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pitlanepeach · 25 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, death-anxiety (no actual death), Lando being an amazing husband.

Notes — Get the tissues ready. Check out the R.S Pinterest board post-chapter for some visuals!

2024 (Monaco)

Oscar sat cross-legged on the sofa, unwrapping a granola bar. Amelia lowered herself onto the chair opposite him with her notebook.

"What would you do if a child started to projectile vomit in a moving vehicle?" She asked, pen ready.

He blinked. "Sorry—what?"

"Answer the question."

"...Pull over. Make sure they're, like, breathing. Crack a window to get rid of the smell."

Amelia nodded. "Okay." She jotted something down.

Oscar narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"No concern of yours. Do you know how to sterilise a baby bottle?"

"Uh... no?"

"Do you know how to swaddle a newborn?"

"No, but I could YouTube it?"

She scribbled again, then looked up. "If Lando and I died tragically in a freak accident, would you be able and willing to raise our child?"

He choked. "What the hell?"

"Answer the question."

He coughed. "I—yeah? I mean, if that happened, yeah, I'd step up."

Amelia tapped her pen. "You'd need to cut back on the amount of time you spend on the panel court."

Oscar muttered, "I'd just take the baby with me."

—

Max Fewtrell sipped his flat white while Amelia stared at him, all beady eyed and completely unreadable.

"Do you own a fire extinguisher?" She asked flatly.

"...Good morning to you too?"

"Max."

"Yes. I think. Maybe? I don't know. Why?"

"Do you have a last will and testament?"

He stared at her. "Jesus, Amelia, are you going to have me killed?"

"This is all hypothetical, of course."

"What is happening right now?"

"Final question," she said. "Do you think you could emotionally support a child through the grief of losing both parents in a tragic accident?"

"...Oh my god."

Amelia didn't blink. "You're being considered for the position."

"For what?"

"Okay. I have enough information. Goodbye."

She left him sitting with his untouched croissant, both confused and mildly alarmed.

—

They walked side by side, Amelia waddling more than walking at this point. Fernando glanced down at her notepad.

"You are writing notes about me?"

"I'm evaluating your parental fitness."

"Why?"

"You might be a candidate to become the guardian of my daughter. In the event that Lando and I both die."

He blinked. "That is very grim."

"Statistically unreasonable," she said. "For me, anyway. Lando not so much." She sighed, chewing on her lip.

Fernando rubbed his jaw. "What is the criteria I must meet?"

"Emotional regulation. Moral compass. Childproofing competency. Capability of enduring a preschool dance recital."

He made a considering expression. "That last one might be a difficulty."

"You're top three so far." She told him.

"...I do not know if that is flattering or mildly scary."

"I trust you not to let her become a Red Bull junior driver; should she decide to start karting."

He nodded sagely. "Yes. Very good."

—

Amelia leaned across the table. "I have a few questions."

Max didn't look up from his phone. They were drinking milkshakes at a local coffee shop on the harbour. "Sure."

"If you had to raise a child you didn't birth, what would be your discipline strategy?"

"...Sorry?"

"Say me and Lando die. Hypothetically, if you got custody of our daughter, would you leave her at a petrol station if she disappointed you?"

He finally looked up. "Why would I get custody?!"

"I'm evaluating every available options."

"For a child that isn't even born yet?"

"She already exists. She's just... inside."

Max stared at her. "Zusje, you and Lando are not going to die."

She frowned at him. "You can't know that for sure."

He sighed. "Fine. I guess... No. I would not leave her at a petrol station, or stab any of her mechanics with a fork. But I would teach her how to drive early. Enter her into karting at three. Make sure she is ahead of everybody else."

Amelia jotted that down. "Noted."

"Am I seriously being considered?"

"You have the lowest risk of emotional instability during a crisis." She informed him.

He blinked. "Oh. Really?" He asked. "I feel like I'm a bit... hot-headed."

She shrugged. "Never with me, though. So I think you'd be the same with my little girl."

He stared at her for a beat and then smiled. "Yeah, Amelia. I think I would be too."

—

Amelia had kicked off her shoes the second she stepped into the apartment, now she was curled on the couch, laptop perched on her bump, tongue between her teeth as she typed furiously.

Lando came in behind her, fresh from a shower and still towelling off his hair. "Hey, babe. You hungry or—" He paused. Squinted. "What's the spreadsheet for?"

"Um," she said, not looking up. "It's colour-coded." She said, instead of answering the question.

"Of course it is." He padded over, still shirtless, and peered over her shoulder. "Fewtrell?"

"Yes."

"...And Oscar? Alonso? Verstappen?"

"Mmhmm."

He leaned closer, confused. "What is this?"

"Um."

"...Amelia," he said slowly, his voice pitching higher with suspicion. "What is this?"

She tapped something in the cell next to 'Max Verstappen – discipline style' and replied casually, "I'm compiling an assessment list for potential legal guardians in the case of our untimely deaths."

Lando froze. "I'm sorry— what?"

She finally looked up, frowning. "You're speaking very loudly."

"Because you're interviewing our friends to be our child's guardians in case we die?"

"Yes. Obviously. We'd need someone capable, emotionally regulated, ethically sound."

He blinked. Hard. "What about our parents? Or, like, one of my siblings? You know... our actual family."

She made a face. "Okay, I see your point." She said, completely sincere. "But I'd feel more comfortable having a list of at least five people who would be capable of stepping in."

Lando ran a hand through his hair. "Babe, you asked Oscar if he'd raise our daughter and didn't even think to mention this to me?"

"I was testing him under spontaneous stress," she said matter-of-factly. "He passed."

"Oh my god." Lando dropped onto the couch beside her, one hand dragging down his face. "Baby, we are not going to die, okay? God, maybe we should go to therapy about this."

"You already have therapy," she reminded him. "On Tuesday."

"I meant extra therapy. For both of us."

She turned the laptop toward him. "Do you want to see the rankings?"

"I—No! Wait—yes. Who's top?"

"Right now... Fernando."

He pulled a face. "Fernando?"

"He's extremely competent. Low emotional volatility. Has a very secure apartment and a predictable routine. He is also old, wise, and very rich. He would be able to hire wonderful childminders."

"...That's fair."

"Oscar is second."

"Obviously." He said.

"Max — Verstappen — third."

Lando tilted his head. "Seriously?"

"He would make sure she was loved. She'd grow up with discipline and money. Also, he has very cute cats."

Lando laughed, despite himself. "That's not... wrong."

"I ruled out Daniel because I texted him and he said that he would 'just vibe it.'"

Lando winced. "Yeah, okay, that's fair grounds for dismissal."

"Fewtrell's somewhere in the middle," she added, with a conflicted sigh. "I know we love him, and P, but he's still young and not settled down properly."

"I mean..." Lando shook his head, half-exasperated, half in love. "Babe. I love you so much, but this is mental."

"It's preparation. Contingency is kindness."

He stared at her — tan skin aglow from the laptop screen, expression painfully earnest. "You're... god, you're terrifying and brilliant."

She frowned. "I'm not terrifying."

"You kinda are."

"Do you want me to stop?" She asked, earnestly.

Lando's face softened completely. "No. I want you to keep being exactly you. I just also want to have a say in our daughter's future, you know, if we're both exploded in a tragic yacht fire."

She nodded. "Okay. That's fine."

He pulled the laptop from her lap, setting it on the table, then leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Can I be honest?"

"Always."

"I get scared sometimes too. About what will happen if something goes wrong. I think about all of the worst-case scenarios. But I know that I can't let myself obsess over 'what if's', or else I'll forget to enjoy the life I do have." He told her softly.

"Maybe that's a good idea," she muttered, but softened when he slid his arms around her and tugged her gently into his lap, belly and all.

They sat like that for a long moment, her head on his shoulder, his hands resting protectively over the curve of her bump.

"You know," Lando murmured, "no one could ever really replace you. No matter how good they are at bottle sterilising."

Amelia blinked hard. "I know."

"And if anything ever happened to me... she'd still have you. And that would be more than enough."

She buried her nose against his collarbone. "Don't say that."

"Okay. But it's true." He said into her hair.

She sniffled. "Our parents would do it, wouldn't they? They'd work together and make sure that she's raised the way we were. With love and care and attention."

"Yeah, baby. I think our family is the best idea." He told her honestly. "But you can still use your spreadsheet to choose Godparents, maybe?" He suggested.

She scrunched her nose. "I'm an atheist."

"Me too. I still have Godparents. They're just like... glorified Aunts and Uncles."

"Oh." She mumbled. "We'll have to have a long discussion about that."

He chuckled into her hair. "Okay, baby. Whatever you want."

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on the bed, half in her pyjamas, a stack of papers pushed off to the side. Her phone was pressed to her ear, the lights dimmed low. The baby kicked once — firm — beneath her ribs. She didn't react.

"Hi, Mum," she said when Tracey picked up.

"Hi, love. Everything okay?"

"No." Amelia didn't bother softening it. "I mean — not catastrophically. But I need to talk about something and I don't want you to tell me I'm overthinking."

"I never would," Tracey said gently. "Go on."

A beat passed. Then another. Amelia closed her eyes.

"If something happens to me. Or me and Lando. What happens to my baby?"

There was a pause on the other end. Not long. But present.

"Darling..."

"I've been making a list," Amelia went on. "Of potential guardians. Interviewing people. Assessing them. I've made a spreadsheet."

"I'm not surprised," Tracey said softly.

"I thought about putting Oscar first, but he doesn't know how to sterilise a bottle. Fernando is high scoring but he's not got much experience for kids. Max F would probably fill her bottles with Monster Energy."

Tracey laughed, despite herself. "What about us?"

"I assumed you'd all be willing to help. But I need a legal designation. If we die, someone has to be named. Officially."

"Sweetheart... I understand. I do." Tracey's voice was steady, but warm. "But it's also so unlikely."

"I know it's unlikely." Amelia's voice was sharp, strained. "But I can't bank on unlikely. That's not how I work. That's not safe."

There was silence again. Amelia's fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh.

"I just—" Her voice cracked. "I don't want her to be scared. Or confused. Or be stuck with someone who doesn't understand her. Especially if she's—like me."

"She'll be loved," Tracey said immediately. "No matter what she's like. Because she'll be yours and Lando's little girl. And because you'll have taught her how to explain herself. Just like you've done your whole life."

Amelia blinked hard. "You think she'll be alright?"

"I know she will be. And not just because you've planned ten steps ahead. But because she'll grow up with people who see her. Who will do whatever it takes to understand her. Just like we did with you."

There was quiet on the line. The baby kicked again, softer this time. Amelia exhaled.

"I don't want to need the plan," she said, very quietly. "But I need to have the plan."

"And that's okay," Tracey said. "You make the plan. You have it in place that me and your dad, or Lando's mum and his dad, will be named legal guardians. But then, when you're ready, let it sit. You don't need to carry it every minute."

"I don't know how not to."

"Then I'll carry a little bit of it for you. So will your dad. So will Lando. That's what family's for."

A long pause.

"Thanks, Mum."

"I love you."

Amelia wiped her cheek. "Yeah. I know."

—

Amelia lay on her side, half curled around a pillow, hoodie bunched over the top of her belly. Lando was pressed close behind her, one hand splayed gently across the curve of her bump.

"She's awake," he murmured, grinning against her shoulder. "I felt her boot me in in the hand just now."

"She likes to kick when I'm horizontal," Amelia said, with a sigh. "She's very inconsiderate."

Lando chuckled and flattened his palm more purposefully, thumb brushing small circles near her belly button. "You think she knows it's me?"

"She reacts to your voice. She kicks harder for Oscar at the moment, though."

"That's rude." He leaned down, speaking directly to her stomach. "You know I'm the one who's gonna be changing your dirty, stinky nappies, right?"

The baby gave a solid thump.

Lando pulled back, eyes wide. "Did you feel that? She literally just responded to me."

"Of course I felt it," Amelia muttered.

Lando laughed again and shifted so he could look at her properly, brushing a few stray hairs away from her forehead. "Okay, okay. What if I..." He pressed a kiss to her belly, then whispered, "You're the coolest little bean in the universe."

Another kick.

"She's gonna be so spoiled," Amelia said. "You're already hyping her up."

"She should be hyped up. Look at her genes."

Amelia laughed. "Lando."

Lando turned to her with a mischievous glint. "What do you think happens if I play a recording of a V10 engine?"

"She might decide to come earth-side early." She said.

Lando snorted.

Amelia shifted onto her back, guiding Lando's hand as the baby rolled again, this time slower, like she was listening.

"She's so real," Amelia said, quieter now. "Still doesn't feel like it all the time. But she is. Real."

"I know," he said. "I think about it every day. That we're... gonna be parents. That I get to do this with you."

Amelia didn't look at him, but her fingers curled gently around his. "You're really good with me."

"Yeah, well," he murmured, resting his forehead gently against hers. "I kind of love you."

She turned her head a little, and he kissed her softly — slow and familiar, the kind that didn't lead anywhere except safety.

Their hands stayed linked over the baby as she shifted again beneath their skin.

"Do you think she'll be scared the first time we bring her into the paddock?" Lando asked.

"No. She'll be too tiny to be scared, I think. And by the time she's old enough, it'll just be... normal for her," Amelia muttered. "But we've got to get her paddock credentials sorted as soon as she's born."

He grinned. "We'll start with a tiny little VIP badge to clip to her baby grow. And some ear defenders."

"Smart," Amelia said. "We'll both have plenty of loud men to block out."

They fell asleep like that, legs tangled, baby between them, and the next morning came soft and golden through the curtains; the first light falling directly across Amelia's stomach, as if even the sun was trying to say hello.

—

It was already warm under the canopy, even though the Monaco sun hadn't fully crested the hills yet. The McLaren paddock buzzed—orange polos everywhere, cameras drifting past on gimbals, mechanics laughing over first-cup coffees that smelled like dark chocolate and fuel.

Amelia stood at the edge of it all, arms folded over her bump, dark sunglasses perched on her nose, clipboard hugged tight against her chest. She'd already rewritten a run-plan line item; now she was waiting—still—for Oscar.

He finally jogged up, bag slung over one shoulder. "You look like an army-recruitment officer," he puffed.

"You wouldn't last a day in the army," she replied, eyes still on her iPad. "You're always late."

"I'm sorry," he groaned. "And I'm only seven minutes late!"

"Seven minutes and you dropped croissant flakes all over the sim consoles last night. They ended up in the throttle pedal housing. I had to get on my hands and knees with the little handheld hoover. Do you know how difficult it is for me to bend over right now?"

"I was hungry. I needed energy!"

She raised one eyebrow. "Energy bars exist and they don't shed pastry all over the priceless simulator equipment."

He pursed his lips, sighed an apology, then nodded toward the interior of the motorhome. "Sorry. Fine. Come on. Tom's waiting."

—

The briefing room smelled of whiteboard marker and fresh rubber. Tom Stallard—clipboard in hand, headset looped around his neck—looked up as they entered. He offered Amelia a polite nod and Oscar a wry smile.

"Morning," Tom said, voice calm, measured. "Figured we could run through hand-over minutiae before first practice?"

Amelia slipped into the chair beside him, dropping her own clipboard with a soft thud. "Good idea. At least one of you is prepared today."

"Hey!" Oscar protested.

Tom chuckled. "I'm fairly prepared, I guess."

"That's good," Amelia muttered, tapping notes on her iPad.

She flicked the screen toward Tom. A colour-coded chart lit up; Oscar's preferred comms phrasing, ideal brake-migration tweaks per track, panic phrases to watch for. Oscar-Handling 101, the header read in dead-serious Helvetica.

Tom scanned it, impressed. "This is on-top of the big folder you've already put together for me?"

"Contingency is kindness," Amelia replied. "I'm not leaving him undefended while I'm off having a baby."

Oscar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "She's terrified you'll let me eat in the sim room."

Tom grinned. "Contraband food noted."

Amelia pointed at the final column. "He also says 'copy, copy' when he's flustered. Means he hasn't copied. Repeat the instruction."

Oscar's ears went pink. "Well you didn't have to put that in writing."

"It's an operational fact," she said simply.

Tom set the chart aside. "We'll be okay, Amelia. I've shadowed enough of your sessions to know how you translate his feedback. Not as well as you can — but enough."

She exhaled—one of those slow, controlled breaths. God, she felt like her organs were running out of room. "I know. My brain just... insists on double-checking." Her hand rested instinctively on her belly. "Can't exactly be on the pit wall at forty weeks."

Oscar's expression softened. "You'll still be in my ear sometimes, right? From home?"

"As a 'consultant'," Tom said, quoting with his fingers. "Team's already approved remote link-ups when needed."

Amelia nodded. "I'll ping in for data dives. But Tom's your primary. Listen to him. Trust him."

"Understood," Oscar said, suddenly earnest. "And... thanks—for all this. For everything. I knew you'd be — all Amelia about this. But you didn't have to be. And I really appreciate it."

She blinked behind the sunglasses, uncomfortable with sentiment. "Just keep running at the top of the field. Keep pushing yourself. Maybe win a race." She told him.

Tom pushed his chair back, easy and steady. "Right. Track walk in ten."

Oscar slapped the table once in mock salute. "Yes, sir."

He turned to Amelia as they headed for the door. "No more croissants in the sims," he promised.

She handed him a protein bar out of her bag. "Here. This is better. More stable energy, less saturated fats."

He grinned, unwrapping it. "Aw. You still love me even after crumb-gate."

"Crumb-gate," she echoed, her mouth twitched upward.

Tom watched the exchange with quiet amusement. As they stepped onto the sun-lit pit lane, he leaned toward her. "He'll be fine, Amelia."

She adjusted her headset, gaze following Oscar's retreating figure. "I know. So will I." A small pause. "But I still hate it when he's late."

Tom laughed. "I'll keep him on military time."

—

The Monte Carlo sun had a way of making everything feel cinematic. White yachts bobbed on sapphire water, the harbour glinting just beyond the paddock gates. Amelia stood by the McLaren motorhome in a clean papaya polo, sunglasses tucked into her collar, bump unmistakable beneath the fabric.

It was Media Day, and the buzz was palpable.

She adjusted her earpiece as the Sky Sports producer counted them in, the familiar voice of Natalie Pinkham coming through her headphones with a bright, practiced warmth.

"We are here in beautiful Monaco with a very special guest — Amelia Norris, McLaren's lead performance engineer and, of course, Oscar Piastri's race engineer. Amelia, welcome."

Amelia gave a nod, her voice calm, direct. "Thanks. It's really hot, isn't it?"

Natalie laughed. "That it is. Listen, you've had a phenomenal season — McLaren's surge in performance, Oscar's consistency, and Lando finally breaking through for his first win. You've had your fingerprints on all of it."

Amelia tilted her head slightly, weighing the praise before answering. "It's been a team effort. Good car, amazing drivers. We've been smart with upgrades."

"And you've done all this," Natalie gestured gently to Amelia's belly, "while also expecting your first child with Lando. How exciting for you both!"

A soft smile played at Amelia's lips. "Yes. She's a very involved team member. Likes to kick during data meetings."

That got a warm laugh from the crew and nearby media.

Natalie's voice softened. "And I believe you have a bit of news for us today?"

Amelia nodded once. "Yes. This weekend will be my last before I step back for maternity leave. Tom Stallard will be taking over race engineering for Oscar post-Monaco until further notice."

A small wave of murmurs rippled through the surrounding press. Natalie smiled at her. "So this is your last race weekend for a while?"

Amelia shrugged, still poised. "For a few months, yes. I'll still be consulting remotely. But I won't be on the pit wall again until later in the season."

Natalie leaned in a little. "How does it feel, stepping away at a time like this? With McLaren doing so well, and you being so integral?"

There was a pause. Amelia's eyes flicked briefly down the paddock — where Lando was laughing with mechanics, Oscar leaning against the wall with a coffee, talking to a camera crew.

Then she answered.

"It's... complicated," she said. "I like control. I like knowing things. And there's a lot about becoming a parent I can't forecast. But the team is solid. Oscar's going to be in good hands. And our daughter—" her hand instinctively brushed her belly, "—deserves my full attention for a while."

There was a beat of quiet. Then Natalie smiled, warm and real. "Well, on behalf of everyone watching — thank you so much, Amelia. For all you've contributed to the sport over the past five years. And congratulations to you and Lando on this wonderful addition to your family."

Amelia nodded again, just once. "Thank you."

The interview wrapped, and as the camera cut away, Amelia stepped back, peeling off her earpiece. She was halfway through unpinning her mic when she felt a familiar arm wrap around her shoulders.

Lando pressed a kiss to the side of her head. "You were brilliant," he murmured.

"I told people I'm going on leave," she said quietly, like she needed to repeat it aloud. "I made it real."

"It is real." He looked down at her bump, then back at her. "But don't worry. You're still the boss. Just... remotely."

Amelia leaned into him, the smell of sunscreen and motor oil clinging to his polo. "You think people will forget me while I'm gone?"

"Not possible," he said immediately.

She gave a small, short laugh, and he kissed her temple again.

They stood there for a moment; in the glitz and the hum of Monaco, wrapped in their own quiet kind of gravity.

—

The hospitality deck was quieter than usual at lunch time, tucked just above the paddock chaos. A few guests chatted softly over sparkling water and pasta, the harbour glittering in the background. Amelia sat at a small table in the shade, half-finished salad in front of her, sunglasses pushed into her hair.

Her dad slid into the seat across from her with a grunt and then a beaming grin. "You're hiding up here."

Amelia stabbed a tomato with her fork. "I'm taking a scheduled break."

"That's what you're calling it now?"

She gave him a dry look. "Better than 'aggressively avoiding small talk with a million people who all want to ask me the same questions.'"

Zak chuckled and took a sip of his iced tea. "Hey, I didn't say it was a bad thing!"

They ate quietly for a few minutes. She glanced at her iPad once or twice, fingers twitching like she wanted to reach for her stylus.

Then her dad leaned forward, voice a little softer. "Your mom called."

Amelia didn't look up. "Yeah?"

"Told me to keep an eye on you. That you're getting anxious over silly things." He said. "She wants you at home. She doesn't think you should be working this weekend."

"I know what I'm doing." She said back, not sharply, just matter-of-fact. "I'm flying to England on Tuesday and then I'm going to start nesting."

"Fine, fine." He said. He was staring at her. "You did an interview this morning?"

"Yeah. It felt strange." She hesitated. "Like I had to tell them that I was handing over part of my identity and pretend that I was fine with it."

