#(they said knowing full well they are not going to nap and will likely have a snack and draw some more instead)

[0scarp1astr1]

˖ 𐔌 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐒𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐚𝐲࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || When the flu hits the Norris household, you're suddenly the full-time nurse, chef, and cuddle provider. With Lando down and sick. It's up to you to nurse him and the kids back to health. ||

ᯓ★ (Husband!) Lando Norris x Fem! (Wife) Reader

ᯓ★ 1x Genre: Fluff

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: More of the Norris Family on your feed. Some stories might not be as long as the others. I do apologize, I am swamped with some things, but making it work. As of now, here is some fluff about the Norris family. DOUBLE POST TODAY!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

It started with Sebastian.

You were home on the couch, one leg curled beneath you, a warm mug of tea in your hands as the low hum of afternoon silence filled the house. Lyla was upstairs napping, snuggled into her favorite pink blanket with her bunny tucked beneath her chin. Lando had gone out for the afternoon to grab groceries and maybe meet up with Oscar for lunch. It was peaceful. Until your phone rang.

You glanced down, squinting at the screen. St. Mary’s Primary School.

That peaceful feeling? Gone.

You picked up immediately. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Sebastian’s mum?” a gentle voice asked. “This is Nurse Rachel, I’m calling to let you know Sebastian isn’t feeling too well. He’s got a slight fever, looks a bit pale, and he’s complaining about a headache and chills. He’s resting in the office now, but we’d recommend picking him up as soon as possible.”

Your heart dropped. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.”

Ten minutes later, you were parking in front of the school, your chest tight with worry. As soon as you stepped into the nurse’s office, your heart broke.

There was Sebastian, curled up on a cot with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His curls were a mess, flattened to one side, and his eyes looked heavy and dull. His cheeks were flushed, lips dry, and the moment he saw you, he blinked slowly and reached out with a weak little, “Mama…”

“Oh, baby,” you whispered, rushing to his side. You ran your fingers gently through his curls and kissed his forehead. He was burning up.

“Let’s get you home.”

At home, things started okay. You and Lando worked like a well-oiled team—fluffing pillows, taking temperatures, setting timers for medicine, keeping cartoons going on a loop to distract him. You’d been through colds and stomach bugs before. This was just another one. Or so you thought.

But two days in, Sebastian was getting worse.

“He hasn’t eaten anything,” Lando muttered, pacing at the foot of Sebastian’s bed. His hands were shoved into his hoodie pocket, eyes fixed on his son who was lying limp, glassy-eyed, not even responding to his favorite movie playing.

“I know,” you sighed, rubbing Sebastian’s back gently. “He won’t even drink juice.”

“He’s not… him. He doesn’t even want me to read to him.”

You both looked at each other then, the unspoken agreement passing between you like a bolt of electricity.

Doctor. Now.

The diagnosis: flu. A pretty bad one.

“Just rest, fluids, and keep monitoring his fever,” the pediatrician said kindly. “These days, the strains going around have been knocking kids out hard, but with proper care, he should be alright in a few days.”

Lando let out a long sigh once you were back in the car, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay. So we can do this.”

You smiled weakly. “Yeah. We’ve got this.”

You didn’t have this.

Because two days later, Lyla got it.

She woke up wailing in the middle of the night, her entire little body on fire with fever, cheeks damp from tears, and that heartbreaking toddler cry that said she didn’t know what was happening.

“Oh no,” you whispered as you scooped her into your arms.

From the doorway, Lando stood in pajama pants, his shirt long forgotten, with sleepy eyes, hair sticking out in every direction, and dark circles under his eyes. “Not her too.”

“She’s burning up, Lan.”

The house descended into chaos.

You barely knew what day it was. There were humidifiers going in every room. Thermometers beeping every few hours. Medicine charts taped to the fridge. Lyla wanted nothing but cuddles. Sebastian was in a zombie state, and you were running on cold coffee and adrenaline.

One afternoon, while you were wiping down the kitchen counter, a soft knock came at the front door.

You opened it to find Oscar standing there, hoodie pulled over his head and holding a large brown paper bag.

“Hey,” he said with a small, apologetic smile. “Lando said you guys were in full-on crisis mode. I figured you could use a hand.”

“Oscar,” you blinked, almost tearing up. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He stepped inside, pulling off his shoes. “I brought electrolyte drinks, cold meds, some soup, and—” he pulled a stuffed dinosaur from the bag with a small grin, “a get-well friend for Seb.”

You laughed softly, taking the items. “Thank you. Seriously.”

He looked toward the living room where Lando was sprawled on the floor with Lyla clinging to his chest, half-asleep. “How’s he holding up?”

You snorted. “Heroically. Stubbornly. Recklessly. Pick one.”

Lando looked up just then. “Oi! I’m doing my best over here!”

“You’re gonna catch it too, mate,” Oscar warned.

“Nah,” Lando said, stroking Lyla’s back gently. “I’ve got dad immunity.”

“You mean denial,” you muttered, setting down the soup.

But Oscar was right.

Two days later, you walked in from the store to find the living room in complete stillness.

Lando was lying facedown on the couch, motionless. Sebastian was snuggled on top of his back like a human blanket, fast asleep. Lyla was curled at the base of the couch with her head on Lando’s leg, mouth open, drool visibly soaking into the fabric of his joggers.

He lifted his hand lazily and gave you a pathetic wave.

“You’re home,” he rasped, voice so congested it didn’t even sound like him.

You set the bag of groceries down and crossed your arms. “Lando.”

He turned his head just slightly, revealing red-rimmed eyes and a nose that was clearly on strike.

“What?”

“You’re sick.”

“No, I’m just tired,” he mumbled.

You arched a brow. “Tired? Your face looks like it’s been hit with hay fever, the flu, and a cold front.”

He huffed. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. You have a seven-year-old with the flu asleep on your back and a two-year-old sneezing on your leg. You’re now patient three in this house of doom.”

“Don’t diss my babies,” he muttered, sniffling.

You walked over and gently lifted Sebastian off him, carefully not to wake him. “Come on, superhero. Time to go to bed.”

He groaned dramatically, trying to sit up before collapsing again. “This is how I go.”

“Lando.”

He opened one eye. “If I don’t make it, tell Oscar I forgive him for bringing me that soup with ginger.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the fond smile tugging at your lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Tell the children I fought bravely.”

“You got the flu from cuddling a toddler.”

“...still brave.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The early morning had become your only moment of true peace.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but soft golden light was beginning to filter in through the tall windows of your Monaco flat, casting long, warm shadows across the quiet living room. The city beyond the glass was still sleeping, wrapped in the quiet hum of a new day not yet begun. No traffic. No coughing. No cartoons buzzing in the background. Just silence. Precious, rare silence.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, the tiles cool beneath your feet, wrapped loosely in your robe. One hand cradled a warm mug of tea while the other rested against the edge of the counter as you took a breath. Deep. Grounding. You could almost pretend the past week hadn’t happened—almost pretend the house wasn’t still full of flu-stricken chaos, discarded tissues, and sleepless nights.

But you knew better.

Your eyes wandered toward the hallway.

In your bedroom, Lando lay sprawled across the bed, curled protectively around a small, warm bundle. Lyla was tucked up against him, her tiny frame almost disappearing beneath the heavy duvet. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, her thumb still resting against her lips, breathing soft and even. One of Lando’s arms was draped over her securely, his hand resting gently on her back as if shielding her from even the remnants of the flu. His curls were a tousled mess on the pillow, his mouth parted slightly as he slept—exhausted, stuffy, and completely defeated by the same virus he’d insisted he wouldn’t catch.

You’d warned him. Time and time again, you told him to stop letting her cough in his face, to quit letting her nuzzle into his hoodie while she sniffled and sneezed.

“She’s a daddy’s girl,” you had said. “You’ll be the next one down.”

And now, here you were.

Across the hall, Sebastian was finally asleep too, curled up in his bright red race car bed. His tiny body lay limp under a Cars-themed comforter, his arms tucked beneath his pillow, one leg dangling out from under the blanket like it always did—flu or no flu. His cheeks were still a little pink, but the fever had come down overnight. You’d stood in his doorway earlier just to watch him breathe, just to make sure.

He looked peaceful. For now.

And for a few stolen moments, so did everyone else.

You sipped your tea, turning slowly back toward the stove.

“Breakfast,” you mumbled to yourself, eyeing the sparse options you’d managed to keep stocked through the week. There wasn’t much point in cooking something elaborate. Nothing seemed to stay down anyway. Every meal came with the risk of being met with a gag, a grumble, or worse—clean-up duty.

You sighed and set the mug down. “Oatmeal and yogurt,” you decided aloud. “Simple. Gentle. Not likely to end up on the floor.”

You grabbed the oats and a small pot, setting it on the stove to warm the milk. Your hands moved with practiced rhythm—quiet, calm. You sliced some banana, then carefully cut a few strawberries, arranging them in a little dish in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the colors might tempt Lyla or Sebastian to eat something.

The silence was comforting, for once. No crying. No sneezing. No soft calls of “Mama…” from down the hall.

Just you. Your kitchen. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The aroma of tea.

And then—ring ring ring.

You jumped a little at the sudden break in stillness and reached across the counter for your phone, sighing lightly. You glanced at the screen and smiled.

Cisca.

You picked up immediately. “Well,” you said with a chuckle, phone pressed to your ear, “it’s nice someone is calling me and not crying or throwing up.”

“Calling to check in on the family!” Cisca’s warm, familiar voice greeted you.

Your smile deepened. Lando’s mom had always been so caring—gentle but no-nonsense, the kind of woman you could rely on. She knew how hard motherhood could get, even with help.

You leaned against the counter, balancing the phone between your shoulder and cheek. “You have impeccable timing. The house is actually… quiet. For once.”

“I was hoping I’d catch you before the chaos starts again. How’s everyone holding up?”

“Well,” you exhaled, stirring the oatmeal slowly, “Sebastian’s fever finally broke last night. He’s asleep in his bed, looking like a little zombie racer.”

“That’s good news.”

You nodded to yourself. “Lyla’s still all sniffles and sleepy cuddles. And she’s in bed with Lando right now.”

Cisca laughed knowingly. “Let me guess—tucked under his arm like a little koala?”

You chuckled. “Exactly. It’s actually adorable. She’s latched onto him like he’s her personal comfort pillow. She refuses to be anywhere else.”

“She always was a daddy’s girl.”

“Yeah,” you said with a smirk, “which brings me to the bad news—he’s got the flu now too.”

“Oh no…”

You shook your head, scooping the finished oatmeal into a bowl. “I told him. Over and over. Stop letting her breathe on you. Stop kissing her forehead every five minutes. But he couldn’t help himself. He cuddled her through the worst of it and now…” You glanced toward the bedroom door. “He’s just another one of my patients.”

Cisca groaned. “He never did listen to advice when it came to sick days.”

You grinned. “Now he’s snoring like a bear, wrapped around his sick toddler like he’s the one keeping her alive.”

“Well, you’re a stronger woman than me,” she said with a laugh. “I’d have booked a hotel.”

“Trust me, I’ve thought about it.”

You both laughed, and for a moment, the tension eased.

“You’re doing great,” Cisca said warmly. “I know this part is exhausting, but it’ll pass. Just make sure you don’t go down next.”

“Knock on wood,” you muttered, glancing at the counter. “I’m the last one standing.”

“For now,” she teased.

You chuckled again and looked over your shoulder, taking in the morning light filtering across the floor, casting a soft glow down the hallway. Behind those doors were your whole world—sick, tired, and helpless—but still your heart in three fragile, beautiful pieces.

And right now, you were holding everyone together.

“I’ve got it,” you whispered more to yourself than anyone else. “I’ve got all of them.”

The sound of a raspy cough pierced the quiet, interrupting your rare sliver of calm. You gently pulled the phone away from your ear mid-sentence.

“I think that’s my cue,” you murmured with a soft sigh. “One of the tiny patients is awake.”

“Hang in there,” Cisca replied sympathetically. “Call me later if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you, Cisca.”

You ended the call and set the phone down on the counter, already hearing the familiar rhythm of small footsteps padding against the wooden floors. And then—

“Mama!”

You turned toward the hallway, just as Sebastian appeared—his race car pajamas rumpled, curls flattened on one side of his head, and his cheeks still flushed from fever. He rubbed one eye with the back of his hand, dragging his favorite stuffed animal behind him.

Before you could respond, Lando stepped into the kitchen behind him, holding Lyla close to his chest. She was bundled in a blanket, thumb in her mouth, her heavy head resting on his shoulder. Her curls were tangled from sleep, her little body completely melted against him.

“Lando,” you sighed gently, though your tone carried the weight of exhaustion, “put her down. You all should be in bed. I’m making breakfast.”

He gave a tired shake of his head, voice barely above a whisper. “We’re fine, love.”

But you saw the truth in his eyes—the fatigue, the faint daze behind his movements, and most telling of all, the harsh cough that followed his words, forcing him to turn away from the stove area.

“Please,” you said more firmly, “not around the food.”

He nodded weakly, patting Lyla’s back as she made a soft noise in her sleep.

You set the spoon down with a soft clink and crossed your arms. “Okay. You three—back to bed. Now. All of you.”

“Mama…” Sebastian whined pitifully. He shuffled forward and leaned into your side, wrapping his arms around your leg. “I want to stay with you…”

Your heart tugged painfully.

You ran your fingers through his curls and crouched down to meet his tired gaze. “Oh, sweetheart… you three make me feel awful. I hate seeing you all like this.”

Lando watched you, still holding Lyla like a sick little koala bear. His lips were pale, eyes heavy-lidded. You stepped closer, gently brushing a hand over Lyla’s back and then across his arm.

“Lando, honey,” you said softly, your voice dipping into something tender, something pleading, “can you please lay back down? Take them with you? Just rest a little longer.”

He hesitated, shoulders slumping as he exhaled shakily. “I would,” he murmured, “but my head is pounding and I feel like my whole body’s made of wet paper.”

You sighed, leaning into him briefly, pressing your forehead to his arm. “I told you this would happen.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But she wouldn’t sleep without me…”

You looked down at Lyla, who hadn’t stirred once since they entered the kitchen, her little fingers fisted in the fabric of Lando’s shirt.

“Alright,” you said softly. “Come on. All of you—back to bed. I’ll bring breakfast to the bedroom. Just let me finish getting it ready. I’ll even add a bit of honey to Sebastian’s oatmeal and cut Lyla’s strawberries just the way she likes them.”

Sebastian sniffled and looked up at you. “With the little star shapes?”

You smiled tiredly. “With the star shapes, baby.”

Lando gave you the faintest, grateful grin. “You’re kind of a superhero, you know that?”

You reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Don’t you forget it.”

As they slowly turned back toward the hallway—Lando shuffling like a sick penguin, Sebastian clutching his stuffed animal and trailing behind, Lyla still completely draped across her dad—you watched them disappear one by one into the bedroom.

The kitchen was warm with the gentle scent of honey and oats, the steam from the tea curling softly into the air. You moved with quiet care, filling the bowls with the oatmeal you’d just made—each one sweetened with a drizzle of honey and topped with star-shaped strawberries and banana slices. A small cup of yogurt sat beside each bowl, along with spoons, napkins, and the kind of quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, the kids would eat today without rejecting it.

You poured a mug of warm tea for Lando—his favorite herbal blend with a slice of lemon, just the way he liked it when he was sick—and then filled a tiny glass with vegetable juice for Sebastian, placing it gently on the tray. You knew he didn’t love it, but he’d promised to try if you made it “look fancy.” Lyla’s sippy cup was filled halfway with the same juice, mostly in the name of fairness.

Balancing the two trays with practiced care, you made your way down the hall and into the bedroom.

What you found made your heart ache in that bittersweet way only motherhood ever could.

Lando had propped himself up against the headboard, hair a complete mess, cheeks slightly flushed. Lyla was curled up on his lap, wrapped in her blanket, her thumb tucked into her mouth as she blinked sleepily at you. Sebastian was leaning into Lando’s side, his little head resting on his dad’s shoulder, still holding tightly to his stuffed bunny.

“Goodness,” you breathed, stepping into the room, “you three amaze me…”

Lando looked up, managing a tired grin as you carried the trays in.

You set them carefully on the bedside table and climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as you sat at the edge. “Alright, breakfast is served—oatmeal, yogurt, fancy fruit, and drinks you’ll all probably ignore.”

“Ocker!” Lyla suddenly perked up, her voice muffled and sleepy as she looked at you hopefully.

You gave her a gentle smile, brushing a hand over her forehead. “Uncle Oscar’s probably busy right now, baby girl. And you’re too sick—he can’t come over until you’re feeling better, remember?”

Lyla frowned, clearly disappointed, but snuggled back into Lando’s chest.

Lando groaned softly, placing a hand over his face in mock defeat. “Great. Sick, miserable, and now my own daughter is choosing Oscar over me.”

You let out a soft laugh, nudging his foot under the covers. “Relax. She’s not picking favorites.”

He peered at you over his hand. “Sure sounds like it.”

You glanced at Lyla, who was now absently poking the edge of her blanket and sucking on her thumb again. “You know when she’s anxious, she gravitates to people who make her feel calm,” you said gently. “And Oscar’s like her giant golden retriever. He’s quiet. Still. And he always lets her talk first, even when she’s babbling nonsense.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I don’t let her talk?”

You gave him a look. “You narrate her every move like she’s a Formula 1 highlight reel.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it again, sheepish. “Okay… fair.”

Sebastian let out a soft laugh beside him. “You do that, Daddy.”

Lando gave him a playful nudge. “Traitor.”

You smiled at the sight of all three of them bundled up in bed together—your entire world, messy hair and flushed cheeks and all. You passed out the bowls carefully, helping Sebastian sit up straighter and placing Lyla’s tray on the bed where she could reach it, even if you’d probably end up spoon-feeding her half of it.

Lando took his tea with a grateful hum, blowing on it gently. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know.”

“Yes, I did,” you said simply, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Because if I don’t take care of you three, who will?”

He caught your hand in his and kissed your knuckles softly. “When this is over, I owe you a week of sleep and massages.”

“Throw in some chocolate and a hot bath, and you’ve got a deal.”

Lyla leaned her head against Lando’s chest again, sleepy and warm, and Sebastian spooned some oatmeal into his mouth with a quiet, “Mmm, the stars are tasty.”

You laughed softly.

Even in sickness, even in chaos—you wouldn’t trade this for the world.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Medicine hour. A warzone.

“Lando, for the love of everything, just drink it.” You stood over him, arms crossed, holding the measuring cup filled with thick, cherry-red syrup. “You’re setting the worst example.”

