#adjustable scaffolding

[scaffoldexpress]

Versatile Adjustable Scaffolding: Safety and Convenience for Elevated Projects

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[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

D35 Steel Prop Load Capacity Test - EN1065 Standard High Load Adjustable...

[jkscaffolding]

J K Scaffolding is not only a rental service provider but also a leading name among scaffolding manufacturers in Bangalore Their manufacturing unit produces a wide range of scaffolding components using premium-grade steel and advanced fabrication techniques. Their offerings include.for more detailsvisitherehttps://jkscaffolding.blogspot.com/2025/06/scaffolding-on-rent-in-bangalore_18.html

[amirsons]

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[qamraalhassan]

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[cressidagrey]

Mother Nature

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

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:   Oscar wants some peace and quiet after the Miami GP. 

Warnings and Notes: Do I like Hiking? Nope. But I feel like this is something Felicity and Oscar would actually do. Also one mention of a past eating disorder.

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

The woods were still. Dew clung to the undergrowth, sunlight dappling in long golden patches through the trees. Birdsong filtered gently through the canopy. Somewhere far behind them, the world was still spinning—grid gossip, media soundbites, and Miami’s pastel chaos—but here, there was just the rhythm of boots on soil, the rustle of breeze, and Bee humming softly behind his ear.

Oscar exhaled.

They’d been walking since early morning, starting near Leith Hill Tower, climbing steadily through the forest. He could feel the weight of Bee in the carrier against his back—her chin tucked sleepily on his shoulder now, fingers tangled in the strap of his hoodie. Nearly four, and still not quite ready to do the whole hike herself, but stubborn enough to demand she start on her own legs before eventually giving in to the ride.

Felicity walked just ahead of him, hair tied in a loose braid, a thermos clipped to her backpack and mud already splattered up her leggings. She turned slightly to look back at him, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. He nodded—still good—and she smiled before turning back to the path.

God, he’d missed this.

No cameras. No ring lights. No microphones shaped like martini glasses. Just trees, and silence, and the two people he wanted most.

They used to do this nearly every week. During the Enstone year, when everything else was grim and grey—when the apartment walls were too thin and the furniture too cheap and Oscar’s future too uncertain—they hiked. Surrey hills. South Downs. Sometimes just long walks through fields behind the village shops. Back then, Felicity was the only thing steady. She kept him grounded, even when everything else felt like scaffolding ready to fall.

In 2020, when Bee was born, and those first weeks were a blur of monitors and sterile NICU silence, Oscar had felt like he was held together by tape. 

When they finally brought her home—tiny, scarred, brilliant—he started running with her. Not to get fitter. Not to train. But because movement meant control, and control meant he didn’t fall apart. Sometimes, when Bee couldn’t sleep and Felicity hadn’t eaten, he’d strap her into the jogger pram and run until her breathing slowed and his own heart calmed.

She’d grown up like that—wrapped against him as miles passed. He wasn’t sure she even knew that most dads didn’t take their toddlers running on country roads while naming trees and talking about downforce.

Ten miles in, and she was still content, even if sleepy. Occasionally mumbling “leaf,” or “mud,” or once, “Papa sweaty,” with absolute disdain.

Oscar huffed a laugh, glancing at Felicity again. She was crouched by a small patch of wildflowers, showing Bee something—a bee, probably, or a rock that looked like a dinosaur. She never pointed out grand things. Always the quiet ones. The hidden ones. And Bee absorbed it all.

They hiked in silence for a little while longer. The trail narrowed, and Oscar adjusted Bee’s weight, listening to her snuffle behind him.

He didn’t say it out loud—he rarely did—but these were the moments that made it all feel worth it. Not the podiums or the contracts. Not the headlines or the hype. Just this.

By the time they reached the zenith,Bee was fast asleep.

She’d nodded off somewhere around mile 10, one chubby cheek smushed against Oscar’s shoulder, her breath warm and rhythmic against the nape of his neck. Her tiny hands still clutched the strap of the carrier, though her fingers twitched every now and then like she was dreaming of climbing trees or chasing chickens back home.

The trail on the way down was easier. Looser, winding, gentle underfoot.

Oscar shifted his weight slightly, careful not to jostle her. He could feel the soft heaviness of her sleep against him, her body completely relaxed in that trustful way toddlers had when they felt safe.

He slowed his pace just a little.

Ahead of him, Felicity had paused by the edge of the trail to wait for him. Her hair was falling out of its braid, and she had a leaf stuck to her sock. She looked up and smiled at the sight of him trudging down the path, their daughter a bundled little koala against his back.

“She’s out?” she asked softly.

“Completely,” he said. “Didn’t even fight it this time.”

Felicity grinned. “Must’ve inherited my stamina.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “She sprinted through a patch of nettles earlier. You were the one who stopped to name all the moss.”

“It was rare moss,” she said, mock offended. “And I was educating your child.”

“She fell asleep halfway through your speech about root systems.”

“Honestly, so rude of her.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. Felicity brushed a few strands of hair off Bee’s forehead where they’d stuck to his hoodie. Her fingers lingered for a moment, just long enough to fix the strap, and then dropped.

They kept walking.

Below them, the hills began to roll out into open fields. A dog barked faintly somewhere in the distance. The world was waking up.

Oscar didn’t say much on the descent. He didn’t have to. Felicity’s arm brushed his every now and then. Bee’s tiny exhales tickled the back of his neck.

The gravel crunched underfoot as they finally stepped into the small car park near Leith Hill’s edge.

Oscar’s legs ached — that deep, familiar pull from too many miles and not enough downhill grace — but he didn’t mind. Not when Bee was still fast asleep, a warm, limp little weight against his back, her curls damp with sweat and her hand tucked under her chin like she was curled into bed.

Felicity walked a little ahead, already fishing the car keys out of her jacket. “She’s really not going to wake up, huh?”

“Out like a light,” Oscar murmured. “I think we broke her.”

“We did let her climb half the hill like a goat before remembering she’s three.”

