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pitlanepeach · 17 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Nine

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, nightmares, protective!Lando, papaya rules tw (barf).

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

2024 (Saudi Arabia—China)

It was still dark when she woke up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She reached for them gently. "Lando."

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

She stared at him.

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

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

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

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

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

"It was a dream." She told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her thumb brushed over his cheekbone.

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

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

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

And Lando didn't argue.

He just leaned in and kissed her wrist.

Nuzzled her pulse.

And eventually fell asleep again.

—

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

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

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

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

Nightmares in expectant fathers.

The search bar filled itself in before she finished typing.

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

Tapped open her Notes app.

THINGS TO REMEMBER — FOR LANDO

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

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

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

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

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

• Keep lights low.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She added one more bullet:

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

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

She'd be ready, if it happened again.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

"You okay?" He asked.

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

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

He blinked. "What?"

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

Amelia exhaled again. "Just wait."

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

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

His head snapped up. "Was that—?"

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

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

"Holy shit," he murmured.

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

Amelia snorted. "I'm incubating."

He smiled against her skin. "Still magic."

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

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

It was just the three of them.

—

Jeddah was hot, fast, and utterly unforgiving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He crossed the line in P4.

Lando came home in P8.

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

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

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

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

Lando just laughed and kissed her forehead.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

She gave a little hum, almost pleased.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Ollie already had the talent part covered.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know," Amelia smiled lightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you."

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

"Also thank you."

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

"That's the autism."

"That's the charm."

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar gave her an affronted look. "Rude."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia laughed.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took the last podium place on lap 41.

McLaren's first podium of the season.

Oscar followed behind in 4th.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar frowned. "Just like that?"

"Yes. Just like that."

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

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

"But what if—" Oscar started.

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

They both stared at her for a beat too long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar snorted. "Romantic."

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

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

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

Law laid.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hummed in agreement.

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

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

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

Lando nodded once. "Yes. Please."

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

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

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

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

Amelia blinked. "She?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You okay?" He asked softly.

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia added another below, neat and precise:

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

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

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

Third Trimester To-Do

• Pack hospital bag

• Final scan at 32w

• Baby CPR course

• Book postpartum physio

• Order blackout blinds for nursery

• Learn how to style baby hair

• Ask Mum about baby clothes storage

• Confirm birth plan with midwife in UK

• Stop Googling "endometriosis birth risks"

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

Not a concept anymore. Not an idea.

A girl. Their girl.

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

And she let him.

—

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

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

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

"Hello, sweetheart."

"Hi, Mom."

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

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

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

Her mom blinked. "She?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Always, love."

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

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

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

—

It hit her on the flight to Japan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She opened her Notes app and typed.

When to stop flying?

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

How long before babies are allowed to travel longhaul?

What if I miss something?

What if the team does better without me?

What if I'm not ready to stop?

She stared at that last one for a long time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just a little.

—

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

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

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

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

"He's on board."

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

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

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

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

"You will," her dad said.

"I don't want to fade out."

"You won't."

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

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

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

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

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

That earned the ghost of a smile.

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

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

"Whatever you need."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

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

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

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

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

"Exactly what I'd expect from you."

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

"Terrifying," he said flatly.

She smiled, just a little. "Good."

—

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

This time, it felt harder to keep pace.

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

Mostly.

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

She appreciated it.

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

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

It was Oscar's best qualifying session yet.

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

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

No risky overtakes. No strategic infighting. Just clarity.

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

"You're glowing."

"I'm sweating," she said flatly.

He grinned. "Same thing."

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

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

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

Amelia raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

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

Lando blinked. "Like a holiday?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar threw up his hands. "So picky."

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

"Yeah." He agreed.

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

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

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

Maybe it would be rest.

—

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

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

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

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

"Thinking."

"About what?"

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

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

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

That got their attention.

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

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

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

"Tom Stallard."

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

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

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

"There will obviously be snacks."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar blinked.

Lando laughed so hard he nearly choked on pool water.

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

Oscar gave a slow, half-serious salute.

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

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

Lando grinned. "I love that."

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

"I already sent the request," Amelia said.

There was a pause.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” they said in unison.

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

“This is nice,” she said between mouthfuls.

Lando pursed his lips to hide his smile.

—

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

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

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

Tom straightened. “Always.”

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

Tom blinked, just once. “Already?”

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

He nodded slowly. “Understood.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

Tom grinned. “Got it.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

Specifically: team orders.

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

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

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

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

Then, calmly, “That’s idiotic.”

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—” someone began.

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

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

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

She sat back.

No one argued.

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

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

Another beat of silence passed. Then Zak stood.

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

The meeting dissolved shortly after.

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

“How’d it go?”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He exhaled, long and slow.

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

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

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

They both smiled. The moment settled into something comfortable.

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

Oscar looked at her.

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

He gave a small nod. “Thanks.”

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

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

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

“Cheeky.”

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

Oscar followed, more relaxed now. Lighter.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Amelia made a face. “Max.”

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

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

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

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

Max blinked. “Seriously?”

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

“I know.”

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

Amelia grinned. “Obviously.”

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

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

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

“Absolutely not.”

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

Maxine. God forbid.

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

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

—

amelianorris just posted . . .

amelianorris Baby Girl 💖

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landonorris outnumbered already ❤️ by amelianorris

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

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

pietra.pilao Already the most loved little girl in the world!

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

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

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seobinghard · 4 months ago

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WISDOM TEETH, OYSTERS, AND BEDTIME STORIES — j.yh

[ ☆ ] summary: apparently, all it takes is two wisdom teeth, one foul oyster and a fuckass bedtime story to end your decade-long beef with your arch-nemesis, jeong yunho.

pairing: arch-nemesis!yunho x fem!reader. tags: enemies-to-lovers au, fluff, crack, witty. note: yuyu's a bit mean mwahaha. slight yungi x reader. best friend!mingi mentioned. yunho and reader's beef is not intense but long-standing and petty. mingi loves you both tho. wc: 1.5k i think. warnings: mentions of anaesthesia, vomiting, and swearing.

the instructions were plain and simple.

mingi was supposed to pick you up from the dental clinic after your wisdom teeth removal appointment at two pm sharp because god knows you'll be high off your head from the anaesthesia to even comprehend traffic lights. but lo and behold, things don't go quite as planned because some guy in a grey hoodie shows up instead of your best friend. how d'you know?

he's got naked fingers.

"you're not wearing any r-rings–" you slur at the unidentifiable stranger, decoding his face with your half-lidded eyes before realising;

"wait, you're not mingi!"

"no shit, einstein." yunho rolls his eyes, scoffing at your accusation. you're barely standing up straight.

yunho's your arch-nemesis, your best friend—mingi's other best friend (which is why he's your arch-nemesis), and your ex high school class president who caught you cheating on your physics finals in junior year and almost got you expelled. whatever, you think he's just conceited and has no life, that's why he goes around policing the free-willed like you. acting all high and righteous like he knows it all (he actually does know it all but you'd rather swallow a lava rock than admit it).

"man, you're so cooked," yunho laughs mockingly, snaking an arm around waist to hold you upright.

although he can be petty and leave you here for the flies (it's summer), yunho's a man of his words and great time management.

the plan was plain and simple.

he promised mingi to pick you up from the dental clinic after your wisdom teeth removal at two pm sharp because mingi decided it was a great idea to slurp a two-day old raw oyster straight from the fridge that san had forgotten to throw out which sent him straight to the emergency room for food poisoning at ten in the morning. who escorted him? that's right. yunho. after all the barf hysteria mingi's put him through, yunho only got a 'bro, can you pick y/n up? also wear rings so she doesn't freak out.'

the fuck, yunho thought to himself.

but now it all makes sense.

you identify mingi by the rings on his fingers when you're feeling loopy and not quite there; like when you're drunk from the club or high off your head from anaesthesia.

yunho thinks that's kinda cute; your habit. you're kinda cute, now that he's gotten a closer look at you.

"can someone please remove this man from my sight?"

yeah, fuck that. yunho shoots you a glare you probably can't even see. "enough. we're going home."

"um, no. the fuck," you hiss, prying his hands off your arm before turning to your assigned nurse with tears in your eyes, "n-nurse yoon, this is not my guy– mingi's supposed to pick me up and he wears loooots of rings. this–"

"y/n, look at me." yunho steadies you with both hands, looking you straight in the eyes. "mingi's got food poisoning and he's at the er right now. so, i'm, me, yunho," he points at himself, "i'm gonna take you home, okay?"

there's a moment of silence.

nurse yoon finally excuses herself and hands you over to the tall man in the grey hoodie, advising him to watch you until the anaesthesia wears out from your system. he sounds so familiar yet you can't quite wrap your head around where you've seen him. the only thing you recognise, though, is his scent—soft, clean and musky like freshly hung laundry in the summer sun.

"yunho?" you mutter weakly, finally regaining a bit of clarity.

"yeah, me, dumbass. who else?" yunho replies flatly, though if you squint hard enough, you might just spot playfulness on the curve of his lips.

getting you home was a journey. not that you live far from the clinic but you couldn't stop bursting into fits of giggles and asking yunho to tell you funny stories so much so that he had to stop three times on the road to fix up your seatbelt.

"no more funny stories," yunho shuts you then your apartment door with a firm 'bang'.

you're standing in front of him like a kid in time-out, lips pursed in fear and excitement. maybe it's the anaesthesia, maybe it's your first time being this close to your arch-nemesis, maybe it's the sternness in his voice and the intensity in his gaze when he tells you to "behave" while gently grabbing your chin. something is definitely different about yunho, and you can't quite say you hate him as much as you did before.

"can i get a bedtime story then?" you bat your lashes.

"sun's still up."

"you're actually so lame, you know that?"

yunho never left you.

the sun has long set and you're fast asleep in your room, softly snoring under a pile of pillows after a bowl of chicken soup he made you and two tylenols. he kept the nightlight on—a small miffy lamp on your bedside table and made sure to refill your humidifier once every few hours. you're in deep, deep sleep, as expected. nurse yoon had advised him to keep an eye on you for two to four hours post-op. it's now half-past nine. why is he still here? he doesn't even know.

mingi's still at the hospital with a guilty san though he can now text. they'll probably let him go tomorrow morning if his conditions improve tonight. this is good news, yunho tells himself. he feels a great relief that his best friend's recovering, yet a part of him is filled with utter dread because if mingi gets discharged tomorrow morning then that means he's no longer your primary carer; that means he's ... leaving you.

what the fuck, yunho thinks.

is this what he thinks it is? no ... there is no way he's crushing on you. you? the chronic academic cheater? the spoiled crybaby? no way. yunho is genuinely crashing out in your little pink kitchen. before he can string together another mental smear campaign against your name in an attempt to 'un-crush' you, a shrill cry breaks from your room.

rushing over, yunho finds you uncontrollably sobbing in bed, eyes shut, brows knitted in utter distress. you're having a nightmare. his heart softens.

"shh, shh, it's okay," he coos, "it's okay, now." slowly, he slips into your bed and under your sheets, holding your trembling body close to his chest, cradling your head in his arms as he gently rubs circles on the skin of your lower back, steady and slow.

"yunho?"

yunho glances down at your half-awake face, wiping away your tears with his thumb. "mhm?" the circles on your back don't stop.

"can you tell me a bedtime story?"

"no," he replies flatly, swallowing the urge to smile. but when he sees your teardrops double-up in size, he immediately switches up. "alright, fine, fine. let me think of something." he coughs, "once upon a time, there were three best friends–"

"is it us?"

"no questions," yunho mutters, restarting, "once upon a time, there were three best friends who lived in a small cottage by the woods. one was goofy, one cried a lot, and one was super smart. they would go fishing by the creek and spy on the neighbours–"

yunho pauses.

he looks down and finds you snoring on his chest, hand still gripping onto his grey hoodie. a content sigh leaves his lips as he takes in the features of your face; your pretty lashes, pretty nose and pretty pink lips. you're so pretty, he thinks. why are you even beefing?

"goodnight, crybaby," he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. before he knows it, sleep creeps up his sleeve and you're both fast asleep in each other's arms.

epilogue

"WHAT THE FUCK."

you and yunho jolt awake, whipping your heads to the doorway to find a freshly discharged mingi, frozen and wide-eyed, staring at you with horror and bewilderment dripping from his face as if he's just seen a ghost.

"while i was puking my life out in the er, you're here cuddling up to each other like– bro, what– you betrayed my moral loyalty! the both of you!"

"just say you're jealous and jump in," yunho groans groggily and throws throws a pillow at his best friend. he dips back into bed, pulling you into his chest.

you giggle when the bed dips behind you, followed by an arm around your waist, cold rings pressed against your skin.

