#I like to think of my job at my second home

[jedisupernova]

married life with kwon jiyong

notes minors dni contains fem aged up reader (same age as jiyong), reader has a normal job, always written with plus size reader in mind as i am myself but anyone can read, slice of life, tooth rotting fluff, gentle love, suggestiveness, playful bickering and banter, mentions of drinking and smoking, smut (in the morning, oral f and m receiving, primarily sub!jiyong though it can switch), some angst (mentions of hardships and arguments, allusions to his hiatus and your struggles of being with a public figure,) overall just him being one of the keys to my heart, and inevitable typos.

requested? no because i can't be normal about anything! and i want this man so bad! this is my first time writing for jiyong; please be kind. this one is long. i really liked writing this, i hope you enjoy :)

life outside of your shared apartment is very busy, at times chaotic, and noisy. your husband and you live very different lives, and have done so since you started dating twelve years ago; him being a renowned musician, respected artist and performer, and a highly in demand global celebrity both on stage and at fashion week. you, on the other hand, worked as an executive assistant at a firm in the city for almost as long as you've been with jiyong. it came with its own stresses and discrepancies, as any job does. but when you two are home, all that matters are your wedding bands, feeding the cats, and snuggling so close on the couch that your body temperatures become one.

the love you share is at an atomic level. it doesn't manifest in finishing each other's sentences, per se, but more so jiyong knows whether you want coffee or tea that morning simply from how deep your frown is when waddling out of the bathroom. you can tell when a cold is creeping up on him simply from the sound his nostrils make upon an inhale, leaving him a steaming mug of ginger tea on his bedside table for him to drink before sleeping. if your hands are busy, he'll clip your earrings on for you. jiyong cleans your reading glasses every morning without fail, no matter how late either of you are—in the middle of his morning smoke, whilst you're in the shower, or when the coffee pot is brewing. or when you're running really late, hastily collecting your keys and trying to finish your toast, he squats down, shoe in one hand and your ankle in the other, saying "put your foot in," sliding your shoes on for you. you give him your hand without thinking when his fingers become restless. you pull him into your arms when he's being more quiet than usual. his hand will reach over to your cheek, thumb gently rubbing in a sheer streak of sunscreen that wasn't blended all the way before planting a kiss on the same spot. when he calls you, depending on the time of day, it's either to get lunch together or an attempt to get you to call off work early ("i'll tell my boss the same excuse as you if you do it too, honey." "jiyongie, cut it out. i'm late for a meeting. you're your own boss, anyway." "i married a smart one, hm?"), or how heavy his steps were when walking gave hint to how tired he was that day. you were the other's second nature—a soul meshed; equation solved.

jiyong initially fell for how unapologetic you are. who would've thought on your third date with the utmost famous kpop idol, that you'd be rapping his part in 'we belong together' to him at a random noraebang in gangnam at one in the morning? you remember thinking you couldn't believe you made it this far with him, so you just decided to do whatever—to see what happens, but also alleviate nerves, primarily. albeit you mumbled through a third of it and your hiccups from the soju you shared echoed loudly into the microphone—but you charmed the fuck out of him. he hadn't laughed that hard in a long while, and his flustered state followed him all the way home and into calling you the next day. it trickled into your relationship as it became more serious and into marriage: you were never afraid to tell him an accessory didn't go with an outfit (which has caused some petty arguments), not act like you liked a track when you didn't, or let him think he landed a joke well on a variety show (he always did, though. you just teased him so you could squish his cheeks from how deeply he pouted.) your honesty was refreshing, considering how easy it was to be surrounded by yes-men in the industry he's in.

jiyong showed his love in front of his staff, too. it wasn't only apparent in your holding of his hand in your lap during car rides, or his hand on your lower back as he showed you around sets for his music videos, but just how he visibly brightened at the sight of his wife. even in the midst of a contentious conversation with his team over creative direction, you sucked him out it just by walking into the room. that smile, the glow on his face—it was damning. better yet, you joined in too, unable to ignore the frustrated furrow of his eyebrows. some staffers couldn't help but gossip on their lunch breaks sometimes, saying in those meetings it felt like they were sat with the co-presidents of a company, or giggle over how they overheard you planting rather loud kisses on your husband's face, talking sweetly when you thought you two were alone and out of earshot ("you're my baby—my sweetheart." you kissed his cheek, soon landing on his lips with his makeshift pout from your holding of his face. "i am." he hummed, puckering his lips. "i'm your big baby."—"that's the same man who was growling into the mic the first day i met him?" said one assistant to another over lunch. "no, it makes sense," she countered with the shake of her head after taking a sip of her drink. "he's also the same guy who wrote 'good boy.'"

he does not go to sleep without you. jiyong makes due when he's overseas, albeit begrudgingly and does not let you hang up the facetime call when you both fall asleep. when you're both home, he gets up off the couch and takes your hand, tugging it. "come to bed. it's almost eleven." he said, pulling your arm. "i'm in the middle of my show, my love." you respond, pulling him back towards you. "i'll give you my ipad. now, c'mon." "fine, fine." you give in, pressing the power button on the remote before getting up. his free hand held your jaw, squishing your cheeks together and pouting your lips, placing a playful kiss. "thank you, my baby." he muttered. "yeah, yeah," you said before his lips returned to yours. "it better be charged." and it was, perched in your lap, finishing your episode with his airpods, too, jiyong snoring quietly beside you, having fallen asleep with his hand atop yours over the duvet.

when he comes home after extra exhausting days at work—especially if it was comeback prep, a studio session, a music video or performance filming day that began early that morning—he's very mumbly. upper half of his face hidden under a thick beanie, placing a lazy peck on your cheek as a greeting, shuffling to the shower, and plopping down almost cartoonishly at the dining table with a huff. you bring him a bowl of steaming leftovers from your cooking like clockwork. before you turn around to go get white wine for the both of you, jiyong takes your hand in his, pressing kisses onto your soft skin; a wordless thank you. you brush back his hair with your fingers, kissing his forehead. "i love you too." you say. "eat well, hm?"

you retrieve the previously opened bottle of white wine from one of the kitchen cabinets, carrying two glasses in your other hand. you pour the same amount for him and yourself, cheersing wordlessly before taking a drink. it was then that you saw jiyong still had a colored lens on—his left eye his natural brown, the right an unnatural pale grey, looking at you like an inverted mangekyo sharingan since the pupils weren't completely aligned—and thought to yourself oh! ... must've been a really long day, then.

he plans birthday and anniversary gifts months in advance. early in your relationship, he gifted very often, until he had no choice but to dial it down at your request. you lived in a small studio apartment until you moved in with him a year before he proposed, and there was only so much room for gifts varying from weekly flower bouquets (your personal favorite, even if it meant your kitchen counter and coffee table were virtually unusable with vases filled with daises, roses, and carnations), cartier bracelets ("do i look like someone who has somewhere to wear this to?" "yes, you do. on our trip to jeju next weekend and every single date after that."), or a first edition print of a book you love ("you spend too much money on me." "i would open my own bank just to take care of you.") even so, jiyong still has his ways—a new perfume on your vanity on the anniversary of his asking to be your boyfriend; a weekend getaway for your birthday; restocking your skincare whenever he walks in on you screwing the cap off your moisturizer to get the last bits of it; a mini tin of chocolate truffles paired with a loving handwritten note he always leaves on your bedside table before he travels overseas, even if you see him off to the airport.

wedding anniversaries are mainly spent at home. you've traveled elsewhere for the occasion before, but as you got older, cooking a warm meal together, opening a bottle of champagne, cutting expensive tiramisu cake, and sharing kisses on the couch sufficed more than enough. some anniversaries are tipsier than others, featuring either a comedically inebriated attempt of recreating your wedding dance ("and then i spun you around—" "no, you dipped me, jiyong." "hey! you don't think i know what happened at my own wedding?" "i was there, too! and you dipped me!") whilst the cats meow in protest of the noise, or going down a youtube rabbit hole and him begging you not to put on the bigbang secret garden parody in the recommended ("but it's my favorite thing you've ever done!" "stop lying, i know you like zutter the most!"), or the tradition of him playing 'HoneyBaeGirl,' a short song he wrote—and many since then—about you after becoming official all those years ago ("'girl, you make my pen fly off my paper, but not as fast as the stork that'll carry our baby' ... you really liked me that much?" "you say this every year, and i always tell you that i started looking at rings before our six months.")

however, without fail, every year jiyong is the last to fall asleep on the night of your anniversary. your upper half atop his, legs entangled underneath the fluffy duvet, his arms wrapped around your back, hands holding your head to his chest; two tall glasses once filled with water on his nightside table, downed before bed in an effort to thwart a possible hangover the next day. it's the feeling of his fingers combing your hair back that lulls you to sleep, along with the intermittent flutter of kisses to your forehead, and the vibrations of his chuckles against your ear when you mumbled something tiredly. "i love you so much, honey. thank you for another year." he spoke quietly. "i love you too," you muttered, slumber heavy in your senses. "let's do a millennia." he grinned. "let's do it."

when you fall asleep, his palm rests along your jaw, thumb tracing the supple skin of your cheekbone back and forth. his eyes would watch the rise and fall of your chest against his, or peer down at your face. so blissfully asleep, so easily beautiful. no matter how late at night, or how much liquor he drank, as if on cue, his mind shuffled through memories in a scattered sequence—the first time you spoke on the phone so long that the early morning sun caught him off guard; the coordinated efforts to see you in private; when your relationship leaked anyway during your two year anniversary trip (whilst you were still actively on it); when you were defiant upon his suggesting to break up to protect you ("why should i compromise for people who live in a false reality?"); hundreds of hours spent in the studio when dates felt impossible with his schedule, to you ultimately getting fed up and just meeting him where he was, leading to endless recordings he's kept on his laptop of you haphazardly attempting to rap to a beat he's made or sampling you in songs that stay between the two of you; his proposal, and both of yours blubbering tears ("c-can i—will you—" "—y-yes! oh my god, yes!" "i have to finish the question—oh my god, i can't breath through my own tears—c'mere, i'll wipe yours."); or one night on your four year wedding anniversary trip when you two were at polar opposite ends of the hotel lobby after a particularly rowdy night at the club together following a romantic dinner, both equally drunk if not you rivaling him—jiyong sat in a cushioned chair, on the phone with either an assistant, producer, or his financial advisor. you didn't know, nor the third rum and coke looming in your system hadn't made you care all that much. you were too busy trying to keep your eyes open to not out your deep inebriation to the poor concierge working the overnight shift whilst jiyong spoke quietly albeit with a finger in his other ear as if he was still in the club.

it was his recollection of this next part that always made jiyong grin to himself, the vibrations of his chuckle against your ear resulting in your satisfied yet meek hum amidst your slumber: "could you—would you be able to bring more towels to suite 403?" you asked politely, attempting irrationally to thwart the continued slurring of your words by straightening your posture. "it should be under the name . . . " your eyes went wide. "oh my goodness, what's my name?" you looked around worriedly, catching your shaky balance by gripping the counter, unable to believe that you were so far gone that your surname temporarily slipped from your consciousness. the concierge tried to get your attention saying she knew who you were as she was the person who checked you in a few days ago, but your fingers tapped your lips anxiously, seeing jiyong get up from his seat and walk over. "ji . .. jiyong—" you tried to call him over, but it felt like your voice couldn't go above a certain point. you turned back to the concierge, blurting the first thing that came to mind: "dragon. try dragon." you pointed to the computer, irrational worry knotted between your eyebrows. then your heart dropped for an entirely different reason: "i just compromised our safety." "what?" jiyong giggled beside you, hand finding your hip. "i leave you alone for two minutes and you're talking like you're in a bond film." you quickly leaned towards his ear, making yourself dizzy in the process. "i just told them you're g-dragon." you whispered frantically. he couldn't hold in his laughter, finding the ordeal amusing. the look on your face wasn't any better. he was pocketing this memory forever."that's fine, my love. they know—" "—i told them i'm mrs. dragon!" you whispered. "well, for one: you are." he shrugged his shoulders, hiccuping in the middle of his colorful laughter. "and two: its fine," jiyong assured, taking your hand. its good that we're leaving tomorrow, though. his inner monologue percolated at the back of his head. "let's head to our room. we're gonna feel this in the morning."

speaking of mornings: they're sacred in your household. historically, jiyong's the first to wake. but he doesn't get up until a while later, often silently coexisting with your sleeping form. call it two lost souls finding each other in this life, mere coincidence, or whatever it may be, but you wake up no more than a half hour after him—jiyong's ears perking up at the sound of your all-too-familiar, prolonged hmph. he scoots over, duvet rustling as his body molds against yours, lips finding that spot on your temple. you respond with the gradual wrapping of your arms around his shoulders, bringing him closer, warmth doubling. "good morning." he mumbled lowly, satisfied with your barely passing verbal response of another hmph. after a while, you nudge him off, feeling sweat start to build. "m'boiling." "you're s'mean." jiyong protested weakly, but obliged, moving back lazily to his side of the bed. like clockwork, jiyong felt a tug at the collar of his shirt, or hand on his shoulder if he slept without one some moments later, beckoning him when you were more awake, voice coherent. "come back here." "i thought i almost killed you." "stop being dramatic. its barely seven in the morning." "you made me this way." "fine. then i'll take the car myself to work." it took a moment, but jiyong turned back to you, huffing with an air of faux stubbornness upon your lips finding his cheek. "you know i always take to you to work." jiyong muttered into your neck. "its non-negotiable." you adjusted your position, relieving your back and allowing him to lay more comfortably between your legs, warmth of your thighs snuggling against his waist. "anything's on the table if you act stupid enough." "i don't have the brainpower for a witty comeback." "be quiet and let me hold you, then."

you were devastatingly beautiful in the mornings. one peek into your brain and jiyong knew you would think your dry lips, oily t-zone, shorts that rode up your ass comedically and uncomfortably, and sleep lines running across your cheek and arm after a restful night of sleep wasn't exactly the sight—but you were wrong; you were a sight to behold. jiyong's held that sense of awe from the first time you fell asleep beside him on one of your first movie nights as twenty-something-year-olds—never forgetting what it felt like to internalize the sound of your softened breaths, or your head dropping to his shoulder. to have your trust whilst you were in such a vulnerable state tugged at his tear ducts, despite his failed argument of "its because we were watching 'little miss sunshine' that i got so worked up," only to be pulled into your arms upon your catching sight of his increasingly glossy eyes, adorning his face with kisses.

it was the same sensation today as he opened his eyes, thumb tracing the wrinkles of your bottom lip before settling in the temporary divot of your cheek casted by your pillow; waist welcoming the subtle grip of those thick thighs that bestow upon him both heavenly pleasures and a sense of home; fingers fluttering past your rolls for his palm to grip the side of your right thigh, feeling the plushness of your skin nurtured by moisturizer and body oil applied the night before, humming in content at the soft prickle of body hair against his palm; hand sneaking past the bottom hem of your shorts, thumb kneading the powdery plushness of your ass, earning him a shaky breath as his lips peppered kisses onto your neck. jiyong slowly trailed down your chest, propping himself up with his free elbow, pulling your cami down enough to expose your right breast. he relished in your scent, basking in the lingering luxurious vanilla as his lips encircled your areola before taking it entirely in his mouth. he suckled with intent, lapping your hardening peak with his eyes closed. if he didn't think about it, he'd lull himself to sleep. it's happened before.

you brought his free hand to your lips, pressing kisses onto his fingertips until you cut yourself off with a small moan, looking down at your husband completely lost in you. the sun had barely began to rise, but here you two were, clearing either of your senses of slumber with your concurrent libidos—like you weren't a day past twenty-four; going at it in a company car before he walked into the practice room with an unmatched aura and graphic tee on inside out, hair tousled. "make it quick," you whispered, bottom lip caught between your teeth when his hand kneaded your left breast. "have to get up in fifteen minutes." "got it." he murmured. jiyong worked quickly, shoving his pants below his knees whilst you pull your shorts down enough to let him in with ease. it was a picturesque way to start your day: holding onto your husband's shoulders as he worked his hips into yours, listening to his quick pants since he's historically ignored the fact that he's more sensitive in the mornings as to not keep himself from making love to the pussy god herself carved for and bestowed upon him all those years ago—every squeeze a blessing; squirm fruitful bounty; utterance of your name a prayer.

jiyong sounded so frail in your ear, begging for mercy from something he started. "s-shit—f-fuck—slow d-down—" he said to no one but himself, voice falling into a mewl, breathing heavily. "how do you—how do you still feel so g-good after all this time? huh?" he's felt you unabashedly raw for years, but some part of him will always be left in awe—where does he begin? jiyong already sees the pearly gates when the skeleton of his name is whispered meekly through your teeth, let alone how it seems you mutually long for one another in your respective rem cycles, considering you slip so swiftly into one another—literally and metaphorically—mere minutes after you've woken up. its not that odd or rather dubious cliché of "feeling young again" or whatever the fuck—its the familiarity of someone that keeps you sane and drives you crazy all the same. and how your muscle memory serves you right even in a state of slight deliriousness, wrapping your legs as best you can around his waist as his heavy balls plop against the bottom of your ass . . . it was beyond jiyong how he wasn't a father of five yet.

"mmf! fuck! t-taking it s-so well—so e-early in the m-morning, too." "w-wouldn't want it any other—o-oh my god, just like that! just like that!" you grabbed at the back of his shoulders, chest pushing into his, your back arching. "harder, jiyongie. h-harder." the look on your face was his motivation to keep going despite his increasingly blurry vision and mounting pressure on his knees from being in the same position. there it was—the face he strived to make music to encapsulate; etched in his memory so many times, but when he sees it, its like he's never seen it before; if someone showed twenty-year-old him a photo of you and told him you were going to be his wife, he'd need a defibrillator. "f-fuck! h—h-haa!" he whimpered faintly, eyebrows contorted upward, hearing the bed creak as he rammed into you. you were in a state of bliss: hair messy, dried drop of drool in the corner of your mouth, toes curling into the linen, sleepies in the corners of your eyes—stretched out by the love of your life at 7:15 in the morning. you weren't particularly religious, but perhaps this is what being god's favorite feels like.

he's a pussy eater to his core. you spent months stuffing your face into your pillow so your roommates wouldn't overhear at three in the morning; jiyong put a chair to the door when you came by promptly before he was due to work with the company producers that day, making way for you two to become masters at hiding what went down less than an hour before on the same couch his boss was now sitting on; your honeymoon reeked of it—and he's a devout enjoyer to this day. the night you sat on his face for the first time, he booked a studio afterwards whilst you slept peacefully next to him on your full size bed—saying some of the raunchiest shit he's ever thought of into that microphone when no one was around. only to play it for you the next night he was over at your apartment, physically feeling his soul achieve completion when you mounted his face again, disappearing between your thighs; seeing double when you rode his cock like it was your last night alive. it was also a rare night where all of your roommates were out—you didn't take that opportunity lightly. or gently. or timidly, really.

his gaze lingers on you in the kitchen the weekends you have off, stealing glances whilst you tried to make something out of the leftovers from the fridge for lunch; growing sick of ordering in all the time. jiyong's attention had long strayed from whatever was playing on the television, fingers toying with the press-on that was half-on half-off his middle finger, eyes barely diverting from you—relaxed in a cami and shorts, stomach peeking over the top hem, your cellulite and curvature of your body illuminated by the streaks of sunlight pouring in from the balcony window—even when one of the cat's dotingly rubbed against his leg when walking past. he got up from the couch, making his way over. he initially made his presence known with his palm tracing your hips, following the curvature of your ass before his chin settled on your shoulder. it was normal—nothing to be picked up on; a gesture you love so tenderly. in fact, you were the one who turned your head to look at him with a soft grin, leaning in and giving him a sweet kiss. it was the way jiyong reconnected it—slow and with a soft, stuttered hum—that you knew what was up.

"not now." you tutted. as if on cue, your stomach grumbled lowly. "m'hungry." "i am too." jiyong's palm rode up your stomach before nestling on your breast, kneading it slowly—another familiar touch, you just didn't have the patience for it right now. his other hand moved the strap of your cami on your other shoulder, letting it fall down your arm, pressing a kiss onto your skin. "you look s'good. can't help it. wanna taste." he muttered. "here, i'll get on the floor. just stay there." before he made his descent, you turned your head. "you're the one who told me his left knee's been giving him problems these last few days. has that suddenly disappeared?" he pouted. "i wanted to be sexy." you mimicked his pout, jutting your bottom lip. "midday on sunday when i'm trying to make us sandwiches out of more than tuna and leftover kimchi?" you quip. he leaned closer, rivaling your faux pout. "mhm," he closed the gap, kissing your cheek. "should've done it this morning when i had the chance. got too shy." you scoffed. "don't make me laugh," you said. "you're the same person who—what was it, again? the second?" you thought aloud; the memory clear in your head as confirmation. "oh, right. yeah—when you were called into the office the second time dispatch got those photos of us, and you told your boss you'd write a song about our 'tender love' to drive up album sales, since that's what he always talked about." jiyong shrugged his shoulders. "i gave him an in. but i am shy." "you can be. sometimes." "all the time." "sometimes." "all the time."

you adore his facial hair to the point of contemplating hiding his shaving kit. his hiatus, as it riddled him with questions of who he is and where he stands in the world, had its own unexpected pockets of unbridled humanity not tainted by the unforgiving eye of societal pressures. it showed in how jiyong texted you whilst you were at work when it became him being the one waiting for his spouse to come home—photos of the cats, what he made for lunch and planned on either making or ordering for dinner, and that he was going an episode back on the series you two were watching together because he didn't remember how a certain plot point progressed. this was especially prevalent during his military service: Don't worry, I'll remember where we left off

on those days he had his scruff—lining his upper lip and peppering his chin—you were unabashed. sure, in the first year or two when you started dating, it was shy glances and hiding your disappointment when he showed up to your apartment freshly-shaven before a comeback. jiyong may have been young, but he wasn't clueless. it was hard not to put the pieces together whenever it was always "one more kiss" when he left for the night, seeing your eyes flutter to his mouth before leaning in again; your back already arched when he trailed kisses down your inner thighs before eating you out, muffling your own moans behind your palm from how good his scruff felt against your skin. this was certainly the tipping point. you never forgot what his "let me hear you" sounded like—slightly demanding, but all the more knowing. it made you moan louder, unabashedly stuffing his face into your cunt with his tongue's every ministration.

the floodgates had opened with you knowing he knew; fucking him as he tried to fuck you from behind, embattling for power. jiyong tried to keep his composure—it was the hottest thing he's ever fucking seen—keeping his grip on your hips, grunting in the midst of your moans. it was the clapping of skin and watching your globes recoil after hitting his pelvis repeatedly that made him surrender his grip to the headboard to keep his balance. and your breathy fucking "jiyongie—j-jiyongie!" bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyebrows curled upward; elbows and knees set ablaze, stomach rubbing uncomfortably against the duvet, but it felt too good to stop. "f-feel so fucking good!" you cried, eyes rolling back hearing his whimper. "fuck me back. fuck me back—n-need it, baby. need it s'bad." jiyong slowly pulled out, leaving only his tip in, hearing you wince longingly at the loss of him filling you up. the condom was creamy and visibly wet. he moaned when he saw his cock twitch inside of you. "all—all this—hngh! f-fuck!" he gradually pushed back in, feeling your gummy walls welcome him like never before. "a-all this b-because of some facial hair, baby? yeah?" "y-yes!" you gasped, eyes squeezing shut when his hips showed no mercy. jiyong ate his own words when he came over a different night, telling you he was going to shave tomorrow, thinking he would be able to handle whatever came his way with a smug grin. he looked ghostly an hour later—spread eagle on your bed, hands lifeless on either side of your ass, only mustering enough strength to kiss you back to break it with his own pathetic whimper, begging for more.

now its sweet hums of satisfaction feeling his scruff when he gives you a kiss before work, tracing it with your fingers as he lulls himself to sleep, or admiring how beautiful he looks. don't get it twisted—those desires never went away. jiyong leads you to his lips with his tongue the nights he comes home from traveling abroad, kissing you in just the way you like, but also the way he knows you feel his four-day-old scruff against your skin. it earns him the chill of your engagement ring and wedding band on the back of his neck, reconnecting the kiss sensually but with a hint of hunger, tilting your head to deepen it. you broke the kiss to catch your breath, forehead landing on his as the water sloshed around you in the tub, his fingers fucking you underneath the rose-scented suds. "a little gentler, jiyongie." "m'sorry," he mumbled. "its okay—" "—just missed my love so much, is all." "missed you t-too." his lips cast a kiss on your shoulder before settling his forehead there, hearing your more satisfied breath when he altered his pace.

or a few days later, when he was trying so hard to watch the confession between the two leads of a series he's been waiting eighteen episodes to see with you, but just couldn't stop himself from shoving his dick deeper into your mouth. there you were, back of your head facing the television, laying comfortably on your side with your feet curled up on the bed, listening to the dialogue whilst sucking your husband's dick. you did it with bliss—like second nature, only opening your eyes to catch your breath and pump his hard cock coated with a mixture of his slick and your spit. he watched you with deeply furrowed eyebrows and his bottom lip begging for mercy—contrasting wildly with how casually he propped his head up with his elbow on his pillow. "f-fuck—a-agh!" he mewled, eyes squeezing shut as you did what he loved most, and may or may not have percolated at the back of his mind when he gifted you a lady dior bag for your birthday that year—sucking hard on his tip, then slowly letting go. the sound your cheeks made when un-hollowing was diabolical. twenty-five year old jiyong would want to somehow sneak that into a b-side, distorting the sound enough to pass it as part of the beat drop or something—anything; seamless to the listener, sinful to him. the idea still stood all these years later, but perhaps he would stick to just keeping it in the lyrics . . .

