#this was and is so much work i will most likely not be doing this again

[cursedcola]

Prompt: YOU ARE LIKE PAPA!!!! Aka. I'm seeing a trend. The boys are all literal carbon copies of their mommas (or one parent) at this point - so how do they feel having a child that’s THEIR spitting image? In which your genes didn’t even try. Physically...and personality. Masterlist: LinkedUP Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: House-Wardens Format: Headcannons+ imagine (Yes, I know I said I wouldn't be doing bullets anymore...but one more? It's mixed. Can't just cold turkey a gal) A/N: Do I want to make this a series?...I do not know. Maybe? It's really hard to write without the kids having names - and I'm just here like...can I use the names I want? I already made them up in a past post. Would that ruin the experience for people? I mean - it's my stuff and I can do what I want but hmmm.... Warning(?): For this to be, MC's the one who popped the kid out and has reproductive ability to house spawn. Kiddos are biological. Talk of pregnancy and general child-rearing. Use of mother and she/her pronouns to make my life a bit easier.

Riddle couldn't care if his child looked like him down to the last freckle on is butt. What mattered most in that delivery room was that the child came out healthy with no complications. He's the father that doesn't shy away from asking the doctor + midwives questions - perhaps too many, since you nearly toss him out of the delivery room for causing unneeded distress.

In all honesty? Had he studied medicine like his mother pushed - Riddle would've been the one delivering his own child. He copes with stress through control - so imagine THAT scenario.

After birth, he cares much more for the child's skills and manners rather than their appearance. Do they wash their hands before every meal? Say their please and thank you? Do they trust him enough to state their opinions - respectfully, not a potty mouth.

Riddle can and will make them lick a bar of soap if they utter a curse word before the age of 15.

How's their academic drive? Are they social? It's very important that they get along well with others from an early age. He wants them to have many friends.

He's so focused on their personality - aiming to raise a happy, confident, healthy child - that Riddle takes compliments on their physical attributes with a grain of salt until his hard work all those years child-rearing amass into... well, a second less intense version of himself.

He's adamant to ensure the child's homelife is better than what he had growing up. In a way, he misses much while worrying about other things. 10/10 an anxious father, but very doting despite being strict.

"Must I paint a heart on my cheek every day? Why not a crown, or something more fitting us? Like a rose?" his daughter huffed, yet went to paint a large red heart over her cheekbone regardless.

Just like her father, she'd received her invitation to Night Raven. The girl was expecting it, her certainty fueled by perfect grades and a strong aptitude for magic. She did not lack confidence.

Just like her father, she was assured to land in Heartslabyul. Already prepping her cheek-mark before the mirror made any verdict.

Just like her father, she aimed for the position of Housewarden before setting a single foot on campus.

Yet unlike her father, she held no issues in speaking her grievances. She bemoaned about packing, groveled at her mother's feet for her favorite biscuits before living off cafeteria meals, and surely had no reservations stealing Riddle's best fountain pen for her studies.

She keenly resembled a certain ginger that still calls the Rosehearts' household every day despite getting blue-screened by the answering machine.

That’s the last time Riddle allows you to chose the godfather of his child. Ace is an insufferable influence without that power to toss around.

Riddle sighed, plucking the brush from her fingers and pinning her V-shaped bangs back to examine her uniform. He flattens her lapels and redoes her necktie.

His necktie. Gods he’s raised a little thief.

For a moment, as he loops the tie-knot, he's a young boy calling the girl's mother over each morning to straighten her uniform. It's nostalgic, especially with how his daughter squirms under his appraisal.

Definetly her mother’s daughter, he thinks.

It is then that Riddle sees himself through her wide eyes - they're the same greyish blue that were hardened on his first day. His daughter's are much kinder, he notes. She'll easily find companions to eat her meals with.

Her cheeks are full with sweetness- his were too, but by genetic design rather than an extra treat here and there. To this day his baby-face lingers.

Her cheeks were 100% rounded with uncle Trey's spoiling. Not that Riddle could deny her when he'd eat just as much sweets while toiling over papers in his office. He remembers the familiar patter of feet slipping in, tiny hands pushing a cookie on his desk and coating it with crumbs.

He'd scold her to bring a plate next time, but take a break from work to enjoy the moment. Strict yet not domineering. A child that shares should be encouraged, at least that's what one of his many parenting manuals said.

She shared his button nose and tiny stature. Except she loved wearing matching Mary-Janes with her mother, while he wouldn't be caught without a heel at that age. She inherited his height but not his insecurity. Thank goodness.

Perhaps all those comments about his genetics weren't solely in regard to her magical prowess or ambitions. "....Father? Hellloooo?" she side-stepped to grab her bags, just as he reached to flatten her hair for the fifth time. His heart mellowed enough to not scold her impropriety.

"Ah - " Riddle coughed into his fist, " - apologies, little rose. I just never realized how much you look like -"

"You?” She cut in, “Yeah, psssssh. Mother says it at least once a day. About time you listened."

Riddle snorted, pinching between his brows. Yes, of course it was said. Although only now was he beginning to believe it.

"In appearances, yes. Yet your manners are as deplorable as ever."

Leona hopes his children are nothing like him. Which is impossible, since beastmen carry dominant traits when pitted against humans. He's not surprised in the slightest when his child has two little cub-ears atop their head, or that tiny chord barely passing as a tail. A ready snack he threatens to bite off when they misbehave.

At the very least, he hoped for your eyes. His piercing citrine was attractive, no doubt about that. He's not displeased to have them peer up at him from a bassinette each morning. Yet it is your eyes that carry a softness that this palace needs for him to get through his day.

Hey. At least there's no question of paternity. The joke falls flat with the midwives though. 'course it does.

Multiple times, by the way. For someone who claims to dislike loud children, Leona's genes are intent to sire three spitting images of himself.

In every which way - from their squeaky yawns after a mid-day siesta, to the magic flowing in their veins.

"Papa! Look what I learned how to do!"

Leona barely had time to look up from his endless pile of paperwork. The damn thing was near endless, and he'd missed three scheduled siestas just trying to get through the civil dispute filings. His brother spared no mercy in delegating the less 'enthusing' tasks to his 'smart, wise, people-smart' - pah - little brother.

He hated the sea of menial administrative filings.

His eldest daughter was well aware - she hated her homework just as much.

"A stampede's on it's way! Better freeze up before it's too late!"

Which is why she chose that moment to turn her beloved papa's woes to stone. Literally.

The moment her little fingers touched papyrus, the entire stack turned into solid rock. As did the blood in Leona's veins. Sparkly citrine eyes looked at him expectantly. Somewhere in the palace the lioness' tutor was undoubtly scouring to find her, take her back to magic theory, maybe try to cover this up from the other servants.

"You - OI! I needed those - urk, what else have you turned to stone?" he drops the pen in his hand and tries to move the now frozen stack into a drawer.

"Dammit Ki'faji...Where are your tutors? This is exactly why I told your mom combined lessons with Cheka would be a hassle," Leona grumbles and kicks from his desk, quick to check the hall outside. The kid was a bad influence - rambunctious as a twerp and even more riled up as a preteen.

Upon seeing no servants, guards, or even Cheka running up after his cousin - Leona's both relieved and angered.

Angered that his daughter was left alone. She probably escaped to avoid classwork, which he did too at that age but she deserved better. A proper education outside of solitude. One where she could hopefully grow up optimistic about this country and the people inside of it.

Relieved that no servant witnessed her Unique magic. They wouldn't understand. He can't bear the thought of them speaking of her like they did him.

Except it would be inevitable.

Then angered again, because in his hurry her little tail tucked between her legs. She hugged the side of his work desk with her hands fisted at the hem of her tunic. Her lips set in a scared pout, looking up at him past that untamed mane in her eyes. Worried.

"Papa...did I do something wrong?"

He wonders if this is what his father felt like. Being confronted with your own child, knowing that by cruel fate they'd have to face hardships and hatred for something out of their control.

Suffocating. His own throat felt full of sand. The leather on his hands too tight. She looked so much like him. Acted like him. That much Leona never once contested. Ki-Faji bemoaned to the skies that it was like time never passed, and he was stuck in a loop teaching the same unruly child.

It was funny, until it wasn't. "Nah, kiddo. Nothin' like that," he tried to keep his usual drawl. Unclench his fists. Forget about when he first slipped gloves on, "ya gotta warn me before a shock like that. So you finally got your magic tamed down, huh? Good job."

He shut the door and it set closed with a load thud. Leona might have an idea of what his father felt, but right now? She came first.

Ensuring she felt wanted, strong, and damn right accomplished - came first. Everything else later.

So with just a few strides, he swept her up over his shoulder and out from under that desk. She giggled and squawked about turning 'him' to stone if he made her go back to classes.

And Leona made no promises, but set her on the edge of his desk with 'threats' of turning her sweets to sand if she didn't at least try.

"With Unique Magic like that, you'll out-class your cousin before he even catches wind," and a bit of rivalry never hurt to keep the bloodline strong too.

Which judging by his daughter's immediate squirming to go and turn the first-prince to stone? She inherited Leona's competitive streak as well.

Unions between Merfolk and Humans are rare. Roughly 1/100 and that is giving benefit of the doubt. There were too many boundaries and complications. Prejudice born from history, the need for transfiguration, differing lifespans and culture.

One strong deterrent, perhaps the most impactful, is childrearing. The genetic output - while not impossible - is exceedingly unpredictable. Each species of merfolk reproduces differently, and their genetic dominance when put against a human's gene (especially if the mother is human) can cause complications. Capricious complications.

And as we all know - Azul is not fond of chance. Were his child to be born on land, yet have gills? Their lungs are so small, so new, they wouldn't make it to water in time. The same could be if they were born underwater and needed air.

One thing he is certain of, is that Octopi carry strong genetics. Literally. Should the child inherit his strength its kicks could do much more to your stomach than be a tickle to fawn over.

His mother wanted grandchildren, as did his great-grandmother did great grandchildren. Truth be told he wouldn't be opposed to raise one to leave his legacy to. Yet the Ashengrotto genes were strong with each descendent, so much that when he discovered you were with child? He couldn't be happy. Not truly - because too much was at risk and out of his control.

He prayed, which is not something Azul ever does, that the child would take after you. At each stage of development you were monitored down to the last detail, looking for any complications. Even the slightest hint of a tentacle or incompatibility.

Luckily, the child formed feet. Its first kick scared the hell out of him, but at most left you sore. Yet he wasn't able to relax. Not until you were taken care of in the best hospital on land, with a literal aquarium set up next to the bed just in case.

A medical marvel. That's what this child was.

Not a miracle. Not a blessing.

A medical marvel, and the most beautifully unpredictable thing that has ever happened to Azul in his entire life.

There was no clear picture of how his son might look at birth. He waited with bated breath, mentally running through every text he could find on mer-human unions. Banking on all the preparations He arranged and trying not to bite through his nails from the anxiety. The success rate was too low, but you insisted.

And he was most fortunate, because had you not then he wouldn't be holding the most cherished prize of his life.

The baby didn't cry, yet neither did he according to his mother. He was pale, no gills in sight but the wispy swirls of light gray on his head showed Azul's genes wouldn't rescind everything.

It was hidden from view for now, but there were signs of mixed blood on his son's skin. Plentiful black dots spotted his entire body, too dark to be freckles yet too light to be like Azul's outer skin in his mer-form. Time would only tell if Azul's genes really did overtake all, and if his son would look at the world with wet purple eyes.

Yet what struck Azul the most wasn't these obvious traits, ones he predicted at the very start of your pregnancy after endless nights of research.

It was that right below his son's lip, in the same spot as his father, was a small mole. That truly was by chance with no genetic influence.

He thumbed the little speck, marveling at something so small yet he didn't realize he wanted until it was there.

"You weren't lying, huh? Those are some strong genetics you carry."

Azul balked, just barely stopping himself from whipping around too quick. He turned to scold you for not sleeping, worry ebbing at him all over again.

Yet you rest your head against his shoulder, cheek pressed into his ruffled button down to sink against him. His heart still spun like it did as a teenager.

"Look at his little head of hair," you laughed, and he mutely did just that, "if he gets glasses, then I think my bloodline's finished. Might as well say you did mitosis"

That got him to scoff.

"Hardly," he said dismissively, but his lips pulled to smile regardless, "I don't recall giving him feet. That's all your doing."

"Well excuse me for not having eight legs."

"You are excused," he snickered, "Truly, he would be so much more productive with them."

Azul didn't mean that. Well, partially. Yes his son would get much more done with four sets of arms but with other costs.

You hadn't pressed, and he was grateful.

Kalim wants a large family. Not only because it is expected of him as the eldest Asim, but also because he is a family man. He adores his siblings and does his absolute best to give them all attention despite their large quantity.

He's the most doting husband, and is even more attentive as a parent. One thing he will do differently from his father is keeping his family 'small'. Four children minimum, six children maximum. Monogamous as well. As much as he loves all his siblings, the unspoken tensions are too much to endure. Kalim's also a one-spouse kind of guy, and the thought of sharing - while normal for someone of his status - is not for him. No amount of suggestion or pressure will change that. It is bad enough that his children will be subject to worries about their uncles, aunties, and cousins possibly harboring ill-will. Kalim is set on ensuring that they are part of a true family, one without such tensions, and that he can give them all the love they deserve.

Perhaps he feels guilt as the eldest. He received the most attention from his father as the heir, but he has siblings who barely know anything about their father aside from how he looks. He has step-mothers he has met only in formality, and as time went on there were strains between his siblings that he couldn't ignore. Not after taking his official seat.

Kalim will not be the same as his father. Regardless for his respect and love for the man - No matter what the future does to him, no matter if he lives a long life or one cut short. Kalim will make sure his spouse and children are cared for. He loves them more than anything on the planet.

Should he have a family, and the situation demand it? He'd give up his spot as heir in a heartbeat and move far out into the dunes with nothing but the clothes on his back. All for them to be happy and safe. That's the kind of dad he is.

"Baba?"

Kalim resisted the urge to giggle. His eldest son hated when Kalim acted too childlike, and he was already pushing the boy's patience. He was just past thirteen, his fourteenth birthday already planned for a week-long celebration in just a half-month. It would be the biggest banquet the Scaldings Sands had see since Kalim's wedding. His son would soon start officially training as the next head Asim, just like Kalim did at that age.

Yet it was never too early to celebrate one of the best days of Kalim's life. Which is exactly why Kalim hovered outside the boy's window at an hour long past their family's 'bedtime'. The carpet under his feet familiar as ever, as was his son's exhausted disapproval (we wonder which attendant he inherited 'that' look from).

"Come on! Let's go for a carpet ride. Just you and me tonight," Kalim gently pat the space next to him, his smile adamant, "we don't even have to tell your mother."

His son deadpanned. Even Kalim grimaced at that one.

"Okay! If we get caught, I'll take the hit for both of us. Please? It's such a lovely night out. Perfect for a flight~"

Normally it would be the son begging his father to sneak out, not the other way around. Yet Kalim's eldest was much more mature than he was at that age. Despite being his physical copy, those ruby reds never sparkled with excitement like his father's. They were aways fully concentrated - be it on his studies, his charity, or whomever captured his attention. There came a point when a rumor surfaced that he couldn't possibly be Kalims, yet they didn't reach far thanks to the physical resemblance.

The 'only' resemblance. Since the kid hadn't cracked a laugh since he was in diapers.

Something Kalim learned to accept, but never gave up trying.

His son observed from his bed, the boy's nose wrinkled with thought. No doubt wondering if he should tattle to his mom. He was a doting momma's boy, at least he had that in common with his father.

"Fine," he sighed heavily, and rolled out of bed like it was torture.

Kalim waited, holding the curtain open eagerly until his boy hopped the ledge and sat cross-legged on the carpet's far edge.

Then they were off. High above the city where no one would see. Kalim bobbed his head happily, pointing out buildings as if his son hadn't memorized the entire map of their homeland at the ripe age of five.

"Oh! And there's the restaurant I took your mother on our first date. She loves their Kanafeh -"

"Baba, I know. We have it for breakfast twice every week."

Kalim guided the carpet towards lower ground without a response - keeping air, sassy teenagers, and his messy turban from whacking him in the face.

Only two of those three succeeded.

"Why are we even out here? Shouldn't you worry more about your responsibilities? What if mother wakes to an empty bed, did you consider the consequences? Her worries?"

There came those older thoughts out of such a young mouth. Kalim couldn't help but slump inwards, although his smile still hung on. "You're turning fourteen soon," life will change, "Don't you want to enjoy life a bit more before starting your studies? Baba will understand, you know." he said, and perhaps that was not what his son expected to hear. The boy puffed up. His tanned skin rouging with lost composure.

"I'm not like you. Being al Asim means something to me. Maybe you'd understand if you were a proper sultan who took his job and family seriously! Rather than sneaking off in the night for merry rides on a flying carpet!"

Under the moonlight, his son's perfectly primmed white hair bounced in the wind. Even in sleep he managed to keep his appearance tidy. There were times it was like Kailm was looking in warped a mirror. Those rare moments when he caught the boy lapse, usually with his younger siblings or cousins. When he looked softer, his garnet eyes full of kindness rather than the contempt held in them right now.

Except in these moments too - he still saw a mirror. Just one he wished to avoid.

He too disliked his father's way of doing things, to a certain extent. That his own son felt similar wasn't a surprise. It did not lessen the sting regardless.

"Tifli..." Kalim started, and his son faltered at the endearment, "think what you want, but there is nothing that means more to me than our family."

And even if his son wouldn't admit to it - Kalim knew he saw the mirror too. Just because Kalim disliked his father's choices, didn't mean he did not love him.

He reached for his son without a second thought, pulling the boy down to roughly rub his cheek over his head.

and just like that, Kalim was back to being happy and his son back to groaning complaints - albeit less agitated, to Kalim's delight - and pretending he was much more mature than he was deep down. Kalim's opposite yet perfect little replica.

"Ahahaha!!! Look at you! Just wait until the council has to fight against that fire! I can't wait to bring you with me! "

"AGH LET ME GO!!! WHY DID I EVEN AGREE TO THIS?!"

Papa Vil - now that's one unexpected title to tack onto his Resume. Contrary to what everyone might believe of a superstar leading a life on the go, Vil is proud to be a father. His own raised him while juggling his goals, why should Vil's career deny him the joys of fatherhood?

No. When Vil's daughter is born, he is more than prepared to balance family and work. He locked in when taking a spouse, and is never one to be unprepared.

When you were pregnant, he announced a hiatus in his career just as you entered the third trimester. He can afford it. The public loves a family man. He has money money, and wasn't going to risk missing the birth of his first child while travelling.

Also. Supportive husband to the maximum. Considering you were carrying his child, the bare minimum he could do was be readily available as you go through the roughest stage. That baby had a college fund made and filled before she was even born.

Not that he'd just let her mooch - no child of his would grow up without ambition and practiced life skills. He was not 'aiming' to create a replica or enforce his standards...but she wouldn't lack drive. No Schoenheit - not even you - is going to go through life quietly.

His hiatus was meant to extend until she turned one. Old enough to enjoy life on the road, for you to recover, and give 3-5 years for him to work until she started school. Unlike him at that age, she wouldn't be chartered around as much for his work. Nope.

He already had it planned. She'd be enrolled in a private academy, you'd work as you liked in a good neighborhood, and he wouldn't take any contracts outside of the Shaftlands until she was a teenager. Balance. She would have every opportunity, proper support, and hopefully independence to grow outside of his shadow.

The last thing Vil wanted was for her to be influenced by his career - well, other than admiring his films and being that perfect little face to single out int the audience while at a talk-show or photoshoot.

Speaking of Schoenheit genetics and their blossoming careers - heavens above, he fell in love the moment she first opened her eyes. There were few curly blond ringlets that grew out at super speed as the months past, and she inherited his lavender eyes. Although on a baby they were more rounded, doe-like, and would most definitely take his sharp edge as she grew. Every time he booped her little nose, the little giggle that came was almost melodic.

Such a well behaved baby made a cameo in one of his largest projects to date. He took the role of an unruly ostracized duke, where the special effects makeup made him both enchanting yet horribly frightening to young children. His character gained his redemption through raising an orphan, and Vil's little girl was the only baby they could find who wouldn't cry when seeing her father act so heinous.

