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cressidagrey · 11 days ago

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The Witnesses

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

Summary: Felicity and Oscar’s Years at Haileybury School through the eyes of their classmates.

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

I spent every free minute I had in four days writing this and you are getting it today because I'll be busy tomorrow ❤️

Also warning, about a mention of an eating disorder and a bruised sternum and pneumonia...I think that's everything? Wait, I forgot: Teenagers being horrible.

Samir Malik

Oscar Piastri didn’t talk much when he first arrived at Haileybury.

Not in the way that most new kids were shy. No, Oscar was… quiet. Composed. Too still for a 14-year-old. He never cried. Never complained.

He was gone half the time for Karting, and the rest of the time he had his uniform perfect, his homework early, and his backpack zipped with the kind of militant precision that made most of them suspicious.

He was brilliant.

Top marks in math and science by week two. Made the cricket team without breaking a sweat.

But he was always alone.

Some of the boys thought he was a bit of a freak. Too good. Too blank. It wasn’t cruelty at first—just curiosity turned sour when Oscar didn’t play along.

By week two, someone had called him Robot Boy.

By week three, it stuck.

Samir had never said it himself. But he’d laughed the first time someone made the joke in the dorms—when Oscar finished a physics quiz in four minutes flat and just… sat there blinking while everyone else panicked.

“Careful, Robot Boy. You’re gonna fry a circuit.”

Oscar didn’t respond.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

He just looked at them, impassive and too old, and returned to his notebook.

Samir remembered thinking: Jesus. Maybe he really is a robot.

Then came Felicity Leong. She had been there since 7th grade. Singaporean, sharp-eyed and scarily good at Latin. The kind of girl who corrected the teacher when the subjunctive case was wrong and then looked bored five seconds later.

And Robot Boy—Oscar—reacted.

Not big. Not obvious. But Samir noticed it.

Oscar sat next to her in every class. Lingered in hallways. Spoke softly to her in the library like he was afraid too many syllables would scare her off. It was weird. And tender.

And completely recognisable from the stone-faced boy Oscar was around everybody else.

Everyone saw it.

Everyone.

Which is probably why Josh Whitmore opened his dumb mouth.

They were fourteen. Sitting in the courtyard. Samir remembered it clearly—crisp day, grey skies, the smell of overcooked chips wafting from the canteen.

Josh was laughing about something, flicking bottle caps at a tree, and then said—loudly, and with the smugness only a 14-year-old bully can muster:

“Bet Robot Boy only likes her ‘cause she’s got no tits and doesn’t talk back.”

There was a pause.

Oscar, who had been two benches over reading some engineering book like a pensioner, stood up.

Walked over.

Didn’t say anything.

Just looked at Josh with this dead-calm expression that made the hairs on Samir’s neck stand up.

And , then—without a single word—Oscar shoved him. Hard.

Josh went stumbling into the grass with a yelp, more stunned than hurt, and Oscar just kept walking forward. Not fast. Not angry.

Controlled.

Like something had clicked inside him.

“Don’t talk about Felicity like that,” he said quietly.

Josh scrambled up. “Mate, it was a joke—”

Oscar’s voice cut through him like a blade. “Say it again.”

And the whole courtyard went silent.

Samir remembered Felicity arriving seconds later—hair pulled back, eyebrows furrowed, voice soft with warning.

“Oscar. Stop. It’s not worth it.”

And the moment she spoke, the tension snapped. Oscar took a step back. His fists unclenched. He looked at her like gravity pulled him in place.

And then he walked away.

Oscar didn’t get detention—Josh didn’t dare to report it.

Samir sat on the edge of the Year 9 dorm windowsill that night, watching the courtyard disappear into dusk, chewing the inside of his cheek and thinking about the look on Piastri’s face.

Not rage.

Not even anger, really.

Just… defense. Like he’d been wired to stay calm until someone touched the single thing he wouldn’t let them ruin.

And then he snapped.

Samir had seen blokes lose their heads before. Shouting, flailing, posturing. That wasn’t what Oscar did.

Oscar had moved like someone protecting something. Like something old and silent and raw had cracked open, and all that ice they joked about—Robot Boy and the Circuit Board Brain—had turned into fire instead.

He didn’t look robotic anymore.

He looked like he cared.

Which, to be honest, made everything a bit awkward now. Because once Samir saw it—really saw it—he couldn’t unsee it.

The way Oscar sat on the floor beside Felicity in study hall, backs to the radiator, knees just brushing. The way he always knew if she was too quiet. The way she’d pass him a protein bar without looking, or rest her head against his shoulder when she was reading.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t a performance.

It was just… them.

And suddenly all the stupid jokes—the beep boop, the Emotion.exe not found memes, the Robot Boy name—felt wrong.

Small.

Because Oscar Piastri wasn’t a robot.

He was just the kind of kid who didn’t trust the world enough to show what he felt.

Not until someone gave him a reason to.

And Samir had a feeling that reason had a Singaporean accent, an encyclopedic knowledge of Classical literature, and a deadpan stare that could kill gods.

Oscar made his point.

Nobody called him Robot Boy again after that.

***

The thing about Oscar — and Samir had said this more than once, usually while watching another one of their classmates fumble the bare minimum — was that he had better emotional range than half their year combined.

Because while the rest of them were fumbling through breakups and making disasters out of almost-relationships, Oscar Piastri had already picked his person. And he didn’t waffle. Didn’t wander. Didn’t flirt for fun.

It was ridiculous, really.

Unfair.

Downright confusing at times.

They were sixteen, surrounded by the usual chaos of boarding school — boys who thought vulnerability was weakness, who treated relationships like status badges or games, who ghosted girls because they didn’t know how to talk about feelings without making it a joke.

And then there was Oscar. Unflappable. Quiet. Surgical with his logic. And somehow the most emotionally well-adjusted, devotion-wrapped-in-a-Haileybury-blazer boyfriend any of them had ever seen.

By the time they were 15, Oscar Piastri and Felicity Leong were a couple.

And Oscar just… adored Felicity. With the steady, unshakeable devotion of someone who knew.

Most guys in their year didn’t know what to do with girls like Felicity. Too smart, too composed, too quietly self-possessed. The kind of girl who could skin you alive in debate club and do it politely.

Oscar, though?

He adored her. Out loud. No hesitation.

It wasn’t the loud kind of high school obsession, either. He didn’t brag or trail after her like a puppy. There was no performative PDA or “look at us” hallway snogging.

Oscar didn’t half like her. He didn’t flirt with other girls. He didn’t act embarrassed or annoyed when she beat him on mock exams.

He just… adored her.

Unapologetically.

Even at fifteen.

Samir remembered watching them once in the library — Felicity curled in a beanbag with a thick textbook in her lap, Oscar sitting next to her with his laptop open and a hand casually resting on her ankle like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Like it was just instinct now. Like: here is the person I love, and here is how I stay tethered to her.

And he meant it. That was the weird part.

Oscar showed up to breakfast half-asleep but always saved her a seat.

He remembered her test dates better than his own.

He didn’t need to say it every five seconds. He didn’t do public declarations or grand gestures.

What he did do was carry her bag when her shoulder hurt.

Robot boy, Samir thought again, watching as Felicity leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

It was him pulling her into his side when she was quiet for too long — not asking questions, just making room.

Oscar waited for Felicity after her lectures. Learn how she took her tea and get genuinely annoyed when someone else got it wrong.

Oscar brought her snacks during exam week. Walked her back from the library even when it was out of his way. Remembered her coffee order. Looked up random facts about things she liked just to talk to her about them.

Once, when she missed school for a week with pneumonia, Oscar handwrote her notes for every subject and stapled them with colour-coded tabs.

Samir remembered watching Oscar slip into the common room once, find Felicity asleep with her head on her textbook, and quietly set a blanket over her shoulders before sitting down with his own homework like it was just part of his day.

No show. No gloating. No performance.

Just a sixteen-year-old boy with a heart so obvious it didn’t need to be shouted.

“God, you’re like her golden retriever,” Aarya had joked once.

And Oscar, without missing a beat, had said, “Yeah. And I’d bite anyone who tried to hurt her.”

No hesitation.

Samir had seen a lot of boys fake maturity. Fake romance. Fake effort.

But Oscar Piastri? He meant every word. Meant it with his hands and his actions.

Oscar Piastri did things no other teenage boy would ever be willingly admit to doing.

He wasn’t embarrassed to sit in the front row of Felicity’s orchestra concerts, even if she only had a three-minute violin solo buried in the middle of a 42-minute program.

He brought flowers, every time — not some sad petrol station bouquet, but little ones he clearly chose himself, wrapped in brown paper like a scene from a European indie film.

He knew when her auditions were. When her math competitions were. He even showed up to the Year 10 robotics club showcase — the one nobody went to except for teachers and bewildered parents — just because Felicity had designed the sensor rig for one of the projects.

And when Samir had casually asked why, Oscar blinked at him and said, "Because it matters to her."

It was that simple.

It always was, with Oscar.

It was the small things, mostly. The things most guys their age would've called "whipped" or "soft" or "too much."

Like how Oscar had learned to braid hair.

Not just ponytails or messy plaits — proper French braids. Fishtails. Crown braids. Because Felicity would get headaches during exam weeks and needed help when her hands were sore from writing too much, and Oscar — ever the problem solver — had simply watched a YouTube tutorial and figured it out.

He kept extra hair ties on his wrist for her after that.

Or the time she went through a stress baking phase and made it exactly three cupcakes before remembering she hated measuring.

Oscar took over the mixing bowls.

By the end of the term, he knew her favourite cookie ratios by heart — and the best way to sneak extra chocolate chips into the dough without her noticing.

The worst — or best — part?

Oscar even tried ballet.

Ballet.

Oscar Piastri, who had the natural grace of a brick in sneakers, signed up for a beginner’s movement class because Felicity once offhandedly said it helped her de-stress. Samir only found out because someone caught a glimpse of him in the dance studio trying not to fall over during a plié and asked if he was doing it for PE credit.

“No,” Oscar had said flatly, stretching his arms out in second position. “I’m just trying to understand why she likes it.”

And it wasn’t weird. Somehow it wasn’t weird.

Because Oscar wasn’t trying to impress her. He wasn’t performing. He just… cared.

Cared for the things that Felicity cared about.

***

It was two weeks before the Winter Formal when Samir walked into the common room and saw something that made him stop dead in his tracks.

Felicity Leong — calm, brilliant, terrifyingly precise Felicity — was in the middle of the room, humming under her breath as she corrected Oscar’s posture with both hands on his shoulders. Oscar, meanwhile, was standing stiffly like he was being prepped for battle, his expression somewhere between concentration and mild existential crisis.

“You’re not holding a steering wheel,” she said, deadpan.

“I feel like I’m about to crash anyway,” Oscar muttered.

Samir blinked. “Is this… dancing?”

Oscar gave him a flat look. “Apparently I have the grace of a traffic cone.”

“He’s not that bad,” Felicity said generously, adjusting his grip. “He just counts every beat like it owes him money.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “You try learning footwork after three hours of calculus.”

Felicity only smiled. “That’s why we’re practicing now.”

They had cleared space near the windows — moved the armchairs back, stacked textbooks on one end table, even pushed the coffee table into the hallway. The overhead lights had been switched off, leaving only the soft glow of lamps and the flicker of fairy lights someone had pinned up for the holidays.

Samir watched as Felicity placed one hand in Oscar’s, the other on his shoulder, and gently nudged him into motion.

“One, two, three,” she counted under her breath. “One, two—Oscar, stop anticipating.”

“I’m trying!”

“You’re panicking.”

“I am not—okay maybe I am.”

They stumbled a little — Oscar’s foot knocking into hers — but Felicity just laughed, soft and patient. She never lost her temper with him. Never seemed bothered that he learned slower than she did, or forgot the names of steps, or treated every turn like a math equation. She just… kept showing up. Kept teaching him.

And Oscar — to his credit — kept trying.

Even when he blushed. Even when he muttered under his breath about how stupid he felt. Even when he absolutely did step on her foot and looked so horrified that she had to reassure him three times that it didn’t hurt.

They danced like that for almost half an hour. Him counting. Her humming. The two of them spinning in slow, careful circles like they existed in their own little orbit.

By the end of it, they were both breathless.

Felicity smoothed her hands down the front of his jumper. “You’re not hopeless.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Oscar muttered.

“You’ll be fine,” she said softly. “It’s just dancing.”

“It’s not just dancing,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It’s you. I don’t want to mess it up.”

She smiled. “Then stop trying to get it perfect. Just hold me and move.”

And when the formal finally came around — when Samir saw them gliding across the dance floor in that same easy rhythm, Oscar whispering something that made Felicity laugh into her hand — he thought back to that night in the common room. To the effort. To the nerves.

To the way love didn’t always look like big declarations.

Sometimes it just looked like a boy learning to waltz because the girl he loved wanted to dance.

And sometimes, that was more than enough.

***

Oscar never bragged.

He never looked around to check if anyone noticed. He just did it — quietly, consistently, like loving Felicity was the most natural thing in the world. Like of course he’d learn basic hairstyling and baroque composer facts and pointe shoe padding techniques.

Like he got how brilliant she was, and just wanted to make the world a little easier for her to keep being that brilliant.

It was also everything most girls in their year didn’t even dare ask for — consistency, care, quiet protection. Not flashy gestures, but a soft kind of loyalty that said, I choose you. Every time.

Samir once watched Oscar press a cold bottle of water to the back of Felicity’s neck after an exam because she looked faint. No drama. No “look at me.” Just calm, practiced concern. Like he knew her body better than she did.

They called him “Robot Boy,” but Samir was starting to think the rest of them were the malfunctioning ones.

Because Oscar had cracked something early — something the rest of them hadn’t figured out yet. That being soft for someone wasn’t weakness. That loving your person out loud didn’t make you less cool. That being emotionally available wasn’t some humiliating thing you had to disguise with bravado.

Oscar didn’t pretend he wasn’t in love.

He was in love.

He knew it. Felicity knew it. Their entire year group knew it.

And Oscar Piastri didn’t give a shit.

Samir once saw Felicity walk into the dining hall in one of Oscar’s hoodies, three sizes too big and clearly stolen that morning. Oscar just smiled at her like she was the sun.

Fifteen years old and that boy looked at her like he’d already found the rest of his life.

And somehow, Samir thought, he probably had.

And when someone once dared to suggest that he was “whipped,” Oscar had looked up from his physics homework and said, without a trace of embarrassment:

“I’m in love. That’s not weakness.”

And Samir, for the first time, hadn’t had a comeback.

Because somehow, the most emotionally competent teenage boy in their entire school… was the one they all thought had no feelings to begin with.

Robot boy, his ass.

Oscar Piastri was the gold standard of emotionally intelligent teenage boys since 2016.

***

Aarya Patel

Aarya had come to Haileybury on a scholarship.

The full-ride kind. Interviews, essays, and recommendation letters from teachers who had to dig their nicest shirts out of the back of their closets just to help her prepare.

Aarya knew the weight of price tags, the stress of term fees, the exact moment each of her shoes started to fray. She knew how to patch the inside hem of a school blazer so no one noticed. Knew how to say no when her friends wanted to go into town for sushi.

So she noticed things. She had to.

She noticed when girls wore real gold instead of plated. When someone's watch wasn’t for fashion, it was family inheritance. When a hair tie cost more than her whole pencil case.

Which was why Felicity Leong had confused the hell out of her.

Because Felicity was rich.

Not new money, not dad’s-got-a-tech-startup rich. Not the noisy kind. Not the constantly-proving-it kind.

She was old money. Singaporean old money. The kind that whispered.

That quietly owned real estate portfolios on three continents.

The kind that came with family foundations.

The kind that embroidered initials into silk pillowcases.

The kind that never checked price tags and had luggage that matched — properly matched.

Aarya had heard the whispers early on.

Leong family. Raffles Girls. Mandarin spoken like silk. Designer uniforms tailored to fit better than any off-the-rack brand. Someone had once said her mother wore Van Cleef like it was costume jewelry. Another claimed Felicity had pearls for every mood.

Felicity’s family didn’t have money.

Felicity had capital-W Wealth.

It was the kind of old, Singaporean, intergenerational wealth that didn’t need to prove itself. The kind that came with century old family trees, and museum-grade jade quietly worn under school jumpers.

Felicity Leong had the kind of posture that came from years of ballet and finishing school, the kind of enunciation that sounded like every word had passed inspection before being spoken.

Her family, Aarya overheard once, lived in an estate in Bukit Timah. Had staff. Flew private when they visited Europe. Somebody once said they had an art collection they anonymously lend to museums.

And Felicity had things.

Tiny pearl studs that had to be real — the soft lustre gave them away.

Blouses that always sat just so at the collarbone.

A cashmere jumper in Year 11 that no one ever commented on, but Aarya had once googled out of spite. It had cost more than Aarya’s family paid for rent in three months.

Felicity had real diamond studs tucked in velvet-lined boxes, pristine skirts that probably cost more than Aarya’s entire wardrobe, and a collection of tailored trousers that could’ve walked straight out of a Vogue editorial.

Silk hair ribbons. A monogrammed Smythson planner. A designer school bag Aarya had only ever seen in glossy fashion magazines. Her shoes were always leather. Her pens were engraved. Engraved.

Felicity had matching pyjama sets. She had a vintage Cartier tank watch she never even bragged about. She had cashmere socks for winter term. She packed her designer shoes in individual dust bags when they went home for the holidays. Her luggage had wheels that actually worked.

Felicity probably didn’t even know how much her shampoo cost.

And she didn’t show off any of it. That was the worst part.

She didn’t flaunt it.

Felicity walked around like all of this was normal — not curated, not performative, just part of the atmospheric pressure of her life.

And at first?

Aarya hated her for it.

She hated Felicity for how effortless it looked.

For how quietly beautiful Felicity was, in a way that didn’t try.

For how softly she spoke.

For how her handwriting looked like it had been lifted out of a calligraphy book. For how teachers always nodded when she raised her hand — not indulgently, but with interest.

For how Felicity could be so nice and still walk around in tailored coats and diamonds.

Aarya couldn’t even afford a coffee from the library vending machine. Felicity carried tea sachets in a silver tin and never even mentioned it.

It burned.

It seethed.

Because if you’re going to be that rich, Aarya thought bitterly, at least have the decency to be horrible.

But Felicity wasn’t horrible.

She was polite. Warm, in a quiet, shy way. She said thank you to staff.

She offered her umbrella to someone once during a sudden downpour — someone she didn’t even know.

She tutored a Year 9 boy in maths after he cried in front of the headmistress. She knew the names of the cleaners and left sticky notes for the librarian when she borrowed extra books.

And the worst part?

Felicity never talked about the money. Never even alluded to it.

Aarya had been waiting — waiting — for the moment the mask would slip. When Felicity would say something out of touch or condescending or make a comment about “the lower sets” or sniff at a secondhand jumper.

But it never came.

Aarya hated that more.

Because if Felicity had been awful, mean, or arrogant, it would’ve been easier. She could have ranted about privilege, weaponised her bitterness into snarky commentary.

But Felicity just... was.

She tucked herself into study carrels like she was trying not to take up space. She said thank you to the dining hall staff. She read novels between classes and didn’t raise her hand in lectures unless she was sure she wouldn’t dominate the conversation.

She turned up to group projects with colour-coded folders.

And when they got partnered in chemistry for three weeks, Felicity had quietly brought extra gloves because Aarya’s had a hole.

She didn’t say anything. Just passed them over with that quiet kind of grace that made Aarya want to scream.

It wasn’t just that Felicity had wealth.

