SUMMARY ♱ You and your friends dare to enter a house fabled to be haunted. Here you meet the peculiar enigma that is Oscar Piastri, a man who seems to be stuck in an older era.
WORD COUNT ♱ 8.5K
CONTAINS ♱ Some suggestive themes, blood sucking, biting, vampire lore, Oscar being a freak.
FEATURING ♱ Vampire!Oscar Piastri x Human!Reader
A/N ♱ Happy late Halloween!! I’ll be posted the rest of flufftober soon :) Sorry It’s taking forever!
On the outskirts of town, beyond a thicket of trees that a bunch of high school teens from the 80s nicknamed the Blood Moon Grove after wandering in, only to find out vampire bats infested it, sat an old, rickety house. The whole town knew of its existence – various haunted stories that you’d sit around the fire to tell, flashlight pointed at your face as your friends huddled together to fend off the spine-chilling heebie-jeebies that slowly crawled up their skin, featured this house. It changed every time, but the ending of each story tended to stay the same.
Whoever went in never came back out.
You, the skeptic you are, claimed bullshit. You and your friends were camping for a holiday weekend out in Blood Moon Grove, not too far from the very path that would eventually lead out of the thick forest and to the gated house. However, it was not secure, as evidenced by the fact that, allegedly, hundreds of brave-faced teens have wandered in. Your buddy Tyler sat on one of the folding chairs you had lugged out there in the back of his pickup, the fire crackling. The rest of you, which included you and your dear friends Ziva and Wyatt, sat on the other side in your own respective seats.
Tyler had just finished his story, setting the lantern he had been holding up to his face to illuminate it in a way he thought was spooky down by his feet, reaching over to grab a bag of marshmallows. He nearly tipped his chair over, which resulted in him sighing and gratefully clutching his chest. You, on the other hand, shake your head.
“None of that shit’s real,” you murmur nonchalantly. You rise, dragging your chair in the rock-filled dirt to sit away from the others, now in the middle of your friends. “Whoever lived there probably just died or something, and now nobody wants to buy it because everyone thinks it’s like…” You gesture vaguely, “Cursed or something.”
“It is,” Tyler insists as he spears his marshmallow onto a roasting stick and then thrusts it out over the fire. “How else do you explain… Fuck, what’s her face?” He snaps his fingers. “Ziva, you know– The girl who went missing in high school?”
“Yeah, like… Phoebe Summers or something,” Ziva said, rolling her shoulders with a deep breath. She was clearly spooked, but it’s hard to tell if she was actually falling for Tyler’s overly dramatic storytelling. You hoped not– You were all far too old to be playing make-believe.
“Wyatt, make me a graham,” Tyler whispered loudly to the other boy, who rolled his eyes but stood up to comply with his wishes nonetheless. “Okay, Y/N. If none of it’s true, then explain Phoebe Summers, who got real brave one night, wandered into the house, and then no one heard from her again.”
“You dimwit. Summers moved to Florida in the last year of high school. I follow her on Facebook.” You’re really not having it. Tyler’s always annoying, but it seems especially bad tonight.
“Why do you have Facebook?” Ziva’s query goes unanswered as Tyler cuts her off, “Okay, Y/N.” He slides the cooked marshmallow, golden on the sides but burnt on the tip, onto the graham cracker and chocolate that Wyatt is holding. He then takes a bite, wiping the corners of his mouth and nodding. “If you really don’t believe me, then why don’t we all go over there?”
“Fine.”
“No-” Wyatt sighs, shaking his head. “Whether it’s real or not, it’s a bad idea. It could be infested with… Rats! Or…” He looks around and then waves at the trees. “Vampire bats.”
“Or monsters and vengeful spirits,” Tyler grumbles, mouth full of the treat.
“I don’t care. I want to prove this idiot wrong,” You say as you grab the lantern, pulling the handle to expand it, the light stretching out further and creeping along the uneven terrain. “Let’s go then.” Wyatt and Tyler are both silent, so you turn to Ziva, who’s avoiding eye contact by mindlessly doodling in the dirt with a long stick she had found nearby. “You’ll go, right, Ziva?”
“Huh-”
“C’mon, Ty. Tell them it’s pointless- There’s nothing in there, let’s just enjoy our trip.”
“I’m telling you, it’s haunted.”
“Quit egging them on.”
“Ziva, let’s go,” You say with a bit more intensity this time. “You don’t believe him, do you? We’ll be fine, I promise. We can even take the truck.”
“Hey!” Tyler objects, licking the marshmallow fluff off his fingers. “I didn’t agree to that.”
“Fine, I’ll go, just quit arguing,” Ziva sighs, arms crossed over her chest. “We should all go.”
Tyler shakes his head. “Screw that, I’m not gonna get killed just to prove a point.”
“You can stay in the truck then.” You’re already snatching his keys, much to his dismay. Tyler frowns and pushes off from his chair, tugging his beanie back over his thick, curly hair as he follows along behind you. “We’ll head over. Ziva and I will go in while you and Wyatt stay outside.” You climb into the driver’s side, shoving the key into the ignition. The lights flicker, a sign of the vehicle’s age, but ultimately only the icons on the dashboard light up, alongside the radio that doesn’t even work. “If you’re right, and something does lurk in there… I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”
Tyler is climbing into the passenger’s seat while the other two load into the side-facing jump seats in the back, crammed together in the tight space. They lock eyes with one another, clearly unsettled by this entire journey and somewhat pissed at both of you for getting them roped into the situation. Still, nobody really believed his ridiculous story. You were just the only one with the guts to say it.
“Deal,” Ty says as he sits back in the seat, compromising Wyatt’s space and earning a groan from the man. You drive down the path in the dark, the truck shakes with every bump, but you carry on until you can see the faint outline of the house in the distance, the gates looming far out, blocking the rest of the path. You leave the key in, grab the lantern, and then hop out of the truck.
“Just wait here,” you instruct when he steps out to take your place in the driver’s seat. Ziva also climbs out, looking somewhat nervous as she clutches a dim flashlight. “We’ll be back soon. Just gonna take a quick look around.”
So the two of you make the short trek to the front door. First, you knock, a cloud of dust erupts from the wooden door, and you cough into your elbow. Ziva says something about just turning back, and how it wasn’t worth it, but you don’t respond during your efforts to push the door open. The inside is dark, completely void of light, but what stands out to you the most is how clean the inside is. Compared to the outside, which is run down and overgrown with thorny vines, the inside is practically spotless, with not a speck of dust in sight. You move the lantern around, shedding light on the entrance.
“Looks nice. It’s giving me Victorian vibes.” You speak quite loudly, making Ziva jump as if your voice alone spooked her. “You stay down here. I’m gonna check it out upstairs.”
“Have you learned nothing from horror movies? Splitting up is how people die–”
Just like that, you’re quickly ascending the large grand staircase, the wooden rails shaped like perfect spirals upon each end. Smoke curls around a candle at the top, as if it had just recently been lit. Your fingers tighten around the handle of the lantern as you survey your surroundings, slowly making your way down the long hallway that stretches out before you. There are various doors on both sides, each of which is closed except for the one at the very end. A large ballroom opens up near the end, a singular piano tucked away in the corner. You make your way over, setting the lantern on the bench of the baby grand, and then opening up the lid. You run your fingers across the keys, starting at the lower end and then making your way up to the highest note.
It’s right as you play that C8 that you hear it.
A high-pitched scream.
Maybe you’re a skeptic, but that’s never a good sound. You grab the lantern and begin to run.
You run past the closed doors that feel taller now than they were before, and down the staircase that seemed to have doubled in size. You see Ziva run for the door with a scream, and your instincts scream to chase after her, but right before you can dart out the doors, they slam shut in your face. You yank the handles, banging your fist against the beautifully carved wood, but it doesn’t budge. “Come on, this isn’t funny!” You yell, even though it bothers you to show any sign of being scared. Before you begin to panic, a nervous laugh leaves you. “Alright, fine! You got me, now open up–”
“You shouldn’t be here,” A deeper voice whispers from behind. You flip around instantly, back pressed to the door. You can hear the rain pattering against the roof, thunder rumbling through the floorboards. You see a silhouette, but your lantern halfheartedly flickers before dying out entirely. You shrink back against the door, still clutching onto the lantern. If anything, you could swing it in self-defense as a last-ditch effort.
“I’m sorry,” you say steadily, your voice firm and fearless. “I didn’t know anyone lived here– I’ll leave, my friends are just outside.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Lightning strikes, and the entire room is illuminated, revealing the figure's face and exposing pale skin, along with a distinctly old-fashioned appearance. He wears a white button-up shirt with a frilly neckpiece, which has been tucked into high-waisted dress pants with gold buttons lining the waistband. His outfit certainly matches the old Victorian decor. You bite back a scream, your heart racing in your chest. You reach behind yourself for the doorknob to silently twist it, but it still doesn’t move in the slightest.
You peer out the stained glass windows beside the door, holding the hand with the lantern out as if it would hold the mystery man at bay. It’s a glance, but it’s long enough for you to see Tyler’s truck driving off into the forest.
They’ve left you here.
When you look back, his face is visible again, though this time he’s basked in the warm light of a lit match. He holds it up to the candles as he walks up the stairs, lighting them one by one. You watch, still huddling beside the door, as the light reaches out, displaying every nook and cranny of the pretty interior. You want to stop and admire the place, but your fight-or-flight response won’t let you look away from the man.
He has brown hair that goes just an inch beyond his nape, effortlessly styled in a swoop off to the side. His waistcoat, which you only just now noticed, drapes in the back in a forked pattern, almost like a sort of cape. He has his back to you, which would make escaping easy if you actually knew how. You look around, and then with both hands, you swing the lantern at the stained glass windows…
It bounces off, and the force sends you back onto your ass.
The man instantly turns, eyes somewhat wide. “That won’t do,” he hisses hoarsely. “You’ll have to wait.”
“For what?”
He hesitates, eyes searching his surroundings. He opens his mouth, pauses, and then sighs. “For the door to open. The locks are finicky… Sometimes you just have to wait.” He returns to lighting the candles, a solemn look on his pale face, devoid of color.
“Surely I could leave through a window,” You insist, standing and dusting yourself off. “I mean you no harm, really… It was a stupid idea. My friend, he–”
“If you leave now, you’ll get sick. Or worse. Who knows what awaits you out there? Stay. I have a room available for you to stay in, at least until the rain clears.”
There’s no point in resisting, and you know that. The house, as if it were full of life itself, is keeping you inside. If this man wanted to kill you, he could have easily done so by now, so while you still don’t entirely trust the man, you inhale deeply, air filling your lungs upon steeling yourself, and then nod. “Alright,” you sound shakier than anticipated, “I’ll stay.”
He tenses for a moment. The muscles of his broad shoulders flex, outlined by his shirt, and then he nods. “Good choice. I shall prepare your room, then. Feel free to explore as you wish.” He begins to ascend the stairs, only half of the candles lit as he lets the match burn down to his fingertips before snuffing it out.
“Wait,” You call out, taking a step forward. He freezes. “Your name,” You say, voice softer. “What’s your name?”
He’s still unmoving. But then, slowly but surely, he carries on up the stairs. “Oscar,” he murmurs just loud enough. He briefly makes eye contact and then turns and walks back down the hallway and out of sight. You run over his name in your mind as if racking your brain for any recollections of an Oscar. He wasn’t mentioned in Tyler’s story, and you’ve never known anyone named that anyway. He’s unheard of, even by someone who’s lived in the area for years.
Although it doesn’t work, you carry your lantern with you as you begin to explore.
The rooms are still dark. The only place lit is your main entrance, and even that is dim as only candles provide their warmth. The manor is massive, seemingly bigger on the inside. He has a two-story library with books coated in a thick layer of dust, tables featuring handcrafted and sculpted candelabras placed in the center, waiting to be lit. There’s an indoor garden, but what catches your attention is the lack of any sunlight. There are no windows or artificial light, but it’s just a brick room with planter boxes lining the walls, healthy flowers sprouting out and drooping down onto the floor. The place itself is dreary, but it comes alive with plants. You wander down the hall at the top of the stairs until you come across a door that has been left open, just beside the ballroom. You peek inside, expecting to find Oscar, but alas.
Empty.
The guest bedroom is grand, featuring a curtain canopy bed adorned with red silk blankets and pillows. You shut the door and climb under the covers, pulling them tightly when thunder rumbles once more, reminding you of your dreary predicament. You glance out the window, the blinds cracked open to gaze out at the forest. You stare, almost as if you’re expecting Tyler’s truck to come back for you, but nothing ever stirs. After hours of sitting and waiting, your brain on edge, it becomes too much to bear, and you fall asleep in the plush bed, your guard lowered for the night.
–
When you awake in the morning, you’re met with the soft sound of a crackling hearth. Opposite your bed is a small fireplace, the flames licking at the brick walls and the iron gate as if they dare to creep out, hungry for flammable fabrics to tarnish. You push the blanket off, zipping up your jacket with cold fingers that refuse to cooperate. You rub them together and make another attempt– Success. Your legs swing over the edge of the bed, pushing off so your feet land in your sneakers snugly. After tying your shoes, you decide to leave the room, looking to explore a bit more.
Natural light filters in through half-opened blinds, allowing your eyes to fully take in your surroundings without the daunting presence of overwhelming darkness and unsatisfactory candlelight. The main hallway on the upper level seems to extend out further than before, almost as if it were taunting you. Your steps are careful, pausing every time the floorboards creak too loudly, breath bated like you’re scared of waking the house up.
The doors are still closed, though at the other end of the hallway, a place you’ve yet to explore truly, one door remains open. Light seeps out invitingly, calling you over. You feel like you’re lost in a trance with every step you take, hand pushing the door open. It creaks loudly, and the candles that line the walls blow out dramatically. You freeze, the room entirely dark from the lack of windows. You push the door open a bit further, letting the light from the hallway creep in as you step further.
The walls are covered in mirrors of varying shapes and sizes. Some are square, some are oval, with decorated frames, and some are shattered. You glance at your reflection, which stares back at you in an almost unsettling way. Maybe it’s just the nature of the manor that freaks you out, but when you look at yourself, something ultimately feels… Wrong.
It’s quiet, save the whisper of a breeze that brushes by you, almost as if it carries the voices of the damned within it. You turn to peer at the mirrors on the other side, a shrill shriek leaving you when you’re met with a momentary flicker of something behind you, like a faint outline of a person that’s gone within the second.
“Fuck,” you whisper as you clutch your heart, taking a moment to catch your breath after writing it off as your imagination.
“What are you doing here?”
You stumble forward. The voice had been right beside your ear, breath hot as it ghosted the shell. You flip around, stumbling against one of the mirrors with a sickening crack as it shatters under your sneakers. Oscar stands in front of you, lips drawn into a thin, unimpressed line. He’s not angry, but he appears… Stoic. Unreadable.
“Sorry, I was just— You said I could—” Your heart is racing as well as your mind. It feels impossible to formulate words, inevitably causing you to stutter and appear like an utter fool. “I’m sorry,” you land on an apology.
He surveys you with a critical gaze, head tilted back just barely. “The dining hall has food for you. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” He turns around, his back facing you again. He seems to be just staring at the mirrors, body language neutral. Impossible to get a read for.
You don’t argue, turning your back to dart out of the room. He’s polite, but he’s unsettling, so you’re hasty as you descend the stairs, navigating the large corridors like you’re a lost rat in a maze until you come across a large, grand dining room. The table is suitable for probably twenty guests with chairs on either end. You sit at one end, plate already prepared with eggs and toast. It’s a bleak breakfast, but it’s still nourishing.
You tentatively take a bite from the bread, which is golden in color and very crispy, as shown by the way it practically crumbles in your mouth. You reach for a napkin, wiping your mouth, and then you gasp.
Upon looking up, you’re met with the sight of Oscar seated at the other end of the table, which felt like it was miles away. He had a nice posture, only sipping from a wine glass. The drink was a deep red and almost unnaturally thick. “Do you have a knack for sneaking up on me?”
“Sorry,” he says plainly, swirling his drink around. “You’re easily frightened. In my own defense, I didn’t sneak up on you this time.”
