#chap 09

[purity-town]

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Alalia is constantly waxing poetic about how things used to be, and by virtue of her being an ancient dryad, people are typically inclined to listen out of respect.

Kids though? They don't care.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Seven

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, McLaren almost making a generational fumble, pregnancy, strong language, implied sexism in motorsport

Notes — Missed you all so much! Enjoy this longggg chap <3

From: Susie Wolff <susie.wolff@f1academy.com>

To: Amelia Norris <a.norris@mclarenf1.com>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 09:17 AM

Attachments: F1A_AdvisoryBoardOverview.pdf

Amelia,

I’ll get straight to it, as I know you don’t love preamble.

I think now is the time to formally invite you to join F1 Academy as a technical advisor and consulting board member, effective from the start of the 2025 season. Your experience, both practical and personal, is precisely what this program needs.

This role would involve quarterly strategic reviews, input on technical education frameworks, mentoring touch-points, and representation at select events — all designed to build a tangible technical pipeline.

I, of course, understand that this role would have to work-around your prior F1 commitments.

Let me know your thoughts. If you’d like to speak in person.

Warmly, Susie

From: Amelia Norris <a.norris@mclarenf1.com>

To: Susie Wolff <susie.wolff@f1academy.com>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 12:04 PM

Hi Susie,

First: thank you.

Second: I’ve read the overview twice already (I annotated the PDF, sorry in advance). It’s smart. Practical. Grounded. That’s rare in programs like this. You’re doing it right.

Third: Yes, I’m in. Fully.

I’ll carve out the time. If we’re serious about keeping girls in the sport, and I am, then this is the most productive way I can help. I’d also like to propose a technical “shadow program” for the engineering side — similar to what the Driver Academy does. We can talk more about it when you have time.

Appreciate the offer. And the trust.

Best, Amelia

From: Susie Wolff <susie.wolff@f1academy.com>

To: Amelia Norris <a.norris@mclarenf1.com>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 1:30 PM

Amelia,

That’s the best “yes” I’ve received in months. And I’ll happily take annotated PDFs if they come with your brain attached.

Let’s lock in a short meeting before we fly out next month. I’d love to dig into the shadow program idea — it’s aligned with something I’ve been building out with the FIA technical department. Timing might be perfect.

(Also, your idea about reinforcing retention through non-driver career tracks? Spot on. We’ll need that thinking on the board.)

Thrilled to have you with us.

Susie

From: Amelia Norris <a.norris@mclarenf1.com>

To: Susie Wolff <susie.wolff@f1academy.com>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 2:18 PM

Let’s do Thursday morning — Monaco? I’ll bring revised notes and a framework draft for the shadow pipeline.

A.

From: Susie Wolff <susie.wolff@f1academy.com>

To: Amelia Norris <a.norris@mclarenf1.com>

Date: January 2, 2024 – 3:04 PM

Thursday it is. I’ll send you the address of a lovely little restaurant on the harbour.

Looking forward to what we’ll build together. The sport’s lucky to have you.

Warmly, Susie

—

It was 8:12 a.m. and the kitchen smelled like toast, fresh coffee, and the faintest lingering whiff of washing up liquid — and Amelia's nausea was only made even worse when Lando toasted the wrong kind of bread.

“Why is there no oat milk?” Amelia said flatly, standing in front of the open fridge and glaring into it. 

Lando, half-asleep and shirtless in his McLaren joggers, yawned into his coffee. “What do you mean ‘why is there no oat milk’? You finished it yesterday.”

She didn’t turn around. “No, I finished the backup oat milk yesterday. The good one ran out two days ago. You said you were going to pick some up.”

“I did! They didn’t have your usual so I just got almond instead.”

Amelia shut the fridge and pivoted slowly, expression blank. “That’s not the same.”

Lando blinked. “It’s... kind of the same.”

“I can’t froth almond milk, Lando.” She told him.

“You can’t even drink coffee right now, baby.” He tried.

She stared at him. “Every morning, I drink a decaf latte with oat milk, and you know that, but you’re trying to act stupid so I can’t be mad at you.”

Lando set his mug down very slowly. “Okay. Okay. Let’s breathe through this.”

Amelia pointed at him. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to start throwing things at you.”

“I feel very lucky,” he said, smiling despite himself as he crossed the kitchen and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll go get your silly oat milk after breakfast.”

“My oat milk is not silly. It is gentle and stable and doesn’t split under pressure. Unlike some things.”

“Oh wow,” he muttered, grabbing the butter. “We’re speaking in metaphors now, are we?”

She sat at the table, still glaring at his toast. “You bought the one with sesame seeds. You know I can’t do the texture right now.”

Lando stared at her. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“I didn’t think I had to! You should just know! You’ve watched me do complex simulations while dry-heaving at the smell of overripe bananas. Sesame seeds are in the same category.”

Lando looked down at his toast, then back up at her. “Okay. So we’re adding a sesame embargo. Got it.”

She let out a sharp sigh, then scrubbed her hands down her face. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m just—”

“Gestating a human?”

She nodded. “It’s so much. Like. All the time.”

Lando softened immediately. He took his plate, dumped his toast in the bin, and set a banana-free, sesame-free bowl of oatmeal in front of her. “Here,” he said. “Neutral foods only. Plain and safe. Like... Switzerland.”

She blinked at the bowl. “This has potential.” She poked the spoon. “You made this with the almond milk?”

“No. Water.” He said. She sighed with relief. He smiled, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. “You have my word that I will never again confuse almond milk with oat milk ever again.”

Amelia muttered into her oatmeal. “You’ve lost food shopping rights.”

He grinned. “I’ll earn them back. Watch me.”

She ate in silence for a minute, then reached for his hand under the table, fingers curling around his.

He squeezed gently. “Better?”

“I still want my oat milk latte.”

“I’ll run down to the shop and get your oat milk.”

“And a bottle of caramel syrup.”

“Of course, baby.”

—

The café on Rue Grimaldi was just beginning to hum with the late-morning crowd when Lando ducked in, hoodie pulled up and sunglasses still on, despite being indoors. He made a beeline for the counter — three cartons of oat milk secured in a small paper bag under one arm, coffee on his mind — only to stop short when someone clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, mate,” came the familiar voice, warm and unmistakably Monegasque.

Lando turned to find Charles, dressed casually in a t-shirt and sunglasses pushed up into his hair, holding a takeaway espresso and looking smug about catching him off-guard.

“Shit. Sorry. Hey,” Lando grinned, adjusting the paper bag before offering a quick one-armed hug. “Didn’t know you came here.”

“You know that I live only three buildings away,” Charles said, amused. “You’re out early for once.”

“Amelia sent me to get oat milk,” Lando told him. “Life-or-death situation. I’m on a mission.”

Charles laughed, gesturing to the barista for another coffee. “How is she?”

“She’s good,” Lando said, instantly softening. He leaned against the counter and rubbed the back of his neck, eyes going distant for a moment. “Actually... she’s kind of amazing.”

Charles raised a brow, sipping his espresso.

“I mean, I always knew she was brilliant, but now with the pregnancy, she’s like... this whole new version of herself. Still very Amelia. Like, intense and sarcastic and kind of terrifying. But also just... soft sometimes. Like, in ways I’ve never seen. And she lets me see it.”

Charles’s face melted into a smile. “You’re in love.”

Lando snorted. “Well yeah. We’re married, remember?”

“But this is different. You sound like... you’re seeing her again for the first time.”

Lando paused. “Yeah. I think I am.” There was a beat of quiet between them as the barista handed over his coffee. He took it with a small nod of thanks, then glanced at Charles. “Think I’ve managed to fall in love with her all over again, you know?”

Charles blinked, visibly touched. “Mate.”

“I know,” he said, grinning awkwardly and taking a sip of his drink. “I’m being all sentimental and shit. Don’t tell Carlos, he wouldn’t let me live it down.”

Charles laughed. “I won’t. But Amelia might appreciate hearing it.”

“She knows,” Lando said quietly, then added, “But yeah. I think it’s good to keep reminding her.”

They stepped outside together, the warm Monaco sun washing over them.

“You’ll be a good dad,” Charles said eventually, nudging his shoulder.

Lando scoffed. “God, I hope so.”

“You will,” Charles repeated with certainty. “I’m sure of it, brother.”

They parted ways at the corner; Charles off to his sim session, Lando heading home, oat milk secure. And for the rest of the day, his smile didn’t quite leave his face.

—

The sun was low, bleeding orange across the horizon and painting long shadows down the winding streets of Monaco. The forest-green supercar purred beneath them like a living thing, gliding effortlessly through the city’s golden-hour glow. The streets shimmered with reflected light, windows catching fire as they passed, the sea winking silver to their right.

Lando’s hands rested easy on the wheel — one perched casually at ten o’clock, the other drifting occasionally over to Amelia’s thigh. The car, already easily recognisable in a city full of fast cars, was still impossible to ignore when he was driving it. Monaco might be saturated with wealth and speed, but Lando Norris in a sleek green supercar turned heads.

Especially when he was wearing that hoodie.

The white Playboy logo, stretched across the back of a black hoodie, had become something of an internet legend. Worn in interviews, airport photos, Twitch streams — it was a piece of lore now. And tonight, with the hood pulled halfway up and his curls just visible underneath, he looked more like a teenager sneaking out after curfew than a world-class F1 driver. But it didn’t matter.

Everyone still knew exactly who he was.

Amelia sat in the passenger seat, the window cracked open slightly, letting the wind tug loose strands of her hair. Her head rested against the seat-back, eyes closed, soaking in the smooth hum of the engine and the scent of salt in the air. After a day full of logistics and troubleshooting — packing, chasing suppliers, managing Oscar’s sim data issue, redoing schedules for Bahrain testing — this was the first moment she’d had to simply breathe.

“This is nice,” she said softly, voice barely carrying above the low purr of the car.

Lando glanced at her and smiled. “Told you it would help. You needed to de-stress.”

“And you needed to stop pacing around the apartment like a caged animal.”

“Fair,” he said with a shrug. “But I pace elegantly, don’t I?”

She cracked one eye open, amused. “You pace like a man trying to calculate the optimal lap around the kitchen island.”

They wound up the coast slowly, not in any rush, Lando deliberately choosing the scenic roads, detouring through the quieter corners of the city. Monaco rolled out around them like a movie set — warm light, quiet glamour, the soft hush of money that didn’t need to announce itself. But eventually, as the streetlights began to flicker on and the sea turned indigo, he turned off toward the familiar façade of the Casino de Monte-Carlo, its gold-lit entrance grand and welcoming.

Amelia blinked as he pulled up to the valet. “We’re eating here?”

“Yeah,” Lando said easily, already unbuckling. “Come on.”

Before she could protest, he was out of the car and jogging around the front, hood still up. She rolled her eyes, but her lips tugged into a smile.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m a good husband,” he corrected, pulling open the door.

Phones were already up. Across the street, a handful of passersby had clocked him immediately, cameras out, the sound of whispers and low murmurs rising like static.

She stepped out into the warm evening air, and he offered his hand — palm up, open, steady.

She took it. “You know this is going to be everywhere tomorrow.”

He shrugged, brushing a curl off her forehead. “Let them look.”

And they did.

By midnight, the photos had already gone viral.

One showed Lando — hoodie on, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other casually holding open the car door with a soft grin. Another showed Amelia stepping out of the passenger seat, hand lightly resting on her stomach in a way she hadn’t even noticed at the time. Her dress fluttered slightly around her legs in the breeze, and her smile was half-laugh, turned back toward Lando like he’d just said something that made her forget that the rest of the world existed.

The captions rolled in fast.

“lando norris taking his wife out for a quiet dinner before sakhir testing”

“is she touching her stomach???? IS SHE PREGNANT?????????”

“that bump is bumping i fear…”

“i swear if they announce they’re having a baby i’m throwing myself in the sea”

“seeing the hoodie again has awakened something in me…”

“her HAND is on her STOMACH and he’s wearing the PLAYBOY hoodie i’m going to PASS OUT”

Inside, the Casino’s main dining room was quiet and dignified — white linen tablecloths, the hum of polite conversation, low light glittering off the crystal chandeliers. They were led to a booth near the back — a soft, curved corner table with views of the harbour, tucked just far enough away from the main room to feel like a secret.

It was their table.

Amelia leaned across the polished surface and tilted her phone toward him. “I’m being tagged in a million things.”

He squinted at the screen. “That’s a lot of caps lock.”

She scrolled. “Someone says that if I have a baby I should name it after Daniel Ricciardo.”

He smirked, sipping from his water. “Hilarious idea.”

“They’re very invested.”

“They like you.”

“They like you. I’m a side character.”

“You’re my favourite character,” he said easily, and something in her eyes softened.

Bread and olive oil arrived, without needing to be ordered, and Amelia absently dipped a piece, still half-scrolling.

She looked up again, a small crease between her brows. “Do you think I make it obvious that I’m pregnant?”

Lando shrugged. “Maybe. You look happy.”

She frowned. “I wasn’t expecting people to notice this fast.”

He reached over and gently wiped a smear of oil from her mouth with his thumb. “You’ve got a glow. And It’s not your fault people are obsessed with you.”

“I think it might be your fault, actually.”

He smiled again, soft and private. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Their food arrived. Lemony pasta for her, grilled steak salad for him. She picked at her plate for a while, quiet. Then, finally, she set her fork down and said, “It’s going to be different soon, isn’t it?”

He looked up. “What is?”

“This. Life. Dinners. Feeling like we still get to be just… us.”

Lando didn’t rush to answer. He leaned back a little, watching her — her face, her hands, the quiet vulnerability creeping in at the edges. “Maybe,” he said eventually. “But different doesn’t have to be bad.”

She nodded slowly. Bit her lip. “You’re going to get such an ego when the fangirls start calling you a DILF.”

He grinned. “Won’t be a lie.”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m just saying." He said. She rolled her eyes at him and he huffed out a laugh. "If our kid has your attitude, I’m going to need divine patience.”

She stopped mid-bite. Blinked. “Oh.”

Lando tilted his head. “What?”

“What if…” she hesitated. “What if they are like me?”

He sat forward, instantly alert. “Baby—”

“I mean it,” she said, voice cracking just slightly. “What if they’re too smart, or too intense, or too weird, and they don’t fit in anywhere? What if they’re… different, and it’s hard, and people expect them to be like you, but they’re not?”

Lando reached for her hand. Held it steady. “Then they’ll be lucky.”

She looked at him, startled.

“I mean it,” he said, voice soft. “If they’re like you, they’ll be brilliant. Strong. Honest. The world doesn’t make it easy on people like that, but you’ll show them how to do it anyway.”

Her mouth trembled.

He leaned in. “I didn’t fall in love with you despite those things, Amelia. I fell in love with you because of them.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, muttering, “Now I’m crying into my pasta.”

“Adds flavour,” Lando said.

“You’re the worst.”

“I love you.”

She smiled through it, eyes still glassy. “You’re going to be a really good dad.”

He tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Not strict,” she said, teasing. “But good.”

Lando grinned. “I can’t even tell you no. How am I supposed to say it to a miniature you?”

She laughed, soft and real, and somewhere between the candlelight and the quiet clatter of cutlery, everything settled.

It was different now — but maybe, just maybe, it was... better.

—

The apartment was quiet when they got back. Amelia slipped off her shoes in the hallway, sighed, and leaned briefly against the wall as Lando locked up behind them.

She trailed behind him, fingers tracing the edge of the marble countertop in the kitchen. Her body was tired, heavy in a way it hadn’t been before pregnancy; like her muscles were constantly working overtime to keep up with the quiet, miraculous thing happening beneath her skin.

She stood at the sink, sipping a glass of water slowly, letting the silence settle.

Lando reappeared a few moments later with the familiar glass bottle in his hand. It was half-used now — the bump oil she’d started applying a week ago. Some natural blend that smelled faintly of neroli and sweet almond, promising hydration and elasticity and comfort. 

