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pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Five

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, emetophobia warning, domestic fluff.

Notes — We're closing out the 2023 season!! Double update for the day!

2023 (Abu Dhabi)

The filming studio was chaos. Bright lights, Nerf guns, a beanbag chair someone had exploded accidentally, and Max F was in the corner trying to tape a foam sword back together.

Lando stood off to the side, hoodie hood up, sipping a smoothie and pretending to review a script while actually just taking a breather from the all-day mess.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He fished it out lazily, thumbed it open.

iMessage — 12:03pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

My period is 3 weeks late.

—

He stared.

Then blinked. Read the words again.

And stood there frozen in the middle of the mess, smoothie halfway to his mouth.

“…What the f—”

“Bro, you good?” Aarav called from across the room, eyebrow raised.

Lando didn’t answer. He was busy rereading the message for a third time. Then a fourth. Slowly lowering the smoothie.

Missed period.

3 weeks.

Missed period for 3 weeks.

Period 3 weeks missed.

He let out a stunned, breathy laugh. “Oh fucking hell. Of course she’d just message me about it like it’s no big deal. Of course she did.”

The rest of the guys were still messing around in the background, arguing about whether they could build a kart ramp out of beanbags, and Lando just… walked backwards into a couch and sat down before his legs gave up on him.

Well, clearly she wasn’t freaking out. So that meant he wasn’t supposed to freak out. Cool. No problem. Cool, cool, super cool.

Except, he ran a hand through his hair. It was Amelia. If she was freaking out, she still probably wouldn’t say it. She’d just power through it all and not mention anything had even happened and then be like, “Oh yeah, by the way, our kid is three now.”

He shook his head.

iMessage — 12:05pm

Lando (Husband)

Ok. I’m not freaking out. Kind of want to throw up a bit tho. Love u x

He stared at the screen. Chewed the side of his thumb. Sent another.

Lando (Husband)

Did u like… pee on a stick yet????

Also should i come home. Or stay and keep filming the stupid cart bit. Idk what to do bby xxxx

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

No, I have not peed on a stick. No, you do not need to come home. Finish filming. I will just see you when you come home x

—

He barely had time to process it before Max shouted, “Lando! You’re up!”

Lando slowly stood, still blinking, feeling kind of like he was buffering in real time.

“Mate, you look like you just saw a ghost,” Max added. “You alright, bro?”

Lando just looked at him, dazed. “No. I think I’m gonna be someone’s dad.”

Max’s eyes went fucking massive. “Woah, woah. Hold on. What—”

“Later. Can’t explain. Gotta pretend to joust on a kids scooter first.”

And off he went, hoodie flapping, brain somewhere over the Alps, while back in Monaco, his wife was casually engineering a race car and possibly incubating a human life like it was no big deal.

—

Amelia chewed on her bottom lip as she pulled up Pietra’s contact.

The screen blinked to life and there she was, chin propped on her hand, eating a bowl of cereal. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a lopsided bun, and she had one AirPod in, the other probably misplaced somewhere nearby. Her face lit up when she saw Amelia.

“Hello, gorgeous—wait, are you okay?" She asked, narrowing her eyes. “What’s wrong? You look off.”

Amelia didn’t say hello. She just held up her phone so the camera framed her blank expression and said, deadpan, “I am having déjà vu.”

Pietra blinked. Then squinted harder. “Wait… about what?”

“This call.” She said. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Pietra blinked again, cereal halfway to her mouth. “Você tá brincando.”

“I would never joke about this kind of thing.” Amelia said.

“Meu Deus.” Pietra gasped, dropping her spoon into the bowl with a dramatic clatter. “How? I mean—well, how is obvious, but—how do you know?”

Amelia turned her phone around, flashed her calendar at the screen. One day highlighted in red. Three weeks past due. “Calendar told on me.”

Pietra’s eyebrows shot up. “Three weeks? Amelia!”

Amelia sighed. “I know. But I’ve been so preoccupied with Vegas prep, travel, lobby meltdowns.”

“Oh my god.” Pietra was practically whispering now. “But… how likely is it?”

“Very. We haven’t been, like, trying,” Amelia said, voice clipped, efficient. “But we also haven’t been not trying. No protection for the last… few months. Ish.”

Pietra dragged her hand down her face. “Ameliaaaa. You can’t just drop a possible baby on me while I’m eating cornflakes!”

“I can and did.” Amelia adjusted the camera so it faced the ceiling, then sat cross-legged on the couch, phone balanced on her chest. This was their usual routine. She could write strategy notes with Pietra on FaceTime, no problem. Sometimes Pietra filled the air with stories, or whatever drama was happening in one of her many group chats. Sometimes she was just quiet, scrolling TikTok beside her. It was easy. Safe.

“Have you taken a test yet?” Pietra asked, after a beat.

“No.” Amelia’s voice was flat. “I don’t want to look at a little window. The little window makes things real.”

Pietra groaned. “It’s the only way to know!”

“I don’t want to know yet,” Amelia pointed out.

“I don’t trust you not to emotionally suppress this entire event and pretend it never happened.”

“Unfortunately not possible with this,” Amelia returned.

Pietra reached for the cereal again, shaking her head. “Have you told Lando?”

“I texted him. He’s in London filming Quadrant stuff, obviously. He freaked out a bit but, like, he was fine I think.”

Pietra cackled. “What did you even say?”

Amelia lifted her phone and scrolled briefly. “‘My period is three weeks late.’”

“Oh my god,” Pietra said. “You’ve probably given him a heart attack.”

“I’m nothing if not efficient.”

“He’s probably already told my Max, then. Are you telling anyone else?”

“No,” Amelia said, immediately and firmly. “I haven’t even processed it yet. And it might not even be something to process. It’d be like… trying to run a live feed before the camera boots.”

“Got it.” Pietra nodded. “Just us, then.”

“Just us,” Amelia echoed. She returned her focus to the spreadsheet open on her laptop. Sector delta charts glowed on the screen, comfortingly quantifiable.

Pietra softened. “But like—how are you?”

“I’m fine.” Amelia blinked slowly, as if running an internal diagnostic. “Not panicked. Not excited. Just... fine. Although thinking about it, I have been feeling nauseous a lot more frequently lately. I just kept putting it down to nerves you know?”

“Yes, I know. It’s been a long few weeks.” Pietra agreed. Eventually, she asked, “So. Plan?”

Amelia shrugged. “Go to the bakery and the pharmacy. Buy a bunch of pastries and three pregnancy tests.”

“And then?”

“And then I’m waiting for Lando. I’m not testing until he’s back.”

Pietra smiled, biting back something fond. “Of course not.”

They hung up not long after.

Amelia finished annotating a slide for Oscar’s sector exits in medium-speed corners, then shut her laptop with a soft click. She stood, pulled on one of Lando’s oversized hoodies, and grabbed her bag.

As she stepped out into the sunshine, she ran through her mental checklist:

Bakery

Pharmacy

Groceries

Don’t forget oat milk

Do not freak out

Business as usual.

—

The pharmacy was quiet, the sort of quiet that made every footstep sound louder than it should. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, and faint French pop music played from an old radio behind the counter.

Amelia moved with purpose, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands, the corners of her to-do list folded neatly in her pocket. She headed straight for the aisle where the pregnancy tests were shelved, eyes flicking over the boxes clinically. Brands didn’t matter. She just picked three, different ones, out of mild uncertainty more than logic, and turned on her heel toward the checkout.

Behind the counter sat Madame Duval, a tiny, silver-haired woman with thick glasses, a warm smile, and a knit cardigan that didn’t match her blouse but somehow made her look even more maternal.

“Bonjour, Amelia,” she said, her voice like soft wool. “C’est bon de vous voir.”

Amelia blinked. “Hi.”

She placed the boxes down without flinching. Madame Duval looked down, eyebrows twitching faintly. Then she smiled again, smaller this time. “Ah. I see.”

Amelia didn’t say anything. Just offered a shrug and a half-nod. She wasn’t embarrassed, exactly. It just felt… complicated.

“Would you like a bag?” Madame Duval asked gently. “One that is not see-through?”

“Yes please.”

She packed the boxes neatly, moving with the patience of someone who had known Amelia since she had first moved to Monaco. The first time she had come in for antihistamines, she’d asked in English and apologised for not speaking very clear French. Madame Duval had tutted at her gently and waved it off — “You’re young. You learn.”

She hadn’t expected Amelia to remember all of their conversations. But Amelia did. Down to which shelf the chamomile tea had been on that one rainy day when she came in, red-eyed and overstimulated, asking for something that “made bodies quiet.”

Now, only a couple of years later, the girl she’d watched grow into a woman, all sharp focus and clinical precision, stood with three pregnancy tests in her hand and a face like a still pond. Flat on the surface. Rippling just underneath.

Madame Duval placed a single wrapped chocolate on top of the box in the bag. The fancy kind they kept near the till. “For after. Whatever the result.”

Amelia blinked. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t argue,” Madame Duval said simply. “I know you very well, Amelia. You will enjoy your sweet treat.”

She accepted the bag and nodded, a single sharp dip of her head. “Merci.”

Madame Duval smiled again, knowing, warm. “Bonne chance, ma fille.”

Amelia didn’t translate the words in her head. She didn’t need to. They sank into her like the warmth of a blanket after a cold morning walk.

She left the pharmacy with the bag looped tightly around her wrist and walked the short distance back up the hill toward the apartment. The sea was visible between buildings, a thin slice of blue horizon. Everything smelled faintly of croissants and sunshine and exhaust fumes.

She checked her mental list:

Got the tests.

Got the pastries.

Got the groceries.

Back home, she set the bag down on the kitchen counter and grabbed her laptop.

The tests could wait until Lando was back.

For now, it was just another variable. Logged.

Pending analysis.

—

The door clicked softly behind Lando as he stepped into their Monaco apartment, duffle bag forgotten somewhere between the entrance and the bedroom.

The light was low, just the soft stretch of sunrise brushing over the walls, and Amelia was curled up on their bed in one of his hoodies, half-asleep, laptop still warm next to her leg.

She opened one eye when he crouched beside her. “Hi,” she murmured, voice heavy with sleep.

He didn’t answer right away. Just tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and held up a small paper bag like he’d just won a prize. “Get up, baby,” he said, gently.

Amelia blinked. “Seriously?”

He kissed her temple. “Come on. I need to know if my wife is growing a person.”

She groaned, dragging her hand over her face — but didn’t argue. Not really. She let him pull her upright with a sleepy grumble, let him tug her by the hand toward the bathroom, let him press the test into her hand.

They paused there for a second. Fingers brushing. Her gaze flicked up to meet his.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low now, a little more cautious.

“I’m fine,” she said. Then, with a characteristic deadpan mutter, “I’m tired.”

Lando gave her that crooked little grin, the one that always cracked something open in her. “Right. Go pee on it.”

She rolled her eyes and shut the door.

He sat cross-legged outside, back against the wall. Same way he had the first time she’d let him into her quieter corners; back when they were barely even dating and she couldn’t handle knocks on doors, loud voices, or sudden touches. Back when he learned to ask first and sit with her in the silence.

He waited now, quiet, patient, fingers tapping his knee.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there holding the test, staring at it.

Lando scrambled to his feet. “Amelia?”

She looked up at him. “It’s positive,” she said, voice soft. Like she wasn’t sure the words could be able to come out of her mouth properly.

Silence fell between them — not tense, not panicked. Just heavy.

She looked back down at the test. Then back at him. Her expression was unreadable for a second, and then… it cracked. Not big. Not loud. Just a subtle unraveling. A tremble in her mouth. Her eyes too bright, but dry.

“I thought I’d feel more in control,” she said quietly. “Like it would just slot into the system. Checklist. Contingency. Risk management.” She held up the test, eyes never leaving it. “But it’s not like that. It’s not a flowchart. It’s not a decision tree. It’s just… me. And you. And this. And I can’t logic my way through it.”

Lando took a slow step forward, voice hushed. “Is it a bad feeling?”

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “It’s just… big.”

And then it happened — not a meltdown, not a scene, just her body folding into his with no warning. A silent collapse.

Hands clinging to the front of his hoodie, face buried against his chest, a single shuddering breath breaking out of her like she’d been holding it in for hours. No sobbing. No hysteria. Just quiet overwhelm — the kind that sneaks up and knocks the wind out of you.

Lando wrapped his arms around her instantly, no hesitation.

“Whoa, hey,” he murmured, steady as ever, his hand in her hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re okay. We’re going to be okay.”

She didn’t answer, just breathed — deep and shaky. Her fingers still clutched the test like a lifeline. Her knuckles were white.

“I’m scared,” she said after a long pause. The words were barely there. “What if I mess it up? What if I do something wrong? What if I’m not good enough to do this?”

Lando pulled back, just enough to look at her. His hands stayed on her waist, grounding her. “Hey,” he said gently, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone. “Don’t do that. Don’t start doubting yourself now.”

Her eyes flicked away. “I’m not soft. I’m not warm. I don’t… glow. I forget social niceties, I spiral over things like flight plans and tyre temps and socks that don’t feel right. That’s not the kind of person who’s supposed to—” She swallowed. “I don’t know if I’m made for this.”

“Baby. You’re made for anything,” he said, firm now. “You’re made for me. And if our baby ends up anything like you, blunt, brilliant, weird in the best possible way, they’re going to be so lucky. And so am I.”

She let out a sound that was halfway between a breath and a laugh. Her shoulders sagged just a little. “We don’t even know if I’m actually pregnant yet,” she muttered.

He glanced down at the test still in her hand. “Kinda looks like we do.”

Another breath.

She let him take the test and set it gently on the counter, his touch reverent, like it was something fragile and sacred. Then, without a word, he slid his hand into hers and led her back into the bedroom.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. Just let herself be tugged along like driftwood in a current.

Lando climbed into bed first and pulled her down with him, settling them in the tangle of covers she’d only half-kicked off earlier. His arms came around her automatically, looping over her waist and up across her back. He tucked her in close, chin resting against the top of her head, one leg hooked loosely over hers.

Wrapped around her like a blanket. Safe. Heavy in the best way.

They lay like that for a long time. Breathing in sync. No words needed.

Eventually, Amelia spoke. Her voice was quiet — raw around the edges, like she'd surprised even herself with the crack earlier. “I didn’t think I’d cry,” she murmured.

Lando smiled, lips brushing her temple. “I’m glad you did.”