Smart ass.
“Why are you drinking wine? It's morning.” Oscar doesn’t respond, continuing to sip instead. “Are you not going to eat?”
He chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. His eyes have circles around them, and his lips are unnaturally pale. He looks sickly, like a true Victorian man. “I… already did.”
You feel uneasy, so with only a few bites of food taken, you politely excuse yourself from the table with the excuse of, “I’m not hungry.” He watches your figure recede into the depths of his home, lips stained a deep red from his beverage. Oscar sighs, setting it down onto the table as he leans back in his chair, feeling utterly hopeless.
You, on the other hand, continue with your explorations. You find yourself back in the library you had briefly visited the night before, climbing up the spiral staircase to get to the second-level balcony that overlooked the ground floor. In the corner, there was a small reading nook, so you collected one of the folded blankets to make your own sort of fort, hidden away from the rest of the library. Sure, you had a guest room, but something about this area felt more secure.
It was hard to keep your emotions at bay. Your phone was at 2%, and even then, it had zero service, given you were in the middle of nowhere. All night, right before drifting off, you had hoped that your friends would have driven out far enough to call the authorities, but given the fact that nobody had come still, you were starting to give up that hope as well. You curled your knees to your chest, inhaling slowly to calm yourself down. It felt like barbed wire was pricking your throat, tears spilling down the apples of your cheeks in a hurry. You wiped them ferociously, feeling anger settle in your gut at your own foolish depression. You should surely be able to leave soon. Surely.
You just wanted to go home. You’d give Tyler his money, you didn’t care, but the idea of being trapped here for so long made a small part of you feel insignificant and small.
Through your quiet sobs, a new noise had pierced your ears, allowing you to shove your feelings aside in a moment of panic. It was a beautiful melody echoing through the empty halls of the house, muffled by layers of walls and doors that encased the soft tune. You slowly poked your head out from your fort, trying to get a feel for the music. It was classical, a song you had never heard before, but it called to you like a songbird performing its mating dance. You exited the library through the second-floor doors, tilting your head and cupping your hand around your ear to listen.
You followed the melodic sound to the ballroom. Of course, you expected to see Oscar sitting at the baby grand, fingers tickling the keys, but the entire place was empty. So you stepped forward, sneakers clacking against linoleum tiles. The keys moved on their own, a simple ‘nothing’ sharing its song. You stopped to listen, taking in the faint sound of laughter and chatter, as if it were being heard from miles away. A soft breeze went by, making you shiver as you turned to look around you.
The walls warped, and when the candlelight of the chandelier above shone just right, you could almost make out faces in the room, void of a crowd. You must have been going insane; surely that was the only explanation, but still, you couldn’t look away from the horrific sight.
It was beautiful in a tragic way. Perhaps they were souls of those trapped here, much like yourself, or maybe it really was just a figment of your imagination, but you felt hypnotized by their barely visible dance. But when you heard the unmistakable sound of boots against tile, you snapped out of your trance, the music fading away into nothingness, leaving you cold and alone in a room freshly submerged in silence.
Oscar appeared in the doorway, this time in a natural manner. You had witnessed him walk up, one hand politely placed over his abdomen, as he straightened out his vest. You stood in the exact center of the ballroom, staring at him like you’d been caught red-handed. “I…” You exhale softly, unsure of what to say, but sure that you were meant to say something.
“I see you’ve found the ballroom. Are you a big dancer?”
“When can I leave?”
Given the way that he instantly frowns, you almost feel guilty for what you had asked, but the question has been weighing on your mind nonstop. Seeing a ballroom filled with specter-like spirits and a piano that plays itself only intensified your desire to leave. He glances down at your fists, which are clenched at your sides. It’s only been a day– less than that, actually, but you feel uncomfortable. You want to wash your hair and change your clothes. You feel gross.
Still, despite the sense of wrongdoing that weighs on his feelings, you steel yourself and remain strong in the face of danger. Oscar has yet to pose as a threat, but there’s something predatory about him that you’ve yet to piece together– Something wrong. “Whenever the house decides it’s ready to let go,” He speaks like it’s a riddle. Your mind wraps around his words, but even as they’re fully embedded in your brain, you’re unable to make any sense of him. “Would you like new clothes? I have a shirt you can borrow.”
Whenever the house decides it’s ready to let go.
It takes you a minute to reply because you’re still trying to make sense of what he said to you. He spoke as if it had a mind of its own, and given what you just witnessed in that very room, you wouldn’t doubt it. “Yes,” you say as you soften, feeling disappointed once more.
“I’ll lay them on your bed, then.” He turns and leaves, letting you be alone with your feelings for a moment longer. You’re grateful for the privacy because it’s all a lot to take in at once.
Whenever the house decides it’s ready to let go.
–
The storm rages on, even on your fourth day there. It’s hard to sleep when thunder and lightning echo nonstop throughout the manor. You slowly rise from your bed, feeling restless. Typically, you find the rain soothing, but now it only serves as a reminder that you’re unable to leave. You descend the grand staircase, pausing halfway when you peer over the edge. Oscar sits on a love seat by the fireplace, though it remains unlit, sipping from the wine like he had been the other morning, one leg crossed over the other. It’s empty and quiet in his living room, devoid of modern technology.
“Why are you up?” He asks without lifting his head, making your heart stutter – you hadn’t realized he had seen you. “You should be sleeping.”
“So should you.” You continue to walk down the stairs, stopping only a few feet away from him. Oscar sets his glass on the side table, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a match. He strikes it across the surface on the side of the box, and it sparks before bursting into flames, which he then holds to a candle. He sets the candle aside, all while you come closer, cautiously sitting on the love seat beside him. He tenses when your shoulders brush together, but then eases up against the soft cushions.
“Are you cold?” He asks softly, turning his head away. He seems unnaturally stiff still, despite the relaxed look he gave off. “I can start a fire if you wish.”
“Are you the one who started the fire in my room the other day? I woke up and the fireplace was lit.”
He heaves a sigh. “Yes. I could hear your teeth chattering. It gets cold in here sometimes. I don’t ever notice, but some visitors do.” So he asks again, “Are you cold?”
“A little.”
He stands tossing a match into the fireplace. It starts slow, carefully flickering to life, but it slowly builds character after he stokes it with a fireplace poker. Once it’s at a satisfying level, he takes his place beside you once more.
The thunder seems to fade into the distance as you stare at the fire, feeling relaxed beside Oscar and his warmth. “Thanks,” you murmur, leaning your head back against the back of the seat. He nods, truly easing up this time.
“No problem.”
He was a kind man indeed.
–
Despite your hesitance to allow him, Oscar had been quite polite to you, though he was still somewhat of an enigma. He’d leave every interaction prematurely, looking almost sheepish on his way out. He made meals for you, but would never eat. He would just drink his wine, watching you ominously from the other end of the table. He walked alongside you as you journeyed through the manor, discovering more and more with each trip, but he’d dismiss himself abruptly, leaving you to travel by yourself.
He’d even make you dinner, looking proper as he sat across from you, swirling his glass around wordlessly.
On your seventh day in the house, you had begun to feel more accustomed to its quirks. Every morning, it felt like your room had been a different size. Sometimes the stairs felt taller, and the halls felt shorter, but the walls would tower over you in an intimidating manner. It was barely noticeable, making you lose your mind even further. You traveled down to the kitchen only to find a worrisome sight. Oscar was hunched over the counter, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, his muscular back on full display. The man was usually more put together than this, so to see him adorned in clothing you’d consider modern was almost weird. You took a step closer to his form, shoulders shaking as he coughed, fingers gripping the edge of the countertop.
“Oscar?” He turned at the sound of your voice, and you gasped. His face was pale —paler than usual —and his lips were a soft, blue shade, veins running under his skin like the ink of a pen. They were a soft blue. He was nearly translucent, his eyes bloodshot, and the rings around his eyes abnormally dark. “Holy shit,” you hold his bicep, and he stumbles. He leans against you, skin ice cold. “You need to sit. I’ll make you something to eat.”
“No,” he protests hoarsely, pulling away from you. He leans back against the counter, shakily breathing in. His chest heaves as he struggles to take a full breath. “I don’t… I’m fine,” he’s cut off by a cough, highlighting the irony of his statement.
You shake your head and turn to rummage through the cabinets and the fridge, collecting all the ingredients you can use to make a nice soup. “Don’t be ridiculous. You look like you’re on the brink of death.” His eyes follow you as you take hold of one of the knives in the knife block, as well as a cutting board. You begin to carefully chop up a series of vegetables and shove them to the side, humming as you do so. He stands, hovering at your side, watching the rhythmic movement of the knife. Then–
“Ah,” you gasp as your hand slips, knife nicking your thumb. You drop the knife and grip your wrist, gently cradling your hand as it bleeds. It didn’t hurt, but it certainly surprised you.
But Oscar’s at your side in a second, strong hands gripping your wrist.
“It’s fine, it’s just a-...” Your eyes trail up to his face, which is scarily intense. As if snapping out of his trance, he sweeps his arm to the side, and the candles instantly snuff out upon the motion. He releases your wrist, turning away and gripping both sides of his head. You reach out. “Oscar–”
“Get out,” He hisses, curling further into himself. He’s trembling, which only makes you worry more. You can barely make out his figure in the dark, but the little light that filters in through the blinds forms a streak across his back, his skin practically steaming under its touch. Again, you reach out…
Oscar flips around, soft brown eyes now painted an intense red that seem to light up in the dark, illuminating his sharp fangs that glisten in the streak of sunlight as he bares them at you, a deep rumble leaving him. You step back, eyes wide with momentary fear. He stumbles backward, his eyes wet with shame as he resists his urges, hands flying to cover his face. “Go away!” His voice is layered with both temptation and shame, his whole figure staggering in the dark.
“Oscar,” Your voice is soft. You take a step closer, holding your bloodied hand out, almost like an offering. He peers through the cracks of his fingers, panting. The sight alone is enough to drive him mad, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. “This is why you’re sick, right?” You stop, fingers only inches away from his face, and then you continue to reach out, brushing over his face so softly. You cradle his cheek, watching as his hands slowly lower. “Take what you need.”
“No,” he practically growls, even though he’s gripping your wrist so tightly, pupils constricted and fingernails digging in. “I shouldn’t, I’ll…”
“Just take what you need.”
His hold softens as he pulls you closer, the other hand resting on the small of your back, whilst he holds your wrist to his lips. He presses a soft kiss, murmuring an apology before his fangs sink into your skin, lips wrapped around your pulse as he greedily feeds from you. You hiss. You have to pry your eyes open, desperately wanting to watch. A low groan escapes him. Oscar nuzzles closer, lapping at the two holes in your wrist before he practically shoves your arm away, his pupils dilating.
You can see the color return to his cheeks, his lips stained with your blood, and his eyes their typical deep brown. He looks hurt, staring at you incredulously. The house itself seems to breathe a sigh of relief as the candles slowly flicker back to life, and the air continues to flow casually, the same gentle breeze passing by. You’re speechless, just staring at him while he stares at you, too.
“There… You feel better now, right?” You look down at your wrist, the two holes surrounded by a deep red coloration, and the joint sore to move. He’s breathing heavy, a droplet of your blood dribbling from his lips and down his chin. He looks like a kicked puppy, sad from guilt.
Oscar sounds shaky as he says, “I could have killed you.”
“You didn’t,” you say, taking a step forward. He backs up, pressed against the counter. “I knew you wouldn’t.”
“You… You don’t know anything,” he cries, pointing towards the exit. “Leave! For your own good.” He turns around, leaning against the counter. He’s hunched, but not in the dreadful state he was before. He’s panting, as if he’s trying to keep everything at bay.
You take the hint. Injured hand and all, you flee from the room, feeling foolish once more. All you wanted to do was help, and now you’ve got a feeling you’ve just made it worse. You arrive at the front doors, desperately trying to pry them open. Lightning strikes outside, just as it had the day you first arrived, your shouting drowned out by thunder, “Stupid fucking house! Let me out!” You bang on the door, but when nothing comes of it, you choose to fall to your knees, forehead pressed to the wood as tears spill.
This was no good.
—
On the eighth day, you’ve recovered from your slump. You don’t seek out breakfast, but instead head straight to the library, using the second-floor entrance and then climbing down to the first so you can avoid Oscar to the best of your abilities. You search the aisles of books until you come across a section dedicated solely to vampires. With a fairly generous stack, you head back to your makeshift fort in the top corner, settling into the nook to begin reading.
You’re lost in the information of the book as it’s begun to get interesting, your mind curious as to whether any of this is true to begin with. Were you now going to become a vampire? One book suggested yes, that after one bite you’d turn into one yourself, but another implied that you’d have to drink Oscar’s blood first, which you hadn’t even come close to doing.
You’re so interested, in fact, that his reappearance terrifies you.
“Why read? I can just answer any question you have.”
You jump, and the entire fort comes crashing down on you. You scramble, making a pointless attempt to uncover yourself. It’s not until Oscar reaches out to lift the blankets from your head that the light finally seeps in, and you can stare up at him.
Compared to how he looked when you first met, he could almost pass as human now. His cheeks were colored a soft red, and his lips were too, though a small part of you wondered if they were just stained still. It was almost unsettling how well his disguise was.
“Do you do that on purpose? Can you teleport or something?” You huff, shoving the blankets off of yourself, cramming them into the corner of the nook. You sit to face him as he stands before you.
“I approach you as anyone else would,” he says plainly. You’re not buying it, and he can tell, but he only shrugs. “I move quietly. That’s it. You just never notice my presence.” He surveys you, your leg bouncing and your eyes searching the room, and he sighs. “Come. You clearly have many questions. We may as well sit down like civilized people.”
You stand to follow him down the steps, murmuring to yourself, “What would you know about civilized people?” He hears, and he laughs. It’s almost refreshing. You both sit across from each other at one of the tables. He takes out a match to light the candelabra, his face illuminated in warm light. “So… What about all that stereotypical vampire stuff? Like, are you really allergic to garlic? Do you die in the sunlight? What about the mirror thing?”
He waits for you to finish asking your questions. Although you have more, you stop to give him a moment to answer. “No and no. I don’t die in the sunlight; it just burns. Imagine a sunburn but ten times worse.”
“And the mirrors?”
“Right. No, I can’t be seen in a mirror. I haven’t looked at myself in…” He considers it for a second. “Years.”
“Well, you…” You look away. “You look good for someone who can’t see themself.”
“Thank you.” He has a bit of a cheeky smile, which almost pisses you off more.
“How long have you been a vampire? How did it happen?”
He clasps his hands on the desk, looking down as he fiddles with his thumbs. You noticed that there’s something oddly human about Oscar, even after the reveal. It’s almost like he’s still stuck in his old habits. “Centuries,” he finally answers, looking solemn. “I was cursed. I had messed with the wrong woman— denied her my love, and at this she cursed me to live alone forever, watching as time went by without me.”
“So you’re stuck here?”
He nods, looking somber. “Until I break the curse, yes. This house… It’s connected to the state of my heart. When I’m ill, it falters, but when I thrive, so does it.” You glance around yourself, taking in the rich, newly carved wood in its entirety. Of course, just yesterday it had looked as if it were falling apart. “When I am lonely, it feels more barren and empty than normal.”
You think back on what you’ve experienced. After your arrival, you witnessed the house full of energy with dancing spirits and lively music, but as time went by, and he recognized your reservations, it faded. It all made sense now. The rooms appeared larger and taller because they felt empty and barren, making them seem endlessly torturous. It must be a hard weight to bear. You can see it in his eyes.
“Before I let you drink my blood… How long had it been?”
“I starve most days. Humans rarely come by, and when they do, I don’t want to drink from them. I drink plasma,” you nod with understanding, now connecting the dots. That’s what he had been swirling in his cup! “But it doesn’t offer the same necessary nutrients as real blood.”
“What about the closed doors?”
He stops. He’s so silent you wonder if you asked the wrong question. Maybe you should have just kept your mouth shut instead. “I… I am sorry,” he admits. “I just wanted company. It was selfish of me.” He slowly stands, closing his eyes as he exhales. “You should leave.”
“What?”
