nerdjo, his pregnant girlfriend and his baby (and sometimes suguru) ♡ art creds here
When you nervously showed him the positive pregnancy test in your shared room at the penthouse,૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა froze for a solid ten seconds, then immediately pulled up a dozen tabs on prenatal vitamins, baby name generators, and a shared Google Doc titled “Baby Project v1.0.”
૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა insisted on turning one of his spare rooms into a nursery right away, sketching floor plans on graph paper and ordering a star-projector ceiling light so the baby could “have her own little galaxy every night.” (he wanted a baby girl so bad, kept insisting that the baby HAD to be a girl)
He started a meticulous pregnancy tracker app on his phone, color-coded by trimester, complete with weekly bump photos he took with his fancy camera while you were both still in hoodies and sweatpants between lectures.
૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა would drive you to every prenatal appointment in his sleek car, blasting whatever playlist you had chosen turned down low, and holding your hand the entire time while asking the doctor way too many hyper-specific questions.
He researched the healthiest snacks obsessively and kept the fridge stocked with cut fruit, Greek yogurt, and those fancy imported juices, proudly announcing each new “approved” food like he’d unlocked a rare achievement.
Late-night study sessions turned into him reading baby development books out loud to you while you rested your head on his lap, his free hand gently on your growing belly.
૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა cried quietly in the car after the 20-week ultrasound when he saw her little profile on the screen, then immediately printed it out and laminated it for his wallet.
He started calling her “Pixel” as a nickname because she was “the best new character in our life’s game,” and it stuck even after you picked her real name.
During the pregnancy, ૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა would drag Suguru into their usual late-night study sessions just to show off the latest ultrasound printout he kept in a protective sleeve, zooming in on “her perfect little pixel profile” while Suguru sipped coffee and called him a sap.
૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა assembled the crib with the precision of someone defusing a bomb, triple-checking the instructions and adding extra safety features he found on niche parenting forums.
when you went into labor, ૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა was a whirlwind of calm panic—grabbing the hospital bag he’d packed weeks in advance while driving you there safely.
In the delivery room, ૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა held your hand the whole time, feeding you ice chips and whispering nerdy encouragements like “You’re clearing the hardest boss fight, baby.” Then he saw his daughter and broke into full-on happy tears, glasses fogging up.
The first time he held his daughter, ૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა was a complete mess of awe and love, rocking her so gently while murmuring stats about newborn reflexes he’d memorized.
Back at the penthouse, he set up a whole command center with a baby monitor that had night vision and an app that sent stats to his phone so he could “data mine her sleep cycles.”
He bought a baby carrier that looked like a little tactical vest and wore her around the penthouse while reviewing lecture notes, calling it “multi-tasking DLC.”
First bath time was a whole event: ૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა had the water temperature checked three times, rubber duckies lined up, and recorded a video for memories.
૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა insisted on taking her to campus in a fancy stroller, proudly introducing her to professors and friends between classes like she was a little star.
Diaper changes became a strangely efficient process; he had it down to a science with wipes warmers and a changing pad that played soft melodies.
He baby-proofed the entire penthouse with outlet covers, corner guards, and even pressure sensors on low cabinets “just in case she unlocks parkour mode early.”
૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა would hum video game themes as lullabies, and surprisingly, Pixel always settled down faster to the Zelda soundtrack.
When she had her first real laugh, ૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა FaceTimed Suguru mid-laugh and held the phone so close the audio glitched, yelling, “Did you hear that?! She’s got my humor! She's hilarious!"
He bought matching nerdy onesies for the baby and insisted on a “family photo op” with Suguru during one of their hangouts, forcing his best friend to hold her while he took 47 pictures from different angles.
During study breaks on campus, he’d wheel the stroller over to wherever Suguru was and dramatically unveil her like she was a limited-edition figurine, saying things like “Behold, the final boss of my heart” while Suguru pretended to be annoyed but always ended up playing peek-a-boo with her.
When she started crawling, ૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა sent Suguru a 15-second video of her scooting across the floor with the caption “She’s already faster than you bro” followed by ten laughing emojis.
Suguru once joked that the baby looked more like you than him, and ૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა spent the next week sending side-by-side comparison photos with annotations pointing out her “obviously Gojo-coded” features.
For her first birthday party, ૮₍ daddy nerdjo ⑅₎ა made sure Suguru was there early so he could watch his best friend hold the birthday girl in her tiny party dress, getting a little misty-eyed again while muttering, “she's so cute...”
Summary: Ryland and Rocky plan something special for your birthday
Authors Note: It's my birthday!! Sorry I haven't written much fanfic recently, but I've been working on other writing things that has me in the trenches. This just burst out of me bc i love PHM sm. I hope you enjoy!
The quiet should have been the first sign something was wrong. Of course, in such a small space, shared with not only another human and an alien, but the complex tunnels needed for said alien to traverse gracefully, privacy was at an all time low, and that included silence. Especially when you shared a spaceship with creatures that loved to talk.
Not that you minded it. Though you had signed up for the project sound of mind, it was still a daunting thing, coming to accept that you weren’t ever going to return to Earth. That you were going to die in the cold emptiness of space, millions of miles from everything you knew. Dr. Ryland Grace, your fellow astronaut, reluctant as he was, was a comfort to you in way you never thought possible. He’d been a scientist, buried in the work to get you to space, not to be there with you. It was…easier to ignore him, to ignore everyone, and not leave with tearful goodbyes.
It was why, once you woke up from your induced coma, with a near unfamiliar pair of frantic eyes and overgrown beard dangling in your face, you’d punched him. Accidentally, of course, and more like a swing of your whole arm rather than a skillful curled knuckles, but it was still a hit nonetheless. You’d apologized around garbled breath, still slightly numb, and he, dramatic and loose limbed, tried his best to reassure you.
Ever since, you’d developed a sort of rapport with goofy scientist.
The mission was still the same, even after you realized he had no memory of how he joined the team, and Rocky was a pleasant, if not worldaltering, addition. With your piloting skills, Rocky’s mind, and Dr.Grace’s abilities, there was a hope deep in your chest that you hadn’t realized was missing when you left Earth.
Which is why the silence was concerning. Dr.Grace was supposed to be setting up the lab for the new specimen from Tau Ceti E, and Rocky still had chain to finish. You were supposed to be calibrating the ship to ensure that you wouldn’t blow to pieces entering the atmosphere. Supposed to be, being key. But once you noticed the silence, the lack of the xenonoite clinking and the whirling of lab equipment, it was all you could focus on.
“Mary?” you called, flipping a few buttons. The ship hummed, waiting for your question. “Where are Dr.Grace and Rocky?”
“Dr.Grace is currently--”
“Nothing! I’m nowhere. Thank you, Mary,” Dr.Grace hurried up the ladder into the cockpit, glasses pushed up into his hair. It made the golden strands stick up like a paper crown. You bit back a laugh. When you met eyes, he broke out into a goofy smile. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself,” You said, flipping another button. The ship leveled as you returned controls to Mary. “I was just wondering what you were up to.”
“Up to?” Dr.Grace’s laugh was loud. Too loud. “What do you mean? I’ve been in the lab. Doing what I’m supposed to.”
You eyed him.
“Why don’t I believe that?”
“What could be more important than prepping the lab?” The words were honest, but the tone was wrong. He was hiding something, you just knew it. But what? What could be more important than saving literally all the planets in the galaxy?
“Dr.Grace--”
“Ryland.”
“Dr.Grace, I have a feeling you’re lying.”
“It’s Ryland, and I have a feeling you’re being paranoid.” You crossed your arms. He smiled. You couldn’t help your own as it spread across your lips.
“I’m serious.” When you went to stand, Dr.Grace scrambled up the last few steps, forcing you back into your seat. “Woah!”
“Sorry! I mean, you should stay here!” Again, too loud.
Below your feet, you could hear the telltale signs of Rocky’s feet against the xenonite glass, then quiet. You opened your mouth to speak, but Rocky was making noise again. Thunk, thunk, THUNK. His ball, bashing against the metal of the ship. You eyed Dr.Grace, and he winced.
“I--uh,” he stammered, still holding you against the chair. “I didn’t realize his ball was so loud.”
“Uh, huh.” You relaxed, letting Dr.Grace’s hands keep your arms pressed to the armrests.
Before boarding the Hail Mary, you never would have allowed him to be so close. Now, you’d travelled light years together, weeks cohabitating, found alien life, and were about to risk your lives trying to enter an atmosphere on a ship designed for a suicide mission. Being so close felt…natural. Easy, even. Even Dr.Grace seemed to agree, practically leaning into you as he closed his eyes, muttering under his breath about unstealthy aliens.
“Dr.Grace--”
“Ryland.” That got him to look at you, noses practically brushing. Dr.Grace’s eyes widened as he finally realized how close he had gotten, and jumped back, nearly falling into the ship’s navigation panel. You grabbed him just before his butt could accidently recalculate for landing. “Oh, jeez. Thanks. I’m not…doing a very good job at this.”
“Doing a very good job at what? Acting normal? Because you’re being weird right now.”
“Me? Being weird?” His laugh was mechanical. You huffed, and gave him a look. He had the decency to look sheepish. “Okay, fine. But between me and Rocky, I was definitely the better choice right? He would have just spilled the beans immediately.”
“Spilled the beans?”
“You know he can’t say no to you.” You didn’t know where Dr.Grace had gotten that idea from, you’d seen how quickly and close their bond had formed, but if Rocky’s soft spot for you was as big as the one you had for him, whatever secret they were hiding wasn’t going to stay a secret for long.
A few more thunk!s sounded from below, and then Mary announced, “Rocky is requesting your presence.”
“Perfect timing! Thank you, Mary.”
“You’re welcome, Dr.Grace.”
“Come on, this way.” His smile was blinding.
Dr.Grace grabbed your hand and led you back to the lab. You tried to walk towards the equipment, determined he was going to show you his and Rocky’s progress in technical terms you didn’t even have the slightest clue of, he tugged you forwards, towards the screen room. It was a place you had fond memories of. You and Dr.Grace had spent many of the days between waking up and meeting Rocky in there, grasping at the familiar pictures of Earth to make waking up in space somewhat bearable. Then, it became ritual for you and Dr.Grace to bring Rocky into the room to show him too. It made your heart ache, but Dr.Grace was always there, gripping your hand tightly, reminding you that home wasn’t as far away as you believed.
“[Y/N] come!” Rocky cried just as you entered. “Is day of birth! Celebrate birth!”
“What--?”
The dome’s screens were projecting a warm summer’s day, blue skies and clouds stretching into the ocean’s horizon. Dr.Grace’s blanket was spread across the narrow metal floor, an attempt at a feast spread out with the odd collection of food from Mary’s stores. Ramen and dehydrated fruits placed between cups hand scribbled with silly designs. Dr.Grace scurried by you, snatching some paper cones off the floor. With careful fingers, he taped one to the top of Rocky’s sphere, then placed the other on his head, elastic snapping against his chin painfully.
“Happy birthday!”
“Day of birth!” Dr.Grace and Rocky cried together.
“What?” Your voice was breathless as you tried to take in the scene in front of you.
“Happy birthday,” Dr.Grace said, softer, handing you the paper cone. When you didn’t reach for it, his face went red.
“It’s my birthday?”
“Rocky Grace do math!” Rocky cried, sphere shaking with excitement. “Travel time from Earth. Give or take. Grace use information to calculate and now Grace Rocky do Earth celebration for [Y/N] in honor of birth!”
“You taught Rocky the word for birth?” you asked. It seemed to be the only thing that made it through your racing mind.
“Sort of.” Dr.Grace stepped forward, and when you didn’t back away, he took another step, until he was close enough to touch you. Quietly, he asked, “Is this okay?”
“You know my birthday?” He flushed.
“I read your file, back on Earth.” He was talking faster, speaking before the dread of recognizing that his memory was coming back could take over. “And the math might not be perfect. But, it should be. If you wanted to celebrate.”
“Grace say not all human like day of birth,” Rocky said. “But he also say birth big deal. Eridians celebrate only when egg hatch, but Grace say human tradition is party for every year human survive.”
“Okay, well I didn’t put it like that,” he said, embarrassed. “But, we don’t have to do anything. In fact, we can just forget all of this happened! Yeah, we can--”
“Dr.Grace.” He froze as you put a hand on his arm. Gently, you pulled the hat out of his hands, placing it on his head. Rocky let out a happy chirp. “Rocky. Thank you. This is…amazing.”
“Of course.” His smile was softer, quieter. He was pulling you into a hug and pulling away before you could reciprocate, turning back to Rocky. It didn’t hide the redness of his ears. “Let’s get this party started!”
It was the strangest party you’d ever had. Dr.Grace and Rocky hammered you with questions about your previous birthdays, your favorite ways to celebrate, favorite foods, everything. Although you may not have chosen a beach as your birthday setting, no doubt Dr.Grace’s idea, the idea of having one last birthday under the sunny sky filled you with a sort of sad happiness. It made you do silly things, like show Rocky party games. The blanket was covered in water by the end of your makeshift beer pong game. You danced. You sang. You ate more food than you probably should have considering you needed to think about rationing, but Dr.Grace was there the moment the thought entered your mind, pressing another bland cracker into your hand while sharing another embarrassing birthday story.
By the time you were practically bursting with food and half asleep, your favorite movie playing on the screens, the thought of your impending death was the farthest thing from your mind.
Your head rested comfortably against Dr.Grace’s shoulder, Rocky pressed against your other side. You would have fallen asleep, if Dr.Grace hadn’t whispered against your temple.
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“Aren’t my wishes supposed to come true today?” you teased.
“Humor me.” His mouth moved against your forehead once, then twice, like he was practicing before he dared to say anything aloud. Finally, he whispered, “Ryland.”
“Ryland?” He hummed. It tickled.
“No more Dr.Grace. I think we’re closer than formalities. Friends. Right?” You sat up. His ears were bright red, and his eyes kept flickering to the side, like he couldn’t quiet hold your gaze. A wave of fondness crashed over you.
“Of course we are.” You placed you hand over his, giving it a squeeze. “Ryland. Thank you.”
“[Y/N] happy, question?” Rocky asked. Your favorite movie played on. Ryland scooted closer, pulling you into his side. Rocky trilled, then readjusted, practically in your lap. His crab hand pressed against his sphere.
“Yeah, Rocky.” You placed your hand over his, eyes watering. Ryland’s soft laugh was everything. “I’m happy.”
Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)
Summary:
Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.
Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well. Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.
And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.
Warnings and Notes: George Russell Bashing. Questionable family dynamics. Questionable Engineering Science...also Questionable work ethic. Questionable Media Ethics. I feel like I owe Toto's kids an apology after this. I bet they are lovely in real life, they just suck in my fictional version! Definitely NSFW though...Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!
If anybody wonders, no, I did not write this in two days 😂 This is pretty much a collection of bits and pieces that I wrote weeks ago and knew I needed to put into the summer vacation chapters
(Also apparently I need to add this following disclaimer: There's this magical thing in a fic called character development and plot. If there was neither of those there wouldn't be much of a fic. So yes, characters will make stupid decisions and act in a way that is not very smart.)
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Lewis Hamilton
Ana:
Are you watching the F1 Academy race this morning?
Lewis:
Was planning to. Why?
Ana:
Come watch it with me. Sit next to me. Look very famous. Distract everyone.
Lewis:
…are you trying to use me as a human decoy?
Ana:
Yes.
If you’re there, people will stare at you and not at me.
I’m trying to avoid being dissected like a frog before the Race.
Lewis:
Ana.
You’re dating Max Verstappen.
People are going to stare regardless.
I show up and they’ll just think it’s also a press conference.
Ana:
It’s worth a try.
Lewis:
You really want me there?
Ana:
I want to watch motorsport.
I don’t want to be a spectacle while doing it.
Having you next to me… might make the staring feel less awful.
Lewis:
Alright.
I’ll come.
I’ll wear something outrageous. Draw the eye.
Ana:
You always do.
Lewis:
❤️ See you in 20.
***
Text Messages: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff & Nico Rosberg
Ana:
Are you at the track yet?
Nico:
I’m in hospitality.
Why?
Ana:
Want to come watch the F1 Academy race with me and Lewis?
Nico:
…the two of you?
Sitting together in public?
Ana:
Exactly.
I need decoys.
Human lightning rods.
You and Lewis are both shiny enough to draw attention.
Nico:
Is this because of The Dinner?
Ana:
Yes.
And the photos.
And the gossip.
Nico:
…
I’m in.
I live to be inconvenient.
Want me to wear obnoxious sunglasses?
Ana:
Perfect.
I’ll see you in 15.
***
Circuit Zandvoort, Zandvoort, Netherlands - 31 August 2025
The grandstand wasn’t even full yet, and Ana could feel the cameras.
She didn’t look at them. She didn’t need to. Years of survival had trained her peripheral vision to clock at least three photographers, two journalists, and one overly eager intern with a selfie stick hovering just out of frame.
But it was fine.
She wasn’t alone.
To her left sat Lewis Hamilton, Ferrari hoodie pulled low over his cap, sunglasses already in place despite the overcast sky. He was sipping espresso from a tiny paper cup with all the calm detachment of a man used to causing headlines just by existing.
To her right was Nico Rosberg. He’d arrived fifteen minutes ago wearing the most garish sunglasses imaginable, with an enormous grin, and the exact energy of a man gleefully walking into a press trap.
It was perfect.
Ana handed Nico the extra coffee she’d brought — flat white, two sugars — and then opened the bag of popcorn on her lap.
"Popcorn?" she offered casually.
Nico took a handful without hesitation. "Excellent race breakfast."
Lewis glanced sideways. "You brought snacks?"
Ana shrugged. "You agreed to this. I felt it only fair to bribe you."
Lewis accepted the popcorn with the resigned grace of a man who knew exactly how this was going to go.
“Do you think this’ll actually help?” he asked after a minute, voice low.
Ana didn’t look away from the track. “Two world champions watching an F1 Academy race? Side by side? Wearing sunglasses and smiling? Yes. It’ll be in every sponsor deck by Monday.”
“And the press?” Nico asked.
“They’ll lose their minds,” she said calmly, crunching down on another kernel. “And hopefully spend the entire morning writing about this instead of chasing me down the paddock with questions about dinner.”
Nico smirked. “So this is a decoy mission.”
“This is a distraction and a fundraiser,” Ana said. “Susie will get so many emails. Some of them might even have money attached.”
Lewis laughed softly. “And all we have to do is sit here and look like we’re friends.”
Ana raised a brow. “Are you not?”
Lewis and Nico exchanged a look.
“Ish,” Nico said.
“Selective amnesia,” Lewis offered.
Ana waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. The press will hallucinate a truce anyway.”
Down on the track, the lights went out — and the grid launched into the first corner like they had something to prove.
And they did.
These girls — the ones Susie fought for, the ones Ana had stayed up at night helping format data sheets for — they all had something to prove. Every lap, every second, every overtake was a message.
We’re here. And we’re fast.
Nico leaned forward slightly, eyes tracking the car in third. “She’s good,” he murmured, pointing to Doriane Pin, who Ana had flagged earlier.
“She’s brilliant,” Ana replied. “Keep an eye on her.”
Nico nodded slowly. “Reminds me of Piastri’s junior tape. Same aggression.”
“I can send you her data sheets if you want,” Ana said. “She could use a mentor.”
Lewis tilted his head. “You mentoring her already?”
“I’m helping where I can,” Ana said, modest but firm. “They all deserve to know someone’s watching.”
She didn’t say the rest aloud.
That she never had that. That no one had watched out for her until it was too late. That being noticed — for people like her — often meant being targeted.
So now she made space. Quietly. Precisely. On purpose.
Lewis reached for another handful of popcorn. “You’re a menace, you know that?”
