into his.

“Hold me tighter,” she murmured, her voice laced with a mixture of desperation and trust.

Jimmy obliged, pulling her even closer, the warmth of her body pressing against his bare chest, stirring something deep within him. His breath caught as he became acutely aware of the intimacy, his possessiveness surfacing, tugging at him in ways he wasn’t sure he could control.

She was soft against him, vulnerable, and all he wanted to do was protect her, to shield her from anything and everything that could hurt her. His fingers traced small circles along her back, a comforting gesture that somehow made him feel even more connected to her.

“Don’t let me go, please,” she whispered, her voice trembling, the last of her walls crumbling as she clung to him.

Jimmy tightened his hold, his arms firm and steady around her. “I’m not going anywhere, Rhea,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve got you. I promise.”

In that moment, all the complexities, the tangled emotions between them, faded away. There was no past, no future—only the here and now, only the two of them finding solace in each other. Jimmy’s hand slid up, cradling the back of her head as she relaxed against him, her breathing gradually slowing as she found peace in his embrace.

He felt her body relax, her breathing syncing with his, and his heart ached with an intensity he hadn’t expected. It was more than just possessiveness—it was a fierce need to be hers, to be the one she could rely on, even if only for this moment.

The room fell into silence, broken only by the soft rhythm of their breaths. Jimmy’s fingers traced her hair, his thumb brushing against her shoulder as he held her tighter, grounding himself in the warmth of her presence.

And for the first time in a long time, Rhea felt safe. She closed her eyes, drifting into a peaceful sleep, wrapped in the arms of the one person who, tonight, was exactly what she needed.

—

The morning light filtered through the hotel room curtains, casting a soft glow across the bed. Rhea reached over, groggy, and silenced her alarm. As her fingers brushed against her phone, she paused, aware of the warmth next to her—the steady, comforting presence she had shared the night with. She didn’t feel the jolt of shock or panic like she did the first time. Instead, a sense of calm settled over her.

She shifted slightly, and Jimmy’s arms instinctively tightened around her, pulling her closer. His hand rested on her lower back, fingers tracing gentle circles against her skin, soothing and grounding her. The intimacy of the moment felt so natural, yet now, in the light of morning, she couldn’t help but wonder if it had become something… more.

Her gaze drifted down, her hand trailing along the strong, defined lines of Jimmy’s chest, taking in the intricate Samoan tattoos that adorned his skin. The inked patterns seemed to come alive in the soft sunlight, highlighting the strength and heritage he carried with pride. Her fingers traced over them lightly, almost reverently, the quiet admiration stirring a warmth in her chest.

As if sensing her gaze, Jimmy’s eyes slowly opened, meeting hers with a tenderness she hadn’t seen before. His dark eyes held a depth that was both familiar and foreign to her. It was as if she was seeing a different side of him—one that was softer, protective, and filled with something she couldn’t quite name.

Jimmy reached up, his hand gently cupping her face, his thumb brushing softly against her cheek. He studied her, the silence between them filled with unspoken words and lingering tension. “We should get ready,” he murmured, his voice low and rough from sleep, but laced with a warmth that made her heart skip.

Rhea swallowed, her throat suddenly tight, and nodded, unable to trust her voice to respond. She simply looked at him, trying to memorize the way he looked at her, how safe she felt in his arms. She knew they couldn’t linger here forever, wrapped in this fleeting intimacy. But for now, she allowed herself to hold onto the moment, just a little longer.

Slowly, they both pulled themselves from the bed, the quiet spell between them broken but not forgotten. They moved around the room in silence, gathering their things, preparing for the day ahead, the Professionalism they’d mastered over the years slipping back into place. But there was something different now—a quiet understanding, a shared moment that neither of them spoke of but both felt.

As Rhea changed into a hoodie with matching sweats. She gathered her things and stole a glance at Jimmy. He caught her gaze in the mirror, and a faint smile tugged at his lips, a reminder of the comfort they’d shared through the night. In that brief look, she felt a silent promise—a reassurance that whatever came next, he’d be there.

They both knew they’d have to step into their roles as professionals once again, put on the armor that was expected of them in the ring. But beneath that, between them, something had shifted. And while Rhea couldn’t yet name it, she knew it was something she wasn’t ready to let go of.

Jimmy slung his bag over his shoulder and waited for her by the door. As she moved to join him, he gave her a soft, knowing smile. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes—he’d be there, no matter what happened with Jey or anyone else. She returned the smile, grateful for his silent support, and together, they left the room, stepping into the world outside, but not leaving their unspoken connection behind.

—

“Hold still,” Jimmy murmured, his eyes focused as he put the final touches on Rhea’s bandana bandeau. His fingers moved deftly, sewing it securely in place, making sure everything was perfect. Rhea looked down, admiring the unique piece he’d crafted just for her. She wore his black button-up shirt, left unbuttoned, draped casually over her shoulders, giving her look an effortless edge. Beneath it, the bandana bandeau, sewed to perfection, sat proudly against her chest, framed by a black harness that added an extra layer of intensity.

Her purple camo-print cargo pants hugged her hips, her black wrestling boots completing the tough, yet distinctively styled outfit. A fishnet long sleeve peeked out from underneath, adding texture to her look, while purple fingerless gloves adorned her hands, tying the ensemble together with an undeniable fierceness.

“There,” Jimmy said, standing back to admire his work with a satisfied grin. He had dressed himself in black wrestling joggers with Rhea’s face sewn across the legs in a collage of fierce expressions, each patch a testament to the connection they shared. His black muscle T-shirt had “Mami” emblazoned in purple lettering over his heart, a tribute that Rhea couldn’t help but find sweet, even if it sent her mind spiraling with complex emotions.

“Looking good,” he said with a wink, before reaching up to gently adjust her hair. He’d styled it himself, three braids running down the right side of her head, the same way he’d first crafted her “Mami” look. Rhea caught her reflection, seeing the purple eyeshadow she had meticulously applied, and the small heart with “Jimmy” scrawled on her cheek, a final personal touch. It was bold, unmistakable—a message to the world that tonight, they were a unit.

As she took one last look, there was a soft knock on the door. An assistant peeked in, announcing, “You have five minutes before your match starts.”

The two shared a glance, the anticipation settling heavy in the air between them. This was the moment they had worked toward, and despite the confidence they exuded, jitters crept in. But it was a good kind of nervousness, a shared excitement that made them feel alive. Rhea took a steadying breath, feeling the warmth of Jimmy’s hand on her back as they walked down the hallway together, making their way to gorilla.

Just before they reached the staging area, Hunter intercepted them, his expression serious but proud. “Alright, listen up,” he began, his voice low but filled with authority. “This is where we call it. The chemistry, the story… it all leads to tonight.” He gave Rhea a pointed look, adding, “You gotta kiss Jimmy tonight, Rhea. Make it memorable.”

The words hit her like a freight train, but she didn’t flinch. Still stinging from her fight with Jey, her emotions felt raw and complicated, but she pushed them down, nodding at Hunter’s instructions. She was a professional; she would do what was asked of her. She gave a quick glance at Jimmy, who met her eyes with a silent understanding. This was as much about their characters as it was about everything left unsaid between them.

Jimmy’s music hit first, the familiar beat pounding through the arena, vibrating through their bones. He took a deep breath, then turned to Rhea one last time, his hand squeezing hers briefly in a silent promise. “We got this,” he murmured, his voice steady, and then he stepped through the curtain to the roar of the crowd.

Rhea watched him walk out, the adrenaline pulsing through her. She straightened up, adjusting her bandana bandeau one last time, feeling the weight of everything on her shoulders—the storyline, the crowd’s expectations, and the tumultuous emotions she’d been wrestling with all week. But as her music began, she pushed it all aside, letting the rhythm of her entrance fill her senses as she strode out onto the stage with a confidence that made the arena come alive.

—

The arena is buzzing with anticipation as the steel cage is lowered around the ring, setting the stage for the first-ever Mixed Gender Tag Team Title match. The atmosphere is electric, with fans on the edge of their seats, eagerly awaiting the historic showdown.

Michael Cole: “Ladies and gentlemen, history will be made tonight as we crown the first-ever Mixed Gender Tag Team Champions! This Tornado Tag steel cage match will see Rhea Ripley and Jimmy Uso face off against the high-flying Dragon Lee and the unpredictable Zelina Vega.”

Pat McAfee: “This match is stacked, Cole! Both teams have fought tooth and nail to make it to the finals, and tonight in Calgary, it all comes down to who can survive the cage!”

Jimmy Uso’s music hits, and he makes his way down the ramp, a look of fierce determination in his eyes. As he reaches the end of the ramp, he pauses, looking back toward the entrance with a knowing grin.

Suddenly, Rhea Ripley’s music blares through the arena, and she steps out, scanning the crowd before locking eyes with Jimmy. With a burst of energy, she takes off, leaping into Jimmy’s arms in her iconic jump, her legs wrapped around his waist as he catches her. The crowd erupts in cheers as the chemistry between them is undeniable.

Michael Cole: “What a sight! Jimmy and Rhea clearly have some serious chemistry going on here.”

Pat McAfee: “You can say that again, Cole. I don’t know if they’re officially a couple, but they sure look like it tonight! I mean, look at them—they’re on fire!”

Jimmy and Rhea exchange a nod, a silent affirmation of their unity, as they step inside the steel cage, ready for war.

The music shifts as Dragon Lee’s high-energy theme song hits. He sprints down the ramp, stopping at the base of the cage, where he’s quickly joined by Zelina Vega. They exchange a fist bump, their fierce determination matching that of their opponents. With one last glance, they enter the cage, the door slamming shut behind them.

Michael Cole: “Dragon Lee and Zelina Vega are no strangers to big matches, and they bring a unique combination of agility and strategy. This is going to be an explosive clash of styles.”

Pat McAfee: “Absolutely, Cole. This isn’t just any steel cage match—it’s a Tornado Tag, so all four competitors are in there at once. No tags, no breaks, just pure chaos!”

As soon as the bell rings, all four competitors explode into action, each determined to outmaneuver the other. Dragon Lee goes after Jimmy, the two men exchanging rapid punches, while Rhea and Zelina lock up, their intensity palpable.

The crowd is on fire as Jimmy whips Dragon Lee into the cage wall, the impact echoing through the arena. Meanwhile, Rhea tosses Zelina into the corner, following up with a brutal knee to the midsection.

Michael Cole: “This match has started with a bang! Jimmy and Rhea are not holding back at all.”

Pat McAfee: “And why would they, Cole? This is for the first-ever Mixed Gender Tag Titles—this is everything!”

Dragon Lee quickly recovers, using his agility to slip out of Jimmy’s grasp and deliver a spinning kick that sends Jimmy staggering. Rhea, seeing her partner in trouble, rushes toward Dragon Lee, but Zelina intercepts her with a well-placed dropkick.

Michael Cole: “Dragon Lee and Zelina are showing exactly why they’ve made it this far—they’re quick and resourceful!”

Pat McAfee: “Yeah, but Jimmy and Rhea have an undeniable power advantage. Let’s see how that plays out as this match gets more intense!”

The action is unrelenting as all four wrestlers continue to brawl. Dragon Lee ascends the ropes and launches himself off with a crossbody onto Jimmy, but Jimmy rolls through, slamming Dragon into the mat. Zelina attempts to capitalize, jumping onto Rhea’s back and locking in a sleeper hold.

Rhea stumbles, clawing at Zelina’s grip, but with a roar, she slams Zelina backward into the steel cage, breaking the hold.

Michael Cole: “Rhea’s power is unmatched! She’s taking control here!”

Pat McAfee: “This is the brutality we expected, and it’s not disappointing, Cole!”

As the chaos rages on, Jimmy and Rhea exchange a quick glance, and with perfect timing, they both line up their opponents for a synchronized superkick.

Michael Cole: “Look at this Pat! Jimmy and Rhea are in perfect sync!”

In unison, they deliver devastating superkicks—Jimmy’s landing squarely on Dragon Lee’s jaw, and Rhea’s hitting Zelina with pinpoint accuracy. Both Dragon Lee and Zelina collapse to the mat, leaving the crowd roaring.

Pat McAfee: “Superkick party in Calgary! These two are unstoppable together!”

Sensing the opportunity, Jimmy ascends to the top rope, positioning himself for his signature splash. With the crowd behind him, he launches off, crashing down onto Dragon Lee with all his weight.

Simultaneously, Rhea lifts Zelina into position for the Riptide. With a powerful slam, she plants Zelina on the mat, sealing her fate.

Michael Cole: “The Riptide! And Jimmy with the Uso splash! They’re pulling out all the stops!”

Pat McAfee: “Cole, they’re going to do it—they’re going to make history!”

With their opponents down, Rhea and Jimmy lock eyes, a spark of victory igniting between them. They begin their climb up the steel cage side by side, inching their way up as the crowd builds in anticipation.

As they reach the top, they glance down at the carnage below, then look at each other, a triumphant grin spreading across their faces. Together, they swing a leg over the cage and drop down to the outside, landing with victory secured.

“Here are your winners, and the first-ever Mixed Gender Tag Team Champions… Jimmy Uso and Rhea Ripley!”

The crowd explodes as Jimmy and Rhea are handed their titles. Their faces shine with triumph as they raise the belts high.

Michael Cole: “History has been made tonight in Calgary! Jimmy and Rhea have won the first-ever Mixed Gender Tag Team Titles!”

Pat McAfee: “But wait, Cole—look at this!”

As the camera zooms in, Jimmy steps closer to Rhea, his hand reaching up to cup her face. In a moment that shocks the entire arena, he leans in and kisses her, the intensity of the moment capturing everyone’s attention.

Michael Cole: “Whoa! Jimmy Uso just kissed Rhea Ripley! This is… this is huge!”

Pat McAfee: “Are you seeing this, Cole? Jey Uso’s girlfriend, making out with his own twin brother?! This is absolute deception! I don’t know what’s going to happen when Jey sees this!”

The camera captures every second, zooming in as the crowd reacts, stunned by the unexpected turn of events. Jimmy pulls back, gazing into Rhea’s eyes with a smirk, while Rhea, flushed, gives him a soft smile.

The two stand together, arms raised, titles held high as the crowd cheers—and speculates about what this means for the future. They’ve not only made history but left the WWE Universe buzzing, their relationship now more complicated—and public—than ever.

Michael Cole: “This is a moment no one will ever forget! Jimmy and Rhea have made history tonight, but they’ve also created a whole new chapter of drama for the two..”

Pat McAfee: “This is the kind of thing that will shake the entire WWE to its core. What a night, Cole!”

—

Rhea sat in her locker room, hands still trembling as she adjusted the black jacket hanging loosely around her shoulders. The energy of the night still pulsed through her, but it felt distant, muted. Winning the Mixed Gender Tag Titles, kissing Jimmy in front of everyone—it was supposed to feel triumphant. But as she stared at her phone, everything else faded away.

Her screen glowed with a single text from Jey.

Good job.

That was all he said. No elaboration, no warmth. Just two words that felt as heavy as a boulder pressing down on her chest. She re-read it over and over, her stomach churning with a mix of guilt, confusion, and anger. Good job? Was that all he had to say?

Rhea’s fingers hovered over the screen as she dialed his number, desperate to hear his voice, to explain, to somehow make him understand that this was all just part of the job. But the phone rang, each ring a painful reminder that he wasn’t answering. By the time it clicked over to voicemail, her heart felt like it had been crushed into pieces.

She hung up, blinking back tears as the weight of her choices settled heavily on her shoulders. The line between reality and storyline had blurred beyond recognition, and now she was left in this painful in-between, where nothing felt certain anymore. Everything felt real to Jey, she thought. The kiss, the match, the betrayal—it all meant more to him than she’d anticipated. She didn’t know how to bridge that gap, or if she even could.

A soft knock at the door pulled her out of her thoughts. She quickly wiped at her eyes, trying to compose herself. Before she could call out, the door opened, and Jimmy stepped in, his expression softening the moment he saw her face.

“Everything alright, Rhea?” he asked gently, his voice laced with concern.

Rhea forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She tried to brush it off, but Jimmy knew her well enough to see through the facade. He took a few steps closer, his gaze dropping to her phone still clutched tightly in her hand.

