#half copied - invented

[wormtoxin]

ok. Narrative obfuscation in House Of Leaves. It’s a relatively simple story about a man who moves into a house with his wife and kids, and the house is haunted. That’s it. The core themes are very transparent.

Except, that story is documented by a famous war documentarian, then published as a series of rare tapes, which are discoursed by film buffs, then interpreted from viewings and reading film critique by a blind old man, then his thoughts are transcribed into a manuscript by a series of young women, which is then compiled from scattered notes by the most mysoginistic, damaged, toxic pothead drop-out who won’t stop talking about his life, which is THEN edited and published by some vaguely nefarious agency who soberly refuse to provide any clarification or context.

It’s not simple, but there are so many different hands on the wheel with wildly differing opinions that you can’t discern the truth.

Johnny Truant is such a miserable hopeless fuck up. He has no sense of academic rigor or archival professionalism. Any interference he provides only muddies the waters and taints what would otherwise be a gripping piece of metaphysical film criticism. His neurotic rambling and personal anecdotes cloud an otherwise reasonable story.

If he wasn’t in it, if we could read Zampano’s manuscript directly, WE would be able to understand the truth. We would get it completely, and we wouldn’t have to encounter so much violence, so much miserable graphic detail. It would be a better story.

And fuck it, if we didn’t have to read all of Zampano’s tangents and analyses and interpretations, if we could just find a copy of the famous “five-and-a-half minute hallway” vhs, if we could SEE it, we’d understand. We wouldn’t need endless pontification of what Navidson and Karen’s marriage might entail, or recitations of what a director once said in a Rolling Stones article. We’d see the hallway itself, stretching out into what should be the backyard, and we’d get it. Hell, Zampano is blind in his old age. He can’t even watch the damn movie! But we could. We’d know instantly, the second we saw it. The impossibility of it, the gravity of it, the weight of that dark abyss.

And well, the VHS recording is a little dark, and the quality is poor, and maybe the white balance isn’t so perfect. And actually, VHs tapes could be manipulated. We can’t be sure that Navidson isn’t just using clever videography tricks to invent a hallway. If we were there, if we found the house (it’s in virginia, isn’t it? we even have the address). If we GO there, we could look down that hallway. And it’s dark, so if we just brought a flashlight, maybe took a few steps inside-

[cressidagrey]

Daylight

Pairing: Lando Norris x Emilie Abadie (Original Character)

Welcome to a short side story, featuring Emilie and Lando, set in the White Horse Universe. There are specific scenes copy and pasted from White Horse, so it’s easier to follow along timeline wise.

Summary:

Emilie Abadie hadn’t planned on caring about Formula 1. Until she saw a boy with curly hair win the Miami GP in 2024. 

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, toxic families

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Emilie Abadie hadn’t planned on caring about Formula 1.

In fact, she actively avoided caring about it— Mostly because of her best friend. 

Belle, with her soft green eyes and gentle heart, who had already survived too many years of being invisible in a family that only seemed to remember she existed when it was convenient. 

Belle, who was one of the best people Emilie had ever met, who had been born into a family that cared about podiums and trophies, about DRS and pit stops… and not about their daughter, their sister. 

Even Max Verstappen hadn’t changed Emilie’s dislike for everything Formula 1. 

Granted, of course, Emilie had googled him when Belle had first mentioned him to her. 

There had been some amusement somewhere in the back of her head that Belle had found a guy to date who had 2 World Championship titles and 4 dozen wins to his name, while Belle’s brother was still on his 5th career win after Austria 2022. 

Emilie didn’t care about Max’s wins. Or his podiums. Or whatever he did for a living. She’d seen enough of Belle’s face when she talked about him to know he was good—really, properly good—and that was enough.

But then came that Sunday in May, and Twitter exploded.

Emilie wasn’t even trying to pay attention. She was lounging on her balcony with an espresso, mindlessly scrolling between Vogue articles and TikToks of people organising their fridges. 

And then—suddenly—orange hats, all-caps screaming, and multiple photos of a grinning man half-drenched in champagne.

“HE FINALLY DID IT.”

“LANDO. FREAKING. NORRIS.”

Someone had posted a clip of him standing on the top step of the podium, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, trying to keep it together while the crowd roared. And God help her, Emilie had clicked it.

He wasn’t even her type.

Too boyish. 

Too chaotic. 

Probably smelled like Monster Energy and nerves.

But he’d smiled like it meant something. Like it had taken years. Like he couldn’t quite believe the universe had finally let him have this moment.

And something in Emilie’s chest—usually locked up tight behind snark and cashmere—shifted.

She frowned.

Closed the app.

Opened it again.

Googled him.

Lando Norris. 25. British. McLaren driver. Five seasons. No wins—until now.

She even found a quote: “It’s about damn time.”

And still, Emilie was deeply annoyed to find herself staring at photos of this Lando person and wondering what his laugh sounded like in real life.

And that was exactly when she opened her texts and messaged Belle.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Isabelle Leclerc

Emilie: Okay so… Question

Isabelle: That’s always a dangerous start.

Emilie: Who is this Lando person And why is everyone crying because he won something

Isabelle: Oh my God. You really don’t know anything about F1, do you?

Emilie: Absolutely not. I know Max drives fast, and you’re too pretty to be emotionally stable, that’s it.

Isabelle: Valid.

Emilie: But seriously. My entire timeline is full of sweaty orange hats and people screaming “HE FINALLY DID IT.” What did he do? Did he climb a mountain? Invent a vaccine?

Isabelle: He won his first Formula 1 Grand Prix. He’s been in F1 for five years. Always came close. Never quite made it.Everyone’s been waiting for this.He’s a good guy. Deserved it.

Emilie: Huh. He’s the guy with the curly hair, right?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the jawbones?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the voice that’s suspiciously hot for someone named Lando?

Isabelle: …Why do you care?

Emilie: I don’t!!

Isabelle: You do. You’ve never asked me about a single driver. Not once. And now you’re googling him like a concerned historian.

Emilie: I’m just… doing research. You know. investigating the cultural phenomenon

Isabelle: Uh-huh. Is this cultural phenomenon wearing a papaya-colored race suit and has curly hair?

Emilie: Fine. He’s cute. He looked happy. The bar is so low.

Isabelle: He is cute. And he should be happy. He’s a good guy.

Emilie: You sound like you’re trying to sell me a family dog.

Isabelle: He’s very sweet! Loyal! Thoughtful! Max calls him chaotic sunshine. I call him emotionally transparent. You’d like him.

Emilie: So a golden retriever.

Isabelle: With slightly better hair.

Emilie: Does he bite?

Isabelle: Only when provoked. Or when Max makes a joke about his height.

Emilie: Hmm.

Isabelle: Oh no.

Emilie: What?

Isabelle: You’re thinking about him.

Emilie: Absolutely not.

Emilie: This is slander.

Isabelle: This is me knowing you better than you know yourself. And I’m telling you: he’s a good one. A little chaotic. But real.

Emilie: He smiled like…like he waited years for this. I noticed that. I hate that I noticed that.

Belle: Yeah. That’s why people cried. It wasn’t just about the win—it was about him. He needed it. And he earned it.

Emilie: …Okay maybe I get the hats now.

Isabelle: Give it three days. You’ll be watching fan edits on TikTok and pretending it’s research. I have been there. 

***

Emilie tossed her phone down onto her table, flopping back into her chair with a groan.

God, what was wrong with her?

She never did this. Never caught herself noticing smiles. Never cared about people’s stories. 

She’d always been good at getting the guy.

Usually, she saw a man she liked, decided she liked him, and that was it. 

If she wanted him, she got him. 

Easy.

The harder part—the impossible part—was getting them to stay.

Not that she ever admitted that out loud.

They got infatuated with the packaging—pretty blonde, sharp tongue, quick wit—but none of them wanted to know what was underneath. Or if they did, they ran.

So she never gave them the chance.

Emilie knew what she was. What she had been taught to be: polished, pretty, disposable.

Raised by grandparents who valued appearances more than affection, she’d learned early that emotions were a liability. Her family was a cold, glittering mess of old money and colder expectations. 

Emotionally unavailable parents who vacationed in the Alps more than they parented. Her grandparents had raised her—fierce, stylish people who taught her how to dress, how to argue, how to build walls no man could climb. 

Emilie knew how to play the part—how to be charming, captivating, just unattainable enough to keep her pride intact when everything inevitably crumbled.

Old money. Cold manners. 

And Belle—sweet, gentle Belle—hadn’t been raised in a world much kinder.

Emilie still hated Belle’s family for that. For making her believe she had to earn love, that she had to be perfect to deserve being seen. Even now, even after Belle had found Max—the only man who seemed to see her fully and without condition—Emilie’s chest still burned with protective rage whenever she thought about it.

She’d watched Belle spend her whole life being overlooked. Forgotten. Ignored by people who were supposed to love her. And now she had Max, who looked at her like she was the whole damn world.

She was happy for Belle. Truly. Because Belle deserved good things—finally. Especially after growing up in a family that prioritized podiums over people. 

And Emilie, for all her sass and designer boots, had never liked the Leclercs. Not really.

Belle was happy now. Radiantly, irrevocably happy. And Max—grumpy, blunt Max—loved her like it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

Maybe that’s why Emilie couldn’t look away from a stranger’s victory lap on Twitter.

 Maybe, deep down, she still believed there were people worth betting on.

Even if she didn’t believe it for herself.

God help me, she thought grimly, dragging a hand over her face.

She was absolutely going to end up watching fan edits.

In three days. Tops.

Maybe two.

Lando Norris had looked like someone who didn’t think the world would ever give him a win.

And for some reason… she couldn’t stop thinking about that.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max and I are getting married tomorrow. City hall. Just something small. Just for us. Will you come?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME???? TOMORROW??? CITY HALL??? SMALL???

Isabelle: Yes. No fuss. Just us. That’s all I want.

Emilie: Oh my GOD. You are not getting married like you’re renewing a driver’s license. You need flowers. A cake. A moment, Belle.

Isabelle: I don’t need any of that. I just want him. That’s it.

Emilie: Yes, yes, eternal love, devotion, blah blah blah. BUT. You are still getting married. You will wear a dress. You will hold a bouquet. You will eat something that tastes like joy and sugar and victory.

Isabelle: I’m not even sure what I’m wearing yet 😅 We haven’t thought that far ahead.

Emilie: THAT IS WHY YOU HAVE ME. Do you still have the white dress we got a few weeks ago? The one that made you look like a romantic novel with legs?

Isabelle: ...Yes.

Emilie: Good. Wear that. It’s perfect. Simple. Elegant. You. I’ll take care of the rest.

Isabelle: Em—no pressure, really. Please. I don’t want a production.

Emilie: This won’t be a production. It’ll be a love letter. With flowers. And maybe a three-layer cake.

Isabelle: Emilie 😭 You really don’t have to—

Emilie: Belle. You’ve planned everyone else’s birthdays, surprises, parties, and holidays since you were like what, twelve?! Let someone do it for you this once. Let me.

Isabelle: ...Okay. But just a little. No spark machines. No confetti cannons.

Emilie: Deal. But I am bringing champagne. And I will cry.

Isabelle: I wouldn’t want it any other way. 💛

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: You have a camera, right?

Lando: …yes?? What kind of question is that?

Max: Like, a real one. Not your phone.

Lando: Yes, Max, I own a camera. Why??

Max: I need you to document something.

Lando: What kind of something?

Max: Just be at Monaco City Hall tomorrow. 10:30. Bring your camera. Wear a suit. Preferably not orange.

Lando: MAX.

Max: Yes?

Lando: ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW???

Max: Yes.

Lando: YOU’RE JUST DROPPING THAT ON ME AT MIDNIGHT???

Max: It’s 11:43.

Lando: Oh, my mistake. PLENTY OF TIME TO PROCESS THE FACT YOU’RE SECRETLY GETTING MARRIED.

Max: Not secretly. Just quietly.

Lando: Max.

Max: What.

Lando: I’M HONORED BUT ALSO PANICKING. Do you want, like, pictures or VIBES?? Do I need a tripod?? Am I the witness?? Do I bring champagne?? WHAT’S MY ROLE HERE.

Max: Your role is “friend with a camera who knows how to shut up.”

Lando: I can be that.

 Wait—can I still cry a little?

Max: Only if it’s behind the camera.

Lando: Deal. Lando:I don’t even know what shoes to wear for a Verstappen emergency elopement

Max: Don’t overthink it. You’re just the photographer.

Lando: You’re getting married in Monaco city hall and I’m the photographer?? What the hell kind of fairy tale speedrun is this?

Max: The efficient kind.

Lando: Who else is gonna come?

Max: Just us. People we trust. 

***

Emilie Abadie had been awake since three in the morning. .

Not because she was nervous. She wasn’t the one getting married. 

It was Belle’s wedding. And that meant it had to be perfect.

Because Belle would never ask for perfect. Belle would shrug and say “just something quiet, just us” with that soft look in her eyes like she didn’t dare hope for more. But Emilie had spent the last seven years learning the difference between what Belle asked for and what she deserved.

And today, she deserved everything.

And perfection, as it turned out, required bribing a florist with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, whispering at a baker’s front door like a criminal, and coordinating a last-minute restaurant buyout with a maître d’ who still remembered Belle and Max’s first date like it had happened yesterday.

It was still early. The sun hadn’t quite cleared the rooftops of Monaco. But Emilie was already in motion—dressed, phone in hand, espresso in the other, a determined woman on a mission.

The florist had said it couldn’t be done. Snowdrops weren’t in season. They’d laughed—laughed—when Emilie asked.

Laughed. Emilie still remembered when Belle had told her about her favourite flowers. Fragile, quiet, perfect. Blooming in the cold, when nothing else did. Just like Belle. 

Emilie Abadie didn’t take no for an answer.

She made five calls. 

Then ten. 

Then offered double the price. 

Then triple. 

Someone from a specialty hothouse near Nice came through. A courier had arrived an hour ago, carrying a chilled box like it held diplomatic secrets.

Now, the bouquet sat in a vase on Emilie’s kitchen counter. Fragile white snowdrops, soft eucalyptus, and one or two sprigs of pale forget-me-nots.

Because Emilie was dramatic, and because Belle deserved to be remembered in every way that mattered.

The cake was next.

Not a tiered monstrosity. Just something beautiful. Elegant. White chocolate and raspberry with buttercream. The baker—an angel Emilie had gone to culinary school with for exactly three weeks—had rolled her eyes at the timeline and then agreed with a huff. “Only because it’s for Belle.”

Of course it was.

Emilie knew how much Belle had given. To her family. To her brothers. To Ferrari. To everyone except herself.

She’d watched Belle quietly shrink herself for years—make room for Lorenzo, for Charles, for Arthur, for Charles’ career, for the Leclerc family myth. 

Belle never asked for much. Never expected anything back.

So today, Emilie would give her everything.

The final piece fell into place just after sunrise: lunch at the restaurant where Max had taken Belle on their first date. The cozy one tucked behind the port with the ivy-covered terrace and the little hand-painted plates. Emilie had called the manager at 6:15 a.m.

“I need the whole place,” she’d said. “15 people. Three bottles of Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque. No fuss. No press. Max and Belle Verstappen.”

The Manager had paused and looked at Emilie:. “Ah,” he’d said, eyes twinkling. “For the couple who ordered the wine, then forgot to drink it because they were too busy falling in love?”

By 6:00, the venue was booked. The menu was set. The staff had already started laying out fresh linen.

Emilie checked the list one more time—flowers, cake, lunch, Max’s boutonnière, Belle’s shoes.

Everything was ready.

Emilie slipped her phone into her bag, gave the bouquet one last fond glance, and smiled to herself.

Because today—finally—was about Belle. Not Charles. Not their mother. Not a team or a trophy or anyone else’s spotlight.

Today was hers.

And Emilie Abadie would make sure not a single petal was out of place.

***

Emilie Abadie arrived with the force of a hurricane compressed into five feet and a few inches of blonde ambition and French fire.

She stood in the doorway like she’d conquered nations before breakfast, her icy blue eyes narrowing the moment they landed on him.

Lando’s stomach immediately did that stupid swoopy thing it did when he just knew he was fucked. 

She was Belle’s best friend. He had known that in an offhand way, had seen her make appearances on Belle’s Instagram and in stories Belle told…but Lando had never met her. 

“Why,” she said, voice crisp and imperious, “are half of you not wearing ties?”

Lando glanced around as if he might be able to blend into the cabinetry.

Too late.

“You,” Emilie snapped, pointing at him with all the grace and threat of a commander selecting someone for sacrifice.

“Me?” Lando squeaked.

She stalked toward him like a missile in heels. “You call that a tie? What is that knot? A shoelace? A cry for help?”

Lando glanced down at the pale blue mess under his collar. It did, in fact, look like it had lost a bar fight. “Technically… yes?”

Emilie sighed. Dramatically. Award-winningly. “Come here.”

He obeyed, despite every instinct screaming to flee. Blushing furiously, Lando stepped toward her like a man accepting his fate.

“You’re kind of scary,” he muttered.

“I’m not scary,” she replied, already undoing his tie with practiced hands, “I’m just French and disappointed.”

He stood still, heart hammering far too fast, hyper-aware of how close she was, of the way she reached up to fix the tie like she’d done it a hundred times. She smelled like roses and battle plans. Her fingers brushed his throat, adjusting the collar with delicate but precise movements, and Lando very seriously considered the possibility that this was what dying felt like.

“Can I breathe yet?” he whispered.

“When I say you can,” she said sweetly, tilting his chin. “Fashion is pain. Suffer with dignity.”

“I’m… terrified of her,” Lando muttered under his breath once she turned her attention elsewhere.

Max, still leaning casually against the counter, didn’t even blink. “You should be.”

And Lando was, but also… he was hopelessly in love with her. 

Or at least something very inconvenient and fluttery that made it hard to breathe when she was near. 

She was absolutely stunning in her sharply tailored outfit and meticulous energy, her blonde hair swept up, and her eyes laser-focused on whipping the room into shape. She’d turned wedding planning into a military campaign—and somehow made it look elegant.