“An efficient one,” Ana said, voice dry.
Nico saluted her with his coffee cup. “To chaos.”
“To strategy,” Ana corrected.
The crowd cheered as a daring overtake came through the final sector.
Ana smiled — sharp and quiet.
Behind her, the paddock was already buzzing. She could feel it.
But none of it touched her here.
Here, she had her data. Her plan. Her allies. Her coffee.
And two very shiny decoys flanking her like twin shields.
Let the press write whatever they wanted.
The girls were racing.
And Ana?
Ana was exactly where she needed to be.
***
Twitter Thread: Ceasefire
@/tracksidegoblin: BREAKING: Ana Wolff, Lewis Hamilton & Nico Rosberg are currently seated together in the stands watching the F1 Academy race.
Popcorn was involved.
I repeat: POPCORN WAS INVOLVED.
@/gossipfuelgp: you’re telling me ana wolff convinced LEWIS and NICO to appear in public TOGETHER???
F1 Academy better sign her as head of global strategy cause this is 4D chess.
@/nocontextf1: ana wolff is so unserious. imagine getting the two pettiest men in the paddock to sit next to each other in public and feeding them popcorn like it’s a divorce mediation
@/overheardinthepaddock: “it’s like if darth vader, gandalf, and a data analytics girlboss all went to the cinema together”
— overheard near the paddock
@/nicorosberghater69: NOOOO why is nico sitting like they’re friends now 😭 this is ruining my enemies-to-eternal-enemies pipeline
@/softforana: I’m sorry but Ana bringing TWO world champs to a junior series race is such peak stepmom energy. She said visibility AND chaos.
@/anafiles: She really said:
— protect me from the press
— boost F1 Academy viewership
— rebrand two ex-rivals as girl dad ambassadors
… all before 10am
Who is doing it like Ana Wolff???
@/fanaccount44: lewis literally agreed to be ana’s decoy so she wouldn’t be the centre of press attention. i’m gonna cry.
@/drivertok_shitpost: meanwhile susie wolff is absolutely printing sponsorship decks as we speak
@/journalistfailblog: Imagine being the journalist who planned to ask Ana about “dinner with Max and Jos” and now the story is her sitting between Lewis & Nico sharing popcorn at a girls’ race.
masterclass.
@/f1wagchaos: Ana Wolff’s PR skills are insane. Instead of denying anything, she dropped a soft launch of herself as the true puppet master behind three eras of F1.
I’m obsessed.
@/gridwivesanonymous: Ana watching her press problems dissolve because everyone is too busy screaming about Lewis and Nico being cordial is the most autistic girl move ever
“I planned for distraction.”
YES YOU DID BABE
@/teambrocedes1994: HELLO??????
LEWIS.
NICO.
IN THE SAME FRAME.
WITHOUT A LEGAL TEAM PRESENT???
@/silverwarsaga: I haven’t emotionally recovered from Barcelona 2016 and now Ana Wolff just casually brings Brocedes back like we’re all FINE????
@/hambergervibes: did ana wolff just… resurrect brocedes like it was NOTHING
girl got tired of headlines and went "fine, you want chaos? here’s the ghost of 2016."
@/traumatisedf1fan me watching nico rosberg and lewis hamilton sit beside each other like civilised men with popcorn:
🫨🫨🫨🫨🫨
@/2016neverforget: I’m just saying if Ana can fix BROCEDES, she can fix the housing market, climate change, and the FIA.
@/isthistruce: NO WAY they’re watching f1 academy TOGETHER.
THEY LOOK SO NORMAL.
SOMEONE ASK THEM IF THEY’VE APOLOGISED FOR BARCELONA 2016.
@/rosbergsmirror: nico sitting with lewis like he didn’t spend three years trying to psychologically destroy him is WILD. the ✨character development✨.
@/quicksilverf1: lewis sipping coffee like he isn’t next to the man who made him question reality in 2016
ana really said: move on. it’s f1 academy time now.
@/brocedestruthers: is this a truce? is it penance? is it a media stunt?
or is it Ana Wolff conducting a soft launch of world peace using former teammates and popcorn??
@/twitterwasntready: brocedes was trending within 12 minutes of ana wolff sitting down.
she’s a menace.
i’m obsessed.
@/f1popcorntheory: the symbolism of ana feeding lewis and nico popcorn is INSANE.
the girl said: watch. digest. heal.
@/socialstrategyqueen: susie wolff better be prepping the F1 Academy press release like:
“now with bonus brocedes™ endorsement, sponsored by closure and corn kernels.”
@/maxverstappenswifeallegedly: ana out here casually reuniting brocedes while the world screams about whether she’s dating max verstappen
i love one (1) evil genius woman
@/chaoticneutralana: BREAKING:
brocedes has risen.
ana wolff is the reason.
sardinia was a decoy. zandvoort is a battleground. the popcorn was prophecy.
@/brocedes_supremacy: NO ONE TALK TO ME I AM BUSY SCREAMING
LEWIS. NICO. TOGETHER.
AT AN F1 ACADEMY RACE.
WHAT YEAR IS IT
@/hammertimefan44: so let me get this straight:
• ana wolff is casually feeding popcorn to lewis and nico
• lewis is LAUGHING
• nico is not monologuing about how 2016 changed him
• no one's been stabbed
did we just heal?
@/f1_era_pain: BROCEDES SPOTTED AT AN F1 ACADEMY RACE.
WHO HAD THIS ON THEIR 2025 BINGO CARD.
NOT ME.
@/nicolaughing???: someone said “nico rosberg laughing at something lewis hamilton said is the most terrifying sign of the apocalypse” and they’re RIGHT
@/chaosinthepaddock: ANA: can you come watch the race with me
LEWIS: sure
ANA: also can you sit next to nico rosberg
LEWIS:
ANA: i’ll bring popcorn
LEWIS: okay yeah fine
@/queenofzandvoort: the press: ana wolff this, ana wolff that
ana wolff: soft launches a brocedes truce during a girls race with snacks me: MY GENERAL
@/gridwivesanonymous: they’re not reunited. they’re co-existing. in neutral airspace.
but also:
BROCEDES NATION RISE
***
Circuit Zandvoort, Zandvoort, Netherlands - 31 August 2025
Susie was halfway through her fifth conversation about sponsor metrics when it happened.
A sharp inhale from one of the media liaisons.
A tap on her arm from her comms assistant.
And then:
“Susie… you’re going to want to see this.”
Someone turned the screen toward her.
It was a wide broadcast shot from the grandstands. The camera lingered just long enough—three seconds, maybe four—but the image was unmistakable.
Lewis Hamilton.
Nico Rosberg.
And right between them, calm as anything, sitting there with a bag of popcorn in her lap like it was a casual Sunday cinema screening—Ana.
Susie blinked. Once. Twice.
Her brain took a second to catch up.
Ana. Her Ana.
With two of the most press-magnetised drivers in the sport’s history flanking her like they’d signed up for guardian duty.
And Lewis laughing. Nico smirking. All three of them looking perfectly unbothered.
It was everything.
No—it was everything she’d ever fought for.
Visibility. Legitimacy. Legacy.
And today, the world had watched two former world champions show up, sit down, and lend their names—not to scandal, not to drama—but to the future.
And Ana…
Ana had orchestrated the entire thing with quiet brilliance.
Susie didn’t even have to ask. She knew.
This had been Ana’s plan.
She could picture it now:
Ana texting Lewis.
Ana texting Nico.
Ana handing them coffee and popcorn like it was just another strategy meeting.
The camera cut back to the track, but it didn’t matter.
The world had seen.
The message was clear:
The girls are racing. And the legends are watching.
Susie turned slowly back to her assistant. Her heart was still hammering, but her voice came out steady.
“Clip that,” she said. “And send it to the social team.”
“Already done,” the assistant replied breathlessly. “It’s gone viral. ‘Brocedes watching F1 Academy’ is trending everywhere.”
Susie smiled. Just a little.
Of course it was.
Ana never missed.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, she could already hear the phones ringing—sponsors calling, agents scrambling, junior teams asking about scouting rights.
This wasn’t just a viral moment.
It was leverage.
She reached for her phone and opened her messages.
Text Message – Susie Wolff → Ana Susie: You brilliant, brilliant, genius girl.
Do you know what you’ve just done?
I owe you so much coffee and half the next sponsorship deck.
Also—did you feed Nico popcorn???
There was no immediate reply. Ana was probably still on the stands, watching the race like nothing had happened, oblivious to the internet melting down.
Susie leaned back slightly, exhaled slowly.
For the first time that week, she allowed herself to believe it:
F1 Academy was no longer trying to be taken seriously.
It was.
Because the moment you put Ana Wolff between Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg and aimed a camera at her—
You weren’t looking at a sideshow.
You were looking at the future.
***
Text Messages: Susie Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Susie: You brilliant, brilliant, genius girl.
Do you know what you’ve just done?
I owe you so much coffee and half the next sponsorship deck.
Also—did you feed Nico popcorn???
Ana: He looked hungry.
And slightly feral.
I was trying to prevent him from making a scene.
Susie: You put Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg next to each other in public.
At a junior series race
And they didn’t kill each other
Do you realise the internet thinks you’ve solved the Cold War
Ana: Only the 2016 Cold War.
Global peace will have to wait.
Susie: The comms team had to mute “Brocedes” on Twitter to get through lunch.
Also.
Our page just hit a record for engagement.
Someone made a meme of you holding popcorn like it’s the Sword of Damocles.
Ana: That seems excessive.
…send it to me.
Susie: Done.
Also—a dozen new brands reached out in the last hour.
One of them specifically mentioned “the unity optics of two champions attending together.”
And five journalists demanding to know when F1 Academy got “so star-studded.”
You really pulled off a miracle.
The girls are going to get so much coverage from this.
Ana: That was the point.
Always the point.
Susie: Still. You didn’t have to take the spotlight.
Not after everything this week.
Ana: That’s why I did it.
Better to control the noise than let it consume you.
Also, Lewis said he’d wear something shiny.
I considered it a tactical advantage.
Susie: You turned Lewis Hamilton into a walking flashbang.
And Nico Rosberg into… a semi-respectable mentor figure.
You may have broken reality.
Ana: Just bent it a little.
For the girls.
Susie: You’re going to be the reason half these sponsors finally put serious money behind this.
And I love you for it.
Even if you fed Nico like a zoo animal.
Ana: He made a comment about being a “girl dad ambassador.”
He earned that popcorn.
Susie: You’re impossible.
But you’re mine.
And I’m so, so proud of you.
You really are brilliant, you know that?
Ana: I learned from the best.
💛
***
Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff
Max : So.
You, Lewis and Nico?
In public?
Feeding them popcorn like it’s a daycare snack table?
Is this your version of soft diplomacy?
Ana: It’s called operational efficiency.
Two world champs for the price of one press distraction.
Max: You could’ve warned me first.
I nearly spat out my protein shake.
You looked so pleased with yourself.
Popcorn and everything.
Ana: I was pleased.
The press forgot all about “the dinner.”
They’re too busy trying to figure out if Brocedes is back.
Max: I was going to ask if you saved me any popcorn.
But I think the answer is no.
🥲
Ana: Come to the next F1 Academy race.
You haven’t been to one yet.
I’ll bring popcorn and smugness.
Max: I do like watching racing.
Even if they’re all driving lawnmowers.
Ana: Max.
Ma: I’m kidding.
(Kind of.)
You do remember what I said about F1 Academy?
Ana: Yes.
“It’s good that Formula 1 is now paying extra attention to women in motorsports with F1 Academy, although I question how they are doing it. The cars they drive are far too slow. If you ever want to get them into Formula 1, it really has to go to a higher level.”
Word for word. I remember.
Max: …That does sound like me.
They are too slow.
If you want real prep for F3/F2, you can’t baby them on underpowered cars.
That’s not sexism, that’s logic.
Ana: Because it is you.
And you weren’t wrong.
But the point is to build a ladder. Not a trap.
It’s not about perfection—it’s about access.
Max: I know.
You’re right.
I just get impatient.
I want the girls who are actually fast to have the same shot the guys do.
Ana: And they will.
But first they need visibility. Support. Sponsors. Testing. A season.
Time.
Max : Okay, fair.
Still think they could go faster though.
Ana: You think everything should go faster.
You’d race on ice if it made you quicker.
Max: I have raced on ice.
It was great.
Ana: Of course you have.
Also: you talk about pipeline issues, and yet there is not a single woman on your Team Redline sim team.
Max: We haven’t found one fast enough. Yet.
Ana: Max.
You aren’t going to find them if they don’t even start.
Sim racing is one of the lowest-barrier entries to motorsport.
But that scene is so male-dominated most girls don’t even try.
Max: I know.
It’s something we’ve talked about internally, actually.
We’ve started looking for young talent outside the usual recruitment channels.
I told Atze and Domé about it after you ranted about representation last year.
Ana: That wasn’t a rant.
It was a calm, evidence-based lecture with ten powerpoint slides.
Max: It was an ambush in the hotel room after we had sex, Nastya.
You bullied me into listening while you weren’t even wearing a damn shirt.
Ana:Next I’ll send you a new powerpoint about structural inequality.
It has graphs.
Max:
I am afraid.
Ana: Good.
Ana: Also.
If I do send you the powerpoint about structural inequality, it comes with a bonus section.
Women in STEM.
Slides 18–32.
Max: Oh god.
There are more slides?
Ana: There are always more slides.
Especially when you’re the only girl in the room.
Or the youngest.
Or both.
Max: Cambridge?
Ana: Always felt like I was being tested twice.
Half the people expected me to be a prodigy.
The other half assumed I was stupid and there because of my last name.
No middle ground.
Just pressure and assumptions.
Max: That sounds awful.
Did anyone take you seriously?
Ana: Some did.
But even then, it was usually after I proved myself three times over.
And if I ever got anything wrong?
It wasn’t just a mistake.
It was proof I didn’t belong.
Max: You’ve always belonged.
You’re the smartest person I know.
And I know Adrian Newey.
Ana: You’re biased.
Max: Absolutely.
But still right.
Ana: Mercedes tries.
We have targets, quotas, outreach programs.
We even do school visits and mentorship pipelines.
But you don’t fix systemic inequality with a hiring poster and free cupcakes.
Max: Wait, Mercedes has free cupcakes?
Ana: Metaphorically, Max.
Max: …Unacceptable.
Ana:
Even in Systems Engineering—
My department—
It’s still uphill.
Max: How bad is it?
Ana: Solomon is technically my deputy.
Elliot’s third in line.
Both men.
The engineering floor still mostly looks like a boys’ school in lab coats.
Max: But you lead it.
Ana: Yes.
And that’s progress.
But progress isn’t parity.
It’s still ten thousand little things.
It’s being asked to take notes in a strategy meeting.
It’s being assumed I don’t know how to solder.
It’s being told to “smile more” after presenting full race simulations.
Max: I’d ask who said that last one but I’d have to commit crimes.
Ana: You will not be very popular with the HR department.
Max: I’m just saying.
You shouldn’t have to work twice as hard just to be taken seriously.
Ana: I don’t want pity.
I want investment.
I want money, support, mentorship, systems.
I want ten more women on my team. I want twenty in the feeder series.
I want a thousand little girls watching the race today and thinking—
I could be her. I want them to think that could be me.
Max: You know…
I always knew you were brilliant.
But every time you talk about this stuff, I get it a little more.
It’s not just about F1.
It’s the whole damn machine.
Ana: Exactly.
And we’re going to fix it.
One spreadsheet at a time.
Max:You have to send me your structural inequality powerpoint.
I want to be able to quote it and scare Atze in meetings.
Ana: Done.
It has bar graphs, case studies, and an appendix.
Ana:
That’s why I love you.
Even when you say the F1 Academy girls drive lawnmowers.
Max: They do.
But they drive them well.
Ana: Progress.
I’ll take it.
Max: You’re terrifying, you know that?
Ana: Only when necessary.
Like structural reform.
And sim racing.
And popcorn diplomacy.
***
Circuit Zandvoort, Zandvoort, Netherlands - 31 August 2025
The car was undrivable.
From the first lap, Max knew.
It didn’t matter how much they'd patched it overnight after an unsuccessful qualifying that had see him out in Q2 — what updates they’d slapped on, what wishful setups they'd loaded. The Red Bull felt like it was skidding over black ice. No front grip. Rear twitching like it had a death wish.
And this was Zandvoort, his home race. The fucking temple. The track where he was supposed to fly.
But by Lap 4, he was white-knuckling it like a rookie in wet conditions. Except it wasn’t wet.
Not yet.
“Balance is all over the place,” he said flatly over the radio. “Like I’m driving on ice.”
Silence. Then a useless:
“Understood.”
He bit down on the snarl rising in his throat. “No, you don’t.”
They didn’t. Nobody did. Nobody knew what it felt like to wrangle a car that was supposed to win championships and now fought him through every corner like a mule in protest.
And then — as if the racing gods wanted to put the final nail in — the sky cracked open.
Rain.
Not a little. Not a drizzle. A full, swirling, sea-soaked cloudburst rolling in off the coast, spearing into the track like glass.
The rest of the field started pitting — everyone gambling on inters. Tires squealing. Strategy boards exploding. Teams panicking.
Max stayed out.
Not because it was the right choice — because it was the only one.
If he pitted, he’d get swallowed in the chaos. Come out behind midfielders who didn’t know how to race in traffic.
So he stayed out.
“Are you—sure?” his race engineer asked.
Max didn’t even answer. Just adjusted the diff settings and turned the wheel like it owed him something.
And the car — God, the car — fought him.
It wasn’t built for this. Not anymore.
It wasn’t a race car. It was a loose idea of one, smudged around the edges and backed by a team that had no plan beyond, hope Max saves it again.
And he did.
Somehow.
While chaos unfolded around him.
Franco Colapinto — who was lapped, lapped — tried to move aside for the McLarens and instead wiped out both of them like a bowling pin. Oscar into Lando, Lando into the barrier.
Max didn’t even blink.
He overtook on the slick parts of the track. Called his own tire swaps, because his pit wall was six seconds behind the weather radar. Knew every single second how dangerous it was. How stupid.
He nearly spun on Turn 13. Saved it with millimetres to spare.
Could’ve ended up in the wall like half the grid. Didn’t.
He didn’t drive that race.
He survived it.
And still. Somehow.
He won.
The roar from the crowd was deafening. Orange smoke. Flags. People screaming like their hearts would burst.
But Max?
He took the flag in silence.
Didn’t even unclench his fists when he crossed the line.
Just stared straight ahead. Helmet on. Breathing like he’d just run a marathon with knives at his back.
Lewis P2.
Valtteri P3.
Drivers with cars that worked.
He pulled into parc fermé, barely registering the congratulations from the mechanics. Didn’t take his helmet off until the interview pen. Didn’t smile.
Because there was nothing to smile about.
He’d won on a razor’s edge, in a car that should’ve DNFed twice over, while the team sat back and watched.
His win should’ve meant something.
It didn’t.
Not when it felt like survival. Not when Red Bull didn’t even ask how he pulled it off.
They just clapped, like he was their prize fighter, not a man driving himself to the brink because they had nothing left to give him.
Later, on the cool-down room couch, Lewis turned to him and said, “That was either brave or stupid.”
Max just stared ahead. “I didn’t have another choice.”
Valterri nodded quietly. “Still drove the hell out of it.”
Max didn’t answer.
On the podium, he raised the trophy because it was expected.
But he didn’t feel proud. Not really.
It wasn’t joy.
It was relief.
That he’d survived it.
That the car hadn’t killed him.
That he’d once again made something out of nothing.
And that maybe, just maybe — Mercedes would give him a car next year that didn’t make him fight physics itself.
The Dutch anthem played.
Max didn’t hear a word of it.