“She insisted on it. Said she wanted to beat her personal best.”

“Her personal best is usually a tree stump.”

Oscar laughed quietly as they reached the car. Felicity opened the back door with a practiced flick, then held it open with her hip while reaching up to help unbuckle the carrier.

“Okay,” she whispered, hands gentle on the straps. “Let’s tag-team this.”

Oscar tilted his shoulders, careful not to jostle Bee, and crouched slightly. “You take her arms, I’ll handle the leg straps.”

“On three?”

“One… two…”

Bee gave a soft snore.

“Abort,” Felicity said quickly, freezing mid-unclip. “She’s twitching.”

Oscar paused, holding perfectly still as their daughter’s brow furrowed slightly in her sleep — then settled again, cheek smushed adorably against his hoodie.

They both exhaled like they were defusing a bomb.

Felicity tried again, this time even slower, managing to slide Bee’s arms out of the straps without waking her. Oscar crouched lower, catching her under the arms as she slowly sagged into him like a sleepy sandbag.

“She’s dead weight,” he whispered, adjusting his hold. “Like carrying a damp loaf of bread.”

“A very cute loaf,” Felicity murmured, brushing Bee’s curls off her face as she flopped sleepily against Oscar’s chest, her thumb halfway to her mouth.

“Think I can strap her into the car seat without waking her?”

“You drive F1 cars for a living,” Felicity said. “I believe in you.”

Oscar grinned.

Between the two of them, with the skill of sleep-deprived parents everywhere, they managed it. Bee stirred once — a little whimper, a scrunched brow — but Oscar whispered, “Shh, it’s okay, Bumblebee,” and stroked her back, and she settled again like nothing had happened.

They both shut their doors quietly.

Inside the car, the air was cooler. Bee’s head lolled to the side, soft breaths misting the window. Oscar twisted in his seat to check her one more time.

“She’s still out,” he said, voice low.

Felicity glanced back too, then smiled, soft and proud. “That was her longest hike yet.”

Oscar reached for her hand across the center console and laced their fingers together. “She’ll be climbing mountains soon.”

“She already does,” Felicity said. “Just on your back.”

Oscar leaned his head against the seat and smiled.

This.

This was what peace looked like.

Not headlines. Not trophies.

Just this. 

***

The drive home was quiet.

Bee stayed asleep the entire way, her head slumped to the side in her car seat, thumb still curled near her mouth. Felicity had kicked off her boots and tucked her feet under her on the passenger seat, absently scrolling through photos on her phone — most of them blurry shots of Bee pointing at squirrels or Oscar carrying her up the ridge trail like a human pack mule.

They’d barely cleared Dorking when Oscar turned into the McDonald’s drive-thru.

Felicity blinked up. “What are you doing?”

“Making an executive decision,” Oscar said solemnly.

“I literally made lentil stew last night,” she muttered. “We have prepped meals. We have hummus.”

“We also just walked nearly twenty miles with a toddler and haven’t eaten since noon.”

“You had trail mix.”

“I had five sad almonds and a raisin.”

Felicity opened her mouth — paused — then closed it again. “Fine.”

“You’re not going to make me a chart about preservatives later, are you?” Oscar asked as they waited.

Felicity just sighed. “Only if you order fries.”

Oscar pulled up to the speaker. “Can I get one chocolate milkshake and two vanilla, please?”

Bee stirred faintly in the back.

“Make that one vanilla, one strawberry,” Felicity said. “Vanilla is her sleepy choice.”

Oscar grinned at her. “So you do want one.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered.

The voice on the speaker confirmed the order, and a minute later, Oscar was handing over three sweating plastic cups with those too-thick red straws. He passed one to Felicity, who took it like someone receiving contraband.

“I can,” Oscar said cheerfully, taking a long slurp. “You made your own peanut butter last week, you’ve earned it.”

Felicity narrowed her eyes, but the first sip hit her tongue and she visibly wilted. “Oh no. It’s perfect. This is why I don’t let myself have them.”

Oscar glanced sideways at her — head tipped against the window, ponytail loose, cheeks pink from the wind, lashes smudged slightly under her eyes. She looked tired, and soft, and so, so alive.

He thought — not for the first time — about the girl she used to be.

When they were 14 and she was so thin that she looked like a gust of wind could carry her away. When she didn’t eat because that felt like the one thing in her life that she could control. 

Teenage Felicity would have looked at a McDonald’s milkshake like it was poison.

And here she was. 23 now. Ponytail falling out, curls soft around her face, pink-cheeked and barefoot in his passenger seat. Drinking vanilla milkshake without apology.

His heart ached with how proud he was of her.

“Don’t tell the sourdough,” she sighed.

Oscar laughed.

“Bee,” Oscar called gently. “Want a milkshake?”

His daughter’s eyes opened in slow motion, and the second she saw the cup in his hand, she sat bolt upright like she'd been summoned by sugar-based witchcraft. “Strawberry?!”

Felicity sighed. “You have created a monster.”

Oscar passed the cup back. “And I love her.”

Bee clutched the milkshake with both hands and immediately slurped like it was her life source. Then she leaned her head against the side of her car seat and sighed in bliss.

Oscar looked over at Felicity, who was halfway through hers now and trying to look unimpressed. “You can admit it. McDonald’s milkshake is your weakness.”

She took another long sip and gave him a deeply betrayed look.

“I’ll deny everything,” she said. “This never happened.”

Oscar raised his cup in toast. “To our health queen, momentarily dethroned by the glory of vanilla extract and industrial-grade dairy stabiliser.”

Felicity bumped her cup against his with a resigned sigh. “God help me if Bee remembers this.”

Bee, licking artificial strawberry off her straw, chirped: “Best. Hike. Ever.”

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was theirs.

And right now, it tasted like strawberry milkshake and everything being exactly enough.