But more than that, it had become a ritual. A pause. A grounding point at the end of the day when everything else felt like it was moving too fast.

He held it up. “You want the honours, or shall I?”

Amelia stared at him. “Your hands are warmer.”

Lando grinned. “You just like being pampered.”

“Who doesn’t?”

They migrated to the bedroom, the soft white light of the bedside lamps casting everything in a low, golden haze. She pulled her dress off and tossed it gently over the chair, leaving her in a bralette and cotton shorts. The curve of her stomach was still so subtle — just a hint of bloating that she never usually suffered with, a visible whisper of the life growing inside her.

She lay back against the pillows, propped slightly up, and Lando sat cross-legged beside her, the bottle uncapped, hands already slick with oil.

He started slow, careful, hands gentle as he spread the oil over her skin, fingers smoothing in slow, deliberate circles. He was quiet while he worked, but it wasn’t a heavy silence. It was reverent. Focused. Loving.

“You’re getting good at this,” she murmured, eyes slipping closed.

“I practice on watermelons when you’re not home.”

She huffed a soft laugh.

His thumbs moved lower. “I’m absolutely obsessed with you.” He mumbled against the skin of her hip.

“I know.” Her voice was sleepy now. She reached out, hand brushing against his cheek.

He leaned into her touch, then pressed a kiss low against her stomach, just beneath his hands. “Hi, baby-bunch-of-cells,” he whispered, lips brushing warm against her skin. Her lips twitched. “You’ve got the coolest mum in the world, you know that?”

Amelia blinked hard. “Stop making me cry,” she muttered, voice cracking.

“I’m not doing anything,” he said, smug and soft.

She smacked his arm lightly, and he caught her hand, twined their fingers together, and settled down beside her, cheek resting gently against the swell of her belly.

They lay there like that for a while — the room quiet, the scent of the oil soft in the air, his palm warm and open against her skin.

Eventually, Amelia got up to change into a sleep-shirt, all bleary eyed as she wandered back into Lando’s waiting arms.

“You okay?” Lando murmured into her hair, thumb brushing over the bare skin of her hip where her sleep shirt had ridden up as she wriggled her way under the covers.

“Mmhm,” she hummed. “Just tired.”

He didn’t answer right away, just let the silence stretch, the rhythm of their breaths syncing. Her hand was pressed to her belly again — not dramatically, not even consciously. It was just where it always landed now.

And Lando noticed.

“Tell me more,” he said quietly.

She lifted her head. “More?”

“About what you’ve learned. About... all of it.” He tilted his chin toward her stomach. “I know you’ve been reading non-stop. I want to know.”

She blinked, a little surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah. All of it.”

Amelia yawned, then launched in; quieter now, but no less enthusiastic. “Okay, so the placenta doesn’t fully take over hormone production until about ten weeks, which means all the weird mood swings and the nausea and the exhaustion are mostly just the hCG hormone hijacking my system.”

“That’s the one doubling every couple of days?”

“Exactly. I read this one article that called it ‘a hormonal rollercoaster without a seatbelt,’ and it’s one of the only metaphors that I’ve every genuinely understood.”

Lando chuckled softly, fingers drawing slow, idle shapes along her back.

“And apparently,” she continued, “the nausea’s not about throwing up. It’s like this constant, cloying, edge-of-sick feeling that never fully goes away unless I’m horizontal, full of carbs, or momentarily distracted by you being sweet.”

He kissed her temple. “I’ll do my best to be a cure.”

“You’re good at it.”

They lay there quietly for a beat.

“I can’t eat sushi,” she said suddenly. “Or swordfish. Or soft cheese. Or deli-meats. Or sprouts.”

“Brussels sprouts?”

“Alfalfa sprouts.”

“Oh. Honestly that feels like a win.”

“I also can’t take long hot baths or sit in saunas. No ibuprofen.”

“That one seems unfair.”

“Right?” She sighed. “And then there’s this thing called round ligament pain, which apparently is just surprise stabs in the pelvis because your uterus is growing too fast and the ligaments are mad about it.”

He winced. “Sounds... ouchie.”

“Everything about pregnancy is ‘ouchie’. It’s just all been politely marketed.”

Lando let out a low laugh, his chest shaking beneath her. “Baby.”

“I’m serious.”

He turned onto his side, bringing them face to face, his hand splaying wide across her lower stomach like a gentle shield. His thumb brushed slowly just below her navel.

“You’re really doing it,” he said quietly.

“Doing what?”

“This.” His voice softened. “Making a whole human. Half you, half me.”

Her throat tightened. She blinked hard, fighting the familiar sting behind her eyes. “I don’t feel like I’m doing anything most of the time.”

“You’re doing everything,” he said. “Even when you’re just laying here talking about ligament stabs.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it quickly with the edge of the duvet and muttered, “Now I’m crying in bed.”

Lando smiled. “Well, there goes the dry side of the pillow.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I love you.”

When she finally fell asleep, it was with his hand still resting over her belly and a vow stitched into the silence of their bedroom.

—

The cabin lights were dimmed to a sleepy gold, the hum of the engines a constant low white noise in the background. Lando had kicked his shoes off an hour ago and was now curled sideways in his seat, legs stretched across the aisle to rest against Amelia’s footrest, a battered hoodie bunched around his shoulders like a blanket.

Amelia had her noise-canceling headphones looped around her neck, but wasn’t using them. Her head rested against the window, fingers lazily tracing patterns on thigh through the soft cotton of her leggings.

Her seat was reclined, her feet tucked up beside her, a half-finished crossword open on the tray table. She wasn’t filling in the answers anymore — just twirling the pen between her fingers, eyes glassy with that deep-travel fatigue that always hit halfway through long-haul flights.

Lando cracked one eye open and looked at her. “You asleep?”

“Nope,” she said, voice soft. “Just thinking.”

“About the car?”

“About the twelve hours I’ll spend at the track tomorrow.” She rubbed her temple. “Oscar’s nervous. The aero team still hasn’t patched the instability in the rear. And I’m definitely going to throw up in the hospitality bathroom at least once before 10 a.m.”

Lando yawned, unbothered. “Sounds like a normal Thursday.”

Amelia kicked lightly at his shin. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to. I’m trying to distract you.”

She glanced at him, skeptical.

He sat up slightly, stretching across the console between them to brush a piece of hair out of her face. “Want me to list all the things I think you’re going to smash tomorrow?”

“No.”

He grinned. “Tough. You’re gonna boss Oscar’s testing schedule. You’re going to yell at one engineer and make them better for it. You’re going to make that car faster in a week than some teams do in three months. And you’re going to throw up very discreetly, like the absolute professional you are.”

She snorted, biting back a smile. “Helpful.”

“I try.”

Amelia tilted her head against the headrest and murmured, “Love you.”

Lando reached for her hand under the shared armrest and laced their fingers together, thumb brushing slow circles against her skin.

They sat like that for a while, not talking, not needing to, the lights dim, the flight steady, and the love endless.

—

The paddock wasn’t quite awake yet.

The early morning desert sun cast everything in long gold shadows, and the garages buzzed with that low, electric anticipation that only came with testing. Engineers murmured over telemetry, coffee steamed in paper cups, and the distinct scent of warm asphalt clung to everything.

Amelia sat on the wide concrete step outside the hospitality unit, a bottle of water between her hands and her sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She didn’t look pregnant yet, not unless you were looking, but she felt it anyway — in the way her shirt tugged tighter around the middle, in the constant low hum of her body doing something without asking her permission.

She didn’t look up when Celeste dropped down beside her with two iced coffees in hand.

“Stolen from Red Bull catering,” Celeste said brightly, offering one. “I’m not above crimes, and they all love you too much to snitch. Yours is decaf, obviously.”

Amelia took it without a word. “Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a while, the sun hot on their skin.

Eventually, Celeste nudged her knee. “You good?”

Amelia hesitated. Then. slowly, like peeling something back, “I’m not... bad. But I’m not good.”

Celeste looked at her, eyebrows lifted, but didn’t interrupt.

“It’s just…” Amelia gestured vaguely at her stomach, then let her hand fall again. “Everything’s changing and I didn’t give it permission to.”

Celeste blinked, caught off guard by the honesty. “Yeah?”

“I know that’s sort of the point of pregnancy,” Amelia said, eyes still fixed on the horizon. “But my body doesn’t feel like mine right now. And not just the physical stuff. My routines are off. My sleep feels weird. I don’t like food I used to like, and I suddenly love things I used to hate. And I can’t regulate my temperature or my moods and none of my bras fit and—” She stopped. Swallowed. “I just... I feel hijacked. And it’s really hard not to spiral about it.”

There was a beat. “That makes perfect sense,” Celeste said, voice low and steady. “You’re used to having a say in everything. Your clothes. Your space. Your schedule. Your comfort. Your body. And now all those things are changing at once, without warning.”

Amelia nodded, quick and tight, eyes stinging. “And the worst part is — I want the baby. I love the baby. But I feel like I’m being dragged behind my own life, and I keep thinking... ‘If I’m already this overwhelmed, how the hell am I supposed to do the next seven months?’”

Cleste didn’t offer clichés. She didn’t say “you’re strong” or “you’ll be fine.”

Instead, she reached out and gently touched Amelia’s forearm. “Okay. So let’s start with what isn’t changing today. What do you still have control over?”

Amelia sniffled and looked down at her shoes. “My spreadsheets.”

Celeste smiled. “Great. What else?”

“My noise-canceling ear defenders. My sleep playlist.”

“There you go. Small things are still yours.”

Amelia let out a shaky breath. “I keep telling myself that it’s just sensory overload. That I’ve handled worse. That it’ll pass.”

“But even if it doesn’t,” Celeste said gently, “you’ll adapt. You always have. And if it helps at all, I think what you’re feeling is incredibly valid — and not remotely selfish.”

“I feel selfish.”

“You’re not. You’re neurodivergent, pregnant, and also a woman working in the highest level of motorsport. If you weren’t feeling overwhelmed, I’d be worried.”

Amelia huffed out a laugh, surprised. “That’s... actually helpful.”

Celeste bumped their shoulders together. “You’re allowed to love the baby and hate what pregnancy does to your routine. Both things can be true. You don’t have to be one or the other.”

For the first time all morning, Amelia’s posture eased slightly.

“Do you wanna come hide in the RedBull motorhome for a bit?” Celeste offered. “I think I saw one of the catering guys stash the good pastries behind the juice bar.”

“I shouldn’t abandon my team on day one,” Amelia said, already standing.

Celeste rolled her eyes. “It’s lunch time. I think you’re allowed a croissant.”

—

The sun was beginning to sink behind the Bahraini paddock, casting long gold stripes through the motorhome windows. Most of the team was trickling into the hospitality area for water, air-con, and a brief moment of respite.

Amelia was halfway through a half-melted protein bar and hunched over her laptop, squinting at a CFD report that felt like it was written in Elvish. Her brain had long since checked out. She barely noticed the door open until a familiar voice cut across the quiet.

“Well, if it isn’t the boss herself.”

She looked up — and grinned, the kind of grin that cracked her whole face open with genuine affection.

Oscar stood in the doorway, sun-browned from a week back home in Melbourne, hair a little longer, hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms. He looked… relaxed. And irritatingly cheerful.

“You’re late,” she said, standing up and crossing the room in three long strides before throwing her arms around him in a hug that knocked the breath out of him.

“Jesus,” he wheezed, but hugged her back without hesitation, forehead dropping against her shoulder. “Missed you too, I guess.”

“Shut up,” she said into his hoodie. “You were gone for seven days. That’s the longest we haven’t spoken in two years. It was disorienting.”

He laughed, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t,” she said flatly. “They changed the diffuser without me.”

Oscar winced. “I heard. Sorry. Want me to key somebody’s car?”

“No, I can’t have you being charged with a crime this close to the first race of the season,” she sighed. “But thank you anyway.”

They sank into the cushy booth under the window, Amelia tucking her legs up beside her and watching as he peeled open a protein bar of his own.

“Home okay?” She asked.

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. Mum made me a list of things to bring back that I forgot entirely. My sister says hi. Oh — and Dad said ‘congrats on the rugrat’.”

Amelia snorted. “He did not.”

Oscar shrugged, his lips twitching. “He did.”

She laughed, leaning her head back against the booth. “I missed you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m very loveable. Anything explode while I was gone?”

“Just my patience. And there was a very minor fire in the CFD department.”

Oscar winced. “Anyone hurt?”

“No. Just some bruised egos.” She sighed. They sat in companionable silence for a while. Outside, the sound of reporters and tool carts echoed through the alleyways. Inside, it was calm. Steady. After a moment, Amelia nudged him with her knee. “It’s good you went home. Family time is important for optimal motivation.”

“I know.” He said. He was smiling at her.

“Did you bring me back a souvenir?” She asked.

Oscar grinned. “Check my backpack.”

She leaned over, unzipped the top pocket; and let out a delighted noise at the sight of a tiny stuffed koala wearing aviators.

“His name is Downforce,” Oscar said proudly.

Amelia held it up and stared at it. “I’m putting him on the dash of the simulator.”

“Please do.”

And just like that — they were back. Her with her sharp edges, him with his dry sarcasm, and something between them that felt like a shared backbone. Stronger for the distance. Ready for whatever testing, and the season ahead, threw at them next.

—

The desert heat hadn't even peaked yet and Amelia was already sweating.

Engineers in crisp polos darted between garages with clipboards and headsets; pit crew rolled tires across the hot concrete; camera crews hovered at the edges, hungry for glimpses of shiny new bodywork or strained facial expressions.

Amelia stood just inside the garage, arms crossed tight over her chest, her clipboard clutched in one hand like a weapon. Her sunglasses were perched high on her nose, more for the glare of her own frustration than the sun. In front of her, the MCL38-AN, her car, in every way that mattered, sat on its stands, monitors blinking with diagnostic readings. And she hated what she saw.

It wasn’t bad, technically. Nothing catastrophic. But it was wrong.

The wrong wing configuration. The wrong ride height assumptions. The rear diffuser changes she’d flagged three weeks ago had been pushed through without her sign-off — a democratic decision made by the broader engineering committee while she was out for the afternoon with a migraine. The moment she’d seen the telemetry from Oscar’s first handful of laps, she’d known that’d cost them at least two-tenths on the straights.

And now? It was too late to fix it.

“Still gathering data,” one of the aero leads said beside her, hopeful. Too hopeful.

Amelia didn’t look at him. “You’re gathering confirmation bias. You want the data to tell you it was worth it.”

He blinked. “We can’t reverse the updates before the first race.”

“I know,” she said tightly. “I’m not asking you to. I’m telling you that they shouldn’t have been implemented in the first place.”

He took a step back.

Oscar pulled back into the garage just then, visor up, sweat beading at his temples. He popped the wheel off and offered her a sheepish smile. “Feels like I’m dragging a parachute on the straights.”

Amelia didn’t smile. “You basically are.”

Oscar winced. “Well, that’s nice.”

She handed the clipboard off to a mechanic without a word and turned on her heel, storming down the garage tunnel toward the back paddock.

Lando caught up with her a minute later, jog-walking like he knew better than to grab her arm when she was in this mood. “Hey. Hey—baby.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

She spun to face him. “They changed my car, Lando. They changed my car without consulting me, and now it’s dragging down the straights like a brick with wings. And everyone’s acting like it’s going to be okay because they modelled it that way.”

His expression softened. “You told them that diffuser adjustment was a mistake.”

“I told them ten times.”

“You also told me you’d be polite and calm in front of the media,” he teased gently.

“I lied.”

He stepped closer, bumping his shoulder lightly against hers. “We’ll fix it.”

“No,” she said, throat tight. “We’ll mitigate it. We’ll bandage the decision they made without me. But it’ll still be wrong, Lando.”

Lando didn’t argue. He knew her well enough not to.

Instead, he stood beside her quietly, both of them staring out at the line of cars rumbling through pit lane in the rising heat.

