#<- is 3rd year engineering

[moonmitski]

being sober and hanging out in ur room lowkey rules actually. scientists need to get on this

[cherryberrystars]

Getting a bachelors in engineering & business then a masters/phd in god knows what so I can soften the blow of me being a lesbian to my parents (I honestly doubt they care)

[brunorosenbaum11]

Unreal Game Mechanic - 3rd Year Project

My first time using Unreal Engine!

This time we needed to make a game mechanic. For this project, I decided to design a game mechanic where upon clicking and selecting the stakes placed in the map, they'd levitate, rotate and be launched as projectiles towards the direction the player points to with the mouse.

The mechanic also includes a small health system where turret-like enemies fire bullets at the player, and the player can, in turn, kill them by launching the stakes at them.

Using Unreal proved to be more complicated than the previous projects, as it was the first time I was using a proper game engine. Luckily, there's plenty documentation and tutorials online.

For the entire breakdown of the project and its code, you can check it out here!

[raikkonens]

ok so when are we gonna talk about cat hybrid oscar

[abbotjack]

America's Sweetheart

summary : Jack Abbot shows up for the Fourth of July, three years since you last saw him. You’re 23 now—older, sharper, and very much not the girl he remembers. The tension builds fast: porch stares, jealous glances, a game of chicken no one wants to win. He nearly breaks. You make sure he does.

word count : 11,152

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI explicit sexual content, age gap (23/f, 40s/m), dominant/submissive power dynamics, jealousy, mutual provocation, grief, war trauma, PTSD references, mention of past death of a spouse, mention of a past death of a parent (mother), emotionally charged arguments, manipulation, dad's best friend trope, use of another character for jealousy, emotional repression, messy feelings, public setting tension, intense eye contact as foreplay, one bed (brief), reader is not innocent, reader is the problem (affectionate), Jack is also the problem (derogatory), slow burn with porn-level payoff ?

July 3rd, 4:42 PM – Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania Outside of Pittsburgh. It’s humid. The cicadas are screaming like the past never left.

You hear the truck long before you see it, old engine, cracked muffler, the kind of sound that makes the birds stop screaming. The tires bite gravel. The engine cuts out. Then nothing. You’re on the porch already, pretending to read. One leg slung over the other, a cold glass sweating in your palm. You don't look up. Not right away. Not until the driver’s side door groans open.

He came.

For the first time in almost three years, Jack Abbot is back in Westmoreland County. Back in your father’s house. Back into orbit, like a planet pulled from whatever distant axis he’d exiled himself to. He steps out of the Silverado like someone who’s not sure the ground wants him back.

The engine ticks behind him, overheated, sun-fatigued, too old for this road. It’s the same truck he’s had for over a decade, still bearing the dent in the rear bumper from when someone backed into him in a Walmart parking lot and he refused to get it fixed because “it’s cosmetic.” He gets out slow, jeans loose at the knees, white t-shirt clinging at the chest. The cuff of his right pant leg settles just right over the boot that hides the prosthetic. Below the knee, right side, carbon composite. You’d never notice. Unless you already understood what to look for.

But you do. You know more than he thinks you do.

Jack Abbot was a combat medic. Afghanistan. Did three tours before the last one took his leg and the rest of what he hadn’t already buried. The records say “non-life-threatening injury.” The look in his eyes says otherwise. He doesn't talk about the explosion. He doesn’t talk about the two men he tried to save and couldn’t, or the third whose name he still says under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening. What’s worse, though, what he never talks about, is what happened at home while he was gone.

His wife.

She worked nights at PTMC, was the kind of nurse who didn’t speak unless it mattered, who remembered birthdays and blood types in the same breath. She was calm in the way trauma nurses have to be. Capable of turning a scream into a code and a code into a rhythm. Dana liked her. Which is to say: Dana gave her hell, trusted her anyway, and never asked twice when she needed coverage. Her handwriting was a mess. Half-print, half-cursive, always rushing somewhere. He loved that about her. Said it looked like urgency in motion. She burned fall-scented candles deep into summer; warm vanilla, clove, too much cinnamon. She knew he didn’t like the smell, but she lit them anyway, and he never said a word. He hated the scent, but he loved her more. She hated small talk. Hated pity. Hated the way cafeteria microwaves never got anything hot all the way through. But she loved warm socks, old mugs, and the last ten minutes of any shift when the adrenaline gave out and everyone finally got quiet.

They lived in Robinson Township, in a house with red kitchen walls and a porch that creaked when the wind hit just right. A house Jack had keys to before he ever figured out what it meant to stay. She gave him six days in the summer of 2005. He gave her five and a letter he didn’t plan to leave behind. She never brought it up. Not once. But when he came back months later, washed out and bone-tired and finally willing to look her in the eye, she opened the door and said the only thing she ever asked of him again:

"You never leave like that ever again."

He didn’t.

They got married quietly. No cake, no dress, no music, no audience. Just a courthouse, two pens that barely worked, a clerk who didn’t look up, and a shared last name that didn’t feel like a question. She kept wearing his t-shirts to bed, always the softest ones, stretched at the collar and warm from the dryer. They argued about the thermostat like it meant something, like the temperature could settle the weight between them. And some mornings, before either of them spoke, she’d make toast and leave a note by the coffee: Buy milk. Or Don’t forget your charger. Or Come home meaner, I dare you. He keeps that one. Folded. Soft at the edges. Glove compartment. Always.

She died in winter. A back road, black ice, a semi she never saw coming. He was overseas. In another country. Another war. Patching someone else together while the woman who taught him how to stay bled out on asphalt an ocean away. By the time he landed back in Pittsburgh, the house was exactly as they left it. Her badge still clipped to the fridge. Her scrubs folded on the dryer. A bottle of half-used lemon cleaner under the sink, cap loose like she’d meant to come back for it. In the bedroom, her notebook was still open on the nightstand. He stood in the doorway for less than an hour. Didn’t touch the lights. Didn’t sit on the bed. Didn’t open the drawer where she kept the post-its.

He kept the house. Paid the bills. Replaced the water filter when the light came on. But he never moved back in. Instead, he rented a condo closer to the hospital. Said it was temporary. Said the commute was easier. But he knew what he was doing. Even back then. Even with the war still clinging to him. He was going to go civilian. Go legit. Take everything he learned patching people together in tents and turn it into something permanent. Residency. Scrubs. Real name on a badge.

He signed the lease five months before the blast took his leg.

The house in Robinson Township stayed exactly where it was. Waiting. Still full of her. He tried therapy twice, then quit when the second one asked how often he thought about forgiving himself.

Your father didn’t know any of that when they met. They weren’t in the same unit. Didn’t know each other overseas. They met at a VA support group in the basement of a Unitarian church—two men sitting too far apart on folding chairs, half-listening to someone read aloud from a worksheet titled Finding Purpose After Loss. Jack never spoke during the sessions, but he always stayed late. Your dad did too.

They didn’t bond over war.

They bonded over what came after.

Your mom was diagnosed with cancer just before your sophomore year of high school. Pancreatic. She was gone in six months. After that, your dad started showing up to group every Tuesday. Said it made the evenings easier. Said there was something about the way Jack didn’t talk that made everything quieter in his own head.

They’d sit on the curb after meetings, drinking from bottles in paper bags like they were back in high school. Talked about absolutely nothing. Water pressure. Dog food brands. VA red tape. They didn’t call each other friends. That would’ve been too sentimental. Too soft. But when your dad says buddy, Jack shows up. And when Jack slurs brother at the end of a bottle, your dad never corrects him. Neither of them remarried. Your dad said no one could handle how he grieved. Jack said no one should have to. And now he’s walking up the porch steps, sun in his eyes, curls matted under a hand he drags across his face like he's hoping to wipe it all away.

“Jesus,” your dad says, stepping out behind you. “I’ll be damned.”

“You already are,” Jack mutters, squinting. “I just came to make sure the rumors were true. You still live like this?”

“Worse. We put the flag up.”

Jack glances at the porch post—flag pole angled just right, stars flapping lazy in the July air. “I hate that thing.”

“Then I knew you’d show.”

You finally speak. “Well, look what the wind blew in.”

Jack’s eyes land on you for the first time. And it’s not a casual glance. It's a diagnosis. You’re not a shy undergrad in last year’s band tee. You’re twenty-three, two semesters deep in a policy program that’s made you sharper than steel. You know how to make yourself look harmless, and how to make someone regret believing it. You didn’t even know if he’d actually show. Your dad said he was “trying to convince him”—had been for weeks—but he was always like that: half-ghost, half-promise. You're wearing a ribbed tank top, faded from too many washes, braless but not on purpose, just because it was hot. Loose drawstring shorts, hemmed just above mid-thigh. Not tiny. Not suggestive. Just comfortable. Skin sticky. You hadn’t dressed for him. But now that he’s standing there in jeans and a white t-shirt, eyes flicking over you like he’s clocking every inch, it kind of feels like you did. And it hits you all at once: This isn’t the last time you’ll think about your outfit around him.

Jack doesn't blink. “Didn’t know you were home,” he says.

“I’m not,” you reply. “Just visiting. Like you.”

He exhales through his nose. “Right.”

Your dad claps him on the back. “C’mon in. AC’s holding on by a thread, but there’s beer in the fridge and the couch hasn’t gotten any softer. Jack huffs something close to a laugh.

Later, 6:02 PM The fan spins overhead like it’s trying to be helpful. It isn’t.

You’re barefoot on the kitchen tile, wooden spoon in one hand, a cast iron pan hissing softly in front of you. Butter, garlic, crushed red pepper, aromatics rising into thick July air. The A/C is technically on, but it’s been losing the battle since noon. The house is warm in the way childhood homes always are. Memory trapped in drywall, grief in the vents. From the living room, you hear the crackle of a baseball game through uneven speakers. Your dad yells something at the screen like the Pirates can hear him. You don’t follow baseball. You know the rules, just not the religion. They’re not even winning. They never are. But that doesn’t stop him from narrating every pitch like it’s the playoffs. You’re slicing tomatoes when the work phone rings. Sharp tone. Your dad picks it up with a muttered curse.

"Yeah, I'm here. Go ahead."

The hallway swallows his voice a moment later. You glance at the clock. Jack hasn’t said much since he got here. He didn’t need to. He’s already said enough by showing up. Three years of hearing about him. Three years of your dad saying “Jack this” and “Jack that.” Three years of seeing the ghost of him in backyard chairs, photos tucked into drawers, stories told at half-volume. And now he’s sitting on your couch in a white t-shirt and jeans like nothing happened. You stir the pan and flip the burner down. He enters the kitchen a second later. You can feel his presence when he enters. The air shifts. Denser. Sharper. A presence like gravity pressed into the edges of your shoulder blades.

Jack’s standing in the doorway with a beer in his hand and the kind of posture that looks casual but isn’t. Like his body still runs on threat assessment. His white t-shirt’s damp in the places that count. Under the arms, at the small of his back, behind the neck, clinging just enough to make you wonder how long he sat in the truck earlier before coming inside. It’s soft with age, stretched a little at the collar, like most things in his life: functional, worn, and not replaced unless absolutely necessary. He looks at you. Not up and down. Not obvious. Just long enough to take in bare legs, sticky collarbones, and the way your top clings where it shouldn’t.

“Need help?” he asks, voice low, lazy. Like he already knows the answer. You don’t turn around right away. Just lift the spoon, slow and deliberate, as steam curls up from the pot.

“I’m not helpless, Jack.”

He steps inside anyway. Leans his shoulder against the doorframe. “Didn’t say you were.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, just enough to catch the way his gaze drops then snaps back up like nothing happened. “I’m just saying,” you continue, too light, too easy, “if you’re offering out of some outdated sense of chivalry, don’t. I can handle a little heat.” You’re not talking about the stove. You both know it.

Jack smirks, slow and dry. “That why it’s ninety degrees in here?”

You hum. “It’s the simmering tension.”

He takes a sip of his beer, then nods toward the pan. “Or maybe it’s the five cloves of garlic you just dumped in there.”

“That’s called flavor,” you say, turning back to the stove. “You might’ve heard of it.”

There’s a beat of silence behind you. Then, quietly: “You always were a little mouthy.”

You smile to yourself. Stir once. Let the moment breathe. Jack steps farther in. Sets his bottle down. You hear the sound it makes, a dull thunk against the laminate.

“I’ll chop.” He doesn’t wait for permission. Just moves toward the cutting board you left on the counter and grabs a bell pepper from the bag. His hand brushes yours when he picks up the knife. Not enough to register as a mistake. Just enough to stay with you.

You glance over at him. The side profile. His jaw. The curve of his back. “How’s the condo?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Quiet.”

“Still renting?”

“Still not planning on staying.”

You nod. “That’s what I figured.”

He keeps chopping. Slow. Even. Efficient like everything he does. The silence stretches out between you again. You move to the sink to drain the pasta. He stays at the stove, now stirring the tomatoes like he’s done it a hundred times. Like he belongs there. And that’s the problem.

He used to.

He used to come by on Sundays. Used to wear his boots inside. Used to carry grocery bags in one arm and a six-pack in the other. You were still in high school. Still thinking you understood grown men just because you’d read Joan Didion once.

"I didn’t think you’d be here," he says, then adds, "figured you’d be too busy partying in D.C. with your grad school friends, running policy circles around senators or something."

You dry your hands on the dish towel, careful not to meet his eyes. “I didn’t know you’d come.”

“Your dad didn’t mention it?”

“He did.” You fold the towel in half. “But your name’s been his excuse for things before.”

Jack nods once. Slow. Not defensive. Just resigned. You lean on the counter beside him. His shoulder is 15 centimeters from yours. You could feel his breath if he sighed.

“You’ve changed.”

“So have you.”

He doesn’t answer. He just tilts the bottle to his lips and drinks. And for a second, all you can hear in the kitchen is the hiss of garlic and oil behind you—and the way your name almost lingers in the air like something he won’t say.

July 4th, 12:32 AM The porch creaks. The cicadas are quiet. And nothing good happens at this hour—except everything almost does.

You push the screen door open with your hip. It sighs shut behind you like it knows better. Jack doesn’t look up. He’s on the bottom step, forearms braced on his knees, head tilted just slightly. His t-shirt clings to his back, soaked through in patches. His beer—half-warm, untouched—rests beside his boot.

You walk to him barefoot. Sit two steps up. You don’t speak.

Not yet.

The air is thick. Damp. It smells like fireworks and asphalt and the past. Your thighs stick to the wood, your tank top to your spine. The shorts—America’s Sweetheart, marine blue cotton, cut high and soft from too many washes—cling in the wrong places and the right ones. You’d thrown them on before bed without thinking, worn them a hundred times without consequence. But now, out here, with him sitting just below you and not looking, they feel intentional. You didn’t change before coming outside. And you don't plan to.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask.

“No.”

“Still wired for hospital hours?”

Jack’s voice is low. “Still wired for war.”

You say nothing. He says less. So you try again. “My dad still thinks you’re half-avoiding the Fourth.”

“I’m not avoiding it,” Jack mutters, voice flat, like gravel soaked in heat.

You raise a brow. “Then what are you doing out here at midnight?”

He shrugs, slow, one shoulder tighter than the other. “Thinking.”

“About?”

His fingers flex slightly around the neck of the bottle. “Things I shouldn’t be thinking.”

You lean back on your palms, stretch your legs until your calf brushes his shoulder. Not by accident. “I’m not trying to make it worse,” you say. He glances at you. A quick flick of heat. Then gone.

“I know what I’m doing,” you add.

Jack shifts. Just barely. “You’re your father’s daughter,” he says. It’s not kind. It’s not cruel. It just is.

You nod. “So?”

“So you should be asleep.”

“You should be honest.”

That lands. He turns his whole body toward you now. His eyes drag down your legs. Your throat. Linger at your mouth.

“I notice everything you do,” he says. “Every fucking thing.”

You don’t breathe.

Jack’s voice drops lower, rough at the edges. “You changed into those shorts like it wasn’t on purpose. Like you didn’t know exactly what they say across the back, or how high they ride up when you lean over.”

“I don’t wear them for your attention.”

He stares. “But you don’t mind when you get it.”

Your pulse kicks. You try to swallow. It’s hard. You whisper, “Do you want me to stop?”

Jack’s hands curl into fists on his knees. “That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

“The problem,” he says, “is that if I get up and touch you, if I put my mouth on you, I’m not going to do it soft. I’m not going to be sweet. I’m going to take.”

Your legs clench. He exhales like it hurts to hold it in. “I’m going to get your knees over my shoulders right here on this porch,” he says, voice low and frayed, like the thought of it already has his hands shaking, “and I’m going to forget every reason why I shouldn’t.”

It’s not a line. It’s not even a warning. It’s a fact. Strong certainty in his voice, like it’s dragging heat up from somewhere deep in his gut and trying to tamp it down before it explodes. You blink once but your body reacts before your brain can catch up. Your stomach sinks. Your thighs press together. The ache hits all at once, sharp and physical and throbbing, like your skin understood the promise before your mind even realized what was happening. Jack doesn’t move. His face is barely lit by the porch light bleeding through the screen door, but you can see the tension in every line of him, the locked jaw, the flared nostrils, the way his hands flex uselessly at his sides like he wants to touch you but knows what’ll happen if he does. He looks at you, and for the first time since he walked back into your life, he doesn’t look guarded. He looks like a man seconds from giving in.

“You understand?” he asks, quiet but not soft. There’s nothing soft about it,nothing gentle in the way his voice scrapes across your skin like it knows exactly where to land.

You nod. Just once. The smallest movement. But it feels massive.

“I do,” you say.

And it comes out lower than you meant it to. Breathless, a little hoarse. Like your body heard the word shoulders and hasn’t stopped pulsing since. Like your legs are already curling from the tension, the pressure, the restraint. From everything that hasn’t happened yet and still feels like it did. Jack stays crouched for a second longer. Then, slowly, like he’s not sure if standing will make it worse, he rises. He steps up. One stair. Then another. Just enough to bring himself level with you where you’re perched, legs bare and half-draped across the wood. He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t speak. He just looks. And that’s worse.

Now he’s standing between your knees, close enough to tower without looming, his chest rising sharp beneath the thin stretch of his shirt. You can smell him, clean sweat, beer, something sunworn and worn out. His eyes track every inch of your face, down your neck, and settle on your legs. You don’t pull away. You let him look. You want him to.

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you. But you can feel the effort it’s taking not to. His hands hang at his sides like they’re waiting for orders. Like they remember what they used to do when they were allowed to want something and take it. The porch groans faintly beneath both of you, but neither of you shifts. He’s not touching you.

But it feels like he is.

The heat from his body pours over your skin like a warning. Your thighs are warm, throbbing. You feel it in your chest, in your stomach, in the slick place between your legs that’s already aching from the promise he made but hasn’t kept. Still, he doesn’t lean in. And that restraint, that quiet, Jack Abbot-brand control, makes it feel dirtier than if he had. Like he already has you. Like he’s already ruined you. And maybe he has. You shift slightly, tilting your hips just enough to open your knees. Bare. Flushed. Warm. It isn't a performance. It's instinct. A reaction. An offering without asking. Not coy. Not cruel. Just there. Just true. And Jack sees it. His eyes flash down, and something in him goes still in that way that isn't calm, it’s deadly. Like a trigger pulled halfway.

