#unless...there's a reason they had to be two..... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cheftsunoda · 3 days ago

Note

okay okay oscar sister who is exactly like oscar in personality and is also a driver and this is her rookie year or second year? but she has the biggest soft spot for ollie? and if you want to do poly maybe kimi and ollie

soft spot — ob87

smau + blurbs

ollie bearman x !piastri driver reader

oscar piastri x !sister driver reader

yn piastri is in her second year of formula 1, racing alongside her older brother — oscar. if you’ve seen him, you’ve basically seen her. same deadpan humor, same terrifying racecraft, same “please don’t talk to me unless you’re an engineer” energy. people say they’re twins born two and a half years apart. and honestly? they’re not wrong. yn piastri doesn’t smile unless she’s on pole. she doesn’t do drama. and she definitely doesn’t do feelings. or at least… that’s what everyone thought. until ollie smiled at her in the paddock — and she actually smiled back. yeah. it’s bad. oscar is horrified.

fc : f1 academy drivers + jazmyn makenna

reader is 21

(a/n) : someone recently asked if i would write 2nd person pov and i kind of suck it at but i wrote this in 2nd- lmk which y'all like better. love you bunches

—

yn_piastri

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, pierregasly and 7,100,011 others.

yn_piastri : flics from the world’s favorite piastri (hattie is catching up to me)

tagged : oscarpiastri, lando and pierregasly

—

view 347,012 other comments.

hattiepiastri : as long as it isn’t oscar idc

liked by yn_piastri and lando

↳ yn_piastri : honestly same

↳ oscarpiastri : nobody on this earth can humble me like you two

liked by yn_piastri and hattiepiastri

↳ nicolepiastri : you were given only sisters for a reason. we knew you would need humbled.

liked by yn_piastri and hattiepiastri

↳ username00 : the piastri’s are so special to me.

↳ hattiepiastri : but anyways, yn u look so good. imysm and pls send me that meme.

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : miss u more. check your messages.

liked by hattiepiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : what the hell does it mean to look microwaveable?

liked by yn_piastri and hattiepiastri

↳ yn_piastri : no clue but the world says you look the part.

lando : i gyatt something in my eye

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : i cannot stand you 😭

↳ lando : so sit on me instead

liked by yn_piastri

↳ username1 : LANDO- can’t say I blame him.

↳ oscarpiastri : I do not care that we are on the same team. I am driving you off the track.

liked by yn_piastri and lando

oscarpiastri : also why are you hanging out with lando?

↳ yn_piastri : to give you anxiety.

liked by lando

↳ oscarpiastri : it is working.

liked by lando and yn_piastri

alex_albon : microwaveable might be the best adjective anyone has ever used for oscar.

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : i know!! it just makes sense.

↳ oscarpiastri : no it doesn’t ???

liked by alex_albon and yn_piastri

lilyzneimer : the prettiest girl 🩷

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : my girllll

username005 : yn was automatically promoted to my fave piastri the second she made alpine her bitch and managed a p3 in the tractor.

liked by pierregasly, francolapinto, yn_piastri and lando

↳ yn_piastri : hey, someone had to do it.

username5 : ynierre is my fave teammate combo in recent years

liked by yn_piastri and pierregasly

↳ pierregasly : we are rather iconic. won’t lie.

liked by yn_piastri

olliebearman : you’ve been killing it recently, yn! 🤍

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : thanks olliebear!! ❤️

liked by olliebearman

↳ username00 : did she show- emotion?? using emojis and exclamations?? oh mr bearman has her whipped. CONFIRMED

—

It’s a few hours before qualifying, and you’re already suited up, arms crossed as you march down the paddock with one mission— annoy your brother into calling your mother before she calls you again. You find Oscar standing near the McLaren garage, quietly sipping from his water bottle and minding his own business — which, in your world, means he’s due for a sibling attack.

“Oi.”

You tap the back of his helmet with your fingers. “Call Mum.”

He barely turns his head. “Not happening.”

“She’s now threatening to tell Sky Sports that you wet the bed until you were eight.”

Oscar’s eyes narrow behind his sunglasses. “That’s defamation.”

“Is it?” you smirk. “Because I have vivid memories.”

Before he can respond, Lando appears out of nowhere like the nosy older cousin he insists on being, slinging an arm around Oscar’s shoulder with a grin.

“What are we fighting about today?” he asks. “Family secrets? Childhood trauma?”

You open your mouth to reply, but then something — someone — over by the Haas garage catches your attention. Ollie Bearman. Helmet half-on, gloves in hand, mid-conversation with a race engineer — until he sees you. His eyes light up, and he lifts a hand to wave. Soft smile. The kind you pretend not to read into. And yet, before your brain catches up, your hand lifts. You wave back. And — god forbid — you smile. Not a smirk. Not a scoff. A genuine, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. It lasts three seconds, max. But that’s more than enough time.

Oscar is staring at you like you just declared love and Lando drops his drink.

“Wait—did you just smile?” Lando blurts, gaping. “At Ollie?”

Oscar squints at you like you’re malfunctioning. “Was that… affection?”

You blink, back in autopilot now. “Shut up.”

“You smiled,” Lando says, turning to Oscar. “She actually smiled. Like, a real one. With teeth and warmth and everything.”

You roll your eyes and walk off like nothing happened. Behind you, Oscar mutters, “I need to sit down.”

—

The second you climb out of the car and pull off your helmet, the noise hits you — cheers from the crowd, Alpine crew shouting and clapping, and somewhere behind you, someone yelling about how the ‘piastri’s have taken over the grid.’

You’re still catching your breath when you spot Oscar stepping down from the P1 board, helmet under his arm, cool as ever — but even he looks a little smug today. He makes his way over and bumps his shoulder against yours.

“P2, huh?” he says, grinning. “Not bad. For my mini-me.”

You snort. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be in front of you before you know it.”

Before you can say more, Lando bounces over from P3 like he’s won the whole thing. “Look at this!” he beams, throwing an arm over both your shoulders. “Oscar on pole, YN right behind, and me—beautifully, somehow—in third. Honestly? Iconic.”

The three of you walk off toward the media. Oscar looks like he’s trying not to enjoy it too much. Lando looks like he very much is. You? You’re riding the high of sticking it on the front row with your brother. And then—

“P2! Let’s go!”

You turn just as Pierre comes jogging over in full celebratory mode. He’s flushed, still in his race suit, hair a mess under his cap, but he pulls you into a quick hug anyway. “I knew it was coming today,” he says, still grinning. “That last lap was beautiful.”

You grin back. “You mean yours or mine?”

He snorts. “You’re not funny. But yes, yours.”

He ruffles your helmet hair just to be annoying, then heads off to debrief. You’re about to follow Oscar and Lando inside when you hear your name again — softer this time.

“YN.”

You turn. Ollie’s standing a few feet away, helmet in one hand, gloves tucked into his side. There’s a flush on his cheeks that’s definitely from the heat. Probably. Maybe.

“P2,” he says, smiling. “You were incredible.”

It’s not just the words — it’s how he says it. Like he means it. Like he was watching your lap the whole time and still hasn’t fully recovered. And despite the sweat, the adrenaline, the pure chaos in your veins… you smile. Again.

“Thanks,” you say, a little quieter. “That means a lot.”

Ollie hesitates for a second, then adds, “If you keep qualifying like this, I might start believing in Alpine.”

You raise a brow. “Don’t get carried away.”

He grins, stepping back as someone calls his name. “No promises.”

You turn back around just in time to see Lando whispering something to Oscar — who is staring at you like he just solved a mystery he didn’t want the answer to.

“Unreal,” Lando mutters as you approach. “I’ve never seen you smile twice in one day. This is emotional.”

Oscar crosses his arms. “I give it two weeks before we lose her completely.”

You smirk, brushing past them. “Come on boys, Let’s get this over with so I can win the race tomorrow.”

—

The paddock is buzzing — engineers checking last-minute data, cameras weaving through garages, team radios chirping nonstop. You’re standing by your car in full race suit, helmet under your arm, trying to lock into that pre-race focus zone. Almost there. You’ve got this. And then—footsteps. Familiar ones.

You glance to the side just as Ollie approaches, hands tucked into his Haas fire suit, eyes scanning the garage like he’s making sure no one’s watching. Subtle. Kind of. Not really.

“You ready?” he asks, stopping just in front of you. His voice is low enough that it’s meant for you, and only you.

You nod, trying not to smile. “As I’ll ever be.”

He hesitates, then dips his head a little closer. “You’ve got pace today. Just keep your head down in the first few laps. You already know what to do.”

You blink, a little caught off guard. You’d expected a smirk, a joke, maybe a thumbs-up from a distance — not this quiet, sincere energy. Your grip tightens slightly on your helmet. “Hush. You’ll get me all emotional.”

He chuckles, glancing over his shoulder before returning his eyes to you.

“Good. Maybe it’ll slow you down.”

You roll your eyes. “You wish.”

Then he steps back, gives you one last nod — and that smile. The soft one that somehow always short-circuits your brain. And then—of course—

“Am I interrupting something?”

You jump slightly and turn to find Pierre standing a few feet away, arms crossed, the most smug expression plastered across his face.

You blinked, "No."

He raises a brow. “Because that looked a lot like a moment.”

You shoot him a warning look, but that only fuels him.

“Pierre—”

“Should I warn Oscar? Or let him find out on the broadcast?”

“Pierre.”

He grins. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it quiet. For now. But if you out-qualify me again next weekend, I am texting the group chat.”

You shove your helmet into his chest with a dramatic sigh, and he cackles all the way back to the garage. Behind you, someone’s camera flashes, and you swear you hear your race engineer mutter, “God help us if she gets a podium today.”

—

You’re still not entirely sure how it happened. One minute, you were sitting solidly in P2, chasing Oscar down like a dog after a steak. The next, McLaren boxed both cars too early, chaos unfolded, and suddenly you were flying down the pit straight in clean air, your engineer screaming in your ear that you were leading the race. And you held it. For twelve brutal laps.

Now? You’re parked in front of the P1 board. Out of the car. Helmet off. Surrounded by chaos. Drenched in sweat and disbelief and the overwhelming roar of a crowd losing its collective mind over you. You’re half-hugged, half-dragged by your crew and Alpine engineers, someone yelling “SHE DID IT!” while someone else nearly decapitates you with the team flag. You barely register any of it — your ears are ringing, your hands are shaking, your heart’s still trying to figure out how to calm down. And then Oscar appears. He pulls you into a bone-crushing hug, both of you laughing like idiots.

“You’re joking,” he says into your ear. “P1? That’s disgusting. You’re insufferable now.”

You pull back, grinning. “I learned from the best.”

“I wasn’t that good— especially in that car.”

“You also didn’t have Pierre screaming strategy codes in French in my left ear.”

Speak of the devil—Pierre shoves through the crowd next, yelling “P1! P1!” like he wasn’t there with you the entire last stint. He nearly tackles you with a hug, helmet still on, bouncing with the kind of energy a toddler on a sugar high has.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, pushing him off playfully. “I still have to do interviews, I can’t look like I got mauled by my teammate.”

“You just won your first race,” Pierre says, beaming. “You should look like that.”

Then Lando walks past, looking miserable, soaking wet, visor down. He mutters, “I hate everything,” and you can’t help but yell “Thanks for the strategy!” after him.

Oscar high-fives you. Pierre howls with laughter. But as the madness starts to dull — as the mechanics scatter, the cameras shift, and the adrenaline begins to fade — there’s a beat. A rare, rare quiet moment. And in that sliver of silence, you feel someone step beside you. You turn, and it’s Ollie.

Helmet off, suit zipped halfway down, curls a little damp, a towel around his neck. There’s a small smile on his face, but it’s his eyes that catch you — bright, a little shy, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here, but came anyway.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Your heart, which had just settled from the final lap, decides to go full tilt again.

“Hey,” you echo.

He looks at the crowd, then back at you. “I didn’t want to interrupt the chaos.”

“You kind of live in it,” you tease gently.

“Yeah, but this one was yours.” He smiles, and this one is all softness. “I’m really proud of you.”

You don’t mean to blush. You also don’t mean to look away that quickly, but the combination is lethal.

“Thanks,” you mumble. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t feel real yet.”

“You made it look real.”

There’s a pause. A beat. And then, still soft, like he’s scared of startling the moment.

“Hey, um. This might not be the best time — you know, given you just beat half the grid senseless and all — but… would you maybe want to go out sometime?”

You blink. You actually blink. And then you blink again, because your brain is trying to replay the sentence in slow motion to make sure it wasn’t just a post-race hallucination.

You tilt your head. “Like… go out where?”

He gives you a sheepish, nervous laugh. “I don’t know. Like… dinner? Real clothes? A place where no one’s holding a stopwatch?”

You stare at him. Then—smile. A real one. Probably your third of the weekend, which is terrifying, if you’re being honest.

“I’d like that,” you say.

His face lights up in a way you’ve never quite seen before. You’re almost annoyed by how cute it is.

Before either of you can say more, you hear Lando from across the paddock yell, “SOMEONE CHECK HER TEMPERATURE—SHE’S SMILING AGAIN!”

Oscar, from next to him. “That is not my sister. Take the trophy away. Imposter.”

Pierre, sprinting back into the frame with a mic he stole from an interviewer.

“CONFIRMED— Piastri #2 is in love, pass it on!”

You sigh. Ollie laughs. Loudly. But even in the chaos, the roar, the teasing that’s definitely going to last until the next race weekend — he stays next to you. Close. Quiet. Soft. And for once, you don’t mind the noise at all.

—

nicolepiastri added a post to her story!

seen by oscarpiastri, yn_piastri, lilyzneimer and 1,002,002 others.

{caption : both of my children are on the podium but only one answers my calls— CONGRATULATIONS YNN! I LOVE YOU}

—

The second your boots hit the floor of the cooldown room, you finally exhale. Suit unzipped just enough to breathe again. There’s a bottle of water in your hand, a grin you still haven’t managed to shake off, and Oscar sitting on the bench beside you, towel slung around his neck and smirking like he’s the one who won. He’s been like this since parc fermé. Teasing. Poking. Looking entirely too pleased for someone who got bumped from P1 because of a McLaren meltdown.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, scrolling through your messages. The notifications are endless — texts, mentions, a dozen missed calls from your mum alone.

Oscar’s already watching you with far too much interest. “Oh good, you’re finally calling her. She’s going to yell at me and cry for you. What a reward.”

You don’t dignify him with a response. Instead, you hit FaceTime. It rings once. Then twice. And then — your mum answers with all the emotional chaos.

“Oh my GOD, YN!”

You barely get a “Hi, Mum—” out before she’s off.

“You WON a Grand Prix! I almost passed out in the living room! Hattie screamed! I was crying during the last ten laps—you didn’t even look nervous! And then the overtake after the pit stop—!”

You hold the phone out slightly so she doesn’t deafen you. Oscar leans over your shoulder and makes a dramatic shocked face into the camera.

“Hi Mum,” he says flatly. “Your second-favorite child reporting in.”

“Oh hush, Oscar. You’re still on probation for ignoring my calls last week.”

You snort.

“I CALLED YOU FIVE TIMES,” she continues. “AND DON’T THINK I DIDN’T SEE THAT SMILE, YN. Don’t even try to act like you weren’t looking at Ollie Bearman like he hung the moon.”

You nearly drop the phone.

“MUM!”

Oscar cackles. Loudly. “Knew it. I knew it. There was a look.”

You turn to him, horrified. “She saw it on the broadcast?!”

Your mum is beaming. “Oh, everyone saw it. You smiled like you were in love. It was very unlike you.”

Oscar’s already doubled over. “You’re DONE. You’re actually finished. Mum caught the soft launch before anyone. You’re slipping.”

“Both of you need to be quiet,” you hiss, gripping your water bottle like a weapon.

Your mum shakes her head fondly. “Darling, I’m happy for you. First race win and a boy you actually like? That’s a big day.”

Oscar snorts to himself “I give it two weeks before we’re picking wedding venues.”

You gave him a look and said, “I give it two minutes before I throw this at your head.”

“Do it,” Oscar dares, eyes wide with laughter. “Make it the first sibling fight broadcast live from the cooldown room.”

You sigh so hard you think your soul leaves your body. “I just wanted to say thank you and maybe get a little love from my supportive family and instead I’m being roasted alive.”

Oscar’s already taking selfies with your phone and trying to angle you both into the frame while your mum yells something about screen recording this for Hattie. Eventually, you end the call, cheeks pink, body aching from the race — and from the sheer emotional whiplash of it all. Oscar tosses you your towel. “Well, race winner. You’ve survived the podium, the press, and Mum. You’re practically unstoppable.”

You sigh, leaning back against the bench with a grin.

“God help me if she meets Ollie.”

Oscar just smirks. “Oh, she’s already planning it.”

—

yn_piastri

liked by olliebearman, nicolepiastri, pierregasly and 10,001,008 others.

yn_piastri : life as a race winner is pretty sweet

tagged : pierregasly and olliebearman

—

view 890,001 other comments.

logansargeant : we get it. you are fast and in love. so proud of you, kid!

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : ignoring the in love part. but LOGANNNNNNN i miss you

liked by logansargeant

hattiepiastri : text me back right this instant. i have questions. but oMG MY SISTER IS A RACE WINNER. I LOVE YOUUUUU

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : love you more

↳ oscarpiastri : i did NOT get this much love my first win.

↳ nicolepiastri : you also didn’t dedicate your first win to your mother and your sisters— yn did.

liked by yn_piastri and hattiepiastri

nicolepiastri : i see him yn. i need to meet him.

liked by oscarpiastri and lando

pierregasly : absolutely incredible! (you are my favorite teammate) (no one tell estie bestie)

liked by yn_piastri

alpinef1team : OUR QUEEN 🩷💙🤍🏆

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : you are welcome.

carlossainz55 : LET HER COOK 🗣️

liked by yn_piastri

lando : you are the only person i’d be okay with stealing this race from me

liked by yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : blame your team, norris.

georgerussell63 : You were absolutely insane out there! Congratulations YN!

liked by yn_piastri

lilyzneimer : YAYYYYY! Congratulations YN! You made all of us so proud:)

liked by yn_piastri

franciscagomes : I am so proud of you, YN! Restored my faith in the team 😭

liked by yn_piastri

olliebearman : You are incredible. 🩷💙

liked by yn_piastri, lando and oscarpiastri

—

You’re used to chaos — engine noise, media scrums, strategy debriefs, Oscar’s constant dry commentary. What you’re not used to? This. Silence. Comfort. A night without cameras, paddock chatter, or telemetry breakdowns. Just soft lighting, quiet music, and Ollie Bearman sitting across from you at a candlelit table, cheeks flushed and curls slightly messy from where he kept running his hand through them.

