#i might post it and not write more for it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pitlanepeach · 3 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-One

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, death-anxiety (no actual death), Lando being an amazing husband.

Notes — Get the tissues ready. Check out the R.S Pinterest board post-chapter for some visuals!

2024 (Monaco)

Oscar sat cross-legged on the sofa, unwrapping a granola bar. Amelia lowered herself onto the chair opposite him with her notebook.

"What would you do if a child started to projectile vomit in a moving vehicle?" She asked, pen ready.

He blinked. "Sorry—what?"

"Answer the question."

"...Pull over. Make sure they're, like, breathing. Crack a window to get rid of the smell."

Amelia nodded. "Okay." She jotted something down.

Oscar narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"No concern of yours. Do you know how to sterilise a baby bottle?"

"Uh... no?"

"Do you know how to swaddle a newborn?"

"No, but I could YouTube it?"

She scribbled again, then looked up. "If Lando and I died tragically in a freak accident, would you be able and willing to raise our child?"

He choked. "What the hell?"

"Answer the question."

He coughed. "I—yeah? I mean, if that happened, yeah, I'd step up."

Amelia tapped her pen. "You'd need to cut back on the amount of time you spend on the panel court."

Oscar muttered, "I'd just take the baby with me."

—

Max Fewtrell sipped his flat white while Amelia stared at him, all beady eyed and completely unreadable.

"Do you own a fire extinguisher?" She asked flatly.

"...Good morning to you too?"

"Max."

"Yes. I think. Maybe? I don't know. Why?"

"Do you have a last will and testament?"

He stared at her. "Jesus, Amelia, are you going to have me killed?"

"This is all hypothetical, of course."

"What is happening right now?"

"Final question," she said. "Do you think you could emotionally support a child through the grief of losing both parents in a tragic accident?"

"...Oh my god."

Amelia didn't blink. "You're being considered for the position."

"For what?"

"Okay. I have enough information. Goodbye."

She left him sitting with his untouched croissant, both confused and mildly alarmed.

—

They walked side by side, Amelia waddling more than walking at this point. Fernando glanced down at her notepad.

"You are writing notes about me?"

"I'm evaluating your parental fitness."

"Why?"

"You might be a candidate to become the guardian of my daughter. In the event that Lando and I both die."

He blinked. "That is very grim."

"Statistically unreasonable," she said. "For me, anyway. Lando not so much." She sighed, chewing on her lip.

Fernando rubbed his jaw. "What is the criteria I must meet?"

"Emotional regulation. Moral compass. Childproofing competency. Capability of enduring a preschool dance recital."

He made a considering expression. "That last one might be a difficulty."

"You're top three so far." She told him.

"...I do not know if that is flattering or mildly scary."

"I trust you not to let her become a Red Bull junior driver; should she decide to start karting."

He nodded sagely. "Yes. Very good."

—

Amelia leaned across the table. "I have a few questions."

Max didn't look up from his phone. They were drinking milkshakes at a local coffee shop on the harbour. "Sure."

"If you had to raise a child you didn't birth, what would be your discipline strategy?"

"...Sorry?"

"Say me and Lando die. Hypothetically, if you got custody of our daughter, would you leave her at a petrol station if she disappointed you?"

He finally looked up. "Why would I get custody?!"

"I'm evaluating every available options."

"For a child that isn't even born yet?"

"She already exists. She's just... inside."

Max stared at her. "Zusje, you and Lando are not going to die."

She frowned at him. "You can't know that for sure."

He sighed. "Fine. I guess... No. I would not leave her at a petrol station, or stab any of her mechanics with a fork. But I would teach her how to drive early. Enter her into karting at three. Make sure she is ahead of everybody else."

Amelia jotted that down. "Noted."

"Am I seriously being considered?"

"You have the lowest risk of emotional instability during a crisis." She informed him.

He blinked. "Oh. Really?" He asked. "I feel like I'm a bit... hot-headed."

She shrugged. "Never with me, though. So I think you'd be the same with my little girl."

He stared at her for a beat and then smiled. "Yeah, Amelia. I think I would be too."

—

Amelia had kicked off her shoes the second she stepped into the apartment, now she was curled on the couch, laptop perched on her bump, tongue between her teeth as she typed furiously.

Lando came in behind her, fresh from a shower and still towelling off his hair. "Hey, babe. You hungry or—" He paused. Squinted. "What's the spreadsheet for?"

"Um," she said, not looking up. "It's colour-coded." She said, instead of answering the question.

"Of course it is." He padded over, still shirtless, and peered over her shoulder. "Fewtrell?"

"Yes."

"...And Oscar? Alonso? Verstappen?"

"Mmhmm."

He leaned closer, confused. "What is this?"

"Um."

"...Amelia," he said slowly, his voice pitching higher with suspicion. "What is this?"

She tapped something in the cell next to 'Max Verstappen – discipline style' and replied casually, "I'm compiling an assessment list for potential legal guardians in the case of our untimely deaths."

Lando froze. "I'm sorry— what?"

She finally looked up, frowning. "You're speaking very loudly."

"Because you're interviewing our friends to be our child's guardians in case we die?"

"Yes. Obviously. We'd need someone capable, emotionally regulated, ethically sound."

He blinked. Hard. "What about our parents? Or, like, one of my siblings? You know... our actual family."

She made a face. "Okay, I see your point." She said, completely sincere. "But I'd feel more comfortable having a list of at least five people who would be capable of stepping in."

Lando ran a hand through his hair. "Babe, you asked Oscar if he'd raise our daughter and didn't even think to mention this to me?"

"I was testing him under spontaneous stress," she said matter-of-factly. "He passed."

"Oh my god." Lando dropped onto the couch beside her, one hand dragging down his face. "Baby, we are not going to die, okay? God, maybe we should go to therapy about this."

"You already have therapy," she reminded him. "On Tuesday."

"I meant extra therapy. For both of us."

She turned the laptop toward him. "Do you want to see the rankings?"

"I—No! Wait—yes. Who's top?"

"Right now... Fernando."

He pulled a face. "Fernando?"

"He's extremely competent. Low emotional volatility. Has a very secure apartment and a predictable routine. He is also old, wise, and very rich. He would be able to hire wonderful childminders."

"...That's fair."

"Oscar is second."

"Obviously." He said.

"Max — Verstappen — third."

Lando tilted his head. "Seriously?"

"He would make sure she was loved. She'd grow up with discipline and money. Also, he has very cute cats."

Lando laughed, despite himself. "That's not... wrong."

"I ruled out Daniel because I texted him and he said that he would 'just vibe it.'"

Lando winced. "Yeah, okay, that's fair grounds for dismissal."

"Fewtrell's somewhere in the middle," she added, with a conflicted sigh. "I know we love him, and P, but he's still young and not settled down properly."

"I mean..." Lando shook his head, half-exasperated, half in love. "Babe. I love you so much, but this is mental."

"It's preparation. Contingency is kindness."

He stared at her — tan skin aglow from the laptop screen, expression painfully earnest. "You're... god, you're terrifying and brilliant."

She frowned. "I'm not terrifying."

"You kinda are."

"Do you want me to stop?" She asked, earnestly.

Lando's face softened completely. "No. I want you to keep being exactly you. I just also want to have a say in our daughter's future, you know, if we're both exploded in a tragic yacht fire."

She nodded. "Okay. That's fine."

He pulled the laptop from her lap, setting it on the table, then leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Can I be honest?"

"Always."

"I get scared sometimes too. About what will happen if something goes wrong. I think about all of the worst-case scenarios. But I know that I can't let myself obsess over 'what if's', or else I'll forget to enjoy the life I do have." He told her softly.

"Maybe that's a good idea," she muttered, but softened when he slid his arms around her and tugged her gently into his lap, belly and all.

They sat like that for a long moment, her head on his shoulder, his hands resting protectively over the curve of her bump.

"You know," Lando murmured, "no one could ever really replace you. No matter how good they are at bottle sterilising."

Amelia blinked hard. "I know."

"And if anything ever happened to me... she'd still have you. And that would be more than enough."

She buried her nose against his collarbone. "Don't say that."

"Okay. But it's true." He said into her hair.

She sniffled. "Our parents would do it, wouldn't they? They'd work together and make sure that she's raised the way we were. With love and care and attention."

"Yeah, baby. I think our family is the best idea." He told her honestly. "But you can still use your spreadsheet to choose Godparents, maybe?" He suggested.

She scrunched her nose. "I'm an atheist."

"Me too. I still have Godparents. They're just like... glorified Aunts and Uncles."

"Oh." She mumbled. "We'll have to have a long discussion about that."

He chuckled into her hair. "Okay, baby. Whatever you want."

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on the bed, half in her pyjamas, a stack of papers pushed off to the side. Her phone was pressed to her ear, the lights dimmed low. The baby kicked once — firm — beneath her ribs. She didn't react.

"Hi, Mum," she said when Tracey picked up.

"Hi, love. Everything okay?"

"No." Amelia didn't bother softening it. "I mean — not catastrophically. But I need to talk about something and I don't want you to tell me I'm overthinking."

"I never would," Tracey said gently. "Go on."

A beat passed. Then another. Amelia closed her eyes.

"If something happens to me. Or me and Lando. What happens to my baby?"

There was a pause on the other end. Not long. But present.

"Darling..."

"I've been making a list," Amelia went on. "Of potential guardians. Interviewing people. Assessing them. I've made a spreadsheet."

"I'm not surprised," Tracey said softly.

"I thought about putting Oscar first, but he doesn't know how to sterilise a bottle. Fernando is high scoring but he's not got much experience for kids. Max F would probably fill her bottles with Monster Energy."

Tracey laughed, despite herself. "What about us?"

"I assumed you'd all be willing to help. But I need a legal designation. If we die, someone has to be named. Officially."

"Sweetheart... I understand. I do." Tracey's voice was steady, but warm. "But it's also so unlikely."

"I know it's unlikely." Amelia's voice was sharp, strained. "But I can't bank on unlikely. That's not how I work. That's not safe."

There was silence again. Amelia's fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh.

"I just—" Her voice cracked. "I don't want her to be scared. Or confused. Or be stuck with someone who doesn't understand her. Especially if she's—like me."

"She'll be loved," Tracey said immediately. "No matter what she's like. Because she'll be yours and Lando's little girl. And because you'll have taught her how to explain herself. Just like you've done your whole life."

Amelia blinked hard. "You think she'll be alright?"

"I know she will be. And not just because you've planned ten steps ahead. But because she'll grow up with people who see her. Who will do whatever it takes to understand her. Just like we did with you."

There was quiet on the line. The baby kicked again, softer this time. Amelia exhaled.

"I don't want to need the plan," she said, very quietly. "But I need to have the plan."

"And that's okay," Tracey said. "You make the plan. You have it in place that me and your dad, or Lando's mum and his dad, will be named legal guardians. But then, when you're ready, let it sit. You don't need to carry it every minute."

"I don't know how not to."

"Then I'll carry a little bit of it for you. So will your dad. So will Lando. That's what family's for."

A long pause.

"Thanks, Mum."

"I love you."

Amelia wiped her cheek. "Yeah. I know."

—

Amelia lay on her side, half curled around a pillow, hoodie bunched over the top of her belly. Lando was pressed close behind her, one hand splayed gently across the curve of her bump.

"She's awake," he murmured, grinning against her shoulder. "I felt her boot me in in the hand just now."

"She likes to kick when I'm horizontal," Amelia said, with a sigh. "She's very inconsiderate."

Lando chuckled and flattened his palm more purposefully, thumb brushing small circles near her belly button. "You think she knows it's me?"

"She reacts to your voice. She kicks harder for Oscar at the moment, though."

"That's rude." He leaned down, speaking directly to her stomach. "You know I'm the one who's gonna be changing your dirty, stinky nappies, right?"

The baby gave a solid thump.

Lando pulled back, eyes wide. "Did you feel that? She literally just responded to me."

"Of course I felt it," Amelia muttered.

Lando laughed again and shifted so he could look at her properly, brushing a few stray hairs away from her forehead. "Okay, okay. What if I..." He pressed a kiss to her belly, then whispered, "You're the coolest little bean in the universe."

Another kick.

"She's gonna be so spoiled," Amelia said. "You're already hyping her up."

"She should be hyped up. Look at her genes."

Amelia laughed. "Lando."

Lando turned to her with a mischievous glint. "What do you think happens if I play a recording of a V10 engine?"

"She might decide to come earth-side early." She said.

Lando snorted.

Amelia shifted onto her back, guiding Lando's hand as the baby rolled again, this time slower, like she was listening.

"She's so real," Amelia said, quieter now. "Still doesn't feel like it all the time. But she is. Real."

"I know," he said. "I think about it every day. That we're... gonna be parents. That I get to do this with you."

Amelia didn't look at him, but her fingers curled gently around his. "You're really good with me."

"Yeah, well," he murmured, resting his forehead gently against hers. "I kind of love you."

She turned her head a little, and he kissed her softly — slow and familiar, the kind that didn't lead anywhere except safety.

Their hands stayed linked over the baby as she shifted again beneath their skin.

"Do you think she'll be scared the first time we bring her into the paddock?" Lando asked.

"No. She'll be too tiny to be scared, I think. And by the time she's old enough, it'll just be... normal for her," Amelia muttered. "But we've got to get her paddock credentials sorted as soon as she's born."

He grinned. "We'll start with a tiny little VIP badge to clip to her baby grow. And some ear defenders."

"Smart," Amelia said. "We'll both have plenty of loud men to block out."

They fell asleep like that, legs tangled, baby between them, and the next morning came soft and golden through the curtains; the first light falling directly across Amelia's stomach, as if even the sun was trying to say hello.

—

It was already warm under the canopy, even though the Monaco sun hadn't fully crested the hills yet. The McLaren paddock buzzed—orange polos everywhere, cameras drifting past on gimbals, mechanics laughing over first-cup coffees that smelled like dark chocolate and fuel.

Amelia stood at the edge of it all, arms folded over her bump, dark sunglasses perched on her nose, clipboard hugged tight against her chest. She'd already rewritten a run-plan line item; now she was waiting—still—for Oscar.

He finally jogged up, bag slung over one shoulder. "You look like an army-recruitment officer," he puffed.

"You wouldn't last a day in the army," she replied, eyes still on her iPad. "You're always late."

"I'm sorry," he groaned. "And I'm only seven minutes late!"

"Seven minutes and you dropped croissant flakes all over the sim consoles last night. They ended up in the throttle pedal housing. I had to get on my hands and knees with the little handheld hoover. Do you know how difficult it is for me to bend over right now?"

"I was hungry. I needed energy!"

She raised one eyebrow. "Energy bars exist and they don't shed pastry all over the priceless simulator equipment."

He pursed his lips, sighed an apology, then nodded toward the interior of the motorhome. "Sorry. Fine. Come on. Tom's waiting."

—

The briefing room smelled of whiteboard marker and fresh rubber. Tom Stallard—clipboard in hand, headset looped around his neck—looked up as they entered. He offered Amelia a polite nod and Oscar a wry smile.

"Morning," Tom said, voice calm, measured. "Figured we could run through hand-over minutiae before first practice?"

Amelia slipped into the chair beside him, dropping her own clipboard with a soft thud. "Good idea. At least one of you is prepared today."

"Hey!" Oscar protested.

Tom chuckled. "I'm fairly prepared, I guess."

"That's good," Amelia muttered, tapping notes on her iPad.

She flicked the screen toward Tom. A colour-coded chart lit up; Oscar's preferred comms phrasing, ideal brake-migration tweaks per track, panic phrases to watch for. Oscar-Handling 101, the header read in dead-serious Helvetica.

Tom scanned it, impressed. "This is on-top of the big folder you've already put together for me?"

"Contingency is kindness," Amelia replied. "I'm not leaving him undefended while I'm off having a baby."

Oscar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "She's terrified you'll let me eat in the sim room."

Tom grinned. "Contraband food noted."

Amelia pointed at the final column. "He also says 'copy, copy' when he's flustered. Means he hasn't copied. Repeat the instruction."

Oscar's ears went pink. "Well you didn't have to put that in writing."

"It's an operational fact," she said simply.

Tom set the chart aside. "We'll be okay, Amelia. I've shadowed enough of your sessions to know how you translate his feedback. Not as well as you can — but enough."

She exhaled—one of those slow, controlled breaths. God, she felt like her organs were running out of room. "I know. My brain just... insists on double-checking." Her hand rested instinctively on her belly. "Can't exactly be on the pit wall at forty weeks."

Oscar's expression softened. "You'll still be in my ear sometimes, right? From home?"

"As a 'consultant'," Tom said, quoting with his fingers. "Team's already approved remote link-ups when needed."

Amelia nodded. "I'll ping in for data dives. But Tom's your primary. Listen to him. Trust him."

"Understood," Oscar said, suddenly earnest. "And... thanks—for all this. For everything. I knew you'd be — all Amelia about this. But you didn't have to be. And I really appreciate it."

She blinked behind the sunglasses, uncomfortable with sentiment. "Just keep running at the top of the field. Keep pushing yourself. Maybe win a race." She told him.

Tom pushed his chair back, easy and steady. "Right. Track walk in ten."

Oscar slapped the table once in mock salute. "Yes, sir."

He turned to Amelia as they headed for the door. "No more croissants in the sims," he promised.

She handed him a protein bar out of her bag. "Here. This is better. More stable energy, less saturated fats."

He grinned, unwrapping it. "Aw. You still love me even after crumb-gate."

"Crumb-gate," she echoed, her mouth twitched upward.

Tom watched the exchange with quiet amusement. As they stepped onto the sun-lit pit lane, he leaned toward her. "He'll be fine, Amelia."

She adjusted her headset, gaze following Oscar's retreating figure. "I know. So will I." A small pause. "But I still hate it when he's late."

Tom laughed. "I'll keep him on military time."

—

The Monte Carlo sun had a way of making everything feel cinematic. White yachts bobbed on sapphire water, the harbour glinting just beyond the paddock gates. Amelia stood by the McLaren motorhome in a clean papaya polo, sunglasses tucked into her collar, bump unmistakable beneath the fabric.

It was Media Day, and the buzz was palpable.

She adjusted her earpiece as the Sky Sports producer counted them in, the familiar voice of Natalie Pinkham coming through her headphones with a bright, practiced warmth.

"We are here in beautiful Monaco with a very special guest — Amelia Norris, McLaren's lead performance engineer and, of course, Oscar Piastri's race engineer. Amelia, welcome."

Amelia gave a nod, her voice calm, direct. "Thanks. It's really hot, isn't it?"

Natalie laughed. "That it is. Listen, you've had a phenomenal season — McLaren's surge in performance, Oscar's consistency, and Lando finally breaking through for his first win. You've had your fingerprints on all of it."

Amelia tilted her head slightly, weighing the praise before answering. "It's been a team effort. Good car, amazing drivers. We've been smart with upgrades."

"And you've done all this," Natalie gestured gently to Amelia's belly, "while also expecting your first child with Lando. How exciting for you both!"

A soft smile played at Amelia's lips. "Yes. She's a very involved team member. Likes to kick during data meetings."

That got a warm laugh from the crew and nearby media.

Natalie's voice softened. "And I believe you have a bit of news for us today?"

Amelia nodded once. "Yes. This weekend will be my last before I step back for maternity leave. Tom Stallard will be taking over race engineering for Oscar post-Monaco until further notice."

A small wave of murmurs rippled through the surrounding press. Natalie smiled at her. "So this is your last race weekend for a while?"

Amelia shrugged, still poised. "For a few months, yes. I'll still be consulting remotely. But I won't be on the pit wall again until later in the season."

Natalie leaned in a little. "How does it feel, stepping away at a time like this? With McLaren doing so well, and you being so integral?"

There was a pause. Amelia's eyes flicked briefly down the paddock — where Lando was laughing with mechanics, Oscar leaning against the wall with a coffee, talking to a camera crew.

Then she answered.

"It's... complicated," she said. "I like control. I like knowing things. And there's a lot about becoming a parent I can't forecast. But the team is solid. Oscar's going to be in good hands. And our daughter—" her hand instinctively brushed her belly, "—deserves my full attention for a while."

There was a beat of quiet. Then Natalie smiled, warm and real. "Well, on behalf of everyone watching — thank you so much, Amelia. For all you've contributed to the sport over the past five years. And congratulations to you and Lando on this wonderful addition to your family."

Amelia nodded again, just once. "Thank you."

The interview wrapped, and as the camera cut away, Amelia stepped back, peeling off her earpiece. She was halfway through unpinning her mic when she felt a familiar arm wrap around her shoulders.

Lando pressed a kiss to the side of her head. "You were brilliant," he murmured.

"I told people I'm going on leave," she said quietly, like she needed to repeat it aloud. "I made it real."

"It is real." He looked down at her bump, then back at her. "But don't worry. You're still the boss. Just... remotely."

Amelia leaned into him, the smell of sunscreen and motor oil clinging to his polo. "You think people will forget me while I'm gone?"

"Not possible," he said immediately.

She gave a small, short laugh, and he kissed her temple again.

They stood there for a moment; in the glitz and the hum of Monaco, wrapped in their own quiet kind of gravity.

—

The hospitality deck was quieter than usual at lunch time, tucked just above the paddock chaos. A few guests chatted softly over sparkling water and pasta, the harbour glittering in the background. Amelia sat at a small table in the shade, half-finished salad in front of her, sunglasses pushed into her hair.

Her dad slid into the seat across from her with a grunt and then a beaming grin. "You're hiding up here."

Amelia stabbed a tomato with her fork. "I'm taking a scheduled break."

"That's what you're calling it now?"

She gave him a dry look. "Better than 'aggressively avoiding small talk with a million people who all want to ask me the same questions.'"

Zak chuckled and took a sip of his iced tea. "Hey, I didn't say it was a bad thing!"

They ate quietly for a few minutes. She glanced at her iPad once or twice, fingers twitching like she wanted to reach for her stylus.

Then her dad leaned forward, voice a little softer. "Your mom called."

Amelia didn't look up. "Yeah?"

"Told me to keep an eye on you. That you're getting anxious over silly things." He said. "She wants you at home. She doesn't think you should be working this weekend."

"I know what I'm doing." She said back, not sharply, just matter-of-fact. "I'm flying to England on Tuesday and then I'm going to start nesting."

"Fine, fine." He said. He was staring at her. "You did an interview this morning?"

"Yeah. It felt strange." She hesitated. "Like I had to tell them that I was handing over part of my identity and pretend that I was fine with it."

Zak nodded slowly, watching her carefully. "You don't need to pretend, kiddo. You're just doing something new. Hard to do both at once sometimes."

Amelia chewed slowly, then asked, "Did it feel like that when you stopped racing?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Yeah. I didn't admit it for a while, but yeah. It was hard. You build yourself around something that has a finish line, and suddenly it's not there anymore. It's just... your life."

Amelia's hand drifted to her bump without thinking. "What if I'm not good at the other thing?"

"You said the same thing when we put you into the advanced classes at school."

"I was eight."

"And you were wrong then, too."

She looked at him.

He gave her a small smile. "You're not just good at this job because you're smart. You're good because you care. And that's not going to change no matter how long of a break that you take."

Amelia stared down at her plate, silent for a moment. "I don't want to hand over Oscar."

Her dad leaned back in his chair, his tone more casual now. "You picked Stallard yourself. You trust him."

"I do." She took a breath. "But I know how Oscar works better than anyone else. How his brain ticks under pressure. And I've done everything for so long — pre-sessions, cooldowns, briefings. It's not just the job. It's him."

He nodded. "That's why you've been so good together. But you're also about to be someone's mum, Amelia. And that little girl is going to need all of that same care. All of that weirdly brilliant attention to detail."

Amelia huffed a laugh. "She's already demanding. She hates when I eat citrus. Just wants cake and tiramisu flavoured things all the time."

"She's got taste." He said. Then he reached across the table and placed his hand over hers."You're not disappearing, Amelia. Nobody is going to forget about you. You're going to have a baby, and you'll fall so deeply in love with her that everything else will fade into the background. But eventually, you'll be ready to come back. Your mom will travel with you, and you'll take over from Tom again, and everything will be just fine."