You tilt your chin up. “If you’re going to walk away, do it now.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t blink. Then, slowly, like it costs him, he looks away. His mouth hardens. His shoulders shift back like he's bracing for impact, like walking away is harder than staying. And then he moves. Not fast. Not abrupt. But deliberate. With the finality of someone pulling themselves out of a burning building and leaving the match behind. He takes a single step toward the door. Then stops. His voice, when it comes, is rough. Quiet. Wrecked.

“Go to bed.”

You don’t move. He turns slightly, just enough to look at you over his shoulder. His mouth is parted like he wants to say more, but the words get stuck somewhere in his throat.

You swallow. “Jack—”

He cuts you off, voice sharper this time. Controlled only by effort. “Go to bed,” he repeats, eyes locked on yours now. “Because if I say one more word, I’m not going to walk away. And you’re going to let me.”

You don’t speak. There’s nothing left to say. He walks inside. The screen door hisses closed behind him, and the silence left in his absence isn’t silence at all. It’s loaded. It’s loud. You sit there for a long time. Legs still parted. Breath shallow. Mouth dry. The porch beneath you buzzes with the overwhelming sense of heat. You can feel the heaviness of where he almost touched you, like it left a bruise. And nothing happened. But your thighs are still warm. Your heart still racing. And your body, wrecked by everything he didn’t do, doesn’t know the difference.

July 4th — 2:17 PM The backyard is full of smoke, sweat, cheap beer, and men who talk like the war never ended.

The grill’s already flaring by the time you come outside. The back porch is crowded, the kind of crowded that smells like beer and bar smoke and the same five stories told on rotation. The grass is patchy. Burnt in the spots where the sun lingers longest, soft only where the sprinkler’s overshot its aim. A folding table buckles slightly in the middle under the weight of plastic tubs full of potato salad and grocery store buns.

The playlist’s stuck somewhere between Springsteen and Seger, blaring from a speaker your dad duct-taped to the porch rail. You can feel the heat. It’s oppressive. Sticky in that Pennsylvania way. It presses into your spine, rolls down your neck, clings to the bend of your elbows and the backs of your knees. Your tank top’s wet at the lower back. Your shorts ride up every time you shift. You stopped trying to fix them.

Your dad’s in rare form, commanding the grill like it’s a combat zone, beer in one hand, metal tongs in the other. He’s holding court with three of his oldest friends: Torres, Mancini, and Calhoun. They’re all wearing sunglasses, cargo shorts, and opinions. Men who talk like everything after deployment was just filler. Their laughter is too loud, their stories too sharp at the edges. It’s not nostalgia. It’s muscle memory.

Jack is there too.

He’s not talking much. He never does. But his presence is heavier than theirs. Quieter. He’s leaned up against the fence post, beer held loose in one hand, watching your dad talk like he already knows the punchlines.

He’s wearing an old Harley-Davidson t-shirt, sun-bleached and threadbare, the black cotton gone soft with age, the orange logo more memory than print. There are two holes near the hem and another at the shoulder seam, like it’s survived more summers than it should have. His camo cargo shorts hang low on his hips, loose, worn-in, one pocket fraying at the edge. The belt’s gone, replaced by the way his body holds itself together. His prosthetic is visible now—just under the cut of the fabric, dark carbon where skin should be. He doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t draw attention to it either. He shifts his weight like he’s done this a thousand times in a thousand places, quietly, precisely, like the act of standing is a skill most people don’t earn. Like a man trained to not draw attention. He’s good at it.

Except you’re watching. And you’re done being quiet about it. You haven’t said more than six words to him since last night. Not since the porch. Not since he stood between your knees and said things no one should say in the dark and then walked away like he didn’t mean any of them.

He’s been acting like it never happened. Like you imagined it. Like he didn’t almost fall apart in front of you. So fine. If he’s going to pretend, you’ll make him watch.

Matt Warner is by the back gate, talking to someone with easy confidence. He’s filled out since high school—tanned, relaxed, more settled in his skin. His shirt fits well, sleeves stretched slightly over his arms, and his hair’s cut short, like he finally found a version of himself that didn’t have to try so hard.

You walk toward him, glass in hand, hips loose, smile casual. He sees you and lights up. “Hey,” he says, like you’re a surprise. “Wow. You look... different.”

“You still have that rusted Civic?”

He laughs, sheepish. “God, yeah. Still barely runs. You remember that?”

“I remember a lot of things.”

His hand brushes your arm as you shift your weight, deliberate and slow. You feel the way he swallows hard, like it costs him. Behind you, the grill hisses. Your dad’s shouting about how Torres once set a tent on fire trying to light a cigar. More laughter. Another beer pops open. Jack hasn’t moved. But you can feel his gaze like a brand.

You lean in. Your fingers are on Matt’s forearm now, light but lingering. Matt chuckles. “It’s weird being back, right?”

You nod. “Everything’s the same. That’s the weird part.”

Across the yard, Jack shifts. You don’t turn. Not yet. Matt says something about D.C., about how you’re probably too smart for this town. You smile, let him believe it, even as your stomach coils tighter. The sun’s high. You’re sweating. You haven’t tasted your drink in ten minutes. Then you hear it. Jack’s voice. Quiet. Dry.

“Haven’t seen that face in a while.” You turn, slowly. Jack’s standing four feet away, jaw tight, arms folded across his chest. His mouth is a flat line.

You smile. “Matt Warner. From high school.”

Jack nods once, his eyes not moving away from yours. “You two catching up?” he asks.

Matt shrugs. “We were just talking about—uh—”

“You were just touching her arm,” Jack says.

Matt laughs, awkward. “Yeah, well—I mean, I was gonna get a drink—”

“Go ahead,” Jack says. “Plenty left.”

Matt glances at you. You nod. He leaves. Jack steps forward. You meet him where he stands. He looks you over once, slow, methodical, like you’re a problem he’s not ready to solve. His eyes settle at the edge of your tank top, then drift to your mouth, then hold.

“You having fun?” he asks.

“I was,” you say.

Jack nods. “Right.”

You take a slow breath. “You’re the one who walked away.”

“I’m not the one dragging civilians into the middle of it.”

You smile, humorless. “You’re pissed.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not that either,” he says. “I just don’t like watching you beg for scraps.”

You step closer. “He touched my arm,” you say. “You touched my throat with your voice last night and then left.”

Jack looks like he’s about to say something. Then doesn’t. You tilt your head. “So what’s worse?”

He shifts. His jaw clenches. “You don’t want to do this here.”

You shrug. “Then make me go somewhere else.”

Jack leans in, so close you feel the sweat at his temple. “I’m not going to fuck you on your dad’s lawn,” he whispers, voice dark.

“Then you’re not going to fuck me at all,” you say.

You hear your dad’s voice cut through the backyard noise. “Jack, you gonna flip these or let Torres murder them again?”

Laughter rises near the grill. Torres shouts something back about medium-rare being a suggestion, not a promise. But Jack doesn’t turn. He’s still staring at you.

The space between you feels charged, stretched tight like wire pulled too far. His eyes drag over your face, down the slope of your neck, the sweat-slicked line of your collarbone. He looks like a man counting to ten, and barely making it to five. He doesn’t give you the chance to say something smart or reckless or too much like a dare. He just steps back. The motion is precise, like everything he does, and when he turns, it’s with that same heavy finality you’ve seen a dozen times now. Like he’s trying to save you from something. Or himself.

He walks toward the grill. Doesn’t look back. Your dad claps him on the back, already handing him the tongs. You don’t move. You feel scorched. Lit up. And all you can think is how much you want to know what it would take to make him snap. To make him stop walking away. To see what happens when a man like Jack Abbot finally lets go.

The sun’s lower now—dragging its heels, not quite gone but giving in. Light spills sideways through the trees like someone tipped a bottle too fast, gold pooling in uneven streaks across the bark and brush. Heat hangs stubborn, lacquered over your skin, clinging to the glass in your hand, seeping into the soft arches of your bare feet against the sun-warped porch boards.

“You’re playing,” your dad says, voice rough with beer and the kind of authority that leaves no room for negotiation. He slaps the edge of the pickleball paddle against his thigh like he’s warming up for battle. “Jack’s on Torres’s team. You’re with me and—”

He doesn’t even finish her name. Just jerks his chin in the direction of the lawn like it’s obvious.

“Her.”

She’s parked in a Tommy Bahama chair near the edge of the shade, legs crossed tight at the ankle, nails freshly done and glinting against her Yeti tumbler, expression unreadable behind oversized sunglasses that reflect the yard like a fish-eye lens. She looks like someone doing penance just for showing up. Like this backyard, this game, this version of your father is all one big favor.

Your molars grind. And still, you smile. Polite. Performed. Perfectly practiced. “Great,” you say, voice bright as the aluminum in her cup. You haven’t even picked up a paddle yet, and already the sweat’s slipping down your spine.

The court’s a joke. Chalked out in lazy, uneven lines on the cracked driveway, already blurring under the heat. One of the nets is barely upright, duct tape wrapped like a tourniquet around one post, the other leg jammed into a rusted folding chair like that makes it regulation. It looks like it should be condemned. It’s the kind of setup that screams middle-aged delusion and Fourth of July ego, and your dad eats it up like oxygen. Loud, improvised, vaguely unsafe—bragging rights baked into every serve, every sarcastic out call. This isn’t about exercise. This is about legacy.

Jack stands just outside the chaos, at the far edge of the driveway beneath the curl of shade that barely reaches the chalk line. Paddle in his right hand, water bottle in the left. He hasn’t moved much. Hasn’t spoken since the grill. The Harley-Davidson shirt he wore like armor earlier is dark now, clinging to him in salt-streaked patches, across his chest, along the spine, under the arms. The sleeves are tight around his biceps, sweat soaking through like the heat’s finally broken past whatever control he thought he still had.

And when you reach back to tie your hair, fingers threading through the heat and sweat at the crevice of your neck, then bend to fix your sock, spine curving, breath catching beneath your ribs like it’s trying to disappear, the air shifts.

Because he’s watching you.

Not sidelong. Not distracted. Not with the casual glance of someone who stumbled onto something they weren’t meant to see. He’s locked in. Eyes following every movement, every jerk of your wrist, every shift of your weight like it’s already imprinted on him. Like your body is a memory he’s still trying to hold in his hands. And he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even try to pretend. When you straighten up, pass him without a glance, he lets it sit a beat before saying, low and rough:

“That little show for me?”

You don’t pause. Don’t flinch. “You wish,” you toss back, all bite and heat.

He smirks. The kind that could unravel a lesser girl. The kind that dares you to do it again. Jack huffs a laugh. And the game starts. Jack plays like he’s punishing something. Maybe the driveway. Maybe himself. His grip is tight, elbows locked, that prosthetic planting rhythmically with every pivot. He barely talks. Just nods, gestures, focuses. But every time he scores, every time you miss, he glances. Never full-on. Never for long. Just enough to gut you.

You return the favor. You lean into your shots. You make noise when you stretch. You throw your head back when you laugh at your dad’s girlfriend’s wild miss, even though you’re silently begging the sun to go down so you can stop feeling this exposed. Matt Warner watches from the lawn chair with a beer in hand and a boyish, slightly dazed expression like he knows something’s going on but can’t name it. You let him stare.

Let Jack notice.

Let the sweat on your chest glisten in the low sun and the edge of your tank slip just far enough that it could be an accident or it could be strategy. Jack misses a return. Your dad crows. “You’re off your game, Abbot.”

Jack wipes sweat off his brow. Doesn’t answer. Just resets. Eyes on you like you’re the real problem. And then, of course, she makes a comment. “Maybe Jack’s just distracted,” your dad’s girlfriend chirps, tossing the ball back with a practiced snap of her wrist. “Could be the view.”

She doesn’t even look at you when she says it—just smiles into the sun like she’s so above it all she can afford to be cruel for sport. The ball arcs lazily, lands short. You freeze mid-step. The paddle goes still in your hand, plastic grip tacky with sweat. Jack doesn’t blink. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t give her the satisfaction of reaction. He leans in slightly, gaze locked on yours from across the improvised court. His voice is low, not quite a whisper, barely shapes the words.

“Ignore her.”

But it’s too late. You’re already burning. Already lit up from the inside, chest hollowed out by heat and humiliation and something sharper that you don’t want to name. Your jaw sets. Your skin prickles. You take the next serve like you’re trying to drive the paddle straight through the driveway. It should roll off you. You’ve been through worse. Said worse. But still, there’s something about being baited like that. About being the girl standing on the cracked concrete while your dad’s new girlfriend smirks and implies you’re just another body in Jack Abbot’s peripheral. Like you don’t know him. Like you don’t remember how he used to look at you when no one else was watching. Like you don’t still taste the way he said your name the last time you let him close enough to say it.

You feel ridiculous. You feel seventeen. And it only gets worse. The round ends. Water bottles are uncapped, points argued, your dad’s already trying to claim he was fouled. You retreat toward the edge of the driveway, blinking against the sun, but your eyes catch him—Jack. Off to the side, shirt soaked clean through. His hair’s damp, curls starting to loosen around his ears, and there’s sweat beading down the side of his throat like it belongs in a memory you don’t have the strength to relive.

He’s talking to her. Not your dad’s girlfriend. Worse. One of the neighbors—older, tan, the kind of woman who hosts wine nights with RSVP cards and knows the name of every facialist within a forty-mile radius. Her bleach-blonde hair is pulled back in a perfect ponytail, lip gloss unbothered by the heat, laugh sharp and practiced. You know her type. You’ve seen her kind fold men in half without even raising her voice. She’s smiling too much. Saying his name like it’s a secret. Leaning in like the joke only works if she touches his chest when she tells it.

And he doesn’t stop her. He lets her laugh. Lets her fingers brush the curve of his collarbone. Lets her speak soft and familiar, like they’ve done this before. Like she already knows what kind of cologne he wears. Like she’s earned it.

You look away, jaw tight, throat tighter. You know it’s nothing. You know. But your stomach’s already turning, rage blooming low and hot, not just because she’s touching him, but because he’s letting her. Because no matter how much he watches you when he thinks no one’s looking, no matter how sharp his voice gets when someone takes a dig at you, no matter how many years have passed, he still finds a way to keep you at arm’s length.

You’re not his.

And she’s proof of that.

You don’t realize how hard you’re gripping your paddle until the foam creaks under your fingers, compressing like it’s trying to escape your palm. Your knuckles ache, white and tight around the handle, but you don’t loosen.

“You good?” Matt asks, stepping toward you. When he speaks it's too eager, too bright, like he thinks maybe this is his moment. Like maybe the heat and the sweat and the tension have finally worn you down enough to let someone else in. You glance at him sideways, lashes low, mouth curling into something that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“Peachy.” It lands flat. Drier than the air.

Across the court, Jack looks up. Just once. A flicker, barely a lift of his chin, eyes cutting toward you like it’s reflex, like your voice is something he doesn’t have to hear to register. Like it lives in his spine. Under his skin. And maybe it does. Because for the first time all day, he stops mid-sentence.

He sees the set of your shoulders. The tension in your jaw. The way your fingers flex once around the paddle like you’re contemplating whether to use it or throw it. So you make it easy for him. You drop it. Let it fall to the concrete with a flat, graceless clatter. Don’t even flinch when it bounces once and spins crooked across the chalk line. And you don’t say a word. Because if he knows you, really knows you, he already understands what’s coming next. You don’t look at him. Don’t give him the satisfaction of a second glance. You just turn, slow, unbothered, deliberate, and walk. Past the folding chairs with their sun-bleached stripes, past the cooler your dad dragged out of the garage and filled with discount beer. Past the scuffed-up edge of the lawn where the grass gives out, turning brittle and sparse, surrendering to gravel.

You don’t check to see if Matt follows. You don’t have to.

“Hey—wait,” he calls behind you, already trying to catch up, sneakers crunching over dry earth. There’s a note in his voice, half concern, half something else, something closer to hope, and it grates. He jogs to your side just as you duck beneath the low-hanging limbs that mark the property line. The line of trees swallows you both, branches rustling overhead like a curtain drawn shut. You’re still visible, just barely. Framed by green, half-shadowed, the faint echo of the driveway noise still chasing your heels. If someone were watching, and you know someone is, they’d have to squint.

They’d have to want to see. Which is the point.

You spin to face him. And before he can ask what’s going on, you grab the collar of his shirt and drag his mouth down to yours. It’s messy. Immediate. Not even close to gentle. You kiss Matt like he’s a weapon. Like he’s cover fire. Like he’s not even a person, just something to use. His hands find your waist, hesitant, like he doesn’t quite believe this is happening. You push him back into the tree. Hard. He gasps into your mouth. You don't stop. You press your thigh between his legs. Tilt your chin up like you’re daring Jack to look. Like you know he is. Because you saw it, the way his gaze tracked you the second you turned away. The way his voice dipped low the last time he told you to behave. The way his hand twitched when that woman laughed too close.

And now? Now, you’re grinding against someone else’s thigh, and you want him to see it. You want him to burn. Matt moans. “Fuck—you’re…”

You break the kiss with a harsh breath, palm against his chest. “Don’t get attached,” you murmur, voice low and wrecked and barely holding shape. “I’m just pissed.”

You don’t wait for his response.

You turn, walk away like you didn’t just bite him back with your mouth still swollen, like your chest isn’t rising and falling like you’ve been sprinting, like your thighs aren’t trembling from the way you used him to get even with someone else. You don’t care who saw.

But you know Jack did.

You feel it, before you even lift your head, before your eyes dare trace the distance back to the driveway, you feel it. The weight of his stare. Heavy. Sharp. Possessive in a way he’d never say out loud, not in a backyard full of lawn chairs and lukewarm beers. This isn’t a game. It’s not just a holiday or just a humid afternoon in Western Pennsylvania, not just another round of performative Americana and half-assed patriotism under strings of red-white-blue dollar store bunting.

It’s July 4th.

And Jack Abbot—still sweat-slick, still silent, still standing at the edge of everything—is about to remind you exactly what freedom looks like when it walks, stalks, burns through you.

Inside, the house is hushed. Everyone’s still outside, too drunk on smoke and sun and cheap beer to notice you’re gone. The sound of laughter disappears into the background, muted by drywall and distance, and suddenly it’s just you in the dim kitchen, your pulse louder than anything else. You don’t flip the light on. You don’t need to. You know this house, every creak, every floorboard.

You take the stairs two at a time. Your skin still smells like sun and salt. Your lips still taste like spite. You reach your room. You don’t cry. You strip. Tank top first—sweat-damp, clinging—peeled off slow and deliberate like a second skin you’re done pretending in. Then your shorts, shoved down your hips and kicked into the corner. Now it’s just your underwear—thin cotton, dark from heat and sweat—clinging in places you don’t care to hide. Your breath’s shallow. Sharp. Angry. Not because of Matt. Not even because of her.

Because you’re tired of feeling everything and touching nothing. Because he keeps walking away like that makes him noble instead of cruel. Because he saw you kiss someone else and didn’t stop it, just watched like punishment was part of the deal. And maybe it is. Maybe this is yours too.

You yank the drawer open, searching—clean underwear, something—anything—to cool the fire prickling under your skin. But you don’t move fast. You know the door didn’t catch all the way when you pulled it shut. It’s cracked just enough. You know the hallway’s empty, the house hollowed out with the sound of drunken laughter spilling in from the backyard.

You don’t hear the door open. You just feel it. The shift. The weight. The way the air behind you changes—like gravity’s tilted in his direction. Your fingers linger at the clasp. Then: his voice. Low. Rough. Cut from jealousy and something devastating.

“That why you kissed him?” Jack says. “To get my attention?”

You don’t turn around. Not yet.