He picks nervously at the edge of his napkin and smiles at you like you’re the only person who exists in the entire world. And somehow, that doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels… right.

“I still can’t believe you said yes,” he says, breaking the silence with a sheepish little grin.

You raise an eyebrow over your wine glass. “You asked me right after I won a Grand Prix. Your timing was immaculate.”

He laughs — that full, warm, boyish laugh you’ve only ever heard from him around his engineers or when he’s completely relaxed. It settles something in your chest.

“Okay, fair,” he says. “I might’ve used the momentum to my advantage.”

You tilt your head, smiling. “Would’ve said yes anyway.”

He goes quiet for a second. Then his voice drops, just a little.

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

The words settle between you like a secret. Like something sacred. Dinner comes and goes — light food, laughter, gentle teasing. He makes fun of the way you concentrate so hard when you cut your food, and you tease him for still saying “thank you” to every single staff member like it’s his first day on Earth.

At one point, your feet bump under the table and you freeze — but he doesn’t pull away. Just smiles at you, like he knows how rare it is for you to let anyone close.

“You’re not what I expected, you know,” he says suddenly, once dessert is cleared. “When I first met you, I thought you hated me.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s just my face. And you were loud.”

He laughs. “Still am.”

“Still true.”

But then you glance at him — really look — and say, a little quieter, “I didn’t hate you. I just didn’t know how to be around someone who made me feel like this.”

He pauses. His smile softens. “Like what?”

You shrug, like it’s not terrifying to admit this out loud. “Like I don’t have to be on guard. Like… I can breathe.”

It hangs in the air between you. He doesn’t rush to fill it, doesn’t joke, doesn’t look away. He just reaches across the table, gentle and sure, and lets his fingers brush yours. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. Instead, you let your hand settle in his.

“Me too,” he says softly. “That’s how you make me feel.”

Later, when you’re outside under the soft glow of city lights, waiting for your car to arrive, he stands beside you with his hands in his pockets, the air thick with something sweet and unspoken.

He looks over at you. “Can I—?”

You beat him to it. You lean in and kiss him. It’s slow. It’s soft. It’s not fireworks or fanfare — it’s better. It’s quiet warmth. A kind of safety you didn’t know you wanted until now. When you pull back, his smile is dazed and dopey and perfect.

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “That answers that.”

Your car pulls up. He opens the door for you.

Before you step in, you glance over your shoulder.

“Next time,” you say, “you pick the restaurant.”

“There’s gonna be a next time?” he teases.

You smirk. “If you keep smiling at me like that, yeah.”

You slide into the car, and he’s still standing there when you look back — grinning like he just won a race.

—

You should’ve known something was off the second your phone stopped buzzing. No texts from Oscar. No memes from Lando. Not even a meme. Just… silence. Peaceful. Suspicious. You’re halfway through a rerun of some terrible reality show, face scrubbed clean, hoodie three sizes too big, snacks in your lap — when it happens. Someone’s pounding on your front door like you’re harboring state secrets. You pause. Narrow your eyes. It can’t be—You open the door. It is.

Oscar and Lando stand there like a chaotic sitcom duo, Oscar in a hoodie with a smug look on his face and Lando wearing sunglasses indoors like he is about to interrogate you.

Oscar raises a brow. “So. You had a date.”

You blink. “Hello to you too?”

Lando pushes past you like he owns the place. “You kissed him, didn’t you?”

“What—no—why would—”

Oscar follows behind, stepping over your shoes with the precision of a man on a mission. “You smiled three times in one weekend. THREE. We checked. And now you’re soft launching.”

You fold your arms. “Get out of my house.”

Lando flops dramatically onto your couch, eyes wide. “Did you let him kiss you? Did you—initiate the kiss?”

“I—”

Oscar points. “She did. She’s pausing.”

“Deny it,” Lando dares. “Say it didn’t happen. Say you didn’t fall for him.”

You open your mouth to snap back—and then the doorbell rings. The timing is cursed. You all freeze.

Oscar squints. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No,” you say slowly.

Lando’s already halfway to the door. “Oh this is good. This is cinema.”

You try to beat him there, but he swings the door open before you can even shout. And standing there — because the universe is a menace — is a delivery guy holding the most obnoxiously romantic bouquet you’ve ever seen. White peonies. Baby’s breath. Little bits of Alpine blue ribbon tied into the stems.

“Delivery for YN Piastri?” the guy says.

Behind you, Oscar lets out a strangled sound. “You’re joking.”

Lando’s cackling. Full on, no-holds-barred, bent-over laughter. “FLOWERS?! OLLIE SENT YOU FLOWERS?!”

You try to grab the bouquet, but Lando intercepts it instantly.

“He signed the card,” he says, reading aloud in his most smug voice. “‘Can’t stop thinking about last night. Hope today’s just as sweet. Ollie 🐻’ — there’s a BEAR EMOJI. I’m gonna be sick.”

“Give it to me,” you hiss, lunging for the card.

“You’re in LOVE,” Lando gasps, gripping the armrest of the couch like he’s witnessing a plot twist in a soap opera. “You’re actually in love. Our cold-blooded, deadpan ice queen is giggling over peonies.”

“I am NOT giggling—”

Oscar snaps a photo of you holding the bouquet like it’s evidence in a court case. “Mum is going to LOSE IT when she sees this.”

You nearly scream. “DO NOT SEND THAT TO MUM.”

“You’re lucky I’m not sending it to Ollie with a message that says ‘take good care of our emotionally unavailable menace,’” Lando says, grinning.

You collapse onto the couch and bury your face in your hands as the two of them spiral — Oscar dramatically pacing and reading the card out loud again, and Lando pretending to write a best man speech into your Notes app.

“You guys are unwell,” you mumble.

“And you,” Oscar says, dropping onto the armrest beside you, “are in trouble.”

“Big trouble,” Lando adds. “Because now we care. Now we’re invested. We’re emotionally attached to the Ollie situation.”

“God help him,” Oscar mutters. “He’s dating you.”

You look up, cheeks warm, bouquet in your lap. And despite the chaos, the teasing, and the complete invasion of your private life… you smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Poor guy’s doomed.”

—

It’s late. The house is finally quiet. Oscar and Lando have been banished, the flower bouquet has been moved to the kitchen and you’re lying in bed, hoodie on, phone somewhere near your pillow. You should’ve known she’d call. When Nicole’s name flashes on your screen, you hesitate for half a second… then swipe to answer.

“Hi, Mum.”

“You got flowers.”

Her tone is calm, knowing — the exact way she used to say ‘I know what you did’ when you were seven and tried to hide chocolate under your pillow.

You sigh. “Yes. I did.”

“From Ollie Bearman.”

You groan and bury your face in your pillow. “I’m aware.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just soft. Then, gently—

“Do you want to tell me about him?”

You’re quiet for a long beat. And then, maybe for the first time, you don’t dodge the question. You stare at the ceiling and let the truth slip out in a whisper. “He’s… kind.”

“Kind?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “He’s patient. And funny in this really low-key, unforced way. He doesn’t treat me like I’m difficult to figure out, he just… wants to. And he makes me feel safe. I haven’t felt that in a while.”

There’s another pause. But it’s warm. Like your mum is letting that settle in her chest. Then you hear her smile through the phone.

“I like him already.”

You exhale. “Yeah. Me too.”

“He’s going to get a proper interrogation when I see him, though.”

You groan. “Of course he is.”

Nicole laughs softly. “I’m your mum. It’s in the contract. But YN?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really proud of you. And not just for the win. For letting someone in.”

You close your eyes, heart unexpectedly full.

“…Thanks, Mum.”

You hang up a few minutes later. And for the first time that day, the silence feels calm. Not lonely. Just safe. Just sweet.

—

You should’ve known Ollie was up to something the second he picked you up on time. Hair slightly damp, curls pushed back, white linen shirt on. Waiting outside your flat in Monaco with a quiet smile and one hand behind his back.

“What’s that look for?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as you stepped outside.

“I have a plan,” he said simply. “And no, you’re not allowed to make fun of it.”

Now you’re sitting in the back of a sleek car winding up the narrow streets of Monaco, your hand resting in his, the glittering lights of the coastline slipping past you like a movie. And you realize—this feels different. Intentional. Soft. Thoughtful in the way only Ollie seems capable of pulling off without it ever feeling overdone.

You glance at him. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

He grins. “Nope.”

You squint. “If it’s a boat thing, I swear—”

“It’s not a boat thing. Though I’m offended you think I’d try to drown you this early in our relationship.”

That word—relationship—hangs in the air for a second. Neither of you comment on it. But you smile. The car finally slows to a stop in front of a restaurant tucked into a quiet cliffside — all soft lighting, ocean views, and the kind of clientele that could probably buy half the grid.

You blink. “Wait… this place?”

Ollie only nods. Smug.

“You can’t get a reservation here unless you’re a royal or a Michelin inspector,” you murmur, stunned. “I’ve been trying for months.”

“I know,” he says, helping you out of the car. “I called them every day for a week. And also begged. A little. Not proud.”

You stare at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirks. “Yeah. For you.”

The restaurant is perfect. It’s candlelit and quiet, with ocean air drifting in through open archways and the faint hum of a string quartet playing somewhere nearby. They seat you at a private table on a balcony overlooking the water. And Ollie? Ollie just watches you with that same soft awe he always seems to have when you’re not looking. Except now you catch him.

You tilt your head. “You’re staring.”

“Obviously,” he replies. “You look like you belong in a movie.”

You scoff. “You’re so full of it.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes sparkling. “It’s kind of a problem.”

You eat slowly. Talk easily. About everything and nothing. He asks about your pre-race rituals. You ask about his favorite circuit to crash on in which you receive a snort. He makes fun of the way you order pasta like you’re judging the chef. You call him out for stealing bites of your dessert. But beneath it all, there’s this steady, comfortable rhythm — like the two of you are already past the awkward part of love and deep into the good stuff. The safe stuff. The quiet knowing. As the night winds down and you think it’s over, Ollie stands and holds his hand out.

“One more surprise,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

“Come on.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re at the top of a hill in a tucked-away indoor karting track — privately rented out. You blink at the scene in front of you. The neon lights. The empty grid. Two karts already prepped.

“You… rented a karting track?” you ask, stunned.

He shrugs, trying to look casual. “You said you haven’t been in years. Just for fun.”

“That’s because when I go, I overheat the tires and scare children.”

He grins. “Exactly. I want to see that.”

And so, somehow, your perfect Monaco date ends with the two of you in full helmets and borrowed race suits, gunning down a tight corner in fifty-kilo karts, yelling across the straightaways and laughing like you’re both fifteen again. He tries to block you once. Once. You pass him on the outside, flick the rear end just to be cocky, and when you take the checkered flag, you slow down just in time to see him dramatically pull over and fake defeat. You climb out and yank your helmet off with a grin.

“Not bad for a date night, huh?” he asks, breathless.

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushed. “I won.”

He steps closer. “Yeah,” he murmurs, reaching to brush a bit of helmet hair from your face. “But I still feel like I came out ahead.”

You bite back a smile. “That was so cheesy.”

He shrugs. “You like it.”

You do. God, you really do. And when he kisses you, right there at the edge of the track, under flickering fluorescent lights and the buzz of your post-race high, it feels like a new kind of perfect. The kind you didn’t know you deserved.

—

several weeks later…

f1gossipgirls

5,023,001 likes.

f1gossipgirls : It’s a full family affair in the paddock today! YN Piastri was spotted arriving hand in hand with Ollie Bearman — and showed up with his family. One well-timed photo even caught him kissing her on the cheek. Soft launch? Over. Meanwhile, Nicole Piastri and Lily were seen walking the paddock together like seasoned pros. And yes, the Piastri sisters were all there too — spotted repping Alpine with their father, Chris Piastri, screaming for YN during quali. Busy day for the Piastris. And we’re eating it up.

—

You don’t do the whole hand-holding thing. Not usually. Not where cameras can see. Not where half the grid is lurking behind sunglasses and PR smiles. But today? Your hand is in Ollie’s, swinging ever so slightly as you walk through the paddock, and you don’t care who sees. His mum is on his other side, his siblings somewhere behind you, and the sun’s warm, and the media pens are quiet for once. It’s good. It’s easy. Until Oscar appears like a summoned demon. He materializes in front of you, squinting like he just saw something traumatizing. Which, apparently, he has.

“Oh my God,” he says. “You’re still holding hands?”

You blink at him. “Good morning to you, too.”

Ollie lets out a soft, polite laugh that makes Oscar narrow his eyes even harder.

He turns fully to you, arms crossed. “Right. Well. Mum’s waiting.”

You pause. “Okay… for what?”

Oscar jerks his thumb toward hospitality. “To meet him.”

Ollie blinks. “Sorry—what?”

Oscar shrugs like this isn’t the most dangerous escalation of your relationship. “She saw the kiss. She saw the flowers. She’s making tea and says she’s ‘ready for the boy with the curls.’”

You stare at him. “You set me up.”

Oscar grins. “No, Mum did. I’m just the messenger.”

Beside you, Ollie squeezes your hand — just once — like he’s steadying you, even though he’s about to walk straight into the lion’s den.

“Should I be scared?” he asks, voice low near your ear.

You sigh. “Yes. But smile and she might let you live.”

Oscar’s already walking ahead of you, smug as ever. “Hurry up, lovebirds. She’s heating scones and practicing her interrogation voice.”

And just like that, the paddock peace is over — and the Piastri family trial begins.

—

You walk into Alpine hospitality holding Ollie’s hand like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded — which, to be fair, it is. He’s calm. Charming. A little flushed, but smiling, like he doesn’t realize he’s about to be thoroughly interrogated by the people who know you better than you know yourself.

“Mum will be nice,” you mutter as you walk.

“Are you saying that for me or for yourself?” he asks, quietly.

“Both.”

And then there she is — Nicole Piastri, standing just inside the hospitality suite, sipping tea from a floral mug that she definitely packed from home. Her expression is warm but calculating, and beside her— Oh God. Dad’s here too. Chris Piastri, arms folded, wearing sunglasses indoors like he’s security, and looking very serious about this meeting. You stop short.

“Hi,” you say, maybe a little too loudly.

Nicole’s smile widens. “Darling. There you are.”

Ollie steps up beside you. “Hi, Mrs. Piastri. Mr. Piastri. I’m—”

“We know who you are,” Chris says flatly.

Nicole gently nudges his arm. “Don’t be ridiculous, Chris, he’s adorable.” She turns to Ollie with a dazzling smile. “Sit down, dear. We made you tea.”

Ollie blinks. “You—what?”

“She brewed you her best tea,” you mutter under your breath. “I’ve never even been offered the best tea.”

Chris sits, still sizing Ollie up like he’s a rival team’s lead strategist. “So. You like our daughter.”

Ollie opens his mouth. Closes it again. “Uh—yes. Very much.”

Nicole hums. “He’s honest. I like that.”

“She’s emotionally unavailable,” Chris says bluntly. “You know that, right?”

Ollie, bless him, just nods. “She is. I like that too.”

You shoot him a look. He shrugs like—What? It’s true.

Nicole is delighted. “He’s charming. Chris, stop being a grump.”

Chris sighs like he’s being personally victimized. “Fine. But I reserve the right to glare at him.”

Then, like fate planned it, the doors swing open.

“Oh my GOD, is that him?!”

Hattie’s voice cuts through the air like a missile, and before you can even brace, three little hurricanes storm in.

Hattie, Edie, and Mae — your three youngest sisters, all armed with iPhones, iced coffees, and very little shame.

You immediately try to flee. “Nope. Absolutely not. Goodbye—”

But they swarm.

Hattie practically tackles you in a hug before turning to Ollie like a game show host. “So you’re the boy.”

“Nice curls,” Edie adds, squinting. “Did you style them just for her?”

Mae takes a photo from behind her phone. “This is going to be included at the wedding album.”

“MAE.”

Ollie is visibly trying not to laugh. “I’m… honored? Terrified? A mix.”

Chris raises his mug. “Welcome to the family.”

Nicole just leans back with a satisfied smile. “I love when everyone’s here.”

”Oscar isn’t.” Mae said with a smirk.

You look at Ollie — completely surrounded, pink in the cheeks, but grinning at your sisters like he’s having the time of his life. He catches your eye and mouths, You okay? You mouth back, You’re the one in danger. He just shrugs. Like he’d walk into the lion’s den a thousand times if it meant he got to hold your hand at the end of it. And honestly? That’s the moment you know he’s already one of them.

—

You’d done it. Again. The flag dropped, the roar erupted, and your name came through the radio— your race engineer’s voice first — “P1, YN. You’re P1.” This time, there was no shock. No disbelief. Just joy. Crashing, overwhelming joy. But nothing compared to the moment you stepped onto the top step of the podium and looked out at the sea of faces — and saw them. Your family. All of them. Nicole was standing in the front row of the Alpine viewing box, her hand covering her mouth, eyes shining. Chris stood behind her, his sunglasses off, wiping something off his cheek and pretending it was sweat. Oscar was already leaning over the rail, fists in the air, grinning like an idiot. Lily beside him, filming everything on her phone. And then there were your sisters — Hattie with her Alpine cap backwards, Edie screaming at a security guard to move, and Mae sobbing into a little handmade sign that read “LET HER COOK.”

And Ollie — in the Haas garage at first, but then suddenly appearing like magic at the edge of parc fermé, mouthing “I told you.” You barely held it together through the anthem. Through the champagne. Through the press photos. But the moment they let you go — the moment you stepped off that podium and your eyes met Oscar’s? You ran. Trophy tucked under your arm, still half in your suit, you sprinted toward the team area, dodging cameras and PR handlers, until you reached them. Oscar met you first — grabbing you and spinning you around before you could even say anything.

“Back-to-back wins?” he shouted over the noise. “You trying to make me look bad?”

You laughed, breathless. “I’m just better than you now.”

“Not wrong,” he said, grinning proudly.

Then came your mum. Nicole crushed you into a hug that smelled like floral perfume and peppermint tea and home.

“My girl,” she whispered. “You were magnificent.”

