#I remember the first time I saw this post

[cressidagrey]

Daylight

Pairing: Lando Norris x Emilie Abadie (Original Character)

Welcome to a short side story, featuring Emilie and Lando, set in the White Horse Universe. There are specific scenes copy and pasted from White Horse, so it’s easier to follow along timeline wise.

Summary:

Emilie Abadie hadn’t planned on caring about Formula 1. Until she saw a boy with curly hair win the Miami GP in 2024. 

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, toxic families

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Emilie Abadie hadn’t planned on caring about Formula 1.

In fact, she actively avoided caring about it— Mostly because of her best friend. 

Belle, with her soft green eyes and gentle heart, who had already survived too many years of being invisible in a family that only seemed to remember she existed when it was convenient. 

Belle, who was one of the best people Emilie had ever met, who had been born into a family that cared about podiums and trophies, about DRS and pit stops… and not about their daughter, their sister. 

Even Max Verstappen hadn’t changed Emilie’s dislike for everything Formula 1. 

Granted, of course, Emilie had googled him when Belle had first mentioned him to her. 

There had been some amusement somewhere in the back of her head that Belle had found a guy to date who had 2 World Championship titles and 4 dozen wins to his name, while Belle’s brother was still on his 5th career win after Austria 2022. 

Emilie didn’t care about Max’s wins. Or his podiums. Or whatever he did for a living. She’d seen enough of Belle’s face when she talked about him to know he was good—really, properly good—and that was enough.

But then came that Sunday in May, and Twitter exploded.

Emilie wasn’t even trying to pay attention. She was lounging on her balcony with an espresso, mindlessly scrolling between Vogue articles and TikToks of people organising their fridges. 

And then—suddenly—orange hats, all-caps screaming, and multiple photos of a grinning man half-drenched in champagne.

“HE FINALLY DID IT.”

“LANDO. FREAKING. NORRIS.”

Someone had posted a clip of him standing on the top step of the podium, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, trying to keep it together while the crowd roared. And God help her, Emilie had clicked it.

He wasn’t even her type.

Too boyish. 

Too chaotic. 

Probably smelled like Monster Energy and nerves.

But he’d smiled like it meant something. Like it had taken years. Like he couldn’t quite believe the universe had finally let him have this moment.

And something in Emilie’s chest—usually locked up tight behind snark and cashmere—shifted.

She frowned.

Closed the app.

Opened it again.

Googled him.

Lando Norris. 25. British. McLaren driver. Five seasons. No wins—until now.

She even found a quote: “It’s about damn time.”

And still, Emilie was deeply annoyed to find herself staring at photos of this Lando person and wondering what his laugh sounded like in real life.

And that was exactly when she opened her texts and messaged Belle.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Isabelle Leclerc

Emilie: Okay so… Question

Isabelle: That’s always a dangerous start.

Emilie: Who is this Lando person And why is everyone crying because he won something

Isabelle: Oh my God. You really don’t know anything about F1, do you?

Emilie: Absolutely not. I know Max drives fast, and you’re too pretty to be emotionally stable, that’s it.

Isabelle: Valid.

Emilie: But seriously. My entire timeline is full of sweaty orange hats and people screaming “HE FINALLY DID IT.” What did he do? Did he climb a mountain? Invent a vaccine?

Isabelle: He won his first Formula 1 Grand Prix. He’s been in F1 for five years. Always came close. Never quite made it.Everyone’s been waiting for this.He’s a good guy. Deserved it.

Emilie: Huh. He’s the guy with the curly hair, right?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the jawbones?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the voice that’s suspiciously hot for someone named Lando?

Isabelle: …Why do you care?

Emilie: I don’t!!

Isabelle: You do. You’ve never asked me about a single driver. Not once. And now you’re googling him like a concerned historian.

Emilie: I’m just… doing research. You know. investigating the cultural phenomenon

Isabelle: Uh-huh. Is this cultural phenomenon wearing a papaya-colored race suit and has curly hair?

Emilie: Fine. He’s cute. He looked happy. The bar is so low.

Isabelle: He is cute. And he should be happy. He’s a good guy.

Emilie: You sound like you’re trying to sell me a family dog.

Isabelle: He’s very sweet! Loyal! Thoughtful! Max calls him chaotic sunshine. I call him emotionally transparent. You’d like him.

Emilie: So a golden retriever.

Isabelle: With slightly better hair.

Emilie: Does he bite?

Isabelle: Only when provoked. Or when Max makes a joke about his height.

Emilie: Hmm.

Isabelle: Oh no.

Emilie: What?

Isabelle: You’re thinking about him.

Emilie: Absolutely not.

Emilie: This is slander.

Isabelle: This is me knowing you better than you know yourself. And I’m telling you: he’s a good one. A little chaotic. But real.

Emilie: He smiled like…like he waited years for this. I noticed that. I hate that I noticed that.

Belle: Yeah. That’s why people cried. It wasn’t just about the win—it was about him. He needed it. And he earned it.

Emilie: …Okay maybe I get the hats now.

Isabelle: Give it three days. You’ll be watching fan edits on TikTok and pretending it’s research. I have been there. 

***

Emilie tossed her phone down onto her table, flopping back into her chair with a groan.

God, what was wrong with her?

She never did this. Never caught herself noticing smiles. Never cared about people’s stories. 

She’d always been good at getting the guy.

Usually, she saw a man she liked, decided she liked him, and that was it. 

If she wanted him, she got him. 

Easy.

The harder part—the impossible part—was getting them to stay.

Not that she ever admitted that out loud.

They got infatuated with the packaging—pretty blonde, sharp tongue, quick wit—but none of them wanted to know what was underneath. Or if they did, they ran.

So she never gave them the chance.

Emilie knew what she was. What she had been taught to be: polished, pretty, disposable.

Raised by grandparents who valued appearances more than affection, she’d learned early that emotions were a liability. Her family was a cold, glittering mess of old money and colder expectations. 

Emotionally unavailable parents who vacationed in the Alps more than they parented. Her grandparents had raised her—fierce, stylish people who taught her how to dress, how to argue, how to build walls no man could climb. 

Emilie knew how to play the part—how to be charming, captivating, just unattainable enough to keep her pride intact when everything inevitably crumbled.

Old money. Cold manners. 

And Belle—sweet, gentle Belle—hadn’t been raised in a world much kinder.

Emilie still hated Belle’s family for that. For making her believe she had to earn love, that she had to be perfect to deserve being seen. Even now, even after Belle had found Max—the only man who seemed to see her fully and without condition—Emilie’s chest still burned with protective rage whenever she thought about it.

She’d watched Belle spend her whole life being overlooked. Forgotten. Ignored by people who were supposed to love her. And now she had Max, who looked at her like she was the whole damn world.

She was happy for Belle. Truly. Because Belle deserved good things—finally. Especially after growing up in a family that prioritized podiums over people. 

And Emilie, for all her sass and designer boots, had never liked the Leclercs. Not really.

Belle was happy now. Radiantly, irrevocably happy. And Max—grumpy, blunt Max—loved her like it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

Maybe that’s why Emilie couldn’t look away from a stranger’s victory lap on Twitter.

 Maybe, deep down, she still believed there were people worth betting on.

Even if she didn’t believe it for herself.

God help me, she thought grimly, dragging a hand over her face.

She was absolutely going to end up watching fan edits.

In three days. Tops.

Maybe two.

Lando Norris had looked like someone who didn’t think the world would ever give him a win.

And for some reason… she couldn’t stop thinking about that.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max and I are getting married tomorrow. City hall. Just something small. Just for us. Will you come?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME???? TOMORROW??? CITY HALL??? SMALL???

Isabelle: Yes. No fuss. Just us. That’s all I want.

Emilie: Oh my GOD. You are not getting married like you’re renewing a driver’s license. You need flowers. A cake. A moment, Belle.

Isabelle: I don’t need any of that. I just want him. That’s it.

Emilie: Yes, yes, eternal love, devotion, blah blah blah. BUT. You are still getting married. You will wear a dress. You will hold a bouquet. You will eat something that tastes like joy and sugar and victory.

Isabelle: I’m not even sure what I’m wearing yet 😅 We haven’t thought that far ahead.

Emilie: THAT IS WHY YOU HAVE ME. Do you still have the white dress we got a few weeks ago? The one that made you look like a romantic novel with legs?

Isabelle: ...Yes.

Emilie: Good. Wear that. It’s perfect. Simple. Elegant. You. I’ll take care of the rest.

Isabelle: Em—no pressure, really. Please. I don’t want a production.

Emilie: This won’t be a production. It’ll be a love letter. With flowers. And maybe a three-layer cake.

Isabelle: Emilie 😭 You really don’t have to—

Emilie: Belle. You’ve planned everyone else’s birthdays, surprises, parties, and holidays since you were like what, twelve?! Let someone do it for you this once. Let me.

Isabelle: ...Okay. But just a little. No spark machines. No confetti cannons.

Emilie: Deal. But I am bringing champagne. And I will cry.

Isabelle: I wouldn’t want it any other way. 💛

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: You have a camera, right?

Lando: …yes?? What kind of question is that?

Max: Like, a real one. Not your phone.

Lando: Yes, Max, I own a camera. Why??

Max: I need you to document something.

Lando: What kind of something?

Max: Just be at Monaco City Hall tomorrow. 10:30. Bring your camera. Wear a suit. Preferably not orange.

Lando: MAX.

Max: Yes?

Lando: ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW???

Max: Yes.

Lando: YOU’RE JUST DROPPING THAT ON ME AT MIDNIGHT???

Max: It’s 11:43.

Lando: Oh, my mistake. PLENTY OF TIME TO PROCESS THE FACT YOU’RE SECRETLY GETTING MARRIED.

Max: Not secretly. Just quietly.

Lando: Max.

Max: What.

Lando: I’M HONORED BUT ALSO PANICKING. Do you want, like, pictures or VIBES?? Do I need a tripod?? Am I the witness?? Do I bring champagne?? WHAT’S MY ROLE HERE.

Max: Your role is “friend with a camera who knows how to shut up.”

Lando: I can be that.

 Wait—can I still cry a little?

Max: Only if it’s behind the camera.

Lando: Deal. Lando:I don’t even know what shoes to wear for a Verstappen emergency elopement

Max: Don’t overthink it. You’re just the photographer.

Lando: You’re getting married in Monaco city hall and I’m the photographer?? What the hell kind of fairy tale speedrun is this?

Max: The efficient kind.

Lando: Who else is gonna come?

Max: Just us. People we trust. 

***

Emilie Abadie had been awake since three in the morning. .

Not because she was nervous. She wasn’t the one getting married. 

It was Belle’s wedding. And that meant it had to be perfect.

Because Belle would never ask for perfect. Belle would shrug and say “just something quiet, just us” with that soft look in her eyes like she didn’t dare hope for more. But Emilie had spent the last seven years learning the difference between what Belle asked for and what she deserved.

And today, she deserved everything.

And perfection, as it turned out, required bribing a florist with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, whispering at a baker’s front door like a criminal, and coordinating a last-minute restaurant buyout with a maître d’ who still remembered Belle and Max’s first date like it had happened yesterday.

It was still early. The sun hadn’t quite cleared the rooftops of Monaco. But Emilie was already in motion—dressed, phone in hand, espresso in the other, a determined woman on a mission.

The florist had said it couldn’t be done. Snowdrops weren’t in season. They’d laughed—laughed—when Emilie asked.

Laughed. Emilie still remembered when Belle had told her about her favourite flowers. Fragile, quiet, perfect. Blooming in the cold, when nothing else did. Just like Belle. 

Emilie Abadie didn’t take no for an answer.

She made five calls. 

Then ten. 

Then offered double the price. 

Then triple. 

Someone from a specialty hothouse near Nice came through. A courier had arrived an hour ago, carrying a chilled box like it held diplomatic secrets.

Now, the bouquet sat in a vase on Emilie’s kitchen counter. Fragile white snowdrops, soft eucalyptus, and one or two sprigs of pale forget-me-nots.

Because Emilie was dramatic, and because Belle deserved to be remembered in every way that mattered.

The cake was next.

Not a tiered monstrosity. Just something beautiful. Elegant. White chocolate and raspberry with buttercream. The baker—an angel Emilie had gone to culinary school with for exactly three weeks—had rolled her eyes at the timeline and then agreed with a huff. “Only because it’s for Belle.”

Of course it was.

Emilie knew how much Belle had given. To her family. To her brothers. To Ferrari. To everyone except herself.

She’d watched Belle quietly shrink herself for years—make room for Lorenzo, for Charles, for Arthur, for Charles’ career, for the Leclerc family myth. 

Belle never asked for much. Never expected anything back.

So today, Emilie would give her everything.

The final piece fell into place just after sunrise: lunch at the restaurant where Max had taken Belle on their first date. The cozy one tucked behind the port with the ivy-covered terrace and the little hand-painted plates. Emilie had called the manager at 6:15 a.m.

“I need the whole place,” she’d said. “15 people. Three bottles of Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque. No fuss. No press. Max and Belle Verstappen.”

The Manager had paused and looked at Emilie:. “Ah,” he’d said, eyes twinkling. “For the couple who ordered the wine, then forgot to drink it because they were too busy falling in love?”

By 6:00, the venue was booked. The menu was set. The staff had already started laying out fresh linen.

Emilie checked the list one more time—flowers, cake, lunch, Max’s boutonnière, Belle’s shoes.

Everything was ready.

Emilie slipped her phone into her bag, gave the bouquet one last fond glance, and smiled to herself.

Because today—finally—was about Belle. Not Charles. Not their mother. Not a team or a trophy or anyone else’s spotlight.

Today was hers.

And Emilie Abadie would make sure not a single petal was out of place.

***

Emilie Abadie arrived with the force of a hurricane compressed into five feet and a few inches of blonde ambition and French fire.

She stood in the doorway like she’d conquered nations before breakfast, her icy blue eyes narrowing the moment they landed on him.

Lando’s stomach immediately did that stupid swoopy thing it did when he just knew he was fucked. 

She was Belle’s best friend. He had known that in an offhand way, had seen her make appearances on Belle’s Instagram and in stories Belle told…but Lando had never met her. 

“Why,” she said, voice crisp and imperious, “are half of you not wearing ties?”

Lando glanced around as if he might be able to blend into the cabinetry.

Too late.

“You,” Emilie snapped, pointing at him with all the grace and threat of a commander selecting someone for sacrifice.

“Me?” Lando squeaked.

She stalked toward him like a missile in heels. “You call that a tie? What is that knot? A shoelace? A cry for help?”

Lando glanced down at the pale blue mess under his collar. It did, in fact, look like it had lost a bar fight. “Technically… yes?”

Emilie sighed. Dramatically. Award-winningly. “Come here.”

He obeyed, despite every instinct screaming to flee. Blushing furiously, Lando stepped toward her like a man accepting his fate.

“You’re kind of scary,” he muttered.

“I’m not scary,” she replied, already undoing his tie with practiced hands, “I’m just French and disappointed.”

He stood still, heart hammering far too fast, hyper-aware of how close she was, of the way she reached up to fix the tie like she’d done it a hundred times. She smelled like roses and battle plans. Her fingers brushed his throat, adjusting the collar with delicate but precise movements, and Lando very seriously considered the possibility that this was what dying felt like.

“Can I breathe yet?” he whispered.

“When I say you can,” she said sweetly, tilting his chin. “Fashion is pain. Suffer with dignity.”

“I’m… terrified of her,” Lando muttered under his breath once she turned her attention elsewhere.

Max, still leaning casually against the counter, didn’t even blink. “You should be.”

And Lando was, but also… he was hopelessly in love with her. 

Or at least something very inconvenient and fluttery that made it hard to breathe when she was near. 

She was absolutely stunning in her sharply tailored outfit and meticulous energy, her blonde hair swept up, and her eyes laser-focused on whipping the room into shape. She’d turned wedding planning into a military campaign—and somehow made it look elegant.

But even as she herded grown men into order with eyebrow raises and verbal artillery, Lando couldn’t stop watching Max.

Because Max—who had never seemed interested in fanfare or spectacle—was getting married today. And he looked… happy. Genuinely, deeply happy in a way that made Lando’s chest go warm.

And Belle—sweet, gentle, quietly brave Belle—was the reason.

He couldn’t be happier for them.

Even if Charles was definitely going to kill him.

Lando had been trying not to think about that bit—the Charles-is-going-to-strangle-him-when-he-finds-out bit. Because once the truth came out, once Charles realized his little sister had married Max, and Lando had known, there was going to be hell to pay.

But he couldn’t bring himself to feel too guilty about it. Not when Max looked like that. Not when Belle had finally been seen the way she deserved.

The chaos in the room only paused when Emilie cornered Tom, who was valiantly attempting to pass off a cravat as formalwear.

“This is Monaco, not Pemberley,” Emilie said, already pulling a tie from her tote like Mary Poppins preparing for war.

Even Jos wasn’t immune. When Emilie raised her brows at him with military precision, he actually reached for the tie GP handed him—without protest.

“I like her,” Jos muttered, half to himself.

Yeah, Lando thought, hopeless and dazed. Me too.

Daniel’s cartoon tie didn’t stand a chance. Neither did his excuses.

“I have a lighter in my purse,” Emilie said, entirely too calmly.

And just like that, Daniel disappeared to change.

Only Oscar and GP escaped with their dignity intact. Emilie gave them a nod that could’ve launched ships.

Then Max—cool, unbothered Max—lifted his chin with the smugness of a man who had already tied his tie correctly.

“It’s crooked,” Emilie said, pulling him forward to fix it anyway.

Max didn’t even argue. Just let her do it, then shot her a crooked grin.

“You’ll do,” Emilie declared.

“You’re marrying my best friend,” she added. “You’re lucky I didn’t make you wear the floral pocket square.”

Lando snorted. Max only grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then the world stopped moving.

Because the bedroom door opened.

Belle stepped out.

And everything else just… dropped away.

Lando forgot about his camera. Forgot about his tie. Forgot about the fact he was probably about to die by Leclerc rage.

Because Belle was breathtaking.

She looked like she belonged in one of those old black-and-white movies—ethereal and quiet, in a dress that shimmered like water, snowdrops tucked gently into her dark curls. Her eyes swept the room until they found Max.

And Max—his friend, the fiercest driver he’d ever known—just stood there like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

“Hi,” Belle said softly.

Max walked toward her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. And when he told her she looked like a dream he’d never let himself have, Lando had to turn away, just for a second.

His chest hurt in a good way.

Maybe love didn’t have to be loud or dramatic or perfect. Maybe it could just be this. A quiet kitchen. A white dress. A soft “Hi.” The kind of thing that made a man forget how to breathe.

Daniel sniffled. Oscar told him to shut up.

And Lando—caught somewhere between awe and a slight panic over Charles Leclerc’s eventual reaction—just smiled.

Because one of his best friend had everything he’d ever wanted.

And Lando? Lando might be crushing on the tiny French hurricane currently terrorizing everyone with her sense of style.

But he had hope.

***

The wedding luncheon was held at a small, sun-washed restaurant tucked into one of Monaco’s corners. 

It was perfect, of course. Belle perfect.

The place where Belle and Max had had their first date. Where they had fallen in love and forgotten to drink the bottle of wine they had ordered it. 

Emilie sat at one of the long wooden tables, a glass of champagne in hand, watching Belle laugh over something Max whispered in her ear, her cheeks pink and glowing.

