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capricornlevi · 9 months ago

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nanami x reader - w.c 3k, marraige of convenience, mentions of societal pressure but everything is consensual!, nsfw, mdni!

without even meeting him, you agreed to marry nanami kento without any expectations of future love, romantic or otherwise.

the pairing is advantageous for the both of you; you get access to the impressive nanami family fortune that has grown substantially now that kento is managing it, while he gets to enjoy a close association with your prestigious family and the subsequent educational opportunities that your children will benefit from. it's sensible and by far the best option you'd been presented with.

you've exchanged letters with him, polite and concise. you can read between the lines and see that he shares a disillusioned view of jujutsu society, but is more than willing to step up for the good of his family.

you weren't coerced by anyone. far from it -- your mother and father had sat you down and asked if you were sure, that they would understand if you wanted to take more time or to choose a different path for yourself altogether.

but you know the rest of society would not be so kind or understanding. marriage between two sorcerers, as antiquated as it seems, is how you survive amongst all of these competitive, power-hungry families.

from what you've read and heard about him, nanami will provide stability. he's progressive in his thinking, and so wont expect anything from you that he wouldn't be willing to do as well. you've learned that he's a teacher at tokyo tech, and has received glowing reviews; he'll be a good father.

and so on this misty thursday morning, you lay eyes on your fiancé for the first time as he slips a ring on your finger and promises to stay by your side forever.

the ceremony is as bare-bones as your reputation will allow. the guest list doesn't hit the triple digits, a huge departure from society norms, but representatives from the major houses sit in floral-clad wooden chairs to watch you repeat the words that the officiant speaks in your direction.

nanami takes your hands in his. they're warm, which is nice. this dress isn't designed for November weather, but it's an heirloom -- and truthfully, you're glad to be wearing it. you'd never given much thought to a wedding, but it makes your mother and grandmother very happy.

you'd be lying if you said you weren't relieved to discover how handsome nanami is. you were previously shown a few polaroids of him -- staff pictures, mostly, but some with the rest of his family -- and had known he wasn't bad-looking, but the pictures weren't clear enough to give you a proper understanding of his looks.

his blond hair is styled neatly, not a hair out of place. he has nice features, strong jawline and cheekbones, and soft eyes, a good combination. you know his gaze can be piercing when he wants it to be, but now, he looks at you gently.

you know you made the right decision.

more vows, a kiss, and you're married.

___

the reception goes mercifully smoothly. the mix of guests -- powerful sorcerer family heads, rich businesspeople, and just a few of your personal friends -- didn't appear to gel too well on paper, but they mostly stick to their own factions. you greet them all until your vocal cords grow tired.

a meal is served on plates so ornate it makes you feel awkward eating off them. you nurse a glass of wine for most of the evening and nanami does the same, politely waving off the servers who approach to refill his glass.

a promising sign that he doesn't feel the need to drown his sorrows. this is a marriage of convenience, yes, but you'd like to be able to get along reasonably well with your spouse.

and, to his credit, he's been making light conversation with you all evening. he doesn't dip into deep or uncomfortable topics like your marriage or future plans, figuring that's best saved for later, but he asks you questions about yourself. by the end of the evening, you feel safe enough to allude to your desire for a future somewhat outside society's norms -- "I've always wanted to travel, honestly. maybe ... spend a few years abroad" -- and, to your pleasant surprise, he doesn't rebuff them. if anything, he seems somewhat pleased.

you have another glass of wine and before you know it, it's the early hours of the morning. you're nowhere near tipsy but feel ready for bed, ready to wipe off this makeup and slip into something more comfortable; thankfully, guests have started to slip out one by one, with only immediate family remaining.

your unpleasant and friendless older cousin makes a joke about you needing to say your goodbyes to 'go please your husband', and nanami's face sours for the first time all evening. your cousin notices and sheepishly takes a drink, mumbling something about it being his time to leave too.

with some final hugs to your respective families, it's time to leave with ...

... with your husband.

in his last letter before the wedding, nanami agreed that your city-centre apartment would be the best place to live in the first few weeks of your marriage, until you find somewhere more permanent that suits you both, and so that's where you go.

you show him around each room, including some storage space where his luggage had been delivered this morning. interspersed with some more small talk, you explain that although it's small, it's well placed for both of you to get to work. he smiles and nods, thanking you with a warmth that doesn't feel forced.

you offer him some tea or whiskey; he says he's fine.

you yawn. he loosens his tie, clearly exhausted himself.

the last room you show him is your bedroom, and it becomes harder and harder not to address the elephant in the room. there's very clearly no second bed, no room for him to stay that wouldn't necessitate a lot of closeness between the two of you.

the silence hangs heavy and loaded, both of you waiting for the other to speak.

well. this is one issue you hadn't covered before the ceremony.

you have no issue with a sexual relationship -- in fact, you're somewhat looking forward to it, having spent the evening admiring the way nanami's shirt hugs his strong arms and chest. but you're not sure if tonight, the first night you've ever met, is the best night to start.

sure, the concept of the wedding night speaks for itself, but it's not as black-and-white in your situation. he might want to spend some time settling in, first. he might not even be that interested in you.

"want me to take the couch?" he asks quietly, with no hint of resentment or offence in his voice. he makes the offer with a sincerity you haven't heard from a man in a long time.

you don't break your silence, but not because you're uncomfortable or anything of the sort -- you're just assessing your options.

"there's nothing i expect from you, just so you know," he continues, and you turn your head to face him, seeing his eyes scan your face for any sign of unease. "the last thing i want is for you to do ... this ... out of obligation or pressure. we have a lifetime to get to know each other, to reach that point -- i want you to be comfortable around me."

your upbringing has made you a sceptic, a pessimist at times, but for some reason, you believe him. maybe it's the look in his eyes, or the fact that he's taken your hand in his own, interlocking your fingers, but there's something about him that sets him aside from normal sorcerers.

he seems real. he seems as though, powers and fortunes and family names aside, he has some substance about him.

"do you want to?" you ask then, voice almost inaudible quiet from a day spent conversing with guests at your wedding.

he doesn't hear you, so he dips his head in your direction; you repeat yourself and wait, hoping you hadn't pressed the issue.

his composure doesn't crack, but something flashes in his eyes as he processes your question. he has such control over the movements of his features, over every expression in his body, except for his eyes, you think.

maybe you just happen to be good at reading him.

he mulls it over for a second, his grip on your hand never slacking.

"i want to," he finally admits. "i've wanted to for a while, truthfully. I've spent a lot of late nights picturing how it would feel to be inside you, to hear what my name sounds like when you say it. but i only want that if you want it too."

you smile without meaning to. "you imagined that from just reading a few letters?"

"yes, and it's a testament to my trust in my new wife that I'm telling you that," he replies, still polite but tinged with amusement.

it feels strange standing at your bedroom doorway, hand in hand with this almost-stranger, imagining what it would be like to indulge in these thoughts you've both been having, spending your first night together tangled up in the sheets and allowing some of the indulgence you've long denied yourself.

duty gets tiring. for a long time, you've been unsure what it feels like to genuinely want something.

now, you're pretty sure it feels something like this. it's organic and unforced, a natural desire that sends heat curling in the pit of your stomach.

wordlessly, you guide nanami into your room, closing the door behind you. there's a hint of a smile on his lips as you ask him for help to untie your wedding dress, the intricate pattern of buttons trailing up your spine proving too technical for your own hands. he's methodical in his work, careful to not damage the delicate clasps.

soon your dress is loose around your hips, your chest covered by the thin slip you wore underneath. you set the garment carefully aside before returning the favour and starting to undo nanami's shirt, avoiding eye contact as your hands expose more and more of his bare chest.

you want to do this, you know that for sure, but that doesn't mean you won't feel a bit of awkwardness at the start. you're not well practiced, having had too busy a life for romantic relationships until now. you hope that instinct will kick in sooner than later, but you've no doubt nanami will help you along the way.

when you finally build up the nerve to glance up at him as he shrugs off the shirt, he's looking at you as though you're the only person he ever wants touching him.

you hear the soft clink of metal and realise he's undoing his belt.