“I mean, really, this time. Return to your home.” Oscar turns, and you watch his shoulders and back move as he navigates to the exit, looking glum. It takes you a moment to register his words before you rise to chase after him, but as you run through the halls, you can’t seem to find him.
You still have so many questions plaguing your mind, but when you arrive back at the main entrance, the doors swing wide open to let fresh air in, and you don’t resist the temptations of stepping outside, taking it all in.
You look back inside the manor, which seems hauntingly beautiful and terrifically out of place in that large, open field, but your mind has certainly been cleansed of all fears. With one last glance of appreciation, you leave, ready to return to your everyday life.
—
As soon as you get back in town, which truly isn’t that far out, you return home. You sleep for a whole day, drained from both physical and mental exhaustion. The long walk and your experiences tied together made for a terribly long nap, which then seeped into the second day home, where you lazed around all day. You moped around for three more days, trying to find the energy to bother.
However, your rage was demanding, so you finally picked up your phone to make a call.
Tyler answers after three rings.
“Holy hell, Y/N! Are you alive? Are you okay?”
You want to reach through the phone and punch him square in the face, but instead you utter five simple words, “Meet me at the café,” and then you hang up.
You arrive wearing an oversized shirt of Oscar’s. The button-up hangs down to your mid-thigh, and your old jeans are tattered and worn. The outfit is anything but coordinated, but you appear clean nonetheless. You had plenty of time to change, but you couldn’t have been bothered in your haste. Tyler sits across from you, a cup of coffee in hand.
“We all thought you were dead,” he admits, looking rather emotional. You, however, have a stone-cold expression. You don’t drink anything; your anger turns off your stomach. “Ziva came running out, all frantic, saying she saw someone in there. So it was true?” He sips so casually, clearly unbothered.
“Yeah.” You inhale through your nose. “You all left me there.”
He looks up, surprised by your angry tone. “What did you want us to do? Rush in there and potentially die too?”
“I wanted you to call the cops!”
“Well, look… We told a few people. No one believed us, except that old woman who lives on the corner of Liberty, you know? Said she was gonna call some people up all ominously, hiding behind her screen door. ‘Monster hunters will arrive in ten days,’ she said. Really, someone needs to get her some meds.”
“What?”
“Yeah, she totally sounded crazy, which is rich coming from me, I know—”
“Monster hunters? Was she being serious?”
“Yeah, well… I’m sure she thought she was, but if nothing has happened yet, then—”
“I need to go.” You stand suddenly, grabbing your things. He tries to follow, but you’re already bolting out the door with your keys in hand. It takes a few attempts to start your car, but as soon as it revs to life, you speed down the roads and back to where you had previously been camping. Your vehicle struggles momentarily to get through patches of mud, but it powers through until you’re stopped at the gates, turning it off.
You push the fence open, running for your life to those familiar front doors. They open with ease, practically inviting you in.
The house is as quiet as you remember—no music, no dancing— Nothing. The rooms feel large, and the walls feel tall. Then, a sharp cough breaks the silence. You chase after the series of coughing, finding yourself in the library. Oscar sits slumped over in his chair, his skin pale and lips dry once more.
“Oscar!” You exclaim as you rush to his side. He flinches, weakly craning his neck back to look up at you. He grabs your wrist, searching your gaze like he’s not sure you’re real. “What happened to you? Why are you like this already?”
“Y/N,” he whispers hoarsely, dropping your wrist. “You came back.”
“Answer my question.”
“I just…” He coughs, and you help him sit up to get more air. “I just missed you.”
“Hunters are coming,” you say quickly. You try to help him to his feet, but he falls back against the chair. “You need… You need to eat, please.”
“You know I don’t eat what you do.”
“I know.” He looks up at you, watching as you push any hair aside, showing off your neck. His pupils constrict, but he grips the arms of his chair, forcing himself to sit down. “Oscar, please… You’ll die if you don’t— They’ll kill you.”
“I can’t— I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You didn’t before!”
“But I wasn’t hungry like this. I wasn’t desperate for you. I’ll hurt you, I know I will.”
“Then hold me gently while you do it.”
You’re soft as you climb onto his lap, tilting his head up. You crane your neck to the side, and he bares his fangs in a moment of vulnerability. Oscar shakily leans in, teeth sinking into your skin. He feeds from you, hungrier than the last time. A gentle gasp flies out of your lips, but he doesn’t stop, his hands finding your waist, sliding up to pull you closer.
He grunts and his fingers twitch, eyes shut as he takes in every drop you’re willing to offer. When he’s satisfied, he pulls away. You feel woozy, unsure if it’s from the blood loss or from the pull that draws you to him. His lips trail across your neck, peppering your skin with kisses as he murmurs against you, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” again and again. You collapse against his chest, strong and defined, and the world fades.
Oscar lifts you, carrying you back to the room you had been staying in to hide you away from the impending intruders. He kisses your forehead, tucking you in as he whispers, “I’ll come back to you, I promise.”
That he did.
When you awake, you’re tucked into the bed, soft silk sheets encasing your figure.
But that’s not the only thing.
Strong arms wrap around your midsection, and there’s a warmth pressed to your neck. Compared to how you felt before passing out, you feel much better now, your blood flow returning to normal. You turn in his hold, causing the man to stir from his slumber.
“You’re okay,” you breathe out softly, fingers brushing against his forehead as you gently brush the strands of hair that had fallen over his eyes. He smiles, sincere rather than cheeky, and then shuts his eyes.
“Of course I am.” You run your fingers along his lips, and then slowly, almost hesitantly, you kiss him.
Light blooms across your skin. He hums against you, holding you dangerously close as if he were hungry for more.
“Thank you,” he whispers to your lips.
—
“Oscar!” You call out, barely audible over the sound of wailing. You sigh, gently rocking the newborn baby in your arms. You’re tired, with dark circles forming around your eyes. Thankfully, your husband appears not long after, descending the steps, clad in sweatpants and a t-shirt. You’d think after years of dressing so formally, he’d develop a good sense of modern fashion, but alas.
He relieves you of the burden of your child, scooping her into his arms and cradling the baby girl against his chest. When he smiles down at her, lips furled back to reveal his pretty teeth, you feel your heart warm. She giggles, hands weakly reaching for his face, clearly loving the sight of his rabbit teeth.
No fangs.
“It’s not fair that she likes you more than me,” you say teasingly, leaning your head against his shoulder.
“I think she’s just a little prankster.” He presses his index finger against her nose, unable to stop grinning as she breaks out into a big toothless smile. “A prankster who likes to give her mama a hard time.” Oscar leans over, gently kissing your forehead. “Go sleep. I can take her for a short walk in the meantime.”
“Going outside in broad daylight? How daring,” you murmur sleepily, breaking away from him. He sets your child down in her bouncer for just a moment, giving him enough time to set the stroller up by the door. Your cat watches, tail flicking across the sofa as she stares at the baby.
“Thankfully… I can do that now.” He lifts her again, setting her into the stroller, cooing at her to get her to laugh again. “All thanks to you, my love.” You press yourself to his side once more, allowing one arm to loop around your waist. You squeeze him tight. “I owe you my life.”
“You’ve given me something a lot better than that,” you whisper, looking up at him with half-lidded eyes, clearly drained but not yet wanting to give him up.
He laughs, shaking his head. “I didn’t do any of the work. That was all you… Rest. We’ll be back soon.”
“Alright, alright.”
He collects his things and leaves, locking the door behind him. You look out the window, watching him push the stroller along the sidewalk, waving at a few of your neighbors who were lingering outside, enjoying the nice weather.
You would forever be happy that you gave him the life he deserved—the life you both wanted.
Summary: you’re leaking through your shirt, your newborn won’t stop screaming, and you’re about to have a breakdown behind the Haas motorhome when Oscar stops — not to judge, but to gently ask if he can hold her. What starts as one quiet act of kindness becomes the slow, steady building of something you never thought you’d be allowed to want: a family, a partnership, and a love that shows up even when the world tries to tear you down
It’s just past 9 a.m. on Friday, and the paddock is already thick with engine noise and espresso breath. Behind the Haas motorhome, half-shielded by a stack of equipment cases and a trailer that smells faintly like burnt rubber and Red Bull, you stand rocking a howling baby in your arms. One hand on Maisie’s damp back, the other awkwardly wiping at your soaked shirt with the sleeve of your team polo.
You’re leaking through the thin white fabric — perfect. And Maisie won’t stop screaming. Won’t latch, won’t sleep, won’t be soothed. Your hair is stuck to your neck with sweat, and your brain feels like it’s being grinded down by the steady thrum of noise, exhaustion, and adrenaline. You haven't slept more than two hours in a row in weeks, and you're so tired you actually feel nauseous.
“Shhh, baby, come on, please, please,” you whisper, voice trembling as you bounce on your heels in that desperate rhythm new mothers know like instinct. But it’s not working. She’s red-faced, tiny fists flailing. You taste salt in your mouth before you even realize you're crying.
You spin slightly so no one from the paddock can see. You crouch by a crate, still holding her, and your arms ache. You press your forehead to hers.
“Maisie, I can’t do this right now,” you whisper. “I really … I really can’t.”
You’re trying so hard not to let it happen, not here, not where Ayao could walk out and see you, where Ollie might glance your way and panic because his engineer looks like she’s about to have a nervous breakdown in the shadows. But the moment you blink, fat tears fall hot and fast down your cheeks. Your shirt is soaked in milk and baby spit-up and your own sweat, and you smell like panic.
Maisie wails louder.
Then a shadow shifts. A pair of sneakers steps into your periphery. Someone stands still for a beat. You glance up through blurry eyes.
Oscar.
Not his usual casual wave or distracted half-smile. Not walking past like everyone else does. He just stops.
You straighten instinctively, embarrassed. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”
Your voice breaks on “fine.” You bite your lip hard enough to hurt.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just bends his knees slightly, meeting your eyes like he’s asking for silent permission.
“Can I-” He gestures toward Maisie. “Do you want me to hold her?”
You stare at him.
It’s not the offer that surprises you, it’s how he says it — no pity, no wide-eyed discomfort. Just calm. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to stumble upon your colleague’s meltdown behind the garage and offer to hold her shrieking newborn.
“She won’t stop,” you whisper, voice cracking again. “She’s been crying for hours and she won’t eat and I-”
You stop before you say something you can’t take back. Like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I think I made a mistake. Like I’m scared out of my fucking mind.
Oscar doesn’t rush you. He just extends his arms, patient.
You hesitate because this is insane, isn’t it? Handing your six-week-old daughter to a guy you’ve exchanged maybe five entire sentences with?
But your arms are trembling and your shirt is sticking to your chest and your brain is fraying at the seams.
You let go.
He slides her gently from your arms, holds her with a natural ease that makes you blink. Maisie fusses, kicks a little. Oscar bounces her slowly, rhythmically. Like he’s done this before. Or just understands something about how to stand still in chaos.
You sit on the crate, shoulders caving, head in your hands.
“I didn’t even brush my teeth,” you mumble. “I’ve been up since three.”
Oscar doesn’t respond with any kind of platitude. He just hums a little — off-key, quiet. Some soft nothing melody under his breath as he rocks Maisie.
Miraculously, she begins to settle.
You glance up.
“What are you doing?” You whisper.
“Just … the white noise thing. Babies like movement, sound. Predictability.” He shrugs one shoulder. “At least, that’s what my sister swears by.”
“You have a niece?”
“Three. And one nephew. Big, chaotic family.”
Maisie lets out a soft snuffle, nuzzles into his hoodie. The silence stretches between you, not heavy, just present.
“I was supposed to be back next month,” you say eventually. “But Ayao called. Said Ollie needs stability. Said this is the biggest season for Haas in years. No pressure or anything.”
Oscar glances down at Maisie. “And so here you are.”
“Here I am,” you echo. “Breastfeeding between race strategy meetings and pretending I’m fine.”
He nods, slow. “It’s a lot.”
You huff a broken laugh. “That’s the understatement of the year.”
The back of your shirt sticks to the crate as you lean back. The fabric of your bra digs into your ribs. You need a shower, a nap, a meal that isn’t caffeine and a half-eaten granola bar.
But Maisie is quiet. Oscar’s holding her like she’s something precious, not a burden. Like she’s weightless in his arms.
You shift forward, resting your elbows on your knees. “I think people assume I’m some kind of superhero. Like … I chose this, so I must be equipped for it. Strong enough. Smart enough.”
“And?” He asks.
“And I’m not.”
Oscar doesn't argue. He doesn't try to reassure you. He just looks at you like he hears you.
“That guy,” you say, voice dropping. “The father. He split the second I said I wasn’t getting rid of her.”
Oscar’s jaw tightens just slightly.
You wipe your eyes with the heel of your hand. “He said I was ruining both our lives. Guess I didn’t disagree.”
Maisie stirs. Oscar shifts his hold, cradles her tighter. She sighs.
“I think you’re doing the opposite,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
He nods toward the tiny sleeping bundle in his arms. “You’re not ruining anything. You’re building something. Doesn’t mean it’s not hard. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck sometimes. But you’re showing up. That matters.”
A beat of silence.
Your throat tightens. “You don’t even know me.”
Oscar meets your eyes. “Maybe not. But I see you.”
And something about the way he says that — so quiet, so simple — undoes something in you.
For the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like a ghost in a firestorm.
You feel human.
You exhale shakily. “Thank you.”
He gives a small smile. “No worries.”
You sit like that for a while longer. Just listening to the muffled chaos of the paddock, the thrum of engines, distant laughter from the Red Bull side of the motorhome. But none of it feels as loud as it did ten minutes ago.
You glance at your watch.
“Shit,” you mumble. “I have to brief Ollie in fifteen. I look like I got hit by a truck.”
Oscar’s already shrugging out of his hoodie. “Here.”
You blink. “You’re giving me your hoodie?”
He grins, just a bit. “I have like ten. Plus, yours is-” He eyes your shirt. “A little … compromised.”
You laugh, actually laugh. “That’s a polite way to say soaked in breastmilk.”
Oscar slips the hoodie over your shoulders. “Didn’t want to make it weird.”
You tug it on. It smells like fabric softener and something vaguely citrusy. Comfortable. Soft.
You reach out for Maisie, carefully lifting her from his arms. She makes a tiny noise, then settles against your chest like she knows the worst has passed.
“Thanks,” you say again.
Oscar steps back, nods once. No grand goodbye, no lingering look. Just-
“I’ll see you around,” he says.
You watch him disappear back into the paddock.
Later, when you’re back in the garage running numbers and Ollie’s cracking jokes in that endearingly terrible way he does, you keep thinking about it. The calm way Oscar looked at you. Not like a disaster. Not like you were someone to fix.
Just like someone he was willing to stand beside.
And for the first time since Maisie was born, you think that maybe you’re not alone in this.
***
It starts with coffee.
Not in a grand gesture kind of way. Not with fanfare or any implication. Just a paper cup set gently beside your laptop on Saturday morning, no words, no eye contact. You glance up from your monitor, bleary-eyed and still in the same ponytail as yesterday. Oscar’s already walking away, a lanyard slung low around his neck, earbuds in.
You frown at the cup. There’s a little scrawl on the lid.
Extra shot. Not judging.
- Oscar
You don’t drink it right away. You stare at it for a minute too long, suspicious, unsure. Then Maisie stirs in the carrier strapped to your chest, snuffling softly in her sleep, and your own brain gives a protest of fatigue so loud you actually wince.
You take a sip. And then another.
It’s perfect.
You don’t say anything. But the next day, there’s another.
***
By Thursday in Jeddah, you’ve built a little routine. You don’t admit it’s a routine, because that would imply you’re relying on it. You’re not. You’re surviving. That’s all.
You make it through the technical brief with Maisie tucked against your chest and Ollie mouthing an apology when she lets out a heroic fart halfway through your summary of long-run pace. You finish your notes while gently bouncing one knee. You pump in the bathroom between sessions, crouched over with your AirPods in, listening to Ollie’s sector times.
And sometime between your third and fourth coffee, Oscar appears again.
This time, he doesn’t leave the cup.
He just kind of … hovers.