And for the first time in a long time, Emilie felt something unspool in her chest—something fragile and aching.

Belle was happy.

Finally.

After years of being treated like an afterthought by people who should have fought for her, she was loved by someone who saw her. It made Emilie both stupidly emotional and faintly murderous when she thought about the people who hadn't.

Her fingers curled loosely around the stem of her glass.

She didn't cry at weddings. That was not her brand.

But if she were going to cry, it would’ve been for this.

Someone bumped her elbow, breaking the spell.

She looked up—and into the bright, apologetic face of Lando Norris.

"Sorry! Sorry," he said immediately, holding up his hands like a man under arrest. "Didn’t mean to—uh, interrupt. Or spill anything. Or—"

He was wearing a navy blue suit, rumpled already, tie askew again even after her earlier threats. His curls were fighting a losing battle against whatever product he’d tried to tame them with. There was a crookedness to him—a kind of chaotic, restless energy buzzing just under his skin.

He looked like a golden retriever trying desperately not to knock over a priceless vase.

Emilie raised an eyebrow. Cool. Appraising.

She knew boys like him. Bright smiles. Quick laughs. Attention spans like sparklers: burning hot, burning out.

He should’ve been easy to dismiss.

So why wasn’t she?

"You’re safe," she said dryly, tipping her glass toward him. "For now."

Lando's grin widened, lopsided and a little breathless. "Good. I was warned you might have a taser."

Emilie allowed herself a small, sharp smile. "Only for men who deserve it."

His eyes—bright greenish blue, annoyingly nice eyes—crinkled at the corners. He shifted from foot to foot like he didn’t know whether to stay or retreat. She could practically see the gears turning in his brain, second-guessing everything.

Cute, she thought reluctantly. In that maddening, boyish way.

And real.

There was something startlingly unguarded about him. No polished script, no careful charm. Just... all messy heart.

"Can I—uh, sit?" he asked, nodding toward the empty chair beside her.

Emilie could have said no. Should have, maybe.

Instead, she tilted her head and said, "If you must."

He practically collapsed into the chair with relief, bumping the table and nearly knocking over a bread basket in the process. Emilie caught it one-handed, setting it upright with a sigh that was more amused than exasperated.

"Smooth," she said.

"I try," Lando said, flashing another grin. "But usually it goes like this."

They fell into an awkward, oddly endearing silence. The lunch buzzed around them: clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, Belle’s voice lifting and carrying across the room like music.

Lando fiddled with the edge of the napkin, sneaking glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Emilie noticed.

She noticed everything.

And it made her want to fold herself back into the armor she wore with men. The one that said: you can look, but you will never touch anything real.

But he wasn’t looking at her like she was an acquisition to win or a prize to brag about.

He was looking at her like she was a puzzle he was trying—hopelessly—to figure out.

She sipped her champagne. Let him squirm a little longer. Then, finally:

"So," Emilie said, tilting her head just enough to make him sweat, "are you going to make conversation, or are you just planning to stare at me and hope it counts?"

Lando blinked, then laughed—a quick, surprised sound that made something warm spark low in her chest.

"I was thinking... both?" he said, scratching the back of his neck. "You’re kind of intimidating."

"Good," Emilie said, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. "I work hard at it."

He shook his head, still smiling, eyes glinting with something that might have been mischief-or admiration.

Probably both.

And Emilie—who got whatever guy she wanted but never trusted any of them to stay—felt the faintest, most treacherous flicker of curiosity.

Maybe Belle wasn’t the only one who deserved good things.

Maybe.

But not yet.

For now, she just raised an eyebrow, tore a piece of bread in half, and said, "You’ve got five minutes to impress me, Norris. Don’t waste it."

Lando leaned forward like a man accepting a dare.

"Oh," he said, grinning wide and unrepentant. "I’m definitely going to waste it."

And to her absolute horror—

Emilie found herself smiling.

Real and warm and helpless against it.

Maybe chaotic sunshine wasn’t the worst thing to let into her life after all.

Emilie watched him over the rim of her glass, amused in the way one might watch a golden retriever attempt calculus. She was prepared for the usual: some half-flirty line, some brag, something easy to roll her eyes at and dismiss.

Instead, Lando immediately, and spectacularly, fumbled it.

“So, uh,” he began, sitting up straighter like he was about to give a business presentation, “I have a driver's license.”

Emilie blinked. “I should hope so,” she said dryly, “given your profession.”

“Yeah, but like,” Lando forged on, waving a hand vaguely, “I passed my first test. No minors. No majors. Totally clean sheet. Instructor said I was ‘shockingly competent.’” He smiled at her like this was an accomplishment that should win him a Nobel Prize.

Emilie couldn’t help it: she laughed.

A small one, sharp and unexpected, escaping before she could stop it.

Lando lit up like a Christmas tree. Actually lit up.

Encouraged, he kept going, words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried.

“And—and I can cook a bit. Like, real cooking. Not just the ‘put something in the microwave and pray’ thing.”

“What’s your specialty?” Emilie asked, playing along, one eyebrow lifted.

He considered this with deep, theatrical seriousness.

“Pasta,” he said finally. “But, like, real pasta. I once made fresh tagliatelle for a girl I liked.”

Emilie smirked. “And did she survive?”

“She did,” Lando said solemnly. “She even asked for seconds. Probably because I didn’t tell her I dropped half the dough on the floor and had to start over.”

Emilie shook her head, sipping her champagne to hide the curve of her mouth.

God, he was awful at this. And somehow—somehow—it was working.

Not because he was slick.

But because he wasn’t.

He was throwing everything out there, a whole messy human open on the table, with no polish, no angles, no agenda except: please like me.

And it was dangerously, horribly endearing.

Emilie, who had been courted by men with yachts and family names older than democracy, who had been wooed with Cartier and poetry and private jets, found herself genuinely, terrifyingly charmed by a boy who thought shockingly competent driving was an acceptable conversation starter.

“You’ve got two minutes left,” she said lightly.

Lando gasped in mock horror. “Pressure’s on.”

He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking.

Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was telling her a state secret."Okay. Here's the real selling point: I'm friends with Max, and you know what that means?"

She gave him a look that said choose your next words very carefully.

"It means," Lando said solemnly, "I have survived approximately fourteen near-death experiences involving go-karts, jet skis, and very questionable Red Bull stunts. So I'm basically immortal."

Emilie snorted into her glass.

"And," Lando added, beaming now, "I'm very good at getting bloodstains out of clothes. Just in case."

"You expect me to believe you're domestically capable," she said, eyeing him skeptically.

"I can use a washing machine," he said proudly. "Mostly."

"Terrifying."

Lando grinned wider, basking in the fact she hadn't told him to go away yet. His foot accidentally bumped hers under the table, and he yelped, jerking back like he'd been electrocuted.

"Sorry! Sorry—" he spluttered, flailing slightly. "Didn’t mean—"

"Relax," Emilie said, amused despite herself. "I don't bite."

She paused.

"Unless provoked," she added sweetly, echoing Belle’s earlier words.

Lando looked half in love already.

The realization hit Emilie like a cold glass of water poured down her back.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t how it went. She flirted. She played. She walked away before anyone got the chance to look at her like that.

But Lando didn’t seem to be strategizing, didn’t seem to be measuring her up like some glossy prize. He just looked... happy. A little awestruck. A little proud of himself for surviving her.

It was stupid. And messy. And probably a terrible idea.

But when Belle caught her eye across the room and gave her a tiny, knowing smile—the same smile Belle had worn when Max had first reached for her hand like it was instinct—

Emilie thought, maybe, just maybe, she could let herself enjoy this. For today. For a minute.

For herself.

She set her champagne down and looked at Lando, who was still watching her like she might vanish if he blinked.

"Alright, Norris," Emilie said, sitting back with a mock-sigh. "You've survived the first round."

Lando brightened so much it was almost dangerous.

"And what’s round two?" he asked eagerly.

Emilie smirked.

"You’ll find out," she said, standing up, brushing invisible crumbs off her sleek dress. She leaned down, just enough to whisper near his ear:

"If you're lucky."

And when she sauntered off to steal a slice of cake before the toddlers got to it, she didn’t even have to look back to know Lando was grinning like he’d just won the Miami Grand Prix again.

***

It started innocently enough.

At least, that's what Lando told himself.

It was late, he was jetlagged, and he was lying in bed with one arm slung over his face, phone glowing much too brightly against the dark hotel room ceiling. He should’ve been asleep.

Instead, he was... scrolling.

Specifically, scrolling through Emilie Abadie’s Instagram.

In his defense, she’d posted a new story earlier that day—something about a bookstore in Paris—and he’d swiped up without thinking, curious. From there, well... it was a slippery slope.

He clicked on her profile. Scrolled a little. Then a little more. And a little more. Until suddenly he wasn’t just seeing today's cute coffee shop photo; he was deep in 2019 territory, where the grid looked different—less polished, more chaotic.

And there it was.

The Bikini Picture.

Emilie, standing on a beach somewhere impossibly blue, wearing sunglasses, a tiny black bikini, and a smirk that could have started wars. Hair loose, skin sun-kissed, hand holding some drink with a tiny paper umbrella in it.

She looked effortless. Untouchable. Dangerous.

Lando, because he had the survival instincts of a drunk moth around a flame, stared at it for too long.

And then, as if his thumb had a mind of its own—

He liked it.

The screen flashed red.

Hearted.

The panic hit instantly.

"NO—NO, NO, NO—" he yelped, scrambling like he'd just touched a live wire. He frantically unliked it—smashed the heart again until it turned back to grey—but it was too late.

He knew how Instagram worked.

She got the notification.

He sat there, paralyzed, mortified, vibrating with shame.

He had liked a bikini photo from five years ago.

He was that guy.

The type of guy who accidentally cyberstalked someone so hard he time-traveled.

Lando buried his face in his pillow and groaned loud enough to scare himself.

At some point, he gave up and texted Oscar.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri

Lando: Mate. I just liked a 2019 bikini pic on Emilie’s Instagram. Kill me.

Oscar: 😂😂😂

Lando: I’m actually dying. This is fatal. I’ve died.

Oscar: How did you even GET to 2019??

Lando: I was just looking!! And then scrolling!! And then it happened!! I didn’t MEAN TO.

Oscar: Famous last words.

Lando: I hate you.

Lando: I'm gonna throw myself into the sea.

Oscar: Before you do, serious question. You like her, don’t you?

***

Later, when Lando had the courage to crawl out from under his metaphorical rock, he found himself sitting in Oscar’s hotel room, tossing a mini water bottle up and down, trying not to look like he wanted to crawl into the mini fridge and hide.

Oscar just sat on the bed, arms folded, regarding him with the amused patience of someone who had absolutely seen this coming.

“So,” Oscar said, grinning slightly. “Emilie, huh?”

Lando groaned. “It’s not like that.”

Oscar raised a brow.

Lando dropped the water bottle onto the floor with a thunk. “Okay. Fine. Maybe it’s a little like that.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, just nodded sagely, like he was some ancient wisdom god instead of a 23-year-old who still ate cereal for dinner sometimes.

“She’s just…” Lando floundered for words, pushing a hand through his hair. “She’s scary. And beautiful. And scary.”

“You said scary twice.”

“It felt necessary.”

Oscar snorted. “Sounds like you’ve got it bad, mate.”

Lando slumped. “I don’t even know if she likes me. She could crush me like a bug if she wanted.”

“Would you be mad about it?” Oscar asked.

Lando considered it. “…No.”

Oscar laughed, then sobered slightly, watching him.

“You ever just know?” Lando asked suddenly, voice quieter. “That someone’s different? Like—you’re still kind of terrified, but you don’t want to run away?”

Oscar leaned back against the headboard, thinking for a second.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “With Lily, I knew.”

Lando glanced at him, genuinely curious.

“I mean, it wasn’t like lightning bolts or fireworks or anything,” Oscar said, shrugging. “It was quieter. Like... I realized I was happier when she was around. And when she wasn’t, it felt like something was missing. She made life easier. Not harder. You know?”

Lando nodded slowly.

“People talk about love like it’s supposed to be this huge, dramatic thing,” Oscar continued. “But honestly? The real thing’s just... peace. Trust. Someone you want to tell stupid jokes to at 2 a.m.”

Lando swallowed.

He thought about Emilie.

The way she made fun of him mercilessly, but smiled when she thought he wasn’t looking.

The way she laughed—not a polite, reserved laugh, but a real, from-the-gut laugh—when he told the world’s dumbest jokes.

The way he felt when she was near. Like maybe he could stop trying to be impressive and just... be.

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be easy.

Maybe it was just supposed to be real.

“You think I’ve got a chance?” Lando asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Oscar smiled.

“You’ve already got one,” he said. “You’re just too scared to believe it.”

Lando sat back, heart thudding a little too fast, a little too hopeful.

Maybe he’d make an idiot of himself.

Maybe Emilie would laugh him off.

Maybe she’d crush him like a bug.

But maybe—maybe—he’d survive it.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be worth it.

***

Instagram Direct Messages: Lando Norris & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: So.

Emilie: I noticed you liked a little throwback.

Emilie: From 2019, no less. Deep cuts.  Impressive research skills.

Emilie: You know, you could’ve just asked me to dinner.  Would’ve been less creepy than liking my bikini photos at 2 a.m.

Emilie:  (But I guess this way was more entertaining.)

Emilie: You still can ask, by the way. If you’re brave enough.

Lando: Would you maybe want to have dinner with me? Without bikinis. I mean you can wear one if you want but not like a requirement— This is going badly.

Emilie: I’m free Thursday. Pick somewhere good.

Emilie: And try not to like any more photos from my past while you’re planning it.

Emilie: Or do. It’s cute. In a tragic way.

Lando: Bold of you to assume I won’t.

Emilie: Bold of you to assume I’ll say yes if you like the duck-face selfie from 2017.

Lando: Challenge accepted.

Emilie: Challenge lost.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Max Fewtrell: BRO. You saw it, right??  Charles fully crashed his soul mid-interview??

Lando: Unfortunately, yes. It was like watching someone remember they left the oven on... and also their sister.

Max Fewtrell: Iconic. Karun was like “her birthday, right?”  And Charles just downloaded a full panic attack.

Max Fewtrell: I screamed. Like—out loud. In public.

Lando Norris: It was kind of beautiful tbh. Like watching karma arrive with a mic and a production crew.

Max Fewtrell: Is his sister okay though? Do we know? Does she have a burner Twitter? I feel like she would.

Lando Norris:  She’s fine. Emilie’s with her.

Max Fewtrell: Who’s Emilie?

Lando Norris: ... She's Belle’s best friend.  Sharp. Dangerous. Possibly psychic. Says terrifyingly accurate things about my emotional state and then walks away in heels

Lando: She’s terrifying. Also brilliant.  And she’s like…scarily beautiful. 

Max Fewtrell: You have a crush on her, don’t you.

Lando: …I didn’t say that.

Max Fewtrell: YOU ABSOLUTELY DO OH MY GOD YOU DO This is the best gossip of the day and Charles had a meltdown on live TV

Lando: Shut up Also can we go back to Charles??

Max Fewtrell: No Because now I want to know why you know where Belle is And how you know Emilie’s with her And why you’re being so weirdly calm

Lando: …because I went to the wedding?

Max Fewtrell: THE WHAT

Lando: ...

Max Fewtrell: LAN THE WEDDING

Lando: Yeah. Belle and Max Verstappen. They got married. I was invited. Very small. City Hall. No media. Emilie picked the flowers

Max Fewtrell: MAX. VERSTAPPEN?!

Lando: Yes

Max Fewtrell:  YOU MEAN TO TELL ME CHARLES IS HAVING A BREAKDOWN ABOUT FORGETTING HIS SISTER’S BIRTHDAY AND DOESN’T EVEN KNOW SHE’S MARRIED TO HIS RIVAL???

Lando: Correct

Max Fewtrell: I need to lie down. And then I need popcorn And possibly therapy But also more of this

Lando: Same. Group chat is chaos Do not ask to be added It’s war in there

Max Fewtrell: This is better than Drive to Survive You’ve been sitting on this gossip for HOW LONG?

Lando: Long enough to know I value my life And Max Verstappen would kill me if I leaked it before they were ready

Max Fewtrell: Fair

Lando: You think Charles is spiraling now… Wait until he finds out Max is family now

Max Fewtrell: My god. This is better than Netflix.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Lando Norris

Lando Norris

hey is belle okay?

Emilie: She will be. She’s hurting, but she’s strong. And she has Max. That helps. (And me, obviously. I threaten people on her behalf.)

Lando: yeah i’d be more scared of you tbh Lando:  but good Lando: she doesn’t deserve to feel that way Lando:  no one does

Emilie: this is very rude. I was not prepared for sincerity. Please warn me next time

Lando: sorry next time i’ll open with a meme but i meant it

Emilie: I know. That’s why I’m weirdly touched. Ugh. Gross. I hate this. Emotions are banned after 10pm.

Lando: it’s 9:58

Emilie: you’re on thin ice, Norris.

Lando: wouldn’t be the first time but thanks for telling me and tell her i said… i don’t know that i’m rooting for her and that she deserves  better brothers and maybe a pony idk what people say in these situations

Emilie: you’re doing fine she’ll appreciate it and so do I

Emilie: you’re a good guy, Lando.

Lando: 😳 wow ok i’m printing this and framing it

Emilie: Don’t push it. ***

The restaurant buzzed softly around them—quiet conversations, clinking silverware, candlelight glinting off glasses. It was the kind of cozy, tucked-away Monaco spot that felt private even when it was packed, the kind of place that made Lando loosen his shoulders for the first time in days.

Or, at least, it should have.

But honestly, Lando was too busy trying not to screw this up to relax.

Sitting across from Emilie Abadie—in a dim corner booth, with a bottle of wine between them and a shared plate of something fried—was more nerve-wracking than qualifying on a wet track.

She was devastating.

Not just in the obvious way, with her wild blonde hair and sharp mouth and the way she sipped wine like she was judging the entire country of France—but in the way she looked at him. Like she was trying to decide if he was worth the effort of knowing.

And God help him, he wanted to be worth it.

He was halfway through trying to come up with something clever when he saw her expression shift. Just a flicker—something hard and tight slipping across her face.

Lando followed her gaze.

Across the restaurant, standing up too fast, was Charles Leclerc.

And he was coming right for them.

"Uh," Lando said, sitting up a little straighter. "Is that...?"

"Unfortunately," Emilie said under her breath, setting her wineglass down with a soft clink.

Charles didn’t even hesitate. Just stormed across the room, panic practically pouring off him. He stopped at their table, ignoring Lando completely, and zeroed in on Emilie.

"Emilie," Charles said, voice tight, "we need to talk. About Belle."

Emilie didn’t even blink.

"I’m having dinner," she said coolly. "Sit down or leave."

Charles didn’t sit. He stood there, vibrating with panic and guilt and about four too many emotions for the room they were in.

“She posted a horse,” Charles burst out, voice climbing. “A horse! She never said anything! She’s still not answering me. You’ve seen her. You know. Why won’t you just—just tell me what’s going on?!”

Lando, still frozen in his seat, watched Emilie set her napkin down. Slowly. Precisely. Like she was a surgeon preparing for a very delicate operation.

Her smile disappeared.

And then—God help him—she destroyed Charles.

