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cressidagrey · 25 days ago

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Formidable

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

Summary: Andrea Stella figures out that Felicity Piastri is more than “just” Oscar’s wife.

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble and checks my science-y mumbo jumbo 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

It started the way most breakthroughs did—not with a groundbreaking discovery, but with a tired engineer holding a half-wrinkled printout and a hopeful expression.

“Boss,” James said, hovering just inside the doorway of Andrea’s office. “I think you should read this.”

Andrea looked up from his laptop. “If it’s another CFD model from that Reddit forum, I swear—”

“It’s not. It’s from a paper. Academic. Legit. Published in Race Systems & Applied Motion last month.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow. “Obscure.”

“Very. It has like 20 readers,” the engineer agreed. “But I think it’s real. It’s clean. It’s sharp. It’s…” He hesitated. “We might want to test it.”

That got Andrea’s attention.

He took the paper and began to skim.

Title: Redefining Compliance: Adaptive Suspension Geometry Under Load-Sensitive Parameters for Mid-Field Chassis Configurations.

Andrea kept reading. It was dense—academic, yes—but it was also practical. It spoke the language of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. There were no ego traps. No unnecessary complexity. Just hard math and hard-earned insight.

Andrea flipped the page. Then another. His eyes caught a note referencing flex dynamics in chassis response curves and passive recovery lag.

It was correct. More than correct. It was insightful.

The author wasn’t spitballing ideas from afar—this was the work of someone who had lived in the theory and understood the application. Who referenced real-world tolerances. Racing examples. The math was sound. The diagrams were better than half the ones their CFD team managed.

Andrea flipped back to the byline.

Dr. F. Piastri.

Piastri.

James grinned. “Fun coincidence in the name, right? He’s smart.”

Andrea didn’t correct him.

Because yes—coincidence. Probably. But something about it stuck in his brain, like a whisper he couldn’t quite place.

He read the essay in full that night—twice. It was elegant, sharp, and frustratingly precise in the way only truly experienced voices ever were. The type of clarity that came from years of not just understanding a concept, but translating it into reality.

The next morning, Andrea sent out an internal email.

Subject: Additional Works by Dr. F. Piastri If anyone has access to prior publications by this author, please forward them to me.

By the end of the week, his inbox was full.

One essay became three. Three became eleven. Eleven became twenty.

Each one published under the name F.Piastri, buried in obscure journals and small-circulation engineering reviews that didn’t get traffic unless someone was either deeply curious or incredibly desperate.

Andrea was both.

Each article was smarter than the last—strange, elegant engineering thought-pieces published across the most obscure academic mechanical journals Andrea had ever encountered. Niche ones. The kind that only the most obsessive minds contributed to, with names like Thermoelasticity in Microstructured Materials and Lateral Load Adaptation Quarterly.

F.Piastri had written:

An article about Load-dependent understeer in transitional corners (with math that Andrea double-checked twice because it was too clean).

A 2019 think-piece on long-run stability under thermal degradation.

An essay about Aerodynamic oscillation buffering for short-track endurance vehicles.

An article about the economic viability of 3D printed carbon struts under rotational shear (he actually flagged that one for McLaren Applied).

A thesis that corrected a widely accepted torque model—buried in a conference archive.

A published rebuttal in Journal of Vehicle Design so politely worded it read like a love letter—until you realized she’d rewritten the reviewer’s assumptions line by line.

There was even one article on fluid dynamics that had been cited in a grad-level textbook from ETH Zurich.

Andrea devoured them all.

He—She?—wrote like someone who saw the car before it was built. Who understood not just how suspension worked, but how it felt. How energy passed through a chassis not as force but as intent.

The writing style was sharp. Practical. Absolutely ruthless in its logic. There was clarity there—an elegance—that reminded him of only a few people he’d ever worked with.

It was revolutionary. It was poetic.

By the time he tracked down the doctoral thesis from Oxford, Andrea wasn’t breathing properly.

Reinforcement Through Flexibility: Dynamic Adaptation in Composite- Structured Performance Environments.

By: F. Piastri.

Submitted: December 2022

Andrea stared at the name.

F. Piastri.

He stared for so long his tea went cold beside him.

His hands were shaking—not because of nerves, but because he already knew.

He opened the PDF. Skimmed past the table of contents. Scrolled through diagrams that made his heart stutter.

There was no photo. No biographical section. Just a clean Oxford University seal, 284 pages of dense, brilliant theory, and then—

A dedication.

To Oscar: For believing in a future that didn’t exist yet, and building it with me anyway. Every lap, every choice, every time—you’ve been my constant.

And to Bee: For reminding me that softness and strength aren’t opposites. You are the best thing I’ve ever helped create.

Andrea sat back in his chair like he’d been physically shoved.

Bee.

Oscar.

F. Piastri.

Felicity Piastri.

Felicity.

Oscar’s wife.

Dr. F. Piastri wasn’t some reclusive academic or distant uncle with a gift for simulation modeling.

She lived in Oscar’s house.

She packed his lunchbox.

She raised their daughter.

And she had published papers on suspension theory that half of F1 would kill to understand. Quietly. Efficiently. Correctly.

Andrea leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling for a long moment, and whispered:

“…Of course it’s his wife.”

Of course the quiet, composed driver who rarely raised his voice and always had one hand on the bigger picture had married someone brilliant. Of course she wasn’t just talented—she was a published expert with a doctorate from Oxford.

Not a coincidence.

Not a mystery engineer.

Not some guy.

But Oscar’s wife.

Oscar Piastri—quiet, methodical Oscar—had married a genius.

A doctor of mechanical engineering from Oxford who wrote better technical documentation in a margin note than most engineers did in a year. Who published under initials. Who could probably solve half their handling inconsistencies while holding a toddler on her hip.

Andrea sat in silence for a full minute.

Then he exhaled. “...of course he did.”

He opened a new tab.

Email draft:

To: Technical Team

Subject: URGENT – Reference Reading Required Attached: Every single thing Dr. F. Piastri had ever published.

***

The meeting was meant to be quick.

Just a routine Monday touchpoint—debrief, run through media notes with Sophie, talk sponsor appearances, maybe discuss Oscar’s upcoming comms obligations.

Zak had rolled in with a protein shake.

Lando was lounging sideways in a chair like he’d melted into it.

Oscar had a protein bar and an expression of polite mildness, as usual.

Andrea, meanwhile, had not slept.

Not because of the race.

Because he’d spent the entire weekend reading Dr. Felicity Piastri’s entire body of work. Every published paper. Every obscenely niche journal article.

And her doctoral thesis.

He hadn’t meant to do it all in one sitting. He just couldn’t stop.

By 2 a.m. he was muttering things like “Of course she used Euler-Bernoulli assumptions, she’s too smart for non-parametric bullshit.”

By 4 a.m., he’d highlighted her proposed solution to dampen micro-vibration load in corner exits.

By 6 a.m., he had a headache, an existential crisis, and a desperate need to know: Why had Oscar Piastri never mentioned this?!

So at the end of the meeting—just as Sophie was wrapping up and Lando was aimlessly spinning a pen like a propeller—Andrea set down a file on the table.

Calmly. Casually. Like he hadn’t just had his entire mechanical worldview rattled by a woman who wasn’t even on the payroll.

“Oscar,” Andrea said, voice deceptively neutral. “Why didn’t you ever mention that your wife holds a doctorate in mechanical engineering?”

Oscar, halfway through eating his protein bar, blinked. “What?”

Andrea gestured vaguely, as if the thesis were still radiating brilliance from his desk. “Felicity. Doctorate. Thesis. Dozens of published papers. Half of them useful to our current car design issues. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Oscar blinked once. “Oh. Yeah. She gets bored sometimes.”

Andrea blinked back.

Lando stared like he’d been smacked with a front wing. “Wait—she got a doctorate?!”

Oscar nodded, chewing. “Yeah. Finished it in 2022. She was stuck in that horrible flat in Enstone while I was back and forth with Alpine, and she got bored. Wrote most of it at the kitchen table while Bee napped.”

Andrea just… stared.

He had read the thesis. Studied it. The mathematical modeling alone had kept him awake at night—and she had apparently written it during toddler nap times, while stuck in a damp shoebox flat in Oxfordshire.

Zak looked up slowly from his tablet. “Your wife was bored. So she got a PhD in mechanical engineering.”

Oscar shrugged. “She already had the research mostly done before Bee was even born in 2020. She just had to write it up. Bee was napping a lot anyway.”

Sophie blinked. “She wrote a 200-page dissertation with a toddler in the house?”

Oscar just shrugged. “It helped that Bee liked the sound of the keyboard.”

Andrea turned to Zak, still stunned. “She predicted the kind of high-frequency oscillation we’re seeing this season. Two years ago. In a footnote.”

Lando leaned forward like he was watching a live feed of someone discovering aliens. “She’s just, like, a genius?” he asked, voice too loud, too incredulous. “And you never brought it up?”

Oscar just sighed. “She hates that word.”

Andrea just stared at him. “Oscar, she’s not just good. She’s formidable. Has she ever applied anywhere formally?”

Oscar looked genuinely confused. “Why would she apply anywhere?”

Andrea stared. “To work. In engineering. In motorsport. Academia.”

Oscar blinked. “She does work. She manages our lives, Bee, the house, and the chickens.”

Lando leaned toward Andrea, wide-eyed: “I’ve never felt dumber in my entire life.”

Andrea sighed. “Join the club.”

***

The kitchen smelled like vanilla and wood polish and faintly like chicken coop — which meant Felicity had mopped and baked and wrangled Mansell, the escape artist hen, all while probably rebalancing one of their stock portfolios.

Oscar dropped his bag by the door and leaned against the kitchen entryway.

Felicity was sitting at the table in her old university hoodie, feet bare, Bee curled up under her arm asleep with Button the frog as a pillow. There were spreadsheets open on one side of her laptop screen, a half-watched nature documentary on the other, and one of Bee’s plastic toy bulls standing solemnly in the middle of the table for reasons unknown.

He smiled.

God, he loved her.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Felicity glanced up. “Hey. Dinner’s in the oven. Bee passed out mid-pie crust.”

“Excellent,” Oscar said, dropping into the chair beside her. “Because I need carbs.”

She raised an eyebrow, equal parts amusement and curiosity. “Bad day?”

“No. Just... intellectually humbling.”

Felicity made a low amused noise and went back to her laptop. “Did Lando try to explain crypto again?”

Oscar snorted and reached over to carefully lift Bee into his lap, her curls warm against his hoodie. She barely stirred.

He could have let it sit. Saved it for later. But it was buzzing under his skin.

“Stella read your papers.”

That got her attention.

Felicity paused, her fingers stilled mid-scroll. “Which one?”

“All of them,” Oscar said. “Apparently it started with one of the engineers, who brought an article in from Race Systems & Applied Motion. Then he spiraled.”

“Ah,” Felicity murmured, unsurprised. “That one had a good diagram.”

“He found your thesis,” Oscar added.

This time she didn’t answer right away.

He reached for one of Bee’s crayons and twirled it idly in his fingers, watching her.

“He read the dedication,” he said, voice quieter now.

Felicity’s eyes softened in that way that always undid him a little. Always had.

“Did he say anything?” she asked.

Oscar smiled faintly. “He said you’re formidable.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Felicity laughed—not loud, not startled, just warm and wry and a little disbelieving.

“God help the man,” she said. “He must have hit the rebuttal piece from the Vehicle Design Journal. That one made a few engineers cry.”

Oscar grinned. “Yeah, well. He was halfway to building you a shrine by the end of the meeting. I also told him you got bored in Enstone and wrote your PhD while Bee was napping.”

Felicity gave him a look. “You make it sound like I was scrapbooking.”

“Weren’t you also doing that at the time?”

Felicity blinked. “...Okay, fair.”

Bee stirred slightly in his lap, a tiny sigh escaping her lips as she nuzzled deeper into his hoodie sleeve.

Oscar looked down at her—this tiny human they somehow made and raised—and then back at the woman across the table.

Her hair was messier than usual, strands escaping her braid, and there was a faint flour smudge near her temple. She hadn’t bought herself a new pair of jeans in two years. She sometimes forgot to eat when she was buried in simulations. She once fixed the bathroom plumbing at midnight because she didn’t like how the guy from the hardware store spoke to her.

She was the smartest person he knew.

Oscar knew most people wouldn’t think it when they first met her. She smiled too easily. She didn’t correct anyone. She let others assume things—that she was just the girlfriend, just the wife, just the mother.

But she had a doctorate from Oxford, and more published academic papers than most career professors. She could hold court with race engineers and theoretical physicists in the same breath, then go home and teach Bee how to build a pulley system out of Lego and twine. She spoke in quiet, exact terms, and when she challenged people, she did it so gently they sometimes didn’t notice until it was too late.

He’d long since stopped being surprised by her. He’d just—normalized it. Integrated it. Felicity being a genius was like oxygen to him: invisible, essential, and easy to take for granted until someone else nearly passed out from the realization.

She was just Fliss to him.

The woman who sold her designer bags to pay rent when her family cut her off. The mother of his child. His fiercest critic and his most devoted supporter. The one person he trusted without hesitation.

She didn’t want headlines or praise. She wanted quiet mornings and clever puzzles. She wanted Bee to grow up confident. She wanted Oscar to remember to eat something green.

She was the smartest person he knew — and she hated being called smart. So he didn’t. He just came home.

“He called you formidable,” he repeated. “And I agree. For what it’s worth.”

Felicity smiled then—slow and quiet, the kind that reached all the way to her eyes.

She leaned across the table and kissed his temple. “Thanks,” she said. “But if he asks me to consult, I’m charging him triple.”

