#what is legends. like deep down what is it whats going on there

[reixtsu]

⪨༒𓊈𒆜🅞🅤🅡 🅣🅐🅡🅖🅔🅣𒆜𓊉༒⪩ | 𝙶𝚎𝚝𝚘 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘

You were in deep shit, the deepest shit you have ever been in. Two men from rival companies, two men who were hot as fuck, were targeting you? Someone who was known as the best assassin in Japan? Honestly in any other situation you would have been honored to be hunted down by someone. It was a nice challenge, one that you would usually be confident in winning. However this time you were scared shitless.

Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru, the golden pair, notably the two strongest and best spies in Japan if not the world. Those two-no, legends-were targeting you. It definitely wasn't helping your carefully crafted composure that you've spent years to perfect.

The bastards were relentless. They moved like ghosts, dismantling every alias, every safe house, and every backup plan you had, as if you were a mouse being chased by some ninja cats. Wherever you went, they weren't far behind. There was no room for you to catch a single breath. Besides, it wasn't just their skill that  you-it was how they played the game. Gojo's smug confidence made your skin boil as warm as the spiciest curry, while Geto's quiet, calculating precision left you feeling like a fly caught in a web.

You ducked into a shadowy alleyway, the Tokyo skyline buzzing above, blissfully unaware of the pounding of your heart as you hid as best you could. It was annoying, how you felt them closing in on you, like wolves cornering a rabbit. Except this rabbit wasn't about to roll over. Not yet.

Forcing yourself to steady your breathing, reminding yourself of the boy Toji told you to look after like a shadow. Megumi, Toji's son. His safety came first, even if it risked your own. It was your checking his whereabouts when you accidently ran into Gojo one day, and that was the first piece of information that revealed your occupation. As much as you hated it, Gojo adopted Megumi, so now he is taking care of him. Gojo was keeping him safe, and that would be all that mattered if Gojo and his bestie wasn't plotting to kill you.

Your plush lips curled into a biter smile. How poetic. Two men who could bring the world to its knees, and here I am stuck in between them, scrambling to keep my life intact.

Footsteps echoed in the distance-light, deliberate. Your heart rate spiked. You gripped the blade hidden in your coat, your instincts sharpening.

"You can't hide forever you know." A smooth, arrogant voice cut through the silence, sending chills down your spine. He was here. Gojo.

You grit your teeth, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. That cocky bastard.

"She's smarter than that, Satoru," another voice added, one that was low and velvety. And there was Geto. "Be patient. She's probably trying to plan her next move."

"Trying?" Gojo snorted. "Please. She's desperate by now. You can smell it."

The audacity, really. You couldn't help the scoff that slipped from your lips. A stupid rookie mistake for a pro like you.

"Well, well," Gojo said, his voice practically dripping with smug delight. “There's our little rabbit.”

You stepped out of the shadows, forcing yourself to smirk even as your heart thundered within your chest. They were standing just a few paces away, both of them far too calm for comfort. Gojo had his hands shoved casually in his pockets, his blink round glasses hiding his pair of sparkling blue eyes. Geto stood beside him, arms crossed and his head tilted slightly, showing his Adam's apple, his expression unreadable but no less dangerous.

"Boys," you drawled, feigning confidence you didn't feel, "if you're going to hunt me, at least make it interesting.'

Gojo grinned, one that was wide and toothy. "Oh, sweetheart, you haven't even seen anything yet."

Geto's smirk was much subtler, but it still carried a weight that made your stomach twist in discomfort. "Careful what you wish for."

You huffed, hand on your hip as you glared at them. For the first time in your life, you weren't sure if you'd make it out unscathed. But if this was how it ended, then you were going to make the most out of it.

The game was on, and your life wasn't the only one on the line.

"You always run, sweetheart," Gojo teased, his tone light but nevertheless laced with dripping poison. "When do we get to have some real have fun with you?"

You reached over and twirled the knife in your hand, keeping your stance loose and ready. "You call this fun? Sounds like someone needs a better hobby."

"Maybe you can recommend one," Geto said calmly, stepping closer, his purple eyes sharp enough to cut through you. His movements were deliberate, like a predator closing in. "Though I doubt assassins have much time for hobbies between killing and running."

"Funny," you shot back, eyes flicking between them. "You two seem to have plenty of time for playing fetch with me."

Gojo's grin only widened, but his posture shifted ever so slightly-subtle, but enough to signal that he was ready to move. Your grip on your knife tightened.

"Aw, don't flatter yourself," Gojo said,adjusting his glasses casually. "We're not chasing you because it's fun." He leaned forward ever so slightly, his voice dropping an octave, "We're chasing you because you're special."

That comment threw you off for a second. The words he said just didn't sit right, nor the way he said it. You forced your expression to remain neutral. "Touching. Did you rehearse that?"

"Why would I? I'm naturally charming."

Geto cut in, his voice as smooth as silk. "Let's not drag this out, Satoru. She's in the corner. She knows it."

Your heart pounded, begging to be freed from your chest, but your face remained unreadable. You weren't cornered. Not yet. You just needed to keep them talking, just needed more time.

"Cornered?" You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be amused. "Do you see me begging for mercy? Or are you just hoping I will?"

"You've got guts," Geto said, tilting his head just enough to have his black bang cover part of his eye. "I'll give you that. Most people would've given up by now. But we know you're not like other people."

"Neither are you both," you replied, and in one fluid motion, you threw your knife-not at them, but at the exposed pipe just above their heads.

The knife swiftly struck true, steam hissing violently from the now broken pipe, flooding the narrow alleyway with a thick, blinding fog.

"Shit-!" Gojo cursed, his voice muffled in the chaos of fog.

You didn't risk the chance to wait. You bolted, weaving through the maze of alleyways as your boots pounded against the pavement. The fog bought you a few seconds, maybe less. They were way too good at their job to be distracted for long.

Your mind raced as fast as your legs. You've played their game long enough now to know that they weren't just chasing you for fun, they said it themselves. Your suspicions connected to Megumi started to seem more and more plausible as to how Gojo found you. But with the way he looked at like-like he knew everything about you- it wasn't random.

It terrified you to your core.

As you rounded a corner, a sudden blur of motion forced you to stop short.

"Fast," Geto murmured, stepping out of the shadows as if he'd been waiting for you. His calm demeanor sent a chill down your spine. "But not fast enough."

Your eyes darted around, searching for an opening, any, but he'd chosen his stop well. Narrow alley, no easy exits.

"You're good," he said, almost like he was praising you. You would be lying if his words didn't have an effect on you. "No wonder why you're the best. But even the best slip up eventually."

"I don't slip," you shot back, trying to keep as steady as you could.

"Then you must be tired." He took another step forward, unhurried but deliberate. "You've been running for days. Dodging us, hiding. you're human, no matter how perfect you pretend to be."

"Bold words for someone who needed a partner to keep up with me, huh?" You snapped, trying to mask the unease creeping up your spine with irritation.

A low chuckle echoed behind you, and your stomach sank instantly.

"Oh, she got you there, Suguru," Gojo's voice teased as he emerged from the other end of the alley, effectively leaving you no options for escape.

You were boxed in.

Shit.

"Let's not make this harder than it has to be," Geto said, his tone soft but firm. "You've got a choice. Come with us, or..."

"Or what?" You challenged, staring at him.

Gojo shifted a little, combing his silver hair out of his face only for it to flop back down. "Or we make you."

Your pulse thundered in your ears, much to your displeasure. "You think I'm scared of you?"

Gojo shrugged nonchalantly. "You should be."

You moved before they could. Your hand desperately went to the smoke bomb in your pocket, but Geto was faster. With a flick of his wrist, a thin wire lashed out, tangling around your wrist and pulling tight. You hissed in frustration as he yanked you, rendering you off balance.

"Sloppy," he said quietly, his eyes narrowed into slits.

"Persistent," you hissed under your breath, twisting your body to free your other hand. You managed to grab a second knife you had on your belt and threw it at him. He dodged, but the slight movement loosened the wire just enough for you to break free.

Gojo clapped his slender hands slowly, sarcastically. "Damn, you're fun. I almost don't want to turn you in."

Geto frowned, obviously not pleased with his partner. "Satoru-"

"What?" Gojo grinned, tilting his head toward you. "Can you blame me? She's got the whole deadly-and-gorgeous thing going on. Kind of my type, y'know?"

You flinched, Gojo's words fluttering your heart more than you'd care to admit.

"Enough," Geto snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

You took the opportunity to leap for the nearest wall. kicking off it to gain just enough height to grab the fire escape above. Your nimble fingers grazed the cold metal, and you hoisted yourself up just as Gojo lunged for you.

"Catch y'all later," you called over your shoulder, your smirk returning back in place despite the ever pounding of your chest.

Gojo simply laughed, his voice echoing through the dark alley. "You'll have to do better than that, sweetheart!"

Neon signs of Tokyo flickered in the distance, casting an otherworldly glow on the streets below as you leapt from rooftop to rooftop. The cold air bit down on your face, but it didn't stop you from running as fast as you could. Adrenaline coursed through your veins, and the weight of their words echoed in your head like a broken record.

"You've got that deadly-and-gorgeous thing going on."

"You're human, no matter how perfect you pretend to be."

Why did their voices stick to you like that? You shouldn't care, not at all! You hated how Gojo's smugness got under your skin, hated how Geto's quiet intensity lingered like a shadow. Was it because they were handsome? It didn't matter anyways. You had bigger things to worry about than two men who saw you as a challenge-or worse, a toy.

As you made your way across the rooftops, you scanned for the nearest safe house Toji told you about. Your options were dwindling; their reach was extensive, and it felt like every move you made only led you closer to their impending web.

You slowed when you reached the edge of a rooftop, crouching low as your eyes darted across the street below. The sound of footsteps brought your focus to a man walking his dog, the only other soul out at this ungodly hour. His relaxed posture, the cute wag of the dog's tail, it was normal. Normalcy. Something you couldn't afford in the life you lead.

Just as you were about to leap to the next rooftop, your eye caught movement in the reflection of a glass building across the street.

"Clever," you muttered under your breath.

A figure moved in the shadows a few rooftops back. It was Geto-his tall, lean frame unmistakably recognizable even in the dark. You cursed under your breath. How the hell had he kept up with you?

Though something was wrong. Why was he alone? Where was Gojo?

Before you could react, a voice cut through the air behind you, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Looking for me?"

You whipped your head around, knife in hand, but  was already there, perched casually on the edge of the rooftop. His glasses were pushed up and resting on his head, revealing those piercing, unnaturally blue eyes that seemed to see through everything, including you.

"Damn it," you hissed, your grip tightening on the knife.

"Damn it?" Gojo repeated, grinning. "I'll take that as a compliment. People don't say that unless someone's really good."

"Don't flatter yourself." You held your tongue, desiring to curse at him.

He raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Oh, but I'm so good at it."

"You're cornered," Geto's voice came from the shadows as he stepped forward, his ever calm demeanor as unearving as ever. "Again."

"Wow. The two of you are excellent at being a pain in the ass," you commented dryily.

"And you're good at running," Gojo countered, leaning back on his hands like he was lounging on the beach instead of hunting you down. "But you're getting predictable, sweetheart."

Predictable... Predictable? The words stung more than it should have. You prided yourself on being untouchable, on being the best, but they were starting to unravel you, but to your dismay.

"Give up," Geto said, his voice quiet yet commanding. "you're wasting energy. You know we'll find you wherever you go."

Your eyes darted between them, searching for a weakness in either of them, a distraction, anything. Though they were right. You were running out of time, and worse, you were running out of options.

"Why me?" you demanded, your voice sharp and impatient. "Why are you so obsessed with chasing me down? I might be your target, but there are others out there."

Gojo tilted his head, his smile softening ever so softly. "You're different, as we said earlier."

"That's not an answer."

Geto stepped closer, his dark purple eyes locking onto yours. "You don't need to know why. All you need to know is that we're not stopping until we get what we want."

What do they want? "And what's that?"

Silence hung in the air for a moment, heavy with tentionn. Geto didn't answer, nor did Gojo, but Gojo's grin returned, not reaching his eyes.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Gojo teased.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you forced yourself to stay calm. You wouldn't give these bastards the satisfaction of seeing your fear.

"Well then," you said, taking a step back. "If you want me that badly, come and get me."

Geto didn't waste another second. He moved first, closing the distance between you with a speed that took your breath away. You barely had any time to react, raising your knife to swiftly block his strike.

The impact sent a jolt up your arm. Gritting your teeth, you pushed back against his strength. Just before you  could counter, Gojo was right behind you, his presence like a sadistic ghost at your back.

"Careful," he muttered, his breath warm against your ear. "Wouldn't want you getting hurt, yeah?"

You spun around as fast as you could, lashing out your knife, but he was already gone, his laugh echoing around you.

You were out of breath. The relentless pursuit across the city left you drained. They'd forced you into a corner, their presence closing in on all sides. You crouched low on the rooftop, your knife glinting under the pale moonlight.

They're not playing anymore. You could feel it in the air-the shift in their tactics, the weight of their presence pressing down on you like a vice. They weren't going to let you run this time around. 

A faint sound behind you, a sharp intake of breath. You twisted on instinct, launching a knife toward the sound. It sliced through the air, aimed with precision, but Gojo caught it mid-flight, his fingers wrapping around the blade as if it were a child's toy.

"Come onn, sweetheart," Gojo fiend whining, tossing the knie aside like it was nothing. "You're not even trying anymore. Getting tired?"

You didn't answer, deciding to ignore him. Instead, you aimed for his ribs. But as you closed the distance, Geto stepped in a flash.

"No more running," Geto said, his voice firm. "This ends now."

"Didn't know you two were so desperate for attention," you spat, pivoting sharply to avoid geto's strike while aiming another at Gojo. He dodged with ease, leaning back with a grin as your blade passed a hair's breadth from his chest.

"We're desperate for you," Goji said smoothly, words rolling off his tongue with infuriating ease. His blue eyes gleamed with something dangerous "And you love it, don't you?"

"You're delusional as shit," you snapped, blocking a strike from Geto's punch and countering with a high kick aimed at his shoulder. He caught your leg mid-air, forcing you to twist and land in a crouch as he released you.

"I think you're the one who's delusional," Geto replied coldly, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "You think you can keep going like this? Fighting us? Outrunning us? It's only a matter of time before you give in?"

"I'd rather die before I give in to either of you, bitch," you growled, pushing off the ground and aiming a flurry of strikes at both of them.

For a moment, it felt like you were holding your own. Knife against fist. They moved with a kind of synchronicity that made them impossible to predict, but you kept pushing, kept fighting, refusing to let them overwhelm you.

But then it happened-a misstep.

You swung your blade a little too wide, and Gojo caught your wrist in a vice-grip. His other hand shot forward, grabbing your shoulder and spinning you around just as Geto's fist struck down in an arc. The blunt force struck the back of your knee, and you crumpled down, forced to the ground with Gojo still holding your wrist like a prisoner.

"Let go!" you snarled, struggling against his grip. But he didn't. He simply knelt beside you, his breath brushing against your ear as he gazed down at you with unreadable eyes.

"Not until you're obedient," he said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing enough to make you fall for him. "You're not getting out of this. So why not make it easy on yourself?"

You glared up at him, craning your neck as best you could, your chest heaving with exertion. "Easy for you, you mean. What the hell do you want from me?"

"Everything," Geto answered, stepping in front of you and crouching so that you were eye level. His eyes were dark and unreadable, his Adam's apple so out, his sharp body a shape that any woman would growl over. "We want to know why you're so damn good at what you do. Who trained you? Why do you keep running? And why are you so hell-bent on protecting that boy?"

Your blood ran cold as soon as the mention of Megumi left his lips, but you didn't let it show. "What boy?" you asked, feigning confusion.

"Come on! Don't play dumb," Gojo, tightening his grip on your wrist. "We've been watching you. You're not just some assassin. You've got connections-dangerous ones. But you seem to have a soft spot. The kid's important to you, isn't he? Is it because of personal reasons or is it because your boss told you so?"

You clenched your teeth, refusing to respond. Every second of silence felt like a battle, their eyes boring down on you as if they could extract the truth by sheer willpower.

"Fine," Gojo said after a moment of silence, his tone light but laced with steel. "Don't want to talk? Then we'll just keep you here until you do."

"You're out of your damn mind if you think I'm staying," you shot back, twisting sharply to free yourself from Gojo's grasp. Though before you could stand, Geto was behind you, his arm locking around your shoulders and pinning you in place.

"Stay down," Geto murmured, his breath warm against your neck. "You've lost."

"I haven't lost shit," you hissed, struggling against him, but his hold was ever so unyielding, and you were exhausted. Every muscle in your body screamed in protest as you fought to break free.

Gojo crouched in front of you, his face so close you could see a faint scar above his brow. He tilted his hair, his pretty eyes scanning yours with a mix of amusement and something deeper, something you couldn't quite pin down.

"You're stubborn," he said, almost fondly. "I like that about you."

"You don't know a damn thing about me."

"Maybe not," Gojo admitted, his grin softening into something more sincere. "But I'd like to. And I think Suguru here would too."

You froze at his words, your mind racing. They weren't just chasing you for answers. This seemed personal, and that scared you more than anything. You clenched your teeth, staring at the two men before you. 

"You've got no idea how much trouble you're in, sweetheart," Gojo said with mock sympathy. He tilted his head, silver hair catching the neon lights of the city. "But, hey, if it's any consolation, I think you look great even when you're all out of breath."

Your scowl deepened, and you yanked your arm once again away from his grasp. "You're insufferable."

"Insufferable handsome?" Gojo quipped with a  wink, leaning closer. "I get that a lot, thanks."

"Or maybe just insufferably annoying," Geto said, his tone dry but with the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "Not that it's anything new."

"Aw, Suguru, don't be jealous," Gojo teased, throwing him a grin. "There's plenty of me to go around."

You groaned, confusion and irritation blooming. "You two are ridiculous. First you chase me down like some sort of mouse, all for a conversation? I don't know how anyone can take you seriously."

"People tend to take us very seriously when we're chasing them across rooftops," Geto countered, his calm, velvety voice laced with amusement. "Though I have to admit, you're making this chase far more interesting than most."

"Ha," you snapped, shifting slightly, testing the tension in your muscles as you calculated your next move. You were tired, but you weren't going down without a fight.

"Oh, don't pretend you haven't been entertained too," Gojo said, his grin widening. "Admit it-you've been having fun." He said in a sing-song tone.

"Fun?" you repeated incredulously, glaring at him in disgust. "You two have been hunting me like some sport. What about that sounds like fun?"

"Because you're the first person who's ever made us work this hard. Most people give up the moment they realize who they're dealing with," Geto replied. "But you... you keep fighting. It's impressive."

"Compliments. Oh, how thrilled I am," you muttered under your breath, earning a chuckle from Gojo. "It's exhausting."

"Poor thing," Gojo cooed mockingly, leaning down close enough that you swear his lips had to be centimeters away from your neck. "All worn out from running? If you surrender, I promise I'll carry you home, bridal style, if you're into that." That infuriating wink.

"Shut," you hissed, trying to pull away from him, but his hand shot out, his fingers grazing your chin to tilt your face toward him.

"Such fire," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. His usual playful tone was now gone, replaced with something softer, intense,  something that caused your stomach to flip. "You're cute."

"Satoru," Geto interrupted once again, his voice cutting through the moment. He reached out, grabbing your arm and pulling you back to your feet. You stumbled slightly, but his hand landed on the small of your back, easily keeping you steady. "We've wasted enough time. Let's go."

"Go?" you repeated, bristling like an irritated cat. "Where the hell do you think you're taking me?"

"Our place," Gojo said, standing and dusting off his pants like this was all completely normal. "Don't worry, we've got comfy couches. You can even have a blanket if you're nice."

You narrowed your eyes at him, glaring. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

“Do you really think you’re in a position to argue?” Geto’s voice was soft, almost deceptively calm, but the steel beneath it sent a shiver down your spine. His fingers tightened on your arm, pulling you closer with effortless strength, until the heat of his body radiated against yours. His dark eyes bore into yours, sharp and unyielding, as though daring you to defy him. “You’re out of options, and we both know it.”

The words cut through you like a blade. You hated how true they were. Every fiber of your being screamed to resist, to claw and fight your way out of this—but your limbs felt heavy, your breath uneven, and they both saw right through the mask of defiance you were struggling to keep intact.

Gojo crouched next to you, impossibly close, his ever-present grin softening into something almost predatory. His crystalline blue eyes sparkled with an unsettling mix of amusement and something deeper—something you couldn’t quite place. “Don’t think of it as giving up,” he purred, his voice low, like a silk ribbon wrapping around your throat. “Think of it as… a tactical retreat. Or, if it helps, you can call it a hostage situation. That’s got a nice ring to it, right?”

Your jaw clenched, your glare cutting toward him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re gorgeous when you’re mad,” Gojo shot back, his grin widening, the playful lilt in his voice sending your pulse racing in frustration—and something else you didn’t dare acknowledge. “Seriously, has anyone ever told you that anger suits you? It’s cute.”

“Shut up,” you snapped, but the venom in your tone was undermined by the way your voice wavered. You hated how his words crawled under your skin, leaving behind a trail of heat you couldn’t ignore.

Before you could pull away, Geto’s hand shifted, his long fingers catching your chin and tilting your face upward, forcing your gaze to meet his. His touch was firm but surprisingly gentle, the rough pads of his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. “Enough games, Satoru,” he said, his deep voice steady but edged with something almost possessive. His eyes locked on yours, darker than the night around you, and for a moment, it felt like he was looking right through you—peeling back every layer, exposing everything you tried to hide.

But he didn’t move away. Instead, his gaze lingered, and in that moment, something in his expression shifted. The sharpness softened, replaced by a flicker of intrigue, of something far more dangerous. It made your breath hitch, your pulse stuttering in your chest as the seconds stretched endlessly.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t what you expected—not demanding, not harsh. It was barely a kiss at all, just the lightest brush of his lips against the corner of your mouth. But it was enough to leave you stunned, your mind blanking as warmth bloomed where his lips had touched. Enough to leave your heart pounding erratically in your chest.

“Call that motivation,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, his breath ghosting over your skin. There was an almost smug curve to his lips as he pulled back, his dark eyes unreadable. “Now, let’s go.”

You didn’t have time to process the shock flooding your system before Gojo let out a low whistle, his grin downright sinful. “Suguru, you dog. You can’t just kiss her and act like that’s normal.” He stood in one fluid motion, towering over you, and his gaze flicked to you with a teasing glint. “Now I have to do something, or it’ll look like you’re showing me up.”

Before you could snap at him—or even catch your breath-Gojo leaned down, his hand brushing against your cheek as he tilted your face toward him. His grin was still there, but his eyes were sharp now, intense in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Don’t look so nervous,” he whispered, his voice low, almost tender. And then he kissed you–softly, lingering just long enough to leave you reeling. His lips were warm and maddeningly gentle, the faintest trace of something sweet lingering behind.

When he pulled away, his grin returned, but there was a seriousness in his gaze that hadn’t been there before. “Now we’re even,” he said lightly, though the weight of his stare told you there was nothing casual about what had just happened.

You sat there, frozen, your mind spinning as the two men straightened and exchanged a glance-something unspoken passing between them. You hated how they seemed to be in perfect sync, how they could take apart your defenses so effortlessly.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Gojo said, offering you his hand, his grin teasing but his tone carrying an edge of finality. “We’re taking you home.”

“Home?” you echoed, your voice faint, barely able to process the word.

“Our home,” Geto corrected, his voice steady and commanding. He stepped behind you, his hand brushing against your lower back, urging you to your feet. “And I’d suggest you don’t try anything stupid. You’re smart enough to know how that’ll end.”

Your legs felt like jelly, but you forced yourself to stand, glaring at both of them even as your resolve wavered. “I hate you both,” you muttered, though you weren’t sure if it was the truth.

Gojo chuckled, slinging an arm around your shoulders like this was all some kind of game. “Aw, you’ll love us soon enough,” he said, his voice dripping with confidence. “Everyone does.”

As they began leading you away, you couldn’t stop the whirlwind of emotions swirling in your chest-anger, frustration, confusion… and something far more dangerous that you weren’t ready to name.

And despite yourself, you couldn’t shake the warmth lingering on your lips, or the terrifying realization that this was far from over.

——

The drive to their place was silent, the tension floating in the air was palpable. You sat in the backseat of the sleek black car, sandwiched between the two handsome men. The proximity was stifling, their presence too overwhelming, and the warmth radiating from their bodies only made the situation worse. Gojo was as relaxed as ever, one arm draped lazily along the back of the seat behind you while Geto sat with perfect posture, his sharp eyes occasionally glancing your way. Part of you was curious to know how two polar opposite men could work so well in a team together. Perhaps the saying 'opposites attract' was true.

When they pulled into the driveway of their house, your jaw nearly dropped at the sight. The property was secluded, surrounded by tall trees and hidden away from prying eyes. The house itself was modern and luxurious, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a sprawling front yard that screamed wealth and power. 

Part of you had an intuition that Gojo owned multiple homes while you were keeping an eye on Megumi, but you never guessed he would own a house this gorgeous.

"You two live here?" you asked, unable to keep the disbelief from your voice. Despite working alongside Toji, you weren't as poor as him since you knew how to manage your money. You were comfortable, but obviously not as comfortable as either of them. Damn.

"Of course," Gojo said, grinning as he slid out of the car and opened your door with an exaggerated bow. "Only the best for the best."

Geto rolled his eyes as he stepped out and gestured for you to follow. "Ignore him. He loves showing off.'

You hesitated for a moment, weighing your options. Running definitely wasn't one of them, you exhausted that option, so with a resigned sigh, you followed them inside.

The interior was just as impressive as the exterior. The open floor plan showcased sleek furniture, expensive artwork, and a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a high-end restaurant. It was annoyingly perfect, just like Gojo and Geto. How irritating.

Geto led you to the living room and gestured for you to sit on the plush couch with a strong, veiny hand. "You'll be staying here for now," he said, his voice calm and measured. "We have to keep an eye on you as we investigate you for a bit. Know who exactly you are, your motives, and why you are tasked with keeping an eye on the boy Satoru adopted. You'll have everything you need, and no one will find you."

"Generous of you," you muttered, crossing your arms as you sat down with a huff. Perfect. You didn't think to send a help call to Toji while you were fighting them, and now you were going to disappear for a bit. You'll get quite the scolding when you see Toji again.

Geto's lips twitched into a faint smile while he observed your irritation. "It's the least he can do after chasing you halfway across the city."

"Ah, don't listen to him, sweetheart," Gojo interjected, flopping down on the couch beside you, on the same cushion, his long legs sprawled out. "We both know you loved the attention. Admit it-you've never had this much fun before."

You clicked your tongue, shooting him your signature glare. "You're insufferable."

"And you're adorable when you're annoyed," Gojo quipped back, leaning closer. His voice melted into a playful whisper, his breath brushing against your ear, causing a shiver down your spine. "Admit it-you kind of like me, don't you? It wasn't just Megumi who you were keeping an eye on, eh?"

"Satoru," Geto said sharply, his tone a warning.

"What?" Gojo shrugged, pulling back just enough to flash his partner a grin. "I'm just breaking the ice."

Geto's eyes narrowed slightly, and for a moment, you thought he might actually snap from his partner's antics. Instead, he turned to you, his expression softening. "I meant what I said earlier. We're sorry for chasing you. It wasn't personal-it was a job."

You blinked, slightly caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. "You have quite the fun of showing it," you muttered, those the venom in your tone had dampened.

Geto's lips curled into a small smile, one that was genuine. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "you're impressive," he said in his deep, velvety tone, his dark eyes locking into yours. "More than I expected. that's why you're still alive, by the way."

Before you could even respond, Gojo let out a low chuckle. "Wow, Suguru, way to charm her. Nothing says 'I'm into you' like, 'You should be dead, but you're not.'"

geto's gaze flicked to Gojo, his smile fading slightly. "And your approach is better?"

Gojo simply grinned, undeterred. "Absolutely. Watch and learn."

Huh?

He turned back to you, his hand suddenly brushing against yours where it rested on your plush thighs. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it sent a jolt through you nevertheless. "We must make a good team, right? I mean, we caught you, Japan's best assassin. That's gotta count for something."

You rolled your eyes, trying your best to ignore the way your pulse quickened at his proximity to your thigh. "Congrats. Do you want a medal?"

"I'd settle for a kiss," Gojo said, winking.

"Don't push your luck," you shot back, though the corners of your mouth betrayed a faint twitch upward.

geto's eyes darkened as he watched the exchange, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. He leaned back, his arms draping casually over the back of the couch next to you, but there was nothing casual about the way his gaze lingered on you, capturing every curve your body had to offer.

"So what's it going to be?" Geto asked, his voice low and smooth, just for you to hear. "Are you going to keep pretending you're not enjoying this, or are you finally going to admit that you don't hate us as much as you'd like to?"

You opened your mouth to retort, but the words caught in your throat as Geto shifted closer. His presence was magnetic, and the intensity in his eyes made it hard to look away.

Gojo, never one who wants to be outdone, mirrored his partner's movement, leaning in on your other side. "Careful, Suguru," he said, his tone playful yet carrying a sharp edge to it. "you're starting to sound possessive to the sweetie here."

Geto smirked, his gaze flicking briefly to Gojo before returning to you. "Maybe I am. Who knows?"

The air between the three of you grew heavy, charged with an unspoken challenge. As much as you hated to admit it, the thought of being caught between these two beans was becoming harder and harder to resist with each passing heartbeat. 

"So, what now?" you asked, cursing to yourself at how quiet your voice was, waiting in hidden anticipation.

"Now," Geto said, his hand brushing against yours with deliberate slowness, "we make sure you understand just how serious we are."

 Gojo's grin turned wicked, and he leaned even closer, his warm breath fanning against your cheek. "And maybe, just maybe, you'll realize you're better off with us than against us, especially when you work for Toji."

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing. Of course they knew who you worked for. They were probably feigning ignorance when they pestered you with all of those previous questions. 

Gojo's lips were a whisper away from yours, hot breath trickling against your skin. His hand curled under your jaw, tilting your face upward as his thumb brushed along your lower lip.  Your body betrayed you, leaning instinctively into his touch, but a dark chuckle from Geto pulled your attention back to him. His hand slid deliberately from your hip to your waist, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"You shouldn't let him have all the fun, you know," Geto said, his voice smooth and velvety, vibrating against your neck as he leaned in just as close as Gojo was. His lips grazed your skin, just below your ear, leaving the faintest of kisses. "He tends to get greedy."

"And you don't?" you managed to whisper, your voice trembling as your heart pounded within your chest.

Geto smirked against your skin, his breath hot against yours. "Maybe, but I've always been better at sharing."

Gojo's grin widened at that, a flash of mischief in his blue eyes. "She's not wrong, Suguru~. You can get pretty greedy-just in quieter ways." The way everything felt, how they touched you, how their gaze lingered a little longer than it should. It made you feel a certain way, a feeling that you couldn't bury even if you tried-not when you were sandwiched between two hot men who captured you.

You want them. No, you need them. holding back and pretending was just too much for you to bear anymore.

Gojo's gaze lingered on your soft lips, admiring them, and a female of lust burned deeply within him. His lips finally claimed yours the second time that night, soft at first, then pressing harder as his confidence grew. His kiss was beautifully dizzying, a mix of passion and playfulness that left you breathless.

Before you could wrap your arms around his neck as he pressed closer to you, before you could lose yourself entirely to him, Geto tugged you back, his fingers brushing along your jawline as he forced you to lock eyes with his sharp gaze. His eyes burned with intensity, darker and more calculated lust than Gojo's wild energy. "Don't forget about me," he muttered before his lips captured yours.

"Hey! Suguru!" came Gojo's whiney voice as he clung onto the dip of your hips, his thumb making soothing circles as your lips were getting devoured by his partner.

Geto's kiss was different-slower, deeper, more deliberate. The way his hand slid up made it clear he wasn't in any sort of rush. his thumb stroked the side of your throat, eliciting a quiet gasp that only turned him on, causing a throaty groan to escape only to be muffled by your lips.

When you pulled back, your lips tingling and your breath uneven, you were beginning to be acutely aware of both men-the way Gojo's slender fingers trailing along the hem of your shirt, Geto's veiny still resting firmly against your throat, squeezing it just enough. Their touches were possessive yet teasing, as if silently daring you to take the lead.

You tried every bit of your fiber to resist them, but you were far too deep in the rabbit hole to back out now. You bit your lip, a soft whimper slipping past as Gojo tugged your shirt a little higher, revealing your bra. With dancing fingers, he unhooked it and let his hand teasingly roam across your boobs, while Geto's mouth pressed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.

"Don't keep us waiting, sweetheart," Gojo murmured, his voice thick with desire as his tongue flicked your already hard nipples. "Tell us what you want.”

Part 2 when??? If you want one, ask in the comments

[arbitrarykiwi]

HELOOOOOOO!! I hope you are having a good morning, evening and or night!

Before I go on with my request (with as much detail as possible) Your writing is PHENOMENAL! Straight up a blessing from God! It is impressive how spicy and delicious you create your fics! Like, PLEASE! keep serving!! I’ll eat it all up!!!

As for my request: I would like to ask for a spicy fic of Thanos and Nam-Gyu with a plus sized! female! reader, you know, big tummy, thicc thighs, stretch marks, all the benefits of a bbw.

To put in simple detail, the reader is insecure of her body because well, people judge her for her weight and assume that she is just a gluttonous freak. She always tries to go out with friends to see if a guy would approach her but is proven hard to do so when she is timid and wants to hide herself from glaring eyes. The reader is losing hope of finding love until one faithful night, when her friends dragged her into a club to get fucked up, she remained sober but doesn’t realize that has gotten the attention of the legend Thanos and his buddy Nam-Gyu.

I apologize if it’s a long description of what I want. But you get the whole point. I do also want to add a few key words: Creampie, Oral (f receiving, because I need their heads to be squished by the readers thiccc thighs like a watermelon) (and M Receiving) praise, name calling (of your choice), double penetration. (The rest is up to you!)

That will be all! And if you are alright with me sending another request similar to the one I asked at some point (not now obviously) please let me know! And don’t rush art!

Thank you and keep up the hard work! 🩷🩷🩷

More to Love and Double the Fun!

OMGEEE thank you for your kind words!!! 🫶🫶 this was so fun to write I hope I did it justice!!! Admittedly it is so hard to write threesome content but I love it so much it’s so worth the work!! We always gotta have application for thick thighs, stretch marks n tummies!!! And I know both of them would loooove a thick girl 😩 I apologize for the wait! I hope you enjoy 🤭🤭

Warnings: smut (18+) , threesome, oral (m and f receiving), deep throating, name calling (baby, pretty girl, pretty thing, cocksucker, probably more), fingering, face sitting, big thigh and stretch mark love, dirty talk, cum play, double penetration (2 cocks in pussy) , creampie, read at your own risk

You originally found yourself at a house party. You were sat on a couch in the corner of some frat guys apartment, watching anxiously as the people around you are doing all sorts of drugs and knocking back straight liquor like it was water. It wasn’t your scene. You felt out of place, this was not where you wanted to be.

You wanted to be home, cozied up in bed in your old sleep shirt that’s 5 sizes too big and the fuzzy pants that you’ve had for a couple months- watching some show and scrolling on your phone. Alone. In your peaceful home, away from potential judging stares.

But nope. Your friends somehow convinced you to come out to this party, and got you to wear something you never thought you would. So there you sat, playing with the end of the dress that stopped at right under your ass. You kept trying to tug it down over your plush thighs to no avail.

You felt like you had to constantly adjust your posture, sit up straighter, trying to hide your figure in anyway possible. You felt like you looked horrible, you didn’t think you looked like the other girls at the party who were thin and long legged. And fuck, they all looked stunning, but you? You didn’t feel like you were anything compared to them. You honestly had given up on ‘looking’- you knew your luck for relationships or even just hookups was never good, so you had no other hopes for tonight at this party.

You just wanted to go home- and home you would eventually go. But not your home.

You didn’t notice how they spotted you at the house party like drug dogs sniffing out a big bust. You didn’t notice how they slowly began to move closer to you. You didn’t even notice them at all until they’re sitting down next to you- one on either side of you.

They’re effortlessly swooning you. To your right is the purple haired male who introduces himself as Thanos. He’s suave, confident and just the perfect amount of cocky. To your left is Nam-gyu, seemingly more calm than the purple haired friend he was accompanied by but he had an aura of mystery, a wicked grin, a smooth talking mouth, and a carelessness to him that makes him all the more enticing. When they introduced themselves you already felt like you were under their spell, it didn’t take much for them to get you wrapped around their fingers.

They find you charming, not taking a single sip of alcohol, not partaking in the various drugs that are passed around, and squirming under their gazes when they’re squeezing even closer to you. “Not enjoying the party, cutie?” The one with purple hair asks, his hand beginning to dance along your thighs. You are fixated on the thigh black like tattoo that travels up his arm and disappears under the sleeve of his shirt.

You shake your head, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “Yeah….thought so…” The man to your left says, his hand lifting to grab your chin and turn you to look at him. His hair is dark black, tucked behind his ears, strands falling in front of his face. “We’ve been watching you, pretty thing…don’t look like you’re having too much fun…” he says, eyes looking over your face like he’s studying you. “Would you let us take you out of here? Maybe do something a little more fun?” He says, a grin playing on his lips. You find yourself nodding.

And that’s how you ended up at one of their apartments. You’re not even sure who’s, maybe they lived together. You didn’t know and couldn’t be bothered to care. You’re guided into the bedroom in a mess of kisses, they’re passing you back and forth- if you weren’t kissing one their mouth would dance along your neck, only releasing to attach back onto your lips.

When you’re led into a bed room, Nam-gyu releases your lips from his. You’re left breathless. Thanos is pulling off your neck and stepping back to admire his work. Your neck is spotted with red, purple, and blue marks on either said. From both of them. It’s a macabre work of art that has both of them feeling the blood rush to their cocks.

“Though I love this cute lil’ dress you have on…” Thanos says, his hand pulling on the strap of your dress, beginning to pull it off your shoulder, “I really rather have it off you.”

“Mhm…” Nam-Gyu agrees, his hands running up the curve of your waist. You’re suddenly worried, what if they don’t like what’s underneath. It’s a irrational thought, you know it, but years of seeing girls who look nothing like you easily sweep men off their feet while you were hardly able to score a date- left you feeling a little more than self conscious.

You hate that they can sense it, because they’re both drawing closer to you, Thanos capturing you in a quick kiss while Nam-Gyu runs his hand down your waist to your hip. “Easy, pretty girl..” Nam-gyu coos, his hand reaching up to brush his knuckles against your cheek. “We wouldn’t both bring you here if we didn’t think you were so. Fucking. Attractive.” Thanos finishes as he pulls away from your lips, kissing your neck to punctuate his last three words.

“Let us make you feel good, princess…you deserve it.” Nam-gyu says his nose running along your jaw, breath dancing along your skin. “F-fuck o-okay, yes.” You say nodding erratically your hands reaching up to tangle in their hair, one hand on Thanos and one on Nam-gyu.

With your word they’re pulling your dress off in a swift motion and pushing you lightly on the bed. They physically don’t give you any minute to become self conscious being so exposed in front of them because they are joining you on the bed, one on either side of you. They mirror each other, their elbows resting on the bed their faces propped up on one hand. Their other hands runs up and down your stomach, feather light touches that has your body tensing.

“So pretty….” Thanos mumbles, his fingers dancing under your breast, right under the wire of the lace bra you had on. “Ain’t she?” Nam-gyu says with a smile his hand lowering itself to your lower stomach, fingertips dancing along the hem of your underwear, fingers stopping to play with the small bow on the front. “Wearin’ the cutest little matching’ set too…” the raven haired man says, dropping his head to your chest to place open mouthed kisses along the swell of your breast before pulling away and placing his head back against his palm.

You think you’re biting your lip hard enough to draw blood, your panties are clinging uncomfortably to your cunt, soaked with your arousal. “Look good enough ‘ta eat.” Thanos mumbles as he drops his head down to your neck, licking a stripe up your neck, teeth stopping to bite at your ear lobe. You finally break, releasing a moan when one of Nam-gyu’s hands comes up to grope the flesh of your breast. He’s kneading the flesh in his hand over the fabric of your bra, his hand only pulling away to begin to rub his thumb over your nipple. Even under the fabric of the bra, your nipple begins to harden at his touch.