But even as she herded grown men into order with eyebrow raises and verbal artillery, Lando couldn’t stop watching Max.

Because Max—who had never seemed interested in fanfare or spectacle—was getting married today. And he looked… happy. Genuinely, deeply happy in a way that made Lando’s chest go warm.

And Belle—sweet, gentle, quietly brave Belle—was the reason.

He couldn’t be happier for them.

Even if Charles was definitely going to kill him.

Lando had been trying not to think about that bit—the Charles-is-going-to-strangle-him-when-he-finds-out bit. Because once the truth came out, once Charles realized his little sister had married Max, and Lando had known, there was going to be hell to pay.

But he couldn’t bring himself to feel too guilty about it. Not when Max looked like that. Not when Belle had finally been seen the way she deserved.

The chaos in the room only paused when Emilie cornered Tom, who was valiantly attempting to pass off a cravat as formalwear.

“This is Monaco, not Pemberley,” Emilie said, already pulling a tie from her tote like Mary Poppins preparing for war.

Even Jos wasn’t immune. When Emilie raised her brows at him with military precision, he actually reached for the tie GP handed him—without protest.

“I like her,” Jos muttered, half to himself.

Yeah, Lando thought, hopeless and dazed. Me too.

Daniel’s cartoon tie didn’t stand a chance. Neither did his excuses.

“I have a lighter in my purse,” Emilie said, entirely too calmly.

And just like that, Daniel disappeared to change.

Only Oscar and GP escaped with their dignity intact. Emilie gave them a nod that could’ve launched ships.

Then Max—cool, unbothered Max—lifted his chin with the smugness of a man who had already tied his tie correctly.

“It’s crooked,” Emilie said, pulling him forward to fix it anyway.

Max didn’t even argue. Just let her do it, then shot her a crooked grin.

“You’ll do,” Emilie declared.

“You’re marrying my best friend,” she added. “You’re lucky I didn’t make you wear the floral pocket square.”

Lando snorted. Max only grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then the world stopped moving.

Because the bedroom door opened.

Belle stepped out.

And everything else just… dropped away.

Lando forgot about his camera. Forgot about his tie. Forgot about the fact he was probably about to die by Leclerc rage.

Because Belle was breathtaking.

She looked like she belonged in one of those old black-and-white movies—ethereal and quiet, in a dress that shimmered like water, snowdrops tucked gently into her dark curls. Her eyes swept the room until they found Max.

And Max—his friend, the fiercest driver he’d ever known—just stood there like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

“Hi,” Belle said softly.

Max walked toward her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. And when he told her she looked like a dream he’d never let himself have, Lando had to turn away, just for a second.

His chest hurt in a good way.

Maybe love didn’t have to be loud or dramatic or perfect. Maybe it could just be this. A quiet kitchen. A white dress. A soft “Hi.” The kind of thing that made a man forget how to breathe.

Daniel sniffled. Oscar told him to shut up.

And Lando—caught somewhere between awe and a slight panic over Charles Leclerc’s eventual reaction—just smiled.

Because one of his best friend had everything he’d ever wanted.

And Lando? Lando might be crushing on the tiny French hurricane currently terrorizing everyone with her sense of style.

But he had hope.

***

The wedding luncheon was held at a small, sun-washed restaurant tucked into one of Monaco’s corners. 

It was perfect, of course. Belle perfect.

The place where Belle and Max had had their first date. Where they had fallen in love and forgotten to drink the bottle of wine they had ordered it. 

Emilie sat at one of the long wooden tables, a glass of champagne in hand, watching Belle laugh over something Max whispered in her ear, her cheeks pink and glowing.

And for the first time in a long time, Emilie felt something unspool in her chest—something fragile and aching.

Belle was happy.

Finally.

After years of being treated like an afterthought by people who should have fought for her, she was loved by someone who saw her. It made Emilie both stupidly emotional and faintly murderous when she thought about the people who hadn't.

Her fingers curled loosely around the stem of her glass.

She didn't cry at weddings. That was not her brand.

But if she were going to cry, it would’ve been for this.

Someone bumped her elbow, breaking the spell.

She looked up—and into the bright, apologetic face of Lando Norris.

"Sorry! Sorry," he said immediately, holding up his hands like a man under arrest. "Didn’t mean to—uh, interrupt. Or spill anything. Or—"

He was wearing a navy blue suit, rumpled already, tie askew again even after her earlier threats. His curls were fighting a losing battle against whatever product he’d tried to tame them with. There was a crookedness to him—a kind of chaotic, restless energy buzzing just under his skin.

He looked like a golden retriever trying desperately not to knock over a priceless vase.

Emilie raised an eyebrow. Cool. Appraising.

She knew boys like him. Bright smiles. Quick laughs. Attention spans like sparklers: burning hot, burning out.

He should’ve been easy to dismiss.

So why wasn’t she?

"You’re safe," she said dryly, tipping her glass toward him. "For now."

Lando's grin widened, lopsided and a little breathless. "Good. I was warned you might have a taser."

Emilie allowed herself a small, sharp smile. "Only for men who deserve it."

His eyes—bright greenish blue, annoyingly nice eyes—crinkled at the corners. He shifted from foot to foot like he didn’t know whether to stay or retreat. She could practically see the gears turning in his brain, second-guessing everything.

Cute, she thought reluctantly. In that maddening, boyish way.

And real.

There was something startlingly unguarded about him. No polished script, no careful charm. Just... all messy heart.

"Can I—uh, sit?" he asked, nodding toward the empty chair beside her.

Emilie could have said no. Should have, maybe.

Instead, she tilted her head and said, "If you must."

He practically collapsed into the chair with relief, bumping the table and nearly knocking over a bread basket in the process. Emilie caught it one-handed, setting it upright with a sigh that was more amused than exasperated.

"Smooth," she said.

"I try," Lando said, flashing another grin. "But usually it goes like this."

They fell into an awkward, oddly endearing silence. The lunch buzzed around them: clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, Belle’s voice lifting and carrying across the room like music.

Lando fiddled with the edge of the napkin, sneaking glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Emilie noticed.

She noticed everything.

And it made her want to fold herself back into the armor she wore with men. The one that said: you can look, but you will never touch anything real.

But he wasn’t looking at her like she was an acquisition to win or a prize to brag about.

He was looking at her like she was a puzzle he was trying—hopelessly—to figure out.

She sipped her champagne. Let him squirm a little longer. Then, finally:

"So," Emilie said, tilting her head just enough to make him sweat, "are you going to make conversation, or are you just planning to stare at me and hope it counts?"

Lando blinked, then laughed—a quick, surprised sound that made something warm spark low in her chest.

"I was thinking... both?" he said, scratching the back of his neck. "You’re kind of intimidating."

"Good," Emilie said, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. "I work hard at it."

He shook his head, still smiling, eyes glinting with something that might have been mischief-or admiration.

Probably both.

And Emilie—who got whatever guy she wanted but never trusted any of them to stay—felt the faintest, most treacherous flicker of curiosity.

Maybe Belle wasn’t the only one who deserved good things.

Maybe.

But not yet.

For now, she just raised an eyebrow, tore a piece of bread in half, and said, "You’ve got five minutes to impress me, Norris. Don’t waste it."

Lando leaned forward like a man accepting a dare.

"Oh," he said, grinning wide and unrepentant. "I’m definitely going to waste it."

And to her absolute horror—

Emilie found herself smiling.

Real and warm and helpless against it.

Maybe chaotic sunshine wasn’t the worst thing to let into her life after all.

Emilie watched him over the rim of her glass, amused in the way one might watch a golden retriever attempt calculus. She was prepared for the usual: some half-flirty line, some brag, something easy to roll her eyes at and dismiss.

Instead, Lando immediately, and spectacularly, fumbled it.

“So, uh,” he began, sitting up straighter like he was about to give a business presentation, “I have a driver's license.”

Emilie blinked. “I should hope so,” she said dryly, “given your profession.”

“Yeah, but like,” Lando forged on, waving a hand vaguely, “I passed my first test. No minors. No majors. Totally clean sheet. Instructor said I was ‘shockingly competent.’” He smiled at her like this was an accomplishment that should win him a Nobel Prize.

Emilie couldn’t help it: she laughed.

A small one, sharp and unexpected, escaping before she could stop it.

Lando lit up like a Christmas tree. Actually lit up.

Encouraged, he kept going, words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried.

“And—and I can cook a bit. Like, real cooking. Not just the ‘put something in the microwave and pray’ thing.”

“What’s your specialty?” Emilie asked, playing along, one eyebrow lifted.

He considered this with deep, theatrical seriousness.

“Pasta,” he said finally. “But, like, real pasta. I once made fresh tagliatelle for a girl I liked.”

Emilie smirked. “And did she survive?”

“She did,” Lando said solemnly. “She even asked for seconds. Probably because I didn’t tell her I dropped half the dough on the floor and had to start over.”

Emilie shook her head, sipping her champagne to hide the curve of her mouth.

God, he was awful at this. And somehow—somehow—it was working.

Not because he was slick.

But because he wasn’t.

He was throwing everything out there, a whole messy human open on the table, with no polish, no angles, no agenda except: please like me.

And it was dangerously, horribly endearing.

Emilie, who had been courted by men with yachts and family names older than democracy, who had been wooed with Cartier and poetry and private jets, found herself genuinely, terrifyingly charmed by a boy who thought shockingly competent driving was an acceptable conversation starter.

“You’ve got two minutes left,” she said lightly.

Lando gasped in mock horror. “Pressure’s on.”

He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking.

Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was telling her a state secret."Okay. Here's the real selling point: I'm friends with Max, and you know what that means?"

She gave him a look that said choose your next words very carefully.

"It means," Lando said solemnly, "I have survived approximately fourteen near-death experiences involving go-karts, jet skis, and very questionable Red Bull stunts. So I'm basically immortal."

Emilie snorted into her glass.

"And," Lando added, beaming now, "I'm very good at getting bloodstains out of clothes. Just in case."

"You expect me to believe you're domestically capable," she said, eyeing him skeptically.

"I can use a washing machine," he said proudly. "Mostly."

"Terrifying."

Lando grinned wider, basking in the fact she hadn't told him to go away yet. His foot accidentally bumped hers under the table, and he yelped, jerking back like he'd been electrocuted.

"Sorry! Sorry—" he spluttered, flailing slightly. "Didn’t mean—"

"Relax," Emilie said, amused despite herself. "I don't bite."

She paused.

"Unless provoked," she added sweetly, echoing Belle’s earlier words.

Lando looked half in love already.

The realization hit Emilie like a cold glass of water poured down her back.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t how it went. She flirted. She played. She walked away before anyone got the chance to look at her like that.

But Lando didn’t seem to be strategizing, didn’t seem to be measuring her up like some glossy prize. He just looked... happy. A little awestruck. A little proud of himself for surviving her.

It was stupid. And messy. And probably a terrible idea.

But when Belle caught her eye across the room and gave her a tiny, knowing smile—the same smile Belle had worn when Max had first reached for her hand like it was instinct—

Emilie thought, maybe, just maybe, she could let herself enjoy this. For today. For a minute.

For herself.

She set her champagne down and looked at Lando, who was still watching her like she might vanish if he blinked.

"Alright, Norris," Emilie said, sitting back with a mock-sigh. "You've survived the first round."

Lando brightened so much it was almost dangerous.

"And what’s round two?" he asked eagerly.

Emilie smirked.

"You’ll find out," she said, standing up, brushing invisible crumbs off her sleek dress. She leaned down, just enough to whisper near his ear:

"If you're lucky."

And when she sauntered off to steal a slice of cake before the toddlers got to it, she didn’t even have to look back to know Lando was grinning like he’d just won the Miami Grand Prix again.

***

It started innocently enough.

At least, that's what Lando told himself.

It was late, he was jetlagged, and he was lying in bed with one arm slung over his face, phone glowing much too brightly against the dark hotel room ceiling. He should’ve been asleep.

Instead, he was... scrolling.

Specifically, scrolling through Emilie Abadie’s Instagram.

In his defense, she’d posted a new story earlier that day—something about a bookstore in Paris—and he’d swiped up without thinking, curious. From there, well... it was a slippery slope.

He clicked on her profile. Scrolled a little. Then a little more. And a little more. Until suddenly he wasn’t just seeing today's cute coffee shop photo; he was deep in 2019 territory, where the grid looked different—less polished, more chaotic.

And there it was.

The Bikini Picture.

Emilie, standing on a beach somewhere impossibly blue, wearing sunglasses, a tiny black bikini, and a smirk that could have started wars. Hair loose, skin sun-kissed, hand holding some drink with a tiny paper umbrella in it.

She looked effortless. Untouchable. Dangerous.

Lando, because he had the survival instincts of a drunk moth around a flame, stared at it for too long.

And then, as if his thumb had a mind of its own—

He liked it.

The screen flashed red.

Hearted.

The panic hit instantly.

"NO—NO, NO, NO—" he yelped, scrambling like he'd just touched a live wire. He frantically unliked it—smashed the heart again until it turned back to grey—but it was too late.

He knew how Instagram worked.

She got the notification.

He sat there, paralyzed, mortified, vibrating with shame.

He had liked a bikini photo from five years ago.

He was that guy.

The type of guy who accidentally cyberstalked someone so hard he time-traveled.

Lando buried his face in his pillow and groaned loud enough to scare himself.

At some point, he gave up and texted Oscar.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri

Lando: Mate. I just liked a 2019 bikini pic on Emilie’s Instagram. Kill me.

Oscar: 😂😂😂

Lando: I’m actually dying. This is fatal. I’ve died.

Oscar: How did you even GET to 2019??

Lando: I was just looking!! And then scrolling!! And then it happened!! I didn’t MEAN TO.

Oscar: Famous last words.

Lando: I hate you.

Lando: I'm gonna throw myself into the sea.

Oscar: Before you do, serious question. You like her, don’t you?

***

Later, when Lando had the courage to crawl out from under his metaphorical rock, he found himself sitting in Oscar’s hotel room, tossing a mini water bottle up and down, trying not to look like he wanted to crawl into the mini fridge and hide.

Oscar just sat on the bed, arms folded, regarding him with the amused patience of someone who had absolutely seen this coming.

“So,” Oscar said, grinning slightly. “Emilie, huh?”

Lando groaned. “It’s not like that.”

Oscar raised a brow.

Lando dropped the water bottle onto the floor with a thunk. “Okay. Fine. Maybe it’s a little like that.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, just nodded sagely, like he was some ancient wisdom god instead of a 23-year-old who still ate cereal for dinner sometimes.

“She’s just…” Lando floundered for words, pushing a hand through his hair. “She’s scary. And beautiful. And scary.”

“You said scary twice.”

“It felt necessary.”

Oscar snorted. “Sounds like you’ve got it bad, mate.”

Lando slumped. “I don’t even know if she likes me. She could crush me like a bug if she wanted.”

“Would you be mad about it?” Oscar asked.

Lando considered it. “…No.”

Oscar laughed, then sobered slightly, watching him.

“You ever just know?” Lando asked suddenly, voice quieter. “That someone’s different? Like—you’re still kind of terrified, but you don’t want to run away?”

Oscar leaned back against the headboard, thinking for a second.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “With Lily, I knew.”

Lando glanced at him, genuinely curious.

“I mean, it wasn’t like lightning bolts or fireworks or anything,” Oscar said, shrugging. “It was quieter. Like... I realized I was happier when she was around. And when she wasn’t, it felt like something was missing. She made life easier. Not harder. You know?”

Lando nodded slowly.

“People talk about love like it’s supposed to be this huge, dramatic thing,” Oscar continued. “But honestly? The real thing’s just... peace. Trust. Someone you want to tell stupid jokes to at 2 a.m.”

Lando swallowed.

He thought about Emilie.

The way she made fun of him mercilessly, but smiled when she thought he wasn’t looking.

The way she laughed—not a polite, reserved laugh, but a real, from-the-gut laugh—when he told the world’s dumbest jokes.

The way he felt when she was near. Like maybe he could stop trying to be impressive and just... be.

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be easy.

Maybe it was just supposed to be real.

“You think I’ve got a chance?” Lando asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Oscar smiled.

“You’ve already got one,” he said. “You’re just too scared to believe it.”

Lando sat back, heart thudding a little too fast, a little too hopeful.

Maybe he’d make an idiot of himself.

Maybe Emilie would laugh him off.

Maybe she’d crush him like a bug.

But maybe—maybe—he’d survive it.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be worth it.

***

Instagram Direct Messages: Lando Norris & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: So.

Emilie: I noticed you liked a little throwback.

Emilie: From 2019, no less. Deep cuts.  Impressive research skills.

Emilie: You know, you could’ve just asked me to dinner.  Would’ve been less creepy than liking my bikini photos at 2 a.m.

Emilie:  (But I guess this way was more entertaining.)

Emilie: You still can ask, by the way. If you’re brave enough.

Lando: Would you maybe want to have dinner with me? Without bikinis. I mean you can wear one if you want but not like a requirement— This is going badly.

Emilie: I’m free Thursday. Pick somewhere good.

Emilie: And try not to like any more photos from my past while you’re planning it.

Emilie: Or do. It’s cute. In a tragic way.

Lando: Bold of you to assume I won’t.

Emilie: Bold of you to assume I’ll say yes if you like the duck-face selfie from 2017.

Lando: Challenge accepted.

Emilie: Challenge lost.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Max Fewtrell: BRO. You saw it, right??  Charles fully crashed his soul mid-interview??

Lando: Unfortunately, yes. It was like watching someone remember they left the oven on... and also their sister.

Max Fewtrell: Iconic. Karun was like “her birthday, right?”  And Charles just downloaded a full panic attack.

Max Fewtrell: I screamed. Like—out loud. In public.

Lando Norris: It was kind of beautiful tbh. Like watching karma arrive with a mic and a production crew.

Max Fewtrell: Is his sister okay though? Do we know? Does she have a burner Twitter? I feel like she would.

Lando Norris:  She’s fine. Emilie’s with her.

Max Fewtrell: Who’s Emilie?