After a long moment, Amelia let out a breath. “I hate when I’m right.”

“I don’t,” Lando said. “That’s why I married you. It’s helpful to always have the smartest one in the room on my side.”

She didn’t smile, not quite, but the fury softened at the edges, just enough.

—

The room was too bright. Too cold. The kind of sterile that made every emotion feel like a liability.

Amelia stood at the end of the table, spine ramrod straight, her hands braced on the glass surface like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the floor. Zak sat near the head, arms folded tightly across his chest. Andrea was beside him, flipping aimlessly through the printed test data, though his eyes never left her.

She didn’t wait for an invitation. She didn’t sit.

“This isn’t working out.”

Zak blinked. “Amelia—”

“No. Don’t try to explain it to me.” Her voice was even, but it cracked with a sharpness that made Andrea stiffen. “I’ve been quiet about the changes. I’ve followed the chain of command. I’ve backed off. I’ve trusted the process. But I’m telling you now: the car is wrong.”

Andrea opened his mouth, but she didn’t let him speak.

“I don’t care what the wind tunnel says,” she continued, tone clipped and fast, like she had too much to say and not enough runway. “I don’t care how many simulations you run with this configuration — the car is fundamentally slower through mid-to-high speed corners and we are losing straight-line efficiency. I flagged this four months ago when the adaptions were suggestion, and I was ignored.”

Zak exhaled slowly. “We made collective decisions, Amelia. You were—”

“No,” she said, and it wasn’t loud, but it hit. “Decisions were made, yes. But I wasn’t listened to. There’s a difference.”

Andrea’s voice was quiet but firm. “The engineering team felt—”

“The engineering team,” she cut in, “is brilliant. I have never questioned their intelligence. But they are second-guessing me — consistently — because I’m who I am. And don’t you dare try to tell me that’s not part of it.”

Zak’s expression tightened, and for a second, he looked like her father again — not the CEO, not the face of McLaren, just a man caught between protectiveness and policy. But he said nothing.

Amelia leaned forward, tone even sharper now. “You gave me my title. Chief Technical Director. You paraded me in front of press as the future of McLaren. But when it mattered, when it came down to actual performance philosophy, you let them override me. You didn’t back me.”

There was a long, taut silence.

Her hands curled into fists against the glass.

“I am telling you now,” she said clearly, eyes burning but voice terrifyingly calm, “You have until Miami to revert the floor spec, the rear suspension setup, and the aero surfaces back to my configuration. You have until Miami to stop pretending that compromising on half a dozen micro-decisions makes a faster car. It doesn’t. And I won’t let my work, my life’s work, be slowly watered down until it’s just another near-miss.”

Andrea looked at her, slow and wary. “You’re saying you’ll quit.”

She didn’t flinch. “I’m saying I’ll walk.”

Zak looked like she’d punched him. “Honey—”

“No,” she said. “I’m not bluffing. I’ve given everything to this car. I built the MCL38-AN from the ground up. It is mine. And I’m watching it get torn apart by people who didn’t have the vision and don’t have the stakes I do.”

Her voice caught, just for a second; not from tears, but from fury held too long in her chest.

“I am not normal. I’m autistic,” she said bluntly, like she was listing part numbers. “I have spent my life learning how to make people take me seriously. I have sat in rooms where grown men laughed at me. I have had to make everything perfect just to be considered competent. So when I say that the car is broken, that your changes are wrong, it is not emotion. It is not ego. It is fact.”

She let that hang in the air.

Zak looked stunned. Andrea finally glanced down at the table.

Amelia straightened, pulling her hands from the glass. “Miami. That’s your deadline. Fix it, or I walk. And don’t think for a second that I won’t be taking both of my drivers with me.”

She turned before they could answer, too wired to hear excuses, too angry to be placated.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And somewhere down the hall, someone exhaled like they’d been holding their breath the entire time.

—

SkySportsF1 — An Interview with Amelia Norris

Naomi Schiff smiled at the camera as the red light blinked on. “Welcome back to Sky Sports F1. I’m joined now by McLaren’s Chief Technical Director, Oscar Piastri’s race engineer, and — of course — Lando Norris’ better half, Amelia Norris.”

Amelia, seated beside her in her team polo and her aviators hooked neatly into her collar, gave a small nod. “That’s a long title.”

Naomi laughed. “It’s earned. You’ve got more job descriptions than most team principals.”

Amelia tilted her head. “Efficient, not overcommitted.”

Naomi grinned. “Noted. Let’s start with something beyond car development — I know, shocking. F1 Academy is heading into its second year. More races on the main calendar. More visibility. How does it feel to see that kind of progress?”

Amelia’s expression shifted. Still composed, but with the slightest hint of warmth. “It feels... structural. Like we’re finally reinforcing the foundation instead of just repainting the surface.”

Naomi raised a brow, impressed. “That’s a good way to put it.”

“I don’t do metaphors often,” Amelia said dryly. “But that one felt accurate.”

Naomi leaned in slightly, tone softening. “You’ve spoken before, pretty openly, about how difficult it was to be taken seriously in motorsport. As a woman. As someone neurodivergent. What does this shift toward real support for women in the sport mean to you, personally?”

Amelia paused, more out of precision than hesitation. “It means I don’t have to keep hoping someone else fixes it. I can actually contribute. Visibility isn’t enough. It has to come with access. Tools. Pathways. F1 Academy’s starting to offer that.”

Naomi nodded, clearly moved. “And — not to blow up your spot, but — there are rumours that you’ll be working more closely with them in 2025?”

Amelia gave her a dry look. “Did Lando tell you that?”

Naomi smiled innocently. “I have many sources. All of them chatty.”

A breath, then Amelia gave a small, firm nod. “Yes. I’ll be joining the F1 Academy as a consultant next year. I’ll be working with Susie Wolff to develop a clearer technical development route for girls who want to work behind the scenes; not just drivers, but engineers, analysts, strategists. The full picture.”

Naomi’s eyes lit up. “That’s amazing.”

“It’s overdue,” Amelia said plainly. “You can’t call it a pipeline if it only works for certain people. And I know there are girls watching now who love this sport but don’t dream of being the one in the car. I’m doing this for them. Or someone like me, fifteen years ago.”

Naomi nodded. “And I assume McLaren’s more than happy for this to happen?”

Amelia shrugged. “Can I be honest? I haven’t even asked. It won’t affect my workload, and it certainly won’t affect my ability to do my job.”

Naomi laughed. “So you’re not going to slow down anytime soon?”

Amelia shook her head. “Statistically unlikely.”

Naomi turned slightly to the camera. “Well, there you have it. Amelia Norris — technical director, race engineer, soon-to-be F1 Academy consultant, and managing to make the rest of us look lazy.”

Amelia leaned toward the mic. “If anyone catches me napping in the background of any kind of weekend coverage, keep it quiet.”

Naomi laughed again, but there was a twinkle in her eye as she added, teasing, “One last question, off the record — and this is very important. Have you tried ginger nut biscuits?”

Amelia blinked. “I don’t really like cinnamon.”

Naomi tilted her head. “They’re not made with cinnamon.”

Another blink. Amelia was processing.

Naomi just winked. “Woman to woman.”

There was a beat of silence, then Amelia deadpanned, “That’s a reach.”

But her hand twitched toward her stomach, just slightly, as Naomi stood to wrap the segment.

“Thanks for joining us, Amelia,” Naomi said with a smile. “We’ll be keeping an eye on you — and your napping schedule.”

“Please don’t,” Amelia muttered as she removed her mic.

Off-camera, Naomi gave her a wink again. “You’re glowing, by the way.”

Amelia looked at her, unreadable. “That’s just my moisturiser.”

Naomi grinned slyly. “Sure it is.”

—

The desert heat shimmered off the tarmac in visible waves.

Oscar’s McLaren skimmed past the pit wall with that clean, calibrated roar, and Amelia tracked the car’s movement without flinching, her eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses.

“Box this lap,” she said calmly into the headset.

“Copy, boxing,” came Oscar’s voice, easy and even, like it always was. There was something reassuring about his tone; not casual, but not strained either. Balanced. Controlled.

Andrea leaned over her shoulder, pointing to the small uptick in temps on the left rear. “He’s pushing.”

Amelia didn’t look up. “Yeah. That was the instruction.”

Oscar pulled into the box, the car gliding to a stop just as the garage crew surged into motion — tire blankets off, engineers at the ready. Amelia stood, tugging her headset off and walking to the front of the garage.

Oscar cracked his visor. “That middle sector’s still a bit off.”

“Because you’re braking into 10 a touch early,” she said, handing him a bottle of water. “You’re playing it safe.”

“I like keeping the car in one piece.”

“You’re not going to bin it.”

Oscar arched a brow. “You say that with such confidence.”

“I built the balance map. I know what it can take.”

He took a sip of water and gave her a knowing look. “You’ve been a bit grumpy today.”

Amelia crossed her arms. “Because I feel like I’m being ignored and I don’t like it.”

Oscar smirked. “You sound like Lando.”

“I married Lando,” she muttered.

Oscar exhaled a quiet laugh and climbed out of the car. “Alright. Back in ten?”

“Back in seven,” Amelia corrected, already turning toward the data wall.

As he walked past her, he added, “You missed me, didn’t you?”

“I missed clean telemetry,” she replied without looking up.

But her mouth twitched.

Oscar tugged off his gloves. “I’ll take it.”

She didn’t say anything, but when he sat back down in the debrief chair, she handed him the revised turn-in model she’d finished before lunch — already annotated, already highlighted, already calibrated to his feedback.

He looked down at it, then back at her. “You ate lunch, right?”

“I did,” Amelia said flatly, taking her seat at the pit wall again.

Over comms, the crew confirmed readiness.

Oscar nodded to her. “Let’s go again.”

“Push lap. Use the whole track. Let it breathe in 12.”

“Copy.”

—

The moonlight caught Amelia’s cheekbones when she leaned her head against the headrest, her arms folded tight across her chest.

Oscar was on her left, earbuds in but not playing anything. Lando sat on her right, one leg folded beneath him, picking at the label on a water bottle.

The car was quiet in that post-testing way; all of them wrung out, smelling faintly of heat and rubber, the air-conditioning humming low.

Amelia finally broke the silence.

“I gave them a deadline,” she said.

Lando glanced over. “Who?”

“My dad. Andrea.” She didn’t look up. “I told them they have until Miami to either revert the car back to my spec and implement the rest of the changes — or I walk.”

Oscar blinked. Slowly pulled his earbuds out. “You what?”

“I’m not doing this,” Amelia said, voice cool and measured. “I refuse to accept excuses and be forced to sit back and watch the car become less than what it could be.”

Lando didn’t speak. He just reached over, his hand warm where it closed around her wrist, grounding.

Oscar leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You said that to their faces?”

“In Zak’s office. Door open. With Andrea across the desk. I told them straight — they’ve got until Miami to course-correct, or I’m done.”

Lando’s jaw flexed, but he stayed quiet.

Amelia kept her eyes fixed out the window. “They know it’s true. They’re letting politics win over performance. And if they don’t fix it, I’m not going to sit there and let them ruin our chance of a championship to preserve some internal power structure. I’m tired of pretending the problem is something else.”

Oscar shifted. “You think they’ll actually listen?”

“I think they’ll think about the gap they’ll have to fill if they lose me mid-development. They’ll run the numbers.”

Lando exhaled through his nose. “You shouldn’t have to threaten to leave just to get them to listen to you.”

“I know,” she said. Quiet. Blunt. “But they weren’t going to do it otherwise. I’ve tried calm. I’ve tried patient. I’ve tried proving them wrong. They still my decisions be overridden. So now they get consequences.”

Lando rubbed a hand down his face. “I’ll back you. Whatever happens.”

Oscar nodded. “Same.”

Amelia finally looked at them. “You’re both under contract.”

“And you’re the reason we were podium-capable last year,” Lando said. “If they don’t see that, they’re idiots.”

Amelia didn’t smile. But the line of her shoulders softened just a little.

Oscar leaned his head back against the headrest. “Miami’s in, what — two months?”

“Eight weeks,” she said.

“So... no pressure.”

Amelia snorted. “You’re driving the car, ducky. Pressure’s on you.”

That earned a tired chuckle from the Aussie.

Lando leaned into her shoulder gently, head tipping against hers. “Whatever happens, we’ve got your back, okay?”

Amelia closed her eyes for a moment, just long enough to breathe it in. “I know.”

NEXT CHAPTER

[wonderjanga]

Billy’s Sidegig

Billy has a side gig. It’s something he’s recently cooked up as a way to get cash.

He’ll help ghosts pass on!

Now, granted, ghosts don’t carry cash, but! But, they can lead him to cash. Or food. Or safe shelter! Point is, it’s a very lucrative job. A job that Billy takes very seriously.

Female Ghost (FG):“Well, aren’t you just a dear?”

Billy: “Thank you, miss.” *takes out little notepad* “Now, can you tell me anything about yourself?”

FG: “Well, I was born in ‘09!”

Billy: “19?”

FG: “Yes, 1909. And I was a dancer when I was alive. The only thing I think I’ll need to pass on it for me to perform one last time.”

Billy: “I see, I see.” *scribbles down in notepad* “I’ll see what I can do, miss.”

Billy proceeded to get her a gig at a restaurant. It was safe to say she was floored when Billy corral her inside. She just thought the boy would gather a group of people and have her perform in front of them in the street. She didn’t think he’d get her anything professional!

Then there was a really fancy British guy. He’d been ran over by a train, and Billy could see his innards as he floated in front of him.

He wanted Billy to find a monocle. It left him digging for hours near a train track.

British Ghost (BG):“I believe it was a little further to the left.”

Billy: *digs around there*

BG: “Or was it the right…?”

Billy: *groans and digs over there*

BG: “Don’t groan at me. You are the one who decided to undertake this job, chap.”

It was three hours of searching until he found it. Thankfully, for all his trouble, the British man told him of a nice abandoned building that still had running water.

It was actually in the abandoned building that Billy got another job helping a ghost.

This time a ghost doggy.

Billy: “You want belly rubs?”

Ghost Dog: *barks and rolls over*

Billy: “Don’t mind if I do.” *tries to pet it but hands go through it*

It was through this that Billy went on an epic quest to find ectoplasm. He then dipped his hands in it and was able to eventually give the doggy belly rubs.

It passed on after giving a Billy a few licks on the cheek.

Billy didn’t get anything from the dog, but that was one of his favorite jobs ever.

[polarisjisung]

LOVE ON THE COURT

SYNOPSIS | every college student has their struggles, but raising her younger brother has Y/N top of the list, struggling her way through college whilst balancing her academics and basketball captaincy is difficult no doubt and with Jaemin, her ex best friend and captain of the guys basketball team, and his growing one sided hatred towards her, it doesn't seem to be getting any easier

PAIRINGS | basketball player! jaemin x fem! basketball player

GENRE | (one sided) enemies to lovers, childhood best friends to lovers, college au, kinda forced proximity

WARNINGS | swearing, sexual innuendos, probably some kys jokes along the way, more tba!

STATUS | complete !

PROFILES [1] — [2]

MAIN STORY

00— pretty privilege [prologue]

01— choke me

02— poor soul

03— affirmations & apologies

04—sorry, kys

05— rumour has it

06—the plan

07 — taehyun from 3rd grade?

08 — bitchless and broke

09 — enemies to what??

10 — a sticky situation

11 — dinner date?

12 —birthday party

13 — the ningstinct

14 — pretty boy jeongie

15 — win her back

16 — loverboy #1 & #2

17 — steal your girl

18 — jeno's boyfriend

19 — deranged and in denial

20 — ...with benefits?

21 — homie hopping??

22 — ass backwards

23 – sugar daddy sim

24 — freaky flirting

25 — withdrawal

26 — princess jaem

27 —we dig the grave tonight

28 — thug it out

29 — not again

30 — the phonics of psychology

31 — betrayal.