Zak nodded slowly, watching her carefully. "You don't need to pretend, kiddo. You're just doing something new. Hard to do both at once sometimes."

Amelia chewed slowly, then asked, "Did it feel like that when you stopped racing?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Yeah. I didn't admit it for a while, but yeah. It was hard. You build yourself around something that has a finish line, and suddenly it's not there anymore. It's just... your life."

Amelia's hand drifted to her bump without thinking. "What if I'm not good at the other thing?"

"You said the same thing when we put you into the advanced classes at school."

"I was eight."

"And you were wrong then, too."

She looked at him.

He gave her a small smile. "You're not just good at this job because you're smart. You're good because you care. And that's not going to change no matter how long of a break that you take."

Amelia stared down at her plate, silent for a moment. "I don't want to hand over Oscar."

Her dad leaned back in his chair, his tone more casual now. "You picked Stallard yourself. You trust him."

"I do." She took a breath. "But I know how Oscar works better than anyone else. How his brain ticks under pressure. And I've done everything for so long — pre-sessions, cooldowns, briefings. It's not just the job. It's him."

He nodded. "That's why you've been so good together. But you're also about to be someone's mum, Amelia. And that little girl is going to need all of that same care. All of that weirdly brilliant attention to detail."

Amelia huffed a laugh. "She's already demanding. She hates when I eat citrus. Just wants cake and tiramisu flavoured things all the time."

"She's got taste." He said. Then he reached across the table and placed his hand over hers."You're not disappearing, Amelia. Nobody is going to forget about you. You're going to have a baby, and you'll fall so deeply in love with her that everything else will fade into the background. But eventually, you'll be ready to come back. Your mom will travel with you, and you'll take over from Tom again, and everything will be just fine."

She blinked. Slowly. Then, she whispers, "Thanks, Dad. That really helps."

He squeezed her fingers. "You'll be back before you know it. And when you are—this place will still be yours. Trust me. You've made more of an impact than you will ever realise."

—

The restaurant clung to the cliffside above the marina, lit by soft lanterns and the shimmer of city lights below. The terrace buzzed with the gentle clatter of cutlery and the low hum of multiple F1 teams converging for one of those rare, off-track evenings.

It was still work, in a way — team bonding, sponsor optics, face time. But for now, it was pasta and mocktails and the smell of grilled sea bass drifting on the evening breeze.

Amelia sat wedged between Oscar and Lando, her hands cradling a chilled glass of pomegranate soda. Her feet were up on a second chair, legs aching just enough to warrant it. Lando kept refilling her glass every time she looked away. Oscar had already stolen her feta-stuffed olives.

When the main course wound down, she spotted Charles stepping out from a conversation with someone in red team gear. He looked relaxed — or as relaxed as Charles ever did in Monaco. Still sharp-edged around the eyes.

She tapped Lando's arm. "I'm going to say hi to Charles."

"You're not about to give him trade secrets, are you?"

She didn't answer. Just rolled her eyes and got to her feet.

Charles noticed her before she even reached him and smiled with something between fondness and humour. "You need a breather from the orange table?"

"I'm trying to be neutral and approachable," Amelia told him.

"You're failing," he replied, but his grin softened the jab. "How are you feeling?"

"Hot. Heavy. Slightly betrayed by my spine." She paused. "You?"

Charles tilted his head. "Nervous."

She nodded. "Understandable."

"It's Monaco."

"I know." She looked up at him for a beat longer. "The thing is, I want my boys to beat you. That's my priority and it always will be. But —" She bit her lip and leaned on the balcony. "But I want you to finish this race. Properly."

He laughed under his breath. "So do I."

She hesitated, then lowered her voice and leaned in, "So, maybe, if on your second quali lap, you just leave a little extra margin at the exit of Mirabeau. And maybe you should adjust your ride height a few inches. And your throttle pedal could, maybe, could be adjusted to the left; specifically for Monaco."

Charles stared at her. "What?"

"You heard me," she said with a faint smile. "Good luck, Charles. I hope you make your home crowd proud."

He smiled wider. "If anyone found out that you—"

"All my father would ever do is frown and me and proceed to tell me that I'm soft for you. Which I am." She smiled at him. "You've been such a wonderful friend to me, Charles. A good neighbour. You always listen to me when I speak, even if what I am saying makes no sense to you."

Charles looked at her, suddenly quiet. "Merci, Amelia. Thank you."

Amelia pursed her lips. "I'm not saying that those changes will make you win. But... They will give you a better chance at a front-row start. And we know how important that is here."

They stood like that a moment — Monaco locals by way of wildly different paths — then Charles glanced back toward the Ferrari table. "Tell your husband that I will be trying to poach you when you return from maternity leave," he said.

"Hm." She hummed. "You and Lewis next year — what a fun idea."

He blinked at her, a bit of hope clinging to the edges of his expression. "Really?"

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "No."

He huffed out an amused breath and started to turn away, then paused and added, sincerely, "Good luck, Amelia."

"Right back at you," she said, then added, "Leave the barriers alone this year, yes?"

"I'll do my best," Charles said with a wink, and disappeared back into the red sea.

When Amelia returned to the McLaren table, Lando leaned in with a faux-casual, "So, how's your favourite Ferrari boy?"

"He's nervous," Amelia said, sitting again with a sigh. "I hope I gave him some hope. That's the most powerful tool a driver can have." She tilted her head. "Well, that and me."

Oscar smirked and raised his drink. "To questionable loyalty."

"To Monaco miracles," she corrected, and clinked his glass.

—

Later, long after the dinner had wound down and the drivers WhatsApp group had gone feral with memes and selfies, Amelia lay submerged in warm water, her back nestled against Lando's chest. The bathroom was dimly lit, the only light coming from the small lamp over the sink and the soft glow of the candles. Lavender and eucalyptus swirled in the steam.

Lando's chin rested lightly on her shoulder, his fingers tracing aimless lines over the curve of her belly just visible above the surface. The baby gave the occasional gentle kick, more thump than flutter these days.

"She's very awake," Lando murmured, thumb brushing over one of the movements.

"She likes water," Amelia said, closing her eyes. "She always calms down when I'm in the shower. But she loves a bath."

"Maybe she'll be a mermaid."

"Or a diver. Or an aero specialist. Hydrodynamics and aerodynamics aren't that different."

Lando laughed into her shoulder. "That's such an engineer answer."

"You asked."

A comfortable silence settled between them, interrupted only by the lapping of the water and the distant hum of the city outside.

"Have you thought more about names?" He asked softly.

She opened one eye. "You're not letting that go, are you?"

"You said we'd make a shortlist this week."

"Technically, you said that. I just nodded."

"Close enough."

Amelia tilted her head back against his shoulder, thoughtful. "I like Ada."

"Yeah?" He asked thoughtfully.

"It's clean. It has weight. Ada Lovelace was one of the first computer programmers."

"Shocker."

"What — that I want to name our child after a female computing and mathematical pioneer?"

"Sarcasm, baby." He mumbled against her shoulder.

She frowned. "Sorry. Missed it. My brains all misty recently."

Lando gave her a little squeeze, then said, a bit more seriously, "I like Ada. But I also kind of like names that sound like movement. Like... I don't know. Skye. Or Elia. Something with flow."

"Skye Norris?" Amelia mused.

"Eh. It's a good jumping off point," he said.

They lapsed into silence again, his hands slow and steady against her belly, her fingers lazily drawing shapes in the water.

"I'm a bit scared," she said quietly. "To be honest."

Lando didn't move. "Of what?"

"Of getting it wrong," she whispered. "The name, the parenting, all of it. I'm good at engineering because it follows rules. But babies — she'll be her own person, Lando. With thoughts and emotions. And I don't know how to... prepare for that."

He was quiet a moment. Then he said, softly, "Me either."

Amelia blinked up at the ceiling, throat tight.

"But if we mess up—" Lando continued, nudging her temple with his nose, "we'll apologise. Own up to it. And then we'll try again. That's all anyone can do."

She exhaled. "You make it sound so simple."

"Because you overthink everything."

"That's rich coming from you."

He smiled. "Yeah, well. We're both anxious perfectionists with trust issues. Our daughter is doomed."

Amelia laughed — a real one this time. "Shut up."

Lando kissed the side of her head. "She'll have us on her side, though. Always."

Amelia reached down, took one of his hands, and pressed it firmly to the curve of her belly.

Their daughter kicked again, right on cue.

"Maybe Ada Skye," she said after a long pause.

Lando hummed. "Can I suggest something else?"

"Of course." She said quietly.

"What about Rosella?"

"After Rosella Manfrinato?" Amelia asked, voice full of curiosity.

"Yeah. First female engineer to ever work for Ferrari." He said.

She nodded. "Yeah. I know." She pursed her lips in thought. "Ada Rosella Norris." She whispered, trying to get a feel of the name.

"It's strong." Lando said.

"Full of power." Amelia agreed quietly.

Lando grinned against her temple. "Our little rocket scientist."

"Our little engineer," Amelia said, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Let's not teach her about ERS until she's at least four."

"Three and a half," Amelia negotiated.

Lando laughed.

Amelia thought it sounded like home.

—

The apartment was silent now.

Water drained from the tub long ago, and Amelia was curled beneath the covers in their bed, one hand resting unconsciously on her bump, her breaths slow and even. Moonlight slid in through the curtains, tracing soft silver lines across her cheekbones. Lando stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her — still, peaceful, warm — before stepping back out into the living room and quietly closing the door behind him.

He crossed to the balcony, tugged on a hoodie, and pulled out his phone.

It took three rings before his dad answered.

"Lando? Everything alright?" His dad sounded like he'd just woken up — it was late, and Lando had forgotten the slight time difference.

"Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine. Sorry if I woke you up," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I just... I couldn't wait anymore. I needed to tell someone."

A beat of silence.

Then, with a hint of caution, because he knew his son, asked, "Tell me what?"

"I did it," Lando said. "I bought it. The land."

"What land?" Adam asked.

"The land, dad. Where we got married."

"You mean the—? Jesus, mate."

"Yeah. The field. With the oak tree. The one Amelia didn't stop talking about for a month straight last year." Lando sat down slowly on one of the balcony chairs, heart thudding. "But, like, I didn't just buy it, you know? I've been working with some people — architects, contractors. Builders. Decorators. It's happening. Happened, I guess. The house. Her house. She doesn't know yet."

Adam was quiet, but Lando could hear the smile in his voice when he finally said, "You're building it."

Lando nodded, even though his dad couldn't see him. "Built. Almost. Just, like, a few more pieces of furniture to get delivered. But yeah, dad. It's a real home. Just in time for the first few months with the baby. Maybe longer. It's all eco-efficient and airy — her office, a nursery, a bathtub big enough for the both of us, just like here. And the nursery..." He let out a breathless laugh. "Dad, I had it copied from her Pinterest board. Down to the wall art. She doesn't even know I have her Pinterest boards."

Adam chuckled softly. "Of course you do, son."

"It's got these soft pinks and greys. Planet mobiles, wood textures, soft-glow lamps. She pinned a photo of a reading nook by a window and I'm getting them to build one, exactly like it. I want it to feel like she's known it forever."

"She's going to love it," Adam said, gentle now.

Lando's throat tightened. "I just— When we found out that she was pregnant, I knew that she'd want to have the baby in England, you know? And I know she's more than happy to stay with her mum for a while but — I wanted her to have something that's hers. Ours."

"She already has that in you."

Lando looked out over the dark water, letting that settle. "I know. But, when I can't be there... I just want her to know," he said quietly, "you know? Be surrounded by it. A reminder that I'd give her the whole world. That she doesn't even have to ask."

"She knows, son."

"I'm going to bring her there," Lando said. "Next week. I'm hoping everything will be finished. I was hoping maybe you'd be able to go and check it out, maybe you and mum? Make sure everything's alright?"

His dad didn't say anything right away. "Of course we will, mate. Whatever you need. God, I'm proud of you, Lando. You've become the kind of man I always hoped you'd be."

Lando swallowed, hard. "Thanks, Dad."

"Now go and get some sleep. You've got a race weekend to finish — and a very clever wife to keep from figuring all this out."

Lando laughed, soft and careful, so he wouldn't wake Amelia. "Yeah. That's been the hardest part. But — I genuinely think I've managed to hide it."

They said their goodnights, and Lando stayed on the balcony for a few more minutes, watching the moonlight ripple across the water.

Then he slipped back into the bedroom and under the covers beside her.

Amelia shifted slightly in her sleep, turning toward him. He curled around her carefully, hand resting on the curve of her belly.

In four days, he thought, she'll open the big front-door and find everything waiting for her.

Everything she'd dreamed of — and more.

—

The sky was a crisp summer blue above the city, the harbour shimmering below. The McLaren garage was alive for the most important session of the weekend—controlled chaos, comms lines tight, eyes on telemetry, hands on buttons.

Amelia stood, headset on, bump cradled behind her clipboard. The engineers around her knew to give her room; she paced with deliberate, rhythmic movements when she was thinking, and thinking was all she was doing now.

Q3.

Tight margins. Traffic chaos. Purple sectors lighting up the screen like fireworks.

"Alright, Oscar," she said into the mic, her tone flat but alert. "Track's evolving fast. Leclerc's just gone purple in Sector 1."

"Copy."

He didn't sound nervous. Just wired in.

Her eyes flicked to the screen. Telemetry humming in real time. Every time she ran data analysis through her mind, Oscar's confidence had grown sharper, cleaner. The car was under him. And he was really, genuinely starting to believe in it.

"Go now. Push out of Rascasse. Clear air."

Silence. Then the rhythm of apex and throttle and millisecond corrections filled her ears like music.

Lando, on another screen, was midway through his final flyer. "He's purple in S2," someone said behind her, low.

"Copy that," Amelia replied. She didn't move. She didn't breathe. She just watched Oscar's delta fall green, then purple—

Then time stopped.

P2.

Right behind Leclerc. Less than a tenth off.

The garage burst into motion, restrained joy quickly overtaken by calculation. Strategy talk. Track position.

Amelia blinked hard and gave her mic one last click. "That's front row, Oscar. Hell of a lap."

"I left half a tenth at the hairpin."

"I'm aware," she deadpanned. "You also just out-qualified Verstappen and Hamilton in Monaco."

His laugh crackled over the radio as he pulled into Parc Ferme. "Holy shit."

Amelia turned in her seat and locked eyes with Lando just as he pulled his gloves off. "P4," he mouthed to her, not too disappointed—energised.

"Nice recovery after that wall tap in FP3," she called across the garage.

"I didn't touch the wall."

"You kissed it, then. Should I be jealous?"

He grinned.

A Sky Sports camera panned briefly to them. Amelia didn't flinch—just shifted her clipboard against her stomach again. Someone behind her passed her a small stool, and this time she accepted, sitting with a quiet exhale.

The top three were headed to press. She watched as Oscar removed his helmet, curls flattened, grinning wide, exchanging a look with her from across the paddock before getting swept toward the media pen.

"You nervous?" One of the junior engineers asked her as they unplugged telemetry cables.

"A little," Amelia said. "But we're front row in Monaco. There are worse problems to have."

And deep in her chest, beneath the clinical logic and mechanical heartbeat of the job, she felt it — a soft, surging pride. Her best friend, on the front row. Her husband, on the second. Her team, alive with momentum.

Their daughter kicked once, firm and sharp against her ribs.

"Yeah," Amelia whispered, rubbing her belly. "Let's make the last one good, baby girl."

—

The paddock was swarming. Engineers debriefed at speed, mechanics wheeled tyres past camera crews, and over it all came the distant call of the sea.

Amelia stood from the stool someone had given her earlier, brushing her hands over the front of her dress. She'd barely moved when she caught a flash of red.

Charles.

Helmet off, suit tied at the waist, damp curls sticking to his temples. He was deep in conversation with someone from Ferrari, nodding tightly — the thrill and heavy burden of taking pole position in Monaco sitting heavy on his shoulders, even under the roaring crowd.

Then his eyes caught hers.

For half a second, she thought maybe he'd just glance and move on. He was always polite, always kind, but this was a big moment for him. He had enough on his plate.

Instead, he paused. Just a beat.

Then — a smile, genuine and boyish.

And a quiet, grateful thumbs-up. Directed at her.

Amelia blinked, then returned the gesture with a small lift of her clipboard. A quiet acknowledgment.

She'd bent a few informal, off-the-record, definitely-against-McLaren-policy rules the night before at dinner. Just a few aerodynamic notes. Not enough to sabotage Lando and Oscar's chances. Just enough to give a driver she quietly admired the best shot he could get on home soil.

And now he was on pole.

Lando stepped up beside her, having just finished media, brushing his knuckles against hers without a word. He was still flushed from the car, hair wild and eyes bright. "Was that Charles just—?"

"Yeah," she said.

Lando gave her a suspicious look. "Is this about what you two were whispering about last night?"

"Nope." She lied.

"You gave him tips, didn't you?"

Amelia stayed perfectly still. "Prove it."

Lando opened his mouth — and then just laughed. "You're ridiculous."

"Am I wrong, though?" She asked mildly. "Oscar's still on the front row. You're in a great launch position. We've got a better long-run setup. I just want Charles to get through the damn first lap this year."

Lando shook his head with affectionate disbelief, still grinning. "Corporate espionage." He accused.

"I know," Amelia said. "How terrible." She joked.

He cupped her chin and tugged her to close the gap between this, kissing her chastely. "Come on. Let's go home."

—

The narrow streets of Monte Carlo felt quieter in the early morning. Calm before the storm. A million yachts bobbed in the harbour, a gull wheeled overhead, and the team trucks hummed with activity behind closed paddock gates.

Amelia stood just outside the McLaren garage, headset around her neck. The weight of the day — and everything it represented — settled into her bones.

Final race.

Final pre-race briefing.

At least for now.

Her eyes stung behind her sunglasses, but she didn't blink too much. If she started crying, she wasn't sure she'd stop. And she didn't want anyone — especially not Lando or Oscar — trying to hug her about it.

Not today.

"Morning," Oscar said behind her, nudging her arm gently.

She sniffed a laugh, turning around. "Morning. I have notes and spreadsheets for you."

He grinned. "Nerd."

She looked over at him — sweatpants, t-shirt, hair still wet from a quick hotel shower, eyes clearer than usual. "You ready for this?" She asked, voice quieter.

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Think so."

"Good. You're going to get him at the start."

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Leclerc?"

She didn't answer, just tapped her temple, then pointed at his heart. "Use both."

Oscar's grin turned boyish, proud. But then his eyes dropped to her belly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. Too fast. Then slower, "I'm fine. It's just... I feel like I'm abandoning you."

He didn't try to give her a speech. Just nodded, understanding threading his features. "It's just for now," he said.

"Yeah," she whispered. "Just for now."

Lando found her a few minutes later, sneaking up behind her and sliding a cool bottle of water into her hand. "Hydration for my queen and my princess," he said, lightly.

She took it with a small smile. "You're annoying."

"You're emotional."

"I'm pregnant."

"Yes. I know," he teased, and she elbowed him. Then he pressed his forehead against hers. Just a moment of stillness in the bustle. "We'll do you proud," he said.

"You always do."

"And when you come back, our little girl in tow..."

"I'll be even smarter, and more terrifying."

"Exactly," he said, grinning. Then, a little softer, "You okay?"

She hesitated. Then nodded. "I'm okay. I'm... not not emotional. But I'm okay."

"Do you want me to find you a crying room?"

"Lando."

"I'm just saying. I'm sure there's an empty space around here somewhere."

Despite herself, she laughed. Then, very softly, rested her forehead to his chest, breathing in the smell of fuel and soap and Monaco air.

She didn't cry.

But her throat ached from not doing it.

And when she finally stepped back into the garage to take her place at the pit wall, clipboard in hand and headset secured, the world narrowed in a way she loved — to data, to pace deltas, to strategy windows.

To racing.

Her last Sunday. For now.

And her boys, Oscar and Lando, were about to make it count.

—

The buzz in the pit lane was razor-thin, and under her headset, Amelia could hear her own breathing.

The lights blinked red.

"Five." Four. "Three."

Oscar's telemetry spiked as his revs climbed.

Two. "One." Out.

The cars launched.

"Good launch," Amelia called into Oscar's ear. "Mode five. Hold your line into turn one."

He did — perfectly. Charles swept clean into Sainte Devote, Oscar tucked in behind, and Lando angled sharp around the outside of Hamilton to defend P4. But into Massenet, there was a twitch.

"Contact," came the warning from race control.

Amelia's eyes flicked to the feed — a Ferrari nudged too close. Carlos.

"Oscar. Status?" She asked tightly.

"I think I touched Sainz," Oscar said quickly, voice calm but clipped. "He turned in — we tapped."

She scanned his data; pressures stable.

"Copy. No damage on our end. Carlos has a puncture," came in from strategy.

"Maintain pace," she said. "You're still P2."

Then...chaos.

A screech; gut-churning and metallic — tore through the live feed. The monitor lit up with a yellow. Then double yellow. Then red.

"Red flag. Red flag. Slow the cars and return to the pit lane," came the immediate order from Race Control.

Amelia's stomach dropped. Another monitor showed Perez's Red Bull obliterated at Mirabeau, tangled with both Haas cars. Carbon fibre everywhere. A front wing clinging to a wall.

Amelia's hand tightened instinctively over her bump.

"Is that... all three of them?" Will asked, incredulous.

"What happened?" Oscar asked on the comms.

"Big collision. Perez, both Haas. There's debris everywhere through sector two. They've thrown the red flag so mode seven please, and come straight through to line up in the pit lane."

He exhaled. "Jesus."

"You're clean," she told him. "You did well to defend against Sainz and keep it as clean as possible. Keep your head in it, ducky."

Oscar didn't respond.

She exhaled, slow and controlled.

She glanced down at her bump and pressed her palm lightly against the curve.

Five minutes later, when all of the cars were lined up in the pit-lane and most of the drivers had climbed out, Lando found her.

"You alright?" His voice came quietly from behind. He'd handed of his helmet to one of the engineers in his garage.

"Yeah. I'm fine," she said. "Just didn't want my last one for a while to start like this."

He gave her a small, lopsided smile. "Still a long way to go."

She nodded once. "Yeah."

"Want to go and find some capri suns?" He asked.

She glanced at Will, who nodded as if to say 'Might as well, not like anything's happening here.' So she got up, took Lando's hand, and let him guide her toward the mini fridge in the back of his garage.

—

The paddock was a knot of tension. Mechanics hovered. Engineers tapped frantically on keyboards. Drivers paced.