You’re standing behind the pit wall, Maisie in your arms again, this time vaguely awake and doing her best to gnaw her fist off. You’re trying to adjust her hat with one hand and keep your headset from slipping with the other when you feel him beside you.
“Hey,” he says, not too close, not too loud.
You glance at him. “Hey.”
Oscar points to Maisie’s tiny hat. “Little crooked.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, gently fixing it. “She’s a wiggler.”
There’s a beat of silence. He’s not looking at you, not really. Just standing with his hands in his pockets, eyes on the track.
“You want me to hold her while you sort that out?”
You hesitate.
“Just if it helps,” he adds quickly. “You don’t have to.”
Maisie coos softly, and something loosens in your chest.
“Yeah, okay,” you say.
He takes her like he did the first time — without fuss, without spectacle. She gurgles, eyes wide, then promptly spits up down the front of his hoodie.
You flinch. “Oh God, I’m so sorry-”
Oscar blinks down at the mess. “She’s claiming me.”
You snort. “You say that now. Wait till she pees on you.”
He chuckles, shifting her to his other arm. “Price of admission.”
You glance sideways at him. “You’re weirdly good at this.”
He shrugs. “Like I said. Lots of nieces. My sister would throw me the baby and vanish for forty minutes. Sink or swim.”
“Still,” you murmur, “most guys would run for the hills.”
Oscar meets your eyes. “I’m not most guys.”
You look away before he can see how hard that hits you.
***
By Melbourne, Maisie has a blanket.
You find it on your seat after debrief — soft, fleece, pale blue with tiny orange cats and cartoonish koalas printed all over it. No note. No explanation. Just a tag stitched into the corner that reads “Made in Australia.”
You hold it up, stare at it for a minute. Maisie, kicking her legs on the playmat you’ve shoved into the corner between two toolboxes, lets out a delighted screech.
Oscar’s nowhere nearby. But the next day, he waves a little when he passes you outside the garage.
You raise the blanket slightly in one hand.
He grins and keeps walking.
***
“You two are kind of … a thing now?”
The question comes from Ollie, out of nowhere, tossed like a pebble while you’re both hunched over tire wear data late at night.
You blink. “What?”
He looks at you, chewing his lip. “Oscar. He’s always around. And he brought Maisie that stuffed wombat. And the bouncer. And he held her for, like, forty minutes after FP2 while you were screaming at data.”
You frown. “He’s just … being nice.”
Ollie leans back, arms crossed. “Sure.”
You narrow your eyes. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Just … nice is usually once. Maybe twice. Three times max. After that, it’s something else.”
You go back to the screen. “I don’t have time for something else.”
Ollie’s voice is gentler when he speaks again. “Yeah, but maybe you deserve it anyway.”
You pause.
He doesn't push. Just taps a few keys and murmurs, “Sector three’s still our weak spot,” like you didn’t just have your emotional armor dented by a twenty-year-old with bedhead.
***
The thing is — you like the silence with Oscar.
You like the way he doesn’t fill space with questions or commentary or sympathy. You like that he lingers near the coffee station outside the Haas motorhome some mornings like it’s completely normal, even though his own team’s is fifty feet away. You like that he talks to Maisie like she’s a person when he holds her.
“What do you think, huh?” He murmurs once, cradling her by the garage while you argue with Ayao. “Should I go softs or mediums for the start? Blink once for softs.”
Maisie blinks.
“Well, that’s settled then.”
She squeals. He smiles like it’s the best sound in the world.
You glance at him as you shoulder your headset. “You know she’s not actually giving strategy input, right?”
“Speak for yourself,” he says. “We’ve got a bond.”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches.
He sees it.
***
Still, you don’t let it get too far. You don’t text him first. You don’t invite him over when Maisie wakes up at 2 a.m. and you’re so tired you can’t see straight. You don’t admit how often you catch yourself watching him from across the paddock.
You’ve learned what it costs to need someone.
And you can’t afford it again.
***
“I think you’re scared,” Ollie says one night, unprompted, while he’s balancing a sandwich in one hand and Maisie’s bottle in the other. You’re watching him like a hawk.
“I think you’re twenty,” you reply. “What do you know about it?”
“I know I’ve seen you trust him with her,” he says. “And I know you keep pushing him away before he can get close to you.”
You cross your arms. “This is not your business.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “Still.”
Maisie gurgles.
“I just don’t want you to be lonely,” he adds softly.
You close your eyes.
***
It’s Miami when you finally break.
It’s hot — sweltering — and Maisie’s developed a rash from the heat and you forgot her extra formula packet in the hotel and she’s screaming again, just like she did in Bahrain. You’re in the garage, behind a stack of tool chests, willing yourself not to cry.
Again.
And then-
Oscar.
Again.
“Hey,” he says, softly. “Come here.”
You want to argue. You want to say no, say you’ve got it handled, say she’s your daughter and it’s your job.
But you’re so tired.
And he’s there.
You let him take her.
You lean against the wall and cover your face with both hands.
Oscar just sways gently, holding Maisie close, whispering something too quiet for you to hear.
Eventually, you look up.
He’s already watching you.
“You don’t have to do this,” you say. “You don’t have to keep showing up.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you?”
He shrugs. “Because I want to.”
You stare at him. “That’s not a good enough reason.”
Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Says who?”
You don’t answer.
He bounces Maisie once more. She’s finally calm again.
“You’re allowed to let someone be on your side,” he says, so quietly it’s almost a whisper. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”
Your throat tightens. “I don’t know how to let people in anymore.”
“Start small,” he says. “Start with coffee.”
You laugh, even though your eyes are stinging.
He passes Maisie back to you. She’s warm and soft and heavy and yours. But you don’t feel quite as alone with her now.
Oscar lingers for a second. His fingers brush yours.
“I’ll be around,” he says, stepping back.
And you believe him.
***
The hallway is dim, washed in that awful yellowish hotel lighting that makes everything feel lonelier. Cold air seeps from the vents above, and you’re standing barefoot in the carpeted corridor with Maisie burning hot against your chest, wrapped in Oscar’s koala-cat blanket. It’s 3:07 a.m., and your hands won’t stop shaking.
You keep pressing your cheek to her forehead, but it doesn’t help. She’s still too hot. She’s whimpering now — small, pitiful sounds like she’s trying not to cry but can’t help it. You’ve already tried the emergency paracetamol, the cool compresses, the lukewarm bath in the hotel sink. Nothing. Her eyes are glassy. Her body limp.
“Please,” you whisper into her sweat-damp hair. “Please be okay.”
You tried to call someone — anyone — but the local numbers led to voicemails in German, and Google Translate can only do so much when your brain is going haywire. There’s no pediatric ER for miles. No familiar accents. And you’re not even sure you’re doing this right. She’s never been this sick before.
You feel like you’re suffocating.
And then-
Footsteps. Fast ones.
You flinch, turn slightly.
Oscar.
He’s in sweats and a hoodie, barefoot too, his hair a disheveled halo and his eyes wide when they land on you. He takes one look at your face — no makeup, tears drying on your cheeks, Maisie panting softly against you — and freezes for a second.
Then he’s moving.
“What happened?” He asks, already reaching to touch her forehead. “What-”
“She’s burning up,” you say, voice breaking. “I’ve tried everything, I don’t — I don’t know what else to do.”
Oscar’s hand rests on Maisie’s back. “How high?”
“Thirty-nine point six,” you say, clutching her tighter. “I gave her the meds but she won’t cool down. She’s not crying anymore, and that’s not — she always cries. She should be crying.”
Oscar’s already pulling out his phone. “We’ll find somewhere. Hold on.”
You watch as he paces a few steps down the hall, murmuring into the receiver, tapping into some international McLaren lifeline. You catch bits — “infant,” “high fever,” “urgent,” “no local language,” “expat facility” — before he spins around.
“There’s a clinic thirty minutes from here,” he says, moving toward you. “Expat-run. English-speaking staff. Open overnight. They’ll take her.”
Your knees almost give out. “Really?”
He nods. “Come on. I’ll drive.”
***
The car ride is quiet except for Maisie’s soft whimpers. You’re in the backseat with her bundled in your lap, and Oscar’s gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. The headlights cut through the rural Austrian night, sharp and pale.
You don’t speak until you’re nearly there.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
He just nods.
**^
The clinic is small, tucked off a cobblestone road, humming with soft fluorescent light and the faint beep of machinery behind closed doors. The moment you walk in, a nurse with a kind face and a thick American accent takes Maisie from your arms. You hate letting go, but you do. Oscar keeps a hand on your back.
“She’ll be okay,” he says.
You’re not sure how he knows. But the way he says it makes you believe it anyway.
They take her to the exam room. You’re told to wait.
And suddenly, all the adrenaline leaves your body.
You sink into one of the cheap vinyl chairs in the waiting room, hands clutched uselessly in your lap. You stare at the far wall, trying to keep your breathing steady. The pale green paint is chipped near the floor. There’s a soft humming coming from the ceiling vent.
Oscar doesn’t sit right away. He paces.
You glance at him.
“She’s in good hands,” you murmur.
He nods, but he keeps pacing.
His hoodie is half-zipped, and something small and fuzzy peeks out from inside. You squint.
“Is that her stuffed wombat?”
Oscar stops. Looks down. “Yeah,” he says sheepishly. “Grabbed it before we left. Thought she might want it.”
Your throat tightens.
“She’ll like that,” you whisper.
He finally sits beside you, still holding the elephant close.
A silence stretches between you — thick, heavy, but not empty. You feel it in your ribs, in your hands, in the deep ache behind your eyes.
You glance at Oscar again. “Why are you here?”
He frowns. “Because Maisie’s sick.”
“No, I mean …” You trail off, stare at your lap. “Why do you keep … showing up?”
Oscar shifts slightly toward you. “You ever thought maybe you’re allowed to be shown up for?”
You press your lips together. “It just doesn’t make sense.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then:
“It doesn’t have to.”
You look at him. Really look at him. His tired eyes. The way he’s holding that stupid elephant like it’s sacred. The way he’s angled slightly toward you, knees brushing yours.
“I don’t know how to let anyone in,” you whisper. “Not really.”
Oscar’s voice is soft. “I don’t need all the way in.”
Your breathing stutters.
“Just enough,” he says. “Enough to help.”
You nod, because anything else will make you cry.
And then you let your head fall against his shoulder.
At first, it’s just to rest. Just to be still. But the moment you feel the warmth of him — solid and steady and there — you shatter.
The sob hits without warning. Loud and messy.
Oscar doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just shifts a little, lets you curl into him, wraps his free arm around your shoulders and holds you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I was so scared,” you whisper through the tears. “I thought I was going to lose her.”
“I know,” he says.
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“But you did. You found help.”
“You found it.”
He presses his cheek to your hair. “We found it.”
You cry harder.
He lets you.
Eventually, your breathing slows. Your body sags against his. His hand rubs gently up and down your arm.
You don’t lift your head. You just sit there, eyes closed, heartbeat syncing with his.
After a while, you hear it — the nurse returning. A soft knock on the doorframe.
“She’s okay,” she says, smiling. “It’s a virus. Very common. Scary, but it’ll pass. We’ve brought her fever down and she’s sleeping now. You can see her soon.”
You nod, eyes wet again. “Thank you.”
Oscar exhales slowly, the kind of breath you hadn’t realized he was holding too.
When the nurse leaves, you finally pull back. Oscar wipes at your cheek with the cuff of his sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur.
“For what?”
“For losing it. For dragging you out here. For-”
“Don’t,” he interrupts gently. “Don’t apologize for loving her.”
You blink at him.
His eyes soften. “That’s all this is. You love her.”
You nod.
He looks down at your intertwined hands — when had that happened?
“I’ll stay,” he says. “As long as you want.”
You squeeze his fingers.
“Okay,” you whisper.
And when he leans back in the chair, still holding your hand, and closes his eyes for the first time since the hallway, you let your head rest on his shoulder again.
This time, there are no tears.
Just breath.
And something — quiet, safe, and slow — starting to grow.
***
Maisie is better by the time you return to the paddock in Spielberg. Her fever broke two days ago, and her laugh has come back — bright and gurgly and loud, like it never left. She squeals when she sees Oscar in the McLaren garage that morning, fist reaching for his hoodie like it’s a homing beacon.
And for a second, things almost feel normal.
Until they don’t.
***
You’re summoned after FP1. The message is clinical, phrased like a calendar alert:
You don’t bring Maisie. You already know it’s not that kind of meeting.
When you enter, the air feels stiff. Ayao is seated at the head of the table, arms folded. Beside him: Amanda from HR, the one with the always-too-tight bun and a clipboard of sins. Matt from aero’s there too, for some reason. No one looks up when you walk in.
“Take a seat,” Amanda says.
You do.
Ayao opens the meeting without preamble. “We’ve had a number of concerns raised about the perception of professionalism coming out of the garage.”
You stare at him. “Whose perception?”
“We’re not at liberty to name names,” Amanda says, flipping her page.
You blink. “You want me to defend myself against anonymous accusations?”
Ayao sighs. “This isn’t personal.”
You laugh — sharp, incredulous. “It feels pretty damn personal when I’m being told that caring for my baby in public is unprofessional.”
Matt clears his throat. “It’s more about optics. Media coverage. Sponsor comfort. There’s been chatter about crying during sessions, about … Oscar Piastri being seen holding the baby more than once.”
You stiffen. “So now it’s a problem that someone was helping?”
“No one’s saying that,” Amanda replies, voice syrupy. “We just want to make sure you understand the boundaries.”
You lean forward. “You forced me back six weeks postpartum. There was no childcare or extended maternity leave offered, no accommodations. I’ve been pumping in storage closets. I’ve been writing run plans while nursing. I’ve been making Ollie’s car faster every single weekend without fail. And now, now, you want to talk about boundaries?”
Amanda stays silent. Ayao sighs again.
“You’re one of the best engineers we’ve had,” he says gruffly. “But you have to admit this arrangement isn’t … sustainable.”
Your voice drops. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s an invitation to reassess,” Amanda says brightly. “We’re recommending a temporary suspension. Time off. Unpaid, for now.”
You feel it, that cold, hollow pressure in your chest. “So you’re punishing me for surviving?”
“No one’s punishing anyone,” she replies. “We just want what’s best for the team.”
You stand up. Slowly. Deliberately.
“What’s best for the team,” you repeat. “Copy that.”
You turn for the door — only to find it already swinging open.
Oscar.
He must’ve been standing right outside, just behind the thin wall of the motorhome. His face is taut, eyes stormy. He steps in like he belongs there, not waiting for permission.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, voice low.
Ayao frowns. “Oscar-”
“No,” he snaps. “You don’t get to do this behind her back. You don’t get to act like she’s the problem.”
Amanda bristles. “This doesn’t concern you-”
“The hell it doesn’t.”
His voice rings out across the room.
You freeze. Everyone does.
He moves closer, jaw tight. “I’ve watched her hold this team together with duct tape and willpower for months. I’ve seen her run telemetry with one hand while rocking a baby with the other. I’ve seen her outthink every other engineer in this paddock while getting three hours of sleep and zero support. And now you want to frame it like she’s a liability?”
Oscar turns to Amanda, then to Ayao. “She didn’t compromise professionalism. You did. When you brought her back without leave. When you gave her zero resources. When you set her up to fail and she still didn’t.”
No one breathes.
Oscar takes a breath, voice softer but still steel. “You’re lucky to have her. And if you can’t see that, it says more about you than it does about her.”
You blink. Your vision goes hot.
Amanda shifts in her seat. “Oscar, with all due respect-”
“No. No respect,” he says. “Not if this is how you treat the people who work the hardest.”
The silence afterward is thunderous.
You stare at him.
And he stares right back.
***
Later, outside the motorhome, the sun is high and the wind carries the scent of burnt rubber and Alpine air. You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he. You’re standing on the gravel, heart still racing.
Finally, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” Oscar says, quiet. “But I couldn’t not.”
You study his face.
“You meant it?” You ask, voice small.
His brow furrows. “Of course I meant it.”
“No one’s ever stood up for me like that.”
Oscar’s mouth presses into a line. “Well. Get used to it.”
You let out a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in your lungs for months.
“I don’t know what to say,” you whisper.