"You think you're owed answers now?" she asked, voice so sharp Lando actually felt it across the table. "After months of ignoring every warning sign? After standing in the same garage with her and looking through her like she wasn’t even real?"

Charles flinched.

Emilie leaned in slightly, not loud, but lethal.

"You want to know why she’s not answering you? Because you only want her when it’s convenient. When it fits your schedule. When it doesn’t mess up the perfect story you tell yourself about your family."

Lando sat back, eyes wide, utterly mesmerized.

He had seen Emilie be sharp before—sarcastic, teasing, merciless with Daniel’s cartoon ties—but this was something else.

This was fierce.

This was loyalty turned into a weapon.

And it was, without a doubt, the moment he realized he was completely screwed.

Because he wasn’t falling for her because she was pretty (although, let’s be honest, that wasn’t exactly hurting). He was falling because of this.

Because of the way she fought.

Because of the way she protected the people she loved like it was breathing.

Because he could see, in every word she threw like knives, how much Belle meant to her.

He had never wanted anything more in his life than to be someone Emilie Abadie fought for like that.

Charles opened his mouth, desperate, and Emilie cut him down again.

"You forgot her birthday," she said, each word a bullet. "And you think a few panicked phone calls are enough to fix that?"

Lando couldn’t even feel sorry for Charles at that point. Not really.

He was too busy being completely, absolutely undone.

"You don't love Belle the way you should," Emilie said, voice low and devastating. "You love the idea of her. The safe, quiet little sister who never asks for anything. Who never demands too much. Who lets you shine without ever threatening your light."

And there it was—the fatal blow.

Charles stood there like he had been hollowed out.

Good, Lando thought savagely.

He didn’t deserve her.

He didn’t deserve Belle’s softness—or Emilie’s fury on her behalf.

Emilie, calm as anything now, lifted her glass again like she hadn’t just torn him to pieces.

"Now," she said, "go back to your table. Apologize to Alexandra. And maybe—if you’re lucky—figure out how to be someone your sister actually wants to let back in."

Charles didn’t even argue.

He just turned and walked away, a shell of himself.

The moment he was gone, the restaurant buzzed back to life like nothing had happened.

And Lando just sat there, staring at Emilie like she’d hung the moon.

Because this was what undid him, completely and without mercy:

Not the beauty. Not the sharp tongue. Not even the way she teased him into laughing at himself.

It was this.

It was the way she loved.

Fierce. Loyal. Uncompromising.

It was the way she stood her ground, sword drawn, in defense of someone who needed it.

It was the way she made it absolutely clear that you didn’t get to hurt people she loved without consequences.

God, he was in trouble.

Emilie caught him staring and arched an eyebrow, setting her wineglass down with practiced grace. "What?"

Lando blinked, scrambled for something to say, something that didn’t sound like I might be in love with you.

"That was," he said, voice a little hoarse, "the most badass thing I’ve ever seen."

A faint, real smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "He needed to hear it."

"He did," Lando agreed. Then, quieter, "And Belle’s lucky to have you."

Something flickered across Emilie’s face at that—something small and vulnerable and quickly hidden.

She picked up her glass again, studying him over the rim. "Careful, Norris. Say too many nice things and I might start thinking you mean them."

"I do," he said simply.

And this time, she didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t mock him.

She just held his gaze, steady and assessing, like she was weighing whether he was telling the truth.

Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because after a long beat, she said lightly, "Good."

She took a sip of her wine. Then, smiling like she hadn't just broken and remade his entire world in under five minutes, she leaned in closer.

"Now," Emilie said, "where were we before the drama?"

Lando couldn’t even remember.

All he could think about was how wildly, desperately he wanted to kiss her.

***

Emilie sat back in her chair, wine glass light between her fingers, and tried to act like her heart wasn’t pounding against her ribs.

Like Lando’s words hadn’t just cracked something wide open inside her.

Belle’s lucky to have you. I mean it.

She didn’t know what she had expected—maybe some teasing, maybe a joke to defuse the moment—but not that.

Not sincerity.

Not him.

She should’ve brushed it off. Should’ve quipped something scathing and easy, should’ve knocked the moment off balance before it could land. But she hadn’t.

Because something about the way Lando looked at her—steady, certain, real—had made her hesitate.

Careful, Abadie, she warned herself. You know better.

Boys said things they didn’t mean. Boys fell in love with ideas, not people. Boys liked her because she was shiny and sharp, not because they saw her.

And yet... Lando hadn’t looked at her like she was shiny.

He’d looked at her like she was something solid.

Like he saw the messy, brutal, fiercely protective parts of her—and didn’t want to flinch away.

It was terrifying.

It was worse than terrifying.

It was hope.

"Now," Emilie said, forcing her voice back into familiar, teasing steadiness as she leaned across the table, "where were we before the drama?"

Lando blinked at her, like he needed a second to remember where he was. It made something traitorous and warm flicker in her chest.

"Uh," he said, a little breathless, "I think I was telling you about the time I accidentally set a microwave on fire?"

Emilie let out a real, surprised laugh. "You did what?"

He grinned—wide and messy and self-deprecating—and just like that, the intensity between them loosened into something lighter. Still charged. Still humming just under the surface. But lighter.

"I was fifteen, okay," Lando said, leaning in, elbows on the table. "And I thought you could microwave foil. Spoiler alert: you cannot."

"Oh my God," Emilie said, actually laughing now. "You’re lucky you didn’t set the whole house on fire."

"Almost did," Lando said proudly. "My mum nearly murdered me."

He told the story with his whole body—hands flying, eyes bright—and Emilie listened, smiling in spite of herself, feeling the last shards of her ice defenses start to melt.

He’s dangerous, she thought distantly. And not for the reasons you’re used to.

He was dangerous because he wasn’t pretending.

Because he didn’t want her to be less. Or smaller. Or easier to love.

He wanted this version of her—the messy, complicated, fierce version—and it felt so new and so scary she almost didn’t know how to hold it.

Halfway through his story about the microwave (and the resulting three-day grounding), Emilie caught herself staring.

Caught herself wondering what it would be like to lean across the table and kiss him.

Idiot, she thought, draining the last of her wine to kill the impulse.

But even as she set the glass down, her hand brushed against his—just lightly, just by accident—and Lando froze.

The air between them tightened again. Not heavy. Not sharp. But electric.

His hand stayed where it was.

Waiting.

Not grabbing. Not pushing. Just waiting.

An invitation.

An if you want to.

Emilie’s chest squeezed so tight she could barely breathe.

She wasn’t used to boys who waited.

She wasn’t used to being wanted without being hunted.

Slowly—so slowly she barely let herself think about it—she turned her palm up and let her fingers brush his.

His hand closed gently over hers, warm and callused and careful.

And Emilie, against every rule she had ever made for herself, didn’t pull away.

***

The night air was cooler than the restaurant had been, crisp against Emilie’s skin as they stepped out into the narrow Monaco street.

 The world felt smaller out here—quieter, sleepier. The kind of night you could almost believe was magic.

Their hands brushed once, then again. And then—without speaking—Lando laced his fingers through hers.

Just like that.

No fuss. No dramatics. No careful maneuvering.

Like he’d been waiting for permission, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

Emilie let herself be pulled along, hand in his, heart hammering an unfamiliar rhythm against her ribs.

It was terrifying.

It was wonderful.

Neither of them said much as they walked. The occasional motorbike buzzed by; laughter floated out of the bars they passed. But between them—just a quiet hum of something new.

When they reached a corner where the street narrowed and the light hit just right, Lando slowed.

Emilie slowed too, their joined hands swinging slightly between them.

Lando glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

She caught the look—shy and reckless all at once—and her heart gave a traitorous thud.

"You’re quiet," he said, voice soft, like he was afraid to scare her off.

"Maybe I’m enjoying the peace," Emilie said lightly.

He smiled at that. Real and crooked. The kind of smile that made her want to hand over every sharp piece of herself without a second thought.

"You were incredible tonight," he said, after a moment.

Emilie huffed a laugh, looking away. "I was brutal."

"You were brilliant," Lando corrected. "You were exactly what Belle needed."

The words were so unexpected, so easy and true, that Emilie almost stumbled.

God, stop, she told herself. Stop falling faster.

But it was already too late.

When she looked back at him, Lando was still watching her with that same maddening, open expression. Like he liked her exactly as she was. All fire. All teeth. All soft, bruised, careful heart underneath.

They stopped under a streetlamp without meaning to.

It pooled gold light around them, softening the edges of everything. Making the world feel like it had shrunk to just this. Just them.

Lando’s hand tightened slightly around hers.

"Emilie," he said, and the way he said it—half a question, half a prayer—made something inside her crack open.

She should have said something sharp. She should have laughed it off.

Instead, she just lifted her chin and looked at him.

"Are you going to kiss me, Norris," she asked, voice deceptively cool, "or are you going to keep holding my hand like we’re on a third-grade field trip?"

Lando made a small, strangled noise that might have been a laugh—or a whimper—and then he was stepping closer, so close she could feel the heat of him.

"I’m working up to it," he muttered.

"You’re slow," Emilie said.

"You’re terrifying," Lando shot back, grinning.

And then—finally, finally—he kissed her.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t smooth or practiced.

It was messy and a little desperate and so real it nearly brought Emilie to her knees.

Lando kissed like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to. Like he wanted to be sure she knew she could push him away at any second—and like he was praying she wouldn’t.

And Emilie—fierce, guarded Emilie—kissed him back with all the reckless, terrifying hope she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying for years.

It was a soft, stumbling collision of mouths and laughter and fingers tightening on jackets—and it was, without a doubt, the most dangerous, precious thing Emilie had ever let herself have.

When they finally pulled apart, Lando rested his forehead lightly against hers, still holding her hand.

"You scare the shit out of me," he whispered, grinning.

"Good," Emilie whispered back.

But when he kissed her again—this time slower, sweeter—she let herself believe, for just one dangerous, dazzling second, that maybe she didn't have to be scary forever.

That maybe someone had finally seen her.

And wanted her anyway.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Lando: Bro. BRO. I’m going to throw up.

Max: ok congrats on what?? nervous breakdown? race win? what are we celebrating

Lando: i kissed her

Max: who

Lando: her

Max: MATE WHO

Lando: EMILIE

Max: WAIT wait wait wait BACK UP u kissed her??? WHAT DO YOU MEAN "I KISSED HER"???

Lando: we had dinner and i didn’t die and then she LET ME HOLD HER HAND and THEN SHE LET ME KISS HER

Max: mate i need a minute

 since WHEN were you even going on dates with her??? this is like finding out ur mate moved to another country and got married without telling u what do u mean you just had dinner casually WHEN WAS THIS PLANNED

Lando: it just happened kind of after i liked her 2019 bikini pic at 2am

Max: what the fuck

Max: YOU DID WHAT

Max: YOU DUMB IDIOT LEGEND

Lando: she slid into my dms after told me i could just ask her out next time instead of stalking her like a creep

Max: i’m crying i’m so proud u’re still an idiot but like a victorious idiot

Lando: i’m literally shaking bro like i kissed her and she kissed me BACK

Max: wtf and she didn’t mace you or slap you??? mate she might actually like you

Lando: i think she might

Lando: i’m gonna marry her

Max: ok buddy let’s aim for a second date first

Lando: i’m so fucked

Max: in the best way

[theprismaticvoid]

So, reblogging this with a question: Does anyone have a source for this? I see this claim parroted a LOT, but nobody I've asked has ever been able to give a source for it beyond vaguely remembering hearing about it. Someone who read through the Anniversary interviews said this isn't there either.

I even asked a friend of mine from Japan and they'd never heard of this info - they knew about Shirou being compatible with Spartacus because that's from the Apocrypha material book, but none of the rest was anything they'd ever heard of.

I searched Asterios and Nightingale's Japanese names on Japanese Twitter in the years from 2016/2017 (post says this was during "season 1 of FGO" which I take to mean the first year or so on the market) and found no mention of this being something Nasu said at all.

In fact, from what I could find, "Nightingale would be a good servant for Shirou" was a fan theory among some Japanese fans during early FGO, but it was never talked about in the context of it being confirmed by Nasu. I saw a lot of discussion about how fans think they would work well together, but again, no mention of it being canon.

(Asterios being Sakura's servant was similar, but with a LOT less posts - most early mentions of him seem to have been either people talking about their gacha roles, or a meme going around where one of those random generator websites would assign you a family of Fate characters and a lot of people got Asterios as their brother?)

Obviously Twitter's had many mass-exoduses over the past few years and a lot of accounts from that time period are either privated or just outright deleted- but still, I can't find a single mention about this info that says it's canon at all. And it seems incredibly unusual to me that people would be talking about Shirou and Nightingale being paired up as a fan theory if Nasu had outright said "yeah those two WOULD make a good duo and he WOULD be able to summon her"

So, saying this here to ask if anyone has a real source for any of this. If not, I'm leaning towards this not being true. The Fate fandom has a big problem of misinformation spreading around the fandom because Type Moon won't give us goddamn official translations, so I want to make sure this is true before spreading it around.

(also this isn't a callout or insult at OP. If this turns out to be true, hell yeah. If this turns out to be false, I believe OP genuinely believed it and maybe got swindled by someone spreading lies to push their headcanons)

FSN Most Compatible Servants

Hey, did y’all know that Nasu confirmed early on during FGO who Shirou Emiya’s and Sakura Matou’s most compatible servants would be? It was a long time ago, but I just find myself still wanting to talk about it. When he said “most compatible”, he was very clear about explaining that compatible =/= “the best for them”, it just means “the servants who would pretty much understand them to a T. The selection is limited/out dated since this was early on during Season 1 of FGO, so newer servants are not accounted for, but I still agree with Nasu that these servants ring true to their FSN Master counterparts!

Keep reading

[slytherinshua]

☆　EYES FULL OF STARS　( 박후민 )

genre hurt/comfort , baku x fem!reader   cw spoilers for weak hero class 2 (fic takes place sometime during ep 6) , injuries (cuts and bruises) , not proofread   wc 800   request yes   note there's no one more obsessed w ryeoun's big beautiful eyes than me i could post a gifset of baku later (i did make this gif just for the fic tho ejkfjkd)   net @kstrucknet

You don’t remember much before you blacked out. Union guys threatening you, some with weapons, some just with words. Na Baekjin asked you where Baku was. You wouldn’t tell him. Maybe you should have risked his safety to protect yours. He was physically stronger, a skill fighter, and smart in these kinds of situations. He would’ve handled it, like he always did. But he was pushed between a rock and a hard place, and you just wanted to give him a break for even one day.

After he had refused to continue doing Baekjin’s little tasks, he came to stay with you. No one knew about you. At least, Baku thought no one knew about you. It wasn’t hard for the Union to track you down, figure out the connection between you two, and use you as leverage to get to Baku. Baekjin freely used your boyfriend’s friends and father, and now you.

You attended a completely different school; only saw Baku on some days of the week. You kept yourself out of the trouble the guys were facing. Baku didn’t want you to get involved in any way, and only told you the least concerning parts of what was happening. It shouldn’t have to concern you what mess Eunjang High was facing. It was his job to deal with it. He never thought Baekjin would somehow get his hands on you.

When Baku got the impudent call from Baekjin asking if he would still refuse to do what he wanted when they had you hostage, he saw red. More than a few faces left bloodstained that night. Baku left with you in his arms. 

You stirred in his arms halfway back to your apartment, groaning in pain and blinking your eyes open. He walked a little slower and held you a little tighter. 

“Baku… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I should’ve made sure they never got to you. It’s on me for thinking they wouldn’t find you,” he sighed, gulping down the guilt and trying to find the means to smile. For you. 

“Hey… I’m okay. You got me now,” you closed your eyes again, smiling through the exhaustion and pain. Being in your boyfriend’s arms always gave you a sense of comfort. Even when you had bruises all over your body and multiple cuts. Even when you could still picture it all fresh in your mind. 

Baku had the basic first aid kits in his room, along with plenty of bandages he was used to applying by himself. He made sure you were comfortable on his bed before starting to inspect where all your injuries were.

“Tell me honestly. How badly did you beat them up?” you asked, nervous for the answer. Baku knew not to cross the line, but there was no one he was more protective over than you. As soon as you got hurt, all sense went out the window. You could imagine the levels he could reach to get back at them. 

“They’re all still alive,” he said carefully, flashing you a reassuring smile that did nothing to curb your worries.

“Park Humin.”

He frowned, hands pausing their unwrapping of a large bandage. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Baku,” you corrected, your voice softer this time. “Violence isn’t the answer for violence.”

“It’s the only language they understand,” he said simply. “I don’t like it either. You know I’d never fight someone unnecessarily,” he reached for your hand, the gentle squeeze he gave you enough to relax your tense muscles. 

“I know. I just don’t want you to get hurt too.”

He nodded, “I’ll make sure I don’t then, okay?” He smiled; the kind of big grin that you could always count on to make you feel better. 

“Okay,” you smiled as well. More tentative and held back than Baku, like you knew that the situation was much more complicated than promises to not get hurt could suffice for. But you chose to let his words silence your anxiety for a while. For the current moment, you were both safe. That was all that mattered. 

“Let’s get you bandaged up,” Baku got back to work, disinfecting any scrape or cut and covering them with carefully placed bandages. Each time you winced from the pain, he would kiss you gently, and by the end of it, the pain wasn’t so bad anymore. 

Some people only saw your boyfriend as loud and overbearing, while others feared his physical strength. Most students at Eunjang High respected him, but rarely did they ever get to know him. Few knew the challenges he faced, and even fewer knew how caring he truly was. 

But you knew him inside out, and if there was ever anyone who you would stick by for the rest of your life, Baku was just that. 

k-drama taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @eternalgyu,, @wolfmoonmusic,, @cha3w0n-hearts,, @candewlsy,, @cosmicwintr,, @blossominghunnie,, @parkjennykim,, @seunghancore,, @emmylksblog,, @bananabubble,, @hrtsvivis,, @hursheys,, @lexeees,, @cupidslovearrows

[em1i2a3]

Cradle

Pairing: Beefy!Bucky Barnes x Mom(Post-Partum)!Fem!Reader

Warnings: Starts off on a bit of a scary note, Fluff, lot’s of it, reader went through a C-Section, and there is a reference to that, there is accidental swearing, and once again Bucky is just a super soft sweet boi being his sweet boi self…But all in all, very fluffy, very cute, just pure vibes.

Authors Note: This is connected to ‘Forwards Beckon Rebound,’ it’s a little bit of a continuation of sorts but it’s more of a blurb, there’s not a lot connected, this could be read as a standalone too though, I think. Also, Adrianne Lenker has really been a mood for me lately, and thank god she has so many beautiful songs because this one was so frickin fitting.

Word Count: 3,443

Taglist: @sleepysongbirdsings (y’all I’m so mentally old I’m slowly getting used to what to do for these posts lol, so if anyone wants to be part of my Taglist I mean…Give me a shout :))

The last thing you remembered before going under was Bucky’s voice. His large hands framing your face, his thumbs running along the bags under your eyes.

”I promise I’ll be here when you wake up…” His voice was cracking, fear breaking through his words. He was terrified, you could see it in the way his dark blue irises scanned over your face, taking every detail in as if this could be the last time he saw you. Everything happened so quickly that neither of you had time to process anything. One moment you were in the hospital bed getting checked, the next they were preparing you for an emergency C-Section. You were panicking, scared for the baby, scared for yourself even.