“I couldn’t hear you crying from the podium,” you teased.

“I was very discreet, thank you.”

Your dad pulled you into a quick, tight hug next, gruffly muttering, “You’ve made us so proud. But next time, don’t scare me with that overtake on Lap 42. I nearly aged ten years.”

Then the girls tackled you — all at once.

“You were FLYING!” Hattie screamed.

“You BLEW past Max like he was standing still!” Edie shouted.

“I’m not okay,” Mae sobbed. “I haven’t stopped crying since Lap 50.”

You were laughing and crying and breathless, overwhelmed and completely surrounded by love. And when you finally looked up, Ollie was standing a few feet away — waiting. Watching. Giving you space to have your moment. You stepped away from the circle of siblings and met him halfway.

“I told you,” he said again, voice soft, eyes glowing.

“I know,” you whispered, smiling. “But hearing it was different than believing it.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, gently, reverently. “Do you believe it now?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He didn’t kiss you. Not here. Not yet. But he squeezed your hand once, and it said everything.

—

Your family rented out a little restaurant tucked into a side street in town — your mum insisted it had to be cozy and not fussy. No press. No cameras. Just you, your family, and a table full of food and noise. Oscar sat at the head of the table like he ran the whole operation, passing bread baskets and complaining about the wine like he knew anything. Your sisters retold the race from their perspective at least six times, each version more dramatic than the last. Nicole ordered dessert for the table before anyone even got halfway through dinner.

Chris made a speech — short, emotional, voice cracking halfway through and he denied it many times. And Ollie? Ollie sat beside you, not trying to dominate the conversation, not trying to steal attention — just being there.

He listened. He laughed. He made Hattie giggle so hard she snorted lemonade through her nose. He leaned over when things got loud and asked if you were okay. He held your hand under the table when no one was looking. He fit.

By the end of the night, Nicole had slipped him an extra dessert plate and whispered, “You’re staying, aren’t you?”

And when Ollie looked to you — grinning, hopeful — you just nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “He’s staying.” The table erupted again. And this time, when they toasted? They toasted to you. To the girl who won. To the girl who loved. To the girl who let herself be known. And for once — completely, deeply, happily — you let them.

—

olliebearman

liked by yn_piastri, oscarpiastri, hattiepiastri and 7,770,001 others.

olliebearman : 2 time race winner AND MY GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!

tagged : yn_piastri

—

view 770,134 other comments.

oscarpiastri : AND MY SISTER!!!!!!! so watch yourself.

liked by olliebearman

↳ yn_piastri : no one is scared of your threats, remember, the internet thinks you look microwaveable.

liked by alex_albon and olliebearman

↳ oscarpiastri : WHAT THE FUCK DOES IT MEAN

liked by yn_piastri, alex_albon and olliebearman

lando : you have to break up now. you gave her superpowers, she cannot keep winning.

liked by olliebearman and yn_piastri

↳ yn_piastri : BOOOOOOOOO. just get better at driving.

liked by oscarpiastri, lando and olliebearman

pierregasly : this is disgusting. i am sick to my stomach. but you guys are so cute i can’t be mad. take care of my menace.

liked by yn_piastri and olliebearman

hattiepiastri : can i be maid of honor?????

liked by yn_piastri and olliebearman

↳ oscarpiastri : you are assuming he will want to marry her.

↳ olliebearman : i do.

liked by yn_piastri, hattiepiastri, nicolepiastri and lando

↳ hattiepiastri : SFJRBFJASDFNOISAERDFNG OMH

↳ oscarpiastri : never speaking again.

↳ yn_piastri : aw ollie u broke both of them. i love youuu

liked by olliebearman

—

827 notes · View notes

oscpstri · 1 day ago

Text

but you like it | piastri

piastri x motogp!reader, 3.5k

oscar piastri was a force to be reckoned with, and you found that true when he made your heart go 250 miles per hour. it didn't make it any better that you always somehow found your way back to each other.

INCLUDES: use of y/n, reader and osc are the same, reader is a badass though, quad lock being the enabler, lando being the number 1 shipper, inaccurate timeline, fictional events, they're literally flirting man like just KISS ALREADY UGHHHHH, literally doing everything BUT making it official so annoying

NOTE: came to be when someone requested for a oneshot so why not! TWIN FLAMES acts as a prologue to this but it's not necessary to read that in order to understand this (but still do teehee its cute)

( masterlist | more OP81 )

Oscar wasn't supposed to stay this long.

Not in Austria, not at the track, and definitely not in your garage. But somehow he found himself leaning against a wall in the back, hand in his hoodie pocket, pretending to scroll through his phone like he wasn't stealing glances at you.

You were crouched by your bike, deep in conversation with your engineer, hands moving as you spoke. There was something about the way you talked— firm but relaxed, all fire with an ice-cold edge. Oscar watches as you cross your arms and tilt your head as you listen, nodding every once in a while in agreement.

You hadn't noticed him. Or maybe you did but acted like you didn't.

"You're back," one of your mechanics teases him, passing with a sly grin.

Oscar raises his eyebrows, playing it cool. "Here for work."

"Right. Want me to get you an autograph?"

Oscar smirks but doesn't answer, gaze already lingering back to you.

That's when you feel it. The distinct buzz of someone watching.

You glance over your shoulder, just in time to lock eyes with the Formula 1 driver. He gives you a small nod as your eyes meet, to which you narrow your eyes back. It was like a secret language by now.

You walk towards him, passing your helmet to a mechanic who offered.

"Can't get enough of me, huh?"

Oscar shrugs. "Just making sure you don't fly off your bike again."

You scoff, crossing your arms. "Weren't you the one that crashed last weekend?"

Oscar raises a brow, a small smirk on his face. "Almost crashed. I still won."

A smile threatens to grow on your face. Your eyes flicker to the logo on the hoodie he was wearing, looking back at him with furrowed eyebrows and a small smile. "You used Quad Lock as your excuse to be here?"

He glances down at his hoodie before looking back at you with a cheeky grin. "Can't have people knowing I'm here voluntarily."

You tilt your head in disbelief. "You're annoying."

"Yeah, but you like it."

You shake your head at his antics, turning on your heel and walking off. Oscar watches you go, lips twitching. God, he couldn't get enough of you.

The thing about you and Oscar was that you two were practically the same. Not just in the paralleling careers in different motorsports, but also in personality.

You were both calm under pressure, stoic even in high-tension moments. You were both precise and calculated with every move you pull out in races, nothing was done without reason. You two also had quiet confidence— you didn't need to trash talk another driver because the results you put in did all the talking for you. If they were giving shit, you wouldn't notice. You'd have to read between the lines in order to catch what they meant— shade with style. You two also were a media mystery. Never saying more than you had to, never giving more than what interviewers asked for, never revealing anything unless asked.

You two were mysterious, and it got the whole world talking. So much so that the moment you magically appeared in the McLaren hospitality in casual clothes and sunglasses, the entire paddock started whispering. Because you not hiding behind Quad Lock gear made everyone think that you were there, not for content, but because you wanted to be— which was true but no one needed to know that.

"Fancy seeing you here," a familiar voice says, plopping down onto the chair beside you. You look up to see McLaren's more experienced driver, clad in papaya.

"And not against your own will." Lando quirks an eyebrow, catching the absence of anything Quad Lock on your body. Your silence makes his face light up, a knowing smile forming on his lips.

"Oh my—"

"Don't," you snap. The Brit only grins more, a cheeky smile on his face like he was a toddler that was just told a secret.

"Y/N," he starts. "Do you like my teammate?"

Silence falls between the both of you, Lando patiently waiting for the answer. You only scoff, a smile growing on your face as you leaned back into the chair— that was enough to give him an answer.

"Oh my god," he whispers excitedly, shaking your knee like he couldn't believe it.

It wasn't until then when he noticed the familiar hat sitting on your lap. It was black so he didn't pay much mind to it, but when he finally got a close-up of the design, he gasped so loud the entire hospitality thought he was dying.

You catch what he was looking at, covering the hat like you didn't just expose yourself even more in that moment. You didn't care that Lando knew, but you did care if anyone else did.

"That's from when he won in Baku," Lando says under his breath, staring at the 1st place Pirelli hat like it was a pot of gold.

"Was hard to wash out the champagne but," you inspect the hat, "I got it clean eventually."

Lando continues to sit there like his brain just went into overdrive. "You two are gonna be the death of me."

You giggle at his words, eyes locked onto the hat like it was the key that uncovered every interaction you had with its owner behind closed doors.

You and Oscar weren't dating— not yet. But you two had an unspoken connection that no matter how far you two were from each other, did not go away. That's why you two texted everyday, that's why you two bickered through call, that's why you exchange reels on Instagram that reminded you of each other, that's why you would stay up until past midnight to talk to him, that's why he would set an alarm for 4 in the morning just to talk to you.

That's why you were in the McLaren garage, Oscar's Pirelli hat on, leant against the wall, arms crossed, eyes locked onto the man in papaya who was heaving like he would explode any moment now.

The media’s swarming, the team’s whispering, the cameras are zoomed in a little too close. But Oscar? He’s stone-faced.

No slammed steering wheel, no screaming into the radio. Just a tight jaw, a clipped 'I’m okay' to his engineer, and a quiet walk back to the garage.

But you know better.

His suit’s still half-zipped down, fireproofs around his waist, gloves stripped off with more force than necessary. His expression is blank — almost too blank. Like a dam holding back something sharp.

He doesn’t see you until he rounds the corner.

"Didn’t think you’d be back here," he says, voice dry.

"Didn’t think you’d throw the car into the wall," you counter, light enough to make it a joke— not a jab. He doesn’t smile.

That’s how you know he’s really mad.

You push yourself off the wall, taking a step closer. "How bad?"

He shrugs. "It happens."

"Not what I asked."

He's silent for a while, trying to distract himself from looking at you. Putting his helmet on the table, gloves somewhere else, tossing the balaclava wherever. When he realizes that there was nothing he could do anymore, he sighs, turning to look at you.

"I had the pace— I had it. Then I lost it because I pushed too hard. That's it. It was stupid."

You pause. He looks at you. Sharp but not angry. You reach up and tug at the collar of his suit— gentle, grounding. "Don't talk about my favorite driver like that."

He blinks. Something flickers in his eyes and eventually Oscar swears he could hear his heart in his ears.

"I'm your favorite?"

You let go of him, stepping back and shrugging. "By default. You're easy to beat."

A beat passes. A small smile etched onto Oscar's face.

"You're annoying," he says softly.

"You like it," you shoot back, already walking back to the front of the garage. "Now go fix your ego before I start sending helmet designs for when I switch sports and replace you."

He watches you go in awe. He lets out a long breath and forgets all about the rage he felt mere minutes ago.

It was late. The kind of late where the world was quiet, the air hung heavy, and the only thing louder than the silence was your own heartbeat. You were curled up on the hotel couch, hair still damp from a rushed shower, scrolling through race footage on your laptop when a knock echoed through the door.

You didn't need to check who it was. When you opened it, Oscar stood there— hoodie wrinkled, hair tousled, and a tired kind of weight behind his eyes. Not sad, not dramatic, just… worn.

"Couldn't sleep?" you asked softly.

He shook his head. "You?"

"Not really."

A pause.

"You wanna come in?"

He hesitated. Then nodded once, stepping inside.

The room was dim, just the warm glow of the TV playing on mute and the faint light from your laptop screen. Oscar took a seat on the edge of the bed like he wasn’t sure where to put himself.

"I keep replaying it," he said eventually. "That corner. That one mistake. It's pathetic."

You looked over from your spot on the couch. "It’s not."

"I had the pace," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "The tires were warm. I knew the entry line. And still, I turned in too early and… gone. Just like that."

You closed the laptop. Set it aside.

"I've seen that look before," you admit. "Usually in the mirror."

Oscar glanced at you, brows furrowed.

"That blank one you wear when you're pissed at yourself but don’t want to let anyone know. You were holding it all in like it wasn’t already written across your shoulders."

He didn't answer. Just looked at you like you had peeled something open without trying to.

"I get it," you added. "Everyone talks about how you're calm, collected. But no one ever asks what it's like to keep it all in when you want to scream."

Oscar's jaw flexed, but he didn't speak. You could tell he was still chasing the perfect words— still trying to frame his frustration into something he could take in.

You walked over and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. Not too close— just enough.

"If it helps," you said lightly, "you're still the best driver on four wheels I've ever met."

He snorted softly. "That's a low bar coming from someone who lives on two."

You nudged his shoulder with yours. "Careful. I might take that personally."

A beat.

He turned his head slightly, eyes meeting yours— calmer now. Less clouded.

"You're the only person I've ever met who makes me feel like I'm not already one step ahead," he said quietly.

The words settled in your chest like thunder after a flash. You tried to smile, but it came out smaller than usual. "That supposed to scare me?"

Oscar's gaze dropped to your lips for half a second too long.

"No," he said, voice rough. "It's supposed to scare me."

You didn't say anything after that. You didn't have to.

He stayed for a while. Just sitting there— side by side. No more racing, no more pressure. Just a quiet understanding between two people who had finally met their match and couldn't look away.

It started innocent enough. A quiet cafe somewhere tucked in Barcelona's backstreets. The walls covered in polaroids, espresso strong enough to fuel an entire grid.

You had found the place first. Hidden, warm, local. The kind of spot not even MotoGP fans would think to look.

Oscar showed up ten minutes late, hoodie over his head, sunglasses on like it wasn't painfully obvious who he was.

"You look suspicious," you said as he slid into the booth across from you.

"I look anonymous."

"You look like someone about to rob the counter."

He cracked a smile, fingers wrapping around the drink you'd already ordered for him. He blinked once, looking back at you with his mouth slightly agape.

"I don't drink coffee," he mutters, watching as you take a sip from your cup.

"I know," you start, "that's why that's a smoothie."

He blinks even more. “You remembered,” he muttered.

You shrugged, putting your cup down. "Was tempting, though. Figured the caffeine might help your cornering next time."

That earned a light kick to your shin under the table. You grinned.

The conversation wandered easily— racing, Netflix edits, who had the worse simulator setup. He leaned in closer when you teased him about still using traction control, and you found yourself tugging his sunglasses off just to prove a point.

You didn't notice the phone— not right away. It was only after you'd laughed— head thrown back and eyes scrunching— that Oscar paused, eyes flicking briefly over your shoulder.

Too late. Someone had already taken the photo. A fan. Smart enough to stay quiet about it— for now.

It wasn't until the both of you got back to the hotel when you noticed the amount of messages you were getting from fellow drivers and riders.

"I told you to sit facing the wall," Oscar muttered, scrolling through the chaos on his phone.

You flopped down on the bed beside him, snatching the device from his hands. "You also told me the disguise was foolproof."

He gave you a flat look. "I didn't think me wearing sunglasses would trigger a media meltdown."

"Please. You smiled. That's enough to spark a scandal."

He laughed. Quiet, barely there, but real. Then, softly:

"They think we're dating."

You looked at him, curious. "Does that bother you?"

Oscar hesitated. Then met your gaze.

"No," he said. "Does it bother you that it doesn't bother me?"

You stared at him, heart stalling for one stupid second.

"No," you said back, voice just above a whisper. "It really doesn't."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was charged— full of all the things you both weren't ready to say.

But maybe, just maybe, you were starting to feel ready.

The aftermath of it all was entertaining.

It starts with a Quad Lock conference, a sit-down with reporters and a new brand ambassador. The beginning to the crossover event where all the brand's ambassadors try out each other's sports.

They made you sit next to each other, you knew Quad Lock planned this all from the very beginning.

Your name is called first. You lean into the mic, perfectly composed— at least from the waist up. Oscar leans back in his seat beside you, arms crossed, face unreadable except for the faint twitch of his mouth.

A reporter raises their hand, grinning like they already know the answer. "So... that cafe in Barcelona. Cozy, wasn't it?"

You hum, chin tilted enough just to be smug, an eyebrow raised. "Should I be asking for your coffee order?"

Oscar's already smirking, mic lifted casually. "She rated it an 8. Don't think we'll be going back, though. What with the... unexpected company and all."

The room loses it. Laughter erupts, a dozen camera flashes, some even gasp at the subtle confirmation. You shake your head, trying to bite back the smile. Oscar doesn't even blink.

Then comes the real question:

"Are you two together?"

You and Oscar both pause.

"No."

"Not yet."

It comes from him and it silences the room. You turn your head so fast you almost pull a muscle. "Excuse me?"

He clears his throat. "That was supposed to be a thought."

You bite your cheek to keep from laughing. You whisper into your mic, "You're making this worse."

He glances sideways. "Am I lying?"

Another pause.

You look straight into the camera. "No comment."

Twitter dies, fan pages erupt, and you don't even bother checking your phone this time.

Then comes the inevitable team meeting. You're told to report to your team principal's office after the press conference.

You had expected a scolding, not Oscar already sitting there, arms folded, sipping from a water bottle like this was a casual debrief.

You stop at the door. "Is this… couples therapy?"

"I prefer public image management," he says.

Your managers stare at you like you've both just announced a pregnancy.

"Are you dating?"

You both glance at each other. Oscar sighs, adjusting himself in his seat. "I like her. I'm not gonna hide that."

You freeze. He's not looking at the managers, he's looking at you.

You swallow. Shrug a little. "I'd consider signing a multi-year race contract."

There's a beat of silence.

Your manager scribbles something furiously into their notes. Probably 'chaos imminent'. They finally look up at you and mutter: "Do we need to start printing shirts?"

Then it's the first race since the scandal. Your name is on every tabloid. Oscar's too. You figured he'd stay far away.

But there he is. Leaning casually against the garage, team pass hanging from his lanyard, sunglasses back on like that's going to stop anyone from recognizing him.

Your mechanics whistle when you walk into the garage and see him.

You raise an eyebrow. "You lost?"

Oscar just grins. "You'll crash if you keep staring."

You throw your towel at him. "You wish."

You win that race, obviously. Fastest lap, pole to podium, champagne in your hair, and gold on your collar.

When you walk back to the garage, Oscar is still there— a new team cap in his hand.

He tosses it to you without a word. You catch it. Thumb running over the '81' embroidered on the brim.

"Figured I owed you one," he says, a little breathless, like he ran to make sure he didn't miss you.

You tilt your head, playful. "You came all the way here just to even the score?"

He shrugs. "No. I came for you."