“He texted me,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “All he said was ‘good job,’ and he won’t pick up my calls.”

Jimmy’s face hardened, a hint of possessiveness flashing in his eyes. He hated seeing her like this, vulnerable and hurt. The pain Jey was causing her only fueled his own resolve to be there for her, to show her that he could be more than Jey ever was.

“He’s acting like a kid, Rhea,” he said, his tone firm. “You made the right choice—you made the strong choice. If he can’t see that, then that’s on him.” He stepped closer, his hand gently cupping her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “You have something real now, something that’s building you up. He wasn’t doing that for you. I am.”

Rhea closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, letting his words wrap around her like a shield. A part of her still ached for Jey, but Jimmy’s steady presence reminded her that she had someone who believed in her, who was willing to fight beside her, even if the lines were messy and complicated.

“It’s just…” she struggled to find the words, her voice breaking slightly. “It feels like I’m losing him for good, Jimmy. Like I’m closing a door I can’t open again.”

Jimmy’s hand tightened slightly on her face, his jaw setting as he looked at her with a fierce determination. “Maybe that’s what you need, Rhea..” he replied, his voice unwavering. “Sometimes, you have to let go to move forward. He’s stuck in the past, and you? You’re out here making history. You’re with someone who sees you, really sees you. And if Jey can’t handle that… then he’s not worth this pain.”

She opened her eyes, searching his gaze, feeling a strange mixture of sadness and hope. His words stung, but they also resonated deeply within her. For so long, she’d been trying to balance what she wanted with what others expected from her but now.. she didn’t know anymore.

[meimi-haneoka]

"With hindsight" Part 2 - a Yuna D. Kaito retrospective/analysis

Welcome to the second part of my retrospective on Yuna D. Kaito!

I remind you this is just a collection of scenes about Kaito from the whole story that I will be revisiting with the hindsight that Chapter 70 finally gave us. I'll try to give what I think is the right interpretation, but of course these are just my thoughts on the matter.

Continuing from Part 1, here we get into the heart of the story, while we find out more and more hints for Kaito's plan...but also hints for what's really in his heart.

My main goal with these posts is showing that the recent development didn't come out of the left field but there were actually subtle (or less subtle, but misunderstood due to prejudice) hints for it all along.

In this particular post, at some point, there'll be talk about heavy subjects related to life and death. The paragraph will have a warning beforehand, just to be sure, and you can skip to the next section if you want.

"The greatest magic artifact...Akiho-san herself" - Volume 6

After the huge event of the first time-rewind happening just merely a couple of chapters earlier, the end of volume 6 brings another earth-shaking revelation, along with many more important info.

First of all, since he completely dropped his "mask", we're shown for the first time how Kaito is immediately aware when Sakura creates a new Card. But that also confirms that he didn't meddle with those events, not in the beginning at least.

As I said previously, Kaito is someone who tends to act and intervene only at the last minute, when he cannot really avoid it anymore.

Even though the Card created by Sakura was so pivotal to the success of his plan, he really didn't intend to make her produce it by force. He still had time, so he hoped she would create it on her own without needing to resort to harsh methods. Another indication that he really wasn't keen on hurting Sakura at any moment of this plan. He was just standing there, going "oh!" when he could sense a vibration in the magic that suggested that Sakura's powers went out of control again, and soon another Card would be born. He just had to wait for the right one. A game of patience. Definitely a challenge for someone like him, used to obtain everything immediately, thanks to his magic.

We also get the first mentions about his plan: we acknowledge that he indeed needs a Card created by Sakura in particular, but that any of those new created ones will still be very useful to his goal (almost all the Cards in fact acted as "characters" for the story he prepared in Clockland).

We're informed that Momo is the guardian of the Book Akiho holds so dear, and that Kaito is trying to make that Book work to activate a forbidden spell.

Indeed, as we well know from chapter 70, everything went exactly as he wished for: they went inside the Book, he created the Clockland story using his memories and those of Akiho + Sakura in order to turn them sisters later on, the transparent Card he wanted was produced at the very last moment and he "piggybacked" Sakura's wish to exchange roles with Akiho to make an exchange himself.

But the biggest revelation (and one of the biggest misunderstandings) is that Kaito mentions "that's why I never returned it....the greatest artifact created by the Magic Association and that Clan...Akiho-san herself".

After this page, all the red flags and sirens probably went off in everyone's head, "omg he abducted her", "he wants to use her", "he's deceiving her"...but....to be honest, seeing the chapter with the first part of Akiho's past, and seeing how unhappy she was, we should've wondered immediately if that wasn't for the best.

Because it was.

He literally saved her life by never returning her to her clan.

Still, the sense of distrust in Kaito after this scene here (powered by that seemingly manic smile) persisted for long, long time in the fandom. And that was exactly what CLAMP planned us to feel like. Or rather, they wanted to see if we'd be able to get rid of this feeling the more the story went on.

Time magic at the behest of the Association - vol. 7

Just want to point out this small detail here - it tends to be forgotten, but Kaito didn't learn time magic when he decided to escort Akiho around the world, nor was given that ability by Momo.

He already knew how to work it, and has been using that dangerous type of magic ever since he was a kid, at the orders of the Association. Eriol obtained that information during his research.

This connects to chapter 70 because it made sense for them to impose a spell like the Seal of D on Kaito.

They knew he could use time magic, they knew he had no qualms in using it, and therefore that made him all the more dangerous to escort such a precious magic artifact in their eyes.

But most of all, this scene here confirms how Kaito himself was used and abused by the Association, in a similar way to what happened to Akiho. Scared of the terrible side effects, they ordered an emotionally stunted boy to use that magic on their behalf, well aware that it would've shaved off his life span. He didn't know any better, had a bleak existence because of how he grew up, he didn't have desires, so he couldn't really muster a will to refuse the orders.

"The boy didn't understand what was fun in that" - Volume 7

When talking about Kaito's past, CLAMP keep telling us "he didn't care for anyone, he didn't know what was fun in doing something with someone...spending time with them".

It's something they keep hammering because it's very indicative of how Kaito changed profoundly thanks to Akiho.

Now he experienced what's good in doing something for someone (not only all the things he did for her as her attendant, but also the very plan he set into motion, the sense of accomplishment we see in his final smile in chapter 70 comes directly from that), he experienced how good it can feel to spend time with someone (there's no doubt he loved spending time with Akiho, otherwise when given the chance - the time rewind at the date later on - he would've avoided it).

The only problem is.....he hasn't understood why yet. What really makes the difference here. Or rather, he stubbornly refused to acknowledge it till the end. And that stubborn ignorance led him to go on with his plan, thinking he was doing something good, oblivious to the effect this will have on Akiho later on when she'll find out what happened. That's why Momo cried "blockhead!!" in rage before he disappeared in chapter 70.

"Happy ending for whom?" - Vol. 7

And here we get HUGE, huge hints for what was coming up in the future.

Kaito was exhausted (Momo checks on him with a worried face) and fell asleep on a sofa, dreaming of his past and the moment that changed his life forever. The moment when the Association decided to tell him that they had just executed a magic ritual on the girl that he had certified as "magicless, like a blank book" long time before, in order to turn her into a magic artifact. Not "any girl", but the daughter of the only person who treated him with humanity for the little time they interacted with eachother.

If he was still dreaming of it now, years later, it meant that the event scarred his heart in a way that he didn't even fully understand himself. And we'll get confirmation of this only in chapter 60, 29 chapters after this one.

Kaito mentions that his dream looked "like a picture book", and Momo poses a clever question: "Does it look like this book will have a happy ending?".

We all took this question as figurative back then. But to imagine she actually was meaning it in a literal way, that we would really witness the characters becoming protagonists of a story set up by him! Again another hint under our noses.

Kaito confidently replies "It will (I'll make sure of it)", but that's when Momo (oh, I love her so much) comes with another sharper question that hits the bull's eye fully: "And that...will be a happy ending for whom, exactly?". My gosh. I don't know how Kaito didn't start second guessing after a question like that.

Because it's true, even though this might be the happy ending he imagined for Akiho (at his own expense, but he didn't care), it didn't even occur to him that this might not have been what she wanted at all. It didn't occur to him because of the complex feelings that his sense of disgust for himself and his guilt for what he had done to her were stirring in him. But we'll find out more about that later.

"She's really loved...by all the people involved with her" - vol. 7

Man, you can really feel we're halfway through the story, because in volume 7 are starting to surface a series of hints that become more and more specific to the revelation of Kaito's plan.

Kaito and Momo had just sensed that Ruby Moon and Spinel Sun came to Japan on behalf of Eriol, and Kaito knows very well that Eriol is venturing in scheming that far for his dear Sakura's sake.

And then....Kaito becomes sad? melancholic? for one moment...with a quite painful expression.

"She's really loved...by all the people involved with her"

This expression here kept me (and I'm sure not only me) wondering for long, long time. Years. It's apparent he's feeling a pang of sadness because Sakura's blessing with people who love and care for her wasn't granted on Akiho as well. But was he only feeling sad for Akiho? And what exactly that expression represented, was there envy for it? Longing?

Did he resent Sakura for the blessing of a loving entourage?

Now we know he really didn't. Of course the idea that CLAMP wanted to instill in our heads was that Kaito wanted to exchange the girls and felt envy/resentment towards Sakura, for the countless, shameless luck and privileges she was blessed with. I had fallen for that interpretation too for some time, because it kinda made sense. Seeing his past, his background, his upbringing...and the fact that Sakura was basically a stranger to him.

And Momo's further comment that Akiho loved Sakura too, with the subsequent silence from Kaito, was really staged by CLAMP in a way that could suggest Kaito was having second thoughts about his plan, because if he hurted Sakura, Akiho would've been sad.

But now it doesn't really seem like that was the case anymore. We know he never intended to hurt Sakura, nor exchanging them, from the very beginning.

I think here his storming feelings are originating not only from Akiho's situation, but also from his own need to be loved. A need that was naturally born in him along the years, but could not find its way to be acknowledged and expressed properly. And Momo mentioning that Akiho loved Sakura as a friend only contributed to make him feel even more alone, outside that "circle" of people loving eachother. He's excluded from this, because in his head he won't ever have someone who loves him. He's a bad person with a locking seal imposed on him that will swallow him whole at the end of this journey. Which is why...

"Because it's about you, Akiho-san" - Vol. 7

...when Kaito nonchalantly blurts out "Because it's about you, Akiho-san" in response to Akiho's question on how does he know perfectly everytime she's coming home to let her find her afternoon snacks ready, Momo becomes livid. So much that she wants to send him flying with a kick.

Because Akiho of course cannot help but running away, red in the face like the reddest tomato, in front of such sweet declaration of affection from him. It's like he's saying "you're important to me, so of course I always know everything about you, I have a sixth sense for you" and that would be perfectly fine, if it weren't for his otrageous obliviousness. His "?" face in front of a raging Momo is further proof of that. Remember when she said, in the Drama CD 2, "it's true they say people know the least about themselves"?

He's uttering it himself and yet he doesn't understand the full meaning of the words that are spilling out of his mouth. Nor he understands the effect they have on Akiho (because he's oblivious to her feelings as well).

Kaito never ever admitted that he's doing all of this for Akiho's sake, never spelled out that he cares about her and loves her in his own way. Even though it's apparent to everyone by now. And this obliviousness, or this refusal? to see the truth is precisely the reason why the success of his plan will only bring misery to Akiho in the long run. Despite he wanted (deep down in his heart) nothing more than making her happy.

"I will read more books" - vol. 7

If we exclude the scene where Kaito gets closer to Akiho during stopped time at the end of Vol. 5, this is the first time we clearly see Kaito hurting for something. The first time he clearly lets slip a sort of weakness in front of Akiho. And you can guess it, it's got always something to do with her.

This is the very first, timid proof that what little Kaito said on that fateful day of some years earlier had wrecked him in every possible way and had pushed him to give all of him to make things right.

Akiho says something really innocent, "I will read more and more books! I will memorize so many more things...!" because poor her, she just couldn't bear to keep embarrassing herself in front of her most important person with her clumsy, ignorant takes.

Little did she know, she had just pierced his heart with a knife at that very moment.

Because "reading more books" is not just an innocent, healthy activity, but in her case can also actually mean to push herself one step closer to death. And since it all started with something Kaito unintentionally said, the mere thought wrecks him more than 100 spells attacking him.

Kaito defends his 'family' - vol. 7

Allow me to comment on this scene, because I really need to point out something that will be more subtly connected to what happened in chapter 70 (we get into dark thematics related to death, so beware and skip to the next paragraph if you're sensitive on the matter).

The Magic Association tried to attack the Shinomoto mansion, likely to take Akiho back. Of course Kaito sensed it and counterattacked, using time magic.

Here he commented "As long as they continue to not include time magic (in their spells), due to their weakness and fear of its devastating effects on their bodies, it's going to have the same result every time".

The thing that immediately becomes apparent for people reading this for the first time is that Kaito not only betrayed the confraternity of people he was once part of, but he also despises them, thinks very little of them and probably has done so for quite some time (with all the reasons of this world).

Then, it's also very apparent how he indirectly poses himself in contrast to their actions: "they're weak and cowards, that's why they don't use time magic. While I have no qualms in using it. I am not afraid of what will happen. No one is gonna stop me".

Then....if we dig deeper...we also find something more personally concerning Kaito, in his sentence.

He's indirectly showing he acknowledged that they kept using him when he was a child to perform tasks that required time magic, because they were too coward to use it themselves. He acknowledges they used him, and lord only knows when that realization came about, probably after starting his journey with Akiho and staying away from that toxic environment for some time.

And that realization came with his greatest act of rebellion.

"I hate myself, I'll always be alone and am not interested in continuing living this life, but at the very least I won't ruin myself at your behest anymore. I WILL BE THE ONE to decide how and what to exhaust my life on". It is of course a terrible, horrible way to see the worth of his own life, but at the same time a desperate scream for self-determination that personally I can't ignore. For how horrible it is, this is Kaito calling the shots for what concerns him. He's not existing for the use and abuse of other people anymore. And this is also part of why he shows that self-satisfied smile at the end of ch. 70, although mixed with other emotions.

Of course, he made such decision with a mindset of someone who got nothing to lose. Nothing, or no one. And this is where he was terribly wrong.

Rewind & the silencing spell - vol. 7

Sakura produced the Rewind Card, and for the first time ever, we get a comment from Kaito indicating that, although it's not exactly the one he was looking for, it went quite close.

Now that we know that the Card he was looking for is Exchange, we can infer in which ways Rewind went close to it, but wasn't exactly what he was looking for.

I think Rewind was simply incomplete for the full plan Kaito had.

Rewind showed to be capable to change the appearance of someone to make look them like they were in a previous state. In Syaoran's case, it made him look like when he was very little, because that was what Sakura was thinking about when she created the Card. Even if Kaito wished, thanks to Rewind, to restore Akiho's situation back to when she wasn't turned into a magic artifact yet, that would've been only a superficial change. Rewind doesn't seem to have (for now) the full potential of the time-rewindings operated by Kaito. Sakura didn't actually travel in time to bring a little Syaoran back from those times, as Syaoran still had his own teenager conscience. The "change" doesn't operate at deep level, basically, and so it was insufficient for Kaito's plan.

Furthermore, in this same scene, we see him activating the silencing spell on Syaoran. Again, a move made at the very last moment, when Sakura had already found out that she was the one giving birth to those Cards. To be honest I still don't feel like this was malicious at all. He could've thought up so, so many harsher ways to stop them from interfering with his plans if he meant any harm to them. Messed with their minds, made them forget (Eriol did so with Yue!!), I don't know.

Instead, he chose this way, exposing himself even further, because why only mentions of Akiho and Kaito would get "blocked"? Of course that made so apparent that the spell came from him, and he somehow wanted Syaoran to know it did. Probably as a way to suggest "it's me, please don't interfere more than this". Of course, as I said before, Kaito is not here to f*ck around, so he found himself forced to use this silencing spell, or cutting off Eriol from communication, or to use all the time-rewinds he used.

The first decision I've ever made for myself - vol. 7 and vol. 8

I look at the first picture of this paragraph and I laugh, because I remember when this chapter came out people were making fun of Kaito, calling him "creep" for spying on a middle school (a swimming class, at that 😅). But looking at that smile now, with the hindsight of what we know...it's such a sweet smile. He seems genuinely happy to see Akiho enjoying her time with all her classmates. He loves to see all the bonds she created.