Thanos silences the moan that comes out of you by kissing you. His tongue enters into your open mouth, twirling with your tongue in a sloppy kiss. Nam-gyu’s hand moves down your body, returning back to the hem of your panties. Thanos tattooed hand is meeting his, resting next to his counterpart’s hand, fingers dancing along the hem of the lace fabric.

Thanos pulls away, wanting to hear the sounds you make as both their hands slip into your panties. They’re deft fingers working messily against your cunt- feeling you. “Ohhhhh….” Nam-gyu is humming out when you let out a high pitched whine, “that’s a cute sound…gonna sound so pretty when you’re full of our cocks..” he muses, his nose running against your jaw, his fingers tapping against your clit.

“Pussy ‘s so fuckin’ soft….” Thanos hisses through clenched teeth. “Already so wet for us…bet you could just take us right now..” he’s whispering in a hushed voice, eyes locking with yours, watching as your eyebrows turn up and you moan. “Mhm…you like that idea…already wanting to take our cocks…good girl..” he rasps but he shakes his head. “We can’t do that yet pretty girl, gotta savor all of you…can’t rush the finale.”

With that, Thanos is using his free hand that’s not circling your tight hole to pull down your bra, your breasts spilling out over the fabric. Nam-gyu is working to do the same thing on the other side, releasing your tits fully. “God you’re fucking picturesque..” Nam-gyu is growling out, mouth immediately latching onto your nipple, sucking it into his mouth greedily and rolling his tongue around the flesh.

Your back is arching off the bed and your breath comes out in coked gasps, your hands gripping the bedsheets until your knuckles turn white. Thanos is following in Nam-gyu’s footsteps, his mouth beginning to suck the flesh of your breast around your into his mouth to leave purple bruises anywhere he put his mouth on. The feeling of their fingers working against your cunt in differing patterns, leaving you no room to catch your breath and their mouths working along your tits has you writhing against the sheets, even more our your thick, milky arousal spills out of your pussy and around their fingers, soiling your panties even further.

Nam-gyu is pulling away from your breast with a lewd ‘pop’, a string of his saliva connecting your nipple to his tongue. He’s scooting down on the bed, Thanos hand coming up to replace Nam-gyu’s mouth, painted nails pulling at your nipple. Nam-gyu is kissing down your chest and stomach. You whine, trying to tense up, to suck in, even with the pleasure you’re receiving you can’t help but be self conscious. You jump when you feel his teeth nip at your flesh.

“None of that. We’re all over you, playing with your pussy…don’t need to try and hide from us when we want all of you.” He punctuates his words with a kiss that’s placed right over a group of stretch marks on your lower stomach. It makes you kick your head back and moan out, your body relaxing back under his touch.

Nam-gyu’s hand removes itself from your cunt, both his hands then coming to grip at the sides of your panties, beginning to pull them off of you. They’re discarded somewhere in the room and both of them are working together to push your legs open. Thanos releases himself from your breasts to look down at your pussy.

They’re both just admiring you, taking you all in. Your cunts leaking, your arousal smeared around your thighs thanks to the both of them. Thanos is groaning at the sight, the hand that’s still between your thighs spreading into a ‘V’ shape to give them a better view. “Perfect body and a perfect cunt…” Nam-gyu is muttering, eyes trained on your throbbing pussy. Thanos is nodding in agreement, “ohhh look at you….” He’s humming, “she’s fucking soaking… needy fuckin’ thing. ‘S all you needed huh? Someone to fuck you like you deserve? Pretty fuckin girl with a pretty fuckin’ cunt, it’s a miracle no one’s claimed you yet…” Thanos rambles.

They’re pulling away from you for just a moment to rid themselves of their shirt and pants leaving them only

In their boxers. You can see the large tents that are formed by their hardened cocks. It makes your mouth water. Your attention is pulled away when Nam-Gyu speaks again.

“Well now someone has..” Nam-Gyu finishes, looking to his purple haired counterpart then to you, “we’re gonna treat you right…give you..” he says placing a kiss to your inner thigh, “and her…” he says, a kiss pressed to your pubic bone, right above your clit, “the attention you deserve.”

Their filthy words make you shiver, your eyes screwing shut and your lip becoming caught between your teeth once again. They manage to rid you of your bra and underwear, their hands working against you in such a skillful way that it has your mind hazy. They maneuver you the way they want, and you’re bonelessly allowing them. Their hands still working along your body as they situate you exactly how they wanted.

They stand up off the bed, pulling down their boxers in similar manners. Your mouth falls open when you see their thick cocks spring free from their confines and slap against their stomachs. They’re back on the bed and crawling over to you in an instant.

You’re laid back on the bed, Nam-Gyu’s lips working against yours in a languid motion that makes you feel like you’re drunk. You don’t even realize Thanos is situating himself down on the bed and in between your thighs until he’s beginning to push your thighs open. You’re pulling away from the kiss to look down at the purple haired man. A bashful, almost worried expression on your face as he pushes your thighs back.

It’s weird that he seems to read your mind, shaking his head with a soft laugh. He’s turning to the side to begin leaving kisses over the inside of your thighs, tongue running over the stretch marks that litter the skin. The feeling has your head dropping back to the pillow and a blissful breath falling out of your lips. “Pretty fuckin’ girl….” Nam-gyu says lowly, dropping his head to place open mouthed kisses along your jaw and neck.

“And prettiest fuckin’ pussy.” Thanos is mumbling against the skin of your inner thigh, light kisses moving inward until he’s playing a kiss directly on your throbbing clit. A gasp rips its way up your throat, your body jolting at the sensation. Nam-gyu pulls back from your neck to turn and look down at Thanos.

Thanos is pushing your thighs back and tilting your hips upwards- he wasn’t going to be selfish! Nam-gyu deserved to see your cute pussy too! “Ohhhhh…” Nam-gyu coos, reaching down to run his fingers along your cunt, wetting his digits with his arousal, “such a pretty fuckin’ cunt. Already so wet…” he hums, fingers dropping lower to scoop up the arousal that’s dripping from your pussy.

He removes his hand, bringing it up to his face and sucking his fingers into his mouth, moaning around his fingers when he tastes you for the first time. You have to look away, it’s embarrassing. “Taste so fuckin’ good..” he growls out as he removes his fingers from his mouth and drops it to your neck, squeezing lightly before running it up to cup your jaw and forcing you to look at him. “It’s cute. Ya’ tryna hide when you got two men about to fuck you like the perfect slut you really are.” He says in a soft voice, his hand squeezing your cheeks together.

You whine in response, eyes fluttering shut again when you feel Thanos release your thighs and lay them over his shoulder, his breath fanning your cunt. He places a couple kisses on your clit, sucking it into his mouth briefly each time. Nam-gyu watches diligently as your face contorts each time Thanos makes contact with your pussy. It’s precious really, he can’t help himself but to kiss you once more. His kiss is hypnotizing and as Thanos mouth captures your cunt in a messy kiss, Nam-Gyu is swallowing your moans.

Thanos’ tongue works wonders on your pussy, lapping at your folds like a dog, swallowing down every ounce of arousal that seeps out you for tight hole. His tattooed hands are gripping at the plush of your hips, gliding upwards to grab at your waist. As he feels along your body and eats your pussy he swears he’s in heaven, the feeling of your soft flesh under his hands and the taste of your cunt has him reeling.

Nam-gyu pulls away, dropping his head down to latch his mouth onto your pebbled nipple. Without your mouth occupied in a kiss, your moans echo throughout the room. Thanos is relentless, slurping at your cunt like it gave him some sort of life essence. He grinds your hips down onto your tongue, sucking your labias into his mouth messily as he’s swallowing down every drop of your thick, sweet arousal that your cunt offers him. Your thighs are squeezing around his head but he doesn’t shove them open. He’s moaning into your cunt the harder your thighs squeeze around his head. It’s hard enough that it cuts off his hearing, allowing him to hear his own rapid heartbeat.

He shifts up, sucking your puffy clit into his mouth, tongue flicking it back and forth before releasing it. You can only sob out choked and garbled praises, the sensation of Nam-Gyu sucking on your tits and Thanos devouring your cunt having you a mindless heap on the bed. “O-oh fuck.” You cry out, tilting your head up off the bed with all your strength to look at them. Both their eyes are on you, watching your every reaction. Nam-gyu pulls away from your breast, tongue falling out of his mouth to flick at your nipple- eyes never straying from yours as he makes a show of playing with your nipple, lathing his tongue on the rock hard peak for you to watch. And Thanos is the same, dark eyes on you as he sucks your clit in and out of your mouth, pulling away to spit on your cunt before diving back in to circle his tongue around your clit.

Your head falls back to the pillow, the visual proving far too much for you to handle. Your eyes are screwing shut and you’re shaking. Nam-gyu is pulling away from your breast and turning down to look at Thanos. The view of the purple hair rapper eating your messy pussy only serves to make his cock even harder.

“I need to taste her cunt fucking Christ…” Nam-gyu is hissing out, hand reaching down in between your legs to grab a fist full of Thanos’ hair and pull him off your cunt. Thanos’ tongue is lolled out of his mouth, still flicking at your clit. He fights against Nam-guy’s hold and dives back in, a loud slurp resounds in the room as he gets just a bit more of your sweet arousal to coat his tongue.

He’s pulling back with a laugh, “Alright, alright! You can have your turn.” Thanos chuckles, looking towards Nam-Gyu with a wicked grin. His face shines with your arousal, his tongue running over his lips to get the excess off. “Sweetest fuckin’ pussy…it would be criminal not to share.” He muses, pulling himself so he’s sitting.

You’re out of breath, your mind hazy, you can feel them pulling you up off the bed, maneuvering you. You end up facing Thanos who’s standing up off the bed. His knees touch the edge of the mattress. His hands are holding your face, brushing your wild hair back and out of your eyes. You just a little when you feel Nam-gyu’s hands hook around your thighs. You look down to see him lying on the bed below you. His breath tickles your pussy, your arousal damn near leaking out of you.

“Sit on my face pretty girl…wanna taste you.” He mumbles, looking up at you through thick lashes. You whimper and begin to lower yourself. Admittedly you’re still hovering but he lifts his head off the bed a bit and his tongue licks a long, wide stripe up your pussy. A high pitched moan is ripped from you as you swivel your hips on his tongue. When you begin to be pulled down further, Nam-Gyu desperately pulling you closer to him, you let out a worried gasp, one hand planting itself on the bed to keep yourself hovering, even if it was just the slightest bit.

His hands grip at your thighs, you head tilting down to look at the raven haired man between your thighs. “W-wait, I-“ you choke on your words. He looked up at you through thick lashes, hands gripping at your thick thighs, eyebrows screwing together in irritation. “Don’t give me none of that bullshit..” he growls, breath fanning your cunt as he spoke. He knows you were about to say something about being too heavy. He turns his head slightly to bite at the inside of your thigh, “I said sit on my fucking face. Not hover. I’m well aware what I’m asking for.” He says lowly, one hand releasing your thigh to move back and slap your ass. “You’re a good girl. Now fucking listen.” He mumbles, turning his head back forward and pulling you down fully onto his face. His tongue is vicious, lathing around the entirety of your cunt and quickly sucking your clit into his mouth.

You cry out, falling forward into Thanos. Your head connects with his bare torso. Against your sternum you can feel his hard cock. He laughs at your reaction to Nam-guy’s tongue beginning to lap at your puffy cunt. The purple haired rapper looks down at you, hands coming to cup your face and hold your head up/ forcing you to meet his gaze. Nam-gyu is moaning into your pussy, the obscene slurping sounds coming from between your thighs just makes you whine.

Nam-gyu’s hands are creating a bruising grip on your thighs, guiding you back and forth over his tongue. “H-holy fuck.” You moan, eyes rolling into the back of your head. The raven haired man under you pulls away for a second, his breath heavy as he stares at your sopping cunt. He’s back on you soon after, shifting you upward so he can fuck his tongue into your tight heat. Your eyes fluttered back open, moans falling from your lips like a recited prayer as you open your eyes fully to look at Thanos.

“He eating your sweet cunt good? Hm?” Thanos coos at you, bending down a bit to get closer to you. “Bet you’re fuckin making a mess out of his face.” He muses, his thumb beginning to pull at your lower lip. You nod frantically in response, he’s laughing and mimicking your nod, “Uh-huh…why don’t you feel him how good it feels, pretty girl.”

“S-so Fuckin- fuck!!” You’re cut off when Nam-Gyu grinds his nose up into your clit, pulling you down impossibly further onto his face. He could be smothered between your head and he would die happy. The feeling of your thighs clenching around his head anytime his tongue trusts itself deep within your tight walls has him groaning into your cunt, the vibrations only making more of your thick, syrupy arousal pour out of your pussy and onto his tongue. “So f-fucking good ohmygod.” You cry out, your hips grinding down onto his face.

When your full weight sinks on to Nam-Gyu’s face you can hear him growl into your pussy. Your head tilts down to catch how his eyes flutter shut, rolling so far back into his head that you’re sure he can see his own skull. The sweet, saccharine taste of your arousal that costs his tongue is a taste he could get addicted to.

Thanos is pulling your head back up to face him, “hmm,” he hums, his thumbs circling your skin. “slutty pussy just wetting his face.” The purple haired rapper muses, his hips canting forwards just a bit, the tip of his cock rubbing against your pillowy lips. You look up to him and your mouth drops open. You’re leaning forward taking him eagerly into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around his tip, the salty taste of his pre-cum overwhelming your taste buds and urging you to suck him into your mouth farther.

Nam-Gyu removes his face from your cunt to look at his work. Your pussy is raw and swollen from both their ruthless onslaught of devouring your cunt. It’s a beautiful sight thats making his cock jump against his stomach. When he tilts his head backwards ever so slightly to see you begin to take Thanos’ cock down your throat he’s growling, his dick twitching against his stomach again and he’s back on your cunt.

This time he moves himself lower, pulling you back down fully onto his face. His tongue thrusts itself into your cunt his nose bumping against your clit. Your moans are muffled by Thanos’ cock that begins to shove itself down your throat. One of his tattooed hand cradles your face, rubbing at your jaw that’s stretched impossibly wide around his dick. “Look at you…” Thanos coos down at you, “suckin my cock like the good cocksucker you are…” he hums, patting your cheek.

You look up at him, tears brimming your eyes as his tip begins to squeeze past the tight ring of your throat. “Doin’ so well even while Gyu’s devouring your sweet pussy.” He praises, nodding when you moan around his cock in response. “Your mouth feels so fuckin’ good”

Your eyes flutter closed at his praise and your hips begin to grind down on Nam-gyu’s tongue. You’re letting out choked and garbled gags around Thanos, lashes becoming wet with tears. The sounds ringing through your ears only messy Nam-gyu’s face further. Nam-gyu is moaning and growling into your cunt as he laps at your folds like a dog and Thanos is in front of you rambling off sentences filthy praise cut off by groans as he thrusts into your mouth.

“F-fuck sweetheart I could cum down your throat.” Thanos rasps out trusting balls deep into your mouth once last time. He holds you there, nose pressed against his pelvis for a few seconds before pulling you off of him by your hair, you’re coughing and gasping for air looking up at him in a mess of tears and spit. “But I really want to cum inside your pussy.” He finishes, his voice a low growl.

Nam-gyu is pulling away from your cunt in a mess of spit and your arousal, “need to be inside this precious cunt I know she’s fuckin’ tight.” The black haired Malle under you emphasizes his words by sucking your puffy clit into his mouth once more.

Their minds clouded by their own excitement to sink balls deep into your tight hole, they’re moving your fucked out form into the next position they wanted you in with expert skill.

Your back is pressed to Nam-gyu’s chest the fat mushroom tip of his cock pushing at your entrance. Thanos is shifting closer, settling in between Nam-gyu’s legs. Thanos’ tattooed hands run up your thighs, pushing them back towards your chest, the leaking tip of his thick cock settling above Nam-Gyu’s. You can already feel the stretch that’s to come when both their tips dance along the tight ring of your cunt. “I-“ you choke on your own words, eyes trained on the view of the two of them nestled close to your pussy. “There’s n-no way I’ll be able to take both of you.” You whine, but as you speak your hips are moving on their own, trying to push yourself down onto them.

“Oh you’re gonna take it..” Nam-Gyu growls from under you, hands gripping at your stomach and keeping you from moving any more, “you’re practically tryna’ fuck yourself down on us, sweetheart. You can take it, like the good whore you are.” Thanos echos with a tantalizing tilt of his head.

Then they’re pushing into you. The stretch is brutal, you think you’re being split in half- but fuck does it feel so good. “Fuuuuckk that’s it…” Nam-Gyu hisses. The feeling of his tip slipping into your cunt, pressed against Thanos’, accompanied by a wet ‘pop’ causes his whole body to shudder under you. You’re letting out a silent scream one hand reaching back around you and grip at Nam-gyu’s long black locks and the other reaching in front of you and pressing against Thanos’ pelvis.

“Greedy cunt’s just suckin us both in.” Thanos growls, hands pressing your thighs back even more, your knees practically touching your ears. It makes them sink in deeper, the feeling of their two thick cocks sinking into you- stretching you out and ruining your sweet cunt for anyone who fucks you in the future- has you seeing stars already.

“So fuckin’ wet.” Nam-Gyu hisses, his words right behind your ear causing a shiver to run up the entirety of your spine. They keep inching into you, gaping your cunt around their cocks. Thanos is above you, bottom lip caught between his teeth and eyebrows upturned. The feeling of your messy pussy gripping around his length and the secondary sensation of Nam-gyu’s cock sliding against the underside of his thick length. It’s a beautiful sight and you can only imagine that

Nam-Gyu has a similar expression on his face. You’re moaning out a choked sob when one of Nam-gyu’s hands slid down your stomach to splay across your pubic bone. Two of his fingers connect with your clit, rubbing slow, light circles on the throbbing bud.

You let out a high pitched, wanton cry, your back arching heavenward. Your head tilts down to watch how the two cocks that push into you. It’s a mean stretch, your pussy looks like it’s about to be split in half, but fuck it feels so good. “‘S right..almost in sweet girl…” Thanos hums, hand coming up to pinch one of your pebbled nipples. You moan out a babbled mix their names as you feel them begin to push in the rest of the way.

“Biiig stretch….” Thanos is cooing out and then they both skin into your tight cunt fully. When they both sink balls deep into you, you’re letting out a silent scream, feeling unbelievably full. They both let out echoing moans, it’s a delicious sound. They settle inside you, stilling to let you get adjusted. “O-oh f-fuck.” You let out in a shaky, strangled cry, your eyes never leaving from the view of the two of them gaping your cunt with both their cocks. Nam-gyu’s fingers work deftly against your clit, smearing the arousal that leaks out of you. His two fingers splitting into a ‘V’ shape and moving down to feel along the sides of your cunt- feeling how wide you were split on the two of them.

“Ohhhh…look at you…” you hear Nam-Gyu coo in a low rasp, his lips tickling against the shell of your ear. “Takin both of us allll the way in your tight fucking cunt.” He growls, thrusting up into you the slightest bit. The movement makes you moan out, trying to squeeze your legs shut.

Thanos hisses when he feels the sensation of Nam-Gyu’s cock drag agains his and your cunt spasming around him. His tattooed hands push your thighs back more, keeping them open. “Nuh-uh. You’re gonna keep them fuckin’ open. Gonna take it like the good girl you are.” Thanos says, leaning down closer to you, beginning to rock his hips ever so slightly, the man under you following suit.

The feeling of both their cock pumping into in alternating thrusts has your eyes rolling back and your tongue falling out of your mouth. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this stretched out, this full. It was a painful, delicious stretch that has your mind completely blank. It was a feeling you know could never be replicated, less it happens again.

“Ohhh there you go, that’s it sweet girl. Taking it so well…we stretchin’ out your cute cunt good?” Thanos coos down at you, you can’t even think of a coherent sentence. Nam-gyu’s hand that’s not playing with your clit reaches up and grip at your jaw harshly, forcing your gaze forward to Thanos. “Answer ‘em sweetheart, we’re treatin’ ya real nice, the least you could do is answer us…” he hums out in your ear.

“Mhm! Mhm! S-so fucking good.” You cry out, words slurred your head nodding frantically in Nam-Gyu’s grasp. You feel them pick up the pace, hammering into your cunt. A sick, wet squelching begins to echo through the room. It only makes you moan more, just more evidence of how much you enjoy the two cocks gaping your cunt.

Thanos is watching the thick white strings that dirty your ass and connect his thighs to you any time he draws his hips back. He can see the milky white ring that’s forming around the base Nam-gyu’s cock any time the man under you draws his dick out of your cunt to push it right back in. The wetness that leaks out of your pussy only making their cocks slide into you easier and against each other easier.

“Sloppy fuckin’ thing.” Nam-gyu coos in your ear from under you, he can hear the squelching coming from your weeping cunt grow louder as their thrusts pick up speed.

It’s shameful how quick you’re fucked into a mindless heap, eyes crossing and rolling back, mouth agape, moan after moan after moan coming from your chest. Every drag of their cocks along your tight walls feels like you’ll be split open but it makes your pussy weep. Your arousal is coating their cocks in a thick white sheen, any time their cock pull out of you more is added to the mess.

“Tell us how it feels, sweetheart.” Thanos directs at you, bringing you somewhat out of your fucked out haze. You turn your head to face him, opening your mouth to respond but all that comes out is broken syllables. You cry out, head throwing back before you’re sucking in a huge breath and trying to speak again.

“F-feels…oh fuck!…’s so much. B-both s-so big, ohmygod.” You’re screaming out a mix of their names, your sentence getting cut short when Nam-gyu adjust his legs, bending his knees and planing his feet into the mattress. This position only made them reach even deeper inside you.

Nam-gyu’s fingers were still working on your clit, messily spreading around your arousal, his cock jackhammering up into you at a faster pace. The new adjustment also allowed Thanos more room to shift closer to you, driving his cock deeper with in you.

You’re pretty sure you’re crying at this point, you can’t help it! It feels too good! The room is hot and the air is thick with sweat, you’re sure the neighbors in the apartment complex could hear as you screamed out in ecstasy as they fuck you down onto their cocks.

They both begin to feel the way your cunt begins to spasm more erratically, squeezing both of them in a diabolical rhythmic motion that has both of them growling out a mixture of profanity and praise. You can feel yourself getting close, the two cocks relentlessly pounding your tight cunt making you begin to slip into your orgasm unusually fast.

“Gonna cum, baby? You close?” Thanos questions, grinning down at you as he pile drives his hips into your cunt. “Can feel you fuckin’ chockin’ my cock.” Nam-gyu’s fingers pinch your clit making you let out a choked sob as response. You’re drooling at this point, a mess of your saliva collecting on the pillow beside you. “Mhm! Holy fuck!” You squeak, your hips rolling down to meet every thrust of their cocks, trying to push them as deep as possible. The feeling of both the tips of their dicks hitting your cervix as they stretch your cunt out obscenely wide is a feeling that you think it’s as close to heaven as you’d ever get.

“Fuck, ‘m gonna cum so deep in this perfect fucking cunt.” Nam-gyu is growling out, “Were both gonna fill this sweet pussy up, ‘s that what you want pretty girl?” He adds, teeth biting at your ear lobe. “Y-yes oh my god…hah!…yes please!” Your words are broken up by wrecked moans everytime they both sink balls deep into you. They’re ruthless, alternating thrusts so you never had a moment to truly breathe.

Thanos moves one hand off your hip up to your breasts. He’s gripping at them as the bounce with each thrust, only adding to the pleasure you’re already receiving. His grip is harsh, nearly painful- but that what makes it all the more better. “C’mon cum f’us pretty thing. Wanna see you make a fuckin’ mess of our cocks…” he’s growling. And as if they communicate telepathically, they’re both speeding up their thrusts, each thrust having a mean upward angle that pounds both their cocks into your g-spot every single time.

Nam-gyu’s fingers return to making deft circles on your clit, your wetness allowing his finger to glide over the bud with such smoothness it has you arching your back off of his chest, “ohmygodohmygod…” you’re beginning to babble out, it’s a mixture of choked sobs and high pitched moans more than it’s actual words, “‘m gonna cum h-holy fuck!!” You scream out. You cum violently, gripping their cocks in such a vice it keeps their cocks stuck inside of you. When they both try to pull out to fuck you through your orgasm and find they can’t because you’re greedily sucking them in- they cum one after the other. “Oh fuck!” Thanos growls before he’s painting your walls white. “‘M cumming, f-fucking take it.” Nam-gyu rasps from under you.

They opt to sink balls deep into your tight pussy, wanting to cum as deep as possible- wanting to feel the full effect of having your wet, spasming walls around their thick length’s as they pump you full of cum. They roll their hips in deep grinding motions, dragging out your orgasm in the most delicious way.

The deep groans and growls, even higher pitched moans they let out as they cum deep within you is music to your ears, it’s something you’ll surely replay in your head over and over for weeks to come. It’s so warm, it’s so much. You can feel every thick rope of their cum fill you to the brim.

You’re sandwiched between them, feeling so unbelievably full. You can feel the way their cum leaks out of you in an obscene thick white mixture, making a mess on Nam-gyu’s pelvis. You’re shivering, body jolting against them, “T-there’s so much..” you’re whining out pathetically, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath, hips subconsciously rolling, trying to shove their cum back into you.

They’re both hissing out, Nam-gyu’s hands rapidly coming to hold your hips in an iron grip, the cool metal of his rings digging into your flesh. “Q-quit that, girl, shit.” He’s hissing out through gritted teeth. Both their cocks are so sensitive and any slight movement of your hips drags their cocks against each other. It’s so sensitive it nearly hurts.

“D-did so good.” Thanos says breathlessly, leaning down to place lazy kisses across your breasts. “M-milked me so fuckin good princess.” Nam-gyu is echoing his share of praise once he gathers himself. You have a fucked-out smile on your face that only grows bigger with each word that comes from their lips.

“We’re gonna take real good care of ya.” Thanos says, it’s a soft cooing tone almost like she’s talking to a child. His hand is brushing back your hair that’s stuck to your face by laser of sweat. “Gonna be all ours, sweet girl…” Nam-gyu says in a low tone, his hand trailing up from your hips to your jaw to turn your face towards him.

It’s a messy kiss given it’s all open mouthed and tongue. The way you’re lying on him doesn’t give him easy access but he does what he can. Thanos is gawking at the spectacle, his cock already beginning to harden inside you once more. “Hm….i don’t think she’s full enough…she spilled an awful lot..” Thanos mumbles, his fingers brushing around your cunt where you’re still stretched around them to collect the cum that spilled out of you.

He holds it up and shows it to Nam-gyu who pulls away from the kiss and lifts an eyebrow like he’s in deep thought. “Yeah…you’re right. Can’t have her be so wasteful.” He pouts from under you. A silent gasp leaves your throat as you feel both of them begin to draw back out of your abused cunt to only thrust back in.

This was so much better than the party.

Thank you guys for reading and thank you all for your continued support. This is so fun to me and is a great way for me to relax!! And I love getting to hear all your silly thinks and make em come to life!! - <3 kiwi

Queue for requests : loser!Nam-gyu x Innocent/naïve!reader smut , deadbeat babydaddy!Nam-gyu x reader smut , Nam-gyu x reader angst into fluff , Thanos x reader x Myung-gi smut

If you don’t see your request on the queue just yet, don’t fret 🫶 I’m working my way through them and after each one is posted the queue will update to the next 5 requests that I have in my inbox. I try my best to work in the order of which they were received. Requests are still open just be aware that it will take a bit for me to get to it, but I absolutely will get to it!

[librarygarten]

Chain x Murica! Reader

Y/N brought a gun to a sword fight. It goes pretty well. Until the boys start asking questions... (I wrote this at 3 AM while high on Nyquil. I don't even know what's happening in this one anymore. Read at your own risk.)

You had fallen into a world of fantasy. Large monsters lurked in abandoned dungeons brimming with treasure. Sword-weilding heroes defeated evil dragons and saved princesses. Honestly, you’re not sure how you’ve survived this long traveling with a band of heroes, apparently gathered from across time and space to face the greatest threat this world has ever encountered.

Knowing your inexperience in battle, they had tried to keep you away from the fighting. But they were occupied now.

You hold your weapon out in front of you, staring down the giant creature that had attacked your group. Some of them called it a Lynel. Whatever it was, it was bad news. Besides the fact that it looked like a nasty lovechild between a lion and a horse, it had already knocked some of the others away with the giant, hammer-like sword it wielded.

You took a deep breath.

The shot rang out in the clearing, the beast suddenly falling to the ground. The sounds of battle were replaced with a still, eerie silence.

Oh, yeah. That was how you survived. #secondammendment, baby!

You lower your pistol, looking around at your companions, most of whom were staring at you, jaws hanging open.

“You guys okay?” You asked, noticing the various scrapes and bruises most of them had.

“Y/N. What in Farore’s name was that?” Warriors stares at the gun in your hand like it’s going to suddenly jump out and bite him.

“Was that a spell?” Hyrule peers curiously at you from where he’s kneeling, his hands glowing as he tries to heal Wild. Knowing Wild, he’d probably missed a backflip during the fight and gotten his ribs shattered. Again.

“Uhh, no? It’s a gun.” You motion to the gun in your hand. “Do you guys not have guns in this world?”

“What’s a gun?” Wind pipes up, suddenly at your elbow. He leans forward, trying to get a better view of your weapon.

“I thought you were a pirate? Don’t pirates have pistols?” You raise an eyebrow at the young boy. He makes a confused face.

“Pirates use swords. And canons,” he explains.

“Then think of this like a small canon. There’s a tiny explosion that shoots a piece of metal super fast.” You trace your finger down the barrel, showing the path of the bullet out of the gun.

“How did you get a canon this small?” Four is suddenly standing at your other elbow, examining the gun with a confused look. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to make sense of the device.

“Beats me, man.” You shrug.

“Wait, how can you not know how your own weapon works?” Legend scoffs, crossing his arms in annoyance. You simply shrug again.

“It’s not like they teach us about it. Heck, schools don’t even let kids pretend to play with guns.” You roll your eyes in annoyance. “When we played cops and robbers on the playground, we got detention for pretending to shoot each other.”

“That doesn’t seem very fair.” Sky furrows his eyebrows. “Swordfighting was practically encouraged at my school.”

“Well, people have used guns for mass shootings. Lots of people died. Teachers are probably worried about kids getting ideas.”

“Doesn’t your kingdom have laws about getting such a device? Surely they wouldn’t let children have a tool that could harm a person so severely.” Time nudges the fallen Lynel with his boot. It remains lifeless on the ground.

“Well, obviously the government has some laws, like minimum age and stuff.” You nod, partially agreeing with Time. “But if they added too many restrictions, that would interfere with Americans’ right to bear arms.”

“Bear arms!?” Wild perks up, suddenly invested in the conversation. It’s clear he’s not thinking the same thing as you.

“The right to own and use guns,” you explain, and he slumps back down, perhaps saddened by the fact you don’t have government-given pet bears.

“So, let me get this straight.” Warriors pinches the bridge of his nose. “Your world has miniature, hand-held canons that can kill a Lynel in one hit and have historically been used to kill large numbers of civilians. And your royalty do little to control these devices?”

“Woah, man.” You gasp, offended. “America doesn’t have a monarchy. We got rid of the king, like, 200 years ago or something.”

“Got rid of…?” Twilight glances between you and the weapon in your hand. “What do you mean?” The rest of the chain share similar looks of horror.

“Ack, what are you looking at me like that for?” You swat the air with your hand, as if shooing away their ideas of regicide. “King What's-his-face lived across the ocean. We just sent him a very nice letter telling him to shove off, then when he sent soldiers to take back control, we fought them.”

“Right. Because that makes it so much better.” Legend rolls his eyes.

“Hey, at least we didn’t do what the French did!” You huff.

“What did they do?” Sky tilts his head, an innocent question. Shoot. Now you regret bringing that up.

“Welllllll…” You trail off. Maybe talking about the creation of democracy and the abolishment of the monarchy was a bad subject to talk about in a group made up of the Knights of Hyrule or whatever they were called.

“What did they do?” He asks, more serious this time.

“Okay, so from what I remember from history class, they just. Killed them all? Like publically executed every royal and court officail that didn’t flee to another country.” You wince as you speak. The boys’ faces go pale.

“Why would you want to get rid of the royalty? Don’t they have the blood of the goddess? And powers?” Wind scratches his head. That’s right, he had grown up without a monarchy controlling his island. But wasn’t he also friends with a long-lost princess? Honestly, these kids had led more interesting lives than could possibly be good for their mental health.

“No?” You furrow your brows. What did he mean by the blood of the goddess? “The king kept taxing random stuff and soldiers kept forcing themselves into people’s homes. I think they also killed a bunch of colonists one time firing-squad style, but I don’t exactly remember.”

“Oh. You had an evil king.” Time nods, as if finally understanding. Then he turns to the rest of the group, “Like Ganondorf.”

Most of the others nod along.

“Who’s that?” You tip your head to the side, confused. The outrage and utter bewilderment on the chain’s faces catches you off guard. They quickly descend into utter chaos.

“WHAT!?” “HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW!!??” “Does the name Ganon ring any bells?” “You know! The GIANT PIG MONSTER.”

You smile nervously. Maybe you should have just tried using one of their swords instead.

[inaccuratelybiblicalangel]

Lana Playlist ;

1.Kill Kill 2. Queen of the Gas Station 3. Oh Say Can You See 4. Gramma (Blue Ribbon Sparkler Trailer Heaven) 5. For K, Pt. 2 6. Jump 7. Mermaid Motel 8. Raise Me Up (Mississippi South) 9. Pawn Shop Blues 10. Brite Lites 11. Put Me in a Movie 12. Smarty 13. Yayo 14. Born to Die 15. Off to the Races 16. Blue Jeans 17. Video Games⁹ 18. Diet Mountain Dew 19. National Anthem 20. Dark Paradise 21. Radio 22. Carmen 23. Million Dollar Man 24. Summertime Sadness 25. This Is What Makes Us Girls 26. Ride 27. American 28. Cola 29. Body Electric 30. Blue Velvet 31. Gods & Monsters 32. Bel Air 33. Burning Desire 34. Cruel World 35. Ultraviolence 36. Shades of Cool 37. Brooklyn Baby 38. West Coast 39. Sad Girl 40. Pretty When You Cry 41. Money Power Glory 42. ***ed My Way Up to the Top 43. Old Money 44. The Other Woman 45. Honeymoon 46. Music to Watch Boys To 47. Terrence Loves You 48. God Knows I Tried 49. High by the Beach 50. Freak 51. Art Deco 52. Burnt Norton (Interlude) 53. Religion 54. Salvatore 55. The Blackest Day 56. 24 57. Swan Song 58. Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood 59. Love 60. Lust for Life 61. 13 Beaches 62. Cherry 63. White Mustang 64. Summer Bummer 65. Groupie Love 66. In My Feelings 67. Coachella – Woodstock in My Mind 68. God Bless America – And All the Beautiful Women in It 69. When the World Was at War We Kept Dancing 70. Beautiful People Beautiful Problems 71. Tomorrow Never Came 72. Heroin 73. Change 74. Get Free 75. Norman F***ing Rockwell 76. Mariners Apartment Complex 77. Venice Bitch 78. F*** It I Love You 79. Doin’ Time 80. Love Song 81. Cinnamon Girl 82. How to Disappear 83. California 84. The Next Best American Record 85. The Greatest 86. Bartender 87. Happiness is a Butterfly 88. Hope Is a Dangerous Thing for a Woman Like Me to Have - But I Have It 89. White Dress 90. Chemtrails Over the Country Club 91. Tulsa Jesus Freak 92. Let Me Love You Like a Woman 93. Wild at Heart 94. Dark But Just a Game 95. Not All Who Wander Are Lost 96. Yosemite 97. Breaking Up Slowly 98. Dance Till We Die 99. For Free 100. Text Book 101. Blue Banisters 102. Arcadia 103. Interlude – The Trio 104. Black Bathing Suit 105. If You Lie Down With Me 106. Beautiful 107. Violets for Roses 108. Dealer 109. Thunder 110. Wildflower Wildfire 111. Nectar of the Gods 112. Living Legend 113. Cherry Blossom 114. Sweet Carolina 115. The Grants 116. Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd 117. Sweet 118. A&W 119. Judah Smith Interlude 120. Candy Necklace 121. Jon Batiste Interlude 122. Kintsugi 123. Fingertips 124. Paris, Texas 125. Grandfather Please Stand on the Shoulders of My Father While He’s Deep-Sea Fishing 126. Let the Light In 127. Margaret 128. Fishtail 129. Peppers 130. Taco Truck x VB 131. Young and Beautiful (Demo) 132. Black Beauty 133. Florida Kilos 134. Behind Closed Doors 135. So Legit 136. Riverside 137. You Can Be the Boss 138. Kinda Outta Luck 139. Velvet Crowbar 140. Wait for Life 141. I Talk to Jesus 142. The Lullaby 143. Summer of Sam 144. Jump (Demo) 145. Hollywood's Dead 146. Maha 147. Queen of Disaster 148. My Best Days 149. Life is Beautiful 150. Gramma (Blue Ribbon Sparkler Trailer Heaven) (Demo) 151. Burning Desire (Demo) 152. In the Sun 153. Butterfly 154. X-Cops 155. Planet of the Apes 156. Red Hot 157. Afraid 158. Tropico (Demo) 159. Chuck's in Love 160. The Other Woman (Demo) 161. Flipside 162. Queen of the Gas Station (Demo) 163. Run With Me 164. Old Money (Demo) 165. The Big Bad Wolf 166. I Will Wait 167. Stars in the Sky 168. Alligator 169. So Strange 170. Dancing with the Devil 171. Wildflower 172. Pretty Little Miss 173. F*** You (Lana Del Rey) 174. GO GO Dancer 175. Beautiful player 176. This is what makes us girls (Demo 2 & 3)

[skippingstonez]

in The Minish Cap at the beginning during the festival if you interact with a specific woman she says 'they say the Minish bring happiness...I wonder when they will bring me mine'

Inspired by that, can I request that you write something about Four comforting Reader or lifting their spirits?

So I uhh, think I may have gone a bit hard on this one cause oof the beginning...it's rough. That being said Four is very comforting so just know it gets better! (Also, I'm apologizing to Wars now for making him the 'bad guy')

Unexpected Happiness

(Four x Reader)

Warnings: Depressive thoughts, suicidal ideation (? I think that's the right term, correct me if I'm wrong)

There was a crack, then a cry as the ground gave way from underneath you. 

A moment of weightlessness before you collided into dirt and stone. Skidding down the walls of the dark tunnel before coming to an agonizingly sudden halt. The world spun around you, a high pitched ringing in your ears that pounded at the pressure in your head. You laid there, with what you could only hope was mud, seeping into the back of your tunic. Rocks and broken pieces of wood digging into your skin, adding to the overall discomfort that was your existence.

The worst part was how unsurprised you were. 

Even as your muscles ached, bruises forming deep beneath your skin and a warm liquid trickled down your leg. None of it compared to the numb void filling your being. 

Nothing had been going your way. 

From countless, sleepless nights that left you tired and unfocused. Regularly losing petty bets to Legend. Misplacing your bag of potions and fairies conveniently before getting attacked and injured by a lizalfos. Getting lost while exploring, falling ill, saying the wrong things or simply messing up in almost every way imaginable.

It seemed to all lead up to yesterday. When getting separated from the group led to an intense scolding by Wars, in front of everyone. It hadn't even been your fault. It's not like you controlled where the portals spat you or anyone else out. A fact you had kept to yourself in the onslaught of being told how irresponsible and foolish you were.

Day after day, after day you waited for things to turn around. Sure, some days were better than others but after so long you came to the simple conclusion that you must have done something. Something so awful that it put you straight on Hylia’s personal shit list.

You took shallow breaths, slowly assessing yourself beginning with your toes and moving upward to your knees. Then your fingers all the way up to your shoulders. Moving each joint and limb to determine its current functionality. By some miracle, nothing seemed broken. Though the intense stabbing around your hip suggested that something had lodged straight through your layers of clothes and made itself at home in your skin.

There was something, some noise beyond the ringing in your ears that your brain couldn't quite make out. It felt familiar, made you want to reach out to it.

You rolled onto your side instead, groaning in pain as you curled into yourself. You peeled open your eyes long enough to see the broken remains of the floorboards scattered around you. Each piece doubling, or tripling in numbers that all swirled around, making your brain hurt even more from the dizzying sensation. 

