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pitlanepeach · 26 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Nine

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, nightmares, protective!Lando, papaya rules tw (barf).

Notes — It's long again - which is becoming a common theme. Also pls take every pregnancy date/timeline piece of information with a pinch of salt. I'm not perfect and I only went to nursing school for 3 weeks (not kidding). Okay ily enjoy xxx

2024 (Saudi Arabia—China)

It was still dark when she woke up.

The air in the hotel room was cool, but Lando was burning next to her — damp with sweat, breath uneven. He jerked once, a short, desperate twitch like his body was trying to run without him. Then again, louder. A sound came out of him that didn't sound like him at all.

Amelia blinked, heart already climbing, and reached over. "Lando?"

He flinched at her voice; sat bolt upright, eyes wide and unseeing. He was panting. Actually panting.

"Hey," she said, sitting up with him, hand finding his arm. "Hey, it's okay. It was just a dream."

His head turned slowly toward her like he wasn't sure she was real. "Amelia?" His voice cracked halfway through her name.

She nodded. "Yeah. Hi. I'm here."

Lando dragged in a breath. Then another. But it wasn't calming him down — his hands were shaking, still clenched in the bedsheets like he was bracing for impact.

She reached for them gently. "Lando."

He dropped his head, and for a second she thought he wasn't going to speak. But then — quietly, nearly swallowed by the dark — he said, "There was blood."

She stared at him.

"Yours," he added, like that should have explained everything.

Amelia wrapped her arms around him immediately, pulling him close, pulling him in. His body was stiff at first, coiled tight like he'd shatter if she touched him too hard. So she didn't. She held him exactly the way she liked to be held — not soothing, not soft. Solid. Anchoring.

"I couldn't get to you," he murmured. "I kept running but, fuck, I don't even know what happened. I just—I couldn't get to you."

Her hand moved slowly up his back. "Got me now, haven't you? And I'm fine."

His breath hitched again, then he dropped his head to her shoulder like it weighed a hundred kilos. "You were shouting my name," he whispered. "Trying to get me to come and help you. And I couldn't do anything."

"It was a dream." She told him.

"It didn't feel like one." He admitted.

She didn't say anything. Just held him tighter.

For all the times Lando had been the one to protect her, hand at her back in the paddock, whispering 'I've got you, always' — this was a rare moment where it was her turn to return that.

Amelia shifted slightly, so his arms were around her bump, so he could feel her, all of her, safe and alive and steady. "This is real life," she said into his hair. "Your dreams mean nothing," she said gently, tucking her fingers behind his ear. "They're not omens or premonitions or anything silly like that. Not manifestations. Just your brain sorting through junk data while your body rests."

Lando didn't respond right away, still caught somewhere between shame and exhaustion, eyes trained on her face like she was the only thing keeping him tethered.

"They're not real," she continued, softer now. "It's just neurons firing while your hippocampus files away memories. No intent. No purpose. Just noise."

Her thumb brushed over his cheekbone.

"Nightmares are especially common in high-anxiety environments, particularly when there's big change; like, I don't know," she said lightly. "Maybe preparing for us to have a baby whilst also driving at blinding speeds every weekend."

That pulled a faint, breathy laugh from him. She smiled, but didn't let him look away.

"They mean nothing," she repeated. "They feel real, but they aren't. I'm here. I'm fine. We're fine." She pressed her palm flat over his chest, right where his heart beat wild and frantic just minutes before. "This is real," she said. "Me. You. Here. Everything else? Just your brain being dramatic."

And Lando didn't argue.

He just leaned in and kissed her wrist.

Nuzzled her pulse.

And eventually fell asleep again.

—

Lando was still asleep when she padded out into the hotel suite's sitting room.

She hadn't gone back to sleep. Couldn't.

Not after the way he'd clung to her. The genuine fear that's shined in his eyes.

So she sat on the sofa, blanket over her legs, and pulled out her phone.

Nightmares in expectant fathers.

The search bar filled itself in before she finished typing.

She clicked. Scanned. Saved one medical article, one parenting blog.

Tapped open her Notes app.

THINGS TO REMEMBER — FOR LANDO

• Nightmares are common in expecting fathers, even more in high-stress environments

• Fear of losing partner is normal (He's scared. Not silly. Not dramatic.)

• Don't minimise the fear — reassure with touch + presence.

• If it happens again, don't ask what the dream was right away → He will tell you if he wants to talk about it in detail.

• Deep pressure helps (arms around shoulders, grounding. Not smothering.)

• Keep lights low.

• Bring water next time. He won't ask for it.

She stared at the list for a moment, thumb hovering.

She didn't cry. But her throat got tight. Stupidly tight.

It wasn't just that she wanted to help. It was that she wanted to know how. The exactness of it. The steps. Because love, for her, wasn't always instinctive. It was often a system — learned, built, updated in real-time. Just like strategy.

She could do love if she could learn it like this.

A soft sound pulled her gaze back toward the bedroom. Lando shifting under the duvet. She waited, but he didn't call out this time.

She added one more bullet:

• You fall apart all the time, and he always catches you and puts you back together. When he falls apart — return the favour.

Then locked her phone. Set it down. Took a slow breath.

She'd be ready, if it happened again.

Because that's what love looked like, for her.

Data points. Her Notes app. A quiet war against the clench of unnamable emotion in her stomach.

And a husband who would never have to feel fear alone for the rest of his life.

—

Heavy blackout curtains drawn, both of them stripped down to t-shirts and shorts, the air-conditioning humming softly overhead. Amelia lay sprawled on her back across the crisp duvet, one knee bent, iPad propped against her thighs. She wasn't really reading anymore.

Lando had been beside her a while now, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. Not touching her, just close — their shoulders brushing lightly. He knew better than to crowd her at the end of long race days. She needed decompression like she needed water. Especially now.

Amelia exhaled slowly. The flutter had been there for a minute or two now. Not sharp, not uncomfortable — just present. Familiar. Rhythmic. She'd started tracking it a few weeks ago. There was a pattern forming, she was sure of it. After dinner, quiet room, body finally still — the baby wriggled off like clockwork.

She tapped her fingers gently along her bump. Lando glanced over.

"You okay?" He asked.

Amelia didn't answer right away. She was focused on the pressure inside — just low enough beneath her ribs, like a tiny muscle twitch, but from the inside out. She'd learned not to flinch at it. Not anymore. The first few times had been startling. Unnatural. It had taken her weeks to fully come to terms with it.

She glanced at Lando. "Give me your hand."

He blinked. "What?"

She tugged his phone from his fingers and set it aside, then reached for his wrist and guided his hand down gently, laying it across her belly. He held still immediately, tension tight in his shoulders — like he might scare it off.

Amelia exhaled again. "Just wait."

They sat there like that for maybe a minute. No movement. Lando didn't speak, didn't move. His eyes were glued to his own hand, fingers splayed awkwardly, not quite sure where to press or what to feel for.

Then it happened; subtle, but unmistakable. A faint thud against his palm.

His head snapped up. "Was that—?"

"Yeah," she said. "It's been happening for weeks. Sorry I didn't tell you. I needed to get used to it."

He didn't speak. Just stared down, mouth parted slightly. A second kick followed, firmer this time, more insistent.

"Holy shit," he murmured.

Amelia hummed. "Baby gets real active in the evenings. It's like they know when I stop moving."

Lando adjusted his hand slightly, more confident now. "That's insane."

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "It made me panic, a bit."

"What?"

"The first few times. Sensory-wise. I didn't like not being in control of what my own body was doing. It was... jarring. That's why I didn't tell you."

His eyes flicked to hers, softer now. "Baby."

She smiled faintly. "It's okay now. I— I like it. I like knowing they're okay. Growing. Getting stronger."

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against her shoulder, still keeping one hand pressed firmly against her belly. "You're magical."

Amelia snorted. "I'm incubating."

He smiled against her skin. "Still magic."

The baby kicked again. Lando grinned so wide it made her laugh; full and involuntary.

And just like that, something shifted in the room. The noise from the hotel hallway faded. The distant memories of his nightmare faded away. The race weekend disappeared.

It was just the three of them.

—

Jeddah was hot, fast, and utterly unforgiving.

The kind of circuit that left no room for error, and no patience for discomfort — which, when you were pregnant and doing three jobs at once, was laughably ironic.

Amelia had learned to time her day in ten-minute increments. Ten minutes of data logging. Ten minutes of standing. Ten minutes of sitting. Ten minutes of politely telling people she didn't need help. Ten minutes of actually accepting it when her body disagreed.

Lando had qualified P6. Not ideal, but workable, and Oscar had lined up P5. Both cars in the mix. Everyone pretending not to hover around her as she moved up and down the garage like her body wasn't actively rearranging itself every hour.

The paddock whispers were quieter this weekend. Less second-guessing. Fewer sidelong glances. After Bahrain — after the strategy calls she'd pushed, the moments she'd kept the team calm under pressure — it was like something had shifted. Small things. Andrea deferring to her on timing sheets. Her dad checking in with her first before post-quali meetings. Engineers who used to triple-check her math now just nodded and plugged in her numbers.

Respect, it turned out, came slowly. But it was coming.

Race day was chaos from lap one. A Safety Car reset the whole strategy board by lap fifteen, and Amelia pivoted fast; switched Oscar to the alternate plan, gave Will the nod to bring Lando in early. It was a gamble, but it paid. Tire wear dropped off fast for everyone else, and by lap forty-two, Oscar was in P5 and closing in on Alonso.

He crossed the line in P4.

Lando came home in P8.

The radio crackled with champagne and static and shouting, but when Oscar's voice finally came through, and he said, "Solid comeback." She couldn't help but smile.

After press, after cool-down, after everything, Lando found her in the back hallway near the engineering room, still in her headset, still half-in strategy mode, and pulled her into his arms like he hadn't seen her in weeks.

"You and Oscar," he whispered against her hair. "The two of you are going to keep me on my toes, eh?"

"Yes," she whispered back. "It's fun, isn't it? To really be challenged by your teammate. Hard, but... good."

Lando just laughed and kissed her forehead.

Oscar wandered past then, a bottle of water in one hand, a protein bar in the other. "You guys done with the PDA or..."

Amelia flipped him off without looking. He tossed her the water bottle anyway.

—

Amelia wasn’t one to buy into headlines. She liked numbers. Data. Consistency. So when Oliver Bearman was called up last-minute to debut for Ferrari in Saudi, she’d watched with a measured kind of curiosity — analytical, not emotional.

And then he went and scored points. Solid, clean, fast laps. No drama. No rookie clumsiness. Just grit and focus and a poise that made her sit back in her chair and blink at the final results.

Later, in a quiet debrief room, she pulled up his sector times just to be sure.

Consistent under pressure. No massive tyre drop-off. Clean exit speeds. Braking points tight and repeatable. No rattled radio calls.

She gave a little hum, almost pleased.

When Lando swung by later to ask if she’d seen the race, she just said, “Kid’s got control. Not just fast — smart. I liked it.”

And that, from Amelia, was basically a glowing endorsement.

Behind the scenes, she jotted his name into a private file of “Drivers to Watch” — not because she thought he’d threaten her boys (Oscar and Lando were already leagues ahead in her book), but because she respected the science of performance. And what Ollie had shown under that kind of pressure? That was textbook.

Later that night, curled up on the sofa, she told Lando absently, “He reminds me of you, a bit. Quiet when it counts. Loud when it matters.”

And Lando, who’d already seen the headlines and felt the faint stirrings of a new generation pressing in, just smiled and said, “Yeah. He’s good.”

Amelia nodded once, then added without looking up, “He’ll be better with the right team behind him.”

Which, in her mind, was the truth of it. Because raw talent mattered. But the right data? The right feedback loop? That’s what made drivers great.

And Ollie already had the talent part covered.

So she’d make some calls. Speak to some people.

And in the meantime, she'd sent Carlos a 'Get Well Soon' cake.

—

The Quadrant studio in London always smelled like LED lights and too many energy drinks. Cables snaked across the floor, the main set still half-dressed with props from the last shoot — some cardboard weapons from a Mario Kart skit, a suspiciously cracked gaming chair, someone's half-finished iced coffee with a lipstick ring around the lid.

Lando was fiddling with a controller. Max was doing doughnuts on an office chair.

Amelia stood just off-camera. She wasn't due for any on-camera time, just there for the afternoon while Lando filmed promos before they flew out to Melbourne. She hadn't even meant to stay this long — but the couch was comfortable, and she didn't have to explain why she needed to sit down every fifteen minutes.

"You're very pregnant," Pietra said bluntly, appearing beside her with a hand on her hip and a warm grin that made the words feel like affection, not insult.

Amelia made a face. "I'm aware."

"No, seriously," Pietra said, dropping down beside her on the couch, eyes wide as she took in the bump. "When I saw you in January you were just... gently round. Now you're, like... full second trimester in the shape of it."

Amelia nodded. "Twenty-four weeks. All starts happening really quickly once you're out of the teen weeks."

"Wow." Pietra gave Amelia a searching look. Amelia nodded and shifted her hoodie. Pietra rested a hand lightly on her belly, pausing when she felt movement. "Strong."

"Busy," Amelia muttered. "Moves more when Lando's talking. Recognises his voice."

Pietra squealed like that was the cutest thing she'd ever heard, then immediately quieted herself with an apologetic hand gesture, though the excitement still lit her up. "Sorry. That's so sweet."

"I know," Amelia smiled lightly.

"You look beautiful," Pietra said, nudging her. "Like, you've got the glow."

"I've been throwing up for four months."

Pietra snorted. "And you're still hot. It's unfair."

Across the room, Lando looked over. He gave Amelia a crooked little grin before turning back to Max, who was trying to convince the producer to let him do a skit with a Nerf gun and a referee's whistle.

Amelia leaned her head against Pietra's shoulder for a second. "You're still the only woman I've talked to about this who isn't a midwife. Or my mom."

"That's because you're very selective and kind of mean," Pietra said sweetly.

"Thank you."

"But also because women are terrifyingly competitive sometimes and you're like... not built for that kind of bullshit."

"Also thank you."

"I'm serious," Pietra said, turning toward her now. "You're one of the most no-nonsense people I've ever met. I think that's why I like you so much. You never make me guess what you mean."

"That's the autism."

"That's the charm."

They sat like that for a while, low voices and half-lidded smiles, until Lando came over during a break and dropped onto the arm of the couch.

Amelia just reached for his hand and rested it gently on her stomach, where the baby was kicking again — a soft press, not too much. Lando's face softened like it always did.

"You doing alright?" He asked her under his breath.

Amelia nodded. "I'm good. Kind of hungry."

"I'll UberEats you some food." He said.

Max shouted from across the room, "Tell me when I can shoot someone with the Nerf gun!"

—

Oscar's mum had made enough food to feed an army. Four different kinds of salad, two trays of roast vegetables, grilled chicken, a full rack of lamb, and something vegetarian "just in case." Amelia had offered to help twice and had been firmly denied each time with a polite, maternal smile that brokered no argument.

So she sat obediently at the long table on the patio, the soft hum of Melbourne's twilight filling the air, and let the comfort of domestic noise happen around her.

Lando was already two plates deep and talking animatedly with Oscar's dad about tyre temps and the difference between this years compounds. Amelia kept one hand braced on her stomach, the other around her glass of apple juice. Oscar sat on her other side, shovelling roasted potatoes into his mouth like he hadn't eaten in years.

"She feeds me like this every time I come home," he mumbled. "Pretty sure I gain two kilos every time we race in Australia."

"Good," Amelia said, spearing a green bean. "You're too wiry."

Oscar gave her an affronted look. "Rude."

"True," Lando added, not even looking up from his fork.

Oscar's sister set a dish of bread rolls down in the middle of the table, golden and still steaming, then leaned in toward Amelia with a conspiratorial smile. "How's the baby? Are they kicking yet?"

"A lot, actually," Amelia said, smoothing a hand across the curve of her belly. "It used to feel like flutters, kind of like popcorn. Now it's more—defined. Rolling, stretching, tiny kicks. They're... busy in there."

The table laughed; that warm, open kind of laughter that lived easily between mouthfuls of pasta and clinking cutlery.

Under the table, Lando reached out and tapped her knee, fingertips resting lightly for a second or two. Amelia glanced at him. His expression was soft, like something inside him had gone loose. She gave him a small, knowing smile. He didn't need to say thank you. She could feel it in his hand.

Later, when dessert came — two types of pavlova, of course, one topped with mango and passionfruit and the other with strawberries and cream — Oscar's mum passed a plate across the table to Amelia with a practiced kind of care.

"Don't let anyone tell you otherwise," she said. "You're growing a baby. Sugar counts as energy. This is mum-approved."

Amelia smiled, a little caught off-guard. "Thanks. I'll take all the mum-approved sugar I can get."

Lando slid a spoon into her hand without being asked. She didn't miss the way he watched her eat the first bite, like he was mentally cataloguing everything — her comfort, her colour, the rate she was breathing. She let him, because she knew that's how he loved her.

Across the table, Oscar said something dry about his awkward post-race interview, which set off a ripple of laughter. Amelia leaned into Lando's shoulder for a second and just breathed it all in — the open patio doors, the faint scent of jasmine from the garden, the way Oscar's mum had called her "love" all day long.

When the meal wound down and plates were scraped clean and the sky turned the soft violet of a late Melbourne summer, Amelia shifted back in her chair and rested a hand just beneath her ribs. The baby was moving again — just little stretches this time, the kind she was learning to read like a language.

Oscar's sister caught the motion and smiled. "Moving?"

Amelia nodded. "They're a big fan of desert."

"Well," Oscar's mum said, standing to start collecting plates, "clearly they're going to fit in with the Piastri's just fine."

The others laughed again, but it wasn't at Amelia — never at her. She didn't feel observed. She felt... included. Known.

Lando stood to help, moving instinctively to her side as she got to her feet. He didn't make a fuss. Just placed a steadying hand at her lower back and kissed her cheek, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When they climbed into the back of Oscar's mum's SUV to head back to the hotel, Lando buckled her seatbelt for her without asking. She let him. She was learning to let him help.

Oscar slid into the backseat beside them, his knees knocking Amelia's gently. "Just a warning," he said, completely deadpan. "If you two start being disgustingly PDA back here, I'm getting out and walking."

"You're so dramatic," Amelia said lightly, resting her head on Lando's shoulder.

Lando smirked. "Ignore him. He's jealous because he's not the favourite child anymore."

"It's fine," Oscar said, eyes closed, "I'll always be her first."

Amelia laughed.

—

Albert Park felt familiar in a way few circuits did — maybe because it was Oscar's home race, and Oscar had quietly made it hers too. It was warmer than expected. The kind of dry, sun-struck heat that made the garages feel like furnaces by midday, and the hospitality suites always smell faintly of sunscreen above engine oil.

Amelia ran her iPad on low brightness, wore compression socks under her fireproofs, and drank from her water bottle every minute.

Oscar's family had stopped by the track on Friday. His mum had brought fruit. His sister asked to feel the baby kick and cooed when she did. It was almost too much — not the attention, but the softness of it. Amelia didn't know what to do with tenderness that didn't demand anything in return. She took it anyway. Filed it away for later.

By Saturday, Lando had qualified P4. Oscar managed a clean Q3 lap for P6. Amelia stood between the engineers' wall and the pit box, headset around her neck, a folded pit strategy in her back pocket, her hand resting lightly over her bump.

She didn't miss the way the newer engineers double-checked everything with her. The quiet shift in authority. Trust, finally, not earned through her name or her proximity to Lando, but through clean results and consistent systems. Through knowing the car like she'd built it herself. Because she had.

She didn't say much on race day. Her voice carried weight, and she'd learned when to use it. Oscar got boxed early to cover Hamilton. The undercut worked. Lando stayed out two laps longer than planned, held Verstappen behind for five beautiful corners, and came out ahead after the second stop.

Amelia had trained herself not to flinch when things went sideways — a yellow flag, a botched pit release in the box next door, a lockup into turn nine — but she could feel the baby twist in her stomach with every adrenaline spike. Lando's telemetry showed steady throttle traces. Clean lines. The kind of driving that only happened when he wasn't chasing. When he was already out front.

He took the last podium place on lap 41.

McLaren's first podium of the season.

Oscar followed behind in 4th.

Afterwards, when the champagne had been sprayed, Amelia leaned her head against Lando's sticky shoulder in the back of the garage. Just for a second.

"Such a good drive from both of you," Amelia said.

"Car's really starting to feel dialled in." Lando said.

Amelia hummed, adjusting something on the iPad balanced across her lap. "It'll only keep getting better. I built this car specifically for you and Oscar, remember?"

He shot her a grin. "Yeah, baby. I remember."

Before she could respond, Oscar appeared from the garage tunnel, dropping onto the crate beside them like his limbs had given out. He was already halfway through his second sports drink and looked like he might fall asleep mid-sip.

"God," he groaned. "I feel like I need to sleep for three weeks."

Lando chuckled, scrubbing a hand through his damp hair. "You say that after every race."

"Yeah, well, some of us actually push," Oscar muttered, elbowing Lando in the shin.

The moment hung suspended; the afterglow of adrenaline, the buzz of a job well done, until Lando cleared his throat. "Hey... so—hypothetically—what happens if we're both fighting for the win?"

Oscar didn't say anything right away, just looked at Amelia like he wasn't sure if she was going to laugh or murder them both.

She didn't blink. "Whoever's had the cleaner race gets prioritised race strategy."

Oscar frowned. "Just like that?"

"Yes. Just like that."

Lando tilted his head. "Even if it's close?"

Amelia looked between them, her expression flat. Not unkind. Just firm. "I don't play favourites. I won't have you two fighting each other for points unnecessarily. The data doesn't lie. If one of you's managing tyres better, or has had stronger pace on long runs, or been cleaner through traffic—that's who gets the optimal strategy."

"But what if—" Oscar started.

Amelia cut in. "The data will tell the pit wall exactly who's having the better race. Even if it's just by a tenth. That's how it'll be decided."

They both stared at her for a beat too long.

She raised her brows. "You think that's fair?"

Oscar nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

Lando blew out a breath. "It's just weird knowing the person making the call is, you know..."

"Your wife?" Amelia supplied, looking dead at him.

He scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah."

"Doesn't matter," she said simply. "Once the visor's down and you're both in the car, you're just data points to me."

Oscar snorted. "Romantic."

Amelia's mouth quirked. "Don't worry. I'll love you both again once the cool-down lap is over."

Lando let his head tip back, laughing, but Oscar just drained the last of his drink and nodded thoughtfully.

And then, like it had never been tense at all, they sat in companionable silence, shoulder to shoulder, their suits still half-unzipped and reeking of brake dust and heat. Amelia leaned back against the crate, iPad still in hand, calm as ever.

Law laid.

—

Monaco was quiet in that oddly padded way it always was between race weekends — blinds half-drawn, travel bags still by the door, and a kind of stillness that settled over the rooms like breath held too long. The fridge held only a few stragglers: bottled water, half a tub of hummus, one sad lemon. The kind of post-travel chaos Amelia had once found irritating now just made her feel... warm. Anchored. A little undone around the edges, but not in a bad way.

She'd fallen asleep on the sofa in a crumpled sprawl, one leg tucked awkwardly beneath her. She woke with a cramp in her hip and that now-familiar nausea coiled low and constant — not as sharp as it had been in the first trimester, but still there.

Their scan was booked for late morning. Same clinic as always — discreet glass doors, a wall of untouched magazines, that soft, over-perfumed smell of orchids and antiseptic. Amelia sat in the waiting room with one hand resting lightly on the curve of her stomach, her hoodie stretched gently over her bump. The iPad in her lap glowed, unread.

Lando sat beside her, bouncing his knee. A rhythm he didn't seem to notice.

"Are you nervous?" She asked, eyes on her screen but not reading a word.

He shrugged, then nodded. "Dunno. I just... I want to know she's alright."

She hummed in agreement.

They still didn't know the sex for certain, hadn't wanted to find out in December when the offer had been made. But lately, they'd started slipping into the idea of a daughter without thinking. A soft she in the early mornings. A tentative her when Lando scrolled through name lists at night, reading them out loud with too much focus, as if one might suddenly feel right.

They were called through. Same sonographer. Same faint vanilla scent clinging to the corners of the dimly lit room. Amelia eased onto the table, hoodie pulled up, her belly rounding into the cool air. She reached for Lando's hand without needing to ask.

"You want to know the sex today?" The sonographer asked.

Lando nodded once. "Yes. Please."

Amelia gave a small smile. A little tense around the edges. The gel was cold against her skin, the wand firm just under her ribs.

