#he's way cooler ofc

[ren-the3rd]

was watching that video and at some point isack mentioned how much he loved motogp imma need to know who is his fav rider nowwww

[noahwylie]

as an adult I think the story about Austin leaving school to go home and have lunch with his mom every day is very cute, but as a kid I would have been like “weak. his bloodline too soft we have to take him out”

[pitlanepeach]

Three Of Us | Chapter Three (3/3)

Lando Norris x Original Female Character x Oscar Piastri

Summary — Margot has single-handedly run Marjorie’s Bakeshop, a Monaco institution, ever since her grandmother’s passing. It’s by chance that a tiny blue Fiat Jolly breaks down on the curb right in-front of her door.

Warnings — Established!Landoscar, polyamory negotiations, eventual throuple, slow(ish) burn, vandalism, OFC has atypical OCD, SMUT!

Notes — The ending my babies deserve. I hope you enjoyed this mini fic!! xxx

They took her to a tiny place tucked away behind Rue Grimaldi — dim lights, red leather booths, the kind of place locals didn’t post about because they didn’t want to lose it. Lando said the chef knew him from “his karting days,” and Oscar had only given him a look that said you’ve never karted in Monte Carlo and you absolutely made that up to sound impressive. 

Margot slid into the booth first, the leather worn smooth under her hands. Lando followed, sitting close but not crowding. Oscar took the other side, straight-backed and composed in a way that should’ve been formal, but somehow wasn’t.

The menus were handed out. She didn’t reach for hers. Not yet.

She adjusted the water glass in front of her. Then the fork. Then the knife — angle a little tighter, edge just parallel to the napkin’s seam. She barely realized she was doing it. Just muscle memory. A small breath out.

Lando didn’t blink. He just slid his knife a half-inch to the left, let her fix it. “Thanks, babe,” he said, glancing up at her with a grin. “Did you see Oscar’s defence against Carlos on lap one?”

She blinked. “I… did.”

Oscar’s wine glass was already perfectly in place — she didn’t need to adjust his. But he still sat there and waited; didn’t touch it until she gave him a small, awkward smile and a jerking nod. 

Dinner flowed.

Lando talked the most — jumping between topics, bouncing excitement like a pebble on a lake. The podium, the champagne, someone’s shoes being set on fire in the garage — she couldn’t keep up, but that was okay. He didn’t expect her to.

Oscar asked questions. Not many. Just enough. About her grandmother. About the bakery. About the blue ribbon she tied around the tarte tatin boxes. He noticed things.

They didn’t touch her too much. A hand on her forearm, once. Lando’s knee brushing hers under the table. Oscar passing her the bottle of water before she even realized her glass was empty.

At one point, Lando offered her a bite of his gnocchi. She hesitated — not sure what she was supposed to be in this moment — the date of two people already in love. The third wheel. The curiosity. The variable.

But Oscar just nodded, slow and quiet. “You’ll like it.”

So she tried it.

And then, for the first time that night, she laughed. Fully.

“Okay, fine,” she said. “It’s very good.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Told you.”

She sat back then, for a second, looking at them both. The quiet intensity in Oscar’s eyes, the way Lando’s fingers moved when he talked with his hands.

It shouldn’t have made sense.

But somehow — they weren’t too much.

They weren’t not enough.

They just were.

And for the first time in a long time, Margot felt like she might be something like that, too.

—

They walked slowly, nowhere in particular, their steps falling into rhythm on instinct. Monaco was cooler at night, sea-slicked and gold-lit, the glimmer of the marina cutting a path through the hills.

Lando talked the whole way — about nothing, about everything. Oscar was quiet beside him, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze forward. Margot walked between them, arms brushing theirs every few steps.

Halfway down a cobbled slope, Oscar leaned in a little, voice low. “I want to hold your hand.”

Margot blinked.

He didn’t look at her. Just kept walking, deliberate and slow. “But I don’t want you ending up on someone’s TikTok with the caption ‘guess Lando’s the third wheel now,’ or… you know. Worse.”

Lando let out a snort behind her. “You think they’d call me the third wheel?”

Oscar shrugged, unbothered. “More followers than me.”

Margot’s heart knocked against her ribs. Not at what he said — but how he said it. The careful way he’d admitted the wanting. The consideration of her in it.

Quietly, she reached across the narrow space and slipped her fingers into his. Oscar’s breath hitched, just slightly. His hand closed gently around hers. It fit easily. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t press.

Just held.

They looped back through the winding backstreets. And when she paused outside the darkened café, keys in hand, she glanced over her shoulder at Lando and smiled. 

The inside smelled like cinnamon and lemon peel, the last lingering notes of morning. She reached for Lando’s hand (finally), led them to the back — past the counter, through the swinging staff door, into the tiny office she used more for journaling than accounting.

She clicked on the desk lamp.

It glowed warm, like the three tarts she pulled from the fridge — one almond, one raspberry, one plain frangipane. They didn’t need plates. Crumbs were fine. 

Lando flopped onto the old velvet loveseat someone once left on the curb and her grandmother had rescued in the late eighties. Oscar next to him, legs stretched. Margot tucked herself between them both, knees folded, tart in lap.

Lando’s head dropped to her shoulder halfway through the raspberry tart. “Okay,” he murmured. “This might be better than sex.”

Margot choked on a mouthful. Oscar sighed. 

Margot reached for the almond tart. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

“It is,” Oscar said. “Lando’s incredibly food motivated.”

Lando grinned. “Facts.”

When the tarts were gone, she felt Oscar’s hand brush hers again. Just soft. Deliberate.

Lando bit his lip. “I— do you want us to—“ 

“No,” she said, without thinking.

Oscar shifted beside her. “You sure?”

“I…” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “Yes. Im sure. I like this.”

Lando leaned in. Just slightly. “This?”

She turned to look at him. His eyes were gentle, even in the dim amber light. His hand came up, slow, like he didn’t want to spook her. But when she didn’t pull back — he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. And kissed her.

Tentative. Sweet. The kind of kiss that asked before it took.

Oscar kissed her next — when she turned her head, when the weight of it settled in. His kiss was steadier. Lower. Anchoring.

And when she blinked back, breath a little shaky, both of them were still there.

“Oh.” She whispered. 

—

It was nearly midnight. Oscar was leaning back against the prep counter, arms crossed, watching her with that steady, unreadable look that made her a little dizzy.

“You can’t even relax in your own bakery,” Lando teased. “That’s tragic, babe.”

“I am relaxed,” she insisted, even as she wiped down the counter for the third time. “This is me relaxed.”

“Right,” Oscar said, voice low. “That’s why your hand’s shaking.”

She froze.

He hadn’t said it cruelly — not even pointedly. Just… softly. Observant. Like he saw her in a way few people ever did.

Her breath stilled in her chest. Lando stepped in close behind her, voice suddenly quieter. “Hey.”

She didn’t move.

Oscar didn’t either.

“We know this place matters to you,” he said. “We wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want.”

And then, just like that — something inside her gave.

Not a collapse. Not even a crack.

Just a shift. A choice.

She turned. Looked at both of them. Her voice was barely audible.

“I want.”

That was all.

And it was enough.

Lando kissed her again first — hungrier this time, his hands at her waist, sliding under her cardigan. She clung to him, fingers fisting in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. Oscar stepped in behind her, warm and solid, and when his hands settled gently on her hips, she didn’t flinch.

She leaned into him.

The prep counter dug into her back as Lando lifted her up onto it, careful, reverent — but fast, like he couldn’t stand to not have her closer. She’d cleaned it a hundred times that day. It didn’t matter now.

None of it did.

Oscar’s hands slid down her thighs, coaxing her knees apart as he stepped between them. He kissed her neck while Lando’s lips dragged hot and unhurried down her collarbone.

She gasped. Oscar caught the sound with his mouth.

There was something breathless about it — this trio orbiting each other, no one quite leading, no one quite following. Just heat and want and the kind of trust that made everything else fall away.

She tugged Lando’s t-shirt off and he helped, laughing against her mouth as he got tangled in the sleeves. Oscar murmured something about useless man-child as he unzipped her skirt, and she felt herself laugh — fully, freely — even as her body ached with need.

Clothes slipped away like clock hands ticking past the hour.

Oscar’s hands were sure. Lando’s mouth was all chaos and sugar and sin.

And when they pressed her back against the cool steel counter, when they worshipped her like she was something holy — when she reached for them both, frantic and certain and soft — she didn’t think about the rules. The cloths. The perfect angles.

She only thought: I’m safe.

I’m wanted.

I’m theirs.

Later, tangled together on the loveseat, the air still thick and warm, she caught Oscar looking around the space. Assessing the chaos they’d left in their wake — crumpled napkins, half-buttoned shirts, a spoon on the floor.

“I can clean up,” he offered quietly. “If it helps.”

She looked at him. Then Lando, who was asleep with his face buried against her side, hair mussed, lips swollen.

And she smiled.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

She could clean in the morning.

Tonight, she would keep this — the sweetness and the mess — even if it meant an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. 

It was just more proof that maybe not all of life was about perfection. 

Some of it… was just living.

—

The bakery still smelled like cinnamon and heat when they stepped out into the night, the door clicking quietly shut behind them.

It was late. Past late. The kind of hour when Monaco went quiet and the shadows belonged to no one. Streetlamps flickered in soft gold pools across the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried out and was gone.

Margot sipped her coffee quickly — maybe too quickly — the takeout cup warm between her palms but cooling fast in the sea-soaked air. She tipped it back until it was empty, then tucked it into the nearest bin without slowing.

Both boys noticed. Of course they did.

Oscar’s hand found hers without a word, fingers curling gently, confidently. His thumb brushed across her knuckles like he’d already memorised them. Lando glanced over, still sipping from his own cup, and gave her a lopsided smile before offering his free hand.

She took it.

And just like that, she was in the middle — tucked between the two of them like she belonged there. Oscar was steady and warm on one side, his silence never cold. Lando was all lazy energy and swinging steps on the other, thumb rubbing absently against hers like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

They walked like that through the sleepy streets. Three shadows in sync. No cameras. No beady eyed tourists. Just footsteps, soft laughter, and the occasional quiet hum from Lando as he recited part of a song he couldn’t remember the words to.

Margot leaned into Oscar’s side as they waited for a light to change. He didn’t flinch. He tilted toward her — slightly, solidly — like it was instinct.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“I think so,” she said, voice soft with disbelief. “I think I really am.”

Lando gave her hand a gentle swing. “You’re kind of stuck with us now, y’know.”

She laughed — tired, genuine — and squeezed their hands. “I’m not sure I mind.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, but his hand tightened around hers.

When they reached the car, none of them rushed. The quiet lingered like something sacred. Margot didn’t let go until the very last second.

And even then, only because she had to.

—

Margot was halfway through peeling the label off her wine bottle when Alex flopped down next to her on the sofa, legs tucked underneath her, hair scraped into a loose braid that had started to unravel an hour ago. The living room was glowing gold with lamplight, soft jazz playing under the occasional hum of city traffic. Takeout containers littered the coffee table — pizza, two types of pasta, and one decorative salad that neither of them touched.

Margot giggled as Alex made a grand show of stretching like a cat. “One glass of wine and you’re already preening.”

“I’m just stretching,” Alex corrected, raising her wine glass with a smirk. “You, on the other hand, are glowing. Positively radiant.”

“Oh my god, stop.” Margot buried her face in her hands.

“Nope. Spill. Right now. I want full details. You’ve been smiling and blushing all by yourself all night.”

Margot peeked through her fingers. “I have not!”

“You have. And it’s cute. You’re all flushed and bashful, and I want to scream about it in a very supportive and dignified way.”

Margot groaned, but the kind of groan that was half-laughter. “It was… nice. Okay? Really nice.”

“Nice?” Alex repeated, scandalized. “You went on a cozy, romantic date with two McLaren formula one drivers, and all I get is ‘nice’?”

Margot laughed into her wine glass. “I don’t even know what to call it. We went back to the bakery after dinner. We had dessert and coffee and they just… made space for me. It didn’t feel like I was trying to catch up or fit in. I was just… there. And it felt right.”

Alex’s smile softened, quieter now. “That sounds like more than nice.”

Margot let the words hang there for a second. Her heart tugged a little. “I think it is. But—”

Alex caught it instantly. “No. Nope. No buts. You don’t get to ruin the mood with doubts right now.”

Margot hesitated. Then, quietly, “It’s not that I’m trying to ruin anything. I’m just being realistic. They’re already them, Alex. I’m… me. And we’re not official. They haven’t introduced me to anyone. We’ve only been out together once. And I know they’re private — that they have to be — but I’m terrible at keeping secrets, Alex. What if… I don’t know.” She sighed. 

Alex stared at her for a beat, then reached for the wine bottle and refilled both glasses with purpose.

“Oh no,” Margot said, bracing herself.

“This,” Alex said, gesturing wildly, “might be the wine talking, but: are you joking right now?”

Margot blinked. “I—”

“No. Stop. You’re telling me the boys who send you flowers, who show up after hours at your bakery like sad puppies, who look at you like you’re made of moonlight — you’re telling me that you’re worried about them changing their minds. That’s what you’re saying to me right now?” 

“I don’t know,” Margot muttered. “Maybe they won’t want to deal with the headlines. Or maybe they won’t ever want to explain whatever this is. I don’t… I don’t want to end up being a third wheel. They haven’t made me feel like that yet, but — I can’t be a secret, Alex.”

Alex softened at that, the teasing melting from her features. “You’re not going to end up being anybody’s third wheel, Margot.”

Margot looked away, eyes flicking to the city lights through the balcony doors.

“And okay,” Alex went on, more gently now, “I get it. I really do. It’s scary. And it’s new. But you can’t let fear keep you hidden away forever. You have a life to live too. A heart to live with. They’ve chosen you. Both of them. So let them.”

Margot’s voice was small. “Alex…”

“Come to the next race with me.” She pleaded. 

Margot blinked at her. “They might not want me to be there.” 

Alex shook her head. “You’re ridiculous. Of course they want you there. They told Charles.”

Margot stared at her wine glass, her heart thudding loud and strange.

“Come with me,” Alex said softly. “Come to the next race. Surprise them.”

Margot didn’t answer. But she didn’t say no, either.

—

The café was closed, the windows dark, chairs flipped onto tables in neat, perfect rows. Margot sat at the counter with her elbows resting on the worn wood, the same spot she always stood for morning prep — only this time, she wasn’t moving. Wasn’t wiping. Wasn’t counting spoons or straightening pastry tongs.

Just sitting.

The brass key lay next to her phone, cool under her fingers. She rolled it between her thumb and knuckle, a nervous fidget, her grandmother’s faded ribbon still tied around the base. It felt heavier tonight. Or maybe she was just imagining that — giving weight to something that wasn’t physical.

She glanced at the calendar behind the register.

Two days. Forty-eight hours until the shutters wouldn’t rise at 6:59. Until the espresso machine wouldn’t hum its low morning hello. Until no one would wander in and ask for two citron pressés and a croissant to-go.

Marjorie’s hadn’t closed for a weekend in decades.

Not for renovations. Not for holidays. Not even for her grandmother’s funeral — Margot had opened the next morning, lids heavy with tears, hands shaking, apron tied twice like always.

It was tradition.

It was ritual.

It was safety.

And now she was changing it.

Just for two days, she reminded herself. Not forever. Just one weekend. To go with Alex. To surprise Oscar and Lando. To take a step outside the warm, cinnamon-scented rhythm of her life. 

It still felt… wrong. Or maybe not wrong. Unmoored.

Like she was undoing something that had been holding her upright.

She exhaled shakily and ran a hand through her hair. She’d written the sign for the door — “Closed This Weekend. Back Monday.” — but hadn’t taped it up yet. It was folded in her bag, creased from the number of times she’d pulled it out and stared at it.

She didn’t know who she was without the store open. She didn’t know what the world looked like when she wasn’t standing right here, grounded in sugar jars and espresso cloths and memory.

“Grand-mère,” she whispered softly, her voice catching, “I’m going. I’m really going.”

She didn’t expect an answer.

But for the first time since she’d made the decision, her chest didn’t feel like it was cracking in two. Just stretching. 

Making room.

—

The private jet smelled faintly of leather and citrus, the kind of sterile luxury Margot wasn’t used to. She hovered by the sleek white seat for a second too long, fingers worrying the edges of her phone case, until Alex nudged her gently from behind.

“Window seat. Go on,” she smiled, lifting her oversized tote into the overhead compartment like it weighed nothing. “You’ll like watching the clouds. I promise.”

Margot eased herself into the chair, smoothing the hem of her cardigan and then fixing the edge of the seatbelt before even buckling it. One, two. Buckle. Then unbuckle. Then buckle again.

Alex settled across from her and didn’t say anything — didn’t make a face, didn’t draw attention — just slid a granola bar across the table between them and picked up her phone like this was normal. Like this was okay.

It helped.

Across the aisle, Charles and Max were bickering softly in French about something on Max’s iPad. Margot could only make out pieces — tires, setups, and a very animated comparison involving soup. Max glanced over once and caught her watching. He grinned.

“C’est pas si sérieux,” he said, then switched to English. “I’m just telling Charles he drives a road car like a grandmother.”

Margot startled a laugh, and Charles rolled his eyes. “I drive better than your grandmother,” he muttered.

“You’ve never even met my grandmother.”

“She drives a Fiat Panda. I don’t need to.”

Margot looked down at her hands. She was tapping her fingers in sequence on the tray in front of her — index, ring, pinky, middle, pause. Then again. It was barely noticeable, but Alex noticed. Of course she did.

“You want the schedule again?” Alex asked, opening her iPad.

Margot nodded. She didn’t need to read it. She’d already memorized it — gate to tarmac, flight time, landing, hotel, passes. But it helped, somehow. Helped to orient her thoughts when everything else felt unfamiliar.