Amelia stood in the garage, headphones looped around her neck, one hand resting on her lower back. Oscar leaned against the pit wall barrier, helmet off, sipping from a water bottle.

"Fronts are still stable," she said quietly, scanning the screen. "You were holding well into sector three before the red flag."

He nodded. "Do we go back to the grid, or rolling start?"

"Standing restart," Tom said, appearing beside her with a tablet.

Oscar took a deep breath. "Copy."

Amelia's voice dropped, so only he could hear: "Eyes forward. Don't chase Charles — let him cook his tyres. Lando's breathing down your neck, but he won't dive you into Turn One. You've got space to think."

Oscar gave her a crooked smile. "You gonna miss bossing me around?"

"Immensely," she said.

Back on the grid, the tension returned like a rubber band pulled taut. Cameras swiveled. Engines revved. Amelia's screens lit up again — tyre temps, ERS levels, delta charts. She exhaled slowly.

Lights out — again.

Charles launched clean. Oscar slipped ever so slightly — enough to give Carlos and Lando a sniff. But he held P2 into Turn One, Lando defending hard from Hamilton, who wasn't giving up without a fight.

By Lap 36, the order held steady: Charles, Oscar, Lando. No one risking the undercut — it was Monaco, after all. Strategy would come down to patience, tyre life, and sheer mistake-free laps.

Amelia's voice was calm in Oscar's ear: "Keep him honest. Don't push yet — wait for the window. If Charles blinks, we leapfrog him. Otherwise, you're the threat."

Behind them, Lando was making time. Slowly, surgically. Amelia's chest swelled with pride.

She didn't even flinch when he came over the radio to Will, his own engineer. "Tyres still feel good. Let me know if Oscar drops."

Oscar stayed tight. Impressive, really. This wasn't his circuit — but he'd driven like it was.

Then the inevitable: Charles crossed the finish line in P1. Oscar brought it home in P2, and Carlos crossed in P3. Lando missed out on the podium by a hundredth of a second.

Amelia unmuted. "Box, box. That was clinical. Well done."

Oscar whooped through the radio. "Thanks, Amelia. That was unreal. Thanks for—everything."

She smiled, actually smiled, throat tight. "Gonna miss you, ducky. Drive fast as hell for me, alright?"

"Copy that." He said.

Andrea reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "Good job."

"Thanks." She said quietly.

—

She waited by Parc Ferme for Lando to finish being weighed.

He ran straight to her.

"You're done," he said, breathless, wrapping his arms around her.

"I'm done," she echoed, burying her face in his shoulder. "For now."

He kissed her. "I love you so much, Amelia Norris."

"Yeah," she mumbled, blushing. Because she knew for a fact that there was a thousand cameras pointed right at them. "I love you too."

—

Amelia stood near the edge of the pit lane, half-shielded by the shadow of the McLaren garage. Her headset was off. Her hair was tied back. She looked tired — tired, but finally still.

A rustle of footsteps approached behind her, softer than the usual thud of boots or trainers. She turned, and Charles was there.

In a fresh pair of sweats. His face was flushed, hair damp from his dive into the water, but the light in his eyes was quieter now — grounded.

"Amelia," he said gently.

She blinked, then straightened a little.

Charles stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into a hug.

It was warm. Steady. Just tight enough.

Not rushed or awkward, but full-bodied and honest.

"Merci," he said into her hair, voice low and thick. "Merci pour tout."

Amelia hesitated, stunned for a breath, then carefully hugged him back, fingers clutching the fabric of his sweatshirt.

"You made it stick," she said. "Finally."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glinting. "I think maybe... I needed you to tell me that you believed I could."

Amelia's throat tightened. "I didn't do much," she said, voice soft.

Charles shook his head. "You never give yourself enough credit."

She snorted. "That's not true. I know that I'm excellent. I'm just not... sentimental."

His grin spread, warm and crooked. "Just this once." He gave her one more squeeze, then stepped back, nodding toward her bump with quiet reverence. "She's going to be very proud of her mother. One day."

Amelia's smile was small but real. "I hope so."

Charles gave her a parting wink before melting back into the paddock's glow.

—

The restaurant overlooked the water. It wasn't flashy — just candlelight, open windows, and long tables pulled together to fit the team. Plates were passed around. Bottles of wine, soft drinks, sparkling water.

Oscar sat beside Amelia, nudging her knee under the table every so often like he couldn't help himself. Across from them, Lando had changed into a casual shirt, hair still slightly damp from the post-race champagne photo. He kept glancing over at her, soft-eyed and full of pride.

Zak stood and tapped the side of his glass, raising his voice just enough to call the room to attention.

"Right. I think we all know what today meant," he said, smiling faintly. "Charles took the win, but Oscar gave us a hell of a podium and Lando brought it home clean and sharp. Great points for the team." He looked toward Amelia. "But more than that — today was Amelia's last race before maternity leave."

The team clapped — loud and long. There were whistles. Shouts of "legend!" and "go on, mama!" from the mechanics.

Amelia flushed, shifting in her seat.

"She's not just Oscar's engineer," Zak went on. "She's part of why this team found its footing again. You've felt it. I've felt it. She redefined what we thought we could do. And I know — I know — she's going to come back stronger."

Oscar leaned in and whispered, "I'm not ready for Baby Norris to be smarter than me by age four."

"Don't put that pressure on her," Amelia said. "Give her until she's five, at least."

That earned a echo of amused snickers.

Then Tom raised a glass. "To Amelia," he said, smiling. "And to Lando. Congratulations."

Amelia's eyes prickled. She wasn't good at this part. The centre-of-attention part. But she looked around — at the sea of orange and grease-stained fingernails and sunburnt faces. And she felt it. All of it.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the candles burned lower, someone passed her a small envelope. Inside: a card, signed by every team member. Tucked behind it — a folded drawing. A sketch of the McLaren garage. Tiny details included. A crib nestled between the tool chests (which was not going to happen). Her in a headset, baby in a sling. A caption underneath: "When you come back, we'll be waiting with open arms."

She stared at it for a long moment, then slipped it into her bag without a word.

Lando wrapped an arm around her as they left, walking her slowly through the cobbled street, his voice low.

"That was a lot. You doing okay?"

"I'm more than okay," she murmured, leaning into him. "I'm just... trying to remember it all. Every second."

"It'll all be here when come back," he said. "But for now — we've got a baby to get ready for."

She exhaled.

And then she smiled.

—

They were back in England by the Tuesday.

Amelia was sitting in the passenger seat, her iPad on her lap. For once, she wasn't reading sim telemetry or reviewing Oscar's feedback — that was Tom's job now.

She was just... reading. A romance novel. She'd renewed her kindle unlimited subscription for the first time in almost three years.

When the car veered off the familiar road toward a narrow lane nestled between fields, she furrowed her brow.

"This isn't the way to my mums," she said.

"I know," Lando replied, his tone light but unreadable.

"Are we visiting someone?"

"You'll see."

She frowned at him but he just reached over and squeezed her leg.

They pulled up a gravel path flanked by hedges still brushing off their spring blossoms. At the end of it: a gate. New. Black metal. The kind that hummed softly as it opened automatically.

Immediately, she knew where there were.

Could see the blur of the old Manor House in the distance, hidden by the rolling green hills.

Amelia turned to him, heart thudding, eyebrows slowly drawing together. "Lando?"

He glanced at her. Smiled. "Just trust me."

The driveway opened into a wide clearing. Green everywhere. Hills rolling in the distance. And in the centre of it: a house.

A new house.

But not just a new house.

It was...

God.

Holy shit.

It was her house.

Amelia stared at it. White stone, deep-set windows, pale wood accents, red brick roof. A big front-door with a place to kick off muddy boots. Like a conglomeration of the millions of pictures that she'd shown him on sleepy nights.

She was quiet for a long time.

"I don't understand," she whispered wetly.

He got out of the car, came around to open her door. Helped her out gently, hand on her back, then on her belly.

"You told me," he said, "that you felt safest where things didn't echo too much. Where the air didn't feel tight. That you wanted your daughter's first memories to be somewhere soft. This is going to be that place, baby."

She stared up at the house again. "When?"

"When you got pregnant." He scratched his neck, suddenly sheepish. "I— Well, I'd already bought the land. Bought it the first time you sent me the listing. But I only started talking to architects after we found out you were pregnant. Designers. Pietra sent me your Pinterest, by the way. I had to bribe her."

Amelia made a shocked sound somewhere between a breath and a laugh.

"Come inside." He whispered.

Inside, the air smelled like cedar and fresh paint. Light poured through tall windows. There were shelves already filled with books — her books, she realised, when she looked closer. All of the books she'd left at her mom's house in Woking because it would have been ridiculous to ship them all to Monaco. A kitchen with an enormous window overlooking acres upon acres of green, a table big enough for noisy breakfasts and quiet late-night sandwiches. A fireplace in the living room. A crocheted blanket already draped across the back of the couch, ("my nan made it for us," Lando murmured), and Amelia felt like crying.

And then — the nursery.

Creamy white walls. A crib. The exact mobile she'd dreamed of. Tasteful art hung on the walls, pink accents. Calm. Serene. An armchair in the corner. A side table with a lamp that looked like the one from her childhood bedroom — it was, she realised, upon closer look. A window overlooking the hills. Blackout curtains. A chest of drawers packed to the brim with an array of different sizes of nappies and a million packets of wet wipes and a closet that was full to the brim with the suitcases worth of baby clothes that she'd been buying and having delivered to her mom's house for the past seven months.

She pressed a hand to her mouth. "You remembered everything."

"You deserve everything."

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I don't even know how to..." She trailed off, too full to finish.

Lando stepped closer and placed her hand against his chest. "You don't need to say anything."

"But I—"

"This is for you, baby. All of it. Forever."

Tears spilled silently down her cheeks.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Welcome home, baby."

NEXT CHAPTER

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alllgator-blood · 14 days ago

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'THE PRICE WE PAID TO KNOW YOU'

(part 3/4)

man I hate when I'm finally lucid enough to beg for the stillness of death, but my mercy killing is interrupted by my brother throwing our little sister across the fucking room with telekinetic demon powers.....shamura must feel so inconvenienced right about now >:(

ANYWAY I mentioned before that this comic is kind of a redraw of something I made last year, and I've decided to drop it off beneath the cut so it doesn't just languish in my files 5ever. I thought it was too sad to finish + post back then but clearly that doesn't stop me anymore

(QUICK CONTEXT: I never finished the sketches for the first panels where it shows the gang drawing together and having presumably a good time, so the scribbles on the paper in this next panel were intended to show up in the beginning.)

I can't tell how I feel about this one in comparison to the new one. I like the new one a lot more, but honestly the sudden transition from sitting around like :3 and suddenly begging for help is a lot more disturbing than the slow descent, I feel? Plus in my experience it's usually that abrupt. Old people will sit around all chill and suddenly be like "you know, I haven't wanted to be alive in 15 years....." and you're like 🤠 "what"

There's actually a SECOND COMIC like this where shamura tries doing it themself and heket stops them, but I didn't get too far on that one. Might throw it in the description of the next one because I reused one of the lines from it for this

#cw gore #cw blood #cult of the lamb #cotl bishops #heket #shamura #kallamar #angst #comic

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unusualtfs · 10 months ago

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The Roommate Compatibility Program

this is my first time posting something like this to tumblr, hope it's an enjoyable read !

Arthur and Jimmy may have had the same last name, but that was the only thing they had in common.

Arthur Lee was, by all accounts, a nerd. When the Asian math major wasn’t dutifully taking notes on complex equations at his lectures or studying in silence at the library, he could usually be found holed up in his dorm, gaming until the wee hours of the morning. His only extracurricular activity to speak of was his weekly participation in the Chinese Student Union, if by “participation” one meant “sitting in the back of the room and not speaking to anyone.” His naturally pale skin was made even more so by a lack of sunlight, and his messy black hair resisted any attempt at styling. Short, shrimpy, and gay, he had clearly never seen the inside of a gym. In short, he was the exact opposite of his roommate.

Jimmy Lee was everything Arthur was not. Tall where Arthur was short, buff where Arthur was skinny, popular where Arthur was friendless. The straight white jock spent his days living out the all-American college fantasy — playing sports, pumping iron, and partying all night long. Of course, that hardly left any time for Jimmy to work toward his comms degree — but that hardly mattered, because everyone knew he was as dumb as a bag of rocks. His brutish Neanderthal features, extensive body hair, and blond buzz cut only added to that impression.

Maybe it would have been unrealistic to expect Arthur and Jimmy to be friends, but certainly no one could have anticipated the sheer antipathy that defined their roommate relationship. Arthur’s reasons for hating Jimmy were predictable — he was dumb, loud, and obnoxious; he left dirty clothes and sweaty exercise gear everywhere; and he stank up the dorm with his alpha musk. Jimmy equally couldn’t stand his prissy, prudish roommate. Arthur nagged him constantly, and he shot down all his invitations to work out or go out. Not to mention, he forbade Jimmy from getting laid while he was in the room, which was all the time. Nothing said unsexy like the presence of a judgmental Asian nerd hunched over his gaming PC at two in the morning.

Needless to say, it was not an ideal situation for anyone. So when a flier for the Roommate Compatibility Program was slipped under their door one evening, their interest was piqued.

Having issues with your roommate(s)? The Roommate Compatibility Program is here to help! Our trained experts use scientifically proven methods to ensure you and your roommate have a lifelong bond. 100% success rate, guaranteed!

In a rare moment of agreement for them, they decided they had nothing to lose.

That was how they found themselves entertaining a stranger in their dorm the next day. The man, who had introduced himself as “Mr. Thompson-Filipowski, from the RCP — but you can call me Mr. T.F. for short” had shown up out of the blue, giving them no time to prepare. So now they sat in their respective beds, answering Mr. T.F.’s questions as he appraised their living space thoughtfully. He wore a loud blue suit and had in hand a clipboard that he occasionally used to jot down notes, but otherwise he had no distinguishing features to speak of. Everything else about him, from his build to his skin tone to his hairstyle, was somehow impossible to pin down. He must have just had one of those faces.

“Thank you, boys,” he said after he was done interrogating them about their (lack of a) relationship. “I just have one more question for each of you before we can officially get started.” He turned to Jimmy first. “Jimmy, what would your ideal roommate be like?”

Jimmy had to think for quite a bit at that question. Finally, he responded in his vapid baritone: ��Uh, I dunno… I guess he would just, like, be my bro.”

Mr. T.F. nodded, scribbling something on his clipboard. “Okay, excellent.” He turned to the Asian nerd next. “And Arthur, what about you?”

“My ideal roommate would be someone who’s, well, similar to me,” Arthur said, wincing at how his voice still cracked at every word. “Someone who shares my interests, and who I can spend time with, and… yeah.”

Mr. T.F. returned to his clipboard. “Right,” he said. “So, to summarize — Jimmy, you want your roommate to be your bro. And Arthur, you want your roommate to be similar to you. Is that correct?” There was a strange weight to his words, exuding the sense that something significant was carried within them, but Jimmy didn’t register this and Arthur thought it irrational, so both roommates ignored it. They nodded.

“Excellent!” Mr. T.F. said, the ominous presence now gone from his voice. “Okay, so often what we’ve found at the RCP is that roommate incompatibility is often a case of misapplied expectations. Often, our roommates do meet our expectations, you just need to keep an open mind about it. I’d wager you boys have much more in common than you think.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and Jimmy audibly scoffed at that, but they both kept listening anyway.

“For instance, looking around your dorm room, I can tell that both of you have a pretty similar fashion sense, wouldn’t you say?”

Arthur wanted to protest that all of the clothes strewn about belonged to Jimmy, not him, but the more he looked, the more he realized that wasn’t entirely true. That jersey on the floor definitely belonged to him, as did the baseball cap hanging from his bed and the sweaty white socks next to his desk. In fact, now that he thought about it, roughly half of the clothing he could see actually was his. Huh, he supposed he did dress similarly to Jimmy, then…

“I guess so,” Jimmy said as Arthur was distracted. “It’s hard to remember whose is whose sometimes because we dress the same and wear the same size, huhuh.”

As Jimmy spoke, his words became reality. He didn’t notice, but he shrunk down a few inches from his previously monstrous height until he was just under six feet — still respectable, but no longer anything more. Meanwhile, Arthur rose dramatically to meet him, until they stood at the exact same height. Since the two were equally small and shared the same taste in schlubby, sporty clothes, they essentially owned one wardrobe between them, borrowing and swapping constantly — although what looked tight and well-fitted on the muscular Ajimmy was loose and baggy on the lanky Jarthur. Curiously, the shirt Jarthur currently wore was the one item of clothing he wore that didn’t update itself to match his new reality; as such, it was now uncomfortably small on him.

Mr. T.F. continued, “And judging by the sports gear and gaming equipment in here, it looks like you also have similar interests, isn’t that right? Have you ever tried bonding over that?”

Again, it seemed Mr. T.F. was mistaken. Yes, their room indicated their respective interests in fitness and video games, but those interests were far from shared. Jarthur wanted to correct him, but then he had to reconsider. While he wasn’t into sports like Ajimmy, he certainly knew his way around them. He got as hyped as any other guy watching the Super Bowl, and he had fun whenever he was invited to play a quick game of basketball or soccer.

Meanwhile, Ajimmy was trying not to laugh at the implication that he liked video games. What did Mr. T.F. take him for, some nerd like Jarthur? But now that he thought about it… he did have fond memories of owning his bros with his mad gaming skills. He didn’t really want to call himself a gamer — he wasn’t into any of that anime or Nintendo kiddie shit. But Madden, CoD? Yeah, he fucked with those.

Imperceptibly, the dorm room shifted to match the roommates’ changing interests. Posters of popular players duplicated themselves from Ajimmy’s side of the room and pinned themselves into the wall above Jarthur’s bed. At the same time, the gaming computer vanished from Jarthur’s desk, swiftly replaced by a small TV between their beds. Well-used controllers popped into existence, one for each of them. The roommates themselves weren’t spared from the wave of changes, either. The tan leached out of Asjimm’s skin until he was quite pale, although not unhealthily so. Meanwhile, muscles made themselves known for the first time all across Joethur’s body. He was still lanky, but there was a definite sculptedness to his body that had never been there before, demonstrating his newfound appreciation of physical activity and straining his shirt even further.

“Yeah, all the time,” Joethur responded to Mr. T.F.’s questions. “I can destroy Asjimm at basketball in real life and in 2K,” he bragged.

“As if!” Asjimm retorted good-naturedly. “Next time, I’m kicking your ass, nerd!”

Joethur laughed. He may have had some problems with his roommate, but their shared competitiveness was not one of them.

“Ah, that’s lovely to hear,” Mr. T.F. said, checking a box on his clipboard. “The best way to become closer is to spend time together, after all. But that should be easy for you two — I’d imagine your class schedules are quite similar, since you’re in the same major.”

What was Mr. T.F. talking about? Joethur had never taken a comms class in his life, and Asjimm would certainly never be caught dead in a math classroom. But then Joethur went over his class schedule in his head again, and he realized that he did share most of his classes with his roommate. There was Accounting 101 on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Entrepreneurship every Thursday morning… In fact, aside from Joethur’s one math class and Asjimm’s lone comms class, their schedules were identical! But how could that be the case…?

“Well, I mean, yeah, I guess we do,” Asjimm said. His face twisted into a cocky smirk. “But just between you and me, it’s not like we bother to show up to class most of the time, right Joethyr?”

Everything suddenly snapped into place for Joethyr. Ausjim was right, of course — being a business major required confidence, charisma, and leadership skills more than anything else, and both Joethyr and Ausjim had that in spades. It certainly didn’t require studying or smarts, which was fortunate for Joethyr, as his brain was rapidly shrinking to match his meatheaded roommate’s. In fact, it was even smaller than Ausjim’s — he had scored highly enough in high school math that he was able to take an elective comms class for an easy A this semester, while Joethyr was being forced to struggle through calculus for a second time.

Records across campus rapidly rewrote themselves to reflect this new reality. Ausjim’s grades rose slightly, even as Joethyr’s GPA dropped from a 4.0 to a 2.0 — but whatever, C’s got degrees. In turn, the two roommates underwent their own changes. Joethyr’s unkempt hair retreated into his skull, leaving behind a slick fade. Moreover, the spark of intelligence retreated from his eyes, leaving them dark and hard. Ausjim’s hair experienced the opposite change, growing out into an impeccably groomed quiff that perfectly framed his face, neutralizing his unattractive Neanderthal features. His body hair also faded into nothingness, leaving him totally clean-shaven. The business classes he was taking had taught him the importance of presentation, after all.

“Yeah, bruh,” Joethyr agreed, now speaking in the same vacant timbre as Ausjim.

“Well, how do you boys spend your time then?” Mr. T.F. prompted. He was nearly at the bottom of his checklist — this far into the process, he didn’t even need to guide the roommates’ transformation. Their new personalities had largely subsumed who they used to be, and would be happy to fill the remaining gaps by themselves.

“Isn’t it obvious, bruh?” Ausjim said. “The gym — duh! Gotta get those gains!”

At his roommate’s proclamation, Joethy underwent a startling change. At last, his muscles ballooned all across his body until they were identical in size to Ausjim’s. No longer did he have to settle for merely toned — he was well and truly ripped. So dramatic was the change that his shirt was instantly torn apart, revealing his glorious pecs and washboard abs for the world to see. The Asian hunk subconsciously flexed as he thought about his answer to Mr. T.F.’s question, realizing something funny in the process.

“Hell, we probably even spend more time at the Chinese Student Union than class, right bruh?” Joethy nudged his equally jockish roommate.

The word “Chinese” resonated in Ausjin’s mind as he experienced sudden changes of his own. His lush hair was quickly thickening and inexorably staining itself midnight black. And as for the rest of his body, his lack of hair down there became much easier to maintain, as he naturally had less of it. Meanwhile, his facial features were shifting all at once — brow softening, nose broadening, eyes narrowing, lips plumpening. Eventually, they settled on what the rest of his body had already become — a carbon copy of his roommate.