"i need a proper explanation after this," mingi murmurs in your hair, eyes drooping as the post-food-poisoning fatigue starts to hit him.

yunho only hums in response and swats mingi's arm away from you. "did i say you can touch her?"

a/n: one of the best shit i've written so far. also it's 2:44am n i need to sleep. but peep possessive yunho at the end mwahaha fuck i need him bad

#yunho x reader #yunho drabbles #yunho soft hours #yunho scenarios #yunho imagines #yunho fic #ateez x reader #yunho fluff #ateez fluff #ateez drabbles #ateez imagines #ateez soft hours #ateez scenarios #ateez yungi #yungi fic #yungi x reader #ateez #yunho #mingi

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strawberrykidneystone · 6 months ago

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the blast that changed everything

sevika x female! reader

summary: your wife came home after being gone at work for more than a day with a limb missing and it was definitely an adjustment

a/n: i did do research for this fic about limb loss but if there's anything that i can do to improve this please don't hesitate to let me know!!

tags: loss of limb, angst to fluff, emetophobia tw, domestic moments, weed, making out, reassurance,

ao3 version

thank you for requesting anon!!!

when sevika had first told you that she was switching to work under silco, you were more than confused. but once she explained her reasoning and promised that she would be careful, you slowly got on board with her work. you knew that she wanted action instead of whatever "passive bullshit" that vander was negotiating with piltover, but you knew you couldn't talk her out of it even if you tried.

sevika got so many nasty looks whenever she was out in public for "betraying" vander, but a betrayal is a stab in the back, not the front, which is what sevika did when she left vander.

but working for silco meant going along with his scientist's experiments, which you were less than keen to learn about. sevika didn't tell you much because honestly, mainly because she didn't know much about it herself. she did tell you to never touch the substance, a shimmering purple substance would bring nothing but trouble.

so here you are, waiting on the couch for your wife to come home from work. you glanced up at the ticking clock in the living room, it was well past midnight, where was she? sure, she had late nights before, but she would always send someone to at least tell you that she was going to be late. you tried not to worry, but you felt a pit in your stomach that something just wasn't right.

your suspicions were confirmed when you heard a frantic knock on the door. bolting up and throwing the door open, you're met with a panting ran who takes a deep breath and rambles out something slightly incoherent, but you pick up the words "sevika" and "hurt". quickly throwing on a jacket and slipping on the nearest shoes you urge ran to bring you to her, the two of you tearing down the street until you go down a huge spiral staircase into a lab that had an open window view of the ocean.

frantically looking around, you raced to sevika's side as you saw her passed out on a crude surgical table and cupped her hand in yours, reassuring her that you were here even if she couldn't hear you.

then you saw her other arm.

it was charred as it she had stuck it directly into a fire, but it was glowing... blue? she had a scar running up from her shoulder to her cheek with blue cracks as if her skin were a glass that shattered. you had never seen an injury like this before. singed was working on her shoulder with a bone blade and you covered your mouth with your hand, there was no way that this arm was salvageable. you squeezed your eyes shut as you heard the crunching of her bone, she was losing her dominant hand and you had no idea how she would adjust to losing her primary arm. you felt nauseous and dizzy, quickly kneeling down by the nearest trash can and barfing your brains out. you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and took a shaky breath. you had to be strong for her, especially after she woke up. eventually, you fell asleep at her side and didn't wake until you felt movement near your head the next morning.

you quickly perked up and almost started crying when shew finally showed signs of life. sevika groggily looked around, clearly very disoriented until her eyes locked in on you. "baby? what happened?" she asked raspily, trying to shake the brain fog out of her head.

you gulped and took a deep breath, clutching her hand in yours, "after you pushed silco out of the way, the blast had some sort of blue technology in it, it wasn't a regular explosion. singed tried everything he could, but he had to amputate your arm up to you shoulder and there is some blue scarring going up your face that he couldn't explain to me how they got there." it was better to just rip the bandaid off rather than wait to tell her.

sevika slowly nodded along and looked to her side at the stump that was now her arm. she seemed oddly calm, but sevika was never really one to let her emotions overtake her. plus, she was probably still high as a kite from the pain killers. by this point, you had tears streaming down your face and profusely apologizing as if you had been the one to set off the blast. she shook her head and placed her hand on your cheek, rubbing her thumb against your cheekbone, "baby it's okay, i'm okay. it's just an arm, silco's probably commissioning a new one for me as we speak. it's gonna be alright."

you sniffed and covered her hand with yours, leaning into her palm, "i'm supposed to be the one comforting you dummy, you're the one who got hurt."

she snorted and shook her head, "as long as i have you, i know everything's going to be alright."

you wiped your tears away and kissed the inside of her hand, "okay okay you sap, I'll stop worrying. but you're not going back to work until you feel ready, capeesh?"

"caposh, now get up here and kiss me," she said with a grin. you basically lunged up to her and pressed a hard kiss to her lips, throwing your arms around her neck as you smothered her in entire face in kisses. sevika was a little thrown off when she went to wrap her arms around you, but only one actually showed up.

this was definitely going to be an adjustment.

over the next few weeks, you had taken sevika to a decent physical therapist that you had found in zaun and worked with her to improve the handwriting in her right arm. her center of gravity was entirely off and she was unconsciously leaning to the right side when she walked, which she also had to work on in physical therapy as well as outside of it. she opens up to you after a while about how she swears that she can feel every finger in her left hand still, sometimes still reaching for things with a limb that is no longer there and mourning what she lost. she also asked you to cut off the left sleeve of her shirt to make it easier to dress herself, which you happily obliged as you had an excuse to practice your sewing.

when she started getting phantom limb pain, you started massaging the area and sitting down with her with a stand-up mirror so her mind gets tricked into thinking it still has all of the pathways in her body.

and smoking weed.

she joked that the doctor had basically given her a prescription to smoke weed, but that is kind of what happened. you would smoke with her and she loves it when you shotgun into her mouth, her brain releasing tension with the pain in her missing limb soon forgotten. it became a nightly ritual for the two of you to sit out on your bedroom balcony and smoke a shared blunt that usually ended up with you perched on her lap in a sloppy make-out session. life was slowly starting to feel normal again with her adjusted lifestyle. it took her a while to ask for help when she needed it, even from you, her close loved one. sevika was nothing if not resilient, but her patience usually wore thin when tasks started taking her twice the time it did before the accident. you were always there to lend a hand and reassure her that asking for help was nothing shameful, that you wanted to help her. it took her a while to accept, but when she did, her life drastically improved for the better.

during all of this, you were hounding silco's ass about her new prosthetic arm that he calmly said was still getting worked on. he would never admit it aloud, but he was a little scared of you.

when she came home one day with a new prosthetic arm attached to her shoulder, you looked at her in awe as your wife had the cheesiest grin on her face. she immediately wrapped you up in her arms and chuckled as she felt you shiver with her cold metal arm against your slightly exposed back. even though she had the new arm, she didn’t like wearing it around you since it was technically a weapon.

being able to write with her left hand again was. a huge relief for her, sure she made do with writing with her non-dominant hand, but this was different, it was almost like having her own arm back again.

plus, now she could write with both hands.

you were less than thrilled when she added a shimmer component to her arm, lecturing her on how it was hypocritical of her after she was so adamant about not using it when singed was first experimenting with it. however, silco kept sending her on harder missions and shimmer helped her do her best work, so you slowly came around, especially after seeing how feral the substance made her (especially in bed, shimmer strap who?)

eventually, things settled down and she was back at work with new additions to her arm every so often that she loved to show off to you. you admired them and asked about the new features, simply happy that she had new tools to keep her safe while she was out doing silco's dirty work.

it was all worth it for zaun to slowly take steps forward to becoming independent and governing themselves instead of the ever looming presence of piltover stopping them.

a/n: silco having workers comp??? maybe he's not so bad /j

taglist: @maneskinwh0re @archangeldyke-all @fandoms-will-be-the-death-of-me @sevikasfan @lez-zuha @comfortripley @sunflowerwinds

#sevika #sevika arcane #arcane sevika #sevika x reader #sevika x female reader #sevika angst #sevika fluff #reader x sevika #sevika season 1 #ao3 #sevika fan fic

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karlachismylife · 9 months ago

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Wrote the intro the day I started this work and decided to leave it since it reflects the shitstorm in my head quite well, eh.

Okay Idk what it is with me today (I actually do know, I'm having a bad fucking night as a consequence of my own actions but I prefer not to think about it), but I just thought about task force 141 and reader that has such a bad withdrawal after their orgasm that they actually cry and not in a fun way (cue my lack of understanding how crying in bed can ever be fun, but i'm not here to kinkshame)

CW: NSFW (so minors and ageless blogs DNI, I'll block you), but there's barely any sex, hurt/comfort, body image issues, low self-esteem, chubby/fat!reader, written with afab!reader in mind (but most parts can be read as gn), potential mental health issues (?), thoughts of selfloathing and selfharm, smoking mentioned once at the end. Very self-indulgent and I'm definitely unwell, so yeah. It's also more focused on reader's inner shitstorm than the guys in many places so idk if this even really is enjoyable...

Starts as a single piece, then splits into individual blurbs/drabbles/oneshots + some polyamory cuz I'm spoiling myself today having done nothing to deserve it, lol.

They vary in size and tone since I've been writing them through several ups and downs in my own mental state, so please don't take this as a sign of which characher/combo is my favourite. I'm greedy, I like everything.

This is unfair.

Like, you just had wonderful sex, probably came more than once in a short period of time, ears stuffed with cotton, limbs weak, head spinning... and it keeps spinning, sweet tingling on the skin turning into nasty rushes of cold, muscles too tense, but it's not a cramp.

You feel like shit, every possible hormonal and neuromediator crash downing on you, a hollow, depressing weight in your chest instead of a sweet afterglow. Sweat and cum feel disgusting on you skin, your skin feels disgusting, strangling, your whole body seems revolting, too heavy, too sluggish. A sticky, suffocating heatwave on your nape, but your chest is cold and covered in goosebumps, a feverish feeling clogging every pore. Nausea wrenches into your stomach and stops just before you can relievingly barf and get rid of this parasite inside.

You simply want to dig your nails into your own shoulders instead of his and rip the skin and meat off, free yourself from this burden (you're the burden). Each second as he stays blissfully unaware, holding you tightly with his big hands and panting into the crook of your neck, drags on like a hundred hours of pure torture - the torture of being yourself.

Throwing up feels like an appropriate reaction to how unappealing and ugly you feel.

You're spiraling. You couldn't fucking keep your own messed up emotional outburst - completely unreasonable and unprovoked, by the way - to yourself, and now it's going to be noticed. You'll ruin someone else's fun. Make it all about yourself when you've already been nothing but doted on, cared and provided for. Fucked so good that your body is still clenching around that magnificent cock deep inside you.

And you're fucking crying, like an ungrateful, egotistical brat. Never having enough, unable to provide something as simple as a hole to make someone else happy without fucking it up.

Ghost notices immediately. There's nothing that can escape this man, and definitely not his love's distress. He's not reacting immediately for a sole reason: he's frozen in fear, horrified that he made you cry. How - he's not sure, he always takes great care to stay within limits, never allows himself to push you further than you both agree on. But what if he slipped up? What if he got carried away? Did he cause pain? Did he say something hurtful in the heat of the moment?

"Fuck. Hey, hey, lovie... look at me... wha's wrong? Did I... did I hurt ya?" Good thing you're hiding your face and your red eyes so desperately that you can't see how distressed and downright terrified Simon looks, lost at the sight of your tears. When you shake your head and attempt to push him away to hide your pathetic sobbing, he somewhat calms down and brings his big calloused hands to cradle your face, gently prying your own palms away and holding your puffy cheeks tenderly. His thumbs brush your tears away as he holds you, holds you through the growing rage fit of touch aversion, through the shudders and actual wailing. At some point he moves his palm to cover your eyes, a dry, dark blinder to keep the world around you shut out, help you concentrate on his voice.

He's not talking, just humming, a familiar, deep, grumbling noise that soothes all the flashes of anger, hate and disgust in your brain. You're tired now, like you're always are after such an intense outburst, and as you go limp, he finally pulls away, only to pick you up - barely a strain, a direct spit in the face of your own insecurity - and bring you to the bathroom. A warm shower evens your distorted body temperature out, his hands running over your body and cleaning all the stickiness away bring back peace with your own skin. After a quick rinse Simon holds you, your head cradled against his chest, until you make a weak attempt to help him wash too - he lets you trace his body, that perfection you adore with all its old wounds, sores and scars, for a bit, and then finishes himelf.

Gives you fresh cotton underwear and his hige T-shirt, still holding you around your shoulders and keeping the comfortable pressure even while he changes the bedsheets, kissing your temple as you find it in yourself to help.

It's only after you settle on top of him, nice, clean comforter protecting your back against the world, head on his chest right next to his heart beating in a steady rythm, he finally breaks silence.

"Need anything else, lovie?" Just like that. No prying, no occusations, nothing that would put you on the spot. You can ask him to bring you the moon soaked in unicorn's milk, and he'll just nod, kiss your hand and start dressing up, already calling Johnny to ask where the fuck did Scots hide their last horned horse and if he happens to know where they enlist astronauts.

"Just you."

His grip on the small of your back tightens and you feel his uneven, scarred lips graze the top of your head.

"Ya've got me. Always."