"are you sure?" he asks one more time.

that one question, and the earnestness with which he speaks, erases the last shred of doubt you had. you place your trust in him for the second time today.

you nod and reach across to his belt in the same breath, helping him pull it free from the loops to be tossed by the armchair near your desk.

you move as though controlled by something other than yourself, the decisions coming so naturally it feels as though you've been imagining it for weeks as well.

and maybe you have, you think to yourself, as you confidently guide him back slowly until he's sitting down on the plush armchair, his suit pants still on as you crawl onto his lap, pressing your chest against his. the thin fabric of your slip means you can feel the heat of his body against your skin, nipples hardening as they graze against his muscles.

you've just about balanced yourself, carefully perched on his lap when you feel his hand on the nape of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss that has you grinding against his thighs before you can even catch your breath.

you've never been kissed like this. the few kisses you've had before have been with partners who see you as a means to an end, be it for your family name, your reputation, or just for sex. you've never been kissed by someone who seems to get more from your pleasure than from his own.

you now know he meant it when he said he's been picturing this.

you kiss him for as long as you can, and you're not sure if it's for seconds, minutes, hours. you kiss him until there's a heat burning between your thighs you can no longer stand, that you need to have satiated by the visible, prominent bulge in the front of his suit pants.

when you finally break away, lips numb and kiss-slick, nanami's hair is touselled - you don't remember running your hands through them, but you must have at some point - and he reaches up to run his fingers under the straps of your slip, asking with his eyes if he can guide them off your shoulders.

you nod, and your chest is exposed to the cool night air for a split second before nanami's mouth is on one of your nipples, tongue circling the sensitive skin and making you cry out.

one of the words you moan must be his name, because you feel him smile as he turns his attention towards the other nipple, hands now at the small of your back to keep you close to him.

you can't take it much longer. you need to be touched so badly, you didn't even think you were capable of wanting it this much -- and you only want him to do it, now and maybe forever.

maybe he can read your mind or maybe you babbled out the request, but nanami finally takes pity on you, giving your nipple one final lick before resting his shoulders back against the cushion of the armrest and sliding his hands up your thighs, hooking your underwear with his fingers -- you lift your hips up to let him slip them off.

his composure slips further when he finally touches you between your legs, feeling how wet you've gotten for him, seeing how you react when he slips his index finger inside.

your head falls back and you hold a breath, focusing all of your attention on the sensation of him inside you, on the way he curls the digit ever-so-slightly before pulling it out and fucking you with two this time, almost -- almost -- tipping you over the edge.

"such a pretty wife," he mumbles almost under his breath, voice and gaze reverent as he watches you rock yourself against his hand. "my beautiful, perfect wife, aren't you?"

you want to answer him but can't, lungs feeling near-empty as you fumble with the buttons of his pants.

"i will never be able to think of anything else but you, i think," he muses, half-smiling. "you in my lap ... you making those pretty little noises ... i might be a ruined man, you know. and I'm glad of it."

he only stops speaking when you finally get your hand on his clothed cock, his breath catching in his throat as you trace it with your fingers.

you want tonight, the first of many times together, to start with you cumming on your husband's cock.

nanami just watches as you finally pull him out of his underwear, his length thick and hard in your hand as you give it a few messy strokes. it's all the both of you can manage before you need to have it inside you -- you shift your hips to sit on it, nanami's eyes fixed on the site of the head slipping inside.

it's a stretch, as you expected, but one you've been craving since you closed the bedroom door. you take him inch by inch, lowering yourself down as his breath quickens, clearly battling the urge to thrust up inside you.

but he's careful with you, and doesn't want to hurt you. his wife.

you lift yourself up too much and his cock slips out, slapping aginst his stomach and you nearly cry at the sudden emptiness, eager and clumsy as you guide him back inside you.

he kisses you when you sink down next, tongue massaging your own until the feeling of almost-too-full turns to a perfect, satisfying heat in your core.

eventually you're ready to quicken the pace, bouncing on his cock before long, your mind working too fast for you to keep up as you see nanami's cheekbones flush pink, his pupils dark as you ride him until your thighs ache.

you power through the sensation, nanami helping you along by meeting your hips with his, his thumb tracing uneven circles on your puffy clit. he calls you perfect and other beautiful words; you don't say anything besides more, more and, soon after, nearly there, nearly there, please, please, I'm so close --

your entire body lights up with the most wonderful sensation, hitting you like a wave and sweeping you away in its warm glow, with nanami's hands now on your hips, guiding your movements in exactly the way you need it -- not too hard, not too slow, not too fast.

you're still pulsing around him when you feel his body stiffen, his strong thighs tensing as he groans through gritted teeth. he pulls you in for a crushing kiss as he finishes, filling you up and thrusting as deep as he can until oversensitivity takes over.

the afterglow has you a contented and exhausted mess, muscles aching but satisfied in a way you'll spend forever seeking.

reluctantly, you slip off his cock to retake your place on his lap, marvelling at how undone you both have become, a far cry from your perfect wedding appearance.

you look perfect to him, though, you know as much from the kiss he presses to your sweaty forehead and the way his arm wraps around your shoulders.

"we didn't even make it to the bed," you observe, eyebrows raising as you finally return to your own body. "i ... wasn't expecting that."

"we have a lifetime to spend in bed," he replies, a smile in his voice.

and once again, for reasons you still don't understand, you believe him.

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami x you #need him so bad it makes me look silly #may tries to write #nanami x y/n #nanami kento x y/n #nanami kento smut #nanami kento fluff #nanami smut #nanami fluff #nanami kento x you #nanami fic #nanami fanfic #nanami x fem!reader #marriage of convenience #husband nanami

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accessiblemindstech · 1 year ago

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cuppajj · 2 months ago

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Celestial Kingdom Energy Department notes on “The Sarcophagus” - written at behest of Her Unconquerable Celestial Cheese Cookie and approved by Lead Supervisor Goggles Cheesebird

The energy cell is, as designed, a containment device built-to-request for the spoil - identified as client [READ: Unknown Origin - under review by Chronicler] retrieved by the Queen. Its purpose is to serve as a primary energy distribution and conservation chamber for the continued efforts of Kingdom Restoration and Revitalization, linked to [citation needed] sectors AA, AB and AC of the kingdom’s grid. The energy cell is comprised of an outer shell to which the External Links from the processing facility are connected, as well as the machinations for diagnostics and wellness. The front hatch folds back to reveal the inner chamber where the spoil is housed.