“Did it work?” you ask, voice sweet and poisonous.

A pause. And then: the door shuts. Click. Your body tenses. You half-spin to face him, chest rising fast. He’s standing just inside your room. He doesn’t move. Just looks at you like he’s deciding if he wants to drag you to hell or ask if you’re already there. You raise your brow. “Did you come up here to lecture me? 'Cause you’re late. The lecture ended the second I slipped my tongue down Matt Warner’s throat.”

His eyes go dark. Still, no movement. But you can feel it coming.

“I mean,” you go on, cocking a hip, bratty and baiting, “he was surprisingly eager for someone with such a mediocre backhand.”

“Don’t,” Jack warns.

“Don’t what?” You take a step closer, close enough to see the pulse in his neck. “Don’t tell you how his hands felt on my ass? Or don’t mention that maybe you’re not the only one who knows how to play a long game?”

That’s when he moves. You don’t even have time to breathe. He’s on you, crowding, consuming, grabbing your waist like a man who’s done pretending he doesn’t want to wreck you. Your back hits your closet door, hard enough to rattle the hinges. He cages you in, voice a whisper just below a snarl.

“He touch you like this?” Jack growls, one palm sliding too slow, down your bare side, fingers digging just hard enough it could leave bruises.

You swallow. “He didn’t get the chance.”

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there, impossibly still, like the calm before something breaks. “And you think that’s gonna save you?” he asks, voice low and frayed at the edges.

You smile then, sharp, dangerous, all teeth and heat. The kind of smile that dares him. “You gonna punish me, Abbot?”

His breath catches, just enough to give him away. Just enough to let you know you’ve struck something vital. His jaw tightens. His hand twitches. You hear the distant crack of a firework and the hiss of something burning out too fast. “You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he says, voice thick, like it’s been dragged over gravel and restraint and too many nights spent doing the right thing when what he really wanted was this.

Your lips faintly touch his jaw as you lean in, soft and deliberate, every nerve in your body coiled tight with want. “Then show me.”

And he does.

Jack’s mouth crashes into yours, hard and starved and fucking unholy. His hands find your thighs, your ribs, the back of your neck. He lifts you like you weigh nothing, slamming you up against the wall beside your bed. You yelp into his mouth, but it only makes him kiss you harder, filthy, messy, like he’s reclaiming what’s always been his.

You claw at his shirt, drag it up and over his head, panting when you feel the heat of his chest against yours. He’s all salt and smoke and late July, and when you move your legs around him, he grinds into you like he’s forgotten how to be gentle. But he hasn’t. He’s just not choosing it tonight.

“Still wanna play your little game?” he says against your neck.

You bite your lip to hide the smirk. “I’m still winning.”

He growls, low and rough, and his hand slides between your legs, cupping you through the last scrap of damp cotton still clinging to you. “Not for long.”

And when he touches you, really touches you, it’s not hesitant. It’s not sweet. It’s punishing. He drags his nose up the curve of your cheek, exhales against the side of your head. “You don’t get to play with boys like that. Not with me near.”

Then he lifts you, hands sure, grip bruising, and lays you down on the bed like he’s claiming territory. Slow. Rough. He steps back. Just enough to look at you. To see you. His chest rises hard and fast. The air hums, heavy from the heat and whatever you’ve just become in front of him. And when his eyes drop, they don’t come back up right away. They catch, on the soaked cotton clinging between your thighs, the quiver in your legs you can’t quite control, the flush that hasn’t left your skin since the second you mouthed Then show me. His tongue grazes the inside of his cheek like he’s biting something back. Or bracing.

“Hands over your head,” he says, rugged, low and edged with command. Like it costs him nothing. Like you were always going to listen. And you do. He smirks when you do it without a word.

“Good girl.”

His hands trail up your thighs, deliberate, unhurried, like he's memorizing the shape of your surrender. He doesn’t tear the underwear off. No—he peels it. Fingers curling into the waistband, knuckles grazing your hips, dragging it down so agonizingly slow you almost whimper. "Look at you," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "All that attitude just to end up spread out like this. Was that the plan?"

You tilt your chin, breath hitching. “I knew you’d catch up eventually.”

He huffs, just once, and presses his thumb against your clit, lazy, taunting, like he’s got all the time in the world and you’ve got none. Your hips jerk up. "No," he says flatly. One firm hand pins your pelvis to the mattress. "You don’t get to chase it. Not after all that shit you pulled outside.”

You moan through grated teeth. “Jack—” His name cracks out of you like it wasn’t meant to, like your body said it before your brain could stop it. And it’s a mistake. Because it makes something break open in him. Fast, raw, dangerous. Whatever restraint he had left doesn’t just unravel. It detonates. He sinks two fingers into you in one slow, brutal thrust, thick and deep, and watches you writhe, thumb never leaving your clit. You arch into it, eyes fluttering shut—

“Uh uh.” He leans in, “Keep those eyes on me. I want to see exactly what they do when I’m buried inside you.” You grip the sheets. He doesn’t wait for a response. He drops his pants, kicks them off, and grabs you like a man possessed. His cock presses thick and hot against you, sliding through your slick with a hissed curse. You feel the head catch, right there, teasing—then shifts his weight and drives into you all at once. Deep, brutal, devastating. Your breath gets stuck in your throat like it’s been knocked out of you, spine straying from the mattress as your hands scramble for something, anything, to hold onto. Him, the sheets, the moment before it all gives out beneath you.

He doesn’t let you hide. “Eyes,” he reminds you, low and sharp, rocking into you with steady, punishing rhythm. “Don’t look away.”

You don’t. Can’t. Not when he’s watching you like that, dark eyes looking at yours, jaw clenched, muscles pulled tight like he’s holding himself back by the skin of his teeth. Each thrust is deliberate. Controlled. He’s not fucking you like he’s angry. He’s fucking you like he’s owed this. Like he’s earned the right to ruin you. Like he’s waited long enough. Your legs wrap around his waist, instinctive, desperate.

He grins, feral, crooked. “That’s right. Hold on.”

Your head tips back, a strangled moan slipping free, but his hand is already there, curling around your throat. Not tight, not harsh, just enough to bring you back to him. “You don’t get to come till I tell you to. You do, and I’ll pull out. And you’ll finish the night with your hand between your legs wishing it was me.”

You nod, frantic.

“This what you wanted?” he grits. “To fuckin’ rile me up? Make me watch you parade around in those shorts acting like you don’t know what you’re doing?”

You’re gone. All you can do is nod, whimper, take it. Each thrust lands harder—more frantic, more punishing, like he’s trying to drive the memory of anyone else out of you, like he’s trying to anchor you here with nothing but the weight of him. You choke on a gasp, vision blurring as the edge crashes in too fast, too sharp. Your fingers claw uselessly at the air, at his shoulders, at anything. Tears slip from the corners of your eyes, hot, helpless.

“Jack—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Your body shudders beneath him, hips stuttering, legs beginning to shake. You’re close. So close it hurts. “Please, please, I’m gonna—”

“No.”

He stops. Still buried inside you, still thick and pulsing, still the only thing holding you together—and he stops. You sob, broken and furious.

“I said,” he growls, voice ragged, teeth clenched, “not yet.” Then he pulls out halfway, just enough to leave you empty, and pushes back in slow. Slow enough to torture. Slow enough to ruin. He presses against your core and it makes your vision spark, makes your body betray you all over again.

“Jack—” Your voice cracks on his name.

“Look at me.”

You listen. And whatever he sees in your eyes, it breaks him. "Fuck it," he mutters, voice wrecked. He grabs your wrists, pins them above your head, and fucks you like it’s the last night on earth. You don’t stand a chance. It crashes through you like a wave, sharp and fast and obliterating. You shatter with a broken sound, clutching at his shoulders as your vision blurs.

But he’s not done. He groans, deep and guttural, still moving through your aftershocks like he’s addicted to the way you break. His rhythm falters just enough to tell you he’s close. And when he finally comes, spilling into you with a curse against your mouth, it’s with his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged, and your name a ruin on his tongue. You’re still trembling when he finally lets go of your wrists. Fingers loosening slow, like even that parting costs him something, and collapses beside you, chest rising hard and uneven with each breath. The air between you crackles with leftover heat, the kind that doesn’t burn out easily. Your skin still hums. Your thighs ache. Your pulse is nowhere near steady.

Neither of you speaks. Not yet. The silence stretches, thick, electric, until he turns his head, hair damp, eyes half-lidded and flushed with something that still hasn’t cooled. “Still think you were winning?” he murmurs, voice smug and so fucking Jack it makes your stomach flip.

You grin without turning, dazed, breathless. “Pretty sure we both lost that one.”

He huffs, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, and then reaches for you without hesitation. Not tentative, not casual. Possessive. Certain. Like your body is the only place he’s supposed to be now. He pulls you in, arms around your waist, mouth at your shoulder, breath still ragged, and doesn’t let go. And you know he won’t.

July 5th — 7:32 AM

The house is still. Not quiet—just still. The kind of heaviness that settles after a storm. A plastic fork is stuck in the grass just outside the open screen door. A cooler sits half-drained by the back steps, lid propped with an empty beer can. You can still smell smoke from the fireworks. You can still feel last night in your legs.

Your dad’s passed out cold in the living room, snoring loud enough to rattle the walls. Half a cigar sits in the ashtray by his chair, burned down to a limp curve of ash. His paper plate of ribs is crusted over on the coffee table beside him. There’s a spot of barbecue sauce dried on his temple. You didn’t even bother covering him with a blanket.

Jack snuck back in sometime after midnight. You don’t know the exact time, just that you were lying awake in that too, small twin bed in your childhood room, heart racing, sweat sticking to the inside of your knees, when the door creaked open an inch at a time. You didn’t turn on the light. Didn’t speak. Just lifted the sheet without looking at him, and he climbed in like he’d been aching for it all night. Now it’s morning, and he’s still here. Bare chest against your back, hand splayed low on your stomach, the steady drag of his breath along your neck like he's trying to memorize what it feels like to wake up beside you. You haven't moved. Haven't blinked. You’re afraid if you do, he’ll vanish. But eventually he stirs. His grip tightens on your waist, then eases. His hand pulls back.

“Don’t,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, raw from sleep and want. “Just a few more minutes.”

Jack exhales, quiet and pained. He shifts onto his back, staring at the ceiling. His prosthetic leg is still lying on the floor beside the bed, just where he left it.

“I gotta go soon,” he says, almost apologetically.

You roll over to face him. The light’s filtering in soft through the curtains, and it cuts across his jaw, his collarbone, the slope of his shoulder. There’s a pink mark blooming just beneath his throat, your doing. So is the bite on his rib. You think, stupidly, that you should’ve left more.

"You could stay," you murmur, fingers moving against the edge of the sheet between you.

Jack looks at you. Really looks at you. And for a second, he wants to. You can see it. The war behind his eyes. Then he blinks. Swallows. Shakes his head. “Your dad’s still here. It’s already pushing it.”

“He’s not gonna wake up. He had like six Miller Lites and half a cigar.”

That earns a huff of a laugh from him, barely, but his expression doesn’t soften. He sits up slowly, the sheet slipping down his back. He scrubs a hand through his hair, the other braced on the edge of the mattress like it’s helping him hold the line. His dog tags are still tangled in yesterday’s shirt draped over the chair, and for a moment, he just stares at them. Like he doesn’t quite recognize the version of himself that left them there.

You stay curled in the bed, watching him. He reaches down, clips the prosthetic into place with ease, and exhales once, like it hurts a little more this morning than usual.

“I’ve got a shift tonight,” he says, not looking at you. “Need time to shower. Change. Pretend I’m not…” He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to.

“Still feeling it?” you ask.

He nods, just once. “Yeah. All of it.”

You sit up too, dragging the sheet with you. “Then stay.”

“Don’t start with that—”

“I’m not starting anything, Jack.” Your voice is soft but pointed. “You came back.”

His head drops for a second. A quiet breath, measured. Then he faces you fully, barefoot, bruised, somewhere between still half-dressed and half-out-the-door. You watch each other like it’s a question neither of you has the guts to ask out loud.

“It wasn’t just the Fourth,” you say. “And you know it.”

He nods again, slower this time. “I know.” You reach for his hand without thinking, fingers stroking over the back of it. “So stop acting like it’s some mistake we need to fold up and hide.” Jack looks down at where you’re touching him. Doesn’t pull away. Just stares, thumb twitching slightly like he’s considering lacing it through yours.

“I think about you more than I should,” he says finally, voice quiet and steady. “And not just like that. I mean—Jesus—I read that op-ed you published last month and had to put my phone down halfway through. You’re so damn smart, it pisses me off sometimes.”

You smile, small and crooked. “It’s mutual, you know.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re pissed off by how smart you are?”

You nudge his knee with yours. “You know what I mean.”

Jack laughs under his breath, and it’s that same low sound from the night before, the one you felt between your legs before you heard it in your ear. Then his expression shifts again, softer. Tired. Real. “I don’t want to do this halfway,” he says. “Not with you. And I can’t be the guy driving back and forth between Pittsburgh and D.C., sneaking into your bedroom like I’m nineteen and still bulletproof.”

You swallow. “Then be the guy who texts. The guy who tries. Who doesn’t disappear every time something real happens.”

He swallows. “I’ll text when I get in.”

“Don’t say that if you won’t.”

You don’t kiss. Don’t cling. Don’t ask him for anything more than what he’s already given. He leans down anyway, presses his mouth to your temple, then your cheek, then lingers for one hot second just above your lips before pulling away.

“Tell your dad I’m heading out,” he says, voice rough again. “And that I owe him a new folding chair.”

“What’d you do to it?”

“Nothing. He just doesn’t need to know I was never in it.”

You watch him walk out. Slow. Heavy. Steady. The door clicks behind him like a sigh. And for once, you don’t feel left behind.

10:38 PM Southbound, pulled off just before Route 70 splits east

The roads are dead quiet, the kind of heavy summer silence that hangs thick over the hills. Cicadas drone in the trees. Your engine ticks in the stillness. You’ve pulled into a tiny gas station lot, closed for the night, fluorescent lights flickering overhead, just to breathe for a second before the long haul. You haven’t hit play on your music yet. Haven’t even touched the coffee in your cupholder. Just silence and the glow of your dashboard. Just the weight of him still pressed into the inside of your thighs.

You told your dad you’d leave before midnight. You hugged him at the door, watched him try not to say too much about your too-short visit, and promised you’d come back Labor Day if your schedule allowed. He didn’t say a word about Jack. You don’t think he knows. You don’t think he’d believe it if he did. You open your phone one last time before turning it to Do Not Disturb. There's a text from Jack. It came in hours ago.

JACK ABBOT :

Just hit Allegheny. Back to the land of gunshots and alleyway nonsense. Let me know when you’re home—or don’t. I’ll go ahead and assume you’re ignoring me in a way that’s honestly kind of flattering.

You smirk. Tap the message. Type out something. Delete it. Start again. Then, without overthinking, you scroll back in your camera roll. Past the brunch selfies and screenshots of policy memos. Past the Fourth of July photos. You land on the one he’s never seen. Low lighting. Bare shoulders. Lacy straps and flushed skin. Not pornographic, but dangerous. The kind of picture you took in your D.C. apartment on a night you were thinking about him.

You attach it. No caption yet. Then you hesitate. Your thumb hovers above the keyboard. You glance around the lot again, still empty. Still quiet. Your headlights cast two long beams onto the stretch of two-lane ahead, and you know the moment you hit the interstate, it’s just you, a playlist, and every memory of his hand on your skin.

So you type, slow.

Don’t crash your car. But maybe think twice next time before sneaking out before breakfast.

A beat. Then one more text.

Turning on DND. Be good, Pittsburgh.

You hit send. Turn your phone face-down in the passenger seat. Pull onto the highway, headlights carving into the black ahead. Jack’s phone will light up in a hospital hallway, maybe mid-shift, maybe mid-chart note. And you’ll be halfway to Maryland with nothing but open road and last night’s ache.

note : in the same universe as just passing through

[lowkeyerror]

Key to Your Flat

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word count: 4.9k

Notes: Fluff, a bit of angst, pining, lots of acts of service, friends to lovers, au no powers

Summary: Wanda ends her long term relationship with Jarvis after realizing she was a lesbian. You've been her best friend since college, it's only right for you to support her in any way you can.

An: So this was supposed to be a cute little 1-2k fic loosely based on the Doja Cat snippet that says "Does a key to your flat mean girlfriend?" But it has turned into something else lol.

Masterlist | Masterlist 2

From the first day that you met her, you knew that Wanda would be one of the most successful people that you had ever encountered. There was no one more determined to make something of themselves than her. It was more than hard work; it was the way she sacrificed for the things that she wanted to accomplish in life.

You admired her.

How could you not, especially with the lack of direction you had in your own life? When you became her roommate in your sophomore year in college, you were already on your 3rd major. From engineering, to English, to culinary arts; you were all over the place. Yet you didn’t care much about it, figuring things would work out somehow.

You believed that the universe would grant you whatever fate you deserved. Until Wanda told you that was such a ridiculous notion. Who would wait for a handout from the universe when they could simply get what they wanted themselves?

She was a good influence on you. You started taking school and your future a little more seriously after that. You put a lot more stock into your culinary dreams, and they paid off. There was a beaming fulfillment in your chest when you opened your own restaurant. Something that probably wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t met Wanda.

While you can’t necessarily recall what Wanda does off of the top of your head. You know she’s got some long fancy title at some big industry company. She had taken an internship in college and because of how completely undeniable the woman was, she shot up in the ranks of the company within a 10-year period.

You were both busy people, but you never loss touch as you climbed your respective ladders of success. It was second nature for you to keep in contact with Wanda. It’s not something you thought about as much as something that you did.

Other aspects of your life often slipped through your fingers. You weren’t proud to say you’d forgotten a birthday or two or missed family plans because of work. Even your dating life suffered immensely because of your hectic lifestyle.

You never understood just how Wanda could manage to create enough balance in her life to find someone like Jarvis. He was a good man, clean cut. A little more uptight than you’d thought Wanda would go for, but a charmer, nonetheless.

You remember being skeptical when you first met him. You were the first person that he’d met from Wanda’s life. It was an accident when you ran into him on the way out of Wanda’s flat. He was about to knock when you were exiting. The red head was a little embarrassed to explain as you stared at the tall blonde man. You looked between the two before you shook his hand and sent him a decent enough smile.

She had chased after you when you left, trying to explain herself, but there was nothing to explain. You congratulated her, said you were happy she found someone. She thought you’d be upset with her, but you weren’t. How could you be upset when she was happy?

You had assumed that they had a perfect relationship. That’s how it seemed when you saw them interact with each other. His hand on her waist, her eyes shining into his. They’d seem to compliment each other like the ocean compliments the beach.

Which is why you were confused when Wanda called you in the middle of your shift at work. She hardly ever called, finding texting much more reliable. However, you picked up the phone on the first ring.

“Hey, I know you’re probably working right now but is there any way you can pick me up.”

It sounded like she had been crying.

You were taking your apron off as you spoke into the phone, “Always, just send me your location and I’ll be on my way.”

You hear the relieved sigh she lets out, “Thank you.”

You informed your staff of your departure and went to your car.  Wanda sent her location, and you put it into your GPS, before driving off. She was closer than you had expected so getting to her was easy.

She was at a park in the middle of the city. The day was cloudy, and the sun was preparing to set. It was a very grey day to be outdoors.

Once you were out of your car you scanned around for your friend. You found her almost instantly. She was sitting on a bench, her head in her hands.