***

Instagram Post - @/oscarpiastri ✅

Comments: 

@/maxfewtrell: 🤨 i blinked and oscar turned into a poet

@/yourgfcarla: she’s SO PRETTY it’s giving forest nymph who knows how to rebuild a gearbox

@/brakebiasfanclub: he really said: you don’t get to know her, you just get to witness that she exists 🫢

@/formulawives: "still the best part"??? WE'RE SO UNWELL

@/f1updatesdaily who took this picture of oscar’s mysterious engineer wife. was it oscar. is oscar the wife guy of the year. discuss.

@/sourdough_sinners not her looking like a woodland elf who makes spreadsheets for fun

@/f1wifelore why does this feel like a Victorian love letter via Instagram

@/felicitysfanpage i am once again asking for her skincare routine and engine oil preferences

@/danielricciardo she’s out of your league. respectfully.

@/maxverstappen1 did you hike or was this just a nature photoshoot disguised as cardio

@/mclaren Nature looks good on you, Oscar 🍃

@/sophiagracewrites this feels like page 237 of a novel where the main character realizes they’ve been in love the whole time

@/user193847 you guys he’s in love love 💀💀💀

@/f1girlsbookclub oscar piastri hikes??? like with boots and effort????

@/tiregirlie420 idk what i expected from him but it was NOT forest-core husband energy

@/slowpitstopfan excuse me?? he hikes?? regularly??? does McLaren know about this??

@/gaslythotwife I thought he got his cardio in by being emotionally evasive 😭

@/helmetontilt the real plot twist isn’t the mystery wife. it’s that oscar piastri willingly walks uphill in his free time.

@/brakesbeforeboys nah the idea of oscar being like “let’s get some air” and just vanishing into the HILLS is doing things to me

@/be.forreal do we think he uses a hydration pack. i need to know if oscar piastri owns a hydration pack.

@/gridwivesanonymous HE’S NOT EVEN TAGGING HER BUT HE IS GIVING HER “SOFT FOCUS IN THE GOLDEN HOUR LIGHT” ENERGY. THIS IS MARRIAGE. THIS IS A HIKE-BASED LOVE STORY.

@/notyourpitstop just realized that means he wears fleece. like fleece and hiking boots. i’m so unwell.

@/pitlanepropaganda

me: he's a calm analytical driver with an insane corner exit

also me, looking at this post: HE’S A WHIMSICAL FOREST HUSBAND WHO HOLDS HER HAND OVER TREE ROOTS

[paamgroup]

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[mangooes]

Dodge a Bullet, sweetie.

The warehouse was already on fire by the time Sylus stepped out of the shadows, blood mist curling around his boots like loyal snakes. His crimson eyes glinted in the flickering light, face cut in a perfect balance of boredom and annoyance.

“Didn’t even bother sending the big dogs, huh?” he muttered, cracking his neck.

“Sylus, focus,” (Name)’s voice came through the coms—sharp, concerned, and absolutely bossy. “You’ve got six on the roof, three behind the shipment crates, and someone’s trying to snipe from the scaffolding up north. Take a left and—”

He sidestepped without looking, a bullet grazing past his cheek before he effortlessly sent a black-red energy tendril to yeet the sniper off their perch with a bone-crunching crash.

“Left enough for you, sweetie?”

“Yes, but stop flirting and move, they’re circling you from behind—!”

Another quick shift of mist. Sylus twirled, and three men were disarmed—literally—and flung into metal containers like ragdolls. He exhaled a bored breath, flicking blood off his fingertips as if swatting away dust.

“Sylus!” His wife hissed again. “You’re toying with them—stop being cocky and just wipe them out!”

“Oh, kitten,” he purred through the coms, walking with an unbothered gait as chaos exploded around him. “You’re too cute when you pretend I’m in danger.”

“You're alone, Sylus. Not even Luke or Kieran with you. I have every right to worry—”

A metal bat swung at his head from behind.

Without looking, Sylus caught it mid-swing, snapped it in two, and kneed the poor fool into unconsciousness.

“Sweetie, I’m not alone,” he said with a grin. “You’re right here in my ear. That’s enough to make me invincible.”

“That’s not how logic works,” She groaned.

“That’s exactly how my logic works. You’re my lucky charm.” He spun gracefully mid-air, kicking two attackers simultaneously before pinning another to the ground with a tendril and stepping on his chest.

“Ugh, I swear, if you die trying to flirt—”

“I’d rather die being loved,” he teased, voice low and smug.

“Sylus.” Her tone darkened.

“Yes, kitten?”

“...Duck.”

He bent just in time as a blade whooshed above his head. “See? You really are my good luck charm.”

More tendrils shot out, a mass of energy and mist that devoured the last few enemies like wolves descending on prey. Within seconds, it was over.

Sylus stood in the center of the wreckage, casually adjusting his cuffs, wiping a spalsh of blood on his cheeks, like he didn’t just obliterate an ambush squadron with nothing but sass and a bloodthirsty aura.

“Dozens of men, full ambush squad, barely a warm-up.” He walked out as flames curled behind him. “Remind me again why I even bothered stretching?”

“Because I made you,” (Name) deadpanned, the sound of her typing something in the background. “You’re reckless without me. Also, I had a bet with myself how long it would take you to flirt mid-fight. I lost. It was literally the first five minutes.”

Sylus chuckled darkly. “Can you blame me? You’re the voice I want to die to… or live with.”

“That line was so bad.”

“And yet you’re still blushing.”

“Am not—”

“Kitten.”

“...Shut up and come home.”

“I’m on my way,” he said with a grin, stepping over unconscious bodies as if he were stepping over puddles. “Save me a kiss or ten. I’ve worked very hard tonight.”

“You flirted your way through a bloodbath.”

“And still managed to make you flustered. That’s talent.”

She didn’t reply, but the soft giggle at the end of the line was all Sylus needed to hear to make his grin stretch wider. He vanished into the night, blood mist trailing behind him like a cloak of shadows, already eager to be home—where the real reward waited.

His wife. His queen. His softest weakness and his greatest strength.

HEYYY ASKJDASNK IM BACK okay anyways i hope i capture sylus's flirty nature well...cuz im so bad at writing one. IM SO EXCITED CUZ TMRW IS HIS BDAY BANNER TRAILER WOHO YES MY BABY BOY'S BDAY ASKJDNASK.