"Vil, everyone here is itching to know, is it true that the baby we see in 'Redemption of our Finest ' is your own daughter? There are rumors and speculations from those on set yet we'd love confirmation."

Vil shifts in his chair. The many cameras at all angles did little to deter his focus from the interview in progress. It was one of many, and the talk-host across from him looked very eager to get the first scoop on his latest hit success. He smiled to the camera with his eyes, pretending to be in thought for a moment. The questions were all pre-approved, after all.

"Your assumption and the rumors are all correct," he started, crossing his legs and folding his hands together in them, "unfortunately we struggled to find a child that would not cry when faced with my appearance. Poor little things - it is a struggle to rear child actors. Especially babies."

The reporter blinked, somehow still shocked despite knowing the already.

"And you're saying that your daughter is a cut above the rest?" they asked, and he tutted inwardly. The phrasing was poor, as always with these reporters.

"Yes," he gave them a moment's victory, "and no."

He didn't wait for further inquiry.

"My daughter is remarkable - she is my greatest production, a work of perfection alongside my beloved spouse. Yet this film is rated PG-13, and includes scenes not fit for young eyes. Babies act on instincts alone, and for the majority of this film my appearance was...ah, I so rarely say this, but I was unsightly."

His tone carried warning for them not to twist his words, and the message was received as they gestured for those behind the scenes to alter the backdrop.

"We could even argue your acting ability is that good! To make such a beautiful face and poised demeanor come off as cold." they said, and with the click of a button the screen behind them changed.

On it came a picture of an old, tattered bassinette left on the front stoop of a castle. The picture flicked to show inside, and in it was Vil's precious little girl. Special effects added some dirt on her cheeks, and they wrapped her in a tattered blanket for the scene. Yet despite their efforts to make the child look abandoned, Schoenheit genetics demanded the world see such an adorable baby for all she is.

The audience awed at the picture, even without a cue card. Vil himself took on a genuine lift to his practiced smile when seeing her.

"And just look at her folks! Such an adorable little baby! Can you really expect anything less from THE Vil Schoenheit and Eric Venue's heritage. An actor before she can even count! Your wife's genes didn't even try here, did they Vil?"

The crowd appears insatiable as the host scrolls through a series of photos. Some taken from the film, others from photoshoots and the occasional candid photo snuck by paparazzi. He knew better than to try and hide his family, but said nothing as they all made assumptions.

After all - he was beautiful, and his daughter was undoubtedly the most beloved baby in all of Twisted Wonderland. It was only natural and who was he to turn his nose when faced with one of the few facts these reporters have gotten right.

Although, he wasn't entirely content He laughed into his palm, unable to resist the chance and made direct eye-contact with one of the cameras. Knowing full well that you were watching somewhere back stage, lips likely puckered from being disrespected and just waiting for him to come sneak your family out before the public was dismissed.

"I'm afraid there is nothing to argue there. My genes are perfection, not to mention competitive," he smirked seductively at the camera, propping his chin in the palm of his hand, "but I'm not opposed if my wife would like a rematch for a chance to win the next battle."

And with that - he simultaneously spiked his popularity rating and soft-launched what would likely be a second replica coming to life soon.

Maybe.

If you didn't kill him for that stunt first.

Prodigies spawn prodigies. At least in this case.

Idia never pictured himself as a family man. Hells he never thought anyone would even look at him with anything other than disgust (minus that one ghost lady. He doesn’t like to talk about it) let alone marry him. Needless to say that he cannot decide if you are an idiot or if he has plot armor - because those are the only two reasons you could possibly ever agree to give up your entire life and move to STYX just to be with him.

**see Marriage series for settling THAT can of worms

Yet you do, and now he’s got not only his little brother but a whole ass spouse. He’s on cloud nine. Life cannot be letting him have such good luck. The RNG is rigged

Until he learns that you’re with child - and it all goes boom. Literally. Since not only does his daughter inherit his curse, his fiery flames that never tame themselves, and his spiked teeth that nip his lips way too many times for comfort -

She inherits his genius.

Raising a child in a contained base is a living nightmare.

Raising a child with a need to infiltrate the laboratories and experiment is hell. At least he kept to his room when tinkering as a kid. Idia’s daughter has his brains and your craftiness for going around undetected…and your habit of initiating dramatic events. Needless to say that she does NOT keep to your family’s apartment, does NOT submit to any security (he regrets teaching her how to decode the base padlocks), and very much enjoys making STYX ‘lively’….haha…yeah

No one has ever met such a happy Shroud. Excluding Ortho. He was a sweet type of happy. You spawned a menace.

But let’s not derail. Even if he didn’t want her per-say - Idia loves his daughter. His gut twisted seeing the Shroud curse start taking hold over such a tiny body. She was just a toddler and already burning through enough blot to tie her to this place. He knew the feeling of those youthful amber eyes looking at him for guidance. She looked so much like Ortho as a toddler, and as a child began to resemble him more with longer flames.

It was a constant battle every day. Balancing his work while also trying to do better - because his attitude sucked. He knew his attitude sucked. You warned him about using self-deprecative language and for the most part he did learn to reign it in.

Except old habits die hard, and deep down he still struggles to like himself. Seeing his daughter follow in his footsteps burns brutally, since she has all this potential and just like him she’ end up working for the family business without a choice. All because of these stupid flames and these stupid teeth and these stupid genetics and this STUPID curse -

“MAMAAAAAAAA!!!! DADDY’S BEING A BIG MEANIE AGAIN!!!”

Her shrill high-pitched cry carried throughout the apartment. Idia had just enough time to swipe the alarm system off before it processed. He wishes he could regret putting a system to detect and alert if she was distressed when alone here - but couldn’t. Even now. Since this was totally 100% his fault.

Dammit this kid has lungs of steel.

“Nonononononono - No Mama! No! Shhh shh shh shh!” He grapppled at her little shoulders with clammy hands, “Look! Look I’m not sad, see??? We have pretty hair! Super cool hair! Please please please stop crying -“

And then she did.

The tonal whiplash. The way this tiny manipulator just ceased all her tears, mouth clamping shut with an audible click. A literal child pulling out a handkerchief from her pocket to pat her eyes dry - like some twisted 60yr old swindler at a poker game who’s been training for this moment for decades.

He should have known.

Honestly. Idia can’t even bring himself to be mad. The amount of gaslighting it took to get this kid off his Ninswendo last week already put his best tricks to use.

He is the one who created this monster.

Just like her dad - his little girl was hyper aware of people. Including him, and picked up all his weaknesses. She knew damn well that he genuinely had reason to fear only two people - her momma and her grandmother. Both of which lecture him about being a good model. She knew that system was put in place, and to be good when no one was around to watch her. Not that she ever stayed quiet in their home with S.T.Y.X labs to infiltrate.

He just never thought the day would come, when her demon like tendencies would be used for something like this.

“Your her father, not her friend” his mother said.

“It’s bad enough you turned me into a living photocopier - don’t you dare get lenient with her at this age” you warned.

“That child scares me” he thought, and you agreed. Awful. Awful parents. You both mean it in the most loving way possible.

“Hwee hee hee! I’m glad you think so, daddy,” she grinned up at him all sweet-like, with those pointy little chompers ready to stake their claim. She snapped her teeth at him like a piranha, “hehe~ Mommy says our teeth are cool too. The pointies make eating steak easier - oh! Oh! Can we please have steak for dinner tonight? Please?? Pleaseeeeee?”

Something told him that should he say no, those distress detectors would be set off before he could catch them.

“U-uh…yeah, kiddo. Sure thing. Just go play and I’ll put an order in.”

He tried desperately to hide the quiver in his voice, but knew he failed. She skipped off to her bedroom much too happily - even if father’s were supposed to want their kids to be happy, that was too much - and whatever work remained for the evening didn’t seem important

As Idia slid up to one of the house control panels to check for instant-card delivery, he wondered how this became his life, and if this is how his parents felt having a prodigal spawn of the under-hells for a son.

No. He wasn’t that bad….was he? Did he even want to know at this point?

Boom

“DADDY!!! MY EXPERIMENT BLEW UP AND IS LEAKING RED GUNK!”

No. No. He really did not want to know. For the sake of whatever relationship he had with his parents.

He wants as many children as possible. The definition of that one clip of of the kid who wanted 100 children, so that they'd all have to be his friend. Not that Malleus would force his children to be his friends - well, it would be a plus surely - but he does want a large family to live his life beside.

He finds comfort in solitude, but comfort's close companion is loneliness. He wishes to never be partnered with that feeling. There was opposition. Union between the Briar Prince and a human? Unheard of. Not to mention the life-span difference. Not just between himself and you, but also for his children. Half-fae live long, but not as long as full-blooded fae. In time he will still come out alone, but he hopes to have many memories. Much love and warmth to take with him.

Yet this isn't meant to be sad - no, let us focus on the absolute joy he felt when his first child was born. A boy, his magic exceedingly strong despite his lineage. Even the elders were surprised at the magical prowess this child held. It was almost as if Malleus' nightly wishes for his child to be well, to be loved, to be healthy - taking every precaution to ensure you were well cared for during pregnancy, speaking blessings to your stomach in the dead of night - it all just manifested and out came the world's most perfect child.

A Draconia who would grow up with both parents. He'd be protected, nurtured, loved, and never ever alone. Some might call the King overbearing, making sure his spouse had a desk in his office and attending his meetings with a bright yellow baby sling over his chest. It definitely stood out against his royal attire but Malleus didn't mind.

In magic - there was also physical appearance. Being half-human, the child physically aged quicker than Malleus did in his youth. Yet he still retained the Draconia genes, with two curled scaly horns poking out above his forehead. He had no tail at birth, but around puberty many little scales began to poke their way through at his temple, back, wrists, and neck. No one predicted this since the Draconias have never reproduced with humans, but you tried to calm him with poorly convoluted jokes about ' fancy dragon acne'.

Yet according to Lilia, the boy looked like a near carbon-copy of Malleus once he sprouted up. His hair may have been kept shorter, slicked back, and he may carry himself entirely different from his father. Yet the look in his slitted-emerald eyes was exactly the same. His aura was the same.

And Malleus hadn't any idea how to handle that observation. Surely it was meant as a compliment. In the moment, he laughed and took it as one. Who wouldn't be prideful to see themselves in their child? Especially one so accomplished, growing into his scales with pride and eagerly stepping into his role as prince.

Except Malleus wouldn't, because the thought of his child sharing the feelings he had at that age? It unsettled him greatly. Perhaps one of his worst nightmares as a doting father.

“Father?”

Three sharp knocks echoed in Malleus’ study. He needn’t look up from his book, since the door opened with a thud without waiting for his approval.

Not that he minded - no, quite the contrary. He felt excitement building up at the first knock after all. There was only one person who it could be.

No one would dare impose on the Briar King during his downtime.

None had permission for such rudeness.

No one except his dear family, of course. Although as much as he wished for them to cling to his side and be a welcome reprise from his duties - Malleus was rarely afforded such a gift. His eldest son in particular conducted himself more as a knight or distant consultant than a loving son. Perhaps that came from leaving him in Sebek’s care - as much as his knight was ecstatic to become the first prince’s personal guard, his constant reverence to the elder briar ways likely left an impact on an impressionable child. Instead of bedtime stories, the little Draconia likely fell asleep to Sebek's long-winded lectures on the daily.

Back when he was a starry-eyed toddler, of course. Now the boy wouldn't dare let his guard down enough to sleep, even if his safety was guaranteed. Somehow despite Malleus taking every last precaution to rear a tranquil child, he raised a stickler instead.

“Hm? You look troubled, my son” Malleus met his eldest’s rare lack of decorum with amusement. He didn’t bother to hide a fanged smirk from him.

His son, who seemed to bristle in the doorway when under Malleus’ eye, clearly struggled to contain himself into the proper prince he was trying to be.

“Because I am troubled, father” he grit out, hands flexing at his sides. Sharp black fingernails pricking at his palms.

“Oh? And what seems to be the problem? You so rarely come to me with such matters” - to anyone who didn’t know the king, the sentence read as a bitter slight.

Yet it was merely a father sulking for his son’s attention, in his own prideful way.

“That’s precisely the issue,” his son huffed, “with all held respect, you cannot just drop in on my classes whenever you feel like it! It’s disruptive!”

Malleus merely turned the page in his book, “and whose fault is it that I had to resort to such measures?”

His question met a guilty conscience, and so he continued.

“What else am I to do? My child no longer behaves as my blood. He writes home giving stale reports as if he is one of my soldiers and bids his precious family far too few visits,” Malleus looks up from his ‘reading,’ and gestures to the uniform his son wears, “What else am I to do to see my precious son, other than visit his school? I was a student there once. Your headmaster wouldn’t dare to deny my entry.”

“Father - I understand your anger with my negligence but that is not an excuse for disrupting my classmates -“

“They looked quite please with my presence. I even supplemented material for your lecture -“

“They were scared beyond their wits! - And what of mother?! Surely she was against doing something so drastic! Think of our image! The King of Briar Valley cannot just casually drop his responsibilities whenever he so pleases.”

The boy’s composure finally cracked - and even for a half-blood, his power easily contorted the world around them if left unteathered.

Crackles of electricity buzzed across the study, flickering through a lit desk-lamp. As did the temperature lessen some degrees. Rather than be miffed by his son’s explosion, Malleus laughed in the face of it.

So this is how he must have looked during his moments of impulsivity. Hah.

“You’d be foolish to assume she didn’t try and come along. I thought to spare you her ire, as a mercy.”

At that, the lamp ceased it’s flickering to beam a steady light once again. The teen’s cheeks flushed a shameful color, so rare for one who prides himself more than any of his siblings.

"That was not necessary," he softened almost instantly. Even if she nearly committed the same 'crime' as Malleus, it seems favorites were at play.

"You know with certainty that it was."

A Draconia through and through. What was the term Lilia used? “Momma’s boy”? Considering that none disrespect the Queen - the King included - as her ire could strike the most sore spots of their family after all.

The boy pulled at his collar, out of arguments and simmered to displeasure rather than anger. He muttered an apology for losing his temper, and Malleus found himself wishing for the argument to continue just a bit longer.

After all, these were the times he felt most like a father, a husband, part of a family - rather than a king. He misses the early days when he was only the first three, before the council and other influences pushed his children to focus on responsibilities and their lineage.

“I’m sorry for not writing home…or visiting…I hadn’t thought it would trouble you. I simply - I thought it best to place distance between us.”

“Distance?” Malleus balked, “Distance from your family?”

He couldn’t understand why his child would want distance.

How could the boy he worked so hard to instill belonging within, whom he raised from egg to man, whom he would give up everything for - possibly say such a harrowing thing.

His own blood. His heart and soul. To spew such things in the face of ancestors who were bound to loneliness.

Whatever explanation for his manners didn’t matter so long as he was happy, but to intentionally want to be away from all Malleus thought worthwhile in life?

Never-mind. Malleus wanted the argument to cease. Indefinitely. And to tie himself to this desk for a decade or more.

“Yes, Father. Otherwise it is too difficult-“ he hesitated to continue, but one look at his father- whatever expression he might hold that couldn’t be contained despite his efforts - seemed to be the last push, “- being away. From my family. Leaving. I do not like it, but it is my duty. Coming home, hearing from you, mother, even the care packages I receive from grandfather! I can’t eat them but somehow just smelling the burnt food makes me falter! How can you expect me to preform up to our family’s standards, if I am homesick all the time!?”

It was the first time since he was a boy, clinging to Malleus’ legs, begging his parents not to leave him with his babysitters, that his son cried so openly. Malleus nearly gave in each time it happened too.

The pressure of royal duties, of perfection, on his shoulders was the same as those who came before him. Yet Malleus found himself more relieved than anything, even if his child might never recover his pride.

It was also the first time in many years that Malleus hugged his son, careful to avoid his growing blunted horns, and wasn’t pushed away.

“You are already doing more than enough. Loving your family is nothing to be ashamed of, and it is one of my greatest regrets that you thought otherwise for a single moment.”

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

just a heads up for all writers out there!

I was recently told AO3 is currently being plagued by bots that comment on people’s works and falsely claim their fics were AI generated. and I can see how vile and discouraging hearing that is for authors who put so much time, effort and dedication into creating their fics.

now listen to me, if you ever get a comment like this on your work, please please please please know that they’re most definitely bot who comments the same thing on dozens of people’s works at random without ever reading the works. at all. they just copy and paste the same script onto random fics, any fic they come across.

they’re bots with malicious intentions, and they most certainly want you to lose motivation and/or delete your works. DON’T GIVE THEM WHAT THEY WANT.

if you ever get a comment like this, just delete the comment and/or report it to AO3.

remember that their comments don’t mean your works look “AI generated”. it only means these bots come across your fic and leave the same copy and pasted comment on it like they do to other writers.

don’t let them make you question yourself. they’re nothing but spam bots. YOU are a writer and you are fucking awesome.

[liketolaugh-writes]

Whenever I get a new hyperfixation I immediately start brewing crossovers with whatever my special interest at the time is. Which is kind of unfortunate because it can result in the most off-the-wall nonsense shit

Anyway I just think it would be fun for Danny to work as Doofenshmirtz’ intern (a PAID intern because he might be evil but he’s not as evil as Major Monogram!)

Danny could technically stop Perry from wrecking Doofenshmirtz’s shit but he just kind of. Doesn’t. It’s not his job to fight off Doofenshmirtz’ nemesis, his job is to troubleshoot Doofenshmirtz’s plans so he stops missing obvious problems

(Vanessa has been lodging complaints)

Danny just wants some formal work experience and Doofenshmirtz was impressed by the things he talked about doing in his parents’ lab and also by his tragic backstory (required)

Doofenshmirtz- also you were the only one that applied

Side effect of this is that Doofenshmirtz starts having to comply with OSHA safety standards because if he doesn’t then Danny refuses to eat lunch at work and Doofenshmirtz doesn’t like it

Doofenshmirtz- I’m not going to give you radioactive food!

Danny- I literally just don’t believe you

And yes Doofenshmirtz DOES immediately start trying to unlock more of Danny’s tragic backstory just because it seems like the thing to do and then proceeds to wheedle him into talking about it during nemesis fights (“You need to communicate!”)

Danny reminds Perry of his boys so they have an unspoken policy of ‘Danny won’t stop Perry and Perry leaves Danny alone’ which Doofenshmirtz appreciates. Perry absolutely realizes that Danny could be a much bigger threat if he wanted to but he also clearly doesn’t want to so Perry’s not really worried about it

Danny doesn’t really interfere either way because honestly the balance these two have going on is impressive. Doofenshmirtz makes his ‘evil’ inventions to work out his trauma and Perry makes sure no one gets hurt from them. No interference needed

This is probably some sort of tragic 18-19 year old Danny that’s really just trying to move on from everything that happened at Amity Park and doesn’t really want to think about it anymore

And yes half of this is just because I think it would be fun for Doofenshmirtz to have a slightly smaller younger assistant with a marginally less tragic backstory

…God why is there so much to this AU

[norristeria]

Do It for the Plot, one ! LN04

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Fan! FemReader

SUMMARY 𝄡 It was a stupid idea⏤scribbling your number on a scrap of paper and giving it to Lando at the Monaco Grand Prix. It would never work. And even if you did manage to give it to him, it's not like he's going to use it, right?

TAGS 𝄡 SMAU. Fluff.

NOTE 𝄡 In honor of Lando winning the sprint, enjoy whatever this is! Thank you so much my dear @tsunodaradio for requesting this story ( alongside other amazing ideas I'll brainstorm later! ) <33 I don't even know where this is going, I'm operating on vibes alone. This is just a sort of intro⏤the other parts will have a lot more substance.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

━━━━ Next Part! ❦

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WWW. INSTAGRAM! .COM / yourusername

Liked by emmaproulx and 63 others

yourusername I will never financially recover from this, but it is so worth it. Can you guess what I'm doing today??? ✴️🌈🧃🏎️

23 minutes ago

user1 5min hmmm let me guess... you're going to the monaco grand prix? ♥︎ liked by author

yourusername 4min HOW DID YOU KNOW??? 😱

user1 3min idk, perhaps cause you've been reminding me everyday. between each class. for the past three months. ♥︎ liked by author

user2 14min ENJOY BUB 🫶🏼 you deserve it ♥︎ liked by author

yourusername 11min I definitely will!!!!!

emmaproulx 20min pls don't get arrested for public indecency or something if you do see lando ♥︎ liked by author

emmaproulx 19min y/n. i see you liking my comment. and i've seen your most recent tweet. yourusername 19min 🙃 emmaproulx 19min I'M NOT BAILING YOU OUT OF JAIL OR SUBBING YOUR CLASSES.