He groaned. “I hate the taste. I’d rather die than drink that stuff again.”

“Dramatic,” you muttered, before grabbing a tissue and wiping a smear of sweat off his brow. “But fine. If you die, I’m throwing you out on the balcony so you don’t get the rest of us sicker.”

Sebastian, peeking from behind the kitchen island, gasped. “You’d throw Daddy off the balcony?”

You grinned. “Only a little.”

“Nooooo,” Lyla whined dramatically, half-laughing, half-crying from where she had crawled into Lando’s lap — seeking refuge. “No medicine! No meeeeedicine!”

“She’s hiding behind me,” Lando groaned. “I’m literally dying, and she’s hiding behind me.”

You gave them both the look. “I swear to God—”

10:00 AM They were scattered across the living room like sick little soldiers after battle. Lyla was curled on Lando’s chest, snot crusting around her nose as she finally gave in to sleep. Sebastian lay on his side with a cold rag on his forehead, muttering something about how he was “still in control of the situation.”

You were running on caffeine and desperation, perched at the edge of the armchair, flipping through temperature logs on your phone and timing medicine gaps.

“You okay?” Lando mumbled hoarsely, watching you through tired eyes. You hesitated. “I’ve been better.”

He gave you a weak smile. “I’d kiss you, but I’d infect you.”

You snorted. “You already did.”

12:45 PM Lunchtime was a joke.

Lando tried to stand and help but ended up throwing up water in the bathroom and groaning dramatically like a Shakespearean ghost. You had to threaten Sebastian with no Mario Kart for a week just to get three spoonfuls of chicken broth into him.

Lyla wailed when you brought the soup near her mouth. She refused to even open it unless Lando was holding the spoon, which he physically couldn’t. It ended with you holding Lyla, and Lando guiding your hand to her mouth with both of yours like some sort of messed-up relay.

“Say aaaaah,” you tried.

“No!” “Please?” “Noooooo!” “Fine, then no cartoon time for the day”

Her mouth opened like magic. You almost cried.

2:30 PM Nap time.

Not for you, of course. Never for you.

Lando was finally out cold in bed, one leg dangling dramatically off the side. Sebastian had passed out with a box of tissues under one arm and a Switch on the other. Lyla was asleep on the living room floor, a stuffed bunny clutched to her chest and tear streaks still drying on her face.

You just sat. In the silence. For ten whole minutes.

Ten peaceful, quiet, blessed minutes.

Until Sebastian shouted from his dream, “Don’t touch my kart!” and startled Lyla back awake.

4:00 PM Round two.

You had to strip Lando’s shirt when he started sweating through it again. He barely fought you this time, just muttered something about “this being true love” as you threw it into the hamper.

Sebastian vomited in the hallway. “I didn’t mean to!” “I know, sweetheart. It’s okay.” “Do I still get Mario Kart?” “…We’ll talk about it.”

Lyla bit your arm during her medicine dose. Not unusual considering who her father is.

6:00 PM You finally had them clean, medicated, in fresh pajamas, and watching a movie — a miracle. Lando took your hand from where he lay on the couch.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered. “You haven’t sat all day.”

“Who has time to sit when you have three Norrises pretending they're fine but slowly dying in front of you?”

He laughed softly, rubbing your knuckles. “Seriously… thank you.” You kissed his temple. “Next time you say you’re fine… I’m duct-taping you to the bed.”

From across the room, Sebastian weakly raised his hand. “Me too?” “Yes, you too.” “And Lyla?” Lyla sneezed so hard she fell over. “Nooooooo!”

You exhaled, leaning back at last.

One long, flu-stricken day down. God help you — it probably wasn’t over yet.

But for now… they were okay.

And that was enough.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The sun had barely crept over the buildings of Monaco, casting soft golden streaks through the glass windows of the flat. You stood barefoot in the kitchen, hoodie sleeves rolled up and hair tied messily atop your head. The faint hum of the dishwasher was a low reward for your efforts, and the strong scent of lemon-scented disinfectant lingered in the air. You'd deep cleaned every surface before anyone had even stirred. You sanitized toys, aired out bedding, wiped down door handles — anything that had been sneezed, coughed, or whined on.

You were exhausted, but the apartment felt new again — lighter somehow, fresher, like the weight of the past 48 hours had lifted a little. Even Monaco, framed through the glass windows, looked like it had taken a deep breath alongside you.

Just as you were about to sink into the couch for the first time all morning, the doorbell buzzed. You already knew the voice before the intercom clicked:

“Delivery!” came Oscar’s cheerful tone.

You grinned.

Dragging yourself to the door, you cracked it open slightly. “You,” you said with a tired smile, “are the absolute best.”

He laughed as you opened the door the rest of the way. “I figured you needed it,” he said, handing over a large brown paper bag with your favorites — fresh croissants, some fruit, and what you knew was a much-needed double-shot latte.

You clutched the bag like it was sacred. “You're a hero. Truly. Come in?”

He shook his head. “Can’t. On the way to the simulator, but I wanted to check in.”

“How’s Lando? And the others?” he asked as you leaned against the doorway, exhaustion written under your eyes but a soft smile on your lips.

You let out a sigh that carried a world of chaos. “Well… let’s see,” you began, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I’ve been running around handling cleaning and cooking and, you know, making sure no one dies from stubbornness.”

Oscar smirked. “Sounds about right.”

“Lando keeps trying to act like he’s fine, defending Lyla during medicine hour like some sort of sick knight in a hoodie. He practically begged me not to make her drink the syrup last night — while sweating through his own shirt.”

Oscar snorted.

“And Sebastian…” You softened a little, glancing toward the hallway. “He wants to do karting. He was almost crying this morning. Said he knows he can drive even if he’s sick — ‘just not with a helmet on because it squishes his head,’” you mimicked gently in Sebastian’s voice. “So, he’s very much stuck in the flat and not happy about it.”

You paused, then added with a chuckle, “And me? Well. I’m surviving. Officially crowned Mrs. Norris and her flu-stricken family. Put it on the mailbox.”

Oscar gave you a soft look, one of genuine admiration. “You always say you’re surviving, but honestly… you’re the one keeping the wheels turning.”

You gave him a tired smile in return, warmed by the words. “Maybe. But next time they all get the flu? I’m moving out. Temporarily. Maybe to your flat.”

“Ha! Yeah, okay. You, voluntarily away from them?” he grinned. “You’d last three hours before you’re texting Lando to send you pictures of the kids in their pajamas.”

You shrugged, accepting the truth. “Alright, fine. But I will complain the whole time.”

He stepped back, giving you a two-finger salute. “Hang in there. And seriously — nap when you can. You’ve earned it.”

You raised the coffee cup like a toast. “Oscar Piastri, Patron Saint of the Overworked Mother.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said over his shoulder as he walked down the corridor.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, sipping your drink, letting the warmth spread through your fingers and into your chest.

The house was quiet again. Peaceful, if only for a few minutes.

You closed the door and whispered to yourself, “Alright. Round three… let’s go.”

The rest of the day unfolded in a blur of soft whines, crumpled tissues, and half-eaten meals abandoned mid-bite. Every corner of the flat held evidence of a war against the flu — juice cups only half drunk, bowls of soup pushed aside, little socks strewn across the floor like fallen soldiers.

Sebastian and Lyla had entered the “bickering phase,” where every toy, blanket, or parental glance became a battle.

“Mummy, Lyla stole my truck!”

“Nooo, mine!”

“It’s literally mine!”

You exhaled loudly from the kitchen, gently massaging your temple. “Please… one moment of peace. One.”

Lando, lying horizontal on the couch with a blanket thrown over his head like a man defeated, peeked one eye open. “Want me to mediate?”

“You fell asleep twice during Cars 2,” you shot back. “You’re barely qualified to stand.”

“I’m fine,” he said for the fourth time today — voice raspy, hair tousled, and one sock mysteriously missing. “Totally fine.”

You glanced at the coffee table, where a half-full mug of cold tea sat untouched next to a bottle of cold meds. “You sure about that?”

“Mmhm,” he said, eyes already closing again.

You didn’t push it. You just picked up another tissue from the floor and added it to the already overflowing bin.

Midday blurred into afternoon.

You dragged a basket of clothes out of the bathroom, a trail of damp towels and pajamas trailing behind you. Every time you passed a doorknob, you hit it with a disinfectant wipe. The light switches, the remotes, the handles to the fridge — all wiped in steady repetition like you were running your own personal hospital ward.

Lyla cried when she couldn’t find Bunny. Sebastian cried when Lyla touched his Mario Kart controller. Lando made a valiant attempt to make toast, only to collapse back into bed five minutes later, claiming the “world got a little spinny.”

And you… you kept going.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d reheated your coffee. You hadn’t brushed your hair since early morning, and your hoodie had a suspicious smear on the sleeve — you didn’t ask what it was. But still, you moved through the house like a quiet force, taking care of your people, checking temperatures, brushing sweaty hair from little foreheads, rubbing Lando’s back when he coughed hard enough to wince.

You were tired.

Utterly drained.

But you looked at them — at the mess, the madness, the family-shaped hurricane swirling around you — and your chest still swelled with that quiet kind of love.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Not the mess. Not the noise. Not even the flu.

Because they were yours.

And all you wanted… was for them to feel better.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Three more days.

Three more days of the same rhythm: tissues, thermometers, scattered toys, the faint beep of the washing machine in the background. You moved through the apartment with quiet determination, never stopping for long — cleaning surfaces with one hand, balancing a bottle of electrolyte solution in the other. You knew exactly how many crackers were left, how low the medicine was getting, and which blanket belonged to which feverish body.

You restocked what was needed, organized medications by time, wiped down doorknobs like it was second nature. You were the engine keeping the flat running — quiet, steady, reliable. But it was draining, and though you didn’t say a word of it out loud, your body ached with exhaustion, your eyes stung when you blinked too long, and your thoughts grew foggy from lack of sleep.

Lando noticed.

Even in his haze — buried in the couch, skin pale, lips cracked from dehydration — he watched you.

And it hurt him.

Every time he opened his eyes and saw you wiping down the remote or cleaning Lyla’s pacifier again, he felt it deep in his chest. Not the ache of the flu — but the ache of helplessness. The guilt.

He wanted to get up and take the load from your shoulders. He wanted to hold Lyla while you slept, chase Sebastian around the flat again, make you tea and tell you to lie down. But his body betrayed him. Every time he tried, the wave of nausea, of exhaustion, of weakness pulled him right back down.

Still… he silently promised himself: As soon as I can stand, I’m making it right.

And then — slowly, things began to shift.

Day Four of Illness.

It was subtle at first. But you noticed.

Lando made it to the bathroom on his own. No dizzy hands braced on the wall. No stumbling. Just… quiet steps down the hallway, and a simple, calm return to bed. He even flushed this time, a small miracle. When he laid down, he muttered, “Didn’t even gag this time.” It was ridiculous — and still made your heart squeeze.

His appetite came creeping back. He managed to finish toast without wincing, and even reached for a banana. “Don’t get too excited,” he said weakly when he caught your proud smile. “I’m still a shell of a man.”

Sebastian’s voice was still hoarse with a lingering cough, but he was no longer buried under four blankets in bed. Instead, he was camped on the couch, one leg hanging off as he watched cartoons, munching slowly on dry cereal. His eyes were brighter, not glassy anymore, and he even complained about how boring it was to be sick now.

“Can I go karting today?” he asked. You raised a brow. “Buddy… you’re still coughing.” “But I feel fast.” You laughed softly. “You’ll be fast again soon, promise.”

And Lyla — your little whirlwind — was finally playing again. Her fever had broken. She was dragging her plush animals around the living room like royalty, babbling half-words, climbing into your lap only to squirm out two seconds later. Her energy was returning in soft waves — not chaotic, but present.

And you?

You finally noticed you weren’t holding your breath anymore.

You weren’t setting alarms every few hours in the night. You didn’t have to make midnight runs to the bathroom cabinet. You no longer counted coughs or worried about temperatures spiking.

The house still held signs of the storm — the tissues, the blankets, the smell of menthol lingering in the air — but it was passing. Slowly, but surely, your family was healing.

That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, you laid down in bed and didn’t immediately feel the pressure of duty pulling you back up.

And when Lando turned over to face you, his voice was low, scratchy, but more him than it had been in days.

“You can sleep now,” he whispered, his hand gently brushing yours under the blanket. “We’re okay.”

And you believed him.

So you closed your eyes.

And slept.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You almost thanked the heavens out loud when color returned to your family’s faces.

Sebastian was up earlier, bounding down the hallway with his usual chaotic energy, no longer curled up on the couch like a sad, blanket-wrapped burrito. He was asking about karting again, insisting he was at “90% top speed, maybe 95 if I have juice first.”

Lyla had less whines and more giggles, finally dragging her plush bunny around like a queen commanding her court. She followed Sebastian with a trail of toys and an occasional squeal of laughter, her little feet pattering like soft rain across the living room.

And Lando — God, Lando was himself again. Teasing the kids, poking Sebastian in the ribs until he laughed too hard and snorted, lifting Lyla over his shoulder with ease as she squealed “Daddy noooo!” through laughter. His eyes had lost that fever-dull glaze. His cheeks held their warmth again, his playful smile was back.

It was perfect. Finally.

You could breathe. You could wipe your forehead, toss the washcloth into the laundry, and declare — with exhausted triumph — mission accomplished. You’d nursed your flu-stricken army back to health. You'd survived the storm.

Dinner plates were no longer left half-full. No one was clutching their stomach or whining about sore limbs or sweating through pajamas at 2am. They were whole again.

And then, like cruel irony, a week later… it hit you.

It started slow. A dull ache behind your eyes. The scratch in your throat. A heaviness in your body that you desperately tried to shake off.

No, you told yourself. Not me. I’m the caregiver, the strong one, the immune one. I don’t get sick. I fix sick.

But the ache deepened. The energy drained. And by the time you found yourself in the kitchen, hunched slightly over the steaming bowl of chicken soup, elbows on the counter, face slack with fatigue — you knew.

It got you. The flu finally got you.

Your head lolled to the side as the world tilted just slightly under your feet, and you groaned, nose wrinkling. You didn’t even hear him come in, not until that familiar voice softened behind you.

“You okay, baby?”

Lando’s tone was light, but laced with immediate concern. You turned your head sluggishly and gave a small, pitiful hum.

“Think the flu is trying to attack me,” you mumbled, punctuating the sentence with a weak cough into your sleeve.

He was at your side instantly, hand brushing your lower back. You saw his face fall just slightly. Not the dramatic Lando face he gave the kids — the real one. The worried one.

“Alright,” he said firmly, “go lay down. No arguments.”

You groaned. “No. I still need to finish—”

“Nope. Don’t care. You took care of us. Now we take care of you,” he said, gently taking the spoon from your hand and setting it down. “C’mon, don’t be stubborn. You were a badass nurse. It’s my turn to suck at it.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “You’re going to be the best and worst nurse. Somehow, both at once.”

He grinned, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “Right. Now off you go. Shoo. Mama’s off duty.”

You were about to turn, maybe even argue a little more — but then, with a cheeky grin, he slapped your ass. Hard enough to make you yelp.

“NORRIS!” you barked, rubbing the spot with a soft wince.

“What?” he laughed, completely unbothered, “I’m just encouraging the patient to move along. Nurse’s orders.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, incredibly handsome.”

He winked, ushering you toward the hallway.

You dragged your feet, muttering, “A nurse does not hurt the person he’s caring for.”

“Oh come on,” he murmured, catching up to you, kissing the edge of your jaw. “It’s my favorite part of you. Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

You turned back to give him the dirtiest look you could muster — half-hearted at best — and he smirked again.

“I’ll carry you if I have to,” he said, following close behind.

From the living room, Lyla squealed in laughter and Sebastian shouted something about racing plush animals. You smiled faintly, even through the growing ache in your head. They were okay. They were whole again. That was everything.

Lando guided you toward the bedroom, one hand still gently on your hip.

“Oh, and babe?” he added, grinning, “If I nurse you back to health, I get baby number three.”

You spun slowly on your heel. “You really wanna try that while I have the flu?”

He raised both hands. “Just planting the idea. Let it simmer. Like your soup. Which I’m now in charge of, by the way.”

You laughed softly — hoarse and worn, but genuine.

He brushed your hair away from your forehead, pressed a kiss there. “Go sleep. I’ll check on the kids, do dinner. You’ve earned it.”

You nodded, curling under the blanket a few minutes later, body finally letting go.

Your husband — your teammate, your chaos, your comfort — was the biggest pain in your ass. But he was also the one always ready to carry you when you couldn’t walk.

And really, that made him the best damn nurse of all. Even if he had wandering hands.

[rikiiholic]

ᴇɴʜʏᴘᴇɴ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ - ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ ʙᴏʏꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: fluff

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: nothing just a bunch of cute moments

Lee Heeseung

You’d seen tons of prank videos on TikTok—couples pulling harmless tricks on each other for laughs—and out of pure curiosity, you decided to try one on your boyfriend too. The prank? Referring to him as your “current boyfriend” on camera just to see how he'd react. You figured he might get a little offended and start sulking, but then again, he was Lee Heeseung—his reactions were anything but predictable.

“Babe!” you called out after setting up your camera. He came downstairs without question, plopping down next to you, already used to being part of your random little videos. He probably thought you wanted him to taste something or join you for a casual vlog.

Without missing a beat, you hit record and began speaking, Heeseung sitting beside you, quietly listening.

“Hi guys! So today, I have some Japanese food I’ve been wanting to try, and I’ll be tasting it with my current boyfriend here—”

The moment the words left your mouth, his head snapped toward you.

“Your what?” he said, a little sassier than usual.

You couldn’t hold it in—you burst out laughing.

“I’m your what now?” he repeated, squinting at you like you’d just committed the ultimate betrayal.

He shakes his head dramatically, grabbing the bag of chips off the counter like it was his last shred of dignity.

“Well, your current boyfriend is gonna go cry in your shared room,” he declares with mock betrayal, already turning on his heel and walking away like a heartbroken K-drama lead.

You can’t stop laughing, nearly doubling over as you call after him between giggles.

“Hee, it was just a prank!”

He doesn’t look back, but his voice echoes down the hallway with perfect comedic timing.

“Tell your next boyfriend I left him some chips!”

Park Jongseong

It had been one of those lazy, uneventful days at home—filled with naps you didn’t need and a lingering sense of boredom. But everything shifted the moment your boyfriend walked through the door, arms full of groceries… and your favorite snacks.

You rushed into the kitchen to greet him, your energy instantly lifted. As he unpacked the bags, an idea sparked in your head.