“Don’t say anything,” he replies. “Just let me be here.”
You reach for his hand.
He takes it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And this time, you don’t stop him.
***
Maisie is nestled against Oscar’s chest, her bottle cradled in his hands like it’s some sacred artifact.
The hotel room is quiet — dimly lit, post-race haze lingering in the air like warmth after a storm. Outside, the Austrian hills are dark silhouettes, and the paddock has long since gone to sleep. But in here, it’s just the hum of the minibar fridge, the soft coo of a milk-drowsy baby, and the low murmur of Oscar’s voice.
“She’s getting better at this,” he says, angling the bottle just slightly. Maisie lets out a tiny, satisfied sigh, eyelids fluttering. “She doesn’t try to wrestle it out of my hands anymore.”
“She trusts you,” you say, sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed. “That’s rare.”
Oscar glances up. “From you or her?”
You smile, but there’s a flicker of something behind it. “Both.”
He doesn’t press. Just looks back down at Maisie, stroking her soft hair gently with one finger.
You let yourself watch them for a beat too long. Oscar with her is something you still don’t know how to process. There’s no performance in it. No ego. Just patience. A kind of steady quiet you haven’t seen in years, maybe ever.
He shifts slightly. “My mum used to do this thing,” he says. “She’d sing when I was sick. Not lullabies, just whatever was stuck in her head. Once it was ABBA for three days straight.”
“Solid choice.”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling faintly. “She was always good in a crisis. Not the loud kind of good. Just … consistent. The sort of person who makes tea before asking what’s wrong.”
You lean back against the headboard, pulling your knees up. “You talk about her like she’s still your whole foundation.”
“She kind of is,” he says. “I used to think I’d never be anything like her. That I was too much in my own head. Too closed off.”
He shifts Maisie in his arms so she’s lying on her back in the crook of his elbow, eyes fluttering closed.
“I didn’t think I’d want this,” he says softly. “Any of it.”
Your breath catches. “Want what?”
“This,” he says. “You. Her. A life that isn’t just cars and data and press conferences.”
Your throat tightens. You look away, focus on a scuff mark on the wall. “Oscar-”
“I know,” he cuts in gently. “I’m not saying it expecting anything.”
You glance back at him. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is steady. “I used to think racing was it. That it had to be. I spent so long building my world around it that I didn’t leave room for anything else.”
You swallow. “And now?”
He exhales slowly. “Now I find myself looking for you in the other garage when I get out of the car. I look for Maisie in the paddock. I check your run plan even when I don’t need to. I … I notice the empty space when you’re not around.”
Maisie makes a soft, contented noise. Oscar smiles down at her like it’s the first time he’s ever seen something this small, this complete.
“Don’t,” you say suddenly, too loud in the quiet room.
Oscar looks up, startled. “What?”
You sit up straighter, heart pounding. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them. Unless you’re ready for what that actually means.”
He frowns, bottle still in hand. “I do mean it.”
“I don’t have space for something that might fall apart.”
“Neither do I.”
You run a hand through your hair, tired and restless all at once. “This isn’t a normal relationship, Oscar. I have a kid. A whole human who depends on me. I’m not just someone you can fall for in a hotel room and forget in the next country.”
His voice is calm. “Do I seem like someone who forgets?”
You look at him. Really look at him.
Oscar in the soft hotel light, holding your baby, hair slightly messy, socks mismatched. No script. No audience. Just him.
He sets the bottle aside. Gently shifts Maisie into the portable bassinet by the bed. She doesn’t stir.
Then he sits beside you.
He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t lean in.
He just says, “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. And I know it’s messy. I know it’s not ideal. But when I imagine my life in five years, ten years — you’re in it. So is she.”
You blink hard. “I can’t promise you anything.”
“I’m not asking for anything but time,” he says. “Time to show you I mean it.”
You breathe out slowly. His hand is close to yours on the bedspread. You stare at it.
Then, tentatively, you reach over.
Fingers brushing.
Skin to skin.
You lean in before you think better of it, and when his lips meet yours, it’s slow, careful, like touching something you both don’t want to break.
It doesn’t last long. You pull back too fast, heart racing.
He doesn’t chase it. Just searches your eyes.
You shake your head, barely above a whisper. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” he says.
And then, quieter, “Me too.”
But neither of you moves.
And when Maisie sighs in her sleep, both of you glance over at the same time.
Like instinct.
***
It starts the way bad dreams always do.
With someone saying your name in a voice you haven’t heard in nearly a year. A voice that doesn’t belong here — doesn’t belong anywhere near this place, this life, your daughter.
“Y/N.”
You stop mid-step, heart in your throat. The pit lane is buzzing, teams moving in post-qualifying rhythm, but all of it fades to static when you see him.
Tall, sharp-suited despite the heat, sunglasses perched like he’s posing for some glossy magazine profile. The same smug, rehearsed look that used to make your skin crawl now triggers something colder. Harder.
He smirks like nothing’s changed. “Been a while.”
You take one step back. Just one. Reflex.
“I’m working,” you say tightly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m exactly where I should be,” he replies, glancing around like the paddock is a film set built just for him. “Figured it was time I saw my daughter.”
“Don’t you dare,” you say, voice low, trembling. “You don’t get to say that.”
He holds up his hands mockingly. “Come on. I’m not the villain here. I’ve been thinking — maybe we started off on the wrong foot.”
“By abandoning me when I wouldn’t get an abortion?” You snap, arms folded tightly across your chest. “That foot?”
“I’ve matured,” he says smoothly. “Got a new job, joined a fatherhood group on Facebook. Did the work.”
You stare at him. “You did the work where, exactly? While I was in labor alone? While I was nursing through team meetings? While I was begging HR not to dock my pay for taking a week off after childbirth?”
“I want to be involved now.”
Your laugh is sharp, humorless. “No, you want to be seen being involved.”
Something flickers in his eyes. The mask slips just a little.
He leans in, lowering his voice. “I’m prepared to go through legal channels if I have to.”
You stiffen.
“What did you just say?”
“I’ve spoken to lawyers. Paternal rights, shared custody,” he says with a shrug. “They’re confident. You work full-time, travel constantly. No partner. Not exactly a stable environment, is it?”
You go still. The blood rushes in your ears, drowning out everything else.
Then a voice cuts through.
“Is there a problem here?”
Oscar.
He’s walking toward you fast, purposeful, not even pretending to hide the tension in his shoulders. He glances between the two of you, his eyes landing hard on the man beside you.
You exhale, shaky. “Oscar-”
“Who’s this?” Your ex asks, with a smirk that instantly makes you want to punch something.
Oscar doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves so he’s squarely between the two of you. Physically blocking him from you.
“I think you should leave,” Oscar says calmly.
The ex scoffs. “Excuse me? This is between me and the mother of my child.”
“She told you to leave. That should’ve been enough.”
“Oh, what are you now — her bodyguard?”
Oscar’s jaw flexes. “Something like that.”
Your ex chuckles. “Cute. So this is the new guy? The one playing house with my kid?”
You take a step forward, but Oscar lifts a hand behind his back in a subtle, don’t. He’s trying to de-escalate. Trying to stay calm. You can feel it radiating off him like heat.
“She’s not your kid,” Oscar says, voice deceptively soft. “You gave that up when you walked out.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No,” you say, finding your voice again. “I do.”
Your ex straightens, that charming mask slipping into something darker. “I will get visitation. I have a right.”
Oscar’s entire posture shifts, a beat away from something dangerous. “You think threatening her with a lawsuit in the middle of the paddock is a good start?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “Public pressure works wonders, doesn’t it? Imagine the headlines.”
You feel like you might throw up.
Oscar sees it. He turns back, finally, placing a steady hand on your lower back.
“We’re done here,” he says.
Your ex lifts his sunglasses back into place like this is all some business deal.
“We’ll see,” he says, and walks off like he’s won something.
***
You don’t cry until the door closes behind you.
You press your back against the wall, blinking hard, breathing harder.
Oscar’s already there. “Hey. Hey.”
“I can’t-” Your voice cracks. “I can’t go through this. I can’t — he’s going to make my life hell.”
Oscar reaches for your hand without hesitation. “Then he’ll have to go through me first.”
“That’s not how this works,” you whisper, shaking your head. “He’s not bluffing. He’ll sue. He’ll drag me to court and spin some narrative about how I’m an unfit mother and they’ll listen because he’s charming and rich and-”
“Y/N.”
You look up.
Oscar’s expression is calm. Unshaken.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
You close your eyes. “He’s not doing this because he wants her. He’s doing it because he hates that I’ve done this without him.”
Oscar’s quiet for a long moment. “We’ll get a lawyer. One who specializes in custody law. You won’t have to face him alone.”
You nod, slowly.
Then — quiet, broken — “What if I lose her?”
He pulls you into him without hesitation.
“You won’t.”
***
By the next day, it’s everywhere.
Whispers in the paddock. Twitter threads. Paparazzi photos of Oscar blocking the ex. Even one fuzzy, zoomed-in shot of you crying in the garage.
And Haas?
Haas disappears.
There’s no follow-up meeting. No support. No PR control.
Ayao won’t make eye contact in the hospitality tent. Amanda from HR offers you a tight-lipped smile and tells you to “keep things professional on camera.” You ask if the team will provide legal support, and she glances at her notes like she doesn’t know what that word means.
Ollie corners you outside the motorhome. “They’re icing you out.”
You shrug. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” he says. “They owe you.”
You smile, tired. “They never saw me as part of the equation. Just a variable to manage.”
He frowns. “They’re cowards.”
You glance at him. “Thank you.”
Ollie scratches the back of his neck. “If you ever need someone to watch Maisie while you scream into a pillow, I’m free after media duties.”
You almost laugh.
Almost.
“Thanks, Bear.”
He nods. “We’ve got your back. The people who matter, anyway.”
And for the first time all day, you believe it.
***
The sky over Zandvoort is still half-asleep.
Muted pinks stretch lazily over the water, turning the sea into a pane of brushed glass. Wind lifts the salt air gently, the world hushed in that rare, weightless pause before the day officially begins.
You sit on the cold sand in one of Oscar’s hoodies, sleeves pulled over your hands. Your shoes are back near the boardwalk. You don’t even remember kicking them off.
Behind you, the paddock will start waking soon. Engines will cough to life. Radios will crackle. Haas will want to know where you are.
But not yet.
“You’re not supposed to be awake,” comes a soft voice behind you.
You glance over your shoulder.
Oscar is walking toward you, Maisie tucked in one arm, wrapped up tight in a soft cream blanket. The one with the little orange cats and koalas printed all over it. The one he picked out.
She’s sleeping again, tiny hand fisted in the edge of the fabric.
“I heard the door,” he says. “And when I realized you weren’t in bed, I figured you were either fleeing the country or walking into the sea.”
You attempt a smile. It doesn’t quite land. “Still deciding.”
Oscar sits beside you carefully, mindful not to jostle Maisie.
“She settled right away,” he says. “Probably knew where you were.”
You don’t answer.
He shifts slightly, shoulder brushing yours. His warmth is quiet, familiar now.
Oscar looks out at the waves. “You want to talk?”
You shake your head.
But that’s a lie, and you both know it.
He waits.
Then you say, “I drafted my resignation letter last night.”
Oscar’s gaze snaps to you.
“You what?”
“I can’t do this,” you whisper, voice shaking despite the stillness in the air. “I can’t keep fighting every second. I’m exhausted, Oscar. I’ve been running on fumes since Maisie was born, and now with the lawsuit and the team icing me out — what’s left?”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
You keep your eyes on the ocean, because if you look at him, you might fall apart.
“I had a dream last week,” you say, trying to steady your voice. “I was at a race, and I couldn’t find her. No one would help me. Everyone just kept telling me to focus on strategy.”
Oscar says nothing, but his hand finds yours. Doesn’t squeeze. Just holds.
“And I keep thinking — maybe they’re right. Maybe this isn’t sustainable. Maybe I’m selfish for trying to have both.”
He exhales slowly. “You’re not selfish.”
“I’m a single mom. With an infant. Traveling twenty-five weekends a year. Fighting with lawyers. Fighting for space in a sport that was never built for people like me.”
“You’re also brilliant,” he says quietly. “And resilient. And completely irreplaceable on the pit wall.”
You shake your head. “That doesn’t matter when the system is designed to grind people down.”
“I mean it,” he says. “You belong here. You’ve earned this. Don’t let them take it from you.”
“I’m so tired, Oscar.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know how to be everything.”
He shifts Maisie carefully in his arm and wraps his free arm around your shoulders, pulling you against him.
“You don’t have to be everything,” he says into your hair. “Just be you. And let the people who love you fill in the rest.”
You let yourself lean into him. Just for a moment. The weight of his arm around you, the soft warmth of the baby’s blanket, the steadiness of his voice — it grounds you more than anything has in weeks.
“You think I can still have a life?” You ask, not looking up. “Not just … survive it?”
“I don’t think,” he says. “I know.”
You close your eyes.
The sun is rising now, full and gold and beautiful. You watch it shimmer over the water, spreading slow light across the waves.
Maisie stirs gently against Oscar’s chest. He cradles her with practiced ease.
“You look like a dad,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.
Oscar pauses. “I’m okay with that.”
You glance at him.
He’s already looking at you.
You study his face — the soft lines of morning light catching on his cheekbones, the subtle tiredness around his eyes. The way he holds Maisie like she’s something that matters. Not just to you, but to him.
“I’m scared,” you say.
He nods. “Me too.”
You draw in a shaky breath.
“Are you sure this isn’t too much?” You whisper. “Me. Her. The lawsuits. The chaos. The burnout.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
You stare at the sea again.
The waves come in, gentle and consistent. Over and over and over.
You’re still terrified.
But for the first time, there’s something else there too.
Hope.
***
The courtroom smells like printer ink and recycled air.
The kind of place that’s designed to feel neutral, but instead just feels cold. The kind of place where people like your ex are emboldened by polished shoes and pre-written statements.
You're sitting at the front, heart beating like a dull drum in your ears. You haven’t slept properly in three days. The skin beneath your eyes is bruised with fatigue. But you're here. You’re still here.
Maisie is with Oscar in the hallway — quiet, away from the noise. She doesn’t understand what’s happening, of course. She’s seven months old, teething, enamored with ceiling fans and the sound of Oscar’s laugh. But her presence is an anchor. Her existence a protest.
Your lawyer — Oscar’s lawyer, technically, the one Mark Webber connected you with — leans in.
“They’re going to bring up your travel schedule again,” she murmurs. “Stay calm. We’ll counter with your support network and evidence of consistent care.”
You nod, jaw clenched.
The judge is reviewing a document, glasses low on his nose. Your ex sits across the aisle, legs crossed, every hair perfectly in place. He wears that same old smug expression that says he still thinks this is about him.
He doesn’t even glance your way.
“Let’s continue,” the judge says.
***
By the time Ollie takes the stand, your palms are damp.
He looks too tall for the witness box, lanky and wide-eyed in his navy suit. He fiddles with the mic like it’s a simulator switch.
“State your name for the record,” the clerk prompts.
“Olliver Bearman,” he says. “Driver for Haas F1 Team.”
“Do you know the respondent?” Your lawyer asks.
Ollie nods quickly. “Yeah. She’s my race engineer.”
“And how would you describe her performance in that role?”
Ollie straightens in the chair, suddenly composed in the way he is before a race start.
“She’s the best I’ve ever worked with,” he says. “Insanely sharp. Totally unflappable. She’s saved my ass more times than I can count — sorry, can I say that?”
A few chuckles ripple across the gallery. The judge allows it with a wave of his hand.
Your lawyer smiles. “Has being a mother interfered with her ability to fulfill her professional responsibilities?”
“Not at all,” Ollie says, emphatically. “Actually, it’s kind of the opposite. I don’t know how she juggles it all, but she does. And Maisie is safe, happy, loved. Everyone in the paddock knows it. She’s got this … I don’t know, gravity about her. It makes people better just being around it.”
You blink rapidly. Look down at your lap. The warmth behind your ribs almost makes you dizzy.
Your lawyer clears her throat gently. “One final question, Ollie. Have you ever seen the petitioner interact with the child?”