Lando Norris: ... She's Belle’s best friend.  Sharp. Dangerous. Possibly psychic. Says terrifyingly accurate things about my emotional state and then walks away in heels

Lando: She’s terrifying. Also brilliant.  And she’s like…scarily beautiful. 

Max Fewtrell: You have a crush on her, don’t you.

Lando: …I didn’t say that.

Max Fewtrell: YOU ABSOLUTELY DO OH MY GOD YOU DO This is the best gossip of the day and Charles had a meltdown on live TV

Lando: Shut up Also can we go back to Charles??

Max Fewtrell: No Because now I want to know why you know where Belle is And how you know Emilie’s with her And why you’re being so weirdly calm

Lando: …because I went to the wedding?

Max Fewtrell: THE WHAT

Lando: ...

Max Fewtrell: LAN THE WEDDING

Lando: Yeah. Belle and Max Verstappen. They got married. I was invited. Very small. City Hall. No media. Emilie picked the flowers

Max Fewtrell: MAX. VERSTAPPEN?!

Lando: Yes

Max Fewtrell:  YOU MEAN TO TELL ME CHARLES IS HAVING A BREAKDOWN ABOUT FORGETTING HIS SISTER’S BIRTHDAY AND DOESN’T EVEN KNOW SHE’S MARRIED TO HIS RIVAL???

Lando: Correct

Max Fewtrell: I need to lie down. And then I need popcorn And possibly therapy But also more of this

Lando: Same. Group chat is chaos Do not ask to be added It’s war in there

Max Fewtrell: This is better than Drive to Survive You’ve been sitting on this gossip for HOW LONG?

Lando: Long enough to know I value my life And Max Verstappen would kill me if I leaked it before they were ready

Max Fewtrell: Fair

Lando: You think Charles is spiraling now… Wait until he finds out Max is family now

Max Fewtrell: My god. This is better than Netflix.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Lando Norris

Lando Norris

hey is belle okay?

Emilie: She will be. She’s hurting, but she’s strong. And she has Max. That helps. (And me, obviously. I threaten people on her behalf.)

Lando: yeah i’d be more scared of you tbh Lando:  but good Lando: she doesn’t deserve to feel that way Lando:  no one does

Emilie: this is very rude. I was not prepared for sincerity. Please warn me next time

Lando: sorry next time i’ll open with a meme but i meant it

Emilie: I know. That’s why I’m weirdly touched. Ugh. Gross. I hate this. Emotions are banned after 10pm.

Lando: it’s 9:58

Emilie: you’re on thin ice, Norris.

Lando: wouldn’t be the first time but thanks for telling me and tell her i said… i don’t know that i’m rooting for her and that she deserves  better brothers and maybe a pony idk what people say in these situations

Emilie: you’re doing fine she’ll appreciate it and so do I

Emilie: you’re a good guy, Lando.

Lando: 😳 wow ok i’m printing this and framing it

Emilie: Don’t push it. ***

The restaurant buzzed softly around them—quiet conversations, clinking silverware, candlelight glinting off glasses. It was the kind of cozy, tucked-away Monaco spot that felt private even when it was packed, the kind of place that made Lando loosen his shoulders for the first time in days.

Or, at least, it should have.

But honestly, Lando was too busy trying not to screw this up to relax.

Sitting across from Emilie Abadie—in a dim corner booth, with a bottle of wine between them and a shared plate of something fried—was more nerve-wracking than qualifying on a wet track.

She was devastating.

Not just in the obvious way, with her wild blonde hair and sharp mouth and the way she sipped wine like she was judging the entire country of France—but in the way she looked at him. Like she was trying to decide if he was worth the effort of knowing.

And God help him, he wanted to be worth it.

He was halfway through trying to come up with something clever when he saw her expression shift. Just a flicker—something hard and tight slipping across her face.

Lando followed her gaze.

Across the restaurant, standing up too fast, was Charles Leclerc.

And he was coming right for them.

"Uh," Lando said, sitting up a little straighter. "Is that...?"

"Unfortunately," Emilie said under her breath, setting her wineglass down with a soft clink.

Charles didn’t even hesitate. Just stormed across the room, panic practically pouring off him. He stopped at their table, ignoring Lando completely, and zeroed in on Emilie.

"Emilie," Charles said, voice tight, "we need to talk. About Belle."

Emilie didn’t even blink.

"I’m having dinner," she said coolly. "Sit down or leave."

Charles didn’t sit. He stood there, vibrating with panic and guilt and about four too many emotions for the room they were in.

“She posted a horse,” Charles burst out, voice climbing. “A horse! She never said anything! She’s still not answering me. You’ve seen her. You know. Why won’t you just—just tell me what’s going on?!”

Lando, still frozen in his seat, watched Emilie set her napkin down. Slowly. Precisely. Like she was a surgeon preparing for a very delicate operation.

Her smile disappeared.

And then—God help him—she destroyed Charles.

"You think you're owed answers now?" she asked, voice so sharp Lando actually felt it across the table. "After months of ignoring every warning sign? After standing in the same garage with her and looking through her like she wasn’t even real?"

Charles flinched.

Emilie leaned in slightly, not loud, but lethal.

"You want to know why she’s not answering you? Because you only want her when it’s convenient. When it fits your schedule. When it doesn’t mess up the perfect story you tell yourself about your family."

Lando sat back, eyes wide, utterly mesmerized.

He had seen Emilie be sharp before—sarcastic, teasing, merciless with Daniel’s cartoon ties—but this was something else.

This was fierce.

This was loyalty turned into a weapon.

And it was, without a doubt, the moment he realized he was completely screwed.

Because he wasn’t falling for her because she was pretty (although, let’s be honest, that wasn’t exactly hurting). He was falling because of this.

Because of the way she fought.

Because of the way she protected the people she loved like it was breathing.

Because he could see, in every word she threw like knives, how much Belle meant to her.

He had never wanted anything more in his life than to be someone Emilie Abadie fought for like that.

Charles opened his mouth, desperate, and Emilie cut him down again.

"You forgot her birthday," she said, each word a bullet. "And you think a few panicked phone calls are enough to fix that?"

Lando couldn’t even feel sorry for Charles at that point. Not really.

He was too busy being completely, absolutely undone.

"You don't love Belle the way you should," Emilie said, voice low and devastating. "You love the idea of her. The safe, quiet little sister who never asks for anything. Who never demands too much. Who lets you shine without ever threatening your light."

And there it was—the fatal blow.

Charles stood there like he had been hollowed out.

Good, Lando thought savagely.

He didn’t deserve her.

He didn’t deserve Belle’s softness—or Emilie’s fury on her behalf.

Emilie, calm as anything now, lifted her glass again like she hadn’t just torn him to pieces.

"Now," she said, "go back to your table. Apologize to Alexandra. And maybe—if you’re lucky—figure out how to be someone your sister actually wants to let back in."

Charles didn’t even argue.

He just turned and walked away, a shell of himself.

The moment he was gone, the restaurant buzzed back to life like nothing had happened.

And Lando just sat there, staring at Emilie like she’d hung the moon.

Because this was what undid him, completely and without mercy:

Not the beauty. Not the sharp tongue. Not even the way she teased him into laughing at himself.

It was this.

It was the way she loved.

Fierce. Loyal. Uncompromising.

It was the way she stood her ground, sword drawn, in defense of someone who needed it.

It was the way she made it absolutely clear that you didn’t get to hurt people she loved without consequences.

God, he was in trouble.

Emilie caught him staring and arched an eyebrow, setting her wineglass down with practiced grace. "What?"

Lando blinked, scrambled for something to say, something that didn’t sound like I might be in love with you.

"That was," he said, voice a little hoarse, "the most badass thing I’ve ever seen."

A faint, real smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "He needed to hear it."

"He did," Lando agreed. Then, quieter, "And Belle’s lucky to have you."

Something flickered across Emilie’s face at that—something small and vulnerable and quickly hidden.

She picked up her glass again, studying him over the rim. "Careful, Norris. Say too many nice things and I might start thinking you mean them."

"I do," he said simply.

And this time, she didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t mock him.

She just held his gaze, steady and assessing, like she was weighing whether he was telling the truth.

Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because after a long beat, she said lightly, "Good."

She took a sip of her wine. Then, smiling like she hadn't just broken and remade his entire world in under five minutes, she leaned in closer.

"Now," Emilie said, "where were we before the drama?"

Lando couldn’t even remember.

All he could think about was how wildly, desperately he wanted to kiss her.

***

Emilie sat back in her chair, wine glass light between her fingers, and tried to act like her heart wasn’t pounding against her ribs.

Like Lando’s words hadn’t just cracked something wide open inside her.

Belle’s lucky to have you. I mean it.

She didn’t know what she had expected—maybe some teasing, maybe a joke to defuse the moment—but not that.

Not sincerity.

Not him.

She should’ve brushed it off. Should’ve quipped something scathing and easy, should’ve knocked the moment off balance before it could land. But she hadn’t.

Because something about the way Lando looked at her—steady, certain, real—had made her hesitate.

Careful, Abadie, she warned herself. You know better.

Boys said things they didn’t mean. Boys fell in love with ideas, not people. Boys liked her because she was shiny and sharp, not because they saw her.

And yet... Lando hadn’t looked at her like she was shiny.

He’d looked at her like she was something solid.

Like he saw the messy, brutal, fiercely protective parts of her—and didn’t want to flinch away.

It was terrifying.

It was worse than terrifying.

It was hope.

"Now," Emilie said, forcing her voice back into familiar, teasing steadiness as she leaned across the table, "where were we before the drama?"

Lando blinked at her, like he needed a second to remember where he was. It made something traitorous and warm flicker in her chest.

"Uh," he said, a little breathless, "I think I was telling you about the time I accidentally set a microwave on fire?"

Emilie let out a real, surprised laugh. "You did what?"

He grinned—wide and messy and self-deprecating—and just like that, the intensity between them loosened into something lighter. Still charged. Still humming just under the surface. But lighter.

"I was fifteen, okay," Lando said, leaning in, elbows on the table. "And I thought you could microwave foil. Spoiler alert: you cannot."

"Oh my God," Emilie said, actually laughing now. "You’re lucky you didn’t set the whole house on fire."

"Almost did," Lando said proudly. "My mum nearly murdered me."

He told the story with his whole body—hands flying, eyes bright—and Emilie listened, smiling in spite of herself, feeling the last shards of her ice defenses start to melt.

He’s dangerous, she thought distantly. And not for the reasons you’re used to.

He was dangerous because he wasn’t pretending.

Because he didn’t want her to be less. Or smaller. Or easier to love.

He wanted this version of her—the messy, complicated, fierce version—and it felt so new and so scary she almost didn’t know how to hold it.

Halfway through his story about the microwave (and the resulting three-day grounding), Emilie caught herself staring.

Caught herself wondering what it would be like to lean across the table and kiss him.

Idiot, she thought, draining the last of her wine to kill the impulse.

But even as she set the glass down, her hand brushed against his—just lightly, just by accident—and Lando froze.

The air between them tightened again. Not heavy. Not sharp. But electric.

His hand stayed where it was.

Waiting.

Not grabbing. Not pushing. Just waiting.

An invitation.

An if you want to.

Emilie’s chest squeezed so tight she could barely breathe.

She wasn’t used to boys who waited.

She wasn’t used to being wanted without being hunted.

Slowly—so slowly she barely let herself think about it—she turned her palm up and let her fingers brush his.

His hand closed gently over hers, warm and callused and careful.

And Emilie, against every rule she had ever made for herself, didn’t pull away.

***

The night air was cooler than the restaurant had been, crisp against Emilie’s skin as they stepped out into the narrow Monaco street.

 The world felt smaller out here—quieter, sleepier. The kind of night you could almost believe was magic.

Their hands brushed once, then again. And then—without speaking—Lando laced his fingers through hers.

Just like that.

No fuss. No dramatics. No careful maneuvering.

Like he’d been waiting for permission, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

Emilie let herself be pulled along, hand in his, heart hammering an unfamiliar rhythm against her ribs.

It was terrifying.

It was wonderful.

Neither of them said much as they walked. The occasional motorbike buzzed by; laughter floated out of the bars they passed. But between them—just a quiet hum of something new.

When they reached a corner where the street narrowed and the light hit just right, Lando slowed.

Emilie slowed too, their joined hands swinging slightly between them.

Lando glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

She caught the look—shy and reckless all at once—and her heart gave a traitorous thud.

"You’re quiet," he said, voice soft, like he was afraid to scare her off.

"Maybe I’m enjoying the peace," Emilie said lightly.

He smiled at that. Real and crooked. The kind of smile that made her want to hand over every sharp piece of herself without a second thought.

"You were incredible tonight," he said, after a moment.

Emilie huffed a laugh, looking away. "I was brutal."

"You were brilliant," Lando corrected. "You were exactly what Belle needed."

The words were so unexpected, so easy and true, that Emilie almost stumbled.

God, stop, she told herself. Stop falling faster.

But it was already too late.

When she looked back at him, Lando was still watching her with that same maddening, open expression. Like he liked her exactly as she was. All fire. All teeth. All soft, bruised, careful heart underneath.

They stopped under a streetlamp without meaning to.

It pooled gold light around them, softening the edges of everything. Making the world feel like it had shrunk to just this. Just them.

Lando’s hand tightened slightly around hers.

"Emilie," he said, and the way he said it—half a question, half a prayer—made something inside her crack open.

She should have said something sharp. She should have laughed it off.

Instead, she just lifted her chin and looked at him.

"Are you going to kiss me, Norris," she asked, voice deceptively cool, "or are you going to keep holding my hand like we’re on a third-grade field trip?"

Lando made a small, strangled noise that might have been a laugh—or a whimper—and then he was stepping closer, so close she could feel the heat of him.

"I’m working up to it," he muttered.

"You’re slow," Emilie said.

"You’re terrifying," Lando shot back, grinning.

And then—finally, finally—he kissed her.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t smooth or practiced.

It was messy and a little desperate and so real it nearly brought Emilie to her knees.

Lando kissed like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to. Like he wanted to be sure she knew she could push him away at any second—and like he was praying she wouldn’t.

And Emilie—fierce, guarded Emilie—kissed him back with all the reckless, terrifying hope she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying for years.

It was a soft, stumbling collision of mouths and laughter and fingers tightening on jackets—and it was, without a doubt, the most dangerous, precious thing Emilie had ever let herself have.

When they finally pulled apart, Lando rested his forehead lightly against hers, still holding her hand.

"You scare the shit out of me," he whispered, grinning.

"Good," Emilie whispered back.

But when he kissed her again—this time slower, sweeter—she let herself believe, for just one dangerous, dazzling second, that maybe she didn't have to be scary forever.

That maybe someone had finally seen her.

And wanted her anyway.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Lando: Bro. BRO. I’m going to throw up.

Max: ok congrats on what?? nervous breakdown? race win? what are we celebrating

Lando: i kissed her

Max: who

Lando: her

Max: MATE WHO

Lando: EMILIE

Max: WAIT wait wait wait BACK UP u kissed her??? WHAT DO YOU MEAN "I KISSED HER"???

Lando: we had dinner and i didn’t die and then she LET ME HOLD HER HAND and THEN SHE LET ME KISS HER

Max: mate i need a minute

 since WHEN were you even going on dates with her??? this is like finding out ur mate moved to another country and got married without telling u what do u mean you just had dinner casually WHEN WAS THIS PLANNED

Lando: it just happened kind of after i liked her 2019 bikini pic at 2am

Max: what the fuck

Max: YOU DID WHAT

Max: YOU DUMB IDIOT LEGEND

Lando: she slid into my dms after told me i could just ask her out next time instead of stalking her like a creep

Max: i’m crying i’m so proud u’re still an idiot but like a victorious idiot

Lando: i’m literally shaking bro like i kissed her and she kissed me BACK

Max: wtf and she didn’t mace you or slap you??? mate she might actually like you

Lando: i think she might

Lando: i’m gonna marry her

Max: ok buddy let’s aim for a second date first

Lando: i’m so fucked

Max: in the best way

[lazysoulwriter]

period!comfort with pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: period care, fluff, cuddles, comfort, silly nicknames, soft domestic chaos

---

🩸 pedro knows the signs. the mood shifts. the craving switch. the way you curl into a blanket burrito and glare at him like he personally offended your uterus.

🩸 “babe… are we in the phase where i shut up and fetch snacks?” “yes.” “got it.”

🩸 he literally runs to the store. comes back with pads, tampons, chocolate, heating pads, gummy worms, a weird lil plushie he saw at the checkout line and thought looked like you, and... pickles. “why the pickles?” “i panicked!”

🩸 the first time he called you “my little ketchup packet,” it was because you made a pain face and groaned “i’m bleeding to death” and he was like: “nooooo my tiny little ketchup packet don’t die on me” you: “pedro.” him, hugging you dramatically: “shhh. just let me mourn.”

🩸 now it’s canon. he’ll pat your head and go “you good, ketchup?” you’ll flip him off and he’ll kiss your middle finger and go “love you too.”

🩸 he rubs your back in slow circles when the cramps hit, slides his hand under your shirt to rest it on your belly with just the right amount of pressure. whispers stuff like: “you’re so strong, baby.” “if i could fight your uterus i would. square up, bitch.” “should i build you a throne of pillows and carry you to it?” (he does this one. it’s wobbly. you fall. he apologizes with a foot massage.)

🩸 cuddles? mandatory. you’re half-dead on the couch, and he’s spooning you like you’re made of glass. pressing soft kisses to the back of your neck, murmuring sweet nothings like: “i’ll make you soup.” “i’ll kill whoever invented periods.” “you still smell good, even when you’re leaking.”

🩸 yes, he absolutely offered to sync up in solidarity. “i can like… pretend to cramp with you?” “pedro, no.” “okay but like emotionally i’m bleeding too.”

🩸 sometimes you just cry out of nowhere, and he doesn't even question it. just wraps you up in his arms and sways like you’re slow dancing in the kitchen. lets you sob into his shirt. then you sniffle and go, “i want fries.” and he’s like “say less.”

🩸 he brags to his friends (read: sarah paulson) that he’s “the period whisperer.” “she called me her heating pad with a mustache. that’s love.”