“Yeah, bro, totally…”

At the word “bro,” the roommates’ final changes began. The physical refinements were over, but there was still work to do mentally. Ausjin’s brain was purged of the faces of his former family, their white features morphing into far more familiar Asian ones. Fond memories shifted as his mother’s famous meatloaf became her authentic dumpling recipe, and the destination of his childhood summer vacations was corrected from Europe to China. Through it all, he remained the dumb, popular jock he had always been. That was also true of Joethy, who could no longer remember being a lame, skinny nerd. Nights spent studying were replaced with nights spent partying, and members of an extensive social circle easily entered the parts of his brain that had never experienced true friendship. His memories of his family remained the same, however — with one key addition. The newcomer’s face was blurry, but the more that he focused on it, the more familiar it seemed. Almost like… his own face…? Or was it Ausjin’s face? That seemed closer, but…

By Joethy’s side, Ausjin found his memories haunted by an identical face. The two jocks sat there in dumbfounded silence, both trying to recall who it was that featured so prominently in their memories. What was his name? Not Joethy or Ausjin, but rather… rather…

“Joey! Austin!”

Joey and Austin Lee snapped back to attention, refocusing on their strange guest.

Mr. T.F. chuckled, putting his clipboard away. “You boys zoned out there for a sec! It’s okay, I’ll get out of your hair soon. I just have one last question for you — are you getting along as roommates?”

“Well, of course we’re getting along, bruh!” Austin exclaimed.

“We’re basically the same person already!” Joey finished his twin’s sentence with a pure, dull guffaw.

Because it was true. Joey and Austin Lee were clearly cut from the same cloth: The identical twin Asian jocks were both brainless, buff, bisexual business-major bros. The only appreciable difference between the twins was their hairstyles. Austin fancied himself a pretty boy, spending hours by the mirror meticulously maintaining his gelled hair. Joey, meanwhile, rocked a utilitarian crew cut, confident enough to put his angelic face on full display. But other than that, they were totally inseparable — everything they did, from working out to gaming to partying, they did together. (Rumor had it that they even fucked together, only bringing a lucky girl or guy home when he or she was willing to share.)

“Great to hear that! Thanks for participating in our Roommate Compatibility Survey, you two — although I don’t know what results we were expecting from twins like you… Anyway, have a great one!” As Mr. T.F. exited the room, he allowed himself one last glance back at the Lee twins as they mindlessly bantered. Both of them had certainly gotten their wishes. Joey was exactly like Austin, and Austin was exactly like Joey, and they were certainly each other’s bros — in both senses of the word. Another success for the Roommate Compatibility Program.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Mr. T.F., the Lee twins promptly forgot he had ever existed, returning to their existences as paragons of young Asian American masculinity.

“So, what’s the plan for today, bro?” Austin said. “Hit the gym, then hit the streets?”

Joey smirked, admiring himself and his twin in the mirror. “You know me so well, bro!”

#male transformation #male tf #racial change #race change #personality change #mental transformation #jock tf #twinning tf #broification #jockification #dumber tf #gay to bi #straight to bi

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lilsmv1 · 1 year ago

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orange cat - OP81

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader

Summary: What happens your neighbour's adorable orange cat starts to pay you daily visits?

Word count: 1k

London welcomed me with its perpetually gray skies and damp weather, a stark contrast to the sunny shores of California I had left behind. As I settled into my new apartment, I couldn't help but feel a pang of homesickness for the warmth of home.

For the first few weeks, I hardly saw my neighbours, lost in the shuffle of unpacking and adjusting to my new surroundings. But one persistent visitor soon made himself known – a vibrant orange cat that would perch itself on my windowsill, peering into my living room with curious eyes.

At first, I found it amusing, but as the days went by and the cat became a regular fixture, I grew concerned. Surely, someone must be missing their furry friend. So, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I scribbled a quick note on a yellow post-it, explaining the situation and tucking it under my neighbor's door. "Your cat seems to be visiting me often," I wrote. "Just wanted to let you know in case you're worried."

Days passed, and I received no response. I wondered if my neighbor had even seen the note or if they simply didn't care about their wandering pet.

But then, one evening, there was a soft knock on my door.

Opening the door, I found myself face to face with a handsome young man, his expression sheepish yet friendly. He held a small box in his hands, the smell of freshly baked pastries wafting from within.

"Hey, sorry to bother you," he began, his accent unmistakably Australian. "I'm Oscar, your neighbor from next door. I just wanted to apologize for my cat bothering you. And, well, to say thank you for looking out for him."

I couldn't help but smile at his genuine demeanor. "No problem at all, your cat is lovely, I was simply worried you might wonder where he was" I replied, accepting the box of pastries. "I'm glad to finally meet you, Oscar" I replied, introducing myself as well.

"Do you maybe wanna come in? I can make us some tea or coffee and we could eat the pastries you brought?" I added.

"I would love that!" replied Oscar with a warm smile.

From that moment on, Oscar and I struck up an unexpected friendship. We bonded over our shared love for his cat and baked goods, finding comfort in each other in the big city of London, so far from our respective homes. Oscar told me all about his work as a Formula One driver, and I could not help but be in awe of how passionate he was. I, on the other end, told him about the teaching opportunity that got me to move here, and I would often tell him cute stories from my classroom.

As weeks turned into months, our friendship deepened. Oscar proved to be not only a generous neighbor but also a reliable friend. Whether it was helping me fix a leaky faucet or lending a hand with heavy groceries, he was always there when I needed him.

Our weekly movie nights, whenever Oscar wasn't out of the country, became a cherished tradition, a welcome break from our everyday lives. We'd take turns picking films, debating over classics and hidden gems late into the night.

But amidst the laughter and camaraderie, I couldn't ignore the growing feeling in my chest whenever I saw Oscar. He was kind, funny, and undeniably attractive – qualities that drew me in despite my best efforts to keep my distance.

One day, as I scrolled through Twitter during a lazy afternoon, I stumbled upon something that caught me off guard. Pictures of Oscar, smiling brightly alongside a beautiful girl with long blonde hair.

A pang of jealousy shot through me, surprising in its intensity. I realised then, with startling clarity, that my feelings for Oscar ran deeper than I had initially thought. But it was too late – I was now pretty sure he was already taken, and I had no right to interfere.

Unable to shake off my newfound jealousy, I began to distance myself from Oscar, avoiding our usual interactions and retreating into solitude. But my sudden coldness did not go unnoticed.

One evening, there was a sharp knock on my door, and when I opened it, there stood Oscar, his expression a mixture of frustration and concern.

"What's going on with you?" he demanded, his voice tinged with hurt. "You've been acting strange lately, and I want to know why."

"I'm not" I replied defensively.

"Come on, don't give me that bullshit" replied a rather angry Oscar. "You've been avoiding me. Have I done something?" he asked, his voice laced with vulnerability.

I hesitated, the weight of my emotions heavy in the air between us. But then, with a surge of courage, I found myself blurting out the truth.

"I... I think I'm in love with you, Oscar," I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. "And seeing you with someone else... it hurts more than I thought it would."

For a moment, there was silence, the tension palpable. But then, to my surprise, Oscar stepped forward, his eyes burning with intensity.

"God, you can be so dense sometimes" he breathed

"Hum, excuse me?" I replied, clearly offended.

"The girl you're talking about, that's my new PR manager."

"Oh..."

"I thought I was being fairly obvious as to how I feel about you." he said softly, reaching out to cup my face in his hands.

And with that, he closed the distance between us, his lips meeting mine in a heated and passionate kiss, leaving me breathless.

#oscar piastri #op81 #op81 x reader #op81 imagine #op81 fluff #op81 fic #formula 1 #formula one #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri fluff

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sturnsstar · 5 months ago

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Love you goodbye ✶ Chris Sturniolo

⋆.˚pairing: fem!reader x Chris

⋆.˚warnings: unresolved angst, smut, p in v, fingering, jerking off, breaking up, lots of crying, bullying from fans

⋆.˚requested: no

⋆.˚summary: You couldn’t take it anymore. The hate from his fans was slowly breaking you. So you decided to leave him, even though it shattered your heart. But you were selfish, needing one last night with Chris, a final memory before walking away.

⋆.˚wc: 2.5k

P.S. english is not my first language

The room was silent, save for the sobs you were desperately trying to subside. You turned your head to look at the boy beside you, his eyes were as red as yours. But it was for the best, you kept telling yourself. This was the inevitable conclusion to your - whatever it was - you had with Chris.

You just couldn’t do it anymore. The hateful comments, the constant remarks about how much of a loser you seemed compared to Chris. They left you scarred. You loved him, you really did, but this love was destroying you. You tried to push all the hate aside to be with Chris and make him happy. But it became too much. You were always insecure about yourself: your looks, your sometimes too strong personality. But with Chris, it all made sense. It all seemed right. His fans didn’t think of it that way, though.

It all started with a few comments under your posts on Instagram, comments that made you private your account. Next, there were the DMs, some of them laughable threats, others that made your hands shake. Then, there were the edits. Pics of you with your face scribbled out, cruel captions all around. Hateful comments flooding under his posts with you. At first, you told yourself not to look, not to care. But it was everywhere.

Finally, you started to hear snickers when you walked on the streets or inside shops. You thought you were going crazy, but no. Whenever you turned around, a group of girls would pretend nothing was happening, smirks on their faces. You weren’t sure if you were imagining it, or if people were actually following you. You started to be paranoid when walking alone at night, any car passing next to you making you jolt, making you wonder if you were right.

That’s when you broke down in front of Chris. One evening, he found you in a mess of tears at his front door. You remembered his worried expression, his warm hands pulling you against him as he cradled you in his arms while you let out all your frustrations. He had felt miserable. And angry, so angry. He couldn’t understand why people hated you. They didn’t even know you! That’s what he told you, kissing your temple as you curled up against him on his bed that night, dried tears streaking your cheeks. You managed to calm down, your breathing easing as you listened to his heartbeat against your ear.

But it never stopped. Not when you deactivated your account, not even when you stopped going out if not to work. You were becoming the shell of your former self. Your friends had stopped reaching out when you wouldn’t answer them. You felt so alone, and you knew your troubles were taking a toll on Chris too. So you finally made your decision.

“It’s better this way” you whispered, hearing a sniff from the boy beside you, his hand seeking yours. He didn’t look at you, his expression hidden by his hair and his other hand on his face.

“I can fix this,” he said, shaking his head, “I can make a statement, or a video, or-”

“Chris” you interrupted him, squeezing his hand. “I won’t let you ruin your image for this.”

He sighs, defeated. “This” he repeated, baffled. “Our relationship, you mean?” his voice is husky, slightly croaky from the tears.

“Yes,” you nodded, bringing his hand to your lips and kissing the back of it, hearing him inhale sharply.

“I’m sorry-”

“What did I do wrong?” he interrupted, finally lifting his head and turning to look at you, his expression desperate. It broke your heart to see him like that. You felt your tears start to well up once again but you gulped them down, knowing you needed to be strong for this.

“You did absolutely nothing wrong,” you said softly. “You were perfect.” you tried to smile at him.

“Were” he repeated, biting his lip, “already using the past tense” he huffed.

“Don’t make this hard” you whispered, letting go of his hand and bringing your knees up to your chest, hiding your face against them. He sighed again, and you felt the mattress you were sitting on shift, his body weight lifting from it. You opened your eyes once you felt his hands grab your calves, finding him on his knees on the ground in front of the bed.

“Please, baby” he whispered, his voice hoarse, as his hands pulled your legs down, positioning himself between them. His arms circled your waist as he rested his head against your torso. Your hands instinctively went to his hair, caressing the soft curls gently as he inhaled softly. You lifted your head and blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears as you saw just how wrecked he looked.

“Don’t you see?” you whispered as he shook his head, burying it more against your chest. “What’s the sense of being together if we both suffer like this?” you asked, tugging slightly on his curls so that he would look up at you. His expression was unreadable.

“You’d be much better off without me,” you said finally, biting your lip as you realized how true that statement was. Chris furrowed his brows, his lips twisted in a grimace. Then, without answering you, he surged forward, making you yelp as your back hit his mattress with his momentum. He was on top of you, his eyes sought yours before he leaned down, soft lips grazing yours.

“Don’t say that again” he murmured before shutting your possible protests with a kiss. His lips were soft against yours, but you could feel how much he was holding back by the way his hands were gripping your hips to keep you in place, to make sure you were there with him.

You broke the kiss tilting your head to the side, hearing him groan as his head bent down against your exposed neck, seeking your warmth, some possible reaction to his touch. Just something — anything — to show him you weren’t sure of your decision. His fingers trembled against your skin, desperation clear in his gaze. But he was met with silence. Chris’s voice broke as he whispered, “Please… don’t do this.”

“I have to go” you tried to push him off you, knowing you needed to put an end to this now, even if the thought alone was destroying you. He shook his head, his grip not faltering, as he whimpered against your neck. Your arms acted on their own, pulling his body impossibly closer to yours, a big contrast with your words.

“Stay with me” he begged, his tongue darting out to lick a stripe up your neck, teeth gently biting your lobe. “You can’t just- you can’t just leave” he pleaded against your ear, hot breath making you shiver.

You knew what you were doing was wrong. You were giving him hope that you’d eventually change your mind, even though you had already made your decision. But you were selfish when it came to him. You were greedy for his attention, for his love. Still, you made one last attempt.

“I’ll– I’ll leave in the morning” you yelped when he bit down hard on your neck, his intentions clear. No more talking. You sighed as you cradled his face in your hands, your thumb gently caressing his bottom lip. He wasn’t looking at you, his gaze elsewhere, but you knew he was angry. Still, he didn’t protest when you brought his lips against yours, seeking his tongue as you opened your mouth for him. Chris grunted, breathing through his nose as his hands went down to the zip of your jeans, hastily trying to take them off.

You frowned but complied, helping him get rid of them. He was still not looking at you, his attention on his pants now, swearing loudly because he couldn’t get them off fast enough. You called him softly, but he still refused to lift his head. More tears fell from your eyes, a sob escaping your lips. His head immediately lifted, an alarmed expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked gruffly, stopping his movements altogether.

“Just…” you stuttered, your hands quickly wiping away your tears.

“I don’t want our last time to be like this” you murmured, feeling your cheeks flush. He stared at you for a moment, eyes softening. He nodded, his arms circling your waist and pulling you closer until your chest was pressed tightly against his, your back arching.

“Sorry,” Chris mumbled, his thumb drawing circles on the bare skin of your hip. His lips left gentle kisses on your jaw. You closed your eyes, savoring your last moments together, trying to absorb all his warmth and love. Chris was so full of it, always eager and giving, never expecting anything in return. His touch, his words, they were everything you had always wished for, and everything you knew you had to walk away from.

You both took your time, each of you getting rid of the other’s clothes. First your top, then his sweatshirt, and finally your bra. His eyes took in your bare body under his, hands gently touching you like it was the first time. You squirmed under his gaze, feeling his eyes burn your skin. Your arms shoot out to pull him closer, to feel the hard planes of his chest against your gentle curves. His hips started to move against yours, agonizingly slow, making you think this was some sort of torture — one of the best kinds.

“Chris” You mewled against his ear, panting slightly from the effort of lifting your hips to meet his, the delicious friction of his clothed tip bumping against your clit making you curl your toes in pleasure, your eyes squeezing shut. He hummed against your shoulder, his arm moving until his hand was pressed against your clothed center, agile fingers pulling your underwear aside so that his thumb could find your aching clit, circling it with practiced ease. You threw your head back, hips lifting off the bed to chase that feeling.

The pleasure was doubled once you felt his long digit slowly enter you, stretching you out in the best way possible. You lifted your head, kissing his jaw, cheeks, and nose, trying to convey how much he meant to you. How much you were hurt by the thought of leaving him. He closed his eyes at your affections, breathing through his nose, trying not to cry again. His finger inside you was soon accompanied by a second one, hitting places deep inside you that made you see stars.

Your hand palmed him through his boxers, making him hiss at the sudden contact. You pulled the material down his legs, and he helped you kick them off somewhere in the dim lit room. You resumed your ministrations, quickly finding a rhythm you knew he liked, using the precum oozing out of his tip as lube, your languid strokes making him groan and finger you harder, trying to piston his fingers at the same speed you were jerking him off.

But that wasn’t enough for either of you, and you both knew it. He gently eased his fingers out of your hole, and you stopped your movements too, trying to spread your legs wider to welcome him in, caressing his cheek and the little creases in his forehead, the frown softening as he locked eyes with you.

You both sighed in relief once he was inside you, his body completely still as he took you in, his right hand on your hip as his left kneaded your breast, rolling your pert nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Your breathing was ragged, the urge to feel him move too strong. You tried to lift your hips to have him deeper inside you, but he didn’t budge.

“Chris?” You asked unsure, moving his hair out of his face. He was out of his reverie then, his eyes refocusing on you, on the situation, starting to rock his hips against yours. Slowly at first, gaining speed and force with every second. You whined against his shoulder as he pressed down against you, bodies flush against one another, his hips the only thing moving steadily. You felt so connected to him in that moment, completely intertwined and safe in his embrace. It was a fleeting sensation, one that would fade as soon as this was over.

“Say you won’t leave” His voice made you stop your train of thought, whipping your head so that you were looking at him. You didn’t know what to say, so caught up in the moment you almost forgot this was a goodbye. His yearning graze searched yours as if your answer could somehow change. You felt your heart break into a million pieces, knowing whatever you said would tear both of you apart. Instead, you kissed him, hard and demanding, swallowing his groans and all his pleading words. All the things that could make you falter. All the things that could make you change your mind. He sighed but didn’t stop his punishing pace, cradling your face in his hands as he forced your eyes to meet his, not letting you escape the raw pain he was experiencing, a big contrast to the immense pleasure of being inside you.

“I love you” You said instead, your walls squeezing his cock as your orgasm approached, your vision blurry from the pleasure. Chris grunted in response, doubling his efforts to bring you both to your peaks, determined to make this last time count. To make you remember him. But how could you ever forget?

With a shuddering cry you finally felt the knot on your belly snap, legs spasming around his waist as you came undone under him. Chris soon followed you, his face nestled in the crook of your neck, soft kisses planted on your sweaty skin as he painted your walls with his cum, marking you, making you his, one last time.

You laid there for a moment, not breaking your intimate embrace. With a sigh, Chris slowly pulled out of you, laying down next to you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He turned on his side towards you, his arm wrapping around your middle and keeping you against him, his breath growing steady. You closed your eyes for a moment, basking in the afterglow of your lovemaking.

His thumb drew patterns on your bare hip, lips softly kissing the top of your head as he lulled you to sleep. Neither of you moved to put your clothes back on, and you preferred it that way. Under the blankets, the light from the bedside table lamp was the only light that created shadows on his handsome face. His blue eyes flicked to your face, as if memorizing your features, the feel of you, as if holding onto you for a little longer. You couldn’t scold him for it, since you were doing the same thing. You didn’t talk, no more words left to say. Chris was hopeful – maybe you’d see reason tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep next to him, where you belonged.

But when Chris woke up the next morning, your side of the bed was cold and empty, as if you had never been there at all.

Comments are highly appreciated! :)

#sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo angst #chris sturniolo smut #chris x reader #sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets x reader #sturniolo angst #sturniolo smut

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caldella · 16 days ago

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HB S3 Crack Theory: What if its Focus on Addiction is as Much About Loona as it is Stolas?

AKA: We want Stolas and Loona to bond, and this would be a way to have that while HB breaks our hearts as usual. A very long almost 3k post, and a theory based on little show clues which might be very wrong but won't escape my brain.

TW: Alcoholism, binge drinking. CW: Vomiting

So I've had this theory floating around in my head since the HB team said that S3 will focus on family and addiction. I'll admit it is very much a crack theory, so don't @ me that it seems like I'm basing this off really meager clues. I'm aware! That's kind of how crack theories are.

Theory:

Stolas does indeed have an alcohol problem, but Loona has a more concealed, more consistent one and will be the individual in the Stolitz family who actually needs support. Stolas will surprisingly be the one to discover it and get her to open up about it.

Why Do I Think Loona Might Have an Alcohol Problem?

Because HB as a series has a habit of hiding information in small, unaddressed details that have more meaning when you watch them back later. And I've noticed a few things across the two seasons that might be hints...

HINT 1: Past History According to the snotty Hellhound in Queen Bee, Loona has already been puke drunk at parties before, to an extent of being shamed for it. She's already a distant outsider, and it looks like her destructive form of partying made her a laughing stock to some of the Hellhounds. It's also uncertain if her dialogue about being reminded was just trying to distance herself from this asshole, or if she was literally blackout drunk at the previous party and didn't remember it at all.

HINT 2: Brushing Off Self-Destructive Behavior Loona had no concerns with Blitzø chugging the keg of Beezlejuice (which concerned even Bee) and went into denial that he was self-destructing at the party. This could have been just her assuming he was fine all the time - Blitzø always presented himself as bulletproof to the team. It also could've been her usual standoffish attitude, or her trying not to leave the party because she was finally fitting in. OR it could be because she really didn't see a problem with him going this hard, because she's done it before.

HINT 3: Handling Drunks Despite having no current friends and a very loner lifestyle in Queen Bee, she was pretty knowledgeable with how to handle someone extremely drunk. Her previous party experience might've been a one-time thing, or might've been a situation she found herself in more than we knew.

HINT 3: Hiding Alcohol/Casual Day Drinking EDITING IN THIS ONE IN THANK YOU @blitzwhore !!! At the beginning of Ozzie's, Loona was drinking on the job while reading a magazine featuring an article from Verosika, on how binge drinking was sexy.

There was also bottle of booze in Mastermind. This is the one that started the theory for me (because I totally forgot about the Ozzie's one). Loona had a bottle of alcohol hidden in her work desk. She specifically had it in a spot that no one else checks. That drawer was unchecked enough that she had the I.M.P. photo in there where Blitzø wouldn't scribble out his own face. There was no reason for her to have a bottle there unless she planned to drink during the workday (apparently AGAIN, as has now been pointed out to me), maybe when the rest of the crew was out on a mission and wouldn't notice.

HINT 4: Coping with Stress Via Alcohol After the Sinsmas battle, Loona was eager to turn the rest of the Sinsmas celebration to drinking. This could just be her trying to engage in the Sinsmas Hellhound gluttony, or could be a coping method she uses for stress on the regular.

NOT A HINT, BUT HONORABLE MENTION: The concept of Loona being hungover at inappropriate times was an idea they were toying with way back in the pilot episode. The pilot is not canon, and it might be a character trait they decided to scrap. I can't call it a hint. But I can present it as something that was a possibility for her from the start.

If Loona Does Have an Alcohol Problem, Why Wouldn't Blitzø Notice?

There are a few potential reasons:

ROSE-TINTED GLASSES Blitzø insists at basically every turn that Loona is perfect just how she is. He overlooks serious personality flaws and lets her get away with mouthing off to M&M frequently. This love was probably critical to her trusting him as an adoptive father, but it also means he's turned a very blind eye to her genuine faults.