***
Circuit Zandvoort, Zandvoort, Netherlands - 31 August 2025
By Lap 18, Ana knew it would be a bloodbath.
The wind had shifted fifteen minutes before lights out, pushing cold sea air across the circuit in thick, briny waves. That should’ve been the first sign. But no — the first sign was the data spike on Lap 5: Kimi’s lift-throttle inputs went erratic through Sector 2.
By Lap 6, Valterri reported drops on the visor.
By Lap 7, the rain started.
Not a gentle mist. Not even proper drizzle. This was coastal rain — uninvited, violent, dragging sea grit and confusion with it.
“Do we pit?” Bono asked over the radio, already checking pit windows.
Ana was still standing near the rear monitors, watching the feed from Max’s onboard camera. The Red Bull looked twitchy. Too twitchy.
“Call Kimi in,” Strategy said crisply. “Full switch. Inters. Valterri’s still finding grip, let him stretch.”
Bono gave the call. Kimi came in clean — perfect pit stop, no drama. He rejoined just ahead of the chaos building behind Franco Colapinto, who had somehow managed to forget what blue flags meant.
Ana’s fingers flew across her tablet.
Valterri stayed out three more laps. Trusted the car. Trusted the weather to hold just long enough.
P3.
Kimi, just behind.
It was a tidy race.
Safe.
Clever.
The kind of race Mercedes prided itself on.
The kind Ana prided herself on.
Behind Max, Lewis had driven the race of his season to come home P2 — clean, collected, surgical.
And Valtteri, Valtteri — had taken a well-earned P3. Conservative on the pit call, maybe, but that was exactly what had secured it. The right risk. The right pace. The right brain.
Kimi followed home in P4, quiet on the radio but impressed.
But Max?
Max drove like he’d made a deal with God.
She didn’t even have the words for it — watching that RB21 fight him every single corner. No balance. No grip. Downforce gone, traction dead. And still he kept it pointed in the right direction.
He didn’t just risk a spin.
He risked the entire season.
He stayed out when everyone else boxed. Called his own strategy. Changed diff settings manually like it was karting, not Formula 1. There were moments — flickers — where he was countersteering blind, praying the tires would bite.
And somehow they did.
“He’s going to bin it,” someone muttered behind her. One of the data analysts. Quiet, but sure.
Ana didn’t answer.
Because she agreed.
Except he didn’t.
He didn’t bin it.
He won.
And it wasn’t just a win — it was theft. A hijack. A victory pried loose from the jaws of bad engineering and worse strategy.
No team deserved to win with that car.
No team would have.
Except they had Max Verstappen.
And Max Verstappen was impossible.
Ana stood perfectly still while the garage erupted around her. While engineers fist-pumped and sponsors sent emails and the pit wall clapped like they had anything to do with it.
She just stood.
Watching the final sector again on replay.
Watching him correct oversteer like it was instinct. Like it wasn’t even happening in real-time.
He’d told her, once — years ago — about the karting.
How Jos used to make him do full race distances in the rain on worn tires.
How he’d cry in his helmet but never stop.
How it was about control. About feeling the machine. About never flinching, never bailing, never breaking.
And watching him now — Ana realised:
That’s what this was.
This wasn’t Red Bull winning.
This wasn’t strategy.
This was trauma and talent, fused into something she couldn’t engineer. Couldn’t model. Couldn’t fix or replicate.
She could write software that predicted failure, optimise telemetry, streamline feedback systems with milliseconds of response time.
But she could never code this.
She could never replicate him.
And as much as she wanted him out of that godforsaken car, away from a team that left him stranded on the edge like that — she also knew:
Only Max Verstappen could do what Max Verstappen just did.
And God help her —
She didn’t know whether to be in awe of it…
…or terrified.
Because today, Max Verstappen didn’t just beat 19 other drivers.
He beat the car.
He beat the conditions.
He beat reality.
And he did it alone.
And Ana?
Ana knew it.
With every line of code she’d ever written.
With every algorithm that said this shouldn’t have been possible.
With every fibre of her being.
He shouldn’t have won.
But he did.
Even Kimi had said it on the radio: “That was madness.”
Valterri too. “He didn’t win that with the car.”
Because he hadn’t.
He’d won it with something no one else had.
***
Circuit Zandvoort, Zandvoort, Netherlands - 31 August 2025
There were podiums you chased.
Podiums you calculated.
And then there were podiums you earned by surviving the weather, the strategy roulette, and three other teams eating their own feet.
Today was the third kind.
Toto watched the screens flicker with the final results — Verstappen, Hamilton, Bottas — and exhaled slowly through his nose. His hands were still in his pockets, coat zipped up to the throat, a sheen of sea rain still clinging to his collar from the walk back from the pit wall. Around him, the engineers had started clapping. Kimi was already halfway into debrief. Valtteri had just stepped off the podium. Susie had texted “Clean, clever, calm. That’s the Mercedes way.”
And she wasn’t wrong.
It had been calm.
Kimi's first pit call had been clean. Valtteri’s decision to stretch a few extra laps had been smart. Ana’s predictions had been—
Well. That was why he was standing here now. Watching the cameras pan to the podium. Eyes on the silver car in P3.
Project Altair had just delivered its first piece of silverware for Valtteri.
He let the thought settle for a second.
Altair. Ana’s baby. Her bespoke aero and systems package built specifically for Kimi, optimised for rear stability and mid-corner adjustability. The whole thing had been calibrated with near-obsessive precision, right down to the brake energy distribution.
And today — In wind, and sea air, and a ridiculous downpour that had turned Zandvoort into a beachfront disaster — It had held.
Valtteri Bottas on the podium.
Toto allowed himself one nod. One.
Then he turned, already scanning the garage — and found Ana exactly where he expected: standing by the rear bank of screens, arms folded, lips pressed together in that flat line she got when she was still calculating even after the race ended.
She hadn’t looked at him yet.
She was still watching the replay.
Not of Valtteri.
Not even Kimi.
Of Max.
Toto didn’t blame her.
Even now, watching the feed on silent replay, he had the same reaction: a low, tight noise in his chest that wasn’t quite horror, but definitely wasn’t pride.
What Max had just done shouldn’t have worked.
Not with that car. Not on those tyres. Not with Red Bull’s baffling decision to leave him out on slicks a dozen laps too long while the rest of the grid flailed for inters like drowning men.
But Max had made it work.
He’d driven that Red Bull like he was racing for his life.
It hadn’t been tactical.
It hadn’t even been rational.
It had been —
Toto shook his head.
It had been Max.
And it had worked.
Of course it had worked.
Because Red Bull could hand him a shopping trolley and Max Verstappen would still find a way to extract performance.
But just because it worked didn’t mean it was right
It didn’t mean it was safe.
And watching Max’s onboard… it felt like watching someone bleed brilliance just to stay ahead of their own team’s incompetence.
It made his stomach churn.
He didn’t realise Ana had moved until she was next to him, tablet still clutched in one hand.
She didn’t say anything.
Neither did he.
They stood like that for a beat. Then two. Then Toto finally spoke.
“You did well today.”
Ana didn’t look at him. “It wasn’t just me.”
“No,” Toto agreed. “But Altair held. And so did your call. Bottas wouldn’t have stayed out without your model.”
Ana finally nodded, quiet. Still watching the replay.
Max again.
“Zandvoort’s always chaos,” Toto said, half to himself. “But that wasn’t a race. That was a gamble.”
She didn’t answer.
Toto sighed, long and low.
“I keep thinking…” He paused. “If that had gone wrong — if he’d clipped one wet curb — if he’d lost it into the wall…”
Ana’s jaw flexed.
“He shouldn’t have been in that position,” she said tightly.
“No,” Toto said. “But he was. And he pulled it off.”
Silence stretched again.
Then he turned to her fully.
“Ana.”
She blinked, finally meeting his gaze.
“Go see him.”
She hesitated.
“I don’t want the cameras—”
“I’ll handle the cameras,” Toto interrupted. “He just won the unwinnable race in a car that fought him the whole way. And he’s probably about to be surrounded by people who think it was their doing.”
Ana’s mouth flattened.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Toto added. “Just be there.”
Her grip tightened around her tablet.
He softened slightly. “You always say drivers deserve someone who understands what they did.”
She looked at him — then nodded, silent, and left.
Toto watched her go, long coat trailing, hair still damp, walking fast but not rushed. Focused. Steady.
***
Max Verstappen’s Private Jet, somewhere above Europe - 31 August 2025
The cabin was quiet.
Not silent—there was the low hum of the jet, the occasional rattle of turbulence, the gentle clink of ice against glass—but quiet in the way only exhaustion could make it. Max hadn’t spoken much since takeoff. He’d gone through the motions back at the track: press, debrief, photos, trophy.
He hadn’t smiled.
Not really.
Now, across from her, he was curled sideways in the wide leather seat, head resting back, feet bare, one hand wrapped around a glass of water he hadn’t drunk. He looked like a statue someone had forgotten to animate again.
Ana watched him for a long moment before she said anything.
“You should eat.”
His eyes didn’t open. “Not hungry.”
“I could ask the pilot to—”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
She nodded. Said nothing.
Outside the window, the sky was ink-black. Monaco was an hour away, and neither of them was sleeping.
Max finally stirred. “They’re calling it a miracle win.”
She glanced at him. “It wasn’t a miracle.”
“It wasn’t skill either,” he said sharply. “It was luck.”
“You stayed on slicks in the rain.”
“I stayed out because my fucking engineer was silent on the radio and I didn’t trust a single call coming from the wall. So I guessed.”
Ana blinked.
Max sat forward, running a hand over his face, the tension in his shoulders brittle and electric. “It wasn’t some genius strategy. I didn’t plan that. I didn’t engineer it. I just— I felt it. And I prayed the tires would hold. That’s not brilliance, Ana. That’s stupid, suicidal luck.”
“You won.”
“I shouldn’t have.” His voice cracked. “I should’ve ended up in the wall. Like Colapinto. Like the McLarens. I should’ve crashed.”
Ana shifted slightly, folding her hands in her lap. “But you didn’t.”
“That doesn’t make it right.” He looked at her now, really looked. “Don’t—don’t turn this into something it’s not.”
She studied him. The shadows beneath his eyes. The way he wouldn’t quite meet her gaze now. The wear in his voice.
She thought of Jos. Of all the stories Max had told her over the years, pieces he let slip only when he was too tired to lie.
How winning was never enough.
How surviving didn’t count.
How he had been taught to mistake endurance for worth.
She said, very softly, “You think it’s only worth something if it’s perfect.”
Max said nothing.
“You think that because the car was bad, and the strategy worse, and the whole thing nearly fell apart—” She paused. “—that it wasn’t you who saved it.”
He flinched.
“That’s not luck,” she said. “That’s you.”
He sat back, looking at the ceiling now.
Ana didn’t move.
“You think I’m being too soft on you,” she added. “Because I love you.”
Max swallowed hard.
She didn’t mean it like a confession. It was fact. Fundamental. Known.
But even now, it still quieted the room.
He finally said, hoarse, “You really think I saved that race.”
“Yes,” Ana said. “I watched the data. I watched the onboards. Nobody else could have done that.”
“I felt like I was back in Genk,” he muttered. “Karting in the fucking rain. Jos screaming in the background.”
Ana’s chest ached. “You’ve grown past that.”
“No,” Max said quietly. “I just learned to do it quietly.”
Ana leaned forward. Rested her hand over his.
It was calloused. Cold. Still tense.
“I don’t want you to think you have to keep doing this,” she said. “That you have to win in impossible ways just to prove you can.”
Max didn’t speak for a long time.
When he did, it was barely a whisper. “I don’t know how else to be.”
Ana squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to be anything but here.”
He looked at her again, and this time, the exhaustion cracked into something closer to grief.
“I don’t feel proud of it,” he said. “I just feel tired.”
“I know,” she said. “I do too.”
Ana sat beside the man who had won the impossible race.
And didn’t feel like a winner.
She stayed quiet after that. Let her hand stay in his. Let her presence say what words couldn’t.
She’d tell him again tomorrow—when the noise came back, when the media spun their gold.
She’d tell him a hundred times more, if she had to.
It wasn’t luck.
It was you.
And even if he never believed it—
She would.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 31 August 2025
He didn’t remember unlocking the door.
Didn’t remember taking off his shoes, or dropping his bag by the hall cabinet.
What he did remember was Jimmy bounding out from the kitchen like he’d been personally wronged by Max’s absence.
And behind him, Sassy — quieter, more cautious, her tail flicking once, then again.
She padded up, paused, then bumped her head against Max’s shin.
Like she knew.
Like she felt it.
Max dropped to one knee.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice catching. “Did you miss me?”
Sassy chirped. Jimmy whined, circling Ana’s feet before making a break for the sofa like a particularly fluffy projectile. Ana blinked after him, then looked at Max.
He didn’t get up right away.
Just stayed crouched on the floor, hand still resting in Sassy’s fur, the weight of the day finally dragging his shoulders down.
Ana reached for him.
“Come on,” she said. “Shower first. Then food.”
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t have the strength to.
He let the water burn against his skin for longer than necessary.
Didn’t even flinch. Just stood there, forehead against tile, as if the steam could strip the fatigue from his bones.
By the time he walked back into the living room, a towel slung around his shoulders, Ana was already in the kitchen.
She wore one of his hoodies. Her hair was damp from washing off airport grit. And the smell in the air—
It stopped him cold.
“Porridge?” he asked, surprised.
“Kasha,” she corrected softly. “Buckwheat and milk. A little sugar. I used honey.”
It was soft in the air, comfort food, if comfort were rare and sacred.
He crossed the room slowly. Leaned against the counter. “Where’d you learn?”
“My grandmother,” Ana said, not looking up. “Back in Moscow.”
Something in her voice made him pause.
“She died when I was six,” Ana added. “But I remember this. She used to make it when I got sick. Or when it snowed too hard and we couldn’t go outside.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“When I came to live with Papa,” she continued, “I took the name Wolff because… it was easier. For the papers. For school. For Austria.” Her voice stayed calm, like she’d told this story before.
Max watched her. She was still stirring, slow and methodical.
“But I wanted something of her. So I asked if I could keep her name. My babushka’s name,” she said quietly. “As my middle name. Yelena.”
There was a silence. Not heavy, but full.
“I used to be Anastasia Mikhailovna Solovyova,” Ana said. “But that name didn’t make it out of Russia.”
Max swallowed.
“So now I’m Anastasia Yelena Wolff,” she said. “Anastasia Mikhailovna Solovyova doesn’t exist anymore. Except here.”
She touched her heart once, lightly.
He stared at her. “Why are you telling me this?”
Ana looked at him, eyes clear and steady.
“Because you don’t need to be Max Verstappen, four-time World Champion, miracle winner,” she said. “Not here.”
He swallowed again. His hands shook slightly.
“You can just be Max,” she finished. “And I can take care of you. For once.”
He didn’t trust himself to speak.
Ana turned off the stove. Poured the kasha into two bowls. Carried them to the sofa, where Sassy had claimed a cushion like a tiny, outraged Queen.
Max sat beside her. Took the bowl she offered.
“You didn’t have to cook,” he said.
“I wanted to.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes.
The kasha was sweet. Not too heavy. The kind of thing that stayed in your bones, warm and quiet.
Ana set her bowl down first. Then took his — and without asking, slid her fingers into his hair.
Slowly, gently, she combed her nails through it.
Max closed his eyes.
He didn’t mean to lean into the touch. But he did.
Didn’t mean to breathe out like that. But he did.
Ana didn’t say anything. Just kept stroking his hair, light and rhythmic, like she was soothing something primal back into stillness.
He didn’t know how long they sat like that.
Maybe ten minutes. Maybe a thousand years.
But at some point, Max said, “I don’t want to do that again.”
Ana’s voice was low. “I know.”
“I don’t want to win like that again.”
“I know,” she repeated.
He leaned against her shoulder. Not quite resting. Not quite collapsing. Just… there.
Present.
And Ana let him. Let him be Max — not the miracle driver, not the headline, not the impossible.
Just Max.
Held.
Warm.
Fed.
And for once, loved in the quietest way a person could be.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 1 September 2025
He woke up to sunlight bleeding across the sheets.
His neck hurt. His legs ached. His shoulders felt like someone had poured gravel into the joints while he slept.
But Ana was there.
She was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, laptop balanced on one thigh, a spoon dangling from her mouth.
Max blinked blearily.
“Are you eating yoghurt in bed?”
Ana didn’t look up. “It’s skyr. Icelandic. Higher protein.”
“Still yoghurt.”
“You need to recover.”
“I’m not the one eating protein yoghurt like a gargoyle on my own duvet.”
She reached over and plucked something off the nightstand. A blister pack of paracetamol. Tossed it at his chest. “Take those. You’ll be less grumpy.”
Max groaned and flopped backwards, arm over his eyes.
Everything hurt.
Even his soul.
“Tell me again why I do this,” he muttered into the crook of his elbow.
Ana didn’t hesitate. “Because you’re pathologically incapable of relaxing, competition is your emotional currency, and you don’t know how to feel joy unless it involves a checkered flag or borderline death.”
Max squinted at her. “Thanks.”
She shrugged. “You asked.”
He sat up slowly. Winced. Reached for the water bottle she’d left on his nightstand — of course she had — and drank half of it in one go.
When he glanced back, Ana was watching him.
Still cross-legged.
Still chewing.
Still clinically evaluating him like he was telemetry on a bad day.
Then, in the same tone she might’ve used to announce a change in brake bias, she said:
“You know what might help.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Ana closed the laptop. “Sex.”
He blinked. “Sorry—what?”
“You’ll feel better,” she said, entirely serious. “You always do.”
Ana tilted her head. “It’s a valid recovery strategy.”
“Ana.”
“Endorphins. Oxytocin. You’ll unclench your jaw.”
“I am aware of the benefits,” Max interrupted, amusement edging into his voice.
Ana shrugged one shoulder. “Then you should take your medicine.”
It took everything in him not to laugh.
Only Ana would pitch sex like it was a controlled trial.
Only Ana would be this calm about it. This direct.
He reached for her wrist and tugged gently.
“You’re insane.”
“You love me,” she said, letting herself be pulled forward.
“I do.”
There was a flicker of something in her eyes now — not mischief, not exactly, but something softer. Something intentional.
Max exhaled slowly.
The weight in his chest hadn’t fully lifted. The race still sat with him like something raw and wrong. But Ana was here. And she was offering—not just her body, but her presence. Her steadiness.
She was offering to anchor him.
“You don’t have to fix me,” he said, voice quiet.
“I know,” she replied.
Max reached for her anyway. Pulled her close. Let her settle against him like she belonged there.
(And she did.)
“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered against her shoulder.
“I’m efficient,” Ana replied.
He laughed, finally. A real one. Low and rough and a little surprised.
Her hand slid down his chest, casually possessive.
“I mean,” she added, “I could also offer you tea. But I think this would be faster.”
Max rolled them both over, grinning now despite himself.
“Doctor’s orders?” he asked.
Ana smirked. “Naturally.”
Max kissed her, finally — slow and tired and grateful — and let himself breathe for the first time in twenty-four hours.
And if her version of comfort came blunt and unsentimental — well.
It was still comfort.
And it was hers.
And it was perfect.
***
Max Verstappen’s Apartment, Monaco - 1 September 2025
Ana was the one who pressed forward, who caught his lower lip between her teeth, who slid her hand—deliberate, determined—over his thigh beneath the sheet.
She was the one who set the tempo, who didn’t bother with preamble or permission because it was already written in the way he exhaled her name.
Max had expected softness, maybe, some careful easing into it. He’d forgotten: Ana only did careful on her own terms.
She tugged him down with a fistful of his T-shirt, nails skimming his skin like static. He’d barely woken up and already she was on top of him, knees bracketing his hips, weight pinning him to the mattress as if to say: stay.