The Soul Jam identical to Her Radiance is stored in the inner chamber. Subject (ID:) “Burning Spice Cookie”, currently in possession of the artifact, is subdued and preserved along with it. Ample care is required to uphold the stability of the contents of The Sarcophagus, therefore, as the Soul Jam’s unintelligible power must be siphoned and processed evenly to ensure equal energy distribution. As the host of the outlier Soul Jam has access to this power, procedures have been established to keep it in a state of stability. Currently the subject is in continuous stasis, with wellness diagnostics run once per day to monitor its function. Motion and sound are absent. Subject is in good health [visible aberration has been ruled correlative to procedure] and remains cooperative. (ADDENDUM: recent conscience tests uncovered a change in behavior: while the body is dormant, the mind fluctuates between varying degrees of awareness. Further research by Her Radiance is being conducted.) When running diagnostics, the inner chamber is exposed and lowered to a more accessible position. At all other times the inner chamber is concealed by the external shell.

Additional Notes:

Her Unconquerable has separated research on “Burning Spice Cookie” from the Soul Jam itself. For future reference, matters of the Soul Jam are under jurisdiction of the Energy Department, while anything regarding its host is reserved for the Queen herself. Wellness diagnostics are to ensure the Soul Jam remains in a stable medium. Additionally, information regarding the acquisition of the Soul Jam and its medium are to be kept classified. [Please remain aware of the aforementioned visible aberration (needs citation) present on the subject’s right arm; its magic does not seem to respond to the energy cell’s mechanics. Research will be conducted if requested.]

Please alert Her Radiance of any changes in the subject’s behavior. Ignore deviations when she is present. Soul Jam research will be forwarded to her as well. Once the medium is no longer deemed valuable, please separate it from the Soul Jam. [Estimated time until then is uncertain - retain this information regardless.]

Consult Maintenance if distribution affects the servers.

Written and signed: Energy Department Review Team

#beast ancients au #celestial cheese cookie #golden cheese cookie #burning spice cookie #crk au #crk #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #crk oc #bc a cheesebird counts #cjj arts #it’s rlly hard to write in a professional sounding way #the amount of times i looked at thesaurus dot com was embarrassing LMAO #but anyway lore lore lore #i’ve been looking forward to getting to this!!#baau cheese saga

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

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Formidable

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Andrea Stella figures out that Felicity Piastri is more than “just” Oscar’s wife.

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble and checks my science-y mumbo jumbo 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

It started the way most breakthroughs did—not with a groundbreaking discovery, but with a tired engineer holding a half-wrinkled printout and a hopeful expression.

“Boss,” James said, hovering just inside the doorway of Andrea’s office. “I think you should read this.”

Andrea looked up from his laptop. “If it’s another CFD model from that Reddit forum, I swear—”

“It’s not. It’s from a paper. Academic. Legit. Published in Race Systems & Applied Motion last month.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow. “Obscure.”

“Very. It has like 20 readers,” the engineer agreed. “But I think it’s real. It’s clean. It’s sharp. It’s…” He hesitated. “We might want to test it.”

That got Andrea’s attention.

He took the paper and began to skim.

Title: Redefining Compliance: Adaptive Suspension Geometry Under Load-Sensitive Parameters for Mid-Field Chassis Configurations.

Andrea kept reading. It was dense—academic, yes—but it was also practical. It spoke the language of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. There were no ego traps. No unnecessary complexity. Just hard math and hard-earned insight.

Andrea flipped the page. Then another. His eyes caught a note referencing flex dynamics in chassis response curves and passive recovery lag.

It was correct. More than correct. It was insightful.

The author wasn’t spitballing ideas from afar—this was the work of someone who had lived in the theory and understood the application. Who referenced real-world tolerances. Racing examples. The math was sound. The diagrams were better than half the ones their CFD team managed.

Andrea flipped back to the byline.

Dr. F. Piastri.

Piastri.

James grinned. “Fun coincidence in the name, right? He’s smart.”

Andrea didn’t correct him.

Because yes—coincidence. Probably. But something about it stuck in his brain, like a whisper he couldn’t quite place.

He read the essay in full that night—twice. It was elegant, sharp, and frustratingly precise in the way only truly experienced voices ever were. The type of clarity that came from years of not just understanding a concept, but translating it into reality.

The next morning, Andrea sent out an internal email.

Subject: Additional Works by Dr. F. Piastri If anyone has access to prior publications by this author, please forward them to me.

By the end of the week, his inbox was full.

One essay became three. Three became eleven. Eleven became twenty.

Each one published under the name F.Piastri, buried in obscure journals and small-circulation engineering reviews that didn’t get traffic unless someone was either deeply curious or incredibly desperate.

Andrea was both.

Each article was smarter than the last—strange, elegant engineering thought-pieces published across the most obscure academic mechanical journals Andrea had ever encountered. Niche ones. The kind that only the most obsessive minds contributed to, with names like Thermoelasticity in Microstructured Materials and Lateral Load Adaptation Quarterly.

F.Piastri had written:

An article about Load-dependent understeer in transitional corners (with math that Andrea double-checked twice because it was too clean).

A 2019 think-piece on long-run stability under thermal degradation.

An essay about Aerodynamic oscillation buffering for short-track endurance vehicles.

An article about the economic viability of 3D printed carbon struts under rotational shear (he actually flagged that one for McLaren Applied).

A thesis that corrected a widely accepted torque model—buried in a conference archive.

A published rebuttal in Journal of Vehicle Design so politely worded it read like a love letter—until you realized she’d rewritten the reviewer’s assumptions line by line.

There was even one article on fluid dynamics that had been cited in a grad-level textbook from ETH Zurich.

Andrea devoured them all.

He—She?—wrote like someone who saw the car before it was built. Who understood not just how suspension worked, but how it felt. How energy passed through a chassis not as force but as intent.

The writing style was sharp. Practical. Absolutely ruthless in its logic. There was clarity there—an elegance—that reminded him of only a few people he’d ever worked with.

It was revolutionary. It was poetic.

By the time he tracked down the doctoral thesis from Oxford, Andrea wasn’t breathing properly.

Reinforcement Through Flexibility: Dynamic Adaptation in Composite- Structured Performance Environments.

By: F. Piastri.

Submitted: December 2022

Andrea stared at the name.

F. Piastri.

He stared for so long his tea went cold beside him.

His hands were shaking—not because of nerves, but because he already knew.

He opened the PDF. Skimmed past the table of contents. Scrolled through diagrams that made his heart stutter.

There was no photo. No biographical section. Just a clean Oxford University seal, 284 pages of dense, brilliant theory, and then—

A dedication.

To Oscar: For believing in a future that didn’t exist yet, and building it with me anyway. Every lap, every choice, every time—you’ve been my constant.

And to Bee: For reminding me that softness and strength aren’t opposites. You are the best thing I’ve ever helped create.

Andrea sat back in his chair like he’d been physically shoved.

Bee.

Oscar.

F. Piastri.

Felicity Piastri.

Felicity.

Oscar’s wife.

Dr. F. Piastri wasn’t some reclusive academic or distant uncle with a gift for simulation modeling.

She lived in Oscar’s house.

She packed his lunchbox.

She raised their daughter.

And she had published papers on suspension theory that half of F1 would kill to understand. Quietly. Efficiently. Correctly.

Andrea leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling for a long moment, and whispered:

“…Of course it’s his wife.”

Of course the quiet, composed driver who rarely raised his voice and always had one hand on the bigger picture had married someone brilliant. Of course she wasn’t just talented—she was a published expert with a doctorate from Oxford.

Not a coincidence.

Not a mystery engineer.

Not some guy.

