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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

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Gentle Thing | OP81 + LN4

Summary — They’ve always been something soft, something golden—Oscar and Elodie. But then came F1. Then came Lando Norris, with his fast mouth and wide blue eyes. And suddenly, it’s not just the two of them anymore, because that was never how their fairytale was supposed to end. They were always supposed to be three.

Pairing — Oscar Piastri x Original Female Character x Lando Norris (MMF)

Word Count — 7k

My Masterlist

Melbourne, 2013 - Age 11 + 12

Oscar had a busted lip and a fourth-place karting medal clenched in his fist, and Elodie was painting delicate sparkles onto a pair of old ballet flats on her bedroom floor.

“You’re not gonna win every time,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And fourth isn’t that bad. You still beat, like, sixteen other people to the line.”

Oscar flopped back on her bed with a choked moan. “I don’t like being fourth.”

“Fourth seems to like you.” She grinned at him.

He glared at her. “Don’t remind me. I hate it. I’ve decided that the number four is my mortal enemy. I never want to come fourth again.”

Elodie glanced at him over the rim of her rhinestone-covered sunglasses. They were heart shaped. “You look kind of cute with a split lip.”

He cracked a smile despite himself, and in doing so, re-split the cut that’d tentatively started to heal. “Do not.” He argued.

She sighed. “You do. If I didn’t know that it was from you tripping over your own kart, I’d assume you’d been in a fight. Bad-boys are hot.”

He just stared at her, his eyebrows pulling together in disbelief.

Elodie Jade, his best friend since nursery school, was wearing a pink cotton sundress, smudged with glue and glitter. Her legs were curled under her like a cat and she was surrounded by cheap craft supplies.

Oscar had dirt under his nails and a gravel burn on his arm. He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d put on a pair of clean boxer shorts.

“I don’t want to be a bad boy,” he muttered.

“I know,” she said, flipping one of the shoes over delicately. He leaned over to look at them. They looked good. Better than before. More… Elodie. ”What do you think?” She asked, chewing on her lip.

“Pretty.” He told her.

She beamed.

⸻

Melbourne, 2017 - Age 15 + 16

They celebrated Oscar’s first European test session with pizza. Sat around the table, Elodie had fabric swatches strewn all over the kitchen.

Oscar had engine grease under his fingernails.

Elodie had a sketchbook open and a stress breakout all across her forehead.

“I might not get in,” she whispered, like saying the words out loud might somehow make them more likely to come true. “They only take like, thirty students a year.”

Oscar gave her a look, folding his piece of pizza in order to eat it more effeciently. “You will.” He told her. She blinked at him, venerability flashing on her face, and he sighed. “I mean it,” he said. “You’re really good at this stuff.” He pointed at the mannequin in the corner of the kitchen. It was covered in sewing pins and layered with a million different textured fabrics.

Elodie rolled her eyes and gave a tiny laugh. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” She teased.

“It’s not even top ten.” He argued flatly. But then he bumped his knee against hers under the table. And she adjusted her position so that she could wrap her ankle around his.

Her smile was soft. Careful. Neither of them had mentioned the kiss, nor since it had happened. Two weeks ago, behind the garage after his last race, when she’d grabbed his face like she was scared of herself and he’d kissed her back like it was something inevitable, not something downright terrifying.

It hadn’t happened again since. But things felt different between them now. The energy was charged, like a million little sparks of electricity was connecting them now.

A week later, when her acceptance letter appeared in her email, she called him first.

He picked up on the second ring, groggy in some hotel room three time zones away. “Elodie?” He grumbled.

“I got in.” She said on an exhale.

She heard the rustle of sheets, the shift in his voice as he sat up. “You did?”

“I did.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. Wide and unguarded. “Of course you did.”

⸻

Paris, 2019 - Age 17 + 18

Elodie’s first collection debuted at a small fashion week offshoot in Paris; nothing major, but enough to land a few editorials and a feature in a niche luxury magazine. She wore custom satin sling backs to every event. She barely slept.

She was seventeen. In Paris, that passed for adulthood—old enough to wear red lipstick and pretend she wasn’t still full of childlike naivety.

Oscar wasn’t there. He was in the middle of a race weekend in Italy. But he sent flowers. And a note.

“I love you.”

She kept the card in her purse for weeks, until it crumpled. Then she put it in the back of her phone case. Just because.

⸻

Barcelona, 2020 - Age 18 + 19

Oscar had just won his first F3 race.

Elodie was waiting outside the paddock entrance, wearing a dress he hadn’t seen before; white, with puffed sleeves and ribbon-tie shoulders.

“You’re going to be a world champion,” she said, as he leaned into her hug. Squeezed her.

He breathed in the scent of the same perfume she’d been wearing for years and track dust and something sweet, always something sweet, and pretended the words didn’t make his stomach twist. “Just focused on surviving this season,” he murmured into her hair.

She leaned up. Kissed him softly. “You’ll do more than that.“

⸻

Baku, 2021 - Age 19 + 20

Elodie had a migraine and a décolleté crisis. Oscar had a back-of-the-grid start and an angry press officer breathing down his neck.

He called her from the cool tile floor of his hotel bathroom, lying flat on his back with his legs propped up against the door, phone balanced on his chest. His voice was hollow with exhaustion. “Tell me something not about racing.”

She didn’t even hesitate. “I stabbed my finger trying to sew lace onto a bias-cut bodice. I bled on the muslin.”

Oscar smiled faintly, eyes closed. “That’s hot.”

“You’re weird.” She laughed.

“You knew that when you started dating me.” He retorted.

She sighed, dramatic and fond. “Don’t remind me.”

He could picture her perfectly, even thousands of miles away, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her Melbourne studio, hair up in a velvet ribbon, sleeves pushed to her elbows, surrounded by half-dressed mannequins and tangled threads. Probably in one of his old team shirts. Probably glowing, even under ugly fluorescent lights.

“What happened with the bodice?” He asked.

“It didn’t sit right on the model. I cut it three times and it still looked off. Like the neckline was holding a grudge.” She paused, then added more quietly, “I think I’m going to reshoot the whole thing. The photos are wrong. The lighting’s wrong. The girls don’t… they’re beautiful, but they don’t feel like they fit my brand.”

Oscar let the silence stretch for a second, then said, “branding is important. Reshoot it.” He agreed.

“You make it sound easy.” She complained.

“Because I’m clueless.” He told her flatly,

That earned a breath of a laugh, all musical and pretty. She shifted on the other end of the line; he could hear fabric rustle, something ceramic clink, probably a teacup or a wineglass. Depending on her mood.

“Are you okay?” She asked eventually, voice somehow gentler than usual. It was impressive, how he’d managed to make someone so soft and goddamn sweet fall in love with him.

Oscar pressed his thumb into the space between his eyebrows. “Grid penalty. Shit quali. Everyone’s thinking the same thing — ‘that Aussie boy is a shit racer’.”

“You’re not.” She retorted.

He grunted. “Yeah. I know. But it’s loud. All the time. Even when they’re not saying it, they’re thinking it.”

Elodie didn’t try to offer empty comfort. She knew him too well for that. Instead, she filled the silence with her presence. Her breathing. The soft rustle of paper. The click of a lighter—one of the candles, probably.

“I miss you,” he said finally.

This time, she didn’t hesitate. “I miss you too.”

He opened his eyes, blinking up at the ceiling light. “Will you still love me if I crash tomorrow?”

“I’ll love you even if you spin into a barrier and throw up in your helmet.” She chimed.

“You’re weird.” He shot her earlier words back at her.

“You knew what you were signing up for.”

Oscar smiled, and it felt easier. He could hear her smiling, too.

They talked for another ten minutes—about the espresso machine in her new studio that hissed like it was threatening to explode, about her satin samples arriving late, about whether she should start doing video content for her website (“Only if I can be your cameraman,” he smirked, and then, just as he predicted, she sharply told him that him and his oily hands were not welcome anywhere near her fabrics).

⸻

London, 2022

The news broke at 8am.

By 8:15, her phone was hot with notifications.

ALPINE ANNOUNCE OSCAR PIASTRI AS 2023 DRIVER ALONGSIDE GASLY

F2 SUPERSTAR PIASTRI ANNOUNCED AS PART OF ALPINE’S 2023 LINE-UP

He didn’t call. Not right away.

Elodie watched the digital chaos unfold from the couch in their London flat. Her inbox buzzed with emails she didn’t open; old friends sending their congratulations, Oscar’s old racing teammates asking her a million questions like they expected her to be able to answer all of them.

Her next runway show was in six weeks. Her dressmaker had the flu.

When her phone finally rang, blocked number, go figure, she picked up before the first ring finished.

“Oscar.” She said, immediately.

“I’m with Mark.” His voice was ragged. “It’s not true. I didn’t sign anything.”

“I know. You would’ve told me.” She said.

“They went public without telling me.”

She closed her eyes. “I know.”

“I’m gonna lose everything.” He breathed.

“No, you’re not.” She whispered.

He let out a sound that cracked halfway through. Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cry or scream. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

She stared at one of the paint swatches on the wall. They couldn’t decide between eggshell blue and jade green. “Let Mark handle it. Stop blaming yourself. And then come home.”

⸻

Oscar let the door click shut behind him and dropped his keys into the strawberry-print bowl by the front door. The flat was quiet, lights low, warm, but not empty. Never empty.

He could smell bergamot and fabric glue, the unmistakable signature of Elodie in work mode. Therefore he headed straight to her studio, alternatively known as the spare bedroom, exactly where he knew she’d be.

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, pins between her teeth, measuring tape slung around her neck, one wrist marked up with lipstick and foundation swatches from testing tones against fabric. Muslin mockups draped her mannequins like half-formed dreams. Pattern paper curled like petals around her.

She looked like everything he wanted to protect.

“Hi, baby,” she said, not looking up from the sizing chart that she was editing.

He didn’t answer. Just toed off his shoes and crossed the room in silence. Then, without a word, he sat on the floor in front of her and leaned back into the space between her knees, his shoulders brushing hers. Seeking warmth. Permission to fall apart, just a little.

Elodie blinked down at him, reading the lines in his face instantly.

Without speaking, she set her work aside and slid her fingers into his hair.

She combed through it slowly with her long, artsy nails, brushing it back from his eyes, the way she used to when they were kids and he came home from a karting trip with scraped-up knees, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline.

He exhaled shakily. She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, then another to his temple, and another at the corner of his jaw when he tilted his face toward her.

“I’m sorry this is all such a mess,” he said after a long silence, voice rough.

“Not your fault,” she murmured.

He gave a half-laugh, tired and tight. “Still feels like I’m failing. Trusted Alpine. Shouldn’t have.”

“Osc.” She whispered.

He was quiet for a long moment, then said, “you’re the only reason I’ve made it this far.”

Her hand paused against his head.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’ve built your brand, your vision, your whole world. You’re doing so well, Elodie. And I’m still here hoping this F1 thing finally makes me someone worth—” He cut himself off, jaw tight, voice cracking at the edges.

“Oscar.”

She leaned down toward him, eyes glassy with tears, and something twisted in his chest like a blade.

She wasn’t meant to cry. Elodie was meant to be light and elegance and all the soft, lovely things in the world. Seeing her like this—eyes shining, mouth trembling—felt like the universe folding in on itself.

It hurt. It hurt in a way he didn’t have words for.

She was too beautiful for sorrow. Too golden to be anything but happy.

“I haven’t made any real money,” he said quietly, feeling discomfort curl in his gut. “Not yet. And I want—God, I want to be able to give you something solid. A full, comfortable life. I want you to build your empire with silk and organza and not for one second have to worry about how we’re going to pay for your expensive fabric swatches.”

Elodie wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling him into her chest, into her warmth. “You’ve already given me so much,” she said against his hair. “Your love. Your friendship. You.” She breathed delicately. “Oscar, I would live in a hobbit hole, or a tent in the woods, if it meant being with you.”

He was silent for a beat. “Did you see the tweet?”

She hummed. “Of course. I have your notifications turned on.”

He smirked, but it was hesitant. “It felt good.”

She smiled against his shoulder. “I bet. It was very sassy.”

He hesitated, the amusement wavering. “I might never make it to Formula One now. Might’ve burned too many bridges.”

She kissed the curve of his neck, soft and sure. “You will. Trust me.”

⸻

A Week Later - Melbourne, 2022

The evening air was warm, thick with the scent of salt and jasmine. Pale pink bougainvillaea curled over the railing like something out of a painting. The sky over St Kilda was soft watercolor gold, the sun bleeding into the horizon in quiet surrender.

Elodie sat curled on the top step in a white linen sundress, bare feet tucked beneath her, her hair pinned up with one of her mother’s old tortoiseshell clips. She looked like she belonged somewhere else, somewhere older, slower, more romantic. A character from a vintage novel, Oscar often thought, or the ghost of an eighteenth century ballerina.

There was a punnet of strawberries sat between them.

“I signed,” Oscar said, out of nowhere.

Elodie turned to him, eyes wide and impossibly clear. “I— What? Signed what?”

“With McLaren.” He said. “For 2023.”

She blinked once. Then twice. And then she smiled. Slowly. Radiantly. “You’re going to drive in Formula One,” she whispered, reverent and proud.

“I’m going to drive in Formula One.” He confirmed.

The words hung between them like starlight.

She didn’t cheer, didn’t gasp or throw herself into his arms. She just reached for his hand, gently—like it was instinct, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her palm was warm and soft against his. Her nails were painted a pale blush, her wrist dusted with the scent of gardenia, the diamond bracelet that hung off of her delicate wrist real and the most expensive thing he’s ever bought. He went into debt for it—but he’d never once regretted buying it.

She leaned forward until their foreheads touched, her long, painted lashes fluttering against his cheekbones.

“You did it,” she breathed against his cheek.

“Yeah.” He smiled.

The screen door creaked behind them.

“God, you two are terrible,” came Mark’s voice, fond and dry. “Can’t keep you apart for five minutes, ay?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. Elodie only turned slightly, offering the older man one of her serene, almost too-sweet smiles. “Hello, Mark.”

“Evening, angel,” he said, walking down the steps with a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. “You look precious as always.” He teased.

“She doesn’t own anything without embroidery,” Oscar muttered, fond.