Soap is running hot like a furnace, still shivering and panting after what he considers the best sex he has ever had (every time with you is). He lifts his face, buried into the crease of your neck previously, and starts peppering you with slightly sloppy, grateful kisses - your neck, your jaw, your lips, your...

When he tastes your tears and opens his unbelievably blue eyes to see your expression contorted in disgust, he panics. Pulls away immediately, hands both itching to grab you and shake a reason for that look on your face out of you and too scared to touch you in case this hatred is directed at him.

"Whit's wrong, leannan? Are ye a'right? Ye didnae lik' it? Shite, lass, Ah'm so sorry, Ah didnae mean tae-" He stops yapping only when he notices the way your lips tremble as you try to plead with him, sobbing that it's not his fault.

"'M sorry, I ruined it... I'm so sorry, sushine, I just... fuck I wish I wasn't so bloody sick in the head and ugly..." Speaking out loud only worsens your anger, directed solely at yourself, and you try to wipe your eyes furiously. As the tears keep rolling, your frustration only grows - maybe if you yanked your own hair really good or slapped the disgusting pudgy cheek you've despised ever since chidhood as everyone kept pointing out how big they were...

"Ye didnae just call the love of mah fucking life ugly." Johnny's voice is a mix of a harsh order to cut your bullshit and pure disbelief. His huge paws wrap themselves around your wrists, stopping you both from harming yourself and covering your face. You're forced to look at him, and as you do, you see his handsome face flushed with a passionate anger at the intrusive thoughts in your head, heavy frown in his thick eyebrows and the sea in his eyes dark and deep enough to drown a whole fleet. You'd be scared if it wasn't obvious how hurt he is underneath it all - like a kid whose favourite plushie just got mocked by his classmates.

"It's just a toy," adults would say, and they would be bloody wrong.

"Tis not a toy, tis mah friend."

You're his friend. His love. His heart, his soul, his everything - he whispers that frantically, kissing you over and over, hot palms running over your body, wiping the cold, the stickiness, the goosebumps away. You don't have time to think, to spiral again, you're drowning in that exact sea that's spilling from his eyes, staring at you with pure devotion - a sea of affection, admiration, love, love, love.

Johnny nuzzles up to you like an animal seeking comfort, hides into your chest, right after he kisses your sweaty double chin, breathes in deeply, lets go of your soft shoulders only to grab two handfuls of your tummy, kneading it, warming up the stale blood, squeezing your big thighs between his and getting lost in the frenzy - he honestly doesn't even remember already that he was comforting you, he's fully in the worshipping mode, leaving you no chance to dip even a single toe into the self-conscious thoughts again.

You'll just have to stay there, every single tear lapped up from your face, and accept every greedy touch and word of a man utterly in love with you. Even the messed up parts.

Gaz keeps his cool despite how distraught even the thought of your sadness makes him. First of all he moves aside to give you space, makes sure you're not hurt, asking in his usual kind - unbelievably kind, so much that you burst into tears again, feeling undeserving of such unapologetically soft treatement, tone.

"Shh, shush, gorgeous, you're not hurt, are you? It's okay, c'mere, jus-st like tha', very good, love," praises keep spilling from his tender lips as he carefully helps you sit up, simply dragging you away from the damp from sweat and everything else spot on the sheets. He ends up balancing half his bare ass off the edge of the bed, but it doesn't bother him in the slightest as he feels you already coming back from that hopeless place as soon as your body gets stuck between clean, dry and a bit cool sheet and Kyle's firm lean body of a litearal god - or a prince, at least.

His deft fingers are already at work, massaging your scalp, chasing the tension away, but the second he feels you grow uncomfortable with the repetitive movement, he stops and retreats to simply holding you in a steady, reliant embrace. You know he's good with his words, that's how he got you, swept off your feet completely and made you swoon with sweet compliments, hilarious snark and smart talk.

You just don't expect him to do it all over again in the face of your burdened mind crumbling in the paradise.

"Talk to me, angel. Let me inside that pretty head, hm?"

It takes this sweettalker just a couple of words to coax whatever that ugly, slimy knot in your throat is, out. You sob, retelling Kyle every single thought that has been stuck in that coagulated mess in your head, spill the bile that has been burning your retching throat, out in the open, for him to see the disgusting ugliness of your insides - matching your outside.

Somehow throughout your choking trade his soft, careful hand never leaves your back, rubbing circles of different radius and intensity into your skin to keep the aggression at monotonous touch at bay.

"Must've been some terrible person to overbear your spirit and plant all those lies in your mind, angel." You don't catch the meaning of his words at first, glancing at him confused and whoozy after you exploded with self-deprication. Those dark, calm eyes look at you no different than before: quiet, calm reverence and determination. A thread of spider's silk, thin as a hair, but stronger than steel, his love does not waver. Were you in the right state to actually pay attention, you would've seen it only grow.

"Well, beautiful, this isn't how I planned to start writing poetry, but since you insisted... maybe I can think of a diss track about you."

"A diss track?.." Poor you, so upset that you can't catch onto the mischievous glint in his eyes and that silly smooth sarcasm slipping into his words. You're actually half a step away from believing he would diss you, destroying that already non-existent self-esteem once and for all.

"Yup. Gotta diss-tract you from all that bullshit in your head for good. Unless you'd rather me fuck it out of you instead?"

You cannot not smile at that, even if it's a weak, timid smile. Kyle's face still lights up as if he sees an actual angel, bringing the good grace or whatever.

"There ya go. First step of the mission? Success. Permission to continue? I repeat, permission to continue?"

"You spend too much time with Simon. Permission granted..."

Price undrstands what's going on before he even hears your first sob, the tension in your body and the change in your breath telling him all he needs to know. There's enough experience in this man for the both of you, he has learnt to read people and immediately accomodate them in a way that serves a common goal so long ago that it's a secong nature already.

Your comfort is that common goal.

With a grunt, he rolls you over, planting you firmly on top of his warm, burly body. Untucking your head from his hairy chest, he holds your face and does not let you concentrate on anything but his stern, focued gaze under those bushy eyebrows - but there's still that undeniable tenderness in his eyes that's always there whenever John looks at you.

His voice sounds usual too: a calm, commanding, but not harsh tone, not a loud bark any of his subordinates would hear, yet still an order. "Look at me, darling. Tha's right, look at me, look at your John. You shut whatever's going through that troubled mind of yours out and let me take care of the rest, a'right? Can you do that for me, darling? I know you can. I'll do all the thinking for ya, eh?"

Giving control over to him feels natural at any other moment, but right now you're too deep in the trenches of the war with your own mind, hissing at you with pure disgust for being so selfish. Really, now? Had to use this sweet, caring man for your own needs, and now you're dumping all your perverted, fucked up baggage on him too?

"Nuh-huh, ya're still thinking. Told ya to cut if off. You know that's not you thinking right now, dontcha? You're a smart one, love, ya know shit like this happens. And when shit happens, who are you going to to deal with it, huh?" His deep voice rumbles in his chest, seeps into your clogged ears, fills your skull with the unyielding determination and leaves no room for your own dark thoughts.

When you hesitate to answer, John slides his rough palms over your back, tracing your soft rolls and landing onto the pudge of your hips, squeezing lightly to remind you who's in charge and what your task is. "Who is there for ya to deal with shit that happens, hm, darling? Need ya to tell me."

You want to hide, escape his demand for an answer, but he keeps you firmly in his embrace, a gaze of steel unmoving from you. It almost makes you tear up again, almost feels mean of him to put you on the spot, when all you want to do is curl up in a dark corner and stay there for all eternity. But the love you have for this man overpowers even the seething hatred you bear for yourself, so you give up and murmur meekly: "You..."

"Tha's right, darling, it's your John. I'm here to deal with everything that bothers ya. Everything, ya hear? Tha's me job. Your job is to stay wit' me 'n' not overthink, eh? Especially not when it's just hormons making ya feel bad." You have nothing else left to do, other than sniffle into his chest and melt under a warm kiss he plants on your crown. "How about a cuppa, eh, darling? And something just as sweet as ya for a bite. Ya'll feel better in no time, I promise."

Ghost and Soap cancel each other's panicking out. As soon as both you and Simon slip out of the sweet afterglow, falling backwards each into your own pit of self-doubt and spiraling, Johnny starts babbling, terrified at the thought of both his beloved people feeling worse after being with him. His slurred, panting words and frantic kisses help Simon shake of his own horror - in return, he squeezes Johnny's shoulder to slow the worried mutt down and redirect his energy into helping you. Soap tenses up under the firm touch of his Lieutenant, then relaxes again, leaning into him for a moment to collect himself - they charge from each other, mere seconds of feeding off each other's energies in the middle of a time-limited mission with the highest stakes: your well-being.

They exchange glances, no words needed after the way their work together almost makes them mindreaders to each other, and turn back to you as you lay there, face painfully contorted in an attempt to keep the black foamy bile you feel rising in your throat from spilling. Slow, sticky, angry tears run down your flabby cheeks, and with each millimetre they go, your scalding wish to gouge your eyes out with your bare hands grows, just to punish yourself for being ungrateful after two perfect men spent so much of their time making you feel good.

"Dinnae cry, bonnie. Ye're a'right, ye're 'ere, wit' us. Right, LT? We're nae gonnae let ye marinate in whitevur got ye so upset." The pressure from inside your body that threatened to burst you open into a messy explosion of bile and rot, gets evened out from outside by Johnny's tight hug. He squeezes you up to the painful point, cradling against his broad chest, holding the fort while Simon leaves the bed, but not without kissing both your palms and holding them against his lips until he feels the cold leave your fingertips.

"Oi, Johnny. Help lovie get in 'ere," he calls out several minutes later out of the bathroom. Soap, who has been holding you and allowing you to sob against his heart this whole time, stroking your sweaty hair and murmuring every word of love he knows, scoops you up immediately. He pads over with you in his arms to where a warm bath is already filled thanks to Simon, and when you react to the temperature with another wave of tears, they both reach out to the tap simultaneously.

"Is tha' a'right, bonnie?" You make a strangled noise as Johnny finally sets you down into much cooler now water. It soothes you, makes you feel instantly cleaner, smaller, lighter. Breathing gets easier, that swollen blob of anger and disgust shrinking down in your chest and allowing you to inhale bathroom's damp air normally. You open your mouth to apologize and get cut off before even a single syllable leaves your mouth.

"Don't," Simon's voice sounds gruff, but even his murky reflection in the rippling water looks genuinely soft towards you. They're both perched on the cold bath edge, naked and seemingly not caring about that at all. "Jus' let us take care of you, yeah, love? Tha's what we're here for. Tha's what we want to do."

"Well, actually, there's one more thing," Johnny interjects, causing you to finally lift your sullenly lowered head and look at him, Simon's big palm using this moment of distraction to press onto your back in silent support. "Can Ah make ye a foam beard? Please, bonnie? Ye jus' 'ave the prettiest sweetest cheeks fur tha'."

Soap and Gaz feel like their world is sinking into a whirlwind of stormy clouds, the kind that sucks all light out of sky in mere seconds and can't be cut through even by blinding flashes of lightnings. There is no sun in their skies if you're not smiling, and the sound of your muffled sniffles hits their eardrums harder than thunder or explosions. The frowns distorting their faces only make you more self-aware of the fact that you ruined things between you - the initial hysteria starts rapidly flowing into complete shutdown, threatening to turn you into an emotionless shell for unknown period of time, when several warm, big hands intervene and cut the depressing trajectory down at its root.

"Damn, we did a shit job fucking all your thoughts out, didn't we, angel?" Kyle's joke sounds soft, teasing, but empathetic, ready to be met with sobs or silence instead of the usual laughter that flashes your teeth at him and makes his own smile grow brighter.

"Aye, we did. If anythin', Ah think we put more thoughts intae 'ere instead," Johnny scratches his head dramatically, and then you feel his big, hot palm on you sweaty forehead, as if he's trying to get a feel of the thoughts inside your skull. It doesn't linger there for long, though, rough fidgety fingers digging into your hair and tugging at the roots. This makes the hot-and-cold collar around your nape unclench, uncouth and chaotic massage confidently pulling every ounce of anger out of your brain. From time to time his calloused palm slips lower, squeezing your scruff, wiping the cool sweat away and taking control over what seems to have escaped your own.

"How does it feel to be the first person to get knocked up mentally, love? Having any cravings yet? Feeling your brainworms kick yet?" Dry cotton comforter suddenly covers your exposed to be looked at with disdain body, and before you can choke out a protest and something about you being sweaty and sticky and disgusting, Kyle grips your shoulders firmly, rubbing up and down as he slowly helps you sit up a bit.

"Ye eejit, how dae ye think thay can kick? They're brainworms, thay dinnae hae any legs!" The sheer passion in Johnny's heated counterarguement does the impossible - makes the corners of your deeply upset mouth twitch against all the weight the sadness put on them. Your knights in shining (from all the sweat your lovemaking covered them with) armor of their own warm skin seem to not notice the slightest twitch of your lips - there's no excessive attention drawn to you, none of them puts you on the spot. Their touch isn't going anywhere, but it almost seems mindless, simply their need to have something soft and pleasant to squeeze in their restless hands. "'N' wasnae Mary th' first lassie tae get up th' duff through th' heid?"