🩸 and when it’s finally over, and you’re feeling a little more alive, he wraps you in a blanket burrito again, kisses your face all over, and says, “see? you survived. ketchup packet strong.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

---

[jessiso]

"Let's pretend (we're not falling)"

A Criminal Minds one-shot | Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Spencer Reid asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for a family wedding, but the line between fake and real begins to blur. Between slow dances, sleepy confessions, and soft smiles, something real quietly blooms.

cw: mild language, emotional vulnerability, light romantic jealousy, kissing and cuddling, fake dating, VERY FLUFFY.

w/c 4,812

(Longest one I've written yet - I could've kept going but felt like this was ENOUGH fluff for one fic!!)

...

You’re halfway through alphabetizing your bookshelf—again—when your phone buzzes with a name that always makes your heart skip: Spencer Reid.

"Hey, I know this is weird, but...would you be willing to pretend to be my girlfriend for a weekend?"

You freeze, a half-shelved copy of Pride and Prejudice in your hand. “I’m sorry—what?”

"Okay, so it sounds worse than it is," he rushes on, his voice tumbling over itself like he's tripping on his own thoughts. "There’s a wedding. My cousin’s. Everyone’s going to be asking questions about my love life, and I may have...kind of already told them I have a girlfriend."

You blink. “You did what?”

"I panicked," he admits, and you can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting like they do when he’s nervous. "My mom kept asking, and it just slipped out. And then everyone was excited and asking when they could meet her, and—I didn’t want to disappoint them. I know it’s ridiculous."

You walk over to the couch and sit down, phone pressed closer to your ear. “So... your brilliant solution was to invent a girlfriend?”

"Technically, I didn’t invent you. I just… repurposed you. Temporarily," he says, and you can almost hear him wince at his own phrasing.

“Wow. I feel so honored,” you say dryly, but there's a smile creeping into your voice.

"No—I mean, you were the first person I thought of. You’re smart, charming, and we already spend time together. I figured if anyone could pull it off without making it weird, it’d be you."

Your heart does a little skip. “So this is your version of a compliment?”

"I think you’re amazing,” he says quietly, more sincere now. “But if this is too much or just weird or uncomfortable, I understand. I shouldn't have asked you like this.”

You let the silence stretch for just a moment, savoring the warmth in your chest. Then:

“Spencer,” you interrupt gently, smiling. “I’ll do it.”

He exhales in visible relief, and even over the phone, you can feel the warmth behind his "thank you."

"You’re sure? There’s a hotel room involved. And dancing. And my extended family. They’re a lot."

“Positive,” you say. “I’ve always wanted to go to a wedding where I can fake a romance with a handsome genius. Besides, it’ll be fun.”

He chuckles softly. “You might regret saying yes when my Aunt Patty corners you about astrology.”

“I can handle Aunt Patty,” you say confidently. “Just promise you won’t leave me alone with the bouquet toss.”

"Deal," he says.

You hear the smile in his voice, and it lingers in your chest long after the call ends.

...

Spencer picks you up in his vintage Volvo, nervously fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater.

His hair is a little messy in the way you like best, and there’s a stack of books in the backseat, including The Evolution of Marriage in Sociology and A Beginner’s Guide to Wedding Etiquette.

“You studied for this?” you tease, climbing in with your overnight bag.

He shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “I just wanted to make sure I knew what to expect. Statistically, weddings can trigger heightened emotions due to social pressure, alcohol, and romantic ambiance.”

You laugh. “So you're emotionally bracing for impact?”

He glances at you, sheepish. “A little. I also wanted to be the best fake boyfriend possible.”

“Well, that’s very noble of you, Dr. Reid.” You smile and buckle in.

The drive begins with your usual easy banter, but quickly shifts into something more comfortable.

Spencer starts reciting facts about the towns you pass through, pointing out obscure historical landmarks like he’s hosting his own nerdy podcast. You playfully correct him once, and he lights up.

“You’ve been paying attention when I ramble,” he says, sounding genuinely touched.

“Of course I do. It’s one of my favorite sounds,” you admit before you can stop yourself. The car goes quiet for a beat too long.

“Really?” he asks softly.

You clear your throat. “Yeah. It’s kind of like background music. But smarter.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, but you notice the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

A little while later, he turns on a podcast about penguin mating rituals. “I thought this might be thematically appropriate.”

“Because of the wedding?”

“Because some penguin species mate for life. I thought it was... sweet.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the quiet sincerity in his voice.

Eventually, the road hum and soft voice of the podcast lull you to sleep.

Your head drifts until it finds his shoulder, and he stiffens only for a moment before relaxing.

When you wake up, your cheek still pressed to him, you find his hand resting gently on your knee.

“You were snoring softly,” he says with a smile, his voice low. “It was cute.”

You flush and stretch, not moving away. “You let me sleep on you?”

He shrugs. “You looked comfortable. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Your heart does a soft, silly somersault.

You look out the window and smile. “This fake boyfriend thing? You’re already really good at it.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah. I might be in trouble."

You glance over at him, catching the way his fingers tighten just slightly on the steering wheel.

“In trouble how?” you ask, voice light, testing the waters.

He swallows, eyes flicking from the road to you, then back again. “Just… starting to realize how easy it is to pretend. Too easy, maybe.”

You don’t respond right away. The silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s soft, brimming with something unspoken. The kind of silence that only exists between people who are on the edge of something new.

Spencer clears his throat. “Also, your head is surprisingly heavy for someone so… not heavy.”

You snort. “Did you just call me dense?”

“I said surprisingly heavy. That’s different. Scientifically.”

You hum, mock-pensive. “I should’ve known you’d insult me with science.”

He smiles again—small and fond. “I wouldn’t dare. You’re very aerodynamic. Perfect for shoulder naps.”

You both laugh, and it breaks the tension just enough to breathe again.

The sun dips lower as the car winds through golden hills and quiet towns.

At one point, Spencer reaches across the center console and gently adjusts the blanket you'd haphazardly thrown over your lap earlier. His fingers brush your thigh, featherlight.

He doesn’t pull away immediately.

You turn your head, and for a heartbeat, you both just look at each other.

It’s not dramatic.

It's not a movie moment with music swelling.

It’s quiet.

Still.

But you feel it settle somewhere deep and certain.

You smile at him. “We’re gonna pull this off.”

He nods, but there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I think we already are.”

...

The inn Spencer’s family reserved is charming in a way that feels almost too picturesque—wooden beams, soft lighting, flower boxes under every window.

It smells faintly of lavender and old books when you walk in, which feels on brand for a Reid wedding weekend.

Spencer checks in at the front desk while you take in the lobby, smiling at the framed photos of local landmarks and antique clock that ticks loudly in the silence.

The woman at the counter—Nancy, according to her name tag—hands Spencer one keycard and a warm grin. “We’ve got you both all set. Room 203, queen bed, garden view. Breakfast starts at seven, and congratulations, by the way!”

You blink. “Congratulations?”

Nancy winks. “You make a lovely couple. I hope the wedding goes beautifully.”

Spencer doesn’t respond—he just nods, thanks her politely, and practically power-walks you toward the elevator.

When the doors close, you look at him. “So… queen bed?”

He winces. “Apparently my cousin booked everything through a family rate package. She assumed we’d want one room since we’re…” he clears his throat, “a couple.”

You cross your arms, amused. “She really committed to the bit for us.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” he blurts, eyes wide. “I mean, or the chair, or—do hotel bathtubs count as beds if you’re desperate enough?”

You laugh. “Spencer. Relax. It’s just a bed.”

He hesitates, glancing at you sidelong.

"Right. Of course. Just a bed.”

The room is cute—floral wallpaper, a vintage desk, and yes, a single queen bed neatly made with a pale blue comforter. One bed. Right in the middle. No pullout couch in sight.

You drop your bag near the closet and sit on the edge of the mattress. “At least it’s fluffy.”

Spencer stands awkwardly by the window like he's unsure whether to sit, pace, or teleport out of the room.

You pat the other side of the bed. “C’mon. It’s not like we’re strangers.”

He walks over slowly, toeing off his shoes before sitting beside you, careful not to shift the mattress too much. “I know. I just… didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You glance at him, softer now. “Spence, you’ve read me bedtime stories when I couldn’t sleep, and once accidentally bought us a matching pair of Star Wars pajamas. I think we’re past ‘uncomfortable.’”

He smiles at that, eyes crinkling. “I forgot about the pajama incident.”

“I haven’t,” you tease. “Mine had little Ewoks.”

His voice is warm when he says, “You looked really cute in them.”

You both go quiet again.

Outside, the sun is dipping low, casting soft gold shadows across the room. It feels like you’re caught in a moment that doesn’t quite know what it wants to be yet—more than friends, but not quite labeled.

Not yet.

Finally, Spencer lies back carefully, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m just saying, if I roll over and accidentally elbow you in my sleep, it’s nothing personal.”

You slide under the comforter beside him, settling in with a little smile. “Noted. And if I steal all the blankets, you’re allowed to steal them back.”

He glances at you, eyes fond. “Deal.”

For a while, you both lie there in the dimming light, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth between you.

And even though the room only has one bed, somehow, it feels like just enough.

The room is dark now, save for the warm glow of the bedside lamp Spencer insisted on leaving on “in case you need to get up and don’t want to stub your toe,” which you’d teased him about affectionately.

You’re both lying in the bed, backs to each other at first—an unspoken, awkward little agreement made after brushing teeth side by side and pretending not to notice how close your shoulders were.

But now, a few long minutes later, Spencer shifts, and so do you, until you’re facing one another in the soft hush of the room.

“Are you warm enough?” he whispers.

You nod. “Mhm. You?”

“I think so.” He pauses. “The comforter is a little thin. But the proximity to another human increases shared body heat by at least three degrees.”

You smirk. “Was that your way of asking to cuddle?”

His eyes go wide. “No! I mean—unless—was it? I didn’t mean to. Unless you wanted to. Not that I’m assuming you do. Just, thermoregulation and all—”

You reach over and gently tug the sleeve of his t-shirt. “Spencer. Come here.”

He hesitates, but then scoots a little closer, tentative and sweet. You meet him halfway, curling into his side, your head tucked under his chin, his arm slipping around you like it was always meant to be there.

His heart is beating faster than usual. You can feel it against your cheek.

“You’re a very good fake boyfriend,” you murmur, letting your eyes close.

You feel him smile into your hair. “Thanks. I’ve been studying.”

You let out a sleepy laugh. “I can tell.”

Silence settles again—safe, content. His fingers gently trace circles against your back, slow and absent-minded, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

After a long while, just as you’re about to drift off, you hear him whisper:

“You smell like the lavender shampoo you always use.”

You hum. “You notice that?”

“Always.” He pauses, voice quieter now. “I notice a lot of things when it comes to you.”

Your heart thuds in your chest, but before you can say anything back, his breathing shifts, slowing into the steady rhythm of sleep.

You don’t move. You just smile, curling in closer, and let the feeling carry you gently into dreams.

You wake to soft light filtering through the gauzy curtains and the distant sound of birdsong.

For a moment, you’re not quite sure where you are—everything feels too warm, too still, too perfect.

And then you shift, only slightly, and realize there’s an arm wrapped around your waist.

Spencer.

His hand is resting on your hip, fingers curled just enough to anchor you there against him.

Your back is pressed to his chest, your legs tangled under the covers, your bodies aligned like puzzle pieces.

He’s still asleep, breath slow and warm at the back of your neck. You can feel it each time he exhales, like a secret.

You should move.

You should, except… you really, really don’t want to.

Instead, you let your eyes flutter closed again, and for a few minutes more, you simply exist in the comfort of it.

The quiet, the softness, the way his presence fits so easily into the morning.

Eventually, you feel him stir behind you.

His fingers twitch slightly against your side before he freezes, like he's just realized where he is and what he’s doing.

“…Good morning,” he says, voice husky and sleep-rough.

“Morning,” you whisper back, smiling into the pillow.

He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he shifts just enough to get more comfortable. You hear him exhale, like he’s been holding his breath since waking.

“I didn’t mean to—uh—sprawl,” he says, sounding adorably apologetic.

“You didn’t sprawl,” you say gently. “You snuggled. It was nice.”

There’s a pause. Then: “You think I snuggled?”

“You absolutely snuggled.”

“…Did I snore?”

You laugh. “Not even a little. Though you did mumble something about echidnas.”

He groans quietly. “Great.”

“I thought it was cute.”

You turn slightly so you can look at him.

His hair is a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, and his cheek is creased from the pillow.

He’s never looked more endearing.

He gazes at you for a long, quiet second.

"This is going to sound strange, but… waking up with you felt really natural.”

Your smile softens. “It didn’t feel fake.”

“No,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Not at all.”

He reaches up, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear like it’s something he’s always done. His fingertips linger for just a moment too long.

You lean into his touch without thinking.

The knock at the door—his cousin announcing brunch downstairs—startles you both out of the moment.

But even as you untangle yourselves and climb reluctantly out of bed, the feeling lingers.

Something has shifted.

You both know it.

And maybe… maybe you don’t mind one bit.

...

The dining room smells like fresh cinnamon rolls and sunshine.

Golden light spills through wide windows, catching dust motes in the air and warming the linen-covered tables already cluttered with carafes of orange juice and scattered cutlery.

It's loud—but in that cozy, familial way that makes it feel like every voice has a place.

You and Spencer step in together, freshly dressed.

His sweater vest is just slightly crooked, and he’s fussing with his sleeves again—a telltale sign he’s nervous. You reach over and smooth the hem with a casual familiarity that catches even you off guard.

“Better?” you murmur.

He blinks down at you, nodding like you just saved his life. “Infinitely.”

His cousin—a woman with a messy bun, lipstick on her teeth, and an air of authority like she runs every group chat—waves from the far end of the room.

“Spencer! There you are! And this must be the famous girlfriend!”

A chorus of greetings follows. Chairs scrape. Someone makes room by scooting down with a dramatic sigh. You squeeze Spencer’s hand once before letting go and sliding into the empty seat next to him.

"Welcome to the chaos,” he murmurs, looking like he wants to sink into the floor and disappear.

You smile warmly. “Chaos is charming.”

"Spoken like someone who's never seen my family at a wedding."

Introductions come fast—half the table seems to be named either Julie or Dave, and every person seems determined to quiz you about how you met Spencer, what he’s like outside of the BAU, and most importantly, whether he’s always been “such a little know-it-all.”

“I heard he could recite Pi to, like, a thousand digits when he was eight,” one cousin says around a bite of blueberry pancake.

“I’m not that bad,” Spencer mutters, clearly mortified. “Just 1,022 digits.”

You bite back a grin and casually lace your fingers with his under the table.

His posture straightens immediately, his head turning to glance at you in soft surprise.

“Come on,” you tease gently. “It’s kind of impressive.”

“It’s kind of terrifying,” someone else says. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Spencer says automatically, but you can see the pink rising in his cheeks.

Later, the toddler brigade shows up—small children with juice mustaches and suspiciously sticky hands.

One of them, a wide-eyed girl with pigtails and a glittery dress, marches straight over to your side of the table.

She climbs into your lap like it’s her birthright and points an accusatory finger at Spencer.

“You! Tell me all your favorite dinosaurs. Right now.”

He blinks, startled. “All of them?”

“Just five. But the best five.”

Without missing a beat, he rattles off, “Deinonychus, Parasaurolophus, Therizinosaurus, Diplodocus, and Quetzalcoatlus.”

The little girl gasps. “The flying one?”

He nods. “Largest known pterosaur. Wingspan over thirty feet.”

She stares at him, awe-struck. “You’re like a real-life museum.”

You lean toward her and whisper loudly, “He even does the museum voice.”

“I do not—”

“He does!” you interrupt gleefully. “Give us your best ‘Welcome to the Natural History Exhibit’ voice.”

Spencer groans but plays along, deepening his tone with mock-solemnity. “Welcome to the Hall of Mesozoic Life, where the past comes roaring back to life.”

Laughter bubbles around the table. One of the uncles claps. The toddler claps. You beam.

Later, after she’s wandered off in search of more syrup, Spencer leans in close, eyes sparkling.

“You're really good with kids.”

You shrug, heart thudding a little. “You're really good with facts.”

“I didn’t mean that as a joke,” he says quietly, gaze lingering. “You just… fit in. Better than I ever expected.”

You try to breathe past the warmth blooming in your chest. “I like seeing this side of you.”

“What side?”

“This… soft, sweet, occasionally flustered side. And the dinosaur trivia doesn’t hurt.”

He ducks his head, hiding his smile in his teacup.

Halfway through brunch, a spontaneous toast begins—someone stands and clinks a fork against their mimosa glass, calling for “a round of love stories.”

“Oh no,” Spencer whispers, squeezing your hand.

“What?”

“It’s a tradition. Everyone shares how they met their partners. Every single couple. I didn’t think we’d get called on.”

You grin. “Guess we’d better improvise.”

When it’s your turn, you straighten your posture and beam at the table.

“We met in the library,” you begin, and Spencer exhales slowly beside you, relieved. “I was trying to reach a book on the top shelf—The Psychology of Collective Memory, if anyone cares.”

“She called me tall and intimidating,” Spencer adds dutifully.

“You were looming,” you say, teasing.

“She thought I worked there,” he says.

“You had a name tag!”

He leans closer, his smile lazy and warm now. “You asked me out a week later.”

You look at him, surprised—but nod. “I did. Best impulsive decision of my life.”

The table collectively awws. Someone mutters, “Get a room,” and someone else offers to officiate if “things escalate before the ceremony.”

Spencer’s hand is still in yours under the table.

His thumb strokes across your skin, soft and slow.

There’s something very real about it now—too warm to be performance, too natural to be coincidence.

And when the toast ends and you lean into his side just a little, he lets you. Quietly, easily. Like he was always waiting for the chance.

After brunch, as the family begins to scatter and the kids start racing up and down the hallway with napkins on their heads like superhero capes, you and Spencer hang back at the table.

He looks over at you, shy and fond. “Thank you for doing this.”

You bump your shoulder gently against his. “I’m kind of having fun.”

