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bucketgetter535 · 2 months ago

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No Margin for Error: Chapter Eight

CW: Drinking (ish)

WC: 7k

Notes: 29383828 hours of studying later and here we are. Please leave thoughts/reactions I live for them

They left Colorado on a private flight as the sun was barely stretching over the mountains, soft morning light spilling through the clouds like it didn’t know what kind of weight the next few weeks would carry.

Azzi didn’t sleep much on the plane. Paige did. Or pretended to. Hood up, headphones in, her long legs stretched out with that practiced ease only athletes carried — like she knew her body was a machine and she knew when to shut it down. Azzi didn’t bother pretending. Her mind was too loud.

By the time they touched down in the Netherlands, Paige had reassembled herself.

It was kind of incredible, honestly. Less than twelve hours ago, Azzi had her hands tangled in Paige’s sweatshirt and her name caught in Paige’s throat, all softness and low gasps in the dark. And now here Paige was — hair tied up, sunglasses on, gear bag slung over her shoulder like she was walking into war — completely locked in. A full reset. Like she’d flipped a switch somewhere over the Atlantic and become Ferrari’s golden girl again.

Part of Azzi admired it. The other part… well. The other part watched too closely, wondering if maybe Paige flipped that switch a little too easily sometimes.

They didn’t talk much once they got to the paddock. They didn’t really need to. It was Thursday — track walk, media, data briefings, and updates from the engineers. Azzi dove into her own schedule without hesitation, greeting a few familiar faces, nodding at the camera crew hovering around the hospitality building.

Ferrari’s garage was already humming with activity by the time she stepped in. Mechanics hunched over laptops, engineers wheeling tires into place. She could smell brake dust and rubber. It felt good — sharp and focused — even if the air was heavier than Colorado’s. More humid. The track at Zandvoort was tight and technical, the banks more old-school than she preferred, but she didn’t mind the challenge. She never had.

Mateo found her near the back of the garage, arms folded, eyes scanning the rear wing on the new spec. His ever-present clipboard in hand.

“Welcome back, Champion,” he greeted, voice dry but fond. “How’s the altitude detox?”

Azzi gave him a look, one brow raised. “We were in the mountains, not Mars.”

“Still,” he shrugged, scribbling something onto a tablet. “Glad you survived.”

He said it casually, but his eyes flicked up just a beat slower than usual. The not-so-subtle question was there, right beneath the surface: How was your break? Who were you with?

Azzi didn’t bite. She just lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug and turned back to the car. “Didn’t forget how to drive, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Mateo smirked. “Wouldn’t dare suggest it.”

They walked through the changes together — revised floor, some rear suspension tweaks, and updates to the diffuser they’d been testing in the sim. Small gains, mostly. They weren’t expecting to dominate this weekend, not with Red Bull’s pace at this circuit. Zandvoort had always been their guy’s playground. The orange-clad home crowd would make sure of that.

Ferrari’s real target was Monza. That much was clear from the way everything was framed — “data for next week,” “building confidence in the new package,” “testing race pace over quali speed.”

Fine. Azzi could play the long game. She always had.

She was mid-way through some telemetry comparisons with Mateo when she caught the tail end of movement across the garage — just enough to draw her attention.

Paige.

Standing in the opposite corner, talking to Luka, her posture easy but attentive, one hand gesturing slightly while the other held her drink bottle. The headphones she always wore before debriefs sat loose around her neck, and the red of her Ferrari polo hugged her biceps in that stupid, unfair way that made Azzi glance too long.

There was a faint sheen of heat in the air — maybe from the track, maybe from jet lag — but Azzi felt it anyway. A flicker low in her spine.

She looked good. That was the problem.

Azzi looked away before her stare could become obvious.

Mateo was still talking, oblivious. “We’ll get the baseline this afternoon, and I’ll push the long-run setup to the sim files tonight.”

Azzi nodded, lips pressed together.

And then — because of course — she caught movement again.

Dirk.

Dirk van der Meer — with his annoyingly symmetrical face and stupidly strong jawline and that half-foreign, half-familiar charm that always made the media swoon. He was lingering just outside the Red Bull hospitality tent, talking to someone from Alpine but looking way too comfortable doing it. He spotted her, of course. He always did. Gave her that little two-fingered salute like he thought he was clever.

She didn’t return it.

Instead, she turned back to the car and focused on what actually mattered — the downforce data, the tires they’d be testing in practice, the mounting pressure of being Ferrari’s two-time champion while still having to chase Red Bull every other weekend.

But it still gnawed at her.

Dirk. Paige — with her jaw set like she hadn’t just spent a week letting Azzi drag her back to bed every morning.

It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. Paige wasn’t her girlfriend. Dirk wasn’t Paige’s boyfriend. None of it meant anything. They were all just doing their jobs.

But Azzi couldn’t shake the feeling crawling under her skin — the tightness in her chest, the flare of something ugly and sharp every time Dirk smiled at Paige like that, every time she caught him looking over with that faint, knowing smirk.

They hadn’t even been back a full day and the game face was already back on. Paige was composed, professional, unreadable. Azzi couldn’t decide if it was impressive or just… a little sad.

And maybe that was the thing that bothered her most.

Because under all of it — the jealousy, the tension, the stupid tightness in her jaw — was the knowledge that if Paige looked at her right now, Azzi wouldn’t be able to hide a damn thing.

–

Friday at Zandvoort was unremarkable, which, in Formula One, was almost worse than a disaster.

Practice One and Two came and went in a blur of engine notes, tire graining, and the occasional puff of beachside sand swirling into the corners. The Ferrari was… fine. Balanced enough to keep the rear from sliding, but not punchy. Not aggressive. Not what they’d need to really fight at the front.

It was clear from the first stint that this wasn’t their weekend. At least not yet.

Azzi felt it in every corner — the way she had to fight for grip, the way the rear end drifted just slightly out of sync with her hands. She didn’t complain. Mateo knew. Everyone did. This wasn’t a race car built for Zandvoort. It was a placeholder — a test bed. All eyes were already on Monza.

Which meant this weekend was about staying clean. Stay sharp. Collect data. Don’t crash. She could do that. She had done that, season after season. But it didn’t mean she liked it.

Paige, naturally, said nothing. Not to her, anyway. They’d exchanged a few clipped words in the garage between runs — tire temps, brake feedback, pressure settings. All technical. All safe. Nothing that touched anything real.

Azzi didn’t know if it was the car or the heat or the jet lag, but something felt off in the garage. Disconnected.

Even when Paige was only a few meters away, helmet under one arm, hair damp with sweat at her temples — she still felt too far.

And Azzi didn’t like that.

She didn’t say anything, of course. Not with the team crowding around, not with engineers sticking mics into their faces and media staff ushering them toward interviews. So she kept her head down. She signed the papers. She gave the sound bites. And when it was finally over — when the day had burned itself out and the sun dipped low behind the dunes — Dr. Liao’s assistant found them in the paddock.

Just a routine check. A post-break wellness evaluation. For both of them.

Which was fine. Boring, even. Azzi had nothing to report. She’d gotten sleep, eaten well, even managed a few hikes in Colorado that didn’t leave her knees screaming. Her vitals were perfect. No issues, no fatigue. Dr. Liao nodded, pleased, and made a note on her tablet.

And then it was Paige’s turn.

Dr. Liao was gentle, but thorough. There was history to consider — Paige’s crash before the summer break had almost been enough to warrant concussion protocol (It should have. Paige just ignored the doctors). She’d been cleared for this race, obviously. Otherwise she wouldn’t be in the car. But Liao still asked the questions.

“How’s your head?”

“Fine,” Paige said, without hesitation.

“Any nausea? Sensitivity to light?”

“No.”

“Sleep disruptions?”

“No.”

“Memory issues?”

“No.”

Dr. Liao studied her for a second. Paige’s expression didn’t move.

Azzi did her best not to roll her eyes.

Because Paige was lying. Not about everything — but enough. Enough for Azzi to know she was brushing symptoms under the rug. She’d seen the way Paige blinked harder under the bright lights in the garage. The way she’d rubbed the bridge of her nose after second practice. The tightness in her jaw when she thought no one was looking.

Azzi knew Paige. Knew how good she was at convincing people she was fine even when she wasn’t.

And it pissed her off. Just a little.

But she stayed quiet.

Eventually, Dr. Liao cleared her, if only with a subtle note to monitor and check again after Quali. And just like that, the session was over.

They walked out into the narrow hallway between medical and hospitality, neither of them saying much. The sun was setting fast now, slanting gold through the paddock windows.

Azzi was halfway through reaching for her phone when Paige said quietly, “Can we get food?”

Azzi blinked, a little surprised. Paige didn’t look at her — not directly. Just kept walking, slowly, voice a notch lower than usual.

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t even really a suggestion. More like a reach.

Azzi studied her for a beat. Paige was tired — she could see it now, beneath the bravado and the sunglasses and the pressed polo. Her shoulders were still tense from the car, and her eyes had that faint glaze that came from staring at telemetry for hours.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. There’s a restaurant in the hotel.”

“Okay,” Paige said, and something about the way her voice dropped again — quiet, like relief — made Azzi’s chest go warm and tight at the same time.

They didn’t talk as they made their way to the car. They didn’t need to.

But something had shifted — small, subtle. Like a gear had finally clicked back into place.

Azzi didn’t know what Paige would say over dinner. If she’d finally open up. If she’d deflect and pretend like always.

But for the first time all day, she didn’t feel like she was driving alone.

–

They ended up not bothering with the restaurant.

Paige had looked at the elevator buttons like they were a puzzle she didn’t have the energy to solve, and Azzi didn’t feel like pretending to enjoy lukewarm hotel pasta while surrounded by stiff-backed diners and wandering photographers.

Instead, they took the quiet route: room service menus tossed onto the bed, shoes kicked off in opposite corners, and phones left somewhere between the floor and the windowsill.

Azzi’s room was on the twelfth floor. Not penthouse, but close. High enough to see the curve of the sea on clear days. Tonight it was dark, low clouds rolling in over the dunes. The sky looked heavy.

Their food came in less than twenty minutes, wheeled in by a teenager who looked like he was trying not to trip over his own feet at the sight of two Ferrari drivers sharing a hotel room. Paige tipped him before Azzi could move. She didn’t say anything about it.

Dinner was unremarkable — a grilled chicken sandwich for Paige, a salad bowl for Azzi that she only ate half of. Neither of them was particularly hungry. Not really. It was just a thing to do with their hands. Something to fill the space.

Azzi didn’t ask until Paige had finished most of her sandwich. Her head was leaned back against the headboard, one leg bent, hotel slippers on. The sleeves of her polo were rolled just slightly up her arms. It looked natural. Comfortable.

Azzi set her fork down.

“So,” she said, quiet, careful. “Headaches are better, huh?”

Paige blinked. Her jaw shifted like she was debating whether to lie again.

“They’re not gone,” she said finally. “But yeah. A lot better.”

Azzi watched her. “And the light stuff?”

Paige hesitated. “Still happens sometimes.”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. That one lingers.”

She wasn’t saying it just to say it. She’d had a concussion once — Suzuka, her first year in F1. A tire wall, a misjudged braking point, and three days of brutal nausea and floating vision. She hadn’t admitted it at the time, of course. But she’d remembered the way it felt. The way it stayed.

Paige didn’t say much else. She just pushed her plate a few inches away and leaned back again, letting her phone rest flat on her stomach.

Azzi didn’t push. She could tell Paige was spent — not in the physical way, but that mental burnt-out silence she slipped into when her brain had been on fire all day and needed something stupid to cool it off.

Sure enough, within a few minutes, Paige was on TikTok. Earbuds in. One in, one out. Azzi didn’t even notice at first, until Paige snorted — an actual laugh, low and surprised — and nudged her foot.

Azzi looked over.

“What?”

Paige turned the phone toward her, grinning faintly. “Someone made an edit.”

Azzi squinted at the screen. It was an F1 fancam — clips of the two of them stitched together to some overdramatic song about tension and unsaid feelings. Garage glances. Post-race hugs. Press conference smirks. All edited in glossy, high-contrast color correction and captioned in shaky all-caps.

Azzi leaned closer, chewing the inside of her cheek as she read.

Paige tapped the caption. “Read it.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but obliged, deadpan: “they hate each other so bad that it’s sexy as hell.”

Paige broke into a full laugh then — not loud, but real. Her head tilted back against the headboard, and she smiled like it wasn’t something she had to think about.

Azzi didn’t laugh, but she smiled too.

She didn’t know what this was — them, like this. Quiet. Not fighting. Not faking. Just… here.

It wasn’t complicated. But maybe it was something.

She didn’t need a caption to tell her that.

–

Race day at Zandvoort was uneventful, which, in Formula One terms, was nearly a gift.

No crashes. No surprise rain. No pit stop disasters or last-lap tire blowouts. Just a clean, controlled 72 laps around a twisty Dutch circuit with more orange smoke than actual drama.

Paige finished fourth. Azzi, fifth.

It wasn’t great. But it wasn’t bad either.

The team radios had been calm, almost boring. Fred had come over the line once — just once — with an even-toned directive: Hold positions. No fighting.

Paige had been ahead by a few seconds at that point. Azzi could’ve pushed. Would’ve, maybe, on a different weekend. But her tires weren’t fresh and her car wasn’t magic and she knew when to live to fight another day. So she sat behind her teammate and took the points.

22 total for Ferrari. Solid haul.

But now? Now they were back in the paddock, the post-race haze still clinging to their skin and hair like sweat and champagne residue, and the meeting room smelled like engine oil and air conditioning.

Azzi sat in the middle of a long glass table, hair still damp from her driver’s room shower, Mateo on one side of her, Fred on the other. Across the table sat Paige, elbow on the armrest, eyes half-lidded like she was bored already. Luka leaned in to speak to her every so often, murmuring something Azzi couldn’t hear.

Fred cleared his throat.

“Monza,” he said, which was the only word necessary to command the room’s attention. “We’ve got the car. And we’ve got the drivers.”

The weight of that hung for a second.

Azzi knew what it meant. So did Paige. They’d been in this position before, only not quite like this. Not with the standings as tight as they were. Not with Ferrari actually expecting them to win, not hoping.

Paige had scored more points in the Netherlands. Which meant that now — after months of clawing her way up — she was one single championship point behind Azzi.

One.

Azzi should’ve felt threatened, probably. But she didn’t. Not really. If anything, she felt… awake. Like the season was finally breathing down their necks for real.

Fred continued. “You know how important Monza is. You know what it means to this team. This car was built for the straights — we’ve been saying it all year. You two kept it clean today, and that’s good. But Monza’s not about clean. It’s about finishing first.”

He paused. “And second.”

Azzi felt the burn of it — that Ferrari expectation. It wasn’t new. But it was heavy in a way that always seemed heavier here, in red, under the weight of a tifosi-filled grandstand and every Italian sponsor who fancied themselves a team principal for the weekend.

“There are going to be eyes on us,” Fred said. “From inside and out. We need results.”

Mateo nodded beside her, sliding his tablet around to show some figures — wind tunnel improvements, tweaks to the rear wing, the new engine mapping that would open them up on the DRS straights. Azzi took it in, quiet but sharp-eyed.

Paige didn’t ask questions, but Azzi could see her tapping a pattern against her thigh — a tiny rhythm she only did when she was deep in her own head.

Fred looked at them both now.

“You two have gotten good at toeing the line,” he said. “But Monza’s not about points anymore. Not about strategy. Not this year.”

He looked at Paige. “If you’re ahead, finish ahead.”

Then to Azzi. “If you’re ahead, stay ahead.”

Azzi just nodded. There wasn’t much to say.

When the meeting wrapped, the engineers peeled off first, muttering to each other about sim time and cooling ducts. Fred stood, gave them a final nod, and left without ceremony — the kind of exit that told you he expected them to deliver without needing a damn pep talk.

It was just the two of them now. Azzi and Paige. Left behind in a room that had gone quiet too fast.

Paige pushed her chair back and stood, arms crossed, still looking every bit like the girl who’d just driven an entire race without breaking a sweat.

Azzi raised an eyebrow.

“Fourth place,” she said.

Paige smirked. “You’re welcome for the points.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “I could’ve taken you.”

“Yeah?” Paige tilted her head. “Guess we’ll never know.”

The thing was — Azzi knew she was right.

But Monza was coming. Home turf. Flat-out speed. And only one point between them now.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

–

The air in Monza buzzed different.

Not louder. Not even heavier. Just… sharper. Finer. Like the entire track had been scrubbed down to the grain and polished in Ferrari red, every sound bouncing twice off the barriers and settling in the bones. This wasn’t just another Grand Prix. This was the Grand Prix.

Home race. Temple of Speed. The place where miracles happened and legends were made or broken at the apex of Parabolica.

Azzi knew the pressure before she even landed. Knew it in the pit of her stomach, the way she always knew things she didn’t need to be told. The whispers. The media tension. The sponsors with private suites and fake smiles. The team principals who circled like hawks around each garage.

She handled it. She always did.

So did Paige.

That was the thing — whatever they’d done in the break, whatever they’d said or hadn’t said, they were back to being what they’d always been on track. Razor-edged and separate. Focused. Locked in. Like nothing else existed the second the helmet went on.

And the helmets — God, the helmets. Ferrari had let them pick the colors this weekend, in honor of the near-all-white car that paid tribute to the Scuderia’s earliest years. A throwback. An homage. Whatever you wanted to call it.