She blinked. Slowly. Then, she whispers, "Thanks, Dad. That really helps."

He squeezed her fingers. "You'll be back before you know it. And when you are—this place will still be yours. Trust me. You've made more of an impact than you will ever realise."

—

The restaurant clung to the cliffside above the marina, lit by soft lanterns and the shimmer of city lights below. The terrace buzzed with the gentle clatter of cutlery and the low hum of multiple F1 teams converging for one of those rare, off-track evenings.

It was still work, in a way — team bonding, sponsor optics, face time. But for now, it was pasta and mocktails and the smell of grilled sea bass drifting on the evening breeze.

Amelia sat wedged between Oscar and Lando, her hands cradling a chilled glass of pomegranate soda. Her feet were up on a second chair, legs aching just enough to warrant it. Lando kept refilling her glass every time she looked away. Oscar had already stolen her feta-stuffed olives.

When the main course wound down, she spotted Charles stepping out from a conversation with someone in red team gear. He looked relaxed — or as relaxed as Charles ever did in Monaco. Still sharp-edged around the eyes.

She tapped Lando's arm. "I'm going to say hi to Charles."

"You're not about to give him trade secrets, are you?"

She didn't answer. Just rolled her eyes and got to her feet.

Charles noticed her before she even reached him and smiled with something between fondness and humour. "You need a breather from the orange table?"

"I'm trying to be neutral and approachable," Amelia told him.

"You're failing," he replied, but his grin softened the jab. "How are you feeling?"

"Hot. Heavy. Slightly betrayed by my spine." She paused. "You?"

Charles tilted his head. "Nervous."

She nodded. "Understandable."

"It's Monaco."

"I know." She looked up at him for a beat longer. "The thing is, I want my boys to beat you. That's my priority and it always will be. But —" She bit her lip and leaned on the balcony. "But I want you to finish this race. Properly."

He laughed under his breath. "So do I."

She hesitated, then lowered her voice and leaned in, "So, maybe, if on your second quali lap, you just leave a little extra margin at the exit of Mirabeau. And maybe you should adjust your ride height a few inches. And your throttle pedal could, maybe, could be adjusted to the left; specifically for Monaco."

Charles stared at her. "What?"

"You heard me," she said with a faint smile. "Good luck, Charles. I hope you make your home crowd proud."

He smiled wider. "If anyone found out that you—"

"All my father would ever do is frown and me and proceed to tell me that I'm soft for you. Which I am." She smiled at him. "You've been such a wonderful friend to me, Charles. A good neighbour. You always listen to me when I speak, even if what I am saying makes no sense to you."

Charles looked at her, suddenly quiet. "Merci, Amelia. Thank you."

Amelia pursed her lips. "I'm not saying that those changes will make you win. But... They will give you a better chance at a front-row start. And we know how important that is here."

They stood like that a moment — Monaco locals by way of wildly different paths — then Charles glanced back toward the Ferrari table. "Tell your husband that I will be trying to poach you when you return from maternity leave," he said.

"Hm." She hummed. "You and Lewis next year — what a fun idea."

He blinked at her, a bit of hope clinging to the edges of his expression. "Really?"

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "No."

He huffed out an amused breath and started to turn away, then paused and added, sincerely, "Good luck, Amelia."

"Right back at you," she said, then added, "Leave the barriers alone this year, yes?"

"I'll do my best," Charles said with a wink, and disappeared back into the red sea.

When Amelia returned to the McLaren table, Lando leaned in with a faux-casual, "So, how's your favourite Ferrari boy?"

"He's nervous," Amelia said, sitting again with a sigh. "I hope I gave him some hope. That's the most powerful tool a driver can have." She tilted her head. "Well, that and me."

Oscar smirked and raised his drink. "To questionable loyalty."

"To Monaco miracles," she corrected, and clinked his glass.

—

Later, long after the dinner had wound down and the drivers WhatsApp group had gone feral with memes and selfies, Amelia lay submerged in warm water, her back nestled against Lando's chest. The bathroom was dimly lit, the only light coming from the small lamp over the sink and the soft glow of the candles. Lavender and eucalyptus swirled in the steam.

Lando's chin rested lightly on her shoulder, his fingers tracing aimless lines over the curve of her belly just visible above the surface. The baby gave the occasional gentle kick, more thump than flutter these days.

"She's very awake," Lando murmured, thumb brushing over one of the movements.

"She likes water," Amelia said, closing her eyes. "She always calms down when I'm in the shower. But she loves a bath."

"Maybe she'll be a mermaid."

"Or a diver. Or an aero specialist. Hydrodynamics and aerodynamics aren't that different."

Lando laughed into her shoulder. "That's such an engineer answer."

"You asked."

A comfortable silence settled between them, interrupted only by the lapping of the water and the distant hum of the city outside.

"Have you thought more about names?" He asked softly.

She opened one eye. "You're not letting that go, are you?"

"You said we'd make a shortlist this week."

"Technically, you said that. I just nodded."

"Close enough."

Amelia tilted her head back against his shoulder, thoughtful. "I like Ada."

"Yeah?" He asked thoughtfully.

"It's clean. It has weight. Ada Lovelace was one of the first computer programmers."

"Shocker."

"What — that I want to name our child after a female computing and mathematical pioneer?"

"Sarcasm, baby." He mumbled against her shoulder.

She frowned. "Sorry. Missed it. My brains all misty recently."

Lando gave her a little squeeze, then said, a bit more seriously, "I like Ada. But I also kind of like names that sound like movement. Like... I don't know. Skye. Or Elia. Something with flow."

"Skye Norris?" Amelia mused.

"Eh. It's a good jumping off point," he said.

They lapsed into silence again, his hands slow and steady against her belly, her fingers lazily drawing shapes in the water.

"I'm a bit scared," she said quietly. "To be honest."

Lando didn't move. "Of what?"

"Of getting it wrong," she whispered. "The name, the parenting, all of it. I'm good at engineering because it follows rules. But babies — she'll be her own person, Lando. With thoughts and emotions. And I don't know how to... prepare for that."

He was quiet a moment. Then he said, softly, "Me either."

Amelia blinked up at the ceiling, throat tight.

"But if we mess up—" Lando continued, nudging her temple with his nose, "we'll apologise. Own up to it. And then we'll try again. That's all anyone can do."

She exhaled. "You make it sound so simple."

"Because you overthink everything."

"That's rich coming from you."

He smiled. "Yeah, well. We're both anxious perfectionists with trust issues. Our daughter is doomed."

Amelia laughed — a real one this time. "Shut up."

Lando kissed the side of her head. "She'll have us on her side, though. Always."

Amelia reached down, took one of his hands, and pressed it firmly to the curve of her belly.

Their daughter kicked again, right on cue.

"Maybe Ada Skye," she said after a long pause.

Lando hummed. "Can I suggest something else?"

"Of course." She said quietly.

"What about Rosella?"

"After Rosella Manfrinato?" Amelia asked, voice full of curiosity.

"Yeah. First female engineer to ever work for Ferrari." He said.

She nodded. "Yeah. I know." She pursed her lips in thought. "Ada Rosella Norris." She whispered, trying to get a feel of the name.

"It's strong." Lando said.

"Full of power." Amelia agreed quietly.

Lando grinned against her temple. "Our little rocket scientist."

"Our little engineer," Amelia said, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Let's not teach her about ERS until she's at least four."

"Three and a half," Amelia negotiated.

Lando laughed.

Amelia thought it sounded like home.

—

The apartment was silent now.

Water drained from the tub long ago, and Amelia was curled beneath the covers in their bed, one hand resting unconsciously on her bump, her breaths slow and even. Moonlight slid in through the curtains, tracing soft silver lines across her cheekbones. Lando stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her — still, peaceful, warm — before stepping back out into the living room and quietly closing the door behind him.

He crossed to the balcony, tugged on a hoodie, and pulled out his phone.

It took three rings before his dad answered.

"Lando? Everything alright?" His dad sounded like he'd just woken up — it was late, and Lando had forgotten the slight time difference.

"Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine. Sorry if I woke you up," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I just... I couldn't wait anymore. I needed to tell someone."

A beat of silence.

Then, with a hint of caution, because he knew his son, asked, "Tell me what?"

"I did it," Lando said. "I bought it. The land."

"What land?" Adam asked.

"The land, dad. Where we got married."

"You mean the—? Jesus, mate."

"Yeah. The field. With the oak tree. The one Amelia didn't stop talking about for a month straight last year." Lando sat down slowly on one of the balcony chairs, heart thudding. "But, like, I didn't just buy it, you know? I've been working with some people — architects, contractors. Builders. Decorators. It's happening. Happened, I guess. The house. Her house. She doesn't know yet."

Adam was quiet, but Lando could hear the smile in his voice when he finally said, "You're building it."

Lando nodded, even though his dad couldn't see him. "Built. Almost. Just, like, a few more pieces of furniture to get delivered. But yeah, dad. It's a real home. Just in time for the first few months with the baby. Maybe longer. It's all eco-efficient and airy — her office, a nursery, a bathtub big enough for the both of us, just like here. And the nursery..." He let out a breathless laugh. "Dad, I had it copied from her Pinterest board. Down to the wall art. She doesn't even know I have her Pinterest boards."

Adam chuckled softly. "Of course you do, son."

"It's got these soft pinks and greys. Planet mobiles, wood textures, soft-glow lamps. She pinned a photo of a reading nook by a window and I'm getting them to build one, exactly like it. I want it to feel like she's known it forever."

"She's going to love it," Adam said, gentle now.

Lando's throat tightened. "I just— When we found out that she was pregnant, I knew that she'd want to have the baby in England, you know? And I know she's more than happy to stay with her mum for a while but — I wanted her to have something that's hers. Ours."

"She already has that in you."

Lando looked out over the dark water, letting that settle. "I know. But, when I can't be there... I just want her to know," he said quietly, "you know? Be surrounded by it. A reminder that I'd give her the whole world. That she doesn't even have to ask."

"She knows, son."

"I'm going to bring her there," Lando said. "Next week. I'm hoping everything will be finished. I was hoping maybe you'd be able to go and check it out, maybe you and mum? Make sure everything's alright?"

His dad didn't say anything right away. "Of course we will, mate. Whatever you need. God, I'm proud of you, Lando. You've become the kind of man I always hoped you'd be."

Lando swallowed, hard. "Thanks, Dad."

"Now go and get some sleep. You've got a race weekend to finish — and a very clever wife to keep from figuring all this out."

Lando laughed, soft and careful, so he wouldn't wake Amelia. "Yeah. That's been the hardest part. But — I genuinely think I've managed to hide it."

They said their goodnights, and Lando stayed on the balcony for a few more minutes, watching the moonlight ripple across the water.

Then he slipped back into the bedroom and under the covers beside her.

Amelia shifted slightly in her sleep, turning toward him. He curled around her carefully, hand resting on the curve of her belly.

In four days, he thought, she'll open the big front-door and find everything waiting for her.

Everything she'd dreamed of — and more.

—

The sky was a crisp summer blue above the city, the harbour shimmering below. The McLaren garage was alive for the most important session of the weekend—controlled chaos, comms lines tight, eyes on telemetry, hands on buttons.

Amelia stood, headset on, bump cradled behind her clipboard. The engineers around her knew to give her room; she paced with deliberate, rhythmic movements when she was thinking, and thinking was all she was doing now.

Q3.

Tight margins. Traffic chaos. Purple sectors lighting up the screen like fireworks.

"Alright, Oscar," she said into the mic, her tone flat but alert. "Track's evolving fast. Leclerc's just gone purple in Sector 1."

"Copy."

He didn't sound nervous. Just wired in.

Her eyes flicked to the screen. Telemetry humming in real time. Every time she ran data analysis through her mind, Oscar's confidence had grown sharper, cleaner. The car was under him. And he was really, genuinely starting to believe in it.

"Go now. Push out of Rascasse. Clear air."

Silence. Then the rhythm of apex and throttle and millisecond corrections filled her ears like music.

Lando, on another screen, was midway through his final flyer. "He's purple in S2," someone said behind her, low.

"Copy that," Amelia replied. She didn't move. She didn't breathe. She just watched Oscar's delta fall green, then purple—

Then time stopped.

P2.

Right behind Leclerc. Less than a tenth off.

The garage burst into motion, restrained joy quickly overtaken by calculation. Strategy talk. Track position.

Amelia blinked hard and gave her mic one last click. "That's front row, Oscar. Hell of a lap."

"I left half a tenth at the hairpin."

"I'm aware," she deadpanned. "You also just out-qualified Verstappen and Hamilton in Monaco."

His laugh crackled over the radio as he pulled into Parc Ferme. "Holy shit."

Amelia turned in her seat and locked eyes with Lando just as he pulled his gloves off. "P4," he mouthed to her, not too disappointed—energised.

"Nice recovery after that wall tap in FP3," she called across the garage.

"I didn't touch the wall."

"You kissed it, then. Should I be jealous?"

He grinned.

A Sky Sports camera panned briefly to them. Amelia didn't flinch—just shifted her clipboard against her stomach again. Someone behind her passed her a small stool, and this time she accepted, sitting with a quiet exhale.

The top three were headed to press. She watched as Oscar removed his helmet, curls flattened, grinning wide, exchanging a look with her from across the paddock before getting swept toward the media pen.

"You nervous?" One of the junior engineers asked her as they unplugged telemetry cables.

"A little," Amelia said. "But we're front row in Monaco. There are worse problems to have."

And deep in her chest, beneath the clinical logic and mechanical heartbeat of the job, she felt it — a soft, surging pride. Her best friend, on the front row. Her husband, on the second. Her team, alive with momentum.

Their daughter kicked once, firm and sharp against her ribs.

"Yeah," Amelia whispered, rubbing her belly. "Let's make the last one good, baby girl."

—

The paddock was swarming. Engineers debriefed at speed, mechanics wheeled tyres past camera crews, and over it all came the distant call of the sea.

Amelia stood from the stool someone had given her earlier, brushing her hands over the front of her dress. She'd barely moved when she caught a flash of red.

Charles.

Helmet off, suit tied at the waist, damp curls sticking to his temples. He was deep in conversation with someone from Ferrari, nodding tightly — the thrill and heavy burden of taking pole position in Monaco sitting heavy on his shoulders, even under the roaring crowd.

Then his eyes caught hers.

For half a second, she thought maybe he'd just glance and move on. He was always polite, always kind, but this was a big moment for him. He had enough on his plate.

Instead, he paused. Just a beat.

Then — a smile, genuine and boyish.

And a quiet, grateful thumbs-up. Directed at her.

Amelia blinked, then returned the gesture with a small lift of her clipboard. A quiet acknowledgment.

She'd bent a few informal, off-the-record, definitely-against-McLaren-policy rules the night before at dinner. Just a few aerodynamic notes. Not enough to sabotage Lando and Oscar's chances. Just enough to give a driver she quietly admired the best shot he could get on home soil.

And now he was on pole.

Lando stepped up beside her, having just finished media, brushing his knuckles against hers without a word. He was still flushed from the car, hair wild and eyes bright. "Was that Charles just—?"

"Yeah," she said.

Lando gave her a suspicious look. "Is this about what you two were whispering about last night?"

"Nope." She lied.

"You gave him tips, didn't you?"

Amelia stayed perfectly still. "Prove it."

Lando opened his mouth — and then just laughed. "You're ridiculous."

"Am I wrong, though?" She asked mildly. "Oscar's still on the front row. You're in a great launch position. We've got a better long-run setup. I just want Charles to get through the damn first lap this year."

Lando shook his head with affectionate disbelief, still grinning. "Corporate espionage." He accused.

"I know," Amelia said. "How terrible." She joked.

He cupped her chin and tugged her to close the gap between this, kissing her chastely. "Come on. Let's go home."

—

The narrow streets of Monte Carlo felt quieter in the early morning. Calm before the storm. A million yachts bobbed in the harbour, a gull wheeled overhead, and the team trucks hummed with activity behind closed paddock gates.

Amelia stood just outside the McLaren garage, headset around her neck. The weight of the day — and everything it represented — settled into her bones.

Final race.

Final pre-race briefing.

At least for now.

Her eyes stung behind her sunglasses, but she didn't blink too much. If she started crying, she wasn't sure she'd stop. And she didn't want anyone — especially not Lando or Oscar — trying to hug her about it.

Not today.

"Morning," Oscar said behind her, nudging her arm gently.

She sniffed a laugh, turning around. "Morning. I have notes and spreadsheets for you."

He grinned. "Nerd."

She looked over at him — sweatpants, t-shirt, hair still wet from a quick hotel shower, eyes clearer than usual. "You ready for this?" She asked, voice quieter.

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Think so."

"Good. You're going to get him at the start."

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Leclerc?"

She didn't answer, just tapped her temple, then pointed at his heart. "Use both."

Oscar's grin turned boyish, proud. But then his eyes dropped to her belly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said. Too fast. Then slower, "I'm fine. It's just... I feel like I'm abandoning you."

He didn't try to give her a speech. Just nodded, understanding threading his features. "It's just for now," he said.

"Yeah," she whispered. "Just for now."

Lando found her a few minutes later, sneaking up behind her and sliding a cool bottle of water into her hand. "Hydration for my queen and my princess," he said, lightly.

She took it with a small smile. "You're annoying."

"You're emotional."

"I'm pregnant."

"Yes. I know," he teased, and she elbowed him. Then he pressed his forehead against hers. Just a moment of stillness in the bustle. "We'll do you proud," he said.

"You always do."

"And when you come back, our little girl in tow..."

"I'll be even smarter, and more terrifying."

"Exactly," he said, grinning. Then, a little softer, "You okay?"

She hesitated. Then nodded. "I'm okay. I'm... not not emotional. But I'm okay."

"Do you want me to find you a crying room?"

"Lando."

"I'm just saying. I'm sure there's an empty space around here somewhere."

Despite herself, she laughed. Then, very softly, rested her forehead to his chest, breathing in the smell of fuel and soap and Monaco air.

She didn't cry.

But her throat ached from not doing it.

And when she finally stepped back into the garage to take her place at the pit wall, clipboard in hand and headset secured, the world narrowed in a way she loved — to data, to pace deltas, to strategy windows.

To racing.

Her last Sunday. For now.

And her boys, Oscar and Lando, were about to make it count.

—

The buzz in the pit lane was razor-thin, and under her headset, Amelia could hear her own breathing.

The lights blinked red.

"Five." Four. "Three."

Oscar's telemetry spiked as his revs climbed.

Two. "One." Out.

The cars launched.

"Good launch," Amelia called into Oscar's ear. "Mode five. Hold your line into turn one."

He did — perfectly. Charles swept clean into Sainte Devote, Oscar tucked in behind, and Lando angled sharp around the outside of Hamilton to defend P4. But into Massenet, there was a twitch.

"Contact," came the warning from race control.

Amelia's eyes flicked to the feed — a Ferrari nudged too close. Carlos.

"Oscar. Status?" She asked tightly.

"I think I touched Sainz," Oscar said quickly, voice calm but clipped. "He turned in — we tapped."

She scanned his data; pressures stable.

"Copy. No damage on our end. Carlos has a puncture," came in from strategy.

"Maintain pace," she said. "You're still P2."

Then...chaos.

A screech; gut-churning and metallic — tore through the live feed. The monitor lit up with a yellow. Then double yellow. Then red.

"Red flag. Red flag. Slow the cars and return to the pit lane," came the immediate order from Race Control.

Amelia's stomach dropped. Another monitor showed Perez's Red Bull obliterated at Mirabeau, tangled with both Haas cars. Carbon fibre everywhere. A front wing clinging to a wall.

Amelia's hand tightened instinctively over her bump.

"Is that... all three of them?" Will asked, incredulous.

"What happened?" Oscar asked on the comms.

"Big collision. Perez, both Haas. There's debris everywhere through sector two. They've thrown the red flag so mode seven please, and come straight through to line up in the pit lane."

He exhaled. "Jesus."

"You're clean," she told him. "You did well to defend against Sainz and keep it as clean as possible. Keep your head in it, ducky."

Oscar didn't respond.

She exhaled, slow and controlled.

She glanced down at her bump and pressed her palm lightly against the curve.

Five minutes later, when all of the cars were lined up in the pit-lane and most of the drivers had climbed out, Lando found her.

"You alright?" His voice came quietly from behind. He'd handed of his helmet to one of the engineers in his garage.

"Yeah. I'm fine," she said. "Just didn't want my last one for a while to start like this."

He gave her a small, lopsided smile. "Still a long way to go."

She nodded once. "Yeah."

"Want to go and find some capri suns?" He asked.

She glanced at Will, who nodded as if to say 'Might as well, not like anything's happening here.' So she got up, took Lando's hand, and let him guide her toward the mini fridge in the back of his garage.

—

The paddock was a knot of tension. Mechanics hovered. Engineers tapped frantically on keyboards. Drivers paced.

Amelia stood in the garage, headphones looped around her neck, one hand resting on her lower back. Oscar leaned against the pit wall barrier, helmet off, sipping from a water bottle.

"Fronts are still stable," she said quietly, scanning the screen. "You were holding well into sector three before the red flag."

He nodded. "Do we go back to the grid, or rolling start?"

"Standing restart," Tom said, appearing beside her with a tablet.

Oscar took a deep breath. "Copy."

Amelia's voice dropped, so only he could hear: "Eyes forward. Don't chase Charles — let him cook his tyres. Lando's breathing down your neck, but he won't dive you into Turn One. You've got space to think."

Oscar gave her a crooked smile. "You gonna miss bossing me around?"

"Immensely," she said.

Back on the grid, the tension returned like a rubber band pulled taut. Cameras swiveled. Engines revved. Amelia's screens lit up again — tyre temps, ERS levels, delta charts. She exhaled slowly.

Lights out — again.

Charles launched clean. Oscar slipped ever so slightly — enough to give Carlos and Lando a sniff. But he held P2 into Turn One, Lando defending hard from Hamilton, who wasn't giving up without a fight.

By Lap 36, the order held steady: Charles, Oscar, Lando. No one risking the undercut — it was Monaco, after all. Strategy would come down to patience, tyre life, and sheer mistake-free laps.

Amelia's voice was calm in Oscar's ear: "Keep him honest. Don't push yet — wait for the window. If Charles blinks, we leapfrog him. Otherwise, you're the threat."

Behind them, Lando was making time. Slowly, surgically. Amelia's chest swelled with pride.

She didn't even flinch when he came over the radio to Will, his own engineer. "Tyres still feel good. Let me know if Oscar drops."

Oscar stayed tight. Impressive, really. This wasn't his circuit — but he'd driven like it was.

Then the inevitable: Charles crossed the finish line in P1. Oscar brought it home in P2, and Carlos crossed in P3. Lando missed out on the podium by a hundredth of a second.

Amelia unmuted. "Box, box. That was clinical. Well done."

Oscar whooped through the radio. "Thanks, Amelia. That was unreal. Thanks for—everything."

She smiled, actually smiled, throat tight. "Gonna miss you, ducky. Drive fast as hell for me, alright?"

"Copy that." He said.

Andrea reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "Good job."

"Thanks." She said quietly.

—

She waited by Parc Ferme for Lando to finish being weighed.

He ran straight to her.

"You're done," he said, breathless, wrapping his arms around her.

"I'm done," she echoed, burying her face in his shoulder. "For now."

He kissed her. "I love you so much, Amelia Norris."

"Yeah," she mumbled, blushing. Because she knew for a fact that there was a thousand cameras pointed right at them. "I love you too."

—

Amelia stood near the edge of the pit lane, half-shielded by the shadow of the McLaren garage. Her headset was off. Her hair was tied back. She looked tired — tired, but finally still.

A rustle of footsteps approached behind her, softer than the usual thud of boots or trainers. She turned, and Charles was there.

In a fresh pair of sweats. His face was flushed, hair damp from his dive into the water, but the light in his eyes was quieter now — grounded.

"Amelia," he said gently.

She blinked, then straightened a little.

Charles stepped forward, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her into a hug.

It was warm. Steady. Just tight enough.