[cherrywriterrr]

hot on the line

warning: blue collar rafe / mentions of sexual themes / suggestive phone call / light dominance / filthy mouth

the call comes in at 3:42 p.m.

you’re lying on the bed in your tank top, fan spinning lazily overhead, when your phone buzzes once. just once. his name. no text. no voicemail. no facetime.

just the call.

you answer on instinct. “hi.”

his voice is low. hoarse. strained. tired. “you alone?”

your lips curl. “yeah.”

“good.”

you bite your lip and adjust the phone against your ear. you can hear background noise—tools clanking, someone yelling, a saw buzzing in the distance.

“where are you?” you ask softly.

“site out by taylor’s creek. been here since six. it’s a bitch.”

you hum. “you okay?”

“better now.” a pause. “what are you wearin’?”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“don’t play dumb,” he mutters, and god—he sounds wrecked. like he’s been thinking about this all day. “i got five minutes before we pour concrete and you’re all i can think about. so tell me what the fuck you’re wearin’, baby.”

you shift on the bed, thighs brushing. heat blooms instantly at the base of your spine. “just… a tank top.”

“no bra?”

“no.”

you can hear the breath catch in his throat. hear the metal clang of something dropping near him.

“fuck. don’t do that to me.”

“you called me, rafe.”

“’cause i needed to hear your voice,” he says, low and filthy. “needed to picture your pretty mouth makin’ those little noises you make when i get you goin’. needed to know if you were thinkin’ about me too.”

you let your hand trail slowly over your stomach, just enough pressure to make yourself squirm. “i was.”

“yeah?”

“mhmm.”

“jesus, baby…”

he exhales hard, like he’s leaning against something. you can hear the sweat in his voice. like the weight of the heat and labor is finally breaking him down.

“you been good for me today?” he asks, slower now.

“i tried.”

“but?”

you grin. “i wore your shirt around the house this morning.”

“the white one?”

“the one you left in the dryer.”

“baby…” his voice is strained again, and you know he’s palming the front of his jeans now, trying to adjust without anyone seeing. “don’t fuckin’ tell me that.”

“you said you wanted to know.”

“you know what that does to me.”

“what exactly does it do?”

you can hear the edge in his breath. the way his control is unraveling slowly. the tension behind his teeth.

“makes me wanna come home early,” he growls. “makes me wanna bend you over the goddamn counter with your legs shaking and my fuckin’ name in your mouth.”

your breath catches. you squeeze your thighs together and try not to make a sound, but he hears it anyway.

“you like that, baby?”

“yeah,” you whisper. “i miss you.”

“i know, baby. i miss you too.” his voice softens, just for a second. “i’m tryin’ to be good. tryin’ to make good money for us. build something real.”

“you are.”

“doesn’t feel like it when i’m fuckin’ hard on a scaffolding, thinkin’ about your ass in my shirt.”

you laugh, and he groans.

“god, i love that sound,” he says. “drives me fuckin’ insane. i’m losin’ it out here.”

“you always talk like this at work?”

“only when i can’t stop picturing your hand down your shorts.”

you flush all over. “i didn’t say—”

“you didn’t have to.”

he’s breathing heavier now, and there’s a muttered “fuckin’ christ” under his breath that makes your spine arch just a little.

“i’m gonna take you apart when i get home,” he says quietly. “slow. real slow. you’ll be beggin’ me to stop.”

“no i won’t.”

he chuckles. “no. you won’t.”

you bite your lip, breath quickening. your voice drops. “how much longer?”

he groans. “two hours. maybe three. boss said we’re behind.”

“you better not show up with dirty hands and try to fuck me on the couch again.”

“i will show up with dirty hands, and i will fuck you on the couch again.”

you shake your head, trying to stifle your smile. “you’re so cocky.”

“’cause i know you’ll let me.”

you don’t argue.

“hey,” he says suddenly, quieter.

“what?”

“you really miss me?”

“of course.”

another pause.

“you think about me when i’m gone?”

you nod, but realize he can’t see you. “yes.”

“you sleep in my side of the bed?”

“every time.”

he groans again, and something about the softness under his filth makes your chest ache.

“you know what i think about?” he asks.

“what?”

“comin’ home. every fuckin’ day. i think about this exact moment—hearin’ your voice. picturing you in bed. smellin’ dinner, or that lotion you wear. seein’ you in my clothes. touchin’ you.”

you swallow hard.

“i don’t give a shit how tired i am,” he says. “you’re always worth it.”

the line goes quiet for a beat. both of you breathing, both of you holding the weight of it in your chests.

then you hear someone yell his name in the distance—“cameron! let’s go!”

he sighs. “gotta get back.”

you nod, voice small. “okay.”

“but listen to me.” his voice hardens again. “don’t touch yourself. not yet.”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

“rafe—”

“i’ll be home by eight. you wait for me.”

“you’re a menace.”

“you love it.”

you pause.

“i do.”

“good. now go put that shirt back on.”

“why?”

“so i can tear it off you later.”

you hear him chuckle low before the line goes dead.

you stare at the screen, heart pounding, face flushed, thighs trembling.

you toss the phone down and bury your face in the pillow.

god help you when that man walks through the door.

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @rafesfavegf

[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

Scaffolding Props Manufacturing Video -EN1065 Standards - Wellmade China

[jkscaffolding]

J K Scaffolding is not only a rental service provider but also a leading name among scaffolding manufacturers in Bangalore Their manufacturing unit produces a wide range of scaffolding components using premium-grade steel and advanced fabrication techniques. Their offerings include.for more details visit here:https://jkscaffolding.blogspot.com/2025/06/scaffolding-on-rent-in-bangalore.html

[tradebirddigital]

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[mrs-kozu]

𝐂𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝’𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 ~ 𝐊.𝐊𝐨𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐞

READ CUPID’S THREAD Cpt.2 “THANKS TO CUPID” HERE

pairing: kenma kozume x fem! reader 『キューピッド』

genre: soulmate au, romance, no angst just fluff, strangers to lovers, high school sweethearts

prologue: There are stories told in hushed voices and idle dreams, of invisible threads stitched by ancient hands—Cupid’s gift, or his curse. They say each person is born with a thread, fine as spider silk and unbreakable, that leads to their soulmate. You cannot see it, only feel its pull: a phantom tether buried in your chest, tugging toward a stranger whose name you somehow already know. You never believed in such things. Not truly. Until the day you met Kenma Kozume.