"That wasn't mentally, that was spiritually, read your books, Soap," scoffs Kyle, as if it was the most obvious thing, and ducks just in time to avoid a pillow thrown at him with sniper's precision.

"Oi, ye sayin' Ah cannae read now?!" Whatever snarky retort Kyle was ready to shoot, gets wiped out as Johnny tackles him, barely avoiding pushing all three of you off the bed. Their scuffle consists of chokeholds and sneaky kisses, legs getting caught in the sheets and somehow tangling you into the mess too.

Until you laugh, finding yourself squished into Johnny's hairy chest with Kyle in a gently headlock somewhere under your arm.

"Hey, hey, careful, mate, our lovie's expecting, we can't just throw 'em around!" However obvious that deflection is, Johnny reacts as if you were actually with child and grabs your face, boring his eyes into yours, slowly widening his two blue lochs in pretend horror.

"Och naw! Ah think we lost 'em, Ah cannae see nothin' there now!" Flushed after the playfight, you avert your gaze, still a trace of self-consciousness about yout outburst somewhere deep inside, but none of the "brainworms" that clogged your insides in sight indeed. Johnny's little drama earns him a soft nip on his thumb from you, and he smiles at you, clearly satisfied with the effect their little scheme had.

"Aw, damn, and here I was, ready to hear the pitter-patter of 'em little feet," Kyle's warm lips somehow find their way to kiss your temple, eliciting another shy giggle.

A pillow crashes onto both of you with the force of a small bombshell.

"THAY DINNAE HAE FEET, GARRICK, THAY'RE WORMS!"

Price and Gaz fall into their usual ways seamlessly, responsibilities and tasks split between the two seemingly without even any verbal communication. Clearing out the space around you with the same quick efficiency they clear out enemies with, they prop you up on some pillows, assess your condition in case they got carried away and hurt you, and finally settle on both sides of you, warm hands on your knees squeezing softly.

"Are ya gonna talk to us now, lovie? Or will we have to use interrogation tactics to learn what made our love so upset?" John's voice bears no trace of threat, but it still makes you cower and try to take up even less space that your curled up body already has, which earns you a sigh from the Captain. "I see. Take over from here, Sergeant. I expect results once I return."

The matress sighs with relief a Price's weight leaves it, bare feet padding a few steps before he reaches his slippers and leaves the room. The pit that the sound of your bedroom's door closing opens in your chest is crushing your ribcage with the iron fist of vacum. You can't blame John for not willing to deal with your bullshit, but the hearbreak only reenforces the choking smog in your head that's rasping in a hundred different voices that the only thing you deserve is pure repulsion.

Kyle's soft thumb pads wipe the tears teetering on the arrows of your lashes, and in a smooth movement you find your face cupped and pulled close to his shoulder. His smooth skin sticks to your wet cheek and you find yourself crying like a little kid, the unbearable pain of the revolting dark knots inside somehow replaced with surprisingly more bearable grief over what you consider an ending reltionship. Perhaps John leaving our bed finally shattered your heart, letting the ungodly pressure out and allowing it to beat - and bleed - again.

"We'd really like if ya talked to us, angel. Don't think Captain can stand there bare-ass naked much longer, might catch rheumatism at this point, he's not getting younger, you know..."

"I hope you know I can hear you perfecrly clear, Garrick." You stop mid-sniffle, eyes snapping to the closed door. You can finally see the shadow of a man standing just outside, and the air slowly feels with some flavour you can't distinguish through all the snot yet, but seem to like a lot...

"Good, so your hearing's still intact, sir. You're in good shape," Kyle's cheeky remark must've broken John's famous patience and restraint, because the bedroom door finally opens, and you see him there. With a tray with a whole bunch of tea mugs and little plates of treats balanced in his hands.

"Still not talking? Well, we'll try another method then, lovie. Sandwich for your thoughts, eh?"

His cheeks are round with a kind smile, confusing your tortured mind even further - Kyle uses your stupor to fetch John's big, slightly scratchy bathrobe, successfully wrapping you into a cocoon of grounding stimulation all over your feverish skin. With a huff and a grumble about staying butt-naked a bit longer, John puts a pleasantly warm mug into your hands and looks at you, arms crossed and tucked into his armpits now that he got rid of the tray.

Expecting an answer.

"'M sorry..." seems appropriate right up to the moment when a little finger-sandwich gets shoved into your mouth. The bread is soft, nice, salty ham and crunchy cucumber filling your senses and cracking a bit fat line of light right in the middle of the dense cloud in your thoughts.

"Try again, love," Kyle gives a hint and wipes a crumb off your lips, licking it off his thumb. "We don't need an apology, we just want to know what's troubling ya. John, tell 'em."

"Already did," grumbles Price in response and clears his throat, sitting back down on the creaking bed. "Food's working though. Eat up, darling, get your energy. Then we'll talk properly, a'right?"

You chew slowly, still stiff in your own body, but regaining control gradually. Yes. Then you'll talk.

Ghost and Price exchange a single glance over your from, choking on the self-destructive rage, and John shakes his head so slightly that one can barely notice, but it's clear enough to stop Simon from tumbling down the traumatic spiral staircase of his own. Grounded by his Captain's presence, he shrugs his broad shoulders, shaking off the creeping up feeling of his own monsterous nature, and rolls onto his back, pulling you out of the miserable wet ball of wrinkled sheets and onto his firm lap, sideways, his big palms resting comfortably around your hips; he's not squeezing or digging his fingers into the fat like he usually does, but it's a secure hug you can't really escape.

Exposed held too far away from his chest you could hide on, you shrink, rising your shoulders protectively and trying to cover up your soft belly, spilling over your pelvis in a shapless manner - that's when John's arms come from behind, catching yours and instead of pulling away forcefully, simply repeating your own safety cocoon, hiding your body from your distorted sight and keeping you warm.

"You're not thinking straight right now, darling," every phrase he murmurs gently, calmly, convincingly into your ear is accompanied by a little kiss, beard tickling and burning your already irritated by tears skin. "So good for us, so kind. Can you spare some of that kindness for yourself?"

Even though it doesn't sound like a rhethorical question, Simon cups your cheek and shushes you tenderly, pressing his thumb to your lips, allowing John to continue with his little speech aimed to dispel the storm coagulated in your chest.

"'Cos if not, it's a'right, love. We know it's hard, and ya're doing good already. Ya 'ave us, eh? To love ya, to cherish ya. No need to overthink, jus' let us hold you, a'right?"

He finally pushes you onto Simon's chest, his big heart stuttering with worry as you seek shelter among his many scars that paint a horrifying picture once you put all the fragments together.

"How'd you do that, sir?" Simon's voice sounds vulnerable - so much that it strikes through all the layers of your egocentric self-hatred and shifts you almost immeditely into a completely different mindset; one where you throw your whole self into loving your scarred and battle-worn men in such abundance that it's ought to compensate for all the unfairness they've gone through.

There's no need for it now, you realize a little too late: Price is there, keeping Simon away from the darkness. They're fine. Better than ever. It's a distraction, a trick, a play to make your bleeding heart stop the internal self-destruction and turn to healing.

A sly little switch you're not sure they were planning to flip, but it worked.

"Hm?" As if emerging from the depths of his thoughts in response to Simon's question, John caresses your cheek as gently as his rough thumb can and then smiles, maybe catching onto the change in your mood or simply remembering all the times he pulled Ghost out of the same gloom and darkness. "Jus' taking care of me own, Simon. Tha's what a Captain does, no? Now, love, how about a shower? I reckon we can squeeze in all together and papmer you really good, what do ya say, eh?"

Ghost and Gaz manage to keep their cool. Kyle's confident and gentle presence serves to reassure any doubts Simon has about hurting you, he shoots a single glance at his sergeant and recieves support immediately. Two pair of hands cradle you with all the tenderness two soldiers are capable of, which is always enough to drown you in fully. It's a tight hug, a hot mess of limbs, too much skin on skin contact that makes your brain flare with undirected rage, but as seconds trickle by and you're still trapped between two firm bodies, you have no choice but to slip into the exhaustion phase of your outburst.

It's not pleasant, nor could you say you feel calm; if anything, you just petrify, a permanent frown on your face and blindly staring forward glass eyes. You're tired, you'd still rather be anywhere but inside your own body that still feels like a useless deformed bag that should be gutted and emptied to lighten up, inner layer of your skin scrubbed with a knife to peel off the suffocating thickness of fat trapping this heated rage inside...

Instead, you get a kiss.

It's Kyle, soft, full lips touching your wet with tears cheekbone, then again - your temple, your cheek, the overheated spot behind your ear. They're light, soft kisses, too gentle to be playful or arousing. Calming. They do not demand anything in return - he allows you to stay in your inner world where you feel secure, even pauses to kiss Simon the same way right in front of your eyes. A silent demonstrationg of the love and reverence these pecks carry, Simon's hooded eyes fluttering shut as if his own compartmentalized demons get exorcised by Garrick's touch.

"Wanna talk about it, angel?" Kyle's voice rumbles at a nice, grounding, smooth timbre, and your still-too-slow mind struggles to grasp how is it possible that he's talking and you're still getting kisses - until you recognize the uneven texture of Simon's scarred lips, trailing along your skin tenderly. "Whenever you're ready, love. But we would love to know what's going through your head right now."

It feels strange to say it out lound when you're held and caressed like this, but their kisses and solid embrace cleared your windpipe enough of the mental gunk for you to be able to speak.

"I hate myself... 'M disgusting, and-" A displeased grumbling kiss from Simon interrupts you, and even Kyle pushes his huge shoulder to reprimand his own Lieutenant for the interference. Kisses his temple immediately to make amends, though, and turns back to you, prompting you to continue.

"Wot? Don't like when someone talks shit 'bout mine," grumbles Simon like a dog that got flicked on the nose for growling at welcome guests.

"Let 'em talk, mate, it's good to get things off your chest." At least their little bickering coaxes a tiniest hint of smile out of you, and Simon, noticing it immediately, stares back at Kyle with such pride, as if he just did something great.

The thing is, in the way his arms squeeze you a tad bit tighter, pressing into his firm body, you can read that for him - your smile is the greatest achievement.

"Don't tell me you prefer his silent treatement, angel, I'm trying to be the attentive boyfriend here, and for what?" Your smile grows a little braver. A little brighter. You would've kept talking if you could remember what it was that hurt so fucking much in your chest.

"Shower. Then a cuppa. Then we have the talk." No one dares to argue with the Ghost and his gruff commands. You feel the sheet sticking to your skin as he lifts you up, Kyle already sneaking off to prepare towels and clean clothes for you three. He'll stay with you and help you wash the remaints of the mind attack off. Simon will make fresh tea.

You're going to be alright.

Price and Soap take quite an intense approach the second they notice your distress. You feel Johnny's weight disappear from you after the first strangled sob that escapes you, and if you could open your eyes glued shut by the hot, messy tears, you would see John practically dragging the poor Sergeant away by his scruff. It's easy to suspect that Johnny couldn't contain himself and went too hard, too rough on you - with no malice, but pure passion that's spilling from his big, hot heart every time he gets to be close to you.

But it's not Johnny's fault, neither is it John's. It's all you, a useless, pathetic thing, good for nothing and holding two gorgeous men to yourself like a greedy glutton hoarding delicious food.

"Ah'm sorry, bonnie- ow, Ah got it, Ah got it, Ah'm not touchin'!"

"Did we hurt ya, love? Was Johnny boy too rough wit' ya? Wha's wrong?"

You feel big warm hands gliding over your skin, quick assessment of your state in search of potential harm caused. This immediate care only makes you feel worse, every cold sweaty patch of your disgusting hide shivering and twitching under Captain's careful touch. You struggle against your own spiraling anger, fight it with what's left of your exhausted resilience - and lose, curling up with another burst of tears, shoving the loving hands away and dusting the lingering warmth off your body.

After all, you do not deserve to be treated with such kindness after the fit you just threw.

"No, no, no, it's not his fault, it's not Johnny's... it's me, it's my fault, it's all my fault, I ruin everything, I'm- I'm disgusting!"

The silence that follows you blowing up on them is heavy. Just as bad as the knot in your chest.

"Johnny."

When you open your eyes to find a way out, run away, scatter and hide in the furthest corner of the apartment until everyone who tried caring for you leaves again, you're met with Johnny's bright blue eyes, glistening with unshed tears.

It's a shocking sight, pushing you out of the muffled misery into an alerted worry - his face is red with unexplainable pained anger, fists clenched as John holds him tightly by hunched shouders, seemingly trying to prevent a violent outburst.

"Ah wanntae ken names of th' bastarts who made ye feelin' tis wa'. Ah swear Ah will mak' thaim fuckin' choke oan thair ain tongues, Ah'll rip thair spines oot 'n' shove thaim up thair-" - "Enough, Johnny. Stand down. This won't solve anythin'. Ya calm down and help our lovie feel better, a'right?"

Still a bit shells-hocked, you stir on the bedsheets and push yourself up to sit upright, stretching your arms hesitantly to the men in a weak attempt to remedy whatever shitstorm you caused in their minds.

