#accident prone reader

[crownedghostprince]

That’s My Emotional Support Wife!

Legolas x Female!Accident Prone!Reader

Fandom: The Hobbit

Legolas and (Y/N) had courted for about a decade before finally deciding to marry.  (Y/N) was the daughter of Lord Elrond, just slightly younger than Arwen, and after marriage she moved to Mirkwood to live with Legolas and her father-in-law the King, Thranduil.  Legolas didn’t mind how accident prone (Y/N) was, sometimes it was even sort of cute.  And now there are 13 dwarves in the cells of Mirkwood having to be dealt with whilst the Elves continue their parties, patrols and usual antics that the dwarves were unaware of until that day.

Requests: Closed. Requested: no.

Warning(s): None.

Note: This is sort of silly, so if you enjoy a fun fanfiction, this is the one to read! (Y/C) - stands for (Your Choice) and (Your Colour).

Word Count: 2,021

[Third Person Perspective]

(I couldn’t find any attached link to this picture from Pinterest, but it was under the account name “The Facegirl” when I found it. They seem cool from what I checked out.)

The dwarves were not happy to be locked up in the cells of Mirkwood under King Thranduil’s rule.  The elves would just pass by here and there as if it was an ordinary path to take.  These cells weren’t in dungeons or anything like you might expect, for the bars of the cells were incredibly tough and strong.  Therefore, there was no need to put the cells in such an inconvenient spot and instead it was closer to the main area where most Wood Elves just wandered through.  (This was also best as the Woodland Realm almost never had prisoners to jail).

So, the dwarves were trapped in their cells, waiting for Thorin to join them (hopefully with good news).  They���d tried breaking out of the cell in whatever way they could think.  From slamming against the bars with their shoulders, to kicking them with their legs and shaking them with their hands.  But still the cell bars held strong.  Bofur was the first to actually observe the elves, rather than sneer and ignore them like the others.  The others didn’t wish to make eye-contact or even look in their general direction.

Bofur watched, as many elves walked through speaking elvish and looking graceful.  Some elves were so graceful when they walked it looked almost as if they were floating across the floor, not even touching the ground.  He struggled to tell who was male and who was female, but the sounds of their voices definitely helped - even if he couldn’t understand their language.

Eventually he saw a beautiful elf with (Y/C) hair and (Y/C) eyes.  His?  Her? Dress was a beautiful mixture of pink and purple that fell past their ankles and hid their feet.  Thus, they appeared to be floating as they walked.  Bofur smiled, appreciating how beautiful the elves could truly be.  How graceful and--and she walked into a wall.  This got the dwarves quietly chuckling from they cells.

Even Dwalin was hiding his snicker.  They would laugh more openly, but they were in foul moods and didn’t want to anger the elves when the elves had an advantage against them.  The elf maiden didn’t seem to mind - hearing their chuckles with her good hearing - and laughed with them.  A shadow crossed the floor and Legolas landed with perfection as he came to check on his wife.  The dwarves’ faces immediately molded into scowls at the sight of the rude elf that found them and cast them into their cells.

They continued to watch as Legolas checked his wife’s face for cuts and smiled when she was cleared to be okay.  He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and took her hand, walking her to the staircase to continue her on her path.  She was not halfway up the staircase when she tripped and fell.  Luckily, Legolas was used to this and simply caught her and gracefully carried her the rest of the way.  He set her back down on the marble floors, kissed the back of her hand and returned to his position up high, watching over the area.  She curtsied and although the dwarves could not hear - or understand it - she thanked him.  “Ni ‘lassui en, Legolas.”

An hour later, Thorin joined his company in the cells.  He simply explained how he had not taken any deal with King Thranduil and that all the Elves could...well...let’s not translate that now.  The dwarves were upset by this news, feeling like they’d be trapped forever.  But Thorin knew there was a Bilbo Baggins somewhere out there.  And he would help free them.  He was sure of it.  Bilbo was not so sure.  Every time he thought he had a clear path to descend to the cells, suddenly a bunch of elves walked by.  He was thankful the ring he found made him invisible.

Some were going to patrol outside, some were laughing and telling jokes in Elvish, some were carrying wine and food, or decorations and others were reading a lovely looking book as they walked by.  The thing is this: Bilbo didn’t have many openings to sneak past and not bump into someone.  So instead he decided to follow them for a brief moment and saw them setting up a sort of party.  With decorations and a clear view of the sky where Bilbo could see the tinges of orange and pink beginning to appear in the clouds.

There were tables lined with bottles of wine and kegs of wine and cups for the wine.  There were a few tables of food, but mostly it was wine.  With lots of seats, some elves already perched on the staircases and some elves sitting up high on ledges already getting drunk.  Many were singing and some were possibly telling poems?  Or stories?  Bilbo wasn’t quite sure but it was a merry gathering that was forming.

‘Well,’  Bilbo decided to himself, ‘Time to find those dwarves.’  And so he walked back the way he came, sneaking down corridors of marble and past beautiful pillars with beautiful, intricate carvings running down them.  Soon his eyes laid upon, a (Y/C) haired elf with a beautiful dress and stunning eyes.  She was reading a book as she walked absentmindedly.  He decided to follow her and see where he ended up.

They walked for almost half an hour when he heard the familiar, grumpy dwarves’ voices as they hushedly whispered to each other in Khuzdul.  ‘Finally,’ Bilbo thought excitedly, ‘I’ve found them!’  He waited behind the she-elf, watching where she was headed.  By the time he realized she was about to walk down a flight of stairs and possibly injure herself, a blond elf was by her side with an arm around her waist.  Legolas was so accustomed to stopping his wife from falling down stairs it was almost a daily thing to catch her and gently lead her away.

“A, Legolas.”  She smiled to her lover with such a soft gaze he felt sure to melt under it.  Although the dwarves did not know it, ‘A’ was Elvish for ‘Hi’.  However, they simply thought it was an exclamation like the English ‘Ah’ when one realizes they almost walked off the top step of a flight of stairs.

However, (Y/N) was so accident prone she was no longer surprised when someone stopped her from walking into a wall, or a door, or out a window and this case was no different.  Bruises and cuts from falling down stairs was common for our silly she-elf lady.  Legolas sighed fondly.  “Hiril vuin, please do fall down the stairs before a most wonderful celebration.”  ‘Hiril vuin’ was Elvish for ‘my lady’ and was a sweet and simple way for Legolas to remain caring, but serious, in front of the dwarvish prisoners.

Bofur spoke up with a chuckle from the cells below, “Is falling down the stairs a common occurrence?  I would love to see such a performance everyday!”  He joked.  The dwarves laughed in agreement except for Oin who could barely hear what Bofur said.

“What did he say?”  He asked Gloin who was in the cell beside him.  His question went unanswered as Gloin continued to loudly laugh.  Legolas glared down at the cells whilst (Y/N) simply laughed with the dwarves.  She had a wonderful sense of humour - she has two older and fun twin brothers after all - and she was also used to these jokes which made it even more fun in her opinion!

Once the laughter had settled down a bit (Y/N) chuckled out, “I knew I should’ve been the King’s jester!”  and the howls of laughter sprung back up again.  Their thunderous voices bounced of the walls and echoed through the building.  Even Legolas and Bilbo chuckled at (Y/N)’s joke.  As the dwarves continued to laugh, crack jokes and sometimes just rest in silence, Legolas decided to simply ignore them and inquire about his wife’s current book.  “Oh!  It’s a book of Elvish poems and short love stories.  I fell in love with it after reading the first couple of love poems.  It even has some poems specifically to be read just before you sleep.  Oh!  I’ll find one of my favourites for you!”

She began to carefully flip back through the previously read pages, keeping her bookmark on her current page as she did so.  Bilbo took this chance to quietly sneak past the couple and down the stairs to the cells in order to look for the keys.  Legolas smiled adoringly as his wife quietly muttered the poem titles until she found the one she was looking for.  Although the Elvish is truly beautiful and wonderful to read, here’s the English equivalent instead:

“ Your Divine Beauty,

The stars crown your head, As you rest peacefully in bed, And the moon bathes you in its’ light, Kissing you with all its’ might.

Such beauty even the sun bows down, So its’ colours may reflect onto your white gown. Pink, orange and gold, Dare not touch or enfold.

For they will not dare, To hide your beauty nor ensnare.”

Although Bilbo and the dwarves had no clue what she said as it was in Elvish, still they folded to the sound of her melodic voice when she read aloud her favourite poem.  Legolas gently kissed her forehead when she was finished and sighed wistfully.  “I adore that poem so much now.”  He smiled down as their foreheads rested together.

“I’m glad you liked it, dear.”  She grinned, returning his kiss with a giggle.  Only a moment had passed when they heard approaching footsteps.  Bilbo snuck back to a corner in case they should pass him and the dwarves returned to their original scowls as two Elven guards came to a stop in front of the couple.  The woman curtsied to the guards and they returned with a bow.

“We’re sorry to interrupt, but the celebrations are beginning.”  They explained, carefully watching Legolas’ eyes as he sighed.

“Very well.  Then I shall not keep you any longer, my dear.  Please, go enjoy yourself and do not wait up for me.  I will join you shortly after I have finished my patrol over the cells.”  Legolas kissed his wife’s hand with a tenderness and care you only hear and see in romance books.

“Thank-you, darling.  I shall join them, but I shall still wait for you.”  She grinned with a cheeky glint to her eyes.

“Why do I bother to tell you to not wait, you don’t listen anyway.”  He chuckled sweetly.  “Very well.  Now go, before my father is disappointed with both of us being absent.”

“Ah, yes, I should hurry then.  Take care, darling, and try not to roughen up the dwarves too much.”  She kissed him once more before leaving with the guards to the celebrations.  Legolas sighed wistfully once more and did not move until she was safe out of sight with the guards.  He trusted them to catch her if she should fall.

But even if she is injured, they have healers that are always pre-prepared for her anyway.  He turned back and before he could ascend back to his post, the dwarves spoke up.

“So she and you are...well...together, huh?”

“She’s my emotional support wife.”  Legolas grinned mischievously, knowing fully well she could still hear them with her excellent Elvish hearing.  A second later his ears heard her voice in the distance,

“I heard that!”  And he smiled hearing her voice once more.

“You’ll do well to not disrespect her whilst you’re here.”  Legolas stared the dwarves down as he finally returned to his post, just out of their line of sight above them.  The dwarves rolled their eyes and proceeded to taunt him with funny comments anyway.  All were harmless, but they were fishing for a reaction from Legolas so they did their best to make it sound almost like insults.  He didn’t care enough to hear though, he was ignoring them and mentally reciting his wife’s favourite poem so when she was having a bad sick day he’d know it off by heart.

[orestesimp]

Rainy Night Patrol

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Summary: Miguel comes home after a night of patrolling with a lot of pent up tension to find you sound asleep.

Content: Somnophilia, panty-tearing practises (in this fucking economy?!??! I know gurl) jerking off with panties kind of? overprotective Miguel is our favourite Miguel. Rough sex. Multiple orgasms and overstimulation (cause do I evern write anything else anymore?). Implied violence against random street criminals.

A/N: Pre-established relationship with pre-established consent for somnophilia.

Word Count: 4,800

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

Rainy nights in New York are the fucking worst.

It brings out the worst in people. Stressed-out bankers who will push old ladies out of their way to get to a seat on the subway. Drunken assholes who piss everywhere, making everything reek, and alleyway mugging seems to increase by a disproportionate amount whenever it's pouring.

It surprises Miguel that street robbery even happens outside of comic books anymore. Do these people not have a computer? Cybercrime is a thing. A successful phishing scam targeting a bank employee can net millions overnight.

Yet here Miguel is, headbutting this public nuisance for trying to rob and assault a sorority girl on her way home, fists eating into the man's face. Even though it is evident by now that there is no way the man has a fighting chance, he refuses to stop. He's hissing and spitting at Miguel, lunging at him with the ferociousness of a rabid racoon.

The easiest solution would be to bite and paralyze and call it a night. But from the reek of stale sweat and copious body Axe spray coming off of this asshole, Miguel has no desire to put any part of this man's body into his mouth.

So here Miguel is, putting this bargain-bin Sylvester Stallone wannabe in a headlock and slamming his head into a street lamp in an attempt to knock the man unconscious, instead of where he wants to be: home, in your questionably sized apartment and lumpy feeling bed.

Christ, he hates this city.

By the time it's all said and done, and everything is wrapped up, it's already past midnight. As he slinks in through the window sill into your bedroom, you're fast asleep.

You're lying on top of the quilts, the bedside lamp still on, which means you've been up waiting for him, even though you're supposed to have an early morning tomorrow. Something, something about how it's year-end and you have to present... something or the other.

It's... endearing that you still do that, try to wait up for him every night, even though you should know by now that more often than not, he'll be home much too late for you to still be awake.

Climbing inside the bedroom, the post-fight adrenaline is still surging through his veins. He's riled up, irritated. There's heat brandishing under his skin that is pushing at the edges begging for an outlet.

He glances in your direction. You look so soft in the dim bedroom light, half of your face buried into the pillow.

No, tonight is not the night. You need your sleep.

With a shake of his head, he walks over to his side of the bed, letting the Unstable Molecule fabric of his suit recede until he's left standing naked in the half-darkness of your bedroom.

Dragging away the sheet, he tucks it over you, you hum and shift in your sleep. Leg swinging Akimbo over to his side before he's even had the chance to lay down. The oversized sleep shirt does nothing to disguise the curves of your body, falling completely off one shoulder and riding up to reveal the tantalizing curve of your bare thigh.

Shit.

His mouth waters at the sight, cock half hard just from watching you. It's not helped by the adrenaline still buzzing in his head. It wouldn't take much to get him the rest of the way there.

Miguel groans and rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to ease the tension growing between his temples. How exactly is he supposed to be getting any sleep with you lying next to him, all soft heat and sweet little hums that make him want to grind up against you like a cat in heat?

The weight in the bed shifts as you roll back away from him. A quiet snore issues from where you’re digging your face deeper into the pillow, clearly exhausted. 

Fuck, guess he's just going to have to try. It'd be cruel to wake you now.

He slides into bed next to you, settling for the comforting warmth of you next to him, as he curls one arm around your waist and wraps himself around you. Burying his face into the warm nape of your neck and taking a deep inhale. The smell of your shampoo and soap that pleasantly lingers on his skin, washes away the memories of the stench of rain-soaked streets of this city, the disgusting smell of sulphur and piss.