PRIVACY Blitzø is a great and supportive father. He loves Loona unconditionally and wants to be involved in her life. But when he's not slathering her with physical affection and praise, he actually gives her a lot of space. This has probably been critical to her developing trust, but there are entire parts of her life he and the audience never see. We've never seen the inside of her bedroom, which to me is an indication that Blitzø rarely, if ever does either. She's able to go off to Bee's party with little more than a note on her door - no text or anything about where it is - and he doesn't question it. And again, her workspace is respected so much that she has that unscribbled photo of the I.M.P. crew in the top drawer.

Blitzø may have stalked M&M throughout S1 but always gave Loona explicit privacy throughout both seasons. If she has been concealing any problems, it would be a lot easier to do than people realize.

(Personal note, I bring the room and the drawer up because of experience with a close person in my life who hid their alcoholism this way. They would drink at night, hidden in their room, and store alcohol in their closet where it wouldn't be discovered.)

MORE OBVIOUS VS. HIDDEN ADDICTION It'd be dumb to skip over Blitzø's experience with loved ones and addiction. Cash, Barbie, Verosika: he's been around it plenty. But from our limited audience view, these addictions were more obvious. Cash was shown to be drunk and slurring from his first appearance, and Verosika was also drinking in hers. Barbie went straight from rehab to selling drugs from the human world as "honest work." Their addictions/relationship with drugs all show up regularly in their everyday lives.

However, Blitzø in The Circus didn't notice that Stolas had been literally gulping absinthe up until they were face-to-face. He was surprised to see Stolas binge drinking the same way in Apology Tour, as if it was his first time seeing it.

He's also had a long streak of convincing himself other people in his life were 'fine.' Until Apology Tour, it was easier for him to engage with Stolas believing that he couldn't be physically/emotionally hurt. He convinced himself that his shitty breakup tactic with Verosika was excusable until she forced him to realize how much it hurt. While he's been good at hiding his own struggles and self-hatred, he's not been good at recognizing when other people were doing the same.

If Blitzø Wouldn't Notice Loona Had a Problem, Why Would Stolas?

TAKING OVER HER SPACE In taking over Loona's job at I.M.P., Stolas is now using the desk and anything else she previously had. If there's more alcohol stashed, he will run into it. He's also sharing the apartment with her and Blitzø. If there are spaces that have quietly become "Loona's" over the years that Blitzø doesn't touch, he won't realize it. Stolas is also accustomed to everything he does being judged and unaccustomed to taking up space; I'd envision he'd want nondescript places to store items like his diary/smut journal. If Loona had any more alcohol stashed away in places Blitzø doesn't use, it's quite possible Stolas will discover it by accident.

FIRST-HAND EXPERIENCE If Stolas discovers alcohol being hidden around the office or apartment, he'll probably figure out pretty quickly what's going on. He himself is working with a binge drinking problem and knows the signs.

Stolas not only knows what it looks like to have private struggles, but he knows what it looks like when someone is hiding them. He hid his abuse, his depression, and possibly his binge drinking from everyone, even Via, for a good 17-18 years. He's accustomed to being overlooked and concealing personal issues so loved ones don't have to deal with them. He also has very recent experience on how that mentality does more damage in the long run.

Wouldn't Stolas Also Need Help With His Drinking?

Maybe. Recovery is a very individual process based on a person and what options are available to them. With Stolas, his drinking will likely be something he actively struggles not to slide into for a long time, if not forever. But it's uncertain whether or not he will continue the binge drinking. It is obvious going back over episodes that Stolas has an individual drink in hand frequently, so he might have a problem with daily consumption. But his binging seems to only come up specifically as a coping method. He starts by portioning with a single glass/cup and transfers to chugging the glass or a whole bottle when his stress reaches a tipping point. He's accustomed to not being part of 'the fun' and coping with emotional pain while no one else bothers to notice.

However, it seems like he already went between Mastermind and Sinsmas without alcohol. Going cold turkey while also going without his powers or his anti-depressants must have been one fucking combo, but the bottom line is he's likely been sober for weeks or a month as of the end of S2. And when Loona brings out the drinks at the Sinsmas party, he silently excuses himself out of the room. Given his emotional state, he likely knew he would end up binge drinking, so he left to avoid the temptation.

None of this means he's 'over' his alcohol problem or will never fall back to it or need help. Actually, one alternate I'd considered is if HE would try to hide alcohol somewhere and discover Loona's already being hidden. But either way, he's shown awareness that he doesn't want to binge around Blitzø and the I.M.P. crew. Loona turns to alcohol to de-stress in this moment, but Stolas knows it will make him worse and avoids it. Whether or not Stolas will need help in the form of counseling or rehab, he's taken the first steps of recognizing his problem and removing himself from situations that trigger it.

If Stolas Figures Out Loona Has an Alcohol Problem, Wouldn't He Tell Blitzø First?

I really don't think so.

Blitzø is Loona's father, but again, Stolas knows what it's like to conceal issues and how frighteningly vulnerable it makes someone to potentially have them. He's also lived for a good 18 years with Stella, where he had to walk on eggshells and word himself carefully to avoid her anger. His personality approaches situations with scripted wording and attempts to be as unassuming as possible. After the post-Ozzie's conflict with Blitzø, he sent texts trying to talk about what went down, only to back off and assure Blitzø that he was just worried when Blitzø brushed it off. He doesn't like to press issues or make decisions for someone.

He's also used to choices he makes 'for the better' blowing up in his face: the trip to Loo Loo Land, the Full Moon situation, the divorce, the accidental hurt he caused Via, etc. He wouldn't trust himself to make choices for Loona. I'm sure he would want her to tell Blitzø, if his opinion comes up. But if anyone in the Stolitz family would be able to quietly, unassumingly discuss this with her without her feeling like she was being judged or pressured, it would be Stolas. Loona tends to close off at the first sign of judgement or pressure.

And I think Loona would be nervous admitting her problem to Blitzø.

Why Would Loona Be Afraid to Tell Blitzø?

Again, Blitzø is a great father. Despite Loona's anger issues and distant personality, his affections never wavered, and it's clear by the end of S2 the trust between them is basically unbreakable. Blitzø has experience with loved ones having addiction problems and even them needing rehab. He would know the obvious signs of addiction and the treatment process, and he'd want Loona to get better. So, why would Loona hesitate to get him involved?

BLIND AFFECTION Blitzø's unwavering love for Loona might make her uncomfortable opening up about this with him, out of fear that he might blame himself for missing it. She pushed him away a lot in the first season/early S2, but she's always felt she could act however she wanted and they'd be fine. But this is a serious problem, and he could think he failed as a father by missing it and blindly believing in how 'perfect' she was. Loona might have an attitude, but she does love Blitzø. And she's afraid of being abandoned, even if she logically knows Blitzø would never actually abandon her. She could be afraid of being the daughter who failed Blitzø despite his unconditional love, and she wouldn't want him to feel like he let her down that severely.

OVERPROTECTIVE Despite the privacy he gives Loona, Blitzø is prone to overreacting and treating her as younger than her age. If she did have a serious problem like alcoholism, Blitzø would potentially blow his reaction out of her comfort zone and try to enforce drastic steps that she would resist. She has trust and some defiance issues, which would make it difficult to be open to counseling/outside help. She would likely need gentle reassurance to go forward. "Gentle" is something Blitzø is capable of, but not when he's panicked about his precious Looney-Tooney.

And I absolutely can't see Loona doing inpatient rehab, which Blitzø might jump to since his ex-girlfriend and sister went that route. Rehab facilities feel too similar to her isolation at the adoption facility and could dredge up old trauma. We saw how difficult it was just to get her to the hospital for her Hellbies shot. Adult Loona is only as functional as she is because Blitzø gave her a stable home life for the last 5 years. I think a rehab facility would feel like being locked away again: literally the worst thing for her.

PREVIOUS TREATMENT OF ALCOHOLISM Spring Broken was the first time we saw Blitzø interacting with someone facing alcoholism. And it just so happened to be his ex, who he had an antagonistic relationship with. In multiple parts of the episode, he used Verosika's drinking as an insult and shamed her for leaving rehab. If this stuck with Loona, she'd be afraid to open up. Blitzø would never approach her this way, but she could fear that he'd pressure her into rehab until she was "better enough," despite inpatient care being a nightmare for her specific forms of trauma.

Why Would Loona Potentially Discuss This with Stolas?

Again, Stolas has experience trying to word things more gently and privately. And he's typically a follower, not a decision maker. If Stolas discovered that Loona had a drinking problem, his first step wouldn't be to plan what needed done. He would likely ask her what she thought she needed for help. Whether or not they brought the problem to Blitzø would be up to her. Again, he concealed his own abuse and mental health issues for years. He would want her to open up to Blitzø about it, but he doesn't have any room to demand it or decide to tell Blitzø on his own.

Drinking is also a specific issue he's struggling with, and I think he would be willing to divulge that to her, so she doesn't feel so alone. Their backgrounds are drastically different, and hers has more in common with Blitzø's, but she and Stolas have similarities. Both of them know what it's like to grow up friendless, the odd one singled out at events, the subject of derision among their entire social class. If Loona took up drinking to cope with her lasting stress or trauma, Stolas would understand it personally. He also knows firsthand how important Blitzø has been to becoming a better person after that, and how Loona would be afraid of hurting him.

Also, Stolas would likely feel invested in helping. He's probably going into S3 struggling with a feeling of uselessness: he's lost most anything he feels gives worth to anyone else. He doesn't know how to function in normal working reality and probably feels like a complete failure and dead weight. But this is a situation where he might not be useless: where his specific cheering-on-from-the-sidelines support would be exactly what was needed. As stated, he knows the longterm damage that comes from burying personal problems too long. He would not want Blitzø's daughter to go down that route.

It would also be a parallel to Seeing Stars and the end of Sinsmas: Stolas reassuring Loona to keep trying would be a reflection of Blitzø convincing him to keep trying with Via. It would be a reflection of how Loona herself reassured Octavia that Stolas was trying, too. Stolas is someone Loona would be able to open up to without judgement, without drastic emotional responses, and knowing he wouldn't divulge the information to anyone without her permission. Stolitz family bonding, but in that uniquely heartbreaking Helluva Boss way.

Conclusion:

This is just a crack theory and based on admittedly not huge evidence. This could be making a mountain out of a molehill. I'm an expert at reading too much into things. But at least now it's out of my brain! Time will tell what comes for Season 3.

#helluva boss #helluva boss loona #fan theory #crack theory #crack treated seriously #tw: alcohol #tw: alcholism #tw: vomit #cw vomit #cw alcoholism #cw alcohol #tw: addiction #tw: drugs #How TF did I get 2900 words out of this

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ramyrun · 30 days ago

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the opposite of hate

Tags: Enemies to lovers, slow burn, unresolved tension, post-time skip AU, high school setting, mutual pining, sarcasm, emotionally repressed idiots

Word Count: ~3,700

You never really planned on hating Suna Rintarou.

It just sort of happened.

One moment you were minding your business in chemistry class, scribbling notes and adjusting your lab goggles. The next, he was leaning over, squinting at your paper with that deadpan face of his, and saying—

“You spelled ‘reaction’ wrong. Twice.”

You had not.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I mean… unless we’re in a parallel universe where vowels don’t matter, you definitely did.”

Your pencil snapped in half.

You’ve been at war ever since.

It didn’t help that he liked getting under your skin. He’d glance at you whenever he cracked a joke to see if you’d react. You always did. With eye rolls, muttered insults, and the occasional middle finger.

Suna found it hilarious. You found him intolerable.

It would’ve stayed that way if your homeroom teacher hadn’t announced a school-wide creative project and decided—through either sadism or cosmic misfortune—that you and Suna Rintarou should be paired up.

“No refunds, no swaps,” the teacher said cheerfully. “You two will be working together over the weekend. Make it good.”

You stared at Suna in horror. He smirked back.

“Can’t wait,” he said, voice flat as ever.

“Don’t talk to me.”

“Looking forward to our bonding experience.”

You briefly considered transferring schools.

The school provided a winter lodge for the project. Cozy. Isolated. A firepit in the common room. You figured you could survive it as long as Suna stayed on his side of the room.

He did not.

“You’re in my light,” you muttered as he leaned over your half-finished design board.

“I am the light,” he replied, not moving. “Also, this border is uneven.”

“It’s called asymmetry. It’s artistic.”

“It’s giving ‘failed attempt at balance.’”

“It’s giving ‘no one asked you.’”

“Aw, you do care what I think.”

You threw a glue stick at him. He ducked and laughed—actually laughed. You hated how warm it sounded.

You made it three hours before the snowstorm hit.

Thick, heavy flakes battered the windows, and the power cut out just before sundown. The Wi-Fi died with it. You stared at your dead phone. Suna stood beside the fireplace, inspecting the woodpile like he’d done this before.

“Well,” he said, dragging a blanket off the couch. “At least we’re not freezing.”

“Yet.”

“You worried?”

You gave him a look. He held your gaze.

“I’ve survived worse,” you said coolly.

“Same. I’ve worked with you, after all.”

You kicked a pillow at him.

By the firelight, everything softened. Even Suna.

He ditched his hoodie in favor of a plain t-shirt, hair sticking up in that lazy way it always did. You sat cross-legged on the floor, sketching final drafts. He sprawled next to you, one arm behind his head.

“You know,” he said eventually, “you’re not actually bad at this.”

You looked up, confused.

“The project,” he clarified. “Your design stuff. It’s cool. Even if your color choices are a hate crime.”

“Wow. A backhanded compliment. I’m touched.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t. I’ll treasure this moment forever.”

He let out a breath, almost like a laugh. Not quite.

“Why do you hate me, anyway?” he asked suddenly, not looking at you.

You blinked.

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. It’s obvious. You glare at me like I kicked your dog.”

“You act like I am your dog. That’s why.”

He looked at you then, eyes half-lidded, amused.

“You think I treat you like a dog?”

“You whistle at me. You called me ‘scrappy’ in front of the whole class.”

“It was a compliment.”

“How is that a compliment?”

“You fight. You don’t let people walk over you. I respect that.”

Silence.

You swallowed. Looked away.

“You could’ve just said that.”

“You’d have bitten my head off.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The storm didn’t let up.

You both fell asleep by the fire. You on the couch, Suna on the floor, arm tucked under his head. When you woke up, he was already watching you.

“Creepy,” you muttered.

“Comforting,” he replied.

“Debatable.”

“Admit it. You missed me.”

“I dreamed you got buried in an avalanche.”

“Romantic.”

You tried not to smile. Failed.

“We should finish the project,” you said instead.

“Mm. Or we could stare at each other a little longer.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse jumped.

You didn’t expect to like working with him. Not just tolerate it—like it. He was smart. Subtle. He noticed things you missed and challenged your ideas in a way that felt… motivated, not mocking.

You fought, but not in the usual way. Not to win. To sharpen each other.

You built a two-part portfolio: his half minimalistic and dry, yours vibrant and chaotic. The lines connected in the middle.

Contrast. Unity.

When it was finished, you both stood back and stared.

“Huh,” Suna said. “It’s not terrible.”

“Coming from you, that’s high praise.”

“We make a good team.”

You glanced sideways. He wasn’t smirking.

“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “We kind of do.”

He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave you was… different. Less teasing. More real.

It made your heart stutter.

Back at school, people asked how it went. You shrugged. Suna said nothing.

But things changed.

He sat closer in class. Passed you notes with dry commentary. Gave you his pen when yours ran out. Nudged your shoulder in the hallway like it meant something.

And one afternoon, as you closed your locker, you found him leaning against the one beside it.

“Hey,” he said, hands in his pockets. “So.”

“So?”

“If I told you I don’t hate you,” he said, tone light but eyes serious, “would you laugh in my face?”

You stared.

“Probably,” you said.

“Good. Keeps me humble.”

You bit your lip. Smiled.

“I don’t hate you either,” you admitted. “Usually.”

“Usually?”

“Depends how annoying you are.”

He stepped closer.

“Right now?”

“Tolerable.”

Another step.

“And if I kissed you?”

You blinked.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He raised a brow.

“You want to test that?”

Your heart stammered against your ribs. But you didn’t move.

“Go ahead,” you said, voice barely a whisper.

He did.

It was slow, soft, infuriatingly gentle. The kind of kiss that said, I’ve been waiting.

When he pulled back, his hand was still on your cheek.

“Still think I’m the worst?” he asked.

“Definitely.”

He grinned.

“Good. Keeps you humble.”

END

Let me know if you want a continuation, bonus scenes (like a jealous moment or an “accidental sleepover” situation), or a version with a spicier rating!

#suna rintaro x reader #suna rintarou #suna x reader #haikyuu x reader #inarizaki #kita #haikyuu #fluff

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slytherinshua · 1 month ago

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♬　US, FOR THE REST OF OUR LIFE　( 신정환 )

genre fluff , husband!shinyu x fem!reader cw food , not proofread wc 651 request @blue-jisungs for shinyu + burnt toast for the 3k event note this took so long to write cries. i think i rewrote this 3 times at least and finally decided i was done and tired w it so posting it now </3 net @kstrucknet @daydreamnet

You watched Junghwan sheepishly shuffle into your bedroom from under the covers, a breakfast tray in his hand and the smell of coffee and syrup drifting your way. He seemed completely unaware that you were awake yet. The sight was endearing. He was in his baggy sweatpants and a simple white t-shirt, carefully placing the tray down on the side table and breathing a simple sigh of relief. Sometimes, on mornings like this, you couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that it had already been six months since your wedding.

You always dreamed of getting married when you were little, and when you first met Junghwan, you knew he would one day be your husband. But you were still young and navigating your adult life. You didn’t have things figured out, and you certainly couldn’t predict what the future would hold. The one thing you did know, though, was how much you loved Junghwan. Although it felt like yesterday when you were still sitting next to each other in your high school math class, scribbling notes on your graph paper instead of paying attention, you had come a long way the past four years.

You used to impatiently anticipate your adult life back in high school, wishing for your complicated teen years to come to an end quickly. But now that you were in the midst of it all, you could only reminisce how easy everything was back then. There was no pressure to pay the bills and no long work hours that left you exhausted mentally and physically after. Even figuring out what to eat every night had your mind dizzy at times. And you knew Junghwan worked twice as hard to make everything easier on you.

You weren’t sure what time it was now, and you frankly didn’t care either. It was the weekend, and both of you were off work, which was a luxury you hadn’t had in weeks. It was always one of you that had an early morning shift, even if it was Saturday. But with work the last thing on your mind, the only thought in your head right now was your husband. Simply being able to call him that still made your head spin a bit. A dopey smile grew on your face at the thought and you reached out your hand to grasp Junghwan’s wrist, making his head turn to yours, finally realizing that you were awake.

“Good morning,” you said, staring at him with that lovely grin he would never get tired of seeing on your face.

“Afternoon,” he corrected, smiling just as widely as you. His hand squeezed yours as he settled on the side of the bed. “I made us breakfast. Or is it lunch? Either way, care for some french toast?”

He grabbed the plate stacked with steaming pieces of fluffy toast, drizzled with maple syrup and berries, and you sat up, salivating at the sweet smell.

“I burned a few pieces,” he admitted regretfully. “But I’ll eat those ones.”

“I can barely tell they’re burnt,” you pointed out, finding his thoughtfulness endearing regardless. The first bite of warm cinnamon toast, tart berries, and sweet syrup bursted with flavour in your mouth, and you hummed in satisfaction.

Junghwan stared at you fondly, committing everything to memory as if the moment was too precious to let it slip away from his grasp. He was always taken by your beauty, whether it was a slow weekend morning or the day of your wedding. You always looked like an angel in his eyes. Your messy hair, bare face, and baggy clothes did nothing to take away from your excited eyes at eating his food, and it warmed his heart knowing you would be there next to him for the rest of his life. You would be a team through all the highs and lows of life. That was marriage, after all.

tws taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @eternalgyu,, @seunghancore,, @sobun1est,, @talkingsaxy,, @50-husbands,, @hursheys,, @imyuna-06,, @mjupis,, @stannwjnss,, @nonononranghaee,, @fr4ncehere,, @dohynjae,, @cupidslovearrows,, @i03jae,, @kangtaehyunzzz,, @tmrwsuns

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callme-naomi · 22 days ago

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The Science of Soft Spots

A Megumi Fushiguro x Reader fanfic

Summary: High school was boring for nearly every student - be it delinquent or genius. When the time came to choose the elective subjects, you blindly decided to go after science, and so did another boy, blissfully unaware of how this single decision would bring the both of you in one path. In this life of facts and uncertainties, one thing is certain: you were meant to be together.

Not canon compliant.

Naomi's notes: Hello everyone, I present to you my another long-fic! I just happened to like the idea of Megumi being a science student, and here you go!

Thanks for reading! I'm always open to requests. Do let me know what you think about it. Your likes and comments mean the world to me <3

Word count: 7.9k

Choosing additional sciences as an optional subject in high school was the most beneficial decision Megumi Fushiguro ever made. Apart from choosing to go with Gojo Satoru (only for Tsumiki’s sake), but now he seriously doubted if it will end with him going insane.

He had always liked sciences, and here there wasn’t anyone to disturb him and be an obstacle in his studies. Or rather, nobody had the guts to.

Firstly, everyone was in awe of the kid who never spoke but always scored the highest grades, who also happened to be the adopted son (though he denied any such rumours) of Tokyo’s richest man, Gojo Satoru. Secondly, any those with the guts to do so found themselves at the end of his fist, or his feet.

He happened to be in another section than the other kids, but on the teacher’s insistence, all the classes’ sections would take a merged science class to keep them all on the same progress.

So for the first few days, his classes went smoothly: go in, listen to the teacher ramble, scribble some notes or mark in his book, and leave. The silence of the classroom, with nobody directly disturbing him actually made this the only lesson he looked forward to. And it was this indifference that initially led him to notice nobody – not even you, who also liked to be left to your devices.

It was just another sunny day in science class, when he was doodling something in his copy and you were piling all your books and registers and pens onto your desk. Your way of arranging everything tidily caught his attention, and out of the corner of his eye he watched you decorate.

In the midst of it, one book crashed to the floor. Before you could pick it up, he extended his hand and lifted it up for you. But while he picked it from the cover, a few pages flipped open to show them adorned with sticky notes.

Silently returning your book, he kept thinking about it, and finally when the class rang off, he rapped your desk with his knuckles.

“May I have a look in your book?”