"hngh! oh my fucking—" jiyong's hand slipped into your hair without thinking, at your complete helm as he watched you take more than half of him into your mouth, sucking hard, before bobbing up and down normally. his voice was a noticeable octave higher—"like that, like that—k-keep—keep going!" "shut up," you muttered. you readjusted yourself on your elbow, feeling your neck begin to strain, his hand falling lifeless onto the bed. you let go of his dick, wiping the drool from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, noticing how his cock barely moved from how hard it was. you started pumping him again, hearing him suck a breath through his teeth. "can't hear the tv. turn up the volume." "o-okay, honey—" jiyong gasped when he returned to your mouth. "okay—f-fuck! oh, fuck—okay!" he reached with his non-dominant hand to the nightside table, aimlessly grabbing for the remote, knocking it to the floor in the process. the small crash made you nearly choke on his dick, popping off quickly in attempts to stifle your laughter behind your hand. "s'fine—s'fine. i got it—" he tried to reach down, but to no avail. "get back here," you beckoned, tugging at his shirt. "you've waited long enough."

this goes without saying, but you have everything you could ever need. from the moment he gave you his black card after a year of dating to use on anything you want, spending five minutes after that ensuring you that he was in the right state of mind ("why're you giving this to me? you barely know me." "what? you and i both know i know you enough to trust you.") to calling you that same week to tell you its okay to use it after seeing only two charges for coffee a few days apart ("i want to take care of you. you're the only one for me, you know that?" "you're crazy." "well, for you." "i set myself up for that one, didn't i?") to feeling utmost satisfaction seeing charges for household maintenance or paying for a movie night with your friends ("it felt rebellious to spend twenty dollars per ticket for five people with someone else's money." "i think you're the funniest person i know.")

you weren't exactly a public figure—jiyong made sure of that as much as he possibly could, as it was your wish—but that didn't mean you were completely or utterly unrecognizable. photos of existed out there of the two of you, either floated around by dispatch, or when your thank-you-for-attending cards containing your official wedding portrait leaked to the press—both with years in-between them. you went to concerts when you felt comfortable enough or could. he never pressured you to do something you didn't want to, but if he really wanted you to come (which was more often than not, if not all the time,) he'd find his ways: "there's going to be a fun rendition of crooked, and my hair will be styled the way you like." "jiyong, i already took my pto. i'm coming." "i love you so much."

in the years of his hiatus, there were several months that went by where everything felt fine, so you took public transit. it wasn't much or often, per se, only when jiyong felt too under the weather to drive you ("head down to the lot. i'll get the keys, baby." "you look ghostly. i'll leave ginger tea brewing on the stove before i leave."), wasn't home, or when he woke up feeling a little off, opting to stay in bed for a little while longer after giving you a tender kiss goodbye. if you looked out the window long enough during that fifteen minute commute, you suddenly felt like the twenty-one year old you once were that wasn't able to be on time for anything, let alone for classes. there were some days you would see the knowing glances from other passengers, or double takes a fool wouldn't notice. to your fortune, they either didn't say anything, or you sped to the escalator before they could.

one evening after work, however, you weren't headed home but out to dinner with a friend. several stops before your usual terminal, cutting down the usual fifteen minute ride to four—remember that. you rushed into the crowded train car before the doors closed, holding onto a nearby pole a small group of passengers around you gripped, fixing your hair that was messily tousled by the wind and securing your purse over your shoulder. in the midst of that, you caught sight of a prototype peaceminusone daisy pin, having forgotten you clipped it onto your blazer weeks ago after jiyong showed you the new collaboration he was working on. it was a moment that lasted mere seconds, the pin covered up by your purse strap after adjusting your posture, but it was enough for someone to see and make the connection after recognizing you. you hadn't realized someone was tailing you until you were outside of the restaurant. jiyong didn't let you go on public transit again for over a year, hiring an on-call chauffeur that same week.

private as you were, and as much the universe tested the both of you—you and jiyong had ways of finding humor amidst the turmoil. he's culturally ordained the king of kpop, yes, but also is equally deserving of the title of being-subtle-but-not-silent—exhibit a being the year when he showed up to paris fashion week with a strategically placed dark maroon-hued kiss mark in the divot of his collarbone, purposefully poking out of the collar of the chanel piece he was wearing. you did it in a rush in the bathroom of his hotel suite as he was running late; the idea coming to the both of you when you put the finishing touches on his outfit—a long-standing tradition usually administered through dusting something off his clothing, adjusting an accessory, or in this case, applying one. netizens ate each other alive—some saying it was what it clearly was, despite the angle of the photos and his clothing hiding a lot but not all, and others convincing themselves it was a birthmark not seen before that day, or a new tattoo. exhibit b being when you were spotted on a "rare public outing" (dispatch's words, not yours; you're no stranger to grocery runs) wearing a very obviously bootlegged g-dragon shirt—his face pixelated and off-center in the front, name separated by several spaces as opposed to a hyphen in the back; a gag gift from a friend a few christmases ago. he thought it was hilarious, sending you the photos himself: You look hot. The guy on your shirt not so much :)

it was a lovely surprise to see you in the crowd when bigbang returned to the stage at mama, stood in a closed-off section of the seating with members of his staff. the lip readers of the internet metaphorically rode off into the sunset after revealing to the world that you, indeed, said gleefully to his manager that you've known for years: "he looks so fucking good, oh my god!" and "i'm glad he went with that necklace!" whilst pointing at the stage—all before dancing and shouting the words back to him like it was your last night alive, of course. another staff member took a video and sent it to the group chat for him to watch in bed whilst you did your skincare in the en suite, tucked into his side, burying his face into his pillow as his face grew warmer.

to this day, he becomes so unexpectedly shy. that same night, for example, you had to use both hands to tug his shoulder to get him to look at you. even then, he still hid his face in his pillow, not having the gall to look at you or wipe that stupid smile off his face. your kisses to his warming cheek didn't help him, let alone your usual line: "you've made me see stars. now you don't want to see me?" you said by his ear, hand rubbing up his back tenderly, giggling upon hearing his muffled groan. "don't say that," he elongated the last syllable, arm slinging over your waist, fingers grazing the top of your ass. "you know i can't bear it." "mhm," you hummed, voice sounding akin to honey. "at least give me a goodnight kiss. i worked so hard cheering for you tonight, you know?" you smiled, hand now coming up to brush his hair back, ushering him to you. jiyong lifted his head, bringing his lips to yours. your hand held his cheek, kissing him back, lips separating slowly. "i love you." you whispered. "i love you more."

or when you two make lunch together, him washing and cutting the vegetables whilst you looked for the pan needed to sauté for the quick dish you decided to make that afternoon. you placed the pan on the stove, turning the correlating knob to ignite the fire underneath, drizzling it with olive oil whilst it began to heat up; an anecdote from work commentating everything. "thought i heard something about lay-offs. turns out, it was just that asshole co-worker that got laid over the weekend." jiyong's eyebrows raised, amused. "you heard that on your lunch break?" you gave him a look that deepened his upside down grin, shaking your head. "the shit i hear, my love," you tutted. "i'm surprised i'm not stuck in a state of perpetual grievance." he let out a laugh, his eyes kissing at the end. "you can be so funny, you know?" "can be?" you quipped, unable to hide your grin. "i thought it was the funniest person you knew, hm?" you tugged at this shirt, bringing his cheek to your lips.

your hand found his lower back, rubbing sweetly. "have you finished halving the tomatoes? i think the rice should be done by now." you thought aloud, peering over to the opposite end of the counter, seeing the steam pour out of the cooker. "mhm. almost." he murmured, feeling his neck and face warm. you turned to look at him, seeing the all-too-familiar avoidant gaze and awkwardly readjusting of his posture, topped off with a sharp inhale through his nostrils. you smiled knowingly, wrapping your arms around his waist, looking up at him. "did i blink and suddenly twenty-four year old jiyong showed up?" "stop it." he murmured, prolonging that last syllable. "you were so cute back then—" "—am i not cute now?" "hush. let me say my case." his face scrunched up with his smile, landing his forehead against yours. "we didn't know bullshit about anything. you were so keen to please. in more ways that one." he buried his face in your neck, making you laugh, skin hot against yours as your hands traveled up his back. "you're going to kill me." he muttered. "you know," you said to him. "there's not a boring day with you."

arguments aren't non-existent. when they occurred, you both knew each other well enough to take whatever course of action necessary: talking it out, or if things still felt too hot, taking a breather. you trusted each other to know things would mend, no matter if it was immediate or after some hours of silence. the only exception was if one happened before he had to travel for work—he squashed that shit like a bug. he learned that lesson the hard way in his mid-twenties, thinking he could hold out and carry a grudge to prove a point over some petty argument, only to fly home during the first two-day break on tour, knocking on your door when he knew you were home from work. jiyong couldn't live with it, being hundreds if not thousands of miles away from you, knowing something was pestering your mind, or hurt was ruminating somewhere inside you. no relationship is perfect, but he would be damned if he didn't at least try—especially through the ruckus you've endured from being with someone as famous as him. to jiyong, its the least he could do. he feels fortunate the universe led him to a spouse who wants to handle things with care as much as he does—to move mutually and maturely.

when he misses you, its palpable. whether it be when you leave the passenger's seat after he drops you off at work, or when you can't come with him to new york fashion week, he feels it. as do you. its never nice to wake up to an empty house, or an unfamiliar hotel room, but you make due. texts suffice as much as it can if you can't facetime, making you grin to yourself at your desk: Do you like it? he sent over a mirror selfie and staff-taken photos of him in a chanel ensemble he wore to a runway show in what was his afternoon and your early morning, hearting the one where he looked a little caught off guard. I do! Your hair color clashes with the outfit, though you typed back, stifling your laughter at his response ten minutes later: I'm not coming home. I'm laughing too much at my desk you're going to get me in trouble, you responded, only to have to put your hand over your mouth and muffle yourself. Stop laughing at my misery

jiyong texted you throughout the night for you to read in the morning: photos of his food, Here's the beer I paid way too much for, asking about the cats, and selfies of him in any state: one eye open with the other closed as his makeup artist does his eyeshadow; him pretending to smoke his lighter; one where nothing but his eyes and forehead are visible with the car window down halfway, a glimpse of the empire state building behind him with the accompanying Do you know where I am right now; I think we should have gotten married here; to the most recent I miss you a lot my baby. Call me when you wake up sent an hour ago. it was early morning for you and early evening for jiyong—you swiped right on his last message: Good morning from my side of the world; Are you at your hotel? Make sure you're outside in about 10 min. I'm going to have breakfast on the balcony, we can look at the same sky together

jiyong was out to dinner with his staff, excusing himself from the table when your texts came through. he stepped outside, your phone vibrating after you took your first bite of toast. he felt his sinuses loosen, his eyes misty at the sound of your voice on the other end of the line. it hadn't even been twelve hours since he last heard you, but he got worked up nonetheless: "hello? jiyong, can you hear me?" "yeah, honey. i can hear you," he nodded, blinking hard. "i have—i have the wifi. i'm outside. out to dinner." he swallowed. "what does the sky look like for you? its getting dark here. central park is across the street, and i think i see the moon over one of the trees." "hmm," you thought aloud, leaning to your left. "its early here. the sun hasn't come over the building yet. but the sky is clear. its nice today." "yeah?" he smiled, his vision blurry. "thats—thats good. i'm glad, honey." he nodded, looking down at the sidewalk pavement. "listen, uh . . . you need to stop being randomly poetic over text." "randomly poetic?" "like—like what you said about looking at the same sky, or something." his mind was scrambled. you heard him sniffle. "it hit me—it hit me a little hard."

"oh," your heart melted. "i'm . . . sorry?" you heard him laugh on the other side of the line, hiding your face behind your hand from no one. "its okay, honey. its okay." he assured with a stupidly big smile, despite you not being able to see. "i guess what i'm trying to say is, i don't know how i got so lucky." he shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. "and my plane can't come fast enough, you know?" "i know." you nodded, looking down at the floor, corner of your lip caught between your teeth whilst your eyes watered. "you can't make me cry not even an hour after i wake up. you should pay a fine. or something." he let out a colorful laugh, not paying mind to the stares he got from passerbys. "thats fair." he said. "i have to finish breakfast and plate the cats' food. the car'll be coming in ten minutes." "you need to quit that damn job and spend all your time with me. i've been telling you for years now, baby."

you smirked to yourself, taking a bite of your toast. "listen, you keep crying over me like this," you said after taking a sip of water. "then maybe becoming a trophy wife is written in my fate." you joked, hearing him laugh. "i love you!" he exclaimed, smile evident in his voice. "i love you so fucking much, holy shit." "if you're still up by then, i'll call you during my lunch break." "oh, i'll be up. don't worry." he shook his head in reassurance, free hand on his hip. "i'll stay up for you. let me know when you get to work, okay? i love you." "i love you tenderly."

honey's taglist! ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა: @gongyoosgf, @infinetlyforgotten, @mesopotamism, @riddlerloveb0t, @pepsicolapussi

[yanderedrabbles]

Helloooo! I just loved the old west gang. Traumatized? Yes. Curious? Yes. But specifically the Lakota wrangler caught my attention, and oooh this part:

"""Don't be. You're my reward, my reparation." He brushed his knuckles across your cheek again.

"I've waited my whole life for you."

You wanted to ask why. What made you so special? Why did he want to keep you? ""

VAL, TELL ME WHAT DOES THIS MEAN? WHAT'S HIS STORY? WHAT'S HIS DEBT?

OH MY GOD HIS PART IS SO 💕💕💕💕

TELL US THEIR BACKGROUND PLEASE 🥹🥹🥹

Yandere Outlaws - The Wrangler's Past + the gang hearing about you for the first time

I think the wrangler probably has one of the most interesting backgrounds. We all know that the Wild West era was no fun at all for Native American tribes. Manifest Destiny and all the terrible things done in it's name saw Native tribes being confined to smaller and smaller reservations, with stricter and stricter rules. Bison were disappearing, the railroads were cutting across hunting lands, and permanent settlers were coming west in droves.

I think in the face of all that, the wrangler felt like he had to adapt or die. Set out on his own and try and make it in the white man's world.

I reckon he falls in with the boss after a nasty bar fight. Him against some cowboys who feel like a Lakota on "their" turf is blasphemy.

Things don't look good at all. He's a strong fighter but numbers almost always trumps skill. He's going to end up dead in the mud and no one will give a damn.

Well, until the boss arrives. Maybe the boss is an old quick draw and when the smoke settles the cowboys are down for good. Or maybe the boss just has that look to him, that keen eyed glare that makes dumb cowhands think better of their bravado.

Either way, he hauls the wrangler out of the mud and offers him a job.

"Need a man for my horses. I'll pay you good to stick with us for coupla weeks."

The wrangler agrees. Because hell, what else is there to do? And if the older man looks hard edged and hard eyed, how much does that really matter? This is the West. You either get tough or get buried.

I think one way or another, the boss earns his loyalty. He gives him a sense of belonging he hasn't felt since he set out on his own. Gives him a purpose. And well, robbing banks and derailing trains and sticking it to old Uncle Sam is about the best he can do to make up for what his tribe has been through. Just one more outlaw pricking Washington in the thumb.

And as for you, sweet thing that you are, oh, you're what he's waited for all his life.

A girl to call his own. Soft and kind, to keep the cold away. Looking in your eyes makes it so easy to forget all the shit he's been through, all the shit he's done. He's been through his share of trouble and then some. He deserves a place to rest his head, a person to call home.

So what if you aren't willing? The world has gone out of its way to take what should have been his by right. The bison, the land, the open sky and flowing water. All of it divvied up and fenced off. He's not letting anyone get in the way of the one good thing he can finally call his own.

I think the thing that initially attracts him to you is the story of you and the second in command. The second is Chinese and he hasn't had it easy either. He could either work the railroads or die in a ditch. Not the best options, but just about the only ones open to an immigrant's son.

If you were anyone else, you'd have screamed your head off when you found him bleeding in your barn.

You didn't. Instead, you put him back together and kept him safe from your pa.

When he first heard the story, it was a cold night out on the planes. They'd just pulled off a job and were sleeping rough, trying to throw the law dogs off their trail.

The second kept looking out to the west. Maybe he was keeping an eye out for pursuit, but they'd pulled their job off back east. Marshals would be coming from that direction, if at all.

Finally, he gave in to his curiosity and asked the man what the hell he was looking for.

"My girl," he said simply. "My girl stays out that way."

The outlaws grew quiet around the fire.

"I didn't know you had one," the boss said, elbows on his knees as he sharpened his boot knife. "Is that where you go off to when we're in town?"

"Mm-hmm. I like to check in on her."

The gunslingers leaned forward then, as in sync as coyotes.

"She must be one hell of a girl, if she can put up with your ugly mug."

"Is she pretty? Got those nice eyes that look up at you all sweet?"

He ignored them and went back to looking west, like he could somehow see over all those miles.

"Do you love her?" the wrangler asked suddenly. He didn't know why he asked that, just that it seemed important.

"More than I thought possible. Every time I see her it's like my heart is breaking. If I can't have her, I think I'll go mad."

The boss looked up for a second, blue eyes catching the firelight. "You gonna marry her then?"

The second laughed, uncharacteristically nervous. "She doesn't even know I exist."

The boss stopped sharpening his knife. "How do you know you love her, if you ain't never talked to her?"

"She saved my life. That's how I know."

The wrangler looked up at the sky and wondered who would go out of their way to save an outlaw.

The boss stuck his knife in his boot. "Tell us the story."

Maybe if anyone else asked, the second would have refused. You were his girl. He didn't want to share even the memory of you with other men.

But you don't say no to the boss.

When he was done telling it, the outlaws were quiet. Lost in their own thoughts. All of them thinking how sweet it would be to have a girl like that. Feeling for a second what he felt every time he thought of you.

It was the wrangler who broke the silence, only half aware he was speaking. "I'd do anything to have a girl like that. Someone so kind..."

The dark skinned outlaw leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "She sounds too good for either of you."

"And you're any better?"

He didn't get to answer. The green eyed gunslinger cut in, his voice low and mean.

"She sounds real innocent. Kind of girl who'll cry when you fuck her for the first time."

The second in command stood with a snarl, already reaching for his rifle.

"Don't."

The boss, quiet but no less dangerous for being so.

"We're all men here. We're all gonna think somethin' like that when you tell us 'bout a girl so...untouched."

The second sat back down stiffly, his jaw clenched tight.

The boss continued, "Ain't like we're gonna steal your girl from you. Let it go."

The wrangler didn't let it go though. Not even when they were back in their hideout, a whole lot richer than they were a week ago.

He stopped the second in command when he was saddling up his mustang.

"Take me with you. I want to see this girl of yours."

If it was anyone else, he'd have said no on the spot. But the wrangler had a quiet gentleness about him that made the second agree.

They watched you from a hill overlooking your father's ranch. Just two shadows against the setting sun.

One of your horses had taken sick and you were walking it around the corral. Stopping every little while to stroke its neck or rub its nose, whispering encouragement. You were patient, gentle. The hem of your skirt tucked into your belt and showing off a sliver of thigh as you moved.

The wrangler sighed and stroked his horse's neck.

"I understand now."

"Understand what?"

"Why you keep looking for her, even if you're a hundred miles away."

As they rode home, he found himself doing the same thing. Looking over his shoulder like he could somehow see you one last time.

And the first time he saw you up close? Backed up against the kitchen table, corned like a vixen at the hunt? That's when he realised exactly what you were.

You were his reward.

The one good thing he'd struggled all his life to find. You were going to be his peace. His home.

And the first time he had you? On your knees, kissing his cock, your eyelashes still wet with tears? That's when he decided he'd keep you, no matter how cruel it was. No matter that doing it would strip him of any claim to goodness. A good man wouldn't get hard seeing you cry. A good man wouldn't fuck you when all you wanted was to go home.

But then again, how could he stay a good man in a world that hated him? That wanted him dead and gone?

When he kissed you, he signed away his last bit of honour. It doesn't matter that he holds you so gently, that he touches you like a lover.

He'll never let you go. And ain't that just a bitch?

[whumpster-fire]

Someone in the notes said:

and he makes sure that his (also grumpy) daughter feels safe loved and self assured

Okay, like... I think he gets marginally better in the 11th and 12th movies (which I'm not rewatching to confirm because "The series actually finally addresses the fact that Cera's mom is dead and that his dad rekindling a relationship with someone she doesn't even know is hard" is pretty much the only thing those two films did well and is very much a B-plot that doesn't actually get enough screen time to justify sitting through the rest of those movies) but Topps doesn't do a very good job of this for at least the entire first half of the series.

Original Film: taught his daughter to be racist. Which to be clear was not working nearly as well as he hoped and the whole reason Cera got separated from her herd is because she snuck off to play with Littlefoot in the middle of the night. She got worse after the whole Sharptooth Attack / giant earthquake separating her from her family thing but, like, Cera started imitating her father's racism more after ending up in a very traumatic situation as a result of disobeying her dad's order to not play with Littlefoot.