"There we are," the sonographer murmured, screen flickering to life. "Heartbeat is strong. She's measuring just under the 60th percentile. Spine's here — lovely alignment. And very active. You'll be feeling that more and more as she runs out of room."

It landed quietly. No fanfare. No pause for effect. Just: she.

Lando made a sound beside her. Not quite a gasp. Just the breath catching in his throat like it had nowhere else to go.

Amelia blinked. "She?"

The sonographer smiled softly. "She's not shy, this one. There's no mistaking it."

Amelia let out a slow, careful breath. "We'd been guessing," she said, voice thinner than usual. "Didn't want to find out too early. But... yeah. That fits."

Lando was still staring at the screen like it held the answer to something unspoken. Their daughter moved — a small, decisive roll — and pressed one foot against the uterine wall like she was testing the perimeter of her world.

"Looks like she's already got opinions," Amelia muttered.

"Good blood flow," the sonographer continued. "Placenta's anterior, fluid levels are excellent. She's sitting diagonally for now — spine curled along the left. Look at those little hands."

Amelia stared, but something caught in her — a quiet breath that didn't go all the way down. "Can I ask... is there any sign of... scarring?"

The sonographer tilted her head. "You mean from your endometriosis?"

Amelia glanced at Lando, then back. "Yeah. It's minor. Diagnosed when I was a teenager. I've been managing it fine and my midwife isn't concerned, but—"

"Nothing concerning," the woman reassured gently. "There's some faint evidence of prior inflammation near the uterine wall, but it hasn't affected blood flow or implantation. Your body's doing exactly what it should. She's growing in the best possible environment."

Lando's thumb rubbed slowly over the back of Amelia's hand. Quiet. Grounding.

When the scan was done, Amelia wiped the gel from her stomach and sat up carefully. Her joints felt loose lately — like her body had quietly agreed to more change than her brain had signed off on. Ligaments giving, hips stretching. Quiet, invisible work.

Lando carried her water bottle. Didn't let go of her hand until they were outside.

The air was warm and breezy off the marina. Sunlight slipped between clouds like threads pulled through linen.

"You okay?" He asked softly.

She nodded. "She's okay. That's all I care about."

He paused like he wanted to say something — to turn the moment into a joke, or maybe something bigger — but he didn't. Just watched her like he couldn't believe any of it was real.

Back at the apartment, Amelia moved slower. Not tired. Just aware. Of the shift. The weight. The girl inside her.

Lando pinned the scan photo to the fridge with careful precision. Not casually — like it mattered. Like it needed to be straight.

Next to it was a post-it that read: We were right.

Amelia added another below, neat and precise:

24w scan: 144 bpm. Diagonal. 60th percentile. It's a girl.

Lando stood there for a second, then picked up a pen and drew a lopsided heart beneath it.

Later that night, while he brushed his teeth, Amelia curled up in bed and opened her notes app. A new list took shape.

Third Trimester To-Do

• Pack hospital bag

• Final scan at 32w

• Baby CPR course

• Book postpartum physio

• Order blackout blinds for nursery

• Learn how to style baby hair

• Ask Mum about baby clothes storage

• Confirm birth plan with midwife in UK

• Stop Googling "endometriosis birth risks"

She clicked her phone off, rested both hands on her stomach. A flutter answered her. Small. Intentional.

Not a concept anymore. Not an idea.

A girl. Their girl.

Lando slid into bed beside her, silent and warm. He didn't say anything, just reached for her hand and held it. Steady and sure.

And she let him.

—

Amelia had never really enjoyed FaceTime. Too much pressure to make eye contact, to frame yourself properly, to keep a neutral expression when your face wanted to do anything but. But since the pregnancy, she'd started calling her mom more and more. Sometimes audio-only. Sometimes with the camera propped up on the windowsill, a safe few feet away.

That evening, Monaco was sunk in a golden dusk. The blinds were half-open, the sea just visible through a gap between buildings. Lando was out, dinner with his trainer, and Amelia had the apartment to herself for the first time in days.

She called her mom while she was folding laundry. Not dramatic, not ceremonial; she just needed to hear her voice. The call connected quickly.

"Hello, sweetheart."

"Hi, Mom."

Her mom's face appeared; soft lighting, kitchen tiles in the background, a cup of tea in hand. Comfortable. Familiar. The kind of presence that made Amelia's shoulders drop without her noticing.

"You look tired," her mom said, but kindly. Not a judgment. Just a fact.

"I am," Amelia admitted, folding a soft baby onesie she hadn't quite meant to buy yet. "But we had the 24 week scan. She's doing fine."

Her mom blinked. "She?"

Amelia felt it land in her chest, quiet and solid. She smiled, small but real. "Yeah. It's a girl."

Her mom didn't burst into tears, didn't gasp or squeal. She just let out a slow breath and placed her tea down, like she needed both hands to hold the moment. "A girl," she echoed.

Amelia nodded, lips pressed together. "A little girl."

"Oh, sweetheart." Her mom's voice went warm and quiet. "That's... that's beautiful. How's she doing? How are you doing?"

"Heartbeat's good. She's measuring well. Still flipping all over the place, but that's normal. They said she's healthy and active." Amelia paused, fingertips brushing the edge of the folded onesie. "And I'm... okay. Tired. Ligaments are weird. My hips feel like someone's unzipping me from the inside out. But okay."

Her mom smiled, soft and proud. "You always were tougher than you gave yourself credit for."

Amelia swallowed. "I'm coming back to England for the last bit. I want to have her there. At home."

"Of course," her mom said. No hesitation. "You'll stay here. Whatever you need."

"I just..." Amelia took a breath, then let it out in a rush. "I know Lando will be racing. And I'm not... I'm not scared. But I don't want to do it without someone who knows me."

"You won't have to," her mom said gently. "I'll be right there. However you need me. I promise."

Amelia's fingers played with a tiny pair of socks, folding and refolding them. "Do you think I'll be okay at this?"

"I think," her mom said slowly, "that you already are. You're careful. You're clear. You've made a life where this baby will be safe and loved. And you're going to figure the rest out one step at a time."

Amelia blinked hard. "I keep thinking about her growing up. What I'll say to her. What I'll show her. I want to be steady. I want to get it right."

"You won't get everything right," her mom said softly. "None of us do. But she's going to know she's loved. And she'll know you. That's more than enough."

Amelia nodded, her throat a little tight. "Thanks, Mom."

"Always, love."

They stayed on the line a little longer, not talking much. Just the quiet comfort of home on the other end. Eventually, Amelia got up and poured herself a glass of water, carried the phone with her around the apartment. Her mom stayed there on the screen, sometimes commenting on the laundry pile, sometimes just watching her daughter move through her life.

It wasn't dramatic. It didn't need to be.

It was just love; steady and quiet and unspoken, the way it always had been.

—

It hit her on the flight to Japan.

Amelia shifted in her seat for the sixth time in as many minutes, trying to get comfortable. The upgraded seat helped, sure. The little footrest and lumbar support, the quiet of the cabin, the way Lando had wordlessly handed her one of his noise-cancelling earbuds when the hum of the plane started getting under her skin. But none of it stopped the low ache in her hips. Or the swelling in her hands. Or the way her centre of gravity felt just slightly... off.

It wasn't new. But this was the first time she couldn't bring herself to ignore it.

Lando was asleep beside her, a hoodie pulled up over half his face, mouth parted slightly. He'd had his hand on her thigh when he drifted off. It still rested there, warm and reassuring.

She looked down at herself — at the dome of her belly now undeniably there, visible even beneath the soft slope of her hoodie. Twenty-five weeks.

Her iPad screen lit up with her calendar. Back-to-back races. Long-haul flights. Debriefs that stretched into the early hours. The carefully timed quiet minutes between adrenaline spikes.

There wasn't a line in the schedule that said you will have to stop, but she could feel it all the same. A kind of internal countdown.

She opened her Notes app and typed.

When to stop flying?

Ask Dr. Molina about long-haul after 30w.

How long before babies are allowed to travel longhaul?

What if I miss something?

What if the team does better without me?

What if I'm not ready to stop?

She stared at that last one for a long time.

Lando stirred beside her and blinked awake. He glanced over, registered the screen, then her expression.

"Baby, you okay?" He asked, voice thick with sleep.

"Yeah," she said automatically. Then hesitated. "I was just thinking. About how much longer I can keep up with all of this."

He sat up a little straighter, pushed his hoodie back. "Yeah?"

"Travel. Track. Work. This pace. I'm not there yet, but... I can feel the edge coming."

He was quiet for a second. Then, gently, "You know you can stop whenever you need to. No one expects you to—"

"I know," she cut in. Not unkindly. "But I expect me to."

Lando didn't argue. He just shifted closer and rested his hand again over her stomach. His thumb traced absent patterns, slow and grounding.

"You'll know when it's time," he said. "And when it is — we'll figure it out. Me and you and the team."

Amelia leaned her head against his shoulder, eyes still on the screen. Her typed out worries stared back at her.

For now she closed the app, shifted into a slightly more comfortable position, and let herself rest. Not ready to stop yet. But maybe starting to soften to the idea.

Just a little.

—

The garage was half-packed when Amelia finally sat down on one of the flight cases, iPad still in hand, tea cooling on the crate beside her. Her dad dropped into the chair next to her, no clipboard, no headset. Just her dad.

"I've done the maths," she said without preamble. "If everything stays on schedule, I can probably work trackside through to Monaco. Maybe Canada. Depends on what my doctor thinks about the travel."

Her dad nodded like he'd been expecting this. "That gives us until early-June."

"Assuming no complications. If I do decide to bench myself before then, I'm going to need two weeks to train Tom. Ideally three."

"He's on board."

She finally looked up from the tablet. "Yeah?"

"Knows it's temporary. Knows it's your program he'll be running."

Amelia gave a tight nod. She didn't need soft reassurances. She needed facts. Structure. A transition plan.

"I'll still handle all the dev work," she said. "Sim data, mechanical spec reviews, upgrade briefs. That can all be done remotely. I can run analysis from the MTC. Keep my name on the post-session reports."

"You will," her dad said.

"I don't want to fade out."

"You won't."

She glanced down at her stomach, hand resting absently over the slope of her hoodie. "I think I'll fly home after Imola. Be near Mum. Lando'll be in Canada and that's just... it's too far away for me to feel comfortable being on my own. It makes sense."

He didn't argue. Just nodded once. "That buys you recovery time over the summer break. Target Zandvoort return?"

"Realistically, Monza. Depends on baby's health, what the paediatrician reccomends. But I'll be involved well before that."

Her dad leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You know this isn't about proving anything."

"I'm not trying to prove anything," she said, not unkindly. "But if I don't spell it out, people start making decisions on my behalf."

That earned the ghost of a smile.

"You don't have to worry about your place here," he said. "It's yours. Nothing changes."

She nodded again, that single clean tilt of the head that meant she was logging the information. "I want everything documented," she said. "No handover gaps. I'll start mapping out the protocols next week."

"Whatever you need."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

"Do you want help breaking it to Oscar?" Her dad asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "He already knows what to expect."

Her dad snorted. "Good. He'll be fine."

Amelia stood slowly, tugging her hoodie into place, checking the tablet again like she couldn't bear to be idle. "I'll work until I can't. And then I'll keep contributing until I'm back."

"Exactly what I'd expect from you."

"Not too soft for your pit wall, then?"

"Terrifying," he said flatly.

She smiled, just a little. "Good."

—

The paddock in Suzuka had always felt different. Not quieter — the energy here was as high as anywhere — but more... reverent. Like the corners themselves held history. Every garage whispered with ritual and rhythm, the hum of a place that demanded precision. Amelia had always liked it.

This time, it felt harder to keep pace.

She was twenty-six weeks pregnant. The travel was getting trickier. Her hips ached more after every flight, and her ankles didn't always bounce back the way they used to. But she hadn't missed a session, not yet. She was still Oscar's race engineer, still elbow-deep in data and debriefs. Still herself.

Mostly.

It was Saturday afternoon when she realised she'd started leaning against the pit wall more often than not — subtle, casual, one hand on the railing like she was just watching sector deltas scroll past. Tom had noticed. He didn't say anything, but he started keeping one ear open on comms, watching her line of sight when Oscar came in from a run.

She appreciated it.

And the team, maybe for the first time, really saw her. Not just as Zak's daughter. Not just as the woman Lando went home to. But as Amelia. The one who rebuilt the simulation code base. The one who restructured McLaren's comms protocols to reduce data lag by half. The one who kept Oscar focused even when he was ready to snap.

Her notes were tighter than ever. Her briefings were concise, efficient. She stopped double-checking her own voice before speaking on the radio. She let herself lead.

It was Oscar's best qualifying session yet.

Lando was P4. Oscar P5. Both cars within half a tenth.

And by Sunday evening, after a clean, hard race that left both drivers exhausted but intact, McLaren had walked away with solid double points and zero drama.

No risky overtakes. No strategic infighting. Just clarity.

In the garage after the race, Oscar leaned his forearms on the back of Amelia's chair and peered at her screen.

"You're glowing."

"I'm sweating," she said flatly.

He grinned. "Same thing."

Lando came in a few minutes later, hair damp, suit unzipped to his waist. He looked drained, but good. Sharp in that post-race way, nerves still hot under the surface.

Amelia turned in her seat and pressed a cold bottle of water into his hand. He took it with a murmured thanks and then crouched beside her chair like he just needed to be close. She let him lean against her knee.

Oscar watched them for a second, then said, "So... there's a break coming up now, right?"

Amelia raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

"Right," Oscar continued. "So what if, just what if, we went somewhere that wasn't a hotel or a racetrack or an airport lounge?"

Lando blinked. "Like a holiday?"

Oscar gestured between them. "You two are about to have a whole new person. I figure you deserve a few days of fake retirement before everything changes."

Amelia narrowed her eyes. "Would you be joining us on this so-called fake retirement?"

He didn't even flinch. "Of course. I'm the honorary family dog. Can't shake me."

Lando snorted. "I mean... a quiet week somewhere would be good. Somewhere warm. No cameras."

"Somewhere with pillows," Amelia added. "And comfortable sun loungers and mocktails on tap."

Oscar nodded solemnly. "Somewhere where Amelia doesn't have to wear shoes if she doesn't want to. I'll look into it."

She should've said no; there was too much to do. Too much to plan. Too many timelines and checklists still open. But she felt Lando's hand on her leg and Oscar's unshakeable grin and the soft thrum of the post-race lull all around them, and something inside her relented.

"Fine," she said, slowly. "But I'm vetoing a resort. I want privacy."

Oscar threw up his hands. "So picky."

"I'm allowed to be picky." She said.

"Yeah." He agreed.

Lando just smiled, tired and soft, like he couldn't quite believe this was his life.

And Amelia, sore-backed and sun-drenched and more herself than she'd felt in months, reached for her water and let herself breathe.

They'd go. Maybe they'd do nothing. Maybe she'd watch Lando fall asleep by a pool while Oscar got sunburned and insisted he wasn't. Maybe it would be good.

Maybe it would be rest.

—

The villa in Mallorca was rented under Oscar's name, but Amelia had commandeered it within five minutes. There were towels folded with hotel-precision on the beds, blackout curtains in every room, and a fridge that had already been stocked to her specifications. No sparkling water, no orange juice with bits, and an entire shelf dedicated to cut fruit and unseasoned carbs.

They had a pool. They had sun. Lando had somehow acquired a ridiculous straw hat shaped like a watermelon slice. Oscar had already been banned from cannonballing before 10 a.m.

Amelia was stretched on a sun lounger, sunglasses on, iPad open across her knees — not working, just tweaking a grocery list and glancing occasionally at the group chat where Max was demanding selfies every hour. Her bump sat proudly in the centre of her soft grey dress, round and obvious now, rising gently with every breath.

Lando floated by in the pool, arms hooked lazily over a pool noodle. "What're you doing?"

"Thinking."

"About what?"

She tapped a note open on her tablet. "Maternity leave."

Oscar groaned from the deck chair beside her, where he was eating an unpeeled nectarine like a feral animal. "It's a holiday. Why are you using work words?"

"It's literally not a work word," she said. "It's a logistics plan. And it directly impacts both of you."

That got their attention.

Lando paddled toward the edge, resting his chin on his arms like a golden retriever. "Go on."

She flipped to the next page in her document. "Okay. So. I'll officially step away after Imola. That gives me time to finish the first round of upgrades and oversee Oscar's spec setup for Monaco and Canada."

Oscar looked nervous. "Who's covering me?"

"Tom Stallard."

"Oh." He blinked. "That's fine."

"You'll still have access to my notes," she added, glancing over her glasses. "I'll be consulting remotely until I give birth — probably from the MTC in Woking, or my mom's house, depending on how uncomfortable I am. You'll both send me debriefs. You will not filter them."

Oscar raised a hand. "Will there be snacks at your mom's? Because I can be convinced to travel there between every race."

"There will obviously be snacks."

Lando looked at her. "How long, baby? Six weeks, eight? You can take the rest of the season if you want. I'll come back to you between every race, no matter what."

"I haven't decided yet," she said simply. "Eight weeks, maybe. Depends on the birth, my recovery, and how you two act without me here. But when I come back, I'll walk straight back into the role. No stepping-stone. No reduced hours. That's already been agreed with Zak and Andrea."

Lando gave a short nod. "Okay. That sounds good." He pursed his lips. "And baby girl...?"

"Baby girl will be with me at all times." She said firmly. "And when I'm on the pit wall, she'll be with my mom. She's already agreed to travel with us. I don't want to hire somebody I don't know to look after our daughter." She told him.

He nodded in agreement. "My mum's already offered to travel with us, dad too. To step in whenever we need a break."

Oscar chewed his nectarine like he was thinking hard. Then, finally, "When I win, can I take the baby on the podium with me?"

Amelia stared at him with genuine horror. "No!"

Oscar blinked.

Lando laughed so hard he nearly choked on pool water.

Amelia looked up at the sky. "I just don't want you to act weird about it. I'm pregnant, not vanishing. I love this job. I worked hard for it. I'll rest, I'll recover, and I'll come back."

Oscar gave a slow, half-serious salute.

Lando climbed out of the pool, water dripping down his arms, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "You don't need to prove anything to us. You know that."

Oscar tossed his nectarine pit into a paper cup. "This baby's going to be a real Grid Kid."

Lando grinned. "I love that."

Oscar pointed at her. "You should get McLaren to make her some branded tiny noise-cancelling headphones."

"I already sent the request," Amelia said.

There was a pause.

Oscar grinned. "God, you're gonna be so good at this."

Lando said nothing, just reached down and threaded their fingers together.

Amelia leaned back, letting the sun find her face. Her feet were propped on a folded towel. Her boys were here, quiet and safe and ridiculous.

And the baby kicked once, just a soft nudge, as if to say: 'I'm here too.'

—

The Shanghai International Circuit thrummed with heat and movement — engineers hunched over telemetry, mechanics rolling tyres with military precision, the air sharp with rubber and tension and something metallic beneath. Amelia kept her pace steady, one hand curved just under her bump like an afterthought, posture instinctively counterbalanced. Twenty-seven weeks pregnant, and the world still spun the same.

She’d just wrapped a meeting with Oscar and his strategists, short, sharp, effective, and was heading back toward the McLaren hospitality suite when Lando appeared, all loose limbs and narrowed eyes, like he’d been looking for her.

“Hey,” he said softly, already scanning her face. “You look pale, baby.”

Amelia exhaled through her nose. “Just the usual dizziness. I’m fine.”

But Lando didn’t look convinced. His gaze drifted downward to the slope of her belly like he could assess her blood pressure with a glance. “Maybe you should take a break. Put your feet up for a bit.”

Before she could offer a rebuttal, Zak appeared on her left, all brisk concern and the slight lean of a man about to intervene. “Honey, I was just about to say the same thing. You’ve been on your feet all morning.”

Amelia glanced between the two of them, arms crossed over her chest, jaw set. “I’m fine.”

“Yes,” Zak said evenly. “But you’re also very, very pregnant, in thirty-degree heat.”

“I’ll take a short break,” she muttered, already heading toward the suite. “Eat something. I’m hungry anyway. Can we find some noodles? Plain ones.”

“Yeah, of course,” Lando said quickly, falling into step beside her.

Inside the hospitality suite, the air was blissfully cool. Amelia sank onto a wide, cushioned chair near the far window and peeled off her cap. A cool drink appeared in her hand, water, with ice and a slice of cucumber, and she leaned back, one hand absentmindedly tracing the ridge of her stomach through her t-shirt. The baby shifted. Not a kick, but a gentle roll, like she was stretching.

A few feet away, near the coffee bar, Zak and Lando lingered; not hovering, exactly, but tethered to her like satellites.

“When she was a kid,” Zak said quietly, arms folded, voice pitched low, “she didn’t cry when she grazed her knees. Not once. Just stood there, blinking, blood running down her leg. It’s like... she feels pain, but her brain doesn’t flag it as urgent. Doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Lando’s jaw flexed. “Yeah. I know.” He was watching her like he always did when she wasn’t watching him — careful, like she was made of glass and iron in equal measure. “She pushes herself harder than anyone I’ve ever met. But I’m watching. I know the signs now. When she’s close to the edge and pretending not to be.”

Zak blew out a breath, not quite a sigh. “Wish I could wrap her in bubble wrap.”

Lando huffed something like agreement. “Yeah. Same. But she’d kick our asses if we tried.”

Zak chuckled. “She gets that from her mother.”

Across the room, Amelia caught their eyes and squinted. “Are you talking about me?”

“No,” they said in unison.

She narrowed her eyes but let it go, already distracted by the appearance of a steaming bowl of noodles being dropped in front of her.

“This is nice,” she said between mouthfuls.

Lando pursed his lips to hide his smile.

—

By late afternoon, the circuit had settled into its usual Friday-eve rhythm: cars back in the garage, radios quieter, engineers drifting between briefings and laptops. Amelia finished updating Oscar’s setup notes and slipped her headset off, the weight of it leaving a faint pressure along her jaw.

She spotted Tom near the back of the garage — arms folded, watching the data feed scroll across a nearby monitor. He looked focused, but not too busy. Good.

Amelia adjusted the fit of her polo over her bump, grabbed a spare iPad, and walked over with the steady confidence of someone who expected to be listened to. “Got a second?” She asked, already flipping the tablet around.

Tom straightened. “Always.”

“I want you to start shadowing me properly,” she said. “From now on. Every session. Every debrief. From now until I step back.”

Tom blinked, just once. “Already?”

“Yes, I want both os us to be prepared for any eventuality,” she told him. “You’ll be the most important to Oscar during my leave. And I want the transition to be as seamless as possible for him.”

He nodded slowly. “Understood.”

“You’ll do fine,” she added, tapping the iPad awake. “I know that you’ve got great credentials, and you’re calm, just like my ducky. But I want it done right. You’re not just reading notes — you’re learning how I communicate with Oscar. How I time interventions. Where I let him drive through issues and where I call it early. The tone matters. The silence matters more.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened. “I can do that.”

“I know,” she said simply. “That’s why I requested you specifically.”

A pause. Not long. Just enough for her to glance sideways and see Zak watching from across the garage, arms still crossed, nodding to himself like he approved of the moment without needing to step in.

“I’ll be available to you remotely,” she continued. “From MTC or home in Surrey. You’ll always be able to get in touch if something’s unclear or we need to adjust mid-weekend. But I want you confident enough that you won’t have to.”

Tom looked down at her bump, not long, just a flicker of respectful acknowledgment, and then back at her eyes. “How far out are you planning to step back?”

“Before summer break,” she said. “Likely after Monaco. I want a clean split before Imola. She’s due in late June, early July, and I want to be home by then.”

He nodded again, solid as always. “Alright. I’ll start sitting in properly tomorrow.”

“Good.” She closed the tablet. “And Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“If he complains that you’re not me, remind him I handpicked you. And that he has to do what you say — because I said so.”

Tom grinned. “Got it.”

Amelia turned to go, but paused after a few steps and looked back over her shoulder. “Don’t screw this up, Stallard. For your own sake. I get mean when anybody messes with my boys.”

—

The McLaren war room wasn’t called that officially, but Amelia couldn’t think of a better name. It was tucked behind closed doors at the back of the motorhome, with tinted windows, air-con humming softly, and a huge screen already displaying performance graphs and strategy overlays from the Shanghai Grand Prix.

Lando’s P2 had been hard-earned. Strategic brilliance, excellent tire management, clean defensive driving. Amelia had been proud; of him, of the team, of how the car had performed under pressure.