But that heartwarming feeling lasts very little, as his "half-assed" (as I always call it, what was that 'wave' for?) attempt to make Sakura create a new Card triggers Akiho's book, and for the first time ever we see it in action, making her lose her conscience completely.

The proof is that "Akiho" doesn't talk with her usual voice, but with the voices of the Association and the Clan. As you can see, at her feet, we see the same "book pages" that will engulf Kaito at the end of chapter 70 too (therefore almost confirming that's where he is right now, inside the damned book).

As both Momo and Kaito confirm, the spell that will eventually crush her soul is still very much active on her and not too far from its final goal. We get a glimpse of a very sorrowful expression from Kaito while he says with his own words that probably those people are hoping that the spell will crush Akiho's soul. This expression alone shoul've already been enough to confirm what Kaito's intentions were. But also how much he felt responsible for that atrocity.

Kaito doesn't have a choice, he will use *more* time magic to put some sort of "seal" on the book inside Akiho (freezing its time), full aware that this is just a patch and won't solve any problem definitively. But at least it should keep everyone (Sakura & Syaoran included, since it activated mostly in their presence) safe while he tried to bring his plan to completion.

Also...I can't help but point out how he softly caresses her face again before starting his spell, such a sweet gesture that almost seems as if saying "sorry" for performing a magic on her without the girl being aware.

Once again, he allows himself to be this sweet with her only when she's not aware of it. Knowing what we know now, it's no wonder why.

And here it is...probably the most important scene beside the one where he made a choice and said "I'll go".

His first conversation with Akiho.

For him, this wasn't really the first 'meeting'. Indeed, later on he will talk again about this moment and he will specifically use the japanese word for "conversation". Because although from afar, the very first time he met her was through the magic sphere.

Of course she was way too little to remember. So while for her this might have been effectively her first meeting with him, for him it wasn't, and his kind, sweet smile is proof of that.

He went there already knowing who she was, her background, who she was the daughter of, what happened to her, and prepared so that he could make her feel at ease from the very start. Of course someone must have taught him this, because before this scene he used to have such a dead stare. He looked like he never smiled once in his whole life.

My idea is that, after making his contract with Momo, she "trained him". For his smiles and everything else. Taught him how to interact properly with other people, since he was so averse to it beforehand.

This theory I have comes from the fact she's the one who told him, in one of the Drama CDs, "please laugh more properly! even it's a fake laugh!".

Anyway, this scene is so powerful because it's not only drawn in such a "fateful meeting" way, but also because this fountain and rose garden will appear later on in Clockland too, summoned by the magic of Momo's book browsing through Kaito's memories.

While other people might argue that this is also the place where he met Lilie once, I'd daresay first meetings and talks are more likely to leave such a big impression on someone. When he met Lilie there, it was one of their regular meetings (and clearly not the first one), while with Akiho it was the meeting that would start their journey together, and start the process of how his whole life would change thanks to her.

It's definitely not by chance that he's remembering this important moment while he discloses to the readers for the first time that "I made a decision that day. The first decision I've ever made for myself".

Stopping the time of the book inside Akiho proves to be very arduous.

So arduous that Kaito is sweating and panting at the end of it.

Not only that, but the book itself activates some sort of "defense" (that black matter that comes out of Akiho, the same black matter that comes out when she loses consciousness) and literally attacks Kaito. You can see it hitting him in several spots.

He looks stubborn and unstoppable, though. Even with the magic of the book hurting him, he still pushes through with his spell for the sake of Akiho.

Momo is taken aback because she didn't know *anything* of this idea of his, and she's really mad when he's done.

Always for the same reason.

Because while he can realize her change of mood without any problem ("You look even angrier now" "Ah, you can understand *that* just fine, hm? And yet you don't understand what's really important"), he hasn't understood Akiho's feelings nor his own, yet. And he keeps insisting in disregarding his life like it's nobody's business. The very core of the problem that will persist till chapter 70 lies all there.

Small detail I like to point out: Kaito's time magic isn't infinite. After he exerted himself on stopping Akiho's book, the magic he used to stop time for everyone literally starts to crumble apart, signifying that its effect will vanish very soon. This will happen again later on, in a *very* different situation.

Whenever Kaito's magic focus falls short, whether it's due to physical or emotional matters, his magic is affected and falls apart.

And with this scene of the beginning of volume 8 I will conclude this second part of my analysis! 💜

I have to be honest, when I started this "project", it was totally propelled by the strong feelings that chapter 70 gave me, but I thought I would finish this in 1, 2 posts maximum....but along the way, I found myself wanting to talk about so many scenes 😂that I'm not even sure I'll be able to finish this within the 3rd post 😂😂😂especially cause later on there'll be more and more hints scattered around...god help me 😅

At this point I can say for sure that part 3 will come after the release of chapter 71, so see you later for my monthly translation + commentary post!! 😉

[hauntingblue]

Strong world is the nami and luffy twins manifesto written by oda this is my one piece.

You see luffy's finishing attack with his giant hammer being fueled by lightning which is nami's main weapon with her clima tact and she even made the guy steer the islands towards the cyclone so even if the lighting isn't produced by her the lighting is provided by her either way so luffy AND her finished that guy and even luffy attacked after nami announced how he will lose which also means nami knew and trusted luffy to end him after that and of course he did and

Oh my god luffy making nami explain herself about the message he left on the tone dial and being pissed that she didn't trust him to save and protect her but he got so mad and didn't hear the whole message and she asked luffy to save her omg....... she knew after all that they will come and win..... I love this ending I am going to walk into the sea now goodbye.

Why are whitebeard and ace on the ending credits I already cried. Watching aces part again cause he looks so good. Hello alive dead wife

[ouellette]

local girl still thinking about her ex almost 2 years later, sentenced to death by firing squad

[lunarscaled]

"That's not true! I just don't— It's hard to... to trust people at their word—I haven't ever...!"

-> They haven't ever had friends before. Not since Wing Bind locked them away. And when, in that stone tower, would they have ever had the chance to develop a closeness to someone? When were they not looked down on with disdain or scorn like a festering, fetid corpse and denied basic experiences? When did they have a conversation with anyone longer than ten minutes at a time that wasn't decisively portraying how different they were from witches and wizards. For some reason they, nearly no better than a toothless lion, had been treated as though they were the end of days. Something that couldn't see the light. How could they have learned to trust anyone like that? ( they want to say they trust Tesla. they do. they can confide their woes to him, their fears; Ulquiorra trusts him with their care and they trust him with their life. They just... don't know if they can say the same of his partner. not as they are right now. )

-> If they had to choose a feeling, Lyric would say they were envious of Nnoitra and Tesla. The way they are envious of Celeste and her lover, or the closeness of Tesla and Celeste in a different sense, Lyric yearns for the understanding it seems only time can bring through another. It was the only thing they seemed to lack here: time. Even if Tesla gently reassured them he believed they would find someone who felt as they did, Lyric struggled to know where or when. The arrancar were limited and they were an outsider, it was unlikely they would find such kinship with them, let alone romantic feelings.

-> If Wing Bind did not come for them perhaps the Shinigami would to lock them away for study. If the Shinigami didn't, perhaps a Hollow would eat them when they least expected it. When their body was just out of reach of those who might protect them. It was naive to think they could be guarded all the time. If all else failed and they returned home, who would they speak with? What would they do? The home they had was not open to them now, if it was even in the same place; if they could even remember how to get there or where it was exactly. They had no history, no social skills, no practical knowledge of the world as it was. They had nothing. ( it's shocking a hollow could want to eat something which lacks so much. ) They wanted to know what Nnoitra and Tesla saw in each other, figures against the dunes and wastes. They want to know that feeling—dissect it like a bug. If they couldn't have it, they wanted to understand it.

-> They hear but do not see how he shifts. Hear the crunch of sand beneath his boots distant and think he may have gone; steel themselves for the storm alone and bite their tongue so their lip doesn't quiver. They wonder if it comes off them in waves how the terror grabs at them, not of Hollows haunting their nook but being left behind. They wonder if it changes anything even if he can tell. He speaks. Lyric suspects he'd hiss at them if he cared to do so. In their chest there is a meek, sorrowful, rattling warble.

"... I'm sorry..."

-> For what. For everything, maybe? For lashing out? For not believing him, or Tesla, or anyone. Who can say. Cold seeps into even their joints, their fingertips and toes in their boots. Warmer breath furls out from their mouth. Lyric keeps themselves tucked as tight as possible to avoid accidentally touching him and making their presence worse.

"It will be over soon... ..."

"Friends? Who the fuck is friends with someone they don't trust?? Stop kidding yerself, he's just a get out of jail free card for ya cuz most other Arrancar won't fuck with who he cares about cuz I'll kill 'em for it. And him thinkin' yer friends means I won't hurt ya. Yet. Cuz when you no longer find him useful, I'll kill ya for fuckin' with him."

He's got half a mind to just leave after that, but they shrink in on themselves, a pitiful little thing that Nnoitra would have already put out of its misery for toying with him and his Fracción if... Tesla hadn't seemed so fond of them. Tesla would deny it but he was more social than Nnoitra was. He enjoyed extending his bond and trust to a select few, and Lyric was (for some ungodly reason) one of them. Something about them made Tesla light up when he talked about them, and Nnoitra wanted to know just what the hell made them so special in the warthog Hollow's eye.

He still couldn't see what it was. He didn't understand them either.

What he isn't expecting, more than anything, is their plea for him to stay.

He wants to decline. Wants to say nothing and disappear into the torrential sands outside and let them possibly get buried alive or picked off by the scavengers looking for the injured or dead after the storm.

Tesla would be sad. That would be a pain in the ass to deal with. And he'd have to deal with sand in every crevice of his body. Eurgh.

Nnoitra shifts, moving to lie down on his stomach and stretch out in the cave, even if his legs stick out; burying his boots in the sand outside as much as he can to minimize the impact. Propping his head up in his hands, he grimaces at them.

"...You're lucky I'm so fucking nice."

[writersdrug]

Simon "Ghost" Riley is the kind of man who:

In your shared home, always sits with his legs spread. Manspreading king. Adores it when you cross your arms and give him a disapproving look, saying there's no room for you. "Course there is, luv. Jus' sit between my thighs."

Refuses to let you do simple tasks around the house, like making tea, folding his underwear, or putting away the dishes. One might think it's a sweet, husbandly gesture - but he's just super picky. You made tea in the microwave once, and now you're banned from ever touching his tea stash. Likes his underwear folded in a specific way, and you don't understand the importance of it. He got tired of you stuffing his underwear in his drawer, so now he folds it himself. And the dishes? Couldn't stand how you put them away. "There's no rhyme or reason to 'em." "I didn't think there had to be, Si-" "Just gimme the damn bowl." Fewer chores? You aren't complaining.

Looks like he's always on edge - and he is, kinda. When he's out with you, he can't help but be alert and watchful, and extremely protective of you. You've tried to get him to loosen up - it's the supermarket, what could happen? - but have just come to accept it as his nature. Plus, you get that giddy feeling when you see other men look straight down at the floor, avoiding Simon's stare as the two of you pass.

Is the grumpiest, poutiest, and most indignant man ever when he gets sick. Doesn't want you doting on him in case you catch whatever he has. But, wait - where are you going? "Get your ass back in this bed - 'm cold." Grumbles like a child when you force him to let you get up to grab him soup, tea, or medicine. And no, he doesn't care how sick he is, he's not wearing that stupid, floppy ice pack hat.

Brings Johnny over unannounced, and you've grown used to it. The moment you hear that Scottish yapping out the front door as the key unlocks, you grab a third plate for dinner - he insists you don't need to feed him, but you always make extra for Simon's lunch the next day regardless, and the last time he'd said that, he ended up grabbing an extra fork and picking from Simon's plate. Which, of course, had Simon up at 1 am making instant ramen because he was still hungry, but didn't have the heart to ask you to make him a decent meal. So, yes, Johnny would be fed.

Loves spoiling you on your birthday. What is a man if not someone who spoils his partner rotten? Orders in food from your favorite bakery, sets all your presents neat and nice on the table (the excellent wrapping job done by yours truly, Gaz), flower petals sprinkled on the ground and the table top (also Gaz's idea), and a seat on his lap so for you while you open your presents. Loves watching your face light up, and each little "you remembered?!" fall from your lips as you open each gift. Scoffs and shifts in his seat. "I's not that much of a fuss, luv..." as you squeal excitedly, but you know he's biting back a proud smile. The blush, he can't even attempt to hide.

Is somehow a magnet for your young nephews. Every time he comes along to your sister's place, he's either making conversation with her husband in the living room, or he's interrogated and cornered by her two sons. And, lord help him, he doesn't understand it either. He'd always expected kids to look at him like a monster, but, especially with these two, that was never the case. They'd ask him for stories about "being in war" - half of the time, he'd make up some not-too-gory adventure, sparing them the details of real war. The rest of the time, he'd talk about "Soap, my mate who blows everything up." And they'd listen with wide eyes and jaws on the floor.

Has scared you unintentionally, more than too many times. He'd come home at three in the morning from a mission, and all he wanted was to quietly peel his dirty uniform off and slip into bed with you. His main intention was to avoid waking you up, because you'd force him to shower before joining you in bed - and he was too tired for that. However, you'd been rounding the corner, up for your 3 am glass of water - you screamed as you saw the hulking, dark figure by the front door, launching your phone at him. He'd caught it effortlessly and shoved it into his back pocket. "What've I told ya 'bout using the bat?" "I was just getting water!" "I coulda been anyone." "Well you're not." "Missed ya, luvie." "Missed you too- but you're grimy. Go take a-" "No." He grabbed you and threw you over his shoulder, ignoring your protests as he hauled you back to bed.

[ambrosiagourmet]

I want to talk about why I think this is the one of the most important Falin panels:

So, Falin is really nice, right? It's one of the first things we really learn about her. She's kind even to the monsters of the dungeon - choosing to ward the party rather than fight spirits and cause them needless harm.

In the above early flashback in chapter 11, we see Marcille fawning over Falin's kindness, calling her an angel. Namari calls her soft-hearted. We see Falin choose not to fight even when a zombie attacks - instead she resolves the confrontation with a hug. After the flashback, the first thing Senshi says is that Falin "sounds like quite the person," which Marcille strongly affirms.

At this point in the story, all we have seen of Falin are these impressions; she is a healer, an angel, a caretaker with an infinite well of kindness towards everyone she meets - both friend and foe.

And honestly, that remains most of what we have to go by to understand her. The only times we get to see Falin on the page, alive and just herself, are in the opening and closing pages of the story and in the brief period of time after she is resurrected.

Nonetheless, we do have some more details to work with. For one, there is the scene that The Panel is from - a short memory in chapter 75, when Marcille flashes back to while she's dying. In that scene, Falin prepares to teleport them all out, and says that she's sorry "if there is a person at [their] destination." And that's when we get The Panel.

If you teleport someone or something into another person, the person teleported into is likely to be, at minimum, severely injured. They could die.

We can see a lovely little horrifying example of exactly why in one of the Daydream Hour doodles:

So, hmm. That's not... that's not SUPER nice. Certainly not displaying the same "kindness to all, friend and foe included" we saw represented earlier. On a basic level, this adds some nuance to Falin's kindness. We see it break a little, when pushed to the limit. We see her chose to protect the people she loves above all else.

Which makes sense! As Laios says when the Winged Lion accuses him of similarly being motivated more by his friends' safety than everyone else in the dungeon, "...most people, aside from virtuous do-gooders, would feel the same way."

So, we can take The Panel as simply showing a moment of weakness for Falin. A time when she was pushed to her limits, and that "most people" selfish side of her shone through.

However... I think there's a little more going on with Falin than just her being an angel 99% of the time, except just that once. I love The Panel because I think it helps us understand that Falin isn't just motivated by kindness - she also has a desire to avoid seeing people in pain.

Isn't that the same thing?

No, no it very much is not.