She blinked against his hoodie. “Why?”

He huffed a soft laugh, barely more than a breath. “Because it made it less pathetic that I was crying for a second too.”

Her head tipped back just enough to look up at him. “You were crying?”

“Only a little bit,” he said, mock-defensive. “Like, blinked-a-lot-and-hoped-you-wouldn’t-notice crying. I’m British. I’m subtle.”

“You’re not subtle,” she said flatly.

“No,” he agreed, grin tugging at his mouth. “But I am dramatic, and I’ve been alone for two days imagining every possible outcome and Googling ‘is surprise pregnancy good news if you’re in love and mostly financially stable.’”

Amelia blinked slowly. “You Googled that exact phrase?”

“Yes.”

She snorted. A small, involuntary noise that made his heart squeeze. “What did it say?”

“That the internet is deeply unhelpful,” he said. “And Reddit is a lawless place.”

There was another long pause.

Then she whispered, “I was scared it wouldn’t feel real. That I’d just… log it as data and move on. Like it was just another variable.”

Lando tightened his arms around her. “But it does feel real?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “The second I said it out loud.”

He kissed her forehead. “Good. I don’t think I could’ve handled being more emotional than you about this.”

“You’re always more emotional than me.”

“True. I tried at Bake Off the other day.”

“I know,” she said, and even through the haze of anxiety and confusion and quiet overwhelm, she smiled. “That’s why I married you.”

Lando rested his cheek against her hair, and for a few long seconds, the world outside the blanket of their bed ceased to exist.

“Should we sleep a bit more?” She asked eventually, already halfway there.

He nodded against her. “Yeah. Big day of parenting ahead. Gotta start practicing how to Google more useful things.”

She hummed. “Start with ‘how to tell if your wife is actually going to let herself feel things this time.’”

Lando squeezed her a little tighter. “Already figured it out. Just gotta love her loud enough that she forgets to be afraid.”

She didn’t respond.

But she didn’t pull away either.

—

The clinic’s sliding door whispered closed behind them as Amelia and Lando stepped into the small, clinical room. The nurse smiled warmly, gesturing toward the chair.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she said, setting out the necessary equipment.

Amelia sat down slowly, her fingers lacing in her lap. Lando stood quietly by her side, watching her with closeness.

“You doing alright, baby?” He asked quietly, voice low enough only for her.

She shrugged, eyes steady. “As alright as I can be.”

Lando reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She held on tight.

The nurse prepped the needle, talking her through it as she did. Amelia kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, her jaw clenched just enough to show her focus.

When the needle slid in, Lando’s hand moved up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

“There,” he whispered. “Done.”

Amelia exhaled, releasing some of the tension she hadn’t even realised she was holding.

—

Amelia and Lando sat quietly in the small waiting area just outside the testing rooms, the sterile white walls feeling colder than usual. Amelia scrolled absently through her phone while Lando rested his arm around her shoulders, both wrapped in a low hum of nervous energy.

The nurse appeared after what felt like an eternity but was realistically just under an hour. She held a folder in her hand, her expression calm and professional. “Amelia Norris?” She called.

Amelia stood immediately, Lando rising just a half-step behind her, his hand brushing lightly against the small of her back in quiet support.

The nurse, a kind-looking woman in her fifties with kind eyes and soft lines around her mouth, smiled gently as she approached, holding a slim folder in her hands. “Amelia, Lando,” She said warmly. “Your blood test results are back.”

Amelia held herself very still, as if bracing for impact.

The nurse opened the folder and glanced down. “Everything looks healthy, and we did manage to confirm your pregnancy, Amelia.”

For a second, neither of them spoke. Amelia’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes fixed on the nurse but unfocused, as though the words had landed somewhere just behind her.

She blinked once. Twice. “Okay,” she said softly. Just one word, but it sounded like it had taken effort to get it out.

Lando, ever the contrast, let out a breathy laugh; short, quiet, almost disbelieving, and slid his arm around her waist. He gave her a gentle squeeze, grounding them both. “Well,” he murmured, leaning in close, “that’s the official verdict then.”

She didn’t answer right away, just nodded, lips pressing into a line. Her fingers twitched at her side, stimming without even thinking.

The nurse, unfazed by the silence, handed Amelia a printout of the blood-work results. “Everything looks perfectly normal for where you’re at. If you have questions or want to talk about next steps, you’re always welcome to call. We’ll book your first ultrasound soon.”

Amelia’s eyes scanned the paper, already filtering the information into categories in her head — normal levels, nothing flagged, timeline confirmed. Just data. But even with all the logic in the world, she felt the subtle shift in the air. It was real now.

“I can fly to Abu Dhabi?” She asked, sharp and direct.

The nurse nodded. “Yes, you can. You’re still very early. Travel is fine, just make sure you stay hydrated and try to keep your stress levels to a minimum.”

Amelia scoffed out a single breath. “Right. Sure.”

Lando gave the nurse an apologetic smile, stepping in smoothly. “We’ll make sure of it. Water, snacks, earplugs, noise-cancelling headphones, the works.”

The nurse’s smile deepened. “Good man. Just listen to your body, Amelia. That’ll be the trickiest part for you, I think.”

Amelia met her gaze, brows furrowed. “Why? Because I’m autistic?”

“Because you’re used to ignoring and pushing aside your discomfort,” the nurse said kindly. “But yes, that too.”

Amelia blinked, visibly filing that away.

The nurse handed her a card. “Call and make your next appointment as soon as you’re back. That’ll be for your first scan — around gestation week seven. You can ask for me by name if you’d like.”

Amelia took the card, examined the name — “Colette” — and gave the barest nod of approval. “Okay. I will.”

Colette gave them both a final smile. “Take care of each other. And congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Lando said quietly, while Amelia murmured something that might’ve been a “you too” out of sheer social obligation.

As they stepped out of the clinic and into the soft Monaco sunlight, Lando reached over and laced their fingers together. Amelia let him. Didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just walked beside him, her expression unreadable — but her grip on his hand was firm.

He glanced at her as they waited for the elevator. “So.”

She glanced up.

“You’re gonna have to let me look at that report later,” he said. “Just to double-check you’re not secretly growing twins or something.”

Amelia huffed. “I’d know if I were.”

He grinned. “Sure you would.”

—

The private jet hummed softly beneath them, the kind of quiet that came with luxury and familiarity. Amelia had curled up beside the window, iPad balanced on her lap, headphones hanging loosely around her neck. Next to her, Lando was dozing — hoodie pulled up, mouth slightly open, dead to the world.

Across the aisle, Max sat with a protein bar and a very serious frown as he scrolled through Instagram. For all the years they’d known each other, Amelia had rarely seen him sit still this long.

She, however, was very much not still.

Her finger tapped quickly across her iPad screen, eyes scanning an article titled “What To Expect in Your First Trimester.” She had three tabs open; one medical, one forum-based, and one purely dedicated to nutrition. Her nose wrinkled as she read the phrase “morning sickness may begin as early as week six.” She was almost six weeks, according to the timeline Colette had scribbled down.

“Oh, screw that,” she muttered under her breath.

Max leaned slightly toward the aisle and blinked at her screen. “What’re you reading?”

Amelia startled slightly and tilted the iPad instinctively away from him. “Nothing.”

Max tilted his head. “No, I definitely saw the word ‘placenta’ just now.”

Amelia pursed her lips. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

He blinked. Then his eyes went wide. “You’re pregnant.”

“What? No. Don’t be absurd.” Amelia spluttered.

“Your ears are red!” Max pointed out.

“Lots of people have red ears,” she lied boldly.

“Name two people.”

“Um.” She looked around desperately. “Um.”

Max raised a brow.

“Okay, whatever, fine.” She sighed.

He choked on his protein bar, coughing into his sleeve. “So you are pregnant.”

Amelia groaned, setting the iPad facedown on her lap. “You can’t know! I’m not even supposed to know, I don’t think. Google says no one is allowed to know until the second trimester.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know!” She whispered-shouted, flinging her hands up in frustration. “Apparently there's this whole unwritten rule that you’re meant to keep it secret until like week twelve in case things go wrong but also I can’t stop Googling everything because what the hell is a mucus plug and why is it in my body?”

Max looked vaguely alarmed. “Oh, god. That sounds disgusting.”

“Exactly!”

Lando stirred at the noise, cracked one eye open, and muttered, “Did you tell Max?”

“No,” Amelia said at the exact same time Max said, “Absolutely.”

Lando sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, clearly too tired to argue.

Amelia shifted slightly in her seat, frowning. “Is it weird I don’t feel different yet? Like I thought I’d… know. That there’d be this, I don’t know, gut feeling. Like how I know when it’s going to rain or when Oscar’s about to spin out of a corner.”

Max softened a bit, leaning over the aisle. “Everyone’s different, I think.”

“Yeah, but I already feel behind.” She nudged her iPad back into her lap. “There are apps and charts and... symbiotic uterine developments. It’s like a project I didn’t plan for. And you know how I feel about unplanned variables.”

Lando reached over sleepily and squeezed her hand. “You’re doing fine.”

Max nodded. “Plus, your kid’s gonna have, like, the two most ridiculous godparents in the paddock.”

She blinked at him. “I never said anything about godparents.”

“You will.”

“I might not.”

“You will.”

She rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her mouth.

Then, after a pause, she muttered, “The mucus plug thing is still on my mind.”

Max gagged theatrically, Lando groaned, and Amelia opened another article, determined to understand the entire gestational timeline before they landed.

—

The Abu Dhabi sun was already unbearable by the time they stepped onto the tarmac, the heat pressing down like a hand on the back of her neck. Amelia barely blinked at it. She was too busy focusing on not gagging.

It wasn’t morning sickness. It wasn’t anything that dramatic. There’d been no dramatic sprint to a toilet. Just this constant, low-level nausea that clung to her throat like the aftermath of turbulence. Cloying. Lingering. Like the scent of someone else’s perfume in a closed room.

She clutched her water bottle a little tighter as they walked toward the paddock entrance, sunglasses on, headphones around her neck, McLaren lanyard tucked into the front of her shirt. She wasn’t on duty yet — they were just arriving — but already, her brain was buzzing with briefings and timing windows and tyre strategy for FP1.

Lando walked beside her, one hand on the small of her back, close but casual. He wasn’t smothering her, he never did, but his body was attuned to her like a second radar system. When she slowed for a moment, swallowing hard, he adjusted his pace instantly.

“Still feeling off?” He murmured, quiet so no one around them would hear.

She nodded once, not breaking stride. “Feels like... I’ve had warm milk out of a shoe.”

“That’s a disgusting analogy.” He said, nose twitching.

“I feel disgusting.” She moaned.

Lando gave a small, sympathetic laugh and handed her a peppermint from the stash he’d brought specifically for this. “Want to skip the garage for now? Go to hospitality. Sit down.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said quickly, bluntly. “We land, we go to the garage. That’s the routine.”

He didn’t argue, not really. He just looked at her for a beat longer than usual and nodded. “Okay.”

Max had peeled off earlier, some Red Bull meeting already dragging him into another PR vortex, so it was just the two of them when they reached the McLaren motorhome. Amelia paused for a moment outside the hospitality entrance, letting the air-conditioned breeze spill over her as the door opened and closed in waves.

She stared forward, expression flat.

Then, without looking at him, she muttered, “If I throw up in front of Oscar, I’ll lie and say it’s food poisoning.”

Lando grinned. “You’d lie to Oscar?”

“I lie to Oscar all the time. I tell him the car has good rear grip when I know it doesn’t. I tell him his haircut’s not weird.”

“He knows it’s weird.”

“Then I’m not doing my job properly.”

He kissed the side of her head and ushered her inside.

The nausea didn’t leave; it didn’t even lessen. But she filed it away somewhere behind tyre allocation updates and garage temperature readings. Pushed it back. Compartmentalised.

She had a job to do.

Even if her body, her whole world, had quietly started to change.

—

The garage was its usual symphony of motion, tyre blankets, torque wrenches, low chatter on radios. Amelia stood just behind Oscar’s car, one hand resting on the side-pod, her iPad in the other, watching the data scroll. Her other hand was shoved in her pocket, fingers twisting the small piece of fabric — an old tag from one of Lando’s fireproof undershirts. Grounding. Textural. Familiar.

Oscar was climbing out of the cockpit, unzipping his suit halfway and tugging off his gloves. “How’s it looking?” He asked, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Like you are still lifting off too early into Turn 14,” Amelia replied, not looking up.

Oscar squinted at her. “Nice to see you too.”

She handed him the tablet. “Look at the overlays. You’re lifting fractionally earlier than yesterday.”

“I don’t feel like I am.”

“That’s the thing about data,” she said flatly. “It doesn’t care how you feel.”

Oscar made a face but didn’t argue. He took the tablet and perched on the edge of the front wing as he scrolled. Amelia leaned on the pit gantry behind him, eyes tracking the mechanics, her brain juggling three different timelines.

Tyre test. Race sim. Media obligations.

And nausea. Always the nausea. A thin layer of wrongness settled at the base of her throat.

“You look pale,” Oscar said suddenly.

She flicked her eyes up. “Thanks.”

“I mean it. You good?”

“I’m always good.”

He gave her a suspicious side-eye. “You’ve said that to me before. Usually when you’ve gone two days without sleep.”

She took the iPad back from him. “I’m eating. I’ve slept. I’m hydrated. I’ve had breakfast. What more do you want?”

“Some forgiveness if I don’t get the lift right on the next run?”

Amelia’s lip twitched, barely. “Not happening.”

Oscar didn’t push, but he watched her as she turned back toward the screens. She knew it. Felt his gaze linger.

But she didn’t offer anything more. Not yet. Not when the garage was full of people, and cameras, and microphones always somewhere nearby.

She just reached for her earpiece, shoved it into place, and keyed into the radio with a sharp, clean voice. “Oscar’s ready for the next run. Let’s do race trim, full fuel, softs.”

The engineer on the other end acknowledged her. The crew got moving.

And the nausea, ever present, curled a little tighter in her gut.

Still. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t step back.

Amelia Norris stayed exactly where she was — sharp, unfazed, in control.

—

The air conditioning hummed steadily overhead, and Amelia sat cross-legged in one of the lower chairs, stylus tapping as Oscar muttered something about corner exit balance. She wasn’t entirely listening. Or rather — she was, but her body was staging a full-scale rebellion against her.