Alex slid the iPad closer. Margot rested her eyes on the neat little bullet points and felt herself start to settle, the pressure in her chest loosening notch by notch.

When the engines fired up, she flinched instinctively, and Charles — from the row in front — twisted around and offered her a piece of gum.

“Helps with the ears,” he said simply, like he wasn’t a world-famous driver, just some guy who’d done this a thousand times and knew she hadn’t.

She took it. Unwrapped it slowly. Folded the foil into a tiny square. Tapped the edge of her tray four times before placing it down.

None of them said a word.

Not about the gum. Not about the tapping. Not about how she re-checked that her phone was on airplane mode five times in a row before takeoff.

And when the plane lifted off the ground and Margot gripped the armrest a little too hard, Alex simply leaned across the aisle, nudged her foot with her own, and grinned.

“I love your lipstick today,” she said.

And Margot laughed. 

—

The paddock was louder than she expected.

Not just engines — though the roar of one starting nearby made her flinch — but people. Everywhere. Clipped radio chatter and walkie talkies, VIPs in linen and sunglasses, camera crews weaving between cables. Margot stuck close to the edge of the walkway, half-hiding behind her lanyard and sunglasses, clutching the guest pass like it might unlock a door to somewhere quieter.

Alex had gone off with a PR handler to find Charles. Max had vanished almost immediately. And now she was standing outside the McLaren garage with no real plan and too many thoughts stacking inside her head.

She shouldn’t be here.

She wasn’t with them.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands.

She glanced through the open garage. Mechanics moved with practiced speed, adjusting monitors, reviewing tire data, ducking around each other like clockwork. She caught a glimpse of orange — the papaya kind — and then Oscar’s voice, somewhere deep in the garage, laughing low and warm.

Margot shifted awkwardly on her feet.

A few crew members passed her, friendly but brisk. One of them did a double take and gave her a polite nod — recognition, maybe. Or confusion. She tried to smile back but didn’t quite manage it.

And then—

“Margot?”

She turned, startled.

Lando was standing just inside the garage threshold, race suit unzipped to the waist, fireproofs clinging to his torso, hair still damp from prep. There was a moment — half a beat — where his expression was neutral.

And then he lit up.

Like really lit up.

“Oh my god—” He crossed the distance in three long strides, his face breaking into the sunniest, dumbest, happiest grin she’d ever seen. “You’re here! What—how are you here?!”

“I—um—” she tried, cheeks already flushed. “Alex invited me. Kind of talked me into it.”

Lando made a quiet noise that might’ve been a laugh or a relieved exhale and didn’t hesitate — just wrapped his arms around her and lifted her clean off the ground.

“Jesus, warn a girl,” she squeaked into his shoulder.

He set her down but didn’t really let go. One hand slid to her waist like he was making sure she didn’t disappear again. The other pushed her sunglasses up to rest in her hair.

“You didn’t say you were coming,” he said, eyes scanning hers like he needed to keep looking at her to make sure this was real.

“I didn’t… know if I should.”

“Why the hell not?”

She looked away — embarrassed — and that’s when Oscar appeared just behind him, helmet in hand, brow raised.

Then he saw her.

And smiled.

Not the polite PR smile. Not the reserved little nod he gave reporters or fans. This was different — slower, warmer, like something in his chest unspooled just a little.

“You’re here,” he said, quiet but sure.

Margot nodded.

“Yeah. I, uh, survived a jet full of Red Bull adjacent people and Charles’ terrible playlist.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Brave girl.”

Lando glanced between them. “Okay, okay. Um. Have you eaten? Do you want coffee? Water? We have these weird protein muffins that Jon brought—”

“I’m okay,” Margot interrupted softly.

Lando’s hand flexed at her waist, grounding her. Oscar stood close enough for the edge of his sleeve to brush hers.

And just like that, the chaos of the paddock melted into background noise.

“I didn’t know where to go,” she admitted.

Lando leaned in, playful and boyish. “With us, obviously.” 

Oscar’s voice was lower. Steady. “Always.”

And when a Netflix producer passed by with a camera crew in tow, Lando gently guided her to the side, blocking her from frame without making a thing of it — just quietly pulling her back into their little orbit, like that’s exactly where she belonged.

—

The McLaren hospitality suite was quieter than the paddock — but only barely. Still, there was air conditioning and coffee, and someone with a clipboard who offered Margot a bottle of water with a warm smile, and that helped. A little.

Lando had taken her hand again the second they stepped inside. Oscar walked just a step behind, close enough that she could feel the occasional brush of his arm against her shoulder.

She’d barely had time to breathe before someone called out across the room.

“Boys!”

Lando groaned under his breath. “Oh no.”

Oscar only hummed, already resigned.

And then Zak Brown was striding toward them — unmistakable in his McLaren polo and mirrored sunglasses, even inside.

“Well?” Zak said, arms folded over his chest, clearly suppressing a grin. “Are you going to introduce me to this lovely lady friend of yours?”

Margot’s spine straightened instantly. She moved to take a polite step back, but Lando just kept holding her hand. Oscar rested a quiet hand at the small of her back, anchoring her.

“Zak,” Lando said, smiling far too wide, “this is Margot. Margot, this is Zak Brown — boss man. Big cheese. Runs the show.”

Zak extended a hand. “Pleasure.”

“Nice to meet you,” Margot said, cheeks warming.

Zak shook her hand, gave her a once-over that felt more curious than judgmental, and then glanced between the three of them — the way Lando still hadn’t let go of her hand, the way Oscar hadn’t moved an inch away, how all three of them seemed to take up the same breath.

Then Zak raised an eyebrow and said, flatly, “So… the three of you?”

Margot nearly choked.

Oscar blinked.

Lando said, “That’s modern,” in perfect unison with Zak, and immediately burst into laughter.

“Jesus Christ,” Oscar muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “That’d exactly what he said when we told him that we were seeing eachother. Me and Lando. They both think that it’s hilarious.” 

Margot covered her mouth with her free hand, torn between hiding her face and laughing right along with Lando. “This is mortifying.”

Lando, still snickering, leaned closer to Margot and said, “Zak’s a cool dude.”

“Hell yeah I am.” Zak said, a wide smile on his face.  Then turned toward the boys with a smirk. “Just don’t let this distract from the job at hand. You know—points, pace, tires, all that.”

Oscar raised a brow. “We’ll be fine.”

Lando nodded solemnly. “We’ll be very focused.”

Zak gave him a pointed look. “Speak to someone in PR.”

And then he turned on his heel and left, muttering something about “bloody Netflix” as he disappeared toward the back of hospitality.

The moment he was out of sight, Margot exhaled — not quite a laugh, but not quite a sigh either. Her fingers were still curled around Lando’s, her other hand lightly brushing Oscar’s wrist. Safe, but exposed.

She looked between them, heart thudding too hard. “Was that—bad?”

“No,” Lando said instantly. “Zak’s just… Zak.”

“He’s already scheming,” Oscar added wryly. “We’ll get an email in two hours with media talking points and a suggested group hashtag.”

That made her laugh, soft and a little shaky. “God.”

Lando squeezed her hand. “We don’t have to say anything, you know. Not today.”

Oscar nodded once, quiet as always but fully attentive. “But we should talk about it.”

They found a little bench tucked around the corner from the bustle, behind a half-wall of sponsor banners. The kind of tucked-away space made for whispered debriefs and private coffees.

Lando dropped onto the bench and pulled her down next to him, his knee knocking into hers. Oscar stayed standing, arms crossed, scanning the paddock for a moment like he could keep watch for her.

Margot toyed with the hem of her sleeve. “You’ve… thought about going public?”

Lando nodded. “Yeah. I mean, not like some big announcement or anything. But I don’t want to pretend. Not if we’re doing this for real.”

Oscar tilted his head slightly, gaze softening. “But it’s your call, Margot.”

She blinked. “Mine?”

“You didn’t sign up for this,” he said. “The scrutiny. The public’s reaction. The—” he hesitated, then added, “the way people will talk. They won’t come after us the same way. But you…”

Margot looked down at their hands. Her knuckles were pale. She hadn’t realized she was gripping Lando so tightly.

“I expected you guys to be the ones wanting to keep this a secret,” she admitted quietly. “It’s just—my life is so… small. My world is small. And this—this is…” She looked up, gesturing vaguely at the chaos of the paddock. “This is huge.”

Lando nudged her knee. “I know. It’s a lot:”

Oscar nodded. “It’s your choice, Mar. It won’t change how we feel about you.”

That made her throat feel tight. She tried to smile, but it wobbled.

“I don’t want to hide you,” Lando said softly. “Not even a little. But if staying private makes you feel safer—then we’ll do it. I’ll walk next to you the paddock with my hands in my pockets if that’s what it takes. But I’ll still kiss you as soon as we’re behind closed doors.”

Margot laughed — startled and grateful.

Oscar stepped closer, crouched in front of her so he was eye-level. “We’re not in a rush. This is still new. I get it.”

She stared at him for a moment. Then Lando. Then back again.

And nodded. Slowly. “Okay.”

“We’re yours, either way,” Lando said. “Public or not.”

“And you’re ours,” Oscar added.

Margot blinked fast. “Okay,” she whispered again.

“Good.” Lando grinned. “Because I already told the social media team I had plans after the race. Didn’t tell them it was to kiss our girlfriend in a corner of the motorhome, but—details.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Very focused,” he muttered.

Lando only smirked. “She’s very distracting.”

Margot flushed.

—

Oscar was still breathless.

Not from the race — not really — but from everything that came after: the radio screaming in his ears, the champagne, the roar of the crowd, the sudden, dizzying realisation that he’d actually done it. He’d won.

Hungary. His first win. It tasted like sweat and sugar and disbelief.

He was pulled from interview to photo op to the podium to parc fermé, and it all blurred together — until he saw her.

Margot.

Wearing a papaya cap too big for her head and an unzipped McLaren jacket draped over her shoulders like she’d stolen it from Lando’s room (because she had). She was standing just past the security line, beside Alex and Charles, caught between grinning and crying and like she didn’t know where to put her hands.

He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

Oscar cut away from the group of engineers, jogged the last few steps toward her, and ducked beneath the barrier like he’d done it a hundred times before. And then—

Then he swept her straight off her feet.

“Oscar!” she squeaked, laughing into the side of his neck.

“I won,” he mumbled into her hair, like she hadn’t noticed. Like the whole world hadn’t noticed.

She wrapped her arms around him tight and pressed her forehead to his cheek. “You really did.”

And when he set her down — gently, slowly, like she was breakable — he didn’t even think about the crowd or the cameras or the dozens of people watching. He just kissed her. A little too eager, a little too long, a little too much teeth and happiness.

When they broke apart, flushed and stunned and absolutely beaming, Lando was there — bouncing on the balls of his feet like a golden retriever in a fireproof race suit.

“Don’t hog our girl, winner!” he yelled, laughing as he flung an arm around both of them. “Jesus Christ, I leave you alone for ten seconds.”

Oscar gave him a lopsided smile. “Not my fault I got there first.”

Lando leaned over Margot’s shoulder to kiss her temple, fingers brushing Oscar’s briefly in the crook of her back — light and private, even in the middle of a public storm.

Margot, still dizzy, whispered, “I thought we were keeping it quiet.”

Oscar’s brows lifted slightly. “Right. So did I.”

Lando grinned. “Oops.”

Behind them, a camera flash went off. And then another. And another. The Netflix crew was already whispering frantically to each other, and Zak was somewhere behind the barrier with his hands in his hair and a full-body sigh.

Margot blinked. “So that’s it? It’s just… out now?”

Oscar shrugged. “They would’ve figured it out eventually.”

Lando nodded. “And now we don’t have to pretend.”

Oscar just smiled again. “I won.”

“You did,” Margot said, heart swelling all over again. “You really did.”

Lando slung his arm more firmly around her waist. “And we’re really proud of you.”

Oscar leaned in and kissed her again — quick this time, but no less certain. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “For being here.”

Margot didn’t say of course. She just held onto both of them, amid the noise and the cameras and the crowd, and smiled like her whole chest might float away.

Because she was here.

And she was theirs.

And they were hers.

No press release could’ve explained it better.

—

Marjorie’s looked different in the off-season.

The air was slower. Softer. Less rush, more routine. The kind of mornings where the croissants flaked just right and the sunlight pooled golden across the pastry case like it had all the time in the world.

Margot stood behind the counter, hair braided and tucked under her scarf, apron tied twice like always — and tried not to laugh.

Because Lando was elbow-deep in flour.

And Oscar was very seriously attempting to refill the sugar jars without spilling (again).

“You’re using the wrong cloth,” she said gently, eyeing Lando as he wiped the espresso machine with what was very obviously the display case rag.

“Babe,” Lando called over his shoulder. “There are four different cloths. That’s too many cloths.”

Oscar, without looking up: “You’ve spilled sugar on every surface. Maybe the amount of cloths she has ready are justified.”

“I’m helping,” Lando insisted, with all the confidence of a man who’d never worked a cash register in his life.

“You’re making it worse,” Margot said fondly.

Still, she passed him the right cloth. He took it with a wink and a smudge of flour across one cheek.

Oscar finished the sugar jars — mostly — and nudged her gently with his shoulder. “He’s trying really hard to impress you.”

“I know,” she said, voice softening as she watched Lando carefully align a row of coffee cups to match the tray edge.

“And you’re not so bad at this,” she added to Oscar.

He blinked. “At sugar?”

“At… helping.”

He ducked his head, a rare smile flickering across his face. “Thanks.”

The door chimed, and a pair of regulars shuffled in, bundled in scarves and already waving. Margot took their order while Lando made a truly heroic effort not to spill espresso grounds everywhere. Oscar handled the pastry boxes like they were car parts — precise and steady — and when the customers left, Margot found them both leaning against the back counter, dusted with powdered sugar. 

“This is the best,” Lando said, licking powdered sugar from his thumb. “I love sugar. I love coffee. And I love you guys.” He grinned. 

Margot looked between them — her two ridiculous, flour-dusted boyfriends in their unofficial Marjorie’s aprons (Lando had insisted on buying embroidered ones from the market) — and felt her chest pull tight with something like happiness. 

Like wholeness.

“You know,” she murmured, brushing sugar off Oscar’s sleeve, “my grandmother used to say the bakery ran better when it was full of love.”

Oscar reached for her hand. Lando took the other.

“Guess we’ve got that covered,” Lando said, mouth tilted into a grin.

Outside, the street was quiet. Inside, Marjorie’s hummed — warm and safe and a little messy, but perfect all the same.

[sargeteen]

𝒍𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 ! ᵐᵛ¹

i just wanna see you win ｡𖦹°‧

𝒎ax verstappen x 𝒅rag racer!male reader synopsis: max verstappen wasn't gay...at least that's what the internet believed. he believed he was being obvious that y/n was his, but then other people started to flirt with HIS boyfriend.

genre: smau, humor warnings: y!paul walker/hayden christensen as a fc, suggestive comments, plot was lost????

requested? nope author's note: requests are coming trust!! also, requests will be closed for the time being. i'm currently in the last stretch for high school, so i'll probably open them up during the summer!!

masterlist.

liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, danielricciardo, and others tagged: maxverstappen1

blondcars win after win

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userone oh you are so fine

usertwo THEY DONT MAKE MEN LIKE THIS ANYMOREEEE 😩😩😩😩😩

maxverstappen1 couldn't have picked a picture of my face? ⤷ blondcars babe they don't need a picture of your face to know it's you ⤷ userthree the way that they're so comfortable with each other that y/n started calling max babe im 😭😭 i wish i had friends like that

userfour you are so fine, i'm following you home ⤷ blondcars please dont do that actually

danielricciardo you got that bde ⤷ blondcars thank you big man 😉🔥 ⤷ maxverstappen1 leave him alone daniel he's mine ⤷ danielricciardo didn't know we gatekeep friends 💔💔

userfive #smash. hard.

usersix "till the-" WRONG WE ARE NOT STOPPING ⤷ blondcars take me out to dinner first, will ya?

userseven god just one chance

usereight you and max are so cute togehter omfg ⤷ usernine theyre not dating 😹😹 ⤷ usereight oh theyre not? oh.. ⤷ usernine LMFAOO yeah theyre not dating, theyre both straight

charles_leclerc just one chance, y/n 😞😞 ⤷ maxverstappen1 no. ⤷ userten lestappen mention?? ⤷ usereleven protective over our monagasque are we? ⤷ blondcars i thought you would never ask, charlie 🙇 ⤷ maxverstappen1 ... ? ⤷ charles_leclerc my door is open ☺️ ⤷ lando can i come too 😏😏? ⤷ blondcars obviously, but max you stay home ⤷ maxverstappen1 ?????

liked by logansargeant, charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, and others tagged: maxverstappen1

blondcars new car who dis?