32 — art thou shakespeare

33 — falling into place

34 — fuck around and find out

35 — lo$er = lo♡er

36 — brutal clarity

37 — regret

38 — last night was a movie

39 — hoe era

40 — my love all mine

41 — loverboy reject

42 —take her out

43 — MY boyfriend

44 —kiss on the court

bonus chaps tba!

taglist is now closed!

[cheolaholic]

boxer! seungcheol

status ♡ completed !!

when an extended invite from vernon leads you to an underground boxing ring, the last thing you were expecting was to see a familiar face.

modern! au • boxer! au • hhu focused • multiple kinds of tropes • fluff, angst, smut

🍒 - chapter contains smut/sexual themes

♡ Teaser

chap. 01 • chap. 02 • chap. 03 • chap. 04

chap. 05 • chap. 06 • chap. 07 • chap. 08 🍒

chap. 09 • chap. 10 • chap. 11 • chap. 12

chap. 13 🍒 • chap. 14 • chap. 15 🍒

chap. 16 (fin) 🍒

[theorphicangel]

heaven can wait | satoru gojo x reader | chap. 1

pair: guardian angel! gojo x fem! reader

description: the last thing you had expected was to come face to face with your very own guardian angel to which you had no idea that they existed.

now you have to deal with an annoying six foot-something angel who leaves nothing but feathers and chaos behind him. but as time passes you begin to learn more about him and he finds himself bending the rules just to be around you a little longer.

however there is one rule that guardian angels like him must always abide by.

they mustn't fall in love. ever.

tags: strangers to lovers, no curses au, modern au, satoru is annoying but you learn to love him, forbidden love, semi-slowburn, i think, eventual smut, fem! reader, angel! satoru, more tags to be added

art cred: @aidonotknow, original work is here, please check out their art!!!

taglist: @therealisttheillest @ohmygeto @bunheadusa @czarixoxo @lalalandincraz @descargueestoporgojosatoru @emochosoluvr @celear @thoreeo @moxieisanalien @amberbalcom14 @13-09-01 @k-kkiana @tyyqqaaa @ehcilhc @entr4p3 @fushiguroooozzz @marajafarli @slutlight2ndver @twinkling-moonlillie @pickledsoda @satansthiccasscheeksreblogacc @worganmalker

let me know if you would like to be on the taglist!

chapter one: sent from above

word count: 1.5k

author's note: hello. enjoy. thank you for reading. stay tuned.

playlist

series masterlist | next chapter

Your entire day has been…weird to say the least. 

From the moment you woke up you felt as if you were being watched. It’s an odd feeling but you couldn’t shake it off the entire morning. Whilst making your usual breakfast you couldn’t help but suddenly turn around in random bursts due to the feeling of someone standing right behind you. Yet, every time you did you were simply met with the brazen silence and emptiness of your apartment. 

Heading to work, you attempt to leave your feelings of paranoia behind you and register your emotions down to stress and exhaustion.

Yet even as you arrive at the office you can’t help but feel a little bit on edge. You’re behind in conversations and it takes a while for you to focus on your main tasks. Multiple times your coworkers had to approach you to ask if you were okay. Barely maintaining eye contact, you deliver a fake smile and produce the excuse that you didn’t sleep well last night. Most people in the office were understanding of this as your department faces multiple deadlines at the end of this month and so hearing your exhaustion isn’t out of the norm in this work environment.

In an attempt to distract yourself from the feeling of being watched you decided to drown yourself in work. Anytime that you felt yourself beginning to overthink, you became super fixated on the spreadsheet on your screen barely looking away until it was time for your lunch break. Even as you sat in the bleak break room alone, trying to enjoy the sandwich that you put together this morning you still felt a pair of eyes on you. Hell, there isn’t even a camera in the break room so your paranoia continues to remain unjustified. 

You attempt to focus on your work for the rest of day but you find yourself staring endlessly at the clock on the wall, waiting for it to tick to 5pm. There’s an energy of frustration and anxiety within your body, evident by the constant clicking of your pen on your desk. Restless, you’re probably one of the first people to leave the office tonight, still unable to shake that feeling of being observed as you grab your coat and belongings. 

The city welcomes you with its late and frosty November weather. It’s so cold you can see your every breath in front of you and the white flakes of snow on the pavements, thankfully it’s only light snow in the midst of the autumn season but you’ve made sure to bundle up on your walks to and from work. Your feet can’t help but drag at a slow pace, your body aching after being seated for so many hours at the office. Streetlights are the only things which provide you with some sort of warmth and comfort on your walk back home, also providing a sense of security.

You don’t know what it is that’s made you feel this way. You’re tense and jumpy, waiting for someone to run up behind you at any time. And it’s this anticipation which has kept you stressed all day, barely able to finish your paperwork for tonight. You hope that just the relief of returning home safely and crawling into bed with some nice takeout and your favourite movie will cure you. 

Crossing the road to your apartment, you notice an abnormally large feather drift over you. You stop in your tracks and hold out a hand to catch it. You didn’t think the birds in the city were this big, you thought to yourself as you studied it. No this feather was–

Your thoughts are interrupted by the honk of a car. Turning your head, you find a car approaching you at a rapid speed with bright headlights stinging at your eyes. In a panic, you freeze and merely close your eyes waiting for a collison. You know you had no business standing in the middle of the road at night and you know that you had no time to move out of the way. Fear encasing your body, you choose to do nothing but accept the consequences. 

How pathetic. Dying right across from your own apartment wasn’t even a cool way to leave this stupid world. 

But instead of the car coming into contact with you, your body is shoved by some force with the car narrowly missing you by a few inches. You land on your hands and knees. 

“Oh my God! Are you okay?”

You're crouched on the ground gasping to catch your breath. Your mind is running at a million miles an hour, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears rhythmically, barely able to answer the stranger as they continue to ask if you’re alright.  You were sure that the car was going to hit you.

Shaking, you hold your hands in front of you and watch dark traces of blood seep from the palms of your hands.

“What the fuck?” you mumble to yourself. 

You’re still in a daze when you return back to your apartment. It took a while to reassure the stranger that it wasn’t their fault and you took full responsibility for being an idiot and standing in the middle of the road.  You rejected any idea of going to the hospital for a check-up, reiterating that you were majorly fine despite some grazes on your hands and knees. What keeps you completely baffled about the whole situation is the fact that the car didn’t hit you. 

You sat on the curb of the street of your apartment, trying to make sense of it all. Your body felt tugged, no, pushed as if someone else had moved you out of the way. But once you came to a steady mind, you didn’t find another figure in the street. 

Blinking, you’re trying to make sense of all the weird shit that’s happened today. Were you going crazy? Were you breaking down? Was someone praying for your downfall?

Unfortunately, you don’t seem to have the answers to these questions.

As a distraction and as some sort of recovery for surviving, you ordered some well deserved takeout for tonight. If anything you were going to get your food and movie dinner tonight no matter if someone was watching you or not. 

Your shoulders drop from pure exhaustion as soon as you fit your key through the door. Before the door could even slam behind you your shoes, coat and bag are immediately discarded. Yet instead of stepping on your hardwood floor, the aching soles of your feet are met with a soft material. Glancing down, you find an array of fluff or rather…feathers. Immediately, you frown. They definitely weren’t there when you left this morning. 

The feathers seem the exact same type of the one that you saw earlier in the street and almost caused your premature death. Fear grows within you as you walk towards your living room area. Your gut churns with slight nausea and anxiety. Could this mean that there’s something in your apartment? And that something referring to a possible wild animal. As you head towards your living area, the trail of feathers increases as if the animal was currently shedding. 

“Fuck.” Your first thought was to call some sort of animal control line because there definitely had to be some type of bird in your apartment. But when you enter the living room the very first thing that you see is a large pair of white wings? They take up so much space in your small apartment, the tips of the wings just brushing your ceiling. 

Words struggle to leave your throat as you try to make sense of what you’re seeing.

The wings shift and to your surprise the wings don’t belong to an animal but to a… man? He’s laid across your couch as if he owns it, arms stretched across the back of the couch and he’s dressed in all white. His hair matches his wings and clothes, muscles threatening to burst from his long sleeved silk shirt. You find that his eyes are a startlingly yet hypnotising shade of blue and you’re in complete disbelief as to whether he is human or not. 

He looks human but the giant wings attached to him seem to prove otherwise. The man simply waves at you, uncaring of your shocked expression. 

You blink again in silence before the words finally leave your mouth. 

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

The man simply scoffs, his wing flutters a little causing some feathers to fly off and float onto the couch. “That’s no way to speak to someone who went out of their way to save your life.” 

“Wh-what?”

“And on my first day might I add? Can you imagine the shit I would be in if you had died on my first day being assigned to you?”

thank you so much for reading!! next chapter will be coming your way soon!!

[jinusajas]

01/09/25; 09:25pm

sung jinwoo x fem.reader

[ drabble | fluffshot ]

you had lost your voice in the midst of suffering from a severe cold, rendering you unable to speak. along with your inability to speak, each time you swallowed, there was a burning sensation felt in your throat, further accentuating your feelings of helplessness.

as you lay beneath the covers of your bed, chills would surround your form, sleep evading you as the congestion made your head feel heavier as it pounded within your temples. all you could manage was a series of painful whimpers as tears of frustration would run down your cheeks.

“there’s no need to cry, love.” your eyes go wide, recognizing the sound of his voice as you slowly sat up in bed. the shadows seemed to lengthen from the corner of your room, growing until it takes up half the wall as a tall figure steps out from it.

ebony locks of hair-

and grey eyes now glowing a gentle lilac as they met your gaze-

it was jinwoo… your jinwoo.

dressed in his usual dark dress shirt and pants, he steps into your bedroom with a look of adoration settled in his eyes. he sees your face painted in misery and takes quick strides towards you, taking you in his arms while surrounding you in his warmth.

you shiver against him, clinging to the front of his shirt while letting out a series of coughs. yet jinwoo doesn’t turn away from you or express any disgust, simply rubbing comforting circles around your back as he allows your coughing fits to pass.

thank you, you tried to tell him after your coughs, yet no sound comes out of your parted lips. you try to speak again, only for jinwoo to place a finger against your chapped lips.

“you don’t need to thank me for being here, my love. after all, it’s what lovers should do.”

your eyes widen in response to his words. how did he know what you wanted to tell him?

as if reading your thoughts, a playful smirk graces his features (making your heart race in response to how beautiful it made him appear) when he leans closer to press a kiss against your forehead, “i know you like the back of my own hand, love.”

giving you one last kiss, he suddenly stands from your bed, stretching while telling you, “i’ll go ahead and make some soup for you, then i’ll help you take your meds and let you rest.”

before he could take another step, you immediately reach out to him, gripping at his wrist to keep him from moving forward. he meets your gaze, calm grey meeting your dazed expression. you purse your lips and try once more to speak.

stay?

jinwoo’s eyes gently narrow in response to your silent plea, with him giving you a nod as he returns back into bed with you. getting beneath the covers, you scoot over to make room for him, letting out a pleased hum when jinwoo lays down with you. the moment he wraps his arms around your waist, bringing you oh so much closer to him, you bask in his warmth while hiding your face within his chest.

and with the sounds of jinwoo’s two, steady heartbeats echoing within your ear, you drift off into a peaceful slumber with the intensity of your cold slowly wearing off…

end notes: my cold has gotten a little better, but it’s still here bothering me, specifically my cough ｡ﾟ(TヮT)ﾟ｡ so i wrote a comfort fic with my beloved green flag mc jinwoo 🥹 i love you jinwoo, and what i wouldn’t give to have you spoil me with your cuddles while im feeling so sick 🥹 ♡ also, i wrote this in 20 minutes, so it’s nothing too serious and may have errors in it.

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[onlyhyunjin]

Collab with you - SONG EUNSEOK

ᡣ��� synopsis ~ You’ve always had eyes for Song Eunseok since his debut. He has consistently caught your attention, but you believe he’s never noticed you in that way. Determined to change that, an opportunity arises when the two of you are offered a collab together.

ᡣ𐭩 Pairing ~ idol!eunseok x idol f!reader

ᡣ𐭩 Genre ~ smau + written chaps, acquaintances to friends to lovers, fluff, idol au, crack at some points.

ᡣ𐭩 Idols featured ~ aespa Karina, Giselle, Ningning, and all riize members and more.

ᡣ𐭩 Warnings ~ profanities, kys/kms jokes, and bad humor.

ᡣ𐭩 authors note ~ this is for reaching 200 followers thank you guys so much I'm eternally thankful for all of you thank you for following my blog!!

ᡣ𐭩 status ~ ongoing

ᡣ𐭩 started ~ 07/18/2024

ᡣ𐭩 update schedule ~ Wednesday and Friday

ᡣ𐭩 taglist (open!) ~ send an ask to be added (26/50)

ᡣ𐭩 profiles

01. aespa

02. riize

ᡣ𐭩 Chapters

01. I WANT HIM SO BAD

02. COLLAB WITH WHO?!?

03. Get to know each other

04. Alone together

05. Hang out

06. Friends

07. Collab stage

08. Y/n's live

09. Confession

10. Confession pt 2 (W)

11. Boyfriend!

12. Confirmed

13. Collab with you

14. Epilogue

@onlyhyunjin. Do not steal, copy, plagiarize, or translate my work, especially without my consent.

[myunghology]

✦ good old fashioned lover boy — riddle rosehearts x reader smau.

09. ace trappola victim era — previous / m.list / next

a/n — my filo ace headcanon will be canon in this storyline im sorry😢 BUT IM PROVIDING TRANSLATIONS DW Also guys. Please. send ask to be added in taglist bc i wont be accepting comments.

SYPNOSIS [name], at this point, had riddle rosehearts smitten for her. surprisingly, it was assumed to be obvious. nonetheless— only his closest mates knew. how? he told them himself. now.. how would he get that usually stubborn girl to soften up to him somehow without making it obvious?

TAGLIST, opened! send in an ask to be added because i won't be accepting comments. if your name isn't highlighted, it means i cannot tag you. please notify me if you've changed your user. 🏷 @lunavixia @ventiswisp @c3lery @vixxzill @teacute @toxicm0cha @bakedgrape @ritsleep @meigalaxy @bbgbonald @theblueslytherin @shatiyuh @sweetstrawberrybabe @miy-svz @cheriesrightearing @yanri @jaiistg @serenareiss @our-raven-strife-universe @mplesyrup @frootloopscos @whoreforeverythingspice @boredselkie @gasolineyum @naru-thebest @prettyforshow @gabirii @frangiipanii @whatmakespaperwithoutitspen

a/n — sakit ah. ace pov next chap

[itaehynz]

three’s a choi charm! ♡

PAIRING: choi line x fem!reader.

GENRE: socmed + written

CONTENTS: summer romance, choi line are cousins, taehyun and hueka are y/n’s bestfriends + others, multiple endings, written chaps, slice of life, fluff, angst, comedy, nonidol!au, reader is mingyu’s younger sister, jungkook is choi line’s older cousin, what would this be w/o profanity, . . .

SUMMARY: school’s out and it’s time for summer! also known as the ‘hottest season of the year’ so in hopes of finding a hot, potential soulmate, you go on tinder and match with three people! who shall you end up with in the end?

AUTHOR’S NOTE: a new smau!!!! woohoo!!!! choi line falling in love w/ reader & doing everything to get them, whew. there’s going to be endings where you end up with each member so don’t worry about that! i hope you all enjoy this one :D

STATUS . . . ongoing! (taglist: open!)

SCHEDULE . . . mon, wed, fri @ 1:30pm est!

FEAT . . . rest of TXT, LE SSERAFIM’s Yunjin, ITZY’s Ryujin, ATEEZ’s Wooyoung, ENHYPEN‘s Heeseung, BTS’ Jungkook, SVT’s Mingyu!