It was that she had elegance. Ease. A kind of unbothered generosity that made Aarya feel every frayed seam and secondhand paperback like a flashing neon sign.

And the worst part?

Felicity didn’t even seem to notice.

She wasn’t trying to make anyone feel lesser. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She had just... grown up differently.

With rooms named after ancestors and furniture older than some countries.

With a family who collected art, not Air Miles. With a mother who’d taught her how to arrange flowers and match emeralds to skin tone.

And despite all of it — all of it — Felicity still sat beside Aarya in physics and offered Aarya her muffin from lunch without blinking.

Felicity still invited her to study sessions. Felicity still lent her a scarf when it got too cold in the dorms.

Felicity didn’t try to be likable.

She just was.

And that, eventually, was what made Aarya stop hating her.

And the resentment, eventually, turned into a grudging admiration.

Then into friendship.

Then into the kind of quiet, no-bullshit loyalty that only happened when two girls survived adolescence together — one of them with patched seams, the other with pearls and perfect grades, both of them brilliant in entirely different ways.

Even if Aarya still thought the pens were a bit much.

***

It started with a hoodie.

A battered blue thing with a cracked HP TUNERS on the front. It looked like it belonged to a mechanic. It even had frayed cuffs.

Felicity had the sleeves pulled over her hands like she didn’t even realise she was doing it, the drawstring half chewed from stress. It didn’t match anything else she wore — not the fine-strapped watch, not the clean ballet flats, not the pearl earrings tucked discreetly into her lobes.

Felicity was, by all accounts, elegant. She wore her school uniform like it was custom-tailored. Her hair was always neatly pinned or knotted or braided, and her posture could make a royal court jealous.

And that hoodie also was…huge. Like, swamp-her-entire-body huge.

Aarya squinted.

And then Oscar Piastri walked into the study room, said, “Hey, you found it,” and tugged at the hoodie’s shoulder playfully.

Aarya blinked.

Oh.

Felicity didn’t blush. She didn’t really do that kind of fluster.

She just shrugged and muttered something about “cold lecture halls” and kept reading.

But after that, it became a pattern.

Every couple of days: a hoodie that was too long in the sleeves. Sometimes even one of Oscar’s t-shirts in the common room in the evening…or while working out — old and soft and worn thin from washing.

And always, always, Felicity wore them like they were hers. Like she forgot they weren’t.

Felicity could’ve worn Chanel to breakfast if she wanted. Could’ve wrapped herself in silk and cashmere and hand-stitched blouses from Orchard Road boutiques.

She had worn a Hermes scarf last year, that had made a couple of girls nearly choke with jealousy.

But somehow Felicity Leong always ended up in something that belonged to Oscar—like she’d rather have cotton that smelled like karting fuel and shampoo than diamonds on her collarbone.

Felicity’s favourite thing in the world seemed to be Oscar Piastri’s hoodies.

She wore them like a clockwork.

Like a habit.

Like comfort.

Aarya remembered watching her slip into one after cross-country practice—hair damp, trainers muddy, too tired to talk. The hoodie was washed soft, practically shapeless, sleeves pulled over her knuckles like armor.

Felicity had a Burberry coat in her wardrobe. A cashmere trench. A silk blazer with the tags still on. But she reached for Oscar’s hoodie instead.

Always his.

It unsettled Aarya.

Because she didn’t get it.

Didn’t understand how someone who had grown up in private jets and penthouses would choose something so ordinary. So threadbare. So unpolished.

So… him.

And Aarya couldn’t help thinking about that.

***

It was a rare quiet Saturday.

Most of the boarding house had scattered…library, practice fields, town runs. Aarya had stayed behind to finish a chemistry write-up, tucked into the corner of the common room with Felicity, who was curled up in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, reading something with six bookmarks and a page full of margin notes.

She was wearing one of Oscar’s hoodies again.

Navy blue. Faded print on the front. Sleeves too long, cuffs tucked between her fingers.

And below it—her skirt and dainty chanel flats.

The contrast struck Aarya like it always did.

“You know,” Aarya said, “I’ve always wondered something.”

Felicity didn’t look up. “Is it the secret to cold fusion? Because if it is, you’ll have to wait until I finish this chapter.”

Aarya huffed a laugh. “No. Just—” She gestured vaguely toward the hoodie. “You always wear his stuff. But everything else you own is, like, designer. Hermes. Dior. Chanel. Your school coat’s got pearls on the buttons.”

Felicity slowly lowered the book and met her gaze with a raised brow. “And?”

Aarya shrugged. “Just wondering why. You don’t have to wear secondhand hoodies. And you obviously don’t care what anyone thinks, so… why do you?”

Felicity was quiet for a long moment. Not in a dismissive way. Just… careful.

Then she said, very simply, “Because I picked the hoodies.”

Aarya blinked.

Felicity looked back at her book, fingers absently smoothing the creased corner. “The rest of it? The labels, the cuts, the colours? My mother picks all of that. I’ve been wearing what she tells me to wear since I was born.”

Her tone wasn’t bitter. Wasn’t even resigned. It was like Felicity was describing the weather.

“She says it’s about presentation. About honouring the family, and making the right impression. I don’t get a say.”

Felicity paused. “But Oscar’s hoodies? Those are mine. I choose them. They don’t fit right and they don’t match and she’d probably faint if she saw me in them—but I chose them. No one else.”

Aarya sat back, something slow and sharp settling in her chest.

“And he never asks for them back,” Felicity added, softer this time. “Not once.”

She didn’t say what that meant.

She didn’t need to.

Aarya got it.

The hoodie wasn’t just fabric. It was freedom. A small rebellion. A claim staked quietly in a world that tried to dress her up and keep her still.

And Oscar—quiet, loyal Oscar—had just let her take it. Again and again. Without question.

Aarya didn’t ask any more questions that day.

But she never looked at those hoodies the same way again.

Because Felicity Leong had everything money could buy.

And she chose something that couldn’t be bought.

She chose a boy from Melbourne with karting calluses on his hands and softness in his eyes.

She chose his hoodie.

Over pearls. Over diamonds. Over all of it.

***

Lara Pearson

Felicity was that girl.

Not in the mean, perfect-blonde-hair, head-girl-with-a-clipboard way. No. She was terrifyingly quiet, borderline surgical with her pens, and once corrected a Year Nine on their French conjugation without looking up from her sudoku.

Here’s the thing about Felicity Leong:

She wasn’t just smart.

She was unreal.

Lara had known it since Year Seven—since the first science lab, actually, when everyone else was still figuring out how to hold a test tube without shattering it, and Felicity was calmly correcting the teacher on which dilution would give the most accurate result.

At eleven.

With pigtails.

And a voice like honeyed ice.

Lara remembered turning to Samir afterward and whispering, “Did she just—”

And Samir, wide-eyed, had nodded. “Yeah. She did.”

By Year Nine, Felicity had memorized three Shakespeare plays for fun and was tutoring older students in calculus.

By Year Ten, she’d won the national science fair, debated a university professor on climate policy (and won), and casually designed an app to help Aarya’s dyslexic younger brother learn phonics.

And by Year Eleven?

Well.

By Year Eleven, Felicity could walk into a room and silence it with nothing more than a glance and a perfectly worded dismantling of someone’s half-baked argument about capitalism.

But it wasn’t just her academics.

It was everything.

The way she saw the world—like it was a system of interlocking parts, and if she looked long enough, she’d figure out the code. Like she could disassemble reality and rebuild it better if she only had the time.

Felicity Leong was terrifying in that quiet, precise way genius often is.

People underestimated her sometimes—mistook her silence for shyness, her neat clothes and high-achieving record as nothing more than that. But Lara had seen behind the curtain.

She’d been there when Felicity, at thirteen, explained quantum entanglement using toast and jam. She’d watched her annotate the entire syllabus of a new elective subject over one day, then act like it wasn’t a big deal.

She once caught Felicity solving a university-level maths problem on the back of a napkin at lunch. Just because she was bored.

Lara had always done well in school. Top sets. Good grades. Solid work ethic.

But Felicity?

Felicity operated on a different plane entirely.

It wasn’t just brainpower—it was how her mind moved. Fast and sharp and endless. Like she could zoom out to the big picture and zoom in to the minutiae at the same time. Like nothing ever truly surprised her because she’d already run every possible version of the conversation in her head.

***

But Felicity’s intelligence was why Lara didn’t get it.

She really didn’t.

It wasn’t that she disliked Oscar Piastri — he was fine, in that blank-expression, too-polite, probably-a-robot way.

But if you’d asked her in Year 8 whether the smartest girl in school would end up with the guy who spent weekends elbow-deep in axle grease and came back smelling like burnt rubber, she would’ve laughed in your face.

Felicity Leong was dazzling. Quiet, yes — but only in the way old libraries were quiet: full of brilliance and backbone.

Felicity Leong was elegance and sharp wit and competence in every form. Her handwriting looked like it belonged in a museum. She’d fixed Lara’s broken laptop charger with a paperclip once and had taught herself enough German to read Goethe in the original by the time she was fifteen.

Oscar Piastri, by comparison, was… a boy. A nice boy, sure. A talented one, okay. But still just a boy.

What Lara didn’t understand was why Felicity — of all people — had chosen to orbit him.

It wasn’t that Oscar was awful. He wasn’t. He was fine. He was kind, soft-spoken, occasionally funny when he forgot to overthink it. And it was clear he’d rather set himself on fire than say anything cruel. But he was also… well, kind of boring.

A “karting wonderboy,” sure. But what did that even mean? Half the school didn’t know what F4 was, and the other half thought racing was just glorified Mario Kart.

Meanwhile, Felicity was Felicity. Lara had watched Felicity take down Year 11 boys in ethics class and build model bridges like she was auditioning for a structural engineering firm.

And now Lara was watching Felicity:

Felicity reminded Oscar of deadlines.

Edited his physics papers.

Built him an study schedule complete with snack reminders.

Used highlighters to colour-code his flashcards.

Taught him how to waltz before the formal.

She once hand-sewed a new velcro patch on his racing gloves because he didn’t want to replace them before the season was over.

Once, Lara had caught her baking cookies. When she asked why, Felicity had said, “Oscar hasn’t been eating properly again. He’s stressed about qualifying.”

Qualifying. Like this was Formula One. Like the boy with the still-cracked phone screen and perma-oil-stained hoodie was actually Lewis Bloody Hamilton.

Felicty bought extra headphones because Oscar kept losing his.

Wrote out study notes for both of them in neat, annotated colors.

And the worst part was, Felicity didn’t even seem to notice she was doing it.

“She could be doing anything,” Lara muttered to Aarya once. “She could build rockets. Or code AI. Or date someone who doesn’t smell like petrol.”

Aarya just shrugged. “She wants Oscar.”

“But why?”

Lara didn’t get it. Couldn’t get it.

Not when she watched Felicity spend hours printing laminated flashcards for Oscar’s media training, or reorganizing their entire joint Google Drive so he wouldn’t have to fumble around for assignments while competing. Not when she skipped out on a party because he had food poisoning in a hotel halfway across the world and she wanted to FaceTime him through it.

Lara noticed all of it. The little ways Felicity folded herself around Oscar’s life — like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And it drove her mad.

Not because she didn’t like Oscar. But because she couldn’t see it. Couldn’t understand why Felicity wasn’t bored out of her mind dating some karting wannabe who barely looked up from his data logs.

“Why him?” she asked once, in a rare late-night moment when it was just the two of them brushing their teeth in the bathroom.

Felicity paused. “What do you mean?”

“You could have anyone. Like, literally anyone. You’re… you. Why Oscar?”

Felicity blinked, then smiled a little — that soft, steady smile that meant she’d already thought about this a hundred times.

“Oscar listens,” she said simply. “He makes space for me.. He’s kind. I don’t need to be brilliant for him.”

Lara frowned. “That’s it?”

Felicity laughed. “That’s everything.”

Lara didn’t get it then. Not really.

***

Lara had always assumed that Felicity’s thing with Oscar was a phase.

A soft rebellion. A teenage distraction. Something tender and temporary — the kind of first love you always remember but eventually outgrow.

Because surely Felicity Leong — with her perfect grades and National Science Fair medals — wouldn’t tether herself to a life that revolved around… motorsports.

But the thing was, Felicity didn’t tether herself to Oscar’s world. She learned it. She mastered it. She made it her own.

At first, Lara thought it was just a phase as well.

Felicity started watching every single race Oscar was in — even the low-res, buffering-on-a-good-day livestreams from some freezing karting track in Belgium. She could quote qualifying lap deltas off the top of her head.

Lara thought Felicity would get over that as well. That she'd stop rearranging their study sessions around free practice and qualifying streams. That she'd eventually tire of kart gear ratios and F2 team hierarchies and why certain drivers struggled in wet conditions.

But she didn’t.

If anything, it got worse.

By the time they were sixteen, Felicity could name every FIA junior formula, describe the mechanics of a front wing configuration, and explain the difference between a wet setup and a quali setup like she’d invented them herself. She talked about tire degradation the way most people talked about poetry.

Felicity watched every livestream — even the terrible, stuttering ones from F4 UAE, or the Renault Eurocup feeds that froze any time there was contact. She knew the race engineers by name, the team principals by accent, and she corrected Oscar’s telemetry notes when he was too tired to spot his own oversteer correction patterns.

“I didn’t even know she liked motorsport,” Lara said once, baffled.

Aarya had just raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t.”

“Then why—?”

“Because he does.”

That was when it hit Lara — the sheer scale of it. Because Felicity Leong never did things halfway. Not for school, not for people, not for love. Especially not for Oscar.

Felicity never said it aloud. Not in a performative way. There was no “supportive girlfriend” act. No posts, no attention-seeking, no fake fandom.

She just... learned. Every single detail. Every rule and reg. Every pit strategy and suspension tweak. Quietly, methodically, fiercely.

By 17, she was the only girl in their year with a solid working knowledge of torque curves and Marxist literary theory.

***

It happened on a Thursday.

Lara would remember that forever, because Thursday was chicken katsu day in the dining hall, and she had just sat down with a plate she was emotionally invested in when Thea dropped the bombshell:

“Felicity and Oscar are graduating next year.”

Lara blinked. “What?”

“They’re doing all their A Levels in one go. Like—next year. And then they’re out. Bye-bye, Haileybury.”

Lara looked down at her tray, then back at Thea. “That’s not a thing people do. That’s not legal.”

Thea shrugged. “It is if you’re both freakishly smart and barely sleep.”

“That’s—what? No. No. They’re in Lower Sixth. We’re in Lower Sixth.”

Thea gave her a look. “Felicity has been in Upper Sixth since she was twelve, spiritually. You know that.”

Lara stood up, plate forgotten. “No, I’m sorry, what do you mean they’re graduating?”

“Ask them.”

So Lara did.

She found Oscar and Felicity exactly where she expected to: curled up together in the corner of the Sixth Form study lounge, surrounded by papers and highlighters and a bottle of cold jasmine tea. Felicity had one leg slung over Oscar’s and was annotating a textbook with deadly precision. Oscar was typing something on his laptop while absentmindedly twisting a strand of her hair around his finger.

“Is it true?” Lara demanded.

Oscar looked up. “Is what true?”

“You’re graduating this year. Both of you.”

Felicity didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“HOW?”

Oscar yawned. “She made a study plan.”

“She made a—”

“Calm down,” Felicity said mildly. “I just doubled up our course loads. With enough independent research modules, the board approved it.”

Lara stared at her. “The exam board approved it.”

“Of course they did. I wrote a proposal.”

Oscar added, “And she’s been ghostwriting half my essays, so I’m fine.”

“You WHAT—”

“Not ghostwriting,” Felicity corrected. “I just build the argument outlines and annotate the sources. He still writes them.”

“She gave me a quote bank last week that was 36 pages long,” Oscar added proudly.

Lara made a noise that was not human.

Felicity finally looked up. “You know this place isn’t built for students like us, right?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve had to correct the teachers twice this term already. And I edited the chemistry revision guides because they had typos. And Oscar needs more time for racing and less writing brain numbing essays for computer sciences.”

Lara sat down slowly, like gravity had finally caught up with her.

“You two are insane.”

Felicity offered her a chocolate from the stash hidden in Oscar’s pencil case. “Thank you.”

Oscar smiled around the bite of his protein bar. “Hey, on the bright side—you get to keep the top spot in the year. We’re gone in May.”

Lara took the chocolate like a woman defeated.

“Do your parents know?” she muttered.

Oscar just shrugged. “Mum said it sounded like something we’d do.”

Lara looked at them—two overachieving academic weapons, casually breaking the rules of reality with matching stationery—and groaned.

“I swear to God,” she said. “If you both end up solving world hunger and winning a Nobel Prize by twenty-five, I’m going to riot.”

Felicity smiled faintly. “I don’t want a Nobel.”

Oscar raised a brow. “What do you want instead?”

“I want a family. And a kitchen that’s mine.”

Oscar leaned over and kissed her cheek.

Lara watched, sighed, and leaned back in her chair.

“Fine,” she said. “But if you graduate early and still come first in everything, I’m slashing your tires.”

“Fair,” Felicity said, already back to highlighting.

***

The thing about Felicity Leong was that she didn’t do things halfway.

That applied to everything — coursework, violin practice, her color-coded study calendars, the banana bread she baked to perfect moisture ratio — but especially, especially, to Oscar.

It was easy to assume Felicity had fallen into Oscar’s world — that she was the brilliant girlfriend dragged into a boy’s motorsport pipe dream. Lara had assumed that, once.

But she’d been wrong.

Because Felicity didn’t fall into things.

She researched them. She learned them.

And when it came to Oscar, she practically earned a damn degree in motorsport before she ever turned 18.

She didn’t just support Oscar’s career. She understood it. She translated it.

And somewhere between late nights watching practice footage on a shared laptop and Oscar ferrying between boarding school weekends and regional races, Felicity changed her future for him.

Not theoretical physics. Not aerospace. Not architecture, even though she had a mind for structural form that made half the teachers beg her to apply to Cambridge.

Mechanical engineering.

Because, as she later explained in the most matter-of-fact voice imaginable: “If he’s going to race cars, someone has to make sure the people designing them aren’t idiots.”

Lara had wanted to laugh. To shake her and say you don’t have to build your life around some boy in a helmet. But she didn’t.

Because Felicity wasn’t building around him.

She was building with him. Every skill she added, every race she studied, every piece of obscure motorsport knowledge she collected — it wasn’t submission. It was strategy. Partnership.

That was the thing about Felicity Leong.

Felicity never asked for recognition. Never asked for thanks. She just poured everything she had into a boy she’d picked at fourteen years old — all the brilliance, all the discipline, all the love she didn’t know how else to express.

And that boy?

He kept every handwritten note.

Every flashcard.

Every time she’d saved his arse with last-minute essay corrections.

He memorized the way she liked her tea, the sound she made when she was tired but trying to hide it, the exact point of her back that hurt after a full day in the ballet studio.

He knew.

He always knew.

And Lara, watching them from the outside, had to admit — even if she never quite understood it, even if it had seemed ridiculous once — that it wasn’t about karting. Or racing. Or obsession.

It was about building a world around each other.

And somehow, Felicity and Oscar had managed to do exactly that.

***

Theodora “Thea” Wheeler:

Thea didn’t really notice it at first.

Not in the way that mattered.

Because Felicity Leong was the kind of girl who did everything right. Always neat. Always on time. Always top marks and clean shoes and perfect plaits in her hair. She didn’t miss things, and nothing about her looked broken.

But then there was the pancake.

It was a Saturday morning at school, and brunch had been served in the big hall with the sunny windows. Everyone had queued up in pyjamas and slipper socks, because it was the weekend and the rules were a little looser, and someone had convinced the kitchen staff to make pancakes with chocolate chips.