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usertwelve why is max always here ⤷ blondcars cause i want him to be

userthirteen please tell me it's named banana ⤷ blondcars no it's called twig ⤷ userthirteen ...like the monaco bar? ⤷ blondcars max named it.

maxverstappen1 twig looks good ⤷ blondcars i can't believe i let you name my car ofc you would name it after a bar in monaco ⤷ charles_leclerc twiga is actually a restaurant not a bar ⤷ blondcars ☝️🤓 nerd alert ⤷ charles_leclerc i know your home address. ⤷ blondcars scuderiaferrari ??????? ⤷ scuderiaferrari who's charles leclerc?

lando UGLY ASS CAR MINES BETTER ⤷ blondcars who? ⤷ lando my car??? ⤷ blondcars CARES!!! ⤷ lando 👴🏻👴🏻

userfourteen you look sexy asf man

userfifteen suddenly my name is twig 🚕

logansargeant this is so fast and furious core ⤷ blondcars i am actually brian spilner btw ⤷ logansargeant you would ⤷ blondcars tf does that mean ⤷ logansargeant ????? I WAS AGREEING WITH YOU HOE????

usersixteen you're the hottest formula 1 driver and you're not even a formula 1 driver ⤷ blondcars i'm associated with them cause i used to be a f2 driver but now i do something cooler so thank you ⤷ userseventeen wait how did i not know you drove in f2????????

usereighteen SMASHHHH SMASHHHH

usernineteen are you single perchance

maxverstappen1 none of these comments would be able to treat you right ⤷ blondcars and you would? ⤷ maxverstappen1 maybe. ⤷ usertwenty HELLO?????????/

usertwentyone i would until i pass out

liked by danielricciardo, lewishamilton, maxverstappen1, and others

blondcars omfg im so goofy you can't take me anywhere

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usertwentytwo yet i still would

usertwentythree yall are too freaky in these comments...digital footprint and all that...

oscarpiastri the goofiest ⤷ blondcars you know it goat

usertwentyfour omg!! he is so goofy!! so crazy!!

maxverstappen1 contain your goofiness. ⤷ blondcars let me be myself, max ⤷ maxverstappen1 you can be yourself, just contain your goofiness around me, you're too goofy. ⤷ blondcars you da goat max, but imma keep being goofy

charles_leclerc neva let a man dull your sparkle 💁‍♀️💁‍♀️ ⤷ blondcars you know what, hell yeah! thank you charles ⤷ charles_leclerc happy to be of service, king 💁‍♀️

usertwentyfive when you pulling up to a formula 1 race, king? ⤷ blondcars when i want to ⤷ usertwentyfive yeah...you know what yeah

usertwentysix GOD I LOVE YOU

usertwentyseven even when he's being goofy he's hot

usertwentyeight please reject me so i can move on

lando you got a bunch of whores in your comments, mate ⤷ blondcars thats one thing we got in common ⤷ lando don't call my fans whores ⤷ blondcars you just called mine whores??????? ⤷ lando mate most of these comments are bots ⤷ blondcars yet they're commenting on my account, therefore fans

usertwentynine pùś$ÿ in bïò 😍😍😍😍 ⤷ blondcars ok ⤷ maxverstappen1 ???? ⤷ blondcars max look away im taking care of business

userthirty HASHTAG HARD SMASH

danielricciardo cant take you anywhere but you can take me somewhere ⤷ blondcars on god? ⤷ danielricciardo on god

liked by lando, blondcars, danielricciardo, and others tagged: blondcars

maxverstappen1 off limits.

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userthirtyone WHAT THE FUCK

userthirtytwo HUHHHHHH???????????

danielricciardo im sorry what ⤷ maxverstappen1 who has bde now ⤷ danielricciardo ?????/

blondcars oh max emilian verstappen... ⤷ maxverstappen1 hi y/n :) ⤷ blondcars you jealous little shit

userthirtythree HELLO????? WHATS GOING ON WHAT IS THIS REAL

userthirtytwo GUYS WHATS GOING ON ARE THEY GAY ⤷ maxverstappen1 blondcars ? ⤷ blondcars oh yeah we're super gay

lando ykw yeah i knew that ⤷ maxverstappen1 because i told you ⤷ lando yet i still knew

userthirtythree im crying what i knew they were together ⤷ userthirtyfour do you want a medal or something

oscarpiastri my eyes still need bleach btw ⤷ blondcars your fault for barging into max's drivers room ⤷ oscarpiastri LOCK THE DOOR MAYBE??? ⤷ maxverstappen1 nah everyone at red bull knew not to walk in ⤷ oscarpiastri YALL ARE GROSS ASF

logansargeant papa y papa ⤷ maxverstappen1 blondcars since when did we have a kid ⤷ blondcars since always. logan is my child. ⤷ maxverstappen1 ok...logan can you take jimmy and sassy for the night? y/n and i have a date night and i don't want them to be by themselves. ⤷ logansargeant SIR, YES SIR!

userthirtyfive holy moly...hottest couple ever

userthirtysix always knew y/n swung for the same team ⤷ blondcars wtf...💔 but like yah 💁‍♀️💁‍♀️💁‍♀️💁‍♀️💁‍♀️

liked by danielricciardo, lando, charles_leclerc, and others tagged: maxverstappen1

blondcars blah blah blah...proper name, place name, backstory stuff

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maxverstappen1 i love you, y/n ⤷ blondcars love you more geek

userthirtyseven this isn't your max fan account y/n ⤷ blondcars OH FUCK

userthirtyeight oh fuck man...yeah smash

lando jesus max hard launches you and suddenly you're all that's on my feed please get a job y/n ⤷ blondcars i'll get a job when you win the drivers championship ⤷ charles_leclerc so, never? ⤷ lando you're one to talk, charles ⤷ blondcars hey leave my charles alone. ⤷ maxverstappen1 your charles?

userthirtynine ok so theyre both sluts ⤷ blondcars um well um well, yes!

userfourty ok so theyre boyfriends thats awesome i love you guys so much

userfourtyone still can't believe max verstappen is gay ⤷ blondcars i know right?

danielricciardo do you guys need a third? ⤷ blondcars maxverstappen1 ??? ⤷ maxverstappen1 charles asked first, then you get second ⤷ jackdoohan turns out max and y/n are the paddock sluts ⤷ blondcars TF YOU DOIN HERE????????

oscarpiastri yall cute or whatever ⤷ blondcars thank you or whatever

logansargeant papa y papa ⤷ blondcars is that all you're going to comment ⤷ logansargeant well, yes!

userfourtytwo need y/n in the red bull garage next race ⤷ blondcars redbullracing 🙇🙇????????? ⤷ redbullracing 💁‍♀️💁‍♀️🔥🔥🔥🔥!!!!!!!!!!!!

userfourtythree formula 1 should do what formula e did and have outside people drive their cars ⤷ blondcars actually just let me drive my cars on the track. i feel like i'd wreck the f1 car and i don't want red bull or me to pay for that...

userfourtyfour yall sluts

a/n: this was fun to write

tags: @milessunflowers @lokisen @kevinlolwife @op-81-lvr-reblogs @kazanskied @481rosier @raizelchrysanderoctavius @mountainshuman

[lyn31]

These Zayne pregnancy fluffs are making me kick my feet! Since reader has given birth can you do one where reader has postpartum depression, she also feels like she’s not a good wife, starts getting irritated easily, and is struggling with her body/image. Zayne ofc notices is worried and reassures her she’s amazing and that it’s ok to feel these emotions cuz it’s new. He books reader a nice getaway somewhere tropical so she can get a break. Reader ofc cries while on vacation cuz she misses Zayne and the baby. Zayne surprises her the next day by showing up. Reader is shocked that he’s there and worries about where the baby is and everything. Zayne reassures her that she’s in good hands with his parents. She then cries to Zayne about everything she’s feeling then Zayne comforts her and tells her he will get a nanny to help her. Then you know it’s time for them to be romantic and finally have sexy time together you know some smut. Make it soft, sexy, and romantic yk👀. Thank you a lot. Your writings of Zayne is chefs kiss.👌🥹😭✨💗

Now you guys just want to throw me off the cliff! 😭😂 PPD? Come on guys! I'm a weak gal.... Hopefully you won't mind me changing it to baby blues instead 🥹🫶🏻 (Let me know what you think)

Sooooooo, I got carried away again—but then again, I say that more...… So maybe I should stop saying that and just mention it whenever I don’t get carried away 😂

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lapse

Summary

After weeks of feeling like nothing but a mother, you and Zayne escape to a hot spring retreat, where between stolen moments of indulgence and quiet tenderness, you rediscover each other—not just as parents, but as lovers, as partners, as you.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader CW: as requested this has smut at the end, semi-outdoor, handjob, fingering, thighjob, nipple play. Still as always a lot of build up, banter, dramatic, cute, sweet, and this time baby blues.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After giving birth to Serena, you stay in the hospital for a full week at Zayne’s insistence. He never pushes, never demands—just gently reminds you that a few extra days of caution are worth it, that having professionals nearby is a safety net, not a setback. And with how utterly drained you feel, you don’t argue.

In the hospital, things feel manageable. Nurses slip in and out, their voices low, their movements practiced. Machines murmur softly in the background, steady and predictable. When Serena stirs, there’s always someone ready with gentle reassurance.

And Zayne—he’s always there. He watches over you both, making sure you sleep, taking Serena from your arms when your body feels too heavy to move. When your eyelids droop, he smooths your hair back and murmurs, “Rest. I’ve got her.” And you believe him.

The constant presence of support makes everything feel… safer. Less overwhelming.

And then, you go home.

It should be comforting. Familiar. But instead, it amplifies everything. The creak of the floorboards under your steps. The near-silent rustle of Serena’s onesie as she shifts in your arms. The tiny, uneven hitches in her breath that send a flicker of anxiety through your chest every time they break the stillness.

Serena is a calm baby, for the most part. But in Zayne’s arms, she melts. You brush it off at first—babies fuss. Maybe she just likes his cooler touch. But as the days pass, you start noticing the pattern. The way she squirms a little more in your hold, tiny fists pressing against you as if trying to find something that isn’t there. The soft, unsettled noises that build in her throat—never quite a cry, but close—only to disappear the second Zayne takes her. Other than feeding, she can’t seem to settle in your arms.

At first, you laugh about it, adjusting your grip, shifting positions, trying everything you’ve read about. “Come on, sweetheart. Mommy’s comfy too, I promise.”

Serena makes a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, her fingers flexing against your shirt before pushing away.

From across the room, Zayne watches, amusement flickering in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything at first, just tilts his head slightly—considering, measuring. The ghost of a smile tugs at his lips.

Then, in that calm, maddeningly reasonable way of his—

“This isn’t a competition.”

Which, of course, you immediately take as a challenge.

Determined, you throw yourself into research. Late nights scrolling through parenting forums, watching tutorial videos until the soft glow of your phone screen makes your eyes ache. The football hold, the cradle hold, the side-lying position—you cycle through them all, adjusting angles, experimenting with the perfect swaddle, testing out different rocking rhythms. You hum lullabies at varying pitches, trying to find the one that settles her best, feeling half ridiculous and entirely desperate.

It takes days. Days of trial and error, of whispered encouragements, of pushing down the gnawing insecurity that you don’t say out loud.

But then—finally—Serena rests more easily against you. Her tiny fingers curl into your shirt instead of pushing away, her body softening into yours like she’s learning the shape of your arms, like she’s finding comfort there. The first time it happens, you barely breathe, afraid to jinx it. But then she sighs—a soft, contented sound—and nuzzles closer.

Something inside you unclenches. You hadn’t realized how tight your chest had been, how much air you’d been holding, until now. The knot of doubt, of insecurity, doesn’t vanish completely—but for the first time, it loosens just enough to breathe.

You count it as a victory.

But just as relief starts to settle in, something else creeps in alongside it.

The laundry is folded before you’ve even registered it was in the dryer. A meal appears in front of you before hunger fully registers. Zayne makes sure you eat without you having to ask, presses a glass of water into your hand when you’re nursing before you even realize your throat is dry. When Serena fusses in the middle of the night, he’s already up, shushing her gently as he changes her diaper before you’ve even registered the cry.

And you know—you know—he doesn’t mind. He’s not resentful, not keeping score. He does it because he wants to, because that’s just who he is.

But the guilt gnaws at you anyway.

You should be able to handle this. You should be doing more.

Zayne’s parents arrive not long after you settle back home, their presence a mix of warmth and something heavier, something that presses against your chest. They slip into their roles as doting grandparents effortlessly.

His mother beams as she cradles Serena, swaying lightly, murmuring soft praises about how perfect she is. His father, ever relaxed, holds her with practiced ease, his touch confident, natural. Serena nestles against him without hesitation, her tiny body going still as if she belongs there.

It’s comforting. Reassuring, even.

And yet, as you watch them, something cold creeps up your spine. They don’t hesitate, don’t second-guess. There’s no frantic scrolling through parenting forums, no fumbling to find the right hold. Just confidence. Just instinct. And watching them, you feel the hesitation in your own hands more than ever.

Zayne’s family makes it look so easy. Like instinct. Like breathing. Watching them with Serena, seeing how effortlessly she melts into their touch, you can’t help but think, I should be better at this by now.

So, stubbornly, you try.

Zayne already does so much—too much—and the guilt gnaws at you with every task he takes on. You convince yourself that you have to step up, that being a good mother means doing more.

You don’t want to feel useless. And if Zayne won’t complain, then… maybe it’s fine to take on a little more.

So you do.

At first, it’s small things—changing Serena before Zayne can reach for her, rocking her when she fusses, insisting I’ve got it even when exhaustion drags at your limbs. But the more you take on, the more your mind spins. You slip down a rabbit hole of parenting forums and cautionary articles, each new post a fresh coil of anxiety tightening around your ribs.

SIDS prevention. Signs of dehydration. What if she stops breathing in her sleep?

How do you know if your baby is sick? Is she too warm? Too cold?

What if you miss something important?

The words don’t just linger—they burrow in, thorns pressing deeper every time you close your eyes. Just in case. Just to be safe.

At first, it’s a quick glance while she sleeps—watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her tiny chest. Then, once an hour. Then, every half hour. Then, as often as exhaustion lets you blink before forcing your eyes shut.

Zayne catches on quickly. He always does. Sometimes, he just watches from across the room, his brows knitting together—like he’s debating whether to say something. But then he doesn’t. Not yet.

One night, when he stirs awake and finds you standing over Serena’s crib again, he doesn’t speak right away. He just watches as you lean in close, barely breathing, waiting for the tiny lift of her chest to reassure you she’s still here.

Then, with a quiet sigh, he reaches out, fingers curling gently around your wrist as he tugs you back toward the bed.

“She’s fine,” he murmurs, his hand settling at the small of your back, grounding you. “I check on her too.”

You hesitate, lingering in the space between worry and exhaustion, glancing back over your shoulder. But what if—

His lips press softly against your temple. His voice is steady, certain. “If anything happens, I’ll be right here.”

You want to believe him. You try. But the worry lingers, curling at the edges of your thoughts—quiet, but never gone.

But the exhaustion builds anyway. Your emotions fray at the edges, stretched thinner with each restless night.

The waves come without warning. Some days, you feel fine—almost normal. Other days, the smallest inconvenience tightens your throat, frustration prickling beneath your skin.

A misplaced bottle sends you rifling through the house, only to find it sitting right there on the counter. A forgotten onesie makes your stomach twist with guilt, as if one overlooked piece of fabric means you’re failing already. Serena fusses the second you finally sit down to eat, and you have to swallow against the lump in your throat, biting back an exhausted sob.

But what finally breaks you is the breast milk.

You’re running on too little sleep, too much caffeine, and the kind of raw, frayed nerves that make everything feel ten times heavier than it should. You move to set the freshly pumped bottle down, but your hand fumbles—fingers slipping at the worst possible moment.

The bottle tips.

Time seems to slow as the milk spills across the counter, sinking into the cloth beneath it, wasted.

For a second, you just stare, brain struggling to process the loss. Then your breath shudders—eyes burning, throat tight—and a wail bursts out of you.

Zayne lifts his head instantly, attention snapping to you. Before he can reach for a towel—

“Do you know how hard I worked for that?! It’s liquid gold!” You says more at the indifferent puddle of milk than anything else.

Then—without a word—he grabs a tissue and hands it to you, wrapping an arm around you the next moment. His hand finds the small of your back, rubbing slow, steady circles, like you aren’t falling apart over spilled milk.

You sniffle into the tissue, hiccuping as you swipe at your eyes. One isn’t enough—you snatch another, shoulders curling inward as you try to compose yourself.

Zayne doesn’t comment on the mess. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t reassure, doesn’t try to rationalize what would normally be a minor accident. He just stays, cool and quiet reassurance solid at your side.

Later, curled up on the couch with Serena tucked against your chest, you let out a watery laugh, shaking your head. “Hormones are insane.”

Zayne hums, watching you carefully. His lips twitch, amusement flickering in his gaze—but concern lingers beneath it, quiet and steady. “That was quite the reaction.”

You groan, burying your face against Serena’s tiny shoulder. “Don’t remind me.”

His fingers brush lightly against your knee. “I’m not judging. Just… should I be bracing for more tragic losses, or was this a one-time catastrophe?”

You huff, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “No promises.”

The brain fog creeps in just as insidiously as the mood swings. At first, it’s small things—losing track of conversations, forgetting what you were about to say. Then, slowly, it starts happening more often.

You walk into the kitchen with purpose, only to stop in the middle of the room, your mind blank. You scan the counters, the sink, the fridge—none of it jogs your memory. After a solid ten seconds of standing there uselessly, you sigh and close the fridge door, feeling no closer to remembering what you needed.

Then there’s the incident.

You’re searching for your phone—digging through the couch cushions, checking under blankets, patting down your pockets with increasing frustration. Zayne watches for a moment before silently stepping toward the pantry, reaching between a box of cereal and a bag of rice.

He pulls out your phone and holds it up.

You stare.

“…I have no explanation for that.”

Zayne just hands it over, entirely unfazed. “Not the strangest thing I’ve found today.”

And he’s right.

It’s not the first time you’ve lost something lately. Not the first time you’ve walked into a room, only to forget why. But before, when it happened, you used to laugh it off, shake your head, and move on.

Now, you just sigh, rubbing your temples, pressing your lips together like you’re trying not to be frustrated with yourself. Like you don’t have the energy to care.

Because an hour later, you hear him open the fridge, pause, and then call out, “Why is the remote in here?”

You wince, pressing your hands over your face. “I swear I was smart once.”