Nekoma High was a place of quiet routines and hallway echoes. Morning announcements. Chalk scraping against old blackboards. The low hum of lives not yet fully lived.

You had transferred mid-semester, another new school in a string of too many. You moved like a ghost through corridors that weren’t yours yet, eyes down, footsteps soft, careful not to leave too much of yourself behind in any one place.

And then—you felt it.

It was during lunch. You stepped outside to the back courtyard, the only place where silence felt gentle rather than lonely. You hadn't seen him at first, hunched under the bare-boned tree, the glow of a handheld console illuminating his face.

But the moment you crossed the threshold, something inside you jolted.

A pull. Not violent, but intimate. Like the echo of a name spoken in a dream you’d forgotten. Your heart paused—then stuttered forward, as if adjusting to a new rhythm.

He looked up.

Golden hair, half-shadowed. Eyes like stormlight. He blinked, as though surprised to see you. No—as if he recognized you.

Kenma Kozume was not someone most people noticed. He didn’t invite attention, didn’t chase it, didn’t need it. He had long ago built a quiet world around himself, soft and unobtrusive, where he could exist without expectation.

But the moment he saw you, everything stilled.

The game in his hands was suddenly weightless. The air shimmered around the space between you, thick with something unsaid. Something ancient.

His chest ached.

And though he’d never felt it so vividly before, Kenma knew what it was.

The thread.

You looked at him like you knew the same truth. Still, neither of you spoke. Silence stretched, soft as snowfall. But you broke it first. “Do you mind if I sit here?” He shook his head. “No. It’s… fine.” And that was it.

Not a confession. Not a declaration. Just the first movement in a symphony neither of you had realized you’d already started composing together.

The days after unraveled slowly.

You returned each lunch break, book in hand, sitting beneath that same skeletal tree. He never asked your name—you offered it instead. He didn’t speak much, and you didn’t force it. There was a reverence to the quiet between you, something deeper than the ordinary scaffolding of friendship.

And beneath it all, the thread grew taut.

You felt it in the way your heart stilled when he laughed, low and rare. In the way his eyes lingered half a second longer than they should. In the way you could feel him enter a room before you even saw him. He felt it too.

Kenma would lie awake some nights, headphones forgotten, game consoles silent. He’d press his hand flat against his chest and wonder how a thread so delicate could feel so heavy.

He didn’t believe in fate.

But he believed in you.

One afternoon, it was raining—soft, silver rain that made the world feel far away. You sat beside him under the tree, your umbrella between you like a shared secret.And then you said it.

“I think…we’re connected.” He didn’t ask what you meant. He couldn’t. Because he’d known since the first time your eyes met. “…I feel it too,” he whispered, barely audible beneath the patter of rain. “The thread.”

A beat passed. Two heartbeats. Maybe three. And then you smiled—gentle, real. “Then, I guess we’ve found…each other.”

Kenma looked at you, truly looked, and for the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like something to hide from. The thread had led him here. To you.

And suddenly, high school didn’t feel so temporary anymore.

It had been two weeks since the rain.

Since the umbrella. Since the confession that was never spoken, the admission that felt like opening a window into some place deeper. Since the quiet, sacred exchange beneath the tree where your hands had almost touched, not quite brave enough to close the last distance.

The thread had been quiet since then—but not absent. You still felt it in your sternum, that fine hum beneath your bones. But now it wasn’t a question. Now it was a promise.

And Kenma—Kenma felt it every time you said his name.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He’d built a life around distance. Around being unseen. Unreachable. But you sat beside him like you were meant to. Like the space at his side had been shaped in your image long before he’d ever met you. It scared him.

Because now, the world felt like it could hurt in new ways. There were no grand gestures. No sudden sparks or cinematic moments. Just little things. The slow miracle of knowing. Like the way you waited for him at the back gate before school. The way you brought a second energy drink because you’d noticed which one he always bought from the vending machine. The way he, without thinking, shifted his desk an inch closer to yours during class.

You never spoke of the thread again. But it was always there—unseen, steady. A warmth at the edge of every glance.

And then came the game.

“Kenma,” you said one morning, your breath clouding in the crisp autumn air, “you’re on the volleyball team, right?”

He hesitated. “Yea..I’m the setter. I mostly analyze… strategies.”. You tilted your head, smiling. “That sounds like a brain I’d trust with just about anything.”

He looked away, ears faintly red. You continued, “There’s a practice match next week. Can I come?” Kenma’s throat tightened. He wasn’t used to being seen, not like that. The idea of you in the bleachers, watching him—not because you had to, but because you wanted to—did something strange to his heartbeat.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “You can come.”

The gym was noisy, warm with movement and echoing with sneakers against waxed floors. You found a spot on the top bleacher, heart thudding louder than it should. You didn’t know the rules. You didn’t care. Your eyes found him instantly. Kenma, in motion. Sharp, thoughtful, silent. He moved like someone who didn’t want to be watched—but deserved to be. And when he glanced up, almost by accident, his gaze locked with yours.

And in that moment—you saw it. A shimmer. Just for a second. The faintest glint of silver, trailing from his chest to yours, like moonlight caught in a spiderweb.

You gasped, hand flying to your heart.

Kenma stilled, mid-step. His eyes widened, just slightly—but it was enough.

He had seen it too. The thread. No longer imagined. No longer hidden. Real.

Later, beneath the familiar tree where it had all begun, he met you in the soft hush between dusk and night.