[yourusername] user1 Replied to your story: CONGRATS OMG 😭😭

[yourusername] user2 Replied to your story: I'm going to hear about this for the rest of our lives uh???

[yourusername] emmaproulx Replied to your story: try to look more uncomfortable next time

[yourusername] emmaproulx Replied to your story: but i'm proud of you for controlling yourself he doesn't seem TOO traumatized

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YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE! from: Emma 🧌

YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE! from: Unknown

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[midnghtprentiss]

possessive - jack abbot

a/n: so i have this scenario in my head but idk if i love it or hate it, it’s up to you at this point 😭 sorry for any misspellings, english is not my first language

pairing: jack abbot x f!pediatrician!reader

summary: jack abbot is a possessive man and we love that

warnings: dr abbot being hot, myrna being inconvenient as always, medical inaccuracies, let me know if i missed something (gif not mine i just find it here)

Possessive is a word referred to ownership or a relationship of belonging between one thing and another.

Is the state of having, owning, or controlling something.

Jack Abbot was a possessive man.

Not an inconvenient possessive man. He was subtle. One hand at the end of your back. Picking you up at the end of your shift when he isn’t working. Talking to you with the softest voice. Sharing coffee or a granola bar he had in his pocket for you. The glances to other men when you’re walking by.

He had nothing to fear with you. You sleep and wake up with him every day. He knew exactly how to show someone that you belonged to him without saying a word. He hasn't put a ring on your finger and yet everybody in the ED understands you’re his girl and nobody was crazy to question him.

It was supposed to be your day off. You already made plans with Emery and Parker to go out for dinner and have some drinks like you do every month. That’s your way of gossiping and keeping the bond stronger, especially working at male dominated fields. Keeping the girls together makes the job easier and better. You were even planning to invite Samara to the next dinner.

The best thing about the trio was initially to piss Jack off and because you worked so well together and a friendship naturally bloomed - and thank god it did. The funniest, dirtiest and best conversations came out so easily between you that it was impossible to keep track of the actual dialogue topic when you combined.

Unfortunately your phone vibrated in your purse during dinner with a message from Robby letting you know there was an emergency of a child that fell and the parents were asking for you. These things were pretty normal in your routine when you work with pediatrics emergencies. In less than fifteen minutes you were walking towards the ED entrance like you weren't just discussing panties over drinks.

Worst part of it? You had no time to change your clothes. So you were standing at the nursing station with the most expensive Valentino dress you own, brand new shoes and your favorite coat to protect you from the cold.

The scrubs were a protocol when you’re working and you were not. You hated to work without them and hated even more that your backup scrubs were not in your car. Jack must’ve taken them to wash and didn’t put them back.

Jack didn’t see you coming and he had no idea of the dress you chose for your girls night. Bridget was already laughing when you entered, holding you something to cover up until you have to leave again. She quickly took your overcoat and gave you a white coat, which helped a little but not too much because of your heels clicking at the floor.

“Wow doc, didn’t know you could look that hot.” You heard Garcia teased and shook your head laughing. “You should show up like this more often, as an experiment of course.”

“I appreciate your words Yoyo. Maybe next time I'll show up with your favorite color.” She blew you a kiss and walked away laughing.

“He’s going to need to be sedated when he hears you’re in his ED looking like this” Robby chuckled when he found at the nursing station. “Sorry I've called you, they insisted on being you. They are barely letting Mel work there.’

“It’s fine, Robby. I don’t like my day off anyway.” You winked and went straight to the room they were in.

The child parents came running to you the moment you entered their plain sight. Dr. King was accompanying them before you arrived, describing the situation in detail and how she dealt with them. And for her face you knew how those parents weren’t easy to deal with.

“Dr (Y/L/N), this is Jamie, 10 month old, previously healthy, fell from the crib around 9 p.m.. According to the mother, he tried to pull himself up using the crib rails, lost his balance, and fell over the side of the crib, landing directly on the floor. He cried immediately for about fifteen minutes, with no loss of consciousness and no vomiting. The mother noted only mild bruises in the right frontotemporal region, with no other signs of trauma. He remained active, fed normally, and showed no changes in consciousness or behavior. “ You heard Mel's words with attention while examining the child.

“You ordered any exams, doctor King?” She nodded and passed you the chart to look at.”

“A CT, x-ray and some labs just to make sure everything is perfectly fine.” You nodded, shaking your head.

“Excellent.” You smiled at her and turned your attention to the parents.

“Does he cry when he moves? Has he had any seizures? Allergies or something we need to know?” They kept denying. “Why don’t you bring him early? It’s almost one in the morning.” The parents kept their silence and you shrugged your shoulders, looking at them. “Alright then. Doctor King will accompany you to the CT and the x-ray.”

Something you loved about yourself was the way you’re pretty centered and rigid about your job, especially working around and with children. Fighting with parents? You do every shift. Making the little ones laugh? You did it too. You were tough and nice but at the same time the children absolutely loved you. The most common thing to see was you holding a child mid shift and laughing about it with the nurses.

He was waiting for you at the nursing station. Coffee in hand. Jaws tighten when his eyes land on you. Eyebrows raised while he analyzed your shoes. You leaned closer to him, enough to look professional and only a little mischievous so he could smell your new perfume - the one he bought you.

“Hi there, doctor Abbot.” You touched his arm and smiled, knowing exactly what he was going to ask. “Peds emergency, they have to call the best.”

“This is not workplace clothing.” His hand reached yours, quickly brushing your finger.

“I had a nice time at dinner, thanks for asking, by the way.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll go home when his exams are finished. I won’t even leave this spot.” You sit in the vague chair and cross your arms.

“Nice coat, actually.” Dr. Jack Abbot. It was his coat. “You should work with this more often since you don’t want to change your last name.”

Before you can even replied you heard Myrna screaming at the other side of the room.

“Nice ass, MacDreamy.” She pointed at you.

“Been working out lately, Myrna. Do you like it?” You teased her and she giggled.

“Watch out or I’ll steal your girl, Abbot. I killed a man before and I can do it again.”

When you turned to look at Jack again, he was serious. His forehead was tense and his knuckles white from holding his coffee mug. His hair was a little messy and there was some blood in his scrubs.

Hot. Really hot.

He didn’t care when your friends, female friends, flirted with you because he knew you flirted back joking. He respected your boundaries and you respected him too. You still find it pretty amusing how he gets all possessive over small things, lucky you he didn’t see the dress you were wearing underneath the white coat.

Vintage Valentino, sheer black chiffon, off-the-shoulder neckline with the fabric draped down the arms, creating a dramatic, sophisticated look. At the bust, a large central bow, asymmetrical and flowing skirt, with soft, layered fabric and a high front slit that reveals the left leg. Jack never complained or talked badly about your clothing, he actually enjoyed seeing you wearing the clothes you liked - he enjoyed taking off more. He describes being an extension of your personality.

“Want to talk about that dress?” He lifted up the white coat a little. “Showing legs and neck like crazy, hm?”

“Nope, we’re not doing this here. You’re working.”

“Why not? I thought you like showing off a little too much.” He crossed his arms and you sigh.

“Oh my God, is this foreplay?” His eyes locked on yours. “Fuck it, I’m into it.”

“Just stay here until the boy it’s back.” He stared at you for a few seconds and you tried to control your smile.

“Are you jealous, Abbot?” You heard Shen comment and buried your face in your hands. He just gave him the nastiest look you’ve ever seen in your life and you can tell he already gave you some looks at you in the bedroom.

The exams took a while to get ready and when they returned to the emergency room, you met them again holding a tablet to explain the situation to them. Immediately the little boy was already in your arms, resting his head over your shoulder.

“The CT and the x-ray both came normal, no injury or other systemic trauma. He’s safe and sound. If you notice something is different, bring him immediately.” You hold his little hand and smile brightly. “You’re lucky to be here today, Jamie.”

The parents asked a few questions about the exams and the therapy you chose for him and after they left you stayed inside the empty room for a while before you left to grab the rest of your stuff.

Jack was talking something with Robby when you approached them, taking off the white coat that belonged to your man and putting on your warm and cozy overcoat. His eyes went straight to your almost bare chest, he had to scan the room pretty quickly for perverts watching you. One drunk guy screamed that he wanted you to talk to him, Myrna said something about your ass again and this time Mel came in complementing your legs.

“You should be grateful you weren’t there when Emery and Parker saw me, you probably be in jail now.” He helped you close the buttons of your coat.

“Remind me to put a goddamn ring on your finger.” He whispered closer to you, making you burst out laughing.

“What a romantic proposal. I’m really emotional.” Jack rolled his eyes, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I already heard some jerks talking about you and I didn’t appreciate their tone.” You passed your arms around his shoulder - ignoring the PDA rule you established for work.

“Yeah, I’m still sleeping in your bed tho.” He agreed, laughing softly. “Gotta go now. Emery is waiting for me at Five Guys and I could kill for a burger now.”

“Be careful, beautiful.”

“Try to go home in one piece.” You squeezed his shoulder and winked before walking away.

When you arrived for your next shift there was a big diamond on your finger and the biggest smirk on Jack's face when people started to talk about it.

[natsaffection]

story idea or little short thing which ever but i personally image Natasha being a bad flirt when she really means it, like for example she ends up liking a woman who doesn't work for the Avengers or like has something simple like a small librarian or something and because it's unexpected she doesn't know how to react to this sudden feeling and tries to flirt with her but suddenly every bit of seduction she learnt and she used to her advantage vanished and she just stares a lot and maybe asks about the woman's interest as a way of flirting cause i don't know what to do, she's such a cutie patootie in my eyes, i can take her seriously but at the end of the day i just see my shayla like that's just babygirl with a big heart🥲

How she smiles. | N.R

Warnings: None, just fluff

Word count: 3,7k

A/N: Some story’s aren’t just story’s.

The clock on Natasha’s nightstand blinked 5:42 am. but she was already awake.

The room was still, a minimal space lit only by the soft morning gray leaking through the window. A single shelf held a few books. Her combat boots were lined up with surgical precision at the door. A black hoodie was folded on the chair. No clutter. Nothing personal.

Natasha didn’t need much. She liked it that way. She sat up slowly, letting the silence stretch. It was the one time of day she didn’t have to perform. No missions. No teammates. No masks. Just the hum of a world that hadn’t quite started turning yet.

The floor was cold against her feet. She liked that, too, the reminder that she was real. That she existed in the world, not just above it.

By 6:10, she was jogging along the perimeter of the compound. Not for training. Not for show. Just because she needed it. The steady rhythm of breath and pavement was something she could control.

By 7:00, she was in the gym, alone. No music. Just the sound of fists hitting pads. Her technique was flawless, fast, efficient, unrelenting. She didn’t spar to fight. She sparred to stay sharp.

At 8:00, she changed into a fresh black turtleneck and tailored pants. Not because anyone told her to, but because discipline was a habit she never broke. Breakfast was a protein bar and a black coffee she brewed herself. No creamer. No sugar. No softness.

By 8:30, she was already scanning mission logs in the ops room when Steve walked in, muttering about debriefs and red tape.

“You’re late.” she said, not looking up.

“It’s 8:30.”

“I said what I said.”

He chuckled under his breath. She smirked. It was a rhythm now, their banter, safe, familiar. Maria arrived fifteen minutes later, sleek and pressed as always. Natasha greeted her with a glance, a tilt of the head, just enough suggestion to keep Hill on her toes.

It wasn’t about flirting. Not really. It was about reading people, playing the part they expected. Sometimes that part had a smirk and a raised brow. Sometimes it had a knife. Most people couldn’t tell the difference.

By midday, the team had mostly scattered. Thor was off-world. Tony was buried in his lab. Clint was… somewhere. Natasha didn’t ask. She walked the compound in silence, boots echoing in empty hallways, her reflection catching in polished glass. The world outside buzzed with movement, but inside, there was stillness.

Natasha was many things. Spy, assassin, avenger. But in between all of that, she was also a woman used to waiting. Watching. Living on the edges of other people’s stories. She didn’t mind. It was easier that way.

When she finally sat down with Bruce in the lab around 4:00 pm, it wasn’t about conversation. He handed her a tablet with new intel. She passed him a small container of protein gummies, a quiet joke from their last mission.

“Thanks.” he said, with a hint of a smile.

“Don’t get emotional.” she replied.

Later, it was one of those rare nights when no one was injured, the world wasn’t on fire, and no one was being hunted across continents. So Tony did what Tony did best, threw a party.

The tower’s penthouse was transformed into something between a lounge and a battlefield of banter. Stark had cleared out half the bar’s premium stock. Music pulsed low. Everyone had a drink in hand, but the air wasn’t loose. It was precise, a show of ease from people trained to kill.

Natasha stood near the window, her silhouette painted in city lights, sipping whiskey straight. Her dress was black, high-necked but sleeveless, with a slit that whispered danger.

She was talking to Maria, a shoulder angled just so. A too-long glance. A slow smile that hinted at something unsaid.

Steve stood across the room with Sam and Clint, observing with a raised brow.

“You’re staring.” Sam said, following his gaze.

“I’m…watching.” Steve replied, slowly.

“Same thing.”

Clint smirked and leaned over. “He’s just surprised. Nat’s usually ten moves ahead, but with Hill? She lingers.”

“She’s not doing anything wrong.” Steve said, but his tone was too thoughtful to be casual.

“She never is.” Clint added. “Not where anyone can prove it.”

Meanwhile, Natasha had leaned in closer to Maria, brushing her hand lightly over her sleeve as she made a point about… something she definitely wasn’t listening to. She was flushed.

“Relax.” she said quietly, “I don’t bite.”

Maria gave a nervous chuckle. “That’s…debatable.”

She tilted her head, amused. “Maybe.”

Suddenly, the music dropped, and Tony clapped his hands dramatically. “Alright, children of chaos, time for the real entertainment. Who’s up for a little game?”

Natasha turned toward him, intrigued. “What kind of game?” she asked, already knowing she’d say yes.

“Truth or shot,” Tony said. “Classy, right?”

Groans and laughter broke out. Natasha smiled, finishing her whiskey. “Let’s make this interesting.” she said, walking over to the circle that had started forming in the lounge. “Winner gets to make someone else do anything.”

Steve frowned. “Define anything.”

“Come on, Roger’s.” Natasha said, arching a brow. “Live a little.” She was in control. This was her world. These were the spaces she navigated with elegance and heat and sharpness under the surface.

The morning after was crisp, the kind that bit at the skin but promised a clearer mind. Natasha had been restless since sunrise, her body tense with leftover adrenaline and the ghost of too many thoughts. Steve had caught on.

“You need fresh air.” he’d said. “Come on. Walk with me.” So they walked.

They cut through lower Manhattan in silence, boots clicking on damp sidewalks, the city just beginning to hum to life. Steve talked here and there, about a sparring session with Sam, a report Maria wanted, something about a diplomatic issue in Wakanda, and Natasha nodded, half-listening. Not because she wasn’t interested. Just…tired.

Then Steve pointed across the street. “That place is new.” he said. “Wanna try it?”

Natasha followed his gaze to a corner café tucked between a bookstore and a florist. It had wide windows, soft wood framing, and a handwritten chalk sign on the sidewalk that read:

Red Velvet Latte is back — dare you.

Natasha quirked an eyebrow. “Dare accepted.” The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside, a soft sound against the murmur of the shop’s early patrons and the low jazz playing through the speakers. It smelled like cinnamon and espresso and something warm.

And then, Natasha froze. She hadn’t meant to. It was just a flicker at first, a glance toward the counter, a tilt of her head. But then she saw her.

You.

A young woman behind the espresso machine, long hair tucked perfectly into a clip, sleeves pushed up, a faint smudge of foam on her cheek. She wasn’t doing anything extraordinary, just pouring steamed milk into a mug, but there was something about her. The way the light caught her jawline. The calm on her face. The quiet confidence in the way she moved.

Beautiful.

Not the kind Natasha usually noticed. Not the dangerous, red-lipped kind. This was so much different. And all at once, Natasha Romanoff, assassin, spy, master manipulator, forgot everything. Steve was still talking, saying something about the furniture layout or the smell of nutmeg, but she didn’t hear a word. Her eyes were locked.

She didn’t even realize she’d stopped walking until Steve gently nudged her shoulder. “You good?”

No answer. Then, like the universe wanted to mess with her, the girl looked up..and smiled. It was instinct that brought Natasha to the counter. Not logic. Not curiosity. Just the kind of invisible pull she couldn’t have described even under interrogation.

“Hi there.” The girl said brightly. “What can I get started for you two?”

Her voice was light, smooth, like honey over gravel. And it hit Natasha like a gut punch. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Steve stepped in, amused but polite. “Just a black coffee for me. She’ll have…” He looked at Natasha. “Natasha?”

Natasha blinked. “I- uh…yes. Sorry. Just…”

The girl tilted her head, waiting. Natasha coughed gently, straightening her posture. “Espresso. Double shot. Please.”

The girl smiled again. “Coming right up.”

Natasha tried to mirror the smile, but it felt off. Too wide. She turned to Steve, who was already watching her with a knowing look.

“What?” she asked, too quickly.

He raised both eyebrows. “You’ve interrogated war criminals with more composure.”

“Shut up.”

They moved to a small table by the window, the sunlight catching Natasha’s cheekbone as she stared into the middle distance.

“You gonna tell me what just happened?” Steve asked, lowering himself into the seat.

“Nothing happened.” she muttered, adjusting the sleeves of her jacket. “I’m just tired.”

��Right.” he said, leaning back with a smirk. “Because I’ve definitely seen you speechless before.”

Natasha glared at him, but she didn’t have the energy to deny it. Her heart was still beating oddly fast, her palms still cool with nerves she hadn’t felt since her first mission.

Across the room, the barista worked with ease, laughing softly with a coworker as she pulled another espresso shot. Her voice carried faintly over the counter, low and melodic.

Natasha didn’t even realize she was staring again.

Steve watched her for a long moment, “Well, damn. I think we found your weakness.”

Natasha looked away, eyes narrowed. “She’s not a weakness.” she said, more to herself than to him. But even as she said it, she wasn’t sure she believed it. Not yet.

Their drinks arrived a moment later, and the girl set Natasha’s cup down gently in front of her.

“I hope it’s strong enough.” she said, and for just a moment, her eyes met Natasha’s. It wasn’t flirtatious. Not overt..Just kind.

And it made Natasha’s throat tighten. She barely managed to say “Thank you.” Then the girl turned and walked away, and Natasha watched her go like she’d forgotten how to do anything else.

Two Days later:

Natasha hadn’t meant to come back. At least, that’s what she told herself. She told herself it was just a convenient detour. She happened to be in the area. She just wanted decent espresso. Nothing more.

But as she turned the corner and saw the familiar chalkboard sign outside, Red Velvet Latte is back. You know you want it. She felt something twist in her stomach. It wasn’t nerves, exactly. It was worse. It was anticipation..

She stepped inside. The café was quieter than the day before, a weekday lull, with soft jazz humming through the speakers and the golden morning light catching on the brick walls. There were maybe five other people seated, heads bent over laptops or books.

And then, there you were. Behind the counter again. Your hair was half-up today, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You looked just as natural, just as quietly radiant as before, and maybe it was because Natasha had replayed the moment in her head too many times, but she felt it instantly:

She remembered you.

You turned, spotted Natasha, and smiled. Not politely. Not like you did for every customer. This one was warmer. Real.

“Oh..” you said, walking toward the register. “You’re back.”

Natasha’s mouth felt dry. You didn’t wait for her to speak. You tapped something into the screen and said, “Espresso, right? Double shot.”