"Don't get mad, please," you whisper sheepishly, and the shy sound of your still choked voice seems to wash Johnny's explosive anger away better than the firm grip of his handler's (Price's) hands. With a look of a beaten dog, Johnny huffs loudly, cuddlng up to you and hiding his face in your lap. His heavy jaw sinks in the plush of your thighs, accomodated nicely with the softness of your body.

"'M nae mad at ye, leannan. Jus' dinnae say tha' again, a'right, bonnie? If ye need me tae prove ye-"

"No..." your hand finds it place in his damp mohawk and brushes through, while you glance at John. His eyes are shimmering with love and love only as he looks at you and Johnny, and you feel a wave of shyness - the good, giddy, warm kind - replacing the paralyzing shame. "I'm fine already. With you."

"Maybe we should 'ave a little chat 'bout it, love," John's hand meets yours on the sad mutt's head in your lap, intertwinig fingers with you through Johnny's soft hair. "When ya feel better. Jus' so we know what we're dealing with, eh?"

"Yeah. A bit later. Thank you."

All four of your men get frozen witnessing your reaction, struck with a horrifying sense of helplessness - it feels like the biggest failure among many unsuccessful missions, operations where lives were lost and enemies missed, to have you curling up and crying in misery between all the love they've been pouring onto you just mere seconds ago. As if everything they touch is bound to go up in flames, drown in blood and rot, be it on the outside or from the inside.

They're lost, and as always, they turn to the Captain, giving themselves up for him to direct, trusting that he knows better what use they can be of.

And, frankly, he does.

They're barely talking, but the commotion around you is decipherable even through the red mind fog and closed eyes - it honestly only makes you feel worse, unsafe, exposed, despite that simply being Soap, sent off to fill a bath ("Ye want it hot or a tad bit cool, bonnie?" - Silence. Your nails dig into your scalp, the soud of someone simply breathing, even more so talking to you, sending you into a new fit of rage. "Make it warm, Johnny, we'll adjust later."), and Simon, leaving for tea duty - silently, your favourite way to have it attentively observed in the first two weeks you've been together and memorized ever since.

It's Kyle whose voice, murmuring into your ear sweet, reassuring nothings as he keeps you caged in a tight embrace, your back pressed against his warm chest, forces you out of the highly irritable state. You have no choice between his short, chaste kisses on the crown of your overloaded head, and John's calloused hands massaging your calves, soft flesh dipping under the firm pressure.

"Ya jus' focus on fighting tha' storm off, a'right, darling? We'll take care of th' rest. It happens, we know it does, 's not your fault. Jus' a funny lil' thing your mind does, eh? Yeah, love, we know wha' it's like when your mind does funny things. Don't we, Kyle?"

"That we do." Maybe it's just your own depressive state rubbing off on them or distorting your perception, but Kyle's voice sounds almost solemn. You would turn to look into the smoky quartz of his eyes, but either he holds you too tight, or you have barely any strength left in your upset body - you simply can't.

Maybe it's alright. Maybe tonight they don't need you ripping your heart out to tend to their restless minds, and you can just allow them to take care of you.

Allow Kyle to carry you to the bathroom.

Allow John to stay there and help you wash yourself with a nice, scrubby loofah.

Allow Johnny to bring in his huge, baggy loungewear that doesn't hug your curves too snugly and allows you to simply forget what you were so angry about for a while.

Allow Simon to serve you perfect temperature tea in your favourite mug and keep you quiet company on the balcony, night air cooling your wet and clean now skin and hair further and blowing all thoughts out of your troubled head away.

As you share a cigarette with rich clove aftertaste, breathing ironically becomes easier. Behind your back the bedsheets are being changed, proper meal is being cooked, a good movie you won't be upset falling asleep to is being chosen.

"Simon." - "Hm." - "You sure you're okay with me being like that?" - "Standin' in the wind with your hair wet, tryin' to catch a cold?"

You grunt, not appreciating him taking the piss while you're tryig to be vulnerable, but allow him to pull the hood of Johnny's hoodie onto your head.

"No. I mean, fucked up in the head?"

You don't actually know what answer you expect. With an unreadable expression, Simon turns his head, looking through the glass door at the men crowded in the living room and waiting for you, and then stares back at you with a smirk, a permanent scowl carved into it by someone's cruel hand.

"Nah. Tha's how I like 'em."

He throws the cigarette butt away and chuckles, cupping the back of your head and pulling you inside, into the warmth of home.

"Oi, bonnie! C'mere, As saved ye a spot." There is no spot as you look at the two-story cuddle pile on the sofa and the blanket nest in front of it, unless of course... ah, yes, Johnny's patting his lap. "Ah promise Ah'll behave. Mostly."

And as his warmth envelops you through a big hug, his hands clenched humbly on your belly and behaving indeed, you feel stupidly happy.

Because you're enjoying touch again.

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2-dsimp · 3 months ago

Note

I'm going feral for Kirai BY GODS you don't even know

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵

Yandere Anticupid x obsessed reader

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵

Tw: Fluff, shotgun wedding, honeymoon with Kirai, btw he’s goth, love at first sight, obsessive reader

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵

To think you were so close to giving up on love. Until your Anticupid came into your life. He only asked if you were okay when you were at your lowest. But hey, he got you hooked off of his sexy gothic style alone and that was enough to make you fall for him.

You were currently hugging around your newly acquired hubby. You both were cooped up in a honey suite after the shotgun wedding. Y’all had prior to when your previous date had died due to unforeseen circumstances.

The Anticupid was a blushing mess, not liking the fact you so casually clung to his form. You were going to fuck up his mascara from how you got him nervously sweating bullets.

Kirai was never one for physical affection, the mere mention of it made him utterly repulsed. But now he wasn’t so sure, you made him question everything. It felt so magical to have you wrapped around him almost like a scarf. He never wanted to take off

Shaking his head, he remembered the plan he needed to set in motion. The goth still had a chance of redemption for his earlier moment of weakness. He turned to face your direction with his signature resting bitch face. “Listen, let me just make things clear with you for a second—”

“Yes? I’m all ears my sweet beloved husband~”You chimed happily cupping his face perked at attention as your eyes sparkled filled with mirth from him just looking back at you.

That expression of pure adoration was a painful jab to his ribs. He was suppose to be making you give up on love. Not… having you look at him like that. It made him wanna barf rainbows and kittens n puppies n allat that shit. It went against his whole doom and gloom aesthetic damn it!

“I… am a heartless man.” Fuck, he just couldn’t go through with this it was best to nip it in the bud. You were too much of a formidable opponent, as the wise man once said. In the face of defeat run away till you’re strong enough to try again!

“And uh No heart means no romance… Get what I’m tryna say?” Kirai spoke rather robotically, too stiff like an awkward teenager. Struggling to instill some sort of rift between you two.

“You’re Heartless? if that’s the case then…” You trailed off tinkering a bit in thought before you pulled down your blouse. Your hands making a heart sign right over your chest as you beamed at him.

“You can just have my heart as your own darling~! ♥︎” Your Anticupid tensed, his expression faltering upon this sudden act. Why on earth were you acting so sweet? And why is he bout to fold like a damn wheelchair in response?!

Kirai felt faint, you really were the worst matchup for him. Mauling over how damned diabolically cute you were to just say that without shame. He couldn’t understand how you were this open, this willing to give the most precious of all you have to him? The heart he was so set to destroy.

Not to mention, he just officially met you today for goodness sake!

He gulped, you were too dangerous he had to abort the mission he felt like he was gonna lose himself entirely. Taking a deep breath, regaining his composure. ‘Alright… I can do this. I’m an experienced anticupid, The no1 heartbreaker, This can’t phase me!’ He psyched himself up mentally.

“You really… are a fool. That is such a reckless decision.” So he says but can’t help but stare, his heart skipping a beat. That cheeky smile and adorable expression on your face was so… so..

Fuck it.

Kirai pulled you into an embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck. Hiding the faintest of pink on his cheeks that grew worse the longer he stayed in that position.

“You’re impossible, just as they described you in the portfolio. I can’t deal with this shit. They need to pay me for overtime.” He was mentally punching the air. Cursing the higher ups who even gave him the order to be your Anticupid. They were clearly setting him up for failure!

But he can’t help but to feel grateful for it all the same. He petulantly grumbled under his breath, his leathery wings wrapping around you both in response to you trying to comfort him out of his funk.

He could worry about getting a hazing from his fellow Anti-love corporate coworkers later. For now he’d just settle for listening to your obnoxious but soothing heartbeat of love. He’d begrudgingly cherish it.

Your Anticupid is an ambitious man, his plan wasn’t over yet! He’s just going back to the drawing board… eventually

#Kirai the Anticupid #yandere oc #yandere cupid #yandere x reader #yandere concept #yanderecore #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere male #yandere male x reader #yandere blurb #yandere stories #yandere fluff #yandere writing

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bl0odyh3art · 8 months ago

Text

JUST LIKE HER.

warnings: incest (father/daughter), James being disgusting, james comparing you and Mary 😭, non-con to dub-con, and getting turned on by yelling.

this is dead dove/dark content. if are uncomfortable with this kind of content or don't like it, then do not interact.

a/n : this lowkey sucks to me

Being with your dad wasn't so bad. He supports you, cares for you, lets you drive his car sometimes, and decided it was okay for you to live with him still. Unless you find a nice spot. But there's one thing.

He's really, really, really, really, a serious loser. I mean come on…he's kinda pathetic. Sad to say it but it's true, your dad isn't always the best of the best. He can be lazy and dumb. Sometimes really touchy with you as well….but that's for another time. Whenever he sees you, cleaning, cooking, or whatever that reminds him of Mary in the slightest.

He'd go insane and go on long stories about her, of course he never told you what really happened…you'd hate him with all your guts and heart. He even feels pathetic for mistaking you for her once.

“Dad, it's been years. I thought you'd let go of it now.” You sighed as you grabbed the tiny towel to dry off a dish.

“I know, sweetie but it's just-....you look like her sometimes and that makes me freak out..” He looked away from you, what kind of father does that? Gets excited over almost seeing his dead wife but in reality it's just his daughter.

Honestly, when did you get so big? When you were a kid, you looked a lot more like him. Exactly like your dad, people would mistake you for a boy sometimes.

He was staring at you, long and good…just looking. ‘Would she feel just like Mary?’ He let his thoughts take over. What the fuck.

He cringed internally and put his head in his hands. He can't. He knows he shouldn't…but fuck. He saw all the bits of Mary…Mary…and himself. Mostly his genes but you were a perfect mix. The tits and ass…god he just wanted to grab them and compare them but that'd already make him more of a loser than he is.

Being miserable and wanting to fuck his own daughter? Really trying to make himself look bad at this point. But what could be the harm? Only once. He hid Mary's death for a bit…He can hide this too.

“What are you doing?” Scoffing at him as he puts his hands on your hips, Trying to swat them away.

“You look like her, y’know..?” He said in the softest and sad voice he had.

Pathetic ass loser trying to seduce his daughter. Barf.

“Okay…and?...” You tried to turn your head to look at him. He stared at you with a certain look you've seen before. The look you saw customers give you at work. “Let's fuck” look. He tried slipping his cold hands underneath your sweater, making you flinch and push him away.

“Hey! What the hell is wrong with you?” Your brows furrow and look disgusted with him. You should be disgusted because he deserves it.

“Honey, I'm so sorry…I don't know what came over me….” He sighed. He knew exactly what came over him but sadly it didn't work.

So plan B. Fuck her while she's sleeping. Not his proudest moments but hey, he's had worse moments. So during the night, while you're all tucked in and fast asleep. He comes in like the boogeyman at night and boom.

He can't wait another minute, feeling up your tits and kissing you…Okay, so it doesn't really taste like her but it's sweeter and softer.

After minutes of kissing you and feeling up your tits, you get up and slap him quickly “God, what the fuck is wrong with you? I can't even sleep anymore? Fuck…you're so gross, I can't believe mom delt with you.” You basically yelled at him and wow, that's what got him hard.

Whiskey Dick the whole time he was touching you but the yelling is what got him turned on. Fucking freak.

You couldn't do much, he's stronger and older, you had to give in and just let it happen. He has a big dick though…a real nice pale, veiny, pink tip dick. Pushing it deeper and deeper into you as he let go of strained groans.

“I'm sorry…. I'm- fuck I'm sorry baby but…I couldn't stop…” He breathed out into your neck, he got red pretty easily. his pretty neck is all red and his dick of course just absolutely throbbing against your soft walls. Making you cry out in pleasure and pain.

“Dad!...Oh God…ahah…please rub my clit…” you whined to him and he instantly listened. It's so cute. the perfect pussy, chubby, tight, and wet. After what seemed like hours, he finally came all in you. His jaw clenching, eyes closed, and hands stuck to your hips while he tried so hard to not moan ‘Mary’. No condom or anything. He wasn't capable of waiting for something like that. He felt guilty. Looking at your tired and exhausted expression.