Azzi’s helmet was soft pink with white accents, clean and subtle, sharp where it needed to be. She hadn’t told anyone why she’d chosen pink. She didn’t need to.

Paige’s was lilac — almost silver under the Monza sun. Not loud. Just… unexpected. Understated. Cool. Very Paige.

Together, in their white fireproofs and red accents, they looked like two halves of something calculated.

Qualifying day brought with it a heat that shimmered off the asphalt like a dare. Azzi stood at the edge of the garage, engine rumble in her chest, helmet under one arm, watching the clouds hover behind the paddock. They weren’t going to interfere. They were just there to spectate, like everyone else.

The Ferrari was fast.

Shockingly fast.

They’d expected improvements — Monza was the race the car had been built for — but this? This was something else. This was a weapon on wheels. The straight-line speed alone was enough to punch a hole in the air and never look back.

Azzi felt it in Free Practice. So did Paige. The lap times were low. The tire wear was minimal. They weren’t fighting the track — they were floating over it, slicing through turns 6 and 7 like they had grip written into their blood.

But qualifying was a different beast.

First run went well. Clean. Azzi went fastest initially, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Paige hadn’t even gone out yet. Luka always held her back for traffic. Mateo glanced at Azzi after her run and gave her the familiar, unreadable engineer nod. The one that said, “Good, but don’t get comfortable.”

Second run, Q2, they were within two-tenths of each other. Azzi was smoother through turn 10. Paige was faster on the straight. They both knew it, even if no one said anything.

Then came Q3.

The big show.

Azzi went out first, nailed every sector, and took provisional pole.

The lap had felt like silk. Perfect entry into Turn One. No wobble through turns 4 or 5. The rear stuck like glue into turn 7 and opened up like a dream into the straight. It was the kind of lap that made you believe in the car, in the team, in yourself.

She parked it in the pit box and took off her gloves, eyes flicking to the screen.

Purple, purple, purple.

For now.

Then Paige went out.

Azzi didn’t need the timing monitor to know it was a good lap. She could feel it — from the sound of the throttle, the way the garage fell silent, every mechanic and engineer listening with the kind of reverence they usually saved for podiums.

Then the board lit up.

Purple, purple, purple.

Final sector: fastest of anyone. By two-hundredths.

Pole position: Paige Bueckers.

Azzi let out a breath. Didn’t even realize she’d been holding it.

On the other side of the garage, Paige pulled in, visor still down, engine ticking as it cooled. Luka came over the radio and said something only she could hear, but whatever it was made her laugh — quick and short and low.

She climbed out of the car like she’d just walked off a street corner. Calm. Loose. The purple helmet under one arm like it belonged there.

Azzi watched her from the monitor wall. Just for a second.

She wasn’t angry. Not exactly. Pole was pole. It could’ve been either of them. But the way Paige looked right now — like she expected it — made something churn low in her stomach.

Confidence was dangerous.

Paige had it in spades.

And tomorrow, they’d both have clean air.

Front row, Ferrari one-two.

Monza.

Game on.

–

The Monza crowd was electric, and the Ferraris lit the fuse.

It had started clean. Paige on pole. Azzi beside her. Front row. Home race. Red everywhere. Real red — the kind that lived in flags and banners, not just sponsorship decals. The kind of red that vibrated when the engines started and roared like a religion when the lights went out.

The first corner was textbook. Azzi tucked in right behind Paige, both Ferraris making it through the chicane without drama, the McLarens too far back to threaten. From there, it was clear: this wasn’t going to be a race for position. This was a race for pride. For the championship lead. For each other.

Lap after lap, they pushed. Hard. The kind of hard that made your hands sweat inside your gloves. That made your neck ache in the third stint. That made the team radios go quieter, not louder, because the engineers knew they couldn’t really manage them right now. They could only monitor.

“Paige’s pace looks like a one-stop,” Mateo said into Azzi’s ear around lap twelve. “She’s starting to lift through turn 10.”

Azzi didn’t answer at first. She was adjusting a brake bias setting with one hand and flicking her DRS closed with the other. Her eyes were locked on the faint shimmer of red in the distance — Paige, just outside the DRS window. She had been there for five laps. No closer. No farther.

“Copy,” Azzi said eventually. “Tell me when she boxes. I’ll follow.”

A beat. Then Mateo, dry: “You two should probably just get married.”

Azzi snorted. “I’ll propose if I pass her in pit lane.”

They went with the one-stop.

It wasn’t strategic genius — just a necessity. The car was quick on mediums, and track position mattered here more than almost anywhere. The McLarens were falling behind. Ten seconds. Then fifteen. This race was theirs alone.

Azzi finally got close again on lap twenty-four, just before the stops. Paige had been backing her up subtly, taking the corners wider, slowing entry speed to ruin her air. But Azzi knew the tricks. She’d done the same to Paige in Austria.

She ducked around the outside in turn 7 and nearly made it stick. The rear of the car twitched just slightly, the gravel taunting her, and Paige closed the door — not aggressively, just enough to remind Azzi who had track position.

They pitted one lap apart. Paige first. Azzi right after.

The outlaps were chaos — warm tires, heavy fuel still, and just enough wind picking up at Turn Three to make the front wing feel loose.

Azzi came out behind again. Just behind.

And then the race became something else.

It was the kind of fight they hadn’t had in months. Since Miami, before the break. Before hotel rooms and private flights and secrets. Before TikToks made them go viral for sharing water bottles and brushing shoulders in the garage. Before the way Azzi looked at Paige had changed from rivalry to… whatever this was.

They raced clean, but hard. There were no team orders. None would’ve been followed anyway.

Paige left space. Azzi took it. Azzi attacked through turn four and Paige held her off in turn ten. Then Paige defended into Turn One and Azzi nearly dove on her. Inches apart, no contact. Pure trust. Or something close to it.

They swapped positions twice more — once through sheer ERS timing, and once because Azzi went purple in sector two and Mateo told her to “stop playing nice.”

But Paige was holding something back. Always, always holding something back. She’d been nursing her tires for twenty laps and it showed in the final five. Her car came alive again just as Azzi’s started to slip.

The last lap came fast. Too fast.

Azzi was in DRS range but only just. She caught the rear wing coming out of the second Lesmo and knew that if she didn’t go for it in turn 11, she wasn’t going to get the chance again.

She lined it up. Wide entry. Early throttle.

But Paige had launched earlier. Perfect exit. Enough to keep her ahead.

Azzi crossed the finish line three-tenths behind her.

Three-tenths.

Close enough to taste the carbon dust from Paige’s rear wing. Close enough to count the track marbles dotting her diffuser. But not close enough.

Still, the fans loved it.

The whole straight erupted in applause. For Ferrari. For both of them.

And Azzi, hands on the wheel, staring at the cool-down screen in front of her, finally exhaled. The kind of breath you didn’t know you were holding until the checkered flag waved.

Mateo came over the radio.

“2nd. Amazing drive, Az. You gave her hell.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She just let the silence fill the cockpit.

Then: “She’s the leader now, yeah?”

“Yes,” Mateo said. “We’ll think about that next week.”

Azzi nodded once, not that anyone could see it. “Alright. Next week.”

–

The post-race media was exhausting. It always was at Monza. Flashbulbs, press pens, microphones shoved in every direction. Paige handled it like she always did — calm, smiling, hands on hips in her race suit with the light purple helmet at her feet. She didn’t gloat. Didn’t need to.

Azzi kept it tight. Professional. Said all the right things.

“We raced hard. That’s what people want to see.”

“Yes, I think we can bounce back.”

“I’m proud of the team. The car was incredible.”

And then finally, they were done.

The sun was starting to dip behind the paddock towers when Luka found them in the debrief room and tossed a folded piece of paper onto the table. “There’s a party tonight,” he said. “Private one. Team only. Some important sponsors are coming. You two are expected.”

Paige looked up from her water bottle. “Expected?”

“Celebration,” Luka said, shrugging. “It’s Monza. We won.”

Azzi met Paige’s eyes across the table.

It wasn’t about the race anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

A party, then.

Jew a few points between them.

One week off.

And a long season left to go.

–

The Monza night was warm, the kind that clung to your skin even after the sun had gone down. Somewhere beyond the Ferrari hospitality suite, fans still lined the fences, hoping for one last glimpse of the red suits, the miracle lap, the miracle finish. But inside the party, it was just team now — team and sponsors, catered food and strong drinks, and a playlist that hadn’t been updated since the 2010s.

Azzi stood near the long bar, sleeves of her Ferrari sweatshirt shoved halfway up her forearms, a pair of black shorts stopping just above her mid thigh. Her hair was still a little damp from the shower she’d taken post-race, and there was something about the hum of the celebration that didn’t quite touch her.

Paige was close. As she always was lately.

Not in a clingy way. Not in a way that screamed anything specific. Just… close enough that Azzi noticed when she stepped away to grab another drink, and close enough that she noticed when Paige came back without one.

Paige didn’t party with coworkers. That was something Azzi was learning. Oh, she could party — she’d seen it firsthand in Colorado. Paige had game when she wanted it. But this? With engineers in polos and sponsors in button-downs and camera phones sneaking in between fake toasts? Paige wasn’t at home here.

So she stayed close.

They made their rounds — smiled for a few pictures, shook hands with people who pretended to know what “tire deg” meant, accepted compliments from VIPs who asked the same questions in slightly different accents. Azzi took a few sips of a spritz she didn’t really want. Paige nursed a bottle of water like she was keeping score.

Their PR director eventually approached, all efficient smiles and phone in hand. “Can I borrow you both for just a minute?” she said, motioning toward a side area where a few higher-ups had gathered.

Azzi knew what that meant.

She didn’t expect Dirk van Asshole to be standing there when they arrived.

But of course he was. Hair pushed back like a 90s teen idol, linen shirt unbuttoned to an offensive degree, watch too big and too gold. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something that definitely wasn’t water. He smiled too easily, like he thought they were all in on a joke that didn’t exist.

“Azzi,” he said, stepping in with the kind of friendliness that made her want to physically recoil. “What a race.”

“Thanks,” she said, too flat to hide it.

“And Paige,” he added, like he was just remembering her name. “What a finish. I mean — we all thought Azzi had it in the bag.”

Paige’s smile didn’t move. “Guess not.”

Dirk laughed, too loud. “Well. She’s still the people’s champion, yeah? Always a favorite.”

Azzi felt Paige glance her way. One of those side glances that wasn’t really a glance at all. More like a signal.

Get me out of here.

Azzi didn’t hesitate. She blinked slowly, dropped her gaze to the floor like she was trying to focus, then lifted a hand to her forehead.

“Sorry,” she said quietly. “Headache. I think… I think I need to sit down.”

Dirk’s eyes widened — just enough to confirm the trick worked. “Totally fine. You’ve had a long day. I’ll grab you some water.”

“No need,” Paige said quickly, hand already grazing Azzi’s elbow. “I’ll take her to the bathroom. She just needs air.”

Dirk blinked. “I could—”

“You couldn’t,” Paige muttered under her breath, just loud enough that Azzi caught it.

They left the circle with enough polite nods to make it believable, slipping through a small hallway toward the guest bathrooms.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, Paige leaned against the marble counter, exhaled hard, and said, “I’m so done with that man.”

Azzi laughed softly. “No, he sucks.”

“He talks like he’s in a reality show,” Paige muttered, tugging her sleeves over her hands. “And not a good one. One of those ones where everyone ends up engaged after four episodes.”

“He’s not even a sponsor or a driver,” Azzi added. “He’s just, like… related to someone important.”

“So was Napoleon.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“Exactly.”

They didn’t get much further. The door creaked open and in stumbled a girl who couldn’t have been older than nineteen, wearing a mini dress that looked stolen from an influencer’s closet and a pair of heels that were definitely not made for standing. She squinted at them, half-recognizing, then muttered something about champagne and disappeared into a stall.

Paige raised her brows.

Azzi nodded once.

Time to go.

They slipped out of the bathroom like nothing had happened, back through the suite with practiced smiles and quiet waves. The party was still going strong, but they walked out unbothered, not making a scene. Just two drivers leaving a team function, still in uniform, still technically on the clock.

They were halfway down the corridor back to the elevators when Azzi’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out, thumbed open her notifications, and froze.

“What?” Paige asked.

Azzi turned the screen so Paige could see.

A photo.

A little grainy, but clear enough. Paige, slightly turned toward Azzi at the bar. Azzi leaning in to say something. Both smiling. Both unguarded. The caption was dumb — something about chemistry and Ferrari fire — but the tweet had gone viral in under ten minutes. Thousands of likes. Hundreds of retweets.

Paige blinked. “Already?”

“We didn’t even make it to the elevator.”

They stared at it for a second longer.

Then Azzi hit the side button, locking her phone.

Paige didn’t say anything else, but she smiled. Real this time.

And Azzi, without realizing, smiled back.

–

It was almost midnight when they finally made it back to Azzi’s room. Her hair was up now, loosely twisted into a bun that had started falling apart the second they left the party. She’d kicked off her sneakers near the hotel door, and now her sweatshirt hung off one shoulder, oversized and a little too warm for the air conditioning she’d turned up as high as it could go.

The TV was on, volume low — something stupid in Italian she wasn’t even pretending to follow. Paige was stretched out on the bed, half under the covers and still in her Ferrari shorts. Her legs were bare and tanned and pulled up at the knee, phone balanced on her stomach, one earbud in, the other dangling.

Azzi flopped down beside her, not quite on top of her, but close. Her legs slid under Paige’s, her bare foot brushing the side of Paige’s calf as she tugged a blanket over them. The room smelled like clean skin and leftover hair product. Not unpleasant. Just lived-in.

She unlocked her phone without thinking. Scrolled to TikTok.

And immediately choked on a laugh.

“Oh my God.”

Paige glanced over with one eye still on her own screen. “What.”

“We have ship edits.”

That got her attention.

Paige lifted her head slightly, frowning, until Azzi turned her phone toward her. Onscreen, the now-viral party photo zoomed slowly toward them with the dramatic flair only TikTok could summon. Some soft indie track played in the background — something with too much reverb and lyrics about fate and stars and “the way she looks at her.” Then came the slow dissolve into clips from the paddock, podium glances, moments where they brushed shoulders walking to the media pen.

The caption read:

“She looks at her like she’s the checkered flag.”

With a string of red heart emojis and a #F1Lesbians tag thrown in for good measure.

Azzi blinked. “I—okay, the effort is wild.”

“There’s music,” Paige said, dry as hell.

Azzi laughed, scrolling to another. This one had a heavier beat, more edits cut to radio calls — Mateo’s voice shouting “Paige is right behind you!” followed by a slow-mo of them walking through the tunnel in Miami. A pause, then a hard cut to the photo from tonight again. It was the final frame.

Azzi snorted. “That one’s a little dramatic.”

“They’re all dramatic,” Paige said, leaning her chin lightly on Azzi’s shoulder now. “We drive cars in circles. This is what people do to make it seem deep.”

Azzi kept scrolling, letting the edits autoplay. They were everywhere. Some were sweet. Others full-on romantic. A few were just reaction videos — fans freaking out, screaming into cameras, holding up their phones with wide eyes. One girl was fully crying. Actual tears. The caption just read: “I KNEW THEY WERE ENDGAME.”

Azzi raised a brow. “Endgame?”

Paige shrugged. “Bold of them to assume I make it to the end.”

Azzi tilted her head toward her. “You planning to DNF this storyline or…?”

Paige made a low sound in her throat. “I don’t know. I think I might be in a multi-season arc.”

Azzi smirked, but the words made her stomach flip a little. Not in a bad way.

They kept watching, switching between TikTok and Twitter now. The comments were a trip. Half were cute — people talking about how they always knew, how the looks in their eyes were “different.” Others were strange. Intense. Too much. A few men had decided to throw in their opinions, which, unsurprisingly, made the vibe go downhill fast.

“Why are there always men in the lesbian edits?” Azzi muttered, flicking past a comment that started with “this is why girls are single these days…”

Paige didn’t respond right away.

Her hand, warm and absent-minded, was tracing circles near Azzi’s knee under the blanket. Nothing too serious. Just… casual. Thoughtless, but not cold. Familiar. Her other hand came up to tug lightly at a piece of Azzi’s hair that had fallen from her bun.

Azzi paused.

Paige wasn’t like this all the time. Not even most of the time. But when she was — when she let her guard drop for even half a night — it felt like gravity shifted. Like Paige wasn’t just near her, but orbiting her. A little too close. A little too much.

But it didn’t feel bad.

Just confusing. In that warm, electric way that made Azzi forget what she was even watching.

“Don’t let Fred see these,” Paige murmured suddenly.

Azzi laughed. “Because?”

Paige sat up a little, propping her head on her fist. Her face was blank, but her eyes weren’t.

“Because he’ll ask if we’re ‘managing our brand well enough,’” she said, but her tone was light — like a joke.

Only it wasn’t really a joke.

Azzi didn’t say anything for a second. She just watched Paige, her face half-lit by the blue glow of the screen, the corner of her mouth turned in that almost-smile that meant she was pretending something wasn’t bothering her.

Azzi broke the silence. “He’d survive.”

Paige didn’t look up. “Would he, though?”

Azzi closed the app.

“Okay. Then we don’t let Fred see them.”

Paige met her eyes finally. Something in her gaze softened — not exactly gratitude, but something close to it. Relief maybe. Or something she wasn’t ready to name.

Azzi pulled the blanket tighter around both of them, settled back into the pillows. Paige adjusted too, falling in line like she always did, head dropping next to hers, arm brushing hers, breath slowing down with the quiet.