You reached up and squeezed his fingers tight–a desperate goodbye you didn’t want to be saying–nodding through the tears that streamed down your face, then the cool oxygen mask slid over your mouth and nose, and you were taken under a sea of black.

————-

Coming back to consciousness felt like being dragged through wet cement. Your limbs were heavy and numb, as if they were being pinned down by invisible weights. Your throat was burning and your mouth was dry, you assumed it was probably from the tube they had put down your throat during the surgery to make sure your breathing was controlled, you heard them mention it in the chaos of them preparing you for the C-Section…At least you thought you did.

Thankfully there was no immediate pain, just a deep, tight ache that buzzed in your lower abdomen reminding you of what just occurred two and a half hours ago.

You felt like you were floating, half-aware, but half-asleep, until the sound of voices pulled you closer to the surface.

“You’re doing perfect hun,” A soft, coaxing voice said, you assumed it was a nurse. Her tone was patient, and warm, almost motherly even.

”I’m…I just haven’t done this before…I don’t think I’m doing this right.” Another voice cracked out, low and thick with nerves. It was Bucky. Your Bucky…Your rock...You could feel your chest twist at the sound of him so worried, but there was such relief when you heard that voice.

“You’ve been doing great. She’s calm, she’s breathing steady. Been asleep for the past hour after that big feed. You’re keeping her warm and giving her something steady to nap on, I’d say you’re a pro.” You could feel your body immediately tense at the word she. A baby girl. You had fought to keep the gender a secret from yourself, and now knowing gave you some sort of second wind in a way, a push to try and keep yourself over the edge so you could stay at least semi-conscious.

There was a soft rustle of fabric, a faint creak of a chair, and the sound of shifting. You forced your eyes open, just the tiniest bit, fighting against the weight that was trying to pull them closed again.

The first thing you saw was him.

Bucky was sitting stiffly in the reclining hospital chair, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, like he was attempting to curl himself around the tiny bundle in his arms, trying to make himself seem small in a way, which was nearly impossible given the sheer size of him. His hair was pulled back in a bun, and he was shirtless, with a soft pink blanket covering a portion of his chest and midsection, containing as much warmth as possible. His vibranium hand hovered awkwardly over the fabric, resting there for support, but not fully touching, letting his other arm do all the heavy lifting. You could see the way it was wrapped around her, his enormous hand cupping nearly her whole back with the most delicate kind of softness.

Your vision was still swimming, but you could make out the faint shape of a tiny hand–impossibly small–splayed out over the center of Bucky’s broad chest. Her little fingers twitched now and then, though there were no shifts or squeals, not yet at least.

The entire sight was almost too much to take in.

You could see how tense Bucky was even from across the room, his jaw tight, his brows drawn together. It was easy to tell he was nervous and worried that he might accidentally do something wrong, and every muscle in his body showed that through the way they locked and tensed into place so that he could hold himself perfectly still.

”I-I definitely don’t feel like a pro,” Bucky muttered, “I’m scared I’m gonna hold her too tight…She’s so small.” The nurse chuckled softly, adjusting the blanket a bit higher over the baby’s back with a practiced hand, moving carefully, and reading the tension that was running all over his face. She was treating him with the same tenderness she might offer a brand-new parent, even though she knew the situation.

“She’s not little. Nine pounds, two ounces is a chunky little peanut.” The nurse teased gently, patting Bucky’s vibranium arm reassuringly, “You’re just a big ol’ mountain of a man, and you make everything look tiny.” Bucky gave a small, uncertain laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes, even though it did ease him a bit. He continued to cradle the bundle against him, dragging his thumb along her warm skin, a small smile coming up on his lips as he looked down at a carbon copy of you, just in tinier form.

His head dipped slightly, his nose brushing against the crown of the baby’s fuzzy head, breathing in without even realizing he was doing it. His eyes fluttered closed, and for a second he looked younger and softer than you’d ever seen him before.

“Is it weird if I say she smells like spun sugar…Like Coney Island cotton candy…That real sweet, sticky kind of smell.” Bucky asked quietly, his voice rough with nerves and awe as he cradled the bundle tighter to him. The nurse let out a soft, affectionate laugh.

”Not weird at all,” She soothed, “Every baby’s got their own smell, it’s kind of like a new car smell…But for tiny humans, and you’re certainly not the first tough guy to melt over it, either.” You could see Bucky’s cheeks turn a faint red through the blurriness in your vision. You swallowed against the dry scrape in your throat, heart aching as you opened your mouth to form a word.

”Bucky…” It was barely a sound, just a breath in the air, but he had heard it. His head immediately snapped up, his wide blue eyes locking onto you from across the room, a wave of relief washing over him. His mouth parted, but no sound came out, and he looked wrecked. It was like he had heard the most important voice of his life. The nurse nudged him slightly.

“C’mon, big guy, let’s bring her to mama hm?” Bucky blinked up at her like he’d forgotten he could move, like the only thing that was keeping him focused was you and the tiny heartbeat that was pressed against his chest. Slowly, he shifted to his feet, the nurse helping guide him as he adjusted his hold on the baby with exaggerated care. You could see the way he kept his vibranium arm hovering uselessly by his side as he stepped towards you, and you could feel tears filling your eyes at the gentleness of it all.

You tried to lift your arms, desperate to reach for the both of them, but they barely twitched against the sheets. A helpless whimper tore itself from your throat.

”My arms are still numb.” You croaked, feeling the tingling heaviness that plagued your nerves. Immediately the nurse was beside you, smoothing a hand over your shoulder.

”That’s alright sweetheart, we can still get her tucked up against you, Bucky over here can climb in beside you and secure her on your chest for extra safety.” Bucky stood frozen for a second, looking down at the tiny bundle, then at you.

“I would like that.” You replied quickly. The nurse smiled at your response and held her hands out to Bucky motioning for him to hand over the bundle so he could slip onto the mattress, and fill the space beside you. The hand off was gentle, and you could see the look on his face when the soft warmth of the baby’s skin left him, like he was holding onto the fleeting moment. He kicked his shoes off and brought down the railing beside you, carefully sliding underneath the covers, the mattress shifting beneath the new weight he introduced to it. You knew it would be a tight fit, but you wanted him there with you, and no matter the close proximity, you just craved his steady presence, and he gave you that with no questions.

He slid his vibranium arm around your shoulders, curling it carefully around you, bringing you closer to him with such a protective instinct that you could feel your heart beating out of your chest, leaning into him, absorbing the warmth that radiated off his skin.

”Alright, now you’re gonna help me a little bit and just untie the top of her gown so we can get the little one tucked in.” Bucky nodded once, like he was taking orders on a mission. He reached up to the shoulders of your gown, and you could see the hesitation in his eyes, before gently pulling on the ties, loosening them slowly just enough to reveal the top of your chest. The cool air ghosted across your skin for just a fraction of a second, then the nurse carefully placed the tiny, perfect weight of your daughter onto your body.

The moment her skin touched yours, it was as if the whole world cracked open. The heat of her, the fragile rise and fall of her chest against yours, the indescribable softness of her cheek pressing into the curve of your breastbone, the way she nuzzled her little nose into you with her fists curling up tight against your body–it was overwhelming, but worth every second. You could feel the coolness of Bucky’s vibranium hand run over your bicep, soothing you the only way he could in those moments as he looked down at you, watching tears flowing down your cheeks. You were so relieved everything was okay, and now that your eyes were on her, the instinct of wanting to be closer pulled at every fiber of your being. Bucky brought his arm over her back so he could hold her closer against your chest, keeping her nuzzled on your skin so you could take in every moment, even though you couldn’t cradle her on your own yet.

“That’s perfect sweetheart,” The nurse said quietly, tucking the soft pink blanket loosely around all three of you, securing the warmth once more without actively separating everyone, “I’m going to step out and give you all some privacy, if you need anything the call button’s right on the bed rail.” The both of you nodded, but you weren’t even sure you heard her properly because you were so enamoured by the little bundle that was frowning against you.

The door clicked softly behind the nurse as she stepped out of the room, leaving the three of you wrapped in a bubble of silence. Neither of you moved at first. There was too much floating in the air around you–gratitude, wonder, a love so thick it was hard to breathe through. The only sound that could truly be heard was the tiny, steady coos of the newborn sleeping against your chest.

Slowly, Bucky shifted closer to you, and without a word he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was feather-light, the kind of kiss that would’ve broken you in any other situation apart from this. When he pulled back, his lips ghosted another peck against your hairline.

”You are…Incredible.” He whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of everything he was holding in, “The strongest person I’ve ever met.” He added, another kiss landing right on your temple.

“I’m so proud of you Y/N…” You closed your eyes at his words, a fresh wave of tears burning behind the lids, as you leaned down to press your cheek against the tiny crown of soft fuzz that was your daughter’s head, breathing in to calm your heart from seizing up from the overwhelming sensation of love that coated it. You let the scent of her settle in your lungs, and it hit you that it was exactly how Bucky described it. Sweet and warm, soft and sticky like spun sugar on a summer day. You let out a little, tearful laugh against her head.

”You really are right…She does smell like cotton candy,” Bucky let out a low, broken chuckle, tightening his arm around you, his hand stilling against your bicep, shifting so he could get even closer to you.

“I thought I was hallucinating, so I’m glad you confirmed that. I assumed the nurse was just trying to ease my worries when she said it was normal.” You let out a quiet giggle, looking up at him.

”I think it was for the best. You looked so nervous…Like a gentle giant.” He blushed at the way you said it, realizing that you had been watching and listening to his interaction with the nurse for longer than he thought.

“Yeah well…I was scared,” Bucky replied sheepishly, his eyes flickering from you, down to the tiny sleeping bundle against your chest, “She’s a carbon copy of you…I didn’t want to accidentally do something wrong.” You smiled through the burning in your throat, bringing yourself even closer to him, nuzzling into the steady shelter of his body.

”You did amazing, Bucky…” You whispered. He let out a shaky exhale, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours, his forehead tipping down to bump yours. You know how much he needed to hear that, and how much it soothed the nerves that were ripping him apart from the inside. The baby cooed gently, shifting a bit against you, her tiny fist moving along your chest, like she was trying to get closer.

The both of you watched her, your chests moving in sync, taking in deep breaths, and after a while, he broke the silence.

”So…” He said softly, his thumb stroking absently along your forearm, “Have you thought about what you’re going to name her?” You could feel a smile tugging up on your lips at the question.

”I have,” You responded gently, shifting slightly so you could see his face better. He pulled back a little as well, giving you his full, undivided attention, his eyes focused on yours, scanning over your face in anticipation.

”I’ve actually known for months,” You admitted, watching as Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed. You usually told him everything, but this was a secret you kept safe until today, not wanting to be too reliant on getting a specific gender, because truly it didn’t matter, all you wanted was a healthy baby. He tried to hold himself back from looking too desperate for your answer, but you saw through it.

“I want her to have the name of the person who raised my second favourite human being in the world,” You said quietly, your voice trembling with such tenderness it almost felt like you were shaking against him. You could see the cogs turning in his head, his brows pulling together even tighter like he was trying to figure out what you meant by that. You loved seeing the confusion in his eyes in that moment, and it made you smile through the tears that began to build up in your eyes.

”Winnifred,” You whispered, “I’m naming her Winnifred.” You could feel the air get sucked out of the room, watching Bucky’s jaw go slack, blinking hard, once, then twice, like he didn’t trust himself to believe what he just heard. His throat bobbed in a rough swallow, as he took in a small breath.

”My ma…” He rasped, his voice breaking into pieces, his eyes glistening over with unshed tears as he stared at you like he was witnessing a miracle “You…You’re naming her after my ma?” You nodded, smiling through your own tears. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like he was trying to ground himself, his forehead lowering until it rested lightly against yours, his breath shuddering out over your cheeks.

“You deserve everything good in this world, Bucky…And she would be so proud of you…I want to honour that.” You could feel him shake slightly, as he sniffled, pulling back to look at you again. The sheer sight of him wrecked you, his blue eyes swimming with tears that clung thickly to his lashes. You wished in those moments you could reach up to hold his face between your hands, but they were still tingling.

”You’re…You’re my sun, Y/N…” He whispered, his vibranium hand slipping from your bicep to cradle the side of your face with aching tenderness, “You’re the center of everything for me…I choose to be in your orbit every second of every day…And I don’t want to do anything else.” You could feel yourself choke up a little bit, as Bucky carefully leaned forward, kissing your cheeks gently, soft and slow, like he was memorizing you.

“Because I love you…So fucking much.” His breath ran over your skin as he said the words so lightly you could barely hear them over your pulse pounding in your ears. His confession hung between the both of you, filling the space and sinking into your body like sunlight after a long, brutal winter. You closed your eyes at his thumb dragging along your cheek, your breath trembling as you pushed yourself to speak.

”I love you too, Bucky…I always have.” There was a moment of silence, and you opened your eyes to look at him, seeing a small smile on his lips. It was such a relief to finally say it aloud, and it was the perfect moment to do it. He breathed you in for a fraction of a second, then without words he shifted. His hand slid from your cheek to the side of your neck, his fingers splaying out to anchor himself there. You tilted your chin, nudging your nose against his, then finally…His lips touched yours.

It was barely a kiss at first, it actually mirrored the way you had brushed the corner of his mouth with yours the night he had felt the baby kick for the first time, but only this was more like he was offering himself to you. Surrendering.

You let out a small exhale through your nose, and Bucky answered with a breath of his own, pressing a little closer, kissing you now with just the slightest bit of pressure. The softness of his lips captured yours in such an aching, and burning way…Because it was him kissing you with a kind of worship so raw and stripped down that it made your chest swell.

You kissed him back with everything you had, and with as much care as he gave you, trembling against each other with the weight of it all–the baby sleeping on your skin, the love that tied you together, the history, the hope, and the future.

When you finally broke apart, it was by small fractions, neither of you really willing to let go–your noses brushing, your breath still tangling together in the space between you.

“I’m all yours…” He whispered, letting the words fold into the fragile air, like a promise. Like a prayer. You closed your eyes for a second, breathing every inch of him in–his warmth, his steadiness, and his devotion.

“Forever and always, Bucky…Till the end of time.”

[piplup335]

Mafioso x reader! (platonic)

*ahem* HELLO, F E L L A S so uh my sch started ;-; meaning I may or may not be active bc of school but I'll try to write as much as possible since I still need to feed you guys :,D also bc i like writing lol- ANYWAYYYY I'm gonna use both dream game and forsaken tags, there don't seem to be any frozen soul tags as of making this post (as far as I can see, I didn't check ;-;) and I'm using their mafioso in forsaken's context, sorry! if the developers of any game said anything about this please do lmk and I'll change it :,) also pls gimme feedback, this is my first time writing for this dude and I may have messed up in some parts, particularly since it was a pain in the ass to find lore for this dude- I cooked this up for my friend but I also need to feed you guys so uhhh enjoy! :D

… *cries*

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You didn't know how it happened. And you sure as hell didn't want to know.

Were you all in debt in one way or another? Did that gambler...whatever his name was...aggravate the mafia? By taking out one loan too many?

You had just been tossed into that forsaken realm, flying out of the sky and landing right in front of that old, run-down cabin.

When the inhabitants of the cabin...survivors, they called themselves...opened the door, they dragged you in and immediately started blasting you with information as though they had no time to spare. You could only look around, hurriedly registering faces and voices as everyone's incessant chatter filled your ears, eventually fading into nothing but an incoherent buzz.

A young man in a pizza delivery uniform. A middle-aged guy with a soldier's outfit. A guy wearing...a burger on his head? Wait, was that an actual head on top of the burger? Was it alive?

Before you could open your mouth to ask anything, your vision faded to black.

You could hear the faint sound of a radio starting up and a stern voice.

"I see one of them."

It sounded hostile. Strict. Whoever was speaking was clearly dedicated to his job and determined to hunt down "them", whatever people that referred to.

...and just like that, you woke up in an unfamiliar place.

No elaboration, no nothing. Just the radio, the voice, and you were back to normal in who knows where.

After walking around aimlessly for a bit, though, you realised that the place was more familiar than you thought. The hotdog stand, the fountain, even the Drakobloxxer exhibit...it all seemed too familiar. The name of the place was on the tip of your tongue...but you just couldn't reach it.

Then again, some things changed too. You didn't remember this carnival being that old and run-down. The last time you were there, you saw children running around, playing tag with each other while other families would queue up to buy hotdogs from the various stands...

Now all you heard was silence, save for your quiet breaths and the occasional sound of footsteps against the concrete floor.

A few more steps here and there. A Ferris wheel. An ice cream truck. More and more memories resurfaced, from the time you went on the Ferris wheel with your parents to the times you'd constantly beg and plead with them to buy you ice cream. Everything felt nostalgic.

You still couldn't remember the name of the carnival, but you did know that it was rather cool.

You jumped as you heard something whizz past you. It hit the wall with a soft squeak and fell to the floor.

"What the...?"

You ran towards whatever that was and picked it up. It was a small bunny.

"...nooo, who threw you? Are you okay?"

The bunny seemed to be perfectly fine. In fact, it seemed to be happy, almost as if it liked being thrown as fast as a speeding bullet.

The fluffy little critter sniffed your hand, giving it playful nibbles like it was trying to get used to you. When it finally registered that you weren't a threat, it started to try climbing your arm. 

"Hey...no, that's dangerous!"

You placed your hand out in front of the bunny, satisfied as it scuttled into your palm. Bunny in hand, you held the little fella in front of you. It glanced at you with those beady black eyes, those eyes filled with innocence and curiosity...

You couldn't help it. You needed to pat the bunny. 

With your free hand, you started gently scratching the bunny behind the ears, trying to gauge its reaction. The bunny let out a happy squeak. Instead of trying to bite you, it was relatively docile, sitting in your palm and letting itself get scritches.

"Aww, you're such a cutieeeee..."

You kept petting the bunny. Its soft, snow-white fur felt like heaven to touch. No matter how much you petted it, it didn't seem to mind. In fact, it seemed to like all the attention you lavished on it.

You were so preoccupied with petting the creature, you didn't notice the presence of someone behind you.

"Having fun now, eh?"

You turned your head to look at the individual behind you.

For starters, this man was tall. Really tall. He donned a black suit with matching trousers, and his tie was neatly adjusted as if he was going for some formal occasion. His fedora cast a shadow over his eyes, but everything else didn't matter to you. He looked...familiar.

"I don't recognise you from our list." He stated bluntly.

You gave him a blank stare. List? What list? You got thrown into some cursed realm less than an hour ago, and now you had some weird list to worry about?

Noticing your blank stare, the man shook his head.

"...never mind."

Meanwhile, you were still trying to figure out what his name was. You didn't catch many names in the wooden cabin. You knew Elliot as he was the only one with a relatively normal name, Dusekkar because of his pumpkin head and...uh...yeah, no. You only remembered those two. Regardless, with that fedora and suit, you were almost positive that he was one of the survivors, but just to be sure...

"...are you one of the survivors?" You quipped. 

The man took notice of your completely clueless expression. He put two and two together...and knew that you had no idea who he was. He did find you interesting, and the bunny squeaking in your hands only softened his heart. He wouldn't want to kill you, lest his bunny become upset. So, he played along with it.

"Affirmative. I go by Mafioso. Do not let the name deceive you, I do not cause harm."