You shut your eyes, holding your head as if it would break into similar pieces. Coherent thoughts struggled to break through the thick fog that surrounded your brain. Survival instincts begged you to move, to reach for your bag, call out for help, something.

A warm wetness slid down the slope of your nose. It's small droplets disappearing onto the ground of mud and rocks.

A noise. A shout, you realized, rang out. Louder than before but still much too far away to make out what was being said.

Or maybe it was you who was too far gone. Your brain, perhaps now too damaged to comprehend simple sounds and words. Just another thing that had gone wrong. You ignored the sound, sniffling at the tears tickling the tip of your nose. Surely if you couldn't understand you wouldn't be able to respond so what was the point in trying?

Because you need help! 

True. With the amount of pain you were in, you would need help if you wanted to get out of here. 

But, 

Did you want out?

What was even waiting for you out there? More portals and monsters? More mistakes and misfortune that put you and those around you in jeopardy? More pain?

Your friends! Your friends are out there and there looking for you!

Were they? Wasn't it your ‘friend’ that had gotten angry at you? Everyone else had just stood there, listening to him tear into you. Was it because they agreed? Had they all realized how truly useless you were? This was their chance. An opportunity to be rid of you. To continue the journey without the constant worry of your mistakes.

They wouldn't! They-

“(Y/N)!!!”

The shouting from before continued, getting louder and clearer with each cry. It sounded so familiar, like you knew the voice yet couldn't recall who it belonged to.

“(Y/N) Please! Are you down there!?”

The voice echoed through the area. Concern dripping off every word as it continued to call out to you.

“Guys they're not answering! (Y/N)!?”

Your mouth opened, a small part of you wanting to reach out and answer. You laid there, unable, or maybe just unwilling to do so as your mouth snapped shut.

“Uugghhh it's too dark, I can't see anything! I'm gonna go down further, see if I can find them!”

You knew you should be thrilled at the prospect of help, but you couldn't bring yourself to care anymore. 

Getting rescued or simply being left stranded down here, it all felt the same to you. You were simply done trying. Content that whatever would happen was simply the way things were going to be.

You curled further into yourself, letting the numb fog continue to spread through you. Everything felt too tight, like your skin was constricting in on itself. A lump forming in your throat that suffocated even the quiet sound of your still too shallow breathing.

A small thud, followed by the sound of boots squishing in mud as a yellowish hue poked at your eyelids.

“(Y/N)! Guys I found them!”

Hands gently grabbed your shoulders, pulling you to lay on your back. Calloused fingers dancing over your face. Whoever it was took in a sharp breath. Maybe you were worse off than you initially thought if the person was recoiling at the sight of you.

“(Y/n) are you okay? Can you hear me?”

A face appeared in your mind at the sound of his voice beside you. Was that..that was Four, or at least you were fairly sure. Why did he sound so worried? 

Oh right, you fell through the floor.

“(Y/n)? Shit…okay focus Link…uhhh okay, breathing…thats gonna be a problem but…atleast everythings intact?”  You could only listen as he rambled to himself. Checking you over for any obvious injuries.

“Come on,” He pleaded, “why aren't you waking up? Wake up! Please wake up!” He chanted, repeatedly tapping the side of your face.

You were awake. You were painfully awake despite every part of your body wishing that you weren't. You just wanted it to all stop. To be left alone to whatever hell Hylia wanted to inflict on you.

“Damn it, where's that fairy? I swore I had one!” The hands left, likely looking through his bag for something to help you. 

It felt selfish to let him waste a fairy on someone who wasn’t even trying to save themself. Getting yourself to speak up however would be a battle within itself.

For Fours sake, you repeated to yourself as you pried your mouth. If you couldn't do it for yourself you could still try and do it for him. The lump in your throat felt like solid stone, letting only the faintest whisper escape.

“fo..four?”

“(Y/N)! Oh thank Hylia! Are you okay!?”

Damn that felt like such a loaded question right now.

Using all of your strength you cracked open your eyes. Four's face hovered above you, illuminated by the small lantern by his side. His eyes focused on yours, green and violet specks waiting for a reply.

The sight made your throat burn. Vision blurring as tears built up in the corners of your eyes. Four's hand found your face, thumb wiping away the few that slid out.

“Hey, it's gonna be alright. I'm right here okay? I’m gonna get ya out of here.”

“why…” 

Four tilted his head, “Cause I'm pretty sure you don't wanna spend the rest of your life in a cave?”

Lips beginning to quiver, tears poured down your face. “It doesn't matter what I want…”

“Woah,” he said gently “(y/n) what do you mean? Of course it matters”

You shook your head, the motion only aggravating the pain. “no, it doesn't. Everything I do just…I just make things worse!”

The lump in your throat cracked as words began pouring from your mouth. “Just go…I'm better off down here where I can't mess everything up. I mean, what's the point of trying if I can't even walk across a floor without messing it up somehow!?”

It was like your whole body shattered. The pain, the struggle, all of it came rushing out of you in a waterfall of tears. Your hands flew to your face, trying to pretend that you could still hide it all away. Pretend that Four wasn't here to witness yet another one of your failures.

“Wars was right…” you choked. “I'm just a screw up..”

Hands tugged at your wrists, pulling them away from your face. They pulled further, slowly helping you sit up until you rested against Four’s chest. His arms wrapped around you to hold you close as you cried. He put your head on his shoulder, letting your face fall into the dip of his neck. 

“(Y/n) I'm so sorry. I should have said something yesterday because nothing he said was true. None of it was your fault and he knows it. We ALL know that.”

There was a bite to his voice as sharp as his hold on you. His eyes were a shimmering mix of blue and green that reminded you of the ocean.

“The Captain is an ass and just let his worry get the best of him. You are NOT a screw up and ohhh when I get back up there the Captain better-” Four trailed off, mumbling off rather colorful words he would be having with Wars.

He inhales sharply, slowly releasing his breath as you cried into his shoulder.

“That aside, You're in pretty rough shape.” He whispered, “Can you tell me what hurts?”

“Everything”

“Oookay not the best question” He huffed lightly. “The board in your hip doesn't seem too deep but we need to take care of it before it gets infected. Is there anywhere else that hurts more?”

“H-head…” 

“Mmmm…it might be a concussion if you hit your head hard enough which, given how far you fell is more than likely. A potion should still be able to help though along with anything else.”

You whined as your face was pulled from his neck, tears still flowing freely as you were laid back down. There was no real warning before Four pulled out the plank, leaving you shouting out in pain. Something smooth and cold pressed to your bottom lip, urging you to open your mouth. You loosely grabbed at the bottle, taking a few sips of the bitter liquid. Four pulled it away once satisfied you had drunk enough, then helped you sit back up to let you continue to rest against him. 

The pain dulled soon enough, leaving only the numb discomfort in its wake. Four held you close to him, his hand running up and down your arm soothingly. Your injuries may have healed but you were bone tired and still had no desire to move from where you still sat on the cold ground. The only warmth coming from the small lantern and Four's form wrapped around you.

“Have I ever told you about the Minish?”

You knew he was just trying to distract you but you went along with it. Giving a small shrug as your tears soaked into his tunic.

“The r-really tiny…mice like people?”

“Eehhh close enough. Anyway, they are really well known in my era. They actually played a big part in my first quest.”

You peeled your face away just enough to look up. His eyes shining a brilliant redish-purple as he continued on.

“Because they're so small though, most people haven't actually seen them. But they're known for bringing luck and happiness to everyone they do meet.”

“Is that true?” You asked quietly, wiping your sleeve over your face. “That they bring happiness?”

Four nodded, a hand coming up to run through your hair. “In a way. The Minish thrive off of bringing joy to those around them but they can be quite sneaky about it.”

You hid your face into his shoulder. Hopefully hiding the new swell of tears in your eyes.

“Oh…I, I dont think they exist in my era..”

“What makes you say that?”

You shrugged, trying to play off the tightening in your chest. “Cause if they do, why do I feel so miserable?”

Arms tightened around you with a deep sigh, letting his head rest on top of yours. “Do you wanna know what I think?”

You nodded.

“I think it's bullshit.”

Your head shot up, staring at him in confusion. “But you just said-”

“I know what I said but hear me out.” He grabbed onto your hands, holding them in his lap.

“What I said is true, the Minish love to help and bring joy to people when they can. But they don't magically just make you happy. Happiness is something you have to find for yourself. The Minish more or less guide you to it.”

Four paused, his eyes swirling between a mix of green and red as he bit his lip. Something he only does when he can't quite make up his mind.

“I..I think they led me to you.”

The admission took you by surprise. The concept that you could be someone's happiness felt so…bizarre. Regardless, the grief on your heart loosened. It was still there, laying heavy on your mind but you felt like you could finally breathe again. It was a small step, but it was a start.

“I know things have been hard on you lately but…by the Three (Y/n) you make me so inexplicably happy just by being you.”

His lips pressed against your forehead. It's warmth spreading across your face and up to the tips of your ears

You wincing slightly at the way your head spun and you didn't know if it was from the adrenaline or the concussion.

“We should probably get you out of here.” Four got to his feet, offering you his hand. “You ready?”

Part of you still said no. Not wanting to face the others and a potentially ‘worried’ Wars again. You took his hand anyway and slowly got to your feet, letting yourself finally look around at your surroundings for the first time since your crash landing.

From what you could see, the cave wasn't very big but it had been a much longer fall than you realized. The fact that you were even standing was a tender mercy. The small speck of light coming from above only noticeable from where it stood out against the dark, mossy covered walls.

“Shit…I think I hit my head harder than I even realized.” You chortled, swaying on your feet as Four helped steady you. “How did you even get down here?”

“Rancher’s hookshot” He said, casually showing off the borrowed item. He slipped it into his hand, raising it upwards before it shot up, latching onto whatever was awaiting at the top.

—------ 

Getting back up turned into its own ordeal. With your strength still gone, Four had carefully situated you on his back. His power bracelet activated to keep a firm grip on you just in case.

He took it slow, reeling the two of you up carefully. Every shake and stutter of the chain made him tighten his grip on you. Pausing for a moment before continuing the descent up. Once close enough, Time reached through the opening and pulled you up the rest of the way, Twilight doing the same for Four.

He waved off Twilight and Wind’s concerns, insisting that he was fine. Time and Wild crowded around you, taking it upon themselves to check and make sure you were alright while the others tried, and failed, to give you space.

Four didn't take his eyes off of Wars

He didn’t miss the way you kept eyeing the scarfed hero, as though awaiting yet another stern scolding. It took everything he had to keep Blue from tearing the man apart right there and then. The memory of your sobs and broken voice, agreeing to all the offhanded insults he had thrown at you only adding fuel to the fire that Green and Red were desperately trying to reason with.

The Captain did eventually step towards you and Four got straight to his feet, a hand planted firmly on Wars chest to keep him from getting any closer. To his credit, Wars didnt look angry. He genuinely looked concerned but Four wasn't about to take any chances with any of them saying the wrong thing. Not with how fragile he knew you really were at the moment. 

“A word. Captain.”

Wars cocked his head curiously but followed after Four silently until they were out of earshot.

“What do you need, Smithy?”

Four took a deep breath, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “The only thing you are going to say to them, is a fucking apology.” He spat, “And then you are going to leave them the hell alone for a bit.”

Wars eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Four what-”

“You weren't down there, Wars.” His own voice shook, holding back the own stinging at his eyes. “You didn't have to hear the way they cried or how they wanted to just be fucking left down there because of something you said!”

Wars was still for a while, taking in what Four had just told him. His gaze solely on the ground beneath his feet as he tried to compose the right words. “I'm sorry. You're right I shouldn't have yelled at them yesterday. I…I didn't think they would take it so..”

“I know you didn't mean it.” Four heaves deeply, trying to put a reign on his own feelings. “And it's not all your fault, it just was sort of a final straw for them with all the shit they've been getting lately.” 

Four took a few steps back, peeking around the corner where he could see Time still helping you get cleaned up.

“Just…you need to apologize to them. Not right now but…perhaps later tonight when this whole thing has calmed down a bit.”

Wars nodded, leaving Four to walk back to the group alone. He found a spot next to you, sitting down close enough to be within reach but not overwhelm you.

“Doing okay?”

You nodded, a faint smile as you looked at him to mouth a small “thank you”.

He scooted a bit closer, ignoring the glances of the younger heroes as you laid your head back onto his shoulder.

“Anytime. I’ll always be here for you.”

______

You are loved! So please take care of yourselves and reach out if you need help <3 If anything, know this author is rooting for you!

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Ink & Oath (tattoo artist!Mafiaso!Dean W.)

Summary: Reader comes to a quaint tattoo shop to get some much needed work done to her back piece... little does she know that her entire life will change in just a few short moments.

WC: 13.5K

Warnings: mafia au,tattoo artist dean nongraphic smut, angst with a happy ending, pregnancy

Read on ao3!

A/N: i wasn't going to put this piece on tumblr, because of it being so long. Plus i'm honestly so tired of the blank blogs giving empty notes and not really giving much else. So i'm *probably* not going to keep this posted if it receives nothing but likes w/ little to no reblogs. I worked extremely hard on this piece a few days ago and it's honestly so discouraging to not get /something/ in return. Anyway, whatever.

--

You’re standing at the counter of Winchester Ink, half-annoyed and half-desperate. The sleek, industrial-style tattoo parlor is packed, and the receptionist informs you that due to their packed schedule, only 40 minutes of work can be squeezed in today. You’d planned to finally finish the intricate back piece you’d started with another artist—one who bailed on you last minute.

Agreeing to the partial session, you put down the deposit and prepare for a follow-up. The artist does incredible work, but it’s not enough to bring your tattoo to completion. When you return for your second appointment, you’re shocked to find the shop’s owner himself—Dean Winchester—waiting for you. His broad shoulders and sharp green eyes hold a glare that’s almost as intimidating as his reputation.

He explains that your rushed appointment cost him money and time—and now you owe him. But when he notices your determination and sees your unfinished ink, a mischievous smirk creeps across his face.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Dean says, leaning on his desk, “I’ve got an offer. You want your back piece done? You’re gonna work it off. Be my shop assistant for a few weeks, cover some shifts. And maybe… I’ll finish the job myself.”

The lines between professionalism and something much darker start to blur as Dean’s attention becomes far more personal than just your tattoo.

You blink at him, trying to gauge if he’s serious or just messing with you. The way his smirk deepens when you hesitate tells you he’s enjoying this way too much.

“Are you even allowed to do that?” you ask, crossing your arms.

Dean shrugs, completely unbothered. “My shop, my rules.”

You glance around the parlor, the buzzing of tattoo machines filling the space, the scent of antiseptic and ink in the air. The place is busy, artists hunched over their clients, lost in concentration. Winchester Ink has a reputation for being one of the best, and Dean Winchester himself is practically a legend. It’s an opportunity, but it also feels like a trap.

Still, you want this tattoo finished. It’s been sitting on your back like an incomplete story, haunting you every time you catch your reflection. You can’t let it stay unfinished.

With a deep breath, you square your shoulders. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Dean grins like you just handed him the keys to your soul. “Atta girl.”

The next day, you show up, not sure what to expect. Turns out, working at a tattoo shop is nothing like you’d imagined. It’s long hours of cleaning stations, refilling ink wells, running the front desk, and dealing with clients who can’t decide on a design to save their lives.

Dean watches you like a hawk, making sure you don’t slack off, but there’s something else in his gaze too—something that makes your stomach flip. And when he finally gets you in his chair, stretching your skin taut beneath his gloved hands, the air between you shifts. His touch is precise, his focus unwavering, but every now and then, his fingers linger just a second too long.

“You sure you can handle working here, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin as he leans in, the tattoo machine whirring softly.

You lift your chin, refusing to let him see how much he affects you. “I can handle a lot more than you think, Winchester.”

His smirk returns, this time laced with something darker, something that makes your pulse stutter.

“Good,” he says, dragging the needle across your skin in a slow, deliberate stroke. “Let’s see just how much."

--

The next morning, you step into Winchester Ink, now seeing it from the other side of the counter. The usual buzz of tattoo guns fills the air, along with the scent of antiseptic and ink. Dean, already working on a client, jerks his head toward the reception desk.

“You’re on desk duty today,” he calls over his shoulder. “Phones, appointments, clean-up. Try not to scare off the customers.”

You roll your eyes but take your place, answering the phone as a biker-looking guy strolls in, flipping through the portfolio. It’s an adjustment, sure, but you settle in fast. You’re almost enjoying it—until Dean appears behind you, close enough that his breath warms your skin.

“Not bad,” he murmurs, his voice rough, teasing. “But don’t think I won’t put you to work scrubbing floors if you slack off.”

You turn to retort, only to find yourself inches from his sharp green gaze. The tension crackles between you like a live wire, and from the slow smirk spreading across his lips, he knows it too.

Maybe this deal isn’t as simple as it seemed.

The shop closes late, and you’re still sweeping up stray paper towels and discarded ink caps when Dean finally locks the front door. Most of the other artists have already left, leaving just the two of you in the dimly lit space. The buzzing neon "Winchester Ink" sign outside casts a soft blue glow through the glass, flickering faintly like it’s seen too many late nights.

“You survived day one,” Dean says, leaning against the front desk with an amused smirk. “I was half-expecting you to run out crying after dealing with that Karen who wanted a ‘spiritual wolf’ tattoo on her lower back.”

You snort. “Please, I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Yeah?” He watches you for a beat, arms crossed over his chest, his black t-shirt stretching just enough to be distracting. “Guess we’ll see if you can handle tomorrow.”

Something about the way he says it—low, laced with something unreadable—sends a slow shiver down your spine.

“You really that desperate for free labor?” you tease, tilting your head.

Dean’s smirk deepens. He steps closer, just enough that you catch the faint scent of leather and aftershave beneath the lingering ink and antiseptic.

“Nah,” he says, voice dropping a little. “I just like watching you squirm.”

Your pulse kicks up, and you hate that he can probably tell. But before you can come up with a sharp response, Dean straightens, stretching his arms behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Go home, sweetheart. Get some rest.” He nods toward the back. “Your tattoo’s not getting finished if you pass out on me halfway through.”

You don’t move right away. The reminder of why you’re here—why you agreed to this in the first place—grounds you, just enough to shake off the heat in your chest.

“Goodnight, boss,” you say, deliberately casual as you set the broom aside and grab your bag.

Dean just chuckles, low and knowing.

“Night, sweetheart.”

And damn him, you swear you can still feel his gaze on your back long after you’ve stepped outside.

--

Working at Winchester Ink is no joke. The shop is always packed, and between scheduling appointments, sterilizing equipment, and dealing with customers who either can’t commit or want the worst design ideas imaginable, you barely have time to breathe.

Dean? He’s a menace.

He pushes you, makes you run errands, hands you the mop at the end of every shift like it’s some kind of personal game. But the worst part? The way he watches you.

It’s not outright—nothing you could call him out on—but it’s there. A glance that lingers too long. A smirk when he brushes past you, his hand skimming your lower back like it’s an accident. And the way he says things.

"You look good behind my desk, sweetheart."

"Bet you’d look even better covered in more ink."

"Careful, sweetheart. Keep biting that lip, and I might start thinking you’re doing it for me."

It’s infuriating. Mostly because part of you likes it.

--

By the time your shift ends, your feet ache, and you’re pretty sure you have ink on your cheek. Everyone else has already left, and it’s just you and Dean—again.

“C’mere,” he says from his station. His voice is softer than usual, but there’s still that teasing edge to it.

You hesitate. “Why?”

He taps the leather tattoo chair. “You wanna get that back piece finished or what?”

Your stomach flips. “I thought we were waiting—”

Dean raises a brow. “You put in the work, didn’t you? I think you’ve earned a little progress.”

You swallow hard. This was the deal. Your tattoo. That’s why you’re here. That’s all this is.

Right?

You climb into the chair, heart hammering as Dean snaps on a fresh pair of gloves. His fingers ghost over your skin as he carefully peels back your shirt, exposing your unfinished tattoo. The cool air sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s nothing compared to the way Dean’s touch lingers, his fingertips dragging just a second longer than necessary.

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice close to your ear. “I’ll take good care of you.”

The tattoo gun hums to life, but the only thing you can focus on is him—his breath against your neck, the steady grip of his hand on your waist.

And when he starts tattooing?

You swear it has nothing to do with the ink and everything to do with the way his touch sinks under your skin.

The sharp sting of the needle drags across your skin, but it’s not the pain that makes your breath hitch—it’s him. Dean’s touch is firm, his other hand resting against your waist, grounding you. His breath ghosts over your exposed skin as he leans in closer, the scent of leather, whiskey, and something unmistakably him flooding your senses.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “Gotta loosen up for me, sweetheart.”

The words send a jolt of heat through you, pooling low in your stomach. You grip the edges of the chair, trying to focus on the rhythmic buzz of the tattoo gun, but it’s impossible when Dean is right there, his presence overwhelming.

He works slow, deliberate, the pressure of his hand steadying you with every pass of the needle. His fingers, clad in latex, slide against your skin, adjusting your position with a touch that’s almost too gentle. And maybe you’re imagining it, maybe it’s the adrenaline, but there’s something in the way his thumb sweeps over your side—something that feels less like a professional touch and more like a test.

A challenge.

“You okay?” he asks, but there’s something smug in his tone, like he already knows the answer.

“I’m fine,” you manage, though your voice is breathier than you’d like.

Dean chuckles, and you feel it vibrate through you. “Yeah? You sure?” His voice dips lower, teasing, and then—fuck. His hand moves, sliding just a fraction higher, his thumb tracing the dip of your spine in a way that has nothing to do with the tattoo.

Your pulse hammers. You should say something, should shift away, should stop this before it goes somewhere dangerous.

But you don’t.

Instead, you let out a slow exhale, pressing just slightly into his touch. It’s barely anything, just a shift of your body, but Dean notices.

Of course, he does.

His grip tightens—not rough, but possessive. The needle lifts from your skin, and suddenly, he’s not working anymore.

You hear the quiet click of the tattoo gun shutting off, the eerie silence of the shop settling between you. Your heart pounds as Dean pulls his gloves off with a slow, deliberate snap.

Then, he leans in, lips just brushing the shell of your ear.

“I think we both know this ain’t just about the tattoo anymore.”

You swallow hard, your breath uneven. “Dean—”

“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice nothing but a growl now. “Tell me to back off, and I will.”

But you don’t say it.

You can’t.

Instead, you turn your head just enough that your lips are a whisper away from his. The air between you crackles, electric, and then—

He kisses you.

It’s not slow. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all that tension, all those unspoken words, poured into one desperate, claiming kiss. His hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back, his other arm sliding around your waist and pulling you against him, hard.

You gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, demanding and sinful. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he sucks it between his own, and you swear you feel the heat of it all the way down to your core.

“Fuck,” you whisper when he finally pulls back, your lips swollen, breath ragged.

Dean’s eyes are dark—dangerous.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, his voice pure sin. “We’re just getting started.”

--

The air in the shop is thick with heat, the scent of ink and sweat lingering between you. Your back is still tingling—not just from the fresh tattoo, but from the way Dean had held you, touched you, ruined you right there in his chair.

You’re still catching your breath, your body limp against the leather, when you feel him shift behind you. His fingers trace over your spine, a ghost of a touch that sends another shiver down your already overstimulated body.

“Y’alright, sweetheart?” His voice is hoarse, rough with something smug and satisfied.

You manage a breathy laugh. “You really have to ask?”

Dean chuckles, and you feel the warmth of it against your bare shoulder before he presses a slow, lingering kiss there. “Just making sure you didn’t pass out on me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re too spent to come up with a sharp retort. Instead, you sigh, shifting slightly as you feel the ache settling into your muscles.

Dean moves away, and you hear the rustle of fabric as he tugs his jeans back on. You should probably do the same, but right now, your body feels like it’s made of liquid, melted into the chair that still smells like him.

A moment later, something soft lands on your back—a towel, warm and slightly damp.

“Clean yourself up,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, rough around the edges in a way that sends another ripple of warmth through you. “I’ll grab you some water.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, watching as he moves across the shop. His shoulders are broad, his movements lazy, like he’s entirely at ease, but there’s something else there too—something in the way he glances at you over his shoulder like he’s still thinking about what just happened.

Like maybe he’s not done with you yet.

By the time he returns, you’ve pulled your clothes back on, though your skin still hums from his touch. He hands you a bottle of water, watching as you take a few slow sips.

“So,” you say finally, breaking the silence. “This part of the standard Winchester Ink experience?”

Dean smirks, leaning against the counter, his green eyes flicking over you like he’s already plotting his next move. “Nah,” he says, voice low. “Just the VIP package.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Right.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The weight of what just happened still lingers between you, heavy and unspoken. And maybe this should be awkward—maybe you should be freaking out, wondering what the hell this means for the deal you made, for the tattoo, for anything.

But you’re not.

Instead, you watch Dean, the way his jaw shifts slightly, the way he looks at you like he’s still hungry, and you realize something.

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

And judging by the way Dean grins at you, slow and wicked, he knows it too.

You knew something was off about Dean Winchester. No man carries himself with that much confidence—that much authority—without having something to back it up.

But nothing could have prepared you for the truth.

You’re sitting in his apartment, a loft-style space above Winchester Ink, still tangled in his sheets, wearing nothing but one of his flannel shirts. The tattoo on your back is finally finished, but that’s the least of your thoughts right now. Because Dean just told you something that should have made you run.

He’s not just a tattoo artist.

Dean Winchester owns this city. Or at least, the parts that matter.

He’s the leader of something much bigger, much darker. The kind of operation that people whisper about in hushed tones, the kind that law enforcement pretends doesn’t exist because even they’re too scared to take him on.

And yet… you’re still here.

“You’re not saying anything,” Dean murmurs, watching you from across the room. His back is to the window, the neon glow of the city framing him in pale blues and reds. His green eyes are unreadable, but there’s tension in the way he holds himself—like he’s waiting for you to get up and walk away.

You take a deep breath, considering your words. “You just told me you run a criminal empire, Dean.”

He huffs a dry, humourless laugh. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

You tilt your head. “What do you want me to say?”

Dean studies you for a moment, then looks away, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know. Figured you’d freak out. Maybe tell me I’m a monster.” His voice is low and rough, like he’s bracing himself for something inevitable. “Most people would.”

You take a moment, looking at him. Really looking.

And what you see isn’t just power, or danger, or the weight of everything he’s done. You see a man who has lost too much, who carries the weight of his past like a chain around his throat.

“You’re not a monster,” you say softly.

Dean’s eyes snap to yours like he wasn’t expecting that answer. “You don’t know the shit I’ve done.”

You exhale, pulling your knees to your chest. “Then tell me.”

He hesitates, his fingers twitching at his side. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“My dad built this empire,” he says, staring out at the city. “He wasn’t a good man. He did a lot of bad things hurt a lot of people. But he kept us safe—me and my little brother, Sam. When he died, I took over. Thought I could do better, clean things up.”

You already know this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

Dean swallows, his jaw tightening. “I tried. But this life? It doesn’t let go. Sam didn’t want any part of it. Got himself a real job, a real life.” He lets out a bitter chuckle. “Thought I could keep him safe if he stayed away. But they still found him.”

Your stomach twists. “Dean…”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I buried him six years ago.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for the first time, you see it—the real Dean Winchester. The man who lost everything, who built his own empire on the bones of his past.

And yet, he told you.

He let you in.

You slide out of bed, crossing the room before he can stop you. When you reach him, you press your palm against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

“I’m still here,” you say softly.

Dean’s breath catches. His hands, rough and calloused, come up to cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His thumbs brush along your cheekbones, and when he speaks, his voice is almost pleading.

“You should be scared of me.”

You smile, just a little. “Maybe.” You lean up, brushing your lips against his. “But I’m not.”

Dean groans softly, his grip tightening, and when he kisses you, it’s different this time. Not just hunger, not just claiming.

It’s desperation.

Like he’s been drowning for years, and you’re the first breath of air he’s had in a long, long time.

Dean kisses you like he’s unravelling—like everything he’s kept buried for years is clawing its way to the surface. His fingers grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, like if he holds you tight enough, he can stop the ghosts from creeping back in.

You let him.

You let him take what he needs, because you’re still here. You don’t flinch when his hands slide lower, gripping you with a kind of desperation that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the fact that he’s terrified. Terrified that now that you know the truth, you’ll vanish like everyone else he’s ever cared about.

But you don’t.

Instead, you press closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. His tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring you, like he’s memorising the way you feel against him.

His hands roam, calloused palms skating over your skin, slipping beneath the flannel you’re still wearing. When his fingers find bare skin, he exhales against your lips, his breath uneven.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, almost like a warning.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “I’m still here, Dean.”

Something in his expression cracks, just for a second, before he fists the back of your shirt and tugs you toward him. His lips brush against your temple, your cheek, and your jaw. His breath is warm and ragged.

“You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth ghosting along your collarbone.

“I don’t care.”

Dean stills. His grip on you tightens for half a second before he pulls back just enough to look at you, searching your face like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

“You should care,” he says, voice rough. “People in my world don’t get happy endings.”

You reach up, fingers tracing along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the way his muscles tighten beneath your touch. “I don’t need a happy ending.” You tilt your head, letting your thumb brush the corner of his mouth. “I just need you.”

A low sound rumbles in his chest, something between a groan and a curse, before his mouth crashes back onto yours.

This time, there’s no hesitation. No restraint.

Dean takes—his lips moving against yours with purpose, his hands gripping your hips, lifting you with ease as he carries you back to the bed. The mattress dips beneath you as he lowers you onto it, his weight pressing you into the sheets, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the night.

“You sure about this?” he mutters against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl. “Shut up and kiss me, Winchester.”

Dean grins against your mouth before he does exactly that.

And when he claims you this time, it’s not just need—it’s something deeper, something neither of you are ready to name yet.

But it’s there.

And neither of you is letting go.

Dean doesn’t just kiss you—he devours you like he’s been starving for something real and only just realised you’re the thing he’s been craving. His hands are everywhere, sliding under the flannel you stole, gripping your thighs, tracing over the fresh ink on your back like he’s memorising the way his work looks on your skin.

The sheets are tangled around you both, the air thick with heat and the scent of him—leather, whiskey, something dark and utterly intoxicating. His mouth drags from your lips to your jaw, then down, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

“I should ruin you,” he mutters, voice dark and full of something dangerous. “Make sure no one else even thinks about touching you.”

Your stomach tightens, heat pooling low in your belly. “You already have.”

Dean groans against your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone before he sucks a bruise there—one that’ll be impossible to hide. “Damn right, I have.”

His hands are rough, calloused from years of working with them, but the way he touches you? Reverent. Like you’re something precious, something breakable—but only if you want to be.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his lips trailing lower, his breath hot against your skin.

You grip his hair, tugging just enough to make him look up at you, those sharp green eyes blown wide with hunger. “I want you.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate.

And when he finally gives you what you want, it’s not just sex.

It’s a claim. A promise that he is yours and yours alone.

The city hums beyond the window, but inside Dean’s apartment, everything is quiet except for the sound of your slowed breathing and the faint rustle of sheets as he pulls you against his chest.

You’re spent, muscles aching in the best way, his warmth sinking into your skin. His arm is draped over your waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns against your stomach like he’s not ready to let you go.

“Still not scared of me?” he asks, voice rough with exhaustion.

You smile against his shoulder. “No.”

Dean huffs a laugh, but when you glance up, his expression is unreadable—something guarded, something uncertain.

“I meant what I said,” he says after a moment. “This life isn’t clean. It’s not safe. Being with me? It means something. You don’t just walk away from it.”

You tilt your head, searching his face. “Are you asking me to?”

Dean’s fingers tighten against your waist. “No.” He exhales, something shifting in his gaze—something like vulnerability. “I’m asking if you can handle it.”

You reach up, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the scar on his shoulder, one of many marks that tell a story you’re only just starting to understand.

“I think,” you murmur against his skin, “I can handle you just fine.”

Dean makes a sound—something between a groan and a chuckle—before flipping you onto your back, caging you beneath him once more.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, his smirk slow and wicked, “you have no idea what you’ve just signed up for.”

But the way he kisses you after?

It’s a promise.

And you’re not going anywhere.

The familiar buzz of the tattoo gun fills the air, but this time, the sound isn’t the only thing making your pulse race.

You’re back at Winchester Ink, straddling the tattoo chair, your shirt discarded, leaving only your black lace bra as Dean hovers behind you. His fingers graze your skin—not with the same desperate need as last night, but with something just as intense.

Possession.

“You sure about this, sweetheart?” His voice is low, teasing, but you can feel the weight behind it. This isn’t just any tattoo—this is his mark, something new, something permanent.

You glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes—dark, intense, hungry—and smirk. “You gonna keep asking me that, or are you actually gonna put your money where your mouth is?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head, but there’s something sharper behind his amusement. He leans in, his breath ghosting over the back of your neck. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire.”

Your stomach tightens, heat curling low in your belly, but you don’t break eye contact. “Maybe I like the burn.”

Dean mutters a curse under his breath before snapping on his gloves. The scent of antiseptic and ink fills your lungs as he dips the needle, and then—

The first sting.

Your body tenses for half a second, but Dean’s free hand finds your waist, grounding you. “Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, his tone softer now, intimate. “You know the drill.”

You exhale slowly, sinking into the sensation. The pain is sharp, but it fades into something almost hypnotic, especially with the way Dean’s fingers press into your hip, steadying you.

The shop is closed—Dean made sure of that—but the thought of anyone walking in, seeing you half-dressed, stretched out beneath his hands, sends a thrill through you.

“What’s it gonna be?” you ask after a while, voice laced with curiosity. You hadn’t asked for a design, just told Dean you wanted something from him.

Dean hums, his tone smug. “Something to remind everyone who you belong to.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t argue.

You wouldn’t want it any other way.

Minutes pass, the pain blending into pleasure, and when Dean finally leans back, wiping the fresh ink clean, you swear you feel his lips brush your shoulder.

“Done,” he murmurs.

You twist to look at his work, and your stomach flips when you see it.

A small, intricate sigil—subtle, but unmistakably his. Right along your ribs, where only he would ever truly see it.

You glance up at him, your heart pounding. “That what you wanted?”

Dean peels off his gloves, tossing them aside before gripping your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes over your lips, his gaze dark.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His smirk is slow, dangerous. “We both know this is just the beginning.”

The tattoo still burns, a dull ache that lingers under your skin—but it’s nothing compared to the way Dean is looking at you right now.

You’re still straddling the chair, breath unsteady, your skin warm under the shop’s low lighting. The ink along your ribs feels like a brand, like a claim, and Dean? He’s drinking you in like he’s memorizing every single second of this moment.

His fingers brush over the fresh ink—featherlight, barely a touch—but it still makes you shiver.

“You like it?” His voice is rough, low, laced with something possessive.

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, there’s nothing between you but the hum of the tattoo gun, the scent of ink and antiseptic, the tension coiled thick in the air.

“I love it,” you admit, and it’s not just about the tattoo.

Dean's smirk flickers, something darker lurking beneath it. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because it means you’re mine now.”

A shiver runs through you, but it’s not fear. It’s need.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you tilt your head, baring your throat just slightly—an unspoken challenge. “Oh yeah?” you tease, your voice softer now, breathless. “That what this means?”

Dean huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. His fingers trail lower, over the ink, then down to your waist, pulling you forward until your chest brushes against his.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “you’ve been mine since the second you walked into this shop.”

You should push him away. Tell him he’s being ridiculous, that a tattoo doesn’t mean ownership. That he doesn’t own you.

But the truth?

You don’t want to belong to anyone else.

So instead, you smirk, dragging your nails down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. “Then maybe,” you murmur, “you should remind me.”

Dean’s grin turns wicked, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth already crashing onto yours.

And as he presses you back into the chair, the unfinished tattoos and the world outside forgotten, you realize something:

You don’t need a reminder.

You were his from the start.

--

The night is quiet—too quiet.

Winchester Ink should’ve been locked up an hour ago, but Dean insisted on keeping the doors closed while he finished some business in the back. You were wiping down the front desk, waiting for him, when the first gunshot shattered the silence.

Pop-pop-pop!

The windows explode inward, glass raining down as you instinctively duck behind the counter. Your heart slams against your ribs as tires screech outside, bullets peppering the front of the shop like a damn war zone.

Then—heavy footsteps. A voice shouting your name.

“Sweetheart!”

Dean.

He bursts in from the back, gun already drawn, his sharp green eyes scanning the chaos before landing on you. In a second, he’s in front of you, crouching low, shielding your body with his own. His breath is rough, his muscles tense, but his voice? Steady as hell.

“You okay?” he demands, his fingers curling around your wrist, checking for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you manage, swallowing back the adrenaline climbing up your throat. “Dean, what the hell—”

Another round of gunfire cuts you off.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He peeks over the counter, eyes narrowing as he counts heads outside. You follow his gaze—black SUVs, men with weapons, their faces hidden under masks.

“They’re here for you,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he mutters darkly. “They are.”

He turns back to you, and for the first time, you see something raw in his expression—not just anger, not just control, but fear. Not for himself. For you.

“We gotta move, sweetheart,” he says, shifting so his body shields you completely. “Stay behind me. No arguments.”

You nod, your fingers curling around his jacket as he pulls you toward the back exit. His gun stays up, movements sharp, calculated. The Dean Winchester you know—the inked-up, cocky-as-hell tattoo artist—is gone. This Dean? This is the real one.

The leader. The fighter. The man who kills for the people he loves.

A shadow moves near the doorway, and Dean reacts instantly. Bang! One shot—dead center. The masked man drops without a sound.

Your breath catches. You’ve never seen him like this. Never seen death come so easily to him.

Dean turns back, his hand finding yours. “You still with me?”

You meet his eyes. Despite the gunfire, the danger, the fact that he just killed someone—you're not scared. Not of him.

“I’m with you.”

Something flickers across his face—relief, maybe—but there’s no time to dwell on it.

More men are coming.

Dean tightens his grip, pulling you close, his lips brushing your forehead before he exhales sharply. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

And as the two of you disappear into the night, chased by bullets and fire, you realize something.

Dean Winchester isn’t just dangerous.

He’s deadly.

And you just walked willingly into his world.

The shop smells like antiseptic and fresh ink, but beneath it lingers something metallic. Gunpowder. Blood.

Dean’s grip on your wrist is tight, dragging you through the back hallway of Winchester Ink, his jaw clenched so hard you’re surprised his teeth haven’t cracked. The shootout from earlier still echoes in your ears, your pulse hammering in your throat.

You should be scared.

But you’re not.

You should be questioning everything—how many people Dean just killed, how easily he moved, how ruthlessly he handled the ambush.

But all you can think about is the way he shielded you, how his first instinct was to grab you, tuck you against his chest, his own body between yours and the bullets.

Now, inside the safe room of the shop, he’s pacing like a caged animal, gun still clutched in his fist, blood splattered across his knuckles.

“Dean.” Your voice is steadier than you expect.

He stops, his sharp green eyes snapping to yours, wild and dark.

“I told you this would happen,” he growls, voice low, ragged. “Told you my life isn’t safe.”

You take a step toward him. “And I told you I could handle it.”

Dean exhales sharply, shaking his head, his fingers flexing like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for you. “You don’t get it, sweetheart.” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “I kill people. Not just assholes who deserve it—anyone who’s a threat. Anyone who crosses me.”

“I know.”

His brow furrows. “Do you?”

You take another step, close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the blood drying on his skin. He’s still Dean—the man who tattooed you with steady hands, the man who kisses like he’s trying to brand you, the man who just tore through enemies to keep you alive.

Your fingers graze his wrist, just above the gun. “You could’ve let me go,” you whisper. “Could’ve left me behind.”

Dean lets out a breath, harsh and uneven. “Not an option.”

You press your palm against his chest, right over his heart. “Then stop trying to scare me away.”

His control snaps.

One second, he’s standing there, tense, on edge—then his hands are on you, everywhere. Gripping your hips, dragging you flush against him, his mouth crushing against yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate.

Like he needs to feel you alive, solid, beneath his hands.

“Mine,” he mutters against your lips, his voice raw. “You’re mine.”

You nod, gasping against his mouth. “Yours.”

Dean pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “Then from now on, sweetheart? You stay glued to my side.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “You just want an excuse to keep your hands on me.”

Dean huffs a laugh, his grip tightening. “Damn right I do.”

And just like that, Winchester Ink isn’t just a tattoo shop anymore.

It’s a battleground.

And you?

You’re standing right next to the king.

The aftermath of the shootout settles into a strange, electric silence. The back room of Winchester Ink feels too small, too charged. Outside, Dean’s men are cleaning up the mess—disposing of bodies, wiping down shell casings—but inside, it’s just you and him.