“I’m gonna record a little taste-testing video for TikTok,” you said, already grabbing your phone. Jay nodded with that soft smile of his, fully supportive—he knew how much joy you got from making videos for your followers.

You sat down beside him, camera propped and recording. What he didn’t know was that you were also about to prank him mid-video.

“Hey guys! So today I’m here with my current boy—”

Before you could finish the sentence, Jay clapped a hand over your mouth, cutting you off with perfect comedic timing. Then he turned to the camera, eyes wide and dramatic.

“Oh hell naw,” he said in an exaggerated accent, like a character straight out of a sitcom.

You burst into silent laughter, shaking as you tried to hold in the sound, while he gave the camera the most betrayed, meme-worthy look.

“I’m NOT your current boyfriend,” he says with full offense, making you finally burst into uncontrollable laughter. The look on his face was priceless, and the way he’d immediately silenced you with his palm? Even funnier.

“It was just a prank!” you manage between laughs, wiping tears from the corners of your eyes.

Jay shoots you a side-eye, his voice dripping with sass. “It better have been, ‘cause you’re not gonna have an ex or a next. I’m your first and your last.”

He casually pops a slice of apple into his mouth like he didn’t just drop the most possessive rom-com line ever, then turns and strolls off toward the bathroom, leaving you sitting there, phone still recording, absolutely wheezing.

Sim Jaeyun

Jake was known for being a little naive—and even more famously, for getting sulky over the smallest things. He took everything to heart, which made this prank feel perfect. You figured there was no harm in teasing him a little. After all, that cute pout of his was practically a reward.

You hit record on your camera, pretending to film a casual video while Jake sat in the background, eyes glued to his phone. You started talking to the camera like it was nothing, trying not to laugh in anticipation.

Hearing your voice, Jake wandered over, phone still in hand, and wrapped his arms around you in a warm hug. “What’re you doing?” he asked sweetly, smiling like a puppy.

You glanced at him, then looked back at the camera.

“Sorry, guys, I forgot to introduce you to my current boyfriend.”

You barely finished the sentence before Jake’s face shifted—his brows knit together, and that signature pout made its debut. He didn’t say anything at first, just gave the camera a slightly betrayed, skeptical look. Then, quietly, he mumbled:

“Hi… I’m the boyfriend,” and sat down beside you, shoulders slumped, refusing to meet your eyes with the most dramatic sulk you'd ever seen.

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing right away—he was already down bad and the prank had only just started.

You carried on with the prank, trying to keep your voice casual. “Anyways, so I’m eating this—”

Before you could finish, Jake leaned in close and whispered into your ear, his voice heavy with genuine hurt, “What do you mean, current boyfriend?”

The sadness in his tone hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, the prank felt a little too real.

You fought back the laugh threatening to burst out and gave him your biggest, most reassuring smile. “It’s a prank,” you said gently.

Instantly, you saw the tension drain from Jake’s eyes, his expression softening as relief settled in.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he murmured, voice small but serious.

You nodded, feeling a mix of affection and sympathy—and maybe deciding this prank had reached its limit.

Park Sunghoon

You had been racking your brain trying to prank Sunghoon, but he was notoriously difficult to catch off guard. Confident to a fault, no joke or prank ever made him flinch. Still, you were determined to find one that finally would—and you thought you’d hit the jackpot.

Setting up your camera in front of you, you invited Sunghoon to sit beside you as you prepared to film.

“Hi everyone! So, me and my current boyfriend went out to get Dubai chocolate strawberries, and we’re gonna try them today,” you said casually, watching his reaction.

At first, Sunghoon didn’t register the slip-up. His eyes were fixed on the decadent strawberries, fully focused on how good they looked.

But when you repeated it—“My current boyfriend actually bought these because he knew they were on my taste list”—his brow quirked up in realization.

“Excuse me?” he said, eyes narrowing playfully as he looked at you, phone still in hand. “Your current boyfriend? Is he… in the room with us?”

You bit back a laugh as Sunghoon shot you a mock-annoyed glare.

“I’ll just wait and see if you can find someone better than me,” he said with a sly smirk. “maybe then you can call me your current boyfriend. Hmph.”

He crossed his arms and turned away, the picture of exaggerated sass and pride.

“It was a prank,” you said, trying to keep a straight face.

Sunghoon just flashed you a confident smirk, like he already knew you well enough to be sure. “You’re lucky I know you,” he teased, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Kim Sunoo

Sunoo’s sass was practically legendary—it was the first thing people noticed about him and the last thing they forgot. Even your family had made a running joke out of it, often teasing you about dating the sassiest man alive. But despite his dramatic flair, everything about him was perfect. He was sweet, attentive, and the kind of boyfriend who—even when you pulled a prank on him—just let it happen like it was part of the script.

He didn’t get mad. He didn’t even flinch. He just leaned into the drama, as always, like he was born for it.

“Okay guys, so I went to the store and bought some new clothes,” you began, smiling at the camera as you hit record on your TikTok. Behind you, Sunoo was sprawled comfortably on the bed, scrolling on his phone but still half-watching you with casual interest.

You held up the first outfit, giving a little spin before stepping off camera to try it on. As you came back into frame, Sunoo glanced up and raised a brow, clearly unimpressed—but in the most Sunoo way possible.

“Mmm… seven out of ten,” he said, lips pursed. “Cute, but is it giving main character energy?”

You laughed and shook your head, grabbing the next piece. “Okay, tough critic.”

He flipped his phone facedown, sitting up slightly just to get a better look at you. “Babe, I am the main character. I have standards.”

You look at the camera and speak again

“My current boyfriend, who’s beside me right now, is ranking which outfit he likes more,” you said casually to the camera, pretending like it was just another part of the video.

Sunoo immediately caught on.

He sat up straight, cleared his throat, and gave you the look—head tilted, eyes wide, and a disgusted expression that could win an Oscar.

“Your what?” he repeated, his voice laced with sass and mock betrayal.

“Girl, you better be joking,” he added in the most dramatic tone, flipping an imaginary strand of hair.

You burst into laughter, nearly dropping your phone from how fast you broke character.

“I hate that you always know!” you whined through your laughter.

Sunoo nodded proudly, arms crossed. “I’m smarter than you think. And prettier too, by the way.”

Yang Jungwon

Jungwon was lying on the couch, eyes glued to his phone, completely unaware of the chaos you were about to bring. You had gone live on TikTok just moments ago, and the comments were already flooding in—everyone begging you to prank him.

You gave in with a mischievous grin, walking into the room with your phone held up and the camera rolling.

Quietly, you sat on the floor near him, pretending to scroll aimlessly while waiting for the right moment. As soon as Jungwon’s hand moved to casually rest around your shoulder, you took your chance.

“Sorry guys, if you hear background noise, that’s just my current boyfriend on his phone right now,” you said smoothly, trying not to crack.

His head snapped down immediately, eyebrows raised in disbelief, the corners of his lips twitching like he was fighting a smirk. He stared at you, then glanced at your phone—and with zero hesitation, grabbed it and flipped the camera to face himself.

“Oh, right, sorry guys,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Let me lower my volume so my current girlfriend here can hear everything she needs to.”

He handed your phone back, still smirking, before dramatically falling back on the couch and planting a quick kiss on the top of your head.

“Don’t ever prank me like that,” he muttered with fake sternness. “It’s not funny.”

You looked up at him, trying to act innocent, but the laugh you’d been holding in finally slipped out—and he couldn’t help but laugh too.

Nishimura Riki

Riki never let you get away with a prank. Ever. Even if you managed to sneak one past him, he always had something bigger, crazier, and more chaotic lined up—like it was a competition he refused to lose.

But this time, you were prepared. He’d been locked in his room for three straight hours, yelling at his friends over a losing game. It was the perfect storm: distracted, loud, and emotionally invested. No chance he’d notice what you were up to.

You quietly sat on the bed behind him, turned on your front camera, and went live on TikTok. His voice echoed in the background, filled with frustration over missed shots and bad calls.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU CAN’T JUST—bro…” he groaned.

The live chat blew up immediately.

“What’s that noise in the background?” you read aloud, smirking.

“Sorry, that’s just my current boyfriend playing video games.”

The second the words left your mouth, everything went still.

Riki’s hands froze on the mouse and keyboard. His character on screen probably got eliminated—but he didn’t care. He pulled off his headphones, stood up, and turned toward you slowly.

“What’d you just say?” he asked, voice lower now, more serious.

Before you could even finish repeating it—“My current boy—”

He was already leaning in, placing both hands on either side of you, trapping you between the mattress and his body.

And then he kissed you. Firm, confident, shutting you up entirely.

When he pulled back, he looked you right in the eye.

“Don’t say shit like that,” he said, voice calm but serious. “We’re gonna date until I propose to you."

Then, just as casually, he turned and went back to his chair like nothing happened

You sat frozen on the bed, heart racing, face red, while the live chat exploded.

“HE SAID WHAT??”

“PROPOSE?! RIKI YOU CAN’T JUST DROP THAT—”

“YOU BETTER MARRY HIM AFTER THAT OMG.”

You ended the live with shaky hands and a stunned smile.

And somehow… he still won the next round.

[jungwnies]

half asleep but all in | oscar piastri

୨ৎ : featuring : boyfriend!oscar x reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @cntappen) : after a cozy, rainy evening at home, oscar piastri accidentally lets a sleepy confession slip... one that changes everything, even if he pretends not to remember it the next morning.

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : y'all can we talk about how well mclaren has been doing this season >.<

oscar was already half-asleep when you climbed back onto the couch beside him.

it was one of those rainy, nothing-days. the kind where the sky stayed gray and your biggest accomplishment was ordering takeout and choosing a movie neither of you paid full attention to.

you were both in sweats. his hoodie swallowed your frame. his socks were mismatched, and your feet were tucked under his thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world.

oscar's head rested against the back of the couch, eyes blinking slower with each scene. you smiled to yourself, watching the way his fingers loosely toyed with the edge of your sleeve.

“you’re gonna fall asleep again,” you teased, nudging him lightly.

“m’not,” he mumbled, clearly lying. “just resting my eyes.”

you laughed. “classic old man move.”

he didn’t respond this time just hummed softly, still gently brushing his thumb along your wrist. you turned back toward the movie, figuring he was out for the night.

then, almost too softly to catch, he mumbled, “you should always stay over, you know.”

your heart did a tiny flip.

you glanced at him. his eyes were still closed.

“and why’s that?” you asked, voice light but curious.

oscar’s brows twitched a little, like he was working through a thought in a dream.

“dunno,” he said, voice sleep-rough. “house feels better with you in it.”

you blinked.

“s’why i wanna marry you someday.”

the words hit the air so quietly you almost thought you imagined them.

but no—he’d said them. clear as day.

your heart completely skipped. you froze, barely breathing.

a soft snore.

you stared at him, stunned. oscar piastri, mister “not big on words,” just casually dropped marry you someday mid-nap like it was nothing.

you whispered his name. he didn’t respond. just mumbled something about where did the cat go? (you didn’t have a cat) and rolled onto his side.

you sat there in silence, heartbeat thudding against your ribs. then, slowly, carefully, you leaned over and kissed his forehead.

“okay,” you whispered back, even if he couldn’t hear it. “you’ve got a deal.”

the next morning, he pretended not to remember what he said.

but when he handed you your coffee, his pinky hooked around yours.

and he smiled like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[cressidagrey]

Override: Denied

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

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Five times Bee’s intelligence left kindergarten teachers speechless—and one time they tried to go behind Felicity’s back, only to learn that Oscar Piastri is many things, but a husband who betrays his wife’s trust isn’t one of them.

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

1. The Gruffalo

The whole thing started with The Gruffalo.

Bee had picked it up during free play and started reading it aloud. Slowly, carefully, but without hesitation. Her voice was small, her finger tracking the lines one by one. Half the class had gathered around to listen. One of the assistants had smiled indulgently, assuming she was reciting from memory.

Then she turned the page and kept going.

By the time the final line came — “And now my tummy’s beginning to rumble. My favourite food is—gruffalo crumble!” — the room had gone still.

Apparently, one of the teachers had laughed. Said it was “adorable pretend reading.” Bee had corrected her. Politely. Then read a second book just to prove the point.

Now, Felicity was standing in the cramped hallway outside the kindergarten classroom, still holding Bee’s raincoat, and trying very hard not to lose her temper.

Felicity had never liked the way Miss Caroline looked at Bee.

It wasn’t unkind — not exactly. But it had that edge. That clinical, calculating gleam Felicity knew too well. She’d grown up seeing it in the faces of tutors and family friends, in admissions panels and the polished smiles of dinner guests. The one that said: what can we make of this child?

Like potential was something you could bottle. Like brilliance had to be measured to be made real.

“I think we should consider a formal evaluation,” Miss Caroline said. Tight smile, worried eyes. “It’s highly unusual for a child her age to read like that. We want to make sure she’s getting the right support. Beatrice shows advanced pattern recognition. Abstract language comprehension. Her reading retention is—”

She didn’t say of course I know. She didn’t say I taught her to read before she turned two or I watched her sort herbs in the garden by both function and taxonomy last week. Felicity didn’t say she absorbs the world like light through glass.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Felicity said calmly.

Miss Caroline  blinked. “I understand your hesitation, but identifying her cognitive profile early can help us tailor her learning environment. There’s no harm in—”

“There is, actually,” Felicity interrupted. “There is harm in assigning numbers to children before they have the language to understand what those numbers mean.”

“But Mrs. Piastri, don’t you want to know how advanced Beatrice really is? We’re talking about early gifted indicators. She could—”

“She’s a child. She doesn’t need a label. She needs kindness, and structure, and not being treated like a science experiment because she reads well. She’s three,” Felicity repeated. “And intelligence tests aren’t reliable anyway until at least seven. I assume you know that.”

The teacher had the grace to look uncomfortable.

Miss Caroline’s expression pinched. “I understand your concern, but you’re quite young—”

And there it was.

Felicity blinked. Once. Twice. The hallway was full of the shrieking post-nap chaos of pickup. Bee was sitting near the coat racks, legs swinging, chatting happily to a stuffed duck.

“I’m sorry,” Felicity said, tone like ice cracking underfoot. “My age is… relevant how?”

“I just meant—sometimes younger parents don’t realize how early intervention can benefit —”

“My daughter is three,” Felicity said tightly. “You’re not slapping a number on her.”

“Mrs. Piastri—”

“Doctor Piastri,” she said, before she could stop herself. “PhD. Mechanical Engineering. Oxford,” Felicity said, her voice soft and cutting. “I earned it while raising a medically complex toddler and making all of my daughter’s baby food from scratch. Please don’t mistake my age or my trainers for incompetence.”

The teacher flushed deep pink.

Felicity adjusted the strap on her shoulder bag. “I’ve seen what happens to girls who get told their value is how exceptional they are. Who are taught to equate achievement with worth. I will not put Bee through that. I will not let you quantify her.”

Miss Caroline opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Felicity’s tone stayed level, but her words landed like a scalpel. “If Beatrice wants to build rockets when she’s ten, I’ll be first in line with the duct tape and codebooks. But right now, she’s three. She wants to make frog houses in the backyard and eat her weight in strawberries. That is more than enough.”

She stepped past her and crouched beside Bee, gently helping her into her coat. “Ready, baby?”

Bee nodded, duck tucked under her arm. “Did you know frogs have teeth on their upper jaws only?”

Felicity smiled. “I did not know that. Thank you for teaching me.”

She stood, lifting Bee’s backpack and taking her hand.

The teacher tried again: “She really is extraordinary.”

Felicity turned back, her expression softening — not for the teacher, but for the child who’d asked this morning if plants ever got tired of growing.

“She is,” Felicity agreed. “But that’s hers. Not yours to catalogue.”

Then she walked out, head high, daughter in hand.

Because if Bee was going to grow into everything she could be, it would be without a chart. Without a score. Without a number that hung over her like a ceiling.

She’d be brilliant.

And free.

***

2. Music Notes

It started — as it always did — with a well-meaning concern.

“Mrs. Piastri,” said Miss Eleanor at pickup, her cardigan slightly askew and a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, “do you have a moment?”

Felicity, who had just arrived after wrestling a leaky chicken feed bag into the boot of the car and still had dirt under her nails, nodded. “Of course.”

“It’s about Beatrice,” the teacher began.

Felicity offered a politely neutral expression, the one she reserved for conversations that were already exhausting before they began. “What about her?”

Miss Eleanor lowered her voice. “During quiet time today, Bee was reading from one of the classroom books — which is lovely, of course — but when I asked what she was doing, she said she was reading the music. Not the words. The sheet music.”

Felicity blinked. “And?”

“Well… it’s just rather unusual, isn’t it?” Miss Eleanor said, shifting uncomfortably. “For a child her age to understand music notation. We just wanted to check she wasn’t, ah… mimicking it, rather than actually reading it. Sometimes gifted children blur the line between memorization and comprehension—”

“She plays the piano,” Felicity said flatly.

Miss Eleanor paused. “I’m sorry?”

“She plays the piano,” Felicity repeated. “She can sight-read simple compositions. Because I taught her. We have a piano in the living room. I have been playing piano and violin since I was two. And we practice for twenty minutes most mornings, because it helps Bee focus.”

The teacher blinked.

“She knows what a treble clef is,” Felicity added. “She can count beats. She prefers Bach to Bartók, and last week she told me Mozart was ‘a bit fussy, but nice.’”

Miss Eleanor gave a slightly strangled laugh. “I see.”

“Do you?”

The words came out sharper than Felicity intended — but she didn’t apologize. She was tired of Bee being treated like a walking warning sign just because she was curious and quick and quiet.

“She’s not showing off,” Felicity said more gently. “She just loves music. It makes her feel steady. And she’s allowed to love it without being flagged for it.”

Miss Eleanor gave a stiff smile. “Of course. Thank you for explaining.”

Felicity crouched down to where Bee was waiting, humming softly and carefully zipping her backpack.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Felicity asked.

Bee nodded. “I was playing the notes in my head. They were from Clair de Lune.”

Miss Eleanor’s mouth twitched.

Felicity stood, offered one last smile — sharp and sweet all at once — and said, “Next time, maybe ask her what she’s doing before assuming it’s a problem.”

She held Bee’s hand as they left the classroom, tiny fingers warm in hers.

“Did I do something bad?” Bee asked quietly once they reached the parking lot.

“No,” Felicity said, squeezing her hand. “You did something beautiful.”

3. The Absence of Tantrums

Felicity didn’t expect much from pick-up anymore. A mild sunburn from the pavement. Bee’s curls plastered to her forehead. Crayons in her pockets and a rock in her sock. Maybe another baffling comment about her “advanced auditory memory” or her “preference for multi-syllabic words.”