“Baby…My baby…I'm so sorry for that..” He sighed out, leaning his head down to your shoulder and letting it rest there as you just patted his back. “S’okay, dad…” you slurred out, cock drunk.

At least he got some pussy finally.

#james sunderland smut #james sunderland x reader #james sunderland #silent hill 2 remake #silent hill #silent hill 2 #dad!james sunderland #tw.incest

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diz-eaze · 3 months ago

Note

please please please can you please write more modern au scara x reader 🥺🥺🙏🏻🙏🏻 feed… me…. a continuation of the latest one where he uses technology to stalk reader and become their roommate :3

luv ur writing!!!! it’s so humorous and lighthearted while still itching that yandere scratch idk.

even if u dont write a sequel just wanted to say i loved it <3 have a nice day

; thank u so so much ahhhh !! I HAVE MANY THOUGHTS ON MODERN AU SCARA TEEHEE (and just him in general... 4ever a scaranator). my indulgence is writing yanderes in a lowkey comical manner like yesss they are mentally ill but at least they're serving entertainment while you're in captivity !! like we honestly need more yanderes put into unserious-not-so-unserious situations <3 bc imagine seeing this one guy (scara) from your massive college campus being so deranged and unhinged about you and going... "wait,,, that's irl oomf??" NEGATIVE AURA I FEAR. anyways this isn't proofread bc I just barfed this out, so sorry for any mistakes! <3

; continuation to this post

; yandere, minor nsfw content, cyberstalker to roommate scara pipeline, gooner scara :D, half serious half silly, creepy behavior, do nawt be like roomie scara </3

additional yandere scara thoughts !!

an hour into being roommates, you convinced him to download snapchat just so you can have a snapstreak with him. he puts up a facade of being a nonchalant, cool, and mysterious guy (he consulted the online forums on what traits many people his age found attractive so now he's rolling with it until he's buried six feet under) so he cooly (not) rolls his eyes before taking his phone out. in your excitement, you crowd around him while he takes his time setting up an account (he's dying with joy inside bc !! ur so close to him !!).

you tell him upfront that this snapstreak shit is serious business for you and that you'd kick him out if he misses a day and he takes it so seriously, he would never intend to miss a snap from you in the first place, but your words caused him to lock the fuck in. so now every night, the moment the clock turn 00:00, trust and believe you'll receive a snap from him to continue your streak. it doesn't matter if you're awake or not, he is sending that shit asap ! (and yes, he does screenshot every snap you send to him and keeps it in a private folder in his gallery to look at whenever he hasn't talked to you in 3 minutes MAXIMUM.)

manifestations DO come true because now he's mutuals with not only your facebook account, but also on twitter ! life is a game and scara is a winner at it. he keeps his dump accounts a secret from you, it's for the better because if you looked at it, you'd send him away to a psych ward and, well, he doesn't want to be separated from you.

your facebook account is a private account, so scara couldn't infiltrate it back then. but the moment you accepted his friend request post-roommates era, the floodgates had opened. that night, he impatiently waited for you to retreat to your room so that he can eagerly and peacefully scroll through your entire account from most recent to oldest. he stayed up all night just screenshotting and saving any pictures you posted to his 3053 terabyte storage computer. he makes it his life mission to max the computer storage with every bit of information he can find on you, both internet and real-life (he documents it down the moment you look away from him).

inside his dump account on twitter, he retweets the mush gushy tweets that are like, "me and my partner don't argue, they tell me to shut up and I do" knowing damn WELL he's not in a relationship with you. but that's okay. because this is him manifesting you into making it happen. also randomly posts pictures of you accidentally falling asleep on the couch mid-study session with the caption, ":) so cute" ... ok!! this jackass thinks he's boyfriendcore 😂😂😂 like no put down that phone because you belong in a mental asylum sir.

he doesn't use reddit anymore because one time, he vaguely described your personality in a post of him asking for help to romance you, and some random in the comments called you unsavory names. he crashed out so bad that he called up his estranged mother (ei) just so he could get the connections to doxx them and ruin their life in the same breath. he hates it when other people perceive you because, in his head, they're severely mischaracterizing you as a person.

HE DEFINITELY TERRORIZES YOUR INSTRAGRAM NGL !! every morning, without fail, you wake up and find that some anonymous user is viciously yearning for you in your NGL confessions, and every time, you shrug it off because you think it's one of your friends playing a prank on you. "I want to be the towel you used earlier during your P.E class. I'm so jealous, I wished it was me licking your sweat away :(", "can you chew me the way you chewed on the cap of your pen.", "I love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you." ...err, how about we take a step back? :). but no. it's actually your roommate who sits across from you while you eat breakfast together. he definitely throws up in jealousy when he sees you post an NGL confession that he did NOT write !! the only yearner allowed in your life is him btw. it's the only morally correct answer.

during the dark times (pre-roommate era), a tale as old as time, but scara definitely used pornhub to jack off to anyone that resembled you and !! closed his eyes while doing so because in his head he truly just envisions him and you in the place of the actors. he was in so deep into it, he made an excel sheet that categorized actors based on how close they were to looking and acting like you. sigh. he no longer does this now that he's in such close proximity to you, just being in your presence alone supplies him with enough goon material to last him through the entire month.

small freakymouche interlude

entering true freak territory, cyberstalker-era scara was definitely so thirsty for you (i mean. he still is). sometimes, jerking off to porn that contain actors that resemble you isn't close to enough, he actually needs you. and looking at your LinkedIn profile would normally set him off the edge, but even that won't cut it occasionally. some days, he jerks off for hours - fist pumping his cock repeatedly, desparately, yet he's never able to come because he hasn't seen you in any of his classes yet :( but when he does... oh. You probably only shared one (1) class with him, and there's a chance you didn't even sit near him at all - but archons, just seeing you in real-life with his own eyes and not through the screen of his phone is enough for his dick to harden up. he quickly excuses himself 15 minutes into class so that he can have an emergency jerk session in one of the bathroom stalls. heavens forbid if you greet him that day because now he's doubling his jerk session just from your voice alone.

One time, he was aimlessly scrolling through his facebook timeline when one of your mutual friends posted a beach outing picture with your body being so exposed in ways he never thought he'd actually see (err, view). the way the golden sunlight only served to make your body seem so heavenly, so utterly temping - he started salivating. he almost detached his dick off of his body from how hard he was beating it that day :( that (cropped) group photo is still one of his top faves and he still looks at it every night before he goes to bed.

roommate scara is still working up the courage to one day sneak into your room while you're out so that he can obtain high-quality goon material. but for now he'll settle for accidental touches (that he definitely did NOT plan). one day, he swears it on EVERYONE'S soul.

there's a piece of sock you left behind in the living room and never saw again. when asked about it, scara will shrug and say he doesn't know where it could be. you assume you must have accidentally thrown it away during landry session. in reality, his dick has violated your sock so much it's become so crusty and icky.

speaking of laundry... roommate scara is definitely a loyal volunteer of doing both his and your laundry due to his... personal agenda. said agenda involves him inhaling every piece of worn clothing you have until he memorizes it before throwing it onto the washing machine. it's definitely his second favorite chore to do.

his favorite chore to do is washing the dishes !! this is because he licks all the utensils you used and even licks off any spare sauce, rice, noodle, etc. left behind on your plate :) this way, you're indirectly kissing him <3

but it's okay if he's gooning 24/7, because he's gooning out of affection. he's doing it for the love of the game !

closing thoughts <3

scara would very much rather shoot his foot with a gun than let anyone inside your shared living space. he's the ultimate gatekeeper. he claims he simply doesn't want anyone intruding his peace but he's just derangely jealous I fear.

scara runs LAPS around your dorm the moment you're even a MINUTE late from the time you told him you'd be home by. oh, it's 7:31PM even though you told him you'd be at the dorm by 7:30PM? yeah, your phone is going to get blown up by his spam messages.

he already planned out your entire marriage and vows in his mind. even has it saved on a google doc.

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the-kr8tor · 4 months ago

Note

Hello! I wanted to request for a fluffy Hobie x reader <3 One where the reader is someone he became friends with through the Spider Society, so the two have yet to properly get to know each other, but reader has a terribly hidden crush for him. But the main thing is that, out of everyone in their friend group, the pair are huggers so they naturally gravitate to one another for hugs or to just be close. - 💜💛

Hello!! I hope you love it!! And thank you for reading my work! ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader/ Spider-Punk x gn! Reader

Tags: use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except hobie is mentioned taller), spider person! Reader, spider trio cameo, established relationship, lovestruck! Hobie, fluff!

Navigation

The portal opens right in the middle of spider society. Its warbling orange glow glimmers against the white floors as the whole squad exits the portal.

You immediately bolt towards the team, eyes looking for the familiar pair of boots to step out of it.

“Hey!” Gwen smiles, taking off her mask as she tiredly hugs you. You pat her back, and she looks at you suspiciously. “I have a feeling the welcome committee isn't just for me.”

You wince, giving her an awkward smile. “What— no way, Gwen. I'm here for you!”

“Hobie's right behind us, Y/N.” Pav says tiredly, arms stretching as your face brightens up from the mention of the punk spider.

Gwen scrunches her nose, scoffing as she lets you go. “Really? You don't even hide it well.”

You try to save face. “I'm here for…all of you.” You bounce on the balls of your feet as you hear footsteps exit out. Your smile flickers away for a second when Miles appears from the portal, rubbing along his aching wrist.

Miles notices along with Gwen and Pavitr. “‘I’m glad you're safe, Miles!’” He mocks your voice. “Really, you don't even hide it anymore.”

“That's what I said!” Gwen agrees, huffing with her hands placed on her hips.

The familiar thump of the pair of boots has you turning towards the source, arms gravitating to the pair of arms ready to receive you.

“It's just hurtful, y’know— oh come on!”

The trio turns to you and Hobie, embracing like you haven't seen each other in years. When in fact that you literally saw him before he went on the mission, and was hugging you just like this.

His chin is propped atop your head, arms squeezing you and slightly lifting you up on your feet while you hide in the crook of his neck. He smells of post battle adrenaline and coconut from his (Pav’s) oil.

“How's my favourite spider?” Hobie says, eyes darting towards the three, who are brooding in place. He clearly did that on purpose, where's the lie though when he's wrapped around your finger.

“Good,” you say against his skin, lips barely brushing along his neck, and barely appropriate for ‘just friends.’ “I broke my record at the training grounds.” Leaning away to his disappointment, your smile has his slight frown fade away. “The tip you gave me worked really well!”

“Augh, get a room already.” Miles says in disgust while Gwen acts like she's gonna barf.

“I think it's sweet!” Pav exclaims while you and Hobie are stuck in your little bubble of affection.

Gwen and Miles stare Pav down.

“Really? It disrupts the friend group.” Gwen argues.

Miles loops his arm over Gwen's shoulder, nodding along. “I agree!”

Pav gives them a look. “Hypocrites!”

They continue to argue in the background while Hobie's arms are still around you. The continuous hugs remind you of those stuffed animals with the long arms and velcro on them so they'd stick to your clothes and hug you the entire time. Hobie's hugs feel the same, soft and comforting. Without the prick of velcro of course.

“D’you think they'll stop arguing?” You ask, head lifting up to gaze into his warm eyes.

Hobie beams at you, hand placed in the back of your head while his nose nudges your temple. “Maybe once we tell ‘em that we're datin'”

“Date, we went on one date.” You correct him, but your bashful grin and clammy hands that are still holding on to him says that there will be more in the future.

“It would be plural if someone confessed a lot sooner.” A smirk plays on his lips as you smack his chest playfully, palm hitting hard muscle underneath his suit. You suddenly feel incredibly warm. “They're right, you didn't hide it very well.”

“Y–You know why!”

“No, I don't.” His lopsided smirk says otherwise. He's playing with you, and you're loving every minute of it. “Can you tell me again, just like last night?”

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lovelytsunoda · 8 months ago

Text

the scaredy cat support group | logan sargeant

summary: much to her dismay, y/n's friends have dragged her to see the scariest film of the season. luckily for her, the blond sitting next to her in a darkened cinema seems to be just as petrified as she is

pairing: logan sargeant x female! reader

warnings: scary movies & scaredy cats, implications of fear and gore, logan being a sweetie.

"this is such a bad idea."

the theater was packed, groups of people passing by them to get into the auditorium, eager to see the latest blood-soaked halloween killfest on screens. y/n, however, just couldn't get her feet to move. her friends stood just in front of her, worried looks on their faces as they looked back at her.

y/n loved halloween, make no mistake. it was her favourite holiday by leaps and bounds. she loved micheal meyers and ghostface and even freddy krueger.

but she absolutely hated being scared. she was a sensitive soul, and that was why she preferred older horror movies that were limited on the level of blood and guts.

"are you sure you don't want to sit this one out? we told you you didn't have to come." her friend said gently.

"no, no. i came here to spend time with you guys because i love you. and no scary movie is going to keep me from doing that."

she was reassured by the group of college guys that came in after her, with an athletic looking blond hanging back to stare at the film poster with a similar queasy look to the one that she was sporting.