Your pulse hasn’t slowed since the moment the bullets started flying. You should be shaken, but instead, you’re standing in front of Dean, watching the way his chest still rises and falls too fast, his gun hanging loosely in his grip.

His knuckles are raw. Blood smears across his inked skin, a dark contrast against the swirling black designs crawling up his forearm.

He looks dangerous.

He is dangerous.

But the only thing you feel when you step closer is heat.

Dean watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. His fingers twitch, like he’s deciding between pulling you closer or pushing you away.

“You’re not scared,” he finally mutters, almost accusingly.

You raise a brow. “No.”

Dean lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “You should be.”

You shrug. “You keep saying that.”

His jaw clenches. “Because I keep waiting for you to wake up and realize I’m not a good man, sweetheart. I’m the kind of guy people run from.”

You tilt your head, letting your gaze drag over him—the blood, the bruises forming along his jaw, the way he’s still standing between you and the door, as if another threat could come at any moment.

“You think I don’t see who you are?” you ask softly. “You think I don’t get it?”

Dean says nothing, his silence heavy.

“I know what you do. I know what this shop really is,” you continue, stepping closer until your fingers ghost over his forearm, tracing the ink there. “And I know you didn’t hesitate to put yourself between me and those bullets.”

Dean swallows hard. “That’s the problem.”

You shake your head. “No, Dean. That’s the part that tells me everything I need to know.”

His eyes search yours, something flickering behind them—uncertainty. Vulnerability. Maybe even something darker, something deeper.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he finally says, quieter now.

“No.”

He exhales slowly, shaking his head like he doesn’t quite believe you. Then, before you can say anything else, his hands are on you again—tugging, gripping, claiming. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation, like he’s trying to consume you.

You don’t resist.

You meet him with the same fire, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer. You can taste blood on his lips, feel the way his breath stutters when you press your body against his.

Dean breaks away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his hands flexing against your waist.

“I kill for you,” he murmurs, voice raw. “I’ll burn the whole fucking city down if it means keeping you safe.”

You don’t doubt him.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

It’s been months since that night—since the shootout, since Dean pulled you close, breath ragged and raw, demanding you stay with him. Since you allowed yourself to slip deeper into his world, where danger was an ever-present shadow and the line between love and possession was blurred beyond recognition.

Now, you're sitting in the back of Winchester Ink, the familiar scent of fresh ink and leather comforting in a way you didn’t expect. Your shirt is tight, stretched over the curve of your stomach. Your fingers rest lightly on it, tracing the tiny life growing inside of you.

Dean’s son.

The weight of that realization still sometimes hits you like a freight train—his blood runs through you, through the baby you’re carrying.

You’re not just his lover anymore. You’re the mother of his son.

And, God, does he make sure everyone knows it.

Everywhere you go now, there’s the unmistakable, possessive edge in the way Dean looks at you. His hands never leave you, whether he’s holding your waist or brushing his thumb over your wrist. The people in the shop, his men, they all treat you with reverence—like you’re untouchable.

Because you are. To him, anyway.

You shift on the couch, trying to get comfortable, but the weight of your growing belly makes everything feel… off. You smile softly, your hand resting again on your stomach.

“Is it kicking again?” Dean’s voice breaks through your thoughts, soft but commanding, as always.

You glance up to see him standing in the doorway, his dark eyes already on you, softened by something that could almost be called gentleness—a rare sight from the mafia king. His hands are in his pockets, but he’s still intimidating as hell, the muscles of his arms straining under the black shirt he’s wearing.

“Yeah,” you admit, a small smile tugging at your lips as you rub your stomach. “It’s starting to feel real now, you know?”

Dean crosses the room in a few long strides, his gaze never leaving you. He kneels beside you, hands instantly reaching for your stomach like they always do when he’s near. His fingers are warm, rough against your skin.

“Damn right it’s real,” he mutters, a soft grin curling his lips. “You’re carrying my heir.”

His words, so heavy with ownership, almost make you laugh, but then you feel a flutter under your palm. The baby kicks again, strong enough to make you gasp.

Dean’s face softens, his hand pressing gently against your stomach, as if he’s trying to connect with the tiny life growing inside of you.

“You feel that?” His voice is low, almost reverent.

“I do.” You smile up at him.

He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. His gaze flickers up to meet yours, and for a brief second, you see something in him that no one else gets to see: vulnerability.

“You’re not just mine now, you know.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

You raise an eyebrow, confused.

He meets your eyes, his expression fierce and possessive. “You’re carrying my son. That’s not something I take lightly.”

You know he means it. You know Dean doesn’t do lightly. He owns everything he touches, and now, he’s made you his queen.

You reach out, cupping his jaw with your hand, pulling him closer. “I know, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”

He lets out a breath of relief, but there’s something darker, something more primal in the way he kisses you—his lips urgent against yours, demanding.

His hand moves lower, caressing the side of your belly, the other pressing against the back of your neck to pull you even closer. You melt into him, feeling his warmth, his power, and the weight of his love—of his claim—surrounding you.

You are his, and you always will be.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I’ll protect you. And the baby. No one will ever hurt either of you.”

You nod, smiling softly at him. “I know.”

His hand slides up to your neck, cupping your jaw, his gaze darkening. “Good.” Then, with a soft but insistent pull, he presses his lips to yours again. His kiss is rougher this time, more demanding, as though trying to make you feel the depth of his promise.

As you melt into him, you know one thing for sure:

You are his. Completely.

And no one, not even the world outside these walls, can take that from you.

--

The sterile scent of the hospital is sharp in the air, mingling with the soft beeps of machines around you. You’re propped up in a bed, your body sore from the grueling hours of labor. Your arms are still aching from where the IVs had been placed, but there’s a weight on your chest now—the kind of weight that makes everything worth it.

The small bundle in your arms—your baby, Dean’s baby—softly coos, the tiny body swaddled in a pale blue blanket. You stare down at the little face, marveling at the miracle you just created, your heart swelling with something fierce and protective.

Dean’s sitting beside you, his rough fingers lightly brushing the side of your hand, his gaze never leaving you or the baby. He hasn’t moved since the moment the baby was placed in your arms, his body radiating tension as if the world outside could suddenly break in and take everything from him. From you.

His eyes are dark, intense—like a man who’s seen too much blood to believe in peace. But the way he looks at the baby in your arms? There’s something almost gentle there, something protective and soft, like this tiny being is the only thing that could make him show any weakness at all.

It’s a weakness you know he’ll do anything to protect.

But you’re not prepared for what comes next.

The door bursts open.

Your heart skips, your hand instinctively tightening around the baby. Dean is on his feet in a second, moving so fast you barely register the movement. His body is between you and the door before the intruder has even fully entered the room.

A man—dark hair, tense shoulders—stands in the doorway, his eyes flickering quickly over Dean, then to you. He’s got a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, the cold metallic glint catching your eye.

Dean’s expression is pure stone, his hands already reaching for the gun hidden beneath his jacket.

“I told you,” the man says, his voice low but sharp, “the baby's the next target.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, his teeth grinding together. “Get out.” His voice is thick with menace, each word weighted with the danger of a man who has nothing left to lose.

“I don’t think you understand,” the man says, taking one step forward, the gun clearly visible now. His hand rests on it, like he's daring Dean to move. “We’ve got orders. The baby’s a liability.”

You flinch at the words, the weight of the situation settling in. You’re not just the mother of Dean’s offspring anymore. You’re a target.

Dean’s movements are so fast, you don’t even have time to react. He pulls the gun from his waistband, smooth as a snake, and in one fluid motion, he’s pointing it at the intruder’s head.

“Leave. Now.” His voice is ice-cold, every syllable laced with authority and the threat of violence. The room feels smaller, suffocating. The air is thick with the promise of danger.

The man’s hand hovers over his gun, but Dean’s eyes never waver, never falter.

“You don’t want to do this,” the man warns, a tremor of hesitation creeping into his voice.

“Last warning,” Dean growls, his finger pressing lightly on the trigger. “Get. Out.”

The man stares at Dean for a moment longer, before his gaze flickers to you—the mother of his enemy’s spawn—and then he seems to make a decision. Slowly, he backs out of the room, never breaking eye contact with Dean.

When the door clicks shut, the tension in the room snaps. Dean holsters his gun, but his body remains rigid, every muscle in his frame still coiled tight, as if he’s waiting for the next attack.

You can’t breathe.

It’s almost too much—the rush of emotions, the exhaustion from labor, the fear that still clings to you. You want to scream, but you only manage to whisper. “What was that, Dean? What the hell was that?”

Dean turns toward you, his eyes filled with something primal, his hand going straight to your side, pulling you against him. His arms envelop you like a fortress, protective and warm.

“They’ll never stop coming,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice thick with the weight of the life he’s pulled you into. “But I’ll never let them touch you. Never let them take what’s mine.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hand resting on his chest. “Dean…”

“Don’t say anything, sweetheart. Not right now.” His hands cradle your face, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek. “You’re not just carrying our baby anymore. You’re my queen. And anyone who thinks they can take either of you, they’ll be facing a war they don’t want.”

A chill runs through you, but it’s not just from fear. There’s something else in his voice—something deep, something dangerous.

And it’s terrifying.

But it’s also comforting.

Because you know one thing, without a doubt:

Dean Winchester doesn’t lose. Not anymore.

And neither do you.

The room falls into silence again, save for the soft breathing of the baby in your arms, a new life and a new threat, forever intertwined with Dean’s world of shadows and blood.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The buzz of the tattoo machines fills the air in Winchester Ink, the low hum a familiar soundtrack to your day. Your hands are busy, one on the counter, the other moving skillfully to help a new client pick out their design. The shop is quieter than usual, but it’s still early, the door just having closed behind the last customer who left for the day. The steady rhythm of your work is a welcome distraction—until you hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching.

You glance over your shoulder, only to stop dead in your tracks.

There, standing in the middle of the shop, is Dean. But he’s not alone.

In his arms, swaddled snugly in a soft gray blanket, is your baby. The little one is asleep, content and peaceful—completely unaware of the chaos that swirled around its birth. Dean’s eyes meet yours, the same possessive look in them, but now, there’s something softer, something tender beneath the hard edge.

He takes a few steps toward the wall, his gaze never leaving you.

“I’m teaching them the family business,” Dean says, a smirk playing on his lips.

You blink, processing the words. “What?”

Dean doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he pulls a small padded wall-mounted bassinet from beside one of the stations, carefully setting it down against the tattoo wall. He adjusts a few straps, making sure the baby is securely tucked inside.

You watch, your heart skipping a beat. There’s something about the way Dean handles the baby—so careful, so deliberate—that takes you by surprise. He’s never showed much patience with anything in his life… except for this.

“Dean…” You take a step forward, a small frown creasing your brow. “What are you doing?”

He shoots you that smug grin of his, the one that drives you crazy in all the best ways. “I’m teaching them how to survive in this world. It’s not enough you’re carrying our blood. I need them to know how to handle this.”

You blink again, unsure if you’re about to laugh or scold him. "You’re setting the baby down against the tattoo wall?"

Dean’s jaw tightens slightly, his gaze flickering to the little bundle. “It’s not just any wall. It's our wall.” His voice drops lower, his eyes flashing with that dangerous glint you know too well. “You’re not the only one around here that needs to be toughened up, sweetheart.”

Before you can reply, a soft cry rings through the air, and you turn to see the baby stirring, fingers curled, lips pursed as it starts to wake.

You rush over without thinking, your heart pounding, instinct driving you as you scoop the baby into your arms.

Dean watches you for a moment, his posture still tall, like he owns the room. When your eyes meet his, there’s something in the way he looks at you—a hint of pride, mixed with something dark, something almost possessive.

The baby settles into your arms, its tiny face scrunched in that adorable way babies do when they’re just waking up. You smile softly, the weight of your love for this little one threatening to break you. But Dean’s presence beside you is like a shield, strong and unwavering, giving you strength you didn’t know you had.

“There you go,” Dean mutters, his voice softer now, his arms crossing over his chest. “Just need to toughen up a bit more, kid.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you gently rock the baby. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Maybe. But in this world, we need to be.”

You raise an eyebrow, but before you can respond, a customer enters the shop—an old friend of Dean’s, someone who’s clearly seen their fair share of tattoos, judging by the sleeve of ink already visible on their arms. They’re a regular, and you’re used to handling them on your own, but today, Dean stands beside you, just a step behind, his protective aura nearly suffocating.

The client sits down in one of the chairs, and you turn your attention back to them, pulling out a design sketch from the folder. “So, you wanted something custom, right?”

Dean moves to stand just behind you, his gaze flickering from you to the client, eyes hard. His presence is imposing, like a lion lurking nearby. His fingers brush against the top of your shoulder, a subtle reminder that he’s still there.

“You’re getting the best I’ve got,” Dean mutters, his voice low enough only the client can hear. “Don’t waste my time.”

The client hesitates, looking up at him and then at you. There’s a moment of tension in the air, as if Dean’s mere presence commands their respect. They nod quickly, understanding that there’s more than just ink on the line here.

You work on the design, laying out the details, explaining the placement as you always do. The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the air, but your mind can’t help but wander back to Dean—watching, waiting, always so protective.

And when your eyes flick to the bassinet against the wall, you see Dean’s gaze fixed on the baby, the softness in his eyes evident, even if he’s trying to hide it.

The family business, he’d called it.

And as you glance at the client, then back at Dean, you realize the full extent of what that means.

You and your son are the center of Dean’s world. His empire. His everything.

And no one, not even in this room, would dare to touch you or the life you’ve built.

Dean would see to that.

---

The sun is warm on your skin, a soft breeze rustling the trees around you. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not in Winchester Ink, you’re not in the chaos of Dean’s world. You’re outside, in the real world, with your baby tucked safely in your arms. It’s a rare moment of peace, and you’re soaking it in.

Dean walks beside you, his presence still larger than life, but today, it feels different. The weight of his usual dominance is softer, almost protective in a way that makes you feel safe—not just from the world outside, but from him.

You glance over at him. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, showing the tattoos that run the length of his arms, his posture still straight, but his eyes are warm as he watches the baby in your arms. Every step he takes, every glance he throws your way, speaks volumes. He’s here—truly here. No business meetings, no threats, no blood spilled. Just him—Dean, your partner, and the father of your child.

"How do you feel?" he asks quietly, his voice always so gruff but softened by the moment.

You look down at your baby, whose tiny hand has wrapped around your finger, a soft coo escaping from them. You smile, looking back at Dean. "Like everything’s perfect."

Dean’s lips curl into a rare smile, one that’s softer than you’ve seen in a long time. It’s a smile that feels more genuine than any of the cold, calculated grins he gives in the tattoo shop or when he’s dealing with business.

You walk through the park, the sound of children laughing and playing around you, birds chirping overhead. It’s almost too perfect—like you’ve stepped into a moment that isn’t meant for people like Dean. People like you.

But here you are.

Dean takes a step closer, his body brushing against yours, his hand brushing against your waist protectively. His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the baby in your arms, and you feel a shiver of warmth run through you.

"I can’t believe how small they are," Dean murmurs, his voice low, almost like he’s in awe.

You smile down at the little one. "They’re only going to get bigger, you know."

Dean’s eyes meet yours, a flash of something fierce flickering in his gaze. "I’ll protect them, sweetheart. No one’s taking what’s mine. Not now. Not ever."

You chuckle softly, but there’s an edge to your voice when you reply, "I think we’re safe here. We’re just… family today."

Dean’s smile deepens, but there’s still that ever-present glint in his eyes—the reminder that no matter where you are, he’s still the king of his world. And that’s a world that’s made of blood, ink, and power.

"Family," he echoes, the word heavy on his tongue. He looks down at the baby again, his expression softening. "Yeah. This is all I care about now."

You lean into him slightly, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath your palm. "You’re good at this, you know. Being a dad."

Dean’s eyebrow raises, a small, teasing smirk forming on his lips. "I wasn’t sure I’d be any good at it, but I guess I’m figuring it out." His gaze softens as he looks at the baby. "I’d kill anyone who thought otherwise."

You roll your eyes, but you can’t suppress the smile that tugs at your lips. "You really do make everything sound like a threat."

Dean chuckles, the sound rich and deep, and for a moment, you allow yourself to imagine a life like this—simple, quiet, full of moments that are just about you and him and your baby. A family.

But even as that thought swirls in your mind, you know that this peace, this quiet moment, is fleeting. Dean’s world doesn’t just let you walk away from it. It pulls you back in, no matter how hard you try to resist. And you’ve come to accept that. Because as dangerous as that world is, it’s the one where your heart beats the strongest.

And as long as Dean’s by your side, you’re ready to face it. Together.

Dean’s hand slips into yours as you both stop at a bench, the baby still in your arms, nestled comfortably against your chest. He sits down first, and you follow, sitting next to him. He wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer, his hand resting on your leg, grounding you in this rare moment of normalcy.

The world around you continues—kids laughing, families strolling by—but for you, in this moment, time stands still.

This is your family. And Dean’s right. This is all that matters.

"You’re my everything, sweetheart," Dean says softly, his lips brushing your temple. "You and the baby. I’ll never let anyone come between us."

You nod against him, breathing in the scent of him—leather, ink, and something uniquely Dean. "I know."

And for once, you allow yourself to believe it completely.

--

The sun is low in the sky now, casting a warm, golden glow over the park. You and Dean are sitting on the same bench, your toddler nestled comfortably on your lap, their small hands wrapped around a stuffed toy. The baby—who’s growing bigger by the day—rests in the stroller beside you, peacefully asleep.

It’s a rare moment of tranquility, and for once, you feel the weight of the world ease off your shoulders. The tension from the past months, from the dangers that come with being with Dean and the world he inhabits, seems to dissipate when you’re here, in this bubble of calm.

Dean’s hand rests on your thigh, his thumb absentmindedly stroking over your skin. His eyes are on you, but it’s not the usual hard stare. There’s something softer there—a vulnerability that you don’t see often. He’s been different ever since the baby arrived, a side of him you’ve been learning to understand.

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “What are you thinking about?”

Dean’s lips curl into a smirk, but there’s something nervous about it. “Just… you, sweetheart. You and the kids. And what I want to do next.”

Before you can ask what he means, you feel a small hand tug at your sleeve. Your toddler, wide-eyed and eager, pulls on your arm to get your attention.

“Mommy!” they say, their voice high-pitched with excitement. “Look!”

You look down, your heart melting at the sight of your toddler, holding out a small box, the velvet lining peeking through.

“Mommy,” they repeat, clearly serious. “This is for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You glance up at Dean, whose gaze has softened into something that makes your heart race. He’s watching you with that same intensity, but now it’s mixed with something else—something raw and honest.

You take the box from your kid, your fingers trembling slightly as you open it. Inside, nestled carefully, is a simple yet stunning ring. A diamond, elegant but not flashy, set in white gold with delicate engraving along the band. The ring that could change everything.

“Dean…” you breathe, unable to tear your eyes away from the glint of the ring. You glance back at him, your heart pounding. “What is this?”

Dean stands up, slowly, carefully, his hand reaching out for yours. He drops to one knee in front of you, his movements deliberate, measured.

“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle, “I’ve never been good with words. Never been good at this… stuff.” His gaze flicks to the toddler, who’s watching intently, their small face beaming with pride. “But I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You feel your heart skip a beat, your hand instinctively going to your chest. You know exactly where this is going.

“I don’t need the world, not anymore.” Dean’s voice drops even lower, his eyes never leaving yours. “All I need is you. And I want to make sure you and the kids are mine. For good. So, what do you say?”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you look at him—really look at him. The man who’s seen things that would make most men break. The man who’s shown you what it means to truly care. The man who’s protected you, fought for you, and built a family with you.

“I—” You swallow, emotion thick in your throat. “Yes. Yes, Dean, I’ll marry you.”

Dean smiles—a rare, genuine smile—and slides the ring onto your finger. The weight of it, the finality, makes your heart swell. You’ve never been more sure of anything yourself. This moment, this family, this life—it’s all yours. Together.

He stands up, pulling you into his arms, the ring sparkling between you. Your toddler jumps into your arms, eager to be a part of the hug, and Dean chuckles, holding you both close.

“We’re a family,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “And we’re never going anywhere.”

You close your eyes, the world around you disappearing for a moment as you let the warmth of the moment settle in. The past, the dangers, the blood—it doesn’t matter anymore.

This is your family. And Dean’s made it clear that he will fight for it. Fight for you.

And you’d fight for him, too.

Forever.

--

It’s been years since that day in the park. Since the proposal, the wedding, the birth of your son. Time has passed, and with it, your family has only grown stronger. Your little one, once a tiny bundle, is now a teenager—tall and lean, with that same fire in their eyes that Dean has. They’ve spent their years in the tattoo shop, learning the business, the art of ink, and more importantly, the way of the Winchester world.

The shop is bustling as usual, a steady stream of clients coming in and out, getting their tattoos, chatting, and sharing their stories. But today, something feels different. You can feel the shift, the weight of the next generation taking shape. Your child—your teenager—stands at the counter, just like you once did. Their gaze flicks to Dean, who’s overseeing everything as usual, arms crossed, his intense green eyes never missing a beat.

Dean’s been watching them grow, guiding them, teaching them. Not just the art of tattoos, but the code that runs deeper than ink—that’s part of the Winchester legacy.

You’re sitting at the back, flipping through some paperwork, but your eyes can’t help but watch the scene unfold in front of you. Your son is sitting with one of the artists, learning the flow of a new design, a quiet determination in their posture. They’re like a mirror of Dean in so many ways—calm, collected, and with a sharpness that hints at something darker, something deeper.

Dean’s voice breaks through the hum of the shop, a low rumble that commands attention. “Kid,” he calls, his gaze sharp but approving. “You’re not just here to learn how to make art. You’re here to learn how to run this place. And when the time comes, it’ll be your job to make sure it stays running.”

Your son looks up at him, nodding with that same serious expression that’s so much like Dean’s. “I know, Dad.” They’re not scared. They’re not hesitant. It’s like they were born for this.

Dean nods approvingly and walks over to where your son is working. He places a hand on their shoulder—a gesture of both authority and affection. The weight of that touch is something you know all too well. It’s the same touch he’s given you, the same reassurance that says you’re mine, and I’ll make sure you know it.

You stand up from the back and move toward them, quietly observing. Your heart swells with pride, mixed with the heavy weight of the life they’re stepping into.

“Everything okay?” you ask, your voice soft but steady.

Dean glances up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “They’re learning. Got a good head on their shoulders.”

You look at your teenager, who’s now carefully sketching out a new design, their movements swift and precise. Their concentration is unnerving, even more so than Dean’s at their age.

“You’re teaching them the ropes?” you ask, your gaze flicking to Dean.

“I’m teaching them everything,” Dean replies, his voice low and controlled. “Business, loyalty, the family code.” His eyes flicker back to your son, watching them work. “They’ve got the skill. But they need to understand what it takes to lead.”

You swallow, your heart tight in your chest. It’s not just tattoos Dean is passing on—it’s everything that comes with being in this world, with him. The mafia lifestyle, the control, the power that pulses through his veins.

You’ve seen the darkness that follows Dean everywhere, the long hours, the moments when his past comes rushing back. You’ve seen the way his eyes harden, the way he can turn from loving to lethal in an instant. And now your son is learning that same side of him—the side that can protect and destroy with equal intensity.

“Do they know what this life means?” you ask, your voice suddenly quiet, worried.

Dean’s gaze softens just for a moment. “They will. They’re not a kid anymore. They understand what we do.” His eyes shift to the teenager again. “And they’ve got what it takes to keep this legacy going. I see it in them. They’re not afraid.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, and for a brief moment, you feel a flash of the weight of it all. This life is dangerous, it’s unpredictable, and the world you’ve built together—your family, your empire—is always under threat.

But then your son looks up, meets your eyes, and gives you that small, knowing smile. It’s as if they’ve already made peace with this life, just like you and Dean have. They are part of this, and there’s no turning back.

“We’ve got your back, Mom,” they say, their voice steady. “Always.”

The words are simple, but they carry more weight than you could ever imagine. You feel a lump form in your throat, but you swallow it down.

“Just don’t forget that you’ve got to stay smart. There’s always a price,” you reply, trying to keep your voice level. “The tattoos, the ink—it’s not just art. It’s a symbol of what we stand for. You remember that, okay?”

Your son nods, their eyes filled with the same quiet confidence you’ve seen in Dean for years. “I will.”

Dean steps forward then, his arm wrapping around you, pulling you close to him. You lean into his warmth, your hand resting on his chest.

“This is their world now, too,” he murmurs against your ear. “We’ll make sure they’re ready for it.”

The weight of it presses down on you, but you know Dean’s right. This world is theirs now. The legacy is theirs to carry, to shape, and to protect.

And as you look at your son, standing so tall and unflinching in the face of everything this life demands, you know that Dean’s right about one thing: they’ve got what it takes.

The Winchester name will live on.

The night had started like any other, calm and quiet. The tattoo shop had closed for the evening, and the low hum of the neon lights outside cast a soft glow on the shop floor as you and Dean sat in the back, the baby long since tucked into bed and your teenager nowhere to be seen. The air smelled like ink and leather, a familiar comfort in the chaos of your life.

But that peace shattered in an instant.

Dean’s phone buzzed once. Then twice. Then a third time. He didn’t pick up, not yet. The silence lingered for a moment too long before you saw his posture shift—his muscles tensing, his eyes narrowing. You could feel it in the air; something was wrong.

"Dean?" you asked, but it was too late. He was already moving, pulling his phone from his pocket with a cold, calculated expression.

He answered the call.

“Where the hell are they?” Dean’s voice, usually low and measured, was tight with barely contained fury. “What do you want?”

You felt it then—the gut-wrenching, icy realization.

Your heart skipped. You were already on your feet, rushing towards him.

“Dean, what’s going on?” you asked, your voice shaky.

Dean didn’t answer you right away. His eyes were locked on the phone, his lips tight, his jaw clenched. He took a slow breath before his words hit you like a freight train.

“They’ve got our kid.”

A rush of cold terror slammed into you. Your breath hitched. “What? Who? What the hell do you mean?”

“Somebody took them. For ransom,” Dean growled, his hand tightening around the phone. "They want money, but it’s not about money. It’s never just about money."

You could see it now—the flicker of rage in Dean’s eyes. A darkness, deep and unsettling. His body was wound so tight you could practically feel the tension radiating off him. He hung up abruptly, his face pale but his eyes burning with something darker.

You took a step back, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind racing. “What do we do? Dean?”

Dean’s eyes flashed with a storm of emotions, none of them good. “We get them back. Now.”

He turned on his heel and strode toward the back of the shop, where the emergency stash of weapons was kept. You followed, heart in your throat. You knew Dean better than anyone. He was a force—calculating, ruthless, deadly—but seeing him like this, seeing that raw desperation and fury... it made your blood run cold.

“Dean, wait, let’s just—”

“No,” he interrupted sharply, the venom in his voice making you flinch. “No more talking. This isn’t some negotiation. This is personal. Whoever thought they could touch my kid is about to learn what happens when you mess with the Winchesters.”

You were barely able to keep up with him as he grabbed his gun, the sound of it clicking into place ringing in the otherwise silent room. He was already sliding on his jacket, the hard edge of his jawline like stone.

“You’re not going alone,” you said, your voice firm, no longer the shaky one you had been a moment ago.

Dean stopped, the briefest hesitation crossing his face. His eyes flicked to you, narrowing, but you saw that brief flicker of worry. It didn’t last. He took a deep breath and turned to face you.

“You’re staying here with the baby,” he ordered, his voice low and controlled. But the undercurrent of his tone betrayed him. He was barely holding it together. “You’re safer here.”

“Don’t tell me what’s safer, Dean,” you snapped, taking a step forward. “They’re our kid. I’m going with you.”

He gave you one long, unreadable look before his lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but more of a grimace.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he muttered under his breath. “They’ve crossed a line. And I’m about to show them just how bad an idea that was.”

Before you could argue, Dean was out the door, moving fast. You had no choice but to follow.

The city streets blurred around you as you and Dean sped through the darkened roads. Dean’s knuckles were white on the wheel, his jaw clenching so tightly you thought it might break. His gaze was laser-focused on the road, but his mind was already somewhere else—somewhere far darker.

The message had been clear. The voice on the other end had been muffled, but the demand had been simple. Money, or we end them. But the truth was far more terrifying than that. Dean knew this wasn’t just a random kidnapping. This was a message.

And Dean never let messages slide.

You didn’t dare ask questions as the car whipped through the streets. Every second felt like an eternity, but Dean’s pace never faltered. You could feel the anger rolling off of him, thick and palpable. He was slipping back into that dangerous, unpredictable rhythm you knew too well.

“I’m gonna tear their fucking world apart,” Dean muttered, his voice tight with venom. “You don’t touch what’s mine and expect to walk away. No one does.”

He slammed the car to a stop in front of an old, rundown building—no lights, no signs, just a hollow shell of a place. His eyes flicked to you, once again soft for a fraction of a second. “Stay close, sweetheart. Don’t let them get to you.”

Before you could respond, Dean was out of the car, moving like a shadow—fast, calculated, lethal. You grabbed your own weapon and followed close behind. You knew, even without him saying a word, this wasn’t just about money. This was about respect. About vengeance. About showing whoever had taken your child just how badly they’d fucked up.

Inside the building, it was eerily quiet—until the sound of a door creaking open echoed through the dark. Your heart stuttered, but Dean was already at the door, his presence commanding. You could hear voices inside. One was familiar—your child’s, a little shaky but still strong.

The seconds felt like hours.

Dean motioned for you to stay low. You crouched behind him, your heart thudding in your chest as you followed his lead.

Then Dean burst through the door. The sound of gunfire rang out, deafening and sharp. It was chaos—screams, shots, but Dean was a whirlwind. He moved faster than anyone could react, gunfire flashing, bodies hitting the floor.

And then you saw them. Your child, bound to a chair in the corner of the room, looking at Dean with a mix of fear and relief.

“Dean!” you shouted, rushing to their side.

Dean had already disarmed the remaining goons, his eyes cold and dead set on the leader of the operation—a man who had made the mistake of thinking he could get away with this.

Dean was on him in an instant, grabbing the man by the collar and lifting him off his feet. “You think you can fuck with my family?” His voice was a deadly growl. The man’s eyes widened in terror.

The next few moments were a blur. The others were dealt with swiftly—brutally. Dean didn’t speak again, not until the building was clear and your child was free.

Dean walked toward you and your som, his demeanor still cold, but his hands trembling just slightly as he reached out to untie them.

“You good?” he asked, his voice gruff, but you saw the tightness in his jaw, the undercurrent of worry he was trying to hide.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Your son’s voice was steady, but you could see the relief in their eyes.

Dean looked at them, then back to you, his voice softer this time. “No one ever takes what’s ours again. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, you believed him.

It had been weeks since the nightmare ended. Since Dean stormed through that warehouse like the wrath of God himself and took back what was his. Since he’d carried your son out of that hellhole and brought them home, holding them so tightly you thought he’d never let go.

Things had settled, in the way only the Winchesters knew how—cautiously, quietly, always keeping one eye open. But the weight had lifted. Your family was whole. And today, for the first time in a long time, life felt normal.

The shop was closed for the day. No buzzing tattoo machines, no clients, no business meetings in the back with men who spoke in hushed voices. Just you, Dean, and your now fully-recovered teenager spending the day somewhere safe—somewhere untouched by the chaos of the world outside.

The park was bright and warm, sunlight filtering through the trees, kids laughing in the distance. You sat on a picnic blanket, watching as your son—your fighter—taught their younger sibling how to climb onto the jungle gym. Dean stood off to the side, arms crossed, that usual scowl on his face, but you knew him well enough to see through it. The tightness in his jaw wasn’t anger—it was pride.

“You gonna hover all day, Winchester?” you teased, nudging his arm.

Dean huffed, shaking his head. “Not hovering,” he muttered. “Just… watching.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Watching for what? Squirrels?”

Dean shot you a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “You know what I mean,” he said, his voice quieter now. “After everything…” His gaze flicked back to your teenager, who was laughing as their little sibling clung onto their back, begging for a piggyback ride. “I just need to know they’re okay.”

You softened, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “They are okay, Dean. Because of you. Because of us.”

Dean let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah,” he murmured, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

You squeezed his hand. “Hey. Look at them.” You tilted your head toward your kids. “They’re happy. They’re safe. They’ve got us. And nothing’s ever gonna change that.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you for a long moment, like he was memorizing the way you looked in the sun, how your eyes held no fear, no worry—only love.

Then, finally, the scowl eased off his face, replaced by something much softer.

“Damn right,” he said, pulling you into his side, his lips brushing against your temple. “No one’s ever taking what’s mine again.”

The wind rustled through the trees, the laughter of your children filling the air, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right. Whole.

No threats. No gunfire. No fear.

Just family. Just home. Just forever.

//this is your kind reminder to REBLOG!!//

[stealingpotatoes]

Your "let's never read legends and make up what happens in it" plan is extremely valid, actually.

I'm curious to see what you make of the fact that one time Aurra Sing lost a fight to Jacen Solo's five-year-old daughter Allana.

i was gonna say this is a new level of Wild even for legends, but come to think of it, 5yo jedi vs geriatric bounty hunter is pretty much a fair matchup when you think about it

[444lotus]

how i manifested (+revised) my dream body ౨ৎ

This is my first post on my new account, though I am NOT new to the law and NOT new to loablr either. This post is specifically about how I manifested my dream body instantly with no technique besides knowing :)

PART ONE - the old story

In the old story, I was so fixated on my body and my weight all of the time, I was tracking my calories and weighing myself and my food obsessively and constantly gaining and losing weight. Back then, my beliefs were that 1) Excess food causes weight gain, 2) If I don't track my food and weigh myself, I will become too fat/skinny, and 3) There is something wrong with my body, and I need to diet/exercise to fix it.

Noticing these beliefs were key to changing the way I viewed food and my body, and therefore changing how I knew food to effect me and how I knew my body to be.

When I was overweight, I knew my body was too big, I knew I was eating too much, I knew excess calories made me gain weight. When I was underweight, I knew I had no appetite, I knew I was too bony, I knew that exercise makes you gain muscle which is why I had none, etc. I had to identify the limiting beliefs that made me know my body was a certain way.

PART TWO - writing the new story

Once I identified the beliefs that were holding me back and kept me from my goals ("I know I eat too much, even if I affirm I'm skinny, I'm still going to gain weight."), I could then change them. I wrote down a list of these beliefs, like I did above, and came up with reversals. For example;

"I overeat, so I will gain weight" -> "Calories aren't even real, so I can eat whatever I want and stay the same weight."

"I eat junk food, so I'll never be skinny" -> "I love how fast my metabolism is, I can eat junk all day and still stay so skinny." or "Junk food is just like other foods. Raspberries can't make me fat so neither can hamburgers."

"I don't exercise enough to be toned" -> "It's crazy how I'm naturally so toned and fit without trying."

The key for me was changing key beliefs that kept me dieting and exercising to lose weight, to sever the tie between calories consumed and weight, and hours exercising and muscles. These are limiting beliefs. We literally create our reality. Not ice cream, not soda and chips, none of that can overcome YOU as a divine creator. It sounds silly when you spell it out like that, doesn't it?

PART THREE - how i did it

Okay, now we understand that the secret is to change the rules of our own reality to allow us to know a higher truth (my higher truth? I am a skinny legend). So how do we put this into practice?

All you have to do is know. You set these rules, so you know they are true, reality is bound to them. You must know you are successful, know that reality is in the 4d, and feel truly satisfied in that realm. You can do this using whatever method you need to, but personally, I just knew deep within me that I was my ideal weight, and that nothing could change that, that is simply the reality, that is simply the way things are. I thought about old pictures I took of myself, and remembered how skinny I looked in them, I thought about the last time I saw my friends and how much littler they said I'd gotten, I thought about the last time I stood on the scale and how it read the exact weight I knew myself to be. And I just knew, deep within me, that was simply how things were.

And the last step, for me, was to feel truly joyful at this realization. To feel satisfied it came into fruition. Without seeking confirmation, because I already KNEW.

And what do you know? Pictures of myself in my phone from weeks ago, they were my ideal body. The girl I saw in the mirror when I stood up from my meditation? She had my ideal body. My clothes? XS and S, all of them. I had revised my ideal body all the way back to the day I bought them. And confirmed this by checking pictures I took in the dressing room.

I'm telling you right now it is possible if you know in your heart you've always had your desire. It's always been fulfilled within you. You make the rules because you are a divine creator. Nothing outside of you can change what you know to be true.

That's all for now ౨ৎ

[harrysfolklore]

labyrinth - fc43

summary: as the only female driver on the grid, everything in yn's life was planned like a perfect qualifying lap. then franco colapinto had to show up. first, he was just that annoying new guy who took her best friend's seat. then he became the driver she absolutely couldn't stand (or at least that's what she kept telling herself) word count: over 13k + social media posts

folkie radio: GUYYYYSSS SHE'S HERE! i started writing this fic in september and it's finally her time to shine!! this is my first time writing driver!reader so please be gentle with me. also, HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! may all of your wishes come true

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and 1,027,537 others

yourinstagram p6 in zandvoort ! happy to see max on the podium for his home race. see you soon monza 🇮🇹

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username1 LEGEND

username2 p6 with that tractor feels like a podium finish fr

username3 give your seat to danny already

oscarpiastri Well done stinks 👊

↳ logansargeant Don’t praise her, her ego gets inflated

↳ username2 BEST TRIO ON THE GRID

↳ yourinstagram you’re both so jealous of me

redbullracing Keep pushing ! 💙

↳ username1 FIX HER FUCKING CAR

username4 p6 in a redbull? just hand the seat to someone more deserving

francolapinto Amazing 🙌🙌

↳ username2 franco is such a fannn

danielricciardo Proud of you 👌👌

↳ username1 haters want to create this beef between yn and danny for the seat but him adores her

maxverstappen1 Look she’s a nice teammate

↳ yourinstagram you adore me 😤

───���───── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

A knot forms in your stomach as you read the messages. Something about the tone doesn't sit right with you. You quickly head towards Logan's motorhome, your mind racing and your axiety creeping in.

When you arrive, Oscar is already there, leaning against the wall with a concerned expression. Logan sits on the couch, his shoulders slumped and his gaze fixed on the floor.

"Logan?" you ask softly, stepping into the room. "What's going on?"

He looks up at you, then at Oscar, his eyes filled with a mix of anger and resignation. "I… I'm not coming back for the next race," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You feel like you've been punched in the gut. Deep down, a part of you had known this was coming. Rumors in the paddock spread faster than a Formula 1 car on a straight, and there had been whispers about Logan's seat for weeks. But you hadn't wanted to believe it. You'd pushed those thoughts aside, convinced that if you just ignored them, they wouldn't come true.

"What? What do you mean you're not coming back?"

Oscar pushes off the wall, his brow furrowed. "Mate, what happened?"

Logan takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. "Williams… they're replacing me. I'm out."

The room falls silent for a moment as the news sinks in. Then, all at once, you feel a surge of anger coursing through your veins.

"They can't do that!" you exclaim, your voice rising. "It's mid-season! You've been improving, you've been working so hard. How can they just… just throw you away like this?"

Logan shrugs, a bitter smile on his face. "Apparently, they can. And they have."

A wave of emotions come crashing to you. Anger at Williams for their decision, frustration at the ruthless nature of the sport, and an overwhelming sadness for Logan.

Oscar moves to sit beside Logan, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, mate. This is bullshit."

You start pacing the room, your anger building with each step. "Who are they replacing you with? Some pay driver? Some rookie who's never even touched an F1 car?"

"Franco Colapinto," Logan says quietly.

You stop in your tracks, whirling to face him. "Colapinto? The F2 kid? Are they out of their minds?"

Oscar tries to interject, his voice calm. "YN, maybe we should-"

But you're too fired up to listen. "No, Oscar! This is wrong. It's so wrong. Logan deserves better than this. He deserves a chance to prove himself. How is he supposed to do that if they don't even give him a full season?"

Logan looks up at you, a mix of gratitude and sadness in his eyes. "I appreciate you having my back, stinks. But it's done. There's nothing we can do about it now."

You shake your head. "No, there has to be something. They can't just replace you with some F2 kid like that. They're out of their minds."

"YN," Oscar cuts in firmly. "I know you're angry. We all are. But right now, we need to be here for Logan. This isn't about us or what we think is fair. It's about supporting our friend."