Somewhere between his shoulder blades, something unclenched—he felt it, the tension bleeding out, a slow drip of heat that started where her hand touched his skin and spread everywhere. She wasn’t performing any particular seduction.
But Ana was moving with purpose, solving for X, one small equation at a time. The data suggested a solution, and she was going to run the experiment until the conclusion.
She didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. There was a certain ruthlessness in the way she kissed him, like she was claiming a space she’d already mapped out, had been waiting to chart for weeks.
Her nails were short and clean but she left lines on his skin anyway, dragging down the ridges of his ribs, flattening her palm over the place where his heart stuttered. He tried to keep up, but she was already kissing down his throat, over the faint stubble there, and then she was lower, and lower still, until he laughed because he couldn’t help himself, and then she bit his hip—not hard, but enough to shut him up.
“Stop thinking,” she said, voice muffled against his stomach. “You’re not even good at it right now.”
He grunted something in Dutch she didn’t quite catch, but which she recognized: a sound you made when someone finally yanked you out of your own head and back into the present. She smiled against his skin, lips pressed flat to his hipbone, and let him feel her laughter all the way down.
It was a power move, she knew. Max had no idea how to respond to her taking charge and—if she was being honest—she liked it. Liked the way his hands flexed, unsure, the way his breathing hitched when she scraped her teeth along his waistband. She liked the quiet awe there, how he watched her with the same attention he spent on wet tracks and yellow flags, entirely focused, as if she were a puzzle he’d never seen before.
She didn’t bother with preamble. She didn’t have a script for this. She only had the data: that skin was softest just under the ribs, that he startled a little if she exhaled the inside of his thigh,, that he squirmed if she licked at his adam’s apple. She filed the data away for later.
He was trying to catch up now, hands finally finding her, slow at first, then more urgent, familiarity setting in—but she didn’t let him flip the script, not this time. When he moved to tilt her chin up, she caught his wrist and pressed it into the pillow. When he tried to take control, she dug in harder, nails biting the fine skin of his inner arm, and held him there.
It was like holding down a live wire. Everything in him wanted to surge forward, but she made Max stay. Made him let go.
She made him wait.
Ana ran her mouth over every scar she could find, catalogued each one as she went. Just below the left collarbone, a pale crescent. A thin white line across the knee. She traced it with her tongue and heard him suck in a breath through his teeth.
She had always thought of herself as efficient, but this was something else—a precision project, an incremental approach. Ana mapped a course along his skin, finding every pressure point, every spot that made his breath catch or his hips jolt. She liked that, that little spark of involuntary movement, the way he was all muscle and momentum but let her hold him still.
Ana wanted to climb inside that electricity. She wanted it to spark and arc off her, wanted to feel him buck and jerk and gasp under her hands, wanted him to unravel a little, for once.
At some point—she didn’t know when—his hands stopped fighting her and simply rested, palms open at his sides, a wordless concession. She’d won, and she felt it, a fizz of satisfaction so sharp it almost bubbled over. She grinned into the curve of his stomach, then bit him again, just to hear that noise he made.
He pulled at her, not rough, but desperate, and she let him, let him haul her up so their faces were level. He was flushed, breathing hard, blue eyes shot through with something wild and ragged. He tugged her down against his chest, and she let herself go heavy, let her bones melt into his, forehead pressed to his as their breathing matched.
There was a moment where neither of them moved. She watched his eyes flicker, his lips part, the soft stutter of a laugh low in the back of his throat. She bit his bottom lip, just to remind him who’d won, and he grinned, teeth flashing.
“You’re a menace,” he whispered, voice ruined and affectionate.
She rolled her hips against him, just once, just to prove the point. “That’s new?”
He shook his head. “No. But it’s…nice.”
She let him flip her this time, let him get his bearings, let him kiss her. She didn’t mind being the compass.
He pushed her hair out of her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone, and she let herself look at him, really look, at the sleep-creased lines around his eyes and the speckling of freckles across his shoulders, the way his adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. She let herself want. Let herself reach. She pressed her hips up until he gasped, until he was completely inside her, and then she held him there, made him feel every centimeter, made him pay attention.
It wasn’t that Max didn’t know how to be gentle. He did. He could be almost too gentle, like he was afraid of breaking her when he wanted to, but in these moments, Ana realized, she didn’t want gentle. She wanted the afterburn, the scorch just before the engine seized. She wanted to see the hairline cracks she knew were there, the pieces of him he tried to keep under torque.
Their rhythm found itself. Nothing careful about it, not now—she locked her legs around his hips, grounding him, and he used that leverage to drive into her. Not a word passed between them, just breath, small noises, the creak of the headboard in time with the slap of skin. Ana tried to memorize the rhythm: the lilt of Dutch vowels in his throat, the way his hands pressed into the mattress on either side of her ribcage, the heat rolling off his back. She could smell herself on his mouth, the faint salt tang of sweat, the bitter bite of his deodorant. It was all data. She filed it away, though she’d never admit she did it for later, for the next time she needed to recalibrate him, or herself.
She felt him tense, felt his hands fist in the sheets, and she bit his shoulder, hard, as if she could anchor him to the present. He came with a shudder that nearly took her with him, but she held herself steady, savoring the way he lost himself for her. Only after he collapsed against her, boneless and spent, did she let herself soften, the edges of her control dissolving into a kind of warm, post-crash lull.
They lay tangled for a while, nothing but the sound of their breathing and the distant drone of a boat out on the harbor. Ana felt the sweat drying sticky between them, felt the small involuntary twitches of his hands against her back, the way he nuzzled half-consciously into her hair. It was a strange, animal comfort: not words, not even thoughts, just proof of bodies next to each other in the same bed.
When Max finally shifted, rolling onto his back, Ana propped herself on one elbow and studied the new geometry of him. The slack jaw. The eyelashes black and stuck together with sweat. The way his chest rose and fell in uneven little bursts. She considered the evidence and decided she’d done a decent job. She gave herself a mental point.
Science worked.
Obviously.
She reached out and lightly tapped his chest. “Max.”
He didn’t move.
She tapped again. “Max.”
A grunt. One eye cracked open. “What?”
“How do you feel?”
“Like I got hit by a truck,” he mumbled.
Ana considered that. “Emotionally or physically?”
“Both.”
“But better?”
Max exhaled, dragging the heel of his hand over his face. “I’m not crying in a shower, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Ana smiled. “So the sex helped.”
He cracked one eye open again. “Is this going to be a post-coital performance review?”
“Only if you want a scorecard.”
Max groaned. “God, you’re relentless.”
“Just thorough.” She stretched, cat-like, and sat up, pulling the sheet around herself. “You’re more relaxed. Your resting heart rate is down. Less tension in your shoulders. Pupils less dilated. Blood pressure probably still too high, but that’s a baseline Verstappen issue.”
Max narrowed his eyes at her, suspiciously awake now. “You were measuring my pupils?”
“I was close enough to.”
A pause.
“Very close.”
He made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, reached for a pillow, and lobbed it in her direction. She dodged it easily.
“Admit it,” she said, smug now. “You feel better.”
Max rolled onto his side, facing her. “I feel like I’ve been seduced by a stats professor.”
“Wrong. I’m an engineer. We don’t seduce. We optimize.”
Max buried his face in the pillow. “I take it back. I feel worse.”
Ana grinned, leaned down, and kissed his temple. “Liar.”
He reached up blindly, hand settling around her wrist. Gentle, but anchoring. “You didn’t have to fix it.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I wanted to.”
His fingers curled slightly, like he was holding on to more than just her.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be good at losing,” he said into the silence. “But winning like that…”
Ana traced a line down his shoulder. “You don’t have to explain. I was there.”
“Yeah,” Max whispered. “You always are.”
Ana didn’t say anything to that.
She just curled in next to him again, let his arm wrap around her waist, and thought about how it felt to be allowed—finally—to be the one who held the line for him.
A follow up to Heavy is the Heart that Loves. Can be read independently though.
A thanks to @madam-mem for her help with Jing Yuan's bits!
CW: war ~4000 words
“When I return next, would you marry me?”
It was a selfish request. He understood that well. Yet still he asked.
“Skipping the courtship straight to the proposal there lieutenant?” For someone who looked so startled you managed quite the response.
His smile was small, perhaps a little sheepish, but wholy unapologetic. His eyes lingered on you, dragging across your face. “Then,” his chest warmed and his lips curled even more without his permission, “when I return next, would you give me the opportunity to court you?”
Your silence was…thoughtful. Most likely. You had that expression you often did when you were thinking of something, and though your gaze was technically upon him, he felt as though you’d ceased actually looking at him to instead look at something he could not see. Still, he did find his heart marching to the beat of the war-drum thundering in his ears.
You looked away from him, yet the silence persisted. He found himself clasping his hands behind his back, taking the familiar stance of soldiers in the presence of their commanding officers.
“How much longer till you’re deployed again?” You turned to look at him.
“A little over a week,” it was his turn to think, “nine days.”
You nodded, “would you come by to meet my parents tomorrow?”
He was certain his surprise shown upon his face. “That leaves us with only eight days,” he found himself saying.
“That should be enough,” you nodded, your tone carrying a certainty that sent a buzz out throughout his entire body, his extremeties included.
“Very well,” ah he really did need to learn to temper his expressions, “I shall see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow,” you gave him a small, rather demure, rather bashful smile, before scurrying off.
Your foot caught on an uneven stone and you stumbled slightly, turned to him to see that he was indeed watching you, gave him a weak wave, and then carried on your way. Watching you, something in his chest took wing. He all but floated home.
—————-
Your parents had their reservations about him, about this entire arrangement, however both of you together had managed to convince them. For six days he courted you, spending long hours discussing all manner of things. He would wake up and immediately head to see you, a gift for your family in hand, and would spend the day in discussion with you.
He’d actually chuckled when you’d pulled out a detailed list of questions that first day when he’d gone to visit your family. “We do not have the same luxury of time as others do,” you’d explained, “so I felt it would be best to tackle the essential details quickly.”
“How very prudent of you,” he couldn’t help the mirth playing on his entire system, “I feel very under prepared.”
“That would be very unlike you lieutenant,” you’d looked up from your notes, “I had heard you were particularly adept at strategy and planning.”
“I am thankful for the few small successes I have had in developing military strategies,” he conceded.
You snorted. It was a charming, inelegant, unrefined sound. Untouched, and unchanged, just you.
“Would you like to form a strategy right now?” You offered him a paper and pen.
He took them gratefully.
—————
Your families were introduced. It was almost amusing watching the four parents seemingly comiserate over the break-neck speed with which your courtship was proceeding. Perhaps sharing such a hardship would bring them closer together, and in truth it likely did.
He’d implied that it was his choice of career that pushed the two of you to move so quickly, successfully securing the blame for the rush. After all, he was the one who had struck first, you’d simply obliged him.
“What pushed you to propose so suddenly?” You asked him on the second day of your courtship as the two of you strolled about Aurum Alley.
That was a fair question, but not one he expected. “Why do you ask?”
Your brow pinched, “you won’t answer me?”
“I will,” he disagreed, “however I was curious about your reasoning.”
“Well I’m curious about your reasoning as well,” you returned — fair enough. Suspicioun was not far removed from curiosity.
“I am attracted to you,” he began, buying himself time to translate his feelings into thoughts and arrange them into communicatable words.
“That’s not enough to propose marriage though,” you interjected.
“You’re right,” he chuckled at you, “forgive me, I’m still putting it into words in my head.”
“Oh,” you looked sheepish, “sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he shook his head at you, “you’re correct in criticizing such a weak claim.”
“Well I could have been patient.”
“You are patient,” he took you in, “one of the most patient people I know. One of the most resilient people I know, with a deep love for your people and your nation,” the words were starting to find him it seemed, “your strength of character, your desire for justice, your passion,” he could only begin to list your virtues, “I wish for nothing more, than to bear witness to it and stand by it my whole life.”
“You make me sound like I’d be a good Cloud Knight,” you huffed.
“Does my explanation disappoint you?” That wouldn’t be any good.
“You referred to my strength,” you trailed off.
“Yes,” he nodded, “you are like a tree amid a raging tempest. You hold steadfast where others would easily be swept away,” his smile grew, “and you are deeply rooted, unwavering in your ideals.”
You diverted your gaze from his. Ah. It would seem he made you shy. He took advantage of your silence to press onwards, “you are like a boulder amid the raging river of time,” he gestured to you, “though affected, you stand firm.”
“So I’m a rock now am I lieutenant?” You struck, playfully.
“It was meant as an analogy,” he parried with the same mirth, “apologies if it wasn’t to your liking.”
You huffed a little laugh under your breath, and something took wing in Jing Yuan’s chest. Your amusement was short-lived though.
“You understand that if you marry me you’d have to bear witness to my weakness, and even hold my weakness, not just my strength, right?” You pursed your lips, your brow furrowing.
“It would be my honor,” his eyes swept across your face savouring each feature, “to be your refuge, as you’ve been mine so many times before.”
“Have I now?” You seemed both disbelieving and amused.
“Without a doubt.”
“You’re a silver tongued swordsman, aren’t you lieutenant?” You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “Your tongue is as honed as your glaive.”
His laughter bubbled within his gut, erupting from his mouth before he could stop it. He worked to temper his laughter quickly. “You wound me,” he tilted his head to the side, “these are my heartfelt feelings.”
“Is that so?”
“Indeed it is,” he paused and turned to face you, and you returned the favor, “I am bearing to you my most vulnerable heart of hearts.”
He watched your eyes search him. “Then I will do my best to be careful with it.”
“I have full faith that you will.”
——————-
You were married within the week. Your marriage contract signed and registered with whatever commission handled that. Jing Yuan had not hesitated. No sooner had your marriage been officiated than he’d taken your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. After all, there was no telling when he’d be able to do that next.
You’d had barely a day to run through the necessary rituals such as the tea ceremonies, and the wedding dinner — which had been a small, modest banquet with close family and friends to celebrate your union. You didn’t want too much fanfare, out of respect for the current ongoing war, but you still wanted to announce your commitment to one another. While it was somewhat festive, the whispers about his inevitable and fast approaching departure cast a solemn tone over the event. You didn’t seem to mind too much, having already made peace with the reality of his station.
You saw him off with his family this time, unlike before when you would bid him farewell the night before. You embraced him like you might not get the opportunity to embrace him again — though he wasn’t any better. When you broke away, despite your clear embarrassment, you cradled his face to press a gentle kiss to his forehead, “I feel you will be returning to me safely.”
“I pray you are right my dear,” he held one of your hands that cradled his face, stroking his thumb along the back of it, “may we meet again soon.”
“May we meet again, in victory.”
His lips pulled upwards without his permission, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead, “in victory my love.”
“Isn’t it rather soon for that?” You questioned.
“Perhaps, but I am already certain of it,” he pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
“Stay safe Jing Yuan.”
“As you wish my love.”
——————————-
Fifteen years.
For fifteen long years he was kept away from you by his duties as Lieutenant of the Luofu Cloud Knights. While fifteen years are, in a sense, but a drop of water in a vast lake for a long life species — it did not soothe the ache of separation.
Was it that he knew you were waiting for his return that intensified his yearning so? Or would it have been worse with the knowledge that you could be swept away by another at any moment while he was away? It was useless to muse over such things, yet here he was.
Jing Yuan was deeply grateful for your foresight in expediting your marriage to be before this current deployment.
That isn’t to say he would have been distracted in the midst of battles. No. That would be impossible. Not with the stench of gunpowder, copper, smoke, and dirt filling the air around him. Not with the violent clangs and screeches of metal upon metal as decisive battles rang out — the screams of the fallen, the orders of the superiors, and screeches of aerial missiles coming together into an orchestration maestroed by a nightmare hellbent on exacting revenge upon life itself.
There are fates worse than death.
He charged forward.
———————
The field hospital following the battle was a battlefield of its own.
The groans of agony, cries of pain, barking of orders, hum of cloud hymn magic, clattering of tools created a cacophony that could deafen even those with the hardest of hearing. Of course Jing Yuan’s own voice joined into the chaos as he burst in announcing the wounded on his back in a hurry while frantically looking for an open cot. No sooner had a medic responded to him, then he’d been shooed out of the premises.
Exiting the makeshift medical center the Lieutenant heaved a deep, refreshing, breath that pulled at some part of his abdomen. It would seem he did not emerge from the chaos unaffected himself. He would get himself checked out professionally later though. Despite the new arrival of additional medical staff, the field hospital was clearly overwhelmed. For now he would make do with ensuring any wounds were not exposed to anymore contamination.
The casualties were simply of that scale.
Meandering off to a tree, while taking care to look very purposeful and composed while doing so, Jing Yuan rests himself at the base of it for a while. Looking up to the sky littered with stars, he reached his hand behind his breastplate to pull out your most recent correspondence. The strokes of your handwriting kept him company, wrapping around him with your usual kindness, your usual firmness. The tender curves of the letters curving his lips upwards.
You wrote to him of the latest events in your life. You had completed your initial surgical training recently. It felt as though it were not that long ago when he received the letter where you’d announced you would be going to study medicine, inspired by him apparently. My husband risks his life to protect the people of the Xianzhou, how am I to stand by him if I slack off?
Ah. A soft warmth diffused throughout him. You’d acknowledged him directly as your husband, better yet, in writing! That letter sat among the others in the ever growing collection he kept. You had nothing to prove, and stood shoulder to shoulder with him already.
My husband risks his life to protect the people of the Xianzhou, how am I to stand by him if I slack off?
Truly, your foresight in expediting your marriage was unmatched.
You were married now. A beautiful transformation of your friendship if he did say so himself. A natural next step. Yet, he’d been sent off to this far land before you could really taste the difference that came with this change.
He closed his eyes and hugged your letters closer to his chest. What you were up to now? Studying? Conducting research? Writing to him of your day? Perhaps seated near the window of your family home, where he’d glance you while walking by? Diligently reading, writing with that unbearably adorable expression on your face? Maybe with a cup of tea forgotten off to the side?
He chuckled. His chest loosened. The pain in his side persisted. He would make sure to have it examined.
One day. One day this campaign would be over, and he’d sweep you into his arms again, and begin your life together, properly.
“Lieutenant! Did you want to get looked over?” A voice accompanied the thudding footsteps approaching him.
Jing Yuan’s eyes fluttered open, and he blinked the exhaustion from his eyes, a yawn tearing its way from his mouth and his body demanding he stretch it — that pesky pulling sensation returning.
“This is no place to be taking a nap lieutenant!” It was a member of the Fourth Infantry Company who was scolding him.
“Rest is absolutely essential to keep our minds sharp and ready for all encounters,” he drowsed in return, carefully folding and tucking your letter back behind his breastplate and rising to his feet.
“Er—yes—right,” the cloud knight agreed, “the medics are saying that they can look over those with minor injuries now,” he gestured, “you were asked after by name.”
“Is that so?” He quirked a brow. “Well it wouldn’t hurt to be looked at.” His master had ordered him to get medical attention himself while handing the wounded soldier over earlier, and there was that persistent pain.
Approaching the tent once again, he found a smaller, temporary station was set up right outside the main field hospital, with a neat line up of soldiers whose injuries weren’t too urgent, but still needed some attention waiting. He managed a quaint conversation with the fighters both in front of and behind him, easing the wait. It wasn’t all that long to be honest. Soon enough he was at the lip of the miniature medical tent.
Despite the departure of yet another member of the conversation, it continued, with his brother-in-arms mentioning something about how he had a girl waiting for him back home. “Sometimes, when I'm reading her letters, or just thinking about her,” the man confessed, “I can hear her voice speaking to me.”
Jing Yuan hummed with understanding, he could almost hear your voice right now as he thought of you again.