New York throws a lot of stuff in his way. Muggers, arsonists, would-be murderers. It's nothing he can't handle. And he can handle what it throws at you too. Whether it is torrential rain or some freak force of nature threatening to put you in harm's way, it doesn't matter. He keeps you safe.  And despite all the close calls, you're still here. Still alive. Still his.

His hand slides over the curve of your thigh at the thought, needing to feel your warmth underneath his fingertips. Goosebump prickles your skin at his caress, and he watches the way your back arches, pressing into his touch, even in your sleep.

A slow steady warmth blooms in his chest at your reaction. It's a heady blend of protectiveness but also pride. The universe itself can throw any tantrum it wants. He'll protect you from it all.

Your eyes stay shut, still clearly asleep, but your mouth parts with a needy hum, and Miguel gives you what you want, easing your body back into his arms. Like clockwork, you snuggle back against him, and the slight wiggle of your ass brushing against his front ensures there's no half about how hard is dick is anymore.

Needy heat rolls off his back in waves, and he slides one hand under the hem of your shirt and up along the softness of your stomach. If you were awake, you would be leaping away and smacking him for tickling you. But now the touch just makes you stretch and let out a contented little hum, your nipples already drawn up tight and hard for him by the time he reaches them.

Why are you so reactive when you're sound asleep? Part of him thinks you must be doing this on purpose; there's no way you can't be when he feels you shift again, the soft lace of your panties brushing up against his aching cock.  He palms your hip, following the edge of the lace down over the curve of your ass, then hesitates.

You only pull out the lacey panties when you really want to rile him up. Saving them for special occasions because (as you never fail to mention while scolding him whenever he's ripped another pair in the heat of the moment) 'fancy underwear isn't cheap!' One of these lacey thrilly little things easily would set you back at $80 a pop. Miguel isn't exactly hard pressed for cash, but he sees your point.

Still Miguel doesn't know what he is supposed to do when you keep pressing back against him the way you are at the moment. He grits his teeth, jaw muscles protesting as he grinds them together, knowing fully well he's fighting a losing battle. It’s really only a matter of time. Miguel isn't a fucking saint, and right now the need riding the length of his spine is burning hot enough to incinerate him.

Oh fuck it!

Hooking a finger around the hem of your panties, he eases them to the side, and his hips hitch forward, rubbing himself against you. Sharp pleasure skitters along his back, and he has to bite down the groan in his throat. He draws back, and does it again, letting his cock ride along the curve of your ass. Letting his aching, leaking cock settle between your cheeks, the delicate lace trapping him in place against you.

You’re definitely gonna bitch at him later for stretching out the elastic. But that's okay, you'll forgive him, the way you always do.

He holds there, gently rolling his hips, doesn't go too forceful or too eager with his thrusts, some half-formed intention to not wake you. Thighs shaking as he savors the contrast between your smooth skin and the textured lace. He tells himself that he should take it slow and not disrupt your sleep. But Miguel's never been a patient man.

His hands are already moving, reaching, before his brain has anything to say about it, fingers hitching your panties even further to the side, and fuck the elastic, he'll buy you a new pair. Shit, he'll buy you twenty new pairs. A whole fucking store of panties if that's what you want.

He pulls back, presses forwards again, cock sliding between those plush thighs, the head, slick with precome, gliding smoothly against you.

And fuuuuuck.

He drops his forehead against your shoulder, eyes squeezing shut to ground himself. He can feel how wet you are, drenching his cock as he skims the hard length over and through your slick folds. You're warm and inviting and oh so fucking tempting. You may still be fast asleep, but your body is telling him it’s oh so very ready for him.

God you feel so fucking good.

Angling his hips, he slides the sensitive head of his dick against your slick folds, notching himself against your entrance, gritting his teeth against the way your pretty pussy clenches at the threat of invasion. He holds himself there, breath hissing between his teeth as he teases you both, with tiny, incremental movements forward, in, and back.

Pleasure swirls through him, hot and heady, his ears buzzing with electricity. He's lost in it, but not so far gone that he misses the noises you're making, your reaction. Those little sounds of dissatisfaction, the way your back arches, pressing your hips back against him.  All of it telling him the same thing.

He presses his mouth to the corner of your shoulder. Has to hide the feral grin threatening to break out, because for all his vague intentions of letting you rest, part of him has been waiting for this. Part of him has been aiming for this exact outcome.

You. Awake. Fully ready to take him.

He presses forward again, just far enough that the head of his cock slips inside you, and is rewarded by your body clenching warm and wet around him.

Fuck, you feel too good. You always fucking do. It punches the breath right out of his lungs, needy heat singing through his veins and along every nerve ending in his body until he goes dizzy with it. There are advantages and disadvantages to enhanced senses, and right now, he's fully feeling both. Needs to get on with it, because he intends to have you coming on his cock at least twice before he's done.

Hooking an arm around your waist, he cups your mound. He stays there, pressing with his fingers and the heel of his palm, until he's rewarded by your hips hitching forward into the pressure, then rocking back again, causing you to sink down further onto him. A gasp and a small soft moan falls from between your lips.

He does it again, encouraging you to rock forward and then back again, taking him deeper each time. Inch by brain wracking inch, you take him in. He can feel your tight little pussy stretch around him, adjusting to his cock, as he presses your hips back and back and back until you're taking him all down to the root. Until he’s buried as deep as he can go.

Somehow it's not enough. Not when he's waited this long.

He centers three fingers over your clit through the lace of your panties, resting the heel of his hand just above your pubic bone, and then he presses down.

Your pussy clenches tight, and you jolt hard against him, gasping awake with a breathy 'oh' that does funny things to his brain. Makes rational thought skitter away from him, and when he hears his name on a long gorgeous drawn out moan everything inside him roars to attention.

"Miguel."

Satisfaction thrums under his skin. You’re awake, and he wants you awake for this. Wants you to know exactly who is about to fuck your brains out.

"That's right, nena," he croons, easing his hips back, and skimming his lips up from your shoulder to nip at your exposed neck, careful not to break the skin, relishing the sound of the perfect little gasp of yours. "I'm right here. You ready for my big cock, baby?"

"It– mmmmmm– It feels…" you mumble, voice still stumbling and sleepy.

He slams back into you just as you're trying to find your words, taking a bit too much pleasure in interrupting them when he hears you whine out a breathy, "Fuck, fuck!"

"What's that?" Miguel raises a hand to your chin, cradling it in his palm, tilting you back until he can press his lips to the edge of your jaw. "What does it feel like, tell me."

"Fee-feels like– ngh– like I'm already– taking your big cock." Your words are staggered, stuttered out each time he fucks his cock into you, and Miguel smiles.

"You are," he tell you, "You're taking me so well, nena."

It's a struggle for him to get the words out smoothly. He’s rolling his hips at a steady pace, fucking you in earnest now that you're awake to appreciate it. Every slick slide into your needy little pussy has pleasure burning sharp and insistent through his nervous system, overwhelming and inescapable.

He pauses, moving his hand away from your clit for a second, and grins when you whine and clutch at his arm.

"Patience," he scolds you "I've got you. I'm just gonna..."

He tucks his hand under your panties, and you stiffen against him, making a sound like an outraged cat. He knows exactly what you're going to say even before the words leave your lips, so he ignores you, sliding his fingers along the boundary where you're stretched so wide around the base of him, getting them nice and slick.

"You didn't take off my panties!? Miguel, these are my good wuh– oh fuck."

The words cut off when he locates your hard little clit, settling two fingers over it this time, one on each side, the way he knows always drives you crazy.

"What was that, nena?" he bites back a smile, "Something you wanted to say, huh?"

You suck in a breath, but he doesn't give you a chance to answer, fucking into you hard, and wastes no time resuming his former rhythm. The only thing that comes out of your mouth is a broken moan.

"Sorry, baby," he teases, "I didn't quite catch that."

You don't answer. There's no way you're going to, not with the way your body is drawing up tight, gasping for breath as if he's driving every last ounce of oxygen from your lungs.

He knows your body as well as he knows his own, and he has you caught now, like spider with a fly in its web. He keeps holding you tight against him, hips angled to drive up against just the right spot inside you, the one that has you sobbing and clawing at him with every thrust, each one forcing you forward against the fingers he has bracketing your sensitive little clit.

No more words from that smart mouth of yours now, only gasps and whimpers and cut-off moans that might be the first syllable of his name.

You're clawing at his forearm, breath stuttering in and out of your lungs in staggered gulps. Your heart beating loud and fast and alive in your chest, and he can tell that you're close now. He can feel it in the way your tight little pussy clenches and quivers around him, clutching at his cock like it wants to hold him close, closer, closest.

"Mi– Mi– Mig–" The sound stutters out of you in time with his thrusts, high pitched and desperate—cut-off moans that might be the first syllable of his name, more whine than words. Pride swells in Miguel's chest at seeing you, hearing you like this, strung out and stuttering on his cock, begging him for your pleasure.

Pleasure that only he can give you.

"That's right, nena." He fucks into you hard. Can feel you clench around him relentlessly.

"I'm right here."

You're squeezing him so goddamned tight.

"Fucking you."

It takes everything in him to hold to the same angle, the same pace. To give you just what you need, the way only he can give it to you.

"Making you come," he bites out.

You writhe against him, whining louder now, sweet noises growing higher pitched.

"Come for me, nena," he demands, and you shudder against him, your voice rising into a wail.

Your hot little cunt clamps down tight, fluttering around him, and bright spots of pain bloom into pleasure as your fingernails dig into his arm, drawing blood. Your pretty eyes flutter shut as the whole of your body tenses under him.

Fuck, you're coming.

"That's– fuck– That's it," he grits out, slowing his thrusts, rocking against you gently to help draw out your orgasm. To buy himself a freaking second so you don’t take him over the edge with you. He keeps the soft rolling rhythm until the wracked shivers seizing your body settles. Counting down the seconds until the grip of your nails into his biceps is easing, and then…

"Again," he demands, snapping his hips forward, fucking into you hard, "Come for me again, nena."

Miguel locks his arm in place, holding you at the angle that will let him hit that perfect spot inside you every time, the one that makes your eyes roll back in your head, and he intends to have you seeing stars. He hears your breath leave you with a strangled noise, feels your pussy clench tight and perfect around his cock, and grins through gritted teeth.

If he times it juuuust right, he can send you over the edge a second time. He's done it before, forcing you into another orgasm before you've even come down from the first, and he’s not above using his enhanced reflexes to make you do it again.

And right now? The way you're writhing against him, hands and arms and pussy clutching at him, like you're trying to pull him closer—pull him in, despite the fact that he's already fucking you as deep as he can go. All of that tells him his timing was spot-fucking-on today.

It doesn't take long. It never does when he makes you come this way. And thank fuck for that, because the feel of you clenching around him is almost enough to take him over the edge with you. He has to grit his teeth as he slows to the gentle rocking rhythm you like best when you’re coming. His free hand fisting in the bed sheets, claws digging into them in a way he knows will earn him another scolding later. But R.I.P. your damn linens. Better them than him. You may have come twice, but Miguel's not ready to be done with you just yet.

This time, when you come down, he keeps things slow and gentle until you go loose and boneless. Forces himself to slows further until every muscle in your body melts under his grip. You sink down into the mattress with a little sigh, like you're ready to drift back off to sleep just like this, safe and snug in his arms, his hard cock still buried inside of you.

And if he wasn't so hard up, skin crawling with need and desperation, maybe he'd let you.

But that’s not happening tonight.

Unfortunately for you, Miguel's too hungry for you. Starving. Wants to lick and bite and swallow you down to the very marrow of your bones. 

He's been good. He's been patient. Has held himself back while he made you come. Twice. Satisfaction burns bright in his chest, almost as bright as his need for you. Two fucking times he's gritted his teeth, holding back his own orgasm by the skin of his fucking fangs as that pretty little pussy came around his cock, squeezing him so tight that for a second he was sure he'd black out and see god behind his eyelids.

Miguel is out of patience. 

Any intention to go easy on you because you need the rest is gone. Any consideration for your early morning tomorrow has flown the nest.

Hands on each side of your hips, he rolls the two of you, easily flipping you forward onto your stomach and drags you down along the bed. You stay limp and relaxed, as you let him move you like a ragdoll, positioning you the way he wants, head and chest resting against the matress, ass in the air.

Once he's got you where he wants you, he takes just a second to admire you, taking in the way those pretty lace panties highlight the curves of your ass but do nothing to conceal your slick center, pulled to the side as they are, leaving your pussy fully exposed, all pretty and puffy from how well he's fucked you and glistening in the low light.

You shiver under his heavy gaze, and he can see the way your pussy clenches, can see how wet you are, shining slick, halfway down your thighs.

Miguel must've taken too long with his one second. A soft inquisitive "hmmmmm?" emerges from where your head is buried in the pillow, and you rock your hips gently side to side.

His dick jerks at the obvious invitation. Precome oozes from the tip, and he takes himself in hand, lets himself stroke once to spread it along his length, as though he wasn't dripping with you already.

"What's that, nena?" he bites out. He's so fucking hard for you, cock aching from holding back, but even now, he can't help but tease and goad you. "You want more? You didn't get fucked good enough already? Does that pretty pussy want my cock?"

"Mmmmm.... yes," you say, one hand outstretched behind you, making a 'gimme' motion at him.

The gesture is ridiculous, but he can't help the way it makes his chest pull tight. You're always so ready to have him, no matter how much he tires you out. Suddenly, he can't wait another fucking second to be inside you again. 

He starts to line himself up, the wet heat of you just kissing the head of his dick when you tense up and make a sound of alarm. Fear stings his spine, and he freezes.

"You okay, nena?" he asks, pulling away from you, suddenly terrified that he's hurt you somehow.

Miguel has always been big—even before the "accident" that changed him—and he's bigger now, exponentially stronger.  He’d thought he was being careful, but fuck, it'd be all too easy for him to let his strength get away from him, to go harder than you can handle.

"Are you hurt? Was I- Was I too rough?"

Because he forgets sometimes. Forgets that others don't heal at an accelerated rate like he does. That your body isn't protected by enhanced endurance that lets him walk off falling from a building, barely feeling the six broken ribs and fractured arm that results.

It's why he needs to protect you. 

Always. 

Unlike him, you can be hurt. Can be broken, can be killed. And if he’s hurt you, then he–

You make a negative sound, shaking your head.