Your smile is slow, wide, unstoppable. And suddenly, it's not about press photos, or rumors, or what the media thinks anymore.

It's just him. It's just you. It's just the quiet, terrifying, electric realization that you've finally found someone who matches you beat for beat and it's the best thing that's ever happened to either of you.

Oscar was on pole. The McLaren garage was buzzing with the electric sort of tension that only came with race day. Tire warmers humming, radios crackling, mechanics pacing with tightly wound nerves. But the real reason everyone kept sneaking glances over their shoulders?

You.

Sitting confidently on the orange garage stool with a headset resting around your neck and the most deliberate papaya jacket zipped halfway over your MotoGP uniform. You weren't hiding. You hadn't even tried.

People stared, whispered, took photos. And you met every look with a raised brow and a smirk that said, yes, I'm here, and yes, I'm staying.

"Thought you said papaya wasn't your color," Oscar said as he passed you, helmet in hand, voice low enough just for you to hear.

You leaned back and smiled up at him. "It isn't. But you are."

He blinked. Almost stumbled. And for the first time in years, Oscar Piastri— calm, cool, unshakably composed— looked like he didn't know what to do with himself.

"You're going to ruin my race focus," he muttered, voice slightly higher than usual.

"I hope so," you teased. "Win anyway."

You watched every lap from the garage, headset finally over your ears, half-listening to strategy while keeping your eyes locked on that papaya blur carving through every sector.

He was perfect— composed, ruthless in defense, smooth on exits.

And when he crossed the finish line first, fists pumping in the cockpit, the entire garage exploded around you.

You didn't move.

Not until he pulled into parc fermé. Not until the camera caught him looking straight toward the garage before he even unbuckled. Not until he jogged in, helmet off, curls messy with sweat already on his suit.

And then you were moving.

He spotted you before anyone else did. Didn't wait, didn't ask, just walked toward you with that exhausted, elated kind of grin.

"I won," he said breathlessly.

"I saw."

"You wore orange."

"I know."

Oscar stepped closer. Close enough that the noise fell away. Close enough that his team was watching with barely-disguised grins and held breath.

You looked up at him. "Still want to pretend it's not a thing?"

He shook his head once. Firm. "No. I’m done pretending."

You smiled. "Good. Because I don't feel like hiding anymore."

He didn't say anything else. He just kissed you.

Soft at first. Gentle, almost unsure— like even now, he couldn't believe it was happening. But you kissed him back like you'd been waiting your whole damn life for it, and the paddock lost its mind.

Applause, camera flashes, mechanics howling, drivers wolf-whistling as they passed.

But none of it mattered. Because it was just you and Oscar. Two champions. One race at a time. Exactly the same. And finally, together.

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rose24207 · 2 days ago

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I think he loves you more than me now

Summary: When Suho asks his sweet, introverted girlfriend who works in women’s clothing for her employee discount to help his friend Sieun, the unexpected kindness she shows earns her not just gratitude—but Sieun’s rare and heartfelt approval as someone truly good for Suho.

Ahn Suho x reader

Part one

A/N: y’all someone jinxed me. I was almost fired today for no reason help. I think it’s the authors curse. It’s finally out to get me help

Navigation

You’re still working on the first floor of the department store—women’s clothing, where nothing stays hung for more than ten minutes, and every compliment about the mess sounds more like a personal attack.

“Wow,” one lady muttered today, crinkling her nose at a blouse someone else had thrown on the floor. “You’d think someone worked here.”

You just smiled politely, the same way you always do. You’ve learned it’s not worth correcting them. Instead, you hang the blouse back up, smooth its sleeves, and continue folding shirts in the same gentle rhythm.

You’ve changed a little since Suho came into your life—well, not changed, more like grown into yourself. You’re still quiet, still introverted, still way too shy to make small talk unless it’s with someone over the age of sixty or a mannequin. But you’ve also learned to hold your head a little higher. You still hide behind your bangs sometimes, but now your lips twitch into a smile every time you remember Suho holding your hand behind the store and whispering:

“You’re my favorite person in the whole world.”

You’d nearly combusted.

This afternoon, Suho comes into the store looking stressed, his dark brows pinched and his school bag barely hanging onto one shoulder.

He weaves through the perfume counters, then the purses, skips the escalator, and takes the stairs two at a time.

You spot him before he even notices you, and you straighten the display quickly so it looks like you weren’t just admiring his walk.

He finally finds you near the cardigans.

“Babe,” he breathes, all flustered. “Do you… do you have your discount card on you?”

You blink, confused. “Uh, yeah? It’s in my pouch—why?”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking awkward for the first time since he met you. “It’s for Sieun. His shirt got ripped yesterday.”

Your eyes widen. “Ripped?”

“Bullies,” Suho mutters. “Some jerks at school. He didn’t want to tell me, but I saw the tear. Got it out of him. Then I told him we’re coming here, ‘cause you work here and you have that magic card of wonders.”

You chuckle softly. “It’s not magic, it’s a 30% employee discount.”

“Same thing,” he says with a smirk. Then, quieter: “You don’t mind, right?”

You shake your head. “Of course not. For you? For your friend? Anytime.”

He grins and kisses your forehead before dashing back upstairs. You watch him go, warmth curling in your chest.

A few minutes later, you spot them. Suho’s voice, animated and teasing, echoes down from the second floor. He’s pointing at something in the men’s section while another boy—shorter, quieter—stands with crossed arms, clearly unimpressed.

That must be Sieun.

You’ve never met him before, but Suho’s mentioned him lots of times.

"He doesn’t talk much."

"He’s insanely smart."

"He sees through everyone, like he’s reading your mind."

Also: "He never likes my girlfriends. But he will like you. I know it."

Sieun looks like someone who keeps his guard up by default. His expression is unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line. His uniform shirt is neatly ironed despite the tear Suho mentioned. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who asks for help.

But when they come down the escalator—with a couple of neatly folded shirts and a plain navy hoodie draped over his arm—you offer them your softest smile.

“Found everything?” you ask gently.

Suho nods and waves Sieun forward. “Go on.”

Sieun hesitates, then steps up and places the items on the counter. “Thank you,” he says, voice quiet but sincere. “I… appreciate this.”

You shake your head lightly. “No need to thank me. Suho told me what happened. I’m really sorry that happened to you.”

Sieun’s eyes flicker up to yours. You expect him to shut down, but instead, something in his expression softens. Maybe it’s the way you’re not making a big deal out of it.

Maybe it’s how your voice is calm, not pitiful. He watches you ring everything up, nimble fingers tapping on the register, checking tags and scanning like second nature.

“You’re fast,” he says suddenly.

You glance up, blinking. “Huh?”

“At this,” he says, nodding to the register. “You’re good at your job.”

It’s not flattery. It’s an observation. You smile a little, flustered. “Thank you.”

You hand him the final price—with your discount applied, of course—and bag the clothes neatly while Suho chats beside you about school, complaining about math. You catch Sieun watching you carefully, thoughtfully. Not in a creepy way, but more like… analyzing.

Later, after they leave, Suho texts you from the bus.

Suho 🤺: he likes u Suho 🤺: he literally said “she’s not fake” Suho 🤺: THATS A BIG DEAL Suho 🤺: i think ur in the circle of trust now

You laugh so hard you nearly drop a stack of scarves.

A few days later, Sieun comes back. Alone. No Suho.

You spot him wandering the second floor and wave at him from across the balcony. He seems a little unsure of himself but eventually makes his way down.

“Suho had work,” he says as you approach. “But I needed another shirt. I didn’t want to go to another store.” I didn’t trust another worker with my cloths.

You smile at him, motioning for him to show you. “Want help finding it?”

He nods slowly. “If it’s not a bother.”

You lead him upstairs and help him check the racks. He’s surprisingly polite, following behind you like a quiet shadow.

You’re not sure what it is—maybe it’s his silence, or the way he watches things like he’s constantly solving a puzzle—but you find yourself talking a little more than usual.

“This one’s the same cut as the one you liked, but in black,” you say, holding a hanger up to the light. “I can check in the system to see if they still have the beige one, though.”

He nods, studying the shirt. “Black is fine. I trust your taste.”

You blink, a little caught off guard. “Oh.”

“I didn’t mean that to be weird,” he adds quickly. “Just that Suho’s style is… chaotic. Yours is calm. Balanced.”

You chuckle. “Yeah, he’s a little all over the place.”

Sieun looks at you, and for the first time, you see the hint of a smile tug at his lips. “But it works for him. He’s happier now.”

You glance at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods. “He’s calmer. He jokes more. He used to get into fights all the time, not just with other kids, but with himself. Like he didn’t know where to put all the emotion. But ever since you… it’s like he found an anchor.”

Your throat tightens slightly. You weren’t expecting that.

“I didn’t do anything special,” you murmur.

“You did,” Sieun says, voice steady. “You’re kind. And consistent. He needed that.”

There’s a silence between you two—but it’s not awkward. It’s peaceful.

When you finish ringing up his items, he takes the bag with a short bow. “Thank you again.”

You smile softly. “Anytime, Sieun-ssi.”

As he turns to leave, he pauses. Then, without looking back, he adds, “For the record, I never liked any of his past girlfriends. But you…” He hesitates, then nods. “You’re different.”

Your cheeks burn with warmth as he disappears into the crowd.

That evening, Suho bursts into your messages again.

Suho 🤺: SIEUN TOLD ME WHAT HE SAID Suho 🤺: do you know how BIG that is Suho 🤺: he called you “consistent” 😭😭😭 Suho 🤺: I think he loves you more than me now

Wifey 🛍️: I just gave him a discount and helped him find shirts 💀 Wifey 🛍️: It’s not that deep

But deep down… it feels kind of amazing.

A week later, Sieun comes back again—this time with Suho. Suho‘s goofing off, nearly pushing Sieun into a rack near the escalator, but Suho stops to wrap an arm around your shoulders.

“My girl,” he says proudly, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “You ready to discount us into fashion icons again?”

You roll your eyes, but your smile says everything.

Sieun shakes his head but smiles softly. “Honestly, I only come here now for the service.”

And you know, without question, you’re not just Suho’s girlfriend anymore. You’re part of the circle. Fully, finally, warmly in.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane, @stxr-lilac, @geumseongjelicker, @itzzezraa

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fiamat12 · 2 days ago

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Let's break down what we know and I'll link the previous post too...

1) Louisa & Mairead have been in Dublin filming "The Walsh Sisters" since the beginning of the year so they could meet up w/ N there anytime.

2) Alice stated she was swimming in Dublin on Mar. 18, in a pic. taken by Louisa. Her hair + the location & weather lines up w/ the stroller pic at Forty Foot in Mairead's June 7th dump.

2) If Alice was in Dublin prior to mid-March, the only time N could've been there, too, was the Iftas. N was having a baby prior to that and after, she was in London, then LA, then Sheffield. The weather surrounding the Iftas was rainy and doesn't match the clearer weather at Forty Foot in the stroller pic.

3) March 15 would be about the 6-week check- up for N after having BN, so it's possible she went back to Ireland for it or maybe another reason (i.e. Christening, etc.)

• There were distractions to cover Lukola travel March 11-19:

🎟 Mar 11, a fan posted a latergram of N being at opening night of JD's play

🛏 Soon after, the Jecky crew posted about an Airbnb, suggesting N would be w/ them at JD's play Mar 15-17

📸 Mar 18 - Pap pics of L & A circulated

Note: Mar 19 - N was (back) in London for "The Wedding Banquet" screening

4) JD was in "A Streetcar Named Desire" Mar. 1-29 in Sheffield

• JD is not clearly visible in the stroller pic nor was he tagged. He liked it which makes sense as two of his costars are in the pic.

• JD was likely in rehearsals for "Streetcar" in Feb. around Iftas time and also in Mar., unless he had a few days off to make a quick trip.

5) Mother's Day weekend

• Everyone was available to be there as far as we know, however, they would've had to go to Forty Foot again, and Alice's hair would've had to be similar (possible, but not probable)

• April 5-6 - a pic of JD & Louisa in Galway circulated but it could've been taken any time w/ Louisa being in Ireland since the new year.

Note: There were other distractions in early April (i.e. an X user claiming she saw N on a plane), trying way too hard to prove N was in Galway, and thus pointing to Lukola actually being elsewhere.

5) Conclusion: The most likely time for the stroller pic w/ N to have been taken in Dublin is mid-March. The weather was just right, too...

*** Previous Ireland & Sheffield posts ⬇️

#all in time time will reveal #i believe in lukola

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metalheadsagainstfascism · 1 day ago

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I have some new followers and you're probably like "wow you're really spamming this Iran stuff right now."

Because I literally have a pending post that I wrote in February about how the US rewrote history about 9/11, which is pending to be posted on 9/11.

After 9/11 Bush blamed Sadam Hussein for 9/11. We wasted A LOT OF RESOURCES on that lie and even after Al Qaeda was like "IT WAS US" Bush just shifted the narrative like "UMM... DID I SAY THEY CAUSED 9/11 WHAT I REALLY MEANT WAS THEY HAVE WEAPONS OF MASS DISTRUCTION! YEAH THAT'S WHY I'M WASTING ALL OF YOUR TAX DOLLARS TO GO TO IRAQ AND KILL HIM. WHAT? 9/11? NO I NEVER SAID THAT?"

I distinctly remember that because that's when we were learning about political cartoons in history class so we had to look at modern political cartoons that were being posted and evaluate what they mean.

And I remember being confused like "He's changing his reasons and people are still agreeing with this?" (I want that we'll spoken or understanding of what I was questioning, but like it smelled REALLY FISHY.)

And he did REALLY WELL because when I bring this up people will ARGUE so much with me. "You must be getting confused. You're getting them mixed to because they're two events that happened around the same time."

But listen. Me at that age wouldn't have given a shit about world politics. I didn't understand a goddamn thing about the repercussions of us killing Hussein. I wouldn't have paid attention to it. I did care about 9/11 a lot because it was very traumatizing to think that it could happen so close to home. So I wouldn't have even KNOWN that Bush changed his narrative... unless I was already paying attention to it because of 9/11.

But the 9/11 exhibit was acting like... there's just some unexplained gap in searching for Osama during the Bush years because we couldn't find him and that's it. Not... like Bush was shifting the blame ONTO THIS COMPLETELY RANDOM ASS GUY that had nothing to do with it or anything and wasting A SHITTON OF RESOURCES of this random leader even after it came out that he didn't do it or anything...

And as previously stated... I didn't keep up with the going ons of Iraq back then because... I was an ignorant teenager.

And I want you to hear the story of those that weren't. Because like... literally just earlier this year I witnessed a huge piece of America's history with Iraq just fucking... vanish... and people are acting like I'm fucking crazy for throwing a fir over history being erased? Very important history, mind you.

Like... that fucked me up. RECORD EVERYTHING. JOURNAL EVERYTHING. DIARY EVERYTHING.

In... 20 years... they're gonna act like this shit didn't fucking happen.

-fae

#iraq #iran #9/11 #fuck Trump

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queeleronwheels · 15 hours ago

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I think a Mike-accidentally-walks-in-on-Robin-and-Vickie-hooking-up scene is pretty much guaranteed in season 5, and here is my reasoning (meant to be taken all together rather than as separate points) (CW for mentions of theoretical outing & internalized homophobia):

First, we are getting confirmed Robin & Mike interactions based on behind-the-scenes material and footage.

Because we already have a will-they-won't-they queer pairing in the show, I think it's reasonable to expect that Rovickie will get together early on in the season, or even more likely, that they'll already be together from the start of the season (with the canonization having happened during the time jump, similar to how Joyce is already with Bob at the beginning of season 2). I know this would be kind of disappointing for those who want more tension and a first kiss scene between Rovickie, but I do still think it's likely this is the direction they're going given Rovickie has barely two episodes of build-up behind them and Vickie is a side character without much depth, so seeing how they got together isn't entirely necessary to the evolution of their relationship.

We haven't seen Mike directly confronted with homosexuality in the show. It has all been subtextual thus far. If Mike's storyline in season 5 is about confronting his internalized homophobia—which it should be, unless this is world's most heinous queerbait—then the above has to happen at some point during this season, most likely multiple times. The writers are aware Mike's sexuality is highly speculated, and at this point we need to see his reaction to explicit homosexuality regardless of where his arc is ending up (but hopefully it will serve to push him along his internalized homophobia arc to a happy conclusion). Given that the other canon gay character, Will, is entwined with Mike's internalized homophobia and its potential resolution, I don't think the first thing they're going to throw at him is Will's sexuality. I also don't think they would use a new source for this, because they already have Robin right there. It would be a great way to use both characters and play them off of each other.

Therefore, unless none of Mike & Robin's scenes involve one-on-one interaction, it would be extremely weird if the writers didn't involve sexuality in their exchanges somehow. That would be a huge elephant in the room from the audience's perspective and also a major missed opportunity.

That being said, we've already had Robin's coming out scene in season 3, and so it's unlikely they're going to do it again, at least in an intimate one-on-one scene with another character. Given it's the 80s, it's unlikely she's going to come out of the closet completely, but it's also unlikely that the only people she'll be out to by the end of the final season are Steve and Vickie given the show's values and themes (being yourself, found family, acceptance, etc.). It is even more unlikely that she's going to be publicly outed, because then we would have to see her dealing with the fallout of that, and I just don't see the writers setting up a minor character like Robin for an emotionally hefty storyline, especially as we already have Will's coming out arc and Mike's internalized homophobia arc. Thus, I think Robin's sexuality will be revealed to other characters through their observations of her relationship with Vickie.

This further inclines me toward a Mike-interrupting-Rovickie scene, because as much as it would still be a big deal if Robin did directly come out to Mike, he is so deeply closeted atp that I think Mike seeing two girls kissing would have a bigger impact on him because it leaves less room for doubt stemming from his internalized homophobia (e.g., thoughts of "she's just messing with me because she knows"). Interrupting Rovickie would make it not about Mike, and would not leave room for self-centred homophobic speculation on his part.

So, taking all of the above together, a Mike-interrupting-Rovickie-in-action scene would serve to a) show the audience Mike's reaction to explicit homosexuality with the least room for denial which b) furthers his internalized homophobia arc and c) sets up a very juicy dynamic between him and Robin that d) is pretty much unavoidable if they're going to pair those two together in solo scenes.