What Felicity didn’t expect was to be asked in again.

“Just a quick chat,” Miss Kate said gently, gesturing toward the staff room. “About Beatrice.”

Felicity’s heart stuttered — just a fraction — but she nodded.

Bee, for her part, ran out with her usual boundless enthusiasm, clutching a folded worksheet and humming the melody to some Vivaldi piece she’d overheard last week. Felicity kissed her cheek and passed her a bottle of cold water, then followed Miss Kate inside.

Two other teachers were waiting, seated politely with that expression that said we are deeply concerned and also don’t overreact.

“Bee’s been doing really well,” Miss Eleanor began. “Very well. But we’ve started noticing some things that… well, we wanted to flag.”

Felicity sat. “Such as?”

“She doesn’t… react the way most of the children do,” Miss Kate said delicately. “No tantrums. No outbursts. If someone pushes her, she just… moves. If the class gets loud, she goes quiet.”

“That’s not necessarily a problem,” Felicity said slowly.

“No, of course not,” Moss Caroline jumped in. “But it’s… unusual. Concerning, even. We’re wondering if it might be worth evaluating her emotional range.”

Felicity blinked. “Because she doesn’t scream?”

“Or cry. Or talk over other children. She listens. She waits. She helps clean up when no one asks. At snack time, she shares without being prompted.”

“She’s empathetic,” Felicity said flatly.

“Exceptionally so,” Miss Kate agreed, as if that were a diagnosis.

Felicity’s jaw clenched. “I’m sorry. Are you saying there’s something wrong with her because she’s kind and self-regulates?”

“Not wrong,” Miss Eleanor said quickly. “Just… atypical.”

Felicity had tried. She really had.

She’d bitten her tongue. She had kept her mouth shut. 

But this?

“You think something’s wrong with my daughter because she’s quiet?” she asked, voice sharp.

“Children her age are typically more�� expressive—”

“She is expressive. Just because she doesn’t throw herself on the floor doesn’t mean she’s emotionally repressed.”

Miss Kate shifted in her seat. “It’s just something we’d like to observe further. Sometimes these traits stem from environment—”

Felicity’s hands curled into fists in her lap. “Let me save you the speculation. She’s calm because we treat her like a person, not a problem. She’s gentle because she’s never had to scream to be heard. And she listens because we listen to her.”

A pause.

Miss Eleanor blinked rapidly, cheeks pinking.

Felicity stood.

“If Bee was loud and unmanageable, you’d call her disruptive. But because she’s quiet, she must be broken. Do you hear how absurd that is?”

Nobody spoke.

Felicity gathered her bag, expression cool.

“I’m not saying she’s perfect,” she added. “But if you’re going to label a three-year-old as suspiciously well-adjusted, then maybe re-read your developmental psych modules. All of them.”

And with that, she turned and walked out — just in time to find Bee gently rescuing a worm from the pavement and moving it to the grass.

“Ready, love?” Felicity asked, her voice soft again.

Bee nodded, slipping her hand into hers.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked quietly.

Felicity crouched and kissed her temple. “Never.”

Because the world might not understand her daughter’s quiet brilliance.

But Felicity? She would fight for it every single time.

***

Felicity had barely made it past the coat hooks when she was intercepted.

“Hi, Mrs. Piastri,” said Miss Eleanor, with the same clipped tone she always used when she thought she was being subtle. “Do you have a minute to chat about Bee?”

Felicity’s spine stiffened. She offered a neutral smile. “Of course.”

Miss Eleanor led her to the side, just out of earshot of the pickup line. “We’ve been observing Bee’s behaviour over the past few weeks and… well, we’re slightly concerned.”

Felicity blinked. “About what?”

“She’s very… mature for her age.”

“She’s three,” Felicity said flatly.

“Exactly!” Miss Eleanor chirped. “And we’ve noticed she doesn’t… well, engage in the typical behaviors we expect at this age. She doesn’t throw tantrums. She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t interrupt. Sometimes we’re not even sure she’s here until we turn around and she’s just… building an alphabet tower or alphabetizing the nature books.”

Felicity stared at her.

“I’m sorry, are you concerned that my daughter is well-behaved?”

“She’s very… compliant,” Eleanor said, with the faintest wince, as if the word tasted wrong. “She listens too well. Doesn’t push boundaries. Never screams or throws tantrums.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Felicity said slowly. 

“It’s just… unusual,” Eleanor said, lowering her voice like she was revealing something terrible. “She uses complete sentences. She lines up her toys by material and colour. She thanks the classroom aides without prompting. She doesn’t interrupt story time. She’s never once needed a time-out.”

“And this is… bad?”

“It’s atypical,” Eleanor stressed. “Children this age should still be testing limits. We’re wondering if she’s suppressing emotion. Or possibly masking.”

Felicity exhaled. Hard.

“She’s not masking. She’s self-regulating,” she said flatly. “She has a secure attachment style and a predictable environment at home. She has space to feel safe. She doesn’t need to scream to feel seen.She’s just… happy. We do emotional work at home. We talk. We teach. We model. You don’t see tantrums because she’s not trying to earn attention. She already has it.”

Miss Eleanor blinked.

Felicity crossed her arms. “If you ever do notice her in distress—if she starts withdrawing or acting out or going quiet in a different way—I want to know immediately. But please stop treating her self-regulation as a red flag. Not all children need to be loud to be healthy.”

Miss Eleanor flushed. “Of course. Thank you for sharing.”

“I’m sorry she doesn’t fit your expectations,” Felicity said tightly, “but I am not going to apologize for raising a child who understands her own feelings and trusts her environment.”

There was a long silence.

Then Felicity walked past the clipboard, past the chart of developmental milestones, and straight to Bee—who looked up with bright eyes and said, “Mama! I made you a pigeon out of pipe cleaners.”

Felicity knelt and hugged her tight.

“Best pigeon ever,” she whispered, and meant it. 

Bee grinned. “Can we make mushroom soup later?”

“Absolutely.”

She took her daughter’s hand, turned back to Eleanor, and said — as calmly as she could manage — “Please don’t pathologize her calm just because it makes your classroom quieter.”

And with that, she walked out of the building.

4. The Protest

It was nearly pick-up time, and Felicity was early — for once. She lingered outside the classroom with her coat still half-buttoned, scrolling through a work email when Miss Julia waved her over with that careful, tight-lipped smile that meant “We have notes.”

Felicity braced herself.

“Hi, Mrs. Piastri,” Julia began. “Just wanted a quick moment to talk about Bee. Nothing major, just… a few things we’ve been noticing socially.”

Felicity’s eyebrows rose. “Go on.”

“She’s very sweet,” Julia said — the kind of tone people use when they’re about to say but. “She shares well. Listens. Helps clean up. Very mature for her age.”

Another pause.

Felicity waited.

“It’s just — we’ve noticed she lets other kids take toys right out of her hands without standing up for herself. And she doesn’t always speak up when someone skips her turn, or if a game gets too rough. We’re a bit worried she’s not asserting herself. That she’s letting other kids walk all over her.”

Felicity’s mouth tightened.

“Did it occur to you,” she said coolly, “that maybe the other children shouldn’t be walking all over her in the first place?”

Julia blinked. “We just want to make sure she’s building resilience.”

“She is resilient,” Felicity said, voice calm but edged in steel. “She was in the NICU for the first three weeks of her life. She sat through a cardiologist appointment two days before her second birthday without flinching. She’s fluent in kindness, not confrontation — and that’s not a weakness.”

Julia opened her mouth again, but Felicity cut in. “If she’s uncomfortable, she tells me. If she’s overwhelmed, she seeks quiet. She doesn’t scream or shove — she removes herself.”

“I just worry that she’s not developing the ability to self-advocate.”

“She does self-advocate. She just doesn’t do it by yelling. Bee knows her own mind better than most adults I’ve met. And if another child repeatedly ignores her boundaries, maybe the question shouldn’t be about Bee’s assertiveness. Maybe it should be about why that behavior is allowed in the first place.”

Julia frowned. “It’s just important she learns not to be a pushover.”

“She’s not a pushover,” Felicity said, voice cool now. “She’s three, and she has empathy. She doesn’t hit or yell. She shares. She lets things go because they don’t matter to her. But when something does matter — when it’s her stuffed frog or the storybook she loves — she’ll hold her ground.”

“That’s not what we’ve observed—”

“Because she’s smart enough to pick her battles,” Felicity interrupted softly. “And because you don’t see what she’s like at home, when she’s explaining to her father why the frog gets a seat at the table, or insisting we play the same memory game four times in a row until she wins.”

She paused, gaze steady.

“You’re not raising her. We are. And we are teaching her when to hold the line, and when kindness is more powerful than claiming the toy first.”

Miss Julia opened her mouth. Closed it.

Behind them, Bee came skipping down the hall, her curls slightly lopsided from the day, her paper crown from craft time slightly askew.

“Mama!” she beamed. “Guess what? I let Henry borrow my glue stick, even though he never shares his paint.”

Felicity crouched to hug her. “That was generous of you, bumblebee.”

“I think he needed it,” Bee said seriously. “His crown fell apart. Mine didn’t.”

“I bet it didn’t,” Felicity murmured. “Let’s go home.”

She took her daughter’s hand and turned back once, calm and composed. “We’re not raising her to win playground wars. We’re raising her to know her worth doesn’t come from pushing the loudest.”

And that was the end of that.

Bee tugged her hand gently. “Can we go home now?”

“Definitely.”

Felicity stood and gave Miss Julia one final, polite smile.

“She might be soft-spoken,” she said, voice pleasant and sharp as glass, “but make no mistake. Beatrice knows exactly who she is. And that’s not something I’ll ever teach her to shrink.”

Then she took her daughter’s hand and left without another word.

***

Felicity knew something was up the moment she stepped into the classroom. Not from Bee — who was calmly drawing little frogs in a corner with a pink crayon clutched in her left hand — but from the way Miss Julia looked up like she’d been waiting.

“Mrs. Piastri,” she said, that same faux-gentle tone wrapped in tight-lipped concern. “Could I have a word?”

Again?

She nodded, stepping aside as Bee waved from her corner, already announcing, “Mama, I gave Hugo a lecture today!” like that was perfectly normal.

Felicity raised a brow. “Oh?”

Miss Julia’s smile tightened. “Yes, about that.”

They moved near the coat hooks. Felicity braced herself.

“There was a small… altercation,” Julia began.

Felicity blinked. “Bee? My child who apologizes to furniture?”

“Hugo took the magnifying glass she was using during nature station,” Julia said. “And when Bee asked for it back and he said no… she didn’t let it go.”

Felicity nodded slowly. “She asserted herself.”

“She told him, and I quote,” Julia said, checking her notes — her notes — “that it wasn’t kind to take something mid-use, and that he could wait his turn like everyone else. When he laughed, she told him she would be speaking to an adult, and that sharing only works if both people agree.”

Felicity’s mouth twitched. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Well, then she… sat down in front of the nature tray and told everyone that until Hugo returned it, she wouldn’t move.”

“So she staged a protest.”

Miss Julia frowned. “It disrupted the flow of the station.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “Because she asked for fairness?”

“She was very firm. Quite… unbending.”

“She asked for something politely. Was told no. Stood her ground. Warned she’d escalate. Then followed through.”

“It’s just that—last time, we discussed how she was too passive.”

“Yes,” Felicity said flatly. “And now she’s too assertive?”

“She could’ve come to a teacher immediately instead of creating a stand-off.”

“She tried to resolve it on her own. Respectfully. Which you flagged as a developmental concern the last time. So now that she’s advocating for herself—politely, might I add—it’s a problem again?”

Julia hesitated. “We just want her to strike a balance.”

“She’s three,” Felicity said, voice low and firm. “She doesn’t need to be perfect at conflict navigation. She needs to feel safe enough to say ‘this isn’t fair’ and be taken seriously.”

Julia looked mildly uncomfortable. “It just caught us off guard.”

“She was taught to speak gently first. Then stand her ground if kindness doesn’t work. And frankly, that’s more emotional regulation than I see in most adults.”

There was a pause.

Felicity reached for Bee’s cardigan. “I’m proud of her,” she added, quieter. “And if your takeaway from this is that she was too composed while being mistreated, then maybe your focus is off.”

5. The Mechanic

The first red flag was Miss Caroline’s tone — that overly careful cadence that meant someone was about to say something profoundly stupid with a polite smile.

“Mrs. Piastri,” she said as Felicity arrived at pick-up, Bee’s hoodie slung over one arm and a spare tyre gauge still in her coat pocket. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course,” Felicity replied evenly.

Bee darted ahead toward her cubby. Miss Caroline waited until she was out of earshot before stepping slightly to the side, just enough to imply Serious Educational Concerns™.

“It’s about something Beatrice’s been sharing with the class this week. She’s been telling the other children she helps fix cars.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “She does.”

“Yes, well…” Caroline’s smile strained. “Yesterday she said she replaced a belt drive on a Daimler and… recalibrated a carburetor?”

“She did,” Felicity said, already irritated.

“She’s three,” Miss Caroline replied, as though that explained everything.

“And Bee’s been coming to work with me since she was a few weeks old. That particular Daimler is a restoration project I’ve had ongoing with a friend. Bee did most of the bolt placement herself. If you want to test her, you can hand her a ratchet set and ask her to identify sizes in metric and imperial.”

“She told one of the boys that she reassembled a gearbox,” Caroline added, as though accusing Felicity’s daughter of claiming she’d flown to the moon.

“She did that too,” Felicity said. “With my supervision. And torque charts.”

There was a brief pause.

Miss Caroline cleared her throat. “It’s just that… some of the children think she’s making things up. We don’t want her getting in trouble for lying.”

Felicity smiled, thin and tight. “She’s not lying. She has excellent recall and a near perfect memory. If Bee says she did something mechanical, odds are, she did.”

“Right,” Caroline said, clearly still trying to compute. “It’s just… unusual. Most children pretend to be mermaids or astronauts—”

“Bee prefers pretending to be a pit lane engineer,” Felicity said. “She likes impact wrenches. And ballast weights. Her father brings her telemetry data to colour in.”

Caroline laughed awkwardly. “Oh — is he a mechanic too?”

Felicity blinked. “No. He’s a driver.”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “…Like a delivery driver? Or a taxi service?”

Felicity inhaled sharply through her nose.

“No. Like a Formula 1 driver. He drives a McLaren at over 300 kilometers an hour while managing energy deployment and brake migration settings,” she said calmly. “He handles complex race engineering telemetry on a regular basis. So — no. Not quite pizza delivery.”

Miss Caroline turned a frankly amazing shade of pink.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

At that moment, Bee came skipping over, waving a drawing with great enthusiasm. “Mama! I drew the brake system from Uncle Mal’s Jag! It’s accurate! I even did the cross-drilled rotors.”

Jenna peeked at the paper, which did indeed feature what looked like a labelled cutaway of a Jaguar brake disc assembly.

“Can we go home?” Bee asked. “I want to check the tyre pressure on the Peugeot. It looked squishy.”

Caroline made a faint choking sound.

Felicity smiled down at her daughter, then looked back at the teacher.

“Yes, love,” she said sweetly. “Let’s go check our PSI.”

As they walked out, Bee held her hand tight.

“Mama?”

“Yes, bumblebee?”

“Do teachers not know Papa is a race car driver?”

Felicity leaned down and kissed her curls. “I think they’re just catching up.”

+1: Oscar 

It started like most drop-offs.

Bee had insisted on wearing her chicken-themed socks and packing three small rocks “for educational purposes.” Oscar had carried her in one arm and her bag in the other, already rehearsing strategy notes in his head for a post-sim debrief. He wasn’t really expecting anything more than a “Have a good day, Papa!” and maybe a small argument about snack order.

Oscar should’ve known something was coming the moment Miss Caroline said, “Mr. Piastri, do you have a moment?”

It was that same tone — the one that made it sound like she was about to gently suggest his child might be possessed.

Oscar turned. Miss Caroline again. Her smile was pleasant, like always — but too polished. Carefully rehearsed. Like the kind PR did before they dropped a ‘concerned’ statement.

He gave her a small nod. “Sure.”

They stepped slightly to the side, out of earshot from Bee, who had already launched herself into a group of kids with all the dramatic flair of a physics demonstration.

“It’s about Beatrice,” she said. “Nothing serious. She’s doing wonderfully — incredibly bright, of course. We’ve just been noticing some recurring markers that suggest she may benefit from formal assessment.”

Oscar blinked, already tired. “What kind of assessment?”

“IQ testing,” she said brightly. “Just to help tailor curriculum options and give us a clearer picture of her developmental profile. It’s quite standard for children who show early gifted tendencies.”

Oscar’s jaw shifted slightly, the muscles tightening.

“She’s three.”

“Yes, and early identification—”

“She’s three,” he repeated, voice low.

“Your wife mentioned she wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about cognitive testing for Bee, which of course we understand—but we were hoping perhaps you might… talk to her about reconsidering?”

Oscar stared at her.

Talk to Felicity.

Like she hadn’t made herself very clear. Like she hadn’t already explained — politely, firmly, and with the weight of her own experience — why she didn’t want Bee tested at three years old. 

Oscar smiled. But it was the smile he used in press conferences when someone asked if he thought he should’ve gone for the overtake on Lap 27 and lost his front wing in the process.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tone even. “Are you asking me to override my wife’s decision?”

Miss Caroline blinked. “Not override—just… maybe you could help her understand the benefits—”

“She understands perfectly,” Oscar said, voice still calm. “She speaks three languages, teaches Bee how to calculate G-force with flour, and once wrote a statistical model to predict tomato yields in our garden for fun. If Felicity says no, it’s no. Full stop. Not ‘ask again later,’ not ‘see if her husband agrees.’ Just. No.”

Miss Caroline flushed. “Of course, we didn’t mean—”

“And for what it’s worth?” Oscar said, voice still low but no longer soft. “She’s Bee’s mother. Not just ‘your wife.’ She gets to have the final say.”

A pause.

“Unless Bee needs medical attention or starts dismantling the plumbing system,” he added dryly. “Then I get a vote.”

“Let me be absolutely clear,” he said, voice calm but steady now, like carbon fibre under pressure. “Whatever my wife says goes. She’s not hesitant. She’s informed.”

“She may not realise how helpful a formal measure can be for placement later—”

“She’s got a doctorate,” Oscar snapped, finally. “She’s been teaching Bee how to fix brake calipers since she was two. My wife knows exactly what it means, and she still said no. Which means you don’t get to go around her to try and change that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I… I didn’t mean to imply she wasn’t capable,” Miss Caroline said awkwardly. “I just thought perhaps coming from you—”

“She doesn’t need me to speak for her,” Oscar said. “She needs people to stop mistaking quiet for weakness and young for unsure.”