Oscar had come home P6. No mistakes. Just a race that didn’t quite go his way.

And now, with a double points finish in their pocket and the start of a momentum swing building, they were all squeezed into this meeting to talk about the future.

Specifically: team orders.

“Look,” one of the strategy leads was saying, gesturing toward the display. “We’re in a unique position this season. The car’s competitive. But so are both drivers. Very evenly matched. We should just let them race.”

A few people around the table nodded, murmured agreement. “It’s the fairest approach,” someone else added. “No favouritism. Trust the drivers to race clean.”

“Right,” another chimed in. “Papaya rules—no number one, no number two. No intervention unless absolutely necessary.”

Amelia leaned back in her chair, one hand resting protectively on her bump, the other spinning a pen idly through her fingers. She waited a beat.

Then, calmly, “That’s idiotic.”

Silence.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

“Letting them race without clear structure is how you lose the team points,” she continued. “It’s how you make emotionally reactive decisions mid-race. It’s how you create resentment—because eventually, one of them will get burned by a call that felt arbitrary. Or too late. Or unfair.”

Zak shifted in his seat but didn’t interrupt. He’d seen her like this before; measured, relentless.

“They’re not in go-karts,” Amelia said. “This isn’t about playground ethics. It’s about execution. Maximising constructor points. Sustaining morale. Keeping both of them an integral part of the long-term plan.”

Someone across the table sighed. “Come on, you think they’ll be okay with one of them being prioritised just because they’ve had a cleaner race that day? Even if the other was leading the championship?”

“Yes,” she said flatly. “I do think that. Because unlike any o you, I’ve already spoken to them about this. At length. Separately. Together. After Bahrain. After Jeddah. Again last night.” She let the silence settle. Let them exchange awkward glances as they realised how on the back-foot they all. “They know what’s at stake. They understand that in a scenario where one of them is consistently faster, cleaner, or better-positioned based on live data, that driver will be prioritised for that race. It’s not a demotion. It’s not a snub. It’s a race-by-race performance-based call.”

“But—” someone began.

She cut them off. “They agreed it would make them both better. Force them to be cleaner, smarter, more strategic. Push each other. Because the moment it’s not based on merit, we undermine the value of their work. And we risk both of them driving more emotionally than tactically.”

Zak finally leaned forward. “You’re saying… no open racing. Just structured flexibility.”

“I’m saying we don’t throw them into a burning building with no fire exits,” Amelia said. “We guide them. We explain our decisions. And we make it crystal clear: we back the driver who’s executed the better race. Full stop.”

She sat back.

No one argued.

After a long pause, one of the older engineers finally muttered, “Hell of a thing when the drivers trust each other more than the people in this room do.”

Amelia arched a brow. “They trust each other because I made sure of that.” She tapped her pen twice on the table. “And because they trust me to be impartial.”

Another beat of silence passed. Then Zak stood.

“Alright,” he said. “Then that’s how it’ll be. We back merit. We run data-forward. Amelia writes the internal protocol. Full review before Miami.”

The meeting dissolved shortly after.

As she stood, Lando appeared in the doorway, fresh from his media obligations. He glanced at her with that careful, familiar look he always gave her after long meetings—curious, proud, a little smug.

“How’d it go?”

She smiled faintly. “You and Oscar are getting merit-based strategy rules. No fighting each other unless it makes sense on the timing screens.”

“Perfect,” Lando said. “I’ll just have to be better than him every week, then.”

Amelia smacked his chest lightly with her folder on the way out. “You can try.”

—

The paddock had mostly emptied by the time Amelia caught up with Oscar. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the long shadows made the garages feel colder than they were. He was leaning against a stack of tyre blankets near the back of the garage, in a pair of sweats. A half-drunk sports drink hung from his fingers.

He noticed her before she spoke, gave her a tired little smile.

“Fun meeting?” He asked dryly. "I assume it ended with someone muttering something like, 'well, Amelia knows best.'"

She smiled faintly. “Not in those words. But close.”

He looked away, nodding. “So… the strategy thing.”

“Yeah,” she said, stepping up beside him. “They agreed. It's what makes sense.”

Oscar didn’t reply immediately. He wasn’t sulking, that wasn’t his way, but he was being cautious about this. Amelia respected him for that. Always had.

“You’re not going to be sidelined,” she said quietly. “Not ever. But I won’t let you two cannibalise each other. It’s not about protecting Lando. It’s not about picking favourites. It’s about making strategic calls when they matter.”

“I know,” Oscar said. “I get it. I just…” He trailed off, rolling the bottle between his hands. “It’s frustrating, you know?” He added after a second. “To feel like I’m just outside the sweet spot. Every weekend. Not far off. Just not quite there.”

Amelia nodded. “Yeah. I know. But you’re not behind, Oscar. You were still a rookie last year, yeah? And you had a car that you couldn’t drive because it was all-but underivable. I never expected you to walk into this season and get consistent podium finishes. You’re in development. The best kind. The kind that’s going to make you seriously dangerous by midseason. You don’t want to peak now — you want to be ready to win, and keep winning, when it happens.”

Oscar gave her a side-eye. “Midseason, huh?”

“On track, in briefings, in strategy meetings, you’re my priority. Just like Lando is Will’s. So trust me when I say that we will make a data-driven decision to protect your race when it's yours. The same goes for Lando. Neither of you is owed a position. You earn it. And you’ve earned plenty.”

He exhaled, long and slow.

She hesitated for half a second, then added, “Also, you’re the only person who can get under Lando’s skin just by existing, so please don’t stop doing that.”

Oscar snorted. “Oh, I plan to keep annoying him.”

“Good. That’s your most valuable skill.”

They both smiled. The moment settled into something comfortable.

Then Amelia said, softer, “they wanted to let you fight it on the track. No structure. One of you gets an earlier pit, the other would be fucked, because there wouldn’t be any kind of structure.”

Oscar looked at her.

“The structure. The clarity. The mutual understanding,” she continued. “Osc, when everything is vague and reactive and drivers are forced to figure it out mid-race, it screws with your head. I won’t do that to you. Either of you.”

He gave a small nod. “Thanks.”

“And when Tom steps in while I’m off,” she added, “he’ll follow it the same way. Because you’ll help him. And because you’ll remember we built it together.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “When do we start calling it the Papaya Doctrine?”

“When you win your first race of the season,” she said without missing a beat.

“Cheeky.”

“Motivated,” she corrected, then pushed gently off the wall and turned to head back inside. “C’mon. Let’s go find Lando.”

Oscar followed, more relaxed now. Lighter.

And when they reached the motorhome, he reached up and tapped the scan photo Amelia had stuck to the communal fridge earlier that week.

“Little engineer better be on my side,” he said under his breath.

Amelia didn’t even turn. “Sorry. She’s already a daddy’s girl.”

—

It was late afternoon in Monaco. Amelia had slipped away from the apartment, sipping on a decaf iced latte and pretending her ankles weren’t already starting to hate her.

She didn’t expect Max to be walking in the same neihbourhood, but he was—of course he was. He veered off course like it was second nature, grin crooked, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

“Zusje,” he said by way of greeting, already wrapping her in a loose, familiar hug. “You’re massive.”

Amelia made a face. “Max.”

He stepped back to take a better look. “No, I meant — I just mean that—"

“I think that you should just stop talking,” she said flatly.

Max held his hands up in surrender, then leaned against the wall ledge beside her. They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

Then she said, without ceremony, “It’s a girl.”

Max blinked. “Seriously?”

She nodded, and for a second, something unreadable crossed his face; surprise, maybe, or just the weight of knowing. Then he smiled. Big. Soft. “She’s gonna be trouble,” he said.

“I know.”

“She’ll be outdriving Lando by age twelve.”

Amelia grinned. “Obviously.”

Max looked at her a long moment, then reached out and tapped a gentle knuckle against her arm. “You’d be a good mum to any baby. But a little girl will be so, so lucky to have you, Amelia.”

It was simple, unadorned. But the words wrapped around her heart like a fuzzy blanket. “Thanks,” she said, and meant it.

He hesitated a second longer, then added, “And if you want to name her Maxine, you know...”

“Absolutely not.”

He laughed. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

Maxine. God forbid.

Still — she’d always known he’d be the first to joke about it.

And the first to show up if she ever needed him.

—

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landonorris outnumbered already ❤️ by amelianorris

user47 I'm crying girl!dad Lando makes so much sense to me

user13 THIS BEING HER 5TH EVER INSTAGRAM POST??????

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user53 pls i don't mean to be parasocial but i rly hope they share baby girl norris' name because i bet its going to be so beautiful

mclaren Limited edition PINK caps are available in the McLaren online store right now! While stocks remain 💘

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prythianpages · 8 months ago

Text

Tonight, the Light of Love is in Your Eyes

Azriel x Rhysand's Sister (reader) | You find yourself in the middle of a political affair, where you seek refuge in a dance with Azriel. And in the spur of the moment, Azriel tells you he loves you for the first time.

warnings: secret love, implied smut (brief mention), you and az being impulsive and risking it all

word count: 1,900

a/n: I used the dialogue of this scene from The Witcher as a prompt for this fic.

“Hybern is still close to Spring. Though they’ve lost the war, it seems their alliance still stands. Bradwell has shown interest in her, it’d be best if she takes his favor tonight. Or even Tamlin’s, they are closer in age.”

Your gaze is fixed forward, but your mind drifts, creeping into the quiet mental conversation between your father and brother. They speak of you, as if your own desires are inconsequential, and it stings more than you let show.

“Why should she? When the High Lord of Autumn, who fought alongside our armies, has six sons and one on the way…”

Breathe in, breathe out. You force the command on yourself, struggling to maintain the composure you’ve perfected over years of courtly life. The mask you wear feels more fragile tonight, your heart threatening to crack the facade.

You allow your eyes to wander and regret it when you meet the gaze of Bradwell–the eldest son of Spring. He is watching you, green eyes gleaming with a predatory sharpness, his smirk oozing arrogance. As if you’re a prize to be won–a prize already won. The sight of it turns your stomach.

It’s instinctual almost–the way your eyes gravitate toward Azriel as they always do at the slightest discomfort. He’s been your anchor, your safety blanket for years. He stands just a few steps below you, tall and stoic.

His hands are clenched into fists, shadows weaving and writhing along his limbs in a frenzy, whispering secrets to him that you ache to hear. His head is turned toward Bradwell and there’s no doubt his gaze is hardened into an icy composure when the eldest of Spring suddenly peels his gaze off of you.

As you pull your gaze away from the Night Court’s Spymaster, you catch your mother’s eye. She sits beside your father on a much simpler throne. She sends you a sympathetic smile and you cast your gaze down, mask faltering as a blush creeps up your neck.

By the Cauldron, how you wish you could be anywhere but here. You’d much rather be alongside Cassian and Mor, who are most likely indulging in the fine wine and cheeses. The only redeeming part of these insufferable court parties.

“Is it not best to keep our most at-risk enemies close? Spring–”

Your body tenses, each muscle coiling as you listen to the words between your brother and father, their minds still unaware of your presence within them. It’s laughable, almost. Rhysand taught you well. You were a later bloomer when it came to the manifestation of your powers but the daemati power runs strong in you.

Movement catches your eye. It’s Bradwell. He begins to make his way toward you, one hand already reaching for the sage-green handkerchief embroidered with a golden beast. A token you know he plans to offer. The sight of it makes something in you snap. You can’t take it anymore.

You whip your head around, your heart pounding, and your gaze finds Azriel once more—the only one you want. The only one you’ve ever wanted.

“Azriel, will you dance with me?”

The words escape your lips before you even realize you’ve said them. There’s a brief moment where the world seems to still as Azriel turns to meet your gaze. His eyes widen slightly, shadows pausing briefly in midair–the only sign of emotion he shows.

But you feel a flutter in your chest.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s danced with you. The two of you have danced plenty of times before. However, it’d be the first time you’d give him your first dance. A notion that seems silly but held to a high esteem in the Court of Nightmares.

You feel your father’s and Rhysand’s gaze also on you–the latter’s eyes narrowing at you. He’s already sensed the lingering presence you left in his mind, and you can feel his talons scratching at the edges of your mental walls. But you hold steady, just as he taught you and push him away.

Azriel keeps his eyes on you yet his shadows peer over his shoulders, the dark tendrils darting back and forth between your brother and father. Cautious and a bit defensive.

It’s your mother who breaks the silence. She had kept her gaze on the dance floor in front of her, that same knowing smile playing on her lips. “It is impolite to keep a lady waiting.”

Azriel nods his head. “Of course.”

He shifts forward–one foot resting on the first step while the other remains on the ground floor. He extends his scarred hand to you, his shadows barely able to contain their excitement, betraying the cool mask he dons.

You smile—truly smile—as you place your hand in his, and together, you walk toward the dance floor. Your heart swells with defiance as you purposefully avert your eyes when passing Bradwell, chin held high. Rhysand’s mental claws scratch harder, desperate to break through your defenses. You continue to shut him out, strengthening the walls of your mind.

The Cauldron simmers in your favor. As you reach the dance floor, the music shifts to a slower, more romantic melody. Azriel’s hand wraps around yours, his fingers enclosing around your palm while his other hand rests gently at the small of your back. The tension in your body melts under his touch and you find yourself leaning in closer to him, your body always yearning to be with his.

Shadows slither softly around you, hiding within the seams of your black dress like a protective shield. Azriel’s eyebrows furrow and you recognize the brief distant look in his eyes. “Rhys is not happy,” he murmurs. “Your first dance was supposed to be with the eldest son of Spring.”

His jaw clenches and you see the way his shadows curl tighter around him as if to suffocate the jealousy he dares not voice.

“Let him sulk. I get to decide who to dance with, who to be with.”

Azriel was the master of composure. He’s always calm, steady, controlled. But tonight, something in his gaze feels different. There’s something vulnerable there, something pained. He looks away for a moment, as if trying to keep his emotions from manifesting further.

“I can’t offer you what he can..."

His hand twitches in yours, like he’s about to pull away, but you hold him tighter. “Good,” you respond without hesitation. “I don’t want anything that arrogant ass has to offer.”

Azriel’s eyes snap back to yours, searching, conflicted. He hesitates, as if still grappling with the part of himself that believes he doesn’t deserve this. That you deserve more, much better than him. Someone who can give you the world, not someone who only knows to live in the shadows.

You intertwine your fingers with his, lips curling into a small grin. “Your ass is the only one I want,” you add, your power reaching out to him and gently slipping past his defenses to show him the marvelous view you had of his backside earlier.

And as your thoughts drift to the last night you shared together, where you got to see all of him, Azriel lets out an exhale, his lips mirroring the upwards curl to yours. Taking advantage of the grip you have on his mind, you show him more memories from that night. The way his scarred hands had caressed every inch of your body, his lips following the path his hands made…

“I can’t give you much,” Azriel’s voice had dropped to a whisper, barely a rasp as he leaned his forehead against yours. His nose brushed with yours, lips hovering right over your own. “But I can give you everything I have.”

You smiled softly at him, your fingers brushing the side of his face, tracing every line and contour of the male who held your heart. So beautiful, so perfect.

“That’s all I’ll ever need,” you replied and then closed the small gap between you to kiss him.

The pained look in his hazel eyes melts into something warmer, something sweeter, as he takes in the memories of that night through your eyes. He had never doubted your love, but the weight of his own insecurities—his belief that he was beneath you—constantly gnawed at him.

Every time he touched you in secret, every night you spent hidden away together, he feared that someday you might wake up and realize he wasn’t enough.

But here, dancing with you, the way your eyes held him, he felt that overwhelming doubt ease. To see and feel the depth of your sincerity, as if your very soul called out to his…

“I love you.”

Your heart stilled at the words, your step faltering. In a smooth maneuver, Azriel spins you around, catching you effortlessly before you could stumble. His hands steady you as you face him once more.

“That’s the first time you’ve said that,” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper, though you know Azriel’s shadows are already ensuring no one else can hear your words.

“It can’t be,” Azriel murmurs in disbelief, brows furrowing slightly.

“You used to think it,” you quietly admit, your gaze dropping for a moment before returning to his. It wasn’t that you had ever meant to pry, but when it was just the two of you, his mind was often at ease, unguarded. Sometimes, his thoughts would be too loud for you to ignore. “But tonight, you finally said it.”

The shadows hidden within the lacey seams of your dress stir and you watch as one of the shadows lingering over Azriel’s shoulders slithers up and curls around his ear. His grip on you tightens and your ears perk up.

The song is coming to an end and though couples continue to dance and whirl around you, your nose picks up on an approaching scent. Fresh wildflowers and oak—rich and lovely, exuding the essence of Spring. Yet it fills you with dread. You don’t want this moment to end. You’re tired of pretending, of living this life of secrecy.

“Azriel,” you say, one hand reaching out toward his face to turn his attention back to you. A bold move but tonight, you’re ready to be even bolder. “Kiss me.”

His shadows stir, swirling anxiously around him, their whispers warning that too many eyes are upon you both. You can feel his hesitation, the unspoken question in his gaze as he searches your face.

“In front of everyone,” you confirm. Show them I’m yours, you speak into his mind, and only yours.

Azriel pauses, his chest tightening at the implication of your words. He can feel Rhysand’s presence–furious and demanding– trying to slip into his mind. No doubt trying to steer him away from this impulsive display and away from you.

He feels the weight of the room pressing down on him—the sons of Spring and Autumn watching his every breath.

But all of that falls away when he meets your eyes again.

There is only you in this moment.

The one who had always been able to see through his walls, the one who made him feel like the most precious thing in the room, the only one he cared about.

“Kiss me,” you whisper again.

And Azriel is not going to let you ask a third time.

Not when the light of love is shining so brightly in your eyes. His hand covers yours on his cheek, and then, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that silences the room.

Whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.

a/n: It's been awhile since I wrote for Az. Miss this shadow daddy lol. Part 2 is already up 🫶🏽 you can find it here.

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

fic tag: @noisyinfluencerstrawberry

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #azriel imagine #azriel fanfiction #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger #acotar imagine

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thebiscuitlabryinth · 4 months ago

Text

[prev]

The final act is coming, any day now.

Shadow Milk has been burning with a latent anticipation ever since Pure Vanilla had first resonated with the Soul Jam again. The sheer strike of giddiness he had felt in that precious moment, when he felt that distantly nostalgic power reach weakly for Pure Vanilla, is possibly unmatched.

That anticipation has only worsened as the weeks drag on, simmering in his dough like a stewing pot. Standing indefinitely on the brink of this grand finale, so close to getting everything he wants, leaves Shadow Milk noticeably restless. He pretends it is adrenaline from the ever-increasing waves of Wafflebot attacks, and assists Pure Vanilla with the almost constant stream of patients as if he isn’t eagerly puzzling out plans for what to do next, once the Soul Jam manifests in full.

Shadow Milk feels it, when Dark Enchantress Cookie is released from the Moonstone. He feels it as the kickback of Dark Moon Magic stirs the stagnant nothing of his other-realm and ripples through him like a courteous reminder. He straightens up at the sensation, all of his eyes immediately darting over to Pure Vanilla.

Pure Vanilla feels it too. He must, because it is his own spell that is breaking and, whether he remembers it or not, it is still connected to him energetically. Shadow Milk watches him stiffen, sitting at the perfect angle to see the confusion that pinches his mouth as he briefly shudders through the magical kickback. He is also sitting at the perfect angle, out of direct eyeshot of the few patients in the tent, to allow himself an indulgent, hungry smile.

Yes, the final act is coming, any second now.

Sure enough, it is only a few hours later that a loud commotion kicks up outside the healer’s tent, an argument of clashing voices rather than the usual sounds of Wafflebot attack. The noise disturbs the patients, which in turn makes Pure Vanilla agitated, though he is obviously doing his best to ignore it.

“What are they talking about outside to cause such a racket?” Pure Vanilla murmurs in coiling frustration as he heals a particularly nasty looking head wound. “The patients need as much peace and quiet as possible.”

Shadow Milk takes that as his cue, haphazardly finishing the bandaging he was in the middle of doing and ignoring the patient’s wince when he tightens it a little too tight. Instead, he turns to Pure Vanilla and asks breezily, “Want me to go tell them to shut up?”

Pure Vanilla coughs out a little laugh, a smile peeking through his stress as his shoulders loosen slightly. “Maybe not quite that bluntly but yes, if you could.”

Shadow Milk makes a noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, hopping to his feet and brushing dust off of his patchwork costume. As always, he leaves some of his eyes in Pure Vanilla’s shadow, keeping especially close watch for any meaningful Soul Jam development as he sweeps out into the daylight.

Good timing too, because a band of scraggly little Cookies come screeching right to the front of the tent, barely skidding to a frantic stop when he abruptly pops out and blocks their way in. The tent flap quietly slides closed behind him.

“Can you all kindly shut up out here?” Shadow Milk shouts, projecting his voice over the buzzing of the insects and placing his hands sternly on his hips. “There are some poor, injured patients who are in desperate need of actual rest, and they can’t get that with all this yelling!”

“You–!” Black Raisin starts with the sharp glare she always greets him with, but she cuts herself off as she casts a glance back to the healer’s tent. Clearly, she must have registered his words and realised Pure Vanilla sent him out, because she lowers her voice to something quieter, though no less barbed. “Look, just tell Healer that I’m taking care of some outlanders that breached the village and stay out of it. I don’t have time to deal with you right now.”

Shadow Milk turns back to the group of newcomers, evaluating them for a moment. They really are a ramshackle group of itty-bitty Cookies, most of them barely out of the oven and hopelessly stupid from a first glance. He snorts in mock disbelief. “These guys managed to breach the village?”

“Not just that, they managed to defeat some of the Wafflebots!” One of the other villagers interjects, sounding slightly out of breath. They must have been chasing these teensy Cookies.

Shadow Milk doesn’t consider that a very impressive feat at all, and it does nothing to change his opinion on the overall insignificance of these Cookies. Still, he pretends to consider it, idly glancing back at Black Raisin. She narrows her eyes at him, jerking her chin slightly as if to shoo him back into the healer’s tent, and Shadow Milk grins slowly back.

“Daaarling!” He calls, which is a new nickname, but one that is worth it, if only for the way it makes Black Raisin’s eye twitch. “It looks like we have some little outlander guests.”

From his non-physical eyes, Shadow Milk sees Pure Vanilla pause for a moment in pleasant surprise as he stems a patient’s leaking jam. “Guests? Oh, let them come in, I want to hear from them. They’re not hurt, are they?”

“Not at all!” The playking chirps as Shadow Milk turns to open the tent flap again, waving his little sceptre around in childish boast. “My faithful servants are strong. Even if they weren’t, I, Custard Cookie III, would ensure their safety, as any good king should!”

Shadow Milk notices how Pure Vanilla softens the moment he hears how young the voice is. He tsks under his breath, unsurprised, as Pure Vanilla replies playfully, “A king? My, what an honour has graced our humble village.”

“No, Healer, you don’t understand.” Black Raisin insists, a frazzled exasperation in her voice. She pushes past Shadow Milk none too gently to enter the healer’s tent and talk to Pure Vanilla herself. “These outlanders breached the village. They cannot be trusted!”

Pure Vanilla sighs heavily. “Black Raisin, I have told you countless times before that it does you no good to completely close your heart to every stranger you encounter.”

As the two bicker in hushed tones, Shadow Milk takes the opportunity to turn back to their guests and hold open the tent flap for them, gesturing inside. “Come on. Don’t worry about her, she’s always acting rashly like that. I’ve been here for months and she still doesn’t trust me.”

Because Shadow Milk has been provoking her, but they don’t need to know that.

“Well, if that’s true, we have no absolutely no hope of gaining her trust.” The amateur wizard grumbles dejectedly into his scarf. “I just hope she doesn’t decide to start chasing us around again. It’s starting to get exhausting.”

“Hey, don’t say that! It’s like she said, we’ve just got to prove that we can be trustworthy.” The boy with the candy cane chimes, aggravatingly optimistic as they duck under Shadow Milk’s arm into the tent, one by one. He follows closely behind them, his anticipation pacing between his ribs.

It can’t be a coincidence that they appeared so shortly after Dark Enchantress’ release. Though even Shadow Milk can’t precisely predict what will unfold, he knows that their arrival acts as a catalyst.

The tent is cramped, now packed with patients and guests alike. Black Raisin must have been reluctantly pacified by Pure Vanilla, as she always is, because she stands to the side and does nothing to stop their guests from settling down, aside from giving them a wary glance. Shadow Milk largely ignores her, making a beeline towards his spot by Pure Vanilla’s side and plopping down as Pure Vanilla warmly greets the newcomers.