Neither of you spoke at first. You simply sat, shoulders touching. The thread, now visible in moonlight, arched delicately between you. It didn’t glow constantly—only in stillness, in silence. As if it only revealed itself when words fell away.

“I didn’t think it would be like this,” he said finally, voice hushed. “Like what?” you asked. He exhaled, slow. “So… quiet. So real. Like it’s been here all along, waiting.”

You turned your face to him, eyes soft. “Me neither.” Kenma reached out, tentative, fingers grazing yours—and this time, you didn’t pull away. Your hands fit like puzzle pieces long separated. And the thread shimmered between your joined palms like a secret finally shared.

He looked down, then up at you. “…Does it scare you?”

You smiled. “Only a little. But not enough to let go.”

And in the silence that followed, the thread glowed brighter. Not fate. Not destiny. Just you and him, choosing each other. Again. And again. And again. Even in a world ruled by Cupid’s threads… love, after all, was still a choice.

a/n: btw yes…this story was very rushed so not much background to the characters just how you guys meet and your future <3 (sorry)

[bobluvbot]

sweet nothing

pairing: remus lupin x f!reader  summary: you thrive in filling everyone’s cup. remus makes sure your cup gets filled too. wc: 2k cw: descriptions of food, eating a/n: written after a long writing break pls be nice heheh p.s. thank you for all the love for my sirius angst fic!!! i saw yalls comments and messages and appreciate them sm!! i don't have plans at the moment to write a sequel/pt. 2 sorry :'( someday when i get inspiration i probably will but for now it's a standalone <3

The pesto pizza was a big hit.

The news of the heatwave came a month early so it gave ample time for James to rein in the necessary house improvement tasks: yard weeding and tidying, adding small stone steps for the toddler, and ordering the inflatable slip and slide pool for the sweltering summer days. And he was adamant to do it all by hand, no magic, so he “could get the full experience”. Lily likens it to being married to a professional landscaper and contractor at once, thankful that her decision to go on a date with James Potter during seventh year continues to be a great lifelong investment. 

You can still recall Remus’ early morning grumbles when james calls him over for help. It came to a point where he’d beg you to pretend to be mad at the setup, reasoning that “ james is taking him away from his lovely pretty girl” when his best friend calls him at 6am to start the day mowing the lawn. 

James would roll his eyes at excuses falling off of Remus’ lips, but he’d sincerely take your concerns to heart. Lovingly, you’d wave Remus off and give him pecks on both freckled cheeks, encouraging him to go and learn how to tackle on house repairs so he’d be well prepared when it’s your turn to build a family home. 

This usually gets him going, Remus’ secret lover boy tendencies kicking in, but not without grumbling and frowns thrown haphazardly (easily treated with touching and kisses). 

Sirius was off travelling the world for most of the month, much to Remus’ dismay, as he was then promoted as the first-in-line friend in James’ contacts. He did however send over a fancy outdoor pizza oven in lieu of his absence, and it completed the space. 

On the days where you finish work early, you’d join Lily as she picks up her little boy from nursery and take a leisure walk around their quiet neighborhood, a babbling toddler in tow. Then you walk into the perfect setting: the gentle hum of the AC, sunrays reflecting on the white marble countertops, a nicely prepared spread of afternoon snacks for the three of you, and the floor to ceiling glass wall separating the living area from the backyard offering a glorious view of two sunkissed shirtless men doing hard manual labor. Lily nudges you, handing a bowl of pistachios. “A snack for the show.” You return her glance, eyes both twinkling with playful mischief. Maybe the summer days aren’t as bad as it seemed.

But then the first draining day of the heatwave hit. There were minor adjustments to be made still, like some scaffolding to be tidied and hedges to be trimmed, but the heat had a special way to beat down the morale of any living thing exposed to it for a while, and it finally hit James. Early on a Saturday morning, you decided to accompany a still groggy Remus on his usual Potter house renovation shift to make him feel a bit better that you were also losing sleep with him. To both your surprise, James comes from the garden to meet you, looking worn out but wears a proud grin. “It’s all done,” he claims, clapping his hands together and you see him holding the wooden culprit that magically finished hours of yard work in a few minutes. So much for no magic. 

“Get some sleep and come back in the afternoon for the party.” Remus grabs your hand and apparates back home in record time, before James gets a chance to recant his words. 

Completing a full 8 hour sleep cycle does wonders to the mind and soul. A well-rested Remus was filled with high spirits, doting on you as you both get ready for the party. He showers you with compliments the moment you step out of your closet, giving him a twirl. Once the bashfulness sets in, you run to him and try to nuzzle your heated cheeks on his chest, anywhere to escape his lovely sappy gaze. He sits on the bed so you can’t hide, and looks up at you like you hung up the moon. It was maddening.  

“You look stunning, my love,” he says, hands on the back of your knees, sliding up under the hem to meet the soft skin of your thighs and resting them even higher. It took immense strength not to buckle down and fall into him. You’d foreseen this response the moment you decided to wear that white babydoll dress, but actually going through it is a terrible nightmare. As much as the idea of bailing on the summer party and letting Remus do whatever he pleases with you in this dress sounds very appealing right now, you had promised Lily that you’ll help with the cooking and food, and ghosting your best friend for a dick appointment sounds very juvenile. So against your questionable judgment, you grab your boyfriend’s face, give him a chaste kiss, and murmur against his lips, “james and lily will kill us if we ditch.” 

Even though it was an intimate gathering of close friends to celebrate the finished yard, you forgot to account for the amount of kids, partners, and pets that your friends have accumulated since graduation. James had to transfigure the already long dinner table even longer and double the number of chairs to accommodate everyone. The slip and slide also was transfigured into an actual waterpark, complete with a lazy river that kids seemed to enjoy after going on the slides. 