But Oscar’s wife.

Oscar Piastri—quiet, methodical Oscar—had married a genius.

A doctor of mechanical engineering from Oxford who wrote better technical documentation in a margin note than most engineers did in a year. Who published under initials. Who could probably solve half their handling inconsistencies while holding a toddler on her hip.

Andrea sat in silence for a full minute.

Then he exhaled. “...of course he did.”

He opened a new tab.

Email draft:

To: Technical Team

Subject: URGENT – Reference Reading Required Attached: Every single thing Dr. F. Piastri had ever published.

***

The meeting was meant to be quick.

Just a routine Monday touchpoint—debrief, run through media notes with Sophie, talk sponsor appearances, maybe discuss Oscar’s upcoming comms obligations.

Zak had rolled in with a protein shake.

Lando was lounging sideways in a chair like he’d melted into it.

Oscar had a protein bar and an expression of polite mildness, as usual.

Andrea, meanwhile, had not slept.

Not because of the race.

Because he’d spent the entire weekend reading Dr. Felicity Piastri’s entire body of work. Every published paper. Every obscenely niche journal article.

And her doctoral thesis.

He hadn’t meant to do it all in one sitting. He just couldn’t stop.

By 2 a.m. he was muttering things like “Of course she used Euler-Bernoulli assumptions, she’s too smart for non-parametric bullshit.”

By 4 a.m., he’d highlighted her proposed solution to dampen micro-vibration load in corner exits.

By 6 a.m., he had a headache, an existential crisis, and a desperate need to know: Why had Oscar Piastri never mentioned this?!

So at the end of the meeting—just as Sophie was wrapping up and Lando was aimlessly spinning a pen like a propeller—Andrea set down a file on the table.

Calmly. Casually. Like he hadn’t just had his entire mechanical worldview rattled by a woman who wasn’t even on the payroll.

“Oscar,” Andrea said, voice deceptively neutral. “Why didn’t you ever mention that your wife holds a doctorate in mechanical engineering?”

Oscar, halfway through eating his protein bar, blinked. “What?”

Andrea gestured vaguely, as if the thesis were still radiating brilliance from his desk. “Felicity. Doctorate. Thesis. Dozens of published papers. Half of them useful to our current car design issues. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Oscar blinked once. “Oh. Yeah. She gets bored sometimes.”

Andrea blinked back.

Lando stared like he’d been smacked with a front wing. “Wait—she got a doctorate?!”

Oscar nodded, chewing. “Yeah. Finished it in 2022. She was stuck in that horrible flat in Enstone while I was back and forth with Alpine, and she got bored. Wrote most of it at the kitchen table while Bee napped.”

Andrea just… stared.

He had read the thesis. Studied it. The mathematical modeling alone had kept him awake at night—and she had apparently written it during toddler nap times, while stuck in a damp shoebox flat in Oxfordshire.

Zak looked up slowly from his tablet. “Your wife was bored. So she got a PhD in mechanical engineering.”

Oscar shrugged. “She already had the research mostly done before Bee was even born in 2020. She just had to write it up. Bee was napping a lot anyway.”

Sophie blinked. “She wrote a 200-page dissertation with a toddler in the house?”

Oscar just shrugged. “It helped that Bee liked the sound of the keyboard.”

Andrea turned to Zak, still stunned. “She predicted the kind of high-frequency oscillation we’re seeing this season. Two years ago. In a footnote.”

Lando leaned forward like he was watching a live feed of someone discovering aliens. “She’s just, like, a genius?” he asked, voice too loud, too incredulous. “And you never brought it up?”

Oscar just sighed. “She hates that word.”

Andrea just stared at him. “Oscar, she’s not just good. She’s formidable. Has she ever applied anywhere formally?”

Oscar looked genuinely confused. “Why would she apply anywhere?”

Andrea stared. “To work. In engineering. In motorsport. Academia.”

Oscar blinked. “She does work. She manages our lives, Bee, the house, and the chickens.”

Lando leaned toward Andrea, wide-eyed: “I’ve never felt dumber in my entire life.”

Andrea sighed. “Join the club.”

***

The kitchen smelled like vanilla and wood polish and faintly like chicken coop — which meant Felicity had mopped and baked and wrangled Mansell, the escape artist hen, all while probably rebalancing one of their stock portfolios.

Oscar dropped his bag by the door and leaned against the kitchen entryway.

Felicity was sitting at the table in her old university hoodie, feet bare, Bee curled up under her arm asleep with Button the frog as a pillow. There were spreadsheets open on one side of her laptop screen, a half-watched nature documentary on the other, and one of Bee’s plastic toy bulls standing solemnly in the middle of the table for reasons unknown.

He smiled.

God, he loved her.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Felicity glanced up. “Hey. Dinner’s in the oven. Bee passed out mid-pie crust.”

“Excellent,” Oscar said, dropping into the chair beside her. “Because I need carbs.”

She raised an eyebrow, equal parts amusement and curiosity. “Bad day?”

“No. Just... intellectually humbling.”

Felicity made a low amused noise and went back to her laptop. “Did Lando try to explain crypto again?”

Oscar snorted and reached over to carefully lift Bee into his lap, her curls warm against his hoodie. She barely stirred.

He could have let it sit. Saved it for later. But it was buzzing under his skin.

“Stella read your papers.”

That got her attention.

Felicity paused, her fingers stilled mid-scroll. “Which one?”

“All of them,” Oscar said. “Apparently it started with one of the engineers, who brought an article in from Race Systems & Applied Motion. Then he spiraled.”

“Ah,” Felicity murmured, unsurprised. “That one had a good diagram.”

“He found your thesis,” Oscar added.

This time she didn’t answer right away.

He reached for one of Bee’s crayons and twirled it idly in his fingers, watching her.

“He read the dedication,” he said, voice quieter now.

Felicity’s eyes softened in that way that always undid him a little. Always had.

“Did he say anything?” she asked.

Oscar smiled faintly. “He said you’re formidable.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Felicity laughed—not loud, not startled, just warm and wry and a little disbelieving.

“God help the man,” she said. “He must have hit the rebuttal piece from the Vehicle Design Journal. That one made a few engineers cry.”

Oscar grinned. “Yeah, well. He was halfway to building you a shrine by the end of the meeting. I also told him you got bored in Enstone and wrote your PhD while Bee was napping.”

Felicity gave him a look. “You make it sound like I was scrapbooking.”

“Weren’t you also doing that at the time?”

Felicity blinked. “...Okay, fair.”

Bee stirred slightly in his lap, a tiny sigh escaping her lips as she nuzzled deeper into his hoodie sleeve.

Oscar looked down at her—this tiny human they somehow made and raised—and then back at the woman across the table.

Her hair was messier than usual, strands escaping her braid, and there was a faint flour smudge near her temple. She hadn’t bought herself a new pair of jeans in two years. She sometimes forgot to eat when she was buried in simulations. She once fixed the bathroom plumbing at midnight because she didn’t like how the guy from the hardware store spoke to her.

She was the smartest person he knew.

Oscar knew most people wouldn’t think it when they first met her. She smiled too easily. She didn’t correct anyone. She let others assume things—that she was just the girlfriend, just the wife, just the mother.

But she had a doctorate from Oxford, and more published academic papers than most career professors. She could hold court with race engineers and theoretical physicists in the same breath, then go home and teach Bee how to build a pulley system out of Lego and twine. She spoke in quiet, exact terms, and when she challenged people, she did it so gently they sometimes didn’t notice until it was too late.