“I like pretty things,” Elodie replied simply. “And I like them even more when I’ve made them with my own hands.”

Mark snorted, crouching beside them and producing three slightly crushed paper cups from the depths of his jacket. “Alright, then. A toast. To Oscar, McLaren, the downfall of Alpine, and you, Elodie girl. You’ll be the prettiest WAG in the paddock.”

Oscar groaned, low and half-hearted.

Elodie blinked but smiled anyway. Oscar stared at her. The way her lips curved when she smiled, glossed and sparkling with flecks of glitter, caught the last bit of golden light like it was made for her.

Mark poured a generous splash of wine into two of the cups, then offered the third to Elodie. She took it with her fingertips, delicate and careful, and held it like it might bite.

She peered into it, nose wrinkling in the cutest little grimace.

“You don’t have to drink it,” Oscar murmured, leaning in, voice just for her.

Mark caught it. “Shit. Sorry, forgot.” Then, laughing, he pulled a can of Sprite out of his back pocket and handed it over.

Elodie beamed. “You’re my favourite person in the world.”

“Don’t tell Oscar,” Mark said with a wink.

She cracked the can open and leaned against Oscar’s side, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. Her hair smelled like something citrusy and expensive, and he instinctively tilted his head so it brushed against hers.

Mark settled into the step below them, stretching his long legs out and launching into a story about his rookie season—something about a gearbox, a helicopter, and Jacques Villeneuve that probably wasn’t entirely legal.

Oscar only half listened.

His hand was resting over Elodie’s knee, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against the soft cotton of her dress. Her fingers curled lightly around his wrist. The sky was going grey-blue now, city lights flickering on in the distance.

And for the first time in a long time, Oscar let himself feel it.

Pride.

Not just in the contract, though that felt surreal in its own right, but in everything that had gotten him here. The endless hours of sim work. The thousands of karting tracks and cheap medals and grazed knees—bruised eyes. The months at a time spent away from Elodie, feeling every single mile like a knife to his gut.

All of it. Every sacrifice, every near miss.

It had all come together to lead him here.

To this perfect girl with stardust lips and sun-kissed skin. To this quiet moment on a warm Melbourne night, sitting with the two people who’d believed in him without question since the very beginning. To the knowledge that he hadn’t just made it to Formula One—he’d made something for them.

A life. A future.

He squeezed Elodie’s knee gently. She glanced up, emerald eyes catching the light, and gave him a soft, warm stare.

Yeah, Oscar thought. This is what it’s all for.

—

Oscar meets Lando on his first day at MTC.

It’s awkward. Fumbling. Lando fidgets, practically vibrating as he talks, clearly still getting used to the idea of being the team’s senior driver. That’s fine; Oscar has no intention of being anyone’s second driver, so Lando will get over himself soon enough.

They spend a few hours working on the sim before Lando takes him to meet the engineers. Zak’s there—beaming, boisterous, all overzealous shoulder pats and rib-crushing squeezes of enthusiasm.

Lando clings. As soon as he realises Oscar is nice, friendly, and capable of holding a conversation despite being quiet, blunt, and a little stoic, he latches on. Doesn’t stray more than five feet away all day. Talks too fast, changes topics mid-sentence, and circles back like it makes sense. Oscar mostly just nods. He doesn’t mind it as much as he probably should.

They eat lunch together in the cafeteria. Lando leans over the table with sudden, serious focus.

“You’re not allowed to eat fish,” he says.

Oscar blinks. Frowns. “I wasn’t planning on it,” he replies slowly, confused but—strangely—willing to go along with it.

Lando nods like that settles it.

Oscar drives himself back to London in the evening, exhausted in the way that only first days and new environments can make you. Elodie’s in her studio when he gets in, barefoot on the hardwood, her hair twisted up in a silk scarf, glue fumes thick in the air. She’s hunched over a mannequin, hands full of pearl beading, soft music playing from the little speaker on her windowsill.

He pushes the nearest window open to clear the smell before crossing the room and bending to kiss her. She tastes like strawberries and green tea, her lips soft and glossed, and she hums against his mouth like he’s exactly what she needed.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along her cheek, already breathless.

She smiles, warm and dreamy, and the whole world sparkles at the edges.

“I missed you too.”

—

Elodie spends eight weeks hand-crafting her paddock outfit for Oscar’s first race as a Formula One driver in Bahrain.

It’s a labour of love—ivory silk, structured but soft, with a modest neckline and long, fluttering sleeves that catch on the breeze like petals. The beadwork is intricate, papaya-toned to match the McLaren livery, stitched in quiet, looping patterns down the cuffs and hem. Just above the curve of her hip, nestled into the folds of the fabric, is a tiny, hand-stitched OP81.

She steps into the paddock for the first time with her press pass clutched between two fingers, trying not to look as out of place as she feels. It’s loud and busy, the air dry and sun-hot, smelling of rubber and fuel and sunscreen.

Oscar waits for her at the McLaren hospitality entrance. He’s still in his civvy’s, shorts and a plain white t-shirt. He grins when he sees her. “You wore it.”

She smooths her skirt self-consciously. “Of course I did.”

His hand finds her waist. His thumb brushes the little OP81 like it’s a secret just for him.

They don’t get more than a few seconds before a voice interrupts—bright and slightly too loud, bouncing with energy. “Oh, hey!”

Lando Norris.

He’s flushed from the heat, curls damp at the edges, eyes wide behind dark sunglasses pushed back into his hair. He skids to a halt in front of them, adjusting the collar of his shirt like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

Oscar steps back a little, hand still on Elodie’s waist. “Lando, this is my girlfriend, Elodie.”

Lando blinks at her. Then blinks again. “Oh. You’re real.”

Elodie smiles, polite, a little hesitant. “Yes. I think so.”

“No, I just—he talks about you a lot,” Lando says quickly, shifting his weight. “Not in a weird way. Just—like, normal. Nice. Supportive.”

Oscar groans softly. Elodie purses her lips softly.

“I’ve heard a lot about you too,” she says, and it’s not a lie. Oscar had mumbled things about “a bit chaotic” and “kind of funny” and “I think he eats four chocolate croissants a day, I’m not sure how it’s even possible.”

Lando rocks back on his heels. “You look amazing. That dress is… like… I don’t even know what it is.”

“She made it,” Oscar tells him.

Lando’s eyebrows lift. “No way.”

She manages a small nod. “I did.”

Lando whistles, low and sincere. “You’re way too talented to be stuck with him.”

Oscar elbows him in the ribs, but it’s gentle. Familiar.

Elodie just smiles again. Soft, poised, unreadable. But when Oscar glances down, he can see the curve of her fingers tightening slightly around his wrist.

Later, when Lando finally wanders off (mid-sentence, distracted by something shiny and unusual near the garage entrance) Elodie watches him go with a curious tilt of her head.

“He’s… nice,” she says softly.

Oscar hums. “He grows on you.”

Her gaze lingers a moment longer. “He races with the number four, doesn’t he?”

Oscar nods. “Yeah.”

She laces their fingers together with quiet ease. “You never liked that number.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

They walk slowly, past tire trolleys and engineers and the familiar hum of a team preparing for a new season. Oscar shows her where she’ll sit, where she’ll be able to see his garage and the track.

He squeezes her fingers once. “No,” he agrees. “I’ve never liked it.”

Elodie smiles, lightly, knowingly, and tucks herself closer to his side. He doesn’t say it out loud, but she can feel it anyway.

Maybe that won’t be true for much longer.

—

Zandvoort, 2023

It started raining midway through FP3. The kind of sudden, wind-lashed downpour that turned everything slick and halted everything. Engineers ducked under awnings, pit crews scrambled to cover tyres, media teams rushed to save their equipment.

Elodie hadn’t moved.

She stood just under the edge of the overhang at Oscar’s garage, rain misting across her face, curls slipping free from the tortoiseshell comb at the back of her head. Her papaya-hued trench coat had darkened at the seams, damp fabric clinging to her sleeves like second skin.

Lando spotted her before anyone else did.

He paused halfway through a sip of Monster, blinking. Tilted his head slightly. “Is she—why is she just standing there?”

Oscar looked up from the telemetry monitor and followed his gaze.

“Elodie,” he said. Softly. Simply.

Lando waited for more. When it didn’t come, he turned toward him, brows raised.

“She likes the sound,” Oscar said after a moment. “And the smell. Of the rain.”

Lando frowned. “She’s gonna get drenched.”

But Oscar didn’t move.

And Lando, already in motion, realised, for the first time, how strange that was. The lack of tension. The stillness. Like Oscar was fully in tune with everything Elodie was feeling, seeing, hearing.

Elodie didn’t flinch when Lando stopped beside her. She only looked up with that small, gentle smile—the kind that made him feel oddly exposed. Her eyes were soft and storm-lit. Her lips glossed with the same faint shimmer that seemed to settle over everything she touched.

“Hi,” she said, voice light.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he offered, extending the McLaren umbrella toward her with both hands, like he didn’t quite trust himself to just hold it over her and not stare.

She blinked up at him. “I’m alright, Lando,” she said. “It’s only a bit of rain.”

He blinked back. “Yeah, but—wet, innit?”

There was a pause. And then—she giggled. Actually giggled. It was light and breathless, like wind chimes. Clear and sudden and completely, utterly unexpected.

He liked the sound of it far more than he should’ve.

Inside the garage, Oscar still hadn’t moved. Arms crossed. Helmet tucked under one elbow. Watching.

He didn’t feel angry. Or possessive. Or anything he was supposed to feel. And maybe that unsettled him more than anything else.

Because Elodie looked lovely in the rain.

Raindrops clung to the edge of her skin. Her cheeks were pink with cold. The coat hugged her frame in a way that made her look even smaller than she was, her embroidery catching faint glints of light beneath the grey sky. She looked like she’d been painted there. Dreamlike. Half-imagined.

Lando adjusted the umbrella, held it closer. His elbow brushed hers.

She didn’t move away.

“I heard you cracked a joke in the drivers’ briefing,” she said. Like she was continuing a conversation they’d already been having.

Lando winced. Smiled around an embarrassed grimace. His cheeks went a little red. “Did Oscar say it was bad?”

“He didn’t need to, Lando.”

She smiled again. Fully, this time. Wide. With teeth. And somehow, it hit him differently. He’d seen that smile before, in passing—on Oscar’s phone, in paddock photos. But not like this. Not when it was for him.

It was beautiful.

And suddenly, painfully, he knew it.

He forgot everything else for a second. The team radios, the storm warnings, the puddle slowly soaking into his races shoes.

She was just standing there—rain in her hair, glitter on her lips, saying his name like it meant something good.

And Oscar was still watching. Quiet. Still. Something flickering behind his eyes.

Lando swallowed, glanced at his teammate and then looked away just as quickly.

Oscar worked his jaw; four had always been his least favourite number—his six-month long fourth place curse when he’d still been in karts had made sure of that.

So why, now, could he picture it stitched right beside 81? Papaya thread. The soft curve of her embroidery font. A quiet, private claim.

OP81. LN4.

He turned away before he could think too hard about what that meant.

Walked further into the garage with his hands curled into loose fists, flexing open and closed in a rhythm he didn’t quite understand.

—

Lando sank onto the little padded bench at the back of the hospitality suite, still damp around the ankles, the McLaren umbrella propped uselessly by the wall. He stared at it like it might tell him something.

Something useful. Like what the hell he was doing.

She was Oscar’s girlfriend.

That was the headline. That was the full story. Had been from the moment they’d first met, when she’d said hi in her quiet, polite way, like it didn’t even occur to her that she might be worth noticing. And maybe that was the problem.

She didn’t seem to know. That she was worth noticing.

He kept thinking about the rain. The way it made her eyelashes stick together in little wet triangles. The way she’d tilted her head when he fumbled through telling her not to stand outside—wet, like an idiot—and how she’d just laughed all sweetly.

He liked the way she looked at people.

But mostly he just liked the way she looked at him.

Lando dragged a hand through his hair and groaned under his breath. Somewhere across the room, someone was talking about tyre degradation, and he tried—tried—to focus. He’d never had trouble focusing on racing before. Racing was simple. Clean. Numbers and instinct.

This wasn’t.

Oscar had said nothing. Had just stood there watching, cool and unreadable as always. Not jealous. Not angry.

Just watching.

That was worse, somehow. Because it meant there was no line being drawn. No boundary to respect. No solid ground to stand on.

There was a brief knock, then a head poking in—one of the engineers. “You coming to the debrief?”

Lando blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.”

He stood too fast and stumbled into the umbrella on the way out. It clattered to the floor behind him, and he didn’t stop to pick it up.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how she hadn’t stepped away.

And he didn’t know what that meant.

Not yet.

But he thought maybe Oscar did.

—

The flat smelled like garlic and basil. Warm bread, rain on a pavement. Elodie sat cross-legged on the kitchen bench, sketchbook balanced on her lap, pencil tucked between her fingers like it belonged there. She was wearing Oscar’s sweatshirt. The navy one with the loose hem and faded collar. Her hair was damp, curling where it dried against her neck.

Oscar set down her bowl without saying anything. Pasta with roasted tomato, soft white cheese melting at the edges. He poured her water—over ice, a piece of fresh mint.

Sat across from her.

She didn’t look up. Just kept sketching. Lines, flourishes, thread work. Something soft. Ornate.

Oscar watched her. Ate. The clink of cutlery, the soft scratch of pencil on paper.

“Dinner, Elodie,” he prompted eventually.

She looked up. “Mm. Thank you.”

They ate. Something French and slow playing from the little speaker near the stove. Her foot brushed his knee once. She didn’t notice. He didn’t move.

Then—

She turned slightly, already mid-thought. “Lan, do you…”

Pause.

Her head tilted. She stared at the empty seat on her left. Blinked once. “Oh,” she whispered.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

She looked down at her pasta. Bit her lip, soft and unthinking. “Sorry. I meant—”

“Lando?” he asked.

She hesitated. Then nodded.

Oscar shrugged, like it was fine. Like he didn’t mind that they were sat here, just the two of them, eating dinner as they always had—and still, she’d turned to speak to someone who wasn’t even there. Like it had become muscle memory to expect him to be. Elbows on the table. Half a smile. Talking too loud about something too specific.