Zayne doesn’t even hesitate. “You’re still smart. Just selectively.”

You shoot him a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “That’s a terrible thing to say to your sleep-deprived wife.”

Unbothered, he steps closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Then get some sleep.”

You roll your eyes, waving him off. “Maybe later.”

Zayne doesn’t argue. Just watches you for a beat, the corners of his mouth barely curving. That look alone should’ve warned you.

Because later, when you yawn mid-sentence and rub at your eyes, he hums in quiet amusement. “Is ‘later’ now?”

You groan. “Zayne—”

“We're doing this together.” His voice is gentle, but firm. “You don’t have to push yourself like this.”

You let out a short, tired laugh. “Hey, you’re already doing a lot on your own. This is me doing it together with you.”

His brows lift slightly. Then, after a pause—

“Hm.”

You squint at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zayne tilts his head, considering. “I just think your definition of ‘together’ is interesting.”

You scowl, shoving lightly at his chest. “Go away.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he tugs you against him, arms settling around your waist, voice low and matter-of-fact. “Not until you sleep.”

Still, little by little, things get better.

Serena has long since grown comfortable in your arms, her tiny fingers curling around yours, her weight familiar and warm against you. But now, there’s a rhythm to it—a pattern that, while not perfect, feels like something close to stability. You and Zayne settle into an unspoken routine, trading off seamlessly, adjusting as needed.

Even if you still wake up at night just to check on her, even with the moments of doubt… things are manageable.

Or at least, they should be.

When Serena naps in Zayne’s arms, you finally have free time—precious moments meant for rest. But instead of sleeping, you do what you always do. You pick up your phone, scroll through another parenting forum, skim another thread on sleep regressions or developmental milestones. Just a quick read, you tell yourself. Just to be safe.

Zayne watches from the doorway, Serena sleeping on his arms, leaning against the frame. He doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers—not on the phone, but on the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slump.

“Reading something important?” he asks, his tone light.

You hum distractedly, scrolling past yet another forum thread. “Just… checking a few things.”

He doesn’t respond, just studies you for a beat longer before quietly turning away.

Then, without thinking, you swipe onto your gallery. For the first time since Serena was born, you pause.

A picture stares back at you—one taken months ago, just before you found out you were pregnant. You, standing beside Tara after a Hunter Association meeting, mid-laugh over something you can’t even remember. You look… at ease. Energized. Hair done, makeup fresh, wearing something that wasn’t just the easiest thing to throw on.

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

You don’t know why it unsettles you. Maybe because you can’t remember the last time you took a photo that wasn’t just of Serena. Or maybe because, looking at this, you realize you haven’t felt like that person in a long time.

It’s just hormones, you tell yourself. Just exhaustion. That’s all. But even as you move on with your day, the thought lingers, slipping into the spaces between feedings, diaper changes, and lullabies.

At some point, without even noticing, you stop feeling like you.

The realization creeps in slowly, easy to ignore at first. There’s no time to dwell on it—not when Serena needs you, not when Zayne already does so much. So you push past it, convincing yourself it’s just part of new motherhood. It’ll pass.

But Zayne notices.

He doesn’t say anything when you stop glancing at mirrors, when you change out of spit-up-stained clothes only when absolutely necessary. He doesn’t call attention to the way your laughter fades, your responses growing softer, more absent. But he sees it.

And then, one evening, he finds you on the couch, Serena asleep against your chest, your phone resting loosely in your hand. You aren’t scrolling, aren’t reading—just staring at the screen, lost in thought.

At first, he doesn’t think much of it. But as he moves closer, he catches a glimpse of what’s on display—an old photo.

You, smiling. Vibrant. There’s a spark in your eyes that feels almost foreign now.

You don’t notice him right away, too caught in whatever thoughts have pulled you under. But when he sinks onto the couch beside you, you blink, like surfacing from deep water. The moment your gaze flickers to him, you lock the phone and set it aside, as if it’s something you shouldn’t have been looking at in the first place.

Zayne doesn’t miss that.

His eyes stay on you, quiet and searching. “What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low.

You shake your head, too quickly. “Nothing. Just… being dramatic.”

It’s meant to be dismissive, light, but the words don’t land right. You hear it, too—the thinness of your own voice, the way your smile barely holds. And Zayne… he feels it.

He’s seen you exhausted before. Overwhelmed. Even near tears. But this is different. This is you looking at a photo of yourself like it’s something distant, something you don’t quite recognize anymore.

And then—

He reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours, warm and steady. He doesn’t say anything, just holds on, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

And that’s the moment he decides—he’s not letting this continue.

The next morning, you shuffle into the kitchen, still groggy from another restless night. Your body feels sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion, but the scent of tea and something warm pulls you forward.

Zayne is already there, standing by the counter, a cup in one hand and a neatly folded paper in the other. He looks up as you approach, his gaze steady—too steady.

You pause, narrowing your eyes. “…What?”

Instead of answering, he holds the paper out to you.

You blink at it, rubbing at your eyes before taking it. Your sleep-deprived brain lags behind as you unfold the page, scanning the crisp, neatly printed words.

An itinerary.

Your brows knit. Hot springs resort. Three days. Full itinerary planned.

Your stomach flips, and you look up sharply. “Wait—why? I don’t need a trip.”

Zayne remains calm as ever. “Last night, you tried to charge your phone in the microwave. You haven’t slept in three days. And you cried over baby socks.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

Okay, fair.

His expression doesn’t so much as flicker. “You need a break.”

You shake your head, already bracing for an argument. “But I can’t just leave—”

“It’s three days.” His tone is patient, but firm. “You’re not moving to another country.”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around the paper. The idea of stepping away, even for a short time, feels… wrong. Like you’re abandoning something important. Like you should be able to handle everything without needing an escape.

Your fingers tighten around the paper. If I say yes… does that mean I couldn’t have handled it on my own? You swallow, pushing the thought down.

But then—gods, you want it. You want even just a moment to breathe, to feel like you again. And Zayne, ever perceptive, notices the war in your expression before you can fully mask it.

Your grip tightens on the paper, hesitation warring with longing. You want to go. You need to go. But still—

“What about you?” you ask quietly, searching his face. “What about Serena?”

His response is immediate, unshaken. "We take turns, don’t we?" His voice is steady, matter-of-fact. Then, softer—"You’re first."

Your breath catches. The way he says it—so certain, so simple—untangles a knot of tension you didn’t even realize was there.

Zayne reaches for your hand, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles against your skin. The touch is grounding, his warmth steady against the cool morning air.

“You won’t let yourself rest unless you do,” he murmurs, voice gentle but unwavering, certainty woven through every word.

“And when you’re ready to come back,” he continues, meeting your eyes with quiet assurance, “we’ll be right here.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first day at the resort is almost too easy.

You settle into the hot spring with a slow, contented sigh, muscles finally relaxing in the soothing heat. The quiet is luxurious, the scenery peaceful, and for the first time in weeks, no one needs you. No tiny cries pulling you from sleep, no bottles to sterilize, no laundry to fold. It’s… nice.

No—better than nice.

You thrive. You book a massage, order a ridiculous amount of food, and for a moment, it feels good to just be. Of course, your mind still drifts—more than once, you reach for your phone to check in on Serena and Zayne. But the messages you receive are reassuring. Pictures of Serena napping peacefully, a short video of her staring at a mobile with wide, curious eyes, Zayne’s steady, grounding updates.

Mine♥️:  She had a good nap. Drank all her milk.

Mine♥️: No signs of missing you terribly yet.

Mine♥️: I assume this means you’re free to enjoy yourself.

At night, you send him a photo of the steaming water, lanterns casting a soft glow across the surface.

You: You really booked me a private one?

Zayne’s reply is instant.

Mine♥️: Of course.

Mine♥️: Would’ve been better if I were there.

The implication makes warmth curl through you.

You: Oh now you say that?

But then he follows up with a picture of Serena sleeping soundly.

Mine♥️: Focus on yourself. We’re fine.

And you believe him.

Mostly.

By the second day, though, something shifts. It gets harder.

The excitement wears off, and the quiet isn’t as comforting anymore. You still try—exploring the nearby town, lingering in the hot spring longer than necessary—but there’s a persistent ache beneath it all. You miss them. You knew you would, but not like this.

It doesn’t help that Zayne texts you less today. Not not at all, just… less. And you get it. Of course, you do. Handling a newborn alone isn’t easy—especially at barely a month old. But every silent hour stretches, the quiet turning hollow.

That night, as you settle into bed, your phone finally buzzes.

Mine♥️: You should open the door. Just a suggestion.

Your brows furrow. What?

A knock sounds.

Your heart leaps—you’re out of bed before you can think, barely aware of your feet hitting the floor. You pull the door open, and there he is—bags in hand, expression unreadable, but eyes unmistakably warm.

For a moment, you just stare.

Then, all at once, you’re moving—throwing yourself at him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck. He barely has time to drop his bags before catching you, hands firm at your waist, breath knocked out in a quiet oof.

“You’re here,” you breathe, half in disbelief. “You’re here.”

Zayne lets out a soft hum, one hand slipping up your back, the other holding you against him. “I’m here.”

Tears prickle at your eyes. You hold on tighter. He smells like home—cool, clean, faintly like the cologne he always wears.

You pull back slightly, hands coming up to cup his face. His skin is a little colder than usual from the night air, his hair slightly tousled—but it’s his eyes that catch you. He looks… tired. Not exhausted, but there’s a faint tension in his shoulders, a quiet strain in his eyes.

You snap into focus. “Wait—what about Serena? Is she okay? Who’s with her?”

Zayne smooths a hand down your back, reassuring. “She’s fine. My parents took over today, and she settled with them easily. So I left.” A pause. “It’s just one night and one day.”

Your heart clenches. He did all of this just to see you.

And then you see it—the quiet exhaustion in his eyes, the weight he doesn’t voice. He needs this too.

Your resolve hardens.

"You need to relax," you say suddenly, reaching for his wrist. Before he can respond, you’re tugging him inside, intent written in every step.

The door clicks shut behind you. Zayne doesn’t resist as you push his coat off his shoulders, and it slips to the floor in a soft heap. His hands come to rest on your waist, cool fingertips pressing through the fabric of your robe, but you don’t give him a chance to take control. Not tonight. You reach for his collar, undoing the buttons of his shirt with slow, deliberate movements, relishing the way his breath hitches when your fingers graze his skin.

He watches you, patient but expectant, hazel eyes shadowed in the dim lantern glow. “Taking this seriously, are you?”

Your lips curve, but you don’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, you slide your hands up his chest, pushing the fabric apart before leaning in to press your mouth just above his heart. His exhale is slow, measured, but when you start trailing kisses higher, along the line of his throat, his restraint frays.

Zayne’s grip tightens at your waist before slipping lower. In one smooth motion, he tugs at the tie of your robe, parting it just enough for cool air to tease your skin. His mouth finds yours, capturing you in a slow, lingering kiss as the silk slides from your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

By the time you guide him toward the terrace, your clothes are forgotten on the floor, the heat simmering under your skin rivaling the steaming water outside.

Steam rises in soft curls around you, the scent of minerals lingering in the air as the warm water laps at your skin. The private hot spring sits nestled within the enclosed terrace of your room—open to the cool night air, but shielded from any prying eyes.

Beyond the wooden fence, the faint rustle of trees and the distant hum of the resort fade into the background, drowned out by the quiet rush of water and the steady rhythm of breathing.

And Zayne.

You press your back against the smooth, heated stone at the edge of the spring, the warmth seeping through your skin as Zayne moves between your legs, his body flush against yours.

His hands, cool as always, glide along your damp skin, a striking contrast to the heat surrounding you. His breath is steady but heavy. His lips graze your collarbone, trailing upward, catching against your jaw. His fingers dig into your thighs.

It’s raw, desperate, the kind of reunion that speaks louder than words. You barely manage a breath before he’s kissing you again, tilting your chin, deepening the kiss like he’s trying to make up for every second you spent apart. His fingers tighten, pulling you closer, and heat spreads through you faster than the water ever could.

But between the sharp need, Zayne hesitates—just enough for his lips to brush against your jaw, his breath warm as he murmurs, “Are you sure?” His voice is low, restrained, even as his hands betray him, pressing into your skin like he doesn’t want to let go. “It’s only been a month.”

You exhale sharply, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him back to you. “I’m sure,” you whisper, nudging his lips with yours, “but if you stop now, I’ll actually lose my mind.”

A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest, but there’s no amusement when his mouth claims yours again—just raw, unfiltered need.

Zayne’s hand moves—slowly at first, skimming along your waist before pressing against the heated stone behind you. His fingers flex, grounding himself, before he lifts you effortlessly, settling you onto the edge of the spring.

The stone is cool against your bare skin, making you shiver, but the contrast is nothing compared to the heat pooling between your thighs.

He steps between your legs, pulling you forward until your bodies are flush again. The kiss deepens—hotter, more desperate. Your hands clutch at his shoulders before sliding up, fingers threading through damp hair, tugging him closer. He doesn’t resist. If anything, it unravels him further, his body pressing fully against yours, his hands finally roaming where he wants.

His palms cup your breasts, cool against your flushed skin, kneading with firm, deliberate pressure. A gasp catches in your throat as his thumbs roll over your nipples, teasing, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through you. You shift, thighs tightening around his hips, but he doesn’t let up—his touch sharpens, tugging, pressing, teasing, coaxing you to open for him.

Zayne exhales, his breath warm against your skin, before murmuring, “My beautiful wife.” The words are soft, but laced with something deeper, something that makes heat tighten low in your stomach. His lips trail over your jaw, lower to your throat. “You’re breathtaking.”

A shiver runs through you yet again, but it’s not from the cold. Before you can respond, his teeth graze your skin, a teasing bite that makes you gasp before his tongue soothes the mark. He lingers there, his mouth pressing against your shoulder with something like worship, as if memorizing every inch of you.

Your own hands start to move—sliding down his chest, over the firm muscles of his stomach, lower.

Your fingers wrap around his cock, already hard and thick beneath your touch, and Zayne stills.

His breath stutters against your shoulder as you stroke him—slow at first, then firmer—relishing the way he tenses, the quiet groan slipping past his lips. The water slicks every movement as you tease along the sensitive underside before twisting your wrist just the way you know drives him crazy.

Zayne exhales sharply, his grip on you tightening. But he doesn’t let you have the upper hand for long.

His mouth finally lowers, capturing your nipple between his lips, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud before sucking hard enough to send a sharp pulse of heat straight through you.

You gasp, back arching, legs tightening around his waist. As his mouth works you, a soft leak of milk escapes, mixing with the heat of his mouth, but Zayne doesn’t hesitate. If anything, the taste seems to drive him further, making him suck harder. After all, you’ve already discussed how your body adjusts to your baby’s needs when you're still pregnant before, and with Serena not needing to feed for at least another two days, Zayne takes full advantage of the rare opportunity.

His hand mirrors the attention, teasing the other breast, rolling and pinching until you're squirming in his grasp, your body trembling with every tug, torn between the ache of pleasure and the soft, natural release your body craves.

While his other hand skim your stomach, slow and deliberate, before sliding lower, brushing over your slick heat. You jolt, anticipation spiking, but he deliberately avoids the spot you want him most, fingers slipping between your entrance instead, teasing just enough to make you whine.

Zayne lifts his head just enough to murmur against your skin, “You’re drenched.”

You shudder, tightening your grip around him. “We’re in water,” you gasp.

He chuckles—low, dark. “I’m the one in the water.” Then presses a finger inside you.

His pace remains slow—intentional. He watches you now, hazel eyes dark beneath the dim light, studying every reaction, every stutter of your breath as he works his fingers inside you. His hand still on your breast continues teasing you, rolling your nipple between his fingers, spreading the leaking milk over the sensitive bud.

He slowly licks his lips, seeing how his teasing makes you leak, as if he wants to taste it himself but also craves watching you unravel like this. His thumb presses into the base of your nipple, making the milk spill out in a small stream that he spreads further, savoring the sight of each drop coming from you.

Your hand falters slightly on his cock, but you don’t stop, fingers still moving along his length, stroking him in a rhythm that mirrors his own touch.

Your body arches, the cool night air a stark contrast to the hot spring, the water lapping at your dangling legs that remain submerged. One of your hands props you up, fingers digging into the edge of the hot spring for balance as you tilt your hips toward him, silently begging for more.

You shiver, every touch heightened—whether from the chill in the air or simply the fact that it’s been too long, you don’t know. But Zayne knows. Of course he does.

And then—his touch shifts.

His hand drifts lower, leaving your breast to trace along your stomach. His fingers ghost over the soft skin stretched and marked by the nine months you carried your daughter.

Your breath catches. A lump rises in your throat.

Between the steady pump of his fingers inside you, the cool air against your feverish skin, and the way he looks at you—soft, reverent, like you are something to be worshiped—you almost shatter on the spot. He traces the marks slowly, so gently that it makes you shiver, heat building in your chest, something raw and unspoken swelling between you.

You never said anything about feeling insecure before. But you don’t need to. Zayne already knows.

Your sweet husband—he always notices first.

Swallowing hard, you reach for him. The hand that was supporting you slides up to curl around the nape of his neck, pulling him in. The kiss is deep, slow, sweet—the kind that lingers, the kind that says more than words ever could.

Your fingers still move along his length, stroking him steadily, and he doesn’t stop either, his pace matching yours. Heat coils tighter between you, and when he finally adds another finger, stretching you further, you gasp into his mouth.

Your grip on him tightens in response, strokes quickening. His breath hitches, his groan muffled against your lips.

Between kisses, your breath stutters, a desperate whisper slipping past your lips. “Put it in.”

Zayne stills for a moment, fingers buried deep inside you, his cock hot and heavy in your grasp. But instead of obeying, he exhales, low and measured, before murmuring against your lips, “The condom is in the room.”