He’d long since stopped being surprised by her. He’d just—normalized it. Integrated it. Felicity being a genius was like oxygen to him: invisible, essential, and easy to take for granted until someone else nearly passed out from the realization.

She was just Fliss to him.

The woman who sold her designer bags to pay rent when her family cut her off. The mother of his child. His fiercest critic and his most devoted supporter. The one person he trusted without hesitation.

She didn’t want headlines or praise. She wanted quiet mornings and clever puzzles. She wanted Bee to grow up confident. She wanted Oscar to remember to eat something green.

She was the smartest person he knew — and she hated being called smart. So he didn’t. He just came home.

“He called you formidable,” he repeated. “And I agree. For what it’s worth.”

Felicity smiled then—slow and quiet, the kind that reached all the way to her eyes.

She leaned across the table and kissed his temple. “Thanks,” she said. “But if he asks me to consult, I’m charging him triple.”

Oscar laughed softly and ran a hand through Bee’s curls. “Deal.”

And he meant it. Because maybe it was easy for him to forget sometimes, tucked into the quiet rhythm of their life, that the world hadn’t caught up to how brilliant she was.

But he never stopped being proud of her.

Not for a second.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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kaurwreck · 1 year ago

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I think you're right that it's significant, and I think Mori is clever to recognize that Akutagawa is a rook.

Like a rook, Akutagawa is powerful, but generally contained and often undercut by his predictability. However, because he's keenly aware of his own constraints, and because others often aren't (especially regarding variables they've internalized as known), he's able to play into and against his own predictability to paradoxically surprise them.

He moves within the confines of his rigidity to shape outcomes, sometimes more effectively than his more dynamic opponents and peers. Rooks do that too, if you let them.

Me, knowing nothing about chess, probably overthinking the significance of referencing akutagawa in this scene, but is going to look it up later anyways

#i have very specific chess feelings and thoughts re: rooks (which is what that piece is)#because in elementary school i was in a program for intellectually gifted students - by which i do NOT mean an honors program #i mean i displayed several specific neuro characteristics and struggled in a classroom environment such that i was referred for screening #the results of the screening flagged me for several additional tests and my results on those tests then prompted a comprehensive assessment #which was conducted by a licensed examiner who additionally administered another test chosen specifically based on my prior data #the report from which triggered a review of all of the above data by a panel of specialists who determined that I was wired so atypically #that I required specifically designed support services to avoid an adverse impact my access to education #ie I was not considered academically gifted which is what people are usually thinking of when they talk about giftedness (esp on tumblr)#i prefaced with all of that to counter misconceptions and emphasize that i was not in a program for smart and highly successful students #i was in a program for students with distinct cognitive processing needs that could not be met without specialized intervention #but inanely and entirely b/c of misconceptions the administrators at my school forcibly registered us in an annual chess tournament #which they wouldn't let us opt out of b/c there was a funding incentive for the school if we advanced far enough #ironically chess is a bad fit for this type of giftedness b/c it's rote + relies on bounded conventions instead of creative problem solving #but anyway i did not want to fucking play chess especially not competitively - it's boring and gets redundant #so i intentionally threw all of my games to remove myself from the tournament early #except my fellow indentured chess competitors noticed i was doing that and they were also bored and didn't care for the tournament #and so several of them made a game out of forcibly advancing me as far as they could by outmaneuvering my attempts to lose #horrifically they managed to corner me into winning enough that i was in serious danger of advancing #and so i started AGGRESSIVELY practicing chess in my spare time to learn how to shape the board and get confident in my ability to do so #i played against computers and then strangers online for hours a day and i studied checkmate patterns and how to subvert + reconfigure them #all so i could play well enough to ensure i'd lose even when being actively sabotaged #it worked - i narrowly escaped advancing that year and I don't think they were able to lose to me again after that #they kept trying - even playing me outside of tournaments to try and figure out how i was consistently losing #it's b/c i layered multiple strategies that involved breaking select conventions + manipulating their focus and psychology #BUT the fulcrum of my approach relied heavily on my rooks and select pawns as my most valuable pieces #i got very good at using rooks to shape the board without placing them in a position to be captured until i wanted them to be #once i had a few pawns close to promotion i would shift my rooks into bait b/c once one was taken i could just promote a pawn into a rook #and because absent a potential stalemate people almost always promote pawns into queens #my opponent would forget my additional rooks and would make choices based on the implicit assumptions that my deputized pawns were queens #rooks are treasures

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cosmicsproutcake · 2 years ago

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For super petty reasons I am urging anyone reading this to literally never install and/or play the Alien Invasion mobile game for your phone.

#the majority of the game is fine #but there's a mechanic where you have to catch flying satellites for a quest #satellites that for some reason can tell exactly where you are and can fly over walls that you cannot #I got one (a *normal* difficulty one) to 2% over a dozen times #each time it would pull a 180 and fly over a wall into a room I could not access to escape #look it doing that once or twice is fine #but over a *dozen* times!?#fuck that #that's garbage game design #and now I hate this game on a personal level #like your mechanic has to be *really* fucking bad to actually get me to leave a review #and it's even worse if your mechanic is *so* bad that it makes me hate the *entire* game

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violetrainbow412-blog · 2 months ago

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Shadows Beneath the Light [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x Sorcerer!reader

wc: 5k

Summary: Valentina contacts you to conduct a complete team assessment regarding the mystical arts. But when Bob's turn comes, it turns out he needs more of your help.

masterlist part 2

warnings: mentions of mental illness, Val is a bitch, mentions of suicide, complicated childhoods, canon-typical violence, and The Void

After the final battle against Thanos three years ago, you had returned to anonymity. Like many other magic users, your participation was decisive but silent, deploying containment seals, opening portals, and shielding minds during the catastrophe. You were there when Strange momentarily fell. You were the one who stabilized the field during the most critical seconds. But no one outside the inner circle remembered your name.

Or so you thought, because two months ago, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had knocked on your door bringing something that, more than a request, was a date with a time limit.

Some of the most powerful assets on the new team she was leading—you'd heard about them on the news, a ragtag group of broken soldiers and conflicted metahumans the government didn't know where to put—had begun to show signs of magical dissonance. Fragments of darkness that shouldn't exist, symbols they didn't remember writing, dreams that weren't theirs.

One person in particular worried everyone: Bob Reynolds.

You knew him only by name. Sentry. As powerful as the sun, immense strength, mental stability… debatable. An entity of light with a counterpart of absolute darkness: The Void. You knew just enough to accept the assignment with reservations.

Your job was to assess it and determine if there was any active magical intrusion in it or if the presence of The Void was stronger than they admitted. And if so... intervene.

So there you were now. Temporarily housed in the underground facility the team had been moved to, with a list of subjects to review, and restricted—but sufficient—access to do your job. You'd already examined Walker, Yelena, and Ghost. They had some residual blockages, but nothing that couldn't be resolved. You were surprised that, given the kind of life they led, they weren't worse off.

But when you finally got access to Bob, the protocol changed.

The room he was in was protected with physical shielding and containment charms you had designed yourself, just in case. You watched him for a moment through the one-way mirror, and he seemed simply human: sitting, hunched over, his face in his hands. Nothing about him screamed “cosmic entity.” Nothing, except what couldn’t be seen.