The room was still now. The edits were gone. The fans, the tweets, the noise — all of it faded into the low hum of hotel air and the gentle weight of Paige’s arm resting against her own.

Azzi stared at the ceiling for a long time before turning off the lamp.

Whatever they were — whatever people wanted to call it — she didn’t know. But she knew this: Paige had stayed.

And that mattered more than anything the internet could say.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #pazzi fics #dallas wings

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f0rlorn · 3 months ago

Text

falling for ya!

yuji itadori x fem!reader, (one sided) nobara kugisaki x reader, teen beach movie au

follows the plot of teen beach movie, some characters have been mischaracterized for the sake of plot.

warnings: implied misogyny like in the movie (i'm aware they wouldn't actually act like this, but it's an au), sort of one sided crush, reader acts like she's lobotomized, and weird pacing tbh!!

word count: 4.4k- that's a personal record

Life was simple. You liked biking, big hair, leather boots, and boys, things every other biker girl enjoyed. Life was perfect. You didn't have to make decisions or do anything complicated- with a flutter of your glittery eyes, boys lined up to do it all for you. The only thing that got in the way of your perfect little life was the band of surfers that loved to hang around the same joint your brother and his friends did, Big Momma's.

In the midst of summer, the rival surfer and biker gangs spewed fiery hot hatred, blood boiling from the mere sight of the other. Each wanted the spot for their own, willing to go to bizarre lengths, all for a fish fry and a soda. You didn't mind the surfers, they didn't bother you in your pristine, pretty bubble as you twirled through life in a girlish daze. But your brother, Aoi, was territorial. He wanted the surfers out.

Your brother and his friends made a big spectacle out of their entrance, revving their engines obnoxiously as a warning to Big Momma's patrons, much to her dismay. She had reprimanded him time and time again about scaring away customers, but it always fell on deaf ears. Besides, they were trying to scare those pesky Surfers away all the time.

Pulling up your thigh-high, pastel pink boots, you rolled your eyes dismissively as your brother dramatically swung the chipped wooden doors to Big Momma's wide open. The sun shone brightly behind him, casting a menacing shadow on his face. The upbeat, harmony-intensive music that had been playing died down as the room full of surfers looked threatened by your mere presence there.

"Surfers. Thought I smelled somethin' fishy," Todo remarked, crossing his arms. A girl in a black swimsuit pushed through the crowd, standing face to face with your brother. More accurately, face to chest, as Aoi had a decent amount of height on her. Though, that didn't seem to intimidate her in the slightest.

"Rodents. I knew I should have laid some traps," she seethed, eyes squinted behind a pair of glasses. "Thought you all were exterminated."

"And I thought you surfers were all washed up," Noritoshi retorted from over Todo's shoulder.

"'Yea. You should make like the ocean and wave goodbye," Nishimiya giggled, making a wave motion with her hand. Deadpanning suddenly, she continued. "'Cause we want this place to ourselves!" You nodded from Todo's side, mindlessly encouraging their childish antics with a pop of your bubblegum.

"The girls don't lie, Maki." Maki was beginning to object, growing dangerously close to Todo's face with a pointed finger, ready to snap, before a boy in an unbuttoned shirt and messy, pink hair, pushed his way through.

"I'm sorry, is there a problem? You guys don't own this restaurant."

"Yeah, I'll show you the problem, punk-" Before the encounter could grow violent, you scurried over to the jukebox, making a show of slotting a coin in and bumping the machine with your hip to start up the music. Both Todo and the surfer boy stared dumbfounded at your attempt to diffuse the situation, but settled nonetheless, giving each other one last mutual glare before settling on opposite sides of the joint.

You smiled, clapping your hands together in satisfaction. You were the self-proclaimed queen of peace and de-escalation. "Let's just get our lunch and go, Aoi, it's not worth all the fuss. C'mon, we'll be back later," You reassured him with a smile. Who was he to say no to you?

That night, Big Momma was letting you and the girls put on a little performance to entertain her Friday night rush crowd. Your red, polka dot dress looked absolutely darling on you. Beaming, you indulged yourself in a little spin, adoring the girly way the dress twirled. Not to mention, your hair looked great. You had gotten your friend Miwa to tease it for you, a shiny headband accentuating the meticulous hairstyle.

Settling into the comfy corner booth, you took a swig of a fruity soda, attempting to soothe your vocal cords before you had to sing in just a few minutes. "Hey sis, those surfers weren't bothering you earlier, were they? Saw 'em eyeballing Mai over here," Todo questioned, gaining an affirmative nod from Mai as she was mentioned.

"No, of course not!" You assured. "You know, they're not so bad."

"All surfers are bad!" Nishimiya protested, causing the rest of the table to chime in in agreement. You rolled your eyes with a breathy laugh at their extreme loathing of the other breed.

"Okay, well, we gotta go. It's almost time, come on!" You urged, coaxing Miwa, Mai, and Nishimiya from their seats to come on the stage with you.

The set was going great, your friends were dancing and having a good time. You even got some of the surfers to dance as well. It wasn't until you twirled, heel catching on the edge of the stage, that you felt any sort of dismay that night. You held your breath, preparing yourself for the painful, embarrassing fall that surprisingly never came. When you opened your eyes, you were met with the handsome face of the surfer who was arguing with your brother earlier.

Yuji was a stereotypical surfer boy, a smile plastered on his face for the entirety of the summer. He always said his first love was the water, the splashing of the waves a sweet siren song pulling him in. What was sweeter than that siren song, though, was your melodic voice that night. It was only because you lured him closer to the stage that he was able to be there as you tripped, arms reaching out on instinct to scoop you up from midair.

"Nice of you to drop in," he mused.

"You saved my life," you beamed, eyes lighting up. The boy laughed, suddenly nervous as you spoke to him. "You're my hero!"

"Not really. I mean, the stage is only two feet up," Yuji nodded his head in the direction of the stage, "the worst you would have done is break a nail," he awkwardly joked, careful to set you down on your two feet, making sure you were steady before removing his hands from your hips.

"I guess I literally fell for you, huh? I'm Y/N."

"Yuji. Your knight in shining board shorts," He playfully continued.

"That's a long last name you have, Mister Knight in Shining Board Shorts," you giggled, causing him to let out a breathy laugh along with you. Your awkward banter was quickly interrupted when a black-haired recluse stole him away with urgency and an apology.

"It was really nice falling into you, Yuji! I hope we can do it again sometime," you bid farewell with a small wave, rather disappointed to see him go. But the disappointment did nothing to quell the butterflies you felt from the wholesome interaction.

You were so enamored with Yuji that you didn't even realize the set was over, your friends waiting to the side for you expectantly.

"What was that all about?" Pried Miwa, clasping your hands excitedly.

"I don't know- I just fell and he caught me!"

"Yeah, and then you guys giggled with each other for like five minutes!" Nishimiya chimed in, the girls surrounding you curiously.

"It just happened! Do you think he likes me?" You queried, asking your friends in earnest for their opinion.

"Well with the way he was looking at you, I think he might love you," Mai teased.

"Plus, did you see his hand placement?! He was holding you bridal style. I think it's a sign," Nishimiya quipped with a poke to your arm. "Anyway, you're lucky Aoi didn't see. C'mon, they're outside by the fire." She tugged you along, the other girls following close by. The boys in question were clustered together on the moonlit beach, warming their hands by the flames contained within a metal barrel.

"Ladies," Noritoshi acknowledged as the four of you approached. You greeted them warmly, each settling into separate spots by the bonfire. Miwa cuddled close to Mechamaru, unsurprisingly. She had denied her feelings for him for a while now, but you knew that if he ever asked her out, she would agree with zero hesitation. You smiled at their subtle intimacy. It made you think of Yuji, and how you wished you could be that close to him again.

Yuji was an exceptional catch on your part. Or rather, he caught you. Seriously, the boy had very minimal flaws, if any. On top of being drop-dead gorgeous with perfectly sized biceps, he was gentlemanly, caring, and loyal to a fault. The only problem was that he was a surfer. It was practically forbidden to hang out with surfers, let alone date one. You knew your brother would whoop you upside the head if he found out that you had any plans to fraternize with the so-called enemy.

It was possible, though, that Yuji might not even ask you out. The mere prospect made you clammy with dread and disappointment. But that would be impossible! He referred to himself as your knight, he caught you, a biker girl, his supposed opposition, and handled you with much care, nonetheless. Asking you out was not outside of the realm of possibilities, just like your friends assured you. The overwhelming amount of thinking you were doing forced an exacerbated sigh out of you, sinking into the silky sand.

Later in the night, you caught sight of Yuji again. You couldn't decipher who he was with- possibly the boy from earlier- but it didn't make any difference. You knew you wanted to talk to him and get to know him further, and you typically got what you wanted from boys.

"Oh!" You exclaimed as the charming surfer who had saved you earlier grew closer. Pressing your manicured hands to his chest and leaning in close, you sang his praises once more. "Thanks again, Yuji, for catching me!" You were just about to introduce him to your brother and his friends, turning your head around, only to be met with the expectant stare of the gorgeous brunette he was with. You let out a little squeak, realizing that you might have been taking Yuji's banter the wrong way.

"Oh, bonkers. Are you two together? I would never take another girl's boy, I mean, that would be stealing," you explained apologetically, "and probably very hard to return." The girl cocked her head, struck with confusion at the outlandish assumption and near nonsensical ramblings. Realizing your claim, her eyes widened in distaste.

"Eh?! Me.. with him? No, of course not." She reeled back in disgust. "No, we were just walking." The girl explained, causing you to sigh in relief, a weight dropping off of your shoulders. If she was with him, you wouldn't dare lay a finger on Yuji. Sure, you enjoyed the male attention you received, but you would never seek it from a boy in a relationship. You always stayed true to "sisters before misters," no matter how cute the boy was.

"This is Nobara." Yuji looked rather offended at her extreme objection, grabbing your wrist to steal your attention once more. You looked at Nobara, smiling sweetly.

"So you wouldn't mind if Yuji and I went for a walk on the beach?" You asked, still wanting her permission despite her obvious friendship- and nothing more- with him. Once she gave you her blessing, you thanked her generously and wrapped your arm around Yuji's bicep.

The stars illuminated the two of you, walking along the secluded shoreline and learning that you had more in common than you had previously believed. "Y'know, I like you a lot. You're different from those other girls you hang out with- you're sweet." Yuji admitted, hands sheepishly resting in his pockets while you still clung to his arm.

"They're not as tough as they seem, really. Mai and Momo are like my older sisters, I grew up with them around. And Miwa's super sweet too, she's my closest friend," You explained, defending their honor. Sure, the Rodents wore a lot of black, leather, and chains, but that didn't reflect their complete character. While you knew your friends could be tough and independent, you had also seen them be vulnerable, gentle, and kind-hearted people.

"You're really courageous, by the way. Swooping in to save me like that? You truly are my hero," You gushed, leaning your head on his shoulder. He tensed at your forwardness, words coming out in a stutter.

"Courageous? Nah, I mean-" Upon noticing the kittenish glint in your eye, Yuji couldn't help but lean into your every word. "Maybe, I guess. I'm sure anyone would have done the same!"

"Well, not a surfer. We're not supposed to get along, y'know," you reminded him, shyly tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Of course a surfer. Who would ever want a smokin' girl like you to fall?" His words slipped out of his mouth before he had a chance to think of the implications- he had just called you hot. You were undeniably breathtaking, it was a fact. Your graciousness and amiability did nothing but add to your charm. In honesty, Yuji didn't mind that you were a surfer. He would take a chance with any girl, be it surfer, biker, bookworm, you name it. He only asked that they be pure of heart, kind, and thoughtful. All qualities that he admired in you.

A blush rose to his face as he heard you giggle at his blunt words. "C'mon Yuu- do you mind if I call you that? It's a cute nickname. Anyway, do you dance?" You asked, leading him to the field near Big Momma's, colorful lights strung up from palm trees, shiny cars intentionally parked there for people to see, displayed by their proud owners.

You took initiative, placing your hand on his shoulder and lacing your other hand with his. His hand soon found its resting spot on your hips, and you swayed to the upbeat music playing on a radio. Every once and a while, Yuji grew bold, spinning you around or lifting you by your hips. It was fun. You enjoyed spending time with him, and you couldn't think of a better way to spend it.

Though, it was growing quite late. Your brother would soon notice your prolonged absence and start looking for you, the girls would be waiting to kick off the slumber party you decided to host. Yuji noticed too, it seemed, as once the song came to an end, he stopped your swaying, holding you in place with a firm grasp on your hips. "Y'know, it's about time I returned you to your brother. He'll start to worry. Hold on, on second thought, maybe I just walk you to the door. It might be worse if he sees you've been with me all night." He bashfully acknowledged.

He did walk you back, his hand emboldened enough to hold your own on the way over, regardless of who saw the two of you. But even though Yuji claimed he didn't care that you were a biker, he was scared to run into your brother and even let out an involuntary sigh of relief when he managed to go the whole way without him spotting the two of you. He walked you over to his friends, Megumi and Nobara, leaning on a light blue convertible that you didn't think belonged to them.

"So, how'd it go?" Nobara queried, peering up at the two of you from her hunched position. You grinned in reply, leaning your head on Yuji's shoulder as a silent answer to her question. She nodded with a hum in return. An idea came to you suddenly. That didn't happen too often, so when you thought of it, you knew you had to act on it.

"Hey, Nobara! You should come to my pajama party!" You exclaimed, inviting her with amicable enthusiasm. You heard Megumi repeat your words, tone amused and somewhat taunting. You paid him no mind, though. "We have them all the time. I'm sure the other girls would love to meet you."

"Sure, Y/N," she agreed with a warm smile.

"Perfect! Just show up to my house around ten." You slipped her your address and bid farewell to the trio, leaving Yuji with a tender kiss on the cheek which left his friends snickering at his awkward, scrunched-up face.

When Nobara did show up, shuffling her feet at your doorstep, Mai, Miwa, Nishimiya, and yourself were already in your ruffly pajamas, poofy layers of chiffon hiding your figures and covering the tiny matching shorts. You felt guilty for not telling her that the four of you were matching already, as she appeared in a little pink satin set, a far contrast to what the rest of you were wearing. She ended up in another pair you had, the pastel yellow mixing quite nicely with the color palate that you all were already dressed in.

Nishimiya sat at your vanity, Mai behind her intensely teasing her hair. It was never quite big enough for Nishimiya's liking, though, and you heard her whine something about making it even while you were digging through your closet for something special. Miwa was sprawled over your bed on her stomach, legs bent at the knee so her feet could rest in the air. She was filing her nails, quite focused on sharpening them to a fine tip. That left Nobara sitting on the edge of your bed by her lonesome.

It's not that she felt out of place because you were too girly for her, she loved embracing her femininity- going shopping, wearing cute makeup and frilly dresses, the whole gist. It's just that she had been around Yuji and Megumi for so long, almost too long. She felt like she needed to spend some time around other girls. She wanted to get to know you better, too. You were so kind to her, so effortlessly pretty all of the time. It made her warm inside whenever you acknowledged her. It also made her quite bitter to see you so lovey-dovey with her annoyingly male friend. She wanted your attention for herself.

You squealed suddenly, pulling the most perfect pink dress out of your closet with a wide smile. "What do you think?" You held it up to your body, turning to face your friends who all gasped in delight, all except Nobara. "I want to wear this when I hang out with Yuji. His hair is pink, and this dress is pink, so whenever he looks in the mirror, he'll think of me!" You giggled, amused at your own genius.

"Why should a boy influence what you wear.. or anything you do? You should dress for yourself. You look good in everything you wear, really." You cocked your head at Nobara's sudden fuss. "Boys don't deserve it, especially Yuji. I don't think that dummy would notice the extra effort, he's too oblivious." You frowned, disappointed with her claim until Nishimiya spoke up.

"I mean, it's simple. A girl will only look at the dress. A boy will look at how she looks in her dress."

"Why not just ask him out yourself? If you want him, why wait?" Nobara wondered.

"I'm not sure how they do things where you're from, but here we ask a boy out without actually asking a boy out. Like with your eyes," You explained, covering the bottom half of your face to let your doe eyes do the work for you, serving as an example as you batted them. Nobara grew flustered as you did so, a blush rising on her face. "Besides, I've never had trouble in the boy department before."

"Sure. Whatever you say." She responded quietly. Well, if it worked on her, it would surely work on Yuji.

"You know him better than I do, Nobara. Do you think he would like it if I baked him a pie?" She agreed half-heartedly, still distracted by your glamour. "Hey, you should let us give you a makeover, biker style! I know you're used to those cute bikinis, but you would look great in leather."

The five of you made a fashion show out of it- each picking out a piece of their own to wear. For Nobara, you lent her a pair of tight leather pants and a white blouse, a red bandanna tied around her neck. You were right, she looked fantastic in leather. Her red bandanna complimented the form-fitting dress that you had slipped on, red lipstick to match. While Miwa worked on Nobara's makeup, perfecting the precise eyeliner, you and Mai teased her hair, making it poof up like Nishimiya's.

A fit of giggles erupted at the sight of the finished product. Nobara looked stunning, obviously, but she stood mightily uncomfortable in the high pumps and tight pants. She couldn't recall the last time she wasn't in beachwear or something summery. The dark clothing was a stark contrast to her normal aesthetic. As a final touch, you tucked a comically large red flower behind her ear and turned her around to face the mirror, letting her see herself. Her eyebrows raised in surprise, not expecting to like it as much as she did.