Natasha blinked. Normally, she’d have something ready by now, a teasing remark, a flirty comeback, a raised brow and a smile that said you’re fun, but I’m dangerous. It was a routine. A shield. A game she always won.

But now? Now, she stood there like someone had unplugged her brain. “You…remembered?” she managed.

“Of course.” you said with a shrug, a hint of playfulness in your tone. “You don’t forget someone who looks like they walked out of a spy movie.”

It wasn’t flirtatious, not exactly. But it landed. Natasha opened her mouth, say something, say something clever, say literally anything! But her tongue didn’t move the way it was supposed to.

She gave a breath of a laugh, glancing down at the counter like it had answers. “Well…good memory.” That’s all she had..No wink. No comeback. Just a weird little knot in her stomach and a flush creeping under her collar.

You gave her a curious look, not suspicious, just curious. “You want it for here or to go?”

Natasha should have said to go. She had nothing to do here. No reason to stay. But before her brain could catch up, her mouth said,

“For here.”

You nodded. “Take any seat. I’ll bring it to you.”

Natasha nodded and turned away fast, too fast, choosing the corner table by the window, the one that let her sit with her back to the wall. Habit. Safety. Even if she felt completely unsafe in a way she didn’t recognize. She sat there, pretending to scroll her phone, heart beating in this slow, impossible rhythm.

What the hell was wrong with her?

Across the room, you moved like you belonged there, laughing with a coworker, adjusting the cups, brushing hair behind your ear. Everything about you was normal. So normal. And yet it felt like something had shifted in Natasha’s world just from being near you.

A minute later, you appeared beside her with the espresso. “Here you go.” you said, setting it down gently. “Still hot. I pulled it a little slower this time, more flavor that way.”

Natasha looked up, and for a second, she felt breathless again. She nodded. “Thanks.”

You hesitated. “So…spy movie?”

Natasha blinked. “What?”

“You do look like someone out of one.” you said with a grin. “Mysterious. Sharp jawline. Possibly knows forty ways to kill someone with a spoon.”

Natasha stared at you for a heartbeat too long. Normally, she’d laugh. Play along. Maybe lean in, lower her voice, say something like only forty? But her mouth wouldn’t work right, and instead, all she said was:

“I like spoons.”

Silence. You blinked, then gave a soft laugh that made Natasha’s face burn.

“Noted.” you said, lips twitching with amusement. “Well, enjoy your coffee…Spoon Lady.”

And just like that, you turned and walked away, and Natasha let her head fall into her hands with a groan.

She was losing her mind. Spoon lady? Natasha groaned under her breath, dragging a hand over her face.

She’d survived torture. She’d lied her way out of high-security prisons. She’d faced alien armies and bureaucratic meetings with Tony. And somehow, this was her downfall, a coffee shop and a girl with warm eyes and a smudge of cinnamon on her cheek.

The espresso sat in front of her, untouched. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the tiny porcelain cup like it had betrayed her.

Across the room, you were wiping down the counter, smiling at something a coworker said. Occasionally, you glanced toward Natasha, not obvious, but Natasha noticed. She always noticed.

And she hated that it made her stomach flip.

The café had quieted even more, only two other patrons now, both nose-deep in laptops. The music was softer too, some old soul track that felt like honey poured over late morning sunlight.

It was the perfect window.

Natasha picked up her espresso, stood, and walked, with the casual, predator-smooth stride she used in every hallway, every party, every mission, right up to the counter. To smooth over her earlier embarrassment, reclaim a little dignity, maybe throw in a practiced smile, something casual and clever. To prove to herself that she was still her.

But the second you looked up, all that went out the window.

Not because of how you looked, though, God, you did, but because of the way you blinked when your eyes met, as if startled by your own reaction. The way you tucked your hair back too fast. The way you over-corrected your smile like you didn’t trust it to hold.

She’s nervous, Natasha realized. Not scared. Not intimidated. Just…nervous.

It was adorable. And it knocked the breath right out of her.

Natasha had seen it all, seduction, awe, desire, even fear. But this? This quiet fluster of someone trying so hard to play it cool and failing just slightly? It was real in a way she hadn’t touched in years. No performance. No angle. Just a girl with warm hands, pretty eyes, and the worst poker face she’d ever seen.

Natasha leaned a forearm lightly on the wood and took a sip of her drink, stalling, breathing, reminding herself who she was.

“Okay.” she said, softly but clearly. “That was…a terrible first impression.”

You smiled, eyes bright with amusement. “It was kind of charming.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Is that a polite way of saying I sounded like an idiot?”

“Maybe a little..” you teased, laughing. “But in a very mysterious, highly-trained-assassin-who’s-not-great-at-talking-to-baristas kind of way.”

Natasha shook her head, but smiled. Real this time. She exhaled like it let out something she’d been holding for too long.

“I usually do better than that.” she said, eyes fixed gently on you. “I’m…not sure what happened.”

Your expression softened. You wiped your hands on a dish towel and stepped a little closer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I think you were just surprised.” you said. “Happens more than you’d think.”

Natasha studied your face for a beat, calm, but flushed, a little shy. And the more Natasha noticed it, the worse she got. Because usually, when someone blushed, she’d lean into it, drop her voice, step a little closer, let the silence stretch. She liked the tension. The control.

But with you?

She didn’t want control.

She wanted to know you.

“I’m Natasha.” she said finally, voice quieter now, like she didn’t want anyone else to hear.

You blinked, that kind of blink that meant oh, and then smiled again, slower this time. “I know.”

Natasha tilted her head. “You do?”

“Yeah…” you admitted, cheeks turning pink, “Steve Rogers was with you yesterday. And you…kind of have the presence of someone who doesn’t do boring for a living.”

Natasha laughed, a low, husky sound. “That’s one way of putting it.”

You stuck out your hand over the counter, suddenly brave. “I’m Y/n.”

Natasha looked at your hand, then took it, her fingers brushing yours just a second too long.

“Nice to meet you, Y/n.” she said. And this time, her voice had its usual rhythm again, low, smooth, a little dangerous. But even then, even with every instinct in her clicking back into place, she didn’t push the flirt further. Not yet.

Instead, she asked, “So…how long have you been working here?”

You smiled, still holding Natasha’s gaze like it was easy. Like you weren’t shaking the world off its axis.

“A little over a year.” you said. “Why, are you planning to become a regular?”

And there it was, the invitation, the challenge. Natasha hesitated for half a second. Then she nodded slowly, smirking just a little.

“Maybe I already am.”

You blinked, your smile faltering slightly, not fading, just shifting. Like you felt the change in the air, too.

“Oh?” you asked softly, setting your rag aside. Natasha’s throat went dry. She glanced down at the counter, then back up. Her voice, when it came, was lower than usual.

“I was wondering..” Natasha said, fingers tapping once, nervously, against the wood, “if maybe you’d want to get coffee with me. Somewhere that isn’t here.”

The words hung there, fragile, quiet, terrifying. You didn’t answer right away. Your lips parted slightly, eyes wide. Then you let out a soft breath, a laugh, the kind people make when something inside them exhales.

“Like a date?” you asked, voice breathless.

Natasha nodded once. “Yeah. Like a date.”

You looked down, then back up, your cheeks flushed, but your smile was real and wide and a little stunned.

“You sure you don’t just want more espresso?” you teased, but your voice was trembling in the sweetest way.

Natasha leaned in, just enough. “I think I’ve had enough espresso. I want…something else.”

There it was. Not a line. Not a performance. Just truth. You bit your lip, still smiling. “Okay.” you said quietly. “I’d like that.”

Natasha blinked once, surprised or relieved. Elated in a way she didn’t know how to show.

Then, gently: “After your shift?”

You nodded. “I get off at two.”

Natasha gave a soft smile, and it reached her eyes this time. “I’ll be here.”

She turned to walk away, and for once, didn’t try to control the smile tugging at her lips. Because this..whatever it was, felt like the start of something she didn’t even know she was allowed to want.

And this time? She wanted everything.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-Five

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, time skips, so much fluff, sexual content, mentions of pregnancy.

Notes — The first of two 2022 chapters. Prepare yourselves, maybe grab a drink and a snack. It’s a long one.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

February 2022

Max and Pietra’s flat smelt of hairspray and lavender air freshener. One of Pietra’s playlists, hilariously named ‘Soft Amelia Approved’ was playing from her phone. Amelia sat in front of the vanity, gripping the edge of the stool. Her hair was half-styled, soft waves pinned back temporarily, and her dress, a sleek, ice-blue gown with structured shoulders, hung on the front of the wardrobe like a quiet threat.

Pietra stood behind her in leggings and a hoodie, carefully applying highlighter to Amelia’s cheekbones. “You’re doing very well,” she said gently. “You haven’t cried yet.”

Amelia glanced up in the mirror, blinking quickly. “I’m very uncomfortable right now.”

Pietra laughed, soft and fond. “Okay, that’s fine. Being uncomfortable is a normal human experience. But if it gets too much, just say so.” She told her. 

“My face feels weird.”

“That’s because you’re used to only wearing moisturiser and mascara. I’ve given you a full face.”

Amelia grimaced. “Yes. I know. I can feel it. All of it. Every layer.” 

“Mmhm.” Pietra stepped back and handed her the lip balm. “So, to distract you: I cannot believe that you got engaged and didn’t tell anyone for, like, weeks.”

Amelia dabbed the balm with a heavy hand. “Lando did. He was telling everyone, P. And your Max knew. Still can’t believe he didn’t even bother telling you. Men are so strange.” She sighed. 

Pietra leaned against the vanity, arms crossed. “I am still a little bitter that you didn’t tell me yourself.” 

“Sorry,” Amelia said simply.

“You let Lando tell the entire McLaren factory.”

“I know,” Amelia muttered. “But I told you eventually. It still counts.”

Pietra grinned. “The old lady at the Monaco patisserie knew before I did.”

Amelia made a face. “Thanks to Lando, that lady knew before our parents did. But it’s fine. She’s started giving me free madeleines.”

They shared a quiet laugh. The warmth in the room softened Amelia’s shoulders slightly. Pietra picked up one of the makeup brushes, but didn’t start working again — just watched her, brows lifted slightly.

“Am I really your only girl friend?”

Amelia didn’t look away. “You are.”

“That’s kind of sad.” Pietra frowned. 

“It’s not.” Amelia denied. “Most people, girls especially, expect… social cues. Emotional reciprocity. I don’t have that in the way they want it. But you’ve never made me feel like I’m broken for it.”

Pietra blinked, suddenly glossy-eyed. “Okay, well. Now I’m the one who’s going to cry.”

“I love you,” Amelia said, in her typically direct way. 

Pietra swallowed. “I love you too.” There was a beat before she cleared her throat. “So, are you ready for tonight? Lando’s briefed you, yes? It’s going to be a bit intense.” Pietra said, picking up her steamer and glancing at the gown.

Amelia stared at her reflection for a moment longer. “No. But I’ll do it anyway. It’ll make him happy to have me there with him.”

“Exactly. And when it’s over, you’ll come back here, and you’ll be able to scrub all of that makeup off of your face, eat pasta in your dressing gown, and watch Love Island with subtitles on.”

Amelia exhaled, steadier now. “Will you make me some tea?”

“Of course I will,” Pietra said, grabbing the dress and holding it out. “Now. Let’s get you dressed.” 

— 

Lando was pacing Max’s bedroom, adjusting the cuff of his suit jacket for the tenth time. The bow tie was already starting to feel too tight, but he refused to mess with it and risk messing it up. He could hear Pietra bustling in the other room, her voice drifting faintly through the cracked door; sharp, encouraging, then quiet.

Then the door opened.

And he stopped breathing.

Amelia stepped out slowly, one hand smoothing down the front of her gown. It was the palest icy blue, the neckline clean and sharp, the silhouette structured and strong, like something from a fucking fairy tale. Her dark hair was tucked back loosely, a few curls brushing her jaw, and she was wearing more makeup than usual — shimmer at her cheeks and a soft shine on her mouth. Not too much. Just enough.

She froze when she saw him. “You’re staring at me.”

“You—” Lando blinked. “I’ve forgot how to say words.”

Amelia tilted her head. “Oh no. You’re supposed to present an award tonight. On stage. Maybe you should work on that.” 

He stepped closer, slow and reverent, his eyes scanning her face, the line of her shoulders, the way the dress hugged her waist. He reached out, hands hovering for a second like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to touch her. “You look like— I don’t even know. So beautiful, baby. We should just ditch the red carpet, yeah? Just drive a million miles and never have anyone other than me look at you ever again.”

She blinked at him. “That’s… either deeply romantic or mildly horrifying.”

“Both,” he whispered, finally letting his hands settle at her waist. “God, Amelia.”

Her eyes softened as she looked up at him, and when he kissed her, it was careful — like he didn’t want to smudge anything, like she was made of glass.  “You’re going to outshine everyone there,” he murmured into her hair.

“I’ll be fine just standing in the corner,” she replied. “With my noise-cancelling earbuds and a glass of icy cold water. With a straw.” 

Pietra poked her head around the corner. “If you two are done, the car’s downstairs. Max is talking to the driver.”

Lando reached for Amelia’s coat. “Come on then, future Mrs. Norris. Let’s go cause a scene.”

She slid her arm into his, leaned against him just a little. “Pietra promised me pasta and Love Island when we get back.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” he promised.

—

The red carpet was chaos.

Flashes strobed like lightning, the roar of photographers cutting through the February night. Celebrities in designer gowns and sleek tuxedos moved with a strange kind of practiced elegance — confident, gliding, like they belonged here.

Amelia did not feel like she belonged here.

She held Lando’s hand tightly, her free hand tucked into the folds of her dress. Her heart was hammering, her mouth set in that unreadable, slightly stern line. 

Lando looked dazzling, sharp suit, mischievous grin, curls tamed only slightly. He was doing fine, charming the press line like it was just another race weekend.

“Amelia!” Someone called. “Can we get a shot of the ring?”

She flinched.

Lando glanced sideways at her instantly. He didn’t answer the shout, didn’t pull her closer, didn’t make a big deal, just gently rotated his body, stepping into the line of fire, cutting off the view of her hand as subtly as breathing.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Too loud,” she said quickly. “Too fast. I can’t filter any of it.”

He gave a single nod. “Okay. One minute more, and then we’re inside. I’ll get you a drink, and we can sit. You can take your earbuds out of your purse if you want. Or we leave. Say the word.”

She didn’t say anything, just pressed her hand harder into his.

A woman in a gown made entirely of sequins called out, “Amelia! Congratulations on the Championship!”

Amelia blinked, slow. “Thanks.”

Lando gave her the smallest nudge, his thumb brushing hers, like a reminder that she didn’t owe anyone more than that. And Amelia… surprisingly, said nothing else. Just nodded once.

A few more photos. A few more questions, mostly aimed at Lando, who held her hand through it all.

Inside the venue, the noise was muffled. Lights were softer. Music thudded beneath the floor.

Lando led her to a table, his hand still resting low on her back, letting her settle before crouching down next to her chair. “You want me to skip presenting?”

She shook her head. “No. Of course not.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll be fine now. It was just the flashing. And the shouting. And that one guy who stepped on my toe.” She grimaced. 

He grinned. “You look cute when you’re mad.”

She gave him a flat glare. “I wasn’t mad. It hurt. He was heavy, and visibly overweight. He couldn’t—.”

He kissed her ring. “Okay, shush. No talking about how people are overweight, okay? That’s an inside thought.”

She glowered. “He stepped on my foot.” She argued. 

Lando laughed. “Yeah, baby, I know.”

—

Amelia had never been particularly interested in award shows. The noise, the rehearsed spontaneity, the endless clapping — it all felt overstimulating and fake. But she was here, in a dress that shimmered when the light caught it, seated at a quiet corner table near the back of the room, earbuds clenched in her fist. 

Lando was on stage.

Her eyes didn’t leave him.

He was reading from the teleprompter now, doing his bit between the two pop stars flanking him. Charming, slightly awkward, but trying hard not to fidget. His hand reached up once to run through his curls, a nervous tic she’d seen in debriefs and race week interviews a hundred times. She smiled.

“Bit young to be up there, isn’t he?” Someone at the next table whispered, not cruelly, just curious.

Amelia pursed her lips.

And then he was talking about her.

It was just a passing comment, part of a joke about his tux not being his idea — “You can thank my fiancée for this,” he said, and the crowd laughed — but it turned Amelia’s breath into something tight in her throat.

The word “fiancée” coming from Lando still made her ears buzz.

He looked so natural up there. A little boyish, a little charming, but confident. He didn’t overplay it, didn’t try too hard. Just stood straight and smiled through the chaos.

And when the camera cut briefly to her in the crowd, she could see herself on the big screen overhead, staring up at him with a look she hadn’t even realised she wore, it felt like the whole world was seeing it, too.

How much she loved him.

How proud she was.

How, despite the chaos and the cameras and the sound and the flash, she would sit through it all again, just to see the way he lit up when he got to do something like this. Something that made his world feel as wide as it was.

When Lando stepped offstage, disappearing into the wings, Amelia let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

He was always saying she was the impressive one. That she was the smart one, the one who had it all figured out.

He underestimated his own brilliance. 

—

It was well past midnight by the time they made it back to Max and Pietra’s flat, and the entire night had already started to feel like a distant fever dream.

Now, in the quiet warmth of the living room, things started to make sense again.

Lando was in grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Amelia had scrubbed off her makeup the second they walked through the door. She was wrapped in one of his hoodies, warm and perfumed with his aftershave, her hair damp from a quick shower. She was curled into the corner of the couch, her bare feet tucked under Lando’s thigh.

Pietra was spooning pasta straight from the pot. Max — her Max, the softer, goofier one, not Verstappen — was hunched next to her on the floor, picking the olives out of his bowl with surgical precision.

Love Island was playing on the TV, low volume with subtitles, just background noise really. None of them were truly paying attention, but every so often someone would react dramatically and the others would follow. 

“I’m sorry,” Lando said, through a mouthful of fusilli, “but Ron is absolutely going to kiss that girl and then lie about it.”

“Ron would lie about breathing if he thought it’d give him more screen time,” Amelia muttered, eyes half-lidded, chin resting on Lando’s shoulder.

Pietra pointed her fork at the screen. “Justice for Ella. She’s the only one with a single working brain cell.”

Max nodded solemnly. “I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs.”

Amelia laughed, soft and sleepy, the kind that buzzed against Lando’s collarbone. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head, like it was muscle memory.

“Is this what we do now?” She asked, tilting her face up to him. “Is this our life? Fancy award shows and then this?”

“Yup,” Lando said proudly, twirling his pasta. “This is the dream, babe.”

“It is kind of the dream,” Pietra agreed.

“It’s a lot more chaos than I’d have chosen,” Amelia murmured.

Max threw an olive at her. “You like our chaos.”

She caught it, flicked it back at him without looking, and it hit him square in the forehead.

Lando laughed, full and unrestrained. “God, I love you.”

The room went quiet for half a second. Then Pietra softly nudged Amelia’s foot with hers, grinning. “Disgusting.”

Amelia smiled. She let herself lean further into Lando, heart calm, mind settled. 

— 

The Red Bull Technology Campus was quiet in that specific, humming way it always was at odd hours — the whirr of servers, the low buzz of fluorescent lighting, the occasional muffled footstep on polished concrete. Amelia liked it like this. She could think.

She stood beside Adrian at one of the long tables in the design office, sleeves pushed up, fingertips hovering above the CFD printouts of the new RB18 side-pod concept. The paper still smelled faintly of toner.

“Other teams will be talking about this,” she said, tapping the edge of the schematic. “But it’s fully within regulation. Section 3.7.5 of the technical directive covers internal channeling—so long as it's not considered a movable aerodynamic device, which we’ve clearly proven it isn’t.”

Adrian gave one of his quiet smiles, more a twitch at the corner of his mouth than anything obvious. “You memorised the whole regulation manual over the winter break, didn’t you?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “I colour-coded it.”

He chuckled, a warm, almost paternal sound. “I believe you.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer, both of them studying the cooling profile of the undercut and how it flowed back to the floor. She knew what he was doing — this was the ritual, the unspoken challenge. The final review before a radical concept met the tarmac.

“You were on the red carpet last week,” Adrian said, casually.