“He’s like that.” Oscar told her, quiet. “Clingy. Makes you think about him even when you shouldn't.”

Her fingers rested on the corner of her sketchbook. She didn’t speak, not at first. But he could see it in her—the flicker of thought. That little crease between her brows. Her teeth pressing gently into her lower lip.

Oscar leaned back in his chair. “Elodie.”

She blinked at him, her beautiful eyes shining. “Oscar.” She breathed.

They’d spent the first three race weekends of Oscar’s rookie season with Lando attached to them like a fifth limb. Traveling together, eating together, laughing together.

Hotel rooms that meant for two that ended up fitting three — Oscar and Elodie in the bed, Lando on the sofa (“I don’t really like being alone,” he’d said, once, and Elodie had hurt). Lando stealing the last of Elodie’s lip balm. Oscar accidentally wearing Lando’s boxers, and vice versa.

Now, it was quiet.

A lovely pasta. A one-on-one date night that mirrored a thousand they’d had before.

But suddenly it felt like there was a piece missing. A hyperactive, freckled, Monster-fuelled piece.

Elodie reached across the table, brushing her knuckles against the back of Oscar’s hand. Gentle. Like always. “I didn’t even realise,” she said softly. “That I was missing him.”

Oscar didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

They both already knew.

—

The hotel room was quiet.

Warm light filtered through linen curtains, brushing over the edge of the bed in pale, dusky streaks.

Oscar was on his side, propped up on one elbow. Elodie was tucked beside him, one leg thrown loosely over his hip, embroidery circle abandoned on the duvet. Her hair was still slightly damp from her shower, curling softly at her temples. She smelled like vanilla body oil and her expensive conditioner.

She always smelled lovely

The TV was playing something neither of them were paying much attention to—some old film, all long glances and black-and-white glamour. Oscar couldn’t tell if she’d chosen it for the aesthetic or if it had just been the first thing she’d clicked.

Elodie shifted slightly, gaze still fixed on the screen. Her thumb traced absent little arcs over Oscar’s ribs. His eyes fluttered shut.

Then the door slammed open.

They both startled. A thump, a muttered curse, and then Lando stumbled in, hoodie half-zipped, curls damp, cheeks splotched with red. “Sorry,” he said, breathless, kicking the door shut behind him. “Media stuff ran long. And then Jensen cornered me in the paddock.”

Elodie sat up a little, smiling, all warm and… Elodie. “Hi, Lando.”

Lando blinked at them on the bed, then dropped his bag to the floor with a heavy, tired thud. “Hi.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, but shifted back just enough to make space. Elodie tugged the duvet up. Without another word, Lando dropped onto the mattress like he belonged there.

His head landed somewhere near Oscar’s knee. He exhaled hard, a long, whiny sigh. “I’m dying.”

“You qualified second,” Oscar said, voice low.

“I’m emotionally dying,” Lando clarified. “That’s different.”

Elodie’s hand found the curls at the back of his neck. She didn’t say anything, just combed through them gently, rhythmically. Lando made a small, pleased noise, somewhere between a sigh and a hum. His eyes slid closed.

Within minutes, he was asleep. Sprawled halfway across the bed, long limbs thrown out like a starfish, mouth open, one hand curled loosely around the edge of Elodie’s embroidery circle. There was a smear of engine oil on his jaw and his socks didn’t match. One of them had a hole.

Oscar didn’t move. Just lay back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Elodie reached for his hand under the blanket.

She squeezed it, gently.

And just like that, they were three again.

—

Lando gives up pretending six weeks later.

Its been six weeks of sharing hotel rooms, of tiptoeing around each other, of lingering touches that were too soft to be anything but an invitation, of pillow talk that lingered in the air even after the lights went out. Of awkward glances when Elodie and Oscar ask the front desk, “Do you have any bigger beds?” because they both knew the time would come. And yet, none of them quite dared to speak the words out loud.

But now, standing in the paddock in Austin, Lando can’t take it anymore.

He corners her, pulling her into the dark corner between the motorhomes, where no one can see them. There’s a strange sense of urgency in his chest, and the way her bohemian dress flows around her, catching the light just right, makes his stomach twist and curl.

She looks up at him, those wide eyes full of curiosity, maybe even a hint of sweet amusement. And that smile of hers, soft and knowing, makes him burn a little on the inside.

“I want to kiss Oscar,” he says before he even thinks about it. The words spill out, heavy with the weight of something he’s been carrying around without even knowing it. The confession hangs between them, unspoken, unasked for. But there it is.

She blinks at him, completely unfazed, and then her hand is on his face, feather-light, fingers brushing over his skin and tracing his moles. The touch is delicate. Her breath, tinged with peppermint, brushes his lips, and he feels like he’s drowning.

Is he even breathing? His chest tightens, and for a second, he swears his heart might stop. Or maybe it’s racing so fast that he’s having a heart attack. Either way, his body feels like it’s no longer his own.

Her eyes meet his, the silence between them is suddenly too loud. And then, with that perfect sweetness in her voice that always makes him feel like he’s being cradled by a cloud, she asks, “Do you want to kiss me too?”

Lando stops breathing. The question hangs there, soft and unexpected, curling around him like smoke. He blinks at her and his mind goes blank for a moment, and his thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

But then, his head nods once. Just once. Small, almost imperceptible.

Elodie doesn’t move away. In fact, she steps closer, so close that he can feel the heat of her body against his. Her long, pretty fingernails linger at his jaw, the unreasonably soft pad of her thumb brushing the curve of his cheek.

Her smile softens.

Everything changes.

—

Glastonbury 2023

The sun had set, and the soft hum of evening wrapped itself around the quiet house. The three of them sat on the outdoor sofa, spread out in a comfortable, easy pile. Oscar’s legs were stretched out, his head resting on Elodie’s lap as she ran her fingers through his hair.

Lando leaned back against the armrest, one leg draped over Oscar’s, his fingers tracing patterns on the back of Oscar’s hand. Elodie glanced up at Lando and blinked, expression open and full of unfiltered adoration, before her fingers shifted to trace the curve of his jaw.

Lando let his eyes flutter close at the touch.

Oscar shifted slightly, pulling his head from Elodie’s lap to tilt his face up toward Lando. Without a word, he leaned in, just a little, and Lando met him halfway. It was slow, soft, a kiss that lingered without pressure. And then, just as easily, Lando pulled back, turning to Elodie. Her smile was bright, her eyes soft, and before she could say anything, he leaned in to kiss her too, a gentle brush of lips that held no rush, no need for anything but the quiet certainty of this.

When he pulled back, Oscar was already watching, his gaze warm, appreciative; so fucking fond. His hand rested on Lando’s knee, fingers lightly tapping in a rhythm that didn’t need to be explained. Lando’s heart gave a little jolt, but it wasn’t the kind of thing he needed to figure out. Not now, not when everything was so perfectly easy.

Elodie leaned over to kiss Oscar on the cheek, then pressed her forehead to his. “It’s good,” she murmured, almost to herself. “This.”

Oscar nodded, lips curling into a soft smile as he kissed her cheek in return. “Perfect, I think.”

Lando sat back, his arm casually wrapping around both of them, pulling them closer.

Because they were both his now—and he could have them as close as he wanted. All the time. Forever.

—

Oscar didn’t hate the number four anymore.

It meant something different now. Something far more tender.

But—he thinks, staring at the photograph he has set as his iPhone wallpaper—maybe he’ll always prefer the number three.

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shelbgrey · 3 months ago

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Cherry Bomb (Derek Shepherd)

Paring: Derek Shepherd x Wife!Reader

Summary: Derek gets injured on the job and his wife has no problem helping him feel better.

Warrings: SMUT! Oral(male and female receiving), dirty talk, sudducing, slight public sex, Not proof read.

MasterList ML2

Derek and his wife were both surgeons. They dealt with and saw a lot of different things and patience with very different backgrounds. Sometimes seeing those backgrounds and stepping into their worlds was probably the hardest part of the job.

It was one of those unexpected days, the type of day where they were forced into unchartered territory. It was one of those rare times Ped and Nero came together as one, giving Derek and y/n the opportunity to work on a case together. A little girl had came into the ER with a concussion and it wasn't minor. After a few check ups and noticing the body language of both the daughter and her mother, Derek had the suspicion the little girl was Being abused. Unfortunately they were right, God they hated it when they were right about those things when the cops came to separate the kid from the mom, she went after Derek in a fit of rage before she was hauled into custody. Nothing serious happened to Derek, just four scratches on the side of his neck and the top of his jaw from an awfully manicured hand.

After things calmed down, Derek sighed walking up the nurse's station with the little girls chart. Y/n looked up from the computer and saw his neck. “Jesus, Baby” she said, taking his jaw in her hand and gently moving his head to the side to see the damage.

“It's nothing, honey. don't worry about it” he said, shrugging her off.

“That bitch got you good”

Derek sighed and put his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. He knew she would get upset. “It's just a few scratches, y/n. The mom flipped out when social services showed up”

“You're letting me clean this up and bandage it up” she told him.

Derek rolled his eyes playfully and let her have her way. “Yes, my dear wife, whatever you say” Derek jokingly said.

“Yeah, because It could get infected” she said in what Derek called her ‘serious wife tone’

Derek smiled softly at her and gently kissed her forehead. “Fine, Doctor Shepherd. Have your way with me” he teasingly added, knowing she'd fuss over him.

Y/n pulled him into the Attending's lounge for privacy and he sat down on the arm of the couch. Y/n grabbed the needed supplies and stood between his legs, gently cleaning the blood off his neck.

Derek Leaned into her gentle touch, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I know you're just worried, but you know I've had worse just from getting into fights with Mark” Derek teasingly said.

“Shh” y/n said, dabbing the scratches with peroxide, making a small groan leave Derek's lips as he stayed calm through it all. He placed one hand on her waist, rubbing the top of her hip with his thumb.

“Sorry, Honey” she sighed sympathetically as she finished cleaning the area with care.

He gripped her a bit tighter, as the peroxide stung. “It's alright. you don't gotta apologize, baby”

Y/n just got madder the longer she stared at those four scratches. It was rough, the type of scratch you'd get from a cat, but bigger. She bit her lip as her anger bubbled. Of all things she was pissed off she was cleaning off small flakes of cheap nail polish off the wound. Thankfully it wasn't deep enough for stitches. Usually Derek was the overprotective one. The one that over reacted about minor inconveniences.

She bit her lip, shaking her head as she threw the bloody gauze in the trash. “that fucking bitch” she mumbled rubbed ointment on his cleaned scratches.

Derek smiled softly at her protective nature, knowing she was more angry than he was. Her usual cool demeanor cracked when something happened to him, which he found endearing. “Easy there, tiger” he chuckled softly, leaning his head against her neck, kissing her cheek.

“No, she puts her hands on you”

he couldn't help but smile softly as he gently wrapped his arms around her waist, rubbing her hips with his thumbs. “I know she did and I understand that you're mad about it too, but I'm okay” he then put one of her hands on his chest over his heart, so she could feel it beating.

It made her take a deep breath, he watched her shoulders dip back down and he could feel her relax a bit. “See? I'm okay, my heart’s still beating” he whispered in an almost soft, sarcastic way. A soft chuckle left his lips as he looked up into her eyes.

Y/n rolled her eyes playfully. “don't be a smart ass” she joked softly, gently shoving him.

“Aw, come on. you know you love me and my smartassness” Derek chuckled again, wrapping his arms around her more, pressing her up against his body as his hands gripped her hips.

“Smartassness isn't even a real word. And another thing, you would have a cow if the roles were reversed,” y/n said, looking him in the eyes. “you've pushed a patient away from me before”

Derek couldn't help but chuckle a bit as she mentions the one time he almost lost his cool. He could be very overprotective at times. “But that was different” he said gently as he pulled her closer and gave her ass a slight pat.

“How?”

he pulled back to look up at her, one hand going up to her face, gently cupping her face in his hand. His thumb gently Rubbed her cheek as he spoke. “I'm allowed to be protective of my wife, but no one else is allowed to lay a hand on you” he said softly as he leaned in, his nose brushing up against her's.

Y/n rolled her eyes and placed her hands on his chest, stopping him. “hang on, I still need to bandage your neck up”

Derek smirked softly as she stopped him from continuing, he then sighed dramatically. “Alright, alright, do your thing” He joked with a chuckle as he sat patiently for her to finish.

Y/n opened up a bandage and placed over the scratches on his neck. “There”

“Thank you, Baby” he whispered once the bandage was on and he was able to turn back to her.

She kissed him on the nose. “your welcome”

Derek smirked before speaking in a jokingly yet sarcastic manner. “Do I get a lollipop for being such a good boy?”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” y/n rolled her eyes playfully, throwing away the gloves she used. “What flavor? cherry?” she rolled her eyes.

Derek grinned at her as she teased him. “Hmm, cherry would be nice” he joked in a slightly suggestive way as he looked her up and down.

Y/n rolled her eyes playfully as she cupped his jaw. She pressed her lips against his passionately, making Derek moan softly against her lips. She tasted sweet, like cherries. The taste wasn't so subtle, but he loved how her chapstick gave her soft, plump lips that wild cherry flavor.

Derek wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. “Mmm, that's just the flavor I wanted” He whispered between kisses before deepening it, running his tongue along her bottom lip.

Y/n pulled away gently for air, pressing her forehead against his. Derek smiled, his hand gently rubbing up and down her hip. “Hm, I think I like that lollipop the best,” he joked, still in a suggestive tone.

She shook her head playfully. “You're such a dork sometimes”

He smirked once again, knowing he was pushing her buttons. “What? I have a thing for cherry flavored things” He continued to tease, using his hands to go up her shirt, gently rubbing her skin as he spoke.

She rolled her eyes playfully and pressed her lips to his again then pulled away only for him to grab her chin, brushing his tongue against her lips.

Derek smirked at her reaction, his tongue gently prodded her lips again, not just to taste her again but wanting them to open so he could tease her more. His hands roamed over her body and under her scrub top.

Y/n pulled away gently. “I'm still pissed about your neck”

Derek pouted at her, pulling away and taking a breath. “Oh, come on baby. It’s just a few scratches, I’m fine” he said as his hands roamed further up her body as he tried to pull her back to him.