You nodded, passing him the book, and he skimmed a few pages, where you had posted random facts for each chapter.

Our eye can capture 60 images, compared to a fly’s 260.

Every man shares 99% DNA.

Each time we breathe, 1.5 litres of air is still not exchanged.

“I just like to collect these little facts,” you told him, snapping his attention from the book. “It makes learning fun for me.”

He had never thought of learning as fun. Honestly, he only studied for a grade, and that’s what toppers do, right? They don’t have time for fun. But now that you said it…

And then you two were filing out for your next classes.

The next day, while he scribbled in the corners of his book, he was interrupted by your low knuckle rapping.

“Can I have a look in yours?” you whispered. “If you don’t mind. Yours is so neat!”

He passed his book forward, and you gave him your book in exchange.

“I’ve also made these flashcards!” You showed him a stack, diverting his attention from your book. “Want me to test you?”

Seeing the teacher still not here and the class in a tornado of noise, he agreed. You were not surprised to see he knew all of them, but you fairly enjoyed yourself, and when the teacher came in, you went back to your quiet girl mode.

Needless to say, he – kind of – enjoyed it too.

The next day when you again proposed to play it with him, he didn’t need telling twice, however it was a surprising moment for the both of you when he didn’t know the answer to ‘how many chromosomes in a fruit fly?’

While you brushed it off, saying it was just one fact, he took this seriously.

In the next few classes, nothing new happened, however he did begin taking an interest in new facts and learning them. Soon, his library held many books of scientific facts and points, and he drew margins in his pages just to write them in various colours of markers. Anywhere he’d go, he’d copy down new facts to learn them and soon his camera was full of facts and pointers.

He told his sister and father that he just happened to like facts and he needed to know these, but deep inside, something he didn’t even know, was that he felt the need to be prepared for whenever you next quizzed him. He didn’t want to sit blank in front of you again. And he was also blissfully unaware of the fact deep down that he took these pictures to show you so you can collect more.

On a test day, Megumi was walking calmly, his fists clenched to lessen the speed at which his heart raced, while you were on a sprint from the opposite corridor. Both of you entering the class, you two took your positions and sat, ready to fill the blank page with your answers.

Too easy, he thought, blacking the options out, way too easy.

Once the test was over, you approached him. “Hey, just wanted to say, thanks!”

He raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“That day, I quizzed you, right? One of the questions came from that fact, and I remembered you telling the right answer, so I marked that one. Thank you!”

“Don’t mention,” he mumbled, hand tightening the grip on his bag’s straps.

“Can we be friends?” you shyly asked, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t have any.”

In the silence, you expected maybe you ruined whatever frankness you’d developed, until his hand came forward. Smiling brightly, you shook it back.

“See you then, Fushiguro.” You broke the shake and began moving away.

“Megumi.”

“Hm?” you turned to see him.

“You can call me that.”

Nodding, you walked away, not before saying over your shoulder, “you can call me Y/N!”, a light skip in your step, unaware that his sights followed you until you were out of the building.

******

In the last week before the holidays, you had taken a long leave, leaving Megumi to sit alone again, something he was accustomed to, wondering why you hadn’t come.

And you two had not yet exchanged contacts, so he had no way to ask you where you were.

When the holidays began, he began scouting for good libraries nearby, and finally he found one, nearby a coffee shop. He’d pick up a book, go to the coffee shop, get a cup of steaming black coffee and drink it while savouring the joy of reading.

One day, he was in the library, putting a book back in place, among many others who were finding a book from the same shelf as he was. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a person in a hoodie trying on their tiptoes to reach to the book that was too high even for him to reach without a stool, and he chose to move onwards. For some reason, he turned back, indecisive for the first time about whether he should help them out or not.

Finally giving in to the impulse, he strode across. “May I-”

Right on cue, the stranger’s fingertips finally made it to the book, but instead of pulling it out, they lost balance and trying to get a grip, managed to topple a few books.

He lunged just in time to catch those books from crashing onto their head, who had lifted up their arms to protect their head.

“Are you all right?” he quietly asked, to save them the embarrassment of being asked by everyone.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thank y- Megumi?”

Placing the last book, he slowly looked over his shoulder to see you, grinning brightly at him, pulling off your hoodie. “What are you doing here? I mean, of course, you can come here, I was-”

“I come here every day,” he interrupted your rambling. “Where had you gone?”

“I went to my nan’s. Just came home today, remembered I had a book to return.” you wiped your forehead. “Who are you here with?”

“By myself. You?”

“My brother dropped me off. I told him I’d call him when I’m done,” you put your hand in your pocket and drew out your phone, dialling your brother’s number. Smiling absently, you put it to your ear, only to be informed that your balance had run out.

Always at the wrong moments.

“He won’t pick up?” nothing gets past this boy.

You shook your head, and rummaged in your pocket. “I guess I’ll get going then. I know my way back.”

“Where do you live?” he asked, hands in his pockets. His eyes drifted towards the window, from which he could see the busy traffic. “It’s not safe to walk alone at this time.”

You hesitated. “I’ll just wait in here. You don’t need to wait.”

He pulled up a chair anyway. “I’m not in a hurry, so if you’re fine with this, I’ll stay till you find a cab.”

As if waiting for your permission, he met your gaze and you nodded quickly. He sat down and then pulled out his own phone, tilting it towards you with the phonebook open.

“Oh, wait.”

He waited while you typed something furiously and then his phone beeped.

An unknown number. Hey, this is my contact! Sorry I forgot to text you, was busy at Grandma’s.

He furrowed his eyebrows. “You have my contact?”

You avoided his gaze. “My cousin’s friends with Tsumiki-chan, so I took it from her. If that’s okay?”

He didn’t respond, but typed back, of course it is. You’ve met her?

No, I haven’t. I heard she graduated before I came, so I’ve never met her.

You can come around to meet her. I’ll give you the address.

Really? Your parents won’t mind?

Honestly, I think my dad would love having you around.

He sounds nice.

You found it funny that despite being close enough to hold each other’s hand – you were tempted to do that – you still were texting each other.

He does, until you meet him.

You were silent, unsure what he meant, when his next text came.

He’d treat you as a daughter – he loves daughters – but also as a way of bullying me.

Wait, someone can bully you?

First time for everything. Can’t punch him either.

While you waited for an empty cab, you typed, let’s share a fact! I got one. Did you know texts are opened 5x times quicker?

No, I didn’t. Though I pick up calls quicker.

You sent a few laughing emojis, and when the librarian came to tell you two, the last two visitors, to leave because it was closing hours, he sighed and walked to the door, you in tow. He held out the door for you.

“I’ll walk you back home.”

“No, you don’t need to-”

“For a fact,” he dryly said, “I’m very stubborn. Or so Tsumiki says. And another fact, rush-hour traffic increases the risk of accidents which is common in Tokyo.” He looked up to the sky.

“An opinion,” you counter, following his sight, “it might rain.”

“That might soon become a fact, so let’s get you home.”

“If you so insist. Are you aware that 75% of all road-accident fatalities are men and boys?”

“Then there shouldn’t be any need for you to worry,” he continued, while beckoning for you to follow him on the sidewalk. “And did you know that 100% of all accidents can be avoided if we have road sense?”

You rolled your eyes and followed him, walking down the busy roads of Tokyo.

“Thank you,” you mumbled. “You didn’t have to go through this trouble for me.”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. Your house happened to be in the way back home.”

After that, through then ow quieter roads, you two were silent, except for you sometimes telling shortcuts or directions.

While walking, you felt a drop of water hit your head. Thinking it was just water from nearby hanging washed clothes, you continued walking until another bead hit the nape of your neck. The moment you looked to the sky, now flocked with black clouds, Megumi’s voice came to you.

“You felt that?”

“Yeah,” you did not move your gaze from the quickly falling tears from the sky. “Look, it’s raining!”

“Wow, a new fact?” his bored voice snapped your attention back to him.

“Let’s play for a while, please?” you made your custom doll eyes and he gave in, leaning against a wall as he saw you dance in the rain.

“Come on!” you laughed. “Join me!”

“My boots are slippery.”

“I’ll hold you!”

“That’s debatable. You can’t even hold your book.”

Remembering your first ever encounter with him, you grinned. “Look where that got us! Maybe we might discover something new today.”

“I’m fine with one discovery a lifetime. And it better not be someone.”

“I wanna dance with someone though, so it looks like it might be,” you pouted, searching for someone in the vicinity of the empty streets, save for some kids who came out to play.

“Not under my watch.”

He held your wrists and swaying to your rhythm, he joined, content seeing a smile on your face.

“I wanna do this again!” You whooped. “Every day!”

“It doesn’t rain every day.”

“Then every time it rains. I loved this! You’ll do it with me again, too, right?”

“Got a fact for dancing in the rain? Maybe that might convince me.”

“Oh yes, did you know, running faster in the rain keeps you drier? But not applicable on taller people?”

“So it’s not a fact, but an opinion. It can be challenged.”

“But it can be applied on you. You’re tall enough to adjust the moon if it’s an angle too right.” You snapped your fingers. “I got another one! The reason we love the smell of rain is because of the soil-dwelling bacteria. They release a chemical from the air…”

You watched as he quietly listened to you. When you paused, he slowly said, “go on.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, I just remembered another fact. You finish, then I’ll tell.”

“Mine’s boring.”

“Not for me. Go on.”

You never realised when you slipped your hand in his – or rather, when his grip slid from your wrists to your fingers – and began walking back home, drenched in the rainwater. You were too busy telling him the entire fact, and eyeing his reaction.

“That was mine. Now your turn.”

“Did you know a part of your brain, the amygdala, is responsible for processing your emotions? So we can say that only the heart is not involved in emotions.”

“So you mean, if we want to be friends, then my mind is telling me to do so?”

“Perhaps. The brain releases dopamine, which also acts like a sticky note for the brain to remember a particular piece of data. For instance, it might tell your brain to remember your dance in the rain today.”

“Then I think it’s safe to go with something your brain tells you to do?”

“Yes. My brain told me to agree to you to dance, and it was nice.” He ended his sentence in a shy mumble, but you caught it all the same.

Just in the distance, you saw the lights from your house, and the way your face glowed, he recognized the house too. Just before leaving you on the doorstep, his hand lingered for a second too long, and then he released you. Just as you rung the bell, you turned one more time to see him waiting for you to go inside.

“Did you know, emotion-driven responses have a 90% chance of being correct? Especially non-verbal reactions like gut feelings.”

“Should I consider my gut feelings facts then?” he crossed his arms.

“Technically yes. I had a feeling it would rain, right, and it did!”

“Then for a fact, I’ll be coming around your house again.”

“Oh please do!” You clapped your hands. “I’d like to see you again!”

“For a fact, I want to see you again soon too.” He said, averting his gaze from you, and you smiled.

“Two people agreeing don’t make a fact, Megumi.”

“Then let’s make it our fact. Something nobody can prove wrong.”

Just as the door opened, he left, and you entered the cozy house where you got an earful from your mother over not having your balance loaded.

And while she screeched that you could’ve gotten sick, or fallen in the rain (you didn’t dare tell them a boy walked you back home), you smiled to yourself.

They didn’t know you had fallen head over heels for a boy with dazzling green eyes. “2% of the world population has this eye colour,” you whisper to yourself. And one of that small figure was yours.

******

After that, the two of you occasionally met over the summer holidays, and while he had told you that his entire family knew about you and would love to meet you, you still kept him as your secret from your family.

Hidden encounters in the library, ‘accidental’ meetups in supermarkets, ‘oh-how-are-you-here’ looks in the parks, all the while the two of you treated your friendship – if you can still call it that – like a sacred thread, that either of you were afraid to pull too tight.

What if someone dared to challenge your friendship? Or worse, what if one of you two proved it wrong?

During the summer holidays, the school underwent a renovation and the school furniture was replaced. For the sake of having spacious classrooms, the single desks were removed.

So when the two of you entered the science class, filed in lines of boys and girls, the teacher rapped the table with her scale to get the class’ attention.

“Pick a partner and sit with them. Choose wisely, because they will be your partners and you won’t be able to change your seats for the rest of the year.”

The students, some overjoyed at the prospect and some angry that no such rule was made for the other classes, you and Megumi shared a look and there was no other option.

Sitting on either side, you two piled your bags in between, and placed your books out.

Leaning his elbow against the desk, Megumi was reading his book when he heard a strange buzzing noise. Side eyeing you, he found you holding your nose while making weird noises.

“We’re studying humans, not elephants this term.” He sighed, closing his book, and at that moment, you let your nose free and gasped for air, not caring of the weird glances you got from the entire class.

“Elephants cannot hold their noses, genius,” you snorted. “I was testing out a fact. Did you know that you can’t hum while holding your nose?”

“I didn’t five minutes ago.”

“I decided,” you declared with the air of Queen Elizabeth, “that I’m no longer going to believe facts blindly. For instance, the fact that you use 10% of your brain. It’s false, can you believe that?”

“No longer believing things blindly.”

You rolled your eyes. “Anyways, so I began testing them out. I’ll keep on testing them.”

“How will you confirm the diameter of the Earth is accurate?” He pointed towards your school badge.

“I’ll become a scientist then. And then I can try them out.”

“You can’t test them all in one lifetime.”

“Then my ghost will.”

“Which do not exist.”

“A fact yet to be tested!”

He gave up, and just before he could reopen his book, you snapped it shut with your hand. “Hey, wanna try it?”

“Will you be questioning our existence soon enough?”

“An excellent idea, but not yet. Okay, don’t be the test subject, but at least be my witness that I did this if I die trying.”

“Don’t ever say things like that, idiot.”

“Why? Will they come true?”

He nodded.

“It’s a superstition!”

“There’s always some truth to them. Okay, what’s your next one?”

“My tongue can’t reach my elbow.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I’d prefer if the mirrors are witnesses for that.”

“How will you suffer the even grosser realities of science, Mr. Soon-to-be-Scientist Fushiguro?” you patted his shoulder.

“I won’t be one.”

“Oh sure. Who else will help me clean my laboratory and record my observations?”

“That’s an assistant.”

“Can’t let anyone else be the best scientist ever.” You shrugged.

“For the record,” he quietly said, as you two began testing out you new theory, “don’t call me Fushiguro again.”

“You don’t like it, huh?” you suddenly perked up. “Guess I just tested a fact about you!”

“About…me?”

“Yes, we should make facts about each other!” you got all worked up again.

“Two people agreeing don’t make a fact.”

“Then let’s make it ours,” you threw back at him, and as if he remembered, he smiled softly while he held the timer for your next experiment, oblivious to the world.

*********

Soon, you made a journal. With all your verified facts, and each one signed by you and your ‘voluntary assistant’.

“So we can show them,” you coloured in a diagram, “that we were the first to do this.”

Soon, your journal had all types of sections, people facts – If someone’s feet point toward the door or away from you, they might want to leave - food facts – Apple slices float, but grapes sink – body facts - You’re slightly taller in the morning than at night.

And in those testing, you slipped some sort of fun things to try out with him – ‘exclusive for only you’.

For example, when people laugh in a group, they instinctively look at the person they feel closest to. While you were adamant this was a test, he had a feeling it was just your excuse of getting to look at him with a reason.

Did he complain? Of course not.

On the other hand, he also played along.

Saying someone’s name in conversation makes them feel more seen and valued, he used this as a way to repeatedly say your name, and did you have a problem? Every test could say no you did not.

Then a week later after school reopening, the teacher announced your first ever group project.

“We’ll be beginning this term with human systems,” Miss Daniels droned – and you sighed, finally free from plants – “and to make things fun, we’ll work in pairs. You’ll have to study one system of your choice and form a fact file for it.”

You barely suppressed the urge to give him a high five. Facts was how you dealt life.

After class, you two, ever the over-worker, asked Miss Daniels if you could make one for all systems, and initially she said no, but in the end you bargained for two systems. Though she said ‘it won’t help raise your grade any extra’.

Not that it mattered. You were doing this for fun.

You two chose the nervous system and the circulatory system, and the two of you divided such that you got the circulatory system and Megumi got the nervous system to research for over the weekend.

On Monday, plopping into your seat in the classroom, both your files were slammed onto your desks.

“Alright,” you looked at him determinedly. “I’ve got lots of facts, and we’re three days before the deadline, so let’s try them out.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “I had a feeling you’d say this.”

You patted his shoulder solemnly. “Congratulations, you just coined a fact that I verified.”

Before you could open a page, he knocked the desk lightly, gaining your attention, and he pointed towards the teacher now scowling at the noisy classroom, which soon turned into a loud yelling spree.

During your break time, you decided to pull him away to the library.

“We’re done with our assignment,” you told him, “so how about we study some on our own?”

He shrugged, seeing no problem in this. He didn’t have anything else to be doing anyway, so why not sneak off with you.

You pulled up your screenshots of points you collected, and then while he walked, his hands in his pocket and both of you holding a juice each, you ranted off about the nervous and endocrine systems and their functioning.

“And a list of hormonal functions are as follows, somatotropin is the growth hormone, adrenaline, also called epinephrine, secreted by parathyroid glands, the pancreas secretes insulin and glucagon for maintaining the blood balance, and cortisol is referred as the stress hormone, increasing body metabolism to battle against physical and emotional metabolism.”

You paused to take a breath.

“It is one of the primary hormones that can be regulated by touch, the other five being oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin, endorphins and prolactin.”

“How exactly does touch regulate that?”

“In the other five cases, touch increases its concentration while it decreases cortisol levels. It can be done so by hugging or cuddling. Cortisol can be decreased even by eye contact, which is why when you look at someone you love or feel trusted with, your pupils relax. And did you ever notice that hugs make you feel less stressed?”

Silence on his part made you turn your head towards him, thinking he was probably eating and had nodded, but he looked forward impassively.

It’s not that he hadn’t been hugged. Gojo was a very clingy person, grabbing him up in his arms every chance he got. It was maybe because he was too busy, or too old, that Megumi never got the feeling. Or maybe because he thought hugs were too old fashioned.

Deep down, he hated hugs. Every time someone hugged him, they disappeared. His mom died with one last hug to him, Toji gave him one half-hug before he exited his life, and now he feels scared whenever someone hugs him.

So you could say he had never been hugged in a way that would decrease his stress levels.

“You’ve never been hugged?”

“No.” better the lie than the long story.

You spread your arms wide. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

Instinctively, Megumi flinched and you noticed this little reaction. Eyes widening, you dropped your arms. “Sorry, I think I overstepped…”

“Do it.”

You looked to see him stiffening his shoulders. “You sure?”

“I can’t take facts untested, now can I?”

As you came closer, opening your arms, he felt his heart quickening. Keeping his panic inside and letting down his guard, he let you embrace him first.

The moment your arms completed a circle around him, his entire form relaxed. And then he understood.

Maybe the reason he never felt peaceful in a hug was because nobody had been peaceful hugging him. His mom knew she was dying, his dad knew he was leaving his son for good, and Satoru is always worried about him and if he’s doing good and, from what Megumi understood from Tsumiki, his stress with the higher-ups.

You had no fear. You were simply pouring your heart into this hug. For some reason, you found his embrace calming, even when he took his time completing your hug. The moment you felt two arms come up behind you, you got a feeling of safety.

Lingering for far too long, he hesitated, and you broke immediately, trying not to meet his gaze. “Well, is this fact busted?”

“You better write this one down. For future purposes.”

You looked up to see his cheeks very, very slightly tinged with red, and you got an idea.

“Maybe I can put it in another column. Facts to be tested again and again. For facts whose effects we aren’t sure about.”

While he rolled his eyes, you countered, “I don’t hear any objections?”

“You wouldn’t let me have one,” he grumbled, and you laughed.

“OK, enough of mine-”

And just then, the bell rang off. Signalling language classes, which you had for French and he had for Mandarin.

“Alright, see you later!”

Waving silently back at you, he got mingled in the crowd of students, and even then, the two of you looked back for glimpses of each other.

******

With the exception of science and computer classes, you two had differing schedules, so you always chose to sit alone.

However, with the recombination of the double-seated desks, you decided to finally learn to share, and keeping your distance, you allowed other girls to sit, but would never speak a word to them unless required.

One day, the boys in your class created a ruckus, and the teacher decided to break apart their formation.

It just happened to be your luck that their head, Evan, got a seat next to you. All the while, he kept yapping your ear off, but seeing your cold stare only pushed him to infuriate you even more.

And when he took the place next to you the next day, you objected to the teacher, but she explained that this is necessary for the ‘peace and decorum’.

And soon you grew to hate these lessons.

Occasionally, Evan would trail after you, but seeing you beeline for Megumi would make him retrace his steps back to his cronies. Once, he made the decision of following you two, and when you looked over to see him, you raised both your middle fingers at him.

Surprised by your not-usually-vulgar attitude, Megumi turned back to see who it was, while whispering at you the question.

You replied, “he’s some jerk I’m supposed to be seated next to. Creeps me all the time.”

And you smiled triumphantly when he also gave Evan the middle finger.

Ever since he walked you back home in the rain, you had harboured feelings for Megumi Fushiguro, and you always tried to confess, but either you were scared of his rejection, or didn’t have the courage, because always your pencil would fall back in the middle of a note.

A broken pencil is better than a broken heart.

But never, ever, had you hoped that either he’d confess, if he had any feelings for you, or you’d just let it all spill.

For an English project, you hit your favourite place in the world – the library, and while you quietly reminisced the moment Megumi saved your head in the city library, you smiled to yourself. While you turned the page-

“Who’s got you smiling like that, pretty girl?”

Dread welling inside you, you decided to ignore him, when he drew a chair next to you. “You got the guts to ignore me, pretty girl?”

“You got the guts to sit next to me without my permission?” you fired, without meeting Evan’s sight.

“Tsk tsk. Girls would be dying to sit next to me.”

“Then why sitting next to me?”

“Cause I want to talk to you.”

“And I want you to get lost from here.” You finally glared at him, but only found a shameless curiosity in there.

“Who are you to boss me around?”

“Not your pretty girl,” you pushed back your chair and strode out, but he caught up to you and raised his hands in surrender. “I swear, I just need to talk.”

You crossed your arms, arching an eyebrow for him to go on.

“I really like you. And I want to, you know, be your boyfriend and all.” You were surprised to see him stuttering. “So, will you be my girlfriend?”

“No.”

It didn’t even take you five seconds to spew your answer out. “Was that all you had to ask?”

“Why’d you reject me? What’s wrong with me?”

“I have the right to remain silent.”

“OK, you’re not into relationships right now. Can I wait for you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Is it that black haired boy?”