"I don't look half bad. You girls need a new addition to your biker gang anytime soon?" She joked, facing you with a smile.

"The more the merrier."

By morning, all the other girls had parted ways, leaving you and Nobara alone in your room. She was forced to endure your boy troubles. "It's like my heart's telling me one thing, but I feel like I have to do something else. I'm scared I'll disappoint everybody if I pursue things with Yuji. And I don't know what he thinks about the whole thing either."

"Well, half the time a guy won't tell you what he's thinking, just because it would involve more thinking." She teased, sneering at the prospect.

"But they make up for it by being cute. And boys!" You sang. Nobara chuckled tepidly, wary of your quick defense on their part. "Y'know, I feel like I could tell you anything," you changed the subject, piquing Nobara's interest. "There's this secret that I've never told anyone. Not ever!"

"I'll be the first to know?" She asked.

"Duh!" You interlocked your pinkie with hers. "Friends forever. Just promise not to tell."

"Friends forever," she repeated, tightening her grip slightly.

Dragging her over to your bed, you sighed before speaking. "I want to surf," you admitted, looking rather hesitant. Her eyes widened with slight surprise.

"Really? I wasn't expecting that. Thought it would be something a little more drastic."

"It's totally insane, I know," you chirped, ignoring her last comment for the sake of being dramatic. "If my brother ever found out, he would freak. He doesn't even go near the water. I think he's scared of the lighthouse," you spoke your immediate thoughts, causing Nobara to laugh a little through her nose.

"You shouldn't let your brother stop you from doing what you want to do. If you want to surf, try it. If you want to date Yuji, for some odd, odd reason, go for it!" She encouraged, with a genuine interest for your happiness. "Look, I could even get Yuji to teach you if you want," Nobara suggested, prompting a beaming grin from you.

You weren't sure you were even dressed appropriately for the day of. Nobara had lent you a cute swimsuit of hers since you had very limited options yourself. Your hair was done up all nice, and you arrived with a full face of makeup. You wanted to impress Yuji, but you soon realized that your appearance would not matter if it impaired you from effectively surfing with him. When he arrived, you were sat on a beach towel with a pout.

"What's up, buttercup?" Yuji greeted, setting his board down and taking a seat next to you. You then remembered that you wanted to ask him to go out with you, inspired by Nobara's eccentric outlook about doing anything that boys could do. Still, it was a frightening prospect. You went back and forth between asking him and remaining faithful to your traditional ways. But you managed to convince yourself to try something new for once.

"Yuji. Would you ever want to go steady?" You boldly asked, turning towards him with crossed arms. A blush rose to his face as he sputtered out a string of random words.

"I really like you, Y/N. I've told you this." Were the first coherent words he could come up with. "Of course I'd wanna." Your eyes lit up, overjoyed with his answer. Your hands clung to his forearm, body springing forward excitedly. You gave a silent thanks to Nobara for helping you gain the courage to ask him.

"Really? My brother doesn't scare you or anything?"

"I mean, he's a little spooky. But I could beat him if I had to. Besides, you're totally worth the fight," he proudly announced, causing you to lean into him further.

The two of you didn't get much surfing done that day. You unfortunately realized that in order to surf, you first had to learn how to swim, and you weren't exactly in the mood to drown today. So, you opted for a picnic on your beach towel with the little snacks you had brought just in case, as well as the pie you had baked just for him. He continued the conversation, mouth half full of food.

"So if I'm your knight, does that make you my princess?" He proposed, nudging your shoulder playfully.

"I guess so. And that also means that Aoi is the fire-breathing dragon guarding the castle." Yuji shivered jokingly. "Better yet, we're Romeo and Juliet!" You exclaimed. "How romantic."

"Without the death and tragedy stuff though, right?" He asked, concerned.

"Of course, silly," you smiled. "We'll live happily ever after."

Yuji was a Surfer. You were a Biker. Rival gangs from different sides of town. It was scary, yes, to think about how others would respond, especially the more impassioned of the groups. But you didn't have to listen to what others thought about you; their opinion was no longer relevant. No longer would you stick to the restricting role you were pushed into your whole life, you could break free from it now, like Nobara had taught. Plus, you would have Yuji with you throughout it all, there by your side to cherish and support you. It was like a fairy tale, and you would definitely be getting your happily ever after.

notes: yuji would totally call his gf "foxy babe." also, i apologize for this being kind of all over the place- i didn't know how i wanted it to end, sorry that it's rushed.

me sitting here convincing myself that the fifth grade level writing is completely intentional and plot relevant yessss hahaha

#yuji itadori x reader #jjk x reader #jjk #yuji itadori #itadori yuuji #yuuji x reader #yuji itadori x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #nobara kugisaki #jjk nobara #nobara x reader #nobara kugisaki x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen

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emeraldcrs · 3 months ago

Text

soldier boy × @soldiersgirl aestethic♡

5:12 a.m.

the city is still asleep. or at least pretending to be. outside, a cracked neon sign flickers weakly against the early morning haze. inside a dimly lit room, two bodies lie tangled beneath rough blankets, facing each other. only one of them is actually sleeping.

the other is very much not.

millie lies wide-eyed, staring up at the ceiling like it’s personally offended her.

ben is snoring again.

not the cute, sleepy kind of snore you hear in romantic comedies. no. he snores like a war machine. like a broken-down military truck that refuses to die quietly.

she groans softly and sits up. her fingers gently touch her temple. she sends out a subtle telepathic pulse toward ben's mind—just enough to calm the inner chaos, not enough to wake him.

instant silence.

he shifts in his sleep, murmuring something about "the goddamn 149th battalion" and "commie bastards," but the room is peaceful again.

millie lets out a breath.

– you’re lucky i love you, you nuclear chainsaw – she mutters before lying back down beside him.

sleep finally comes.

---

10:43 a.m. – mission time

they're standing outside an old vought warehouse, deep in the industrial zone. the concrete still hums faintly with leftover radiation. something that smells weirdly floral is leaking from the vents.

millie watches from the back while ben rages at the front gates.

– this whole goddamn operation is a joke! the whole world’s a joke! – he shouts, fists clenched, eyes glowing with heat.

kimiko steps back. frenchie starts muttering curses in four different languages. hughie looks like he’s seconds away from passing out.

– he’s doing it again – butcher grumbles. – gonna blow.

millie walks past them, unfazed. she’s the only one who can bring him back.

she stops in front of ben. his body vibrates with barely-contained power. his eyes are wild, red-hot. but the second she steps close, something changes.

– ben. that’s enough.

he doesn’t speak. not with words. but she knows he hears her.

she lifts her hand and places it against his chest, just above his heart. sends a wave of calm into him—like a quiet room in the middle of a battlefield. like breath. like her.

ben shudders once, then stills. the glow fades.

crisis averted.

as she turns to leave, he mutters behind her:

– if you weren’t here, i’d burn this place to the ground.

millie glances back, soft smile tugging at her lips.

– i know.

---

evening – back at the hideout

millie is curled up on the old leather couch when ben walks into the room, holding two mason jars of something suspiciously pink and slightly frothy.

– okay, don’t say anything – he starts immediately, holding the jars out like he’s diffusing a bomb. – i know the first three batches were... undrinkable. but i think i finally nailed the ratio. it’s not just matcha this time. i added ice. and real strawberries. and, uh... too much honey.

millie raises an eyebrow as she takes the jar.

– are you trying to perfect iced strawberry matcha for me… or for yourself?

ben frowns.

– i don’t even like it. it’s green and weird. just... refreshing. keeps my hands warm. i mean, cold. whatever.

she sips. pauses.

– okay, not terrible. this might actually be edible.

ben smirks proudly.

– i’m learning. like a real domestic bitch.

millie chuckles and shakes her head. this version of ben—grumbling, awkward, kind of proud of himself—it’s her favorite.

---

late night – back in bed

they lie close, bodies warm under the blankets. ben’s breathing slows as he drifts off. millie rests her head on his chest, fingers absentmindedly tracing the scars there.

and then, just before he slips into sleep, he says it.

a little differently every time. but always the same meaning.

– if anyone ever looked at you wrong... i swear, i’d start world war three.

millie smirks, eyes closed.

– i know, ben. but maybe don’t nuke the planet tonight. we’re out of strawberries.

he laughs—quiet and low. real. not forced or bitter.

– christ, how the hell did you end up being the only thing that matters?

millie doesn’t answer with words. she just sends the feeling: warmth, trust, the sense that someone finally gets him.

ben sighs. and for once—no snoring. no twitching. just peace.

millie watches him sleep, hand resting gently on his.

and for now, for this one night, the world doesn’t need saving. not while she has him.

tags: @soldiersgirl @bittersweetfig @briiverse @bejeweledinterludes @littlesoulshine @soldierboysdoll @cowboysandcigarettes @soangelbaby @sugardean @angelblqde @sunsbaby @thekhloediary @hischrrypie @pieandflannel @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @velvourne @fuckedupfate @rositaslabyrinth @mahi-wayy @jollyhunter @h8aaz @daylighted

#jensen ackles #soldier boy #the boys #emeraldcrs yapping #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy aestethic #soldier boy × soldiersgirl

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

Text

The surprising truth about data-driven dictatorships

Here’s the “dictator’s dilemma”: they want to block their country’s frustrated elites from mobilizing against them, so they censor public communications; but they also want to know what their people truly believe, so they can head off simmering resentments before they boil over into regime-toppling revolutions.

These two strategies are in tension: the more you censor, the less you know about the true feelings of your citizens and the easier it will be to miss serious problems until they spill over into the streets (think: the fall of the Berlin Wall or Tunisia before the Arab Spring). Dictators try to square this circle with things like private opinion polling or petition systems, but these capture a small slice of the potentially destabiziling moods circulating in the body politic.

Enter AI: back in 2018, Yuval Harari proposed that AI would supercharge dictatorships by mining and summarizing the public mood — as captured on social media — allowing dictators to tack into serious discontent and diffuse it before it erupted into unequenchable wildfire:

https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2018/10/yuval-noah-harari-technology-tyranny/568330/

Harari wrote that “the desire to concentrate all information and power in one place may become [dictators] decisive advantage in the 21st century.” But other political scientists sharply disagreed. Last year, Henry Farrell, Jeremy Wallace and Abraham Newman published a thoroughgoing rebuttal to Harari in Foreign Affairs:

https://www.foreignaffairs.com/world/spirals-delusion-artificial-intelligence-decision-making

They argued that — like everyone who gets excited about AI, only to have their hopes dashed — dictators seeking to use AI to understand the public mood would run into serious training data bias problems. After all, people living under dictatorships know that spouting off about their discontent and desire for change is a risky business, so they will self-censor on social media. That’s true even if a person isn’t afraid of retaliation: if you know that using certain words or phrases in a post will get it autoblocked by a censorbot, what’s the point of trying to use those words?

The phrase “Garbage In, Garbage Out” dates back to 1957. That’s how long we’ve known that a computer that operates on bad data will barf up bad conclusions. But this is a very inconvenient truth for AI weirdos: having given up on manually assembling training data based on careful human judgment with multiple review steps, the AI industry “pivoted” to mass ingestion of scraped data from the whole internet.

But adding more unreliable data to an unreliable dataset doesn’t improve its reliability. GIGO is the iron law of computing, and you can’t repeal it by shoveling more garbage into the top of the training funnel:

https://memex.craphound.com/2018/05/29/garbage-in-garbage-out-machine-learning-has-not-repealed-the-iron-law-of-computer-science/

When it comes to “AI” that’s used for decision support — that is, when an algorithm tells humans what to do and they do it — then you get something worse than Garbage In, Garbage Out — you get Garbage In, Garbage Out, Garbage Back In Again. That’s when the AI spits out something wrong, and then another AI sucks up that wrong conclusion and uses it to generate more conclusions.

To see this in action, consider the deeply flawed predictive policing systems that cities around the world rely on. These systems suck up crime data from the cops, then predict where crime is going to be, and send cops to those “hotspots” to do things like throw Black kids up against a wall and make them turn out their pockets, or pull over drivers and search their cars after pretending to have smelled cannabis.

The problem here is that “crime the police detected” isn’t the same as “crime.” You only find crime where you look for it. For example, there are far more incidents of domestic abuse reported in apartment buildings than in fully detached homes. That’s not because apartment dwellers are more likely to be wife-beaters: it’s because domestic abuse is most often reported by a neighbor who hears it through the walls.

So if your cops practice racially biased policing (I know, this is hard to imagine, but stay with me /s), then the crime they detect will already be a function of bias. If you only ever throw Black kids up against a wall and turn out their pockets, then every knife and dime-bag you find in someone’s pockets will come from some Black kid the cops decided to harass.

That’s life without AI. But now let’s throw in predictive policing: feed your “knives found in pockets” data to an algorithm and ask it to predict where there are more knives in pockets, and it will send you back to that Black neighborhood and tell you do throw even more Black kids up against a wall and search their pockets. The more you do this, the more knives you’ll find, and the more you’ll go back and do it again.

This is what Patrick Ball from the Human Rights Data Analysis Group calls “empiricism washing”: take a biased procedure and feed it to an algorithm, and then you get to go and do more biased procedures, and whenever anyone accuses you of bias, you can insist that you’re just following an empirical conclusion of a neutral algorithm, because “math can’t be racist.”

HRDAG has done excellent work on this, finding a natural experiment that makes the problem of GIGOGBI crystal clear. The National Survey On Drug Use and Health produces the gold standard snapshot of drug use in America. Kristian Lum and William Isaac took Oakland’s drug arrest data from 2010 and asked Predpol, a leading predictive policing product, to predict where Oakland’s 2011 drug use would take place.

[Image ID: (a) Number of drug arrests made by Oakland police department, 2010. (1) West Oakland, (2) International Boulevard. (b) Estimated number of drug users, based on 2011 National Survey on Drug Use and Health]

Then, they compared those predictions to the outcomes of the 2011 survey, which shows where actual drug use took place. The two maps couldn’t be more different:

https://rss.onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1111/j.1740-9713.2016.00960.x

Predpol told cops to go and look for drug use in a predominantly Black, working class neighborhood. Meanwhile the NSDUH survey showed the actual drug use took place all over Oakland, with a higher concentration in the Berkeley-neighboring student neighborhood.

What’s even more vivid is what happens when you simulate running Predpol on the new arrest data that would be generated by cops following its recommendations. If the cops went to that Black neighborhood and found more drugs there and told Predpol about it, the recommendation gets stronger and more confident.

In other words, GIGOGBI is a system for concentrating bias. Even trace amounts of bias in the original training data get refined and magnified when they are output though a decision support system that directs humans to go an act on that output. Algorithms are to bias what centrifuges are to radioactive ore: a way to turn minute amounts of bias into pluripotent, indestructible toxic waste.

There’s a great name for an AI that’s trained on an AI’s output, courtesy of Jathan Sadowski: “Habsburg AI.”

And that brings me back to the Dictator’s Dilemma. If your citizens are self-censoring in order to avoid retaliation or algorithmic shadowbanning, then the AI you train on their posts in order to find out what they’re really thinking will steer you in the opposite direction, so you make bad policies that make people angrier and destabilize things more.

Or at least, that was Farrell(et al)’s theory. And for many years, that’s where the debate over AI and dictatorship has stalled: theory vs theory. But now, there’s some empirical data on this, thanks to the “The Digital Dictator’s Dilemma,” a new paper from UCSD PhD candidate Eddie Yang:

https://www.eddieyang.net/research/DDD.pdf

Yang figured out a way to test these dueling hypotheses. He got 10 million Chinese social media posts from the start of the pandemic, before companies like Weibo were required to censor certain pandemic-related posts as politically sensitive. Yang treats these posts as a robust snapshot of public opinion: because there was no censorship of pandemic-related chatter, Chinese users were free to post anything they wanted without having to self-censor for fear of retaliation or deletion.

Next, Yang acquired the censorship model used by a real Chinese social media company to decide which posts should be blocked. Using this, he was able to determine which of the posts in the original set would be censored today in China.

That means that Yang knows that the “real” sentiment in the Chinese social media snapshot is, and what Chinese authorities would believe it to be if Chinese users were self-censoring all the posts that would be flagged by censorware today.

From here, Yang was able to play with the knobs, and determine how “preference-falsification” (when users lie about their feelings) and self-censorship would give a dictatorship a misleading view of public sentiment. What he finds is that the more repressive a regime is — the more people are incentivized to falsify or censor their views — the worse the system gets at uncovering the true public mood.

What’s more, adding additional (bad) data to the system doesn’t fix this “missing data” problem. GIGO remains an iron law of computing in this context, too.

But it gets better (or worse, I guess): Yang models a “crisis” scenario in which users stop self-censoring and start articulating their true views (because they’ve run out of fucks to give). This is the most dangerous moment for a dictator, and depending on the dictatorship handles it, they either get another decade or rule, or they wake up with guillotines on their lawns.

But “crisis” is where AI performs the worst. Trained on the “status quo” data where users are continuously self-censoring and preference-falsifying, AI has no clue how to handle the unvarnished truth. Both its recommendations about what to censor and its summaries of public sentiment are the least accurate when crisis erupts.

But here’s an interesting wrinkle: Yang scraped a bunch of Chinese users’ posts from Twitter — which the Chinese government doesn’t get to censor (yet) or spy on (yet) — and fed them to the model. He hypothesized that when Chinese users post to American social media, they don’t self-censor or preference-falsify, so this data should help the model improve its accuracy.