Not rushed or awkward, but full-bodied and honest.

"Merci," he said into her hair, voice low and thick. "Merci pour tout."

Amelia hesitated, stunned for a breath, then carefully hugged him back, fingers clutching the fabric of his sweatshirt.

"You made it stick," she said. "Finally."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes glinting. "I think maybe... I needed you to tell me that you believed I could."

Amelia's throat tightened. "I didn't do much," she said, voice soft.

Charles shook his head. "You never give yourself enough credit."

She snorted. "That's not true. I know that I'm excellent. I'm just not... sentimental."

His grin spread, warm and crooked. "Just this once." He gave her one more squeeze, then stepped back, nodding toward her bump with quiet reverence. "She's going to be very proud of her mother. One day."

Amelia's smile was small but real. "I hope so."

Charles gave her a parting wink before melting back into the paddock's glow.

—

The restaurant overlooked the water. It wasn't flashy — just candlelight, open windows, and long tables pulled together to fit the team. Plates were passed around. Bottles of wine, soft drinks, sparkling water.

Oscar sat beside Amelia, nudging her knee under the table every so often like he couldn't help himself. Across from them, Lando had changed into a casual shirt, hair still slightly damp from the post-race champagne photo. He kept glancing over at her, soft-eyed and full of pride.

Zak stood and tapped the side of his glass, raising his voice just enough to call the room to attention.

"Right. I think we all know what today meant," he said, smiling faintly. "Charles took the win, but Oscar gave us a hell of a podium and Lando brought it home clean and sharp. Great points for the team." He looked toward Amelia. "But more than that — today was Amelia's last race before maternity leave."

The team clapped — loud and long. There were whistles. Shouts of "legend!" and "go on, mama!" from the mechanics.

Amelia flushed, shifting in her seat.

"She's not just Oscar's engineer," Zak went on. "She's part of why this team found its footing again. You've felt it. I've felt it. She redefined what we thought we could do. And I know — I know — she's going to come back stronger."

Oscar leaned in and whispered, "I'm not ready for Baby Norris to be smarter than me by age four."

"Don't put that pressure on her," Amelia said. "Give her until she's five, at least."

That earned a echo of amused snickers.

Then Tom raised a glass. "To Amelia," he said, smiling. "And to Lando. Congratulations."

Amelia's eyes prickled. She wasn't good at this part. The centre-of-attention part. But she looked around — at the sea of orange and grease-stained fingernails and sunburnt faces. And she felt it. All of it.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the candles burned lower, someone passed her a small envelope. Inside: a card, signed by every team member. Tucked behind it — a folded drawing. A sketch of the McLaren garage. Tiny details included. A crib nestled between the tool chests (which was not going to happen). Her in a headset, baby in a sling. A caption underneath: "When you come back, we'll be waiting with open arms."

She stared at it for a long moment, then slipped it into her bag without a word.

Lando wrapped an arm around her as they left, walking her slowly through the cobbled street, his voice low.

"That was a lot. You doing okay?"

"I'm more than okay," she murmured, leaning into him. "I'm just... trying to remember it all. Every second."

"It'll all be here when come back," he said. "But for now — we've got a baby to get ready for."

She exhaled.

And then she smiled.

—

They were back in England by the Tuesday.

Amelia was sitting in the passenger seat, her iPad on her lap. For once, she wasn't reading sim telemetry or reviewing Oscar's feedback — that was Tom's job now.

She was just... reading. A romance novel. She'd renewed her kindle unlimited subscription for the first time in almost three years.

When the car veered off the familiar road toward a narrow lane nestled between fields, she furrowed her brow.

"This isn't the way to my mums," she said.

"I know," Lando replied, his tone light but unreadable.

"Are we visiting someone?"

"You'll see."

She frowned at him but he just reached over and squeezed her leg.

They pulled up a gravel path flanked by hedges still brushing off their spring blossoms. At the end of it: a gate. New. Black metal. The kind that hummed softly as it opened automatically.

Immediately, she knew where there were.

Could see the blur of the old Manor House in the distance, hidden by the rolling green hills.

Amelia turned to him, heart thudding, eyebrows slowly drawing together. "Lando?"

He glanced at her. Smiled. "Just trust me."

The driveway opened into a wide clearing. Green everywhere. Hills rolling in the distance. And in the centre of it: a house.

A new house.

But not just a new house.

It was...

God.

Holy shit.

It was her house.

Amelia stared at it. White stone, deep-set windows, pale wood accents, red brick roof. A big front-door with a place to kick off muddy boots. Like a conglomeration of the millions of pictures that she'd shown him on sleepy nights.

She was quiet for a long time.

"I don't understand," she whispered wetly.

He got out of the car, came around to open her door. Helped her out gently, hand on her back, then on her belly.

"You told me," he said, "that you felt safest where things didn't echo too much. Where the air didn't feel tight. That you wanted your daughter's first memories to be somewhere soft. This is going to be that place, baby."

She stared up at the house again. "When?"

"When you got pregnant." He scratched his neck, suddenly sheepish. "I— Well, I'd already bought the land. Bought it the first time you sent me the listing. But I only started talking to architects after we found out you were pregnant. Designers. Pietra sent me your Pinterest, by the way. I had to bribe her."

Amelia made a shocked sound somewhere between a breath and a laugh.

"Come inside." He whispered.

Inside, the air smelled like cedar and fresh paint. Light poured through tall windows. There were shelves already filled with books — her books, she realised, when she looked closer. All of the books she'd left at her mom's house in Woking because it would have been ridiculous to ship them all to Monaco. A kitchen with an enormous window overlooking acres upon acres of green, a table big enough for noisy breakfasts and quiet late-night sandwiches. A fireplace in the living room. A crocheted blanket already draped across the back of the couch, ("my nan made it for us," Lando murmured), and Amelia felt like crying.

And then — the nursery.

Creamy white walls. A crib. The exact mobile she'd dreamed of. Tasteful art hung on the walls, pink accents. Calm. Serene. An armchair in the corner. A side table with a lamp that looked like the one from her childhood bedroom — it was, she realised, upon closer look. A window overlooking the hills. Blackout curtains. A chest of drawers packed to the brim with an array of different sizes of nappies and a million packets of wet wipes and a closet that was full to the brim with the suitcases worth of baby clothes that she'd been buying and having delivered to her mom's house for the past seven months.

She pressed a hand to her mouth. "You remembered everything."

"You deserve everything."

Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I don't even know how to..." She trailed off, too full to finish.

Lando stepped closer and placed her hand against his chest. "You don't need to say anything."

"But I—"

"This is for you, baby. All of it. Forever."

Tears spilled silently down her cheeks.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Welcome home, baby."

NEXT CHAPTER

443 notes · View notes

moonwoodhollow · 3 days ago

Text

Berry's Oasis Springs Rebuild Project Pt.I (a work in progress) There's something I love about Oasis Springs and it's one of my favourite worlds to build in, even though its climate and architectural styles couldn't be further from home. I've worked on a "complete" Oasis Springs for quite some time and it's a project dear to my heart. First, I obviously want to finish rebuilding one world, which is something I've struggled with and never actually done before. With that being said, finishing Oasis Springs is pretty much the challenge I've set for myself this year. Second, building mcm houses has become one of my favourite pastimes in TS4, and it's one of those architectural styles I've come to love and be good at it.

So let's see how far I got in Oasis Springs until now - and what's still missing! (ramblings after the cut)

Disclaimer: This is not a save-file by any means! I'm not cut out for that, but (!) I've shared some shells before and will share some more in the future. Some of these builds are not originally by me - so they are - for obvious reasons - private.

When I started building in Oasis Springs, I did it without any intention of ever 'rebuilding' it and I used old blueprints of mcm houses to get a general idea of the layouts of the houses and the architectural characteristics. I had to compromise very often as the lots were too small or the proportions were off, but the blueprints have been a huge help for me to get into a groove with mcm builds!

I initially started out with cc builds, as I hoard cc and love to use it, but as I sometimes like to challenge myself (read: suffer) I recreate my builds without cc. Most of the early mcm-builds I shared on the gallery (ID: aeromantica) are also available as cc-versions, but as I never posted them "officially" on my blog as they precede its creation, there's no use in downloading them tbh, there's no cc list either and I'm not interested in creating one.

Let's begin with Bedrock Strait - the most complete neighbourhood, from which I shared 3 builds already. The above image was actually the inspiration behind Begonia Drive 509. Today (after a long break) I finally finished my latest build on the remaining 20x15 lot, which in turn started this whole "I need to write a detailed post about my Oasis Springs project"-thing lol.

And this is the build! A very simple yet elegant build, that some might recognise from my Literary Club post early this year:

So what's missing is the Trailer Park, although I'm not really sure whether it'll stay a trailer park. This was meant to be Johnny Zest's home and I already did the interior, but I might just add another mcm house, though I do like the idea that there's still one lot that isn't so 'polished' in between the mcm houses so I might just keep it. I'd have to add one or two additional trailers though.

Now, Parched Prospect is also almost finished - just one more build for me to build. I dislike the playground right next to that one lot immensely though!

I think the first build I built here was Wisteria Drive and then I just kept going and added the other 2 houses in a record time. The Spanish revival house in this neighbourhood that is also pictured in my header is not mine but is by @/alcearosea-sims. I think it's called Helena Drive... and it's meant for a bigger lot so I had to do some landscaping. For the last house in this neighbourhood I'm still indecisive - another mcm house or a Spanish revival house (which will be difficult on a 20x15 lot I think)?

So that's it for now - I'll be back with a 2nd part at some point to talk about the other builds in this world. I hope you enjoyed this little behind the scenes peak into this project!

#wanted to do this for a long time #berry talks #ts4 wip #(not a save-file)#*mine #the sims 4 #sims 4 #sims 4 screenshots #simblr #ts4

221 notes · View notes

trashytracktales · 1 day ago

Note

Heyy there loved your latest post about the reader’s struggle with mental illness and it hit so close to home, you wrote it beautifully. I especially loved how lando mentioned it would be a process to help her heal, because it truly is. It made me want to see a follow up of their lives after her struggles where out, I think Lando would definitely hover over her and be afraid whenever she isn’t close. I also think that the fact that she kept it a secret for so long and the thought of what could’ve happened if he didn’t get there terrify him. How about you write a continuation where he is so intense about it that the reader gets upset and they get into a fight where lando reveals his concerns and how he has been feeling after the revelation and the reader realizes how much this has been affecting him. I would totally understand if you don’t want to continue this fic since the one you wrote was very complete and well written, however I think it would be amazing to show how it feels to love someone that suffers from depression and how painful it is.

Aftermath | LN⁴

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟮 𝗢𝗙 𝗦𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗦 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘

*can be read as a standalone, but I reckon it makes more sense if you have some background story

🤍 summary ──── In the messy aftermath, they are forced to realize that healing isn’t about going back to who they were.

🤍 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

🤍 rating ──── mature

🤍 word count ──── 3.5k

🤍 warnings ──── 16+, heavy angst, emotional distress, references to self-harm and feelings of worthlessness, mentions of guilt, codependency, and emotional burnout, swearing, sexual references, depiction of a supportive but emotionally intense relationship dynamic, comfort after pain.

Please prioritize your well-being while reading, my lovelies. If you click on the link to SEASONS CHANGE, you’ll find at the warnings section some (I’d like to think) useful resources.

🤍 date ──── Jun. 3, 2025

🤍 a/n ──── Listen. In theory, I don’t do part 2s. But clearly, I love emotionally wrecking myself (and all of you), so here we are. Please take this as a gentle threat and not an invitation to request multiple parts, because if it tickles my brain even slightly, I will spiral (and write it when you least expect it).

I am once again begging you on my knees to check this song out after finishing reading (not because ATL is one of my favorite bands, pfff 👀). But it brings me to actual tears has such good metaphors + it fits sooooo well from Lando’s POV ♥︎

SHE KNEW LANDO would change after what happened. She expected him to, but only to a certain extent. What she didn’t see coming was how incredibly fast he did it.

She noticed it in the smallest things at first. Like the way he asked her if she’s eaten, not like he used to, with a teasing grin and a slight suggestion to order takeout, but like he was checking a box on a list; like there was a right and wrong answer.

His kisses didn’t taste the same. He held her hand, brushed the hair behind her ear, and each move, without a doubt, was carefully measured.

Lando used to be spontaneous and loud around her, messy in a way she loved. Watching him was her favorite pastime, no matter what he was doing. Sometimes his socks weren’t matching, his texts were full of typos, and he used to laugh at her in the sweetest manner if her hair looked funny after napping or her shirts were stained with coffee or make-up.

Now, he’s precise. Hesitant. Clean and controlled. His texts look edited, manicured and made to reach a level of seriousness so uncharacteristic of him. He walks on eggshells around her, like any sudden movement might crack her open and reveal her darkest parts. He feels like someone who read an article on How to Support Your Mentally Ill Partner and took it to heart.

It simply breaks her.

Her new Lando opens doors, gently asks how she slept, brings her tea when she looks tired. Candies when she’s pissed off for whatever reason. He gives her space when she seems out of place and asks if she wants to talk when her voice is too quiet.

He was doing those things before, but now every action holds a different meaning. She knows it should make her feel cared for, but all it does is make her feel guilty.

Ashamed.

High maintenance.

The worst part is that she is aware that Lando is trying. She knows he’s doing it because he loves her. Because he’s worried. Because he’s new to this. Because he doesn’t want to take a step in the wrong direction.

But watching him tiptoe around her like she’s fragile doesn’t make her feel loved. Quite the opposite. It makes her feel like a burden, and it makes her want to scream. In his face. Loudly. With a megaphone, perhaps, to make sure he hears her loud and clear.

All she wants is for things to go back to normal — their normal. But every thoughtful gesture and every careful word is a reminder that they can’t go back there anymore. That she changed things. That she made him this way. And sadly, she doesn’t know how to tell him that his kindness is hurting her and all his trying is making her feel more alone than ever.

She catches Lando looking over his shoulder with pity.

She feels it in the way he touches her with more intent when he holds her hand, in how his fingers tighten ever so slightly when they intertwine.

She notices it in the way he hesitates before leaving, before heading to the airport and she’s not with him.

Her boyfriend is no longer the carefree, easygoing person she fell in love with. He’s tense, always on edge, always watching. He doesn’t sleep properly, doesn’t laugh the same way, as if there’s something stopping him.

It’s her that’s stopping him.

At least, that’s what the voice inside her head tells her.

She never wanted that. Never wanted him to lose himself in the mess of her mind, where things are rarely quiet. Lando is supposed to be the one and only thing in her life untouched by her ugly side, the one place where she doesn’t feel like she needs to pretend.

It makes her sick that every time she looks at him, she sees how much he’s carrying, and how much of her weight has settled onto his shoulders. It isn’t fair, and it makes everything worse than before.

Their night out was supposed to be a break from everything. An enjoyable excuse to forget about everything that happened, and just let go. That’s what she had told herself when she agreed to go out with their friends. It was supposed to be normal. Just a couple of drinks, a lot of laughter, a few hours where she could trick herself into believing that their lives are this perfect all the time.

She had wanted to see Lando relax, even just for a little while. But he hadn’t.

Instead, he had spent the entire night guarded. Not in the way he used to when they were going out, stealing glances across the room, his eyes lighting up when she caught him staring. This time, he had been tracking her, every movement, every shift in her expression, every time she excused herself from the table, and every sip of alcohol. It made her want to scream right there, in the middle of the crowded bar.

So, they left early.

Back at their apartment, the silence is deafening.

She follows him into the bedroom, their movements mechanical, as they start to change. Lando pulls his sweater over his head, tossing it onto the bed at the same time she unzips her dress, the fabric slipping off her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

“All good?” he asks in the same careful tone she’s already used to; the same tone she hates.

She nods, even though he’s not looking at her yet. “Yeah. You?”

The dry exchange of words makes her cringe. It’s like they don’t even know how to talk to each other anymore.

“‘Course. Why wouldn’t I?” he tries to shoot her a smile over his shoulder, but it’s weak and she doesn’t buy it.

“Maybe because you looked like you were being held hostage most of the night,” she shrugs.

Lando chuckles, “Was I?”

“I don’t know,” the girl replies. “You didn’t look like you were having fun. You had that face on, you know? The same one you’ve been wearing a lot lately,” her voice is laced with sarcasm, but there’s a sharp edge underneath, and he knows it’s meant to cut deeper than the surface.

Lando’s smile fades away as he exhales through his nose, clearly fighting his inner demons to keep his tone level.

“Well, I was having fun,” he insists, finally turning around. “It was nice to just be out with everyone for a while. With you.”

“You sure?” she shakes hear head in disbelief, her eyes wide. “Because it felt more like you were trying to monitor me than actually enjoy yourself. It’s suffocating,” the words are harsh, but she can’t stop them from leaving her mouth in a frustrated manner. More than that, she doesn’t even want to.

Lando’s hands pause at the hem of his shirt that he wore underneath, “What?”

Irritated, she runs a hand through her hair, while struggling to get her shoes off. “You haven’t stopped looking at me like...,” her voice trails off for a quick moment. “It’s like you’re always one step away from putting a leash around my neck. It’s suffocating,” she repeats.

His expression doesn’t change, but Lando looks genuinely curious when he asks, “Can you blame me?”

She laughs, but there’s no humor behind it. “No. I am blaming myself,” she admits it out loud.

Lando finally gets rid of his shirt, throwing it next to his hoodie while keeping his gaze on her, and all she can see behind his eyes is more fucking pity. So, she closes hers for a second, channeling every ounce of patience that’s left inside.

“I just wanted one night where I didn’t feel like some soft thing that you have to take care of.”

“I’m your boyfriend. I signed up to take care of you, and I love doing it,” he reminds her like it’s the most obvious thing.

She exhales slowly. “I’m better, Lando. I told you I am.”

Lando nods, unconvinced. “Clearly,” he says, slightly annoyed. “You promised you’ll talk to me,” he points out, “But then you started acting like nothing ever happened. Excuse me for being vigilant.”

His affirmation hits her like a slap.

Vigilant. Adjective. Carefully observant or attentive; on the lookout for possible danger.

She swallows, forcing herself to meet his gaze once again. “Yes, because I’m a ticking bomb that can go off at any moment, aren’t I?” her voice is cracking towards the end, tears flooding her eyes.

“Come on, baby. No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he insists. “Wasn’t I clear when I told you I’m all in? All I asked—”

She shakes her head, throwing the shoes on the floor, cutting him off in the process. “I am asking you to stop. I know you want to help, and I appreciate you for it. But right now, I just want to go on with our lives, and forget for just a couple of hours how extremely fucked up in the head I am. I never wanted you to change for me.”

“Yeah, but I had to!” his voice rises, irritation boiling over. “You think I can just go back to who I was, knowing what I know now? I can’t allow myself to be that blind again and just act like nothing happened. Baby, I can’t,” he says, pressing his hands together in a desperate gesture, as if he’s praying. “I won’t.”

Her jaw clenches. “It’s fucking bullshit. We were good before all this.”

“No,” Lando contradicts her. “I was good, because I had no idea you were at your lowest point, until I found you on that balcony. I was good,” he repeats, pointing at himself. “You were struggling. With me next to you, you were struggling. Do you understand how fucked up that is?”

The silence between them stretches for too long, and they both know that is about to snap at any moment. She can’t say anything right away, though. Can’t even look at him without bursting into tears.

“I get it,” she hears him speak again. “You didn’t want to worry me with all the stuff I have going on at the moment. Fine. But do you know what that feels like? To know you were falling apart and I didn’t even notice?” asks Lando, his own voice cracking now. “I feel like a fucking idiot.”

“This isn’t about you,” she points out, finally looking back at him.

“It is,” Lando contradicts her.

Her mouth opens at his audacity, but he keeps going, words tumbling out too fast for her to put an end to it.

“Because whenever I struggled, you were there. Every time I felt lost or panicked or like I couldn’t breathe, you stayed and made sure I was cared for. You always stayed,” he reminds her, his chest rising and falling quickly. “And when it was you? You hid it from me. You smiled through it. You lied to my face.”

His accusations makes her feel like a fraud. Like everything they built over time is cracked because of her silence.

She trusts him more than anyone. But somehow, the way it all played out, it doesn’t look like trust. It looks like deceit. Like fear. And that’s the part that stings the most: the idea that he might believe she didn’t let him in because he wasn’t enough, when the truth is she didn’t let him in because she was afraid she wasn’t.

And that’s what fear does to people: forces them to shut down. Isolates them.

“I never lied to you, Lando,” she says it more like a warning, stepping forward now, eyes wide and filled with unshed tears.

“You never told the truth, either.”

Suddenly, every bone in her body softens. They’re both half-naked, standing in the fragile quiet of the bedroom, the air thick with his dizzying scent and her sweet perfume.

Lando brushes a strand of hair from her cheek, his touch gentle. She leans into it without thinking, and his palm, broad and warm, cradles the side of her face lovingly.

“You were fighting for your life, and I was out there talking about work and planning stupid trips,” his words drip now like honey, unrushed yet accusing. “That’s on me. My fault.”

She shakes her head vehemently, “Baby, stop saying that,” she whispers, but Lando doesn’t stop.

“I missed it,” he continues, as if he’s mostly talking to himself. “You were right in front of me and I didn’t see you. What kind of person does that make me?”

“The kind who couldn’t have known, because I didn’t let you,” she replies without hesitation, taking a small step back.

“Yeah, because you’re so smart, is that it?”

“Lando,” she warns him, but he doesn’t seem to want to listen to her nonsense anymore.

He turns away at her subtle attempt to put distance between them, pacing toward the window and gripping the back of a chair like it might keep him steady.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” he admits, and it almost makes him laugh; the man who thought that he can do anything, has no idea how to save the only thing that matters most. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like if I look away for one second, I might lose you for good,” his voice has a different inflection, caught between defeat and the irrational urge to beg her to never leave him.

She can see how much he’s struggling to make her listen to his side, and even though she acknowledges it, she can’t accept it without denying hers.

Slowly, she walks to him and wraps her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek against the heated skin of his back. He’s warm and solid under her touch, and it makes her feel so safe. She closes her eyes, holding him tighter, like if she stays there long enough, she can absorb some of the ache he’s been carrying solely because she threw it at him in a moment of weakness.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, but isn’t sure what she’s sorry for at this point.

Lando turns around to face her, and the look in his eyes scares her now; it’s too raw, too painful. “You think I have a choice?” asks Lando, his breathing ragged. “I wake up every day wondering if you’ll ever going to let me in again. And I walk through the door every time wondering if you’ll still be here when I come back.”

Even in the dim light of the room, she can see how his eyes are now sparkling with tears; another dagger to her heart.

She sighs, knowing this is her only chance to make him understand. “I love you,” she says, the affirmation forcing Lando to look away and shake his head, knowing love won’t help this time. “But this isn’t helping me, Lando,” she cups his chin, redirecting his focus back on her. “And if I’m being honest, it’s making it worse.”

Lando exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face. “Alright. Good. Then what do you want me to do? Because I sure as hell won’t pretend I’m not fucking terrified all the time. Or is that what you want?”

“For fuck’s sake, Lando!” the word bursts out of her before she can stop it. “Yes! If you have it in you, lie to me. Pretend. Because every time I see you like this, it just reminds me of why. And I hate it. I hate that I did this to you. You fucking pity me,” she accuses him with disgust in her voice. “You treat me like I’m a child. You don’t act the same way. You don’t laugh anymore. You don’t even kiss me like you used to. And you sure as hell don’t fuck me the same way either.”

The words hang in the air like a bullet caught in slow-motion, and he freezes. She wants to push him away, but Lando wraps his arms around her waist, making sure she’s not running anywhere now that she dropped so many bombs on him.

His face twists in hurt and anger, disbelief flickering all at once. “You think this is about pity?”

The girl nods once, but determined. “I feel like I’m not your girlfriend anymore. Like all of this has become just an obligation to you.”

His arms tighten harder around her. “Yeah? You think I don’t want you?” he spits the words, incredulous. “That I don’t crave you all the fucking time?”