“I keep forgetting it’s not real,” he says quietly.

You meet his eyes. “Same.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his family and the leftover smell of syrup and orange juice, you realize—pretending doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.

It feels like something you don’t want to let go of.

The pre-wedding reception is held outside, under strings of golden fairy lights and the soft hum of a hired jazz trio.

Everything smells like lilac and freshly mown grass.

Tables are scattered across the lawn, twinkle lights woven through centerpieces of wildflowers and white roses.

You and Spencer arrive just as the sun dips low on the horizon, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. He's beside you, freshly changed into a deep navy blazer and that soft, nervous smile he wears like armor.

“You look beautiful,” he says, almost too quietly to hear.

You glance over, heart doing that ridiculous flutter it’s been doing all weekend. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Dr. Reid.”

His ears flush pink. You nudge him playfully with your shoulder.

The two of you are barely through your first round of canapés when Spencer is whisked away by an aunt determined to introduce him to someone she swears is a cousin but might actually just be her neighbor.

You’re left alone, sipping your drink, watching kids chase bubbles near the dance floor.

That’s when he appears.

Ryan. Spencer’s second cousin. Or third? You can’t remember. He’s charming, golden-tanned, and clearly two drinks in.

He plucks a champagne flute from a tray and slides into the seat beside you with a grin that’s just shy of too confident.

“So… you’re the famous fake girlfriend.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He smirks. “I figured. No way a guy like Spencer pulls someone like you without divine intervention. Or bribery.”

You stiffen. “Well, I guess miracles happen.”

“I’m just saying,” Ryan continues, leaning a little too close, “if this whole thing is just for show, maybe you’d want some… real company later?”

Before you can respond—or throw your drink in his face—a familiar voice interrupts, quiet but sharp.

“She’s already in real company.”

Spencer’s back.

He’s standing just behind Ryan, eyes unreadable but jaw tight. His hand finds yours instantly, fingers lacing through yours with more certainty than you’ve felt all weekend.

Ryan laughs, holding up his hands. “Hey, man. No offense. Just thought she might want some actual fun.”

Spencer tilts his head slightly. “Fun, statistically speaking, often involves mutual interest. And consent.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

Ryan mutters something and slinks off toward the bar.

You turn to Spencer, surprised, but he’s still holding your hand, thumb brushing across your skin in slow, grounding strokes.

“You okay?” he asks softly, eyes scanning your face.

“Yeah. Thank you. That was very… chivalrous of you.”

He shifts, a little embarrassed now. “I just didn’t like the way he was talking to you.”

“You didn’t have to come to my rescue, you know.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to.”

Something flickers between you—warm and full of questions you’re not ready to ask yet. The music shifts to something slower, something sweeter.

And before you can overthink it, Spencer gently tugs your hand. “Dance with me?”

You let him lead you onto the grass, where a few couples sway under the fairy lights.

His arms slide around you, one hand settling at your waist, the other cradling your hand against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You know,” you murmur, resting your head against his shoulder, “if you keep doing things like that, I might actually fall for you.”

His breath catches, but when he answers, it’s soft, honest.

“…Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.”

The music plays on. The stars blink to life above you. And in his arms, nothing feels fake anymore.

...

The wedding ends in a blur of dancing, laughter, and sparklers flickering in the night air.

By the time you and Spencer stumble back into your shared room, shoes in hand and cheeks still flushed from spinning each other around the dance floor, the inn is quiet.

Only the muffled sound of someone giggling down the hall reminds you the night hasn’t quite ended for everyone.

Spencer sets your shoes by the door like they’re made of glass, then shrugs off his jacket, looking content and sleep-soft in his white button-down and loosened tie.

“That was…” you start.

“A lot?” he finishes, smiling gently.

You laugh. “I was going to say beautiful.”

He turns toward you, face lit only by the lamp you flicked on by the bed. “Yeah. It really was.”

There’s a pause. A warm, quiet kind.

“I cried during the vows,” he admits suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I know,” you say with a fond smile. “I noticed. You were blinking really hard and pretending to adjust your tie every five seconds.”

He groans. “I was trying to be subtle!”

“You were about as subtle as a fire alarm,” you tease, walking over to him and gently fixing the part of his tie that’s askew. “But it was cute.”

His gaze finds yours and doesn’t let go.

“I guess weddings are just… a lot for me,” he says softly. “So much love in one place. It’s overwhelming.”

You nod, fingers still at the knot of his tie. “In a good way?”

He hesitates. “In a way that makes me wish I had that. For real.”

The quiet between you deepens. Thickens.

You look up at him, your hands slipping from his tie to rest lightly on his chest.

“Spence…”

He exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a moment like he’s debating whether or not to say the next words.

But when he opens them again, there’s only honesty there.

“I thought pretending to be with you would be harder,” he whispers. “But it’s not. It’s easier than pretending not to want this all the time.”

Your breath catches.

“I know we said it was fake,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper now. “But every time I looked at you tonight—laughing with my cousins, dancing with me, kissing my cheek when my aunt got too nosy—I kept forgetting we were pretending.”

You feel the words sink into your chest, warm and weightless at once.

“I wasn’t pretending,” you say, quiet but certain.

His eyes widen just a little. “You weren’t?”

You shake your head, stepping closer.

“I wanted to hold your hand. I wanted to slow dance with you. I wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up and do it all again tomorrow.”

Spencer looks stunned—like someone just gave him a map to a place he never thought he’d reach.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts a hand and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “You mean it?”

“I do,” you whisper.

He lets out a breath—half laugh, half relief—and leans his forehead against yours.

“I’m kind of in love with you,” he murmurs.

“Just a little. Or maybe a lot.”

Your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. “That’s good. Because I’m kind of in love with you too.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes shining, smile soft and disbelieving.

Then he cups your cheek like you’re something fragile and precious and presses the gentlest kiss to your forehead.

You melt.

The two of you change into your pajamas in a haze of quiet giggles and stolen glances.

When you finally crawl into bed—your bed, not just the one assigned to two fake lovers—you curl up beside him without hesitation.

His arms wrap around you instantly. Like he’s meant to be there. Like he doesn’t want to let go.

“You know,” you murmur as your fingers trace lazy shapes on his chest, “this fake relationship really took a turn.”

He laughs, a sleepy, golden sound. “Best plot twist of my life.”

You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, your hand in his, the weight of every unsaid thing now lifted.

And in the quiet warmth of that shared bed, everything finally feels real.

[formulaonecrumbs]

what’s he supposed to be? an alien.

Lando Norris x older sister!reader

summary: lando helps ollie and reader build a ‘spaceship’

warnings: NONNNEEE

A/N: i have had a bunch of these prepared already so u’re getting them now cuz i don’t feel like studying but i wanna do something productive 😚 specific anon, i’ve seen ur request about this series (u know who u are) and i will get to that but i just want to get out what i already have written for them. it’s also basically what u asked for but it includes the other norris siblings less which i will start to do 🙂‍↕️ also i aged ollie up. TECHNICALLY he’s 3 years older than lando but i’ve made him 5 years older just to fit reader in YAY! LOVE YALL. ENJOY ❤️

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

home film #2 (out of a gazillion)- found in a cardboard box labelled ‘memories’

(recorded: back garden, norris family home, bristol)

timestamp: 1:16 pm 06-30-2003

the camcorder clicks on to the sound of children screaming—not the scary kind, the giggly kind, the kind that makes cisca laugh as she fumbles with the zoom.

the screen comes into focus: it’s the back garden, and it’s absolute chaos.

there are cardboard boxes everywhere. big ones, small ones, some half-crushed. there’s a pile of tape rolls sitting on the grass. scissors someone definitely shouldn’t be using are lying dangerously close to a puddle of glue.

“what on earth are they making?” adam’s voice says off-camera.

“a spaceship,” cisca answers, zooming in.

and there you are, about seven years old, hands on your hips like you’re the commander of some serious construction mission. ollie’s off to the side, about nine, wearing a bucket on his head like it’s a helmet. he’s wrestling with two boxes that clearly do not fit together.

and then there’s lando.

three years old (almost four). wearing socks on his hands. and crocs. the socks are red. the crocs are neon green.

“what’s he supposed to be?” adam asks, trying not to laugh.

“an alien,” you say proudly, turning to the camera. “he’s helping.”

“yeah!” lando yells, waving his sock hands in the air and immediately falling over the tape roll.

you rush to help him up, giggling the whole time.

“careful, bean,” you say, brushing grass off his shirt. “aliens can’t fly if they break their knees.”

“nooo,” he pouts, looking dramatically at his legs. “my knees are fine.”

ollie throws a pillow at him. “you’re slowing down the launch!”

lando squeals, picks up a cardboard tube, and starts swinging it wildly. “defending the spaceship!!”

“lando—no!” you shout, ducking as the tube nearly knocks over a pile of boxes. “this is delicate engineering!”

“delicut en-gen-eering,” lando repeats proudly, not knowing what it means but saying it like he invented the word.

the camera shakes from cisca laughing.

you and ollie eventually finish taping the boxes into a big, wobbly shape with windows cut out and scribbles drawn all over the sides. you even stick a paper plate to the top.

“what’s that for?” adam asks.

“satellite dish,” you reply, like it’s obvious.

the three of you crawl inside. the camera moves closer, catching a shot through the “window.”

ollie’s at the back with a walkie-talkie. you’re at the front pressing buttons drawn on with markers. and lando’s in the middle, holding the cardboard tube like a sword, eyes wide.

“commander y/n ready for takeoff,” you announce.

“copy that,” says ollie.

“alien lando ready too!”

“where are you going?” cisca calls out.

you grin. “we’re going to the moon to find more beans like lando.”

“beans like me!” lando says, clapping his sock hands together.

the screen catches a final shot of the three of you inside your “spaceship,” squished together, laughing like it’s the best day ever.

the spaceship collapses thirty seconds later.

“oops,” lando says from under a pile of cardboard.

fade to black.

THE END :>

[keferon]

Why’d monster hunter brainstorm timetravel to the specific era the story takes place?

Will the others ever see his alt mode?

The reason is the same as in canon - he wanted to save Quark.

Okay, I'll try and keep this short and sweet.

Brainstorm lives in the far future and is happy with Quark, until one day it turns out that Quark has a fatal spark disease that will kill him if nothing is done about it. They of course go to the hospital, but it turns out that only certain types of the disease are treatable and modern science still can't do anything about it.

Long story short, no one knows how to cure Quark's spark.

Brainstorm, as a true scientist and a good conjunx, naturally begins to research the subject himself and stumbles upon some strange information. All the sources, studies and records on the study of this disease go back a long fucking way. All that modern scientists have been doing for the last million years is just improving and refining the method of treatment, which was invented in absolute antiquity.

Brainstorm investigates further.

He discovers, all the original research records belonged to a mech named Perseptor, who amongst many other things was studying sparks. And it's when Brainstorm manages to get his hands on copies of these very original records that he finally realises why no one has been able to take this research any further. The records are very well structured, detailed and accurate, but half of the information is taken out of nowhere. The Perseptor specifies the types of sparks that certain substances affect in certain ways, but nowhere does he mention where he got this information from. He might, for example, write that certain types of sparks tend to develop internal micro-cracks when exposed to certain factors for long periods of time. And Brainstorm, having read that, can only stare blankly into space, because yes, micro-cracks in sparks is something that exists. But even in his time, there's no equipment that can detect them if they're INSIDE. So how the hell did an ancient mech with his primitive tools figure all this out???

His curiosity isn't satisfied. The research just cuts off in the middle, as if the mech that did it just abandoned it or died suddenly.

Brainstorm, like many scientists before him, tries to start his own research based on the information pointed out by Perseptor, but finds himself at the same dead end as all the medicine of his time. He just doesn't have the same mysterious way of collecting data that this...Perseptor had.

And Quark isn't getting any better

Eventually, Brainstorm comes up with a brilliant idea. What if, instead of trying to find a cure, he just (ha! Just.) went back in time and saved the dude who was definitely going to invent the cure but didn't have time? He decides it's genius and creates a time machine.

He goes back in time to find Perseptor and well, he gets a surprise. Turns out the dude who researched spark disease was a spark eater. And also on the verge of starvation, but Brainstorm finds a way to help him, it's all good:) It turns out that all this time, Perseptor didn't have any mysterious equipment to analyse the sparks, he was the equipment himself. In fact, he didn't specify the sources of his findings for the research, because the phrase ‘I figured it out because it tasted different’ sounds incredibly compromising and would have signed Percy's death warrant if his notes had fallen into the wrong hands.

Next, I'm not sure how it would have developed. I think as the story progresses, Perseptor and Brainstorm work together to invent a cure for Quark. And then, if you like to cry, Brainstorm goes back to the future and cures him, and Perseptor stays in the past.

If you want adventure, Brainstorm could take Percy back to the future with him. Quark would be really fucking scared and confused at first, but they'd figure it out quickly and conjunx Percy into their futuristic fluffy pairing. (Also, I have a lot of fun thinking about Brainstorm and Quark showing Percy the advances of future science, and the future world in general.

Also, I think Brainstorm would do a good job of hiding his alt mode while he was in the past, but a couple of times would use it to escape from someone. One time he'd also give Percy a ride, and I know Percy would be incredibly freaked out by the breakneck speed that jets can achieve ahahaha

——

That…wasn’t as short as I wanted…..my inner fic writer took control

[riddlesrizzler]

Copy That, Cupcake

summary: "WizQuill this is..." characters: jim halpert! mattheo. pam beesley! reader. dwight schrute! draco. warnings: none! word count: 723

The morning sunlight spilled through the dusty windows of WizQuill, catching on the floating dust motes that danced lazily through the stagnant air of the office. The front desk, your throne and prison, was cluttered with scribbled memos, ink bottles that never stayed full, and a slowly dying cactus you’d named Frank. You sat slouched in your chair, idly doodling a dragon in a party hat on the edge of a memo about quarterly parchment sales.

The door creaked open - same time every day, same lazy saunter - and you didn’t bother looking up.

“You’re late,” you called, twirling your quill between your fingers.

Mattheo Riddle’s familiar voice echoed with faux shock. “Late? Never. Time simply waits for me.”

You looked up then, already fighting a smile. He was leaning against the edge of your desk, hair tousled in a way that definitely wasn't accidental, a coffee cup held out like a peace offering. His eyes —-warm brown with just a hint of mischief - scanned your face for a reaction.

You took the cup and sniffed it suspiciously. “This is from Cups & Beans. The Muggle café?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I have my sources. You like the caramel one, right? With extra foam?”

Your cheeks warmed slightly as you sipped. “You're playing a dangerous game, Riddle. If Draco catches you bringing Muggle drinks into the office again, he might combust.”

As if summoned by name, Draco Malfoy came storming out of the copy room, clutching two scrolls and a half-eaten protein bar. His platinum hair was slightly askew - a sure sign something had gone terribly wrong.

“Riddle,” he barked. “Did you-” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Did you hex the filing cabinet to scream every time I opened it?”

Mattheo blinked. “Scream? No. Maybe sing a little. A cheerful jingle.”

You snorted into your coffee as Draco turned an alarming shade of pink. “Fix it. Now. Or I’m filing an official complaint with HR.”

“We are HR,” Mattheo said calmly.

Draco blinked. “…I’ll go over your head.”

“To who? The owls?”

Before Draco could retort, a distant wail echoed from the copy room. He spun on his heel and disappeared back down the corridor, cape billowing dramatically behind him.

Mattheo turned to you, smirk firmly in place. “He didn’t even see the glitter hex in the ink pot yet.”

You chuckled, trying to hide the way your heart fluttered around him. “He’ll find it. He always does. And he always thinks it's cursed.”

Mattheo leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial. “That’s why this is your best idea yet.”

You reached under the desk and handed him a neatly rolled scroll. “Phase two.”

He unrolled it and laughed under his breath - a warm, rich sound that made your stomach flip.

Inside was a forged memo printed in official WizQuill font, complete with magical watermark, declaring Draco Malfoy the newly promoted Regional Auror Liaison for Magical Quill Security - a title you invented while half-asleep yesterday, fueled by coffee and boredom.

“He has to test every quill in the building for curses now,” you said, lips twitching. “It’s in the memo.”

Mattheo clutched his chest like he’d been hit with a stunning spell. “This... is art.”

He turned the parchment in his hands, admiring your work. “You’re wasted behind a desk.”

You looked at him - really looked. His messy curls, the way his tie was always a little too loose, like he couldn’t quite conform to the office dress code. The soft scruff on his jaw he never quite remembered to shave. He was always a little chaotic, a little off-center - but with you, he was golden.

“You say that like you're not stuck here too,” you teased.

He glanced down, suddenly more serious. “Maybe I like being stuck here.”

You blinked. “Why?”

His voice softened. “Because you’re here.”

The moment hung in the air, delicate and unspoken, until-

“WHO HEXED MY INKWELL?” Draco’s shriek echoed from down the hall.

Mattheo grinned, but his eyes stayed on you. “We should probably run.”

You laughed and grabbed your coffee. “Meet me in the breakroom. I’ve got a decoy memo and an emergency stash of chocolate frogs.”

He saluted. “Copy that, cupcake.”

And just like that, he was gone - but your heart was still racing, and you were pretty sure he knew exactly what he was doing.

[catbread0]

Hello :D! Could I please request Nikola and Qin Shi Huang with a fem!s/o that had a dream about having a baby with them and she was pouting about it when she woke up, whining about want a baby, just pure fluff :3 (definitely not doing this because I had a dream about having a son 😭)

Qin Shi Huang/Nikola Tesla x Fem! Reader

I had fun doing this cute request. Forgive if any of them sound OOC. It's because I haven't read any manga after season 2 due to there being no hard copies in English in my state. I'm going only going of what my friend has told about their personality traits, without spoilers. Hope you enjoy reading, and I'm sorry for any grammar mistakes!!

(* ´ ▽ ` *)ﾉ

Words: 725

(!!PLEASE NO SPOILERS!!)

Fluff, small hint of smut(Qin Shi), possibly OOC

Record of Ragnarok Masterlist

You have a baby dream and upset it wasn't real

You woke up because the sunlight was hitting your face. You sat up, but it felt like a difficult task. You looked down, and you saw that you had a very pregnant belly.