Let's look at a short comic from the Falin section of the Adventurer's Bible, because I think it illustrates this point perfectly. The group is complaining about how much Marcille's healing hurts, and comparing it to Falin's, which "doesn't hurt a bit." Marcille retorts with the following:

Now, the punchline of this comic is that, despite Marcille's sentimental assertion that she's "thinking of [them]" by letting her healing magic hurt, they all still prefer to be healed by Falin.

But hey, this wouldn't be the first time that Dungeon Meshi hides a very real character beat or insight in a gag, so let's think about this somewhat seriously.

If Marcille is right (and she knows a fair bit about magic, so we can assume that she has at least somewhat of a point), then what Falin is doing isn't kind. I suppose if someone specifically requested to not feel the pain, it could be kind, but that's not really what happened here. She is the one who felt badly about the others being in pain, and she is the one who decided, without telling them or giving them a choice in the matter, to take away that pain.

Both Marcille and Falin are healing the party, but Marcille is doing it in a way that accomplishes the task in the most straight forward way, without any additional interference. Falin is going out of her way to perform the healing in a way she is more comfortable with. A way that avoids pain.

Going back the The Panel, I don't think its a coincidence that the only time we see Falin (well, non-chimera Falin) willing to do something that could hurt someone is when any potential pain will be far away from her. If she got someone hurt or killed by teleporting the party to the surface? Not only would it be far out of her sight, but she'd be dead before she had to deal with any consequences of that action.

Falin is not a confrontational person. She doesn't push when Marcille won't tell her the truth about the resurrection, and she comforts Laios about her own death - both of those things happening in the only full chapter she is alive and conscious in the whole story.

We also know that she considered accepting Shuro's proposal, despite not having any special feelings towards him, and that Falin never explained to Marcille that she wanted them to share a meal together. When she brought Marcille various foods at the academy, she just accepted Marcille's confused rejection and gave up.

And lastly, we know that she is still in contact with her parents, despite the neglect and abuse she suffered at their hands. Although the way someone chooses to handle contact with abusive or bad family is a complicated topic, which I don't want to overly simplify, I do I think this fact gets at the heart of how she handles conflict.

So many people that Falin loves have hurt her. There are understandable hurts, like Laios leaving the village, or Marcille not understanding the food. And there are bigger, far less justifiable hurts - like her parents neglecting her throughout her childhood, and sending her away to be alone at the magic academy.

It doesn't seem like Falin has ever confronted any of it directly.

And the unhealthy aspects of this kind of avoidance of pain and confrontation is one of the things that the story of Dungeon Meshi is all about. We see Laios grapple with it before he goes to kill Falin, and we see Marcille acknowledge it at the end of the story, when she tells Laios that she has come to terms with Falin's death:

Eating is a part of life. Consuming other living things is a part of life. It isn't really possible to avoid that pain - you can only hide from the truth of it. You have to be selfish everyday. You have to eat - to choose to live. To choose to take up space.

And this is something Falin embraces, too. She comes back to life, after all.

We see her choose to come back to life.

And how does she make that choice? She eats. She consumes, and then she is asked a question by the manifestation of hunger itself:

Do you want to eat more?

There is a double meaning in the Winged Lion's final words on the next page.

When I first read this, I took it as him saying: life is cruel. You will suffer. You will feel more pain.

But perhaps, especially for Falin, this also means: you are choosing a path where you must cause pain. Where you must consume. Where you must take, and must be selfish. Because eating is the special privilege of the living, and it is their burden, too. In order to stay alive, she will need to keep eating.

And she chooses that. Chooses to be selfish. It's why her resurrection scene is so important, and it's why The Panel is so important. Because Falin coming back isn't the ultimate reward for all of the party's hard work.

It's her choice. Just like it was her choice that started everything in the first place. But this time, she doesn't choose to accept causing pain for the sake of Marcille and Laios. She does it for her own sake.

[dollfacefantasy]

I WANNA BE YOURS ♡

pairing: logan howlett x puppy-hybrid!fem!reader

summary: logan finds you, a special kind of mutant, out on a mission. when he takes in this puppy girl, you quickly forms a bond to him. he tries to tell himself he doesn't like his new shadow or want the attention, but it gets harder to deny as the two of you grow closer.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), hybrids, breeding kink, praise kink, dumbification, fluff, canon-typical violence, blood, nightmares

a/n: thank you so much to @gor3-hound and @nexysworld for beta reading <33

Adamantium strains against the skin between Logan's knuckles as his fists collide with his opponents' bodies. His claws beg to come out, to slice through his own skin and into the men he's striking. Despite causing himself pain, it would make this little struggle easier.

Regardless, he reigns in the urge and continues to fight without them. He didn't need them yet. Having a skeleton of impenetrable metal served as the only weapon he needed for right now. These guys taking him on weren't anything special, simple lackeys hired to protect a facility they didn't even understand the operation of.

His unpierced knuckles land a few strikes to one's abdomen, and he pops the other's face with his elbow. He whips his forearm around and slams the first to the ground in a finishing blow. The other man comes crashing down close behind after he connects his fist with the center of his face.

He looks at both of them crumpled up and unconscious on the ground, shaking off the adrenaline from the scuffle with a few rolls of his shoulders. He swipes the set of keys that hang off the belt of one who went down first and reconvenes with the rest of the team at the point of entrance to the next part of this warehouse.

"Did you find a way to open the doors?" Storm asks him. The white-haired woman struts beside him to the large cement doors at the end of the hallway.

Logan holds up the set of metallic keys, giving them a little jingle as his answer.

"Wow, and without shedding any blood. Impressive," Cyclops mocks from behind. Him and Jean walk a couple paces to the back of him, their eyes scanning for any potential hindrances to the mission.

"Night's not over yet, bub."

The four of them reach the door, and fortunately, it only takes a few tests to determine which key is meant for this lock. Before either Logan or Storm can push the barrier open, the door swings back under the force of Jean's telepathy.

They head inside but brace themselves for what they might see. This mission came about after the professor discovered that this building was being used as some kind of location to traffic mutants. The team had dealt with cases like this before, and they were never pretty. Often, the victims were young and struggling, picked up off the street or gathered from false mutant shelters to be sold into a life of experimentation or fetishization.

Upon first glance, this section of the building holds nothing new. The room isn't large in comparison to the others before it and looks more like a connector between the last hallway and another one. It's dark, not much light to get a good look at anything that could be hiding away.

Storm is eager to keep moving along and guides them towards the entrance to the next hallway. His other two teammates overtake him as well and follow behind her.

"I'm gonna sniff around here for a minute. I'll be right behind you," Logan says and waves them forward.

The two women spare him a skeptic glance, but Scott couldn't be more eager to part from him. They head off in the other direction, leaving Logan alone in the quiet between these four walls.

He just wanted to be sure there was nothing here, whether it be something he could help or something meaning to do them harm. Though he kind of hoped it was the latter. He never felt very good at the 'saving' part of being on this team. Let him go in a room full of threats, and he was guaranteed to be successful. He'd take every last one down in record time and not even have to think twice about it. But give him one person to comfort and tell that everything is gonna be ok, and that would have him breaking a sweat. It's not that he couldn't do it; he simply had to work at it. He didn't have to work at being a weapon.

Treading over the pavement cautiously, Logan's eyes sweep over the few vacant shelves and lonely crates. The room truly seemed unoccupied. He could probably only justify a few more feet before having to go join the rest of the team. But then he sees it.

A cage towards the back of the room, a tarp over the top. It sat near a smaller door he hadn't noticed before. He wasn't too concerned with going in just yet. First he wanted to see if anything was confined behind those thin black bars.

It was larger than a simple pet kennel but too small to give the impression that held anything monstrous. He walks closer to it. No sound came from it nor could he see any movement, but his curiosity had been triggered. He had to know why this thing had been secluded.

Once he's close enough, he crouches down and pushes away the rough white material draped over it. His fingers undo the latch and open the door so he could get a better look inside.

He peers in and is met with a pair of eyes staring back at him out of the darkness. His first instinct is to back up and get into a defensive position, but whatever's inside doesn't give him the chance.

You lunge at him and knock him flat onto his back.

He hits the cement with a grunt, and his claws cry out to him again. He could easily unsheathe them and tear whatever you were to shreds. But before he does this, he realizes that this isn't an attack. He's not in any kind of pain. In fact, nothing is really happening to him. All you were doing was... sniffing him?

He could hear your rapid inhales and exhales as your nose trailed along the collar of his white tank top. Straining his neck back as much as he can, he finally gets a good look at you. You were human - smaller than most with wide, curious eyes - but you also had floppy ears erupting from your scalp and a long tail coming from your backside that was whipping back and forth.

Even with all the different kinds of mutants he'd seen, he couldn't help thinking this was bizarre at first glance. He knew it was possible for mutations to express physically even though most were internal. For god's sake he had literal claws and knew multiple people who were straight up blue. But he'd never seen anything like this.

You looked like just a mix of canine and human. In honesty, you were pretty cute. You didn't look like the type of thing someone would shout 'freak' at from across the street. Hybrid was probably a more accurate descriptor than mutant. Either way, he didn't want you on top of him.

"Quit it," he growls before grabbing your waist and pushing you off. Based on the fact that you weren't attacking, he assumes you're a victim rather than a perpetrator. He rises to his feet to stand above you, ready to fight just in case. "What the hell are you supposed to be?"

You sit there, tail still wagging despite his rough temperament. Your eyes have that gleam that likens your appearance to a puppy even more than your ears or tail do. He realizes you might not be able to talk or something, but he doesn't get too far with that thought before you speak.

"A mutant. Like you."

His eyes narrow.

"Yeah? How do you know I'm a mutant?" he asks. He hadn't shown you his claws and you hadn't seen his skin magically stitch itself back together. Maybe you were on the other side of this mission.

"I can smell it," you answer.

That makes his eyebrow slowly raise. "Smell it?" he says.

You nod. "Mutants smell different than humans," you say.

You rise to your feet and stand next to him. Leaning in again, you smell his arm. Your head moves down his bicep and to his elbow and forearm. He pulls his limb away with a scowl, but you'd already had a chance to register the scent that'd caught your attention.

"You smell metallic too," you say.

So your canine traits weren't just physical. Logan knew you weren't lying, having an enhanced olfaction himself. He'd just never met someone else who also had that ability.

"Your mutation is basically just being an overgrown dog then?" he asks with a bemused expression, "You like playing fetch? Want me to call you a good girl?"

You can't help the automatic twitch in your tail when you hear that phrase, but your expression darkens as if a storm cloud had formed inches above those folded ears. 

"I'm not a dog. If I'm a dog, are you like a robot since you have metal in you?" you huff and cross your arms.

A sharp puff of air comes from his nostrils at your attempted retort. "Robot isn't exactly what they call me."

You grumble and roll your eyes. Your tail had gone still behind you and hung between your legs.

He continues to stare down at you, trying to decide what to do next. Even though you were a mutant, you didn't seem to be a fighter or have any skills that would be useful in combat. He wasn't just going to leave you here, but he didn't know how big a risk it would be to let you tag along.

"What are you doing here? Did someone lock you in that cage, or is that just where you spend your free time?" he asks.

"Someone took me and locked me in there," you say, your pout deepening.

"For how long?"

You shrug. Logan has the urge to roll his eyes just as you did, but he can tell your lack of knowledge is genuine.

"You don't know how long you were in there?" he prompts.

"No. Maybe like... a couple weeks or something. I don't know. It's hard to keep track."

Of course. Just like a puppy, you had a poor concept of time. He shakes his head and rubs his hand over his face. It did look like you'd been captive for a few weeks. You weren't in the best shape and had bruises littering your body. Your clothes were dirty and torn at the hems. As annoying as he found you in the few minutes he'd known you, he knew you didn't deserve this treatment. Locking a cute little thing like you in a cage was plain cruelty.

"Alright. Well what's your name? I'm Logan," he sighs.

You tell him, but just as the last syllable leaves your lips, footsteps burst into the room from the direction of the hallway.

Scott and Jean round the corner, clearly looking for their teammate. Logan turns around to see the new arrivals and relaxes when he recognizes the man in the visor and the redhead beside him. 

"There you are. We thought you took off or something," Scott mocks casually.

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words dissolve when he feels a thud against his back. 

You don’t recognize the people who'd just shown up, so you hide yourself behind the man who found you. Pressing yourself against his back, you cautiously tilt your head to his side to peek at Scott and Jean. Your fingers clutch the fabric of Logan's tank top so tight they threaten to poke little holes in the ribbed material.

"What- what are you doing?" he grunts and tries to look over his shoulder at you. The way you were latched onto him prevented him from turning around fully. He lifts one of his arms to see your eyes scoping out the potential danger in front of him.

"Get- C'mon get off. They're not gonna hurt you," he continues, brushing you off by reaching back and lightly tugging your hair.

You stumble to the side, and he manages to grab your shoulders and walk you in front of him. He holds you there, presenting you to Scott and Jean. The way your ears pin back to your head makes him feel a little guilty about making you confront the strangers so directly, but they weren't gonna do anything to you. Assuming they were gonna rescue you and take you back to Xavier's, you'd have to get used to prying eyes and meeting new people.

Both Scott and Jean look at you curiously, Jean with less confusion than Scott. Clearly, he had a similar thought process to Logan while the woman next to him could sense that you were a mutant and what your abilities were.

"I found her in that cage back there," he explains.

The two of them nod. They take a few more moments to simply observe you before they move closer and ask for your name. You give it just like you had to Logan. They nod again and then begin running through a similar routine of questions. Theirs are more detailed though and manage to coax more information out of you.

Your responses give them a quick little rundown of you. You fit the profile of the people they usually found on these missions. You're young, early 20s, struggling because getting a job was nearly impossible with your ears and tail. You had no family. They'd given you up after your mutation began to manifest. Everyone thinks puppies are cute, but apparently, no one wanted a human child that shared features with them. You'd been taken from the shelter you were staying at like most others who found themselves in this situation.

As you answer each one posed to you, Logan feels you subtly sinking back against him. Your back meets his abdomen like two magnets slowly being pulled together. Despite the annoyed look on his face, he doesn't say anything or pull away.

When the brief interrogation comes to a close, Scott relays to Logan that they had found other victims in another part of the facility. Storm was with them now, guiding them to the extraction point where they'd be taken to safety. The four of you just had to follow along.

Scott and Jean lead the way. Logan follows behind and you trot along beside him. He notices you're staying close to him in particular.

"Did the guys who took you say anything else about why they wanted you?" he asks. The fact that you were kept separate was still lingering in his mind. To him it didn't mean anything good.

You shrug and look up at him. "They didn't really talk to me that much unless they were being mean or spitting at me. Or kicking the cage," you say.

You say it like it's casual, but he can tell it hurts. He knows how it feels to an extent. All mutants do. Not many people will openly talk shit about a guy with metal claws, but the sentiment is still there. The idea that you're inferior. That something is wrong with you. That you don't belong in this life.

He just nods, not knowing much else to offer as comfort. "Did you ever overhear them talking about you? Any reason they wouldn't have put you with the others?"

"I think they wanted to figure out if there was more of me. Or if they could make anymore at least," you say after taking a moment to think, "Cause you know. Guys like the whole puppy thing. Makes me worth more I guess."

He cringes at the ugly picture you paint with those words.

The group of you continues walking, footsteps being the only sound in the hallway. Your tail had started wagging again which makes him feel a little better about not offering anything in terms of reassurance. But when you reach the room where the other victims had been, your tail comes to a halt and droops between your legs.

A party of men is spread throughout the area. They walk around scanning the now empty space, visibly incensed at their captives being freed. You slide yourself against Logan's back again, but you don't try to peek at them like you did with Scott and Jean. It doesn't take much to figure out that these are the ones who kept you in that cage.

They hear the team and you approaching and turn to face you. Despite your efforts to hide, they spot you before you're completely concealed behind the bulk of Logan's muscular frame. The one closest scowls at your attempt.

"I'm guessing the three of you know what happened to the things we had in here?" he says, sarcasm lacing each word.

"You could say that. And those people are long gone by now, so it's probably best you move on," Scott answers. His fingers rise to his temple in preparation to operate his visor.

The men don't seem to be threatened. The amalgamation of them tightens, forming a more crowded cluster.

"Yeah, you're probably right. But you're not leaving with that one," the same one says and gestures to you hiding, "She stays here."

"Not gonna happen, bub," Logan responds so quickly it surprises even himself.