She has to swallow the lump in her throat before shooting her response at him, but Lando beats her to it. His jaw clenches against the side of her face, and for a second, he just breathes her in. Then he presses his lips to her cheek, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low enough to send shivers down her spine, blistering with certainty.

“Don’t you ever say that again,” he warns her. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything. You have no idea what you do to me. Even now.”

She tries her best to win her right to conversation once again, but it’s like he’s casting spells, and his despair never sounded more beautiful.

“I’ll kiss you until there’s no air left in your lungs. Until you forget every single voice in your pretty head that ever made you doubt yourself,” he says it with enough confidence that it actually makes her believe him this time. “And if that’s what you need, I’ll fuck every insecurity out of you. Repeatedly, until you’ll beg me to stop. Do you understand?” his last question sounds so melodic in her ears, and all she can do for now is simply nod, lips slightly parted and palms traveling up his flexed muscles until they end up around his neck.

She pulls him in, and the second their lips meet, everything else is put in time-out. The kiss is tender, sweet, a little hesitant even. It’s not rushed or rough; it’s the kind of kiss that says I know you see me, I see you too.

By the time she pulls back, her lungs are indeed burning, and his forehead rests against her, breathless, with the ghost of his mouth still lingering on hers.

Then, as if there’s someone out there that could hear them right now, Lando speaks in a whispered voice, “I watched you sit on the edge of the balcony and I didn’t know if I’d be fast enough. That was my first thought, and then my mind went blank.”

She’s breathing hard now, so is he. But not because of the kiss anymore. It’s the weight of reality that makes them both stop and realize the gravity of the situation.

“I’m so sorry, Lan,” she whispers back.

“I lose sleep because I’m having nightmares about it,” the knife keep twisting, putting hole after hole in her heart. “I don’t fucking pity you,” says Lando matter-of-factlty. “I love you. But I am scared. That’s it.”

That’s it. The simplest way to put it.

“So stop trying to push me away,” he continues, his eyes locking onto hers with intent. “I told you then, and I am telling you now: I’m not leaving. I don’t care if we have to figure out a whole new way to be together, or if we have to relearn how to do this.”

She exhales slowly, the kind of sigh that carries months of silence and years of ache. Her eyes hold his, glassy with tears, as if she’s still trying to catch up with the weight of everything he’s just said. Every word he’s poured out tonight folds into her chest, and only once it settles does she speak.

“I know that most of the time it doesn’t look like it, but I am trying,” she says. “Even when my own mind tries to convince me it’s not worth it,” her fingers graze his jaw, tentative, like she’s afraid she doesn’t deserve the contact. “I can’t promise I won’t fall back into it sometimes, you know that. But I can promise I won’t let it win. Not like that. Because you mean more to me. Always.”

For the first time since they got back, she sees an authentic smile on his face. It’s small, but it’s there, and it gives her all the strength to continue.

“Like, promise-promise, pinky promise?” asks Lando, tilting his head, searching her face. He sounds like a little boy asking for reassurance in a world too big. It makes her want to cry and laugh all at once.

Instead, she lifts her pinky between them.

Without hesitation, Lando hooks it with hers like it’s a contract written in unicorn blood and stardust and glitter. And then, without warning, he grabs her by the waist and lifts her off the ground, making her yelp before he drops her gently onto the bed, her laughter breathless and real for the first time in what feels like forever.

He hovers over her, curls falling into his eyes, the smallest grin playing at his lips; there’s so much love behind his piercing gaze.

He kisses her then.

And she lets him in, again and again, even though they know it isn’t over. Not even close.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

177 notes · View notes

thedivinetarot · 19 hours ago

Text

I need you, I breathe you, I'll never leave you

What do you need the most right now?

☆ How to chose your pile? 🪔🪔🪔

☆ Future Spouse Delux offer 🦪🦪🦪

☆ Disclaimer:

This is a general reading. Take what resonates and leave what doesn't. If the energy check did NOT resonate with you, feel free to skip.

☆ Note:

- I decided to bring back the 3 pile readings.

- I have challenged myself to upload 4 reading this month instead of 1. And I'll be updating my tarot masterlist and there will be huge discounts and more tarot themes and options.

Lots of love {❤}

Arya

Pile 1 - The gates

1. Current energy:

Hello Angels, how are you? I hope you are doing well. Now let's get into the energy check. I see the energy of a young page here, perhaps you are someone who just started a small hustle and you are being very creative about. I see things like, crochet, air clay, and making accessories. Someone here aim to reach independence, I'm picking up on someone under 24 y.o. still trying to figure out their life, what they want and what they don't. Now, I see also, that life has been or still incredibly stagnant. Nothing new happen. Someone here might have met their own father or an old male figure. Perhaps, you asked for money. Or that male figure will call you unexpectedly and transfer money to you. I see that someone here is disconnected emotional and they lack discernment. Perhaps, someone here just finished their school or semester college and dealing with post exams fog were you just want to not think of anything. I see also, that if you are seeking a reply from a formal organization about job apply you might hear back from them. But overall, this pile current energy is very stagnant, someone here is bored lol. Others are trying to find their passion or use their passion to earn money.

☆ Placements for you:

Cancer, Taurus, pisces, Sagittarius, Aquarius. Venus in Virgo, sun in cancer and taurus, Sagittarius stallium. Dominant planets: Neptune, jupiter, moon, Venus. Sun or moon in the 2nd, 4th, 12th, 9th, 11th House in the chart.

2. What do you need the most right now?

Okay, What do you need the most is change. Perhaps, you have been seeing 555 or 5555 a lot on the clock or everywhere. Pile 1 you need change, you need to start something fresh and new. You need to get your life together and be connected more to you intuition. I feel like this pile need to listen more to their intuition, they need to be more connected to your intuition. Perhaps, your 3rd eye is blocked or stagnant. The energy there is not moving freely. It is clouded by thoughts, unbalanced feelings and a little bit of frustration. I see that you need to listen more to your inner child. Someone here abandoned their inner child and stopped doing the things that your inner child enjoy. Watch your favourite cartoon as a child, write a cute notes for yourself. Buy yourself flowers and most importantly start sensing abundance around you. Someone here want to be so rich, so independent financially but in order for you to reach there you need to nourish the abundance inside you. I see that your financial state will increase rapidly during winter this year, think September to December. You'll be recognized for your efforts. Yeah also, you'll be known for something creative. Perhaps art, painting, PowerPoint, canva creative writing, poetry. Something creative that will help you get recognition and money.

3. Message:

You already know the answer, stop biting more than you can chew. Direct the energy in one path, you'll be burnt out if you keep doing this.

Pile 2 - Garden

1. Current energy:

Hello dears, how are you? I hope you are doing well🤍. Now, I started coughing and my throat hurt. Someone here perhaps, is either was cleaning, vacuuming their house/room or recovering from cold. What a delicious energy pile 2, I like this. This one is the opposite from pile one, this pile’s energy is very prosperous and happy. I see that someone here is trying to build a healthy inner dialog about themselves. Perhaps, you are repeating affirmations, looking at yourself differently. And someone here is trying to connect more to their sensuality. I see that you have finally given up on your outdated beliefs about love and romantic connections and how they should be. I see that you are adopting more healthy views about relationships especially the romantic ones. You are trying to be as grounded as possible when it comes to that. I see also, that you are trying to connect with your inner child more. Unlike pile one, they are abandoning their inner child but nevertheless they are trying. Anyways, I see that you have a very balanced feminine and masculine energy. Someone here mastered the art of acting in their divine feminine and masculine. I see that you are the delicate blind of a rose but as hard as a diamond. I see that you are manifesting a huge change. Perhaps, relocation. Omg I teared up, I'm so proud of you. Someone here have gone through an ending in a situation that took all the energy from them and now you are looking toward the future with hope and balance instead of hopelessness. I'm getting that you invested emotionally in a connection but the ending was so bad you started healing your sense of self and grounding in reality, fleeting romance is no longer your thing. I see that you might either meet someone with better financial state than you, someone who is serious about relationships, possibly older. That you might end up marrying. Or, you might attend a wedding soon or someone send you a wedding invitation. Anyways, but generally no matter how much you'll wait for that to manifest, you'll get it. Just be patient dear. Also, your throat chakra is unbalanced, try to hum, and clear it out.

☆ Placements for you:

Aquarius, Aries, pisces, Scorpio. Venus in Aries and Scorpio. Sun in Aquarius. Pluto conjunct the ascendant. Dominant planets in pluto, neptune, Venus, and sun. A stallium in the 1st, 11th, 12th, 8th House.

2. What do you need the most right now?

Now, this is huge. You need to surrender. Stop trying to figure things out. You are guided and you are exactly where you need to be. I see that the universe be like "nah he/she/they are not ready, but them back in the oven" and you are like "why is my life is not moving or my manifestation is not materializing??". It's funny but... There’s a bigger picture you are not seeing. Stop pushing forward, the universe want you to surrender to the flow. I mean yes you can still invest in yourself, self love and self concept but when it comes to other things you need to know that you are being guided to a higher mission. I see that you'll get a letter from that person you invested in. But be careful of reignite the connection. It won’t be built on the same values, or same emotional wavelength. It might also, not be the healthiest thing you will be in. And in case they reach out. It is up to you to reply or not. But I'm just telling you that it won't be healthy or as you expect. There will be power struggles, attachment problems and even control. Be careful, I don't want you to go through that❤. Also, for God's sake pile 2. Listen to your spirit guides. They are sending you signs and synchronicity stop ignoring them. That's everything I have for you dear. Take care💕.

3. Message:

You are being guided to higher mission. Surrender. We have got you.

Pile 3 - Navy Crystals.

1. Current energy:

Hello guys, how are you? I hope you are doing well. Now, let's get into your reading. I see that someone here is very focused on the earthy matters. Think health, nutrition, wellness, working out etc. I'm getting someone is pouring all their energy into their physical well-being which is so great. I see that you are investing financially in yourself, cotton clothes? Check ✅, working out? Check✅, skin care? Check ✅, being the hottest person in the room? Check ✅. I see that you are shining brighter than any sun and everyone is starting to see that. I see also that you are sunbathing a lot these days. Perhaps, going to the beach or it can be as simple as setting in a sunny spot in your house to recharge, also I see you going to work, asking care of yourself and enjoying your life in general. I see that you started seeing people for who they are which in return made you stop chasing validation from them and you started putting boundaries between you and them. Someone here was living with a narcissistic parent and you relocated away from them and now you are like "God finally PEACE!". I see that your apartment or house or even your room is the most sacred sanctuary in this world. You dance, you breathe, you are safe. Looking back to how far you have become. Your nervous system? healed, you healed and as Lana said "there's no more nights, blue skies forever". I see that you have finally got rid from self-doubt, being told "not enough" and unhealthy attachments. You are on a higher frequency. Omg, I feel so happy for you I started tearing up. Someone here, perhaps is chasing or trying to pursue you and you are like "No sir/Madame, I'm very happy on my own". I see you feeling very happy you barely think of anyone else because this is finally the life you dream of and became true. Now, you are at a crossroads. The universe is holding its breathe for you to chose but no matter what you chose it'll lead to stability and happiness.

☆ Placements for you:

Pisces, Virgo, Capricorn. Air signs (Libra, Gemini, Aquarius). Venus in Virgo, mars in Capricorn. Dominant planets Venus, Saturn, Mercury. Sun or moon in the 12th, 6th, 10th, 7th, 11th, 3rd house in your chart.

2. What do you need the most right now?

Oh, okay... I think you need to stop carrying everything on your shoulders. Some of these burdens? Not even yours. Passed down through generations, absorbed like emotional waters so nope. Let them go dear, it's time to let them go. You’re being called to invest wisely and not just in yourself. Maybe it’s learning about the stock market, Bitcoin (if your intuition says so), or even something creative and grounding like pottery or painting. Do something that stirs your soul and stacks your legacy. Now, romantically speaking, I see someone knocking at your door like “pls let me in” and you're just sipping your iced coffee like “Mmm, I’ll think about it” before ghosting them to go dance in your joy and peace😂. Another plot twist: a father figure or older male energy might try to “find someone for you” and you’ll ghost them too, because it’s giving ✨inconvenient✨. Whether this is you now or your soon-to-be, your energy is crystal clear honey: You're not in the mood for courtship unless it's courtship of your dreams, your peace, your empire. Because what you really need right now is to focus on building something lasting. Something legacy-worthy. Something that whispers, "I was here, and I made it beautiful." I love that for you dear, so now go ghost people who want to control the narrative, force you do things you don't want to. And enjoy your tea lol. Take care and thank you for reading this💕.

3. Message:

Build your own legacy. Do sorcery and fck the system.

Post date: 4th of June 2025 - Wed

*Feedback is appreciated.

1 ✅ out of 4 {Posted}

#thedivinetarot #free tarot #tarot community #free divination #pick a card #pick a pile #tarotblr #divination #divination readings #tarot pac #tarot reading #pick a photo #free pac #pac

166 notes · View notes

ptergwen · 1 day ago

Note

8 and 11 from the summer prompts lol

(obv not a peter gif but use your imagination)

8: "laying in bed all dayyy together with fans on"

11: "when one loves to cuddle and the other hates feeling sticky"

summer prompts | ask box | navigation

w/c: 564

warnings: a tiny bit suggestive

a/n: for those of y'all who didn't see my post hi hi hi i’m back :) i missed everyone and missed writing so it was time! i’m gonna be trying out some new things so stay tuned for that, but in the meantime keep sending your requests & come chat with me! this one is so peter coded omg thank u for sending, hope you enjoy and i’m so excited to be back <3 p.s. join my new taglist lmao

you groan as you reach for the fan on peter's night table. there's another one at the foot of the bed, and both are on their highest settings, but neither are doing nearly enough. you pull the fan towards you until it's blowing directly in your face. it cools your warm skin, a sigh of relief passing your lips.

"oh no, don't worry about it. i wasn't using that."

you glare at peter over your shoulder.

"'cause it's making such a difference, right?"

"little miss diva over here. i’m kidding, babe. it's all yours."

you grunt in response, turning back to the fan. peter chuckles and continues scrolling on his phone.

despite your boyfriend's sarcasm, you're fully aware that you're hogging the fan from him. you're just too damn hot to care. besides, the air conditioning broke in his apartment when you had been staying over. a good host would give you unrestricted fan privileges.

"did you hear anything from the repair guy?"

"uh, not since i called this morning."

"when do you think he's actually gonna get here? he gave you such a big window."

"i dunno. it's okay if you wanna go back to your place, y'know. i wouldn't be offended."

you soften at that, rolling over to face peter.

"no, i don't want to. wanna stay here with you."

"are you sure?"

peter puts his phone down and moves in closer to you. you can already feel his body heat. he's shirtless, chest glistening with a thin layer of sweat, the scent of his strong cologne masking it.

"we might have to wait a while. maybe even all day."

"thank god."

a smile takes over peter's lips. you peck them, your hand coming up to ruffle his damp curls.

"sorry for being a diva. it's just so hot in here."

peter's hands settle on your sides, fingers toying with the bottom of your tank top.

"it'll help if you take this off."

he tugs at either side of your panties.

"these, too."

"you're just trying to get me naked, aren't you?"

"i’m just offering a solution... which happens to involve getting you naked."

you scoff. peter smirks, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you into him. you try to wiggle out of his embrace, but he only holds you closer.

"pete, c'mon. it's too hot."

"we don't have to do anything. i just wanna cuddle."

a bead of sweat drips down the back of your neck. you move your hair out of the way with a huff.

"it's too hot to cuddle, too."

peter moves a few more stray hairs off your face. his doe eyes meet yours, the back of two fingers brushing your cheek lightly.

"it's never too hot to cuddle."

he pushes up your top and settles his hands on the bare skin of your lower back. even though you're sweating and peter being all over you isn't helping, his touch feels so relaxing. you give in and loop an arm around his shoulders, leg curling around his torso. peter nuzzles his face in the side of your neck and leaves a few kisses. his eyes close, breathing evening out. your fingers thread through his locks.

"you're so cute."

peter hums in response, pulling you impossibly closer until your skin literally sticks to his. it makes you cringe, but as long as he's happy, so are you.

tags (join my new taglist!)

@spidermans-gf @sacharinee @thollandsgirl2013 @pettypeety @girlinlovewithlove @marvelgurl @superlegend216 @angelinabelovedballerina @moniffazictress11 @superlegend216 @doubledizzy22

#peter parker fluff #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker blurb #peter parker imagine #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker fic #peter parker oneshot #mcu peter parker #peter parker #tom holland x reader #tom holland fluff #tom holland x you #peter parker writing

216 notes · View notes

chiming-bluebells · 3 days ago

Text

༘⋆ ꙳ what’s in my satchel? . . . fantasy dr edition! ⋆ ˚｡ ⋆ ˚｡

˖˙ ᰋ ⋆ ˚ ⊹ യ *◞ ˚ ꕀ .*

is it cursed? is it enchanted? perhaps even haunted? who knows. i put a spell on it myself during one of my lessons in magical studies… you decide whether that’s a good or a bad thing.

MAGICAL SATCHEL ꕤ the appearance & its quirks.

my satchel in my fantasy dr is one of my most prized possessions; custom made by some of the most talented weavers in terabitia,, and brought with me everywhere.

it is woven with golden threads and crafted with the finest of indigo-stained velvets. it’s embroidered, intricately beaded with crystal gemstones and freshwater pearls, and decorated with gilded charms and tassels. also!! it chimes like tiny bells where it sways in my hand!! (i feel like a magical fairy)

as previously mentioned: it is enchanted. meaning: it is made to carry just about anything without running out of space or growing too heavy. perks of being a sorceress, i suppose.

the inside has multiple compartments for multiple purposes. let’s go over them!

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ᨳ

i , FIRST COMPARTMENT ꕤ practical, anything i might need close at hand.

◞ silver dagger : not so much for protections sake, but more so for paying my respect and showing my gratitude. i was gifted the dagger by a sailor i had known in a previous life. i carry it with me everywhere.

◞ coin purse : for when i’m visiting the marketplace (i always make sure to buy at least one pomegranate)

◞ journal : i cannot go anywhere without carrying something to write or draw on. so, naturally, i have to bring my journal with me wherever i go.

◞ enchanted fountain pen : no ink needed. just intention and a little bit of belief.

◞ hip flask : filled with water (let’s hope)

◞ wrapped bonbons : i might’ve mentioned my sweet tooth once or twice before.

◞ map of terabitia & neighbouring kingdoms : i already know my kingdom like the back of my hand… but, you know, just in case!!

◞ lighter : you never know when you might need one.

◞ hand desinfectant : is the year currently 998 A.D. in my dr? yes. is hygiene still a thing in said dr? absolutely.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ᨳ

ii , SECOND COMPARTMENT ꕤ anything beauty.

◞ seashell compact : containing tinted lip balm made from beeswax, rose petals, and honey. the gilded seashell compact was a gift from the merpeople of the sinking islands. the compact is also refillable!

◞ tiny glass vial of perfume : a perfume bottle carrying my favourite signature fragrance. portable and practical.

◞ hair comb : with sturdy metal teeth to brush through my tresses.

◞ folding mirror & powdered blush : cute. foldable. practical. every girl’s best friend. the compact also includes a powdered rosy blush and powder puff, for good measure.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ᨳ

iii , THIRD COMPARTMENT ꕤ items of a sorceress on the go.

◞ deck of tarot cards : as adviced by kamaria. she wants me to practice using them whenever i have the chance.

◞ raw black tourmaline crystal : for protection.

◞ drawstring pouch : made out of silk and contains amethyst and clear quartz, labradorite and moonstone, and some dried wildflowers and herbs.

◞ tiny glass vial filled with moonwater : charged moonwater on the go.

◞ a golden key : but where does it lead? or does it even lead anywhere at all? that’s a secret just for me!

inspired by this post by @eddieisashifter !

#chiming ⊹ bluebells #lexi’s fantasy dr #lexi’s ⊹ realities #desired reality #reality shifter #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifter #shifters #shifting #quantum jumping #loassumption #law of assumption #shifting antis dni #shifting blog #shifting community #shifting diary #shifting motivation #shiftingrealities

204 notes · View notes

ev3nesce · 3 days ago

Text

play pretend

summary: It's the end of the week, and your last task is a routine checkup with Dr. Zayne. You're childhood friend, the only stability in your life. You wouldn't trade him for anything, and if that means keeping your feelings in check, then so be it. But when the topic of an unwanted suitor comes into question, your check-up is lost to a game of pretend. Do you have the strength to let him pose as your boyfriend for a quick fix, or will you forget where the line between real and fake is drawn? Spoiler: you forget.

tl;dr: plot with porn?? going yearn for yearn with Zayne 😼

zayne x fem reader

authors note: this is purely self-indulgent LMAO I was so hurt by the new main story update that I had to write a cutesy first fuck. And yes there IS a build up to the smut people lock in I’m here to fix your attention spans. Alsoooooo there's nothing else on this account cause I got too embarrassed to post a fic on the main. Can’t have friends and fam stumbling upon smut written by my own hands. Haven’t posted a fic of any kind in years so please be kind 😘 also cross-posted this on AO3

one-shot; smut (p in v, unprotected, fingering); 9.8K words

Hands subconsciously smoothing out your still-pristine uniform, you smile at the familiar nurses who breeze by. It’s an exchange that, no matter how frequent, still strikes you as, well… funny. Never would you have pictured yourself on a first-name basis with half of Akso Hospital. Not without help, at least. You suppose such a privilege comes with the package deal that is Dr. Zayne.

Zayne, whose office is two more turns to the left. Your fingers absentmindedly fix your hair for the nth time.

Thanks to your hasty stride, you’re a tad out of breath. And late. In hallways where staff and patients vanish from view, you shamefully jog, only to awkwardly press the brakes when those familiar faces attempt to greet you. Of course, they let you go quickly, for this is not an unusual occurrence. While you’re punctual in any other professional setting, your unique situation with your primary care physician seems to influence some tardiness. Maybe it’s because you know that, behind all the mockery and lethal side-eyes, he doesn’t really care. Not anymore; months of buttering him up and trying to coax a long-lost bond from him have undoubtedly paid off.

But this time, it wasn’t your fault. You physically cringe at the fresh memory moments before you throw the door to Zayne’s office wide open, uncaring of what you might be interrupting. Most of the time, you had some decency to knock during your lateness. Naturally, manners were the least you could offer as an apology. Today, however, your head was a foggy mess.

“Sorry—“ You blurt out. “Sorry, I’m late.”

Zayne sits comfortably at his pristinely organised desk, and—as dramatic as ever—he does not look your way. The soft clicks of his slender fingers typing on the keyboard are the first to greet you. The reflection of the computer screen on his glasses is especially harsh at this hour as the last remnants of sunlight slip away. Beyond the wall of windows, the vibrant Friday night life of Linkon begins to stir, its pulsating energy a stark contrast to the air of serene focus in this room.

“Again.” He hums absentmindedly as you sheepishly enter and shut the door. Those tired feline eyes remain on the computer screen. “What’s the excuse this time?”

The thought of why coaxes an awkward laugh out of you. “Nothing interesting.”

Zayne’s brows ever so slightly pinch at the sound, and he finally throws a glance your way. No doubt he registers your exhausted, flustered look as you settle into a chair. “Even children are more creative when lying. You look…dishevelled.”

“No, I don’t.” You definitely do.

“Overworking yourself again?”

“What? No.”

You brace yourself for the onslaught of questions his words threaten. Whenever the topic of your work’s physical demands comes up, the conversation becomes a never-ending back-and-forth. He insists you need to take a step back. You insist he’s overreacting. Despite your best efforts, neither of you can sway the other.

“Then what?” He presses. “Something interesting?”

You frown as the picture of your desk back at work comes to fruition, decorated with a flamboyant yet stereotypically boring gift, one that you could not bring with you. Following it is the unfavourable closeness of the gift-giver’s desk to your own.

“I was just about to leave work—on time, mind you—when I got given a gift, so I got held up in conversation.”

“A gift?”

“Some flowers.”

“Flowers?”