You nodded in understanding. Mafioso looked down at the bunny in your hands, and his stoic expression cracked into a smile.

"I believe it likes you. That bunny is mine, by the way."

You glanced up at Mafioso with horror on your face.

"You threw that poor thing at a wall-? Why?"

Mafioso laughed- a deep, hearty chuckle. The sound of it was comforting, to say the least.

"Relax...it's okay. It likes being launched at walls and always makes these happy little noises. Am I right?"

Mafioso gave the bunny a few head scritches, and it squeaked happily.

"Told ya."

You watched in disbelief as Mafioso picked up the bunny, the small animal not resisting or showing any signs of pain. It liked him, and he liked it back. Mafioso smiled at the bunny, watching it scurry around on his palm.

He set it down on the ground, watching with a small smile as it explored the area with little hops and jumps.

"Adorable, isn't it?"

Mafioso flashed you a charming grin. You smiled back, now a lot more comfortable around this once-unfamiliar stranger.

"Yeah. This is...nice..."

A loud gunshot rang through the area. Another male stood at a distance away from you, with a black tuxedo set. He had an old gun in hand, and he donned some cool black shades and a pair of headphones- wait.

There was only one person with a tuxedo in the cabin as far as you recalled. Then who was the other person? Or rather, was Mafioso not a survivor this entire time?

"Oi, new guy! Run! Mafioso's the killer- are you trying to die?!"

Oh. That was your answer.

Mafioso's smile was wiped clean off his face. He tenderly picked up the bunny and dropped it into your hands, the ball of fluff staring up at you with curiosity in its small eyes.

"Take care of the little fella, will ya? And cover your ears. Do try to cover my bunny's ears too, princess."

Princess? Did he seriously call you that?

You didn't have time to question further as Mafioso chased after the unknown person, and all you could hear as he ran off was a single phrase. Not directed towards you, but your fellow survivor.

"I love knocking out teeth."

You gently covered the bunny's little ears, stroking its soft fur as pained screams rang out through the carnival grounds.

Looks like you've managed to make an unexpected new friend.

╔══════ ⋯⇋ ૮(•͈⌔•͈)ა ⇌⋯ ══════╗

╚══════⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯ ══════╝

and that's it! I hope you enjoyed, and I'll see you all soon! ...at least, I hope I can get back to writing...

[miraculousshitandgigles]

I've been wanting to post something like this for awhile as well but I couldn't find the words.

A lot of these posts also bring up Marinette stalking, I don't think you ever met a teenager before have you. I can't remember how many kids I have met who have unhealthy depictions or understandings of love and they need to be corrected or helped. Everyone encourages Marinette for like the first 5 seasons and when she's called out it's like at least you didn't watch him sleep kinda, response. Like don't take it too far and I myself love stalker Marinette I honestly think it's fun to play with but I also work in heath care so I actually fucking know what I'm talking about when I say kids don't know their doing something wrong unless you explain it in a lot of detail why. Not the vague ass shit they did to Marinette. Yes including teenagers they're actually worse because it might take a few more times because they're starting to set habits.

Marinette hasn't been properly sat down and told hey you can give Adrien space. You don't need to know his diet. Or Marinette haters will bring up she doesn't love the real Adrien which I say we didn't watch the same show then. Marinette caught a glimpse at Adrien heart in origins and fell in love with that. When she learns that Adrien doesn't like something she supports him 100%.

I don't even ship Marinette and Adrien 99% of the time because they have better ships 100%. But that doesn't mean they aren't a good couple you're just wanting to be nitpicky about a show that's writing has always sucked. The basis of miraculous ladybug is what I think everyone loves not the actual show. Most fanfictions are based on other fanfictions. I didn't even like tuning in every week to the show until season 6 dropped. I got into MLB as a 13 year old I'm 22 now working in heath and started rewatching the show 2 years ago and weekly for season 5 and 6. But saying the show is any best media in fiction is a stretch it lasts this long is because of us.

I'm sorry it took 6 seasons to write a show that's any good. When the show started everyone thought it wasn't even going to get a season 2 where now 6. And people are adults now and people are realizing the show is problematic and Marinette is the center of it, no. She's just the most obvious since she's the main character, and Thomas astruc is a 40 year old dude who didn't know how to write teenagers.

Who words were for some reason listening to again like we didn't all agree last year he's a piece of shit. Make up your mind and form a opinion that isn't a brain dead response to your strong reaction to that fact all of sudden we got back to back bangers of seasons.

Marinette is not perfect and I bet if we saw the show from any other character we see them in either a better or worse light too.

If being a "Marinette stan" means I can understand that Gabriel Agreste is the reason Marinette is lying to Adrien in the first place and that she would never have done that if Gabriel had not manipulated her and that Nathalie should be the one telling Adrien the truth and not the 15 year old child and that Marinette's lies are hurting Adrien and that is awful and a tragedy and OBVIOUSLY she shouldn't have lied but that Marinette is also a victim of Gabriel and that Marinette is doing everything she does out of her deep love for Adrien and not to intentionally hurt him and that Marinette is 15 and acting 15 and that sometimes main characters have to do bad things and make mistakes to have a story and that those mistakes don't make Marinette a bad person but a good person in a very very very bad position.........

Then I guess I'm a dirty filthy Marinette stan.

[katnipp]

since u love angst can you write where karina gets drunk at a party and kisses another girl while y/n sees and leaves early, and karina comes home after 2am. they end up arguing and crying, and y/n leaves while karina’s begging her not to go. then lowkey just end it however u want 😭😭😭

the night you stopped waiting for me — yu jimin

genre: ANGST WOOHOO

synopsis: karina comes home late from a party, still reeking of alcohol and regret only to find y/n already halfway out the door. one kiss with the wrong girl. and suddenly everything they built starts to crumble.

warnings: karina cheats💔, GUYS DONT HATE ME FOR THE ENDING

—

the music is still echoing in karina’s head when she stumbles through the apartment door at 2:14 a.m.

her heels are dangling from her fingers. her eyeliner’s smudged, lips rubbed raw like she’s kissed someone—or maybe wiped her mouth too hard trying to forget that she did.

her phone’s dead.

her heart’s in her throat.

and the apartment is dark.

“baby?” she calls out. her voice cracks on the last syllable. not soft, not sweet — just scared. like she already knows something is wrong.

the silence stretches.

then there’s the rustle of a drawer. the zip of a hoodie. a suitcase being dragged off the bed.

karina’s stomach lurches.

you step out of the bedroom. and you look… tired. not physically. not in the way you usually do when you’ve had a long day. it’s deeper than that. it’s the kind of tired that happens when someone you love looks at another girl like you were never real.

karina’s voice barely comes out. “wait—y/n—what are you doing?”

“leaving,” you say. you don’t even look at her when you say it.

karina blinks. “leaving? why? what happened?”

you laugh. one of those broken, empty laughs that sounds nothing like you. “you don’t remember.”

her mouth opens. closes. “what are you talking about?”

you finally look at her, eyes glassy but dry. like you cried everything out already. like there’s nothing left.

“you kissed her, karina.”

everything inside her stops.

“some girl in blue. short skirt. taller than me. she had her arms around your neck. and you just you let her.”

“no,” she breathes. “no, i didn’t mean to—”

“but you did,” you snap. your voice wavers. “you did. and i stood there. i watched it happen. and i thought—i actually thought maybe you didn’t see me. maybe if you had, you would’ve stopped.”

she moves toward you, panic swelling in her chest. “i didn’t see you. y/n, i didn’t know—I swear, i didn’t know you were there.”

“and if i wasn’t?” you ask quietly. “would you have told me?”

she doesn’t answer.

you scoff. “exactly.”

karina steps forward again. “i was drunk. it didn’t mean anything”

“stop saying that.” your voice sharpens. “just stop. do you know how fucking painful it is to hear you call it nothing? because it wasn’t nothing to me. it meant something to me, karina. it felt like i lost you in real time. like you chose someone else in front of my eyes and didn’t even flinch.”

karina’s eyes are wet now. she shakes her head, hands trembling. “i didn’t choose her. i never would. you’re the one i love. you’re the one i want.”

“then why didn’t you act like it?”

you’re crying now, finally. and she hates it. hates that she put those tears there. hates herself more than she even knows how to say.

“i waited for you,” you whisper. “i sat on the couch until midnight. then i moved to the bed. i stared at my phone. i told myself you were coming home. that you wouldn’t do what i thought you did. and then i saw the pictures.”

karina stares at you. “pictures?”

you nod. “someone posted it on their story. you. her. smiling. holding her like i’ve begged you to hold me in public.” your voice breaks. “i wasn’t even mad at first. i just felt stupid. because everyone at that party knew. and i was the last to find out.”

she’s shaking now. crying too hard to breathe. “i didn’t mean to hurt you. i didn’t. y/n, i love you. i swear”

“then why did you make me feel like i wasn’t enough?”

the room goes still.

karina’s legs give out, and she drops to her knees in front of you. she grabs at your hand like it’s the only real thing left.

“i’m sorry,” she sobs. “i’m so sorry. i would do anything to take it back.”

you look down at her, lip trembling. “i don’t know if sorry’s enough this time.”

her chest caves in. “please don’t say that.”

“i don’t know if i can trust you again.”

karina leans into your thigh, wraps her arms around your waist, buries her face there like she’s trying to disappear into you. “then let me earn it. let me prove to you that i can be better. let me fix this.”

you don’t say anything. your hand trembles as it brushes through her hair. soft. automatic. like a habit that hasn’t broken yet.

“i hate what you did,” you whisper. “i hate that you put that image in my head. i hate that it made me feel small.”

“i hate me too,” she says quietly.

“but i still love you.”

karina gasps. a real, shaking breath like you just gave her air again.

“i’m not staying tonight,” you murmur. “i need space. i need to breathe.”

karina nods slowly, afraid to push. “okay.”

“but i’ll call you in the morning.”

her arms tighten. “okay.”

you lean down. press a kiss to her forehead. gentle. trembling. broken.

and then you walk out the door.

—

karina doesn’t move for a long time.

she stays curled on the floor, heart in pieces, the ghost of your touch still clinging to her skin.

she tells herself you just need space. time. a few days to cool off. maybe a week.

she doesn’t text you—wants to respect your silence.

she just watches your little “last active” dot glow and vanish and glow again like a pulse she’s not allowed to reach.

she waits.

she hopes.

but by the third week, the rumors start.

it’s giselle.

people whisper it in group chats. her other friends avoid eye contact. someone slips up and likes a post too fast.

and then she sees it.

a photo. blurry. nighttime.

you and giselle, sitting close. her hand on your knee. your head on her shoulder.

karina doesn’t sleep that night.

by the end of the month, it’s not a secret anymore.

someone tells her gently—like she’s fragile. like it won’t shatter her.

“i thought you knew,” they say. “y/n and giselle… it’s serious.”

and god, she laughs. because of course it is.

giselle. her closest friend. the one who told her to go to that party. the one who said, “y/n really loves you, you know. don’t fuck it up.”

the one who picked up the pieces the second karina dropped them.

and maybe that’s the part that hurts the most.

not the kiss. not even the breakup.

but the way you stopped looking back.

the way giselle looks at you now, like you were never something borrowed.

like you finally belong.

and karina?

she’s left with the silence she made.

the girl she lost.

the friend who doesn’t call anymore.

and a single photo she can’t bring herself to delete.

the one where you’re both smiling.

before everything went wrong.

—

a/n: GUYS PLEASE SEND MORE ANGST REQUESTS!!!!

[overadores]

٠࣪⭑ star lover

٠࣪⭑ pairing: lara raj x reader ٠࣪⭑ about: Lara, Katseye’s stunning vocalist, lives for the stage — and for you. What starts as a passing glance at a concert spirals into a dark obsession. Behind her perfect smile hides a dangerous secret: she'll lie, stalk, and destroy anyone who gets between you and the life she’s decided you’ll share. To Lara, you’re not just a fan. You’re hers — and she’ll do anything to keep it that way. ٠࣪⭑ genre: psychological thriller, thriller, romance. ٠࣪⭑ cw: obsession, stalking, language, drugs, alcohol, kidnapping. ٠࣪⭑ wc: 2.4k words ٠࣪⭑ tune in: paparazzi by lady gaga ٠࣪⭑ a/n: i kinda copied joe's glass room where he kept hostage his lovers and also this is an open ending, y'all be the one deciding if you want y/n get killed (like beck did), or got escaped with the help of sophia lol.

You were never the type to stan a group. In fact, you thought it was pathetic—the way people threw money, time, and emotions into strangers who wouldn’t even remember their faces. After One Direction shattered your teenage heart, you swore off idols entirely. Never again, you promised yourself. Never again would you let someone you didn’t even know hurt you.

That vow lasted exactly until the moment you saw her.

It started harmlessly enough. Your sibling had another survival show playing in the living room, just background noise while you scrolled through your phone. You didn’t even look up—didn’t care—until "Buttons" by the Pussycat Dolls blasted through the speakers and something inside you shifted. You glanced at the screen—and there she was.

Curly black hair whipping around her face, voice smooth as silk, moves sharp and dripping with confidence.

You didn’t know it yet, but you were already falling.

"Who’s that?" you asked, trying and failing to sound indifferent as your pulse hammered in your ears. Your sibling smirked knowingly. "I thought you don’t stan groups anymore?"

"I can make an exception," you muttered.

And just like that, you were gone.

You streamed every episode, voted religiously, prayed to gods you didn’t even believe in just to hear her name called during the final lineup. Daniela. Your bias. Your exception. Your secret.

When they finally debuted as Katseye, you were first in line — albums, merch, concert tickets you couldn’t afford—all for a girl who didn’t even know you existed. Or so you thought.

The night of the concert, something changed.

You didn’t dress flashy. You didn’t scream. You just existed—wide-eyed, genuine, different. And Lara Raj—Katseye’s glittering main vocalist—noticed. She noticed the way you lit up the moment Daniela walked by, the gravitational pull you couldn't hide if you tried.

It should’ve ended there. Just another fan interaction. Another fleeting spark in a sea of millions.

But Lara was different.

She didn’t ask for your number. She didn’t have to. She played it smarter. Patiently, methodically, she combed through Daniela’s followers, fan accounts, tagged posts—until she found you. Your profile was public. Wide open. So beautifully reckless.

Lara smiled when she clicked ‘Follow’ on her burner account. And from that moment on, she watched.

She devoured your life one post at a time—your late-night rants, your drunken party selfies, your lonely 3AM tweets about feeling invisible. You were an open book, and Lara read every word.

The club was her idea.

You had posted a story — a shot glass, a tagged location dangerously close to the arena. It wasn’t hard to drag Manon and Daniela along under the excuse of running errands. They didn’t ask questions. They never did.

Inside, the bass thudded through her chest as Lara scanned the crowd. Sweaty bodies blurred together, but you were crystal clear—swaying, laughing, drunk enough to stumble but still devastatingly beautiful.

Lara’s throat went dry. She grabbed Daniela’s wrist and shoved her forward. "Go. Say hi," she ordered.

Daniela, sweet and oblivious, approached you with a smile that made your knees weak. Lara watched the way you lit up, the way you leaned closer instinctively. Everyone would think it was Daniela you needed. Even you.

But Lara knew better.

It wasn’t Daniela. It was her.

She slid seamlessly into the conversation with Manon in tow, pretending it was a coincidence. When your wide, disbelieving eyes met hers, Lara felt it—the click. The spark.

You didn’t know it yet, but you were already hers.

After that night, Lara started seeing you everywhere. Or rather, she put herself everywhere you would be.

She watched every Weverse Live, heart pounding when your username popped up. She saved your blurry mirror selfies. Memorized your Spotify playlists. She knew your favorite drink when you were happy and when you were sad. She knew your favorite color (not just blue—a deep, tragic blue).

She knew your loneliness. She knew your craving to be seen.

And Lara? Lara saw you.

Because real love—real, consuming love—wasn’t about waiting politely. It was about claiming what was yours.

The signs started small.

She would answer your Weverse questions within seconds. Casually mention a song you had posted about just hours earlier. You chalked it up to fate. Harmless.

Because what were the odds that someone like Lara Raj would even know you existed?

You didn’t know that she was already following you. Already memorizing you.

She sat two tables behind you at your favorite cafe every Saturday morning, hidden behind a hoodie and sunglasses, sipping coffee slowly, savoring the proximity.

You never noticed.

You were too busy posting another photo of your croissant and latte. Lara smiled behind her cup.

You had no idea what real love looked like.

But you would.

The bookstore was next.

You posted about your "safe haven," and when you arrived, Lara was already there—flipping through a poetry collection she knew you loved.

You bumped into her, literally, and apologized, laughing shyly. You didn’t even recognize her—not under the hoodie and glasses.

"Maybe we were meant to meet," she said with a tilt of her head, voice low and sweet.

That night, you posted about the encounter: "Met someone today who felt like a character from a book. Strange...but nice."

Lara liked the post from her burner account, then sat back in her darkened hotel room, your photo open on her phone, thumb caressing your face through the glass.

It escalated.

You posted about a food truck festival. She was already there when you arrived.

You went to a pop-up thrift store three cities away. She found you there, flipping through vinyl records.

It was starting to feel...wrong.

But flattering too.

Because why would someone like Lara chase you?

You told yourself not to think too hard. You deserved good things.

You didn’t see the warning signs.

Until one night, during a Weverse Live, Lara laughed and said, almost casually, "You really shouldn’t leave your windows unlocked. It’s dangerous, you know."

Your heart stopped.

Because you had forgotten to lock your window that night.

You pulled away after that. Stopped posting. Stopped answering.

But Lara didn’t like that.

One night, you came home late, exhausted. You didn’t notice the faint smell of her perfume. You didn’t notice the slightly ajar closet door—until it creaked.

Your blood ran cold.

You turned—and she stepped out. Calm. Smiling.

"Hey," she said softly. "I missed you."

You backed away, heart slamming against your ribs.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" you gasped.

Her smile faltered, just for a second.

"You wouldn’t answer me," she said, voice trembling—not with fear, but with rage held tightly in check. "You don’t understand. I’m the only one who truly sees you."

You ran.

But you weren’t fast enough.

She grabbed you from behind, arms iron-strong, whispering into your ear, "No more running, baby. I’m here now."

And nobody heard your screams.

Because Lara had planned this night down to the last detail.

When you woke up, the world was lavender-scented. Soft. Fake.

You were chained to a bed.

And Lara was there, sitting beside you, carrying a tray of your favorite breakfast — because she knew everything about you.

"Eat," she cooed, brushing your hair back. "I know you’re scared. But you’ll see. In time...you’ll love me."

She punished you with silence when you resisted. Rewarded you with soft touches and laughter when you obeyed. Slowly, she filled every corner of your world until you needed her to break the silence.

Until even your nightmares wore her face.

When you finally escaped—slipping through a forgotten window—you thought you had won.

You ran barefoot through the night, found a road, flagged down a car—only to find her waiting behind the wheel.

She smiled as she jabbed the needle into your neck.

"You can’t run from me," she whispered as darkness swallowed you.

You woke up back in her bed.

Back in her arms.

And this time, you understood.

There was no escape.

Not from Lara Raj.

Not from love.

Sophia had always known there was something different about Lara.

At first, she told herself it was nothing. Lara was just...private. Everyone in the group had their quirks. But lately, Lara’s absences had become impossible to ignore. Recording would finish late into the evening, their bodies sore from dance practice, and while the others collapsed into their beds with tired laughter, Lara would slip away. Unannounced. Unbothered.