It takes a moment for his words to register. You blink, barely processing, too lost in the molten heat of his fingers working inside you.

“We need to go in,” he continues, voice steady despite the way your walls flutter around his fingers.

You hesitate, cheeks warming, before admitting, "I… already started on the mini-pill."

That makes him pause. His gaze sharpens, flickering over your face, catching the faint blush dusting your cheeks. For a second, he’s completely still—then, his fingers flex inside you, a slow, deliberate press that makes your breath hitch.

He exhales as if steadying himself, and something about the look in his eyes sends a new wave of heat through you. He’s thinking, you realize—not just about the pill, but about you. About how you planned for this, expected him to want you just as badly. The realization does something to him, something that makes his restraint feel even more fragile.

His lips part slightly, as if considering something, and you shift, suddenly self-conscious. "I mean—" You clear your throat. "I thought you'd be all over me after the recovery period."

His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but close. “Was that your plan?”

You huff, squeezing around him in retaliation, making him inhale sharply. “It’s fine, Zayne.” You tilt your head, brushing your lips over his jaw. “Just do it.”

He doesn’t move right away. He’s still, too composed, though you can feel the tension in his muscles, the restraint barely holding him together. Then, finally, he murmurs, “Better to be safe.”

You groan, frustrated, and he leans down, kissing the sound straight from your lips.

Your head tips back against the stone as he slowly pumps his fingers again, dragging another moan from you. “It’s fine,” you insist, breathless, thighs twitching around his waist.

Zayne hums, like he’s considering it, but then—“I have a better idea.”

Before you can react, he withdraws his fingers, grips your waist, and lifts you off the stone edge, pulling you back into the water. You gasp, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders as the heat envelops you again.

“Zayne?” You blink up at him, confused—until he turns you.

Your back presses against his chest, his arms encircling you, his breath warm against your damp skin. His hands find your thighs, and you barely have time to process before he slides his cock between them, thick and hot against your soaked skin.

Realization sparks, and you let out a breathless laugh. “So, we’re doing this instead?”

Zayne hums again, this time against your ear, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine. His grip shifts from your thighs, one hand settling on your waist, the other dipping between your folds, fingertips finding your clit.

Before you can protest—or tease, really—he presses down, rubbing slow, deliberate circles.

A sharp gasp escapes you, your hands snapping to the edge of the hot spring to brace yourself as your thighs tense around his cock.

“Just for now,” Zayne murmurs, guiding your movements. He thrusts between your legs, his hand on your waist anchoring you against him while his other fingers work you open.

And just like that, your protest is gone, replaced by a sharp, needy moan.

Zayne’s pace is unhurried at first, his cock sliding between your thighs, the friction heightened by the slick heat of the water and the way his fingers toy with your clit. Each slow, deliberate grind sends a pulse of pleasure through you, your breath catching as you grip the stone edge for support.

His grip on your waist tightens, holding you steady as his hips roll against you. The blunt tip of his cock nudges your swollen folds, the friction slick and hot, making your thighs quiver. But he controls the rhythm effortlessly, each movement measured, precise.

Zayne exhales, the sound heavy, controlled, but you catch the tension in his voice when he murmurs, “That’s it.” His lips brush your ear, his cool breath a stark contrast to the warmth enveloping you. “Keep holding me like that.”

You shudder, arching into him, your back pressing against his chest. “Feels good,” you murmur, your voice breathy.

A low hum rumbles from him in response, his hand on your waist sliding toward your folds. With careful, deliberate movements, he parts you, holding you open as his other hand flicks your clit, then presses down with just the right amount of pressure, rubbing slow, teasing circles that have you gasping.

A whimper escapes your throat, your hips twitching as heat coils low in your stomach. Zayne quickens his pace, his thrusts growing more forceful, each drag of his cock between your slick thighs sending jolts of pleasure up your spine.

Water laps at your skin with every grind of his hips, gentle splashes mingling with the slick glide of his cock. The warmth of it all—his body, the water, the liquid heat pooling inside you—only deepens the ache, his breath growing heavier behind you.

"Zayne—" His name spills from your lips in a gasp, your grip on the edge tightening as your thighs tremble.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder before he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the damp skin. “Let go.”

The combination of his voice, his fingers, and the relentless glide of his cock sends you over the edge. Your thighs clench around him, your body tensing as pleasure crashes over you in waves. A moan spills from your lips, sharp and breathless, as you jerk in his hold, your release shuddering through you.

Zayne groans, the sound deep and low, his movements stuttering as he thrusts once, twice more before his release takes him. His cock twitches between your thighs, warmth spilling into the water as his grip tightens on you, holding you close as he rides out the intensity of it.

For a moment, the only sound is your shared, uneven breathing, the water rippling gently around you as you both come down from the high.

Zayne doesn’t let go of you right away. His fingers ease off your clit, but his lips press against your shoulder, trailing slow, lingering kisses up to the back of your neck, where your matching tattoo is located. You can feel his heartbeat against your back, still steadying, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

Your own pulse is still racing, thighs trembling from the aftermath, but when he turns your head for a kiss, you melt into him instantly. It’s softer now, less hurried but no less intense—his lips move slowly, thoroughly, savoring each second. His hands remain firm on your waist, thumbs stroking your damp skin, as if grounding himself against you.

You sigh into his mouth, pressing closer, but then you feel it—him, hot and rigid between your thighs, stirring a fresh pulse of need.

Zayne exhales sharply when you shift, just slightly, just enough to brush against him. His grip tightens, and he mutters against your lips, “We should go inside.”

A shiver runs through you, not from the cool air but from the weight of his voice—low, restrained, laced with need. You nod, breath hitching when he effortlessly lifts you into his arms.

The world tilts as he carries you, stepping out of the water with ease. He doesn’t bother with towels, doesn’t set you down—not yet. He doesn’t hesitate.

The night air is a sharp contrast, cool against your feverish skin. But after everything, his body is the only warmth you need as he carries you inside. You barely register the transition—just the firm press of his arms, the damp heat of his skin against yours, the quiet promise in his touch.

His gaze sweeps over you, drinking in the damp flush of your skin, the way your chest rises and falls, the anticipation in your eyes.

Then, as if patience no longer matters, he kisses you again—this time with nothing held back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You wake slowly, warmth surrounding you—not just from the blankets but from the weight of Zayne against you. His arm drapes over your waist, keeping you anchored, his face buried in your chest, breath slow and steady against your skin. The morning light filters through the curtains, casting soft patterns across the sheets.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re truly rested—despite how much energy you both spent on other activities last night.

Zayne stirs slightly, but instead of moving away, he only presses closer, murmuring something incoherent. You chuckle, threading your fingers through his hair, feeling the way his breath deepens at your touch.

“We should get up,” you say, though you make no effort to move.

Zayne only hums in response, his face still nestled against your chest. Instead of acknowledging your words, he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your skin—right over your collarbone—before murmuring, “Later.”

Later turns out to be much later, the two of you lingering until hunger finally forces you out of bed.

Breakfast is delivered to your room, a beautiful spread of seasonal dishes, but neither of you rush through it. It’s rare to have an entire morning with nothing pulling you away—no cries from the baby monitor, no responsibilities waiting. Just you and him.

You tell yourself to resist checking your phone, to just enjoy breakfast. But the moment Zayne reaches for his coffee, you can’t help it. A quick glance turns into scrolling through the photos his parents sent.

Serena swaddled and peacefully sleeping, her tiny fingers curled around his mother’s hand. Then a short video—his father making exaggerated faces at her while she stares in quiet fascination.

Your heart clenches.

You knew you’d miss her, but seeing her like this, knowing you won’t hold her until tomorrow—

Zayne catches the shift in your expression before you even say anything. Without a word, he reaches over, brushing away the tears that slip down your cheek.

“She’s fine,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your eye, then the other. “We’ll see her tomorrow.”

“I know,” you whisper, sniffling. “I just miss her.”

Zayne smiles, his thumb stroking your cheek. “I’d be worried if you didn’t.”

You huff a quiet laugh, pressing into his touch. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.” He kisses you again, this time on the lips, soft and lingering. “Just reminding you.”

His hand lingers on your cheek, grounding you, as if silently urging you to hold onto the lightness of the moment. Then, with a small exhale, he drinks his coffee, and you take a deep breath, willing yourself to do the same.

After a slow morning and an indulgent breakfast, the two of you finally step outside, the crisp afternoon air carrying the faint scent of pine and blooming jasmine. Sunlight filters through the trees, casting dappled patterns on the stone pathways.

A gentle breeze stirs the leaves, blending with the soft murmur of a nearby stream. The warmth of the sun seeps into your skin, soothing in a way that makes you want to stretch out like a cat.

Zayne exhales slowly, looking out over the landscape, and you take that moment to strike.

You turn to Zayne, eyes sharp with intent. “Okay, husband.”

Zayne blinks, clearly thrown off by the shift in tone. “...Yes?”

“You gave me a day off from being a mom. Now it’s your turn to take a break from being a dad.” You fold your arms, nodding to yourself. “And a husband, actually.”

His brows lift slightly. “A break from you?”

“No, no, no, not like that,” you say quickly, waving your hands. “I mean, you’re off-duty—no responsibilities, no taking care of things, no thinking. Just pure relaxation.”

Zayne hums, gaze lingering on you, already amused. “And what exactly does that entail?”

You straighten your back, suddenly all business. “It means I will be handling everything for you today. Just like you did for me.”

“Everything?” His voice dips slightly, a clear invitation for mischief.

You narrow your eyes. “Yes. Everything.”

Zayne tilts his head, amusement sharpening in his gaze. "So…" His voice is slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the words before even saying them. "You’ll help me shower?" He lets the question linger, watching your reaction before continuing just as unhurriedly. "Get me dressed?" His lips curve slightly as he leans in, lowering his voice. "Or… the other way around?"

You gape at him. “Stop making everything dirty!” You playfully smack him.

He chuckles, unfazed. “I’m just making sure I understand. Because if we’re talking about last night… you’re the one who made the sheets dirty.” His gaze sharpens, amusement deepening. “Several times, in fact.”

Your face burns. “Zayne—”

“I don’t mind, of course.” He leans in, dropping his voice to a low murmur. “I rather enjoyed it.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “You’re the worst. Why do you always pick the worst times for this?”

Zayne exhales, the amusement in his gaze softening. His fingers tighten briefly around yours before he tugs you closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. It’s slow, deliberate—like he’s letting himself melt just a little.

When he pulls back, his forehead brushes against yours.

Zayne studies you for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. Then, with a quiet chuckle, he finally resigns. “Alright. I’ll leave it to you, then.”

And that is your cue to go all in.

The moment you spot a tea and refreshment station, you immediately step in front of him, blocking his path. “Ah-ah! What would you like to drink?”

Zayne crossed his arm over his chest, his stance relaxed yet watchful. His gaze flickers from you to the steaming teapot, amusement dancing at the edges of his expression. “I can pour my own tea.”

“Not today, you can’t.” You pick up a cup, already pouring. “This is a father-free, husband-free zone. You are simply a man on vacation.”

His expression is caught between mild disbelief and reluctant amusement. He exhales through his nose, watching as you present the cup with both hands.

“Your tea, my dear guest.”

Zayne takes it, fingers brushing yours, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something sarcastic—but he only watches you for a beat, something unreadable flickering in his gaze before he murmurs, “Thank you.”

That only encourages you more.

When you find a shaded bench, you brush off the surface with a dramatic flourish. “Your designated relaxation zone, sir.”

Zayne huffs. “You’re getting carried away.”

“No such thing.”

At dinner, it only gets worse—or better, depending on how you look at it.

By evening, you find a cozy restaurant, and over a warm meal, the sky deepens into a rich blue.

The moment your food arrives, you reach across the table and start placing things onto his plate like a doting parent. “Here, eat this first. Oh, and this too. You need more vegetables.”

Zayne watches you, unimpressed. “I am capable of serving myself.”

“Not tonight, you aren’t,” you declare, dropping a perfectly portioned bite onto his plate before taking your own.

Zayne picks up his chopsticks. “I—”

You immediately nudge it closer. "No reaching."

He exhales through his nose, giving you a flat look—but doesn’t argue, quietly amused as you continue to over-serve him, refill his drink before he even thinks about doing it himself, and pull his plate closer every time he tries to reach for something himself.

By the time the meal is halfway done, he leans back slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unreadable in his expression—something soft, warm, and just a little bit too fond.

His eyes linger, and suddenly, the playful rhythm between you two shifts into something quieter.

Your antics falter under the intensity of his gaze. "...What?"

Zayne’s lips curve just barely. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing—you know that look.

Still, you press on, determined to see this through. “You’re not allowed to look at me like that. You’re on vacation.”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. If anything, his lips twitch, like he’s considering his next move. Then, deliberately, he leans in closer—just enough that you can feel the coolness of his breath against your skin. His gaze holds yours, unwavering.

“Strange,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Didn’t realize looking at my wife was against vacation rules.”

Your stomach flips. You shove him lightly, face burning. “Zayne.”

He chuckles, finally relenting, but the glint in his eyes lingers. “Right. My mistake.”

He doesn’t stop looking, though. And even as you continue to fuss over him, making sure he does nothing for himself tonight, you realize—this was never about you repaying him. Not really.

It was just an excuse to take care of him for once.

Then after you both finish, just as you step outside, Zayne’s gaze flickers upward. Before you can ask, a firework bursts overhead.

Golden sparks shower through the sky, illuminating his face in warm light. You both pause, watching as another follows, then another, filling the night with color.

Finding an open spot, you settle onto a bench, the cool night air settling against your skin. Zayne sits beside you, his arm naturally draping over your shoulders as you lean into him.

“It’s been a while since we watched fireworks together,” you murmur.

Zayne hums. “Last time was during that festival, wasn’t it?”

You nod, remembering the way he’d pulled you through the crowd, how he’d kissed you beneath the exploding lights. “This is better, though. Just us.”

His fingers trace idle patterns along your arm. “You sound surprised.”

“A little,” you admit, tilting your head to look at him. “You always put thought into things, but this… feels different.”

Zayne raises a brow. “How so?”

You hesitate, searching for the words. “I don’t know. It’s quieter. Feels more like… just us, instead of something for us.”

You hadn’t realized how much you needed that distinction until now. It’s not about the grand gestures or the perfect plans—just the way he exists beside you, like breathing. Steady. Constant. The kind of presence that doesn’t need occasion or effort, only existence.

His lips twitch, amused. “And you prefer this?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “I prefer you.”

Zayne goes still, your words catching him off guard. His gaze flickers, something unreadable passing through his eyes—like he hadn’t expected you to say it so plainly.

Slowly, his expression softens. He exhales, gaze warm. His fingers tighten slightly on your arm, then slip down to lace with yours.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just studies you. Then, almost absentmindedly, he murmurs, “It’s not difficult. Making you happy.”

Your breath catches, heart swelling at the quiet sincerity in his voice. You don’t know if it’s the fireworks, the atmosphere, or just Zayne himself, but you suddenly feel so full of love it almost aches.

You turn toward him, cupping his face as you whisper, “I love you.”

Zayne’s gaze softens. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. “I love you too.”

Then, with fireworks blooming overhead, he kisses you—slow and deep, the soft flashes of gold catching in his lashes, painting light across his skin as he seals the moment between you.

For the first time in a month, you feel like more than just a mom.

You feel like yourself again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moment you step inside your house, you barely bother to kick off your shoes before heading straight to the living room—where Serena waits, nestled in your mother-in-law’s arms.

“Ohhh, my baby!” You gasp, dropping your bag unceremoniously before dramatically reaching for her. “My sweet, precious angel—Mommy’s home!”

Zayne trails in behind you, setting the bags down with far more care. You don’t even glance back, laser-focused on your target.

His mother chuckles but carefully transfers Serena into your waiting arms. You cradle her close, breathing in the soft scent of baby powder, your heart melting as you press your cheek to her soft little head.

“I missed you so much,” you murmur, swaying gently. “Did you miss me? Huh? Did you miss your Mommy?”

Serena lets out a soft, sleepy coo, her tiny fingers flexing against your chest.

“I knew it!” you declare, holding her even closer. “You did miss me!”

From beside you, your father in law chuckles. “She was perfectly content.”

"She missed me," you insist, nuzzling into her as you rub slow circles on her back.

“She definitely missed me. Didn’t you, baby? You love me so much—”

Zayne moves to your side, exhaling softly. “I think you missed her enough for the both of you.”

You ignore him completely, dramatically gasping as Serena shifts in your arms. “Oh my God, was that a hug? Did you just hug me? You did, didn’t you?”

Serena, barely a month old, does nothing but stretch her little arms sleepily.

But you pretend it’s the most deliberate thing in the world.

“Zayne, did you see that? Our daughter just hugged me.” You press another kiss to her head, rocking her slightly. “She loves me so much, I knew it.”

Zayne sighs, rubbing his temple. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re just jealous because I got the first hug,” you tease, grinning up at him before tilting Serena slightly toward him. “Say hi to Daddy, baby. He missed you too, even though he’ll pretend he wasn’t sulking about it.”

Zayne, ever composed, doesn’t react to the jab—just reaches out, his fingers grazing Serena’s back. Despite your antics, you don’t miss the way his touch lingers, how his thumb traces slow, gentle circles against the soft fabric of her onesie.

And when he finally speaks, it’s quiet. Warm.

“I did miss you.”

His hand stills for a moment against Serena’s back. Then, his gaze flickers to yours.