As Oscar's words sink in, you feel a wave of guilt wash over you. He's right, of course. This isn't about your anger or your sense of injustice. It's about Logan, your friend who's just had his dream ripped away from him.

The three of you have been racing together since you were kids, climbing through the ranks side by side. You've shared victories and defeats, laughter and tears. You've pushed each other to be better, to chase your dreams relentlessly. And now, one of you is being left behind.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. "I just… I can't believe this is happening."

Logan manages a small smile. "It's okay, stinks. I appreciate your passion. It's one of the things I've always admired about you."

"Remember when we were in karting, and YN nearly got into a fist fight with that kid who tried to push Logan off the track?" Oscar says with a small smile, trying to light up the mood.

"How could I forget?" +

Logan chuckles softly, "She was like a tiny ball of fury."

You feel a smile tugging at your lips despite the situation. "Hey, nobody messes with my boys and gets away with it."

"And nothing's changed," Oscar adds, giving you a fond look. "We've always had each other's backs, through everything. This is not the exception."

Without another word, the three of you come together in a tight group hug, a physical representation of the bond you've shared for so many years.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri and 2,017,697 others

yourinstagram logan, you’re more than just a friend — you’re family. we’ve raced together since we were kids, dreaming of f1. to see that dream cut short for you is heartbreaking

your talent, dedication and kindness have always shone through. you deserved better than this mid-season swap. this sport can be cruel, but this feels especially unfair and i’m angry that my friend’s journey has been interrupted

but i’m also incredibly proud of you, logan. you have handled this with grace and strength and this isn’t the end for you — it’s just a detour. love you, stinks 🥲

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username1 IM SOBBING

username2 i still can’t believe this

username3 well hold your tears because you’re next

pierregasly Chin up, mate @/logansargeant you’re a champ 👊

alex_albon You will always be family @/logansargeant, It’s so sad to see you go

username4 that was cute now hand your seat to daniel or yuki

username5 THE FIRST PIC 🥺🥺 IM NOT OKAY

username6 oh she’s PISSED

username7 this is so unfair for logan

username8 colapinto has an enemy on track already and it’s her 😭

username9 the best trio will be incomplete now i’m not okay

username10 YOU NEXT BYE BYE

logansargeant Thank you for everything, go make me proud 💙

↳ username1 IM SOBBING AGAIN

liked by francolapinto, landonorris and 410,764 others

williamsracing Franco Colapinto to race for the remainder of the 2024 season.

username1 VAMOOOS

username2 hello?? hes cute

username3 OKAY I SEE

username4 good thing for the team, sargeant was just not it

alex_albon Welcome to the fam @/francolapinto 👊

username5 KIIING

username6 an f1 kid who's not even top 5 right now in the championship? risky move

yourinstagram not even giving logan a proper goodbye? yall suck

THIS COMMENT HAS BEEN DETELED

username1 OMFG YN WE SAW THAT

username2 YN 😭😭

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Monza is always a race to look forward no matter what team you drive for, but today, your excitement is just not there.

The paddock feels different without Logan's presence, you have always raced alongside him, and not seeing his face during a race weekend feels wrong.

As you make your way through the bustling crowd, you can't help but feel a pang of sadness and anger. Inside the Red Bull hospitality area, you find Max already settled in, scrolling through his phone. He looks up as you approach, a sympathetic smile on his face.

"Hey, kiddo. How are you holding up?" he asks, gesturing for you to take a seat next to him.

"As well as can be expected, I guess," you slump into the chair, running a hand through your hair. "It just feels wrong, you know?"

"Yeah, I get it," Max nods, his expression thoughtful, "How's Logan doing? Have you talked to him?"

The mention of Logan's name ignites that spark of anger inside you again. "He's… he's putting on a brave face, but I know he's hurting. This whole situation is such bullshit, Max. Williams made a huge mistake."

Max raises an eyebrow, sensing the storm brewing beneath your calm exterior. "You want to talk about it?"

That's all the invitation you need. The words start pouring out of you, your voice rising with each sentence.

"It's just so unfair! Logan was improving every race. He was working his ass off, putting in the hours, doing everything the team asked of him. And for what? To be tossed aside mid-season for some rookie?"

Max tries to interject, "Well, Colapinto has been pretty impressive in F2-"

But you're on a roll now, barely registering his words. "Impressive in F2? So what? F1 is a whole different ball game. Logan was just starting to get comfortable, to really show what he could do. And now they've brought in this Colapinto kid who's never even driven an F1 car, who's probably a paid driver who's just going to waste everyone's times. What kind of message does that send?"

You stand up, pacing back and forth as you continue your rant. "Williams is making a huge mistake. They're throwing away all the work Logan put in, all the data they've gathered. For what? A gamble on some unproven talent? And don't even get me started on how they handled it. No warning, no real explanation. Just 'Thanks for your service, now get out.' It's disrespectful, it's short-sighted, and it's everything that's wrong with this sport sometimes."

Max watches you, a mix of concern and surprise on his face. He's never seen you this fired up before. "YN, I understand you're upset, but-"

"No, Max!" you interrupt him, "You don't understand because you'll never have the fear of having your seat taken from you out of nowhere. You're Max Verstappen. You're safe. But for the rest of us… we're always one bad weekend away from losing everything."

Max's brow furrows, clearly taken aback by your statement. "YN, that's not true. I worked hard to get where I am-"

"I know you did," you interrupt again, your voice softer now. "I'm not saying you didn't. But you have to admit, your position is different. You're a world champion. You're untouchable. But for drivers like Logan, like me… we're always looking over our shoulders, always wondering if this race will be our last."

Max is silent for a moment, processing your words. "I guess you're right, I've been in a secure position for so long, I forgot what it's like to worry about your seat." He pauses, then adds, "But you know, you're in a unique position too. You're the only woman driving a Formula 1 car. That's pretty special. You should feel-"

You cut him off, your frustration flaring up again. "Exactly! I'm the only woman here, Max. Do you have any idea how much more pressure that puts on me? Every move I make is scrutinized. Every-"

Before you can continue, you spot Franco Colapinto walking past the Red Bull area, chatting animatedly with his new race engineer. The sight of him in Williams colors sends another wave of resentment through you, and you turn away abruptly.

"I need some air," you mutter, storming out of the hospitality area, leaving a bewildered Max in your wake.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The sun beats down as you stand next to Oscar on the flatbed truck, waiting for the drivers' parade to begin. The usual buzz of excitement surrounding Monza feels muted to you, overshadowed still by Logan's absence and the presence of his replacement.

"Oi, what's with the long face?" Oscar nudges you playfully with his elbow. "You look like someone stole your last Tim Tam."

"Oh shut up, you dork," you can't help but crack a small smile, "As if I'd ever let anyone near my precious Tim Tams."

"Too right," Oscar grins. "But seriously, how are you holding up?"

You shrug, trying to keep your expression neutral for the cameras. "Oh, you know, just peachy. Nothing like a bit of midseason drama to spice things up, right?"

"Always the optimist, aren't you?" Oscar rolls his eyes, "Come on, I bet you twenty quid you can't name all the Italian F1 circuits without googling."

"You're on, Piastri," you say, grateful for the distraction. "Monza, Imola, Mugello…"

As you're racking your brain for more, you notice Franco Colapinto approaching. Your playful mood evaporates instantly.

Franco's eyes widen as he gets closer, clearly starstruck. "Uh, hi," he says nervously. "I'm Franco. I just wanted to introduce myself."

Oscar, ever the diplomat, smiles and extends his hand. "Hey mate, welcome to F1. I'm Oscar."

Franco shakes his hand before turning to you, his expression one of barely contained awe. "And you're YN. I… I can't believe I'm actually meeting you. You're such an inspiration. The way you've broken barriers in this sport, it's incredible. I've followed your career since your F3 days and-"

You cut him off, your voice cool. "Thanks. Welcome to the grid."

Franco's smile falters, but he presses on. "I just wanted to say how much I admire what you've accomplished. You've paved the way for so many young drivers, especially women in motorsport. It's an honor to be racing alongside you."

You nod stiffly. "Thanks," you repeat, your tone making it clear that you're not interested in continuing the conversation.

An awkward silence falls over the group. Oscar, sensing the tension, tries to smooth things over. "So, Franco, how are you finding the step up to F1 so far?"

As Franco turns to answer Oscar, you take the opportunity to step away, moving to the other side of the truck. You can feel Oscar's gaze following you, but you can't bring yourself to engage in small talk with Logan's replacement, no matter how well-intentioned he might be.

As you're standing alone, Alex approaches, a sympathetic smile on his face. "Hey, mind if I join you?"

You shrug. "Free country, Albon. Or free truck, I guess."

Alex chuckles softly. "How are you doing? I know this can't be easy for you."

You sigh, your guard dropping slightly with Alex. "It's… complicated. I'm angry for Logan, but I know it's not Franco's fault. It's just…"

"It's the reality of the sport we're in," Alex finishes for you. "Trust me, I get it. Been there, done that, got the Red Bull rejection t-shirt."

Your stomach twists at the mention of that, suddenly remembering the endless conversations and warnings from your team. And how despite having a contract for next season, there's threats about your seat being take away after every race weekend. But you push the thought away.

"Always the comedian, aren't you?"

"Someone's got to keep the mood light around here," Alex grins. "But seriously, I know it's tough. Franco's a good kid, though. He's been working really hard, trying to learn as much as he can."

You nod, not quite ready to let go of your resentment but appreciating Alex's perspective. "How's he settling in?"

"As well as can be expected," Alex says. "He's got a lot to learn, but he's eager. It's a big step up from F2, but he's handling the pressure well so far."

You're about to respond when the parade starts moving. Alex gives you a supportive pat on the shoulder before moving back to his spot. As the truck rolls down the straight, the cheers of the Tifosi wash over you. You lift your hand to wave, a mix of emotions swirling inside you that go beyond just Logan's replacement.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by maxverstappen1, charles_leclerc and 1,638,578 others

yourinstagram p8. it is what it is. ciao monza 👋

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username1 you will always be the moment

username2 FIX THE FUCKING CAR ALREADY

username3 ouu shes DONEEE

username4 most undeserved seat on the grid i swear

username5 anyway RICBULL IS COMING

francolapinto Such a pleasure to race alongside you!

↳ username1 franco respects and admires her so much i love it

↳ username2 im pretty sure yn hates him tho

username6 the constructors championship is gone thanks to her

logansargeant Chin up, love you 💙

↳ username2 i miss them so much

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 12,739 others

f1gossip YN arriving at Red Bull HQ in Milton Keynes

Tensions running high as rumors swirl about potential driver shake-ups. Sources say YN’s recent performance has bosses considering options

Is the Honey Badger eyeing a comeback or could young Liam Lawson be making the leap to F1? 🤔

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username1 bro...

username2 they better fix her car NOW

username3 RICBULL RICBULL

username4 honestly the best thing for the team would be her getting replaced

username5 YAAAS SHE'S OUT FINALLY

username6 oscar is the only 2023 rookie who actually puts in the work

username7 some people need to start putting some respect on yn's name bc yall keep forgetting she was third in the championship and got her first win during her ROOKIE SEASON and the reason she's struggling rn is bc redbull is not getting their shit together

↳ username1 right??? they're just saying shit

↳ username4 you said it yourself, she has a championship winning car and she's not delivering. she should be out

username8 YN GET BEHIND ME

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and 1,638,538 others

yourinstagram great quali, we should have some fun tomorrow 😚

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username1 SLAYYY

username2 p4 after all the nonsense surrounding her seat? feels right

username3 THE QUEEN OF BAKU FOR REAL

lilyzneimer my favorite supergirl 💙

username4 she got lucky

username5 don't care, we still want danny or liam in that seat

username6 enjoy the race bc it might be your last

username7 watch her on that podium tomorrow

logansargeant Super proud always

↳ username2 LOGAN WE MISSS YOUUUU

francolapinto 🤩

liked by username1, logansargeant and 270,847 others

redbullracing Solid race and a bunch of points for the team 👊

Result 🏁PIA, LEC, YN P3, NOR, Max P5, ALO, ALB, COL, HAM, BEA

#F1 #RedBullRacing #AzerbaijanGP

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username1 SO DAMN TRUE

username2 yn back on the podium FINALLY

username3 yn saw the rumors about her seat and decided to shut them up

username4 SHES BEATING MAX FINALLY

username5 did they finally fix the car

username6 i don't want anyone commenting on her seat anymore

username7 i knew she got into that care absolutely PISSED

username8 QUEEN OF BAKU

liked by oscarpiastri, francolapinto and 1,764,933 others

yourinstagram was that entertaining? 😙 so happy to be on the podium for osco's second win, i love you so muuuch you diva

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username1 LEGEND

username2 she's so smug

username3 TELL THEM QUEEEN

landonorris The third pic is definitely your best @/oscarpiastri

↳ yourinstagram IKR

↳ username1 I LOVE THEM

logansargeant Congrats to both of you @/oscarpiastri @/yourinstagram I'm always proud of everything you achieve ❤️

↳ username2 logan should be there too i'm sad now

↳ oscarpiastri Love you mate

↳ yourinstagram this paddock will never be the same without you

maxvertsappen1 🙌🙌 So proud of you little sister

oscarpiastri Love you stinks

francolapinto Congrats! Always an honor to race alongside you

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The drivers' briefing has just concluded, and you find yourself lingering in the room, chatting with your friends.

"I swear, I almost peed my pants at that press conference!," Lando says, his eyes widening as he recalls, "When Max and YN just sat there in silence, staring down the journalists… I thought I was going to lose it!"

Pierre chuckles, giving you a knowing look. "I knew YN was the mastermind behind that. It has her written all over it."

"Well, someone had to make a point about these ridiculous penalties," you can't help but grin.

The group's laughter is interrupted as Franco approaches, a tentative smile on his face. "Hey guys, mind if I join?"

The others welcome him warmly, and you feel a knot forming in your stomach. You force a tight smile, trying to keep your emotions in check.

"Franco, mate!" George exclaims, patting him on the back. "That was some impressive driving in practice. You're settling in well."

Alex nods in agreement. "Yeah, you're really holding your own out there. Williams made a good choice."

You feel your jaw clench at Alex's words, but you remain silent, watching as Franco's face lights up with pride and gratitude.

"Thanks, guys," Franco says, his voice humble. "I still have a lot to learn, but I'm giving it my all."

"Well, it's paying off," Lando chimes in, "Points in just your second race? You're pushing that Williams harder than we've seen in a while."

As the conversation continues, with each driver offering praise and encouragement to Franco, you feel your frustration and anger building.

The memory of Logan's disappointment and unfairness of it all, mixed with the ever present threat of you seat having the same fate, bubbles up inside you until you can't contain it anymore.

"And what about Logan?" you snap, your voice cutting through the friendly chatter like a knife. The group falls silent, all eyes turning to you in surprise. Franco's smile fades, replaced by a look of discomfort and guilt.

"YN…" Oscar starts, his tone cautionary.

But you're too fired up to stop now. "No, seriously. Everyone's so quick to praise him, but what about Logan? He was improving every race, working his ass off, and for what? To be tossed aside mid-season?"

The atmosphere in the room becomes tense. George and Alex exchange uncomfortable glances, while Pierre shifts uneasily.

Franco, looking distressed, speaks up. "I never meant for Logan to lose his seat. I just took the opportunity when it was offered to me. Any driver would have done the same."

"Oh, so that makes it okay?" his words only fuel your anger. "You just 'took the opportunity'? Do you have any idea how hard Logan worked for that seat? How much he sacrificed?"

"YN, that's enough," Oscar says firmly, placing a hand on your arm.

But you shrug him off, your eyes blazing as you face Franco. "You waltz in here, taking a seat you didn't earn, and everyone's falling over themselves to congratulate you. It's not right. It's not fair."

The room falls into a shocked silence. Franco looks like he's been slapped, his earlier excitement completely deflated. The other drivers are staring at you with a mix of surprise and disapproval.

It's George who finally breaks the tension. "YN, I think we all understand you're upset about Logan. We all are. But this isn't Franco's fault. He's just trying to make the most of his chance, like any of us would."

You feel a flush of shame creeping up your neck, but your anger is still simmering. "You don't understand," you mutter, but the fight has gone out of your voice.

Franco, looking genuinely distressed, takes a step towards you. "I'm sorry about what happened to Logan. I really am. I have nothing but respect for him, and for you. I never wanted to cause any problems."

His sincerity catches you off guard, and for a moment, you see not the driver who replaced your friend, but a young, talented kid trying to navigate a difficult situation. However, your anger and frustration gets the best of you.

"Whatever," you mumble, pushing past the group and out of the room, leaving a stunned silence as you disappear.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by lewishamilton, alex_albon and 709,639 others

francolapinto still buzzing from singapore 🇸🇬growing up watching Lewis battle in marina bay and now getting to race wheel to wheel with him... surreal doesn't even begin to cover it 🤯 and that fight with YN for position was proper racing - those last few laps were intense! thank you to the team for giving me a car that could fight at the front. vamos 💪

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username1 he’s an f1 driver now but he’ll always be a fanboy

lewishamilton Good racing kid, you've got a bright future ahead 👊🏾

williamsracing Our boy! 💙

username3 Did anyone else notice how aggressive YN was when overtaking Franco? Almost pushed him into the wall...

↳ username1 fr she looked like she wanted to crash him

↳ username4 they were racing for position, that's what racing drivers do 🙄

username5 the way he always mentions YN in his posts but she never acknowledges him 👀

username6 that move from YN was unnecessarily aggressive, could've ended badly

landonorris Great drive mate!

liked by yourinstagram, maxverstappen1 and 2,370,739 others

f1 BREAKING: Daniel Ricciardo to leave RB, the team have announced. Liam Lawson will race in place of Ricciardo for the remaining six races of the season for the team.

view all comments

username1 DANNY NOOOO

username2 this sucks man

danielricciardo Been a hell of a ride! Thank you RB family ❤️

maxverstappen1 Going to miss you mate!

username3 Wrong driver leaving... YN should be the one out

↳ username1 exactly! she's been underperforming all season

yourinstagram always grateful for everything you taught me DR. more than a driver - you've been a big brother, mentor, and friend since day one. going to miss our pre-race dance parties 🥺🤍

↳ username3 now give him your seat

↳ username1 it's no annoying to see that drivers like her have an undeserved contract extension and talented drivers get left out

↳ danielricciardo Love you kiddo! Make me proud

username5 Gutted to see Danny Ric go 💔

landonorris Won't be the same without you mate!

username7 @/yourinstagram Maybe focus more on racing than dancing 🙄

↳ username8 she's literally P5 in the championship, shut up

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

As you step off the plane in Florida, the warm air envelops you, a stark contrast to the crisp autumn weather you left behind in Europe. Your heart lightens as you spot Logan waiting for you, his familiar grin a welcome sight after weeks of tension and stress. You missed your best friend so much.

You rush towards him, throwing your arms around him in a tight hug. "I missed you so much," you say, your voice muffled against his shoulder. "That paddock sucks without you."

Logan chuckles, returning the hug with equal enthusiasm. "I missed you too, stinks." He pulls back, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Now, let's grab a beer since you're out of race cars for a while."

You nod eagerly, letting him lead the way. He drives you to a nearby bar, one you've learned over the years of knowing him was the one he used to go to during his teenage years. The casual atmosphere is a refreshing change from the high-pressure environment of the paddock. As you settle into a booth with cold beers in hand, you feel some of the tension from the past few months start to melt away.

"So, how's life outside the F1 bubble?" you ask, taking a sip of beer.

Logan grins, leaning back in his seat. "It's… different. But not all bad. Actually, I've got some news." He pauses for dramatic effect. "I've been in talks with a few IndyCar teams."

Your eyes widen with excitement. "Logan, that's fantastic! Tell me everything!"

For the next hour, Logan animatedly describes his meetings with IndyCar team principals, the tracks he's excited to race on, and the new challenges he's looking forward to. You listen intently, genuinely happy for your friend's potential new chapter.

"It's not F1," Logan admits, "but it's a hell of a racing series. And who knows? Maybe it'll lead me back to F1 someday."

"I have no doubt," you assure him, raising your bottle in a toast. "To new beginnings!"

As the conversation flows, you find yourself relaxing more than you have in months. You chat about mutual friends, swap funny stories from your junior racing days, and discuss the latest paddock gossip.

Eventually, Logan's expression turns a bit more serious. "So, Oscar's been keeping me updated on what's been going on in F1. Sounds like things have been… tense with Franco."

You feel your mood shift at the mention of Franco's name. "Yeah, you could say that," you mutter, taking a long swig of your beer.

Logan leans forward, his voice gentle but firm. "YN, I know you're upset on my behalf, but you can't keep this grudge going forever. Franco's just a kid trying to make his way in the sport, like we all were not too long ago."

"I know, I know. It's just," you sigh heavily, "Every time I see him in the garage, in your overalls, talking to your engineers… it feels wrong, Logan. Like he's stolen something that belongs to you."

"But he didn't steal anything," Logan counters. "The team made a decision. It sucks for me, yeah, but that's not on Franco. He just took an opportunity that was offered to him. Can you honestly say you wouldn't have done the same in his position?"

You open your mouth to argue, then close it again. Logan has a point, and you know it.

"Look," Logan continues, "I've had some time to process all this, and I've come to terms with it. It's a cutthroat sport, YN. We all know that. Franco's not the villain here."

"But the way it happened," you protest, "mid-season, with no warning. It wasn't fair to you."

"Fair doesn't always come into it in F1. It just happens," Logan shrugs, "Besides," he adds with a hint of a smile, "I hear he's doing a decent job. The kid's got talent."

"He's alright," you grudgingly admit. "But he's not you."

Logan laughs. "No one's me, stinks. I'm one of a kind."

You can't help but crack a smile at that. "True enough."

"So," Logan says, his tone turning serious again, "can you promise me you'll try to ease up on Franco? Give him a fair shot? For me?"

You sigh deeply, considering his words. "I'll try," you finally concede. "But I'm not promising to be his best friend or anything."

"That's all I ask," Logan says, looking relieved. "Now, is this just about Franco replacing me, or is there something else going on? You seem… I don't know, more on edge than usual."

For a moment, you consider telling him about the talks with Red Bull, about the uncertainty surrounding your own seat. The words are on the tip of your tongue, but something holds you back. Maybe it's not wanting to burden Logan with your problems, or maybe it's not being ready to voice your fears out loud.

"No, nothing else," you lie, forcing a smile. "Just the usual F1 stress, you know how it is."

Logan nods, though he doesn't look entirely convinced. "Well, if there ever is anything, you know you can talk to me, right? Even if I'm not in the paddock anymore."

"I know," you say, feeling a pang of guilt. "Thanks, Logan. Really."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by logansargeant, landonorris and 1,289,673 others

yourinstagram florida !!! is one hell of a drug

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username1 AHHH she visited logan

logansargeant Next time we're doing the gator tour 🐊

↳ username2 i love them sm

oscarpiastri No invite for your favourite Aussie? Rude

↳ username2 we need the iconic trio together again

username3 they've been friends since forever, love how they support each other

username4 Logan and YN's friendship >>>>>

username5 Why is she on holiday when she should be working on her driving?

username6 the way logan always has her back 🥺

username7 surely there are better uses of time with 4 races left and her seat under threat?

francolapinto Amazing 🙌

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You arrive at the Red Bull hospitality area in Austin, the excitement of being back after the break palpable in the air. As you walk in, you spot Max lounging on one of the sofas, scrolling through his phone.

"Well, well, look who finally decided to show up," Max grins, looking up from his device. "Did you get lost in the Texas wilderness?"

You roll your eyes playfully, dropping your bag on a nearby chair. "Oh, I'm sorry, Your Highness. Did I keep you waiting? I was busy signing autographs for all my adoring fans. You know how it is… oh wait, you don't."

"Ouch, that hurt," Max clutches his chest in mock pain, "And here I was, about to show you something interesting, but now I'm not so sure you deserve it."

You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. The banter with Max always helps you relax before a race weekend, and you've missed this during the break. "Oh come on, spill it, Verstappen. You know you want to. Don't make me steal your phone."

Max chuckles and pats the seat next to him. "Alright, alright. Sit down before you hurt yourself trying to reach my phone."

As you sit down, he pulls up a video on his phone. "Check this out. It's an interview with your biggest fan."

It's an interview with Franco. Your initial instinct is to look away, a mix of guilt and stubbornness rising in your chest. But something in Max's expression makes you watch.

"Lewis Hamilton and YN are my biggest idols in F1," Franco is saying, his face earnest. "The way YN races, her dedication and skill, it's truly inspiring. She's broken so many barriers and shown that talent knows no gender. I feel honored just to be on the same grid as her."

As the interview continues, Franco heaps more praise on you, his admiration clear in every word. You feel a twinge of guilt, remembering how cold you've been towards him. The genuine respect in his voice makes you uncomfortable, forcing you to confront your own prejudices.

"Her overtake on Leclerc in Interlagos last year? That was pure brilliance," Franco continues. "I've watched that move countless times, trying to learn from it. YN's not just a great driver, she's changing the face of the sport. I hope one day I can race wheel-to-wheel with her and show her the respect she deserves on track."

Max turns off the video and looks at you expectantly. "I think you owe someone an apology," he says, his tone gentle but firm.

You nod slowly, the realization sinking in. A wave of shame washes over you as you remember your cold behavior towards Franco. "I think I do," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max puts a comforting hand on your shoulder. "Hey, we all make mistakes. What matters is how we fix them. Franco's a good kid, and he really looks up to you. Maybe it's time to give him a chance?"

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. "I actually talked to Logan last week," you confess, watching Max's eyebrows rise in surprise. "He's doing well, actually - focusing on IndyCar now. But we talked a lot about… everything."

"Yeah?" Max shifts in his seat, clearly intrigued. It's not often you open up about these things.

"He basically told me I needed to stop fighting battles that weren't mine to fight. Said he appreciates me having his back, but Franco isn't the enemy here. He's just chasing his dream, like we all did. Logan said he remembers how it felt, getting his first chance - we all do."

Max nods thoughtfully. "Logan's right, you know. We've all been there at some point - getting an opportunity because someone else lost theirs. It's just how F1 works sometimes."

"I know," you admit, standing up. "And I've been unfair to Franco. He's actually doing a really good job with Williams, fighting in the midfield with a car that's not the easiest to drive. And here I am, making him feel unwelcome when I should be supporting talent. Some role model I am, right?"

"So what are you going to do about it?" Max asks, though his smile suggests he already knows.

You spot Franco heading towards the Williams hospitality area. "I'm going to make it right."

Walking over to Williams, you feel your heart pounding a little faster with each step. You find Franco sitting at one of the tables, going through data on his laptop with his race engineer.

"Franco?" you call out. "Could I steal you for a moment?"

He looks up, surprise evident on his face. "YN? Hi… yeah, of course." He glances at his engineer, who nods and excuses himself.

"Mind if I sit?" you ask, gesturing to the empty chair. When he nods, you take a deep breath. "I owe you an apology. A proper one."

Franco starts to shake his head, but you hold up a hand. "Please, let me finish. I've been unfair to you, and it wasn't right. I let my loyalty to Logan blind me to the fact that you're just a talented driver making the most of your opportunity. I've been cold, sometimes even hostile, and you didn't deserve any of that."

"I… thank you," Franco says quietly. "That means a lot. I want you to know, I reached out to Logan when-"

"I know," you interrupt gently. "He told me. That's partly why I'm here. You showed real class doing that, Franco. And you're doing a great job with the car. That P8 in Baku? That was proper racing."

A genuine smile breaks across his face. "Coming from you, that really means a lot. You know, I've watched your races since I was in F3. The way you fought through all the doubters, proved everyone wrong… you're really an inspiration."

You feel your throat tighten unexpectedly. "I had no idea."

"That's why your opinion means so much," Franco admits, fiddling with his water bottle. "When you seemed disappointed in me being here… it hurt, you know?"

"I'm sorry," you say again, meaning it more than ever. "How about we start fresh? Maybe you can talk me through that overtake in Baku - I noticed you used a similar line to what I did in Interlagos last year."

Franco's eyes light up. "You caught that? I actually studied your move while preparing for the race! The way you positioned the car on entry…"

You spend the next twenty minutes discussing racing lines and overtaking techniques, the earlier tension completely dissolved. Franco's enthusiasm is infectious, reminding you of your own early days in F1.

When you finally walk back to Max, you feel lighter than you have in months. He greets you with a knowing smile. "Feel better?"

"Much better," you admit. "Sometimes you need a kick in the right direction So thank you, I needed that wake-up call."

"Anytime," he smirks, throwing an arm around your shoulders, "Can't have my teammate being the paddock villain, can I? That's my job."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Liked by francolapinto, maxverstappen1 and 1,667,459 others

yourinstagram rookies keeping us on our toes 😤 good battles today @/francolapinto

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username1 THIS IS LEGENDARY

username3 franco is going to piss his pants

williamsracing Our rookie giving the Red Bull a run for their money 💙

username4 she shouldn’t be acknowledging that a rookie in a williams is making it hard for her… embarrasing

username5 the start of YN and Franco's friendship? 👀

username7 the tension between these two was getting old, glad they're friends now

username8 HANDLE YOUR SEAT

username8 MY DUO 😭❤️

francolapinto Next time I won’t make it easy for you!

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The private jet hums quietly through the night sky towards Mexico City. Most of the other drivers are asleep, exhausted from the intense Austin weekend. You find yourself unable to sleep, your mind still racing from the events of the day. Glancing around the dimly lit cabin, you notice Franco is also awake, absently flipping through a magazine.

Catching your eye, he gives you a warm smile and moves to the empty seat across from you. "Can't sleep either?"

"Too much adrenaline still," you admit, adjusting your position to face him better. "Great drive today, by the way. That point was well-deserved."

Franco's face lights up at the compliment. "Thanks! Though it's nothing compared to your battle with Lando. I was watching it from behind and thought 'there's no way she's going to make that stick' but then you just… did. It was incredible."

You laugh softly, careful not to wake the others. "There was a moment there where I wasn't sure either. But sometimes you just have to go for it, you know?"

"Oh, I know exactly what you mean," Franco grins. "Like that time in F3 when I tried to go around the outside at Spa and ended up practically in another timezone."

"Please tell me there's video of that," you snicker.

"Unfortunately for my dignity, yes. I think my engineer still uses it as an example of what not to do."

The conversation flows naturally, jumping from racing stories to childhood memories. You find yourself genuinely enjoying his company, something that would have seemed impossible just a few weeks ago.

"So what made you want to be a racing driver?" you ask, genuinely curious.

As Franco launches into how he found his passion for the sport, you find yourself really looking at him properly for the first time. The soft cabin lighting catches the angles of his face, and you notice details you'd overlooked before. His eyes are warm with flecks of gold, crinkling slightly at the corners when he smiles. There's a small scar above his right eyebrow, barely noticeable unless you're paying attention. His dark hair is slightly disheveled from the long race day, a few strands falling across his forehead.

You catch yourself thinking how handsome he actually is, in that classic way. His animated expressions as he talks about racing make him even more attractive, his passion for the sport evident in every gesture.

"...and that's when I knew I wanted to do this forever," he finishes, then looks slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, I'm rambling. I tend to get carried away when talking about racing."

"No, don't apologize," you say quickly. "It's refreshing to see that kind of enthusiasm. Some of the guys get so jaded after a while."

Franco's smile turns a bit shy. "Speaking of enthusiasm, I'm really excited about racing in Mexico this weekend. It's one of my favorite cities - the atmosphere is just incredible."

"The fans are amazing there," you agree. "Though I still haven't found a really good place to eat in Mexico City. The hotel restaurant gets old pretty quickly."

Franco's eyes light up. "Oh, you have to let me help with that! I know a couple of amazing restaurants in the city. There's this incredible place that serves the best traditional dishes you've ever tasted, and another one in that does contemporary Mexican cuisine that would blow your mind."

You find yourself intrigued, both by the suggestion and the eager way he's describing it. "That sounds way better than room service."

"We could..." he hesitates for a moment, then continues with determination, "we could go together, if you'd like? After Thursday's media duties maybe? I'd love to show you my favorite spots."

There's something endearing about the way he's trying to sound casual while clearly being nervous about asking. You feel a flutter in your stomach that you definitely weren't expecting.

"You know what? That sounds great," you say, surprised by how much you mean it. "It's about time I experienced proper Mexican cuisine."

Franco's face breaks into a brilliant smile. "Perfect! I'll make a reservation for Thursday evening then. Trust me, you won't regret it."

As the conversation continues, you can't help but notice how natural it feels now, how easily you're laughing at his jokes and sharing stories. It's hard to believe this is the same person you were avoiding just a few weeks ago.

As other drivers start stirring from their sleep, Franco returns to his original seat, but not before confirming your dinner plans one more time.

Watching him walk away, you find yourself looking forward to Thursday evening more than you probably should. It's just dinner with a colleague, you tell yourself, even as you catch yourself smiling at the thought of it.

"Just dinner," you whisper to yourself, but somehow, you're not entirely convinced.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

yourinstagram has added to their close friends stories

replies:

georgerussell63 So that was all the giggling I heard during the flight

oscarpiastri I’m so telling Logan

maxverstappen1 Can I say “I told you so” now?

francolapinto close friends privileges already? wow

↳ yourinstagram don’t push it colapinto

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The hotel lobby is relatively quiet as you wait for Franco, having agreed to meet there before heading to the restaurant. You've opted for casual - a simple black dress that makes you feel confident but not overdressed.

"Ready to have your mind blown by the best food in Mexico City?" Franco's voice makes you turn. He's wearing dark jeans and a well-fitted navy button-down, and you try not to notice how good he looks.

"Big claims require big proof," you tease, falling into step beside him.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Lando's familiar accent cuts through the lobby. He's just coming in from what looks like a gym session, and his surprised smirk makes you want to roll your eyes. "Interesting dinner plans?"

"Just showing YN the local cuisine," Franco says smoothly, though you notice his ears turning slightly pink.

"Right, right," Lando drawls, his eyes dancing with amusement. "The local cuisine. In your nice shirt. At that fancy place you've been talking about for weeks-"

"Goodbye, Lando," you cut him off, grabbing Franco's arm and steering him toward the exit, trying to ignore Lando's knowing chuckle behind you. You knew it was a matter of time before the entire grid finds out you went out with Franco.

The restaurant is everything Franco promised and more. The conversation flows easily between you, and you find yourself charmed by the way he seamlessly switches between Spanish and English while ordering, the way he leans in slightly when you're talking, the way his hand occasionally brushes yours across the table.

"No way," you laugh, taking another sip of wine. "You did not challenge your friend to a dance-off."

"I absolutely did," Franco grins. "And I won, by the way. Though there might have been some tequila involved."

"I would pay good money to see that."

"Play your cards right," he says with a playful wink, "and maybe you'll get a private demonstration."

The flirtatious comment catches you off guard, and you feel heat rise to your cheeks. Franco seems pleased with this reaction, his confidence growing throughout the evening.

The evening continues, warm and comfortable. Franco insists on ordering dessert - "You haven't lived until you've tried their churros con chocolate" - and you find yourself sharing stories between bites of perfectly crispy churros.

"So," Franco says, wiping chocolate from his lip with a napkin, "you, Oscar, and Logan - that's quite the trio. How did that happen?"

You laugh, fondly remembering those early days. "We practically grew up together in karting. I was this tiny kid trying to prove myself, Oscar was already sassy even at eight years old, and Logan… well, Logan was Logan."

"Let me guess - immediate chaos?" Franco grins.

"Oh, absolutely. We used to drive our parents and coaches crazy. These three kids who wouldn't stop racing each other even after practice was over." You smile at the memory. "We've been inseparable ever since. Though now Logan's living his best life in Florida."

Franco's eyes soften. "You really miss having him in the paddock, don't you?"

"Yeah," you admit quietly. "I do. But he's happy, and that's what matters. Plus, he texts me stupid memes at least twenty times a day, so it's like he never left."

After asking for the bill — one that Franco didn't let you pay no matter how much you insisted — you decided to walk back to the hotel. You were aware that his hand was close to yours as you walked side by side, almost brushing your fingers, but you didn't dare to take that step, and neither did he.

You reach the hotel, but instead of heading straight for the elevators, Franco suggests taking the scenic route through the garden. The night is too nice to end just yet.

"I have to say," he remarks as you walk, "you look beautiful tonight. That dress is…" he makes an exaggerated chef's kiss gesture, making you laugh.

"Smooth, Colapinto. Very smooth."

"I try," he winks, and you roll your eyes but can't hide your smile.

The walk to your room comes too quickly. Outside your door, Franco turns to you with a soft smile.

"Thank you for tonight," he says. "It was… nice. Really nice."

"It was," you agree, finding yourself meaning it completely. "Thank you for showing me your favorite spot."

There's a moment where you both just look at each other, the air charged with something unspoken. Franco takes a small step closer, then seems to think better of it.

"Goodnight, YN," he says softly, squeezing your hand once before letting go.

"Goodnight, Franco," you reply, watching him head down the hallway.

As you close the door behind you, you lean against it, smiling to yourself. You can already hear Max's smug "I told you so" tomorrow, but somehow, you can't bring yourself to care.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 14,892 users

f1gossip🚨 Franco Colapinto and YN spotted having dinner together in Mexico City. They spent over two hours at the restaurant according to witnesses.

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username2 This is getting interesting... 👀

username3 STOP I'M CRYING 😭❤️

username4 they're just friends guys, calm down

username4 the way he makes her laugh though!!!

username5 watch how they'll deny everything tomorrow

username6 MY HEART CAN'T TAKE THIS

username8 this has to be more than just friendship...

username10 I MANIFESTED THIS

username12 focus on racing instead of dating maybe?

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The Brazilian rain hammers down relentlessly on the Interlagos circuit. It's barely 6 AM, but the paddock is already buzzing with nervous energy for the early sprint qualifying. You stifle a yawn as you check your phone for what must be the hundredth time that morning. Another message from Franco pops up - a picture of himself looking comically miserable in the rain with the caption "Maybe if we all pretend we didn't see the rain, they'll cancel quali?"

The past week has been unexpected in the best way possible. After that dinner in Mexico, something shifted. What started as sharing breakfast in the hotel turned into spending every free moment together. During the long flight to São Paulo, George had dramatically sighed and switched seats with Franco, muttering something about "not being able to take the longing looks across the plane anymore."

"Someone's cheerful for 6 AM," Max comments, walking into the garage as you quickly type a response to Franco. "Let me guess - Argetinian company keeping you entertained?"

You try to hide your smile but fail miserably. "Shut up and focus on qualifying."

"Oh, I'm focused," he grins. "Unlike someone who keeps looking at their phone every two minutes."

"I'm just-"

"YN," Max interrupts, counting off on his fingers, "he waited outside our debrief yesterday just to walk you to dinner. He somehow always knows your coffee order. And don't think I didn't notice him giving you his jacket yesterday."

You feel your cheeks heat up. "We're just friends."

"Right," Max smirks. "Friends. Like how Charles and I are 'just friends' when we're trying to punt each other off track."

"Shut up, as if you weren't secretly in love with each other."

A few hours later, as you prepare for the drivers' parade, Oscar sidles up next to you with his trademark grin.

"Well, well, if it isn't the stranger," he says dramatically. "Remember me? One of your best friends? Though I suppose you wouldn't know, being attached at the hip with a certain Williams driver these days."

You roll your eyes, but there's no heat in it. "Miss me that much, Piastri?"

"Just saying, used to be we'd get coffee before parade, now it's all 'Sorry Oscar, Franco already got me coffee,'" he mimics your voice terribly.

You're about to retort when Franco appears, and Oscar's grin widens. "And that's my cue. Have fun, kids!" He winks before sauntering off.

"Ignore him," you say when you notice a small smile in Franco's face, "He's the perpetual pain in my ass."

"He's okay," Franco says, standing closer to you. You're trying to get your hair in order when you realize something's missing.

"Shit," you mutter, patting your pockets. "I forgot my hair tie."

"You always braid it before races, right?"

"Yeah," you sigh, still searching. "I'm stupidly superstitious about it. Haven't gotten into the car without a perfect braid since F3."

"Here," Franco pulls a hair tie from his wrist. At your surprised look, he shrugs. "I started carrying one after Mexico. Just in case," he shrugs, as if he was saying the most obvious thing ever, "Turn around."

"You know how to braid hair?"

"Sisters, remember? I'm practically a professional." His fingers are gentle as they work through your hair. "Besides, can't have you breaking your streak because of a missing hair tie."