The nausea had been background static all day, but now it was cresting into a full wave. Her fingers tightened slightly around the stylus. She blinked twice, tried breathing through her nose. No improvement.

She could hear Lando in the corner, chatting with one of the engineers, blissfully unaware that his wife was currently sweating through her team polo in slow motion.

Oscar nudged her shin with the toe of his socked foot. “You’re quiet. Am I saying something stupid?”

Amelia opened her mouth to answer, but—

Her stomach twisted violently. She slapped the tablet onto the low table and stood up in one movement, but it was too fast, too late.

Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide.

And then she doubled over and vomited squarely into the only available container-like object at ground level.

Oscar’s race boots.

The room fell silent.

Oscar blinked once. Then looked down. Then back up at her.

“Well,” he said, with a perfectly dry inflection. “That’s one way to critique my driving.”

Amelia groaned, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m so sorry,” she managed, breathless. “I— I tried to make it.”

Lando was already at her side, hand on her back, concern etching itself into his features. “Jesus, baby—are you okay? You need to sit down?”

Oscar, meanwhile, remained seated, staring down at the shoes like they might attack him. “Those were custom-moulded.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said weakly, dropping back into the chair. “They’re custom-moulded to hold the exact volume of my stomach contents, apparently.”

“I’m never putting my foot in those again.”

“I’ll get you new ones.”

“You’ll buy me a new digestive system, because I’m never forgetting this.” He frowned.

Amelia finally laughed; a little breathy, a little unhinged. “I hate this,” she muttered, head in her hands.

Lando crouched in front of her, gently brushing her hair back from her face. “You’ve done three days of data crunching and garage shifts while apparently fighting the urge to puke in various footwear,” he said quietly. “Come on, let’s go clean you up.”

Oscar stood up finally, crossing to the corner where someone had mercifully placed paper towels and a bin bag. “Can we agree to never tell anyone about this.”

“Yes,” Amelia agreed.

Lando snorted. “Too late. I already texted Max.”

“You what—?��

“I’m kidding,” he grinned. “But I’m tempted. He’d find this absolutely hilarious.”

—

Amelia was curled up on the end of a low sofa, sipping flat Sprite from a paper cup. The AC was finally hitting just right, and she'd gotten through the rest of the afternoon without projectile vomiting on any more personal items. Progress.

Oscar wandered in, a granola bar half-unwrapped in one hand, still in his race suit tied off at the waist.

He flopped into the chair opposite her, stretched his legs out, and with no preamble at all, said, “Happy pregnancy, by the way.”

Amelia blinked. “Oh,” she said flatly. “So it’s obvious, then.”

Oscar shrugged. “To me? Yeah. You’ve been chewing your pen caps like you’re trying to murder them, you haven’t had coffee in three days, and you were sick in my race boots, so.”

She tilted her head. “That’s a lot of observation for someone who thinks toothpaste is spicy.”

He laughed. “I’m very detail-oriented. And still peeved about my boots.”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said, far too magnanimous. “They were hideous anyway.” There was a pause. Then he added, “Honestly, everyone else just assumed it was heat stroke.”

Amelia lifted a brow. “And you didn’t?”

“Nope.” He took a bite of the granola bar. “You go green when you have heat stroke. You went green this time, so I knew it was different.”

She barked a short laugh. “That’s horrifying.”

“And accurate,” he said, chewing. “So… Lando knows, obviously?”

“Yeah. He made me pee on a stick at six in the morning. Then I had to go and get blood drawn to confirm it.”

Oscar winced. “Disgusting. Anyway—congrats, I guess.”

“Thanks. And sorry again about the shoes.”

Oscar leaned back in the chair, arms behind his head like he hadn’t been personally victimised. “Eh. If the kid turns out to be a world champion, I’ll tell this story in the Netflix documentary.”

“Can’t wait,” she deadpanned.

They sat in silence for a moment. Then, with a smirk that was all mischief and no sympathy, Oscar added, “Next time, at least aim for Lando’s sneakers. His fans would pay for them.”

Amelia snorted into her Sprite. “God, you’re vile.”

“I know. And yet you can’t get rid of me,” he said, and stood up, already texting someone; probably Lando.

She groaned again. Loudly.

—

The Yas Marina Circuit always felt like the end of something.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the glowing skyline and the lights snapped on around the track, the paddock was buzzing with the familiar edge of finality. Mechanics moved with that distinct rhythm—half instinct, half exhaustion. Cameras flashed. Engines roared. And on the McLaren pit wall, Amelia sat completely still, headset pressed tight, her eyes fixed on Oscar’s live telemetry.

No one would’ve known she was pregnant. No one would’ve guessed she’d thrown up in her colleague’s race boots less than 24 hours earlier. No one would’ve known that she’d spent the flight to Abu Dhabi Googling “why does pregnancy make you feel like your body is a hostile foreign nation” or that she’d quietly rested her head on Lando’s shoulder for the last twenty minutes of final practice, just to stay upright.

But now? Now she was fine. More than fine. Because when it came to the race, Oscar’s race, she was always prepared to lock in.

Oscar had qualified well. Not perfect, but decent. Enough to put him in the fight.

Lando, meanwhile, had his own race to run, starting P5. Amelia didn’t let herself think about his car in the first ten laps. She’d gotten very good at compartmentalising again. Still, every now and then, she could feel his presence, could hear his voice from earlier:

“One more race. Then we get a break. Then we breathe.”

God, how she wanted to breathe.

The race itself was tense. Ferrari and Mercedes were locked in their Constructors’ battle, chaos unfolding all across the midfield. Amelia kept her voice calm on Oscar’s radio.

“Strat 7, we’re going to offset slightly from Gasly ahead.”

“Understood.”

“Clean exit turn 3. Good traction now. Let’s build.”

He listened. He always listened.

Mid-race, Oscar made an aggressive but beautifully timed overtake, and Amelia let herself smile—just a little.

Lando, a few positions ahead, was holding ground. Quietly, steadily. Nothing dramatic. Amelia could handle steady. Steady felt manageable.

The final laps bled together like watercolour under pressure. Amelia felt her stomach twist, nausea creeping up again. She ignored it. She had work to do.

In the end?

Oscar crossed the line P6.

Lando, P4.

Respectable. Solid. A good end to a hard-fought season.

When Oscar pulled in and killed the engine, Amelia finally took a long breath and peeled off her headset. Her hands were trembling. Whether it was adrenaline, hormones, or just sheer relief, she couldn’t tell.

Lando found her on the pit wall not long after, hair sweaty, fireproofs unzipped halfway.

“Hey,” he said, brushing her shoulder lightly. “You okay?”

She looked at him for a long moment, the smile tugging at her lips slow and almost reluctant.

“I am now.”

He grinned. “We did it.”

She snorted. “You did it. I just puked in Oscar’s boots and managed his brake maps.”

Lando bent down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You did both with tremendous style.”

Somewhere nearby, champagne exploded. But for Amelia, the noise faded into the background. The season was over. They were having a baby. They’d finished best of the rest.

And the MCL38-AN was going to be an absolute masterpiece.

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kate20martin · 5 months ago

Text

‎₊˚ 𓂃˖ kate martin headcannons 𝜗𝜚 ｡˚

summary — kate martin headcannons… yippee yippee yippee!! :P

warnings — nsfw headcannons ahead! mentions of oral, strap on, making out, basically just smut the second half.

authors note — cause i love kate martin! this is just for funsies. i should have another kate martin x reader out soon. enjoy!! <3

word count — 2794.

sfw

headcanon one — sharing things is definitely her love language! if she can’t find something of hers… she’s borrowing it from you.

you guys had been getting ready to go out for a nice dinner with kate’s family. you had picked out a nice dress and kate had stuck with a button-up and a pair of black jeans. you were in the bathroom of your guys' shared apartment, leaning against the counter as you applied your lip gloss in front of the mirror. kate came around the corner and peeked her head in, a small smile on her face. “hey, have you seen my chapstick anywhere?” she muttered as she let out a small breath before stepping into the bathroom.

kate always had a habit of losing things. you rolled your eyes slightly before smiling and digging into one of your essential bags with all of your lipsticks, chapsticks, and lip glosses in it. “no, i haven’t. just use mine.” you spoke softly as you turned towards her and held out the small stick. her smile brightened as she took it from your hands before popping the cap off and applying it to her lips. you watched her with such love through the mirror — your smile never fading.

she rubbed her lips together before putting the cap back on to the chapstick and placing it in the bag you had taken it out of. you turned towards her with a small laugh as she leaned forward and placed a small kiss on your lips which you returned. “perfect,” she muttered before disappearing somewhere in the apartment. you rolled your eyes before leaning closer to the mirror and reapplying your lip gloss. again.

headcanon two — she likes to send you little facebook mom selfies whenever she travels for away games. and you find them so cute. (you sometimes post them on your private story on snapchat just to embarrass her.)

you were sitting in one of the chairs in the main library, headphones on your head as you typed away at your computer. studies had been kicking your ass. you let out a small sigh as you deleted, typed again, and then redeleted everything. you mumbled something to yourself before your phone buzzed beside you. a small smile formed on your lips as you knew exactly who it was. kate. they were traveling to connecticut for the final four tournament and you couldn’t make it. but you wished you could’ve. you glanced down at your lock screen as it was a picture of you and kate before reading the notification.

kate <3 1 attachment. your smile grew wider — if that was even possible. you clicked on it and typed in your password quickly. and when the screen refreshed, there she was. the usual picture. she was sitting in her hotel bed back against the headboard, a smile on her face and the angle was horrible. you always had a habit of teasing her when it came to these things. she always took the cutest pictures but you couldn’t help but laugh. it had been a tradition for kate to send you a selfie while she was traveling.

imessage

today 6:45pm

you

kate, baby…PLEASE choose a different angle. you look silly. 😭

read 6:49pm

kate <3

just say you hate me.

read 6:53pm

headcanon three – some people say she’s the big spoon but i’m gonna have to disagree… the girl is DEFINITELY the little spoon and there is no doubt in my mind.

you had just done your skincare routine and the digital alarm clock on your guys’ nightstand read 10:05pm. you had classes in the morning which meant you got up around 6:15am. you were laying with your back facing the door, your hair splayed out on the pillow underneath you. your chest began to rise and fall as you fell into a deep sleep, and you were sleeping peacefully. that was until you stirred and woke up to kate with her arms wrapped around your waist and her head resting on your side. her body was scrunched up slightly, her breathing soft as her eyelashes fluttered. she was just too cute.

headcanon four – kate always came home after basketball and took a shower just to get dressed and cook for you… she absolutely loves cooking for you. you worked ten-hour shifts whenever you didn’t have classes and she’d always make sure to pre-pack your lunch for you the night before. :,)

you let out a small breath as you stepped into the familiar atmosphere of your shared apartment with kate. you kicked off your tennis shoes and unclipped your badge from your scrubs before sitting it in the bowl on foyer table. you held your now empty lunch bag in your right hand as you had a fountain drink in your left. a small smile reached your face as the smell of food had finally hit you. and it was the best thing you could ever come home to. “hey, i’m home.” you breathed out as you took a small drip from your drink and sat it on the kitchen table. your footsteps were quiet as you approached kate who was standing in front of the stove as she finished cooking some pasta. your favorite. your arms wrapped around her waist as you pressed your cheek against her back. kate was wearing just a white t-shirt with her grey sweatpants and socks, her messy blonde hair loosely framing her face.

“hey, how was work?” she asked softly as she turned to face you her hands immediately finding your hips, her thumbs rubbing at the fabric of your scrubs. your arms dropped from her waist as you smiled up at her, letting out a small sigh. “some kid almost rocked my shit earlier as i was trying to give him his shot.” you spoke through a few laughs and you could see kate’s expression fill with amusement, a grin on her face. a small laugh escaped her lips as she let go of your hips and ruffled your hair. you scooted to the side to get a better view of the stove, a small gasp leaving your lips. “you’re making,” before you could speak, kate spoke up for you.

“pasta, your favorite.” she murmured as she kissed your temple, her lips lingering before she reached up to grab some seasoning from the cabinet. “you know me so well,” you spoke softly. and the two of you had the best night. it was great to come home to her after work.

headcanon five — she absolutely LOVES taking pictures of you for your instagram or when you guys are our at dates. she thinks you look amazing in anything you wear. she truly is whipped…

“here, i like this one.” “post this one!” “i’m gonna post this on my story.”

headcanon six — she yaps about you so much that her teammates have to tell her to shut up…. but on the down low, they actually think it’s super cute. and she lights up whenever you text her or call her. the simplest things matter to her.

kate had just got drafted to the aces and she had to fly out for training camp. it was night three and she was staying in this hotel. but she thought she’d talk to jada and gabbie for awhile so… she joined them on tik tok live. the camera took time but when kate appeared on the screen, jada and gabbie immediately smiled. “kate,” jada breathed out, a small pout on her face and gabbie was leaned against her shoulder. the first thing they noticed was that kate was smiling like a complete idiot.

“why are you smiling so big?” gabbie spoke with a small laugh and kate was shifting around and folding her clean clothes, her phone propped up on the nearest thing. it took a second but kate spoke, a small laugh passing her lips. “you know why i’m smiling so big.” and at the girls sentence the girls on the screen had laughed. they knew exactly why kate had been so smiley and the reason happened to be you. it always was. “what’d she do this time?” jada spoke through a smile as she took another drink from the cold can in her hand.

kate finished chewing a piece of food as she grabbed the phone and stood up from her bed. “she sent me flowers.” kate spoke softly, a small noise of excitement leaving her mouth. it took her a second but she ended up flipping the camera and revealed a nice bouquet of flowers. the flowers ranged from yellow to white to pink. they were so pretty. jada and gabbie shared a glance, jadas bottom lip poked out before she glanced back at the screen. “you guys are so cute, it’s actually sickening.”

bonus sfw headcanon — as much as she hates to admit it… she loves doing tik tok trends with you. especially the one trend with sabrina’s song. she hoisted you up onto her shoulder with no problem and would just smile at the camera like a dork. she’d do anything for you. a woman who’s jacked and kind. ;)

nsfw

headcanon one – kate absolutely LOVES when you ride her. whether or not its a strap or her thigh… she LOVES having you on top of her.

you let out a loud moan, the silicone of the strap sliding in and out of you. your hips were moving according to kate, her fingertips digging into your skin. kate’s lips were parted as she glanced up at you, her eyes fixed on your face as it contorted into pleasure. “god,” she breathed out as her eyes stayed fixated on you. you were moaning. and loudly. kate was good at getting you off whether or not it was because of a toy, her fingers, her mouth, or her thigh. and tonight was one of those nights. she didn’t know what it was but something about you on top of her, the way your hips moved and the way your face was morphed into pleasure. it turned her on majorily. “kate,” you moaned out, your hands resting on her chest as your thighs trembled. you were definitely overstimulated, kate had gotten you off twice. kate’s eyes glanced down between your legs, watching how easily the strap slid in and out of you.