His teammates also look interested in his seeming budding attachment to you, but they know better than to squabble in front of adversaries.

You are the only one the words don't strike in any sort of way, but that's because you didn't totally hear them. You're too busy trembling, hoping with everything you had that Logan wouldn't force you in front of him again and then kick you into the group of guys.

But obviously, that doesn't happen. There's more arguing that you don't hear because you choose to tune it out. You can sense Logan becoming more agitated and the air around everyone becoming more tense. Your body grows more rigid, your ears glued back to your scalp. You just want this to be over.

As these thoughts whirl through your mind, the arguing comes to a head, and Logan launches away from you. You feel naked without his large body shielding yours. 

Scott and Jean aid him. Your first inclination is to turn the other direction and just try to stay out of the way. You weren't confident in your combat skills. If you could seriously fight, you probably wouldn't have gotten snatched up. You didn't want to be the reason any of these people who were trying to help you got hurt.

But then you see someone coming up behind Logan brandishing a knife. It's out of your control, the way your muscles go taut and your lip curls back. You'd only ever been in a real fight once before in your life, and you don't remember feeling this vicious. You spring up behind the man, finding where his shoulder meets his neck and biting down hard.

The cries of agony and grunts of anger seem to go on forever. The smell of blood invades your nostrils as you deal with your target. He'd fallen to the floor when your teeth sunk into his flesh. You feel him thrashing underneath you as you rip and tear, but you don't stop until he's gone still. You then pull off and wipe your mouth, twisting around to sit on the abdomen of your incapacitated enemy.

Logan also had no difficulty dealing with the men coming at him. There were just more of them, so he took a little longer. After one last thud of a body crumpling to the floor, only heavy breathing sounds through the warehouse.

Jean and Scott seem fine. They stand there checking each other over, and you see them share a brief kiss. You glance over towards Logan next and decide to return to his side.

He's alone. The sounds of panting are mostly coming from him. His body glistens, muscles lightly coated in perspiration. His scent is stronger to you now, and it only grows more overwhelming as you approach him. Men lie at his feet with pools of blood around them, presumably the same crimson liquid that stains his hands, wrists, and forearms in streaks.

You make your next move without thinking. Coming up to his side, trying in vain to avoid getting your ratty socks soaked with blood, you press your cheek against his bicep and snake your arms around his.

He then looks down at you. His eyebrows raise at the blood that coats your mouth and chin and trails down your shirt. You hadn't seemed like any type of predator before. Your presence was more akin to a puppy that'd be torn apart by wolves than anything that could do anyone harm.

"How'd you do that?" he asks.

Your finger rises and hooks under your upper lip, pulling it back to reveal your canines, sharper than a normal person's.

He nods and watches you with some mixture of curiosity, irritation, and fondness.

"Pretty good," he says simply.

You beam at the praise, blood-stained lips parting into a wide smile. He feels your tail wag harder and brush against the back of his leg.

The touch is nice. It makes him more conscious of the way you're still holding onto him, your hand curled around his muscle and your hip against his. He's not sure what it is. A silent thank you, a note of understanding, or a pledge of loyalty.

But he doesn't need a thank you, someone to understand him or devote themself to him. He's just doing what he's supposed to.

He slides his arm out of your clutches and gently pats you on the head.

"C'mon, let's get going," he says and starts walking towards the exit.

You trot wordlessly behind him, which he's grateful for. But more than that, he's just happy Scott didn't have anything to say about your sudden bond to him.

Once the jet picked you up from the extraction point, the trip back to the school was a breeze. You mostly keep to yourself while trying to stick close to Logan. He sits you next to him and cleans up your face, but you sleep for most of the actual traveling time to the destination.

You hadn't realized how tired you were until the seat hit your back and the buckles of the seat belt latched over your chest. With that manifestation of security, your eyes began drooping and your head was drifting to your shoulder like it was your center of gravity.

Logan's voice is what wakes you up. It's unclear to you how much time has passed, but that doesn't bother you. You feel him gently jostling you before unbuckling the straps across your chest. He calls your name a few times until your bleary eyes open and focus on his face.

"There you are," he says, "C'mon. We're here."

You still watch him without saying a word. Your hand rubs over your face to try and pull yourself closer to being awake. He watches you before offering his hand.

"I'm not carrying you, so you need to get up," he says in a tone you were becoming familiar with. It sounded irritated but not directly at you. Like this man was just in a constant state of being pissy about something.

You take the offer regardless and let him pull you to your feet. The two of you exit the jet together, him helping you out to ensure you don't trip on the gap between the ramp and the ground.

Once you're out, your eyes widen. You expected a boarding school to be pretty fancy, but this was nicer than any place you'd ever been. The walls stretched up the sky, crafted with bricks and decorated with large glass windows. The path there was paved and bordered with kept plants. You could see beyond that though. The large expanse of the property. So much space to run and do things.

Logan watches your reaction with amusement. "It's a lot to take in when you first get here," he says.

You nod, and your eyes continue to dart around and absorb the sight of everything. Storm and Jean lead the others who were saved off to another part of the building to be reunited with their families or taken back to their lives or even given verifiable resources. But you don't want to go with them.

You grab Logan's hand and look up at him, shaking your head.

His first reaction is to try and pull his hand free of you, but you have a tighter grip than expected. "What? What's the matter?" he asks you while still trying worm his hand out of your finger's lock.

You don't know how to articulate it because what you want is very simple. You want to stay with him. You want to stay here. You don't want to go back out to the world where people point and laugh at you or turn you away from everything. You just don't know how to say that without it seeming weird.

Luckily for you, Scott gives you a bit of help. You're not sure if that's his intention or not, but either way, you're grateful for the help.

"Maybe we should take her to the Professor. He might want to see about her mutation or ask her about that stuff back there," he tells Logan. You can tell from the way Scott speaks that he doesn't really like him too much.

Logan thinks about it for a moment before nodding. Before leading you there, he uses his other hand to pry your fingers off of him. You frown at the loss of connection and shoot him a glare. That brings an actual smile to his face.

"Follow along, pup. Don't need you getting lost," he says as he turns to guide you down the halls of the school.

The sun hadn't even risen, so not too many people occupied the common rooms. You catch sight of a few. They stare back at you, but unlike what you're used to, they don't look at you with disdain or mocking. It's simple, innocent curiosity. The only thing that seems to worry them is the bright red stain going down the front of your shirt.

Inside the room had been an older guy in a wheelchair. The professor talked the nicest out of all the men you'd been around today. When he looked at you, you felt like he understood you. He didn't even seem perplexed like Scott or Logan had. He'd merely said you were "interesting."

He talked to you for a while. He asked similar questions similar to the ones you already answered, but the third round of them got even deeper than the last two. Once he revealed that he could enter your thoughts if he wanted, that made a lot of sense.

Though he didn't really need his ability to understand you. Your experiences were written all over your face, practically sewn into the seams of your clothes.

He could see how, like every mutant, you led a life dominated by rejection. But in a different way than most others of your kind, you were vaguely familiar. Seeing someone with a tongue ten feet long or with blue skin or claws was jarring. It was weird.

But you - you look like a cute puppy. You walk the line between disturbing and endearing.

Charles can also see how you long for belonging even deeper than most. It's as if your mutation gives you the drive to seek out affection, for someone to devote yourself to. He can tell this by the way you linger around Logan.

If he moved an inch, you followed in the same direction. If he looked away, your eyes followed along. You were only settled if he was looking at you, not in danger of leaving your vicinity.

After talking to you for a while, hearing about your abilities and getting to understand your personality, he offers to let you stay at the school. He tells you it might be beneficial for you, and if you don't like it, you're welcome to leave anytime. It's only meant to give you a chance to understand your gifts and learn to control them and use them for good.

Of course, you accept. It wasn't even a question.

"Wonderful. Scott, show her to the extra rooms she can stay in and the shower so she can clean up a bit," Charles says. He watches as your eyes flit to Logan and then Scott. He also sees Scott's uncertainty as to why he was given this job.

But he nods and gestures for you to follow him, which you reluctantly do.

You trail him silently up the stairs, and he gives you a little guide to where everything is. He gestures at the direction of the student wing and the staff wing and then takes you to the latter. He points out the different bedrooms and grabs you a change of clothes on the way to the bathrooms.

He's nice to you. A little stiff, but he still smiles and laughs softly at quips he makes or your skeptical reactions to things. You want to ask him about his sunglasses, but you figure that'd be rude so you refrain. When he leaves you at the bathroom door, he tells you to just call if you need anything cause he's right down the hall.

Stepping inside, you peer around the expansive room. You'd never seen a bathroom so large. It was nice like everything else was in this place. The counter was spotless and smooth. The tile was sleek with a soft mat beneath your feet at the door and waiting for you in front of the shower.

You undress yourself quickly and turn on the water, waiting for it to heat before stepping inside. There's some products on the shelf inside that you use. You lather the soap on your hands and rub it over yourself fast. It felt really good, especially since you hadn't had a proper shower while being held captive. But you still work at a sped up pace. Although the novelty of everything had impressed you at first, you were beginning to yearn to be by Logan again. It wasn't a need that would make you lose control, just a little itch like a bug crawling up the path of your veins.

Downstairs, Charles kept Logan behind in his office so the two could talk. They briefly recap the mission before moving to the subject that was the true reason for the extended conversation.

"It seems she's quite taken with you," the older man starts simply.

"I guess," Logan responds, his voice unamused with the idea.

Charles huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. He goes to say something else, but the other man carries on the conversation himself.

"She'll get over it. She's like a little duck following around the first person she sees," he says and crosses his arms.

"I think you underestimate her intelligence, Logan. She's not a helpless animal-"

"I know that," he interjects quickly.

"She's one of us. She's formed an attachment to you for whatever reason. I would like her to stay here for at least for a little while to examine the traits of her mutation. I've never seen any that so closely mimic an already existing animal," he explains, "But I want to know that you're ok with that."

Logan scoffs. "Why wouldn't I be? That doesn't have anything to do with me."

"While she's here, she's most likely going to want to be around you. I just wanted to make sure that's not something you're wholly uncomfortable with."

"Please. I can handle it," he dismisses.

Charles watches him, ever-entertained by how hard he tries to present the idea that he's unaffected. 

"If you say so," he says, "Just try not to scare off too quickly."

"I'll play nice," he says.

A few more words, and he's dismissed. He turns on his heel and heads out the same doors he entered. Just as he does, you glide down the stairs into his field of vision, tail wagging lazily behind you over the waistband of the sweats Scott gave you.

When you see him, it swishes a bit faster and your ears perk up. His eyes narrow.

"What are you doing down here? Didn't Scott show you where to go?" he asks.

You nod and prance down the remaining steps. Truthfully, you'd been seeking the man before your eyes, but you couldn't just say that.

"Am I not allowed to look around?" you ask.

His eyes remain hard on your face. "Aren't you tired? Mauling that guy didn't take anything out of you?"

A subtle pout forms on your lips, and you consider retreating back to the bedroom you'd been given. He clearly wasn't in the mood for you right now.

Logan sees the reaction his words brought on. He feels that little sliver of guilt shifting around inside him. Maybe his phrasing hadn't been the best... but then again why did he give a shit?

"How about we just get you back to bed? I'll show you around more tomorrow," he suggests.

You take what you can get and nod, your features slightly elevating at the form of peace he offers you. He retraces your steps up the stairs and down the hall with you on his heels. He spots the room Scott had picked for you. The door was ajar from how you'd left it to go find him.

He leads you inside but remains in the doorway himself. There really wasn't any reason to stay, so he should probably be leaving...

"Have you been here a long time?" you ask suddenly.

His eyes land on you again. You were perched on the end of your bed that was still fully made up, the comforter tucked in and everything.

"What?" he asks.

"Have you been here long? Scott said he's been here since he was a teenager," you say.

"Oh. No. Only a little while," he says. "I'm still pretty new here too."

That makes you happy, it's obvious from the hope that gleams in your eyes. "Are you like a teacher too? Or... something else?"

"What would that something else be?" he asks with a smirk, taking a few steps into the room with you, "Having a hard time picturing me teaching?"

"Well I just mean-" you try to justify before laughing a little, giving in, "Yeah. I can't really see it."

"Me neither. I'm not a teacher. I just help out sometimes," he says.

He walks even closer to you, causing your head to tilt up to look at him. Now you really looked like a puppy.

This close, he was all you could smell. You could see every individual hair on his forearm. It felt as though you could hear the strong beat of his heart. His eyes pierced into you from above, and you wondered if he was observing you in a similar manner.

"You gonna sleep on top of these blankets?" he asks.

The mention of something else besides him snaps you out of your little Logan-centric daze. You look around at the bedding and then back up at his head. The two styled points of dark hair look like he has two ears of his own mirroring yours.

"No. I'll fix them," you say and stand up to tug them free, "I don't need you to tuck me in."

"I wasn't offering to. I just don't want you getting up and trying to 'look around' again. Don't need you getting lost and wandering to my bed."

The idea brings heat to your cheeks and neck. It sounded nice for so many reasons. But the bed you had now outmatched the hard bottom of the cage you'd been sleeping on, so you weren't going to try and swing for more.

Once the comforter and sheets are peeled down, you climb back on the bed and sit against the pillows. There's a small pause. A puddle of silence pooling between the two of you. You don't know what else to ask, but you feel if you don't say anything he's gonna leave. So you pull out the first thing you can think of.

"What is your actual mutation?"

His brows rise with interest, and he closes the gap between you by sitting on the edge of your bed. Curiosity shines from his eyes onto you, silently questioning why you wanted to know.

"I know you're not actually a robot, but I can still smell the metal and stuff. What does it do?" you ask.

"The metal isn't my mutation," he says.

He raises his fist about a foot away from your face. His fingers are balled up tight against his hand. You cock your head, wondering what he's showing you.

Before you can ask any questions though, three shining metal claws emerge from between his knuckles. They come out slowly, a pace prolonged enough to be considered teasing. Your eyes widen at the sharp points and you scoot back, smooshing the pillows against your head board. All you can wonder is if he didn't take them out earlier or if you really had missed something so monumental.

His laugh rises in volume. "Relax, I'm not gonna cut you."

The claws come to a halt when fully extended. You wait just in case something else is going to happen, but nothing does. You bring your finger up and poke at the hard surface. They were so beautiful but unnatural too. You'd never seen anything like them.

"But I didn't see anywhere for them to come out?" you say softly.

He flexes his hand and extends his fingers, retracting the claws much quicker than they appeared.

"There is no place for them to come out of," he says and offers you his hand.

You frown at the little cuts the sharp rods left in their wake, but like little zippers, they close up. You blink at his hand. All evidence of his mutation was gone.

"So you can heal? And you have claws?" you say more to yourself than him, "Does it still hurt when they come out?"

He nods and watches you examine his hand.

Upon seeing his confirmation, you can't even help what you do next. You pull his limb a little closer and kiss each spot where a claw had emerged. Every phantom cut gets a soft smooch left where it would soon reappear.

"What are you doing?" Logan asks, her arm tensing up on instinct.

You glance at his face before releasing his hand. "Oh... sorry," you say and shrug sheepishly.

To your surprise, he doesn't scold or chastise you, doesn't get up to leave in a hurry. He simply pulls his hand back and gives you another look before saying good night.

"Get some good sleep. Like I said, I'll show you around tomorrow," he says.

You slip down in the bed, resting your head on the plush pillows and pulling the blanket up over your form. He heads out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

A deep exhale leaves his lungs. He shakes some of that tension loose. What had he been doing? It almost felt like some different person had taken over him in there. Another version of himself that didn't have to be reminded to 'play nice.'

The few weeks you're supposed to stay at the school stretches out into a longer timeframe. It'd now been a few months since that day he found you in the cage and set you free. Though that month or so you'd spent locked up turned out to be worth it because you now had a place that made you happier than anywhere you'd lived before. You had a family.

You had Jean and Storm who were helping you train so you could one day go on missions with them. You had the Professor who taught you more about yourself than you had ever thought to ask. Scott was there too.

And of course, you had Logan.

Logan. As much as he tried to seem reluctant, to appear uncaring and nonchalant, he had grown to enjoy your company more with each passing day that you followed him like a shadow.