Ollie shakes his head. “Nope. Never. First time I saw him was when he tried to corner her outside the garage like it was a hostage negotiation.”
The judge lifts an eyebrow. “Noted.”
***
When the ruling comes, it’s mercifully swift.
You hear the words sole custody and best interest of the child and established caregiving structure, and the rest just fades. Like someone’s turned down the volume on the whole world.
Oscar is already standing beside you by the time you realize you’re crying.
He doesn’t say anything. Just wraps his arms around you from behind and presses a kiss to the side of your head, Maisie giggling between you, gnawing happily on his collar.
You turn into his chest, burying your face there.
It’s over. You won.
***
Haas doesn’t call you. They post.
A soft-statement graphic goes live two days later across all platforms. White text on a neutral background.
“In light of recent events, we recognize the urgent need for stronger parental support in motorsport. Haas F1 Team is committed to building an environment where working parents are supported, not punished. Effective immediately, our HR policy will be amended to include-”
You stop reading after that.
You don’t need their apology. You needed their backbone. But still, you forward the post to the lawyer, just in case.
Maisie’s asleep on your chest, warm and soft and drooling. Oscar’s on the couch, one leg propped up, watching something on his laptop with half a smirk.
You stare at him for a long moment.
He glances up.
“What?” He asks, grinning.
You shift slowly, careful not to wake Maisie.
“I need to say something,” you say, voice low.
He closes the laptop. “Okay.”
You sit up a little straighter. Maisie sighs in her sleep.
“I’m not good at this,” you begin. “Any of this. I’m used to surviving. Not … building something.”
Oscar just watches you.
“And now that this thing with the custody is done … I need you to know that you can walk away. I wouldn’t blame you.”
His expression doesn’t change.
You press on, forcing the words out. “I don’t want to drag you into something you didn’t sign up for. I can’t promise I’ll ever be soft or simple or easy. I come with a child. With sleepless nights and diaper bags and a dozen things I can’t drop just because we want a quiet evening in.”
Oscar shifts forward, elbows on his knees.
“You done?”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
He leans in.
“I knew what I was walking into the day I saw you behind the Haas motorhome,” he says. “You, covered in spit-up, leaking milk, shaking and still holding it together. I didn’t see chaos. I saw a force of nature.”
You open your mouth. He cuts you off.
“I didn’t want easy, Y/N. I wanted real.”
You stare at him, the back of your throat aching.
He reaches over and brushes a strand of hair from your face.
“And you,” he murmurs, “are the most real thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You laugh — choked and teary and a little ridiculous.
Maisie stirs, lets out a soft coo, and Oscar immediately leans down to kiss her forehead. Like he’s been doing it forever.
You look at him.
You look at them.
And for the first time in months, you let yourself breathe.
***
The roar of the crowd is deafening.
You can barely hear yourself think over the sound of it — thousands of fans on their feet, flags waving, cameras flashing, all of it a chaotic, beautiful blur. But what cuts through the noise, sharp and clear, is the grin on Ollie’s face as he hoists the first-place trophy into the air.
He’s trembling. Giddy. Champagne-soaked and speechless.
And beside him, on the left step — Verstappen, of course — and to his right, Leclerc, already popping his bottle, laughing as the spray arcs into the air like fireworks. You squint against the sunlight bouncing off everything. It smells like victory and sugar and sweat.
Ollie glances down at you from the top step and gives a pointed little nod. You raise your hands in mock warning.
Don’t you dare.
But he does.
He aims the bottle like a sniper and lets loose, hitting you square in the chest with a direct stream of cold, sticky champagne.
You yelp, ducking your head as a second wave hits you from Max, then Charles, then Ollie again — relentless and laughing like a kid on Christmas morning.
The crowd eats it up.
You’re standing just off to the side of the driver’s steps, clutching the Constructors’ trophy in one hand, hair dripping, the front of your team polo soaked. But the grin on your face is involuntary, wide and stunned and completely unfiltered.
You haven’t smiled like this in a long time.
***
Oscar lifts Maisie up as high as he dares, careful to keep her secure in his arms. She squeals in delight, her tiny fists waving in the air like she understands exactly what’s happening.
“See that?” He whispers against her soft cheek. “That’s your mum.”
She coos, eyes fixated on the woman in the middle of it all, surrounded by noise and color and glory — and looking completely in her element.
The paddock below is chaos. McLaren mechanics cheer just as loudly as Haas, media swarms the fences, but Oscar only sees you.
You’re soaked, still laughing, eyes glinting under the sun. And somehow, even with your hair plastered to your cheeks and a streak of champagne on your neck, you’ve never looked more untouchable.
He presses a kiss to Maisie’s head.
“Pretty cool, huh?”
Maisie gurgles in reply.
***
The garage is still echoing when you finally make your way back down the steps, trophy in hand. Your cheeks ache from smiling. Your lungs feel new, like they’ve never been this full.
The Haas crew erupts as you reappear.
Ollie catches you first, nearly tackling you in a hug.
“You did it!” You yell against his shoulder.
He pulls back, dazed and laughing. “We did it. Jesus, you — you’re incredible. Did you see it? The overtake in Sector 3?”
“You think I wasn’t screaming like a lunatic on the pit wall?”
He grins even harder. “I heard you in my helmet. I think you might’ve caused permanent hearing damage.”
You roll your eyes. “You’ve given me permanent anxiety. Seems fair.”
More arms around you, more voices. Then suddenly Oscar’s there too, Maisie tucked in the crook of his arm, a muslin cloth half-draped over his shoulder, and you swear the second you see them, the noise fades.
Your fingers wrap around his arm without thinking.
“You saw?”
Oscar lifts Maisie slightly. “We saw everything.”
She’s got her fingers in her mouth, eyes heavy but wide with interest.
“She loved the part where you got soaked,” he adds, mock serious. “We might need to talk about your champagne defense strategy. Pretty weak.”
You laugh. “I had no chance. Ollie’s a menace.”
Oscar steps in closer, voice lower now, the two of you suddenly in your own quiet little space amid the buzz.
“I meant it,” he says, looking down at you. “That’s your world up there. You looked-” He shakes his head. “You looked like you belonged to it.”
You glance down, suddenly shy, even after all these months.
“I forgot what it felt like to win,” you admit softly. “Like really win.”
Oscar leans in, forehead nearly brushing yours.
“Then get used to it,” he says. “You’re not going anywhere.”
***
Later, after media and debriefs and a whirlwind of handshakes and team photos and Maisie falling asleep in your arms mid-interview, you find yourself in the back of the hotel suite, barefoot, hair towel-dried, wrapped in one of Oscar’s hoodies.
Maisie is finally asleep in the bassinet. The night is soft and quiet. Just the low hum of city noise outside and Oscar sitting on the floor, back against the edge of the bed, legs stretched out.
You lower yourself beside him.
For a long moment, neither of you says anything.
He takes your hand without needing to ask.
“You know,” he murmurs eventually, “some people wait a lifetime for the kind of love you gave me by accident.”
Your heart stutters.
You study his profile, the curve of his cheekbone in the dim light, the way his thumb grazes your palm absentmindedly.
You lean in until your temple rests against his shoulder.
“And some of us didn’t think we’d ever be allowed to want it,” you whisper.
Oscar’s breath hitches just slightly.
He turns his head, presses his lips to your hair. His voice is barely audible when he speaks next.
“You were never an accident,” he says. “You were the start of everything.”
You close your eyes, the weight of it all pressing in — the months, the heartbreak, the fight, the fury, the long nights and longer days. The sleepless mornings. The late-night telemetry. The courtroom. The loneliness. The stubbornness.
And him.
Always him.
You squeeze his hand.
“Stay?” You ask.
Oscar smiles into your hair.
“Always.”
***
The first time she ever walked, it was toward a set of tires in the Haas garage.
Oscar had been kneeling nearby, arms outstretched, completely ignored as she toddled past him to lay both sticky palms flat on the tread. “Ty,” she had said proudly — her first word that wasn’t “Mama” or “Up.”
Now, twenty years later, she’s strapping herself into a Formula 1 car.
Maisie Piastri.
The name printed in white letters across the side of the cockpit is almost too much to process. It doesn’t matter that you’ve had months since she signed to prepare for this. It doesn’t matter that you’re standing beside Oscar, his arm looped tight around your waist, both of you grinning too wide and talking too fast as you crowd around your daughter while she slides on her gloves like it’s just another race.
But it’s not. It’s her debut.
“Make sure you don’t leave too much on the out-lap,” you say at the same time Oscar blurts, “Don’t forget, you can play with diff mid-corner if it starts biting.”
Maisie groans. Loudly. “Guys. Seriously. You’ve been giving me the same speech since Tuesday.”
“And we’ll keep giving it until you tattoo it on your forehead,” Oscar says, ducking to adjust the shoulder strap on her suit like she isn’t perfectly capable of doing it herself. “You’re nervous. That’s fine. You should be.”
“I’m not nervous,” Maisie lies.
“You’re bouncing your knee so hard the mechanics are flinching,” you point out.
Maisie rolls her eyes. “That’s adrenaline. It’s different.”
Oscar snorts. “Same chemical. Different packaging.”
You reach over to double-check her helmet’s fit — mostly out of habit. She bats your hand away, but gently.
“I’ve got it, Mum.”
“I know you’ve got it,” you say, smiling. “But it’s still my job to check.”
Maisie’s eyes soften for just a second. She’s twenty, but it hits you all at once that she’s also still the baby who once fit on your chest like a heartbeat. Still the toddler who napped in a travel cot while telemetry scrolled across your screen. Still the girl who cried after her first DNF in Formula 3 and buried her face in Oscar’s hoodie while pretending she wasn’t crying at all.
Oscar reaches out, nudges the side of her helmet.
“Hey. You’ve earned this, yeah? Just remember — first laps are about survival, not glory.”
Maisie raises a brow. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“I didn’t say I was good at it,” he grins. “I’m saying you should be.”
Maisie exhales through her nose. Her fingers clench, then relax on the wheel.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Okay. I’m ready.”
You both step back as the McLaren crew begins final checks. The papaya livery gleams under the lights. The crowd noise is already rising above the paddock like a tidal wave.
Maisie’s engineer calls out something through her headset. She nods, one gloved hand lifting in a thumbs-up. The engine hasn’t started yet, but the moment feels electric already.
Oscar reaches for your hand.
You squeeze.
“Go fast, baby,” you murmur.
Maisie glances at you — just for a second, just long enough for her eyes to soften.
Then she turns forward again. Locked in. Composed. And in the next moment, the mechanics push the car toward pit exit, and your daughter disappears into the blur of motion and color.
***
Back in the McLaren garage, Sadie and Jonah are bickering about snacks.
“She said she liked the sour ones,” Jonah insists, holding up a crumpled packet of gummy worms.
“You bought the wrong brand,” Sadie fires back. “You’re literally ruining her career. She’s gonna lose the race and it’s your fault.”
You slide into the row of seats between them with a heavy sigh, leaning back into the cushions like your bones finally gave up holding you up.
Oscar drops into the seat beside you. He looks better than you feel — calmer, probably only because he’s already chewed his nails into oblivion.
“She hasn’t even completed the formation lap,” he says under his breath. “I already feel like I’ve aged ten years.”
You glance at him. “I don’t know how your parents did this.”
“I think I owe them an apology. Actually, many apologies.”
Sadie leans over. “Mum, when Maisie wins, can I hold the trophy?”
“She’s not going to let you near it if you keep accusing Jonah of sabotage,” you reply, reaching to smooth her ponytail.
Jonah smirks. “She can’t help it. She’s dramatic. Like Dad.”
Oscar snorts. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not dramatic,” Sadie declares, dramatically.
Jonah gives you a look. “Case in point.”
The formation lap begins. Maisie’s on the screen now — third row, P6, visor down and shoulders squared like she’s about to walk into battle. The world is watching her, but to you, she’s still just your girl in a tiny kart at age five, too small for her own race suit, begging to “go again” even when her fingers were red from the cold.
Oscar leans forward. His hand finds your knee, anchoring.
“She’s going to be brilliant,” he whispers.
You nod, eyes never leaving the screen.
“I know.”
***
The lights go out, and for a moment the world holds its breath.
Maisie nails the launch.
There’s a moment — just a moment — where she darts down the inside into Turn 1 with the kind of confidence that makes engineers sweat and fans scream. Your stomach drops like a stone.
“She’s going for it,” Oscar breathes.
You clutch Sadie’s hand. She doesn’t complain.
“Go, Maisie, go,” Jonah murmurs.
The car emerges clean. She gains a position.
And then another.
Oscar grabs your hand and laughs — an unrestrained, disbelieving sound full of adrenaline and joy and pride that’s too big to name.
“God, she’s really doing it.”
***
By the end of Lap 10, she’s in fourth.
By Lap 20, she’s overtaken for third.
You can’t feel your legs anymore. Or your lungs.
The entire garage is humming with tension. No one’s pretending they’re not watching the rookie now.
And even as she drops to P4 on Lap 39 — tyres fading — you can see the fight in her. The Piastri in her. Not just in her name, but in the way she refuses to roll over.
She crosses the line P4. Just outside the podium. But no one’s disappointed.
Because she raced like hell. She proved she belonged.
She made it hers.
***
After the race, you’re in the back of the McLaren motorhome, helping Sadie refill her water bottle while Jonah scrolls Twitter for reactions.
Oscar’s got his phone pressed to his ear, talking to Mark about Maisie’s first post-race press session.
“Yeah, yeah — no, she’ll handle it fine. Just make sure they don’t try to trap her into answering questions about me. She’s not here because of her father.”
“She is, though,” you say softly when he hangs up. “Because of us. Because we didn’t stop.”
Oscar turns toward you, expression gentle.
“Because she didn’t stop,” he says. “We gave her the space. She built the road.”
You nod, brushing invisible lint off your shirt. “Do you ever think about that first day?” You ask. “Behind the motorhome?”
Oscar laughs, startled. “Constantly. That baby wouldn’t stop screaming.”
“That baby just overtook a two-time world champion around the outside.”
You both pause.
Oscar slips an arm around your waist and kisses your temple.
“I’d still take her screaming in my arms over anything else,” he says. “But today? Today was magic.”
You rest your head on his shoulder.
Maisie appears a few minutes later, still in her race suit, hair damp with sweat and adrenaline, trophy-less but glowing.
Sadie screams. Jonah claps. Oscar clutches his chest like he might combust.
You walk straight up to her and cup her face.
“You were flawless.”
“I was fourth.”
“You were flawless,” Oscar says, stepping in to pull her into a tight hug.
Maisie groans into his shoulder but hugs back.
“God, you two are so intense,” she mutters. “It was just one race.”
“It was your first race,” you say, brushing sweat-soaked strands of hair from her cheek.
Maisie looks away, embarrassed, but smiling.
And then, quieter: “Thanks for being here.”
“Always,” you say. “That’s the deal.”
You look over at Oscar, at your two younger children, at the years that stretched and bent and burned to bring you here.
And for once, you let yourself stand still in the middle of it all and just feel it.
The winning. The becoming.
The love you never thought you’d be allowed to want.
Oscar looks at you like he’s still just that boy behind the Haas motorhome — stunned that someone like you let him in.
TS4 Link's House - Twilight Princess - 30x20* (NO CC)
Link's house from Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, built as accurately as possible in the Sims 4! I included hidden rooms for Princess Zelda and Midna, and a bathroom for functionality. (I used mainly Horse Ranch, Werewolves, and Cottage Living.) This has been play-tested** (see below). Be sure to use bb.moveobjects and the debug cheats before placing. Enjoy!!
*The house by itself can fit on a smaller lot without the landscaping.
➜ download my TS4 builds: my EA ID is jhocaa / my TS4 builds
**Suggested edits / corrections for gameplay
By default, the sims think the front door is the secret door to Zelda's room. To change it to the correct front door, you need to replace the front ladder with a staircase. (Apparently front doors cannot be placed above a ladder.)
The sims have some trouble with the kitchen counters due to the Werewolves shelf and decor. Delete the shelf and the decorations for better functionality.