“shh,” she murmured softly as she paused your movements before completely thrusting up into you, hitting every sensitive part of you. you let out a choked gasp followed by a loud moan as you leaned forward, your face buried in her neck. your whimpers and moans were muffled against her neck and you could faintly hear her moaning as she continued to thrust into you. “kate, fuck,” you moaned out again, your stomach clenching slightly. kate’s hands continued to rest on your hips, her lips parted. she knew you were close. “just let go, i’ve got you.” she whispered into your ear, her lips lingering on the side of your slightly sweaty head. she could get off just by pleasing you.

headcanon two – girls definitely a switch. tops need a little love too sometimes, right? her favorite thing ever is when you’d finger her… something inside of her just went crazy. she absolutely loved it.

kate let out a small whimper as she felt your middle and ring finger slip inside of her, how they curved and seemed to hit every spot just the way she wanted them too. she was sitting against the headboard of your guys’ bed, legs spread and knees bent, her hair was damp and her lips were parted. you were sitting next to her, your fingers slipping in and out of her with ease, her wetness coating your fingers in the process. your lips were attached to her neck, leaving soft kisses as if trying to sooth her. “right there,” she moaned out as soon as your fingers had curved inside of her the right way. god she was so whipped.

headcanon three – nudes girl, nudes girl, nudes girl! it’s a bit weird to think about but kate LOVES receiving nudes from you whether it be just of your boobs or a full body pic, shes saving them and putting them away in her hidden album on her phone… and they might work wonders for when shes at an away game.

away games. as much as kate loved basketball, she hated being away from you. kate was attached to your hip as she loved quality time. she had just showered and was getting ready for bed as she had team breakfast in the morning. she was rooming with sydney this trip who seemed to have already been asleep. kate was wearing a hawkeyes t-shirt and some shorts, her hair damp as she sunk down onto the bed. she was texting her mom about something when a notification from you. every notification from you still made her heart skip a beat. even if it was from snapchat, tik tok, she just wanted to hear from you. especially from so far away. so, without hesitating, kate clicked on the notification and chewed on her bottom lip. and lets just say – when she saw the picture – it was immediately saved and placed into her hidden folder. it was also sent with a little message that said “miss you, good luck at your game tomorrow <3” she is completely and utterly whipped for you.

headcanon four – quickies, quickies and more quickies! when kate is in the mood, she’s in the mood and she absolutely needs to fix it. and fast. and you can always tell when kate’s in the mood. you’ve gotten used to it.

you and kate were preparing for a movie night with jada, gabbie and caitlin. you had made multiples bowls of popcorn, had blankets set out, had the movie set to go. and you were standing in the kitchen of your apartment when you felt a familiar pair of arms wrap around your waist, and two hands rubbing at the soft skin of your sides. you rolled your eyes as you dumped a bag of candy into your teal bowl as kate’s lips attached themselves to your neck. and you knew exactly what she wanted. she let out a soft breath before resting her chin on your shoulder. “when will they get here again?” kate spoke, her voice soft but holding a hint of desperation. you let out a small laugh before pouring the last bag of candy into another bowl. “fifteen minutes,” you muttered as you snuck a piece of candy out and popped it in your mouth. and a smirk immediately reached her lips. and all she needed was fifteen minutes and a hair tie.

headcanon five — kate was usually soft with you and only ever got rough with you when you wanted it. but whenever she had bad practice or game days…. she is not stopping on you. (unless you say the safe word which would be something cute like “yellow” or “coconut”

she definitely had you bent over the bed, and she’s definitely using the strap. her hand was tangled in your hair, pulling and tugging at your hair every second she could kid. and all she could hear was the sound of your moans and how you would call out her name and that just fueled her more. and after she’s done, she’d run you a nice bath and take care of you.

headcanon six — two words : reverse cowgirl. kate’s favorite position and i see her as an ass girl definitely. so if she’s using the strap, she definitely has you in reverse cowgirl. save a horse, ride a cowboy.

kate was leaned back slightly against the headboard, her lips parted in a moan. it had been a long night and it was safe to say the both of you needed some sort of stress reliever. your hands rested on her thighs, just above her knees. your moans filled the air, your hair splayed on your bare back. kate’s hands drifted down to your ass, resting there as she helped you shift up and down onto the silicone toy. “fuck,” you whimpered out as you felt one of kate’s hands tangle into your hair, twisting it slightly before tugging on it.

her eyes were totally fixated on your ass and she could slightly see how your thighs were trembling as your back faced her. “you like that?” she breathed out and you did nothing but moan and whimper as you worked on top of her. and she loved it.

bonus nsfw headcanon — she likes to tie your hair up into a ponytail or she even braids it for you so she can have something to pull.

#kate martin #kate martin imagine #kate martin smut #kate martin x reader #wnba x reader #fanfic

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karvokr · 3 days ago

Text

unscripted

it was all for show– until it wasn’t. now the lines are blurred, the feelings are real, and no one remembers who’s cast in what role.

pairings: actor!gojo x actress!reader x actor!geto content warnings: mdni, smut and angst, unprotected piv sex, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), infidelity/cheating themes, love triangle, fake dating/pr relationship, secret relationship, they did NOT rehearse their lines << episode five • series masterlist

S1, E6: final cut

The day it leaks, you’re at your apartment two weeks before the Oscars. Not in the middle of an interview, not in the middle of a fight, not even on set. Just sitting there, phone buzzing against the coffee table like it’s having a seizure. One missed call. Then another. A load of texts in your friends’ groupchat– nothing helpful.

Shoko [3:05pm]: you seeing this??? Shoko [3:05pm]: what the fuck happened Utahime [3:05pm]: PLEASE tell me that isn’t satoru’s jacket. am i hallucinating?? Yuki [3:06pm]: tell me these are old pics.

You don’t open the links. You don’t have to.

You feel like you’re choking on your own reflection. It’s not even nine a.m. when the masterthread drops– anonymous, unsourced, terrifyingly thorough. A 40-part Twitter compilation of every interaction you’ve ever had with Satoru that looked just a little too familiar. Every red carpet glance. Every behind-the-scenes clip. Every paparazzi photo where your body language leaned a fraction too close, where his hand lingered a second too long.

The worst ones never come with captions. Just headlines. Screencaps. Zoomed-in candids from hotel lobbies and parking garages and that one godforsaken restaurant in Manhattan he took you to last week that you knew the tables were too close to the windows.

The thread spreads like wildfire. By noon, it has its own hashtag. You scroll through the comments even though you shouldn’t.

@/popculturecryptid: wait. WAIT. isn’t that the hoodie Satoru wore in Brazil??? why is she wearing it in LA like 3 weeks later @/chaoticneutralfem: that’s also his chain. i only say this bc i zoomed. i ZOOMED. ↳ @/convincednumb: you need to go outside. ↳ @/chaoticneutralfem: he’s my roman empire. @/sugururealwife: if i was suguru i’d be in the woods with no phone service rn @/satoruburner69: the fact that no one has denied anything is making me physically ill ↳ @/softforsato: i would also shut up if i was getting piped by both @/parasocialdisaster: i’ve seen cheating allegations with less evidence in actual court cases @/popculturetwin2: where is her publicist. where is her PR team. where is GOD ↳ @/verysanecommenter: i know her manager chain-smoked through lunch @/bitchesbewatching: “we’re just close friends” CLOSE FRIENDS DON’T DO WHATEVER THAT WAS IN THAT PARKING GARAGE ↳ @/angelcoreliar: do we… have that clip ↳ @/bitchesbewatching: check part 23. it’s on the body language analysis tiktok too @/satorutruther: imagine cheating on suguru geto with satoru gojo. girl i get it but also. jail.

You don’t talk to Suguru for a week. Not on set, not in transit, not in passing. Not even when your chairs are next to each other during press or when you’re handed mics for the same segment. You answer questions with practiced smiles, keep your shoulders angled just enough to suggest closeness, and hope no one notices how stiff it all feels beneath the surface.

He doesn’t look at you unless the cameras are rolling. Doesn’t nod when you say good morning. Doesn’t sit next to you unless he’s forced to.

The silence isn’t loud– it’s surgical. Precise. Like he’s decided that giving you nothing is the only power he has left– and you can’t blame him.

When you finally do see him again– when you walk into the green room before a talk show interview and find him alone, scrolling through his phone, legs crossed, unreadable– you hesitate in the doorway like a stranger.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even acknowledge your presence. But you step inside anyway, because pretending you can wait this out forever would be the real lie. And even if he won’t say anything first, you owe him something. Maybe not an apology he’ll accept– but something.

The studio’s quiet. No shouting, no chaos. Just the buzz of a half-broken overhead light and the faint echo of your own heels across the polished floor. He’s seated in one of the production chairs– composure so intact it’s almost eerie. He doesn’t look up when you sit beside him.

You clear your throat. “They’re all wrong, you know.”

Silence. The kind that isn’t passive– no, it’s purposeful. A fuse waiting for the spark of a match.

You shift in your seat, suddenly too aware of the space between you. Of the fact that he hasn’t looked at you once. That his fingers are still swiping slowly across the screen.

You try again. Softer this time. “It’s not what they think.”

He lets out a breath. Not a laugh, not a scoff– just air, sharp and drained. “They think a lot of things,” he says finally, voice low. “That I’m being strung along. That you and him have been together for a while.”

That last part lands between you like a brick. Your throat closes up, but you force a response. “Satoru and I–”

“Don’t.” His voice doesn’t rise. If anything, it dips into something quieter. Rougher. “Please don’t insult both of us with whatever comes next.”

You look down at your hands, suddenly unsure what they’re even doing. Resting. Fidgeting. Guilty. He sets his phone down with a quiet click and finally turns his full attention to you. His expression isn’t angry. It’s worse. It’s wounded.

“I don’t care what people say online,” he says. “I care that you lied when you didn’t have to. That you did string me along– made me believe I had a chance.”

You blink. “That was before–”

“No.” He shakes his head, slow. “Don’t give me timelines or excuses like I’m your fucking lawyer. I’m not asking for an alibi.”

“Why haven’t you ended it yet?” The question comes out before you can stop it. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s cruel. But you need to know.

Suguru leans into his hand, rubbing his eyes. “Because I wanted to believe it was just noise. Just fandom delusion– that we were still something real behind all of it.” His jaw flexes. “I didn’t realize I was the only one hoping.”

You want to apologize. You want to defend yourself. You want to reach for his hand and say something soft and sincere and cinematic. But you don’t.

Because Satoru’s cologne still lingers faintly on your coat. And Suguru notices. Of course he does.

The silence sits between you– thick, rancid, almost sentient. You open your mouth, then close it. Try again. “Suguru…”

“I’m not asking you to explain.” He leans back in the chair, folding his arms like it’s the only thing keeping them from shaking. He still hasn’t looked at you. “I’m just trying to understand how I missed it.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t like that.”

He huffs a humorless laugh. “Wasn’t like what?”

“Me and Satoru–” you wince at how wrong his name sounds on your tongue right now. “It didn’t mean– I mean– me and you weren’t even really together.”

That’s when he snaps. His head whips toward you, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted in disbelief. “Oh, don’t do that.”

Your spine straightens. “Do what?”

“Rewrite it just because it’s convenient now.” His voice cuts clean, no volume but all edge. “We weren’t together? Really? You wore my ring to four premieres. Slept in my bed almost every night for the past eight months. Gave an entire quote to Vanity Fair about how I felt like home. You told me you loved me.”

“I didn’t lie about any of that,” you whisper, even though part of you wants to take it all back.

“No,” he says, bitterly. “You just left out the parts that would’ve made it messy.”

You open your mouth, but he’s not finished.

“You want to know the difference between me and him?” he says, quiet and mean. “I loved you and stayed silent. He fucked you and smiled for the cameras.”

That one lands like a punch to your gut. You feel your throat close. Your face flushes hot– guilt, shame, maybe something like pain. But he’s not wrong. You earned every sharp syllable.

He sighs, runs a hand down his face. “I’m tired, okay? I’m so fucking tired of pretending like this didn’t hurt.”

You swallow the apology rising in your chest, thick and half-formed. “I didn’t want this to happen,” you offer, and you hate how fragile it sounds. How small.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes on the floor. “But you let it.”

For a moment, neither of you says anything. Then– quietly– he stands. But he doesn’t walk away. Instead, he takes your coat from the back of the chair. Holds it up. Sniffs once, subtly. The corner of his mouth tightens. Still, he helps you into it anyway.

He lets his hands fall once the coat is on, fingers brushing your shoulder like muscle memory.

You don’t thank him. You can’t. It would feel cheap. Instead, you both stand there– two people in the wreckage of something neither of you wants to name.

Then, with a breath that sounds heavier than it should, Suguru nods toward the door. “We should get to set. They’re probably holding for us.”

And just like that, it’s back on. The script. The rhythm. The fake smiles and real silences.

Your publicist puts out a statement. So does Suguru’s. And Satoru’s. They all say roughly the same thing: that sometimes, cast chemistry gets taken out of context. That it’s all part of the job. That you and Suguru are stronger than ever.

You doubt anyone really believes it. But it buys you time. Puts a band-aid on the bleeding.

You still arrive together when the cameras call for it. Still pose for press junkets, still say the right things in interviews: how emotionally demanding the project was, how lucky you feel to work with such a “tight-knit, supportive cast.” Things almost return to normal.

Suguru stops sitting across the room from you. He even starts making eye contact again– brief, restrained, carefully rationed. On the surface, it looks repaired. But you feel the difference everywhere.

He still doesn’t laugh with you like he used to. Doesn’t linger after wrap, or walk you to your trailer, or ask if you’re okay when you space out in the makeup chair.

It’s not cold. It’s careful.