Oscar laughed softly and ran a hand through Bee’s curls. “Deal.”

And he meant it. Because maybe it was easy for him to forget sometimes, tucked into the quiet rhythm of their life, that the world hadn’t caught up to how brilliant she was.

But he never stopped being proud of her.

Not for a second.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 7 days ago

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1964 Chevrolet Cheetah

The 1964 Chevrolet Cheetah, also known as the Bill Thomas Cheetah, was an American sports car designed and built entirely with American components. Developed by Chevrolet performance tuner Bill Thomas between 1963 and 1966, the Cheetah was created to compete with Carroll Shelby's Cobra. It featured a front-mid engine layout and a chrome-moly tubular chassis, with independent suspension borrowed from the Corvette. The sleek fiberglass body included distinctive gull-wing doors and housed a 377 cubic inch small-block V8 engine that produced about 475 horsepower. The car’s lightweight design contributed to impressive acceleration and handling.

Despite its promising performance, the Cheetah faced challenges such as insufficient chassis rigidity for road racing, which led to handling issues, and cooling problems caused by inadequate ventilation that resulted in engine overheating. These problems were later addressed by owners through various modifications and improvements. Only a limited number of Cheetahs were produced, with different configurations and modifications over time. Some were converted into roadsters, while others competed in racing events, achieving notable successes. Today, the 1964 Chevrolet Cheetah remains a rare and highly regarded collector’s car, celebrated for its bold design and ambitious engineering.

#Chevrolet Cheetah #chevrolet #cheetah #Bill Thomas Cheetah #Bill Thomas #car #cars #muscle car #american muscle

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carsthatnevermadeitetc · 8 days ago

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Ferrari F40, 1992. All of the 1,315 F40s left Maranello finished in Rosso Corsa including chassis 94647. More recently that car underwent something of a resto-modification, including fitment of a rare Michelotto-developed F40 LM racing gearbox, paired with enhanced turbo wastegates and a Tubi exhaust system. There were also suspension and brake upgrades but most noticeably the car was resprayed Azzurro Hyperion. It is a classic Ferrari colour though not one available on the F40. The car, referred to as the “Blue Chip F40,” to be offered at auction in Monterey

auction listing

#Ferrari #Ferrari F40 #1992 #restomod #blue cars #mid-engine #one-off #Azzurro Hyperion #cars for sale #auction

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pitlanepeach · 26 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Forty

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, strong language, slight smut, a bit of general anxiety.

Notes — Welcome to Miami!!!!!

2024 (Miami—Imola)

The McLaren garage was quiet in that early-morning lull before the chaos. Screens still black. Tyres covered. Mechanics nursing coffees and stretching into the day. Amelia stood just inside the halo of overhead lights, hands on her hips, watching her car, her car, come alive in pieces.

The floor gleamed with fresh resin. The side-pods were lean, smooth, seamless in their curvature. The front wing was finally the right spec; the airflow data had confirmed it. The new floor geometry played nicer with the updated rear suspension. The whole package, finally cohesive.

It had taken months of pushing. Quiet conversations. Brutal ones. Drawings on the back of napkins, pacing in her kitchen at 2am. And it was all here now, carbon and copper and logic made real.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just circled the car slowly, one hand brushing against the wing mirror, the leading edge of the nose, the curve of the intake. Reverent, almost.

Tom stood a few feet back, sipping from a thermal mug. He was always nearby at the moment; watching and learning. “Looks different,” he said.

Amelia nodded. “This is the car I designed from the beginning. No compromises. No shortcuts.” She crouched beside the floor, fingers tracing the sculpted undercut, the exact shape she’d fought for. “We’ve been patch-working upgrades onto old foundations. But this; this is a clean slate. It’s mine. Finally.”

“So it’s ready?” He asked.

She looked up at him, eyes sharp. “Yeah. It’s ready to win.”

Lando ducked into the garage then, still in joggers and a hoodie, yawning around a protein bar. He caught her eye, then stopped mid-step. “Holy shit.”

Amelia nodded.

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. Studied the car with wide eyes, taking in every minor adjustment, every small change that’d somehow made the entire car look different. Meaner.

“It looks fast.” He breathed.

“It is.”

He turned toward her, something quiet in his expression. “You happy?”

Amelia didn’t blink. “I’m relieved. Now it’ll do exactly what I designed it to do.”

Oscar wandered in a moment later, eyebrows lifting when he saw the chassis. “Oh shit, this the final spec?”

“The one I promised you both,” Amelia muttered.

Oscar grinned, circling the nose. “Looks like a weapon.”

Amelia hummed. “That’s because it is. All the patchwork’s gone. This weekend, you’ll both be driving the car I built for you from the ground up.”

Tom, now beside her, tapped his pen against his notebook. “You going to name it?”

Amelia looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “It already has a name — and that name has my initials in it anyway. Why would I give it another name?”

Oscar shrugged. “I name my chassis something new every weekend.”

“That’s because you’re weird.” She told him.

But later, when they were running race simulations and Lando had slipped out for media, she sat alone beside Oscar’s car, one hand resting lightly on the side-pod. Just for a second. And under her breath, too soft for anyone to hear: “Don’t let me down.”

Because it was all here now; her vision, her work, her legacy in motion.

And in Miami, for the first time all year, she was finally going to see her car on track.

—

Even in Miami, the F1 Academy paddock felt smaller. Tighter-knit. Less spectacle, more steel. It reminded Amelia of the early days she’d watched on flickering TV screens—before race suits were tailored, before engineers had agents. When she’d been three feet tall and already knew more about car setup than most of the men working on them.

She walked beside Susie, the low hum of tyre warmers and generators buzzing faintly underfoot. The air smelled like brake dust and fuel. It smelled like home.

“You don’t get much spare time,” Susie said, glancing down at the curve of Amelia’s bump beneath her papaya hoodie. “So thanks for making this one count.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Amelia said, eyes scanning the compact garages. “These girls are the future of motorsport.”

A mechanic rolled a jack across their path. A knot of young drivers stood nearby, still in their fireproofs, talking fast, voices tight with nerves.

Susie called one over. “Chloe. Come here a sec.”

Chloe Chambers jogged over, ponytail bouncing, already grinning like she knew exactly who Amelia was.

“Amelia Norris,” Susie said, pride softening her voice. “Meet Chloe. One of our brightest. She’s been dying to pick your brain.”

Chloe stuck out a hand, eyes wide. “I’ve watched every onboard from Oscar since you started working with him. And you basically built this year’s McLaren, right?”

Amelia glanced at the hand, winced, then gave a small shrug. “Built it. Argued over it. Cried about it once or twice. So—yes.”

Chloe lit up, dropped her hand like she didn’t even register the rejection. “I want to do what you do. I mean—I want to drive first. But also understand the car. Maybe even design one. Someday.”

Amelia's smile tugged sideways, something more serious behind it. “Then don’t let anyone tell you to choose. You don’t have to.”

A few more girls wandered over—Doriane, Abbi, Maya. One asked if it was true she’d rewritten part of the ride height algorithm in the middle of the night, thanks to pregnancy nausea.

“It’s true,” she said dryly. “Wouldn’t recommend it. I couldn’t stand the smell of carbon fibre for three days.”

They laughed, young, high, unfiltered, and something eased in her chest. She didn’t feel like a figurehead here. Not a myth. Just one of them. Older, yes. Blunter, definitely. But still part of it.

“Do you still get nervous?” One asked. “Being Oscar’s engineer?”

“No,” Amelia said. “But sometimes, I get… quiet before an upgrade. Or a tough strategy call. But I trust the hours I put in. That’s how you survive in this job—you trust the work, then you trust yourself.”

They asked for a photo. She said yes.

Afterwards, stepping back into the heat and light, Amelia felt something shift beneath her ribs. Not the baby. Something else.

“These girls,” she murmured. “They’re so—”

“Ready,” Susie finished. “They just need someone to show them what’s possible.”

Amelia looked down at her belly. The baby kicked once, low and firm. She wondered—would her daughter want this one day? The speed. The noise. The risk.

Would she want her to?

She didn’t know.

But she knew this: she wanted the door to be open. And she wanted it to stay that way.

“Well,” Amelia said, eyes back on the track. “Let’s make sure the road stays clear.”

Susie nodded, a quiet kind of promise in her voice. “That’s exactly why we’re here.”

—

The room was dark.

Not pitch-black—just enough light from the closed blinds to trace the edges of things. A spare media suite deep in the team hospitality unit, soundproofed from the bustle outside. Cold air whispered from the vents overhead.

Amelia sat curled up on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands. In her lap, she twisted the stim toy between her fingers: click, roll, flip, snap. Again. Again. Again.

Her morning had unravelled in that invisible way it sometimes did. Nothing catastrophic—just too many voices, too many schedule changes, someone touching her shoulder without warning. The wrong texture on the cutlery at breakfast. The wrong smell in the paddock. She’d swallowed it all down with a brittle smile until she couldn’t anymore. Now the inside of her head felt raw and overlit, and only silence helped.

Click. Roll. Flip. Snap.

The door opened.

Soft, slow. No bright light flooding in. Just a narrow slice of hallway glow and a silhouette. Lando.

He didn’t say anything. He just stepped inside, closed the door again behind him. Let the dark settle. He moved quietly, then sat beside her, legs stretched out, shoulder to shoulder with hers.

A beat later, the door creaked again. Oscar this time.

She didn’t look up, but she knew him by the shape of his walk, the subtle way he moved like he was trying not to wake a sleeping cat. He settled on her other side, crossed-legged, just close enough to touch but not quite.

Nobody spoke.

Amelia kept clicking. Rolling. Flipping. Snapping.

And slowly, her breathing evened out.

Lando reached over and gently brushed his fingers across the back of her hand. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She let him. Then let her head tilt sideways until it rested lightly on his shoulder.

Oscar stayed quiet, respectful in that way he always was with her—like he got it, even if he didn’t always understand. He just existed beside her, like a grounding point.

The toy made a soft clack as she turned it over again, her fingers finding the rhythm she liked best. The baby shifted inside her, low and firm. She exhaled slowly.

They weren’t talking. They weren’t asking her what she needed. They just were. Present. Patient. Steady.

It hit her, then, with quiet force: how deeply she was loved. Just… for being.

She blinked hard. One tear, maybe two. Nothing dramatic. Just the kind that came when the pressure released, even just a little.

Click. Roll. Flip. Snap.

Lando rested a hand on her hip, tracing soft circles on the red, itchy stretch marks. Oscar leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed, humming something tuneless under his breath.

Amelia let the dark hold all three of them.

And she knew that soon, she’d feel okay again.

—

Amelia had gone out for air.

That was the plan, anyway—just ten quiet minutes away from the structured chaos of media day. No cameras, no questions. Just walking, hoodie on, head down, hands in her pockets.

But somewhere along the paddock hospitality row, she saw them—six or seven VIP fans lingering near the McLaren garage, lanyards bright, eyes wide, trying not to look starstruck and failing. Most of them were young women. One had a notebook. Another had made her own earrings out of mini DRS wings. A third was nervously adjusting the hem of her papaya windbreaker.

They saw her before she could disappear.

“Hi—sorry—Amelia?”

She could’ve smiled and nodded and kept walking. Instead, she stopped. “Yes,” she said. “Hello. You’re not supposed to be standing there. You’ll block the tyre trolleys.”

One of them blurted, “You’re, like… kind of our hero.”

Amelia blinked at them. “Why?”

Which made them all laugh awkwardly.

“I mean,” the DRS earring girl said, “you built the car. Everyone knows it. You’re the reason we’re consistently getting podiums again.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Amelia said bluntly. “But thank you.”

The girl with the notebook held it out. “Could I maybe ask you a few questions? Just for fun?”

Amelia glanced around. There was a patch of artificial turf by the hospitality tents where a drinks cooler sat forgotten. No cameras. No execs. No schedule.

“Fine,” she said. “But I want to sit down. And I want something to eat.”

Fifteen minutes later, Amelia was cross-legged on a grassy patch, a fizzy drink in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other, surrounded by a semicircle of fascinated girls. Someone had scrounged up crisps and trail mix from a hospitality unit. It was, essentially, a picnic.

She’d taken a napkin and a pen and was now drawing vortex flows and side-pod shapes in clean, confident lines, explaining how turbulent air off the front wing could be used as a tool, not just a nuisance.

“People always think air is the enemy,” she said. “It’s not. It’s a language. And if you understand what it’s saying, the car will behave for you.”

Someone gasped. Someone else scribbled furiously. One girl offered Amelia a gummy bear, which she accepted without breaking eye contact from the diagram.

“Do you… want your daughter to be an engineer too?” One asked, softly.

Amelia paused. “I want her to believe that she can be anything she wants to be.”

That was when Lando found her.

He was coming from an interview and nearly missed the scene entirely. Then he spotted her—Amelia, sitting in the middle of the grass like a camp counsellor or a pre-school teacher, surrounded by fans who all looked like they were in total and utter awe of her.

Oscar arrived seconds later. “Is this… what’s going on?”

“I think it’s a cult,” Lando whispered. “My wife has created a cult and she is their leader.”

One of the girls spotted them and nudged the others. The whole circle turned.

“Oh. Hi,” Amelia said, gesturing vaguely to them. “They asked me about ground effect. I got carried away.”

Lando sat down beside her without a word. Oscar followed, grabbing a crisp from the communal bowl like this was all perfectly normal.

“We’re learning,” Oscar said solemnly. “Let’s not interrupt the professor, Lando.”

One of the girls burst into laughter. Amelia handed her the napkin diagram and grinned.

And there, in the middle of a media day she’d meant to escape, Amelia Norris held court not to journalists or executives; but to the next generation. Bright-eyed. Hungry to learn. Eager to belong.