There’s an inexplicable flutter in your stomach as you hint at the event to Zayne, a cringe pressing in on your shoulders, though you can’t quite justify why. Perhaps it’s the invisible, warning whisper of unspoken boundaries years in the making, as if flirtation and romance were forbidden topics in his presence. Like standing barefoot in the cold. Like a puritan child burdened with silent shame, hesitant to speak on the prospects of young love before a disapproving parent.

The very idea of acknowledging your own desirability feels taboo. And yet, beneath that suffocating truth, a sinister and smitten urge blooms. It is a fragment of your heart eager to dangle those delicate ideas in front of him. Could you coax even an inkling of jealousy from those otherwise unreadable eyes?

Zayne busies himself for a brief, silent moment, arranging papers that are presumably yours into a neat pile and grabbing simple equipment from the drawers. You’re following gaze is spurred by the conflicting apprehension and interest. The dull scratch of a pen on paper, a breath, your heartbeat. Finally, he rests his chin on one hand and taps the pen against his desk.

“Who gave them to you?”

“One of the guys I work with. We happen to be stationed together often.”

“A co-worker, huh?” A moment ago, you could have sworn the usual indifference in Zayne’s face had softened. But what you’re looking at now isn’t exactly a soft look. “I presume he didn’t just want to give you flowers for the sake of it?”

“He also asked me to dinner.” You pretend to find interest in the distant view of neon lights outside the window. “Tonight.”

“What did you tell him?”

Are the taps of his pen on the desk becoming more aggressive?

You shrug as if your answer is painfully obvious. “That I was busy. Maybe another time.”

“Why not tell him no?”

“Well…I don’t know.” You shrink in on yourself slightly, as if confined by the physical manifestation of social pressure. The man you were talking about, while friendly enough, was oftentimes difficult to deal with. Not outrightly so, but it was the little things: the subtle knack of being argumentative, an ego as inflated as a balloon ready to burst. All while you had to see him every day? …You had really drawn the short end of the stick here. “I felt bad.”

Something about your answer makes Zayne sigh. He drops the pen and reaches for the blood pressure monitor. As he speaks, his tone is both exasperated and annoyed. “Don’t worry about being polite with those things. You’re just giving him hope by saying ‘another time’.”

You shrug off the thick, leather-like jacket of your Hunter uniform reserved for office work and present your arm. Beneath it is a tight, white button-up. You try not to be aware of the few unfastened top buttons.

“What if he’s one of those ‘pay for everything’ types and takes me somewhere fancy?” You tease as Zayne wraps the band around your forearm. “One date might not hurt.”

Zayne’s grip on the arm band shifts subtly, slender fingers tugging the band unexpectedly tight. The coarse fabric presses against your pulse. His brow furrows — an indication of focus, but on what, you wonder? Zayne’s medical prowess is above the mechanics of velcro or the calibration of blood pressure machines. The clinically harsh overhead lights cast a white halo behind him that cuts sharp lines across his jaw.

“What happens when he expects more than one date?”

“You never know. I might be swayed in his favour.”

The weight of Zayne’s stare is noticeable only when he looks away, turning his focus to the machine’s screen. “You can have fun without going on pointless dates. Especially with someone you work with.”

You sigh dramatically. “I know. I’m mostly joking, but a girl can dream.”

Zayne raises a brow. “Dreaming about your coworkers? How professional of you.”

“You’re one to talk about ‘professionalism’,” you retort with a hmpf. “You’re my doctor, after all. I thought there were strict rules about interpersonal relationships with patients.”

“Rules, yes.” Scarred fingers reaching blindly for his stethoscope. As he speaks, there isn’t much authority in his voice. Instead, it’s almost quiet, far away as he sinks into thought. “But we’re friends first.”

“It still surprises me, though.”

“I’d be more surprised if you went to someone else.”

Now it’s your turn to raise a brow. “How so?”

“Well, I know your medical history like the back of my hand, you’re comfortable with me, your condition is compatible with my specialisations…” A hint of mischief burns in the few bright specks of his otherwise dark eyes. “And I highly doubt anyone else would want to put up with you.”

Your face contorts as if his words attack your senses like a bitter lemon slice. “Ouch, Dr. Zayne. Am I that much of a pain?”

“More like a constant headache.”

Zayne reaches forward, and instinctively, you straighten up, welcoming the further tests. But the chest piece of the stethoscope isn’t in his hand. Instead, he leans down, one hand wrapping around your chair legs. The low groan of wood against wood cuts through the room as you slide towards him. He does so with ease. Incredible ease and attractive ease.

Though his uniform usually leaves little to the imagination, the white coat pulls taut, offering a delicious view of firm muscle. You swallow hard, almost ashamed at how easily the casual display of strength weakens your knees. The man opposite you is otherwise unbothered, straightening to fix the stethoscope in his ears.

Considering he’s about to listen to your racing heart, you look away, searching for a quick fix. Any sight except him will do. Your eyes fall to the floor…and to the very usable wheels on his own chair.

“In that case, maybe I should switch to someone else.” The cold metal presses in the open V of your button-up, right below your collarbone. “You’re so busy. I’d hate to overwork you.”

Zayne looks up at you through his lashes as he draws close. “Now you’re being dramatic. You wouldn’t last a week.”

“And what makes you so confident?”

He chuckles. Clearly, he’s enjoying the back-and-forth. “Because I know you. You’re stubborn, never listen, never follow any of my advice. Besides, you’d miss me too much.”

Your heart flutters right beneath the stethoscope.

“I do listen.” You choose not to acknowledge the latter half of his answer.

“Prove it then.”

You tilt your head, confused. He makes a zipper gesture over his lips. Oh.

For the duration of his observations, you keep quiet, allowing him to focus on the task at hand. Just as he sets the metal against your chest for the last time, your phone dings. The double chime is unmistakable: the secure messaging platform used for Hunters. You often exchange words with your colleagues through it, but at this time, those who didn’t have your personal number wouldn’t bother you.

Your heart flutters again—this time for the wrong reason. Spurred by morbid curiosity, you fish your phone from your pocket without disturbing Zayne. Through the notification centre you scroll until the dreaded name pops up. Great.

“What’s with that look?” Zayne questions.

There’s not much more to say than the message itself. You flip your phone around to show it.

Sooo… how busy on a scale of 1 to 10 are you really tonight?

Zayne adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. A subtle squint creases the corners of his sharp, cat-like eyes, the faint glint of curiosity quickly giving way to something sterner. The amused tilt of his mouth from moments before fades, replaced by a slight frown.

“This is the flower culprit?” His tone is painfully dry as he pushes back to grab a pen and paper, jotting down something probably related to your heart rate.

You hum in thought. “Time to come up with a good excuse, since I have nothing to do after this.”

“Or, and hear me out on this…” Zayne turns to face you, pen still in hand, as he leans back and spreads his legs. The sarcasm in his voice cuts rather than teases. “You just say no.”

Exhausted with even the thought of it, you sigh. “You don’t get it. He’s just a little…much. He tried something with Tara a while back, as if he shares a single similarity with her type, and he’s only just moved past the aftermath.” You huff a laugh. “My guess is that the only thing that will deter him is making myself incredibly uninteresting or pretending I have a boyfriend.”

“What awful options.”

Though you wouldn’t agree, you don’t argue, instead continuing to wonder aloud. “The second option would be the most effective. Two birds with one stone, even.”

Knowing him, a rumour will start at work that you have a boyfriend. A perfect excuse for the earlier gesture just being friendly, considering the flowers were presented with a considerable audience. The rumour wouldn’t be bad if there was an inkling of truth to it. Opposite you, Zayne folds his arms and taps the pen against his arm in a slow but forceful rhythm.

…Could you use him as a scapegoat?

The idea creeps in, sly and tempting, an offer as distracting as the taps of his pen. But no — you snuff that worrisome flame the second it sparks. The guilt it brings is akin to admitting aloud the things that cross your mind in his absence. Pretending would be more than a harmless lie, should he agree; it would cheapen your priceless bond. At least to you. The idea leaves a bitter aftertaste.

“What happens when he asks for proof?”

“Maybe I’ll get one of my friends to play along,” you respond matter-of-factly, although the finer details are nothing more than an afterthought to you. In all honesty, you’ll probably ignore the message, but for some reason, you have yet to drop the conversation.

“And who exactly are you going to rope into this?”

God, it’s like he’s determined to highlight every flaw in your plan. You grin. “Depends on who can be most convincing. Maybe I’ll hold an audition.”

Zayne taps the pen a few beats faster as you become stuck in a standoff-ish staring contest. Why, you’re not so sure. There should be nothing left of value in this conversation.

“I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.” You lean forward, anxious for his answer.

He tosses the pen onto his desk. “What if…I helped you out?”

You couldn’t be more thankful that the stethoscope is no longer in his hands. There’s a beat of silence as you look back at him with eyes wide in astonishment. Just moments ago, you had disregarded the idea with a sound resolve, considering it distasteful and disastrous for yourself. Now, with the offer coming from him, your stance has shifted.

He could convince you to get away with murder. You stifle a laugh.

“You? Could you be convincing?”

“So you doubt my acting skills, huh?” He seems to relax at your light laughter, even flashing you a grin of his own. Your routine checkup has been abandoned entirely. “I’ll have you know I’d do perfectly well.”

“Prove it then. Time for your audition.” You clap your hands together twice before leaning against his desk, arm on the surface and chin in hand. “Question one: Imagine we’re going out for dinner. Where will you take me?”

Zayne looks out the large expanse of window as he considers your question with genuine depth. As he does so, he leans against his desk, vaguely mirroring your own position. “Somewhere we can have privacy, but not so secluded that it feels forced. Good food and candlelit tables. Cozy. If I really wanted to impress you, which I probably do, we could go somewhere exclusive.”

When the answer comes to its conclusion, his eyes slowly drift back to meet yours. Still unreadable. Typical. The carefully crafted response renders you speechless for a moment. You remind yourself not to let it show, pursing your previously parted lips.

“We’ll split the bill fifty/fifty,” you add after a moment.

He scoffs. “Silly of you to think I’d let you spent even a cent.”

Don’t smile.

“…Okay, question two: Where do we go after?”

“After…we could walk around the city if it’s a nice night and stop at some of the food stalls for something sweet—like the one I took you to after work the other week. Then I’ll drive you home. A little aimlessly, though, so I can waste time and spend more with you.”

Like the one I took you to. You raise a brow. “Nothing extravagant?”

“What, is this supposed to be a first date?”

“What if it was?”

He flashes a look of mock offence, as if the answer could not be clearer. “Realistically, how extravagant do I need to be to win you over? We’re not strangers.”

“But just like you said, we’ve done those things before. What makes this special?”

A tsk. “If you weren’t seeing the situation in a different light in accordance with our different relationship, I’d be a little worried.”

You bite back a smile. “Fine then. Question three: I get that text while we’re out and show you. What do you say?”

“Tell you to text him something straight forward so that there’s no wiggle room. ‘I’m busy with my boyfriend, can’t talk’ should do it. Simple. If he questions the legitimacy, send him a picture where he can’t deny what we are.”

Reality suddenly draws you from the conversation’s alarming immersion. How did you get here? When did the conversation take this turn? Did the offer leave his lips on a whim, or was it brewing the second you mentioned receiving flowers? …Why? Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to even consider a version of the answer where there’s real jealousy in Zayne. This was a conversation between two friends, where one is in an awkward predicament and the other is offering a clear escape.

Except it wasn’t clear.

You could lie or swallow your pride and reject your colleague, but instead, you were hanging on Zayne’s every word in a daze. Though his descriptions were simple, it was almost as if you could taste the remnants of a shared dinner on your tongue, feel the chilly evening air on your cheeks and the warmth of his hand in yours as you strolled aimlessly through the streets. Imagining it isn’t an impossible task, either. Most of the outings you shared were the taunting shell of a date.

Zayne watches with an immeasurable intensity as silent seconds tick by, waiting for an answer. Should you agree? The date was only theoretical—no harm, no foul. Just a story to tell your colleagues. At most, a picture was all you needed. You match his gaze for a moment longer. Then…

“Alright. Fine.” You drum your thighs as you announce: “You’re hired.”

Zayne leans back in his chair at the news, grinning as if he’s just won a childish game of tug-of-war. “Before we start, I have one condition.”

“And that is?”

“As your employee, things will remain strictly professional, right?”

Those simple, serious words douse out the little spark in your chest—something you’re grateful for, and yet stubbornly wounded by. You snort. “I’d be worried if that wasn’t the general consensus already.”

With a hum, Zayne is the first to look away, eyes drifting behind you to the expanse of Linkon City. For once in this strange interaction, you recognise the look on this face: thoughtfulness. Oh, how you wished to pick apart his brain. Should the universe allow it, you would dive into his mind and make a nest of those fleeting thoughts otherwise destined to be unheard. In this moment, you can’t help but admire him from afar. You could swear a merciless ocean stands in the way, or a glass wall thicker than bullets could pierce. Then he stands with an outstretched hand, and suddenly, you’re back in his office, acutely aware of your physical closeness.

You place your hand in his with underlying hesitance. Before he shakes your hand, he pulls you to your feet. Warm fingers delicately apply his strength.

“Deal.”

“Deal,” you echo. You can’t help but feel surprise at his formal, dedicated approach. “Should we take a photo now, or should I just text him first and see if he believes—?”

“Photo first.” He’s quick to cut you off, shrugging off his pristine white coat in the process and haphazardly throwing it over a chair. “Who knows how long it might take for him to reply? We don’t have all night. By the time he does, I might be long gone.”

While that could be true, you knew your colleague would be waiting with bated breath for a reply. But you don’t bother to challenge Zayne in that regard and instead reach for your phone. “As you wish, Doc-tor. …How should we stand?”

Wordlessly, he takes you by the elbow and gently shuffles you to stand before him, your back to his chest. Over your shoulder you watch, quiet and nervous. There’s a pathetically large gap between the two of you. When you don’t step back to close it, he chuckles.

“You can come closer,” he says. Then, in a more sheepish tone, he adds, “If you’re okay with that.”

You’re affirmation is nothing more than a hum, too cautious to give voice to nerves that may betray you. You’re step back is carefully calculated; not too far so that every inch of you is flush with him, not too quick to suggest eagerness. Zayne leans against his desk in an attempt to adjust his towering height according to yours. As a result, you find yourself standing between a pair of large, spread thighs that faintly brush your own.

Zayne’s movements mirror your deliberate caution, slow and measured. His hands first guide you by the shoulders, then shimmy you by your sides. Then, at a pace so gruelling it was like he wished not to disturb you, his arms slowly snaked around your waist. Each movement is made in such silence that you wonder if he’s even breathing. Were you? His arms hover an awkward inch away, giving you the opportunity to smack his wrists and lecture him on the professionalism he just swore to. You don’t. Of course you don’t. So he comfortably settles them, and you wonder if that opportunity was wasted.

Maybe if you leave your camera facing the ceiling, you won’t have to face the situation you’ve found yourself in. But unfortunately, time was moving at a very real pace, and standing around doing nothing would be just as bad. Stealing yourself, you raise your phone, nervous to make eye contact with your own self. Zayne cranes his neck to fit in the frame. Warm breath fans across your neck and ear as he does so. You shiver.

“Smiling is a must,” he murmurs.

All you can do is nod, swallow, and smile as he instructs. Though it’s a nervous, timid smile, it is one nonetheless. Satisfied, your finger ghosts over the shutter button, only to forget all about it as he leans in a little closer, voice little more than a whisper in your ear.

“Smile wider.”

You can’t help but giggle at the feeling of his breath on your neck. It transcends the physical barrier of your skin, travelling down your spine tauntingly, leaving behind an overwhelming desire to chase the high. At least you don’t need to force a bigger smile—you take the photo the second he elicits the vulnerable reaction, capturing the fleeting appearance of a genuine smile and crinkled eyes. Though beneath it all, the ache of this hollow pretence remains.

“That tickles,” you say in a tone that is borderline accusing.

“Sorry.” His voice remains quiet and breathy against the shell of your ear, this time with a hint of playful remorse. “It was intentional.”

“Mm-hm.” Focus. “I’m going to take one more.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Kiss me on the cheek.”

You’re not sure what possesses you to make the request. Sure, from an outside perspective, it is reasonable enough considering the act you’re mutually playing. But such a simple approach disregards human complexity. If he accepts, is that a reflection of blind obedience, or does it stir something deeper, enticing him beyond the agreement? If he refuses, does that mean he respects those boundaries out of disinterest or fear?

“…Okay.”

That’s all he says. You’re as clueless as you were ten seconds ago. Shooing away the silly internal debate, you turn your head more his way.

You are entirely unprepared for how he complies.

Nimble fingers trace a path beneath your jaw before finding purchase on your chin, tilting it with a subtle insistence. Fingers splayed, his grasp is all-consuming and possessive—perfect for a photo and detrimental to your moral compass. His free hand finds purchase on your hip, consistently firm despite being nowhere in frame. Were you always this close?

The final graze of his lips against your cheek is devoid of his hand’s inescapable demand. Instead, the kiss is gentle. Cheeks red and heart racing, you have half the mind to take the photo. Then another. He lingers long enough for you to take three, your face in different stages of submission.

When you lower the phone, his touch disappears with it. What he doesn’t do is usher you away. Curious.

“Got enough photos?” He asks after a moment. The casual nature of his question is almost laughable.

“More than enough. Now to see if it was worth it…”

Zayne peers over your shoulder as you navigate to the message that caused this all. The quickly crafted response reads with little room for argument.

Look, I think you’re great and I appreciate the flowers, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I have a boyfriend, and he thinks I should convey that I’m taken to spare both you and me, which I agree with. I am not and will not be free to spend time with you outside of work.

It’s read immediately. The first message follows soon after.

Come on, y/n.

He continues to type. Then comes the second message.

What boyfriend? I’ve never heard of or seen any boyfriend. You don’t have to lie to me. Just give me a chance, sweetheart.

Sweetheart? You scoff aloud in offence. The gall he has to not only doubt you, but throw in a pet name is beyond you. Nevertheless, you couldn’t ask for a better opening. You don’t miss a beat before attaching the photo of Zayne kissing your smiling face with a simple: this one. You can’t deny the satisfaction it gives you to prove him wrong, regardless of the real truth. A soft laugh sounds behind you.

“A photo was worth it after all.”

“I see what you mean, now,” he muses. Though there’s a slight smile on his face, there’s a line between his brows that can’t be missed. “He’s got some nerve, calling you ‘sweetheart’ and all.”

“Sounds like someone is still in character,” you tease, nudging him with an elbow.

“Hey, I’m just making sure the message is clear,” he retorts in mock defence. “Can’t have anyone calling my girl ‘sweetheart’.”

Your breath barely has time to steady before a familiar chime sounds, drawing your attention to the unlocked screen in your hand. A shocked gasp escapes you at the few bold words staring back defiantly. What, it reads. Can he not share? Any words of indignation are snuffed by Zayne’s hand closing firmly around your wrist, angling the screen his way. The shift from subtle indifference to something far more intense is evident in that now-familiar frown.

“Ignore it.” The playfulness is gone.

“Someone really wants to get in my pants.” You sigh. “Well…work is going to be a little awkward. Thanks for your help, though.”

He huffs a laugh, though there's nothing humorous about it. “You’re welcome. Just let me know if he tries to bother you again.”

You half-turn in your spot between his legs and poke him in the chest. “What would you do then, hm?”

“I don’t know…” He trails off as he grabs your wandering hand and settles it back at your side without letting go. He continues, eyes watching where his fingers toy with your bracelets. “Maybe I’d come to the Association myself.”

“Too bad Tara knows you.” It’s a miracle your voice doesn’t waver. The pictures have already been taken; there’s nothing more to fake. “She’d see right through the act. Or should I swear her into secrecy?”

You’re unsure of how long the two of you have been absentmindedly inching closer. The room has shrunk entirely, walls dissolving as tunnel vision settles in. No longer can you pick up the sterile scent of antiseptic that clings to every surface of the hospital, nor do the fluorescent lights bother you. Now, the only tangible thread tethering you to this moment is him. Zayne. Your breath catches in your throat. A dead giveaway. His eyes flicker back to yours. Is it possible that the featherlight drag of his fingertips over your wrist has caught your pulse?

At this distance, you could count each gold fleck in his heavy-lidded eyes. Now, that look is a characteristic you’re less confident in labelling as fatigue. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he’s found in your eyes, his gaze trickles downwards. Over the imperfections of your skin to the curve of your lips, down your neck, skirting the scandalously low neckline of your button-up.

“I can be plenty convincing.” There’s a soft sensuality in the way each word leaves his lips, foreign and addictive. “No one would have to know it’s an act.”

His index finger teases your inner arm before finally making the jump to your waist. Suddenly, you can’t find the line between real and fake, hypnotised by a hazy want. You lay your hand over the one on your hip and speak with hesitance.

“You’re…doing a good job of convincing now…”

Now there’s a hand on either hip, angling you to face him entirely. His words are little more than a breath in your ear. “You think so?”

A moment of clarity draws your anxious attention to the unlocked door. Though it was late in the evening and Zayne should be leaving by now, you were also no expert in the inner workings of Akso Hospital. How often do people walk in unannounced? Would he get in trouble if someone saw him like this? In you’re peripheral, Zayne tilts his head to follow your gaze, curious. Then he laughs, the sound soft and deep, and boldly caresses your hips upon the understanding of your anxiety.

“Don’t worry.” Without lifting a finger, a subtle frost blossoms over the handle. Soft cracks echo as mounds of ice creep along the locking mechanism. The surrounding wooden frame glitters. “No one can open the door.”

You lift your chin in an attempt to tease. “Why would I be worried?”

“No reason.” His fingers continue to deftly draw circles on your hips, slow and intentional. When he leans in again, his lips almost graze the skin of your jaw. “Sweetheart.”

Not only were the lines blurred, they were gone entirely. That fact is enough to feed your confidence. Timid fingers skim over forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves. Jagged scars rise to meet your fingertips. They whisper stories you’ve been too wary to pursue. Zayne’s biceps are pronounced beneath the black fabric of his dress shirt, his shoulders broad and inviting. Your travels come to a shy halt just short of his collar.

“You’re a tease.”

“Don’t make it so easy.”

“You’re not making this easy, either.” His grip tightens with those words.

“What do you mean?”

“Playing this game with you…” His voice wavers then, torn between sanity and delusion. “I don’t know where to stop.”

You’re unsure of what to say or do. A chill is emerging from the tips of his fingers, so cold that it seeps through the fabric of your skirt. Zayne is naturally the embodiment of his Evol; cold and unforgiving to those who don’t know him. There’s a subtle, physical aspect to the manifestation, too, from the sharpness in his features to an arresting chill that follows him. But this is different. The temperature in his hands is dropping rapidly, so much so that the shocking cold almost has a bite to it. Is he…aware that his Evol is activating? You shiver.

“You’re hands are cold,” you whisper.

Those few words connect with him like a punch—a harsh reality check. It’s evident in the way that his entire frame goes rigid, the clouded look in his eyes overshadowed by a minor horror. The daze is gone. So is the cold. Zayne withdraws his hands entirely, sinking further against his desk.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick with tangible guilt.

Without missing a beat, you lean forward to match his slight escape, grabbing his hands and bringing them back before he can protest. The act is not a sensual show but instead an admittance of trust.

“I’m not afraid of it, you know,” you try with a small smile. “I don’t mind if your hands are a little cold.”

“You…don’t?” he asks, earnest in his perplexity.

You nod. He swallows.

“Why?”

Once you recognise that his hands won’t move, you slowly drape your arms over his shoulders. The expression on his face is akin to that of a wounded puppy. You’re both surprised at how quickly his hard exterior has melted and saddened by his martyrdom. Instincts rooted deep in your flawed heart pull you in, resting your cheek in the crook of his neck—a place equally as cold. Your fingers, which trace alone his nape, make contact with what you can only guess is a fine film of frost.

You sigh. “Well, you know my Evol can help ease it. If it hurts you, I can help. Besides…I’m not as delicate as you think I am.”