You’d seen her stressed before, but this felt bigger than that. Her voice on the phone made that very evident to you.

You approached her cautiously and when you got close enough you called her name, “Wanda.”

Her head shot up when she heard you. She was off the bench and in your arms before you had time to react. Her arms were tightly wound around you. It caught you off guard and all you could do was stare down at her for a moment.

Soon you were holding her back just as tight. Your hand cradled the back of her hair, finger tenderly rubbing her scalp.

“What happened?” Your voice is soft when you ask, not trying to provoke her any more than she already is.

It takes her a minute to pull away enough to answer you, but eventually she does, “Jarvis, he proposed.”

Your eyes widen, “These don’t look like happy tears.”

“I was trying to break up with him,” she lets out a deep sigh. “I called him to talk in person, and then I tell him that I think we should break up. He gets on one knee and starts talking, and I- I just…”

“Oh Wands,” you pull her back into your embrace.

You readjust so that you have one arm over her shoulder. She doesn’t protest as you lead her to your car. She climbs in the passenger seat no questions asked as you pull off.

When you arrived at your destination she finally speaks up, “What’re we doing here?”

You’re in and out of the Chinese food spot with a hefty bag of boxes in tow. When you re-enter the car with the food Wanda sends you a small smile.

“Getting takeout,” you answered quickly getting out of the car. “You sit tight.”

“Did you-”

“Of course, I got our favorite and I asked for extra sweet and sour too. I was going to drive to yours, maybe we could eat and indulge in some sitcoms or talk, whatever you want. How does that sound?”

Your eyes raked over her features. She gave you a few small nods, “Sounds better than having an existential breakdown at the park.”

“Well, I guess it’s settled then,” you chuckled a little.

You drove to her house, glancing over at her every few minutes. Her head rested on the window and her eyes were closed, but you knew she wasn’t sleeping. Wanda often closed her eyes when she was trying to ground herself. It was something you had picked up on back in college. You never knew where she went in her head, but it always seemed to help her refocus.

When you got to her flat. You handled the food and the tv, shooing Wanda away to put on some more comfortable clothes. When she came back in her sweatpants and robe the two of you ate as you watched I Dream of Jeannie.

It took about 2 episodes before she said anything to you.

“You’re not going to ask why I wanted to break up with him?”

You leaned back into the couch, “I’m curious, but it didn’t really seem like something I should be asking right now.”

She searched your eyes for something. If you had to guess, you say for security. She needed to know that start she said next was ok to tell you. In truth there was nothing she could say that would deter you from being there for her.

“I think I like women,” she said as she looked into her lap. There were more tears brewing behind her eyes, “Only women.”

There was no hesitation as you moved closer to her. Your thigh brushing against hers, prompting her to meet your gaze.

“That’s not a bad thing Wanda.”

She shakes her head, “It is especially when you have a long-term boyfriend who loves you with everything that he has. You keep wondering when you’re going to love him the way he loves you. When will you stop hating the way he touches you? When will you be able to look at him, the way he looks at you. By the time you realize it can’t be him, it will never be a him… it’s too late. He shows you a ring while you’re trying to break up with him.”

You grab her hand, “You need to be kinder to yourself. This isn’t something you chose to do Wanda. It’s not like you knew the whole time. It sounds like you’re just coming to terms with your sexuality. You did the right thing by breaking up with him.”

“But-"

She ran her free hand through her hair, “Did you think we were a good couple? Jarvis and I.”

“Let me finish. If I’m being honest, getting on one knee and proposing to someone after they tried to break up with you sounds like a manipulation tactic.”

You thought about the question briefly, “I think it looked like you were the perfect couple, but sometimes I didn’t understand it. You’re both so different, not that it was a bad thing. I just… I’ve seen you soar to unimaginable heights. I’ve seen your ambitions become your reality. I just didn’t see that in him. You’re always striving to be the best, to improve. I always thought you’d want someone to do the same with you or someone who was okay with you doing that. It just seemed like all of that went over his head.”

“He was a very traditional man. He always talked about settling down in the future, with firm roots, and kids. He talked about me retiring and letting him take care of me. It was just- not what I wanted.”

“And that’s ok, people break up all the time Wanda. It’s a normal part of life. Yes, it sucks, but it's just a breakup. Think of it as one step closer to finding your person.”

She nods slightly, “When did you get so good at this?”

You smile at her, “I’m not good at this. I’m just good with you. That's what nearly a decade of friendship does to someone.”

She didn’t say anything else. Instead, she rested her head on your shoulder and turned her attention back to the tv. You wrapped your arm around her shoulder, pulling her firmly into you.

Wanda would get through this, just like she got through everything else. You’d make sure of it, because she'd do the same for you.

In the coming months, you found yourself carving out more time for Wanda. The busy nature of your schedule died down significantly when you started to entrust the general manager of your restaurant with some more responsibility. It made your workload lighter while allowing your GM to get some more experience.

You used the new free time to support her the best way you could. Sometimes that meant bringing her lunch when she was working. Other times it was coming over after work to make sure the woman wasn’t neglecting her home. You’d go over and check if she had groceries or that she wasn’t letting the flat get too dirty.  She was the kind of woman that threw herself into work when she was trying to avoid something.

You’d even gone as far as helping her set up a dating profile when she was ready to put herself back out there.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

You were once again in her flat. She stood in the kitchen, while you sat on a chair stationed at the island in the middle of the same room.

“Date women,” she was asking sincerely, but you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing.

“Well, I don’t really date, but it’s the same as any date. You’re trying to present your best self, get a good foot forward, but while maintaining an authenticity. It’s not like a job interview where only one person is doing the hiring; you both have a say in how it turns out.”

Wanda narrows her eyes, “Why don’t you date?”

You shrug, “Too busy running a very successful restaurant.”

“You’re not as busy as you used to be. Maybe you should set up a profile for yourself. I’m sure any girl would be lucky to have you.”

You shook your head, “Hard pass, but I appreciate the effort.”

“Come on, Y/nn. I know accomplishments can feel empty when you don’t have anyone to share them with,” she tried to persuade you.

“Well good thing I can share it with you then,” you countered.

She let out an irritated sigh, “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You smirked, “Why do you want me to sign up so badly anyway? You think we’re going to match?”

You were only joking, yet you can’t help but notice the slight color on your friend’s cheeks.

She scoffed like you expected her to, “Grow up.”

For a moment it felt like you were back in your college dorm. The playful and flirty banter was always present between the two of you. It was easy for you to flirt with her, knowing you never really had a chance. However, now that there was even the slightest of possibility that this could escalate, it felt completely different.

“It’s alright Wanda, nothing to be ashamed of. I’m hot, successful, hardworking, and financially responsible. Hard to ignore the total package.”

She rolled her eyes, “I remember when Ms. ‘Total Package’ couldn’t even finish her college assignments without my help.”

You chuckle when you catch her eyes, “You’ve got me there. If it wasn’t for you, I have no idea where’d I be.”

“Probably still in college on your 95th major change,” she laughed at her own joke.

It was your turn to roll your eyes, “Very funny.”

 With a smile plastered on her face she strolled over to sit next to you. She spun on the barstool before grabbing your arms and looking into your eyes, “I have something for you actually.”

“What is it?”

She reached into her pocket and sat a key down on the island. You looked at her, then the key, with slight confusion.

“A key?”

Wanda nodded softly, “You’re basically here all the time and I’m getting tired of opening the door for you.”

“I’m using this key to come over and cook in this beautiful kitchen, you hardly use.”

“Hey, I cook,” she defended.

You laughed, “I said hardly, didn’t I?”

When you got home that night, you felt a new weight on your shoulders. Your hand slipped into your pocket to pull out the key. You held it flat in your palm. The small piece of metal was cool against your skin. You stared at it for a long while.

It was just a key. There wasn't anything crazy about it. Your friend gave you a key to her house. Friends do that with each other. Your heart shouldn’t have been fluttering the way it was over such a simple gesture.

You closed your hand around the key trying to ground yourself. Your eyes shut, but as soon as they did her smile etched its way into your sight.

“Shit.”

It was like college all over again. You thought you had gotten over your crush on Wanda many years ago. She was straight, it was never going to happen. That was something you could deal with, something you could work through. However now, that wasn’t the case anymore. Wanda liked women, technically you had a chance.

You shouldn't be thinking like that. She needs you now, to be her friend. You were doing so well. Taking care of her had become an unconscious pattern as easy as breathing. You never thought about it too hard when she needed you. It’s like the moment she put the key in your hand, your mind finally started thinking.

Subconsciously you’d always known it. It’s why you didn't date. It was unfair to be with someone who you could never prioritize over Wanda. She was one of the few people in your life that you’d drop everything for.

Sure, you were a busy woman, but you’d never be too busy for her. Her distress over Jarvis literally made you change the way you worked, just to make sure you were there when she needed you.

“Why would I make her a dating profile?” You asked yourself as you face-planted on to your mattress.

Just as you expected Wanda’s profile was gaining some traction. There were a lot of women interested in someone like her. Soon she was going on more dates than you had been on in years. Most of them weren’t serious, she often said she wouldn’t be seeing them again.

You made a day of finding the freshest ingredients. You drove out to find markets that had authentic food from her home country. There wasn’t a lot locally, but you didn’t mind the hunt.

While you were sad that she wasn’t finding anyone suitable you were also happy for the same reason. You thought you’d attempt to cheer her up after so many bad dates by cooking one of her favorite dishes.

Once you had everything you needed you made your way over to Wanda’s. It was a hassle carrying everything up, but you managed with a little effort.

While you were still conflicted about having a key to her flat, you used it plenty of times. So just like you had done previously you let yourself into Wanda’s home.

“Oh, fuck sorry,” you said as you immediately saw Wanda straddling the lap of an older ( admittedly super attractive) woman on her living room couch.

Wanda looked like a deer in headlights. You were trying to comprehend if you were more mortified or heartbroken. No one spoke for a long while until the older woman cleared her throat.

“Right, uh I’ll just come back tomorrow or something. Enjoy your night, Wanda.”

With the groceries still in your hands, you turned around and closed the door. You only made it down a few steps before you heard someone calling after you.

“Y/n, wait!”

You closed your eyes and took in a deep breath trying to mask your feelings before you turned around.

“This stuff is a little heavy Wanda; I want to get it back to the car before the bags break.”

She took a few bags from your hands, “Let me help you.”

“You don’t have to; you looked pretty busy in there. Here I was, bringing stuff to cook for you in light of all your failed dates, but it seems like you’re not doing nearly as bad as I thought,” you tried to joke with her.

“Agatha is definitely the best of the dates I've had so far.”

You had to keep yourself from wincing, “Glad to hear it.”

Wanda helped you load the stuff back into the car.

“I’m really sorry about this. If I would’ve known you were coming-"

You shook your head, “It’s fine Wanda, go back to making out with a hot older woman. They don't like to wait for too long. I’ll just text you next time instead of just barging in.”

“I gave you a key because you’re always welcome.”

You unhooked the key from your key ring and hand it back to her, “I know that, but maybe it’s best if you let me in.”

“Y/n,” she looked at you with confusion.

You smiled through the pain, “If you’re going to have women over, it’s not a good look for another woman to be coming in and out of your house whenever. We’re not related and we’re not roommates. There’s not really a reason for me to have access to you like that.”

“I don’t understand,” she looked between you and the key that was now in her hand.

“Usually, a key to your flat would mean I’m your girlfriend. Me coming over to cook for you as another woman who likes women is bad for your stock. It just doesn't feel like something that's easily explained. I would have a bunch of questions if I was in Agatha’s position, especially since you haven't gone back yet,” you got into your car.

There was a conflicted look on her face, “You’ll stop by tomorrow?”

“I’ve got work, but I'll try to stop by after,” you told her that even though you knew you wouldn't be coming back tomorrow.

“I’ll see later then?” She was searching for something as she surveyed your features.

With what little control you had left, you tried to give her what she was looking for, “Definitely. Now forget about this and go back to your date.”

She looked like she wanted to say more, but with a small glance back at her flat, she walked away. You drove home.

The groceries felt eternally heavier when you were bringing them into your house. You wondered how carrying them upstairs to Wanda’s was even possible.

You hurriedly put the food away, showered, and then got in the bed. When your head hit the pillow, you let out a deep sigh. Your jaw started to tremble on its own.

You let out a bitter laugh as the tears fell down your face. You didn’t bother to wipe them away.  It felt like a part of you was ripped out of your chest.

This was bound to happen eventually. Wanda would move on from Jarvis and your silly fantasy would be crushed. You felt silly crying over a woman that was never yours.

Yet another part of you was screaming at you for feeling silly. You were doing a lot for Wanda. Even if it was all just friendly, sometimes it felt like more. All the dinners, all the cuddling on the couch, all the late-night talks. She was your better half, but she wasn’t your girl. She’d never be your girl.

It was something you had to accept. You didn’t go to work the next day. You rotted in your bed, not having the energy to get up. Scrolling on your phone was the only thing you wanted to do.

Wanda had texted you a few times, but you ignored the messages. Even the thought of her just made your entire chest burn.

You finally got out of bed when you had to pee. You took the opportunity to brush your teeth as well. On the way back to the bed your doorbell started to ring. Not just once either. Whoever was at the door pressed the button over and over again. It was impossible to ignore.

So, with your bed head, red eyes, and mismatched pajamas you yanked the front door open, “Look, I don’t know what you want but could you just go away and try again tomorrow or something.”

“Tomorrow’s not going to work for me.”

Your head shot up and you felt face heat. Wanda was standing at your front door with her arms crossed over her chest with an eyebrow raised.

“What’re you doing here?”

Your voice had a softness to it that you reserved for the red head in front of you.

She didn’t answer your question. Instead, she let herself into your home. You closed the door behind her. You followed her to your living room. She sat on your couch while you took a seat on a chair diagonal to it.

“I thought you had work today,” she says.

“I decided not to go.”

“I’ve been texting you.”

You shrugged, “Haven’t been on my phone, sorry.”

Wanda stared at you, “I went to your restaurant looking for you.”

You were looking into your lap, “I’m sorry Wanda.”

She got up from the couch to come completely into your line of sight. She kneeled down in front of you, her hands resting on your knees.

“What’s going on with you, Y/nn?”

The concern in her voice broke you out of your trance. You tried your hardest to feign that you were alright.

“I’m fine. Since you’re here why don't you let me cook something for us?”

“This is for paprikash,” Wanda watched as you began to prepare.

You stood from the chair quickly pushing down the rest of your emotions. She watched as you walked over to the kitchen pulling out some of the ingredients you had bought the day before.

You nod, “Yeah, I got stuff for chicken paprikash, alivenci, and cholent too. The plan was to cook the paprikash and then the alivenci for dessert. I was going to set up the cholent for you before I left so you could have it fresh the next day because it’s got to cook for like 17 hours.”

“You got all of this for me?”

You answered her while chopping up the vegetables, “It was nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. You’re using Hungarian bell peppers, where did you even get those?”

You smiled a bit, “I do own a restaurant, Wanda. If there’s anything I’m an expert in, it’s food. I wanted it to be authentic as possible.”

As you began cooking you felt the weight of the situation lift off of your shoulders. Cooking had always been a stress reliever for you, and it wasn’t any different now. You could feel Wanda’s eyes on you, but you never looked away from the meal.

Only when the chicken was simmering in the pot did she attempt to grab your attention.

“After you came by yesterday, I asked Agatha to leave,” Wanda broke the silence.

You finally look at her, “Why would you do something like that?”

She simply placed a key on the counter, “I couldn't stop thinking about you giving me this key back.”

“Wanda,” you tried to stop her, but she cut you off.

“No, I need you to listen. When you put this key in my hand, it felt like you had handed me a live grenade. I didn’t understand why. It wasn’t until I went back inside, and Agatha asked me how we knew each other that it clicked. You’re my everything.”

“What are you saying?”

She hesitated, “I’m saying I’ve already found my person.”

“Wanda, you’re my best friend.”

She invaded your personal space, grabbing you gently by the wrist, “And you’re mine, but it’s more than that isn’t it? You’re the person I can rely on for anything at any time. You’re the woman that left her restaurant to put me back together when my ex left. You listened to me, you held me, you cooked for me, made sure I had groceries, and that my house was clean. Friends don't do as much as you've done for me.”

You slowly lifted your gaze to meet her’s, “I just know you appreciate acts of service.”

“Y/n if you don’t want this I’ll leave and we can pretend it never happened; but if you do want this, want me, I’m right here laying it all out for you.”

You drop your gaze again, “I cried myself to sleep last night. I thought I'd lost my chance. When I saw you on top of Agatha, something broke inside of me Wanda.  Back in college I had a crush on, but I thought you were straight, so it was easy to keep it down. When you came out to me, it was like I was at square one all over again.”

Wanda shook her head, “It’s not square one because here I am telling you that I’m in love with you. Please give us a chance Y/n.”

You wished the moment was more glamorous as you kissed the woman in front of you. You hadn’t denied her yet and you never planned to. Her hands locked behind your neck while yours rested on her waist.

Your breath was shaky when the kiss ended. Neither of you moved.

“I love you too,” you pecked her lips again.

Wanda blushed, but you were more focused on the way she looked at you. Her eyes were full of nothing but tenderness.

“Would you take the key back?”

You raised your eyebrow, “Why does it feel like you’re asking me for something else?”

She feigned innocence, “I’m not. Unless you think that what you said yesterday about keys is true.”

“Remind me what I said again?”

Her fingers played with the hairs at the base of your neck, “A key to my flat means girlfriend.”

You pretended to think about it, “Girlfriend?”

She nodded, “Girlfriend.”

“I guess I’ll have to get you a key too then,” you said softly.

This time Wanda leaned in for a kiss. It was supposed to be a peck, but you both got lost in that moment. Neither willingly to part with the other just yet. Lips fitting together to create a soft lullaby of security.

You never thought you’d be lucky enough to have Wanda in this way. She was your best friend, your person, and now your girlfriend. It may have taken years, but you wouldn’t have had it any other way. Wanda cherished you just as much. She felt like an idiot for not realizing her feelings sooner, but she was just happy to call you, her girl.

And one day, she would be ecstatic to call you, her wife.

[sheastri]

Valentine ft. Kimi Antonelli

Synopsis: In which she's Lewis's younger sister and there for a race. Maybe she can bargain for some extra credit for also catching the eye of another teams resident driver.

Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x black!fem!reader

Genre: SMAU + Story

Warning(s): Teenagers

Facecast: Akira Akbar (for the most part)

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liked by kimi.antonelli, imanirowe, and 156,000 others

ynhamilton would i be wrong if i fed roscoe my hw (say no)

lewishamilton just to confirm, we're talking about MY dog?

username ok but in what world does a teacher need to assign a 50 page packet??

username literally like where is the lorax when we need him??

imanirowe i support women's rights and their wrongs!!

ynhamilton you get me

username my dog ate my hw once and i never looked back

kimi.antonelli only if you don't feed roscoe my hw too

ynhamilton don't worry, igu

lewishamilton who's hand is that on the 3rd slide?

ynhamilton nurse!! he's out again ⤷ lewishamilton y/n...

username are we just gonna look past the slide of the study date?

username right and kimi in the likes?? username ya'll wanna play detective so fucking bad, ppl can't be friends now??

landonorris kids these days, when i was in school i valued homework

ynhamilton this is coming from the guy who didn't finish highschool?? ⤷ oscarpiastri ouch

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The First Meeting

I've rejected affection for years and years. Now I have it, and damn it, It's kind of weird...