That made her look up. “Briefly.”

“You looked very…” He trailed off, thinking. “Different.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “You’re used to seeing me with dark circles under my eyes and a wrench in my hand.”

Adrian smiled again. “You just looked very happy. That was good to see.”

She blinked at him, surprised. “I was,” she said eventually. “It was weird, and loud, and everyone wore too much fragrance. But I was happy to be there with Lando.”

He nodded, then gestured back to the design. “If this works in Barcelona the way we expect, that’ll give you something else to be happy about.”

She smiled. “It will work. Maybe… maybe there’s other components of the car I’m not so happy about, but…” She shrugged. 

“If we put together your dream car, it would be a rocket-ship,” he said dryly. 

She took a few steps back and run her finger over the edge of the side-pod blueprint. “They’ll be mad. Probably raise it with the FIA before testing even begins.” She guessed.

“Let them. While they’re complaining, we’ll be winning the championship.”

Sleek, aggressive, elegant. It was beautiful in the way only something painstaking and dangerous could be.

She smiled.

“Yeah,” she murmured. Back-to-back championships would be a nice way to end her time with Max. “We will be.”

— 

The news had just gone live. Every F1 social channel was ablaze with McLaren’s orange-and-blue graphics: Lando Norris signs with McLaren through 2025.

Lando tossed his phone facedown on the kitchen counter and turned to look at Amelia, who stood barefoot in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over her chest, watching him with that unreadable, slightly fond expression she reserved for moments like this — big moments that she was already half-analysing in her head.

“Say it,” he said, walking toward her. “Come on. Just once.”

She blinked up at him. “Say what?”

“That you’re proud of me.” He gave her a mock-wounded look. “I extended my contract, Amelia. Three more years. I made a sensible, adult decision.”

Amelia’s mouth twitched. “You did it mostly because you like the papaya team kit and you’re emotionally attached to your engineering crew.”

Lando grinned, not denying it. “True. But also because I believe in them. In us.” He reached for her hands. “In you. As if I’d ever consider leaving a team that I know you’re going to be running soon.”

Amelia looked down at their hands, then back up at him. Her voice was soft. “I am proud of you.”

“There it is,” he breathed dramatically, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I win.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t pull away. “You want your actual prize?”

He perked up. “You got me something?”

She reached behind the kitchen island and lifted a small, bright orange box with the McLaren logo embossed on it. Inside: a tiny teddy bear wearing an LN4 shirt. 

He stared at it. “It’s so cute.”

“I know,” she said. “I also convinced my dad to make them stop serving fish at the MTC. Like, fully. So. You’re welcome.” 

He laughed, full-bodied and unfiltered, and swept her into a hug. “I love you,” he whispered into her hair. 

She pressed her cheek against his chest. “Good.”

They stayed like that for a while, tangled together in the soft hum of their kitchen, the headlines buzzing just outside the door. He was staying. She was planning. And for once, everything felt perfectly in sync.

— 

Amelia stood alone at the back of the Red Bull garage as the final laps of the day ticked down. The sun was low over Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, casting long shadows across the pit lane. Her iPad was in her hand, filled with split times and engine mapping data, but her mind was somewhere else, half in the numbers, half in the ache behind her eyes.

The side-pod had worked. Their new cooling configuration, her brainchild, if she were being honest, had exceeded expectations. The media didn’t know what to do with it yet. There’d been mutterings in the paddock, whispers of legality and grey areas, but Adrian had just smiled that quiet, knowing smile and said, “Let them talk.”

And Max? Max had been quick. Too quick, maybe, for this early. But she saw it in the data. The balance was close. The new aero philosophy was holding its ground. They’d come into 2022 ready for war.

But he hadn’t been the quickest. 

No, that title had gone to Lando. 

Later, her fiancé found her outside the circuit, still in his hoodie and slides, sunglasses pushed up into his curls. “Date night?” he asked, bright-eyed.

She blinked. “I smell like engine oil.”

“You always smell like engine oil. It’s part of your charm.”

The restaurant was a tucked-away spot in the Gothic Quarter. Lando had found it on Instagram, bored in a briefing. Amelia ordered for both of them in quiet, fluent Spanish, and the hostess gave her a warm smile and a complimentary dessert. Lando leaned across the table, grinning like she’d just performed magic. “That was so hot.”

“Ordering risotto was hot?”

“The Spanish,” he said. “The confidence. The little voice you do when you’re being polite. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever head. I— Yeah, I’m totally turned on right now.”

She kicked him under the table. 

After testing wrapped, they rented a villa in the hills for the weekend; a last breath before the storm of the season. Max and Celeste joined them on the second day. Celeste arrived in linen pants and oversized sunglasses, the very image of calm European glamour. She kissed Amelia twice on the cheek and said, “You look stunning.”

“Doesn’t she,” Lando agreed, pulling Amelia into his side.

But even in that villa, with its terracotta walls and olive trees outside the window, Amelia couldn’t fully power down. She sat by the pool in the afternoons, sketching cooling layouts on her iPad, earbuds in, humming low under her breath. Lando watched her sometimes, quiet and smiling, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

Celeste brought her spritzes and Max offered occasional input on tire wear models. It was ridiculous and warm and kind of perfect.

— 

March 2022 

The jet hummed steadily as it travelled from Europe to the Middle East, the soft cabin lights dimmed to a comfortable glow. Amelia was sitting sideways in her seat, one leg curled under her, talking animatedly with her hands while Charles stared at her like he was being held hostage.

“—so if you start your aero development from a high rake philosophy, you have to reconfigure your floor stiffness. Otherwise you get this nasty longitudinal instability on corner entry, especially in medium-speed turns. You know what I mean?”

Charles blinked. “Non.”

Amelia frowned. “Really? But Ferrari ran similar philosophy in—”

“I mean, yes, I technically understand you,” Charles said, smiling tightly, “but also, no. No, Amelia. I am just a driver. Please, I am begging you. I do not need to know all of these facts.”

Across the cabin, Lando snorted into his hoodie sleeve. He was lounging two rows behind, legs kicked out, headphones slung around his neck. “You good over there, Charles?”

Charles threw a hand up dramatically. “I am exhausted just from listening to how her brain works. How does she exist this way?”

“I’m just explaining rear downforce consistency—”

“You said the words longitudinal instability! That is not a casual conversation phrase, Amelia!” He argued. 

Lando grinned and leaned forward over the seat. “C’mere, baby. Why don’t you tell me how Oscar’s pre-season testing went?”

Like flipping a switch, Amelia’s head turned toward him, eyes bright. “Oh my God, he was so good. His tyre management’s already cleaner than half the grid—"

Charles let out a theatrical sigh of relief and collapsed into his seat. “Merci, Lando. Merci.”

Lando gave him a mock salute. “You're welcome, mate. I’ve had, like, three years to develop countermeasures.”

“Does she do this to you too?” He asked. 

“She once explained crankshaft thermal expansion to me during sex.” He said. He was smirking. 

“Mon Dieu.” Charles grimaced. 

Amelia didn’t even register it, she was still talking. “—and once he gets used to the car rotation speed in low-speed corners, I think his timings will be so much better, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” Lando said, grinning as he slid into the seat beside her. “Tell me more, baby.”

Charles gagged into his travel pillow.

— 

The heat was unbearable. The Middle Eastern races were a sensory nightmare, and Bahrain was one of the worst. The air was thick and heavy, like breathing through cloth. The desert sun scorched everything it touched, the paddock buzzed with noise, radios crackled in her ears, lights glared, and distractions came from every direction—her brain was in overdrive.

Then Max and Checo both DNF’d, and the noise got louder.

She was running on fumes. The temperature never let up. The cars screamed nonstop, the floodlights were blinding, and the food—too rich, too intense—sat heavy in her stomach.

Saudi Arabia was hotter still. Max’s strategy meeting dragged on, tense and complicated with the car’s aggressive setup. The race itself was chaos—Max clawed his way forward, wheel-to-wheel until the very end. He won, just barely, Charles less than half a second behind.

It was a victory. But it didn’t feel like one.

Back in the hotel room that evening after the race in Saudi, she sank onto the bed, the weight of everything pressing down on her chest. The hotel was pretty, all big rooms and expensive chandeliers, but all she felt was hollow and slightly claustrophobic. 

Lando flopped down next to her. “Another one of those days, huh?” he asked softly, stretching out on the bed beside her.

“Yeah,” Amelia murmured, closing her eyes for a moment. The flickering of the overhead lights seemed too sharp against her eyelids. She’d never really understood how other people could tune out all the chaos. “It’s so hot. I can’t escape it.”

“I know,” Lando replied. “Wanna get room service and take a cool shower?”

She smiled at him, her eyes still shut, the AC bringing her some comfort. “I’d love that. I don’t want to leave this room.”

He chuckled, leaning over and brushing her hair away from her face. “Okay, baby.” 

she curled against him, her fingers seeking the comfort of his touch. He didn’t say anything more. He just pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. The rhythm of his breathing slowed her own.

“Better now?” He asked, after a few moments of silence.

Amelia nodded, though she didn’t open her eyes. “Much.”

— 

iMessage – 10:45PM

Mark Webber Big day tomorrow 👀

Amelia It’s official then?

Mark Webber Yep. Oscar is officially a joint Alpine/McLaren reserve. Zak just signed off.

Amelia Good. More doors.

Mark Webber You’re sowing your seeds, Miss Brown.

Amelia This’ll just make it easier when the time comes. If Alpine dig in their heels, Oscar will have already been in contract with McLaren for months. 

Mark Webber Smart girl

Amelia I know.

Mark Webber I’m sick of Otmar already. Refusing to give us any straight answers. 

Amelia Fernando said the same thing

Mark Webber Lando okay with all this?

Amelia Of course. He’s Lando. Jealous for five minutes, then proud.

Mark Webber You picked a good one.

Amelia I know. 

Mark Webber I’ll keep you updated

— 

April 2022 

The little bakery tucked off Rue Grimaldi smelled like spun sugar and cinnamon. 

Amelia was already halfway through her iced matcha, perched in the corner at their usual table, wearing a cotton sundress and sunglasses that kept sliding down her nose. Lando had gone inside to order, almond croissant for her, pain au chocolat for him, and a couple of extra pastries they definitely didn’t need but always ordered anyway.

He returned with a grin and two paper bags, sliding into the seat across from her. “I told them not to warm yours up,” he said, handing over her croissant. “Because you don’t like gooey.”

“I don’t,” Amelia confirmed flatly, unwrapping the pastry. “The texture gets weird.”

“Right,” Lando said, biting into his. “How do we feel about the accent wall in the streaming room being that navy blue colour I showed you?”

“I hate it,” she told him.

“You didn’t hate it yesterday.” He complained. 

“Yesterday I hadn’t imagined how it would look under the LED strips.” She said, her lip curling. 

Lando groaned. “Babe.”

“I’m right.” 

“You’re opinionated.”

“I’m autistic.”

“Same thing.”

She giggled into her croissant.

He took a sip of his freshly squeezed orange juice and leaned back in his chair, squinting up at the sun. “Okay, new idea. We get that matte grey from the hallway for the main walls. Then black soundproof panelling on the back wall.”

“No, you’re soundproofing the whole room,” she said without even looking up.

Lando frowned. “Is that really necessary?”

She finally looked at him, eyebrow raised. “I do not want to be listening to you playing on Valorant at two o’clock in the morning.”

“…Right. Whole room.” He nodded. 

She nodded.

He shook his head, fighting a smile. “Remember, I’m back in London next weekend, Thursday to Tuesday. Quadrant’s shooting at Silverstone.”

“Sounds fun,” she said, brushing a flake of pastry off her skirt. “I’ll stay here. Oversee the decorating. Make sure the soundproofing goes in. And that the shelves are built level this time.”

“They were level.” He rolled his eyes. 

“They absolutely weren’t. I checked with a spirit level.”

He threw his head back dramatically. “Baby, please don’t terrorise the decorators with your spirit level again. They’ll refuse to ever come back.”

“You live with someone who needs things not to be crooked.” She informed him, appearing slightly embarrassed. 

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I live with someone who makes everything perfect.”

Amelia blinked. Softened. “You’re being sweet.”

“Only because I don’t want you to bully the decorators when I’m not here.”

She rolled her eyes, but let her thumb brush over his knuckles. The bakery buzzed around them — plates clinking, baristas calling out names, the Mediterranean sun painting the pavement golden.

—

Amelia had her yellow golfball in her hand, her eyes squarely set on the replays from free practice. There was always something to track, always something shifting. 

Jos was standing outside the hospitality suite, arms folded, sunglasses perched low on his nose. Amelia approached quietly, iPad under one arm, her MV1 shirt crisp in the morning light.

“Jos,” she greeted. He nodded once in acknowledgment.

“They’re faster than expected,” he said without preamble. “Ferrari.”

“Yep,” Amelia replied. “Top-line speed’s excellent. Aero efficiency’s strong, and they’re managing their tires better than projected. But we’ve got updates coming.”

Jos glanced sideways at her. “Barcelona?”

She shook her head. “Imola.”

He grunted. “Cutting it close.”

“I like a challenge.”

He gave a huff of amusement. “I know.”

She tapped her tablet, showing him a sketch of the new floor and side-pod configuration. “This’ll help mitigate the porpoising and give us cleaner airflow into the diffuser. I ran the numbers with Adrian yesterday — it’s barely legal, aggressive, but… it’ll work.”

Jos studied her for a long moment. “And Max?”

“He’s got the pace. We’ll give him the car to match it.” She shrugged. 

After she excused herself, Amelia wound her way through the back of the paddock, navigating behind the media pen and through the tight hospitality corridors until she found the Alpine motorhome. She stood outside for a moment, considering the entrance — and then slipped in without ceremony.

Oscar Piastri was leaning over a printed-out set of data. When he noticed her, he did a double-take. “Amelia?”

She smiled, subtle as she could possibly be. “Hello.”

He straightened quickly, a bit awkward in that endearing way of his. “Um—hi. What are you doing here?”

“Just… making the rounds,” she said. Then, a small nod. “Congratulations, by the way. On becoming McLaren-associated.”

Oscar blinked. “Oh—thanks! Yeah, it’s been a bit surreal. Double reserve, more chances to get out on track, I guess.”

“I’ve been following your sim data, your testing laps,” she added, like it was just a passing comment. “You’re adapting fast.”

He flushed slightly. “Trying my best.”

She gave a rare, tiny smile. “Keep doing that.”

Then she was gone again, leaving Oscar to stare after her with an astonished blink.

—

Amelia had just exited the Red Bull garage, iPad in one hand and stim toy in the other, when a trio of microphones were suddenly in her face.

“Amelia, can we get a comment on Red Bull’s lack of reliability in the early season?”

“Is it true you were seen going into Alpine’s motorhome yesterday? Are you considering switching teams?”

“Rumours are swirling about your next career move—care to confirm anything for us?”

She stiffened. Her sunglasses hid the instinctive panic, but her knuckles has gone white around her stim snake. They weren’t being aggressive exactly, but they were pushing in, leaning into her space, stacking questions rapid-fire without giving her a second to process.

“I’m not doing media today,” she said firmly, voice flat and clipped.

“Just one quote—”

“I said no!” She said, a little louder. 

But they didn’t back off. One cameraman stepped closer to frame the shot, bumping into her arm slightly, and her breath gt stuck in her throat and her shoulders started to curl up toward her ears. 

And then — “Ah, hey! Back off.” Charles was the first to appear, all soft curls and red team kit, stepping smoothly between Amelia and the cameras with that disarming Monegasque smile that somehow managed to be polite and threatening all at once. “She said no,” he repeated, and though his tone was light, his stance was not.

Behind him, Lando materialised from seemingly nowhere, slipping his hand around Amelia’s wrist and raising an unimpressed, slightly pissed-off eyebrows at the reporters. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

That earned a quick retreat of at least one mic.

“She is not public property,” Pierre added as he came to stand beside Charles, arms crossed, voice dry and unimpressed. “If you want a quote, you ask someone who wants to be asked.”

Mick trailed behind them with Zhou, both of whom offered quiet, present support, just bodies standing nearby, close enough to break the intensity of the circle that had formed around her. Mick gave her a small nod of reassurance.

The reporters, now very aware of the optics, half the grid forming a loose but definite protective arc around Amelia, finally relented and stepped back.

“Thanks,” Amelia murmured once they were gone.

Lando squeezed her wrist, eyes scanning her face. “You good, baby?”

“I’m fine,” she said, exhaling. “Just… wasn’t ready for all that.”

Charles tutted. “They are vultures. If they do anything like that in the future, just shout, yes? One of us will come.” 

— 

The morning sun filtered through the massive glass panels of the MTC, casting neat reflections across the polished floor. Amelia sat across from her father at one of the quieter corners of the cafeteria, legs folded underneath her in the booth seat, her coffee rapidly cooling next to a barely-touched muffin.

Zak Brown, CEO of McLaren Racing and wearer of many hats, was reading the Financial Times off his tablet with the easy calm of a man who’d had two espresso shots already. He looked up suddenly, over the rim of his glasses, and said casually, “So. Are you going to tell me the deal with Oscar?”

Amelia blinked. "What deal?"

Zak gave her a look. “Amelia.”

She sighed, poked at the edge of her muffin. “He’s going to be a McLaren driver.”

Zak blinked owlishly at her. “Amelia…”

“I’m going to bring him here.” She told him. 

He slowly set the tablet down. “Interesting. And when were you planning on mentioning to me—the team boss and CEO—that this was happening?”

She tilted her head, almost sheepishly, though mostly matter-of-fact. “I knew if I asked, you'd say yes. So I was just waiting for the right time.”

Zak just stared at her.

Amelia shrugged. “It’s Oscar. Once he gets through this season of Alpine purgatory, he’ll be ours. And when he’s in papaya… I’ll come back. Officially. I’ll build you a car that wins championships. I have the designs ready. I’ll be Oscar’s race engineer too.”

Zak was quiet for a long moment. He rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at her with the begrudging mix of fatherly exasperation and professional admiration he often wore when talking to her. “You’re impossible,” he muttered. “You are actively working for Max Verstappen. And you have a car designed for us?”

Amelia just nodded, sipping her lukewarm coffee.

He leaned back, exhaling in shock. “You’re supposed to ask me to give you a job, not tell me that you’re going to restructure my entire staff.” 

She shrugged. “It’ll make you win. Isn’t that all that matters?”

He sighed. “And what about Lando? What does he think about all of this?”

“We talked about it, obviously. He doesn’t need me in his ear. He has me at home. That’s the difference.”

Zak smiled slowly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll talk to Andrea, honey, and you know it’d be incredible to have you working for McLaren officially, but…” 

She cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s useless. I’ll be here, and so will Oscar, and that’s how it’s going to be.”

He barked a laugh, shook his head, and gestured for the waiter. “I’ll need another coffee. It sounds like you’re planning a coup.”

Amelia giggled. 

— 

Max Fewtrell’s streaming camera was pointed at his gaming setup; Lando and Max shoulder to shoulder in their matching headsets, controllers in hand, squinting at the screen in total concentration. The Twitch chat was flying by at light speed, full of emojis and chaos, most of it delighting in the rare duo-stream. 

What made this stream a little different, though, what made it iconic, was the soft background chaos visible just beyond them. Behind the couch, nestled on a thick rug with pillows and snacks strewn everywhere, sat Amelia and Pietra cross-legged, utterly absorbed in a heated game of Monopoly. Amelia, in Lando’s oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, was sorting her money into piles with ruthless efficiency. Pietra had a mischievous glint in her eye, hand hovering over a stack of hotels.

“…I swear to god, if you put another hotel on Park Lane, I’m going to flip the board,” Amelia muttered, tone flat but somehow more threatening than if she’d yelled.

“Mi amor, it’s a legitimate investment strategy,” Pietra countered sweetly.

“Your strategy is financial terrorism.” Amelia grunted. 

Max glanced at them over his shoulder, grinning. “They’ve been at that for two hours, chat.”

Lando didn’t look away from the screen. “Yeah, she’s gonna break the board. It’s only a matter of time, guys. Don’t clip it. You’ll embarrass her.” 

“Oh my god, you two,” Pietra said, glancing toward the camera, “This is a very serious game, much more serious than whatever you are playing!”