You immediately looked beside you to where your husband usually slept. He wasn't there, so you shouted his name. You were terrified. How could this possibly happen overnight!?

The door to your shared bedroom opened so fast that it almost fell off. Your husband immediately was by your side. He asked if you were ok, if you needed to go to the hospital, if something happened to the baby, and much more.

That made you more confused. How was he not panicking about how you had a large pregnant belly? You shouted at him about being pregnant.

He looked at you with confusion. He replied that you've been pregnant for 7 months already. Of course, he thought maybe this was one of the side effects of your hormones being everywhere.

He helped you out with the baby and dressed you up in comfortable clothing. He led you to the table to eat breakfast and even fed you. You looked around and saw a few books about babies.

The rest of the day went by calmly. You came to terms with the fact that you were carrying your husband's child. You both spent almost every minute with each other. He would always love to rub your belly and laugh when the baby would kick his hand.

He treated you like a queen and did most chores around the house. He didn't want you to do too much labor because of the baby.

You both soon went to bed, and he helped you get comfortable. He would cuddle you from behind and have his hands on your belly and caress it.

You woke up, sat up, and looked down. Your pregnant belly was no longer there. That's when you realize all that time you were ‘pregnant’ was a dream. You shook your husband awake and whined about being pregnant.

Qin Shi Huang:

It took a while for Qin Shi to wake up. Even when he woke up, he was still half asleep until he heard you say something about being ‘pregnant’.

He sat up quickly and listened to you whine about having a dream of being pregnant with his child. He laughed as you explained the dream.

He stopped laughing when he saw how upset you looked. He hugged you and ran his hand through your hair. He continued to listen to your pleas of having a child and thought about it.

He thought it would be nice to have a mini you or him in the palace. He would be able to spoil them whenever he could. In addition, an emperor needs a successor at some point, right?

“It's alright, my empress. I wouldn't mind having a small child or 2 running around the palace.” He said

He then placed his hands on your hips, “You know we could start the process right now. I wouldn't mind~”

Nikola:

Nikola woke up the moment you shook him. He worried that you had gotten hurt, possibly by one of his inventions. Thankfully, he saw you weren’t and listened and asked about your dream. He rubbed your back as you pouted and whined.

When you told him that you now wanted a baby with him, he went into deep thought. He would need to have another room for the baby, meaning less space for his inventions. In addition, he would have to baby-proof countless things.

You sat there for a good 30 minutes. He was taking it seriously. You had to physically touch him to make him come back to reality. It was adorable whenever he would be lost in concentration on something.

He said that he would love to start a family with you anytime.

He looked more cheerful about the idea than you. Heck! He’s already beaming with joy as he takes your hand into his.

Nikola would probably already be creating scenarios in his head, including how the baby would look, how he would teach them, how he would create inventions from them, and many more.

“Do you have any names in mind? I most definitely do!” You had to remind him you're not pregnant yet. “There’s no harm in already thinking about it!”

~Lilly's

[letoasai]

Vlad- Alternate Obsession

Simply if Vlad hadn't been so obsessed with Maddie. How priorities might have shifted.

~

Daniel was dead. Great god almighty… He was dead. Half dead. Whatever. That didn’t matter. The little details were just there to make a horrible situation more tolerable. For one brief moment, Vlad hoped he was wrong. Hoped that this was merely exposure to ectoplasm or a sign that Daniel would become liminal faster than previously predicted, but no. He was sure. Daniel was dead. 

He watched as Daniel’s ghost sense was triggered, the teen coughing a second later. He looked around warily, holding himself rigidly. He was alert, but inexperienced enough to not realize Vlad was right in front of him. 

“Daniel, my boy!” Vlad greeted, finally untangling himself from Jack and Maddie’s latest tirade on being validated in their research. “How is school?”

It wasn’t uncommon. 

He was Daniel’s godfather after all, and had done what he could to be present for both Daniel and Jasmine since they were born. The children were exempt from his contempt and his affection for them was genuine but he’d never feared for them until this moment. 

Vlad tried to block out as many memories from his college years as he could. After his accident and subsequent half death, he had raged for a while. He’d been in despair, learning to mourn himself while handling abilities foreign to him. He had to learn things from scratch opposed to normal ghosts who knew things instinctively. 

He’d only briefly lost track of Jack and Maddie after his hospital stay but the urge to look them up again had gnawed at him. He had notebook after notebook filled to the brim with his own research on ghosts and ectoplasm but he would have been remiss to shun their research just because he couldn’t stand the sight of them. It was Jack’s blunder that had changed him after all. 

The pair had gotten married, and had a baby girl, but Vlad found himself more interested in their labs than their domestic life. The fondness he’d felt for his best friend, and the passion he’d once directed at Maddie had died with him. 

Jasmine had been a bright spot, and a wonderful distraction in those early visits. A small child also kept the Fentons busy enough that he could slip into their labs undetected. Copying their work and altering their inventions to ignore his own ecto-signature was essential. As far as he could tell, they’d never suspected a thing. 

Daniel coming along had been a blessing, even if it had confused Vlad at the time. Jack and Maddie loved their children but they were always complaining about not having enough time for their research. It had always been to Vlad’s benefit but adding a second child into the mix would only draw out their parental duties. 

However it baffled it, it benefited him. He only had to offer his jovial congratulations and time went on. 

Vlad…was aware that he was not who he once was. He’d either lost something when he half died, or gained something. He wasn’t sure. He was no longer naive. He’d done things in the last twenty or so years. Not all of them he was incredibly proud of. He had amassed a fortune, but it had seemed the natural progression of things at the time. He’d been young, desperate and dead. He’d need money to further his research so money needed to be acquired. 

He’d had medical bills…. Then he had ambitions. 

He might have been something of a thief, a criminal, but he’d never hurt anyone…to his knowledge… 

It was easier on his conscience when it was only stealing from Jack and Maddie. That felt like recompense for what Jack had done to him. He’d had a working portal a full four years before the Fentons. 

He’d never said a word about it and delighted in the secret of it. His wealth of knowledge was greater than theirs. When the pair had recently called him, gushing about their achievement, he’d been skeptical, but he’d seen Amity Park’s newspaper articles on the ghost of a lunch lady at Casper High, and the poor picture quality of a white haired menace that chilled him. 

“Hey Uncle Vlad.” Daniel greeted him with a smile, but his eyes were wary and stressed. Dark circles were beginning to form. “School’s, uh, good? Same old bullies. I gotta read Pride and Prejudice. Aced my last math test though.” 

Vlad hummed and nodded. “That about sums up my memories of high school as well.” It pulled a smile from Daniel. 

“And a ghost sighting! To think we’d find one so close to home! We’re pulling out all our weapons out of their testing stages!” Jack’s voice boomed, overly excited at their find and completely missing the way his son shrank back. 

“A stake out might be in order.” Maddie said, a smile in her voice. Her excitement was more contained but was very real. “Who knows, we might be there to capture the next one.” 

Vlad made a show of rolling his eyes and focused on Daniel. “What is freshman math anyway these days?” 

“I’m taking geometry.” Daniel said, latching onto the topic. “I got the hang of it pretty quickly. So far at least.” 

“You always did have a head for numbers.” Vlad said conversationally. 

“Vladdy! Come take a look at the newest prototype!” Jack was beaming, far too excited over the notion of ending a creature that was already dead. Vlad didn’t care for the sparks of fear that settled in his throat. An ending after the end was final, and terrifying. 

“Jack.” Vlad laughed good-naturedly. “Surely there’s time for that later. I did just arrive. I’d love to speak with Daniel for a while. High school will pass by before you know it.” 

Maddie just sighed, perhaps nostalgic. “It sure does. It won’t be long before Jazz is graduating.” 

“And entering into the ghost hunting business!” Jack declared. 

“Oh, Jack.” Maddie just laughed. 

“Where is Jasmine?” Vlad asked, his need to check on her…sudden. 

Maddie looked thoroughly. “Oh, hm.. She’s…” 

“Tonight’s the night she tutors.” Daniel said, sounding exhausted. “She’ll probably eat dinner before coming home.” 

“Oh, that’s right.” Maddie smiled, but she was already distracted with the toaster she was dismantling. 

Vlad hummed, oddly relieved. As the children had gotten older, their well being came into question more and more. “Well… Jack, you and Maddie seem to have your hands full this evening. Why don’t i take Daniel to dinner? I’d love to hear about his freshman year anyway.” 

“Can we get Nasty Burger?” Daniel perked up. 

Vlad snorted. “Not my first pick, or my second, but why not?” He’d eaten more burgers than he could count in college.  

“Really!? Yes!” Daniel grinned, “I’ll grab my hoodie, be right back!” 

“Danny sure loves your visits.” Jack laughed loudly. 

Maddie just hummed, still focused on what she was doing. “Don’t spoil him.” She said vaguely. 

“You won’t have to worry about a thing.” Vlad said, already turning back to the door. "I'll take care of him." By the time he got there, Daniel was behind him, practically pushing him out the door. 

“Let’s go, let’s go.” 

~ 

Vlad felt himself relax once he had Daniel in his car. He would definitely need to sneak back into the Fenton’s lab and grab whatever new information was available. He would also need to add in Daniel’s ecto-signature to their equipment before something automatically shot at him. 

He needed to address this. He couldn’t let the Fenton’s mistake harm anyone else. He’d shut their research down if he had to. He'd shut his own down if he had to.

He cringed at the thought. 

“Daniel, wait.” Vlad said after he’d parked in the most secluded spot the parking lot to Nasty Burger provided. “Before we eat, i would like to talk to you?” 

“Yeah? Sure.” Daniel said. His tone was light and playful. Normal. The color however, drained from his face. “Do i even gotta bother to tell you to call me Danny again?” 

Vlad smiled faintly. “I quite like the name Daniel, you know? That’s not however, what i wanted to talk about. Let me be clear, this conversation does not leave this car. Not by you. Not by me.” 

“Oh, uh. Yeah? Yeah, of course.” Daniel said, turning sideways in his seat to face him. “What…are we talking about?” 

“Ghosts.” 

Daniel sighed. “C’mon Uncle Vlad. Don’t i get that enough from mom and dad?” 

Vlad shook his head and reached out to grab Daniel’s shoulder. “No, listen to me. It’s safe to talk to me, and i will not ask about… whatever accident you must have had-” Horror was all over Daniel’s face. Enough time hadn't passed for him to mask his reaction to his death. “But i understand, Daniel.” 

“I don’t know what you mean?” Daniel muttered and winced when it didn’t sound the least bit convincing. For just a split second, he turned invisible. He probably hadn’t even realized he’d done it. Most would assume their eyes were playing tricks on them. 

Vlad leaned forward and opened the glove compartment, pulling out the article of the ghost attack on Casper High. “You’re not in trouble. Not with me.” 

Daniel only glanced at it before looking away again. He’d seen it already no doubt. “It’s not what you think.” 

“I’m very sure it is.” Vlad said softly. “I know all too well what ectoplasm and trauma can do. I can sense death around you.” He paused before pushing forward. “In time, i’m certain you’ll be able to sense it on me too.” 

Daniel’s lips tightened, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what he heard and was proceeding with caution. “What do you mean?” 

“We’ll get some dinner to go and we’ll head back to my house here in Amity.” Vlad said. “And i’ll show you my own ghost form.” 

“Yours…” Daniel sounded winded. “When did you…?” 

“Long before you were born.” 

“My parents…?” 

Vlad just tsked. “They were dear to me once, Daniel, but they are fools. No, they don’t know about me, and i will not tell them about you.” 

“Don’t.” Daniel said, somewhere between agreeing and begging Vlad to mean what he said. The tremor in his voice told Vlad all he needed to know. He was well aware of how his parents would react. He was afraid. 

“It will stay between us.” Vlad said calmly. “I won’t ask. It’s breaking all kinds of ghost etiquette to be so nosy but if you ever want to talk to me about what happened, you can. I can also help you adjust.” 

“Can you?” Daniel asked immediately, the closest he’d come to admitting Vlad was right. 

“I’ve never had to teach anyone to use ghost powers before, but yes, I think i can offer you some insight.” Vlad said. “Falling through floors?” 

“Yes.” Daniel said with feeling. “I keep dropping things. My clothes…” 

Vlad nodded along, all of it sounding familiar. “I know all about it. You just need to get used to it. Gain control over what you can do.”

Daniel swallowed, looking like he’d have a meltdown any second. “You promise?” 

“I do.” 

He inhaled slowly. “I…died.” 

“Yes,” Vlad said softly. “I’m so sorry…” 

“You’re…” He watched Daniel’s expression crumble. He didn’t have to ask why. How did you mourn your death when you were still half alive? It had taken Vlad years… “Sorry.” 

“So sorry, my boy.” Vlad said, sounding choked up. “It never should have happened. Not to someone else. Not to you.” 

Daniel bowed his head only seconds before he started to sob. It didn’t matter why. Was it stress? Was he starting the process of mourning? Was it the knowledge that he’d lost a piece of his family? It didn’t actually matter… 

Vlad leaned closer as far as he comfortably could in the car and pulled Daniel to cry against his shoulder. It was all the comfort he could really offer. He couldn’t make it better, he could only put a band-aid on it. He couldn’t change the Fenton’s minds. Not for Daniel and not for himself. They were always going to be in danger, but he could listen. He could be everything for Daniel he didn’t have. He could let the boy cry. He was only fourteen. 

God, at least Vlad had been in college. Daniel was a child… 

“Does your sister have any idea?” 

Daniel shook his head, hiccuping in an effort to catch his breath but he just cried still. 

“At least she’s still safe. You and i will work up a few safety protocols and… i’ll stay in Amity Park.” The castle in Wisconsin had really been the height of his arrogance. 

There was so much to teach the boy. Not just how to use his powers but ghost manners and taboos. He’d learned a lot himself in the last few years of having his portal up and running. Access to the Ghost Zone had made things a great deal easier on him. 

Daniel wrapped his arms around him, clinging in a way he hadn’t since he was a much younger child. He hadn’t had any time at all to come to terms with his own death, but this was a start. 

If Vlad needed to cook up a few excuses for getting him away from his parents, well… he’d been bored anyway.

Master List

~ It'll hit differently when Skulker shows up to hunt the halfa welp and is instead met with a fully grown, pissed off halfa in mama bear mode.

[bobacupcake]

do u work for the people who do tcg card game app or did they lowkey just rip off ur idea??

im assuming youre talking about the pokemon one? i def didnt invent 3d pokemon cards so its very likely just a coincidence. i will say though i added this to my videogame like half a year before the pokemon tcg app announcement. they didnt copy me or anything i just want to brag that i did it before they did

[audliminal]

It's Just a Game, Right? Pt 8

Masterpost

"So I think they're using other languages," Tim says, the moment Bernard opens the door.

"Well hello to you too my beloved boyfriend," Bernard responds, kissing Tim on the cheek and pulling him into the apartment.

"Shut up," Tim says, following Bernard to the table. This is hardly the first time Tim has skipped past pleasantries like that, and Bernard seems to find it more amusing every time.

"Aw, I dunno if I can do that. I really like to talk to you," Bernard grins conspiratorially. "Plus, then I wouldn't get to tell you that you're half right."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, obviously other people noticed the comment, right?" Bernard, gestures towards the computer, where Tim can see the cryptic comment. It already has dozens of responses. "Mostly people are just freaking out about it, because this is like, our first instance of direct communication from them, but one of the people who saw it actually recognized what language it is."

"Just one?" Tim frowns.

"Yeah. It's called esperanto. I googled it and apparently it's a conlang from the late 1800s which is pretty cool. It was, like, invented to be kind of a universal language, I guess? It pulls from a lot of different languages, so that's why it looks like multiple languages."

"Huh."

"But! There's still the encoded portions to figure out, because the translation as-is doesn't really make any sense." Bernard scrolls and points to the translation that a commenter had offered. It reads To be fqzuhsx-ayccas is to be qtdkv-avnwkwkb; the veil afph-gqkduik but it is meant to igpmtwi-ocdq. Determination in the face of doubt.

"Huh," Tim studies the text, then notices something. "They've specifically encoded the verbs."

"Yep," Bernard shrugs. "I haven't tried anything for the encrypted stuff yet; figured i might as well wait for you."

"Okay, well I guess we start with the simplest? We know they've used caesar ciphers before, plus this is in response to what we did with the first caesar ciphers before, so we might as well try one of your decoder websites for that first."

"Seems reasonable," Bernard says, pulling up the website from before. He quickly copies the first word over and hits the button. "Well shit, that was quick."

"Only the first half, though." Tim mutters. "Do it to the rest of them." Bernard copies and decodes the rest. In short order, they have a the first half of each encryption decoded.

"To be gravity is to be orbit, the veil disk but it is meant to eclipse?" Bernard frowns. "That... doesn't make much more sense."

"What's up with the focus on astronomy, too."

"Oh, right, we haven't gotten that far yet. They keep referencing space stuff. There's like, a running theory about these messages being supposed to have come through a black hole?"

"Is that even possible? i thought black holes ate stuff forever."

"I dunno, I'm not really into space stuff. Besides it's like, sure there's evidence for it, and space seems to be narratively important? But the premise seems kind of contrived to me."

"You think they're doing something bigger than what everybody is seeing." Tim stares at the forum thread. If anything was going to give Bernard's theory some credence, it would be what literally just happened.

"Exactly." Bernard posted on a forum arguing that he thought the game ran deeper than people realized. And the creators, who so far hadn't interacted directly, had responded to that post, with a triple-encrypted message.

"Each shift was one further away than the last," Tim thinks rapidly. "It started with language, which could be either a part of the effort to encrypt it, or a part of the intended meaning. Possibly both. Then, they used caesar ciphers for the first layer of encryption, the same thing they used in their first post. How did they encrypt things in the second post?"

"I think I kind of mentioned it before, but the second post used a vigenere cipher. The names of the people in the first video were the keys, if I remember right."

"The first is the key to the second."

"What-"

"Take the second part and decode it with the first."