You noticed the air trembling around him, not from heat, but from energetic density. The aura surrounding the man wasn't magical, but it permeated you as if it were. His vibe was definitely heavier than that of his previous colleagues, and you understood why the CIA director was so keen for you to do something about it.

You didn't blame her, to be honest, because the world no longer relied on a group of scientists who could handle these kinds of situations, so magic seemed like a more sensible alternative right now. Fighting fire with fire... or something like that.

As you entered the room, the metal door slammed shut behind you. Bob raised his head, his blue eyes fixed on you with a mixture of bewilderment and curiosity. He looked... tired. Not physically, but emotionally drained, as if he hadn't slept properly in years. Even so, he straightened politely with a neutral expression, like someone accustomed to being watched without fully understanding why.

“Are you the one who’s going to… evaluate me?” he asked, his voice low but firm.

“I am,” you replied in the same tone, telling him your name next.

There was a table between the two of you, which made the place look like some kind of laboratory or a prelude to prison. He kept staring at you, somewhat confused.

“Are you a doctor?”

“It’s a different kind of evaluation,” you exclaimed, without offering any further explanation for the moment. He didn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just sit still, okay?”

He nodded obediently, and then you slipped your hand inside your cloak, pulling out a locket that you began to turn between your fingers. The movement activated a faint projection, almost invisible to the mundane eye: a network of golden lines unfolded around it, scanning its auric field. Your thumb brushed over a small sigil in the center of the locket, and a slight hum resonated as it detected dissonances.

You walked around him in silence. With each step, you traced runes with your fingertips, which flickered in the air before dissolving. It wasn't invasive magic, it was an ethereal diagnosis. But when you finally closed the circle behind his back, you felt it. A crack.

It wasn't an artifact, nor a curse. It was something ancient, something breathing within the folds of the soul of the man in front of you. As if something were stirring just beneath his skin, waiting to be acknowledged.

“You’re going to feel some pressure,” you warned gently, placing your fingers on his temples. He didn’t protest.

The technique was simple: channeled meditation through physical contact, an anchoring method the monks at Kamar-Taj used to detect hidden currents in the mind. But you weren't prepared for what you saw.

In a second, his consciousness opened like an abyss. You were standing in the middle of a devastated field, the sky crimson, the clouds shredded by black tongues that snaked out like rotten roots. And at the center of it all, a figure of smoke and shadow... looking back at you.

«Who are you?»

The voice was thick, raspy, and came from all sides. It was terrifying.

«What are you?»

«The Void,» he murmured simply.

«Are you a guest in this body? Do you serve some dark master or sorcerer?»

«Don't be stupid. I'm that thing everyone has inside... that thing they can't escape.»

An invisible weight pressed against your chest: it was hostile, painful. And suddenly the air froze. Not literally, but it felt like the world had stopped moving. A low, persistent buzzing settled in your ear. And then, everything was gone.

Now you were home. In the old apartment with walls cracked by moisture, where the floral wallpaper hung half-open and the light filtered in, as if the sun no longer wanted to shine.

“Mom?” you called. But it wasn’t your voice speaking, but someone younger, beside you.

The hallway smelled of stale lavender and burnt electricity. You remembered it. Every inch. Every crack in the floor. The way the air tasted was like something that didn't belong in the world.

“Mom, are you there?” you asked again. Your younger self sounded scared.

The sound of running water came from the kitchen. Your feet moved on their own. You knew what you were going to see, but you couldn't stop it. Void wouldn't let you. There she was.

She sat on the floor, eyes wide open, speaking to the griffin as if it were an ancient god. Her hands were covered in ink, or blood, or both. On the wall, clumsily scrawled, the same symbol over and over: an eye with a thousand eyelashes, weeping fire.

“I told you you weren’t real,” he whispered, not looking at you. “No one who loves me is born real.”

You froze. Your little self took a step back.

But the woman continued speaking, more quietly, like a twisted prayer:

“I dreamed of you before you existed. You were just a mistake I couldn’t erase.”

“Mommy…”

“If I close my eyes, you disappear. Do you want to see it?”

You wanted to run, stop her, hug her. But it all happened again.

The balcony door opened, with the exact creak of its rusty hinges. Then came the crushing silence. And then, the fall; the thud you never heard, but could still feel in your chest.

The Void appeared. Not in physical form. Not as a monster. Just a voice. A whisper like a blade:

«You remember everything, right? Every detail before your mommy left forever... »

You screamed. Not from pain, but from fury. From fear. From rage because he had no right to show it to you. Because you didn't know if he'd stolen it from you... or if it had always been there, waiting.

When the spell—the illusion, the psychic assault, whatever it was—ended, you returned to the living room, panting, your hands still on Bob's face. He was frowning, as if he'd felt the pull too, though he didn't fully understand it.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his guilt aching in your heart. He didn’t seem to be afraid for himself. He was afraid for you.

You took a step back, trying to regulate your breathing as you processed the shock of the sight. You looked up at the mirror, which reflected your image, wondering if anyone was on the other side watching the scene.

You were pale, as if you were about to throw up, and the man looked no better than you.

“You have something… very wrong inside you.”

Your whisper made him look down, embarrassed. He thought you were there to draw blood, perform some tests, or assess his physical condition. He didn't expect you to intrude on his mind like that.

“You can… Can you control it?”

“Sometimes. But there are other times when it controls me. And then I don't remember anything, and it's so… it's all so confusing.”

Several seconds passed in silence, the buzzing of the locket still vibrating on your wrist as if it were a residue of what you'd seen. When you left the room, still shaking, you said nothing; you didn't have to. The report was complete, you'd seen enough.

Later, in one of the complex's makeshift offices, you met with Valentina. You spoke in great detail about each team member's situation, going on at length when it was Bob's turn. Of course, you omitted details related to your vision. She listened more attentively than you would have expected. When you finished, she remained silent for a few seconds, as if digesting more than just information.

“Yeah, I understand all of this and I appreciate the work you did, but I need to ask you something.”

“Yes, what's wrong?”

“In this boy's case… Robert. What you're talking about inside him, that emptiness, that jumble of trauma and darkness… can it be fixed?”

You frowned, confused.

"What do you mean?"

“That's what unbalances him. That's what makes him dangerous. Can't it be extracted, sealed, purified…? With magic, spells, or whatever you use.”

You highly doubted she understood how the mystic arts worked, but you let it go. Instead, you tried to focus on how you could explain it to her.

“The emptiness inside Bob… isn't a curse that can be broken, or a creature that can be exorcised. It's not an external demon that can be sealed away with an incantation and that's it. It's part of him. As is his strength and his light. The problem is that his darkness isn't integrated; it's fragmented. Repressed. And when something that powerful is denied or hidden for so long, it finds its own way out.”

You paused to see if she was still with you. Valentina didn't say anything, but nodded expectantly.

“The mystical arts don't work like surgery. We don't extract. We accompany. We guide. We teach how to see what others prefer to ignore. There's a principle we learn from day one at Kamar-Taj: 'What you deny, subdues you. What you accept, transforms you.' Bob needs to learn to look at his shadow without being destroyed. To live with it without being consumed by it. It's slow, arduous, and not always linear work. There will be setbacks. But it's possible.”

Valentina crossed her arms, thoughtful.

"And can you do that with him? Help him through that process?"

You leaned forward, making sure your tone was firm.

“I can teach him techniques of emotional containment, breathing, mantras, symbolic anchoring. I can guide him through deep meditations that allow him to visualize and reconfigure your relationship with The Void. But I can't do it for him; it's a process he has to start on his own.”