He was right — the model got significantly better once it ingested data from Twitter than when it was working solely from Weibo posts. And Yang notes that dictatorships all over the world are widely understood to be scraping western/northern social media.

But even though Twitter data improved the model’s accuracy, it was still wildly inaccurate, compared to the same model trained on a full set of un-self-censored, un-falsified data. GIGO is not an option, it’s the law (of computing).

Writing about the study on Crooked Timber, Farrell notes that as the world fills up with “garbage and noise” (he invokes Philip K Dick’s delighted coinage “gubbish”), “approximately correct knowledge becomes the scarce and valuable resource.”

https://crookedtimber.org/2023/07/25/51610/

This “probably approximately correct knowledge” comes from humans, not LLMs or AI, and so “the social applications of machine learning in non-authoritarian societies are just as parasitic on these forms of human knowledge production as authoritarian governments.”

The Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers’ Workshop summer fundraiser is almost over! I am an alum, instructor and volunteer board member for this nonprofit workshop whose alums include Octavia Butler, Kim Stanley Robinson, Bruce Sterling, Nalo Hopkinson, Kameron Hurley, Nnedi Okorafor, Lucius Shepard, and Ted Chiang! Your donations will help us subsidize tuition for students, making Clarion — and sf/f — more accessible for all kinds of writers.

Libro.fm is the indie-bookstore-friendly, DRM-free audiobook alternative to Audible, the Amazon-owned monopolist that locks every book you buy to Amazon forever. When you buy a book on Libro, they share some of the purchase price with a local indie bookstore of your choosing (Libro is the best partner I have in selling my own DRM-free audiobooks!). As of today, Libro is even better, because it’s available in five new territories and currencies: Canada, the UK, the EU, Australia and New Zealand!

[Image ID: An altered image of the Nuremberg rally, with ranked lines of soldiers facing a towering figure in a many-ribboned soldier's coat. He wears a high-peaked cap with a microchip in place of insignia. His head has been replaced with the menacing red eye of HAL9000 from Stanley Kubrick's '2001: A Space Odyssey.' The sky behind him is filled with a 'code waterfall' from 'The Matrix.']

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

—

Raimond Spekking (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Acer_Extensa_5220_-_Columbia_MB_06236-1N_-_Intel_Celeron_M_530_-_SLA2G_-_in_Socket_479-5029.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

—

Russian Airborne Troops (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Vladislav_Achalov_at_the_Airborne_Troops_Day_in_Moscow_%E2%80%93_August_2,_2008.jpg

“Soldiers of Russia” Cultural Center (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Col._Leonid_Khabarov_in_an_everyday_service_uniform.JPG

CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/deed.en

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theemporium · 2 years ago

Note

Hi, there.

I would love to read about Daniel proposing to Sunshine 💗

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

He didn’t even have a fucking ring.

Daniel was unprepared beyond imaginable. He didn’t even plan to propose that day, he didn’t even think as much when he woke up that morning. He simply kissed you, murmured a quiet ‘I love you’ before he headed out for his morning gym session and a day full of meetings with the team.

You had been working from home that day, happy to stay in comfy clothes and look over data with Salem curled up on your lap. You had vaguely told him that you might pop over to the grocery store to pick up some essentials you were running low on, but all in all, it was a mundane day for the both of you.

It hit him when he received a message from you. You were buzzing for him to come home, excited to show him a surprise you had bought earlier in the day. You were so giddy and happy, it made his chest tighten.

When he walked through the front door of your shared apartment, he was greeted by Salem first who was already purring at his feet, rubbing his head against his legs until Daniel finally caved in to scratch his head.

“Sunshine?”

“In here!”

He dropped his bags by the floor, sliding his shoes off before he passed through the apartment towards the kitchen. When he made his way into the room, you quickly turned to him with a massive smile on your face.

“Gonna show me this surprise, baby?” He teased, watching the way you were practically vibrating to show him.

Your eyes were glimmering when you lifted the surprise to show him, like a child on Christmas. “Look at it!”

You started rambling about the small appliance you had found at the store. It was an air diffuser, one of those fancy little machines you put water and essential oils in to make the place smell nice. But this one was designed like a small volcano, the diffused air coming out like little puffs of smoke in an explosion.

And yet, for such a simple thing, you were practically over the moon. You were eager and animated and so excited to show him, and it just hit him deep in the chest how domestic the whole situation was.

It hit him how simple and sweet the moment was. That even after so long together, something as simple as sharing a cool device you had got at the store with him got you so excited. It hit him just how happy he was to hear you ramble on about stupid, small things. It hit him that he wanted to listen forever.

“—and I ordered some fancy oils off Amazon that I thought we could try—”

“Marry me!”

Your words came to a screeching halt as you stared at the boy in front of you, blinking a few times like you weren’t quite sure you heard him right.

“What?” You whispered, almost breathlessly.

“Marry me,” he repeated again, almost as breathless as you were.

Because the thing was that Daniel had thought about marrying you, far more than he cared to admit. You two had discussed the conversation of marriage multiple times, you were both on the same page. But Daniel had spent countless nights thinking about marrying you. Hell, he knew he was going to marry you after the second date.

He always thought he would find the right moment to propose. That he would talk to his mother, get some advice on finding the perfect ring for you before whisking you away to a dream location where he would propose with a planned speech about how much he loved you.

Instead, he was standing in the kitchen of your shared apartment, not a ring in sight, with just an overwhelming desire to call you his wife, to marry you and be with you for the rest of your lives together.

To spend a lifetime listening to your random little rambles about the smallest of things.

“Marry me,” he repeated one more time as he stepped forward, as he reached for you. “Marry me and spend the rest of your life with me. Marry me and buy every single damn thing in the world just so I can hear you talk about it. Marry me. Be with me. Let me love you the way you’re meant to be loved forever.”

“Daniel,” you whispered, tears welling in your eyes.

“I don’t have a ring,” he murmured as he swallowed back the emotions laying thick in the back of his throat. “And this is probably not the best proposal in the world but I’ll get you the best fucking ring in the world, whichever one you want and I’ll—”

You didn’t waste another second before you grabbed his face in your hands, pulling him towards you until your lips were pressed against his. Daniel sunk into the kiss in seconds, his hands sliding around your waist as he pulled you until your body was flush against his.

“I don’t care about a ring,” you murmured against his lips. “I wanna marry you too.”

Daniel could feel his grin grow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you grinned back. “Gonna make you Mr Sunshine.”

Daniel snorted. “Guess you have to get me a ring then.”

“I’ll get you one of those candy ones,” you joked.

“Perfect,” he murmured before he leaned in to kiss you again, a little more loving and a little less feverish. “I’m still gonna get you a ring, Sunshine. Gonna find the most perfect ring for the most perfect girl.”

Your cheeks flushed in response. “Who gets to marry the most perfect man.”

“We make a great couple,” he commented, still holding you tight against him. “Mr and Mrs Sunshine.”

You laughed. “Mr and Mrs Sunshine.”

#daniel ricciardo #formula one #f1 #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo x y/n #daniel ricciardo fic #daniel ricciardo one shot #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one x y/n #formula one fic #formula one one shot #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 fic #f1 one shot

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lilyswrittenworks · 3 months ago

Text

XV| Learning to Stand Again

Warning(s): Cursing, Comfort

Synopsis: It has been a month since you’ve been hospitalized, a month since that awful day. Slowly but surely, things were returning back to normal. Except this time with Piccolo glued to your side.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

The soft golden light of dawn filtered through your bedroom window, warming the room with its gentle glow. Dust particles floated lazily in the air, catching the sunlight as they drifted. The once-sterile scent of hospital disinfectant had faded, replaced by the familiar, comforting smell of your home—fresh linens, the lingering trace of lavender from the diffuser you forgot to turn off, and something else… something earthy, grounding.

You stirred under the blankets, shifting slightly. A grave mistake.

Pain.

A sharp, searing agony tore through your chest like wildfire, your body protesting even the smallest movement. It felt like your ribs were wrapped in iron chains, crushing down on you with every breath.

“Fuck—”

The curse slipped past your lips in a hoarse whisper. You grit your teeth, rolling onto your stomach in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure, but it only made things worse. A sharp inhale sent another jolt of pain up your spine, making your vision blur at the edges. Every breath felt like trying to fill a balloon with a hole in it—shallow, strained, ineffective.

You barely noticed the sound of your bedroom door creaking open.

You were too caught up in the pain, too lost in the haze of discomfort, to register the weight of someone’s presence. It wasn’t until a firm yet careful hand pressed gently against your back that your breath hitched involuntarily.

The warmth of that touch, steady and reassuring, was unmistakable.

“Easy. Don’t push yourself.”

Piccolo’s voice was a low, quiet rumble—rough with lingering sleep, but still holding that ever-present edge of concern.

Your body stiffened for a second before realization hit.

Right.

You weren’t in the hospital anymore.

You weren’t surrounded by beeping machines and the sterile, impersonal walls of a recovery room.

You were home.

And Piccolo stayed with you.

The moment you first woke up in that hospital still lingered in the back of your mind like a half-remembered dream—hazy, blurred at the edges, yet impossible to forget.

Your body had felt like lead, weighed down by exhaustion and the remnants of anesthesia. Every limb was heavy, every movement sluggish. The air smelled sterile—antiseptic mixed with something faintly metallic. The distant, rhythmic beeping of monitors was the only thing keeping you tethered to consciousness.

Then, through the fog, you heard it.

Your name.

A voice deep and steady, yet edged with something you weren’t used to hearing from him. Worry? Relief?

You had barely managed to turn your head, your vision swimming. And there he was.

Piccolo.

Standing right beside your hospital bed, hands resting on top of the white sheets, watching you with an unreadable expression. His sharp features were carved from stone, unmoving, yet his eyes… his eyes told another story.

You had wanted to say something—to ask why he was there, how he found you, why he looked at you like that—but your throat had been too dry, your voice too weak. So instead, you just stared, trying to convince yourself that this wasn’t some drug-induced hallucination.

Because it didn’t make sense.

Wasn’t he supposed to be up north, training? Pushing himself beyond limits, as he always did? He never stayed in one place for too long—especially not somewhere as confining as a hospital.

And yet, he was there.

Days passed in a haze. Nurses came and went, checking your vitals, adjusting your medication. Piccolo was always nearby. You weren’t sure if he ever left.

Until one day, when he finally did.

It was a small window of time—he had left to track down something more suitable for you to eat since hospital food was, in his words, barely edible garbage.

That was when Michiko, your nurse, entered. She was friendly as always, checking your IV, adjusting your pillows, chatting casually as she worked. But then, in between her usual routine, she offhandedly mentioned something that made your heart stop.

“That friend of yours… the tall one? He never left your side, you know. The staff tried to get him to leave, told him you needed space to recover, but he wouldn’t budge. He was adamant about staying with you.”

You had just stared at her.

Piccolo?

Staying?

In a hospital?

For you?

It had sounded impossible. Absurd. Completely out of character for someone like him.

And yet…

Now, back in your bed, away from the stiff hospital sheets, away from the suffocating white walls of that recovery room, his presence remained just as unwavering.

His hand rested against your back—not pressing, just there. Steady. Solid. Grounding.

You swallowed thickly, barely able to form the words past your dry throat.

“…It hurts.”

His fingers tensed ever so slightly against your back before pulling away. A shift of movement. Then, the weight of the mattress slightly dipped beside you.

A pause.

Then, his voice. Low. Steady.

“I know.”

You felt the warmth of something—energy, ki, or just the sheer presence of him—settling near you, wrapping around you like a protective barrier.

Not smothering.

Just there.

For the first time since waking up, you let out a slow, shaky breath.

And for the first time, it didn’t hurt quite as much.

Then came the dreaded moment—you had to stand up.

You didn’t want to. Every part of you screamed to stay in bed, to sink back into the safety of the blankets and let sleep reclaim you. But you knew better. You knew that, eventually, you had to move. You had to try.

Still, even thinking about it made exhaustion settle deeper in your bones.

Your arms felt impossibly heavy, like they were made of stone, weak and uncooperative after so much time spent motionless. Just the mere thought of pushing yourself upright was enough to make you hesitate.

But you wanted to try.

Slowly, you placed your hands on either side of the mattress, bracing yourself, gathering what little strength you had left. You sucked in a breath, mentally counting down, willing yourself to move.

Piccolo, who had been sitting quietly beside you, watching with that ever-present air of silent attentiveness, saw what you were attempting. Before you could even struggle, before the pain could fully take hold, he reached out and—without a word—helped you sit up.

His movements were slow, careful, as if he had already anticipated the pain this would cause you. And fuck, was there pain.

The moment you were upright, a sharp, burning sensation flared through your muscles, radiating from your chest outward like white-hot fire. Your breath hitched, your eyes instinctively squeezing shut as a wince twisted your face.

“Shit—” you hissed through gritted teeth, the pain making your head spin. Your fingers instinctively latched onto Piccolo’s arm, gripping onto him like a lifeline.

He didn’t flinch.

Of course, he didn’t. His skin was thick, durable—battle-worn in ways most people couldn’t begin to understand. A grip like yours was nothing to him.

But still, he stayed put.

He let you hold on, his arm a steady, unwavering presence beneath your fingers. He didn’t rush you, didn’t scold you, didn’t tell you to push through it or act like this was some kind of endurance test.

He simply waited.

Waited for you to catch your breath.

Waited for the pain to dull, even if only slightly.

Waited for you to let go when you were ready.

It took a long moment before you could manage even a shallow, steady breath. Your muscles still ached, and you knew they would for a while. But you had moved. You had sat up. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Finally, you pried your fingers from his arm, feeling a twinge of embarrassment at how tightly you had been holding onto him. You didn’t meet his gaze, just exhaled shakily and muttered,

“Well… that sucked.”

A quiet snort. Low, brief, almost imperceptible. But there.

You glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “Did you just laugh at me?”

Piccolo didn’t answer. His expression remained neutral, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something amused, something fond.

You rolled your eyes. “Great. Love that for me.”

But even as you grumbled, you could still feel the warmth of his presence beside you, unwavering as ever.

With Piccolo’s help, you had managed to make it down the stairs—though at an agonizingly slow pace. Every step felt like a trial, your legs barely able to support your own weight. More than once, your knees threatened to buckle beneath you, but each time, Piccolo was there, steady and unwavering. His arm, firm and solid beneath your grip, kept you from collapsing entirely, guiding you with a patience you couldn’t help but be grateful for.

By the time you reached the couch, you were practically sagging against him. Piccolo lowered you down carefully, making sure you were settled before stepping back. Without his help, you knew there was no way you would have made it out of bed today.

Still, even after all that effort, you hadn’t moved since.

Morning turned to afternoon, and there you remained—sunk deep into the cushions, unmoving, eyes half-lidded in a medicated haze. The painkillers had done their job almost too well, leaving you feeling distant, disconnected, and sluggish. It was a feeling you hated.

Your head lolled back against the couch, your gaze fixed on nothing, body too drained to do anything but exist. You let out a slow, controlled breath, trying to will away the fog in your mind.

Then—

Your phone rang.

You cracked an eye open, groaning softly.

I should’ve left it on mute.

The shrill ringtone felt like a personal attack, grating against your already exhausted nerves. For a brief moment, you debated ignoring it, letting it ring until whoever it was gave up.

But what if it was important?

With a tired sigh, you forced yourself forward, pushing off the backrest of the couch with sluggish effort. Every movement felt heavier than it should have, but you eventually leaned over far enough to snatch your phone from the table.

Jenny’s name flashed across the screen.

Your brows furrowed slightly, but you answered.

“…Yeah?” Your voice was hoarse, groggy.

A beat of silence. Then—

“What the hell, dude?!” Jenny’s voice exploded through the speaker, her tone laced with frustration and something else—something sharper. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you were out of the hospital?!”

You let out a quiet sigh, head hanging low. “...Because I was in pain? Not to mention I’m on some heavy pain meds.”

“Okay, okay, but that still doesn’t explain how you got home. Who even took you, huh?”

You paused, lifting your head to glance toward the kitchen. Piccolo stood there, missing his usual white cape and turban. When your eyes met, he raised a brow, arms crossed. Without breaking eye contact, you slowly answered Jenny, still on the phone.

“...I did?” It sounded more like a question than a statement, but you hoped she wouldn’t catch the lie—that it had actually been Piccolo who brought you home.

Luckily, she didn’t. But what came next wasn’t much better.

“YOU WHAT?!”

Her sudden yell made you yank the phone away from your ear, face twisting in discomfort.

“ARE YOU NUTS?? YOU COULD’VE CALLED ME!!”

Keeping the phone at a safe distance, you muttered, “I was exhausted, ok?! Plus, it was late, I didn’t want to wake you up at 3 in the fucking morning. Besides, I got a taxi driver to take me home. What’s the big deal?”

Jenny was not having it.

“Oh, it’s a big deal, alright!” she snapped, her voice still loud enough that you swore Piccolo could hear it from across the room. “You just got out of the hospital, dumbass! You could barely move the last time I saw you! What if something happened? What if you collapsed or—or got in the wrong cab and some weirdo tried to kidnap your ass?”

You sighed again, dragging a tired hand down your face. “Jenny…”

“No, don’t ‘Jenny’ me! You know I would’ve picked you up, no hesitation! You didn’t even text me?”

You shot an exasperated look at Piccolo, but as always, his face remained unreadable—a mask of stoicism that rarely cracked. Yet, in the dim light of the kitchen, his dark, intense eyes softened just enough to offer something unspoken. Sympathy, perhaps. Understanding. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you caught it. A quiet reassurance hidden beneath his usual guarded exterior.