You halted. “And if I said it was?”

“Then what’s in that brat that isn’t in me? Just tell me. I’ll be nicer for you if you say.”

“There’s nothing you can do. I love him.” You pressed every word, looking him in the eye.

Sighing, Evan pressed his temples. “He’s in sciences with you, isn’t he?”

You nodded, and then he walked forward, making you step back.

“What are you doing?” You snarled.

“Attempting to have you reconsider. Can he give you what I can?”

His frame and the desks surrounding you gave you no chance to escape, however you made a dive for the gap between the chairs. By the fraction of a second, he caught you in his arms, and as you flailed, shrieking, he began invading you with his fingers over your neck and back.

“You like it, don’t you, you dirty girl?” His voice dropped to a filthy whisper in your ear.

“No,” you bit his hand, “you bastard.”

“Oh, my pretty girl is a liar too?”

“NOT YOUR PRETTY GIRL!”

“See, I knew you’re a liar.” Bringing his mouth to your arm, he pinned you, and whispered, “let’s see if he leaves you when he sees my mark on you.”

Your entire mind quieted at the terrifying thought – no man of honour would want to take a taken girl – and that filled you with a deranged need to get away from him.

“LET ME GO YOU-”

He clamped your mouth shut. “Careful, or do you want witnesses to my marking?”

While you struggled, he continued, “You like it, don’t you? I read your fact file, pretty girl. And didn’t your fact file say that gentle touch boosts oxytocin? I know a little science, darling.”

“JUST F*** OFF WILL YOU?” you screamed, hoping someone would come now.

“Oh that I will, on you. Now enjoy my gentle touch.”

“My touch can break your face apart if you don’t remove your hand.”

Leaving you almost instantly, you collapsed on the ground, sputtering for breath and looking up to your saviour. There, in rage, stood Megumi Fushiguro. One look at you, and his voice quieted. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you answered, leaning against the wall to catch your breath.

As Evan bolted for it, he was blocked by Megumi’s arm to the door. “It’s time I verify the fact.”

And that day you understood why even the greatest bullies quaked in his name.

No longer recognizable, Megumi jerked Evan out the library with his collar. “Let’s see if anybody takes you after they see my mark on you.”

Bolting down the corridor, you heard Evan vanish, and then Megumi bent down to your level. “You sure you all right?”

For some reason, the fear that he’ll leave you resurfaced, and tears swam in your eyes. Green eyes widening, he guided you up.

“It’s all right, I’m here,” whispering the same words over and over, he passed you his water bottle.

“Wanna talk about it?” he quietly asked, after gulps of water. You shook your head.

“Just know I’m right here if you want to tell me anything, okay?”

Smiling weakly up at him, you nodded, but when the image nearly flashed again, you changed your mind. You were not ready to lose him yet.

“Megumi?”

His footsteps halted.

“Can I talk to you right now?”

“Of course.”

Walking down the halls to your next class, you told him everything, and his jaw clenched tighter at every mention of Evan’s name.

“Should’ve told me earlier.”

“You beat him up enough to prove my point.”

“I was just warming up.”

And when you got to the point of him saying ‘let’s see if he leaves you when he sees my mark on you’, his form went rigid.

“So, will you…” you gingerly asked him. “I swear, I fought him-”

“You thought I’d be mad at you for something he did?”

“Well, yes.”

“Never. Trust me when I say this.”

“That I always will.”

“Good, you can test it all you can but it will never change.” He left you at the class’ doorstep. “Remember that.”

In the class, you quietly sat, thinking over and over if you should tell him how you felt.

And that day, that hour, you made your decision. Texting him in class, you said, hey, I wanna meet Tsumiki-chan today. Can I come over?

You can come with me.

No, gotta tell mom first and look presentable lol.

OK.

Five minutes later, you had his address in hand.

Fast forward to evening, you stood at his house’s pristine door in your flowery white frock and high ponytail, and you rang the bell.

From the intercom, a voice emerged, who is it?

You replied with your full name, and the door swung open to a tall girl.

“Hello!” she warmly greeted you. “I’m Tsumiki. You’re Megumi’s classmate, aren’t you?”

You eagerly nodded your head, and she led you inside. “He’s in the shower right now, go make yourself comfortable.”

While she went to get the water, you settled on a sofa, fingers interlocked in anxious excitement. Just then, you heard Tsumiki talk with someone very loud, and soon the source of the sound followed in the form of a tall man with white hair and blinds on?

“Hi there,” he waved joyously at you, Tsumiki following in, and you stood to bow down in respect. “No need, no need, kid. I’m Satoru. I’m sure you’ve been told all about me?” and he looked to the door that faced your back.

“No need to bore her with you.”

You pressed a grin at that familiar voice, your breath catching at the sight of Megumi in a black T-shirt, walking to take a seat opposite to you.

“Any difficulties in the directions?”

“Nope.”

Satoru was really good at engaging all of you in a cheery, lively conversation, when half an hour later, Tsumiki called you all for dinner.

“Tsumiki-chan, you didn’t have to do all this alone,” you ashamedly said, “I should have helped you out.”

Slightly smacking your head, she pushed you towards the table. “No, you’re like family. I won’t have you work around the house.”

“So am I not family?” Satoru’s eyes went wide.

“This is your house,” she waved her hand. “You’re the man. It’s your job.”

Puffing up like a penguin, he continued with his dinner, until both siblings took their places.

“So,” Satoru side-eyed Megumi while asking you, “you’re the kid he won’t stop talking about.”

“In an appreciative manner or apprehensive manner?” you joked, laughing seeing the boy in question redden.

“I don’t remember telling you about her,” he shot at Satoru, and he shrugged.

“It was just a guess.” He shrugged.

And the table burst into laughs.

Done with dinner, Satoru excused himself to attend to something from his school, you stood with Tsumiki to help her out despite her insistence, and Megumi came to tell you he’d be in his room waiting for you.

While you nodded back okay, a glass slipped from your hands and it shattered near your feet, splattering the floor and your frock in juice. While you yelped back in fright, the two siblings’ attention was diverted towards the mess.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry-” you began profusely, but the siblings were busy otherwise.

“I’ll clear it,” Tsumiki told her brother, who was focused on you.

“Get away from the glass,” he took the plates from you, while levelling a quick assessing gaze down your frame. “Did you get hurt? You all right?” his face went apologetic seeing your ruined dress. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s not your fault, I’m fine, I’m fine.” You reassured him, even giving a thumbs up to his sceptical gaze and ten minutes later, you were still helping Tsumiki out, who was still wary of any more damage, though you were careful not to break anything else. Megumi was long gone in his room.

“A word from one girl to another,” Tsumiki began, snapping your attention. “You like him, don’t you?”

You nodded shyly, and she sniggered. “How’d you know though?”

“So many signs. Firstly, Gojo-san was not lying – he keeps talking about you one way or the other. Secondly, you were looking for his reaction at anything that happened, and thirdly, well, he came for you when the glass broke.”

“He’s nice. I’d do that if someone else was wounded too.”

“Well, except he doesn’t. You’re the first person I’ve seen him be nice to.”

“Well, yes, you’re right.” You raised your hands in surrender. “You got me.”

“Then why don’t you tell him?”

You hesitated.

“I won’t tell him, or anyone else. I promise.” The older sister came to put a hand on your shoulder.

“What if he said no?”

“And what if he said yes?” Tsumiki cocked her head at you.

“Then, why didn’t he…”

“Maybe he’s thinking the same about you. Maybe he’s waiting for you to take the first step.”

You looked at her with hopeful eyes. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Are you and Gojo-san okay with me?”

Tsumiki huffed a small laugh. “We’re not as hard to impress as my brother. You make him happy, and that’s what matters to us. So yes, we both are happy.”

“Thanks.” You beamed up at her, while she gave a gentle shove.

“Now go on. Tell him. I’m rooting for you!”

You tossed her a grin. “That’s what I’m here for.”

As you began climbing up the stairs, you raised your head to see Megumi standing at the top, crossed arms. “I thought you forgot the way up here.”

“How touching, dear guide.” You followed him into his neatly arranged bedroom. Light blue coloured walls were marked with windows, draped with dark blue curtains and in the room on one side was a single bed while on the other, a rack full of books adorned it.

How very him.

“You okay?” his voice snapped you out of your observation and you saw him with his back to you.

“Yeah, I skipped the glass-”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Your mouth snapped shut as he turned to face you. “Yeah, I’m fine too.”

“Told anyone else about that?”

“Would’ve, if I hadn’t been in safer hands.” You looked to the window as if a new subject will fly into your hands. “Let’s talk about something else. I’m not here to be moody now. You got some fact books?”

He gestured towards the library, and you beelined for it, using a books’ pages to shush how hard your heart was thumping. What were you thinking? How was this going to work?

“There’s somethi-”

You began simultaneously, “I need to tal-”

Both of you shut up at the same time.

“You go first.” You pointed towards him.

Taking the chance, he walked over to your position. “I found something that I think you’d like to check. Open page 45, line 30.”

Surprised at his specificity, you opened it up to find a highlighted fact.

Men take 88 days to say I love you.

“That can’t be for all men,” you shook your head in disbelief. “the author apparently went on a whim.”

He pointed towards the study reference.

“Still, I could test this out, but I’ll need to be a bit older for that.” You tapped your chin.

“Why not now?”

“I can’t ask everybody right now, can I?”

“You used to say to start simple, didn’t you? Let’s start right here.”

“And how do you suggest we do-”

“I’ll break it: I love you, Y/N.”

Your entire world froze. “Come again?”

“I just proved this was wrong.”

“Did you mean it? Or was it just for fun?”

“I’m not the joker type,” he wrinkled his nose. “I meant it. And you can test me all you want, but this will never change.”

“When?” you hoarsely managed.

“I don’t exactly remember. Was it the rain? The library? That idiot? Not sure. I just knew I felt so.”

You stayed there, stunned, torn between shock and joy. Finally, he lifted his eyes to face you. “Say something.”

“You read my mind, didn’t you?”

“Did you leave it open?”

You didn’t hear him. “Because you know I was about to say something too? I came here today to tell you that I love you. I love you since the day you returned me my book, and I’d drop that book all over again if it meant I’d get to meet you in every lifetime.”

“So,” a relaxed look appeared on his face, and you suspected you might have caught a smile too. “Will you be mine?”

“If you’ll let me be yours.”

**********

Another thing you discovered later on about him: Megumi Fushiguro was one of the most possessive people you ever knew. While he wouldn't show it with words, his actions were enough to ward people off his girl. One of them being hand-holding.

Any time you two are out, he'll always hold your hand.

And even in sleep, he doesn't let go of your hand. Once, while sleeping, you drew your hand away to turn over, and immediately his hand was roaming over the bed, searching for yours.

One morning, when you woke with your hand still entwined in his, you found him sleeping with his hair tousled and mouth slightly open. You kissed his forehead.

"Wake up, my sleepy otter."

Prying open one green eye, he looked up at you. "I'm awake."

"I can see that."

"What was that you called me earlier?"

"Otter."

With half-open eyes, he still managed to give you an eyebrow raise. "I don't have an otter shikigami."

"I know you don't. You act like one." Seeing him still unconvinced, you grin. "I read somewhere that otters sleep, holding each others' hands. It's to prevent being separated by the water currents."

Then you playfully flicked his nose. "And that's why you're my own otter."

"I do that because I feel cold." he reasoned, and you snorted.

"That's not very convincing, my little otter. But I do think you do it to make sure I don't run away, now do you?"

"At the rate you slip off while awake, I have to ensure you're safe while sleeping."

"See, I knew that!" You smiled brilliantly, earning an eye-roll from him. "But you don't have to worry: no water current can take this otter from you."

"Where'd you read that?" Battling a smile, he asked you.

You told him the name, and his eyes went from sleepy to fully awake. Flipping you such that he was now on top of you, he playfully scolded, his hands creeping up to tickle you, "That's from my library, wasn't it? I've been searching for it and now I find out you sneaked it?"

"The cover was pretty," you protested weakly, under his tickle attacks, "and I found it interesting, so I took it!"

"That's not very convincing, my little magpie."

"Your what?" you managed breathlessly as he stopped his relentless fight.

"If you have read it, then you must have also read about them. Magpies like to take shiny and pretty things. So I guess you're acting like one."

"We both belong in the zoo," you laughed. "Or maybe the wild."

"I don't know about that, but I'm certain of one thing." He said as he lifted himself on one elbow to face you.

"And that is?"

"That we belong together."

DO NOT COPY MY WORK!

#jjk #naomi writes #jjk x reader #megumi fushiguro #fushiguro megumi #megumi x reader #reader x megumi #fushiguro x reader #reader x fushiguro #megumi x you #you x megumi #fushiguro x you

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brennacedria · 28 days ago

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THURSDAY BANGERS

Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).

Thanks to @woundedsoul12 for the tag! In return, I'm gently tagging @becausedragonage @pixiedurango @feralkwe @runawaydragons @ccrystalfox @serensama and anyone else interested 😘

This week's prompt:

No matter what happens, he cannot come between us again, I know we're better than friends- Million Dollar Baby by Tommy Richman

Heya~~ I got my Thursday Banger done ON the actual Thursday the prompt was posted! Anyway... This one tried to run away from me, but I think I managed to catch it and get it to calm down a little. This is an angsty little follow-up to the AU where Ria Hawke and Sebastian get together. (AO3)

The sixth bell chimed, and Ria glanced first at the front door, then at the study. Sighing, she made her way across the main hall to the latter. “Anders, it's almost supper.” The mage didn't look up from the papers on the desk as she entered, and instead continued his scribbling. “And?”

“And Sebastian will be home from services soon. You know I don't mind your company, but if he ever finds out you technically live here, even just in the servants’ quarters, it's going to get ugly.” Anders snorted. “And Maker forbid a mage have a warm bed.” “That's not it and you know it.” “Then what is it?” Ria rubbed her temples, begging the oncoming headache to go easy on her. Anders was in one of his moods, though, so the odds were against her. “It’s not because you're a mage, or even an apostate. If he really cared about any of that, he'd have turned you in to the Circle years ago. He just doesn't like you personally.” “Because I believe in freedom for all mages.” “It’s not that either, because I'm just as involved in the cause as you are, Anders.” Anders finally dropped his quill. “Are you? Are you certain? Because I've definitely seen less of you since he moved in here.” “Are you serious?” she asked as he began to clean up the desk. “I am,” he replied. “It's been almost three months that he's kept you hidden away here, away from everyone. It's not healthy.” “I'm sorry,” Ria snapped back at him. “The next time my mother's murdered I'll remember to come out to play cards more often.” He paled. “Ria, I didn't mean–” She sighed, and began to help him sort the papers. “I know you didn't mean it like that,” she said softly. “But you have to remember that's why he was here the first two months. After that, I decided it was time to move on, and how and who I wanted to do that with.” “You could have chosen anyone, you know.” Glancing up, she realized how closely he was watching her, and how close his face was to hers. A few heartbeats passed. “You mean I could have chosen you.” “Would that be so bad?” Shaking her head, Ria turned back to the papers she was sorting. “Don't stack those ones, the ink is still wet,” she said absently. “You didn't answer my question.” “Maker's breath, Anders, we had this discussion already. Years ago, back when Bethany–” she paused. “After we lost Beth, you and I talked about this. We agreed that we'd missed our chance, and then I moved on. I'm sorry you couldn't.” “It's not too late–” “Anders, it is too late, because I'm happy. Sebastian makes me happy.” He took the pages she'd sorted and added them to his own stack. Then he fished a key out of his pocket and laid it on the desk. “I won't be needing this any longer.” She picked the key up and put it on top of the pages in his hands, only for him to put it back on the desk again. “I mean it.” “Where will you go without it, if the Templars come for the clinic?” “I don't need it.” “You do need it. You can't do anything for other mages if you're dead, and if the Templars find you without a place to run they will kill you.” “Please,” she begged, taking his hand and pressing the key into his palm, “keep it and use it.” Anders shook his head and sighed, and returned the key to his pocket. He reached for the last few papers but Ria swatted his hand away. “I told you, the ink’s still wet on those ones,” she said, straightening them out. “I'll sort them once they're dry, and have Orana put them in your room later.” He nodded, and looked for a moment like he was going to say something. He thought better of it when they heard Bodahn greet Sebastian, and left through the servants' passages without any further comment.

#Thursday Bangers #dragon age #ria hawke #anders #bren's fic

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captainsophiestark · 10 months ago

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Exceptions

Grant Ward x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for my personal fic writing challenge for 2024, Sophie's Year of Fic! Featuring a new fic being posted every Friday, all year long :)

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: The Bus kids are stuck at the Triskelion for a while since May and Coulson have a meeting with Fury, but Ward already has important plans that he can't cancel.

Word Count: 1,287

Category: Fluff, Humor

A/N: To the anon who sent me an idea outline for this, I hope you like it! It got merged with another idea I had, but hopefully, it's still pretty close to what you had in mind :) Thanks for continuing to read stuff for Grant Ward and enabling me to keep writing him- he's my fave, so I'm glad I have at least a few people to share the love with!

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

Skye's POV

"Alright. May and I will head into our meeting with Director Fury. We'll meet you back here when we're done."

I frowned at Coulson, glancing at FitzSimmons and Ward to see if any of them would say anything. As expected, FitzSimmons just looked at each other, and Ward nodded to Coulson like he'd known this was the plan from the beginning, which I super doubted.

"Okay... and what are we supposed to do in the meantime?" I asked, turning back to Coulson and asking the question that must've been on the rest of our minds. May was already halfway out of the room, and Coulson stopped mid-step to address my question. He smiled.

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

With that, he turned and headed off with May again. I watched him go for a few steps, then put my hands on my hips and turned back to the rest of my group with a sigh.

"Alright, we've been abandoned at one of the biggest SHIELD bases in the world. I probably know the least about this place out of all of us, so... how about you guys? Any ideas?"

I glanced at FitzSimmons, then looked right at Ward. He had his arms crossed, and he shook his head and took a step back the minute my gaze landed on him.

"I don't know what you all are going to do, but I have somewhere I need to be. I'll meet you back here when May and Coulson are done with their meeting. Try not to break anything until then."

With that, he turned on his heel and started marching away. I let him get a few steps, then turned to FitzSimmons.

"So we're gonna follow him, right?"

"Oh, of course."

"Absolutely."

****************

Y/N's POV

A took a slow, steady breath, then refocused on the sample in front of me. I'd been staring through the eyepiece of this microscope for what felt like an eterity, finally getting somewhere with samples I'd been working with for months. I'd been stuck at the Triskelion that whole time, in a lab with the loudest of the loud field and ops agents coming in and out, constant noise and business no matter where we went. All of that was about to be worth it.

The rest of the lab completely faded out around me, even as I scribbled notes without looking at the paper beside me. The handwriting wouldn't be good, but it would be decent enough that I could decipher it later, and it meant I didn't have to take my eyes off the results of the experiment in front of me for a single moment. I'd carefully built my corner of the lab into what it was, a sanctuary from the noise and chaos, the perfect place to tuck away and lose myself in my research.

At least, normally it was. Today, someone had apparently decided to venture into my corner, as a hand on my shoulder made me shoot out of my chair and almost gave me a heart attack.

"Sorry!" came the frantic voice of my best friend, Mandy. "I didn't mean to scare you! I swear, I said your name, like, three times while walking over here."

I put a hand to my chest, taking half a second to catch my breath before turning back to Mandy.

"It's okay. Honestly, I don't think anything could've shaken me out of my focus without scaring me like that. Did you need something?"

"Just wanted to give you a warning. One of the ops agents broke containment and just wandered into the lab. Figured it'd be better if I interrupted you than if he did."

I sighed, long and heavy, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"Are you kidding me? How did one of them even get in here-"

I turned to see the man in question and stopped dead in my tracks. Grant Ward, my boyfriend, had just stepped into the lab. I grinned.

"Oh, actually, never mind Mandy. This one's the exception to the rest of the ops people."

"Wow, no kidding. I don't think I've seen you smile like that since your experiment at the Academy won our final projects presentation."

I rolled my eyes, but didn't bother with more than that as Mandy took her leave and Grant finally made his way over to me. His smile matched mine, the two of us bringing out sides of each other most people weren't lucky enough to see.

"You didn't tell me you were coming!" I said as Grant finally reached me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me tight to his chest. He leaned in to kiss me, and it lasted a few moments longer than I would've let him get away with in public if I hadn't missed him so much.

"I thought I'd make it a surprise. Our team got detoured here last minute for Coulson to have some meeting with Fury. Lucky for us, they didn't need me to be there."

"That is lucky," I agreed, the two of us sharing a smile again. Grant reached up and gently cuped my chin in his hand, pulling me back in for a sweeter, slower version of our earlier kiss. I sighed when he pulled back and settled onto the lab stool next to me, his thigh pressed against mine.

"So. Wanna tell me what you're working on?"

"Happily. But I don't want to spend all the time we have together in this lab, so don't let me get carried away-"

"Don't worry, we should have all of tonight and tomorrow morning, with a small exception in a few hours when I have to meet back up with my team. I thought I could keep you company while you finish up here, and then we could grab some dinner. I found a great restaurant in the city last time I had an undercover mission there, and it'll leave us plenty of time for you to tell me all about this project you're working on."

"Grant, that sounds perfect. How did I get so lucky with you?"

"Trust me, the feeling's mutual." We shared a smile, smaller and softer this time, but no less special. Then, Grant turned to the microscope in front of us. "So... I take it you're doing something with this?"

"Yes! I finally have interesting results to look at, so your visit was well-timed. Let me tell you about what you're seeing here..."

Grant leaned into the microsope, bracing one hand on my thigh as I put one arm around his shoulders and rubbed gentle cirlces there, narrating what he was seeing on the slide as I went. Within the lab, I'd gotten a bit of a reputation for liking my space while I worked. But Grant would always be the exception to that. I was on cloud nine that he was here, and I wasn't going to waste a single moment we had together.

****************

Skye's POV

"I've never seen him smile like that!" Simmons hissed.

"And he always complains about 'technobabble' when I say more than a few three-syllable words in a sentence!" Fitz agreed. I just huffed a laugh.

"Yeah, well, he's not kissing any of us either. I think that might have something to do with the change."