The patients are mostly settled for now, which would allow Shadow Milk to focus entirely on the budding conversation, if he cared about it. He doesn’t though, uninterested with the introductions and pleasantries and exposition for the most part. Time feels like it is crawling incredibly slow, impatience humming through his dough as he sits through their chatter, waiting for something interesting to happen.

“What is the Vanilla Kingdom?” Pure Vanilla asks, sincerely curious, and Shadow Milk bites down on the laugh that threatens to escape him, tilting his head back to glance at the slanting ceiling. Still, the turn in conversation gives him a shot of clarity, and he realises exactly how this will all play out. Or, at least, he knows exactly how he will make it play out, if it doesn’t flow that way naturally.

The final act has come, and Pure Vanilla has to confront the Truth of his past.

The guests drone on and on about how amazing the Vanilla Kingdom is, until Pure Vanilla suddenly gasps. He turns towards Shadow Milk, hand patting around to finally squeeze his knee. “Wait- could they be talking about the castle in the sky?”

The peanut gallery makes some shocked exclamations at that, but Shadow Milk hums smoothly, setting his hand over Pure Vanilla’s hand as his eagerness peeks through his words. “It must be! That’s the only other thing around here for miles, and I promise you, it definitely looks like a kingdom.”

“Wait, wait, you haven’t explained what this castle in the sky thing is yet, and we haven’t seen anything like that. There’s no way it’s real!” The thief scoffs, crossing her arms.

“Well, I haven’t seen it either,” Pure Vanilla says, a hint of laughter lacing his own joke as his hand absentmindedly slips out from under Shadow Milk’s, “but I know it must exist. That’s where all the Wafflebots come from, with every coming of the crimson moon.”

“The Wafflebots?” The playking yelps, shaking his head furiously. “No, no, that can’t possibly be the Vanilla Kingdom then. They would never attack other Cookies!”

As if to prove him wrong, it is then that a metallic shriek rattles through the air, the warning cry of another wave of Wafflebots. In the ensuing panic, Black Raisin rushes out of the healer’s tent with their guests hot on her heels, probably eager to help and prove their trustworthiness, as they said. That leaves Shadow Milk with Pure Vanilla, as always, with a few resting patients blending into the background.

“This attack sounds even louder than before.” Pure Vanilla frowns, head upturned towards the approaching buzz. He’s right – it sounds like an absolute swarm. Shadow Milk’s fingers twitch with restlessness, taking it as a sign, an omen. “Do you think the Wafflebots managed to get past the defences to us?”

Shadow Milk has, thus far, done his absolute best to steer Pure Vanilla away from the Wafflebots’ path. He needs to keep Pure Vanilla alive to have any hope of recovering the Soul Jam, after all. It has never been too hard anyway, since the patients that Pure Vanilla needs to tend to are always piling up as a good distraction from silly thoughts of rushing out like a hero. Now, though, Shadow Milk thinks it is time for a risk.

He swears he can hear the faint ringing of the Soul Jam, cloaked in the hum of encroaching machinery. His twitching fingers squeeze into fists, itching, itching, itching, before relaxing again.

“I don’t know.” He declares, getting to his feet and grabbing Pure Vanilla’s staff. He holds it out to him, tapping it against Pure Vanilla’s side. “Let’s go check. Better to be safe than sorry, right?”

“Good idea. We should make sure the tent is still safe and secure before more patients arrive.” Pure Vanilla nods, taking his staff, steadying it against the ground and pulling himself to his feet.

Outside, the noise is deafening, almost as bad as the very first time the Wafflebots descended. Shadow Milk watches with a rising satisfaction as their harsh silhouettes draw ever closer, closing in on the healer’s tent through a dense thicket of fog. That’s good. That means he can pull off his experiment. Or rather, his challenge.

“They sound close.” Pure Vanilla mutters fretfully, the smallest questioning tilt at the end of his sentence. He wants confirmation.

“They are really close. And there are so many of them too.” Shadow Milk injects an artificial waver into his voice, stepping closer to Pure Vanilla to the point of hedging into his personal space, a protective move masquerading as a fearful one. A failsafe, in case this challenge doesn’t pan out, because he still needs Pure Vanilla alive to get the Soul Jam. “How are there so many of them? What- what should we do?”

His voice cracks on that question, just enough to make it sound vulnerable, and that is all that matters. Plain Yogurt goes along with Pure Vanilla’s requests or polite orders often enough, but he doesn’t tend to ask for them. No, Plain Yogurt is more prone to figuring it out himself or offering help his own way, if not taking the lead entirely.

But Pure Vanilla has to face his past, and that includes the crushing weight of being a leader in a crisis. Shadow Milk knows Pure Vanilla has never heard him panicked like this before, and that works in his favour, because it makes it all the more impactful now.

Predictably, Pure Vanilla’s protective instinct kicks in and he throws his arm out in front of Shadow Milk, craning his head up with his mouth set in a grave line, like he’s trying to track the Wafflebots. Shadow Milk wonders if, for once, his bandages feel like a hindrance rather than a help.

The amusement he might feel at that thought is swept away as Pure Vanilla finally replies, a nervousness tinting his words that is unbefitting of a so-called hero. “I-I don't know, I’m sorry. Oh, if only Black Raisin were here, she would surely know-!”

Irritation flares through Shadow Milk, because that is the wrong line. It makes Pure Vanilla sound pathetic, and while he generally has no problems with Pure Vanilla appearing pathetic, this is one of the only instances where he needs his stupid heroics. The Soul Jam probably won’t reveal itself without them.

“Stop that!” Shadow Milk snaps, slightly too harsh for being Plain Yogurt. He tries to play it off as a spike of nerves, barely managing to round the edges of his tone as he continues. “Not only are you just as capable as Black Raisin, you are more capable than her with that power of yours. Just focus on what you can do.”

“I don’t know if that's quite right, but… it is true that there is no time for weakness now.” Pure Vanilla exhales, then takes another deep breath as the tension in his frame sluggishly eases into something more steady, tightening his grip on his staff. He shifts his feet, falling into that noble stance like it is the most natural thing in the world, squaring his shoulders. “No matter what, I will stand my ground!”

There you are, Shadow Milk thinks, pleased with the echo of the past as it begins to creep up on Pure Vanilla.

Pure Vanilla’s spark of resolve is encouraged by the voice of the resting patients within the tent, who seem to be huddling around the tent flap as they cheer, “We- we believe in you, Healer!”

“Yeah, you can do it!”

Shadow Milk lays a light hand on Pure Vanilla’s shoulder, spurring him on with a whispered, “I trust you. Whatever you plan to do, just go for it.”

Pure Vanilla seems to stand even taller at that, and Shadow Milk’s smile stretches wider as he feels the air ripple weakly with an enticingly familiar energy, his chest practically aching as it–

“Don’t forget about us either!” Comes a determined young voice, as their gaggle of guests run over, appearing from behind some of the other tents. The boy with the candy cane acts as their naive leader, charging forward as he waves. “You don’t have to do everything yourself. We can fight!”

“Ah- and we’ll do our very best too.” The shy girl pipes up as the group stumbles to a stop by the healer’s tent, clustering around Pure Vanilla like a flock of sheep pretending to be wolves.

“Children?” Pure Vanilla murmurs, clearly surprised by their return, as he slips from that noble posturing, his shoulders dipping slightly, not relaxing but loosened with a lifting of a load. That pulsing energy stalls and stagnates in midair. Shadow Milk swallows a scowl, his eye twitching, briefly worried that their guests’ support will make Pure Vanilla more complacent.

But, of course, Shadow Milk should have known better. Pure Vanilla has always fought best with someone else on the line, just as he has always fought best at someone else’s side. His momentary surprise is displaced by a smile that cuts through the warning wails of the circling Wafflebots.

“Thank you, all of you, for your support.” The stagnant energy begins to move, faster and faster, swirling around him in a steady current as Pure Vanilla turns his head to the sound of the Wafflebots, lifting his chin to meet them directly. His expression settles into a serious determination as he resumes his grand, unshakeable posture, planting his feet. “I won’t let it be in vain. I will protect everyone!”

And with that final, firm declaration, he lifts his staff skyward as the current of power overflows.

The Wafflebots freeze in place, shimmering with a diluted golden sheen like they are encased in honey. Their guests and the patients alike begin chattering and cheering in awe, but it blurs into insignificance in Shadow Milk’s ears. He’s too focused on the flow of magical energy in the air, thick with true power, tugging at his core in ancient familiarity.

Since he is tracking it so closely, he feels it collect in front of Pure Vanilla a few split seconds before it manifests physically, crystallising into a rough, raw blue gemstone. His eyes fixate on its meek glow, pulsating in time with Pure Vanilla’s steady breathing.

And, coincidentally, in time with Shadow Milk’s breathing too.

It’s not fully manifested yet. It’s not the polished, perfect form of the Soul Jam, it hasn’t properly reconnected with Pure Vanilla, but it has a secure enough connection to draw some of itself out of its shattered hiding. And it certainly is the lost half of Shadow Milk’s Soul Jam, there is no doubt about that. He can feel it like his own pulse.

In a trance, Shadow Milk leans around Pure Vanilla, inadvertently pressing into his side as he reaches out towards that frozen drop of his own power. He shudders as his fingers draw close to it, feeling the energy of the Soul Jam curl around his outstretched fingers in coy greeting.

“Wait.” Pure Vanilla is, naturally, the second one to notice this new presence, turning away from the idle conversation he was having with their guests to turn towards the light. Whether it was the tug of the Soul Jam or Shadow Milk’s movement or a combination of the two that clued him in doesn’t matter. “There’s something… what is that?”

“A gemstone,” Shadow Milk describes in a tone toeing the edge of reverence, not skipping a beat, the explanation already ready on his tongue, “that glows like a star.”

Shadow Milk wants to take it, he wants to take it so bad, it is a yearning that eats through his insides like a parasite, but he forces himself to hold back. As it currently is, the Soul Jam is still incomplete and halfhearted, so there really isn’t any benefit to reclaiming it now. Besides, the scene isn’t right. It would be so anticlimactic to take it away now, in the middle of this dingy village, and he thinks he and Pure Vanilla both deserve a little more fanfare than that.

Instead, he reaches for Pure Vanilla’s free hand, guiding it up so it is enveloped by the cool aura spilling off the Soul Jam. “It thrums with power like a star too.” Shadow Milk adds, closer to a whisper. “Do you feel it?”

Pure Vanilla seems to be mystified, his mouth slightly agape, but he recovers quickly enough, his lips moving to reply.

“Did you say gemstone?!” The thief shouts eagerly, tearing through the fragile haze between the two of them, as she lunges towards the gem in question. “Hey, lemme see that!”

Clearly, the Soul Jam doesn’t agree. It slips out from the range of their hands, zipping silently through the air to collide with the crux of Pure Vanilla’s staff, melting seamlessly into the bandages for safekeeping. The thief groans in disappointment, and Shadow Milk sends her a covert glare, deadly as a cloaked dagger. He doesn’t appreciate her unwanted intervention, and he appreciates her sloppy attempt to swipe the Soul Jam even less.

And yet, alongside his irritation, there’s a flicker of vindication. The Soul Jam had only retreated to Pure Vanilla’s staff when the thief tried to approach, after all. It had no negative reaction to Shadow Milk’s close proximity. Of course it didn’t – it is his, first and foremost.

Pure Vanilla pulls his hand back, clearly focused on his staff as the lingering glow fades into the dim, boring light of day. “You…” He murmurs gently to his staff, to the fragmented Soul Jam, almost in awe. “You’re the thing that has been resonating with my staff recently.”

“What was that?” That amateur wizard asks, trying and failing to hide his own childish amazement. “I know plenty about magic, obviously, but I’ve never seen something like that happen before!"

“I’m not sure. But..." Pure Vanilla perks up as he whips around to face Shadow Milk. He reaches out for him and Shadow Milk obliges, setting his arm in Pure Vanilla’s grip so he can squeeze his elbow. “...This must be the good thing you thought was going to happen, isn’t it? These new friends, this strange power and this adventure towards a great kingdom? This is by far the most exciting thing that has happened in weeks!”

The smile Pure Vanilla gives him is bright, practically glowing like the Soul Jam had, just a few moments ago. That yearning yawns hungrily within him, demanding attention. Shadow Milk wants to take it, him, everything so badly it burns.

He wants to swallow him whole.

But he needs to be patient. He’s been waiting for this long, he can wait just a little longer. It would be no fun otherwise.

So he smiles back with a crescent of teeth that Pure Vanilla cannot see and says, “Yeah, I think it must be. In that case, wherever we go from here must lead to amazing things, right?”

It is a hope, a promise, a fact, a threat. The one thing it is not, ironically, is a lie.

Wherever this little expedition to the Vanilla Kingdom leads, the destination will be something amazing, as defined by Shadow Milk. He will make sure of it.

It’s only fair. After all this time, they both deserve a perfect finale to this little farce. Right?

Pure Vanilla hums in agreement, letting go of him as he turns his attention to whatever silly little rallying speech the outspoken children are giving, and Shadow Milk’s unseen smile twists smugly.

[next]

#updates are probably gonna be slower bc this one was kicking my ASS #half of the work on this involved intensive cross-reference of the canon transcripts. Devastating.#anyway yayyy gingergang <3 #shadowvanilla #vanilla milkshake #pure vanilla cookie #healer cookie #shadow milk cookie #blind man's bluff au #the biscuit library

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hy6erion · 4 months ago

Text

𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐛𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⇢ 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭, 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢, 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐦, 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐛 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 (??), 𝐨𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐥𝐚𝐛 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞

𝐚/𝐧: 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 (𝐢'𝐦 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫), 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧. 𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!!

The laboratory smelled of scorched metal and ozone, the air thick with the hum of something unnatural. Hextech pulsed faintly in the dimness, the glow of unstable energy illuminating the sprawl of unfinished blueprints, half-formed constructs, and tools scattered across the workspace. The place was Viktor’s mind made manifest—chaotic, brilliant, dangerous.

And you had walked straight into it.

You should have turned back the moment the reinforced door slid shut behind you, sealing you inside with him. But curiosity had always been your weakness. That, and something deeper—something you weren’t quite ready to name.

Viktor hadn’t looked up immediately. He was hunched over his latest project, fingers deftly adjusting a glowing green component embedded in what looked like a modified prosthetic. The energy arced sharply as he worked, momentarily illuminating the sharp planes of his face, the mess of dark hair that curled over the edge of his golden ocular implants.

It wasn’t until you took another step forward that he finally acknowledged your presence.

“Curious, are we?”

His voice slid through the dimness like a blade, smooth and sharp. He still hadn’t turned, but you knew he had been aware of you the moment you entered. The way his shoulders tensed slightly, the way his fingers stilled for half a second before continuing their work—it was enough.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way his presence made the air feel heavier. “I was looking for you.”

That earned a reaction. His head tilted, just slightly. A pause. Then, finally, he turned.

His gaze was impossible to hold. The glow of his mechanical eye cast eerie reflections across his face, half in shadow, half illuminated by something unnatural. His real eye was unreadable, dark and gleaming beneath the mess of his hair.

“And now you have found me.”

There was something wrong with the way he said it. Like you had fallen into a carefully laid trap and only now realized the bars had locked behind you.

You tried not to react as he stepped closer.

Viktor never moved without purpose. Every shift of his weight, every subtle tilt of his head—it was all calculated, measured. And now, with the way his gaze dragged over you, slow and dissecting, you felt like a specimen under a magnifying glass.

His voice was almost amused when he spoke again. “You are trembling.”

You hadn’t noticed until now. The realization made your stomach tighten, shame curling in the back of your throat. You weren’t afraid of him. At least, you didn’t think you were. And yet—

His gloved fingers reached out, brushing the side of your throat. A light touch. Testing.

You gasped.

He smiled.

“Fascinating.”

The word sent a shiver down your spine. Because Viktor did not waste time on things that were not useful to him. If he was fascinated, it was because he was studying you.

You took a step back. A mistake. His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air, the way something unseen coiled tighter between you.

“You flinch,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Yet you do not leave. Why?”

The words shouldn’t have had weight. But coming from him—razor-sharp, peeling you apart layer by layer—they made something in you falter.

“I—” He was in front of you before you could finish “Shhh.”

The command was soft. Almost gentle. His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. The glow of his lenses pulsed slightly, shifting as he cataloged your reaction, as he watched your breath hitch.

“I have been patient,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. “So very patient.”

Something dark flickered behind his eyes. The kind of hunger that wasn’t born overnight.

“Tell me” he breathed, his voice a slow, curling heat against your skin, “how long do you intend to test my restraint?”

Your stomach dropped.

The moment stretched, taut and fragile. His grip on your chin wasn’t tight, but it was unrelenting. Unyielding.

And you—gods help you—you didn’t move away.

That was all the permission he needed.

The next breath you took was stolen from your lungs as he moved—fast. One moment, you were standing. The next, your back hit the cool metal of the nearest worktable, sending scattered blueprints fluttering to the ground.

His hand was at your throat now—not squeezing, not yet. Just resting. Feeling the frantic pulse beneath his fingers.

“I wonder,” he mused, his voice maddeningly calm as he leaned in, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, “do you truly not understand the danger you are in?”

You sucked in a breath, but it was shallow. Not enough. He was too close. The scent of metal and oil and something darker surrounded you, wrapped around your senses like a vice.

“Or…” He tilted his head, dragging his nose along the curve of your jaw, inhaling slowly. “Is it that you do?”

You whimpered. The sound was humiliatingly soft, but it didn’t escape him.

He smiled against your skin. “Ah. That is it, isn’t it?”

His hand moved, gliding lower, over the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip. Testing. Mapping. The way his fingers dragged over your clothes felt obscene, a slow unraveling of something inevitable.

“You wish to play human games,” he murmured, dragging his lips down, just over the curve of your throat, “but you forget—I am no longer a man who plays by such rules.”

Heat pooled between your thighs, unwelcome and delicious. You tried to squeeze them together, but his leg slotted between yours before you could, pinning you against the table. The pressure sent a sharp jolt of sensation through you, your breath hitching as he pressed just slightly—just enough to feel what he was doing to you.

He chuckled. Low. Dark.

“So soft,” he murmured, his grip tightening on your waist. “So eager.”

He rocked against you, slow and purposeful. The sensation sent a shock of pleasure through your core, a gasp ripping from your throat before you could stop it.

“Look at you.” His voice was almost reverent, his lips ghosting against the corner of your mouth. “So willing to be ruined.”

Your head was spinning. You knew you should stop this. You knew. And yet— You turned your head. Just slightly. Just enough.

And Viktor took exactly what you offered.

His lips crashed against yours.

Not a kiss—a claim.

You moaned, and that was all it took for him to deepen it, devouring every sound you made. His metal hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in as he rocked against you again, harder this time, pressing himself between your legs with slow, maddening precision.

“You are mine now,” he rasped against your lips. “And I do not intend to let you go.”

His words barely had time to settle before Viktor moved.

You barely registered the sharp scrape of metal against the edge of the table before you were hauled up, your thighs spreading around his waist as he slotted himself between them. The rough press of his uniform scraped against your inner thighs, and the realization hit—you were caged now, caught in the unforgiving grip of a man who had long since abandoned human restraint.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Viktor rasped, his voice a dark whisper against your lips. His hips rolled—slow, deliberate. The thick press of his cock, still confined by layers of fabric, ground against your cunt with enough pressure to have your head falling back against the table.

“Yes,” he breathed, watching you. Cataloging.

His metal fingers dug into your thigh, spreading you obscenely wide, while his gloved hand slid beneath your chin, tilting your face up until your breath hitched.

“I have waited,” he murmured, dragging his nose along your cheek. “I have suffered in silence—”

The next grind of his hips against your aching cunt made you writhe, the friction bordering on unbearable. Your breath broke into a gasp, hands flying to clutch at his shoulders, his neck—anything to ground yourself.

His hand snapped to your wrist, pinning it back against the metal surface with unforgiving force.

“But I suffer no longer.”

Your stomach tightened at the raw hunger in his voice. His lenses flickered, scanning your flushed skin, your parted lips, the way your chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate breaths.

He wanted to consume you. And he would.

“This—” His metal fingers tore at the fabric of your clothes, ripping away the layers with impatient efficiency. The air hit your exposed skin, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling between your legs ”—is mine.”

Your head fell back with a cry as his hand found you, his fingers dragging over your slick folds with slow, taunting precision.

“So eager,” he murmured, pressing a gloved finger inside without warning.

Your body arched, your legs attempting to close around his waist, but he would not allow it. His metal grip tightened, forcing you to remain open—to be seen.

“Do you think I have not noticed?” His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge beneath it—a controlled fury. “The way you watch me? The way your breath catches whenever I draw near?”

He withdrew his finger, only to drag it achingly slow against your throbbing clit, coating you in the evidence of your own betrayal.

“You pretend you fear me.”

His cock pressed against your entrance now, still shielded by fabric, but so dangerously close.

“But this?” He rocked against you, the thick pressure of his length gliding over your cunt, making you shudder beneath him.

“This tells me the truth.”

You wanted him.

And Viktor had never been a man to deny himself what he was owed.

“This?” Viktor’s voice was velvet-wrapped steel, his accent thickened by hunger. His cock dragged against your drenched slit, separated only by the thin barrier of his uniform. The friction sent a delicious, maddening shock through your core. Your fingers clenched against the table’s edge, your body betraying you with a whimpering shudder.

Viktor chuckled—low, dark, victorious.

“You shiver beneath me, yet pretend resistance.”

His metal hand traced the inside of your thigh, a cold contrast to the burning heat pooling between them.

“Perhaps you need further convincing?”

The next grind of his hips sent wetness spilling onto the coarse fabric of his pants. He growled, feeling it—evidence of your surrender smearing against his clothed length.

“I feel you” he breathed, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “Soaking me like a little whore, yet still you tremble?”

Your breath caught as his gloved fingers found your clit again, this time with no patience, no teasing—just ruthless, practiced intent. He pressed firm circles against the swollen bud, his gaze locked onto yours, drinking in every twitch, every sharp inhale, every helpless little jerk of your hips.

“Such a delicate thing,” Viktor mused. “So easily unraveled.”

You tried to close your legs against the intensity, but his metal grip shot out, forcing you apart again.

“No,” he snapped, voice sharp. “You will take everything I give.”

Your thighs trembled in his hold.

“Yes,” he purred, drinking in your helplessness. “That’s it. Good girl.”

The praise was nearly mocking, but your body reacted anyway, a fresh wave of slick dripping down your folds.

“Ahh—look at this mess.” Viktor’s gloved hand slipped lower, his fingers spreading you open. Inspecting. “Do you see? Your body betrays you. It begs me to ruin you.”

Your walls clenched around nothing, desperate and aching.

“Hnn—Viktor—”

A sharp slap against your clit made you yelp, the sting sharp and deliciously cruel.

“Try again.” His voice was soft, but the command beneath it was undeniable.

“Please,” you gasped, back arching, hips rolling against his fingers.

Viktor hummed in approval, his metal hand moving to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze onto him.

“Good girl.”

Then—he moved.

Your world tilted as he flipped you onto your stomach in one motion, your chest pressing against the cold metal of his worktable. His hand pushed down on your back, arching you, forcing you to present yourself.

“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling his belt slowly, the leather hissing through the loops. The sound made your breath stutter—anticipation spiking through your veins.

“Do you know how long I have waited for this?”

A sharp tug and his pants dropped just enough to free his cock, the thick length pressing against your soaked entrance.

Your nails scraped against the table, your body tensing in anticipation.

“Do you know,” Viktor continued, his tip teasing, rubbing against your swollen folds, “how many nights I have imagined you like this? Bent over, begging for me?”

The desperation clawed at your throat.

“Viktor—please—”

His metal hand snapped up, gripping your throat, arching you back against his chest.

“Shhh.” He kissed the corner of your jaw, his cockhead pressing just against your fluttering entrance.

“Do not rush me.”

And then—he pushed in.

Your breath broke into a strangled cry as Viktor pushed inside, his cock splitting you open with an unrelenting, slow precision. The stretch was intense, bordering on unbearable—your walls clenched instinctively, trying to accommodate him, but he was thick, every inch of him sinking into you with a maddening patience.

“Aww” he cooed, his metal hand tightening around your throat. His lips dragged against the shell of your ear, his breath hot, teasing. “You can take it. I know you can.”

Your fingers scrabbled against the table, seeking purchase, something to ground yourself against the overwhelming intrusion. He was so deep, pressing against something achingly tender, and he wasn’t even fully inside yet.