Hiii ! I saw that request were open so I jumped ! I hope they are still open as I saw in the rule that it was writed closed so I'm not sure. If they are closed, then sorry 😅
Could you maybe write about Twilight and Wild (separately) with their married partner during the travel with the chain ? Like they meet them in an Hyrule bc they were transported too, the chain reached to the fact they are married and any domestic kind of ideas about them traveling together! Or anything that come to you haha
Thank you very much ! I hope you're doing good! Bye bye ❤
Oh sure thing! Some Twilight and Wild domesticity, coming right up!! (Let's pretend that it's a word. XD)
Masterlist
Content under the cut!
Twilight
"What are you doing here?!" Twilight had scooped you up at once, hugging you with enough force to lift you off of your feet.
His actions, while tender were loving, were nothing compared to the sheer terror in his voice as he spoke. Twilight didn't hesitate to instantly check you over. He didn't want to see you injured. He didn't want to see so much a single scratch.
"I thought you were going to stay home!!"
"I did!" You defend yourself. "...And then the portal you mentioned appeared in the middle of the village. I offered to go find you before any one of the children would become too curious and go in first."
"Crazy, impulsive, reckless-"
"Stop calling yourself names." You poke his chest. "I didn't come unprepared. I wasn't sure if I would actually run into you or not. But I couldn't risk it with the children beginning to poke their noses around it."
"Did the portal close behind you?" Twilight run his hands over your hair, soothing down all the nonexistent frizz that you would have collected on your journey otherwise.
You nod. "It's just me."
"Ordana and her small mercies." He sighs, bringing in for a kiss.
The others whistle and cheer, getting the idea of just who you are to their resident Rancher.
You pull back with a lovestruck smile on your face. "I've missed you too."
He smiles and wraps his arms around once more, keeping his hug firm but not crushing like before. "I'm terrified that you're here, you know that right?"
"I know." You whisper. "I'm sorry. I know I promised to not give you any reason to worry."
"You did." Twilight stresses, poking the side you're sensitive on. He's trying to subtly tickle you and it is not fair. "You owe me. You broke your promise."
You squirm and smack his chest playfully. "And what would you have me do? Make dinner tonight?"
Twilight freezes a bit as he processes your words. You internally grin. You won this round. He nods and kisses your cheek. "I would love that. I've missed your food."
"It's been a while since I've cooked over a fire though." You admit. "It might not taste the same."
"I'll have anything." Twilight smirks. "I'm a good eater and you know it."
"We're still here you know!!" Four shouts from behind you both. "We can see all of this!"
Twilight gives him a playful glare and the bird for good measure.
You laugh. "Are you going to introduce me to the friends you told me about?"
"I don't know." Twilight pouts, hugging you tighter and he tucks his head against you. "I don't think I want to anymore."
"We're not that bad!"
Twilight gives them another rude gesture.
It makes all of you laugh.
"I like them already." You pat your husband on the head.
He groans. "I was afraid you'd say that."
Wild
To say that Wild was the more chaotic one of the group was frankly, a solid statement.
Not that the others are known for their stoicism and stable tendencies. It's just that Wild tends to be a freer spirit than many bargain for.
That until, you came along.
They had found in the middle of a dungeon. Which promptly made Wild lose his mind.
He fussed over as if you had broken every bone in your body. He was suddenly glued to your hip and eyeing all his brothers as if they themselves were threats to you.
In the confusion and chaos, it is revealed (through a not so quiet private conversation) that you both were married to one another, and that you had no idea how you got there. You had gone about your usual routine before slipping to the well beside your house and finding yourself here.
Once you all had exited the dungeon it was revealed that were very much not home.
Wild was suddenly more subdued. More alert. More... something the others couldn't quite put their finger on. He was sneaking off less, doing less crazy stunts, paying more attention to the plans.
It doesn't really make sense why until you were braiding his hair after a warm meal.
"You know, Link-" You say, ignoring the way eight other faces turn to look at you. You're talking to your husband right now. "I see that you want to go exploring sometimes. You can afford to spend a little time away from me. I won't wander off."
Wild snorts. "Are you trying to push me away?"
"Nonsense. You know I love being with you." Your fingers card through his hair gently. Wild has his eyes closed in bliss. "I'm just saying you can afford to still do as you please. I know that you're dying to see the world again."
"No." He says, surprising everyone. "I'm good."
"Link-"
"I'm your husband." He stresses. "I have to take care of you. This is not a burden for me. Besides, you're far prettier than some flat rock on a mountain. I'd much rather look at you."
You smack his head playfully. "What am I going to do with you? You don't need to protect my every waking moment."
"I'm surprised he's this calm with you." Warrior puts his cheek into his palm. "Half the time he's trying to blow stuff off and give us all aneurisms."
You laugh while Wild gives him a glare. "Well excuse me, I don't need to give my marriage mate any more reason to worry. Besides, the last thing I'd want is for them to join me."
You laugh harder. "He's right. I will."
"Wait- I thought he would have been the crazy one in the relationship."
"I would have thought that too." Wild sighs. "But turns out, I have to be their impulse control since they wouldn't think twice about joining me in any shenanigans."
You pretend to pout. "You never let me in on the fun."
We did not expect this to be going this way, if anything, all the people that were involved in this situation were hoping to avoid talking about this in public. To not stress everybody out; we as a group decided to move on and wished to forget that this all had happened.
Though alas, due to the recent behavior of someone involved in the situation, we had no choice but to create this document to talk about our personal experiences surrounding them and one other person. The two people in question have been kicked out of our private discord server due to their actions harming people within the server.
We're sure some of you know who they are, if not, they are Bailey (angry-trashcan) and Nikki (neverchecking), two names that you will see continuously throughout this text. Within these texts, you will be reading about what they have done both within and outside of the server, and how we hope that this will clear up any confusion or lies spread amongst the Linked Universe (LU) x Reader and Yandere LU x Reader communities.
We want to take a minute to also call out the anons; who did not respect Moss's wishes after they had explained that they no longer write for Sage. The same anons who may or may not have gone to Nikki about this should be ashamed of themselves. A boundary is not something that should be pressed and crossed, especially if the boundary has been repeated multiple times.
The person you are interacting with is a human being, with feelings, sharing their work out of love. They’re not a bot. You can’t continuously press them for information. Especially if it forces them to step back for their mental health. To those anons, do not make excuses. Understand that your actions have consequences and can cause damage to the people within or outside of your life, be aware of what you say and do.
DISCLAIMER!
Every piece of evidence you read and/or see was used with consent from the owner.
Please understand and realize that this is NOT an invitation to harass or send death threats to any people involved in this. This is to clear up any misinformation that might've been placed in this community, so we, the server, decided to bring to light this issue and release our side of the narrative.
We want to move on from this and we know people want to know what happened. This is the only time we’re going to address this. Any and all questions about this are going to be deleted and any harassment will be swiftly dealt with and reported.
Again, this is not an invitation to harass or send death threats to anyone who was involved in this drama. If you proceed to ignore this message, you are not any better. So please, do not engage in inappropriate behaviors.
The following evidence you are about to witness deals with NSFW, alleged predatory behavior, cheating, and racism. Be cautious when reading through the posts.
Racist Time, Abuse, Romanticization, etc.
On December 1st, 2023, in the #random-shares channel, Nikki and Bailey dropped a document consisting of their ideas regarding racist, misogynistic and homophobic stuff.
Making Wind (yes, a confirmed/canon minor) ask questions about sex then being hit by Sage. They have also made Twilight an misogynistic, hating on women; Legend being an abusive father; Time being racist and homophobic, so on and so forth.
While dealing with these themes in fiction isn’t wrong, having these themes portrayed in a joking and/or lighthearted manner is concerning.
If you've been to Nikki’s tumblr, you would see that she is - in fact - a white woman. (as seen here). If you have been a follower of Nikki or interacted with Nikki's content, then you know of her POC oc, Aaliyah.
Nikki would go on to use this oc as a punching bag for other characters. Making those characters racist towards her, creating her to be a black woman stereotype that is constantly angry/aggressive towards others, being singled out by the Sheikah/King/Knights, and being whipped. However, Nikki would also use Bailey's oc, Ceres, to "protect" or "save" her oc, Aaliyah, during these racist moments, which leads to the idea of a white savior complex.
Let it be known, we are not saying that you cannot have a POC character as someone who is not a POC; but if you create a POC character without doing proper research into the culture(s) for your oc, put them in situations of abuse, make them a target for other characters, and/or only use stereotypes for their personality, then you're giving off the impression that you're a racist and pick-and-choose what qualities best suit your needs, especially when one of their purposes is for racist storytellings that they don’t fight against, despite having an “angry and aggressive” personality.
We would also like to point out how they both romanticized abuse in their writings. Making a certain character (Sage) someone full of spite and hatred. Someone who accepts that crossing boundaries is healthy. Alternatively, there are times that Sage gets treated like a dog, or where his s/o despises him. Those aren’t exactly the greatest combination of traits.
We understand that dark content exists, and we are not trying to shame any person who likes that content. However, there needs to be a realization that romanticizing them is NOT okay, no matter how your personal experiences may have shaped you. Dealing with a trauma through writing and other forms of art is completely normal but romanticizing the abuse and thinking it’s okay is indeed unhealthy and dangerous.
Writing dark content is hard, it should always be portrayed as what it is, toxic and unhealthy, not as impossibly romantic.
Outright asking for hand pics/Asking about sexual experiences
Early on in the discord server, it came to everyone’s attention that Nikki asks for “hand pics” under the guise of it being a joke. Upon later realization, we realized that it was in fact, not a joke.
A new person ended up joining our server later, the first thing she asked of them was of course, hand photos. It wasn't revealed till later on that those photos were asked, in fact, for fetish purposes, which no person present in the server (besides Nikki and possibly Bailey) were aware of or took part in this.
Beware that it’s not a joke nor is it "platonic" to ask for body part photos, especially from a stranger or even a friend, when the intentions are over a fetish that wasn't communicated, thus, not being consented by the other part. Taking advantage of someone like that without their knowledge is wrong and unacceptable.
Putting aside the fact that they asked for pictures of other people, they also sent photos of their feet in the chat too, abruptly, knowing how everybody felt about it. When asked to stop, they ignored it; proceeding to continue sending photos under the guise of “a joke”.
There are no screenshots for this due to the fact that the messages were deleted by a mod. Take this as you will.
Minor Involved
January 3rd, 2024, Bea was contacted by Nikki privately to server mute a person. We will not be revealing who that person is out of safety for their wellbeing. This person was actually a minor pretending to be an adult.
Of course, they quickly left the server before Bea could do anything. Everyone within the server blocked the person except for Bea, who would go on to have a private conversation with them about how serious and dangerous the situation could have become. Had we not found the message of them confessing their legal age, things could have possibly escalated.
All of that said, Bailey was in contact with this same person outside of the server. She had their address and they both explicitly sent nudes to each other. That person revealed to her later that they were underage. At the time, we all blamed naivety and recklessness for Bailey’s actions; and for some cases, those were definitely a cause.
Though, after everything that happened in February and March this year (2024), plus all of us looking back on Bea’s private conversation with that person, we believe that this person was being taken advantage of. While we do not have the full story, we came upon this realization due to this person’s claims about how scared they were of Bailey potentially doxxing them or doing something with their private information.
Again, while we do not have confirmations, we suspect that the anonymous person may have been coerced to send inappropriate photos to Bailey.
Confirmed relationships.
Two days following the minor situation, Bailey and Glowy privately messaged each other about potentially pursuing a relationship after Bailey confessed feelings for Glowy.
Glowy reciprocates those feelings, but asks for time to get to know each other, give Bailey time to heal after the minor situation and they spend around a month talking and flirting with each other.
If you've ever scrolled through Nikki's (neverchecking) Tumblr, then there's a possibility that you would know that they were dating someone before their current relationship.
By now, we're sure you're aware who this person was, but just in case you aren't, it will be shown and further discussed down below.
Requested by @kieradumpzz081927: I hope your request are open(or if ur free for requests), so i saw ur LU oneshots about the one that is called ' He becames a dad ' or smth. So, why not that he would introduce his kid(s) to the chain? That ones going to be interesting
Warning: Some mature jokes here and there. Nothing major, but gotta give the new dad a little hell, right? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Zelda Masterlist 🤍Fandom Masterlist
Six minutes and twenty seconds. That's how long you were able to relax before a series of knocks ruined your peace. Predictably, the sound is enough to echo throughout your small home followed by shrilling cries from the once silent cradle mere feet from your bedside.
You could almost cry yourself, although you're able to hold in your frustrations thanks to the smoothing pat your husband gives your head before sighing heavily himself and sitting up from bed. All the two of you wanted was one second of sleep - one second to collapse in bed next to each other and rest your eyes which feel as if they haven't shut in weeks, but apparently, that's too much to ask of this universe.
After giving a quick kiss to your cheek (and smirking at your annoyed grumbling), Twilight slides off the bed and makes his way to the cradle. There, he skillfully sweeps the wiggling newborn into his arms, cooing the distressed baby loving as they make their way to the front door. Seeing as this precious child has only existed for a mere week, it can't really be too much of a surprise that your home has become a hotspot for visitors. Between the village children excitedly wanting to see their newest member and their parents stopping by to offer meals, advice, and all-around support, it seems your door is almost always open these days (not you truly mind one bit), although as it would turn out, your current company doesn't fall into the excepted categories.
"What are you guys doing here?" Twilight suddenly doesn't feel so tired anymore once setting eyes upon the familiar group. They're all here - all eight of the heroes of courage; his treasured friends. This is, what, the third time his world has somehow crossed with theirs? This is really becoming a common pattern, isn't it, and for a split moment, Twilight feels a strike of fear at the thought of this being the start of yet another long, tiresome journey. Now!? He couldn't possibly leave now! What kind of partner and father would that make him? You need him here. He promised he'd be home for you, and for -
"- There's no danger, so don't fret. We've already investigated everything before coming here," Time, who must've read Twilight's worried expression, promptly explains things while failing to fall victim to the same jaw-dropped silence that strikes every other hero in the group as they all stare in astonishment at Twilight - or more accurately, the bothered baby huffing in his arms.
Instead of mocking surprise, Time’s eye casually drops to acknowledge the little one, his lips lifting into a pleasant smile, “...And this must be the famous pup I’ve heard so much about?”
“Wait, you knew?!” Sky gasps, everyone’s shocked attention snapping to the Old Man. He pays them no mind, too focused on his main priority of being the first to hold his great-great-something grandson who Twilight eagerly passes over.
“Ah!” The Rancher’s once worried expression changes like a switch, flashing away into an all-too excited grin. As has been common lately, having new company around immediately sparkles a rambling spiel fueled by his flooding avidity (which has impressively failed to die down even with the exhaustion of early fatherhood), “I was gonna send letters to y’all - it just slipped my mind. These past few days have been a bit chaotic while getting all adjusted. Yep, this one’s mine - lil’ Lupin. He’s officially four days old, born at 10:14 in the morning at a healthy 7.6 pounds -”
“- You’re gonna have to write all that down for any of us to remember it,” Wild rolls his eyes, although it’s in good spirit as he peeks at the tiny baby with a small smile. It doesn’t take the other boys long to notice that, like Time, their Champion doesn’t seem too surprised by this situation either, looking at the newborn with only a little bit more interest than he would a cute puppy.
“I take it you knew, too, then?” Four quizzes.
“He kept hinting towards it at first until I finally gave in and asked. I didn’t know when to expect them to be here, though.”
“It’s been nine months since then,” Twilight points out teasingly, causing Wild to huff and throw his hands up in the air defensively.
“How should I know how long they take to bake! Besides, judging by the way you practically sent me a whole novel about how excited you were, I figured it was only going to be a matter of weeks, maybe a few months by that point. How in Hylia’s name did you stand to be like that for nine?”
“I barely did! It was hell having to be that patience, anyone here could tell you…but Lupin’s here now and definitely worth the wait, I’d say,” Twilight sighs dramatically, looking lovingly at his son who by now has settled peacefully in the comfort of Time’s arms, no longer squirming and fussing. To be fair, his ancestor does have quite a bit of practice juggling twins at this point. One is nothing.