It was irritating at first. Before, he'd been able to drift through the school relatively unnoticed. Now, every single place he went, he was trailed by whoosh whoosh whoosh. The sound of your tail going back and forth. Anything he tried to do was accompanied by the feeling of two glimmering eyes trained on him. He'd tried to brush you off, but you didn't waver.

"Don't you have anything better to do than stalk me?" he'd ask, shooting a side eye your way.

"No," you'd respond.

"Well, find something."

"I don't wanna."

And who was he to argue with that?

In a way, the bond you seemed to have formed with him was flattering. It seemed like he could do anything, and you'd never view him as anything but the greatest creation to grace this earth. So he just lets you follow him around. He assumes after a while, you'll see him for what he is and lose interest, or you'll just grow bored of him and find something else to be the object of your obsession. Though so far that day hadn't come.

After a while of you always at his side, he started to cave and include you in his little routines.

One day he was doing sit ups at the foot of his bed while you sat nearby. His body rose and fell, abdomen kissing his thighs in regular intervals. But every time he came up, he found himself looking over at you.

"Hey, pup," he said, the nickname he developed for you coming out effortlessly, "C'mere for a second."

Your ears perked up. You weren't usually involved in what he was doing. You scoot over to him and kneel at his feet, awaiting a command. You could be so obedient sometimes it nearly made him feel guilty.

"You wanna help me with something?" he asked. As he expected, you nodded right away, so he continued, "Just hold my feet down. These only work if your feet stay flat. So just make sure they do."

You gave him another dutiful nod and got in position. Your hands held his feet down as he worked out just like he asked. Each time he came up off the ground, you looked at him with a big goofy smile.

That was just the first thing. From then on, the two of you actually did stuff together rather than just going about your things nearby one another. He'd help you train, and you'd help him clean Scott's bike when he finished using it.

Tonight, exhaustion aches in your bones after running around all day. On top of that, you'd had so much stuff to do yourself that you'd barely even seen Logan all day.

When the sun's finally down and the students have all retired to their bedrooms, you find him in the living room. He's leaned back into the couch, nursing a bottle of something. You assume it's not beer since you're at a school, but with how often he lamented about that limitation, you wouldn't put it past him to sneak one in.

You hop over the arm rest and curl up on the opposite side of the couch from him. He looks over at you, not displeased with your presence.

"There you are. I thought you finally got tired of me and found someone else to bother," he teases.

"I could never do that," you reply with the same playful cadence. You scoot a little closer. "I was just super busy today. The Professor was having me talk to some of the students, and then Scott needed me to grab something for him from the shed. It was really hard to find, so it took a while. Then I had to do my own training, and Jean made me try on some sizes for my suit..."

As you chatter on about your day, Logan finds himself nodding along, even occasionally reacting to what you say. He's not rolling his eyes or telling you to leave him alone. It's weird, but he can't say he wants to feel differently.

"Sounds like they're working you like a dog," he says when your story has reached an end.

Your face darkens like it had on the day he met you, shooting him a quick glare as a reminder not to say the forbidden d-word.

"Right, sorry," he corrects, "It just sounds like they're running you ragged. Don't let 'em work you too hard. Scott can get his own shit."

He still didn't understand your hang up about that word. He could call you pup, puppy, or any variation of that, and you'd react with nothing but joy. But utter d-o-g in your vicinity, and he felt like he was at risk of getting his throat chomped on. Luckily, it only takes his small apology for your normal demeanor to make its return.

"It's ok. I don't mind helping. I like having stuff to do," you say and shrug.

"I thought your 'stuff to do' was watching over me," he jokes and leans forward, placing his bottle down on the table.

You're not sure why, but you take that as an invitation to scoot even closer to him.

"I thought you wanted me to find better stuff to do."

"Fair," he chuckles, "Maybe this is one of those things where I'm not gonna realize I miss something until it's gone."

He brings his hand up from the back of the couch to massage the base of one of your ears. The soft fluff feels almost luxurious against the rough pads of his finger tips. He knew you loved the sensation. It had been an accidental discovery, something he did one time as a joke. But the way you melted into the touch had been more than just funny to him.

You lean into it now and nuzzle his palm.

"It was just one day. It's not like a permanent new routine."

"For now. Then soon enough, I'm gonna catch you trailing somebody else with hearts in your eyes," he says and gently tugs your ear.

You laugh at the tug and the stupid words. "You will not. Plus, I don't have hearts in my eyes for you."

"Oh really?" he teases. He leans in, his face hovering a couple inches away from yours. "I think I can see some now."

The two of you stay locked in a stare for a few lingering seconds. He'd never been this close to you before. You'd never heard his voice lower in that way, sounding almost desiring. Heat starts to crawl up from your belly through your chest to your neck. Before it can reach your cheeks, you turn your head to face the tv.

"Shut up," you huff, choosing to play the interaction off as a joke.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his grin. He chuckles and his arm returns to its place behind you, above your shoulders. Quiet blooms between the two of you, kept from being total silence only by the hushed noises of the tv set across the room. It doesn't feel awkward though even with the sudden shyness he'd brought over you.

You angle yourself and lean in so that you're sitting against his side. No words come from him, he simply lowers his arm to sling around your shoulders and keep you there. His thumb idly pets back and forth over the smooth skin of your forearm.

The heat of his body radiates from his side and into you. Makes you feel safe and comfortable. Like you're where you're supposed to be. It's easy to sink into him further and tilt your head to rest on his chest. Before long, your eyes feel a little droopy. Blinking feels sticky, and your mind just wants to retreat to the soft embrace of sleep.

Logan can tell. He's not sure of the feeling this knowledge brings him. Pride? Contentment? Affection? Instead of thinking about it harder, he just pulls you a little closer and lets you drift off. He considers saying something, letting you know he doesn't mind and that you don't have to try and stay up. But nothing comes from him and the quiet continues.

He watches you slowly slip away. Your neck loses the wherewithal to stay upright, and your breaths soften, blowing in and out in a thoughtless rhythm.

The feeling that flows through him takes him by surprise. Pure endearment towards you, not a hint of anything else. He lets you sleep there for the next hour or so. When you're still out cold after that time has passed, he's unsure of his next move. He doesn't want to wake you and shatter the peace that had settled over the room, but he had to head to bed himself and wasn't going to leave you stranded on the couch in the common room.

The light of the tv glows across the two of you as he mulls over his options. When he finally decides, he grabs the remote and shuts the device off, cloaking the room in darkness, spare the distant blinking lights that could be seen through the windows. He rises from the cushions that had molded to cradle his weight, making sure to keep a hand on you to prevent you from slumping over.

This time he doesn't shake you or offer a hand. He reaches around and tucks an arm under your legs. His other supports you across your shoulder blades as he lifts you into his arms. He traverses the furniture with caution, making sure to avoid bumping into a stray corner or tripping on a catch in the rug. Then he moves up the stairs. Your limp body bounces with each step.

He nudges the door open to your bedroom and takes you inside. Your scent seemed to fill the entire room. Every time he took a breath, he got a lungful of the heady smell. Your bedroom was so you now. The way you'd decorated it and splashed your personality over every inch, it'd be hard to believe that just a few months ago it had been so sparse.

What had been a blank bed, covered only by a plain duvet and thin pillows, now held your extra fluffy cushions, a nest of blankets, and your steadily-growing collection of plushies. Trinkets lined your shelves and tables, and you even displayed a few posters over the walls. It was you, all around him.

He walks the few paces to the edge of the mattress before laying your body down on the foamy surface. He drapes a nearby blanket over your form. Even though he's technically accomplished what he meant to, he doesn't leave yet. He lingers like he can't seem to help doing around you.

You're still fast asleep, unaware of the change in locations. He watches a haphazard swallow move through your throat before you settle into the familiar setting.

He finds himself not wanting to go back to his room. He'd been at the school longer than you and never made his own so nice. Really, he didn't think he could make it as nice. But that was just because nothing about him was as nice as you.

When the resolve to leave finally surfaces in him, he reaches out and rubs the base of your ear.

"See you in the morning," he murmurs. Unlike before, the rest of what he wants to say doesn't get tangled up in his throat. "My little puppy girl."

That night won't leave your head for the next week. It almost feels like a dream. You'd woken up in your bed the next morning, assuming that's what it was. The undeniable change in location was the only thing that made your mind accept it as reality.

In the following days, things stayed the same for the most part, though you would have sworn, Logan acted a little less grumpy around you. Only by a microscopic degree, but enough for you to note the shift.

Nothing that big happens though. You don't even repeat the cuddling incident again. You kind of just assume that it was a one time thing. A nice experience, but not one to be repeated.

The memory of it floats through your mind often though. The pulse of his heart beating against your cheek, how you could hear it in your ear clear as day. Your stomach flutters at the thought of him actively pulling you closer, wanting you that close. You can feel your dedication to Logan blossoming into something more. It was already rooted so deep inside you that you didn't think it was possible, but you could feel it. The branches of reverence spreading in your chest and growing into something closer to adoration.

You could feel it now, sitting next to him on the bench in the school's spacious yard. He'd been tasked with watching some of the students for the afternoon, so of course, you tagged along. Shade speckled his face with alternating blotches of sunlight and gray. The stray beams of light made his eyes glow, and his hair shine all pretty. The sounds of the students practicing their abilities clouds the background of your focus, and they become even more distant when he suddenly turns to you.

"You're staring," he teases with that little smirk of his.

Your eyes flutter at the accusation. "No... I was not."

"Yeah you were. Even worse than usual."

"I just was thinking and zoned out," you defend, turning to face forward.

He hums in acknowledgement, obviously not believing your excuse. "Were you thinking about me?"

"You wish."

"I don't have to wish, puppy. You're not a very good liar."

You really weren't. Your tail swished with each beat of this little back and forth. Your ears pinned back to your head, folded over by the guilt of being caught. Everything you were feeling was made apparent by your supposed 'gifts.'

"Well whatever. Even if I was, it's none of your business," you say. A smile pulls at your lips. Your tells weren't solely from your mutation.

"If you say so," he taunts, one last jab before he returns his attention to the kids he was supposed to be supervising.

Nothing he said hinted at anything more than playful banter, but the way he spoke had them wrapped around your heart like unbreakable restraints. The way he said them made you feel like he wanted it this way. Wanted you to hear that smug cadence in your mind for the next few days. Maybe he found you entertaining. Maybe your emotions were a new game he discovered he liked to play with.

Hours later, you're curled up in your bed, by yourself as per usual. Everyone in the school had gone to bed, you and Logan had parted a while ago yourselves. 

Sleep weighs you down to the mattress, but your ears perk up automatically when they register a distant sound of distress. It's faint. If it happened alone, you would've just assumed it was part of your dream and not done anything else. But more follow it.

Your eyes crack open, still glazed with drowsiness as you come to. You listen for the sounds that disturbed you. For a moment, there's nothing. Just the gentle breeze outside your room and the crickets chirping in the cut grass in the yard.

Then it happens again. A normal person wouldn't be able to hear these sounds. They were reserved for you with your enhanced senses. It sounds like grunting and groaning though you can pick up the pained undertone of fear. The worst part of it to you is that immediately you know it's coming from Logan.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, freeing them from the fleece warmth of your blankets. Padding out of the room, you cross the hall to his. You open the door in the specific way so that it doesn't creak and then shut it behind you. Your feet are gentle on the hardwood as they bring you closer to the source of the noise.

Once you're in, it's no mystery. Logan lays on his back in the center of his bed, shoulders twitching in agitation. He mumbles to himself, different words you can't make out. Your head cocks at the sight.

Approaching the side of his bed, you just watch him for a few more moments. When he doesn't wake up, you feel the urge to intervene. It felt wrong watching him suffer. Something pulled at your insides to help him.

You reach out and nudge his bicep. There's no effect. You do it a few more times but still nothing happens. Finally, you actually grip his shoulder and shake him gently, whispering into the darkness a simple "Logan."

That wakes him. No mistake about it. He gasps and snaps up. His claws come out from his hands without a second thought and slash at you. You hop back right away, tripping over your own feet and crashing onto the ground.

Your pulse thunders in your ears. The adrenaline coursing through you wasn't so much out of fear but rather confusion. Your mind was still a bit bogged by sleep itself, and at this moment, you're less concerned with Logan's reasoning and more so the logistics of a potential fight with him. Even though you had been training for the past several months, you had absolutely zero belief that you'd be able to beat him in a fight. Or even really compete for that matter.

Fortunately for you, it doesn't come to that. His eyes recognize you not long after his fists took the swing. You watch as his face morphs into a handful of different emotions in the span of about five seconds.

"I- what- how- I didn't-" he starts before getting a handle on his ability to speak, "I'm sorry."

Your body starts to come down from the brief high when it's clear he's not going to attack. You feel less wound up and let out a sigh. Your eyes remain inquisitive while gazing at him though. What did he dream about that made him freak out like that?

You guess it's not the best time to ask, so instead of pushing your luck, you push up off the ground and get your footing back. You step up to him at the edge of the bed and stand between his thighs. You plan on asking him if he's ok, but his arms reach out and yank you to his chest before you have the chance.

His hold is tight on you. The little half-hugs he'd given you a couple times before didn't compare at all. His arms were locked around you like they never intended to let go. You could hear him panting in your ear, and you could feel his heart thundering against both of your rib cages like it wanted to be released from its chamber.

"You're not hurt, are you?" he whispers.

You shake your head and wrap your arms around him too. The gesture relaxes him a lot, you can feel the tension seep away.

"Are you ok? I didn't mean to bother you, you just sounded like you needed help," you say at the same volume.

"You didn't bother me. I'm ok. I'm sorry. You don't have to worry about me like that."

His skin is warm and clammy against your own. You gently pat his back as some form of silent reassurance. Even if he wasn't as distraught as he had been a few minutes ago, you could tell the events that occurred were gnawing at him.

One of your hands drifts up, and you thread your fingers in his hair. It's like pulling a lever. He exhales deeply and pushes his face more against your neck.

"I'm sorry, pup," he murmurs.

You nuzzle the side of his head, and your heart nearly stops because he reciprocates this gesture with a few of the softest kisses you've ever felt, placed on your throat.

"I'd never hurt you on purpose. You know that."

You nod. Of course you knew that. And you would never say this to him out loud, but you felt so deeply for him, you weren't sure that your perception of him would have changed had his claws landed the strike on you.

Pulling back your head a little, you nudge his so you can see him. Both of your eyes connect for a moment before you lean in and kiss him. His lips are softer than you'd expected. His scent permeates your senses, but it's not one of booze or the brand of cigars he smokes. That's there, but your nostrils sense deeper. You could smell his essence. The way his blood runs hot as your tongue swipes into his mouth.

The kiss grows deeper. No words are said. Neither of you need them. Your fingers tighten on the dark locks of brown hair, and you climb into his lap. His hands land on your hips almost instantaneously. The only sounds between the two of you are sharp exhales and shallow inhales.

"What are you doing, bub?" he murmurs against your lips, breaking the silence. Despite his questions, he wasn't stopping you. Not at all. His fingers dig into your flesh and pull you a little closer.

"Wanna make you feel better. And show you that I know."

You weren't sure what you and Logan were after that night. Boyfriend-girlfriend, friends with benefits, or maybe simple companions. You didn't really care because regardless of the answer, you were happy.

Kissing was the only thing that transpired that night, but that was ok with you. It didn't dampen your outlook on your relationship with him in the slightest. You'd made out for a while, tangling up with each other and the sheets before he pulled back. He didn't want to go further when you both were coming down from all that emotion. And you agreed. You didn't need more. You felt elated from receiving that much affection in the first place. Your tail whacked against the mattress as you curled up to his side and put your head on his sternum to rest.

The next morning though, he had been ready for more. Once he fell back asleep, his dreams had been much more pleasant. He woke up stiff and aching for you, and you were more than happy to provide some relief.

You alleviated that throbbing between his legs multiple times that morning, and you'd been taking care of it at least once a day every day since then.

The team could tell something was going on between the two of you, a deeper bond than your initial affinity for Logan. You walked with a faster wag in your tail, and he seemed less jagged at the edges. Others were less likely to get cut now if they reached for him the wrong way.

Each of your steps also came with a small jingle now since Logan had given you his dog tags. You'd been lying against his side, basking in the afterglow of one of your escapades when he dangled the metal chain between the two of you.