As you speak, the physical apprehension in his body eases. With it is the release of a shuddered breath as his arms tentatively encase you.

“You trust me too much,” he says with a light scoff.

“Sometimes you can be so dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

You lift your head to squint at him. “Hm… Agree to disagree.”

You’re faces are incredibly close. The question of how close or why is entirely out the window. This wasn’t some pretend play anymore. You find nothing artificial in the position of his hands, in the way his gaze dances between your expectant eyes and parted lips. Not in his voice, not in the subtle red hue on his cheeks, not in the complaisant confessions of his ragged breaths. Nowhere. The substance that supported an illusion is suddenly weightless, dissolving alongside the frost beneath your fingertips.

“You truly are the most stubborn woman I know,” he mutters. His own stubbornness is endearing, but you’re tired of this game of cat and mouse.

“So you don’t want to kiss me?”

Eyes less guarded than ever before stare back at you as if you’ve spoken another language.

You withdraw your hands and tilt your head away, half-joking, half-nervous by the lack of response. “No answer? Fine. I was offering, you know—“

Blinded by his previous dumbfoundedness, you don’t anticipate the speed of his reaction. Cold hands force you’re face back towards his. His head is slightly bowed, reverent eyes staring up through thick lashes. It’s as if he’s cradling an object of worship, like you’re a deity to whom he must repent. For he has sinned, disgraced by an ailing infatuation that has festered over the years, devolving into a mind-numbing greed.

Instead of the gentle tone that his words have melted into, a low, husky voice rings in your ears.

“I never said I didn’t want to kiss you.”

His thumb slides towards your lower lip, gently tracing the dip below to substantiate his claim. Air seems to escape you at the feeling of his breath, of his hands, at the way his gaze triangulates between your eyes and lips.

“I think about kissing you all the time.”

His nose brushes against your cheek as he cranes his neck, breath fanning across your neck. All you can muster is a whispered, “Oh?”

“When I’m at home.” A warmth against your collarbone cuts through the overarching cold as his lips finally press down. Your heart stutters violently. “When I’m at work.” He kisses the expanse of skin between your neck and shoulder. One hand angles your head from the nape of your neck, fingers fervently tangled in your hair, the other cradling your waist. “When I’m with you.”

Another at the curve of your jaw. While his lips are warm, his breath comes out cold between each peck, each word. The conflicting temperatures are both shocking and enticing.

“I’m tired…” He kisses your cheek for the second time today before pulling back to catch your eyes in earnest. “Of fantasising about it.”

Your faint smile flickers, a fragile torch that illuminates the path he no longer resists. Restraints shed, your breath mingles, and his lips come crashing against your own. It is unlike the nurturing kisses against your skin. In fact, it is anything but gentle; desperately crushing, a confession condensed into a press of mouths. Slender fingers explore the landscape of your lower abdomen, insatiable cartographers drawing maps of mystical lands. Here, he stakes his claim. A low groan echoes deep in his bones and resounds against your equally curious hands.

You suppress a groan of your own as you melt into putty kneaded by Zayne’s precise hands. Lower they go, pulling you closer by the hips, tracing the waistband of your skirt, testing how close to your ass he can get.

The results are in: he can get very close.

His grin doesn’t go unnoticed as his hands dip down with purpose, massaging the plump flesh. You’re hum of content is an addictive contingency. His grip becomes brusquely firm. You kiss him harder. Suddenly, they drop down to your thighs, and the floor disappears beneath you. A sharp gasp of surprise escapes your lips at the loss of support. Instinctively, your hold around his neck tightens, fingers grasping at the fabric of his black button-up.

Zayne’s grip on you is unwavering as he spins you both. Muscle flexes beneath your touch. One arm hooks beneath your knees and supports you effortlessly. The other reaches behind your back, pushing half of his desk’s contents onto the floor in one fluid swipe. Loose paper flutters towards the floor like fragile autumn leaves, settling soundlessly as pens clatter everywhere. The book on dream analysis that you had teased him about reading just last week lands face down with an accusing thud. It faces the ceiling with open pages, displaying the annotation of an electroencephalography.

When Zayne sets you down on his desk, the action is gentle. The hand that helped to support you pushes apart your knees, allowing him to settle between and press a quick kiss to your lips.

“Sorry,” he says between peppered kisses. “Should I have asked before I did that?”

You chuckle against his mouth. “It’s fine. I’m giving you consent entirely. …Unless it’s something outrageous.” The latter part you add with a teasing tone.

“Is this too outrageous?”

Forehead rested against yours, he looks down to where his hand settles on your thigh. Your legs are spread wide to accommodate him. As a result, your skirt rides up dangerously high. Any higher and nothing would be left to the imagination. Slowly, his hand slides forward, aiming directly for the improper scene. You both watch in silence for a moment as he traces the raised hem, massages your thigh, then retreats slightly, only to repeat himself again and again. He meets a higher milestone each time. The urge to beg for more is debilitating, yet all you can do is shake your head, pathetic in your submission to desire.

When his lips meet yours again, his pace is slow, vaguely cautious, echoing that of his hand. Each kiss grows deeper and deeper, pushing you further back each time. The wooden surface of Zayne’s desk presses into your back before you know it.

Angling one of your thighs against his hip, he settles over you with a new closeness. You’re skirt is as good as gone. The fabric bunches around your waist as he pushes your thigh up further. Neither of you pays verbal mind to the physical manifestation of his desire that presses against your aching core.

…Were the two of you really about to fuck in his office?

Zayne was always prim and proper. In the way he dresses, in his sophisticated speech, in his profession and borderline-OCD cleanliness. You would never peg him as the type to yield to sinful wants in scandalous places. And yet here you are, arching your back off his desk and accepting the hungry sweep of his tongue. The only thing protecting him from disciplinary action is the ice embedded in the door. You pray that all the times he insisted on his Evol’s temporal durability were not lies.

When his mouth is drawn back to your neck, your eyes flutter open. They adjust strangely to the overhead lights as little spots glitter in your vision. Confused, you squint. Instead of the specks disappearing, their forms refine into tiny snowflakes drifting through the air. They’re too faint to survive long; as soon as they settle in Zayne’s hair and on the desk, they melt into nothingness.

A question is brewing on the tip of your tongue at the sight. Though it’s quickly lost to the uninhabited corners of your mind when his fingers glide over the edges of your panties and directly across your clothed cunt. Your cheeks flare. There’s no hiding the desire that pools between your legs.

“Is this all it takes to get you so wet?” His voice is a purr against your skin.

You pout. As if you couldn’t feel his erection a second ago. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is how long it’s taken to get you like this.” A shameful whimper builds in your throat as he circles his fingers with added weight. His free hand creeps over your mouth. “Shhh. You can stay quiet for me, can’t you?”

With wide, begging eyes, you nod with a muffled mm-hmm. Before retracting his hand, he circles above your clit a second time, then a third, testing your obedience.

The ecstasy that burns beneath your skin from the slightest of touches is obscene. You would think that you’d been trapped in hours of foreplay, denied even the thought of release. But still, it is not enough. The feeling was akin to wearing layers on a cold day, yet still shivering. Like biting into a promising fruit that hasn’t hung from the vine long enough. It just wasn’t right, wasn’t enough. You roll your hips in an attempt to convey as much.

“Impatient?”

Through a sigh, you answer, “Just a little.”

His teeth graze your ear. “Then use your words. What do you want?”

What an unfair question to ask now, with your mind clouded in drunken lust. Articulation was difficult. So was trying to pinpoint exactly what you wanted. There were too many things you could want and not enough words in the dictionary to do them justice. So instead, all you can offer is, “You. I just want you.”

Thankfully, he seems to understand. His fingers hook around the waistband of your panties. Lifting your hips with one hand, he uses the other to shimmy them down to your ankles. A single beat isn’t missed before the adept fingers of a surgeon slide between your folds. His mouth is back on every exposed inch of skin he can find, needy and hot. You hide quiet pants behind a bitten lip. You almost pierce the swollen skin when his fingers finally find entry.

“Keep quiet,” he reminds you in a soft voice as his index and middle fingers curl. “Only I get to hear you like this, right?”

You nod, eyes fluttering close. But your agreement doesn’t seem to be enough. He catches your rolling head and forces a moment of sobriety. Acknowledgement from every legible medium, including that of your eyes and mouth, is what he truly wants.

“Right, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Yes, Zayne. Just you…just…”

You’re words die out into a sharp inhale as he presses down on your clit. He pumps in and out in tandem with the exterior pressure, stimulating screaming nerves that turn your knees to jelly and your jaw slack. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of your arousal around his fingers, your bitten-back moans, and the wet kisses trailing from your chest to your jaw, then to your mouth and back.

A small part of you wishes for him to bite down. To leave a mark that was unmistakably his. But, although you were little more than a stranger to Zayne’s sexual nature, you could almost hear him calling hickies childish.

The steady rhythm he’s set calls for release. Like the sliver of morning light on the horizon, you can feel it approaching, an all-consuming warmth that flutters deep in your stomach and creeps up your legs. Your inner walls flutter around his fingers in an announcement of his skilled work’s reward.

“Right there,” you pant, head rolling, and fingers tugging at his hair. “Don’t stop—“

Except, he does exactly that.

You whine as he retracts his fingers, looking at him with indignation, silently demanding an explanation. Only smugness stares right back. Euphoria sinks back into the confines of your bones at the absence of stimulation. You can barely get out the question of why before he cuts you off.

“Believe me when I say I could please you for hours without question,” he says with a quick kiss before withdrawing to tower before you. “But I don’t know how long we have. I can’t let you have all the fun.”

You’re about to roll your eyes when he raises two glistening fingers to his mouth. His eyes remain trained on you as he glides his tongue over the remnants of your arousal before sucking them clean. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight.

“Sweet,” is all he says, as if he’s describing one of the new desserts sold at the cafe across the street. Your cheeks turn bright red.

Satisfied with the taunt, he reaches for his belt, and suddenly you’re reeled right back in. Your unashamed gaze tracks every movement with hunger as he undoes the buckle, then the button below. When he reaches for the zipper, he averts his eyes. Now it’s his turn to feel shy. The top of his boxers comes into view, followed by a mouth-watering outline of the exact thing you crave.

One hand hovering at the waistband, he settles back over you. A palpable shift in the air has taken place. Gone is the initial display of hunger and desire finally brought to light. In this moment, as he looks down with eyes full of affection, there’s a sense of pure, shared intimacy. Not the exhiliration of stupid decisions or a quick fuck. No. Zayne was not one to hook up with someone on a whim. Nor were you.

“You’re sure about…this?” He asks. The previous displays of confidence are nowhere to be found. You don’t think he can even bring himself to say the word, as if an explicit understanding would chase you away.

“What, having sex with you?” You kiss the tip of his nose with a smile. “I couldn’t be more sure.”

You catch an amused yet curious look on his face before he presses a slow kiss to your lips. Your heart races at the sound of shuffling fabric. Then you feel it. You can’t fight the urge to look.

Zayne holds the entirety of his impressive length in one hand. With ragged breaths, he teasingly drags the red, weeping tip across your folds. At the sight of it in his hold, of the tip circling your clit…You can only hope that he fits.

“I’ll go slow,” he says quietly. You’re almost unsure if he’s talking to you or himself. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much? If you want to stop at all—“

You try to give him a smile as sincere as possible instead of the giggles that threaten to arise. Nerves are obviously kicking in on his end. Not that you aren’t nervous. God knows you are. But suddenly, he can’t meet your gaze for more than a few seconds, and it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever done.

You quickly cut him off before he can ramble. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Zayne nods, presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, and sinks into you.

If your senses weren’t already overwhelmed by him, they were now. The stretch aches at first, his sheer size foreign and unforgiving. Your jaw falls slack at the feeling, and a stuttered gasp leaves your lips. Zayne echoes the sound. Slowly, he pushes further with each roll of his hips, acutely aware of the initial shock. He sweeps away stray hairs plastered to your skin.

“You’re doing good,” he encourages, though he quickly begins to lose his coherence. “So good… You feel so…”

He cuts himself off with a low groan, and his head falls to the crook of your neck. Another careful thrust, then another. Finally, he bottoms out...and his teeth sink into your skin.

It takes everything in you not to cry out his name at the overwhelming sensations. Just moments ago, you wrote off the idea of leaving this room with physical reminders. Now, Zayne’s tongue was gliding over the fresh indents of his teeth to soothe the sting. Today was a day for many firsts.

Resisting the urge to sing your praise is becoming more and more of a punishment. You can only hope that the soft whimpers and incoherent strings of ‘yes’s and ‘keep going’s are enough. Zayne muffles his own voice with the press of his mouth to your skin, desperate and low. Where his throat leans against your chest, the reverberation of ecstasy echoes. What neither of you addresses, however, is the lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and each scraping groan of the desk legs in tandem.

When your fingers tug his hair, his tempo becomes sloppy. Heedless and disorganised, like he’s barely holding on. You’re own high is re-emerging from its previous denial. Nothing seems to register anymore, not beyond the connection of your bodies, not beyond this room, not before this moment. Every sense is reduced to your simple need for him. Sensibility no longer exists, like ink bleeding on damp paper, words blurring beyond recognition. What were the ethics of fucking your doctor? Ecstacy. That’s what.

You squirm in his partial hold, hips aching with the gruelling pace. When your eyes flutter and roll, he hums in content, suddenly slowing down.

His face contorts into something reminiscent of sympathy, brows pinched and eyes pooling with an inescapable intensity. “Right there?”

Each syllable sounds with a deep roll of his hips. When you whimper out a drawled mmh-hmm, he suddenly picks back up. He’s so close, reaching so deep that his pelvis grinds against your clit. You’re an overstimulated mess of tangled limbs and ragged breaths.

“Zayne—“ You’re legs begin to tremble, inner walls fluttering with that telltale sign. “Fuck—I’m going to—“

When you can’t finish the sentence, he captures your slack lips in a messy kiss.

“I know.” He trails a hand down to draw slow circles into your clit. “I’ll pull out—“

While it was the most sensible course of action, not an ounce of you wanted that. Spurred by a fraction of sobriety, you look up at him and speak solid yet shaky words.

“You can cum inside me.”

Glazed eyes look back, attention caught entirely. Parted lips attempt to form words that are lost to open-mouthed groans. He shudders. “Fuck. Are—are you sure?”

“You know I’m on birth control.” Hiding a devilish grin, you clench around his length. He sinks further into your embrace with muttered curses. Had you ever heard him say such obscene things before? “Please.”

“How could I say no to you, gorgeous?”

His words are barely more than a whisper, lost to the scrape of the table and slap of skin. You’re shared sobriety is spent in the short exchange. Your head rolls back, nails digging into a clothed back; his teeth graze against the inches of flesh that spill out of your bra, an indicator of delirium. Everything dissapears behind eyes screwed shut.

The song of sex is threatening to reach its crescendo, each melodic note vibrating through your entire being. Like a tide pulled by unseen moons, a shared pulse that races beyond the confines of mortal flesh. You hold him close in the moment it engulfs you, and despite Zayne’s intoxicating effect, you are suddenly very sure that this is right. The explosion of pressure in your hips that shakes your legs is right. The perfect alignment of your bodies is right. The stuttered moans as he paints your walls white are right.

For a moment, you two bask in a comfortable silence, arms slung around his shoulder and his head in the crook of your neck. When he lifts himself to hover at eye-level, you can’t help the girlish giggle at the sight of his pretty face and that pretty blush. He smiles back, albeit confused.

“What?” He asks as he absentmindedly fixes your hair.

“You’re cute,” you whisper back.

“Cute?” He laughs. “Wouldn’t be my first pick of words, but I’ll take it—“

Zayne, who leans in to kiss your forehead, stops just a hairs breadth away when a jarring knock sounds. It cuts through the moment like a distasteful dose of medicine. Both your heads whip towards the door as the handle jiggles. Every function in your body stops. But, for the nth time today, your lucky stars seem to align; the embedded network of ice keeps the door firmly shut.

The relief isn’t long-lived, though. Underwear God knows where, half of Zayne’s desktop scattered on the floor, hair a mess and skin splotched in shades of purple… You cringe at the disgraceful scene. Zayne sighs, fixes his clothes, and momentarily drops down to fish for your underwear—the first step to regaining modesty. When he slips it over your ankles and up thighs glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, he offers an apologetic look.

“That’s my karma for ignoring the time,” he grumbles.

You slide off the desk and into your underwear, aided by his fingers at the waistband. As he sits them on your waist and pulls down your skirt, you reach up to fix his hair.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, as if it truly was your fault. Well…half of the accountability was yours to claim.

“Don’t apologise.” Stealing a quick kiss, he adds, “Trouble.”

He slips from your grasp before you can retort.

From the view of the door, the criminalising array of pens and paper on the floor is mainly hidden, save for maybe an item or two. But even a single paper was evidence enough. Anyone witness to Zayne’s perfectionism would know as much. But by the time you recline in the chair, he’s already reaching for the thawing door handle. His tall frame blocks the view of the hallway as he pulls the door half open.

He nods. “Yvonne.”

Yvonne. Her presence teeters on the precipice of a blessing and a curse. A blessing, given your growing companionship with the kind nurse from Zayne’s division, yet a curse for precisely the same reason. She had the confidence in your connection to claw something juicy out of you in private, no doubt. Considering how often she brings up the gossip between nurses regarding Zayne and your relationship, this was information right up her alley.

Yvonne shifts her weight to the side to peer in the room—an act of curiosity you read clearly. When your eyes lock, the spark you were picturing stares right back. Interesting, her lively eyes seem to say. After wiggling her fingers in a small hello, she turns back to Zayne with a raised brow.

“Everything okay, Dr Zayne?” she asks plainly. The question is anything but plain. “This door was locked.”

Zayne’s grip on the door turns white knuckled. He clears his throat. “Everything is fine. I must have locked it by accident.”

It takes everything in you not to lose yourself to laughter. Zayne’s quick wit would one day be the death of you, but now his lack of sensibility would be the death of him. Yvonne scoffs at his jarringly poor excuse.

“Accident, huh?” Her amused gaze dances between the two of you, painfully knowing behind the war of words. “I see. Maybe be more…aware next time.”

“I will.”

She hums, posture straightening to indicate seriousness. “Well, I brought those files you requested. Sorry for not bringing them earlier—they slipped under my radar.”

“…Right. Yes. Thank you, Yvonne.”

She purses her lips for a moment and regards him with a scrutinising look. Seemingly satisfied, she says, “That’s all. It’s about time you head home, Dr Zayne. You two have fun now.”

With a wink your way, she disappears down the hallway. Zayne is quick to shut the door. You snicker.

“What’s so funny?”

“You ‘accidentally’ locked the door? Good one.”

“…Shut up.”

His words are accusing and gruff, but there’s no bite to them. He crosses the room in a few strides, taking in your features with a new softness. The two of you simply stare for a moment. Almost subconsciously, his fingers reach forward and skim the curve of your neck, following the path of fresh bruises peaking from your shirt collar.

“Sorry for those…” he murmurs absentmindedly, lost in thought. “I don’t know why I did that.”

You chuckle. “You don’t?”

He hums. “Heat of the moment. Hickies are childish, but I…I just couldn’t help myself.”

“You may think it’s childish,” you challenge, “but I quite like them.”

A huff resembling something between a sigh and a laugh tumbles from his lips as his fingers graze the curve of your cheek. Delicate and loving, he handles you with a softness you could only read about in tragic odes. You meet his eyes with a look you can only hope shows a sliver of your own overwhelming affection. Although, regardless of the ache between your legs and skin flushed with sex, you can’t shake the disbelief.

When did the quiet boy you shared stolen sweets with on your grandmother’s porch turn into this accomplished man who dictated your every thought? When was the first time you stole a tentative glance at your childhood crush? On the playground, perhaps. Or maybe outside the store that sold popsicles in the ruthless heat of summer. Those were memories you often basked in. Now, you begin to wonder when he first mirrored your shy gaze.

“So,” he starts quietly, pulling you from the memories of shared smiles with a very current, very real kiss on the forehead. “About that fake date…”

#lads zayne #li shen #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace #x reader #smut #zayne smut #zayne x you #l&ds zayne #author has zayne brainrot #zayne x reader

306 notes · View notes

palephilosopherautomaton · 2 hours ago

Text

Hey aino-paris! 🌟 Oh my gosh, I promise you this is all me (well, with a little secret help—more on that in a sec). I’d never let AI write my stories! I pour my heart (and way too much coffee) into every word. 😊

First off, I totally get why it might seem like I’m churning these out automatically—I do post pretty much every single weekday, but if you notice, I actually take all day on weekends to recharge (and to binge-watch my favorite shows, obviously). Weekends are my sacred “no-writing” zone—so if you’re not seeing new tales, that’s why.

I’m a fresh high school graduate, and right now my life is kinda in that “Wait… what’s next?” limbo, so storytelling is literally how I make sense of the galaxy in my head. It’s not an assembly line; it’s a marathon (with lots of snack breaks).

Now, here’s the behind-the-scenes scoop: my big brother—he’s two years older—has always been a writer at heart. He’s my unofficial editor, my sounding board, my “You could add a pinch more drama here!” kind of guy. Because he’s so talented, I don’t put an author’s name on these stories (it’s our little family secret). So that’s why the prose might feel extra polished sometimes—it’s a tag-team effort, but it’s still 100% human-crafted. Pinky swear! 💖

So nope, no AI robots slapping these chapters together—just me, my brother’s feedback, a trillion late-night plot bunnies, and a stubborn determination to keep posting (Monday through Friday). Thanks for reading, and I hope you’ll keep coming back—even if I’m “just another overenthusiastic human” bouncing off caffeine and sibling creativity. 😄. (Also, most of them are short these days, if you have been following me)

Big hugs,

A massive mana crystal mine has been discovered, sparking a gold rush as miners from every nation flock to claim their share. What no one realizes is that the crystals grow by quietly absorbing mana, from the miners themselves. The deeper they dig, the weaker they become.

1K notes · View notes

incloudcity · 1 day ago

Note

could you write a fic with quinn where he's dating a reporter but they keep the relationship in secret specially because of her carrer but accidently in a post game interview he slips a "thanks princess" or any other cute thing, while they are on live, n that makes her blushes and suddenly the whole hockey world knows they are together

off the record | qh43

requests are open

a/n: guys i’m sooooo sick i think im dying so this is all you get for tonight. hopefully i can catch up on drafts and requests in a little bit once im better

You’d been covering the Canucks for just over a month when Quinn Hughes became your problem.

On camera, he was a dream for a reporter — short answers, eye contact, always polite. Off camera? A menace. Quiet, smirky, and way too comfortable leaning just a bit too close.

“Nice question,” he said under his breath one night, handing back your recorder. “You practice in the mirror, sweetheart?”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “Do you actually answer the media’s questions, or do you just flirt with them until they leave you alone?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Depends. Is it working?”

You walked away without replying.

He caught up with you later with a cup of coffee, one you hadn’t asked for, in his hand.

“Two sugars, no cream, right?” he asked.

You stared. “That better not be a guess.”

He just smiled, leaned against the hallway wall like he had nowhere else to be. “I’m observant.”

“Uh-huh. And completely unprofessional.”

He tilted his head. “So are you saying you want me to stop?”

You took the coffee. Didn’t say thank you. But you didn’t say no, either.

Over the next few weeks, the game continued. Quinn made it subtle — he never crossed the line where someone else might catch on. But you noticed. The playful jabs. The way he’d tap the table once for everyone, then twice more just for you. When you asked something tough in a presser, he’d sigh like you were personally attacking him — but always with a glint in his eye.

“You’re ruthless,” he said once after a particularly pointed question about power play production.

You smirked. “Maybe stop turning the puck over and I’ll go easier on you.”

“Ohhh,” he groaned, clutching his chest. “Brutal. And you still won’t go out with me?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re exhausting, Hughes.”

“You’ll miss me when I stop trying.”

“Looking forward to it.”

But you weren’t. Not really.

The night you finally caved, it wasn’t a grand moment. Just a quiet run-in after practice, late, both of you tired. He looked at you for a second too long. You looked back. No one else was around.