While it was definitely chaotic, it didn’t feel suffocating like packed events usually make you feel. It’s likely because of the familiar faces wherever you look, the ease of conversation just flows. Remus was anchored to your side until he wasn’t, whisked away by both James and Sirius as they announce to everyone who’s listening how his valiant efforts in renovation has resulted in the beautiful yard they were in today. You giggle at the endearing sight of your boyfriend furiously flushing pink while his loud best friends continue to brag about him. It’s just how the marauders would be back in Hogwarts, with you watching their shenanigans from afar whilst nursing a terrible, terrible crush on Remus. Only difference now is that you get to take him home. 

You eventually get whisked away too, thankful that Lily came right on time as you were starting to melt in the heat. The inside of the home smells and feels like heaven, as the chilly air from the AC carries the scent of freshly prepared ingredients and whatever concoction Lily’s currently tending to in a pot. Careful not to disrupt the comfortable quiet, you give her a back hug, a silent thanks for fixing up everything you’ll be needing for the pizza you vowed to make, before getting to work. 

You’ve gone over the recipe and prep so many times that you could do this with eyes closed. The pesto sauce was freshly made a day prior, a delicious result of your raid in your aunt Molly’s garden and fridge. Before you knew it, the only thing left to do was place the pizza into the oven, to which Sirius was very happy to do so he could flex his expensive purchase. 

The chatter didn’t die off even when the dishes started rolling out of the kitchen, everyone now raving of how good Lily’s cooking have been, James not helping by proclaiming, “'m pretty sure my heart isn't the only thing she's stolen—she's got everyone's taste buds wrapped around her finger with her cooking too.” Making his wife flush pink and hit his arm playfully. 

When it was time for your dish, the stakes were quite high and you were feeling a bit nervous. At home, Remus practically inhales everything you make which provides you a good ego boost, knowing that you don’t need to be the best, as long as you don’t accidentally poison someone from your cooking. 

Soon enough, the scent of freshly baked pizza filled the air, mingling with the soft murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. You stand by the head of the table, hands deftly making slices enough for everyone, continuing to scan the crowd, ensuring that everyone is being taken care of.

"Here you go, aunt Effie,” you smile, handing her a generous slice. “Here’s a bunch for you, Fred, careful not to spill and please share with your brothers!" you try to say quickly, but only see a spur of red hair and small hands before they run back to the water slide. 

You soon get a groove going and start to move down the line of smiling guests and waiting plates. Too distracted that you jump a little when you feel a warm presence at your side. Without ever needing to look, you knew it was Remus, who’s now carrying a plate with a slice you don’t even remember handing him. 

Without a word, he picks up the steaming slice and brings it to your lips. You welcome the taste, finally understanding the praise everyone seems to be throwing at your wake. You make a mental note to thank your aunt for lending you her recipe. Remus has his free hand cupped near your chin, ready to catch any crumbs or drippings that might stain your pretty white dress. 

Butterflies in your stomach erupt and fight for space, your entire body vibrating with giddiness and affection for your lovely boyfriend. That distracted look in his eyes as he feeds you in between your efforts in feeding everyone makes the warm fuzzy feeling worse, because you know he’s doing this without much thought, like second nature. That it’s just common sense. That it just goes without saying that his love knows you, fills the needs you don’t even realize were there in the first place.

You wonder through the afternoon then early evening what you’ve done in your past life to receive this love. Maybe you saved a cat from a burning building, or watered a dying plant that had magical powers to heal serious illness, or stars aligning just right to have you exist in the same timeline as Remus. 

You find yourself buried in blankets and clad in a worn sweater, twenty something minutes in a romcom movie in the comforts of your tiny apartment. Remus slides in beside you with a bowl of steaming buttery popcorn and another can of your favorite sparkling water (which he hates with a passion). Your eyes drift to your opened one on the side table, now seeing that it’s almost empty, a few sips left. 

Remus snorts at an obscure joke one of the characters says in passing, and you snuggle up to him, maybe hugging his arm a little tighter than usual, afraid that a love this gentle can vanish between your fingers. He turns and recognizes the look on your face, returning the soft gaze. His free hand brushes a stray hair away, fingers lingering on your cheek. 

“Thank you,” you find yourself murmuring. “For taking care of me.”

You had this conversation long time ago when you first started dating. Having been in some relationships and situationships before Remus, you thought you’ve seen it all. Known the twists and turns, what to ask for and when to keep quiet, what you owe and don’t. But he comes and does things that drove your mind haywire, body screaming foreign! unknown! when he leaves sweet and short scribbles on post-its and sticks it to random places that you’re bound to see somehow, your favorite fruits magically appearing on the basket after finishing the last piece yesterday, being able to count on one hand times where you had to touch the wheel and drive. Its all natural, unprompted, again like second nature. as much as you hated to admit, you’re a control freak. but it's easier this way when you know what comes and goes, what happens and what doesn’t, what won’t happen if you don’t do anything to get it. being with Remus and knowing his love is a shock as it is a clean slate. to unlearn roughness and rigid and know to be soft and vulnerable. 

you’d thanked him. when he gave you a confuddled look, like he didn’t just make your heart grow two sizes bigger in one day. you then started enumerating things he did that made you feel appreciated and loved. you were expecting him to be happy that you see and celebrate his effort, any reaction honestly but a frown. “you don’t need to thank me for those things,” he had said, holding your hand and gently rubbing circles when he sensed that his reaction scared you. “That’s how I show my respect and care for you. ‘s nothing special, just what’s right.” You couldn’t stop the ugly sobs that came after that, when you realized that yes, this was the bare minimum of a healthy relationship, but you made space for less because that’s all you’ve ever gotten, even when you’d ask. 

This time however, maybe because its near midnight and you’re both worn out for the day, Remus lets you. “Always.”

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[dee-writes-anime]

I am requesting the saddest most gut wrenching deku x reader angst ever

So imagine reader with a transformation quirk right? And every time she shifts she gets more tired? And one day after the war she just never wakes up again.

Do as you please with this

Can’t wait for deku’s reaction 🫩😈

MONTY! Eat sleep drink!

We Did It, Didn't We?

FEATURING Izuku 'Deku' Midoriya x Reader

SUMMARY for the world, the war against All for One is over, but inside a hospital, a war still rages for Izuku against time.