Sophia noticed the first few times by accident—the quiet sound of their door clicking shut at odd hours. Midnight. Two in the morning. Then the pattern became clearer. Every night, after practice, Lara would disappear.

She tried asking casually once, a joke tossed between the bedposts. “Hey, are you meeting your secret boyfriend or something?” But Lara just laughed it off, her smile too tight, too quick to fade.

It gnawed at Sophia. The unanswered questions, the empty bed across the room, the air of secrets Lara left behind.

Until one night, Sophia couldn’t take it anymore.

She waited up, pretending to scroll through her phone as the clock ticked past one-thirty. Her eyes burned from exhaustion. Around two a.m., like clockwork, she heard it: the faint rustle of movement. Lara, slipping into a hoodie, tugging a baseball cap low over her face.

Sophia’s heart hammered in her ears as she threw on a jacket and followed, careful to leave enough distance between them.

The night was cold, the streets breathing with the quiet hum of neon signs and faraway traffic. Lara moved fast, head down, blending into the shadows. Sophia’s nerves tightly stretched with every step, her mind racing ahead. Where could she be going? A lover’s place? An underground club?

But none of her guesses prepared her for where Lara led her.

A storage facility.

The massive rows of units loomed under harsh fluorescent lights, endless and cold. Sophia hung back behind a corner, watching Lara punch in a code at one of the rusted gates. The roll-up door groaned as it lifted, just enough for her to slip inside.

Sophia hesitated.

This was insane. She should turn back. Pretend she saw nothing. But her feet moved on their own, drawn by a force stronger than her fear. Curiosity. Or maybe, something deeper. Some fragile thread tethered to Lara she couldn’t bear to snap.

She crept inside.

The air smelled of dust and oil. Corridors stretched out in every direction, endless rows of locked units. Sophia’s heart pounded louder than her footsteps. She glanced around, desperate to spot Lara—then she saw it.

An open door. A soft sliver of light spilling onto the concrete floor.

Sophia swallowed hard and edged closer.

And that’s when she saw you.

Inside a glass room.

It didn’t make sense at first—her brain scrambled to process what she was seeing. A bed, neatly made. A bookshelf lined with worn novels. A typewriter perched on a small wooden desk. And in the center of it all...you.

Alive.

Trapped.

You stirred when she knocked on the glass, your eyes fluttering open, disoriented. For a moment, hope flashed across your face—you thought she was someone else. Then your gaze met hers, panic blooming immediately. You scrambled to your feet, pressing your palms to the glass, mouthing something Sophia couldn’t hear.

Help me.

Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. Her hands fumbled for the door, trying to find a lock, anything—

A shadow fell across her.

"You shouldn't have followed me, Soph," came Lara's voice, low and strangely calm.

Sophia whirled around.

Lara stood behind her, arms folded across her chest, her expression unreadable. In the fluorescent light, she didn’t look like Lara, Sophia knew. There was something sharper about her now. Harder. The kind of sharp that could cut.

“Lara…” Sophia choked out. “What the hell is this? Who is she? Why—?”

"You weren’t supposed to see this," Lara said simply, stepping closer. “You should have just minded your own business.”

Sophia stumbled back, her mind reeling. She kept glancing between Lara and the glass prison behind her, as if it would rearrange itself into something more logical if she just blinked enough times.

"You..." Sophia’s voice broke. "You kidnapped someone?"

Lara’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t deny it.

"It’s not like that," she said after a moment. "You wouldn’t understand."

"Then make me understand!" Sophia shouted, her hands trembling.

Lara hesitated, and for the first time that night, something flickered across her face—something close to regret.

"She’s... important," Lara said finally. "I’m protecting her."

"Protecting her?!" Sophia gestures wildly at the glass room. "She’s locked up like a goddamn zoo exhibit, Lara!"

"You don’t know what’s out there," Lara hissed. Her voice cracked at the edges, a raw desperation Sophia had never heard before. "You don’t know what they’d do to her if they found her. She’s safer here."

Sophia shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. "You’re sick. You’re sick and you need help."

The words tasted like betrayal in her mouth. She wanted to take them back the second she saw how Lara flinched. How she looked, for a fleeting moment, like she was breaking too.

"You’re just like everyone else," Lara said quietly. "You look at me and you see a monster."

Sophia pressed a hand to her mouth, heart breaking in a thousand different ways. Because she didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to believe that the girl who made her laugh during rehearsals, who shared midnight snacks with her on the dorm floor, who sat beside her on long bus rides with sleepy smiles—that girl could also be capable of this.

But here they were.

The glass. The locks. The lies.

"You need to go," Lara said finally, her voice hollow. She turned away, shoulders tense with grief she didn’t bother to hide. "Before you make things worse."

Sophia staggered back a step, the weight of it all crushing her lungs.

And then she turned and ran.

It wasn’t over.

A week passed.

Sophia stayed silent, terrified, paralyzed by the choice in front of her. If she spoke, if she told someone—it could ruin Lara’s life. Their careers. Their safety. But if she said nothing...

The girl in the glass room would stay trapped.

Sleep became impossible. Food tasted like ash. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw your face, wide with terror, mouthing silent cries for help.

On the seventh night, Sophia made her decision.

She waited again until two a.m., heart thrumming painfully in her ribs. She pulled on a hoodie, slid into sneakers, and crept out while the others slept.

This time, she wasn’t going to watch.

She was going to end it.

[ghostlynightpanda]

Hihi! If you're willing to, would you write something for chishiya based on the song "would you fall in love with me again" from epic? Maybe post-beach, where chishiya is alone and finds out his wife was actually in the borderlands all along

Ghosts of the Past

English is not my first language, so if you find mistakes, feel free to contact me!

A/N: I had never heard of the song or Epic before, and wow!! Their music is amazing! Thanks so much for requesting it and helping me discover it!

Synopsis: In the aftermath of the Beach’s fall, Chishiya wanders the Borderlands alone, haunted by memories of his wife. When he learns she may be in this world as well, he risks everything to find her, determined not to lose the one person he’s always truly loved.

warnings/content: Chishiya x fem!reader, fluff, 3.035 words

The fire had long since gone out, and the Beach was nothing more than ash and silence.

Chishiya sat in a small flat he'd found after the King of Spades destroyed the city. He'd barely escaped the explosion, losing the rest of his small, mismatched group in the chaos. He wandered the streets alone until he stumbled across this place, somewhere to stay for the night.

The weight of something small pressed against his chest beneath the zipper of his jacket. He reached in and pulled it free: a tiny charm, no larger than a coin, threaded onto a fraying string. A silver sakura blossom, scratched and dulled, but still intact.

Still yours.

He turned it over between his fingers like a ritual, as he always did when the silence got too loud.

You'd given it to him for your third anniversary. He remembered you curled in your shared bed, beautifully smiling, telling him, "It'll bring you luck. But only if you believe in it."

He didn't believe in much back then. Not really. Not fate. Not gods. Not luck. But in you.

That's why he'd held onto it every day since arriving in the Borderlands: a silent promise to get back to you, to find his way home. His way to you.

He thumbed the edges of the charm, jaw tight. The morning air carried the scent of smoke and distant blood. He'd always been a man of logic, of analysis, of cold understanding. And yet, you haunted him like a feeling he couldn't shake.

Thoughts of your smile lingered. Your laugh, sharp and sudden. The way you'd call his name when you were annoyed—"Shuntarō," clipped and stubborn.

No one had said his real name in this place.

No one but you, in his memory.

What were you doing now? Were you worried about him? Crying?

Hopefully, you were safe.

Or had this world—this warped reflection of Tokyo—hidden you somewhere too?

He clenched the charm in his fist.

For the first time in a long time, Chishiya wondered what he would do if he saw you again.

If you still wanted him.

If he was still yours.

It had been months, after all. What if you had moved on? 

He could hardly bear the thought of it. Time had a way of slipping through his fingers here in the Borderlands, and he wondered how much of it had passed while he was lost in this place, swallowed by the chaos. 

Did you think of him? Or had the world you lived in—one that still had hope, that still made sense—erased him from your mind? 

What if, in his absence, you'd finally seen everything he wasn't? Everything he couldn't be.

He wasn't affectionate. Never had been. The warmth of touch, the reassurance of words—those things were foreign to him, as much a part of him as the phantom ache in his chest now. He never knew how to give that kind of love, not even when you tried.

There were so many things he hadn't done, so many things he hadn't said, when you were still there with him. Simple things. The things that matter. 

Every morning, you'd kiss him goodbye before you left for work, your lips brushing his cheek with the softness of a quiet promise. You'd always say it then: "I love you." 

And he? 

He'd maybe grunt in response, or offer some half-hearted smile, but that was it. No words to match the weight of what you gave. No reassurance to return your devotion. He could never let himself be vulnerable like that—not even with you.

Now, here, in this place—this nightmare, this twisted mirror of everything he'd known—he found himself wondering if you still loved him at all. 

If you even could, knowing the lengths he'd gone to in order to survive. The people he betrayed. The cold, calculated choices he'd made, without a second thought, to secure his own survival, to gain any advantage he could. 

Would you still see him as the man you once loved? Or would you look at him as a stranger—someone unrecognizable, someone entirely different from the person you used to know?

A voice crackled on a nearby loudspeaker, announcing a new game: "Jack of Hearts. Participants, please proceed to the designated location."

Chishiya stood and slipped the charm back beneath his jacket.

His fingers curled once more into the shape of something he thought he'd lost.

Then he walked outside into the smoke, toward the game, toward fate.

When he arrived at the designated location, he was greeted by the usual mixed crowd of players. A momentary glance at each face told him everything he needed to know: everyone was just as desperate, just as broken. No one here was looking for redemption. They were looking for a way out.

He moved to the side, quietly observing. His instincts told him to avoid getting too close, not to invest in any alliances. But as the loudspeaker's voice crackled again, announcing the start of the game, he realized he'd already begun to observe one player more than the others.

Ippei. He could be his way to survive in this game about trust—another person to manipulate, another tool to use to ensure his escape.

The boy was nervous, his eyes darting around as if he could feel the weight of every gaze upon him. Shy and clearly out of place, he was easily intimidated, his body stiff with the tension of someone who wasn't made for a world like this. His hands trembled slightly, betraying his fear.

Chishiya studied him for a moment, the realization settling in—this kid wasn't cut out for the Borderlands. It was a brutal world, and that much was obvious.

"How did you survive this long?" Chishiya wondered aloud, his voice laced with quiet curiosity, though there was no sympathy in his tone. The boy flinched at the question, like the mere words had struck a nerve.

The boy hesitated, then spoke in a low, unsure voice. "I was with a girl earlier." His words faltered for a moment, but he pressed on, his gaze flickering to the ground. "She helped me get through a few of the other games. Her last name was... Chishiya."

The name hit him like a slap in the face. His breath caught in his throat, and he turned to Ippei, eyes narrowing.

"What did you say?"

Ippei seemed frightened by the intensity of Chishiya's reaction. He simply shrugged back. "Her name was Chishiya. She had long black hair, a scar on her wrist, and she was fierce. Strong. A fighter."

Chishiya's heart skipped. He could feel his pulse quicken, his mind spinning. He clenched his fists tightly.

"Where is she?" he demanded, his voice sharper than he intended.

"She's... not with me anymore," Ippei said, his gaze dropping for a moment, then looking up at Chishiya. „We got separated when the King of Spade came. But she said she was looking for someone. A man, a doctor... her husband. She said she wouldn't stop looking until she found him."

Chishiya's stomach twisted. His mind was racing. 

It could be her. It had to be.

He steadied his breath, forcing himself to remain calm, to maintain his usual detached demeanor. But inside, he felt something stirring—a fierce, desperate hope he hadn't allowed himself to feel for so long.

"She said her husband was important. That she had to find him, that no matter the cost, no matter what it took, she would keep searching."

What if you were here too? The thought struck him like a cold wave, and for the first time in months, he allowed himself to wonder. What if you had been pulled into this world as well? What if, just like him, you were fighting your way through this nightmare, trying to survive?

Chishiya's gaze hardened. He wasn't about to let this slip by. You could still be alive. You were alive. He didn't care about the game anymore. He didn't care about anything except finding you.

"Tell me everything," he said, his voice low but urgent. "Everything you remember about her. Where did you last see her? What did she say? I need to know."

Ippei hesitated, clearly sensing the intensity in Chishiya's voice, but then he nodded, his expression softening. "I'll tell you what I know." 

— — — — —

The air felt thick and heavy as Chishiya stepped out of the building, the echoes of screams from the Jack of Hearts still ringing in his ears. The speaker had cracked to announce the end of the game, the chilling finality of it all. 

But Ippei's death, his refusal to answer, haunted Chishiya's thoughts. The boy had been too scared, too broken to continue. And now, he was gone. Chishiya had been prepared for it, but it didn't make sense. He should've just hung on a little longer.

His mind, however, was already moving forward. His heart—what little of it he had left in this cruel place—was elsewhere. 

You. He had to find you. 

The realization had hit him like a storm, and nothing would stop him now. Not the game. Not the other players. Not the horrors of this world.

He knew you better than anyone else. 

Even without being the affectionate husband, he had paid attention to you. Every little thing about you, every subtle shift in your mood, every way you moved through your day. He had observed you with a quiet intensity, even when he never said the words you probably needed to hear.

You're not a Hearts player. That much was clear to him. You were too soft, too sweet to play these games of trust and manipulation. You would never throw someone's life away for the sake of your own survival. You always wanted to help people, to believe the best in them, even when it hurt. No, you wouldn't be caught in a Hearts game.

Diamonds? Chishiya shook his head. Sure, you were intelligent. But this was a game of resources, of quick, cold calculations, and he knew you'd hesitate when it came to making tough decisions. In a Diamonds game, you'd be out of your depth. He doubted you would survive long.

Spades? No. He could already see it in his mind—your gentle nature, your aversion to violence, the way you avoided physical conflict in the past. You'd never be the type to enjoy running for your life, dodging bullets, using your body in a constant game of survival. You weren't the "sporty" type, and he couldn't picture you in a Spades game. He knew how grueling it could be to keep up, even for the toughest players.

No, you weren't made for any of the games that relied on pure violence or manipulation. But Chishiya had a feeling you might be in a Clubs game.

He moved swiftly, his mind racing with the possibilities. 

Clubs games were different—focused on intellect, strategy, and teamwork. 

He had no doubt that if you had been dragged into the Borderlands, you would choose one of those games. You could handle the mental strain. You'd survive on wit, not brute force.

As Chishiya passed the remnants of the broken city, the buildings towering above him like cold giants, his eyes scanned the skies. 

The faint shape of airships, moving slowly in the distance, caught his attention. Airships meant games, now he just had to look out for a Clubs sign. 

His fingers tightened around the charm beneath his jacket as he quickened his pace.

He wasn't thinking about the risks. He wasn't thinking about the games he might still have to play. His only focus was you. He had to find you.

The Jack of Clubs airship grew larger as he continued walking, the urgency building within him. 

He had no time to waste. The longer he waited, the more the chance of finding you alive slipped away. He wasn't about to lose you, not like this. Not after everything.

The remnants of the world around him seemed insignificant now, nothing more than a backdrop to his single goal. He was prepared to do whatever it took to find you, to make sure you were safe. Because in this hellscape, he had nothing left but you.

You were his purpose.

As he neared the game arena, a deep rumble vibrated through the ground. The sound was unmistakable—a violent explosion. His pulse quickened. The airship erupted in a violent cloud of smoke and fire, signaling the end of a game. The Jack of Spades, no doubt, had been defeated. The explosion echoed like a death knell through the abandoned city streets.

Chishiya froze, his breath catching in his throat as the dust settled. His mind raced. He couldn't afford to waste any more time. If you had been part of the game, the explosion meant the end of it. But had you made it out?

A few players began emerging from the wreckage, their movements slow, cautious. Chishiya stayed in the shadows, watching them carefully. Some limped. Others staggered, but none of them were you. 

The anxiety gnawed at him, a sinking feeling building in his chest. Was he too late? Had you already been eliminated? Were you in another game? Had you been another casualty in this unforgiving world?

He leaned against a wall, the weight of the past few months crashing down on him. For the briefest moment, he let his guard down. 

The reality of it all—the possibility that he might never see you again—was too much to bear. 

He closed his eyes, gripping the charm in his jacket, grounding himself. 

He had come this far, he couldn't give up now.

Just as the last of the players trickled out of the arena, a final figure stepped through the smoke.

His breath caught again.

There, standing at the edge of the destruction, silhouetted by the haze and the dying light of the explosion, was you.

Chishiya's heart skipped a beat. For a long moment, he couldn't move. Couldn't speak. 

His eyes locked on you, taking in every detail, every familiar feature that made you unmistakably, undeniably you. The long black hair, the scar on your wrist, the look in your eyes—tired, but defiant.

You hadn't been eliminated. You were alive.

A surge of relief flooded through him, but it was quickly replaced by a flood of questions, of doubts, of fears. 

Did you still love him? After everything this world had taken from both of them? After the way it had changed him, more than he ever thought possible? What if it had changed you just as much?

You looked around as if you were still disoriented by the explosion. Your eyes met his for a split second, and in that instant, everything around him seemed to blur. 

His heart raced, pounding in his chest. There was no time for hesitation. He couldn't waste another second.

Without thinking, he stepped out of the shadows, his voice low but urgent.

"Y/N."

You froze, your gaze snapping back to him, recognition flooding your expression. His name—his real name—escaped your lips in a breathless whisper, almost as if you were afraid to believe it.

"Shuntarō…?"

His steps were quick, almost desperate, and he closed the distance between you in seconds. The world around them seemed to slow, fading into nothingness as he reached for you, his eyes never leaving yours.

His fingers brushed against your wrist, feeling the familiar warmth of your skin. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. Like this world, this nightmare, had never existed, and it was just the two of you again.

"You're alive." His voice was hoarse, as if the words had been trapped in his chest for far too long.

You stood frozen, your eyes wide, as if unable to fully process his presence. 

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to crumble around him once again. Weren't you happy to see him? 

The question lingered in his mind, a sharp pang of doubt threatening to claw its way out.

Then, before he could overthink any further, a sob broke the silence—soft, trembling—and in the next instant, you were in his arms, your body pressing against him with an urgency that stole the breath from his lungs. Your arms wrapped around him so tightly that it almost felt as though you were afraid he might disappear if you let go.

"You're here. You're really here…" Your voice cracked, breaking apart as you buried your face in the crook of his neck. The tremor of your breath against his skin told him everything he needed to know. 

You had been waiting.

The weight of it hit him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his own walls cracked, leaving him raw. 

His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you closer, holding you like he was afraid to lose you again. "I'm here," he murmured, his voice softer than usual, but no less certain. It was the only answer he could give, the only reassurance he could offer. 

"I'm so glad," you whispered, your voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. "I love you, Shuntarō. It's been so long, these past months… I've been waiting, hoping you were safe. I love you so much. Always."

The words struck him deeper than anything else ever had. 

You loved him. 

Despite everything. Despite the distance, the uncertainty, the danger of this cursed world. You loved him. And no matter what this nightmare had thrown at him—no matter how far he had fallen, how much he had changed—there was something in him, something he hadn't let himself believe in until now, that told him you would always love him. You would always be there.