Suguru's presence becomes measured down to the breath. Every interaction a decision. Every gesture a transaction. Like he’s still in it, but only with one foot. You’d do the same, if the roles were reversed.

You see Satoru more now. Carefully. Quietly. Never when Suguru might notice– and especially not when paparazzi might notice.

Sometimes it’s five stolen minutes between press calls. Sometimes it’s two hours at a bar across the city where no one recognizes you, where he buys you a drink and pretends you aren’t unraveling. Sometimes it’s just a knock on your hotel door at midnight– light, like he’s not sure he should be there– and the two of you curled up on opposite ends of the couch, doing absolutely nothing and everything all at once.

He never asks what Suguru said. You never bring it up.

You try to compartmentalize. To split yourself clean down the middle. But it never works that way. Because when Suguru touches your hand on set– just once, for a scene– you flinch before you melt into it. And when Satoru kisses your cheek too close to a window, your heart stutters like it already knows you’ll get caught.

You're not back together with Suguru. Not really. You’re not sure if you even were in the first place. But to the press, you are.

Maybe that’s the worst part. Because now, you’re not sure if he’s pretending to protect himself or pretending to protect you. And you’re not sure which one would hurt more.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. That this tightrope won’t snap if you just balance a little longer. That you can keep Suguru without really having him. That Satoru won’t ask for more than what you’re already giving.

But then there’s a moment. It’s nothing, really– just you and Suguru on set, waiting for lighting to reset. You’re seated beside him, hands folded in your lap, and you lean your head on his shoulder without thinking. And he goes still.

You realize it immediately. You’re not supposed to do that anymore. Not unless the cameras are rolling. And that’s when it hits you– you don’t even know what you’re doing anymore. Who you’re trying to protect. Who you’re trying to keep.

He leans in eventually, rests his head on yours for a second before turning and placing a soft kiss on your head. You try to not cry. Because you know what it looks like. To anyone watching, it’s tenderness. Reassurance. A silent signal that everything’s still intact. But to you, it feels like a goodbye you weren’t ready to hear.

It clings to you as the final night looms. The Oscars– the end of the awards run. The night it all culminates. You’ve made it through months of interviews, panels, photoshoots, seat fillers, and subtle betrayals– but this is the finish line… or the cliff.

Publicists are circling like sharks. Wardrobe fittings double as damage control. Suguru’s team is banking on elegance. Satoru’s betting on chaos. And you? You’re the image of balance. The careful center between two opposing forces.

Until the cameras start flashing, and all you can think about is how you’re standing between them again. Not by accident, not by design. But by consequence.

It happens in a green room backstage. You’ve only just stepped off the stage– your heels still echoing with the memory of applause. Someone handed you a glass of champagne you didn’t drink. The envelope with your film’s name printed in bold is resting on the makeup counter, half-forgotten. The room smells like hairspray and nerves. Outside, you can hear the tail end of the orchestra playing someone else off. Someone’s asking for touch-ups around the corner.

No one sees it happen. But if someone walked by, they’d feel it.

You’re fixing your makeup in the mirror. Satoru’s stretched out in a velvet chair like it’s his. Suguru stands by the door– arms crossed, jaw tight, like he’s holding something back.

Then, so quiet you almost miss it, “how long?”

You freeze. Your lipstick pauses mid-swipe. But he’s not looking at you.

Satoru sighs. “Seriously? Now?”

“Yeah.” Suguru doesn’t blink. “Now.”

Satoru shrugs. “Does it even matter anymore?”

Suguru’s eyes narrow. “It does if it started while I was still stupid enough to think it might be real.”

Your stomach twists. Satoru lets out a dry laugh. “Then that’s on you. She wasn’t yours just because you wanted her to be.”

“You always think you know better,” Suguru snaps. “Like you’ve got some right to her.”

“You think you do?” Satoru fires back. “You were fake. I didn’t have to lie.”

“You didn’t lie?” Suguru laughs, cold. “You kept her hidden. You fucked her and still let everyone think she was mine.”

Satoru stiffens. “You don’t know anything about that.”

“I know enough.”

You want to say something– step in, slow it down– but they’re already too far in.

“She came to me,” Satoru says, voice sharp now. “You wanna be mad at someone? Be mad at yourself for not noticing she was slipping.”

“She wasn’t slipping,” Suguru says. “She was choosing. And she still looked at me like maybe it meant something.”

Satoru stands. Slowly. “You act like you were some safe place for her. But you never made room. You just waited around hoping she’d do all the work.”

“At least I didn’t make her a secret.”

“At least I didn’t treat her like a prop.” Their voices rise with every word– closer to something dangerous. “She didn’t pick you, Suguru,” Satoru says. “You’re pissed because you had her first and still lost.”

“I didn’t lose,” Suguru growls. “You just jumped the line and took what you wanted the second it felt easy.”

That hits. Hard. The room goes quiet for half a second. And then they both look at you.

It takes a second to register that they want you to chime in. “I never promised either of you anything,” you say, voice shaky but rising. That silence again. You should’ve stopped there. “I thought maybe– maybe it could still be real with you, Suguru. Even if it started as a lie.”

Suguru’s jaw tightens. “Funny. You still can’t say it was real. Just that it might’ve been.”

You flinch. Satoru doesn’t move. Just stares at you, like he’s bracing for the part that hurts most. And you give it to him– quietly. “I didn’t know what I wanted, ‘Toru. And you… you felt like the only thing that didn’t ask me to decide.”

“Right. Because God forbid I ask you for something real.” His voice cracks, just slightly. “Glad I could be the fucking placeholder while you made up your mind.”

Suguru doesn’t even laugh. He just nods like that was exactly what he expected to hear. “At least now we all know where we stand.”

You open your mouth. Regret already sitting in your throat. But it’s too late.

Suguru turns. “Hope it was worth it.”

He’s gone before you can stop him. Satoru lingers. For once, no smirk. No fire. Just something heavy in his eyes.

“Next time,” he says, voice flat, “don’t say you want someone if you’re still weighing options.”

He walks out too. You’re left in the quiet. Your words still hanging in the air like smoke– thin, curling, impossible to take back. Your eyes sting. You don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath.

You hesitate only a second before moving. Your heels click down the hall after him, fast and uneven. You don’t even know what you’ll say when you catch up– just that you can’t let him leave like that.

“Satoru.” He doesn’t turn around. “Satoru, wait!”

He stops. Doesn’t face you. Just stands there in the hallway, back rigid, jaw tilted up like he's bracing for impact.

You catch up slowly. Careful. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He lets out a short laugh. Cold. “You did.”

You shake your head. “No. That’s not fair–”

“No,” he snaps, turning to face you. His expression is blank, but his eyes aren’t. “You don’t get to decide what’s fair anymore.”

You falter. “I was trying to be honest–”

“And I’m telling you it sucked to hear,” he snaps. “Congratulations. You said the truth. You still made me feel like a fucking stand-in.”

“I didn’t use you.”

He steps in closer. Just enough to make it hurt. “You sure? ‘Cause it felt like I was what you settled for when the PR fantasy got too fucking messy. Like I was good enough to need– but not good enough to want.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it?” His voice drops, quiet and mean. “Bored? Lonely? Wanted to see if the rumors were true?”

That one stings. He sees it. Of course he does.

“I waited. For things to sort themselves out. For something to get easier.”

“And when it didn’t, you just thought you could have both? Got it.”

“That’s not fair,” you say again, voice rising.

He stares at you– really stares. Like he’s trying to find something in your face that’ll make any of this hurt less. “Yeah? You know what’s not fair? Falling in love with someone who can’t let the other guy go.”

You stare back at him. “Do you think I don’t care about you?”

“Oh, no, I do think you care.” He looks at you like that’s the saddest part. “Maybe not enough to choose.” That’s when he steps back. “I’m not your in-between. I’m not your maybe.”

And then– so quietly it almost doesn’t register: “Probably would’ve been easier if you’d just picked him, movie star.”

He doesn’t wait for your reply this time. He walks.

And you don’t follow. Not down the hallway. Not through the maze of handlers, stage managers, and security. Not even when someone calls your name– soft but firm– to line up just in case you win.

You stand there too long. Too still. Eyes fixed on the space where he disappeared, like if you just wait, he’ll come back. Like he’ll turn around and say this was just one more fight, not the end.

You should go after him. Say something. Fix it. Try.

But your feet won’t move. Because what if he meant it this time?

Another voice breaks through. A woman with a headset and kind eyes. “You’re on deck, sweetheart. They’re calling Best Actress next.”

Your heart lurches. Not from the nomination. Not from the moment. From him– because this isn’t how you pictured any of it.

You nod. Barely. Move when they gesture. Sit when they guide you to the wings. You let them touch up your face, adjust your dress. You let them lead you like you’re sleepwalking.

You don’t hear them say your name. You only hear the applause. And suddenly, you’re being pushed toward the stage, heart pounding, everything too bright and too loud. You don’t know if either of them clapped. You don’t look.

You just breathe. Smile for the cameras. Take the statue from someone whose face already blurs in your memory. It’s colder than you expected. Heavier, too– like it knows it doesn’t belong in hands this unsure.

“Um…” You laugh, soft and a little breathless. “I don’t really have the words, which is wild, considering how many I’ve had to memorize lately.”

Polite laughter. A few warm smiles. You don’t look toward either side of the room. You can’t.

“But this… this means a lot. More than I think I’ll be able to understand for a while. So thank you. To the Academy. To the cast, to the crew. To the people who believed in this story even when it was hard to tell.” Your voice wavers. You steady your breath. Swallow. “Some stories ask more of you than you expect. And some people carry pieces of you, whether you meant to give them away or not.”

The words nearly catch in your throat. But you keep going– barely.

“This performance– this role– it asked a lot of me. And I wouldn’t have made it through without the people who reminded me who I was underneath all of it. The ones who saw the story in me long before I knew how to tell it.”

You pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for those who know you to know.

“I hope I honored what we built. I hope it meant something.” A shaky breath. Your fingers tighten around the statue as you glance down, trying to hold yourself together.

You can feel the tears now– warm and certain, slipping down your cheeks no matter how hard you try to stay steady. “Thank you for letting me be part of something real.”

The music swells, and the lights begin to shift, and the world pulls you offstage. You barely make it through the curtain before you see him. He’s standing just off to the side, out of view from the cameras, arms crossed over his chest like he’s holding himself together with tension alone. No handlers. No press. Just him.

Your grip tightens on the statue. You don’t know if it’s your pulse or the lights that are still making your head spin.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you. And the way he looks– like he’s still trying to decide if the speech was meant to heal something or if it just picked the scab– is enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

Finally, he speaks. “That was sweet,” he says, voice low. “Really vague. Real poetic.”

“Satoru–”

“Was that for me?” he asks, tone flat. “Or do you just want me to believe it was?”

You open your mouth. You don’t know where to start. “I–”

“No, it’s fine,” he cuts in. “I really liked the part about being part of something real.” He huffs a bitter laugh, shakes his head. “Hell of a way to say everything and still not say what you want.”

“That’s not–”

“No?” He steps in a little closer. Not enough to touch you. Just enough to make you feel how far apart you really are. “You said it meant something. That you hoped you honored what we built.” He tilts his head. “Tell me something– what did we build, exactly?”

You blink against the heat behind your eyes. “You know what we built.”

“Do I?” he asks. “Because lately it just feels like I built something alone and you were just passing through.”

Your fingers curl around the base of the statue. You wish you could put it down. It feels obscene to still be holding it. “I was trying to tell the truth.”

“Yeah?” he breathes. “Then say it. Say it here. To me.”

You look at him– really look. And it breaks something in your chest to realize he’s not angry anymore. Not really. He’s just tired. So you say the one thing you know won’t fix it, but might make him understand.

“You were the only place I ever felt like myself.” His breath catches. Just barely– but you see it. “With everyone else, I was pretending. With you, I didn’t have to be brilliant or likable or perfect. I could be a mess and still feel like I was wanted.”

You swallow hard. The words feel like glass in your throat– sharp, clumsy, but honest. Maybe the most honest thing you’ve said all night. Silence follows. Not soft. Not forgiving. It stretches long enough to feel like punishment. Satoru’s still. Too still. His stare pins you, unreadable. You can’t tell if he’s about to speak or walk away for good.

Finally, he does speak– not kind. No– now he has bite. “You think that makes it better?”

You flinch. He sees it.

“You think saying the right thing now erases what you did?” His voice cracks, just a little. “I asked for reassurance so many fucking times. And you fed me crumbs. You looked me in the face and said it wasn’t what I thought– when it was exactly what I thought.”

Your breath catches, but you say nothing.

“I hated myself for not hating you for it,” he says, quieter now. “Still do.”

And it breaks something in you. You nod. “I know.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you. But his jaw flexes, and his eyes flicker– hurt, anger. A myriad of other emotions you can’t even begin to filter through.

“You ruined me,” he breathes. Not accusing, but broken. “And I still wanted you.”

He takes one step forward. Pauses. Another. Then he reaches out, slow and hesitant, like he’s expecting you to disappear. Fingertips brush your jaw. You don’t pull away.

And that’s when he caves– just a little. “Don’t make me regret this,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. You just lean in. When he kisses you, it’s like he’s still fighting it. Like he’s punishing you with the way his hands grip too tight, with the way his mouth parts against yours like he resents needing it. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. But it’s real. And it’s the only thing left between you that still feels alive.

Your hands find the front of his shirt, twisting in the fabric like if you let go now, it’ll all disappear again. When you pull back, both of you are breathless.

“I meant it,” you whisper. “Every word.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes you in like it might be the last time. Then his eyes flick to the side– past your shoulder, down the corridor.

You don’t have to turn to know who’s there.

He rests his forehead against yours. “Go. You have to.”

You turn– and there he is. Suguru. Standing at the far end of the hallway, near the service exit. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders squared like he’d been standing there long before Satoru said a word. His eyes meet yours. Not angry. Not pleading. Just resigned.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

And then– he turns. Walks away without a word. No pause. No hesitation. Just his back to you and the sound of his footsteps fading into the noise of everything else.

You take your time getting back to the hotel. The walk feels longer than it should. Every hallway too bright, too quiet. The statue in your hand is heavier now– like it's mocking you.

By the time you reach the suite, your throat is tight. Your chest is worse.