"Girl it's hot as fuck but lemme not do too much because at least I'm not at school." You say while doing your homework in the Ferrari garage.

"I just survived another long day of school without you, please find it in your heart to come home soon." Imani cried out.

"You say this now but when I show up you're cozy in your bed and I'm stuck in the classroom alone." You reply rolling your eyes playfully.

"I swear you choose the worst days to come like..." Imani says playfully annoyed.

"Is this a sign for me to never show up again?" You say laughing.

"Now you and I both know damn well lew and your dad would never let that happen." Imani says laughing along with her.

"They really irk me sometimes." I say sighing before Lewis enters the garage.

"So you're doing homework but your phone is in your hand and you're on a call with Imani?" Lewis says aloud.

"Oh girl, why did he lowkey clock you..." Imani says still on the line.

"You're an opp, bye." You say hanging up the phone before turning to Lewis.

"Ok.. Hear me out.." You say as you begin to think up an explanation for not actually working.

Lewis just stares at you with his arms crossed.

"Ok fine, I don't have an excuse but look sometimes a girl just needs to chit chat with her best friend! Please don't tell dad..." You say dramatically.

"Alright." Lewis replies.

"Wait really? You're the best brother in the..."

"If you confess to breaking dads antique and clear my name." Lewis says, finishing his sentence.

"I take it all back, you are sick and twisted." You say before groaning and throwing yourself down in a seat.

"Well, do you have anything you want to share with the class y/n?" Lewis says raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing, I'm innocent." You say rolling your eyes and packing up your things to go find somewhere else to work in peace.

Luckily for you Lewis's race engineer distracted him momentarily and you took that as a good sign to leave.

On your way over to hospitality you bumped into someone. Leaving some of the papers you had to fall out of your hands.

"My bad, I was rushing and..." The guy trails off as you look up at him.

"Oh, it's fine. It's just math homework. I wouldn't even be mad if a car drove over it a million times." I say smiling.

“I get what you mean! Lately to take the workload off of just me I’ve been having the team help with math since they basically live, breathe, eat, and sleep mathematics.” Kimi says, giggling throughout his speaking as he watches the expression on your face.

“You know what… That’s a pretty solid idea.” You say as you’re now fully cracking up. Kimi just stares for a moment as if taking everything in.

"You're really pretty... sorry if that's weird to say!" Kimi says his voice going up an octave and cracking when he panicked. You just laugh softly.

"Nah you're good, thank you. You're also very pretty..." You say now getting a bit flustered.

"Umm Kimi Antonelli... like that's my name." He says nervously while smiling.

"Y/n Hamilton, nice to meet you Kimi." You say smiling as you go to pick up your papers from the ground and he instantly bends down to help you.

He tells me I'm pretty. Don't know how to respond. I tell him that he's pretty too! Can I say that? Don't have a clue

────────୨ৎ────────

liked by ynhamilton, mercedesamgf1, and 231,000 others

kimi.antonelli Special thanks to Canada for p3

username ok it's one thing for him to like y/n's post bc shes literally that girl but her liking his post??

username damn a girl can't show a little support for her friend now??

mercedesamgf1 Congrats Kimi!!

username ok but who is he celebrating with??

ynhamilton go white boy, go!!

kimi.antonelli i can't just get a simple good job and a pat on the back? ⤷ ynhamilton do u need that??

georgerussell well done kimi!

username well this is one way to soft launch

username With every passing moment I surprise myself. I'm scared of flies. I'm scared of guys... Someone please help!

liked by kimi.antonelli, lewishamilton, and 187,000 others

Tagged: imanirowe, friend1, friend2

ynhamilton february means the summer is still light years away but at least I have my ppl

kimi.antonelli did someone ask you to be their valentine?

ynhamilton why does it concern you again??

imanirowe im already scared for those exams 😭

username thanks for the reminder that I’m abt to suffer through the day while everybody gets balloons and baskets

username it's actually so bad, I'm literally gonna stay home for it this year

username Is this hinting at her having a valentine??

lewishamilton you definitely wouldn't survive finals so it's good that you have more time to study

ynhamilton why do you hate me??

username so who we think her valentine is??

username 'Cause I think I've fallen in love this time. I blinked and suddenly, I had a valentine.

────────୨ৎ────────

Pre-race Shenanigans

What if he's the last one I kiss? What if he's the only one I'll ever miss? Maybe I should run, I'm only 18. I don't even know who I want to become.

You wanted to check on Kimi before the race so you abandoned Lewis in the Ferrari garage and went over to merc to try and find him. You had texted him and he seemed a bit stressed. Upon opening the door you saw him pacing back and forth.

"Kimi." You said uttering his name just loud enough to bring him out of whatever trance he was in. You closed the door behind you and smiled softly as he looked up at you.

"What's up? Talk to me?" You said walking towards him.

"I don't know. I'm not really nervous or anything, it's like my mind is creating problems that aren't even probable." Kimi says before letting out a heavy sigh.

"Ok deep breaths Kimi." You say as you guys go over the typical destressing exercises. You watch as Kimi calms down and then smile when he looks at you again.

"Thanks." He says softly looking directly into your eyes.

"Yeah, it's whatever. Good luck and break a leg and whatever else they say." You say breaking eye contact and moving to exit the room.

"You know what would prepare me for this race even more?" He says as your walking to the door.

"What?" You say raising an eyebrow as you angle your body to look at him.

"If you were my valentine." He says almost breathlessly, as though he's surprised he actually said those words.

"Impress me and maybe I'll consider it." You say smiling before you exit the room leaving Kimi standing there shocked in the middle of it.

The second you leave the room and the door closes you let out a deep breathe and mentally squeal while skipping back to the merc garage as your mind keeps circling back to the moment.

I've lost all control of my heartbeat now. Got caught in a romance with him somehow.

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liked by ynhamilton, imanirowe, and 379,000 others

kimi.antonelli la mia valentina (My valentine)

username so you think you’re better than me??

ynhamilton im going to find the absolute worst photos of you now

username IM SICKKKKK

username I feel like he js told me to go kms??

ynhamilton love you pretty boy

kimi.antonelli mrs rabbit has fainted ynhamilton your so cuteness olliebearman mrs rabbit has fainted again

lewishamilton im sorry, what?

ynhamilton well! imanirowe so basically...

username aww ya'll so cute…ᵃⁿⁿᵃᵇᵉˡˡᵉ ᵍᵉᵗ ᵗʰᵉᵐ

username I still feel a shock through every bone when I hear an "I love you" 'cause now I've got someone to lose...

liked by kimi.antonelli, imanirowe, and 289,000 others

ynhamilton cats out of the bag

username

lewishamilton ANSWER YOUR PHONE

ynhamilton im sorry who are you?? lewishamilton ok keep that same energy ynhamilton WAIT! NO! im sorry pls

username they just make sense together

username i need a written apology from everyone who called me crazy!!

username YOU GUYS ARE SO CUTE!!!…. ₕₒₑ

kimi.antonelli I can't believe I get to call you mine.

ynhamilton I blinked and suddenly I had a valentine.

[copia]

supposed to be focusing on academics but my day has been made now i've moved my ghost-related tattoo appointment which means i can spend more time with my sewing machine in a couple of weeks making ghost cosplay for the ghost ritual and i can't wait to get some revision done before writing ghost things with some ghostblogging on the side

[victusinveritas]

A 17-year-old high school student in Dayton, Ohio, has been fined and placed under house arrest after authorities discovered he had hacked into the city’s outdated traffic control system and quietly fixed the timing of several major intersections.

Kameron Price, a self-taught coder and robotics club member, reportedly used a Raspberry Pi and a decommissioned school-issued Chromebook to gain access to the municipal traffic grid. Over the course of several weeks, he rewrote the timing logic for at least five major lights along West 3rd Street—drastically reducing backups during rush hour and syncing green lights to reduce stop-and-go congestion.

“He didn’t disable anything or cause danger,” said a traffic engineer speaking on condition of anonymity. “Honestly, his code was more efficient than what we were using.”

But city officials said the changes violated multiple laws, including unauthorized access to a government system and interference with public infrastructure. Kameron was cited under a local ordinance pertaining to unauthorized modification of municipal services—a misdemeanor typically reserved for utility tampering.

According to Kameron’s parents, he initially took it on as a side project after watching his bus get stuck at the same broken intersection every morning for weeks. “It would take longer to go three blocks than it did to get across town,” his mom explained. “He got tired of watching everyone waste gas and time just sitting there.”

Public reaction has been overwhelmingly in Kameron’s favor. A video of the intersection running smoother than it has in years has gone viral, and a local radio host dubbed him the Subway Surfer of traffic flow. Online petitions calling for the fine to be dropped have already surpassed 50,000 signatures.

“Honestly, give the kid a job,” one commenter wrote. “He’s doing more for this city than whoever programmed those lights in 1998.”

So the more I look into this story (found on Facebook so I never should have trusted it) on Google, the less I find it to be, ya know, true.

Also, the image below the purported mugshot might be the most AI thing I've seen in a goodong (typo, but keeping it because a goodong while is longer than a good long while, you know it is) while. I try to be less shit about just posting stuff I find without verification, but I'd been up for hours doing backbreaking labor (my back is not happy) getting my folks through SeaTac along with their luggage.

[hitoshitoshi]

Hair Washing [Husband!Zayne x GenderNeutral!Reader]

Summary: You take care of Zayne and he allows it for once in his life.

Tags: Established Relationship, Married life, Hair Washing, Self Degradation, Hurt/Comfort, Self Indulgent, Workaholic and Stubborn Zayne, Domestic fluff, Non-sexual Intimacy, Romance.

Zayne drove his Audi into the garage, the purr of the engine fading to silence as he cut the ignition. As the garage door descended, shutting out the world where it was just him in his car — his forehead resting against the steering wheel, eyes closed, the weight of a 16-hour shift was hitting him like a fire being snuffed out by a lid. 

'Pull yourself together,' Zayne chided internally, straightening up with a soft inaudible groan. 

Flipping down the sun visor mirror, Zayne assessed his reflection. Dark circles lurked beneath his hazel eyes, his hair was slightly disheveled, and his skin lost a bit of its glow. Zayne grabbed a comb and meticulously smoothed out his hair into place. 

'You have no right to burden others with your childish grievances,' Zayne reminded himself, a mantra born of years of self-imposed stoicism. Zayne would not allow himself to ever burden you with such a pitiful thing such as tiredness or to ever make you worry as long as he lived. 

Satisfied with his appearance, Zayne exited the car, his movements deliberately measured to hide his bone-deep fatigue that threatened to consume him. As he approached the house, he took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. The mask, Dr. Zayne — the Cardiac Surgeon, slid off as he was now Zayne, your husband. He opened the door, stepping into the warmth of your shared home. 

Zayne called out to you, "I'm home," his voice was steady and neutral, betraying none of the relief he felt at finally being home to where you were, in the house you two had lived in and cherished.

The sounds of rapid footsteps echoed through the house, and Zayne felt a flutter of warmth in his chest. You appeared, eyes bright with joy and relief that your beloved husband came home from work. For a moment, Zayne allowed a soft smile to tug at the corner of his lips as he drank in the sight of his partner. 

Your heart raced at the sight of Zayne, a mix of excitement and concern washed over you. You rushed forward, arms outreached for a hug, but you stopped mid-motion as you took in Zayne's appearance. Despite Zayne's immaculate exterior, you knew Zayne more than anyone else to know that he was tired —  the slight degree of a slump in Zayne's shoulders, the barely perceptible tightness around Zayne's eyes, the shadows under Zayne's eyes being a shade too dark. Your heart clenched, seeing the man you loved with your entire soul, pushing himself so hard. 

"Zayne, you look tired," You said softly as you reached out to touch Zayne's arm. Your fingers trembled slightly, torn between the desire to pull him close and the fear of overstepping even if you two were already married. "Let me take care of you tonight."

Zayne felt a surge of conflicting emotions at your words —  gratitude warring with his ingrained need for self-reliance. It was always Zayne treating and spoiling you, and not the other way around. Even the times when you tried to spoil him back, Zayne would always find a way to turn it around so that it was back to him spoiling you. His eyebrow arched slightly, his expression shifting to one of mild amusement to hide the vulnerability he felt.

"I'm fine," Zayne replied, his tone leaving  no room for argument, even as an iota of him longed to give in, "It was just another day at the hospital." Zayne knew that he couldn't convince you since you were as stubborn as him, but it couldn't hurt to try.

 Your eyes narrowed, unconvinced. You could see the weariness Zayne was trying so hard to hide, and it made your chest tighten with worry. You insisted, "You've been gone for over 16 hours and this was the 3rd time this week back to back that you've had these long shifts. You need to rest. Let me help you rest." 

"I assure you, I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I've had longer shifts that were more troubling throughout the years," Zayne countered, a hint of stubbornness creeping into his voice. Even as he spoke, he felt his resolve wavering under your gaze —  he hated concerning you. He hated making you feel this way —  he hated himself for making you feel this way. 

You stepped closer, your hand was gentle but insistent on Zayne's arm. You could feel the tension in his muscles and the slight tremor of exhaustion. "Please, Zayne," you pleaded, "Let me do this for you once. You always take care of me, let me take care of you sometimes. Even if it's on a blue moon, let me take care of you once." 

Zayne's eyes shifted away as he let out a sigh, the rigid set of his shoulders relaxed a bit. A wave of tenderness washed over him, mingled with gratitude as he reluctantly gave in. "Fine," Zayne conceded, his tone was of his usual deadpan but it was tinged with affection. "If it will put your mind at ease." 

Your face broke into a warm smile, relief and love shining in your eyes. You grabbed Zayne’s hand as you led Zayne towards the bathroom. Zayne allowed himself to lean slightly into your touch. For once, Zayne allowed himself to accept the care he so often denied himself. 

You filled the bathtub with hot water, the sound of rushing liquid filling the quiet room. You added a generous amount of bubble bath, watching as frothy suds formed on the surface. The scent of rose oil wafted through the air as you added a few drops of it to the water. Your heart raced in anticipation and nervousness, hoping that you’d be able to take away Zayne’s stress. 

Soft light from carefully placed candles flickered across the walls as you dimmed the overhead lights. You turned to Zayne who stood in the doorway — a hint of vulnerability in his usually stoic expression. 

“Come,” You said softly, extending your hand out towards him. Zayne took your hand, allowing himself to be led to the bathtub. He raised your hand up to his lips as he gave your knuckles a soft kiss as a thank you. Zayne didn’t know the last time someone had put effort into him that wasn’t you — at least, someone who didn’t have any outside intentions of being nice to him. Zayne was forever thankful that he had such a kind spouse in his life, that out of all the lives he had lived, that he was able to be with you in this one.

As Zayne settled into the warm water, a soft sigh escaped his lips. The tension he’d been carrying began to melt away, and he closed his eyes to savor the sensation. Your heart swelled with affection at the sight of Zayne finally relaxing.

With gentle movements, you began to soak Zayne’s hair with warm water. Your fingers combed through the dark strands, careful not to tug or cause discomfort. Zayne’s breathing deepened slightly, the rhythmic motion lulled him into a state of calm he only experienced with and around you. 

You reached for the shampoo, squeezing a small amount into your palm. The fresh, clean scent filled the air as you began to work it into Zayne’s scalp. Starting at the temples, you used your fingertips to massage in small, circular motions, applying gentle pressure to stimulate blood flow and to clean all of Zayne’s hair and his head. As your fingers worked their way to the base of Zayne’s skull, you could feel the tension that Zayne’s been holding start to loosen. Zayne let out a low hum of appreciation —  the sound sending a small flutter though your chest. God, you loved your husband so much. You worked the shampoo through the rest of Zayne’s hair.

Once Zayne’s hair was thoroughly lathered, you began to rinse it clean. You used a small cup to pour warm water over his head —  your other hand acted as a shield to prevent shampoo from running into his eyes. Zayne’s thoughts drifted, the simple act of being cared for stirred emotions that he usually kept tightly controlled.

Next, You reached for the conditioner, applying a generous amount through Zayne’s hair —  focusing on the ends which tended to be drier. You began to massage Zayne’s scalp once more.You used your thumbs as you applied pressure to the occipital ridge at the base of Zayne’s skull. You then moved to the crown, using your fingertips to make small circular motions. You paid special attention to Zayne’s temples as you used gentle sweeping motions with your thumbs to ease away the day’s stress.

As your fingers worked their magic, Zayne felt himself surrendering to the care being lavished upon him as his eyes fluttered closed once more, his entire body relaxing in the hot water. A surge of protectiveness and tenderness surged through you as you noticed the change in Zayne’s demeanor. You bent your head down as you placed a soft kiss on your husband’s lips who reciprocated the kiss with even more gentleness in his movements.

“Thank you,” Zayne murmured against your lips— his voice was low and thick with emotion. The simple phrase carried the weight of all the gratitude and affection he struggled to express aloud.

You continued massaging Zayne’s scalp as you replied to him softly, “Always.”

The rhythmic pitter-patter of water being poured filled the air as you rinsed out Zayne’s hair; steam curled lazily around them, carrying the fading scent of the conditioner. Zayne’s breathing slowed as the last of the conditioner washed away. Your hand found Zayne’s elbow, steadying him as he rose. The sudden change in position sent a momentary rush to Zayne’s head, his usual grace faltering. Your eyes met Zayne’s briefly in the foggy mirror as you reached for the robe hanging nearby; the dark purple fabric rich against the bathroom’s pale tiles. As you helped Zayne slip on the robe, the soft material settled against his skin, still warm and slightly damp. The sound of footsteps resonated through the house as you both made your way to the bedroom. The air was cooler, raising goosebumps on Zayne’s exposed skin. He sank down onto the bed’s edge; the mattress dipped slightly under his weight. You moved behind him with a towel in hand. The first touch of terrycloth against Zayne’s nape sent a shiver down his spine — bare perceptible but there. You towel dried Zayne’s hair as his eyelids grew heavy; his usual sharp focus softened around the edges.  You reached over to the nightstand where you grabbed the comb, its teeth scraped gently against Zayne’s scalp, with each pass detangling your husband’s hair — detangling all of the stress in Zayne’s mind who only focused on you and your touch. A clock ticked softly somewhere as the lamp on the other side of the bedroom casted a warm glow that softened the lines of their faces, illuminating your faces and your love. As you worked, Zayne found his gaze drawn to your reflection in the dresser mirror. He watched the play of emotions across your face: concentration in the slight furrow of your brows with care in the gentle set of your mouth. Something stirred in Zayne’s chest — an emotion he had sought after for so long that he would fight with his entire soul to keep.

“I love you.”

“I love you most”.

It was more than just a hair wash to both you and Zayne; it was an act of love, trust, and vulnerability that would deepen your bond in ways words could never express. 

A/N: I love Zayne. I really really really love Zayne as you can tell. Have I mentioned that I love Zayne? Because I love Zayne. I have Zayne smut in drafts thats halfway written :3

Masterlist | TWITTER

[xomakara]

What Are We?

SUMMARY |  You and Mingyu take a shower.