Second Movie: Cera makes an incredibly stupid and reckless decision that nearly gets the entire gang killed. Cera, later: "I suppose you all got the same lecture I did? Don't hang around with longnecks, beakfaces and spiketails." (everyone else is shocked because their safety lectures did not involve racism). Just to be clear, the gang tried to cross a lake of quicksand over some stepping stones. This was entirely 100% Cera's idea, nobody else wanted to try it, and her friends putting themselves in danger trying to help her literally saved her life. She would have died before any adult could even get to her. Topps proceeded to try to blame this on her friends being bad influences and is racist about it. Anyway Cera then proposes the group run away from home to prove to the adults that they can take care of themselves, which is also a horrible idea but like. Reading between the lines here Cera is acting out because her idiot father is trying to isolate her from her support system.

Third Movie: this is the one where Topps sings a cool song that some people in the notes mentioned. This moment is somewhat undercut by the fact that this happens while he's trying to bully the rest of the Great Valley into accepting an incredibly stupid water rationing plan and attempting to justify it with the "I'm a parent too and I'm just doing what's best for my child and all our children" card. His plan seems to have been to give every species a set time of day when they were allowed to drink. Nobody else expected him to be stupid enough to include the children who are probably like <1% of the adults' body weight in this, but then it turned out he was that stupid. He then tried to isolate Cera from her friends again, and capped it all off by almost getting himself and Cera killed because he started a pissing contest over not wanting to follow a wildfire evacuation plan because Littlefoot's grandparents came up with it.

Fifth Movie: okay so the Great Valley got hit with a massive locust plague and the entire interspecies herd was forced out of it to look for food. The herd discovers a skeleton of a dinosaur of Ducky's species out in the desert. Topps proceeds to say they can't make any deductions about there being no food in the direction the corpse was traveling from because this species are infamously stupid and the dead one probably got lost. In front of several members of said species. He then instigated such a massive fight that the herds decided to re-split up by species although it's not totally clear if everyone was doing this individually or if it was just the Threehorns. In any case the gang actually runs away this time to avoid being split up with the idea that if they all obviously ran off in the same direction their parents will be forced to search for them in the same direction.

Sixth Movie: Cera is stuck babysitting her much younger niece and nephew (she presumably has an adult sibling that we've never seen) and is sick of it. I do not know what any of the adults involved in this was thinking making the kid who is consistently some random location with her friends instead of hanging out anywhere near her herd and also has run away from home like four times by this point responsible for supervising two gremlin toddlers.

Seventh Movie: Topps is finally right about something: not trusting Petrie's sketchy con artist uncle. Nobody in the friend group except Cera trusts his opinion at all because usually when Topps doesn't trust someone it's because he's racist.

He's not, like, abusive and Cera loves him and is trying to have a good relationship with him, but also his daughter is the one kid in the friend group with a kind of messed up home life, and Topps's role in the adult community of the Great Valley is basically "The worst guy on the HOA board."

Cera's dad in the Land Before Time movies is called Daddy Topps

i need to make sure you all know that

[kathlare]

Hiii, soo this is inspired by the bew dts season, maybe a compilation of amelie in dts?

Hiii!! First off, thank you so much for the request! 💕 It took me all day to put this together, and I had to rewatch some scenes to make sure I got everything just right, but here it is! I really hope you like it! 😊 Let me know what you think!

home in the chaos

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Through intimate scenes and subtle gestures, the audience witnesses the depth of their bond and the solace Amelie provides Lando in his most fragile moments.

Wordcount: 10.1 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

March 7th, 2025 - All around the world

liked by lanmelieshippers, daymanupdates, and others

f1wagsgossip: 🚨 Season 7 of Drive to Survive just dropped, and guess who’s making more appearances than expected? 👀 Amelie fans, you’re in for a treat! Looks like Lando let Netflix peek into his private life this season… and that includes plenty of moments with his Amelie. 🧡🏎️

View all 49,583 comments

f1wagsupdates: Not Lando finally letting Netflix have a peek into his private life and it’s basically the Lando & Amelie Show 💀 → lanlanstan: @f1wagsupdates THIS IS WHAT WE’VE BEEN WAITING FOR SINCE 2020 I’M ACTUALLY CRYING. → amesangel: @f1wagsupdates The fact that we literally manifested this from the Twitch quartet era... we won, guys.

f1girly: Amelie casually appearing in the McLaren motorhome, sitting on Lando’s pit wall, and being in his Monaco apartment like it's her job... I fear we’ve entered the “WAG era” for real. → papayagirl: @f1girly SHE WAS ALREADY THE WAG BEFORE WE KNEW SHE WAS THE WAG.

lanielover44: No bc seeing them flirting in the paddock and Lando calling her "baby" in front of the cameras??? I’m losing my mind. → f1fanatic: @lanielover44 AND THE WAY SHE CALLS HIM "LAN" LIKE IT’S THE MOST NATURAL THING IN THE WORLD 😭😭😭 → amelie4ever: @amelie4ever Bro... when he said "I’ve been in love with her since 2020, I just had to be patient" I screamed.

f1hottea: Y’all, we got fed this season. Lando's first win in Miami, Amelie running to him, the kiss... the soft launch turned hard launch.

f1zone: It’s so cute how Lando still gets all shy when Amelie compliments him. Like, bro... you're literally a world-class driver. You can’t be shy about this. 😅 → lanx_xo: @f1zone You can tell he’s still so in awe of her. Every time she praises him, he’s like a little schoolboy.

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

The scene opens with the fast-paced, dramatic cuts typical of Drive to Survive. The camera zooms in on Lando Norris, sitting in the familiar interview chair, his eyes slightly squinting against the bright lights. He leans forward, chuckling to himself before the interviewer cues him to speak.

—Lando, tell us about the nickname ‘Lando No Wins’,— the interviewer prompts, clearly aware of the lighthearted jibe that has followed Lando throughout his career.

Lando pauses for a moment, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he recalls the origins of the nickname. He leans back, clearly not taking it too seriously, but there's a hint of vulnerability in his eyes as he speaks.

—Yeah, so that nickname, "Lando No Wins"... that’s actually Amelie’s doing,— Lando begins, his voice dripping with the slight teasing tone that’s become second nature to him. He lets out a little laugh, shaking his head.

—Back during the pandemic, when we were all locked inside, we used to play a lot of video games together. A lot of them, actually. And I swear, I couldn’t win a single race against her,— he continues, his eyes narrowing in mock offense. —Every time I lost, she’d call me "Lando No Wins." It just kind of stuck. I didn’t think it would carry over to F1 though.—

He shrugs, the smile never quite leaving his face, but there's a hint of exasperation as he adds, —People somehow took it the wrong way, like it was about my F1 career or something. But it’s all in good fun. It’s Amelie’s thing. I guess I’ll just have to live with it now. The nickname’s bigger than I am at this point.—

The camera cuts away briefly, transitioning to interviews with Lando's closest friends, each of them ready to add their own spin on the infamous nickname.

First up is George Russell, sitting comfortably in his own interview chair, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. The interviewer’s question barely leaves their lips before George is already shaking his head in amusement.

—Oh, I remember that...— George begins, his usual grin widening. —She’d always roast him for it. "Lando No Wins!"— he laughs, shaking his head as if the memory was still fresh. —It was too perfect, honestly. I mean, it fits. And she knew it. Classic Amelie move. I wouldn’t be surprised if she planned it from the start, just to get under his skin. Genius, really.—

The scene shifts to Alex, who shakes his head in disbelief.

—Lando’s never lived it down, has he?— Alex says, almost sympathetically. —It was always "No Wins" this, "No Wins" that. Amelie just knew how to get him. She’s got a way of making everything fun, even if it’s at his expense. We all kind of laughed at it, but I think deep down, it was a little painful for him. But he didn’t mind, at least not too much.—

The camera cuts once again, now focusing on Charles Leclerc, who leans back in his chair, a smile tugging at his lips as he recalls the playful nickname.

—Oh, Amelie was on fire with that one, wasn't she?— Charles chuckles, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his hair. —Every time Lando would lose, it was like clockwork. "Lando No Wins." It became a thing. Honestly, though, I think she got into his head a little with it. She always knew how to get the perfect shot in, but she wasn’t malicious. It was just her humor, and I think Lando secretly kind of enjoyed it... even though he pretended not to.—

The shot cuts back to Lando, who’s shaking his head with a rueful smile. —I swear, Amelie has a way of making everything stick. I didn’t think that stupid nickname would follow me this long, but… here we are.—

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

The scene was electric. The sun hung high in the Miami sky, casting a golden hue over the paddock as the crowd roared with excitement. It was the culmination of Lando Norris’s long journey, his first-ever Formula 1 victory on the horizon.

The air buzzed with anticipation as Lando Norris navigated through the final laps of the Miami Grand Prix, his hands gripping the wheel tightly, his focus unwavering. The cheers from the crowd reverberated through the paddock as McLaren’s pit crew began to prepare for what was about to be a monumental moment in the team's history. The race clock ticked down, and with each second, the energy built to a fever pitch.

Lando’s McLaren crossed the finish line, his victory sealed. The roar of the crowd reached deafening levels as the car slowed to a halt, the team swarming the car almost immediately, their arms raised in celebration. But in that moment, as Lando unbuckled his helmet and climbed out of the car, something else caught his attention—someone else.

Amelie, standing at the edge of the pit lane, her eyes locked on him. Her body surged forward before she could even stop herself, and she cut through the sea of orange uniforms, determination in every step. The cheers, the noise, the chaos of victory faded to the background as she reached him, her eyes fixed only on Lando.

Lando, still breathing heavily from the race, met her gaze. For a split second, the world seemed to stop. The pit crew continued their celebration, but Lando was no longer part of that crowd. His focus was entirely on Amelie as she approached, pushing her way through the chaos.

Without a word, Lando pushed past his team, making his way toward her. His legs carried him faster than he had anticipated, and in mere moments, they were face-to-face. His arms found her, pulling her into an embrace.

Lando cupped her face, his thumb gently brushing away a tear before his lips crashed into hers. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tender. It was urgent, desperate, as if they both knew how long they had waited for this moment.

When they finally pulled apart, their breaths were ragged, both of them laughing softly at the sheer intensity of the moment. Amelie wiped away the last of her tears, a smile playing on her lips as she spoke, her voice breathless.

—I didn’t plan this, Lan,— she chuckled softly, her hands still on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

Lando grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief and joy. —Guess we’re out of the secret club now, huh?— He leaned in, capturing her lips again in a much softer kiss, this one gentle, filled with warmth and tenderness.

Behind them, the McLaren team erupted into cheers, lifting Lando up on their shoulders, shouting in jubilation. But even as they celebrated, Lando’s eyes stayed locked on Amelie, as if nothing could pull him away from her. She stood there, her heart swelling with pride as she watched him held high, the victorious smile on his face forever etched in her memory.

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

The camera zoomed in on Lando, his posture relaxed but his eyes still alight with the adrenaline from the race. The unmistakable warmth of a smile tugged at his lips, though there was a reflective quietness to him now, away from the chaos of the pit and the podium. He leaned back slightly, the weight of the moment still settling in as the interview room, now more subdued than the earlier celebrations, enveloped him.

One of the crew members, a familiar face, asked the question that everyone was dying to know.

—Lando, first win. How does it feel?—

Lando leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrests. His lips curled into a soft, almost disbelieving smile as he looked into the camera.

—It’s… it’s insane,— he began, his voice a mix of disbelief and gratitude. —I mean, it’s something I’ve dreamed of for as long as I can remember. You grow up watching this, you picture yourself up there, and then it happens. And to do it with McLaren, with my team—yeah, it’s something special.— He paused for a moment, his gaze shifting as he reflected on the journey that had brought him here. —It’s been a long time coming, and now that I’ve done it, it’s just... surreal.—

There was a brief silence as he let the words sink in. The crew could tell how much this meant to him. They could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. But the next question was inevitable—the one everyone had been wondering about for months now.

The crew member, who had been silently observing him, cleared their throat before asking the question that everyone was eagerly waiting to hear.

—And, uh... about the kiss, Lando. How much did that moment mean to you? To have Amelie there, to have her with you after everything?—

Lando’s smile softened, a brief flash of something more personal crossing his face. He leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped together, eyes momentarily shifting as though trying to gather his thoughts. The room felt smaller suddenly, more intimate, as if he was speaking not just to the cameras, but to the people who had followed his journey from the very beginning.

—Yeah, the kiss…— Lando’s voice faltered for a second, a chuckle escaping his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck. —It was... it was everything. I’ve been working for this moment for so long, and to have her there, right after crossing the finish line… it just felt like the right thing to do, y’know? We’ve been through so much, both of us, and we’ve known each other for years, and when that moment came… I just didn’t think. I just went for it. It wasn’t about the race anymore. It was just about us.—

He paused, his eyes distant for a moment as he reflected on everything that had brought him to this point. The highs, the lows, the time apart, and the years of friendship that had built up into something more.

—I've been in love with her since 2020, honestly,— Lando admitted, his voice low but steady. —It was... hard at times. Especially when we weren’t together, when we didn’t know what we were. But I had to be patient. I had to wait for the right time. It’s funny, I always thought the moment would feel different, but it was more than I ever could’ve imagined. And to have her there with me, after everything we've been through... I wouldn’t trade that moment for anything.—

The interviewer let the silence hang in the air for a second, knowing there was more he wanted to say, but giving Lando the space to continue. The raw honesty in his words was undeniable.

—And now... it feels like everything is just falling into place, y'know? She’s been a part of my life for so long, and having her there, being able to share that moment with her, it’s… it’s perfect.—

Lando leaned back in his chair again, his eyes softening as he let out a breath, almost as if the weight of the conversation was settling on his shoulders. The interviewer, sensing the emotion behind Lando’s words, gave him a moment before asking another question, but the tone had shifted. The race, the victory, the kiss—it was clear that this win meant so much more than just a trophy for Lando. It was about love, timing, and finally getting to share the most important moments of his life with the person who had been there through it all.

The camera zoomed in slightly, capturing the vulnerability in Lando’s expression. He was no longer the confident driver in front of the cameras, the competitive athlete everyone had come to know. In this moment, he was just a man, deeply in love, reflecting on how far he’d come.

And as the interview continued, the world outside seemed to fade. This was a chapter in his life that, for once, wasn’t just about the races, the wins, or the pressure. It was about Lando and Amelie, two people who had been through everything together, now standing at the pinnacle of their dreams—both personally and professionally.

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

The streets of New York were alive with energy, the hum of the city mixing with the background chatter and the constant flow of traffic. In the backseat of a sleek black car, Lando Norris sat with his arms crossed, a relaxed but confident look on his face. The windows were slightly rolled down, allowing the cool breeze to cut through the warm evening air. It was a stark contrast to the adrenaline-fueled chaos of the race weekend he had just experienced.

Lando spoke into the camera, his voice calm but filled with a quiet intensity.

—Winning, it’s... it’s a drug,— he began, his eyes focused out the window, reflecting on the past few days. —Success is a drug. I mean, once you’ve tasted it, you just want more. It’s like that feeling you get when you know exactly what to do, when everything clicks. And right now? I’ve got that confidence, you know? That feeling that everything’s falling into place.—

His voice was steady, the weight of his words clear. The highs of the Miami Grand Prix were still fresh, lingering in his mind, and the euphoria of his first-ever victory had not faded. He wasn’t just talking about the race; it was more than that. It was a reflection of how far he had come, not just as a driver, but as a person.

As he finished speaking, the car slowed to a stop. Lando’s gaze shifted toward the tinted windows.

—Let’s wait for my princess,— he said, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

The camera cut away from him just as the car door opened, and in an instant, Amelie stepped into the frame. She slid into the car with a grace that was almost effortless, her presence adding a softness to the hard edges of the racing world around them. She smiled at Lando as she settled beside him, the two of them exchanging a look that said more than words ever could.

Lando glanced at her, his expression shifting from the confident, reflective mood he had just been in to something more relaxed, more at ease.

Amelie slid into the backseat beside Lando, her smile lighting up the car as she greeted him with a soft peck on the lips. The moment was warm, intimate, a stark contrast to the world outside the car’s tinted windows. She let out a light chuckle before turning toward the camera, her tone playful.

—Hi, Netflix,— she said with a wink, her voice full of warmth and charm.

Lando grinned at her, his eyes flicking between Amelie and the camera. There was something magnetic about the way they looked at each other, a connection that had been built over years of friendship and a few months of something more. The playful banter between them was effortless, the kind of chemistry that had made fans root for them since their early days as friends.

As the car pulled back into motion, Lando leaned back against the seat, his arms casually resting on the edge, eyes still on Amelie.

—So...— he teased, his voice light but filled with the same confidence he had spoken about earlier. —How does it feel to watch your boyfriend finally win?—

Amelie rolled her eyes, playfully nudging him with her shoulder as she settled in beside him.

—Oh, please, don’t start,— Amelie laughed, a teasing glint in her eyes. —I’ve been waiting for this day for ages, you know that.— She shrugged dramatically, her tone playful but full of affection.

The camera crew, anticipating the playful energy between them, zoomed in on Lando as he raised an eyebrow at Amelie. The streets of New York stretched out before them, their journey just a part of the whirlwind that had been his first-ever win, but with Amelie by his side, the moment seemed to slow down.

—Oh, really?— Lando grinned, his voice laced with a hint of mischief. —So you were just waiting to see if I’d ever make it, huh? That’s what it was all about?—

Amelie chuckled, shaking her head.

—Not quite,— she teased, crossing her arms with a mock pout. —I knew you’d do it eventually, but you sure took your sweet time.— She smiled warmly at him, and the affection between them was evident, even in the playful jabs they threw back and forth.

Lando let out a small laugh before leaning in closer to her, his tone turning softer, more sincere.

—It feels... different, you know? All that waiting, all the pressure, the expectations, now, it’s like everything's changed. But it’s worth it. And having you here to share it with me, to celebrate it... yeah, that makes it even better.—

Amelie’s smile softened, and she reached for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. The cameras zoomed in on their intertwined fingers, the connection between them unmistakable.

—You deserve it, Lan,— she said quietly, her voice tender. —All of it. I’ve always believed in you.—

Lando’s eyes flickered with gratitude, and he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze in return. But before the moment could linger too long, a familiar teasing voice broke the silence from the front of the car.

—So, about that kiss...— the cameraman said, unable to resist the opportunity to poke fun at the pair. —You two seemed pretty... into it. How did that feel, Lando? A little victory kiss, huh?—

Amelie let out a laugh, her eyes sparkling as she turned to Lando.

—Oh, now you’ve done it,— she said, her voice playful but with an edge of mock seriousness. —He’s been insufferable ever since. Just wait until you hear him tell the story of the kiss 100 times, because he’s going to do that now. Isn’t that right, Lan?—

Lando rolled his eyes dramatically, laughing along with Amelie.

—What can I say? It was a great kiss,— he said with a wink, his tone dripping with playful arrogance. —And I’ll be happy to tell the story as many times as you want.—

Amelie shook her head, but the fondness in her eyes was clear.

—You’re terrible, you know that?— she said, leaning back into the seat.

Lando shrugged, his grin never fading.

—It’s my first win, I’ve earned it. And I think it’s only right that everyone hears about the celebration. It was pretty unforgettable.—

As the car made its way through the bustling streets, Lando and Amelie continued to tease each other, their easy chemistry filling the space around them. The world outside seemed distant, the noise and chaos of New York blending into a soft hum. Inside the car, it was just the two of them—two people who had been through so much, now sharing this moment of victory, laughter, and love.

The camera cut away, but the smile on Lando’s face and the glow in Amelie’s eyes lingered, the perfect snapshot of a victory that was about so much more than just the race.

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

The camera angle shifted, capturing the interior of a sleek car as it sped through the quiet streets. Lando was behind the wheel, the focus on him as he casually navigated the traffic, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Amelie sat in the passenger seat, her focus on her phone as she sipped from a coffee cup in her hand, the warm liquid still steaming.

Lando’s voice broke the silence as he glanced over at Amelie, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

—You know, I was kind of expecting a text from Max after Austria, apologizing for the whole... situation, but of course, nothing. Not even a ‘sorry.’— His voice was casual, though the slight bitterness in his tone betrayed his lingering frustration.

Amelie looked up from her phone, raising an eyebrow at him.

—Really? You thought Max would apologize?— she teased, the faintest smirk appearing on her face.

Lando chuckled, shaking his head.

—Well, yeah, I mean, I thought after everything that went down, it would be the decent thing to do, right? But apparently, that’s asking too much.— He shrugged, his eyes focusing back on the road.

As he turned a corner, Amelie shifted in her seat, trying to adjust her position with one hand while still balancing her iced coffee in the other. A moment of clumsiness—and then, without warning, the cup slipped from her grasp.

The camera zoomed in on the slow-motion disaster as the coffee flew out of her hand, splashing across the center console, onto the seat, and all over Lando’s pristine car. Amelie’s eyes widened in panic, her voice rising as she gasped.

—Oh my god, I’m so sorry!— she exclaimed, quickly trying to blot the mess with her sleeve.

Lando let out a sharp breath, his eyes flicking from the road to the spill, and then back to Amelie.

—You’ve got to be kidding me, Ames,— he said, a mixture of surprise, annoyance, and affection in his voice. —Not again.—

He wasn’t yelling, but there was no hiding the frustration in his tone. He quickly swerved into the nearest pull-off, the car coming to a stop as he stared at the damage.

Amelie was visibly flustered, scrambling to find something—anything—to clean it up.

Amelie’s face was flushed with embarrassment as she frantically tried to mop up the mess, but the spill was far too much for a simple sleeve to handle. Her hands were shaking slightly, the panic evident in her eyes as she looked over at Lando.

—Lando, I swear I didn’t mean to... I’m so sorry!— she stammered, her voice a mix of guilt and distress.

Lando sighed, running a hand through his curls as he glanced at the mess. For a moment, the tension hung heavy in the air. The camera captured Amelie’s frantic movements as she searched for napkins, her hands shaking slightly as she tried to wipe the coffee off the console.

—I’m so sorry, Lan. I didn’t mean to, I swear— Amelie stammered, her voice filled with genuine panic.

Lando looked at her, and for a split second, his frustration softened. The camera caught the shift in his expression—the moment when annoyance gave way to something much deeper.

He reached out, gently placing his hand over hers to stop her from scrambling.

—Hey, hey... Ames, it’s fine,— he said softly, his tone shifting to something far more tender. —It’s just coffee. You’re okay.—

Amelie looked up at him, her eyes wide and full of guilt.

—But your car...—

Lando let out a small laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back in his seat.

—Honestly? I should’ve seen this coming. You’ve done this, what... four times now?— he teased, a playful smirk forming on his lips.

Amelie groaned, covering her face with her hands as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

—Stop. Don’t remind me.—

Lando chuckled and reached over to gently pull her hands away from her face.

—I knew what I was signing up when I started dating you,— he said with a soft grin. —And... I wouldn’t change it. Even if it means sacrificing my car's interior every once in a while.—

Amelie couldn’t help but laugh, her anxiety slowly melting away as she met his eyes.

—You’re way too nice to me, you know that?—

—Yeah, well... you’re my little chaos.— Lando replied with a shrug.

The camera lingered on the moment, capturing the warmth between them. Lando reached into the glove compartment, pulling out some old napkins and handing them to her.