“I take it you’re betrothed?”
“Almost?” The knight was sheepish. “I told her I’d ask for her hand from her family once I got back, and she promised she’d wait for me.”
“Ah, I see,” he nodded, “let us hope that you will be able to return to your lover soon enough.”
The soldier grew ever more sheepish. Jing Yuan would have been in the same position if not for your decisiveness. Though he could empathize with the longing ache to return to the arms of his beloved. He’d barely held you before he was torn away from you after all.
“Next,” Jing Yuan paused for a moment.
Curious.
He gently pushed back the flap and bent down slightly to enter through the tentflap. Oh? He blinked at the medic before him, however nothing about them changed.
It couldn’t be.
“I’ll be looking you over Lieutenant,” yet it was.
“Will you now?” He raised a brow.
“Lieutenant,” your scolding wrapped around him like a security blanket despite the way your presence pulled him from the seams, “please take a seat.”
He complied wordlessly. You began your inspection. His eyes drank in the sight of you: from your eyes and the diligent way they swept over him looking for issues, down your nose to the focused press of your lips and then further down to your attire — a field medic’s uniform.
To his misfortune it did not look misplaced on you. You wore it well. Too well.
He vaguely registered and complied with your instructions. Distracted instead by the way your voice — your sweet, sweet, positively delightful voice — filled his ears, momentarily overpowering the cacophony of his thoughts.
It really was you.
He removed his armor in compliance with your request, and again felt that pulling sensation. He ought to tell you about it. “Let me clean this wound here,” your voice continued to fill the space between you, “raise your sleeve for me.”
“For you?” He chuckled lowly, already reaching to free his sleeve from under his arm guard and roll it up to his shoulder. “Anything.”
Your eyes flickered to his momentarily before flickering away, your lips wobbling the way they did when you became flustered. His body betrayed him with an involuntary twitch as your gloved hand came to grab his upper arm.
“Apologies,” you grimaced, “my hands are cold.”
“No worries,” he murmured.
“I didn’t hurt you did I?” You hurriedly asked. “Er—you didn’t feel any pain from me gripping your arm did you?”
“No,” he paused, “there isn’t any pain from you gripping my arm.”
Your hands were steady, despite the way you had not raised your eyes to meet his again, as you cleaned and redressed a light wound on his bicep.
“You didn’t think to inform me of this beforehand?” He murmured only loud enough for you to hear.
“I didn’t want to be deterred,” you answered just as quietly, wiping away grime and disinfecting the cut, “and if I told you, you’d either be hopeful or worried, and neither would be good for you while you’re engaged in active combat.”
Your touch was gentle yet firm, as you applied a clean bandage to the disinfected wound, “I didn’t want to distract you,” Jing Yuan suppressed a shiver. This wasn’t at all how he imagined your reunion.
“And knowing you’re not too far away from danger wouldn’t distract me?” You finally looked up at him, and his eyes bore into your own.
There was no way his parents, no way your parents would have approved of this plot of yours. He definitely didn’t. No matter how much he longed to see you— to be by your side— he wouldn’t want you anywhere near an active battlesite.
Your eyes were downcast as you turned to his palms, probably locking onto the one that was hastily wrapped. He swallowed thickly, his throat painfully dry at the sight of you. It was wholy unfair how his heart twinged at the sight of you looking so shunned.
“If,” your tone was hesitant — yet your hands remained steady, unwinding the dirtied bandage on his hand, “if I said something,” you continued to focus on his hand, “and then I didn’t get deployed out here…”
You went quiet, your brows furrowing with a frown setting on your lips as you took in the damage, “I mean, if I were in your position,” you began cleaning the wound—never once raising your head up from it, “oh thank goodness it doesn’t need stitches.”
The genuine relief that tumbled out of you landed square in his chest, warming it, squeezing it. “If I were in your position, I’d be disappointed if I got my hopes up and then they were dashed.”
“I still wish you’d have talked to me about this before making the decision,” he returned, keeping his voice low so as to not be overheard by the other medic and wounded in the tent.
“I was scared you’d tell me not to,” you confessed — your voice the smallest he’d ever heard it.
“I…” he trailed off watching you.
Watching how your gaze still did not lift. Watching as you continued to professionally wind the dressing on his wound, finishing up quickly and then removing your gloves. Admittedly his palm felt better after your attention.
“Lift your arms for me,” your eyes finally returned to his own, and he had to restrain yet another shiver at the feeling of your unwavering, focused gaze, closely studying him, “how does that feel.”
“There is a pulling sensation on my right side.”
“Where exactly?” It was truly so unfair how he sat here before you vulnerable and pliant, mesmerized by the confidence with which you inspected him, instructed him, and then appropriately, deftly, and gently tended to his wounds. His throat burned and his chest warmed. You looked completely within your element. Even if it was an element he’d never seen you in before.
He repeated the motion, and when he felt the pull again, he placed his left hand over the area. While it shouldn’t have surprised him, you immediately reached out to touch the spot, knocking your hand against his, the feeling did jolt him slightly. To think he could hold it, hold your hand, now.
You pushed down on it, “does it hurt when I press down on it?”
“A little.”
“What kind of pain is it? Dull, sharp, throbbing, heaviness—”
“A dull pain,” he admitted and your gaze never left the hurt part of his body, “It also hurts here,” he gestured to his chest.
The alarm on your face was not what he wanted, “what kind of pain?” But you did glance up at him for a moment.
“The pain of my beloved not telling me she was going to put herself in harm’s way.”
“Lieutenant,” you huffed, but he could see the relief in how your shoulders dropped…as did your gaze.
You ran him through a series of movements, inspecting for pain, before finally deciding to take a look at it. “Could you,” you looked away to the side, “lift your shirt up for me?”
Jing Yuan’s face heated up, his throat and chest constricting. It wasn’t as if medics hadn’t seen him without a shirt before…but those medics weren’t you. Still, he tugged his shirt out from under his uniform pants, raising it to reveal his abdomen to you. And to allow your letters to drop apparently.
Your gaze immediately fell to them, and instinctively you leaned down, then paused. The moment of hesitation cost you as he too had been reaching down and now successfully picked them up and set them to the side.
“Continue,” he commanded, raising his shirt to reveal his abdomen to you again.
This wasn’t how he imagined undressing—if only partially— in front of you for the first time.
Aeons knew that this wasn’t the time for the less savoury half of his thoughts. Yet he could not help but bask in your undivided attention. Especially not with how your gaze clearly diverted away from the affected area to trail over the expanse of his revealed skin. He was almost tempted to raise his shirt further. Would your eyes trail further upward? Regardless, it would seem like he had the same effect on you, as you did on him.
“That really is a nasty bruise,” your voice wavered, then you sighed, “I’m going to,” you trailed off, “touch you to further inspect things, please let me know if it hurts.”
“Go ahead,” you’d thrown Jing Yuan into yet another battlefield, a wholy unfamiliar and foreign one, wherein he gripped his sanity in one hand and guarded his concern in the other.
True to your word you did touch the area surrounding the bruise, and he could not hold back the shiver that wracked through him at the feeling of your fingers coming into contact with the side of his abdomen.
“Oh! Did that hurt?”
“No,” he clipped — voice pulled taut like a drawstring.
“Lieutenant,” you hissed at him — looking positively darling.
“Your hands are cold,” he repeated your previous claim.
“My apologies,” you sighed and continued, “does this hurt?”
Your inspection continued and you’d determined that though he’d been bruised, nothing was broken, thankfully. You cleaned up a few other knicks and scratches. He knew he’d have to part from you soon, but he hadn’t said his piece yet.
“Meet me behind the field hospital after dinner,” he murmured again, taking care to keep his voice low.
“Alright,” you huffed aloud, “you’re good to go.”
“Thank you.”
With that he trekked out to convene with his master, as she’d likely have returned from the battlefield to convene with the strategists.
“Ah Jing Yuan, good timing,” she beckoned him, and immediately began briefing him on the current situation.
This was familiar territory for Jing Yuan. Strategy meetings, laying out plans to minimize casualties while achieving victory. The hours passed him by as he worked together with the other senior military members, debating, considering, plotting. The meeting culminated in a somewhat-satisfactory strategy with contingencies, and they were disbanned to rest up.
His master approached him, “I see you’ve have the opportunity to visit the medics,” she nodded at his fresh dressings, “have you become acquainted with the new arrivals?”
“Master?” He furrowed his brow. “You’re aware?”
“Her documents appeared before me,” she gave him a small nod and smile, “given she looked familiar I thought to inspect them.”
He sighed, shaking his head, “is this part of the reason you had me deliver the wounded?”
“Yes,” she nodded, leading him out of the tent to venture to a more secluded location, “neither of you revealed your relationship to others did you?”
“No.”
“Good,” she scanned the area, “I sense a traitor in our midst.”
He did not respond immediately, “you mean with how the enemy was prepared to intercept us and knew to ambush our weakest flank today?”
“Yes.”
Jing Yuan’s throat dried up all over again. Of all the times for you — of all the places. He shook his head. “Surely my wife isn’t suspect?”
“No,” direct as ever, his master, “unless you found her behavior strange?”
“No,” he shook his head, “however you’d mentioned keeping our relationship secret from the rest of the knights.”
“It would lead to unnecessary complications,” Jing Liu’s voice remained steady as she continued to keep a lookout.
“Indeed,” he agreed, looking away and swallowing thickly, “she decided this unilaterally without informing me.”
“So she did,” did his master sound amused? Looking back to the powerful lady he found a slight upturn to her lips, “she was among the top of her class in her specialty,” she met his gaze, “trauma surgery and medicine.”
Jing Yuan’s eyes widened, he remembered you mentioning needing to select a specialty. You’d confessed you wanted to be equipped for all situations. You had mentioned trauma. How had he missed this hint? Had he been so blinded by the joy of your letters? Him? What a fool you’d made of him. A lovesick fool indeed.
“Her performance was exceptional amongst her peers,” Jing Liu continued on, “it’s why she was allowed to be deployed despite her limited experience.”
Of course. Of course you were exceptional. How could you not be?
“It seems to me like she came here to see you and support you,” his master’s smile was one of the gentlest he’d ever had the privilege of seeing from her, “Jing Yuan.”
A furious heat squeazed his heart igniting his chest and tearing up his chest to set his entire face ablaze.
“Still she did not inform me of this decision,” he frowned, “I was left none-the-wiser to her schemes.”
“Had I been aware of her plans I wouldn’t have informed you either.”
“Master?”
“There was no guarantee that she would be deployed,” Jing Liu folded her arms across her chest and shook her head, “and discussing it would create extra, unnecessary concern on your part.”
“Master, my wife is now closer to danger than ever before,” Jing Yuan argued, “I now carry even more concern than I would have debating her through letters while knowing she is safe on the Luofu.”
His master stared at him for a long while. “Go, speak to her, clear your mind Jing Yuan,” she ordered, “and be discreet.”
“Yes master.”
//------
I LIKE COMMENTS. PLEASE. What did you like? Did you have a favorite part? What kinda feeling did you get from the checkup?
in which you attempt to keep your cool in front of your classmate - crush - project partner. you think you succeed. osamu? not so much.
college!au
featuring: miya osamu x gn!reader - a peek into the deep, dark, mysterious storm that is the miyas + suna, flufffff, kuroo + kenma + akaashi cameo (sorry bokuto..)
a/n: trying to motivate myself by writing something short and lighthearted! this was pretty fun to work on:)
you really weren't supposed to end up here.
when you first signed up for 8 a.m. econ, the plan was simple: sit in the back of lecture with your daily iced americano, cruise through the course via tetsuro's notes, and, preferably, do not develop a massive crush on the devastatingly beautiful guy who sits next to you on day one.
unfortunately for you, tetsuro is a terrible best friend who drops the class only two weeks later, and by then, you’re sure you’re already smitten.
"alright, i expect everyone here is more than capable of finding their own partner for this project. it's as simple as asking the person beside you right now --- let's get on with it!" your professor announces just a few weeks after that.
and by what you consider fate, but is actually just your very strategic daily seat selection, you end up paired with none other than miya osamu.
which is why you're currently cross-legged on his apartment floor, surrounded by papers, half-highlighted paragraphs, and a nearly tragic number of empty snack wrappers.
"okay," you say, tapping your pen against a page. "if we shift the demand curve here, then---”
osamu leans closer, squinting. "nah, that'd mess up the elasticity. try flipping it the other way."
you stare at the graph. then at him. then back at the graph.
"...oh."
"yeah."
"..oh, that makes way more sense."
he shrugs, but a small, pleased smile tugs at his mouth. "told ya."
your heart does something deeply unhelpful, and you attempt to calm yourself by glancing at your phone, only to be met with 53 new notifications bleeding the screen.
---
^ 44 unread messages ^
tetsurhoe: y/n. when you see this, it is your DUTY to update us
kenma (neutral evil): oh hell no why am i nervous
kenma (neutral evil): y/n don't fumble
keiji (lawful evil): i have an idea
keiji (lawful evil): y/n how about we focus on the assignment
tetsurhoe: dude this is actually a godsent chance, they've sat together every single day this entire term
tetsurhoe: AND THEY TALK
keiji (lawful evil): wow
keiji (lawful evil): so they're classmates
tetsurhoe: ok shut up Y/N'S TYPING
y/n: why do you guys hate me
---
so much for help.
before you can spiral any further, the front door bursts open.
a tall blond with the exact same face as osamu (but louder, somehow) appears in front of you. atsumu, the twin brother, you recognize immediately. osamu had mentioned him the first time you'd worked up the nerve to turn to him during a class discussion --- "so yeah, you can just call me osamu. no formalities necessary." --- but even if he hadn't, you're sure tetsuro, full-time gossip and instigation practitioner, would've filled you in anyway, considering he’d already made it his personal mission to acquaint you with every scrap of publicly available information on the poor guy.
you straighten, batting your lashes to disguise any trace of questionable prior knowledge, and prepare to make an excellent first impression on your very hypothetical, definitely-not-confirmed future brother-in-law.
"hi, y/n~”
wait.
behind him, a brunette with tired eyes and the general energy of someone who hasn't slept in some time throws you a lazy wave. suna rintaro, his other, "sorta weird" friend. "hey, y/n."
what?
"ah," osamu cuts in quickly, scratching the back of his neck. "y/n, these are my roommates. as you can see, that's my twin, atsumu. and there's rin, er...suna rintaro. i might've told them you were comin' over."
"might've?" the blond snorts. "he's been--"
"shut it," osamu cuts immediately.
you narrow your eyes, but before you can interrogate any further, atsumu takes it upon himself to saunter over.
"it’s nice to finally meet ya,” he grins, a little too smug, as he scans the general area around the two of you and promptly pulls out his phone. “you poor kids look like you’ve been working too hard --- allow me to get you some fuel!”
from the side of your eye, you see osamu glower at the blond before shifting back towards you.
"this okay?" he mouths, eyebrows furrowed apologetically.
you just nod.
meanwhile, atsumu is already tapping away. "okay, caffeine for two! sunarin and i already had a little something so," he winks at you before turning back to his screen. "for samu, a hot latte..." he types, "...and for y/n, an iced americano, right?"
you freeze.
"...how'd you know that?"
and silence.
one by one, three heads turn to osamu.
he's smiling.
not a normal smile.
"one moment please," the twin says calmly, already standing up and grabbing his brother by the collar.
"hey--WAIT---"
the two disappear into the nearest room. a rather unpleasant ensemble of noises follow.
"I THOUGHT YOU---"
"IT’S OBVIOUS---"
“YOU'RE BEIN---"
a loud thud.
you stare at the closed door, clutching your pen. "...should i call someone?"
"nah," the only other remaining person says, crouching down next to you silently. "they do this like, everyday."
you glance at him. "suna, right?"
"yeah," he yawns. "sorry about them."
another crash reverberates from inside.
"is he okay?"
"which one?"
"...good point."
suna rests his chin on his hand, eyeing you with mild curiosity. "so," he says, "what've you and my lovely roommate been up to?"
"oh, uh---just this project," you say quickly. "we're still working on pretty basic microecon stuff. you know, like supply and demand shifts and whatnot."
"mhm..." he nods slowly. "he cleaned the whole apartment before you came."
you pause.
"what?"
"and restocked on snacks." suna gestures vaguely to the wrappers around you. "which is wild, because he's usually the first to hog them all."
you squint in contemplation. "sounds like a coincidence."
"he also changed his shirt three times."
your heart starts to hammer again. you wonder if suna can hear.
"okay...maybe less of a coincidence."
"and he told atsumu not to be weird."
you glance at the door as a muffled "I'M ALWAYS NORMAL, YOU'RE TH---" echoes through.
"well, that clearly worked."
suna just hums in response. "point is," he says, standing up with a sigh, "you don't usually do all this for just a group partner."
your face is burning now. "i mean, i don't--we're only---"
"y/n," suna looks at you, expression impressively blank as he places a very solemn hand on your shoulder. "your friend kuroo tetsuro isn't the only one who does his research."
the door swings open.
osamu steps out, perfectly composed, as if he didn't just commit what you're pretty sure is a minor act of violence.
atsumu stumbles out behind him, hair slightly messier, pointing accusingly. "yer an actual menace---"
"kitchen," osamu says flatly.
atsumu grumbles but leaves, dragging his dignity with him. suna pats your shoulder, then follows.
osamu turns back to you, expression softening. “y/n, listen. i am so sorry 'bout that. i really am."
you try to act normal. you really do.
"yeah, no, it's fine," you say, absolutely not fine. "wow, your roommates are very...intriguing?"
he huffs a small laugh, striding the room and sitting back down next to you. "that's one way to put it."
the two of you turn to the pile of papers lying unceremoniously on his floor.
"so," you start, almost too casually, "you, uh...change outfits for all your group partners?"
he stills.
"...nah," osamu says. "just one."
"oh," you say, brilliantly.
your heart continues a determined attempt to launch itself out of your chest.
from the kitchen, atsumu yells, "AND THE FREAK EVEN KNOWS WHAT YOU DRINK EVERYDA---"
a loud smack cuts him off.
osamu groans. "please. please just ignore him."
"okay, done. ignoring."
silence again.
"as much as i hate to admit it, my brother's right," osamu finally sighs, then laughs defeatedly. he scratches his cheek, almost sheepish, but his gaze stays steadily on you. "so since we're already here...give your poor classmate a chance and grab coffee with me sometime?" he asks, his smile coming easy --- soft, a little crooked.
and doing absolutely nothing to help your reddening face.
osamu exhales lightly, like he's debating how much to admit, then just goes for it. "and uh...yeah, i know this probably makes me sound like a creep," he adds with a small chuckle. "but it's hard not to notice things, you know? you show up to econ with the same americano every day, you’re...really smart, and," he pauses, a faint blush touching his ears. "you're kinda hard to ignore."
his hand drifts through his hair, a nervous habit he’s picked up over the years. "so yeah...i might've mentioned you to my brother. and rin,” he admits, glancing away for half a second before meeting your eyes again. “and when you asked me to be your partner for this thing," osamu smiles, the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. "i dunno, it just felt like really good timing --- god, y/n, i swore to them it was fate.”
surely your heart’s slipped clean out of you by now, probably somewhere on miya osamu's living room floor along with the rest of your papers, stationary, mind, body, and soul.
"yeah," you finally manage, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips. "i like you too, osamu."
and from the kitchen, a faint, victorious whisper:
"called it."
another smack.
peace returns.
mostly.
BONUS!