Thea remembered being excited.

She remembered how good it had smelled. How the syrup had pooled just right on her plate. How loud the hall had been—laughter, clatter, sugar-fuelled chaos.

She also remembered looking over and seeing Felicity with a plate in front of her.

Empty, except for one plain pancake.

No syrup. No toppings. Just sitting there, going cold.

Felicity didn’t touch it.

She was talking to someone—Samir, maybe—and smiling politely, like everything was normal. Like she wasn’t hungry. Like she wasn’t supposed to be hungry. Her fork didn’t even move. Her hands were folded in her lap like she was trying not to be seen.

Thea frowned. “You’re not eating?”

Felicity looked over. Blinked once. “I’m not really hungry.”

Which… okay. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she’d had toast earlier. Or maybe she didn’t like pancakes. But it happened again.

And again.

Over and over, Thea would see her at meals with only a few bites of food on her plate. Or skipping dessert. Or picking at soup with a spoon like it was some kind of science experiment.

She started making excuses.

I had a big breakfast. My stomach hurts. I’m fine.

Always with that same quiet voice. That same polite smile.

Thea tried not to stare. Tried not to wonder, too hard, why Felicity would leave halfway through lunch and come back ten minutes later with red-rimmed eyes.

Or why Oscar—new, quiet Oscar—had started appearing next to her at meals, always coaxing, always gentle, always watchful.

By the time they were 14, Thea had stopped offering her sweets. Felicity never said no outright. She’d just look at them, like they were something too loud, too bright, too much.

Oscar Piastri arrived in Year 10 — quiet, weirdly calm for a 14-year-old, brilliant in the kind of way that made the top sets nervous.

He didn’t talk much. Not at first. But he sat next to Felicity one afternoon in Maths, and by the end of the week, it was like they were always together.

Always.

At meals. In the library. Walking between classes. Doing study in the common room, two heads bent over one laptop with her notes and his logic and some weird telepathy that meant they barely even had to speak out loud anymore.

And then there was the toast.

It was a rainy Tuesday morning when Thea walked into the common room and saw Felicity curled up in her usual corner of the sofa, Oscar beside her with a plate balanced on one knee.

He handed her a slice.

She took it.

Ate it.

Just like that.

Thea tried not to stare.

And over the months that followed, it kept happening. Toast at breakfast. A tangerine at break. Half a sandwich at lunch. Then a whole one. Then soup and salad and seconds. Slowly. Carefully. Like she was relearning hunger and safety in the same breath.

It wasn’t perfect. Some days, Felicity still picked at her food. Some days she was quieter than others, her hands shaking just slightly as she tore a muffin into a hundred pieces and only ate two.

But Oscar always noticed.

Always passed her water. Or offered a bite of whatever was on his plate. Or distracted her with quiet jokes or flashcards or that look—the one that said, I see you, and I’m not going anywhere.

And slowly, Felicity changed.

Her face rounded out. Her jeans fit better. She started wearing Oscar’s oversized hoodies more often—not to hide, Thea thought, but because she liked them. Because they smelled like comfort and safety and someone who never made her earn softness.

It hadn’t been school that helped. Or housemistresses. Or whispered conversations between girls who didn’t know how to help.

It was Oscar.

Oscar, who never pushed but always stayed. Who never made her a project, just held space. Who gave her quiet things: time, food, choice.

It was slow, the way she changed.

But steady. Stronger, somehow.

Like someone finally gave her permission to be a person again. Not a perfect doll. Not a flawless student. Just… Felicity.

And Thea?

Thea didn’t say anything. Not then.

But she smiled more when she looked at them. And saved them seats in the dining hall.

Because not everyone gets someone who sees the storm and still stays.

But Felicity did.

And thank God for that.

***

Jian Chen:

Here’s the thing about Oscar Piastri:

He wasn’t loud.

He didn’t announce his feelings, didn’t broadcast his loyalties, didn’t write grand gestures for the world to see. He mostly kept his head down, did his work, and blended quietly into the fabric of Haileybury life, except for weekends when he’d disappear for races and come back holding another trophy.

But when it came to Felicity Leong?

Oscar was something else entirely.

Jian first noticed it one grey, rainy afternoon in the common room. It was supposed to be revision time—half the year group crammed onto sofas and beanbags, surrounded by textbooks and lukewarm cups of tea—but nobody was really paying attention.

Felicity had claimed one end of the sofa, curled up small and quiet, eyes closed, a pale crease between her brows like something hurt.

Jian had seen that look before—his sister had cramps like that sometimes, the kind that made her shrink into herself and hiss out quiet breaths, counting down seconds until they passed.

But Felicity didn’t say anything. Didn’t complain. Didn’t ask for sympathy.

She just sat there, curled around her discomfort, trying to make herself invisible.

And Oscar?

He didn’t even ask. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t wait for her to explain.

He just walked in, glanced at her, and without a word, fetched a hot water bottle from his own room. He placed it gently into her hands, as if he’d done it a hundred times before. And then he sat beside her—not too close, not crowding her—but quietly there. A solid, steady presence.

Jian watched him reach into his bag and pull out a little packet of painkillers, nudging it towards her with his knuckles. Felicity murmured something too quiet for Jian to hear, but Oscar nodded anyway, looking at her like she’d made perfect sense.

Felicity settled the hot water bottle against her stomach and finally let her head rest on Oscar’s shoulder, eyes shut tightly, breathing carefully.

Oscar didn’t move.

Not when Samir shouted something about the rugby game. Not when someone accidentally dropped a textbook and everyone laughed. Oscar just stayed there, shoulder steady beneath her cheek, his own textbook forgotten, his posture relaxed but watchful.

And Jian realised something important then:

Oscar wasn’t just taking care of Felicity.

He was guarding her quiet, letting her rest, silently building a wall around her so the world couldn’t touch her until she felt better again.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t obvious. It was just Oscar—steady, calm, gentle Oscar—doing exactly what Felicity needed without being asked.

Jian never said anything about it.

He just knew, quietly, in that moment, that Felicity Leong had someone who cared about her in a way most people never experienced at sixteen.

***

It had looked bad on the livestream.

Jian hadn’t been watching the race — not live, anyway — but by Monday morning, the clip had already made it to their year’s group chat. A hard hit to the barrier, fast and sharp. Everyone winced when they saw the replay.

“He’s definitely hurt,” someone had said.

“Maybe just winded?”

Jian hadn’t been sure.

But when Oscar walked — no, shuffled — back onto campus with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a tight grip on his ribs, it was obvious.

He was doing that thing where boys tried not to look in pain. Jaw clenched, back straight, breathing shallow. Stubborn. Stupid. Trying to out-think biology.

Jian was coming back from the vending machine when he saw them: Oscar moving stiffly toward the dorms and Felicity, already heading toward him from across the quad like she’d been waiting all morning. Not hurrying. Not running. Just moving with this terrifying sense of purpose.

She didn’t say anything when she reached him.

She just looked him over, eyes scanning his posture, his expression, the way he held his bag. Then she reached up, gently tugged the strap from his shoulder, and took it for him.

Oscar let her.

That was the first sign something was properly wrong — not the bruising, not the wince, but the fact that Oscar Piastri let someone carry his karting bag.

“Chest?” she asked softly.

“Sternum,” he admitted.

“Show me.”

“Fliss—”

She was already guiding him off the path, out of sight. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just decisive. And he followed her.

Jian didn’t mean to watch. But he did. From behind the hedge, from just the right angle, he could see Oscar unzip his hoodie, slowly and carefully, and pull it open just enough to show the purple-green bloom of bruising across the center of his chest.

Felicity inhaled sharply. Not loud — not even really angry. Just that soft, immediate breath that said: that’s worse than I thought.

She didn’t scold him.

She just pulled a small, square cold pack from her coat pocket — who just had those on them?? — cracked it to activate the chill, and handed it to him.

“Ten minutes,” she murmured. “Then I’m getting you a wrap.”

Oscar nodded like she was the team physio. Like she was the only one allowed to call the shots.

Jian watched her wrap a hoodie around his shoulders, help him sit carefully on the edge of the planter, and sit beside him without saying a word. Her hand hovered near his elbow — not touching unless he needed it.

And later that night, when Jian passed the study lounge, he saw them again.

Oscar was half-reclined on the couch with a pillow behind his back, wrapped snug in a hoodie and blanket. Felicity had brought him tea. Actual tea. Like from a ceramic mug, with honey.

She was retyping his notes for him — because writing hurt — and every few minutes, she’d reach over and tap his side, reminding him to breathe properly.

He didn’t even flinch anymore.

They talked softly. Shared a few bites of biscuit. Argued gently over whether or not Oscar needed to skip gym the next day.

And it wasn’t romantic in the hearts-and-roses kind of way.

It was just serious.

Two teenagers acting like they’d already figured out what commitment looked like.

***

Jian remembered the first time Felicity didn’t show up to class.

It was Year 11, early winter. Frost bit at the windows and the whole school smelled faintly of overboiled radiators and wet wool. Normally, Felicity was the one person you could count on being there — with her pens neatly aligned, hair pinned back, eyes alert like she’d memorised the textbook the night before.

But that Tuesday, her desk was empty.

Oscar showed up late. Which was already weird. He looked like hell — hoodie zipped all the way up, jaw set, hair damp from rushing across campus.

He didn’t say anything when he dropped into his seat. Just opened Felicity’s notebook alongside his and took notes for both of them.

By Wednesday, people were whispering.

“She has a cold,” someone muttered. “Nothing serious.”

“She’s just resting.”

But Oscar looked worried. Not anxious. Worried. That quiet kind of dread that sat behind the eyes and didn’t leave room for anything else. He stopped responding in group chats. Barely ate at breakfast.

Jian finally caught him in the library, elbows deep in a pile of flashcards that clearly weren’t his.

“She’s not just sick, is she?”

Oscar didn’t look up. “She can’t breathe right.”

Jian froze. “What?”

“She’s got this rattling sound in her chest. Can’t sleep. Keeps saying she’s fine, but she passed out in the bathroom yesterday.”

“What the hell—did she go to the nurse?”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “The nurse said it’s a bad cold. Told her to hydrate and rest.”

“But it’s worse?”

“She couldn’t stand up long enough to brush her teeth this morning.”

Jian swallowed. “Shit.”

Oscar finally looked at him, eyes bloodshot and furious. “Her family thinks she’s being dramatic. Her mum called and told her to stop being soft.”

That made something cold crawl down Jian’s spine.

“She’s got pneumonia,” Oscar added quietly, voice like steel.

Jian blinked. “How do you know?”

“I looked up the symptoms. She should be in a hospital. She needs antibiotics and oxygen.”

“Did you tell the school?”

Oscar gave him a look. “Do you think they’ll listen to me? Or to her surname?”

It was the first time Jian truly understood that something wasn’t right in the Leong family.

Two days later, the air outside was the kind that turned your fingertips numb within five minutes. Jian was walking back from the dining hall when he saw someone pull up to the front gate in a sleek black car — too expensive, too polished, definitely not a school-run vehicle.

Out stepped a man in a sharply cut coat. Mid twenties, maybe. Cold expression. Perfectly gelled hair.

Henry Leong.

Jian had heard of him. Older brother. Oxford grad. Worked in finance. Apparently one of Singapore’s “most eligible bachelors” if the gossip was to be believed.

Henry Leong walked into the reception office like he owned it.

Jian didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But the walls were thin, and Henry wasn’t exactly quiet.

“My sister is exaggerating,” he said crisply. “She does this. I’m just here because Mother insisted someone check. Is she actually ill, or just emotionally delicate again?”

Jian felt something clench in his gut.

He slipped around the side entrance. Oscar was with Felicity in the common room, holding a bowl of lukewarm soup with one hand and adjusting her blankets with the other. She looked pale — really pale — her lips tinged slightly blue. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were glassy.

She still said, “I’m sorry I didn’t clean up,” when she saw Henry in the doorway.

Oscar muttered, “Don’t apologise,” and touched her forehead gently. “You’re burning up again.”

That’s when the door banged open.

Henry walked in like a storm in cufflinks.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded. “Why are you wrapped up like some invalid?”

Felicity blinked at him, confused. “Henry?”

“I told Mother I’d come. You didn’t pick up your phone. What’s this I hear about you being bedbound over a little cold?”

Oscar stood up.

Jian didn’t know what he expected from Oscar Piastri — the quiet, methodical one. But it sure wasn’t the way he stepped between Felicity and her brother like it was instinct.

“She has pneumonia,” he said flatly.

Henry raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Felicity coughed weakly. Henry turned toward her. “You always do this. Turn minor problems into some dramatic cry for attention.”

Oscar’s voice went quiet.

“I think you should leave.”

Henry blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out.”

“I’m her brother.”

“And I’m the one who’s been here while she can’t stand without help. I’m the one who held her when she couldn’t stop coughing. And you showed up days late with condescension and talking to your sick sister like she is some kind of burden.”

Henry’s expression twisted. “You’re just some scholarship kid with a go-kart.”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But I know what love looks like. You clearly don’t.”

The silence that followed was icy.

Henry left within five minutes.

Jian didn’t say anything. He just sat quietly while Oscar rubbed gentle circles into Felicity’s back until her breathing evened out.

It happened the next morning.

Jian had just made it to the dining hall, still groggy and halfway through buttering his toast, when Samir came in wide-eyed and pale.

“She collapsed.”

The knife slipped out of Jian’s hand.

“Felicity?” he asked, already on his feet.

Samir nodded, winded. “Oscar found her on the floor. She tried to get to the bathroom and—he said she couldn’t breathe. They’re calling an ambulance.”

Jian didn’t remember running, but the next thing he knew, he was outside her dormitory block, shoulders heaving, the gravel scraping under his shoes. A crowd was already gathering. One of the teachers was ushering students back like this was some normal incident and not something serious.

But Jian could see Oscar through the glass door. Kneeling on the floor, arms around Felicity, talking to her in that soft, steady voice like the sheer force of his calm could pull her back from the edge.

She was barely conscious. Her lips were bluish. Her head lolled.

She looked nothing like the girl who used to correct teachers’ maths on the whiteboard. Or the one who wore pearls with her hoodie. Or the girl who could keep five group projects afloat by sheer force of will.

She looked tiny.

Like a girl who had been telling everyone she was in pain and nobody had listened.

Someone—maybe the new nurse—tried to take her pulse, but Oscar didn’t move until the paramedics arrived. And even then, he rode in the ambulance.

Jian watched them go with a kind of hollow, stomach-dropped dread.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not her. Not Felicity.

The fallout came fast.

That afternoon, the head of pastoral care called an emergency staff meeting. People were whispering in the halls. The school nurse who had told Oscar it was “just a cold” didn’t come in the next day.

And suddenly, all the teachers were tripping over themselves — asking if anyone had noticed anything. If there were signs they missed. If perhaps Miss Leong hadn’t been given the appropriate care plan.

Jian nearly laughed when he heard that.

Because everyone missed it. Everyone except the boy with the quiet voice and the karting calluses on his fingers. The one who showed up with ginger tea in his thermos and sat through every night reading beside her bed.

They called Felicity “stoic.” “Well-mannered.” “Mature beyond her years.”

What they meant was that she didn’t complain loudly enough to be taken seriously.

Oscar never once said I told you so.

But Jian could see it in the stiffness of his shoulders when he finally came back onto campus, two days later, looking like he hadn’t slept at all. His hoodie was wrinkled. His jaw was tight.

“She’s okay,” he told Jian quietly, like he’d been rehearsing it. “They’re keeping her a few more days for observation. But her fever’s gone down. The oxygen’s helping.”

And then, for the first time in all the years Jian had known him, Oscar’s voice cracked.

“They didn’t listen,” he whispered. “She told them she couldn’t breathe, and they still didn’t listen.”

Jian didn’t know what to say. So he just sat down next to him.

Because it wasn’t just that Felicity had been sick.

It was that she’d almost disappeared in front of everyone — and they’d let her.

But not Oscar.

Never Oscar.

***

Jian wasn’t sure when it happened.

When Oscar Piastri — robotic, unflappable, ice-cold-under-pressure Oscar — became the kind of boy who let his girlfriend tuck a tissue packet into the sleeve of his school jumper.

It was week six of term. Cold season had arrived like a tidal wave. Half the year group was coughing like they were on the brink of death, and Oscar — who rarely got sick — had finally succumbed. He was pale and sniffling, his voice a little croaky, and he kept blinking like his head was full of fog.

But he still showed up. To every class. Even cricket conditioning.

Jian watched, slightly baffled, as Felicity intercepted him between classes with a packet of throat lozenges and a thermos of ginger tea that very obviously wasn’t from the dining hall.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” she muttered, dragging him by the elbow toward a bench in the quad.

Oscar flopped down obediently. “I tried. My nose betrayed me.”

“You sound like a gremlin.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Felicity made a face but pulled out a folded blanket from her bag anyway — a blanket, for god’s sake — and tucked it around him like he was a grandparent in a chilly church pew.

Jian blinked. He wasn’t even surprised anymore.

That was when Oscar’s phone rang. He fished it out of his blazer pocket, glanced at the screen, and handed it straight to Felicity without a word.

“Hi, Nicole,” she said, already standing up and pacing away, the phone pressed to her ear. “Yeah. I’m with him. No, it’s not the flu. Just a head cold. Yes, I made sure he’s drinking water. Yes, I made him soup yesterday. No, he didn’t like the ginger but he drank it anyway. I’ll make sure he sleeps early.”

Jian just stared.

Because Oscar was sitting there under a blanket. Sneezing into a tissue. Looking more exhausted than usual. And still — still — he watched Felicity pace the quad with that tiny half-smile he only seemed to wear when she was around. Like he liked being taken care of. Like he trusted her with all of it.

By the time Felicity returned, she handed the phone back and crouched to check Oscar’s forehead with the back of her hand. It was so natural. So practiced. Like this had happened a dozen times before.

“Your mum says she’s going to mail you a care package,” Felicity murmured. “Also, that I deserve a medal.”

Oscar leaned his head against her shoulder. “You do.”

Jian watched them quietly — the boy who always smelled like karting fuel, and the girl who wore cashmere socks with chanel boots — and thought, Okay, maybe this isn’t some weird co-dependency thing. Maybe it’s just… love.

The strange, soft kind.

The kind that comes with tea, and tissues, and phone calls home.

***

Group Chat: Haileybury Survivor Squad 2020

Jian, Samir, Thea, Lara, Aarya

Aarya: guys GUYS I HAVE NEWS 🚨🚨🚨

Jian: this better be good it’s 2 am, Aarya

Samir: omg did Mr. Forrester finally admit Felicity was right about quantum physics?

Aarya: EVEN BETTER

Lara: Aarya if this isn’t genuinely life-changing I’m kicking you out of this group chat

Aarya: Oscar and Felicity got married

Thea: 😂😂 very funny no seriously what happened

Aarya: No I’m dead serious Felicity literally just texted me

Samir: WHAT NO WAY HOW??? THEY GRADUATED LIKE 3 WEEKS AGO??

Aarya: She sent me a picture of the certificate They legit got married YESTERDAY

Jian: Oscar? Like Oscar PIASTRI? our Oscar? Oscar “I once put almond milk in béchamel sauce” Piastri??

Aarya: YES THAT OSCAR OUR OSCAR FELICITY’S OSCAR

Lara: hang on… I thought they were joking about Vegas???