—Come on, let’s clean this up before Netflix makes this my entire storyline this season,— he joked, earning another laugh from Amelie as she leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

The car rolled back onto the road a few minutes later, the coffee incident already forgotten—just another chaotic memory in the story of Lando and Amelie.

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

The camera cuts to the dimly lit interior of a car as it glides through the streets of Singapore. The city's neon lights reflect off the tinted windows, casting a soft glow on Lando Norris, who sits in the backseat, phone in hand.

The camera zooms in on his screen, revealing a familiar face—Amelie, her hair tied back in a messy bun, sitting in what appears to be a hotel room somewhere. The background noise of her team moving around is faint, drowned out by her soft voice and the quiet hum of the car engine.

—Hey, rockstar,— Lando greets her with a grin, leaning back against the leather seat.

Amelie smiles, her eyes lighting up despite the exhaustion from her tour schedule.

—Hey, champ. You look... tired,— she teases, though her voice carries that familiar warmth.

Lando chuckles, running a hand through his curls.

—Yeah, well... Singapore humidity is brutal. Plus, you know, the whole ‘trying not to die under the lights’ thing.—

Amelie laughs softly, the sound echoing through the speakers.

—You’ll be fine. You always are. You're fast here.—

There’s a pause, a comfortable silence between them as Lando’s eyes soften.

—How's tour?—

Amelie sighs, glancing around her hotel room.

—Exhausting. But... good. I miss you, though. And... it's my birthday soon.— She tries to say it casually, but there’s a hint of something vulnerable in her voice.

Lando’s smile falters just slightly, guilt flashing across his face. The camera captures the moment, his internal struggle evident.

—I know...— Lando says quietly, his voice filled with regret. —I wish I could be there, Ames. I really do. But with Singapore and Japan right after... it’s just... impossible.—

Amelie forces a small smile, nodding in understanding.

—I get it. I mean... this is what we signed up for, right?— she says, trying to sound lighthearted.

But the weight of it hangs between them. Two people chasing dreams on opposite sides of the world, sacrificing moments that most couples take for granted. The camera lingers on Lando’s face as he looks down, the frustration evident.

—It still sucks, though,— he admits, his voice softer now.

Amelie’s expression softens.

—Yeah... it does.—

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The only sound is the hum of the car and the faint noise from Amelie’s hotel room. The distance feels heavier than ever.

—But... I’m proud of you, you know?— Amelie says, breaking the silence. —You’re doing what you’ve always dreamed of. And I wouldn’t want you anywhere else but on that grid this weekend.—

Lando’s lips curl into a sad smile.

Lando's eyes soften at her words, but the weight in his chest remains.

—I'm proud of you too, Ames. You're out there living your dream. I just... wish I could be with you to celebrate. You deserve more than a FaceTime call.—

Amelie smiles softly, her eyes glistening for a brief moment before she shakes it off.

—We'll celebrate when we're both back home. Or... when we're in the same country, at least,— she jokes, trying to lighten the mood.

Lando chuckles, but the sadness lingers beneath.

A knock on Amelie's door interrupts their moment. She glances toward the noise and sighs.

—That's my cue. I need to shower before soundcheck.—

Lando nods, forcing a smile.

—Go be brilliant, baby.—

Amelie hesitates for a second before speaking, her voice soft.

—I love you, Lan.—

Lando's heart tightens at the words.

—I love you too, Ames. Always.—

They linger on the line for a beat longer before Amelie hangs up. The screen goes dark, and the camera shifts back to Lando, who stares at his phone for a moment, lost in thought.

The city lights blur through the window as the car moves through the streets, but Lando's mind is elsewhere.

Then, almost without hesitation, he pulls out his phone again and opens his airline app. The camera zooms in as he searches for a last-minute flight to Toronto — the next stop on Amelie's tour.

The confirmation screen flashes, and Lando books the ticket without a second thought.

The camera cuts to Lando leaning back in his seat, a small, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips.

—Screw the jet lag,— he mutters to himself.

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

The screen cuts to the familiar, dimly lit interview room — the iconic black backdrop with the faint hum of production equipment in the background.

Lando Norris sits in the center of the frame, wearing his McLaren team shirt, his usual cheeky grin replaced by something more thoughtful. The camera captures the subtle shift in his demeanor, the weight of the season evident in the way his fingers fidget with the cap in his hands.

—You know... it happened kind of... out of nowhere, really,— he starts, glancing off to the side as he reflects. —I mean, last year I was fighting for podiums. And now, suddenly... I’m fighting for a world championship.—

The camera lingers on him as he exhales, the pressure written all over his face.

—It’s everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve dreamed of. But... it’s a lot.— He chuckles lightly, though there’s a tension behind it. —The pressure, the expectation... it gets to you. It really does.—

The producers let the silence hang for a moment, allowing viewers to sit with the vulnerability of the moment. Then, Lando’s expression softens slightly, a small smile playing on his lips.

—But... Amelie...— he trails off, the mere mention of her name shifting his entire energy. —She kind of... keeps me grounded. Keeps me from spiraling when things get too overwhelming.—

He looks down, almost shy about admitting it on camera.

—She doesn’t care about the racing, the points, the headlines. I mean, she supports me, of course... but to her, I’m just... Lando.— He grins, his eyes lighting up at the memory.

The camera cuts to a brief montage of Amelie in the McLaren garage, laughing with Lando’s engineers, cheering from the pit wall, and sneaking a quick kiss with him after a podium celebration.

—She’s been through pressure like this herself. With her career, the touring, the awards, the... constant spotlight. She gets it. And I think... that’s what makes it easier.—

Lando’s gaze drifts off as he speaks, as if picturing her in his mind.

—Whenever I start overthinking, or doubting myself... she’s there. Even if it’s just a text or a FaceTime before quali. Somehow... she makes me feel like I’ve already won.—

The camera zooms in slightly as Lando leans forward, his voice dropping almost to a whisper.

—I wouldn’t be here without her. Not really.—

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

The camera shifts to a lively scene in the paddock after the Singapore Grand Prix. The roar of the crowd is still lingering in the background, but the focus is solely on Lando Norris. He’s just come out of the chaos of the post-race celebrations, the weight of his victory still fresh on his face, a mixture of disbelief and pure joy.

The camera follows Lando as he strides through the paddock, his gray crewneck and jeans a stark contrast to the usual racing suits and team gear. His hair is still damp from his post-race shower, the water droplets catching the light as he moves. The hum of the busy paddock surrounds him, but it’s clear that, for Lando, the noise of the world is just background music to the euphoria he’s still riding from his win.

As he walks, Lando glances over his shoulder, locking eyes with the camera crew trailing behind him. A mischievous grin spreads across his face.

—You motherfuckers, I’m so happy I’m leaving you,— he says, his voice light but carrying that trademark Lando humor, an impish sparkle in his eyes.

For a moment, it feels like he might genuinely mean it, but then he laughs, shaking his head in mock frustration.

—Just kidding, come on, we’ve got one final stop,— he adds, gesturing to the door of the paddock as if inviting the camera to follow him on the next adventure. His words are casual, but his energy says it all: he’s on top of the world.

The scene cuts quickly to a fast-paced montage.

The sound of jet engines roaring to life fills the audio as the shot switches to Lando boarding a private plane, his usual playful attitude slipping into a moment of calm as he settles into his seat. The camera captures his face from a low angle, the flickering of lights from the city of Singapore passing by the window.

Lando’s phone buzzes in his hand, and he glances down at the screen with a small smile. A text from Amelie, no doubt. He types out a quick reply, sending a heart emoji with a “miss you” message before stowing his phone away.

Next, the camera shows Lando's plane soaring through the clouds, a bird's eye view of the Singapore skyline receding in the distance as the aircraft cuts through the night sky.

The transition is smooth as the plane lands in Canada, the bright lights of Montreal twinkling on the horizon as the final destination draws near.

The last shot of the montage shows Lando stepping off the plane, now wearing a leather jacket over his crewneck, the cool Canadian air hitting his face as he exhales deeply. He looks around at the new city, a subtle mix of anticipation and focus in his expression.

Lando takes a step forward, his next challenge already on the horizon.

—Let’s do this,— he mutters under his breath, the camera capturing him as he walks confidently toward the next chapter.

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

The camera angle shifts, zooming in on Lando Norris as he sits in a quiet interview room. He leans back in his chair, a tired but contented look on his face, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against his knee. The soft hum of background noise from the team paddock fades into silence as the interviewer’s voice cuts through.

The Netflix crew member behind the camera asks the question that’s been on everyone’s mind: —Lando, being in a relationship with someone who has such a busy schedule like yours, how do you balance it all?—

Lando lets out a slow breath, running a hand through his damp hair as he thinks for a moment. His gaze shifts, his eyes briefly focusing on the window before he turns back to the camera.

—It’s tough, honestly,— Lando begins, his gaze now focused on the interviewer. —We both have these schedules that are just... insane, you know? I mean, my calendar is already packed with races, and hers? Well, her tour, the events, it’s a whirlwind.—

He shifts slightly in his seat, his hands folding in front of him, the calm of the interview contrasting the chaos of their lives.

—There’s a lot of back-and-forth, a lot of missed opportunities to just... be together. I mean, we both want the same thing, we both have these dreams we’re chasing, and sometimes it feels like we’re on different ends of the world.—

Lando leans forward slightly, his eyes glimmering with a mix of admiration and a hint of frustration.

—But at the same time, I think that’s what makes it work. We’re both driven, and even when it’s hard, we push through. We know that we’re both in this for the long haul. We always find time, even if it’s just a phone call or a quick message. It’s those little moments that keep us going.—

He pauses, his expression lightening as a soft smile tugs at his lips. The camera zooms in slightly, capturing the change in tone, the warmth that appears when he speaks about her.

—And then, when we do get to see each other again, it makes everything worth it. I mean, nothing compares to that feeling, you know? After all the traveling, all the time apart, when I finally see her... It’s like everything else fades away. It’s all worth it, just to be with her again.—

Lando's voice softens, the sincerity in his words undeniable as the camera lingers on his face, his expression a mix of longing and appreciation.

—Yeah, it’s tough. But it’s worth it.—

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

The camera followed Lando closely as he walked through the entrance of the upscale restaurant, his steps purposeful, a grin already forming on his face. He was dressed casually—jeans, a gray crewneck, and sneakers—but there was something about the way he moved, a certain energy in his stride that made it clear this was no ordinary night. The soft hum of the restaurant’s atmosphere seemed to fade as he approached the table where Amelie sat, surrounded by her team.

Amelie was laughing at something one of her dancers had said, her smile radiating warmth, but the moment the camera caught her profile, there was a soft flicker of something deeper—something that hinted at how much she missed him. Her phone buzzed softly beside her, but she didn’t check it, focused on the conversation at hand, blissfully unaware of the surprise that was about to change everything.

Lando’s voice cut through the chatter as he stepped into view.

—Fuck, you look absolutely stunning.—

Amelie froze mid-laugh, her body stilled as she heard the unmistakable sound of his voice. The camera captured the exact moment her eyes flicked toward the source, and in that split second, her entire expression shifted from surprise to shock and then to a flood of emotions that seemed to overtake her. Her lips parted, and her eyes widened as Lando’s familiar grin filled her vision.

For a moment, the world around them seemed to quiet. The noise of the restaurant, the background clinking of glasses, all disappeared as she stood up, her breath catching in her throat. The camera zoomed in on her face as she took him in, disbelieving yet elated.

—You’re here,— Amelie whispered, the words trembling out of her as if they hadn’t fully registered in her mind.

Lando took a step closer, his eyes softening with affection. The camera lingered on his expression, capturing the mix of relief and pure joy in his gaze. He reached her in a heartbeat, and in an instant, her arms were wrapped around him, pulling him close.

—Of course, I’m here. It’s your birthday, Ames,— Lando replied, his voice light but tender as he returned the embrace. He held her a little longer than usual, sensing the tension she’d been carrying, the weight of months apart.

He whispered against her hair, his voice low and comforting. —Don’t cry. You know I can’t handle it when you cry.—

Amelie pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, her breath still shaky as she looked at him in wonder. The camera captured her face, glistening with the mix of tears and the brightest smile.

—You’re such an idiot,— she laughed, shaking her head. —I can’t believe you’re here.—

Lando chuckled softly, brushing away a stray tear from her cheek. —Well, I had to come. How could I let you celebrate without me?— He gave her a playful grin before holding her at arm’s length, his eyes scanning her up and down. —Alright, alright, turn around. Let me just say: shit, you look hot in that dress.—

Amelie laughed, her cheeks flushing at the compliment as she twirled in the shimmering yellow dress. The soft fabric swirled around her, catching the light just right, and for a second, it felt like no one else was in the room but the two of them.

Lando’s eyebrows raised in mock skepticism as he looked her over. —You know,— he teased, taking her hand again and pulling her closer, —I’d say something more, but I’m trying to be a gentleman tonight.—

Amelie’s eyes gleamed mischievously. —You know,— she replied, voice dropping to match his tone, —you can take that dress off me later, if you want.—

Lando’s eyes widened, a smirk tugging at his lips as he grinned wider. —You’re killing me, Ames.—

The camera caught the warmth in his eyes as he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a moment. The affection was palpable, and it was clear to anyone watching that this was more than just a reunion—it was a quiet promise, a reassurance that no matter how hard things got, they were in this together.

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

The camera opens to a quiet hotel room, the remnants of Lando Norris’s time in Mexico still visible—a suitcase half-packed, a racing helmet resting on the bed beside a pile of clothes. The soft sound of a zipper closing fills the air as Lando, already in a hoodie and jeans, finishes the last of his packing. His movements are deliberate, but the subtle tension in his posture speaks volumes.

Amelie stands by the window, gazing out at the sprawling city below. The light from the early morning sun catches her face, but her expression is far from the brightness that usually radiates from her. The calmness of the scene contrasts with the emotions that hang in the room.

Lando takes a deep breath, zipping up the suitcase and standing up, his gaze shifting to Amelie. There’s a moment of silence—just the distant noise of the city and the faint hum of the air conditioning—before he finally speaks, his voice quieter than usual.

—You ready?— he asks, though the question feels almost rhetorical. He knows the answer. It’s never easy.

Amelie turns, her eyes meeting his. She forces a small smile, but it’s clear the weight of what’s coming is already starting to hit. —I guess as ready as I’ll ever be.—

Lando steps closer to her, his usual playful demeanor replaced with something softer, more vulnerable. He reaches out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

—You know I hate this part, right?— Lando admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. His words hang in the air like an unspoken truth. —I wish I could just... stay, but you’ve got your tour, and I’ve got Brazil.—

Amelie nods, her throat tight as she swallows the lump that forms there. —I know. I just... I hate how often we have to say goodbye. It never gets easier. Every time feels like it’s worse than the last.— Her voice cracks just slightly, and the vulnerability in her tone makes Lando’s heart ache.

The camera lingers on the two of them, the silence between them palpable. Both of them know this is part of the life they’ve chosen—their dreams pulling them in different directions—but that doesn’t make it any easier. Lando takes another step closer, reaching out to pull her into a tight embrace, the kind of hug that feels like it’s meant to hold them together even as the world around them pulls them apart.

Amelie closes her eyes, resting her head against his chest as she inhales the familiar scent of him, something that always made her feel like she was home, even if just for a moment.

—You’ll be fine, Ames. I’ll see you soon, okay?— Lando says, his voice thick with emotion, though he tries to keep it steady. He pulls back just enough to look at her, his hands resting on her shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze. —We’ve done this before. We’ll do it again.—

Amelie nods, her eyes glistening as she looks up at him, trying to force a smile through the rush of emotions. —I know... I just... I hate the distance. I hate how we’re always in different time zones, always chasing after something.—

Lando’s lips curl into a sad, understanding smile. —Yeah, me too. But when I see you again, it’s going to be worth it. We’ve got this.—

He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a moment longer, a silent promise passing between them. The camera focuses on the quiet intimacy of the moment, capturing the depth of their connection—how words aren’t always needed to communicate the bond they share.

But even in the warmth of their embrace, there’s a pull at both of their hearts—a reminder of the sacrifices they’re making for their respective dreams. Lando pulls away, his hand gently brushing her cheek one last time.

—Alright, I’ve got to go. But I’ll be thinking about you, always.—

Amelie nods again, her voice a whisper. —I’ll be thinking about you too. Go crush Brazil. And I’ll be right here, waiting for the next time I get to see you.—

Lando grins, though it’s tinged with sadness. —Deal. Take care of yourself, Ames. I love you.—

—Love you too, Lan.—

With one final lingering glance, Lando turns, grabbing his bag and heading toward the door. The camera follows him, capturing the quiet sadness of the goodbye. As the door clicks shut behind him, the scene cuts to Amelie, standing there in the middle of the room, her gaze lost in the space where he once stood.

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

The camera opens on a quiet, dimly lit room in the heart of the paddock, the bustle of the F1 weekend just outside the door. Lando Norris sits across from the Netflix crew, his eyes tired but sharp, a mix of emotions behind his usual laid-back demeanor. His hands rest on his lap, fingers tapping absently as the soft hum of the camera crew’s gear fades into the background.

Lando leans back in the chair, his gaze flickering briefly to the window where the noise of the paddock can be faintly heard. He takes a breath, his expression distant for a moment as if he’s lost in thought.

—It’s... it’s tough sometimes, you know?— he begins, his voice low and introspective. —People think it’s all glamorous... this life, the races, the travel. But no one really talks about the toll it takes on you. On everything. On the people you care about.—

The camera zooms in slightly on Lando’s face, capturing the vulnerability that flickers in his eyes. He pauses for a moment, collecting his thoughts before continuing.

—You’re always on the move. It’s not just the racing or the pressure to perform; it’s everything else that comes with it. The constant goodbyes, the time zones, the long stretches without seeing the people who matter the most. It gets... heavy. And it doesn't get any easier, no matter how many times you do it.—

There’s a slight shift in his posture as he leans forward, the tension in his shoulders betraying the weight of his words.

—It’s especially hard when you’re trying to make things work with someone who has a schedule just as insane as yours. You know, we both have these lives where we’re constantly flying around, and... finding time to just be together? It's not easy. You have to carve out these moments that are few and far between, and when you do, it feels like you’re making up for lost time. But you can never fully make up for it. I mean, how do you balance it all, right?—

His fingers rub the back of his neck, a subconscious gesture that shows the strain of constantly being pulled in multiple directions.

—You try your best. I try my best. But... there’s always this feeling that I’m missing out, that I’m not giving enough. It’s never really enough. And it hurts sometimes, to be honest.—

The camera shifts to a wider shot, showing Lando’s quiet reflection. He exhales deeply, almost as if releasing a weight that’s been on his chest for a long time. His gaze drifts towards the window again, as if seeking some kind of comfort in the fleeting glimpse of the paddock outside.

—At the end of the day, I wouldn’t change it. I wouldn’t change any of this. But there are moments where... I just wish I could pause everything. Just freeze time, you know? So I can be with the people I care about. To just... be in the same place for a while.—

His expression softens as he speaks, the slight sadness in his eyes giving way to the resolve that has carried him through the years.

—But you make it work. You have to. It’s just part of the job, part of the dream. And when you do get those moments together... even if they’re brief... it makes it all worth it. It’s what keeps you going.—

A brief, bittersweet smile plays at the corner of his lips as he looks back at the camera, the truth of his words sinking in. There’s a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—something that the world rarely gets to see. Something raw. Something human.

The camera holds on his face for a moment before cutting away, leaving the viewer with a lingering sense of the emotional toll of a life lived at high speed, constantly on the move, constantly saying goodbye.

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

The scene opens with a darkened airplane cabin, the low hum of the engines a constant backdrop to the quiet moments unfolding within. Lando’s face is illuminated by the soft glow of the overhead lights, his expression tense and exhausted. His fingers tap restlessly against the armrest, his leg bouncing with barely contained anxiety.

The voice of Lando fills the space, the weight of his words carrying a rawness rarely seen in the fast-paced world of Formula 1.

—After Brazil, I couldn't sleep for… 36 hours. I felt like I was losing my mind. The adrenaline from the race wore off, but my body… my brain, just… wouldn’t stop. The anxiety hit me like a wave, and I couldn’t shake it. I just kept thinking about everything, the pressure, the responsibility… It felt like it was all crashing down on me. And I couldn’t breathe.—

As his voice narrates, the camera cuts to a montage. The flicker of images shows Lando staring out of the airplane window, the lights of Monaco blurred beneath him as the plane cuts through the sky. His tired eyes reflect the turbulence inside his mind, but there’s something deeper, something more fragile in the way he looks out at the world below. He clutches the seatbelt tightly, as if grounding himself, as if the distance between him and his thoughts was growing unbearable.

—And then, I realized. There was only one person who could bring me peace. Only one person who felt like home, even when everything else was chaos. So… I just got on a plane. And I went to her.—

The screen transitions, the comforting warmth of San Diego filling the frame as the camera shifts to the city’s skyline. Lando’s plane touches down, the airport bustling with activity. But all of that fades as the camera focuses solely on him, walking briskly through the terminal, his eyes fixed on the exit ahead.

His face is still drawn, his shoulders stiff with the weight of his exhaustion, but there’s a quiet determination in his step. The camera follows him as he exits the airport, stepping into a taxi, the streets of San Diego blurring by as the tension that had gripped him slowly begins to ease.

The camera cuts to a close-up of Lando as he arrives at the hotel, his steps quick and purposeful. The moment he enters the lobby, his eyes scan the room for a glimpse of her, and his shoulders visibly relax just a fraction. The tension that had been so overwhelming only hours ago starts to melt away, replaced by the single thought that had carried him through the chaos: Amelie.

The scene transitions with a soft fade, and Lando is seen walking down the hallway of her hotel. His hand grips the door handle, a sense of urgency in his movements. He takes a deep breath, and as the door swings open, there she is—Amelie. Her back is to him, her silhouette framed by the dim light of the room, and the instant she turns, her face lights up in surprise.

The camera lingers on her expression, capturing the recognition in her eyes, followed by a rush of emotions that seem to sweep over her all at once.

Before she can even say anything, Lando is already taking a step forward, and without a word, he wraps her in his arms. The camera catches the tension in his body—how it eases the moment they make contact. Amelie holds him tight, her arms around him like a lifeline, pulling him close as if trying to make up for all the lost time and the unspoken pain.

Lando’s face is buried in her hair as he clings to her, his breath shaky. The camera stays focused on him for a moment longer, the raw emotion that cracks through his calm exterior undeniable.

And then it happens. He starts to cry.

The camera shifts slightly, catching the rawness of the moment without intruding. Lando's tears fall silently, and Amelie doesn't let go. She holds him tighter, her own emotions in check as she whispers something soothing into his ear, but her voice is muffled by his presence.

—You’re safe now...— Amelie whispers, her voice steady, comforting.

Lando shakes his head slightly, as if still struggling to catch his breath. His grip on her tightens, but the tears don’t stop. For a moment, there’s nothing but the two of them—lost in each other, finding solace in the presence of the person who understands.

The camera slowly zooms out as Amelie, sensing the moment is private, gently closes the door, cutting off the view from the camera crew. However, the microphone catches the faintest bits of the conversation between them as she tries to calm him.

—It’s okay, Lando. You’re okay, just breathe with me, okay? You’re home now... I’ve got you...—

The sound of her voice, soft and steady, blends with the muffled rustle of movement. Lando’s breathing begins to slow, and the camera fades to black, the weight of his emotions not lost on the viewers, but instead, left in the quiet space between the two of them.