He glanced back at Bee.

“My daughter spent the first few weeks of her life hooked up to machines I can’t even pronounce,” he said quietly. “And if my wife says we’re not slapping an IQ score on our toddler like it’s a bloody badge of honour, then that is the final word. From both of us.”

Miss Caroline looked mildly stunned.

Oscar gave her a polite smile that absolutely wasn’t polite. “Thanks for your concern. I drive a car for a living, but my wife holds our life together. You can guess whose opinion wins.”

And then he turned and walked back toward the car, resisting the urge to punch his steering wheel.

He didn’t need a test to tell him what kind of person Bee was.

And anyone who underestimated Felicity?

Didn’t understand the reason Bee was that person at all.

*** The kettle clicked off with a soft pop. Felicity didn’t move.

She was still curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, Bee’s tattered picture book in her lap — the one with the loose page that always made Oscar flinch because he kept meaning to fix it properly. Her fingers were idly tracing the corner of the cover, but her eyes were a thousand miles away.

Oscar poured two mugs, dropped a chamomile teabag into hers, and crossed the living room.

“She’s out cold,” he said quietly, setting the mug beside her. “Didn’t even stir when I carried her to bed.”

“Long day,” Felicity murmured. “She was playing rocket launch with a laundry basket and physics blocks after dinner. Something about thrust-to-weight ratios.”

Oscar huffed a laugh and sat down beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

They didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then he added, “Your favorite teacher cornered me again.”

Felicity didn’t look away from the book. “Caroline?”

“Mhm.”

Her jaw twitched, just slightly. “What now?”

“She wanted me to convince you about the intelligence test.”

That made Felicity look up, brows knitting. “Seriously?”

“She even smiled when she said it. Like she was doing me a favor.”

“And?”

Oscar leaned his head back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “I told her no.”

Felicity arched a brow. “Just like that?”

“Not exactly.” He paused. “I said no. Then I told her that if you say no, that means the answer’s final. And that she could stop trying to go around you because I don’t entertain people who undermine my wife.”

Felicity blinked.

Oscar turned to look at her now, calm and clear. “I don’t care if Bee’s the next Einstein. She’s three. Her job is to eat blueberries and invent words and ask impossible questions about the moon.”

“She asked me yesterday if gravity works on dreams,” Felicity muttered.

“Exactly. You think a test helps that?”

Her shoulders sagged a little. “I just hate the idea of someone putting her in a box she didn’t choose.”

“I know,” Oscar said gently. “And I told her that. I told her that you are Bee‘s mother, and that if anyone gets to decide how Bee grows up, it’s you.”

Felicity let out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-exhale. “Thank you.”

He bumped his shoulder against hers. “You don’t need to thank me for siding with you. We’re a team.”

“I know. It’s just—some days I feel like I have to justify everything I say to them. Like they’re waiting for me to slip up and prove I’m just… young. Or weird. Or too intense.”

Oscar took her hand and laced their fingers together.

“They don’t get to define what kind of mother you are. You do. And you’re brilliant.”

She went quiet, then leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” she said after a moment.

“Like what?”

“Like protecting Bee would also mean protecting the version of myself I never got to be.”

Oscar kissed the top of her head. “That’s why we’re doing it.”

And on the table, the tea went cold. But neither of them moved.

[bohemiandeer]

You know what hits me hard? When 5 to 6 year old children, all the way in Southeast Asia, knows about what's happening in Palestine right now. That children their age is getting bombed, that they're starving to death, that they're getting shot at, and sniped in the head. Because, just this past 2 or so months, I heard some of the little ones in the Kindergarten classes I'm TAing in as an Intern talk about it. Hell, one of the little boys downright said he didn't like Israel, because Israel is bad, because they do scary things. Another was questioning whether Palestine was bad too, because, "why else would they shooting at them?". A little girl in one of my classes doesn't want to finish her food at all, because she wants to save at least half her meat and rice for kids in Palestine, because she heard that, they don't have food. And that's just the ones I remember. Namely the inciting cases before their classmates slowly follow suit. The littles are fricking SCARED. We had to sit these kids down, and tell them that the topic is too mature for them at the moment, that they shouldn't even be concerned because they're KINDERGARTNERS, they're not even old enough to properly understand. The one teacher I was TAing for had to make a class announcement saying that. What gets me is, these are 5 to 6 year olds, the youngest I've worked with in this specific age group is 4. 5 years old on average, and they've already been exposed to the worst horrors genocide has to offer through the news and snippets of conversation among adults and hell, considering how many of them say they like to play games on Mama's phone, or their IPad, even from fricking social media. And the fact that, these literal babies, from all the way in Cambodia, has more empathy in their entire body and soul, than full grown fricking adults have in the nail of their pinky finger, gets me. FFS we as adults could LEARN from them I feel sometimes. I honestly don't know what to feel about it anymore. On the one hand, this is the next generation I'm working with. And if the next generation's default response to a tragedy such as Palestine, is what I've seen come up on occasion so far? Perhaps there's some bloody hope for this world after all. At least in this country. Especially since a majority of them already come from families who survived a genocide. These are the 3rd - 4th generation descendants of those who survived the Khmer Rouge. They've got grandparents at home, who no doubt are more than intimately familiar with what Palestine is going through right now. And it shows.

But on the other, it makes my heart sink because these are CHILDREN, these are LITTLE KIDS, they should be playing with their toys and watching cartoons and talking to their friends about everything from Spiderman to Speakerman to Kuromi and her friends, and be worried about whether or not they can go to playground that day, guranteed they're well behaved, or if Mama remembered to pack in their costume for swimming lessons that week. NOT JUST MY KIDS. But the little ones in Palestine too. They deserve better. They all deserve, so much better. Hell, it's come to the point that whenever I look at my kiddos right now, whether they'd be working in class, playing, doing something as mundane as eating lunch or getting ready for their nap. I think of the children their age in Palestine that didn't even get the chance to survive. I think of the ones whose memories from this age, is nothing but absolute horror and pain, rather than what has slowly become my normal, who never got to experience what my littles do on a daily basis right now.

Children shouldn't even be concerned about "War", about a Genocide. The last thing that should be on a 5 year old's mind, is pain, and suffering, and the worst horrors imaginable ever to be inflicted on a human being. ESPECIALLY WHEN IT'S INFLICTED, ON OTHER CHILDREN THEIR AGE. And for that alone, the world has failed them. Especially the kids in Palestine who didn't ask for any of this. They just wanted to carry on with life as kids do, the same way as my littles do on a daily basis no doubt, learning, playing, chatting with friends over their favourite cartoons and characters, worrying about whether they'd get to go to the playground or not that day.

I apologize for talking about this on this blog. I know my blog tends to be lighter in feel, a lot more unhinged and light hearted typically. I mean, I'm just a fricking nerd who likes to draw and write, and lurk about her favourite fandoms to consume and support what is shared among other nerds who also like to draw and write. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. About contemplating it, especially since I'll be back on a roll tomorrow, working with my kiddos again after not seeing them for 5 days straight because of Holidays. And, I just had to talk about it. This is something I felt I couldn't keep to myself this time, I don't think my soul'd be able to carry it. I had to talk about it.

FREE PALESTINE. Our children deserve better.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

back pain. l Joel Miller

Summary: Joel had back problems, someone had to help him

Warnings: smut (+18), unprotected sex (don't do that), breeding kink, oral sex (f!receiving), Joel has back problems, Ann shows up, Hazel is mentioned, a bit of jealousy

A/N: like many of us i also saw ep 2 tlou2. i had this chapter already written, i thought it might cheer you up. joel deserves everything and i'm trying my best.

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

short stories from life. [masterlist]

It had been going on for a while. It started with discomfort after returning from patrols, but Joel put it down to the time spent in the saddle. Then the pain came after a nap on the couch or a long day at the stables.

You couldn’t ignore it when Joel groaned loudly one morning as he got out of bed. You tried to help him. You massaged the aching muscles on his back and shoulders, applied warm compresses to ease the tension. It all helped, but only for a moment.

“Ann told me there was a woman next door who did professional massages,” you said one night. You were straddling Joel, naked from the waist up, lying on his stomach, accepting the touch of your hands. “She’s helped a lot of people in Jackson.”

"I don't need help." he groaned when you pressed a particularly painful spot. "You're doing great."

"I have no idea what I'm doing." You mumbled. "What if I only hurt you more?"

"Don't care. I'm not going there." He replied, and you rolled your eyes.

"You're so..."

"Old?"

“Stubborn!” He patted him on the shoulder. “Your back has been bothering you for a long time. You should do something about it. You want a baby, so how are you going to get up for it at night?”

You shouldn't have used that argument, but it was the only thing that came to mind. You had been trying to conceive for months, but you weren't panicking. Whatever was coming, you were just willing to accept it. Joel's aching back was worrying you, so you tried to do everything you could to help him. Even Tommy and Ellie had pitched in to convince him to rest, but Joel was... Yes, stubborn.

You hadn't brought it up since that night. Joel had been busy renovating more buildings in Jackson, and you had your hands full as well. It wasn't until you met Ann, who was with Elijah at the store, that you found out something was wrong.

“I’ve been seeing Joel lately,” she said, stroking the boy’s head as he slept snuggled up to her chest, a scarf wrapped securely around him. “I asked him what he was doing, but he was acting strange.”

"Strange? What does that mean?" you wondered.

"I don't know." Ann shrugged. "Do you think Hazel asked him for help again? She lives a few houses down from us."

You saw Hazel occasionally, sometimes at the Tipsy Bison or on the street in Jackson, but you didn’t talk. You knew she always felt more comfortable around Joel, but he hadn’t mentioned her in a while. A hint of jealousy rose in your heart, though you knew that if Joel hadn’t told you about Hazel, it was just so you wouldn’t feel bad. “I don’t know. He’s been pretty busy lately.” You replied. “Maybe he has a job in your neighborhood.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She smiled softly and picked up the basket. “Are you coming over later? Shane’s going on patrol with two new guys, I don’t want to be alone. You know how it is.”

"Sure. I'll come."

You couldn't pretend that what Ann had told you didn't interest you, and where Joel was headed was starting to worry you a little. Every morning he'd say he was going to the construction site or on patrol, but you didn't really know if he was actually there. You didn't feel the need to check on him, because why would you?

Hazel entered your thoughts again. Maybe she'd asked him for help, and Joel just didn't want to worry you? No, you weren't angry. Just worried.

You were halfway through washing the dishes when you heard the door slam and the familiar heavy footsteps.

"Baby?" Joel's voice echoed through the house.

“Here.” You replied, dipping your hands into the suds and washing another plate. “Are you hungry? I have some more stew, Ellie and Dina didn’t eat all of it. We’ll have to start hiding food from them.”

You heard footsteps but no voice. When suddenly a solid body pressed against your back, almost pushing you into the sink.

“Jesus! Joel!” you squealed in surprise, pulling your hands out of the water and grabbing his arms that were wrapped tightly around you. “What happened?”

His low, deep voice resonated against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "I want you. Now."

He wasn't lying. The hard bulge pressed against your ass, you swallowed hard.

"Now?" you repeated, bewildered.

There was no response. A low groan tore from Joel’s chest as he released you, crouching down and throwing you over his shoulder in an instant. You were so surprised that you fisted your hands in his shirt dramatically.

"Joel! Your back!" you chuckled as he headed towards the stairs. "Joel! That's not safe!"

“Then stop squirming, for God’s sake!” he muttered as he climbed the stairs. Luckily, you listened, because the idea of ​​falling on your face wasn’t interesting. He kicked open the bedroom door, and a moment later it slammed shut behind you, and you landed with a thud on the bed.

“Joel!” you were too confused. It all happened so fast, and Joel looked like he was going crazy. His fingers deftly unbuttoned your pants and in a quick movement slid them down your back along with your underwear. “What the fuck?!”

"I already told you, I want you. Now." he replied, as if it was obvious. He came for what was his, for you.

You didn’t say anything else as he spread your thighs, his head disappearing between them. You took a breath, gripping the sheets in your hands as you felt him start to eat you out like this was his last meal, like he’d been starving for years. Your brain couldn’t process anything but the violent pleasure that was taking over your body. But it didn’t last.

Joel rose, his beard glistening with your juices, looking at you with nearly black eyes. The belt made a familiar sound and he pulled down his pants, freeing his hard cock. Maybe he had lost his mind, maybe something had possessed him, but you couldn’t lie—you wanted him more than ever.

Without taking his eyes off you, he took off his shirt, revealing his broad chest and strong arms. Despite his age, he still had it. And you still only wanted him.

When his hands grabbed your hips and turned you on the bed almost like a rag doll, you just squealed softly. He lifted your hips, his hand sliding down your back, pressing you to the bed. You knew what was coming, but when with a quiet, “So fucking sexy…” he slid inside you in one hard movement, you squeezed your eyes shut, unable to stop yourself from moaning. His cock was deep, all the way to the base. At that moment, Joel could do anything to you, because your brain and body had stopped working properly.

Every thrust, every movement, every sigh drove you crazy. The orgasm built in your body at a dizzying speed. You had made love many times before, in different ways and at different speeds, but this was different. Almost primal, animalistic, passionate. But at the same time, with Joel, you knew you were safe, even as his fingers dug into your hips as he pounded into you with all his might.

Suddenly he leaned down, his arm sliding under your body and lifting you up so he was pressing you against his chest. Joel’s hand slid under your shirt and bra, squeezing your breast tightly.

“Take it all... I can feel you close...” His voice was heavy as he whispered in your ear, “You’re squeezing me so tight, baby. Fuck, take it.”

You reached back, gripping his hair as he nearly bit your neck. A hard shudder wracked your body as you came, your throat aching. Joel was right behind you. His movements became frantic as he pounded into you. “I’m gonna fill you up… Until it fucking takes hold.”

He squeezed you so hard he could break you, and then he came deep, with a deep groan. You stayed like that, until the last twitch, breathing deeply, slowly regaining your senses. Finally, you managed to find your voice, despite your sore throat.

"What was that?"

He turned his head, kissing your neck, inhaling your scent. “That’s how babies are made, darling.”

You giggled, and after a moment, Joel did the same. His arms slowly released you, and you fell back onto the bed, feeling your limbs go limp. Joel collapsed next to you, breathing deeply and feeling completely at peace and comfort. Silence filled the room, and you steadied your breathing, trying to get back to reality.

“I’ve been going to that woman you were talking about for a week now.” You turned your head and looked at Joel’s profile. His eyes were closed, a few curls stuck to his sweaty forehead. “The massage lady.”

"That's good. Did she help with your back?"

He turned around and looked at you with a sly smile. "Didn't you notice?"

“Jesus!” you covered your face with your hand. “And I thought you…”

"What?" Joel rolled over and rested his head on his hand. "What did you think I was doing?"

With a heavy heart, you told him what Ann had told you, that she had done it in good faith, about your concerns about Hazel. Joel listened patiently, never once suggesting that what you were saying was stupid or irrational. Finally, he smiled and leaned down, lightly kissing the corner of your mouth.

"You're amazing, you know that?" he said and seeing your surprised look he added "The fact that you're a little jealous of me is really flattering. But you also know that I'm completely devoted to you. I'm yours, baby, no one will ever change that."

She stroked his cheek, smiling. “And you really think that kind of sex can produce children?”

"We could always do it again." He shrugged, "Just to be sure."

You pulled him closer and kissed him tenderly. He was yours, body and soul. And you were his.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist, i think: @picketniffler @orcasoul @bbyanarchist @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @somedayheaven @underneath-the-sky-again @callmebyyournick-name @hiroikegawa @mandaloriankait

[ari-ana-bel-la]

I absolutely love your fics! I was wondering if you'd mind writing something for Lewis where the reader isn't exactly his biological daughter, but Lewis and the reader's mother have been together since she was little so she kind of grew up with him and he became her father figure, maybe she's calling him dad for the first time without realizing it

Just Dad

The paddock was alive with its usual hum: engineers shouting over headsets, the low growl of an engine being tested, journalists weaving in and out of crowds like determined bees in a hive. Amidst the chaos, Lewis knelt beside a small, vibrant six-year-old with two fluffy puffs tied high on her head and sparkly unicorn sneakers.

"Alright, remember what we said?" he asked, gently tightening the little wristband around her tiny arm. "You stay with Maya, you don’t wander off, and if you get nervous, you can come find me or go to the Ferrari hospitality, okay?"

Yn gave an exaggerated sigh, as if she were seventeen instead of six. “I know, I know. You already said that, like, five times.”

Lewis grinned. “Well, maybe six is the lucky number today.”

“Is that because I’m six?” she teased, tilting her head and scrunching her nose.

“Exactly.” He poked her nose lightly. “Alright then, go, go, before I smother you with dad jokes.”

She took off toward Maya, the young assistant who had become something like a big sister, pausing only to wave dramatically at Lewis. He watched her go, heart warm and full.

She wasn’t technically his daughter. But she might as well have been.

---

Yn’s mother, Elle, had met Lewis three years ago at a charity gala. She wasn’t someone from the paddock, not even from the F1 world—she was an educator and a single mom doing her best to raise a bright, curious little girl who loved coloring books and hated vegetables.

Lewis hadn’t expected to fall in love with Elle, but he did, slowly and completely. He hadn’t expected to love Yn just as fiercely, but that had happened even faster. The moment she’d toddled up to him and asked why his hair looked prettier than hers, he was done for.

From then on, it was weekend visits, shared breakfasts, dance parties in the living room, and bedtime stories even when he was on the other side of the world. She’d never called him anything but Lewis—until today.

---

Later that afternoon, after debriefs and a media session, Lewis found Yn curled up in a corner of the motorhome, building a LEGO car with extreme focus. Maya had stepped out to grab her a juice box, and the hospitality lounge was quiet.

He crouched down beside her, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Hey, tiny engineer, how’s it going?”

She didn’t even look up. “Bad.”

“Uh-oh. Do we need to declare a code red?”

“The tires keep falling off.”

“Ah, classic pit stop issues,” he said seriously. “Want me to help?”

She considered it. “Yeah. But not like, grown-up help. Just regular help.”

Lewis chuckled. “Regular help. Got it.”

They sat in companionable silence as they tried to stabilize the tiny plastic wheels. Yn’s tongue peeked out slightly in concentration, and Lewis had to resist the urge to kiss the top of her head. She hated when he interrupted her LEGO flow.

Once the car was fixed, she sighed in satisfaction and handed it to him. “Here. You can keep it.”