“You are squeezing me so tight..” Viktor groaned, his free hand spreading your ass, watching the way your pretty cunt struggled to take him. His hips rolled, shallow thrusts, forcing you to stretch little by little.

“V-Viktor—” You whimpered, your body trembling, torn between pleasure and torment.

“Hnn, yes—say my name,” he murmured, his tongue flicking against your sweat-damp skin. His hand slid down, pressing against your lower belly, feeling the way his cock bulged inside you.

“So small,” he mused, a dark chuckle vibrating through his chest. “So tight around me.”

His hips drew back, and for a brief, blissful second, you thought he might ease up—

But then, he slammed forward.

The force sent a sharp shockwave through your body, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as he buried himself to the hilt.

“Ahhh—!”

“There it is,” Viktor growled, his fingers gripping your waist, holding you in place as he pulled back and drove in again.

Again.

A gain.

“You take me so well,” he purred, his voice thick with praise and possession. “Like you were made for this—made for me.”

His pace quickened, brutal and merciless, his cock dragging against your g-spot with every deep thrust. Your toes curled, your back arching, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing through the dimly lit workshop.

“So desperate,” Viktor mused, his metal hand gripping your hair, yanking your head back just enough for his teeth to scrape against your exposed throat.

“Your body begs me to ruin it.”

You cried out, your fingers curling, your walls clenching down around him too hard—

“Ah” Viktor hissed, his grip tightening as he slammed into you harder, rougher. “You think I will let you come so easily?”

His fingers abandoned your throat, slipping down to your aching clit, circling, taunting.

“Tell me,” he rasped. “Tell me who owns you.”

Your mind spun, every nerve in your body on fire. The pressure built, coiling so tight, so intense, you thought you might break apart—

“Say it.”

“Y-you—Viktor—!”

His pace faltered, just for a moment—like the words had satisfied something dark inside him.

Then—he fucked into you harder.

“Good girl,” he gritted out, his breath coming in ragged groans. His movements grew sloppy, more desperate, his fingers still tormenting your clit.

“Now—come for me.”

The command sent you spiraling.

Your body locked up, your vision going white as the orgasm crashed into you, waves of blinding, raw pleasure tearing through every inch of you. Your walls spasmed, milking his cock, your cries broken, breathless.

“Yes—yes, that’s it,” Viktor groaned, his own rhythm stuttering, faltering—

And then—he buried himself deep, his hips jerking as he spilled inside you.

A low, guttural moan tore from his throat, his body shuddering against yours as he filled you with hot, thick ropes of cum.

His grip eased, his breathing heavy against your skin. For a moment, neither of you moved, the only sound in the workshop the erratic pounding of your hearts.

Then—Viktor let out a low chuckle, his hands trailing over your trembling body.

“I knew you would break for me,” he murmured.

His cock twitched, still half-hard inside you.

“But I am not done yet.”

#✰⍣ 𝐡𝐲𝟔𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧 #prototype viktor x reader #prototype viktor #prototype Viktor x reader smut #league of legends x reader #league of legends #arcane viktor x reader smut #arcane viktor x reader #arcane viktor #league of legends prototype viktor

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dollerinna · 7 months ago

Text

❛ 𝑾𝑯𝑶 𝑯𝑨𝑺 𝑨 𝑭𝑨𝑪𝑬 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑺𝑴𝑨𝑹𝑻𝒀 𝑫𝑶𝑬𝑺.ᐣ ❜

─ 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑝 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡𝚑𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡𝚑𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡, 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑡 𝑡𝚑𝑎𝑡 .

𝓟airing :: 𝓗omelander ੭୧ 𝓜aid! fem reader

𝓢ummary :: you should know better than to sleep with your superior, especially when duty calls. yet homelander always finds a way to pull you in, leaving you hurt each and every time ❪ wc: 2.1k ❫

𝓓ead 𝓓ove 𓏵 𝓦arnings :: dub-con/non-con. oral (m! receiving). face f*cking. degradation. homelander’s god complex. choking/gagging. hair pulling. slightly choppy writing n’ lazy ending. not my best work

"S-Sir," you stammered, heat blossoming across your cheeks as you fought to maintain your composure. "I really should get back to work. There are other rooms that need cleaning..." your fingers twisted anxiously in the hem of your skirt, the involuntary gesture exposing the desires your words tried so vainly to deny.

Your gaze flitted towards the foot of the bed, where Homelander loomed over your sprawled, vulnerable form. His pale blue eyes raked over you, drinking in every perfect little detail—from the half-lidded, sultry cast of your features to the way your maid uniform clung to your curves, the fabric hitched scandalously high to reveal lace-trimmed panties clinging to your dampened folds.

A smug lift of his brow greeted you in turn, along with a maddening quirk at the corners of his lips—like he knew damn well the extent of his charms and was loath to let any woman forget. It was the same look of cocky triumph that had first drawn you in, and still drove you to distraction each time after. With slow, deliberate steps, he advanced, his heavy red boots echoing off the hardwood as he climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, but his gaze never wavered from you.

"Please sir, I—-" your feeble protest withered on your lips, smothered by that familiar tutting sound that often passed through Homelander’s teeth—a dismissive noise, as if you were nothing more than a misbehaving pup in need of correction. You knew he could smell the betrayal of your body, the musk of your arousal wafting up from your heat-stricken cunt to meet his keen senses. "Ah, ah, ah," he chided, "What did I say about you and that pretty mouth of yours, hmm?" Homelander asked, his words dripping with patronizing disdain.

Undoubtedly, he saw through the flimsy pretext of your resistance, reading the truth scrawled across the crevices of your beautiful face.

Homelander surged forward, his muscular frame blotting out the light as he straddled your quivering body. His knees bracketed the sides of your chest, pinning you in place.

"I believe I made it quite clear," he muttered, a razor’s edge seeping into his otherwise jovial tone, "that those lips are to be used for only two things - sucking," his thumb dipped between your parted lips, "or shutting the fuck up."

Instinctively, you opened your mouth, a reflexive response to affirm your obedience. But the firm, cautionary squeeze of his hand on your shoulder gave you pause. Discretion, it seemed, was the wiser choice. So instead of voicing your compliance, you offered a wordless nod, a silent acknowledgment that Homelander found satisfactory. “Good girl…” he hummed in approval.

With that, Homelander granted you permission to move on to the main course of tonight—the sweet, sweet prize that awaited between his god-sculpted thighs.

He gently took a hold of your hand, guiding it towards the impressive, straining bulge that threatened to split the seams of his superhero attire. The moment your fingertips skimmed along the rigid contours of his erection, you swore you felt the barest hint of a beat, tugging the most muted catch from his breath.

“Feel that?” He rasped lowly. “That’s power. And it’s all yours tonight… if you behave.”

A current of nervous tension coiled within you, manifesting in the restless curl of your toes and the worry of your lower lip. Intently, you watched as Homelander worked to undo the buttons of his suit, yanking his thick, weighty cock out which stood tall and proud in its cushion of golden curls. Warmth bloomed in your ears and spilled over your face at the sight, your stare remained locked on its sway.

Amusement scrunched his eyes, absolutely relishing that ‘flash-frozen, deer-in-headlights’ look of yours at his size. The smug bastard soaked it all in with a smile so self-satisfied, it could only belong to the most insufferable shithead around. But the most infuriating part? It was how he still made your insides tie knots for him despite it all.

After a long, narcissism-fueled pause savoring your admiration, Homelander broke the silence with an arrogant exhale. “Alright alright, I get it… I’m perfection personified, nothing short of a masterpiece, yada yada,” He flicked a wrist before his posture of perfection, clad in pristine blue. “But I didn’t invite you here for a goddamn photoshoot. So enough with the eye-fucking already, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

Snapped out of your trance, you blinked in a confused daze “Huh?” You barely caught on a word, most of his monologue being a blur—something about bigger fish? Homelander fixed you with a withering glare that could melt steel, lips curled in contempt. Clearly, he thought very little of your mental facilities.

"Bless your heart. Do you need me to break out the crayons and draw you a picture?” His silky tone was condescending in the extreme, as if addressing a particularly dim child. “By bigger fish to fry, I mean bigger things to explore, bigger challenges to face… bigger dicks to suck. Now come on sweetheart, stick that tongue out for me.”

Without another word, his fingers curled around the sturdy base, the glistening, slick tip coming to rest against your warm lips. Homelander’s message came through loud and clear—he wouldn’t allow anymore of your human idiocy, demanding your absolute compliance. Right here, right now.

Swallowing your trepidation, you slowly extended your tongue, tracing a stripe from the curve of the base all the way up to leaky slit of his bulbous, cherry red head. A blissful twitch rippled through his length, drawing beads of precum that sprang forth like a broken faucet.

Homelander’s jaw ticked at your touch, eyelashes flickering low while his mouth thinned bloodlessly, barely stifling the moan that rushed out on his gusting release of breath. Craving more contact, he settled fully over you, wedging you further into the mattress until the head of his member was able to slide past your lips.

He cradled your head close, suffocatingly so, to the point that the tip of your nose was nearly squashed against the hard muscles of his pelvis, sweeping your senses away on a tide of raw musk and cologne—the kind you could only dream of affording.

Without a moment’s pause, Homelander instantly set to work plundering into your slack mouth, greedily stealing the air out of your lungs with every thrust. You froze, an icy veil draping across you as his sheer size blanketed your tongue to an overwhelming degree—an inevitability when in the presence of the Homelander, whose power could crush and destroy with the merest flick of a finger.

“Mm… yeah, that’s it baby, just like that,” Homelander’s voice dropped to a low, throaty purr that was tinged with an undisguised pleasure, impressed by the way you took him with practiced ease despite your discomfort. “Look at you… you really know how to handle a steel pipe, don’t ya?” Homelander quipped, the mirth in his tone teetering upon mockery.

An eye roll for the ages battled to escape, yet the chains of protocol held fast. Because in your idiotically cock-whipped mind, rules somehow still applied when giving your superior a sloppy-toppy.

But the very moment you faltered, even slightly, he seized a fistful of your hair, wrenching your head back with a stinging, almost bone-crushing grip that had you gasping. It was a request, no, a demand for you to quit wriggling pathetically and take it like a big girl. “Stay still and keep working on that cock like it owes you a goddamn fortune.” He growled, a wolfish grin splitting his features as he watched you strain to swallow his brutal intrusion—the same ‘steel pipe’ that was now halfway lodged down your throat.

Helpless, all you could do was gag and sputter, while Homelander’s heavy balls slapped loudly against your chin until your skin felt raw. The relentless pounding overwhelmed your eyes with an unwelcome moisture, vision blurring like an out-of-focus camera from the onslaught of sensations—the taste of him, the ache in your jaw, the burn of your scalp. “…’s too… b-big…” you choked out the syllables with gulping effort, each one emerging gargled and barely discernible around the column of flesh violating your mouth.

The craziest part? He could’ve easily gone harder—so much damn harder—if he simply wanted to.

Scorn etched harsh lines around Homelander’s sneer at your plea and lack of appreciation for his so-called ‘restraint’, carving deeper as your mangled noises scraped its way loose. “Jesus, did all that disgusting slobber rot what was left in that walnut you call a brain? I know critical thinking isn’t your strong suit, but this?” Briefly, he withdrew himself, slapping his fat, drooling cock against your cheek to emphasize his next point.

“We’ve been over this—dominance and dick diameter are a set for a reason. And I don't do average. Ever." With a snide scoff, he shoved his member back between your teeth, utterly dismissive of the fact a worm such as yourself had the gall to express any form of displeasure with his godly magnificence. “Psh, ’too big’… Boo-fucking-hoo! Cry me a river and pass the hankies. You signed up for this sweetheart, don’t you forget that.”

Well-fucking-ouch, you winced internally. If the sting in your jaw wasn’t already bad enough, then the blow to your ego definitely added insult to injury.

Unable to take his barrage of demeaning insults any longer, you mustered what little strength you had left and wrapped your hands around his intrusive member in a frantic plea to wrest back some control. But even as you tried to push him away, to create even the slightest distance, you knew it was a futile gesture. Homelander's mighty fists, capable of crushing a thousand suns, anchored your skull in place, rendering your attempts at resistance utterly meaningless.

“Nono- don’t you move a goddamn inch,” Homelander’s command rang out with finality, brooking no room for defiance. “Suck it up and let me in just a little further. You can do it, I know you can.”

He pressed onward, unforgivingly, until your lips were stretched obscenely wide around his spongy head that brushed the sensitive reaches of your throat, coaxing the lewdest hisses of moist air to slither past the corners of your mouth. "Atta girl, that's it," a shuddering exhale fled his lungs, fingers knotting in your hair as his skin came alive beneath your enveloping wetness. "Such a natural little cocksucker. Taking me like a champ."

“…s-sir… please…” words struggled to claw free through vocal cords rubbed raw. Your begging fell upon deaf ears, disregarded as mere noise to soundtrack the moment for Homelander, whose mind was currently busy drowning in a cloud of bliss as his orgasm neared.

"This," he growled, punctuating his words with a mean grind of his hips, "is what you wanted. The privilege of worshipping a true god, the savior of humanity time after fucking time again..." His grip tightened, fingers digging into your scalp. "So keep that pretty mouth open and swallow every last drop of my seed like the starving animal you are.”

With one final pump, a wave of bitterness assaulted your taste buds, and before you could fully brace yourself, Homelander came. The copious tang of his essence flooded your mouth, burning on your tongue with a ferocity that felt like it would linger for days on end.

Once he pulled away, a familiarly heavy silence fell over the small space between you. You knew what was expected of you once he had his fill, yet it never got easier no matter how many times. In truth, you felt empty—skin prickling with discomfort rather than release. He laid beside you, recovering his breath, when he momentarily glanced over at you. There he paused, doing a double take when he noticed the sheen glistening in your eyes, the sadness shaping your lips.

A groan followed, already annoyed by even the subtlest display of your ‘weak, squishy human emotions’. “Eugh… would- would you quit your sniveling and give it a rest? If I needed a weeper, I would’ve, I dunno, gotten a damn puppy… not you.”

Yet something flickered in the depths of his steely gaze—just a momentary glint before it was swallowed back. He quickly schooled his features, reminding himself that you were only a human, a toy for his amusement. Nothing more.

Then with a careless toss, Homelander flung your coat over your head, blinding you. “Cover up that embarrassing nonsense. And while you're at it, do something about that stomach-turning stench up in the break room—it's giving me a migraine.”

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Pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3

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♡ divider credits: @/grlselle

522 notes · View notes

marsprincess889 · 11 days ago

Text

The symbols you are drawn to and what they mean

Connecting them to astrological and mythological coorelations

This is as brief as possible because I think all of these deserve separate posts, but I think I managed to convey everything. The list is short but the info is interesting and there's quite a lot of it, actually.

Inspired by the attachment I've had since childhood to first symbol listed here. Could also be read for symbols showing up in your life during specific periods, or the ones that have been connected to you for a long time.

Disclaimer: I did not include flower/plant or general animal symbolism (as in, the symbolic meaning of any animal in general), because they too deserve separate explorations.

I hope you enjoy

1. Spirals

Creation, flow of life, infinity and mother nature

A spiral is a symbol representing mother nature_ as it is found in plants, animals (tail of chameleons, coiled snakes, shells of sea animals and snails), human physiognamy, and consequently, it represents the creative and feminine qualities.

Mother Earth, Goddess Gaia is symbolized by spirals. Its element would be Earth (but it can contain all other elements).

It's the flow of life and the receptive power of the female, symbolizing how it takes and gives, how through "weakness" she gains strength. In a way, it also represents how she uses necessary destruction to keep the infinity of life going. It's a cruel, never-ending torture and blissful, merciful salvation in one.

Astrologically, people with an abundance of Earth element might be drawn to it (Sun, Moon and/or Rising along with other important placements in Earth signs_ Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn).

The nakshatras of Bharani, Rohini, Punarvasu, Ashlesha, Uttara Phalguni, Hasta, Swati, Mula, Shravana, Uttara Bhadrapada and Revati might all be connected to it.

To point out the more likely ones, their association with Bharani, Punarvasu, Swati and Revati can be more obvious.

Bharani is the nakshatra of passive femininity and mother nature, especially in a creative and sexual sense and on a cosmic scale. It is the first nakshatra where we meet the feminine and we meet her in her fierce, primordial state, at her most insistent, but nevertheless, Bharani is where the feminine keeps the infinity of life and death going, associated with the wheel of fate found in various mythologies.

Swati is the freedom and the "illusion" of this and other worlds, associated with the cosmic egg and the "mother". It's where the soul is free to play in the illusion of the material world and its manifestations, where it sees not only one but multiple realities and explores them, bound only by love. It represents infinity in the sense that it allows travel through realities, contrasting its opposite Bharani, where the infinity of life is in the hands if higher forces and humans feel trapped in the limitations of the material.

Revati is nakshatra of flow and ultimate creativity (the individualized self that seeks/came from the fires of Bharani, its yoni consort). It's the nakshatra of true freedom and free will, where the possibilities are finally infinite.

Punarvasu is the open and nurturing feminine, representing infinity, just like Bharani and Revati, but in a more direct way. Bharani is the immortality of the soul, the infinite cycle of death and rebirth oveseen by the feminine (fate). Revati is the true freedom and infinite possibilities. Punarvasu is simply the force that allows infinity, the second/third/millionth chance to repeat or break the cycle (the breaking of the cycle happens in Revati_ another Mercury-Jupiter ruled nakshatra).

To emphasize Punarvasu's unique role, it's also the nakshatra of patterns and pattern recognition. Consequently, it's associated with prophecies. Ruled by the Mother goddess Aditi (whose name means "boundless"/"limitless", "innocence"), it's first nakshatra (if we start the count from the first nakshatra of Aries, the first sign) that offers such freedom and is, in my opinion, the first nakshatra of magic.

If you have these nakshatras, an abundance of Earth and Water elements, Venus and/or Moon with great relevance in your chart and possibly also major activations in 2nd, 5th, 8th and/or 12th houses, you might be highly drawn to this symbol.

Gaia/Gaea is an Earth goddess, the primordial titaness. There is an abundance of Earth Mother goddesses across various mythologies and cultures. You might feel connected to them too. It's possible that if you love this symbol, you're also drawn to the following colors: pure or milky white, grass green, soft pink, brown.

The following placement might connect to this symbol:

Sun, moon or ascendant in either of these nakshatras (not ranked): Bharani, Rohini, Punarvasu, Ashlesha, Uttara Phalguni, Hasta, Swati, Mula, Shravana, Uttara Bhadrapada, Revati.

Emphasis on Earth signs, especially Taurus and Virgo.

Ketu or Atmakaraka in Punarvasu, Bharani, Swati, Revati or Mula.

Any of the planets located in earth signs being vargottama (same sign in D1 and D9).

Taurus, Pisces or Virgo in big three in D1 and/or D9.

2. The Ouroboros

Cycles, endings, turning point, infinity

A snake eating itself/its own tail, is an ancient symbol and as relevant now as it was then.

Astrologically it connects to two nakshatras associated with serpents_ Ashlesha and Uttara Bhadrapada. Both also represent an ending of a cycle in some way. Ashlesha's symbol is the coiled snake and it wraps up the first stage of nakshatras, marking the first gandanta point (there are three in total_ the points where both the nakshatra and the sign end, transitioning from water signs to fire signs). Uttara Bhadrapada is the soul solidifying in its truth, settling into the limitations, a point where the inner serpent that began to awaken in Ashlesha has gained "wings" and has matured into a dragon.

You might be drawn to this symbol in times of intense transformation, deep cleansing and revision.

Serpents have been considered symbols of awareness, instinctual intelligence and wisdom. Snake represents the inner animal of a person and the raw part of a being, the one that's stripped bare of any constructed defences.

Coming full-circle, being at the same spot you once where at but now it's different, just because you have gone through it.

It's the indicator of a critical point, the one that feels like "!!!" in your soul. It's a warning and a chance, a reminder of the past and the doorway to completion.

In a way, it also represents self-mastery, as the snake is both nourishing and destroying itself.

Ouroboros can relate to the water element, as it is in many ways about completion and both of the nakshatras symbolozed by serpents_ Ashlesha and Uttara Bhadrapada are in water signs_ Cancer and Pisces, respectively.

Another nakshatra that can be associated with it is Shatabhisha_ the last Rahu ruled nakshatra. Rahu, being the head of the serpent, is closely connected to its meaning. Shatabhisha in particular is symbolized by a circle and is about containing various types of information (represented by another one of its symbols_ water reservoir).

Those who have these nakshatras are also often drawn to snake deities, mainly, goddesses: Nagas, Sirona, Tefnut, Wadjet, Asclepius, the Gorgons, so on. Snake deities are often associated with healing and water. There are also primordial water deities who may or may not be directly associated with serpents. An interesting goddess to mention is Hecate_ goddess of crossroads, who is the triple goddess of the liminal, often connected to turning points, not unlike this symbol. Self-realization and completion are deeply tied into the Ouroboros.

Astrological houses that might be connected to it: 4th, 8th, 12th.

The element of water is the most suitable for this symbol, but the element of fire can also resonate to it due to its purifying nature. People who are dominated by these elements (especially water) might connect to it.

The most possible placements of people who resonate with this symbol:

Sun, moon, Ascendant, Ketu, Atmakaraka or chart ruler in Ashlesha, Uttara Bhadrapada or Shatabhisha nakshatra.

Emphasis on water signs.

Sun or moon conjunct Rahu or Ketu.

Moon or Ketu in the 4th, 8th or 12th house.

Rahu or Ketu in the 1st house.

3. A cross

See this article to learn a little about different types of crosses

https://symbolsage.com/types-of-crosses/

Limitations, stability, mortality, the finite, devotion.

We all have our cross to carry.

What is the cross exactly? It's a symbol on its own and part of other symbols. The astrological symbols for Earth, Mercury, Venus, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune and Pluto all contain it.

Looking through the many variations of this symbol, it's clear that in its simplicity it's more universal and ancient than hyper-specific. Considering the fact that it's seen in a variety of contexts across millenias, I want to exert the most prevalent meaning of the cross as it's been percieved and depicted through the people from various cultures and ages.

First of all, I have to speak about the mass popularization of this symbol through Christianity and the subsequent (and inevitable) association of it with this religion in people's minds. In Christianity, cross is synonymous with mortal suffering and bearing of Earthly struggles with grace.

Suffering of the material has to do with boundaries, limitations and the "finiteness" of it. In many ways, it relates to Saturn, as like the cross does for Christians, it represents responsibility and bearing. But Saturn is also stability. The limits and boundaries have the other side to their harshness_ the blessing of endurance, stability and realiability.

The symbol for Earth is a cross inside a circle. It shows stability in that context too. In essence, a cross might simply be the core structure.

An interesting thing is that the symbol for denial is a cross too. Denial is basically a "no" and a stop, so, it ties into the limitation aspect of it.

So, the first astrological coorelation I want to make is the connection of this symbol to planet Saturn.

Saturn relates to the symbolic role of the cross in a general sense and the nakshatras that are ruled by Saturn based on vedic astrology (Pushya, Anuradha, Uttara Bhadrapada) consequently adopt that association. Connected to sacrifice, duty and devotion, this planet clearly aligns with the meaning of the cross as people of many cultures and eras have understood it.

In its Christian sense, the cross calls to mind the crucifixion, death and rebirth of the Christ.

To credit Claire Nakti_ I learned about this next coorelation from her video.

Purva Bhadrapada nakshatra is connected to that story in a deep way. Ruled by Jupiter, bridging the Saturnian Aquarius and Jupitarian Pisces, it represents the soul passing through the abyss, where it must shed all that is unnecessary and tempting to save the only thing that really matters_ the soul. 11th house of Aquarius is about gains from friends, it's a place where we're already on a massive scale, influencing/being influenced by huge forces. 12th house (Pisces) is about renouncing all of that for spiritual enlightenment. It's connected to intense isolation and withdrawal from the material, and often, the everyday life. In Pisces, Purva Bhadrapada is alone, seeking the truth that will set them free. It is through suffering and the brave sacrifice that the enlightenment is achieved (the thematics of Purva Bhadrapada are not something to misunderstand, there is more about it that I want to say but for now, I hope this little overview is enough, for the sake of it being a part of the context).