"alright, let's get this over with. but if i barf up my popcorn, it's on you guys!"

they filed into the dark theatre, previews already beginning to play out on the big screen in front of them. their group of five took up most of the row, which, being in a small cinema, only held ten seats.

she sat in the middle, next to gloriously empty seat as she tried to steel herself for what was to come, with reminders to herself that it was all made from special effects, and she could walk out of that theater and into the real world whenever she wanted.

"is this seat taken?"

she look up and towards the soft speaker, who was using his phone flashlight to try and find his ticketed seat. it was the same blonde who had stopped to stare at the poster outside, and he looked a little pale in the face as he sat down next to her.

"not a fan of being scared?" she whispered, offering him some popcorn. "me neither."

"oh good. that means i'm not going to be the only one shaking like a baby." he laughed. "god, i would much rather have gone to see fucking joker or something."

"i wasn't given an option. they just told me that this is what was happening and i was invited if i wanted to. i'm y/n."

"logan."

"will you two be quiet?" the man behind them hissed. "some of us are trying to watch a movie.

logan shrugged, typing something on his phone before showing her the screen.

a movie that hasn't even started yet? i didn't realize that the advertisement for jackass was so interesting

"and turn your damn brightness down!"

y/n stifled a laugh as she watched logan pretend to give the guy the middle finger before slipping his phone into the pocket of his hoodie. the lights in the theater dimmed even further, the feature presentation beginning to unfold on screen.

to her credit, she lasted about half an hour before she jumped, knocking over her bag of popcorn and spilling some slippery buttery kernels into Logan’s lap. she was mortified, but the massage logan typed out on his phone reassured her that everything was fine.

it’s all good, squeeze my hand if u get 2 scared

no points for grammar, but five for being a sweetie.

naturally, it was logan who reached for her hand first, during a particularly gory on screen kill that had y/n squeezing her eyes shut and physically turning away from the screen while logan clutched her cold hand in his.

despite herself, she found Logan’s touch to be comforting. what did that say about her that a little scary movie had her seeking out comfort from strangers? (don’t tell her mother that or she would start singing the jamie walters song and everyone would be miserable) for a minute, she almost forgot that she’d come with a group of friends and was only reminded of that fact when one of them messaged her.

getting cozy over there? see, horror flicks are a great place to pick up guys! just make sure his favourite isn’t american psycho.

she giggled, looking over at her friend, who flashed her a thumbs up before turning back to the screen. that scene had long since passed, but logan continued to hold her hand, and she could feel his muscles tense as a scare drew nearer and nearer on the big screen.

she squeezed his hand reassuringly, only to be clutching it in terror moments later, one hand clapped over her mouth to stifle a scream. Logan reached over her body, almost as if he was gallantly and protectively trying to shield her body with his own.

she was going to fall in love with him at this rate if she wasn’t careful.

the movie finished, winding down in a way that much much calmer, if not eerie compared to what they had seen throughout the course of the film. she was relieved to see the end credits roll, although displeased at the idea of leaving logan behind.

she followed her friends out of the cinema, dropping her empty popcorn container in the trash as she went.

"y/n!" a voice called after her.

she paused, turning around to see logan standing just near the door. she glanced back at her friends, smiling when she saw their excited faces, gesturing wildly towards logan.

she walked up to the blonde, hands tucked nervously in the pockets of her flannel coat.

"hey," she started, rocking back and forth on her heels

"hey." logan grinned, scratching at the beck of his neck. "so, i think you're really cute." just out of her range of vision, she could see logan's friends standing behind him, sticking their thumbs up and whistling in encouragement. "and i was wondering if you wanted to go and get a coffee with me?"

she beamed, looking back to her friends for approval, one last time.

"i would love to. after all, you were my protector in there."

logan smiled. "is now okay with you? there's a little place in the plaza just across the way."

"sounds perfect."

#logan sargeant #logan sargeant x reader #the cozy collection 2024 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #logan sargeant x you #f1 x fanfic #logan sargeant x y/n #logan sargeant fanfic

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

Text

Monster, Inc 7

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss is an asshole, you know this. But what happens when he turns his wrath upon you? (plus!reader)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, this reader is known as Missie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

The table jolts. You look over as Hansen's shoulderd curl forward, his head resting on the table. Oh no. Ransom guffaws and slaps his leg.

"Holy shit. Been a while, huh?" He taunts drunkenly. "Lightweight."

You wouldn't agree. Mr. Hansen has six empty glasses in front of him.

"Um, Mr. Hansen?" You touch his shoulder gently. "Please, uh...."

"Relax, peachy, I'll get an uber for the old man," he takes out his phone. "Need a trip myself. Lydia's been blowing me up."

"Um, okay," you rub Hansen's shoulder as he gurgles. "Sir," you glance around. Are you going to get kicked out? "Hey."

He sits up suddenly and his head swings back. He breathes heavily. Is he going to barf?!

"Um, can you watch him?" You ask Ransom.

He shrugs as he furrows his face at his phone. He's only slightly more sober.

You slide out of the booth and flit over to the bar. You flag down the bar tender and order a water. You take it with a thanks and return to the table.

"Mr. Hansen, you need some water," you touch his arm. "Here?"

He blinks and looks at you. His lips curve. "Mmm." The purr makes your skin crawl.

"Please, drink," you press the brim to his lips.

He slurps, wetting his mustache, and you slowly tilt the glass. You rub his back to make sure it stays down.

You pull the glass away and he smacks his lips. He leans into you and flops his hand onto your thigh. He squeezes.

"That dress is hideousssss," he slurs. "Take it off."

"Mr. Hansen," you gasp.

Ransom laughs louder. "Ubers on the way. Hansen. Where's your card?"

"Fuck you, pay for yourself, Hugh." Hansen retorts and clumsily snakes his arm over your shoulder. "Don't worry, hips, I got you."

"Mr. Hansen," you push his arm off. "You're drunk so let's just get you home."

"Let's get you home," he babbles into a giggle. Then lowers his voice but not really to a whisper. "And naked!"

Your body scalds at the remark. You know he's not in his right mind but it makes you shudder. You put his hand in his lap and he quickly latches on, trying to guide your hand to his crotch.

"Woah, oh," you untangle yourself. "Mr. Hansen, that's too much."

"Here," he sits back, swaying, "I'm not a fucking poor boy like this cuck."

He reaches under his jacket and takes out his wallet. He slides his card free and slaps it down. "Here ya fucking go."

"Hey, that's mean," Ransom sneers.

You sigh. "Ransom," you grab the card, "can you please get him to the uber? I'll take care of the bill."

He looks at you with a tick in his jaw then shrugs, "fine. Once he's sober, I'll get him back."

"Just please. Before he gets worse."

"Hey, baby," Hansen reaches for your ass as you half stand behind the table and try to shimmy out.

You deflect him and swiftly get free of the booth. You scurry away, praying that Ransom actually help. You go up to a server and ask if you can pay. They lead you to the bar and you patiently wait for them to find your tab.

You swipe Hansen's card, knowing he'll grill you about it tomorrow, then hurry off. You find the table empty. Phew. You carry on outside and find Ransom barely able to get your boss into the waiting car as the drunken man grips the edges of the door and fights his pacification.

You are at your limit. You broke off your plans for him, you came here, let him embarrass you, and now he's doing this. You storm over to Ransom as he raises a fist.

"Excuse me," you gently touch his arm. "I'll take it from here."

You move between them and bend to look Hansen in the eye. "Sir, you listen to me, you get in that car and behave or I will leave you on the curb."

He blinks and reels back as if you've slapped him. He blinks then chuckles then stares again. He swallows.

"Yes, Missie, I'm sorry." He pulls his legs inside and turns, sitting properly in the seat.

"Belt," you warn him. He buckles up.

You watch him, uncertain. He apologised. He's never done that. And he's never said your name with anything less than mocking. You frown and shut the door.

"How'd you do that?" Ransom asks.

"I don't know," you admit.

"I got a separate car so...." he mutters.

"Have a good night. I'll deal with him," you assure him.

"Sure, uh... Missie," he says, "I'm sorry if I was a jerk."

"Not as big as him," you say. "See ya."

You turn and go around the car. You get in and greet the driver, issuing an apology of your own. You look over at Hansen as he sniffs and shrinks down.

"You're mad at me," he slurs.

"No, concerned. You drank a lot." You gird.

"I know," he hiccups.

You stay silent. You're tired. You just want to get him home then go back to your own.

He giggles, "I'm a bad boy."

"Mr. Hansen," you glance at the driver in the rear view.

"Tell me I'm a bad boy," he gurgles.

You shush him and look out the window. He just keeps embarrassing you. Just the same old selfish man. You don't like to think mean things but he hasn't given you any evidence to the contrary.

He didn't like the cake, he didn't thank you for fixing his hair, and he dragged you here just to ruin your night. You're more exhausted than you know. You might just be done with him.

The uber pulls up to his house. That big modern facade is extravagantly expensive. Hansen never takes half-measures. Everything has intent and that only makes you even more certain that he brought you along for his own sadism.

You thank the driver and get out. You go around as Hansen slumps. You snap your fingers then undo his belt. He blathers as you pull him out by his wrist. He staggers and you brace yourself for him to fall. He keeps on his feet, barely.

You sigh. The uber leaves and you don't blame them for wanting to be away. You get to the front door and fish Hansen's keys from his pocket. He laughs and flutters his fingers on your neck. "Tickle fight."

"No," you push the door open and grab his forearm. "Bed."

"Yessssss," he drawls.

You swing the door shut and veer by the stairs. That's not happening. You drag him into the front room and to the couch. You angle him towards it.

"You're gonna sleep here."

"Mmm, okay," he nods and wiggles free of your grasp, "I'm sleepy."

Suddenly, he hooks his arms around you. You nearly topple over. He moves you toward the couch and pushes you down with him. You yelp as he hugs you and nestles in, penning you into the joint of the back and seat.

"Mr. Hansen!" You shriek.

"Shhhh," he puts his chin on your head, "sleepy time."

#series #au #drabble #bad bosses #the gray man #lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #monster inc

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freakyformula · 7 months ago

Note

pleaseeeee the honeymooners with lewis were soooo good 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 you wrote him beautifully 😩😩😩 write more for him please im begging you

Since you asked very nicely, I will oblige <333

Saviour

Summary: You were supposed to walk home when you ran into a group of men. When Lewis sees what they do to you he can't let it slip.

Warnings: Sexual assault, fluff, Lewis being a sweetheart (is that even a warning?!)

Word count: 3,4k

Now, where do I start?

I was on my way home from a friend's house late one night, it must have been past midnight, me and my friend had a lot to catch up on and time slipped through our fingers. The night was uncommonly calm for a Saturday night in Monaco. I was slightly drunk, me and my friend had a couple of glasses of wine earlier, but I was still able to find my way home, or so I thought.

As I slowly walk along the streets of Monte Carlo, running into a few tourists here and there, them being way more intoxicated than me, at least they acted like it, smashing bottles into the sidewalk and talking loudly, I come to a stop at a red light.

I look around, there's not a single soul in sight. The only thing I hear is the familiar clicking sound of the traffic light. The air was chilly, I certainly wasn't dressed for the night with my short dress and blazer.

I click my high heels as I wait for what feels like forever for the light to change. I look around, but there's not a car in sight, what the hell am I waiting for?

As the light changed to green, thank fuck; I was freezing, I start walking along a small street filled with small artisan ice cream shops, cafées, and vendors. This street was usually filled with people, drinking their sangrias, mingling, and laughing, but now, I was the only one walking along it.

I can almost see my apartment building when I hear a whistle behind me, making me freeze in my tracks. I slowly turn around, only to see three of the drunk men I'd run into before.

"Where do you think you're going, loca?" One of the Spaniards asks. "We don't bite, you know." Another one chips in.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I'd really want to get home now." I try to argue but to no avail. The men walk behind me, catching up quicker than I can react. I would run, but my high heels won't let me, and the wine certainly doesn't help either. "Stop, we just want to talk to you!" The third man yells.

When I feel a hand on my shoulder, I turn to see the three men looking over me with hungry eyes. They're conversing in what I only can assume is Spanish. They smell like alcohol and tobacco, all of them standing almost slumped over on each other. I was sure I could outrun all of them if I wanted to, do I take the chance before this situation escalates? My body fails me, and I can't move an inch.

The grip on my shoulder tightens, and one of the men, the one in the middle, grasps my hand. "Don't worry, we will take care of you..." He whispers as the man to my left moves behind me, sandwiching me between him and the man holding my hand while the third man seems to keep watch for any witnesses to their actions. Their hands wander, and I'm ready to barf on them all. I'm revolted.

I go berserk when their hands land on my breasts. I scream, I kick, I do everything in my power to get out of their creeping hands.

"Shut up!" The men try to shush me and the one in front of me places his disgusting hand over my mouth with an annoyed expression on his face. "Naughty girl." He whispers. "And naughty girls deserve to be punished."

And with that; a blow to the side of my face, and I'm on the ground, gasping for air. The pain rapidly spreads to my head, and my hand flies up to protect it from any more damage. The iron taste in my mouth makes me cringe, and I look up at my assailants.