“For me?”

“Yeah. Because you didn’t yell when I said a bad word earlier.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You said a bad word?”

She looked guilty. “Only a tiny one. The one that starts with ‘cr’ and rhymes with ‘nap.’”

Lewis had to bite his cheek. “Well, I appreciate the car. And the honesty.”

She smiled, leaning into his side, then said it so naturally it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs:

“Thanks, Dad.”

Just like that.

Lewis didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it—he knew Yn didn’t mean it as a declaration, more like an instinct. A feeling. A comfort. The name had just… slipped out. And he wasn’t going to be the one to scare it away.

So he smiled softly, pulling her gently into his side. “You’re welcome, bug.”

---

That night, back at the hotel, Lewis told Elle.

“She called me Dad.”

Elle’s toothbrush froze mid-motion. “What?”

“Just casually. She handed me a LEGO car and said, ‘Thanks, Dad.’ Like it was nothing. And I acted normal. I didn’t want her to think she had to call me that or that it was something to be nervous about.”

Elle set her toothbrush down and stepped into his arms. “Lewis…”

“I didn’t cry,” he said, although his voice was slightly hoarse. “Almost. But I didn’t.”

She smiled up at him, eyes glistening. “You’ve been her dad for a while, you know. You just finally got the title.”

---

The next morning, as they walked through the paddock again, Yn reached for Lewis’s hand without looking up.

“Dad, can I get a milkshake later?”

There it was again.

He smiled and squeezed her hand. “Only if you don’t say any more words that rhyme with ‘nap.’”

She gasped, eyes wide with pretend horror. “You told on me!”

“I did no such thing,” he said, utterly offended. “But someone has a very expressive face.”

“Traitor,” she muttered, but her smile gave her away.

They stopped for a second when a fan recognized Lewis and asked for a picture. Yn, used to it by now, stepped aside and held the LEGO car while Lewis posed. Once the photo was done, the fan crouched to Yn’s level.

“Are you his daughter?”

Yn looked up at Lewis, then back at the fan, and nodded proudly. “Yep.”

And Lewis—Lewis, who had stood on countless podiums, held world championship trophies, and heard thousands cheer his name—felt something bloom in his chest that made all of those moments seem dim in comparison.

---

Back in the Ferrari hospitality, Charles caught Lewis on his way out.

“Hey,” Charles said, glancing toward Yn, who was now colouring a picture of a lion with neon pink. “She’s getting taller.”

“Tell me about it,” Lewis said. “Next thing I know she’s going to be asking for a phone.”

Charles smirked. “Did she call you Dad earlier?”

Lewis blinked. “How’d you—?”

“She said it to Maya. I overheard. You looked like you’d seen God.”

Lewis laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It just… hit different.”

Charles patted him on the shoulder. “You’ve earned it.”

---

Later that evening, Yn sat cross-legged on the hotel room bed, watching old F1 races on the tablet while Lewis dried her hair with a towel.

“That’s you!” she squealed. “You’re the car in front!”

“Sometimes,” he teased. “Not always.”

“But most of the time.” She beamed. “You’re the fastest. Even when you’re not winning, you’re still my favorite.”

He chuckled. “That’s very biased.”

“I don’t care.” She leaned back against him. “I like you the most.”

The towel slid off her head as she turned to face him. Her eyes, always full of light, looked serious.

“Is it okay if I call you Dad now? Like… all the time?”

His heart swelled.

He kept his voice steady. “Of course it is. Only if you want to, though. No pressure.”

“I do,” she said softly. “Because you feel like my dad. You do all the stuff dads do. You make me pancakes and braid my hair and read me stories even when you’re sleepy.”

He cupped her face gently. “Then I’d be honored, bug.”

She smiled, curling into his lap. “Can we get pancakes tomorrow?”

“We just had pancakes this morning.”

“Yeah, but you said six is the lucky number. I’m six. I deserve pancakes every day.”

He laughed, scooping her up. “You might be too smart for your own good.”

---

At the next race weekend, Lewis held Yn on his hip as they made their way through the crowd. Someone from the press smiled at the sight.

“She’s your daughter?” they asked.

Yn didn’t hesitate. “Yep. He’s my dad.”

And Lewis? He just nodded, his heart overflowing.

“Yeah,” he said, “I am.”

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🤍🦢

[sirxlla]

You Randomly Get Kidnapped but You Can Handle Yourself (Batboys)

(Requested by @nesting-dreams ily sm thank you for all the ideas/prompts xxx)

------------------------------------------------

Dick: He was never one to have or tell you what you could and couldn't do. For you, you wanted to work a job like a regular person even though he said he would financially support you. You didn't want to feel like you were mooching off of him.

So as unfortunate as it was you were trying to get in your vehicle after working a really long shift at the hospital while on the phone with Dick, a man came up behind you and they were very swiftly beaten with a metal waterbottle.

Dick was obviously very worried cause of what he heard and he was already patroling the area which meant he very swiftly came to you. You were sat ontop of the man, his arms pinned under your knees as you brutally smacked him over and over with a waterbottle.

"You wanna kidnap people in the middle of the night, You Little Shit?!" You were yelling.

Nightwing had to pull you off of the man noticing the damage you did, it took everything for Dick not to laugh at this man. He got beat up by a tired nurse with a fuckin waterbottle, needless to say he was proud and the man was swiftly arrested. The pair of you went home to have a well deserved nap.

Jason: Being the man he is he decided that it was a fantastic idea to give you a very strong tazer for your birthday because he thought you might need it and you really wanted one.

"I hope someone would, I'll taze their dick off!" You waved the uncharged tazer around very happy about the gift.

"You'll taze their dick off?" He laughed as he appreciated your enthusiasm.

Unfortunately, when you hope for something bad to happen it usually brings bad things around, you we're trying to get into the apartment with Jason was on the other side which of course the dumb ass trying to kidnap you didn't realize that.

By the time Jason get out there you were very clearly tasing this mother fucker in the balls. The man was groaning in very obvious pain, a shot of electricity to the family jewels didn't feel very good.

"You wanna go again, Asshole? You want me to taze you in the mouth, I'm sure that shit hurts just as much."

"I think you got him, Babygirl." He was smiling with full pride. He knew you would never use the taser without knowing 100% that you could do it without getting hurt and you very successfully did.

The man was left there and Jason brought you back inside, put your tazer back on the charger and then showed you all the ways he was very proud of you.

Bruce: He really didn't want you to have any sort of self-defense tool because he knew that if you fought back the likelihood that they would hurt you is extremely higher.

Naturally, you being you you bought a little bracelet that if you press it then it makes a very loud noise which can hurt whoever's ears you're pointing it at.

Another feature on there is that it sent him your location which was probably something that he would have been okay with if that's all it did but alas it was not.

From sparring with Bruce you knew a lot and this asshole pissed you off, trying to kidnap a woman while she was pumping gas? "I think the fuck not."

You had very promptly pushed the button and cupped it against the man's ear which caused him to get disoriented and fall flat on his stupid face.

"That's why you don't mess with girls at the gaspump! Suck my metaphorical dick, Motherfucker!" You would think that this was a Fortnite game with the way that you were acting, to anyone else it would have been the funniest thing ever but of course Bruce doesn't have the biggest sense of humor.

He thought what you were doing was reckless and stupid, you should have gotten your car and left. Bruce proceeded to lecture you the entire night about exactly what you should have done and why it was dangerous and how you're lucky that it didn't turn out worse than it was.

"We don't take pride when we hurt someone and we sure as hell don't gloat. What we're you thinking? He couldve got up. That was reckless."

Tim: Tim craved coffee like it was some sort of drug needing to be injected into jis veins and you really really loved the little muffins the coffee shop had. You got up early in the morning and we're making your way to the coffee shop.

You figured out you were being followed quite quickly so of course the only thing you had in your bag was your wallet and maybe a few pens. Nothing the regular person would think would be overly useful in a situation like this.

The pen was useful though if you used it right, it was swiftly brought between your fingers, you texted Tim you were being followed. He very promptly shot out of bed to protect you, throwing on whatever close were scattered around the messy bedroom.

Once he found you, you were leturing the man on all the places you could stick the pen. The man was on the ground pinned to the floor. None of the Batboys were ever gonna let their woman go out of sight without some sorta training.

"I could stick this in your jugular, if you'd like. I could gove you the choice you were never gonna give me."

"You could stick it in his eye, its less lethal and could be considered an accident." Tim chimed in with a smile, the smile on Tim's face was quickly matched by yours.

The man underneath you was panicking because for all he knew you two were complete psychopaths considering jow many Gotham has. He started begging for you to let him go, You got off him while clicking the pen which made him run off like a little crybaby.

Tim and you walked hand and hand to the coffee shop like nothing ever happened. You both knew the pen wasn't what scared him if was your confidence and the way you spouted things off like a crazy person.

Damian: Damian was very much his father's son and he would do the same psychotics weird ass shit that Bruce did. The only difference was he asked you and you very clearly said no to a tracking device being put in you but that did not stop him from doing it and he did it very easily without you noticing.

Of course he didn't know anything was wrong until he noticed that you're tracking device really didn't move too much. He was kinda worried but it was instantly interrupted.

The phone rang and it was a guy calling for ransom while a guy in the background argued with you and said something about you stabbing him in the ass.

"We want a million." The man said off the bat.

"That's all your gonna ask for?!" Then there was the sound of the phone hitting the floor while you beat the shit out of them with a chair leg.

"You should really have better quality shit if you're gonna kidnap someone!" You yelled while the two men grunted on the floor, the first one had had the chair smashed into his back and this one was being wacked with a chair leg.

Damian showed up in regular clothes, he could tell by the phone call you didn't need any help.

"How the fuck did you know where I am?" You asked with clear suspicion and irritation.

"I traced the cell phone call." He lied very easily but there was something off and you could tell. He always kind of scratched his chin when he told you a lie and he had a shitty poker face.

"You put a tracker in me?! When we get home, you are cutting it out. I dont care that you track me but I'd rather not have a weird piece of metal in my body, Damian! I already have this stupid birth control for you, but at least that shit's been tested."

He knew that there was no point in fighting with you so therefore when the both of you got home, he cut it out and he stitched it back up and did everything he could to apologize without actually saying the words. You wore tracking bracelet from then on, a lot less invasive of the body.

Damian definitely was left apologizing over that for months cause he knew he betrayed your wishes and your trust. It was flowers, jewlery, gifts galore. Damian was never good with his words, you knew he was sorry but you wanted him to say it. Once he did the tension between the two of you quickly evaporated into thin air.

-> Masterlist <-

-> Send me prompts if you'd like <-

[bwabys-scenarios]

Making you a mother

Laois x Fem!Reader

!!REBLOGS APPRECIATED!!

A/N: this is a request from AO3!! Short but sweet ^^

warnings: big breeding kink, reader gets pregnant, Laois is really insistent on filling you up with his cum, biting, overstimulation

Laois held onto your hips, squeezing the soft flesh as he pulled you close to rub his bulge against your needy pussy. “You’re so pretty…”

His eyes were slightly hazy with lust, and you couldn’t help but whine, rubbing against him desperately. “P-please, Laois! I need it!”

The feeling of his calloused fingers tracing over your belly made you shiver in anticipation. Lately, you had noticed how focused on making sure you were well fed he was, along with fascinated with your tummy.

“Gonna…” he murmured, his fingers pressing down on the fatty part of your belly that protected your uterus. “gonna put a baby there, okay? Gonna…”

Your cheeks flushed with heat, the wet spot in your panties growing. Laois had never talked like that before, you didn’t even think he wanted children…

His thumb rubbed against your clothed clit as his lips pressed against your neck. “You want it? Want me to make you a mommy?”

“P-please…” you managed to choke out through your whimpers and panting. “Need it so bad!”

“Anything for you, sunshine…”

He pulled off your underwear, his cock rubbing against your dripping pussy. Usually he was insistent on eating you out, but today he desperately needed to fill you up with his cum. Laois needed to breed you more than he needed to breathe air.

He pushed in, groaning against your neck as your pussy clenched around him, eager to drain him of all his cum from the get go. “That’s my baby, gonna fill you up, promise…”

Laois fucked into you, biting down on your neck hard enough to have you yelp. But the pain ebbed away into pleasure, and his teeth were replaced with his lips, kissing away at the red mark.

“Sorry, love… can’t help it…”

He was hitting that special spot, making you cry out his name. “L-Laois, please don’t stop!”

Your nails dug into the soft flesh of his back, making him let out a sharp hiss. “Won’t, I promise…”

And he was right. Even hours later, when you were beyond exhausted and stuffed full of cum, he was still hitting that special spot, making you cum on his cock over and over.

“T-too much…” you were being fucked stupid, barely able to speak.

“Shh, you can take it. Gotta make sure it takes…”

He lightly pressed down on your belly, making his cum squirt out of you. Laois pouted a little.

“Looks like I’ll have to go again…”

———————

A few months later, you sat with Marcille as she fawned over your baby bump. “Oh, I can’t wait to be an Aunt! Do you think the baby will call me Auntie Marcille?”

You laughed, glancing at Laois as Falin and him watched the two of you through the doorway. “Probably. Marcille might be a mouthful for a baby though.”

“What about Marcy!?”

Laois and Falin cracked up, causing the blonde elf to blush. “W-what are you two laughing at?”

“Nothing… it just seems like you’re more eager for the baby to come than (Name) and I are.” Laois said, taking you into his arms. His hand brushed over your belly, his thumb rubbing against the bump softly.

Falin smiled warmly. “I think we’re all excited. Senshi has already started mapping out a meal plan for (Name)’s pregnancy.”

“Haha, he said he’ll teach the baby everything he knows, and Chilchuck is already giving me advice,” you said, laughing. “It’s sweet, you know they say raising a child takes a village… you guys are our village.”

Marcille started crying, hugging you. “Oh stop it, I’m going to cry!”

“Dear, you’re already crying.” Falin replied, kissing the top of her head.

You and Laois shared a kiss before he led you away by the hand. “Sorry ladies, but my wife needs a nap.”

Laois curled up next to you in bed, his face nuzzled into your neck. “Rest, my love.”

And you did, curled up with your beloved.

[carmenlikeme]

The decision to have a second child with Robby isn't an easy one.

You both want to. Your first baby was and still is your biggest blessing; you would never regret them, and there wasn't a moment when you didn't think about having another baby. At least two children. Three, if you felt like you could survive not sleeping for over 12 consecutive years.

But your first pregnancy had been so difficult for you, you had doubts.

Well, Robby had doubts.

During your first trimester, you were barely able to drink water before wanting to throw up. Dana recommended some anti-nausea medication, and Robby decided to pick up the least amount of shifts he could to make sure you were okay, always by your side, and just right behind you as you collapsed on the tiled floor.

Your second trimester was a bliss, full of cute pictures, early maternity shoots, and an intimate gender reveal where Robby cried his eyes out after finding out he was gonna become a girl dad. Endless purchases and moodboards for the nursery. You couldn't ask for anything better.

Then, the third trimester came, and with that, the early-onset preeclampsia.

You spend most of your days in bed now, just standing up to go to the bathroom, and even then, you're being looked after when you walk, even for a few steps. When you are close to 34 weeks, you both decide to admit you to the hospital for monitoring, and Robby feels so much better knowing you're only a few floors away.

That's why he looks so stressed, speaking to Dana about how you both want it, but you might consider adoption to avoid putting you at risk once more. Javadi is close by, and before she can stop herself, she opens her mouth to speak.

"Dr. Robby, did you know that 13% of preeclampsia cases are attributed to paternal factors? There's this study that says that while women's genetics are the most important, if the father was born from a pregnancy with preeclampsia. It's generally attributed to 13% from the father, there's another..."

"Hey, crash! I need your help!" Santos interjects, pulling her by her sweatshirt and dragging her away against her will.

Robby stands still next to Dana, who isn't sure if she should kill Victoria just yet. He pauses, tries to find something to say.

"Is that true?" he asks.

"What's true?" Samira joins the conversation, a tablet in her hand. "Mr. Murphy is ready for discharge."

"Javadi just said preeclampsia can be attributed to paternal factors," he says, his tone is almost sarcastic.

"Oh, yeah. There are a lot of new studies about that, also about how paternal diet, mental health, and exercise habits can have an impact on a pregnancy. There's also a greater risk of a premature birth if the father is over 45, so..."

The rest of the conversation and the day go by in a blink. Robby goes home defeated. And there you are, the TV is on, but you're fast asleep with your baby girl on your chest. He smiles, and for a moment, he forgets about the thing that almost made him spiral.

You wake up 30 minutes later. He's cleaning, and you're sure there's a new load of laundry already in the washer. You want to stand up, but your baby is just so comfortable there, you don't wanna wake her up.

"Good morning, love," he says when he walks back into the room. He leans in, careful enough not to disturb his daughter, and kisses you softly. "I missed you two."

"Thank god you have the weekend off," you whisper. "She didn't take a nap today."

"Well, she's almost one. She wants to conquer the world, but her body isn't letting her. Now that she's walking, she'll be unstoppable."

He sits next to you, and even as careful as he is, your baby wakes up. Her bright eyes open, Robby immediately grabs her from your chest and pulls her onto his.

"Show daddy your new shirt, baby," you say. She's still sleepy, but immediately cries when she is far away from you. She cries and tries to crawl back to you immediately. "This kid, she wouldn't even let me go to pee for two seconds."

She sits up on your lap, and it's only then that Robby pulls down her shirt to see it. His hand stays there, frozen, as he reads the words over and over again. He feels like choking up. It's like you're both back in your old apartment, cramped in the tiny bathroom as you wait for the pregnancy test results.

Best Big Sister.

He doesn't know how long it takes him to turn to you, but there you are, holding a pregnancy test that says "Pregnant. 3-4 weeks". You're crying, and he doesn't know when he started crying with you.

"Surprise!" you whisper, choked up. "I guess it's happening."

He kisses you again, this time he takes his time, despite how much your daughter babbles and screams. Just for a second, he kisses you like the world is about to end in just a moment.

"I guess it is."

Nothing matters, just for a second. It's just him, you and your little family.

© CARMENLIKEME 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, modify or claim as yours.

[nereidprinc3ss]

baby names

in which spencer comforts you after you wake from a good dream about becoming a mother

fluff! warnings/tags: fem!reader, reader sort of wants to be a mom sort of doesn't, they discuss having a child in the future, talk of pregnancy stuff, I think that's it! a/n: another short sweet fluff piece that is by no means going to get me a pulitzer but is cute nonetheless!! love u!!! let me know if u enjoyed!!