Max snorted. “Agree to disagree.”

From the floor, Amelia said without looking up, volume slowly raising, “Pietra, you’re on my hotel. No, don’t roll the dice, you’re on my hotel!”

Twitch chat exploded.

PIETRA MONOPOLY CHEATER CONFIRMED STOP THIS IS SENDING ME  HELP Bro Lando rly said ‘She will break the board’ like he knows from experience lmaoooo

On the floor, Amelia made a crisp transaction. “That’s four thousand pounds. You can pay in instalments, but I will be charging interest.”

Pietra groaned. “You’re worse than the IMF.”

Lando was laughing now, head falling back, nearly dropping his controller. “Amelia, baby, I love you, but you’ve got the most brutal capitalism streak I’ve ever seen.”

“Only when fake money is involved,” she said coolly. 

Max leaned into his mic and said to chat, deadpan, “In case anyone was wondering, yes, I am also surprised that this game is still somehow going.” 

The stream lasted two hours.

It was clipped and shared all over social media, labeled things like “Max & Lando try to game while Amelia ruins friendships via Monopoly” and “Quadrant’s Chaos Double Date”. Fans latched onto every bit of domestic hilarity, from Lando stealing a bite of Amelia’s cookie mid-stream to Pietra declaring herself “a capitalist queen” while mortgaging Mayfair.

It was absurd. Intimate. Hilarious. And it felt like a glimpse into something real.

By the end of the night, Monopoly had ended in dramatic silence (Amelia had won, obviously), Max and Lando had finally clinched a sweaty victory on stream, and someone, probably Lando, had convinced them all to order spring rolls at 1 a.m.

—

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ameliabrown fluffy hair i love that picture of you ❤️ by landonorris

landonorris love u baby

maxfewtrell Mate your barnet is a STATE

ameliabrown Shut up, Fewtrell 🔪

mclaren The cutest couple in the paddock🤩

user39 the pool pic. the amelia wrapped in a duvet pic. THE MATCHING BRACELETS?

user33 the amelia pic got me too..... she's so fucking cute and he's obviously SO IN LOVE

user18 everytime they post abt eachother im reminded how crazy it is that they're both 5 years younger than me and have established careers and are literally engaged i cant do this

—

Max sat in the cockpit of the RB18, gloves off, sweat clinging to his forehead despite the cool. Amelia stood beside him, one hand braced against the halo, the other flicking through telemetry sheets on her iPad.

“Can you tweak the steering calibration?” he asked, nodding toward the wheel. “Turn-in still feels a touch tight into Acque Minerali.”

Amelia nodded, thumbing in a few quick notes. “We’ll open the ratio a little between 60 and 120 degrees. Keep the weight where you like it, but you should get a bit more rotation without overworking your wrists.”

Max smiled faintly. “You’re so smart.”

She glanced at him, dry as ever. “I’m aware.”

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly, settling deeper into the cockpit as mechanics moved around them.

There was a comfortable silence for a moment. Then, casually, as she tapped in a few last changes to the wheel settings, she said, “Lando and I are thinking about getting married. Maybe around Silverstone.”

Max blinked. “What?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “We haven’t picked a date. But we’ve been looking. The summer break is too packed with testing and prep for Spa, so… Silverstone makes the most sense.”

Max stared at her. “This year?”

She finally met his eyes. “Yeah.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling now. “That’s fast.”

“You don’t object though?”

“To the steering setup? No. Feels good.”

She huffed a laugh. “Max….”

“To the wedding,” Max added, voice softer. “Also no. I do think it’s fast—very fast—but then, that’s a pretty big part of our world, isn’t it?”

Her expression didn’t shift much, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—gratitude, maybe. “Thanks,” she said. “You’ll be invited.”

“Gee, thanks,” Max teased, sitting back and flicking a switch on the wheel. “If I’d known there was any concern over having a seat at the Norris wedding, I’d have written it into your contract.”

Amelia tilted her head. “I was always planning to invite you, obviously, but it’s not official until you get an invitation.”

Max tilted his head at her. “I bet you already have at least five invitation designs picked out.”

She pursed her lips and looked away. 

Outside, the rain began to fall again, soft and steady on the roof of the garage. Max fiddled with the wheel as Amelia double-checked her notes.

“Silverstone, huh,” he said after a moment. She nodded. “You nervous?” He asked. 

“No,” Amelia said honestly. “I want to be his next of kin as soon as possible. It makes sense.”

Max studied her, thoughtful. “Yeah. I guess it does.”

— 

Amelia sat alone on the small balcony outside the team hospitality, her iPad balanced on her lap, untouched. The rain had cleared, but the air was still heavy with mist, soft droplets clinging to the railings. Below, the paddock was beginning to wind down, freight being packed, media finishing up their final takes, voices quieter than they’d been all weekend.

Max had won.

It felt triumphant. A clean weekend, pole to flag, fastest lap. It was the kind of result that justified everything; the long hours, the endless data, the sleepless debriefs. The RB18 had been flawless. The side-pod gamble was proving worth it.

But still… Amelia felt the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that went beyond just being tired. It was emotional fatigue. Mental strain. A thousand variables she’d juggled, most of which no one would ever see. She wasn’t unhappy, far from it, but there was a muteness to the pride. 

She exhaled through her nose, fingers picking at the edge of her iPad case.

Max was in media. Lando had finished fifth, solid, reliable, but a far cry from what she knew he could be. She hadn’t seen him yet. Just a brief nod across the paddock, the flash of his helmet in parc fermé, a thumbs up from afar.

She wanted to hug him. To tell him that fifth was good, that fifth, with the shit-box of a car he had, was better than good.

And maybe, selfishly, she wanted him to tell her she’d done a good job too.

Behind her, someone called her name, softly, respectfully, but she move right away.

She was thinking about the championship. About Max’s lead. About Ferrari’s early season strength, and what it would take to keep beating them. About what was waiting in Miami. 

And for a moment, just one, she let herself think about Silverstone; not the race, but the chapel just outside of Glastonbury, which she’d only seen one time, but knew it was where she could see herself getting married. 

—

May 2022 

The music was loud. The bass thumped through the floor, reverberated up through the soles of Amelia’s heels, but her earplugs softened the edges. The lights were neon and overwhelming — but the dress was soft against her skin, and Lando's hand was warm and solid on her hip.

She wasn’t drunk, not really. Just lightheaded from the adrenaline, the heat of the Miami night, the dizzy joy of watching Lando laugh and dance, glowing from a solid qualifying.

They were packed into the middle of the club — Lando, Daniel, Pierre, and a few others — a messy, writhing group of drivers letting off steam. Amelia was tucked under Lando’s arm, swaying with him to some Latin remix pulsing through the air.

“You okay?” He asked, ducking down so his voice hit her over the beat.

She nodded, smiling. “I’m good.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Stop,” she said — not irritated, just amused. He never stopped saying it.

He didn’t. He kissed her instead, hands firm on her hips, and she laughed into his mouth.

They danced for hours. Bodies slick with sweat, her hair pulled back off her neck, Lando’s shirt half unbuttoned and clinging to his back. At one point, she swapped her heels for sneakers from the club's coat check. At another, he twirled her like they were at prom, and not in a nightclub.

By 2 a.m., they were both exhausted and dizzy like lovesick teenagers. Daniel shouted something about an afterparty, but Lando grabbed Amelia’s hand and shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “I’ve got other plans.”

— 

They barely made it through the door.

Her back hit the wall, and Lando kissed her like he was starving. His hands were rough with need, but still gentle, one settling on her waist, the other cupping her jaw as he kissed her like she was something sacred.

Her dress slipped down her shoulders.

His shirt hit the floor.

It was just a little frantic. Warm. Familiar. Like gravity pulling them closer. He whispered her name when he pressed his forehead to hers.

She pulled him down to the bed.

And somewhere between the sound of the city outside and the rise of the Miami sun, they disappeared into each other completely.

— 

It happened fast.

Amelia wasn’t on comms for Lando, but she always had one ear tuned to his channel. Her tablet buzzed in her lap, live data scrolling, her focus split between Max’s telemetry and the multiple feeds in front of her.

And then suddenly; a yellow flag was shown in sector two.

She heard it before she saw it: the sharp bark of Lando’s voice over the radio, crackling with frustration, pain, impact. Her heart dropped into her stomach.

Camera switch. Replay.

Gasly. A misjudged overtake. Lando clipped, turned, spun around. A flying wheel.

Virtual safety car. 

Her breath stopped. For a second, maybe longer, the paddock felt silent. The world narrowed. Just white noise and static and the pounding of her pulse.

He was out of the car. Slowly. Helmet still on. He waved. She exhaled so sharply she felt dizzy.

Still. That wasn’t enough.

She excused herself from the Red Bull pit wall with a wordless nod and a clenched jaw, already walking, already texting someone from McLaren’s medical liaison team. 

They didn’t let her into the medical unit for ten minutes. He was sitting on the bed, still in his race suit, fireproofs peeled down to his waist, a bruise already blooming across his shoulder, his curls damp with sweat and adrenaline.

He looked up and softened instantly. “Hey, baby.”

She didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room in three steps and wrapped herself around him. Tight. Too tight. Her arms around his neck, her face pressed into his shoulder.

“I’m okay,” he murmured, hand rubbing her back.

“You could’ve not been,” she whispered. After a moment, she pulled back enough to look at him. Her fingers trembled as she reached up to touch his cheek. “We need to get married.”

Lando blinked, confused. “What?”

“Soon,” she said. “As soon as we can arrange it.” He studied her, reading the truth in her eyes — the vulnerability, the clarity. This wasn’t nerves or a whim. It was control. A way to make sense of a world where tomorrow was never promised.

His hand found hers. Squeezed. “Okay,” he said softly. “Then we will. As soon as you want.”

“Really?” She checked. 

“I’d marry you tomorrow in a Tesco car park if that’s what you wanted.” He told her. 

She gave a choked laugh. “Not Tesco.”

“Okay, fine. Waitrose.”

“Better.” She cracked a smile. 

He leaned forward and kissed her, gently, slowly. 

When they pulled apart, she glanced over her shoulder briefly before looking back at him and whispering, “The nurse doesn’t like me. She wouldn’t let me in here, even though I’m on your pre-approved list. I think we should have her fired.” 

Lando’s lips twitched, but God, she was so deadly serious, so he managed a nod and suppressed the urge to burst out laughing at the pure indignation on her face. “Okay, baby. Whatever you want.” 

— 

Their Monaco apartment was chaos. Controlled chaos, but chaos all the same.

Swatches of fabric were spread across the coffee table. A mood board with handwritten notes and clippings from bridal magazines sat balanced on the arm of the sofa. There were open tabs on Amelia’s laptop — five venues, four florists, and a document titled 'Ceremony Logistics: Sound, Seating & Sensory'. A printed-out Google calendar stuck to the wall with blue tack had been torn down and replaced three times that morning already.

Amelia stood barefoot in the middle of it all, wearing a sports bra and pair of leggings, a highlighter in one hand and her phone cradled between shoulder and ear. “No, I don’t want peonies,” she was saying sharply. “They’re pretty, but they’re uncontrollable. And they smell too strong—no, I—no, listen, lilies are fine. But white ones. Nothing dyed!”

Lando was on the sofa, half-wrapped in a throw blanket, trying to keep his eyes open as he scrolled half-heartedly through a list of DJs on her iPad. He wasn’t sure if he had a fever or if the apartment had just decided to become a sauna, but his skin felt tight and his throat had been sore since yesterday.

He sneezed.

Amelia, mid-call, snapped her fingers toward him and mouthed, “Bless you.”

He gave a thumbs up.

She hung up a moment later and dropped onto the sofa beside him, crossing her legs under herself and immediately launching into the her next focus. “Okay, so my dress fitting is next week, and then the invitations go out by—”

“Babe,” Lando croaked, barely above a whisper.

She blinked, mid-sentence. “What?”

“I love you,” he said, eyes squinting in that way she’d come to recognize as his version of ‘please don’t be mad, but I’m dying.’ “But I think I might be losing the will to live.”

Amelia paused. Really looked at him.

His curls were flat. His eyes glassy. His skin was a little pale, flushed around the cheeks. His voice? Wrecked. She frowned. “You’re sick.”

“No,” he said too quickly. “Just a bit run down. Fine. I’m fine.”

“Lando.” She said, unimpressed by his attempt. 

He coughed. A rasping one that came from deep in his chest.

She reached out and touched the back of her hand to his forehead. “You have a fever.”

“I just love you so much it’s giving me a temperature,” he joked weakly.

She didn’t laugh. Just climbed into his lap gently, settled her forehead against his. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugged, closing his eyes. “You’re happy. Planning. You’ve got your little colour-coded lists and your spreadsheets and your anti-guest-scent policy. I didn’t wanna ruin it.”

Her heart pinched. She brushed her fingers through his curls, voice softening. “You’re not ruining anything. You’re my favourite part.”

He smiled, tired and a little loopy. “Even when I sound like Kermit the Frog?”

“Especially then.”

She kissed his temple, pressed her cheek to his. “Alright. Wedding planning on pause.”

He hummed. “For how long?”

“Until you’re back to yourself,” she said. She tucked the blanket tighter around him and reached for the remote. “Tea?”

“Chamomile?”

“You want sleepy tea in the middle of the day?” She teased.

“I want my tonsils to evaporate.”

Amelia nodded solemnly. “Okay. I can do the tea.”

As she moved around the kitchen, humming under her breath, Lando watched her with drooping eyelids and the softest kind of smile. Even sick, even overwhelmed, he knew one thing with absolute clarity — he’d marry her a thousand times over.

—

Lando shuffled into the bathroom, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, nose red, throat raw. He was just looking for toothpaste. That was it. Just toothpaste.

What he found instead was the object sitting innocently on the counter: white plastic, digital screen, slim body. Rectangular. Familiar. Terrifying.

A pregnancy test.

He froze.

His brain clicked into overdrive.

‘No. No, we’ve been careful. Haven’t we? Wait, maybe not that one time in Miami, but that was— Oh my god. Oh my god. She's been more tired lately. And weird about food. And I’m sick — what if she’s sick too, but not with a cold?—‘

He blinked down at the object, heart thudding.

It lit up.

Lando screeched.

Without thinking, he jumped away from it like it was radioactive. His pulse was in his ears. His fevered brain was already building a nursery in his head. He was googling prenatal vitamins in his mind. He was buying a Volvo. He was calling Zak to ask for paternity leave and then apologise for knocking up his only daughter.

He was— He was—

The front door clicked open.

“Lando?” Amelia’s voice echoed through the apartment. “I got your antibiotics. And some cough syrup. They only had the cherry flavour, sorry.”

He burst out of the bathroom. “Stay away from me!” He pointed at her.

She blinked. Stopped. “What?”

“I don’t want the baby getting sick!” He said, suddenly extremely defensive, halfway between panicked and protective. “You shouldn’t be carrying heavy bags either! And you shouldn’t be walking around in this heat—wait, did you eat? You need to be eating properly, and we need to call a doctor—wait, did you see a doctor? How long have you known?”

Amelia stared at him, completely blank. “…What baby?”

Lando gestured wildly toward the bathroom. “The baby from the pregnancy test!”

Amelia squinted, took two slow steps toward the bathroom, peered in. And then started snorted. “Oh my god,” she said, “you mean the thermometer?” She asked. He blinked. She walked in, pulled the digital thermometer off the counter and held it up. “The thing I used this morning to check your temperature for the doctor?”

Lando looked from her to the object and back. “…Oh.”

She was wide-eyed, staring at him. “You freaked out over a thermometer.”

“I was mentally preparing to raise a child,” he mumbled, half-offended, half-relieved.

“A nonexistent child,” she said, handing him his antibiotics. “You should’ve seen your face. Funny.” She giggled a little. 

He took the blister pack sheepishly. “I think I’m still feverish.”

Amelia made a face. “Sure, we’ll blame the fever.”

He tugged her gently into a hug. “So no baby?”

“No baby,” she confirmed. 

He exhaled dramatically. “Well, now I feel kind of disappointed.”

“Lando.” She frowned at him. 

“…Eventually,” he corrected, kissing her forehead. “Like, in five years. When you’ve had time to design a pram with a DRS button.”

She snorted. “Shut up. Take your medicine.”

He popped the pill, made a face. “Ew.”

“Use water, Lando!” 

— 

The bathroom tiles were cold under Amelia’s feet. She was sat on the closed toilet lid, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, phone clenched between her fingers.

She stared at the pregnancy test box on the counter. It sat there like a challenge. Or maybe a joke. A very unfunny one.

She hit the call button.

Pietra answered on the third ring, already squinting. “Did you eat lunch?”

Amelia didn’t answer that. Instead, she blurted, “I think I might be pregnant.”

There was a beat. Then Pietra leaned back in her chair, blinked once, twice. “Do you want me to freak out with you?”

Amelia exhaled. “I don’t think I am. I don’t know. I… I’m probably not. I’m just— spiralling. A bit.”

“Okay. Spiral gently,” Pietra said. “What made you think it?”

“Lando freaked out over the thermometer,” Amelia admitted. “Thought it was a test. Got all serious. Protective. Said he didn’t want to get the baby sick. There’s no baby. But then I started thinking—what if?”

Pietra was already opening FaceTime. Amelia accepted the call and was met with Pietra’s patient, knowing eyes. “Are you late?”

“No,” Amelia said. “But I thought my boobs felt weird. But I also had too much salt yesterday, so maybe that’s it? And I thought I was nauseous but it was just the smell of the weird cheese Jon had Lando put on his pizza last night.”

Pietra smiled gently. “So you’re inventing symptoms.”

“Yes,” Amelia mumbled. “I’m hyper-fixating. I know I am. But now I can’t stop.”

“Well,” Pietra said, “we’re going to need to see it through, then.”

“I already bought the test,” Amelia admitted. “It’s like… right there.”

Pietra nodded, her voice soft. “I’m right here. Take it.”

The test took five minutes to give a result after she’d peed on it. Amelia paced the bathroom the entire time, muttering about hormone levels and false negatives and how she hadn’t even finished building the new simulator yet, and how could she possibly begin Oscar’s championship preparation if she had a baby on her hip.

When the timer beeped, she turned the stick over.

Negative.

She exhaled, sharp and tight. And then, to her own surprise—tears pricked at her eyes.

Pietra saw it happen in real time, through the screen. “Oh, honey…”

“I’m not upset,” Amelia said quickly, swiping at her face. “I’m not—I didn’t want it to be positive. Not really. I’m not ready. We’re not ready. But… I don’t know. I’m crying. I think I’m relieved. But also—”

“You’re sad,” Pietra finished for her. “And that’s okay. You want it, Amelia. Of course you do. But it’s okay to not get everything you want right away.”

Amelia sat back down, sniffling. “I think… I want it someday. I didn’t even know that about myself. But now it’s there and I can’t un-know it.”

Pietra smiled gently, resting her chin on her hand. “That’s how it starts. One ‘what if’ and suddenly your heart is a bit bigger than it was yesterday.”

Amelia looked down at the negative test. “I’m glad it’s not now.”

“Then it’s the right result,” Pietra said. 

They sat in silence for a while. Pietra waited until Amelia’s breathing calmed, until her shoulders dropped from around her ears. Then she grinned. “Want to watch something dumb and distract yourself?”

Amelia nodded. “Please. No babies. No weddings. No surprise pregnancies.”

“I’m putting on The Grand Tour.”

“Ugh, so much worse.”

Pietra laughed. 

— 

They finally had something to celebrate. 

Amelia was sat on the pit wall steps, headset still around her neck, the red imprint from the ear-pads marking her cheeks. The Spanish sun was going soft with late afternoon light, golden and hazy. Her eyes followed Max through the crowd; he was somewhere between smug and exhausted, hugging the engineers one by one, helmet tucked under his arm.

He’d earned this one.

“Ferrari almost had us at the start of the season,” Amelia said quietly, almost to herself. “But I think we might have won out with these new upgrades.”

Adrian nodded. “We’re quicker over the distance. And Max—Max is relentless when he has a point to prove.”

She nodded. Smiled. “He is.”