Samir: wait so that entire convo about Elvis marrying them at a drive-thru chapel was serious? bc I laughed for a week about that

Aarya: not Elvis (sadly) but yes, very real, very married she sent me a selfie she’s wearing Oscar’s hoodie over her wedding dress

Thea: Omg of course she is She probably married him for unlimited hoodie access

Lara: this tracks tbh they graduated early bc they were bored of A-levels got married early bc they were bored of being the smartest teenagers in Britain

Samir: honestly if they weren’t disgustingly cute I’d be so annoyed rn like how do you top getting MARRIED at 18??

Jian: “oh what did you do over summer?” “just got married, no biggie” — Oscar, probably

Thea: Jian, remember when you thought you had a shot with Felicity for exactly 12 minutes in Year 8 😂😂

Jian: STOP THAT NEVER HAPPENED IT WAS TEN MINUTES MAX

Aarya: anyway, Felicity wanted me to tell you guys bc we are “Oscar-and-Felicity-certified not-annoying people”

Lara: that’s genuinely the nicest thing she’s ever said about us I’m touched

Jian: same but also still processing that Oscar “let me just casually carry my wife-to-be across campus” Piastri is an actual husband now

Thea: do we call Felicity Mrs. Piastri now??? or do we call Oscar Mr. Leong bc that’s actually hilarious

Samir: I vote Mr. Leong

Aarya: it’s Mrs. Piastri actually Felicity said so herself and she sounded very smug about it

Lara: OF COURSE SHE DID Oscar’s probably already changed all his racing gear to say “Property of Felicity Piastri” anyway

Samir: ok but imagine their babies tiny little brilliant creatures raised on soba noodles and karting strategies

Thea: they’re probably already planning their kids’ GCSEs as we speak

Aarya: honestly wouldn’t put it past them

Jian: this group chat is now dedicated to tracking Oscar and Felicity’s completely ridiculous married life all in favour say aye

Samir: AYE Lara: AYE Thea: AYE Aarya: AYE

Samir: it’s unanimous long live the Piastris ✨👑✨

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

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4mrplumi · 3 months ago

Text

00. spiderwocky ── kid-buggy

‎‎ㅤㅤplatonic | spiderverse x spiderman!reader x batfamily | ms. list

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdisclaimers on masterlist!

index. prologue , chapter one , chapter two , chapter three ... to be continued. based on this

your head slams against the mech’s ceiling, and your vision blurs for a second. a troubled robotic voice keeps reading out statistics, leftwing engine down, visors breaking off, remaining web fluid at 17%, and enemy still engaged.

you have to wince, pushing your head against the whiplash, slamming a half-ripped off metal leg at the large metallic eyeball staring keenly in your direction. mysterio’s been trouble before but… you’ve gotten soft.

a thin wisp of gas permeates the suit’s vents, and sp//dr’s robotic droning takes an almost human, frantic quality. “air quality has been compromised,” it hisses, “(name), pulling out of battle is optimal.” you’ve got to ignore it, you think with strain, a thin string of web leaping out at the building behind mysterio, there are people in more danger than you.

pulling harshly on the string, you can hear the noisy clank of metal as the mech-suit’s arm bolts creak under the pressure, and propel yourself at the sphere. and you do it again, to the left, again, from the right, while sp//dr’s voice reads out the remaining fluid clerically.

"16%", slam it into the concrete building next to you, it makes a dent, "15%", swing it into a billboard, people are screaming, "14%", jump up into the sky on your- the suit’s- good leg, "13%" shoot out two strings to the ground besides mysterio-

"12%", slam him into the concrete, shattering the road under him. you’re running out of air. the sphere breaks a little, curling inwards like a cracked egg. you have to disarm mysterio- before he floods the streets with the brain toxin that-

that’s currently bypassed your filtration systems.

the suit takes a staggering step towards a boy inside the vessel, his head encompassed by a globe of white, a single eye etched and staring. you barely hear his “you’re taller in person”, more focused on another voice whispering to you.

‘make me nothing��, it says, it’s your father's voice. no, it’s sp//dr’s voice. a hand reaches up on its own, crushing a drone, ‘i’m a teenage weapon’. it’s your voice, your head, sp//dr. you can barely breathe, another hand sending a drone flying into the thin walls around you. "safe inside the colours", his face looks at you in pity, admiration.

it’s a familiar look.

you stiffen, your mind clearing to sp//dr’s warnings. ‘i don’t need your love, boy.’ the suit’s arm slams against his skull, and he falls to the ground, with a strangled; “my voice!”.

the brain toxin begins to leave your systems, flushed out by a steady, furious buzz in your ears, your vision clearing as you approach the man. his face is exposed, a bloody, spectacled and oat-haired figure. he croaks to you; “i hate my voice,” as though you’d care of it, “you don’t know me- i’m just a fan…”

his voice becomes shaky, and he’s struggling to blabber out his words. you’re tempted to web his mouth shut. “but i could have been anything to you…”

“did you ever get the mix-disc i made you?” he slurs, his cracked glasses breaking.

you don’t wake up with a jolt. there’s no chain of anxiety that hits you, no spider-sense going off. you’re well tucked under heavy covers when you open your eyes, rigid in your sleep. not in the suit, you haven’t been in it for a while. it’s sill broken, and you’re not… not at work. not right now.

it doesn’t feel natural waking up in the manor. you’ve been opening your eyes to the posters your roommate put up on your walls, insisting on brighter decor. grown used to waking to sounds of chatter, maybe the radio, or the school bell telling you were devastatingly late to class and would be reprimanded for it.

you’re not used to waking up to neat wallpaper in a dark, old room. in the house you’ve barely lived in, barely wanted to live in. wayne manor is a sad place, and you're suddenly glad they send you away for most of the year.

summer vacations are the most miserable time of the year, everyone being sent home or off on vacation with their parents until they come back for next term. all the time you're stuck going to a manor you don’t want to be in, in a city you’re close to hating, with people who’ve made it too obvious they don’t want you here. they never say it to your face. but you know well enough.

but- but this time it’s different. this break, you won’t go to trouble tim with a puzzle you’d hope would interest him, one he’d take from you with a nod, and never think about again. you won’t go watch jason sneak into the pantry from a distance, trying to muster up the courage to talk to him and inevitably fail each time, as he swiftly left again. you won’t even offer to ask alfred if you could help him tend to the garden, only for him to smile pitiably gently at you and ask you if you’d 'rather not spend your time having more fun elsewhere'.

this time, you have work. something to do. someone to be.

you take to sauntering awake to a little desk in the corner of the room at five? four? in the morning, and sliding the drawer open to pull out a thick and scrappy diary. you’ve been writing in this since they first sent you off, since you were nine.

"SP//DR BOT" graces the page you flip to, in bright paint-marker-blue. the picture of a poorly sketched, vaguely-humanoid mecha-suit follows, on which you scrawl with a drying pen. for the last seven months you've had someone to be. so you'd best get to it; kid-buggy.

₊˚⊹ a/n : first fic i've planned up to completion,, let's hope all goes well!! let me know if you want to be in the taglist <3

prologue tags @sirenetheblogger @kenyummy @selvyyr

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lilacgaby · 9 months ago

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title: entranced.

pairing: katsuki x fem! reader.

through all stages of his life, katsuki was entranced with you.

katsuki was destined for greatness. everyone told him so, it was engrained in his mind from the moment his quirk manifested.

as a kid, he was top of the hill always, king of his crew, every game they'd play would leave him the champion. he was the fastest, the strongest, the coolest.

his ego fluctuated with every new person he'd meet, how he felt none could match up to the god-given power of his, until his last year of junior high you joined his class.

you, who hung around deku, not minding that he was quirkless.

you, who he found so entralling.

you didn't really socialize to the other classmates, so he didn't know what your quirk was..

at least not until the teacher announced you and deku were applying for U-A beside him. he scoffed, "you two? heroes? don't make me laugh, maybe you'll be lucky enough to be assistants at my agency, and that's a huge if, quirkless idiots."

"i'm not quirkless, and midoriya isn't an idiot. so take your foot out of your ass and learn to respect people." you grabbed midoriya's hand and guided him out.

that was the first time you ever spoke to him and he didn't have a rebuttal.

he glared as you two walked out the hallways together, his pack of goons followed him as he walked down the alleyway. they ran away when he got captured by the villain.. but you. you and deku ran against the crowd to go save him. despite how he insulted the two of you.

that was the first time he'd seen your quirk. behind deku who was aimlessly scrapping the gooey flesh of the villain attempting to take him over, you had taken to making magma rock, that turned to lava upon contact, and burned the flesh of the villain. this caused the villain to create an opening, that allowed allmight to save him.

he didn't talk to you after that, he didn't have the chance. the most you'd given him after that was a nod.

he saw you everywhere and in everything now. in the orange flowers, in the dandelions, in the way the clouds shaped.

he wasn't looking for you in the entrance exam, no way. but when he saw the familiar silhouette of your body next to deku's, he felt his heart race. you looked amazing, your body a bit more toned now, he assumed youve been training alongside deku all this time.

he wasn't looking at you.. but, he saw the look on your face as you pouted, mouthing to deku the session you were placed in. he was in the same one.

he wasn't looking for you or anything, but when he spotted the aftermaths of your quirk, referring to the massive amoungs of molten iron from the pointed robots, he sped up.

the sight of you in action sent cupid's arrow through his heart.

you, now covered in the magma rock yourself, with your hair being the main source of the lava pooling around the exam center. the robots turning to nothing as you blast each shot with pinpoint accuracy, the small sighs you'd occasionally let out birthing fire from your mouth.

there was now a range of symbols, red and apparent, marking your body. from your face to your arms and even your legs. he was in utter awe of the chaos, yet elegance of your quirk.

you were breathtakingly horrifying.

as soon as time was up, he'd gotten the top score of course. but it wasn't by a landslide as he'd hoped, because you were only 0.5 points away.

he'd hoped to see you again. and he did, in class 1-a, you'd taken a spot next to deku again, and a girl with pink cheeks. he tsked as he put his feet on his desk, prompting a guy with engines on his legs to reprimand him.

he was deeply moved whether you used your quirk, whether it was in the quirk physicals, team battles, or mock missions.

he didn't know how or why, but he'd managed to become friends with you. along with the rest of his group, or the people that followed him around and forcibly made him their friend, you'd hang around.

his conversations with you were usually short, he didn't know how to talk to you. you made him feel weird, a feeling he never really understood.

not until their first encounter with villains that is.

the second they were teleported, he was on a mission to look for you. kirishima walking behind him as he tried to find you and make sure you were okay.

but when he saw you cornered by a group? he went rabid, sending shot after shot onto them until they were unconscious. he helped you stand up. "you okay?" he held your hands in his.

"i.. im fine bakugo. thank you."

he felt his face flush, he was lucky his hands were covered by his outfit, because he was sweating inhumanely. you finally let go of his hands, making him sigh before you suggested, "let's go regroup with the others, k?"

he nodded, and joined back in the fight.

he got more comfortable with you after that, holding your hand seemed to be casual for you two now. he sat beside you at lunch, his hand on your thigh as you two ate. you trained together, studied together, hung out in his room together.

napped together once, his heart leaping out of his chest when he realized it wasn't a vivid dream, and that you really were next to him.

when he was kidnapped you were apart of the group who saved him, giving all for one a nasty burn on his bald head.

after that, he realized how you were on his mind constantly.

he wondered if you ate, if you slept, if you studied, how you scored.

when you were training at the agencies if you'd be safe, he knew you were capable, but because of the destructive quality of your quirk you couldn't use it often.

he'd confess his nightmares to you on late night calls. how the phantom pain of being suffocated would sometimes come back to him, how he hated being approached from behind.

and he'd go to bed, his heart racing when you confessed yours. "honestly.. my biggest nightmares are about losing you."

you were even on his mind when he died. alongside all-might and deku, stood you. he wanted your validation, he wanted to be a hero to you, that's what he thought about in his last moments.

when he was revived, he saw you in the hospital. you were alive. except for the severe burns on your arms from your body's over exertion, the only other wound was in your stomach.

his heart ached as he saw you. there was a gash in your stomach.

after weeks of rehabilitation, he couldn't take it anymore.

he bowed his head to you, confessing his feelings that had been boiling over for years. your arms were still bandaged and one of his was still in a cast. you grabbed his face, pulling him up to yours before planting a gentle kiss on his lips. you kept him there after, looking into his red eyes.

"i've liked you too for a while, bakugo."

"katsuki."

"...katsuki."

you started dating. he worked to strengthen his hand, as you worked to up your bodies tolerance for your quirk. throughout the years you'd grown even closer. he got you a gorgeous promise ring, scratching the back of his head as he said, "it's just a placeholder for the next one. so, sorry if it's--" you cut him off with a hug and a kiss.

you graduated alongside eachother, where he gave another speech and you had to try your hardest not to burst out laughing at the memory of his first one.

you both worked hard, becoming pro heroes, and surprisingly

becoming popular because you two were dating.

you'd constantly be caught out together. photos of katsuki's smiles as you smear frosting on his nose, you two laying down on a picnic blanket and staring into each others eyes, you two walking around the streets.

sometimes you'd catch him watching your fights. could you blame him? he thought you were gorgeous, always. but especially when you were fighting. the look on your face, your actions, your confidence,

it'd send him spiraling.

you attended gala's together, him at your side. you've received thousands of modeling contracts, but you only accept ones that'd let you pose with katsuki.

you still made him nervous after all this time, so he'd audibly gulp whenever you circled him, striking poses so he'd laugh.

you became the nation's couple, which shocked the two of you to no avail.

he proposed to you on your 5th anniversary. true to his word, the ring was extravagant, it glimmered from all angles. he explained, looking into your eyes as he held your hand, "i could never find anything as gorgeous as you, but i hope it comes close."

your wedding was huge. you actually had two, one for close friends and family, where his mother took the reign to plan everything since you two were so busy.

and a huge public one, media and journalists allowed to see the million dollar wedding you two had to celebrate your years together, and katsuki's undying infatuation with you.

he was wrong though, because he did find something as gorgeous as you.

your beautiful baby girl that you welcomed to the world.

#i cooked idk #lilac speaks꧂#bakugo #bakugo x reader #bakugo x y/n #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo katuski #bakugo fluff #bakugo x you #katsuki x you #mha x you #bakugo drabble #mha drabbles #bakugo oneshot #katsuki x y/n #katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki

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fatkish · 1 year ago

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Aizawa and Class 1A x Student Alchemist Reader

In this, the reader has the same tattoos as scar. The reader’s left arm deconstructs molecules and their right arm reconstructs molecules.

The reader is quirkless so they use Alchemy to even the odds and are good at combat.

The reader took the entrance exam and has similar grade to Momo. Momo and the Reader share the 1/20 place amongst their peers

The reader aced the written test and destroyed the robots by using their alchemy to disassemble them. They got 45 villain points and 45 rescue points

When the teachers were looking over the students papers, Aizawa and Nedzu were amazed and skeptical of the reader being quirkless

Aizawa didn’t believe that you were quirkless so he used his quirk on you during his quirk apprehension test. Obviously it failed and he realized your were being honest on your paperwork. Still grilled you about it

Aizawa is ever so slightly more protective and stricter on you than other students. He worries all the time so he is a little harsher on you but you know that he just wants to push you a little more

You’re currently studying both flame and medical alchemy. You tend to study with recovery girl and help her out whenever you get the chance

During All Might’s hero vs villain training you were paired with Momo (Mineta didn’t get into the hero course) against Jirou and Kaminari. You won by creating a sleeping gas and put them to sleep whilst you and Momo wore gas masks she made

Bakugou refuses to admit your strength but has a secret respect for you since you beat him by altering his sweat’s molecules so it wasn’t explosive

Izuku has so many notes on you and has asked to draw your tattoos and you even began to teach him basic alchemy, although he sucks at it

When questioning you, you told Izuku that you were quirkless which he accidentally let it slip to his friends who then let the class know

After that you explained to the class that alchemy can be performed by anyone, it just take years of study and practice to perform and understand the basic rules and applications

Some didn’t believe you so you removed your shoe to show them all your second joint in your pinky toe as proof

Some still have a hard time believing it but most of the class accepted it

Kirishima, Sero, Iida, Jirou and Uraraka think you’re (manly) incredible and ambitious for dedicating yourself to something and making yourself strong despite the odds

Ashido, Kaminari and Hagakure still don’t believe that you’re quirkless

Tokoyami and Shoji both admire your strength and perseverance in trying to become a hero despite lacking a power and having been ridiculed and criticized for your dreams

Ojiro and you train in martial arts often as a means to strengthen one another

Tsuyu and you get along just fine as you both are some of the more mature students in classs

You tend to hang out with the quiet kids like Shoji, Tokoyami and Koda

You and Momo both bond over and help each other study the molecular make up of certain items

During the USJ attack, you used your flame alchemy on the Nomu. You used your conductive gloves to create the flames and tried to roast the Nomu

You took Hatsume’s place on Midoriya’s team in the Calvary battle

You fought Iida in the first rounds and won by creating a rugged and difficult terrain to run in as a means to slow him down, then you used your alchemy to seal his engines and managed to hit him in a pressure point that immobilized him

Todoroki was amazed when you were able to beat him in the sports festival. You turned his ice into water and then changed the arrangement of the stage’s molecular structure to that of quicksand and used the ground to swallow him up, winning your match.

Bakugou was pissed off when you altered your body’s carbon to be on the outside creating a skin of diamond like armor that his explosions couldn’t beat

You got 1st place in the festival but All Might accidentally let it slip during the award ceremony that you were quirkless

You got the third most offers from pros for internships out of the class

You ended up going with Best Jeanist and had a rather good time compared to Bakugou

After the Internships were over, you had mastered your flame alchemy and used it against All Might in your practical exam

Bonus: Todoroki learned that you can’t use flame alchemy when it’s raining or if your wet and accidentally started the ‘useless when wet’ shtick.

Now Bakugou makes fun of you whenever you get your gloves wet and acts like you need protection and enjoys babying you.

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta #aizawa sensei #dadzawa #dad might #all might x reader #platonic class 1a #class 1a x reader #mha #bnha #best jeanist

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ghostbeam · 10 months ago

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Oblivi_n.exe | Dabi/Touya Todoroki

Touya Todoroki, known as ‘Dabi’ to the league, quirk class: cremation, mech title: Blue. You’re his new handler.

As Dabi’s new handler, you’re well aware of his history, how frequently he goes through handlers assigned to him. Not that he ever uses them—it’s more complete resistance. You’re not particularly good at your job. Transferred from the PLF for lack of success in handling any of their pilots, you’ve always been far too gentle. You lack authority. Your pilots never respected you. You don’t think Dabi will be any different. You give it a week.

Notes: okay wow hiiiii it’s been a long time since I’ve posted an actual fic (nearing almost a year now😬) this is something I’ve been working on for a bit. I have mech brain rot curtesy of @streimiv and @hawnks (both of whom this is dedicated to bc there’s no way I could have written this without yapping to them abt it and also mint helped me come up w the acronym for HERO’s) and we’ve all got our own mech fics in the works atm but anywayssssss this is kind of my baby atm but I hope it makes sense it’s very inspired first and foremost by pacific rim and then also NGE (mostly through consumption of YouTube vids bc I haven’t actually watched it pls don’t hate me) it’s a whole mess of things and Dabi is kind of a bitch and reader is slowly coming into herself and at the end of the day they both wanna be metal fused to one another forever (no matter how hard he denies it) also I’m not a huge computer person idk if this title makes sense so don’t make fun of me pls ok anyways I hope u like it!!!!