You're acutely aware of the other drivers watching with varying degrees of amusement. Lewis gives you a knowing wink as he passes, while Charles not-so-subtly elbows Oscar and gestures toward you two.

"There," he says finally, securing the end with your hair tie. "Perfect braid for perfect racing."

You reach back to feel it - it is indeed perfect. When you turn to thank him, you find him much closer than expected, his eyes soft as they meet yours.

"Show off," you manage to say, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing.

"Only for you," he replies with a wink, and you hear what sounds suspiciously like Alex whispering "Just kiss already" to George.

The moment is broken by the announcement for drivers to take their places on the parade truck. As you climb aboard, you catch Oscar making exaggerated swooning gestures at you, while Max simply mouths "Just friends?" with a knowing smirk.

Franco takes his place beside you on the truck, close enough that your shoulders touch, and somehow you find you don't really care who's watching.

"Nice braid, by the way," Charles calls out teasingly from behind you. "Franco, think you could do mine next time?"

"Get your own hair stylist, Leclerc," you call back, and Franco's laugh next to you makes everything - the bad qualifying, the rain, the teasing - worth it.

The truck starts moving, and Franco's hand finds yours, hidden from view between you. You intertwine your fingers with his, and neither of you let go for the entire parade.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 21,765 others

f1_insider🚨 Christian Horner spotted leaving Williams hospitality after a 2-hour meeting in Brazil. This comes amid increasing speculation about driver changes for 2025.

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username1 They're not even trying to be subtle anymore…

username2 leave YN alone challenge

username3 Franco to Red Bull confirmed? 👀

username5 WAIT WHAT

username7 the timing of this… right before quali 😬

username8 everyone acting surprised like this hasn't been brewing for weeks username11 They're trying to destabilize her before the race

liked by maxverstappen1, carlossainz55 and 2,093,032 others

yourinstagram brazil never disappoints. p15 ➡️ p2. proud of this one.

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username1 IM STILL CRYING

username2 MIC DROP

maxverstappen1 Proper racing today 💪🏻 That defense in the last 10 laps 🔥Love you kiddo, couldn't ask for a better teammate

↳ username1 max said SHE'S NOT GOING ANYWHERE

danielricciardo THIS IS WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! That's my girl!

username3 EVERYONE'S PRIDE AND JOY

username4 she got lucky and still no win this season

landonorris Absolute monster in the wet

logansargeant THAT'S MY BEST FRIEND

username5 this is why she deserves that seat

username6 where are all the haters now? 🤫

username7 that battle through the midfield was masterclass

username8 Silencing critics in the best way possible

liked by username1, username2 and 14,088 others

f1gossip YN's radio messages during Franco's crash show a different side to their "rivalry." Listen to how her voice changes when she finds out it's him. Sometimes the real feelings come through in moments like these.

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username2 this doesn't sound like someone who "hates" him

username3 top I'm crying 😭

username4 "tell me he's okay" broke me

username6 forget the rivalry narrative, that's genuine concern

username7 MY DRIVERS STOOOOP

username8 this is the most emotion we've heard from her all season

username9 notice how she's been cold towards him for weeks but the second he's in danger…

username10 SOMETHING SHIFTED

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

The easy banter has become your normal over the past week. Ever since Brazil, where you fought your way from P15 to P2 in treacherous conditions, something has shifted between you. The walls you'd carefully maintained started crumbling during that rain-soaked weekend.

Your phone buzzes again - this time it's Christian Horner requesting a meeting. Your stomach tightens instinctively. These meetings have become more frequent throughout the season, always with subtle undertones about your future with the team.

Franco: "Meeting with James in 10. Wish me luck not falling asleep in the sim debrief. Call you after?"

You: "Sure, good luck x"

The 'x' slips out before you can stop it - you've never added that before. Your finger hovers over the delete button, but he's already seen it.

Franco: "Did THE YN just send me a kiss? Screenshots being taken. This is historic

You're still smiling about your early interaction with Franco when you walk into Christian Horner's office, but his expression is serious enough to make your smile fade. You've been here before - these "casual meetings" that could determine your future.

"YN, thanks for making time," he gives a polite smile, "Please, take a seat."

You sit, trying to read his expression. Last week's podium trophy sits on a shelf behind him - your trophy, earned after fighting through half the grid.

"As you're aware, your contract includes certain performance clauses. While your recent results, particularly Brazil, have been impressive, we need to consider all options for the team's future."

That familiar knot in your stomach returns. "What kind of options?"

"I was at Williams recently," Christian says carefully, "discussing various possibilities, including Franco Colapinto."

The world seems to tilt slightly. Franco. At Williams. Meeting about possibilities. Just like with Logan.

"I got P2 in Brazil," you say, hating how defensive your voice sounds. "Started P15. In the rain. I battled with the entire grid while also defending for Max to secure a double podium."

"Yes, and it was an exceptional drive-"

"I'm fifth in the championship. I've scored podiums consistently despite the car being a nightmare to drive most of the times. What more do I need to do?"

Christian's expression remains neutral. "This isn't about any single result, YN. We need to evaluate all potential scenarios for the team's future."

"So you're considering replacing me," you say flatly. "With Franco."

"I trust you understand this is just business, YN," Christian says as you stand to leave. "We have to explore every option."

You pause at the door, turning back slightly. "Of course. Business." Your voice is perfectly controlled. "Just like my P2 in Brazil was business. My podiums were business. Everything I've given to this team has been business."

"YN-"

"No, I get it. Really." You manage a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. "If you'll excuse me, I have some sim work to review."

It hits you as you drive back to your apartment - every friendly conversation, every shared coffee, every late-night text… none of it was real. Franco isn't your friend. He's just another driver who sees you as an obstacle to overcome, a seat to claim. Just like everyone else since you entered F1, smiling to your face while plotting to take what's yours.

Back in your apartment, your phone keeps lighting up with Franco's messages, each one making your chest tighter. You can't bring yourself to block him - that feels too much like acknowledging how much this hurts. Instead, you just... stop responding. Set the phone aside. Focus on your laptop, on race data, on anything else.

Your phone rings - Oscar's familiar face popping up on the screen.

"Finally!" he exclaims when you answer. "I've been trying to reach you all day. You missed the most hilarious thing - Lando tried to make vegemite pasta."

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling. "Please tell me someone filmed it."

The conversation flows easily, almost making you forget about everything else. Almost.

"Oh yeah," Oscar adds casually, "ran into Franco at paddle today. He seemed pretty worried-"

"He better focus on preparing for his Red Bull seat instead."

"His what?" Oscar sounds confused. "Stinks, what are you on about?"

"Horner had meetings at Williams. About Franco. About possibilities. Sound familiar?"

"Hang on, hang on. Did you even talk to Franco about this? Because he genuinely seemed concerned-"

"Of course he seemed concerned, Os. That's the whole point."

"YN, I know you. You're doing that thing where you push people away before they can hurt you. But stinks, I really don't think-"

"I have to go. Sim data to review."

"At least talk to him-"

You end the call, turning back to your laptop. Three races left. Three chances to prove everyone wrong. No more distractions, no more letting your guard down.

You'll do it the only way that matters in F1 - on track, where lap times speak louder than friendly texts, and championship points mean more than shared coffee breaks.

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You've managed three weeks. Three weeks of perfectly crafted indifference, of calling him "the Williams driver" in interviews, of taking different routes through the paddock just to avoid those chance encounters that used to make your heart skip. Three weeks of pretending you don't miss his stupid sparkle messages, or the way he always saves you a coffee during early practice sessions.

But now your hands won't stop shaking as you stare at your dark phone screen, trying to ignore the screens showing the mangled Williams in the Las Vegas Strip. You've watched the replay seventeen times without meaning to, each time feeling your heart stop at the impact.

"This is getting ridiculous," Max's voice is quiet beside you, making you jump. You didn't even hear him approach. "Stop with this nonsense."

"I'm fine," you respond automatically, thumb still pretending to scroll on your black screen. "Just checking the timing sheets."

"Your phone isn't even on." Max's hand appears, gently taking the phone from your trembling grip. "They've taken him to UMC. Just go."

"I can't," you whisper, finally looking up at your teammate. You hate how your voice catches. "Everyone will—"

"Who cares what everyone will say?" Max interrupts, already reaching for your bag. "Hannah's got a car waiting. Go."

"I don't want to," you protest weakly, but even you can hear how unconvincing it sounds. "I don't need to—"

"Stop," Max's voice is firm but gentle. "You're not going back to this. Not after everything. You care about him, stop pretending you don't."

You take a shaky breath, then nod once. You're out of the garage before you can change your mind and rebuild those walls you've spent three weeks perfecting. Because Max is right – you do care. You care so much it terrifies you. And right now, nothing else matters except knowing he's okay.

You hate hospitals. You've spent too many hours in them after your own crashes, but somehow this is worse. Standing outside his room, you're suddenly unsure of everything. Three weeks of carefully constructed distance seems ridiculous now.

"You can come in instead of hovering at the door," Franco's voice carries from inside, slightly hoarse but still holding that hint of amusement that always used to drive you crazy. "Unless you're planning to run away again."

You step inside, trying to maintain some composure even as your heart clenches at the sight of him. "I wasn't running away," you say automatically, but it sounds weak even to your ears.

"No?" He raises an eyebrow, wincing slightly at the movement. "So you just happened to take different paddock routes?"

"Franco—"

"It's back to Franco now? Not 'the Williams driver'?" There's hurt beneath his teasing tone, and it makes your chest tight. "That last interview was particularly cold, by the way. Very convincing."

You stay by the door, arms crossed. "I thought that's what everyone wanted. Space. Distance. Rivalry."

"You're here now though."

"Max made me come," you lie.

"Sure he did." Franco's small smile tells you he sees right through you. "Nothing to do with how many times you asked if I was okay over the radio?"

You feel your cheeks heat up. Of course he's heard the radio already. "I would have asked about any driver."

"YN," his voice softens, and it breaks something in you. "Stop pretending. Please. I miss my friend."

The last words hit you hard, and you finally let your arms drop, taking a step closer. "I miss you too," you whisper, and it feels like admitting defeat and victory all at once. "I was so scared when I saw the crash."

"Come here," he says quietly, patting the edge of the bed.

You hesitate for just a moment before crossing the room, carefully sitting beside him. "I'm sorry," you say softly. "For these past weeks. For being harsh. For—"

"I know," he interrupts, his hand finding yours. "I know. But you're here now."

You squeeze his hand gently, feeling the walls you've built crumbling completely. "You could have died today and I would have never—" you stop yourself, running your thumb over his knuckles without thinking. "All because of this stupid seat."

Franco's quiet for a moment, then lets out a small laugh that turns into a wince. "Is that what you think? That I'm after your seat?"

"Aren't you?" You try to pull your hand away but he holds on. "The meetings with Christian, the—"

"YN," he interrupts, waiting until you look at him. "I never got any offers from RedBull.”

You freeze. "What?"

"I'm not taking your seat," he says softly. "In fact, I still don't have a seat."

"But...the meetings with Horner?" You're struggling to process this. "He basically told me they were considering options for next season, and those options were you in my seat."

"Sounds to me that he was pressuring you." His eyes hold yours. "My team had meetings with RedBull, yes. But we never got a solid offer, not even for VCARB."

You feel slightly dizzy. Three weeks of avoiding him, of building up walls, of convincing yourself he was just another driver trying to take your seat...

"I'm an idiot, aren't I?" you finally manage.

"Well, you've taken the long way through the paddock just to avoid me," he teases, then becomes serious. "I wouldn't hurt you like that. You know that. Or at least, you used to."

"I got scared," you admit quietly. "When I heard about the meetings, I just... it was easier to push you away than to admit that I care about you."

The silence that follows feels heavy with everything unsaid. Finally, Franco squeezes your hand gently.

"Well," he says softly, "nearly dying seems to have worked out well for me then."

"That's not funny," but you're fighting a smile.

"Made you come see me though, didn't it?"

"I hate you," but there's no heat in it.

"No, you don't," he says confidently. "You just admitted you care about me. No taking it back now."

You roll your eyes but don't deny it. "How are you feeling, really?"

"Like I crashed a car at 200mph," he grins, then softens. "Better now though."

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liked by francolapinto, maxverstappen1 and 1,908,479 others

yourinstagram champion x4 🏆so proud to be part of this journey. no one deserves it more than you @/maxverstappen1. thank you for being the best teammate anyone could ask for, on and off track.

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username1 IM CRYINGGGGG

username2 this is my family

maxverstappen1 Couldn't ask for a better teammate and bonus little sister. Thanks for having my back all season 💪🏻

↳ username1 HE SAID SHE'LL ALWAYS BE MY TEAMMATE

danielricciardo Look at my kids making me proud 🥹

christianhorner Fantastic team effort all year. Proud of both of you.

↳ username1 FIX HER CAR AND STOP FEEDING HER TO THE PRESS!!

username5 the way max waited to celebrate until she crossed the finish line

username6 remember when they said they wouldn't get along

username7 brother sister energy we love to see it

francolapinto Amazing work 🙌

↳ username8 bro ready to take her seat

username9 their relationship is too pure. max adores her like she's his little sister and yn would take a murder charge for him pretty much

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After showering and changing post-race, you're walking back to your hotel room when your phone buzzes. Franco's name lights up the screen: "Hey... could you come to my room? Need to get my mind off today. Room 412."

You hesitate only briefly before responding. After everything that's happened - the crash, the hospital, the conversations that followed - things between you have felt different.

Qatar had been grueling, you managed to score a solid P4 but the story for Franco had been different. He was part of a collision during turn one that ended his race right there. You heard it on the radio and your heart couldn't help but ache for him.

When you knock, Franco opens the door looking drained, his usual spark dimmed by the day's events. He's changed into soft sweatpants and a team shirt, hair still damp from his shower.

"That bad, huh?" you say softly, following him into the room.

He drops onto the bed with a sigh. "First lap incidents are the worst. All that preparation, all those hours in the sim… gone in seconds."

You settle into the armchair across from him. "I saw the replay. That wasn't your fault - Hulkenberg came across way too aggressively."

"Doesn't matter whose fault it was. Points are points, and I need them." He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you've come to recognize as stress. "The pressure's getting intense. Everyone keeps asking about next year's plans, and I just… I don't know."

"Hey," you say gently, moving to sit beside him. "You're one of the most talented drivers out there. Everyone sees it."

"Do they?" His voice is uncharacteristically vulnerable. "Because right now it feels like every mistake is being magnified. One DNF and suddenly everyone's questioning if I deserve the seat."

"I know that feeling too well," you admit. "I mean, I spent three weeks avoiding you because I thought you were after my seat."

That draws a small laugh from him. "Not my finest moment in the hospital, guilt-tripping you about it."

"It worked though, didn't it?" you nudge his shoulder playfully, "Plus, I guilt tripped you about Logan's seat for the longest time, it's only fair."

"Yeah, well, I was desperate. Do you know how hard it was watching you take different routes through the paddock just to avoid me?"

"About as hard as it was taking those routes," you say softly. "I missed you."

"You did manage to find some creative paths though," he teases, his mood lightening slightly. "I particularly enjoyed watching you duck behind Lando in the airport."

"I did not duck!"

"You absolutely did. Practically dove behind him. Poor guy had no idea why you suddenly needed an urgent conversation about sim settings."

You feel your cheeks heat up. "Well, what about you? Mr. 'Oh sorry, I didn't see you there' when we literally made eye contact in the media pen?"

"That was Oscar's fault! He told me my hair looked weird and I got distracted."

"Your hair always looks weird."

He gasps in mock offense. "Take that back! This hair has its own fan accounts."

"Yeah, horror fan accounts maybe," you tease.

"Says the person who needed my expert braiding skills before races."

"Which you learned from your sisters, if I remember correctly?"

His expression softens. "Actually… I might have YouTube'd it after Mexico."

That catches you off guard. "You… what?"

"Yeah," he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking sheepish. "Spent like three hours practicing on a rope I found in the gym. Alex caught me and wouldn't stop laughing."

"That's…" you feel something warm bloom in your chest. "That's actually really sweet."

"Don't tell anyone," he grins. "I have a reputation to maintain."

"Oh yeah? What reputation is that?"

"You know, cool, mysterious, definitely not the type to watch hair braiding tutorials."

You laugh. "Hate to break it to you, but anyone who's seen you try to work the coffee machine knows you're not mysterious."

"That machine is complicated!"

"It has three buttons!"

"Three very confusing buttons," he protests. "Besides, you're the one who always shows up right when I'm struggling with it."

"Pure coincidence."

"Right," he smirks. "Just like how you 'coincidentally' started showing up earlier to breakfast after I mentioned that's when I usually go?"

You feel your cheeks warm again. "I just… wanted to beat the rush."

"The rush of exactly two other drivers who eat that early?"

"Shut up," you mutter, but you're smiling.

The air between you changes, becomes charged with everything unsaid. You're suddenly very aware of how close you're sitting, how his eyes have dropped to your lips.

He doesn't say anything else, instead, he leans forward and kisses you, soft and careful, like he's afraid you might pull away. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you feel yourself melting into the touch.

When he pulls back, you blink at him, slightly dazed. "You kissed me."

His familiar smirk returns, though his eyes remain soft. "Well done, Sherlock."

You roll your eyes at his sass, but can't help smiling. This time, you're the one who leans in, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss is deeper, more certain. His hand slides into your hair as you press closer, and you feel him smile against your mouth.

"You know," he says softly, playing with a strand of your hair, "besides being one of my racing idols, you've also always been my crush."

You pull back slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Don't let it go to your head," he grins.

"Oh my god," you laugh. "You were such a fan! Did you have posters too?"

He groans, hiding his face in your shoulder. "I'm never telling you anything again."

"No, no, this is great," you tease. "I'm just a year and a half older than you, Colapinto, and you completely idolized me."

"I hate you," he mumbles into your shoulder.

"No you don't," you say confidently. "You just admitted you had a crush on me."

He lifts his head, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief. "Still do, actually. Although the real you is much more annoying than poster you."

"Poster me didn't call you out on your coffee machine struggles."

"Poster you was much nicer," he agrees, but he's smiling as he leans in to kiss you again.

This kiss is slower, deeper, filled with everything you've both been holding back. When you finally pull apart, you rest your forehead against his.

"Been wanting to do that for a while," he admits softly.

"Even when I was avoiding you? Or giving you crap to defend my best friend's honor?"

"Especially then. Do you know how adorable you looked trying to pretend you didn't see me in the paddock?"

"Shut up," you laugh.

"Never," he grins, pulling you closer. "I have years of fan stories to make up for."

You kiss him again just to shut him up, but you can feel him smiling against your lips, and you think maybe, just maybe, this is exactly where you're meant to be.

"You're never going to let me live down the fan thing, are you?" he asks when you break apart.

"Not a chance," you smirk. "I bet Alex has pictures of you practicing those braids too."

"Don't you dare!"

But you're already reaching for your phone, laughing as he tries to grab it from you, and somehow you end up tangled together on the bed, both laughing too hard to care about anything else.

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You're halfway through your coffee when Franco appears, wearing his team polo and that signature grin that used to irritate you but now makes your stomach flutter. It's still surreal how much has changed - from despising him for taking Logan's seat, to avoiding him over your seat rumors, to… whatever this is now. He slides into the seat next to you, leaning in for a kiss. You quickly place a hand on his chest, pushing him back playfully.

"Easy there, hotshot," you tease. "Let's keep it professional."

"Professional?" He raises an eyebrow, that mischievous glint in his eyes. "Come on, don't be shy now. Not after last week."

You feel your cheeks warm at the memory. "Last week was different. We were alone."

"Oh, so that's the rule? Only when we're alone?" He leans closer, lowering his voice. "Should we discuss what else happened when we were alone?"

"Franco!" You swat his arm, but you're fighting a smile.

"What? I'm just saying, for someone who used to avoid me like I had the plague, you sure changed your tune."

"Yeah, well," you stir your coffee, trying to maintain your composure, "turns out you're not as annoying as I thought."

"High praise," he chuckles. "Remember when you wouldn't even look at me in driver briefings?"

"Remember when you replaced my best friend and then tried to steal my seat?"

"I didn't try to steal your seat!" he protests. "That was all media speculation."

Before you can respond, Max drops into the seat across from you, already looking amused at finding you two together.

"Well, well," he says, reaching for the coffee pot. "If it isn't my favorite teammate and her… what are we calling this now?"

You roll your eyes. "We're calling it none of Max's business."

"Everything is Max's business," Max says cheerfully. "Especially when said business involves my teammate getting cozy with the competition."

Franco's phone buzzes and his expression shifts slightly as he reads the message, and you catch that flicker of worry he's been trying to hide all weekend. The weight of it being potentially his last race in F1 has been hanging over both of you.

"Engineers?" you ask softly.

"Yeah," he sighs. "Last pre-race meeting of the season. Hopefully not my last ever," he adds, attempting a joke that falls flat.

You reach for his hand under the table, giving it a quick squeeze. "Hey, you've shown what you can do this year. The pace is there, the talent is there-"

"The results aren't," he cuts in, running his free hand through his hair. "DNF and crashes don't exactly scream 'keep me for next year.'"

"The car's been shit though," Max speaks up, "Everyone knows that. You've outqualified your teammate and scored points."

"Try telling that to the team principals," Franco says, attempting a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Anyway, better go before they add 'chronically late' to my resume." He stands, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "See you later?"

"Of course," you say softly. "Good luck in the meeting."

Once Franco leaves, Max leans forward, "Okay, spill. Everything. Now."

"There's nothing to spill."

"Nothing to spill?" Max scoffs. "Last month you were convinced he was plotting to take your seat, and now he's kissing you goodbye at breakfast? That's not nothing."

"You don't need to know everything about my life, Max," you try to busy yourself with your coffee, that's pretty much cold by now.

"I'm the older brother you never wanted but got stuck with anyway, so I do need to know about these things."

You sigh, knowing he won't let this go. "Fine. After Qatar, things changed. We… spent time together."

"Spent time together?" Max wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"Not like that!" you protest, then lower your voice. "Well, not just like that. We talked a lot. About everything again - the rumors, the misunderstandings, why I was so angry about Logan, and… I don't know. It's different now. Good different. When I'm with him, everything just feels…" you trail off, searching for the right words.

"Right?" Max supplies, his teasing tone softening.

"Yeah," you admit. "Which makes this whole situation even harder. If he doesn't get a seat…"

"Then you'll figure it out," Max says, "But let's not write him off yet. Season's not over until the checkered flag."

You nod, but can't help glancing at the door Franco left through. "You know what's ironic?" you say, turning back to Max. "A few months ago, I was worried about him taking my seat. Now I'd give anything for him to have one, anywhere on the grid."

Max smiles knowingly. "Amazing what a few kisses can do."

"It's not just that," you protest. "He deserves to be here. He's so talented-"

"And you're completely smitten," Max interrupts, grinning.

"Shut up," You throw a napkin at him. "I'm getting a new teammate next year," you declare.

"No you're not," Max laughs. "You love me." He pauses, suddenly looking both nervous and excited. "Actually… want to know a secret?"

Something in his tone makes you lean forward. "Always."

"Kelly's pregnant," he says, a huge grin spreading across his face. "We just found out last month"

You practically leap across the table to hug him, nearly knocking over both your coffees in the process. "Oh my god! Max! I'm going to be an auntie!"

He laughs, hugging you back. "Actually…" he pulls back slightly to look at you, "What do you think about being a godmother?"

Your eyes widen. "Are you serious?"

"Of course," he grins. "Who else would I trust to teach my kid how to properly terrorize the paddock?"

You feel tears welling up in your eyes. "I'm going to spoil them so much," you warn, hugging him again. "Like, an absolutely ridiculous amount."

"I know," he laughs. "That's kind of counting on it."

"Does anyone else know?"

"Just family for now," he says. "And you, obviously. Because you are family."

You're definitely crying now. "I hate you for making me cry before a race weekend."

"Sure you do," he grins. "Just like you hate Franco, right?"

You wipe your eyes, deciding to ignore his comment. "God, I can't believe you're going to be a dad!"

"Me neither," he admits, and there's something soft and vulnerable in his expression that makes your heart squeeze. "It's scary but… in a good way, you know?"

"You're going to be amazing," you tell him seriously. "The best dad ever."

His smile turns mischievous. "Just wait until Franco gets you pregnant-"

"And that's my cue to leave," you gather your things. "Congratulations again, future dad. I love you, even when you're the worst."

His laughter follows you out of the room. "Love you too, future godmother!"

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liked by maxverstappen1, francolapinto and 2,099,437 others

yourinstagram ABU DHABI WINNER! 🏆✨ still feels surreal to type those words. to win the last race of the season, after everything… no words can describe this feeling. thank you to every single person who never stopped believing in me, even when things got tough. to my incredible team - this one's for you. we did it! 🧡

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username1 SHE FUCKING DID IT

username2 first win of the season in the last race - poetic justice

username3 the way everyone doubted her at the start of the season and now look at her QUEEN BEHAVIOR

logansargeant YESSSS! That move was legendary! So proud of you!

username4 this feels so RIGHT

francolapinto Mi campeona 🖤 That last lap move was 🔥

↳ username1 IM CRYING OMFG

↳ username2 THEY'RE SO TOGETHER I DON'T MAKE THE RULES

username5 brb i'll be crying while i watch that video of her hugging franco

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You're still riding the high of your Abu Dhabi win as you unlock your apartment door. Your first win of the season, in the last race - it feels poetic, somehow. Like a final "fuck you" to everyone who doubted you, who questioned your seat, who spent the entire season speculating about your future.

The trophy sits in your bag, along with the champagne bottle Charles insisted you keep. Franco follows you in, still wearing that soft smile he's had since he watched you cross the finish line.

He's staying at your apartment since he doesn't have a place in Monaco and the now traditional drivers dinner is happening, after all you time together, inviting him over felt...natural.

The past few days have been a whirlwind - the podium, the celebrations, the multiple kisses stolen in your motorhome between media duties. The flight to Monaco where you both pretended to sleep but kept "accidentally" touching hands. It should feel fast, rushed, but somehow it just feels right.

"Still can't believe you pulled that move on the last lap," Franco says, dropping his bags by the door. "Even Max was impressed, I think you broke his brain a little."

"Speaking of broken, try not to destroy anything while you're here," you tease. "Some of us actually live in Monaco full-time."

Franco turns to you with mock offense. "When have I ever broken anything?"

"Do you want the list chronologically or alphabetically?" you raise an eyebrow. "Because I distinctly remember a certain incident with Lewis' scooter…"

"That was a manufacturing defect and you know it," he protests, moving closer.

"Sure it was," you laugh. "Just like the tablet in Singapore was a 'technical malfunction'?"

He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne, the same one that's been driving you crazy since Qatar. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Never," you confirm, but your voice comes out softer than intended because he's looking at you the way he has been since that first kiss in his room - like you're something precious.

"Guest room's down the hall," you say quickly, trying to maintain some semblance of control. "Bathroom's across from it, you know the drill."

Franco raises an eyebrow, that mischievous glint in his eyes that you're starting to know too well. "You're really going to make me take the guest room? After all our bonding?"

"Bonding?" you scoff. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Well, what would you call making out in your motorhome? And the plane bathroom? And-"

You cut him off by pressing your hand to his mouth. "Those were… moments of weakness."

He kisses your palm before moving your hand, and the simple gesture shouldn't make your heart race like it does. "Lots of moments."

"I was emotionally vulnerable," you argue weakly.

"Uh-huh," he steps closer, backing you against the wall. "And now?Are you emotionally vulnerable now?" His hands find your waist, and you try to ignore how right they feel there.

"I'm…" you start, but then he's kissing you, slow and deep, and you forget what you were going to say.

When he pulls back, you're both breathing heavily. "We should get ready for dinner," you manage.

"We should," he agrees, but kisses you again.

"Franco," you mumble against his lips. "We're already late."

"Five more minutes," he murmurs, trailing kisses down your neck.

It ends up being fifteen minutes before you finally push him away, your lips swollen and hair slightly messed up.

"Guest room," you point firmly. "Get changed."

He grins, stealing one last quick kiss before grabbing his bag. "Yes, boss."

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yourinstagram has added to their close friends story

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You arrive at Lewis' Monaco penthouse a fashionably acceptable ten minutes late, Franco's hand resting casually on your lower back as the elevator opens to the top floor. The space is already filled with the familiar chatter of your fellow drivers, the city lights twinkling through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Look who finally made it," Charles calls out, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Got lost on the way from your apartment? It's only three blocks…"

"Traffic," you say smoothly, ignoring Franco's poorly concealed laugh beside you.

"Must have been terrible," Alex joins in, eyes twinkling. "Considering you live literally around the corner."

Lewis appears, saving you from having to respond. He hugs you warmly before turning to Franco with a grin. "No scooters allowed inside this time, mate."

"That was one time!" Franco protests as everyone laughs. "And it was definitely faulty manufacturing."

The evening flows easily, conversation and wine flowing freely as everyone celebrates the end of another season. You find yourself constantly aware of Franco's presence - the way he automatically hands you your favorite wine, how his hand finds yours under the table, the soft looks he gives you when he thinks no one's watching.

(They're all watching. These are racing drivers - subtlety isn't their strong suit.)

"Get together, everyone!" you call out later, holding up your phone. "I want a picture."

There's the usual chaos of twenty-odd drivers trying to arrange themselves, plenty of shoving and laughing as everyone finds their spot. Franco ends up behind you, his chest pressed against your back, hands resting lightly on your waist.

"Alright, someone else take it," Lando announces. "YN's too busy making heart eyes at Franco to frame it properly."

"I am not-"

"You kind of are," Pierre interrupts with a grin.

"Just like in Abu Dhabi," Oscar adds. "And the flight home. And baggage claim. And-"

"I hate all of you."

The night continues with more conversation, more drinks, and constant teasing from your friends. Even Charles joins in, muttering something about "finally dealing with all that sexual tension in the briefings."

By the time you leave, you're both pleasantly tipsy, walking back to your apartment with slightly unsteady steps. The moment your door closes behind you, the atmosphere shifts.

"So," he says finally, stepping closer. "About that guest room…"

"What about it?" you ask, but you're already moving toward him.

"I'm thinking," he cups your face with one hand, "that it would be a shame to use it."

"Would it?"

"Mhmm," he's close enough now that you can feel his breath on your lips. "Especially when the winner deserves proper celebrations."

"Or maybe you're just being a horndog," you tease, even as your hands find their way to his chest.

"Maybe," he concedes. "Or maybe I just can't stop thinking about kissing you."

Your breath catches. "You've already kissed me plenty today."

"Not enough," he murmurs, then proves his point by capturing your lips with his.

The kiss is different from all the others. Those were stolen moments, quick and heated. This is slower, deeper, like he's trying to memorize every second.

"Don't make me take the guest room," he murmurs against your lips.

You pretend to think about it, even as your hands slip under his shirt. "Well, since you asked so nicely…"

"I can be very nice," he grins, then kisses you again, backing you toward your bedroom.

"Prove it," you challenge.

The guest room remains empty that night. And many nights after.

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liked by pierregasly, francolapinto and 2,044,387 others

yourinstagram i love my little dysfunctional family !! yes i'm the one behind the camera

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username1 THIS IS LEGENDARY

username3 FRANCO'S FACE ??? DEVASTATED BC HIS GIRL IS NOT NEXT TO HIM

lewishamilton Always family ❤️

oscarpiastri Never sitting between you and your lover boy again..

↳ username1 HUH??

↳ username2 oscar spill the deets PLEASE

↳ logansargeant to the gc NOW

↳ username3 LET ME INNNNN

↳ username4 im crying

↳ yourinstagram i hate you both

francolapinto ❤️

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yn's biggest fans groupchat

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You're curled up on your couch, watching the lights of Monaco twinkle through your window as snow falls softly outside. Franco's just finished unpacking his bags, having arrived from Argentina an hour ago. The past weeks without him felt strangely empty, even though you'd been surrounded by family for Christmas.

"Mama keeps asking about the foods I mentioned you cook," Franco says, settling beside you with a grin. "She's convinced I'm making it up."

"Did you tell her it's mostly pasta and those empanadas you taught me to make?"

"Si, but she says my standards have dropped since moving to Europe," he laughs, stealing some of your blanket. "How was your family?"

"Good. Dad's still buzzing about Abu Dhabi. He's watched the replay about fifty times, especially that last lap battle with Max," you grin, throwing your legs over his lap. "How was home?"

"Hot," he sighs contentedly. "Really hot. Nothing like a proper Argentinian summer."

"Meanwhile I was freezing in London," you poke his side. "Speaking of which… don't you have some news to share?"

He raises an eyebrow. "How did you-"

"Carlos texted me. He's terrible at keeping secrets."

Franco runs a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture you've come to recognize. "I signed with Williams. As their reserve driver for next season, there's talk about 2026, but nothing concrete yet."

"Franco!" you exclaim, throwing your arms around him. "That's amazing!"

He hugs you back, letting out a relieved laugh. "You think so?"

"Of course I do!" you pull back to look at him. "Williams is doing great things, and with Carlos and Alex there…" you trail off, seeing something in his expression. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing bad," he assures quickly. "Just… I'll be based in England a lot. For simulator work and development."

"Oh," you say quietly, understanding dawning. You'd gotten used to having him here, in your space, in the paddock, in your life.

"Hey," he tilts your chin up. "It's not that far. And I'll still be at all the races. Plus," his lips quirk up, "I hear Nice has a pretty good airport."

You can't help but smile. "True. And I suppose I could be convinced to visit Grove occasionally."

"Only occasionally?" he teases.

"Well, I am very busy and important," you say loftily, making him laugh.

His eyes drop to your lips. "I'm sure you can save some time for me," he murmurs before closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft and familiar, like coming home after a long trip. When you pull back, he's wearing that small smile that always makes your stomach flip.

You settle back against him, comfortable silence falling between you. "Talk to me about next season," he says eventually. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"Honestly? I'm nervous," you admit. "Abu Dhabi was amazing, but what if it was just luck? What if I can't do it again?"

"The same way Suzuka was luck? And Singapore? And that insane qualifying in Baku?" Franco shifts to look at you properly, "You've been fast all season. Abu Dhabi just proved what everyone already knew."

"Smooth," you laugh, then remember something. "Oh! Speaking of next year - what are you doing for New Year's Eve?"

"Nothing yet. Why?"

"Logan's throwing a party in Florida for his birthday. Want to come?"

Franco hesitates. "Won't that be…"

"What? Weird because you stole his seat?" you tease, making him groan.

"I thought we cleared that up months ago," he protests.

"We did, I just like messing with you," you grin. "Come on, it'll be fun. There'll be cake."

“You know my weakness,” he sighs dramatically. “Does this mean I get to kiss you at midnight?”

“Bold of you to assume you’ll be my midnight kiss,” you tease, even as you lean into him.

“No? Planning on kissing someone else?” he raises an eyebrow, hands settling on your waist.

“Maybe. Logan might have a hot friend…”

"Terrible," he murmurs against your lips. "You're terrible."

"You like it," you whisper back, just before he kisses you again.

When you finally break apart, he's already reaching for the remote. "Want to watch Qatar?"

You groan, but you're smiling. "I hate you."

"No you don't," he says confidently, pulling up the race highlights.

And as he starts his terrible commentary, making you laugh despite yourself, you think about how easy this is - whatever this is between you. No labels, no pressure, just… this.

Outside, Monaco continues to sparkle under the falling snow, but in here, with Franco's warmth beside you and his voice in your ear pointing out "that brilliant move you did in turn 4" for the hundredth time, you think maybe some things don't need defining to be perfect.

Plus, you already know who your midnight kiss is going to be. Not that you'll tell him that - his ego's big enough as it is.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 12,870 others

f1gossip Spotted: F1's power couple enjoying a day out in Monaco! Franco Colapinto and YN were seen strolling around today, looking very cozy! The pair, who have been subject to dating rumors seemed to have no interest in hiding their relationship anymore.

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username1 THE FUUUUUCK

username2 i don't like this..

username3 FRANCO GET AWAYYYY she's going to distract him

username4 why is this lowkey powerful

username5 THIS PLOT TWIST OMFG

username6 i thought they hated each other ??

username7 oh how the tables have turned

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Music pulses from Logan's Miami beach house as you and Franco make your way up the palm-lined driveway. The December air is surprisingly warm, fairy lights twinkling in every tree and reflecting off the pool visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Your hand is loosely intertwined with Franco's, something that still gives you butterflies even after weeks of... whatever this is between you.

"Birthday boy!" you call out as Logan spots you from the entrance, where he's greeting guests in a ridiculous party hat and an even more ridiculous Hawaiian shirt.

"If it isn't my best friend and the guy who stole my seat," Logan grins, pulling you into a tight hug before turning to Franco with an exaggerated suspicious look that quickly breaks into a genuine smile. "Good to see you, man."

"Happy birthday," Franco offers with a grin, accepting Logan's enthusiastic handshake-turned-hug. "Nice shirt."

"Right? YN said it was terrible, but what does she know about fashion?"

"Hey!" you protest, but you're laughing. "I have great taste."

Logan's eyes drift meaningfully to your joined hands. "Clearly," he smirks, making you blush and Franco chuckle. "Drinks are everywhere, food's by the pool, try not to fall in."

"That was one time," you mutter as Logan gets pulled away by more arriving guests.

Franco raises an eyebrow. "One time?"

"Don't ask. Come on, I need a drink before I tell you that story."

After getting drinks, you find yourself drifting between groups, Franco's hand a constant presence at the small of your back or linked with yours. It's nice, you think, not having to overthink every interaction, every touch. Here, away from the paddock and the cameras, you can just... be.

It's about an hour into the party when Logan finds you again, now sporting two party hats and what looks suspiciously like glitter on his cheek.

"Stinks! Just the person I wanted to see," he announces, dragging you away from where Franco is deep in conversation with Alex. "Back in five," he tells Franco with an exaggerated wink that makes you roll your eyes.

"Subtle," you comment as Logan leads you to the makeshift bar.

"Please, subtle went out the window when you two showed up holding hands like teenagers at prom," he snorts, mixing drinks with practiced ease. "Speaking of which..."

"Don't start," you warn, but you're fighting a smile.

"Me? Start something? Never," he puts a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I just find it interesting that the same person who spent three hours ranting to me about 'that arrogant Argentine who stole your seat' is now making heart eyes at him across my party."

"You're impossible."

"And you're happy," he says softly, his teasing tone giving way to something more sincere. "Like, really happy. I haven't seen you like this in… well, ever."

You look down at your drink, feeling your cheeks warm. "Yeah, well…"

"Hey," Logan nudges your shoulder. "It's a good thing. You deserve this, YN. Someone who gets you, who understands the pressure and the crazy schedule and still looks at you like you hung the moon."

"He doesn't-"

"He absolutely does. Trust me, I've been watching him watch you all night. It's disgustingly cute."

"I'm kind of scared, Logan," you look down at your hands nervously, "Six months ago, I hated him. And now I can't picture myself apart from him. It's all happening really fast and I'm not quite sure when everything shifted, but I feel like there's no going back now. And that's terrifies me."

"Stinks," Logan says gently, "you didn't hate him. You were hurt because of how everything went down with the seat, and you projected that onto him. I get being scared. This sport… it complicates things. But I've seen how he looks at you and how you look at him. It's okay to have feelings for him."

"How do you always know what to say?" you look up at him.

"Because I'm your best friend," he squeezes your shoulder. "Now go get your man. And please kiss him at midnight so I can win the bet with Alex."

"You bet on us?!"

"The whole grid did. I have fifty bucks riding on tonight!"

Later, as midnight approaches, you find yourself on the beach with Franco, fairy lights and stars twinkling above. Your conversation with Logan keeps playing in your mind, making you fidgety.

"You okay?" Franco asks softly, touching your arm.

"FIVE MINUTES!" someone shouts from the house.

"I have feelings for you," you blurt out. "Like, real feelings. And I know it's fast and complicated and I was horrible to you at first because I was hurt about the seat thing but then you were so nice and understanding and you brought me coffee after bad practice sessions and you defended me to the press and you make me laugh even when I'm trying to be mad and your accent gets thicker when you're tired which is unfairly adorable and-"

"THREE MINUTES!"

"-and sometimes I catch you looking at me in debriefs and it makes me forget what I'm saying and Oscar keeps making these knowing faces at us and I pretend to be annoyed but actually I kind of like it and-"

"SIXTY SECONDS!"