If I was in that writer's room, I would be absolutely jumping on the opportunity to write this scene and its aftermath into existence. I think it's unlikely they wouldn't have thought about an interruption scene between Rovickie (they love the Moment Killer trope, as we know) and the opportunity to do it from their most deeply closeted character's perspective is just too good to pass up imo.

#st speculation #byler #rovickie #gay mike wheeler #am i cooking or am i reaching because i want this so bad #i need mike slapped in the face with gay #i need gay mentor robin #i need mikero bonding

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just-dreaming-marvel · 3 days ago

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The Librarian & The Wolverine ~ The Rescue

THE LIBRARIAN & THE WOLVERINE MASTERLIST

< previous: The First Mission

Word Count: 6,220ish

Summary: Logan does whatever he can to make sure you are safe again.

Warning(s): mentions insecurities, time jumps, injuries, violence. nightmares, torture, kidnapping, PTSD

Notes: I hope you guys are enjoying this! Please share your thoughts with me on it. These two are so great to write for. Also, it's just going to be up and down from here on out. No more straight fluff chapters.

You woke up in a room that didn’t belong to any government facility you knew. You were restrained to a cold metal chair. There were medical equipment surrounding you, some of them were already attached. Your throat was dry and your vision blurred at the edges.

The door opened a moment later. Two figures walked in— a man in military-grade black and a woman in a lab coat. Her clipboard tapped softly against her thigh as she stopped beside your bed.

“Ah, you’re awake,” she noted.

You didn’t answer.

“Vitals are stable,” she looked over the machines connected to you. “Cognitive strength appears intact.”

“What—“ you rasped. “What is this?”

“You’ll come to understand in time. You’ve been chosen. Not harmed, not… yet. Just relocated. The government has great interest in your abilities.”

You struggled against the cuffs, vision sharpening now.

“You’re going to be so useful. Your ability to absorb and store information? Beautiful, powerful, and full of untapped potential.”

“We’re going to help your mind work even faster,” the man finally spoke up, stepping forward. “With the right enhancements, you’ll store every byte of classified data we feed you. Weapons programs. Mutant registries. Government secrets. Foreign intel. And when we ask for it? You’ll give it back.”

“You want to make me a…” nausea rose inside you, “a living vault.”

The woman smiled. “An archive. A perfect one. You will read what we tell you. And when we ask, you’ll tell us what we need.”

“I won’t! I won’t help you.”

“You won’t have a choice.” She gestured to the man, who lifted a syringe.

Your breath caught. “You— You can’t do this—“

“We already are.”

“No! No! Logan!”

And the needle pierced your neck.

~~~

They kept you underground. No windows. No clocks. No sense of day or night— just harsh fluorescent lights and the constant hum of machines. You were in and out. They hadn’t fed you information yet, they were preparing you for it. You kept chanting Logan’s name in your head over and over again, trying to keep you tethered some how. But it was getting harder.

One day, they brought in stacks of files and placed them under your hands. Almost instantly, your eyes went blank and your breath caught. The information from the files began feeding into your mind, filing and organizing itself away. While you— the real you— was being bushed back, filed away itself.

~~~

At first, they tried to keep Logan home. They tried to tell him it was too dangerous without a plan. But he didn’t care. Logan had to find you, it was his sole purpose now. He hadn’t slept since before they took you and basically hadn’t eaten in that long either.

Every lead, every scent, every trace they could find— Logan hunted down like an animal. He tore through outposts and left entire teams bleeding behind him. He didn’t speak unless it was to ask where you were.

Charles tried to keep him grounded. Jean tried to reason with him, but nothing worked. Because Logan could feel it— deep in his metal bones. You were in pain and it was only getting worse. He’d seen his fair share of government experiments and he couldn’t let them turn you into their weapon. Or worse, into a ghost of yourself.

~~~

Every question they asked, you answered— steady, flat, and completely devoid of emotion. You didn’t blink because you weren’t there. They rewired your neural pathways. You still remembered everything. You still analyzed and indexed. But now you did it for them. A living hard drive. You recited names and secrets. You exposed enemies and allies. Whatever they asked of you.

They replaced the files everyday, always checking to make sure you’ve got it all before doing do. The more information you took in, the farther your true self got pushed back.

~~~

Logan could smell you from a mile away. He crouched in the treelike, feral, eyes locked on the facility buried in the mountain. There were dozens of soldiers, automated defenses, and no visible entrances. They thought that would stop him. But they have no idea what they had brought down on themselves.

“Found her,” he whispered into his comm.

Then he dropped it, knowing the team would be there shortly. He wasn’t going to waste any time though. He reached an access point and began tearing through the soldiers like paper. Alarms wailed and lights flashed red, but he ignored it all. His only focus was you.

After fighting like hell, Logan burst into the chamber, tearing the doors clean off their hinges. And there you were. You were restrained to a metal chair with wires and tubes coiled around you with a stack of files under each hand. Your face was blank and too still.

His heart shattered. “Baby…”

He dropped to his knees in front of you and reached for your face— gently and terrified. You eyes were wide open. But they don’t focus or move. You were breathing but you’re not there.

He finally touched your cheek. “Hey. I’m here. I found you.”

You didn’t blink.

“Come back… Come on, sweetheart. It’s me.”

Still nothing.

Then, barely there, a murmur, “…Logan…”

“Yes, baby. I’m here. I got you.”

He ripped the cables from your skin and cradled your body against his chest. You didn’t resist or cling to him— simply limp and distant. He held you tighter and whispered over and over how he was will you and how you were save and he begged you to come back to him.

Logan carried you out of the facility. You don’t speak or move or blink. Your eyes were still open, but you were looking through everything.

Storm reached him first. “Oh my god— Is she…?”

“She’s breathing,” Logan stated, not slowing his pace. “She said my name once. But there’s been nothing besides that.”

Jean and Charles stepped forward from the Blackbird, already reading out with their powers to assess the damage.

“She’s alive,” Jean stated softly, mostly for herself. “But… she’s gone deep. Deeper than I’ve ever felt before. They used her mind like a network. She’s— it’s like she’s filed herself away.”

Charles’ face was pale and jaw tight. “She’s dissociating on a psychic level. Her consciousness is in full retreat. Like a mental coma.”

Logan stopped at the bottom of the jet, holding you tighter. “You’re not taking her.”

“Logan—“

“You are not taking her.”

Jean stepped forward carefully. “We’re not taking her away. But we have to get into her mind. We have to pull her back before she disappears completely.”

“She needs to feel safe.” Logan backed up. “You think putting her in a sterile white infirmary room is gonna fix this?”

“No,” Charles cut in. “But if we don’t reach her soon, there may be no one left to fix.”

Storm laid a hand on Logan’s arm. “She’s not herself. And you’ve done everything you could. But this part… this part isn’t something you can do.”

For a long moment, Logan just stood there— breathing hard and shaking, like he was still fighting. He looked down at you. You didn’t look back. Finally, his shoulder sagged. He walked up into the jet and laid you gently on the cot ready for you. When Jean and Charles moved to touch you, his growled.

“I stay with her.”

Charles looked at the broken man. “Of course.”

Logan sat on the ground beside you and took your hand. He leaned his head against your body. “I need you to come back. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll read every damn book in that library if it gets you to look at me again— really look… You’re not gone, darlin’. You’re not gone.”

Jean placed a hand to your temple, eyes closing. Charles closed his eyes as well. Jean gasped the second she connected. She’s not in a mind, but a vault. There were endless corridors in every direction, filled with bookshelves and data streams. Everything was expertly categorized and catalogued. It was all too neat and silent. She glanced to her left to find that Charles had joined her.

“She built this,” Jean murmured. “To protect herself.”

Charles nodded. “It’s not a prison. It’s a defense mechanism. She’s locked herself in the deepest part of her own mind and thrown away the key. Jean walked slowly down the corridor, reaching out to gently touch the books. All emotion had been stripped from them— labeled by dates. There were so many government secrets with a mix of your personal history.

They could hear Logan still begging for you to come back. Something shifted— a crack formed along the corridor walls.

Jean looked at Charles. “She heard him.”

“She’s listening. We need to keep pushing.”

Jean began to pull the books that had your history on them. The first time Logan held your hand. The night of the fire. The first kiss. The love confession. The vault trembled and then, from the end of the corridor, you appeared. But it wasn’t you. It was a fragile, flickering version.

You spoke without emotion. “I am the Archive. I exist to preserve and protect. Please do not attempt to disrupt the system.”

Jean stepped forward. “You’re not the Archive. You’re Y/N. And Logan is waiting for you.”

You flickered, hollow eyes meeting hers. “He’s… waiting?”

Charles came up and took your hand. “Yes. And he’s not leaving without you.”

You blinked once, then again. And the cracks continued.

~~~

Logan was still talking, whispering about the day he fell in love with the way you corrected his grammar. He was just about to chuckle to himself when your fingers twitched. He froze.

“Sweetheart?” He whispered.

You drew in a shaky breath— ragged and shallow. “…Lo—Logan…”

Logan laughed, half-choked, half-sobbed. “Yeah, baby. It’s me.”

You finally blinked and turned your head. “Logan…”

He pulled you into his arms and Jean and Charles moved back. He didn’t let you go the rest of the way.

~~~

You woke up in the infirmary. It took you a few seconds to realize where you were and that you weren’t alone. Logan was in the chair next to your bed, head bowed forward like he was trying to stay awake and lost the fight. His hand was still curled around yours. You tightened your fingers just slightly causing his eyes to snap open.

“Hey,” his voice was rough but gentle. He sat up and you could see the exhaustion and relief all over his face.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“You want water? I can get—“

“No.” You squeezed his hand tighter. “Just… stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You shifted slightly on the pillows. Every muscle ached and your head was still very fuzzy. “I remember… some of it… They took me.”

“I know.”

“They almost made me forget you and myself…”

He flinched.

“But I didn’t.”

“You said my name. That was the first thing. Back in that damn chair. I knew you were still in there.” He exhaled hard and leaned forward. “Darlin’, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

“I don’t feel like me yet… Everything is… fuzzy.”

“That’s okay. We’ve got time. You take as long as you need.”

“I’m scared.”

“I am too.” He kissed your knuckles. “But I’m here and you’re here.”

“Can you… read to me?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course.”

Logan reached under the chair and pulled out your worn copy of Persuasion by Jane Austen. He had it there so that he could read it for himself while he waited for you to wake. He began reading. You closed your eyes and let yourself just listen.

~~~

You slept more than you stayed awake. Jean and Hank told Logan that it was your mind trying to repair itself— that sleep was safety. When you are awake, you barely speak. Sometimes you looked at Logan like you didn’t trust what you were seeing. Other times you cried and you couldn’t explain why.

Logan never asked you to. He just held you and wiped the tears. “I’ve got you.”

You kept asking if this was real. And Logan told you over and over that it was. That you were safe now. Even when he could tell that you didn’t believe it, he kept telling you.

The first nightmare hit on the third night. You were screaming before you even woke— voice ragged and hands clawing at the wire you still thought were there. You hit Logan and bit him. You sobbed so hard your whole body shook. Logan didn’t flinch. He simply fought you gently and held you, trying to ground you.

“They’re gone,” he whispered. “You’re safe. They can’t touch you now. You’re not theirs.”

You didn’t stop crying for a long time and he didn’t let go.

Days later, you sat in the library, curled in one of the chairs you used to love. You had a book in your lap but your eyes couldn’t focus. The words kept slipping. You knew the words— your mind still remembered— but your body recoiled. The act of reading, once second nature, now made your hands tremble. Logan watched from the corner. You shut the book.

“I can’t,” you whispered, defeated.

He crossed the room and knelt in front of you. “Then I’ll read to you.”

You looked down, ashamed. “Do you still want me?” The words were so small, broken.

He reached for your hand. “More than anything. Even when it’s hard. Even if it’s never easy again. You’re not a job, sweetheart. You’re mine.”

You nodded and let him take the book.

~~~

One morning, a student knocked over a cart in the hallway and the loud crash made you jump, heart racing. You began to shut down— breath catching, eyes glazing over. But Logan was there in a heartbeat, hands gently holding your face.

“Deep breath,” he guided. “Right here. Just us.”

You breathed in and then out.

“That’s my girl.” He kissed your forehead. “Keep breathing. I got you.”

~~~

It was late. The halls of the mansion were dark and still. Logan couldn’t find you in the infirmary or the library. But when he came to his room, he found you sitting on the floor, knees tucked up to your chest, curled in on yourself like you were trying to be small. You were wearing one of his shirts, sleeves pulled over your hands. You didn’t look up when he entered.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He asked gently.

You shook your head. He didn’t press. He just closed the door behind him, walked over slowly, and sunk to the floor beside you. You sat in silence for a while.

Then, you spoke up, voice thin and shaky, “I thought I was stronger than this.”

“You are,” he replied, sounding so sure.

You finally glanced at him. “I’m scared all the time. Of sounds. Of people looking at me too long. Of falling asleep and waking up back there. I can’t even read a full paragraph without panicking. I shelved one book and had to go lie down for an hour. I can’t help students. I can’t concentrate. I don’t feel like me anymore, Logan. I don’t know who I am without… control. Without knowing everything… without… reading.” You looked away. “And I can’t stop thinking… what if you stop wanting me? What if I never get past this?”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m broken.”

“No. You’re not.”

“You don’t understand—“

“I do. I know what it feels like to be ripped out of your own head. To wake up and not know what parts of you are yours anymore. To be scared that what they did made you unlovable.” He moved closer, taking your hand and pulling it to him. “But you are still you. Even when it’s hard. Even when you can’t feel it or keep questioning it. I see you, darlin’. I see you. Every piece of you.”

Tears spilled over before you could stop them. You folded into Logan like gravity was pulling you there. You bury your face in his chest and cry. Logan simply wrapped his arms around you and rocked you gently.

“You don’t have to hide the hard parts from me,” he murmured against your head. “You don’t have to be okay for me to love you.”

You cried harder. “I just want to feel whole again.”

“You will. Not tomorrow. Maybe not not week. But you will. And I’ll still be here. No matter what.”

~~~

The library was mostly empty. It was a quiet day— one of those afternoons where the students were either napping on the lawn or sparring in the Danger Room. But a few linger in the library. A girl, maybe twelve, stood hesitantly at the reference shelf. You were sitting behind the desk, just there. A book was opened din your lap— not to read but to feel the weight of it. One of Logan’s flannels were draped over your shoulders, sleeves rolled at the cuffs. Your heartbeat still skipped sometimes when a door slammed. And you still checked the exits without thinking. But you were in the library and that was something.

When the girl at the shelf sighed— frustrated— you spoke up before you could stop yourself. “Need help?”

She looked up, startled. “Uh… yeah. We’re supposed to write about resistance movements in Europe, but… I can’t even spell half of this stuff.”

You smiled, just slightly. “Try ‘Maquis’. M-A-Q-U-I-S. French resistance. I think you’ll like them.”

She perked up. “Is there a book about them?”

“There’s a few.” You stood slowly. “Come on. I’ll show you where they live.”

The girl followed you to the far wall. Your steady, not fast, still healing from the neural drain. But you walked with purpose. You find the book and hand it to her.

She grinned. “You’re really good at this.”

You rose an eyebrow. “At being a librarian?”

“At making it make sense.”

Across the library, Logan stood silent. He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching your every move. When you turn and catch his eye, he smiled. You tried not to be too embarrassed.

‘What?’ You mouthed.

He just shrugged. But he was already thinking of a dozen ways to tell the others— Jean, Ororo, Charles— that today, you came back. Even just for a moment.

~~~

You had finally done it. After weeks inside the mansion, you decided to take a quiet walk outside. The wind was soft and the sun was warm. You had a book in your hands, just for the weight. You were okay. Until, your chest seized and your breath hitched. Something slipped into your mind. It was subtle at first. A brush of thought. Then it hit, an unwelcome pressure. A mind not your own was inside your head.

You dropped the book and fell to your knees. Your vision blurred and the pressure spiked behind your eyes. Your hands flew up to your head.

“No— no no no no!” You scammed. “Get out! Get out!”

~~~

Logan felt it before he heard your screams. He ran through the halls at full speed, blowing past students and furniture. You were in the garden, on your knees, hyperventilating. You were curled in on yourself like your skull was going to split in two.

Logan dropped beside you, voice low and urgent. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

“They’re in my head again— Logan! They’re in— I can’t— I can’t!”

He lifted you into his arms and pressed your head to his chest. “No one’s in there now. Just me. Just me, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

Behind him, Jean rushed through the doorway, pale. “I didn’t mean to,” she stammered. “I didn’t even realize— I was scanning the grounds and I must’ve— Logan, I’m sorry—“

Logan’s head snapped towards her, eyes full of ice.

~~~

Logan gathered all of them. Jean, Charles, Emma, and any other telepathy with regular access to the mansion. He paced in front of them, hands clenched.

“She just started walking outside again,” he voice was low but razor-sharp. “Just started. Like today. And someone pushed into her head like it was a hallway.”

Jean swallowed. “It wasn’t intentional.”

“I don’t care. Accident or not, you don’t touch her mind. You don’t scan her, brush her, or think too hard in her direction. Not without her permission. Not unless she asks.”

Emma sighed. “We can’t always avoid passive contact. We’re trained to keep our fields contained, but—“

“Then train harder. Because if it happens again? I don’t care who you are. I’ll treat you like any other threat.”

“He’s right,” Charles spoke up, calm and firm. “She is still recovering from a psychic violation more invasive than any of us can truly understand. We must respect her mental space. No exceptions.”

Jean nodded. “I’ll make sure everyone understands. And I’ll apologize to her again.”

Logan didn’t respond. He was already halfway out the door.

~~~

You were curled up in Logan’s bed, still shaken and quiet. But you were holding his flannel against your chest like it could anchor you.

When Logan came in, you whispered, “Was it really an accident?”

“Yeah,” he replied, coming to sit beside you. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.”

“I panicked.”

“You had every right to.”

You looked up at him. “Did you tell them?”