The scene ends, leaving a sense of peace—of a homecoming. The cameras pull away, capturing the fleeting vulnerability that remains, just for a moment, between the chaos of their lives.

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

The scene opens with the roaring crowd at the Yas Marina Circuit, the bright lights reflecting off the champagne-soaked podium. Lando Norris stands tall at the top step, the weight of his victory sinking in as the British national anthem plays. The McLaren driver, who had fought relentlessly throughout the season, had not only claimed victory at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix but sealed the Constructors' Championship for McLaren — a historic achievement the team hadn't seen in decades.

The camera lingers on Lando, his signature grin stretched across his face, though there’s something different about this moment. It’s not just the win, not just the championship. His eyes keep drifting off to the side, scanning the crowd. And then, he finds her.

Amelie.

The camera shifts to her, standing just below the podium among the sea of McLaren team members. She’s trying to hold it together, but the tears are unstoppable. There’s pride in her eyes, but also something deeper — relief, love, and the overwhelming emotion of witnessing the man she loves achieve his dream.

The camera catches the subtle moment where Lando tries to fight back the emotion that threatens to break through. He bites his lip, shaking his head slightly, as if telling himself to stay composed. But his eyes, glistening under the lights, never leave her.

As the champagne sprays and Charles and Carlos celebrate around him, Lando’s gaze keeps drifting back to Amelie. The camera zooms in on her, tears streaming down her face as she claps, overwhelmed with pride.

In the background, the Netflix crew captures a quiet moment between McLaren team principal Andrea Stella and one of the engineers.

—He's not crying because of the championship, is he?— one of them chuckles.

Stella smiles knowingly. —No. It's because of her.—

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

The scene transitions from the chaos of the podium celebrations to the bustling atmosphere inside the McLaren hospitality. The orange and black-clad team members cheer and clap as Lando Norris makes his way through the crowd, the weight of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix victory and McLaren's Constructors' Championship win still sinking in.

He walks in, his race suit still damp from champagne, and the trophy firmly in his hand. People keep stopping him — engineers, mechanics, old friends from the team — all eager to congratulate him. Lando smiles, laughs, and exchanges handshakes, but his eyes are scanning the room, searching for the people who truly matter.

And then, he spots them.

His family — his mom and his younger sister Cisca — standing beside Amelie, who is visibly emotional, her eyes red from tears she’s been desperately trying to hold back.

Lando’s smile softens as he walks toward them. Without hesitation, he pulls his mom and sister into a one-armed hug, the other still clutching the trophy. His mom kisses his cheek, pride radiating from her, while Cisca squeezes his shoulder, her grin matching his.

Lando then does something unexpected—he hands the trophy to his mom.

—Here, you hold it,— he says, his voice warm.

His mom looks at him, touched, running her fingers over the engraved plate before clutching it close. But Lando's focus has already shifted.

His gaze locks onto Amelie, and before she can even say a word, he pulls her into his arms, wrapping her in a tight embrace. The moment she feels him against her, the last of her composure shatters. A quiet sob escapes her, muffled against his shoulder as she clings to him.

—You did it,— she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. —Lando, you actually did it.—

Lando exhales shakily, holding her even tighter. —I know... I know.— His voice is barely above a whisper, like he still doesn’t fully believe it himself.

Amelie pulls back slightly, just enough to look at him, her hands cradling his face. Her eyes shimmer with tears, but her smile is unwavering.

—I’m so proud of you.—

And that’s when Lando, who has spent the entire evening holding back the overwhelming emotions, finally lets them break through. His lips crash into hers in a kiss that is desperate, relieved, and filled with everything words can’t express. The entire room is still buzzing with excitement, but in that moment, it’s just them.

The camera lingers on them before pulling back, capturing the McLaren staff, his family, and the entire celebration happening around them.

Lando finally pulls away, resting his forehead against Amelie’s, and with a soft laugh, he whispers:

—It was always going to be worth it, as long as I got to come back to you.—

[cosmiclily]

can I request anything with caitlyn being protective or worrying over fem!reader? only if you feel like it! ty <3

professional

• caitlyn x f!reader

wc: 1.1k

notes: first time writing for cait VJHCGFUGVHGC let me know what you guys think !!

You knew falling for your boss was a terrible idea. The power imbalance, the risk of favoritism, the complications that came with workplace relationships—it was a mess waiting to happen. But when your boss was Caitlyn Kiramman, none of that seemed to matter. You would wade through every obstacle, endure every consequence, just for the chance to be with her.

Especially in moments like this—when you were injured on the job and had her all to yourself. Her usual calm demeanor cracked, replaced by a storm of emotions. Her brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, and that thick accent of hers slipped through as she tried to keep her frustration in check. Even when she was reprimanding you, she was captivating.

"What were you thinking?!" Caitlyn’s voice was sharp, teetering between concern and anger. She paced in front of you, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her jaw clenched as she struggled to maintain her composure. But you could see through it—the way her fingers trembled slightly, the way she kept stealing glances at your bandaged arm.

"You could have died, Y/N!" she snapped, her voice lowering slightly, but no less intense.

You offered a weak, sheepish smile. "But I didn’t."

"That’s not the point!" She exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose before stepping closer. "You can’t just throw yourself into danger like that. What if I wasn’t fast enough? What if—" She cut herself off, her voice faltering for the briefest moment before she straightened her posture.

There it was. The real reason behind her anger. It wasn’t just about you being reckless—it was about her almost losing you.

"Hey," you said softly, reaching out despite the lingering pain in your arm. Your fingers brushed against hers, a fleeting touch, but it was enough to make her look at you. Really look at you.

"I’m okay," you reassured her, tilting your head slightly. "You were there. You always are."

Caitlyn held your gaze for a long moment before sighing, her rigid stance softening ever so slightly. "You make it really difficult to stay mad at you, you know that?" she muttered.

You grinned. "It’s part of my charm."

She huffed, shaking her head, but when she finally reached out and gently cupped your uninjured hand in hers, you knew—despite everything—she wouldn’t let you go.

"Go home," she sighed, her thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. "Get some rest. We can discuss your reckless behavior later."

Before you could protest, she leaned in, pressing a quick, fleeting kiss to your cheek. It was barely more than a whisper of warmth against your skin, but it sent your heart racing all the same. By the time you processed it, she was already pulling away, letting go of your hand.

"Commander—" one of her colleagues opened the door, but Caitlyn was already straightening her shoulders, her professional mask slipping back into place.

"That’s an order." she added, her tone firm, but her eyes lingered on you for just a second longer.

You swallowed hard, feeling the ghost of her lips still burning on your cheek. "Yes, ma'am" you murmured, forcing yourself to step back.

Later, when Caitlyn got home, your arm was feeling much better. The dull ache only made itself known when you tried to use more force than you should, but that didn’t stop Caitlyn from fussing over you.

She insisted on doing everything—making you tea, changing your bandages, even buttoning up your shirt when you struggled with your dominant hand out of commission. You protested, of course, but she silenced you with a pointed look, one that made it clear she wasn’t going to back down.

"Stop being so stubborn," she muttered, carefully unwrapping the old bandage from your hand. Her fingers were gentle, her touch featherlight as if she was afraid of hurting you. "You need to let yourself heal properly."

You sighed, watching her work. "I can take care of myself, you know."

"I know," she murmured, not looking up. "But I want to take care of you."

That shut you up.

She finished rewrapping your arm with the same level of care and precision she put into everything she did, then sat back, inspecting her work. Satisfied, she reached for the mug of tea she had made earlier, pressing it into your good hand.

"Drink," she instructed, tucking her legs beneath her as she settled beside you on the couch. "It’ll help you relax."

You took a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through you. "You don’t have to do all this, Cait."

She exhaled, shaking her head with a small, almost amused smile. "I know. But I want to."

There was something in her tone—something softer, something unguarded. You turned to look at her, and for once, she didn’t shy away.

"Today scared me," she admitted quietly, tracing absent patterns against the fabric of your sleeve. "I know what this job entails. I know the risks. But seeing you like that, knowing how close it was..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "I don’t want to lose you."

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in her voice. Without thinking, you reached out, threading your fingers through hers. She didn’t pull away.

"You won’t” you promised, squeezing her hand gently. "I’m not going anywhere."

Caitlyn exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "You can’t promise that."

"I can try."

She studied you for a long moment before leaning in, pressing her forehead against yours. "Just... be careful," she whispered. "For me."

You smiled, tilting your head just enough for your lips to brush against hers—soft, hesitant, a silent reassurance.

"For you” you murmured.

You knew falling for your boss was a terrible idea. But when she took care of you like this, when she looked at you like you were the most important thing in her world, damn, was it worth it.

Caitlyn sighed, her breath warm against your skin, her fingers still laced with yours. "You make it so difficult to stay professional." she muttered, half exasperated, half fond.

You smirked, tilting your head. "Oh? Is that a confession, Commander?"

She huffed, rolling her eyes, but the pink dusting her cheeks gave her away. "It’s a warning" she corrected. "Because if you keep making me worry like this, I might just have to start pulling you off field duty."

You chuckled. "And here I thought you liked having me around."

Caitlyn sighed again, this time with a small smile. "I do” she admitted, squeezing your hand. "More than I should."

The words sent a warmth through you that had nothing to do with the tea in your hands. You weren’t sure where this thing between you and Caitlyn was going, what lines had already been crossed, or which ones you’d cross next.

But as she leaned in, pressing one more soft, lingering kiss to your lips, you decided you didn’t really care.

──────────────────────

masterlist

[lazysoulwriter]

coming home drunk. - pedro pascal. (the morning after)

second part for this one, read first. requested. hope you love it! ♡

---

The groan from the other side of the bed was my favorite sound of the morning.

I rolled onto my side, propping my head up on my hand as I watched Pedro slowly wake up, his face buried in the pillow, hair a complete disaster. He looked deeply unwell.

“Good morning, my little buttered toast,” I teased.

Another groan.

I grinned. “Feeling okay?”

“No,” he mumbled, voice muffled against the pillow. “I think I died. This is the afterlife.”

“Oh, really?” I bit back a laugh. “That would explain why you were confessing your undying love for me last night like a tragic Shakespearean hero.”

Pedro peeked one eye open, immediately squinting like the daylight had personally offended him. “… What?”

I rolled onto my back dramatically.

“‘You’re my oxygen! My light! My toast with butter!’” I mimicked.

Pedro groaned even louder and pulled the blanket over his head. “No. Nope. I refuse to believe it.”

“Oh, it gets better.” I pulled the blanket back down just enough to see his tortured expression.

“You made me feel your heartbeat and said, and I quote, ‘Boom, boom, boom! That’s love, baby.’”

He blinked at me in pure horror. “I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I’m leaving the country.”

I snorted. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. That’s my job.”

Pedro flopped onto his back, rubbing his face like he could erase last night from existence. “Did I at least—please tell me—I didn’t embarrass myself in front of anyone else?”

I hummed, pretending to think. “Well… no, but—”

His sigh of relief was cut short when I added, “You did demand that I move onto the couch permanently because, and I quote again, ‘We live here now.’”

Pedro groaned so hard he rolled off the bed and hit the floor with a thud.

I cackled. “Dramatic much?”

“I can never face you again,” he said from the floor.

“Oh, hush,” I said, reaching down to ruffle his hair. “I think it was sweet.”

He sat up, pouting at me like a big grumpy golden retriever. “I was a fool.”

“No, you were just drunk in love—literally.”

Pedro narrowed his eyes, then slowly shook his head. “I can’t believe I wasted my best poetic material in a blackout.”

I bit my lip, trying not to laugh, but failed miserably. “Well… you did compare me to food several times.”

He groaned. “Stop.”

“You said I was toast with butter, a warm cinnamon roll, and at one point—” I swallowed another laugh, “—you called me your little empanada.”

Pedro fell back onto the floor face-first.

“Oh my God.” His voice was muffled. “Kill me.”

“Not happening, empanada boy.”

He rolled onto his back, glaring at the ceiling. “You’re enjoying this.”

I grinned. “A little.”

Pedro let out the most dramatic sigh yet. Then, very slowly, he propped himself up on his elbows. “Did I at least say anything sexy?”

I tilted my head, pretending to think. “Mmm… well, at one point, you wrapped yourself around me like a human koala and whispered, ‘If you leave me, I’ll shrivel up like a raisin and perish.’”

Pedro collapsed again. “Nope. That’s it. I’m deleting myself.”

I burst out laughing. “Oh, babe, come on—”

“Nope! Don’t ‘babe’ me! I need a do-over!” He sat up, rubbing his temples. “Okay. Okay. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll say sexy things. Like, right now. Hold on.”

I smirked, folding my arms. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”

He took a deep breath, straightened his back like he was preparing for a movie monologue, then met my eyes with his most sultry expression.

“You,” he said, voice deep and slow, “are the most beautiful person I have ever seen.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Not bad.”

“I crave you like oxygen,” he continued, sitting up taller. “Like my first sip of coffee in the morning. Like the warmth of a sunbeam on my face.”

I hummed, pretending to be impressed. “Alright, I’ll admit, this is much better than ‘empanada.’”

“And,” he said, shifting closer, his voice dropping into a whisper, “I will never—never—stop telling you how much I love you.”

That one got me.

I felt my face heat up as he gave me a smug little smirk.

“Oh, so now you’re good at this?” I muttered.

Pedro chuckled, reaching out to pull me onto his lap. “I just needed to be sober for it.”

I rolled my eyes but kissed him anyway, because, well, he was my idiot.

Hungover or not, I wouldn’t trade him for anything.

---

[themareverine]

Screeching because I love your writing and can’t wait to see where you go with this!

Logan Howlett, PG-13 (I’m thinking WW or trilogy Logan, but go where Lo takes you 😉)

Logan walking in on you taking an everything shower or a bath (candles lit, playlist on, etm.), dealers choice on at what point he bumbles in (or maybe NOT bumbles?) and where the muse takes you from there…

— All of You

Worst!Wolverine x fem!wife!reader

tags: fluff, some mentions of Weapon X, pre-established relationship, some heavy-handed innuendo.

a/n: and here it is, the last of my Valentine's Day requests! thanks so much for requesting my favorite variant, honey. hope you like bathtime with Logan! It isn't quiet PG-13, but it's hot enough for me.

☆ ── 💌FROM MARE WITH LOVE

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Logan is aware of exactly two things as he breezes through the front door after a long day on the job.

First, it’s the quiet of the house. Long shadows splay golden fingers of light across the kitchen linoleum from the single light over the stove, curtains mostly drawn across the house.

Typical for the house on a Friday night.

There’s the quiet hum of the fridge and the rhythmic tick of the clock that deepens this sense of loneliness in the shadows, and for some strange reason, it probes the hair on his arms. Shouldn’t, he can smell her around the house – and that’s the second thing he notices.

The scent of her. 

Filling up the rooms, plastering the walls. She’s really in every bone of this house, and they’d barely lived here a year. More and more Logan thinks the place was built exactly for them, for this marriage, for this life he, somehow, magically came to possess. 

Down to the studs, he believes in his soul there’s no better Eden on earth than this house and all its homey things.

It would never be the life they'd left behind in Alberta, but it was a close alternative — he could outlive a thousand suns here and be just as thrilled as the day they turned the key at the homestead, he thinks.

Her scent, and the fresh kick of mint that manages down the stairs. He smiles. No, he doesn’t just think he could be happy here for the rest of the days God gives him. He knows. Deep inside the adamantium that haunts his better parts, Logan knows. Viscerally.

Anywhere with her is home, and home is the only place he’ll ever actually want to be. 

Stopping at the stairs, he coyly smiles at the quiet hum of music floating through the walls, bringing life back into the still haven of their nest. She sings off key, but that’s alright. Most precious sound in the world is hearing her alive after what feels like a lifetime apart. 

A sour note makes him flinch, smiling again. His chuckle of amusement hangs out low in his chest as he slips out of his jacket, drapes it over the railing. 

At the kitchen island he takes off his boots, toes them over to the corner by the fridge beside the others. Washing the day from his hands at the sink, he scrubs his face with cool water – listens halfheartedly as the water rushes through old pipes rattling with the effort.

The house is old but packed with so much character – he can’t quite bring himself to change anything, not yet. Measurements on the doorway’s woodwork from children that aren’t theirs, worn-away paint from crown moulding. 

Everywhere he looks, there’s so much of him in the old bones of this place. Kinship he can’t quite place, familiarities he can’t put a finger on. Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s stepping into a new world from a time he was more than ready to leave behind.

Marriage, family, settling – maybe it’s the wild blood in his veins finally breaking.

He doesn’t know, and maybe he’ll never. It makes little difference. 

Scratching through his beard, he breathes deep of the cool air and pauses. There’s a whiff of moisture in the air, humidity that isn’t the norm for their house. Both of them run hot, usually – he keeps this place cool.

And it’s never humid, if there’s one thing Logan can’t handle it’s humidity — that shit is a hard pass. 

He’d drowned on air enough in his lifetime. Duty and pride had taken him to Vietnam, China, the Amazon; Weapon X had forced him around the world as a weapon. The X-Men – Charles sent them everywhere, God knew.

Every and all had landed him in the sweaty armpit of the world, and of all the places he’d ever seen, the humid ones burned the worst. 

But despite the bad memories the humidity recalls, his lip curls in a smile. At a subliminal level, he knows what this is—his sweet little wife has drawn a bath nearly every day since finishing the remodel.

Logan doesn’t remember a time where he’s ever seen another soul so excited over plumbing fixtures, but she had been – she’d almost been giddy when the claw foot bath had arrived at their doorstep, delivery boys looking strained from just wrestling the thing out of the back of the van.

Another sour note from her happy singing has him shaking his head. Logan allows it to pull him up the stairs, down the hallway. Fusty shampoos and the fresh scent of warm water sirens him to the half-cocked bathroom door.

Peeking inside reveals a half-steamed mirror, shed clothing toed off the side in a pile – gym clothes, from the looks of it.

Gently nudging open the door with his foot, Logan works off his watch, grinning crookedly as he slips into the space lightly, with ghost-like grace.

Her back is to him, looking out the open window – she’d never be able to hear a thing with headphones on, which explained her singing off key. 

She has no idea, and at some base level of him, that worries Logan. Her contentment with such vulnerability concerns him in ways he hasn’t worried about before – this visceral, almost instinctual need to protect is so strange. Foreign, almost.

A part of him that isn’t him, demands he look beyond his own skin, protect someone else. 

In all his lifetimes he’s never worried about it before, until her. Until this quiet little cathedral of a home he calls his own – this life they’ve resurrected from the ashes. It’s his now, innocent and pure.

Demands a protector, a guardian which returns. 

Finally, something worthy of everything he’s been made to be. All the things he is. 

Never had he imagined anything in the world would actually demand his abilities, this thing that lives in him and around him. The Wolverine, Logan, James, Patch — this thing, this weapon weaved into his flesh and knocked about his adamantium bones.

His entire life he’s always been better being someone else – one of the X-Men, a living weapon. A killer, a soldier, a fighter. Always spinning out of control trying to take it. 

Until her.

She demands all of him, in ways the world never has. She wants him. She asks for him.

She doesn’t demand or require, her words aren’t sentences that enslave him to what he can do. She takes all of him, regardless – she would have him, if he wasn’t everything else. Unconditionally. 

If he were just Logan, just James, simply Wolverine.

Logan believes her when she says she wants all of him. Freely. She doesn't love him because he's Wolverine, because he’s an X-Man.

She loves him because he is. 

And there’s power in this enough to drive him to his knees. 

Quietly he discards his watch beside the sink. Logan begins unbuttoning his flannel, stained with the day’s sweat and grime of the welding shop and a 12-hour day of grinding in all the places nobody advertises in school.

It drops beside her discarded clothes; he works the t-shirt over his head. Fluffs his hair with calloused, thick fingers. Empties the pockets of his jeans. 

His pulse picks up a little at the sight of her leaned back against the tub, hand playfully skipping over the luminescent bubbles that catch the light in just enough of a way that it is Eden incarnate.

She’s radiant with a dewy rosiness that sends a punch of warmth to the base of his gut. 

It takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to just haul her out of the bath and have his way with her — it would be fun. It would satisfy the baser, Wolverine parts of him.

Fills that primal ache that gnaws continually at the bottom of his spine, knocks heat into his cock. Would feel spectacular.

And she’d let him do it, she’d enjoy the baser part of his sexual drive. 

But that’s not Logan, not today. Not right now. 

Right now, he could use a bath. 

Slipping up behind her, he chuckles down his nose at the sight of her, naked and fully oblivious to the world around her as her head bops side to side with whatever she’s listening to. 

The rumble of his amused chuckle bleeds through his fingers, which dust over the tops of her shoulders lightly. Jarred, her attention snaps upward and she slingshot’s the headphones off.

Her heart rabbits behind her ribs for all of a few seconds—he can feel it beneath his hand as it curves around the back of her neck as he lingers beside the tub. 

Smiling at him as a blush creeps up the length of her neck to her cheeks, she moves to face him, arms dripping over the side of the tub. Almost nose to nose, her wrinkles a little with a smile. 

“Well well,” there’s not an ounce of shame, just the way he prefers her, as her eyes skate over his bare chest, finger tracing the lines of muscle in his arm. “You’re back a little early,” there’s no clock in the room, but that’s hardly the point. 

Her eyes move from her hand on his arm to hold his, their light beckoning him like a lost moth to brazen flames.

Nails catching on his skin, she leans a little over the tub to discard the headphones, Logan’s fingers grazing his beard at the sight of pearlescent soap clinging all the places that belong to him on her frame – his places.

All his. 

There’s a little lilt in her voice as she sighs, slinking back into the steaming water.

“I didn’t know what to make for supper – I thought we could go out?”

Her brow lifts as she plays with the wet hair sticking to the back of her neck, rolling it around and off a finger.

“You hungry for something in particular?” 

She’s not being flirty, not directly.

Logan doubts she’s even aware that his blood flies with heat at the sight of bubbles and water swirling around her chest, the dewiness on her skin. He can hardly think past the idea of lathing the water from her collarbones, it sends a zing of bestial hunger stabbing into his balls that makes him almost shudder. 

Knuckles ghosting white as he grips the side of the tub, he shrugs.

“Nothin’ that requires goin’ anywhere, darlin’,” his hand drops to unbuckle his belt, and her smile quirks a little wider as it falls open with a light jingle. 

“Oh. Let’s just order in then,” her shoulder shifts, hand flitting through the foamy bubbles, “I bet if I check, Sylvia's will still be running that special for Valentine’s Day.” 

Her brow snaps up at attention as he stands to his full height to peer down at her. He discards the belt with little more than a flick of his wrist. Forgetting jeans and socks, he slowly drops into the bath and beckons her to slot between his legs with a crook of his finger and a smile. 

Obedient, she falls back against his chest when his arms wrap around her. Pulling her close, she props her foot up against the opposite end of the tub and he matches her effort, dripping sock making her snort in amusement. 

Dissolving into laughter as he gently nuzzles the soft of her neck with his scruff, he hums low and presses a soft kiss to her collarbone. 

“You even hungry for pizza, Logan?” Off a laugh, the giggle is soft, light. Strangely it sends butterflies to his chest when she sighs deeply, relaxing against his ministrations fully. “Or is there something else you want for supper?” 