She pulled away before he could kiss her again, making Derek huffed as he was once again foiled in his attempts to get physical with her. “Those few scratches that could have gotten infected. Who knows what was under that white trash bitch's nails”

He couldn't help but smirk when she called the mom that attacked him white trash. “True but didn’t you just clean and disinfect the scratches before you put the bandages on them, my darling wife?”

Derek sighed and rolled his eyes at her pulling away and dodging him yet again. “Yes, but I still want to beat her trailer trash ass”

He chuckled a bit at her saying she wanted to beat her ‘trailer trash ass up.’ “Now, honey, you can’t go around saying you’re gonna beat someone’s ass. You’re a doctor, not a street fighter” he couldn’t help but tease her a bit.

“I know how to fuck someone up”

“y/n,” he said softly, trying to get her to relax. “You’re too sweet to go around beating up people”

Y/n pulled away yet again before he could kiss her. “am not”

Derek pouted again when he was once again foiled by her pulling away from him. He chuckled a bit at her saying “am not”, he wasn’t sure if she was trying to be cute or not but it was adorable. “Yeah, you are. You’re the sweetest person I know” he said softly, gently rubbing her hips, he was getting slightly frustrated at her constantly pulling away from him.

“Now, can I finally kiss you? Or are you gonna keep pulling away from me like a teasing little brat?”

She cupped both sides of his jaw. “yes, you can kiss me now”

Derek let out a slight moan against her lips when she FINALLY kissed him. His hands slid around her waist and he held her tight. His mouth moving against hers, desperate to deepen the kiss. The cherry flavor still lingered on his lips as she slid her tongue past his lips.

His hand gently caressed her cheek while his tongue met hers in a passionate dance. He pulled her closer, one hand sliding up her back while the other stayed firmly on her waist. He moaned softly against her lips. “that cherry chapstick is driving me crazy”

He pulled her on top of his lap, straddling him. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer as he continued to kiss her deeply.

Y/n pulled away gently and leaned down to nip and kiss down his jaw. “I'll give you an amazing orgasm if you let me punch that bitch,” she whispered in his ear. “Just one punch, square in the face”

He chuckled darkly against her hair, gripping her hips tighter. “Baby, are you trying to bribe me with sex for violence?” he groaned as she hit all the right spots with those little nips.

“You heard me”

Derek couldn’t help but smirk, getting very interested in the idea. “What exactly was that promise you gave me again, baby?” He asked in a slightly teasing tone, he was almost going to agree to let her punch the woman.

“An orgasm” she whispered seductively in his ear.

he felt a shiver run down his spine as she whispered in his ear. He began to imagine what she was planning to do to him. He couldn’t help but grip her hips even tighter, getting just a little more worked up. “And what exactly are you gonna do to me, baby?”

“Anything you want” she whispered in his ear then nipped at the skin below it.

Derek's breath hitched, and he let out a deep moan. “Fuck,” His hands began to roam more freely over her body as he thought about her offer he gently nipped at her earlobe. “How about I make a deal with you, baby”

“Hm?”

He began to grab her and pull her to sit in his lap, his lips gently kissing her neck, nipping at her sensitive skin as he spoke. “I’m thinking your pretty little mouth would be a wonderful place to finish” He said in a soft, seductive voice.

“Yeah, baby?” she whispered seductively, grabbing his chin, tilting his head up to look at her as she spoke. “You wanna cum down my throat?”

He groaned at her words, his eyes darkened with lust as he looked up at her. He nodded his head slowly, biting his lip. “Yeah, baby. I wanna fuck that pretty little mouth of yours until I cum down your throat” He said, his voice husky with desire.

Y/n dropped to her knees in front of him and pulled down his scrub pants. He let out a soft groan as his hard cock springs free, bobbing slightly in front of her face. “Fuck” He breathed heavily, his eyes locked on hers as she looked up at him.

As their eyes locked he let out a deep groan as she wrapped her small hand around his thick shaft, slowly pumping him. He couldn’t help but place a hand on her head, his fingers gently playing with her hair as he looked down at her. “Open that pretty little mouth for me, baby”

As her tongue reached out to meet his tip, his head lulled back in pleasure, her hand still wrapped around the base of him. Her lips parted slowly, taking the first inch of him, and swirling my tongue around him. He exhaled heavily, his breaths deep, but quick with the slightest grunt mixed in. The way he sounded made her wetter and her thighs clench.

Derek gently gripped her hair tighter, moving her head slowly back and forth over his length as she took more of him into her mouth. “Fuck, yes. Just like that, baby,” His voice was thick with pleasure as he watched her take him deeper. “Your mouth feels incredible”

Y/n couldn't help but moan as she took him deeper into her mouth, pressing his cock to the back of my throat. Derek felt like he was going to pass out from the pleasure, his vision starting to blur as she sucked him off so expertly. He reached down and grabbed her head, holding her in place as he started to thrust even deeper into her mouth, his balls slapping against her chin with each stroke.

She gagged slightly as his tip hit the back of her throat. She squeezed his thighs, digging her nails into his skin. he let out a ragged breath, almost growling as his hips moved faster, fucking her face more urgently. “Fuck, baby, that feels so good” His voice was strained, near whimpering as he got closer to the edge.

Y/n moaned against him, getting him closer and closer, his balls drawing up tight against his body. He could feel the pressure building to a boiling point, his release imminent. He looked down, watching as she choked and gagged on his thick length, her mascara running down her face from tears.

She went up to cup and massage his balls and that was it, the feeling of her handling him like that and the vibrations of her moans sent him over the edge. He let out a loud, guttural groan as he started to cum down her throat, his hot seed filling her mouth and coating her throat. “Fuck!”

Y/n moaned, swallowing every last drop. He finished, his head falling back against the, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His release was so intense, he could barely see straight. He looked down at her, his precious girl on her knees with her face and mouth coated in his seed.

She licked her lips clean, standing up between his thighs. He looked up at her, his eyes soft with love and adoration as she stood between his thighs. He reached out and gently wiped the tears from her face, his thumb brushing away the mascara streaks. “Baby,” he whispered, his voice still shaking slightly with aftershock. “You are incredible”

Y/n smirked, cupping his jaw and kissing him softly. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as he kissed her back, his lips still soft and gentle despite the intensity of their moment. “I love you so much, baby” He murmured against her lips, his heart still racing from his intense orgasm.

“I love you too”

He nuzzled his nose against hers, his hands roaming over her back possessively. He broke the kiss to whisper. “You always take it so well. My poor baby's throat must be sore” He murmured, his fingers tracing patterns on her back.

“It's worth it” she said softly.

Derek smiled tenderly at her, cupping her face “You're amazing,” He whispered, before capturing her lips in another tender kiss. “But I still want to make you feel good,” he murmured against her lips. "My turn now. Lie down for me, angel.”

Y/n pecked him on the lips then laid down on the couch that was in the attending’s lounge. Derek's eyes darkened with desire as he looked at his beautiful wife lying on the couch. He walked over, kneeling between her legs. He reached out, tugging her scrub bottoms off and spread her legs wider, admiring the sight of her wet pussy. “So beautiful”

She blushed as he leaned down and kissed her inner thigh, trailing slow, soft kisses up towards her center. “You're so fucking perfect. I never get tired of seeing you blush, I just want to kiss every inch of you” His breath ghosted over her clit as he spoke, making her squirm and her breath hitch. She grabbed his hair in her fist while her hips instinctively bucked towards him.

He chuckled softly at her response, blowing a cool breath over her clit again. “You're so sensitive,” his tongue flicked out, giving her clit a quick tease before pulling back. “Tell me what you want, baby. Do you want me to lick your pretty pussy?”

Y/n nodded quickly, her heart rate pounding with anticipation.

“Not good enough, y/n. I need to hear those sweet words from your lips” He said teasingly, blowing another breath across her sensitive folds, making her hips buck. His fingers gently brushed through her wetness, but didn't touch her where she needed it most.

“P-please,” her breath hitched. “T-touch me, Derek”

He grinned, loving how desperate she sounded. “Oh, baby,” he buried his face between her legs, his tongue diving straight into her dripping pussy, making her head fall back in pleasure. “Fuck, you taste so good” he licked and sucked at her clit, moaning against her as she tugged at his hair. His fingers reached up, spreading her open wide as he began to eat her out.

Derek moaned against her, the vibrations making her gasp and arch her back. He slid one finger inside her, then another, pumping them in and out as he sucked on her clit. He looked up at her, watching her face contort in pleasure.

“D-Derek!”

He felt her walls tightening around his fingers, and he knew she was close. “That's it, baby. Come for me. Scream my name as you come all over my face” he curled his fingers up, hitting that special spot inside her and triggering her orgasm unexpectedly. She tugged at his hair, arching her hips up against his face as she came undone.

Derek groaned into her pussy, intensifying the pressure on her clit as he felt her come undone. He lapped up every drop of her juices, milking her orgasm for all it was worth while his fingers continued to thrust inside her. “That's my girl”

Y/n gasped, trying to catch her breath. Derek slowly pulled his face away, his lips glistening with her essence. He crawled up her body, claiming her lips in a deep, possessive kiss. She moaned against his lips, carding her fingers through his hair.

He broke the kiss to nuzzle against her neck, planting soft kisses along her collarbone. “You're absolutely gorgeous when you cum” his voice was husky with desire, his hand pressing against her thigh.

“Mmm” she sighed, her head falling back against the couch cushion as she caught her breath. “don't think I'm gonna punch anyone. I did enough physical things for one day” she smirked.

Derek chuckled, nipping at her earlobe. “Good because I'm not done with you yet, Baby” His hand slowly slid up her thigh, his fingers brushing against her still-sensitive pussy. “Round two?”

She kissed him softly. “Let's get home first” she mumbled against his lips.

He pouted, pretending to be disappointed. “Fine, fine. But we're picking up where we left off as soon as we get home” he warned, helping her sit up and straighten out her clothes.

“Let's go” He said huskily, grabbing her hand, entwining their fingers as the snuck out of the Attending's lounge.

#Derek shepherd smut #Derek shepherd x reader #Derek shepherd #Patrick Dempsey #Greys anatomy smut #Greys anatomy x reader #Greys anatomy imagines #Patrick Dempsey smut

153 notes · View notes

trulybetty · 20 days ago

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once is all it takes | V : contiguity

pairings: eventual jack abbot x f!reader, f!reader x emery walsh, jack abbot x emery walsh, jack abbot x f!reader x emery walsh word count: 2,863 warnings: series as a whole 18+, mentions of alcohol, reader drinks wine, lots of flirting, realizing of feelings, the calm before the storm, emery & jack come with their own warnings ao3: linked ⤷ series masterlist

The night air was heavy with heat. The kind of heat that feels like it’s pressing down on you with a hand against the back of your neck—humid, heavy, not quite miserable yet, but enough that every breeze feels like a small miracle and a reprieve.

Wednesday night had brought a storm. Instead of breaking the heat, it had just turned up the thermostat. So by the time Saturday night rolled around, the heat felt like a fresh blooming bruise—pulsing and poised to linger, leaving a mark.

The fairy lights over your modest balcony wink sleepily, their glow a modest light in the fading daylight.

Both balcony doors are wide open, and the old fan in the corner is doing its best to stir whatever air is left inside. It’s failing—but the wine helps.

So does Emery.

Emery’s laugh floats in from outside. You’re in the kitchen putting together a jug of sangria. She’d arrived with a paper bag in one hand, filled with the supplies to make more than enough for the night, and in the other, a takeout menu for a new tapas place. She’d shoved the drink ingredients into your hands, declaring her only responsibilities were ordering food and being stellar company.

And she’d delivered on both.

Her dark hair is twisted up off of her neck in a loose knot, soft curls sticking to the back of her neck in the heat. She looks like she belongs there—her bare legs stretched out on the chair across from her—barefoot and tanned. Linen shirt knotted at the waist, the collar doing the bare minimum of staying up on her shoulder, highlighting the cluster of freckles that adorn her collarbone. Shorts that are technically decent, but only just. The kind of outfit that breathes easily in this heat, that invites sweat and slow touches. The kind of thing that shouldn’t do anything to you.

And yet—

“You really should call your landlord about the aircon,” she says, pulling you out of your head—flicking a bug off of her shin without looking. “This place has character, but I’m not in the mood to melt for the aesthetic.”

You almost open your mouth to say it works in the bedroom, but close it instead and pick up the jug of sangria you’d been working on and go back out to join Emery.

“You say that like he’ll do something.”

“I say that because I’m invested in your survival.” Her eyes flick to the jug in your hand. “And my own. Plus, your apartment is closer to the hospital and the good sushi place.”

You laugh, throat low, as you pour the sangria. You watch condensation bead on the outside of the glass while Emery leans back, stretching slowly like a cat. She grins, sharp-eyed and satisfied, and there it is again—that little hum. The one that isn’t new, but is starting to take a different shape.

She’s always been a little tactile. Always teased. Always held your gaze just a breath too long.

Someone in one of the apartments below is playing Nina Simone. The music doesn’t carry clearly, but it’s loud enough that you can feel it—low, slow, and sultry.

“You should’ve used a Spanish red,” she says, peering into her glass judgmentally.

“You should’ve brought it,” you reply, equally dry.

“I brought the ingredients,” she counters, nodding behind you toward your kitchen where the blood oranges, muddled berries, and half-empty bottle of cheap brandy still sit on the counter. “And a menu, which I handed to you upon arrival like the good guest I am.”

“You handed it to me,” you said as you took a sip of your drink—a little too sweet, “and then said, and I quote, ‘Here’s the food we’re ordering, I’m only here to provide the vibes and to watch you chop things.’”

Emery flashes you a grin, wide and unapologetic. “Exactly.”

The buzzer rings, and Emery groans like it’s a personal affront.

“That’ll be salvation,” she says, already kicking her feet off the chair.

You get up to grab your wallet before she can protest, but she pushes you back down into your seat. She meets the delivery guy herself and pays for dinner. A few minutes later, she returns triumphant, arms loaded with takeout containers, the scent of saffron and garlic trailing behind her.

“You know,” she says, swirling the fruit and ice in her glass with a straw, the table before you both spread full with takeout containers, “I think I liked you better when you hated him.”