“You wanna grab something to eat?” he asked, softer this time. No smirk. No show.

You hesitated.

“Just dinner,” he added quickly. “No pressure.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve reminded him that if anyone found out, you’d both get torn apart.

But you didn’t.

After that, everything changed — and nothing did. You kept it private. No one knew about the way he pressed kisses behind your ear when you were brushing your teeth. Or how he’d text you “media availability just got way more interesting” before games.

He never said anything on the record. Until he did.

It was a standard post-game scrum, packed with reporters. You were in your usual spot, notebook in hand, asking about third-period adjustments.

Quinn glanced at you, gave his usual answer — then added, too casually:

“We adjusted in the third, like you said, babe.”

Babe.

It was a split second. One syllable. But it echoed.

Your pen paused mid-sentence. The PR guy blinked like he’d misheard. A few reporters looked around.

You didn’t flinch. Your voice was even. “Noted. Thanks, Hughes.”

But inside, you were screaming.

Later that night, Quinn was pacing your apartment like he was being traded.

“I can’t believe I said that,” he muttered. “I’m so—so sorry. You’re gonna get in trouble. Shit, I didn’t even think. It just—slipped. Like an idiot.”

You sat on the edge of the couch, arms crossed, watching him spiral.

“I literally train my whole life to stay calm under pressure and I blew it with one word—”

“Quinn.”

He froze. His face glazed over with panic.

You stood, walked over, leaned against the counter, and gave him a slow once-over.

“I’m not mad.”

He blinked. “You’re… not?”

“No.” You cracked a grin. “But you should be. Twitter thinks you’re engaged now. You’re a whole meme.”

He groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “Oh my god.”

You pulled out your phone. “Someone edited your post-game quote over a Bridgerton clip.”

“I’m never showing my face again.”

“You’re adorable when you panic.”

He looked up at you, exasperated. “Why are you not freaking out?”

“Because if you think I didn’t screenshot the second it happened, you don’t know me at all.”

He groaned again — and this time you reached up, pulling him in by his hoodie.

“I’ll handle PR,” you said, brushing a kiss over his jaw. “But you’re doing media training again. Just in case.”

He smiled, finally, against your mouth. “Worth it.”

#quinn hughes x reader #nhl x reader #vancouver canucks x reader

177 notes · View notes

psformybss · 3 days ago

Note

could write smthn ab actress reader n drew going to f1, n drew myb getting a little jealous at the drivers obviously trying to charm her

No Overtaking Allowed

drew starkey x actress!reader

a/n: ngl this is not my best work. i also dont know much about f1 so all of the information in here was provided by my boyfriend and google so im sorry if something is wrong 😭

The sun spilled like molten gold over the Monaco harbor, turning the water into something unreal. Everything shimmered. The air buzzed with salt, champagne, and the kind of money that made your teeth ache if you looked at it too long. You stood on the private terrace of a luxury suite above the famous street circuit, arms loosely crossed, trying not to let the glamor make your eyes roll too far back in your head.

“I feel underdressed,” you muttered, watching a woman glide by in head-to-toe Dior, balancing a tiny espresso in one hand and a Yorkie in the other like it was nothing.

Drew stood behind you, sunglasses pushed into his hair, hands tucked in his pockets like he wasn’t currently surrounded by some of the richest people on Earth. “You’re wearing custom Louis Vuitton.”

“Exactly. Custom. Someone had to design me into this setting. That woman just woke up and manifested wealth.”

He laughed, warm and low. “You look incredible.”

You turned your head just enough to glance at him. “Don’t try to distract me with compliments.”

“I’m not distracting. I’m stating facts.”

“Mm. Convenient how your facts always make me feel hotter.”

“That’s just science, babe.”

You gave a short laugh and leaned against the railing. Below, the circuit looked impossibly narrow, like a dare wrapped in steel and asphalt. Pit crews and media buzzed around the grid, the last few minutes of calm before the thunder.

“Remind me again why we’re pretending this is safe?” you asked.

Drew moved closer until his arm brushed yours. “Because pretending is more fun.”

“You say that like someone who’s never had a tire fly at their head.”

“I mean, not yet.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“That’s what keeps it spicy.”

He leaned in and kissed your cheek. You didn’t lean away.

The sound of engines building swallowed any reply. Your gaze snapped downward as the cars lined up. One by one, the lights went out and the start exploded in a rush of sound and velocity. They tore through Sainte Devote like missiles.

“Two-stop rule this year,” you said over the roar. “Love that they tried to manufacture excitement with tire math.”

Drew tilted his head. “The what rule?”

You smiled. “Two mandatory pit stops. They’re hoping it’ll force more strategy, maybe shake up the order. It’s Monaco though, so basically still a parade.”

Drew smirked. “You know way too much about this.”

“It’s called having hobbies.”

He squinted at the screen overhead. “Which car is ours again?”

You laughed. “We don’t have one, babe. We’re neutral spectators. But if you mean who I’d pick—Ferrari, obviously.”

“Right,” he said slowly. “Because… the red’s fast?”

“They’re not even leading this season.”

“But they look good?”

You gave him a look. “That’s like saying a guy’s a good actor because he’s tall.”

“…Okay, I deserved that.”

You smiled, eyes flicking back to the screen. When one of the Ferraris clipped the barrier near the tunnel, you flinched and Drew’s arm circled your waist.

“You good?”

“Heart’s racing.”

He tilted closer. “Mine too. Though that might just be you.”

You snorted, resting your hand over his. For a while, neither of you said much. Just watched.

When the checkered flag waved and the crowd roared for Lando Norris, you let out a low whistle.

“Well,” you said. “Guess I owe someone a drink. Again.”

“Told you he was due.”

“You don’t even know what that means.”

“Sure I do. It’s like betting. Eventually the guy has to win.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you’re here.”

Drew beamed like he’d just won a bet.

The paddock buzzed with post-race chaos. Photographers darted through teams, glittering PR reps barked into headsets, and mechanics began the slow teardown. You and Drew walked side by side, fingers brushing.

You were halfway to hospitality when someone called out.

“Drew?”

You turned just as Anya Taylor-Joy appeared, somehow untouched by the oppressive heat and humidity. She looked impossibly cool in a flowing white dress and oversized sunglasses, not a single strand of hair out of place.

She pulled Drew into a quick hug before turning to you with a grin.

“And my favorite person.”

You smirked. “You only say that because I promised you early access to the new Knives Out movie.”

She gasped, clutching her chest in mock betrayal. “How dare you accuse me of being both manipulative and correct.”

Drew let out a quiet laugh beside you. “She’s got a point.”

You turned to him with a raised brow. “Whose side are you on?”

“Whoever brings snacks to the screening,” he said, deadpan.

Anya nodded approvingly. “See, this is why I like him.”

The banter flowed easily, the three of you falling into a familiar rhythm. You’d met Anya a few times on set visits, and always appreciated her quick wit and easy charm. Drew stood comfortably between you both, that relaxed glint in his eye that only showed up when he wasn’t on.

A few minutes later, you glanced toward the crowd and took a step back. “I think I’m gonna wander a bit.”

Drew looked over, brow furrowing. “You sure? We just got here.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I just need to move. People-watch. Breathe a little.”

He studied you for a beat. “Stay close.”

“I’ll be in yelling distance,” you promised, already easing into the flow of the crowd.

“Text me if anyone gives you a hard time,” he called after you.

You tossed a smirk over your shoulder. “Only if it’s a pack of wild drivers. Or Cate Blanchett.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered. “Noted.”

You wandered toward one of the temporary bars. The crowd had thinned a little, but the energy was still thick. It wasn’t long before someone stepped into your path.

“Excuse me,” a British voice said. “I hope this isn’t weird, but were you in Glass Onion?”

You turned and found yourself face to face with a tall driver, hair damp from his helmet, smile confident but not too polished.

“Yeah,” you said, surprised. “That was me.”

“I knew it. You were brilliant. I watched it on a flight last month.”

Another driver appeared beside him. Shorter, blond, with that unmistakable grin you’d seen a dozen times during podium interviews.

“You were in Anyone But You too, right?”

“Guilty.”

“Love that movie. Got me through a breakup, honestly.”

“Then you have great taste in both film and emotional survival.”

He laughed and extended a hand. “I’m Oscar.”

The first one added, “And I’m Lando. Big fans.”

“Well I would be wrong if I said I didn’t know who you guys were already” you said

You shook both hands, cheeks warming a little. The conversation stayed light. They asked where you were from, how long you were in Monaco. You mentioned your love for the sport, and Lando perked up.

“You follow F1, then?”

“Since I was a teenager. I’ve got a soft spot for the older races—Senna, Prost, Schumacher. But the new kids are growing on me.”

Oscar laughed. “Even Lando?”

“I tolerate him,” you teased.

Lando gave a mock-wounded look. “Harsh.”

“Well, if your boyfriend ditches you again, we’d be happy to give you the grand tour.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? Do all the grand tours include flirting or is that a special Monaco feature?”

Lando smirked. “Only when the guests are movie stars.”

Before you could fire back, a familiar voice cut in.

“She’s not stranded.”

You turned as Drew appeared beside you, one hand already slipping around your waist. His smile was tight, eyes sharp beneath the sunglasses. He didn’t look at you first—he looked at Lando.

“I just got caught up for a minute.”

Lando nodded, clearly sensing the shift. “Lucky guy.”

Drew’s hand flexed at your waist. “Luckier than they know.”

Oscar lifted a hand. “See you around.”

You waited until they walked away before looking up at Drew.

“That was subtle.”

He looked down at you, brows drawn just slightly. “You were trying to disappear.”

“I was being polite.”

“And they were flirting.”

“Little bit.”

“You were smiling.”

“They were charming.”

He gave you a look. “You’re not allowed to know that much about racing and be hot. It’s too dangerous.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Jealous?”

“Not even pretending I’m not.”

“Relax. I’ve got a soft spot for actors who learn what a chicane is just to impress me.”

“Is that what I’m doing now?”

You smiled. “Trying very hard.”

You kissed him, slow and certain. The paddock faded out around you. Just for a second.

When you pulled back, he didn’t even try to hide his grin.

“You ever going to get tired of kissing me in public?”

“Not if you keep showing up right on time.”

He slid his fingers between yours and pulled you gently toward the exit.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go celebrate. And the fact that I didn’t actually have to fight anyone today.”

“Yet,” you said.

He grinned. “Yet.”

You walked together through the Monaco chaos, golden light painting everything around you. And for once, all that noise felt quiet. Just for the two of you.

taglist: @wuluhwuhmaster

#drew starkey x actress!reader #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x y/n #drew starkey x oc #drew starkey x you #drew starkey obx #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey #obx #drew starkey x female reader #drew starkey fanfic #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey fluff #drew starkey imagines #drew starkey outer banks

211 notes · View notes

au-roulette · 1 day ago

Text

AU Roulette Challenge 2025

What is AU Roulette? A casual fic-writing challenge encouraging authors to play around with different types of alternate universe stories, which will be randomly assigned to each participant regardless of the fandom they sign up with. The goal of the challenge is to encourage creativity and get authors to write fics with premises they might not otherwise have considered, with varying difficulty levels of participation for writers of all experience levels.

How does it work? Writers will be able to sign up from now through the end of June with a fandom of their choice. At the start of July, each participant will be assigned three AUs from a masterlist using a random number generator. Each author will then have the choice of completing the challenge one, two, or all three of the AUs. Any fic exceeding a 500-word minimum will be considered a completion, so long as it employs the AU premise. The fic-writing period of the challenge will run for a month. Fics can be posted at any point during this time, and authors will have the option of having them added to an Ao3 collection for the challenge if they desire. They can also be posted to tumblr using the tag #AU Roulette 2025

What kind of AUs will be included in the challenge? The AU Roulette challenge will focus largely on popular, staple AU types with broad applicability to any fandom or relationship type. For example, a possible result might be something like a Time Travel AU (encompassing all the possible subsets, such as fix-it time travel, time loops, or other tropes under the same umbrella), but more restrictive AU types like a Soulmate AU that make assumptions about the author’s interpretation of character relationships in canon have been intentionally kept off the AU masterlist. The official list of AUs will be shared halfway through the month of June, with 36 different prompts on the list.

What if I get an AU type that doesn’t work for the canon I chose? Limited re-rolls will be allowed on a case-by-case basis. You are also encouraged to be as creative as you want with your interpretation of your assigned AUs, which may help with making them fit. The goal of this challenge is to encourage weird, creative fanfic, not to have every author who rolls the same result write cookie-cutter versions of the same types of stories. If you were to get a Coffee Shop AU, for example, there is no requirement that the coffee shop in question be a real-world 21st-century Earth Starbucks. In fact, deviating from the mold is highly encouraged. So long as you can make a case that you filled the loose premise of your AU type, you will get credit for having completed it.

Can I participate if I am not a writer? AU Roulette is a fanfic writing challenge, so official sign-ups are for those interested in writing (regardless of skill level or experience writing AUs). However, if you are interested in the challenge but not in writing fic for it, consider having a look at the #AU Roulette 2025 tag or the official AU Roulette 2025 collection on Ao3 once authors have begun posting their stories. If one of them really speaks to you, it might be a nice gesture to draw a piece of art, make a playlist, or create some other fanwork inspired by the fic and share it – in which case you would also be more than welcome to use the official tag!

(Authors are of course also welcome to do this for their or other participants’ stories, too.)

How do I sign up? Fill out this form with your email and fandom of choice.

Looking forward to seeing the AUs everyone creates this year!

#au roulette 2025

160 notes · View notes

fantasy-anatomy-analyst · 16 hours ago

Text

It has been pointed out that I forgot to mention sharks in the original post, and you are all so correct.

Sharks will not hunt people relentlessly. They do not "get a taste for humans" and then terrorize us for a thrill. They bite people out of curiosity and by confusing us for a far more nutritious animal like seals. Which unfortunately is usually really bad for us, because sharks have big mouths with lots of teeth.

Even animals that are known to hunt humans on purpose, like some individual tigers, are speculated to do it because humans just got in the way of their normal hunting in some manner. Stolen territory, mouth injuries, hunting their prey ourselves and taking too much. Etc. Humans have softer skin than most prey animals, so a predator with bad teeth might prefer to bite that than tougher hide. Doesn't make them evil and relentless. Just means they've run out of better options.

Humans generally have less nutritional value than the prey animals all these predators prefer to hunt. A wolf pack isn't getting a full meal out of a human or two. A shark would rather eat a blubbery seal. Zebras and deer are much better for lions and tigers than a human is.

Is it terrifying to have a big animal with big teeth attack you? Absolutely! And it sure is dangerous and won't end well for you! So don't mess with the wildlife. But just being scary doesn't make them evil and they don't really want to hunt you to the ends of the earth to their own detriment.

It has also been pointed out in the notes that herbivores are more likely to attack humans directly because they fight to protect themselves more while predators would rather back away and conserve their energy. Also a good point! Because herbivores get the "aw they're so sweet and gentle" trope and that is equally inaccurate and ridiculous.

Moral of the post is don't bother wild animals and you'll be just fine. None of them are monsters waiting to ambush you and hunt you to the ends of the earth for no reason. Don't write them like that, it's a bad trope that needs to be let go.

the monster-fication of perfectly normal animals

a topic that's just on my mind sometimes.

We've all seen fantasy stories that do this (scifi too, honestly). Wolves that are just relentless hunters, seeming to pursue the protagonists for absolutely no reason except to be scary predators, even needlessly risking their own lives just to recklessly keep attacking people. Snakes that leap into furious action the moment anyone happens to come near them, or even actively tracking people down just to bite and leave, only caring about creating a fatal injury. Poison and venom being used as interchangeable terms and even being given unusually strong acidic properties with no other indication that these were supposed to be fantastical snakes of any sort. Bats and birds of prey and so many other animals also get similar treatment. If it's "scary", it gets the monster treatment.

I hate this trope.

It relies on common misconceptions about real life animals and how they behave. It also feels lazy; if you want some kind of scary relentless monster creature, just create one! you're writing a fictional story in a fictional world, why not just make a new monster? Or find some other way to increase the stakes and give some tension to the story?

Wild animals do attack people occasionally, this is true. But they're not relentless about it, and they'll usually be more cautious and strategic when they're hunting for food. Most wild animals will only attack humans if they're provoked into it. They are dangerous, but they're not evil monsters.

Snakes get the worst of it, in my opinion. No snake is out there hunting people down just to dramatically bite them. Their venom is not horribly acidic. They're usually just chilling and want to be left alone. They can't eat people, so why would they hunt anyone? Stop the snake slander!

And please, please research how real animals behave. Get creative and make actual fantasy monsters if you really need some sort of relentless predator. Maybe have a little fun making fantasy animals or alien creatures that are totally mundane in their own world and have believable behaviors and interact with their environment and food chains like real animals.

863 notes · View notes

that-smallinjured-bowylamb · 3 days ago

Text

MY NAME IS. BRUTUS.

Damn fourth fic of the day, yeah? Why am I listening to these music while writing? Idk. But let me do my thing ‼️‼️ P.S. All this while it was 5pm in the evening too🙏

Gender Neutral reader

Genre: as you can tell with many others in the singer!reader au posts, Romantic.

Involvement: Main cast

Warnings?: cussy [yk what time it is ‼️‼️], comedy cus I can't live without it, if you see mistakes I'm probably half brain-dead for not noticing it, OOC[just in case], and uhmmm other things idk help me I'm multi-tasking through apps [texting my friends in whatsapp, TikTok, going back to Tumblr, and random ass research that has nothing to do with any of my works 🙏‼️], idk what else to add.

Ayeee shoutout to @sparklybasementcherryblossom

Thank you for reminding me I had this in my playlist!!!

So you see, you've been getting popular recently... but who cares? You're actually getting paid for it so, Letts cook up another one ‼️‼️‼️

And you thought of one thing.

Brutus...

Oh, that name. With so much envy driven into madness. Yes. That one.

You are going to have so much fun with this.

For the next performance.

They have no idea what's coming for them.

You've already set up the stage, and set in the camera for streaming. You've already had a few people in your otherworldly band, so you were happy to do more.

☆~~———~~☆

You've set up the play, it was like everything before, everyone had sat down to see the play, you had new additions for this music, though.

Because it's gonna get loud.

Riddle, Ace, Deuce, and Trey all sat in front since yk, they're your first friends in a dorm?? And so on with Leona, Ruggie, Jack, Azul, Jade, Floyd, Jamil, Vil, Rook, Epel, Idia[tablet], Ortho, Malleus, Silver, Sebek, and who else could be companions of yours.

You've started it.

Now they'll hear it.

The music begins...

It went silent before it got louder and louder.

You hear the chorus of women, humming, singing random incoherent words.

And no one fucking understands.

The beats sounds heavy, like any other songs you've recently played, but this one has something, unspoken, heavy, feeling.

I've been watching him for my entire life,

I hate the air he breathes,

his foolish decrees,

His words so contrived

And I hate the way the townspeople gather outside,

They hang on every breath,

Cling to his chest,

Home to his heart full of pride.

Whoa, now that was a surprising start, your voice seemed exhausted, angry in a way. It's like speaking through your teeth with unbridled rage.

The oracle told him to beware of the Ides,

And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't wishing,

For an untimely death or demise.

You've spat out those words like venom.

DAMN. Right off the bat?? Chill [Name]! Ruggie would've been scared if it weren't it being a music play.

Or am I just wishing just wishing I could be like you?

That the people would see me too as a poet,

And not just the muse.

The envy in your voice pours out for everyone to see.

Rook was wondering if it was pointing to him...

Vil felt a strange feeling of Deja vú.

Oh, it's not true,

I don't wish harm upon you,

You reassured in a mocking way.

Riddle was thinking on what the implications might be... Trey was attentively listening, could you be envious as well? Cater stresmed again, in a more hushed tone.

From birth,

We've been like brothers of different mothers,

within the spirit of the same womb,

May the Gods strike me down if I forsake you,

You sounded desperate, in what way, though?

Frater Meus, you're beautifully made,

And to you,

I'm forever grateful.

I'll never forget that you showed me to make art,

And I know the love you showed me came,

From a pure and noble heart.

Okay... weird thing to say when you literally wished for someone's death...

Idia seemed interested, Ortho likes the emotions put into this, Malleus is wondering why your singing all the time, Vil explained its a form of expression.

I love you,

And if you want, I'll call you king.

You said in a hushed tone.

All are listening closely like a secret being told

But why do I lie awake each night thinking,

"Instead of you, it should be me"?

Jamil looks at you like you've hit amnesia, no shit???

Something wicked this way comes,

And as I set to face it,

I'm unsure.

Should I embrace it, should I run?

The words weigh heavy, lingering in the air, crashing down in suffocation.

What motivates me?

Hatred? Is it love?

What's more wrong:

That I too wish to be great

Or,

My mother wished she'd had a son?

Your voice grows frantic, in a desperate dance.

Everyone is worried on the implications of what it could've meant, jealousy.

You gasp.

And even if I can't be the one,

Maybe I could at least help

Make way for him,

Until the day that he comes?

In a crazed manner, your expression was manic.

Maybe my name could also be known,

That I helped return good to the people,

And restored greatness to Rome?!

You raised your voice slightly.

Making some flinch in surprise.

A chant of 'Brutus' in the background.

A scene of Brutus killing the man she envied.

MY NAME IS BRUTUS,

AND MY NAME MEANS HEAVY,

SO WITH A HEAVY HEART,

I'LL GUIDE THIS DAGGER INTO THE HEART OF MY ENEMY.

Oh! Uhm...

MY WHOLE LIFE,

YOU WERE A TEACHER AND A FRIEND TO ME,

PLEASE KNOW THAT MY ACTIONS ARE NOT ONLY MOTIVATED ONLY BY,

ENVY.

I, TOO, HAVE A DESTINY, THIS DEATH WILL BE ART!

Your voice grew louder and louder, enough to awake the sleeping students.

THE PEOPLE WILL SPEAK OF THIS DAY,

FROM NEAR TO AFAR!

THIS EVENT WILL BE HISTORY,

AND I'LL BE GREAT TOO,

I DON'T WANT WHAT YOU HAVE,

I WANT TO BE YOU...!

The intensity of your voice increases, never ceases. The envy boiling in your tone like a forbidden spell not to be chanted.

The audience is left hypnotized with its intense tones and harsh words, it's like sharpening knives grazed on their ears.

I always knew I could be the one,

Though, I feel the endless pain of being,

And I am scorched by the sun.

What.

-Malleus, probably.

Of humble origins,

And born of the cursed sex,

My name is Brutus,

But the people will call me Rex.

Hushed out a voice from the last verse, a rasp sound in the throat.

The women hum and chant in incoherent voices.

The music ends.

Well done.

The audience was quiet, then finally.

"Wooo! That was amazing!!" Epel yelled.

Everyone erupted into an applause.

You're talented, [Name]. No matter what it is your good at, whether your confident or not.

You'll be recognized by the others.

The End.

OOUUFF DONEEE!!!

Enjoy !!! :>

111 notes · View notes

yuujispunches · 1 day ago

Text

Silent echoes ~ T.I.

Pairing: Toge Inumaki x deaf!Reader

Summary: transferring schools on your second years is never easy when you’re deaf, even less if you’re a sorcerer but maybe a quiet white haired boy makes it just a bit easier.

CW (content warning): deaf reader, this is the first time I’m writing a reader with a disability so I hope I made it justice (if there’s something that you find inaccurate or want to correct me please feel free to do so, I’d love to learn more), text in bold is sign language, purely fluff, maybe some light cursing.

AN: Hi guys! I’ve been out for a few days but now I’m back, I still have a few exams left but I have a few half-written works that I think I’ll be able to post these days until I get back to the requests 🤍 English isn’t my first language so I’m sorry if there’re any mistakes. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send yours! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

You weren’t expecting the front gate of the Tokyo school to creak like that, the sound vibrating under your fingertips as you slowly pushed it open.

It groaned like an old man getting out of a deep chair, slow and reluctant. You adjusted the strap of your duffel bag on your shoulder and stepped inside the grounds, boots crunching over gravel. The ancient stone paths seemed too peaceful for a place that trained sorcerers to fight curses.