Running a hand through your hair, you tried to soothe the storm brewing on the other end of the call. “Look, I’m sorry… really, I am.”

Jenny’s heavy silence was almost worse than the yelling.

Then, in a quieter, slightly more strained voice, she asked, “You’re really okay?”

Your gaze flickered back toward Piccolo, who was still watching you with that unreadable expression. His arms remained folded, his posture relaxed, but you knew better. You could tell by the way he stayed nearby, by the way he kept his energy just barely extended, subtly keeping tabs on you.

The truth was, you weren’t okay. Not really.

But you also knew Jenny. If you told her that, she’d be on your doorstep in seconds, and you were too tired to deal with the whirlwind that was Jenny At Full Concern.

So, you forced a smile—one she couldn’t see but maybe, just maybe, she could hear it in your voice.

“Yeah,” you murmured, shifting slightly against the couch. “I’m okay.”

Another long silence. Then—

“…Alright,” Jenny finally said, though she still sounded doubtful. “But I swear, if you do something reckless again and don’t tell me, I will hunt you down.”

You let out a small chuckle. “Noted.”

“Damn right.”

There was a pause, followed by a sigh on her end this time. “…Get some rest, dude.”

“You too, Jen.”

With that, you ended the call with a soft tap, letting the phone rest on your chest as you exhaled slowly. The conversation had drained what little energy you had left, leaving you feeling even heavier against the couch cushions.

Jenny’s concern had been genuine—always was—but you hated making people worry. Especially her.

Piccolo’s deep voice broke through your thoughts.

“You didn’t tell her the truth.”

You let out a short laugh, dry and humorless. “What, that I feel like I got hit by a truck, thrown off a cliff, and then hit by another truck?” You gave a weak shrug. “Didn’t seem necessary.”

Piccolo studied you, his piercing gaze making it clear that he wasn’t fooled by your deflections. “And when she finds out you lied?”

“If she finds out,” you corrected, wincing as you adjusted your position. “And besides… what was I supposed to say? ‘Hey Jenny, I’m actually a mess and barely holding it together, but don’t worry, my seven-foot alien bodyguard has been babysitting me’?” You shook your head, running a tired hand over your face. “She’d lose her mind.”

Piccolo didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he just watched you, unreadable as always, though his silence carried weight. He knew you well enough to see past the sarcasm, past the forced humor.

Finally, he let out a quiet huff. “You shouldn’t push yourself so soon.”

You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head. “Yeah, well, I’ve never been good at sitting still.”

Piccolo rolled his eyes, but there was no real irritation in his expression. If anything, he just looked… resigned.

“You should sleep,” he said, voice softer now, less of an order and more of a suggestion.

You didn’t argue. Not this time. The exhaustion was clawing at you, the painkillers making your limbs feel like lead. You gave him a half-hearted thumbs-up before letting your head fall back against the couch cushions, eyes slipping shut.

As the haze of sleep began to pull you under, you were vaguely aware of Piccolo shifting nearby. He didn’t leave. Didn’t retreat to his usual spot outside.

Instead, he stayed.

Silent. Watchful.

Just like always.

(2,674 words)

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(a/n)

I got impatient and decided to post this chapter early lol

Hurray for a relatively early chapter for you lovely readers!

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Part XIV

You are currently reading Part XV

Part XVI

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It Turned into Love Masterlist

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Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

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rottenpumpkin13 · 1 year ago

Note

I can't remember if you were the one who made the gag that Cloud, being from a mountain town, can handle extremely low temperatures without any issue. I have a question!

What happens if Cloud GETS a cold?

• When Cloud gets a cold, suddenly everyone is a licensed physician with at least 20 years of medical practice. Angeal is the first to notice Cloud's unusual sniffing, runny nose and sneezing.

Angeal: I know just what you need.

*He makes Cloud a soup that smells like Zack's fermented socks*

Angeal: Don't worry, this soup will cure you instantly. It's an old recipe back in Mideel, mothers make it for their sick children.

Cloud: What's in it?

Angeal: Banora White apples, chocobo feet, the dirt from your healthiest plant, chocobo liver, coffee beans, chocobo wings, vinegar, chocobo breast, spoiled milk, chocobo tongue, ginger root, chocobo bones, mushrooms, chocobo—

Cloud: WHAT DID YOU DO TO THE CHOCOBO??

• Zack is the second to notice Cloud's chills and shivering.

Zack: I know just what you need.

*Zack wraps him in 13 fluffy white blankets, making a Cloud burrito, and leads him towards the stairs*

Zack: Isn't it cozy? Let's take the stairs so no one makes fun of you.

*He leaves Cloud on the edge of the stairs and turns around to tie his shoes*

Zack: I'm telling you, Cloud, you'll warm up in no time!

*Zack turns around, Cloud is gone*

Zack: CLOUD? CLOUD!

*Meanwhile Sephiroth is taking the stairs in an effort to be healthy, and is knocked down by a giant marshmallow*

• Genesis is the third to notice Cloud's clogged nose and inability to breathe, and knows exactly what to do.

*Genesis leads Cloud to his office, where he set up a smoke machine to diffuse essential oils*

Cloud: *cough* This is a lot of smoke *cough*

Genesis: Trust the process, Cloud, inhale the—

*Lazard beats the door down*

Lazard: ARE YOU SMOKING WEED IN HERE?

Genesis:

• Lastly, Sephiroth notices how sick Cloud is and tries to help with a remedy from his childhood.

*Sephiroth hands Cloud some pills*

Cloud: I'm not so sure about this...

Sephiroth: Trust me, Professor Hojo used to give them to me whenever I was sick, and I turned out fine.

Cloud: No the fuck you did not.

Sephiroth: .....

Sephiroth: Just take the pills.

*Cloud reluctantly takes the pills*

Cloud: Huh.... nothing happened. I was expecting to be turned into a—

*Cloud faints and is out cold*

Sephiroth:

Sephiroth: Perhaps it would've been wise to mention that Hojo used to sedate me when I was ill.

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #zack fair #crisis core #cloud strife

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amber-aromadiffusermachine · 2 years ago

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Discover the perfect scent machine for your home or office. Indulge in an aromatic experience that creates a welcoming atmosphere and promotes well-being.

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snooze-mode · 8 months ago

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Crabcakes is autistic and you can't change my mind.

Eido has my heart and you will never make me hate her, so I'm bestowing upon her the highest honour I can give: The Autism headcanon. Please note that I'm autistic myself, and I see a LOT of myself in Eido, so these come from a place of love and personal experience. Some of these are based on canon info, whilst others are a bit more freeform.

Ramblings under the cut

Eido is, of course, extremely academically gifted, but she struggles with more social situations. It's why she often falls back on Old Eliksni social traditions during conversations with people she doesn't know very well or just met. This leads to her being overly formal until she really gets to know someone… For better or for worse.

E.g. How she was extremely polite and formal with Spider upon first meeting him, but has grown more willing to openly push back against him or be snarky as time goes on.

She has a bunch of sensory issues. Not massively so that they severely impact her ability to do things, but she's very particular about certain sounds, textures, tastes, etc.

She doesn't wear the standard Eliksni rebreather unit because she doesn't like the way it feels on her face. Over the years, she and Misraaks have experimented with custom rebreathers until they settled on the one she wears now, incorporated into soft cloth wrappings that cover the entire lower half of her face, rather than covering just the front of her mouth and mandibles. It looks a little strange and ramshackle, but it's what works for her.

She's sensitive in particular to smells, but she does her best not to comment on individual scent because it's considered rude in Eliksni culture.

She's fidgety and often ends up using the trinkets on her clothing or her bracelets as stimming implements when she needs to occupy her lower hands.

Whilst her main special interest is, of course, studying History (especially the tales of Old Riis from before the Whirlwind), Eido has a less known special interest in sewing and crafting.

She made the leather charm on the tonics capsule she gives the YW by hand, and did the embroidery on the front of her robes herself. She also enjoys spending time repairing or adding to her existing clothing.

Emotionally hypersensitive!!!

She gets very attached to things and struggles with letting things she loves go. Her robes made out of her old Hatchling swaddles, as she would not let them go - They bring her comfort. They're made out of old Awoken-made cloth - It was the first thing Misraaks could find after he took Eido in. Both Eido and Misraaks make sure to stock up on the cloth on the occasion that they're in the Reef, to ensure she has enough to repair or expand/replace old clothes she's grown out of.

This is an alternative take on a headcanon from JaxxCapta about her clothes being made from the same material as her Hatchling swaddles due to sensory issues, where I wanted to tie it into the feelings of sentimentality and attachment you can get with objects. (This is drawing from my own personal experience, I still have some things from when I was very young because I simply cannot bring myself to part with them!)

She takes the machine-spirit part of Eliksni religion very seriously as a result of her tendency to be sentimental over objects. E.g. How she's gendered the unreliable Shank (other Eliksni sources in lore don't seem to gender shanks the same way she does).

This sensitivity makes her really good with caring for Hatchlings, complimenting her role as a Scribe (and teacher) very well. She's able to empathise with even the silliest (to the outsider, at least) of Hatchling feelings well, and play off of them well and diffuse anger or upset before it becomes a major issue.

However, she can also be very sensitive to criticism. She's definitely gotten better at handling it over the years (and lord does she need it with Variks as her mentor now), but criticism from Misraaks about her approach to handling the hunt for the Relics of Nezarec definitely knocked her confidence and strained her relationship with him, even before Eramis spilled his secrets to her.

On Eramis: She's so patient with Eramis despite her obvious issues due to her ability to empathise so strongly. Others view it as naivety, but Eido understands that Eramis is a deeply troubled individual who has had her grief and trauma taken advantage of by the Witness. The fact others don't get it is endlessly frustrating to her. (This is basically canon info, I'm just tying this into her emotional hypersensitivity.)

#destiny 2 #d2 #eliksni #eido #eido my blorbo my beloved #reupload bc I goofed the first

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autism-autobot · 1 month ago

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Flower of a Poisonous Seed Part 64:

Part 63:

TW: vomiting, digestive health issues, mentions of death,

Red Son woke up at about 8:30 am to an empty bed. He looked around for a few minutes to see Nezha standing in the doorway to the bathroom.

"Oh, don't tell me-"

"It's a bathroom campout day."

Bathroom campout days were everyone's least favorite type of day, Wukong especially. Wukong would have to spend hours in there purging his systems of all content. Oftentimes from both ends. It was both gross and smelly, but ultimately it was so Wukong could detox his body. It was the stone monkey way of handling any contamination within the body.

Luckily, it usually meant that Wukong would be feeling very well for the next few days at least.

RS: Are you doing alright, Uncle?

SWK: Back at it again at Krispy Kreme! *vomits*

Nezha: *laughs* This is part of why I love him so much.

RS: Would you like me to make breakfast?

Nezha: If you'd be so kind. Wukong will likely have to be tube-fed though, he hasn't been able to keep anything down.

RS: How long has he been in there?

Nezha: I woke to the sounds his body was making at about four in the morning. He was already in here by then so I really don't know. I think it's because he tried some new foods at the diner yesterday.

RS: Oh. Poor Uncle.

Nezha: He should be done soon, given how long he's been in here.

RS: I'll get breakfast ready.

Nezha: Good. And can you bring the diffuser over too?

~~~

Wukong had a port put in his abdomen during his surgery so he could be given vital nutrients his body needed when he either couldn't eat or keep anything down.

Nezha was initially dismayed by it until Wukong said something about how he now had a belly button too.

Once Wukong was done purging, Nezha helped put him in what Nezha swore wasn't a diaper but it might as well have been and clean, comfortable clothes.

He attached the tubing to Wukong's "belly button" and the machine used to feed him. It only needed a mixture of water and the nutrient packets that came with it. Once Nezha was done with that, he set up the diffuser. It was shaped like a daffodil and changed color too.

Nezha had researched diffusers and essential oils and even spoken to Wukong's doctor about it when he found out that incense was a potential hazard to his lungs. Nezha wanted to try it out as an alternative and Jinzha had just gifted them a set of the best oils he could find. He also gifted them a book about the benefits and uses of each.

Nezha picked the lemon and lavender oils for Wukong to smell.

~~~

Wukong was able to get some sleep while the others had their breakfast.

Nezha: Oh, by the way, I asked the guys to come over to help put together some of the furniture today.

RS: Really? Why?

Nezha: It was a bit of a long shot to think the three of us would be able to set this place up on our own. And we've been wanting to spend more time together and helping each other out after we lost one of our own.

RS: I see. My deepest condolences for you all.

Nezha: Thank you. The funeral is in two weeks and I will be attending. I don't know about Wukong though. He doesn't have an easy time with these things.

RS: I'd be happy to stay here and watch him if needed.

Nezha: Thank you. And thank you for all of the help you've given us. You've done more for us than we could ever have asked for.

RS: Oh, it's nothing really-

Nezha: And I wanted you to know that if ever it becomes too much for you or if you feel too stressed by what's been happening to Wukong, it's okay to take a break.

RS: But I want to help you! I want to help you both in any way I can!

Nezha: And we appreciate the help, really, we do. We just don't want you to get overwhelmed by this and be hurt by it.

Nezha: We love you and we're always here for you. We just don't you spending your time worrying every moment of every day. We want you to go have fun and live your life regardless of what happens to us.

RS: I understand. Thank you. And I promise you I don't do this entirely out of worry, but out of love for you both as well.

RS: Plus, it's been a fun challenge to put together the different mobility devices and other stuff around the house.