“I told them and made sure they heard me.” He brushed his knuckles down your cheek. “No one touches your mind again without your say-so. Ever.”

~~~

Later that night, you were still jittery. Logan was beside you. Reading, but not really— his focus was mostly on you. You rolled onto your side.

“I don’t want to feel like this,” you whispered.

“I know,” he replied. He closed the book. “You wanna try something? Something Jean taught me a while back?”

You nodded. He took your hands and gently pulled you up to sit across from him. He let his hands wrapped around yours.

“Close your eyes.”

You obeyed.

“Now listen to me. Just my voice. We’re gonna ground you, alright? Five things.”

You breathed in and out.

“Name five things you can feel.”

Your voice was shaky. “The blanket. Your hands. My shirt. The sheet. The mattress.”

“Good, baby. Now four things you can hear.”

“The breeze outside. Your breathing. The clock. The paper from your book— it buzzes.”

“Three things you can smell.”

You smiled faintly. “Your cologne. Coffee. And… old paper.”

His lips twitched up. “Two things you can taste.”

“My toothpaste… and… coffee.”

“Okay, darlin’, now one thing you can see.”

You opened your eyes, just enough. “You.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “Still here… still yours.”

~~~

You started to work in the library for one hour a day. In the early morning, when the halls were quiet and the students were still tricking down for breakfast. The smell of books, old wood, and sun filtering through high windows was enough to help your breath settle.

The first thing you did was dust the shelves. Section by section. No sorting or cataloguing. You moved your hands gently along the familiar spines, like you were re-learning a language. Logan didn’t follow you in during that hour. He sat outside the door, reading a book he won’t admit that he’s re-reading just because you once said it was underrated.

~~~

The second week, you began shelving again. Only returns for now. You don’t touch the recommendation board that you used to keep updated or reorganize the new arrivals. But when students dropped books into the return bin, you sorted them one at a time. Some of the students left notes with them.

“I liked this one. Thanks for showing it to me.”

“Can you help me find another with a strong girl lead?”

You didn’t answer aloud yet. But you tucked the notes into a little drawer in your desk.

~~~

The third week, you were in the library more during open hours now. At first, the students tiptoed around you. But the moment you recommended a book to a group of students working on a project, everything shifted.

“Miss?” A new student nervously approached. “I don’t really like reading but Mr. Logan said you could find something even I’d like.”

You glanced at Logan, who leaned in the doorway not even pretending he didn’t send the student.

You smiled at the student. “How do you feel about ghosts?”

By Friday of that week, the recommendation board had two new entires in your handwriting. Logan stood across the room, reading the board over and over like it was sacred. Because to him, it was.

~~~

The fourth week is when you began to work full days. The library had been buzzing the entire week. Students trickled in and out, teacher stopped by. Even Charles paused in the doorway with a proud little smile. You helped with essays, made book recommendations, and repaired books.

Now the week was over and you were exhausted. You made it halfway through Logan’s door before your knees buckled. He caught you in one smooth, steady motion— arms wrapping around you without question.

“Whoa, there,” he mumbled. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” you murmured, already leaning onto him heavily.

He chuckled. “You’re cooked.”

“Thoroughly.”

He smiled. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you off your feet.”

Before you knew it, you were on his bed in one of his old t-shirts and flannel pajama pants. He disappeared for a few minutes and then returned with a warm plate, a thermos of tea, a water bottle, and an ice pack.

“Dinner of champions,” he commented, setting everything down. “You barely ate lunch.”

“I was busy,” you mumbled, tired.

“You’re always busy.” He settled the ice pack gently against your lower back. “Doesn’t mean you don’t need takin’ care of.”

You didn’t argue. Logan fed you a few bites— not because you couldn’t do it yourself, but because it made him smile and you were too tired to resist how gentle he was tonight.

“You made it,” he said after a while.

“Made it?”

“You got through the week. Every single day. That’s worth something.”

You sighed, leaning against his chest and closing your eyes. “I’m proud of myself. But I’m so tired.”

“I know. You’ve been carrying a lot.”

“How are you so good at this whole ‘supportive partner’ thing?”

He chuckled, kissing your head. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my image.”

“Too late.”

~~~

The next evening, you were in search of Logan. You followed the soft hum of something old-school playing on the speakers in the kitchen. You rounded the corner and paused in the doorway. Logan was at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows and apron on. The picture of domestic competence that you never expected to see.

He looked over his shoulder, lips curing up. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You smiled. “You’re cooking?”

“Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve cooked for you before.”

You stepped inside, the music playing low. “What’s the occasion?”

He shrugged, tossing a few vegetables into a skillet. “Figured you deserved a night that didn’t revolve around trauma. Just good food, soft music, and, well, me.”

You laughed, warm and light. “That sounds perfect.”

He gestured to the counter. “Sit. I’ll finish up.”

You perched yourself on the counter behind him and watched him move around the kitchen. You just let yourself enjoy the moment.

~~~

Dinner was simple, but surprisingly very good. You ate across from each other at the tiny table tucked near the window. He lit a candle between the two of you.

You raised a teasing brow. “Romantic, are we?”

He shrugged, but his ears reddened. “Maybe.”

You finished eating with your foot nudged against his under the table.

~~~

The two of you were working on cleaning the dishes with another song came on— slower and sweeter. You hummed softly, swaying a little at the sink. Logan came up behind you, towel for drying still in hand, and leaned in close.

“C’mon,” he urged.

“What?”

He offered you his hand, eyes softening. “Dance with me.”

You hesitated for a breath but then took it. His hand slid around your waist. Your fingers found his shoulder. The two of you moved slowly, turning in time with the soft melody.

“I don’t know how to dance,” you admitted quietly.

“Neither do I,” he pulled you just a little closer. “Don’t matter.”

“Doesn’t.”

He chuckled. “Doesn’t.”

You closed your eyes and let the world blur around you. You let his warmth and the music carry you somewhere far from everything that every hurt. Your cheek rested against his shoulder.

“You feeling’ okay?” He murmured.

“I am now.”

~~~

You were surprised it hadn’t happened earlier in your relationship. It began wit his breathing. You woke up to the sound of it— harsh and fast and uneven. Logan twisted beside you, the sheets tangled around his legs, chest heaving. A growl ripped from his throat, low and feral. Then his claws unsheathed.

“Logan,” you whispered, sitting up. “It’s okay. Hey, it’s just a dream—“

But before you could touch his arm, he lashed out. Metal flashed close to your face and suddenly pain bloomed in your shoulder. You gasped— more from the shock than the actual wound itself. It’s shallow, but your hand flew to the bleeding skin just beneath your collarbone. He woke instantly, eyes wide and wild.

“No,” he rasped, breath catching. “No, no, no— what did I— fuck!”

You tried to speak and to reach him, but he was already scrambling out of the bed. He was already backing away.

“Logan,” you said gently, trying to mask the pain. “It was an accident.”

“I hurt you.”

“It was a dream. You didn’t—“

“That doesn’t matter!” His voice cracked as his shaky hands finally retracted the claws. “I said I’d never hurt you. I said— I said I’d never be that person again.”

Your vision blurred. “You’re not. Logan, you’re not.”

But he was already pulling on his jacket— panic in every line of his body. He refused to look at you. “I need— I need air. And time.”

He was gone before you could beg him to stay.

~~~

Jean and Charles could feel what had happened. You were already trying to bandage yourself in the infirmary when Storm found you.

“He went into the woods,” she told you.

You nodded numbly. “Did he say anything?”

“Only that he was afraid he’d do worse next time.”

“He won’t.”

“I know that. And you know that. But he doesn’t.”

~~~

You found him on a ridge above the lake, crouched low with his knees to his chest. When he looked up at you, his eyes were rimmed red. His fists clenched in the dirt like he was trying to bury himself in it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said hoarsely.

“This is exactly where I should be.”

“I hurt you.”

“You love me.”

He flinched.

You stepped closer. “I’m okay. It wasn’t dep.”

“That’s not the point. What if one day it is? What if one day I…”

You knelt in front of him, taking one of his hands in both of yours. “You’ve never laid a finger on me in anger. Not once. You don’t hurt me.”

His eyes locked on yours— desperate to believe you.

You placed his palm against your chest, over your heat. “This is where you live. Right here.”

He let out a ragged breath and then broke. You held him close while he cried.

~~~

The next night, you came back from brushing your teeth to find Logan already curled up dup on the floor. He had a thin blanket and a pillow, with his body turned away from the bed.

You paused in the doorway. “Logan?”

“Just for tonight.” His voice was rough.

You didn’t push. But you lied in bed and stared at the ceiling for hours, listening to him breath just a few feet away. The distance between you two was heavier than any wound.

~~~

Logan was already on the floor the next night when you entered. In the same spot and posture. You stood at the edge of the bed.

“You don’t have to—“

“I do.”

You knelt beside him. “Logan, you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“That’s not the point. I still did.”

You reached for him but he flinched. Your throat closed as you slipped into bed alone again.

~~~

It was the fifth night that became your breaking point. Logan was already on the floor. You stood at the door, waiting for him to break first but he didn’t.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you whispered. “Logan, I need you. And you won’t even look at me.”

Logan didn’t say thing and so you walked out. He didn’t stop you.

~~~

The bed in your room felt wrong. It was too big and too cold. You curled up on your side, waiting to hear the sound of him coming. But he never came and you cried into your pillow.

~~~

The week that followed was painful— for the both of you and everyone around you.

Day One

You passed him in the hallway. He slowed when he saw you. Like he wanted to say something but didn’t. You kept walking.

Day Three

You heard him in the Danger Room while Hank was doing a quick examination of your shoulder, just to be safe. Logan was tearing into the training bots like they had personally offend him. When he limped past the library later, all sweaty, he didn’t look in. You watched him from behind your desk.

Day Four

Jean gently asked if you were okay. You lied and said yes. You knew she could see right through you, but she didn’t push.

Day Six

You almost knocked on his door. Almost. You stood there for ten whole minutes, hand hovering near the wood. But you walked away again. And he heard every footstep.

Day Seven

You found one of his flannels under your bed. It still faintly smells like him. That night, you wore it to bed.

~~~

Logan hadn’t slept. He lied on the floor because he thought he deserved it. He thought it was safer and that distance was kindness. But every time he closed his eyes, he heard you leave again. He whispered your name into the dark. Every night. Over and over again.

~~~

Logan stood by the window in Charles’ office, arms folded tight and jaw locked. Charles watched him from behind his desk, calm as ever, but with that knowing look. The one that said he had already heard Logan’s thoughts.

“You call me here to lecture me?” Logan muttered.

“No,” Charles replied simply. “I called you here because you’ve been bleeding more in the Danger Room than on the battlefield and you haven’t spoken to Y/N in a week.”

Logan didn’t move.

“She walks through the mansion like a ghost, Logan. The students are asking if she’s sick again. Jean asked me if she should start forcing her to check in more. All Y/N says is that she’s fine.”

“She deserves someone who won’t hurt her in her sleep.”

“She deserves someone who won’t disappear the moment she needs comfort. She thought you were that person.”

Logan turned slowly. “I hurt her, Charles.”

“I know.”

“I swore I wouldn’t and I did.”

“You didn’t mean to. She knows that.”

He began to pace. “It doesn’t matter what I meant. What if next time I don’t wake up? What if I— What if I go full animal in my sleep and she pays the price?”

“And what happens when you do similar damage by keeping this distance?”

“… I don’t know how to fix this.”

“Just show up.”

He dropped into a chair in front of Charles’ desk, rubbing his face with both hands. “She’s sleeping in that big bed alone. I know it. And I’m just down the hall, pretending I’m not a coward.”

“You’re not a coward. You’re in love and you’re terrified.”

“I should’ve followed her…”