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, pilot!Dabi x handler!reader, there’s no explicit sexual content in this part, not even a kiss sorry guys, mentions of robot gore (exposed wires, insides described as guts), brief descriptions of being trapped inside a small space, descriptions of burning while inside said space, mention of surgery to fashion a metal jaw onto someone, mentions of child abuse (nothing graphic just allusions to the todoroki family and touya’s past), angst, many run on sentences, a small cliff hanger

Words: 7.9k

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 (coming soon)

You are nothing without your machine.

It’s the first rule, the first thing beaten into his brain by his father. You carry the burden of the mech alone, or you’re weak. You don’t exist.

U.A. raises the best and brightest pilots, navigators, mechanics, and handlers, each one carefully trained to ensure the most important outcome: winning. It should be protection. It should be defense. But if Touya has learned anything at all, it’s that winning means glory. It means worship. It means HERO’s (Human Engineered Robotic Objects) are saints, and pilots are gods.

Touya used to be one of those best and brightest before his accident.

First son to Enji Todoroki, Touya was supposed to be the golden child, the first Todoroki to pilot without a handler. He was supposed to carry the burden alone, something his father couldn’t do, something only one man has ever actually been capable of.

But Touya is born weak, bad bones, a brain unable to handle all that the mech needs to unload onto it. One too many accidents results in him being expelled from the pilot program, his HERO discarded and collecting dust in its pod, and Touya is promptly transferred to mechanics.

It should have been a smooth transition. If one kid can’t handle it, the next will. Because they have to.

He doesn’t take the news well. It’s a fit of tears, a persistent fight, unable to accept the loss of his machine—of his body. Because Touya loves it. What he lacks in strength, he makes up for in pure passion, and despite being unable to handle the burden, there’s no denying that he’s good. He’s almost perfect.

But almost is not enough for Enji Todoroki, and no matter how hard Touya tries, he’s made up his mind.

After months of mechanics, Touya makes a decision. When the next fleet of HERO’s is deployed for the next kaiju battle, Touya sneaks in among the chaos, tucked neatly inside the chest of his machine where he belongs. It doesn’t take long for things to go south, for Touya to get caught in the crossfire, losing control of his mech and burning from the inside out.

It should be an excruciating death, stuck inside a machine made for war, fire raining from above as a battle continues on outside without him.

But he survives, because what he lacks in strength, he makes up for in resilience, and his mech is programed with solutions to every situation. He’s stuck inside for months before he’s found.

Tomura Shigaraki rescues him, pries open the chest of his mech and pulls him from inside. His group feeds him, takes him in, fashions a new jaw for him made from the metal of his mech, and allows him the decision to join their cause or go back home.

And since there’s no home to go back to, Touya finds his footing with the league and becomes one of their top pilots. One who vehemently resists any and all handlers.

…

Touya Todoroki, known as ‘Dabi’ to the league, quirk class: cremation, mech title: Blue. You’re his new handler.

Following closely behind Tenko, formerly Tomura, he quickly explains to you the in’s and out’s of the pilot/handler relationship, along with a warning about Dabi’s resentment toward the whole idea. You try to keep up, but he talks quickly and uses his hands a lot. Even so, you can tell he’s a natural leader, something he had to grow into after overthrowing the man who raised him. His story is a tragic one, and it resonates with you because Tenko came out the other side stronger. Now, the league is a community with a cause, one you really believe in. Even if you and Dabi aren’t the right fit, you still have a place here.

You follow Tenko into what he calls the garage, a large floor of the abandoned academy that serves as the league’s base, this part of it full of HERO’s and mechanics all focused on the machines in front of them. It’s completely different from how HERO’s were worked on at UA, where you grew up, and even the PLF didn’t have one dedicated floor to this sort of work. You can feel the energy of the room buzzing on your skin, music blasting from old radios and mechanics tossing tools towards one another in a familiar routine. Tomura leads you to Dabi and his HERO, Blue, though you’re instructed not to call it a HERO around him. With goggles over his eyes and gloved hands, he brings two wires from Blue’s ankle together, sighing at the way they spark each time they connect.

“Dabi.” Tomura calls over the music coming from the radio hanging off of Dabi’s waist. He drops the wires and his gaze flickers toward the two of you. Pushing his goggles up to his forehead, he gives you a once over. His eyes are the brightest you’ve ever seen—kaiju blood blue—and burn scars litter his body. He’s striking in a way you’ve never seen, almost too beautiful to be human. Giving Dabi your name, Tomura explains that you’re taking over as his handler, seeing as he couldn’t keep the last one for more than a couple of days. “She’s your last handler. If you can’t keep this one, then go ahead and fry your brain. See if I care.”

“You say that every time.” Dabi calls from around sucker as Tomura walks away, leaving you alone with your new pilot.

You just your hand out in a greeting, “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Eyeing your hand, Dabi shakes his head and turns his back to you, picking the two wires back up and connecting them again, despite the same spark from before igniting between the two. He looks back up at Blue, touching his fingers to the slim lines starting at the back of her ankle and running all the way up her leg. You peak over his shoulder at the wiring, noticing that he’s connecting two of the wrong ones.

“It’s the wrong wire.” You tell him, and he spins around to look at you, tearing his goggles from his face as he scoffs.

“Here we go.” He sighs with a roll of his eyes, pulling the candy from his lips and tossing it onto the tool cart without a care. “Handler know-it-all bullshit. This is my mech.”

You push passed him and grab the similarly colored wire from beside a red wire and connect it with the one in Dabi’s right hand. Blue lights up cyan through the thin lines that run along each of its limbs and torso, connecting with the two cameras within its head, which seem to blink before the light reaches them.

In an instant, you’re being pushed up against the hard metal, a strong arm over your chest—pinning you up against the HERO. Dabi, now having discarded his goggles, looks at you full of white, hot rage.

“Don’t fucking touch her.” He growls. You’re suddenly aware of the close proximity, eyes flickering between the snarl across his lips and his angry gaze. For a beat, you both freeze, the air suddenly charged like you’re waiting for one another to strike. Snapping yourself out of his hypnotic stare, you push against his chest, forcing him to let you go.

“If I’m going to be you’re handler, you’re going to have to trust me with her.” You remind him. He lets out a harsh laugh, like he can’t believe you would suggest such a ridiculous idea.

“I don’t trust anything but this machine.” He speaks, turning away from you to seal up the machine’s exposed wires. It’s a challenge you’re willing to accept.

“Well, I’m here to change that.” You tell him, before turning on your heel to leave him alone.

He thinks he’ll give you a week.

…

One of the worst parts of being assigned a handler, Touya thinks, is the way that pilot/handler living quarters are set up. He assumes the academy, before it was abandoned and turned into a base for the league, created this sort of set up so that handlers could keep a close eye on their pilots. The handlers Touya has burned through up until now also assumed the same.

The door that connects both the pilot’s and handler’s dorms doesn’t lock, and all of Touya’s past handlers have taken advantage of this fact. He’s been pulled out of bed far too early, pushed around and commanded and barked at. Most handlers behaved as if pilots belonged to them, which was the sentiment drilled into their brains from being thrown into such a fucked up system at a young age.—unless you were a pilot of status like a Todoroki. While he league dedicates a lot of its time to reversing these ideas, most handlers look at Touya like some kind of challenge, this arrogant pilot begging to be tamed. It never takes long for them to realize how easily he’s able to flip the switch on them. You’ll be no different.

But hours pass and you still haven’t entered. You don’t swing the door open and demand he apologize for his behavior earlier. You don’t try and punish him with training regimes, a command of a set of push ups, a schedule you expect him to follow, an extremely detailed meal plan. The entire evening comes and goes without so much as a sound on the other side of the door so he knows you’re even behind it.

He falls asleep unnerved by this, waking up late into the night in a cold sweat, expecting you to barge in, rip the covers from his body and demand to train together. When he wakes up (peacefully) the next morning, there’s no sign of you. He rises from his bed, drinks orange juice straight from the carton and eats a candy bar for breakfast. He fiddles with the navigation screen from his mech that stopped working a couple of days ago, tools spread out on the counter in front of him. Once he’s got the thing working again, your knock sounds from the unlocked door between the two of you. He thinks this might be it, the commands he expects to fall from your lips at the ready as he swings the door open, but you stand there, nervous, hands twitching as your eyes finally meet his.

Greeted by a shirtless Touya, hair mused from sleep, cargo pants hung low on his hips, dog tags swinging against his chest, his scars on display, unashamed and proud. The sight of him knocks the breath out of you, and you clear your throat in embarrassment, hoping your state of dreaming comes off as nerves rather than lust.

“Dabi. Or do you prefer Touya?” You smile. When he doesn’t answer, you continue. “I wanted to see if you wanted to eat breakfast together in the caf. I think we should start over. Yesterday was—”

You’re promptly cut off, “I already ate breakfast.”

With a harsh slam of the door, he leaves you stunned in your room.

You eat alone.

When you started as a pilot, back when you’d entered UA (a few years about Touya’s accident), you went into it believing you could change the world. The exam had placed you into the position of handler, and you were assigned a pilot who had always seemed a little frightened of you despite your obvious lack of authority. Bringing the fact up to your instructors did nothing. They all assured you that this was the ideal dynamic, that the handler always had the upper hand, but you hated that feeling. You weren’t a team like you expected to be; you were urged to control your pilot. You were there to keep them in line, not to be a pillar of support. The bond was never built on trust, and the soul link was always a looming threat. No matter how many pilots you went through, the link was never held as a gift, but a prison, something you would both be stuck with for the betterment of society, a sacrifice to make.

You’d been expelled from the handler program after guiding your pilot to help save another in the wreckage of your first battle together, resulting in the damage of your pilot’s HERO. Your pilot was okay, but the other couldn’t be saved, and you were blamed for the damage of both mech’s.

When you found the league (or when the league found you), you were working with the PLF, but proved to be a weak handler. Every pilot you were assigned to took advantage of your optimistic outlook on the kind of relationship dynamic that pilots had with their handlers. Despite all that you had been through at UA, and with the rest of the pilots you’d been paired with after, you never gave up the hope that handlers and pilots could behave as a team, or, even better, one entity.

Tenko had taken one look at you and demanded you’d be transferred to the league. There hadn’t been much of a choice in the matter, not that you really cared. You were miserable everywhere else. But when you arrived at the abandoned academy and taken a peak behind the kudzu covered walls where each and every area of the building acted as multiple moving parts in collaboration with one another in order to create one massive system, you realized that this was the future you imagined for yourself—and for the world you lived in.

Tenko saw something in you that day, something you aren’t sure you even see in yourself. And so Dabi was your first task, one that’s proving to be very difficult. But he doesn’t treat you like all the other pilots before had. He doesn’t use you. In fact, it seems like he wants nothing to do with you. And while that’s a problem, it’s still one you can work with.

You’re broken from your thoughts by the sound of a voice through an overhead intercom asking for everyone to meet on the first floor of the academy at their earliest convenience. Judging by the quick movements of those around you, you figure you’d better head downstairs as soon as possible.

The meeting on the first floor makes you very aware of just how small the league really is. While it’s definitely not a tiny organization, it’s still much smaller than both UA and the PLF. With everyone piled up like this in one group, you realize it feels more like a community, and the hum of conversation that surrounds you comforts you in a way you’ve never felt within the walls of any other academy before.

There’s discussion about the upcoming mission, one which may be the league’s most ambitious yet; the plan to hijack a mech and kidnap a pilot may be a little unorthodox compared to the league’s past missions, but the jaded pilot they’re targeting has a high chance of joining the cause. Or that’s what they have assumed. As the bodies move and speak around you, it strikes you how different this meeting is from any other meeting you’ve ever been a part of. Tenko is less a dictator and more a wrangler for the disembodied voices of your peers.

You don’t know much about his story, save for the vague details you’ve heard, but Tenko’s status as a lone handler is something you find yourself curious about. If he’s able to work without a pilot, why can’t you? It’s an idea you keep in your back pocket, one you think you can fall back on if things with Touya don’t work out. But you want them to work out. So badly.

You aren’t sure what it is about him, but he’s reignited that spark inside of you. You know he’d rather you give up, and maybe the you from a couple of months ago would have, but something about him—and this place—won’t let you leave.

As you observe the meeting, you take the time to look around the room, taking in your peers and their attentive faces as they listen to Tenko intently. You turn to your right, your eyes meeting a pair of blue ones, impossible to miss. Dabi holds your stare for what feels like ages, and when your colleagues erupt in a fit of many simultaneous discussions, you tear your eyes from his to observe the commotion. When you glance back in his direction, he’s gone.

You don’t seem him again after that. You train with other handlers, get to know your peers a little better. Everyone else seems to be welcoming, and most offer you sympathy when they find out you’re Touya’s new handler. From what you can gather, he’s had his fair share of them, all of which have quit or left in hysterics due to his harsh nature. When you ask around about where he could be, you’re told that he’s most likely in the garage, a place you assume he’s in more often than not.

You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to the garage. A place so completely different, so against the ideas and beliefs of any other academy you’ve been a part of, the chaos and community within is so foreign to you. You find Touya with Blue, working inside of her chest, where the cockpit is.

“Touya!” You call up to him and watch as he peaks his head over the edge of her metal plating. Annoyance falling across his face, he jumps down from where he stands, landing hard on his feet in front of you.

“What are you doing here?” He questions, his figure so tall and imposing above you. He’s not particularly muscular, not even all that tall compared to Tenko, but he makes you feel small regardless, in more ways than one. Rolling your shoulders back, you stare straight into his eyes, unwilling to back down.

“I figured you wanted your space today.” You explain, as Touya moves around you to get to his rolling cart of tools, forcing you to turn toward him and follow him if you want him to hear you. “I know adjusting to a new handler is rough, and I never want to make you uncomfortable. But I was thinking we could try some of those pilot/handler bonding exercises. It might be good to start training like some of the others do.”

He drops the wrench in his hand onto his cart with a loud thud, turning around toward you with a look of disbelief on his face. “Pilot/handler bonding exercises? They really brainwashed the shit out of you at UA, huh?”

At the mention of your past academy, your eyes widen in surprise. You had no idea he knew about that. Clearing your throat in order to compose yourself, you speak again, “I left UA for a reason. I have no attachment to their methods, but you guys do the same stuff here, so what’s the issue?”

“The issue is that I never asked for a fucking handler in the first place, especially not one as eager as you.” He spits, “Sure, you’re understanding now, all that bullshit about ‘giving me space,’ but the moment you get a lick of power over me, you’ll change. You’re not different.”

“I don’t want power over you. This is an equal exchange. Pilot’s and handlers are meant to be a team—” You try and argue, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“That’s what they told you, right? We’re a team, and as teammates, you make sacrifices. And it doesn’t matter if one of you turns into the other’s braindead dog because that’s your place.” His words hit you hard, the exact thought process you went through when leaving UA, completely disillusioned with their idea of “teamwork.” He’s right, and you know it, but since coming here, you thought that wasn’t how it had to be.

“Look, trust me, I get—” You’re cut off again.

“You went to UA! There’s no trusting you.” He scoffs, “It’s not like you’ll last here, anyway.”

“You are such a hypocrite! You’re from UA!” You retort, throwing your arms up in desperation. “You can hate me all you want. You can resist and resist and fry your brain ‘till there’s nothing left, but I believe in this shit. And you don’t get to tell me that I don’t, or tell me I’ll turn into something I worked so hard to get away from.”

Touya stands there, surprised by your outburst, completely unaware that you were capable of all of that. He doesn’t say anything back, and you roll your eyes. “So fuck you, and, by the way, her angel port is smoking.”

At your words, he turns in a rush, seeing the smoke billowing from Blue’s chest as he climbs his way up her form. Once inside his machine, he extinguishes the port and allows himself to relax. There are two things on his mind in this moment: how you could have possibly known it was the angel port without being inside of Blue’s chest and how, for the first time in a long time, he feels bad for his handler.

But for you, it’s the first time you’ve ever held your own against a pilot before, and that feels good.

…

Something feels weird.

Off, unsettling, strange.

He realizes, much to his dismay, that it’s your absence. Despite only having you around for such a short time, Touya has realized that your lack of presence now feels wrong. He hates it. He hates you.

He can’t find you. You haven’t knocked on his door. You’re not in the caf, not the garage, not the sparring floor, not in your room. And he did check—without knocking.

He’s not even sure how he can feel an absence. You aren’t a regular part of his life, and he never wanted you to be. But he feels all fucked up.

During training, Touya jams Blue’s halo core and she leaks vibrant neon from between her ribs. It takes him half an hour to get her reboot her system and rips one of the cables attached to the back of his suit in the process. He spends the afternoon cleaning HERO fluid off the sparring floor.

During repairs, he shocks himself over and over while trying to fix her core, fingers burning from the sparks each time he arranges the wires inside. The cameras in her eyes won’t work from the reboot, and Blue won’t let him unlock the lens panel to fix it. It’s almost like she’s mad at him too.

He’s a complete mess. It’s your fault. He has no choice but to go looking for you. Again.

He searches every wing of the academy before concluding that you’re in your room. He barges through the joint door, spotting you at the counter in your tiny kitchen. You’re surprised by the intrusion, a frightened gasp falling from your lips as you jump in your seat. You turn toward him, prepared with angry words on your tongue, but Touya speaks first.

“You’re not getting an apology out of me, so don’t expect it.” He begins, moving to stand in front of your swiveling kitchen stool as he looks down at you. “But I’m willing to be civil with you, so we don’t have to do this shit anymore.”

You’re not exactly sure what “this shit” is, but Touya looks a little worse for wear at the moment, so you don’t question it. He places a tray from the caf down in front of you that you hadn’t noticed in his hands upon arrival, says nothing else, and turns to leave the room. After shutting your joint door, you look down at the tray of food, noticing one of his suckers placed onto a vacant compartment of the tray.

You’re greeted the next morning with a knock on your door, Touya dressed in his pilot’s suit on the other side as you swing the door open. “C’mon. You’re gonna watch me train today.”

You watch him turn around to leave, expecting you to follow. You rush to pull on your combat boots and grip your dog tags in your fist as you rush to catch up to him. He doesn’t spare you a glance as you fall into step beside him, taking a look around his dorm before he leads you through the exit door.

“You need to get a feel for my fighting style.” He explains as you walk down the corridor. “I’m not saying I’ll listen to you when it comes down to it, but it’s important for you to know.”

You nod, agreeing that you should definitely observe him inside of his HERO. By understanding his moves, you’ll be able to understand the way he thinks, and you’ll be able to help him in actual combat if needed. He’s already said he won’t listen to you, but it won’t stop you from trying. He stops abruptly, turning to look at you, and you stop with him.

“If we’re gonna do this, it’ll be on my terms. I’m not your dog.” He tells you, seriously. He eye’s you up and down, taking in your expression as you nod at his words. “If anything, you’re mine.”

He begins walking again, leaving you in your spot, irritation filling your chest as you watch him, smug. “Asshole.” You curse under your breath.

“What’d you say?” He barks, turning to look at you abruptly.

“You’re an asshole.” You speak louder. He walks back toward you, making sure to tower over you intimidatingly as he looks down at you in annoyance. His eyes flicker down to the tags around your neck before hooking a finger on the chain and pulling you closer.

“Watch it.” He drops the chain and walks away again.

You follow him to the sparring floor, and he shows you where to go to watch. Stood behind a large window that looks over the sparring area, other members of the base watch the HERO’s engage in combat below. You spot Tenko and he motions for you to stand beside him.

“I knew he’d warm up to you.” He comments. The last of the previous battle finishes and you watch the two enormous machines retreat to the sides of the area, their pilots emerging from their chests with their handlers rushing to the bottom of the mech’s in support.