PROFILES: lost causes | got dat dawg in me ⁉️ | older bros

01. like a virgin | 02. omega gyat ohio rizz | 03. under no circumstances whatsoever. | 04. are you fucking kidding | 05. who is this | 06. it’s like a man and a woman had a baby! | 07. the ‘L word’ | 08. do they know? | 09. kiss me plz | 10. i STRONGLY disagree | 11. you’re so not omega for that | 12. let’s run away (with rizz) | 13. yucky day | 14. she ain’t my baby | 15. you apologize? | 16. cute dimpled man | 17. who’s fault is that | 18. talk later? | 19. wildflower | 20. love is in the air | 21. so close yet so far | 22. driving me mad | 23. i don’t care anymore | 24. where are they? | 25. falling in love | 26. i really need your help | 27. gone | 28. it’s you, again. | 29. we’re getting the band back together! | 30. let’s try this again. | 31. oil & water. | 32. time is money and i have none. | 33. bless your heart. | 34. my truth. | 35. fear street marathon. | 36. you know me! | 37. oh boy. | 38. bet on me. | 39. hskt. | 40. cute dimpled man strikes again. | 41. YJBGSB. | 42. whiplash. | 43. no. | 44. maybe? | 45. yes! | 46. to be added . . .

yj’s ending. | sb’s ending. | bg’s ending.

TAGLIST: @https-yeonjun, @sugaringgcaramel, @boba-beom, @ur-mother-realnotclickbait, @yawn-zi, @txtbrainrot, @soobsfairy444, @wonunuwoo, @coconutjjun, @headlockimnida, @dinosluver, @gwookie, @yourenzoo, @bunnyeonny, @eclipse-777, @lun4kazumii, @h00nerz, @soobjvn, @bam2gyuuuu, @gardnhee, @sugawara-levi, @miekesmellark, @zeizeisjy, @jellyyjn, send an ask or shoot me a dm to be added! ^^ (bold — can’t be tagged)

© iTAEHYNZ.

[purity-town]

First || Previous || Next || Latest

Malik: (says anything) Andrew: I'm not enjoying this discussion.

In any case, the townsfolk do greatly appreciate that Chris is fighting monsters and making the region safer for everyone -- but also, with the region being so isolated, a party in general is probably one of the more interesting things to have happened recently, which is an equally significant motivator to make folks show up.

[https-bakugo]

Chapter 09.

♡ twenty three

♡ rivals to lovers / fake dating

♡ cw / tw : sex talk, smoking

The smell of smoke was engulfing as it filled your nostrils, it made your head spin, and your body weak. The combined scent of cinnamon and caramel was now mixed with the smoke and fuck was it making you light-headed.

In a good way.

Like you couldn’t get enough of Katsuki’s smell. 

Couldn’t get enough of him. 

Your hands tightened against the cool metal railing of the rooftop. Your breath came out as your own thin wisps of smoke. “This is a god awful first official date.” You whispered to Katsuki, eyes looking out longingly at the horizon. Something, anything to break this god awful silence. 

You focused on the people in their apartments, the couples cuddling and watching a movie, the group of girlfriends sitting at the outside tables for an italian restaurant laughing loudly. 

Humans living their lives. 

Spending their lives. 

Together. 

Alone. 

Enjoying. 

Suffering. 

Crying. 

Laughing. 

Katsuki snorted - the sound jolting you back to the rooftop and your current predicament. 

This date.

He shook his head, running a hand through his blond hair, dropping the cigarette on the floor and crushing it under the heel of his shoe. “Can’t a man enjoy a good smoke and watch the night sky with someone? Is that a crime now?” Ruby eyes met your face as he raised an eyebrow in your direction. 

A grin spread across your lips as you stepped behind him, grabbing his hands and pressing them against his lower back, successfully ‘apprehending’ the man. “It is. And as a hero I hereby arrest you on one count of uhm…” You pause, looking down at your shoes, trying to come up with a false count off the top of your head to arrest your date with. 

‘There’s nothing more romantic than arresting your future boyfriend [Name].’

“One count of..?” You could hear his smug voice coo out to you, egging him on.

“Shut up, I'm trying to think.”

“Think faster pro hero. I might end up running away from your poor apprehending skills. And if you can’t manage to capture me, what makes you think you’d be able to wrangle the number one spot from my hand little hero?”

A scoff leaves your lips and you roll your eyes, a reluctant smile creeping onto your lips.

“I’m hereby arresting you, Katsuki Bakugo, on one count of being a dickbag and two counts of being a professional asshole and fifteen counts of being… annoying!” You grin when you hear him splutter, a strained ‘Fifteen?!’ escaping his chapped lips, making you giggle before you clear your throat, making your voice firm and authoritative. “And I’m hereby sentencing you to life in jail.”

A smooth chuckle escapes your date’s lips as he looks over his shoulder, his eyes meeting yours. “Oh pro hero. I don’t think I could ever handle life in prison. Isn’t there any way… I could… possibly sweeten the deal?” Katsuki’s voice dropped an octave and a smirk tugged on his lips.

You tapped the bottom of your chin, pretending to be lost in thought, weighing your options. “Hmmm… What do you have in mind?”

Katsuki hummed, pulling his hands free from your grasp and he stepped closer towards you, the smell of him clouding all your senses. “How about I strip you of all these…” 

He reached over, rubbing the fabric of your jacket between his fingers, “Silly little outfits that you clearly spend much too much time fussing over…” 

His voice dropped to a whisper as he stared at the exposed sliver of skin, seemingly deep in thought. “And I’ll make you scream my name…” 

He leaned in, “Over…” 

His lips brushed the shell of your ear, “And over…” 

A shiver ran down your spine, “Until all you can think about is me…” 

Your breath hitched, “And how good I’m going to be fucking you.”

Katsuki’s hand pressed against your lower stomach, “Feel that spot? Right here? Yeah... Right there. You’re gonna feel the tip of my dick pressing against this spot right here.”

He purred, a wicked grin on his lips as his eyes flickered back to your face.

Your whole body was flushed in a deep blush.

You pulled away quickly and pressed your hands to your face, an involuntary squeak leaving your throat.

“What the fuck was that Bakugo!” You stammered out.

His arm dropped to his side and he frowned. “Too far?”

You paused. No? Yes? It was okay, since it was him. But only him.

Only him.

“Uh. No? No, I think… It's fine. I mean I didn’t hate it -” That was seriously hot what the fuck. “- I think I’m okay with it cause it’s you.” You blurted before slapping a hand over your mouth. 

Bakugo froze.

A furious blush crept up his neck and reached the tips of his ears and he coughed into his fist averting his gaze. “Don’t just… say shit like that.” He grumbled, making you roll your eyes and scoff. 

“Like you weren’t just eye fucking with me two moments ago. Uh huh.” Your arms make their way over your chest and your eyes narrow in a glare.

“Shuddap. ‘S different.” 

“LIterally how is it different?”

‘Because I’m definitely in love with you.’

“Because- it just is okay?” He sighed, exasperated.

“No really Bakugo explain-”

“Could you stop calling me that!” 

You froze. 

Katsuki stood over you, his eyes wide as he stepped back. “Shit I didn’t… I didn’t mean to yell.”

“You? Don’t like it when I call you Bakugo? But that’s your name.”

Katsuki sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like it when you call me Bakugo because it’s just weird. You don’t invite someone over and watch a movie with them to have them call you your last name. You don’t lend someone their clothes or invite them to train with you or heck even-” He dropped his arms to his side. “You don’t call someone at two in the morning… and then ask said person out on a date to have them call you by your last name.”

A frown tugged at your lips.

Katsuki stepped closer.

“Bakugo -”

“Katsuki.”

“...Katsuki. What are you doing?” Your voice came out slightly shaky as his hands reached out and grabbed your shoulders.

Strong hands.

Calloused palms.

His face, too close to yours.

“Stop me if you don’t want this.” He whispered, lips brushing against your own as an involuntary whimper escaped your throat.

Katsuki Bakugo pressed his lips against your own.

‘Shit.’

-> Masterlist

taglist [OPEN] :@luvseraphh - @tlissablr - @havemyheartt - @smelliottle - @sakurayashiro - @peachesvault - @qyuin- @kaidostwin- @wonubby - @moochiwoochi - @coldnightshark - @kalulakunundrum - @sexylexy12 - @rednicotine - @samm1e13 - @kawoala - @neptuneevee - @kodditty - @hecate-frenchfries - @eyesforbkg - @takoyakitakii- @m0nnypie - @katsucookies - @nottherealslimshady - @gethexxed - @bakugouswh0r3 - @katswifey - @ita606 - @jazoewazoe - @cherrii-11 - @risagichi - @mynicknameisgasoline- @themultifandomgirl- @nina-from-317- @sunootzrose

© HTTPS-BAKUGO. Do not steal, copy or use any of my work for AI. Legal action will take place if caught.

[shotmrmiller]

what if 09 ghost's wife appeared into 22 ghost's home, who's already married?

what then?

The moment you were handed his dog tags, you blinked, and you were here. In a cozy home, with evidence of children lying around, with a pot of simmering food on the stove. With skeleton gloves resting on the counter.

And then there's a woman letting out a blood-curdling scream.

And then there's Simon, your Simon, aiming a handgun straight to your forehead, muzzle harshly pressing into your skin.

"Who are you? How did you get inside?" he snarls. He's rabid, vein bulging from his forehead in fury.

The thunderous rhythm of your heart pounding in your ears drowns out his barrage of questions.

You don't flinch as he looks down to the tags in your hand, don't wince when he yanks them away from you.

When he reads the name, he'll demand to know where you got them, and you'll tell him that you're his wife. This is all that's left of him for you to keep.

Now you do flinch when he asserts, "I've already got a wife. Now get the fuck out."

He releases you and walks backward to where his wife is and tucks her under his arm, safe, protected.

Your breath rattles as it escapes your chapped lips, and with one quivering hand you ask him for your husband's dog tags back.

"Please," you whimper, "Let me have them and I'll go."

Simon doesn't move an inch, his gaze hard, staring at you like you're his enemy, but his sweet wife is the one who takes pity on you. She takes them and slowly extends her hand out, chain dangling from her fist.

"I'm sorry."

[lemonemenom]

Fic Link; Chap 09

[vxsellie]

‧₊˚┊simple living things﹗

a hunger games!au ellie williams fanfiction.⌇𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭 𝔵𝔦𝔦𝔦

summary. flowers wilt, humans die, and empires fall. this chapter alludes to each of these inevitabilities; all equally agonizing, all equally unavoidable.

content warnings. animal death (the wolf), alcoholism, implications of child abuse, death, injury, amputation, descriptions of past drug/alc addiction, heavy PTSD (ellie), suicidal thoughts (ellie), vague mentions of rebellion, more alcoholism, mentions of past torture.

total wc. 10,068

notes!! that's a long ass list but i swear this chap isn't even THAT bad, there are just a lot of conversations about uncomfy things, not much graphic things tho anyway !!! once again, reminder that it's better read on ao3!

𝜗𝜚 series masterlist ⸝⸝ playlist ⸝⸝ ao3 𝜗𝜚

09:42.

SAINT MARY’S HALL.

MANY HOURS EARLIER.

A gray wolf stalks you from the bushes. The cameras are pinned to the scene, zooming in on the creature before panning back to your sleeping expression. The wolf steps forward, baring its teeth before letting out a low growl. Your brows furrow in your sleep at the sound. It growls again and you shift around a bit.

Fucking wake up. Ruben wants to scream. He wants to shake you awake and protect you from everything within this God forsaken arena. That’s not possible, though, and he’s a fool for so much as permitting his mind to imagine it.

With a jolt, you wake before glancing around for the source of the growling. Your eyes land on the wolf and you unsheath your sword. A smile works its way to Ruben’s face as relief floods his chest. He’d never recover if you were to die in your sleep due to the Gamemakers adding something as simple as a wolf to kill you. 

“Fucking pathetic.” His father comments. His words are slurred, caused by the abundance of alcohol he’s imbibed so far. He sits slouched down in his chair, knees spread with his arms crossed. “Had she been more attentive to her surroundings, she’d have killed it by now.”

“She was sleeping.” Ruben grumbles, unable to hold his tongue.

His father turns to him, eyes lidded yet undeniably full of irritation. “Don’t defend her, boy, she’s done nothing but prove herself incompetent.”

Ruben opens his mouth but is quick to snap it back shut. Arguing with his father is futile, always has been. His father doesn’t have a mind open enough to even comprehend what someone is saying. If he believes himself to be correct—which he always does—no other opinion matters to him. Especially when he’s drunk off his ass.

Alice is here today. Yesterday, she stayed in the suite and watched the Games from the comfort of her bed, claiming it helps her focus. Ruben didn’t have that pleasure. It’s mandatory for mentors to be present for the first day of airing. After that, it’s free range. They can stay in Saint Mary’s Hall until the victor is announced, or they can never even show their face.

Alice keeps her face blank and her gaze pinned forward, eyes flicking around as she watches all twenty tributes at once on the split screen. She’s wearing a crimson dress, which is unlike her. She usually opts for much more vibrant colors. Her hair is done up in an intricate bun, sitting atop her head as though it’s difficult to keep it balanced.

Beside her, Tilly wears a similar hairdo, though her bun rests at the nape of her neck. Tilly would usually be required to sit by Joel at level seven, but he’s not here today. He didn’t even show up. A few other mentors are absent, such as Maria and Tess, though they had the sense to come earlier on and talk with a few sponsors before disappearing. Ruben’s assumption is that the three of them are together, having run off somewhere to away from the prying eyes of Capitolites—especially considering what’s happened with Riley, Joel likely doesn’t wish to be bombarded by sponsors like he was yesterday.

“Ugh!” His father runs a hand over his face, head tipping back with a groan. “I cannot believe that girl had the inanity to drop her sword.”

Ruben looks back up to the screen to see you pinned to the ground by the wolf, its claws digging into the soft skin below your collarbone. A few feet away, your sword lies discarded in the grass. The pained expression on your face is enough to make Ruben’s heart beat wildly with the innate need to protect. Like a bear to its cub, every nerve in his body surges.

“She was doing great up until that point.” Ruben grounds out through clenched teeth, having to force back all the insults that sit on his tongue. “She only dropped it because she was—”

“Weak.” His father finishes his sentence. “If she were strong enough, there would not be a situation in the world where casualties such as this would occur.”

He reaches forward for his beer, tipping it back as he takes a long sip from the bottle. Ruben watches with a clenched jaw. The sight of his father inebriating himself is more common than the sight of him smiling, which is rather unsettling. Ruben turns toward the screen, no longer able to stomach the scene any longer. 

When he looks forward, you’re seen yanking your sword from between the wolf’s ribs. Remy stands behind you, his eyes covered as he refuses to watch. You drag the body away before telling the child he’s able to open his eyes once more.

The relationship you have with Remy reminds Ruben so painfully of his own relationship with you. The maternal instincts you hold toward the boy shows through every action you carry out—from the softness of your tone to the gentility of your touch. You’d given him your sock last night despite knowing you’d earn blisters on your feet. You gave him your sleeping back, causing you to shiver all night. You look at Remy as though he holds the entire world in his hands. 

Ruben knows the feeling. It’s the same emotion that he feels when he sees you. Even when he was in the Capitol and you two hadn’t spoken for years, the thought of your small face and tiny hands would bring her comfort. That’s how you feel right now, whether you’re aware or not. In the arena, everything is full of malice and is made to hurt you. However, amid the calamities, Remy remains soft. A reminder to you that good things still exist in the world.

“She needs to hurry up and rid herself of that kid.” His father grumbles. “He’s a burden to her. He slows her down and eats all of her food.”

Ruben doesn't respond, knowing his dad would never understand what paternal instincts feel like. Despite being a father himself, he’d never experienced such a thing. The screen averts its attention to another tribute, shifting to where Dahlia is seen walking through the city with Selene and Ariadne. 