Spencer wasn’t in the room when you fell asleep into an impromptu nap, induced by the pattering rain, the low light of your bedside lamp, the warmth of your favorite throw blanket—but he is when you wake up. Home from work, sprawled on the bed next to you, long legs crossed and as close as he thought he could get without disturbing your slumber. 

“You came home,” you whisper groggily, curling into his side and letting your sleepy eyes flutter shut again. 

He pulls you closer against him, rubbing your arm. “I always do.” A low, affectionate chuckle that buzzes from his chest and dizzies you. “You tired?”

You hum a distant affirmation. Visions of diaphanous pink, of sweet cooing, of a haloed Spencer doused in warm light and smiling down at a some blanket-bundled creature in his arms, still burn behind your eyelids, fading with every passing second. The gentle classical music you’d been playing earlier now blends with the sound of evening rain tapping ceaselessly against the window. Spencer is warm next to you, scent familiar and comforting and only contributing to your drowsiness—but a lingering sort of sadness still claws at your stomach. Emptiness. It bites like a shock of icy water. It’s just a small thing. You feel silly for being upset, but you are upset, and you want to tell him. 

“I had weird dreams.”

Spencer offers a hum of his own (perhaps a habit you’d picked up from him) and you open your eyes, watching him watch the rain. The stark angle of his jaw, the sweet slope of his nose. Any baby he had a hand in creating would be absolutely cherubic. “You know, Carl Jung said dreams are hidden door in the deepest and most intimate sanctum of the soul.”

You fiddle with the knit of his sweater, and he covers your hand with his own, looking back down at you, deep eyes full of easy contentment. Like as long as you’re together, he can’t imagine a thing to be worried about. 

“Wait—the dreams are the door? Where does the door go?”

His brows pinch slightly as he recalls what is no doubt an exact quotation. 

“Uh—he said they led to a primeval cosmic night, that is soul long before there was conscious ego, and will be soul far beyond what a conscious ego could ever reach.”

You frown, sleepy head aching as you twist your brain into knots trying to decode the ornate language. “Was he the weird incest-y one?”

Spencer chuckles again. “Nope. That was Freud. Jung was essentially saying that there is something primal and instinctual about our dreams. He said they were our way of accessing the unconscious, which can process things the conscious psyche can’t, and our consciousness was a ship on the great sea of unconsciousness.”

“You’re losing me, Dr. Reid.”

The corner of his mouth flickers up. 

“He just meant they offered us an unbiased look at our lives. Our desires, our needs, unburdened by conscious ego.”

Our desires. Our needs. 

You chew your lip. 

“What does dreaming about having a baby mean?”

You say it because Spencer is your closest friend as well as your partner and you trust him completely with every thought in your head—but the way his hand pauses on your arm makes you nervous. 

He takes a moment to dissect your answer, digging for a hidden meaning like a precious gem, and then, once he decides there are no landmines, proceeds cautiously. 

“Well… some people say that a baby in your dream is a representation of you. It could indicate a desire to nurture, or a need to be nurtured.” Again you make a noise of vague acknowledgement. His hand starts back up again on your arm, and he delves gently deeper. “Why? Did you dream about having a baby?”

For a moment, you can only nod. Suddenly you’re choked up, releasing an exhaled, “Yeah,” as tears cloud your vision. He gives you a moment, just holding you as you try to find the words to continue. “It felt really real. I mean—I think I knew it wasn’t, but I was so happy that I didn’t care. I—she—” You laugh tearfully. “I’m being ridiculous, I know, I just… I miss her. Is that crazy?”

“That’s not crazy,” he says quietly. A stretch of silence follows, and the brief deluge of tears fades to trickling stop. Spencer is probably used to you enough so that he’s not surprised when you huff dramatically, trying to dispel your melancholia with a hefty dose of drama. 

“I wanna have a baby!”

Your boyfriend releases a surprised laugh as you bury your head against his chest, but it only takes him half a second to root his hand in your hair and hold you there. 

“Because of your dream?”

“Yes!” You sniffle into his sweater. “She was so perfect, ’nd sweet. I wanna have a baby so much.”

“With who?”

You look up at him tearfully and visibly frustrated. His eyes betray only fondness. “You, Spencer! Who else?”

“No one! No one else.”

You collapse again, satisfied with his answer. 

“You were such a good dad. It was—oh my god, you were so happy. You were holding her, and smiling at her, and—can we please have a baby?”

“Oh, sweet girl,” he coos, half chuckle, voice tinged with pity. His hand sweeps over and over your hair in a soothing pattern. 

You pout, hiding even further away against him. “That’s not an answer.”

“We can’t have a baby right this second, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

“Why not?”

He hums, pretending to consider the question, hand still carding gently through your locks, detangling. 

“You’re not pregnant, for one thing.”

“I might be.”

“I doubt it.”

“I could be.”

He angles your head up, smiling. Those warm brown eyes of his are full to the brim with sparkly affection. “Do you have something to tell me?”

“No, I’m saying, we could have a baby.”

The curve of his mouth lessens though doesn’t entirely dissipate, and the subtle lines next to his eyes soften as he regards you. There are a thousand reasons you shouldn’t have a baby right now, but Spencer knows you know that, and it’s still not what you want to hear right this second. 

“We could.”

He’s not being serious, but your heart flutters anyway. 

“Really?”

“Sure. Sounds like you have it all figured out.”

“Spencer. I’m not joking. You’re not taking me seriously.”

Spencer pulls you closer, and though you’re mildly annoyed, you allow it with a huff. 

“I am taking you seriously. Like the plague.”

“I know you want kids.”

“I do.”

“We can have kids.”

“Angel. We have time. I believe that you want a baby, and I’m overjoyed that you want one with me. And you know we’d need more time to talk about it.”

Of course, you probably will change your mind tomorrow, and again the next day, and Spencer will love you then and every time you change your mind thereafter. 

“Do you love me?” You ask softly, bunching the fabric of his shirt in your hand and not looking at him. Just to make sure. His eyes are liquid adoration on you. 

“More than anything in the whole world.” And maybe, you think, you’re okay with keeping it that way. For just a bit longer, at least. Spencer squeezes your arm. “I do think you’ll get to meet her again one day. I’ll get to meet her.”

You smile to yourself, imagining your little dreamy baby girl back in your arms. “One day.”

He kisses the top of your head. 

“Did we name her in your dream?”

“Elizabeth. But only because in my dream your mom’s name was Elizabeth, for some reason? I don’t… I can’t explain that.”

“Hm... I love my mom, but I don't know if I'd want to name my baby Diana. Feels too prophetic.”

“Hold on, I have like, a hundred baby name ideas. Can you hand me my phone? I’m gonna tell you all of them. First and middle name combinations.”

Spencer reaches for your phone on the side table. “Boy and girl?”

You scoff, settling into the crook of his arm, head on his shoulder, so he can see your phone screen. 

“We’re not having a boy, Spencer.”

“Oh. My mistake.”

You smile and tangle your legs with his, searching through your notes app with your non-dominant hand for your list of ridiculous baby names. 

“I can’t believe you would even suggest that. You're obviously going to be a girl dad.”

“Am I?”

“Yes! Oh my god, I’m so glad I'm not pregnant because you’re clearly not ready. You have a lot to learn. Okay, how does Artemisia Valencia October Reid sound to you?”

You’re lucky he loves you so much.

[lazysoulwriter]

i miss you, that's all. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro Pascal x reader, emotional softness, minor angst, misunderstanding, gentle communication, soft resolution, clingy Pedro trying not to be clingy.

---

You didn’t notice it at first — the way Pedro’s eyes followed you from room to room, waiting. How he’d start a sentence and stop halfway through when you were already busy replying to emails or checking call times.

He never said anything.

Not until day five.

You were packing, half-dressed, makeup half-done, rushing around the bedroom with your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear. “Yes, I’ll send it before five—yes, I promise. Okay. Yep. Bye.”

Click.

Pedro stood by the dresser, twisting a ring on his finger.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Do you… have a minute?”

“Pedro, baby, I’m so sorry, I’m already behind and I still need to—”

“I miss you.”

You froze.

He didn’t say it like an accusation. It was quiet. Careful. Like it had been sitting on his tongue for days.

“I know you’re not doing anything wrong,” he said quickly, holding up his hands like you might run. “You’re working. You’re doing what you love. I just…”

He shrugged.

“I miss you. That’s all.”

Your chest tightened.

You crossed the room and cupped his face gently. “Oh, Pedro.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty—”

“No, no, you didn’t. You just reminded me what matters.”

He leaned into your touch, eyes closing. “I just… I love being around you. And lately it feels like I’m stealing minutes instead of sharing them.”

Your eyes welled up. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“I know you’re busy. I love how hard you work. I just… I think I needed to say it out loud before it started eating at me.”

You kissed him — soft, grounding. “Thank you for telling me.”

He nodded against your forehead. “I’ll always wait for you. But maybe tonight… don’t make me wait alone, yeah?”

You smiled through your tears. “Canceling dinner with the team. We’re staying in.”

Pedro exhaled, hugging you tight. “Even better.”

You didn’t even make it past the couch.

Pedro dragged you down with him the second you changed into your sweats, his arms instantly wrapping around you, one leg hooking over both of yours, chin resting on your shoulder.

“You’re not allowed to move,” he mumbled into your neck.

“I need to get the food—”

“Nope.”

“Pedro.”

“Shhh. You neglected me for five whole days. I’m owed at least three hours of pure limb entanglement.”

You laughed, reaching back to thread your fingers through his hair. “You’re a grown man. You can’t just guilt-trip me with cuddles.”

“Watch me.”

He nuzzled further into your neck, pressing a sleepy kiss to your jaw. “I’m not letting go until morning.”

“…It’s 6 p.m.”

“Then I’ll nap aggressively until then.”

And he did.

Breathing steady, limbs locked around you, and heart finally full.

---

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

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512

[writtendaydreamm]

The On-Call Room

Summary: Y/n and Langdon try to get some rest in the same on-call room but get a little distracted.

Warnings: 18+ NSFW, Smut if you squint

Author's Note: Based on this request. Sort of a prequel to The Hospital Gossip Mill. Let me know your thoughts and feedback!!

Two loud knocks was all it took and Langdon was wide awake. 

Already in a shitty mood having to pull a double today, all he wanted was some peace and quiet. Was that too much to ask? To get just a little bit of sleep in before having to go through another eight hours in the pit. 

Looking down at his watch, he groaned. By now he would’ve been at home, probably getting ready for dinner plans with Y/n. But instead, he was here. At the hospital. Where he has been since 8AM. All because of that nasty bug going around. Already short-staffed, it was one sick call after the next this past week. From doctors, to nurses, to admins - everyone was catching it. One of the few left standing, Langdon took one for the team, staying back to cover Dr. Ellis on the night shift. 

Throwing his legs over the stiff, sorry excuse for a bed the hospital furnished the on-call rooms with, Langdon walked up to the door grumbling to himself. This better be an emergency otherwise someone was about to get ripped a new one. He wrote it clearly on the whiteboard outside: 

DON'T KNOCK, CALL IF URGENT 

Can people not read? Brows furrowed tightly, Langdon yanked the door open wide, raring and ready to unleash the string of profanities on the tip of his tongue until he saw who was in front of him. Y/n.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” she teased, walking straight past him before he could even get a word out. 

Sticking his head out scanning the halls, he was relieved to see they were empty. No one at work had a clue they were dating and they intended to keep it that way.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home by now?” he asked trying not to sound too annoyed as he locked the door behind him. 

Yeah, she should have been. The last surgery on her schedule today was a simple hernia repair. It wouldn’t have taken more than an hour. But the patient’s stubborn mother decided to ignore the explicit directions not to feed her 24-year-old man-child any food while he waited for an OR to open up. Now the 20 minute wait for an OR turned into a 6 hour wait for the casserole to digest. 

“I don’t know how she snuck that Tupperware past the nurses,” Y/n snorted, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Looks like we’re both in for a long night.”

Leaning into her touch despite himself, Langdon’s eyes closed instinctively. The feeling of her thumb agaisnt that sensitive spot on the nape of his neck transported him back to the night before. How her fingers brushed against that exact spot, how they worked down his back, the welcomed burn of her nails as they scratched against his skin, the sound of her gasps in his ear as he-

Snap out of it, he told himself. Now was not the time for dirty thoughts about what they did last night. What he needed was to go lay down, not get worked up. Clearing his throat and his mind, he focused on the present.

“The on-call rooms full up there?” 

She nodded. They always were. About to slum it on one of the sofas in the surgical staff lounge, she remembered one of the last texts he sent her:

ED lounge is empty and lonely. 

Wish you were here 

Well, here she was. Wish granted. Sure, it was risky sneaking onto the ED floor. If someone saw her that would’ve been the start of a new rumor for sure. It would’ve spread around the hospital faster than that bug everyone was sick with. But he said it himself, no one was around. And with their dinner plans obviously canceled, this way they can squeeze in more time together. Even if it was spent just napping. 

“You don’t mind, right?” she pouted, looking up at him, willing him to forgive her for waking him up like she had. Batting her lashes, her thumb brushing that spot on his neck that had him like putty in her hands. 

He rolled his eyes. It wasn’t that he minded. It was that he was concerned about getting some actual sleep. He wanted to get at least an hour in before having to go back onto the floor. But two of them, confined in a tiny room with basically nothing but a bed, getting sleep was low on the list of things they could get up to in here. 

What was he supposed to do? Kick her out? Tell her no? He couldn’t. Even when he really wanted to, even when it was the right thing to do, even when she got on his damn nerves - like just now, blatantly ignoring the sign he wrote on the door - he could never say no to her. 

They managed to fit on the small bed slotting into one another like puzzle pieces. It was a tight fit considering these beds were made for one, but neither of them minded. The sheets were scratchy and the pillow paper thin, but with her back against him, his arm draped over her, it was actually kind of cozy. 

After promising no funny business, the room was silent save for the AC burring and their steady breaths. 

Finally dozing off, Langdon suddenly tensed, feeling Y/n shuffle in his arms. Her hips backed into him. It was only slightly but it was right against the one part of his body he had no control over. Assuming it was a one-off, he shuffled himself back a little to create some needed distance between them. But she did it again, just moments after.

Here we go, he groaned to himself. Just what he was afraid of. They were supposed to be sleeping with each other. Not sleeping with each other. 

He wasn’t going to react. Nope. He wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of a reaction, of knowing the effect she had on him. 

Summoning his will power, he fought against his body’s natural, primal response to her body moving against his. It wasn’t easy. Not only did she consume his physical senses, but she consumed his mind as well. Every thought was of her. Memories of her pretty face contorted in pleasure, her bare skin meeting his, her smart mouth stuffed full of him, all glued to the forefront of his mind.

He forced himself to think about that gross bleeder he cauterized this morning and that biker in South 2 with his leg bent out of shape waiting for Ortho, but it did nothing. How could it when with each passing second her movements became more brazen and shameless. Each roll of her hips grating on his self control.

“Y/n, stop,” he warned.

“Stop what?” she mumbled, playing innocent. But there was nothing innocent about what she was doing, the way she grinned her ass into him. It was deliberate and debilitating. 

“You promised,” he scolded. But there was no conviction in his voice. Or in the way he gripped her hips, a vain attempt to stop her before they went too far, before he couldn’t hold himself back. 

“I can’t help myself,” she whispered in a whine. Her hand moved behind her, palming him over his scrubs. Pleased at how hard he had gotten already, she chuckled. “Seems like neither can you.”

Whatever was left of his fragile resolve crumbled under her touch. His body had betrayed him totally. Fuck it, he thought. He was only human after all. Once again unable to say no, he surrendered to her whim for the second time that night. Placing feather light kisses on her neck, he indulged himself in the feeling of her hand stroking him slowly, sensually. Up and down, up and down. It was just enough pressure to offer relief but not enough to satisfy.

“Y/n,” he said again. This time less like a warning and more like a plea. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Good thing I’m a doctor,” she smirked.

“Smartass,” he murmured against her skin. 

No longer fighting his own need for her, his fingers dipped under her scrub pants. Her gasp was quiet and small, but unmistakable as his warm fingers pressed against the growing damp spot on her lacy panties. Feeling just how wet she was already, he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck whispering against her skin. 

“This what you wanted, huh?” 

Reveling in the sensation of his five o’clock shadow grazing against her skin, of his fingers sliding her panties to the side and slipping between her slick folds, she could only hum in agreement. 

That wasn’t good enough. No, he wanted to hear her say it. 

“Use your words, baby,” he demanded, his middle finger teasing her entrance.

Oh, she loved it when he got like this. All controlling and assertive. The tension in her core tightened. She pulsed against his finger in anticipation. About to speak up, to tell him this was exactly what she wanted, a loud beeping and buzzing beat her to it. 

“Son of a bitch,” he exclaimed louder than he should have. Throwing his head back on the pillow in exasperation, he couldn’t believe his luck. Of course his phone would be going off at this exact moment. 

The sound of Y/n’s laughter filled the room as he answered it. A finger held up to his lips, urgently gesturing her to quiet down. Not just because they could pick it up on the other end, but the way she was laughing they could probably hear her through the walls out in the hallway. Hand taped over her mouth she muffled her laughter as best she could, but this was just too good. A call right as they’re about to really get things started, right when he finally gave in? It wasn’t fair at all, but it was damn funny. 

Langdon was not nearly as amused by all this as she was. Not amused at all actually. The look he gave her as pointed as a knife’s tip. She knew just how to dull that sharpness though. Running a soothing hand up his back, fingers gently massaging the back of his neck, ensuring to touch that sensitive spot again.

The only thing Langdon found more upsetting than getting called back down to the floor early was how easily he folded for her. He was wrapped around her finger, and even worse, she knew it. Dragging a hand over his face, hoping to wipe away his fatigue and frustrations, he let out a deep sigh rising from the bed. They needed an extra set of hands down there, and as shitty as he felt, the patients down there felt a whole lot shittier. 

In the middle of adjusting his scrub pants, trying to conceal the hard-on that hadn’t gone down yet, he paused, confused as to why Y/n was getting out of the bed too. It wasn’t common practice to use other departments’ on-call rooms, but there weren’t any rules forbidding it. “You can stay y’know.”

“I know, but I should go back up anyway. Make sure my patient’s mom isn’t feeding him any more casserole,” she said, only-half joking. “Besides, I’m all strung up after that. No way I’m falling asleep now.” 

He shook his head, a smile creeping on his face as he watched her fix her own clothes. She was nothing but trouble, but she was all his trouble. As she turned towards the door, he grabbed her arm whipping her back around and into him. Face to face, chest to chest, he leaned in taking her by surprise for a change. The kiss was hot and hurried, leaving them both wanting for more. 