The race had started out tense. Charles had pole. Max’s DRS had been temperamental all weekend, the kind of small gremlin that could derail a championship effort in the early stages. But Charles’ engine had given up on lap 27, and Max had kept pushing—team orders and all. The one-two with Checo sealed it. It wasn’t just a win.

It was a statement.

Max was, once again, the championship leader. Eleven points clear of Charles now.

Amelia stood slowly, body tired but blood still buzzing from the win. She glanced back once toward the Red Bull garage before walking out toward the paddock.

Max caught her eye through the crowd, grinned with that glinting, boyish confidence. She gave him a cheesy grin in return. She didn’t need to say anything.

He already knew.

—

ameliabrown just posted . . .

ameliabrown My 3rd Instagram post.

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landonorris you are the most beautiful girl in the world i dont understand how ur mine

user62 does he have her post notifications on because brother is ALWAYS the first comment jfc

pietra.pilao BEAUTIFUL GIRL. I NEED YOUR WARDROBE ❤️ by ameliabrown

maxverstappen1 What a great memory!

ameliabrown Many gin tonics for the championship leader

user53 ok own up to it. who showed amelia the instagram filter button

—

June 2022 

Baku was brutal.

Straight-line speed ruled the weekend, and the Red Bull's superior DRS efficiency gave Max the edge Amelia had quietly hoped for, though the porpoising issue across the grid was now impossible to ignore. Ferrari’s reliability crumbled in spectacular fashion, both Leclerc and Sainz retiring due to engine issues. 

Amelia spent most of Sunday hunched over telemetry graphs and searching for tire degradation patterns in the data. Max drove flawlessly, no unnecessary inputs, no late braking where it wasn’t earned. Just clean, mechanical dominance. She loved it.

In the hotel room that night, Lando sat on the floor, surrounded by colour swatches and lighting samples for the wedding reception tent while Amelia talked about marzipan roses and 3D-printed miniature diffuser centrepieces. He didn’t understand a single one, but he was happy.

He also very gently asked if they could maybe not have a gearbox motif on the wedding cake.

She ignored him.

— 

Canada was damp and delicate. The rain had come early in the weekend, turning FP1 into nothing more than a data scrub and giving Amelia a migraine from the constant argument over full wets or inters.

Ferrari’s pace returned, but their strategy floundered, because of course it did.

Lando’s McLaren struggled with top-end performance; not enough power on the straights, and not enough downforce through Turn 10 to make up for it. Amelia scribbled a few notes in her personal notebook, airflow direction at the rear wing junction was still too chaotic, and added them to her "Future Oscar Setup" binder.

Max won. Barely. Carlos had been on his tail for the last ten laps. But it was enough.

The wedding planner sent Amelia a text about flower availability mid-qualifying, and she replied with a 14-item bullet point list between timing sectors. Later that night, back in the hotel, she realised she'd colour-coded the seating chart using FIA compound codes (white = hard family, yellow = medium friends, red = soft VIPs), and Lando nearly died laughing.

“Why are you like this?” He said, still giggling as she shoved a pen behind her ear.

Amelia just shrugged, already halfway through redesigning the table centrepieces to match the McLaren heritage livery.

— 

Amelia stirred her iced coffee once, twice. Didn’t drink it. Her hair was still slightly damp from the rain. Across from her, Mark Webber leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on his head instead of his nose; that told her everything. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks.

“Alpine still thinks they have him locked in,” he said. His voice was low, even. “They’re pushing a narrative that doesn't match the contracts.”

Amelia didn’t flinch. “And McLaren?”

“Waiting. Quietly. Playing the long game, just like you said.” He studied her face. “How long have you been planning this?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Since Abu Dhabi 2020.” Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I knew if Oscar was even half the driver I thought he was, it’d be worth it. And it turns out he’s more.”

Mark nodded once, slowly. “You always did have good taste in underdogs.”

“I’m marrying one,” she said dryly.

Mark laughed, the tension in his shoulders loosening for half a second. “Touche.”

There was a pause. Amelia finally sipped her coffee, it had gone warm.

“They’re going to fight us on this,” he said. “Hard.”

“I know,” Amelia replied. “But Oscar isn’t theirs. Not really. You and I both know it. They’ve kept him on ice too long. And if they push… I’ll make noise.”

Mark raised a brow. “Since when do you do noise?”

She gave him a look. “I do precision noise. Controlled chaos. Just enough to shake the right cages.”

Another beat.

“Zak knows?” Mark asked.

“I told him what was going to be happening,” she said. “But when the time comes, I’ll give him the whole picture. And he’ll want it too. Oscar. The car. The future. Me.”

Mark rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “It’s a good thing Oscar’s worth it.”

“I know he is,” Amelia said. “And I’m going to be there when he proves it.”

NEXT CHAPTER

[spaceyaemonds]

pairing: dr. jack abbot x reader

sum.: a quiet afternoon with dr. abbot.

warnings: age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 23), unplanned pregnancy, jack is divorced, not a widower and mentions of his ex wife, it is mention that reader and her mom talk often. please let me know if i missed anything. minors DNI.

note: more of a filler chapter(i’ll consider this 6.5 instead of 7 LOL)!!! just a little look inside them, and we will definitely be seeing more soon!!! jack and reader will meet each others moms next chapter!! also, thinking about doing more drabbles set in this universe, like the proposal, is there anything specific you guys want to see?? unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: 960ish

prev next

Over the past eight weeks, you’ve just about changed Jack Abbot’s entire life.

He goes to a farmers market on Saturday’s, brunch on Sunday’s with your friends, actually eats decent meals and gets a good night's rest at least three nights a week.

Also, he’d never admit it outloud to anyone, but he’s pretty invested in Vanderpump Rules.

Currently, he’s got your feet in his lap while he reads a medical journal, one hand massaging your ankle. Every once in a while, he glances up at you to watch as you knit what he thinks is supposed to be a sweater.

Ever since finding out the gender of the baby almost a month ago, you’d been determined to at least make something for the baby to wear. You got good at knitting surprisingly quickly, and so far have made three hats, two pairs of socks, and started a blanket.

You’ve got your bottom lip tightly tucked into your teeth as you concentrate on the yarn in your hands, and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching over and gently thumbing it out from between your teeth.

Finally, he thinks to himself when you’re wide eyes meet his.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself.” He gestures to your swelling bottom lip as you lick it.

“Sorry,” You let out a small giggle, “I didn’t even notice.”

He nods, hand going back to your ankle, “I figured.”

As he starts reading again, you take the time to watch him, head cocking to the side as you smile.

This hasn’t been so bad.

Sure, it’s been an interesting and difficult situation for both of you. But you like to believe that it could be worse.

He could’ve just not cared. Ignored you and went on with his life. Or pressured you into an abortion you didn’t want.

He could’ve done what he could to just take the baby the second she’s here.

But he really surprised you. He’s been so supportive and so good to you. It’s shocking, in all honesty.

You both feel a lot of guilt, though.

You think you’ve stuck him with you. That he’s only here out of obligation.

He thinks he’s ruined your life.

You work through it all, somehow. You talk him off his ledge more than he talks you off of yours, but you can tell when it’s eating at him more than he can with you.

Or so you think.

Jack likes to think he knows you pretty well despite the timeline of things.

He spends as much time as he can with you. Soaking up every moment of something he didn’t even think he ever wanted. Holds your hair back when you get sick. Rubs your back and feet when you ache. Tries some of the most interesting food combinations he’s ever heard of, some of which are better than others.

Fucks you when you’re insatiable and want him more than anything.

He isn’t quite sure it’s love yet, but he knows it’s on its way there.

He’s loved before. Hell he loved someone enough to marry her, but couldn’t love her enough to give her what you’re giving him.

Another source of guilt for him- one that he’s completely bared to you.

You didn’t know what to say, when he told you about what ate at him most. Why he couldn’t figure out what brought on the need, the desire, to do this with you, but he couldn’t even bring himself to try with her.

You just listen, rub his back, and whisper in his ear that some things just happened for a reason.

He appreciates you and the the way you just let him talk. Or just let him sit with you in silence. Whatever he needs, you somehow manage to give him.

One of the more recent favorites of his is when you take a bath. He can sit up against the cabinets under the vanity with a beer in his hand while you sit and talk about your day, things you want to do for the baby, or just read.

Life is more peaceful with you than he thinks it ever has been.

He glances back over at you, and sees the look in your eyes.

A look he knows all too well will result in him doing something he doesn’t exactly want to do.

“Spit it out, honey.”

You smile at the sound of his voice when he calls you honey.

“I was talking to my mom yesterday,” You trail off as he closes the journal he’s been reading and turns his body all toward you.

“Well?”

Jack knew your mom knew the basics, much like his own family did. How you got pregnant. How you met him. His age.

He knew that the last one had her concerned. Extremely.

The two of you talk most days, and she always gets distant when asking about the baby. Something about it makes him slightly uneasy.

“She’s coming to Pittsburgh next week. Wants us all to get together,” You look down, fidgeting with your fingers, “wants to meet you.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, making unease crawl up your chest.

It was a bad idea to bring it up.

“How do you feel about that?”

He sounds calm and collected, surprising you yet again.

“I mean, you are the father of her grandchild.”

You finally look back up at him, eyes meeting.

He sighs, shaky, “Is that all I am?”

You tilt your head to the side, “You tell me.”

It’s quiet for another beat before he shakes his head as he brings one of his palms to cradle your jaw.

“It’s only fair if you have to meet my mom, too.”

You laugh, nodding lightly before kissing his palm.

“Yeah, I can do that.”

He lets out a huff as he kisses the side of your head, “It’s a deal, then.”

[rafesangelita]

…DILF!RAFE X BITCHY!KOOK!READER AU

⋆𐙚₊˚🐈‍⬛⊹♡

DILF!RAFE X BITCHY!KOOK!READER first met each other over drinks at the country club bar, both of them seemingly washing away their problems with premium alcohol. she hadn’t noticed him at all until the bartender brought her a drink that she didn’t pay for. “courtesy of mr. cameron.” she looked up to see that the only man seated not too far away from her was already staring at her over his own glass. attractive, slightly intimidating and cold looking, and the cherry on top— obviously loaded with money, it didn’t take long for bitchy!kook!reader to come to the conclusion that this ‘mr. cameron’ was exactly her type. swallowing her pride, she made her way over, her hand brushing his thigh as she settled in to the seat next to him. “i could understand why i’ve decided to spend my friday night here all by myself, but you? it’s not making sense to me.”

DILF!RAFE X BITCHY!KOOK!READER who end up staying at the country club past closing time, both of them talking nonstop as they drunkenly laid out their dirty laundry to each other, neither of them sparing a single detail from their conversation. dilf!rafe finds out bitchy!kook!reader’s parents make him look like he’s dad of the year despite him having a really hard time balancing his work and home life. rafe tells her that he’s been divorced for almost a year now, his kids having decided to leave tanneyhill with their mother when things got really messy. “what guts me is that my kids wanted to stay with me first. they gave me a chance and they watched their mom leave for the mainland in tears, and i still couldn’t be there for them the way they needed. i basically live at work, and once they picked up on that, there was no going back.”

DILF!RAFE X BITCHY!KOOK!READER who come to the realization that they fit each other like puzzle pieces. bitchy!kook!reader— having never been part of a family, craving the attention of an authoritive figure, and rafe— seeing that she’s so much younger than him and wanting to redeem himself for not being the dad that he wishes he could be. the two of them end up back at rafe’s place that very night where it doesn’t take dilf!rafe a lot of time to figure bitchy!kook!reader out. seeing that she has never had anyone tell her no, let alone discipline her, he finds himself correcting her attitude and bratty tendencies by fucking it right out of her. he’s not letting up on her until he see’s tears rolling down her cheeks and the only thing she could say is a pathetic ‘sorry!’ every time he thrusts into her.

DILF!RAFE X BITCHY!KOOK!READER who develop an interesting relationship dynamic, both of them filling each other’s voids in the most perverted ways. making her cum until she was nothing but a blabbering mess, dilf!rafe never failed to pound her in until she was set straight. “you wanna stomp in your little heels and roll your eyes at me like i’m one of your girlfriends? i don’t think so. you don’t get to do whatever the fuck you want when you’re inside my house. you follow my rules when you’re under my roof, do you understand that?” of course, bitchy!kook!reader nodded without hesitation, her defiant demeanor melting away into nothing as rafe worked her body like no one else knew how to. dilf!rafe always comforted her after he was done ‘punishing’ her, her trembling form being enveloped by his big arms as her heart fluttered in her chest at the closeness and intimacy of it all.

DILF!RAFE X BITCHY!KOOK!READER who often find themselves arguing about bitchy!kook!reader’s irresponsible decisions to party on the weekends until she’s calling rafe for help, her heels clicking against the pavement as she struggles to stay upright on her feet. while rafe tries his best to keep in mind that she’s still young and living her life, he can’t help but to lecture her all the way back to his place. “i can’t stop you from having your fun, but at least be responsible about it. the thought of you standing out there all disoriented just doesn’t sit well with me.” he grumbles, his knuckles turning white from his tight grip on the steering wheel. while bitchy!kook!reader knows she should be receptive towards rafe’s words, she’s instead smiling at him as she rests her feet on his lap. “thank you for caring about me.”

[evamame]

🏐 haikyuu men meeting your parents for the first time

very excited and energetic, and super loud too. does his absolute best to leave a good impression. he cracks so many jokes and does everything in his power to make your parents laugh. he’s very comfortable and talks naturally with your parents right off the bat. very expressive and open about his love for you. comes off as a handful but also really funny and super sweet.

HINATA, nishinoya, BOKUTO, atsumu, tanaka, tendo

first impression to your parents is that he’s very mature and respectful. brings a bouquet of flowers for your mom. he also makes sure to appear really put together. sprays on a bit of his fancy cologne and all. a little bit nervous on the inside, but that’s only natural. he makes sure not to show it. what he does try and show, though, is his absolute undying love for you. he really wants to earn your parent’s trust above anything else. “she’s the love of my life. i promise i’ll take great care of her, if you allow me to do so.” doesn’t this sound a bit too much like a job interview?

(makes sure he comes back to ask for permission when he puts a ring on it!!)

USHIJIMA, IWAIZUMI, sakusa, DAICHI, akaashi

swoons your parents over so hard he’s practically flirting. the type to be greeted and welcomed into your childhood home, but not without swiftly pretending to mistake your mom as your older sister when making his entrance. “y/n, is this your older sister? no? that’s your mom?! oh wow, ma’am, you look so young!” oh, how flattering this man is. gets along with your parents a little too well. they end up constantly pestering you about when he’ll be coming back to visit again. they probably like him more than you at this point.

KUROO, oikawa, OSAMU (he also brings freshly made onigiri for your parents), suna, sugawara, atsumu (felt like he kinda fit into both)

a nervous wreck. he requires a lot of reassurance in the car ride as well as the walk to the front door before hand. ends up doing just fine though, despite stumbling over his words a couple times. your parents think he’s the absolute sweetest, most innocent cutie ever. probably ends up using a lot of honorifics and formal language subconsciously out of nerves, but it just comes off as super respectful to your parents. the whole things turn out to be a win-lose situation, and he doesn’t fumble the bag as bad as he thought he would.

ASAHI, kageyama, yamaguchi (i could not think of anyone else vro. sorry.)

masterlist | taglist | tags: @scoupsworld @amaliaaliena @mires765 a/n: multis like this are kinda hard bcs i have to lump a bunch of characters in one group, so some are probably ooc. usually don’t do them for this reason but i felt like switching things up.

© evamame 2025. all rights reserved. please do not repost, modify, steal, plagiarize, or translate my work.

[luna-azzurra]

Genius Things to Do When You’re Stuck in Your Plot...

Make a fake conspiracy board connecting every character like you're solving a murder. Use string, post-its, color-coded chaos. Even if your book isn’t a thriller, this helps you spot secret relationships, hidden motivations, and “oh crap, this character actually caused that moment three chapters later” reveals.

Write a therapy session transcript for your protagonist. What would they say to a stranger? What wouldn’t they say? What does the therapist pick up on that they don’t? (Also: gives you instant internal conflict fuel.)

Record a fake podcast episode where your villain is a guest. The topic? “Why I Was Right and Everyone Else Is Just Soft.” Let them monologue. Let them get unhinged. You’ll learn so much about their worldview and how they justify their chaos.

Assign zodiac signs to all your main characters and write how they’d react to a haunted house. Not because astrology is the answer—but because forcing your brain to imagine characters in weird situations unlocks surprising truths. (Your Scorpio would definitely flirt with the ghost. Your Virgo brought sage.)

Write the worst possible ending to your story on purpose. Like, make it hilariously bad. Deus ex machina, everyone dies, aliens show up—it doesn’t matter. Sometimes mocking your plot actually helps you figure out what doesn’t work so you can reverse-engineer what does.

Do a “what if this happened instead?” daydream session in the shower or on a walk. No pressure. Just free-thinking. Let your brain go off-road. You might stumble into a better twist, or a softer moment, or a scene that guts you in the best way.

Write the one scene you’re most excited about—now. Even if you “haven’t earned it” yet in the draft. Screw linear order. Give yourself a jolt of joy. That scene might be the key to unlocking everything else.

Make your characters write Yelp reviews about each other. “One star. Always steals my fries. Would still die for him.” This is ridiculous, yes. But it will reveal interpersonal tension you didn’t know was there.

Tell your plot to someone who knows nothing about it—and see where they get confused. Your roommate. Your cat. Your reflection. If you can’t explain it out loud in 2 minutes, it’s probably too complicated. Simplify the heart of the story. Get clear again.

Write a flash-forward epilogue. Even if it never makes it into the book. Where do these characters end up? Who are they now? That can tell you where the real story wants to go—and help you figure out what’s missing along the way.

[odussyeus]

Just a reminder that your media consumption is your own responsibility and even the stories that you think are “absolutely disgusting or evil” do not actually make them so. They are fiction there are no actual victims it is all made up. ( there is nothing wrong with being uncomfortable with certain types of written media everybody has their limits) Be an adult and choose not to engage or don’t go on an archive. Censorship is wrong no matter what it is. Also, it’s called archive for a reason. It’s meant to preserve works ( even the ones you dont like ) There is no regulation by going on that site You are agreeing that the benefits of reading fics outweighs the risks of seeing things you don’t like.

 Humankind has lost so much history and knowledge because it was destroyed by people who thought it immoral or unjust.

 side note: tagging things correctly is very important in this argument, but there are fics that were written on archive prior to the filter feature being created not to mention filters are for important tags! I have preferences as someone who reads reader fics that I don’t love being described, but it is not that author’s responsibility to specify every little detail about that character because at the end of the day reader is still a character and are going to represent the authors vision. Because at the end of the day, all fanfiction is written for the author who chooses to share with other people, we as readers need to understand we are not entitled to works.

As someone who’s been in fandom since I was in middle school as somebody who is now 25 I think the popularization of fandom is ruining it. Fandom culture is a thing and like any other kind of culture unless it is hurting real life people you do not get to enter that space and tell people who have been in that space for decades that they have to change that culture to fit your belief system . Not to mention I could rant for hours about how written media is a form of harm reduction. I would much rather somebody write a fictional story about the most horrible disgusting reprehensible behavior, then act on that behavior in real life. Because nobody is holding a gun to my head, forcing me to read that.

"i'm tired of seeing-" use your filters.

"but there was an icky ship-!" use your filters.

"i don't like that tag-" use your filters.

don't like what you're seeing? use. your. filters.

[swtheartz]

“ LIKE STRAWBERRIES. ” — M. Grayson Part one, part two Info : Slow burn, duh. Mark’s perspective and him being an annoying little freak. General fluff before things get freaky W / C : 2.6k+. A / N : microsoft word didn’t wanna cooperate so i hopped in google docs and got to fucking work. mb for the delay, genuinely started tweaking out when i realized i was already behind schedule LMFAO

“Where do you live?”

The question was genuine and curious, as Mark sat there and let you use him as a lab rat. He was more emotional support than anything, actually, seeing as you didn’t really need to do anything too hard unless it was being the resident doctor. And, to be fair, he hasn’t seen you outside of the GDA unless you were placed out on the field for emergencies. That alone was a rarity.