Selene has become a fan favorite. Her bubbly personality and fragile air instantly draw people to like her. Maria, her mentor, was crowded with sponsors yesterday as they begged to send the blonde gifts and food. Even this morning, when she’d shown up for only a few minutes, Maria was fighting to get past the crowd of people. 

Ruben glances over his shoulder to level eleven where Dina sits beside Jesse. Her head is rested on his shoulder, eyes soft as she watches one of her tributes find solace in the older ones. Ariadne is pretty strong, too, so Dahlia is no doubt safe so long as they remain an alliance. Cooper, on the other hand, has joined up with the Careers. Ruben worries what that means for the poor boy, knowing nothing good ever comes from hanging around the wrong crowd.

The screen shifts away from them and focuses on Lev and Yara, who are hiding out in a portable building. They sit side by side on the couch, engaging in idle chatter. It’s a nice break from the gore that’s normally seen during the Games. 

Down at level one, Abby sits to the left of Owen, the two of them talking lightly, nodding to the screen and gesturing vaguely with their hands at certain spots on the map. They laugh to themselves, proof of their long lasting friendship. On the other side of Owen, his wife, Mel, sits in silence, twisting the ring on her finger.

It’s calm, nice. Until a loud sound comes from the screen—the door of the portable slamming open. Elliot, the shy smart guy from Nine, enters with a hammer hanging from his left hand. All three of them freeze, the Hall falling silent as well as everyone waits to see what happens.

“I don’t mean any harm,” Elliot says slowly, though he doesn’t drop the hammer. “I just want—”

“Don’t come any closer.” Yara is quick to step out in front of Lev, pushing him behind her. She holds up a bow, training the tip of an arrow to Elliot’s chest. “Don’t come closer or I’ll shoot. Leave, now.”

Elliot’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t move. His gaze flicks to the two backpacks on the couch behind them. He swallows. “Listen, I— I’m just a bit hungry, is all. Lend me some food and I’ll leave.”

“No.” The bow trembles slightly in her grip, clearly not wanting to shoot Elliot, but she will if she has to. To protect her brother, she will. “This is our food that we worked hard to get. Please, just leave. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Please.” Elliot steps forward. His cheeks are hollowed out and the bones in his hands poke through the skin of his knuckles. “Please, I haven’t eaten anything but berries and—”

Yara shoots a warning arrow toward him and it wizzes past his head, slicing the shell of his ear. He gasps, bringing his free hand up to the wound. His fingers come back bloody. His eyes grow wide, jaw snapping shut. Yara’s voice shakes, “I told you.”

Elliot’s eyes flick to the backpacks again, his jaw ticking. He’s not a violent man, but anyone who’s been starved the way he has would go to unimaginable extents to alleviate the pain from his stomach. He grips his hammer tightly before charging forward.

He swings his hammer toward Yara and, before she can evade him, it slams into the wooden arc of her bow, snapping it. Her breath hitches as the broken weapon clatters to the floor. She pushes Lev farther behind her as Elliot reels his arm back in preparation to strike again. 

All of Yara’s weapons are in the bags on the couch. She can’t reach them in time. So, out of pure instinct, she brings her arms up to block her face just as Elliot whacks her with the head of his hammer. The bone in her forearm shatters.

A deafening scream tears from her throat.

Elliots staggers backward, dropping the hammer to the floor. His eyes are wide as his back hits the wall. “I didn’t— That wasn't supposed to happen, I didn't mean to—”

“But you did.” Lev says before letting an arrow of his own fly. The head wedges right between Elliot’s eyes, killing him instantly. He falls to the floor with a thud, blood seeping into the linoleum flooring. 

The cannon rings out, blending horribly with the sound of Yara’s screams. 

Lev falls to his knees beside her, eyes filling with tears. “Yara? Yara, are you okay? I don’t—”

“Mel!” Abby’s shouting tears Ruben’s eyes away from the screen to the scene down at level one. Abby is standing, her hands pressed to the surface of the table as she leans forward into Mel’s face. “What do– What can I send her?!”

Mel shakes her head, eyes wide. “It needs to be amputated, Abby, I don’t know what you could possibly send that would—”

“Well, figure it out!” She demands, slamming her hand down on the table, making Mel flinch. Abby sighs, tipping her head down. She runs a hand over her downcase face. “Sorry, I just— I need to help them.”

Owen rubs a hand up and down Abby’s back. “Just calm down, Abs, everything will be fine. It was just her arm.”

Ruben swallows, looking back toward the screen. It’s shifted away from them, panning back to you. You’re walking through the foliage with Remy on your back, talking about random childish topics. You’re laughing and smiling, genuinely enjoying yourself despite everything. 

Alice and Tilly are tense, watching as the argument between Abby and Mel grows more and more heated. Ruben sometimes forgets that the two of them are Capitolites—hence their desperate need to be in everyone’s business. He’s grown so used to being around people like them that things like this randomly catch him off guard.

“If y’ ask me,” His father suddenly says as he watches you speak with Remy. He’s completely wasted by now, his syllables all jumbling together. “It’s a good thing th’ wolf was sent. Otherwise, Y/n would not have learned her lesson ‘bout foolishness.”

“She wasn’t being foolish.” Ruben argues back. “She was—”

“Th’ girl can barely hold a sword.” He interrupts.

“She can hold a sword just fine.” He bites out as irritation settles into his bones. “But when she’s pinned to the ground and bleeding, you can’t expect her to—”

“I expect th’ very best from ‘er.” His father interrupts again.

“Can you just listen for a second and let me speak?”

“Not if ya continue t’ blabber nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense. She’s your daughter, you should—”

“I should what? Coddle ‘er and expect a fucked up child?” He snaps. “I challenge her b’cause it enables her t’ grow as a person.”

“You know damn well that’s not the reason.” Ruben says. “You’re expecting too much from her. She’s a human being—”

“She’s a L/n.”

Oh, he’s had enough. His father isn’t even listening to what he’s trying to say, words falling onto deaf ears. Ruben stands from his chair, allowing the legs to scrape loudly against the tile. Alice and Tilly are having a field day as they try to eavesdrop into both arguments at the same time. 

On the screen, you’re adjusting Remy onto your back. Your shoulders are bloody and aching and, still, you carry the boy so he doesn't feel any unnecessary pain. You are strong, you’re stronger than Ruben in many senses. And yet, here your own dad sits, having no words aside from biting insults.

Ruben doesn't say anything else, turning on his heel and walking toward the door. He shoves it open with a huff, allowing it to slam back closed.

The hallway is perfectly silent, nothing but the air conditioning able to be heard overhead. It’s a nice break from the boisterousness of the Hall. 

DAY THREE.

THE ARENA.

Time felt so much slower as you trudged through the city with Remy on your back and Ellie barely capable of keeping herself upright. You pitied her, but said nothing as the three of you walked in complete silence. The quietude was only broken to draw their attention toward a barn in the distance, perched in the outskirts of the city, right at the cusp of the forest.

That’s where you reside now, digging through the backpack you stole before leaving the costume shop. You sift through its contents, committing each item to memory—two granola bars, a pair of sunglasses, a roll of gauze, and, holy shit, water! Remy sits criss cross beside you, watching over your shoulder as you pull out the half-full bottle.

His eyes light up, “Can we have some?”

You smile, untwisting the cap before holding it out to him. “Of course we can.”

“You don’t want some first?”

“Quit worrying about me, Rem.” You scold him softly. “You need to prioritize yourself sometimes. And I know you’re thirsty, so go ahead.”

Begrudgingly, he takes the bottle from your hands before drinking it. He lets out a satisfied hum as he swallows, water dribbling down to his chin. He looks up at you with a wide smile. “That was so good.”

You take the bottle and drink the rest of it, unable to help yourself. The water blooms across your tongue, spreading like roots in soil. It instantly makes your dried mouth feel a million times better. And, the moment it’s gone, you frown. 

Remy’s brows furrow. “What about Ellie?”

“What about her?” You respond, our voice sounding a bit strained.

“Well,” He fumbles with his fingers in his lap, casting his head down, “Wasn’t that technically her water?”

You give him a small smile, grabbing his hand to cease his fidgeting and draw his head back up to look at you. “We’ll go to the lake tomorrow. We can fill my canteen and refill her bottle. It’s not too far from here, I don’t think.”

“Okay.” He nods.

It may have been wrong to drink all of Ellie’s water, but you and Remy would have died of dehydration before long. Plus, she’s not here to argue with you, considering that she’s currently passed out in one of the horse stalls. She’d been half asleep when you guys arrived at the barn, but refused to admit she was tired. You three had split up to check the stalls for mutts, but Ellie ended up falling asleep in the first one she entered. 

When you found that she hadn’t returned from her stall, you began searching each one, fearing that a mutt had killed her. But, when it was revealed that she’d gone to fucking sleep, you were pissed. Overcome with anger, you were about to awake and scold her, but Remy stopped you. He said that she probably needed the rest if she’d fallen asleep so easily. Begrudgingly, you agreed.

And here you and Remy sit, having decided to search the bag so as to distract your mind from the swirling emotions within it—residual anger at Ellie that fades to irritability with everything she does, confusion toward the details of what exactly happened to Riley, and fatigue caused by carrying Remy all day and lack of sustenance. 

On your walk toward the barn, they showed the dead tribute from today. Elliot Declan from Nine. You wonder how he died. From the Careers? From the mutts? From someone else? Not that it matters. He’s dead and that’s that. Some good news, though, is that with each dead tribute, you’re closer to getting out of this place.

You reach into the backpack and pull out the roll of gauze, turning to Remy. “Lift up your pant leg. I’ll wrap it with something better than a sock.”

“Okay.” He laughs. 

He rolls up the denim of his jeans to reveal a long sock tied around his calf. The priorly white fabric is now stained red, barely hanging onto his leg after everything it’d been put through. Yeah, you’re not putting that back on.

You untie the sock and he instantly looks away, not wanting to see the wound. It’s a good thing, too, because it’s a rather nasty sight. All around the wound, his skin is red and irritated from the sock’s chafing. The wound itself is healing, but it’s not pretty. Dried blood surrounds the open flesh. You suddenly wish you had more water to rinse him clean, but the gauze will have to do. You wrap the calf a few times, firm but not too tight.

You’ve done medical things such as this for Ruben before. After your parents’ punishments, he’d be covered in blood and open gashes. He would always insist on doing it himself, but you wouldn’t let him. 

You were six when you first found him sitting all alone in the bathroom, perched on the edge of the toilet seat as he tried to stitch up his own rib. He had gone down to the dock by himself to fish and your mother punished him for it, saying “That’s what we have mister Alden for! What if someone had seen you?!” and “Fishing for your own food is a sign of poverty!” You’re unsure on the details of her punishment, but Ruben said she had used the fishing hook on him. He didn’t say anything more than that and you didn’t pry.

“All done.” You say softly, stuffing the roll back into the pack.

Remy looks down at his leg, seeing the neatly wrapped gauze. You had even made sure to wrap up the areas where his skin was red or coated in dried blood, knowing he’d prefer not to see those things. He flashes you a toothy grin. “It already feels much better. Thank you.”

“Of course.” You say, zipping Ellie’s backpack before turning to unzip your own. You pull out the sleeping back, standing to unroll it across the hay-covered floor. You nod to it. “You can have it.”

He frowns. “But it gets so cold.”

“Which is exactly why you’re using it.”

“But I felt you shivering last night.” He says in a small voice. 

“Your body is much smaller than mine, Rem. You need it more.”

His frown only deepens, though he doesn’t say anything. He slides into the bag, his chattering teeth slowly ceasing. Then, just as you’re about to lie down on the ground, he turns to you with wide eyes. “What if we share it? There’s plenty of room.”

“You’re very kind.” You say. “But it’s okay, I’ll be fine.”

“Well—” He presses his lips together, beginning to shuffle back out of the bag. “Well if we don’t share it, neither of us get it.”

His words instantly remind you of the Careers. They had a sleeping bag too, and they made that same exact decision to not use it if everyone can’t have it. Well, it was more Thalia who made the decision, but the fact still stands.

“Fine.” You sigh. “But only if you promise not to die of hypothermia.”

He grins victoriously. “Deal.”

You slip into the bag beside him and, shockingly, it has much more room that you’d anticipated. The ground is hard beneath you, but the fabric and hay work together to cushion your spine. Remy turns on his side, shutting his eyes as he faces the rotted wooden wall. You turn the other direction, looking out at the open doors leading to the outside. 

Stars dot the sky, looking like splatters of paint across a black backdrop—which might be exactly what they are, considering nothing in the arena is real. In fact, a few years ago, for one of the arenas, the sun never set. This just proves that there’s nothing natural about it.

You can hear clicking, though it’s far in the distance as the mutts’ noises bounce off of the trees. You can also hear the gentle sounds of animals and creatures of the forest. But, louder than anything, you can hear Remy snoring behind you. 

You shut your eyes, allowing all the tension in your body to relax into the warmth of the sleeping bag. However, after a mere two minutes, they snap back open at the sound of screaming. You sit up with a jolt as Remy stirs beside you, rubbing at his eyes. 

“What’s that?” He asks.

You recognize the voice, quickly piecing it together. “Nothing, go back to sleep.”

“But—”

“I’ll be right back.”

You slip out of the sleeping back and walk over to the horse stall where the screaming had come from. You poke your head inside to see Ellie balled up in that same position you’d found her in back at the costume shop—clutching at her hair as she breathes unevenly.

“Hey,” You say quietly.

She shakes her head, not looking up. “I said— I told you I didn’t wanna go. You shouldn’t have made me leave her back there.”

You walk fully into the stall, crouching down beside her. You open your mouth to speak, hovering your hand to her shoulder. Though, after a second, you close your mouth and lower her hand back to your side, deciding against touching her. 

“You couldn’t have stayed there, Ellie.”

“Yes, I could.” There’s nothing harsh about her tone, just defeat. “You could have left me there. I would have preferred to die by her side anyway.”

You frown. “Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true.” 

You don’t respond, unsure what you could possibly say in this situation. She didn’t just lose her friend, she lost her family. Nothing you could do would fill the gap that Riley’s death left. So you sit in silence, bringing your knees up to your chest so as to mimic her position. It is comfortable, you must admit.

Ellie lifts her head, looking at the side of your face. You can feel her gaze pinned on you and turn toward her. You can’t tell if she’s been crying or not, as the darkness provides a veil over everything. The artificial stars don’t provide enough light to illuminate her face. They’re barely enough to illuminate the sky. If you were to guess, though, you’d assume she’d been crying.

She opens her mouth only to close it again, deciding against saying whatever she’d thought of. After a moment, she does it again. Your brows furrow, wondering what she’s holding herself back from saying aloud. Then, when she finally speaks, it’s a simple question. A boring one. 

“What happened to your shoulders?”

You sigh, turning back forward. You rest your chin on your knees. “Long story.”

“Mm.” She hums, looking away. Her eyes flick from the wall to the floor, anywhere that’s not you.

Silence settles between you again, heavy and awkward. 

With a huff, you say. “An arrow and a wolf.”

She turns. “What?”

“My shoulders.” You respond. “I was shot in the shoulder blade by Nolan, then I was attacked by a wolf this morning.”

“Oh.” She nods, swallowing. There’s a long pause, then. “Is that why you killed Violetta?”

Your head snaps up to her. “What?”

“I saw her body.” Ellie says calmly despite the panic flooding your veins. “There was a pool of blood, which would explain why you were carrying Remy all the way here. She was stabbed by a sword, one of which you have at your hip right now. And, by the way,” She reaches into her boot, pulling out a dagger, “You left this.”

“I don’t—” You stop mid sentence, lips thinning. 

She tips her head, finally looking at you again. “It’s fucked.”

“What do you expect from me?” You ask as irritation blooms through your chest. It’s unprompted and a bit unfair for Ellie, but it’s there nonetheless. “An explanation? An apology?”