PAIRINGS |  Mingyu (SVT) x Reader 

RATING |  Mature, NSFW, EXPLICIT, MDNI, 18+, Any Minors and Ageless Blogs will be blocked 

GENRE |  smut, just pure unadulterated smut, friends with benefits

CONTENT/WARNINGS |  profanity, unprotective sex, fingering, breast fondling, creampies, dirty talk, kissing, nibbling, shower sex

LENGTH |  2,694 words 

TAGLIST |  --

NETWORKS |   @k-vanity @ksmutsociety @keopihaus

AUTHOR’S NOTE | Hi. Hello. I am now starting to write for Seventeen and first person is Mingyu lol. I used to write for them back during my AFF days and idk why I stopped writing for them. But now I'm back! I hope you all enjoy this one, however short it may be 💚

next part here (also a standalone fic): If We... (vernon x reader) 3rd part here: Back To Me (mingyu x reader)

Seventeen Masterlist

"That feels nice..." you let out a relaxed sigh as you let the hot water caress your body. Your body was sticky from all the physical activities earlier so it feels good to feel the droplets of hot water falling down on your shoulders.

You are so preoccupied by the shower that you didn't even hear the bathroom door open and close, and you also didn't hear the sound of the curtain pulling back. Only when his hands wrapped around your middle and pulled you backwards against him did you react.

"The bed was cold without you," he murmured against your ear. "I woke up and had to go look for you." His hands rested low around your waist, and you knew the kind of view he was getting of your body. He gently kissed your shoulder.

You rolled your eyes at him. "Someone kept me up all night and woke me up early in the morning." You can already feel his growing hardness poking against your back and the feel of his body so close behind you causes warmth to travel straight down between your thighs. "Seriously Mingyu? Is sex all you think about?" You let out a small yelp as he playfully bites the crook of your neck in return.

"Can't help it," he kissed the same spot. "No other girl makes me as horny as you do."

You feel sorry for the poor girl that would ever date Mingyu. His libido is so crazy that they'll be going at it literally 24/7. But he'd be damn lucky if the girl turned out to be like you. Because honestly, there isn't any woman that is capable of handling his insatiable appetite besides you. You've gotten to know every single inch of Mingyu's body inside out and knows what drives him to the point of madness. In fact, Mingyu would argue that you knew him more than he knew himself. You didn't know how, but you've managed to be the only girl to keep his attention on for the past two years.

"My body is still sore Mingyu," you protested half heartedly, as you rubbed your ass sensually against his hardening member. A dark smirk crept onto his lips as he snaked one arm down to the apex of your thighs.

"I can see that you're not really opposed to the idea though," he brushed his index finger over your wet folds. "God Y/N," Mingyu whispered into your ear as he let the feeling of your moist flesh cover his fingers. "How did I end up meeting someone like you? How are we still friends after almost two years of fucking each other senseless?"

You wonder about that yourself sometimes. You think back about how the relationship between you two used to be. He was an engineering student and you were a business student. Despite the differences in majors, both of your schedules often coincide together during lecture hours, study groups, and mutual friends. 

The day both of you became aware of each other's presence was an afternoon where Mingyu was busy sulking in a coffee shop waiting for Wonwoo, one of his roommates and bestfriend, when you walked in with said person and two other people. You were introduced to Mingyu, who greeted you politely before reverting to a pouting ball of sadness. That day, Wonwoo told you of Mingyu's woes—his girlfriend broke up with him after catching her in bed with another man, and he'd been a sad mess ever since. It took a long time before he opened up to another girl again.

You'll admit you didn't harbor any romantic feelings for him at first. But there was always a sort of undeniable physical attraction. It's natural; anyone would be attracted to him with his looks. He's tall and insanely attractive when he wears those thin-framed glasses of his. Not to mention his ripped and fit physique underneath that layer of clothes. And that deep voice of his didn't exactly help you reign back in on the fantasies.

When did friendship become something more? How did innocent hangouts turn into steamy makeout sessions? How did studying late into the night end up in full-on intercourse? Who initiated this game of push-pull that the both of you started and maintained for almost two years? Neither of you knew, but neither did you care.

"You have no self-control," is what you mumbled in response, gasping lightly as his skilled fingers circled around the sensitive bundle of nerves in the apex of your inner thigh. You can feel him smirking against your shoulder.

"Neither do you," he slowly pushes two of his thick fingers into your warmth and your knees buckle at the sudden sensation. You grip his arm as support, making a choked gasp. "Especially around me."

"How could I not? You know you can drive any sane woman wild, right?" you moaned as he thrust his fingers in and out of you roughly, with the shower head running along your torso, giving extra stimulation to the erect peaks on your breasts.

You'd never let anyone talk to you the way Mingyu talks to you—as a matter of fact, you never even let anyone treat you the way he treats you. But you didn't mind it when it came from him.

"Why won't you be my girlfriend then?" he coos into your ear. If it were possible, the shiver you gave from his breath ghosting across the shell of your ear would've made you cum all on its own. "We'd be doing this every day and night."

"How would us being in a relationship change anything between us right now?" you answered breathlessly. "We're still fucking almost every other day like this. Besides," you tilted your head to meet his burning gaze. "You don't date, remember? Not after your last ex. How do you know if it'll be any different with me?"

You two never addressed the fact that a real relationship between the two of you could never work out, given the nature of your circumstances. Mingyu may like the physical side of your relationship but dating was a whole other side of commitment that he doesn't want a part in. You knew he's dated other girls, both before and after his break up with his past ex, and had flings, but Mingyu had never once suggested a real date with you in these two years you've been acquainted.

Sure you wanted more from him. God you wanted more. Everyday you find yourself falling deeper for him as time goes on, but you'll take what you can get and try not to crave for the love you so much deserve.

"You could be the exception," he said as he curled his fingers in the most delicious way, making your spine arch and toes curl from the pure pleasure. You moaned his name desperately, trying your best to cling onto whatever sanity that hadn't fled from your head from the intense amount of bliss. 

"You could be a lot of things," he continued, kissing your jaw and pressing his body closer to yours. You could feel his throbbing dick being trapped between your bare back and his firm body, and it felt so sinful yet so pleasurable. "As long as I have you."

This isn't the first time he says these things. They're not new to you. What are you supposed to do? Pretend he's serious? Your heart is longing, your entire being is screaming, but you could never do that.

You twisted your head to face him and the kiss he planted on your lips is chaste, slow, and meaningful, completely opposite to the animalistic way he is fingering you. It sends your heart racing. When your lips break apart, his gaze is steady and strong.

He means the words, at least right now he does. And that is what kills you every time.

"There you go again, saying stupid things to me," you whispered softly.

"Don't be stupid," his fingers started pumping faster into you and your entire body jerks. "I want you all to myself," he crooned. The familiar warmth of your climax is creeping into the pit of your stomach. "No more other guys, no more playing coy around other guys," his free hand wrapped around the front of your body to circle and pinch the stiff and tender nipples of your breast, which in turn resulted in an obscene moan of his name and your body curling into itself. "You don't even let others fuck you. It's always only me."

Mingyu is correct in that observation. After meeting him, you never went around searching for hookups anymore. In fact, there hasn't been another guy in the two years since Mingyu started hooking up with you. The closest thing would probably be a few experimental dates here and there, but you had ended up going home alone. You'd thought you lost the desire to get fucked by others, but even after months of Mingyu's absence, you've never felt the need to sleep with another guy.

You could have chosen another guy. You could have dated Joshua or Seungcheol. Hell, you could have dated Seokmin or Hansol, two of the campus' most wanted guys.

But the last thing you expected was Mingyu becoming your greatest weakness, and the best fuck you could ask for. In all honesty, you can say with utmost confidence, Mingyu ruined you in the worst possible way. And you don't even regret a single damn thing.

"They... wouldn't even come close," you breathed. His pace picked up as your climax gradually rose higher and higher, making your moans become incoherent gibberish. "N-Never close.."

"Exactly baby," he nibbles gently on your earlobe. "No one is close. You know this."

"Fuck.." you gripped his wrist tightly and struggled to catch your breath as you felt your entire body spasm. Your knees gave out at the intensity, but Mingyu caught you securely with a strong arm around your chest, and continued to stimulate the soft spot inside your walls. You gripped his arm helplessly. "Mingyu, please."

"Please what?" his thumb began rubbing against your clit mercilessly, earning more delightful sounds from you. "Tell me what you want."

"Mingyu!"

"What do you want? Tell me."

"Mingyu... inside," you choked out a breathless sob, throwing your head against his shoulders. "Fill me... please..."

"Since you asked so nicely," he chuckled before pulling his fingers out of you. He turned your body so that you faced him before picking up one of your legs and placing it on his hips. You wrapped it tightly around him and he locked his eyes with yours as he guided the head of his cock between your swollen, wet, heat. It's an intense feeling when the tip enters the inside of your pussy, with your eyes glued to his and the sound of your breathing filling the otherwise quiet shower area.

You lost track of the time but you stared deep into his orbs as he slid the rest of himself inside, taking it all in at once. Your mouth drops open in a loud, gratified gasp at the feeling of having him inside you once again. It's addicting, absolutely addictive, to have someone that you've missed buried inside to the hilt.

It was amazing how you hadn't forgotten how perfectly his large girth fills you, reaching the deepest parts within. How could you, when your body has grown used to Mingyu, in size, shape, and texture. And it was impossible to find a man to fit the standards Mingyu had raised.

With his entire length fully sheathed in you, his grip on your thigh tightened as he began a slow, languid pace.

"Is it just me or is it better than before?" Mingyu groaned.

"It's always better..." you managed, enjoying how he is staring at your face. No matter how long he stares at you, it'll always cause your insides to melt. "Everything is always better with you."

Your eyes widen as you clasp a hand to your mouth as a natural reaction, embarrassed by what had slipped from your mouth. You averted your gaze downwards but he cupped your chin and brought your gaze back up again. The fire in his eyes hasn't cooled one bit despite the change in the rhythm and how passionate and intimate it feels. "You mean the sex, right?"

"Obviously," your nails dig into the skin of his shoulder. "Obviously the sex..." You closed your eyes at the pressure that is beginning to build up between your thighs again. "M-mingyu..faster..." you choked out.

He groaned before latching his lips onto your neck and placed his hands on the shower wall beside you for support. He rammed his hardness in you, creating waves upon waves of immense bliss. This made you lose whatever remnants of control you had left as you mewled loudly and wrapped both of your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles. Mingyu moaned in surprise, making you gasp in pleasure at the way his dick reached the furthest depths within you.

"Good?" he nibbled gently on your ear, smiling widely against it at the whimper you gave.

"Right there.." your eyes are shut tightly as you let yourself get completely devoured by Mingyu.

"Just... a little longer," Mingyu's forehead connected with your shoulder. "Together, yeah?"

"Yeah," the water splattered onto both of your intertwined bodies, washing off the thin sheen of sweat covering Mingyu's skin as he grunted and slammed his cock harder into your pussy. You tried not to crumble from the raw pleasure. "Together...fuck, Mingyu."

"Shit," Mingyu breathed out. "Hold on tighter," his large, calloused palms move to the back of your thighs, hiking them closer to his waist. One last stroke inside is the last straw, making both of you scream in total pleasure as an intense orgasm tore through your body. Mingyu groaned softly into the crevices of your neck and emptied his load deep inside you.

The both of you took your time to come down from your high, the water already turning cold after being on for so long.

"You'll be staying the night, right?" Mingyu murmurs against your ear, pressing a trail of sweet kisses along your throat and collarbone. 

Your hand moves to thread through the wet locks at the nape of his neck. "How do you expect me to go anywhere when you fucked my legs numb?"

"Excuse me," he had the decency to chuckle as he turns off the water, with him still inside you, "But I didn't hear you complaining earlier."

He patted your other leg to wrap around his hips too, and before you had time to ask what the hell he thinks he's doing, Mingyu pulls back the curtains and walked towards the door of his room, completely drenched.

"Mingyu we're dripping everywhere!" you tried your best not to flail in fear of him dropping you.

"Don't worry, Wonwoo isn't here," he assured, opening the door to his bedroom.

He deposited you onto the middle of his bed and he hovers over you, the cold droplets from his hair and skin falling onto the rest of your body. Mingyu slowly slips out from inside you, his hot cum sliding down the area in between your inner thighs. He makes no movement to clean you off; instead he lays back and pulls you on top of him.

"My offer from earlier still stands," he mutters. "Be my girlfriend, Y/N."

Your hand strokes through his hair gently. "You'll have to try a lot harder if you want me to say yes."

Mingyu hums and then he smiles widely. "But you didn't say no, did you?" He teases. You roll your eyes and press your forehead against the crook of his neck. He rubbed small circles on your hips comfortingly. "I'll keep asking until you do say yes."

"Maybe someday," you kissed the tip of his nose. You'll take him however you can. "One day I'll take your offer, maybe sooner or later."

It's not much of a promise, but he smiles genuinely and replies, "I'm holding you to it."

[ysrjune]

ok james kelly…maybe him and reader have had an on an off thing since high school or something…..also something something criminal by britney spears…….also smut ‼️

(idk if this is specific enough if not lmk 😭😭😭)

-🌪️

ᯓ HE'S A BAD BOY

. . . WITH A TAINTED HEART .ᐟ

a/n: College student James Kelly. I didn't specify a major for reader! That's all up for you to imagine. I don't remember if James parents were named in the movie, so I gave them names. This is more James pov.

15-year-old James Kelly and 15-year-old you were friends since the first day of high school. Sharing the same algebra class and sitting next to each other started all this. James wasn't shy, but he wasn't talkative.. and you were. You were talkative, so he had no other choice but to talk back because he didn't want to be rude and cause any drama.

“James, can I borrow a pencil, please?”

“James, do you have the notes from yesterday?”

“James, what are you doing today?”

James, James, James, James, James! Always asking him a question or telling him something. He never minded it. He actually appreciated that you wanted to talk to him.

Towards the end of freshman year, James and you started going out. On weekends, he'd take you to the park or to see a movie, or really anything you wanted to do. But things didn't really go the way you wanted them to. You broke up two times over the summer, once your sophomore year, again in 11th grade (and closed a 3rd time that year), and then twice again senior year. Everyone called your relationship toxic and confusing. But they just didn't understand. You weren't toxic.. confusing, sure, but not toxic. Or so you thought.

Those breakups were dumb and unnecessary anyway! You didn't even consider them breakups. They were just breaks.

Now you've been in college for a year, and coincidentally, James attends the same school. Your freshman year was chill. He didn't go up to you at all since your breakup back in senior year. The last one. For real this time. You were done with him, and he respected your wish of not wanting him to sweet-talk you back into a relationship.

James' major is Mechanical Engineering, which is way different than yours. There's no way you'd cross paths with him, and if you did, it's not like you'd try to talk to him. Both of you are busy. Way too busy for a relationship. James doesn't just go to school. He also has a (part-time) job at a body shop near his house.

After a long day at school, James returns home and is greeted by the family dog and his mother. “How was school, hon?” His mother asks. “Tiring. A little stressful. Same old same old.” James stretches and cracks his back. “Hey ma, 'M goin' out in a little while, so I won't be here for dinner.” He leaned against the counter where, on the other side, his mother was making dinner. “Are you off to see a girl?” His father asks from the dining table as he flips to the next page of the newspaper.

“No,” James responds. “Good. I want'chu to focus on your studies and not a girlfriend. The last one you had was no good.” His father responds. “Marty,” Mary says his name with a hint of anger. “Don't you talk about that sweet girl that way. You know, I ran into her at the grocery store a couple of weeks ago, and she's still respectful and very nice.” Mary stirs the pot of pasta. Mary has always liked you.

James's eyes shot up from the counter to his mom. “Did you? What did she say?” He was obviously eager to hear about what happened between you and his mother. “Oh, not much. She said hello and we hugged.. I asked her how her studies were going, and she told me a little bit about them. She asked how everyone here was doing, and then that was all.”

“Did she.. uh.” James hesitantly starts. “Specifically ask about you? No, son. She didn't.” Mary sighs. “It's okay that she didn't, Jimmy. You two should keep your minds off each other. What's done is done.”

James sighs and returns his sight to the counter. “Yeah, you're right, ma.” And then Frankie walked in. “Hey everybody.” He says, and Marty groans: "Gahh!" throwing his head back. “Can we have peace for five minutes?” Their father complains. “Come on, pa. I only said hi.” Frankie moves over to the kitchen to snag a water out of the refrigerator. “Oh yeah? Oh yeah?! You says hi, and then what happens, ah? A whole fight breaks out between you and ya brother, and who's gotta break it up? Me! Ya mutha' cant do it so I have to!”

James and Frankie give each other a confused look. “Dad, there ain't nothin' to be fighting about,” James says. “Yet.” Frankie chuckles and stands against the refrigerator. “What is this, what you doin' to my refrige'ra'ta? Awf Awf of it, boy! You see what I mean?! No peace! You're givin' me a heart attack!” Marty was making no sense with his complaining, but the boys didn't want to argue with him.

“Jimmy, where did you say you were going today?” Mary suddenly asks. “Oh. I'm just gonna sell some car parts to a guy. I won't be too late.”

That was sort of true. He was selling something alright, but not car parts. He was selling illegal drugs to teenagers in an alley. “Do you want it or not, kid?” James asks in a low, rough voice. He was frustrated. These high schoolers were practically chickening out. “Yeah, but..” One of the boys says nervously. “No buts. Look, if you take this, all your troubles are gone. You're relaxed and don't have a care in the world. Don't you want that?” James persuaded. The boys all look at each other and agree, then give their splits of money to James. And the deal was done. Well.. that one was. He still had 4 other ones to make.

By the end of all of them, it was already late night and he was tired, but he was hungry.. and he wasn't in the mood for pasta, so he went to some burger joint that was 24 hours. James heard the burgers were amazing because they were big, packed with add-ins, and their fries were amazing.

He pulls in through the drive-thru and places his order, then drives to the window. As he waited, he zoned out on whatever was in front of him until the window opened. “James.” A familiar voice calls his name. It sent chills up his spine. He looks over to the window to see you. “Y/n.” He calls back, and he can't help the grin that possesses his face. “You work in fast food? I thought you said you'd never do somethin' like this.” He laughs. You smile warmly. That laugh brings so many memories back.

“I guess I lied.” You reply. “Yeah, big time.” James keeps smiling. You give him the bag of hot food and a drink. “Here's your order.” James takes the food and drink and puts them to the side. “Thank you darlin'.”

Your heart stops. “Don't say that.” You mumble. “Oh come on, it ain't hurtin' nobody.” You shake your head. “James.. It's just.. not the time, okay? I don't think there will ever be a time for it either.” James looks down at the concrete wall and nods his head. “Yeah, okay. I get it.” He taps his finger on the wheel. “I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to upset ya.” He apologizes. “See you 'round school.” He gives you a small smile. “See you around.” You said back. See. Not talk, not catch. See.

Later that night, James was up thinking about you. He messed up so badly. It was the first time he talked to you in two years, and he screwed it up by making things awkward. What he didn't know was that you, too, were thinking of him.

Why did he have to call that name again? Your mind went back to fetch the memories of how loving and affectionate he was, how nice and such a gentleman.. even the fights and breakups were coming back, but you would still find your way back to each other, and it just proved how much you loved each other. Or at least that's how you thought of it.

He didn't actually see you around. His classes are way on the other side of the campus and were also in the morning, and yours were at noon.

It's a Friday evening, and James didn't work after school, which was great. He could just rest. No deals anything to make either. The only thing he had planned out for later was going to a house party that his buddy had invited him to. Did he think of you? Unfortunately, no. He was more focused on what drinks there would be, what snacks, and which of his other buddies were going. It was going to be fun, that's all he knew.