You open the door slowly, half-expecting the lights to be off. Hoping, maybe, that he didn’t come back. That he’d let you leave this one thing unfinished. But he’s there. Sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket off, dress shirt untucked, tie loosened around his neck. Somehow he looks like he’s aged five years since the awards show ended.

He doesn’t look at you when you step inside. Just stares at the floor like it might offer him something you couldn’t.

You close the door behind you. Carefully. The click feels too loud in the silence. “You came back,” you say, barely above a whisper.

He still doesn’t look at you. “Wasn’t sure if I should,” he says quietly. “Didn’t really see the point.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know if you’re more ashamed of how much that hurts– or how much you understand. You set the statue down on the desk beside the minibar. It lands heavier than it should.

“I don’t know what I should say,” you whisper.

Finally, his eyes lift to meet yours. And for the first time in hours– maybe days– he lets you see just how wrecked he really is. His voice is rough. Tired. “Just tell me what part was meant for me.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t. You just stand there in the too-bright hotel room, dress wrinkled from hours of wear, lashes damp, mouth dry. You want to move toward him, to reach for the part of him that still might want you back– but you don’t.

Because what if he doesn’t? Because what if he does?

“The part about seeing my story before I could tell it.”

A humorless breath leaves him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. He leans back on his palms, head tilting toward the ceiling like he's trying to keep it together by sheer force. “I watched you kiss him.”

You wince. “I know.”

“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “And that’s the worst part– you knew I’d see it. And you did it anyway.”

You want to deny it. But you don’t. Because he’s right. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Didn’t stop you, though, did it?” He says it without heat. And somehow, that’s worse. Like he’s past the point of anger– past the point of yelling or pacing or begging you to say something that’ll make it make sense. He looks at you again. “Just tell me it mattered,” he says, voice low. “That I wasn’t just wasting my time.”

You step closer. “You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were the one who stayed. That meant more than I ever said.”

That lands. His eyes close, and his shoulders sag like your words physically undo something in him. “Then why wasn’t I enough?” he says.

You don’t answer. You can’t. But you move again. Sit beside him on the bed. Close enough to feel the heat of him, not close enough to touch.

He doesn’t pull away. You look down at your hands. Your voice cracks when it comes. “You were enough,” you whisper. “I just wasn’t ready for it.”

Something in him breaks then. Quietly. And when he reaches for you– hand on your thigh, forehead to your shoulder– it’s not lust. It’s grief. It’s need.

“Don’t say anything else,” he murmurs.

And you don’t. You just unbutton his shirt with shaking fingers. Slide to your knees in front of him like you’re praying for something you know won’t come. His hand finds the back of your head– gentle, shaking.

It’s not forgiveness. It’s not closure. It’s just sadness, dressed like love. Or maybe it is love– just not the love it needs to be.

You undo his belt. You can see he’s already hard– painfully so– and you don’t ask why. You already know. Your mouth replaces your apology.

Suguru lets out a shaky breath. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pull. Just sits there with his eyes shut and jaw clenched, like if he feels anything more than this, it’ll break him. When he opens them again, they find yours. And there’s something in them you’ve never seen before. Not even on your worst nights. It’s not anger. Or jealousy. Or even heartbreak.

It’s knowing. Knowing that he was never yours. Not officially. But he loved you like he was. And you let him.

You take your time– like he deserves every second of reverence you never gave him before. Your fingers work slow, easing him out of his slacks, letting the fabric whisper against his skin. You drag his briefs down just as carefully, brushing your fingertips along his thighs, your mouth ghosting over the sharp line of his hipbone like a goodbye you don’t know how to say.

He sucks in a breath when your lips press to the inside of his thigh. Then again, a little higher. He’s already half-hard, twitching with every kiss, and when your tongue grazes just beneath the base of his cock, he shudders. His fingers clutch the comforter. White-knuckled. He’s almost silent.

You wrap your hand around the base of him and drag your tongue up the underside, slow and soft, like the first time. Like it means something more now. When you finally take him into your mouth, he gasps. Not loud. But wrecked. Like the air’s been punched out of his lungs.

He leans forward instinctively, his hand moving to cradle your cheek, thumb pressing gently beneath your jaw– more to ground himself than to guide you. You take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet and open around him. You suck him in slowly, purposefully, like he’s breakable. Like this is a prayer and he’s the altar. His hips twitch once, restrained, like he’s trying not to ruin it with greed.

You hum against him. The sound vibrates through your throat and into his skin, and he groans– long, low, and drawn out like something’s cracking open in his chest. His hand slides back into your hair, not tugging, just holding, like he needs the anchor.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You don’t have to–”

But you pull off with a soft pop, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I want to,” you whisper. And then you take him back in, deeper this time, until your nose almost brushes the soft skin of his stomach and his whole body trembles.

You breathe in slow, swallowing him inch by inch until he’s buried in the heat of your mouth. His thighs tense under your hands, a low curse falling from his lips like it was dragged out against his will.

His hand tightens in your hair, not guiding, just gripping. You start to move again, slow and steady, letting your lips slide down, then back up with a soft suck that makes his stomach twitch. Your tongue flattens along the underside of his cock, tracing that vein you know makes him shiver.

He exhales sharp, head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut. His chest rises with each shaky breath, every sound he makes like a fracture deepening.

You moan softly around him– part instinct, part apology– and it wrecks him.

“Fuck– don’t do that,” he chokes, like it might push him over the edge too soon. But he doesn't stop you. He never could.

You pull back just enough to tease him with your tongue, lapping at the tip, tasting him. His hand fists the sheets now, the one in your hair trembling slightly as you swirl your tongue around him, then ease him back into your mouth with aching, deliberate care. It’s quiet except for the wet sounds of your mouth and his breathing– unsteady, uneven, and full of something you both know will leave a bruise in the morning.

When you look up again, his eyes are open. Glassy. Desperate.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he says, voice low and frayed at the edges.

And you don’t stop. Because maybe you already have. Because maybe you're already ruined too.

When he cums, it’s quiet. No warning. Just a breath caught in his throat, the sharp twitch of his hips beneath your palms, and the way his fingers curl into your hair like he’s holding onto the last piece of something slipping away. You feel him pulse against your tongue then taste salt and heat and heartache. You swallow it all.

And when you finally pull away, you do it gently. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Sit back on your heels, dress rumpled, knees aching against the carpet. You watch him. You wait.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak. Just leans forward, elbows on his thighs, both hands clasped like he’s praying or begging or trying to keep from unraveling entirely. His head drops. Shoulders tense. The silence stretches too long.

You shift, but not closer. Not yet. Your voice barely breaks it. “Suguru–”

When his eyes finally meet yours, the light catches on them– catches on the wet shimmer streaking down his cheeks. Tears. Not loud, not shaking. Just… there. Like they’d been waiting. The kind of tears that don’t ask for comfort. That exist because the body has no other way to hold the ache.

You feel your heart twist, ache ricocheting through your ribs like something broken loose. You want to move to him, to touch him, to say all the things that might make it easier– but you don’t.

He doesn’t wipe them away. Doesn’t hide. Just looks at you. And in that look, you see all of it. The hurt. The want. The part of him that waited even when he said he wouldn’t.

You don’t even realize you’re crying too until he moves to kiss you. Not sudden. Not rushed. Just leans in, slow and searching, like he’s asking for permission even as he’s already giving you forgiveness. And when his lips brush yours– soft, wrecked, trembling– you feel the wetness that isn’t just his.

The kiss doesn’t deepen. Doesn’t lead anywhere. It just is– an ache in the shape of closeness. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, not possessive, not desperate. Just steady. Familiar.

You kiss him back like you’ve done it a hundred times. Like you’ll never get to do it again. And when he pulls away, just barely, breath mingling with yours– he doesn’t speak. His eyes search your face like he’s memorizing the parts of you he knows he’ll have to forget.

Then, softly– like it’s the last thing he has left to give– “Stay.” Not a command. Not a plea. Just a single, breaking wish.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe against his mouth, again and again, like it might undo the fact that you’re leaving. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry–”

He kisses you harder. Because he doesn’t want to hear it. Because he already knows. Because he’s sorry, too. His hands are on your face, cradling you like you’re something fragile. Something irreplaceable. His eyes are red when he breaks away to look at you. “Why does it feel like I’m losing you?”

“Because you are.”

That’s when it breaks. Both of you. You feel his fingers tighten against your cheek like he can stop it from happening. Like holding you tighter will freeze time. Like love is enough. It isn’t.

You move to sit next to him, your hands tangled in his hair, mouths pressed together again so tightly it hurts. Every breath is a sob you’re trying to swallow. Every kiss is a word you’re too scared to say.

He leans his forehead against yours. His hands are trembling. “I used to think about telling people. Saying it out loud. But I was scared you’d leave.”

“I never would’ve left,” you whisper.

“You’re leaving now.”

You don’t correct him. Because it’s true. Even if your body’s still here, your heart is already packed up and standing at the door.

You don’t get to be his. Not in public. Not where it counts.

But God– he made you feel like you were. Every night you cooked dinner barefoot in his kitchen. Every time he tucked your legs over his lap on long flights. Every lazy morning when he kissed your shoulder before he was even awake.

You feel it all at once now. And you realize– this wasn’t almost a relationship. It was one. Just quiet. Unclaimed. Unspoken.

And now, unsalvageable.

He kisses you again, softer this time. Like it’s already goodbye. Like it’s always been goodbye. “I don’t want this to end,” he breathes.

“I don’t either.”

“Then why are we letting it?”

Because loving each other wasn’t enough. Because it never got named. Because you both waited too long to ask for more.

So you kiss him once more, and it’s the kind of kiss that ruins every one after it.

The kind that tastes like what you could’ve had.

And then you stand. And walk to the bathroom to wipe your face. Because you already know you’ll be gone before he wakes up.

Suguru’s already asleep when you move to leave. You watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, hesitate in the doorway, and tell yourself it’s better this way. Downstairs, Satoru’s waiting in the lobby. Of course he is.

White shirt, sleeves cuffed to the forearms. He’s leaning against a column like he’s trying to be casual, but he stands straighter the second he sees you.

You don’t say anything right away. You just stop in front of him and let the silence do the talking. He scans your face once– eyes catching on the smudged eyeliner, the glassy sheen you haven’t managed to blink away. “So,” he says softly. “That bad, huh?”

You nod. And then you crumble. The strength leaves your spine. Your eyes fall to the floor because looking at him, right now, is too much.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press. Just moves toward you and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in tight, tucking your head under his chin like he’s done it a thousand times before. And maybe he has. But, not like this– not after everything. But the shape of you fits there like it remembers anyway.

“Did he say anything?” Satoru asks eventually, voice low, cautious.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “He said he didn’t want it to end.”

A pause. “And you?”

“I said I didn’t either.” You let out a breath that barely counts as a laugh. “Then I left.”

Satoru swallows hard. You feel it in the way his chest rises against yours. “So… you chose me.”

You pull back. Just enough to meet his eyes. “I didn’t choose anyone.”

That hits him harder than it should. He looks away. Stares out the revolving doors like they’ll offer an exit from this conversation. “Right. Of course.”

“But I showed up.” You wrap your arms around him, grasping the back of his shirt in your hands. “And that has to count for something.”

“It does,” he whispers, brushing a loose piece of hair from your face.

“Satoru,” you say, voice thin, wrecked. “I’m not okay.”

“I know,” he breathes. “Neither am I.”

You look at him for a long moment. “Can we go up?” you ask finally, voice cracking.

He hesitates. “Is that a good idea?”

You shrug. “Probably not.”

But he follows you to the elevator. It’s quiet the whole way up. His hand brushes yours, then stays there. Intertwined. Familiar. Safe. And when the door clicks shut behind you, when the suite swallows you both in a too-clean kind of silence– he turns to look at you.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says. “If you want to cry, or scream, or lie down and say nothing at all– I’ll still be here when it’s over.”

You believe him. You do cry. Not just because of Suguru. Not just because of what never was. But because of what could’ve been. What might be.

And Satoru, for once, doesn’t fill the silence. He doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t ask for more than what you’re able to give. He just sits beside you on the bed, takes your hand, and waits.

and thats a wrap on unscripted! hope you enjoyed the season finale <3 ty to everyone who read and liked and reblogged and supported this fic!! i had a blast writing it.

season 2 is in the works :p

comment to be added to the taglist for season 2!: @twilightsumu @aizzon @jabulile @jadeisthirsting @1satoruu @nombakugoswife1 @feelya @goonforgeto @bandomonia @aftersnrise @wvnkoi @von-studios @roseyjoo @m0rgui @saoirses-things

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4rticbolt · 2 months ago

Text

Gonzo |Master-List|

Usopp x reader, fluff, comfort, mentions of depression, angst, platonic relationship with the straw hats, (they don’t play about you), crack, !fluffy bonus!

Summary: Growing overwhelmed, you disappear off the ship for a walk, and a certain someone is very worried.

A/N: First time really writing Usopp! I’m happy with how it turned out, hopefully, I captured his character well. Also, yes, I didn’t properly cut the pictures out, but do I care? No. Am I going to ever fix it? Probably not.

•-•-•—•-•-••-•-•—•-•—•-•

3:05pm.

“Hey, has anyone seen ____?” Usopp asks, swinging into the galley with a trinket he meant to show you.

Lunch had let up a few hours ago, and he hadn’t seen you since. You were keeping to yourself, that was fine, he didn’t mind. But he was getting worried.

The whole crew was.

Sanji paused, setting down a pot of something he’d been working on. “Is she not in her room?”

“No, I’ve looked and she’s not anywhere!”

It started a few days ago, he nor the crew knew what happened, but they’d given you your space. They didn’t pressure you, they just were there.

Each and every member knew what it was like to experience a funk, and Usopp especially, knew everyone dealt with it differently. The sniper was lenient, and he wasn’t pressuring you to feel better. However, he was trying to make you smile.

It wasn’t much, but he’d made a fool of himself on purposes, acting clumsy or saying random things that would usually make you smile—but recently, there’d been none of that. And it broke his heart.

He missed your laugh, and he missed you.

“Well, let’s not panic. I’m sure she’s around,” Robin assured, setting down her tea. She turned to Franky, asking if he’d seen you below deck, maybe near the docking systems.

They’re were plenty of hiding spots there.

The cyborg hesitated, thinking back. But it was just as Usopp feared.

“I haven’t seen her, sorry bro. Did you check the crows nest?”