After Purva Bhadrapada, we enter the Saturnian Uttara Bhadrapada, sitting completely in Jupiterian Pisces (the flipped rulers of Purva Bhadra). In Uttara Bhadrapada, the intense fire of the previous lunar mansion is turned to ash, and the purity of the soul that was achieved through fierce cleansing is now to be maintained by repetition and steely discipline. Uttara Bhadrapada is strongly tied to endurance, quiet or silent strength and honor. It's called "the warrior star", and its associations call to mind the idealized image of the knights of middle ages, how their moral code of honor was what they lived and hoped to die by. This lunar mansion is the stabilization of the cleansing, and it's where the soul tries to access freedom by submitting to the limitations first, once and for all. Saturn_ its planetary ruler, as I have said, is connected to the limitations of material existence, including the illusion of time, and the nakshatra of Uttara Bhadrapada is strongly tied to sacrifices and suffering, maybe even moreso than Purva Bhadrapada, because the first Bhadrapada nakshatra has yet to achieve the purity at first, the second one is pure and gives its all to maintain it.

Other Saturn nakshatras of Pushya and Anuradha are associated with suffering and sacrifice as well (and natives of these nakshatras might be drawn to the cross too, as it shows their resilience and devotion), but Uttara Bhadrapada has shown to be directly tied to the ressurection of the Christ after the crucifixion (my personal take, as Purva Bhadra is the crucifixion, and Uttara Bhadrapada_ the latter, is about "the rise from the ashes", connected to the flying serpent/dragon Ahirbudnya).

So, the Bhadrapadas can be connected to the Christian story of Christ's death and ressurection. But if we take into account the general, mass associations with this symbol, then other astrological placements come into the play: Other two Saturnian nakshatras of Pushya and Anuradha; Bharani nakshatra, ruled by Saturnian God of death_ Yama, the place of Saturn's debilitation, nakshatra of physical limitations and coming into the body, as well as mother Earth and the inevitability/fate; Hasta nakshatra_ located fully in Virgo (natural sign lf the sixth house), the most material sign/house in the literal sense, connected to everything Earthy and/or Earthly (Hasta women also might tend to be intensely devoted to their chosen religion, there are examples of that in Christianity).

I want to mention a notable exception: Brigid's cross, a symbol of the Celtic goddess, is visually a little more different than others and holds a different meaning as well. It is, in its essence, Solar, matching the nature of the goddess Brigid herself.

The following placements might connect to this symbol:

Saturn in the 1st house.

Saturn conjunct Sun or Moon.

Saturn conjunct either Rahu or Ketu.

Purva or Uttara Bhadrapada in big three, as atmakaraka or Ketu.

Pushya or Anuradha in big three.

Bharani nakshatra in big three or as Ketu.

Hasta nakshatra as Ketu.

Saturn in Aries (debilitated) or Libra (exalted).

Saturn being Vargottama, exalted (in Libra) or prominently placed in D9.

4. Cup, Goblet, Chalice, Grail

The most desired thing, the ultimate, the container, the feminine.

A grail is the physical manifestation of the spiritual essence, the vessel that holds the substance.

The importance of this symbol can be understood through the concept of "The Holy Grail". Even used out of its mythological context, the term is used to describe the ultimate meaning, the most wanted thing. In various legends and written texts, it was said to have miraculous attributes including healing powers, granting infinite abundance and/or eternal youth.

The origin of it in the collective conciousness is unclear, it might be Christian or Celtic. In Christianity, it is described as the cup that the blood of Christ was spilled into. As far as Celtic legends go, it's connected to King Arthur, his knights of the round table and their quest. The Grail, according to those legends, was said to be protected and guarded by The Fisher King, hidden in a secret castle.

I'm thinking of talking more about this in another post, but to explain shortly, the Grail relates to Bharani nakshatra.

In this lunar mansion, the spark that was initiated previously takes form and gains definition, making it the place of birth. Bharani nakshatra is related to the feminine as the one who forms and manifests/birthes life. In this way, life is the most precious thing in and of itself, and the desire that drives it is under the domain of the feminine principle of the universe.

The Grail is connected to the themes of mortality, immortality, desire. Bharani, being the lunar mansion that rules over the cycle of life, soul attachments, love, desire, gatekeeping, secrecy, the "ultimate" attainment, it is mythologically connected to the quest for the Holy Grail.

For context: the symbol for Bharani nakshatra is the Yoni_ the feminine sexual organ.

Venus, Bharani's planetary ruler, is said to be the planet that grants ressurection, which is already the theme of Bharani, but it also represents the pure physical manifestation of the spiritual essence. Venus is "the goal", the ideal end-result of the journey, hence, it's the "ultimate" desired thing, the "highest" and famously considered unnattainable.

Just like how the knights went through many trials in its search, for then only three of them (Percival, Galahad, Bors, based on different versions) to find it, the treasure that Bharani protects_ the female herself, is difficult to access and requires specific energy to acquire and "possess" it, symbolised by the yoni_ female sexual organ (the main symbol of this nakshatra).

The spiritual attributes of the Holy Grail are also resonant to Bharani: the drive to "have" and "possess" but being denied it ultimately leads to humility and reverance that any creature has for what they believe is the higher power.

Bharani represents the sacred power of the feminine, rooted in her receptivity. The worship of her and everything that she represents is closely related to and, in many ways, the same as humans worshipping the divine. The love for women or a woman, especially for men, inspires feelings of awe, fear, passion and bliss.

The feminine is passive in a sense that she just IS, she does not have to do anything in particular. There is enormous power in that, and Bharani represents that power, as well as the unique and often misunderstood challenges of that state.

Bharani's core associations and themes are directly connected and resonant to the symbolic meanings of The Holy Grail, as well the mentions or depictions of cups/goblets/chalices in general. But without the meaning and the symbolism attached to "The Holy Grail", the chalice has always held that association, and if we percieve it as simply a physical manifestation of the spiritual, its meaning can be connected to the nakshatras of Virgo: Uttara Phalguni, Hasta and Chitra.

Uttara Phalguni relates to the woman as the bringer and embodyment of privilege, power and abundance, symbolised by the ripe fruit ready to be plucked. This is also the nakshatra of people who make great leaders and rulers, and women of this lunar mansion in their big three love to grant power and favors to masculine people they deem worthy. They also like to deprive those they deem unworthy, and these favors often have to do with actual, material and physical advantages and gifts, and, oftentimes, political/material/social influence.

Hasta is the veiled woman, concealed and unreachable until she decides to reveal herself. All Virgo nakshatras, as well as Bharani, relate to the woman being "a recource". Hasta is basically "barren" to almost everyone. It also shares the archetype of the passive feminine who aims for self-sufficiency (connected to goddesses similar to Persephone and Proserpina, more directly associated with Hasta than Bharani) with Bharani, and they both relate to it in different ways.

Chitra relates to crafting and scuplting, to fitting the outer shell to the inner substance. It's the nakshatra of materials in the literal sense and relates to precious objects. Material things are not shallow if they are of value (if they are made correctly, in accordance with the rules and the law, if their appearance and physicality aligns with the essence), and that is what Chitra has to prove.

The sign of Virgo (the maiden, the virgin) shares the themes of the physical manifestation and limitation with Bharani nakshatra (which is placed fully in Aries, natural ruler of the 1st house of the body). The constellation of Virgo has been described as "The Queen of Heaven", possibly reffering to ancient goddesses who share this title: Inanna, Isis, Nut, Astarte, Asherah. Bharani relates to the idea of "The Kingdom of Heaven", closely connected to the Holy Grail. Sumer goddess Inanna, in particular, who is mentioned the most often to carry that status, is archetypically extremely similar to the Norse goddess Freya. Freya is deeply resonant to Bharani nakshatra (so is Inanna), and both of those goddesses are somehow associated with love and beauty as well as the underworld. Both also represent the "maiden" aspect of the feminine, not just the "mother" aspect, and "the maiden" archetype can be associated to Bharani and the sign of Virgo. These goddesses, therefore, might connect with people who are drawn to the grail's symbolism.

Besides them, one of the very few to own the Grail, according to Arthurian legends, was Morgana, also called Morgan or Morgan le Fay_ enchantress and a sister of Arthur. Morgan le Fay could have been a goddess herself, but whether or not she was, she's still an important representative of the achetype of the magical woman/ambigous witch, even today. Morgan le Fay is also sometimes linked to The Morrigan_ a fierce triple goddess of battle, victory, fate amd death.

Mercury nakshatras, especially Jyeshta and Revati might relate to Morgan le Fay, and Jyeshta in particular might connect to The Morrigan.

Another interesting astrological coorelation would be the lunar mansion of Mrigashira ("Deer's head", the first one to be ruled by Mars, bridging Venusian Taurus and Mercurial Gemini, ruled by the moon god Soma). It is the nakshatra of quests and searching, in every sense of those words, and as The Holy Grail is almost inseparable from the quest of the knights in the collective human conciousness, it resonates to the symbolism of the Grail in a mythological way. Mrigashira (in Taurus) has the same planetary rulers as Bharani, the primary nakshatra connected to the grail: Bharani's nakshatra ruler is Venus and its sign ruler is Mars, with Taurean Mrigashira it's the other way around (Mars as nakshatra ruler, Venus as sign ruler). Both of these nakshatras are connected to bravery and action, both are points of importance in terms of decision making (in different ways), both are connected to love/sex/union/genders, both relate to the empowerment of the identity or the humbling of it through love (manifests in different ways). "Soma", the name of Mrigashira's god, is also the name of the mythological drink, the nectar of gods, sometimes seen as the drink that alters conciousness and gives knowledge, sometimes it's the drink of immortality. The nakshatra of immortality is Bharani (again, the same things have been attributed to Bharani). These two nakshatras are connected in many intetesting ways.

The last placement I want to mention is Vishakha nakshatra_ lunar mansion sitting opposite Bharani, bridging the signs of Libra and Scorpio, belonging to the same astrological caste (mleccha/outcast) as Bharani. "Vishakha" means "poison vessel", so it's easy to see that it shares themes with Bharani and in many ways is the other side of the coin. Another name for Vishakha nakshatra is "Radha", meaning "the gift". While this lunar mansion deals with the substance of the poison (energy/anger) itself, its name suggests that it is also directly connected to the vessel that contains it. This latter theme is more often expressed through feminine/female natives of Vishakha nakshatra. Vishakha is also the same caste as Bharani_ mleccha (outcast), like Ashlesha and Shravana nakshatras.

This is the only caste that has all of its nakshatras forming a pattern on the wheel_ they all square two of the others and oppose the remaining third other one, making all of them the corners of a square. All of these four nakshatras (Bharani, Vishakha, Shravana, Ashlesha) came up when I was researching characters/people connected to Arthurian legends.

Note: Bharanis and Vishakhas make an amazing team and have excellent platonic chemistry, in my opinion.

The three nakshatras connected to the Holy Grail through their own symbolism all have both Venus and Mars associated with them. With Bharani and Mrigashira, one is the nakshatra lord and other is the sign lord (flipped versions of each other), Vishakha however bridges the Venusian Libra and the Martian Scorpio. Venus is the feminine in her abundant and pure state, at her end-goal. Mars is the force of movement and action, the masculine in his natural assertive and active state. When these two planets come together (when they're both associated with the same thing or when their union creates something) then procreation, desire, sexuality, sexes, love, division and unity are at the forefront. Bharani is the one nakshatra out of the three that does not have another rashi ruler, making those two planets its only direct rulers.

If we think about how life is created_ through the masculine asserting on and entering the feminine, then the feminine going through the hard and laborous (no pun intended) process for nine months and a life-threatening birth at the end of that period, we can see the interplay between those two planets as well as the themes of Bharani nakshatra. In its most overarching sense, the Holy Grail is the feminine body, the female herself, in all of her human incarnations and as the great feminine/mother nature. The feminine suffers from the limitatioms she herself creates, but those limitations are necessary, and she barely has the choice in all of it. The feminine as the hand of fate is both the authority and the servant, as the suffering she "creates" affects her too, and she is only the servant of the cosmic universal law, which she herself represents.

The struggle and the limitatioms are not simply "negative", they're also "positive" and necessary for life itself to exist. This process (cycle of life, death and rebirth) that the feminine oversees is, ultimately, "neutral", because it's the only thing that is. That's what the justice that mortals think they cannot comprehend is. We can't know some things, because we're not meant to.

Generally, the soul is seen as "masculine", but it cannot taste life unless it enters the form_ the "feminine". Not only is the grail the feminine as human women, but it's also the body itself, since the body itself is the feminine.

To review, people with following placements might connect to this symbol, moreso if they have multiple of these:

Bharani nakshatra in big three (especially), ketu (also really important), atmakaraka or as chart ruler.

Virgo in big three or as Ketu.

Mrigashira, Vishakha or Ashlesha nakshatra in big three.

Emphasis on elephant yonis_ Bharani and Revati (one or both).

Important or many placements in the first house, especially Venus, Ketu and Moon.

Sun, Moon, Venus, Mars, Atmakaraka or chart ruler in the 8th house. (8th house is a house of vulnerability and receptivity, but also a place where fierce protection is emphasized.)

Venus being Vargottama (in the same sign in both D1 and D9)

Ketu in the 1st or the 7th house.

Rahu and Ketu axis in Taurus and Scorpio (Rahu or Ketu in either), especially if they're in Jyeshta and one if the Snake yonis_ Rohini or Mrigashira. (Refer to my post about Morgan le Fay)

Most of these placements are also connected to Arthurian legends: its stories, characters and motifs. I'm most likely going to explore this better in another post.

I hope you liked this. This kind of posts are way more natural to me, here it was a lot easier for me to research and convey the gist, I'm just more interested in it. It's a little different, I know. I hope it's interesting and appreciated nontheless.

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mommykye · 2 months ago

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All demands

young!Ambessa Medarda x pregnant!wife!reader

summary: Ambessa gives into her wife’s demands

warnings: you guessed it, smut. ambessa’s has a dick

request are open

masterlist

The estate of Ambessa stood as a testament to power and refined brutality. Hewn from massive blocks of stark white and deep black marble, the imposing structure dominated the surrounding landscape, a physical manifestation of the formidable woman who resided within its walls. Even under the muted, overcast sky that perpetually seemed to hang over Noxus, the polished surfaces gleamed, the contrasting colors a deliberate and meaningful choice made years prior by Y/N. It was her subtle, constant reminder of the intricate balance she perceived within her wife – a dance between ruthless strength and unexpected tenderness.

Inside, the cool, echoing halls stretched into seemingly endless perspectives, the silence broken only by the soft, almost imperceptible padding of Y/N's bare feet against the smooth, unyielding floor. Despite the advanced stage of her pregnancy, the five-month swell preceding her like a proud banner, she moved with a fluid grace that spoke of her royal upbringing. At twenty-eight, Y/N possessed a maturity and poise that both complemented and subtly contrasted Ambessa’s own intense, almost volatile energy.

She found her wife in the strategy room, a chamber that hummed with the silent language of war and conquest. Massive maps, depicting conquered territories and potential battlefields in intricate detail, were spread across a colossal table of polished stone. Flanking this table were intricately carved chairs of polished darkwood, silent witnesses to countless hours of planning and deliberation. Ambessa, a towering figure even when seated, was hunched over a particularly detailed map of a volatile border region, her brow furrowed in the deep lines of intense concentration. A single, focused beam of light pierced through a narrow aperture in the high ceiling, illuminating the scene below like a macabre yet captivating painting, highlighting the stark angles of Ambessa’s face and the unforgiving lines of the maps.

Ambessa exuded a raw, untamed power, a force of nature barely contained by the stone and mortar of the room. She was a study in contrasts, a paradox of brutal efficiency and unexpected depths. Her face, often stern and unyielding, softened almost imperceptibly as she sensed Y/N's presence, a subtle shift that only Y/N had learned to recognize. Her golden eyes, usually sharp and assessing, held a fleeting flicker of warmth, a private ember lit only for her wife. Her powerful frame, honed from years spent on the battlefield and in rigorous training, was still, yet it emanated an aura of controlled strength, a coiled tension that spoke of her readiness for any challenge. She looked every bit the Noxian warlord, a woman who commanded respect and fear in equal measure. Her hair, the color of midnight, was pulled back from her face in a tight, intricate braid, revealing the strong lines of her jaw and the high, sharp planes of her cheekbones. She wore simple, functional clothing: dark, plain tunic, practical attire for a life spent navigating both the complexities of the war room inside their home and, as Y/N knew with intimate familiarity, the passionate entanglements of their shared bedchamber.

Y/N leaned against the heavy stone doorframe, her arms crossed beneath her burgeoning breasts, observing her wife for a long moment. She knew this room intimately, knew the intricate details of the maps, knew the brilliant, ruthless strategic mind that worked tirelessly behind those intense eyes. But more importantly, she knew the woman beneath the warlord, the woman who, for the past decade, had been her wife, her lover, her anchor in the often-turbulent seas of Noxian politics. Their shared history stretched back to a chance encounter during a delicate diplomatic mission years ago, a clash of wills that had unexpectedly and fiercely blossomed into an enduring love, a bond forged in mutual respect and undeniable passion.

Y/N had been immediately drawn to Ambessa's unwavering conviction, her fierce loyalty, and the barely leashed passion that simmered beneath her formidable exterior. Ambessa, in turn, had been captivated by Y/N's regal bearing, her sharp intellect that could dissect political intricacies with effortless grace, and the surprising vulnerability she occasionally allowed to surface, a fleeting glimpse behind the carefully constructed walls that she herself had conquered to earn a blissful life.

"You'll strain your eyes in this light," Y/N said, her voice a low, melodious drawl that broke the heavy silence of the room. It was a voice that had once commanded audiences, swayed councils with its persuasive cadence, but now, it held a unique intimacy, a silken thread woven into the rich tapestry of their shared life, reserved almost exclusively for Ambessa.

Ambessa glanced up, her sharp expression shifting almost imperceptibly from focused concentration to something softer, something that bordered on a rare and cherished amusement. "And you'll strain your back, standing there. Come, wife." She gestured to the chair beside her, the one usually reserved for her most trusted advisors, a silent yet profound acknowledgment of Y/N's pivotal role in her life, both personally and politically.

Y/N pushed herself off the doorframe, her movements still fluid and deliberate despite the gentle yet undeniable sway of her pregnant form. She walked towards the massive table, her bare feet making no sound on the polished floor. She reached Ambessa and, instead of taking the offered seat, she settled onto Ambessa's lap, facing her. The weight of her, the solid curve of her belly pressing intimately against Ambessa's chest, was a familiar and welcome sensation, a tangible connection that grounded them both.

Ambessa's dark eyebrows rose slightly, a silent question in their sharp arch, but she didn't protest. This was Y/N. This was how she was, especially now, with the heightened emotions and insistent desires that seemed to accompany the burgeoning life within her. Ambessa found a certain possessive satisfaction in Y/N's unwavering need for her, a primal pull that mirrored her own fierce devotion.

"Is that wise?" Ambessa asked, her voice a low rumble that vibrated against Y/N's back. "With the precious thing you carry?" Her large, calloused hand instinctively went to Y/N's rounded stomach, her touch gentle, a stark contrast to the brutal strength of her warrior's hands.

Y/N snorted softly, a sound that was both elegant and utterly irreverent. "I'm hardly made of glass, Ambessa. And I'm certainly not an invalid." She shifted slightly, adjusting her position so she was more comfortable, her hands resting on Ambessa's broad shoulders, her fingers digging lightly into the hard leather of her armor. Her eyes, dilated into the color of a stormy sea just before a tempest, locked onto Ambessa's. "Besides, I have a need."

Ambessa's gaze darkened, a slow, possessive burn igniting within their depths. "A need?" The single word was laced with a possessive curiosity, a hint of anticipation.

Y/N's lips curved into a sultry smile, a flash of the regal power that still resided within her, a power that Ambessa found endlessly alluring. "A very specific need. One that only you can satisfy." Her voice was a husky whisper, laced with a demanding edge that would have sent lesser beings scrambling for cover. But Ambessa was not a lesser being. She was Ambessa Medarda, and this woman, this demanding, pregnant woman, was her wife. And she found it exhilarating. The inherent power dynamic in their relationship, the constant push and pull of dominance and submission, was a source of intense and mutual pleasure, a silent language they both understood intimately.

"And what need is that, my demanding one?" Ambessa asked, her voice a low growl that resonated deep within Y/N, stirring a familiar heat in her core. Her hands settled on Y/N's hips, her strong fingers tracing the curve of her swollen belly, a silent acknowledgment of the life they had created together, a life that now amplified Y/N’s desires.

Y/N leaned closer, her breath warm against Ambessa's face, carrying the faint, exotic scent of the tea she favored, a fragrance that Ambessa had come to associate with her. "I need you, Ambessa. I need you inside me. Now." The directness of the request, the complete lack of preamble or coyness, was a deliberate act, a testament to the raw intimacy and uninhibited passion they shared. The sheer audacity of it, even in the relative privacy of their own estate, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire through Ambessa. It was this very quality – this fearless, unapologetic desire – that had captivated her from the moment their paths had crossed. Y/N had never been one to shy away from what she wanted, even when what she wanted was the formidable Ambessa Medarda.

"Now?" Ambessa echoed, her voice a dangerous purr, her grip tightening slightly on Y/N's hips. "Here? On the strategy table?" The thought was undeniably arousing, the forbidden juxtaposition of war and intimacy, of strategic planning and raw, primal desire, a potent combination that resonated with the core of her being, a thrilling transgression against the very order she often imposed.

Y/N's smile widened, a predatory gleam in her stormy eyes. "The table is large. And sturdy. Much like its owner." She jokes, trailing a hand down Ambessa's chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric, the steady beat of her wife's heart quickening beneath her touch. "And the thought of you, taking me here, surrounded by your maps, your plans, the idea of being caught, it excites me." Her eyes gleamed with a primal hunger, a reflection of the deep, almost visceral connection they shared, a bond that transcended the battlefield and the intricate dance of Noxian politics. Pregnancy had amplified her desires, stripping away any lingering pretense of demureness. She was raw, demanding, and utterly irresistible in her newfound intensity.

Ambessa's control, always there, wavered precariously. The intoxicating combination of Y/N's scent – a heady mix of exotic perfumes and the subtle, musky undertones of arousal – her nearness, the warm weight of her in her lap, and the sheer eroticism of the request was almost overwhelming, threatening to shatter the carefully constructed walls of her composure. The strategic maps, the very symbols of her power and ambition, suddenly seemed insignificant, mere parchment and ink compared to the vibrant, demanding woman in her arms.

"You are…insatiable," Ambessa murmured, her voice thick with burgeoning desire, her thumb tracing the delicate curve of Y/N's jawline, a possessive caress.

"Only for you," Y/N purred back, her fingers now playing with the edge of Ambessa's collar, her touch both possessive and exquisitely provocative. "And the babe. The babe wants its mother happy." She knew how to manipulate Ambessa, how to crack the littlest of pressure points, continue on their growing family, into the tapestry of her desires, a subtle yet effective leverage.

Ambessa knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within her, that Y/N was using the pregnancy, using the innocent babe, to get exactly what she wanted. And, truth be told, she didn't care in the slightest. The thought of Y/N, carrying their child, craving her with such unbridled intensity, was a potent aphrodisiac, a constant reminder of the deep and unbreakable bond they shared, a testament to the love that lay beneath the surface of their often-brutal world.

"And what if I were to say no?" Ambessa challenged, her voice low and husky, a playful edge to her tone, though the heat in her eyes betrayed her true desire.

Y/N's smile turned predatory, a flash of sharp teeth beneath her full lips. "You wouldn't." It wasn't a question, not even a hint of doubt. It was a statement of absolute fact, born of years of shared intimacy and a profound understanding of her wife's deepest desires. Y/N knew the fire that burned beneath Ambessa's controlled exterior, the fierce passion that Ambessa rarely unleashed on anyone but her. She knew that Ambessa was as utterly enthralled by her as she was by Ambessa. And she was right. Ambessa wouldn't say no. Not when Y/N looked at her like that, her stormy eyes blazing with unadulterated need, her body radiating a palpable heat. Not when the thought of possessing her, of filling her, right here, right now, was so utterly compelling, so deliciously forbidden.

With a swift, decisive movement that spoke of her inherent strength and unwavering resolve, Ambessa stood, lifting Y/N with her as if she weighed nothing, her powerful muscles belying the delicate nature of her precious cargo. She didn't break eye contact, her dark gaze locked intently on Y/N's, her own desire a tangible force that crackled in the air between them.

"Then let us not waste any more time," Ambessa said, her voice a low growl that sent shivers of anticipation down Y/N's spine. Instead of turning towards the hidden doorway that led to the privacy of their opulent chambers, Ambessa took a deliberate step back, positioning herself firmly between Y/N's legs, the cool, smooth surface of the massive stone table pressing against the backs of Y/N's thighs.