  "No, you big doofus," you mumble out into the pillow, and Miguel's heart slowly starts to ease its way out of his throat. "The panties. Take them off first. Don't want them to tear."

He stops, blinking in confusion as his eyes narrow down at you.

Your. Fucking. Panties!?

Really? His mouth curls down into a peeved frown. That's your fucking priority right now? After he's fucked you silly, made you come twice the way only he can?

"You want me to take your panties off, nena?" he demands, tone low and harsh, edging forward on the bed until he’s looming over you.

"Yes," you confirm. "They’re my last good pair." You’re nodding your head energetically in a way that tells him he hasn't done nearly as good of a job of tiring you as he thought. He’ll have to fix that.

With a snarl, he lances the crotch of your panties with a single claw, ripping them off your body.

"Miguel!" you squeak, clearly not expecting that, your voice pitched with disbelief, "Did you just–?"

"They were in the way," he manages to rasp out, lining himself up and pressing forward, unceremoniously shoving inside.

The tight, hot clench of your pretty pussy is blindingly good. It always fucking is. And just like always, Miguel is lost to it. He holds there, buried as deep in you as he can get, shuddering against you. He's damn lucky that extraordinary stamina comes bundled along with super-senses, or he'd probably come every damn time he slips inside you. It'd be all over at the first thrust.

Fuck, he has to move. He pulls out, and you gasp and claw at the sheets, shuddering under him as he starts to fuck you again. Obscene wet, squelching sounds fill the room, along with the echoing slap of flesh on flesh as he fills you over and over and over. You’re so fucking wet, so fucking perfect. He grits his teeth, trying to get a handle on the feeling, but it’s overwhelming. 

Your hot, perfect little pussy clenches and flexes around his dick, and a blissful burn sears against his spine, streaking white and hot with pleasure. A tell-tale sign, warning him of what's to come if he doesn't stop. He sucks in a breath, trying to stave it off, barely hanging on to his control by the tips of his claws because he wants to feel you come around him one more time.

Because twice isn’t enough. Three times won’t be either. Nor would four, five, ten. Miguel’s greedy for you. Selfish. No matter how much you give him, it will never be enough. He will always want more of you.

More of your soft body pressed up against every inch of his. More of your eyes looking back at him, glazed over as if you have no coherent thoughts left in that pretty head of yours. He wants all of that and more. Another orgasm. Another fuck. Another kiss. One more breath. Just more, more, more.

He curls his hand around your throat, feels the chaotic race of your pulse under his fingertips.

"Come for me, nena," he demands, "I need it. Need to feel you." 

He tilts your face up, your back arched like a bow towards him. So fragile. So trusting, that you let him do this to you. 

He dips down to claim your lips, snapping his hips into yours faster now. Ramping up the pace as he chases his inevitable climax, forcing you to yours. 

You whimper and keen with each thrust, eyes rolling wildly. Your mouth hangs open, panting out sweet, stuttered moans that he swallows in a bruising kiss. Your whole body tenses under him, going rigid, then your pretty pussy starts clenching down around him as you come again.

This time, Miguel can't hold himself back. Doesn't even try. Lets himself succumb to the sight, the sounds, the smell, the feel of you surrounding him, coming for him. His stomach draws in tight, toes curling into the sheets, as he can feel his balls drawing up, cock swelling further as he manages a last few ragged thrusts. Then he’s tumbling over the edge with you, burying himself as deep as he can as the unforgiving bliss rises and spreads, blotting out everything else.

It's endless. Pulses after devastating pulse that won't stop. He comes and comes and comes, emptying himself inside of you until he's lightheaded, barely able to hold himself.

No amount of supernatural stamina can help him in this moment. Not when he can feel his spend filling you to capacity and more, so full that it starts leaking out of you, down the line of your thighs and onto his. His strength gives out, and he collapses into the bed, bringing you down with him.

The two of you lay there, trying to catch your breath. You’re trapped under his weight, your small back heaving under his larger chest, sweat slicking your skin to his. He has no desire to move. Shifts slightly to the side, a concession to your need to breathe, but refuses to go farther than that. He wants to keep you right here, covered and cocooned by his body. 

You tilt your head until you can peek over your shoulder at him. There's a look in your eyes, one that he has only ever seen on you. One just for him, filled with exasperated fondness, heat and loving familiarity. One he wouldn’t give up for anything.

"You're getting me new panties."

A warm huff of laughter escapes him. The bright warm glow in his chest spreads outwards, filling him with contentment.

"Sure, nena."

"And coffee in the morning," you add.

He hums in agreement because that's fair. You're going to be in zombie mode otherwise.

"And cupcakes for breakfast," you finish triumphantly.

Miguel turns his head to observe you, the way you're trying to hide that satisfied grin into the pillow to not betray how fucking over the moon you are right now after he's fucked you silly.

Smartass. Always pushing your damn luck. But it's not like he's going to ever say no to you is it?

He puts on a show of sighing loudly with mock exasperation. "From Gladis, yeah?”.

You nod into your pillow.

"Mmhmm."

He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, circling his arm around your waist, easily pulling you to his side.

The rain is still pouring down outside, but here in bed with your warm body pressed up against his side, the sound of it pitter-pattering against the window is almost soothing. He can feel his eyes slipping closed as it lulls him off to sleep. 

The rain isn’t so bad when you’re warm and safe in his arms. Nothing is, as long as you’re here with him. 

He’ll keep you safe. 

Always.

Credits and Dedications: I have to give so so so so much credit to my clown-in-crime @thirstworldproblemss poor woman doesn't even go here, and spent the whole of her evening writing porn to me in my DMs. 90% of the porny parts have been written by her. So for all those who enjoyed this, please go to her inbox and send her much deserved love!!!

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

[starrylevi]

Levi x Accident Prone/Clumsy SO

💫 Accidentally hit myself in the face while opening my backpack and was inspired 😅

You won’t be chopping up any ingredients if Levi can help it: Don’t touch that.” “But I’m trying to helpppp.” “You can help me by staying safe, which means no touching.”

He’ll make sure you’re aware of what’s ahead of you when you’re not paying attention. “Watch out for that. I don’t want you to die.”

When the streets are busy, he’ll take it upon himself to guide you, his arm securely around your waist as he helps you navigate the people traffic.

Your apartment will already be organized because of Levi but he would try his best to organize things in a way that would make it difficult for things to be in your way.

Whenever you get packages, big or small, Levi will place them somewhere that is out of your way but that is also in your line of sight so you know where they are.

Levi’s already hyper vigilant so he’s aware of his surroundings, especially when you’re around. “There’s a step in front of you”, “Pole on your right”, “Move left”.

He’ll notice new bruises before you do. He won’t tell you directly, he’ll massage the skin near the bruise, careful not to hurt you, and ask “Now where did this one come from?”

With how often you get bruises, he’ll suggest iron supplements. If you don’t buy them, he’ll buy them for you, walking up to you and placing them in front of you. “Take them.”

Sometimes you don’t have the common sense to move out the way when Levi’s opening a cabinet or a cupboard. To prevent you from getting hurt, Levi will place one hand over your knee, thigh, or forehead (anticipated spots where you might get hit) and open what he needs to with the other hand.

When you do manage to accidentally bump into something when he’s around, letting out a yelp of surprise and/or pain, Levi can’t help but shake his head and let out a small chuckle. He doesn’t know how you manage to hurt yourself so often. It’s kind of adorable. “C’mere, are you okay?”

He does not let you try to find your way anywhere in the dark. If for some reason, after you both get in bed, you need to get a glass of water or use the bathroom Levi will make sure you have a light source. “Don’t move, let me turn on the light first.”

Again, Levi doesn’t understand how you manage to accidentally hurt yourself so often but he knows he doesn’t need to. What he does know, and do, is he does his best to mitigate it. Of course he can’t protect you from everything, but that doesn’t stop him from trying.

[firelilyofthevalley]

Came to me in a dream, corazon baby-proofing the house for pregnant!reader or baby, but it turns out to be more helpful for him. Would love to see it in a storyline. ❤️

[deathofacupid]

oops | peter parker

tw: spidey senses be letting homeboy down

summary: you're just a bit clumsy.

being popular had never been necessary to you. that being said, landing a spot in flash and liz's clique was more of a... mistake, really, than anything else. looking upon it now, as you did every other time, you cringed so hard.

since 7th grade, you'd had the most massive crush on peter parker. it all started when he'd lent you a pencil in math class. why you thought that to be attractive, you weren't sure. but it was. and you hadn't ever been very coordinated around him, to say the least. that year, you'd been partnered with him for a art project. at first, you were very excited, but didn't know that you wouldn't be able to get two words out around him.

the boy had always been picked on by flash, that wasn't news to anyone. when you had accidentally knocked over the glass of bright red paint and spilt it all over the front of his shirt, everyone laughed. they laughed because they thought you did it on purpose. they laughed because they thought it was funny. and they laughed because peter had started crying.

god, that was the most terrible day of your life.

and the worst part?

you had heard him and ned gushing over the new starwars shirt, and that he'd finally saved up enough allowance to buy it (the shirt was limited addition, and was more expensive than it needed to be) earlier that day.

the next day, you tried your hardest to explain it him that it really was just an accident, but he had made it a point to stay away from you, because the poor kid thought you were trying to bully him. not only that, but flash and his clique started to hang out around you, they claimed it was because what you had done was "epic" and "took crazy guts."

his group consisted of liz, gwen, cindy, harry, and himself. and since you had no other friends, you just let it be.

then in 8th grade, you accidentally insulted him, you were trying to make small talk, but ended up humiliating him in front of the entire grade. you'd never forget his bright red face, twisted in embarrassment, tears filling his eyes as he tried to desperately blink them back. that too, you were applauded for by your friends.

basically, every singled time (yes, there were more, but they were not to be spoken about) you'd ended up hurting him. so eventually in freshman, you'd stayed away, fantasizing from afar.

currently you were fantasizing from the bleachers, staring at peter as he did curl-ups as ned kept his feet in place.

"and i know, right? zach is so hot!" liz squealed.

cindy nodded aggressively, "he's so asking you out to the dance, trust me. ooh! i forgot to tell you! harry finally asked me. but i guess i kinda already figured that he would."

dazed, you looked up, "huh? figured who out?"

"that you like peter parker," cindy shrugged.

"yeah, but- wait, what?"

she rolled her eyes, "you've literally been checking him out all period. dude, he totally got a glow-up! did you see his abs?"

yes. duh. what do you think i've been staring at?

you hummed in response instead. "well?"

"well, what, liz?"

"are you gonna ask him?"

"no! he hates me!"

"how do you know?" cindy countered.

"because i bully him!"

"yeah," liz nodded, "i was actually gonna ask about that. do you have, like, a degradation kink or something?"

"one, that's not how those work. two, i didn't mean to do all that... i just... i freeze up around him."

"leave it to our girl to crush on a dork," the korean girl giggled.

"he's not a dork."

they rose an eyebrow at you.

"okay, well, still," you defended, "he's cute."

"girls!" a voice boomed, "you done gossiping?"

"stupid coach," you muttered, before stepping off the bleachers with your friends.

coach doss looked around, clearly last minute planning something. "uh, okay, let's do dodgeball. two teams, a and b. cindy, a. liz, b. harry, a. y/n, b. peter, a," he continued but you ignored that.

you and peter were on opposite sides. and how would that end? you pushed away those thoughts and pressed your lips together. it was fine, no big deal. just avoid him, right?

you picked up a ball, and stood there. kids were yelling and screaming, and you just stood near the corner, where no one noticed you. soon enough, it was you and just some other kids. your teammates looked at you expectantly, and you being you, panicked, not liking the sudden attention. so you squeezed your eyes tight and threw the ball as hard as you could in a random direction.

only when you heard a crack and a yelp did you look up.

and what had you done?

you'd hit peter right in the face. he was clutching his nose, which was bleeding like hell, and groaning in pain. coach blew his whistle and rushed over.

"good going," liz mouthed and your cheeks burned.

"damn, y/n, definitely busted something," harry whistled.

"oh my god, peter, i'm sorry," you rushed out.

coach doss shook his head. "definitely broken. no worries, l/n, it was an accident. go ahead and take him to the nurse. i'll write you a pass."

no worries?

you nodded and walked up to peter, avoiding any and all eye contact. the two of you walked in silence down the hall until:

"why do you hate me?" he blurted out, sounding equal parts pained and confused.

"no, i-i don't hate you!" you said quickly.

"you don't? but... you've been picking on me since... i dunno, middle school?"

"i don't- that's not-" you and two options, tell the truth or go with it. and peter deserved the truth, no matter how embarrassing it was. you inhaled, and in one breath; "ilikeyoualotijustdon'tknowhowtoactlikeanormalpersomaroundyoiandit'sreally-"

"what?"

"i, uh, i like you. like you, like you."

"is- is this another joke?"

"no!"

"i'm sorry, i don't, it's just... you, um, literally bully me."

"i get really nervous around you," you blushed, "i thought you hated me. because... of that."

"i don't hate you, either."

"really?"

"yeah," he paused for a second, "i liked you, too, but i figured you didn't feel the same because, you know."

"god, this is humiliating. i just freeze up around you. and- i, um, yeah."

"well, i don't hate you. and if you're not messing with me-"

"i'm not," you interrupted.

he smiled, "then i'd really like to hang out with you."

"like a date? o-or not, that's fine, too," you stammered.

"yeah. a date."

"cool."

you stared at him for while, "shit, i'm so sorry i broke your nose!"

he laughed as you took a step closer, brushing your fingers over his cheek. realizing how close you were to him, you jerked back, accidentally hitting his. freaking. nose.

"ow," he said quietly.

"oops."

[yourprobnowdumdum]

Rick with a partner who's terribly clumsy

Someone who keeps bumping into shit, stubbing their toes, tripping, twisting their ankle, says 'ow' even when they don't get hurt, runs out of band-aids often, etc.

At that point I think he'd stick them in a hamster ball or try to (angrily) convince them to let him make some protection so he stops hearing once or twice a week some new problem they have because they're clumsy as fuck

[terrence-silver]

Terry killing (or seriously injuring) someone for Beloved

---

He's been trailing this wimp for almost a year now.