“Yes, I already said I’ve looked everywhere. I don’t know if she left or if she—“

“Usopp.” Nami interupted, resting a hand in his shoulder. “I’m sure she’s okay, you know her.”

“I’ll go ask the others if they’ve seen her,” Sanji grabbed a cigarette, smoking it while he renewed Robin’s tea. He turned to leave, but that was quickly interrupted.

“Sanji! I’m hungry!” Luffy shouted, swinging the door open—near slamming it in the cook’s face.

“You idiot! Watch where you’re going!”

Luffy only laughed, leaving a short apology. He would’ve strolled in if it wasn’t for the worried look on his best-friend’s face. Usopp looked close to tears, and that didn’t sit right with him.

“Wait, did something happen?”

“No,” Robin replied, “we’re just looking for ____.”

“____? Well where is she?”

Sanji, painstakingly, drug a hand down his face. “That’s what we’re trying to find out dumbass.”

“So…I’m guessing you haven’t seen her?” Usopp muttered, looking to the small metal bended flower in his palm.

It was metallic, with sanded edges that had accentuates of gold—something he knew you’d like. It was small, but it was something. And he planned to make more with you, as he figured it’d keep you busy.

He knew you hated mindless things, but if you were doing it with him, it wouldn’t feel so empty.

Luffy shrugged, shaking his head, “No, I haven’t, have you looked?”

“Yes Luffy, I looked.” Usopp grit, tightening his hand on the flower. His uncharacteristic snap sent the room quiet, and he averted his gaze.

“Sorry, I’m just worried.”

“It’s fine Usopp, we’ll find her. We still haven’t asked the others yet.” Nami smiled, “don’t get all worked up about it now.”

“Yeah!” Luffy agreed, peeking down the hall.“Zoro! Have you seen ____! Usopp’s worried and can’t find her!” He shouted, making the navigator cringe. She immediately sent a glare, but she didn’t comment. It was simply the truth.

“Hah?!”

The swordsman came down the hall, with an arm rested atop his swords, while Brook and Chopper followed behind.

Two of them shared a looked, but shrugged clueless, the third—Chopper, hesitated. He was the first to mutter your name, mulling over this morning and afternoon before pausing, gently shaking his head.

“No. Is she with you guys?”

“No, she isn’t.” Sanji sighed, blowing out smoke.

“Maybe she went for a walk?” Brook input.

“No, she would’ve said something.” Usopp said, looking to the window. It wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t entirely not possible. “She always does.”

“Maybe it was a spur of the moment kinda thing? Maybe she forgot something in town?” Chopper offered, though it didn’t ease anyone’s worries.

“She still would’ve said something,” Robin murmured. “It’s not like her.”

“Yeah, it’s not.” Usopp breathed.

“Well, let’s check the ship again before we get our heads in a twist,” Franky stood, cracking his knuckles. “I’ll check the docking area.”

“Good idea,” Nami agreed, standing from her seat. “Let’s just split up and look, if we can’t find her here, then we’ll go check the island.”

Everyone nodded, prioritizing your safety over anything else. It was rather strange you disappeared so suddenly, but you were just here a bit ago. If you weren’t on the ship, you couldn’t of gone far.

You just had to be close.

4:40pm.

Usopp was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

He began to doubt everything.

Himself.

This situation.

The fact that an hour had passed, and you still weren’t found.

Literally. everything.

He felt like shit, and he felt like the worst boyfriend in the world. How hadn’t he noticed you left? What if you were taken? What if you’d fallen off the ship and drowned??

He was horrible. Horribly, horrible.

Usopp was now ranked the best, for the worst human in the Grand Line.

He didn’t deserve you.

He couldn’t even believe this was happening.

Without another word, Usopp hopped off the ship, ignoring his crew-mates calls as he trekked l the woods. He couldn’t keep dwelling on this, he just needed to find you.

What if you were hurt?

What if you weren’t coming back?

That thought rattled him the most, and he soon wondered—pushing away a branch, if he’d triggered any of this. If he’d made you feel this way.

It put an ache in his chest, and tears stung his eyes. He loudly called your name, growing frustrated with himself more than anything.

Self-blame cracked his resolve, but it didn’t slow him.

You couldn’t have gone far.

Nami’s exact words, and she was right.

But, another hour already passed.

5:55pm.

“Stupid, stupid—stupid—this can’t be happening.” Usopp cursed, feeling the need to tear out his hair. He let out a fake laugh, calling your name again.

“Are you even alive?!”

Oh. My. God. Idiot, why would you even say that?! What if she heard you? What if she didn’t?

“Dumbass, just find her—stop thinking for once and just do. You’re such a scaredy cat.” Usopp desperately called your name again, damn near tripping over his own feet as a branch he pushed, mis-fired.

It swung back, and he dodged, letting out a yelp.

“Now the woods hate me too, great.”

He wiped some dirt of his face, quickly standing up.

SNAP

Usopp froze.

He stiffened like a board, and looked down.

He hadn’t been the one to step on a branch. It was just grass.

Now, either that was you, or that was some evil demon coming to rip out his guts.

He much preferred you.

“Uh, ____?” He shakily muttered, whispering your name as if it’d help his unparalleling anxiety.

Very slowly, he got up.

He quietly peeked over the overgrown bushes, and saw you. His shoulders slacked, and he let out a breath of relief. Warmth flooded his chest, and he relaxed against the tree beside him,

Every negative idea he had disappeared in an instant. All he could think about was you, and that you were okay.

“There you—“

Usopp slipped, his hand tore off tore bark from the tree and it gave-way, sending him crumbling to the ground. He wanted to get up, he did, but he felt much too relieved. Besides, he needed to cool down anyways.

“Usopp?”

His heart perked, and he shifted to his knees, but you were already kneeling beside him. Your hand carefully found his, and he could finally smell your scent.

Ugh, he could cry.

“What are you doing out here?”

“No. What are you doing out here?! You just left? I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Usopp went to scold you more, but he hesitated seeing the exhausted look on your face.

Gods, now want the time.

Your eyes were tired, and softened as if you’d been crying. Your face was roughed, with scratch marks aligning your arms and legs—as if you’d been running from something.

“Are you okay?” He asked, reaching for your face.

You stiffened, swallowing back tears.

Managing a weak nod, the reaction was immediate, your mouth opened to speak—but nothing came out. Your brain gave mid-way and you couldn’t find a stupid enough excuse as to why the hell you were out here, alone.

Usopp waited, but as he realized you couldn’t talk, he didn’t hesitate to pull you in. His arms wrapped around your shaky form and he squeezed you with all his being, as if your life—or maybe his, depended on it.

“Don’t answer that, I know you’re not. I’m sorry I asked.” He mumbled, holding the back of your head.

Tears of his own came to, though he held them back. Now wasn’t the time to be frustrated with you, it was time to understand. Time to talk, not to scold, but be whatever you needed.

A minute or so passed, and he finally pulled back.

He reached for your face again, attempting to soothe you, but you burst into tears.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disappear,” you choked, shakily wiping your tears, but he caught them instead. “Everyone’s probably so worried, I wasn’t thinking—“

“Hey, hey, stop—it’s okay. No one’s mad,” he shushed, holding the side of your head. “Yeah, we were worried, but we get it—I get it. You don’t need to explain yourself, please don’t apologize.”

You sniffled, listening, but not truly hearing. There were so many feelings and things to think about at once; guilt, shame, frustration—it was overwhelming. You didn’t even know what to say.

Another broken sound followed, and out of embarrassment—you’d wished you hadn’t left the ship at all. You’d wished you’d talked, you’d wished you’d communicated, but for some reason you felt like you couldn’t.

And, you never could understand why.

You felt, mute.

Usopp knew the feeling, he lived it. He went through it, back in the past—called a liar, never believed—never understood. Never wanted, never thought worthy of existing.

He knew.

He knew how it felt.

He pulled you in for another hug, gently lowering you to the ground as he gathered you in his arms. His head rested atop yours, and every fight, every injury—any pain he’d ever felt wasn’t comparable to this feeling now.

“It’ll be okay.” He murmured, holding you tighter.

“I know it’s hard, and I know it’s a pain, but you’re here now, right? That’s something isn’t it?”

A weak smile crossed his face and he leaned back to look at you, “You’re strong—so—so strong, and I’m so proud of you,” he held your face, kissing the corner of your eye.

“You came out here to breathe, right?” he asked, rubbing his thumb over your tears.

There was a quiet before you agreed, and he smiled. “Yeah, and maybe you didn’t tell us you came out here—and we were worried, but this meant something.”

You looked to him in confusion, not getting where he was going—as it all sounded pointless. But you knew better than that. It wasn’t nothing.

“You coming out here meant you’re trying, and—that’s everything right now.“

“I guess so,” you mumbled, but it was clear you were hearing it now.

Usopp gently ran his hands to your shoulder, rubbing them gently. “You guess so? Well I’m sure so.”

You let out a weak sniffle, and rubbed your eyes to fight a smile.

He was very determined to say in the least.

“Oh, wait—here,” he muttered, pulling out a trinket from his pocket. The item fumbled clumsily in his hands, and he weakly laughed when it fell. “Whoops,” he blurted, finally placing the flower in your hand.

“Oh, Usopp…”

“Yeah, yeah I know—pretty awesome right?” his eyes lit up with hope at your own, and his thoughts flowed easily.

“I made it this morning, with one of those zinc piece you helped me shear off.“

“You did?”

“Mhm! I did, and I thought maybe we could make more—together? If you wanted?” he offered.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, I just thought—“

“Yeah, I can.” you interrupted, smiling softly. Your sniper rambled one, explaining how he crafted the piece, gesturing to your hands to show you as if he wasn’t trying distracting you.

It felt something you’ve been lacking, meaning, even if it was just him talking about metal.

“And—bam! Just like that you have a flower!” he beamed, tossing the trinket up in the air before back into your hand. “Once we get back, I’ll get the stuff, and maybe we can…” Usopp’s voice trailed, and you leaned closer which seemed shut him up.

It wasn’t Usopp’s intention, but his hands stuck awkwardly out by his sides. He didn’t know what you were doing, but he wasn’t necessarily complaining. Your hand gently found his thigh, and you placed a soft kiss to his lips as thanks.

He deflated like a balloon, and his hands tenderly found your waist.

“Hey…” he whispered, reaching for you again. “What was that for?”

“What, I can’t kiss you?”

A gentle breeze blew between you, and birds chirped faintly in the distance. The sky was turned a gentle orange, while clouds of pink surrounded gentle stir-ins of blue.

“No—no, that was perfect, I loved it. I just, I wasn’t expecting it. I mean, don’t get me wrong I love when you kiss me—I just,” he choked over his words, letting out an embarrassed groan as he turned his head.

His hand found the back of his neck, and he slowly looked back. “I-I mean…”

“I know what you mean, but still. Thank you.” you assured, grabbing his hand. You placed the flower in his palm, and you held it there to emphasize his work. You couldn’t be more than thankful, really, and you loved seeing him like this.

It showed he cared, and he was always so easy to tease.

“Huh?” Usopp muttered, looking to your palms, before quickly searching your face. “For what?”

“For being there for me, I appreciate it.”

“Oh, yeah—of course.” he muttered, shifting his hands. It was stupid of him, but he didn’t really know what to do with them.

They were so warmly held in yours it sent his heart racing.

“You don’t need to be nervous, I don’t bite.”

Usopp cleared his throat, leaning back as if you’d burned him—not really, but your touch felt like it had. He crossed his arms, turning his head.

“I’m not nervous, you’re just…pretty.” he admitted—but immediately regretted it.

Now wasn’t the time idiot.

You let out a snort, laughing quietly. “I appreciate the compliment, but your still blushing wise-guy.”

“I am not!” he bursted, taking a stand. His face was as red as your scratches, and he couldn’t find the words to save his dignity.

It was long gone.

“Well—uh, you’re blushing too! And I am wise! Cause I’m the—guy of wise,” he hit his heel against the ground, coughing awkwardly.

He needed more of Sanji’s couple training.

“Mhm, very.” you agreed, laughing sofly as you shifted up. Your limbs ached in protest, but Usopp caught it. He saw the shakiness, and he saw the exhaustion as his hands settled to stable you.

He muttered your name, carefully bringing you forward. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, sending a tired smile.

It was small, but it finally reached your eyes, and that subtle change fixed the worry in his chest. He reciprocated the gesture, brushing some messy moss of your clothes. “You ready to head back?”

A hum was your response, and he looked you over again. He didn’t know what happened, but he wasn’t gonna let you walk on your own.

An idea crossed his mind, and he smirked.

“Oi—?”

In the blink of an eye he had you on his back. “Now get ready for the Usopp express!” A mocked evil laugh met your ears and he looked at you over his shoulder. His expression softened and he kissed your cheek, “Good to go?”

“Always,” you rested your head to his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“You know, you should offer this Usopp express more often.” you added, and your words tickled his skin. He honestly didn’t know how to answer that, and he stalked forward.

Your breath and words washed over his neck, and he felt like the biggest sap in the world. He ducked under a branch, keeping you close as his hands found your thighs.

Usopp’s steps were careful, and steady—as they always were, but everything inside was the complete opposite.

He felt like a mess.

7:20pm.

Finally making it the ship, the sky was warmed with an onset blue and dark orange. The ships lanterns had been lit, overcasting a cozy glow over the rails.

The sunset hung overhead, and on-top the deck was a certain swordsman who watched the forest from afar. He hadn’t let up since Usopp left, though he trusted him to find you.

Brook watched along, hollering as he alerted the crew of your presence.

“He found her?!” Chopper zoomed from the deck, immediate to call your name, and everyone was quick to follow. The crew waited patiently as Usopp hiked up the gangway, ready to lunge as soon as you made footfall.

He gently set you down, and Nami was immediate to hug you first. Her hold was tight, and the little doctor wasn’t far behind, jumping to hug your leg.

“You okay—?” she asked, looking you over, but Luffy was quick to slam into you and your hugging circle.

Usopp took a pale shade as he watched Luffy knock you and Chopper to the floor, tumbling a few feet away.

“LUFFY!”

“Come on, bro!”

“Not cool!”

Luffy smiled, pulling back and Chopper was quick to hit him over the head, “hey what was that for?!”

“What? I was excited!”

“So?!”

“I’m just happy she’s back!”