His growl is dark, low in his chest. He can feel it ring against her breastbone as his arms snug around her chest, protectively. On fire from the heat of her so close and the temperature of the bath, he ignores the sweat the rises in his beard, as his temples. 

“Got everythin’ I need right here, baby,” gently nipping at the soft of her shoulder, she playfully pulls away on a sharp inhale that catches in the back of her throat. Hand skimming her side beneath the cloud of soapy bath water, his palm presses softly to the low of her stomach, making his point. 

Chuckling, he sucks in a sharp breath as she gently moans beneath the heat of his hand. 

“Who needs supper when I can eat right here, for free?” 

[babachira]

life in sakadays

asakura shin x psychokinesis!reader (i'm literally crazy)

── ⟢

+ unlike shin's accidental awakening of a clairvoyant, you're the product of constant testing. that means you're probably full of not-so-great memories of the place you grew up in where kids were being manipulated into drinking purple liquid and hopefully develop powers, but you're part of sakamoto's family now! hurray!

+ no one suspected that you had an ability at the start. it's not a common occurrence that someone has supernatural powers, but they probably figured out from either a) you pulled off jaw-dropping moves like blocking bullets by launching tables triple your size, or b) they caught you chucking detergent onto the shelves without lifting a single finger. no in-between. heisuke might've got it from the latter.

+ you can lift practically anything, but the heavier it is, the harder it becomes. clearly, lifting hana and playing bird-girl is a lot more doable than shifting sakamoto onto the second floor just because he doesn't want to climb the stairs. aoi-san and lu are also ok, shin and heisuke feel like a little pebble in your hands, whereas sakamoto-san would always feel like you're holding a 5kg dumbbell. it's ok if it's for a second, but any longer and it only starts to ache.

+ "ugh, i have to move all of this because shin refused to do it!" lu would cry out, then not-so-subtly glance at you. "my poor arms have to do this work!" then with a dramatic eye-roll, you'd walk over and swing your arm in an arch, re-arranging all the new ramen packets that sakamoto-san had delivered. lu would envelop you in such a tight hug, "thanks so much! at least someone around here loves me enough to help!" then shin's sulking later only (just a tad!) because lu said that you love her.

+ and so now that your powers were in the clear, you had become such a hot topic in the family. sakamoto wouldn't really make it a big deal because he's always had shin, but he's probably never met a psychic before, so he's a little curious. shin will be gobsmacked because goddamn he scored. a badass partner for free? well, life-threatening issues such as chasing down that bounty on sakamoto's head does come as a fee for everyone, but shin's still grateful that you're there with him. he thinks it's awesome that he has someone else who can kick ass as well as him. maybe even better!

+ he will 100% suggest fighting strategies by combining his powers and yours. because you can't read minds, your plans might be something along the lines like you're the main offence while he's on guard for whatever you tell him. you'd be at the front letting him know (all telepathically, of course) of your surroundings like how many enemies or a rough sketch of the location so that he can use all of that to plan ahead. might get into silly arguments because you ran into some problems, but it's a success most of the time!

+ your powers will absolutely be exploited by sakamoto's family. need a big order to be moved that sakamoto can't be assed to do himself? ok, you're on the job, time to put that mind to work and shift some disgustingly heavy boxes. hana wants to go flying? ok! just make sure she doesn't hit the ceiling, otherwise, YOU might go flying from a certain dad. heisuke wants help carrying fifty bags of buns home? ok buddy, that is not going to be for free though. lu just can't be bothered to work? that's a no.

+ shin might be relieved to know that there's someone else on the team who they can rely on when it comes to mental prowess. sure, his ability is really handy, but sometimes, it can get a bit tiring when it's the only thing that's being used. you might be one of the only other people who really understands him

+ similarly to how shin is limited to a certain radius, your powers are only convenient with things in sight. if it's right in front of you, it's no biggie at all, but if it's to the point where you have to squint and lean forward to figure out what the hell it is you're looking at, that's where your brain starts to melt as you try to get it to move.

+ he's your no.1 supporter all the way. might get into spats with lu fighting for that spot, but everyone knows that he'll do everything he can to ensure your safety and that all your limbs are in place BECAUSE GOD FORBID everyone gets out unscathed

+ because shin can read minds and just sometimes you want to tease him, you and lu would purposely think things like "shin's an idiot!" "nice ass, shin" or "i know you're looking at me" to the point where he comes stomping over, demanding with ears as red as an apple, "stop bothering me about my ass! and no! i was not looking at you!"

+ he really wants to impress you, so you bet he'll exploit his powers to tap into your mind and figure out what you want. let's say you're craving your favourite food, he just so happens to have it delivered to the front of the store at your most ravenous state. at the very beginning you thought it was a genuine coincidence until it started becoming very specific like that extra topping or how many pumps of syrup in your drink. you know now, of course, and shin knows that you know too. he doesn't stop though

+ if shin's your number one fan, hana is for both. she's a big you and shin lover. whenever she sees one of you without the other, she's bound to ask, "where's shin/(name)? are you guys not together?" and honestly, shin's so happy that he's always associated with you. if you're not there, he'd crouch down to her height and say, "it's just me, right now. it'll be the both of us soon, then we can all play together!"

+ seeing you in action has always sent a thrill to his spine. be it good or bad, his instinct to protect you is always the same. he knows you're very capable, very, as he watches you hurl two fire trucks with a swipe of your hands. he's like, "woah . . . wow . . . " he's so impressed and knows that you're not one to mess with. he holds real sympathy to those who underestimate you.

+ obviously, word that sakamoto has a clairvoyant on his team is already out. shin's powers are good, so it's no surprise that people would target him first since he is really useful. unlike that, at the start, you wouldn't be as well known because the sakamoto family all agreed to keep you under wraps just in case people start going for you too. it's only when you join them on more missions that you have to start using your psychokinesis to help, which garners more unwanted attention.

+ shin would definitely hate that. he once saw this sign with your face that had all the pros and cons of your powers in bullet points, and this urge to rip whoever created this to shreds was indescribable. if you already know about the flyer, he'd ask if you always knew. if you didn't, he'd probably keep quiet for a while and confirm it with sakamoto. he'd hate how you're becoming a target when he would much rather it just be him.

+ but seeing you put your life on the line just like everyone else makes him nervous yet so proud. he looks up to you in a way that he's so glad that someone accepted him and that no matter what you went through, you're still pushing through. if you ever get injured, his eyes would fly open, panic rushing through his entire body like an adrenaline rush uncalled for. logic would fade from his mind as he'd hold you and rush through the building for the exit and nearest hospital. there can't be anything worse than losing his family, losing you.

+ if it isn't serious, he'd bandage you up right there and then, staring so intently with all the emotions in his eyes with comments like "idiot, i told you this isn't easy. look at you, getting me to patch you up" or "it stings, yeah? well, you gotta suck it up until we get back home. maybe if you're lucky, i can piggyback you." he stares with so much love, his brows furrowed and jaw clenched, that it lowkey gets you flustered because how can one look at someone so deeply? it's as if he's locked onto your soul and is transmitting his thoughts, despite your inability to read minds, into your heart.

+ but if it's really bad, he'd yell in your face to hang in there and not close your eyes. would beg sakamoto to run as fast he can to get you to the nearest hospital. would refuse to leave your side unless he's physically dragged away and he'd remain stoic for the rest of the week or until you're discharged. not even lu or heisuke would be able to make him crack a smile. hana would barely manage to earn a small quirk of the lip, but unless he's sure that you're ok, he's not.

+ once you're better, he's dashing to you. he's never letting you go, he never ever wants to go through that again, and he'd reprimand you so hard that you genuinely feel bad. he wouldn't go overboard with the scolding, just enough so that you know he truly cares for you. everyone's happy that you're all healed though!

+ you'd try help aoi-san with dinner from time to time. hana would also be there, asking if she can cut carrots with her star-shaped cutter. you'd agree as long as you're watching her and she's so happy! everyone else would probably be downstairs tending to the store until dinner's ready, but when shin comes up a little earlier than the rest and sees you participating in the domestic chores with aoi-san, his heart just swoons. bro is so in love, how does he even show it? he'd look over your shoulder and even if you're doing amazing, he'd tease, "what's that meant to be?" but most of the time, he's like, "looks good. can't wait to eat it."

+ it's a family you'd never trade anything for. the peace you relish in is incomparable and you believe that you owe everyone so much for what they've done. of course, minus the deadly threats that come your way, but it's nothing compared to every positive thing that happens in your saka-family life!!

[sturnsblogs]

LOVE LOOKS SO PRETTY ON YOU

Love looks so pretty on you. It’s the only thing you can see when you look at Chris, and tonight feels like a scene straight out of a cheesy romance movie. You’re both running through the rain, laughing and soaking wet as the world around you disappears. The cold drops fall onto your skin, but the warmth between you two makes it feel like everything is just right. His hand slips into yours, and you stop for a second, just to look at him. There’s no one else in the world in this moment, just you and him, laughing, smiling, and feeling like nothing could be more perfect.

You pull him in for a kiss, the rain mixing with the taste of him, both of you drenched but lost in the simplicity of the moment. Your laughter lingers as the kiss deepens, your lips fitting together like they’ve done a thousand times. The world outside is nothing but a blur; it’s just you and Chris, lost in this beautiful, chaotic love.

When you finally pull away, your breath quick and the air filled with soft chuckles, you make your way inside, the warmth of the room immediately wrapping around you. Chris quickly grabs a towel and smiles at you with a playful glint in his eye. “We must look ridiculous,” he says, his voice teasing, but there’s something tender in his tone that makes you smile.

“Speak for yourself,” you joke, running a hand through your wet hair, trying to shake off the rain.

He steps toward you, gently lifting the towel. “I think you’re beautiful, rain and all,” he says softly, his hands gentle as he starts drying your hair. He moves slowly, the rough towel soft against your skin as he pulls it through your wet strands. His touch is tender, as though he’s trying to make sure you’re okay, as though he wants to take care of you in the simplest of ways.

“You always know how to make me feel better,” you murmur, your voice quiet, filled with a warmth you can’t hide. He looks up at you with a soft, almost amused smile.

“I’m just doing my job,” he replies playfully, but there’s sincerity in his eyes. He continues drying your hair with careful, deliberate movements, as though he’s cherishing this moment. “I think I could spend all night taking care of you like this,” he says, his voice low and full of affection. You can’t help but smile, feeling the depth of his care in his every word.

You tilt your head back slightly, letting him work through your hair, his fingers brushing against your scalp in the most soothing way. You close your eyes, feeling a sense of calm settle over you as you let yourself completely relax in his hands.

“You’re so gentle with me,” you whisper, barely able to contain the tenderness in your own voice. “I never knew I needed this. But now, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

Chris stops for a moment, his hands resting softly against your wet hair. His voice is barely above a whisper when he replies, “You don’t have to imagine it, because I’m always here. I’ll always take care of you.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you look up at him, meeting his gaze. His eyes are soft, full of something unspoken but so clear you can feel it deep inside. The moment feels timeless, like nothing could ever break this connection between you.

When he finishes drying your hair, he gently takes your face in his hands, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he smiles at you. “You’re perfect just like this, you know that?” he says, his voice full of admiration.

“I think you’re the perfect one,” you reply softly, your voice full of warmth as you lean into his touch, closing your eyes for a moment as you simply soak in the feeling of being loved in this way. You feel safe, secure, like you’ve found your home in him.

He leads you to the bedroom, his hand never leaving yours, and when you both reach the bed, the storm outside feels so far away. The world is calm, and you’re here with him. He lays you down gently, not in a rush, not for anything physical, but for love. His touch is soft and full of meaning as he holds you close, whispering in your ear.

“You’re the one, the one and only,” he says, and it feels true in the very marrow of your bones. It feels like a promise, something real, something that goes deeper than just words.

You smile softly, your heart full of love as you whisper back, “I love how you love me so delicately.” His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, and you feel the world slip away as you sink into the comfort of his love. There’s nothing else you need, nothing else you could want. Just this. Just him.

This relationship is more than anything physical. It’s the quiet moments, the way he cares for you, the way he loves you with a tenderness that never fades. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more.

And as you lie there, wrapped in his embrace, all you can think is: love looks so pretty on us. And it’s true. Every soft kiss, every gentle touch, every whispered promise—it’s all so beautifully real.

A/N- Saw @imaladykiller request this from her account and i’m not sure anyone else wrote it! so here you go!

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @jimmasterflashh @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads

[theelectriccat]

Waiting for my AO3 invitation since I deleted my old account. In the meantime, here's a short, one-shot fic I wrote called "Blood in Concrete". TW: for depression, drug use mention, assault mention, and a suicide attempt. Dead dove and all that. Mostly Robby and Jack Abbott (who I can't wait to learn more about).

The streets of Pittsburgh were being cleaned up. With a combination of the sodas (baking and club) most blood stains were washed out with little complication, but it was a different matter when it came to concrete. Some of the stains could never fully be washed away, especially with foot traffic pounding the evidence further and further down into its pores. 

Dr. Michael Robinavich finally had a quiet moment after a series of atrocities, from Heather’s miscarriage to Dana’s assault to the entire Frank situation to losing several patients to an incel in the making turned festival shooter. And on the anniversary of Adamson’s death. He thought about visiting Adamson’s grave, but knew that any last stitch he had holding him together was in danger of unraveling so, naturally, standing 100 feet above a huge city with nothing but bloody concrete to break his fall seemed like a much more logical alternative. 

Robby both loved and loathed the quiet. He loved it because it was such a rare commodity. His stomach was grumbling. He was running around like a headless chicken for such a long period of time that the one protein bar he had at 11 AM was barely enough to satiate him. However, he could feel the bile starting to rise in his throat and didn’t want to aggravate his stomach further. 

But he loathed it because the idea of being alone with his own thoughts was terrifying. His thoughts were destructive and hateful. “If I were a better doctor, hell, if I were a better PERSON, I wouldn’t have assumed the worst of Frank. I wouldn’t have dismissed Dana and McKay's very legitimate worries. I would have actually been there for Heather when she needed me. Adamson would still be alive.”

Adamson would still be alive.

Everyone was right in telling him that he should not have shown up today. He most likely did more harm than good. He balled his fights so tightly that he could feel his fingernails piercing his palm skin. There was a part of him, a slightly perverse part, hoping that he didn’t peel his nails into submission so he could draw just a little bit of blood. Just enough to remind him that he was still inhabiting his own body.

Robby felt footsteps behind him. The silhouette of Jack Abbott came into frame. It was Abbott’s shift now, and Robby left the man with a shit show and a half. 

“I called you twice,” Jack noted, but his tone wasn’t angry. It was one of concern. “Mohan advised me to check on you. She was worried sick.”

“Mohan?” Robby asked.

“I think she thought you were actually going to jump.”

Robby laughed humorlessly.

“I can’t say I haven’t thought about it,” he admitted, but Jack didn’t laugh.

“Mohan’s not the only one, Robby. I heard a lot about what happened today. Why didn’t you call me to scrub in?”

“Because you probably had your own 12 hours of hell. I didn’t want to—”

“Bullshit! You know, you’re inconveniencing people more by doing this.”

Now Robby could feel another emotion poking through the cloud of self-pity: anger.

“By doing what exactly, Jack? Being a doctor? Doing my job?”

“Ah yes, because sending home Dana and Collins and firing Langdon when you’re already short staffed and need as many hands on deck as possible is doing your job. Look—I don’t know what’s going on with you, but…”

“Okay, first of all, Dana quit. At least, I think she quit. She was getting abused by patients to the point where she just couldn’t take it anymore. I caught Langdon with drugs. I was following procedure. And I did ask him back when we were in a desperate situation. And not that it’s any of your fucking business but Collins had a miscarriage.”

There was silence for several seconds. That was not my business to tell, Robby thought, and he was right back to self-loathing. He advanced, starting to climb up to the ledge, when Jack grabbed him and tackled him for his own safety. Though Robby attempted to tussle, he was not in the right frame of mind, and going head to head against a former University of Michigan Wrestling Champion seemed foolish, especially since Jack lost not an ounce of that strength. All Robby could do was attempt to verbally spar, though even then he wasn't prodding as much as begging.

“Get off of me!” Robby demanded.

“No! Not until you promise me that you’ll never think of doing that again!”

"And what if I can't?"

"Then I'm going to keep you pinned until you do."

The two exchanged a look and Robby sighed, admitting defeat. Once Jack released him, Robby nodded and sat with his back against the wall. Jack sat beside him. He said nothing, but he leaned toward Robby in support. Robby felt tears pierce his eyes. If he had any stoicism left in him, he would have been able to blink them back and just blame them on hay fever if anyone noticed. But Jack wasn’t stupid. And he wasn’t going to judge. Robby began to cry. No…sob. A sob so hard and full that he knew his ribs would start to ache.

“It’s all my fault,” he gasped.

“What’s your fault? I don’t see any of this being your fault.”

“It is. I ruin everything. I'm awful."

“Hey, hey…that’s my friend you’re talking about.” 

Jack sat quietly, giving Robby both the space and the support he needed. As he felt Jack’s hand squeeze his own gently, it was a little reminder. Of what, he wasn’t sure, but it gave him the nudge he needed to wipe his eyes, rise to his feet, and look back toward the door leading to the stairwell.

“I guess I should—”

“Go home and get some sleep, for God’s sake. Take tomorrow off. You didn’t take today off and you usually do. Consider it a…mental health day.”

“I…I couldn’t.”

Jack gave a wry smile.

“Unfortunately, we’re on my shift now. You don’t get to make that call. Go home. And…text me tomorrow to let me know how you’re doing.”

Robby took a breath.

“Doctor’s orders?”

“Yeah.”

Robby nodded as he made the trek down the stairs. Jack followed, and gave the staff a warning glance to avoid any hovering or meddling. Robby made his way to his locker. For a split second, he glanced at Frank’s. 

He had a lot of apologizing to do, but first he would have to take time to think about how to make it up to him. And he couldn’t do that in this spiraling state. Tomorrow, he'll be available to Heather. And he had apologies to make to her as well. Huge apologies with no guarantee of forgiveness.

He watched Samira Mohan pass him as she was grabbing her purse and water bottle out of her locker.

“Headed home?” he asked.

“Just about. You?”

“Yeah, finally.”

Mohan nodded.

“Good.”

“And I’m taking tomorrow off. Abbott’s scrubbing in. Pulling double duty.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised but relieved.

“Yes. You were right to talk to him. And…I’m sorry that I’ve been riding you as hard as I have. You’re a good doctor, Mohan…uh…Samira. And I should never have made you feel otherwise.”

She smiled.

“Apology accepted. But I can definitely think of someone who deserves a much bigger apology?”

“Who?”

“Yourself. You’re torturing yourself. And that’s not good for anyone. Take it from someone who knows.”

Robby couldn’t manage much more than a nod, but Mohan was satisfied as she started to make her way through the door. She was right, of course. He was letting blood sink into the concrete, and it was slowly killing him.

“Dr. Mohan?” Robby called, catching her just before she left.

“What is it?”

“Do you know where Kiara is? I…I think I might want to talk to her. I might…need to talk to her.”

Mohan gave him an understanding smile.

“I think she’s upstairs in the lounge.”

[salty-autistic-writer]

Written for @bucktommyangstweek, Day 4: Accidents on the job (tw: vomiting)

Buck is used to getting hurt on the job. He’s used to bruises, cuts, and strains.

Injuries are a known risk that comes with being a firefighter. Due to the adrenaline rush Buck often doesn’t even notice he’s hurt until he peels his uniform off later and sees himself in the mirror.

On his pale skin, bruises quickly turn violet, green, and yellow. A spectrum.

Tommy kisses each colorful spot with a loving gentleness that makes Buck feel fuzzy inside. 

He returns the favor. Tommy doesn’t bruise as easily, but he has more scars than Buck. He runs a finger over them, mapping out their shapes, transfixed by the way life leaves visible traces on bodies.

Each wound tells a story.

Each wound is proof that they are alive. At the same time, they are evidence of the fragility of the human body. It doesn’t take much to kill someone. Buck knows that too well. He has felt his own transcience. Now, what he fears the most, is to see his significant other fighting for his life.

Being with a first responder isn’t only about handling shifts that often don't match. It’s also about whispering "be safe" in the mornings like a prayer. It’s waiting for bad news when the other arrives home too late. It's agonizing waiting.

It’s this moment when you pick up the phone and you just know.

“Yes.” Dry throat.

“Hello Sir, am I talking to Evan Buckley?” Professional voice. Calm. Giving nothing away.

Buck closes his eyes. A cold fist of dread curls around his heart. Presses. “Yeah. That’s me.”

Thoughts cut through his mind, bright and razor-sharp like flashes of lightning.

I’m Evan Buckley. I’m Thomas Kinard’s emergency contact. But he doesn’t want to be called that. He’s Tommy. Just Tommy. He’s the love of my life. Please. Please save him. I can’t lose him. 

Please.

His fingers tighten around the phone. “How … How bad is it?”

“It was a dead branch,” Lucy says quietly, soot on her face and in her hair. One of her arms is bandaged. “It was huge and it came out of nowhere. No warning. It just … Fell. Tommy pushed me. The branch still hit me. But … Not as hard.”

She swallows.

Not as hard as Tommy. That’s what she didn’t want to say, Buck thinks.

It’s not fair.

They were done. The fire was out.

Everything was fine.

So they took off their helmets to cool off. To pour some water over their sweaty faces.

Everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

All it took was a split second. And a branch.

It’s not fair.

But accidents never are.

Lucy puts her uninjured hand on Buck’s shoulder. “He’ll be okay,” she says. “You know what he always says about his thick head.”

“Yeah,” Buck says, trying to smile at her. But he’s numb. Still too shocked by the turn of events to process any of it. He just wants to see Tommy. Wants to see that he’s breathing. That he’s battered but alive.

* So this is what it’s like, Buck thinks. This is what it feels like when the person you love more than anything in the world lies unconscious in a hospital bed. Wow. It hurts.

Heavy concussion.

That’s what the doctor said. She also said there are no signs of brain damage. Tommy just needs a lot of rest. He’s going to be okay.

Buck felt a rush of relief after her words, but he still can’t quite believe it. Tommy looks so fragile in the hospital bed, with his head wrapped in bandages, his eyes closed and his face smooth as he sleeps.

“Sleep as long as you need to,” Buck says into the silent room, sitting on the chair beside the bed. “I will be here when you wake up, okay?” He reaches out and takes Tommy’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You gave me - all of us - a good scare. But you will be fine. And I will you buy so much cake after you wake up,” Buck promises. “And ice cream.”

One of Tommy’s fingers twitches.

* “Your eyes are so swollen, man,” Chimney says. “Spooky.”

Tommy blinks, his eyes droopy and red. He tries to focus on them but doesn’t quite manage. He raises a hand and starts to fidget with the bandages around his head.

“Marshmellow,” he whispers.

“What?” Buck asks, stunned.

“Mellow. Head. Feels like Marsh.”

“Oh. Yeah. Uh, you’re pretty concussed,” Buck says, scratching the back of his head. Beside him, Chimney is quivering. Almost like he’s trying hard not to laugh. “A branch fell on you.”

“Hm.” Tommy frowns. “Hmmm.”

“I think he’s gonna throw up,” Chimney says calmly, grabbing an emesis bowl and pushing it into Buck’s hands.