Y/N's breath hitched, a sharp gasp of surprise and burgeoning excitement. She had instinctively expected their usual retreat to the secluded intimacy of their rooms, but this…this was a delicious deviation, a raw and impulsive act that spoke volumes about the intensity of Ambessa's desire, a willingness to transgress the boundaries of their usual rituals.

Ambessa's hands tightened on Y/N's hips, steadying her as she subtly shifted her weight, ensuring her wife's comfort while simultaneously asserting her control. The cool, unyielding surface of the table was a stark and thrilling contrast to the rising heat radiating from their intertwined bodies. The maps, the carefully laid plans of conquest and dominion, were now beneath Y/N, a silent and potent testament to the fact that, in this moment, nothing in the vast Noxian empire held more significance than the fierce and undeniable connection between them.

"Ambessa…" Y/N breathed, her voice laced with a mixture of surprise and rapidly escalating excitement.

"You wanted me now," Ambessa murmured, her gaze dropping momentarily to the gentle swell of Y/N's belly, then rising again to meet her eyes, a possessive gleam in their dark depths. "And I aim to please."

With deliberate, almost ritualistic movements, Ambessa reached down and began to unbuckle the fastenings of her dark clothing, the soft clinking of metal echoing in the heavy silence of the room, each small sound amplifying the growing tension between them. Y/N watched her, her heart pounding a heavy rhythm against her ribs, her own desire intensifying with each passing moment as the warlord began to shed her layers. The controlled exterior was slowly giving way to the passionate lover beneath.

Ambessa’s pants fell to the floor with a soft thud, leaving her in the tunic. Her strong, calloused hands then moved to the hem of Y/N’s flowing gown, the supple fabric offering little resistance to her touch, sending shivers of anticipation dancing across Y/N’s skin. Ambessa slowly pushed the gown upwards, revealing the delicate curve of Y/N’s bare legs, the soft skin flushed with rising desire.

Y/N instinctively wrapped her legs around Ambessa’s waist, pulling her closer, the intimate friction igniting a spark that threatened to consume them both. The feeling of Ambessa’s hard, muscled body pressed intimately against her own, the life within her a soft, precious cushion between them, was intoxicating, a tangible reminder of their shared love and future.

Ambessa’s hands continued their exploration, tracing the delicate curve of Y/N’s thighs, the gentle swell of her hips, her touch both possessive and reverent, acknowledging the beautiful changes that pregnancy had wrought upon Y/N’s body, changes that Ambessa found undeniably alluring, a testament to their shared creation.

"You are magnificent," Ambessa murmured, her voice thick with desire, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Y/N's neck, sending a jolt of pure sensation through her. "Every curve, every swell…you are breathtaking."

Y/N tilted her head back, allowing Ambessa greater access, her own breath coming in short, shallow gasps. "And you are taking far too long," she whispered, her own impatience growing with each teasing, passing moment. The intoxicating scent of Ambessa, a heady mix of leather and musk and something uniquely her own, filled her senses, further fueling the insistent ache within her.

Ambessa chuckled softly, a low rumble against Y/N’s skin that vibrated through her very core. "Patience, my love. What is worth having is worth savoring." But even as she spoke the words, her actions belied her claim. Her hands moved with increasing urgency, pushing Y/N’s gown higher, until it was bunched around her waist, exposing the soft skin of her thighs and the delicate curve of her pregnant belly as she places a soft kiss to her cheek.

Y/N reached down and gripped Ambessa’s tunic, pulling it upwards with a demanding tug. She wanted to feel Ambessa’s bare skin against hers, the raw heat of her body a tangible reassurance of her desire. Ambessa obliged without hesitation, stripping off the tunic and tossing it carelessly aside, her eyes never leaving Y/N’s, their depths filled with a primal hunger.

The contrast between them was stark and beautiful, a testament to the complementary nature of their desires. Y/N, with her softer, more yielding curves and the delicate flush of arousal blooming on her skin, and Ambessa, all hard muscle and controlled power, her eyes burning with an intensity that mirrored Y/N's own. They were two halves of a whole, their differences only serving to amplify the intense and undeniable connection between them.

Ambessa’s hands returned to Y/N’s hips, her strong thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin just above her pelvic bones, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from Y/N. "Tell me what you want," Ambessa commanded, her voice a low growl that resonated deep within Y/N, stirring the insistent ache in her core. "Tell me exactly what you need."

Y/N’s eyes darkened with a primal desire. "I want you inside me, Ambessa. Deep inside. I want to feel you filling me, claiming me, making me yours." The words were a raw, uninhibited expression of her need, a testament to the deep physical and emotional connection they shared, a bond that transcended the constraints of their often-brutal world.

Ambessa’s gaze intensified, a possessive fire burning within their depths. "And you shall have it, my queen." Ambessa pulls down the remainder of her clothing, allowing it to pool at her ankles, revealing the hard, undeniable length of her desire straining against her dark undergarments. The air in the strategy room crackled with an almost palpable anticipation, thick with unspoken desires and the promise of raw intimacy. The maps beneath Y/N, depicting the strategic layouts of conquered territories and potential future campaigns, became silent witnesses to their passionate encounter, the intricate lines and symbols of war momentarily forgotten in the face of a more primal, all-consuming need.

Ambessa positioned herself more firmly between Y/N’s parted legs, her strong hands sliding beneath her wife’s thighs, lifting them higher, arching Y/N’s back against the cool stone. Y/N instinctively tightened her grip on the edge of the table, her body already anticipating the exquisite pleasure to come, her hips tilting upwards in silent invitation.

The first touch was electric, a searing spark that ignited a raging firestorm of desire within them both. Ambessa’s entry was slow and deliberate, a tender consideration for the life they were creating, allowing Y/N’s body to adjust to her size, yet the intensity of their connection was immediate and undeniable, a visceral merging of two souls bound by fierce love and insatiable desire.

Y/N gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound escaping her lips, her head falling back against the cool stone, unyielding marble as she felt Ambessa fill her, stretching her, claiming her in a way that transcended mere physical intimacy. Ambessa paused, her hands gripping Y/N’s thighs, her dark eyes locked intently on her wife’s flushed face, searching for any sign of discomfort.

"Does it feel good, my love?" she murmured, her voice thick with desire, a hint of tenderness lacing her usual commanding tone.

"Yes," Y/N breathed, reaching out to grab onto Ambessa’s shoulders allowing her fingers to dig into the muscle, her body already beginning to move instinctively against hers. "Oh, yes. But don't be so gentle, Ambessa. I need you rougher. I want to feel you." The words, a raw expression of her heightened desires, hung heavy in the air, a direct challenge to Ambessa’s initial tenderness.

A flicker of something primal ignited in Ambessa’s eyes. The warlord in her recognized and responded to the demand. With a low growl that rumbled deep in her chest, she surged forward, slamming into Y/N with a force that made her cry out, yet she remained acutely aware of the precious life they carried, her movements powerful but carefully controlled.

"Pregnant whore," Ambessa growled, the words a rough caress against Y/N’s ear, a dirty endearment that sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through her. "You want me rough, you'll have it."

"Yes," Y/N gasped, meeting Ambessa’s fierce gaze with a hunger of her own. "Fuck me, Ambessa. Like you mean it. Make me feel this."

And Ambessa obliged, her movements becoming more insistent, more demanding, yet always mindful. The rhythm of their bodies intertwined, a primal dance of need and fulfillment, a language spoken in the thrust and parry of their hips, in the ragged gasps that escaped their lips. The only sounds in the room were their increasingly frantic breaths and the soft thud of Ambessa’s powerful body against Y/N’s.

Y/N’s senses heightened, every nerve ending alive and tingling. The intoxicating scent of Ambessa filled her nostrils, the feel of her wife’s hard, muscled body pressed against her own was a potent aphrodisiac. The pressure deep within her grew with each forceful thrust, building towards a crescendo of exquisite pleasure.

"That's it," Y/N moaned, her hips bucking against Ambessa’s. "Harder, Ambessa."

Ambessa’s movements became more demanding, her controlled strength unleashed in a torrent of raw passion, her own control beginning to slip as her desire surged, threatening to overwhelm her. She leaned down, her lips finding the sensitive curve of Y/N’s neck, her teeth gently nipping at the soft skin, eliciting a sharp cry from her wife.

"You feel so good," Ambessa grunted, her breath hot against Y/N’s skin. "So tight."

"And you feel like heaven," Y/N gasped, her body arching higher against Ambessa’s, her legs tightening around her waist, pulling her deeper. The strategic maps beneath them rustled and shifted with their frantic movements, the carefully drawn lines of conquered territories and potential battlefields becoming increasingly blurred and insignificant in the face of their primal embrace.

"Tell me you're mine," Ambessa commanded, her voice thick with possessive desire.

"I'm yours," Y/N cried out, her voice raw with passion. "Always yours, you brute."

In this moment, there was no Noxian warlord and no past royal. There were only two women, deeply in love and fiercely connected, lost in the all-consuming intensity of their shared desire, their bodies moving as one. Ambessa’s pace quickened, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She could feel Y/N’s body clenching around her, the unmistakable signs of her impending release.

"Y/N…" Ambessa groaned, her own carefully constructed control finally shattering.

Y/N cried out again, a long, keening sound that echoed in the silent room, her body convulsing around Ambessa’s. Waves of intense, exquisite pleasure washed over her, each one more powerful than the last, threatening to drown her in sensation. She clung to Ambessa, her nails digging into her wife’s back leaving long red lines, her head thrown back against the cool obsidian in an expression of pure ecstasy.

Ambessa held her tight, her powerful arms wrapped securely around Y/N’s trembling body, riding out the waves of her wife’s pleasure, her own release following swiftly on its heels, a guttural roar escaping her lips as she poured herself into Y/N. She buried her face in Y/N’s neck, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm, the scent of just straight Y/N filling the air around her.

They remained locked together for a long moment, their breathing slowly returning to a semblance of normalcy, the echoes of their passionate encounter still reverberating in the heavy silence of the strategy room. The weight of Y/N’s pregnant belly pressed intimately against Ambessa, a tangible and precious reminder of the life they had created, the future they shared, a future born from their fierce love and unyielding passion.

Finally, Ambessa pulled back slightly, her eyes filled with a tenderness that she rarely showed to anyone else, a vulnerability reserved solely for Y/N. She gently brushed a stray strand of sweat-dampened hair from Y/N’s flushed forehead, her touch surprisingly delicate.

"Are you alright, my love?" she murmured, her voice still rough with the remnants of passion.

Y/N smiled, a soft, contented expression spreading across her face, her stormy eyes now filled with a peaceful serenity. "More than alright," she whispered back, her voice still slightly breathless. "Perfect."

Ambessa leaned down and kissed her gently, a lingering touch that spoke volumes of the deep love and unbreakable connection between them, a silent promise of more to come.

"We should move," Ambessa said eventually, gesturing to the rumpled maps beneath them with a wry smile playing on her lips. "Lest our strategic planning become compromised."

Y/N chuckled softly, a warm, throaty sound. "Perhaps. Though I daresay we've just engaged in a different kind of strategic maneuver."

Ambessa’s eyes darkened again, a hint of the possessive fire rekindling within their depths. "Indeed. And one I find far more rewarding." She carefully disentangled herself from Y/N, her movements surprisingly gentle considering the raw passion they had just shared. She then lifted Y/N with the same effortless strength, cradling her in her arms.

"Where shall we go, my queen?" Ambessa murmured, carrying her towards the hidden doorway that led to their private chambers.

"Our bed," Y/N whispered, nuzzling against Ambessa’s neck. "And then perhaps we can discuss further strategic engagements."

Ambessa’s lips curved into a predatory smile. "I believe that can be arranged." She stepped through the hidden door, leaving the rumpled maps and the echoes of their passion behind, carrying her beloved wife towards the sanctuary of their shared chambers, the promise of more intimate battles hanging sweetly in the air.

#ambessa medarda x reader #sevika x reader #arcane #ambessa chosen of the wolf #ambessa league of legends #ambessa headcanons #ambessa x you #ambessa x reader #mel and ambessa #ambessa medarda #arcane ambessa #ambessa smut #ambessa x y/n #vi x reader #caitlyn kiramman x reader #smut #fanfic

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obito-in-disguise · 7 months ago

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| You get hurt on a mission |

Featuring: Uzui Tengen, Shinazugawa Sanemi, Tomioka Giyuu, Iguro Obanai, Kyojuro Rengoku and Gyomei Himejima.

Uzui Tengen

He’d use humor to distract you from the pain and his lingering guilt. His confidence would mask his fear, but his sharp focus would take over as he swiftly defeats the threat and tends to you. He’d lighten the mood with teasing “That was so not flashy Y/N”

Afterward, Uzui would pamper you endlessly, trying to make up for the fact that you got hurt on his watch. He’d entertain you with dramatic stories and ensure you’re always laughing, though his eyes would betray his deep concern when he thinks you’re not looking.

Shinazugawa Sanemi

Sanemi would be furious, at the demon, the situation, and especially at you for putting yourself at risk. His worry manifests as yelling “What the hell were you thinking dipshit?!” But his hands are gentle as he carries you to safety.

As you recover, Sanemi would insist on doing everything for you. Carrying you, cleaning your wounds, and ensuring you rest. His tone might remain gruff, but his hands are uncharacteristically gentle. He might even stay awake all night to guard you.

When you open your mouth to tease him about his surprisingly caring nature, he immediately barks out "Just shut up yeah? you can't heal when you keep yabbering"

Tomioka Giyuu

You really thought you would get hurt on Giyuu's watch huh? think again. He's actually been secretly following you on your missions 😟

It's not that he doesn't trust you, he does, but he can't lose one more person. He knows you're strong. He doesn't follow you around on the smaller missions that he knows you can handle, but will absolutely be there at the mention of a Kizuki.

A Kizuki mission? Were they trying to end your life??

You have your suspicions though, how does he always magically show up when you need help the most? He simply shrugs playing it cool.

"...We must have similar schedules or something"

Iguro Obanai

Obanai would be eerily calm as he dispatches the threat. He channels his worry into efficiency, ensuring your safety first before addressing his emotions. Kaburamaru would coil around you as if to protect you, while Iguro mercilessly disposes of the threat.

As you heal, he’d be watchful, quietly ensuring your needs are met without smothering you. He might hesitate to show his softer side, but small gestures like bringing your favorite food or whispering comforting words, betray his deep care.

"Guro...I'm fine"

"No you're not Y/N! you could've gotten seriously hurt!...I could've lost you. Just call for me next time ok?"

Kyojuro Rengoku

He handles the situation with a scary seriousness you haven't seen from him before. Losing you is no joke to him, after the threat has been eliminated he returns to his usual upbeat self.

“Do not give up my flame! You will make it through this!” He’d carry you to safety with unwavering resolve, his warmth and positivity never faltering.

In recovery, he’d be by your side, cheerfully bringing you meals and checking on you constantly. Expect lots of affirmations about your strength and his love for you. “You are incredible, my love. Rest and heal, for the world needs your light!”

Gyomei Himejima

Gyomei would instantly sense the gravity of the situation. Tears quietly stream down his face as he uses the full force of his immense strength to protect you and ensure you’re safe. His voice would resonate with a gentle yet deeply concerned tone so as to keep you calm “Stay with me. You’re precious to this world.”

Gyomei would be the epitome of gentle care, using his healing knowledge to treat your injuries while praying for your swift recovery. He’d craft soothing remedies and share calming mantras to ease your pain. His presence would feel like a fortress of safety, unwavering and serene, as he supports you physically and emotionally.

Someone get Giyuu a therapist.

Feel free to check out my other Demon Slayer fics and more stories!

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colourstreakgryffin · 1 year ago

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I had a silly idea, what about an Cheshire Cat!reader x Alastor? (Feel free not to do this dearie ( ·∀·) )

Haha. OMFG. A Cheshire Cat would really match with Alastor well! So, thank you, Lady Beelzebub! I’ll try this out!

Alastor- A Little Game

Vaggie has been so frustrated. Charlie has been trying to ease the crew. Husk is on the verge of murdering somebody. Niffty is annoyed that her cleaning equipment is gone. Angel is quite amused by what’s going on and Alastor is very invested in the cause

Lately, the Hazbin Hotel has been dealing with a suddenly appearing invisible menace causing pranks after pranks nonstop; locking or trapping up doors, stealing items and storing them high up, whispering out in the halls at night

Alastor didn’t suspect he’d ever run into the culprit of all this trouble but he has. After Charlie had been giving Vaggie a calmdown pep talk, the Princess politely asked Alastor to check around the hallways for any more prank remnants, the Overlord did so, just to see what he may find… and he made a incredible discovery

A floating cat-like sinner with magenta and pink colouring, most importantly, a big Cheshire wide grin. A rival of Alastor’s own smile and with almost half a body, as if cut in half

The sinner was in the midst of setting up a trap consisting a big silver bucket full of thick blood over the top of Alastor’s own hotel room door, but they’ve been caught in the act

And Alastor doesn’t plan on dealing out punishment… he’s too amused

“Ah… you must be the little troublesome beast causing so much disrupt in this Hotel?” Alastor asks almost immediately with literally no malice towards what’s been going on, his transatlantic accent smooth and almost making his voice sound more friendly and warm than he actually is as this cat sinner… or otherwise, you

Just giggles under your breath and disappears into thin air properly with the wide grin floating in the air for a few seconds almost magically before dissipating with you

“And if I have?” Your voice rings out after a few more seconds of silence, disembodied, invisible. You can’t be tracked with eyes but Alastor’s powerful magic can pinpoint where you are by detecting your own demonic magic, sharply looking over his shoulder to be greeted with your floating head

Just your head… no body, it’s like before when it was half of your torso. Now, it’s just your head. Your magic is a lot like the storybook fairytale character, Cheshire Cat

But that’s because you’re the most Cheshire Cat person anybody will ever met. Alastor couldn’t help but be so amused by you; you’re skilled, you’re snarky, you know what you’re doing and you’re resourceful, good at planning

Able to have avoided being caught by everybody in the Hotel for months now and you’re lucky enough to have been caught by the one member who enjoyed the chaos and madness the pranks caused

“I believe you must avoid the others if so” Alastor proclaims, almost mysterious and still silky in that radio-laced but classy and dapper tone as you tilt your head confused. For the first time, you’ve been snapped out of your mischievous chaotic demeanour

You suspected him to bark, to growl, to be annoyed so him not is so odd to you but quickly brushing it off, you manifest your whole body into frame. Cute fluffy striped cat-like ears flicking and long fluffy cat-like tail curling around, almost like a coil spring

You couldn’t really understand this Overlord, something you don’t like. You’d prefer people to be confused by you, by your style of insanity and madness, by your enjoyment of causing so much disorder and high-tension emotions

You were about to speak, basically floating over his shoulder before Alastor beats you to the punch. You can’t tell if you’ll like him or despise him with the way he speaks, almost condescending

“If you’re going to make my project topsy-turvy, I suggest do a better prank”

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ghostlynightpanda · 1 month ago

Note

HII, I WANTED TO REQUEST A FLUFFY FIC OF DAZAI X READER IT CAN BE ANYTHING I DON'T MIND.

-St4rz

P.S "I love you're writing dude it's so amazing 🎀"

Veil of Thorns

A/N: I know this request is fairly new, but I’ve had this Dazai fic sitting in my drafts for a while, so I thought I’d finally post it. Hope you like it!

synopsis: Feared for a deadly touch that once took a life, you've lived in isolation, cut off from the world. But everything changes when the Armed Detective Agency seeks you out—offering a new life, and a chance to be close again, thanks to Dazai’s power to nullify your ability.

content/warnings: ADA!Dazai x reader, mentions of death and trauma, fluff, 6.161 words

Part 2

You were alone.

But that was nothing new. Loneliness had long since become your shadow, your silent companion. It lingered in every room you entered, sat with you during meals, echoed in your footsteps. You weren't just used to it—you had adapted, folded yourself neatly into its shape.

Sometimes, when the silence grew too thick, you tried to remember the last time you'd spoken to someone and meant it—held a conversation that wasn't strained by fear or ended in tragedy. When had you last felt the warmth of a hand on your shoulder, the press of a hug not weighed down by caution?

You couldn't remember. Not clearly.

Ever since your ability first awakened—violent, raw, and unforgiving—you had been pushed to the margins of society. Or maybe you had pulled yourself there, out of guilt. Out of fear. The day it manifested, you had still been a child. Just a kid, small and bright-eyed, with no idea of the power coiled beneath your skin. You hadn't even known you were dangerous.

Until that morning.

It had started so simply. The sun had risen lazily through the curtains. You had been happy. Giddy even. You remember the smell of breakfast, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, and the hum of your father's voice as he moved about. You ran to him, arms outstretched, beaming with all the love in the world.

He turned at the last second, smiling, and caught you in his arms.

But his smile faded.

Your father collapsed the instant your arms wrapped around him. You didn't understand at first. His body shook violently—spasms like waves of pain tearing through him—and then… he stilled.

You called his name again and again, your voice rising into panic. You shook him, tried to wake him, tried to hold on. But it was already too late.

He was gone.

It took time—hours of crying, of confusion, of horror—before the truth settled in like a sickness. It wasn't a heart attack. It wasn't some cruel twist of fate. It was you. You had done this. Your touch had killed the man you loved most in the world.

That day, something inside you broke.

Authorities came. Specialists followed. That's when the term was first whispered around you—clinical, detached, like labeling a disease.

Veil of Thorns. That was what they called it.

A grim name, taken from the Greek god of death. Fitting, wasn't it? With just a touch, you could disrupt a person's nervous system so violently that they collapsed into unconsciousness. Harmless, they said, if contact was brief. But if you held on—if your skin lingered against theirs for more than a few seconds—death was inevitable.

They told you to wear gloves. To avoid contact. To isolate. As if that would make it better. As if precautions could fill the gaping hole where your father's laughter used to be.

From that point on, people kept their distance. And you let them. You convinced yourself it was safer this way, easier. No one could die if you stayed alone.

But loneliness, you soon realized, was its own kind of death.

After your father's death, you became a child nobody wanted.

The system didn't know what to do with you. You were passed from one orphanage to another like a cursed object no one dared keep for long. Each new home came with fresh smiles, promises of understanding—but they never lasted. Word about your ability always got out, whether through whispered gossip or terrified staff who had witnessed your gloves slip off by accident. Fear always found you.

Caretakers kept their distance. Other children were warned to stay away. And when accidents happened—minor ones, mostly, but enough to stir panic—the solution was always the same: move you along. You were a problem to be passed on, never solved. By the time you turned fifteen, there were no more doors left to knock on. The last orphanage didn't bother with a goodbye. One cold morning, they simply handed you a duffel bag of your belongings and shut the gate behind you.

You were on the streets after that.

Alone again.

You learned quickly how to survive. Hunger taught you where to find food, fear taught you which alleys were safe to sleep in. The city of Yokohama, so full of life and light for others, became a shadowed maze of avoidance for you. Every human encounter was a potential tragedy. A misplaced touch, a stumble, a brush of fingers—and someone else might die.

Eventually, you found work. A factory on the edge of the industrial district took you in—no questions, no handshakes. It was the kind of place where nobody cared who you were, as long as you showed up on time and kept your head down. Perfect. You kept to yourself, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Day after day, you stood at the assembly line, performing the same task over and over again. It was tedious. Mechanical. Lonely.

But it was safe.

Within a few months, you saved enough to rent a small flat. You chose one tucked away in a quiet corner of Yokohama—an old building with crumbling walls and no neighbors who asked questions. The streets there were silent, devoid of the usual city noise. No children playing. No vendors shouting. Just the dull hum of distant traffic and the occasional stray cat slinking through the alleyways.

You made it your haven.

Groceries were ordered online and delivered to your door. You never had to set foot in a store, never had to worry about brushing hands with a cashier. No more crowded subways or bustling markets. You avoided rush hours like a phantom. Even on your way to work, you took the back alleys and narrow walkways where no one else bothered to walk. You had trained your life into a pattern of evasion—every move calculated, every step a quiet effort to remain unnoticed.

The accidents stopped happening.

Not because you were cured. But because you had removed yourself from the world that might force you to touch it.

Now, your world was made of empty rooms and routine. A small apartment where nothing changed, a job where no one looked you in the eye, and a heart that had slowly grown numb beneath layers of caution. You didn't even miss people anymore. Not really. Not in any way that could outweigh the terror of hurting them.