"-and I know this could complicate everything but I can't stop thinking about you and the way you smile when you see me in the morning and how you remember how I like my coffee and-"

"TEN! NINE! EIGHT!"

"-and maybe this is crazy but I really really like you and I know we should probably talk about what this means for next season but-"

"FOUR! THREE!"

"-and I just needed you to know-"

"TWO! ONE!"

Franco cuts off your rambling with a kiss, one hand cupping your face while the other pulls you closer. You melt into him as fireworks explode overhead, your heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the celebration around you.

When he pulls back, he's wearing that soft smile that always makes your stomach flip. "You're so cute when you rant."

"I don't rant," you protest weakly.

"Mi amor, you just spent ten minutes listing all the things you like about me, including my accent."

"Shut up."

He laughs, pressing his forehead to yours. "I want to be with you, YN. Officially, properly, no more undefined territory. I want everyone to know that you're mine and I'm yours. I want morning coffees and post-race celebrations and quiet moments like this. I want all of it, with you."

"Yeah?" you whisper, hardly daring to believe it.

"Yeah," he confirms, brushing his thumb across your cheek. "I'm crazy about you, in case my terrible attempts at flirting haven't made that obvious."

"Your flirting isn't terrible."

He kisses you again, laughing against your lips. "So… is that a yes?"

You pretend to think about it. "I don't know, Logan's friend is looking pretty good tonight…"

"Terrible," he murmurs, pulling you impossibly closer. "You're terrible."

"You like it," you smile, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"I like everything about you."

Your heart skips. "Everything?"

"Everything," he confirms. "Even your terrible taste in coffee."

You laugh, bright and happy, before pulling him down for another kiss. Around you, the party continues, music and waves and distant fireworks creating a perfect backdrop to this moment. When you finally break apart, you're both breathless and smiling.

"Happy New Year," you murmur.

"The happiest," he agrees, and as he leans in again, you think that maybe some feelings are worth being scared of, especially when they lead to moments like this.

Plus, you just won Logan a bet. Not that you'll tell him that.

[dragon-ball-meta]

Finally feel like I can say something coherent, so here goes... I say this without a shred of exaggeration: Akira Toriyama was legitimately one of the most important creative figures of the last 50 years. His work, especially Dragon Ball, has influenced SO much even outside its own medium. Movies, TV, cartoons, comic books, video games, MUSIC... all of it. You can see his fingerprints in so many other works. Even now, artists and writers, voice actors and animators, musicians and game devs are all mourning him and reflecting on the impact he had on their own work. Titans of anime and manga are sharing in this pain. The craziest thing about this though? The humility he had in spite of it. He was always reluctant to be in the spotlight, preferred to keep his head down and just work, never really worried that much about public perception of himself. Part of what makes him such an icon, man. Losing him is losing a piece of our shared history. It's something that resonates deep in the hearts of everyone his work touched. This is just... such a loss. And I can't even begin to imagine what his family is going through right now. Praying for them all. Rest in Peace to a literal Legend, an absolute Icon, and a personal inspiration in more ways than I could ever express properly.

[fishofthewoods]

I see a lot of people clowning on the people of Pelican Town for not repairing the community center themselves or clowning on Lewis for embezzling and. like. Those criticisms aren't entirely unfair. But I think instead of coming at it from a perspective of "why can't the townspeople do this" we should be asking "why and how can the farmer do this?"

Like. Think about it. The farmer arrives in Stardew Valley on the first day of spring. By the first day they're obviously different. By day five the spirits of the forest who haven't been seen by the townsfolk in years or generations are speaking to them. By the second week they've developed a rapport with the wizard that lives outside town.

In the spring they go foraging and find more than even Linus, who's spent so many years learning the ways of the valley. Maybe he knows, when he sees them walking back home. Maybe he looks at them and understands that they're different, chosen somehow.

In the summer they fish in the lakes and the ocean for hours on end, catching fish that even Willy's only ever heard of, fish that he thought were the stuff of legend. They pull up giants from the deep and mutated monstrosities from the sewers.

In the fall, their crops grow incredibly immense; pumpkins twice as tall as a person, big enough that someone could live inside. The farmer cuts it down with an axe without even batting an eye. Does Lewis wonder, when he checks the collection bin that night and finds it full to the brim with pumpkin flesh? What does he think? Does he even leave the money? Does he have the funds to pay the farmer millions of dollars for the massive amounts of wine they sell? Or is it someone--something--else entirely?

In the winter, the farmer delves into the mines. No one in Pelican Town has been down there in decades. No one in living memory has been to the bottom. The farmer gets there within the season. They return to the surface with stories of dwarven ruins and shadow people, stories they only tell to Vincent and Jas, whose retellings will be dismissed by the adults as flights of fancy. People walking by the entrance to the mines sometimes hear the farmer in there, speaking in a language no one can understand. Something speaks back.

The farmer speaks to the the wizard. They speak to the spirit of a bear inside a centuries-old stone. They speak to the shadow people and the dwarves, ancient enemies, and they try to mend the rift. They speak to the Junimos, ancient spirits of the forest and the river and the mountain. They taste the nectar of the stardrops and speak to the valley itself. They change Pelican Town, and they change the valley. Things are waking up.

And what does Evelyn think? She's the oldest person in the valley; she was here when the farmer's grandfather was young. (How old *is* she, anyway? She never seems to age. She doesn't remember the year she was born.) Does she see the farmer and think of their grandfather? Does she try to remember if he was like this too, strange and wild and given the gifts of the forest?

And does their grandfather haunt the valley? He haunts the farm, still there even after his death; his body died somewhere else, but his spirit could never stay away for long. Does Abigail, using her ouija board on a stormy night, almost drop the planchette when she realizes it's moving on its own? Does Shane, walking to work long before anyone else leaves their house, catch glimpses of a wispy figure floating through the town? Does the farmer know their grandfather came back to the place they both love so much?

Mr. Qi takes interest in the farmer. He's different, too; in a different way, maybe, but the principles are the same. They're both exceptional, and no matter what Qi says about it being hard work and dedication, they both know the truth: the world bends around the both of them, changing to fit their needs. Most people aren't visited by fairies or witches. Most people don't have meteorites crash in their yard. Most people couldn't chop down trees all day without a break or speak to bears and mice and frogs.

The farmer is different. The rules of the world don't work for them the way they work for everyone else. The farmer goes fishing and finds the stuff of fairy tales. The farmer goes mining and fights shadow beasts and flying snakes. The farmer looks at paths the townspeople walk every day and finds buried in the dirt relics of lost civilizations.

The farmer is a violent, irrepressible miracle, chosen by the valley and destined to return to it someday. Even if they'd never received the letter, they would've come home.

They always come home eventually.

[ozzgin]

Santa baby are you really there?!

*hears a voice in my backyard*

FUCK SKIN WALKER

- you make Yan skinwalker i’ll do anything to get a skin walker to love me … yes I am 100% mentally stable

I'm not sure if you had something horror-esque in mind, because my immediate idea was Reader accidentally getting cursed and continuing her life completely unaware with a ""dog"" everyone is freaked out by, but she finds it cute. So more like dark comedy vibes. You be the judge. :D

Disclaimer: I have changed the name to Shapeshifter as to not delve into potentially offensive takes on native folklore. Thank you for informing my European ass.

Yandere!Monster x Reader [Shapeshifter]

On your last hiking trip, you've stumbled upon a helpless, lost dog. Or rather, it stalked you down to your cabin and spent the night in front of your window. You didn't have the heart to abandon the poor soul and so you brought it home with you. Strange things have been happening ever since and no one knows how to tell you that the monstrous coyote-like creature might be to blame. You're oblivious to everything.

Content: female reader, dark comedy, monster romance, reader is cursed and proud

It wasn't your intention to return home with a new pet. Some might say it was written in the stars, this fateful encounter of yours. You had finished packing your supplies for a day-long hike, vehemently refusing to join your group of friends that would be guided around by a native. They’d warned you many areas of the mountainous forest were supposedly cursed or haunted, so you just scribbled the limits on your makeshift map and promised to stay on the main trails. After all, this was your chance to commune with nature. As the sun begun to set, you wondered if going by yourself was indeed a smart idea, given your lack of spatial awareness and difficulty to navigate maps. You flipped the piece of paper several times, deep in contemplation. Could it be that you’ve reached the forbidden lands? You quickly surveyed the area: based on the stuffed rag dolls hanging from old branches, and the animal skulls arranged in patterns among patches of burnt grass, it was very much a possibility. Perhaps the improvised slab that said “Stay away” in dripping crimson letters should’ve been enough of a warning, but you assumed they’d just been creative with trail markers.

You didn’t have the time to panic. Just as you were furrowing your eyebrows in a final attempt to decipher the map (at the time upside-down), your ears picked up a faint shuffle of leaves. Further away stood a dog, its glossy eyes fixated on your form. A lost puppy? It seemed to be on the larger side, but then again some breeds grow rather fast. You lowered yourself and patted your knees, whispering diminutives in an effort to call the animal over. It remained in place, staring quietly. Alright, then. You focused on finding your way back instead. Every now and then you'd turn back and see the dog, motionlessly eyeing you at a constant distance. Oh, dear. Was it lost? Frightening affair.

Back at the cabin you told the others about your discovery, with a hint of worry in your voice. You hoped the little pup had found proper shelter. You'd expected a similar reaction coming from your friends, but one of them suggested: "What if it was some shapeshifting monster? There's many legends and stories from the area." Everyone laughed and you joined hesitantly, mildly annoyed by the lack of empathy. That night you barely slept, twisting and turning under the heavy feeling of being watched. You woke up tired and nervous, dragging your feet towards the window for some fresh air. That's when you saw the same forest creature, fully awake and tall in its glory, positioned before your room. This was no coincidence. You had been plagued by the guilt of abandoning a vulnerable quadruped and you weren't about to continue as a passive observer. You strode out without a word and lifted the large dog with a huff, carrying it back in to figure out the transport logistics.

Thus started the unexpected companionship. To you, it's a lovely tale of two lost souls finding one another. Most people seem to disagree. Can you blame them? The rescued puppy you often speak of is, in the eyes of everyone else, a monstrous beast by all definitions. It resembles a coyote more than a dog, but even this description is too gentle. The fur is always raised threateningly and the protruding clusters of fangs remind one of the anatomical anomalies displayed in museums. The eyes, oh, the worst of all perhaps, bottomless depths that pull you in until you run out of air. The creature stares with the all-knowing gaze of a human. "Don't be rude", you snap at whoever dares to point these details out. "It must be a mixed breed or something."

Their persistence is truly ridiculous. You've even had guests run out in panic, claiming the dog stood on its back legs and whispered in a language unknown. Or that its shadow would morph into a grotesque man with claws and crooked antlers. Or that they've found it hunched over your sleeping form, its spine twisted outwards with jagged peaks breaking through the wild fur. Rubbish, all of it.

Strange things have been happening, no doubt, but your adopted fur-child has no blame to carry. You've been trying to distract yourself, going on dates and occasionally bringing potential suitors over. They all vanish overnight, nonchalantly leaving an empty, ruffled bed for you to wake up to. "Am I just unlucky?" You sigh, running your fingers through the coarse fur of your dog. It lowers itself under your touch, visibly enjoying the affection. For a split second, it glances out the window. By the time you come out of your depressed slump, the birds should've finished feeding on the remains. He made sure to tear and grind everything fine enough to not leave any marks behind.

That's how curses work, after all. He didn't expect, however, that you'd be utterly unaware of it. He has to give you the credit, not many people become stalked by an ancient curse and continue their life in blissful ignorance. Even more, for them to just casually pick up the haunting entity and bring it inside their home willingly...You're, uh, certainly a special one. Hence the change of plans. He was supposed to torment you into an early grave, but he's grown rather attached to your bizarre antics. And you do provide some damn good chin scratches. He's therefore satisfied with causing anguish and destruction to anything and anyone in your immediate vicinity instead. Since you've been complaining about the resulting isolation...

You wake up with a gasp, wiping your drenched forehead and checking the sheets. The dog is curled next to you, although its head is now tilted in your direction. "O-oh. It might be the loneliness talking...but I had the strangest dream." How troubling and embarrassing. Your beloved pet had turned into a deformed, monstrous man instead, pinning you down and hungrily grazing your skin with his sharp teeth. Your fearful protests eventually turned into shameless moans, your frail body at the mercy of the mysterious beast. It unfolded so vividly that your core feels sore. You stretch a sheepish hand towards your pet and abruptly stop halfway, noticing the marks diffused into your wrist, like violet smudges of watercolor. What the hell did you do last night?

The dog buries its head under the sheets and nuzzles its snout into your soft flesh. Heh. How many more disappearing guests will be needed for you to figure out your situation? He does find your obliviousness terribly amusing, as well as your willingness to clutch onto him despite his unsightly appearance. He was feeling particularly cheeky and thought of giving you a little scare, only to be once again taken aback by your neediness. He has to wonder who exactly is trapped in this situation, because your reactions to everything he does are frighteningly tempting. Maybe tonight he'll finally let you know, just as you're about to come undone beneath his heaving body. Something like, hmmm. "By the way, love, this isn't a dream." He could even add a little "woof" to tease you more.

[sugarlywhispers]

viking!b.katsuki x fem!reader

a.n; i wanted to give viking!bakugou a try, and honestly, this is all @imaginationmess fault for feeding me fanarts of bakugou and his dragon🙃 luv you tho🤍

Viking Bakugou Katsuki who rides the biggest and most terrifying dragon that has ever existed.

A legend said that his dragon in particular had been going on for generations in his family, no one willing to risk their life to tame it. Until Katsuki’s uncle, Bakugou Kudo, did it. He had been the first in generations to ride this dragon. Yet he understood that the bond between dragon and riders was not consolidated between them.

When Katsuki was eight, the little shit escaped the hut and went towards where the nests were. Kudo almost had a heart attack when he saw the brat far off and almost there. He sprinted as fast as he could, a tragedy already displaying in his head –the kid being incinerated, turned to ashes, and his sister cutting his dick off for being a sorry ass uncle. Fuck, and he would had deserved it. Because even though he had tamed the beast, it was still very unstable to let anyone close to it; one of his own men had suffered the consequences of trying to get close, more than half his body had been burned. He was no longer part of their battles.

However, Kudo saw in first person how a dragon’s bond was created. Between his terrifying dragon and his little nephew.

It hadn’t looked much from his perspective, yet he felt the magical aura surrounding them. Katsuki laughed as he touched the dragon’s snot like it was a mer pup, happy and excited while climbing its leg with such ease until he was up on its back, right behind the head. The dragon himself helped the kid to reach the place. Kudo noticed then the beast’s eyes shining a very resplendent gold. Yep, that was definitely a bond.The kid was anything but scared, as he caressed the dragon's head, hugging it even.

Kudo smiled, shaking his head, hands over his hips as he took a deep breath, relaxing. The dragon was only letting him ride it because it knew that Katsuki was his bonded rider and Kudo was related by blood to the kid.

As years went by, the bond only became stronger and deeper. Kudo would ride it in battles, but once at home, the brat and the beast were like one. When Katsuki turned eighteen, Kudo retired from battles and settled down with a wife and kids at the village located next to that of where their family originally came from. From that day on, the brat became the dragon’s one and only owner.

Katsuki was the only human being able to control, care for and command this massive dragon, also becoming the nightmare of most villages in the world. Both, dragon and rider were vicious, deadly and feared.

You still remember the day Bakugou Katsuki landed on your lands. The bright blue sky suddenly turned dark, the huge dragon he rode clouding the sun above. Everyone knew what it meant. Destruction and chaos, the end of their peaceful lives.

The Leader of the village, your dad, didn’t waste time in trying to negotiate a truce between them.

And that truce is you.

You are forced to marry him, to leave your family, friends and life there and go with this barbaric man. You are a bit afraid he is some sort of savage. Rumors told how violent he was, how scary he looked with his scars and aggressive attitude towards everyone. Now that you have said man in front of you, you agreed with all of them.

You were expecting him to manhandle you, to treat you like another woman he picked to use for his own pleasure. Yet all you received since you stepped foot in his village, in his home, had been nothing but coldness and distance. He has kept to himself, doing his stuff and trying not to get in your way. Least to say, it has been completely awkward since the ceremony.

When you are getting ready for it, his mom enters his-your hut. She smiles, a sincere feeling in her eyes, “Being the daughter of a Leader sucks, ain’t it?”

You look down, a slight smile on your face that agrees with her but eyes filled with tears you’re holding back. “It does.”

You feel her hand on your shoulder, and the little squish she gives it in reassurance makes the knot in your throat tighter.

“My son is not a charming prince; however, I know the kind of man I raised him to be. You’re gonna be okay.”

You don’t say anything in response. You don’t even look back at her, but you think she didn’t expect it either as she walks out, leaving you alone. As you walk towards the entrance, fully knowing that once you cross it, your soon to be husband will be waiting at the end of the aisle, all you can wish is that Ms. Bakugou is right.

When the ceremony reaches its end, the old lady of his village drawing the symbols of union, love and family in your foreheads, Bakugou extends his hands for you to lay yours over his. You still haven’t looked him in the eyes, but you do what's expected for the ceremony. When your hands touch the skin of his, you can't avoid thinking how warm they feel. Big calloused, rough and strong hands surround yours, and you don't hate the feeling. On the contrary, it’s quite comforting. The old lady ties a beautifully white and gold silk ribbon around your hands, symbolizing the union of the souls.

While everyone cheers, you finally decide to raise your eyes towards him. Deep red eyes collide with yours, making a shudder run your body at their intensity. Surprisingly, it isn’t a bad feeling, but it is something you have never felt before.

A tingly feeling swirls in your stomach as you realize Bakugou Katsuki's face is getting closer and closer to yours, his intent clear. He is going to kiss you. Your first kiss. You close your eyes instinctively and his lips touch yours in a quick and short peck. Yet it feels like all the tingles in your stomach exploded, sending warmth throughout your whole body.

That has been the only close and physical interaction you have had until today.

Bakugou Katsuki decides to give you space to accommodate and get to know his village and people around.

It doesn't mean he doesn't want you. However, he never makes any sort of move towards you.

Until one day…

Bakugou got back that morning to the village after being away for almost four days with the victory of conquering another village, so you decide to bring him some of the sweet bread you have cooked as a welcome back. You have to admit, this time with him since the marriage ceremony hasn’t been bad. Civil, even. Despite his distance and cold attitude, he has never disrespected or forced you to nothing. Not even that first night as husband and wife. He didn’t even try, he simply picked one of the pillows and clothes to make a bed on the floor, closer to the entrance door, and slept there. You have been very confused. Your mum had previously told you everything of what was expected from a woman on the night of the ceremony. You expected even a fight between you two, because of course you didn’t want that to happen with a complete stranger like he was still to you.

Nevertheless, he never hovers over you. But you do feel his eyes on you whenever he’s around. He always makes some sort of sound for you to acknowledge that his presence is close. Katsuki is attentive to your reactions whenever you are both alone and doesn't even raise his voice at you. Ever.

Then again, he is his ruthless self with everyone else.

You tried looking for him around the village, but couldn't find Bakugou anywhere. So you walk towards the woods where you know the dragon's nests are, where they rest. Even though Bakugou has explicitly forbidden you to go near there, due to the danger their dragons were most of the time, even for the riders.

You are confident Katsuki will be there, so probably he will see you from a distance and you wont need to get that close. But when you arrive, you come face to face with the massive beast: Bakugou's dragon, Cweorth.

You have seen it at a distance, but having the beast up close is a completely different experience. Its whole body is red, with golden piercing eyes that feel very much like Bakugou’s itself. Its wings are huge as they spread in a stretching movement up high, almost taller than the big trees that surround the woods. You can even see some flare of gold in its scale that actually looks mesmerizing. Majestic.

Your basket falls to the floor in shock when the beast finally looks down at your small, minuscule being. It watches you intently, with a scowl on its face –like beast, like owner. But far away from feeling scared by it, you feel intrigued. You feel enamored even as you stand there, looking at such majestic creature.

Bakugou is actually several meters away, taking a bath in the lake close to the nests, cleaning all the blood and dirt off his body before going to the hut he shares with you. He has some scratches and cuts from the fights, but nothing deep or worrisome. He is very proud in saying he is the fucking best out there.

When he's walking through the woods back to the nests of their dragons, he sees it.

His whole body freezes. You are standing there, your arm and hand stretched upwards. His own dragon, the one who eats men like candy at Katsuki's own command, the one who has burned villages in seconds with his strong fire, the one who hates anyone’s touch or closeness that isn't Bakugou himself... His dragon has his snot close to you, letting you pet him with its eyes closed, enjoying your affection like a small puppy dog.

And he can not fucking believe what his eyes are seeing.

Of all the women he has had before you, none were brave enough to even look at the beast. They had all been afraid to death.

And there you stand, looking even fascinated by it. Eyes shining and smiling as you feel for the first time what its skin is like under your touch. You look… beautiful. Gorgeous. Heavenly sent. Fuck. You have him in your hands already.

Bakugou Katsuki then decides:

He will fucking kiss the ground you walk. He will give you everything you ask of him.

You want certain clothes to wear? He will search for them for you. You want certain foods? He will fly his dragon to wherever they are made or grown on. You want a land? He will fucking burn every single thing or life it takes to give it to you.

You want him? He will gladly give himself completely to you.

Well, he already is.

[00valentina-writes00]

Opposites Attract ||highschool!Sevika x reader||

Synopsis: Sevika is the untouchable, tough-as-nails hockey star who keeps everyone at arm’s length, while you’re the kind-hearted, gentle soul who always puts others before yourself. When a random seating arrangement forces you two together in your last-hour English class, neither of you expect much. But as the weeks pass, small moments of connection begin to shift the dynamic between you. Over time, you both learn that opposites really do attract in the most unexpected, heartwarming way.

Warnings: Swearing, Slow burn romance, Opposites attract trope, Strong language, tough love, and sarcasm

•|||——————————————————————||•

The hum of the classroom buzzes in your ears as your English teacher, Mr. Kline, starts scribbling names on the chalkboard in his typical fashion. His voice drones on in the background, rattling off the seating chart for the day. You’re just hoping he doesn’t pair you with someone who’ll be a nightmare to work with. You’re already tired from the first few hours of class, and the last thing you need is a partner who’ll drag you down or make the whole process unbearable.

Then it happens. Mr. Kline announces the changes. You glance down at your notebook, trying to tune out his voice, but your ears catch one name that makes you freeze: Sevika.

Your stomach drops. Fuck. Not her.

You glance up, catching a glimpse of her towering frame at the back of the room. Her usual scowl is firmly in place as she slouches in her seat, arms crossed. You already know what everyone else is thinking: “Ogre,” the nickname they’ve given her because of her size and tough-as-nails persona. She doesn’t care, though. She doesn’t care about anyone’s opinion—hell, she doesn’t even care about school most of the time. She’s a hockey player, a badass, a walking legend in this place. And you? You’re just… you.

Kind-hearted, thoughtful, the girl who spends way too much time trying to help everyone, even the assholes who don’t deserve it. You’re not used to having your name whispered in the same breath as Sevika’s. She’s the kind of girl you’d avoid if you had any common sense. But for some damn reason, fate decided you’d be seated next to her for the rest of the semester.

You take a deep breath and adjust your glasses, preparing for whatever the hell this is going to be. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. Maybe she’s not as much of a dick as people say. Maybe you’ll be able to do your part and survive this project without being dragged into some awkward confrontation.

The bell rings, and Mr. Kline directs you to your new seats. As you walk to the back of the room, you see Sevika staring out the window, her elbow resting lazily on the desk. She’s in her usual getup—an oversized hoodie, ripped jeans, and the varsity jacket that makes her look even more like the queen of this place. Her short, choppy hair barely moves as she turns her head, her sharp grey eyes narrowing at you like a predator sizing up its next meal.

You clear your throat and approach the desk, trying to act like you’ve got this whole “partnering with Sevika” thing under control.

“Hey, Sevika,” you say, offering her a tentative smile. “Looks like we’re working together.”

She doesn’t immediately respond. Her gaze flickers to you for a brief moment, but it’s not a warm welcome. It’s the kind of look someone gives when they’re trying to decide whether or not they should punch you in the face.

“Yeah, whatever,” she mutters, returning her attention to the window.

Well, that’s a great start. You swallow and sit down next to her, fumbling with your notebook as you try to hide the awkward tension building between you. The thing is, you can’t blame her. You’ve heard all the stories. Sevika doesn’t have time for people who don’t know how to handle themselves. You’re pretty sure she considers kindness a weakness, and right now, you’re about as far from “tough” as you can get.

For the first few minutes, there’s silence. Complete and utter silence. You can hear the quiet shuffle of papers from the rest of the class, the occasional hum of the air conditioning, and the ticking of the clock on the wall. But Sevika doesn’t even seem to notice. Her pencil moves across her notebook in slow, deliberate strokes, and you catch glimpses of what she’s drawing—something abstract, chaotic, maybe even a little disturbing.

The longer you sit next to her, the more you start to feel like an intruder in her personal space. You’re trying to ignore the way she’s slowly making you feel more and more self-conscious, like you’re just a bug she’s tolerating. But you can’t help it. She’s intimidating. She’s tough, and you’re not. She doesn’t need anyone, especially not you.

And yet, despite the obvious discomfort radiating from Sevika, you can’t help but try. You want to make this work. You want to get along with her, even if everyone else is too scared to even look her in the eye.

“So… what do you think about this project?” You ask, offering the faintest of smiles as you open your textbook and flip to the assignment. “I think we’re supposed to write about—”

“Don’t care,” she interrupts with a grunt, rolling her eyes. She pushes the notebook aside and leans back in her chair, one leg stretched out in front of her as she rests her hands behind her head. “I’m just here so I don’t get detention, so don’t expect me to do much.”

Your mouth dries as you nod. Of course, you didn’t expect her to be a team player.

Mr. Kline announces the start of the project and asks everyone to get into pairs. Everyone groans, except for you. You’re used to working alone, but this time, you’re stuck with Sevika, and you know there’s no way out. You glance at her, hoping she might offer some small inkling of interest in the project, but no. She’s busy staring at the ceiling, barely giving a damn.

You sigh, pushing your hair out of your face as you try to think of a way to get her to participate.

“Sevika, do you want to divide the work or just wing it?” you ask, leaning a bit closer to her in an attempt to get her attention.

She snorts, not even looking at you. “Does it look like I give a shit about school projects?”

You can’t help but laugh nervously. “I guess I’ll do the writing, then. You can handle the research part?”

Sevika gives you a blank stare. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just don’t make me do anything that requires moving.”

You nod, already feeling like this is going to be the longest hour of your life.

Throughout the class, Sevika barely pays attention, her pencil still moving across the pages of her notebook, probably doodling whatever mess is bouncing around in her head. You take careful notes, trying to focus on the project while pretending it doesn’t bother you that she’s completely zoning out.

When it’s time to head to the library after class, you gather your things. “Ready to go?” you ask.

She grunts but doesn’t respond. Instead, she stands up, stretching her arms above her head and then walks out the door without another word. You scramble to catch up with her, trying to hide how out of place you feel next to her.

You follow her to the library, where Sevika flops down into a chair at one of the tables in the back. You pull out your laptop and begin to work, trying to make progress on the project despite the looming silence hanging between you two.

After a while, you can’t help but look up at her. She’s still doodling, her eyes focused intensely on the page. The aggressive scowl that usually defines her expression has softened just a little, and you almost wonder if there’s a glimpse of vulnerability behind the tough exterior.

You clear your throat. “You ever think about what you want to do after high school?” you ask, trying to break the silence.

Sevika doesn’t look up from her notebook. “Not really.” She shrugs. “I’ll probably just keep playing hockey. Doesn’t matter.”

You want to push more, to get her to open up just a little, but you don’t. You know better than to push someone like Sevika, especially when she’s clearly not interested in chatting. Instead, you focus on the project in front of you, determined to make this work, no matter how difficult she might be.

And even though the air between you two is thick with tension, you know one thing for sure: this semester is going to be a hell of a ride.

•||——————————————————————||•

The mornings are always cold, especially this time of year. The chill seeps through your jacket, biting at your skin as you head toward the school’s entrance. It’s early, the kind of time when most students are dragging themselves out of bed, scrambling to get their things together, or—like Sevika—already halfway through a grueling morning workout. You’ve seen her in the gym before, that intimidating presence of hers dominating the place as if the weights themselves trembled in her grip. It’s no surprise that she’s known as a beast on the ice, but somehow that intimidating side of her feels like a mask she wears to shield herself from everyone else.

Today, though, you’re not thinking about her as “the girl with a scowl that could cut glass.” No, you’re thinking about her as someone who’s obviously been burning the candle at both ends. You saw the signs yesterday: her eyelids heavy with fatigue, her movements slower than usual as she shuffled to class after practice. She barely participated in the project work, her pencil moving through her notebook in lazy, almost uninterested strokes. That wasn’t Sevika. Or maybe it was. Maybe, under all that tough exterior, there was something more to her that no one ever bothered to look for.

And so, with a sense of quiet determination, you stop by the café on your way into school. The coffee shop is crowded with early risers, but you manage to snag a large black coffee and a bagel. It’s not much, but you know it’s the kind of thing that could make someone’s day a little less miserable. It’s something you would’ve appreciated, so why wouldn’t Sevika?

You make your way to your usual seat in the back of the English class, hoping to catch her before she sinks into her usual routine of silence and indifference. You know she’s already in her seat when you walk in—the space next to her looking more like a battlefield than anything else. As usual, she’s hunched in her chair, hoodie pulled over her head, earbuds tucked in so tightly you doubt she hears a thing.

Sevika’s like a damn fortress, and you’re not sure if you’re trying to break through or just knock at the door.

“Hey, Sev,” you say, your voice a bit louder than usual, in case she’s zoned out again. “Got you something.”

She looks up from her notebook, those sharp grey eyes narrowing at you for a beat, as if trying to read your motives. When her gaze falls to the coffee cup in your hand, her expression softens—just a fraction, but enough to notice. It’s almost as if she’s surprised.

“Yeah?” She grunts, her voice still a bit rough from too many late nights. “What’s this, some kind of pity offering?”

You shrug, not wanting to make it weird. “Nah, just figured you could use a pick-me-up.” You set the coffee down in front of her with a quiet clink, watching as her fingers hover over the handle for a moment before she takes it. Her usual stoic expression doesn’t falter, but there’s something in her eyes—a flicker of something deeper.

“Thanks,” she mutters, clearly not used to someone offering her something without expecting anything in return. You don’t wait for her to respond beyond that. You take your seat and start unpacking your things, giving her space.

The first few minutes are quiet, just like always. You crack open your notebook, getting ready to dive into the classwork, but something feels different today. There’s an odd tension between you two, like she’s trying to figure you out in a way that she hasn’t before. Every so often, you catch her glancing at you over the rim of the coffee cup, her lips twitching as if she’s trying not to say something sarcastic or dismissive.

You decide to try again. This time, you don’t just talk at her. You actually listen to her.

“Anything interesting in that sketch of yours?” you ask, nodding toward the open notebook on her desk. “Looks like you’re working on something pretty intense.”

Sevika’s eyes flick to her notebook, where a few jagged lines are scrawled across the page. The artwork isn’t exactly graceful—nothing like the stuff you’d find in a gallery—but there’s something undeniably captivating about the way she draws. It’s raw. It’s chaotic. You can practically feel the frustration that bleeds out of every line.

She hesitates before shrugging. “It’s just a thing. Nothing special.”

The next morning is the same: cold and gray, but this time, you have an extra coffee in hand—two this time, just in case. You stop by the café on your way into school again, and this time, you don’t hesitate. You pick out the same large black coffee and bagel, and you add one more for her. You know it’s a bit forward, maybe even a little weird, but after yesterday, you figure you might as well keep trying. If anything, it’ll be a small act of kindness in a place that doesn’t exactly hand out second chances.

When you arrive in class, you spot Sevika already sitting at the back, just like usual. She doesn’t even look up when you walk in, so you make your way over to her desk. You set the coffee in front of her, waiting for her to acknowledge it. When she finally looks up, she catches sight of the second cup and raises an eyebrow.

“Why the hell are you always trying to bribe me?” she asks, clearly suspicious, but there’s no bite to her words.

You offer her a playful smile. “Just thought you might need it.”

Sevika snorts. “I’m not a charity case, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” You sit down next to her again, pulling out your own coffee. “But I’ve seen you running on empty lately, and I’m just trying to help.”

She looks at the coffee for a long second before finally taking it. She doesn’t say anything at first, just stares into the dark liquid like she’s trying to figure out what you want in return.

But then, just as she takes a sip, she mutters something that surprises you.

“Thanks… I guess.”

It’s a small thing, but it’s enough to make you smile. You might not have cracked the armor completely, but you can feel the first few cracks beginning to form. And that’s enough for now.

You might not know what it is about her that makes you want to keep pushing, keep trying to get through the walls she’s built around herself. But something about Sevika, hidden beneath all that sharpness and coldness, pulls you in. And you’re not about to give up on her, no matter how tough she tries to act.

��||——————————————————————||•

The first time Sevika offers to carry your books, it doesn’t seem like much at first. You’re leaving your biology class, walking down the hallway toward your next class when, out of nowhere, she steps up beside you.

“Here,” she says, her voice gruff but not unfriendly as she grabs the stack of books from your hands.

“Wait, what—?” you start, trying to hold onto the books, but she’s already too quick for you, pulling them out of your grasp with surprising ease. Her fingers brush yours, and for just a moment, the sensation is strange—unexpected, even though she’s always been a physical presence in your life, in every sense of the word.

Sevika’s eyes flick to yours for a brief moment, watching the confusion play out on your face. A smirk creeps up on her lips, but it’s less mocking and more playful, like she’s enjoying seeing you thrown off balance.

“Don’t get used to it,” she says, her tone teasing but with that sharp edge of hers still there. “I’m just doing you a solid, no big deal.”

You stare at her, unsure how to respond. She’s still the same Sevika—the girl who keeps everyone at arm’s length with her scowl, her tattoos, her armor of indifference. Yet, there’s a shift. She’s not as prickly today. There’s something different, something softer behind the usual harshness, but it’s hard to pin down exactly what it is.

You try to brush it off. “Thanks, I guess.” It’s an awkward response, but you can’t help it. The whole situation feels foreign—Sevika, helping you, even in her roundabout, no-nonsense way.

As you walk side by side, the silence feels comfortable, more natural than it’s ever been between the two of you. The usual tension, the kind that hangs thick in the air between people who don’t quite know each other but feel like they should, isn’t there. Instead, it’s just the sound of footsteps echoing through the empty hallways, punctuated by the soft rustle of Sevika’s hoodie as she moves.

Once you reach your next class, she hands your books back to you without saying much, her usual scowl returning. “Don’t make it weird,” she mutters, turning to walk off, her footsteps heavy and purposeful.

You don’t make it weird, but it sticks with you. The whole interaction lingers in the back of your mind, not in a bad way, but more like a question you don’t quite know the answer to yet. Why did she do that? Was it just a passing moment, or was there something more?

The next day, it happens again.

You’re at your locker, shoving your history book into your bag when you feel a presence at your side. You don’t even need to look up to know who it is—Sevika’s aura fills the space, a palpable thing that both commands attention and makes everyone else unconsciously take a step back.

You let her carry your books again, not because you need the help, but because, for some reason, it doesn’t feel like an imposition. It feels… well, it feels nice. There’s a quiet understanding growing between you two, something that wasn’t there a week ago. It’s unspoken, but it’s there.

The days blur together in a mix of English class, hallway interactions, and little moments like this—moments where Sevika’s sarcasm feels less biting, her teasing more playful than sharp. And as the days go on, you start noticing the changes in her even more.

One morning, you’re walking into class, the usual coffee in hand, when you see her leaning against the wall near the door. She’s not talking to anyone, just standing there, arms crossed, looking like she’s waiting for someone.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should approach. But then, with the casual confidence that’s so uniquely Sevika, she uncrosses her arms and nods toward you, that little tilt of her head that somehow speaks louder than words.

“Got something for me?” she asks, that playful edge to her voice as her grey eyes flick down to the coffee cup in your hand.

Without thinking, you hold it out to her. “Of course.”

“Guess I don’t need to thank you this time,” she says, taking the coffee from your hands with a teasing glint in her eyes.

You chuckle, leaning against the wall next to her. “You don’t have to, but it’d be nice.”

Her gaze flicks to you for just a second, a raised eyebrow the only acknowledgment of your words before she takes a sip from the coffee, her eyes narrowing slightly in appreciation. It’s not a thank you, but it’s close enough.

The bell rings, signaling the start of class, and the two of you walk in together, an unspoken understanding hanging between you. You’re no longer just the “nice kid” and the “badass hockey player”—you’re something else, something undefined, something more.

And that’s the thing about Sevika: she’s not the kind of person you can pin down. Every time you think you have her figured out, she surprises you.

By now, you’ve gotten used to the little rituals. She walks with you to class, books in hand, always a step behind you but close enough that you can hear her breathing. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to make you feel like you’ve made a little crack in her armor, even if she refuses to admit it.

Her teasing has become a part of the routine, too. It’s like she can’t help herself, always needling you, always making fun of your “perky” attitude or the way you get lost in your books. But you’ve noticed the shift—it’s not cruel anymore. It’s playful, like she’s teasing a friend, not someone she can’t stand.

One day, as you’re both walking to class, she surprises you again.

“I’ve been thinking,” she mutters, her voice quieter than usual. “You’re not so bad.”

You stop in your tracks, eyes wide in surprise. Did Sevika just… compliment you?

She catches your gaze and immediately rolls her eyes, the smirk returning to her lips. “I said, you’re not so bad, not that I like you or anything. Get over it.”

You smile, your heart skipping a beat. “Sure, Sevika. Whatever you say.”

The bell rings again, and you both make your way into class, but this time, it feels different. The tension between you two has shifted into something new, something more comfortable, and you both know it.

And every day, as you continue bringing her coffee, as she continues to walk with you to class, you both get a little closer, each moment chipping away at the walls she’s spent years building. Slowly, but surely, you’re getting to the person behind the tough exterior. And no matter how much she pretends it doesn’t matter, you can see it now—Sevika’s beginning to care.

•||——————————————————————||•

The afternoon is just starting to drag. You’re standing by your locker, shoving your history book into your bag with the kind of lethargy that only comes with the final bell of the day still being two classes away. You’re exhausted, not just from the day’s classes, but from the constant grind of high school itself. Your classmates, the ones who still don’t get you, don’t seem to understand that not everyone is out to make the most noise or throw the hardest punches. Some people—like you—just want to get through it all, helping where they can, smiling when they don’t feel like it, and quietly hoping things will get easier. But today is proving that’s not going to be the case.

As you turn to leave the hallway, a group of guys from your gym class snicker behind you. They’re a regular fixture of assholery in your life, always making their rounds to see who they can mess with. Today, it’s your turn.

“You know,” one of them says loud enough for you to hear, “somebody should really tell you to stop being so fucking soft. Like, seriously. You’re not gonna make it in this school with that wimpy attitude.”

You turn back slowly, hoping that if you ignore them, they’ll just keep walking like everyone else. But it doesn’t work. They crowd around you, blocking the hallway, sneering and laughing like they own the space.

“Look at this,” another one mocks, his voice dripping with exaggerated sweetness, “such a fucking goodie two-shoes. Maybe we should give you a medal for being so ‘nice.’ Too bad no one here actually gives a shit about that.”

Your fists clench, but you don’t say anything. They don’t deserve your energy, but it doesn’t stop the anger from bubbling up. It’s the same thing every time—words, insults, the relentless poking at who you are, how you try to be decent. It’s always this way, isn’t it? They want you to crack. To snap. To show weakness so they can laugh at it. But you won’t give them the satisfaction.

Just when you think they’re about to escalate, you hear it.

A voice. Low, commanding.

“Hey,” Sevika says, cutting through the tension like a knife.

You don’t even have time to look at her before you hear the unmistakable sound of a body slamming into metal. One of the guys lets out a strangled gasp as he’s shoved violently into a locker. The group steps back instinctively, surprised by the sudden force. The guy who got shoved stumbles to his feet, a wild, startled look in his eyes.

Sevika’s not even looking at him directly. She’s focused on the others, her jaw set, her lips curling slightly into a scowl.

“I don’t give a shit if you think you’re funny,” she says, her voice cold as ice, “but if you ever talk to her like that again, you won’t be able to walk the rest of the day. Got it?”