“What? I -” Buck starts, only to stare, stunned, as Tommy turns on his side fast with a gagging noise. He starts vomiting just as Buck manages to hold the bowl to his mouth. Tommy’s body convulses and trembles. It sounds and looks painful. Buck winces in sympathy. 

“I’m going to call a nurse,” Chimney says, leaving the room.

Buck pats Tommy’s back. “You will be okay,” he says quietly. “I’m going to take care of you.”

Tommy only groans weakly. And vomits again.

* “Are you sure you want to go home?” Buck asks, concerned. “Maybe one more night wouldn't hurt."

“No,” Tommy says, swaying on the spot. He blinks rapidly, trying to focus on Buck. “Please. No more.”

Buck sighs. He gets it. He really does. Hospitals are no fun.

“Okay. But you’re not going to walk out of here alone. Come on, let me help you.”

He reaches for Tommy’s arm. Tommy leans against him immediately, groaning. “Sick,” he mutters, closing his eyes for a moment. 

“I know,” Buck says. “I can ask for a wheelchair.”

“No,” Tommy says, brows furrowing. No!”

Stubborn. Buck sighs. Well. It’s not like Buck is much different.

They eventually make their way out of the room and the building, though they are so slow, that they raise a few concerned doubtful eyebrows from nurses and doctors. 

Tommy walks like Jack Sparrow. Once he has that thought, it’s stuck in Buck’s head and he has to constantly fight the laughter that wants to bubble out of him while he steadies Tommy and they sway-walk to the car.

* “Here,” Buck says happily, putting a plate with fruit, biscuits, and chocolate on the couch table. He adds a mug of steaming tea and Tommy’s medication. “That should be anything you - oh. Oh, wait!”

He puts another pillow behind Tommy’s back and also underneath his legs, then covers him with a blanket. “Good?”

Tommy looks up at him and Buck startles because there are tears in Tommy’s eyes. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain? I can get you an icepack?!”

“No,” Tommy breathes. “I’m fine. It’s just … You taking care of me like this. It makes me emotional.”

Buck smiles, his chest glowing. “Oh. Of course! I love taking care of you. But you still don’t need to let any more branches fall on your head. Please.”

“No,” Tommy chuckles, reaching up to rub at the bump on his head with a grimace. “I really don’t need a repetition of that.”

“You and me both,” Buck says, sitting beside Tommy and reaching for a piece of chocolate. “Now, open up.”

“You’re going to feed me?” Tommy’s lips twitch. “I’m going to feed you.”

“You know what, maybe I should get injured more often after all.”

“Tommy.”

“Just kidding. Please don’t take the chocolate away.”

This injury leaves traces in their shared memories too. Buck knows something like this might happen again. And they won't see it coming. But at least, they are together right now. Still standing and still taking care of each other. And he will continue to do that as long as life allows it.

(AO3 Link)

[victusinveritas]

Story below the cut to avoid a paywall.

There was no explanation, no warning. One minute, I was in an immigration office talking to an officer about my work visa, which had been approved months before and allowed me, a Canadian, to work in the US. The next, I was told to put my hands against the wall, and patted down like a criminal before being sent to an Ice detention center without the chance to talk to a lawyer.

I grew up in Whitehorse, Yukon, a small town in the northernmost part of Canada. I always knew I wanted to do something bigger with my life. I left home early and moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where I built a career spanning multiple industries – acting in film and television, owning bars and restaurants, flipping condos and managing Airbnbs.

In my 30s, I found my true passion working in the health and wellness industry. I was given the opportunity to help launch an American brand of health tonics called Holy! Water – a job that would involve moving to the US.

I was granted my trade Nafta work visa, which allows Canadian and Mexican citizens to work in the US in specific professional occupations, on my second attempt. It goes without saying, then, that I have no criminal record. I also love the US and consider myself to be a kind, hard-working person.

I started working in California and travelled back and forth between Canada and the US multiple times without any complications – until one day, upon returning to the US, a border officer questioned me about my initial visa denial and subsequent visa approval. He asked why I had gone to the San Diego border the second time to apply. I explained that that was where my lawyer’s offices were, and that he had wanted to accompany me to ensure there were no issues.

After a long interrogation, the officer told me it seemed “shady” and that my visa hadn’t been properly processed. He claimed I also couldn’t work for a company in the US that made use of hemp – one of the beverage ingredients. He revoked my visa, and told me I could still work for the company from Canada, but if I wanted to return to the US, I would need to reapply.

I was devastated; I had just started building a life in California. I stayed in Canada for the next few months, and was eventually offered a similar position with a different health and wellness brand.

I restarted the visa process and returned to the same immigration office at the San Diego border, since they had processed my visa before and I was familiar with it. Hours passed, with many confused opinions about my case. The officer I spoke to was kind but told me that, due to my previous issues, I needed to apply for my visa through the consulate. I told her I hadn’t been aware I needed to apply that way, but had no problem doing it.

Then she said something strange: “You didn’t do anything wrong. You are not in trouble, you are not a criminal.”

I remember thinking: Why would she say that? Of course I’m not a criminal!

She then told me they had to send me back to Canada. That didn’t concern me; I assumed I would simply book a flight home. But as I sat searching for flights, a man approached me.

“Come with me,” he said.

There was no explanation, no warning. He led me to a room, took my belongings from my hands and ordered me to put my hands against the wall. A woman immediately began patting me down. The commands came rapid-fire, one after another, too fast to process.

They took my shoes and pulled out my shoelaces.

“What are you doing? What is happening?” I asked.

“You are being detained.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean? For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

That would be the response to nearly every question I would ask over the next two weeks: “I don’t know.”

They brought me downstairs for a series of interviews and medical questions, searched my bags and told me I had to get rid of half my belongings because I couldn’t take everything with me.

“Take everything with me where?” I asked.

A woman asked me for the name of someone they could contact on my behalf. In moments like this, you realize you don’t actually know anyone’s phone number anymore. By some miracle, I had recently memorized my best friend Britt’s number because I had been putting my grocery points on her account.

I gave them her phone number.

They handed me a mat and a folded-up sheet of aluminum foil.

“What is this?”

“Your blanket.”

“I don’t understand.”

I was taken to a tiny, freezing cement cell with bright fluorescent lights and a toilet. There were five other women lying on their mats with the aluminum sheets wrapped over them, looking like dead bodies. The guard locked the door behind me.

For two days, we remained in that cell, only leaving briefly for food. The lights never turned off, we never knew what time it was and no one answered our questions. No one in the cell spoke English, so I either tried to sleep or meditate to keep from having a breakdown. I didn’t trust the food, so I fasted, assuming I wouldn’t be there long.

On the third day, I was finally allowed to make a phone call. I called Britt and told her that I didn’t understand what was happening, that no one would tell me when I was going home, and that she was my only contact.

They gave me a stack of paperwork to sign and told me I was being given a five-year ban unless I applied for re-entry through the consulate. The officer also said it didn’t matter whether I signed the papers or not; it was happening regardless.

I was so delirious that I just signed. I told them I would pay for my flight home and asked when I could leave.

No answer.

Then they moved me to another cell – this time with no mat or blanket. I sat on the freezing cement floor for hours. That’s when I realized they were processing me into real jail: the Otay Mesa Detention Center.

I was told to shower, given a jail uniform, fingerprinted and interviewed. I begged for information.

“How long will I be here?”

“I don’t know your case,” the man said. “Could be days. Could be weeks. But I’m telling you right now – you need to mentally prepare yourself for months.”

Months.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

I was taken to the nurse’s office for a medical check. She asked what had happened to me. She had never seen a Canadian there before. When I told her my story, she grabbed my hand and said: “Do you believe in God?”

I told her I had only recently found God, but that I now believed in God more than anything.

“I believe God brought you here for a reason,” she said. “I know it feels like your life is in a million pieces, but you will be OK. Through this, I think you are going to find a way to help others.”

At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. She asked if she could pray for me. I held her hands and wept.

I felt like I had been sent an angel.

I was then placed in a real jail unit: two levels of cells surrounding a common area, just like in the movies. I was put in a tiny cell alone with a bunk bed and a toilet.

The best part: there were blankets. After three days without one, I wrapped myself in mine and finally felt some comfort.

For the first day, I didn’t leave my cell. I continued fasting, terrified that the food might make me sick. The only available water came from the tap attached to the toilet in our cells or a sink in the common area, neither of which felt safe to drink.

Eventually, I forced myself to step out, meet the guards and learn the rules. One of them told me: “No fighting.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I joked. He laughed.

I asked if there had ever been a fight here.

“In this unit? No,” he said. “No one in this unit has a criminal record.”

That’s when I started meeting the other women.

That’s when I started hearing their stories.

And that’s when I made a decision: I would never allow myself to feel sorry for my situation again. No matter how hard this was, I had to be grateful. Because every woman I met was in an even more difficult position than mine.

There were around 140 of us in our unit. Many women had lived and worked in the US legally for years but had overstayed their visas – often after reapplying and being denied. They had all been detained without warning.

If someone is a criminal, I agree they should be taken off the streets. But not one of these women had a criminal record. These women acknowledged that they shouldn’t have overstayed and took responsibility for their actions. But their frustration wasn’t about being held accountable; it was about the endless, bureaucratic limbo they had been trapped in.

The real issue was how long it took to get out of the system, with no clear answers, no timeline and no way to move forward. Once deported, many have no choice but to abandon everything they own because the cost of shipping their belongings back is too high.

I met a woman who had been on a road trip with her husband. She said they had 10-year work visas. While driving near the San Diego border, they mistakenly got into a lane leading to Mexico. They stopped and told the agent they didn’t have their passports on them, expecting to be redirected. Instead, they were detained. They are both pastors.

I met a family of three who had been living in the US for 11 years with work authorizations. They paid taxes and were waiting for their green cards. Every year, the mother had to undergo a background check, but this time, she was told to bring her whole family. When they arrived, they were taken into custody and told their status would now be processed from within the detention center.

Another woman from Canada had been living in the US with her husband who was detained after a traffic stop. She admitted she had overstayed her visa and accepted that she would be deported. But she had been stuck in the system for almost six weeks because she hadn’t had her passport. Who runs casual errands with their passport?

One woman had a 10-year visa. When it expired, she moved back to her home country, Venezuela. She admitted she had overstayed by one month before leaving. Later, she returned for a vacation and entered the US without issue. But when she took a domestic flight from Miami to Los Angeles, she was picked up by Ice and detained. She couldn’t be deported because Venezuela wasn’t accepting deportees. She didn’t know when she was getting out.

There was a girl from India who had overstayed her student visa for three days before heading back home. She then came back to the US on a new, valid visa to finish her master’s degree and was handed over to Ice due to the three days she had overstayed on her previous visa.

There were women who had been picked up off the street, from outside their workplaces, from their homes. All of these women told me that they had been detained for time spans ranging from a few weeks to 10 months. One woman’s daughter was outside the detention center protesting for her release.

That night, the pastor invited me to a service she was holding. A girl who spoke English translated for me as the women took turns sharing their prayers – prayers for their sick parents, for the children they hadn’t seen in weeks, for the loved ones they had been torn away from.

Then, unexpectedly, they asked if they could pray for me. I was new here, and they wanted to welcome me. They formed a circle around me, took my hands and prayed. I had never felt so much love, energy and compassion from a group of strangers in my life. Everyone was crying.

At 3am the next day, I was woken up in my cell.

“Pack your bag. You’re leaving.”

I jolted upright. “I get to go home?”

The officer shrugged. “I don’t know where you’re going.”

Of course. No one ever knew anything.

I grabbed my things and went downstairs, where 10 other women stood in silence, tears streaming down their faces. But these weren’t happy tears. That was the moment I learned the term “transferred”.

For many of these women, detention centers had become a twisted version of home. They had formed bonds, established routines and found slivers of comfort in the friendships they had built. Now, without warning, they were being torn apart and sent somewhere new. Watching them say goodbye, clinging to each other, was gut-wrenching.

I had no idea what was waiting for me next. In hindsight, that was probably for the best.

Our next stop was Arizona, the San Luis Regional Detention Center. The transfer process lasted 24 hours, a sleepless, grueling ordeal. This time, men were transported with us. Roughly 50 of us were crammed into a prison bus for the next five hours, packed together – women in the front, men in the back. We were bound in chains that wrapped tightly around our waists, with our cuffed hands secured to our bodies and shackles restraining our feet, forcing every movement into a slow, clinking struggle.

When we arrived at our next destination, we were forced to go through the entire intake process all over again, with medical exams, fingerprinting – and pregnancy tests; they lined us up in a filthy cell, squatting over a communal toilet, holding Dixie cups of urine while the nurse dropped pregnancy tests in each of our cups. It was disgusting.

We sat in freezing-cold jail cells for hours, waiting for everyone to be processed. Across the room, one of the women suddenly spotted her husband. They had both been detained and were now seeing each other for the first time in weeks.

The look on her face – pure love, relief and longing – was something I’ll never forget.

We were beyond exhausted. I felt like I was hallucinating.

The guard tossed us each a blanket: “Find a bed.”

There were no pillows. The room was ice cold, and one blanket wasn’t enough. Around me, women lay curled into themselves, heads covered, looking like a room full of corpses. This place made the last jail feel like the Four Seasons.

I kept telling myself: Do not let this break you.

Thirty of us shared one room. We were given one Styrofoam cup for water and one plastic spoon that we had to reuse for every meal. I eventually had to start trying to eat and, sure enough, I got sick. None of the uniforms fit, and everyone had men’s shoes on. The towels they gave us to shower were hand towels. They wouldn’t give us more blankets. The fluorescent lights shined on us 24/7.

Everything felt like it was meant to break you. Nothing was explained to us. I wasn’t given a phone call. We were locked in a room, no daylight, with no idea when we would get out.

I tried to stay calm as every fiber of my being raged towards panic mode. I didn’t know how I would tell Britt where I was. Then, as if sent from God, one of the women showed me a tablet attached to the wall where I could send emails. I only remembered my CEO’s email from memory. I typed out a message, praying he would see it.

He responded.

Through him, I was able to connect with Britt. She told me that they were working around the clock trying to get me out. But no one had any answers; the system made it next to impossible. I told her about the conditions in this new place, and that was when we decided to go to the media.

She started working with a reporter and asked whether I would be able to call her so she could loop him in. The international phone account that Britt had previously tried to set up for me wasn’t working, so one of the other women offered to let me use her phone account to make the call.

We were all in this together.

With nothing to do in my cell but talk, I made new friends – women who had risked everything for the chance at a better life for themselves and their families.

Through them, I learned the harsh reality of seeking asylum. Showing me their physical scars, they explained how they had paid smugglers anywhere from $20,000 to $60,000 to reach the US border, enduring brutal jungles and horrendous conditions.

One woman had been offered asylum in Mexico within two weeks but had been encouraged to keep going to the US. Now, she was stuck, living in a nightmare, separated from her young children for months. She sobbed, telling me how she felt like the worst mother in the world.

Many of these women were highly educated and spoke multiple languages. Yet, they had been advised to pretend they didn’t speak English because it would supposedly increase their chances of asylum.

Some believed they were being used as examples, as warnings to others not to try to come.

Women were starting to panic in this new facility, and knowing I was most likely the first person to get out, they wrote letters and messages for me to send to their families.

It felt like we had all been kidnapped, thrown into some sort of sick psychological experiment meant to strip us of every ounce of strength and dignity.

We were from different countries, spoke different languages and practiced different religions. Yet, in this place, none of that mattered. Everyone took care of each other. Everyone shared food. Everyone held each other when someone broke down. Everyone fought to keep each other’s hope alive.

I got a message from Britt. My story had started to blow up in the media.

Almost immediately after, I was told I was being released.

My Ice agent, who had never spoken to me, told my lawyer I could have left sooner if I had signed a withdrawal form, and that they hadn’t known I would pay for my own flight home.

From the moment I arrived, I begged every officer I saw to let me pay for my own ticket home. Not a single one of them ever spoke to me about my case.

To put things into perspective: I had a Canadian passport, lawyers, resources, media attention, friends, family and even politicians advocating for me. Yet, I was still detained for nearly two weeks.

Imagine what this system is like for every other person in there.

A small group of us were transferred back to San Diego at 2am – one last road trip, once again shackled in chains. I was then taken to the airport, where two officers were waiting for me. The media was there, so the officers snuck me in through a side door, trying to avoid anyone seeing me in restraints. I was beyond grateful that, at the very least, I didn’t have to walk through the airport in chains.

To my surprise, the officers escorting me were incredibly kind, and even funny. It was the first time I had laughed in weeks.

I asked if I could put my shoelaces back on.

“Yes,” one of them said with a grin. “But you better not run.”

“Yeah,” the other added. “Or we’ll have to tackle you in the airport. That’ll really make the headlines.”

I laughed, then told them I had spent a lot of time observing the guards during my detention and I couldn’t believe how often I saw humans treating other humans with such disregard. “But don’t worry,” I joked. “You two get five stars.”

When I finally landed in Canada, my mom and two best friends were waiting for me. So was the media. I spoke to them briefly, numb and delusional from exhaustion.

It was surreal listening to my friends recount everything they had done to get me out: working with lawyers, reaching out to the media, making endless calls to detention centers, desperately trying to get through to Ice or anyone who could help. They said the entire system felt rigged, designed to make it nearly impossible for anyone to get out.

The reality became clear: Ice detention isn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare. It’s a business. These facilities are privately owned and run for profit.

Companies like CoreCivic and GEO Group receive government funding based on the number of people they detain, which is why they lobby for stricter immigration policies. It’s a lucrative business: CoreCivic made over $560m from Ice contracts in a single year. In 2024, GEO Group made more than $763m from Ice contracts.

The more detainees, the more money they make. It stands to reason that these companies have no incentive to release people quickly. What I had experienced was finally starting to make sense.

[artist-issues]

Man... just saw your "Captain America: Brave New World" post, and I gotta say I'm definitely disappointed. Unlike many, I actually liked FaTWS, and was hopefully for what they'd do with Sam as Cap. I'll probably still see the movie because I like the character and want to see if for myself, but I'll definitely be tempering my expectations....

I like FaTWS too! I didn’t find it… “disappointing” so much, maybe because I couldn’t help but feel less invested than I did with Steve. Sam just has not been built up and written with the same level of confidence and care that the writers had with Steve.

The first half of the time (Winter Soldier through Infinity War) they were just writing him as Steve Rogers, if you lifted the burden of “symbol” and “man out of time” off of him. Think about it. Sam’s whole tagline was “I do what he does, just slower.” And he’s okay with that.

When we meet Sam, he’s living a normal life despite the fact that he used to be in the “superhero” category. But he’s not in that category anymore, his wings are retired, so we find him still doing good on a more mundane, normal-person level. He counsels vets. Which is a foil to Cap’s baggage. Sam is Steve, freed. Sam is the good guy with the ability to help everybody, who does his job and has everyone’s back…but then he feels the freedom to go home at the end of the day and do good as a normal guy, too. Steve doesn’t have that. Steve can’t have that, until he learns his lesson at the end of Endgame.

In fact, Sam is so free from being The Symbol of Hope when Cap is around that he doesn’t feel bad being antagonistic toward enemies, or being a little petty with friends in moments of high tension. He does have the seeds of “I’ll see good in everybody,” too: he gives Iron Man a chance to help Steve, and he works with Bucky when Bucky’s still freshly brainwashed even if he’s a little snippy about it.

But the thing is, if you have Sam strive to “live up to” Steve, you kind of undermine his relationship with Steve. He’s no Bucky, but he did know Steve. After Winter Soldier, the audience gets to see that Steve trusted Sam before he trusted anybody else. Steve did not have Natasha out looking for Bucky while the Avengers trained. He had one guy doing that: Sam Wilson. Because he was close with Sam, and trusted him. Heck, their first conversation was written around a moment where Steve was just treating Sam like any citizen, politely leaving after their run, until Sam proved he could talk to Steve like a normal, relatable human. “It’s your bed, isn’t it? Too soft?” They could connect.

Sam is also the only one Steve had conversations with about normal, deep issues. “You can do whatever you wanna do. What is it that makes you happy?” Steve isn’t shown having those conversations with Bucky. He briefly starts that conversation with Natasha in Endgame. But the point is that it’s Sam who’s his second best-friend, and their relationship is based on trust, mutual respect, and understanding.

So having Sam suddenly see Steve as a hero-figure to idolize and emulate and compare himself to puts distance between Sam and Steve. Makes them more like fan-and-hero than brothers-in-arms and honest plain friends. Sam didn’t think everything Steve did was perfect or awesome. He was on his side, but he clearly had doubts about the value in trusting or trying to save Bucky, which Steve was committed to doing. So this thing they have Sam doing (and even Bucky doing in FATWS) where he compares himself to this idea of Steve the Perfect Captain America was not a great move, to start out with.

But they made that decision, so let’s talk about how poorly the follow-up was handled. When you take Sam and give him the shield, he can only worry about living up to the symbol for so long. Eventually he has to become our new symbol.

I mean, this is the first example we have of this in the MCU, right? This is the first “one hero audiences love goes away and we have to accept that he passed the mantle down to a different hero.” So they really needed to stick this landing.

Captain America, very specifically, is supposed to be the selfless one. All heroes are selfless on some level, otherwise they wouldn’t be heroes, but the whole tension of superheroes is “I’ve been given incredible responsibility, so what do I do with it?” Iron Man makes it about himself, covering up past wrongs. Spider-Man, too, on a more empathetic level, because of Uncle Ben (in this universe, Aunt May.) There’s a little ego always fighting to break in and ruin selfless assumption of responsibility.

But not with Cap. The Captain America Symbol is supposed to be just that. The guy behind the shield disappears into the symbol—which is, selflessness.

If you have Sam make everything about “I gotta prove myself” and “am I ever enough” then the symbol becomes about him. So it’s ruined. We need him to not care about “living up to” anything. We need him to eventually get over that.

But they like…can’t drop that victim mentality bone they have him gnawing on.

And it just wasn’t one that Sam had before picking up the shield, which is what made him so endearing, and such a good choice, in theory, for Cap, in the first place.

[yourstru1y4ever]

July 6, 2018: Don't Hope

Pairing: (eventual) Satoru Gojo x F!Reader Content: canon-compliant, canon typical violence, injuries (and taking care of those injuries), angst, hurt with a little comfort for this chapter, time skips (BUT IT MAKES SENSE I SWEAR-), anxiety attacks Word Count: 3.1k << Previous Chapter | Thicker Than Water Masterlist | Next Chapter >>

a/n: I'M ALIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVEEEEEEEEEE!!! in case you're curious on what's been hip-happening in my world check it out here. Updates are still going to be inconsistent, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten about this fic and this world. I'm very excited to keep writing it out and I can't wait for y'all to keep reading!! Also I wanna give appreciation to my Beta reader Lillian for helping read through this latest chapter [Everyone say thank you Lillian for getting on my ass to keep writing this series!!!] and I wanna appreciate the Ao3 user OnigiriCat4Ever for the inspiration for the text message exchange between Yuki and Reader. It translates a lot better if you read this chapter on Ao3, but I tried my best to format it on here so it doesn't look too bad. NOW WITH ALL OF THAT SAID ONTO THE LATEST CHAPTER!!!

Two weeks before Halloween always seemed like the perfect time for curses to begin forming, just so they would be ready once Halloween hit. Taking a few jobs that Yuki would send your way was the best way to get some extra cash, but this was getting out of hand.