For once, he wasn't afraid to be vulnerable. Not when he had you back in his arms, not when you were so firmly anchored in his world again. His voice was barely above a whisper as he pressed his cheek to your hair, his breath catching in his chest.

"I love you too."

Masterlist

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 179 (Saving Nancy Landgraab)

cw: mentions death in childbirth

Nancy Landgraab should have been the best ballerina the world had ever seen. Encouraged from a young age by her mother, Queenie, she fell in love with the graceful yet aerobic dance and put her life into it.

After the death of her mother during the birth of her younger brother, Johnny, ballet was the only place she found true comfort. She could honour the memory of her mother and avoid the nannies who stood in for her absent father.

Chester Landgraab had little interest in his daughter - his son, Johnny, would carry on the family name, after all. When she asked to shadow him at Landgraab Corp. for Career Day presentations at school, he scoffed at her. "Your best contribution to the family will be to marry well. Someone whose business we can buy out after the wedding."

Chester thought he was clever and interesting, but Nancy disagreed. Her gilded life was a cage, and she turned to her beloved ballet whenever she felt like her life was nothing but a curse.

She resented her brother because their mother died giving birth to him. She never wanted a sibling to begin with, and Johnny was an annoying little clown. Every time she looked at him, she remembered what she lost. Johnny couldn't even remember their mother. He'd never understand how she felt, and she never got close to him because of it.

Two things got Nancy through high school - ballet, and Geoffrey Bridgers. The outgoing goofball seemed the furthest kind of man from her own father, and she fell hard for him their senior year.

But not even Geoffrey could protect her from injury. Her broken ankle ended her ballet dream in its tracks. She would never headline Swan Lake at the San My Philharmonic, and a part of herself died when the bones broke.

She hadn't felt like this since her mother's death, and her father wouldn't even try to understand her. "Go to college," he said. "You'll meet a good man there."

Chester didn't like Geoffrey Bridgers. The man came from new money - his dad had a small engineering startup the Landgraabs really didn't need. Chester understood real estate, and it was a valuable empire. He never seriously entertained diversification.

But post-ballet Nancy Landgraab turned her focus to the family business. She couldn't bear to see Johnny turn it into a mockery, and she had an aptitude for it.

But Chester wouldn't listen, so Nancy ran away.

She was legally an adult when she left for the desert, hoping to find work in a dance revue in the gambling district of Oasis Springs. She would never be a professional ballerina, but she could handle being a chorus girl. If she couldn't be Landgraab Corp.'s CEO, she wanted to dance.

The Fortunas Casino Royale was big and flashy and had the best dance revue on the strip, but their dance roster was full. Management offered Nancy the chance to serve on the casino floor as a cocktail waitress. She wanted to be first on the list when auditions opened next time, so she took the job. She hated it.

But even though she was miserable, she was stubborn. She wouldn't tell anyone where she was - not that anyone cared to ask. Except Geoffrey.

Chester was convinced his disappearing daughter was going through a phase. If he knew she was working as a cocktail waitress, he probably would have told her to meet a rich gambler and become his trophy wife. That's all her mother Queenie ever was to Chester, anyway.

But Geoffrey wasn't like Chester. He wasn't obsessed with wealth and status and loved Nancy because he saw the girl hiding inside her protective shell. When he finally found her in Oasis Springs, he sat down at one of the tables and waited.

She was angry when she spotted him, as much as she wanted to run into his arms and never let him go. But Nancy's shell was harder than that.

"Why did you come here? How did you find me?"

"I could hear slot machines in the background the last time I called, and this casino has the best dance show. It's just the first place I looked. If I hadn't found you here, I'd have kept looking."

"What do you want, Geoffrey?"

"I want you, Nance. I want you to come back to San Myshuno and forget about this cocktail gig. You can become the CEO of Landgraab Corp. and take over the San My Ballet Company board of directors. No one would run either organization better than you could."

"You really believe that?"

"I know it. I'm so confident you could run the world, if you wanted it, that I want to marry you and take your last name. My dad's company could become Landgraab Engineering; just one branch of the largest, most diversified company in the world."

Nancy loved the way that sounded. "I can't just leave. I have to give notice before I quit."

"You're Nancy Landgraab. You don't have to worry about burning any bridges here. If you ever want to come back to this place, you can just buy it."

With Geoffrey's affirmations and a promise to let her pick her own engagement ring, Nancy decided to return with him to San Myshuno. She wasn't looking forward to seeing her father and brother again, but with Geoffrey by her side, she knew she could handle anything.

As the sun began to rise over the desert on the first day of the rest of their lives together, Nancy and Geoffrey shared a romantic kiss. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

WCIF: I gave the Gallery details for teenage Nancy and the Fortunas Casino Royale when Felix, Emit, and Lilith chased the time thief to 2020, but for the fuller flashback I aged down Johnny Zest to child, then found an adult Geoffrey on the Gallery by koppler640 and aged him down to teen. Shamelessly used a sim called 'Hot! Geoffrey Landgraab' for the flashback with no apologies.

Chester and Queenie (seen only in a portrait behind teen ballerina Nancy) also came from the Gallery, by MLandgraab and gimalta08, respectively. Nancy is posed at the casino with @tenyrasims' Posing With a Smile pose pack, and the portrait of Queenie, Chester & Nancy was made with With Or Without You by @talentedtrait.

Does anyone know of any poses that look like someone fell and broke their ankle? I tried to find something for an action scene with Nancy but came up short, so we skipped right to the cc foot cast by @stargazer-sims!

[maxdibert]

I know that the fact we don't meet any of Lily's friends outside of the marauders is more like a plot hole. But if we consider it canon that she had no other friends, it does make me wonder... Maybe Severus was her only real friend, even with all the dysfunction. After all, he's the only one who seems to remember her outside of being James' wife and Harry's mother. She may have been popular, with many people around who liked her, but no one who really understood her at a deeper level. And yeah, Severus put Lily on a pedestal, but they were real friends at one point, when they were kids and things were simpler. And I'm sure that mattered for something.

Oh, but I don’t think Severus truly understood Lily on a deeper level by the time they stopped being friends, because he never really grasped what it was about him that upset her so much. Not that I particularly blame him. Lily wasn’t any better in that regard. She never really understood what was going on with Severus either, or why he behaved the way he did.

And something I find both very curious and very realistic is that neither of them really wanted to understand. Because it didn’t suit either of them to do so. Severus couldn’t afford to confront his cognitive dissonance, he didn’t want to face the idea that the people who had accepted him, given him a safe place at Hogwarts, and offered him some hope for the future, might actually be awful or fundamentally incompatible with having any sort of relationship with someone like Lily. But at the same time, Lily wasn’t interested in questioning why Severus had ended up where he did, or how the people she surrounded herself with (the Gryffindors, mainly) — the ones she defended — had actually played a fairly significant role in Severus’s radicalisation.

Lily didn’t want to consider that the boys who saw her as the pretty girl, the potential girlfriend, the popular darling, might well have been absolute pieces of shit, just as Severus didn’t want to consider that his housemates might be the same. Because Lily enjoyed the attention, and Severus needed the security. Neither of them truly understood each other at the time, even though, in truth, their choices made a certain amount of sense.

That aside, of course Severus was her childhood friend — and really, out of everyone at Hogwarts, he was the one who had known her before she became Lily the popular girl, Lily the teachers’ favourite, Lily the object of James Potter’s obsession. He knew her beyond being someone’s girlfriend, someone’s wife, someone’s mother; he knew her as a person.

Whether she had other close friends, I don’t know, because, as @lilithofpenandbook pointed out in another post, it doesn’t even seem like she was truly close to Mary Macdonald. I mean, she’s mentioned as an example, but Lily always refers to her by her full name, and you don’t usually talk about your close friends like that. You don’t mention a friend’s name and surname when speaking to someone who supposedly knows who you’re talking about, it’s ridiculous. And even if it wasn’t someone particularly close, if you’re always hanging around with someone, people will know exactly who you mean just by the first name. So it doesn’t really seem like Lily and Mary were actually that close, and beyond her, there’s no one else mentioned apart from James’s friends.

You can be popular without having any real friends or meaningful connections to anyone, and it does feel like that was a bit the case with Lily. Or at least it seems that way, and I’ll always insist it’s absolutely ridiculous that we know even the names of James’s parents, but we know virtually nothing about Lily’s family. All we know comes from Severus’s memories, and the tiny scraps we get about her home life come from Petunia’s comments. And, ironically enough, in both cases, they’re relationships Lily herself cut off. Even more ironic is that James was indirectly involved in both of those breakages.

[boopiemadz]

hi can you write a female reader x travis maybe post crash and she finds him doing drugs after he promised he would stay sober for her

This is the most deppressing thing ive ever written. Im so sorry.

WARNINGS!

Drug references, Swearing, Recovery and withdrawl, HEAVY content dealing with addiction and trauma

[The edge]

---

The first thing you noticed when you walked into the apartment was the smell. Not just that, but the way the room felt. Heavy.

You dropped your bag by the door, calling his name softly.

Nothing.

Then as you advance forward, there he was.

Curled up on the floor, head bowed low. You froze. For a second, your mind refused to accept it.

No. No, not again.

"Travis?" Your voice was raw and small. His head jerked up, dazed. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with shadows they looked bruised. When he saw you, something flickered across his face, shame, fear.

"Y/N," he slurred,"It’s, it’s not what you think..."

"Don't," you snapped, stepping back like he was radioactive. "Don’t lie to me." He struggled upright, staggering a little. "Just... bad night. Needed to, needed to take the edge off, that’s all."

The edge.

The edge he used to talk about in the woods, when the hunger and fear hollowed everyone out. The edge he started chasing with mushrooms after Lottie whispered about connecting with the wilderness. You remembered, how he sat cross-legged in the dark, pupils blown wide, muttering prayers to the trees.

Back then, he believed, or he wanted to. He wanted to believe that the earth spoke to him. That there was a reason for everything. That survival meant something more than just suffering.

You’d sat next to him one night, both of you drunk off sour berry wine someone had fermented in a dirty old jar. You'd clinked the bottle between you and made stupid jokes about how terrible it tasted. How it made everything just fade for a while. How it made the fear and grief buzz quieter.

You both knew it wasn't real. You both drank anyway. It was better than feeling everything. And maybe that was the beginning.

Maybe it wasn’t survival anymore. Maybe it was just... numbing.

And now, out here, away from the trees and the blood and the endless grey sky, he was still chasing it. Still clinging to the silence it gave him.

"Travis," you said, voice trembling, "you promised me."

He swayed where he stood, guilt twisting his face. "I know," he rasped. "I know, I just... I can't, it’s so loud all the time. I can't shut it off."

Your heart cracked open. Because you understood. God, you understood better than anyone. But he wasn't trying to heal. He was trying to disappear.

"You think it’s just you?" you said, voice sharp. "You think I don’t see them too? Every fucking day?" You blinked back hot tears. "I feel it, Travis. I live with it too."

He looked at you then, really looked. The weight of your words hit him harder than any slap could have.

"I’m sorry," he said, broken. "I’m so sorry, Y/N. I don’t know how to be..." He choked on the words. "I don’t know how to be okay."

You closed the space between you before you could think better of it. You grabbed his face in both hands, not gently but forcing him to meet your eyes. "I’m not asking you to be okay," you said fiercely. "I’m asking you to try."

He crumpled against you, forehead pressed to yours, his whole body trembling like a wire pulled too tight. "I’m scared," he whispered. "Without it... I don’t know who I am."

You closed your eyes, breathing him in. The sweat, the drugs, the Travis underneath it all, the boy who once made you laugh when there was nothing left to laugh about. The boy who once held your hand in the freezing dark and swore you'd both make it home.

"You’re still you," you said, voice shaking. "You’re just lost. And I can’t pull you back if you don’t want to come back." For a long, aching moment, neither of you moved. Just breathing. Just surviving.

"I want to," he whispered. "I swear I want to."

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. But promises were fragile. And you weren’t sure you could survive watching him break again. So you set your hands on his chest, feeling the frantic, desperate beat of his heart, and said the only thing you could:

"Then prove it."

He nodded, tears spilling over. Not a dramatic promise. Not a sweeping apology. Just a small, broken boy clinging to you like the world might end. Again.

You didn’t know if he’d make it. You didn’t know if you would.

But for tonight, you stayed. Because love wasn’t just soft kisses and sweet promises. It was this. The messy, brutal, ugly choice to stay when it would be easier to walk away.

You stayed. Because someone had to. Because once upon a time, he stayed for you too.

---

"Trav," you whispered, kneeling down. He flinched when you touched his shoulder. His skin was clammy and burning up.

"I c-can’t," he choked out, voice thin and desperate. "It hurts. It fucking..." He broke off into a guttural sob, shoving his face into his arms.

You slid down beside him anyway, pulling him into your chest. "You can," you said, fiercely, into his hair. "You can. I’m here. I’m right here."

You stayed there all night, humming nonsense songs, pressing cold cloths to his forehead, whispering promises you were terrified you couldn't keep. Because deep down, you knew. The wilderness had carved holes in both of you. You’d both spent years pouring poison into the wounds. And now you were trying to live with the emptiness.

He wasn’t the only one who cracked.

It started with a sip. Just one. At a stupid party you never wanted to be at.

The glass was in your hand before you even realized it, a reflex, like breathing. And when the warmth hit your chest, dulling the sharp edges inside you for the first time in months, you didn’t even feel guilty. You just felt relief.

Until you stumbled home at two a.m., reeking of liquor, and found Travis waiting on the porch. His arms were crossed. His face was pale. The hurt in his eyes gutted you.

"Don’t," you slurred, waving a hand. "Don’t look at me like that."

He stood up slowly, as if any sudden movement would shatter you both. "You promised me," he said, voice so soft it almost broke. "You promised."

You staggered, nearly falling. "It was just one drink," you snapped, defensive and brittle. "You don’t get to judge me." "I’m not judging you," he said, stepping closer. His voice cracked. "I’m scared for you."

You turned away, hot shame rising up your throat like bile. You didn’t want his pity. You didn’t deserve it.

But then his arms were around you. Tight. Desperate. And for a second, you let yourself crumble. "I’m sorry," you whispered into his shirt. "I’m so fucking sorry." "I know," he murmured. "Me too."

The next morning, you sat on the floor together, him nursing tea with shaking hands, you with a pounding headache and raw eyes, and you made a new kind of pact.

"No more promises," you said hoarsely. Travis blinked at you.

You swallowed, throat thick. "Not the kind we can’t keep." You met his eyes. "Just... one day at a time. You fall, I catch you. I fall, you catch me." He stared at you for a long, long moment. Then he nodded, slow and sure. "One day at a time."

And when he reached for you across the floor, you took his hand without hesitation. Because you needed him too. You always had.

Recovery wasn’t a clean line after that.

There were good days: Laughing until you cried over dumb TV shows. Cooking shitty meals and pretending they were gourmet. Holding hands in the grocery store like the world hadn't ended.

And there were awful days: Nights when Travis would disappear into the bathroom too long and you’d find him staring at the mirror like he didn’t recognize himself. Mornings you couldn’t get out of bed because the weight of everything sat on your chest like a stone

Days when you snapped at each other. When he accused you of treating him like a burden. When you accused him of giving up on himself. When the wounds between you reopened, fresh and bleeding.

But you always found your way back. Always.

One night, a few months in, Travis found you sitting on the kitchen floor with a bottle of cheap vodka at your side, unopened but tempting. You were just staring at it, hollow-eyed.

He didn’t say a word. He just knelt down, took your hand, and pulled you into his lap. You curled into him, shaking

"I get it," he whispered into your hair. "I get it so fucking much."

You sobbed once, ragged and broken, and shoved the bottle across the floor, out of reach. You clung to him like he was the last solid thing in the world. And maybe he was. Maybe you were for him, too.

Healing wasn’t a destination. It was a battle. You were still fighting it, every day, every hour.

But you weren’t fighting alone anymore. And somehow, that was enough.

You pressed your forehead to his, breathing him in. "I’m glad you’re here," you whispered. His hands tangled in your hair, grounding you, steadying you. "Me too," he said. His voice broke. "God, me too."

[hrizantemy]

I believe my mutuals @kataraavatara and @litnerdwrites made a post talking about Elain, and I want to add on.

I don’t like Elain. And I say that with an understanding that she reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger—the way she makes herself small, slips into softness, plays the role of the quiet, gentle one. But that’s not why I dislike her. I think she’s survived by making herself a victim, and that survival strategy gets dressed up as innocence far too often in this fandom.

People always say “Nesta is overprotective,” or “Nesta won’t let Elain make her own choices.” But Elain is a grown woman. She has been for a while. And I’d like to call back this scene in A Court of Silver Flames:

“Like calls to like,” Amren countered. “You were Made by the Cauldron. You may track other objects Made by it as well, as Briallyn can. And because you are Made by it, you are immune to the influence and power of the Trove. You might use them, yes, but they cannot be used upon you.”

A glance to Elain. “Either of you.”

Nesta swallowed. “I can’t.” But to let Elain involve herself, jeopardize her safety—

Amren said, “You tracked the Cauldron—”

“It nearly killed me. It trapped me like a bird in a cage.”

Elain said, “Then I will find it. I might require some time to … reacquaint myself with my powers, but I could start today.”

“Absolutely not,” Nesta spat, fingers curling at her sides. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?” Elain demanded. “Shall I tend to my little garden forever?”

When Nesta flinched, Elain said, “You can’t have it both ways. You cannot resent my decision to lead a small, quiet life while also refusing to let me do anything greater.”

“Then go off on adventures,” Nesta said. “Go drink and fuck strangers. But stay away from the Cauldron.”

Feyre said, “It is Elain’s choice, Nesta.”

Nesta whirled on her, ignoring the warning flicker of primal wrath in Rhys’s stare. “Keep out of this,” she hissed at her youngest sister. “I have no doubt you put these thoughts in her head, probably encouraging her to throw herself into harm’s way—”

Elain cut in sharply, “I am not a child to be fought over.”

Nesta’s pulse pounded throughout her body. “Do you not remember the war? What we encountered? Do you not remember the Cauldron kidnapping you, bringing you into the heart of Hybern’s camp?”

“I do,” Elain said coldly. “And I remember Feyre rescuing me.”

Roaring erupted in Nesta’s head. For a heartbeat, it appeared that Elain might say something to soften the words. But Nesta cut her off, seething at the pity about to be thrown her way.

“Look who decided to grow claws after all,” she crooned. “Maybe you’ll become interesting at last, Elain.”

Nesta saw the blow land, like a physical impact, in Elain’s face, her posture. No one spoke, though shadows gathered in the corners of the room, like snakes preparing to strike. Elain’s eyes brightened with pain.

Something imploded in Nesta’s chest at that expression. She opened her mouth, as if it could somehow be undone. But Elain said, “I went into the Cauldron, too, you know. And it captured me. And yet somehow all you think of is what my trauma did to you.”

Do I think Nesta is being overprotective in this scene? Absolutely. But she’s not telling Elain she has to stay pliable, docile, or under her wing. In fact, she’s telling her do whatever you want—have a life, make choices, be wild if you want—but don’t put yourself danger.