You glance at her, popping a piece of cheese in your mouth.

“Jack,” she supplements, smirking.

You raise an eyebrow, though the corner of your mouth threatens a smile.

“Mm,” you finish chewing and swallow, “thought so.”

“You were feisty.” She takes a sip, swallows—you watch her throat. “Now you’re all gooey-eyed and well-laid. Honestly?” she smirks behind her glass, “It’s disappointing.”

You pout, “I’m still feisty.”

Emery offers you a laugh as she looks at you with disbelief, “Mmm,” she murmurs, unconvinced. “You’re happy, babe. It’s not the same thing.”

There’s no bitterness in it. No bite. Just Emery being Emery—able to read you too well, tugging at whatever loose thread she can find to see what it unravels. You reach for the jug between you and top off her glass before your own.

She watches the pour with fascination.

“And now?” you ask.

“Now,” she says slowly, as she lolls her head to the side, the twinkle of the fairy lights strung above you add a sparkle to her eyes, “I’m starting to get used to this version of you. But just as I do, it’ll only be something else. Like you and Jack will adopt a dog or have a kid.”

You laugh—almost choke on your drink.

“Okay, it’s been what, six months? I don’t think we’re anywhere near either of those, if at all.”

“Yet,” she says, her point accentuated with a pop of a green olive between her lips.

You sigh, wanting to change the subject, “Tell me something I don’t know,” you say, turning your head to look at her as you lean back in your chair, “about you.”

Emery lifts a brow, “What kind of something?”

You reach for a piece of flatbread, smear it with hummus, pop it in your mouth. “Dealer’s choice,” you say around the bite, wiping a drop from your lip.

She watches you lick hummus from your thumb. Considers. Then: “I almost got kicked out of the Air Force for threatening to punch a superior officer.”

You blink, “You what?”

“I still stand by the fact it was deserved.”

“Still.”

“It was over a patient,” she adds with a shrug, like that justifies everything—which, to her, it probably does. “He made a comment. I made a correction.”

You smile into your glass, “Why does this not surprise me?”

Emery shrugs, mouth twitching. “Because I’m consistent.”

“Consistently reckless.”

“Consistently principled,” she corrects with a grin. “You’ve known that since day one.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. She always does this—teases until she says something that sticks. Until you have to ask yourself if she meant it.

“So it’s basically your fault for not keeping better company.”

Your friendship and subsequent wine nights were triggered by your first major case after joining the hospital’s legal team. A newly acquired surgeon with more edge than polish, almost hung out to dry by senior leadership over a family’s lawsuit. You’d gone to bat for her hard. And Emery had never forgotten it.

Two weeks later, she’d texted about some unpaid parking tickets. You’d called her ridiculous. She’d called you a killjoy. You’d said you’d think about it, bearing in mind she provided an incentive. She’d shown up with a bottle of white wine. And somehow, that was that.

“I liked that you called the opposing counsel a limp-dicked muppet in open court.”

“You’re misremembering.”

“Oh no,” she says, leaning forward, eyes bright with amusement, “that line is seared into my brain. I think that’s when I fell in love with you.”

She’s looking at you when she says it. Not smiling. Not teasing. Just watching.

The air shifts—barely—but enough that you feel the sweat bead at the back of your knees. A slow awareness rising along your spine.

You laugh, the sound low and loose in your throat. The wine has settled and warmed your chest, blooming lazily in your bloodstream. You feel good. Loose. Emery always brings her brand of chaos when she comes over—never overstays, never takes more than she gives, but always knows how to get under your skin just enough that it leaves you feeling a little flushed. A little untethered.

The kind of loose that lets your eyes linger a second too long.

The kind of warmth that seeps beneath your ribs and settles there, pulsing quietly.

And that’s exactly when the front door opens.

The latch clicks, followed by the creak of the door swinging open. You don’t turn right away. Neither does Emery. She just tilts her head back and groans theatrically, eyes to the sky.

“Oh, come on.”

You’re used to this. Jack doesn’t knock. Hasn’t in months since you pressed your spare key into his hand. Your lives are built around mismatched hours—his nights, your days. So he shows up, whether it’s after a shift or on a rare day off—like today.

“Shit, I didn’t know it was wine night,” he says, voice half-apology, half-amused.

Emery doesn’t even flinch. She raises her glass in a mock toast without turning from the balcony. “Were you hoping for a private audience? Because I’d hate to disappoint.”

There’s a beat. “I can leave.”

You open your mouth—but Emery beats you to it.

“No, you can stay,” she drawls, not even bothering to hide the amusement from her voice, “just as long as you don’t kill the mood.”

You finally glance over your shoulder. He’s in jeans and a grey t-shirt, his backpack still slung over his shoulder, hair damp likely from a shower before he came over. He looks tired—but not hollow like he does after a string of rough nights.

“There’s beer in the fridge,” you say.

Jack holds your gaze for half a second too long. Then nods.

There’s quiet between you and Emery as you listen to the sound of your fridge opening and the rattle of beer bottles before Jack is stepping out onto the balcony like he’s expecting someone to shoo him away. No one does.

“Am I going to be mocked the whole time?” he asks as he slips into the chair next to you.

“Yes,” Emery says, without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes as you reach for the sangria jug. It needs to be refilled, “I’ll be back,” you say, rising from your seat.

Jack’s hand finds your hip, his thumb skirting under the hem of your shirt. He meets your eyes for a breath. The warmth of him always catches you off guard, even in this heat—you lean down and kiss his forehead before you head to the kitchen.

When you return, fresh jug in hand, you refill Emery’s glass before your own. She lifts it toward you in thanks—a small gesture, lazy and easy. Then shifts in her seat, legs draping over your thighs, ankles hooking at your knee like it’s nothing. Like it’s always been this way.

Jack eyes Emery’s stake over you as he takes a slow drag of his beer, the bottle sweating already in the humid heat. He turns to watch the traffic snake along the hill across the way. A trail of brake lights in the darkening night. A siren wails somewhere in the distance. Familiar sounds. Hospital sounds. But you’re all far away enough that it’s just a distant afterthought.

“So, what’s the topic tonight?” Jack asks.

Emery doesn’t answer right away. She just gives him a slow once-over, tongue tucked into her cheek.

“Cultural taboos,” she says. “We were about to dive into how often we all think about taking the Lord’s name in vain during sex.”

Jack, well-versed in Emery, raises a brow as he takes another sip of his drink, then turns to you for the correct answer.

You shrug, holding back a smile. “I plead the Fifth.”

Emery snorts.

Jack chuckles into his beer, but he’s still watching you both like he’s reading a new language he’s almost fluent in.

The fan inside kicks a little harder, then dies with a rattle. You sigh, and fan yourself with the edge of a napkin.

“Great, add that to the list of things around here that fail under pressure,” you mutter.

Jack raises an eyebrow, “You talking about your apartment or your—”

“—taste in men?” Emery finishes for him, her voice dripping with mock sweetness.

You almost choke on your sangria. Jack’s mouth quirks up at the corner, but he doesn’t rise to the bait.

“I was going to say—like your company’s choice in branch of military.”

Emery doesn’t so much as blink. Just lifts her glass, takes a slow sip, and sets it back down with a quiet click. Her gaze flicks toward you, lazy and deliberate, mouth curving around something wicked.

“Mm,” she hums. “Well, what can I say? She’s clearly got a type—testy, decorated, a little broken.”

Jack huffs a laugh, low and warm in his chest, shaking his head.

Emery leans back in her chair, eyes dancing.

“Though if you ask me… she just needs the right person to help her refine it.”

The balcony is small. The kind of small where elbows brush, knees knock, and personal space is not much of an option.

The heat pulses around you, thick and insistent. Emery’s legs are still draped across your lap. Every shift of her weight makes your skin buzz. You’re too aware of the soft edge of her thigh, the rise of her knee. It’s not new—but you’re not sure you’ve ever noticed it like this.

“Emery,” you warn, but your voice comes out breathier than intended.

You shift under her, but you don’t move her legs. You just adjust.

Jack leans back in his chair, one arm resting on the side, the setting sun throwing slashes of gold across his face. His hair curled against his temple, damp from the humidity. He looks impossibly handsome in the half-light—rugged and soft at once.

You catch yourself staring.

And when you look away—you find Emery already watching you.

She doesn’t look away.

The heat creeps higher up your neck. Not just from the weather.

Jack clears his throat. “You two been out here long?”

“Long enough,” Emery answers for you before taking a long sip of her drink.

Jack smirks, his attention flicks back to you, “Is she drunk?”

You roll your eyes, “She’s fine.”

Emery holds up a hand, thumb and forefinger pinched close. “Buzzed.”

He takes another sip of his beer, slower this time, watching the two of you like he’s trying to piece something together. Not suspicious. Not jealous. But he’s clocking it all—your proximity, Emery’s tone, the fact you haven’t moved her feet from your lap.

You could toss out a joke. Keep things light. But you don’t. You just reach for your own drink, holding the chilled glass against your neck in an attempt to cool yourself.

The moon is peaking out from behind a patchy cluster of clouds. You’re all a few glasses in now. The jug of sangria is nearly dry, and no one’s moved to refill it. The heat has mellowed with the night, but it’s still clinging—draping everything in a slow, silky kind of weight. Your limbs feel boneless. You’re not drunk. Just… loose.

The conversation has drifted into work territory—of course it has. That’s the only language the three of you speak fluently, even off the clock.

“Did you see the memo from Facilities?” Emery asks, lazily swirling what’s left in her glass. “Apparently, the fourth-floor nurse’s lounge is also now a storage unit.”

Jack lets out a dry laugh and raises his bottle in mock salute. “Healthcare efficiency at its finest.”

It settles after that. Not awkward. Just… quiet.

Jack stretches out in his chair now, legs sprawled, fingers resting on the neck of his beer. His shirt’s gone soft at the collar, hanging loose. Emery had long dropped her legs from your lap, her seat is closer now than it was earlier. He glances between you and Emery now and then, but doesn’t speak. He’s letting whatever is on his tongue breathe.

You shift slightly, brushing your shoulder against Emery’s as you reach for your glass again—instinctive, automatic. But you don’t move away when you settle back into your seat. Neither does she.

Her elbow stays close to yours, her thigh pressed lightly against your leg. And when she turns to say something—something forgettable about a surgical resident—it happens.

You both lean in.

Your breath catches.

And for once—you don’t look away.

#jack abbot x f!reader #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x emery walsh #emery walsh x f!reader #emery walsh x reader #emery walsh x you #jack abbot x f!reader x emery walsh #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbot fanfiction #emery walsh fanfiction #jack abbot #emery walsh #dr. jack abbot #dr. emery walsh

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rottenpumpkin13 · 5 months ago

Note

What's the latest tea from Kunsel? 👀 🍵

When asked to spill gossip, Kunsel becomes an unskippable cutscene.

Kunsel: "Finally. I've been sitting on these for weeks."

Kunsel: "Zack appropriated the men's bathroom on the east wing of the SOLDIER base as a petting zoo. He's even charging people to pet the animals. It's booming, too. I heard he's even got a waiting list to pet tonberries."

Kunsel: "Word on the street says Reno's been delivering crates into the SOLDIER lounge labeled 'medical supplies,' but bystanders said they heard pills rattling. Sephiroth bought the stuff from him, which shocked a few people. They think it's illegal stuff. Real ones know it's the premium ibuprofen. The good stuff, not that cheap crap they give out at Medical."

Kunsel: "Angeal? I saw the guy walk out of the men's room, clear as day, with a faint lipstick mark on his neck. Thing is, no one went in or out besides him. So either his date is some kind of vent escape artist, or—my favorite theory—he's making out with ghosts now. Can't rule it out. He's weird enough."

Kunsel: "Oh, and Sephiroth. He's been spending his free time in the archives lately. Like, a lot of time. Apparently digging through old personnel files and Shinra history books. You know, looking for answers about his origins. Man, I would not want to be there the day he finds what he's looking for."

Kunsel: "There's a betting pool in SOLDIER about when Lazard's next mental breakdown will be. Current odds favor next Tuesday, but only because the bouncy castle Zack ordered online arrives next Monday."

Kunsel: "Genesis has apparently been writing self-insert fanfiction. Heard someone found a draft on his desk. It’s basically Loveless, but the protagonist is just him, but taller and with a better sword. There's also a Sephiroth kissing scene somewhere in there."

Kunsel: "Reeve's set to lose his shit any day now. Someone swears he might be Cait Sith. You know, the little robot cat? It sounds insane, but listen to this: during a meeting with the president, Reeve supposedly slipped up and said, in a full-blown accent "shove yer plans, Shinra, they're shite!" President didn't even blink, he was so alarmed

Kunsel: "And Hojo's been ordering tons of bananas. Like, crates of them up to R&D. No explanation, no context. Just bananas. Honestly, that's one I don't want to dig into. Whatever it's for, it's definitely bad news."

Kunsel: "Oh yeah! I ran into that blond cadet in the air ducts this morning. Cloud Strife. Man, he's so cool. I wish I had the balls to hover above the vent in Sephiroth's office and whisper "Your mother isn't Jenova. Go to therapy" down at him until he thinks it's an auditory hallucination, has a nervous breakdown, and takes the rest of the day off."

#ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #sephiroth #final fantasy vii #genesis rhapsodos #ff7 crisis core #angeal hewley #zack fair #crisis core #cloud strife #Kunsel

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letmeliedown · 9 months ago

Text

update post - my cat and i still need help staying housed!!

new post bc this one was getting rly long

we put down the $1485 for half month's rent and deposit but still need:

$196 to rent an ozone generator until oct. 1 to deal with mildew & allergens in the new place

$120 for an air purifier for my room

$200 for a portable AC unit (i have severe heat intolerance & no windows in my room )

$200 for cleaning supplies

moving expenses - don't have an exact quote yet for the truck but it's not looking cheap

we are at 926/2500!

p*yp*l is thelandofyesterday at gmail dot com

please reblog or donate if you can. thank you so much to everyone who has already!

#actuallydisabled #cats #canada #mutual aid #actuallyautistic

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artaran · 4 months ago

Text

Superbat, but only in the background for the comedy during a romance office drama.