"Want you to have these, pup," he rasped.

You'd looked at him with curiosity swimming in your eyes. Excitement mingled there too though.

He chuckled at the look before boosting your head so he could put them on you. 

"I know my pretty puppy doesn't want to wear a collar for me yet," he teased, getting a pout out of you, "I just want you to have something of mine. You don't even have to wear 'em if you don't want to."

You'd worn them every moment since he gave them to you. Wouldn't take them off for anything. The physical representation of your attachment stayed secured around your neck at all times. The way it made you feel had you thinking a collar would be a pretty nice next step.

It'd been just over a month since you became something more with him. Your tail zips back and forth as you clean up the training room, thinking all of this over. A little smile rests on your features too. Jean helps out nearby, laughing gently at your mood.

"You have it bad," she teases.

Your head turns, and you grin, exposing those elongated canines. Shrugging, you prance over to help her finish the area she was tidying up.

When the two of you get everything back into shape, you head out into the sleek hallway back towards the main part of the mansion. Your shoes squeak against the tile as you bound towards the doors.

Entering the primary floor from the rooms below always brought a bit of adjustment for your eyes. The lights downstairs shone bright, fluorescent white. Coming back to the soft lamps of the common rooms had you blinking while your pupils scanned the room for Logan.

You catch sight of him standing near the two large doors that acted as entrance to the school. Right now, you can only see him from behind, but you spot Charles next to him. It looks like they're talking to someone, though the former's bulky frame prevents you from seeing who.

Your legs carry you over to the pair. You come up on the side of Logan that Charles doesn't occupy. Tucking yourself under his arm, you look up at him first before your eyes land on the other person speaking.

The sight of her makes your head tilt to the side just the slightest. Every feature on her embodies beauty. Her red hair, similar to Jean's in color, sits slicked back on her head. Deep blue coats every inch of her body. Seductive yellow eyes flit between the two men she's conversing with, and now that you had appeared, they cast to you as well.

You'd seen her before around the mansion once or twice, and you didn't really trust her. She didn't seem like a bad person, but she worked opposite the team. Even though Logan had assured you she was just offering some information about a common goal, you didn't feel confident that Mystique's motives were of such pure intent.

Still, you don't interrupt the in-progress discussion. You stay quietly pressed to Logan's side, tail coasting against the back of his leg. He doesn't wrap his arm around you as tight as normal or rub between your ears like he often did, but he gives you a little pat on the shoulder to acknowledge your presence.

Mystique finishes listening to Charles' point before directing her full attention to you.

"I knew you all wore uniforms, but you two didn't tell me your team had a little mascot too."

You bristle at the comment but try to remain composed. You were better than a thoughtless animal that snapped at a little poke. Charles hadn't even noticed your presence. He looks over at you and realizes what Mystique's quip referred to. He introduces you briefly.

"She's new to the team and is still training, but she's not a mascot," he concludes.

"So more like a stray then? Cute. I never would have guessed you wanted a pet," she says to Logan.

Tension creeps up your spine, and you stand up straight, pulling away from Logan's side.

"I'm not his pet," you huff and look at her. Your pouty way of asserting yourself probably didn't do much to project the image of independence you wanted. "I'm-"

You go to continue, but she cuts you off.

"You really should teach your dog not to bark, Logan. It's not polite."

That sparks a small growl in your throat before you can shut it down. Her eyes widen in amusement which only makes it feel worse for you. The most humiliating part is that you know all of this is inauthentic. She's doing it for the purpose of riling you up, getting you upset and making you feel bad. You know this, but your reaction gets the better of you.

Before you can do anything regrettable, Logan's hand curls over your shoulder. He keeps you rooted where you stand, quelling the flames of conflict before they have a chance to spread.

"Back off," he says, quick and curt with Mystique. He turns to Charles next, still keeping his voice firm. "You don't need me to hear the rest of this. I think I'll let you wrap it up."

Charles nods, knowing it would be better for him to focus on removing you from the potentially volatile situation instead of being another observer for some intel.

Logan guides you away from them, hand moving from your shoulder to the back of your neck as he takes you upstairs. The anger inside you melts away with the growing distance between you and Mystique. Only the stain of embarrassment remained.

"I'm sorry," you say. Your words sound compressed, the weight of your shame hanging off them.

"Don't be. You didn't do anything wrong. She wanted you to get upset, so that's what she got."

The pair of you move through the rest of the hall without another word. You go into your room. Once the door is shut and it's just the two of you between the four walls, you stomp over to the bed and flop down onto the mattress.

Darkness clouds your vision while your face rests against the blankets. Your tail rests against your thigh limply. You hear him coming over and then feel his hand rubbing your leg near the lifeless appendage. The mattress dips as he sits next to you.

"C'mon. You're ok."

You shuffle around so your head is resting in his lap. "I looked pathetic."

He sighs. One of his hands rubs your back while the other pets your head. "You did not."

"Yeah I did."

"No. You didn't," he says, "You didn't do anything that bad. No one's gonna think less of you cause you got a little mad about someone talking shit to you."

You know he's right. Everyone here had an experience like that. It's how most of them ended up here, reacting even worse than you had. It still doesn't make you feel any less dumb. A deep exhale seeps from your lungs.

"I just don't understand why everyone looks at me like that. We all get it bad enough from humans, but then some of the others look down on me too. I'm the same as all of you. I don't say Mystique looks like a smurf cause she's blue, so I don't see why I have to get called a pet," you huff.

He smiles a little and scratches your ear, letting you vent.

"Even you guys looked at me different at first. I know you did. I'm not the only mutant with physical stuff. Why does it have to be a whole thing with me?"

"You're just a little different, bub. You confuse people, but it's not your fault. Nothing about you is less than any other mutant. Mystique doesn't even think that. She was trying to get under your skin."

"Yeah..." you say with a little dejection in your tone, "I still just wish people would treat me like normal. Or at least normal for a mutant."

"I know you do, baby," he hums and pats your arm.

By this point, you're far enough away from the harshness of what happened downstairs. You sit up and scoot closer to him crawling into his lap. He wraps his thick arms around you and rubs your back.

"There's my girl," he murmurs and pecks your temple.

You nuzzle him like a puppy seeking more affection from its owner. Your backside rests on his lap, your arms snug around his abdomen.

"I'm just curious though, pup. What's the big thing with being called dog? It's not that different than puppy," he says, a hint of caution in his voice. He figured now was as good a time as any to ask. He knew it was the main part of what Mystique said that set you off.

You don't react with anger or defensiveness which pleases him. Instead, you shrug.

"Cause. Puppy sounds cute. Dog is just so... bleh," you say, "It makes me sound like a gross animal that someone has to wrangle."

His eyebrow rises. You can see the amusement in his eyes, but he successfully kills his laugh before it leaves his throat.

"Mmm. Makes sense. Can't have anyone thinking you're gross."

"Exactly," you say and kiss his cheek, "You get it. I just... I don't wanna be your pet, I wanna be yours."

You breathe out the words and push yourself closer on his lap. He appeases your desire for less space and pulls you to his chest.

"You are mine. You don't have to worry about that," he says.

"And I still wanna be your little puppy."

He chuckles. His head ducks down to your neck to lay a few kisses there. One of his palms drifts down to gently knead the dough of your ass.

"You also are my little puppy. My little puppy that follows me everywhere. Mine to hold and love on. Mine to play with. Mine to deal with when she gets bratty."

The last word comes out teasing and brings a happy sound out of you. "I wasn't being bratty before. She started it," you say, playing along.

"Hmmm, you're right. Maybe fussy's a better word," he mutters and nips at the soft flesh of your neck.

"Nuh uh. I was being totally normal," you say and nudge at his face with your nose, getting a little squirmy on his lap.

He responds by flipping you over onto your back. The mattress creaks with the bout of pressure and a squeal leaves your throat. You can feel his length against your hip, half-hard already from how you had wiggled on his lap.

"Oh please," he says, "Why do you think I brought you up here? I can tell when my pup needs to calm down. And I know just how to do that, don't I?"

You whimper and nod. He grins before returning his lips to your neck. He nips a few love bites onto the delicate area, drawing little whines from you. His hands hold you in place and move with your body's wriggling. He gropes at your hips and waist, paws at your tits, and slides them around to massage your ass.

"Such a good girl. So responsive for me," he coos.

The condescending affection sends a pulse down to your clit, and your hips roll up to meet his. One of your legs hooks around his waist to pull his body closer.

"Logan. Don't tease," you pout.

Your whiny plea doesn't garner any sympathy from him though. He laughs against your neck and pulls back to smirk down at you.

"My little puppy needs to learn some patience. You think if you don't get my dick in seconds that it's teasing," he taunts.

You whine again and press your leg down on him. He doesn't make any move to pull his cock out though. One set of his fingers comes up to your jaw, directing your lips to an angle where his can land on yours. He kisses you nice and deep, swallowing up any bratty urges that were springing around inside your head. His tongue is warm and soft, gentle against yours.

Meanwhile, his freehand does start to slide down below. It travels beneath the waistband of your bottoms. His warm fingers glide over the plush skin of your pelvis and slot between your lower lips to find your swollen nub. He flicks at it, instantly getting a mewl from you.

You can feel his smug smile against your mouth, but you don't have much time to react to it before his middle finger starts swirling around your bud. Your leg releases his body as it squirms with your other on the mattress. You moan into his mouth and boost your hips into his touch, wanting more of that blissful friction.

"Sweet girl," he coos. The words are muffled by your skin, but you could pick those syllables out of any lineup. "That's your favorite spot, isn't it? Always gets you wriggling for me like a little puppy."

"Mhm," you whimper with a faint nod.

Your heels dig into the mattress to give you some leverage to push your hips up so he can tug your pants off. He takes the opportunity and flings them off the bed. With you bare to him like that, he leaves your lips and moves down. He pulls your top off next and smooches between your breasts and over your tummy before landing between your legs.

He kneels on the floor at the edge of the mattress. His hands hook around your thighs and pull you in his direction.

"C'mere, baby. Give me that puppy cunt. Gotta get it all wet, so it can take my cock."

With that, he buries his head between your thighs. You gasp and throw your head back. Your hands fly to his head to grab at the two dark points of hair.

Logan gives his all to the task of pleasuring you. Whether it was his cock or his mouth, you were never getting anything less than his best. That's obvious right now as he eats you out like it's all he has to live for. He laps at your poor little clit before sucking it into his mouth. It gets some good suction from his lips before he pulls away and licks a broad stripe over your cunt.

He prods his tongue at your entrance, pushing the soft appendage against your hole. You whine more, and he feels your heels dig into his back as they had the mattress. Little expletives float from your mouth into the air as you experience such a rush of euphoria.

"Taste so good, pup. So fuckin' sweet," he mumbles. His lips open and close over your pussy, making out with it.

You rock your hips back and forth, essentially humping his face. He groans and only works harder. Your cute reactions only spurred him on. He twists his tongue just how he'd learned you liked and uses the perfect amount of pressure to get you gushing for him. Your arousal begins to coat his chin, his dark facial hair glistening with your wetness.

"Nice and wet. I'm just gonna slide right in, huh baby?"

"Yeah," you pant. Your hips buck when his nose bumps your clit, but he keeps you held in place.

He kisses your clit before dragging his tongue over you anymore. The soft touch pulls a whimper from you. Your brain starts to get all muddled and hazy. The dreamy feeling always took over when he had you like this. He knows it's coming on too. He can tell by the sudden softening of your movements. You're less jerky and more fluid in how you fidget.

"Oh, that's it. I think my pretty puppy's ready for me," he says, voice smooth on your ears.

He wags his tongue over your little bundle of nerves a few more times before standing to undress himself. His shirt comes off first, dropped to the floor with your garments. His pants are next to go, crumpled on the ground and kicked off his ankles.

Crawling back on top of you, his larger figure boxes you in on the soft surface. His cock is fully hard by now, red and angry, leaking desire from the tip. He guides it to your center and rubs it through your soaked folds.

A soft grunt leaves him as your nectar coats his shaft and drips onto his balls a little too. He only slides it against you a couple times, not wanting to waste the stimulation humping when he could be nestled deep inside.

He brings his tip down to your hold and pushes it in. Your walls accept the familiar intrusion and he groans at the comfort of your velvet walls contracting around him. He pushes his length in all the way until he bottoms out.

Then, adjusting himself and gripping at your hips, he starts to thrust. The motions start as gentle rocks. Taps of his pelvis against your ass. You flutter around him. Moans leak from you, and he smiles at the obvious pleasure coursing through your body.

He fucks you deep, just how you always asked for it. You weren't concerned with whining for harder and deeper right now. This was enough. The feeling of his cock buried in you soothed you like nothing else. Your eyes roll back and puffs of air come from your nostrils.

"Fuck, honey. Feels like I can barely last with you," he grumbles.

"Can't even think when I'm with you," you babble.

Your arms come up to pull him closer, and he lets you. He presses his body into yours, in-turn, shoving his cock as far into you as physically possible. You cry out with the pressure. It was the best kind. Deep and satisfying. To the point that you can feel it in your tummy every time his belly pushes on yours.

"You may not be my dog, baby, but one day you're gonna be my perfect breeding bitch," he grunts.

Your jaw goes slack, eyes drooping with lust. Your head tilts back and he leans into yours more.

"Gonna have you full of me forever. Always gonna be mine."

You can't even respond. Your mind isn't coming up with any coherent response. All you can do is whimper and whine like the needy pup that you are.

"This is what you need sometimes, puppy. Need me to stretch you out on my cock. Get all those thoughts out of your head. Cause puppies don't have to think. Not when you have someone like me taking care of you."

Your thighs start quivering, a sign you were reaching your peak. He knows this and drills into you harder. His balls slap against you every time he pistons his hips. His heated skin rubs against yours. He occupies all your senses, overloading you with him.

"Logan... gotta... gonna cum," you whine.

"Then cum for me," he mumbles simply, "Cum all over my cock, and I'll be right behind you."

You nod. Your back arches up. It takes you a little more, but when you get there, you crash into the throes of release. A sharp yelp bursts from you. Your feet kick a little and your legs press against his sides in an attempt to shut him out.

You get so fucking tight when you cum. Your hole clenches around him, calling out to him to spill every drop of his seed inside your wanting orifice. He growls and drops his head in your neck. He feels it building between his hips. The pressure grows until he can't take it anymore. It snaps and the flood gates open.

He bites at your neck, not hard enough to break the skin but with enough need to leave a little mark. Hot, sticky cum shoots out of him in thick ropes. Warmth fills your insides and you feel like you're sinking into the mattress below you. Both of you are panting with the intensity of the high.

You've already come down by the time he's starting to. After he nuts, Logan tends to get a little sappy. His arms pull you in tighter and he pecks at your neck a few times more muttering something unintelligible about his baby puppy.

"So what do you think?" you ask and twirl into the room, showing off your new outfit.

It matched his. Black leather snug on your body, lined with the same gold on the seams of Logan's. The bold X that shown on his belt could be found on the zipper of your top, dangling against your chest.

He smiles at you, standing from the bed to walk over and get a better view.

"Looks pretty good," he says upon approaching, "Seems a little tight though. You got room for your tail in that thing?"

You laugh at his joke and spin around again, showing the back where the suit had accommodated for your tail to poke through. It whips back and forth before you turn to him again.

"Just perfect for you then," he says and pulls you close, patting your ass and kissing your forehead, "Look at you. An official member of the team."

You nod and struggle not to bounce all around the room with the excitement vibrating through your cells.

"We're gonna be like so totally cool together," you say.

"Yeah. Totally," he imitates affectionately. He cups your jaw, watching your cheeks squish in and your lips puff out. Leaning down, he puts his mouth on yours in a soft kiss. "You're gonna do great."

The words come out as a whisper against your lips. One of your canines slips over your bottom lip as you take it between your teeth. But the display of timidity only lasts a second.

"I know," you beam.

Locking your fingers around his palm, you drag him to the door and out into the hall. Your arm makes his swing as he walks along behind you. He rolls his eyes lovingly at your confident display, but he can't keep his gaze off your happy self. He lets you pull him without resistance.

Now it would be his turn to follow you.

[pucksandpower]

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.”