Fitz and Simmons scoffed right along with me, the three of us watching the scene in the Triskelion's lab for a few more moments before finally shaking it off and heading back into the hallway. Whether or not we found something else to occupy our time until May and Coulson were done with their meeting, we at least had something to tease Ward about for the rest of our lives, which I'd take as a win any day.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989 @space-helen

Marvel Taglist: @valkyriepirate @infinitelyforgotten @sagesmelts @gaychaosgremlin

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winniemaywebber · 3 months ago

Note

Lovely 🌸

May I request from the April prompts ¹⁹⁾ half-burned candles with Olive x Dougie?

hello, darling! your request begins under the cut, and I hope you enjoy it <3

half burned candles

A match is struck on its box, sizzling as the fire meets the candle wick. Olive, putting the final touches to the table placement for her and her husband's anniversary dinner, steps back to admire her work. The white tablecloth, embroidered with dainty pastel colored flowers – a wedding gift from the Rosenthals – sits pretty on the dining table that had been so lovingly crafted by James Douglass himself, along with his best friend, Everett Blakely. Two candles sit at either side of the table, taking the places of the two empty chairs that are always there for guests. Tonight, of course, it is just the two of them, agreeing to have a quiet celebration for their first anniversary since the war ended.

Smiling at her table setting, feeling proud of herself, she steps into the hall to begin ascending the stairs in order to change in the bedroom. As her bare foot hits the first padded stair, the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hey, dolly…” her husband replies, his voice low and slightly aggravated.

“Hi, darling,” she coos in response. “You on your way home?”

“No, baby,” he says apologetically. She can hear him scribbling, the scratch of the pencil coming through the phone. “I gotta stay a little later, get something together for the Evening Post.”

“But it's– you promised!”

“I know, Ollie,” his tone now much softer.

“It's our anniversary; surely you've explained that?” There's a pause, the scribbling sound also ceasing. “Hello?”

“Still here, honey girl. I just don't know what to say…”

“Mhm.” Olive feels her throat close, sniffing furiously to keep the tears from falling down her cheeks.

“I'll make it up to you, okay?”

“‘Kay,” she shrugs, trying to hide her voice wavering; knowing he can't see her but acting like she's brushing it off nonetheless. “See you later.”

Without waiting for further explanation, she avoids slamming the receiver down like she desires to, instead opting to place it back in its cradle softly. Her face crumples, and she cannot help but let the tears come.

Forgetting about the beautiful blue dress upstairs, hung on the wardrobe door in its dust bag, fresh from the dry cleaners, Olive elects to stay in her comfiest clothes: a baggy t-shirt from her drama school days, along with a pair of black leggings that she hopes last a few years longer, the idea of leggings in the forties a while away. Instead, she moodily pulls a cigarette from the pack, lighting it with one of the now half-burned candles on the table and considers her next move. Her eyes fall to the telephone in her line of sight, pondering over whether to call one of the Book Club Girls and sound off to them but decides against it as her eyes swim with tears, extinguishing the candles with a puff of cigarette smoke and making her way to the living room and laying on the couch.

Watching the embers of the flickering fire sends Olive to sleep, a mixture of exhaustion from the crying and trying to make tonight special overtaking her. Her head leant on a plush cushion, she drifts off quickly, snoring softly as the coziness takes over.

She wakes to her favorite blanket being draped over her, knowing it by the delicately crocheted texture as it lands on her bare arm. She opens her puffy eyes slowly, her face feeling a little tight from the dried tear streaks that she had neglected to wipe from her cheeks and sees her husband kneeling in front of the couch she'd been sleeping on.

“I'd have been home a lot sooner, but I had to go all over town til I found your favorites.”

She looks past him to the coffee table, where the biggest bunch of peonies she's ever seen is laid. Pink, purple and white, soft petals perfectly matching the colors of spring. “Am I forgiven?”

“Always,” she sniffs. “The roast will be dry as a bone by now, but there's still cake.”

“What kind?” He purrs, nuzzling into her neck and kissing her softly.

“Your favorite.”

“You're my favorite.”

“Oh, hush,” she blushes, pulling him by the tie for a smooch. “Happy anniversary, lovey.”

“Gee, I sure love you, Mrs Douglass.”

“I love you more,” she replies, shifting on the couch as he clambers on top of her.

“Not possible.”

#april prompts #writing prompts #aloveforjaneausten #winnie writes #oc: olive lewis #olive x dougie #james douglass #james douglass x oc #honeysuckle rose: post war #not my babies almost FIGHTING on their anniversary </3

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lqvactually · 1 year ago

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After School ☆ L. Heeseung x Reader

Masterlist | Pt.1

☆ Synopsys : You have always been very interesting to Lee Heeseung. You keep to yourself, stay away from others. When you're assigned as his tutor, he does as he always does with the peculiar, he decides to figure out what's 'wrong' with you. But you're very different from how you seem.

☆ Tw: Swearing

“Fifty marks,” Mr. Yu grunted. “Twenty-two. Fifteen. Thirty-seven. What do these have in common?”

Heeseung shrugged, loosening his tie nonchalantly. His smirk only grew when he realized his actions had Mr. Yu even more frustrated. “They’re failing grades.”

“And?” It was obvious the poor man was about to burst. “Do you not care that you’re failing Korean, English, Physics, and History? Do you not care about University? No one will want you with these grades.”

This didn’t even phase Heeseung. “Frankly, no. I don’t care.”

Mr. Yu took a deep breath, setting his glasses on the table in front of him. “Lee Heeseung. You excel in math. You’re practically a prodigy. Why can’t you funnel that energy into other subjects?”

Another shrug from Heeseung. “Dunno.” The clock ticked on the wall as silence stretched between the two. Mr. Yu stared the boy down, slowly studying him. “What?”

“I’m going to have one of your classmates tutor you.” Heeseung’s eyes widened. He watched Mr. Yu pull out a manilla folder, leafing through it until he made an ‘aha’ sound.

“I don’t need tutoring Mr. Yu,” Heeseung huffed. “I’m perfectly fine-”

“Y/n. She’s perfect.” Mr. Yu grabbed a Post-it note and scribbled something down. “I’ll contact her. Trust you’ll be eating lunch with me if you stand her up.”

“What is this, a date?” The boy scoffed, grabbing the note.

Library 7:30.

Fuck.

Heeseung recognized you the moment he set eyes on you. Your face was not easily forgettable. It was one he, admittedly, loved to think about.

You were strange to him for two reasons.

Why would someone so beautiful not use their blessing? He for one loved to use his superior looks to escape detention or an awkward conversation.

You never chose to interact with anyone. Not him, not their teacher (unless forced,) not his friends, and seemingly, you had no friends of your own.

You looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "Are you going to sit, or keep staring?" He opened his mouth to reply, but shut it and sit down. You pretended not to find this amusing. "Can I see your tests?"

Heeseung quickly regained his composure, handing you the papers with a smirk. "So you speak."

You gave him a harsh look. "Of course I speak, I just don't find anyone in our class appealing enough to speak to." You looked at his papers slowly. "You suck at all of these by the way."

"Ouch," Heeseung said, maintaining a playful smile despite his genuine hurt, "And, what makes people so unappealing?"

You study him for a moment. "People make people unappealing."

"Fair...fair enough."

You handed back his papers, scooting your chair closer to his. "You need most help in English right?" He nodded, slightly intimidated by your closeness. "Can you fill out this sheet for me?"

Heeseung glanced at it and scoffed. "No."

"No?"

"I don't know what any of this says."

You held in a sigh, quickly collecting yourself. "This is the first thing we learned this year."

"Yeah," Heeseung smirked. "I didn't pay attention.

"Not-" You clenched your fists. "Okay. Let's start with the basics."

It took him until exactly 10:23 to finally grasp the placement of particles. By then, you were over it.

"Okay," You let out a breath. "Let's be done for today." You wanted to be done forever but knew Mr. Yu would never allow that.

Heeseung looked perplexed still, but shook his head. "Can I have your number?"

"What for?" You looked at him suspiciously. His newly formed smirk did not help your disease.

"Just for later tutoring sessions."

"Fine."

As expected, Heeseung did not text just for tutoring sessions. When you asked him to shut up, however, he always had some smart comeback like "How could I stop talking to such a pretty girl" or "But you're just so irresistible."

Admittedly, you began to find this enduring. Maybe even pleasant.

He started to actually listen during lessons, and they were less stressful, becoming the highlight of your day. His desperate attempts at flirting made for a good laugh. Sometimes, you'd even let him penetrate your little bubble in the cafateria.

Today, you were at Heeseung's house sitting on the floor. It was one of the more unproductive days. He sat there trying to spin a pencil on his finger.

It was a futile effort.

"Come on Hee," You said. "We're almost done, just finish it."

He looked at you, and then the worksheet. "But it's boring."

This, you couldn't argue with. "What do you want in exchange for you finishing your work?" You pinched your nose bridge, exsahsted.

Heeseung thought for a moment before a large smile painted his handsome features (it wasn't that you found him handsome, he just was objectively so.) "I want a kiss."

His remark surprised you. "Haha, funny," You sneered. "I'm not kissing your ass."

"Although my ass is pretty nice, I meant on the lips."

"Weirdo."

He shrugged, raising his eyebrow. "I'll finish the paper if I get my reward."

"Just..." You huffed, throwing the papers at him. "Finish the damn worksheet."

For an hour he worked undistracted. You watched him. In the past week he'd improved in all subjects, he seemed to work harder. When he was done, he handed you the paper.

Most of it was correct.

"Good job," You said, starting to clean up. "I'll see you tomorrow at the same time."

Confusion appeared on Heeseung's face. "Hey where's my reward," He huffed. "You said-"

"I didn't say anything." This wasn't untrue nor was it completely honest.

A frustrated sigh left Heeseung. "Fine." You packed up your things, trying not to feel completely horrible about his sulking.

But it got to you.

You were halfway through the door when you turned around to kiss him on the cheek. "Good job, Lee Heeseung." He smiled, but you turned on your heel to leave before he could say a word.

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blackbat05 · 2 years ago

Text

New Beginnings

Oliver Wood x Autistic! Reader

Plot: It's your final Christmas at Hogwarts but that doesn't mean you can't make new friends. While working at the school library, you meet a certain Qudditch Captain who has been observing you for longer than you think.

Genre: PG-13 (warning: suggested degrading terms towards people with special needs but not explicitly mentioned)

A/N: It's that time of the year and my obsession hasn't gone away actually, it's just been dormant. And what better time of the year to do a new character, one that I actually crushed on by simply just reading the books. Thanks @the-slumberparty for letting this gal write so many fics for end of the year!

Prompts in Bold!

***

It was a quiet day at the library. The semester break had just started and this meant that many students would be heading back home for the holidays.

You decided to stay at Hogwarts. Your friends expressed their pity but quickly forgot your supposed “plight” as they jabbered on about their holiday plans. Instead of cramped concert venues where wizards and witches would be rubbing all over each other, you decided to take on a position as library assistant at the school library. It was your final semester and you were going to miss this place. Soon, it would be the harsh environment of the working world and you weren’t quite ready to face it yet.

Apart from a student scribbling on his parchment, the library was empty. You decided to flip through the papers, looking at potential job openings for an educator at a school for young wizards and witches with special needs. You marked potential jobs with your wand, not noticing the young wizard in front of you.

“Oh my god! You scared me.” You jump a little at the sight of his burly figure.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, scratching his head sheepishly. “I was hoping you could help me find this book?” He passes you a piece of paper with the title scribbled on it.

“Professional Qudditch techniques?” You raised your brows, looking at the boy over the paper. You knew that you were talking to the Captain of Gryffindor’s Qudditch team. “I believed Madam Pince told me to stock this yesterday. Come along Wood.”

“You know who I am?”

A small smile forms on your lips. “Hard not to when your part of the Furious Seven.” You see his bemused expression and add on hurriedly, “I mean that’s what some people call the team.” You head down the aisle with Oliver Wood trailing behind you like a lost puppy. “Here it is!” You beamed, passing him a thick magenta book.

Oliver beams and thanks you. “So, are you not going back for the holidays?”

“Nah. My family’s inviting relatives over and I don’t really want to answer their intrusive questions. Especially since we’re in our final year.” You say drily and Oliver solemnly nods in understanding. “Besides, I wanted to stay for the school’s Christmas dinner and celebration. I won’t be coming back next year so I want to have a magical Christmas. What about you? Surely you can’t be studying.”

He laughs, “Nope. I was hoping to practice some moves for the professional Qudditch tryouts next year. I’m trying out for Puddlemere United’s reserve team.”

“That’s great!” You say sincerely. “I hope you make it.”

“Thanks Y/N.”

You pause in your tracks, looking at him curiously. “How do you?”

“Know your name?” Oliver finishes helpfully. “Hard not to know the Witch who is advocating for the rights of Wizards and Witches with special needs and doing a far more excellent job than those in the Ministry.”

“You read my posts?” You refer to the commentary on the school’s newspaper and an independent newspaper from the Ministry that you were involved in.

“Of course I did. I’m not going to be reading whatever purist rubbish that the Ministry has.” Oliver responds. The two of you reach the counter and he waits for you to check out his book.

“Um. I was wondering if you’re free tomorrow. Since it's Christmas Eve.” He adds hastily as you looked at him curiously.

“Sure. I would like to get a book from the local bookstore. Perhaps we could have a few butter beers while we’re at it.” You suggest. Oliver grins and you can’t help but to match his as well. You’ve never talked to him for this long before and you’ve only seen him from afar at the Qudditch matches. Kind of odd really that he’s reaching out before the lot of you graduate.

“It’s a da- deal!” He agrees a little too loudly as Madam Pince shoots her head out from one of the shelves and gives him a glare. You giggle softly.

“It’s a deal.”

***

You meet Oliver at the entrance to Hogsmeade. You can’t help but to notice that even all under that clothing, Oliver’s physique was still prominent. You prayed that the cold weather would cool your cheeks.

“Shall we?” He offers and the two of you trudge along the snow covered path.

Despite the two of you only having a real conversation the day before, it felt as if like you've known him since the very beginning. As the Captain of the Qudditch team, you always thought that he would be unapproachable and up there. On the contrary, he was charming and jovial, making you laugh at an incident that he recounted on the Qudditch field.

"You know a lot about the sport." Oliver remarks as you also added in your two cents on the recent match between the bottom two teams on the league table.

"My dad watches it. He's a huge fan. I think the two of you will get on swimmingly."

"Why didn't you join Qudditch then?" Oliver asks. He clearly remembers in first year of broom practice with Madam Hooch, you were one of the few students who could control their broom with ease and even managed to have a good swing at the practice bludgers Madam Hooch threw at you.

"Let's just say that I was a free spirit." You enter the warm bookstore and greet the saleswizard who directed you to the newest releases. Satisfied with your find, you retrieve another book and thrust it into Oliver's hands.

"I didn't want to say anything while Madam Pince was there but this is the newest version of Professional Qudditch Techniques. It has a few extra pages at the back that discusses Puddlemere United's training system and why its so effective."

Oliver is about to reach out, presumably to pay but you have a tight grip on the book. "A Christmas present." You tell him.

You hurriedly look away and Oliver can't help but to notice how your sniffing due to the cold (and also nerves at your attempt to get closer to him). He doesn't know the actual reason for your sudden sinus of course so he wraps his scarf around your neck. The saleswizard gives you a playful grin and shake your head furiously while Oliver is engrossed in a sports magazine, blissfully unaware.

Your last stop for the day was the Three Broomsticks. Oliver orders two mugs of butterbeer that you force yourself not to down with relish.

"Thanks for today." You nurse your mug. "I really enjoyed it. Best Christmas ever."

"So did I. My parents wanted me to be home for the holidays but I'm glad I made the right decision." Oliver has an unreadable expression and a honey-like gaze that would have gotten you stuck if you were transfixed on him any longer. The bell to the Three Broomsticks rings, signaling new customers and also the change in Oliver's expression.

"Flint." He hisses and you turn around to see the Slytherin Captain with a bunch of his cronies snarling at Oliver. Flint had a nasty grin plastered on his face. Oliver takes you by the wrist and you end up sitting beside him as the group approaches menacingly.

"What do we have here? I didn't know you had time to pick up girls?" Marcus Flint's slimy undertones made your skin crawl. You unknowingly grip Oliver's hands tighter under the table. You never liked the whole lot of them. For a very good reason as well. They would constantly make hateful and degrading comments at the cause that you were championing, even going as far as harassing you anonymously with thinly veiled death threats. You couldn't catch everyone, but you knew Marcus was one of many.

"Sod off Flint." Oliver shoots but obviously falls on death ears. In fact, this eggs on Marcus' taunts. His eyes fall on you and narrow into slits. You almost shrink into a ball and this does not go unnoticed by Oliver.

“So, L/N. Written any tasteless posts lately?”

Your mouth goes dry and Marcus continues to launch his assault on you. He turns to one of his cronies. “Hey, did anyone see that post about how wizards and witches with special needs should be able to attend schools?”

A snort of assent goes around and you go bright pink, fighting to keep your temper down in a public place.

“What a whole lot of dung that was. Hogwarts is already ridden with blood traitors and mudbloods. We certainly don’t need more charity cases.”

This time, you find yourself holding onto Oliver whose knuckles have gone red. He knew that both your parents were muggles.

“Did you know?” Marcus says to no one in particular but his voice is annoyingly loud. “I’ve heard a rumor.” His smile is almost sinister. “Y/N here is apparently… a special needs witch as well. A reta-”

Before Marcus can get another word out, a loud sickening crunch could be heard from Oliver’s fist coming into contact with Marcus’ jaw.

“You keep your bloody mouth shut Flint!” Oliver was shaking in rage. “Y/N, let me at him!”

“Oliver stop! He’s not worth it!” You hold him back while Marcus is held up by his cronies. “Please!” You stand in front of him and this seems to snap Oliver out of his rage induced trance. “Get lost before I break your hand next.” He snarls.

Marcus keeps his mouth shut but is shaking from fury and embarrassment from the attention that the scuffle had attracted. He storms out of the establishment, cronies slithering behind him. The Three Broomsticks resumes its normal hustle, leaving you and Oliver to clean up the mess that was a result of the fight.

You stay silent throughout the rest of the trip, all the way back to Hogwarts. Oliver thinks that he’s royally screwed up this time and is wrecking his brains on how to apologize.

“Come on in.” You tickle the pear and the door to the Hufflepuff common room opens. “Let me see your hand.”

Oliver blinks but doesn’t say anything. He follows you quietly into the common room that was thankfully empty.

“Sit.” You direct him to the sofa as you rummage through the shared medical supplies. You wordlessly take his hand and Oliver goes stiff as a gargoyle. Working your magic, the bruise on Oliver’s hand is virtually non existent and doesn’t feel sore when he grabs the cup of water on the coffee table.

“Thank you.” You speak up. “No one ever has done that for me.” You throw the last of the medicinal jars into the kit, returning it back to its original place with a flick of the wand.

“It’s what I would have done. You’re a hundred times better than them, pureblood or not.” Oliver states. Curiosity crawls up his neck and he wants to ask about the unsavory rumor about you floating around Hogwarts. But you beat him to it first.

“When I was four, I wasn’t hitting the typical milestones a wizard or witch would. My parents were worried and sent me to every muggle doctor and therapist in hopes that I would get better. It was a tough journey but with my parents’ support, I’m able to be here today.” You explained. “That’s why I’m so passionate about what I do. Because I see myself in them. Hell, I am them.”

“I didn’t know.” Is all Oliver can say. You smile sadly.

“I didn’t tell anyone. Despite what I’m doing, you’ll be surprised that there’s still stigma surrounding the magical world regarding special needs wizards as witches.”

A lull of silence falls between the two of you.

“Well, you’re still the same in my eyes.” Oliver insists. “Beautiful, brave and bold.” He realizes what he had just said and goes beet red. You can’t help but to think it’s adorable.

“Thanks. For believing in me.” Before you can even understand what is happening, the door to your heart has opened. You feel vulnerable but strangely… you’re okay with that. You lean forward and give him a kiss on his cheek.

The sight in front of you is hilarious - Oliver holds a hand to his cheek, mouth slightly agape. You laugh at his apparent shock and you don’t know where you get the bravery or confidence from.

“Do you need me to kiss you again?”

Oliver snaps out of his stupor and this time it’s his turn to leave you stuttering. “Yeah. I need you to kiss me properly this time.”

A pair of wolf whistles emit from the entrance of the common room and you see a familiar pair of redheads with identical grins.

“Way to go Cap!”

“And we thought you were only married to Qudditch!”

Oliver rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Piss off you two.”

George Weasley raises his hands up in mock surrender. “Don’t your get your pants in a twist Wood. We just wanted to tell you that Christmas dinner is starting in ten. We couldn’t find you in the common room so we’ve been looking everywhere.”

“Everywhere except here apparently.” Fred adds helpfully, dodging a cushion that Oliver throws his way.

“Don’t be late!” The twins singsong and leaves you two alone once again.

"I'm so sorry about those two." Oliver groans. To his surprise, you didn't look the slightest bit mad. You shift closer to him and Oliver has to steady his heart as you look at him.

"Can I hold your hand?"

Oliver goes slack for a moment. It's funny if he thinks about it. You've kissed him on the cheek for Godric's sake! But like on the Qudditch pitch, he recovers quickly and takes the lead instead, reaching out to grab your hand that slots perfectly with his. As you leave the common room and head to the Great Hall where you can already hear the festivities in full swing, Oliver stops abruptly.

He looks so serious that you wondered if he completely malfunctioned from the moment you two had in the common room.

"You forgot something," Oliver says and you feel his lips on yours. He slowly parts, observing your expression with a lopsided grin. "A kiss."

A cold gust of wind brushes by and the two of you look out to see the first snowfall of your last year at Hogwarts. "What do you know? First snowfall of our first day together."

Once you snap out of your trance, you playfully smack him on his broad shoulder and he sprints away from you.

"You are a cheeky one Oliver Wood!" You yell.

"Yeah?" He turns around, stopping right outside the entrance of the Great Hall. "But at least I'm yours! Hey! Everyone!" He attracts attention from everyone in the hall - students, professors and even Headmaster Dumbledore himself. "I'm finally going out with Y/N L/N!"

You run after him as loud whoops from the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff table could be heard. Even the faculty were exchanging serene smiles at the sight of young love despite the imminent tough times that were about to descend on them any moment.

It was your last year at Hogwarts. Your final Christmas celebration with a place you called home for the past seven years. But with every ending, comes a new beginning.

In this case, one that involved a very charming Qudditch Captain who saw you for who you were.

#oliver wood #oliver wood x reader #harry potter character #harry potter fanfiction #navy and roo's sleepover #oliver wood x autistic! reader #christmas fanfic #christmas

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