“No.” She runs her finger along the blade of the dagger. “I just wanted you to know that I know.”

Your jaw tightens. “Why would I give a shit what you know?”

“Because it means I’m not just some defenseless little girl grieving her best friend. It means I’m still a tribute in these Games and I know you’re a threat.” She says. “You won’t be able to kill me as easily as you killed her. I know you better than she did.”

The initial irritation that she’d invoked fades to a strong sense of rage. You push to your feet, expression hard as you look down at her hunched silhouette. “As much as you know me, I know you. Which means you don’t have the upper hand that you think you do.”

She taps the dip between her collarbones. “Don’t I?”

A chill runs up your spine. She’s making a reference to your pearl necklace. To Mister Alden. To all the things you’d been foolish enough to share with her.

You huff, turning on your heel and exiting the stall. You return back to the sleeping back, slipping in beside Remy. And, this time, instead of turning away from him, you pull him into your arms. He hums in his sleep, curling into your warmth.

Ellie knows you. She knows your issues with your brother, she knows your father won’t send sponsors, she knows you cherish Remy, she knows how you fight, and, more than all else, she knows how to get under your skin.

TRAINING CENTER, GROUND LEVER.

01:55.

Dampened skin and heavy breathing. 

A white tank top sticks to Ruben’s body as perspiration coats his skin in a thick layer of sweat. A punching bag sways gently in front of him, rocking back and forth on the chain tethering it to the concrete ceiling of the Training Center. 

“Don’t I?” Ellie’s voice sounds through the room.

Ruben lifts his head, stilling the bag. He does so just in time to see her fingers tap lightly against her collar bone. He watches your breath hitch at the sight. And, with that and naught more, you turn on your heel with a huff, climbing into the sleeping bag. You pull Remy into your chest, holding him tight. Anger traces up Ruben’s spine and he throws another punch at the stiff bag.

His knuckles are throbbing and his chest burns from exertion. He’s been doing this for hours, locked away in the gym as he attempts to release the rage within him. It hasn’t worked. Every screen in the country is airing the Games—including the projector in front of him.

His irritation isn’t directed toward Ellie, though she doesn’t make it easy to remain compassionate toward her. He understands that she’s grieving, he understands better than anyone. But, in spite of knowing this, you remain the sole object of his thoughts. Everything in his mind orbits the worry regarding your well-being. But, as stated, it’s not necessarily directed toward Ellie, rather the entirety of the Capitol. The Gamemakers whom he’d been foolish enough to piss off—hence them sending the wolf to kill you. The sponsors who enjoy watching innocent lives taken for their own entertainment. And, more than all else, President Fedra, the man in charge of every bit of agony that rakes through this fucked up society of his.

Another punch to the bag.

Ellie isn’t to blame for her actions. She’d never have behaved like this, had she not been thrust into a death arena in the first place. In fact, come to think of it, the two of you could have worked. You could have navigated your own romance story because, in this hypothetical world that’s rid of atrocities such as the Hunger Games, you would never have had reason to leave her on that roof. No reason that Ruben could think of anyway.

Another punch.

It’s just all so fucked. You and Ellie could have lived a domestic life of gentle fondness. Ruben could have spent those eleven missing years in your company, as he never would have had a reason to rely on drugs for coping. He mourns the life you could have had. One with a sober brother and soft lover. One where you wouldn’t have to cradle a small body in your arms, knowing it’ll be lifeless before long. One where your parents aren’t merciless victors. One where you can be happy, healthy.

Ruben continues to punch the bag, his eyes flicking to the screen every few minutes so as to make sure he doesn’t miss anything too important.

After leaving Saint Mary’s Hall, Ruben's initial plan was to ride back to the Training Center where his suite is located. There, he hoped to watch the Games in the peace of his own bed. But then he remembered the fact that his parents have full access to level four’s suite and thus decided to go anywhere but there. Not because he feared them, but because he feared what they’d do as punishment for his argument with his father. In the end, he decided to head down to the gym. 

As a child, training with his parents was torture. But, now that he’s able to do so in his own free time, it’s a way to get his anger out. 

When he was in the beginning of his journey to sobriety, Ruben spent countless hours in this very gym. Sometimes on his own, sometimes with Dina or Jesse or Birdie. Regardless of what company was present, it was a good way to release everything pent up inside of him. 

He can remember in clarity the first day spent here—he had just turned twenty a few months prior and had a particularly hard time watching the Games that day. His youngest tribute was killed brutally by a Career. Instinctively, he turned to inebriation as a form of comfort. Dina stopped him before he could, though, suggesting that they go to the gym. Ruben thought it to be a stupid solution at first, but agreed nonetheless. Jesse and Birdie accompanied them.

Ruben and Jesse wrestled for hours, exchanging punches and kicks until they were both too bruised and fatigued to carry on. They lied on their backs, laughter shaking their chests as they stared up at the ceiling, out of breath. Dina walked over to Jesse, placing a kiss on his sweaty lips before helping him up. That was the day Birdie became aware of their relationship. She gasped, eyes blown wide as she asked to hear all the details.

That was the happiest he’d ever been during airings of the Games. Time felt as though it were slowed, everything swirling around them as though it was already a memory. 

“There.”

Ruben’s head tilts up toward the screen in time to see Lev stepping away from his sister. Her arm is amputated, an array of medical equipment scattered across the floor. Abby must have sent it despite Mel’s insistence that nothing could be done. Across the room, Elliots corpse lies in a heap against the wall. Lev’s hands are shaking and Yara offers him a small smile. 

“You did really well, Lev.” She says quietly. Her lids are heavy, exhaustion evident in her bones. Still, she reaches out to hold his hand in hers, stilling his trembling. “I’m proud of you.”

His eyes water. “Thank you.”

Ruben inhales deeply before looking away. The sight makes his chest hurt. He wants you to get home. More than anything, he does. But knowing that would cost the lives of all the other nineteen remaining tributes is a hard pill to swallow. 

He exhales sharply before turning away from the screen and walking over to his drawstring bag. He grabs it, tossing it over his shoulder before walking toward the door. He pushes it open and walks down the narrow hallway to the elevator. Inside, there’s a small screen above the sliding doors. On it, the Games continue to play. God, the Capitol loves this sadistic shit.

He reaches forward, finger hovering over the 4 button. But, for some reason, he doesn’t press it. Instead, his hand trails down to the number 7. He presses it and the elevator begins to rise.

With a high-pitched ding, the doors slide open to reveal a long hallway leading to a brown door with the number seven etched into it. Ruben exits the elevator and begins walking toward it. He passes a small square on the wall where the paint has faded, an empty nail at the top of the square where a painting must have once been hung. The painting that you knocked down when you slammed Ellie into the wall after the interviews.

Ruben turns away from it and continues down the hall. He knocks twice on the door before it swings open in a wide arc. Standing in the doorway is Alice Reymond, her hair taken down from that high bun that once adorned her head. In its place, her hair is held back in a pale pink bonnet. She tilts her head to the side, eyeing him.

“Ruben?” Alice questions. “Whatever are you doing here? And why are you so sweaty?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” He pauses. “Well, minus the sweaty part.”

“I’m here to visit my sister.” She says simply, running her palms down the side of her nightgown. She rakes her eyes down his body before clicking her tongue. “Do you have any idea how late it is?”

“Uh.” His eyes dart to the side. “Not really, I haven’t kept track.”

“It is two in the morning.” She says.

He opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted when a third voice chimes in from behind Alice’s shoulder. “Who is that?”

She moves to the side, allowing the person to set their eyes on the visitor. 

A short woman with straight black hair stands in the foyer, her bangs pinned back with mismatched hairclips. She narrows her eyes at him before recognition works its way to her face. Her mouth forms an O shape. 

“Ruben L/n!” She says, walking forward to the door. She beams at him as though they’re lifelong friends. “I’d hug you, but you’re all sweaty.”

He blinks, confused. “Uh, do you happen to know where Joel is?”

She frowns. “I’m afraid we just put him to bed.”

“Put him to bed?” 

“He was drunk.” Alice says with saddened eyes. “The poor guy was barely conscious when we found him. His head was pressed on the table with beer bottles all around him.”

“Yes, yes. We can gossip about the pitiful old man later.” The other woman says before brushing past Alice. She grabs Ruben by the wrist and tugs him inside of the suite. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He allows himself to be pulled inside, taking this chance to glance around the suite. The kitchen is crowded with Avoxes attempting to clean up the mess Joel made. The living room isn’t much better. If anything, it’s worse as that’s likely where he watched the Games. In fact, as Ruben is pulled past it, he catches sight of the screen, David working hard to stick wooden posts into the dirt.

Then within a mere few seconds, the black haired woman is pushing him into the bathroom. She pushes the door shut behind him, locking it. Instinctively, he takes a step away from her, having been forced into one too many rooms with lustful Capitolites.

“Calm down, I’m not going to do anything untoward.” The woman says, pressing her back against the taupe door. “I’m Catalina, or Cat. I’m Ellie and Riley’s stylist. Well, I was.”

Ruben narrows his eyes at her. “Okay.”

“I’ve been working in secret with Birdie.” She says, crossing her arms over her chest. Ruben’s head snaps up at that, eyes widening. She smirks. “Yeah, I thought that’d get your attention.”

Ruben’s entire demeanor changes within seconds. His posture straightens and his mind is reeling. There’s no reason for the two of them to be working together, not to mention in secret. Not unless they’re doing something unlawful. Something frowned upon by the authoritative figure of this crackling government.

He’s met Catalina before, but only in passing. She’d been there, at the Chariot Parade. Ruben overheard Joel reprimanding her for making Ellie naked, though it turned out she just appeared that way. He was quick to understand Joel’s perspective. Ellie is an adult, but no less young. And Ruben knows from personal experience how the Capitol treats tributes who they deem attractive. 

But he can simultaneously see why Cat did what she did. Considering she’s working illegally with Birdie, she must have a motive for such a mutinous act. And, if she’s telling Ruben this, she’s expecting him to understand. Also, seeing as he and Cat don’t know one another well, her expectation is undoubtedly based upon something commonly known. Such as his love for you. Which means she holds a love for someone as well, hence the reason behind her recalcitrance. His guess, Ellie.

And, if she does hold care for Ellie, her actions at the Parade are all that more understandable. To exploit someone is unforgivable. Unless, however, it ends up saving their life in the arena. Cat, here, had no choice. Her goal was to gain the attention of the Capitol for Ellie’s sake. This way, if she were to survive the arena, she’d have saved her life via earning her sponsors. However, if she dies within the arena, she’ll never have to face the consequences of Cat’s decision to dress her as she did. It’s smart. Perhaps too smart.

Ruben narrows his eyes at Cat. “For how long have you been working with Birdie?”

“Mm,” She hums in thought, “Right before the Chariot Parade, I believe.”

I knew it, he thinks but doesn’t say. An idea made with such intricate care could only be formulated by a certain red-haired woman. He tries not to grin at his own cleverness for having puzzled it out. That, and the second hand pride in his friend’s ability to come up with the idea.

“So,” He muses, eyes flicking to the side, “The bathroom?”

She tilts her head. “Only place without cameras.”

“Did Birdie teach you that, as well?”

“She’s a wise woman.” Cat says, evading the question whilst still answering it in vagueness. “She’s been in this industry far longer than I. She knows her way around these things.”

“She knows her way around lots of things.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to realize that more and more each day.” 

Ruben watches her. She’s wearing a silk robe, the same shade of red as Birdie’s hair. It’s tied tightly around the waist, though it doesn't hide the low neckline revealing her cleavage. Her feet are clad in fuzzy pink slippers, her toes perfectly painted and clean. A Capitolite, albeit a new one. She still has natural features such as her hair and eyes and nose. There’s still hope of her not turning to become a complete monster of the Capitol’s design.

He wonders how old she is, pitying the world she’s been thrust into. She appears to be your age, perhaps even younger. But, in the Capitol, everyone looks more youthful than they actually are. His own grandmother looks his age. It’s freakish.

“And why exactly have you two formed this duo?”

She walks over to the counter, leaning her hands against the edge. “You care for your sister, yes?”

“What does she have to do with any of this?” He’s instantly stiffened at the mention of you, still distrusting this woman.

“Everything.”

His brows furrow. “What does that—” “You were in Saint Mary’s Hall when Ellie and Riley joined forces, weren’t you?” She asks.

“Yes.”

“So,” She taps one of her long nails against the marble counter. “What you viewed wasn’t filtered. You saw the raw footage of what happened, of what she showed her.”

Finally, Ruben’s mind begins to catch up. “You’re talking about the dog tag.”

She nods slowly. “Yes.”

“But what does that have to do with my sister?”

“While you were able to witness the true facts, everyone else in the country had their screens pinned onto Y/n. That way, nobody in the Districts would see proof of a resistance building. That’s why the Gamemakers made the fire so big, so they could direct the calamity onto someone aside from just Ellie and Riley. That’s why Violetta crossed her path, so as to create a spectacle that would distract the audience from wondering what was going on with the other pair.”

Ruben blinks at her. 

He saw what Riley held out in her hands, the entire Hall did. The Gamemakers were trying to distract them, making the screen blur and fizz. But it didn’t erase what was happening. There was a rebellious group forming, and the government didn’t want them to know about it. None of the other mentors mentioned it, carrying on with their conversations casually. Perhaps they didn’t piece it together. Or perhaps they knew better than to draw attention to it.

“What was it that Ellie said for her interviews?” Cat asks, though rhetorically. “When they're lost in the darkness, they look for the light? Where do you think that saying came from?” “It was regarding the moth wings on her outfit.”

“The moth wings that I created, yes.” She nods. “It was a reference to fireflies—insects who make their own lights, illuminating a path for others who are lost in the void of cruelty.”

“Fireflies,” Ruben mutters, his head spinning. “Like the one on Riley’s dog tag.”

Cat gives a small smile. “Birdie said you’d pick up fast.”

“You two—” He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “How did you two meet?”

“Well,” She muses, “Prior to the Parade, all the stylists were brought into this— It was a super odd space, like a classroom but not at all at the same time. Anyway, there, we were told everything we needed to know—such as which bodily measurements to take, which conversations with tributes were permitted, and which outfits were deemed appropriate by Capitol standards.”

“Sounds boring.” Ruben comments.

“It was.” Cat chuckles. “But, considering I was still a bit new to this whole thing, I was listening to every word. That is, until Birdie leaned over and told me it was all a crock of shit. I laughed out loud, earning us both punishment for interrupting the lesson. It was— Well, it was a rather upsetting occurrence, yes, but we grew close due to it. Friends, almost. I trusted her to be one  of the only truthful people here in the Capitol while she continued to give me unfiltered tips and tricks regarding how to survive here.”

“When you say punishments…” Ruben trails off, his brows knitting as he considers her words and the natures surrounding them.

She nods slowly, as though pained. “Whippings. Threatened to turn us both to Avoxes if it were to happen again.”

He grimaces. The Capitol is cruel in every sense imaginable. If they wish for someone to be altered, they have no issue with abusing that change into them. Whippings, torture, execution. Anything they think will adjust what is deemed undesirable, they’ll do. 

Ruben can still remember when Tess’s entire family was killed simply because she refused to have her body sold to the Capitol. They adjudged her to be defiant and used that ruling as means for their deaths. Her mother, father, and two siblings. All hanged publicly in Three, her home District. 

Ruben opens his mouth to respond to Cat, only to be interrupted by a light knocking on the bathroom door. Her expression changes in an instant, fading from solemnity to a professional charisma. She opens the door, face falling when she sees Joel, no longer seeing a point in wearing such a facade around him. 

“What on Earth are you doing up?” Cat asks, bracing her hands on her hips.

He brushes past her into the bathroom, walking oddly. The alcohol seems to not have fully worn off just yet. “Thought I heard voices.”

“You should be resting.” She shuts the door behind him lightly.