[angelfic]

— THE WAY I LOVED YOU

pairing: theodore nott x reader

summary: in which theodore nott will do anything to get you to go out with him, but you’re just as stubborn rejecting him

warnings: swearing, kissing, dangerous stunts and theo being stupid (ryan gosling in the notebook style), unedited since i wrote this in the middle of the night on no sleep again lol. enemies to lovers if you squint a bit

author’s note: since everyone loves theo i’ll pretend this isn’t just for my own selfish needs <3 (especially the notebook reference) also surprise surprise mc is a gryffindor as always, you’d never know i was a slytherin my bad guys… as always let me know what u think! enjoy, angels 💌

The first time Theodore Nott asks you out, you spill a pot of ink directly into his lap.

It’s not like you meant to do it. But when there’s a Transfiguration worksheet to be getting on with, the Slytherin boy seated next to you by Professor McGonagall asking you out would surely take anyone by surprise.

The second you twist in your seat to look at him in shock, your arm slides the pot right off the desk and directly onto his grey trousers, instantly staining them with the black liquid before you have a chance to speak.

Your hands fly to your mouth to stifle your gasp and you look up at him, anticipating an angry glare in return. Instead, he looks mildly surprised at the ever-growing stain on his crotch, but mostly… amused?

“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed, darling,” he says, raising an eyebrow and suppressing a smile.

You begin stuttering out an apology and scrambling for your wand to wave away the stain before you can do something stupid like attempting to rub it off with your sleeve. Your cheeks instantly heat up at the humiliating image now plaguing your mind and you barely contain a sigh of relief when you realise the lesson has finished.

It’s a miracle your shoes haven’t left scuff marks on the ground in a cartoonish trail with the speed at which you leave the classroom. Godric knows why Theo Nott of all people wants to ask you out, but since it can’t possibly be for any good reason, you’d rather not think about it too much. This, however, isn’t helped by Hermione pestering you about why you look so flustered for the entire walk to the Charms classroom.

Twenty minutes later, her attention is finally diverted. On the other hand, it’s because she’s berating you for accidentally burning the end of her left eyebrow off with a charm gone wrong.

The second time Theo asks you out, there are thankfully no ink pots around.

“Hey,” he whispers from behind you, making you jump within an inch of your life despite his low volume. You swivel in your chair to glare at him, incredulous. Seeing that he’s startled you, Theo grins. “Sorry. What are you doing?”

“Baking a cake,” you deadpan, once your heart has started beating at a normal pace again. Holding up your Potions book, you feel the annoyance start to seep in when Theo continues looking at you, undeterred. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Apparently unfazed by your sarcasm, he drags out the chair next to you and spins it around to sit on it backwards. Settling his arms on top of the backrest, Theo rests his chin on them to look at you. “You never did answer my question.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mumble, eyes scanning the page in front of you but taking in nothing. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to study-”

“Are you going to make me ask you again?” he sighs. You panic a little at his bluntness and continue pretending to read, not knowing what else to do. Theo takes your silence as encouragement and shuffles his chair closer to your own. “Go out with me.”

The arrogance practically drips off his voice, and the pit of anxiety in your stomach immediately turns into irritation instead. “No,” you grit out, slamming your potions book shut to scowl at him. “And I don’t hear you asking anything.”

“Okay,” Theo says slowly, nodding as though he understands. It’s clear that he doesn’t though, because the next words out of his mouth have you stunned. “Please, oh please, will you do me the absolute greatest honour of going out with me?”

”Merlin,” you exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose. Dropping your hands into your lap, you see no solution other than gathering your things to return to the common room. “You’re having me on…”

“I can assure you, I’m not,” Theo says quickly, stopping you from leaving by gently grabbing your elbow. You stop in your movements to catch him looking more unsure than you’ve ever seen, and you’ve never been more perplexed. “I’m completely serious right now. Go out with me?”

“Wh- I don’t even-” you sigh, cutting your senseless muttering off to cross your arms over your textbook. “Whatever happened to a simple ‘no’ sufficing, darling? Aren’t there a million other girls for you to go and pester? Godric knows you’ve got an entourage following you half the- What are you looking at?”

Amazingly, Theo’s expression has lost all trace of vulnerability and now displays a slightly faraway look, his signature lazy grin in full effect. “Sorry, I didn’t hear a word after you called me ‘darling’.”

Resisting the urge to hit him over the head with your textbook, you take a deep breath and grasp the potential weapon tighter in your hands before speaking. “As hard as it is for me to believe that girls actually fall for this rubbish, your history with them shows that they do. Don’t think for a second, I’m going to let you use me like they do.”

Theo considers your words for a few seconds, mulling them over as carefully as though he’s trying to solve a brain teaser. Eventually, he seems to come to a satisfying conclusion, because he tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers and tilts his head. “So you need me to prove I’m serious about this… and then you’ll say yes?”

“Oh, for the love of-” Huffing, you turn on your heal without saying another word and storm out of the library. Theo doesn’t follow you, allowing you to clear your head and think about the incredibly odd interaction.

You’re climbing through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room when you realise you never actually refuted Theo and his theory to make you go out with him. Whether or not it was on purpose, you can’t quite decide.

Over the next few weeks, you start wishing you had stopped Theo before he could start trying to prove himself to you.

You can’t go a single day without the question of going out with him popping up. Much to your bewilderment, it isn’t always him asking. Sometimes it’s his friends, sometimes it’s students at the Gryffindor table who are sick of the multiple owls every morning flocking to your table with a note in their beaks. Sometimes it’s even your friends.

“I mean, really,” Hermione says at breakfast, huffy as always when reprimanding someone. “It’d be benefiting everyone if you just went out with him. Why don’t you, anyway?”

“He’s a Slytherin,” Ron butts in, talking to Hermione as though he’s explaining something to a child. He takes a gigantic bite of his toast before speaking, his next words coming out muffled. “Surely that’s reason enough.”

“No, that isn’t reason enough,” Hermione says sternly, furrowing her brows. “A good reason would have been all the girls he’s always with. Of course, that’s flown out the window recently. He’s also never given them as much attention now that I think about it.”

“He’s definitely not the worst of the group either,” Harry adds, leaning in as nosily as Ron. “Not like we’re talking about Malfoy…”

“Don’t you two have Quidditch tactics to be discussing?” you snap, exhausted by the subject already. The two boys hold up their hands in surrender, before shuffling down the bench. Whether that’s to be closer to the Quidditch team, or to get away from you before you start throwing hexes - you aren’t certain.

The fact you’re awake early in the morning on a Saturday isn’t helping your sour mood, and the Quidditch match being between Gryffindor and Slytherin only adds to this.

“We’d better go and get a good seat at the front, so we aren’t on our tiptoes for the whole game like last time,” Hermione says, already sliding off the bench. You give your cup of coffee one last longing look before you allow yourself to be dragged away.

You haven’t even made it onto the Quidditch pitch before you’re already wishing for that cup of coffee to give you strength, because you find none other than Theo standing outside the Great Hall in his green and silver Quidditch robes.

As soon as he spots you, Theo plasters on that charming smile of his and opens his mouth, no doubt to ask you if you could talk privately.

Hermione interjects before he gets the chance. “Don’t bother, I’m leaving.” She simply sighs when you look at her, betrayed. “He’d have convinced you anyway! I’ll save you a seat.”

You watch her leave, helplessly before turning to Theo and crossing your arms. “Yes?”

“I have a proposition for you,” he says simply, getting to the point. The proposition has, without a doubt, got something to do with you and him and a trip to Hogsmeade, but you gesture for him to continue nonetheless. You can’t deny it’s been entertaining watching Theo come up with new ways to ask you out these past few weeks. “I’ll throw the match and let your lot win if you go out with me.”

This startles a laugh out of you, something between a chortle and a gasp. “Oh, you cheeky bastard,” you exclaim, but you can’t help grinning. That was quite possibly the last thing you expected him to say. “First of all, I think my lot is perfectly capable of winning on their own. And secondly… as funny as it would be, I’d rather not have your death and Malfoy’s subsequent imprisonment in Azkaban be on my conscience.”

You only realise just how wide your smile is when it starts to fade under Theo’s unwavering gaze. His lips twitch up into a smile and you immediately frown as an automatic response. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re bantering with me,” Theo says, grinning as though he’s extremely pleased with himself. You realise with a jolt, that yes you were bantering. “One step closer to agreeing to go out with me.”

“That’s not happening,” you protest, but it sounds fairly weak, even to you. “Like I keep telling you, I’m not going to be one of those girls.”

Theo shrugs. “And I think you already know you’re not one of those girls. It’s fine, I can wait.”

The relaxed manner in which he says this has you flabbergasted to say the least. Truthfully, you aren’t completely sure why you haven’t just agreed at this point. No one in the whole school is used to witnessing such extravagant displays from Theodore Nott, so you’ve accepted the fact you’re an outlier in this particular subject area. You’re starting to think Hermione’s right, and it’s pure stubbornness that’s keeping you going.

“You’ll be waiting a long time then,” you say, giving Theo a bland smile.

“Nah,” is all he says, the smile still gracing his unperturbed face. “Keep an eye out for me in the Quidditch stands.”

Theo winks at you before walking away in the direction of the pitch and you linger in the castle for a good few minutes before snapping out of it and walking in the same direction.

You find Hermione quickly at the front of the Gryffindor stand and you’re about to ask how long until the game starts when Lee Jordan’s voice begins to boom from the commentator stand.

“Strong start for Gryffindor with Katie Bell taking the Quaffle and- nope, Vaisey’s taken it and passed it onto Urquhart, his fellow Chaser and the new Slytherin captain.” You’re thankful for Lee’s commentary as it’s easy to follow and you probably wouldn’t have a clue if it weren’t for him. Surprisingly, he keeps it professional enough for a while. “Ginny Weasley tries to take the Quaffle after a near hit there to Urquhart, thanks to new Gryffindor Beater Jimmy Peakes and that very solid Bludger over there. Unfortunately, he missed-”

“JORDAN.”

“Sorry, Professor McGonagall, I meant fortunately. Slytherin Chaser Mattheo Riddle now has the Quaffle and seems to be aiming to score and- oops! He’s missed, thanks to Gryffindor Keeper Ron Weasley. Good on you, Weasley,” Lee says, unable to be impartial as shown by McGonagall’s glare. “As for the Slytherin Keeper, Nott seems to be distracted by something in the Gryffindor stands. Or should I say someone.”

Laughter echoes in every stand, much to your utter humiliation and some people even start whooping and cheering in your direction. Theo’s antics are common knowledge at this point, but it doesn’t make the laughter any less embarrassing. You try and maintain a shred of dignity by standing still and glaring as hard as you can at Theo. Horrifyingly, he starts to fly in your direction.

Lee looks at McGonagall before speaking, but she merely shrugs helplessly, looking flustered herself. “Er, well it seems Slytherin are open for Gryffindor to score. No one seems to be taking advantage, however, as I think I can speak for everyone when I say we want to know what’s going on with Nott and Y/N.”

Glancing at the others, you realise Lee is right and all the players are hovering in place, making no move to continue the game. They look partly confused, but mostly nosy.

Theo stops just outside the Gryffindor stand, his attention focused wholly on you. You raise both eyebrows in question, waiting for him to speak. “Go out with me.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t quite hear what Nott is saying, but I think we can all guess he’s asking her out again,” Lee says, causing a few more cheers and even a couple groans. “Take the hint, mate.”

“Theo, get back to the game!” you hiss, wrapping your arms around you as if it’ll shield you from everyone’s eyes. “You’re embarrassing m- What the fuck are you doing!”

Theo swings a leg over the side of his broomstick so that he’s sitting completely facing you, legs dangling dangerously off one side. Lee sits up a little in his booth and McGonagall looks positively horrified. “For unknown reasons, Nott is balancing precariously in a position no Quidditch player wants to- Merlin, he’s hanging off his broomstick!”

Everyone in the crowd screams and shouts when Theo slips off his broomstick, but they quieten down and watch with fright when they see he’s still holding on with both hands. You think you’re going to faint.

“Theo,” you plead, with the same voice you’d use to coax a bloody kitten out of a tree. “Get back on your broomstick. Please.”

“Only if you go out with me,” Theo says, eyes determined despite breathing a little heavier. The broomstick is thin and despite his strength, it’d be hard for anyone to maintain a grip for long. “Say you’ll go out with me and I’ll get back on.”

“Just say it!” Hermione grabs you by the shoulder to shake you.

Professor McGonagall seems to have shaken out of her previous daze and begins scrambling around for her wand while Lee narrows his eyes to better assess the situation. “Godric, Y/N. Just say ‘yes’ and end everyone’s misery already.”

“But…” you trail off, hands shaking as you keep your eyes on Theo’s white knuckles still gripping the broom. “I don’t want to encourage this stupid behaviour.”

Theo rolls his eyes as though he can’t believe you’re still objecting. He shakes his head at you, though his chest is shaking with laughter. “Go out with me, and I swear I’ll never do anything stupid again. Fucking hell, I’ll quit Quidditch altogether if you want.”

You open your mouth to say something, you’re not sure what, but before you can get a word out, Seamus Finnigan pipes up from beside you. “Personally, I say let him fall off the bloody thing.”

Tutting, you turn to Theo just to find the idiot raising an eyebrow challengingly. His left hand begins to loosen on the broomstick, deliberately.

“Theo, don’t you dare.”

He drops his left hand completely and you scream, the noise drowned out by everyone else’s yells.

“OKAY!” you yelp, heart in throat as you watch Theo dangling from his broomstick with one hand, clearly struggling. “Okay, I’ll go out with you, you stubborn idiot!”

The Gryffindors that hear you, begin to cheer, setting off the other houses and once McGonagall sees Theo begin to pull himself up on his broomstick, she visibly relaxes, slumping in her seat as she clutches her chest. Lee soon gets the message. “Finally, after a good month of watching Nott pine pathetically, Y/N has agreed to go out with the poor bast- Er, beggar. Sorry, Professor. By the way Nott, you’ve got detention for a week.”

Now sitting normally on his broomstick, Theo grins at you like the cheeky bastard that he is, with elation clear as day on his face. You struggle to fight off your own grin and you can tell by his expression you’re not doing a very good job at it. “Pull something like that again and I’ll push you off your broomstick myself,” you warn him, though it lacks any real threat. You were more worried than angry, and it definitely shows. “Okay?”

“No more stupid behaviour,” Theo promises, sounding sincere as he nods, messy hair falling into his eyes. The wind blows it out of the way almost immediately and you find yourself wanting to do it with your fingers. “After this, though.”

You furrow your brows as Theo flies close enough to the Gryffindor stand to get off his broomstick and hop right into the crowd, landing next to you. Broomstick in hand, Theo doesn’t take his eyes off you when he holds it out to Hermione. “If you don’t mind, Granger.”

Clearly baffled, Hermione gingerly takes the broomstick from him and watches the two of you, as enraptured as the rest of the school.

You face Theo properly, looking up at his eyes to see them glittering with pride and achievement. You tilt your head in question, wondering why he hasn’t yet returned to the game.

Theo answers you by gripping your waist to pull you into a stupidly dramatic, dizzying, wonderful kiss. His lips are soft against your own and cold from the wind, but the shiver that runs down your spine has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the way Theo is pressed against you.

You could go on forever, but the cheers and claps and hollering around you remind you that you’re surrounded by all your peers and, Godric, your teachers.

Pulling away, you clear your throat and attempt to gain back some of your dignity by keeping a serious face. Theo attempts nothing of the sort as he’s still wearing a silly grin. You try and avoid his eyes for the sake of your nerves and you mutter the first thing that comes to mind. “Erm, good luck then. I hope you win.”

This is the wrong thing to say surrounded by your fellow Gryffindors as a few of them boo at you.

Theo rolls his eyes at the dramatics, while you simply scowl, pointedly at Seamus who seems to have boo’ed the loudest. Hermione is beaming at you when she hands Theo back his broomstick, though she also gives a little frown directed at Seamus.

Getting back on his broomstick, Theo hovers near you outside the stand. You lower your voice to a whisper that only he can hear. “I still hope you win.”

Theo shrugs, looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him during a Quidditch game. “I’ve already won, darling.”

© angelfic 2023.