"Dude your mind is scary sometimes," Bernard laughs, but moves to do as Tim says, revealing the first encrypted word. "To be seen. That works..."

Tim starts writing down the full message, as Bernard decodes the rest. Finally, they have the full text of the message the creators intended to send.

"To be seen is to be remembered; the veil distracts but it is meant to hide. Determination in the face of doubt." Tim reads.

"Huh," Bernard says, leaning over to read it for himself. "Well, now we know what it says. Now we just need to figure out what that means."

[heliads]

You and Me (A Whole Lot of History)

Based on this request: "y/n is a historian with access to old schematics so kaz hires her for a job. he keeps inventing reasons to find her afterwards until he’s forced to admit his feelings"

masterlist

You only get to study about half a chapter of your textbook before you’re interrupted by a criminal. It’s not like you mind having to put down the heavy tome you’ve been leafing through; estate law of centuries past is not your idea of some fun light reading, but you’ve been helping to piece together some fragments of an old mansion from pre-Unsea Kerch, and you’d really like to be able to decide if the master of the house your tattered documents keep referring to is the eldest son or the second eldest. 

It all depends on very specific details that refuse to make themselves known to you. So no, having an excuse to stop all this isn’t terrible, you’re just a little distracted by the fact that you’re in a private study room in the historical library of Ketterdam, and you know for certain that you locked the door that has just been opened.

You know who’s just broken into your study space. Not personally, that is, but just as well as any resident of the Barrel knows the one they call Dirtyhands– through bated breath, in stolen whispers of expensive heists and bodies left behind, no traitors tolerated and none allowed to live. The fact that Kaz Brekker has taken it upon himself to enter your study room of all the empty ones still available in the library is not promising, to say the least, although you have absolutely no idea what you’ve done to appear on his radar.

You are, in fact, quite possibly the last person Kaz would even be aware of. You’re a historian, specializing in a few select centuries and powerful families in the Kerch area. This means that you spend most of your time in old and crumbling buildings, not out in shady dealings or shootouts or any of the other places Brekker tends to frequent.

This doesn’t seem to stop Kaz from closing the door behind him and taking a seat opposite your desk. He folds his hands in front of him, idly contemplating the textbook you’re still supposed to be perusing, but remains frustratingly silent.

It falls to you, then, to pick up a conversation, which is unfair considering the fact that he’s the one who’s barged in on your space. “That door was locked for a reason, you know,” you point out.

Kaz arches a dour brow. “Yes. I opened it.”

He’s not making this easy for you. “Why?” You ask.

Instead of answering you, Brekker jerks his chin towards the book in front of you. “What’s that about?”

There is no earthly reason one of the most notorious gang leaders in the Barrel should be asking about the homework you’re doing for your job. Still, he has, so you must answer, no matter how confused you are about it. “Inheritance disputes of the fourteenth century Kerch nobles. Why, are you interested in checking it out after me?”

Kaz scoffs. “No. I just want your information, not that book.”

You feel yourself leaning back slightly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Trust me, whatever information you’re after won’t be found from me.”

Kaz shakes his head once. “No, actually, I think it will be.”

He reaches for something under his coat, and you’re hit with the brief terror that he’ll get a gun or something and you’ll die here and now, but then his gloved hand comes back out into the light carefully holding a rolled up piece of paper, which he smooths out onto the desk before you. You tuck your textbook away so you can get a better look at the thing, more curious now than afraid.

It turns out to be a copy of house blueprints. As you study it, you realize that you recognize the place. You were there recently for a project for your employer, checking up on the preservation of a few rooms. “Is this the old van Haarst mansion?” 

Brekker’s eyes flash, reminding you of the slick of oil on water. “You know about it?”

“Yeah,” you say, peering further at the blueprints. “I’ve worked there before.”

Kaz nods, looking pleased. “I’d like to buy your services. I need information on this building and your silence on the matter. Are you interested?”

Your brow furrows. “What information do you need?”

To answer you, Brekker tosses a stack of kruge onto the table. You can see the numbers on the edges, and know even without counting that this payment will be far more than what you’d earn even for a year at your job. This is the deal, then. He’ll only tell you more if you accept his money, and if you accept his money, you agree to whatever he wants.

Honestly, not the worst bargain. Ghezen knows you’ve had worse supervisors on other jobs. At least you can trust Brekker to be honest so long as you are too.

You put the stack of bills into your bag, and turn back to the blueprints with renewed interest. “Are you trying to get in or get out?”

“Both,” Kaz tells you. “I’m assuming you’ve heard rumors of Marysa’s Diamond?”

You choke out a laugh. “Have I ever.”

Marysa’s Diamond is like the Saints in flesh for historians. The van Haarst family was exceedingly rich, and one of their matriarchs, Marysa van Haarst, was said to be in possession of an incredible gemstone, the diamond named after her. It disappeared when the family abandoned Kerch for Ravka following the death of three of Marysa’s sons, and no one has seen it since.

You blow out a low breath. “You think it’s in the old house somewhere? Historians have been all over the place, we would have found it if it was there.”

“It wasn’t always,” Kaz tells you. “It’s been moved there. I have good information that the van Haarst house will act as a safe house for the stone while it’s being moved from hand to hand. They’ll keep it there overnight. I will be entering the estate with a team and taking it.”

He goes silent, as if waiting for any objections. You don’t really care about the morals of the affair, though. You have your money and you get to be the foremost expert on a historical favorite of yours. Robberies happen every day, not something to get teary eyed over.

When you don’t speak up, Kaz continues on. “They’ll be keeping the stone in a place no one can find. There will be a window of exactly one bell in which the old owner leaves the house and is replaced by the new owner, carefully staggered so the stadwatch aren’t alerted by too many people in the estate after hours. That means it would have to be a damn good hiding spot. If you were hiding a gemstone in this house, where would you put it?”

You consider the blueprints before you again. There are a thousand and one places you could hide something in there– tucked inside the grand piano, in a safe, under one of a hundred carpets– and there’s no way Brekker’s men could find it in time.

However, that means the person meant to be picking up the diamond wouldn’t be able to find it as well. They would have to find somewhere in the estate hidden to everyone else but the recipient of the gemstone.

The answer occurs to you in a flash. “Oh,” you say, “Secret room.”

Brekker blinks at you. “What?”

You point at the map. “It’s totally going in the secret room. I mean, they don’t want it to be found by anyone else, right? That’s, like, the whole point of a secret room.”

Were it not for the fact that he’s, well, Dirtyhands, you’d swear his voice turns sarcastic. “That was my understanding of a secret room, yes. Where is it?”

Were it not for the fact that he is in fact Dirtyhands, you would roll your eyes. “There’s an entrance off of the secondary hallway leading off of the dining room. Unlock the door using a little latch under the bottom of the ugly painting of the old duchess of Belendt.”

He stares at you. “How do you know that? It’s not on any map.”

You lift a shoulder. “I wanted to know why they’d keep such a foul portrait around. The elites of that time period were huge on perfectionism, every one of their paintings had to be absolutely glorious or it would get removed from their sight. That’s why there are so many old paintings in the surrounding villages, actually, the nobles would just leave these expensive oil paintings outside the castle because they couldn’t take the sight of them anymore. There was no reason they’d let such a dreadful portrait stay unless it was hiding something.”

You had been focused on the map in your hands during the majority of this little speech, fondly recalling little anecdotes from your history classes, but you remember yourself soon enough. You look up and Kaz is staring at you, almost fascinated.

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Sorry, I’m rambling. Got distracted.”

He shakes his head brusquely, although there’s a hint of pink on the tops of his cheekbones that wasn’t there before. “No, no. It’s important information. So we should be aware of any suspicious paintings?”

“Yeah,” you muse, “just look for the bad ones. Pretend you’re an art critic or something.”

The edges of Kaz’s dour glare turn themselves up into something of a humored smirk. “Will do. Thank you for the advice, L/N.”

You nod. “Have fun with the heist. Hey, if you see any older books on the history of the family, would you mind grabbing one or two for me? I’ve been trying to do some research for ages, but the library keeps stalling on getting resources to me, no matter how many requests I send.”

Kaz’s brows draw close together. “That would be unbelievably risky. We can’t take more things than we need or we could be caught.”

You grin. “I know, I’m kidding. Just a joke.”

Kaz’s expression lightens microscopically. “Yes, a joke.”

He leaves soon enough, pushing his chair away from the desk and rolling up the blueprints with a crisp snap of the paper. He warns you to keep your mouth shut about the plans, but you’re not sure that he does it with the fire you expected of a notorious gang leader. Instead, the words are soft, like he’s cautioning a friend.

You don’t hear from him again, not for a while. You’re not sure when this mysterious diamond deal is going down, and you doubt the unlucky men Kaz will grift can go to the stadwatch about this. In fact, you have no idea if it’s happened at all until about a week later. You had gone about your day like normal, not suspecting a thing until the moment you unlocked your door.

And there, centered perfectly on your desk when you get back home despite the fact that you never gave keys to your apartment to anyone, are three books. Aged, cracked covers, gilded writing. You hesitantly pick up one and read the title under your breath:  A History of the Bendtsen Family, 1200-1500. Another:  The van Almelos of the Belendt Region:  Two Centuries of Political and Economic Legacy.

Kaz. He actually got the books. Never mind that you were joking, never mind that he knew that, Kaz Brekker went out of his way to risk a heist just so he could help you out with a research project. Saints. And they say chivalry is dead.

You don’t expect to get the chance to thank him for it until he randomly crosses your path not two weeks later. He’s alone again, miraculously turning up outside your company door just as you leave to walk home. Kaz informs you that he’ll need your services again, exchanging some kruge for more words. This time, he wants details on an office building down the street, one that used to be a city hall. You’re able to take him in yourself thanks to access granted to all historians for historic places, and turn a blind eye when he grabs a few documents regarding interport commerce.

He walked you to your door that night, lingering over the threshold like a teenager not wanting to leave a first date. He shows up again after a month, using an excuse that’s less polished and more finicky. The next time, he doesn’t have an excuse at all. It’s just him, standing in front of you. No money, no plan. He just wanted to see you.

Kaz calls it ‘checking up on an investment,’ but you get the feeling that it’s not something he usually does. He walks with you by the water, he buys you drinks at a bar not even in his own pocket. It’s unusually sweet, so you can’t bite back your questions anymore and confront him about it when he hovers in front of your door for the dozenth time.

“What is this about, Kaz?”

He blinks at you in surprise. “What?”

You gesture between the two of you. “All of this. This isn’t for a job anymore. Why?”

Kaz looks away. It’s rare for him to not have a perfect poker face. Perhaps it’s yet another sign that this means something more, something that you can’t help but wish for. “I wanted to make sure you were safe. I’ve called on you for several jobs that can risk the players involved in the game.”

You shake your head. “You’ve gone out of your way to make sure no one knows about me. It’s just us, Kaz. You did that on purpose.”

“Yes,” he admits at last, “I did. I wanted something for myself. Something that wasn’t as bad as the rest.”

He risks a glance over at you, and his shoulders square slightly when he realizes you aren’t trying to fight him on this, or worse, leave. “You’re good, Y/N. Good things don’t last long around here. I want to make sure you do. I want you to stay forever.”

With me, he means. He wants to keep you in his life. His eyes flicker to your hands, and although you know he won’t take them, not yet, he wants to. That’s why you finally put together the pieces. Kaz Brekker is not good at verbalizing his feelings. Perhaps he never will be. This is the best shot he can give you, and he could not even say the word ‘love’ if it ripped his heart out with bleeding fingertips.

You've had so much over the years, and it has never been enough. Not once, not ever. A thousand coffers could empty themselves, a hundred men die and be reborn. It has never once stopped you. This, by contrast, is nothing. A canal rat's promise, most likely broken before the night is through. You know it, Kaz knows it. This is nothing. 

Yet it is the most true thing you have ever had, the one solid stone in a wall about to come crumbling down. It is small, barely there at all, but still worth it. Maybe that is why you stay, for the hope. For him. It is enough.

grishaverse tag list: @rogueanschel, @cameronsails, @deadreaderssociety, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @eclliipsed, @mayfieldss, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy, @auggie2000, @baju69, @crazyhearttragedy

[kommandonuovidiavoli]

NEVERMIND I MANAGED TO FINISH IT LMAO!

KND FAKE SCREENSHOTS OPERATION: P.H.O.T.O.S.H.O.O.T.

Summary: It's Picture Day at Penny's school, but she doesn't have a dress to wear for it! So she decides to cancel the day altogether by destroying the school! It doesn't work. Everyone is very mad but Picture Day is simply moved to the next day. Nigel talks to her and she lets out the reason why she wanted to cancel the school. So, with the help of Kuki, he manages to get her a pretty dress she can wear the next day! She goes in happier than ever, and also gets a compliment from Joey! That becomes the best day ever, and when the photos are out, she proudly shows them to Nigel... who makes sure to have at least 37 copies around the house.

I had a lot of fun making these! The first "screenshot" is half traced from another KND screenshot, all other ones are completely invented from 0! I'm not good with cartoon backgrounds, they're a bit bleugh.

Hope you like it!

[remussaggressivedogspecialist]

She's a Princess, and You're an Ogre

Remus Lupin x Reader

Warnings: Idk man 16+ for suggestiveness at the end

A/N: if you like it drop a follow☺️

WC: 3.5k

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. What the fuck were you thinking, like you were could be in some kind of relationship? You were a Zabini, for Merlin's sake, and if you weren't even good enough at home, why would you assume you were good enough for him?

Him.

Him.

Light and dark, the raging storm and the calm front, the sun and the moon. Remus. He was imperfectly perfect. You adored his flaws. And so did everyone else. Why did you think you could confess how in love you were with him and expect it to go well when he had half of Hogwarts' female and partially male population waiting on him hand and foot? You wanted to smack yourself. You should smack yourself.

He hadn't even said anything when you poured your heart out and told him how you felt. Not a fucking word. He stood there for a minute, and then you left. It was better than him rejecting you, as if that was any comfort. But he didn't say the words. He didn't say, 'I don't love you' or 'I could never love you'. He was too kind for that. But you knew he thought it.

Why did you think it would end well? Nothing ever ends well for you. You just wanted to win. Just once. You should've kept your mouth shut, then you would've kept him, at least as a friend. It would've killed you every day to be friends with the man who was your reason for waking up some mornings, but it was better than this hellish purgatory. You avoided him with everything you were.

Sat as far away from him any time you were in a room together, and he'd never make you uncomfortable because that was how good he was, so he left it alone, for awhile, at least. You were contemplating hurling yourself over the railing of the astronomy tower when your thoughts were interrupted. You had sequestered yourself between the bookshelves of the massive library, but now you were caught.

He was the last and first person you wanted to see right now. It was ripping you to pieces but you plastered on an almost peeved look as his words, or word, reached your ears.

"Hey."

Very inventive.

“Hi,” you replied, wishing that the ground would swallow you up. That would be a much appreciated demise as of this moment.

He seemed rather sheepish. That was new. He came closer and you tried to hide your discomfort. His hands tucked into his pockets in a way that you'd watched him do a million times, and you hated everything you loved about him right now. "You've been avoiding me," he'd stated it like it was a fact, instead of a question.

“I have not.” You lied through your teeth. You knew it. He knew it. The books knew it. They were judging you with their old, cracked spines, shaped into eyebrows and glares and judgemental looks. Was that your mother in a copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them?

"Yes, you have."

His tone was still soft, as it always with you. Even now, he was being gentle with you because he knew how you were, and it made you want to strangle him. He had every right to yell and he wouldn't.

"You won't even look at me.”

You glanced in his general direction to prove him wrong, but could hardly hold eye contact for more than five seconds from your spot on the floor, a book on lycanthropy in your lap. Even unconsciously, you wanted him. How pathetic.

His mouth opened and closed again as if he was searching for words before he eventually went with, "You haven't spoken to me in weeks."

Weeks.

He'd been keeping track of how long you'd been ignoring him it seemed. The knowledge felt like daggers. He was keeping count. Like anyone would when their best friend confesses their love and then completely fucking ignores them for the next month.

“Has it been that long?” You kept composure and mentally applauded yourself. Well done, you, you're an even more terrible person than you thought.

"Yes."

He was still looking at you like he was surprised you were speaking to him, almost like he thought you were an hallucination. "It has been.”

“Well. Did you need something?” You were being rude. To him. To Remus. To kind, sweet, thoughtful Remus. You had a special seat within the seven rings of hell.

"I-"

He hadn't planned this far ahead.

"Yes."

He pulled his hands from his pockets and shoved them into his hair in frustration. He was the best wordsmith of your year, and you were making him speechless. You could only watch as he paced around the space in front of you.

"Why have you been avoiding me?"

He finally came to a stop and he looked so frustrated. If you were honest with yourself, you would also say that he looked very, very sexy right now, standing there in front of you with his hair completely askew, his cheeks flushed, his eyes boring into your own. But you aren't honest with yourself right now, so you attempt your most annoyed look.

“Merlin's beard, Rem, why else?” You drawled. You sounded like Severus. You didn't want to drawl. You wanted to scream.

He paused for a moment, then sighed. "Right." He shoved his hands back into his pockets and looked off to something over your shoulder, as if he was still too nervous to maintain eye contact with you.

“Is that it?” Special. Place. In. Hell.

"I-" And you'd broken him again. He was a brilliant orator, he was charming and witty and could talk himself out of anything, he was eloquent and clever, but you seemed to rob him of his words. He didn't want to do this, he'd spent the day trying to talk himself out of this, but he'd been getting sick of sitting idly by, and now he was here. And now he was going to say it.

"When you confessed to me..." He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to not lose to his own emotions. "When you confessed to me... you took me completely by surprise.”

Shocker.

“Yes, Remus, I noticed. Thank you.” When did you become so mean? But at your snark, Remus cracked a slight smile. A beautiful, wondrous, spectacular half smile. That was the most you'd gotten since the night you'd said those damned words.

He sighed, and seemed to be trying to find the least painful way to say what he had to say next. That only made your stomach twist a little tighter. "Look, I just..."

“I know.” The least you could do was save him the trouble. Stop him from wasting his time on apologies over things he had no control over.