---
^72 unread messages^
tetsurhoe: y/nnn
tetsurhoe: y/nnnnnn
tetsurhoe: i have your location. i can see you moving
y/n: guys
tetsurhoe: YES
y/n: ok so he just walked me back to my car and
tetsurhoe: AAND
kenma (neutral evil): isn't that the bare minimum
y/n: that man is going to be the father of my children
Michael Jackson x fem!Reader, 1989. best friends. sickfic. (two-shot part 1)
Part 2: still here
Note: The images used above are purely for the aesthetic and mood of the story, or to represent aspects of the reader's role, style, or the chapter itself. They are not intended to depict the reader's physical appearance or ethnicity.
The gates to Neverland open the way they always do when it's you: without question, without the intercom crackle and the long pause and the distant consultation you've watched other visitors endure. Someone in the booth waves you through without a word, and through the window you catch a glimpse of Bill leaning against the counter with a paper cup, mid-conversation. He glances over and lifts his coffee in a small salute as you pass.
You follow the winding driveway past the carousel that stands still in the sun, its painted horses mid-gallop and going nowhere.
You've been coming here since February, when Michael played his last night in Los Angeles and the Bad tour finally came to an end.
Before Neverland it was Hayvenhurst, back when the whole Jackson family still lived under its roof.
Your father came on as production coordinator for the Jacksons in 1976, when you were seventeen and old enough to be left home alone but young enough that your overprotective mother didn't trust it, so you went where he went.
You'd spent enough afternoons after school in the front room of that house to have developed opinions about the furniture. You'd been dragged along to enough rehearsals, enough logistics calls, enough of your father's schedules to understand that the business of keeping a family like that on the road was its own full-time world, and that you were always on the edge of it, neither inside nor out.
Michael was eighteen then and already had people's attention whenever he walked into a room, though he seemed not to notice or maybe he didn't want to. You'd noticed him first because he was doing exactly what you were doing: finding a corner, opening a book, going somewhere else in his mind while everyone else continued with their business around him.
You'd been seventeen years old and had already developed the habit of being quiet in most situations, and here was someone who appeared to have developed the same habit as you.
You hadn't planned to actually speak to him. That changed one afternoon when your father was running late on a call and you'd been waiting in the hallway for almost an hour with nothing left to read, and Michael had appeared from somewhere in the house, looked over at you, and said: "I finished that one you had last week. The ending was… interesting."
You had argued about it for forty minutes before your father came out of the office and found the two of you sitting on the floor of the hallway, which was not where either of you had started.
After that it was easy, because the friendship had already been most of the way there.
Your father quit his job in 1980, not long after the divorce. He remarried quickly and moved to Oregon, becoming someone else's version of a good man and leaving you and your mother in California with a forwarding address and not much else.
You were twenty-one. Michael and Katherine had shown up at your mother's door two days after your father left, Michael carrying a big bouquet of flowers and Katherine holding containers of food she'd prepared, both of them not really knowing what to say. They had decided that showing up is the only thing they could do for you. You'd eaten at your mother's kitchen table and talked about anything other than the divorce.
After that the friendship needed no reasons. You lived close enough to Encino that proximity was easy, and by then you didn't need proximity as an excuse anyway. You'd been best friends for years by the time your father left, long enough that the friendship had its own history that didn't need explaining to anyone.
You park near the fountain and gather the things you brought: a bag of takeout you'd picked up on impulse on the way over, because you'd been passing the restaurant anyway and thought why not, and a folder of paperwork from his production company that you'd offered to bring by in person rather than send over.
It's a thin excuse and you both know it. You come to Neverland the way water finds low ground: naturally and without much need for explanation.
You enter through the front door and follow the sound of music down the main hallway.
Michael is in the sitting room off the east wing, standing at the window with his back to you and marking something on a sheet of choreography notes. The music that's playing is one of his own demos which you recognize from a cassette he'd played for you months ago in the car.
He doesn't turn when you come in, but you know he heard you. He's just pretending he didn't. You know he does that when he's in the middle of something and doesn't want to stop.
"I brought food," you say, setting the bag on the table.
"I have food."
"I brought better food." You pull your jacket off and drape it over the chair near the door. "How was rehearsal?"
"Good."
"How long did you go today?"
He pauses for a moment. "Few hours."
"Michael."
"It was fine." He sets the paper down and turns, and you see his face for the first time, and something in you goes quiet and careful the way it does when you notice something you're not supposed to notice yet.
He looks tired, but it's not like his normal tired. There's a flatness behind his eyes, and you recognize it as effort. He's trying hard to look fine. His movements as he crosses the room toward you look calculated.
"You look terrible," you say.
"Good evening to you too."
"I'm serious. Are you–"
"I'm great." He drops onto the sofa with a carefulness that he's trying to disguise as casualness, but you notice immediately. "What's in the bag?"
You watch him. He looks at you with a steadiness that would convince almost anyone, but you have been paying attention to this person for thirteen years, and you know the difference between his tired and his fine, and right now those two things are not the same.
"Takeout," you say. "I stopped on the way. Are you hungry?"
"I ate."
"When?"
He pauses. "Earlier."
You cross your arms and keep looking at him.
"I'm fine," he says with a bit more edge, then he shifts against the sofa cushions and recrosses his arms as if to mock you. "I just said I'm fine."
"I heard you." You pick up the bag and head toward the kitchen. "I brought soup. I'm going to heat it up because I'm hungry, and you can watch."
He doesn't watch, but he does follow you, because he always follows when you go somewhere in his house, and he sits at the kitchen island while you find a pot and pour the soup in to reheat, turning the burner on low.
At first, Michael talks a lot. He tells you about rehearsal, about a section of the upcoming show he's been working on, and his voice sounds fine, and you are only half listening because you're busy heating the soup and he's filling the kitchen with sound just like he always does.
But then he's telling you something about a part of the show he's stuck on and his voice dips out on a word just briefly, and he tries to hide it with a cough and reaches for a glass of water and keeps going as if nothing happened.
You stir the soup.
After that he goes quieter. Not completely silent, but definitely careful, speaking with less words, and when you ask him something he answers in the shortest form possible.
You ask him how the new choreography is going and he says good.
You ask him if he's heard from his former manager Frank lately, whom he parted ways with recently, and his expression changes slightly, and he says no and leaves it there. You don't push.
You ask him how Bubbles has been and he says fine and then adds nothing, which is so unlike Michael because he can normally talk about Bubbles for hours.
You look at him.
He looks back at you with an expression of innocence that looks so painfully acted that you almost roll your eyes.
"Say something else," you say.
"What?"
The word comes out rough and he knows immediately that it's given him away because he closes his mouth and sets the glass down and looks somewhere to the left of your face, determined to not acknowledge what just happened.
"Michael."
He looks at the counter.
"How long has your voice been doing that?"
Silence.
"How long have you been sick?”
He picks up the glass of water again, takes a sip and sets it down. Then, as if choosing the word that will cost him the least effort, he says quietly, "I’m fine."
"That's not an answer."
He looks at you. You look at him. The soup begins to bubble at the edges of the pot.
"Okay," you say, and turn back to the stove. "Sit there, then."
You ladle soup into two bowls and carry them to the island and sit across from him. He looks at the bowl in front of him with an expression he's clearly trying hard to make out to be neutral.
"Eat," you say.
He picks up the spoon and takes one careful sip, and then another, and you watch his eyes soften slightly as he eats, but you also see how stubborn he is.
"I'm not sick," he says, and his voice scrapes on the last word, proving him wrong.
"Okay," you say, clearly unconvinced.
"I'm just–"
"Tired. You said."
He looks at you. You look at your soup.
"Eat," you say again.
He eats. You eat. The kitchen is warm and the spring evening is settling softly, the last of the light going pale over the Neverland hills.
This ordinary peaceful time with him is what you've kept quietly for yourself, in the years since you understood what you were keeping: the way he follows you from room to room without thinking about it, his attention when he's listening to you, the fact that you know where he keeps things and he knows where you keep things and neither of you has ever had to explain it.
All the magazine covers show him surrounded by women who are beautiful and you have read the columns and seen the photographs and understood what they mean and that you are not what they are.
You have watched him fall in and out of love over the thirteen years you have known each other, heard about the ones he liked and the ones he didn't, sat across from him at kitchen tables just like right now while he talked to you about his feelings for those women.
You have always listened and you have always been glad to do it. You don't let yourself think about that too much.
And still you come here, because this is the shape your life has taken and you think you'd choose it every time.
You don't let yourself think about what you want. It isn't useful.
–
By nine o'clock he has completely lost his voice.
One moment he is trying to argue with you about whether he needs to call his doctor ("I am telling you I’m fine") and the next the sentence stops, and there is only air where the words were supposed to be. He closes his mouth and tries again and gets nothing.
You watch him.
He opens his mouth a third time and produces a sound that is barely a whisper.
"Okay," you say.
He points at you accusingly.
"I know," you say. "You're not sick."
He does something with his hands that looks like that's not what I was going to say.
"What were you going to say?”
He points at the folder of paperwork on the counter, then at the kitchen table, then at himself. Then he mimes writing. He makes a therefore gesture.
"You were going to say we still have things to go through."
He nods, once, like the matter is settled.
"Michael." You come around the island and before he can lean back you press the back of your hand to his forehead and he goes very still. His skin is warm and you move your hand to his cheek and then to the side of his neck the way your mother used to do to you, checking for fever, and he lets you, which tells you more about his health than anything else has tonight.
"You're burning up," you say quietly.
He doesn't answer. His jaw is set but you can see he doesn't have another argument left in him.
"Your ears are red. You've been like this for a while, haven't you?" It isn't really a question.
You step back and look at him. He's been careful to hold himself upright all evening, each of his movements with too much effort.
"I am going to make you honey and tea and you are going to drink it, and then you are going to go upstairs, and whatever else we were going to work on tonight is going to wait."
He is quiet for a moment. His jaw is set because he knows he's losing the argument and he's deciding whether to accept it graciously or pretend the argument wasn't happening.
Then he swallows, and you see the wince he can't hide, and you feel an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.
"Okay," you say, more gently. "Come on."
–
You get him to go upstairs. Somewhere in the hallway closets you find extra blankets and a basin and a cloth that will do for compresses, and you carry everything into his bedroom.
The room is enormous and full of the things that he loves: the books stacked on almost every flat surface, some have slips of paper sticking out where he marked pages, the drawing things on the desk, the framed photographs that aren't of famous people but of his animals and his family and, you notice as you always notice without meaning to, one of the two of you from four years ago, laughing at something you don't remember.
You help him into bed with luckily no fuss, because he has stopped arguing, and you can tell from that that he feels worse than he's been letting on all evening. You make him drink the tea with honey, holding the mug for him when his hands are tired.
You dampen the cloth and lay it across his forehead and watch some of the tension go out of his face.
"Okay?" you say.
He makes a sound that might be okay but his eyes are still open, looking at the ceiling. He's restless and unfocused.
You know that he has never fallen asleep easily. His mind doesn't let go without a fight.
You look around the room and soon you find what you're looking for on the nightstand, closest to him, which is where he keeps the things he comes back to. The cover is worn at the corners.
You pull your chair closer and open it and begin to read.
He doesn't say anything. He turns his head slightly on the pillow to look at you without the wet cloth falling off, and you don't look up, just keep your eyes on the page and your voice low and even, the way you'd read to a child.
Peter Pan leaving the nursery window. The Darling children lifting into the night.
After a while you feel his restlessness slowly disappearing, and when you glance up his eyes are half closed, watching you with an expression that is too soft and too tired for you to look at directly, so you look back at the page.
You read until his breathing has gone slow and his eyes have closed and stayed closed, and then you read one more page after that, just to be sure.
Then you sit with him.
The room is quiet. Outside the window the Neverland grounds are dark and enormous and still, and inside there is only the soft sound of his breathing and the occasional shift of the cloth on his forehead when you reach out to re-dampen it.
He looks different this way, somehow younger. He is thirty-one years old and has been on a stage in some form or another long before you met him, and even in his own house, even with only you, he carries himself as if he's being seen. Now he doesn't. Now he is just a person who is tired and sick, sleeping.
You reach out and take his hand.
It isn't something you plan. His hand is lying open at his side, fingers loosely curled, and you put yours into it without thinking, and then you sit very still with the warmth of it against your palm and feel, for just a moment, everything you don't let yourself feel.
You love him.
You have loved him for a long time, through all the versions of him that have existed since you were seventeen years old and arguing about books in the hallway of Hayvenhurst, through the years of his rising and the years of his changing and everything that has happened in between.
You have loved him through Off The Wall and through Thriller and through Bad, through every reinvention, through the person he was at eighteen and the person he has become at thirty-one.
You have loved him through the girlfriends he brought around over the years, the ones he was serious about and the ones he wasn't, the ones he told you about first and the ones you found out about from other people. You have sat across from him and listened and smiled, because his happiness has always been a thing you wanted for him, even when it had nothing to do with you.
He doesn't know, you think. You have been careful. You have built your friendship into something sturdy, something that doesn't require him to feel any particular way, and you have kept this one thing for yourself, quiet as still water.
You will not do anything with it because it would change the way things are, and the way things are is the thing you love most about your life.
You sit in the chair in the dark and hold his hand and let yourself have it, just for tonight, just while he's sleeping.
–
When you wake up, your neck is stiff from the chair and early morning light is coming in around the curtains.
Michael is awake.
He's looking at you. He's been looking at you for a while, you think.
"Hey," you say, voice rough.
He doesn't say anything. You’re still holding his hand.
Then he tugs it gently. He's not pulling you toward him or asking you for anything. It's just a quiet pressure on your hand.
You sit forward and remove the cloth from his forehead with your free hand, then press the back of your hand to his skin. Still warm, but different. The feverish feeling is gone. He's now just a person with morning temperature, coming back to himself.
"Better," you say.
He nods.
"Good." You straighten up and let go of his hand and reach for the basin and cloth with your practical hands, buying yourself a second. "You need dry pyjamas. Where do you keep–"
He points at the dresser in the way that means second drawer.
You find him a soft t-shirt and a clean pair of loose pants and bring them to the bed, and then you find something to do on the other side of the room while he changes out of his sweaty clothes. You adjust the curtains and open them a little to let the morning in. When you turn back, he's sitting up against the headboard, looking exhausted but better, watching you the way he was watching you when you woke up.
"How do you feel?" you say.
He thinks about it for a moment. Then, barely with a whisper he says, "Tired."
"Yeah." You sit on the edge of the bed. "You'll feel better after you sleep some more. Real sleep, not fever sleep."
He looks at you for a moment, and then his eyes move to the chair you've spent the night in, the awkward angle of it, the way you're holding your neck without seeming to realize you're doing it.
Something in his expression shifts.
It isn't pity, but more a kind of tenderness he doesn't try to hide because he's too tired and too grateful to bother.
He reaches out and tugs your hand gently.
"Michael, I'm fine."
He tugs again, and tilts his head toward the empty space beside him.
"I can't sleep in your bed, you need the space and you’re gonna get all sweaty again–"
He tugs again. Then he shifts slowly, making room for yoiu, and looks at you with an expression that says I know what I'm doing and I've already decided.
"You are so stubborn when you're sick," you say.
He raises an eyebrow that looks like Only when sick?
You look at him. Then you look at the chair. You reach up and press your fingers to the side of your neck without thinking, and he watches you do it with mild concern.
"Just for a bit," you say.
You pull your shoes off and lie down on top of the covers on the far edge of the king sized bed, leaving as much space as possible between you, and he settles back against the pillows slowly, and within a few minutes his breathing has gone even and slow.
You lie awake for a little while longer, looking at the ceiling, listening to the stillness around you.
When you wake up again, the light is different. It's late morning.
You're alone in the bed.
You sit up and push your hair out of your face and after a moment you hear water running in the bathroom. You get up and smooth the bedcovers and go downstairs to the kitchen.
You know where things are, because Michael is particular about it in a way that extends to every room he actually lives in: he tells the staff how he wants things arranged rather than leaving it to them, and once something is where he's decided it should be, it stays there.
You move through it the way you move through your own space, reaching for things without looking. You find the pan and the bread and the eggs, and by the time you hear his footsteps on the stairs you have made toast and scrambled eggs and you are pouring tea with slightly unsteady hands, which you force yourself to not think about too much.
He comes into the kitchen looking human again, still tired but more alive and dressed properly, hair still damp from the shower, moving with something closer to energy than before. He watches you set the tray: the plate, the mug, the little jar of honey you've put out because his throat will still be raw.
"Eat," you say.
He sits at the island. He looks at the food, then he looks at you.
"I should go," you say. "You're better, and I have things–"
His hand wraps around your wrist gently, and it stops you mid-sentence.
You look at him.
He looks at you. He is thinking about saying something. You know the way he gets when he is choosing his words. Or, in this case, when he has almost no voice left and has to choose carefully.
"Thank you," he says. Just that, barely above a whisper, but with a weight behind it that you feel through your whole chest.
"You don't have to–"
He rises, and before you can finish the sentence or move, he tips his head down and presses a kiss to the top of your hair quietly.
You're sure your face does something you can't control.
"Okay," you say, to somewhere just past his shoulder, because you cannot look him in the eye right now. "Eat the eggs. They'll get cold."
He makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be agreement and lets your wrist go.
You gather your jacket from the chair in the hallway and your bag from the table and your keys, and you don't let yourself look back as you go.
He stands at the kitchen island and watches the front door close.
Then he sits back down, pulls the tray toward him, and picks up the fork.
Soon, he thinks.
Not today. Not while his voice is barely there and you're being careful not to look at him and he can still feel the warmth of your hand in his from the night before.
He knows what you've been carrying, and he knows you'd never say it first.
But soon. He'll tell you soon.
He takes a bite of the eggs.
They're good. You always know how he takes them.
Just something quick I wrote in response to a request. I hope you enjoy.
Edit: I wrote a sequel to this oneshot and made it into a two-shot. Here is part 2: still here
♱ summary: you buy a mail-order slime creature online and treat it lovingly as your pet, but it turns out to be the king of curses himself! you fear for your life, but it seems sukuna has other heinous, dirty plans for you as revenge...
♱ featuring: demon!sukuna x fem!witch!reader
♱ tags: 7k words, fluff, crack, attempt at humor, smut, urban fantasy au, getting together, soft & mean sukuna, blobkuna, heian/true form sukuna, subby reader, reader is silly and horny but gets shy towards the end, name-calling/degradation, oral (f receiving), double p, p in v and p in a, size difference, creampie, blood drinking, aphrodisiac, dacryphilia, aftercare, brief mentions of a belly bulge, self-indulgent (this is very silly and smutty)
♱ notes: inspired by this fanart by @daromram. all the dividers on this post are by me! they are free to use with credit. please tag me if you use any of them! anyways, this fic is very silly and self-indulgent. i'm still a beginner when it comes to writing smut, sorry. i tried my best. i hope you can enjoy reading regardless. ૮꒰ ｡ ‸ ｡ ꒱ა
♱ taglist: @dahliadaenerys
♱ link to masterlist
Grow your own slime! The latest marvel of modern magic (continued on page 3.)
You scroll through the magazine on your compact mirror, skimming through the article. Recently, the Gojo Group—a multinational conglomerate—has developed the Super Pet Slime, a new product that allows the user to grow their own slime pet from the comfort of their home. Similar to other pets of your world, the slimes are not sapient and have magical properties. In bygone eras, the Earth used to be dominated by humans and non-magical animals. But due to diseases and various other disasters created by humans to their own detriment, most of the non-magical populations of the world were wiped out, leaving the creatures who used hide in the dark an opportunity to thrive in the light.
You are a witch living alone at the heart of the city, in your penthouse with a beautiful view of the skyline. You took a break from dating for a while to focus on your career, and though you have lovely friends and family, you get lonely sometimes. Your best friend suggested adopting a pet, since you’ve been wanting one for a while now. Other creatures required time-consuming training and expensive licenses to obtain before adoption, but slimes had no such regulations because they were low maintenance and relatively harmless. Plus, the slimes can change into different colors or shapes to the owners’ liking, and the Gojo Group also offers various mystery packs which randomizes the color and shape of slime you can receive.