—

Later, Lando slipped an arm around Amelia’s shoulders.

“So,” he said, voice light but steady, “when our daughter’s old enough, do we risk teaching her about vortex generators and having her build a wind tunnel in our bathroom?”

Amelia rolled her eyes, resting her head against his chest. “Who knows? She might put us all out of a job.”

He laughed softly. “She’ll definitely get your brains.”

“And your stubbornness.” She gave him a sidelong look. “And adrenaline addiction.”

“Great combo.”

They walked slowly back toward the garage.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If she wanted to race,” Amelia started, her hand moving instinctively to her hip, “would you want that for her?”

Lando scrunched his nose, bit his lip. “God. Uh…” He paused, searching her eyes. “I’d be worried. Not happy about it, but if it’s what she wanted, I’d make it happen.”

She studied him. “You’d make it happen even if it made you unhappy?”

“Worried,” he corrected gently. “Worried sick, probably. I’ve crashed, seen the worst of it. You know how dangerous this sport is. Would you be okay with it?”

She shrugged. “I’d tell her the risks, the stats. Karting? Sure. But racing professionally… I don’t know.” She hesitated, voice quieter. “I don’t know.”

Lando cupped her cheek. “It’s okay not to know yet.”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, staring into his eyes as panic fluttered beneath her skin. “Why don’t I know? I should.”

He pulled her close, voice low. “It doesn’t work like that, baby. I’m sorry.”

She sniffled, clutching his shirt. “Parenting is already hard and she isn’t even born yet.”

“Yeah,” Lando agreed, with a shaky kind of inhale. “Yeah.”

—

Amelia sat on the couch in their hotel room, fiddling with her stim toy, brow furrowed. The past few weeks had been… confusing. She knew about pregnancy hormones, but this sudden surge in her sex drive? That was new and confusing territory.

Lando entered the room, carrying a glass of water. He caught her eye and smiled, but there was a flicker of something (nervousness?) in his gaze.

“You okay?” He asked, voice a bit higher than usual.

Amelia bit her lip. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded quickly, almost too quickly.

“Is it… normal to suddenly want sex all the time? Like, nonstop?” Her voice was blunt but uncertain. ‘I’m nervous to look it up in-case weird stuff comes up.”

Lando’s face flushed, and he scratched the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her. “Uh, yeah. Totally normal. Second trimester… hormones and all that.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Amelia blinked, surprised by his sudden heat.

Lando shifted closer, cheeks still pink. “I mean, it’s… well, you’re pretty irresistible right now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Irresistible?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. So, uh… we can make you feel better, if you want?”

Before she could respond, he leaned in, brushing his lips lightly against hers. The kiss was soft but full of promise, and Amelia’s heart sped up in that familiar way; equal parts surprise and warmth.

When they parted, Lando grinned sheepishly. “You want to?”

Amelia stared at him. “Yeah. Now. And then again a few more times. And tomorrow morning before we go to the track.”

He stared at her for a beat before he smiled wide, sharp little fangs and all.

—

Amelia lay awake.

Her head rested on Lando’s chest, his hand soft against the curve of her belly. His breathing was slow, steady, familiar. She could feel the faint shift of it under her cheek.

She stared at the ceiling, fingers tracing idle circles over the sheets.

She hadn’t expected to want him like that. Not with this body — not now, not so much. And yet…

Flashes of the night flickered across her mind like bright sparks.

Lando’s laugh, half-muffled against her neck.

His voice, rough, whispering, “You sure? You’re sure?”

The way he’d kissed the inside of her wrist every time.

Her hoodie halfway off, clumsily caught around her elbows.

The sound she made when he touched her lower back — sharp, surprised.

His thumb brushing gently over her bump, reverent. “Hi, baby,” he’d whispered, “Your mum’s kind of a goddess.”

She blushed in the dark just thinking about it.

But what stuck with her most wasn’t the heat — it was how seen she felt. How known. How safe.

She’d spent most of her life learning to translate herself for the world. She thought that’s what relationships would always have to be — filtering, explaining, shrinking things down.

But with Lando, she had never once had to do that.

He read the pauses in her voice like she would read telemetry. Felt her silences without trying to explain. Met her confusion with patience, not pity. Anticipated the needs she hadn’t even decoded herself yet.

She tilted her head, studying him in the quiet.

She hadn’t just fallen in love with him all those year ago.

She’d��grown into love with him — steady, real, elemental.

And somehow, impossibly, he kept giving her more reasons to love him even more.

She pressed a kiss to his chest, so soft he didn’t stir.

Then closed her eyes, finally ready to sleep.

—

The bathroom lights were aggressively bright for how little sleep Amelia had gotten.

She was perched on the closed toilet lid, sleep-shirt inside out, bump resting on her thighs, and a toothbrush in her mouth. Her phone leaned against a half-used roll of toilet paper on the counter, and Pietra’s face filled the screen, already smirking.

“You look like you’ve been run over,” Pietra said with wide eyes.

Amelia spat into the sink. “I had sex for four hours straight last night.”

Pietra choked on her iced coffee. “Good morning, mami.”

Amelia shrugged like she was reporting on tyre deg. “Hormones.”

“Second trimester hitting like DRS on the main straight, huh?”

She nodded seriously. “It’s physiological. There’s blood flow redistribution and heightened sensitivity in—”

“Stop,” Pietra laughed. “You can’t do the engineering breakdown of your sex life.”

Amelia grinned, a little proud. “I definitely can. Do you want to see my graphs?”

“No graphs.Please. No vibes. How’s Lando coping?”

“Hydrated. Exhausted. Still asleep,” she said, brushing through her tangled hair. “He kept making these noises like he couldn’t believe what was happening.”

Pietra chuckled. “Yeah, he’s down bad for you, my girl.”

“I know,” Amelia said. “He, like, kept kissing my wrist.”

“Amelia. Please.”

“No, like he held it and did it twice.”

There was a pause.

Pietra blinked slowly. “That’s so sweet.”

“He made me feel like myself again.” She flushed.

Pietra was quiet, her smile gentler now. “Because you are.”

Amelia nodded once. “He’s also half-worried that our daughter might invent a bathtub wind tunnel.”

“Oh God,” Pietra said, grinning again. “That little girl is going to make him go grey. I hope she cuts up her dolls and builds a diffuser from their severed limbs.”

“She won’t have dolls.” Amelia said dryly. “She’ll have CFD software.” Even though her tone was flat, the twitch of her lips betrayed her joke.

Pietra laughed. Amelia finished tying her hair into a low, slightly messy ponytail. A streak of sunlight cut through the window, warming the tiles beneath her feet.

“I should go,” she said. “Track walk in forty-five minutes.”

“Tell Lando I said ‘well done’.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “No. That’s weird.”

“You love me anyway!”

Amelia ended the call and stared at herself in the mirror for a second.

Messy. Flushed. A little wild-looking.

Entirely herself.

And deeply, deeply loved.

—

The heat shimmered off the asphalt in waves, the whole paddock buzzing with anticipation. Miami was loud, chaotic, full of pastel shirts and bass-heavy DJ sets; but the McLaren garage felt like a storm waiting to break.

Amelia had one hand on Oscar’s halo as he settled into the car. Focused. Calm. Starting fourth on the grid. It was a good starting position, but they both knew it wasn’t going to be an easy climb through the field — if they even managed to keep their position into turn one.

“Conditions are fine. Brakes might take a while to come in. Let the tyres come to you.”

Oscar looked up at her, half-grinning under his visor. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll scream at you over the radio for being annoying and not listening to me.”

He laughed. “As usual.”

She patted the car once, stepped back, and moved to her tiny little thrown-together desk just as Lando passed her on his way to climb into his car. His hand grabbed her back. Their eyes met. He gave her a look; small, private, thrilling. The kind of look that said: I think today is the day.

She nodded once. Just once.

She’d believed in him for years now — since before Sochi, since before he’d even been given the full-time McLaren seat.

He was capable of incredible things.

—

The first 20 laps were a blur of strategy juggling and telemetry surges. Amelia was locked into Oscar’s race; managing his energy deployment, traffic, undercut threats.

He was driving sharp. But something wasn’t sticking.

A slow pit stop on Lap 32 killed their momentum. They dropped back into traffic. She clenched her jaw, recalculated in seconds, called Plan C.

“Ducky, don’t lose steam. We’re still in this for good points. Head down.”

“Copy,” he said, clipped. Frustrated, but fighting.

But further up the field, Lando was flying.

And then there was the safety car.

Chaos. All improper preparation and garages rushing.

And then Lando exited the pits. And he hadn’t just made up a few positions — he’d taken the lead.

The garage erupted. Amelia nearly stood up from her station. She felt it before the numbers confirmed it — Lando was about to win his first Grand Prix.

She could barely breathe.

—

Oscar crossed the line P6. Solid points. Not what they hoped for, but not failure.

But Lando…

Lando held off Max for the last five laps like his life depended on it. No mistakes. Just pure, blistering pace and nerves of steel.

And then—

“Lando Norris. That’s P1. You are a Formula One race winner!”

Will’s words cracked through the comms.

The garage exploded.

Amelia didn’t move.

She sat frozen, one hand over her mouth, the other gripping the edge of the console like it would float her back to earth.

He’d done it.

Finally.

No more self-doubt. No more what-ifs.

Lando won.

Her husband, who stayed up with her until 3am looking at ride height data; had won.

And he did it in the car she built for him.

"We did it, Will. Amelia — baby, we did it. We did it!" He said over the radio.

The first race it was fully her spec — and sure, they’d gotten ‘lucky’ with the safety-car, but luck was insubstantial. His pace said it all.

He’d won. And he’d won by a mile.

—

The moment she found him in Parc Ferme, still helmeted, still breathless, still shocked, she ran.

Not far; just to the holding area, where only a few people were allowed. But she was McLaren’s lead engineer. She was also his wife.

She had every right.

He turned and saw her and the helmet came off in one swoop.

His face was flushed, eyes red-rimmed, disbelieving.

She launched into his arms and he caught her without hesitation, arms around her waist, face buried in her shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “I won. I fucking won, baby.”

“I can believe it,” she said, steady and breathless. “I knew it was coming. How long have I told you that this would happen for you? You’ve been driving like a winner all year, Lando.”

He kissed her, fast, messy, barely containing the wild joy in him. “Tell me you saw the move on Max.”

“I saw it. It was amazing.”

He laughed against her neck, giddy and stunned and vibrating with relief. “I did it, Amelia.”

“You did.” She leaned into him, eyes pricking with tears. “I am so, so proud of you. So proud.”

—

They went to a few parties. Smaller ones. Danced together — Lando being celebrated in exactly the way he deserved.

He hadn’t been all to keen on the idea of his visibly pregnancy wife going into the Miami nightclub, but she’d insisted they go. Even just for a little while.

Oscar and Lando stayed close — like bodyguards. Max was no better, hovering, constantly bringing her water. It was sweet. It was nice to still be involved in the celebrations.

His trophy sat on their hotel room table.

Lando was in the shower, singing Queen, completely off-key.

Amelia sat on the bed in one of his t-shirts, one hand on her belly, the other tracing the MCL38-AN etched into the side of the silver.

Their daughter kicked.

She smiled. “Your dad,” she whispered, “is a Formula One race winner.”

—

They touched down just before dawn, Heathrow still hushed in early morning fog. Amelia’s body ached with the kind of deep exhaustion that only adrenaline can leave behind; but her hand never left Lando’s.

He’d won. That wasn’t going to stop echoing in her head any time soon.

By the time they got to his parents’ house, the sky had cracked open with gentle rain. The front door opened before they even rang the doorbell.

His mum pulled him into a tight hug, burying her face in his chest. His dad hovered behind, proud and misty-eyed in the quiet way he always was. There were champagne flutes already out in the kitchen, a cake someone had clearly stayed up late decorating — “P1, Finally!” scrawled in sugar icing.

But what caught Amelia off guard was how his mum hugged her too.

Carefully, because of the bump. But tightly. Fully. Without hesitation.

“We were watching,” she said, her voice warm in Amelia’s ear. “I’ve never screamed so loud in my life. He wouldn’t have gotten here without you, you know?”

Amelia blinked. Didn’t know what to say to that. Just squeezed her hand and nodded.

—

Later, in the quiet of Lando’s childhood bedroom, Amelia lay curled into his side beneath soft, over-washed sheets. The walls were still plastered with old racing posters, a few crooked photos of karting days — a little shrine to where it all began.

The trophy was on the dresser.

Not a glass cabinet, not a pedestal. Just… sitting there. Like it belonged next to a lava lamp and a stack of F1 magazines from 2009.

Amelia snorted at the sight of it. “You really just plonked it there?”

“It’s weird, right?” Lando said, his voice drowsy. “Feels like it should be… more. But also not. I don’t know.”

“It’s exactly right,” she said. “It belongs where you started.”

He looked over at her. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You okay?”

She nodded. Then, after a moment, “It’s strange. Everyone talks about how hard it is to get here. To win. To be part of something like this. But nobody tells you how hard it is to… stop. To come down from it. To believe that it’s real.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just pulled her closer, hand on her belly. “She’s gonna know,” he said softly. “Our daughter. She’s going to grow up knowing this is possible. Because she’ll have you. And she’ll have me too.”

“You,” Amelia said firmly, “are going to be her favourite person.”

He flushed, kissed her shoulder. “You’re both my favourite.”

—

Breakfast was a chaotic, sweet mess. His younger cousins had come by with orange balloons and mini trophies made of Lego. His grandmother insisted on touching Amelia’s belly and declared, in full authority, that the baby would be born with racing boots on already.