Not just to Serena— but to you too.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

Changing it to baby blues definitely makes the flip-flop much faster since it’s also much shorter than PPD. I actually got so into the research that I was like, “Huh? That’s interesting.” This was a fun one to write! Hopefully, y’all enjoy it as well! Actually, if there’s anything wrong, feedback would be welcome—this is a long one, I was planning to post the other req at the same time but hold that thought! I'll get there 🫶🏻😂 Not connected and more like a snippet (smut) but still on pregnancy theme!

You're reading the Pregnancy series! You're at Part 6

Part 0

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6 (Smut at the end)

If you're confuse how we got here How it all happen is the start of the Newlyweds series!

And if you want the continuation of them being parent! Here's how the Parenthood series start! Baby Girl

I was editing to add the rest of the series part but it was too long ahahaha so here's just the whole list: Parenthood AU Masterlist ✨

[badass-queer-couples-battle]

Sword gays showdown, round 4 of bracket three

Propaganda:

For Adora:

Finding the sword kicks off the whole show. She transforms into a giant magic lady and is now in charge of saving everyone from the  big bag guys (which she used to be a part of). A bunch of stuff happens, but eventually her identity is now tied to having the sword. She is fully convinced that w/o the sword (and therefore She-Ra) she’s worthless. This culminates in having to destroy the sword or the world ends. She’s super depressed bc her whole self worth was tied to the sword and being she-ra. On the way to save her gf, she turns into way cooler she-ra (her own version of it that is not controlled by the sword which was made by her colonialist ancestors). Her sword is now part of her identity instead of her identity revolving around the sword. 

lesbian chosen one who was given a sword that activated her powers and made her into a living weapon, but she destroyed the sword to save her planet - and then made her own sword with her magic and saved the entire universe

For Ballister:

he could tell when his sword was switched out for a fake, graduated top of his class so we know he's a good fighter, also the scene where he's fighting is hot because he's so confident with a sword in his hand, also he's gay

A canonically gay, disabled, South Asian man takes down the government with his genderqueer shapeshifter sidekick/adopted daughter! He has a swordfight with his ex-boyfriend! in which he defeats about 20 knights singlehandedly! 

top of his knight class this man is a master swordsman

(Movie) He has used a sword since he broke into the Institutes training ground and ended up becoming a knight

He has very divorced vibes with Ambrosius and he uses a sword.

He's a legit knight! So, it's in the fine print.

According to the Nimona movie, Ballister here has been practicing the art of sword fighting since childhood to earn the trust of the city and he was SO CLOSE to becoming a knight. He's also definitely not dating another one of his knight mates (?). Nope. Not at all. This movie is super straight /s I think he also beats an entire army of knights with nothing but his sword and a chaotic good shapshifter so that's pretty cool. He's also south Asian, has a prosthetic arm he made himself and is honestly such a goofy guy (in a good way ofc) if that's anything.

[soobnny]

dating him | han jisung

❝ you found my heart broken and you helped me make it whole again ❞

chan | lee know | changbin | hyunjin | HAN | felix | seungmin | jeongin

i think you’re a second love type situation for han jisung

the one where he thought he’d never recover from his first heartbreak

but then here u come

i think han’s the type of person to feel everything

if he’s in love, he’s in LOVE

and if he’s hurt, it would just be overwhelming pain

so imagine how he was when he got his first heartbreak

he’d lose a little bit of his spark

maybe keep to himself even more than he used to

u come to his life in the form of a friend first

and han has unknowingly planted a seed that’s grown and grown and grown

with every interaction

with every laugh you’ve brought back

with every moment he was coming out of his shell again

until it’s fully bloomed into a love that’s very very real and very very present

han jisung would also love so beautifully

he knows what it’s like to be hurt, and he doesn’t ever want u to feel that same pain

he rly makes efforts

he is FULL of efforts

and he makes u laugh ☹️☹️☹️☹️

he communicates

and when the boys finally meet u, they’re very grateful but also

????!!!! why do u they know ur favorite color

and ur go-to order at the cafe

and the hoodie u like to steal from jisung the most

well turns out, han loves talking about u to his friends

they just know everything about u before even meeting u

he’d get rly shy about it but never embarrassed

he’d tell the whole world about u if he could

what else can i tell u

han jisung is just someone where nothing sounds crazy to him

so i think all ur dates with him would be so fun and adventurous lowk

amusement parks !!!!!

ice skating and roller blading

both of u would fall on ur ass

but you’d also laugh so much and somehow that makes up for everything

you’d be holding hands and skating with each other and looking at each other with lovesick smiles

I FEEL SICK!!!!!!!!

he’s always trying to impress u too

he tries to imitate figure skaters

kids don’t try this at home

ofc he fails miserably

obvious blushes when you’d tell him he was cute for trying

or when you’d praise him

anyways when i said he’s always trying to impress u i mean ALWAYS

he treats the relationship like he’s still pining after you

being the standard fr

he never lets go of the love

sometimes he’d still get shy to ask u out

somehow he doesn’t believe u actually said yes to him

he thinks he’s the luckiest boy

anyways, aside from adventurous dates, he equally values his inside time and quieter dates

he’s thankful u understand his shifts in his energy

on days u stay inside, you’d probably watch horror movies

look…. he suggests it….

it looked cool in his head to be all protective

you’d hold onto his arm when the jumpscares come

but

womp womp

he ends up being more afraid than u

and now HE’S holding ur arm

yeah it looked way cooler in his head

you’d play silly little board games together

or maybe charades

he’s so easily amused by sexual innuendos

he’s just a man guys

anyways

there are two things he loves to steal from u the most

aside from ur kisses

and it’s (1) ur perfume and (2) ur lip balm

u’d catch him putting on ur perfume just bc he wants to be surrounded by ur scent

it’s very comforting

one time, he was sick and the boys were taking care of him

and when u finally had time to take over and care for ur bf

u just …. smell ur perfume

“did you put on my perfume?”

“i missed you ☹️☹️☹️☹️”

DOWN BADDDDD

he’s so pouty and so cute

let’s suffocate him with the pillow

KIDDINGGGGGG KIDDING

and then ur lip balm

sometimes he steals the actual thing

sometimes he kisses you so he can have it on his lips too

han jisung is also the type to avail every possible couple coupon

and he’s always begging the cashiers to let u prove u’re a couple

it’s so he has an excuse to kiss you

so

months into dating him also means a thousand love letters

he loves writing u love letters

and u know sooner that he also writes songs

on ur anniversary, he reveals a song he’s written for you

and when he proposes, he tells u about every single one he’d ever written about you and for you

wish that were me 😂😂😂😂😂

TAKE CARE OF HIM

note. credits to user @.luvknow for the layout of this post! let me know what you think! please discuss these with me i’m crazy

[tirfpikachu]

the most flamboyantly "gay-looking" man/woman you can think of...

has at least one person looking exactly like them who is straight.

because gay isn't an aesthetic. gay isn't a look. it's a sexuality you're born with. and femininity in men, masculinity in women, doesn't make you more gay or less gay or whatever. that's gender roles babey! that's what the left is claiming it's fighting against!

you can make jokes about looking like a lesbian or whatever. but i could wear the most hyperfem shit ever and still look lesbian. bc i am lesbian. whatever i do, whatever i wear, however i act, is lesbian coded. because i'm a lesbian. i'm just expanding what it means to be a lesbian by being myself. and feminine straight men and masculine straight women are expanding what it means to be a man and what it means to be a woman, which is a win for feminism and fighting strict gender norms. it helps everyone. we should make the boxes of man & woman bigger, funkier, cooler. we shouldn't assume it's "queerifying" manhood or womanhood when it's just making them be neutral. it means that if you're a human being you can do WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT and still be whatever gender/sex/etc you are. you aren't any less of a straight man for being feminine. that's what the patriarchy wants. the rightwing hated so-called metrosexuals and goths and emos etc because of it. and you aren't any less of a straight woman for not being feminine. and you being masculine, or unfeminine, is the most natural thing in the world. it's just you being your natural self without makeup, shaving, tight clothes, etc. but some ofc find pride in being masc too. that doesn't make you more likely to be gay. it doesn't make you less womanly. there is no way that exists to make you less womanly bc it's the most neutral, irrelevant thing about you. it's a "duh!" type of thing that you don't need to care about. you don't need to do fuckall to be "good" at womanhood. and a dude can wear and do and say whatever he wants and be secure in being a guy and not being trans or gay or bi

masculinity in women doesn't make them more likely to be gay. femininity in men doesn't make them more likely to be gay.

gays & feminists have been trying to fight this shit for decades. yet mainstream qweer communities keep reinforcing that rhetoric!!! it's so fucking exhausting. there's no way to look, sound, act etc gay. there's literally none outside of saying you're into other men or other women, and being lovelydovey or having sex with other men or other women. that's it. that's literally it. free yourself from gender boxes!!!

[stardustedseas]

i just know john walker would get harder than his sheild in an instant if he saw you eating a popsicle, look at him and tell me he wouldnt

(unedited)

like imagine its the middle of summer and everyone is hot, even with the ice cold ac of the watchtower, it still takes a minute for your bodies to not feel like you just came out of an oven after being outside. you ofc get into some cooler clothes and sprawl out on the couch with a bomb pop, eager to beat the insufferable heat. poor john is just on his way to get another bottle of water when he sees you and he will deny it to his dying breath (cant show weakness ofc) but the sight almost dropped him to his knees. LMAO imagine you have on one of his old t shirts that you stole too, man has gone through years of war amd fighting but this is honestly maybe the thing that kills him.

you arent even eating the popsicle sexually, literally just relaxing and enjoying a sweet treat but maybe that adds to it for him. the way you look so comfortable all sprawled out in a pair of shorts and his old t shirt that is riding up slightly to show a sliver of your soft belly, one leg thrown over the back of the couch, the hand not holding the popsicle dangling off the edge of the cushions. you look so

domestic

and when you drag your tongue from the base to tip of the popsicle? he suddenly feels 10x hotter and like his brain has reverted to monkey times. dont get me wrong, walker is no teenager whos barely had his first kiss, but something about seeing the person he loves like that just does something to him. if you notice him staring from the doorway, you ofc have to put on a little show, locking eyes with him and slowly sliding the ice deeper and deeper into your mouth, until not even the blue is showing, before lazily dragging it out again and flicking your tongue over the tip, never once breaking eye contact. depending on your relationship status, he will either retreat back to his room so fast or not even god herself could pry that man off of you (unless you say no, he takes consent very seriously)

if you two arent together and are just friends, this may be a golden opportunity to remedy that. before he can bolt back to the sanctuary of his room to rub one out, just give him that pretty smile that makes him weak in the knees and call out his name, he will gladly fight a million world wars for you. just beckon him closer and its like his body moves on it's own, taking long strides to stand infront of you with a clenched jaw as you continue to enjoy the cold snack. spread out your leg that was still on the couch to set your foot on the ground while keeping the other propped up on the back and ask if he wants some? while holding out the popsicle to him and he is on you in an instant. hed rather taste it from your lips than directly from the source

you two def end up sweatier than when you started and bucky having a talk with you about what is and isnt appropriate for the common rooms lmfao

[moonstruckme]

Hi Mae!! Congrats on 7K, and happy late birthday!

I would love to req an apple pie with Spencer (the way you write him is soooOOO cute) and ²⁸⁾ dark lipstick smeared on a cheek, possibly also along with ¹⁴⁾ laddered tights if it makes sense to you, but just the first one is ofc totally cool <3

Thank you for all the fics, the way you write is so so gorgeous and gives me a lot of comfort

Thank you angel!! I'm glad to have you here :)

cw: mention (implied mention?) of alcohol

Spencer Reid x fem!reader ♡ 578 words

Spencer finds you on the floor below his. You’re standing dejectedly outside a closed door with your arms folded across your chest. 

“Hi,” he says. 

You turn, your mouth falling open in surprise and glee. “Spence!” You start walking to meet him. “I was just talking to you on the phone!” 

“I know you were.” He accepts the hug you offer him. You smell like the lotion you use before going out, and it overpowers the smell of bar. “You were upset I wasn’t coming to the door.” 

“Yeah, because you weren’t.” You seem to remember your upset now, pulling away so you can frown at him. 

Spencer tucks away his smile. “This isn't my door. I live one floor up.” 

Your gaze moves away from his face, your brows furrowing. “Oh.” 

“But I can take you there now,” he offers. 

Any trace of a frown vanishes. You’re simpering up at him. “Spencer Reid,” you say in a voice like honey, “you wanna take me back to your place?” 

“I—uh, isn’t that why you came here?” 

“No, it is.” You bite your lip, trying and failing to tamp down your grin. “It just sounds extra fun when you say it.” 

“If you say so.” Spencer laughs, and it comes out sounding more awkward than he would’ve liked. 

Your smile softens. You put your hand in his, letting him lead you back to the elevator. Your touch feels warm and sure. 

“Did you have a good time out?” he asks, pressing the button for his floor with a knuckle and then using his thumb to wipe at a bit of lipstick that’s smeared onto your cheek. Clearly at some point during your night out you’d forgotten you were wearing makeup. There’s also a long tear stretching up from the knee of your tights. 

“Yeah,” you reply, your cheek dimpling under his touch. Spencer lowers his hand, and you watch it go. “I missed you, though.” 

“I’m glad you came over. Did someone give you a ride here?” 

“No, I walked.” You’re still watching his hand. Spencer thinks about putting it back on your face, even though he has no excuse to anymore. Maybe you need two points of contact. 

“I would have come and gotten you,” he says. 

“I like walking. The air felt nice. It’s getting cooler out at night.” 

“Yeah, it is nice.” You’re close enough that he can reach down and lightly graze your laddered tights with his fingers. It’s a chaste tough, just above your knee, but still you shiver as if the chill outside has followed you in. 

The elevator dings. 

“Thanks for letting me stay,” you say as he lets you into his apartment. He didn’t lock the door for the short trip downstairs, though he knows several members of his team would have something to say about it if they knew. “Maybe tomorrow we can go for coffee or something. Let me get you a hot drink to celebrate the cool weather, and to say thank you.” 

“You can stay here anytime,” Spencer says, just to know that you’ve heard him say it. It’s not the first time he has. He watches you go straight for the bedroom, for the drawer in his closet where your pajamas are kept. “But coffee would be good, yeah, if—if you still want to tomorrow.” 

You laugh, turning to look at him over your shoulder. “Of course I’ll still want to. I always want to.”

[headkiss]

hellooo for the summer asks I was wondering about our boy Eddie and going to the beach with him and feeling insecure about our body, but ofc he’s a sweetie so he makes us feel better 🥹 just some hurt/comfort my love 🫶

thank u so so much for ur request baby!!! ily i hope this is okay <3 | 0.8k of fluff, tw for problems with body image

The sun beams harshly on your shoulders from your spot on the sand, a towel serving as the only cushion beneath you, eyes squinted behind your sunglasses.

In a rare instance, the group’s schedules have all lined up and given you the same day off, and immediately, that meant packing up Eddie’s van full to the brim with coolers and towels and more people than seats and driving to the beach.

The drive had been a blast, Steve and Eddie arguing steadily over what music to play, Robin egging them on even though she’d dance along to anything. Eddie’s hand had been a comforting weight on your thigh the entire ride.

Now, hours of sun and swims later, hair messy from the wind and water, cooler much emptier than it had been earlier, you’re watching the gang play volleyball (you say this loosely, because there’s no net nor is there an established court).

It’s fun, to be a part of a group of friends this way, to watch such an uncoordinated game where everyone is smiling and having fun despite there being competition involved.

You’re having fun, too, laughing every time Eddie trips or winks at you and says “this one’s for you” before hitting the ball in a random direction. Then, there’s the way Steve calls “mine!” every time the ball comes anywhere near his side of the ‘court,’ even when Robin was even closer, prompting them to start bickering.

So really, it should be all light and easy. A relaxing day at the beach with your favorite people. And it is, until it isn’t.

One second, you’d been smiling at the game, shifting your sunglasses off of your eyes and using them as some sort of headband instead. The next, your eyes were wandering around the beach and noticing everyone else.

Noticing the way the other people around looked. Girls brilliantly tanned in their triangle bikinis, denim shorts fitting them perfectly. Or the guys in their swim trunks and how carefree they look.

You can’t help but see everything they are that you aren’t. Or, that you don’t believe you are.

Things like this creep up on you in funny ways. Like a chill that just passes through, sudden and unavoidable. A simple thought snowballing into a hundred small ones shaped like arrows aiming towards yourself.

You shift to cross your arms over the soft of your exposed stomach, suddenly wishing you’d brought more than a tank top to cover up with.

Eddie snaps you out of your thoughts with a call of “you sure you don’t wanna join, sweetheart?”

You muster a halfhearted smile as you shake your head. “I’m okay.”

The two words are enough to tell Eddie that you aren’t exactly okay at the moment. Your smile not reaching your eyes the way it should, that line between your eyebrows worried the way it shouldn’t.

When you aren’t looking, he signals Argyle over to take his spot in the game and jogs over to you, sitting down next to you and nudging your shoulder with his. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, Eds. You didn’t have to stop playing,” you say, though you can't deny that the warmth of his arm brushing yours feels nice.

“Hey, look at me,” he urges you gently, his knuckles catching your chin to nudge your face up to his. “It’s just me. You can say it.”

“It’s silly,” you shrug. Eddie pins you with a look that says ‘try me,’ and because he’s the sweet boyfriend he is and because you trust him and love him, you do. “I just- I looked around and just noticed all these people and the way they look and I’m not-”

“Sweetheart,” he stops you, his voice painfully soft. His brown eyes even more so, shining in the late afternoon sun. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m not just sayin’ that. I mean, you’ve seen the boners you give me, so…”

“Eddie,” you scrunch your nose and slap his chest lightly, though you’re fighting back a smile.

“I’m serious. Look at me compared to these people, babe. I look different, too. I’m not ripped or anything, and I’m pale as fuck. Like, ghost-level.”