Leaving threatening notes that couldn't be traced back to him, deliberately ominous calls in the middle of the night intended to scare the guy shitless, having his place broken into more than once just to have him piss his pants, disrupting his life bit by bit and getting under his skin and inside of his head, paid off cops that wouldn't speak in order to tie all loose ends together, ensuring he got followed around purely for the sake of making him paranoid and fidgety, getting him fired, making sure finding new employment grew increasingly difficult to find because Terry's people rang every company, firm and establishment in the wider Valley area to ensure a blacklisting takes place and stays in place, influencing things and pulling strings from afar so that his livelihood ended up pushed into a disarray and doing everything in his power to drive him into a state of slowburn, inescapable desperation.

Terry Silver had such a power, sure, yes.

Terry Silver also had more patience than anyone could ever even know.

He could play this game of tactical warfare forever.

A year. Two. Five.

It didn't particularly matter. He took a certain relish in scooping up some schmuck's existence, making it into his own personal punching bag and driving nails into it like a cushion pin doll until the pressure formed visible cracks and the cracks led to deterioration. Walls of a metaphorical house collapsing, bringing down with it a metaphorical roof. Or if he felt keenly playful, perhaps he should have the man's actual walls and the roofs of his actual house collapsing? Maybe have Snake and Dennis plant some dynamite in his backyard like this was Vietnam re-enactment. Now, there was a hilariously tempting thought! But, no. None of this was to be ever traced back to Terry or his associates. This was a project to be done remotely. From a distance. In fact, the man didn't even know him. Never laid eyes on him personally. Never spoke to him. Perhaps he knew of him, because there were few people who didn't know of him this side of the West Coast and further, but there was a certain ironic hilarity that they could meet face to face, shake hands amicably like strangers making their acquaintance for the first time and the man would never know he was looking straight at the person who was the cause of all his troubles this year, none of which were purely accidental or bad luck.

Or that this was all for you. Because of you.

That this was revenge.

Terry knew he wanted this punk's life fully and entirely destroyed from the very moment you came home crying, telling him how someone offended you and imparted harsh words your way. You even went as far as trying to justify them, saying how the man, this stranger he later had tracked down, must've simply had a bad day when he snapped at you. I'll give him a bad life, Terry decided there and then as he held you and trying not to explode with the potent cocktail of rage, determination and desire as you sobbed in his arms, and he did. He really did. He completed or at least was close to completion on the very objective he promised himself he'd lead to finalization; Ten months, two weeks and five days later, the very infrastructure of his pet project's life was wholeheartedly messed the fuck up and Terry didn't even necessarily lift his finger to ever impart any hurt. Nope. All he did was watch. Observe from very, very, very far away. Observe through pictures his detectives sent him. Eavesdropping through bugs set up around the man's house. Watch through cameras, destroying all evidence afterwards. Guy started as an upstanding citizen now on the verge of giving up. Giving up on everything. How little outside influence it took to turn someone's life into a heap of bullshit. The power of suggestion and psychological damage. Terry learned all about it in the war.

Propaganda, it was called.

It was that propaganda that endowed Terry with the copy of the prick's divorce papers delivered to him by Margaret along with his morning tea which he sipped in the tub, observing the ever expanding mosaic of his handiwork. The result of months and months of effort on his part. Now, bearing fruit.

Juicy, fragrant and as ripe as sin.

-"Perfect."- He mutters, leaning back into the water, self-satisfied.

-"Mr. Silver, if I may inquire with a miniscule ounce of prying,"- Ms. Spencer adjusts her thick-rimmed spectacles looking down at him with her usual sense of professional poise and propriety and he already knew the question she'd pose him with before she even had time to properly formulate her sentence and vocalize it back to him. -"How far do you plan on advancing this whole complot?"- How far indeed. As far as he could, he supposed. Murder, perhaps? No, death was too final and liberating. It was too fun to stop now. How could he? Why would he? Man ended up dumped by his wife who took the kids back to her parents place in Nevada.

For fuck's sake, it was better than a prime time soap opera.

The Falcon Crest wishes it could weave plots the way he could.

-"Oh, not that far, Margaret. Lighten up!"-

Terry purses his lips with deliberate cynicism he knew she'd recognize and see through, tossing the document sent to him by the divorce attorney's secretary aside carelessly over the heavy, carved stone tiles once he's done mulling over the contents, a grim Milos immediately there to scoop up the compromising printed file and tuck it into the inside pocket of his black tux without saying a single word. He meets Margaret's speculative gaze head on. He wasn't about to bullshit her or pussyfoot around facts. He knew she could handle it. She's handled worse from him on the daily. -"I just want him alone, penniless, hopeless, broken in every way and begging for mercy with nobody there to give it."-

-"But, sir, with all due respect,"-

She clicks her tongue, about to protest. It was Margaret. It was okay. She was allowed to protest. She's worked long enough for him to where she's earned that special privilege. At the end of the day, Terry still did what he wanted to regardless of being willing to hear her out. -"Do you figure this elaborate reprisal extends far beyond the scope of the dealt damage?"- Now, someone else would get momentarily fired for implying your tears weren't worth all the retaliation in the world, but for Ms. Spencer, he'd let things slide. He knew what she meant and that she wanted to know what his ultimate goal here was. So, did the, as she said, elaborate reprisal extend far the scope of the dealt damage?

-"No."-

Terry's answer is no-nonsense, clipped and curt.

He reaches for the cigar box and his cutter right next to the ashtray from the tub.

-"I think it's a fair price for making someone who belongs to me cry."-

---

Terry deliberately has his chauffeur drive through a downtown shortcut between Huston and Morrison St. on Vineland Avenue that day at a leisurely pace, but not leisurely enough to where it would be obvious to you, huddled next to him on the backseat that the driver was ordered to deliberate, supposing he wanted to see.

Supposing he wanted to witness.

The endgame of his great efforts and investments. The man's property was foreclosed a month ago after he declared bankruptcy and his detectives reported that he was officially homeless, roughing it out on the streets. Right here. Slumming for alms in this very neighborhood. Terry made sure he headed out in the Rolls Royce today, wanting to add insult to injury and once he spots the familiar figure he's seen on snapped photos his people delivered his way, Terry alerts the chauffeur and you fidget, unsure what was happening. You never would. For all you were concerned, he wanted to do show a bit of kindness to someone in need.

-"Pull up here."-

He signals to his man at the steering wheel and the car comes to a halt. Terry feels you stir once his hand grabs the door exit handle and puts on foot down on the precipice where the sidewalk and the edge of the road connect, about the approach the person sitting on the pavement next to a cardboard box. Terry gives you a re-assuring look, exiting the vehicle, closing the door behind himself with a loud thud, knowing he was being watched by you through the tinted window and possibly half of the street block too, there to gawk at the million dollar vintage that just pulled up by the highway. Terry scrutinizes the man seated on the concrete, knees against his chest, a bowl of change beside him, seeming caught somewhere between a state of drunkenness and slumber, not even bothering to register someone was standing above him. What a sight to behold. That was the price one paid. For hurting you. For ruining a single day out of your entire life with harshly imparted words. That kind of shit? It wasn't for free. He made sure it came with a hefty bill, in fact. Terry digs into the inside pocket of his suit, digging out a handful of ten dollar bills he prepared for the occasion right before he heads back to you. Yeah. That would do. Cheap fucking change.

You shoot him a questioning look once he's beside you on the backseat.

-"Gave him enough to last six months. Couldn't just drive by like that."-

He lies, explaining, once the vehicle starts moving forward again and the image of the sleeping homeless guy disappears from view. Luckily, that fucking bowl was deep enough that one couldn't tell if it was full of measly coins or a stack of money. You seem positively shocked, even though you knew he often carried around enough cold hard cash to make Onassis blush so the falsehood pours down smoothly, like a cold Martini on a hot summer day. Your state of being momentarily perplexed fading into a soft sort of awe as you embrace his arm, cooing. He doesn't even try to hide how pleased he is by your clueless admiration and immediate hero worship, smiling at you.

-"Terry. That was really kind of you."-

-"You know me. I always endeavor to help the poor."-

[ferrarifan4ever]

That went well..

Omg! So I don't think anybody saw,as I was rushing and panicky as hell,but I've been working on a Lando Norris fic for quite a while now,and instead of saving it to drafts,I'll accidentally posted it! I made quick work copying it and deleting the post,though I missed an entire paragraph,so now I'm gonna have to re-write that bit. Has anyone else slipped up like that,or am I the only one stupid enough?

[quinloki]

Sleepy reader trying to help the cooks out with early morning prep, but accidentally hurting themselves almost immediately and being ushered over to sit at the counter. Well, maybe next time you can wake up early a bit more deliberately, you won't be as tired and accident prone.

Awww

As someone who took out an entire large cup of soda yesterday, wide awake and completely aware of my surroundings, I feel this concept in my bones a bit. ^^;

[baeshijima]

personally i think alhaitham with the “oh, haha! sorry, didn’t see you there, but i’m really in a rush so— oh whoops! sorry, didn’t mean to fall on top of you and kiss you! my bad, haha i’ll just... take my leave now...” trope would be so funny and i wanna write that so bad

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, yandere, omegaverse, forced bonding, subjugation, some type of discrimination, elements of androgyny

♡ fem reader

Thinking about the big and burly behemoth Omega finally finding himself the cutest little Alpha to breed with…

He could never bring himself to breed with Alphas. Growing up, he developed a great disdain for them—all high and mighty rabid animals prone to violence, more often than not completely dimwitted to top it off, as if their massive ego had usurped the place of basic brain operation.

He couldn’t hate them more, yet he doesn’t correct anyone when they mistake him for one, either. In many ways, he wished he was born one instead of an Omega. It would make it easier to fulfill his desires that way. A dominant Omega isn’t all that normal, after all—and submissive Alphas are an even rarer breed to come by.

He hadn't found one yet. And other Omegas don’t really do it for him. They approach him, thinking he’s an Alpha, then feel disappointed when figuring out he’s not—which is fine, as he isn’t particularly interested in their scent either. Betas make for an okay compromise—they don’t care if he’s an Omega, it makes no difference to them—yet he could never really shake the feeling that something was missing when lying with them.

At the office, the scent of Alphas plagues him all day—how they strut around, stinking up the place with no concern for anyone else. This is a workplace, for fuck’s sake—can’t they have a little dignity and not treat it like a mating ground? He really hates them. All bigheaded assholes—

“Ow—” there’s bark and a hard thunk of something hitting the floor.

Someone just bumped into him—someone so small he hadn’t even seen them over the top of his clipboard. Looking down, he sees a fellow Omega—a pretty one. You must be as disoriented by the scent around you as he is—probably why you walked right into him—poor thing. He ought to help you up.

You hold your head in your hand, wincing at the sting of your rear—you’d fallen right on your tailbone. Looking up, you give the fellow Alpha who’d knocked you down a mean glare, “What the hell, asshole!”

His outstretched hand stiffens midway. That’s not a very Omega-like thing to say—especially not by one so small as you. No, wait… what’s that scent?

You ignore his hand and get up on your own, dusting down your pin-stripes with angry brushes—face pursed, almost pouty, but not quite, too stink-eyed as you lean in and jab a finger into his chest to punctuate your words, “Watch where you’re going next time, you…”

You soften up halfway through the sentence. It must have dawned on you as well. His scent. Not like other Alphas, but something else entirely—something that suddenly makes you blush all over, wide-eyed.

You don’t say another word, only giving a weak huff before turning tail and stomping away.

There’s something very cute about it—he’s left thinking while watching you, utterly stunned and still, replaying the events that just occurred over and over in his head—wondering how he’d never seen you before. You must work on a different floor.

Luckily, he’d made sure to read your name tag—pinned all properly on your chest like a badge of honor, neatly like the rest of you. Well put together from the top of your salon-styled hair down to the tips of your pointy black stilettos. Even with their added height, you must have been two heads shorter than him—no taller than any regular Omega.

It's no wonder he mistook you for one. You were as cute as one, too—like a doll he could put behind glass, up on a mantle, and keep forever. But oh my… that mouth on you and that awful snarl. Just like any other imposing Alpha, he supposed. Bratty and arrogant, quick to jump the gun and pick a fight instead of taking it for the simple accident it was.

He goes back and sets himself down by his desk—but he’s way too distracted to work now, too busy with the thought of you. That flushed face you showed him before teetering off was something he wouldn’t mind seeing again—also that cute scowl under certain circumstances and what type of expression you’d give him if he wiped it off.

He's lucky an office party came along so quickly. He wouldn’t usually go, but now he had a reason. He bet you’d be there—the way you were dressed when you’d bumped into him tells him you’re one to respect the memo—head to toe in such a neat suit, trying to come off as androgynous as if in desperation needing everyone to know you were an Alpha. It must be hard for you—looking like that but wanting to look… well, suppose more like him.

He's glad he never felt that way—wishing to be smaller and cuter like other Omegas. Sure, he’s been envious of them at times, but more so of their easy pickings and not their appearance. He’s happy being bigger and stronger—it keeps unwanted attention at bay. You probably struggle to do the same. He bets you get a lot of the wrong eyes following you. Yeah… you must attract the bad sort all the time—alphas swarming you only to catch your scent and lose interest. Or maybe not… Alphas are sick, after all. Come to think of it, most of them would probably get off on dominating another Alpha. In that regard, it must have been worse for you than for him. Luckily, both of your issues are now solved.

He wondered what you’d wear tonight. You’d look much better in something feminine and not that suit you’d been wearing. He hopes, but no, you’re wearing much the same thing—another tailored two-piece that all but drowns you.

He understands what you’re going for. You have to dress like that, or else what Omega would ever want you looking the way you do? Aside from him, of course.

No matter. When you move in with him, he’ll dress you in all the pretty things he knows you want to wear. After all, pretty colors, ruffles, and lace will suit you so much better.

“Hello again.” He approaches you by the hors d’oeuvres even after you’d visibly and explicitly chosen to ignore him.

You groan under your breath, responding without even bothering to look at him, “Do I know you?”

Your tough act is cute. He has to withhold a chuckle before answering, “Don’t remember? You called me an asshole a week ago.”

“You walked right into me, so it’s not like it wasn’t deserved.”

You have to love that arrogance—that air of unfounded superiority. He wonders, where do you keep it all? “Well, how could I not? You’re so small I didn’t even see you.”

You’re quick to bare your teeth—obviously, he hit a nerve—showing him that same snarl you’d done back then. Cute little canines—he bet they won’t even hurt going into his neck once you mark him.

“Watch your mouth, Omega.”