“He’s a beautiful baby, that’s for sure,” Time chuckles, at last taking his eyes away from his newest family member, “You did good, cub.”
Twilight preens at his mentor’s compliment, “Isn’t he? I’ve been around other babies before, but having one of my very own…It just hits different, ya’ know? …I actually wouldn’t mind a couple more -”
“- Don’t push your luck, mister,” On cue, you appear from around the corner, tiredly rubbing your eyes yet managing a smile to greet the rest of the Chain, "You weren't the one who had to go through nine months of heartburn followed by hours of torture.”
“- Eventually. I wouldn't mind a couple more ‘eventually’,” Twilight clarifies, quick to hook his arm around your waist and pull you against himself the second you’re close enough, “Besides, you handled it like a queen.”
You roll your eyes while resting your head against his shoulder, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere different.”
“That’s not what you said nine months ago~” Twilight smirks, pressing a kiss to your forehead only to earn himself a swat against the head.
Warrior originally elected to ignore the heavy knocking at his front door which threatened his peaceful morning's silence. Whatever this kingdom demands of him, they can simply add it to his tab. He's comfortable in bed where it's warm and you're snuggled in his arms, looking as beautiful as ever with a mess of bedhead and matching dark circles under your eyes. Best of all? Your son has achieved a new record of sleeping for three straight hours - THREE!
Now, Warrior is relatively used to less-than-ideal sleep schedules as a hero and captain, so having a newborn around hasn't quite hit him with the same force as it might a typical man, but that doesn't mean either of you are going to be ungrateful towards this new parenting milestone. No, you were planning on taking full advantage of it actually, wanting nothing more than to spend a lazy morning in bed until your little monster inevitably awakes...however, it seems the universe always has other plans.
The knocking only grows more frequent and loud, drawing a groan from your fiancé who finally relents. Pushing himself out of bed, he reluctantly answers the door without much effort put into hiding his annoyed expression - that is until it naturally snaps into one of mild shock and excitement at the sight of his visitors. Instead of it being someone from the Castle or military, he's pleasantly surprised to find his old traveling companions, the other heroes of courage.
"What are you all doing here?" He suddenly doesn't feel so tired anymore, in fact he’s stricken with more life and a bright smile while gazing over the group to count each familiar face. Yep, they're all here - all eight of them. It's been so long! Well, maybe not that long. It hasn't even been a full year yet since visiting Twilight's family together, but that's still plenty of time to miss old friends.
"Well, some of us have been talking lately and we thought, why not put some time aside from our busy lives to have a little get together - just us heroes, for old times’ sake!” Wild announces enthusiastically, practically inviting himself inside, not that Warrior stops him or any of the others for that matter.
“It could be a little tradition of ours. Once a year, type of thing,” Sky explains more professionally, although he isn’t any less excited than the Champion.
"A nice boy's trip to save you from the misses," Legend rephrases, elbowing the Captain’s side with a wink while passing by.
Warrior will admit: it is an intriguing proposal - getting away from the stresses of a hero to spend quality time with brothers who understand your woes. If only the Chain had visited a few months earlier, he’d be willing to entertain such a trip, but alas, he must give them a sympathetic smile instead, “As much fun as that sounds, I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you. At least not this time around.”
Immediately, the group’s uplifted smiles drop into disappointed frowns emphasized by a chorus of dejected groans.
"You knights and all your fancy work kissing the royal family’s ass," Legend huffs, and Warrior was just about to bite back on that comment with a jab of his own, however their conversation is suddenly interrupted.
A piercing cry catches the entire Chain off guard, many of the boys looking around wildly for the possible threat while others - namely Time and Twilight - are jolted by that familiar protective instinct they know all too well of from their own home lives.
“Actually, there’s another reason,” Warrior doesn’t hide his amusement towards everyone’s reactions nor does he hide his tired sigh once realizing his free trial of peace-and-quiet has ended.
He doesn’t even make it to the doorway before you appear, already rocking the baby gently in your arms. It takes some fussing from both of you to smooth his tears, calming him down just long enough for Warrior to turn back to his friends while proudly gesturing to the newborn in your arms, “Well, allow us to introduce our son, Einar.”
From there, it takes mere seconds for the Chain to snap out of it and instantly crowd you both, each fighting to get a good look at this ‘son’ in question.
“Since when did you guys have a kid?!” Hyrule awes.
“He’s so little…He can’t be that old, right?” Sky gasps.
“Only a few weeks, I reckon,” Time observes calmly from the back, tall enough to simply gaze over the sea of shoulders and heads.
“Hey, move out of the way! I can’t see! I wanna see, too!” Wind whines, shrugging to push his way through the barrier of bodies.
Twilight, steps back from the chaos to throw a playful smirk Warrior’s way, “Here I thought you were waiting for kids.”
“Us too,” You roll your eyes.
“Life happens,” Your partner merely shrugs, not even attempting to act ashamed of himself as he accepts responsibility of holding Einar while you excuse yourself to prepare a bottle once he starts whimpering again, “But we wouldn’t trade him for the world.”
“Geeze, you’re all getting old on us,” Legend mocks, eyeing Warrior, Time, and Twilight, “Not even three years ago, the Old Man was the only one of us in a committed relationship, now all three of you are suddenly tied down with children!”
“Don’t go sounding too jealous, Vet. I’m sure you’ll have your turn someday,” Warrior smirks, resulting in the other hero sticking out his tongue in disgust.
“As if. Me? A dad? You sure the world should be subjected to that?”
“Right. You might actually be doing everyone a favor by not reproducing.”
“Oh fuck off -”
“- Shh! Not in front of the baby!”
“I, for one, wouldn’t mind being a dad one day. It seems like a lot of fun,” Sky, coos, letting little Einar play with his finger, “If you ever need a babysitter, just let me know.”
"Careful. We might end up taking you up on that offer with how little we've been sleeping lately."
"Get accustomed to it, my friend, because it doesn't go away anytime soon," Time advises with a pat to the back, failing to hide the mirth filtering his voice as the new father sighs exasperatedly.
Legend isn’t usually the type to delight himself with hosting guests, nor is he much of an initiator when it comes to any sort of social interaction, so suffice to say, the Chain was rather thrown to have received unprompted invites to visit his world and home. Why the sudden open door? He gave no explanation, leaving all of the boys guessing, although Time has a few notable theories swirling in mind.
It all goes back to months ago when Legend had unexpectedly appeared at Lon Lon Ranch, claiming to have simply ‘been in the area’, yet Time knew better than to believe that. An experienced man like himself immediately took notice of his friend’s frazzled and irritable mood, such a state of dishevelment hinting towards one thing: problems at home - problems likely relating to you, to be exact, seeing as your boyfriend was swift to avoid any mention of your name when prompted.
Realizing that prying would be ineffective against someone so notorious for his emotional barriers, Time had allowed Legend to stay with him and his family without question. He, of course, kept a close eye on the young man, trying to deduce the situation the best he could from all those frustrated grumbles while working chores and pitiful sighs as the two sat together on the back porch after dinner.
It was then that Legend had taken the moment to ask Time a rather odd question that had admittedly hung in the Old Man’s head for days afterwards along with a curious conclusion as to the true reason behind his sudden visit, however nothing more was said that night beyond some wisely woven words soaked in hidden meaning.
By morning, the veteran hero was visibly relaxed when quietly expressing his plans to return home to you. Clearly, whatever troubles that once plagued his mind had been resolved following a day of reflection and a goodnight’s sleep, so Time felt confident sending Legend back on his way with a wish of luck and an offer to return whenever needed.
Perhaps that incident and this friendly invite are unrelated, after all, it’s been months between the two, although Time can’t help but wonder, the memory of Legend’s question being of particular interest as the Chain approaches their destination.
Some of the boys share their concerns along the way, a bit unsettled by the thought of Legend wanting to see them. Warrior even suggests the possibility of their friend having gone through a bad break-up, insisting there’s logic behind his guess since losing you would be the Vet’s lowest point, the extreme heartache being enough for him to abandon all stubbornness and reach out to the Chain for moral support. Arguments deemed his theory outlandish, however when Legend opens his front door to greet them, the boys begin to worry Warrior might indeed be a good prophet…
“It took you all long enough,” He huffs, his voice worn and scratchy which really sends home his obvious lack of sleep when paired with his unkempt appearance; heavy bags under his eyes and shaggy hair that stands up on all ends, “Come in, come in…”
‘Oh Hylia!’ The Chain thinks, sorrow for their friend already sinking into their bones as they illy prepare themselves for a story of true despair. Yes, Legend can be difficult and stubborn at times, and maybe you had your reasons, but surely he couldn’t have messed up bad enough to warrant you leaving him! Hasn’t the poor guy already been through enough?
“...Hey man, you doing alright?” Warrior was just about to rip the bandage off, his hand placed supportively upon his friend’s shoulder which earned him a sleepy look that falls sort of its intended glare, however before he can get any reply -
“- BABY!” Wind’s gasp pierces ears and makes several of the others leap in their skin. Indeed, if following the youngest hero’s excited point, it'll lead to where you stand in the doorway with an amused (that be it tired) chuckle…So, you didn’t leave after all? You’re still here, looking as rough as your partner which is probably excusable since in your arms is, in fact, a new baby.
“Hello everyone. I’m glad you could all make it.”
“...Oh thank Hylia you didn’t leave him!”
“What -?” Legend raises an eyebrow at Warrior’s dramatic sigh, yet he doesn’t get much of a chance to be offended. No one would notice anyway, their attention having swiftly abandoned their dear old friend in exchange for you and the baby you introduce.
“His name is Liron,” You note, earning a chorus of awes as the sweet little bundle scrunches his tiny face in displeasure towards the disruption to his peaceful sleep; already, he looks so much like his dad.
“So this is why you invited us over, huh?” Hyrule glances back over the sea of shoulders to send Legend an amused smile, “We thought something bad might’ve happened!”
“We wanted it to be a surprise…” The Vet sighs, unable to stay mad at the group’s energy, after all they have every right to be amazed. His son is pretty damn beautiful.
“Well, I’ll be darn. You gotta kid now,” Twilight smirks, even going as far as to elbow Legend’s side which, as always, packs more strength than probably intended, “And after all that hell you gave us!”
“Yeah, yeah, karma's a bitch. Laugh it up - HEY! Wash your hands first!” Legend’s focus is immediately diverted from rubbing his sore ribs to pointing an accusing finger at Wild who’s stopped mid-reach from taking the baby you pass towards him.
"I did!" The Champion gasps in offense.
“Not here you didn’t. Do it again! Sinks in the kitchen!”
Wild grumbles, forced to forfeit his turn in holding the baby. A glare is all it takes for Hyrule to follow him shamefully as well, allowing Time to be the first to actually hold the little one since his hands successfully pass cleanliness approval. Nevertheless, despite his spotless palms and seasoned experience as a father himself, the older hero must put up with Legend's paranoid hovering which isn't too unlike a hawk's, ready to snatch back his baby at a second's notice if deeming the situation to be too ‘unsafe’. Fortunately, Time's nice enough not to mention this behavior beyond a silent smirk.
“...What went through your head when you realized you were going to be a dad?”
Now Legend’s question - as random as it had seemed those many months ago - makes complete sense. The timid whisper that spoke it, the nervous avoidance of any eye contact, and that deep, thoughtful frown while listening to Time’s honest answer - all signs that pointed towards a worried father-to-be desperate for direction as he fought to keep his own insecurities and fears at bay.
At least Time can finally rest easy knowing their past conversation did some good for his friend. The young man may be fidgeting while impatiently watching his new child be passed around the group for each to see, your gently hand upon his shoulder only doing so much to relax his anxieties. You’re also both beyond tired, fitting to Time’s warning that parenthood is by far the most difficult journey one can ever take, yet there’s a switch of softness that overtakes Legend’s expression the second your son begins to mumble his disapproval, apparently fed up with all this attention that he’s receiving.
In an instant, Legend’s there, stealing back the small infant and clumsily doing his best to smooth such sharp cries. Yes, it’s difficult and nerve wracking to become a parent, especially for the first time, but to see all of your efforts throughout the years take form into such a beautiful and amazing being of pure innocence…that’s the most rewarding adventure yet, something Legend’s clearly already beginning to realize himself.
Sky's been practically bursting at the seams all day - well, all week, to be more accurate - but today is especially special since you’re both expecting a visit from some of his closest friends, the other heroes of courage who haven’t been by Skyloft in far too long.
Seeing as their reunion has been so long overdue, it should be no surprise that your dear husband has been bubbling with eager anticipation all morning (long before the sun had even risen thanks to your shared lack of a proper sleep schedule). While he does genuinely miss his old traveling companions, a majority of his restlessness comes from wanting to share some exciting news about a recent ‘development’ in your lives, one he’s had to hold himself back from spoiling in their routine letters (which are shared far more often than in-person visits).
Before you can even process the knock at your front door, Sky is already darting across the room to answer it, matching the delighted smile worn by all the other boys. He eagerly ushers them inside, his impatience finally spilling over by this point, something he can’t help. As already mentioned, he’s been waiting for this moment for quite a while - and has dreamed about for far longer than a simple ‘while’.
You can only chuckle at how quickly you’re swarmed by curious eyes, the other heroes not hesitating to stand and kneel around your chair just to catch a glimpse of the tiny bundle you cradle. To say it took them off guard would be the understatement of a century. It completely knocked them off their feet to realize what you're holding and what Sky’s excitement has been all about!
It’s a baby - a tiny newborn with puffy cheeks and itty-bitty hands balled into fists! She doesn’t even look real, or perhaps this whole situation itself just doesn’t feel real. In the Chain’s defense, it’s been years since Sky and you announced your intentions of starting a family of your own. Unfortunately, your struggles in achieving this goal became no secret, and your friends had begun to slowly lose hope with you. They truly worried the day might never come which explains their complete awe now.
“Her name’s Azure,” You tell them, wiping away the tears that bubble in the corners of your eyes. Curse these hormones! Your daughter is already a few days old yet you still cry each time you see another’s reaction to her. Can you be blamed? It only solidifies the reality that this is, in fact, your baby. Sky and you are officially parents!
“Congratulations, man!” Warrior throws an arm over your husband’s shoulder and pulls him close into a side hug, “You’ve earned it!”
Sky shares his laughter with a shake of his head, his eyes immediately drifting to yours, “My wife deserves most of the credit. She’s the one who endured all those long and tiresome months to get little Azure here.”
“And you took amazing care of us both throughout every second,” You point out just as quickly with a gentle smile, “I couldn’t have asked for a better partner to go through this with.”
“Now we’ll have to start planning some playdates with all our kids. Let ‘em tire each other out,” Twilight points out, giving Sky’s other side a nudge with his elbow.
“Maybe being around Azure will get Hope to stop asking for a sibling for a while,” Hyrule sighs exhaustively.
“Yeah, no, that has the exact opposite effect. Trust me,” Legend huffs with crossed arms.
Wind’s hand pops out from somewhere in the back of the crowd, only seen as he eagerly tries to jump up and down to gain attention, “Oh-Oh, Tetra and I can babysit if you ever need it!”
“I didn’t think she even liked kids?”
“She ‘likes’ kids, she just doesn’t like being ‘around’ them,” Wind rolls his eyes at Legend’s comment as if the reason isn’t obvious, “But she said she’s been wanting to get better with them to practice the whole ‘being a nice princess’ thing -”
“- All of that can come later,” Time swiftly interrupts the wandering conversation, “I’m sure as new parents, these two would appreciate rest above all else for now. There’ll be plenty of time for playdates later down the line.”
“We’ll definitely set some up once Azure is old enough,” Sky chuckles in agreement before kneeling by your side to help fix the blanket around your sleeping daughter. Although there’s quite a bit of time until then, the idea of finally being able to participate in such arrangements is exciting to you both. No more standing on the sidelines feeling out of place with your hearts’ yearning. You’ll finally be able to share the joy all of your friends feel.
“You both look like happy parents. Congratulations,” You preen at Time’s compliment, looking to each other through tears in your eyes which then drop to Azure who snuggles closer to you, blissfully unaware of the effect she already has on your hearts as she merely enjoys the comfort of your loving embrace. Your most special treasure, indeed…
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