You look at him, the frizzy curls framing his face and the curve of his cupid’s bow, to the tattoos dotting his skin and how his abs are just barely visible beneath the soft of his tummy. The way his cheeks and chest are a little pink from the sun. He’s perfect to you. For you.

“I think you’re pretty, Eds.”

“Well I think you’re fucking pretty, too, sweetheart. That’s my point,” his arm slings itself around your shoulders, tugging you into his side, uncaring of the heat or whether or not you’re sweaty. “Different doesn’t mean bad. It just means different. And I love you and your different, okay?”

You like the way he says it, like it’s a fact, like he’s never once thought otherwise. You like the way he trails his fingertips up and down your arm, too, like it’s an instinct.

And, well, when he dips down to kiss you all sweet and slow and sure, you think it’s the prettiest you’ve ever felt.

[razztazzel]

Thought it would but cute to revisit this old au of mines and give it some lore!

I’m really passionate about this au specifically because I LOVE sci-fi like ALOT… so I might make a lot of content of it… OFC Helios planet will still be going on trust

Non filtered version + lore ⬇️⬇️⬇️

LORE!!!

All the toons are aliens!!! On a completely different planet (exoplanet) about 4.2 Light years away from earth. The company, C.V. inc. aka Cosmic View Incorporated labeled it “Proxima Centauri b” (Its a Genuine exoplanet that’s the closest known to earth it’s so cool) Let’s just say In this au, Earth is extremely Sci-FI like, reaching advances where it wouldn’t be really…. Possible as earth is now…

And so they developed travel though hyperspace (just to clarify, Hyperspace is a fictional concept and not based on current scientific understanding; it's often portrayed as a different dimension where normal space-time rules don't apply - google or something) and managed to land on Proxima Centauri b! The people traveling were highly advanced scientists and they were like, woahhh look at these little whimsical creatures!!! But only like 4 “handlers” went Cause it was still in development!!! So it was kind of a suicide mission to put it frankly

They didn’t die.. Thankfully!!! And they successfully made it back probably old and decrepit, just with a few aliens that totally weren’t kidnapped or anything (They done took the mains, Besides Zee(Vee) she didn’t exist on their planet since she’s a robot made by C.V. Inc.) Vee was made by the soon to be handlers in an attempt to collect direct data from the totally not kidnapped toons! Her emotions are 100% programmed but ran through an advanced ai that study’s the emotion of literally everything living that’s around her so her emotions can be pretty accurate to a certain degree before the robot part generally makes way, Her ai detects any subtle or visible emotion and collects data of it to train itself on how to process and express emotion, but she’ll never have TRUE emotion

Unlike original Vee they’re smart and makes her entirely water proof and very much heat resistant, Zee just cannot be Submerged in water. Anyway a group of.. more like.. scientists in like…training became handlers as a little hands on experiment for them since the owner of the entire thing was really really interested in the toons and wanted to be involved with data processing so she assigned newbies (ish) to be the handlers.. She herself handles Andy (Dandy)!

The toons are all kept in separate rooms similar to those of like experiments just less cruel, like SCP type shit but cooler and not evil… looking… trust trust… so they can be observed and have data recorded…Besides confinement they’re actually treated really well! Sprout learns to bake through his handler and generally enjoys it so he’s allowed to bake every now and then, Shelby (Shelly) gets loads of attention for being an alien bro does NOT wanna leave, Genesis Rock (Pebble) is treated like a legitimate dog gets walked and has play time even though since he’s a rock he probably doesn’t need it, but data is data, Andy hates it there they tried to feed him plant fertilizer once cause he resembles a flower..

Anyway Vee is the only one who’s not in confinement and is generally like a little bot helper for the company, YES!!! THE TOONS ARE ALLOWED TO ROAM!!! Those lovely creatures are not locked away… forever…

TOON TRIVIA

Andy(Dandy) Now has 4 arms!

Astro becomes spiderman ( Ok not really he just gets 6 arms and is constantly floating, Studies show that he cannot seem to stop..)

Shelby (Shelly) Is a mixture of an alienized fossil with a freaky chameleon, with more feral-ish aspects like protruding fangs and sharper hands compared to the others

Genesis (Pebble) can literally walk on air

sprouts hair is ALIVE do NOT cut it he will scream and he has awful fashion sense because refuses to take the scarf off because it was a gift from cosmo before being taken by weird tall things he didn’t know hashtag last thing he has from cosmo hashtag fruitcake angst hashtag NO MORE FRUITCAKE/j

Zee (Vee)is specifically meant to look similar to the alien toons, She doesn’t have a handler though the handlers like to let her wear a coat, they think it looks cute on her small frame…🫶🫶

Sprouts handler encourages sprout to wear the cute aprons they give him, he always refuses… one day.. one day..

Astro generally cannot stop floating, luckily for some reason gravity won’t allow him to float too high so he’s just chilling fr

I think I’ll call this au Cosmic Veiw incorporation /inc or to put it simply, Alien or space au for easy tagging

[lyrakanefanaticwriting]

Please could you write more lyrason headcannons

ofcccc!!!

lyra x grayson headcanons

whenever grayson visits lyra’s family, her little brother practically clings to his leg the entire time. he loves grayson A LOT because grayson can never say no to him 💖💖

grayson is the type to never wear socks when he sleeps and lyra is the type to ALWAYS wear socks when she sleeps (and grayson is extremely distraught and confused as to how she can sleep with socks on as he hates it). but also she naturally runs cold so while grayson is just in a pair of sweatpants shes wearing thick long sleeved pajamas and huge winter socks

lyra can cook, but literally only recipes from her childhood. otherwise she always burns the food. and grayson can cook anything but thats just because he follows out recipes perfectly whereas lyra skips steps for “time efficiency”

grayson can sleep through an earthquake but lyra wakes up if the floorboards even creak

lyra’s periods are actually downright horrendous. she gets heavy cramps, and has to wear those diaper sized pads because of how heavy her flow is. but grayson always makes sure to stock up on dark chocolate and be by her side whenever she gets her period because he understands how much pain shes in, emotionally and physically 🫶

whenever lyra has the dream of her father, she usually just lays in bed and cries as quietly as she can so as not to disturb grayson. but grayson, even with his deep sleeping tendencies, can somehow always tell when shes crying

they’re libby and nashs kids’ favourites because they always let them pick how they want the day to go. their hangouts always end with one of the kids clutching grayson/lyra’s leg and begging their parents to let them stay longer.

⬇️ this one is inspired by the office but i love jim and pam so shhhh

whenever anything good happens in lyras life, like a big accomplishment, grayson always says “kane” in a proud tone that never fails to make lyra giggle. whenever she gets good news, she runs home every single time just so that she can hear him call her kane in that way of his. 🤭

⬆️ similar to this, grayson likes when she calls him “hawthorne”, even though a lot of the time its to mock him. he just likes how it sounds in her mouth, but he also knows that he likes how it sounds much better as her last name 💕💕

jameson, xander, nash, avery, max, thea, and even rebecca all agreed (in the hawthorne/hawthorne adjacent gc ofc) that lyra was cooler than grayson

lyra is unintentionally very secretive, so sometimes she just drops things about her life that grayson did not know and then is surprised that he doesn’t know because she “swears she told him”. (e.g. she’s joined a jujitsu program when she was younger because she was bored and randomly dropped it in a conversation at breakfast. she, in fact, did not tell grayson and he was extremely confused.)

lyra stares at him a LOT if she wakes up before him. she knows it creepy and that she should stop, but she stays as still as possible so as not to wake him up in the morning and just… stares. she knows he gorgeous and amazing in every way possible so sometimes shes just in awe of that fact and needs at least 5 minutes of “staring-at-her-boyfriend” time

grayson calls her sweetheart most the time, but also uses different pet names from time to time, like baby or love

lyra can be so petty at times that when grayson wants to ask if she needs help, he has to physically plan ahead. upcoming event in lyra’s life that is going to be stressful to endure and also should not at all be a one person job? grayson is lavishing her up and spoiling her up until he asks just so that he can get a yes and lyra doesn’t overwork herself 😭😭

before lyra and grayson were dating, grayson had met her little brother, and (in front of EVERYONE, graysons brothers, avery, the contestants) her little brother had whipped out a drawing he made of “lyra and her boyfriend” (he had seen them together a bunch and just assumed), and in the drawing lyra’s little brother was in the middle while lyra and grayson stood on different sides of him, and they were all holding hands.

safe to say that his brothers ALL gave them interesting looks and bursted out laughing while lyra and grayson immediately started reassuring that little 4 year old boy that they were not, in fact, dating.

ANDDDD THATS ALL!!

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Eight

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — The sports day scene really had me in my feels omg.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

The grass on the main field had been freshly mowed into lines, each one crooked enough to be noticeable. A cluster of teachers stood around with clipboards and stopwatches like they were auditioning for the Olympics, and the school's ancient PA system was making increasingly desperate attempts to stay audible over the wind.

Sports Day at Haileybury was not, as Harper had once assumed, a low-stakes afternoon of novelty races and post-Pimm's bruises. It was a full-scale military operation.

There were tents — tents, plural — each year had their own, flapping slightly in the breeze like they were preparing for battle. Some parents had actually brought champagne in coolers. A drone buzzed overhead. There was a pony somewhere. No one knew why.

Harper stood on the sidelines. It was March now, and at twenty-weeks, there was no hiding the fact that she was pregnant. Unlike the others, who were in their P.E kits, she was in her usual uniform. Blazer, white shirt, plaid skirt, white knee-socks, and black Mary Jane shoes.

She had a whistle on a string around her neck, which she kept fiddling with.

Oscar had insisted she be starter for the boys' 400m. "You'll get the best view," he'd said with a grin, "and you don't even have to run."

Which was, frankly, ideal.

Sam was already moaning. He'd been forcibly signed up for hurdles after one of the Year 11s sprained their ankle falling off a climbing wall during warm-up.

"I'm gonna clip every single one," he declared, stretching dramatically. "I'm gonna eat turf in front of all these people. You're all going to laugh. I'm going to die. This is my legacy."

"Can't be worse than last year," Alfie said, lying facedown on a picnic blanket. "Remember when Jane bit it in the egg-and-spoon and still won?"

"I tripped!" Jane snapped. "And I powered through."

"You ate half the grass on the pitch," Matt said cheerfully.

"Whatever," she muttered. "Still beat all of your times, didn't I? Fucking idiots."

Oscar was off stretching with the other Year 11 and 12 boys, already wearing his signature smug-athlete expression. He lived for this day. Being good at things in front of a crowd was practically his love language.

Harper watched him jog past, the back of his shirt clinging to him just slightly, and felt her cheeks warm. He caught her eye and winked.

"God, you're pathetic," Jane muttered beside her. "You've got that face."

"What face?"

"The 'my super hot Australian boyfriend is about to lap the entire field and I'm sooo going to kiss him afterwards' face."

Harper smirked. "It's a good face."

"I'm revolted."

The PA system crackled again. "Year Eleven boys, to the starting line for the 400 metres, please. Starter, take your position."

Harper shuffled over to the line, earning a round of polite applause just for existing — or possibly because someone mistook her for a teacher.

"Is she blowing the whistle?" A parent whispered nearby.

"She's pregnant, darling. That doesn't make her a criminal," the other replied. "Besides, didn't your Francesca have her little boy when she was here? Fourteen, wasn't she?"

Oscar and the other boys lined up — all long legs, cocky grins, tracksuit bottoms in various stages of removal. One of them started doing the Mobot ironically.

Alfie was muttering what sounded like a prayer. Sam just looked like he was going to throw up.

Harper raised the whistle to her lips and gave Oscar one last lingering look. He gave her a thumbs up. She rolled her eyes, but smiled.

Then she blew the whistle as hard as she could.

And they were off.

Oscar tore down the lane like he'd been fired out of a cannon. Jane whooped. Someone else shouted, "Go on, Whitaker!" and Alfie immediately collapsed onto Harper's chair, dramatically fanning himself.

"G'won Piastri! Bloody run!" Jane screamed.

"Thank Christ I wasn't signed up for that," he said. "Look at your boyfriend's calves. They're like weapons. I'm not built for violence. Or physical exercise.

Harper didn't answer. She was too busy watching Oscar absolutely demolish the field.

He was three body-lengths ahead by the final curve. By the time he crossed the finish line, the next closest runner was still negotiating the last 50 metres.

Oscar skidded to a stop, hands on his head, chest heaving — and then pointed straight at her like a footballer scoring a goal.

Jane stopped cheering in order to gag. "He's so in love with you, it's disgusting," she said. "Please don't shag him behind the scoreboard. This is a family event."

"I'm pregnant," Harper said with a grin. "That makes us a family, doesn't it?"

Jane laughed.

Sam limped over, trailing after Oscar. "Did you see me trip?" He asked. "We're not talking about it. Okay? I'm just putting it out there that the field obviously wasn't flattened enough."

Oscar came jogging back over, red-faced and sweaty. He didn't even pause — just leaned in and kissed Harper full on the mouth like it was the finish line itself.

A few teachers grumbled unhappily. Parents whispered. Their mates hollered and whistled.

"You blew the whistle beautifully," he told her solemnly.

"I'm a natural," she replied, breathless with laughter.

"And I smoked all of them."

"You're a show-off."

"I'm a winner."

She rolled her eyes. "I know that, Piastri. I've seen your trophies."

"I'm gonna kiss you again."

"You're sweaty." She complained.

"Don't care."

And then he kissed her again.

Behind them, the sack race began with someone falling over immediately and landing in a cone. A boy from Year 9 started crying when he got hit by a flying beanbag. There was a faint chant building by the Year 8 tent involving someone's mum and the pony.

Harper just shook her head, leaned into Oscar, and thought, weirdly, that she might actually miss this place when they were gone.

—

The maths revision group (not to be confused with the Harper's Tutors group) had been Alfie's idea. Which was insane, really, because Alfie was objectively the worst at maths after Harper. But apparently he felt that gave him some sort of authority.

"It's all about teamwork," he'd said, dragging desks into a semi-circle like they were in some sort of low-budget TED Talk. "If we all suck, no one feels bad."

"That's not how GCSEs work," Jane said, already bored, perched on the edge of a desk with a highlighter in her mouth.

Oscar sat beside Harper, chewing the lid of his pen and pretending not to glance every three seconds at her workbook like he might be able to absorb her stress through osmosis.

Harper had her revision guide open but had spent the last ten minutes underlining the same heading: Foundation Paper — Non-Calculator Section.

The numbers swam a bit. They always did. Like they had a personal vendetta against her.

"Okay," Sam said, flipping a page in his own workbook. "Let's go over fractions again."

"I will literally walk into traffic," Harper muttered.

"No, you won't," Jane said without looking up. "You'd just miscalculate the angle and the car would miss you."

Alfie howled. "Oi. That's harsh."

Harper gave Jane a glare. Jane gave her a bored thumbs-up.

Oscar nudged her thigh with his knee. "Stop stressing."

"I'm not," she muttered. "My brains just broken."

"Mate," Sam cut in, "if your brain was broken, you'd be one of those people who claps when a plane lands. You're not. You're just maths-thick. It's a very specific kind of issue."

Harper stuck her middle finger up at him.

"This is supposed to be a supportive space." Oscar said, unimpressed.

Alfie was already drawing a diagram on the whiteboard someone had dragged in from the art room. "Right. Improper fractions. They're just fractions that think they're better than you. Like, calm down, you're literally top-heavy."

"I happen to like top-heavy." Jamie, one of the year 11's in her foundation maths class, said.

Sam threw a highlighter at him.

Matt, who'd somehow ended up being the quiet brains of the operation, raised his hand like they were in an actual classroom. "Can I please just explain it properly before Alfie confuses everyone again?"

Oscar nodded. "Please do."

Matt sighed. "Okay. Harper — look. You've got seven halves. That's just three wholes and a half. You already know that. You could do that in your sleep."

"Yeah, but ask me to write it down and I panic," she said. "It's like I know it in my head, but the second I see numbers on a page, it's like they're in a different language."

"That's 'cause school maths is designed by sadists," Sam said. "Don't let it get to you."

Jane reached into her bag and handed Harper a mini packet of Haribo. "Sugar for the brain," she said.

"Thanks," Harper said, taking it. She rested her head on Oscar's shoulder for a second, and he leaned into her just slightly. Just enough to be reassuring, not PDA.

Alfie pointed at the whiteboard. "Okay. Here's the deal. We go over ten problems tonight. If Harper gets through them all without throwing a chair or crying, we reward her with cake from the machine."

"I like that plan," Harper said. She'd perked up a bit at the mention of cake. Oscar laughed when he felt movement beneath his hand. Baby liked the idea of cake too.

"You get cake either way," Jane muttered. "So please throw a chair at him."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Can we just start?"

Later, they were on their way down to the astro for some fresh air. "You're doing better than you think," Oscar said.

Harper didn't say anything. Just unwrapped the cake, tore off a piece, and stuffed it in his mouth before he could keep talking.

"Shut up," she said.

He grinned. "Okay."

—

Oscar had been weird all day.

Not, like, noticeably weird to most people — but Harper could tell. He kept checking his phone and tapping his fingers like his body had extra electricity to burn.

At lunch, he barely touched his chips, which was criminal, and when she asked him if he was alright, he'd just muttered, "Yeah, fine," and went back to staring at his phone.

Now, in the common room, he was pacing.

Actually pacing. Back and forth across the threadbare carpet.

"Osc, what's up with you?" Harper asked finally, closing her science book and watching him with raised eyebrows. "You're making me dizzy." She sighed.

Oscar stopped pacing, spun around, then walked over and just—held his phone out to her.

She blinked at it. "What am I looking at?"

He shoved it closer.