Someone pulled out a bottle of something sparkling, and Lando looked like he might cry for the tenth time in 48 hours.

Amelia stepped outside with her tea, just for a moment. The garden smelled like damp grass and daffodils.

Lando came out after her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, nose pressed into her neck.

“We really did it,” he murmured.

“You did.”

“No,” he said. “We.”

She leaned back into him, eyes fluttering shut.

For once, she didn’t argue.

—

The highly sought after private clinic was tucked behind a row of converted barns; all soft wood beams and white walls, the kind of place that smelled faintly of lavender and sterilised plastic. Quiet. Private. No waiting rooms. No fluorescent lights.

It had taken Amelia weeks to agree to in-person visits. Not because she didn’t trust the care, but because the idea of new faces, new spaces, new sounds — it made her skin hum in the wrong way.

But this midwife, Fiona, had been patient. Kind. Spoken to her over the phone like Amelia wasn’t strange or fragile or complicated. Just… herself. And today, for the first time, they were meeting in real life.

Amelia sat in the softly-lit consultation room, sleeves pulled over her knuckles, while Lando leaned back in the chair beside her, fingers loosely linked with hers.

The door opened, and Fiona stepped in; mid-forties maybe, silver at her temples, Doc Martens under a midi skirt. Exuding a calm energy.

“Hello, Amelia,” she said with a small smile. “It’s good to finally meet you properly.”

Amelia blinked at her. “You don’t sound as tall as you do on the phone.”

Fiona laughed, delighted. “That’s a first. Most people say I sound shorter.”

Lando grinned. “She’s very good at spatial audio. It’s… sort of freaky.”

Amelia elbowed him lightly. “It’s not freaky. It’s useful.”

“I know, baby,” he said, kissing her hair.

Fiona sat, not rushing. Just matching the room to Amelia’s pace.

“Shall we talk through everything slowly?” She offered. “We’ll do the checkup, listen to baby’s heartbeat if you’re feeling up for it — and then talk about next steps. I’ve got your notes printed exactly how you like them. Font size 13, double spaced.”

That surprised a smile out of Amelia. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

—

Fiona talked her through every step before touching her. Let Amelia guide where the Doppler went. Gave her control.

The heartbeat came through — fast and steady and perfect.

Lando stared at the screen like it was made of gold.

“There she is,” he murmured. “There’s our girl.”

Amelia stared at the graph. “Still sounds like a horse galloping.”

“Strong horse,” Fiona said. “Very healthy.”

They spent another fifteen minutes going over nutrition changes, sleeping positions, birth plans. Fiona never pushed. Never filled silence with filler words. Just waited.

“You’re very good at this,” Amelia said finally. “I don’t like many people.”

Fiona smiled gently. “That means a lot. Thank you.”

—

They stepped back out into the quiet spring air, a softness between them.

Lando opened the car door for her, waiting until she was settled before getting in himself. He looked over at her, one hand finding hers on the armrest.

“I like her,” he said.

“I don’t hate her,” Amelia replied, which was even better.

“You did so well,” he added softly. “I’m really proud of you.”

She glanced at him. “Why?”

“Because I know how much it costs you to do things that feel uncertain,” he said. “And you still showed up for her. For our daughter.”

Amelia’s eyes prickled, caught off guard by the depth in his voice.

“She deserves someone better than me, sometimes,” she whispered.

“No,” he said firmly. “She’s getting someone more brilliant, more brave, more herself than anyone could hope for.”

She kissed him. “Okay. Take me to get some chicken, please?”

—

The kitchen was full of soft light and the smell of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes. There were too many voices, too many overlapping stories, the occasional clink of cutlery — but somehow, it didn’t overwhelm Amelia the way it usually did. Maybe it was the dimmer switch Lando had installed last year. Maybe it was the way he kept checking in with her from across the room. Or maybe… maybe it was just the peace that came from knowing her daughter was still tucked safe inside her, heartbeat strong.

Dinner was warm.

They passed around the scan print-outs — Lando sliding them carefully across the table. His mum teared up a little at the clearest one, where the outline of a tiny face and curled fingers was visible.

“She’s so beautiful already,” Cisca whispered.

“She looks like an angry shrimp,” Amelia said flatly, which made Adam chuckle into his wine.

“An angry shrimp with a big Norris head,” Lando added.

“Oi,” Adam said. “Watch it.”

“She’s got Amelia’s precision, though,” Lando added, turning the scan toward his dad. “Perfect symmetry in the profile. Look at that jawline. Look.”

“She’s 38 centimetres long, Lando,” Amelia said, eyebrows raised. “She’s still just a smudge.”

He shrugged, grinning. “Let me have this.”

—

Cisca topped up everyone’s water and gently set her glass down. “Have you two thought much about… the birth yet? Or after? What it’ll look like, who you want with you, where?”

Amelia nodded immediately, already sliding her phone from the edge of her placemat. “Yes. I’ve got it all planned.”

She pulled up a bullet-pointed note, clean and colour-coded. “I’ll be labouring at home for as long as is medically safe, with Fiona monitoring. Then transferring to the birth centre — the one with the adjustable light panels and hydrotherapy. I’ve selected a playlist that aligns with optimal relaxation frequencies, and Lando will be coached on pressure-point guidance in case I don’t want verbal input. We’ll have backup bags packed and pre-positioned in the car by Week 37.”

The table went still for a moment. Not unkind. Just… a bit awed.

“And after?” Adam asked gently.

“Fiona will do at-home checks. I’ll be off work technically, but I’ll still be supporting Oscar’s data remotely if we’re out of hospital. I’m going to stay with my mum in Woking. Sleep will be rotational in the first two weeks depending on Lando’s schedule, but my mum had already agreed to step in. Breastfeeding is Plan A, bottle Plan B. I have a spreadsheet.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then Cisca reached over the table, her hand warm as it closed gently over Amelia’s. “That all sounds wonderful, my darling. But, and this is only a but, if it doesn’t go exactly the way you’ve planned, don’t panic,” she said. Her voice was soft but certain. “Sometimes babies decide to do things their own way.”

Amelia didn’t flinch from the contact — rare for her. She just looked at Cisca’s hand, and then at her face. “I know that,” she said, a little stiffly. “Logically.”

“But knowing it logically isn’t the same as feeling okay when it happens,” Cisca said gently.

Amelia looked down at the scan photo in front of her. Then quietly, almost like a confession, “I want to do it right. I want her to feel safe from the second she arrives.”

“She will,” Lando said, reaching for her hand under the table. “Because she’ll have you.”

—

The door was already open before they even made it up the path.

“There she is!” Zak’s voice boomed from the hallway as Amelia climbed out of the car, Lando trailing behind with his hand protectively on the small of her back.

Tracey appeared right behind him, dish towel still slung over her shoulder. “Let her breathe, Zak, Jesus.”

Amelia barely had time to blink before she was enveloped in one of her mother’s trademark, over-long hugs — all vanilla perfume and chaotic warmth.

“I can’t believe how much she’s grown,” Tracey murmured, hands sliding down to press lightly at Amelia’s bump. “My granddaughter’s in there, that’s crazy.”

“She’s the size a watermelon,” Amelia said, dry. “A big watermelon. But still.”

Lando grinned. “Not for long. She’s growing every day.”

Zak clapped a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. “Still wrapping my head around the fact that you’re gonna be a dad, son.”

“Same,” Lando replied with a breathy laugh.

—

The Browns’ home was bigger than you might expect, but still carried the energy of a family who talked over each other and left laundry on stair banisters. The TV was on in the background playing a re-run of some F1 docuseries, and Zak had already pulled out a bottle of strawberry alcohol-free wine.

“No, Dad,” Amelia said, waving him off. “No bubbles. I’ll get heartburn.”

“I’ve got ginger beer!” Tracey called from the kitchen. “And saltines!”

Amelia drifted toward the fireplace, fingers brushing over old framed photos. There was one of her as a little girl with a screwdriver in one hand. Another of Zak holding her on his shoulders at the Silverstone track.

She stared at that one for a beat too long.

“You okay, kiddo?” Zak asked gently, appearing beside her.

She didn’t look up. “Yeah. Just remembering.”

“You’d sit on the garage floor with the brake calipers,” Zak said, fond. “You used to name them.”

“They needed names. They had personalities.”

“You said one was ‘grumpy and over-torqued.’ You were five.”

She let out a tiny laugh.

—

Dinner was loud. American-style pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans drowning in butter. Tracey refilled everyone’s drinks every ten minutes. Zak told old stories about testing sessions Amelia had half-forgotten.

Later, Amelia found a quiet spot in her childhood bedroom, lights dimmed, the duvet still vaguely smelling of fabric softener. Lando leaned against the doorframe, watching her brush her fingers over an old model car she’d built with Zak when she was nine.

“You okay, baby?” He asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m nervous to be staying here again, after having the baby. I wish we could just… have her in Monaco and disappear for a few months.” She frowned. “We didn’t plan our timing very well, did we? You’ll be mid-season, and Oscar won’t have me there, and—“

Lando crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.“Hey. Hey, calm down, baby. I think that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be,” he murmured. “You’ll want your mum, yeah? She’ll be able to help you adjust without being overbearing.”

She hummed against his chest, her hands closing around his shirt. “What if you’re not here when it happens?”

He was quiet for a beat. “I’ll come home as soon as possible, baby. I promise.”

“I don’t want you to miss a single session.” She said, hotly. “But I want you with me all the time and I can’t have both, can I?”

“No, baby. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He murmured. “It’s fine, baby.”

—

Amelia stood at the edge of the test platform, squinting at the flow viz spread across the prototype floor. She wasn’t officially here to work, just visiting. Just dropping in. Just… checking the numbers. Seeing the model. Touching the damn tunnel wall like it could somehow speak to her.

“It’s still bleeding airflow here,” she muttered to herself, pointing at the front of the floor, just under the bargeboard curve. “Boundary layer’s detaching early.”

“Still better than Ferrari’s design,” someone mumbled behind her.

“Low bar,” she shot back.

She didn’t look up. Her fingers danced automatically across the control screen. Toggling split channel overlays, flipping between computational fluid dynamics layers. She could feel her heartbeat syncing with the faint thrum of the tunnel, her mind slotting into gear like it always had.

Until she felt someone step beside her, too quietly for a regular engineer.

“Amelia,” Oscar said softly, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Hey.”

She blinked, her brain still five seconds behind in aero-language.

He glanced at the setup, then at her bump, then back to her face. “Did you… sleep at all last night?” He asked.

“I took a nap on Lando’s thigh for twenty-three minutes in the car,” she said.

Oscar huffed. “Very normal. Very healthy.”

She turned back to the airflow sim. “This isn’t right. The adjustment from the Miami spec — it’s throwing off drag balance on the mid-straight.”

“Amelia.”

She didn’t answer this time. Just kept muttering corrections under her breath, lips moving like she was translating a language no one else could see.

Oscar stepped closer, then placed one hand gently on her wrist — not to stop her, just to connect.“You’ve been here for hours. You can come back to this later,” he said.

“I don’t know how to be here without doing something.”

“I know,” Oscar said. “But we’re not racing this week. And you’re allowed to just… exist in this space without trying to fix every tiny issue that you see.”

Amelia looked at him. Her mouth opened, then shut again. He didn’t push. Just stood with her in the quiet hum of the room, solid and calm.

Eventually, she whispered, “My brain’s too loud when I stop.”

“Then let me help you turn the volume down,” Oscar said simply. “C’mon. Let’s go sit by the lake for a bit.”

—

They ended up outside with two mugs of ginger tea that Oscar had somehow convinced catering to let them take out of the dining hall. Amelia sat with her feet up on the bench edge, dress stretched over her bump, breathing slower now.

She watched the fountain spray in silence for a few minutes before saying, “Thanks.”

“For the tea?”

“For not treating me like I’m fragile,” she said. “But also not treating me like I’m a machine.”

Oscar smiled sideways. “You’re a human. A terrifyingly brilliant, data-possessed human. But still.”

She let out a tired laugh and leaned her head briefly on his shoulder. “Don’t tell Lando I had a moment.”

“Alright,” he said. “It’ll stay between us and the ducks.”

She smiled. “My ducky and my ducks — conspiring together. Cute.”

He rolled his eyes.

—

The morning sun hit the Emilia-Romagna pit lane with a sharpness that reminded Amelia of why she loved racing. Clean, brutal light cutting through the lingering coolness of dawn.

She stood just inside the garage, eyes scanning telemetry streams on her iPad, but her mind elsewhere. This was her second-to-last race before maternity leave. A strange mix of accomplishment and anticipation knotted inside her.

Lando caught her eye across the garage, giving a small thumbs-up. She returned the gesture with a faint smile.

Oscar approached, carrying his helmet. “Ready?” He asked.

“Of course I am.”

—

During a quiet moment before qualifying, Amelia slipped out from behind the pit wall to find Lando.

He reached for her hand, squeezing it lightly. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m okay. Just… thinking about how this is all starting to feel a bit too much like a goodbye for my liking.”

He brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ll hold the fort. You’ll be back before you know it. You don’t need to worry.”

Her eyes softened. “I know. But it feels… weird.”

He held her. Kissed her. “You’ll be fine, baby.”

—

The race was intense. Strategy calls fired rapidly, tyres switching, gaps closing. Amelia’s voice came calm and precise over the radio, guiding Oscar through every corner, every lap.

When the checkered flag finally waved, Oscar finished fourth — solid, but just off the podium. Amelia exhaled, a complex wave of pride and bittersweet acceptance washing over her.

Lando’s race had been even more intense; a nail-biting late charge from Lando, a nail-bitingly close finish between him and Max.

They’d take second.