Still, with a small smile, he feigns surprise. “Wow—are you an Alpha? Funny, I didn’t know they came in such tiny packages.”

It flusters you, no doubt—your brows lowered into a full glower now. “And I didn’t know Omegas could be so rude.”

You turn to stomp again, as you’d done before—though this time, he grabs your arm before you’re gone.

You whip around with another bark, “Hands off—"

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes unexpectedly, giving you puppy-dog eyes you hadn’t thought him capable of. “I should have been more mindful of my steps. It was entirely my fault.”

You go still at the sudden show of humility and respect. Finding yourself softening by the tilt of his head, bowing at you in acknowledgment of your higher standing. Not that many bother doing that to you—between mistaking you for an Omega or otherwise neglecting your standing as an Alpha, both due to your physique. Seeing it up close and so abruptly flusters you.

“Let me get you a drink to make up for it?” he offers politely, almost in plead.

Struck with feelings of somewhat regret for your own uncouth attitude, you nearly accept on a whim. “That’s kind…” But then think it over. You don’t really want to lead him on, either. You nearly stutter, yet steal yourself. After all… “But you’re not really my type.”

He hangs his head with a dejected sigh, “That’s harsh.” But he’d already figured as much and didn’t really care. Giving you his most sorry grin, he insists, “Humor me anyway? Just one drink so I don’t feel like an asshole for the rest of my life.”

It’s clear you want to refuse—still, as suspected, your heart just can’t handle seeing a desperate Omega in need. Bless your dim Alpha instincts.

“Okay, fine. One drink, that’s all,” you end up agreeing. One drink can’t hurt, right?

You feel like a good Samaritan once the big hunk of an Omega runs off to fetch you a glass. Pitying him or even sympathizing, maybe—it can’t be easy for an Omega in the mating scene to look like that. No Alpha around would want an Omega bigger than them—it’s utterly emasculating, not to mention unnatural.

Of course, you’re aware you’re in much the same shoes as him—you’re not delusional. Only, it’s easy being an independent Alpha—you don’t mind being a lone wolf in the world—but Omegas were built to be domestic. So yeah, you pity him—the poor guy, he’ll probably never find a proper mate.

But you can’t let your pity grant him too many favors—you have no intention of taking on any charity case tonight, especially not a pity fuck. You’ll have one drink with him as a mutual apology. That’s all.

Luckily… one drink is all he needs. Add a little sprinkle of this and that in your glass, and you’re already in the palm of his hand.

He has to carry you bridal style before he’s even managed to lead you to the elevator—it’s empty all the way down to the garage. He puts you in his car, locks your seatbelt in place, then drives off. It’s honestly quite astounding how easy it had been. He’d thought trapping an Alpha would be a much more remarkable feat, an impossible one for an Omega—but this was no different from eating an unguarded piece of cake.

You’re drowsy as he carries you into his apartment. And that’s when the other drug kicks in. The overwhelming scent of being inside his nest sets off your rut like a matchstick being ripped along the red.

Your claws come out, puncturing his sheets as he lays you down on his bed.

You’re too delirious to do much but writhe—making it easy for him to unbutton your dress shirt, followed by your slacks. He has to scoff at your plain black boxers and binder bra. You poor thing, always trying to run with the big dogs when you’re no bigger than a bite-sized puppy. From now on, you’ll only wear lacey things he brings home for you. You won’t have to puff your chest—you can be as sweet and pretty as your delicate physique constitutes—his cutest, littlest, most perfect mate.

You gain newfound strength once he’s peeled your underwear down, baring your needy heat to his touch. Instantly, your arms spring into action, flinging themselves around him, pouncing like a predator at its prey with your fangs bared.

He stops you easily—placing his wrist between your teeth, using it as a muzzle. He chuckles, looking at you gnaw on it like a bone.

“I think the world has it all wrong,” he starts, though he’s not sure you’re even capable of understanding speech in your state. “Omegas are the ones better suited as leaders of society, not Alphas.”

As he talks, he continues with his ministrations, stroking your needy slit with a mean finger, swiping it cruelly before splitting between the folds.

“I mean, look at you—mindless in a rut, willing to pounce on anything that moves—like a wild animal.” Once he sticks his finger inside you, your teeth do his wrist the same justice—drawing blood, making him hiss through his smile, “I ought to keep you in a cage.” And yet he doesn’t pull either hand away. “It would suit you well—on your knees with a pretty leash and collar upon your throat.”

You’re wet in his hand—soaked and so warm he loses track of his own finger as if melting within you. His cock strains against his boxer, wanting to feel it for himself. But you’re still way too tight for that.

He feeds you another digit, and you moan—suckling on his wrist now more than biting, though still with your canines out and seeking.

“Look at these wittle teeth, tch—” he grins upon closer inspection, looking between them and your eyes—pupil-fat orbs, far gone in your instincts. “I bet they’re just itching for my neck instead, huh?”

The provocation seems to make you more desperate. Pumping you slowly, more so to stretch you out than stimulate, he can feel your breaths turn thicker with need, how you press your tongue against his wrist, wet and lousy, wanting for more.

“Well, go on then, Alpha...” He chuckles again, removing his arm from barring your mouth before wrapping your throat with the same hand, holding it like a collar, keeping you under control.

And then he bares his neck for you.

“I give my consent.”

♡ part two

♡ BNHA – Deku, Kirishima, Hawks, Amajiki ♡ JJK – Gojo, Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Oikawa, Miya twins, Tendou ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Bachira, Isagi ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[yourfavoritewitchbitch]

This series has been so fantastic! You write all of these characters amazingly.

Robin, Dustin and Eddie feel so true to their character with the dialogue and interactions you write. I love their dynamic!

Oh boy, I did not expect the truth of Hawkins to come out so soon but it's something you can see weighs on Steve. It's nice that he can actually share it with someone he is beginning to genuinely care about. The way you articulate his PTSD makes it seem so real.

I love their interactions! Steve's denial and Frankie's causal affection fueling him. The growing tension has me excited for the next part!!! 😁 I love this so, so much!

accident prone

part three - young and bold with a heart of gold

Paring: Steve Harrington x Francesca “Frankie” Amato (fem!oc)

Summary: Steve returns home from the hospital, and with the help of his friends, he finally tells Frankie the truth about Hawkins, going anything but smoothly.

WC: 10.8k

Includes: hurt/comfort, angst, PTSD (dissociation, nightmares/flashbacks, panic attacks, survivor’s guilt, etc.), internalized ableism, canon retelling of events (mostly) up until what happens to Hawkins, realization of feelings, flirting, fluff, language, weed mention

series playlist ⋮ masterlist 

living dead - have mercy

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

“so tell me where to go / you shouldn't leave alone you are young and bold / with a heart of gold”

A/N: Y’all remember when I said this would probably be 3 parts total? Yeah… about that… this was supposed to only be one scene, but my hands slipped and I ended up with an entire chapter. lol my bad. I truly don’t anticipate going over 5 parts, honestly hoping to end it at 4. Though I love writing these two together, I’m not trying to drag this out. I hope y’all still enjoy reading this one, though! Thank you so much for all the support on the first two chapters; it means more than I can say that anyone’s reading this at all. love y’all!! 🫶🏻

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Steve was home from the hospital, and while Dustin and Eddie insisted to hang out, Robin and Frankie, on the other hand, knew Steve needed to rest. That’s where the compromise came in; they agreed on visiting at Steve and Robin’s apartment, in case Steve needed to take some time to himself, they’d at least be home already.

Eddie somehow managed to convince Steve, while both were stoned, to tell Frankie everything about Hawkins and the Upside Down, and so far, it was going as they all expected.

Which was… not great.

“So… what you’re saying is, Hawkins is just a really fucked up version of Centralia?”

Steve stares at Frankie with a scoff, Robin laughs in disbelief of Frankie’s answer, Dustin throws his hands up with a groan, and Eddie only shakes his head. They all reply at once:

“Whoa, wait, that’s not even close—“

“Oh, dude, you can’t even compare the two.”

“You just heard all of that and summed it up to be the same as a mine fire?!”

“I’m sorry, did you miss the entire part where the Upside Down exists?”

Frankie stares wordlessly, eyes darting between them all.

“You don’t believe us, do you?”

“Could’ve told me before I got high, ‘cause maybe I’d believe it—“ She catches the flash of disappointment across Steve’s face, causing her to backpedal. “Look, this just sounds… fucking insane. I- I remember the news kept trying to push the whole ‘Satanic Panic’ narrative, but I…”

“‘Key, there’s a reason why Hawkins was literally wiped off the map,” His stomach churns as the words roll off his tongue.

Though Steve has grown to appreciate the life he built in Chicago, he misses Hawkins, misses his old life, even after having his heart broken to splinters, even after falling into the town’s harrowing turmoil, he misses it. Even after the permanent damage Hawkins and the Upside Down left behind from every gut punch, blow to the head, DIY’d stitched up wound, he’s homesick.

Homesick for a sleepy, midwestern town that’s been obliterated from existence. 

There’s no containing the truth of what really happened to Hawkins, but it’s just a tall tale to anyone on the outside looking in. The world saw a completely different chain of events, details muted and manipulated by the government to control the narrative. Even the majority of those who lived in town fell victim to the lies.

Steve Harrington is homesick for a mere memory, now. One that’ll only continue to fade over time.

Frankie’s at a loss for words, lips parted but nothing comes out. She just shakes her head, befuddled.

“C’mon, there’s no way we’d all make this shit up.”

“I mean…”

Pushing his glasses up, Steve shoves his hands to his eyes, rubbing profusely; a habit he’s picked up over the years out of frustration, or nervousness. 

“This shit is why I’m sick, Frankie.” His voice cracks, and he’s embarrassed immediately, but can’t let this go. He can’t even blame the heightened emotions on the weed, he’s not even high anymore. “This shit ruined my life.”

Steve knows how outlandish everything sounds, but he didn’t expect Frankie to be so skeptical, not when this is the background of what lead to his illness.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s just so…” Frankie feels terrible now; she knew this played a massive part in Steve’s trauma and health, but caught up in the bizarre details, she lost sight of that connection. “How did you all… survive?”

Eddie’s more than willing to step in to add to proof; he lifts his shirt, startling Frankie at first, until the scars come into view. Long healed now, they’re still hard to miss. “Those fuckin’ bats did this to me, and I was hanging on by a thread when Dustin found me.” He releases the fabric, letting it shield the scar tissue again.

Trying to back Steve up, Dustin, the only sober one of the group, nods, then points to his other older brother figure, “Steve’s got a ton of scars too—“

Steve doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, sighing, “Guys, don’t—“

“Totally not the same as that, but when I get too high, it reminds me of that fucked up drug they gave us under Starcourt,” Robin adds for comic relief, shrugging with a weak smile. “And I am not trying to puke like that ever again. Or eat popcorn Steve pulled out of the trash.”

Frankie covers her mouth, holding back a laugh, glancing back at Steve, “You did what?”

He gives a breathy laugh, shaking his head, and hopes she can’t tell he’s forcing it. “Look, I was fucked up on whatever they drugged us with, and had my skull bashed in a bunch. Eating garbage popcorn was and still is the least of my concerns from that night.”

“You two were the worst that night—“

Cutting Dustin off, Robin and Steve both yell, “We were drugged!” The two best friends look at each other, bursting into belly-aching laughter, real laughter for Steve, this time. 

The conversation surrounding Hawkins and the Upside Down, while unfinished, naturally flows away into lighter topics. Steve’s mind floats off elsewhere, too.

‘Key doesn’t believe me. She probably thinks I’m crazy. Maybe I am. It sounds fucking crazy. It sounds like an urban legend, like some kind of campfire story. She has every right to be skeptical.

Everyone’s voices sound so distant and muted to Steve, as if he’s deep underwater. Like he’s sinking to the bottom, watching everyone else stay afloat. It’s how he feels often since leaving home; he struggles to keep his head above water, while those around him are swimming with ease, or some even on their own boats, sailing away without a hitch.

Of course I sound crazy. Maybe I should quit working with her. Maybe I should distance myself completely. Frankie has so much going on, she doesn’t need me and my trauma around.

She doesn’t need me.

The air in the room feels thin and scarce; his breaths quicken, but he tries keeping calm while his thoughts spiral. A wave of nausea hits him.

No one needs me.

Whatever has Robin cry laughing, Dustin snorting, and Frankie and Eddie in a fit of stoned giggles— it’s all completely lost on Steve. He can’t get himself out of his own head, not without dissociating to avoid what’s conflicting him currently; he’s worked so hard on dissociation in therapy, though, and he hates the idea of reverting back to that. Running away. Escaping reality. 

All because someone doesn’t believe him. Frankie’s more than just “someone” though.

What if I never got involved to begin with? Maybe I’d be living a life with ignorance instead of stress, instead of PTSD; maybe it would’ve been worth coming out of all of this completely clueless. Shoved in the dark, away from the truth. Wouldn’t have these ugly scars. Wouldn’t have these fucked up flashbacks. Wouldn’t have to feel as if I’m pulling my own teeth just to get out of bed every day.

“Steve?”

Everyone’s moved on except me. Even with trauma, everyone’s learned to live their new lives, keep growing. Keep moving forward. Everyone but me.

“Hey, Steve,” He feels light, gentle pressure on his arm, but he can’t bring himself to focus on the present.

As unhealthy as it is to ignore his newly learned coping mechanisms for dissociation, he’s oddly cozy here. He may be drowning in his overflowing thoughts, but there’s something about letting his body go on auto pilot and let his snowballing, rapid-fire thoughts take over that’s comforting. It’s like a security blanket.

One that’s ablaze in flames, eager to swallow him whole.

Why am I still here? There were others that deserved to survive, but somehow I’m the one still here. And every second I’m wasting on self pity over my pain.

“What can we do to help?” Frankie’s hand slips into his, squeezing softly; her colder skin against his own warm touch breaks him away from the episode of panic he was falling into.

It’s quiet among the group of friends, with everyone’s stares on Steve; he feels so small, so bothersome to stop their fun for yet another panic attack. 

I ruin everything.

“I…”

“Hey, man, we can go back to the hotel if you need rest,” Eddie offers, with Dustin nodding. “We’re in town for the week anyway, so it’s all good.”

I drive everyone away. 

What is considered the happy medium between wanting to hide away in shame and wanting to reach out for help? Where’s the middle ground between the two? Steve’s been searching for years, and still has come out empty each time.