You decide you want to purchase one, so you order a mystery box slime from the Gojo Group online, with overnight delivery because you’re impatient and you can afford the extra cost. Once the purchase is made, you lean back on your sofa for a moment, giddy and excited for your new pet.
The next day, your package arrives in the morning. You tear through the nondescript cardboard box it arrived in with haste, revealing another box inside. It’s wrapped in shiny, glimmering silver paper. You tear through it to find a small packet with a picture of a pink slime with one bloodshot red eye and little black markings on the front. The packet has no other text or graphics aside from “Add water!” with an arrow pointing from the blob to a cartoon explosion with a question mark in the center.
You look inside the box and find a paper instruction manual, along with various warnings. You read through it carefully, most of it containing knowledge you already knew from your research. The manual instructs the owner to drop the tiny slime into a cup of water for a few minutes, allowing it to awaken from its hibernation. Then, the owner must feed and take care of the slime for two weeks before it can grow into its matured form. It will take on the shape of another animal from the past. You’re hoping it will look like a bunny.
You walk over to your sleek kitchen, dressed in nothing but your comfy oversized t-shirt. You rip open the pack over the countertop and gently take out the little slime. It’s tinier than you expected, roughly four centimeters wide in diameter, with its single eye and frowning mouth closed. It’s a faint, dull grayish-coral color, and it feels slightly chalky, likely from dehydration. You gently squeeze it between your thumb and forefinger, amused by its indistinct, blobby shape. You grab a glass and fill it with cool water, then drop the slime into the glass, picking it up and holding it close to your face so you can watch the blob awaken.
It takes a minute or so, but the slime slowly opens it single red eye, gradually becoming aware of its surroundings. Its slimy body changes from a dull red to a shiny, pale pink—almost flesh colored. Its gaze darts this way and that as it sinks to the bottom of the cup, its eyeball bulging.
“Hi, there,” you coo, your heart melting at its possible panic. “Oh, you must be so nervous, poor thing. I’m your new friend. I promise to take good care of you.”
The slime opens its mouth, revealing tiny white teeth. You didn’t know slime could have teeth. Maybe it was genetically modified? It closes its mouth, then opens it, again and again, as if trying to speak. No sound comes out, though, only tiny air bubbles floating up the water from its mouth.
You scoop the little guy out of the water, gingerly placing it on the countertop. It feels nice and smooth now, slick and moist from being rehydrated. You stroke the top of it with your index finger, smiling.
“Hm, what should I name you?” you wonder aloud.
The slime tries to turn around and flops over, rolling across the marble surface. Its eye and mouth slide around its body to right itself, and it bites your finger—tries to, anyways. Its teeth are tiny and blunt, so it doesn’t hurt. It feels more like gentle nibbling than anything else.
You giggle at its attack. “Pfft, you’re a chomper, huh? Your bites aren’t going to do anything, you know. Maybe I should call you Mr. Grumpy. It’s childish, but I think it’s kinda cute. Wouldn’t you agree?”
It continues its feeble attack on your finger, attempting to lift itself on top of it in what you presume is supposed to be a killing blow. Unfortunately, the little guy climbs on top of your finger and immediately slides off because of how slippery its body is.
You laugh, lifting it up in the palm of your hand. “Mr. Grumpy it is. You gotta be grumpy to be so aggressive and weird looking, right?”
It stares at you with its freaky, bulging eye and frowning mouth, as if trying to send psychic beams of death towards you.
“Okay, okay, I know it’s not a great name,” you admit, “but let’s workshop it later when you’re grown, okay?”
Mr. Grumpy rolls over, laying face flat on your palm, trying and failing to bite your skin. You feel like your heart is going to explode out of your chest from how cute it is.
What you don’t know is that Mr. Grumpy is actually Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses.
He’s found himself in quite the embarrassing predicament. Someone managed to land an attack on the King of Curses himself. How impudent. Of course, Sukuna killed the perpetrator right away, but the curse remained. Such cheap trickery. It transformed him into this pathetic form and teleported him into one of the Gojo factories. He was then sealed into a plastic packet and shipped to you. The foolish human who has no idea about his true identity or the power you hold over him in this moment. You smile at him with delight, oblivious to the precarious situation you’re in.
“Argh, I just wanna eat you up!” you squeal, jumping up and down excitedly. Mr. Grumpy jiggles in your hand like pudding at your movements, its eyeball sliding around all disoriented and confused.
It is truly nauseating for Sukuna. To be so vulnerable in a weakling’s hand. He swears to himself that he will kill you once he transforms back.
You spend the rest of your day fawning over your new pet, cutting tiny chunks of vegetables to feed the little thing. At first, Mr. Grumpy wouldn’t eat the food you handed him, stubbornly keeping his mouth shut.
“C’mon Mr. Grumpy,” you say playfully, holding a miniature cube of chopped carrot to his mouth. “You gotta eat something to get stronger, or you’re not gonna be able to bite me like you want to.”
For Sukuna, your actions are utterly degrading and insulting to him. You’re cooing at him like he’s a child, attempting to feed him the slime equivalent of baby food. He despises your meticulous chopping of the vegetables and your patience as you attempt to coax him to eat. He is stubborn at first, refusing to take a single bite of the food you’ve prepared. Such a meal is beneath him. Hours pass. You periodically attempt to get him to eat every ten to fifteen minutes or so. Concern crosses your lovely face the longer he goes without eating. The emptiness of hunger gnaws away at him. Sukuna eventually gives in, gulping down the bits of vegetable you give him. The joy and relief on your face has him feeling strange.
You watch over him carefully, carrying him around with you in your apartment and giving him plenty of food and water. He keeps nibbling on your skin, doing no damage despite his fervent efforts. He tries to roll off your palm when you hold him or scoot away when you leave him on whatever available surface is near you, but you never let him fall or get far.
“I’m excited to have a pet, you know,” you say, curled up on the couch with Mr. Grumpy cradled in your hands. “I haven’t had a pet slime since I was a kid. My parents were often away for work, and the caretakers they hired weren’t very talkative, so I would talk all the time to Ms. Slimey when I was home. I have friends now, but they travel a lot for work, so I don’t get to talk to them often.” You chuckle. “I haven’t gotten better at naming pets, that’s for sure.”
Mr. Grumpy stares at you menacingly, opening and closing his mouth like a fish.
“Are you hungry? Do you want more carrot?” You reach for the plate near you, handing him another chunk of food. Mr. Grumpy keeps his mouth closed at first, but inevitably gives up, taking the food from you. You keep feeding him as you watch your favorite anime on the giant mirror in your living room, yapping endlessly as the show plays.
Soon, it’s time for you to get ready for bed. You place Mr. Grumpy in a glass cup filled halfway with water and take him with you as you brush your teeth and use the bathroom, paranoid about leaving the little guy alone. After you wash your face and do your nightly skincare routine, you head to your spacious bedroom, setting the glass on the nightstand and snuggling under the covers of your bed. You face Mr. Grumpy, staring at him for a moment.
“I have to go to work tomorrow,” you whisper, frowning. “I know the whole reason I got a slime as a pet is because they’re low maintenance, but I still feel nervous about leaving you home alone.”
Sukuna wriggles around in his de facto tank, bumping his little face against the glass. Your consideration…
It pleases him more than he expected.
He doesn’t want you to worry. He doesn’t want you to be sad. He doesn’t want to be stuck in this stupid glass all night long. He wants to feel your touch again.
You smile softly, tapping the glass.
“I don't know why I’m so worried. You're not even strong enough to knock over the glass. But I don’t want you to get hurt, you know? You’re my little guy. So don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone, okay?” You kiss the glass. “Goodnight, Mr. Grumpy.”
Sukuna scoots as close to you as possible, but you remain out of reach. He watches you fall asleep, his face squished against the glass.
The next two weeks pass by in a blur. You make sure to leave some food in the glass everyday before you leave for work, and you come back home to your tiny slime creature rolling around or staring into space inside the glass. It’s nice to look forward to seeing Mr. Grumpy after work. His ugly cuteness heals your exhaustion on rough days. You’ve noticed that Mr.Grumpy has slowly been warming up to you.
When you get home, you take Mr. Grumpy out to hold and pet him. You jabber everyday about all the details of your life and thoughts, no matter how asinine those details may be. At first, Mr. Grumpy would keep nibbling at your hand and fingers, but gradually, it’s been happening less often. Now, the little guy will roll around or simply bump his squishy body against your hand for your attention, or when you ask him a rhetorical question. It’s almost as if he can understand you—
Of course, you know better than to believe such a romantic possibility, since slimes can’t comprehend human speech. But it's a sweet thought.
One night, you sit at your dining table with some colorful pieces of fabric, scissors, and a sewing kit, spending a few hours making some things. You let Mr. Grumpy out of his usual glass to rest on the table. You give him the freedom to roam around as often as you can—as long as he’s within your reach and line of sight. His little blobby form scoots to and fro across the table, looking around the room before inevitably getting board and sitting still next to your pile of fabric, watching you work.
“Look!” you exclaim excitedly, holding out a tiny black top hat in front of him. “I made you some accessories!”
You carefully place the top hat on him. It slides forward a bit, covering his eye. You adjust the hat so it doesn’t cover his vision and wrap a miniature purple scarf below his mouth. He stares at you with a comically straight face, looking positively smart and dapper like a fancy gentleman.
“Oh my gosh! You look so adorable!” you gush, taking dozens of photos with your pocket mirror.
Sukuna is utterly disgusted by your cute accessory, with no way of expressing his thoughts. He can’t believe you spent all this time hand-stitching clothes for a pet. He’s not sure what’s disturbing him more: the fact that you spent so much time on something so pointless, or the fact that he might actually be charmed by your silly endeavors. The possibility of liking someone as foolish as you angers him.
You spend the next hour having a fashion show with Mr. Grumpy while he tries to eat the fabric and bite your hand. He is not successful.
Something else that bothers Sukuna is your utter lack of awareness when you’re home.
Specifically with your clothes and sexual endeavors.
You parade around your apartment wearing little to nothing on a regular basis. Oversized white t-shirts, lacy black chemises, pink babydoll lingerie—you don’t give a damn about being modest at home. And why would you? You don’t know that there’s a man in your midst. But seeing your delicious curves on display everyday without being able to do a single thing about it is torture for Sukuna.
The worst is late at night, when you’re having trouble sleeping, so you touch yourself. You think Mr. Grumpy has fallen asleep, but Sukuna is wide awake, witnessing your soft moans in the dark. The way you spread your legs, your hands slipping underneath your negligee—he can’t look away. You cup one of your breasts with your hand, pinching and teasing your nipple while the other hand plays with your clit. You rock your hips, humping the air in a desperate, needy motion. Sukuna wants nothing more than to rail into the bed until you can’t speak. But he can’t do that in this form. He can only watch as your back arches off the bed with your release, thinking about all the ways he’s going to wreck you once he’s free of this stupid curse.
The next day, you come home after work angry, irritated by your coworker’s condescension.
“Chris was a such a dick at work today!” you complain as you come out of the shower, taking off your towel. You use a spell to dry your hair and hang your towel by the door. Mr. Grumpy sits on your dresser, staring with that singular eye of his. You pay him no mind. It’s not like pets care about nudity or modesty.
You continue your rant as you rummage through your drawers to search for something comfortable to wear. “He was like ‘Are you sure you got the incantation right?’ and I was like ‘Yes, I’m sure’ and he was like ‘Do you even know how to brew the potion correctly? Because I don't mind showing you the ropes.’ I’m a witch, of course I know my way around potion brewing! I have more experience than him! Ugh! It pissed me off so much. He thinks that just because he's a warlock, he's better than me.”
You find your favorite purple dress and decide to slip it on, not bothering with any underwear. It’s a cute witch’s dress, tight but breathable because of the stretchy fabric. You love wearing it at home as a cute and stylish nightgown. It hugs your waist and curves nicely without suffocating you, with bell sleeves and a low neckline. The skirt of it stops right above your knees, with a jagged hemline.
“Everyone knows demons are the most skilled when it comes to spells and brewing; they're the ones who invented them! He's not tough shit just because he's a warlock. Witches and warlocks are on the same level. God, where do warlocks get all that audacity from?”
You scoop up Mr. Grumpy in your hands, pouting down at him. “You agree with me, right?”
Mr. Grumpy stares up at you with his singular eye, then rubs against your thumb, nuzzling you. You can't help but giggle at the motion.
“You're so cute!” you exclaim, giving him a little smooch. “Muah!”
Mr. Grumpy bites you suddenly but harmlessly after that, wriggling around in the palm of your hand.
Your phone suddenly buzzes with a notification. You check it with your free hand and gasp.
Tonight marks two weeks since you adopted your little slime friend. It's almost time for their transformation into an adult slime. You prepare for the big moment as instructed by the manual, gently placing Mr. Grumpy in a glass of water and setting it down on the carpeted floor of your spacious living room. The glass will break as he increases in size and transforms into a mature slime. You stand back, leaving plenty of space for it to happen. All you have to do now is wait for the transformation.
“It's time for you to grow! Are you excited?” you ask, unable to stand still because of your own giddiness. “I wonder what you'll look like. Maybe a dog? Or a cat? Or what if it's something really weird and random, like an octopus? Oh my gosh, how funny would it be to have an octopus-shaped slime bouncing around in my living room—”
You are interrupted by a sudden cloud of pink, the sharp sound of glass shattering piercing your eardrums. You cough, waving away the strange mist in front of your face. It dissipates, and your eyes widen in shock at what you see before you. It is a not a dog or a cat or even an octopus. It’s not even a slime!
The powerful aura suddenly crushing the air around you was undoubtedly the weight of a demon’s magic.
With pink hair, four arms, four eyes with irises red like the blood moon, and a large mouth on his stomach, the man before you grins devilishly, sitting cross-legged and completely nude on your carpet. His body is enormous, built with thick muscle and black tattoos. He has to be around seven or eight feet tall. His fingernails are black, but more importantly, your shocked gaze unintentionally drifts down to his crotch, where two penises hang heavy and thick between his thighs.
He speaks, amusement with a hint of arrogance coloring the rough timbre of his voice. “You blathered nonstop to me since I was brought here, and yet, now you are speechless at the sight of my true form?”
You raise your arms in front of you, prepared to cast defensive spells if needed. “Wh-Who—?!”
But you are no match for his speed and strength. He is on you in an instant, pinning you to the floor with one large, heated hand gripping your wrists and two others gripping your waist, his knees spread apart and resting near your hips. Your heart pounds inside your chest at his intensity. Everything about him—his weight, his aura, the enormity of his body—overwhelms you. He looks down at you with an easygoing smile and sinister eyes, tilting your chin up with his fourth hand.
“Little witch,” he rumbles. “You are correct about demons.”
You become overly aware of your body and how little you are wearing. You nipples are visible through the thin fabric your dress; your breasts, your pussy, and your ass available with such easy access. Your voice wavers. “You're not Mr. Grumpy…”
He chuckles, low and dangerous. “You have a terrible naming sense, truly.”
“What's going on…?” you ask quietly, trying your best to keep your breathing steady.
“My name is not ‘Mr. Grumpy’ as you so eloquently put it,” he says, “but Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses.”
You swear your heart stops cold for a second when you hear those words. You've heard his name before through whispered rumors; rumors about a powerful being who mastered the art of curses. He’s a dangerous figure, a monster who wouldn’t hesitate to kill someone with a flick of his wrist—
And you just spent the past two weeks treating this guy like a pet!
The large mouth on his stomach opens, its long tongue rolling out and flicking the soft skin between your thighs. The hot and wet sensation makes you shudder. Sukuna’s red eyes roam your figure, both of his mouths licking their respective lips as if gazing upon a delectable feast laid out before him.
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t, I—” you beg, only to realize it’s hopeless. You figure the fearsome King of Curses is not one to show mercy, but one last plea spills past your lips anyways. “Please don’t kill me.”
Sukuna exhales, the ghost of a laugh escaping his lips. “Oh, I know you didn’t know. What idiot would knowingly make the King of Curses a handmade top hat?”
You wince at his words, at the memories flooding through your head of all the times you did something silly or goofy with him. Your face slowly heats up as you remember how many times you were naked before him, carelessly getting dressed and undressed, thinking of him as no more significant than an animal or a houseplant.
There’s a sadistic glee lighting up in his eyes, mischievous and pleased. “Have you realized how much you’ve teased me with your figure for the past two weeks, woman?” His hands slide from your waist to roam across the rest of your body, slowly drifting across your thighs, your ass, your hips, your back and your stomach, all the way up to your breasts. The heat of his touch seeps through the fabric of your dress and into your skin, tantalizing and erotic. “The magic of the foolish imbecile who cursed me into slime has worn off.” He leans forward, his lips brushing against your ear. “And now I can finally have you.”
You wriggle at his touch, clenching your thighs together in a feeble attempt to stop the arousal growing between your legs. “Have me—?”
“Consider yourself lucky,” he murmurs. “If it were anyone else, I would have ripped them limb from limb by now. But you’ve managed to charm me with your idiotic prattle and tender care over the past two weeks”—two of his hands grip your thighs, spreading them apart—“so allow me to return the favor.”
He releases your wrists and slides the skirt of your dress up, exposing your lower half. He grabs your hips and shifts you around so that you’re sitting on his lap, your crotch against the mouth on his stomach. You grab his arms instinctively to steady yourself, gripping his biceps as you stammer, “W-Wait—”
You yelp as you feel the long tongue sliding up your vulva, wet and hot against your sensitive folds.
Sukuna moves his hands from your hips to cup your ass. You can feel his two cocks poking against you, smearing precum on your skin as you jostle and squirm in his grip. He growls in your ear, holding you close to his massive, hulking form. “I witnessed your desperate attempts to pleasure yourself every night. You were so pathetic with the way you rocked your hips and your humped the air. So needy, weren’t you? Like a bitch in heat seeking a mate.”
You whimper, your pussy throbbing at his demeaning words. It’s been too long since you've last been with anyone, and though you know you should be afraid of him, your arousal is outweighing your rationale. His body is exactly your type. You've always wanted to try sex with a demon. Despite what common sense would dictate, you wonder how it would feel to have him fill you up in both holes at the same time.
Sukuna senses your lingering fear, smells it in your scent. He leans in close to your neck, leaving a feather-light kiss on your pulse point. He murmurs against your skin, gentler than you would have expected. “I will not hurt you. You may relax and enjoy yourself. Or I will cease if you wish.”
You should know better than to trust the words of a demon, but his tongue feels oh-so-heavenly, and you're too horny to think clearly, so you roll your hips and breathe out a simple, “Please.”
You can feel him grinning against your skin before he pulls away to face you, watching you as the tip of his tongue slips inside.
“You poor thing.” His tone is condescending, teasing. “You had nobody to fuck you like you needed. But don't worry.” He growls low into your ear, sharp nails digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. “I’ll take good care of you now.”
You gasp as you feel his tongue enter deeper, tasting your walls with lazy, circular movements. You squirm at the warm, wriggly feeling, crying out when base of his massive tongue pulses against your clit. You body jerks from the stimulation, but Sukuna's large, strong hands keep your hips in place.
“You taste like a dream,” he purrs, licking his lips. He grasps the back of you head, tilting it to the side. “I wonder if your blood will be just as enjoyable.”
“Blood…?” you squeak meekly, too distracted by his lower tongue lapping at your pussy. But before you can process his words, Sukuna's sharp teeth sink into your neck. White hot pleasure blinds your vision, your head and eyes rolling back at the feeling of him drinking your blood. You cum silently, too overwhelmed by the pleasure rocking your body to speak properly, your walls sucking in his large tongue like a dirty French kiss.