The men, chuckling and talking in their mother tongue, lean over me. "Come on, it wasn't that bad." One of them laughs, grabbing my arm and pulling me onto my knees.

I'm dizzy, and it feels like I'm going to be sick any second. Together, the men get me onto my feet. "Now, where were we?" One of the men whispers next to my ear, lips brushing against my neck. I feel disgust bubbling in my stomach.

"What do you say, she's got a nice ass huh?" The men discuss my body as if I'm not there. When I feel a slap on my buttock, I flinch, but I don't have the strength to fight their touches. I shut my eyes and disappeared somewhere else, somewhere far away. I feel one of them slipping his hand under my dress, but I'm frozen. I can't move, talk, or fight. I just let it happen. When the men pull my dress off, my hands fly up to cover myself.

"What the fuck is going on?!" I hear a distant voice yell, followed by barking.

Then, everything stops. No lingering touches, no whispers in my ear, nothing.

I couldn't believe it. I'm suddenly ten times lighter. Am I in heaven? I thought to myself.

"Hey hey, it's okay. You're safe." I heard someone say, it sounded like they were miles away, but I could feel their touch on your arm.

That voice. Surely I've ascended to heaven, but I didn't dare to have a peek.

"Are you okay, miss? Do you need an ambulance?" The voice asks.

I collapse on the hard stone pavement when I realise that the voice isn't one of the men. I felt the voice grabbing me violently as I was about to hit my head on the ground.

My head is slumped and my eyes are shut, still in that lovely place in my head that I adore so much. "Gosh, you're trembling!" The voice exclaims, and I feel something hot and heavy on my shoulders, something that feels like a coat.

"Please, talk to me." The voice asks of me while I feel his hands on my arms, rubbing them to keep me warm. The voice is soothing and angelic.

I feel myself coming back, my imaginary world slipping away from me no matter how hard I try to grasp it. When I feel someone licking my face, I'm abruptly thrown back into the real world. The owner of the tongue is small and certainly has a very large and wet tongue. The sensation makes me chuckle, I must say, and I dare to open my eyes just enough to see the bulldog in front of me.

"Okay, Roscoe, that's enough." The kind man says as he tries to hold the dog off my face.

"They..." I start, still in shock, sitting with my arms crossed in hopes of protecting myself.

"I saw what they did, you don't need to tell me." The stranger says.

I reach out for the dog, which happily accepts my scratches. When I look up, I see him sitting on his knees before me. Never in my life had I seen a man that gorgeous. I'm stuck in his eyes as he chuckles. "Can you stand up? You'll get sick sitting on the ground like this. Here is your dress if you want to put it on." The man reaches for the tossed dress and waits for me to grab it. He offers his hand to help me on my feet again.

I hesitated to accept his hand, but eventually, I reached for him and pulled myself up. My legs are wobbly and I almost fall over again, but the man holds me up with his strong arms. "Shhh, you okay?" He whispers.

"Y-yeah." You reply.

"I'm Lewis, and you are?" He offers me a handshake.

"I'm Y/N." I say as I grab his hand. His handshake was powerful, and his larger hand swallowed my hand.

"I-I'm sorry, for this." I quickly follow up.

Lewis stops in his tracks and locks his eyes with mine. "Y/N, none of this is your fault. You know that right?"

"I know but-"

"No... No but's."

I shut my mouth upon hearing that and Lewis looks down at me with warmth.

"Come here, I'll carry you." Lewis says as he picks me up and starts walking with Roscoe in close tow. His musky cologne made my heart flutter, and the sensation made me blush which he surely noticed. His arms felt like home, for lack of a better word, and his smile made my heart skip a beat.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"You'll see." Lewis quickly answers.

I lift my eyebrow, and he notices, followed by a sigh.

"Don't worry, we're going to my place. It's not far, I promise."

The thought of going to a stranger's place seemed stupid, but in my defence, I hit my head and blamed my lack of judgment on that.

As he carries me through the streets of Monaco, and we get to know each other, he smiles at me when we get to the topic of how we ended up in Monaco, of all places.

"Fate, really. I wasn't supposed to move here, but I was offered a job and took it without thinking it through." I explain.

Lewis is left silent and slows down as he processes my words.

"So... Now you're unhappy?" He asks.

"No. Not at all, I love it here, mostly anyway." I admit, and I give my head a rub, feeling a slight bump forming where I hit my head.

Lewis notices my change in mood, and stops. "You okay?" He asks, worry evident in his voice.

"Yeah, I think I hit my head harder than I first thought."

Lewis nods and speeds up his steps. "Let's get you something cold to put on that."

As we walk past one of the fancier apartment blocks, I audibly gasp at the cars parked outside. Lamborghini, Ferrari, Audi, Mercedes. "Why are we here?" I ask.

"Because this is where I live, Y/N."

What? This, is where he lived? I had so many questions. "Okay, Lewis, timeout! Let me down, please!" He does as I ask, the gentleman, despite his protests.

"Who are you?" I ask, expecting an honest answer.

"I'm Lewis Hamilton."

"Nice to meet you, Lewis Hamilton. Why do you bring me here?"

"This is where I live?" He says as if it's the most obvious thing in the universe.

"Okay... So, are you part of the mafia or something?" I chuckle, half joking.

Lewis lets out a laugh, and looks down at my smaller figure, "No, Y/N, I drive."

"Like taxis and stuff?" I ask, still not catching on.

Lewis blinks at me and continues. "No, I drive in Formula 1."

Now, I hadn't heard of his name before, but I definitely knew of Formula 1. Me and my family used to watch it when I was young. You know, the Schumacher vs Häkkinen era. I can feel my eyes becoming bigger and bigger as his words penetrate my mind.

"Formula 1?" I ask, needing confirmation.

"Formula 1." He nods.

"What the fuck, Lewis!" I can't help my heightened tone. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

Lewis's eyes are still glued on me; worry painted on his face, but still calm as a cucumber with his hand out in case I faint.

"Hello Florian, beautiful evening, is it not?" Lewis says to the doorman, as the man holds the door for us as we step inside the grand hall. I stop, just to take everything in, the marble floors, the handpainted paintings on the walls, and the huge crystal chandeliers.

"Come on, let's get you upstairs." Lewis says as he softly grabs my hand and leads me to the elevator. While we wait for it to come down, I bend down to scratch Roscoe, which he seems happy with as he leans into my touch. "He likes you." Lewis concludes and smiles at me as I look up at him. "He tends to be wary of strangers."

I hear a "ding" and the elevator doors open. Lewis leads me in with Roscoe following my footsteps, licking my bare leg as if he wants to comfort me.

"You okay?" He asks.

"Yes." I say, dragging out the "s". I smile at him to look more convincing, but in reality, it felt like I had been run over. I'm sure I looked a mess too, hence why he asked.

"Here we are." Lewis says and offers me his hand to take me to his entryway.

"I can walk just fine, you know that right?" I giggle.

"I don't take any risks." Lewis simply replies.

His keys clink as he pulls them out of his pocket and unlocks the door.

"Go ahead." He says as he ushers me into the hallway.

The smell of his apartment was expensive. I felt like I couldn't touch anything, as if I would contaminate the grandness of his space if I did. So I just stood there, like a proper fool.

"Please..." He chuckles. "Would you like something to drink? Perhaps some juice?"

I'm left in the hallway as Roscoe lazily walks in, and turns around to look at us. Lewis takes a few steps towards the kitchen and lends me his hand. "You're allowed to move, Y/N."

"I know, but..." I could feel myself blushing again. I felt so misplaced.

"Come on." He cheers me on, with a wide smile.

One step, two steps... My goal was his hand. After four steps, my hand landed in his, and he interlocked his fingers with mine.

I hadn't felt it before, surely because of the adrenaline, but now my body felt numb, and fatigue was quickly taking over.

When we make it out of the hallway, and into the main living room, that is connected to the kitchen, I can't help but gasp.

The room was spacious, and light. It seemed like the room was lit up even though it was in the middle of the night.

You weren't exactly surprised that a Formula 1 driver owned a penthouse, but in one of the fanciest districts in Monaco? This guy had to be really good.

"Lewis, which floor are we on?" I ask.

"We're on the top." He answers while he has his head in the fridge, looking for something for me to drink.

Sneaking forward on my tiptoes, I walk up to the huge window. "The view... Is phenomenal." I whisper to myself.

"Isn't it?" Lewis says, walking up from behind, with a glass of sparkling water in hand, making me smile and accepting the drink.

I take a sip and the water has a subtle taste of lemon. Refreshing. Lewis seems to take notice of how much I enjoy my drink and offers a refill.

As we stood at the window, looking over the Mediterranean sea, my eyes landed on something to our left. "Don't tell me you have a pool too?" I ask, feeling overwhelmed by how luxuriously this man lived.

"Of course." Lewis admits as he opens the doors to his terrace. "Come." He walks out, and the crisp air hits my skin as I walk out with him. I felt the cold cement against my sole when we walked further out towards the railing. There was a slight wind up here, but it wasn't chilly enough to make me cold, not with Lewis next to me.

As we are admiring the view, Roscoe walks out too, letting out a bark, demanding attention. Not from Lewis, but from me.

"Roscoe really likes you." Lewis says, rather flabbergasted, as he walks off. I follow his movements at the same time as I cuddle with Roscoe. His footsteps stop at the edge of the pool, and he turns around to face me, giving me a mischievous look, and jumps in with a loud "Woohoo!"

I slightly panic, thinking what the hell the man is up to, and Roscoe follows me to the edge, looking for him. The water was dark, and I couldn't see Lewis anywhere.

I bend over to see better and before I even get the chance to react, Lewis' hand is around mine, pulling me in with him. Roscoe is left at the edge, barking for us to come up to the surface again.

When I make it up above the water and gasp for air, Lewis laughs. "Sorry, I had to!" He says, holding his hands up in defeat.

I splash him with my hands, "I'm gonna kill you!" I giggle, before getting up. "You could've warned me, given me a chance to pull my dress off."

"There's no fun in that!" He says, him too climbing up.

We're both soaked and laughing at each other.

"How did we just meet? Feels like I've known you for longer than an hour." He asks.

His words silence me, not quite knowing what to answer. It was true, Lewis was fun, kind, and caring to me, and it felt like I had always known him.

"I-I don't know. Thank you, for saving me. I never thanked you."

"Don't worry about it, Y/N. Now, I'm sure you're tired..." He says as he walks up to me, grabbing my hand. "Would you like to spend the night?"

I was confused, what did his words mean, exactly? "What do you mean?"

"Oh... I didn't mean it like that. You can sleep in my bed and I'll take the sofa." He quickly chips in.

"Oh! Yeah, okay." I nod, sleeping over seemed like a good idea? Right?

"Let's get you something dry to wear, come on." Lewis says as he rubs your arms.

Your clothes are soaked and heavy when you walk up to his bedroom, and Lewis opens his walk in closet, inviting me inside too. "Tee and sweatpants? How does that sound to you?"

"Sounds perfect." I smile at him and look down when our gazes meet. When he hands over the outfit he put together, I look up at him, not sure of what to say. "Lewis... This is Gucci."

"Exactly." He says as he closes the closet doors, and that was the end of that discussion.

Lewis is left standing there, not quite sure of what to say or do next. "Would you like to take a shower, or?" He asks.

"I would like that." I admit, and with that, Lewis escorts me to his personal bathroom. "I-I'll leave you to it, feel free to come down if you need something."

I nod, and watch as Lewis leaves the bathroom and closes the door. The warm water hitting my body felt like heaven in contrast to the chilly water outside. I could really do with a warm hug right now, I think.

When I'm clean, thanks to his body scrubs and schampoos, I dress into his clothes, and hop into his bed. The sheets smell of him. I take an extra whiff before I get up again. As I walk down the stairs, I see Lewis lying on the sofa, cuddled up next to Roscoe.

"Lewis?" I whimper.

My call makes him instantly open his eyes and jump up from the sofa. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Nothing, nothing... I just-" I start, not getting another word out before tears flood my eyes. "Oh, Y/N..." He whispers, and pulls me into his arms, hugging me tightly. We stay like that for, I don't know, 5 minutes? Him just holding me as I sob my heart out.

When we part, Lewis leads me to the sofa to sit down. "Talk to me, Y/N."

I couldn't find the words. No matter how hard I tried.

"I..." I started. "I was thinking of how badly things could have gone if you didn't save me." I look at him with an appreciative look.

"I know, trust me, I know. But things went well, and I'm here now. You're safe." He whispers in my ear. I close my eyes as he pulls me in again, and I end up essentially lying on top of him on his sofa.

When I open my eyes, I'm confused about waking up in a bed instead of a sofa. And there was no Lewis either, or Roscoe, for that matter.

I walk down the stairs, and as the Monaco sun hits my eyes, I see Lewis in the kitchen, at the stove. "Good morning, Y/N. Sleep well?" He asks as he turns a vegan pancake in the pan.

"Morning." I say as I walk up to him, stretching my body. "Slept like a baby."

"Good. Breakfast?" He asks with a grin and a wink.

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