Nezha: Good. I'm glad you're enjoying it.

~~~

Red Son had met Nezha's soldier friends before, but it was still weird seeing them out of uniform and in such casual clothing.

Nezha greeted each one fondly as they arrived. It was clear that all of these young men were close to each other. Nezha went over instructions when they were all together and they split up to get to work.

It took about 0.3 seconds for them to start cracking jokes and goofing around a bit. Still, they did good work.

Wukong was well enough to sit in his wheelchair and greet Nezha's friends for a bit. Every one of them was very polite and respectful to him. Whenever one had spare time, they used it to check on Wukong's condition and see if he needed anything.

SWK: You have good friends.

Nezha: The best. I consider myself very lucky.

SWK: Are they your troop?

Nezha: *pleasantly surprised by the question* I suppose they are. And that would make them yours too, correct?

SWK: Correct.

The two looked over to see a pair of them had made bubble wrap armor and cardboard weapons while another friend had made a cardboard fort.

SWK: These guys are awesome.

Nezha: I know.

SWK: Sweet bachelor party you've got going on.

Nezha: You think so?

SWK: I know so-

*THUNK*

Soldier 1: What did we say about leg sweeping?

S2: To not to?

S3: Ow dude.

S1: You good bro?

S4: He's wearing bubble wrap, he'll be fine.

Part 65:

Masterpost

@weaverpop @istopaskingmemate @fruit-fight @ainnur @cutvdo @starrclown @swkbiggestdefender @vivyainou

Happy Birthday to FloaPS!

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moncherriecoups · 26 days ago

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"Like clouds kissed by the sun, some people leave behind a color you can’t name."

✧ moon junhui x f!oc ✧ kwon hoshi x f!oc ✧ summary: She came to Seoul to escape—what she found instead was him. Jun, unreadable and magnetic. Hoshi, warm but just out of reach. As feelings blur and moments slip by, Min Ah realizes not everything beautiful is meant to last. Some storms come softly. Some leave a mess behind. ✧ word count: approx.3k ✧ tags: emotional angst, fleeting connection, unresolved tension, office romance, love triangle, slow burn, banter, eventual smut ✧ warnings: one-night stand, heartbreak themes, drinking, suggestive scenes, alcohol use, suggestive content, emotional pining, sexual scenes

Chapter 1

There was a particular stillness that accompanied early mornings in Seoul—a hush that lingered just before the city stirred fully awake. It was not silence in the literal sense, but rather an atmospheric pause, like the breath the world takes before a crescendo. The quiet clung to the sidewalks and shimmered faintly off the glass facades like fog just beginning to lift, as Song Min Ah stepped closer after her long subway ride.

Her heels tapped briskly against the smooth, pale stone of The Parc's drop-off area, the polished entrance of one of Seoul’s most prestigious and architecturally renowned office towers. The name alone carried weight. The Parc wasn’t just another high-rise—it was an ecosystem of ambition, a curated monument to contemporary excellence that housed some of the city's most elite firms.

Min Ah paused for a moment on the sidewalk, not out of hesitation, but something closer to reverence. The building towered above her, all glass and clean lines, its mirrored facade catching the tentative morning light and casting long streaks of silver and diluted gold onto the pavement. It resembled a sculpture more than an office—too flawless to seem functional, too pristine to belong to the messy reality of a workday.

The automatic doors whooshed open with a smooth whisper, revealing a lobby that was practically humming with corporate efficiency. Inside, marble tiles gleamed under the recessed lighting, and the air smelled like freshly brewed espresso and eucalyptus diffusers. The temperature was perfectly controlled, and the space echoed with the hushed cadence of leather soles, rolling luggage, and quiet confidence. People moved with practiced grace—suits tailored, lanyards swinging, coffee cups in hand—each one a cog in a gleaming machine.

Min Ah, however, stood in place.

Not because she felt unprepared—far from it. She was always prepared. Her outfit had been curated with precision: a cream-colored silk blouse tucked neatly into tailored navy trousers, the kind of ensemble that looked effortless but took considerable calculation. Her dark hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, her lips glossed with the perfect shade of coral. She looked like someone accustomed to boardrooms and briefings.

But the polished confidence of appearance doesn’t always translate to internal composure—especially on the first day at a new job, in a new city.

Where was the access to the 10th floor again?

She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her onboarding email. It read: "Welcome to Artois. 10F." Short. Direct. Unhelpful. In front of her were six different elevator banks, each with their own minimalist touchscreens and lettered signage that looked more like modern art than wayfinding.

Min Ah glanced around, trying not to look as lost as she felt. People streamed past her—purposeful, focused, oblivious to her quiet confusion.

“Are you lost?”

The voice was warm. Gentle. Tinged with mild amusement.

She turned.

A man stood nearby, tall and well put-together in a charcoal-gray suit with barely-there pinstripes. His black hair was parted cleanly, his complexion smooth and pale under the lights. His features were symmetrical in a way that didn’t scream for attention but held it all the same—understated elegance. A face you didn’t forget.

Their eyes met. His gaze was calm, direct, but not invasive.

Min Ah blinked. “A little. It’s my first day,” she admitted, holding up her employee lanyard like a student flashing an ID card at a strict hall monitor.

He smiled, small but sincere. “Welcome to the jungle.”

She laughed, tension easing slightly. “Thanks. I was starting to think I’d walked into a luxury airport.”

“Artois?” he asked, already gesturing toward her lanyard, then to one of the further elevator banks. “You want the D elevators. These ones only go up to legal, HR, and mezzanine. I made that mistake for a week when I started.”

She followed his motion, spotting the small metallic letters on the wall: "D – Floors 8 to 17."

“God. I would’ve circled this place forever pretending I had somewhere to be.”

That made him laugh—an honest, low chuckle. “You’re not alone. First few days here feel like playing a very expensive game of hide and seek.”

“I haven’t even made it to my floor yet. If I quit before lunch, at least I’ll know where the exit is.”

He grinned again, softer this time. His silence felt companionable, not awkward. He shifted slightly as a group of suited professionals passed between them.

A subtle chime echoed through the lobby. Her elevator.

Min Ah turned halfway, then hesitated. “Thanks… uh—”

But the man was already walking away, his figure melting into the current of moving bodies. He didn’t look back.

Of course he didn’t give his name.

Of course he looked like that.

Min Ah exhaled, part sigh, part laugh. This building probably housed entire floors of men like him.

She tightened her grip on her tote and adjusted her posture. Today was about first impressions, about holding her own. A new job, a new city, a new chapter.

The elevator doors slid shut with a practiced hum.

Numbers ticked upward.

Game on.

—

The tenth floor of The Parc smelled like ink and fresh paper, and the sharp aroma of roasted coffee wafting from somewhere unseen. Compared to the polished elegance of the lobby below, this floor buzzed with more color and life, an intentional deviation from the building's otherwise minimalist ethos. Warm light spilled through oversized windows, catching on the brushed brass accents of the Artois office signage.

Song Min Ah stepped out of the elevator with a breath half-held in her chest.

Here we go.

The entrance to Artois Digital was flanked by floor-to-ceiling glass panels, frosted in an elegant gradient that faded into the company’s name, written in clean serif type. Through the clear parts of the glass, she could already see the pulse of the office—movement, chatter, someone rolling a chair from one side of a desk to another.

Min Ah pushed the door open and stepped in.

"Hi! You must be the new designer!"

A blur of shoulder length strawberry blonde hair and a forest green hoodie zipped into view. The girl looked young—Gen Z energy, maybe early twenties—with expressive eyes and a mouth already half-curved in a smile.

"I'm Kwon Eunji, copywriter-slash-multitasker-slash-HR’s worst nightmare. Come on, I’ll take you to meet the gang."

Min Ah blinked at the speed of her words, then laughed. "Min Ah. Song Min Ah. Nice to meet you."

Eunji turned on her heel. "Our team’s chaos incarnate but in a sexy, organized way. You'll fit right in."

They wove through rows of open desks—some decked out with colorful sticky notes and figurines, others clinically sparse. It was a visual buffet of creative personalities. At the far end of the room, a burst of loud laughter rang out, followed by a voice booming, "Yah, Dahyun! You owe me banana milk!"

Eunji rolled her eyes playfully. "And that would be Hoshi. Our team lead-slash-human golden retriever. You’ll know what I mean."

Min Ah followed her gaze. A man in a bright yellow button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, was animatedly waving a highlighter in the air like a mic. Blond hair (clearly bleached and unapologetic) flopped with every dramatic gesture. It's giving Naruto, Min Ah said to herself.

Next to him, a woman in cargos and a plain black hoodie—hood up—sat with arms crossed, smirking quietly. "That’s Dahyun—social media. Quiet but lethal. Don’t be fooled."

Eunji led Min Ah into the center of the group like she was introducing a new roommate to a shared house.

"Guys! Meet Min Ah, our new visual branding specialist. Former freelancer, first day, extremely well-dressed, definitely about to judge our typography."

Min Ah gave a polite bow, followed by a small smile. "Nice to meet you all. And only if your fonts are really bad."

Hoshi lit up. "Designer? And sarcastic? I’m sold. I’m Hoshi, captain of this sometimes-functional ship. Let me know if you need anything—printer jam therapy, coffee runs, someone to dramatically read your emails aloud."

"He’s not kidding," Dahyun murmured from behind her coffee cup.

"I also sing," Hoshi added, proudly. "Sometimes in tune."

Eunji leaned closer to Min Ah and whispered, "He was in a college dance crew. Thinks he’s still in it."

Min Ah grinned, warmth flooding her limbs. This was going to be manageable—fun, even. These people weren’t intimidating; they were ridiculous. In a good way.

Before anyone could launch into further chaos, a new voice cut through.

"Is this our new branding girl?"

A man with slightly mismatched round glasses and slicked-back hair appeared from the far side of the office. His blazer had elbow patches and his smile had agenda.

"Manager Kim," Eunji whispered. "Will try to marry you off in six months."

"Manager Kim," Min Ah greeted politely.

"Ah, such good posture! Already a professional. Welcome. Don’t let Hoshi distract you too much."

"Excuse me, I’m an excellent mentor," Hoshi protested.

"He once made a mood board using memes," Dahyun said.

"It worked."

Min Ah bit back a laugh. This was going to be an interesting ride.

—

Just as Min Ah was starting to settle into her desk—clicking through her work email and admiring how fast the office Wi-Fi was—a loud voice cut through the hum of the floor.

“Lunch o’clock, people!”

She looked up to see a tall man with a square jaw and a grin too wide to be professional leaning into their section from the finance department side.

“Dokyeom,” Hoshi groaned, already reaching for his wallet. “You can’t just yell that across departments.”

“I just did,” Dokyeom shot back proudly, pointing finger guns at him. “New girl! You coming too?”

Min Ah blinked. “Me?”

“Of course. It’s your first day. You haven’t experienced The Parc’s lower ground culinary heaven yet.”

“She hasn’t even seen the escalator,” Eunji added dramatically.

“Criminal,” said Dahyun, already standing up and tying her hoodie sleeves around her waist.

“Let’s go, then,” Hoshi grinned, tossing a look at Min Ah. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” she admitted, gathering her things.

And just like that, they headed out as a group, laughter trailing behind them as they made their way to the elevators, ready to introduce Min Ah to one of The Parc’s most iconic perks.

"I'll see you guys there then, gotta run for the best table with the best view!" Dokyeom's voice faded as he ran outside the elevator as it opened, followed by Eunji.

The lower ground food center of The Parc was a marvel in itself—an architectural oasis tucked beneath the towering structure. Unlike the sterile cafeterias of lesser office buildings, this one was a curated blend of modern design and lush landscaping. An open-air courtyard took center stage, ringed by a collection of boutique food tenants, each offering gourmet lunch options with menus that rotated weekly. There were glass canopies for shade, small fountains that murmured gently near seating clusters, and greenery carefully arranged to make you forget you were underground at all.

It was nearly noon when Min Ah followed Hoshi down the sleek escalator, her eyes wide with amazement.

“This place is insane,” she murmured.

“Right?” Hoshi grinned. “Even people from other buildings come here to eat. I heard someone saw a K-drama actor here last week.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. But I’m ninety percent sure it was just Dokyeom in sunglasses.”

As if summoned, Dokyeom waved them over from a shaded table he managed to get by running earlier, where the rest of the Artois marketing team was already gathered. Eunji was unwrapping her gimbap, Dahyun had two trays—one with salad, the other with fries—and Manager Kim was balancing a tray with three small dishes, two drinks, and a dessert cup that looked far too pretty for a man in mismatched glasses.

“Min Ah! We saved you a seat,” Manager Kim said cheerfully. “Behold, the heart of our kingdom.”

“It’s like a food court crossed with a botanical garden,” Min Ah said, settling into the chair beside Dahyun.

“Exactly,” Dahyun replied, offering her a fry. “We come here every day unless there’s a crisis upstairs. Or rain. Rain ruins the ambiance.”

Eunji leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “So. First impressions?”

“Of the job?”

“No,” Eunji smirked. “Of the boys.”

Min Ah blinked. “What boys?”

“The Quantix boys,” Dokyeom chimed in, already halfway through his bulgogi bowl. “The finance guys upstairs. Floor 17. They’re like an urban legend.”

“They’re also absurdly good-looking,” Dahyun added, glancing at her salad like it had personally offended her.

“They’re not that hot,” Hoshi argued, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Sure,” said Eunji, grinning. “That’s why you turn into a statue every time they walk past.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

Min Ah laughed. “Wait, who are they, exactly?”

“Well,” Manager Kim said, tapping his chopsticks thoughtfully, “There’s Mingyu, the tall one who smiles like he knows your secrets. Jeonghan, who somehow looks like he’s constantly judging you but politely. Wonwoo, the quiet gamer with glasses. Joshua, the polite one — though none of us actually know him personally. He just exudes politeness like a human greeting card.”

Min Ah blinked, processing every information.

“And then,” Dokyeom continued, “There’s Jun.”

Everyone fell quiet for a moment.

“Jun?” Min Ah asked.

“Tall, ridiculously handsome, kind of mysterious,” Dahyun explained.

“Also,” Manager Kim said, “he has the weirdest coffee order in the entire building. An iced Americano, three ice cubes, oat milk foam, cinnamon dusting, and no lid. Nobody even knows how that works, but the barista just does it now without blinking.”

“That sounds... oddly specific,” Min Ah said.

“We call it the Jun Special,” Eunji said.

"How do you guys even know?" Min Ah tilted her head, continuing.

"Hoshi right here might heard something from one of his friends all over this place," Dahyun shrugs, followed by Hoshi's grin, "I might," he added.

Just then, a noticeable shift passed through the courtyard. Heads subtly turned. The air seemed to tighten with attention.

Dokyeom’s eyes widened. “Speak of the devil.”

The Quantix team emerged from the far end of the food center like something out of a commercial. They’re in well-fitted button-down shirts in shades of cream, blue, and sage, sleeves rolled up with the kind of casual precision that could only come from routine. Slacks hung perfectly on their lean frames, and each stride exuded a kind of effortless cool. The sunlight caught in their hair at just the right angles as they moved together, easy and unbothered.

Mingyu was laughing at something Wonwoo had said, Jeonghan trailed behind looking vaguely amused, and Joshua nodded a polite greeting as their eyes swept across the courtyard. It was then that Min Ah blinked, recognizing Joshua’s face—he was the one who had helped her this morning. The polite stranger with the kind voice. She felt a ripple of something strange, almost like a glitch in her otherwise smooth first day.

But her gaze didn’t stop there.

Min Ah turned instinctively—and there he was.

Jun.

He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes scanned the courtyard with quiet awareness. The same calm, looked put-together under the sunlight, his navy jacket slung over one arm, revealing strong forearms and a rolled-up sleeve that had no right to look that good. She watched him a little too long, longer than she meant to, until Dahyun nudged her subtly under the table.

“Caught you,” she whispered with a grin.

“Who’s the one with the expensive-looking bones?” Min Ah asked casually, trying not to seem fazed.

“That’s Jun,” Dahyun replied. “And yes. He does look like he was designed in a lab.”

Eunji leaned in, voice low and excited. “There’s rumors about their team too. Like, real ones. You know the boss of Quantix? No one knows what he actually does.”

“You mean Seungcheol?” Hoshi asked.

“Yeah, him. I’ve never seen him, but I felt him once. Like his aura entered the elevator before he did.”

“He’s probably the CEO or something,” Manager Kim said, shrugging.

“Nah, he’s too buff for that. I think he’s secretly a bodyguard,” Dahyun said, munching a fry.

“And Jeonghan,” Dokyeom added. “Legend says he once submitted a formal WFH request for three months straight. Just because he didn’t want to come in.”

“That’s a myth,” Hoshi snorted.

“Is it, though?” Dokyeom grinned. “Is it?”

“Okay, fine,” Hoshi muttered. “They’re that hot.”

—

Just as the afternoon light slanted softly through the wide windows, Min Ah sat at her desk, still acclimating to the hum and rhythm of her new workplace. Her gaze lingered on the neat rows of colleagues across the room, the energy quietly building as the afternoon wore on. Though she was a fresh face in this vibrant office, she felt a curious pull towards the subtle social currents swirling just beneath the surface.

Hoshi leaned casually against the edge of her desk, the corners of his lips curving into a familiar, effortless smile that somehow managed to convey both mischief and warmth. Ever since she stepped into Artois, Hoshi had quietly harbored a crush on her—yet he played it cool, expertly balancing his natural charm with a casual distance that left Min Ah completely unaware. His bright eyes sparkled with teasing energy as he spoke, voice low but lively.

“So, Min Ah, what do you think of the place so far? The work, the people, the whole vibe?”

She returned his smile, warmth blooming in her chest despite the flutter of nerves. “It’s been... honestly, a lot to take in. But everyone’s been so welcoming. You all really make it feel like a team.”

Hoshi chuckled softly, crossing his arms but leaning in just enough to break the professional barrier. “We pride ourselves on that. Plus, we tend to keep things lively—no dull moments, I promise.”

Their banter was light, easy—just the kind of interaction that made Min Ah feel less like the outsider and more like someone who might belong here. As she settled further into her chair, she noticed how Hoshi’s eyes flicked to her with a rare, unguarded intensity before masking it again behind his trademark grin.

Meanwhile, the office buzzed with the usual chatter, punctuated by the sharp clicks of keyboards and the occasional ring of phones. Manager Kim was making his rounds, his mismatched glasses perched crookedly on his nose as he stopped by various desks to drop a joke or a quick update. Eunji, ever blunt and playful, was typing rapidly nearby, glancing up occasionally to exchange knowing looks with Dahyun, whose quiet humor always broke through in perfectly timed comments.

As the afternoon waned, Min Ah found herself drawn into the web of office life in ways she hadn’t expected. The complex blend of professional ambition, casual camaraderie, and undercurrents of attraction created a vibrant backdrop that promised both challenge and excitement in equal measure. And through it all, Hoshi remained a constant, a playful presence weaving in and out of her day with subtle, undeniable interest.

—

Min Ah unlocked the door to her apartment and stepped into the quiet. The soft click of her heels against the floor echoed faintly as she slipped them off and padded into the kitchen, the city lights outside painting pale stripes across her walls.

She poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly. Her first day at Artois had been a blur of names, faces, laughter, and more stories than she could process all at once. The team was loud, chaotic, and strangely comforting. It felt... promising.

She thought back to the courtyard. To the laughter. To that brief second when her eyes had caught his—no, when she looked at him a little too long. Jun.

She shook her head, smiling to herself as she padded toward her bed.

“Get a grip, Song Min Ah,” she whispered, pulling the covers up.

And with that, the city hummed on outside her window, and her first day in Seoul faded into dreams.

—

MY NEWEST SERIES!!!! I've been obsessing about Jun and Hoshi lately because DAMN they're super handsome................ So here's a series based on them! (Also most probably based on their part on Thunder, the second chorus HEHE). Hope u like it!!!! And see u sooooon <3

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bardic-tales · 3 months ago

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Summary: Sephiroth surprises a struggling Colette with comfort food and quiet reassurance, reminding her she is more than enough in his eyes.

Pairing: Sephiroth/Female Self-Insert (Colette)

Other Characters: Brief appearance by a Stampy's cashier, customer

Possible Trigger Warnings: Anxiety, feelings of unworthiness, low self-esteem, implied emotional vulnerability, intrusive thoughts, minor self-deprecation