But she could see it. Hear it.

Her husband had enjoyed winning. And he was hungry for more.

—

Back in the garage, the team gathered around the screens replaying Lando’s brilliant win at Miami — a reminder of the highs to come. Amelia let herself smile, feeling the warmth of the team around her.

Lando slipped an arm around her waist. “Only one more weekend to go,” he murmured.

She leaned into him. “Yeah.”

Tom gave them a nervous smile. “I feel ready to take the reins. Do you think I’m ready?”

“As ready as you could possibly be.” Amelia told him.

Oscar laughed a bit. “I feel like I’m being passed between my divorced parents.”

Amelia rolled her eyes at him. “You’re ridiculous, ducky.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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strangeoval · 15 days ago

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taevisionceo · 2 years ago

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TAEVision 3D Mechanical Design Parts AutoParts Aftermarket Chassis ChassisParts... Steering and Suspension Parts SuspensionJoint VW Volkswagen Audi ▸ TAEVision Engineering on Pinterest ▸ TAEVision Engineering on Google Photos

Data 135 - Jul 20, 2023

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revelboo · 7 months ago

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Here’s a little more fanart for you because OHMYGOODNESS I’m on the edge of my seat for the next Everything Is Alright chapter!!! Agh I live for the danger and suspense. Anyway thanks for these amazing stories. Delicious as always 🥹

Aaaaaah! I love it! Thank you so much! 💕💕💕

Everything Is Alright Pt 75

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader

• “Don’t.” Struggling against the weight of Megatron’s ped pinning him, he twists to look at Soundwave upside down. Pleading with him, but then Soundwave hadn’t lied. His loyalty has always been to Megatron above all others, still believes in him. And doesn’t want to believe that the mech he all but worships will harm you just to make an example. To hurt him for daring to believe he deserves happiness, that he can have this. Injuries screaming, he stretches out an arm, servos straining. Needing to get free, get to you. Protect you from what’s coming.

• There’s a desperation on Starscream’s face that Megatron’s never seen before. Despite the damage, he’s still struggling to get to Soundwave. And Soundwave still has a palm splayed protectively against his chassis, an injured cassette? Rumble is missing he realizes and he hesitates. What exactly is going on here? “Show me,” he growls and Soundwave’s head bows.

• Is this a mistake? Wanting to trust in Megatron, but you’re just so fragile. What if he doesn’t understand? He can’t look at the pinned Seeker, can’t see that pain, but he doesn’t even try to shut it out of his processor. Lets the Seeker’s bitter hate, fear, and worry spill through him, because if he’s wrong he’ll deserve this and so much worse. Venting raggedly, he opens his cassette compartment and reaches in to find you. Unsettled at how still you are as he lifts you free, breathing but out, your temple bleeding where you’d gotten rattled around when he fell. Frame bowing over you as he cups you in his palms, unable to look up to see Megatron’s reaction as he nudges you with a servo. Willing you to open those eyes, move. Anything.

• A human? Of all the things he’d expected, this hadn’t even occurred to him. Shifting his ped off of Starscream and watching his SIC scramble to Soundwave, servos hovering over the small, still form before the two exchange a look. All this secrecy over one little organic? Why risk his temper over this creature? Watching the painstakingly gentle way Starscream takes the human from Soundwave, he knows he’s missing something important. Realizing that the Seeker cares about this human and it’s a shock, because he’s never seen him care about anything but himself. “This is what you were hiding?” Not another coup but a human. One Starscream scents of.

• Cradling you to him, Starscream’s damaged wings lift. Head tipping and denta bared in threat as Soundwave lays a warning hand on his shoulder. Because if he’s going to lose the only thing he has left, he’s going to make it worth it. Drag Megatron to the Pit with him when he goes. “Ours,” Soundwave says, deep tonal voice almost pleading, surprising him. Still standing with him even after betraying you? “Mine,” he counters, wings trembling.

• Ours? This lunacy has Megstron off balance, because why suffer so much drama and pain over this pathetic, little thing? But watching the way Starscream’s head dips when the human makes a pained noise, the expression that flickers across the Seeker’s face snags at him. He really does care as insane as it is. And it’s an opportunity. Because if this little human means something to the Seeker, it’s a way to guarantee his obedience. A leash. No more plotting. Servos curling under into a fist, he vents. “A shared pet.” And Starscream’s face twists as he looks up at him, seething with hatred. “Let me see our pet, then.”

Y’all got me wanting to draw again and I can’t explain how happy I was when the new tablet also didn’t work because I had a dead HDMI port. I was able to return it and buy a $13 adapter instead. (I honestly can’t believe they still make the supplies I used to use)

#transformers x reader #starscream x reader #idw starscream #soundwave x reader #idw soundwave

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bettystonewell · 1 month ago

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TO YOU I BELONG: CHAPTER 14

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Summary: Dean isn't looking for a mate, and the last place he expects to meet his soulmate is while on a case. Fate ain't real. He still has free will, and saving you is just another part of the job. Except, monsters aren't the only things you need saving from... 18+ only MDNI

Chapter Word Count: 6.7k words

Chapter Warnings: pregnancy woes, anxiety, fluff, angst, poor Dean's out of his element again, nesting (I love the concept so damn much), nerf guns, pup gender reveal

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

“Oh.” Dean looked back at you, finding your eyes lit up and hopeful. He couldn’t help but smirk at the heightened interest in your scent.

“Oh?”

And your demeanour.

He gripped harder on the cushioned handle and pushed down again, feeling the layers of steel, rubber and plush padding sway beneath his fingers. “The suspension on this thing is awesome.”

“And?”

He shrugged. You were way too eager, hanging off his every word, and he needed to be tight-lipped.

“And…it might be handy.” Yeah. That would placate you while he thought this through.

Sure, this stroller had more going for it other than just being fire engine red in a sea of white, beige and black. Didn’t mean it was a good thing. The colour had drawn him to it, which meant others would be drawn, too.

Yes, he could pack a lot down the bottom of that basket. Even hide an angel blade somewhere in the handle there if he got his welder out. Engrave a devil’s trap into the chassis, but…no. No, no. You’d said you’d be able to take the pup out for walks when he wasn’t there, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to consider that.

Being there in that nursery store wasn’t something he’d considered either. When he’d said he wanted to take Baby out for a spin to break in the new tires and test his handy work after her incident with old Alice, he never intended you’d end up as far away from the bunker as you had.

Stupid him. He’d had plans for a simple drive. Get some groceries. Take you out to eat.

But then you’d seen that family in the diner while you were chowing down on his fries. He caught a whiff of jealousy in your scent as you saw that mom playing with her pup. The googly eyes at their fancy stroller, and Dean realised so far you’d bought nothing for your son, aside from the stuffy he’d chosen months ago.

So, what did he do?

Well, his dumbass suggested it was time you went to a store and looked at stuff for him. He was an awesome mate, after all, and he was excited - at first.

You’d buy a crib, a stroller. Maybe some essentials like wipes. A book or two. Blankets and pillows to build your nest with, which were all fine. Perfert. Wonderful. Until he stepped foot inside this joint and he was reminded why he’d tried sourcing as many of Baby’s needed parts online as he could.

Where to start? The music with its whiny drone and high-pitched piano? The mish-mash of colour, dominated by rainbows and construction truck yellow? The smell of snotty noses, diapers and Cheez Doodles? Had every kid pooped in here or was there something wrong with the plumbing?

Alright, a salvage yard would’ve had none of these things (might’ve stank a little), but the pup store had the upper hand for worst, simply on the fact you were there, amongst people he didn’t know.

He’d slung his arm over your shoulders and directed you around the other shoppers with the widest of gaps possible between you and them, following the signs to the wall of strollers on the left. You passed the conveniently located nesting section right by the cash registers on the way, of course. Full of all things fluff, including stuffed animals.

Dean may have glared at another alpha who got too close when you stopped. He may have sympathised with another who also found himself stuck while you and his omega eyed one fugly looking cushion, but he said nothing. Neither did the other guy. Though there was an eye roll when your scent peaked in full delight as you ran your fingers through the fur that could’ve passed for a muppet.

Oh god. His world was going to be full of Elmo and Cookie Monster, wasn’t it? Or that blue thing with the Australian accent he kept seeing as you walked by older pups sitting in the main part of their parents’ carts with eyes glued to their screens.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t for his little man. Nope. He’d watch Scooby and the gang. Maybe the Jetsons or the Flintstones, but there’d be none of this modern crap. Cartoons, not equipment. He could see the benefit of Wi-Fi connections and GPS.

He huffed. Tilted his head on the idea. That would definitely be handy, and his eyes travelled the length of the red stroller before him, up and down, side to side. Was there space? If he could make an EMF reader out of a Walkman, he could add a tracking device to the frame of this thing. It was big enough.

He rocked it. Pushed it back and forth under the large metal racking that housed it and then out into the otherwise empty aisle.

The wheels turned well. The front smaller ones spun around a full three-sixty and into some crumbs on the floor… Those at the back were big and thick. He touched the sole of his boot to the top of the right one and pressed hard against the rubber. Good pressure. Great shock absorption. The brake was a little flimsy, though.

“This one’s kind of expensive,” you said, taking the little swinging tag hanging off the bright red hood in your fingers and flipping it over for him to see.

Dean gawked with you at the numbers. How much? For something the kid was gonna grow out of in a year or two, this thing should’ve been made of gold and angel feathers. He stretched over the handle and pushed the padding of the seat down, and his chin into his neck.

He wouldn’t find it comfortable. Then again, his full-blown adult ass would crush the frame.

He turned back to the swell of your stomach, though. His little mango wouldn’t. Sammy never had either. He didn’t have one, being carried everywhere until he could walk from what Dean remembered.

Motel cribs and scratchy blankets that smelled like smoke - and not the good kind. A different room every other week in a shitty town, off the beaten track where they likely never returned to. That was their life. And he couldn’t even remember his mom’s nest because of it.

He’d once said he’d freak out over manicured lawns and an omega who greeted him with a “how was your day?” after some crappy office job. But this stroller with the little stitching and embossed cursive logo under his fingertips. You. The bunker, in its own way. It all represented a stability he could only ever dream of, and now, with the strong chance of it staring him in the face and in his grasp, he wanted it for his pup.

“Is this something you like?” he asked through another shrug and a slight dig of his toes into the cookie crumbs beneath him. Not sure which answer he was hoping for until it left your mouth.

“I mean. Maybe not so expensive,” you said, still holding the tag. Your face frowned as you read over the numbers again, and though you tried to hide it, he couldn’t miss the twinge of disappointment in your tone. “I’d rather get something…simpler. Especially if you’re not on board with us walking without you.”

Dean studied you a moment longer. It wasn’t safe, but he couldn’t deny you normalcy. He couldn’t deny you anything if your history was anything to go by, and the apple pie lifestyle was something you and the pup deserved.

“Maybe the red is a bit too conspicuous.” He pushed the stroller back under the rack, as if it were the real problem, and took a step over to the next one down the line.

The handle was just as soft. The suspension, sensitive, easy to move and lighter. “This is nice.”

At least, he thought. If someone had told him a year ago that he’d be standing here in this store with you, shopping for this stuff, he would’ve laughed in their face. Yet, here he was, and it was nice. And brand spanking new.

He brought it over to you and pulled you to stand in front of him, pushing his chest flush against the warmth of your back. He then leant over you, encompassed you and your bump between him and the display. His head, coming neck and neck with your own, nuzzling your mark, breathing it all in. The apple, the citrus. The odd sweetness of new plastic.

When your hands ran over the leather, he covered them with his own. Soft on soft. Soft under rough.

“You think you can imagine our little guy, all comfy in here?” he said into your ear.

When you hummed, he knew before you even spoke that you weren’t going to let him get away with it this time, but someone else said something first.

Dean had been so busy focusing on you, the stroller and trying to ignore the stench surrounding yours, he hadn’t noticed the approach.

Okay. He was overzealous on the safety front, too. He clearly had good reason to be, and his fingers gripped yours tight, squeezing your bones under the skin. Yeah, you were in a store. That didn’t mean his inner alpha wasn’t gauging anyone else as a threat, even if they worked there.

‘Too close,’ it snarled.

‘She’s a beta. Same as Donna,’ he said, and when he turned around, she was.

Yay high. A healthy dose of extra meat to her bones. If her red and white candy striped shirt was blue and donned a silver sheriff’s badge instead.

“Oh. Didn’t realise I snuck up on ya there,” she said in a voice way too cheery to be in a place like this, exactly as Sheriff Hanscum would have. “Can I help you folks choose a stroller?”

Before he could even decline, you jumped in, your thumbs gaining his attention with a squeeze of their own to loosen his grip. “We’re just trying to decide if we need one,” you said, and Dean lost a few feet off the top.

“Well, that comes down to preference.” Fake Donna nodded and approached with a casual step. Her open palms pointed to the handle, her eyes at him.

He could take a hint, and before anyone could lower his stature further, he pulled you with him to the side, keeping a hand on your waist at the ready.

“Some pups prefer to be worn, so you can get away with a carrier, especially when they’re younger, but if it’s a stroller you want, you can’t go wrong with this one.” Her foot pushed down on the brake.

“She’s sturdy.” She shook the frame.

‘Already done that.’ His tongue swept over his teeth.

“Great price too.” She patted the hood near the tag.

Well, he hadn’t looked at that, and he stretched out and grabbed it, flipping it over in his hands as you had done with the other. It was better, but he couldn’t help the deep inhale and the straightening of his spine.

“And as I said, comes with a travel system. Great for more cantankerous pups.”

Travel? Can…travelling? Dean handn’t wanted you walking without him. Screw travelling. There was no way the two of you were coming on cases with him, either. Of course, she didn’t know his ‘job,’ and thankfully, you were just as dumbfounded as he was judging by your scent.