Hear me out. Half the Daily Planet has noticed Lois and Cat going from pure hatred to actually enjoying the vicious mockery battles. After last year's success of getting Clark together with his longtime fanboy crush, Bruce Wayne, the office is now dedicated to reviving romance once more. So a new groupchat is made, and shenanigans ensue.

Lois attempts to get Clark to help her on an article. Clark, due to the entire office assuming the poor guy can't keep a secret to save his life, is not in the groupchat. However, Bruce told him about it in the supply room five minutes ago. His coworkers are all making "don't you DARE" motions behind Lois's back, because an article exposing a socialite basically leaves her with no other choice but Cat. Clark, only wearing half a tie and with only a third of his buttons actually done up, pretends he forgot whatever he came for in the supply room and will obviously need to be in there for the rest of the week, sorry Lois.

Lois and Cat are still working on that article. In an attempt to speed things along, Jimmy locks them in one of the Daily Planet's conference rooms. While Lois and Cat are having the fight of their lives and are about five seconds away from needing a physical intervention, we see Bruce and Clark running out of the same supply room, across the hallway, away from Deathstroke. Exactly 7 seconds later Deathstroke comes back running through the hallway, this time with Batman and Superman in pursuit. The crash alerts Lois and Cat, but there is no longer anything to see. The moment they turn around, Deathstroke is running back from where he originally came from, still pursued by Batman and Superman. However, Batman is now actively pelting him with keurig coffee pods.

The article is supposed to be done, except Perry prefers submissions to be done on paper, and the printer is empty. Cat and Lois were sharing a coffee cup right until this was discovered, and mood in the office drops into the basement when they start fighting again. Thankfully for the Planet's resident secret superhero, Cat followed Lois to the supply closet to continue that argument, and she opens the door to show us Bruce, shirtless, hitting Ra's al Ghul, also shirtless, with a fire extinguisher, while Clark, not shirtless but only wearing about a third of his shirt due to the previous katana duel he got caught up in, holds him down. Conveniently, Lois didn't look inside because she was too busy arguing with (read: being transfixed by) Cat, and slams the door shut without getting her printer paper.

Cat and Lois were five seconds away from submitting the article when new information came to light. This was, of course, not at all courtesy of Bruce Wayne and his thirst for non-world ending drama (the source is anonymous, after all). Now, they're in an upscale bar on what is definitely not a date. Half the Daily Planet is in cheap wigs and fake moustaches sitting at the bar while Cat and Lois stake out their target. Clark and Bruce are at one of the private tables overlooking the windows, and by now far more invested in Cat and Lois than their own date. This is even more entertaining than rewatching footage of Hal clothesline himself on Batman's grappeline two weeks ago. The target strolls in, and Cat and Lois are firmly convinced the feeling of jealousy is because they are not about to let the other one get the scoop. Clark and Bruce just got a League alert and are now pushing a potted plant in front of their table at a snail's pace so they can jump out of the window unseen. The sight of Batman and Superman flying up from a couple stories below distracts the target long enough to slip up and the women of the hour buy each other drinks, obviously exclusively because neither lost this battle.

The restaurant has to be evacuated and Cat and Lois finally kiss after the emotions of nearly getting crushed by falling debris from the nearby League fighting the villain of the month. Maybe they do have feelings for each other beyond hatred, after all. The costumed Daily Planet reporters cheer. The corner of Batman's mouth ticks up exactly two degrees. Superman falls out of the sky. He is not surprised. He is mad because now he owes the love of his life two dollars because Lois just could not be dense for half a day more. How will he survive?

The next morning, everyone is overjoyed at another romantic success for the Daily Planet reporters. Clark brought his Ma's cake, but hurriedly excuses himself to the supply room. While Perry congratulates Cat and Lois on their successful article and newfound partnership, we see Batman and Superman in the high-rise behind him spraying Lex Luthor with a waterhose.

Cat and Lois make their way to the supply room. On their way in, they politely greet Clark and Bruce, who are on their way out. The entire office signs a pledge to never use that room again.

#superman #batman #clark kent #bruce wayne #superbat #lois lane #cat grant #dc comics #I don't know how often I misspelled Cat's name as Car #Luthor didn't even do anything to be chased with a waterhose btw #Clark and Bruce were just mad there was no more office drama and the LexCorp logo drifted into their line of sight #like a devil speaking on their shoulder (Ma Kent isn't here to be the voice of reason)#(Alfred told them where to find the waterhose)

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imaginedreamwrite · 3 months ago

Text

Love The Hell Out Of You

Part 2: Two Sides

It was a small and quaint village that was the source of your departure from the cabin in the forest. With a heavy list of things scrawled onto cheap yellow notepaper that was shoved into your pocket, and a series of things you needed to accomplish, you had no choice but to leave the home you'd inherited and face the new world around you.

It was a debilitating risk that made your heart feel tightly bound in wire within your chest, and you had placed your emotional cycle briefly on pause.

But even the smallest attempt to keep it under control was stymied by the threat of your emotional state climbing the guardrails you nailed in place. It was inevitable, the hormones from your pregnancy could only be held back for so long, and you were bound to cry again for the loss of an alpha who never really cared, and the little life that was depending on you.

It wasn’t a choice anymore, you didn’t have the luxury of being able to decide whether this was something you wanted to do, or something you had to do. This was a necessity, if you couldn’t get the wood furnace working to heat the rest of the home, it wouldn’t amount to anything good once winter would hit.

You could count on the fireplace in the living room however that would only produce so much heat, and you would have to actively be aware of the fire throughout the night.

At least with the wood burning furnace, once you had a large enough piece of wood to slowly burn, you could be able to maintain a steady heat throughout the cabin. However, there was something wrong with one of the sensors, or one of the panels, and you would have to find someone to fix it. You wouldn’t be able to fix it on your own even if you had the tools and the parts, the furnace was well built but everything was written in German, and your little and basic understanding wouldn’t get you anywhere.

All in all, the venture into the village was as life dependent as it was a chance to show your face and get to know people. This was going to be your home for a considerable future, and you would have to make people aware that you were there. You were pregnant, you would be making trips into the village for supplies for yourself and your baby, socializing with people you might have to rely on was vital.

The first stop you had made into the village was a multipurposed hardware store that had offered repairs services on the side. You had parked your vehicle on the side street by the public parking rows and made your way down the pavement toward the front door of the white stone and wooden building. The handcrafted wooden sign hanging above the door was the indication that you were in the right place, and you had climbed the three small steps to get to the door.

You inhaled slowly, building up nerves to cross the threshold and attempt to put your limited German to use to try and seek help. The moment your hands had rested on the door handle, and you pushed, you were almost immediately tripped by an orange cat with one ear that went flying by you. The furry creature darted into the hardware store before you, jumping effortlessly onto a long wooden counter with a register nearest the door. Once you had entered the store and closed the door behind you, the cat had perched on the desk and meowled at you, tilting its head as if to demand a greeting.

You balanced the English German translation book you had brought with you under your arm in order to give the cat a scratch behind its remaining ear, rubbing its head after it so loudly demanded you to. While you were looking around the store at the shelves that were organized in long rows with aisles that led to a series of two desks set up near the back of the store, likely a place where someone could hire contractors or order bulk supplies.

“Guten morgan.” A woman had stepped out from one of the shelves, setting a plastic basket full of packages screws and nails down on the desk, her greying brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail that was draped over her shoulder. “Brauchen Sie etwas?”

You looked at the woman with a slightly uneased expression, trying to detect and pick apart any words that you could have easily detected in German. From the tone of voice, you could surmise that she was asking you if you needed help, and you had grabbed your English German book and flipped open the pages, stumbling over the pronunciation.

“Guten morgan.” You finally spoke, getting the greeting down without a struggle, however it was the rest that had caught you off guard. “Ich muss einen...”

Your thumbed through the translation book in your hands, your stomach felt like it was twisting with anxiety when you felt the woman’s staring you down. “Ofen reparieren-”

“Englisch?” The woman had cut you off before you could truly finish, moving closer toward you and the register you were standing nearby. “You are English, ja?”

“My German is terrible, I’m really sorry.” You closed the book with a sigh, and that guard you had on your emotions was quickly starting to crumble as you spoke. “I just moved into a cabin out of the village and the wood furnace isn’t working. I don’t know if it’s the senor or if it’s something else but-”

“Ah you need a fix.” The woman had sensed your nervousness, how could she not when you were stumbling over your words while actively looking as if you were about to cry. To your emotional state, she had tilted her head and looked you over before her attention flit toward the desks near the back. “Come with me.”

You turned away from the door and followed the woman away from the register, taking the same path as she had through the long aisles of tools, big and small, toward the set of desks in the back. As you walked the orange cat with one ear followed you, its tail sticking straight up in the air, swishing occasionally as if it were the real tour guide and not this woman.

“Sit here.” She was direct in her order for you to sit on the desk at the left, and you took a seat where she instructed, setting your book in front of you while the notepad of your other tasks remained in your pocket. Your knee bounced beneath the desk, a nervous tick that you’d always seemed to have, while the reminder of what you were doing here was hinging on your success. There was little you could do and accomplish if you didn’t get this furnace fixed before the temperatures started dipping.

Not to mention you would need a doctor, or at the very least find a walk-in clinic, someplace that could look after you during your pregnancy. Or at the very least, try and find a midwife to help you.

You waited for the woman for fifteen minutes before she had walked back out from the back offices and had taken a seat in front of you. With a requisition form requesting information about your repairs, she was quick to inform you in English that there was a wait period for someone to come and look at what was wrong with your furnace. It was her husband and her son who did the repairs, not just for the people and businesses in the village, but for others who lived on the outskirts like yourself.

You took the form and the pen she had given you to fill out the requisition form, and while it wasn’t ideal, it was your only option. You couldn’t do this yourself; you couldn’t have possibly understood the process of fixing a wood furnace even if everything was written in English and the parts were there for you. You would have to wait; you would have to bide your time and do what you could on your own merit and on your own time.

With no immediate remedy available, you had given the woman your thanks and handed the form off before you stood. You took your translation book with you and started heading out toward the front door, once again almost getting taken down by that same cat. You sighed just as you had before, giving the orange furry ball a pet goodbye before you left.

**************************************

He had no idea what drew him to the little cafe on the main street, the one that was located between the flower shop and the general store on the other side. It wasn’t as if the imposing alpha, well known in the Austrian village, was a stranger to anyone within the small, populated town. And the cafe that he found himself steadily walking toward was one that he had frequented often when he had to leave his property for supplies, however there was something in his bones that felt different.

It was as if he was being drawn toward the bakery and cafe, pulled there by some invisible force that had taken possession of the old colonel. Whether that be an order that he was given by some unforeseen force, or one of his alpha instincts, it was a directive he could not turn down. König walked with a rushed gait toward the front entrance, his large hand yanking opens the door to step foot inside the traditional Austrian bakery with no reasonable excuse to be here. And once inside, he had taken a long and studious look around the cafe, trying to pinpoint the causality that registered as so fucking urgent in his mind.

It seemed as if nothing was out of the ordinary in this cafe, nothing that would have withhold his bodily autonomy from turning around and leaving. There were tasks that the beast of an alpha had to accomplish before he could enjoy being on a few weeks leave from the KorTac base. A distraction that had blindsided him was neither easily accepted or understood, and the patience he held for himself was deliberately thin.

Of the catalysts that could have spurred this great invisible hand that forced him to enter the cafe like there was a fire lit under his ass, he knew it had nothing to do with the locals. It was neither the owner of the cafe and bakery nor the patrons that had all come to know him as a PMC soldier, that had been the tugging force that brought him here. And the further he had cast his attention around the counter where he would place his order, and the main sitting area, the closer he had come to the conclusion that he was wrong.

That this was all some grave mistake, a symptom of being tired from the constant long hours and the missions that took him through hell while he was deployed. There was no cognitive to the urgency that he felt upon approaching the front door.

He had almost turned and left, the alpha with an exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders had almost said to hell with this invisible force that had inhibited its own desires upon his autonomy. König was already shifting on his heels to turn and leave, giving up on the fool’s errand when he had caught the glimmer of someone in the corner of his eyes.

Why he hadn’t seen this omega when he first walked into the building was almost as confounding as why he was brought here to begin with. He would have walked right past you, twice, without noticing you were there. But now that he had seen you, sitting huddled at a table near the back corner by a window, he felt that same familiar tug as before.

Fate. An unforeseen force. Whatever fucked up alpha instinct had told him that he needed to see this particular omega, it didn’t matter in the end what the cause was.

He was here now, and the further he was drawn toward you, the clearer it had become that something had intervened. And the further he got to this omega sitting by herself, the clearer your scent was able to be picked up amongst the mix of smells that filled the cafe.

Your scent was soft and airy, clean and refreshing. Vanilla that was trailing lilac, and the smell of something sweet like strawberries that reminded König of the strawberry patch his mother grew back at his childhood home. Your scent was beckoning to him like a siren’s call, like you were a phantom voice that had spoken to him through the thick hedges of darkness, a light that he had never seen before but desperately wanted to touch.

It was improbable, a fight that was building within himself over the rationality that he was just a man that had just seen a pretty girl, and the deeper part of himself that knew he was an alpha who caught hold of a scent that had spoken to him. Not that he was the kind of alpha or man who thought fate had a hand in his future, in deciding who or what was the best combination of attributes for a mate.

But it was no accident; he had to at least admit that.

There was something that made him come here, something that had brought him to this very spot where an omega, a young pretty omega, who he had never seen before, was sitting. And it didn’t take a genius to understand that the rumors he had heard, about a new omega moving to this small village, was one and the same now.

König had heard the millings, the whispering conversations of a pregnant omega who was abandoned by an alpha who didn’t want her. That was you, he surmised, and given the velocity of the rumors and how they had spread, you had only been here for days.

He had scrambled to dig into his mind for the rest of the gossip he had heard since he had been back to the village. One, of course, was that you were pregnant and single—the alpha who got you pregnant was long gone—and that you were living in the cabin that was only a few miles from his own.

But there was more wasn’t there? What else had he heard?

That your furnace was broken, the same kind of wood furnace that had in his own cabin, and that the list of people waiting for repair services was long. Of course, your name was on the list, but you were pregnant, and you couldn’t wait forever.