“Okay, then start that training or whatever, as soon as possible.”

You blinked, puzzled.

“I don’t understand. You hired me to do a team assessment. To identify potential risks.”

“And you found one,” she replied bluntly, leaning in as if about to reveal an intimate confession. “Listen, this group is an experiment. A rehearsal. And if something goes wrong, it could cost me more than I’m already risking. So yes, I hired you to do an assessment, but also because I need solutions. Not just to identify problems, but to fix them. And Bob… well, he’s got tremendous potential. But he’s also very insane, do you follow me?”

You didn't say anything, you just watched her.

“What I want is simple: for you to help me rebuild him. To mold him so he can use his power without breaking. For it to learn self-regulation. For Sentry to appear when we need him, not when he collapses. I don’t want to throw away the entire project just because he has… this small flaw in his internal programming. Do you see what I mean?”

The coldness with which she spoke made your skin crawl. You'd met many dangerous people in your life, but few with that mix of pragmatism and disdain for humanity. Valentina wasn't interested in helping Bob. She didn't want to cure him, or understand him. She just wanted to harness his power. Use him… until he was of no use.

You cleared your throat before answering:

“I could do it, yes. But I don't know how long it will take.”

“You’re the only viable option I have right now, so I’m in no position to demand miracles, honey. Just results. I want you installed at The Watchtower so you can start working with Robert.”

You narrowed your eyes, gauging his tone.

“Is this an offer or an order?”

“I’m hiring you,” she murmured, almost condescendingly. “I don’t suppose you want to go back to that horrible apartment in the Bronx, do you? Why not put your talents to work on something that will really make a difference?”

You stayed silent for a second longer than necessary. Because you knew exactly what she meant by making a difference. And it wasn't saving Bob. It was using him. Taming him. Making him obey.

And if you didn't intervene... she'd probably succeed.

You pressed your lips together for a moment. Not out of fear. Not out of submission. But because something inside you—something older than your training, deeper than your vows at Kamar -Taj—stirred at the thought of leaving Bob alone with that darkness.

“Fine,” you said at last, in a low but firm voice.

Valentina smiled, satisfied, as if she had won a chess game that only she was playing.

“I knew you’d see the value in this,” she muttered, giving you an unnecessary pat on the arm before turning to leave.

You didn't say anything else. You watched her walk away, elegant and dangerous like an expensive poison. Then you lowered your gaze and let out the breath you'd been holding throughout the exchange.

She was wrong; you hadn't agreed for any trivial reason like the one she was suggesting. You did it because there was something in Bob you recognized.

That silent struggle, that shadow that threatened to swallow him up from within, was not foreign to you. And you thought that if someone had ever stopped to teach you how to look at your darkness without fear... perhaps you, too, would have taken less time to learn to live with it.

So, months passed. And it wasn't easy.

There were good days, when Bob could concentrate for more than an hour at a time, when his thoughts didn't fragment, when you could see him laugh—a little forced at first, more natural with time.

And there were bad days. Days when he woke up drenched in sweat, apologizing for things he couldn't remember doing. Days when The Void whispered in your dreams, looking for cracks to enter.

But despite everything, you began to find a rhythm.

At first, he didn't talk much. His words were few, but his ability to absorb knowledge was astonishingly quick. You, for your part, didn't dwell on long explanations or useless words either; you knew exactly what kind of discipline he needed to channel the chaotic energy that consumed him from within. You were neither his therapist nor his jailer, but rather that steady, silent buoy he could cling to when the internal waters threatened to drown him.

As the months passed, the closeness became inevitable. It wasn't a surprise that, amidst rigor and patience, a genuine friendship developed. You lived apart from most of the tower's tenants, and your interactions with them were sporadic and superficial. You spent most of your time studying, learning more, and finding new ways to help him find a balance that seemed elusive. Bob had become your most cherished project, that silent goal that kept you up until the wee hours, hoping he would achieve such a firm grasp that he would one day be worthy of occupying one of the sanctuaries.

That morning, the training room was empty except for the two of you. It was a routine you had established with discipline: getting up early, before dawn, to meditate and prepare your mind before leading him through his training.

“Being at peace with yourself is the key to learning,” you had once told him, with the gentleness of someone offering vital advice.

At the time, he'd found it absurd. Now, it was an essential part of his daily life.

You had carefully prepared the space: the floor covered with thin, noise-dampening mats, the walls reinforced with invisible layers of arcane protection that you had delicately and precisely inscribed yourself. In one corner, a small burner let the lingering scent of incense flow, a symbolic gesture that helped Bob achieve that meditative state, even though he swore he only liked the smell.

Bob sat in the center of the room, legs crossed, torso erect, palms open, exposed like tiny antennas capturing energy. He breathed slowly, following the rhythm you set with the soft jingle of an antique locket around your neck.

“Inhale… hold… exhale”

You sat across from him, replicating the same position. You watched him silently, noticing how that roaring mass of energy that once seemed to devour him was now contained just below the surface. Vibrant, yes. Threatening, perhaps. But controlled, enough for him to manipulate it and, above all, not let himself be consumed by it.

“Do you feel the flow?” you asked.

Bob nodded slowly with his eyes closed.

“Yes. I always… feel like he’s watching me. But now he’s not screaming anymore.”

You smiled slightly, with that mixture of relief and pride you felt when seeing his progress.

“That means he’s listening. You’re in control.”

He opened his eyes and looked at you with a mixture of doubt and hope.

“Do you think I could ever live without it? Without him.”

The question was profound, and you were slow to answer because the truth was complex. However, you chose honesty.

“I don’t think so. But you can live with it. Without fearing it, without letting it speak for you. Just like now.”

Bob looked down thoughtfully.

“It's different here than anywhere else. Here I'm calm, at peace… with you. If something bad happens, you guide me. But I don't know if I'll be able to stay that way in a critical situation or the face of a real threat.”

“That’s something you learn over time,” you assured him. “Look at yourself when we started and look at yourself now. Are you still where you are?”

He firmly denied it.

“You’ll get it. I promise.”

“How long have you been training to have the mastery you have now?”

Bob had begun digging into your private life a few weeks ago. It wasn't that you minded, but it was unexpected to have to talk about yourself with him. You were supposed to maintain the composure of a mentor, helping him reach his potential without getting emotional.

“Nine years”

His face lit up with amazement.

“It’s a long time.”

"Yes, but I'm dedicated to the mystical arts. With you, we're just seeking balance."

That seemed to comfort him a little. You could tell from the small smile he gave you.

“And you face demons and things like that? Monsters?”

“Sometimes,” you laughed, “Other times they are aliens, beings from other universes, dark wizards… it depends on the teacher who needs my help.”

“That’s so cool, ” he confessed with admiration.

Your cheeks flushed slightly, as his interest seemed almost endearing. You, too, had felt that fascination at first, but over time, you'd grown accustomed to it and were no longer surprised by it.

“Yours isn't bad either. Sentry, the being with the strength of a thousand burning suns...”

“Oh, but it’s no use if I don’t know how to control it,” he replied “It’s wasted power.”

“Where there is light, by law there must be darkness, Bob. We can't live any other way. The universe is meant to contain this duality in every particle that makes it up. You just have to know when to turn to one or the other.”

He nodded, processing your words seriously.

"How do you become so wise? Like you."