When you finally come down from your high, your body is limp in his arms. You whimper as his tongue slips out of your wet folds with a lewd squelch. Your neck has already been healed. Your blood drips down Sukuna's jaw obscenely. He licks both sets of lips at the same time, cleaning up the last of both your blood and fluids on his body with a cocky smirk.
“You're just as delicious as I imagined,” he says, red eyes half-lidded.
Your gaze drifts down to his hands. The veins are prominent, trailing up his forearms. Despite just cumming, your body feels so hot and desperate. You shift from side to side in his lap, so needy that you don't know what to do with yourself. You scoot closer to him, your chest squishing against his chest.
“Sukuna, I feel hot,” you mumble, gripping his wrists. You guide one of his hands to your chest, rubbing his palm against your breast through the fabric for some friction. “Please, I…”
Sukuna watches you with keen interest, all four red eyes focused on your flushed expression. “My saliva has aphrodisiac qualities.”
You rock your hips with frustration, rubbing your pussy lips against his cock. You attempt to scold him, but your voice comes out whiny instead. “Ugh, there was no need for that. I’m already horny as hell.”
“Oh, it’s very necessary,” he murmurs with amusement. He tears off your dress with sharp nails and lays you down gently on the soft carpet. He slaps his cocks down onto your stomach, both of them thicker than your wrist and long enough to reach past your belly button. Precum from both tips drip onto your skin, and you swallow nervously, your body twitching with excitement. “It will allow your body to adjust and accommodate my length.”
Your head feels dizzy with lust, intoxicated by the thought of him inside of you. Two of his hands keep your thighs spread while the other two drifts across your body, massaging your skin with warm hands. You lift your head to look down at his cocks, black markings wrapped around them all the way down to the tips. You try to stroke him, but he grabs your wrists before you can reach down, pinning your hands on either side of your head.
“Patience, woman,” Sukuna says, his voice low and deep like a rich red wine. “It takes a minute for your body to absorb the effects.”
You whine pathetically, squirming in his grip. Every second of emptiness that passes feels agonizing. Your pride is nonexistent in this moment. You plead, “Please, I need you inside. It feels so empty. I can’t take it anymore.”
If only you could see yourself. The way your face is flushed, hair messy and splayed out on the carpet, the lust in your eyes—Sukuna is enthralled by your pleasure and obscenity. He smiles, one hand wrapping around your throat with a firm grip. “I’m going to have fun breaking you.”
He grips his cocks with two hands, lining one tip up to your pussy and one tip up to your asshole. Your body feels so hot that you squirm, desperate to have the emptiness inside you filled. Sukuna keeps you pinned down, a low rumble coming from his chest. “Behave.”
You still immediately, fear mixed with excitement running up your spine at the serious, deadly look in his red eyes. Your arousal grows.
Slowly, Sukuna slips his cocks inside you, chuckling as you suck him in inch by inch. “Nasty woman. What a pervert you are. I can sense the fear arousing you.”
“I'm not…” you argue feebly, unconvincing with your flushed face and your ragged breath.
Sukuna's teeth sharpen, fangs elongating out of his mouth. Black horns curl out of his temples like a ram, a red glow enveloping his sclera. His arms and legs become blackened like ink, huge wings and a scaly tail like that of a dragon unfurling from his back. His fingers taper off into pointed claws, gripping you just enough to prick, but not enough bleed. Your walls throb around him.
He snarls. “Liar.”
Fuck, you're so wet. The mouth on Sukuna's stomach opens, his tongue lapping at your stomach. He grabs the back of your head and kisses you, his tongue long enough to reach the back of your throat. You kiss him back as best as you can, soft whimpers escaping your throat. He presses forward until he's sheathed all the way inside of you, then pulls his mouth away. A string of saliva connects his lips to yours.
You glance down, delirious from the overwhelming fullness of your body being stretched to its limit. Your notice your abdomen is bulging. His cock is so big, it's distending your stomach. You look up, taking in Sukuna in all of his demonic glory. He looms above you, a powerful and monstrous presence, oppressive in his aura and darkness. He wraps two clawed hands around your waist, pulling his cocks out all the way to the tip.
“Last chance. Are you prepared?”
You look up, doe-eyed and drunk on lust. “Please fuck me until I break.”
Sukuna slams his cocks back into you, knocking against your cervix. You squeal from the force of it, the heels of your feet slipping against the carpet as you struggle to find purchase. You nails dig into his shoulders, leaving pink scratches down his back. He fucks you in earnest, stretching out both of your holes with his cocks. It feels incredible. Every nerve in your body is alive and electric under his touch. The stimulation is overwhelming with him penetrating your pussy and ass simultaneously. Each slide of his cocks dragging deliciously against your walls has you crying out. “Oh my god, Sukuna!”
Sukuna smirks, his grip on your waist tightening.“Yes, I am your god. I'll make you worship me for the rest of your life.”
His smooth, easy confidence has you wrapped around his finger. You rock your hips in tandem with his movements, animalistic in your need for him. His other two hands find their way to your tits, groping and squeezing as he splits you open on his cocks. He leans forward, looking down on you with those glowing red eyes shining with sadistic enjoyment. One of his hands drifts from your waist to the bulge of stomach. “See how well it fits? It’s like you were made for me.”
“Oh…” Your voice wavers, tears slipping down your cheeks from how good it feels.
Sukuna seems to revel in your sensitivity as he pushes your legs up into a mating press. His tongue darts out to lick your tears, savoring the salty taste. He murmurs in your ear, entertained by your cute noises. “Such a filthy woman you are, getting off on demon cock. I could feel the way your pussy tightened at my true form.” He grabs your throat with a clawed hand. Your breath catches at the subtle threat of his grip. “Do you get off on being fucked by a monster? You want to be the pretty little prey trapped in my grasp, is that it?”
“N-No,” you stutter weakly. It’s hard to speak up properly when you’re bent in half and getting two cocks stuffed into you. You’re having trouble concentrating on his words, every word and movement and thrust from him melting your brain just a little bit more.
“Hiding it is futile,” Sukuna purrs. Even his face is becoming flushed now, a certain romantic intoxication glimmering in his eyes. His tongue darts out to lick one of the salty tears slipping down your cheek. “You were born to be my personal cocksleeve. This slutty pussy was made to be broken by me.”
Oh, god. The more he speaks and the more he moves, the more pliant your body becomes. It's like your body comes alive just for him. He's so hot and deep inside you, monstrous form crushing your soft body with his enormous weight. He's holding you down so forcefully with the kind of unwavering strength that's impossible to escape from. You're too delirious to think, too aroused to care about pointless things like shame and dignity anymore.
“Please, oh god, please, Sukuna,” you beg. “I need to cum. I've never felt this good before. Please let me cum!”
“Ha.” Sweat drips down his chest, glistening across his muscular abdomen. His black wings flutter above you, the only sign that he's close. He knows you're desperate, which only makes him want to bully you more. “Say you'll never be able to get off without demon again.”
“I'll never be able to get off without demon cock again!” you cry, babbling anything to please him. “You're stretching me out so much! I love it! I love your cocks! I—”
Sukuna kisses you fiercely, his tongue curling around yours. His wings envelope your whole body, the tongue from his stomach-mouth darting out to flick your clit. You orgasms bolt through your entire body like rocket fire, waves of electricity coursing through you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, toes curling as you feel his hot, thick semen shooting deep inside your holes. He groans into your mouth as he cums, wings tightening and cocks pulsing as your walls squeeze out every last drop. You both go completely slack, bodies twitching with the aftershocks as you both take a second to recover. You whimper as Sukuna slowly pulls out of you and moves back, spreading your legs apart to watch his cum and your juices leak out of you.
“Don't look,” you mumble, embarrassed but too exhausted to attempt covering yourself with your hands.
Amusement dances in Sukuna's voice. “How can I not look when I've created a masterpiece?”
He watches as it drips onto the carpet for a few moments. You look so beautiful all fucked out and ruined underneath him, flushed and breathless. He lowers himself and lifts your hips once more to bury his face between your thighs, cleaning you up with his dastardly tongue.
You squeal and try to push him away, your thighs reflexively squeezing around his head as you feels his tongue slipping inside. “Wait—Slow down! I just—I just came! Oh—”
You toss your head back as you feel tingling waves of pleasure wash over you with every stroke of his tongue against you, darting in and out, curling around yours and his mingled release, swallowing it down. You writhe around in his vicious hold, his hands gripping your ass and forcing you closer to his mouth. Your squirming causes your hips to rock into his face, your clit rubbing against his nose as he eats you out. You grip his pink hair helplessly, whimpering and moaning, “Su…kuna…Oh! ‘Kuna…”
Sukuna moves his mouth upwards to circle his tongue around your clit, lips wrapping around the sensitive bud and suck gently. Your vision whites out, back arching off the floor as pain and pleasure intermingles into a surge of euphoria sparking through your body like lightning. Your walls clench and pulsate around his sinful tongue, clear fluid squirting onto Sukuna’s face. He laps it up like a starved dog, raising his head to look up at you with those sultry red eyes as he slowly licks his lips.
You can hardly speak, your chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath. Your face and body are flushed, strands of your hair sticking to your forehead from the sweat. Sukuna rises to loom over you, lifting you up into a princess carry with his four arms. He cradles you close, a stark contrast to his earlier aggression. Exhausted, you sink into his chest, your pussy still throbbing from the aftershocks of your activities with him.
He carries you to the bathroom and turns on the water, waiting for the tub to fill. He sets you down gently into the bath and carefully washes your body with steady hands. You thought this would be a one-and-done type of situation, where he’d finish his business and leave. You hadn’t expected him to stick around like this, hadn’t expected him to caress your skin with weighty hands and a steady gaze.
He dries your body with one of your towels and places you on your bed before leaving the room. You hear the sound of the shower being turned on. You listen to the distant sound, white noise gently coaxing your senses back to you. Your body and mind feel like putty, as if you’ve been massaged and molded into relaxed oblivion. You couldn’t muster the energy to tense your muscles even if you tried.
Sukuna enters your bedroom with a towel slung low on his hips. With his height, he has to duck to enter through the doorway. ⭐️ You watch as he strides over to you, your gaze drifting over the black markings on his body with silent admiration. He comes to a stop beside where you’re laying on the bed, the markings between his Adonis belt within your line of sight. You tilt your head up to glance at his face. His lips are curled into a slight frown, his brows curved into annoyance, but there’s a softness in his eyes you wouldn’t have expected.
“Move,” he commands.
You scoot to the other side of the bed to make room for him. He drops the towel from his waist and lies down beside you, roughly dragging you into his arms to lay with your stomach on his on his chest. He holds you tightly, body heat enveloping you whole. The size difference between his body and yours is even more pronounced like this, his four arms covering your back completely.
“Um…” Your voice comes out smaller than expected. You wince at how meek you sound. “Sukuna?”
“What?” You can feel the rumble of his voice through his chest, and though you can’t see it, you can hear the smirk in his voice. “Still feeling shy?”
You clear your throat awkwardly, your face turning red. “I was just wondering…I mean…”
Words fail you as you attempt to formulate the question on your mind.
Sukuna exhales through his nose with amusement and cups the back of your head with one large hand.
“You’re mine now. Don’t even think about going to anyone else.” He pets your hair and presses your face into his chest. “Rest now. The details will be dealt with later.”
You close your eyes and snuggle closer to him, content with staying in his arms for a while longer. Sukuna doesn’t speak anymore. He simply holds you, massaging your back gently while you fall asleep to the sound of his breath and steady heartbeat.
✧ warnings: BIG misunderstandings and angst, hurt with comfort (for one at least), self-doubt, a kind of paranoia, crying, fem reader implied, male pov
a/n: BOOM. I'm back after forever with another part guys.
part 1 part 2 part 3
Hayden stilled as he saw you run into the arms of the last person he wanted to see. His personal rival (one-sided), and now the bane of his existence: Jacob. The paper wrapping the bouquet of flowers in his hand crunched as he gripped it tighter, a single flower falling to the pavement.
Where had he gone wrong? Everything was fine in the beginning when you were sitting next to each other in chemistry, your banter was the highlight of his day, and when he had managed to get your number, he was over the moon! From what he knew, you had no boyfriend and honestly, as much as it surprised him, he was glad that he had a shot at someone so kind and in his eyes, perfect.
A FEW MONTHS EARLIER
After weeks of your usual chats and calls over the phone, he built up the courage to ask you out. Nothing too complicated, just a hangout at a cafe he knew you liked. He rewrote the question a few times until it seemed casual enough to send without coming off too eager.
'do u want to hang out at the cafe today? we can get some lab homework done'
A few seconds passed once the message showed a small read next to it and he started to stress. Was it too soon? Did you not like him that way at all? Had he been misreading the signs all along? His mind grasped for anything to make his previous message better, who was that girl you always hung out with? Uhh, oh right, Lindsay! Trying to salvage what he thought was a failed attempt, he sent a quick second text.
'bring Lindsay'
That message was read as well, and after a few moments he received a 'sure'. He pumped his hand in victory, sure it wasn't a date but it was a start.
He took his time getting ready, wearing the shirt you had complimented once and paying extra attention to his hair, making sure it fell perfectly in front of his forehead. After a long look in the mirror, he decided that he was up to par, grabbing his keys and heading to the cafe.
One the way there he noticed a familiar brown headed girl walking along the street, typing away at her phone. He rolled down his window and sloweed down.
"Hey, Lindsay!"
She looked up at the sound of the noise, and as her eyes landed on his car, then him, she grinned.
"Well if it isn't Romeo" she said in a teasing manner.
Hayden's eyes widened, and he smiled awkwardly, "You want a ride? It's kind of cold today."
She nodded, running over to the passenger side and hopping in. Hayden turned to her slightly as he started driving again, unsure on how to proceed.
"So, (y/n)"
"So (y/n)" she replied back, an eyebrow raised.
Hayden took a breath and decided to tell her everything, how he was developing a crush on (y/n) and how he had only invited Lindsay because he was nervous that she didn't want to be alone with him.
Once he finished his nervous ramblings, he realized that they were already at the cafe. Next to him, Lindsay broke in boisterous laughter.
"Are you serious! Man, you didn't have to invite me for something like that"
"It's just that I don't want her to feel uncomfortable around me! Maybe because shes already comfortable around you, she'll get used to being alone with me too. I dunno," Hayden said, face red with embarrassment.
Lindsay smiled knowingly, "Ok, I see you want to get her to like you or something weird like that. You don't seem too bad, sooo," She trailed off, "I'll help."
Just like that, they were sitting in the cafe with their notes out to seem like they were actually studying instead of hatching a plan to get a girl. Hayden had brought a drink for himself, a Carmel latte, as well as a drink for (y/n), a pumpkin chai, something he knew she loved.
With everything perfect, he continued to chat with Lindsay, getting to know more about you from her strange stories. Just then, a voice startled him and Lindsay,
"Hey, guys! When did you get here?"
You stood at their table, looking as adorable as ever, an eyebrow raised. Shit, had you heard them talking?
"Oh, hey (y/n)!" Hayden said, trying to sound normal. He scooted over a little, almost to signal that you could sit beside him. However, you sat on the chair opposite to him instead, and he felt a twinge of embarrassment. That's fine! He had the rest of the evening with you.
For the rest of the hangout, you acted a little distant, not touching the drink he had bought for you, instead going to the counter to get your own. He was confused; did he not get the right drink? But when you came back, pumpkin chai in hand, his heart sank a little. Maybe you just didn't want something from him.
At the end of the hangout he stopped you, maybe this could be his chance to talk with you one on one! But as you politely rejected his offer to give you a ride, suggesting instead that he should drive Lindsay, his eyebrows furrowed. Why were you being so insitant?
Before he could say anything else, you wished him a good night and zoomed back towards where you had come from, leaving him speechless. What had just happened?
That night was only the beginning. Hayden thought he was right in asking Lindsay to come to the cafe with them, after all, you looked somewhat uncomfortable during the entire ordeal. So, in an act that Hayden thought would help you warm up to him at hangouts, he started inviting Lindsay. Whenever you and he were alone, and he could feel you getting nervous, he called Lindsay in to lighten the mood, much to her chagrin.
But slowly, he could feel you pulling away from him. You stopped coming to hangouts with Lindsay and him, then hangouts with him. Over text, you became colder and more curt, refusing any calls with the excuse that you were busy.
Hayden was confused and hurt. Did you really not like him that much? He swears he could remember your soft laugh as you make fun of his stupid jokes in chemistry, teasingly pushing him. He missed that laugh, he missed how your knees and hands would brush against each other, he missed the smell of your sweet shampoo, he missed YOU.
Then the last lifeline he was desperately trying to hold onto finally broke. After class one day, he offered to walk you to your next class like he usually did, excited to have some more time with you. But as he sped to match your pace, expecting your usual nod, you looked at him.
Finally! You were looking at him again.
"I've been thinking... I think it's best I walk alone to class"
Oh.
Hayden opened his mouth to say something, anything, to tell you that he barely had anything left when it came to you. To let him have this one thing. But as he saw the pleading look in your eyes, he looked down and then up at you, swallowing his protests.
"ok"
Hayden decided that if he looked at your face anymore, he might grab you and not let you go till you changed your mind, so he gave you a small nod. Then walked in the opposite direction.
Everything was going wrong. This was not how things should have been progressing between you two. But it wasn't over, not for him, he knew you had something between you two, and he was just stupid and stubborn enough to make you see it. So as the week came to an end, and Lindsay, who graciously offered him a ticket to the game you were going to, made up his mind.
No no no no no no no. This was not how it was supposed to go. He thought the cramped stadium seats would let him have a few moments with you, maybe sharing popcorn, or even a few stolen glances. But now a boy, seemingly one you already knew, had gotten your number, and he couldn't stop seething. How did you even know him?
That was only the start of the nightmare for him. You started to hang out with the boy, too, talking about him all the time. Jacob this, Jacob that, and all of a sudden, Hayden wasn't so sure of your connection anymore. He tried to make another plan with Lindsay, but all the girl could say was that he should try hanging out with (y/n) one on one. That she'd cancel when she had to, to make it happen.
And finally, brought to a breaking point, he decided that he needed to make a far more drastic step. A confession.
He had planned everything out, the flowers, the time, the clothes he would wear. But once you both got to the cafe you decided on, his mind tugged at his train of thought; he was missing something. The necklace he had gotten you! He quickly asked Lindsay to get it for him through text, alternating between the phone and you. He noticed you smile slipping a bit and winced, he wasn't trying to ignore you!
But as Lindsay walked in, and sat down next to him, he could see you deflate and retreat back into whatever persona you assumed around the pair of them. He quickly whispered to Lindsay to leave and she hissed a quip back that caught him off guard, and with a chuckle reached for the flowers for you.
As soon as Lindsay left he could finally profess the deep feelings he had developed for you, he had practiced the confession for hours in his room until it was as easy as breathing. But before he could bring the bouquet above the table, your eyes zeroed in on it, then Lindsay.
Quickly, you got up and started to pack your things in a furious rage.
Hayden shot up, "Why are you packing up?"
You glared up at him, "Listen, Hayden I know that you and Lindsay have something going on-"
His blood ran cold. Did you think he was doing all this for Lindsay? Oh no, and only take the flowers out when she was here... Shit. He had to fix this. He interrupted you, "Wait, hear me-"
And in return, you interrupted him back, "I don't care if you tell me or not, but stop using me as the middle man. Especially since I've liked you for a while."
With that, you shot out of the store, forgetting your jacket.
Hayden grabbed it and the flowers with haste and ran after you like it was second nature, 'You liked him? Maybe he had been an idiot so far but he could fix this! He had to.'
But as he turned a corner, following the flash of colors he thought to be you, he saw a sight that knocked the wind out of his lungs.