It was an email. Official, professional, with a logo that looked like speed and money and adult careers.

Subject line: BRITISH FORMULA 4 – DRIVER PLACEMENT OFFER (CONFIDENTIAL)

She blinked again. Then looked up at him.

"No way."

Oscar ran a hand through his already-messy hair. "Mark wants me in for trials next month. If I do well, they'll sign me for the junior seat. Full kit. Sponsorship. Real team. Single seater."

Harper's eyes widened. "With TV coverage and contracts and all the posh helmets?"

"Yeah," he said, breathless. "Yeah."

She stood slowly, the email still glowing on his phone in her hand. "Oh my god. That's... huge."

"I know." He stared at her, eyes wild and overwhelmed. "It's insane. I didn't think they were even watching me this season. I thought they were going with the kid from Sheffield."

"Well, apparently not," she said, handing the phone back. "Osc..."

He let out a stunned, choked sort of laugh.

Sam, who had been half-asleep on the sofa under a textbook, sat up and said, "Wait, what? What's happening?"

"Oscar got scouted," Harper said. "British F4."

"No way," Sam said, eyes wide. "Holy shit, that's—wait, do you get free jackets? I want a jacket."

"Mate," Oscar said, sitting down on the arm of the chair like his legs had just remembered they were fifteen and overwhelmed, "I'm going to be a dad. In like... four months. And now I'm getting offered a chance to race across the country every other weekend."

Harper sat next to him. She was quiet for a second. "You want to do it?"

His eyes snapped to hers. "Of course I want to do it."

"Then you should."

"But what about—?"

"You're allowed to have something," she said, before he could even finish the sentence. "We knew that going into this, didn't we? That there'd have to be sacrifices. I want you to do this."

He stared at her like he didn't believe it. "Harper," he said quietly. "I'm not leaving you."

"I know," she replied. "This isn't leaving. This is just... adding something. You don't have to pick between the baby and racing. We'll figure it out. We always do."

Sam clapped dramatically. "Right, well, now that we've sorted your future — someone tell me what the actual fuck simultaneous equations are."

Oscar looked back at his phone. His hands were shaking slightly.

Harper nudged his shoulder. "You're going to be amazing," she said. "And I'm going to be there to watch you win, Osc. As often as I possibly can."

"No promises on the wins," he muttered, but he was smiling now, in that quiet, stunned way that said maybe—for a second—he actually believed he could do both. "But I'll try. For you."

—

There were five of them crammed onto the threadbare rug in front of the common room sofa, surrounded by empty crisp packets, half-finished smoothies, and someone's maths textbook that had been repurposed as a coaster.

"Okay," Jane said, flipping her notebook open like she was taking official minutes. "We've ruled out anything weird and American-sounding, and Alfie's last suggestion was 'Rogue,' so he's on name probation."

"Oi," Alfie muttered, mouth full of Pom-Bears. "It's gender neutral."

"It's also the name of an X-Man," Jane deadpanned. "Not happening."

Harper was lying on her side, head in Oscar's lap, one socked foot lazily nudging Matt's leg every time he got too lost in his book.

"We don't have to pick one today," she said, though she was smiling. "We've got plenty of time."

"No, because if you don't decide soon, Alfie's going to campaign for something unhinged like 'Peach' and convince you that it's cute," Matt said.

"'Peach' is adorable," Alfie said, utterly unbothered.

"Peach Whiatt-Piastri sounds like a cocktail you order by accident in Ibiza," Sam added.

Oscar was quiet. He was playing with the ends of Harper's hair, twisting the red strands absently around his fingers. He hadn't said much since they started this conversation — which, to be fair, had started because Jane had walked in and said, "Right, I've been thinking. If it's a boy, you can't call it anything that rhymes with 'fart.'"

Harper had gone pink and said, "We don't know if it's a boy or a girl yet," and then they'd all gone down a rabbit hole of neutral names, none of which had made it past the group vote.

Now, Sam said, "We could do something badass, like River. Or Ash. That sounds like someone who'd wear leather and be in a boy band."

"I veto both of those names," Jane said.

Oscar let out a soft, distracted, "Yeah. I don't like those either."

Harper shifted slightly and said, "What about something literary? Like a cool author name?"

"Like what?" Matt asked.

"I don't know... Eliot? Or Austen?"

"Isn't Austen a bit on-the-nose?" Sam said. "With you being fancy and everything."

Harper threw a crisp at him.

They went back and forth for another ten minutes. Names got weirder. At one point, Jane suggested 'Moss'. Alfie floated the idea of 'Jelly'. Someone genuinely said 'Cricket'.

Eventually, Harper sighed, turned over to lie on her back and looked up at Oscar.

"You haven't said anything. What do you like?"

Oscar blinked. "I... dunno."

"Well, do you want something traditional or weird?"

"Just something nice, I guess. Something that suits her."

Silence.

Complete, stunned silence.

Matt dropped his can of Pepsi on the floor.

Jane gasped. "Wait. Her?"

Oscar blinked. "Oh. Shit."

Harper slapped a hand over her eyes. "Oscar, oh my God."

"You know the gender?" Sam practically shouted, scrambling to sit up straighter.

"We just found out at the scan on Thursday," Harper said, her face now redder than the KitKat wrapper on the table.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us!" Jane shrieked, half-laughing, half-scandalised.

"You're all so dramatic," Oscar muttered, clearly trying not to laugh. "It's normal not to tell people. We just wanted it to be a secret between us for a while."

"Mate, you're going to have a daughter," Alfie said, eyes wide. "That's so crazy."

"It's not that crazy," Harper argued, sitting up now.

"Oh my God," Jane whispered, pressing a hand to her mouth. "We're going to be aunties and uncles to a tiny little baby girl. We have to buy her tiny Converse. Pink ones!"

"Do babies even wear shoes?" Sam asked.

"I think so," Jane said.

Oscar wrapped an arm around Harper and pulled her in a bit closer, his cheeks still pink. "Sorry. I didn't mean to say it. It just came out."

"I'm not mad," she said softly. "They'd find out eventually. And... it's kind of nice."

Matt was still staring at them. "A girl," he said again.

—

It was a Friday. The sky was low and grey, and Haileybury's quad looked like it had been dunked in dishwater. A breeze kept snapping at the blazers of students crossing between buildings. Harper was halfway through a very dull lunch of jacket potato and beans when the message came down from reception.

Someone was here to see her.

Not her mother. That had been her first question when the note from the admin office arrived.

No — it was a man. Mid-sixties, they said. Said he was her uncle.

"Is he angry?" Harper asked, standing beside the reception desk in her cardigan and too-small school skirt, her satchel cutting into her shoulder. The woman behind the desk — Mrs. Keller, who always looked like she was two sneezes away from retirement — blinked at her.

"Seemed... posh," she said, like it might be a warning. "Said he was your father's brother. Waitin' in the front hall."

Oscar was already there when she arrived — clearly having run the whole way from the library. His tie was half-askew and his hair was sticking up.

"You okay?" He asked. She'd texted him and asked him to meet her there.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

Then they stepped inside.

He was waiting by the mantelpiece, spine straight as a gatepost, coat over one arm. His suit was cashmere. His shoes shone like piano keys. His face — older than she remembered, thinner — broke into a polite, somewhat startled smile when he saw her.

"Harper," he said, approaching.

She blinked. "Uncle Thomas?"

He took her hand, briefly. Warm palm, dry fingers. "It's been years. My God. You look so much like your father."

She swallowed.

"This is Oscar," she said stiffly, stepping aside.

Thomas gave a cordial nod, but didn't hold out his hand. "I know who he is. I've spoken to your mother once or twice recently."

Oscar flushed. Harper tensed.

"I haven't," she said flatly.

"Well," said Thomas. "Then I envy you."

"Why are you here?" She asked. "I haven't seen you in years. Since the funeral, probably."

He exhaled, then reached into his coat. Produced a leather folder, worn but clearly expensive. "I'm here," he said, "because there are some things you weren't told after your father passed away. Things your mother, I suspect, ensured stayed buried. But you're nearly sixteen now, and legally—well, let's just say, some things are coming due."

He opened the folder and pulled out a few pages, slid them into her hands. Old estate paperwork. Land registry documents. Bank account details. And her name — "Lady Harper Grace Whiatt" — right there, typed in thin, haughty letters.

She stared at it. "What is..."

"It is all yours," he said gently. "Left to you by your father. It was meant to become accessible upon your sixteenth birthday, barring any specific contest. Your mother..." He trailed off. "She was aware of your main trust-fund, but your father was worried that she might— well, I'm sure you understand."

Oscar leaned over to glance at the documents. His mouth opened, then shut again.

Harper still hadn't spoken. Her throat felt dry.

"She loved him," she said finally. "My mum. But she hated everything about his family."

Thomas gave a sharp little smile. "Yes, well. She made that abundantly clear. But hate does not negate legal reality."

There was a long pause. Outside, the wind rattled the old glass panes.

"And your, um, baby?" Thomas asked carefully, glancing at her belly, still small but no longer invisible. "Healthy?"

"Yes. Why?" Harper said, eyes narrowing.

"It could complicates things. The trust wasn't written with a... continuation clause. We may need to involve a solicitor."

Oscar stepped forward. "You don't get to use legal language to scare her."

"I'm not trying to scare anyone," Thomas said calmly. "I'm trying to be honest. Your child, Harper, will be entitled to things too. In time."

Harper looked down at the paper again. Her father's name. Her own. Words like "estate" and "trustee" and "inheritance".

Then, in a whisper, "Why didn't you come before now?"

Thomas blinked. His expression cracked slightly. "I was asked not to."

"By my mum?"

He nodded once.

Harper swallowed. Then she folded the paper back into the folder, held it tight to her chest like a shield. "I'm not a Lady. I'm just... I'm just a girl trying to get through her GCSEs. I live in a dorm with a bunch of boys who eat cereal out of mugs. I'm fifteen and pregnant. And now you're telling me that I've inherited... all of this?"

Thomas looked like he didn't quite know what to say.

Oscar put a hand on her back.

Harper looked up at him. She didn't say anything.

"I'll leave the documents with you," Thomas said finally. "And if you need help... I'm not your father, Harper. But I did love him. And I'd like to know you. If you'll let me."

He gave her a shallow bow, then turned and left — expensive shoes echoing off the flagstone floor.

Silence dropped in his wake.

"Did that actually just happen?" Oscar asked.

"I don't know," Harper said, staring down at the folder in her hands. "But I think I just inherited two million pounds and an estate."

Oscar blinked. "That's mental."

"Completely," she muttered. "Absolutely mental."

Then she looked at him and added, "It might... it might make things easier, though. Won't it? You won't have to rely on your parents to keep paying for you to race, Osc." She breathed.

He frowned at her. "It's your money."

"We're a family now. We made that decision together." She said, quietly. "I don't need that much money, Osc. We'll be smart with it. Invest it in your career. Doesn't that make sense?"

She was starting at him so earnestly.

He held her. Leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers. "Think about it."

"I've thought about it." She said. "It's ours. We'll use it to make sure our baby gets the best of everything, and that you get the opportunity to get to the top. Yeah?"

"Yeah. Okay." He whispered. "Okay. This is insane, but... okay."

"We do this together, Osc. Everything." She told him. "The exams. The baby. Your career. My career. I'll be able to pay for a coding course and invest in my own projects." She said. Her eyes were sparkling. "I love you. And we're going to do this together, or not at all."

"Marry me." Was all he said.

She jerked away and laughed. "Shut up. We're fifteen!"

"Marry me." He said again.

She rolled her eyes. "We've got Chemistry in ten minutes, Piastri."

"Okay." He said. He was staring at her and smiling. "Okay, babe. Let's go to Chemistry."

NEXT CHAPTER

[opiopal]

you guys wanna know something I typically hate?? The whole “ooooo it was all a dream!!!” Trope, because I think it’s stupid. But that doesn’t mean I don’t explore it sometimes for the sake of relatability. And I can also make it make sense for obey me,

cause think: the game itself starts out on a white background and Lilith speaking to mc/the player, then we wake up in front of the future demon king, his time traveling butler, and plus six of the seven lords. That is 100% “it was just a dream” material. however my version and idea of “it was just a dream” is totally goated/j i like to think of it as a semi real thing, as in Mc lives their normal life when they’re awake, and when they fall asleep they wake up in their bed in the devildom, ready to start their day there. They can’t really tell if they’re dreaming about being in the devildom, or if they’re dreaming about being back home in the human realm. And it’s just so disorienting for them, and they begin to struggle to figure out if anything is real in general. and THAT is the version of this trope that I like, the juggle between it could or couldn’t be real.

but then I could imagine mc eventually figuring out how to live with it as they usually tend to do. Because during the “day”, they go about their life, they go to work, do college work, talk with friends and family, take care of their pet, do shopping, yk, the usual. But then they go to sleep and get to spend a whole new “day” with their weird boyfriend thingy and exist in an infinitely cooler reality. And it could possibly be interpreted in multiple different ways: mc could have just figured out how to lucid dream somehow, or they are actually just swapping between realms whenever they wake/sleep, or they could be in a weird coma thingy and their brain is going haywire, or just anything possible.

ofc though what I usually go with is that they’re just jumping between realms, that it’s just an entirely different universe to mc’s current. to feed into my own selfish desires to completely escape the real world without abandoning my loved ones ofc.

and also it could open up the world to other possibilities, cause imagine being in the “real” world and randomly seeing a guy that looks exactly like mammon in public!? Because holy crap. mc is just waiting at the train station to go home after a long day and suddenly spots the face of their Demon boyfriend of like three years but human??? Like that would be INSANE. But whatever- it’s not IMPOSSIBLE for someone to look like how mams does, it’s not like he’s some insane impossible beauty standard. It’s just pure coincidence. Right??? so mc gets on the train and oh. Okay, he’s also getting on this train and happens to sit across from them. Now mc is SERIOUSLY freaking out, because he even has the same rings on his fingers, really the only difference between the two is that this “human” mams has different clothes.

anyways, I’m just gonna cut myself off there bc I’ve realized I’ve rambled. HOWEVER that whole situation/au is something I’ve fully developed, I could honestly make a whole fic on it, but I may not lol, just depends on demand if anyone is intrigued. But anyways that’s just my ramble post for the day, cuz yuh,

[mischievousmoony]

haiiii, can i request a burger? jily with “look, our swimsuits match!” ?? thank uuuu

yes ofc! i loveeee jily

jolie's summer kickoff a 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐫 fresh off the grill ⋮ aka a short blurb contains: poly!jily x reader, suggestive content but nothing explicit, reader wears a (tiny) bikini

James is already buzzing with excitement when his alarm wakes him up, bright and early, before the sun has even had a chance to rise.

Today is going to be a scorcher, the first one of the season. And his first chance to get to the beach this summer. For far too many weekends in a row, either his busy schedule or the weather has gotten in the way of the beach day he’s longed for since there was still snow on the ground.

But the day has finally come, and he is determined to be the first to hit the sand. Which is why he’s awake at five in the morning, packing the car, making sandwiches for today's lunch, filling a cooler with ice and sodas and plenty of water, and letting his girlfriends sleep in as long as possible.

He wakes you and Lily up with loving kisses and hushed sweet nothings, coaxing you gently into consciousness with just enough time for you two to get ready before you have to leave. The two of you sleepily head to the bathroom to start getting ready in front of the big mirror.

James is double-checking that he packed both of your beach bags with everything you’ll need—your favorite pairs of sunglasses, big fluffy towels, the fancy face sunscreens, etc—when he hears the snap of your flip flops coming closer.

“My loves,” James calls from down the hall. “You ready? We’re sure to beat the lads there if we leave within the next 10 minutes. I’m sure Remus is fighting to get Sirius out of bed as we speak.”

“Look, Jamie,” he hears your beautiful voice from behind him. “Our swimsuits match.”

James’ breath hitches in his throat when he turns around. You and Lily are wearing nearly identical string bikinis (ones that don’t leave much to the imagination, he notes). The only difference is that your pair is pink with white strings, and hers is white with pink strings.

“Do you like them?” Lily asks, her tone borderline seductive, and James finally picks his jaw up off the floor.

“You two are breathtaking,” he says, and you know he means it, because he sure does sound like he needs some air. His large hands find a spot on each of your waists, eyes still glued to your figures.

“They’re new,” Lily tells him, her smirk evident in her tone.

“Yeah, I know, because I definitely would have remembered if I’d seen them before.”

You spin around, swiping your hair out of the way as you say, “I tied mine too tight around my neck, though, could you redo it?”

“Uh-huh,” James replies, his voice slightly pitched as he tugs the string loose, looking over your shoulder, his eyes glued to the way you hold the bikini over your chest as it comes undone.

Lily is questioning him about how he’s packed for the beach, making sure he’s checked everything off the list. Not because she thinks he would’ve missed anything, but more so because of how amused she is by James’ absentminded nodding an humming to whatever she says, completely distracted by the way your ass looks in your swimsuit.

Lily doesn’t blame him—you look divine. She told you so as soon as you put the bikini on. A compliment which you returned, of course, right before she propped you on the bathroom sink and made out with you for a couple of minutes.

“You should hurry up, yeah? Don’t want to be late?” Lily asks, nodding at James’ idle hands while dragging a hand down his bicep.

“Yeah…” James murmurs, not seeming to be in any rush to tie your swimsuit back in place. Instead, he lets the strings fall from his fingertips, arms closing around your middle as he hugs you tightly from behind, dropping his face to the crook of your neck.

Needless to say, the three of you showed up at the beach much later than intended. And you and Lily somehow ended up swapping bikini tops.

Sirius and Remus end up beating you guys there by fifteen minutes. And James gets to listen to them ridicule him for it all day because he made such a big deal about getting there early.

But James seriously doesn’t mind.