“I’m not wise, at least not in the way you think,” you said with a faint smile. “In fact, I’m extremely stupid. But that’s why I’m here. The key is to make mistakes and learn from them, to grow every day.”

“I hope my mistakes don’t cost anyone their life,” he murmured sincerely.

A heavy silence settled between you. Your mistakes had cost lives. They almost cost you yours.

“I hope so too. Otherwise, it would reflect poorly on me as a mentor.”

He didn't take it the wrong way, but instead used it as an opportunity to ease the tension with a little joke. You got up to get a Chinese teapot while he sighed, anticipating what was coming.

“Are we going to work with tea?” he asked timidly.

You nodded with a smile.

“How did you feel last time?”

“Scared and tired. My head hurt.”

“More or less than before?”

“Less. It was a little less.”

“You'll get used to it, it'll get lighter and lighter. Drink.”

The blend was a little lighter, with a deep, earthy aroma, hints of sage and star anise. Bob took the small cup you offered him and drank it in one gulp, despite the temperature.

The silence that followed was different: more attentive, denser. You had begun working with sacred infusions you learned at Kamar-Taj, prepared with ingredients that encouraged introspection. They were called "soft doors" because they didn't force violent visions or provoke chaotic hallucinations, but rather opened memories in layers, as if one were gently sliding into them.

You sat down in front of him and closed your eyes, feeling the energy of the place synchronize with his breathing.

“Don’t hold on if it gets dark,” you whispered. “Just watch. I’m here with you.”

He nodded, calmer, and closed his eyes.

The infusion began to take effect with the slowness of a tide rising without warning. Bob's shoulders relaxed, but his face became tense, as if something was tugging at him from within. His lips parted slightly.

“I’m… there again. In the white room.”

Keeping your eyes closed, palms open on your thighs, you focused on his words.

"Is it the same one as before? The one with the door without a handle?"

“Yes. But it’s ajar now… I don’t know if I want to look.”

“You don’t have to cross it. Just approach it.”

Bob nodded slightly, his breathing becoming uneven, but he didn't back down.

“There’s a shadow… its back is turned. It’s waiting for me.”

“It’s not real,” you whispered. “It’s a reflection of something that was. It can’t touch you here.”

“But it’s me.”

You had learned that most of his visions related to himself, his greatest regrets manifested in spectral form. His hands clenched on his knees, and sweat began to dampen his forehead. You didn't move, you remained stationary.

“What are you doing?”

“It's just there. But I feel like if it turns around… if I look at him… it'll all come back.”

The pressure in the air grew palpable, as if the shadow were taking control of the place. You took a deep breath and spoke to him in a low, firm voice:

“Then don’t look at him. Look around. What’s in that room besides him?”

It took Bob a few seconds to respond.

“Broken glass. It floats, as if something had exploded. But there’s no sound.”

“Can you touch them?”

He reached out a trembling hand, as if he really saw them.

“Yes. One stuck to my skin.”

“What does it show you?”

Bob shuddered, a low moan escaping his throat.

“My mother is crying in a chair. I'm hiding. She calls me… but I don't go.”

“It’s just a memory,” you said softly. “You can’t change it, but you can be present now. You’re not that child anymore.”

Bob swallowed.

“I don’t want her to cry for me again.”

“What comes next?”

The room began to oscillate as if it were liquid. Bob blinked several times, his breathing quickened, but he didn't come out of the trance.

“Can you leave the room?”

“There’s another door at the back. It’s bright, it has no shadow.”

“Do you want to go there?”

Silence. He hesitated.

“I don’t want to. Not yet.”

"Alright."

You let him breathe deeply for a while, until his chest calmed. You closed the energy circle with a subtle gesture, and his pupils stopped trembling.

“I’m back,” he said hoarsely and opened his eyes.

His fingers were damp with sweat, but he wasn't hugging his body like before. He didn't seem to be running away from himself.

"How do you feel?"

"Confused"

You watched him calmly.

“You did well, Bob. Very well.”

The silence returned, thick and heavy, perhaps reflecting on what he'd seen. Your sessions always left him mentally exhausted, but after a few hours of rest, the benefit outweighed the sacrifice.

Suddenly, he lay back on the linoleum, stretching his limbs and letting out a long, heavy sigh.

“What are you doing?” you asked, laughing.

“Come, lie down next to me.”

You hesitated for a moment, but finally settled down next to him.

“I've always liked lying on the floor since I was a kid. I did it when I needed to calm down.”

His voice was a whisper, barely a murmur.

“It’s hard growing up in a home that never feels like one, isn’t it?”

Bob nodded silently and then turned slightly to look at you.

“Can I ask you something?”

You hummed an affirmative response.

“It’s about the vision you had the first time we met, remember? Is it real?”

“Do you want to know if it happened?”

He nodded.

“Yes, it happened.”

You didn't want to elaborate, and he didn't press the issue. You suddenly felt exposed. Witnessing your mother's suicide wasn't a story you were keen to tell. But with Bob, the line between teacher and student blurred more than either of you wanted to admit.

You stared at the ceiling, wishing the silence would envelop them calmly.

Thus, in that cold room, where magic and pain converged, a bond began to form that would be much stronger than any shadow.

A few minutes passed without either of them saying a word, just the subtle sound of the wind blowing through the cracks in the window. The morning light filtered through in faint beams, creating irregular patches on the floor where they both lay.

“Sometimes,” you began quietly, as if sharing a secret, “I think our wounds are the source of our strength. Not because we desire them, but because they force us to find ourselves.”

Bob turned his head to look at you, and although his eyes still reflected the internal battle he was waging, there was a new spark in them: a flame that withstood the storm.

“It’s not always easy to see the light during chaos,” he replied, almost in a whisper. “But with you… I feel like I can try.”

You felt touched by his confession, by the vulnerability he displayed without fear.

Silence fell again, but this time it was a silence filled with meaning, as if it were the invisible bridge connecting you. You stood up slowly, helping him do the same. The years of training and suffering Bob had endured hadn't broken him; on the contrary, they seemed to mold him into something greater.

“Let’s get ready for today’s session,” you said, letting the warmth fall into your voice.

You began to prepare the place, calmly, being observed by him at all times.

“Do you think I can ever not be afraid?”

“Fear never goes away. You'll learn to live with it, to recognize it, and not let it paralyze you. And then you'll find your balance.”

“And when I can find that balance, if I ever do…” he began, his voice low, “Will I never see you again?”

You stopped to observe him.

“That's up to you. Spiritually, you won't need me. If it's about hanging out with a friend, then I'm always available.”

The word friend felt sweet on your lips. Bob was more pleased than he would have liked to hear your response.

“I like the sound of that.”

A faint glimmer of confidence lit his face. That moment felt like a small victory in the long battle you had both shared.

For a moment, everything seemed to stand still: the air, time, the invisible wounds that marked you. In that shared silence, you knew that, no matter what the future held, you had something unbreakable—a deep connection, a refuge amidst the chaos.

As you sat up, a slight change in the air caught your attention. A barely perceptible murmur, like a distant sigh or the rustle of a page turning, filled the room. It was a faint, almost imperceptible signal that made your senses tense slightly.

It wasn't time yet, but you knew it would soon arrive: a call you couldn't ignore, a shadow on the horizon... a door you'd soon have to open.

For now, the present was sufficient. Bob was here, with you, and that was enough.

tag list (thanks, pretty!): @littlemsbumblebee

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