“You do?” The hope in his eyes gives you the energy to continue.

“Yes. You just see me as a friend, you want to let me down slowly, yada yada yada. It's... fine.” It wasn't. You were a liar. A snake.

His eyes widened a little, surprised that you seemed to know what was coming. "No-" But you cut him off before he could finish, waving a hand to dismiss him in a way that you hoped came off cool and unbothered rather than bitter and angry. You couldn't be bitter. Not with him.

“It's fine. Seriously.” You were dying inside. Slowly. Painfully.

He just stood there for another moment, looking you up and down, trying to tell what was truly going on in your head. Then, he decided to take a chance, to throw the line out, and see what he could catch. "It is?" He took a step closer to you.

“Sure. All good.” Snake. Liar. Hypocrite.

He took another step, now he was standing less than a foot away from you. You could feel the body heat radiating off of him, the smell of his soap, mixed with leather and parchment and some distinctly earthy, distinctly him smell, invading your senses like a familiar addiction. But Remus was worse than drugs. You felt yourself standing, your legs moving you without consent. You refused to feel any smaller than you already were.

He was still looking down at you, however, which lessened the effect dramatically. He closed the remaining space between you two and gently touched the underside of your chin with one finger, applying light pressure, attempting to get you to meet his eyes.

He was too hot for his own good. Screw his parents, honest.

“Jesus, Remus, do you mind?” You complained before pulling away from his touch, in mortal combat with the demons telling you to lean into it.

He let his hand drop immediately, his face coloring a little. He was surprised by your response. He mumbled an apology and stepped back but something was nagging at him. That cool indifference you'd been attempting to project was crumbling, bit by bit. He could see the mask slipping, but he wouldn't say anything. Kind Remus. Sweet Remus. Fucking destroyer of hearts Remus.

“What do you want?”

He was silent for a few moments, just watching you, watching the way your arms wrapped around yourself, trying to keep him from seeing how bothered you were, from seeing that you were crumbling. Then he took a step forward again, grabbing your upper arms, gently, in an attempt to get you to look at him.

“Would you stop touching?”

He did, quickly retracting his hands as if he had been scalded. There was another long beat of silence between the two of you, and he was beginning to get fed up with his own ineloquence. That wasn't something he got frustrated with very often. He muttered a string of obscenities quietly, then sighed heavily and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault,” you reassured. And it wasn't. Not fully. Curse him anyways, though. Solely for spite.

He didn't want to be frustrated with you—he was just frustrated with himself right now.

"Yeah? Whose is it then?" That came out more harshly than he'd intended, and he grimaced slightly. "I like you, okay? I do. Really. But we... can't.”

Pause. What?

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

He was fidgeting nervously with his hands. He hardly ever fidgeted. His expression when he finally met your gaze was pained, there was something unreadable in his eyes. Then an aggrieved bark of a laugh escaped his throat and he muttered something under his breath. You could see the conflict happening behind his eyes. Whatever was going on in his head, it was causing his usually composed demeanor to start to crack. He was running his right hand through his hair again, making it messier than he usually looked even slept in. It was clear the words 'we can't' were killing him, making him want to scream. And you couldn't begin to understand why.

“What do you mean, Remus?”

His eyes searched your face. His gaze was intense, and you felt suddenly like he could see your heart and soul, like he could see how badly you were bleeding internally. "It's not..." He swallowed and ran his hand through his hair again, trying to find the words. "We aren't... a good idea.”

“Why?”

He shook his head slightly, frustration evident on his face. This was one of the very few things he didn't quite know how to put into words. "Because." It was a pitiful response, and he knew it, but that's what was coming out at the moment.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

He closed his eyes and cursed himself silently for his lack of rhetoric. He thought, then he looked at you, then away, then back again. "You don't understand. You're better than me."He sounded almost angry now. Not at you, though; he was mad at himself.

“How?” You questioned, knowing damn well Remus may have been the purest soul to exist on planet earth since Princess Diana of Wales.

He looked down at you, and his expression was almost incredulous. How could you not see it? "You're brilliant, and smart, and... and beautiful..." His voice was quieter now, like he was almost unwilling to admit something. "You could have anyone you wanted. Anyone. You're a Zabini, for fuck's sake.”

“I never said I wanted 'anyone', Remus, I want you.”

The words hit him in the gut, and he felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. He'd been hoping that you would say anything but that. He was almost glad you weren't making explicit eye contact, because he knew without a doubt his expression would give everything away. It was ripping through him that he couldn't tell you how much he wanted you back, how badly he wanted to take you up in his arms and kiss you, have you as his and tell the rest of the world to piss off.

"Please..." His voice sounded strangled now. He took one of your hands without even realizing it, gripping it tightly, like a lifeline. "Don't say that. Don't do this to me, please.”

“Why aren't you trying?”

He squeezed your hand again, and his eyes looked almost pained as he looked down at you. He was struggling to keep his own emotions in check, struggling to make you understand. Because he wanted to try. Of course he did. He'd wanted to since the moment he'd first laid eyes on you. "Because I'm no good for you, don't you get it? I'm no good for you.”

“And I'm telling you that you are,” you persisted.

He looked down at you, and he wanted to grab you and shake you until you saw sense. He wanted to hug you and hold you so tight that he'd have to peel you off later. He wanted to kiss you, over and over and over again, until the words stopped coming out of your mouth. He wanted to do a lot of things, but he settled on gripping your hand tighter. "I'm damaged.”

“Then I'll fix you,” you replied without hesitation.

He was looking at you with the most heartbreaking expression, something that was equal parts pain, frustration and desperation. He leaned forward, closing the space he'd previously gained, and his free hand came up to hold one of your upper arms gently, but his touch was needy, like he was trying to keep you close. His voice was a mere whisper now, and he looked conflicted and pained.

"No one can fix me.”

“I can try.” You had him. Partially. Almost. Nearly. You weren't giving up over some stupid lie he told himself.

He closed his eyes, and a low groan escaped his lips. "You have no idea what you're talking about." He wasn't being cruel—he knew that you couldn't know. But hearing you say it was driving him mad. His grip on your arm and hand tightened, and he was so very tempted to gather you up into his arms and hold you against him.

“Then tell me.”

He laughed bitterly, the harsh sound cutting through the silence of the library, a sound that wasn't Remus. At all. "That's what you want? You want all my dark and dirty secrets? All my scars? You want everything?”

“I want all of you," you shot back.

He made a strangled sort of sound, like someone was squeezing the air from his lungs. There was a beat of silence between the two of you before he finally opened his eyes again, his gaze was intense and focused on you.

"Even the bad parts? Even the parts that are messed up and broken and twisted and wrong?”

“I'll put them back together," you vowed.

His expression broke again, and he was so very close to you now. Almost chest to chest, and he was gripping you tight like you might be pulled away from him at any moment. "You're in over your head.”

“Then pull me out.”

He was starting to crack. Every time you said anything, and he wanted to give in. He wanted you so bad it was physically painful, and the fact that you were here, this close to him, and his, and you were offering yourself to him… That last string of his self-control was beginning to fray, and his eyes were beginning to darken with an emotion he was struggling to hide. "You wouldn't like what you find.”

“Try me.”

And there went that last, fraying string. His expression darkened and he suddenly pulled you towards him, hard, and you slammed against his chest. His arms wrapped around you in a way that could almost be described as desperate, and one of his hands splayed across your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that was very nearly dominating. He was so close to you that you were almost drowning in him. Everything was him, his voice, his hands, his smell, his body, and you could feel the heat radiating off of him as he leaned closer and lightly brushed his lips with yours.

"Last chance." He spoke against your lips, his voice dark and rough with desire. His hand on your back was gripping you even harder, his body pressed even tighter against yours. His other hand was gripping your chin now, forcing you to look up at him as he looked down at you with the most intense expression you'd ever seen on his face.

“I'm not going anywh-” He didn't let you finish your sentence, opting instead to lean down and capture your lips in a searing kiss. It was rough, the way he kissed you, and the hand that was on your chin moved to grip the back of your head, tilting it back a little and giving him better access to your mouth. He let out a low, needy moan against your lips that did something very bad, and very unladylike to your insides.

The kiss got more aggressive as he pushed you back against the bookshelf, and his other hand was now gripping your hip, his thumb tracing small and teasing circles just under the hem of your shirt. He made another one of those low, needy sort of sounds against your lips, and the sound was almost your undoing. A book falls down as his palm hits one of the shelves, aimed straight for your head, and he catches it without breaking the kiss and tosses it to the side.

The hand on your hip sneaks under the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing against bare skin, and your body feels like he's electrocuted every single nerve ending. His own body is pressing you hard against the bookshelf behind you, and he has a knee between your legs, almost pinning you, and you let out a pathetic and small cry when his knee rubs up against where you need him the most.

He moans softly against your lips, feeling you shudder against him as he shifts, keeping his knee pressed between your legs. He's using his body to pin you against the bookshelf, both of you pressed so tightly together you're not sure where one of you starts and the other ends.

“Remus?”

He paused in his ministrations—he'd been kissing and biting his way down your neck, but he pulled back just a fraction to answer you. His voice was low, rough and breathless right next to your ear. He only hummed in response.

“We really shouldn't be doing this in the library.”

He didn't pull away from you, instead, another one of those low, needy sort of moans escaped his lips, and he used his body to push you back against the bookshelf again, just a little bit harder. His hands were still on you, one of them under your shirt now, and he started to slowly run it up the flat expanse of your stomach, fingertips tracing small circles and patterns. "I know. I don't care.”

“I care. I'd rather not get banned.”

His nose is lightly tracing across the space where your shoulder meets your neck, his lips following the same path, leaving a trail of small kisses along the skin that send a shiver through your body. He murmurs against your skin. "Why? You seem to enjoy having me pressed against you." His knee presses up a little more, emphasizing his point.

You arch slightly on instinct, and berate your body mentally for the slip up.

“Remus, you can kiss me for awhile here, or fuck me in your dorm.” Ultimatums were always a real crowd pleaser.

He made another one of those low, needy sounds at that, and his breath is hot against your skin, sending another shiver through you as he starts to kiss his way back up your neck, towards your ear, until finally he whispers, right against the shell of your ear.

"My dorm.”

[vyorei]

Copied from the OG Tweet as it's too long to screenshot. Source is @Jonathan_K_Cook on Twitter:

The missing context for what's happening in Gaza is that Israel has been working night and day to ethnically cleanse the Palestinian people from their homeland since even before Israel become a state – when it was known as the Zionist movement.

Israel didn't just cleanse Palestinians in 1948, when it was founded as a Western colonial project, and again under cover of a regional war in 1967.

It also worked to ethnically cleanse Palestinians every day between those dates and afterwards. The aim was to move them off their historic lands, and either expel them beyond Israel’s new, expanded borders or concentrate them into small ghettoes inside those borders – as a holding measure until they could be expelled outside the borders.

The 'settler' project, as we call it, is a misnomer. It's really Israel's ethnic cleansing programme. Israel even has a special word for it in Hebrew: 'Judaisation', or making the land Jewish. It is official government policy.

Gaza was the largest of the Palestinian reservations created by Israel's ethnic cleansing programme, and the most overcrowded. To stop the inhabitants spilling out, Israel built a fence-barrier in the early 1990s to pen them in. Then when policing became too hard from within the prison, Israel pulled back in 2005 to the outer perimeter barrier.

New technology allowed Israel to besiege Gaza remotely by land, sea and air in 2007, limiting the entry of food and vital items like medicine and cement for construction. Automated gun towers shot anyone who came near the fence. The navy patrolled the sea, stopping boats straying more than a kilometre or two off shore. And drones watched 24 hours a day from the sky.

The people of Gaza were sealed in and largely forgotten, except when they lobbed a few rockets over the fence – to international indignation. If they fired too many rockets, Israel bombed them mercilessly and occasionally launched a ground invasion. The rocket threat was increasingly neutralised by a rocket interception system, paid for by the US, called Iron Dome.

Palestinians tried to be more inventive in finding ways to break out of their prison. They built tunnels. But Israel found ways to identify those that ran close to the fence and destroyed them.

Palestinians tried to get attention by protesting en masse at the fence. Israeli snipers were ordered to shoot them in the legs, leading to thousands of amputees. The 'deterrence' seemed to work.

Israel could once again sit back and let the Palestinians rot in Gaza. 'Quiet' had been restored.

Until, that is, last weekend when Hamas broke out briefly and ran amok, killing civilians and soldiers alike.

So Israel now needs a new policy.

It looks like the ethnic cleansing programme is being applied to Gaza anew. The half of the population in the enclave's north is being herded south, where there are not the resources to cope with them. And even if there were, Israel has cut off food, water and power to everyone in Gaza.

The enclave is quickly becoming a pressure cooker. The pressure is meant to build on Egypt to allow the Palestinians entry into Sinai on 'humanitarian' grounds.

Whatever the media are telling you, the 'conflict' – that is, Israel's cleansing programme – started long before Hamas appeared on the scene. In fact, Hamas emerged very late, as the predictable response to Israel's violent colonisation project.

Israel could once again sit back and let the Palestinians rot in Gaza. 'Quiet' had been restored.

Ignore the fake news. Israel isn't defending itself. It's enforcing its right to continue ethnically cleansing Palestinians.

[platinumrosetail]

Okay so could I request Adam, Poseidon, Loki and Shiva with a mischievous god reader that acts like the Cheshire cat he basically has his disappearing power thingy?

Also if you're fine with it can you make him a cat-human hybrid?

Sure! The Cheshire Cat is my favorite from Alice and wonderland! Though it’s been a while since I last seen Alice in wonderland so some things might be wrong so I’m sorry for that but I’ll try my best to make it as in character as possible.

Warning: noob author, male reader, and others.

Characters: Adam, Poseidon, Loki, shiva.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adam:

You were a cat like god with a mischievous personality almost like Loki but less destructive and more in a fun pranking way as well as giving out riddles for fun to confuse your guest when they show up.

So it wasn’t a shock that you decided to play a playful little prank on the father of humanity though what you didn’t know was that he saw this coming, he copied your disappearing ability and teleported behind you spooking you in the process.

You of course was shocked at first before a big grin appeared on your face, amused at how the tables had turned on your little failed attempt of a prank on the father of humanity.

That was how both of you met, you two spend some time together afterwards though it’s usually you the one talking, whether it be about pranks and how they went or possible riddles to give to others you also give some to Adam but it’s more the ones that he can solve a bit easier instead of left confused on what you mean when you give riddles to other.

You usually lay on his lap when you’re not busy pranking or doing something else that requires your attention.

he pets your head and give little scratches behind your ears making you purr at the nice feeling.

Adam finds it cute that you’re cat like and has fun seeing how cat like you were with the help of inventions his children has created for cats to use and play with, you noticed it and decided to humor him though you soon came to found out that the cat toys are very fun to play with which made you like humans more for creating them, that made Adam proud of his children more than before especially on how it made your cute and docile as well as more tamed and not planking anybody as much.

Poseidon:

You had pulled a pranked Poseidon that ended with him covered in in mud and chicken feathers, you quickly put the blame on Loki, thankfully you can disappear and tun invisible and escape out of trouble but unfortunately for Loki he now has the wrath of the god of the sea trying to skewer him with his trident as he was the closest when it happened and it doesn’t help that he has a bad reputation when it comes to pranks more so than you do.

You like to hang around Poseidon even though many suggest you shouldn’t as he would kill your soon enough but you always declined that with a riddle like answer.

You mostly appeared in your vat form that you have as he actually gives your pets and scratches while in that form.

You mostly nap in that form on Poseidon’s lap but when you’re in your more human form you begin to tease him.

Poseidon didn’t want to admit to it but he found you cute especially your full cat form which was half why you weren’t a corpse yet.

Poseidon usually make empty threats which you would laugh at as you knew that he loved you too much to do that though he did say that was your words and not his which you also knew was false.

You lightly prank him and surprisingly enough he does prank about which in turn makes you tease him some more after that, you just hope it’s not revealed that you were the one that pranked him instead of Loki as you knew that would get you in so much trouble with Poseidon, what you didn’t know was that he already knew.

Loki:

You and Loki are both very similar though only you give out riddles to prank people along with prancing people the normal; as normal as a god’s prank can get, way.

You and him both prank as many gods as you can without getting into too much trouble for it but there are some instance where either one of your or both of you get in trouble;le by one of the older gods; mostly being Odin, though Loki surprisingly tries to take the blame for you even though you never asked him to.

Both of you try to get the other out of trouble if one of you get caught and punished; which usually is basically a timeout, and so the other makes a plan to help break the other out of timeout, sometimes leading both of you getting timeout for longer than before if the one helping the other escape get caught in the act of trying to break the other out.

You like to go in your cat form and have Loki scratch and pet you, sometimes he’ll even turn himself into a cat along with you for fun and so he can see what it’s like to be a cat as well.

You sometimes give riddles for Loki to solve for fun, you give him hard ones as it’s fun seeing him. Frustrated after still not getting the right answer to the riddle which sometimes is a very common answer to the riddle, you also say no to the answer he gives even though it’s right and later revealing that he had got the answer right after all.

That leads you to being playfully chased by Loki who wants to give payback for that but he can hardly catch what with your ability to disappear and teleport.

Shiva:

You met him through Rudra who wanted you to meet his childhood friend shiva and shiva to meet his new friend that he met while traveling.

You interested him what with your powers of disappearing and reappearing with a big grin and your cat like features.

You like to prank him which results in a prank war with all three of you as well as other gods as well.

What with him having two pairs of arms make it soon becomes a paradise of pets when you’re in your full cat form as he has multiple hands to get at all of your favorite spots to scratch and pet at the same time.

You give him riddles all the time as he gets frustrated with what the answer could be if he gets it wrong.

You like to watch him do his dances and relax, sometimes rudra likes to come and join to relax and dance with shiva.

Shiva would join you when you take naps whether you’re in your cat form or human form, but you always find yourself cuddling next to him when you wake up close to him.

(A/n: hope y’all liked it! I don’t think i have anything else top say so hope y’all have a wonderful day/evening/night!!)