You exchanged glances, his eyes wide, yours flitting between him and her; but when you opened your mouth to reply, she cut you off before you’d even formed a sound.

“Oh. Bless your cotton socks.” She clapped, making Dean flinch at the enthusiasm. He may have gripped you tighter. “Don’t worry. All first timers are clueless. Comes with the territory.” She chuckled, but Dean wasn’t laughing.

It was uncanny. Along with the missing badge, if you just swapped the stroller for a donut and a cup of coffee, that snort was Donna to a T.

Did she have a twin? A cousin? Was there a mirror around to check her eyes?

‘C’mon man, you’re getting paranoid.’

‘She snuck up on us,’ said his inner alpha as she got mighty close to you.

Dean soon realised he wasn’t leaving this place with just you and a stroller. Nope. With the way she was buttering you up like a sacrificial lamb with retail-speak and mentions of how you were glowing like you were old friends, you were walking out with the whole damn travel system. Maybe more.

“They’ll only stay in this for about six months, or until they can sit up, so you’d need to get both, not just the capsule,” she said. How convenient.

“Or you can get the bassinet attachment. It’s much more comfortable for their tiny tushies.” She was taking lines outta his book.

“But the capsule is probably the best choice. Don’t have to wake them if they fall asleep in the car.” Of course, it was the most expensive of the attachments, too.

“How far along are ya, hun?”

More like, how the hell did she do that? She’d pulled said capsule out and away from the frame in one fluid motion. The click, the only obvious sign something had gone down.

But then you answered. “Ah, nineteen weeks,” you said, and your smile filled your cheeks and eyes with a warmth he’d never forget.

Suddenly, he didn’t care how much the thing cost. He didn’t care if his pup was can…tan…whatever. You standing next to it, one hand tracing the cursive lettering on the handle, the other smoothing over your dress and highlighting the slight bump below it, had Dean captivated.

You made that stroller look good, and he could just picture you pushing your pup in there, all round with another one in your belly. Chuck. He couldn’t help but smirk. The apple pie life was looking mighty fine from where he was, and he closed in on the conversation, now eager to join.

“Do you know what you’re having?” Her eyes flicked to him with a sparkle, welcoming and friendly. She was actually enjoying talking to you.

“A boy.” He beat you to the punch. He took the capsule she’d picked up out of her hands, hovering it over the empty slot in the frame.

“Dean thinks it’s a boy.” Your gaze narrowed at him, and his tongue receded through a grin in retort, which she chuckled at.

“You’ll find out I’m right on Monday.”

And you would.

Just not before.

You were shown more of the store by fake Donna though, and soon that leather cushioned handle turned into the plastic rounded one of a shopping cart. A box with the stroller and its matching capsule inside that would transfer in and out of Baby once he got the right parts for her. Again.

But her candy stripe uniform had to leave you mid crib talk, having had a ‘clean up on aisle two’ kind of situation happen - right on her foot.

“Maybe for the first six weeks, he should stay with us,” Dean said. “Til you’re healed up.”

Okay, some might call researching how soon your mate could have sex after giving birth was a bit of a dick move. Yeah, no, that fit. It was exactly something Dick would do, and Dean felt guilty, even when most parts of him were curious about your healing. Whether he needed to call in a favour with heaven and get you on the mend faster. He couldn’t help if the condition of your vagina came up.

“I could set up my nest in whichever room we decide.” You were half statement, half question on that line. Your hand once again brushing over a store display.

The white wooden finish would get dusty in a place like the bunker. There had to be a reason the old geezers had chosen all dark furniture, and Dean wondered if he could also pull some strings and actually track down Mrs Butters.

“You don’t want your nest in our bed?” he said, unknowing he’d just set himself up.

“I wanna keep it free of monster guts and whiskey.” You narrowed your eyes at him and he pulled a grin from somewhere.

“I can’t help it if I miss ya when I’m gone.”

A brow raised, and he couldn’t help the husk that spiked his voice when he then said, “It was one time.” But though you smiled at his antics, the air surrounding you remained serious.

You were on the other side of the crib to him. Too far for his liking. It was harder to hear. You were closer to the front, seeming oblivious to the potential threat of the many other alphas, just as cautious as he was nearby.

Who knew if one of them would turn? He would if someone so much as looked at you the wrong way.

So he watched, helpless to appear collected from his distance as your fingers moved over the pattern of little ducks on the display mattress with an upturned lip. Your palm pressed into the springy foam, much like he’d done with the stroller. “Still have to decide about a nest birth or a hospital one.”

Hence the angels.

Dean clenched his jaw. You seemed wistful, and he wasn’t sure why.

The appointment was in four days, but the doc hadn’t given you a cut off date on anything. He’d just mentioned it last time, so you’d start thinking about it.

And he had.

It’d been on the back of his mind even before Doctor Cameron had brought it up. They couldn’t bring a doctor to the bunker if things went wrong, and your mom was out of the question even before he’d convinced you not to contact her.

He’d also convinced himself that the decision was yours, though he was hoping you’d choose the Pack Planning clinic. Cameron could be a smartass, but he trusted him to take care of you, especially when he knew he’d be useless.

Beating up Dick for hurting you was one thing. Dean, knowing he was indirectly responsible for causing you pain, was another.

“What do you think?” you asked, looking up when you realised he’d said nothing.

“You, ah, you’ve still got months to decide,” he tried. Hands darting from the cart to the pockets of his jeans. His bow legs pushed against the slats of the cribs side. The thing was sturdy.

“You mean we have.”

No. He really didn’t. Not an out loud one, at least. Opinions on taking the pup for a walk? Yeah, he had one on that. You’d just changed it with your doe eyes, and the help of fake Donna and her sales skills, but this? With his ‘I want you to be safe and in a hospital’ mindset? What if you misconstrued him to mean something else?

You were the strongest omega he knew. Granted, you could get emotional at the drop of a hat these days, which was exactly his point.

“I dunno, sweetheart. You’re the one who’s gotta do all the work. I just put him in ya.”

Your nose creased more in the middle as you circled around back to him. Your head, down and deep in thought, until you stood before him. Slid your hands in between the gap his arms formed next to his waist and gripped his hips. Played with the loops holding his belt as you brought yourself back up to search his gaze.

“You must have some input,” you said. “You get a choice, too.”

If he had a choice, he wouldn’t be in this predicament, but what to say? You were pushing it, and like the mention of hurting the pup in his argument for taking suppressants, he spoke a half truth and focused on his concerns. “I just want you both safe.”

“So do I,” you said. Bit your lip. “It’s why I’m kind of leaning towards the hospital.”

Halle-freaking-lujah. Though why you couldn’t have said that without giving him the third degree, he’d never know.

“Doctor Cameron did say I could bring some of my own nesting supplies closer to my due date. It won’t be a full nest, but there will be other omegas close by, and—”

“Hey.” Dean’s hands were up and out of his pockets, both palms caressing your cheeks. “You don’t have to convince me. I’m on board with that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, and pulled you in closer, inhaling your sweet scent. The chocolate and citrus swirling through it had him smirking.

He kissed your head first. Right on the crown. Fingers tracing little circles over your lower back, hips almost swaying, dancing, blocking out the noises and everyone else around you.

If it wasn’t for the gush of air that mimicked a cracker startling him from behind, he would’ve forgotten where he was. Lost in his own world.

His arms pulled tighter ‘round you and his head turned over his shoulder like a deer in headlights, finding a small boy holding a bright blue plastic gun, still pointed at him. A grin bigger than any of Dean’s plastered over his face.

“James!” a fellow customer screeched. “I’m so sorry,” she hissed in your direction before grabbing his hand and scooping something off the floor. “I told you not to shoot that thing inside.”

That thing was a Nerf Gun. Something Dean had never seen before, and damn straight, he went looking for it in the toy aisle the second he’d wrangled you and your shopping cart away from the cribs.

You’d purchase one another time when he could fit more in Baby’s trunk. The crib. Not the Eaglepoint RD-8 Blaster.

He bought four of them (and extra ammunition).

So what if they were for eight years and up? He’d just passed forty. He didn’t want to risk them not being around anymore when his pup came of age.

So what if he opened it to check it out and then waited up for Sam two nights later in the armchair on the landing? In. The. Dark. It was late, and the bunker had switched down into nighttime mode. The lights and buzz from the old machines below gave off just enough glow for him to see his target and keep him company.

It wasn’t his fault he got Eileen in the nose instead. Her and Sammy’s figures blended together as one, thanks to Sam’s giant Sasquatch physique.

“Hey. Woah. I’m sorry! Sammy didn’t say he was bringing anyone home?” He grit through his teeth and a head tilt, forgetting in the heat of the moment that the omega couldn’t hear him.

“Was I supposed to?” Sam scoffed. “How did you not scent her?” He’d raced to the light switch on the wall and turned it on for Eileen to see them, thus illuminating Dean’s bright red skin amongst the freckles. “I’m sorry,” he signed, before scowling at him. “You remember my brother?”

“Hey.” Dean waved his hand, Eaglepoint still in it, like the fool he felt, switching positions with them and scooting to the edge of the staircase. “I’m just gonna leave you two, to ah…see you in the morning.” He thumbed behind him. He’d find the foam bullet then, too.

“Goodnight,” Eileen said.

Sam was still giving him his best bitchface.

“Night.” He half bowed, spinning around to descend into the war room and further to room 11. He may have sniffed the air as he did, but it would appear neither Sam nor Eileen’s scents had changed.

When Dean had last left you, you’d bid him goodnight. A tender kiss. An ass grab. A gaze deep into those brilliant green eyes of his. You were tired, and even though you hadn’t had as big a day as others, you still found yourself ready for bed earlier than usual thanks to your changing body, among other things, keeping you up at night.

No, it wasn’t morning sickness. What little you’d experienced had subsided. Somehow lucky on that front. But things like leg cramps, not being able to get comfortable because of frequent bathroom visits and a bump that stuck out just enough to be in the road of lying on your stomach were causing you grief.

Now you didn’t want to sleep on your side or back. No. Tummy sleeping is what you craved, and the only craving so far.

You held that pee in as long as possible, disturbing Dean in the process when you caved and shuffled around the bed so as not to trip. Damn balance was already off centre, and as much as you insisted he stay, he still got up to walk with you down the hall or soothe the muscles cramped in your calf from the slightest movement.

And then you were excited. Anxious. All week. The nerves about deciding where and how you wanted to deliver frequenting your mind the most.

So even though you’d told Dean you were going to sleep, you hadn’t laid down at first.

No. You’d sat on the floor, legs crossed in front of you, a no longer neat pile of nesting supplies in front of them. They still lay scattered on the floor, and though it should’ve bothered you, they were a drop in the ocean compared to this feeling.

Trying to work out which items you’d take to the clinic seemed important two hours ago, even if they wouldn’t be joining you on the drive tomorrow.

What if Doctor Cameron showed you the birthing suites? Knowing what was here at home would surely help you plan.

Like Dean needed to be in control of all aspects in his life, you, at the very least, needed to be in control of this. You were an omega after all. Giving birth and nests and pup rearing were something you were meant to be good at, and being good at it required practice and planning.

There was a matter of scents and getting the balance just right on the pieces you’d chosen. As much as Dean hated the cushion with the blue fur, his reluctance when you’d added it to the cart at the store meant your omega wanted his musk all over it.

You’d picked it up, ran your fingers through each whispy strand. The little hairs tangled ‘round each of them, though bringing it up under your nose had been a mistake. It smelt wonderful, like talcum powder. But it tickled your nostrils and made your eyes water, too.

It’d be perfect under a nursing arm, though. Or resting behind your head, presuming Dean wasn’t there already.

Just another thing you needed to discuss at the appointment.

You’d leant back, arms stretching out behind you, your palms flat on the cool cement of the floor. But as you’d strained your neck to chase a glance at the clock, you could’ve sworn your stomach did something weird.

A flip? The kind you got after a small dip in the road or that one time you went on Space Mountain.

Nah.

Yeah?

Maybe.

You were twenty and two now, and you’d been waiting since week sixteen to feel them. You’d been waiting since your first.

But was that it? Would you feel it again? Because you hadn’t.

You’d sat on that floor longer than you cared to admit, waiting more, still and…patient. But when nothing seemed to come of it, you’d heaved a heavy sigh and butt-shuffled back to the bed, leaving that pile scattered. Disappointed, as you used the baseboard to prop yourself up into your non-nest.

It had to be your imagination. You were too eager because of tomorrow and the possibility of finding out. Yeah, that was it.

You’d switched off the closest light, screwing the rest. Snuggled under the blankets, lay on your back, then your side, then the other. The crisp sheets, no longer crisp, pulled and remained loose at the sides, twisted half off you in your feeble attempt to relax.

Only you’d moved back to your back. Wiggled your rear against the mattress. Felt a niggle in your middle. Like a single pop from a piece of popping candy or a throb from blood passing through your veins or Dean’s knot.

From then on out, you were still again, waiting under the low light of the usual lamp for more.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Twelve.

You sighed. Nope. It wasn’t happening. Must’ve been your imagination, and you rolled over. Rubbed your head into the fluffy pillow. Pulled your top knee up and leant in on it. A compromise between side and tummy that’d worked the night before.

But there it was again. A pop, a flip, a throb. Like a little gas bubble deep within your womb…and… Holy shit. You couldn’t put it down to anything else. That was your pup. It had to be. Right there below Dean’s shirt, your skin. Your pup. Alive and healthy, heartbeat, and all.