“I—“ Steve can feel himself cracking, can feel the dreadful sinking sensation in his stomach while his throat runs dry. He can feel his mind separating from body, as if he’s watching himself on the outside. It’s an attempt to escape the thoughts, gnawing away at any good left in his life, but that attempt is a failure every time. “Air. Need air.” He pushes off the floor without further explanation, and leaves the apartment in a flash.

The trip down the hall and through the front door of the building is a blur; the edge of his vision fuzzes out, triggering an effect to make every inanimate object move, ever so slightly. Like the walls of the hallway are breathing. Like the floor beneath him is melting away. The high wore off long before this began, so he can’t even blame the dissociation on getting stoned.

This never gets easier to endure, even with the progress he’s made in therapy, but as long as he’s not dragged into any flashbacks, he’ll be okay.

I have to be okay. I have no other choice.

Steve can run as much as he’d like, but the past will always catch up to him. Envelope him in a never ending nightmare. Consume his entire being, taking control of every inch of his body, inside and out. The past always wins. The past is merciless. The past should stay in the past, but it’s got its claws hooked deep, dragging him back while everyone moves on.

He finds himself asking the question that’s always on his mind:

Does this ever get better?

“Steve?” A gentle voice breaks through the walls he haphazardly threw up in a haste. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Still on auto pilot, he nods; an arm slides around his shoulders, pulling him into a comforting embrace from the side. Slowly, another arm winds around him from the front. It’s a lifeline thrown out to him, easing his own rescue out of the endless sea of self destructive thinking.

It’s Frankie; her voice is soothing, guiding him away from the panic, but not without one last fighting chance from his anxiety.

I need everyone, but no one needs me.

“That isn’t true,”  He must’ve let that thought slip out, and usually, he’d be embarrassed, but he just continues to meld into her touch. Her hold on him feels just as consoling as the night prior, in the hospital. “Robin needs you. Dustin needs you. Eddie needs you. I need you, too.”

He shudders as the panic reluctantly dissolves away. It sticks to the walls of his mind like glue, difficult to remove quickly and with ease.

“Never wanted you to see me like this,” The statement falls from his lips with a strained tone as he turns towards her. Resting his head on her shoulder, he shakes, hands wrapping around her waist, fingers gripping onto her sweater; his knuckles cramp and ache from his tight hold. “You think m’crazy, don’t you?”

“No way,” There’s no hesitation, no doubt in her answer. “I think what you all went through is crazy, but it was real. It is real, and I’m so sorry I doubted that for even a second. It’s so hard to wrap my head around, but it’s no excuse for the way my reaction hurt you. I’m sorry, Steve.”

“S’not your fault, it- it’s okay, really—“

Frankie pulls back, hand finding its way to his face; she cards her fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes, worn and weary. They’re slightly glassy, too, taking their time to fill with tears. He acts before thinking, leaning into her touch; she doesn’t pull away, just tenderly holds him, thumb wiping along his cheekbone to push stray tears aside. The compassionate gesture curls his bottom lip, ever so slightly, trembling; he’s trying so hard not to break in front of her. 

“I don’t know who or what ever made you feel like you need to water down your pain and downplay accepting apologies, but please don’t ever feel like you need to do that with me.” Her gaze stays on him, even as he looks away. “You shouldn’t have to do that with anyone, ever.”

“I don’t want to upset you—“

“Steve.” She halts his overthinking with the same, reassuring, breathy way he addresses her when she spirals. He brings his eyes back to hers. “Your feelings, the way you’re hurting right now, that’s all far more important than if I’m upset or not. You mean well, I know you do. You’re always looking out for everyone first, but you’re allowed to put yourself first. You need to put yourself first in moments like these.”

Searching for the right words, Steve’s startled by a car honking as it passes by. His eyes dart all over, taking in his surroundings.

“When did we…”

“Come outside? You said you needed air, this is where I found you.”

He glances to the old and worn brick wall he was resting against, the filthy sidewalk he’s sitting on, the street lamp overhead, illuminating the two of them. There’s an ache, a sting of some kind along his back. It grows as he comes back to reality. 

One arm reluctantly pulls away from Frankie to reach behind him, hand splaying out onto his lower back, exposed. His own touch causes him to hiss in pain. Bringing his hand back around, there’s traces of blood along his fingertips.

Frankie’s grabbing his hand, alarmed as she inspects it. “Steve, what happened?”

“I— I don’t know,” she leans close to him, and if this was happening under different circumstances, he’d have a racing heartbeat. Her breath is right in his ear as she peers over his shoulder, hold on him firm, keeping him steady.

“Oh… Steve, your back is scratched up.” She pulls his sweatshirt up a little further, and the cool air is sort of soothing to him. “Did you slide against the wall?”

“ … I don’t remember.”

She lets the soft fabric cover the raw, scratched up skin before leaning back. “C’mon, let’s go inside, I can help you clean up.”

Steve’s first instinct is to downplay his pain, tell Frankie he’s fine, he can take care of it, he doesn’t need to make a fuss about it all. But he knows better with her; she won’t take no for an answer here, she’ll remind him he’s allowed to accept help, accept care.

Instead, he only nods, taking her hand as she extends it to help him up. His surroundings have stopped melting, his vision isn’t fuzzy and blurred at the edges, and though he’s still a bit disoriented, he feels grounded with Frankie’s hand in his.

Steve pushes past his self doubt, self loathing, accepting the care Frankie insists he deserves.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

By the time the two reach the apartment, it’s empty, with a note in Robin’s handwriting tacked to the fridge.

Went out to grab snacks! We’re good at that, huh? Steve, we’re getting your faves, and Frankie, hopefully we get yours right from what Steve told us. Be back soon! — snack squad ♡

All three of their scribbled signatures line the bottom of the note; Steve smiles and Frankie giggles. 

“You told ‘em what I like?”

He blushes and stammers, “Uh— I— just from what I remembered, like in case—“

“That was sweet, Steve.” Her hand squeezes his, still clasped together from the walk back inside. “Where’s all your first aid stuff?”

They end up in his bathroom, and without much thought, he pulls out a first aid kit, held together in a beat up tin lunch box. Frankie flips it open, rummaging through the supplies, pulling things out to continue searching for what Steve needs. Gauze, butterfly bandages, medical tape, splints are among the typical first aid kit supplies she sifts through. Then, she freezes as she comes across a needle and strong thread.

“Is this all from…” Trailing off,  she holds it up for him to see; Steve’s brows knit together, puzzled.

Oh. Shit.

He clears his throat awkwardly while nodding. “Yeah, it is. Haven’t used it in a while, but it’s— there’s something that makes me nervous about tossing it out.”

“You think you’d need it someday?”

“Sure fucking hope not.”

“Well,” She grabs his hips, twisting him around for a better look at his back. He faces the mirror, grateful he can’t make eye contact with Frankie from where she stands. Steve can feel the goosebumps prickling along his skin just from her touch. “Good news is, you don’t need any DIY sutures tonight. Or real ones.”

A mirthless laugh and an eye roll help him cope. “Thanks, doc.”

Frankie ignores him. “Are you okay standing?” Steve nods, and she sits on the closed lid of the toilet, pulling him back towards her. The unexpected movement startles him as he stumbles a little.

“Whoa— okay, Jesus, I said I can stand, that doesn’t mean you can manhandle me, Francesca.”

“M’gonna make a new swear jar like Betty has, except it’ll be for every time you use my full name,” She grumbles, placing the first aid kit in her lap. She tugs at the edge of his sweatshirt, “Off.”

His face burns up, head snapping over his shoulder with a bewildered stare, “Huh?”

“Can’t help with your sweatshirt laying over the scrapes.”

“Oh… right,” Steve hesitates, taking a few deep breaths before asking, “Is it okay if I just… lift it up enough? I’m— I don’t— there’s scars I’d rather you didn’t see if you don’t have to.” He’s tensing up under her touch, so her hands retreat.

“Steve, I understand. I have scars that I don’t like others seeing, either.” Her reassurance seems to help as he relaxes again. “Not like yours, but… I get it. And wounds are hard as hell for folks like us to heal from, so either you can let me, or someone else, clean them for you, or you’ll have to try on your own.” The firm sentiment isn’t to guilt him, nor shame him; he can tell she genuinely cares. She wants to help him.

“Right. You’re right. I— m’gonna just…” He tugs the sweatshirt up enough, but the awkward position immediately stiffens the joints in his arms and shoulders with an ache. 

Frankie frowns, noticing his discomfort. “Would it be easier to do this laying down? Then it’d—“

“No!” Steve cringes at his quick reaction, but he refuses to allow the idea of Frankie having to straddle him just to treat the scrapes to become real. Just the mere thought of her on top of him in any circumstance makes him dizzy with a desire he refuses to feed into. He can’t ruin this friendship, it’s essential to him at this point. “No, I- I can do this instead. But, uh, Frankie?”

“Yeah?”

“Just don’t— please don’t look, okay? If you see anything else on my back, it’s fine, but the front is a wreck still—“

Frankie’s hands are back on his hips, chilled touch soothing his hot skin, and shutting him up.

“Promise, I won’t.”

A pause hangs over them, then Steve mutters, “fuck it,” pulling the sweatshirt over his head. Leaving the sleeves on his arms, he covers his torso with the rest of the fabric. “Does that work?”

“Yeah, just stay still for me,” Her murmur releases the faintest breath, hitting Steve’s lower back; he shivers. “Sorry, I know my hands are cold.”

“N- no, you’re okay.” He’s relieved she doesn’t catch on, and plays off her assumption, softly admitting, “I don’t mind. Feels kinda nice.”

“Kiss-ass,” She lightly teases, holding a cotton ball soaked with disinfectant. “Might sting, you ready?”

Despite Steve admitting he used to do his own stitches, he appreciates that Frankie doesn’t assume this would be easy for him. It is, but warmth still blooms in his chest over her consideration.

So he nods, and the medicated disinfectant stings on contact, but it’s a walk in the park compared to stabbing through his skin, dragging a needle and thread through over, and over, and over again. She takes her time, not to drag the process out, but to be certain the scrapes won’t get infected.

“One of these is a little deeper than I realized,” Her gingerly touch ghosts parallel to the cut. “Still not stitch-worthy, though.”

“Damn, was kinda hoping for that,” He quips, glancing back over his shoulder. Frankie rolls her eyes at him, but with a smile. It doesn’t last very long, though. “‘Key, you okay?”

There’s a certain somber regard reflecting in her eyes. “Will you tell me?”

Steve turns back a little more, and Frankie’s hold on his hip loosens, while the other with the cotton falls away. “About what?” 

“About what happened to Hawkins.” She’s so quiet, he almost misses it. “I- it doesn’t have to be today, just… will you tell me what really happened someday?”

Unintentionally, his answer comes off terse, expression instantly turning stoic. “It’s gone, Frankie. There’s not much more to it.” He faces forward again, eyes scrunching shut as he inwardly curses himself for the attitude.

“Right. Okay, yeah.” She takes the hint as she swipes a thin layer of topical antibiotic over the scrapes, touch still gentle, but distant emotionally now. She bandages the wounds, leaving a rectangle of gauze and tape along the scrapes on his back. “You should be good. It’s more of a brush burn than anything, except for that one cut. But you know what you’re doing, so I’ll save you the medical advice.”

Steve throws his sweatshirt back on as Frankie places the makeshift kit on the sink’s counter. She stands to shuffle past Steve, but he steps back to block the doorway.

“Wh— Frankie, wait—“

“I should head home, s’kinda late anyway,” Her voice wavers, but she shrugs it off. She won’t look at him.“I’m sorry for crossing a line, Steve.”

“No— no, wait, don’t leave. I can tell you,” He shakes his head frantically, eyes scrunching shut again. I- I’ll tell you everything.”

Frankie finally glances at him with softened features. “Steve, I don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me anything. Because you don’t. You owe me nothing. You don’t owe anyone anything, especially when it comes to your trauma.”

“Then why are you leaving?” An ache of regret floods through him. I shouldn’t have been rude, I should just tell her everything, I need to be honest and—

“Look, this is clearly something you’re not ready to open up about. I should’ve waited for you to tell me on your own, when you’re ready. I’m not upset with you, Steve. If anything, you should be upset with me.”

“I’m not upset with you, ‘Key, it’s just… really, really difficult to talk about.”

“And that’s okay. Please don’t tell me until you’re ready, okay? I shouldn’t have asked. I’m only leaving because I figured maybe you need some space from me right now—“

Steve scoffs, “Well, I don’t—“

“Then what do you need?” Her eyes flick up to his, locking their gazes together. 

You. I need you.

“I- I—“ He’s still stuck in the fog left over from dissociating earlier; no words come to mind to properly convey his feelings without sounding desperate and pathetic. He considers settling for those three words, but the apartment door opens, throwing him off; all he can come up with is, “Stay… Please?”

“Hi! We’re back!” Robin’s voice floats down the hall as she softly calls out.

“Okay!” Steve tilts his head back while he shouts in response, eyes still glued on Frankie.

The tiniest glimmer of hope graces her features, “You sure?”

“Not to put pressure on you, ‘Key, but,” Inhale. Exhale. Admit it. “You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.”

Frankie smiles, just as warmly as the day they met, and it puts Steve at ease.

“I hear I’m good at that,” The warm smile melts into a smirk, giggling as Steve rolls his eyes playfully. It breaks through any leftover tension completely, putting the two of them in a better headspace.

“Well, no one said you were good at it,” He teases back. Frankie’s jaw drops, though she can’t quit giggling. The sound of her laugh relaxes him further, hand reaching for hers, “C’mere, Amato.”

Frankie buries her face into his chest, cheek squished against the plush fabric of his sweatshirt. She faces away from the mirror while Steve happens to glance into it, admiring the way their bodies mesh together as they hold one another. Her arms are wound around his torso as he pulls her close, with his arms around her shoulders, and one hand on the back of her head, gently holding her steady against him.

He can’t look away. Can’t stop himself from imagining holding her like this all the time. Can’t believe how quickly the tension leaves his body in her grasp. It always does, he’s always relaxed in her arms in the few times it’s happened.

Except each time Frankie wrapped her arms around Steve, he finds the longing of his feelings only grow more, and more, and more. Steve knows he’s done for, knows he’s a goner, a sucker for Frankie only a little more than a month into knowing one another. 

“I can tell you later, if you’re up for it.” Steve murmurs, resting his chin on her head. “After everyone goes to bed, though, ‘cause god knows I can’t focus with those three around.”