CONTENT WARNINGS hella angst, major character death, greif and loss, pain, descriptions of war

AUTHORS NOTE medical related fics just seem to keep finding me these days, hope you enjoy this gut wrenching angst monty! Remember, you asked for this MUAHAHAHHAHA

The war was over.

That’s what they kept saying. Like it was some kind of comfort. Like it meant anything at all.

The world outside was already beginning to rebuild. Streets once leveled by destruction were now lined with scaffolding. Windows gleamed again. Flags waved in the summer wind, bright and proud, as if plastering over the ruins made the scars disappear. People cheered in the streets, called him the Symbol of Peace.

But none of them were in this room.

In here, the war still lived. In here, it refused to end.

The hospital room was cold and sterile, the soft hum of machines filling the stale air. An IV ticked steadily beside your bed. Monitors blinked with quiet indifference, beeping rhythmically as if mocking the fragility of life.

Your life.

You laid so still.

Your skin was pale under the fluorescent light, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in careful, mechanical rhythm. Not your breath. The machine’s breath. A steady imitation of life.

Izuku sat beside you, slumped forward in the chair he rarely left, his broken frame a stark reflection of the price paid.

His arms—what remained of them—rested awkwardly in heavy prosthetic braces that clamped around his shoulders and torso. The metallic frames gleamed under the lights, still unfinished, still temporary. His real arms were gone. Torn away in the final battle, shredded beyond anything Recovery Girl or even Eri could fix. His body had been salvaged. His heart… less so.

Even now, months later, he still woke up forgetting they were gone—only to try moving them, only to feel nothing but the weighted pull of the harness, the dull ache of phantom pain.

He stared at your face as if he could will your eyes to open.

You hadn’t opened them since that day. Since you collapsed in his arms on the battlefield.

Your quirk had been a double-edged sword from the beginning—a transformation ability with near-infinite potential. You could shift, adapt, mold your body into weapons, shields, whatever the battle demanded. You were brilliant. Fearless. Terrifyingly strong. But every shift drained you. Every transformation took something you couldn’t get back.

And in that final fight — when everything was ending — you gave all of yourself to shield him.

He replayed it constantly, that final moment.

The way you threw yourself in front of him, shifting your body into armor as a blast tore toward them. You screamed through the transformation, muscles shredding, cells breaking apart under the strain. He could feel your heartbeat weakening as you braced against the blow that would’ve ended him.

You smiled through the blood.

"We did it, didn’t we?" you whispered, right before your knees buckled.

And you never woke up again.

Izuku exhaled shakily, the movement making the prosthetics hiss softly as the internal servos adjusted. His breath misted slightly against the chill of the room.

"You didn’t have to do that," he whispered, voice raw. “You didn’t have to protect me like that.”

His voice trembled, eyes burning behind red, sleepless lids.

"You always did this," he continued, his words cracking beneath the weight of guilt. "You always pushed yourself further. You took on more than anyone ever should’ve asked of you… and you smiled like it was nothing."

He tried to swallow the lump building in his throat, but it caught and burned.

"You promised me you'd stop pushing yourself so hard." The words slipped out like a prayer. "You promised me you'd rest after this."

He shifted forward slightly, the braces creaking with effort as he leaned toward your hand. His shoulder tensed under the straps as he tried to raise his prosthetic to touch you but failed. The weight of his ruined body mocked him again.

His head dipped instead, his lips brushing against the back of your cool hand. The small contact was all he could manage now.

"You saved everyone," he whispered. "You saved me."

The machine's steady beeping filled the silence like a cruel metronome, counting down seconds that stretched endlessly.

Sometimes, he still talked to you like you were here.

"Maybe tomorrow," he always told himself. "Tomorrow she'll wake up. Tomorrow it'll change."

It was foolish, childish even. But hope had always been his curse.

Outside the window, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the floor. The world kept moving. People kept living. The war heroes were honored. Statues raised. Newspapers printed stories of victory.

Victory.

But what did victory mean if you weren’t here to see it?

Izuku’s breath hitched sharply, and the tremor in his jaw returned.

"I was supposed to protect you," he whispered. "I swore I wouldn’t lose anyone else."

His shoulders shook as silent tears fell freely now, sliding down his cheeks and soaking into your blanket. The cold steel of his braces dug into his sides as his broken frame curled tighter into itself.

"I wasn’t strong enough," he sobbed. "Not for you."

Then— A sharp, piercing tone filled the room.

The monitor flatlined.

Izuku froze, blood draining from his face. His stomach hollowed out instantly.

"No," he whispered. “No, no, no, please—please—”

The door burst open as nurses rushed in, calling out orders, moving like a well-rehearsed dance.

“Code blue!”

Hands tried to gently pull Izuku back, but he fought them weakly, stumbling against the bed with the awkward weight of his braces pulling him off-balance.

“She was stable!” he gasped. “She was stable—!”

The nurses didn’t answer. Their eyes said everything.

He watched them work—compressions, shocks, the frantic movements—while something deep inside him shattered completely.

He saw the doctor glance at the clock. Then the slow, painful shake of his head.

"Time of death — 5:42 PM."

The words struck like a blade to the ribs.

Izuku collapsed, knees hitting the floor beside your bed. His body trembled as he fought to breathe, as if his lungs refused to keep going without you.

His broken, prosthetic-wrapped frame hunched over as his forehead pressed against your lifeless hand.

"I’m sorry," he sobbed. His voice broke into nothing but raw, breathless sound. "I’m so sorry… I couldn’t save you."

The weight of his failure bore down heavier than any injury he'd ever suffered.

The nurses stepped back, leaving him alone with you. The world outside faded entirely. All that remained was the quiet hum of the machines shutting down, the fading warmth of your hand under his trembling lips.

Victory meant nothing.

The war was over.

And yet, here he was.

Alone.

Izuku stayed long after the room grew dark.

And though the world crowned him as its Symbol of Peace, though monuments bore his likeness, though people spoke his name with reverence—

He carried you inside every shattered piece of him.

The battle was over.