“Meet you back here after that hernia repair?” he suggested breathlessly.

Y/n nodded excitedly, “Definitely.”

High off each other, the pair stepped out into the hallway without so much as a second thought. In hindsight they should’ve checked to make sure no one was around, or maybe not walked out at the exact same time. For two people trying to keep their relationship a secret, it was a quite careless thing to do. But it was what they did. And now they had to convince Perlah, who was out in the hallway brows raised in surprise, that there was a totally normal explanation to what she just saw.

“I was just looking for an empty on-call room,” Y/n said, beginning to explain the situation to Perlah. The way she worded it made sense. The on-call rooms up in surgery were full, so she ended up here only to find Langdon already inside the room.

But Perlah did the math in her head and it wasn’t adding up. If Y/n came down to crash in an open room, and Langdon was using the room but is heading back to the ER now, why wasn’t Y/n staying in the room then?

“If he’s leaving, why are you leaving?” she questioned Y/n skeptically.

“Well I just got a call to check on my patient,” y/n answered back smoothly. Not a total lie but definitely not the whole truth. 

“Yeah she got the call exactly the same time I got called back,” Langdon added trying to really sell the idea this was all just some big coincidence and nothing more.

Perlah eyed them both suspiciously, not completely sold on the BS they were throwing at her. But like Langdon, she was working a double too, and didn’t have any extra energy to waste. So, she ignored her inner tsismosa urging her to keep digging for details, and let it slide this time. She left them in the hall, heading into the storage closet across the on-call room, grabbing whatever it was she came down here for in the first place.

Langdon and Y/n exchanged uneasy looks. Worry settling in the pit of their stomachs. Was this it? Had they been caught?

“Do you think she bought it,” Langdon mouthed, barely above a whisper.

Y/n could only shrug and pray that she did.  “Let’s hope so.”

[shy-writer-999]

Summary: Ace wants to try something new, but any time he's deep inside of you his possessive streak takes over. ~1.9k words. Mildly edited, I'll come back for a second round soon!

CW: Afab reader, cockwarming, possessiveness, pet names (“princess” used once), P in V.

MINORS DNI. NSFW CONTENT.

“Do you know what cockwarming is?” Ace looked at you with an eyebrow raised.

“Uh… I think so. Wouldn’t that mean you just put your cock in me but… we don’t move or fuck, really?”

“Mhm.” He nodded. “Wanna try?”

“Well, does that mean I get to fuck you after?”

He flashed a smile. “Sure.”

Many minutes later, after Ace fingered you and ate you out, you sunk down onto his cock. You were straddling him while he sat in a chair, bare chests pressed together, and your face in the crook of his neck. His cock was buried deep inside, unmoving.

Ace was doing something, but the memory of that night is foggy, distorted by pleasure. He must have been reading, writing, polishing his belt buckle, fixing his beaded necklace, something like that. He was working on something while you drifted in and out of sleep.

Ace felt warm and comforting inside and the experience was intimate. He smelled good and you could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath. You felt safe, like you usually did around him, and you napped like that for a while.

Time passed and Ace finished whatever he was doing. One of his hands started to pet your hair, and his other hand came to rest on your hips. “Hey, gorgeous.” He murmured, stirring you awake. “You doing ok?”

You pulled away from where you were nestled in his neck and looked at him with sleepy eyes. “Mmhmm.” You forgot that his cock was inside of you for a second—you had gotten used to the sensation. But you were quickly reminded when Ace rocked his hips up, just slightly.

He pulled you closer and your lips met—you could tell he was smiling through his kisses, in excitement for what he was about to do to you, as well as pure adoration. Another slight push of his hips upwards and your core started to tingle and pulse around him.

He hummed in response. “I can feel that, baby. Does it feel good when I do this?” On the last word, he pushed his hips up again, cock pressing your g-spot as you let out another muted gasp. The warmth the pressure inside of you quickly turned to full-fledged heat, in two senses of the word. First, you were buzzing with pleasure already. He knew how to coax it out of you effortlessly. And second, you could tell he was literally warming you up inside, putting his devil fruit powers to good use, as he always did.

“Mmmmm, Ace.”

More kisses. They got intense, sloppier. His tongue pushed past your lips and prodded into your mouth; he reached a hand up to rest tangled in your hair. Every roll of his hips upwards felt electric.

“Fuck,” he pulled away and a string of spit connected your lips. “Your pussy feels like it was made for me.”

Ace had a possessive streak and it showed, in full force, whenever his cock was in you. It was a projection of how much he cherished you and how much he wanted to be cherished. You both knew that he was all yours and you were all his. Even so, he got off on reminding you in bed. Something about it really got him going.

We can speculate, but it must have to do with how badly he wanted to be loved and needed. He ate up the fact that he could be as possessive with you as he wanted, and you never said no to him (because every word he said was true). It was, among other things, one of the most intense and purely emotional sides of Ace, this all-encompassing need for you and your affection.

He relished the fact that no one else had you in any way—no one else knew you as well, no one else knew how you liked to be treated, no one else loved you like he did (and no one else ever would).

And tonight, his possessiveness was emphasized. Earlier that evening, the whole crew had been at a bar. It always drove Ace fucking nuts to see how every man in the room eyed you like a piece of meat. It pissed him off that they objectified you, eyes stuck on your figure any time you moved or any time your smile beamed. But what had been particularly worse about this night was that both of you had been chatted up.

A gorgeous young woman had grabbed Ace by the hand and dragged him to the other side of the bar when you were distracted. He tried to be polite, but he couldn’t focus. He was watching you get flirted with out of the corner of his eye. You didn’t seem to care that Ace was over in some dim corner with a random woman (he knew that you did care but you trusted him, so you weren’t that bothered). But Ace could see that the man chatting you up was being handsy—the guy did that classic and creepy hand-touching-the-small-of-your-back move that made you cringe in obvious discomfort.

So, Ace left the woman he was speaking with as she was in the middle of a word. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go.” He smiled painfully and practically bolted across the room, putting a hand between you and the creepy man and prying him off of you. “You’ve got the wrong idea, bud.”

Suffice to say, he got into a bar fight. But “fight” wouldn’t really be the right word for it. The second that Ace held a flaming finger in front of the creep’s face, the man ran out of the bar with his tail tucked between his legs, as they say.

But back to the moment at hand. Ace’s possessive streak was shining more than usual on account of the dual flirtation by randoms mere hours before. While Ace pressed his cock up into you with each second that passed, he reminded you that you were each other’s.

“You’re the only one for me, sweetheart.” He whispered in your ear. He only had eyes for you, only ever wanted you, and it would stay that way. “You’re mine.”

As Ace grinded into you, he used the leverage of his hands on your hips to push you down on his cock, hitting every spot he possibly could. Your arousal started to trickle down his shaft and onto his balls.

“Tell me who you belong to, princess.” Ace cooed in your ear. His desperate grunts accompanied wet sounds of you bouncing on his cock.

“You, Ace. Only you.” You whined as his pace increased. Each time his tip pushed on your gooey, sensitive soft, it felt like fireworks of pleasure lit inside of you. Your walls throbbed in time with his cock, driving him crazier.

His lips left a trail of kisses down the curve of your neck. Sinking his teeth down, he bit your shoulder, leaving a sunken crescent of teeth marks. A sign that you were his. The pain wasn’t too bad (though you yelped anyway), dulled by the fact that he was fucking you senseless. He lapped at the bite mark as if that would make the pain go away. When you whimpered in reply, his cock twitched.

“Look at me, pretty. Say my name.”

You made an effort to lock eyes with him, but you almost couldn’t look straight. “Ace. Ace, fuck. Feels so good.” The only word for the desire-riddled expression looking back at you would be ravenous.

As his name fell from your lips in a constant stream, your fingernails dug into the skin on his back—it felt great and encouraged him to thrust faster.

His precum wept inside of you, pearlescent and hotter than usual. He slammed frenzied, erratic thrusts that made you start to seize up with pleasure. You could barely speak, and you gave up on holding yourself upright, choosing instead to rest your face in his neck again.

“Wanna be with you forever, baby. You’re mine. All—mine.” He rasped in your ear, low and husky. Oozing desire from your cunt seeped down his shaft and onto the chair below; obscene noises echoed in the room as more filth left his lips.

Ace was out of breath, fucking you so hard and fast that he forgot to breathe. He choked out words between animalistic groans. “You’re so fuckin’ tight for me, sweetheart. Only—ever—for—me.”

The orgasmic coil inside of you was about to snap; you gave up on answering him and instead babbled, nodded, and moaned into his neck. He could tell that you were getting close from the way your walls shuddered around his shaft, the way that your muscles were starting to tense up and spasm.

“Cum for me, angel. Show me how good it feels. Show me whose pussy this is.” Ace almost couldn’t get the words out; he was heaving breaths and his mind was in a haze of desire. He needed to know that you were all his, that he was the only person you ever wanted. He needed to hear it before he let go. He was dying for you, feral for you, down bad for you in ways that words can’t describe.

“Ace—Ace, fuck, I’m—I’m cumming, Ace,” you keened his name and arched your back as he bucked his cock up into you. He deliberately controlled the heat of his shaft and flashed it blazing hot just for a second while he pressed on your g-spot forcefully with his swollen tip—it was too much.

Your orgasm exploded, euphoric and intense. You writhed on him in pleasure, convulsing over his cock with harsh squeezes.

That was what he wanted. Only he could ever do that to you.

His hips jerked one last time as he felt your walls squeeze and beg him for his cum. A guttural moan left his lips as he came deep inside of you—you could feel him filling you up in milky white ropes, dripping out of your slit and coating his shaft and balls.

With a long groan and exhale, Ace rested his head next to yours as he came down from his climax. His arms wrapped around you to bring you into a closer embrace as his heartbeat struggled to return to normal.

When he loosened his embrace slightly after a few minutes, he brought your face to his with gentle palms and started to nuzzle his nose on yours, radiating affection so strongly that you could feel it in your heart. His freckles popped out through the hues of pink and red that flushed his cheekbones.

Sighing in contentment with his cock still resting inside of you, both his hands cupped your cheeks, and his thumbs caressed your skin. “God, you’re so beautiful. I can’t get enough of you. Fuck. Will you be mine forever, baby?”

You laughed and the sound made his heart twist and flutter. A slight roll of your eyes accompanied your tone of feigned annoyance. “Yes, Ace. You always ask this, and the answer is always yes.”

“Okay, just checking.” He kissed every part of your skin that he could access until it tickled. “Are you still sleepy? Wanna go to bed?”

woowwww this was a fun one, omg. im down egregiously bad for him. if this man was real, i would do things to him so much that he wouldn't be able to walk for a week. pulling out all the stops. unhinging the jaw and whatnot. i can't describe how bad i want this man it's honestly pathetic at this point 😭😭😭😭

thank u so much for reading! here's my masterlist and my posting schedule for october.

finally, trick or treat? (tumblr links)

[hello-eden]

In Plan Sight

Jason didn't know what he expected when he woke up but it wasn't this. 

that was a small dark-haired girl that looked to be about 4 years old sitting on his couch. Jason has a vague memory of her being there last night but he was very tired and assumed it was one of the street kids that he lets crash in the safe house sometimes.

 Jason slowly walks up to her trying to get into her line of sight so he doesn't spook her. she looks up at him with green eyes he feels like he recognizes but can't quite place.

“you need to help me find my mom,” the young girl says with a conviction that you don't usually find on four-year-old's voice. 

“Did you get lost or are you in danger” Jason wants the kid to have just got lost.

 “Mom said to run and to go to vigilantes in Gotham and they take me to my dad. I don't care about my dad, I want my mom.” so dangerous it was than. Jason really hopes the mom is alive 

“Do you know anything about your dad” Jason questioned. 

“Mom says he's nice and smart and that he would love me if he got to know me but he also is a little bit stupid sometimes so don't hold that against him.” The girls stumbled over some words like she was trying to remember what her mother said. 

Jason suddenly remembers he does not know her name. “What's your name kid.”

“ Eleanor Danielle Nightingale,” the kids sounded so excited to be able to say their full name. 

Honestly Jason was expecting the kid to say a nickname but having her full name is probably better.

 “How about I make you some breakfast? Have you been sitting on the couch all night?” Jason said as he looked over the couch. There was a smaller bag that was probably full of her stuff on the side of the couch closest to the window.

 “I took a nap,” Eleanor says in her tone making it seem like she thought it was obvious. “and I want pancakes.”

“ Well lucky for you I have just the stuff “Jason turns around and heads to the kitchen to start making the pancakes.

—-------------------------------------

 Jason got Eleanor set up into his guest room. 

Jason looked her up while she was in the bathroom after breakfast. He didn't find anything other than a birth certificate with her full name under a Dahlia Nightingale.

Dahlia Nightingale is even more of a mystery; her age was about 17 when she gave birth with a look similar to her kid which is unsurprising but any history is entirely unknown. All Jason is getting from this file is what her allergies are and her blood type. 

Eleanor or Ellie as she insisted on being called has only been to about two doctors appointments both having to do with getting her shots. no information on this mysterious father and absolutely nothing on Dahlia Nightingale.  The family is very obviously hiding which means there's a higher chance of her mom being dead. Jason hopes at least one family member is alive at lest to take care of the kid.

[katemoneymartinsgf]

Could you do a fic where Azzi gets Paige flowers?( Cause in past relationships Paige has always been treated like a guy cause she’s more masc)

Flowers |pazzi|

a/n: sorry i’ve been so dry. trying to get back to all the requests. mass writing starts now 🙏🏽

“You got me flowers?”

Paige blinks like she’s trying to figure out if it’s a setup.

She’s in sleep shorts and a hoodie that still smells like dryer sheets. There’s a crease on her cheek from the couch pillow, and her voice is still scratchy from a nap she took.

Azzi holds out the bouquet, all casual. “Yeah.”

Paige stares.

It’s not that she doesn’t like them — they’re actually… really pretty. Tulips and daisies and those tiny yellow ones Azzi always gets right. She just doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do with them.

“You’re not sick or in trouble or, like, being held at gunpoint or anything?”

Azzi snorts. “Not unless this is a hostage situation.”

“You are in my apartment.”

“And yet, somehow, I still brought you flowers.”

Paige blinks again, slower this time. She takes them — carefully, like they might change their mind about belonging to her. She holds them in both hands, looks at them for a beat, then says, quieter:

“No one’s ever really given me flowers before.”

Azzi leans against the doorframe. “You’ve given them, though.”

Paige shrugs. “Yeah. That’s kind of the thing.”

Azzi watches her for a second. “Because people always see you as the one who should. Not the one who gets to.”

That lands harder than Paige expects. Her fingers shift on the stems.

“It’s not a big deal,” she says. “It’s just how it’s always been.”

Azzi steps in close. Slides a hand to Paige’s jaw, thumb brushing right near her ear — grounding, soft.

“Well, it’s dumb,” she says, voice gentler now. “You’re allowed to be the one who gets the flowers.”

Paige huffs a laugh, but she’s blinking too much.

Azzi keeps going, because now she means it.

“You don’t always have to be the strong one. Or the giver. Or the one who cracks the joke first so no one sees the soft parts.”

Paige lowers the bouquet just enough to press her face into Azzi’s shoulder. Muffled: “You’re being disgusting.”

Azzi wraps her up, arms around her waist, face tucked into her hair.

“I love you,” she whispers. “And you deserve every annoying, cringey thing this world has to offer.”

Her head drops to Azzi’s shoulder, bouquet cradled in her arms like it’s a gift she’s still learning how to accept.

Then: “Are you done?”

Azzi smiles. “No. I’m gonna keep going until you cry.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I hate that you’re right.”

Azzi kisses her temple. “That counts as a win.”

They stay like that for a second, hearts full.

“I love you,” Azzi says into her hair. “You hear me?”

Paige nods.

“I do,” she mumbles. “And I really like the yellow ones.”

Azzi smiles against her temple. “I know you do.”

She leans back slightly — enough to see Paige still holding the flowers close, her expression soft in a way she never lets show anywhere else.

Azzi doesn’t say anything. Just pulls her phone from her back pocket and snaps a quiet photo — Paige, hoodie sleeves curled over her knuckles, nose buried in tulips,caught in the moment.

-

It’s late. The window’s cracked. The TV is still on, low volume, playing some romcom neither of them has been watching. Azzi’s curled into Paige’s side, blanket kicked halfway off her legs, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, thumb lazily scrolling through her notifications.

She’d posted a photo dump earlier — some random bits from the week. A takeout box. A blurry scoreboard. A flower-stuffed cup on Paige’s counter.
And, on slide four, the shot she’d snapped of Paige earlier — hoodie bunched at her wrists, face buried in flowers she wasn’t supposed to like as much as she did.

She hadn’t even asked. Just took it. Posted it later without thinking twice.

Paige hadn’t said anything at the time.

Until now.

“Az,” she says, phone still in hand. “Slide four?”

Azzi doesn’t look up. “Mmhmm.”

“You soft launched me.”

“You liked the post.”

“You posted me smelling flowers.”

Azzi finally glances up, grinning. “You looked adorable. You should thank me.”

Paige sets her phone down and shifts so they’re face to face, noses nearly touching. “You’re such a menace.”

“You love me.”

“I do.”

Azzi laughs softly, but there’s a blush creeping up her neck now — because Paige says it with no hesitation. Like it’s been sitting on the tip of her tongue all night.

Paige brushes a piece of hair off her forehead. “You’re so beautiful.”

Azzi opens her mouth, maybe to joke, but Paige cuts her off before she can even try.

“You know that, right?”

Azzi blinks. “Yeah. I mean… yeah.”

“You bring me flowers,” Paige whispers, “and post me on Instagram like I’m your girlfriend or something.”

“You are my girlfriend.”

Paige smiles, soft and slow. “Lucky me.”

Azzi ducks her head, flustered now, and Paige tucks her in closer — arm around her waist, hand slipping under her hoodie to rest against the warm skin of her back.

“I love you,” Paige says again, quieter this time. Like she means it a little more every time she says it. “You’re my favorite person. Like, in the world.”

Azzi doesn’t try to speak. Just presses her face into Paige’s neck and lets her heart slow down there.

They stay like that — bodies tangled, breaths syncing, the kind of silence that only exists between two people who already know everything they need to hear.

Paige kisses her hair.

“You gonna post me again tomorrow?”

Azzi mumbles, “Depends. You gonna cry if I do?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then definitely.”

Paige grins. “God, I love you.”

“Go to sleep, Paigey.”

She does — with a smile on her face and Azzi’s hand still curled into her shirt.