Frankie snorts, shaking as she laughs; another small quirk of hers that continues pulling him in. Steve does not need another reason to fall for her even more. 

“Okay, but I gotta run home to grab some clothes,” The end of her sentence falls into a groan at the thought of walking home, just to walk right back.

“I got stuff you can wear,” His lips twitch as he holds back an over-explanation; Don’t start the “or if you want, but it’s cool if you don’t,” shit. She knows. Stop second guessing yourself.

The constant balance struggle between “You’re just a burden to her” and “Just tell her how you really feel” is starting to make Steve dizzy.

“I mean… if it fits, sure.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Eventually, the night rolls on, with everyone in better spirits than earlier. Dustin and Eddie invite themselves to stay over, naturally, so they’re thrilled when they discover Frankie’s staying the night, too.

Once Steve gives Frankie something to wear, she heads off to the bathroom to change; Dustin immediately hurls invasive questions Steve’s way.

“When are you gonna ask her out?”

Choking on the water he’s sipping from, he glares at Dustin. “What are you talking about?”

Murmuring an “unbelievable”, he sits up from the armchair, giving Steve an incredulous stare with his arms thrown out, “Frankie, when are you asking her—“

“Shhh! Shut up, dude.” Robin hisses at Dustin, only to turn to Steve and ask, “Yeah, so when’s that happening?”

Steve shrugs as he makes a scoffing, “pfffttt” kind of noise, “Guys, c’mon… it’s not like that.”

Eddie barks out a laugh over his obvious lie, so Steve takes the high road— throwing a pillow at him like an eighth grader. He shrieks, a little too high for sudden movements like a pillow being launched at his face.

“Steven!”

“Jesus, shut up, you sound like my mom,” Steve grumbles, flipping Eddie off. He snickers, laying back on the floor, waggling his brows at Steve. “Don’t— why are you making that face?”

“You liiiiiike her, don’t you?” Eddie’s blazed out of his mind at this point, and if he’ll end up getting Steve in trouble if he doesn’t shut his mouth. Dustin just giggles along with him; he’s not high, but he has no problem being a little shit while sober.

“Steve, she’s too cool for you, anyway,” Dustin offers his unwarranted opinion with a shrug.

“Nobody asked you, Henderson.” Steve glares at both him and Eddie, “You two are the fucking worst.” Robin bursts into giggles, so he points to her too, “And you, Buckley, are on thin fucking ice.”

“What’d y’all do now?”

Everyone looks up to find Frankie with a sweet smile, tugging at the messy bun her wild hair’s thrown into, trying to secure it in place. She’s in a pair of old sweats and a worn Hawkins High t-shirt; she loosely tied the shirt’s front into a knot, causing the fabric to show off the way the sweatpants sit snug on her hips, hugging spots Steve tries his hardest not to focus on.

Steve’s breath hitches in his throat, fixated on how cute Frankie looks in his clothes.

“We were just— ow!” Robin lunges across the floor to slap her palm against Eddie’s big blabber mouth. 

“They’re just being annoying boys, you know,” Robin laughs it off nervously while Dustin gasps, offended.

“Hey, you were just laughing with us—“ She takes the pillow Steve threw at Eddie and chucks it at Dustin. “—Quit it!” Steve has his face buried in his hands, sighing at all three of them.

“How’d you get your hair to stay like that?” Eddie asks Frankie, eyes bloodshot to hell and in awe of her messy bun. He scrambles off the floor and towards her to inspect her handiwork. “That’s insane.”

“Eddie, buddy, it’s just hair in a messy bun.” She claps his shoulder with her palm, stifling a snort. “Here,” she unwinds a hair tie from her wrist, handing it over to him. He stares at it, absolutely lost. 

Frankie lets her hair down, and Steve’s unable to snap out of the daze she unknowingly has him in.“S’easy, you just,” She pulls her hair up above her head, twisting it around in a messy knot, then stretches the elastic around one, two, three times, holding it in place. “And that’s it!”

Eddie scoffs with a silly expression, “I know what m’doin’.” He tries imitating Frankie, but half of the hair in his grasp tumbles away from his fingers. Everyone watches him confidently create the closest thing he can to a bun, winding the elastic around his curls twice before letting go.

“There’s so much air back here now,” He mutters, rubbing the back of his neck in awe. 

“It’d feel better if you actually did it right,” Dustin snarks, cackling. Eddie frowns.

“I did, Frankie showed me!”

Steve wants to change for the night, but he refuses to believe Eddie won’t run his mouth to Frankie while he’s gone. Eddie and Dustin continue bickering. He panics, getting up and nodding towards the hall, leaning in to her ear. 

“Can we— is it cool if we talk now?”

She sticks her tongue out, curling it over her top lip like she usually does while focused, or thinking, “Hmm…”

Steve’s eyes go wide at a faint, metallic glimmer on her tongue. “When’d you get your tongue pierced?” He’s already blushing, unable to tear his eyes away from her mouth while growing weak at the knees; new desires threaten to form in his mind, ones that he’s never even dreamed of before.

“Huh?” She sticks her tongue out wide, making a ‘blehhhh’ noise as her face scrunches up. “I’ve always had it done.”

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, do not think about it—

Laughing nervously, he tries shrugging his reaction off, “Just n- never noticed, I guess. S’cool, though.”

“Gonna charge you a quarter every time you say something about me is cool,” She teases, giving him a once over before sticking her tongue out, intentionally pushing her piercing out for him to see. His face burns up, forcing himself to look away. 

“Okay, y- yeah, sure, can we talk now?”

Her features soften, catching on, “Yeah, f’course, Stevie.”

Steve goes from trying to suppress his lustful thoughts to his heart melting; Frankie doesn’t call him that often, but when she does, it brings a smile to his face.

They walk out of the room, when Robin yells, “Where are you going?”

Steve grabs her hand, pulls her faster, trying to come up with an excuse, “Uh…”

“Sick bitch meeting,” Frankie calls out, hoping the humor drops suspicions. “Healthy folks can’t participate, sorry!”

Stumbling into his room in a fit of giggles, Frankie leans back onto the door as Steve closes it. His hands are pressed against the door, unintentionally caging her in as the two catch their breath. Eyes locking together, their smiles begin to settle into lips parted in anticipation for something more. Her hand reaches out to adjust his glasses as they slide down his nose; her fingertips linger on his cheek like earlier. Steve fights the urge to lean into her touch, but his gaze continues to flit between her eyes and her lips, close enough to lean in and kiss her.

What are you waiting for? Just kiss her already!

A startling bang! comes from the other side of the door, causing Frankie to jump forward into Steve. Out of instinct, he wraps his arms around her, holding her protectively. 

“Hurry up, we wanna start the movie!” Dustin’s muffled voice comes through the door. Steve’s head falls forward onto the top of hers while he sighs, annoyed. Frankie laughs it off, despite her heart beating wildly.

I’m gonna kill that little shit.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just scared ten years off my life, though,” Frankie quips.

“You and me both, ‘Key.” Steve laughs, catching his breath all over again. He tightens the hug for a moment before murmuring into the top of her head, “Give me one minute, okay?”

Steve marches back out to the living room, glaring at all three of them; his hands rest on his hips, naturally, before scolding them like children.

“Start the movie, just give us 30 minutes, okay? An hour, tops.”

“Why, you trying to get lucky?” Robin snorts, but her face falls quickly as she notices Steve’s serious.

“I want to tell her what happened before we left home,” He exhales roughly, shaking off his nerves. “So just… let me do this, please?”

Robin immediately picks up on his anxious demeanor. “Steve, you know it’s safe to tell her everything now, right? No one’s watching us anymore. She’ll be safe if you tell her the truth.”

Again, Steve exhales, relief filling him as he takes his next breath. She’s right. There aren’t any threats to keep them quiet anymore. There’s no shady paperwork to sign, no NDAs to follow, no one tracking their every waking moments.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Take your time, man, we’ll be here.” Eddie drawls out, sinking into the couch. Dustin shoots Steve an apologetic glance.

“Sorry for scaring you guys,” He winces. “Tell Frankie m’sorry, too.”

Steve leaves them all with a slight smile, one that’s ridden more with grief than positivity.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Steve returns to find Frankie admiring the photos tacked onto a corkboard above his dresser, arms crossed and leaning onto the surface while she takes a closer look.

“Your hair used to be so… big.”

“What, are you saying you didn’t have big hair in the 80s?”

She snorts, still fixated on the photos, “The way you say that makes it seem like the 80s were decades ago. It’s 1991, Steve, slow your horses.” She smiles at a photo of him and Robin in their Scoops Ahoy uniforms; Steve looks pissed with the sailor hat snug on his head. “Oh, so this is the infamous sailor outfit, huh?”

“God, don’t—“ He grabs her shoulders gently, trying to turn her away, but she refuses to budge. “Don’t look at that. Dustin was a pain in the ass about taking that picture.”

“Aw, c’mon, you still looked good in that uniform,” She murmurs, eyes glittering at the glimpse of Steve’s past. “If I worked at that mall, I’d get ice cream every day just to see you in that.”

“Wh— you would’ve?”

She throws a glance over her shoulder, smirking, “Just to poke fun at you.”

His head falls back with an annoyed, yet playful groan. “Would’ve charged you double for ice cream then.” 

“Worth it.” Frankie turns back to the photos, with one in particular catching her attention.

Frozen in time is a memory of all the kids standing near Eddie’s van, all in swimsuits, with Eddie laughing from the driver’s seat, Robin hanging out in the open sliding door with a cheesy grin, and Steve sitting next to her, smiling, genuinely happy. All of the kids are chattering away, or arguing, or laughing.

“When was this?”

Steve moves in closer, plucking the photo off the wall to study it. A smile instantly graces his face.

“Uh, a few months after the… the earthquake that wasn’t really an earthquake.” He snorts dryly. “This was right  after Eddie and Max were both released from the hospital, a day apart from each other.” She looks down at the photograph, noticing the bandaging around the majority of Eddie’s upper body, and the neck brace around Max, along with a cast on one arm, wrapped in plastic. “Poor kid still left with one cast left, but it was better than four total. 

“We took them up to Lake Michigan to camp, once the lockdown was finally lifted. We all needed to get away and just pretend things were… normal.” His tone is so soft, scared to speak too loudly, like someone was still listening.

Robin’s words echo in his head: “She’ll be safe if you tell her the truth.”

“They wouldn’t let anyone in or out after week or so after it started. The Upside Down and our world kinda… bled together. Surprised they didn’t do it sooner, but a lot of people left town. More than half, I’d say.” He gives the photo back to Frankie, opening some of the dresser’s drawers. Maybe this will be easier to talk about if I keep busy. While pulling out clothes to sleep in, he continues, “My parents left not even 24 hours after it happened. Didn’t tell me ‘til they were halfway across the country, didn’t come home for any of their stuff. Just… called me and said they weren’t coming home.”

Frankie’s expression contorts into bewilderment with a hint of anger. “They what?”

“Yeah… kind of the norm for them,” Steve is nearly numb to the way his parents neglected him at this point. He grabs an old shirt and sleep shorts before turning back to Frankie. “Didn’t ask me to come with them. Didn’t ask if I was okay. Just told me to stay home until they found a way to list it for sale… but it’s not like anyone would’ve wanted to move to Hawkins, even if it wasn’t—“ He stops, staring down at the floor, losing himself in the memory.

“Steve, if it’s easier to talk about it in smaller parts, we can do that. Or you don’t even have to tell me at all. I meant it when I said you didn’t owe me anything.” For the third time tonight, she holds the side of his face, but immediately pulls back. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be so touchy—“

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, ‘Key. It’s okay.” He reaches for the hand that departed, giving a reassuring, gentle squeeze. “I don’t mind.” He wants to say so much more than just that.

I like it.

I like you.

I like you, and I’m fucking terrified to let someone in again.

Steve exhales shakily, staring at their hands in one another’s. “Do you remember the first day we spent together? When we went to the diner?” She nods. “You opened up to me, and I- I can’t remember exactly what I said, but—“

“You told me “I don’t think you want to know my story”,” Steve’s eyes widen as she recalls with ease. “Sorry, probably weird I remember that.”

“Not weird. Trust me, it doesn’t even come close to what I find weird.” He huffs, looking away. “If I tell you the rest, there’s no going back.”

“What, like… something bad could happen if you tell me?” Her voice is small, nervous to even ask. Steve’s silence speaks volumes to Frankie. “Jesus christ….”

“Other than just knowing the weight of the truth, no.” He pauses, considering skimming over this part, but he wants to be honest. “There was a point where we were under watch. Constantly. They listened to our phone calls, watched our every moves, who we talked to, what we talked about— if any of us said anything to the wrong people, we— our lives were at risk. Shit, even talking about it with the others was a risk. They expected us to just forget and move on from what happened in ‘83.

“When we were all talking about this shit earlier, I had to remind myself it was safe to tell you everything. That nothing would happen to any of us, especially you.” When he turns back to Frankie, his stare is glassy.  “Hawkins is a total wasteland now, so really, there’s nothing to worry about. But dealing with that shit for several years has it burned into my mind to keep my mouth shut, and never tell a soul the truth.”

He slips away from Frankie, clothes in hand, crossing the room to stand behind the closet door. 

“Wait, what are you doing?”

Popping his head back out, he furrows his brows, “Changing? Look away, creep.”

“I’m not—“ She spins around, hands covering her eyes as they close. “I just thought it was weird timing!”

Steve snorts, “Just figured I should be comfy if I’m gonna tell ya’ the rest of this fucked up nightmare, Francesca.”

“I could just leave, y’know. You’re the one who made it weird,” She teases. 

“Uh… yeah, don’t— o- only ‘cause the second you leave the room, Eddie’s gonna run his mouth with some nonsense you do not need to hear right now.”

“What, like he’ll tell me your secrets, or something?” She giggles into her palms, fingers still shielding her closed eyes. 

“… Something like that.” Steve throws his old clothes into the basket, walking up behind Frankie. He carefully spins her back around, and a chuckle slips, “You were covering your eyes while they were closed… facing the wall?”

She moves her hands away and opens her eyes, “I was trying to be polite!”

“After I called you out for being a creep?”