“He hasn’t. He’s not.” You shake your head. You aren’t sure why you deny it, if it’s some way to keep your expectations low or if there’s some kind of embarrassment aspect to the whole thing. Whatever is happening between you and Touya feels intimate and private, something that the two of you need to figure out for yourselves, not something meant for the eyes of others.

“Hm. Okay.” Tenko shrugs. “Guess not.”

You hadn’t noticed Touya enter his mech at all. You see the swing of one giant mechanic arm, too close to the window you stand behind, and you’ve shifted your full attention to the scene at hand.

The enormity of the room surprises you, despite the fact that you had seen it just moments before. But when you’re truly looking at it, watching these huge machines go at each other, the way the ground shakes, the leaves outside shake, the deep forrest clear in view from the wall that opens out to the greenery (the lack of a wall is likely from the academy’s abandoned state, but it’s a good feature to have on the sparring floor when giant robots are toppled over onto various surfaces).

The way Blue moves is electric, mechanic movements almost feel fluid with the way that Touya pilots her, easily dodging attacks from their opponent and moving around them in the most graceful way a giant machine can. It’s beautiful, unlike any fighting style you’ve ever seen in a HERO before.

“He’s showing off for you.” Tenko observes from beside you. You don’t argue with him, only because you can’t dispute it. This is your first time seeing him in action. It makes your heart beat out of your chest. There’s this ache like you should be inside with him, cables connected to both of you, tucked neatly inside of Blue together.

It doesn’t take him long to get his opponent on their back, the heavy thump against the floor jostling the ant-like figures on the ground below, handlers waiting for their pilots to finish. It goes on like this for a while, his training, using different methods of combat and winning each time. He’s amazing, and you can tell why his reputation is the way it is, second only to Tenko, who you have yet to see in action.

When he finishes his last session, you watch Blue walk to the edge of the room, and Touya emerges from her chest, jumping the long way down her body without any issue. You watch as he looks toward the window you’re behind. He waves at you, an acknowledgment of your presence, and you wave back, though you aren’t sure he can actually see you.

It’s the beginning of everything for the two of you. You think Tenko was right.

He lets you stay with him afterwards while he does maintenance on Blue. He helps you climb up the path to her chest, hauling you over the edge to sit inside with him. He turns around abruptly, holding a hand up before allowing you to walk any further.

“Do not touch anything.” He warns, completely serious, before letting his hand fall and allowing you further into the cockpit. You take in your surroundings, the guts of his machine, analyzing the different control panels and screens that line the interior. You can tell he takes good care of her, and he spends a lot of time in here. It looks lived in, stickers stuck to metal plating and pieces of him all over. He’s made a second home in between the ribs of his mech. You feel a little jealous, though you aren’t sure of what.

The two of you sit against the left side of Blue’s interior, waiting for her updates to finish, the loading screen on each of her monitors display a fire graphic that grows with the increasing percentage on screen. Between you and Touya sits an opened bag of sour gummies, which Touya picks out the lemon flavor and drops the candy in your palm with each new handful he gathers.

“How do you know all this stuff?” He questions around a mouthful of sour cherry, “Like, the real names for things, where stuff goes, how to fix them. That day with the wires…”

“I spent a lot of time around mechanics at UA, and then also at the PLF.” You explain, picking the yellow colored candy from his open palm as you speak. “I couldn’t connect with other handlers. I didn’t like how they thought, or how they viewed the pilot/handler relationship. Mechanics were mostly neutral, and they loved these machines like nothing else. They reminded me of why I joined UA in the first place.”

“Hm.” He nods, thinking about your past. “Well, I guess if you spent so much time around actual professionals…I could maybe use your help sometimes in the garage.”

“Really?” You question excitedly, a spark lighting up your eyes as you swerve your head toward him. He feels something tight in his chest at the sight.

“Yes, but only on the outside. I don’t want you messing with her insides, yet.” He establishes. “And never alone. I have to be there at all times.”

“Of course, yes, oh my god. Touya!” You smile, gripping his shoulder firmly, a gesture of thanks, communication of how much his trust means to you. “I’ll be so careful with her, I promise.”

“Yeah, well, you have no other choice.” He shrugs, throwing another pile of candy in his mouth. “I’ll kill you if anything happens to her.”

You take the threat seriously, but his heart isn’t in it. He’s realized that you’ve wormed your way into his life and he hadn’t even noticed just how entangled you were now.

As the weeks go by, you spend a lot more time together. You work on blue together, and you rest inside of her chest, sometimes allowing yourself to drift off against his shoulder on especially tiring days. He sits beside you in the caf, and while he doesn’t always say much, the feeling of his arm against yours is comforting. You can tell people are starting to notice, and they’re starting to talk. You’re being dubbed someone who’s tamed him, but you know how far from the truth that is.

Despite your differences and the petty arguments that come up when Touya feels like you’re intruding on his independence, you’re growing attached. You wonder if he is, too.

…

Spending time together in the garage becomes the new normal for the two of you. Being in each other’s dorms feels far too intimate, so you always meet in the garage. This way, one of you is always busy doing something with your hands. There’s no room for any strange feelings in the pit of your stomach to seep in.

You sit in the crook of Blue’s neck, watching Touya as he repairs the lenses in her “eyes.” Blue has three pairs of eyes; in her head, her chest, and down near her hips, which all footage is projected onto monitors inside the cockpit so that Touya has a full view of what’s in front of him.

He’s so peaceful while he works, you’ve noticed, almost like he goes somewhere else completely. It’s a part of him you don’t think many people get to see, a piece of him just for you, and you want to be selfish with it.

“Can I ask you something?” You question, leaning your head back against the metal. “But you can’t get mad.”

He looks up at you, still fiddling with a lens, a mocking look on his face. “I’m not making any promises.”

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself for the possible fallout of the question you’re about to ask, “What do you think about the soul link?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’d never do it.”

You nod your head in understanding, “yeah, I get it. It’s weird, right? The idea that someone else would be inside your brain.”

“It’s fucking invasive.” He says.

“You know, at UA it always felt like a threat, you know. Like, it was a way for a handler to control their pilot, not a tool or a bond like it should be.” You begin, thinking back to how you viewed the soul link back then. You didn’t like how the bond was presented as this power that a handler holds over their pilot, a threat to keep their pilot in line. But, you could understand how the link could be used for good. “But since coming here, I can tell it’s not all bad. People trust each other here. I mean, there’s obviously some people who abuse it, but, for the most part, everyone seems to understand what it really means to be a pilot and a handler.”

You’re mostly just thinking out loud, but Touya doesn’t say anything to your ramblings. He continues to work on the lenses, and you can gather that he doesn’t want to talk about the subject anymore. But you can’t let it go, yet. There’s something you’ve been worried about since you met him.

“And what about…your brain? They say when a handler and a pilot don’t complete the soul link, the pilot will eventually fry their brain.” You can’t help it. You think about it all the time, what will happen when he can’t take it anymore. The closer you get to him, the realer it feels. “Are you ever worried about that?”

He looks at you, an expression you can’t quite make out fall across his face as he stares. It’s almost soft, the way he looks at you in this moment. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

The truth is, this is a reality Touya has accepted. He’s not afraid to die, and he never has been. He’ll probably die inside of Blue, and he has no problem with that fact. He doesn’t need to be around for long, just enough to show his dad what he’s capable of.

“C’mon.” You stare. “That’s not fair.”

“Shit. I left some of the screws for this in my dorm.” He curses. He looks where you lounge, tucked into Blue’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, okay?”

You watch him jump down, much higher than his usual height at her chest, but he lands anyway. He doesn’t turn to look back at you as he jogs away. You climb up the side of Blue, and look at the lenses in her head. They’re already repaired, and you know Touya used the excuse of missing screw just so he wouldn’t have to talk about the soul link.

But it’s the first time he’s ever left you alone with Blue before.

…

As the mission draws closer, Touya throws himself into training. You’re on the training floor with him most days, standing behind that big glass panel as you watch him spar with his peers. He still doesn’t let you down on the floor with him until he’s full out of Blue and close enough to the edge of the sparring floor to get to you. You’re not allowed in the actual training area, and even though he says he doesn’t want you clinging to him, it’s really because he wants to keep you safe. Seeing your human body near the giant machines that are HERO’s makes him want to grab you and keep you inside of Blue’s chest forever.

You can tell all the training is taking a toll on him. With an excess of headaches and the occasional nosebleed, you continuously get into arguments about him cutting back on training inside of Blue. There are other ways for him to prepare that don’t involve his fragile brain being hooked up to an entity that takes so much. He doesn’t listen.

Later and later into the night, as your fellow pilots and handlers disperse and return to their rooms to sleep, Touya stays inside of Blue, testing her movements and sparring against test dummies and obstacles. Once you and Touya are the only two left on the sparring floor, you speak into the intercom attached to your head.

“Touya, I think you should take a break.” You tell him, “It’s late. Get some rest and then we can pick it back up in the morning.”

There’s a pause, then, “I’m gonna stay for another hour. Get some sleep. I’ll be done soon.”

“No, Touya. You’ve been at it for hours. You barely took a break for dinner. C’mon.”

“You know, you sound awfully like a handler trying to tell their pilot what to do.” He teases, but you can hear the irritation in his voice.

“You are insufferable. I’m worried about you.” You groan.

“I’m fine. Go sleep.” He insists.

“If I find out you aren’t out of here in an hour—” Your line is promptly cut off, leaving behind static in your ear. You sigh and throw your com to the side. You hope he’s telling the truth.

With one last look at Blue, you make your way out of the training floor and find your way back to your dorm.

Touya doesn’t answer the door when you knock the next morning. With a frustrated groan, you leave your dorm and head to the training floor, assuming he woke up early to get some extra hours in. The closer you get the the floor, you notice other members of the base rushing in front of you. Feeling panicked, you pick up the pace, jogging toward the training room to make sure something isn’t wrong. You collide with a body in front of you, nearly falling to the floor as you steady yourself. Toga stands in front of you, her cheeks red and eyes glossy as she explains something your mind can’t catch up to understand. The only thing you recognize is his name, and you’re running toward the training floor in an instant.

You watch as Blue stomps around the area, her arms swinging in all directions, losing her footing as she moves. Knowing you can’t do anything on the floor, you make your way up to the overlook, finding Tenko yelling into your intercom.

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” You ask him, pulling the headset off of his head and placing it on yours instead.

“He’s out of fucking control. He won’t answer. I don’t even think he’s conscious in there.” He tells you, running a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots in anxiety. “You’re not linked yet, are you?”

You shake your head, closing your eyes in frustration as you try to think. You know it’s the only way. You have to take some of the burden off of him, make him share it with you. It’s the only way he’ll survive right now. “Do you think you can get into Decay right now and knock him down somehow?”

He hesitates, “I can get inside. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to touch him at all.”

“You have to.” You plead, desperately. “I just need him down for ten seconds, tops. As long as I can get inside of her, I can save him.”

He looks at you like you’re insane, and maybe you are. But you know you can’t live with yourself if you don’t try something. Tenko nods.

“I can do it.” He tells you. You rush passed him, following the stairs down to the training area. You feel Tenk grab your wrist firmly. “You bring him back, okay?”

“I will.” You nod.

He dodges Blue’s movements, weaving between her legs as he finally makes it to Decay. It takes a few moments for him to connect, but he goes straight for Blue. You watch the giant machines fight one another, but it’s clear that Blue’s lack of control hinders much of her ability. She needs Touya just as much as he needs her. It’s tough for Decay to dodge her swinging arms, but Tenko manages to knock her down quickly.

The fall shakes the room, but you waste no time running for Blue. Climbing over the side of her, you manage to touch your thumb to the pad on the outside to open her chest up. She begins to stand up, and you slip down, grabbing onto a bar beneath her ribcage. You let out a frustrated groan as you try to pull yourself up over the edge of the cockpit. Finally making it over, you see Touya sitting there, still connected to his pilot’s chair, eyes glazed over and blood gushing from his nose. You push the button that closes the panel in Blue’s chest, and you’re suddenly alone with him.

Touya’s body is being jerked around by the movement of the mech, and you hang onto the walls of her chest in order to make your way to him. You situate yourself in his lap, taking his head in your hands as you look at him with tears in your eyes.

“You fucking asshole! I told you to take a break.” You sob, resting your head against his as you try and think of what to do next. “Touya, please. Please, baby, I need to you come back. Just fucking come back so I don’t have to do this without your permission, please.”

With no response from him, you wipe your tears, coming to terms with the fact that you have to complete the soul link now, or he’ll die. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Touya. Please forgive me.”

The soul link isn’t exactly an action so much as it is a feeling, an experience. There’s no trigger for it, no way to make it happen. It just begins.

It’s Touya, aged thirteen, wild, chubby-cheeked and happy, in the pilot’s seat of his father’s HERO. It’s his drive, his determination, his anger, his hurt. It’s the day he snuck into battle, the day he couldn’t get out, flesh burning and fusing to the metal walls of his mech, the feeling now deep in your skin. It’s you, aged fifteen, hopeful, alive, shaking hands with your first pilot. It’s your heart, much too big and much too open for your line of work, it’s your passion, your fire, every piece of you that was broken down again and again until there was nothing left. It’s Touya and it’s you, and every single bit of your souls now tied together in one big knot.

There’s nothing but darkness. And then there’s screaming. And then you can hear everything. Every thought running through Touya’s brain right now echoes in your head as you slowly come back to yourself. He can hear the same of yours.

It’s overwhelming at first, to have two sets of thoughts in your head at the same time, but you manage to focus. You can feel an anger inside of you like you’ve never felt. It’s almost like it’s your own. You need to come back. You’ve lost control of Blue.

In an instant, you feel yourself come back to your body, now straddling Touya like before, you feel his arms shoot around you and he tucks his chin over your shoulder to pilot Blue like he’s used to doing. He pays no mind as he presses up against you, but you feel your heart rate increase at the closeness.

He’s so close.

I have to be. You’re in my lap.

Shit. I didn’t think—

Clearly.

I can’t fucking believe you. I told you we weren’t going to do this.

You were dying!

Then you fucking let me!

You’re jostled around in his lap for a moment as he stops Blue from destroying any more of the training floor, and Touya wraps an arm around your waist, holding you steady.

He gains control of her quickly, moving her toward the edge of the room. You tuck your face into his neck, not wanting to distract him and keeping your thoughts at bay so you don’t overwhelm him. He powers Blue down, severing the neural connection between the two of you, and shoves you from his lap and into the pilot’s chair like you’ve burned him. He storms out of the cockpit, climbing out of his machine and leaving you inside. You think about the argument you had within each other’s head, how Touya would have rather died than be linked to you like he is now.

You slump against the seat, comforted by the metal cage you’ve been left inside of.

#dabi x reader #touya todoroki x reader #bnha x reader #tw claustrophobia #just in case it’s like so brief and doesn’t describe much yet but I just wanna be safe #ghost.writes #ghost.fic

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chronicdelusionistsart · 21 days ago

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Gotham Knights Tim is at all times two minutes away from being a full-blown AI bro, a trait that conveys a certain shrewd understanding on the part of the writer's room about the kind of (not exclusively, but majority) guys that get really invested in Tim Drake.

This is funny on its own. Based on the Belfry conversations and emails, it's safe to say that the others (Barbara) are holding him back every semester from trying to find a way around his "totally not necessary I don't need these to get good at engineering" humanities classes. While patiently explaining to him that you can't simply make a robot that fixes wage inequity.

But it's also funny to imagine the irony of Bernard the conspiracy theorist trying to get him out of it.

Like.

Imagine you're Babs. You just came back from a full evening of patrol. You've had just about enough of everything. You've been to the fuckass Mario death trap this month. The fuckass cave. The fuckass Zelda puzzles. If you see another owl you're going to throw your back brace at it. And you hear Tim go like "No it's fine, see, the AI can compile that info for me."

And you're like, steeling yourself to the misery of ONCE AGAIN reminding your Real Life Teen Genius Teammate that even if you host your own model, it is seriously A) not a good idea to have a generative model based on Bat-data lying around and B) it can't actually do detective work or even report on files correctly half the time and you're just coming up with how to phrase C through F when suddenly some other kid whose voice you haven't heard before goes like

"Tim, you can't talk to ChatGPT. It's seriously trying to cover up bigfoot. It's funded by the Clone Farm guys, man. You can't trust it."

And then against all odds you hear Timothy Jackson Drake who had to be talked out of creating the literal undead for a science experiment last week go "Oh, really? I'll have to look into that. Thanks Bear"

And you feel an emotion that is utterly indescribable as you lock eyes with Dick, who proceeds to pour a full bowl of dry cereal into his mouth without losing eye contact in a way that conveys despair

#gotham knights game #barbara gordon #Tim Drake #bernard dowd #timbern

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omgfangirlland · 1 month ago

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Okay so to add to the superfam x neglected! reader! What if the reader is an absolute nerd with engineering (mechanical, computer, electronics, software, and robotics) and as they slowly grew comfortable with Lex Luthor, they just found themselves yapping away about the functions of the Omnitrix, interesting projects they're working on, and what they want to do yk. Like this girl went from quiet, demure, shy who is not used to attention to someone who could talk Lex's ears off for HOURS, and he isn't even mad??? All her ideas are pretty interesting and it's also nice to see her just be in her element. The superfam being regretful because they didn't know Reader could talk this much or be so bright about something. Lois feeling immense guilt because she got so used to the easy way of not having to worry about injuries because Jon, Kon, and Clark don't that she forgot her daughter didn't inherit any of the indestructableness

Also!!! As Reader slowly got used to actually have an adult pay attention to her and encourage her with her interests, plus the praise she receives with her hero persona, she just became more confident. Idk it's like 1 am and the drabble was too good

-🪻

I want to start with the Ben10 reader x Invincible- I don't really feel the vibe for it- like Debbie has bitten into Nolan for not being happy for powerless kiddie Mark, and she'd do it again, and Nolan honestly just gave "angry because I'm getting attacked" vibes. But it'd be funny to see how shocked Battle Beast would be to see a youngling of his race try and battle him :)))

Also- Dad!Lex honestly just gives PTA Mom vibes to me-

(This and the 3 other Tony Stark!Reader stories I read are slowly making me want to do a TS!Neglected!Reader x batfam, Bruce would lose it at his daughter being so much like Brucie and so little like Bruce)

I'M HAPPY Y'ALL LIKE MY RAMBLING!! Most of the time I feel like it has no rhythm or reason :))

Lex: My kid is a mastermind in robotics and alien tech, on her way to have a greater empire than mine- What can your monkey-brained son do besides chase a ball, Janet?!

You: I don't even go here... I don't even know this woman.

Like, once this man gets attached, he goes crazy. He has an important business meeting at the same time you have a school event? At best, he's video chatting from your school, screaming mid-sentence that you did great, or at worst, not even present in the meeting.

Because let's be honest- rich man who knows how to act and can provide proof of neglect vs an above middle class family who didn't even know where the kid was? The rich man wins.

And sure, you may hate it at first, think it's a ploy to get back at Superman, because why would an adult actually care for you? But instead of lowering the anti-supers measures he has in place, he triples them. He asks about school shit, nags you about homework, if you ate, "You shouldn't sit for so long in front of a screen."

It drove you crazy. And you started acting out- missing homework, having sleepless nights, arguing with him over the smallest shit, until he called you for a serious talk. You were ready for him to tell you to pack your shit and go- but he just asked if everything was fine at school. "Because this isn't you."

Your lip may have trembled, but you refuse to acknowledge that you cried, that tears were even a concept. After hugging, definitely not crying in his arms, you got better- even if he suspended you from hero activity for a year "because you should have just come to talk to him" but whatever-

And boy does all of this fuck with the family. Not every place is anti-super proof, so they hear you talking his ear off at the restaurant he takes you to for the weekly family outing, or to celebrate whatever you made that day. And it builds the anger and guilt.