That line—“you only think of what my trauma did to you”—hits hard in the moment, but it’s not entirely fair. I don’t think Nesta is sitting around thinking about how Elain’s trauma affected her. No—Nesta is thinking about what she did that might have caused Elain’s trauma in the first place. Like when she agreed to scry for the Cauldron during the war, which directly led to Elain being kidnapped by Hybern. That guilt haunts her. It’s not selfishness—it’s responsibility, it’s shame, it’s regret. And that’s a huge difference from what Elain is accusing her of.

Is it healthy? No, absolutely not. But think about it like this—throughout her entire life, Nesta has consistently been shielding Elain from things. From their cruel, abusive grandmother. From the brutal reality of the cabin and the poverty they endured. From the harshness of the world, from faeries, from war. Nesta’s role has always been protector, even when she didn’t know how to do it in a way that was kind or constructive.

So when she tries to stop Elain from engaging with the Cauldron or the Trove, it’s not about control—it’s about falling back into that same instinct: protect Elain at all costs. It’s not healthy, no. But it’s deeply human, and it’s rooted in a lifetime of seeing herself as the only barrier between Elain and the ugliness of the world.

And Elain isn’t innocent in this dynamic—because she let Nesta take on that role. Time and time again, she allowed Nesta to be the shield, the angry one, the wall between her and the worst of the world. She leaned into that softness because she knew someone else would do the hard, ugly protecting for her.

That doesn’t make Elain evil, but it does mean she benefited.

In A Court of Frost and Starlight, we get this moment:

“Nesta is still a part of this family.”

“Is she?” Elain sawed deep into the next loaf. “She certainly doesn’t act like it.”

Elain doesn’t say that with concern. She doesn’t ask why Nesta’s withdrawn or what pain she might be in. She doesn’t express fear for her sister. She frames Nesta’s pain as rejection of them, and then immediately distances herself in return. That’s not support. That’s emotional retaliation.

And then in A Court of Silver Flames, we get this:

“She’s not getting any better. She’s not even trying.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and stared toward the distant sea.

Again, Elain doesn’t ask how she can help. She doesn’t express sorrow, or frustration rooted in love. She just makes a judgment. She assumes Nesta isn’t trying, when in reality Nesta is drowning. That’s not care—it’s condemnation, veiled in softness.

In both of these moments, Elain puts her own pain first. It’s “I feel hurt because she’s distant” rather than “she’s hurting, and that distance might be a symptom.” It’s “she’s not trying” instead of “she might not know how to try right now.”

And this is why Elain’s line in ACOSF—“you only think of what my trauma did to you”—rings hollow. Because Elain consistently thinks of what Nesta’s trauma is doing to her, and not what Nesta is actually going through.

So instead of “you only think of what my trauma did to you,” a more accurate statement would be:

“You carry guilt for the ways you think you failed me.”

Because that’s what it is. Nesta isn’t consumed by what Elain’s trauma did to her—she’s consumed by what she did, or didn’t do, that might’ve caused it. It’s guilt, not selfishness. And that distinction changes everything about how you read that scene.

And Feyre’s little line—“It is Elain’s choice, Nesta”—honestly doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of that scene. Because at the end of the day, Nesta still ends up doing it. Nesta is the one who gets pushed into tracking the Trove, not Elain. So Feyre’s attempt at standing up for Elain’s autonomy is performative at best.

If Feyre truly believed in respecting choices and protecting the people involved, she could’ve said something like, “You might not like this, Nesta, but Elain is going to do it—because you’re still recovering. You’re in a vulnerable place, and we’re not going to put you in danger.”

But that doesn’t happen. Because despite Feyre’s talk about choice, it’s Nesta who’s still expected to sacrifice, to endure, to suffer—even while in what is essentially rehab and battling untreated PTSD from war, death, and trauma.

And this line right here—“Elain doesn’t go near him,” Feyre said. “And you won’t let me near him?”—only cements my point.

Yes, on the surface it’s about who’s going to dance with Eris, but it reveals something deeper: Feyre will not put Elain in danger. She refuses to let Elain step into even a politically uncomfortable situation, let alone one involving risk.

That moment with Eris shows exactly what Feyre is willing to shield Elain from. It makes her earlier line—“It is Elain’s choice”—feel hollow. Because Feyre is quick to step in and say, not her.

Whether she agreed or not, Nesta was always going to be the one to look for the Trove.

[denkilightning]

S3P2 spoilers!!! spoilers!!!

it was so upsetting to see Jay obviously hurt and angry (“they lied too. tons.”) and actually kind of opening up the ninja and lloyd just. no lie going “well anyway” ??

jay made clear the whole season he was there for MONEY. He tried to leave MULTIPLE times and each time lloyd got him to stay but promising more money. Jay made sure his intentions and why he we there was never a question, so when he wasn’t getting the money he was promised, he opted to leave, and for some reason, he was blamed for that? They repeatedly tell him they’ll pay him which cements in his head that this is a FAIR trade, he’s Not Getting used, until he eventually realizes he literally is. Nobody fucking told him that they want him there because they love him? Sure he wouldn’t have believed them, but we see through the season that he’s slowly growing fond of them. Getting him to slowly believe that they care through positive reassurances would’ve totally avoided all of that— but no??? They just kept reinforcing the fact that they want him for his help by offering him more and more money (and lloyd says “it’ll be good to have more help” and nya says “especially ninja help” to which jay replies “not a ninja, but i can’t pass up more money.”)

Not one attempt to make him believe he’s wanted and loved, just bribing him with money and getting upset when he leaves because he’s not getting the money. absolutely crazy work. fantastic writing but crazy for the ninja.

He told them straight up, to their FACES, that he doesn’t trust anyone but himself anymore because he keeps getting used and lied to. Not even an implication, he straight up says it. And for some reason this wasn’t a point of concern for the ninja?

Granted it was only nya and lloyd there, (not counting wyldfyre since she doesn’t really know him or care for him like the others) and lloyd could be semi-excused since he’s always had a penchant for being bad at comforting people (exhibit a: arin and his parents) and was overall pretty distant this season due to stress. But nya?????? Oh man. it feels as though she was more focused on getting him to like her back rather than the fact that jay only memories are of being lied to and abused.

Also, when jay opens up to the ninja about his immediate circumstances post merge, being that he was a) alone b) amnesiac c) scared d) and he trusted the first people who found him and claimed they knew him, and they were disappointed in him? What? He didn’t even remember his own name!!! he was disorientated and alone?? Of course he would latch onto the first person he saw. He didn’t know a single thing about himself.

It was genuinely just so upsetting to watch. Sure he’s cruel now, and has lesser morals, but it’s not like he’s going around killing people senselessly. (he acknowledges that a full blown massacre could fail and wouldn’t work and came up with a better plan, which worked perfectly mind you, and the ninja were still doubting him the whole time). Nya spent a little time with him painting and dancing and when it didn’t fix his soul or his memories, for some reason JAY got blamed for that? I’m not sure how that logic got there when Jay repeatedly shown the other ninja, post-bonding in lee, that he isnt fixed (i.e going to kill lee, leave the residents, etc) and all that happened afterwards…christ. i have no words

Whenever he does something cruel or doesn’t believe them or snaps, they equate it to jay shattering his soul, not that he’s been mindlessly used and abused and manipulated for quite literally his whole life (to him) and is lashing out in distrust. But when he does something good (i.e, painting, sneaking around,) it’s immediately credited to him being a ninja.

There’s no middle ground at all, and to be honest i don’t blame jay for leaving at all. i understand for nya emotions were running high for her and she was lashing out too (she obviously feels bad for what’s happening given that she was talking to herself the next episode about how she doesn’t need jay). but to be honest if i was jay i wouldn’t join these fuckass ninja either 😭

jay is literally doing everything theyve asked him to and theyre still kicking him in the teeth for it AND HE STILL FUCKING TRIES OPENING UP TO THEM

HES TRYING HE IS TRYING TO BECOME FRIENDS HES LITERALLY USING THE SAME TACTIC BUT REVERSED TO SEE IF THEY WANT HIM TO OPEN UP

because he did the same thing with zeatrix in p1 where he goes 'this target must be pretty important' so she opens up and he does the same thing with the merlopian admin agent when he asks her about the ethnic dances and hes reversing it by saying admin lied a fuckton looking genuinely hurt and No One. Picks It. Up.

hes actually trying to be good he just never had a single person be genuinely kind to him so him trying is well meaning but mean worded and hes trying so hard and they just kick him over and over again.

literally how badly you have to fuck up for the person that has Nothing To Lose And Has Never Known Kindness to realise how badly youre treating them and Leave

yeah if i were him i wouldve just blown up the roof of the monastery portal and left them there to die cus fucking hell

before s3p2 when i used to talk about how the ninja will like the idea of jay more than actual jay I Thought I Was Reading It All In Bad Faith And Negatively Exaggerating And Somehow Theyre Even Worse.

[reichsbarbie]

NSFW one-shot | Post-war, Peiper x fem!reader | Trial

(Warning : Smut, Unprotected, P in V)

The air in the tribunal office was cold and still. You hated how sterile it felt; like grief had been vacuum sealed into paper files and labeled Exhibit A. You were just a translator. A glorified clerk with better French than most and a tendency to not flinch when the defendants stared too long.

He never stared. Not like the others.

Joachim Peiper didn’t need to.

He looked through you like he had when you first saw him across the courtroom: that quiet calculation, like he already knew what page you were on and what you’d say next.

“You requested this?” you asked, voice clipped, fingers tight around the file folder.

He sat, unshackled for the meeting, hands resting neatly on the table like he still had rank. “They said I’m allowed to speak to someone about the language inconsistencies in the transcripts.”

You didn’t sit. “This isn’t a debate club.”

He raised a brow, a ghost of that same sardonic smirk from four years ago— the one that used to follow brutal orders with a cigarette and a quiet, “It’s just war.”

“You’re still angry,” he said quietly.

You stared at him. “You killed civilians. Burned villages. What emotion am I supposed to feel, Joachim?”

He tilted his head. “The same one you felt when you let me fuck you behind your father’s back.”

You didn’t move. Your pulse did.

“That was war,” you said flatly.

“And this is peace?” he asked, voice low. “You wear a badge now. You translate my charges. You read the details of things you’ll never unsee.”

You set the folder down. “You think this is foreplay?”

“No,” he said. “I think you came here because you wanted to remember.”

You were across the room before you knew what you were doing.

His chair scraped as he stood too—too close, too familiar, too much like before. The same heat, buried under layers of guilt and ash.

“Touch me,” he said, voice like gravel, “and it’ll ruin you.”

You swallowed. “I’m already ruined.”

You kissed him like a woman starved. He kissed you back like a man already dead.

It was rough, desperate, ugly. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him. Yours tore at his shirt like the fabric itself was part of the lie.

He spun you, slammed you back against the table, papers flying. Your breath caught as he hiked up your skirt with practiced cruelty, fingers finding you slick and open beneath.

You slapped him across the face. His jaw flexed. His cock twitched against your thigh.

“No underwear?” he murmured, voice dark. “Still a filthy little traitor.”

“Fuck me or don’t,” you hissed. “But don’t pretend you’re still in command.”

He smirked.

No buildup. No slow slide. Just the kind of raw, unfiltered fuck that shouldn’t happen between a war criminal and the woman translating the evidence that will hang him.

And then he was inside you.

Your fingers clawed at his back as he drove into you, hard and relentless. You bit down on your knuckles to keep from crying out. He watched you the whole time— those dead-blue eyes burning, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your ruin.

Your orgasm ripped through you with a violence that embarrassed you. He followed seconds later, his breath broken against your throat, body taut with something more than pleasure.

When it was over, you pushed him off you like he was poison.

You straightened your skirt. Picked up the files. Said nothing.

He sat again, as if nothing had happened.

“You’ll write the truth,” he said. “In the transcripts.”

You met his eyes, still shaking, still wet between your legs — and said, “I will.”

Because the truth was worse than the lie.

And maybe some sins were meant to be documented in footnotes and forgotten in time.

[janettheblackcat]

The Cat | Lando Norris x OC

Summary: After another great race weekend, Norris is summoned to meet up with Fritzi after her dj set in Monaco; With the help of Max and Oscar, they all come together to discuss the evidence she found, and start to piece together what happened to him that night at Le Carmen.

Word Count: ~1.5k

Pairing: party boy lando x dj!female oc

Warnings: +18, suggestive content, adult content, adult language, implied drug abuse, implied date rape drugging, implied roofies, fluff, slow burn, sexual tension, mention of latex

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Chapter 4 (Chapter 3 | Masterlist)

After a laborious race week in Spain, the papaya team came out victorious—a swift McLaren 1-2 with Oscar on pole position. Lando all but forgot about his feline friend—he spent the rest of his time in Barcelona training, record breaking, and winning since they last spoke. After rigorous media coverage and post-race weigh ins, the second place finisher finally got a chance to reach for his phone.

I’ll b djing a set at jimmy’z tonight. staying in monaco for a day or two. Glückwunsch

The world stood still when he saw her message. She’s in Monaco, staying there, awaiting his return. Someone tapping him on the chest unplugged him from the screen. “Cooldown time,” George Russell, who clutched 3rd overall, beckoned him along.

In the cooldown room, Oscar noticed the very limited, branded responses his teammate was giving towards the replay on the television. “Everything alright, mate?” George looked over, showing his own concern. Weary of the cameras around them, Lando gave Oscar his phone. After reading the message Fritzi wrote, he handed the phone over to George. “You should ask Max to use his jet, you’d be able to make it there by tonight.” “I don’t want to go alone.” “I’ll come with you,” Oscar reassured his teammate. Lando nodded as they continued to watch the race, feigning concern for the other teams who didn’t do as well.

Max, Oscar, and Lando all got ready separately and decided to fly home to Monaco on Max’s private jet as soon as they were allowed to leave the paddock. “I can’t believe we get to meet the famous cat lady!” Oscar elbowed Max, showing his agreement in his own unabashed excitement. “Think she’ll be all kittened out?”

“Not sure. It’s Monaco.”

“Did she say what kind of music she’s playing?”

“Nope. Just that she’s doing a set there tonight.”

“Do you even know what time she’s going on?” Norris shook his head. Max and Oscar collectively rolled their eyes. “What do you know about this girl?” Lando looked up from his hand, where he was caressing the little piece of music paper he kept from her. “Not a thing. I don’t think I really know her at all.”

At Jimmy’z, they strolled in with a couple heys and daps directed towards the guards and owners. The three racing drivers surveyed the floor looking for a black cat—a sleek, shiny human creature. “We’ll split up and look for her,” Max yelled in Lando’s ear. He nodded as Oscar and Max patted him on the shoulder and walked away. Waltzing through the club, he scanned the floor, his eyes roamed up and down the place, and right behind the booth—there! Her hair, unconfined by the braids he remembered her in, flowed in a mess of beautiful curls, some loose and clinging to her forehead, a testament to her hard work and smooth transitions. Her face was concentrated—eyes shifting from one deck to the other, as people danced and screamed all around her. “Is that—“ Startling Lando, Max placed his arm around his neck and pointed to the stage. Lando, in an almost catatonic state, started to walk over to the dj booth. Oscar stepped in front of his best friend. “Lando, you’ve already got her in trouble behind you the other day! We’ll meet up with her when she’s done.” Lando looked up in the nick of time; Fritzi, after she caught his eye, tilted her head to the side—the same way she did when they first met.

“You came!” Lando whipped his head around to see Fritzi, her smile wide and her body soaked in her own sweat. She wasn’t dress in latex at all—rather, she was dressed in an elegant, funky outfit; an open white blouse covered up by a backwards camouflage corset, paired with 70s style jeans and boots that made her appear taller than the driver. “You told me you’d be here!” She rolled her eyes. “Did you like the set?”

“I thought you didn’t do house music.”

“I play whatever the club pays me to play. I’m a dj after all. Techno is just my specialty, my personal expertise.”

“It was a good set. Pretty slow for you.”

“Yeah, I’m used to everything being over 140. But adapting and understanding your crowd is what separates a good dj from a great one.”

“Right, right,” Lando nodded and watched her face. She side eyed the other two drivers, waiting to be introduced. “Right, sorry! This is—“

“I’m Max,” Max interjected. “This is Oscar.” Oscar held his hand up. “I’m Fritzi! Freut Mich!” They all stood around the loud bar, awkwardly looking at one another. “Would you like to step outside?” Lando nodded and led the way, while his two mates followed them to an outdoor area.

Outside, there was a crisp, cool breeze, and the lights of the Monte Carlo nightlife were twinkling under the moon’s bright glow. They sat at the furthest end of the outside lounge tables, away from where couples were fondling each other and drunkards were slurring at their own respective friends. “I saw who roofied you on the camera the night you left for Spain. I didn’t want to send it to you just in case someone on your team had your phone while you were racing—I wanted to show you myself.” She opened her phone, and settled on a video. She handed the phone to the driver who, with the extra eyes of his two friends leaning in, watched the events unfold on her screen; Lando, already in a drunken state, was drugged by the two women who led him onto the main floor earlier that night, after he locked eyes with Fritzi. On the tape, you could see him start to tongue both women in a three way kiss as one of them slipped a little vial of powder past him and into his already mixed drink. “That’s another reason why I wanted to show you in person. I didn’t want the possibility of this video getting leaked or seen—I didn’t want to paint you in a bad light.” “Oh, he’s already painting himself in a bad light—“

“Oscar, don’t—“

“Look at that! Look at yourself! You’re all alone, not one other driver there, no security, and you mack on the nearest girls you saw who’d probably only seen your face on a screen somewhere! Poor, little rich race car driver! It’s sad—“

“HEY!” Fritzi stopped them both. “Cut that shit out!” Fritzi stroked Lando’s arm and turned him toward her, their gazes softened on one another; the other two drivers looked at each other in acknowledgment and looked back at the pair. “Did you get their names, numbers, anything?” Lando shook his head. “And you paid for the drinks?” He nodded. She held her face in her hands. “I’ll keep investigating when I get back. I’ll look for clearer footage of them earlier in the night, try and catch their faces.” Lando nodded, looking at the floor. “Hey,” she cupped his chin with her index finger and lifted his head. “It’s okay. You don’t owe me any explanation for what happened. Whatever you wanted to do with those girls, drunk or sober, doesn’t make what they did to you right. You’re still a victim, whether you wanted to fuck them or not. They drugged you, Lando. What you do with your dick is nobody’s business but your own. I’m just trying to help you.” Fritzi locked eyes with Lando; when she had his full attention, she held the phone up by her face, in view of the driver, and deleted the video from her phone. “How it happened will stay between us. I already know where I can get a copy of it in case of a court order. But, to prove my allegiance to you, I wanted you to know that I won’t keep this video for blackmail or anything like that—I wanted you to see me get rid of it. I just wanted to show it to you, to prove to you that I didn’t do it. And I promise you, I will find the girls who did.” She stood up and pulled him up by his fingers, holding him in a soft embrace. “I’m going to a record store in Nice tomorrow. If you’d like, we can meet for lunch afterwards—get to know each other more now that I’m not a suspect anymore.” “I never suspected you.” She stared into space in his eyes while he cradled her in his arms. “Thank you. That means a lot to me. I’ll keep in touch. Goodnight, boys.” She pulled away, brought out a pair of cat eye sunglasses that was stashed in the back pocket of her bell bottom jeans, and walked off until she faded into the darkness. “Okay. Now I see the appeal.” Lando shoved Max jokingly, leading his two friends back into the club to enjoy the rest of their night together.