“You still can.”

~~~

You sat up with a yawn the next morning. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and suddenly tripped. You stumbled forward with a startled gasp, catching yourself on the nightstand before you fell flat. Your eyes snapped down.

“Logan?!”

There he is, curled at the side of your bed. On the floor, asleep. He had a blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon, boots kicked off by the wall. His brows were furrowed even in his sleep. You knelt down beside him. His eyes opened slowly, hazy with sleep and something fragile underneath.

“What are you doing?” You whispered.

“Couldn’t stay away any longer.”

What didn’t you wake me?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t think I deserved to.”

You shook your head. “Logan…”

“I missed you. I missed you so bad I was shaking.”

You leaned down and kissed his cheek. “I tripped over you.”

He huffed a laugh, short and embarrassed. “Romantic, huh?”

You nodded. “Deeply… come back to bed.” You could see the hesitation in his eyes. You held out your hand. “Please.”

Logan slid his fingers through yours and lets you pull him up. You led him to the bed and he climbed in beside you. You curled into him immediately and his arms wrapped around you just as quickly.

“No more running,” you whispered against his collarbone, pressing a kiss to it.

“No more.”

next: The Relapse >

50 notes · View notes

taetebebe · 11 hours ago

Text

AFTER THE ENCORE

Pairing: idol!Sunoo x fan!reader

Synopsis: He had the whole world watching. Still, he looked for you.

Word Count: ~3.3k

Author’s Note: BIRTHDAY SPECIAL FOR SUNSHINE SUNOO <333 Anonnie, hopefully this is what you were looking for :) My longest fic yet! - I feel bad for Y/N cuz if it were me staying in something unlabelled for even two days I would run away. This is fic delusional stuff so pls remember this is just fiction <3

Enhypen Bookshelf [[]

The café you always came to after class was barely marked from the outside. Just a faded green awning and an old wooden sign that said “Rest”. It was quiet, the kind of place no one went to unless they meant to stay awhile. You came for the warm tea and solitude, for the cracked windows that made the sunlight look softer, like a film still.

He always arrived after 6 p.m. Sharp. Always with the same Iced Americano with syrup order, always with a black hoodie pulled over his head and a mask over the bottom half of his face. He sat in the back corner, behind a low bookshelf of forgotten novels, where the light didn’t quite reach. He rarely took out his phone. Sometimes he brought a book. Mostly, he just… sat.

You knew who he was the first time you saw him. You’d recognise that kind of presence anywhere. Kim Sunoo. One-seventh of the group that had gotten you through some of your hardest nights. The boy with the soft voice and eyes that smiled before his mouth ever did.

But you said nothing.

Not on the first day. Not the second. Not the seventh.

You figured he came here for the same reason you did—because it felt like the only place in the city that didn’t expect anything of you. And you weren’t about to ruin that.

The first week passed that way.

The second week, he left a napkin behind. Not a mistake—you could tell by how it was folded. Neatly. With care.

You found it after he left. A line written in a looping hand:

“Some silences feel like company.”

You didn’t know what it meant exactly. But you started arriving earlier. Just to be there when he came in.

You were already a fan. You knew his name, his face, his laugh—the curated versions. You’d streamed every title track, watched fancams when you couldn’t sleep. But none of that felt relevant here. Because this wasn’t him on a stage. This was someone sitting in his own silence, drinking tea, looking out a window like he was waiting for the sky to say something worth hearing.

He never approached you. But one day, when your bag tipped over and your notes scattered across the floor, he got up. Quietly. Helped you gather them with both hands.

You looked up, said, “Thank you,” and saw that his mask had slipped below his chin.

And maybe he saw something in your expression—recognition, yes, but not desperation. Not the giddy kind of awe that made people chase him.

He just nodded.

The next time, he sat one seat closer.

You didn’t know when it changed. Maybe it was the day you accidentally dropped your pencil and it rolled all the way to his table. Maybe it was the day he nodded at you as he left, and you caught the faintest flicker of a real smile in return.

Maybe it was the notebook.

He forgot it one day, left under the edge of his chair. You found it hours later, when the barista was sweeping up and muttered something about throwing it out if no one claimed it.

You shouldn’t have opened it.

But you did.

The pages weren’t linear—some were blank, others filled with lyrics half-scribbled, margins filled with doodles. A page near the back had a sketch of a stage drawn in a single pen line. Empty. Curtains down. Underneath, in barely-there handwriting, it read:

“Would anyone know me if I stopped singing?”

You closed the book with shaking hands.

The next day, you brought it back.

He was already sitting in the corner, drink in hand. You walked over before you could second-guess yourself.

“This is yours,” you said, placing it down on the table. “I didn’t read much. Just enough to know it’s important.”

He looked at the notebook, then up at you.

Then he nodded. “Thank you.”

No mask today. No hoodie.

You expected your heart to race, but it didn’t. Not in the way it had when you watched fancams or comeback trailers. This felt different. Quieter. Realer.

He was the one who started talking.

“I always wanted to go to university,” he said, unprompted.

You blinked. “What would you have studied?”

“Literature. Maybe philosophy. Something useless but beautiful.”

You laughed, caught off guard. “I’m literally doing that right now.”

He smiled, and it was small but real.

“Then maybe I’m here for extra credit.”

You got to know each other sideways. Not through long conversations, but through exchanges left in books, scribbled on napkins, underlined pages from secondhand poetry collections.

He told you he missed autumns. “They go by too fast when your schedule is set six months in advance.”

You told him about your habit of walking slowly in autumn, dragging your feet just to pretend time was on your side.

He said he envied that. Not in a glamorous way, but like someone admitting they miss being a person more than being a presence.

You said, “You still are one. Even when you’re quiet.”

He looked at you.

It was slow.

Not romance. Just comfort. Just something solid and safe.

You learned little things first. That he liked sunshowers. That he loved to take selfies but hated having to post them too often. That he once spilled hot coffee on a very famous producer and didn’t speak for a whole day out of embarrassment.

He learned about you, too. That you liked folding laundry while watching nature documentaries. That you preferred used books to new ones. That you kept a lucky charm on your bag—a small, plastic token from a limited photocard set.

“Who is it?” he asked, half teasing.

You looked at the charm, then at him. “It’s you.”

He blinked.

“But not because it’s cute or anything,” you added quickly. “Well, it is. But I kept it because it was the only one where you looked… tired. Not like, bad tired. Just… real. I don’t know. It looked like someone had caught you in a moment before you put on the idol smile.”

He stared at you for a long time.

“That’s my least favorite one,” he said.

“I figured.”

A pause.

“Mine,” he added quietly.

But you weren’t just there for him. He learned things about you too. Not just what you studied, but how your voice dropped when you talked about your silence, or how you always ordered chamomile but almost always left it untouched—“I just like how it smells more than how it tastes.”

You told him you had this fear—not of being alone, but of being half-understood. That people only ever liked the parts of you that didn’t ask too much.

And he didn’t rush to comfort you. He just said:

“I get that. I’ve lived entire years only being loved for the loudest parts of me.”

Then he added, quieter, “But I think I like your quiet parts best.”

There were rules—ones you never said aloud, but both understood. You never took photos. You never posted vague stories with his sleeve barely visible in the corner. You didn’t go to fansigns or message him online. He didn’t ask for your number. You didn’t ask for his schedule. The café was the only place you existed together.

But the world didn’t always let you stay inside your boundaries.

It wasn’t love.

It was something more dangerous: recognition.

A mutual understanding that felt too rare to name. A conversation that continued without words.

You started to feel it more in what wasn’t said.

When he touched your wrist just to pass you a sugar packet and left his hand there half a second too long. When you wrote a line in your notebook and caught him trying to read it upside down. When he didn’t show up for a week, and you still came every day, just in case. When he finally returned and said, “I had a rough week,” and you said, “Do you want to sit in silence or in story?”And he said, “With you is fine.”

After that, something shifted. Just slightly.

He started walking you to the bus stop after the café closed. Started sending little sketches to you via folded notes left behind in the bookshelves. One day, he left you a list titled:

Things I Never Got To Do (But Might Want To Someday) 1. Enroll in a literature class. 2. Study on a college lawn. 3. Write a poem without worrying about its rhythm. 4. Hold someone’s hand without looking over my shoulder. 5. Be called by my name, not my stage one.

You added your own underneath.

Things You Still Can: 1. Ask me what we’re reading in class this week. 2. Sit with me on the grass outside the uni library. 3. Write a bad poem and read it only to me. 4. Hold my hand. Here. Now. 5. Sunwoo. That’s your name.

When he saw your reply, he folded the paper gently, like it was made of glass.

Then he reached out.

His hand, warm and hesitant, found yours across the table.

No cameras. No noise. Just two people and a connection that neither of you had planned for.

He told you once that he couldn’t write when he was happy.

You tilted your head. “That’s sad.”

“It’s not. It’s just… when I’m happy, I’m living it. I don’t need to document it to prove it existed.”

You reached for your cup, then said, “So what would you write about this?”

“This?”

You nodded.

He looked down at the steam rising between you.

Then he said, “This feels like the part of the story no one sees. The chapter before the climax, when everything is still soft and possible.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you said nothing.

But he reached for your hand under the table. And you let him.

The first time he cried in front of you, it wasn’t because of work.

It was because you read him something you’d written.

Just a short paragraph. A memory of your mother braiding your hair in silence the day you left home. The way you knew she loved you but didn’t know how to say it without her hands.

Sunoo blinked and asked, “Do you ever write about now?”

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But I usually wait until the feeling’s over. It’s too hard to put something into words while it’s still happening.”

He nodded.

Then looked at you with a softness that felt like apology.

“Then maybe I’ll be the one to remember it. In case you forget.”

You never told anyone.

You didn’t need to.

He still went back to his world. To stages and studios, to photoshoots and rehearsals. But now, there was a place in his life that existed without flashbulbs.

And every time he walked into the café, past the cracked window and the worn couches, he found you—book open, tea cooling, eyes meeting his like you’d been waiting all along.

You knew what this was. What it wasn’t.

There were no labels. No promises. No declarations. He didn’t call you after shows. You didn’t ask for updates. You were just two people orbiting the same quiet place.

And yet.

When he pressed his forehead against yours one cold evening, on the walk home from the café, and whispered, “I think I know who I am when I’m with you,” you felt your heart ache in a way that didn’t need to be spoken.

You whispered back, “Then stay. Just a little longer.”

And he did.

He always did.

It wasn’t love the way people wrote it in songs. It was quieter. Like a window you didn’t know was open until the breeze changed the room.

That winter, you stopped trying to explain him to yourself. Stopped trying to define what it meant when he leaned his head on your shoulder. Or when he said things like:

“Some days, I want to be ordinary. And the only person I want to tell that to is you.”

It wasn’t fantasy anymore. It was two people folding their sadness into the same space and calling it comfort.

Sometimes you wondered what this would look like to someone else.

If they knew who he was. If they knew who you weren’t.

You were not famous. Not dazzling. Not part of his story in any official way.

You were just there. At 6:05 p.m. In the café with the crooked window and the soft chair.

And still—he always looked for you first.

He started bringing a camera.

Not for vlogs. Not for social media.

Just a small film camera. Cheap. Disposable. It was barely working. You teased him about it.

“You’re literally sponsored by tech brands. Why this?”

He shrugged. “This doesn’t try to correct things. If the light is off, it stays off. If it’s blurry, it stays blurry. No filters. No smoothing. Just memory.”

��Are you making memories now?”

He smiled faintly. “I think I’m learning how.”

Later, he gave you one of the developed photos. It was a picture of your hand on a book. A smudge of sunlight on your wrist. Nothing obvious. Nothing staged.

He had written on the back:

Not performing. Still perfect.

You kept it tucked inside your journal, folded soft between pages about all the things you never thought you’d be brave enough to feel.

One day, as spring began, he walked you to the university campus.

He wore a hat, glasses, kept his head low. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t smart. But he insisted.

“I want to know what it’s like,” he said. “To sit in the grass and not have anyone waiting on me.”

You bought two iced teas. You sat under a jacaranda tree. He took off his hat.

There were people around. But no one looked. And even if they did, he didn’t seem to care.

He looked at you instead.

The wind lifted a piece of your hair. He tucked it behind your ear without asking.

Then he said:

“If I met you before I debuted, I think I’d have fallen in love with you in a classroom.”

“And now?”

His gaze softened. “Now I’m just falling in love with you wherever I can.”

The words weren’t heavy. They didn’t need to be. Because by then, you already knew.

Not from what he said. But how he started memorizing your favorite poems. How he asked about your essays and remembered which ones made you cry. How he once missed a party with famous people just to sit next to you while you pressed flowers into a book and didn’t say a word for an hour.

That’s what it became: not loud love. Not scripted affection.

But showing up.

Again and again and again.

With a paper flower he made during a variety shoot. With a candy from Japan he saved in his pocket. With a napkin with a scribbled quote from a poem he read on a plane.

Two years later, things changed.

You graduated. He went on tour. Again.

The café closed down for much needed renovations.

You didn’t see each other for 47 days.

He texted. Sometimes late, sometimes rushed. You never asked for more than what he could give.

—he came back.

Not to the café. Not to the city.

To you.

He waited outside your new apartment, hood up, holding chamomile tea with one hand and a book in the other.

You opened the door, stunned.

He didn’t say hello.

He just handed you the book.

Inside: Letters to a Young Poet. The same one he had given you the year before.

Except this time, he’d underlined passages. Dog-eared pages. Written in the margins.

“There’s a note inside,” he added, then cleared his throat. “If you want to read it later.”

You found it on the title page. His handwriting, neat and hesitant.

I know I can’t give you normal. But I hope I can still give you something real. If I’d gone to university, I think I’d want to sit beside you. I think I’d want to ask you what you were scribbling in your margins. I think I still do. —S.

Another corner was bookmarked.

You flipped to it. The qoute read.

“I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.”

He had written beneath it:

You know. You always did.

You looked up. He looked nervous.

“I have to leave again next week,” he said quietly. “But… I wanted you to know that I still come back here. To this. To us. Even when I’m far.”

You swallowed hard.

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I want to,” he said. “Because I think this is the truest thing I have.”

As you went to put the book away something slipped out.

A ticket.

Your name written neatly on the back.

Your seat was far from the stage—nosebleed section, middle row. But it was his concert. His first solo stage on the tour.

“I won’t ask you to come,” he had said softly. “I don’t want to bring that part of me into this if you’re not ready.”

“I want to come,” you said before he could finish.

You watched him sing to a crowd of thousands that night, all of them screaming his name.

But when the final ballad played, soft and aching, and the camera zoomed in on his face, you knew.

He was looking past the lights, past the sea of phones, to where you sat.

His voice cracked just slightly during the second verse.

You felt it in your chest like something tender being unwrapped.

After the concert, you didn’t wait for him outside.

You didn’t send a message. You just walked to the café site, like always, and stood outside.

He arrived an hour later—hair still slightly damp from the stage, hands buried in his coat pockets. He looked exhausted. He looked alive.

“I cried,” you said simply, as he stopped beside you.

He laughed, voice hoarse. “Me too.”

Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled, sweat-damp paper.

It was the setlist.

At the bottom, one song was circled: "After The Encore" Next to it: “For her.”

Your breath caught.

“That’s not its real title,” he admitted. “I renamed it. Just for tonight.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

And he let it stay there.

The café opened again a month later.

New chairs, new paint, new name. But the same window. The same light.

You found your seat again. Back corner. One cracked tile left untouched beneath the table, like a secret the renovations had kindly decided not to erase.

He arrived a few minutes late. No mask, no hoodie. Just him.

He placed a small box on the table between you.

Inside: A key. A photo. And a folded piece of paper.

You opened the photo first.

It was the two of you—not posed, not planned. Just a reflection caught in the café window. Your head on his shoulder. His eyes on you.

You smiled.

Then unfolded the paper.

You once said you wait until feelings are over before you write about them. I guess I’m writing this because I don’t want this to ever be over. Come home with me. Or let me come home to you. Whatever we call this— let’s keep writing it. No ending. Just more.

You looked up.

And for the first time, he didn’t look like someone who belonged to the world.

He looked like someone who had chosen a single place to stay.

You didn’t say yes.

You just took his hand.

And stayed.

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spacedlexi · 1 day ago

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sorry if you've been asked this before , but do you have any advice for someone who's looking to get better at backgrounds ? It's the one part of my art I struggle with immensely and your illustrative pieces are so intricate and inspiring !! I was wondering if there were methods you used that you'd be able to explain for someone wanting to attempt more dynamic perspectives and backgrounds :]

thank you for thinking so!! my perspective class really helped me level up my backgrounds/environments. theres a few things i keep in mind

references!! i dont use them as much as i should but try to compile a reference board. the environment, things in that environment, color palettes, etc. the Vibes. heres a job board i had to make for class that also includes thumbnails and values

contrast/value: our eyes are drawn to areas of high contrast (light and dark). this can help establish your focal point. the farther away things get from view the less contrasted they become (for Science reasons. air particles impact our view. the more things in the air the more impacted our vision becomes). be conscious of where you use high contrast. and also use a full range of values!! light and dark and everything in between. i like to put a black color filter over my pieces to make sure i have enough contrast in value. remember this value chart. this goes for light/shade as well as the values you use when picking palettes for your characters/environment. contrast contrast contrast !!! if it feels muddy it needs more contrast!!

semi connected to this: lose your edges!! what this means is that when it comes to shadows, the edges between an object and its environment can get lost. if something feels like its floaty/disconnected from the environment, where the object meets shadow might not be dark enough

also connected to this: gradients!! think of how things exist in 3d space. light and shadow shift around the body of an object. heres a quick example my prof used. the wall the window is on (if light is coming through) will be darker, while the wall opposite the window will be lit. the wall connecting those two walls will be gradient light to dark. this also ties into things like bounce lighting (light rays hit an object and bounce off of it, scattering the light (and color) to the objects around it. and keeps bouncing until it dissipates/is too weak to see). adding gradients helps an environment feel less flat

perspective: leading lines help direct a viewers gaze around the image. the type of perspective you use can help accentuate directionality. the type of perspective you use can also accentuate the mood you want

for 2 point you can have the two vanishing points be vertical instead of just horizontal. this example only shows 3 point down, but you can use 3 point up with the third point above the horizon line instead of below. i dont really find much use for 4 point. i think 5 point is so fun. if youre doing a down or up perspective, you may want to keep the horizon line low/high in the frame, or out of the frame completely. its best to avoid having your horizon line at the center of the image in general. im a fan of a low horizon myself. sometimes things in an environment arent perfectly aligned (like a messy room), so using multiple perspectives/vanishing points may be necessary. also its good to have your vanishing points spread out/off the page. having them closer together make things look warped or unnatural. in reality vanishing points are typically extremely wide from each other. you can have one vanishing point on the page, but usually more than that looks squished (unless thats the vibe youre going for)

side note for perspective: its ok if things dont perfectly go to the vanishing points!! most things in reality dont. this is where using vicinity helps. as long as youre close enough its fine and honestly helps things look more natural. im just lazy and use the csp perspective rulers so unless im doing 5 pt or free handing itll be perfect perspective

also another side note: personalize a space. think of clutter. make your environments look lived in. adding organic shapes to an environment (like clothes or plants etc) can help break up hard lines/edges from furniture and walls and stuff

i hope this isnt confusing i feel like im just vomiting words. so, tldr: know the perspectives you have to work with, leading lines help direct a viewers eyes around the composition, a range of value is important, our eyes are drawn to high contrast areas, USE REFERENCES, gradients add depth, lose your edges in shadow, personalize spaces

#replies with lexi #the-shark-well #art tips

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anglerwithashotgun · 2 days ago

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Introduction post

(the art for my pfp is from a picrew that i did, i know there's a post about it on my main but i can't remember what it's called)

i won't even lie, having to capitalize words is going to be painful. anyways, this actually IS an rp account! my main is @the-real-sans-undertale (that's me). this is the only rp account that we have, since this guy isn't part of our system. this account is purely for role-playing. anyways, lemme get into character.

*ahem*

My name is Ace Algheizer. I'm currently 27 years old, but that will change in nine days (as of June 30th). I will attempt to describe my Quirk as best I can, but expect to not understand what I'm talking about.

My Quirk is called [sike, it doesn't have a name because my creator is dumb], and it essentially allows me to open up an editing/rendering software in my mind that I can then project into another person's, causing them to hallucinate whatever I created in the aforementioned software.

My dad couldn't afford to send me to any kind of hero school (he was a gambling addict, which is why my name is Ace. Creative guy, huh?), so I didn't get my hero license until recently. Then there was the whole "getting sold when I was 13" thing, but that's another story for another day.

Anyways, I've got two daughters, Emerson and Brielle. They're my entire world, and the only reason I bother growing my hair out. They like styling it, so if you see me with pigtails or braids and Hello Kitty hair clips, don't say a single fucking about it unless you're going to say how amazing they did.

One last thing about me, I'm genderfluid. I don't often feel nonbinary, but I do alternate between feeling like a man and feeling like a woman. I don't expect everyone to account for this, but if you don't want to accidentally refer to me incorrectly and you're scared to ask, I wouldn't be offended if you referred to me gender neutrally, or even if you just defaulted to male. I most often feel like a man, so I just have my girls call me Dad since that doesn't make me feel dysphoric at all.

I have had art drawn of me, which I will share now.

Going down the list, these were drawn by @knivescutyou, @strawberryswirl4321, @multiversal-madnessblog, and @dustsansm2. My creator gave a reference pose, hence the first three. (sans here, i adore these all and keep them in a box)