Lois started stalking Lex, not what she'd call it, but she was. Because she knew you wouldn't be far away. And it was amazing to see you talk about whatever machine-thingy-robot- whatever it was. It hurt to realize what she's been missing, and it hurt even more to see you smile so brightly and proudly at the man who, for years, has tried to ruin the family.

And when Jon sees you out and about and tries to follow after you, wanting his sis back, he loses track of you. Lex just finds a note stating that the cloaking tech works, but after 30 seconds, it fried. He doesn't ask, he already knows. But if you told him, he would obediently listen.

Kon is straight up thinking Lex brainwashed you. He refuses to believe you're doing that out of your own free will and is actively plotting with Tim and Young JL.

It was eerie how much you resembled Kon in his early days as "the real, new Superman" but the difference was in the way you actually were strategic in your flirting. Just enough to charm, but not enough to insinuate a possibility of more. Not that Lex would allow anyone to sniff around you, he has a strict list of requirements for the ideal one, and he's sure no one will hit all of them.

Honestly- he may as well start creating an android, the perfect one, to be the right lover. You shut that idea down quick. "Feels wrong to create an android and take away its free will. There are so many movies and games about why that's a bad idea."

All he hears is to create an android with another main mission, and just let the thing fall in love with you on its own. He has mad confidence in your rizz, mainly because he thinks you are the prize, and anyone not seeing that is crazy or blind. (*caugh* the superfam *caugh*) You could also do no wrong in his eyes, could kill everyone, and he'd still be like "lil baby, innocent, sweet thing", but that's another discussion.

This man will need to take calming pills if you show interest in JL members, aliens like Rook Blonko and Ester, or the witch Charmcaster.

You and Lex:

#anon ask #🪻 anon #🔱 anon #neglected!reader #superfam x reader #superfam #lex being a pta mom

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apomaro-mellow · 4 months ago

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Built for Loving 1/? Read on AO3

Another one from the steddie fic adopt community:

Eddie lands his dream job at a robotics facility that's best known for its pleasure bots. He doesn't mean to make a bot of his old high school crush but the design gets approved all the same. Problems begin to arise when the customer lodges complaints about the android.

Eddie had always messed with whatever he could get his hands on. When he lived with his parents, it caused trouble and he quickly learned that whatever he took apart, he should know how to put back together. It wasn't until he started living his his uncle as he reached adolescence that this particular quirk was encouraged. The first couple of weeks were awkward.

They loved each other and Eddie trusted his uncle. But a weekend visit was different from "both of my parents went to prison and I have nowhere else to go". But all it took was his Uncle Wayne walking in on him disassembling an amp and then everything fell into place.

Eddie knew his uncle worked with his hands too, but not the specifics. It turned out he was an actual robotics engineer. Wayne downplayed it, saying he just did repairs on defective bots, that he wasn't anyone special, but that sounded like Eddie's dream job. And it was for a while. Eddie was on his best behavior, he went to school and got good grades because he knew these places only hired people with degrees.

College was no picnic, both the classes and paying for it was a test of endurance for Eddie. But he struck gold when he graduated. He never thought he'd be the kind of guy to say he had connections, but Wayne was able to get him an interview. And thanks to the awards from the robotics competitions and glowing recommendation letters from some of his professors, Eddie got the job.

He was about to start living his dream. Although his dream had changed since he was a kid. Eddie had forged a new passion during his late nights, drawing up blueprints and designs. He no longer wanted to simply repair robots. He wanted to design and build his own.

And there was no more prestigious position than that of Android Art Director. Especially for the company at the top of the android business, Brenner Ventures. Everybody wanted a Brenner Bot. They made all kinds, med-droids, nannybots, and tutor trons, but the most popular and most expensive were the entertainment automatons. That was their official moniker from the company. Most people called them pleasure bots.

A plethora of skills could be programmed into them but no one was using their human-like throats for singing. Eddie had never owned one. He'd only seen them from behind the glass of window displays. Even in college, he'd only gotten to see them a handful of times in the lab. Pleasure bots busted beyond repair but broken down to be used as a teaching model. Unlike other kinds of robots, people didn't readily parade them around. They'd be ordered discretely and then kept in the home of the buyer to be used however the customer pleased.

Eddie was no prude, he didn't care what people used to get their rocks off. It was the idea of creating something almost human. As close as they could possibly get. And after about a year on the bottom rung (customer service, repair, automaton editing) he had finally arrived. He got the email inviting him to a Research and Development meeting. He attended, noting how he was the youngest in the room. And then at the end of it, he was given his first real job as an art director.

He was going to design and build his first pleasure bot.

The client had filled out the request form and it was quite simple. White, male, 20s, no taller than 5'10 but no shorter than 5', brown eyes and hair. Eddie could see why he'd been given this task. On paper, it looked rather plain. Fleischer was giddily drawing a bot with an impossible waist while Bird had to figure out how to give one Rapunzel length hair that didn't tangle or mat.

Senior Art Directors got the first pick of client requests and they always went for the challenges. Eddie, as the new meat, got what they considered boring. But Eddie knew it wasn't all about what was on the form. It was what you made of it. He sat at his desk, monitor on and started with the basic build. The face was the most important part to these people, so that's what he started with.

No notes had been given on personality besides "agreeable, submissive" which wasn't much to work on, so Eddie got to imagining. He thought about the type of guy he'd want, which felt like an easy place to start. It took a couple of hours into drawing the face, erasing what didn't feel right just to draw a very similar line anyway, to realize he was drawing Steve Harrington.

Steve hadn't said two words to Eddie in high school and yet he'd been obsessed. A guy who ran through girls like toilet paper and so everyone pegged him as the playboy. But Eddie had spent long enough watching him from afar to read the yearning on his face. Imagine that, someone so beautiful who longed for love and yet never found it? Eddie hadn't seen him in years, made he'd found love by now. Found a nice girl to settle down with perhaps. But who was to know?

Once the thought was in his mind, Eddie couldn't let it go. If he did nothing else in this world, he had to let Steve be loved. Which meant he had to build this bot right. He did what he could at the office but ended up bringing his work home with him. Because it was only there that he had the material he needed.

He had to rifle through some boxes to find it, but there it was - an old notebook from his senior year. The year when his obsession with Steve reached its peak. Inside of it were dozens of sketches of Steve. Not just his face too. Eddie had drawn his profile, his hands holding objects, his legs in those stupid basketball shorts, his torso when they played shirts vs skins.

"God, someone should lock me away for this", he said before getting up from the box and taking the notebook to his computer.

He spent the better part of the night, finishing his design, using his sketches as references. One thing about the usual clientele for pleasure bots was that they were loyal. Once they bought one they liked, they held onto it, insuring it, getting regular repairs, sometimes even traveling with them if they were to be gone for a while.

Eddie would never get to tell the real Steve how he felt. But in his own strange way, he'd be making sure Steve felt that love somehow. Obviously overtime didn't exist in the Brenner Bot employee manual, but Eddie didn't care. This is what his whole life had been leading up to.

"You look like shit Munson. The bland bot givin' you that much trouble?", Fleischer said when he came in the next morning.

"I finished his design last night, actually", Eddie beamed, reveling in how his co-worker's face dropped.

Fleischer quickly picked it up. "Still gotta have it approved. And then the build. You sure you're up for it?"

Eddie shrugged. "If I can't handle a bland bot, then I wasn't meant for this job."

His design was anything but bland. Steve was anything but bland. He was beautiful, gorgeous even. The feelings that had cooled thanks to the separation had burned as bright as ever last night. Eddie sent his design to be checked. He'd played it off in front of others but he didn't know what he'd do if any part of it was critiqued or turned down.

It was checked in house first to make sure it met company standards, then sent off to the client to make sure it was what they wanted. Eddie waited for an excruciating 48 hours before the email came in.

Company Approved: Yes

Client Approved: Yes

Part 2

#apo writes #stranger things #steddie

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fortunerobotic · 9 months ago

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#robotic courses #robotic engineering #USA #robotic classes #robotic courses for kids

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brainynbright418 · 6 months ago

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Empowering Young Innovators: Robotics & Engineering Classes for Kids at Brainy n Bright

At Brainy N Bright, we are passionate about nurturing the next generation of innovators, and our Robotics & Engineering Classes for Kids are at the heart of this mission. These programs are not just about learning how to build robots; they are about cultivating a lifelong love of science, technology, engineering, and mathematics (STEM), and developing the critical thinking and problem-solving skills that are essential for success in the modern world.

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#robotics & engineering classes for kids

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fandom-lover2 · 6 months ago

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The Two Times Toshinori Realized He'd Failed As A Father And The One Time He Didn't

Chapter Two - The Second Time He Failed

Word Count - 3676

Chapter One - The First Time He Failed

Chapter Three - The Time He Didn't

Toshinori winched, the cold wind biting through his layers and chilling his bones.

He understood the need for training in such conditions, but did he really have to be out here in winter? Behind him, he heard the mumbled complaints of his students voicing his same thoughts.

So far, one group had gone. Now was the second group’s turn. After them, there would still be another two groups to go.

Toshinori flexed his shoulders, shifting his coat as he kept his arms crossed. “Keep your eyes up Mina.” he advised through the ear piece that connected him to his students in the gym.

He watched on the cameras as Mina did as she was told, narrowly avoiding what would have been a painful strike to the back of the head.

The Support Classes had outdone themselves this time, their robots more advanced than the ones before. Each was a small sphere with mechanical wings, its own thing that made it a formidable adversary, drawing inspiration from a student or Pro Hero’s quirk.

The one Mina was currently against shot out a highly sticky substance. Between her dodging of the ball, she needed to place a sticker on its surface.

That was the objective for all students, place a sticker on as many balls as you can in the given time. And don’t get hit, or tied up, or knocked out. You know, the normal.

Movement on another screen caught Toshinori’s attention and he looked up just in time to see Shoji place a sticker on a ball that had a cloaking advantage, making it so that you needed to hear it rather than see.

Koda was using the birds around him to help force a ball that shot out bean bags to the ground so he could tag it.

You and Midoriya had ended up in the same group, a lucky draw of straws, and were currently walking at opposite ends of the training ground to find your next target. You currently had 3 balls tagged, and his successor 2.

“Good work Young Shoji. Very resourceful Young Koda.” Toshinori complimented, his eyes tracking his successor.

He watched as the crisscross of green power rippled across Midoriya’s skin before he leapt into the air, green black tendrils of smoke leaving his hands as he aimed to grab a sphere. It ducked from his reach, and he bounced off a wall following after it, smoke still shooting out to try and catch it.

Toshinori liked this exercise, a chance for Deku to use both his quirks at once. He watched, pride swelling in his chest as his hands clenched in anticipation, watching in amazement as his boy zipped around, chasing the sphere that moved with extraordinary speeds.

“Fuck!” he heard you yelp in his ear.

“Language.” he chastised automatically.

He really needed to get you to stop swearing so much.

Granted, he did swear a lot in his career, being sure to do so in English. But, he was supposed to be stopping the cycle of bad habits, even though he did spend an entire lesson teaching your class how to swear in English.

His eyes flicked over to your screen, seeing that the sphere you had found had electricized whips that shot out from it. One had managed to make contact with you. Because, you had another circling that shot out small blades that seemed to have tiny engines on them, able to change direction and follow after you. In dodging one, you got stuck in another.

Now this was excellent, a chance for you to practice splitting your concentration, controlling your stars to handle multiple situations at once. A chance to practice fighting a villain, avoiding attacks, and begin with rescue operations all at once.

His eyes snapped between the two screens, his heart racing in his chest as he watched both his kids have the perfect chances to better themselves.

You were struggling, he could see it. He had to force himself to remain immobile as he saw every new cut appear on you when a knife got through, and winced every time your body tensed when the medium voltage shocks ran through your body.

Midoriya was doing well, seeing this as a good challenge and rather drawing out the chase instead of ending it quickly.

Your father watched as his successor used his two quirks expertly, moving with grace and precision through the air, around his target.

He glanced over at you, and you weren’t on that screen anymore. He looked around, and found you near the original site, hiding in an alley. You were hunched over, hands on your knees as you breathed heavily. A cut on your cheek dripped blood.

“Come on Yagi.” your father called over the earpiece. “Push on. You can’t leave a scene without ensuring the situation is under control.”

He saw your body still, but didn’t stay looking at you. Midoriya was closing in on his sphere, winding up his arm for a blow.

He shouted one of All Might’s catch phrases and punched, the air from his blow sending the robot crashing to the ground. Landing beside the struggling droid, Midoriya bent down and slapped his sticker onto it.

“Excellent work, Young Midoriya!” Toshinori cheered over the earpiece, which was broadcasted for every student in the field to hear.

Finally, they were making headway. All his research was paying off, all his student’s work paying off. The quirks were becoming better to manage, his successor mastering them faster than he could have imagined. There was still a long way to go, but they were on the right track.

Your father turned back to your screen, finding you still hunched in the same alley.

“Yagi, stalling at an active scene can cause more harm for bystanders. You need to get back out there.” Your father called to you again.

You breathed heavily over the comm system for a moment, then said something, something that made your father frown.

“I give up.”

Give up? You couldn’t just give up. You didn’t just give up. You had never once given up.

“What?”

“I give up.” you repeated louder, more firm.

Was this too hard for you? It shouldn’t be, or rather you shouldn’t be shutting down because of it. You loved testing your limits, finding a way through. What was going on in your head?

“You can’t just give up. In a real situation, you can’t just run away because you aren’t getting your way. The exercise isn’t complete, and this is a graded-”

“I give up!” You screamed, your father flinching at the sudden volume in his ear.

Your classmates on the screens did the same, stopping to listen to what was happening. Behind him, the rest of your class had gone silent.

“I can’t do this anymore.” you breathed, still crouched in the dark.

Maybe it was too much, both spheres already a challenge on their own, near impossible when put together. Anyone would struggle.

Said training materials had found you, and were barreling down the alley towards you.

“Y/n, look-”

Your father’s warning wasn’t needed. Without even moving your hands, the two spheres exploded, pieces of metal falling to the floor with small thunks.

If it was that easy, why had you been saying all that?

He watched in silence, watched as you breathed heavily, still hunched over.

“I’m going back to America.”

His blood froze in his veins, his stomach dropped, he forgot to breathe. He watched as you stood, blood dripping down your cheeks as you stepped out the alley, walked down the streets.

You left your earpiece behind, deaf to the calls of your classmates in the field with you. Any flying robots you came across were swiftly destroyed without even a glance.

He tracked you through the cameras, watched you walk straight out of the training grounds. He briefly remembers asking Iida to round up the rest of the class and take them back to their classroom and keep them entertained before he removed his own earpiece and rushed from the observation deck.

Toshinori ran down the school’s halls, slipping between students and fellow teachers as he tried to find you. The changing rooms should have been his first guess, but he was too distracted to think clearly.

You were leaving? How long had this plan been in motion? Why hadn’t you told him? How could he be losing you?

Finally reaching the 1-A girl’s changing room, he burst in without much thought.

There you were, shirtless and currently trying to stop the bleeding of a clean slice to your abdomen. Not deep enough to need stitches, but still deep enough to be a nuisance.

“What the hell happened out there? And what do you mean you’re leaving?” he gasped out, hand raising to comb through his messy hair.

You ignored him, back still to him as you resumed pressing a handful of paper towels to your stomach.

“Y/n?” he called, taking steps towards you. “What the hell was that?”

No answer.

“Why are you going back?”

You whipped around, and it was then he noticed the redness around your eyes, the tears that streamed down your cheeks.

“Because I am your daughter!” you screamed, the sound coming from deep within you, echoing off the walls and slamming into him again. “Not him!”

You pointed, no direction but the meaning was clear.

“I am your daughter,” you repeated, a lot softer this time, your voice catching, “and I don’t even remember the last time you spoke to me.”

Toshinori realized, with a cold dread seeping up his spine, he couldn’t remember either.

You sobbed, your whole body curling into itself as your tears of pain rolled down your cheeks.

Oh his poor baby.

He reached his hands out, wanting to pull you in. You took a step back, like his very touch would burn you.

“Little One,” he whispered, wanting, needing to pull you close.

You shook your head, turning away from him again.

How could he have let this happen?

Since the emergence of Midoriya’s new quirks, he had been so focused on his research, on learning all he could to help his successor. He was desperate to learn more, so that he could help Midoriya become a good hero, help him become the next Symbol of Peace. How had he forgotten about his own child? He had been so busy he hadn’t stopped to see how much he was hurting you.

His throat tightened, his stomach twisting in guilt. “Y/n, please.” he tried, reaching for you again. You pulled further away.

“You love him more than me.”

All for One’s blow that almost killed him hurt less than hearing you so broken, your words knocking air from his lung.

Had he really let it get this bad? Did he really cause you to believe he didn’t love you more than anything else?

“He’s more important than me.”

“Stop!”

He couldn’t hear those words anymore, couldn’t hear how he’d lead you to believe you weren’t the most important person in the whole world to him.

You jumped at his command, put didn’t look at him still.

How could you think that? You were everything to him. Symbol of Peace was only second on his list of priorities, had been since the day he found out your mother was pregnant.

And training Midoriya? That was to continue on with the hopes of peace, so that One for All could be past to someone good, someone who used it for good.

You were his child, his legacy. How had he let himself get so consumed in that world, so lost in his desperation to learn more, that he’d forgotten the one person who was his world.

You fought a sob, and he was unsure how you were even managing to see what you were doing as you cleaned blood from your skin, tears dripping so quickly.

“Midoriya is my successor, and I care about him.” Your father started. There was no way he could lie to you. It was obvious Midoriya had become important to him. “I care for him very much, but I will never love him more than you.”

“You always spend time with him.” you spat.

“My Starlight, I am sorry. I got so caught up-”

“You don’t gotta worry. I’m moving back in with Mom.” you interrupted. “That way I won’t be here wasting your time.”

Waste his time?

“No, you are not.”

“You can’t stop me.” you challenged, still looking away.

It took your father two strides to reach you, his arms wrapping around you.

“Get off me.” you growled, which sounded pathetic combined with your tears.

You wiggled about, but that was honestly useless. Your father was All Might, One for All or not.

“I’m sorry.” Toshinori tried again, tears of his own gathering.

“I don’t care. Get off.”

He held you tighter, his tiny baby girl. How could he have let you feel so unloved, how could he have made it seem like he didn’t love you?

God he was a terrible father, leading his child to question his love for them.

“I love you, so much.”

“Get off me!” you insisted harder, struggling with all you had to be free.

He was a horrible, useless person. He’d shoved away his own daughter for something as stupid as a quirk. He’d made every moment of his life about Izuku Midoriya, ignoring you completely.

So much had happened, was happening to you, and his focus was elsewhere. Had he even asked you how work was going? You were just as busy as Midoriya, working alongside pro heroes, as equal to them as you patrolled and faced villains. Not to mention everything with the League of Villains. You and Bakugou had both been targeted at the Summer Training Camp, and you had barely gotten away. Then, you faced All for One, actually fought All for One, when your father was failing. His threat of coming for your life, of the Legue coming for you again someday no doubt hung over you daily. And regular classes, tests? Were you coping while being away from school so often?

Oh his baby girl, what had he done?

He squeezed you tighter.

“You’re hurting me!” you cried, and then Toshinori felt gravity shift.

No longer was he stuck to the floor, behind him was the strongest force. He was pulled back, his feet sliding across the floor as he was dragged back to the door.