That same urgency that led him to the cafe had also directed him toward your table, and the approach of this massive alpha in front of you had certainly taken you by surprise. Hellfire could come and consume him in the moment, swallowing him whole and burning flesh from bone and König still wouldn’t have passed—because the moment your eyes land on his, and he sees those big anxious eyes, he fucking breaks.

He's a beast, he’s a damn monster on the battlefield who has gone after terrorists, had been shot at and hunted down. He's a colonel, a battering ram an insertion specialist, he’s handled hostage deals and has earned a reputation within korTac.

But you, a teary-eyed omega who’s pregnant and abandoned, staring at him with those eyes, and he feels as if his heart and soul are being ripped out of his body.

It’s almost too reminiscent of his own life, with a mother who raised a little boy on her own when his father abandoned them both. And his mother raised König with all she had, providing her big boy with everything she had to offer him, even if it meant she worked tirelessly and to the bone.

“I’m sorry, did you want to sit here?” Your things were slightly scattered on the table, an English German translation book, pregnancy tests spilling out of your bag, a phone that was lying face up on the table, a copy of the requisition form for the repairs. A list of other things that needed to be done was written on an old yellow notepad, slipping out of your bag like the pregnancy tests, and with a sense of urgency you were trying to pick up your things.

“You are new here.” König pulled out the chair opposite of you and sat down, his hands folded in front of him. It was comical in a series of ways, this hulking and great giant alpha sitting across from an omega that he could very well squish in body height and mass. This alpha who was a soldier from the time he was 17 or 18, looking at a younger omega with red rimmed eyes and slightly puffy cheeks from crying, pregnant and vulnerable.

“Was it the bad German?” You were attempting to make light of the situation, either that or you were avoiding the obvious question he might have asked next, like why you were crying.

“I haven’t heard you speak German.” Instead, his response was blunt, and he had still avoided telling you how he knew you weren’t a local. Not that it was hard to tell, you were only here a few days and people had already known your life story, or what you had told anyway.

“You have the cabin in disrepair,” he continued speaking in a matter-of-fact tone, drawing your attention away from grabbing your things, giving him time to focus on your scent as it had started working its way under his flesh. “You need a furnace fixed.”

“How did you..?” you were caught off guard, the surprise replacing the threat of tears that were almost ready to spill down your cheeks again.

“I’m your neighbor, I live a few miles from you.” König had inhaled your scent, subtly trying to get more and more of it, as it seemed to want to be intertwined with his own. The older alpha had never been so drawn, so enraptured with an omega or her scent like this, and he was scrambling to come to terms with it. “I have the same wood furnace I can help fix it for you.”

It was that same force that drove him into this place that made him speak so freely. He was no longer in control of his mind, of his tongue or his inhibitions to deny a pretty omega when she needed help. It was an urgency; it was instincts, and he was following them blindly.

“I... what?” You were puzzled, at the very least, as your eyebrows had become furrowed and knit together on your forehead. You were staring at him with a natural cautionary glance, likely so emotionally complexed by your previous alpha that you were unsure of what to say or do around him.

“I will fix it for you. Tomorrow.” König was out of his element and yet he still approached the problem like a leader he was. The colonel, who was used to taking matters into his own hands and commanding orders to his soldiers, was now taking charge of the situation while being led by instincts he still didn’t quite understand. “You are pregnant, you cannot have a house with no heat. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

He pushed his chair back and stood up from the table, giving a curt nod without waiting for confirmation or any response from you beyond the squeak of an omega. König was clear, he was going to fix this for you, despite not even knowing you, because there was a portion of himself that would not rest otherwise.

And he was following instincts. The same instincts or invisible force, that led him here so randomly, was pushing him to help his new neighbor. By some madness or twist of fate that he might not have even believed in, he agreed anyway.

And he would be damned if he didn’t feel weak for a little omega who reminded him of his own mother, who struggled on her own to raise him when he was a child.

#alpha!könig #alpha!könig x omega!reader #alpha!könig x pregnant!omega!reader #könig x reader #Love The Hell Out Of You series #Love The Hell Out Of You masterlist #Love The Hell Out Of You part 2 #Love The Hell Out Of You #könig x you #König x reader fluff #alpha!König x omega!Reader fluff #König imagines #konig imagines fluff #König imagine fluff #konig imagine angst

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elbiotipo · 11 months ago

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Little details about the Biopunk Future of 2143:

Coca-Cola, Pepsi and other Usamerican soft drink brands aren't made anymore. Their ecological niche, so to speak, has been taken over by Guaraná Antartica. Most kioscos in Argentina are painted in green and red. Many of them feature modified guaraná vines -adapted to the city, of course- though the brand is concerned they might actually compete with the soda itself.

When you go alone at night (and you better have a good reason to break curfew) you can hear the low hum of the biosecurity towers. Like a palm tree in the shape of an antenna, it hosts buzzing hives of defense organisms arranged in a precise self-contained ecosystem, ready to create antigens and swarm over the city at the warning of a biological attack. At the top, a soft blue light says 'all-clear'. Pray it never turns red.

The post-Ecocide recuperation plan left lots of consequences, but mostly, boxes. Supply boxes of all sizes signed with "FOR EARTH RECOVERY - SUPPLIED BY UNITED NATIONS" in all languages litter the planet. They don't go unused, though; people use them to store all sort of stuff, craft some things, even improvised construction... most have been painted over, but wherever you look, you will find one or two "UN blue" boxes.

Cosmetic genetics had their apogee at the 2080s. Fur, feathers, tails, horns, scales... tegumentary implants were cheap and easy as tattoos and the fastest way to become a biopunk. 60 years later and with the weight of a global biological war, they aren't that appealing anymore, they are rather uncommon in the younger generations. Many even removed them. But you can find around, if you know where to look, old ladies with cat ears and a grandpa swaying a reptilian tail while taking his grandchildren to school. Listen to their stories, they might be interesting.

When one reads "bioforge", even today, one thinks of a nonsensical mess of organs, or sterile metallic vats. Though many are still bacterial brews in giant pots, in truth, bioengineers have long used the most efficient factories build by nature, plants. Rows of vines grow in greenhouses, producing compounds, medicines, and more, stored in fruit, all carefully color-coded. Despite the more appealing visuals, workers still use full body protection and the environment is sterile. These crops are as delicate as a clean room lab.

#cosas mias #soft biopunk

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followthebluebell · 4 months ago

Note

Hey! I got my cat a water fountain recently, since she kept badgering us to turn on the faucets for her. After an initial period of wariness, she seems to like it. My question is, how often should I clean it? The instructions that came with it only give a frequency for changing the filter, and refilling it when the water gets too low. I don't want to supply my kitty with nasty water, but I also don't want to waste water by pouring the whole thing out frequently. Some factors: first, the model I got has a 'dry pump' setup where there's no tubes, and the water is drawn up a spinning plastic cone without touching the pump mechanism at all. It's supposedly easier to clean. Second, my cat loves slapping the water even though it's already moving, and right now we also have a problem where we bought a different brand of litter than usual and it's getting stuck beneath her toes, so she's getting litter particles in there :( ...as I was typing this, she got into my lap and walked all over my keyboard. It's a miracle she didn't manage to delete this.

I clean my water fountain at home once a week to prevent gunky water and biofilm grossness. The fountains at work are cleaned twice a week because a lot of cats use them and Butterscotch considers them his personal face washers.

For the litter problem, you could get a litter mat. There are a few styles but the cheapest and easiest is probably just getting a cheap bathroom mat from the dollar store and laying it by the litter box. It'll help catch litter. The cheap bathroom mat is probably the least effective, but it works well enough for short haired cats that don't have a lot of foot hair.

Fluffier cats may need a tougher type of mat, like the gorilla grip mat that has more ridges. Honestly I think a welcome mat would work just as well AND be cheaper.

egf

sorry cat walked over my keyboard :( i guess yardstick wanted to say hello to your girl!

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uwurakax · 1 year ago

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˖ ˳·˖ 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏, 𝐈'𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐈'𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄! ᥫ᭡

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 finding an obscure otome game on the internet wasn't on your 2024 bingo card, but with only the cover art and no blurb, you decided to give it a shot. it looked promising enough at the start, and nothing could go wrong, right? ✩

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 various jojo's characters x f!reader

𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 otome || university/college!au || isekai || alt!universe ||

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 cursing (duh) || me thinking im funny asf || dio

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 2.8k

masterlist || next

-> 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──��

You liked to think that you were an otome game expert. Even if it sounded… strange to the everyday person, it was your niche and who didn't have an out there hobby anyway? Supply and demand, right?

So you’d pride yourself on your extensive, and completely useless, knowledge regarding fictional pixel romance.

That was how you found yourself here, at two in the morning researching a really obscure listing of a dating game that you had never heard of before. There was no description, release date or year, and no mention of a publisher found anywhere.

A Bizarre Dating Adventure.

That was all you had to work with, the title of this so called game. There wasn't even an item picture uploaded. Spending a whopping thirty minutes gave way to absolutely nothing and you weren't going to lie, you were pretty miffed about it. A piece of so-called lost media just happened to be put on sale on a totally legitimate looking website at the grand old price of.. wait, $10?

Now you were intrigued. An otome game for that price? There was no way this was authentic when games of this nature cost upwards of $50 to $80.

With a few more clicks on your laptop, you came to find out there was free shipping included as well.

That was surely safe, you thought to yourself in your sleep deprived mind.

You faltered for a moment before closing the tab, shutting off your device and promptly collapsing onto your bed for the sleep your body craved hours ago.

Damn, you’ll feel that tomorrow.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The following days were mundane at best, your mind drifting to the odd listing of the game. The circumstances alluded you, and during your free time, you found yourself naturally going back to it. Exploring any and every corner you could, even going on the occasional forum. You didn't get much information however, and it seemed the more you looked, the more elusive it seemed.

How was it that no one else seemed to know of this game? Surely that wasn't possible.

It became more and more tempting to just shot the odds and buy it outright and trying it yourself, but you were still apprehensive.

The website didn't do any favours for itself, looking like it hadn't been updated since 2009, and there didn't seem to be any reviews on the authentication of the site either.

You groaned, sinking back into your chair and staring at your ceiling. Closing your eyes, you cautiously rubbed at them, deep in thought as the listing displayed at attention on your screen.

With a deep inhale you leaned forward again, focused as your hand hovered over the trackpad. The inner debate followed; curiosity killed the cat…

but satisfaction brought it back.

Super sketchy website, but if you played it smart, you wouldn't need to give out too much of your personal information. Plus it was dirt cheap for what it claimed it was.

‘Fuck it’, with a click and a few taps of your keyboard filling the otherwise silent bedroom, you received a congratulatory email and in red capital letters were the words ‘SOLD’ on the now ended post.

And so, you were now the future owner of the enigmatic video game, and if you so happened to be scammed… rest in peace that ten bucks.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You were honestly pleasantly, and weirdly, surprised at how quickly your package arrived. Didn't you just order this thing yesterday? The no bigger than A4 sized parcel sat at your doorstep in a white bubble mailer, perched upright. The keys jingled in your hand as you bent down to pick it up, purse falling forward slightly in an uncomfortable manner. Your mood was already soured from the days events, and any little inconvenience had grated you. You were about to roughly shove your bag back and open your door when you realised there was no label stuck to your package. You flipped it over, only to find the same blank space.

That's definitely not worrying at all.

You jammed the key inside your door and forced your way inside with an all too loud slam. You knew you shouldn't have trusted that damn website. Now some axe murdering lunatic knows where you live! You could feel the nerves wash over you, and your heart began to palpitate. Twisting the deadbolt lock on your door gave you some sense of security, but it did little to appease you.

Tossing your keys and bag on your coffee table, you sat into your much too old and worn out lounge as you ripped the parcel open.

Discarding the plastic wrapping, you’d clean it up later, you found that inside was a small case with what you suspected was the game. There was nothing of note on the back, no text, rating, or any other information found. Turning it over, you saw the images of various male characters decorating the cover.

These must be the leads.

You glanced over each of the men as your fingers traced their features.

Four blondes, one brunette, one with dark blue hair, another with dark purple, one with a green undercut, a redhead and at the center was a brooding character with black hair and a tipped down cap.

What an interesting cast.

You couldn't help but wonder what made the creator go for ten different routes. It wasn't like that was unheard of, but it was quite a larger cast of romantic interests. In the midst of your thoughts, you felt a chill.

Like you were being watched.

Walking over to your kitchen window you looked outside, hand still holding onto the keep case. You stayed there for a few seconds, looking at the now setting sun against the trees. The orange glow offers little warmth within your small apartment. You gaze back down at the cover art, focusing on the dark, capped character. You didn't know why, but there was something unsettling about them. The longer you looked, the more the feeling began to fester. Gently facing it down on the marble counter, you headed into your bedroom to shower and change; hopeful that a new set of clothes and washing the day's grime away would lighten your mood.

Spoiler alert, it didn't.

Clad in only a towel, you went back into the kitchen to get a drink, throat parched and getting dry. You drank the cool beverage as your eyes began to wander back to the faced down disc. You still felt unexplainably wary, but it didn't feel so bad in that moment.

Gosh, you were such an idiot, who gets freaked over plastic?

You took the few steps towards it and turned it back over again. Tapping your fingers against the countertop in thought you wondered if you should actually play the game. It's highly possible it was just some kind if virus ready to wipe your entire harddrive, but your curiosity was getting the better of you.

You really needed to see what this was, consequences be damned!

Deciding that you’ll use your old high school laptop, you headed back to the bedroom to change into comfortable clothing. You found a pair of old white, cotton shorts and your well loved gray t-shirt that was much too big for you, left behind by a long forgotten ex. You couldn't even remember his name, or maybe you didn't want to remember. He was an ex for a reason, but the shirt sure was comfortable and his loss for leaving it with you. The only scent lingering on it was your own, so by definition and for all intents and purposes, it was yours.

Placing the game on your desk, you went rummaging around your room for the laptop.

Searching high and low; under your bed and in the wardrobes, resulted in nothing. You spend a good twenty minutes before checking the drawers of your desk and finding it hidden under stacks of scrap bits of paper in the bottom drawer. How cliché, and of course it was there.