You sat up, shoved the covers off. Your fingers moved from it to grip the faded black cotton and pull it up over your stomach to see it protruding over your mound and heels, tucked in and not quite under your rear. Your bump wasn’t large enough to cover your toes when you stood, but it stuck out further than your boobs, sitting or no. Soft and pudgy, though, depending on the angle, it was firmer like then.

“Hey there.” You smiled. A well of wet forming under your eyes. “You gonna do it again? ‘Cause I need to be sure before I tell your dad,” you whispered.

Was it wrong to poke them? Probably, but it was a little too late to question it.

Your index finger picked up and pushed the pad down close to your navel. Gentle, of course, but hard enough to make a nail shaped dent when you twisted it just right. You, ignoring all the information you’d read that said they couldn’t feel or hear you yet.

The experts knew nothing when your pup had the stock of an alpha as perceptive as Dean. It was the door in front of you that clicked with his head poking out from behind it soon after. His gaze alight in mischief turned to confusion when he saw you, your exposed stomach, and the mess of nesting supplies.

“You know, saying you’re tired is an excuse for sex, right?” He shut the door and ditched his new toy on the table in the corner. “Not setting up the floor is lava for your unsuspecting mate.”

“I was going through stuff for tomorrow,” you said in a huff as he toed off his boots. “Don’t you want to know why all this is hanging out?”

Even though your face was beaming. Dean still scanned the situation with a lick on the edge of his lip. He’d started undoing his belt and fly, but the process stalled as his brain geared up to fight or flight.

“Is this the real trap?” he asked.

“No. I can feel them.”

“Yeah?” His grin returned, and your head jiggled with excitement.

“He kicked?” And when you nodded again, it only grew wider.

“He-they’re moving,” you said, but Dean ignored the correction.

His bow legs darted around the unravelled blanket and the other, still folded with a bow. He then hopped over that cushion you’d decided he’d be sleeping on tonight and flopped onto the mattress next to you, spreading out like a partner in one of those fake family portraits would.

“My man. Something else to tell the doc, huh?” His arm cradled your swell, fitting snug as he leaned over and kissed your exposed skin first. “Hitting all them milestones. Making his momma crazy already?” His brows wagged as he stretched up to kiss you too before you could retort.

He’d had a whiskey. The smoky remnants on his tongue, just another reminder of something you couldn’t have, making you savour it, and him, all the more with a greedy foray of extra nips.

“So.” He indulged you again, keeping the tip of his nose on yours when he pulled back. “What’s it feel like?”

You had to think about that. The flip? The candy popping? The throb? He’d appreciate that.

Your palm slid over his thigh, close enough to his pelvis to bring the point home. “You know when your knot pops and there’s that pulse?”

“When I shoot my load?”

“Yeah. It’s like that, only stronger.”

He huffed. Part snicker. Eyes, half lidded and lecherous, joined the smirk and twitch of his head. “You mean you’re getting an orgasm in your stomach?”

“It’s not pleasurable.” Wait. That wasn’t right, either. Of course, it felt good.

This was your pup.

“I mean, when you feel your blood passing through your veins. I thought you’d get a kick out of the analogy.”

“Oh. I did.” He looked down at your hand still in his lap only to lift again, expression changing the scene as an actor would on stage. “Next question.”

You repeated the phrase.

His chin pointed towards the mess. “What’s with the nest? No offence, sweetheart, but even I could do a better job than that.”

Obviously, it wasn’t one. Half of it wasn’t even out of its packaging and the shape was all wrong. “I told you I was preparing for tomorrow.”

Tags still hung off the corners of the cushions you’d chosen. They’d be scratchy on your skin, let alone the delicate fuzz-lined completion of a newborn, and none of it washed yet. Nothing from a store was going anywhere near your precious pup unless you’d sanitised, then scented it.

“We’re taking all that?”

“No.” It was three blankets and a few more cushions. Didn’t even fill up half of Baby’s usable trunk. There’d been room with the stroller, its attachments, the Nerf guns and the multiple bags of extra foam ammo. “Not even half.”

How much leeway would you have delivering in a hospital? Rooms you’d seen visiting friends and family were probably about the same size as yours here in the bunker. But as much as the Pack Planning clinic tried to make their space warm and inviting for its patients, a clinic was still a clinic, and nothing like home.

The walls that could use a lick of fresh paint. Outdated furniture lining them collected dust you dusted every other day.

Dean’s scent.

Yours.

It was all a charm surrounding you that calmed and soothed like no other. It didn’t take an idiot to know that’s what you’d be needing most when the time came.

“I just want to go in knowing what I have so I can plan for the space,” you said, and Dean swallowed. Nodded.

“Alright.”

He sat up, whipped his phone out of his back pocket and dropped to the floor with a groan and a definite crack from overused bones.

“What’re you doing?” you asked, because him picking up and pointing the camera point blank at the unravelled blanket while obvious, hadn’t computed with your brain. Why hadn’t you thought of that?

“Getting rid of the trip hazard. There’s gonna be enough bumps in the night with Eileen here. Don’t need you makin’ more.”

Wait. “She’s here?” You picked yourself up and knee-walked to the edge of the bed. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would’ve gone and—”

“Played host? I’m sure she’ll understand why you were sleeping. You can make up for it in the morning.”

Only you couldn’t, because both she and Sam were MIA when you left for Salina. Lost to the depths of his room. Thank god for Dean. With your mind occupied by your nest and your birthing plan, you weren’t too concerned about your territory.

You talked non stop to avoid all of it. Everything and nothing at the same time on the way. The weather. Potential names, Bobby, John and Henry. Dean even humoured you with girls’ ones like Mary and Charlie, while you avoided your moms on purpose. Thankful he had too when he listed every other female who’d been prominent in your lives. Grateful he didn’t bring up the night before or your need to pee.

Of course you couldn’t. Doctor Cameron needed a full bladder for the anatomy scan, and it was hell.

Well, not the actual one, but you doubted, very much, that he or Dean could hold on for as long as you had. All that pressure in your pelvis, aching like the throes of a heat. If Dean had cracked a joke, you’d have no hope.

Each press of the cool gel into your exposed stomach from the transducer, another jab closer to leakage. No wonder multiple pregnancies drove people with vaginas into incontinence. Your bladder, a punching bag for the doctor and your offspring, could only hold so much — oh shit.

The doc pushed the damn thing into your stomach for the umpteenth time on your left side, where you figured one of your ovaries to be. The blunt head dug into your flesh, firmer on account of the recline of the exam table. Your sensitive skin, wetter where you didn’t want wet to be...

“Have you taken the time to think about your options?” he asked, like he’d done nothing wrong. If it weren’t for his hands occupied by the ultrasound equipment and his keyboard, you’d have considered him bored. It was okay when you were the prodder.

“We’re leaning towards here,” you said. “Presuming there’s time?” Just another thing you wanted to discuss.

How long did it normally take? Movies made most births seem like your water broke and that was it. Pushing, grunting, groaning in your nest with loved ones, or on the way to the hospital, finding yourself stuck in the back of a car in a snowstorm on Christmas Eve.

No in between and never an estimate. No, ‘three hours later,’ or ten or twenty or thirty, and you had no one to ask how it felt or what to expect. Besides Cameron, a beta, presumably with the wrong bits.

Dean gave you a reaffirming nod. He was at full attention, in awe, and on edge. You could sense it in his scent.

He’d squeezed your hand in his. Brought your knuckles up to his lips when he’d heard the sharp exhale on yours with the last poke. “No problem with my Baby, sweetheart,” he said, clearly concerned by the drive itself.

Doctor Cameron nodded too as he typed in another measurement. “So long as things stay low risk and you’re happy to travel the distance.”

“Ah.” Dean cleared his throat. “Low risk?”

The doc lowered his head and looked at him and then at you, “All medical procedures come with risks.”

“Right, but, ah, what’s the risk the risk could be higher?” Dean’s feet shuffled beneath him, and this time it was the doc clearing his throat in response.

The pause didn’t help your nerves. That look in Doctor Cameron’s eye, typical. He chose his words carefully. So either there was a risk or it was unknown because you had little history to go on, and your guess was on the latter.

It had to be. The world just worked that way. It was Murphy’s law or some other guy you’d never heard of and theirs.

You didn’t know how long your mom had laboured with you. You didn’t know if she’d needed stitches or lost any blood. When you were asked to fill out that form at your first antenatal appointment with the doc, you couldn’t list any next of kin besides Dean, which was fine. He was your true mate, and you trusted him with every and all decisions if you were ever… incapacitated.

But it was nothing the doc could go off of now, and he didn’t say it. Not directly, at least. What he did, though, was far more valuable, albeit accidental, leaving you surprised, and Dean insufferable. His grin the widest you’d ever seen it, rosy cheeks of pride contrasting his brilliant green.

“Your mate is in fine health, Dean,” Cameron said. “And so is your son.”

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

And there we are! I was honestly really torn on what to give them, me being a boy mum wanted to live vicariously, but I know little boys too damn well, and it will be easier for me to do some timestamps in the future with the nerf guns this way.

I have a name in mind, but if you have an idea, I'd love to hear it! Just know I plan on avoiding Bobby and John.

Chapter 15 - Disappointment 30/05

“Why’re we getting this stuff again? They’re the ones cooking,” he grumbled as he leant over the cart, pushing it forward to let an elderly beta past.

This position was becoming more and more frequent, and he’d become rather skilled at navigating the metal cages. Gold medal material with the way he turned the damn thing. Whether that was good was still up for debate.

“It’s the least we can do,” you said, examining the mound of onions, a piece of vegetable at a time. Turning them over. Inspecting the flaky skin and differences in the colour underneath it. Weighing each piece with your hands.

“No. The least we can do is eat what they cook. You should be taking a load off.”

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If you’d like to be added, you can add yourself HERE, or if you’d like to be removed, please let me know ☺️

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bellyyearner · 9 months ago

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Office life at 550+ lbs Part 2

Word Count: 1050

Gender neutral POV, mobility issues, extreme obesity, stuffing, feedee perspective

Part 1

As soon as you reached your car you felt like you were gonna pass out from exhaustion. You can't remember the last time you needed to do that much activity in one shot. Gripping your meaty fingers around the door handle you swing it open and practically collapse into the driver's seat. The chassis of your car groaning loudly with the sudden burden. One leg on the ground, the other barely inside the car, and leaning back onto the center console you huffed and puffed. Trying to pull enough air into your lungs so that you don't pass out, the reality of your situation finally sets in.

You were filling the space completely. With your hips and love handles compressed between the driver's seat and the steering wheel, pushing your belly slightly higher but still pooling around you and filling all available space. Your heaving chest resting against your throat, forcing your breaths to be haggard and loud, you can hear the cars suspension creek with every rise and fall of your lard ladened gut. Your legs were burning and your joints were crying, your body giving you a harsh reminder of why you don't push it this hard. But that didn't matter to you, digging your fingers into the soft and doughy fat of your overhang, you felt elated. Jiggling and massaging the delicious fat you worked so hard to grow, the pleasure and pain your body was experiencing is the same high you've been chasing for over a decade. Almost losing yourself in it and adding even more treats to your mental grocery list you snapped out of it as you heard another car pull in.

With a sudden moment of clarity you remember you're in public and not that far from the front door of your office, "quickly" you begin to reposition yourself. A puffy left hand gripping the steering wheel for leverage you begin to heave yourself up, pulling one leg inside before taking a deep breath, pushing yourself off the passenger seat with your right. Gas rose up from the depths of your gut and you could taste the cherry cola as the burp ruptured out of you. Instinctively your left hand went to your belly as you tried to massage another out of you but to no avail.

Pulling your left leg into the car and wiggling your ass around the seat you were able to slip into position. A whole multiple minute process just to get into the car, you can't help but feel the endorphins rush through you and send shivers down your spine. The thing about getting this morbidly obese and loving it is that everything you do becomes sexual, to you at least, to others they see you struggle with the basics and feel sorry for you, but you? When you closed the car door but needed a second try because you're just so wide that your fat fucking ass gave resistance and you didn't pull hard enough? Your crotch got hotter, the blood that's usually stagnant from a lack of movement was flowing, and you desperately wanted to handle that immediately. And when you remembered that you couldn't even though you wanted to because you lost the ability to reach without toys, you decided to stop at an extra drive thru on the way home.

Pulling out of the parking lot you take one last look at your office, resolutely determined to never see it again. The familiar bumps in the road jostled your body around like waves in a pool, despite the fear for your suspension, you didn't try too hard to avoid potholes on your way to lunch. Once you had placed your order at the drive thru, you were placing your Walmart order online, adding literally anything that looked tasty with no regard to cost. This is a celebration after all, why not splurge a little. Once you arrived at the window you outstretched your fattened saggy arm to grab a grease covered bag of burgers and large soda. You wondered if the drive thru worker had served anyone as fat as you this week. The thought faded as the scent of your meal hit your nose, quickly pulling into the parking lot to devour everything before heading off to a second drive through only to repeat the process again.

Once you arrived home you spent the first few minutes in the driveway just caressing your fattened form, massaging out little hiccups and burps as you do so. With your gut pressing against the steering wheel you wondered how long it would be before getting into the car would be impossible. You didn't need the car now but decided to keep it anyways so you could track your gaining progress in a fun way. You then repeat the process of left leg out, shimmy ass cheeks towards the door, turn, right leg to the edge, and rise for what you hope is the last time for at least a few months. Waddling to your front door you enter your home and kick off your shoes, another thing you hope to abandon.