When he got home, it was just him. Peace and quiet. Great for a nap. He has a whole thing for when he naps. He closes the blinds, turns the AC on, locks his door, and gets all comfy in his bed. He has a big, warm, thick blanket as well. He likes his room to be cold so that he can go underneath the blanket. It's a little odd, but it makes him comfortable.

“Jimmy” knock knock

“Jimmy.” knock knock knock

“James!” knock knock knock knock knock

“JAMES!!!!!!” KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

The yell of his father and banging on the door were heard outside, and it woke James right up. “What pa?! I'm busy!” James whines sleepily. “Busy doing what? Messing with your pecker, you disgusting perv? Get out here and take this trash out!” His dad yelled, and his stomps were heard leaving. James groans into a pillow and forces himself to get up from his comfy environment. He shivers at the cold air and digs into his closet for a hoodie.

He looks at the time.. oh, he took a long nap. He came home at 2:30 and it's almost 7.

James walks to the kitchen and grabs the trash bag out of the can. “I don't want any of that disgusting trash juice on the floor. Your mutha just mopped.”

James tunes Marty out and steps outside to where the garbage can is. Frankie is outside smoking a cigarette. “Dad's right inside, you know? If he sees you smoking, he'll have a cow.” Frankie removes the stick from his mouth and blows out the smoke. “Nah. He dont care no more about what I do and dont.” He leans against the stairs. “A little birdy told me you're planning to go to a party.”

“How do you know about that?” James asks. “Don't worry 'bout it,” Frankie replies and digs in his pocket to give James a few bags of something something. “I told a few folks you'd be there. You sell these to them.” James takes the baggies and puts them inside his hoodie pocket. “I don't know if I can do this tonight, Frankie. I'm supposed to be having fun.”

Frankie sniffs and takes another puff. “I wasn't asking for you to do this. I'm telling you. You bring me half the money, and the rest is yours.” Frankie points a ringed finger. James sighs and hesitates. “Frankie, I wasn't supposed to be doing any deals tonight. I just wanted to take a break and have fun with my friends.”

The older man stands up and looks down at his brother. “There ain't no breaks in this business, Jimmy. No bitching out. Do you wanna stay affording college? Cause that man in there ain't gonna help you, he dont care.” He points to the door. James rolls his eyes and inhales a deep breath. “Them old heads don't give a fuck about you or me, James. You're 20, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

James was staring at his brother with angry eyes but they also had the 'okay' look. “That's a good boy, Jimmy,” Frankie says and pats his brothers cheek. “Remember. Half.” He says and then walks away.

James stays in place for a couple of seconds and walks back into the house to get ready.

He showers, throws on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a jacket over it. He wore regular everyday shoes to pair with. His cologne wasn't doing too much, but just enough for someone to smell when they or he walked past. He got a ride from his friend.

James was only at that party for 10 minutes before some guy went up to him for business. They went out to the back and dealt. It went smoothly. He was just wondering how many more times this was going to happen. In the span of 2 hours, he had sold all 3 baggies. Now he could finally have fun and drink as much as he wanted.

He joked and laughed with his friends for a while as they drank out of red plastic cups with liquor in them, they sang along to songs, and flirted with a couple of girls - they were just young men having fun at a party. “Hey isn't that Anthony?” Gerard, one of the guys in the group, asks. “Yeah, they call him ATM now, ya know? Because of his initials.” Someone else adds.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. That's kinda stupid if you ask me.” Gerard laughs. “But who's that girl he's with? I've never seen him with her before.” All the guys look over at Anthony and the girl. “He's always got a new girl every month,” James states the already known information. “She looks kind of familiar.”

“What if it's your ex, ah? She's got the same hair and everything.” Tony tries his best not to make it look like he's staring. “Nah, man. Every girl looks the same from the back. Plus, I doubt she'd even be at this party or any party at all.” James says, but even though he said he doubted it was you, it was a lie. He just didn't want to seem anxious about it in front of his friends.

“Are you sure?” Tony smirks as the girl turns to the side, showing off her side profile that was.. yours. James furrowed his eyebrows as Tony said that, and he looked right at you. His heart dropped. Why were you with EBT, Anthony? Whatever the hell they call him. Anthony isn't your type at all. You don't like guys who have a new girlfriend almost every two months, so what are you doing with him?

“Mister steal your girl.” Lucas laughs and puts a hand on James's shoulder. “What are you gonna do about that?” James turns his head to Lucas. “Man, get your dirty hand off of me. I don't know where that's been.” He tosses his shoulder, making the hand fall off. “I ain't gonna do nothing about that. It's not my business. She's not my girl anymore. I left her in the past.”

“Come on, we know you're not over her, Jimmy,” Gerard says after sipping on his cup. “You told us you talked to her the other day, right? Do it again. It won't hurt to catch up.” “You think AKA is gonna let me near his date? Get outta here.” James scoffs. “Let them be, I don't care.” Yes, he did. He cared a lot.

For the next half hour, James kept glancing over at you and ATM. His group of friends noticed, but they didn't say anything. They knew James would probably punch them in the throat if they tried bringing it up. As for Anthony, he also noticed James watching. The thing was that James didn't know that Anthony knew.

Anthony says something in your ear that James obviously and unfortunately couldn't hear or read from his lips in the room that was only lit up by dozens of different colored lights. You raise an eyebrow and look behind you to find James looking. He doesn't stop. He just lets the eye contact go on. “I don't know him.” You tell Anthony with a small shake of your head. James has an idea of what you're saying. “I think you're lying to me. James has been staring at us forever..”

You sigh softly. “Okay fine. He's my ex-boyfriend, but we haven't spoken since high school.” You weren't counting the time a few days ago. Anthony glances at James, who isn't staring anymore. “Change that. Go tell him to stop staring and mind his own business.” Anthony taps your ass and nudges you to walk off. “What? Why..”

“Because it's obvious he wants to say something. If talking to you again will make him stop being a creep, then go. This is the only time I won't be mad about it, though. I don't want you talking to your ex ever again.” Anthony says and nudges you again.

“God, you're so annoying,” you mumble as you head toward the corner where James and his friends are standing. The boys notice your approach, and Tony smirks. “Look who's coming,” he says to James. When James turns to see what Tony is talking about, his heart sinks again. “No, there's no way she's coming over here,” he says.

“Well, she is, so you better not embarrass yourself, tough guy.” Tony laughs. “Shut up,” James replied and tried his best not to look at you as you approached them.

Awkwardly, you stand in front of the group of young men. They don’t say anything; they just remain in place, waiting for you to speak first. “Hello,” you manage to say. “Hey,” Gerard responds. “Do any of you mind if I borrow James for a second?” You say and make eye contact with James.

James kept his gaze on you. Were you actually serious, or was this just a sick trick to embarrass him? The group of boys looks at each other as if they really needed a moment to think about it. “We don't mind at all, sweetie.” Tony gives the green flag.

“Thank you,” you say, looking at James expectantly. He exhales through his nose. “Lead the way,” he replies, following you to the back of the house, where fewer people are gathered. Outside is the best place for a conversation since it isn’t loud with music.

James is leaning against the tall brown fence. “Why did you bring me out here?” He asks. “Because Anthony told me that you wouldn't keep your eyes to yourself. He said it was because you wanted to talk to me.”

James raises an eyebrow. “I don't have anything to say.”

“Then why were you staring?” You shoot back.

James crosses his arms and replies, “Do I really need a reason?”

“Yes, you do. Obviously, you have one; you just don't want to tell me.”

“I don't know. I guess it's just weird seeing you with another guy, especially Anthony. At a party.””

“So you're saying that you're jealous.”

James huffs a laugh. “Am I?” He shakes his head. “Darlin', I ain't jealous of no one, okay? All I said was that it was weird. Don't put words in my mouth.”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“You should stop worrying about what I call you and start focusing on how dumb this is; us going back and forth. If we're gonna talk, I wanna have a nice conversation, not an argument.” James confesses.

You look down at the ground and mirror his stance. “Okay, okay.” You sigh. “Okay.” He repeats. A few awkward seconds pass by before he starts to speak again. “So, Anthony,” He brings up. “Are you really going out with him, or are you just friends?”

“I knew you were jealous.” You smirk. “I told you I'm not jealous.” He grumbles. “Just answer the question. I'm only curious.” You smile and uncross your arms. “Yeah, we're seeing each other.” James nods. “How long?” “Almost a month.”

Okay. It's not too serious.. James thinks.

“And what about you? Are you seeing anyone?” You question. James shakes his head and licks his lips before answering. “No. I'm focusing on school, and I get busy with work and other things. I don't have time for a girlfriend.” He responds.

“Ah.” You nod. “So you don't have a hookup buddy either?” That catches James off guard, but he laughs. “No.. I don't.” He says with a grin. “Not a hookup buddy.”

“So then it's usually just random girls?”

“Not totally random. It's only happened two times, and both girls are ones I know from last year. They're nice.. and I mean, it's not ĺike they wanted a relationship out of me either, so.. they were fine with just..”

“Getting dicked down and you leaving right after?” You offer.

“Yeah.” He responds. “Except I didn't leave right after. I stayed until the morning.” He says. “It wasn't awkward after we did it, so we would either just talk or go get something to eat, go back home, and then sleep it off.”

You hum in response. “I haven't done anything with Anthony.”

“How come?”

“Because I feel like that's all he wants, and if he gets it, he'll leave me right after.” James's face relaxes into a small frown. “You shouldn't be with him, then. If he doesn't like you for who you are, then you should leave and find someone who does.”

“I'm just gonna see how long we can last. Maybe he'll eventually not think like that.”

Oh, here we go. The “I can fix him” mentality. You're so pathetic.

“That's the stupidest thing you've ever said. You can't be serious.”

“Excuse you?” You give him a weirded-out expression. “Who are you to tell me that I'm stupid, James?” “An even stupider person.” He declares. “Y/n, he's not good for you. He's not good to you. Fuck, hes not good to anyone!”

“Don't take his bullshit. You need to realize that you dont deserve a douche bag like that. You need a guy who's gonna love you for who you are no matter what. A guy who wants to be there for you through everything.”

“Oh yeah, so you? You're describing yourself?”

James let out a frustrated groan, pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I distinctly remember telling you to stop putting words in my mouth,” he said, his voice edged with annoyance. “And for the record, no, I'm not describing myself. The reality is that you and I are finished, and there’s nothing either of us can do to change that. I’m not the right person for you, and you’re not the right person for me. We simply don’t match. Im just trying to help you realize that LOL over there isn't a guy you should be with if you want something serious.”

“Really? You mean ATM?” You exhale sharply, rolling your eyes in exasperation. “ATM, LOL, EBT, whatever—Anthony isn't a good guy. I know you’re not naïve, so please don’t pretend to be.” He grips your shoulders, his expression earnest and concerned. “Seriously, just break up with him before he ends up hurting you.”

“James, it's clear we can't have a nice conversation like you wanted. So before this turns into something it shouldn't, I'm going to walk away. Please let me go.”

James removes his hands and sighs, lolling his head to the side. “Alright.” He mumbles. “Enjoy the rest of the party.”

“You too.” You say and walk away. James watches you and bites his lower lip. He wished he just minded his business. He wished you didn't have to bring up relationships and hooking up. It really could have gone well if it hadn't been brought up.

For the rest of the party, James stayed in a corner where he couldn't see you. Tony was the one who stayed with him while the other boys were on the dance floor. James told him everything that happened. “No dude, she was in the wrong. She's being an idiot.” Tony says. “Don't call her an Idiot.” James defends you even though you were being an idiot. “My bad.” Tony chuckles.

“Can you give me a ride home? I just can’t deal with this party any longer. It’s even harder with her here,” James said, glancing towards the crowded living room where laughter and music filled the air but failed to lift his spirits.

Tony raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “Are you really sure about this? Don’t let a girl ruin your night, man. You've got to stay and enjoy yourself, at least a little,” he replied, trying to gauge James's mood.

James sighed, the weight of the evening pressing down on him. “I appreciate it, Tony, but I really need to go. I just want to get home, crawl into bed, and forget about all this for a while,” he admitted, his tone firm but weary. “Okay, let's go then,” Tony says.

Back at the house, James locks himself in his still-cold room. Already changed into sweats and shirtless, he replays the whole day in his mind

The day at school, receiving a reality check from Frankie and then dealing to his customers, having fun.. and then arguing with his first love. He tosses and turns in bed as he remembers. He can't sleep. He's overthinking.

What if she hates me now?

Should I have kept my mouth shut? Yes. No. Maybe. Somebody had to check her.

Is she right? Maybe I am jealous.

Jealous? What am I talking about. I'm over her. I can't get back with her anyway. I told her that already. If I asked, I'd look pathetic. I'm not pathetic.

Am I?

He falls asleep after hours of hundreds of thoughts. Hopefully, soon, he can apologize for upsetting you and OMG.

This will eventually have a part two, I just want to take a break from putting all my attention on this so I can work on my other asks. I wanted to really put in a lot of smaller details in this without smut because I wanted to prove to myself that I could write a good story without it having something sexual at the end. (Yes, there were sexual references in this, but hopefully, you know what I mean). I think this turned out well, and I hope you do too. Please let me know if it was boring and if I should leave those smaller details out and just stick to what I usually post haha.

@bxbyysstuff @anakinstwinklebunny @lovethestarrs @valloos @anisangeldust @xo-yaaaaaas-xo @anakinca @dollfilmz @gothams-sweetheart @sockiess @sythethecarrot @speaknow-sw @loveamira @alealuvshayden @mvst4far @prettiestmini @amiratheangel @blckberrie @literally-izzyy @litt1e-misssunsh1ne @chanelluvstvd @hearts4sammonroe @fratbrochrisgf

[dannyriccsystem]

lando’s crash today… i know he’s beating himself up, so would you mind writing a fic where reader comforts him or smth?

i loveeee all your works and i hope you’re having a good day/night MWAH

MY LOVE, MINE ALL MINE…

FORMULA ONE DRIVER X READER

Summary: Lando needs some comfort after a bad quali :(

Warnings: Light angst, comfort

Featuring: Lando Norris x Reader

Switching from 3rd person to 2nd 🤔 Let me know what we think!

Thank you sm for the request! I wish him the best of luck tomorrow 🥹

This was the first time in all of Lando’s career he was ahead of everyone else. He started the year off strong, ripping away Max’s longtime title of WDC leader, and proving all of the haters wrong. The first time in six years, and he felt good.

It was helpful to have you, his girlfriend, right there beside him, supporting his every step along this journey. Even when he was behind everyone, bearing the burden of being ‘Lando Nowins’, you were there for him, like a beacon of hope.

But today, April 19th, it felt like all of that was stripped from him. He sat a total of three points ahead of his teammate, Oscar, who had just qualified in P2. But Lando? Lando crashed. Lando had to start P10. It wasn’t fair.

If things played out the way they should tomorrow, he’d lose that lead. He’d lose all the work he had done, and practically have to start over. It was a stupid mistake and he knew it— Nobody knew it better than he did. He’s always his own harshest critic.

He sought you out as soon as he could. He found you in the Mclaren garage, discussing with a few of the mechanics, engineers, and reserve drivers. You were so carefree and friendly— The perfect person. It hurt him to have disappointed you in such a way.

No words had to be said. You both simply shared a look. He gazed at you with a look that resembled a pathetic dog, his metaphorical tail between his legs. Right now, the only thing that would cure his heartbreak was you.

You excused yourself from the conversation, which was thankfully dying down anyway. Everyone seemed to understand, allowing you to break free from the circle of discussion. Your arms flung around his neck, pulling him tight to you. He seemed to bury his weary face in your neck, finding consolation in the warmth of your skin.

He breathed in shakily, trying to hide his pain. You could see right through him, but didn’t want to push more than you already had. Pulling away momentarily, you pulled him down to press a comforting kiss to his forehead, hands running through his perfect curls. “Hey, you did great.”

“I crashed, Y/N.” He spoke as if it was a rebuttal, his voice a soft whisper. He should be congratulating his teammate on the high position, but right now he wanted to be selfish. Right now he just wanted your reassurance, and to know that you still cared.

“Everyone crashes. It’s part of the sport.” He tilted his head down, staring at you through damp lashes. “You’re going to be okay. I believe in you. You’ll rise back to the top,” You hummed, pressing your forehead to his. “You always do.”

He squeezed you tight, like he was making sure you were real, and were in fact right there in front of him. “I’m sorry for being a baby.” He laughed softly, but it was weak. Like he was slowly recovering from the hurt. Maybe he was being dramatic, but he didn’t care. This meant so much to him. He needed to prove himself more than anyone else.

“Don’t apologize.” Even there, in the crowd of the garage, it felt like it was just the two of you in the world. Nothing would ever come inbetween your love. You slowly pulled back, your hand intertwined with his. “Come on, we should go congratulate Oscar.”

With a soft smile, he nodded, allowing you to tug him along. Deep down he knew it’d be okay, because no matter what… He’d have you.

[gunsandspaceships]

MCU Timeline: Captain America: The First Avenger

March 10, 1917 - James Buchanan Barnes is born.

August 15, 1917 - Howard Anthony Stark is born.

July 4, 1918 - Steven Grant Rogers is born.

April 9, 1919 - Margaret "Peggy" Carter is born.

Why 1919 (deleted scene from The Avengers) and not 1921 (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.), as stated in Wikipedia: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. is not canon for the MCU (events of the show take place in another universe, where Peggy was born in a different year and had a different background).

1934-1936 - young Peggy serves as a nurse in the British Air Force.

1936-1940 - Peggy serves in the Special Air Service.

1940:

Peggy joins the Strategic Scientific Reserve.

Howard founds Stark Industries and becomes its CEO.

May 1941 - Steven Rogers attends a Dodgers vs The Phillies baseball game at Ebbets Field, Brooklyn.

March 1942 - Red Skull invades Norway and extracts the Tesseract.

1942/1943 - The Allies receive a gift from Wakanda: Vibranium. It is given to the SSR's Head Engineer - Howard Stark.

1943:

June 14:

13:50 - Steve gets his last 4F.

And his last beating in the alley a couple of hours later.

Evening - he and Bucky go to the "World Exposition of Tomorrow", where Howard demonstrates his (almost) flying car. Steve meets Dr. Erskine and gets a (falsified) 1A.

June 15:

Sergeant James Barnes heads to Europe with the 107th Infantry Regiment.

Candidate Rogers begins his trial week for Project Rebirth at Camp Lehigh in NJ.

June 21 - Dr. Erskine makes his choice and informs Rogers. They talk about it, about the serum and HYDRA.

June 22, morning - Steve becomes a super soldier. Erskine is killed. The last vial of serum is destroyed.

June 23:

Rogers is offered a position in the USO theater (to help sell war bonds) and receives a (fake) rank of captain.

Night - SSR (including Peggy and Howard) is being retasked to fight HYDRA and goes to London, UK.

July-October - Captain America's US tour (over 200 performances).

November 3rd:

Captain America show in Italy.

Night - Steve goes behind the lines to a HYDRA camp in Austria to rescue Bucky with the help of Peggy and Howard.

November 5th - he returns with 400 (CATFA) or 163 (CATWS) liberated soldiers.

A couple of days later - SSR in London. Based on the locations of HYDRA bases remembered by Rogers, they develop a plan to combat HYDRA. Steve puts together a team.

Marvel Studios' mistake: the medals and badges Steve wears don't make any sense at this particular moment. He simply had neither the time nor the opportunity to earn the Combat Infantry Badge, or the Presidential Unit Citation Badge, nor could he receive the American Defense Service Medal.

Next day, 8 am- Steve meets with Howard and receives his vibranium shield.