Agitated, you moved your current laptop away and plugged in the old tried and true. It got you through high school, so hopefully it’ll make it through this.

Though you had hoped inside it wasn't a dud, as you began to feel sentimental about the outdated electronic.

If it did, you'd think about setting aside the money to have it fixed, even if it wasn't worth it - and it most definitely wouldn't be worth it.

You waited a couple of minutes for the thing to boot up, dusting off the slight dirt that accumulated from its lack of use. The age of the laptop was clear as you heard the fan blare to life.

Would it even be able to run the thing? There's no way you'd risk your actual computer on this…

Once deemed ready enough, you pressed down on the disc drive a couple of times, using much more than necessary force on the last push when the reader wouldn't open.

You waited impatiently as it closed with a quiet click, tracing your finger over the trackpad as the cursor moved violently across the screen.

You kept waiting… and waiting… and waiting… until….

Black.

The screen had shut off, and no amount of pressing the power button, force restarting the laptop or even hitting it did anything.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” the disbelief and anger present in your tone as you plugged the charger cable in and out of the port.

You weren't entirely surprised it was a scam, a virus now killing your laptop, but that didn't mean you weren't any less pissed.

Yeah you were lucky it was an old laptop, anything on it long since gone when the thing was reset before you graduated, but still…

What a waste of a laptop and the ten dollars spent on a useless thing. On the off chance that the laptop's hardware was too old to run it, you couldn't even get the disc back unless you wanted to pry the drive reader open and damage it further.

With a huff you slammed the laptop shut, grabbing your phone and laying down in your bed. You’d figure out what to do when you had time, but you were too upset to deal with your broken device now.

At least you had the sense to use an old laptop with no data. Gotta take those silver linings.

To lift your spirits, you ordered some takeaway, eagerly awaiting to stuff your face full of the greasy food. After the later half of the day, you felt like you deserved it, and the knock on your door couldn't come soon enough.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Switching off your television, you reached beside you and tapped on your phone screen to check the time.

10:34pm.

You debated whether you did want to sleep now, but your body decided to answer for you as you let out a loud yawn.

Your lounge was pretty comfortable right now, but after previous experiences, you'd definitely be feeling it in the morning.

The longer you stayed, the more difficult it would be to leave so you quickly got up, threw away the rubbish from your order and went on to do your nightly routine.

After the final step of brushing your teeth, you went to bed, flicking off the bedroom light before you looked towards your desk. Your laptop illuminating a glow along the edge.

Well that's suspicious… that's weird…

You shook your head off the image and voice of Cardi B and slowly sat down at your desk. Tentatively reaching out and opening the laptop you were met with a title screen.

A Bizarre Dating Adventure.

A deep blue background with the words in a hot pink gradient that faded to white. Deep violet coloured roses garnished the sides as different hues of purple petals fell from the top of your screen.

A Bizarre Dating Adventure, that was the name of the game from the listing, wasn't it?

Absentmindedly, your middle finger moved across the trackpad, white sparkles glittering off the cursor with every motion.

Surely a few minutes wouldn't hurt right? Just to get a feel and understanding of the game.

Small, white text slowly flashed underneath the title text reading ‘PRESS SPACE TO START.’

“Here goes nothing.” you murmured, as the screen faded to black, shrouding your entire room in darkness as well.

After a few seconds of nothing, you became apprehensive. You silently prayed that it didn't conk out on you again. There was no way you’d be teased like this.

It felt like a minute before the black screen started to light up again imperceptibly, a slight purple tinge colouring against the blackness. More white text appeared.

>> ‘HELLO’

You awaited the continuation, but nothing else had occurred, the bold letters staring at you. You clicked all over the screen and tapped enter, but there was still nothing. On a whim, you ran your hand over your keyboard to see it typed into the screen, right underneath the greeting.

How peculiar.

You held backspace to remove what was a mess of letters and numbers before typing back a ‘HI’ and hitting enter.

>> ‘ARE YOU THE NEW STUDENT?’

New student? Was this game set in a school?

> NEW STUDENT?

>> ‘AT SWF UNIVERSITY’

At least it wasn't in high school, thank goodness. You’d be damned to face another high school otome game. Figuring this was how the game went, but deciding to see what would happen you typed,

> NO

You tried to hit enter, but nothing happened. I guess it wouldn't accept that answer. You deleted the text before following what you assumed to be the correct response,

> YES

>> WELL, AREN’T YOU A SIGHT FOR SORE EYES

The text response was different now, a yellow instead of the earlier white. You felt a shiver run up you, looking behind at your empty room. You sensed that something was wrong, yet you didn't know why.

>> WHAT’S WRONG? SCARED?

Okay this wasn't funny, and this disc was obviously some kind of troll or some deep web, tracking crap. At minimum it was designed to scare you and at most… well you didn't want to think about that.

> A LITTLE

You don't know why you decided to be somewhat honest, but something was telling you that it would be better than lying. Not like it mattered much.

>> HMM, YOU SHOULD BE

You kept rereading the text before the screen flashed with your name, repeating over and over and over again.

Fuck that!

You unplugged the charger, covering your room, once again in darkness. Your breathing became laboured, as your heart beat thundered furiously in your chest, threatening to explode. That most definitely was some type of tracking, data hacking bullshit! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

What were you supposed to do now?! Call the police? Move? You were only kind of kidding about being sent the disc by an axe murderer, but it was now a very real possibility.

You tried in vain to calm down, tears forming at the corner of your eyes. This was so stupid! So completely, utterly and devastatingly s, t, u, p, i, d! You closed the lid and shoved it back into the drawer. It gave you some semblance of safety. Tomorrow you’d go far away and toss it in a random dumpster. To hell with sentimentality, that laptop was now dead to you.

You wished it would've worked earlier, at least then you would've been able to dispose of it. There's no way you were leaving your unit now at this hour.

Maybe you shouldn't throw it away and instead give it to the proper authorities? But if it was just some troll, you'd either be laughed at out of the station, or berated for wasting their time with nonsense.

You triple checked your deadbolt and closing every curtain, also ensuring that every window was sealed shut and locked.

Retreating back to your room you hid under the covers, the fluffy security net doing little to curb the anxiety that was manifesting inside.

You were surprised to feel yourself growing drowsier, the cute cat compilation video that you put on was only 6 minutes in.

You fell asleep shortly after that, your phone showing a ginger cat jumping off a shed roof and face planting into the concrete.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You woke up with a start, sitting up as you gasped for breath. You could feel the slight sweat covering your body, a stuffiness surrounding you as you attempted to slow down your breathing. You looked around the room, a new panic forming as you saw the furniture and belongings of someone who was definitely not you.

Your room didn't look like this! Neither was that desk, or that chair! These sheets weren't yours either.

You closed your eyes as your breathing picked up again, thinking of what to do next before your phone went off with a ding.

Reaching down, you unlocked your phone screen as the words ‘A BIZARRE DATING GAME’ faded into view.

Uhm…

WHAT THE FU-

#˚₊♡ series > help i've been isekai'd into an otome game ◞#jjba x y/n #jjba x you #jjba x reader #jojo x reader #jonathan joestar x reader #dio x you #dio x reader #joseph joestar x reader #caesar zeppeli x reader #jotaro x y/n #jotaro x reader #josuke x reader #kakyoin x reader #rohan x reader #kira yoshikage x reader #giorno x reader #omg im like the funniest ever wtf i even surprise myself sometimes its a talent #actually not but i like to think i am pls 🥺

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marlynnofmany · 5 months ago

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Cave Space

The mechanic’s shop was the loudest and dirtiest place I’d seen on this space station so far, and somehow that was comforting. All the ritzy retail stores and elaborate restaurants tried to look as fancy as possible, even the cheap ones. But this place felt honest and straightforward. It had bare concrete floors and the kind of shelf displays that didn’t bother with signs to actually explain what you were looking at. A real mechanic would know.

I had no idea, but I was just here to help haul things. Blip and Blop might have been a better choice if the things in question proved to be heavy, but they were off wrangling jumbo tubs of food and medical supplies with Eggskin, and anyways we had the big hoversled this time. It would probably be fine.

Mimi was talking fast with an employee about manifolds and vents and lots of other words, waving a couple green tentacles while he stood on the rest. The employee was the biggest Heatseeker I could remember seeing, which was still only mid-rib-height on me. He reminded me of the short gym guys from back home, able to build muscle in every direction but up.

A box thumped onto a counter near me. “You here to help lift and pull?”

I found an older human woman grinning at me, wearing a tank top covered in grease and long white hair held back in a ponytail. Also the kind of arm muscle that said she yanked engines out of spaceships for fun.

“Something like that,” I said with a smile. “Gotta make sure nothing falls off the sled.”

She waved a hand. “Ah, we’ll strap it down for you. There’s enough ramps around here to cause problems if we don’t.”

“I bet,” I said, thinking back to the last time I’d chased something important down a hill. “Don’t want to risk any explosions or chemical spills.”

“Or slamming a gear shaft into the side of a building,” she agreed. “There was a bit of a mess the last time someone was sure they didn’t need their stuff tied down.”

I winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah, it’s standard procedure now,” she said, opening the box to pull out multiple smaller boxes, all labeled with arcane terminology and numbers. They rattled as she stocked them on the shelf under the counter. “If they’d asked me, it would have been standard from the start, but what do I know? I’ve only been doing this kind of work for decades, on more planets than I care to count.”

“Sounds exciting,” I said as she finished stocking. “I haven’t been out here all that long by comparison, but there’s always something new to see.” A glance around the shop took in rows of alien technology, a Heatseeker with scales painted silver, and one of those centipede-like people whose species name I didn’t remember. I was pretty sure they were looking at a jetpack display.

“Oh sure, plenty of weirdos out here,” the woman said easily, ripping tape off the box and flattening it. “Though it’s easy to tip over from marveling at the wonders to feeling the kind of intense homesickness that you get when you’re light years away from home.”

“I suppose so.” I’d been pretty lucky on that front, since my alien coworkers were friendly sorts who made me feel welcome. But there were times when the sheer amount of empty space between me and Earth was a little too much to think about.

“You’ve got to find ways to remind yourself of where you come from, and take pride in it,” the older woman said with a pointed finger, like a grandparent giving career advice. “Recreate bits of home while you’re far from it.”

I thought back to the potted plants and sun lamp in my quarters, kept high enough that the cat couldn’t chew on them. “I like to think I do that,” I said. “Do you have a preferred method? Classic Earth songs, googly eyes stuck in funny places?”

She barked a laugh. “Ha! Nothing I’d admit to. But I’ll show you my current favorite touchstone to humanity.” She dug in a pocket.

I stepped closer, curious, as she pulled out something palm-sized. She rested her elbows on the counter and held it up, framed by splayed fingers with appropriate drama.

It was a rock, smooth and shiny like it had been polished by a river and then by a thick layer of varnish, and it was covered in minuscule handprints. All in earthtones, like a cave painting reduced to pocket size: some in silhouettes like tiny hands had pressed mud or ash against the cave wall, and others shadowed by color like the prehistoric artist had chewed charcoal and spat it carefully around their fingers.

(I’d done that in school one day, with one of the cool teachers, who taught us the basics of humanity’s oldest style of airbrushing. It was incredibly messy and trickier than I’d expected. It gave me renewed respect for the artists from eons ago whose artwork had survived into modern times.)

And this was that same thing, made small enough to carry around the galaxy, a tiny reminder of home. “That’s fantastic,” I breathed.

“Isn’t it?” she asked, rubbing at the shine. “I got it from a traveling artist awhile back. If I was in a different line of work, I’d sell clothes with this pattern on them. It’s the kind of thing that makes other Earthlings smile.” She stood up and put it back in her pocket with a wink. “Not like googly eyes, but still good.”

“Yes, still good!” I agreed, smiling. I would have liked to talk more about it, maybe find out where that traveling artist had gone, but Mimi was wrapping up his conversation. A door opened to admit a trio of Heatseekers carrying a huge cylinder that was probably destined for somewhere in the guts of our ship.

“I’ll get the tie-down straps,” said the woman, rummaging under a different section of counter.

“Thanks,” I said, though I don’t think she heard me. The air was full of talk and the sound of clawed feet on concrete. I hurried to take up a position by the controls of the hoversled, making sure it stayed locked in place.

The team worked quickly, and in no time they had it strapped down well enough that it wouldn’t budge even if the gravity cut out completely. (Which had better not happen; I’d had more than enough of that kind of nonsense at the last station.)

Mimi processed the payment, tapping a screen with one tentacle tip and thanking the employees for having this whatsit in stock. I got the impression that it wasn’t the one he’d actually come to get, but it was better in some way or other.

“Thanks again!” I said as we tugged the sled toward the door. I waved at the other human and she waved back, two hands signaling kinship briefly across the room. Then she took her flattened box into the back and I stepped out into the artificial sunlight, looking for signs leading back to the spaceport.

The gravity behaved, and the ramps were no trouble. Blip and Blop were there to help unload the thing. I asked Mimi if he wanted three people to maneuver it into wherever it went, or if I should go put the hoversled away.

He was busy climbing inside of the cylinder with a flashlight, for whatever reason. “Nah, not enough space for everybody,” his gravelly voice echoed. “Let me just — really? Another one?” A faint squeak sounded like he was rubbing a tentacle against the side.

“What is it?” I asked, bending to look inside. Blip and Blop crowded behind me, a jumble of curious muscles and silks.

Mimi grumbled, “This is the third engine part that I’ve gotten with these annoying marks. All from different sources, too. If I ever find out which finger-having species is doing it, we are going to have words.”

Deep inside the cylinder, in a spot that likely would never have been seen by anyone but an agile mechanic, was a patch of handprints. Mimi had already smeared the ones made in grease, but the others looked like they might have been paint. All in earthtones. A cave painting in the depths of a spaceship.

Blip and Blop chorused, “Not it.”

I bit my lip to hide a smile. “It’s a mystery.”

~~~

Inspired by this excellent artwork by @letmeinimafairy! It deserved at least one story, if not several.

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

#'is anybody gonna write about this?' I said -- not waiting for an answer #gotta love the freedom to make a story happen when inspiration arrives #thanks for the inspiration @letmeinimafairy #my writing #The Token Human #science fiction #humans are weird #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs #homesickness #in spaaace

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