“Quit y’ur fussin’, ‘m fine.” Joel slurs before plopping down onto the closed toilet seat, gazing around through lidded eyes. Finally, his sights land on Ruben. “What’re ya doin’ here? N’ why’re y’ so sweaty?”

“I went to the gym for a bit.” He replies. “What about you, old man? Got drunk without me?”

Joel laughs. “Funny.”

“This is all good and fun,” Cat steps forward, putting herself between the two of them with a heavy frown. She turns to Joel, hands still on her silky robe. “You need to get back to bed or you’ll regret it in the morning.”

“Calm down,” He says lazily. “I a’ready said ‘m fine.”

“Listen, I don’t give a shit if you want to waste your life away in a bottle of booze.” She says pointedly. “But if Ellie somehow survives the arena and comes back to find you like this? That’s an issue that I do give a shit about.”

Ruben frowns as he listens to Cat’s words. Joel cares about Ellie, that much was proven upon seeing his reaction to her cries following Riley’s death. He didn’t even show up the next day due to how much it affected him. But Cat is implying that Ellie cares for him in return, that she’d be hurt to see him in this condition.

It’s not uncommon to be fond of Joel Miller, he’s a hard man to hate. Well, that’s a lie. Plenty of people hate him, but that’s because not many people take the time to get to know him. If everyone knew who he was and where his heart lied, not a single soul on this planet would have the valor to loathe him. Joel isn’t a bad person, that much is undeniable.

But it’s equally undeniable to say that tributes and mentors seldom care for one another. Mentors are at fault for that, in most cases. They watch their tributes die year after year, having no choice but to sit back and continue to watch the show.

And, considering how long Joel has been in this industry, it’s quite shocking that he came to care for a tribute. 

“Fine.” He grunts, pushing to his feet. “I’ll go lie down, but I ain’t doin’ it for you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Cat waves him off. “Just go sober up already.”

With a huff, Joel walks out of the bathroom. The door clicks behind him and Ruben glances at the clock. It’s nearing three in the morning, he ought to lie down as well. 

He turns to Cat. “Whatever alliance you and Birdie and forming, be fucking careful.”

“As if she’d be anything but careful.” She laughs haphazardly.

“I’m serious.” Ruben says. “Birdie is good at this stuff, but she’s not perfect. She’s been in the Capitol for a long time, but that only means her hatred for it is incredibly large. When it comes to politics, she can be impulsive and reckless. All I’m asking of you is that you don’t let her.”

Cat nods, offering a small smile of consolation. “Okay.”

“You promise?”

“Promise.”

DAY FOUR.

THE ARENA.

Riley’s face haunts every thought that crosses Ellie’s mind. From the soft smiles she’d throw over her shoulder while escaping school to the death that rattled within her lungs when Ellie slit her throat. It’s occultly vivid, too, every memory that pops into her head. 

After her conversation with you, Ellie proceeded to have an abundance of nightmares. Each time, she’d wake up screaming. Her arms would flail around, patting the ground in search of something that’d offer her an ounce of comfort, but naught appeared. You didn’t come to check on her after what she said, what she implied. Not that she cares, just an observation.

As sunlight begins to peek through the cracks in the wooden walls, basking the prickly hay in golden glow, Ellie decides it’s time to abandon the small stall she sought solitude within. 

Her eyelids weigh heavy as she pushes to a pair of aching feet. Her thighs and calves burn from walking so far with you and Remy last night. Not only that, but she’s already soaked in sweat from so many nightmares paired with the heat of the artificial sun. She strips off her coat, wrapping it around her waist before exiting the stall.

The barn is large, larger than any that she’d ever seen in Seven at least. 

She and Riley explored many abandoned buildings in their youth, especially old barns or hunting cabins scattered through the woods. The memory is a sweet one, made complete with the scent of citrus and the sound of cicadas. Despite this, it leaves a bitter ache in her mouth, one that causes the back of her tongue to taste metallic. Like blood on a silver axe.

The ceiling of the barn is supported by wooden beams, though some of them have fallen or cracked under the weight of time. Grass pokes through the cracks in the rotted floor, mingling shades of green with the yellow hay.

And, like a contrast of sharpened strokes against a gentle backdrop, you sit with your back pressed against one of the wooden posts in the center of the structure. Your head is facing away from where Ellie stands, eyes barely open. You must not have heard her leave the stall. 

But that’s not what grabs her attention. It’s the boy that lies fast asleep with his head in your lap. You’ve both removed your coats. His is being utilized as a pillow to separate his bony head from your thighs while yours is balled up at the small of your back so as to prevent your spine from the ache of being against the wooden post.

Remy looks so content, eyes shut and lips parted. You look equally as fond, eyes softened as you gaze upon his sleeping expression. Your fingers are running through his hair, massaging his scalp. 

Does he know how many people you’ve killed with those hands? Is he aware of the murderous genetics that entwine your nerves together? 

Ellie spots her backpack across the barn. It sits idly atop an unrolled sleeping bag. She knows it's hers because there’s a handful of flowers sticking out of the side. Her heart clenches at the sight, knowing Riley had picked them in honor of their finite days in Seven. They’re wilted, now. Stems hanging low and pedals flaking away like the ash that’d scorched her.

Hardened hay crunches under her boots as she walks over to the backpack. You lift your head at the sound. Your eye is puffy, tinted in hues of purple and blue—result of her having punched you back at the costume store. Neither of you say anything as you watch her crouch down before unzipping the pack.

Inside, she finds that her belongings have been rummaged through. The granola bars and sunglasses are untouched, though the gauze has been torn at the end and her bottle of water is bone dry. She pulls the empty bottle out, turning to you with a hardened expression. “You drank my fucking water?”

You sigh as though you have a right to be annoyed. “We were thirsty.”

“Well so am I.” She says harshly. “You can’t always hold yourself on a goddamn pedestal.”

“Neither of us have had a drop of water since before the Games.” Your exhaustion fades to irritation, brows furrowing, though your fingers continue to gently run through Remy’s hair. 

“That’s not my fucking problem.” Ellie snaps, pushing to her feet despite the burning in her thighs. She tosses the bottle into the pack. “It’s not your place to go through my things and drink all of my water. I was sleeping, you can’t take advantage—”

“It’s just water.” Your fingers cease their movements, now fully indulging in the argument.

Her jaw tightens. To you, it’s just water. To Ellie, it’s how she is able to honor Joel’s only advice. To Ellie, it’s a lifeline that reminds her she’s no longer a useless girl hiding in a tree. To Ellie, it’s one of the last things she spoke to Riley about. But yeah, to you, it’s just water.

“No it—” She cuts herself off, realizing she couldn’t possibly explain all of that to you. And, even if she could, you wouldn’t understand. You’re a conceited L/n. You’d never faced hardships, never had to struggle for food on a table or water in a glass. She runs a hand through her hair, groaning. “Ugh.”

You roll your eyes. “We can get more.”

“Yeah?” Her head snaps to you. “How? Where?”

You open your mouth to reply, though you shut it as Remy shifts in your lap and your attention is instantly on him. 

When are you going to drop this act? Pretending to give a shit about this kid and care for him is cheap, even for you. He has parents and a home. Yet, here you are, using him as a pawn to gain yourself pity points and sponsors.

“Thought we were going t’ the lake.” His voice is rough with sleep, groggy as he rubs at his eyes.

“We were just talking about that, Rem.” You reply softly.

Ellie scoffs, bracing her hands on her hips. “It’s gotta be at least a day-long trip from here.”

“Half a day.” You correct her sharply. “And, all things considered, that’s not too far of a journey.”

“It is when it’s spent with you.” You scoff, seeming to be on your last nerve. “Okay then don’t come. We’re only going on this trip to get your fucking water back. If you’re too good to come with us, then don’t.”

She crosses her arms. 

She doesn’t want to spend two more seconds with you, not to mention half a day. But, at the same time, she needs her water replaced or else she’ll die of dehydration. Though, in all honesty, that doesn't seem too bad of an option right now. What with your attitude and her pride, the two of you will no doubt be butting heads the entire way.

But she doubts she could make it on her own in this condition. All she has in terms of weaponry is a switchblade and a dagger. You didn’t take the axe from the costume store, which she’s grateful for. She’s not sure she could stomach the sight of it.

“Fine.” She huffs. “We can go to the stupid lake.”

You give her a condescending smile. “Great.”

She turns back to her bag, zipping it before swinging the straps over her shoulders. She turns back around to find you gathering all of your things while Remy rolls up the sleeping bag into a tight coil. You hold open the bag while he stuffs it inside.

Between the cracked walls, holey ceiling, and lack of doors, the barn provides an abundance of light. But, with the light comes heat. Sweat is beginning to build at both yours and Remy’s hairlines, though Ellie is already soaked in it from her night spent tossing and turning. She walks over to the two of you just as you’re helping Remy situate the bag on his shoulders.

“You’re making him carry the heavy shit?” She asks accusingly. “How kind.”

“Yeah, so I can carry him.” You respond with a huff.

Her eyes fall to his left calf, only to find out where the missing gauze went. You must’ve wrapped it for him. No child could do such a neat job with medical bandages.

You crouch down in front of him and he hops onto your back, hanging his arms loosely around your neck as you support him under the knees. You’re straightening back up when the torn skin on your shoulders catches her eye. She’d seen them last night, but not in this light. There are puncture wounds below your collarbones, three on either side. And on your left shoulder blade, there’s a deep gash.

Even if she were to not have received your shitty explanation from last night, she could figure out what they were caused by. The punctures are clearly from an animal; she’s seen forest creatures adorned with them in Seven to deem that true. And, considering her relationship with archery, she can easily recognize the wound on your shoulder blade.

You turn and she sees something much more appealing than your injuries.

“Is that a bow?” 

You raise a brow at her inquiry as you swipe it up from the floor. You pass it back to Remy and he shifts it onto one of his shoulders. “What, you don’t know what a bow looks like?”

“No, I definitely know what they look like.”

“Okay, so why ask?”

She shoots you a scowl. “Can you even use it with your fucked up shoulders?”

“Yes.” Ellie’s eyes flick to your back, noticing the redness that surrounds the arrow wound in your shoulder blade. There’s no fucking way you could shoot with that. Though, judging by the stretched skin, it appears as though you tried to. She looks back at your face. “Oh, really?”

“Look.” You snap. “It doesn’t matter whether I can use it or not, I’m not stupid enough to trust you with my weapons.”

“Yeah?” She asks. “Well, considering you’ll be carrying Remy around on your back, you won’t be as good at fighting, even without the bow. It’d be more stupid of you to withhold all the weapons due to pride and have us all killed than lend me one.”

Your head tilts to the side, eyes narrowing. “Call me what you want, but I’m not giving you jackshit.”

Ellie scoffs, turning her back to you as she heads for the door. Whatever. She shouldn’t have gotten her hopes up. Perhaps she’s the stupidest one for having held an ounce of hope that you’d trust her enough to lend her the bow. 

Trust doesn’t exist between either of you. On the rooftop, it flourished, reaching up toward the sunlight like a blossom in the belief that it’ll become something greater. Now, though, it's equally as wilted as the decaying plants in the side of her backpack.

[post] notes!! i will be completely and utterly honest with you, this chap needs to be proofread asap,, but i don't wanna so i'm not gonna <3 so! if this is written poorly, pls do not lmk! thx!

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[theorphicangel]

heaven can wait | gojo satoru x reader | chap. 3

pair: guardian angel! gojo x fem! reader

description: the last thing you had expected was to come face to face with your very own guardian angel to which you had no idea that they existed.

now you have to deal with an annoying six foot-something angel who leaves nothing but feathers and chaos behind him. but as time passes you begin to learn more about him and he finds himself bending the rules just to be around you a little longer.

however there is one rule that guardian angels like him must always abide by.

they mustn't fall in love. ever.

tags: strangers to lovers, no curses au, modern au, satoru is annoying but you learn to love him, forbidden love, semi-slowburn, i think, eventual smut, fem! reader, angel! satoru, mentions of death, heights, more tags to be added

art cred: @aidonotknow, original work is here, please check out their art!!!

taglist: @therealisttheillest @ohmygeto @bunheadusa @czarixoxo @lalalandincraz @descargueestoporgojosatoru @emochosoluvr @celear @thoreeo @moxieisanalien @amberbalcom14 @13-09-01 @k-kkiana @tyyqqaaa @ehcilhc @entr4p3 @fushiguroooozzz @marajafarli @slutlight2ndver @twinkling-moonlillie @pickledsoda @satansthiccasscheeksreblogacc @worganmalker @yukinohoshikuzu @ilovebeansyay @sherrieblossoms @vaniyeiszero

let me know if you would like to be on the taglist!

chapter three: the fall

wc: 0.7k

playlist

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

You’re not exactly sticking to your promise.

After last night the two of you had set boundaries, Satoru swore that he wouldn’t make you feel paranoid and keep you under surveillance 24/7 but he did set up a time with you where he would pop in and check up on you. 

He told you to trust him but do you really? 

Over the past twenty four hours you feel like you’ve stepped into a fantasy world of delusions searching up anything and everything about guardian angels. There’s so many sources surrounding the concept, often overlapping with each other which makes everything even more confusing. You’ve stayed up the entire night reading websites and forum pages just to see if someone has had the same experiences as you. 

Of course no one outrightly says that they have a personal guardian angel but you can gauge that just from their questions and answers that their experiences must be relevant to your own. If not, how else were they on the forum before you?

But does everyone get a guardian angel? Satoru never really explained the reasoning behind why he was sent to you or who specifically sent him for you. You don’t have any immediate family who would do this kind of thing for you, you barely knew your father and your mother passed away when you could barely remember. All your life you’ve grown up under the care system but never really found a final family to be with.

You wonder how much Satoru knows about you, he possibly knows you more than you could ever know yourself. 

Sitting in your room you’ve watched the time pass from dusk till the bare crack of dawn trying to make sense of everything that is going on in your mind. You still can’t believe it. It all feels surreal to you like a fever dream and you still feel like you have something to prove. After exhausting your search engine until no other new sources come up you find that you have another idea. 

And it’s not a good one.

That’s what brings you to the edge of a random car park in the outskirts of the city. It’s still early morning, the city barely waking up for morning rush hour. Surprisingly, it didn’t take you long to search for an almost empty building to throw yourself off.  It’s only a few storeys high but the height still makes you swallow nervously. With shaking hands gripping the ledge you try to judge how far you’ll fall off the building. 

If you ever make it to the ground that is. 

The whole purpose of this was to test your reality. You’re still in disbelief that there is someone out there in the universe who is actually responsible for you. In fact this was more of a test for your angel rather than yourself. You bite down on your lip, enough to taste metallic blood on your tongue as you attempt to push away thoughts of doubts. 

Distracting yourself, you glance at the sunrise ahead. The shade of a peaceful orange leading to a clear blue sky for the day. One that you might not ever see. 

The shade of blue reminds you of Satoru’s eyes. He seems unreal, perfectly beautiful to be an angel. 

As your thoughts cross to him, guilt encases your body for breaking his promise. Your hands turn into fists at your sides, no you couldn’t break out of it now. This would prove it. Prove that you weren’t going crazy and that Satou would keep his promise of looking after you at all times. With a sudden surge of adrenaline, you finally gain the courage to step up on the ledge.

And if he doesn’t save you then…

Then you would hope that you would end up with a few broken bones and nothing more. You swallow thickly staring directly at the ground. Maybe this was a bad idea. What the fuck were you doing with your life? Here you are, standing on the edge of a building just to prove a point about a mythical being who you weren’t sure was real or not. 

Without any hesitation your feet leave the edge and as soon as you fall you regret it all. 

Who were you kidding? No one was going to save you. Not even if that someone was a gorgeous blue eyed angel. 

This was all for nothing. Just like yesterday in the middle of the road, you simply close your eyes and accept your consequence waiting for your body to make contact with the ground. 

But it never comes. 

Instead you find yourself in the arms of an angel with white hair who seems more pissed off than ever.