1944:

November 1943 - November 1944 - Howling Commandos destroy HYDRA weapons factories.

December 1944 - January 1945 - attack on the train with Dr. Zola. Bucky falls from the train from a great height and is declared killed in action. Zola is captured.

1945:

Soon after, early January - the Valkyrie is finished and ready to attack major US cities. SSR receives information about the location of HYDRA's main base in the Alps and heads there.

Next day - SSR attacks HYDRA's main base. Red Skull teleports to Vormir. The Tesseract is lost in the Arctic Ocean. Crash of the Valkyrie. Steve goes into suspended animation.

After January 1945 - Howard Stark leads expeditions to find Rogers. He finds the Tesseract, but not Captain.

March 23, 1945 - Case №17 is opened. James Barnes "joined" the HYDRA branch in the USSR.

May 8, 1945 - VE-Day.

Spring-Summer 1945 - Howard is involved in the Manhattan Project.

1946:

December 1945/January 1946 - Peggy is assigned to the SSR office in New York.

March 1946 - events of "Agent Carter" one-shot.

2012:

Early 2012 - 67 years later, Steve Rogers is found frozen but alive.

April 2012 - Rogers wakes up in the S.H.I.E.L.D. recovery room in New York City.

MCU Timeline: The Infinity Saga

[littlexdeaths]

𝕝𝕖𝕥’𝕤 𝕘𝕠, 𝕕𝕠𝕟’𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕚𝕥 (𝕥𝕨𝕠)

eddie munson x shy fem reader

warnings: lots of cute first date jitters, reader is clumsy, also a lot more cheese 🧀 — take your lactaid besties.

part one | part three

let’s go, don’t wait masterlist

a/n: i’m honestly blown away by all the sweet comments on that first little blurb. shy reader is 1000% me, so this is very near and dear to my heart. i hope y’all like this one just as much! also big kisses to my lovely angel @undead-supernova for looking this over for me <3

“This looks stupid.”

You huff, glancing at your reflection before rushing back over to your closet for the 3rd time in a span of twenty minutes.

But Nancy grabs your wrist from before you can make it there, pulling you down onto the bed beside her.

“Everything you’ve tried on has been cute… I don’t see the problem here.”

You groan and flop back onto the mattress, covering your face with your hands.

“I wasn’t exactly trying to go for cute, Nance.”

Your words are muffled behind your palms, but she gets your message loud and clear.

“I know you want to impress him, but my best advice is to just be yourself… that’s why he asked you out in the first place, right?”

You sigh, uncovering your face to look up at her. She has a brow raised, and as much as you’d hate to admit it— you know she’s right.

“Do you always have to be right about everything?” you puff out a small laugh and she beams, nudging your knee with hers.

“Of course, I am the brains of this operation, remember?”

You roll your eyes fondly before returning to your feet, smoothing over the denim of your skirt when you meet your reflection once more.

“Oh god, what about make up?!”

You only managed to change your shirt one last time before Nancy had to practically barricade your closet door shut with her body. Reminding you that, once again, you looked great.

It doesn’t help much to soothe that little voice in the back of your head that disagrees— but the rumble of an engine and a blaring guitar riff distracts from those thoughts momentarily as the panic finally starts to set in.

“Shit, shit, shit! He’s here already?” you squeak, glancing over at your beside clock.

6:45 pm.

He was 15 minutes early.

“He’s early… color me impressed.” She grins before peeking out your curtains.

“I’m… I’m not ready, Nance.”

Your heart is about to pound out of your chest and your palms are beginning to sweat. She steps away from the window to put her hands on your shoulders, face full of determination.

“Just breathe, okay? I’ll go down and let him in, you just take a minute and come down when you’re ready.”

You nod dumbly, eyes widening further when the doorbell rings.

Eddie’s here… actually standing on your front porch. Bouquet of flowers grasped tightly in his own sweaty palms.

“Thanks, Nance.”

She just gives you a reassuring smile before starting down the stairs and opening the front door. To say Eddie is surprised when Nancy Wheeler appears at your front door instead of you is an understatement.

“Uh… please don’t tell me I’ve got the wrong address,” he steps back to take a look at the number on the house again.

“No, you’re at the right place. She’s just finishing getting ready, come on in.”

Nancy can see the way his shoulders sag in relief before he steps past the threshold. Dark eyes wandering around the interior of your entry way in utter curiosity. Pictures of you and your parents line the walls, but one in particular catches his attention.

You’re smiling up at the camera, eyes scrunched closed behind the round frame of your glasses— with your two front teeth missing.

The sight has him grinning despite himself, already catching more of a glimpse of the girl that’s been on his mind for the better part of that year.

“So… where are you taking her?” Nancy asks casually, leaning against the doorframe of your kitchen.

Eddie turns then, still clutching the flowers tightly in his fist.

“The Palace… and then Benny’s. But don’t worry, I’ll have her back before 11 pm. Scout’s honor.” He grins, raising his other hand in a mock salute.

You can hear their voices floating up the stairs, which only seems to worsen the butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. You take one last look in the mirror to straighten your top and make sure your eyeliner wasn’t smudged before you turn the knob and make your way down the hall.

The creak of the floorboards alerts them both to your presence when you slowly begin to descend the stairs. Your hand grips the railing tightly, eyes finally lifting once you reach the landing.

“Wow,” he whispers in dumbstruck awe.

You can feel your skin warm under the intensity of his gaze, tucking your lower lip between your teeth to hide a grin.

But the sweet moment is quickly squashed when your foot catches on the edge of the step, and you go tumbling forward. Eddie drops the flowers in his haste before closing that short distance between you to catch you in his arms. Your bodies collide, much like what happened earlier in the cafeteria.

Only this time he doesn’t let you go right away.

“Steady now,” he chuckles, and your eyes can’t help but drift lower to stare at his lips. “You okay?”

You nod, not fully trusting your voice when he’s so close like this, you swear he must be able to hear how fast your heart is fluttering beneath your ribs.

“Oh goddammit, the flowers.” Eddie groans, making sure you’ve got your footing before he bends down to pick up the crumpled bouquet.

“Uh, I promise they weren’t like this when I got here...”

He hands them out to you with a sheepish grin, the apples of his cheeks now flushed a soft shade of pink. And from this close proximity you can see the faint freckles dotted along the bridge of his nose.

Man, he sure is pretty…

“They’re beautiful,” you smile, finally finding your voice. “Thank you.”

“… well, you two should probably get going, right?”

You had almost forgotten Nancy was even there.

“Oh what about—” you gesture to the bouquet in your hands, but she quickly cuts you off.

“I’ll put those in some water and lock up for you, sound good?”

You don’t have much time for protest when she carefully takes the flowers from your grasp and nudges you right into Eddie’s chest. You apologize between small giggles when he steadies you again, and Nancy disappears into the kitchen.

His eyes are almost sparkling in childlike delight at the sound of your laughter, and it’s something he’d like to continue hearing for a long time. Eddie guides you both toward the front door. His rings clink against the knob when he swings it open, taking a slight bow before motioning you forward.

“Your chariot awaits, mi’ lady.”

The Palace is packed by the time you arrive, but for a Friday night in Hawkin’s— that’s no surprise.

Young teens dart between the different games with renewed excitement while Keith watches on with a bored expression. Eddie’s hand is held loosely in your own, fingers intertwined while you decide what to play first.

You both agree on air hockey, allowing him to tug you toward the table with a newfound pep in his step. He hands you the blue paddle, teasing telling you that red is always his color before he crouches down to slip two coins in the slot.

“Prepare to be demolished, sweetheart,” he grins cheekily.

Your stomach flips at those seemingly innocent words, and Eddie silently pats himself on the back for how flustered he’s already made you. That’s not something he’s used to, making a pretty girl fumble over her words. But it’s something he’s decided he wants to see a lot more of tonight.

Eddie ends up winning two rounds of air hockey, but his victories were entirely due to the fact that you were so distracted. Poised across from him, you spent more time admiring the way his tongue poked out from between his lips in concentration— or when he had to pull his wild hair back into a bun when it kept flying into his face.

Not that you would ever mention that little fact to him.

“What’s next?” you ask, unable to hide your glee when he takes your hand without hesitation this time.

“Have you tried Dragon’s Lair?”

He nods his head over to the game that was just recently abandoned in a fit of rage by short boy with dark hair. If you were being honest, skee ball and air hockey were more your speed when it came to arcade games. But the look of absolute delight on his face has you willing to try regardless.

And just as you suspected, you’re terrible at it.

You’re barely able to get past that first level without dying repeatedly but Eddie continues to give you an encouraging smile while he leans against the machine. He adores the way your lips are pouted in a slight frown when the dragon engulfs the knight in flames again.

“Here,” he mumbles, sliding in behind you. “Let me help.”

His arms cage you in against the machine, and you can feel the heat from his chest seeping through the thin cotton of your blouse. Ringed fingers gently hover over where yours are stationed on the controls, and in your nervous state you don’t notice the way his fingers tremble slightly.

Eddie guides your hands with ease, all but playing the game for you at this point. But your focus is no longer on the dragons and knights. They instead settle on his hands, and how they completely engulf yours in size. And the way his chain bracelet rattles against your skin with each flick of his wrist on the joystick.

They continue to travel a little higher, noticing how the muscles in his forearms contract each time he pushes that red button in rapid succession. It has your mind wandering to places that it definitely shouldn’t be…

Like how his hands would feel gripping your hips…

Stop that.

When you take a shuddering breath, you get another whiff of his spicy cologne when he leans his head forward. The faint hint of tobacco and mint still lingers on his lips when he blows a breath out in frustration when he finally looses that round.

The words GAME OVER flash across the screen in brightly colored letters, and you feel a little disappointed when he begins to remove himself from you. But you’re suddenly feeling a little bold, gently turning to grab his hand before looking up at him.

“Show me again?” you mumble, chewing nervously on your lower lip.

Eddie grins down at you, eyes flicking down to your mouth for a fleeting moment. But his next move has your brain about to melt out of your ears.

He takes your lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, carefully removing it from between your teeth. He allows the pad of his thumb to graze over your lip while the other slips around your waist. Eddie guides you back around by your hips, quickly resuming his position behind you.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92 @blckbrrybasket @your-nightmaredoll @missmarch-99 @fandom-princess-forevermore

[starset21]

I Know Love Pt.1

Pairing: Lando Norris x Piastri!sister reader

Summery: Lando has always been a friend, her brother’s easygoing, fun-loving teammate. But when a fleeting moment in the garage—a near fall, a steadying touch—sends an undeniable spark through her, she starts to see him in a different light. And she’s not the only one. Oscar notices the shift, and he’s not thrilled.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

A/N: Wow a Lando fic? who am I?

The McLaren garage was a controlled storm of movement—mechanics tightening bolts, engineers huddled over screens, the scent of fuel and rubber thick in the air. It was a world she had always been a part of, but this year, it was different. This year, she wasn’t just Oscar Piastri’s sister. She was an engineer. Fresh out of university, she had spent the last year interning with McLaren while finishing her degree. Now officially part of the team, she was living the dream she had worked for—traveling with one of the most competitive teams on the grid, analyzing data, working with some of the brightest minds in motorsport. And yet, as she stood in the garage, taking in the organized chaos around her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. 

She didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Lando Norris.

He was perched on the edge of a workbench, race suit tied around his waist, arms crossed as he half-listened to an engineer briefing him about car setup. But his eyes—those sharp green eyes—kept flickering toward her. He had been doing that a lot lately. She tried to ignore it, just like she had ignored the lingering glances, the subtle teasing that felt just a little too personal, the way he always managed to be near her, even when there was no real reason to be.

Lando had been in her life since Oscar signed with McLaren. She had known him as her brother’s teammate, as the guy who spent way too much time in their apartment, as the one who dragged Oscar into ridiculous online challenges and way too many rounds of golf. But now?

Now she wasn’t just Oscar’s little sister who tagged along to races. She was a part of this team. She was someone Lando wasn’t supposed to flirt with, wasn’t supposed to look at like that.

And yet, here they were.

“Hey, rookie!” She turned at the sound of Oscar’s voice, watching as her brother waved her over from across the garage. She rolled her eyes at the nickname. He was already half-suited up, looking effortlessly in his element, the Piastri name printed proudly across his back. “Can you grab the updated telemetry from the board? We need to go over it before FP2.”

“On it,” she called back, already moving. The responsibility of being part of McLaren, of making real contributions to the car’s performance, was still something she was adjusting to. But she was good at her job. She had worked too hard, spent too many late nights studying aerodynamics, data analysis, and race strategy, to be seen as just Oscar’s sister. She was here because she had earned it. Navigating the crowded garage, she focused on her task—until the moment she didn’t. Her foot caught on a thick cable running across the floor, and before she could react, she was falling. A sharp gasp left her lips, but before she could hit the ground, strong hands grabbed her, pulling her back against a solid chest. 

Everything stilled.

A familiar scent of cologne and race fuel filled her senses. A steady grip held her firmly, keeping her upright. She knew exactly who it was before she even turned her head. Lando. His hands lingered on her waist for a moment too long before he finally loosened his grip. “You alright?” he asked, voice lower than usual, his breath warm against her cheek. Her heart was hammering in her chest—not from the fall, but from this. From him. She straightened quickly, trying to ignore the heat crawling up her neck. “Yeah, I just—” she exhaled, forcing a light laugh, “—was testing gravity. Works great, in case you were wondering.”

Lando smirked, the familiar mischief flickering in his expression. “Good to know. Maybe try not to test it in the middle of a race garage next time?” She rolled her eyes, brushing herself off. “I’ll keep that in mind.” But then, his voice dropped slightly, softer, more serious. “Careful, though,” he murmured. “I’m not always around to catch you.” And just like that, the teasing edge was gone, replaced by something heavier, something unspoken.

Her breath hitched slightly, her brain scrambling for a response, but before she could find one, Oscar’s voice cut through the moment. “What the hell was that?” She spun around to see her brother standing a few feet away, arms crossed, brows raised. Lando immediately stepped back, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair like he hadn’t just been holding her like that. “Nothing,” she said quickly, shooting Oscar a look. “I just tripped.” 

Oscar’s gaze flicked between her and Lando, his expression unreadable before he exhaled, shaking his head. “Right. Well, try not to break anything before FP2, yeah?” She gave a mock salute. “No promises.” As Oscar walked away, she turned back to Lando, expecting another smirk, another teasing remark. But he was already looking at her—like he was thinking about something he wasn’t saying. She should have walked away. Should have ignored the way her stomach flipped. Should have reminded herself that this was a bad idea. But instead, for a split second, she let herself wonder.

What if?

The garage was alive with movement—mechanics fine-tuning the car, engineers cross-referencing data, the rhythmic hiss of drills filling the air as tire changes were simulated over and over. It was the kind of organized chaos she had come to love, the pulse of an F1 weekend beating strong around her. And yet, she felt… off. She was supposed to be locked in, completely focused. But ever since yesterday—since him—something had changed. It wasn’t anything obvious. Lando still moved through the garage like he always did—laughing with the team, listening to the engineers break down data, cracking jokes to lighten the mood. To anyone else, nothing was different. But she knew better. It was the way his eyes flickered toward her across the room, how he never seemed to look away fast enough. It was the way his presence felt closer— lingering near her workstation when he never used to before, standing just a little too near whenever she was giving Oscar or the engineers updates. And it was in the way she noticed him more now, too. She wasn’t blind—Lando had always been easy to look at, and plenty of girls did. She had spent years rolling her eyes at every new headline linking him to a model or influencer. It had never mattered before. So why did she care now?

She was deep in concentration, reviewing telemetry for the upcoming session, when Lando’s voice cut through the hum of the garage. "Whatcha looking at?" Before she could answer, he leaned down over her chair to glance at the screen, one hand bracing against the desk beside hers. His arm brushed against her shoulder, his body heat close enough that she could feel it even through the fabric of her team shirt. Her fingers tensed on the keyboard. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, trying to keep her voice steady. “You suddenly care about telemetry when we aren’t in a debrief?”

Lando smirked. "I care about looking fast. And if you have some secret data to make that happen, I should probably know about it." She rolled her eyes but didn’t push him away. “If you’re looking for extra speed, maybe listen to your engineers instead of flirting with them.” His smirk deepened. “Who said I was flirting?” She turned her head then, her breath catching slightly at how close he was. Their faces were only inches apart, and there was something unreadable in his expression. A flicker of amusement, yes—but also something heavier, something deeper than his usual teasing. For a split second, neither of them moved. Then, just as quickly as he had leaned in, Lando straightened, grabbing a water bottle from the table like nothing had happened. “See you out there, rookie.” And just like that, he was gone, leaving her heart racing in his wake.

In the engineering office during a quiet moment between FP3 and qualifying. She was sitting at her workstation, buried in a complex set of calculations, when she heard it— Her name. Soft. Slow. Amused.

"Hey, you."

She glanced up and, of course, it was him. Leaning against the desk next to hers, looking far too relaxed for someone about to drive a car at 200 miles per hour. And then he did it again. Said her name, except this time, there was something in the way he dragged it out, a teasing lilt at the end that made her stomach flip against her will. She swallowed, trying to keep her voice level. “What do you want, Norris?” His smirk deepened, and she instantly regretted saying his name. “Just checking in,” he said, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. “You seemed stressed earlier.” She huffed, turning back to her screen. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” he asked, his voice dipping lower, quieter. She clenched her jaw. Focus. Focus. But then he leaned down, elbows on the desk, close enough that she caught the clean, fresh scent of him—something woodsy and warm that made her thoughts scramble. He tapped a finger against her laptop. “You work too hard.” She forced a scoff. “I think that’s a prerequisite for working in F1.”

“Doesn’t mean you should forget to have a little fun.” She turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “And I suppose you’re offering?” He grinned. “Maybe.” Her pulse spiked. It was dangerous how easy this was for him.

She thought she was done for the night. She thought she’d made it through without anything happening—without slipping up, without letting whatever this was get to her. But then she stepped into the hotel elevator and the doors started to slide shut, only to be stopped by a hand catching them. Lando. Of course. He slipped in, the doors closing behind him, and suddenly it was just the two of them in the small, enclosed space. And there it was again—that feeling, that unshakable sense that something had changed. They stood in silence for a moment as the elevator started its slow climb. Then Lando spoke, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “You’re avoiding me.” She inhaled sharply, keeping her eyes locked on the floor numbers slowly lighting up. “I have not been avoiding you.” Lando scoffed, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Oh, really?”

“You’re just in my space more,” she shot back. His lips quirked, but his eyes were serious. “Maybe.” Silence stretched between them. She could feel the weight of it pressing against her chest, thick and heavy. Then, he leaned in slightly. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that his voice was meant just for her. “You know I see you watching me, too, right?” She inhaled sharply. Heat crept up her neck, and she cursed her own reaction. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Lando let out a low chuckle, shaking his head and stepping into her space. “I think you like me.” Her jaw clenched. “You’re an idiot.” 

“Not denying it, though.” She glared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs. But before she could snap back, the elevator dinged, she instinctively stepped away from him and the doors slid open to reveal Oscar standing on the other side. His eyes flicked between them, sharp and questioning. Lando didn’t move for a moment, as if debating whether to push just a little further, but then he stepped back further with a knowing smirk. “See you tomorrow, then,” he murmured before walking past Oscar with an easy nod, disappearing down the hall. She exhaled, realizing just how tightly wound her body had been. Oscar, still holding the door open, gave her a look. She rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut up.” He didn’t say anything, but she felt his judgment.