#mha #mha oc #mha rp account #mha rp #intro post #genderfluid

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velvetdolor · 3 days ago

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𝙅𝘼𝙂𝙂𝙀𝘿 | MASTERLIST (RATED NC-17)

⟡ JAGGED — MASTERLIST

genre: summer camp, slasher horror, suggestive, dark comedy, mystery, series. pairing: jake x reader x sunghoon warnings: suggestive scenes (things get pretty spicy, but nothing explicit.) murder, moderate gore, violence, blood. status: upcoming series -> [spotify playlist] -> [join a series specific or my permanent taglist here.] When you’re sent off to summer camp with your two childhood best friends—Jake and Sunghoon—old feelings ignite a tense love triangle, and the summer’s off to a confusing start. But when campers begin to disappear and a masked killer stalks the woods, your friendships are pushed to the edge. To survive the summer, the three of you will have to face not just the horrors outside… but the secrets between you all.

TABLE OF CONTENTS — INCIDENT LOG

PROLOGUE

—THE TRIO BEGRUDGING DEPARTS TO CAMP EVERGREEN WHERE THEY MEET NISHIMURA NIKI—A NEWCOMER WHO CARRIES MORBID INFORMATION.

FILE 01. BODY IN THE WATER (UPCOMING)

—A TRIP TO THE LAKE CHANGES YOUR LIFE FOREVER.

⚠︎ FILE ACTIVE: Masterlist subject to periodic updates as additional evidence emerges. (This record is incomplete. Entries will be added as the case progresses.)

◤ 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 ◢

⛓ SERIES AESTHETICS · CHARACTER FILES · MOODBOARDS ↳ (scroll below the cut)

[𝘚𝘜𝘕𝘎𝘏𝘖𝘖𝘕 𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘒] WITNESS 01.

Dry, sarcastic, and occasionally insufferable—those are probably the most accurate words anyone’s used to describe Sunghoon Park. He’s pretentious, yes, but not without reason. Born into a prestigious family and currently reigning as Head of the Academic Decathlon Team, Sunghoon’s the kind of person who looks perfect on paper.

In real life? He’s harder to read. A little sharp, a little jaded—like someone who learned early on that being guarded is safer than being generous. People have tried to take advantage of him, and it shows in the way he holds himself: carefully, deliberately, always a step ahead.

He goes to some exclusive academy buried deep in the city, the kind of place with Latin mottos and legacy admissions. But you and Jake met him the summer you all turned twelve, at Camp Evergreen. It took one long, sunburned summer to chip away at his walls—and when they finally cracked, the three of you just...stuck. Since then, it’s been the same rhythm: meetups throughout the week, inside jokes, unspoken loyalty. You’re not sure when it stopped feeling temporary—but now, it’s just the way things are.

[𝘑𝘈𝘒𝘌 𝘚𝘐𝘔] WITNESS 02

Jake Sim is—and likely always will be—an enigma. Student council president, captain of the rugby team—he’s the guy people either want to be or be with. From a young age, he had a knack for charming just about anyone. And now that he’s older? That charm usually works its magic on women more than anything else.

He’s got it all: brains, charisma, and to top it off—he’s ridiculously good-looking. Despite being involved in nearly everything, Jake’s no open book. He rarely speaks without a purpose, every word measured and intentional. To outsiders who caught him in passing, Jake was quiet—reserved and gentle in speech unless the circumstances demanded more of him, and if so—he would flip his demeanor like a light switch. When he grew taller than you once you’d turned fifteen, the girls started noticing him more, which eventually tumbled into a series of short-term relationships and escapades because Jake believed in “giving everyone a chance.”

If it weren’t for the fact that you were next-door neighbors, your paths might never have crossed. Too different, too distant—your worlds never meant to overlap.

[𝘕𝘐𝘒𝘐 𝘕𝘐𝘚𝘏𝘐𝘔𝘜𝘙𝘈] WITNESS 03

Originally from Okayama, Japan, Niki immigrated at the age of nine after his father landed a major business deal overseas. From a young age, Niki’s curiosity was intense—often to a fault. By his early teens, it had become clear to his parents that his inquisitive nature could easily lead him into trouble. Hoping to curb this, they sent him to Camp Evergreen, believing that a remote setting, far from the distractions of the city, might offer fewer opportunities for his curiosity to get the better of him.

Little did they know, he has murder on his mind and won’t stop until he solves the mystery stealing his time at the lake.

[𝘊𝘈𝘔𝘗 𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘎𝘙𝘌𝘌𝘕] [WHERE THE END BEGINS.]

Tucked in a remote part of a town three hours away from the city, Camp Evergreen is a place frozen in time. The days roll languidly in the water, drifting through the lake on old wooden boats—the camp itself still has the same facilities it did in the 80’s: the singular pleasure you have available in the summer is the old soda machine a twenty minute walk down to the town market and the few bottle of pop and lemonade they may have stashed in the back. Despite being a camp—it’s typically reserved for kids who need a place to be supervised and tossed to when their parents needed a break. Sunghoon’s parents thought it’d be a valuable experience for him to live like a “normal kid” much to his trepidation, but that slowly changed the moment he found himself getting dragged into yours and Jake’s rambunctious side quests. Jake’s parents weren’t home much, and he practically lived with your family all year. On the summers your parents wanted to go visit your grandmother abroad, they would send you both here so as to not separate you—fearing what sort of rebellion would result from that.

—

authors note: churning fics out like im getting paid to do it, but it’s my happy hobby. uhhhh i hope someone likes this??? LMAOOO also…i just realized i always write niki into a character who does some level of investigating (queue the house on dahlia street for any of my reoccurring readers LMAOO, working on that one next as soon as cherub’s waltz is completed.)

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weatherman667 · 8 hours ago

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Part XXI - Hobbitposting

Hobbits are known for two main things:

Eatings a lot.

Living underground.

Eating Like a Hobbit

Hobbit Meals:

Breakfast

2nd Breakfast

Elevensies

Luncheon

Tea

Dinner

Supper

And none of them are invented, though most people didn't have all of them. Most are not full meals. Truthfully, only Dinner was a true, full meal.

Until the industrial age, we did not have an easy source of calories. Calories being the biggest requirement during a day, with Victorian journeyman bakers requiring and estimated 5,000 Calories / day. Most of these came from two sources, the easiest grain to get access to, and the easiest fat to get access to. In Northern Europe, the fat was butter, while around the Mediterranean, it was olive oil. For grain, pretty much every culture that encountered wheat tried to make that their goal, but barley, rye, and oats grow much more easily in Northern Europe.

I am not exaggerating when I say whole societies try to rebuild themselves upon the introduction of wheat. From India and Far East, rice was the most common grain. And for the most part, grain was served whole. More refined grains were more expensive, and therefore the purview of the upper classes.

For rye bread, the estimate is you would need 45-46 slices to produce 2,500 Calories, which was half of the needed energy for heavy labourers. For butter, that would be about 3/4 of a lbs.

A DAY.

Obviously, you can get calories from other sources, like meat and fruit, but both were sporadic in the pre-modern diet. Fruit is entirely seasonal, and meat depends on the availability in the culture.

So, if you were a heavy labourer, sitting down to eat bread and butter every hour or two would be absolutely necessary. And yes, this could come in the form of pastries, which is basically bread mixed with fat and/or milk and/or eggs.

And reminder that most of the food did not have the same calorie density of modern foods. So, even if you were not a heavy labourer, you would still need to eat more than we do in the modern day.

Unless you were a noble or merchant, that took pride in NOT having to eat breakfast, and had more access to fruits and meat.

Hobbithole

Contrary to popular portrayal in fantasy media, food doesn't grow underground. And before any of the BUTs and Whataboutery, on Terra, 99.999999% of life use energy from the sun. This is either directly through photosynthesis, or indirectly by eating something that does, or eating something that eats something that does. Even bats, moles, mushrooms, insects, etc. All of the energy comes from the sun. There has to be a vehicle that brings the energy into.

I.e. insects eat plant matter, bats eat the insects, bats hide in a cave overnight, and their shit is food for mushrooms.

There is extremely rare cases that grow from radiation or chemicals. So, it is possible to have an ecosystem based off magic.

Or have a species that can create / maintain a persistent daylight spell. Or have sentient fungi living off radiation. Or have some evil, occult energy permeating from the abyss. But, you need an energy source, and you need something that can live off of this energy to provide food for everything else. But, we also have the colossal squid. It's the heaviest squid, but requires an estimated 1 ounce of food per day. And it does so by having a ridiculously low metabolism. This is probably how the Sarlaac survives for thousands of years while barely eating.

The reason to live underground, however, is that underground has a stable temperature, year round. I think it's like 8 feet down. Once you get below it, the temperature stays pretty constant, until you get deep enough to find magma. This means you don't have to worry about inclement weather, like storms and blizzards and snowfall, etc.

The downside is that you can't produce food, and so will need to go to the surface to do that. As such, the game is a good shelter, and that's about it.

I.e. Hobbithole.

Or what I did with Dwarves in the Lion of Cynn, have them dig a mine into the side of a mountain, and have them turn a cliff face into something that looks like highrise, while maintain farms and grazing land outside the hold.

If they live more than an hour walk from the outside, they will need to find some sort of underground food supply.

You Want to Make a Fantasy World: Part I - Magick

The first thing you need to decide when making a fantasy world is how magick works.

That might seem heady, but let's go over what you have to decide:

Who can use magick.

How do they use magick.

And how powerful can magick get.

Do you want 9th level magick, that can rip a giant hole in the world and summon unkillable monsters?

Because, honestly, you don't need it.

Can 9th level magick only be used by decrepid old wizards with one foot in their grave? Only it be used by chosen heroes? Only be by inhuman things, like Dragons and Daemons and Liches?

Low level but common magick can have a huge effect on the setting. Being able to light a fire can allow you to save the time and effort it takes to start a fire. Heating a rock can be used to heat a home, or even a bath, giving the equivalent of modern sanitation. Hand washing, bathing, and toilets have done the most for Human longevity. Can you go to a priest, give him a penny, and have him cure your cancer?

Sure, curing cancer isn't as cool as curing sword wounds, but the medical effects it can have on longevity are staggering.

Maybe magic is something that can only be done by a minority of the population, that dedicate themselves to the study.

None of them are wrong answers, so long as they are CONSISTENT.

If magickal ability depends on your bloodline, then someone, somewhere is going to think it's a good idea to selectively breed mages to keep the magics strong. The mages might become the noble classes, they might form their own class, which they breed endogenously, like Hindus.

If only inhuman things can cast upper level magick, and you see a seemingly ordinary Human cast that kind of magick, then guess what? He's not actually an ordinary Human.

Does magick need a physical catalyst? Does it consume reagents? How rare are these reagents? Do they come in one of a few types, or is every twig of berries a reagent for a different spell? Maybe upper level spells require expensive reagents, and that's the limiting factor? Maybe these spells use too much mana, and therefore can only be done by places of power?

Does teleportation require Line of Sight? Can you open long-range portals only if you have local knowledge? Can you target places of power from a distance?

We start with the simple, coarse questions, and get to the finer ones later on. When? When you come up with a good idea for how it works? Or, honestly, when you need to use it. It's perfectly fine to wait until the characters need/want to teleport to decide how it functions.

Another way to limit spells if by giving the heroes a rare magickal item. Why can they use portals?, because they have the Staff of the Herald. Why do they have the staff of the herald?

Given by someone important.

Monster loot.

They found it in an old, abandoned building.

They earned it by accomplishing some feat, or level of training.

Again, all you have to decide is how rare the item is, and maybe if you need some sort of innate/trained ability to use it.

#how I write #hobbitcore #meals #calories #hobbithole #under ground

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crimsoncandy04 · 2 days ago

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I had another vision yesterday from my other self. Another wholesome encounter but it still felt cute so I had to share.

It basically went like this.

Wanderer leads you to some secluded place in the outskirts of Fontaine. Insisting that

"You wanted to go out more. I'm just doing as asked. If you had something in mind, you should have been more specific. Now stop asking questions. You're lucky I'm even doing this for you in the first place."

As you two come to a pause in the middle of some old ruins overlooking the sea, suddenly Wanderer turns and faces you for a second. He then pulls out something from his pocket and holds it out for you. Quickly looking away from you as you marvel at it.

"Here. Just something I had lying around. You can have it."

You accept his gift. It's a hand woven bracelet made of black rope. It has a bunch of intricate little patterns in it that you just know took a long time to weave into place so you know what he says next is a lie.

"This means nothing. So don't tell anyone I made it for you or anything. It's simply a means of repayment. I got what I wanted. And now you have something to show for it."

You slip the bracelet on and smile warmly at Wanderer who scoffs in return. Lowering his gaze and making his hat obscure his face from your observation.

"Oh my god... Wanderer I love this! It's so pretty! Thank you!"

"Tch. Yeah right. Just don't go getting any ideas. I'm no lover boy. You should know that by now."

"I don't expect you to be anything you don't feel comfortable with. Besides I like you how you are now. You may not believe me. But it's true. I care about you a lot."

"You shouldn't say things like that for no reason you know? Not unless you plan to back your words up. Otherwise don't even bother. I see no point in such meaningless professions."

"Then I will prove it to you. I'm still here aren't I? Well for your information I don't plan on leaving either. And you can't make me. So don't bother trying."

You smirk at the man before you and for a second you both share a rare but brief second of eye contact. His gaze spoke a thousand things his lips refused to utter aloud and yours only a relentless understanding and affection. He knew you were being honest and for some reason this both comforted and irritated him.

But he'd never in a million years even consider pushing you away now.

No.

You had been closer to him than any other human. In ways that he'd never speak of in front of outside ears. And to him that was what made you and your bond with him something worth holding onto. Even if it was foreign to him and he often relied on you to give him subtle guidance and patience while learning to navigate the unfamiliar seas of emotion.

"Stubborn woman. Well, if you insist on being a thorn in my side for the foreseeable future, then I suppose I should expect to see you more often."

He starts walking again after that and you happily scurry after him. He slows a little for you but rolls his eyes anyway.

"Keep up. I'm not stopping for you again. If you fall this time, I'm leaving you on the side of the road."

"I'll grab your leg and drag you down with me. Then we'll both be stuck in the mud." You giggle playfully as he lets you intertwine your hand in his without complaint. Silently letting you know that he'd carry you again even if you weren't tired.

He gives you a smirk then as you both head back to your house.

"I'd like to see you try."

"You're on!"

You chuckle a little then as the stars twinkle above you. You loved your little walks together and were sad to see him go once he dropped you off at your house. But you trusted Wanderer enough to know that he'd always be back for you.

And he'd never forsake you.

#genshin impact #wanderer #genshin wanderer #wanderer x female reader #wanderer x reader #genshin x reader

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maythevoidnotscreamback · 2 days ago

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My outrage given voice: Tsuna owes Vongola jack-all!

Seriously. All Vongola’s done is turn his world upside down.

His father hadn’t been seen or heard from, at least to his knowledge, for so long (two whole years, according to Tsuna) he thought him dead before finding out that he’s alive and well as the head of CEDEF. And he’d never have found out otherwise if Vongola hadn’t come along, or more specifically if the three heirs hadn’t been killed off. Like, the guy told Nana to tell Tsuna that he’d gone off to “become a star” which could have a lot of connotations to Tsuna but he chose to believe the guy had died. Like, granted, it could be considered callous that Tsuna never thought that Nana would’ve been hella more depressed if Iemitsu was dead if she really loved him as much as they portrayed but you gotta remember that the kid is embarrassed, not mortified or even hurt, when Nana calls him Dame (pronounced dah-may, not day-m goddammit!) in his presence to his crush. Not to mention, being a teen, he might not have the emotional maturity to parse such things; it could've been different if he ever saw him as a full-grown man. As it is, he was probably of the opinion that Nana, if she was told, had gone into denial that Iemitsu was dead to the point of delusion, using whatever life insurance he had to keep them in comfort, because she’s mentally unsound in some manner or another and he didn’t want to make his house feel uncomfortable by trying to get her to ‘snap out of it’. Or, alternatively, he’d rather the guy was dead than having run off on he and his mother for whatever reason he might or might not have had. It probably hurt less - if he wasn't indifferent by that point - to think that way.

“Well, what about his friends?” I hear you ask. “Sit down, shut up and let me tell you.” I’d reply.

Yamamoto only started to take notice of him ‘cause of Reborn’s DW Bullet shenanigans and even then the incident with the roof, something I’ve seen others acknowledge as inevitable, - check out FFN's Reidluver's "It's a Mafia Life" for one such example - something that would’ve happened even without Tsuna’s ‘advice’, might’ve simply ended with the kid dead. Yes, Hibari might’ve been able to prevent it if only to keep the school’s reputation intact but the fact that Reborn had to shoot Tsuna twice to keep them both alive even with Tsuna buying time by talking to him, that they fell cause of the shitty fence, instead of an air mattress for just such occasions means that Hibari might not have been able to prevent Yamamoto’s death. Maybe by catching him as some people (Reidluver) would write but that would all depend on how the guy fell. He was planning to jump/let himself fall, meaning he’d be going down head first, if not in some form of belly flop, so Hibari catching him could’ve led to further injury for Yamamoto, serious injury for Hibari, a comatose state or even paralyzation if not death for one or both of them. As much as Hibari is acknowledged as the Demon Prefect, he's still a human being who hasn't ignited his Flames by that point. But Fanfic will be fanfic so...

Hibari only cared for him as a student of his school and nothing more. He was the Chairman of the Disciplinary Committee and yet the only times people were punished it was over stupid stuff. Like crowding, uniform violations and noise. Or just annoying the guy. Not bullying, abuse of authority and/or lack of academic support. In a school he was supposed to be "making better" by taking over; however that's meant to be taken.

Gokudera only became aware of him because he was the Decimo-to-be and even then that was because Reborn called him in to ‘test’ him. If not for that, Gokudera wouldn’t have even been in Namimori in the first place, most likely would’ve never gone to Japan at all unless for a job or to honor his mother’s side of his heritage. Lambo’s almost the same in that he was literally following Reborn so if he wasn’t there Lambo wouldn’t have been either. I-pin was there for a job and was only allowed to stay because Fon trusted Reborn to look after her as part of Tsuna’s house guests. Fuuta also only went to Tsuna because the Decimo-to-be, after the other candidates were killed off, is “number one unable to refuse requests”. Same thing with Haru, she only became interested in Tsuna because she saw him with Reborn and even then she was of the opinion he was being a strange type of abusive toward the 'baby' that hung around him.

Sasagawa didn’t even know he existed until, just like Yamamoto, he saw Tsuna do something amazing while under Bullet Influence. His sister, Kyoko, was aware of him but only as Dame-Tsuna and even then she didn’t really do anything but look cute. I don’t think we have any proper evidence that Kyoko ever interacted with Tsuna before that day Reborn showed up. That Dame-Tsuna could have gained that crush on her because of the Idol/Celebrity Effect, not because she helped him or was nice to him once or twice. She was cute, she seemed kind from a distance, she was popular, she was "too good for him" but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t admire her from afar. That’s what he’d been doing for a while and while he got demotivated when he found out she might be ‘taken’ by Mochida, that’s not that uncommon for other people to do. He wouldn’t be the first and he’ll never be the last to experience such a thing in the world. It’s only because of Reborn that she even wanted to be his friend, which could’ve been because of the whole ‘he tore Mochida’s hair out during their “duel”’ so she might’ve thought to use him to keep others away when Hana couldn’t. Like, just because someone seems nice or kind doesn’t mean that’s their true face or nature, as pessimistically paranoid as that outs me to be.

Chrome would’ve simply been dead. No if’s, ands, or buts about it. She only survived because of Mukuro. Who only went ‘looking’ for her because he was in a Vendicare Isolation/Sensory Deprivation Tank. And even then, that’s only because he was caught escaping a second time, to get Ken and Chikusa out while acting as bait, after Tsuna had defeated him after the first time he broke out. If Mukuro hadn’t gone after Tsuna, didn’t need to because of a combination of Fuuta asking for his protection and the Ninth’s sons being dead, he might’ve stayed free with his group or found himself killed before long. I say ‘might’ve’ because once he’d fought against people who actually knew what to do with their own DW he might’ve been discouraged with his plans but then... he might not’ve too. Who knows? I certainly don't.

Xanxus might've stayed in the ice until one of his 'brothers' had succeeded Nono. That is, if he weren't killed off, of course, due to would-be/might-be prevention of a later threat depending on what their actual relationships were like. 'Cause we don't know how the Vongola Bros felt for one another. Were they good to each other; for a given definition when in regards to the mafia? Power-hungry? Uninterested in the Throne? Did they love one another or were biding their time or indifferent toward one another or just plain rivals that respected one another? As said, we don't know. It's speculation and HCs whenever they come up in various fics. And we don't know what might've happened to his Guardians in the Varia in such circumstance either. They might've tried fighting, or laying low until they got their Boss back or they might've died for one reason or another because the new Don didn't want to risk another coup - hostage situation only works for so long before something needs to give - under his reign. Who knows?! We don't.

Reborn's a freelancer, so if he'd never even known about Tsuna, let alone met him to tutor him, he'd never get out from under his shared curse. Just died from it, if not in a blaze of glory as a final 'fuck you' to the System if not The Man in the Iron Hat as the Arco knew him as. Said System might have even continued passed the current generation of Arcobaleno if Tsuna hadn't been made aware of his... connections in regards to his blood.

The Shimon probably would've never come out of their Isolation/Obscurity as a Family; because the reason they even got their Long Lost Rings back - their power source that's apparently stronger than a third of the Tri-ni-Sette, one of three corner stones to the continuation of All Life on Earth! (just... what?!) - is due to the shenanigans with the Ten Year Bazooka. They'd never have learned their own history/origins - or even that Daemon Spade was alive and the reason a good portion of their Family was dead - if not for that.

TLDR: I really wish people would stop making Tsuna a pussy in regards to his friends. Specifically those moments where 'you'd be nothing without Vongola' might come up when he tries to live his life the way he wants to live it. Because it's blatantly not true. What I've put above are just bits and pieces, I'm sure others can find more, of why it's not Tsuna who needs Vongola/the Mafia, but that it's Vongola/the Mafia which needs Tsuna.

#my post #my outrage given voice #katekyo hitman reborn #khr #sawada tsunayoshi #vongola tenth gen #xanxus #varia #shimon tenth gen #reborn #arcobaleno

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