You had found peace, in a way.

A fragile, silent peace built on isolation.

And you told yourself that was enough.

Of course, solitude didn't mean you were always left alone.

One day, a man came looking for you.

He wasn't like the others—no wide eyes or trembling hands. He was calm, composed, dressed in a dark coat that fluttered like a shadow behind him as he stepped into your empty world. His voice was smooth, words carefully chosen, as though rehearsed.

He said he knew who you were. What you could do.

And he offered you something no one else had ever dared: a place to belong.

He spoke of power, of purpose, of shedding the chains that bound you to this isolated existence. If you were willing to offer your ability to him—if you pledged loyalty to his cause, to his people—he promised your life would change.

You wouldn't be a ghost anymore. You wouldn't have to hide.

He said you would be respected, even feared—not as a monster, but as a comrade. A weapon, yes, but valued. Protected. Understood.

The Port Mafia, he called them. You didn't need the name explained. Everyone in Yokohama knew who they were. You had heard their stories whispered like warnings—of blood on backstreets, of bodies found without answers, of entire businesses crushed overnight when they refused to cooperate.

They didn't just take what they wanted. They erased what stood in their way.

And now, they wanted you.

Maybe… maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he could have changed your life. Maybe there, among people who lived outside the law and moral constraints, you would have found something like acceptance. After all, monsters had no reason to fear other monsters.

But it would have come at a price.

You saw it in his eyes—cold, measured, evaluating. He didn't want you. He wanted what you could do. The death beneath your skin.

If you joined them, you would be used.

Every ounce of your guilt and pain twisted into something lethal, something transactional. No more running. No more loneliness. But also—no more choice. No more innocence. You would become what they saw in you. A weapon, unsheathed.

You said no.

You didn't yell. You didn't tremble. You simply raised your hand—slowly, deliberately—until your gloved fingers hovered just centimeters from his coat sleeve. Not touching. But close enough to make the warning unmistakable.

The air between you crackled with silent threat.

"I won't be your blade," you told him. "Not now. Not ever."

He didn't flinch. Didn't retreat. He just nodded, lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile. Something more like a promise.

And then, like a shadow, he was gone.

But you knew better than to think that was the end of it.

The Port Mafia didn't make offers lightly. If they had come for you once, they would come again. Sooner or later. Especially if they truly needed what only you could do.

Your peace, as fragile as it was, had begun to fracture.

And somewhere deep inside, you wondered how long you could keep choosing solitude over survival.

The day had been long—just like every other. Another monotonous shift at the factory, another quiet walk home through the empty streets of Yokohama's forgotten districts. The evening air hung heavy, the sky painted in muted grays. You kept your head down, your gloved hands tucked deep in your coat pockets, steps soft against the cracked pavement.

It was supposed to be just another uneventful return to the silence of your flat.

But as you turned onto your street, you heard voices up ahead—unfamiliar, layered, and strangely out of place in this usually lifeless part of town.

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" a youthful voice asked, tinged with uncertainty. A child, maybe—definitely not someone who belonged here.

"Are you doubting me, Kenji-kun?" came the sharp reply, lazy but edged with unmistakable authority. There was an underlying smugness in it, like the speaker wasn't used to being wrong—and didn't intend to start now.

"No one's doubting you, Ranpo-san," a third voice said—female this time, calm and professional, but slightly exasperated. "Maybe she's just not home today, or—"

You rounded the corner and froze.

Three figures stood directly in front of your building. Not Port Mafia, at least not as you recognized them. But they didn't look like locals either. Their presence didn't feel accidental.

You exhaled quietly, already tired of what you assumed was another attempt to recruit you. Of course the Mafia wouldn't give up so easily—they were just using a new tactic. A new face.

Or three.

"Can I help you?" you asked flatly, your voice hollow with resignation.

The man in the brown coat turned toward you with a triumphant grin, leaning back on his heels like he'd just solved the final clue in a puzzle. His eyes remained shut, but his expression radiated smug satisfaction.

"Told you I was right," he said, sounding more pleased with himself than with the situation.

"Hello!" the boy beside him chimed, bright and cheerful. He looked no older than fifteen, with straw-colored hair and eyes as open as his smile. Genuine. Warm. Unafraid.

You blinked, startled. Instinctively, you took a step back.

It had been over a decade since anyone had smiled at you like that.

Not with pity. Not with fear. Just… kindness.

You steadied yourself, pushing down the ripple of emotion it stirred. "Can I help you?" you asked again, your voice firmer this time.

The woman, dark-haired and composed, stepped forward with a polite nod.

"You're L/N Y/N, correct? An ability user?"

"From what we've heard," the man in brown added with a casual smirk, "your touch can kill someone in seconds."

He said it like it was a party trick. Like it wasn't a curse you carried with you every second of every day.

You narrowed your eyes.

"I told the old man already—I'm not joining the Port Mafia," you said coldly, your words edged with warning. "And I'd really appreciate it if you all left me alone. Permanently."

You meant for your voice to sound threatening. You weren't sure if it did.

But the three of them didn't flinch. They didn't reach for weapons. They didn't run. Instead, the man in brown simply tilted his head, as if amused by your response, while the boy still looked at you with that same unwavering light in his eyes.

For a second, something about them felt different.

Unsettlingly different.

Not like the Mafia at all.

"I'm Kenji Miyazawa!" the boy beamed, stepping forward with unshakable cheer. "And these are Ranpo Edogawa and Dr. Akiko Yosano!" He gestured excitedly to his companions, clearly proud of the introductions. "We're not from the Port Mafia—I promise!"

You blinked at him, unsure whether to be relieved or even more suspicious. His optimism felt too... genuine. Too bright for someone standing face to face with a killer, even if you wore gloves. Even if you hadn't touched anyone in years.

"...Ah," you said at last, giving a faint nod, uncertain what else to offer. He smiled even wider, undeterred by your awkward silence.

"We're from the ADA," the woman added—her voice calm, precise. "The Armed Detective Agency. Maybe you've heard of us?"

"Of course they have!" Ranpo cut in, lifting his chin with a smug grin. "Who hasn't heard of the greatest detective in the world—me?" He pointed a thumb toward himself, eyes still closed, clearly basking in his own brilliance.

And yes—you had heard of them.

Even a recluse like you wasn't completely detached from the world. You watched the news. You kept up with reports, if only to make sure you were never in them. You knew of the Armed Detective Agency—an independent group of gifted individuals who took on the kinds of cases that the police couldn't handle. Especially those involving ability users.

They weren't villains. That much was clear. But still… trusting strangers didn't come easy to you. Especially ones who showed up at your door without warning.

"I don't understand why you're here," you admitted carefully, eyes shifting between them as they stood there, expectant.

Ranpo raised an eyebrow like you'd just asked whether water was wet. "Isn't it obvious?" he said, shrugging. "We're here to recruit you."

You stared at him.

He stared right back, utterly confident, like he already knew what your answer should be.

You didn't respond right away. You just looked at his smug expression, studied the way his coat fluttered slightly in the wind, like even the breeze knew he was full of himself.

Finally, you said, "I think you've got the wrong idea about me." Your voice was flat. Measured. "I'm not interested in being recruited by anyone. I don't want to fight. I don't want to help. I just want to be left alone."

The words settled in the air between you, heavy and certain.

But as you looked at them—Kenji's innocent smile, Yosano's composed gaze, Ranpo's annoying but oddly reassuring confidence—you couldn't help but feel like they weren't going to turn away so easily.

Not this time.

"But do you really?"

The new voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk. You turned sharply, startled by the sudden presence behind you—another man, approaching from the direction you had just come.

His hands were in his pockets, his gait relaxed, unhurried. But his eyes were sharp. Studying. Seeing too much.

"Do you really want to live like this?" he asked calmly, as though it were a simple question. "Shut away. Alone. No connection to anyone. Just... surviving."

You instinctively took a step back, your jaw tightening.

Who was this now? Another recruit? Another smiling optimist who didn't understand what it meant to be you?

Your gloved hands clenched at your sides as he kept walking, not stopping until there was barely a meter between you—close enough for danger, close enough to tempt fate.

Your voice came low, defensive, a snarl under your breath. "It's no one's business how I live my—"

"Give me your hand."

The words hit you like a slap.

Your breath caught in your throat as he extended his own hand toward you, palm up, fingers open in quiet invitation. His expression was unreadable—there was a ghost of a smile there, something casual and knowing, as if what he was asking wasn't insane.

"What?" you managed, your voice cracking slightly. "Are you insane? I can't—"

"He knows what he's doing," Ranpo called out, not even looking up from adjusting his coat.

"And if he doesn't," Kenji added brightly, "we still have Yosano-san!"

"I can heal fatal injuries," Yosano confirmed matter-of-factly, her voice steady. "My ability, Thou Shalt Not Die, restores anyone on the brink of death. So if something goes wrong... I'll be here."

You looked between them, overwhelmed by the ease in which they discussed it—your ability, your curse—as if it were nothing more than a minor technicality.

You hesitated.

And for a heartbeat, that hesitation wasn't fear. It was something colder. Something bitter. Envy.

She could heal. She could undo the damage. Bring people back from the edge.

And you?

You only ever brought them closer to it.

You cursed the world for that. Cursed yourself. Cursed whatever cruel irony had decided to make your touch a sentence and hers a salvation.

You looked down at the man's hand, still open, still waiting.

"Are you trying to test me?" you asked, voice flat, guarded. "Is this some kind of experiment?"

He shook his head slowly.

"No," he said. "We're trying to prove something to you."

And before you could react, before your instincts screamed loud enough, he reached out and took your hand in his, peeling the glove away before engulfing your hand—your bare hand—in his.

Your entire body froze.

You waited for it—the tremble, the spasms, the ragged gasp for air. The way their bodies always contorted when your ability took hold. You waited for the weight of death to settle between your joined hands.

But there was only... warmth.

No pain. No collapse. No screaming.

Just skin. Contact. Touch.

"W-What—"

"No Longer Human," he said, the faintest smile playing on his lips. "That's my ability. It nullifies all other abilities on contact. As long as I'm touching you... yours doesn't exist."

You stared at him, then at your joined hands, still struggling to believe what your senses were telling you.

It had been so long since you'd felt this—someone else. Not fabric, not plastic gloves, not the absence of touch. A person.

Your voice caught in your throat, nothing but the soft rustle of your breath filling the silence. The world seemed to still around you.

It was only a hand.

But to you, it felt like everything you'd ever been denied.

It felt like hope.

"Kenji-kun, come here," the man said, his voice calm but firm.

The cheerful boy didn't hesitate. He skipped forward, still wearing that sunny expression as if nothing in the world could go wrong. Without needing further instruction, he reached for your free hand, taking off the glove and clasping it gently.

And again—nothing.

No pain. No convulsions. No death.

Just another point of contact, another impossibility made real.

"See?" the man said softly, watching your face with a knowing look. "As long as I'm here, you can't hurt anyone."

Your breath caught in your chest.

"…Does it—" You swallowed hard, trying to clear the knot forming in your throat. "Does it still work if you're not touching me? If you're just nearby?"

For a moment, he didn't answer.

Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he turned his head toward Kenji. "Sorry about this, Kenji-kun," he said lightly.

The boy's eyes widened. "Wait—!"

Too late.

He stepped back.

In that instant, the warmth in your hand turned into horror.

Kenji let out a cry of pain, his body seizing as he dropped to the pavement, his hand locked tight around yours in a death grip you couldn't break. His small frame twisted, legs kicking weakly as he gasped, a pained, choking sound tearing from his throat.

"No—what are you doing?!" you screamed, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands fumbled to free his, panic overtaking your senses as your ability surged through your skin like venom. "Let go! Please—stop—!"

But Kenji didn't respond. In seconds, he went limp—face pale, lips parted, still.

Your heart shattered.

Tears sprang to your eyes as you hovered over his motionless body, your hands shaking. "Are you insane?!" you shouted, turning your fury on the man. "He was just a kid! How could you—how could you use him like that?!"

He didn't flinch. He simply tilted his head toward Yosano, who was smirking lazily, her body glowing faintly with an eerie, beautiful energy.

"Relax," he said casually. "You're forgetting about Yosano's ability."

Within moments, color was returning to Kenji's cheeks. His chest rose with a sharp inhale, and his eyes fluttered open.

You stumbled backward in disbelief.

"Still…" Ranpo spoke up, adjusting his hat, though his tone was more amused than angry. "That was reckless, Dazai. You do know there are limits to her ability."

"If it had failed," Dazai replied with a shrug, "I would've paid for the funeral."

"Dazai-san, that really hurt," Kenji grumbled as he sat up, brushing the dirt off his knees. Despite having just died, he looked no worse for wear—irritated, but otherwise completely unfazed. He was even smiling again.

Your head spun.

This had all happened so fast. Too fast.

You stared at your hands. They still felt dangerous. Cursed. But for the first time in years, someone had touched you—two people had—and lived to tell the tale.

Then Dazai extended his hand toward you once again, that same infuriatingly relaxed smile on his face.

"So," he said, voice light but with a deeper weight beneath the words, "what do you say?"

A pause.

"Ready to try a new life?"

You arrived at the Armed Detective Agency after what could only be described as the most stressful train ride of your life.

The entire time, you clung to Dazai's arm like it was a lifeline—because, in truth, it was. Not yours, but everyone else's. You weren't about to take a chance in a crowded carriage filled with unsuspecting civilians. One slip, one brush of skin, and someone might not make it home.

Dazai grumbled, of course.

"You're cursing my hand with your emotional baggage," he muttered at one point, sighing dramatically.

You ignored him.

You were still too bitter about how he'd handled things with Kenji—still haunted by the way the boy's body had gone limp in your arms. Kenji had forgiven you easily after you'd apologized over and over, brushing it off with a laugh and a sunny, "I've been through worse!" But you hadn't forgiven yourself.

Not for that. Not for anything.

Now, standing in front of the Agency's headquarters, you stared up at the unassuming building with its clean lines and welcoming signage. It looked normal. Safe, even. But it might as well have been the gates of another world.

"I still don't get why I'm here," you muttered, your voice low, more to yourself than anyone else. "It's not like my ability is... useful."

Yosano turned to you, expression unreadable but not unkind. "It's not always about how 'useful' someone is," she said. "You want to help people, don't you?"

You hesitated.

She continued, her tone matter-of-fact. "You didn't want to hurt anyone. That much is obvious. You turned down the Port Mafia, even when they offered you a place among people who wouldn't fear you."

She shrugged, as if the answer were simple.

"That's enough for us."

You looked away, uneasy. The idea that your intentions mattered more than your potential for destruction was foreign. Dangerous, even.

Yosano must've sensed your doubt.

"We've taken in all kinds of strays," she said, voice softer now. "Some of them far more dangerous than you. And as long as Dazai or I are around, you don't have to worry about hurting anyone."

Her words settled heavily in your chest—not quite comforting, but not dismissive either.

The others waited ahead on the steps. Kenji waved enthusiastically when he caught your eye, as if you hadn't nearly ended his life earlier.

And somehow, that made everything more terrifying.

But also… just a little less lonely.

The lobby of the Armed Detective Agency was brighter than you'd expected—sunlight spilled through the tall windows, warming the polished floors and walls lined with case files and bookshelves. It was… lived in. Comfortable.

Too comfortable, almost. You kept close to the door, your posture tense, hands locked at your sides.

Dazai stayed close.

Not that he said anything—not yet. But you could feel him there, hovering just behind your shoulder like a shadow. You suspected it wasn't entirely about his ability. He'd seen the way you flinched when Kenji fell limp, how your expression had cracked like splintered glass. Even with Yosano by your side now, you were clearly haunted by the memory.

Dazai, for all his irritating quirks and teasing smirks, didn't want to give you another reason to fear yourself.

A group of voices drifted in from the hall, and soon enough, you were no longer alone.

"Well, well," said a tall man with blond hair, eyes sharp behind his glasses. "So this is the new recruit."

You shifted uncomfortably, but the blond man's eyes flicked to you—more assessing than hostile.

"Kunikida," he introduced himself shortly. "Second-in-command here. I expect discipline and order from everyone under this roof. If you stay, I'll expect it from you, too."

You nodded stiffly, unsure what to say. He looked like the kind of man who wrote his life in neatly lined schedules.

"Don't mind him," another voice chimed in—light, sarcastic, and bordering on amused. A young man with messy red hair lounged in the doorway, flipping through a book without really reading it. "He's allergic to chaos."

"Tanizaki," he said, then motioned behind him as a quiet girl peeked in. "That's Naomi. My sister."

Naomi gave you a polite smile, though she stayed close to the wall.

And so it went—more introductions, more curious glances, none of them quite as afraid of you as you expected. If anything, they treated you like someone who had simply… arrived. Like you weren't a curse in human form.

Eventually, the room quieted when another presence entered—quiet, composed, and commanding. A man in a formal youkata, eyes calm and focused as they scanned the room. The others straightened slightly.

You knew at once this was the President.

"Fukuzawa-san," Dazai greeted with a lazy wave.

"Dazai," he said in return before his gaze shifted to you. There was no judgment in his expression. Just… understanding. And something else—acceptance.

"You're the one with the ability," he said gently. "The one they call Veil of Thorns, correct?"

Your breath caught. You hadn't heard the name of your ability spoken aloud like that in a long time.

You nodded, swallowing the tightness in your throat. "Yes, sir."

"I've read your file," he said. "And I've also heard about your choices. You could have taken an easier path—one with fewer rules. More bloodshed."

"I didn't want that," you said quietly.

"Which is exactly why you're here," he replied. "This agency doesn't just take in people because of their powers. We take them in for their principles. For who they choose to be."

You felt something shift—barely—but it was there. A sliver of warmth where cold had lived for too long.

Fukuzawa nodded once. "If you choose to stay, you'll have a place here. We'll teach you how to control your ability. How to work with others. How to live again."

You didn't trust your voice, so you only nodded. Slowly.

Dazai's presence lingered beside you. He didn't say anything, didn't tease. But when your hands trembled, he shifted just enough that his arm brushed yours, grounding you with that quiet, familiar pressure.

"I'll stick close," he said under his breath, just for you. "Not because I think you'll hurt anyone—but because I know how terrified you are of doing it."

You didn't reply.

But in that moment, you believed him.

And for the first time in years, the idea of staying didn't feel like a trap.

It felt like maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something you thought you'd never have again.

A life.

It didn't take long before you were officially inducted into the Armed Detective Agency. There was no grand ceremony—just a signature, a few papers, and a half-hearted "welcome" from Kunikida while Ranpo stole the last of the agency's cookies behind his back. It felt surreal, really. After years of solitude, you suddenly had a good job. A title. A place.

A home.

And apparently… a new apartment.

"Lucky you," Kenji beamed, swinging a box filled with your books effortlessly over one shoulder. "Your place is right next to Dazai-san's! That way he can keep you safe at all times!"

"Safe?" Dazai repeated from behind the box of potted plants he'd agreed to carry but now sat beside him on the sidewalk. "You mean emotionally tormented and psychologically confused. Honestly, those are the best ways to live."

You rolled your eyes as you passed him another box from the small delivery truck the Agency had helped arrange. "You said you were going to help carry things."

"I am helping. I'm supervising. And spiritually supporting you from the comfort of this very shady patch of sidewalk," he sighed dramatically, collapsing further against the building as if lifting a finger would cause his death.

Kenji giggled. "He said the same thing when I helped him move in."

"Exactly! Tradition is important, Kenji-kun!"

You tried not to smile—but it was hard around Kenji's cheer and Dazai's nonsense. The day was warm, the sky open, and for once, you weren't holding your breath for something to go wrong.

The apartment itself was… small. Sparse. But yours. Clean floors, neutral walls, a little balcony that overlooked a quiet street. And best (or worst?) of all: a thin wall separating your unit from Dazai's.

He wasted no time making himself at home in yours.

"I mean, clearly this is fate," he said casually, flopping onto your couch. "Your power kills with touch, my power nullifies all powers. It's like the universe wants us to be together forever. An eternal bond. Tragic. Romantic. Unavoidable."

You arched a brow. "You're insufferable."

"But touchable," he added, holding out his hand with a wink. "And that's rare in your case."

You ignored him and started unpacking a stack of mismatched dishes. He watched you for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly—not with suspicion, but something softer. Then, of course, he ruined it.

"Imagine," he sighed dreamily, "we could get matching coffins. Lay side-by-side under the cherry blossoms. Lovers in death. Poetic, no?"

You paused, turned to glare. "Is that your idea of flirting?"

"Only when it's with someone special."

Kenji poked his head in from the balcony, arms stretched over his head as he enjoyed the breeze. "Dazai-san flirts with everyone."

"Kenji-kun!" Dazai gasped. "That makes me sound disingenuous. I'll have you know, I only flirt with people who intrigue me. And people who might kill me. You, dear neighbor, happen to be both."

You couldn't stop the quiet laugh that slipped out, and Dazai's eyes flicked toward you, pleased.

Maybe it was reckless—being near him. He teased death like it was an old friend and wrapped sarcasm around him like armor. But for all his fatalism, Dazai didn't look at you with fear. Not once. He touched you without flinching, sat close without tension. You didn't have to be careful around him. You didn't have to apologize for existing.

"You're thinking too hard," he said, tipping his head at you. "That's dangerous. First it leads to hope. Then it leads to heartbreak. Then, inevitably—" He mimed a gun to his head. "Bang."

You gave him a flat look. "You're not very good at comforting people."

"I'm excellent at comforting people. I just do it in a way that makes them reconsider their entire existence."

You sighed and dropped onto the couch next to him—not close enough to touch, but closer than you'd ever let anyone else sit before.

He noticed.

No comment. No teasing.

Just a slight smile as he leaned back, arms folded behind his head, like he belonged there.

Maybe he did.

The soft hum of Yokohama at night drifted through the air—distant traffic, rustling leaves, the occasional bark or laughter echoing from streets far below. The city was winding down. But on your little balcony, tucked away just above the streetlights, it felt like time had slowed to a hush.

You sat shoulder to shoulder with Dazai, legs pulled up onto the chair, cradling a warm mug in your hands. He nursed a bottle of something questionable beside you, the label peeled halfway off, his other arm resting lazily along the back of your seat—close, but not quite touching. Not yet.

"I've been thinking," he said quietly, breaking the silence between you with a voice softer than usual. No dramatic inflection, no sharp grin. Just a murmur beneath the stars.

"That's dangerous," you replied without looking at him.

He chuckled. "Everything I do is dangerous. But…" He tilted his head to glance at you. "It's been a month since you joined the ADA."

You looked down at your mug.

"I know."

"I'm just wondering," he continued, "how you're doing. Really doing. You've never talked about your past."

You didn't answer right away. A breeze passed, brushing your hair across your face, and you tucked it behind your ear with a sigh. He didn't push. He never did when it came to this. For all the jokes and suicide pacts he tried to rope you into, he never forced you to speak.

Maybe that's why you finally did.

"I haven't… really talked about it ever before. Not properly." Your voice was barely above a whisper. "When my ability first appeared, I didn't even know what it was. I was a kid. Just a kid."

You swallowed, throat tight. Dazai didn't move, but you felt the tension ease from him—like he was giving you space and attention at the same time.

"It happened so fast. One minute I was hugging my dad good morning. And the next…" You trailed off. "He was on the floor. Convulsing. And I couldn't do anything. I didn't even know I had done it. Not until after."

You weren't crying. You thought maybe you would. But the tears had already come and gone, years ago, in the dark, when no one could hear them. Now there was just the ache. And the silence.

"I loved him so much," you whispered. "And after that… no one ever looked at me the same. Not the orphanage, not the teachers, not anyone. I learned to stay away. I had to."

A moment passed.

Then you felt it: the soft weight of his arm curling around your shoulders. Not hesitant, not pitying. Just there. Solid. Warm. Real.

You stiffened—reflexively—but he didn't draw back, didn't tense. Just let it happen. Gave you time.

And slowly, so slowly, you let your body lean sideways until your shoulder brushed his chest, until your weight rested slightly against him.

"I've been alone for so long," you admitted. "I think I forgot what it felt like to not be."

You felt his chin rest lightly atop your head.

"I know that feeling," he murmured. "All too well."

No lectures. No empty reassurances. No lies about how everything would be fine. Just his presence—like a promise unspoken. You could survive. You didn't have to do it alone.

Not anymore.

The city continued its quiet song beneath you, but you only listened to the steady beat of Dazai's breathing beside you. In a world that had taken so much from you… somehow, this had been given back.

And you clung to it like something sacred.

Masterlist

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