The group is frozen for a moment, a strange mix of fear and confusion on their faces. They’re not used to someone standing up to them like this—especially not Sevika. After all, she’s the star hockey player, the tough girl who runs the school with her stare alone. The group stammers out apologies, the bravado slipping from them as quickly as it appeared. They scatter, not wanting to risk getting into her bad books.

You stand there, blinking in disbelief. Sevika, the girl who’s always kept her distance, the one who’s never given you anything other than playful insults and sarcastic remarks, just fucking stood up for you.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and your mouth is suddenly dry.

Sevika turns to you, her shoulders relaxed now, but there’s still that fire in her eyes.

“You okay?” she asks, and her tone is softer, more genuine than you’ve ever heard it before.

You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady. “I… yeah. I’m fine.”

She looks at you for a moment, eyes scanning you for any sign of weakness, but there’s none. She doesn’t apologize. She never does. But the way her lips tighten slightly, the way her brows furrow just a little—it’s enough. She’s not expecting you to say anything. She doesn’t even seem to know what to do with herself now that she’s done this. She’s Sevika, and she’s not used to letting people get close enough to care.

You can’t help but smile a little, a warmth spreading through you despite the rush of adrenaline still pounding in your chest. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says, turning away and heading down the hallway. “Just… don’t be such a soft target next time.”

You watch her walk away, your thoughts racing. Sevika had always been this untouchable figure—at least, to you. You were just the quiet, well-meaning kid in the back of the class who didn’t stand out. But now… now, things were changing. You didn’t know how or why, but you felt it.

Later, in English class, the usual noise of the room fades as you take your seat next to Sevika. She’s quiet today, almost too quiet, like she’s avoiding looking at you. You don’t push it. Not yet. But when the teacher starts droning on about something you’re not really paying attention to, you feel the familiar shift in the air.

Sevika leans over slightly, her face unreadable. The classroom is loud, with people chatting and fiddling with their phones, but for a moment, it’s just the two of you.

“You know,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “you’re the only person I actually like being around.”

It hits you like a punch to the gut. You freeze, blinking at her in shock. Did she just…?

She glances at you, her eyes fleetingly meeting yours before quickly looking away, like she’s regretting saying anything at all. She lets out a frustrated huff and slouches in her seat, rubbing her forehead like she’s embarrassed. “Don’t get all weird about it,” she mutters. “I’m not trying to—”

You can’t help it. You’re flustered, but at the same time, your heart swells. You’re not even sure what to say, so you just laugh softly, trying to play it cool. “I’m not. I just… I didn’t expect that.”

She shoots you a side-eye, her usual scowl pulling at her lips. “Yeah, well, I don’t usually say shit like that.”

You can’t help but smile, even though you feel a little like a fool. “You’re not so bad either, you know that?”

Sevika huffs, but there’s a small, almost imperceptible softening in her expression. “Whatever. Let’s just get through this class, alright?”

And just like that, things feel a little different. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable anymore. It’s familiar, like you both know something now—something unspoken, but undeniable.

And as the bell rings, signaling the end of class, you both pack up your things, side by side, in a way that feels completely natural.

•||——————————————————————||•

You were pretty sure that when Sevika agreed to go out with you, she didn’t quite know what she was getting herself into. Hell, you didn’t either. You didn’t expect this—this unspoken connection that had grown between the two of you, or the idea that the girl who used to shove people against lockers and made it clear she didn’t give a shit about anyone might actually want to spend time with you outside of school. Yet, here you were, standing at the entrance of a small café after school, anxiously looking at the clock and waiting for Sevika to show up.

The awkwardness hit you like a freight train as soon as you heard the familiar heavy footsteps of her boots on the concrete. She came to a stop in front of you, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, a slight scowl on her lips. The look in her eyes was a mix of challenge and something else—something more vulnerable that she refused to acknowledge. She’d agreed to this date begrudgingly, and you weren’t sure if she was regretting it yet, but you sure as hell didn’t want her to.

“You’re late,” you say, trying to keep things light, hiding your nerves behind a teasing smile. You’ve never been good with first dates—not even close—but if you were going to do this, you were going to do it with your usual charm.

Sevika raises an eyebrow and gives you a look that’s almost as if she’s about to retort with something snarky, but she just shrugs, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t gonna rush for you, y’know. Not that you’d care.”

You blink, a little caught off guard by the lack of bite in her voice. She’s usually so sharp, so defensive. It’s almost… sweet. No, you’re imagining it. You must be.

“Fine,” you laugh. “Come on, let’s go inside before we both freeze our asses off.”

Sevika hesitates for a moment but then steps past you, pushing open the door with the same carelessness she’d shown with every decision in her life. She doesn’t look back, but you can feel the silent invitation to follow her. You take a deep breath and follow her into the cozy café, the smell of fresh coffee and warm pastries filling your senses.

“Not what I expected,” Sevika mutters as she looks around, her eyes scanning the room like she’s assessing every angle. “This place seems… soft.”

“Soft?” You raise an eyebrow. “It’s a café, Sevika. Not a fucking boxing ring.”

She scoffs at your response, though there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Don’t get too comfortable. I don’t do cozy.”

“Well, I do,” you say, taking a seat at a small table by the window. You feel the tension in your shoulders slowly start to ease as you glance out at the street, watching cars pass by. “But I get it. Not everyone likes this sort of thing.”

Sevika slouches into the chair opposite you, not exactly relaxing but not standing either. She glances around, eyes darting over the simple décor with an almost bemused expression. She’s so out of her element, and you can’t help but admire the way she wears it like armor, pretending she’s cool with everything, even when she’s not.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence feels like a heavy weight, but it’s not uncomfortable—at least, not for you. You wait for Sevika to break it, because you know she will. It’s the way she is. She always has something to say, even if it’s just to fill the silence with sarcasm.

“So, this is your idea of a date, huh?” she finally asks, voice low but amused.

You shrug, leaning back in your chair. “I’m a simple person. Not every date has to be some grand, expensive thing.”

Sevika tilts her head, scrutinizing you like she’s trying to figure out your intentions. “Yeah, well, don’t expect me to do this every weekend.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” you tease, a grin spreading across your face. “I’m just happy you showed up. Not many people would take me seriously when I said I wanted coffee instead of some fancy dinner.”

There’s a long pause before she nods. “Guess I’m not like most people.”

No, she’s not. Sevika has a way of doing things that doesn’t make sense to anyone else—she’s rough around the edges, unapologetically herself, and honestly, you admire that. She’s everything you aren’t, and maybe that’s why you’re so drawn to her. She’s not afraid to be the person everyone else fears. But right now, sitting across from you, she’s just Sevika. No tough-girl persona. No hockey star. Just a girl trying to figure things out like anyone else.

You place your order—coffee, naturally, with a slice of cheesecake because why the hell not? You know Sevika will roll her eyes when you ask for dessert, but it doesn’t stop you from making your choice. As you wait for your order to arrive, you both settle into a strange kind of rhythm—her occasional snort of laughter at something you say, the way she subtly relaxes the more you talk, as though she’s actually enjoying this time with you.

The conversation is clumsy at first, filled with small talk and awkward pauses, but slowly, like a puzzle slowly coming together, you both start finding your flow. You joke about your terrible math grades, and she complains about the bullshit demands of hockey practice, the tension of being the best player but also constantly fighting to prove she’s more than just her image. You listen, and she listens to you. In a weird way, this is easier than you expected.

“You know,” she says after a while, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup, “I don’t usually do this. Hang out with people like you.”

“People like me?” you repeat with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, you know, the ‘goody two-shoes’ types,” she says, using air quotes with a slight smirk. “The people who care about everyone and everything. It’s… exhausting to be around.”

You’re taken aback by her honesty, but you can’t help but smile. “You think I’m exhausting?”

“Sometimes,” she admits, eyes glinting with mischief. “But it’s… refreshing, I guess.”

You’re not sure if she means that as a compliment, but something inside of you swells at the idea that she sees you differently. There’s something strangely tender in her words, even though she’s trying to play it off as casual. You chuckle. “You’re not so bad either, you know.”

Sevika tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Don’t get all soft on me now.”

“No promises,” you reply, grinning.

The evening goes on with more laughter, more teasing, and moments of awkward silence that you’ve both learned to embrace. By the end of it, you’re not entirely sure when the awkwardness started to fade away, but it has.

the two of you stand outside the café, your breath visible in the cold air. Sevika tucks her hands into her jacket pockets, her expression unreadable.

“I had a good time,” she says, avoiding eye contact, her voice strangely soft. “Not that I’m saying I’ll do this again. Don’t get too fucking comfortable.”

You grin. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Don’t expect you to turn into a total softie or anything.”

She smirks at you, but you catch a glimmer of something in her eyes that makes your heart race.

“Maybe not,” she mutters, but there’s warmth behind her words that she’s not quite ready to admit.

You stand there for a moment, neither of you moving. For once, the silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s comfortable. There’s a connection here, one that feels like it’s been building without either of you fully acknowledging it.

Before you can think too much about it, Sevika steps forward, her hand brushing against yours as she walks past you, her fingers lingering just long enough to make you wonder if it was on purpose.

“See you tomorrow,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t make me regret this.”

You watch her walk away, a grin tugging at your lips. You may not know where this is going, but for the first time, you’re okay with that.

The next day in English class, you sit down at your usual spot, your mind still spinning from last night. You glance over at Sevika, who’s doodling something in her notebook, her lips curved in a faint smirk. You can’t resist taking a peek at what she’s drawing, and to your surprise, it’s a small, simple heart—next to your name.

You catch her eye just as she looks up, and she immediately shuts her notebook. “Not a word out of you.” She grumbled with her typical scowl.

You can’t help but laugh. But as she turns back to open her notebook again, you notice the warmth in her eyes—something real, something you know she doesn’t show anyone else.

You smile to yourself, knowing that despite everything, Sevika’s starting to crack, and you’ve never been more thrilled.

•||——————————————————————||•

[pucksandpower]

Welcome to Miami

Lando Norris x Messi!Reader

Summary: a crazy weekend in Miami leaves Lando with his first Formula 1 win, one very pissed off football legend, and a baby-shaped surprise set to arrive in just about nine months

Warnings: 18+ content and unplanned pregnancy

Note: based on a request by @glitterquadricorn that I may have ended up going a little overboard with

You wake up with a pounding headache, squinting against the bright sunlight streaming through the hotel room window. As you blink your eyes into focus, you realize you’re not in your own bed. The sheets are unfamiliar, the decor is generic and impersonal.

Panic starts to set in as you try to reconstruct the previous night’s events.

The space next to you is still warm, indented from where someone else was recently lying. You glance down at your lack of clothes and tousled hair. Yep, definitely had a one-night stand.

Wracking your brain, you vaguely recall meeting a charming stranger at the club, letting him buy you drinks until everything became a blur of flirtatious banter and wandering hands.

Your phone is on the nightstand and you grab it, hoping for some clues. A new contact catches your eye: “Lando 🍆”. You snort at the stupid name and obvious (if cringey) innuendo. At least he has a sense of humor.

You wonder what kind of guy calls himself Lando these days.

As you get dressed and leave the hotel, already trying to put the awkward walk of shame behind you, fragments of the night come back in flashes. Lando’s warm blue-green eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed. His skilled hands roaming over your body. The way he whispered filthy praises in your ear between searing kisses.

You shiver, feeling an unexpected pang of disappointment that you’ll never see him again. But a one-night stand is just that — one night. No need to dwell on the best sex you’ve had in … well, maybe ever.

When you arrive home in the early afternoon, your dad greets you at the door with a knowing smirk.

“Have a good night, mija?” Leo teases, taking in your mussed appearance.

You roll your eyes, not wanting to give him any details. “It was fine.”

He chuckles. “If you say so. I’m just glad you’re home safe.”

Over the next few weeks, you put Lando out of your mind completely. Your life goes on as normal — training with the University of Miami’s football team, doing promotional appearances, and spending time with family and friends.

But then one morning about a month later, you wake up feeling nauseous. You brush it off as a stomach bug at first.

When the queasiness persists for several days along with strange cravings and bouts of fatigue, a nagging suspicion forms in your mind. You dig through your bathroom cabinets until you find an old pregnancy test leftover from a scare last year.

Your hands are shaking as you wait for the result. This can’t be happening. You were so careful with Lando, you’re almost certain … but maybe not careful enough.

The little plastic wand displays two solid pink lines. Positive.

“Oh shit,” you whisper, feeling like the ground has dropped out from underneath you.

How could you have been so stupid? Getting knocked up from a drunken one-night stand with a guy you can’t even remember properly. What are you going to do? How will you tell your parents? What about your athletic career?

A million thoughts race through your panic-stricken mind as you try to process this massive, life-altering situation. You want to call your best friend and cry, but you’re almost too overwhelmed to formulate words.

Part of you wants to be furious at Lando, that reckless idiot who came inside you so carelessly. But you know you’re just as much to blame. You obviously consented, you just can’t recollect the exact circumstances.

God, why did you let yourself get so sloppy drunk and make such terrible decisions?

You take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm yourself. Okay, first things first — you need to confirm this with a visit to the doctor. And if it’s still positive, you’ll have to figure out your next steps. Tell your family, decide whether to keep the baby or not. That’s still your choice, at least.

Your mind keeps drifting back to Lando, wishing you knew more about him than just a stupid contact name. Was that even his real name? What did he do for a living? Where was he from? Was he ready for the responsibility of being a father? Not that it mattered — you barely knew him. For all you knew, he could be married or secretly twisted.

No, you reason with yourself, trying to shut down that line of thinking, he seemed like a good guy. At least in the moment. Even through your tequila-soaked haze, you got a feeling of genuine warmth and kindness from him. Maybe you’re both just a couple of random people who made a reckless mistake after having too much fun together.

You take another breath and stand up, your mind made up. First, you’ll go to the doctor and get an official test. Then you’ll deal with everything else from there. There’s no use panicking until you confirm this is actually happening.

But deep down, you know this cheap little test is accurate. You’re pregnant with a virtual stranger’s baby. And in that moment, feeling so lost and overwhelmed and terrified, you can’t help but wonder — who the hell is Lando?

***

You sit on the couch, hands trembling as you clutch the results of your blood test. Tears stream down your face as the weight of the situation crushes down on you.

How could you have been so reckless? So stupid? You’re supposed to be a role model, setting an example for young girls. And now you’re pregnant from a one-night stand with some random guy.

The shame and fear swirl inside you until you can barely breathe. You need to tell your dad. He’ll be so disappointed in you. But you can’t keep this a secret, it will only get harder as your belly grows.

You hear the front door open and your dad’s familiar footsteps. Bracing yourself, you call out in a shaky voice, “Papa? Can you come here please?”

Leo wanders into the living room, his expression turning to immediate concern when he sees your tear-stained face. “Mija, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, bottom lip trembling as you try to find the words. “I … I’m pregnant,” you finally choke out.

His eyes go wide with shock. “Pregnant? How …” Realization dawns on his face. “Was this from that night you came home ...” He doesn’t need to finish the question.

You nod miserably, a fresh wave of tears falling. “I’m so sorry, Papa. I was drunk and stupid and … and I don’t even know who the father is, not really.” The words tumble out in a rush. “Just some guy I met at a club, his name was Lando or something. I barely remember anything!”

To your surprise, your dad’s expression softens into something like sympathy instead of the anger or disappointment you expected. He moves to sit beside you, wrapping a comforting arm around your shoulders.

“Shh, it’s alright mija. I’m not happy about this situation, but I’m not angry at you either. We all make mistakes.” He pauses, seeming to think something over. “This Lando guy … was it around the time of the Miami Grand Prix in early May?”

You nod again, not understanding the connection. “I think so, why?”

A look of recognition crosses your dad’s face. “There’s a young driver in Formula 1. I’m a bit of a fan actually, been following his career when I have the chance. It’s not the most common name.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the pieces fall into place. The drunk recollections of warm color-changing eyes and a charming smile. The weird name followed by that stupid eggplant emoji in your contacts.

It all fits.

“Oh my god … you think the father is Lando Norris? Like, the Formula 1 driver?” Part of you wants to dismiss the idea as ridiculous, but another part feels an undeniable certainty that your dad has hit the nail on the head.

Leo nods firmly. “I think it’s highly likely. He was in Miami for the race that weekend. Reckless kid probably went out partying after finally managing to win.”

There’s a hard edge to your dad’s voice at that last part. You can’t really blame his protectiveness — finding out your daughter is pregnant from a one-night stand, especially with a relative celebrity, can’t be easy for any father.

“What am I going to do?” You whisper, scared all over again at the massive upheaval your life is facing.

But your dad just pulls you into a tighter hug, his touch reassuring and strong. “We’ll figure it out together, mija. Don’t worry. If this Lando character is the father, he’ll damn well take responsibility. I’ll make sure of it.”

You let out a shaky breath, letting your dad’s words soothe you. He’s right — you’re not in this alone. And if Lando Norris really is the father, well, he signed up for this whether he knew it or not.

“Thank you, Papa. I was so scared to tell you, but I shouldn’t have been. I’m lucky to have you.” You hug him fiercely, fresh tears spilling but this time born of reassurance instead of fear.

Leo just holds you close, his embrace full of fatherly love and protection. “Always, mija. I’ve got your back, no matter what. We’ll get through this together.”

After a few moments, he pulls back, his expression turning more stern. “And as for this Lando kid, he better step up and be a man about this situation. Because if he tries to abandon you or this baby ...” He lets the implied threat hang in the air.

You can’t help but give a watery laugh. “I have a feeling he won’t want to mess with you. Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

Your dad allows a small smile at that. “Smart boy. Now, do you have a way to contact him? I’m sure someone can get us his information if not.”

You think for a moment, then remember — your phone contacts. You grab your cell and pull up the fateful entry.

“Here, just this number with the stupid eggplant emoji.” Your cheeks flush a little as you say it.

Leo arches an eyebrow at that but doesn’t comment. Instead, he takes out his own phone and dials the number, his expression hardening with determination.

“Right, listen up, Lando Norris ...” he begins, leaving no room for argument.

You take a steadying breath as your dad starts laying down the law to the man who knocked up his precious daughter. For the first time since staring at those two pink lines, you feel a tiny kernel of hope taking root.

No matter what happens, you’re not alone in this. Your dad has your back, and Lando — well, Lando better prepare himself. Because when Leo Messi demands you take responsibility for your actions, you don’t dare say no.

***

Lando jolts awake to the harsh buzz of his phone vibrating against the nightstand. He blinks blearily at the harsh red numbers of the alarm clock — 2:51 am. Who the hell is calling at this ungodly hour?

He fumbles for the phone, squinting at the unknown number with a +1 country code. Probably a spam call from across the pond. He’s tempted to just silence it, but something makes him swipe to answer with a groggy “Hello?”

“Lando Norris?” The deep voice on the other end is vaguely familiar, but Lando can’t quite place it in his sleep-addled state.

“Yeah, this is him. Who’s this?” He tries and fails to smoother a huge yawn.

“This is Lionel Messi.”

Lando’s eyes shoot wide open, any lingering drowsiness evaporating like he’s been doused with ice water. Leo freaking Messi is on the phone with him? His brain scrambles to comprehend what’s happening.

“I … uh … Mr. Messi, sir. This is … I mean … wow. What an honor!” He cringes at his own stammering, feeling very much like a star-struck fanboy rather than a fellow professional athlete.

Messi’s voice remains calm but firm. “I’ll get right to the point. Do you remember a young woman you slept with recently? The night of the Miami Grand Prix a few months ago?”

Lando feels his stomach drop out. Suddenly this phone call is taking on a very different context than just a casual chat with a sports legend. He racks his brain, trying to recall the handful of women he’d casually hooked up with around that time.

There was that petite blonde from the club after sprint qualifying … no, she was just a make-out in the back alley behind the valet. The pair of Brazilian bombshell twins he’d brought back to his hotel room on Saturday … no, they made him get tested after that escapade just to be safe.

Then it clicks into place — the gorgeous young woman with a killer smile that he’d met at the LIV Nightclub afterparty. They had danced and drank together all night until everything descended into a sweaty, semi-public grope fest in one of the VIP booths before he convinced her to come back to his suite.

He remembers her gasping and whimpering his name as he pounded into her from behind. Remembers the way her nails raked down his back when he made her come apart with his tongue. Remembers being too drunk and worked up to put on a condom before sinking back into her tight, wet heat and ...

Oh shit.

“I … yes, sir. I think I know who you’re referring to,” Lando forces out, his mouth incredibly dry.

“Good. Then you’ll remember getting my daughter pregnant that night as well.”

Lando actually feels the blood drain from his face, a rushing sound filling his ears. He must have misheard, right? There’s no way Leo freaking Messi just said Lando got his daughter pregnant!

“I … I’m sorry … your what?” He sputters out dumbly.

Messi’s tone takes on a steely edge. “My daughter. The young woman you slept with, she’s my daughter. And now she’s pregnant with your child.”

The room starts to spin. Lando tries to force air into his lungs, feeling like he might actually pass out. “Oh my god, I … I had no idea! We were both so drunk, I never would have … oh fuck, I’m so sorry, sir!”

“Sorry doesn’t really fix this, does it?” Messi’s voice is like sharpened steel. “You got my little girl pregnant from some drunken fling and now she has to deal with all of this.”

“I … yes, you’re right. Completely right.” Lando presses trembling fingers to his throbbing temples. This can’t actually be happening, right? “What … what do you want me to do? I’ll do anything, whatever you need!”

There’s a weighted pause on the line before Messi speaks again, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“First, you’re going to meet with me and my daughter in person so we can discuss this situation. Then you’re going to take responsibility and be a part of this child’s life, understood? Step up and be a man about it.”

“Yes! Yes, absolutely, of course!” Lando is nearly shouting into the phone, desperation and panic clawing at his throat. “Whatever you want, sir. I’ll be there. Just tell me when and where.”

“Good. I’ll have my people set it up and send the details to your team.” There’s a hint of grudging approval in Messi’s voice now, like he’s satisfied Lando appears to be taking this seriously. “I suggest you get some sleep, you’re going to need it.”

The line goes dead before Lando can respond. He stares dumbly at the silent phone in his hand for several long moments, trying to process everything.

Leo Messi’s daughter.

Pregnant.

With his baby.

Holy shit, what has he done? What is he going to do? How did one reckless, drunken night blow up into such a massive catastrophe?

His head is spinning and he can feel his overtaxed body starting to shut down from the shock and stress of the harrowing phone call. He tries to take a deep breath, pushing away the panic and leaning back against the pillows.

Sleep. Right. He needs sleep if he has any hope of dealing with … with all of this. But how can he possibly rest now?

Lando’s eyes start to drift closed despite his whirling thoughts. His body has other plans, sucking him under into blessed unconsciousness as he slumps fully back onto the mattress.

The last thing he’s dimly aware of is his phone slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor, followed by his own body going entirely limp.

When Lando finally does manage to sleep, it’s to the terrifying vision of Leo Messi’s furious face snarling “you got my daughter pregnant” over and over again behind his closed eyelids.

***

The flight from Nice to Miami feels like it takes an eternity, but also happens in a terrifying blur. Lando can barely remember booking the first available ticket, throwing some clothes into an overnight bag, or making his way to the airport in a daze. He runs on autopilot, his mind spinning in frantic circles.

He got Leo Messi’s daughter pregnant. How is this his life?

A private chauffeur is waiting at the baggage claim when Lando deplanes in Miami, holding up a printed sign with his name. Of course Messi would have people to handle something like this.

Lando swallows hard and approaches the stern-faced driver. “I’m Lando Norris. Uh, Mr. Messi is expecting me?”

The chauffeur gives him an appraising look but doesn’t respond beyond a curt nod. He turns on his heel, expecting Lando to follow.

The drive to the Messis’ palatial Miami mansion is silent and tense. Lando fights the urge to fidget anxiously, his knee bouncing until he forces himself still.

Get it together, man. This is it.

All too soon, they’re pulling through an immaculate gate onto perfectly manicured grounds surrounding the huge home. Lando takes a steadying breath as the driver gets his bag from the trunk.

Then the front door is swinging open and there’s Leo Messi himself, looking as intimidating as Lando has ever seen the football icon. His expression is stony, jaw clenched tight as he measures Lando up.

Before Lando can even open his mouth, Messi beats him to it, tone leaving no room for argument.

“I don’t like you.”

The words are like a kick to the gut. Lando forces himself to hold the steely gaze, giving a small nod.

“I understand, sir. I’ve made a terrible mistake and you have every right to be angry with me. I’ll accept whatever consequences I have to.” His voice is strong, despite the way his heart is jack-hammering in his chest.

Messi holds the intense eye contact a moment more before giving a short nod of what might be begrudging respect. He turns and heads inside, clearly expecting Lando to follow.

The foyer opens into an elegant living room where a familiar woman is sitting on one of the plush couches.

You.

Lando’s breath catches in his throat as memories from that hazy night come rushing back. Your skin glowing with a thin sheen of sweat as you moved rhythmically to the music. Your throaty laugh and sparkling eyes as you flirted shamelessly over your fourth … no fifth … mojito. The velvet silk of your hair brushing his face as you ground down against his lap.

He swallows hard, trying not to stare. The situation is awkward enough without dwelling on the admittedly incredible sex that caused this whole mess. Though he can’t deny the sharp spike of pure physical want that hits his gut at the sight of you.

Your eyes are wide and nervous as you take him in. “Um … hi.”

“Hi,” he replies simply, feeling incredibly self-conscious under the weighty stare of your legendary father.

An agonizing beat of silence stretches between the three of you.

“Well?” Leo prompts impatiently, making you both jump. “You got my daughter pregnant. What do you plan to do about it?”

The blunt words make Lando’s face flush hot, but he forces himself to meet your father’s stern gaze head-on.

“Whatever I need to do, sir. I’ll take full responsibility. Financially, emotionally, being there for the child … anything you need from me.” He pauses, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. “That is … if the mother wants me to be involved as well?”

He looks at you then, trying to convey his sincerity. Despite the casual nature of your hook-up, he meant what he said — he will step up and do the right thing for this kid.

His kid.

You seem to consider his words for a long moment before giving a small nod. “Yes … yes, I’d like you to be involved if you’re willing. This is as much my responsibility as yours. We … we can figure this out. Together?”

The uncertain note in your voice tugs at something in Lando’s chest. For all your father’s bluster, you just sound like a young woman in a scary, overwhelming situation. Just like him.

“Together,” he agrees firmly, returning your nod. “We’ll, ah, we’ll be good co-parents. For the baby.”

The words feel strange leaving his lips, but also fill him with a sense of resolve and determination.

Leo watches the exchange between you both like a hawk, his expression unreadable. When he speaks again, his words are measured but dismissive.

“Get it sorted out then. Find a way to make this work. I don’t care about the details as long as you two take care of my grandchild properly.”

With that, he gives a curt nod and turns to exit the room, leaving you and Lando to your own devices. The sudden lack of his intimidating presence seems to deflate the tension somewhat.

You let out a long, shaky breath, shooting Lando a wry look. “He’s … taking this about as well as could be expected, all things considered.”

Lando can’t help but huff out a surprised laugh at that, some of the nervous knot in his stomach loosening slightly. “Yeah, I’ll say. Your dad is legitimately terrifying, you know that?”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” you say with a small smile.

An odd sense of camaraderie falls over you both then — two young people bonding over how Lando quite literally knocked you up. It’s almost enough for him to relax a bit.

Then you glance down at your still-flat stomach and all humor drains away. “So … co-parents, huh? You really want to do this?”

Lando doesn’t even have to think about it. “Of course. It’s my kid too, yeah? My responsibility, like I said.” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s not exactly how I pictured becoming a father, but … I’m in this all the way. For the little one’s sake.”

Something in your expression softens at his words and a tiny smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Thank you, Lando. That … that really means a lot to hear.”

Before he can think better of it, Lando closes the distance between you and pulls you into an impulsive hug. You stiffen for just a moment before relaxing against him.

“Hey, we’re gonna be okay, you and me,” he murmurs as he holds you close. “We’ve got this, baby mama.”

You stiffen again and pull back sharply at the words, a look of mortification on your face. Lando frowns in confusion until a familiar gravelly voice cuts through the room.

“Lando Norris, I swear if you ever call my daughter that again, they’ll never find your body.”

Leo Messi is back, leveling Lando with a look that would liquefy steel. The driver nearly swallows his tongue, flushing scarlet.

“Y-yes, sir! Of course, sir! It, ah, it won’t happen again!” He stammers out, mentally making a note to permanently delete those words from his vocabulary.

Messi just grunts in response, apparently satisfied, before retreating from the room once more.

You’re staring at Lando with wide eyes and badly-suppressed laughter. He groans, dropping his face into his hands.

“Why did I say that? God, I’m an idiot.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, that smile breaking free. “This is just … all a bit surreal, isn’t it?”

Lando peeks through his fingers to meet your gaze, unable to stop the rueful grin that spreads across his own face.

“Just a bit, yeah.” He drops his hands with a defeated chuckle. “But your dad’s right — we’ve got to take this seriously for the little one.”

You nod, smile fading into a look of grim determination. “We do. Which means you can’t call me baby mama if you actually want to stay alive to see your child.”

“Deal,” Lando agrees readily, feeling lighter than he has since your father first called to drop that bomb on him.

Maybe co-parenting won’t be easy, but somehow he gets the sense you two just might be able to figure it out. And with the entire weight of Leo freaking Messi’s protective rage motivating him, Lando is damn sure going to try his best.

***

Ten Months Later

The vibrant Miami sun beams down on you as you carefully lift Maia out of her stroller, cradling the bundle of joy in your arms. Your daughter’s wide, curious eyes dart around, taking in all the sights and sounds of the paddock for the first time.

“There they are! My two favorite girls,” Lando’s voice rings out as he jogs over, already wearing his team gear in preparation for the drivers parade. He leans down to press a kiss to your cheek before turning his attention to Maia. “And how’s my little princess doing today?”

Maia lets out a delighted squeal and you can’t help but smile at the pure adoration on Lando’s face as he gently brushes a finger over her chubby cheek. “She’s been an angel all morning. I think she knows this is a big day for her first race.”

“That’s my girl,” Lando grins. “Going to be a little racer before we know it.”

“Lando! There you are, mate.” The Aussie accent cuts through the paddock as Lando’s teammate bounds over. “I’ve been looking everywhere for … oh wow, is that her?”

Oscar’s eyes go wide as they land on Maia, taking in her tiny features with an almost comical look of awe. “She’s … she’s so small,” he says dumbly.

“What did you expect, she’s a baby,” Lando scoffs with a roll of his eyes, though his tone is good-natured. “Do you want to hold her?”

“Can I?” Oscar asks eagerly, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an overexcited puppy.

You laugh and carefully transfer Maia into Oscar’s waiting arms, guiding his hands to properly support her head. “Just watch the grabby hands. She’s got a pretty strong grip these days.”

Oscar nods rapidly, looking a bit intimidated as he gingerly cradles Maia against his chest. But the instant she lets out a little gurgling coo, his face splits into the biggest, most boyish grin you’ve ever seen.

“Hey there, little Norris,” he murmurs softly, instantly transfixed. “I’m your favorite Uncle Oscar.”

“Oi, who said you get to be the favorite uncle?” Another voice cuts in as Carlos saunters over, immediately zeroing in on the form in Oscar’s arms. “Is that her? Dios mio, she’s gorgeous!”

Without hesitation, Carlos plucks Maia right out of Oscar’s hold, completely ignoring the other driver’s sputtering. “Well hello there, princesa. Don’t worry, your Tío Carlos has got you.”

Maia blinks up at the new face peering down at her, tiny fists waving as if to grab at the Spaniard’s perfectly coiffed hair. Carlos simply grins and nuzzles his nose against her cheek, seemingly not caring one bit about any damage the squirming infant in his arms can do.

“Are you seeing this?” Lando mock-whispers to you, looping an arm around your waist and leaning in conspiratorially. “How are we supposed to get her back now?”

You stifle a giggle behind your hand, watching in amusement as Carlos and Oscar descend into bickering over who Maia’s favorite uncle will be — only to be interrupted as another figure appears beside them.

“What do we have here?” Daniel Ricciardo pipes up with a wide grin, hands shoved casually in his pockets. “Don’t tell me you two are fighting over babysitting duties already?”

“Something like that, mate,” Lando chuckles, reaching out to clap Daniel on the shoulder in greeting. “Up for putting your name in the hat too?”

“You know it!” Daniel agrees easily, quickly sidestepping Carlos to peer down at Maia with a wide smile. “Hey there, little monkey. Look at you all bright-eyed and curious.”

Amazingly, Maia seems entirely unperturbed by all the fussing going on around her. She simply blinks placidly up at each new face, soaking it all in like a tiny sponge. At one point, she even lets out a delighted squeal and flails her arms — prompting a fresh round of cooing from the three drivers clustered around her.

“Aw, I think she likes me best already,” Daniel declares with a wink, gently booping Maia’s button nose and making her giggle.

You shake your head in fond exasperation even as Lando tugs you tighter against his side, completely content to bask in the scene. That is, until Daniel’s next words nearly make you choke.

“So just how old is this little angel?” He asks idly, eyes still trained on Maia’s sweet face. “Four months now?”

“Three months and one week,” Lando answers automatically — only to tense a split second later, mouth falling open in realization. “Oh. Oh.”

The smug grin that slowly spreads across Daniel’s face is borderline devlish as it clicks into place for everyone exactly when Maia would have been … well, conceived. A heavy silence falls over the group, disturbed only by Maia’s happy gurgling as she remains oblivious to the sudden shift.

“Well, well, well,” Daniel drawls, dark eyes dancing with mirth as he bounces Maia playfully in his arms. “I think someone got a little overexcited celebrating his win last year, didn’t he?”

The only response is a strangled squawk from Lando as his face flushes bright red — no doubt remembering exactly how the two of you celebrated his first time on top of the Formula 1 podium. Meanwhile, Carlos and Oscar openly gape at the revelation, eyes nearly bugging out of their skulls.

“Don’t you dare,” Lando manages to choke out, stabbing an accusatory finger in Daniel’s direction. “We are not having this conversation here.”

“Why not?” Daniel shrugs blithely, gently jostling Maia to the crook of his elbow in a way that has her giggling. “It’s a perfectly natural thing, nothing to be ashamed about. That must’ve been one hell of a victory lap!”

The innuendo hangs heavily in the air, made all the more mortifying by the lecherous waggle of Daniel’s eyebrows. Lando, meanwhile, looks like he’s two seconds away from spontaneously combusting on the spot.

“I’m going to kill you,” he mutters through gritted teeth, dragging a hand over his rapidly reddening face.

Before Daniel can respond with another quip, however, you quickly step in — scooping Maia out of his arms with a stern glare. “That’s enough of that, I think.”

Daniel wisely snaps his mouth shut at the warning in your tone, offering a cheeky salute instead. “I’ll lay off … for now.”

With a wink and a last jaunty grin towards a still-sputtering Lando, he bids the group farewell and heads off to prepare for the race. Oscar, seemingly remembering you’re all congregating in a very public place, manages to pick his jaw up off the ground long enough to clear his throat awkwardly.

“Right, well … I need to go, you know, do driver things,” he mumbles before beating a hasty retreat, stumbling over his own feet in his haste.

Carlos, for his part, has the audacity to start outright cackling the second Oscar is out of earshot.

“You never fail to entertain,” he manages between wheezing gasps, wiping away mirthful tears from the corners of his eyes.

Lando flushes even deeper, if possible, and shoots you a helpless look. You simply raise an eyebrow, letting him squirm for a moment before taking pity.

“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” you chide Carlos lightly, shifting Maia higher on your hip. “Unless you want to be the one explaining the birds and the bees to her when the time comes?”

That seems to sober Carlos up somewhat, his laughter trailing off into a few more chuckles as he waves a hand dismissively. “You wound me, amiga. As if I would corrupt the ears of such an innocent little one.”

You give him a pointed look and he holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m done.”

With a roguish wink, Carlos reaches out to gently pinch Maia’s cheek — earning a bright smile from the bubbly infant.

“You’ll learn soon enough that your papá can be un poco loco sometimes, princesa.”

“She really doesn’t need to learn that at all, thanks,” Lando grumbles, shooting his friend an exasperated glare.

You can’t help but shake your head fondly at the pair of them, even as Lando tucks you snugly against his side. For all their bickering, it’s abundantly clear just how enamored all the drivers are with Maia already.

The tender moment is interrupted, however, by a voice calling out for your boyfriend from across the paddock.

“Lando, we need you over in the garage. The parade will be starting any minute now,” a press officer arrives to herd him away.

Lando exhales a put-upon sigh, dropping a kiss to the top of Maia’s head before meeting your gaze apologetically. “Duty calls, I suppose. You’ll be okay here with my littlest fan club?”

You wave him off with a warm smile. “We’ll be fine. Just focus on having a good race, yeah? Maia and I will be cheering you on.”

The brilliant grin Lando flashes you is enough to make your heart flutter. “How could I do anything else with my two favorite cheerleaders?”

With one last lingering kiss, he tears himself away — offering a half-hearted wave to Carlos before disappearing through the paddock. An oddly serene quiet falls in his absence, the crowd breaking up to get settled before the race.

Carlos seems to sense your pensive mood, stepping up beside you to gently bump his shoulder against yours.

“You know, he really has changed since becoming a papá,” the older driver muses, casting a fond look down at Maia. “Far as I can tell, it’s done wonders for him.”

You smile softly, bouncing Maia gently as you watch Lando’s retreating back weave through the controlled chaos of the paddock. “He’s been … amazing. And he loves Maia more than life itself. My father complains that he has run out of things to threaten Lando over, which is the biggest compliment coming from him.”

Your daughter simply blinks at the two of you for a long moment before that sunny smile you’ve grown to adore stretches across her face, little fists waving happily in the air. You can’t help but chuckle at her antics, brushing a knuckle over her soft cheek.

As the bright Miami sun shines down and anticipation slowly builds in the background, you feel a surge of nearly overwhelming contentment. No matter what twists and turns life throws your way from here, you decide, you’ll always be able to find your way back to moments like this.

So much has changed in the course of a year, but you truly wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even if Lando still can’t quite look your father in the eye.

[llamagoddessofficial]

Nightmare being so restrained AND a closeted romantic immediately gave me the image of him journaling about you. The journal would be somewhat of a legend/myth among the murder time trio (Killer vehemently insists that he caught a glimpse of Nightmare writing by the fire. Dust thinks he's full of shit) but if someone were to look in it they'd find some very detailed writings of your features, behaviors, thoughts about you... maybe some very literal prose. And if he found that person looking in it there would be no evidence that they (or the journal) ever existed

My Nightmare is, deep down, quite artistic. Whilst Dream has an eye for poetry and the written word, Nightmare has always been fond of form and colour. In another life, unburdened by powers and hatred, I imagine he would've lived a quiet and contented life as a locally successful painter.

Alas... this is not that life. He keeps his passions hidden, even from you. So his journal remains locked away in his room.

His journal is a little black leather-bound book, with uneven pages, so thick it needs a ribbon to remain closed.

It's messy. 90% sketches, most unfinished. Some are lit up with watercolours and some aren't. He sketches everything - landscapes, the interior of his castle, his henchmen, his enemies, memories from his childhood. There's one attempted drawing of what he used to look like before being corrupted, but he's covered that one in so much ink it's impossible to even tell what was underneath.

He's good at drawing. I mean really good. Hundreds of years of practise shows. He writes around the drawings, filling pretty much any gap on the paper, and he has excellent handwriting.

It's the only place where he's utterly honest with himself. He talks about his real feelings, his frustrations and desires... his biggest regrets. He bears his Soul, in that little book, because there's nowhere else he can. Not yet.

Just by reading it, you can tell when he meets you. And when he falls for you. It starts out small - just a profile sketch, a 3/4 view of your head from memory, the usual. But then it just continues. Another 3/4 view, more detailed this time. A closeup of your face. There's more you than words on the page. A day when he was clearly fixated on your neck and shoulders because there's three studies in a row. A whole double spread dedicated to a watercolour of you napping by an evening window.

He reminisces for pages about the lives he would've had with you if things had gone differently. A home? A garden? Children? Would he ever have made a good father?

He also talks in great detail about the strength of his feelings for you, and how he isn't even sure what to do with himself anymore.

No one knows about the journal.

... Except Killer.

Killer saw Nightmare writing in it, once, and decided to go snooping through Nightmare's room while he was out. He found the locked box, and the journal.

He took one look at what was inside - and then closed it again and got the fuck out of there. He still acts like he's searching for it because he knows the severity of what he came across. He will never EVER admit he saw it.