You don’t even look up at him, sighing, “That sounds creepy. Like, scammer or stalker kind of creepy.”

He ignores the fact he technically is somewhat a stalker, instead focusing on the topic on hand.

“I’m serious. I’ve never even heard you mention anything outside of work unless it’s about Oliver or Eve.”

“Good,” leaning back in your new swivel chair—because Mark had broken the last one by pure accident—you look at him with a bored look in your eyes. “I like it like that. You already know too much.”

Mark shifts on the medical bed, not injured this time, which had become a more frequent thing. He’d drop by more often. Less bloody each time, but with heavier weights on his shoulders. It wasn’t something he bothered you with. Your presence alone seemed to remedy whatever ringing lingered in his ears.

“I don’t know what that means.” Mark shrugs, holding your stare. “The most I know is that you’re here, 24/7, using me as an emotional support pet.”

You snort. “You’re hardly emotional support, Markus. You’re an accessory at best. Every time I turn around, you’re there, and I don’t know why.”

“Do you have to?”

“Yes. I do, actually, because whenever Stedman catches you in here, we both get put on probation. Which is stupid considering I never tell you to come here. You’re like a dog,” You hum and set down your paperwork, done for the day. “And not in a cute way. I’d pet a dog, I’d castrate you.”

He winces at that, unable to help picturing the uncomfortable feeling of that. “That’s rude.”

You nod languidly, spinning around idly in your chair. The one he insisted on paying for because he wanted to know a little more about your preferences. If anything changed at all, if there was something new about you that he hadn’t noticed before and hadn’t made both mental and physical notes of.

“It’s supposed to be, Invinci-Boy,” You smile, but only faintly. It’s a sight that makes Mark pause every time he sees it, even if it’s barely noticeable by the untrained eye. He’s learned to watch close enough that even the smallest uptick of your lips has him stopping, just for a moment.

Over the last few months, he’s made slow progress. Slow, most definitely, but still more progress. You’re not as guarded. Mark himself isn’t sure if you’ve noticed it or not, but he’d prefer the latter. If you ever did notice how you ever so slowly relaxed around him, how you’d smile—despite it always being barely there—the longer he’d stick around. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you you’re wrong about him being like a dog.

Because you’re not wrong.

You’ve got him on a leash, and if you were to tug on it, he would follow.

“Please stop reminding me.”

“So this is your place? It’s. . .”

“If the right words don’t leave your mouth, I will gut you.”

The house itself on the outside was simple. A two story house, a light but faded blue color with a dark roof, actually quite the distance from the larger cities and areas that’d usually have crowds and countless buildings. It looked old. Something that had been passed down, for sure.

The interior, in Mark’s defense, was cute. Floral print walls that were slowly yet surely yellowing, dark wooden floors, and a plain white ceiling. It was cozy. Lived in; which was a surprise, considering how often you’d get to work early and stay late into the night. Years on years of memories scattered on the walls. People you don’t mention. Pictures you don’t talk about. Thoughts you don’t think about anymore.

“You live on your own?” He looks around, and there isn’t really any other indicator of anyone besides you living here besides those photos and decorations. Except for what looked like a cat’s food and water bowl, and a bag of what seemed to be really, really expensive cat food. But he’s not sure if a cat counts as a someone.

You’ve never mentioned a cat before. Mark supposes he should’ve known—you seem like a cat person. You have cat themed pens, and occasionally doodle weird looking animals on your reports to annoy Cecil. Maybe those were cats; even if they looked oddly misshapen. He can’t help but zone out as he thinks about it. Cats suit you, he figures. He buries the little fact deep inside his brain for later.

“I have a cat,” The words are nothing but a murmur as you crouch down, looking at the bottom of your couch with a slight furrow in your brow. With a huff, you reach under and pull out a small cat, which blinked as it woke up. “Her name is Apricot.”

“Apricot,” He repeats, testing the name on his tongue as he watches the cat in question purr and practically fall back asleep as you hold her. You don’t seem as jaded as you do when you are working. Fatigued, for sure, but you seem gentler. Softer around the edges. Something he wants to see every day. He’s surprised you’ve come around to the thought of him, enough to let him in.

It was strange. If it had been a month before this, or hell, a week before, you wouldn’t have trusted him enough. Not even enough to tell him your cat’s name.

As he said before. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless.

“Were you hungry when you named her, or?”

“I will let her claw your face off, Markus.”

Your home constantly smells of vanilla and something purely you, Mark comes to realize. There is always an extra carton of strawberries in your fridge thanks to him, and every time he drops by, you let him stay a little later. You let him stay until sunset. Then until the moon is hanging high in the sky, and then until the sun comes back up. It’s like you don’t notice, and if you do, you don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything, either. Doesn’t want to. This is something that is meant to go unsaid, Mark decided. It wasn’t every night, but it was definitely frequent enough to notice, even if no one said anything. He’s memorized the main floor of your house—knows the feel of the couch cushions, the smell of your air fresheners, the sound of rain against the windows. It’s something he’d subconsciously etched into his memory. Into the hollow of his bones, really. All the things he doesn’t want to forget.

The sound of both Apricot’s and your heartbeat is cemented into his mind. Mark’s never been much of an animal person, but your cat seemed to be an exception as she purred quietly against his leg.

“Why do you have a whole process for strawberries?”

“Because just rinsing them doesn’t do anything,” You tell him as though he should know, drying off your hands as you leave the strawberries he’d gotten you to soak. It’s become a new piece of your routine. Whether or not you asked, or said no, there’d be a new container of strawberries left on your desk or in your bag.

You couldn’t be annoyed. Not at the fruit, anyway. You usually ended up baking them into something and feeding it to his little brother or Eve, or gave it right back to him just to hear him insist that he share his piece with you.

“I didn’t realize you were a germaphobe.” Mark comments, leaning down to pick Apricot up after she basically tried to crawl up his leg. The joke itself was a lie. You’re a healer, and he’s seen firsthand how particular you are about the cleanliness of your workstation and of the people you interact with. He knows about the little pet peeves that you don’t even know about, the small habits that are second nature to you.

It’s just gotten worse since you’ve let him a little closer. To Mark, it doesn’t matter if you realize how much you’ve come to trust him or not. As long as he can stay in a close proximity, it won’t ever matter. As far as he knows? He’s the only one you’re willing to let invade your space. The one he gets to rant to, even if all he gets in response are mumbles and scoffs—even the taunts and sly remarks you make. He enjoys it. Revels in it, really, and he refuses to have it any other way unless it means getting even closer.

“You’re stressful. Like a toddler.” The words that leave your mouth come out as more of a yawn, and the quiet of your home accompanied by your heartbeat is what peace sounds like to him. “I wish nothing but nightmares and despair on you, Markus.”

“You know you are literally the only person who calls me that. It’s disturbing,” He hums, wandering over into the living room and is secretly delighted by the way you follow behind.

All day, you were working your ass off. Paperwork, Cecil, patients, and a last minute emergency where you had to be out on the field. Healing people with your own two hands seems to drain you, something Mark wishes he’d noted sooner. The solutions you’d made to avoid healing with your hands were depleted, unsurprisingly, with the sudden spike in injuries amongst the heroes.

The amount of times you’d berated people in the last month were too many to count. Still, the insults you would hurl towards his way still amounted to more, and he wouldn’t change that for anything—as dumb as that sounded.

It’s a comfortable silence between you two when you both settle on the couch. Opposite sides, of course, a quiet boundary that Mark couldn’t be bothered to break. Just being this close to you was enough.

At least, that was what he would keep telling himself until it wasn’t enough, and he’d crave more again.

He’d always crave more when it came to you. 

“I’m staying the night,” He rests his head against the back of the couch as he stares at the tv, which wasn’t even on. It wasn’t a question. It didn’t feel like he had to ask anymore, and you never protested. He’d leave if you told him to, but you don’t. Instead, it’s quiet for a few moments, before he can hear you sigh.

“I know.”

Mark can’t help but smile at that, noticing the way you curl up ever so slightly, shifting to get comfortable on the couch as Apricot crawled off of him and onto you. He can’t help but stare for a few moments, even if those moments are something he wants to last forever, and he blinks when you tilt your head to look at him. As usual, it’s blank. Tired, physically and emotionally. You don’t look like this whenever you’re on duty, but it is a look that he’s seen more as he spends more time with you outside of work.

Your heartbeat sounds like peace.

“Go grab the blankets from upstairs, you freak,” You lean your head on your hand as you reach for the tv remote and ignore the way he is seemingly snapped out of a trance. Slowly, he nods and stands up, wordless as he goes upstairs.

There are framed pictures hung on the walls of people. Not people you’ve mentioned before, and probably not anyone you could even remember yourself. They looked old. Aged, despite the moment being timeless and put behind glass and a wood frame to be hung up and looked at by those who could remember them. The wallpaper was somewhat chipped, little pink and blue flowers slowly fading and peeling. Every step he takes makes the stairs creak under his weight, and oddly enough, it feels comfortable.

You keep your blankets folded neatly in your room, on rare occasions. This is, what, the third time Mark’s stayed over? The second time he’d stayed, the blankets were sprawled on your bed, set up in a way you’d probably found comfortable enough to sleep on. He would figure it out at some point. Surely.

You’re still scrolling through movies and shows by the time he comes back down with all the blankets, setting them down beside you on the couch before sitting down next to you. Indecisive on what to put on, or if you even wanted to watch anything as you would doze off.

“What do you wanna watch?”

“Are we friends?”

Both questions come out at the same time, Mark’s voice being quieter than he had originally intended. He can hear the hitch in your breath, sees the way you stop scrolling through mindless television at his question. It’s been a nagging thought for some time, one that’d taken root barely even a month after he had met you a year ago. He wants to pretend that if anytime were a good time to ask, it’d be now.

When your heartbeat is slow and steady, calm and beating. When the creaks in the house have settled, when the sound of Apricot purring soothes the both of you, when he can’t help but feel his fingers twitch with want and feel his chest ache with so many thoughts swarming his head, he just can’t seem to focus on one.

You’d tilted your head slowly, a slight scowl on your face, and Mark can feel a lump in his throat.

He hadn’t felt this type of nervousness since high school—which, admittedly, felt like a lifetime ago after getting his powers, since moving on with his life. It was strange. A creeping feeling up his throat, his spine, his very soul. Down to the root.

“Friends.”

“Friends,” He repeats, nodding slowly. At best, you’d probably call Eve another coworker, Oliver an occasional nuisance, and Mark a constant pain in your ass that refused to leave no matter how much you turned him away.

The quiet that follows makes him want to claw at his throat, and he can feel his cheeks heating up. Whether or not it’s from embarrassment isn’t something he wants to think about right now, because he was certain he’d stopped being embarrassed around you quite some time ago, but it seemed that that wasn’t quite true.

And, again, you sighed.

“You know what? Sure. We’re friends,” You shrug, going back to focusing on the tv after making such a simple statement. As though Mark hadn’t felt like he was going to throw up just a few seconds ago. “Now, what do you wanna watch? Or else I’m putting on those obnoxious sleep noises and wait for a hell playlist to pop up and give you nightmares at like, three in the morning.”

He blinks, mouth opening for a moment before closing, and then opening again.

“Hell. . . Playlist?”

“I can show you. If I have to go through it, you do. I’d have to be smitten by the gods themselves if I didn’t torture you psychologically.”

As if you hadn’t done that enough just by existing, but Mark says nothing. He just laughs—relieved. You were willing to let him just a little bit closer, and that was enough. It had to be enough. Just for now, it was enough.

Until he’d start to crave more, just as he always did.

TAG LIST : @lxluvsmoney @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha @pookiei-bookie @tokoyamisstuff @koilikesthefishy @treeteaofversailles @astrelz @tryingandfailingtowrite @vghjvvhhj

[berryz-writes]

Hooked

Azriel x reader

Summary: You teach Azriel how to crotchet after his hands become stiff due to old scars /fluff

Note: Hi my lovelies I got an extra boost to write this after going through my drafts and some of yalls encouragement. Ily all <33

The living room was quiet except for the sound of yarn brushing softly between fingers and the occasional sigh from the brooding male next to me.

Afternoon sunlight poured through the wide windows, spilling golden light across the floor and the deep blue yarn sitting in Azriel’s lap. His wings were relaxed behind him, stretching wide across the back of the couch like a warm, dark curtain. The way the light hit his face made the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbones look softer, and a lock of his dark hair had fallen over his brow.

I watched him try to loop the yarn with the small silver crochet hook, his scarred fingers slow and unsure. It was oddly sweet, seeing the deadly Spymaster focus so hard on something so small and soft.

“You’re twisting the hook too much,” I said gently. “Let me show you again.”

“I’m not twisting it” Azriel muttered. “It’s... resisting me.”

“It’s yarn” I said, grinning. “Not an enemy soldier.”

That made him glance at me, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s more stubborn than most enemies I’ve faced.”

I laughed, moving closer on the couch. He was trying, at least. That meant a lot. His hands had been stiff lately—more than usual. The old scars from his childhood, the ones that never quite healed right, made it harder for him to do small, careful things like this. So when I suggested crocheting—something that could help his fingers stay flexible—I didn’t expect him to say yes.

But he did. Without hesitation.

“Come here” he said suddenly, voice low. “It’s easier if you show me from here.”

“From where?”

He looked at me like I was slow. Then patted his thigh.

“In my lap.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He gave a casual shrug. “Unless you want me to stab myself with this thing.”

I snorted. “Crochet hooks aren’t sharp, Az.”

“Still might manage it.”

Shaking my head, I stood and climbed carefully into his lap. His hands settled naturally at my hips, helping me balance. His body was all hard muscle and heat—like sitting on a furnace made of shadows. I leaned back against his chest, letting him wrap one arm around me while the other held the hook.

“Comfy?” he asked, his voice right in my ear.

“Very.”

“Good. Because I plan to hold you hostage until I finish this row.”

I laughed again and reached for his hand, guiding it carefully with mine. His fingers were warm, rough with scars and years of training, but they moved with surprising gentleness when I showed him where to pull, how to loop, how to keep the yarn from getting too tight.

“Like this,” I said, shifting slightly to get a better angle. “Pull the hook through… then yarn over… yep, like that.”

Azriel hummed low in his throat. “I think I’m starting to get it.”

“You’re doing great,” I said softly, twisting my head just enough to catch his eye.

His hazel eyes met mine, golden-brown and steady. “You’re a good teacher” he said, quiet and honest. “But it might just be that I like having you in my lap.”

I rolled my eyes trying not to smile but before I could respond the peace shattered with a bang as the door swung open to the living room.

Cassian’s voice rang out. “What in the name of the Cauldron—?”

Cassian stood there, staring at us. Shirtless, of course, his chest and arms still sweaty from training.

He came to a halt, mouth parting slightly as he took in the image of the feared Shadowsinger… hunched over a growing patch of crocheted yarn, my hand steadying his wrist.

I could see it building behind Cassian’s hazel eyes—wicked amusement mixing with something softer beneath.

“Oh no,” he said at last, a grin slowly stretching across his face. “Has the Spymaster been domesticated?”

Azriel didn’t look up too focussed on his work “If I had a dagger right now…”

“You’d crochet me to death?” Cassian shot back, flopping dramatically into the chair across from us. He reached down and picked up a spare ball of yarn, turning it over in his massive, calloused hands. “This is it. This is my favorite day ever.”

“It’s for his fingers,” I said, pointedly ignoring the smirk he shot me. “The scarring gives him stiffness. This helps keep the dexterity.”

Cassian’s face did something then—softened, just slightly. His gaze dropped to Azriel’s hands, and for a second, a beat of silence passed between them. An understanding. One brother to another.

Then, of course, he ruined it.

“So,” Cassian said with mock-seriousness, tossing the yarn from hand to hand. “What’s he making? Wing warmers?"

Azriel finally looked up, his expression almost bored “You know, I could just stab you.”

“I knew there’d be a threat,” Cassian said brightly. “But it loses its edge when you’re holding… that.” He pointed at the hook Azriel was attempting to loop through the hole.

Azriel didn’t even look up. “You’re jealous because I can make things with my hands that don’t involve punching.”

“I am a little jealous, actually,” Cassian admitted with a mock pout, throwing the ball of yarn into the basket by my feet “Does this come in a colour that screams Commander of the Night Court?”

“It screams something,” Azriel muttered, finally looking up with a smirk. “Mostly that you talk too much.”

I laughed then, the sound escaping before I could stop it. Cassian gave me an exaggerated wink.

“Don’t encourage him,” Azriel said dryly, though his lips found the top of my head and pressed a kiss there “Next he’ll want a crochet battle.”

Cassian perked up. “Wait, is that a thing?”

“It is not a thing,” I said, exasperated.

Azriel shook his head, but even he couldn’t suppress the amusement in his expression.

Cassian’s teasing faded into a fond smile as he watched Azriel fumble another loop, my hands steadying his, voice soft and patient.

Cassian stood up and stretched, cracking his back with a grunt. “Alright, before I start crying or worse, crocheting, I’m leaving"

He was halfway out the room when I lobbed a yarn ball at his head. He caught it with a grin and vanished down the hall, still laughing.

Azriel let out a long breath and relaxed into further into the sofa taking me with him.

“He’s never going to let this go,” he murmured.

“No,” I agreed. “But he’s happy for you.”

Azriel was quiet for a moment, then turned to press a kiss another kiss to my hair. “So am I.”

[agirlnamednix]

I absolutely LOVE my Boyf because he just...says that? He's really blunt about it. It feels like he's reprimanding me sometimes, but I've grown to understand that he's trusting me. He knows that I know. So instead of getting upset about it, I give him the time he needs to recenter, to be more present, to find his soul somewhere in his body again. It's something I'm trying to do more and better, too.

At work the other day, someone came in and asked a very simple question. It required a 2-3 word answer. And I just...couldn't. I knew the answer, I knew exactly what he wanted from me, I knew I could provide it...and I just locked up. In previous situations, I would have panicked and stared at him and eventually snapped at him. I've done that a lot in the past. But then I remembered how my Boyf says it: "I'm sorry. I'm unable to communicate right now. Please give me a moment." And I said that to my coworker.

Of course he didn't understand. He immediately tried to bully me into giving him the answer NOW. So I just said it again: "Please give me a moment to bring myself back to this moment." And then I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. I could still hear him getting annoyed and frustrated, and I felt myself unable to reconnect to the moment because of it. So I forced myself to say "Please let me have some time to fix my brain here. I will find you downstairs in a minute."

That coworker left in a huff, muttering about how much of a freak I was, and he slammed my office door. I started crying. And that's okay! It's a lot, and that guy was being abusive. I'm fortunate enough to have a private office to myself! I took a couple minutes, did some breathing exercises, brought my self back to my body. The act of SAYING that to him gave me a little push to be more present, to reallocate mental resources. Then I found him in his workspace, said "I'm really sorry about earlier. Here's the answer to your question." and he suddenly got really sheepish about it. He said he was sorry for being shitty about it. I said it was all good; it's weird for other people to need to navigate my dysfunction. I thanked him for his patience with me, even though he very obviously showed none at all. But accusing him would've done nothing to help.

In my heart, I just hoped that my coworker understood me a little better, and I knew he would get frustrated about it again in the future. But SAYING TO HIM that I was unable to be in the moment for him was seriously helpful in moving through that situation. And it's laying the groundwork for future interactions being easier as a result.

With friends and loved ones, it's very VERY simple: just say that you're having a rough time being present! Just tell them! I know it's hard, it's shameful, it's scary...but trust me. After 30+ years of navigating this bullshit--all of which is wildly unfair, uncomfortable, and sometimes even dehumanizing--it's one of the most healing things you can do. Admitting to your loved ones that you're having a hard time being sentient is not only going to foster honesty and trust between you, but it will NORMALIZE RECOVERING FROM IT. You'll feel better about this not being something that's broken in you, and HOPEFULLY your loved ones will adjust to help you. If they don't...well, then you aren't really one of their loved ones, are you?

Demand better of your loved ones. And trust in your ability to get through this. You're always stronger than you realize...and sometimes admitting weakness is how you finally see it. ♥♥♥

[icewindandboringhorror]

(also feel free in the tags to clarify Why you made the choice you made!! :0c)