With a slow but relaxed waddle you enter the kitchen, grabbing a 2 liter, a bag of chips, and a plastic tin of blueberry muffins before heading to the couch and falling back into the you shaped dent that you've been gorging yourself deeper into. Sips of soda between salty chips you eat with passion, topping yourself up despite having eaten enough for a family of 5 on the way home. When the chips are gone, the muffins follow right after and you can feel the bread expand with soda once it reaches your over worked stomach. With the pressure in your gut rising and supplies running out your hands explore your body and trace the stretch marks you wear as trophies. Deep guttural burps escaping your lips when you find the right spots.

As the weight settles in and your eyes grow droopy from the excess sugar you bite your lip and moan, enjoying the fact that you are the smallest that you will ever be. Pulling out your phone to reorder the most recent door dash delivery because you don't care what it is that slides down your throat, you just want more

#violet stories #feeding kink #feedee encouragement #feedism writing #fat belly #fat piggy #wg story

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forgeline · 3 months ago

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Race horse. The Ford Mustang GT500 MM900 from Middleton Motorsports is dialed in for the track with the full set of track suspension & chassis upgrades, custom fuel system, carbon fiber wing, and Forgeline one piece forged monoblock VV1R wheels! Learn more about the VX1R (including sizes and pricing) at: https://www.forgeline.com/vx1r/p99 🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸 ------------ Wheel: Forgeline VX1R Type: One Piece Forged Monoblock Series: Motorsport Series Finish: Satin Hyper Silver

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

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Mr Oblivious

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

Summary: Oscar Piastri is absolutely oblivious to the fact that people try to flirt with him. It drives Lando nuts. Felicity finds it very amusing though.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Lando Norris had a very simple opinion about Oscar Piastri:

The man was smart, fast, loyal to a fault — And completely, hopelessly, oblivious.

Especially about certain things.

Like, say, the fact that every now and then, some thirsty influencer or overly-friendly interviewer decided they wanted to test their luck around one of McLaren’s golden boys.

Case in point: today.

It was supposed to be a simple media day.

Smile, wave, answer a few questions without accidentally swearing — easy stuff.

And then she showed up.

Some influencer.

Lando didn’t catch her name.

Didn’t want to.

Her outfit was orange enough to suggest she'd Googled "McLaren colors" five minutes before showing up.

Her laugh was the kind that made Lando want to put himself in an ice bath.

But what really got him was the way she locked eyes on Oscar from the moment she walked into the room.

Like a hawk spotting a particularly delicious rabbit.

And Oscar — sweet, pure, unsuspecting Oscar — stood there politely, posture perfect, nodding like he was about to explain suspension geometry to a cactus.

She sidled up to him with all the grace of a Bond girl in heels, flashing teeth and dimples and Lando could see it coming.

Could see the slow-motion train wreck unfolding with the inevitability of a Ferrari strategy call.

She sidled closer.

Tilted her head. Big fake lashes, even faker laugh.

"So, Oscar," she purred, "looking very fit this season. What's your secret?"

Lando, standing just off to the side, already felt his skin crawl.

Oscar, meanwhile, nodded thoughtfully like she’d asked him about chassis balance.

"Consistency," he said, serious as anything. "And good hydration habits. Also core strength. That’s really important for maintaining control in high G-force corners. I’ve been working with a new strength and conditioning coach. Core engagement and flexibility training. Lots of functional range mobility exercises. Very important for endurance."

Lando nearly dropped the can of Monster Energy he was carrying.

He physically turned away, took a moment to compose himself, and turned back — and she was still going.

She giggled — the kind of giggle Lando associated with botched lip filler and red flags — and twirled her hair like they were in a teen movie from 2004.

"Flexibility, huh?" she said, her voice doing That Thing™. Then winked.

WINKED.

Oscar, God bless him, nodded solemnly.

"Yeah. Critical for cockpit comfort. Limited hip mobility can lead to premature fatigue during longer races."

Lando just stared.

The influencer stared.

Oscar stared earnestly back. Oscar blinked at her with the open innocence of a Labrador Retriever about to explain knee cartilage.

It was like watching someone flirt with a toaster.

And then — then — she tried it.

She went for the kill.

"Well," she said, laughing in a way that definitely wasn't natural, "maybe you could show me some... flexibility exercises later?"

Lando choked on air.

Oscar, bless him, just looked mildly puzzled.

Lando’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

Oscar thought she wanted workout advice.

Meanwhile, this woman was basically trying to climb him like a tree.

"I mean," Oscar said, frowning thoughtfully, "I guess? If you’re interested in physiotherapy protocols? There's a lot of hip flexor and thoracic mobility involved."

He paused.

"Although," Oscar added very seriously, completely unaware he was standing in a verbal minefield, “you should always get a doctor’s clearance before starting any high-intensity exercise program.”

The influencer blinked.

Lando stared at the heavens.

Why.

Why had the universe given this man a marriage, a child, and a heart of gold, but no flirting radar whatsoever.

Lando was so angry on Oscar’s behalf he actually saw red.

Because it wasn’t just the flirting.

It was the disrespect.

Oscar — who had a wife who fixed racing models better than half the paddock. Oscar — who had a four-year-old daughter who beat engineers at Sudoku. Oscar — who literally carried his entire family in his heart wherever he went.

He wasn’t available.

He wasn’t interested.

And he damn well deserved to have people respect that without needing to tattoo MARRIED. TAKEN. HAS A BUMBLEBEE-OBSESSED DAUGHTER across his forehead.

And then — because clearly the universe wanted to personally test Lando’s self-control — the influencer winked.

Like, full-on, slow-motion, cartoon-style winked at Oscar.

Oscar blinked back, confused.

Then said, very seriously:

"You should also stretch regularly to avoid cramping."

Lando actually made a noise — somewhere between a groan and a dying animal.

The influencer tried to recover, laughing awkwardly, but Oscar had already turned — calm, unfazed — and was politely thanking the PR rep for organizing the media day.

Lando stormed over, practically vibrating with protective rage.

"Mate," he hissed when Oscar finally wandered off-stage, "you realize she was hitting on you, right?"

Oscar frowned. "Was she?"

"YES," Lando hissed, arms flailing. "She was basically ready to throw herself at you!”

Oscar looked genuinely perplexed.

"But... I’m married."

"YES," Lando repeated, louder, like he was explaining quantum physics to a pigeon. "You are married. You have a kid. You are the dictionary definition of off-limits."

Oscar scratched the back of his neck.

"Maybe she didn’t know?"

"She definitely knew," Lando muttered darkly. "You are actually wearing your wedding ring for once and Bee’s little bead bracelet. You might as well walk around holding a sign that says 'I love my wife and daughter more than oxygen.'"

Oscar shrugged, entirely unfazed.

"I mean... it’s true."

Lando stared at him.

Somewhere between admiration and absolute rage.

When they reached the McLaren motorhome, Felicity was there — perched on the couch, Bee asleep with her head on Felicity’s lap, Button the Frog tucked under her tiny arm.

Oscar’s whole face lit up like a sunrise.

He crossed the room without hesitation, dropped a kiss onto Felicity’s hair, and gently stroked Bee’s back.

Felicity smiled up at him, all soft and warm and easy, like they had a language no one else could hear.

Lando stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching it all unfold.

Watching how Oscar's whole world just locked into place around them, without hesitation, without second thought.

Yeah.

Let them flirt. Let them try.

Oscar Piastri had everything he needed right here. And he was smart enough — good enough — to never even glance anywhere else.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1TeaSpill: BREAKING: Influencer tries to flirt with Oscar Piastri.

Oscar responds with “core strength” and “doctor’s clearance.”

Meanwhile, Lando Norris nearly combusts in the background.

[attached: video clip]

@/pitlanechaos: Not Oscar offering that woman a PHYSIOTHERAPY REFERRAL I’m losing it. He thought she wanted professional advice. He’s too pure for this world.

@/felicityfanclub (pinned tweet):

‼️OSCAR PIASTRI IS MARRIED

‼️HE LOVES HIS WIFE

‼️HE LOVES HIS DAUGHTER

‼️HE IS OBLIVIOUSLY LOYAL

‼️AND WE ARE HERE TO DEFEND HIS GOLDEN RETRIEVER ENERGY

@/formulawoah: This man said “consult your doctor” instead of realizing she was flirting. He’s not oblivious. He’s loyal at a molecular level.

@/landohmygod: Lando Norris being 1 second away from lunging across the paddock like an angry chihuahua deserves its own Emmy. He was FIGHTING for Oscar’s honor.

@/suspension_nerd: If I was that influencer and Oscar hit me with “thoracic mobility is important” when I was trying to flirt, I would simply evaporate on the spot.

@/gridgossip: This man has a wife who fixes telemetry errors in her sleep, and makes him bento boxes everyday. AND A DAUGHTER WHO BEATS ENGINEERS AT SUDOKU. What did you THINK was going to happen??

@/F1psychology: Watching Oscar Piastri react to flirting like it's a sports injury safety video is the most fascinating psychological case study I’ve ever seen. Also, Lando's visible rage is priceless.

***

Oscar waited until Bee was down for the night.

She’d fallen asleep curled up around Button the Frog, one arm flung dramatically across her pillow like she was staging a nap-themed protest. He’d kissed her forehead and tucked the blanket under her chin, switching the night light to its soft pink glow before slipping out of her room on quiet feet.

He figured... if Felicity was going to hate him, she probably shouldn’t have to do it in front of their daughter.

Which was stupid. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

But the pit in his stomach wouldn’t go away.

He was sweating, suddenly aware of how clingy the collar of his t-shirt felt. His hands wouldn’t sit still — twitching, tapping, twisting his wedding ring around and around until the skin beneath it burned.

He felt fifteen again. Awkward and uncertain and too full of words he didn’t know how to say.

And then Felicity padded into the living room, hair twisted into a lazy bun, bare feet soft against the floorboards, wearing one of his old McLaren hoodies that hung off her like it still didn’t understand how it ended up lucky enough to be wrapped around her.

She looked soft. Tired. Safe.

She smiled when she saw him, sweet and a little sleepy, like she was expecting him to ask about what tea she wanted or whether he’d remembered to order oat milk.

Oscar nearly chickened out.

Instead, he sat up straighter — awkward and abrupt — and blurted:

"Someone tried to flirt with me today."

Felicity blinked.

Tilted her head slightly, eyebrows raised — curious, not alarmed.

"Okay," she said, in the same tone she might use if he told her they were out of clean towels.

Oscar frowned.

"No, like — really tried. At a media thing. In front of cameras."

She just blinked again. Still calm. Still patient.

Still not mad.

Just... waiting.

Oscar swallowed.

"And I didn’t realize it was flirting until Lando nearly had an aneurysm."

That earned him a real laugh — soft, sudden, surprised. The kind of laugh she gave him when Bee said something absurd or when Oscar accidentally fixed something in the kitchen by whacking it with a shoe.

It went straight to his chest.

God, he loved her.

"And I was worried—" he continued, words stumbling out now like they’d been dammed up too long, "I was worried you’d think I was — I don’t know — encouraging it or — or being stupid, or not noticing because I wanted to miss it—"

Felicity crossed the room in three quick steps, not breaking eye contact once.

She dropped onto the couch beside him, slid her legs over his lap like she did every night, and tucked herself against his side like she’d always belonged there.

"You thought I’d be mad," she said, amused, "because some random influencer tried to flirt with you?"

Oscar nodded miserably, guilt still clinging to the back of his throat.

Felicity pulled back just enough to look up at him.

Eyes shining. Smile small and full of something dangerously close to laughter.

"Oscar," she said slowly, "I saw the whole video. You tried to offer her hydration advice."

He groaned, already regretting every decision he’d made since opening his mouth.

"Please don’t remind me."

"You told her to stretch her hip flexors," Felicity said, delighted. "Oscar, you sounded like a yoga instructor trying to scare off a client."

"Bee probably would’ve handled it better," he muttered, rubbing at his face.

Felicity laughed — a real one this time, head back, eyes crinkled, full-body kind of joy.

Oscar melted a little.

She curled closer, arms winding around his waist like she didn’t intend to let go anytime soon.

"I’m not mad, love," she said gently, brushing her nose against his shoulder. "She never stood a chance."

Oscar blinked down at her, stunned. A little breathless.

Felicity grinned up at him.

"You are so... mine, it’s not even funny."

She said it like a joke. She said it like a truth carved in stone.

Both were true.

Oscar let out a long, shaky breath, tension finally bleeding out of his chest.

"I just didn’t want you to think—"

She kissed his cheek, quieting him with the ease of someone who knew every version of him — the champion, the kid from karting, the dad who braided Bee’s hair with frog clips.

"I married you," Felicity whispered. "I know exactly who you are. I trust you with my life. And frankly, if anyone tries to flirt with you again, I might just send them a condolence card."

Oscar laughed, startled and in love and still trying to figure out how he’d ever ended up this lucky.

"And also," Felicity added, smirking like a fox who had absolutely won, "it’s way too funny to be jealous about."

He buried his face into her neck, overwhelmed by the warmth of her, by the sharp edges of her wit and the soft edges of her love.

"You’re ridiculous," he mumbled, muffled by her skin.

"And you," she said, threading her fingers through his hair like he was something precious, "are very bad at realizing when people want you." A beat. "And your brain is permanently stuck on ‘wife good, daughter best, car fast.’"

Oscar smiled, eyes closed, letting her steady him with nothing more than her heartbeat and her presence.

"You really aren’t mad?" he asked, still half-disbelieving.

Felicity leaned back, just far enough to look at him fully — bright-eyed and ferociously sure.

"Oscar," she said solemnly, "you are the most obliviously loyal man I’ve ever met. If I had to design a loyalty test, it would look like you."

Oscar kissed the curve of her throat, slow and reverent.

"Good thing I only ever wanted you," he murmured.

Felicity’s arms tightened around him, like she could will him into her bones.

"Exactly," she whispered.

Exactly.

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