Usopp was quick to hit him next, “You idiot! You could’ve hurt her,” he snapped, “she’s already tired—!”

“And scratched,” Zoro commented, holding out a hand to help you up. You didn’t immediately take it, too slow to think, but he carefully grabbed your arm to hoist you up—cautious of your minor injuries.

“Oh shit, yeah what happened?” Franky raised a brow, poking your cheek, “you look like a cat beat you up.”

You smiled, weakly pushing his finger away, “Long story.”

“Yeah, you never did tell me what happened,” Usopp deadpanned, pointing an accused finger at you.

“Yet again, long story.” you sighed.

“Wait was it actually a cat?!”

“Anyways, we’re glad you’re back,” Robin interrupted, gently placing a hand on your head, “you had us worried.”

“Yeah, sorry about that…”

“Good, you should be—“ Zoro scoffed, but Nami was quick to elbow him in the ribs.

“Don’t listen to him. And don’t apologize, we understand.” she smiled, adding rather calmly, “just don’t do it again.”

Nervously, you laughed, watching Zoro cripple to the floor in pain… Quick to say, you didn’t hesitate to agree.

“Honestly, I wondered if a sea king snuck you from below.” Robin commented, crossing her arms.

“YOHO!” Brook shuddered, “Absolutely not my dear Robin! You think so cruel.”

“Though I do say that is a rather common occurrence with pirates—“

“Ok! How about we get you inside and some food?” Nami gestured, already pushing you inside.

“I’m not really hungry—“

“Too bad, you at-least need to drink some water.” Usopp took your hand, keeping you safe as he led you to the kitchen. The door swiftly closed, and a distant shout already rang from inside.

Brook, who was left with Robin outside, seemed to enjoy the rather chaotic welcome home. It was normal here, and they didn’t think it’d ever change.

“It really wouldn’t be the same without her,” he murmured, keeping a light—but bittersweet tone.

Robin only nodded, “I think she knows that, deep down.” she looked to the window, seeing you in the kitchen as Chopper patch you up.

“It just might take some time for her to see it.”

. . .

“Yeah well whatever the idiot said, clearly worked.” Zoro grumbled, finally taking a stand. He sucked in a breath, wincing as his side stitched.

“Ugh, I think that witch broke my rib(s).”

9:00pm.

Bonus:

“The great Usopp has found his treasure!” The snipe declared, running straight at you.

You were in the Aquarium, watching the fish and tank to relax, but your peace and quiet hadn’t last long. You lover grabbed you, cozily tackling you to the couch.

A panicked sound muffled your lips, though it was too late. He pulled you to his lap, wrapping his arms around you to keep you close.

“Treasure?” you asked, looking up to him.

“Well—yeah, duh, I was looking for you.” he muttered, breezing over what you said—as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“No, you called me your treasure.” you repeated, leaning up, gently interrogating.

That was the first time you’ve ever heard him say that, otherwise—he’d said it to you in your sleep.

“Oh—Haha, did I? That’s funny,” he muttered, looking to the fish. “Oh would you look a that, their trying to kill another.”

“Huh?” you blurted, looking to the tank, but nothing was out of the ordinary. You deadpanned, looking to him before hitting his chest, “you’re such a dork.”

“Ow, I am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.” he finished, stuffing your face with the blanket.

“Hey! Quth—it!”

“Admit defeat!”

“M’fine—you win.” you pushed the blanket away, and he smirked.

“Usopp the great always wins.”

“Yeah, cause he can never admit defeat.”

Usopp utterly appalled, held his chest, “Not true.”

“Is true.” you mumbled, resting your head on his chest, and that was the end of the argument. Your arms came around his shoulders and he shifted his hold.

He smiled, tucking you in with a blanket he grabbed to keep you warm. Usopp didn’t plan to sleep here, but you looked too comfy to move. His hand gently combed through your hair, and he closed his eyes to soak up the moment.

Then softly, he mumbled:

“I forget your real sometimes.”

“Hm?” you hummed, drifting off.

“Nothing.” he fixed, realizing his mistake. He held you tighter, bringing his leg between your own.

“I’m just talking to myself.” he whispered, brushing your hair back. His hand traced your features, and his eyes closed to remember the moment, cherishing it forever as he drifted off.

“Goodnight.” he mumbled, as though were soft to agree.

The night settled in, and under the fish tank’s light, he joined you in sleep.

#one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #usopp x reader #one piece usopp #one piece fluff #onepiece fanfiction #straw hats x reader #strawhat pirates

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bunnyluvx · 4 months ago

Note

You were asking about prompts for Richter and I have a two!! Richter x dhampire reader where they are introduced through alucard. Richter x Annette's sister.

in his arms. ♡

featuring: richter belmont x gn! dhampir! reader. (w/ alucard and annette!)

summary: you reunite with alucard, richter and annette after drolta has taken sekhmet's corpse, and someone is very happy to see you again.

warnings: minors and ageless blog dni regardless of content. season 2 spoilers.

a/n: i hope i did you justice, moss! this fic is intended to be romantic, but can be interpreted as platonic too, so take it how you will! thank you to all of the wonderful people who've been giving me requests, i really appreciate you all and will get to them when i can! requests are still open and i do commissions! more info is on my profile. thank you all for the love, and enjoy! <3

date started: 7:05PM, february 6th, 2025.

date finished: 10:23PM, february 7th, 2025.

dc: @cafekitsune | ss: a1i.scenes insta | ib: @creativepromptsforwriting ♡ | wc: 2k | ao3

Sky which once warmly held the sun relinquishes her hold on her lover to make way for the night. They slowly slide out of one another's embrace, creating brilliant hues where they exchange their farewells. The clouds, ever the passers-by, assure the sky that the sun will come again, and remind her that tonight, she will get to hold another love, the moon. Below, Paris stone stands tall, proudly protecting its people and their creations. It believes that it will be able to endure what is to come, but the wind's silence leaves room to second-guess.

On their mission to retrieve Sekhmet's mummified body, Alucard, Richter and Annette entered France's capital with hopes of finding it before the Vampire Messiah's servants. Not even a minute after locating the goddess' remains, Emissary Drolta Tzuentes arrived with a hoard of night creatures, and in the midst of battle, Sekhmet's corpse was taken. Alucard tried to go after her to no avail, for he was quickly kicked into the river beneath them.

Frustration boils within the dhampir's blood as he emerges from the water, coming to a stand and taking a few steps away from the river's edge before pushing back wet white locks with one hand. A scowl scrunches onto a usually calm expression as he strides to regroup with Richter and Annette. The young revolutionaries hurriedly make their way to Alucard, and once meeting with him again, Richter is more than ready to start planning their next moves. "So, what do we do now?" The boy asks.

After hundreds of years of dealing with Belmonts' bad decisions, Alucard's patience has grown thin, so he's quick to snap at Richter, turning to face him with fangs bared and brows furrowed, "This would not have happened, Richter Belmont, if you hadn't told them where we were going."

The brunette's lip pokes out into a guilty pout after receiving this scolding, and Annette is quick to come to his defense, "It wouldn't take a sorcerer to predict we were going to Paris, Alucard. And we thought that Drolta was dead. We thought you'd killed her."

The dhampir's expression has calmed from its hostility rather quickly, and his eyes close while he lets out a sigh. Boots clacking upon the opposing side of the pavement interrupts Alucard's attempt to voice a new plan. All attention diverts toward the sound, in preparation for a fight, but the trio's shoulders relax once they see the source.

You. Alucard had introduced you to the group shortly after his arrival, knowing that you would be willing to help in any capacity that you were required. Seeing as you are a dhampir too, he believed that there was no harm in having more supernatural strength on their side.

Before the trio left for Paris, you agreed to watch Maria while they were gone. Only a few days had passed when you felt something pulling you out of Machecoul. It was an unexplainable feeling, all you knew was that you had to go. You informed Juste of what you were sensing, and he permitted you to pursue this calling, in trust of a reason behind your motivation. So, you began your journey, and apparently arrived just in time.

The three stare at you in wonder as you approach, like they couldn't believe their eyes. Alucard is first to speak up with asking, "What are you doing here?"

When your feet finally come to a stop, you lean over and lay your hands on your knees wearily. Your chest rises and falls with each heavy breath you take, eyes flickering from the floor to everyone else multiple times. You don't know how long you'd been running for, but you're glad that you got there when you did. "I felt like you needed my help," You explain, "So, I came."

"You're supposed to be with Maria." Alucard reminds you, agitation resurfacing in his tone.

"Juste said he could handle it." You insist.

"You left Juste, who admitted that he didn't know how to deal with teenage girls, with a teenage girl?" Alucard emphasizes, fangs poking out of the frown on his face.

"Fighting is pointless right now. We have more important things to worry about," Annette redirects.

Finally, you stand up straight and tilt your head up to the sky to take a breath. You look back at the group, resting your hands on your hips. "Annette is right. I'm here, that can't be changed, so let's move on."

For the first time in almost over a week, your eyes meet Richter's. He looks completely bewildered, lips curled up into a grin and bright blue eyes sparkling with joy. You didn't know each other for very long at all, so most of what you know about Richter has come from Maria. The girl most commonly describes Richter as an ungrateful wanker, often recounting memories of when he acted impulsively by jumping into fights that he couldn't have finished alone. Many of these stories ended with Maria saving him, and while she did enjoy embarrassing Richter, you knew that she admired him deep-down; She wouldn't say it aloud, but she didn't have to.

Based on the time that you were able to personally spend with Richter, you could tell that he had a lot of responsibility on his shoulders. Carrying the Belmont name was no easy task, but being an older brother holds just as much weight. There was a lot of tension between Richter and Maria after her mother was turned, and it was evident to you that Richter blamed himself for that. Tera made the decision on her own accord to sacrifice herself to Erzsebet, he knows that, but Belmonts have always been protectors. He has fought a generous amount of vampires throughout his lifetime, and Erzsebet was the one enemy that he couldn't defeat. He believes it to be his failure, and it was a great price to pay.

Something else that you learned about Richter is that when things are looking dark, he tries to make light of it. Humor is his way out of despair, so when he was brooding by himself and you came to sit with him, he would crack a joke. You came to admire this about him rather quickly, and it became something for the two of you to bond over. You would go back and forth to try to make him feel better about their current circumstances, and when he walked away, he was able to do so with a smile. Both of you felt a little lighter after that.

You took turns listening to each other talk about your lives, and what got you to where you were. Richter spoke of his mother, and a few memories that he shared with her, and you spoke of your experiences living in this world as a dhampir. Richter gave you his undevoted attention when you talked about what things were like for you growing up and now. When he got the chance to listen to you, with everything that you shared with him, he became all the more awestruck. He had never met a dhampir before you or Alucard, so he was interested in learning about how different your histories' were. Unlike many in your past, Richter appreciated the diversity between you and was eager to learn more.

You don't consider Richter to be someone you're particularly close with yet, but you do believe that there is potential for something beautiful to grow between you. The expression on his face tells you that he feels similarly, God does he. While traveling alongside Alucard and Annette, Alucard often told stories of you and the many adventures that you had together. Learning about you through him only made Richter want to know more, to speak with you personally and listen to any tale you wished to tell. Admittedly, he was a little disappointed when you agreed to stay in Machecoul with Maria, but he knew it was for the better. You're magnetizing to him in a way that he can't explain, and here you are, standing in front of him.

Unable to resist the pull any longer, Richter leaps forward to wrap his arms around you. Your eyes widen at the sudden embrace and you remain still, unprepared for the contact but not willing to reject it. Strong, light arms encase you closely around your neck to his body, and he swears that you slot perfectly against him. Today marks the first day in history where a Belmont has prayed, because Richter is pleading to whatever will listen that he doesn't have to let you go. Would you have felt this way in his arms if he had held you sooner?

Alucard and Annette find themselves just as shocked as you are. They have noticed the softness that swims within his eyes when Richter hears or speaks of you, but they wouldn't have expected for him to spring to you like this. Fond smiles and knowing gazes quickly overtake their features while they watch you stand still as stone, dumbfounded. Your arms slowly raise to hover over Richter's back before they slowly rest there. The only words you can manage to say come out in a soft mutter, as your eyes slide to look at the boy hugging you so tightly, "Hey, Richter.."

A deep inhale sounds from Richter's nostrils as he breathes you in. Words could not describe the feedback that his senses received, but it's so uniquely you. In his mind, it is solidified that you are truly here, and he couldn't want you anywhere else. He wonders if you are always this warm, or if it is just the armor you adorn yourself in. He nestles his face into the crook of your neck and closes his eyes, a relieved sigh breathing onto your skin as he mumbles, "I'm so happy to see you."

Of all people, you would not have expected for Richter Belmont to display such a sentiment. It is far from unwelcome, though, as you find yourself able to relax in his arms. The tension in your shoulders slowly unwinds with the rest of the muscles in your body coming in-tide. Your eyes close as you nuzzle into his shoulder, savoring the connection that you have with Richter while you have it. He feels just as warm as you are, comfortably so, and you realize that you're asking yourself when the last time you felt so safe was. As you inhale, the aroma of familiar forests and a light hint of sweat greets your senses. You find it calming, giving you all the more reason to melt in his embrace. "Yeah..I'm happy to see you too," You agree tenderly.

You are permitted a few seconds longer to cherish this moment. You wish that it could last forever, but you know that there are other pressing matters at hand. You both seemed to forget that, for you collectively jump when Annette pipes up with, "Are you two done cuddling now, so that we can focus?"

Wide-eyed with rosy cheeks, you and Richter regrettably pry yourselves away from each other to face Alucard and Annette. You both nervously glance in opposite directions towards the floor, your hands fold in front of your body while Richter rubs the back of his neck awkwardly with the opposite on his hip. Annette shakes her head lightheartedly at the two of you while Alucard just smiles, starting to walk away as he gives you all instructions, "You three look for nests of vampires. When Erzsebet's army attacks, we don't want another front opening up into the city."

You all nod, which licenses Alucard to promptly make his getaway. There is a newly found trio now with you, Annette and Richter, and you all dash into the city to begin your search. In your rush, Annette turns her eyes to you and admits, "It is good to have you back."

You look back at her, and a smile blesses your lips. "Thanks. It's good to see you guys too."

"How is everyone back in Machecoul?" Richter asks, brows furrowed with worry.

You shrug and cast your eyes ahead. "Ah, they're coping. I'll tell you more later. For now, let's get to work."