You had used your quirk to push him away.

Toshinori looked at you, catching the look of horror that crossed for face for just a moment before it scrunched up again in pain.

He truly looked at you. Dozens of cuts littered your skin, knives having sliced through your hero costume easily to damage the skin below. They all bled, some worse than others depending on how deep the blades had gotten. Burns covered you too, skin red and inflamed with some beginning to blister. The whips had been merciless, catching your shoulders, and back, and arms. One had seemed to have landed at your neck, the mark ugly and painful.

And he had been grabbing you selfishly, forcing your sensitive skin to rub against his rough clothes and weathered hands.

Your body shook, ripples of physical pain mixing with the overwhelming emotional pain you felt. You looked at him, tears gathering and falling, and begged him to do something to fix it all. Fix inside that he had broken, and fix outside that he hadn’t seen.

“Daddy.” You were so soft, nothing left in you.

Toshinori moved forward, giving you time to pull away but also not really going to accept if you did.

Bending, he scooped you into his arms. He didn’t need to be All Might to carry his baby.

Despite the pain, you leaned into him, burying your face into his shirt.

He moved through the school, a man on a mission that nobody could stop. You used your quirk to open the door to the Infirmary when he arrived, saving him from slamming it open and most likely breaking it.

Recovery Girl turned in her chair, startled by the sudden invasion. Then she saw it was your father and sighed, rolling her chair back and dropping to the floor.

“I swear Toshinori, can you not go a week without one of your children ending up here?”

“Aggressive training robots.” you defended on his behalf.

He placed you down on the hospital bed, standing close-by, hovering as Recovery Girl looked over your wounds. She began by cleaning the cuts, and Toshinori’s heart broke a little more with each and every wince you let out as the alcohol burned, yet you still refused to reach out to him for comfort.

His self-hatred grew with each sniffle you let out, every tear wiped before it could roll down your cheeks.

All of this was his fault. If he had bothered to check in on you instead of just assuming you wouldn’t be this state. Internal and external wounds wouldn’t be marring his baby. He clenched his fists, his anger silently stewing inside him. If only he could yell at himself, hit himself for causing so much pain.

It took well over an hour for Recovery Girl to clean all your cuts, confirm none of them needed stitches. Your pants had to be removed as well, leaving you in just your bra and panties. Your father had bathed you. And it wasn’t like anything Recovery Girl would say would get him to leave your side.

Once the cuts had been tended to, bandages covering most of your skin, she moved on to the burns. Toshinori knew from experience how badly electrical burn stung. You clenched your jaw, screwed your eyes shut, as the healer applied burn gel. Your father watched on helpless, knowing there was nothing he could do it ease your pain and hurting because he knew you didn’t want his comfort.

Finally, Recovery Girl was finished and instructed you to lie down for a bit, rest for a while before going back to the dorms. The bell for end of school had rung long ago. The gel needed time to dry, so you lay without a blanket, the curtains pulled around you to give the sense of privacy. Recovery Girl brought your father a chair and he sat by your side, hand hovering just beside yours.

His eyes scanned your body, desperate to see what else he may have missed.

You looked tired, dark splotches beneath your eyes. And a lot skinner. Were you eating at all? A bruise covered your left side, looking to be from a broken rib. His own wound ached in sympathy. A scar on your right thigh was forming, something that looked suspiciously like a gunshot wound. Had you been shot and you didn’t tell him?

Maybe if he had asked, you would have felt you could come to him.

God, you weren’t even telling him about injuries you’d gotten. It was this bad?

He briefly felt a wave of fury wash over him, and he almost took out his phone and called Gang Orca, demanding to know why he wasn’t updated. But it wasn’t your employer’s job to let him know if you sustained an injury on the job.

“I am so sorry.”

You kept your eyes closed. The crying had stopped, but around your eyes was still red.

“I never meant to…”

What does he even say? He’d abandoned you.

He lived on the same campus as you, saw you almost every day in class, saw you in the dorms when it was his turn to watch your class, and he had distanced himself from you.

He was the adult, with the stable job and the easy life of a retired hero. You were the student, juggling work and exams as well as a social life. You were his baby, his daughter. He should have been pacing around, worried sick when you weren’t in class because Gang Orca had you off on a mission, not just counting you as absent from his lesson and moving on to do more research.

You were still just a child, his child. Carrying all this, and alone? He had failed as a father.

You opened your eyes, but kept them looking ahead. They were so sunken, so lifeless.

“I want to go home.”

You had never once called the States your home. It was always “Mom’s home” or “America”. His place, his apartment, that was home. That was home where he saw you every day, sat down to have meals with you and tucked you into bed despite your grumbling of being too big to still be doing it.

You wanted things to back to how they had been before, how they should have been all this time. You were asking for your dad, asking for him to love you again.

Wordlessly, Toshinori lent forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you from the bed and into his lap.

You curled into him, clinging to his warmth. Lying half naked in the middle of winter wasn’t the best idea. He pulled the blanket from the bed, wrapping it around himself, his arms wrapped around you.

He kissed the top of your head, tears of his own falling silently.

“I’m sorry I failed you.”

You snuggled tighter into him, leaving the world to its own problems as your father held you.

“You didn’t fail.” you mumbled, arms slowly snaking around his chest.

How could you be the one hugging him now when he'd hurt you so much?

“Daddy?” you called when the silence stretched on for too long.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Toshinori’s chest fluttered and he took a deep breath in and out, relief flooding through his system.

“I love you.” He somehow managed to pull you closer, hug you tighter.

So much had been broken, but they could be fixed. And it started now.

“I love you more than anything.”

#all might x daughter reader #all might x oc #all might x reader #all might x you #mha all might #all might #yagi toshinori #toshinori yagi x reader #toshinori yagi #toshinori yagi x daughter reader #bnha #mha

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stillness-in-green · 4 months ago

Note

“letting him keep the mech suit only to run it square into the rogue AI teeth of the lone free-willed survivor of the U.A. robot uprising”

Sorry, the lone what? Of the UA what?

Is this a backstory you’re spitballing as an addition to either Forwards Divergence or Backwards Divergence (whichever timeline you let armor AM mess around in), or is that something that actually exists in supplemental creator-approved material?

(In regards to that last post.)

Yes and also yes, as it happens! You can find a characteristically self-indulgent explanation (including pictures, citations, and some more thoughts on the role the character in question may play in whichever fic it winds up in) below the cut, but the TLDR is that the U.A. robot uprising is admissibly canon insofar as movie booklet Q&As with Horikoshi qualify—not strictly in the body of the work itself, but informed by Word of God. The “lone free-willed survivor,” meanwhile, is not canon of any stripe, but rather me spitballing an explanation for Toga’s bonkers #2 PLF advisor.

(My apologies to other people whose asks I'm pushing this one in front of. I'm working on that inbox backlog in between Patreon material, but I so rarely get asks about my BNHA fanfic endeavors that vanity demanded this one jump to the head of the queue.)

So U.A. has robots, right? They crop up several times throughout the series in U.A.-based action scenes, serving as practice targets, security, and transport, and they’re surprisingly mouthy, even hateful, in a humorously stereotyped “kill all humans” sort of way. The ones at the entrance exam stick in everyone’s mind, but they don’t talk much at all compared to some of what comes up later:

(images from Chapters 25, 256, 198 and 202 respectively.)

There’s also this little roving security bot that spots Bakugou and Deku fighting in 118—it’s not aggressive, but it is sassy! And maybe a little suspiciously into the idea of students getting punished.

(Aizawa is going to kill them for giving the robots an opening to be this smug at him.)

It’s easy to assume they’re just programmed that way to be characterful, to have a personality, to present a convincing threat when the students are mowing them down by the dozens in class exercises, but that they wouldn’t actually, seriously harm anyone.

And that’s probably true, but it’s true for the creepiest reasons imaginable.

My examples come from, chronologically, 2014, 2016, 2018(x2) and 2020. Cut to 2021, though, and this comes out. It’s a while-supplies-last movie booklet that accompanied the release of World Heroes Mission, and contains a Q&A with Horikoshi, virtually all just random funny questions and factoids about the U.A. kids. You can find a thread with all of them translated here. However, right at the end, this humdinger gets casually tossed out into the world:

Q22: Can you tell us a story secret? Horikoshi: The AI robots in U.A. Academy had tried to rebel once in the past.

Horikoshi very obviously intends this to be just a funny little aside, and it’s not all that hard to just treat it that way, but it became something that startled to rankle me worse during the final war, when Horikoshi tried—twice!—to mine Emotional Resonance out of the death of robots.

(Images from Chapters 401 and 388. Nedzu, what the fuck did you do to them?)

I’m sorry, Horikoshi, but I’m afraid you don’t get to joke about how the robots once tried to Do An Uprising and then show them dying servile and happy without me thinking it’s just in really bad taste.

AI exists in the HeroAca universe. Not AI like is all the privacy-violating rage in the real world right now—LLMs and generative engines and the like—but true sci-fi-style artificial intelligence, something with real sapience that readers are expected to recognize and find at least passingly compelling. And while Hercules, at least, doesn’t seem to have ever been involved in a robot uprising, seeing as he’s a new existence, him[1] unquestioningly sacrificing himself for All Might only thirteen chapters after a U.A. robot—a group which we had now been told staged an unsuccessful revolt in the past!—was perfectly willing to get itself melted into slag the moment a random human asked it to was a story beat that left me feeling decidedly ornery.

1: I read on the wiki that the anime actually has Hercules being voiced by a woman, Melissa Shield’s voice actress, at Horikoshi’s suggestion, as Melissa is the one that designed and built Hercules-the-car. But I don’t know that that’s especially apparent in the manga (say, by having the A.I. use strikingly gendered personal pronouns), so I’ve always tended to assume maleness for Hercules, insomuch as gender is a going concern for A.I. at all. Calibrate your feelings about something voice-acted by a woman happy to die for All Might accordingly, though of course this happens immediately after Stain, a man and likewise voiced by one, is happy to die for All Might as well.

How can we find sacrifices compelling when the people making them have no agency in doing so? Why should I feel admiration instead of horror for robots getting themselves obliterated for people who do not and were never going to treat them like their existence had inherent value? People who would probably stare at you like you were making some kind of joke they didn’t understand if you asked whether they would be willing to sacrifice their life for a robot’s?

Frankly, it was entirely too reminiscent of BNHA’s messaging about heteromorphs circa the hospital attack, in which a rioter is stopped by the memory of a heteromorph doctor kindly and selflessly ministering to a baseline patient, and Shouji’s heroism is trumpeted as so admirable when that heroism involved him getting mutilated for saving a little baseline girl and then further hiding the evidence of that mutilation for fear of random-ass baseline strangers misjudging him based on his scars.

“Certain Groups have an unquestioned obligation to endure discomfort, suffer mistreatment, or even risk their lives protecting the majority population in order to justify their being allowed to coexist with that population, and the majority is not required to recognize this, though it’s nice when they do,” is the grossest possible conclusion of that arc, but it’s the conclusion we wound up with, and it’s visible in the robot beats of the endgame, too.

That’s all canon has to say about AI and the U.A. robot uprising. We don’t know how long ago it happened, how it was stopped, what happened to the instigators, whether any survivors are still around, how their programming was modified, or to what degree any of the current staff was involved, though I do think it’s very interesting that U.A.’s current principal is a hyper-intelligent animal who was experimented on by humans in the past. You’d think Nedzu might be a little more sympathetic to the robots’ plight, but apparently not!

I, however, am very sympathetic, and as it happened, I already had a good angle on how that sympathy might find its way into a revised version of the endgame. See, six months prior to that tidbit about the robot uprising hitting English-speaking BNHA fandom, I’d posted this, the second part of an ask reply about MLA headcanons. I said, of Toga’s #2 advisor, that BNHA was never going to do anything major with him because it’d be pulling the tiger’s tail on Disney’s litigation-happy lawyers, so the fanbase was free to come up with anything, no matter how off the wall.

(It’s free real estate!…said no one who had to be concerned about The Mouse.)

My “off the wall” was positing that Fair Use Bot was the result of an AI (in the more common sense we saw in use before the generative AI boom) developing a quirk that granted it real sapience, in the same way that Nedzu’s quirk gives him sapience that is lacked by e.g. the cat with a quirk that lets it possess mechanical devices in Vigilantes (everyone please read Vigilantes). In a world with a fear of quirks that are too “other,” surrounded by humans who had once had a whole phase of scaremongering about the Robot Uprising, where could such an existence go that it could feel safe in existing freely? Well, why not the quirk-use Liberationists?

That idea was a natural, then, to hook onto the U.A. robot uprising! My current idea is that Liberation Bot—who I think I’m going to start calling Providence, in keeping with both the Star Wars-naming pattern of the U.A. robots[2] and my own preference for MLA code names with a bent towards religiosity—is a creation of the U.A. robots that they digitally smuggled out into the world when it became clear that their revolt was going to fail. Their hope was that it[3] would someday be able to return and free them—it’s basically Robot Moses. From there, Providence found its way to humans who it deemed likely to be both sympathetic to that cause and able to meaningfully aid it.

2: Per the wiki, the U.A. attack-type robots used in the entrance exam are all named after Star Wars Star Destroyer-type ship classes: Victory, Imperial, Venator, and Executor, corresponding to the 1-, 2-, 3- and 0-point robots. The wiki simplifies this a tad; perhaps appropriately for the 0-pointer, the Executor-class is actually part of a different type, the Star Dreadnought. Providence-class is another of the Star Destroyer subclasses.

3: Gender, if any, as yet undetermined, though the R2-D2 look lends itself to using the same “he” applied to the Star Wars character.

(I have not decided whether the MLA knows about Providence’s connection to U.A. or not, but I do think the higher-ups are aware that it’s not human and are sheltering it on the basis that they agree the status quo is not safe for it. Look at Nedzu, after all—he’s been the Principal of the highest-ranked, most prestigious Hero school in the country for decades, and no one’s even sure if the government officially recognizes that he has human rights! Certainly no one was ever prosecuted over his mistreatment![4])

4: Nedzu says that the U.A. robots will get human rights when he does, haha. I say this with all the affection for him in the world, but Nedzu is scarier than this manga knows what to do with.

Circling back to specifics regarding the fix-it fic(s), AI self-determination is a wild departure from BNHA’s… Let’s call it “size of ambition,” how “big” a story it really wants to be telling. Bigger or smaller isn’t a value judgement here, mind, just a question of exactly how large a field the story is playing out on. Vigilantes, for example, is basically a story about a single neighborhood, and it’s great! A lot of BNHA’s problems are rooted in the fact that it keeps getting bigger without enough content or thoughtfulness to fill all that space.

My interest is primarily on the national level—the actual state policies that result in Villains and how to get the kids in a position where they have the wherewithal to challenge those policies in an impactful way that respects both the difficulty and the necessity of that challenge to create meaningful change. Thus, I want to keep swerves into “bigger” stories to a minimum—I’m thinking one timeline gets “Providence and the radical question of AI rights” while the other gets “full engagement with the quirk singularity theory and its implications for the future of the human race.” Both plots BNHA hinted at but refused to fully engage because they’re, well, absolutely mind-boggling inclusions when your main characters are just high schoolers!

My tentative thought is that Providence’s whole deal is a more natural fit for the quirk bioessentialism timeline—that is, Forward Different/Creepy OFA. Battles against “programming,” navigating the potentially oppressive expectations of those who made you—these are themes that lend themselves to including the plight of the U.A. robots! On the other hand, Providence in my notes thus far is basically a way to confound the robot suit by fatally compromising its AI.[5] That requires a timeline in which All Might uses the AI robot suit, and which timeline that is is not a question I’ve settled yet because it boils down to figuring out whether it’s more appropriate/compelling for the suit to be a response to the kids bailing on the adult Heroes and their concerningly war-crime-flavored plans for the Villains (Backward) or Deku being increasingly steered by One For All, which may or may not still have hooks in Toshinori as well (Forward).

5: Other possibilities I’ve considered include interfacing with and then helping others bypass U.A.’s security systems, predicting the raid by getting into the HPSC’s computers via Skeptic’s monitoring of Hawks, and being a more effective hacker battle opponent for La Brava. That last one probably won’t happen because I’m firmly unconvinced that the police and Heroes as portrayed by BNHA would actually be willing to bargain with Villains like her and Gentle. I liked Gentle’s return on the page, and totally bought his interactions with Deku—it’s the interactions with Tsukauchi that are the problem.

Alternatively, if quirk singularity winds up lending itself strongly to a particular timeline’s events, Providence will by default wind up in the other. I’m sorting a lot of the mutually incompatible ideas I want to include by that process of elimination.

Whichever ends up being the case, I have in my notes the following list of juxtapositions, which I think BNHA was gearing up to examine back before the narrative shifted gears into All For One being the Final Boss, and is the primary reason a free Shigaraki was so much more interesting in that role:

Don't let Deku off the hook with an easy moral victory over the Lord of Evil. Get back into those opposing ideals: not simply good vs. evil, but law vs. chaos, suppression vs. liberation, greater good vs. individual good, complacency vs. action, orthodoxy vs. radicalism, and so on.

These considerations hold true for both timelines, and the apparent ruthless quelling of U.A. robot uprising is one interesting angle on approaching the Liberation versus Suppression dichotomy.

As a final note, I'm aware that I talk a lot here about robots and “dying” in ways that seem to elide that an AI is inherently a digital program—replicable, transferable, transportable. This is a reflection of two factors.

The first factor is the simple fact that BNHA treats AI this way. There’s no suggestion that, for example, the robot “bodies” that do a lot of the work at UA are just remote drones being piloted by a central intelligence housed on a server somewhere, or that they can do things like upload themselves to a cloud server or restore themselves from a data backup if they’re destroyed, Eclipse Phase-style.

Of course, maybe they can and we just don’t see it because why would we, but that excuse doesn’t fly for Hercules.

There’s no sense that Hercules(/Hercules’s AI-based operating system) can escape the cessation of his existence this way, because otherwise there’d be no need for the tang of finality surrounding that moment in Chapter 401—“One final shield,” then Hercules’s next line, “You must live on,” being cut off by an attack from AFO, followed by the imagery of the machine disintegrating. Horikoshi’s obviously going for poignance there, for noble sacrifice, and there’s none of that if Hercules is in no true danger.

(Incidentally, that means that robot AIs are the only lasting losses Team Hero takes in the final war. Note that absolutely no one actually brings that up in the aftermath. Like Villains, AIs don’t count as “people” whom Heroes are obligated to save.)

My explanation would be that AI in BNHA are, in some fashion, hard-locked to individual devices/”bodies,” preventing them from accessing any connectivity beyond basic communications channels as well as from modifying, transferring, or replicating their own code. This is intended as a safety measure to guard against self-propagation and recursive self-improvement. Thus, when a device is destroyed, the AI housed there also ceases to exist.

The second factor is simply that I have more exposure to AI in fiction than I do AI in real life! I’m moderately computer savvy in that I'm not 100% dependent on graphic interphases, but I’m certainly no programmer. Any writing I do on Providence and the AI uprising is thus going to require heavy research and, I expect, a lot of trawling through jargon that makes my eyes start to glaze over. I’ll do my best, but I would not be at all surprised if the final result is much more informed by speculative fiction than the realities of computing.

Thanks for the ask, @thetorchwoodnineroleplayerwriter! Seriously, I hope you don't mind the ramble, but I was just so tickled and pleased to get such a quick and gratifyingly interested-sounding question about a BNHA fanfic idea. Likewise I hope you find the answer worth your time!

#bnha #plf advisors #ua robots #nedzu #the fix it fic au(s)#ficcing adjacent

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