There was a group of second grade curses luring small kids away to kill them, slowly and painfully.

It wasn’t that you couldn’t handle this mission, far from it, being independent meant you had more freedom to take care of these curses in a way that those goddamned Elders wouldn’t know about.

However coming home battered and bloodied didn’t help your case in staying independent. You limp into the apartment complex, giving a quick wave to your doorman.

His eyes widen with shock, but before he can ask what happened you get into the elevator and press 11. You glance into the mirror and notice the scrapes littered all over your face and the blood slowly oozing out from your side. You press your hand harder into the wound and stifle a groan.

You think about calling Shoko but you quickly shake your head against the idea. You burnt a lot of bridges when you left Jujutsu High, and you were sure that they would never forgive you for what you said on graduation day.

DING!

The elevator doors open to reveal the quiet hallway, and the flickering hall lights that really need to be fixed at some point. You make a mental note to tell the doorman about it in the morning when you drop off Yuji to school.

Only 2 hours before then, you think.

You reach into your pockets and gently pull out your keys, careful to not make a lot of noise. The door clicks open and you peek in to see all the lights off. You release the breath you’ve been holding and step inside.

Since staying with Wasuke and Yuji, you’ve had to stay mindful about Wasuke’s rules about staying in the apartment. That meant coming home at normal times and no mention of curses or Jujutsu sorcery. You had to keep a normal job and fit into normal society no matter what.

That was the cause of a lot of arguments between the two of you, because while you agreed that since Yuji was unable to see curses he shouldn’t know about that world, that doesn’t mean you can’t continue to fight low grade curses.

“It’s just not safe!”

“I know the risks I take, and I would only be fighting curses that have a lower skill grade than I do. That way I’m staying safe and still keeping society safe!”

You can only imagine the argument you’d have with Wasuke in the morning with the way you look now.

You make your way into the bathroom as quietly as you can and grab the hidden first aid kit you kept in the far back of the cabinet. Opening it up you grab sterilizing wipes, a sewing kit and some bandages. You toss some pain medication into your mouth before you start stitching up your wound. This wasn’t your first time having to stitch yourself back up and it won’t be the last.

You inhale, begin the first stitch and exhale, pulling the needle through. You repeat until the wound is closed. It wasn’t that deep of a cut, but it still needs a few stitches to help heal it faster. If only you could figure out reverse curse technique, you think while gritting your teeth. 

The more curses you deal with the less curses there are to hurt your family, why couldn’t Wasuke understand that.

You press gauze against the freshly stitched wound, and tape it against your body. Grabbing a wash cloth that was nearby you quickly wipe off as much blood and dirt off your body as you can before your dizziness causes you to pass out.

You blink your eyes rapidly, trying to shake off the dizziness, gripping into the bathroom sink. You will yourself to stand and you bring your gaze up to the mirror. Reckless. Your eyes flick down to the bruise starting to form by your collarbone. Out of control.

Your grip tightens as you slowly breathe out. You have control now, you weren’t being reckless. You are trying to survive while raising and protecting your nephew, your family.

After focusing on your breath for a few moments you turn to put away the first aid kit, and you try to clean up your mess as best you can. By the time you come out of the bathroom you’re met face to face with Wasuke with his usual scowl.

You don't even flinch seeing him, instead you look over to the kitchen to look at the clock.

“Didn’t realize the time.” You mutter.

You hear him huff out a breath as you walk past him to go to your room. 

You carefully close the door and crumple to the floor. You swear under your breath and pull out your phone to see the payment that Yuki sent your way.

New Message from Yuki - 10/17/2010 - 5:56am 

WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF THE BLOODHOUND STRIKES AGAIN! Proud of ya girl, I knew you could handle those pesky third grades~ we should celebrate!! (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ

You roll your eyes at her message. She wasn’t the one to give you that nickname, but she keeps using it with you. . . maybe it’s to make it a more positive nickname rather than one given to you out of fear.

Message to Yuki -  5:58am

There were 5 second grades Yuk. Plus I can’t go out to celebrate, gotta go to work in like 2 hours :/

Message from Yuki - 6:01am

Work?! Girl you just took down half a dozen curses and you’re telling me the money I wired over isn’t enough?

Message to Yuki - 6:01am

That’s not what I’m saying.

Message from Yuki - 6:03am

Well fine go to your boring ass day job. . . It’s not like you wanna hear the job I’ve got lined up.

Message to Yuki - 6:04am

. . .

Message to Yuki - 6:10am

What’s the job?

Message from Yuki - 6:12am

I’ll only tell you if you meet me in front of Shinjuku station at 1pm. 

Message to Yuki - 6:14am

Why can’t you text it?

Message from Yuki - 6:15am

Can’t see my bestest friend in the whole world?! (╥_╥)

Message to Yuki - 6:20am

Fine, I’ll meet you during my lunch break.

While you were texting with Yuki you changed out of your bloodied clothes and into one of your favorite outfits for work. You sent that last text before heading out of your room to wake up Yuji but to your surprise you see him already up and having breakfast with Wasuke.

“Since when do you wake up early Yuj?” You tease.

“Cuz of the field trip Auntie!” He grins up at you and tilts his head to the side, “Don’t tell me you forgot?”

“Of course I didn’t!” You absolutely did. You glance back down at your phone to see a notification that reads “Zoo Field Trip” and then another text from Yuki celebrating that you’re meeting up with her.

“Well I can’t wait to hear all about what the zoo was like, would you like some money for souvenirs?” You watch as his eyes light up and he nods his head quickly.

“Are you sure? I mean-“

“Are you kidding? I need a seal plushie for my room and I know you’ll choose the cutest one.” 

“Okay!”

“Plus I think Grandpa needs a new mug, don’t you agree?”

Yuji nods his head and giggles.

“You know I can hear you,” Wasuke mutters.

You raise an eyebrow at him, “So you don’t want a new mug?”

He shakes his head and continues reading the newspaper. You lean down and whisper to Yuji, “Try to find a mug that has some penguins on it. They’re his favorite.”

As you’re leaning down, you can feel your stitches pull against your body. You stifle a groan and make it seem like it’s because you’re reaching for your wallet to give Yuji a few thousand yen for an allowance.

Yuji grins as you hand him the money and you notice the time. 

“Finish up Yuji, we gotta get going.”

“But what about your breakfast?” He asks and you look back at the dining room table, noticing the rice bowl, tamagoyaki, and miso soup. 

“Oh.”

“Didn’t think you had the time to make some yourself,” Wasuke mutters into his coffee cup.

You were so shocked that you didn’t have the time to hide your smile from him. “Thanks, Gramps.”

You sit and quickly eat the food, trying your best to be mindful of the time. Yuji was just finishing up his meal by the time you started. Once you ate through almost everything, Yuji asked for your dishes and he tried his best to put the dirty dishes into the sink. Wasuke got up to help Yuji, but everything got into the sink. Once the last plate hits the sink, Yuji runs into his room to grab his backpack and meets you at the door.

“Got everything Yuj?”

“Mmhm!” He gives you a bright smile as you open the front door to walk out.

“See ya later Grandpa!” He calls out from the hallway as Wasuke goes up to the door.

“Be safe!” He calls out and you both wave goodbye to Wasuke. He suddenly calls out, “Look-”

“OUT!”

You snap back into reality and watch as Maki ducks in time as the curse swipes at the back of her head. 

That’s right, you think, you’re in Sakata with the kids. They all were doing incredibly well, to the point of understanding why Maki didn’t want you to come on this mission. It really was overkill having you keep an eye on them. Of course you wanted to make sure they’re performing well as sorcerers but things have felt wrong lately. You can’t shake this lingering anxiety building in your chest.

“We’re all clear!” You hear Panda yell as Toge gives you a thumbs up. Maki leans on her naginata and wipes away the stray blood that landed on her from killing the curse. 

“Any idea why there were so many curses?” Maki breathes out. “I mean I know that’s what the mission briefing stated but. . .”

Panda holds up an object in his hand, “I think this might be why Maki.”

You sigh, “Looks like someone out there is missing their totem.” You hold out your hand to Panda and he hands you the object. It looks like one of Sukana’s fingers, but it doesn’t carry the same aura of death around it; still special grade. It definitely needed new seals on it.

Maki stands up straight and stretches, “Well?”

“Let’s go home.”

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

The bullet train back to Tokyo was relatively quiet. The story you told them on the way to Sakata was still swimming in your mind. You couldn’t shake this nagging feeling in the back of your mind that something was wrong, but you knew you and your students were safe. There weren’t any curses at the station or on the train you all were on, so there was nothing to worry about. . . right?

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

“Thanks for picking us up at the station Akari,” You say as she pulls into the school.

“It’s not a problem,” She smiles.

“I thought Ijichi was going to pick us up though,” You mention and Akari nods her head, grimacing.

“Well,” You see her fingers tapping against the steering wheel, “The first years were sent out on a mission to recover people at a detainment facility and he’s been driving back and forth with the kids for the past few hours.”

“Oh,”

You see her nod her head slightly and she tightens her hands around the wheel to stop fidgeting. You turn to look out the window, “Is everything-”

“Oh we’re back!” Akari announces and the second years hop out of the car before she can even park it. You look back at her, “Akari?”

“I’ll take care of the cursed object, you-” She avoids your gaze stuttering, “You should probably get some rest. I heard the Elders have quite the mission for you.” You nod your head once at her. 

“Okay. . .” You step out of the car and are greeted instantly with Yaga.

“Come with me,” With a turn of his heel he starts walking away from you and you just shake your head.

He leads you past Fushiguro and the other female first year, and with a quick glance you see their solemn faces. The tightening in your chest gets worse when you notice that Fushiguro looks like he took a lot of damage from the curse they had to deal with.

“Yaga?"

“Give me your report on the second years mission.”

You keep up with his pace, trying your best to keep up behind him as he leads you further below the school grounds. “It went well, all things considered. Maki was right though; it was overkill having me oversee their mission. . . however.”

Yaga stops and turns to look at you, “However?”

“You know those kids are capable of handling themselves, but there were more lower grade curses around Sakata than we anticipated. There was even a special grade cursed object inside one of the curses; Panda was the one who actually found the object.”

When you look up at Yaga you catch a brief smile on his face before it returns to its neutral state, “Where is this object now?” He continues down the hallway of the medical floor.

“I gave it to Akari to investigate further and to return it to its rightful spot in Sakata.” Yaga nods in approval and stops in front of one of the surgery rooms that has its doors fully shut, “Why are we-?”

“Itadori is dead.”

The words hang heavy in the air. “What?”

“Sukana ripped out his heart and held Itadori hostage while Fushiguro was fighting Sukana. Itadori regained control of his body before Sukana returned his heart and so he died.”

Don’t wish, don’t hope. 

“That’s. . .” a laugh bubbles out of you and you try to hold it back, “You’re lying to me.”

“See for yourself.” Yaga gestures to the door and you stand just in front of it. Don’t have any wants. Don’t even wish for him to come back.

“You know Yaga, you’ve never been good at delivering this kind of news.”

Before you get the chance to open the door it slides open to reveal Gojo standing in front of you, blocking the rest of your view inside. He quickly steps out of the room and it shuts automatically behind him but not before you can see Ijichi and Shoko inside.

“Gojo?”

“I’m sorry Sweets, but you, uh” He scratches the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze, "can’t go in there.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s nothing personal.”

Your laughter starts turning manic, “Nothing personal? Satoru, I promise you whatever Sukana did to Yuji isn’t gonna freak me out. I’ve seen worse injuries, I’ve seen worse deaths!” Satoru’s jaw tenses and he shakes his head.

Stop wishing goddamn it. Wanting him to be alive will only curse him just like- 

“Sweets just listen-“

“Ijichi and Shoko are inside, doing just fine-!” 

“That’s because-”

“So whatever bullshit you have to spew now-” He grabs your shoulders.

“Just listen.” He says intently, looking directly in your eyes. His grip on your shoulders tightens as you glare at him in response. 

You breath out a shaky breath and close your eyes reluctantly. You open up your awareness allowing your technique to feel around for curses with your other senses. That was a perk of manipulating the blood within a curse you could use your other sense to find and manipulate the curse. There weren’t any curses anywhere close to the school but you could feel a steady, thrumming heartbeat through the other side of the door which meant-.

Your eyes fly open with realization and Satoru gives you only the slightest nod.

You suddenly feel tears starting to fall. You hiccup and try to breathe out again, but it just becomes shakier and shakier. You look down at the ground, trying to gain some semblance of control back. Satoru still has his hands on your shoulders, helping you keep grounded.

He’s alive, he’s alive but I can’t see him. Why can't I see him? But he’s alive. I want to see him. Why can't I see him? Is he alive because I-?

“Hey,” Satoru gently tilts your chin up to meet his gaze once again and he wipes the few stray tears running down your face, “it’s not because of you.”

You shake your head, trying to get out of his hold, but he doesn’t let go. “So what now?”

“We can’t talk here.” Satoru mutters while glancing over to Yaga. You nod while steadying your breath. “Let’s get you back to your room, I know it’s a lot for you to take in.”

He gently guides you away from the surgery room and back to the teacher’s accommodations. It’s a quiet trip back with Satoru falling in step beside you. With every glance he does, he tries his best to make it seem like he’s not checking in on you, but he can’t help to worry.

Your shoulders are still tense and every step you take gets louder, your breathing still isn’t even and you look like you're about to kill the next thing you see. A flight of stairs and a few turns later, you make it to your apartment that was at Jujutsu High. Every sorcerer (as part of their compensation for teaching) was given an apartment room to stay in. It made it easier to receive missions but to also be there for any students who needed help. It was a change that was implemented once Yaga became the principal of the Tokyo location.

You open the door to your apartment and Gojo waltzes in. He whistles, “Man it’s been a while since you’ve been here, huh?” He wipes a finger along the kitchen counter and grimaces. “I can hire someone to clean this up for you if you want.”

You walk over to the kitchen and grab a water bottle from the fridge, “It has been about a month since well everything with Wasuke and the second years mission.”

“Right. That’s what I meant.” He gives you a knowing look and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him again.

“So how are we faking his death?”

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Tag list is open!! Thanks for your support!

@bearchermer @shoruio @ninani-nanina @anything4yoongi @ghoulchicks

[laylajeffany]

Break Even | Melissa Schemmenti-Centric Multichapter Story

Summary Melissa has always been a gambler. She is a pro at knowing when to hold her cards close to her chest, or when fold and give in. On top of it all, she has been walking away from whatever tugged on her heart for the last decade.

…And everything about her life both in and out of Abbott is telling her to run.

Determined not to let her chips fall, Melissa goes all in, playing every dirty move she has until the day she runs out of aces.

Melissa-centric, focusing on her relationships with the full Abbott crew - her acceptance that they’re more than just a work family, dealing with the dynamics of her biological family, the district actually coming through for Abbott to have a counselor three days per week (future femslash slowburn), and all the reasons that Melissa has a difficult time opening her heart up to love that can’t be explored in a sitcom without it becoming a drama

Read on AO3! Chapter one features Melissa missing her roommate after Jacob spent the summer away, arguing with her sister, leaning on Barb, needing to do something about her unhappy relationship with Captain Rob, and the Abbott crew reuniting before the new school year kicks off.

Info for anyone new to my writing below the cut!

POV I only read and write in third-person passive voice, so there is no x reader content - which is what it seems like most of the Melissa fandom likes, lol. I'm so sorry - but I literally cannot scribe or comprehend fictional text in anything but third person POV. (I had a meltdown reading Amber Brown is Not a Crayon in front of my second grade class in the late 1900s and learned that anything but third person, passive voice was not for me.) Romance For a big project that is centered around a single character's POV/development, romance is generally the C plot at most. It's important, and I wouldn't be able to drive the story forward or have a satisfying conclusion/story resolution without it (it's often also a plot device), but it's not the focus of the story. Romantic relationships help spur the individual development of the main character, not define them.

Word Count Egregious violations of word economy principals are my passion. I write a lot. I write excessive detail. I love to add extensive slice of life content in addition to the main plot; it's what makes characters feel like real people to me. Every chapter has an outline - and the length of the chapter just depends on how long it takes to get through the main points plus add the slice of life elements that make the world feel complete. For multichapter fics, my chapters tend to be 10k at minimum, but might average as high as 50k+, and have been known to get up to 76k. (I have previously broken AO3's character limit.) If the thought of reading a single chapter of a fanfic that is longer than the entirety of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is overwhelming to you - my writing might not be your style, lol.

Original Characters I do love an OC in a world where there isn't a character that matches what I need to drive a plot forward. I spend a great deal of time building their character, getting to know them in pages upon pages of notes about their backstory/interests/hobbies/personality/catch phrases, etc., so that they feel like as much of a real person who belongs in an established universe as the actual characters do. Across fandoms, my OCs have generally been well-established and beloved enough to even earn their own fanart, so I'd like to think I do a good job at developing them. That said - I'm fully aware, OC's aren't for everyone.

Unique to Abbot I've written a lot of stories that contain school settings in my 20+ years of writing fanfic, but nothing that I think hits so close to home as Abbott will. Having worked in underfunded public elementary schools in large cities in the United States for the last decade, I have an extremely in-depth understanding of the very specific setting that Abbott is. While Philly has not been my teaching home, the parallels from incompetent leadership to rodent infestation to being unable to send children home with highly contagious infectious disease are coast-to-coast teaching realities in America. I look forward to releasing some work-based tension with this story! The only thing I find unrealistic about Abbott is the fact that all the teachers get a lunch break every day (and at the same time, at that), and regular 'free periods' (what I assume they mean is planning time sans children) because that simply hasn't been my experience teaching in America, lmfao - they love to violate our contracts. I think it's a planned psychological experiment to see how long we can take it before we have complete mental breakdowns. I've seen a few - teachers up and leave in the middle of the year...I guess some of us are either content hostages and/or just suckers.

[ebonyheartnet]

I hear you, and I even agree that this could’ve been handled better. There are a handful of problems though that you’re not considering.

1.) The whole reason the whistleblower was being reached out to is because our painter was already showing her entire process. Her audience is 100,000+ on just TikTok. Even though I’ve only ever followed the whistleblower, I got served that video first. It went viral well before the whistleblower got involved, and people were asking bc potential copycats were already toying with the idea in the comments.

2.) I’m not saying where she bought it for obvious reasons. Suffice to say that, until it was scrubbed from her socials (right before that second email), she’d already told folks where to go. Verified myself that you can order it to be delivered online without having to show any licensure, regardless of your delivery address. Like… while I didn’t put in my home address as a test, I did enter something in DC. The seller doesn’t care who they’re enabling, and neither did the painter.

3.) Unfortunately, it’s laughably obvious that her PPE is incorrect. On just the respirator alone? She was using a half mask with carts meant for organic vapors. Not only are there specific carts for rad work, this wasn’t even protecting her from particulates like regular heavy metals. She basically made the uranium even easier to aerosolize and slowed herself down, thereby increasing her exposure risk. Her hair wasn’t even covered!

4.) An additional factor to the initial warning’s reception is some pretty blatant misogyny and transphobia. Our whistleblower is obviously AFAB and openly nonbinary. As soon as they said, “Please don’t do this, it’s incredibly dangerous,” they started getting harassed. I think we’d all get more than a bit wigged out if that happened. Add on that this is deadly hazmat we’re playing with, and their entire job is keeping people safe from it? Can’t say I’d do things more gracefully.

Once again, they basically said, “Hey, I’ve been working with radiation for 17+ years, and here are my current credentials as a radiation safety specialist. What you’re doing is incredibly dangerous, and I’ve had to file a report to the NRC. Please self report. While you may still be liable for covering any superfunds created, this might save you from criminal charges.”

Could it have been handled better? Probably; I just have no idea who, specifically, would handle it better. Since it does genuinely seem a good faith effort based on the facts the painter made public, there’s probably no real case for defamation.

I’m gonna continue to lay 99% of the blame for this on the painter though, because I know exactly how I’d improve her response:

“Crap, thanks for telling me. I’m going to err on the side of caution, private my video temporarily, and make some emails.”

That would end the interaction, give me control of the narrative, and also help me double check if I’m in the right. If I did have the appropriate licensure, I’d also include that in my response.

That’s it; crisis averted.

So, uh, has anyone else been tuned into the yellow cake uranium paint bullshit?

Apparently there’s fucking copycats on Reddit 🫠

For those who have no clue but want the run down:

Disclaimer: nothing I state here is intended to be defamatory. My perspective is that of a third party civilian. Any bias towards action is informed by professional interactions with regulatory bodies uninvolved in the following chain of events.

A Utah woman known for making paints with dangerous materials bought yellow cake uranium—a water soluble form of the radioactive heavy metal—and ground it up even finer to make paint. This video was posted to a large following across multiple platforms.

Concerned civilians on TikTok asked a radiation safety specialist w/ almost 20 years in rad work if this was ill advised.

Said safety specialist promptly stated that the concern was warranted, and that for the first time ever, they had to file a report with the NRC (<- federal regulatory body in charge of things like “who should be touching radioactive source material?”)

The painter replied that the safety specialist shouldn’t worry so much, as she’s actively using PPE.

The whistleblower proceeded to lay into her about said PPE (inappropriate protective factor, incorrect filters, likely incorrect fit, etc.), almost guaranteed lack of access to the appropriate waste streams, etc.

This included information on the negative health effects anyone exposed may experience, as well as the potentially millions of dollars in man hours and clean up that the painter may be on the hook for.

The whistleblower also strongly advised her to self report to the NRC to hopefully avoid any potential criminal charges.

The NRC allegedly got back to the radiation safety worker within 24 hours. To paraphrase, “Thank you so much. She’s in Utah, which is a cooperative state. They’ll continue looking into this.”

The painter continued to double down, with support from hobbyists (collectors of radioactive items like radium clocks). All concerns about incorrect PPE and exposure risk for nearby civilians continued to be ignored.

Other people actually in the industry continued to chime in that yes, it was that serious.

A handful of points repeated by fellow industry professionals was that uranium, like radium, likes to replace bone. Even if the amount radiation’s not the most deadly, it’s still a water soluble heavy metal. There was also a risk of copy cats.

While the hobbyists continued to dog pile, the whistleblower allegedly received a very unexpected follow up email from Utah’s regulatory body.

To paraphrase, “At your request, you are allowed to tell your audience that yellow cake uranium is considered radioactive source material. While this was purchased out of state, you must be licensed to own and handle it in Utah. The painter has to take down everything related to the uranium paint while we continue looking into this.”

Simultaneously, reddit happens. Forums disparaging the whistleblower and backing the painter are flourishing at this point.

Eventually, at least one forum of civilians defending the painter started making moves to buy yellow cake uranium. The whistleblower got word of this and encouraged folks to file their own NRC reports to nip this in the bud.

The painter, who had been quiet for some time, then began making legal threats. She attempted to intimidate the whistleblower into taking everything down and issuing a public apology.

The whistleblower posted the screenshots of said legal threats and doubled down. Additional statements were made that they do not make any money off of this on social media, as that would be a conflict of interest. This was solely brought up in the name of public safety.

As of 03/18/25, the initial whistleblower continues to state that their concern is warranted. Due to the actions taken by the painter, they believe she is either an untrained, unlicensed civilian or someone operating outside of the scope of their license. Either way, their stance has not changed: no regulatory body would respond that quickly to an unfounded request for oversight.