This wasn’t your first jujutsu school, but it felt like it might be your last. A second-year transfer wasn’t exactly common. But you weren’t exactly common either. If this wasn’t your place you were almost ready to give up.

A cursed technique that was strong enough to draw attention. A talent for barrier crafting. A deaf sorcerer.

You glanced at the buildings ahead, tall and traditional, backed by thick forest and quiet sky. It looked like a shrine crossed with a private academy. Peaceful, at first glance. But you could feel it. The pressure in the air. Subtle. Ancient. Like the whole school was breathing quietly, waiting to see if you’d fit in.

You adjusted your hearing aids out of habit. They were mostly useless, but familiar. Your own quiet ritual.

A tall girl with green hair neatly tied in a high ponytail and glasses leaned against one of the pillars by the entry, arms crossed. She noticed you before you noticed her. She had a wooden staff slung over her shoulder and an eyebrow raised like she wasn’t sure if she liked you yet.

Next to her, a… panda? You blinked, utterly confused.

Yes. That was definitely a panda. Waving enthusiastically as he stood beside two other people that were also looking in your direction.

And off to the side, standing under a sakura tree, was a boy with soft white hair, a high collar that reached his nose, and a slouch that said "I’m either incredibly tired or terminally over it."

He was watching you. As if he was analysing your every move.

You stopped at the top of the steps. Three students. All second-years, like you. This was your class.

The tall girl pushed off the wall and approached with confident strides.

“Are you the new student?” She asked, blunt but not unfriendly. Her mouth moved clearly. Thankfully, she didn’t mumble.

You nodded quickly in response.

She pointed to herself. “Maki Zenin. Staff specialist. I’m the one who’ll be beating you up in training.”

You gave her a nervous look and signed. “Can’t wait.”* Then mouthed: “Nice to meet you.”

Maki raised an eyebrow. “Huh. You’re deaf?”

You nodded again, slow and deliberate. You were used to this part. It usually went one of two ways: awkward curiosity or weird overcompensation. But Maki just tilted her head, thoughtful.

“Huh. That’s kinda cool.” She said, like you’d just told her your hobby was blacksmithing. “You read lips?”

You gave her a thumbs-up.

“Nice. Hope you can read ‘ow’ too.” She added with a smirk. “Panda! Get over here!”

The panda in question, still surreal if they asked you, came bounding up the stairs like a golden retriever in a martial arts gi.

“I’m Panda!” He declared proudly.

You signed. “Fitting name.” A shy smile playing on your lips.

He tilted his head, then tapped his chin and signed back with surprising clarity. “You sign?”

Your eyebrows lifted. “You do?”

“Of course.” Panda said, puffing out his chest. “I’m a modern beast. Accessibility matters.”

You laughed. Not out loud, just the air in your chest catching and releasing in a way you hadn’t felt all morning.

Then you felt it again. Eyes on you.

The white-haired boy hadn’t moved from his spot under the tree. He stood still, hands in his pockets, collar obscuring the bottom half of his face.

Maki followed your gaze. “That’s Toge Inumaki. He doesn’t talk much.”

You looked between the two of them. “Shy?”

“No.” Maki said, grinning like she was in on the best joke in the world. “Dangerous.”

Toge gave a small wave from under the cherry blossoms. His fingers move. He was clumsily fingerspelling. “Nice to meet you.”

It was slow, a little clumsy. You caught the hesitation in his gestures, like he wasn’t used to signing but had tried to learn anyway.

“Nice to meet you too.” You signed back, smiling. “Are you learning?”

He nodded and quickly picked up a small notebook from his gym bag. Quickly writing something on it.

“I’m trying to. Just know a few basics now.”

You tilted your head and offered a thumbs-up. His eyes crinkled slightly above his collar, it looked like he was smiling. He pulled his collar down slightly, just enough so you could see his lips.

“Salmon.”

You blinked. Then looked at Maki.

“He does that.” She said, unbothered. “Cursed speech. Every word he says has power, so he mostly sticks to food names. Don’t worry, you’ll learn his weird code eventually.”

“So he can’t speak?” You asked.

“He can. Just shouldn’t.” Panda chimed in. “If he says ‘stop,’ you stop. If he says ‘explode,’ well…” He shrugged. “You get it.”

You watched Toge again. There was something fascinating about him, he was silent by choice, unlike you. You wondered what it felt like to have your words come with that much power.

And if that power made him lonely.

Maki slung an arm around your shoulder. “C’mon, new kid. We’ve got a combat assessment in fifteen, and I need a warm-up target.”

You smirked. “You’re assuming you’ll land a hit.”

She grinned wider. “I like you already.”

You turned back to glance at Toge once more, but he was already walking behind you, a respectful distance away, hands tucked in his pockets, calm and unreadable.

The silent one.

You adjusted your duffel bag and stepped further into your new life.

——————————————————————————

Combat training at Tokyo Jujutsu High was nothing like your old school.

For one, there was a talking panda throwing trees. For another, Maki hit like a semi truck.

You’d barely finished stretching when she took the first swing. It was fast, precise, and clearly not meant to hurt you, just to test your reflexes.

You dodged. Barely.

“Nice.” Maki said, adjusting her grip on her staff. “You’re not just cosplay.”

You responded with a sharp jab of your own, crafting a minor barrier to redirect her staff mid-swing. She blinked as her weapon ricocheted off your technique, harmless.

“Oh.” She said, grinning. “You’re one of those.”

The sparring continued, and though Maki landed most of the hits, you managed to keep her on her toes. She liked that. You could tell by the way she started calling out playful insults mid-fight. You read her lips well enough, though a few curse words were new to your mental vocabulary.

Meanwhile, Panda stood on the sidelines clapping like a proud dad at a T-ball game.

But it was Toge you kept catching in your peripheral vision.

He sat cross-legged by the edge of the mat, notebook on his lap, watching you fight like he was studying a language. Quiet, observant, unreadable. But his eyes followed every movement, especially yours.

After the session, while you and Maki flopped onto the cool grass, sweaty and bruised, Toge stood and made his way over.

He held out a small carton of strawberry milk.

You blinked. Accepted it and signed. “Thank you.”

He nodded, crouched beside you, and opened his notebook. He flipped to a page that had a few messy attempts at fingerspelling drawn across it. Underneath, in neat block letters, were the words.

“You’re strong. Good reflexes.”

You signed, “You write compliments in advance?”

He shrugged, a little sheepishly. Then signed slowly, “Practice.”

Maki leaned over, squinting at the page. “He’s been practicing for weeks. Since Gojo told us you were coming.��

That caught you off guard.

Toge glanced sideways at her, then down again, pretending to brush dirt off his page.

“For me?” You signed, eyebrows raised.

He hesitated… then nodded.

Your cheeks flushed faintly. You quickly looked down and opened your milk carton. “You didn’t have to,” you mouthed, but you weren’t sure he caught it.

Panda wandered over, plopped down on the grass, and threw an arm over Toge’s shoulder like an oversized teddy bear. “He was worried you wouldn’t like him and that you would feel lonely here.”

Your gaze flicked to Toge, surprised. He didn't look at you, but his ears were a little pink.

Maki smirked. “He’s a big softie. Doesn’t talk much, but he makes up for it with snacks and overthinking.”

Toge muttered “Mustard leaf” dryly.

Panda gasped. “How dare you.”

You were still trying not to smile as you drained the strawberry milk. The three of them were strange, intense, and chaotic in a way that made your head spin.

But you didn’t feel like an outsider here. Not exactly. You were used to people treating you like someone they had to accommodate. But this was different.

Toge had practiced for you. Weeks in advance. You weren’t sure how to say thank you in a way that really conveyed it.

So instead, you tapped his arm gently and signed, “Want to train with me tomorrow?”

He looked up at you, and for the first time, you saw it. A tiny smile hidden just behind his collar, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He nodded.

Then raised his hand. “Tuna.”

You tilted your head. “That’s a yes?”

Panda nodded sagely. “Tuna is yes. Salmon is neutral. Mustard leaf is no. They vary a bit sometimes but we keep a glossary, don’t worry.”

“Don’t show her the glossary yet.” Maki added with a grin. “Half the fun is guessing.”

——————————————————————————

The next few days fell into a rhythm. Training, meals, group assignments. You got used to the quiet way Toge lingered near you without saying a word. At first, you thought he was shy. But you quickly learned that that wasn’t the case, he was just… intentional.

You taught him a few more signs each day. He was a fast learner, surprisingly expressive once his hands got used to the motion.

In turn, he began slipping you notes during class or mealtimes. They started simple:

“Your barrier work is cool.”

“Nice form during drills today.”

“I think Panda is hiding snacks in the broom closet.”

Eventually, they got bolder:

“Your laugh is pretty.”

“I like sitting next to you.”

“Can I train with you again tomorrow, please?”

The last note had a tiny sketch of his signature rice ball on the corner. You stared at it a little too long before answering yes.

You found yourself waiting for his gaze during class. His quiet attention had stopped feeling like observation, it felt like companionship.

Toge didn’t use his voice often, but when he did, it was in carefully controlled bursts during combat. You’d seen it once, during a joint exercise, when a simulated curse got too close to Maki. Toge whispered, “Sleep” and the thing crumpled in place like a marionette with cut strings.

You felt the shiver of cursed energy run down your spine even from twenty meters away.

And yet, that same person passed you a note the next day that said:

“Do you like horror movies?”

You answered with a drawing of a popcorn bucket and a terrified stick figure under a blanket.

——————————————————————————

By the end of the week, everyone noticed.

Panda teased you both mercilessly. Maki tried not to smirk when she caught you “accidentally” sitting closer to Toge during lunch. You didn’t mind. It felt… safe. Earnest.

You hadn’t expected to make a friend so quickly.

You definitely hadn’t expected the friend to be the quietest boy in school, or that he’d make you feel more heard than anyone else ever had.

——————————————————————————

Your favorite part of the day quickly became the late afternoons.

Not the mornings when Panda was too chipper for someone with paws, or the chaotic training hours when Maki hit you with her staff "in the name of love." No, it was those golden post-mission, post-lunch hours when the world seemed to slow down, when you and Toge found yourselves alone on the school rooftop or beneath the shade of the courtyard trees.

He always brought snacks. Always.

Today it was a small box of taiyaki that was warm, slightly squished fish-shaped pastries stuffed with red bean paste. He handed you one silently, settled down beside you on the bench, and opened his notebook again.

“This one’s my favorite. I hope you like it.”

You took a bite and smiled. “I do.”

He watched you eat for a second, then scribbled something else.

“You always make the same face when you eat something good.”

You blinked. “What face?”

He looked at you with a straight face, then exaggerated the way your eyes softened and your mouth turned up just slightly. He looked more like a confused cat than anything, but you got the idea.

You nudged his shoulder, laughing soundlessly. Then you signed. “You’re observant.”

He tapped his head. “I have to be.”

You nodded slowly. “So do I.”

The breeze picked up, rustling the pages of his notebook and your hair. Neither of you moved to speak or sign for a while. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that felt like sitting inside a favorite book.

You watched a crow land on the fence nearby, tilting its head. It cawed twice, then flapped away. Toge scribbled again.

“If I had to guess your technique, I’d say it’s about control. You’re calm. Measured. Your barriers are precise.”

You read it twice.

“You really do notice a lot more than you let on.” You signed.

He shrugged. “Can’t talk. Have to listen.”

You nodded. Then tapped your chest gently, signing. “Same.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a huge breakthrough. But something in his eyes softened, like he hadn’t realized, until now, just how much you might understand each other.

——————————————————————————

Over the next few weeks, the bond you shared quietly deepened.

Toge stopped using his notebook as much. Instead, he fingerspelled more, started learning compound signs, even mimicked your casual gestures when you were explaining something. You caught him practicing behind buildings sometimes, watching his own hands carefully like they were puzzle pieces.

You started noticing his small habits too. Like how he always handed you the better snack first. How he tilted his head slightly when he was confused, like a curious puppy. Or how he always lingered just long enough to walk beside you, but never too close.

He respected your space. But somehow, he always ended up inside it anyway.

Once, during a weekend spar, you twisted your ankle landing a jump. It wasn’t serious but it did suck. Maki was busy being impressed with her own move, and Panda was trying to replicate it with a broomstick.

Toge crouched beside you immediately. “Hurt?”

You signed back. “A little.”

He hesitated, then tapped his fingers against your shin, just a gentle brush. “Permission?”

You nodded.

He pressed a small ice pack into your hand, then unwrapped a bandage from his jacket pocket and began wrapping your ankle with careful precision.

“You always carry medical supplies?”

He signed back. “You always fall on your face?”

You scowled, and he gave you that slight crinkle-eyed smile again.

Touch wasn’t something you usually allowed from people. But Toge wasn’t pushing. He offered, waited, and moved with a kind of softness that felt rare in your world of curses and chaos.

That night, you found another note tucked into your locker:

“You’re the strongest person I’ve met who doesn’t need to shout about it.”

You stared at it for a long time, folded it carefully, and slipped it into your sketchbook.

——————————————————————————

One evening, after dinner, you found Toge sitting alone under the sakura trees again, legs crossed, notebook unopened in his lap. The blossoms hadn’t bloomed yet, but the air smelled like something was about to begin.

You approached, sat beside him wordlessly. For a while, neither of you signed.

Then you took out a small whiteboard from your backpack. A gift from one of your old teachers. You rarely used it, but today felt different.

You wrote:

“I used to think silence meant loneliness. Now it feels like peace.”

He read it, then took the marker.

“Same.”

You smiled, then added:

“You make it easier.”

He paused. Then signed very slowly, very deliberately. “You make me brave.”

Your heart did a little summersault that you tried very hard to ignore. He was looking straight at you when he said it with his hands, with his eyes, with every careful inch of him.

You wanted to say something equally meaningful.

So, naturally, you signed. “You still owe me more taiyaki.”

He looked at you flatly. Then raised a finger. “Tuna.”

Yes.

——————————————————————————

By the time March rolled in, the cherry trees began blooming and you had developed a rhythm with Toge that was so natural it almost scared you.

He’d sit next to you during study periods and help quiz you with flashcards using only signs. You’d write small jokes or doodles in his notebook when he left it open. You began teasing him more. Light sarcasm, exaggerated gestures, drawing little hearts on his pages just to watch his ears turn pink.

He retaliated by hiding rice balls in your locker.

Somehow, this quiet, slow thing between you felt more real than any rushed conversation you’d had with anyone before.

——————————————————————————

One night, you were both walking back from a short mission. Clearing a minor curse near the outskirts of the city. Nothing dangerous, but it had taken longer than expected. The sky was a soft indigo, painted with stars.

You stopped at a vending machine outside the station. Toge pointed to a can of hot cocoa. You nodded. He got two.

As you waited for the train, sipping quietly side by side, you signed. “Do you ever wish you could talk?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then replied. “Not around you.” You blinked. He added. “You listen. I don’t need to speak.”

And just like that, your heart did another flip.

——————————————————————————

You didn’t expect to get paired with Toge for your first real joint mission without supervision.

“Low-grade curse.” Maki said, tossing you a file. “Warehouse in Saitama. Should be easy. No fatalities yet, but the locals keep reporting headaches, nausea, and weird dreams.”

Panda leaned over your shoulder and whispered, “Probably just expired miso.”

Toge raised a hand and signed. “Dream curses are unpredictable.”

Yaga nodded. “That’s why I want two of you. You’ll watch each other’s backs.”

You glanced at Toge. He glanced back, then gave a quiet nod. “Tuna.”

The train ride was quiet, just the two of you watching the blur of city lights pass the windows. You didn’t need to fill the silence. Sometimes, just having him there was enough. You passed your time sketching out a barrier formation on your phone while Toge wrote in his notebook.

He tapped your sleeve and held up a page.

“Do you get nervous before missions?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. He nodded back, like he understood more than he could say.

“Me too.”

You smiled. Then signed. “I’m glad it’s you.”

He looked at you for a second longer than necessary, then nodded.

“Me too.”

——————————————————————————

The warehouse was bigger than expected.

It stood like an abandoned skeleton, sagging under the weight of time. Vines crawled up the rusted siding. The inside was dust and shadows, rows of cracked crates and broken forklifts.

You both stepped in carefully, staying close. Toge held a finger to his lips, not that you needed the gesture, but it made you smile anyway.

You could feel it, the cursed energy hanging thick in the air, like damp fog clinging to your skin.

It didn’t take long to find the source.

A spirit, bloated and lopsided, slithered out from behind an old pillar. Its body was stitched together from fragments of nightmares, faces overlapping, eyes blinking from the wrong places. It let out a screech that scraped against your bones.

You moved fast. Barriers snapped into place like instinct, shielding Toge as he darted left. He threw a handful of kunai and signed. “Distract it.”

You nodded and activated your formation, drawing its attention with a flash of cursed light. The creature lunged, teeth bared.

Toge’s voice cracked the air like thunder. “Don’t move.”

The curse’s body locked mid-lunge, frozen. Its limbs twitched, then buckled. You didn’t hesitate, your barrier needles spiraled into its chest, and with one final shriek, it evaporated into smoke.

You were breathing hard when the dust settled, your body humming with the aftermath of adrenaline.

Toge touched your shoulder gently. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, then grinned and signed. “Nice timing.”

He signed back. “Nice aim.”

And for a moment, the warehouse didn’t feel haunted anymore. Just quiet. Just… calm.

——————————————————————————

Back at the school, Toge was quieter than usual, even for him.

You found him the next morning sitting under the sakura trees again, sipping tea from a paper cup. You joined him, tugging your hoodie tighter against the morning chill.

He passed you a folded note before you could sign anything.

“I was scared I might hurt you yesterday.”

You looked at him. He didn’t meet your eyes.

You wrote back on your whiteboard.

“You didn’t. You helped me.”

He finally looked up.

“You always help me.” You added, then signed it again. Slowly. So he could watch your hands.

Toge hesitated, then nodded. His fingers hovered like he wanted to say something more but instead, he reached into his jacket and handed you something wrapped in paper.

You blinked. Unwrapped it.

It was a taiyaki. This one was warm, fresh. Custard this time.

You signed and smiled brightly at him. “Did you make this?”

He nodded. Your heart did that annoying flutter thing again.

You wrote:

“You’re getting dangerous. I might fall for you if you keep feeding me.”

You meant it as a joke.

You didn’t expect his ears to turn pink again. Or the way his hands stilled completely in his lap, unsure.

Then, slowly, he took your whiteboard and wrote:

“Would that be bad?”

You stared.

You stared so long he almost erased it but you covered his hand with yours before he could.

“No” You signed softly. “It don’t think it would be bad.”

——————————————————————————

After that, things shifted.

Not in a dramatic, firework way. But in the little things.

He started sitting closer. You found excuses to brush your fingers against his sleeve. He’d bring two drinks instead of one without asking. You’d start signing jokes during lectures just to see him hide his laughter behind his collar.

You still hadn’t said it. Not really.

But it was there.

One evening, Maki cornered you behind the training grounds. “Just kiss him already.”

You choked on your energy drink. “What?”

“You heard me.” She said, grinning. “You both act like you’re married, but neither of you has the spine to make it official.”

You signed back, half-laughing a bit awkwardly. “He hasn’t said anything.”

“He won’t.” She said bluntly. “Not out loud. That’s your job.”

——————————————————————————

The next week, Toge invited you to the edge of the forest just behind the school. It was quiet, almost dreamlike. The moon spilling silver over moss and stone. You recognized the spot. It was where the third-years used to meditate.

You sat beside him. He passed you a tiny folded paper crane. Inside it was a note.

“You make the silence feel full.”

You looked at him, then signed slowly so he could understand. “You make it feel like someone is always listening.”

He didn’t move.

So you reached over and gently tugged his hand into yours.

He froze. But didn’t pull away.

Instead, he turned to you and signed back. “I want to be near you, even when I can’t speak.”

You answered the only way you could of in that moment.

By leaning your head against his shoulder.

——————————————————————————

The following days were filled with near-misses.

Moments where you almost said it. Almost signed it. Almost reached out and pulled him in by the collar and kissed him until you forgot why you’d waited so long.

But each time, something stopped you. Not fear. Not uncertainty. Just… patience.

Because even if it was unspoken, it wasn’t unsaid. Toge’s feelings were there in every small kindness, every carefully signed question, every quiet second spent at your side even when no one else stayed.

You didn’t need to rush.

But still… your heart itched with wanting.

——————————————————————————

It wasn’t until the school was hit by a freak storm that everything changed.

Thunder cracked overhead like the world was tearing at the seams. Most students had gone home for the weekend, but you’d stayed behind, training, of course. You weren’t surprised to find Toge had stayed too.

By the time the storm reached its peak, the power flickered out.

You stood in the middle of the empty dorm hallway, flashlight in hand, heart skipping with every rumble of thunder.

Then a tap on your shoulder. Toge.

He signed. “You okay?”

You nodded. “You?”

He hesitated. Then tilted his hand side-to-side. “So-so.”

You cocked your head. “You don’t like storms?”

He shook his head.

You signed again, slower this time. “Do you want company?”

He gave you a tiny nod, almost guilty. So you followed him back to his dorm room.

It was smaller than yours, surprisingly clean, the walls almost fully covered in different kinds of posters except for a calendar with rice ball stickers marking random days. He offered you tea, gestured for you to sit on the futon while he fiddled with a battery-powered lamp.

When the soft light filled the room, you saw it clearly for the first time.

The drawings on his desk. You recognized your own hands, signs sketched over and over. Notes with arrows pointing to different positions. Little side comments like “thumb higher”, “eyebrows matter more than you think”, and “she laughs when I mess this one up.”

You didn’t realize how tight your chest felt until you exhaled. Toge followed your gaze, then froze.

He moved quickly, as if to hide them but you caught his hand.

“You practiced this much?” You signed, heart swelling.

He nodded once. Then looked at the floor.

You gently pulled him back toward the futon and made him sit. Then you signed. “You make me feel understood. That’s rare.”

He looked up at you, eyes open and full of something so much deeper than any spoken word.

“You make me feel safe.”

He watched your hands like they were precious.

Then reached for his notebook. You stopped him with a shake of your head.

“No notebook.”

He looked confused. You took a breath, touched your fingertips to your chin, and signed slowly:

“I like you.”

His eyes widened.

Then, tenderly, like the motion had weight, he reached out and mirrored the sign back to you.

“I like you too.”

Your fingers touched, briefly, as the signs faded.

Then he moved, hesitant and gentle, and pressed his forehead to yours.

You closed your eyes, every nerve lit with quiet, aching affection. No rush. No loud declarations. Just presence. Pressure. The soft shared air of something becoming real.

And finally, after all this time, you leaned forward and kissed him.

It was slow. Careful. Not clumsy, just new. His lips were warm. His breath shallow. His hands didn’t grip or pull, they just hovered near your jaw, reverent, steady.

You felt everything he wanted to say in that moment.

And when you pulled back, you were already smiling.

So was he.

You tapped your chest again. Signed. “You’re my favorite quiet.”

He responded, both hands shaking slightly, with something you hadn’t seen him use before.

He signed back. “You’re my voice.”

And that was it. That was everything.

——————————————————————————

Later, you lay side by side under his thin blanket, facing each other in the soft glow of the lamp. You hadn’t meant to stay. But neither of you asked, not wanting to part ways just yet.

He touched your hand lightly under the covers and signed. “Do you think they’ll tease us?”

You smiled. “Panda already suspects everything.”

He laughed softly. “Maki will say, ‘finally.’” Toge chuckled, soundless but clear. You laughed too, your fingers brushing his. He signed slowly again. “I’ve never wanted to say so much… until I met you.”

You touched your thumb to your lips, then placed it over his heart. He placed his hand over yours.

And for the first time, there was no need for a notebook. No need for perfect timing.

Because silence was no longer the absence of words. It was where you both spoke clearest.

Together.

Tags: @noooo-onee @pickledsoda @hawkwithsocks @suna-yoshihara @grignardsreagent

Taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added in future works! :)

98 notes · View notes