Author’s Note: This piece was inspired by a video I watched earlier of a Sephiroth cosplayer going to McDonald’s, and it spiraled into a full-blown comfort fic from there. Sometimes the best ideas come from the most unexpected places.

It was late in Sector 5—long past the peak dinner rush—and the buzzing neon sign of Stampy's flickered lazily above the entrance, illuminating the rain-slicked street in a shade of turquoise green. Muffled beneatht he awning of the fast food shop, the hum of vending machines and the soft patter of rain filled the air.

Sephiroth stood inside, towering over the counter in his full uniform: black leather, silver pauldrons, black leather pants: the whole intimidating visage of Shinra’s most legendary SOLDIER. Even in casual spaces, he carried himself like a force of nature. But tonight, there was something different in his eyes. Something softer.

He stared at the glowing menu board with furrowed concentration.

“Two Wutai Double Crunch Burger, please. Cheese. Tomatoes. No onions. And two fries. A Mako tea,” He hesitated. His voice dipped low. “. . .And a Chocobo Nugget Kids’ Meal. With the moogle toy, if you have it.”

The cashier, barely out of high school, was visibly starstruck. She fumbled with the screen.

“Oh! Y-Yes, Sephiroth, sir! Of course!” she stammered, her cheeks flushed. “I just-Wow, you really eat here? I mean . . . I’m part of the Silver Elite, so this is just . . . amazing.”

Sephiroth inclined his head with calm professionalism. “Thank you,” he said politely. His tone was perfectly neutral but not unkind.

Behind him, another customer took a picture. He ignored it. Let them. They didn’t know the real reason he was here.

As the food, three steaming bags and a cup of carbonated mako tea,was handed over, Sephiroth offered the girl behind him a small, almost imperceptible smile. “You may want to keep that photo to yourself.”

He left with the same graceful silence that followed him everywhere.

The key clicked softly in the lock of their small apartment: a humble, tucked-away space with warm yellow lights and the smell of lavender from Colette’s bedside diffuser. Sephiroth stepped inside, the sharp scent of fried food drifting in with him as he closed the door behind him.

“Colette?” he called gently.

She didn’t answer immediately, as she was curled up in their window nook with sketchbook in her lap and a blanket pulled around her. Her eyes were distant, haunted by something old and familiar: that quiet voice inside her that whispered she wasn’t enough. That she didn’t deserve him.

He set the food down and crossed the room in measured steps, crouching beside her without a word.

Colette looked at him then, really looked at him, and the ache behind her eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

“I brought you something,” he said simply, voice lower now. It was more intimate. “They gave me the moogle toy.”

She blinked, and despite herself, a soft laugh escaped her throat. “. . . You didn’t have to go all the way to Stampy's for me.”

“I did,” he said, settling beside her. “You mentioned once you craved their fries when you felt . . . out of sorts.”

He didn’t say insecure. He didn’t say unworthy. He didn’t have to.

Colette lowered her eyes. “I just . . . I don’t understand why you love me,” she whispered. “You could have anyone. Someone braver. Someone beautiful. Someone who—”

Sephiroth gently touched her chin and turned her to face him. His unwavering gaze held none of the cruelty people feared in him. Only clarity and love that burnt quiet and patient beneath the surface.

“You see yourself as small,” he said. “But you are not.”

She didn’t answer, too afraid that if she did, the tears behind her lashes might fall.

“I have never once wanted what the world told me I should,” Sephiroth continued. “Not their adoration. Not their expectations. Not even their legacy. But you, Colette . . . you are the only thing I have ever chosen freely.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“I don’t need you to be anyone else,” he said softly. “Just stay.”

She leaned forward, forehead pressing gently to his chest. The mako scent of him, cool and faintly metallic, was grounding. He wrapped his arms around her and held her there, letting her heart settle.

After a few minutes, she finally asked, voice muffled against his chest, “Did you really ask for the moogle toy?”

He paused. “I may have insisted on the moogle toy.”

Colette snorted, and the sound that so warm and human made the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

Later, they ate their burgers and fries and shared the tea on the couch. Her feet tucked between his thighs as he handed her the ridiculous toy with a mock-serious expression. They didn’t need to speak. In that apartment, Colette was met with an unspoken truth. In his arms, Colette was not small. She was seen. And for once, she let herself believe it.

#☕#🌠🌑: love and meteors #🌠🌑: si: colette vasseur #🌠🌑: short story: colette vasseur

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redadm1ral · 3 months ago

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HII CAN I GET 3, 6, 14, 17, 25, 26 for my beloveds moiralock 🧙‍♂️💗

YESSS OF COURSE! I love talking about them...this is gonna be long as HELL so my answers will be under the cut ^-^

heads up, this one also manages to be more explicit than the last ask I answered 😅makes me want to expand more on Joe and Farley's dynamic too to keep things even but I shall do that in another poast eventually. also there will be some mentions of physical abuse but mostly in reference to Farley and Moira's past experiences with it and their views on corporal punishment in the home.

all that being said!

If they complimented each other, what would they say?

Farley is the #1 wife guy he is always ready to tell Moira how beautiful she is. He often says her hair is beautiful, and will specifically comment on how well her current hairstyle suits her or how lovely and full it is. In intimate moments (or when he's being romantic in his letters) he compliments her eyes; I think Farley would like to compare them to the sea, for their darkness (her eyes are very dark brown, almost black), intensity, depth, and beauty.

Due to her condition (they might call it something different in-universe, to us it would be lupus), Moira is prone to skin rashes and lesions triggered by sun exposure. So she's really careful about skincare; she prefers to cover as much skin as possible (e.g. she won't wear anything with an exposed neck on a sunny day) and uses multiple kinds of sun protection; gloves, wide-brimmed bats, parasols, and skin creams designed to protect the wearer's skin. (The cream she uses is probably a home made remedy passed down through her family. She's very picky about what she uses on her skin.)

With all this in mind (and with the misogynoir and colorism Moira has to face as a dark-skinned of Pandyssian descent), Farley likes to compliment her skin in many different ways; how it smells and feels after she puts on her lotions, how well the colors of her dresses or jewelry or makeup complement her, and he wax poetics in their letters about seeing the moon glow on the sea and thinking of the glow of the moon on her skin. Farley really wants Moira to know she's the most beautiful woman in the world. The sea is also the most beautiful thing in the world to him, so he compares the two of them a lot I feel.

Farley also really values and loves Moira for her intelligence and ambition, and he really admires her dedication to art and creation. He thinks she's magical with a needle and a sewing machine, and he will say so often.

Moira also thinks her husband is fine as hell and likes to remind him of it. She usually comments on his style; Farley likes to keep his hair short and a close shave, and usually wears his uniform in public and to social events, and she makes sure to comment on how sharp and handsome he looks (she loves that Havelock jawline and she likes the way he straightens a little and raises his chin when she compliments him this way). He loooves getting "oooh my strong man" type compliments too, especially if he's helping her with something physical. Double especially if he's carrying her, sometimes for flirty reasons, and sometimes because she's having a bad flareup and in so much pain she can't walk. Those times the compliments are more her way of diffusing the stress of the situation, seeking comfort, and expressing appreciation for taking care of her (usually after outright thanking him). Of course, he always responds with affection.

What is/are their love language(s)?

OUHHH right off the bat, Farley loves giving her gifts! He's always keeping his eyes peeled for things to bring home to her when they're in port…or when they've taken a ship a prize and he spies something he thinks she'll like. Gift giving is rarely a big gesture for him—most of the time he likes to do little things to make Moira's day a little easier, or more comfortable, or just to make her smile. He usually gifts her practical items for her business and passions (she has SO many fancy thimbles), unique or otherwise interesting textiles he finds in foreign ports, food, etc. Much of the furniture in their home, particularly their shared bedroom, is upholstered with textiles that Moira either chose personally, or were gifted to her by Farley.

Farley also carves wood and bone to keep his hands busy. Moira is pretty much guaranteed to receive at least one figurine from him every time he comes home from sea. He learned to make furniture from his father, and while he doesn't have the time or the skill to make every piece of furniture in that house, of course, he has made one or two items for her—maybe a nice chair upholstered with the fabric he picked out for her. Moira also uses canes, and Farley will not only make them out of a nice solid wood (something Moira could use for self defense), but he'll carve designs into them. His wifey deserves mobility aids to match her beauty ^-^

Moira is very similar to Farley in that respect; she loves giving him gifts, and making him special handmade items; Farley rarely wears anything other than his uniform at social functions, but she embroiders his uniform sleeves, and a good portion of Farley's "civvie" clothes (to use a modern term) are designed by her. They miiiight have a couple of matching outfits! When Farley foot-in-mouths his way into taking up the sport of foxhunting (when he's home ofc), Moira is SO excited to design his attire. Her favorite part of gifting handmade or custom tailored clothes is getting to watch Farley lift his chin and preen in front of the mirror like he's the hottest shit in the world (he is playing it cool—Farley is not a very emotive man—but Moira knows that twinkle of pride in his eyes lmao he's feeling himself).

In line with making handmade items: the creation of bone charms is a practice that's been passed down in Moira's family in generations, taught to her by her mother, and she makes them for protection against disease, injury, and to prevent pregnancy. Farley will bring home the bone, some already carved into the right shapes, and Moira will use that to make charms that she will then sew in secret compartments in Farley's uniform to keep him safe on his voyages. On more than one occasion, Farley comes away from a fight or encounter to discover the charm has cracked or fully turned to dust in its compartment, and Moira will always make a new one to replace it. She explains that the charm falling apart means that it had fulfilled its purpose.

They also value having intimate time together, just the two of them, especially with physical contact. This can entail sex, but moreso it's enjoying some tea or tobacco (or other substances…y'all already know Moira is an opium girlie and in 2025 she'd be a stoner fr) and sitting close together/cuddling in some kind of state of undress and just talking. They could talk for hours; they're both politically minded and honestly I feel like Farley is a gossip even if he won't admit it 🤭 he's bringing home two kinds of tea

Farley will also help Moira with her nightly routines and wash days—she needs help on wash days especially because she has a LOT of hair to take care of, and between managing her business and their home (they send the kids to school and hire servants once their earnings allow such luxuries, but it's still a lot of work), Moira is EXHAUSTED by the time it comes to taking care of herself. And he will help her with her whole routine; washing, conditioning, the butters and oils for her scalp and hair, the braids and twists she puts her hair in at night to protect it under her bonnet (they'd call it a nightcap though), all of it. He will even help her style, though Moira likes having more control when doing her hair for social events.

(Idk if they can get a tub big enough even with the money but I think it would be cute if they bathed together too…maybe in the Fugue Feast fic that's rotting in my WIP folder rn)

What would be a dealbreaker?

I actually had to rack my brain for this one because there's a lot they'd put up with from each other, and they're both willing to overlook and take part in some deeply shady shit…the really easy answer would be adultery of course, they're an extremely faithful couple (and faithful to their respective same-gender partners) who normally have zero interest in pursuing other people, so if gazes start wandering, that's a sign there's something gravely wrong in the relationship.

Maybe a bit surprising giving the time period and Farley's propensity for violence, but neither Farley nor Moira are spanking parents. I think they both try it at first, because that's what they know from their childhood. But they very quickly and unanimously decide against it. Farley grew up in a violent home where his father would dish out abuse to everyone (Farley, Teddy, momma Elsa) in the name of discipline, and putting his hands on his children makes him feel too much like Fabian. "Corporal punishment belongs in the military, not in the home." Moira's parents were not as cruel as Farley's father was, but they were still unfair (Sian faced the brunt of their unfairness), so her feelings are very similar; putting hands on her children feels viscerally wrong. So if one of them decided to go back on that and start physically punishing their children, especially if it happened behind the other's back…yeah it's over lmao. Don't touch the babies.

If we want to get really angsty… Okay canonically Moira has passed away by this point but imagine with me a timeline where Moira lives and she takes part in the Loyalist Conspiracy.

By this point, they've been through a lot together. They've lost both their parents. Their first son was taken, and their second son is estranged (even if Moira hadn't died, I think the pressures Farley puts on him in the aftermath of Jasper's kidnapping and Sylvia's birth would still drive him away, just a bit slower). Sylvia is still alive, but unreachable; they sent her with Sian out of the country (because Sylvia is leaving temporarily, while Sian is leaving for good) to protect her from the plague (and Moira has to FIGHT for Farley not to send her away too), and once the blockade goes up, all letters from overseas cease. And once they're running the conspiracy, and the ball really starts rolling, it wouldn't be safe to communicate directly with her anyway. (They want to. Moira writes letters that will never be sent.)

Moira's business is dead thanks to the triple-punch of the 1835 Drapers Ward crash, the onset of the plague, and her husband trashing the last of the family's reputation by getting his stupid ass kicked out of the Navy. So she's trying to keep it together. She really is. She and Farley decide they can pull themselves out of the mess they're in. And so Moira becomes a conspirator alongside him. She uses the business connections she still has left for the conspiracy's benefit, at great risk to herself and those remaining relationships. She invests her dwindling funds into the conspiracy, in making the Hound Pits their base of operations, in supplying Piero, in breaking Corvo out of prison. She's throwing everything she fucking has into this plan, because so is Farley, because it's their only shot.

There are a lot of ways this could go—Moira and Farley don't have to turn against each other, I think it would be just as fun to explore a story where the conspiracy drives them closer and closer and they go down in flames together—but what if, as the conspiracy goes on and they get closer and closer to achieving their goals, Farley stops listening to her. What if, over time, Moira notices more and more that he's taking Martin and Pendleton a little bit more seriously than he does her, and he starts pushing back against her more and more instead of working as a team. She's being iced out of the decision making of the conspiracy she helped to found and she has been pouring resources and time and thought into for months. She sacrificed her health and everything she has left, and risks her life, for this stupid fucking project that may or may not even work.

Until the mask slips entirely and he just completely disregards her. Maybe at a crucial moment—like, for example, deciding whether, when, and crucially, how to kill Corvo, and make sure of their success. The buildup to that moment would already stoke incredible resentment, but I think that's the point where he's crossed the event horizon of fuckery and Moira turns against him completely, and "get rid of that fucking man" and getting hers is her main priority.

What senses (sights, smells, feelings, etc). remind them of each other?

Citrus-y smells always make Farley think of Moira; her favorite perfume is a Bastillianese fragrance made with a lemon-like citrus native to northern Serkonos. Likewise, Moira can immediately recognize when someone is smoking Farley's favorite tobacco. She gets a pang in her heart whenever she walks by someone that tobacco while Farley is at sea.

After meeting Moira, Farley pays closer attention to textiles. Velvet is one of Moira's favorite fabrics to wear, so he associates velvet with her to the point where he may describe certain qualities of her (e.g. her voice) as velvety or like velvet. Many of the textiles he brings home for her are green because that's her favorite color.

What moves do they know work on the other?

I feel like Moira and Farley have learned to communicate very subtly, since they're often around other people (out in public, or home with the kids and Elsa); they can communicate desire with a single brief look from across the room. When they can be more open, though, I think they do like to be physical; Moira likes to touch Farley's arm or chest while they're sitting or cuddling together, and if they're at a table, she may wiggle off her shoe and slide her foot up Farley's leg. Likewise, he likes resting a hand on her thigh, or rubbing her shoulders and kissing up her neck, which Moira absolutely loves.

Most of the time they're going to have sex toward the end of the day, when the kids are in bed and they're getting ready for it themselves. I had a little fic idea where Moira signals her desire by the way she undresses; they undress in front of each other all the time and it's fine, but this time she sits on the edge of the bed, looks over her shoulder at Farley, then turns around and slides her robe off her shoulders and flips her hair as invitation, and that gets him to crawl across the bed and start kissing on her neck. I feel like she pulls that move often, it's almost guaranteed to reel him in.

Also Moira is not immune to manspreading. When Farley sits in a chair and pushes his hips forward and spreads his legs and looks at her, hungry and inviting, it makes her a bit weak in the knees.

What are their favorite parts about physical affection/sex?

Okay first thing I need to mention is the size difference. It's a major aspect of their physical relationship and also it's hot so I must.

I've mentioned Farley is 6'7''/2m, while Moira is 5'6''/1.68m, giving them a 13 inch/33.02 cm difference in height. Farley is also much heavier and stronger than Moira—which is something he has to be mindful of in their dynamic, since he knows his size can be threatening (especially given their power dynamic and his own experience of watching his smaller mother be intimidated by his larger, domineering father). They both enjoy this contrast in size though; Farley is mindful about his size and the way he moves his body, and he has a way of making his surrounding size feel like a warm blanket. Like something protective and gentle that makes Moira melt in his hands and fully relax. One of her favorite things is when he's on top of her and his arms are beside her and she can feel his size around him, the power and control in his body and how gently he uses it with her, especially if he's pressed up close and she can have her hands on him, or bury her face in his chest or shoulder or neck. It makes her feel like nothing in the world could ever reach or hurt her. Conversely, Farley likes holding her and feeling her melt against him, he likes being that protective force and the feeling of someone smaller and more precious than him in his arms and getting to cherish and relish in that.

Alternatively, when they play more roughly, Farley is very good at playing a more intimidating persona and using his height and size in that respect. He's still very careful about his strength, and Moira appreciates the control and care in that as well; even when he's using more force, when he's manhandling her and tossing her around the way she likes (always making sure she lands somewhere soft), she knows in the back of her mind (because the front of her mind is all about whatever scene they're playing) that she's safe with him. She melts in these scenes in a different way, but she melts all the same, and Farley loves that just as much.

Also they are both big on oral. Farley is her #1 eater. If y'all know that meme of the Hawaiian shirt wearer who ate pussy for a straight hour that's basically Farley. There is the sensory aspect of pussy eating itself (the taste, the smell, and call him Tarzan the way he swings through that bush) but also feeling Moira's thighs tremble around his head, and her hands tangling in his hair, and the little sounds she makes when he's pulling her closer and closer to orgasm. And he just likes pleasing her in that way. He can get really into it, too; he would describe it as getting drunk from her. Moira likes giving Farley oral for many of the same reasons—she likes the sensation of his skin and her saliva on him, the taste of him, his hair, the way he smells, and she loves the reactions she can coax out of him. Farley is very well-endowed, so going down on him for long periods is harder, but she is also liable to get lost in the sauce.

#inbox #newbordeaux #ask game answers #the admiral's desk #smoke room #moira o'farrell #farley havelock #moiralock #I HOPE U ENJOYYY SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!#some of these I could expand on more but I feel like I'll learn more about their dynamic as I write Kingsparrow and my lil fics anyway

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