She scoffs, then it melts into a smirk, pushing past Steve. “If we’re playing that game, I could go ask Eddie what secrets of yours he wants to tell me—“

Steve twists around to grab her hand, tugging her back, “Don’t you dare—“ He tugs a little too hard, sending Frankie stumbling directly into him. “Shit, sorry—“

She bursts into giggles, face buried in his chest, arms wrapping around him. “Steve, that was not smooth whatsoever.” 

“I wasn’t trying to be— smooth about what?!” He quickly descends into his own fit of laughter; Frankie’s smile, her laugh, they’re always contagious. 

He nearly forgets that minutes ago he was beginning to open up about the end of his old life and hometown.

“You know what, Harrington.” She wriggles out of his grasp, flopping back onto his bed. She adjusts herself to lay back against the pillows, arms opening lazily. “If you wanted to cuddle, you could’ve asked.”

Steve’s face burns up, and it certainly doesn’t help that Frankie looks so cute, so sweet, in his clothes and in his bed. Traces of eyeliner are smudged around her eyes, and her hair’s falling out of the already disheveled bun.

“You’re sassy when you’re tired.”

“M’not tired,” She flips him off while he rolls into bed next to her.

“You’re also the world’s worst liar, Amato.” 

“You can cuddle yourself, jerk— hey!”

Steve brings her into his embrace, snuggling into the pillows while she ducks her head into his chest. He hums, content, as she tangles herself around him. His eyes flutter shut, breaths falling into a steady rhythm; he could easily fall asleep like this.

“So…” Frankie breaks the silence, “We still shit talkin’ your parents?”

Face still half buried in the pillows, his exposed eye pops open to glare at her lightheartedly, “You just had to go ruin the moment, huh?” 

She shrugs, “Well, I’m not gonna be a dick and shit talk them without your permission.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re so polite,” Steve rolls his eyes with a half smile. “Thought you wanted to know what happened to Hawkins?”

“What’re you more comfortable with talking about right now?”

He rolls onto his back, taking off his glasses to set them on the nightstand. “Honestly? Anything but my parents and their bullshit.” That word used to sting terribly, left a rotten taste in his mouth for years. Now, it rolls off his tongue so easily, he wonders if something as trivial as that in the grand scheme of things could count as growth.

It’s the little things too, right?

Sighing, Steve turns back to her, keeping a bit of space between them this time, but his hand lays in hers loosely. Frankie gives her undivided attention as he continues.

“Y’know, watching the town rot into an extension of the Upside Down was fucked. Really, really fucked. But I think it was more fucked up watching everyone try to go on with their lives. It was surreal to see people go back to work, or go to school, like nothing went wrong.

“I think we all tried to pretend nothing was wrong. I know I did at one point. The cracks and splits in the ground got bigger, and the fires inside them just continued burning. Worse than Centralia.”

“I get that now,” She cringes at herself. “M’sorry.”

“You didn’t know. S’okay.” Reassuringly, Steve squeezes her hand. “It just became unsafe everywhere. Sinkholes were appearing all over, swallowing houses completely. People were disappearing all the fucking time. If they weren’t disappearing, or turning up dead, they were fleeing town. The government tried covering it up at first, but over time, I think they realized there was no point. Either people were terrified to talk about what they knew, or they kept themselves in the dark, afraid to learn the truth. The few of us that did try talking about it were seen as crazy.

“There was even a rumor going around that the fumes from the fires were poisoning whoever was left, causing them to go insane and make up stories.” Steve’s jaw clenches as he retells the past; Frankie holds his hand tighter.

“Didn’t anyone have photos? Or any sort of proof on film?”

“Oh, yeah, but film rolls began disappearing without a trace. Polaroid film came out blank all the time. If someone was able to get their film to a lab, they never developed right. Nancy and Jonathan took a ton of rolls with them when they moved to New York, and Jonathan’s been a photographer for years. The shots still came out blank. There’s no reason for that to have happened, unless someone sabotaged the film.

“It got to the point where the only media outlets that’d take the proof, if any survived, were those hokey tabloids. No one believes a word or photograph printed in those. It was useless. Reporters were banned from the town as shit got worse. Whatever you might’ve seen in the news doesn’t even come close to what Hawkins turned out to be in the end.”

Frankie’s almost afraid to ask, anticipating the worst. “So… what was the end?”

Steve’s gaze grows distant. “I think it was, like, three… maybe four months after everything happened that they decided to give up on Hawkins. It was already a wreck, mostly a ghost town— Robin, Eddie and I only stayed ‘til the end to make sure all the kids had somewhere safe to go.”

“Where’s everyone else now?”

“Joyce and Hopper moved to California, most of the kids went with them. I’ve got no idea where Mike and Nancy’s parents ended up, but from what I’ve heard, they’re still in touch, at least. Max went no contact with her mom, and Lucas still visits his family, they moved to Minneapolis. Erica plans on going to college in California to live with her brother and Max.”

“Why didn’t Dustin move out there, too?”

“He, uh… he didn’t want to leave Eddie or me behind. They moved to Indianapolis, far enough from Hawkins, close enough to keep in touch with and visit. Eddie’s uncle moved with them, and Dustin’s mom moved to Florida.” He chuckles, adding, “She has like, five cats now at least.”

Silence begins to follow, but right now, Frankie can’t handle that, can’t give her thoughts a chance to run wild.

“So… everyone’s safe, at least, right?”

“Out of our party, yeah, thankfully. During the last evacuation, some people refused to leave Hawkins. Refused to leave their houses and old lives behind. They stayed behind knowing what was going to happen.” His eyes screw shut, remembering one of his neighbors was adamant about dying in the comfort of his home, rather than starting over elsewhere. Somewhere safe, somewhere the Upside Down hadn’t ruined everything it had touched.

 “I took everything I could that mattered— wasn’t much, and Robin and I packed the car and moved out here days before Hawkins was…” Steve pauses with a shudder, “Jesus, there’s no way to say it without being blunt, they just… bombed the shit out of the town.“

Frankie’s face drops with horror. “Y- you weren’t kidding when you said it was wiped off the map then… ”

“Wish I was,” Steve rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know how they did it, but it was controlled enough that it barely left the town’s edge. All of us,” He nods towards the door, meaning the three out in the living room, “We went back to Weathertop the day it happened… figured some of us should see first hand to tell the others.

“There’s nothing left of Hawkins. No houses, no families, no roads, all of the woods are gone— it’s just some kind of fucked up, barren wasteland you’d see in the movies. No one’s allowed to pass through, either. Still fucking guarded. As far as the rest of the world’s concerned, Hawkins doesn’t exist.”

Steve doesn’t realize he’s started crying until Frankie reaches out to gingerly wipe away a few stray tears. He’s so lost in thought, her touch startles him.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” She reels back, but he grabs her hand, lacing his fingers between hers; a rosy tint washes across her features.

“N- no, don’t— what did you say to me last night? “When you’re close with someone, assumptions are kind of a given. When someone gets you, it’s not offensive.” Right?” Frankie’s shocked he remembers, and Steve surprises even himself by recalling her words perfectly. “I just get startled easily after everything, but it wasn’t you.”

Frankie searches for the right words to give Steve, the perfect combination of comfort and understanding, but she comes up short. Steve can tell she’s struggling to figure out what to respond to all of this with, so he squeezes her hand again.

“Hey, s’okay—“

“Thank you,” She rushes out. “Thank you for telling me, Steve. I’m so sorry you had to live through any of this.”

With a soft tug, Steve brings Frankie closer; she rests her head on his chest while he plays with her hair, spilling out of her bun. Her eyes grow heavy, relaxed enough in this moment where she could fall asleep in his arms. 

“I should be thanking you for listening,” He murmurs, finally at ease now that the truth is out. She lazily winds herself around him again, limbs entangling with one another. “Still wanna be friends with a mess like me?”

“No, I don’t,” Flat toned, Frankie teases, “That’s why I’m still cuddling with you.”

“Gonna start a jar for you,” He quips, voice rasping from so much talking in one night; one of his hands caress along her back, fingertips ghosting her spine. She sighs, content; a smile curls on Steve’s face at the sound. “A quarter for every time you’re a smart-ass.”

“M’kay, you can just have my next paycheck then.”

“‘Key, if you give me your paycheck I’ll just take you out for milkshakes all the time.” His chuckle is gravelly, laced with sleep. “It’ll be bad for the both of us.”

“That’s not how dates work, Steve—“

“D- dates?” So much for being tired. “You think that’s what— wait— hold on—“

She yawns loudly, but with a knowing smirk, “Huh? I’m tired. What’d I say?”

“‘Key, c’mon, don’t— this isn’t funny—“

“Shhh, Steve, I’m sleeping.” She can’t stop giggling, and oh, no— Steve discovers another trait that pulls him deeper into this crush. Frankie’s one of those people who grow sillier the longer they fight sleep, something the former king of Hawkins High would act too cool for, but that version of himself is long gone. Steve, in this moment, finds it to be one of those quirks where he’s left asking himself: How the hell can she get any cuter?

“Oh, you sleep talk, now? Is that why you told me one of your biggest secrets in your sleep last night?”

Her head pops up, staring at him, horrified. “I what now?” Steve tries holding a straight face, but it barely lasts a second before he bursts into giggles. “Oh, you dick.”

“Payback for the gown joke last night.”

Wiggling her brows, she mutters, “Wish it wasn’t a joke.”

“Frankie!”

“S’what they call me,” She snorts while resting her head back on his chest, shooting finger guns lazily. 

“Are you even going to explain the date comment?” Steve laughs, but he feels so dizzy trying to figure this all out; the lingering touches, the flirting, holding one another in hugs and cuddling, and now this.

This has to be something more than just friends… right? 

“Yeah, jus’ not now,” She’s quick to settle right on the edge of sleep again. “Got a plan.”

Steve’s heart is racing as he fights sleep, hoping for an answer. “A plan?”

Is she serious? She can’t be serious. No way in hell she feels the same.

There’s silence, then soft, steady breaths, with some hums of comfort as she melts into him. He can’t even be mad, not with how sweet it is to see her fall asleep on him. He waits for a few minutes, until he’s sure she’s asleep.

Steve whispers with a half-smile, “You’re gonna be the death of me, Amato,” not thinking twice before kissing the top of her head. He’s fast asleep before he can overthink it.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Steve’s dissociating again. He has to be.

It’s 1983, and he’s watching himself steal Nancy’s attention away from her best friend, Barb. He’s watching as the two become lost in one another, but in his peripheral vision, out the window, he watches as Barb perches on the edge of the diving board, kicking her feet along the water. In the blink of an eye, she’s gone. She’s dragged off and gone from his sight.

Steve can hear Barb’s screams, but he watches himself and Nancy entangle themselves in one another, completely oblivious to the violence outside as it unfolds in the Upside Down, not here. Not right outside his house.

It’s 1983, and Steve’s wishing he could’ve done something more.

So, maybe he’s not dissociating. Not really. 

Steve’s reliving the past from the outside, but he’s aware. He’s aware how fucked this is. He finds himself outside the Byers’ home, begging Nancy to let him in. He blinks, and time skips ahead to him swinging the nail bat at the demogorgon. 

The bat is swung again, and he’s back at the junkyard with the kids in 1984, fighting off the demodogs. He watches himself fend some off, watches as Dustin calls him back to the bus, screaming “Abort! Abort!”

Then, it’s 1985 in a flash, and memories roll through like a flip book; the elevator, the bunker under the mall, the punches thrown at him, getting drugged with Robin. It goes too fast after that, but each blip of a memory from that dreadful Fourth of July is burned into his brain enough to recognize them all. He watches Billy die. Wonders from the outside why he keeps watching everyone die, and why he feels so much guilt for making it out alive all over again.

The Mind Flayer’s gone, but so is Hopper. He watches everyone reunite outside in slow motion. Witnesses himself wander around from each kid, each friend, making sure they’re all being properly treated despite being in the care of emergency officials. He sees the moment El locks eyes with Joyce as she hugs Will tight, notices the silent, heartbreaking exchange that says it all: Hopper didn’t make it.

1986 is just one giant blur of disasters; the murders, Eddie on the run after being falsely accused, Max barely escaping Vecna’s grasp at the gravesite, finding the water gate—

Steve can hear his own thoughts as he watches the bats attack him in the Upside Down. He fights. He fights hard. He gives it his all, but his thoughts grow louder, trying to coax him into giving up. Trying to convince him it’s not worth surviving anymore. That he didn’t deserve to survive any of this to begin with.

No more, please, no more—

The memories overlap, playing over one another in a shrill symphony of chaotic noises and visions; it’s like being stuck in a room with multiple TVs on different channels, volume cranked to an unbearable level. They blur together, the sounds are fighting one another for his attention. 

It all skips to him driving away from Hawkins, for good. He left mere days before it was destroyed, blown to smithereens. Yet in this moment, he watches from the rear view mirror the explosions set off. One by one, somehow controlled enough to keep the intended damages within city limits, he’s still able to feel the rush of wind, pushing through the open windows of his car. Then, the heat, and it doesn’t take long for it to grow unbearable. His eyes grow dry, his throat aches, his lungs burn, and his skin feels like it’s disintegrating from his body.

“Stop!”

Steve shakes as something winds around him, holding him in place. He thrashes, feeling his limbs lock up as his breaths fall shallow, panicked. 

“Let go!”

“Steve, hey, hold on—“

“I said let me—“ Steve gasps as he blindly shoves someone away, “Let me fucking go!”

“It’s me, it’s Frankie!” She grabs his face, cupping his jaw in her fingers. “You’re okay. You’re safe, Steve.” He opens his eyes, hands sliding over her own as they rest on his face. His eyes dart rapidly between each of hers, almost searching for a sign of reality as he fully wakes. 

“Shit…” Heart racing, he can feel the violent thumping in his throat. Patting the backs of her hands a few times, he reaches out for her face next. “… ‘Key?”

With a wavering voice, she replies, “S’me, you’re safe, I promise.” He tries to choke back a sob, but it breaks despite his efforts. Frankie softly pushes his hair from his eyes, matted with sweat. “Not gonna let anything bad happen to you, Stevie.”

Cautiously moving her hands, she brings one to the back of his head, gently guiding him into her embrace. Now that he’s awake, he begins to relax into her grasp, desperate for comfort.

“I’m- I— ‘Key, m’so sorry. I’m so, so, sorry.” He’s far too shaken up to be worried about his composure right now. There’s no playing this off or acting cool, but he doesn’t care about that. He’s on edge, and even more upset he might’ve hurt Frankie. “What did I— are you okay? I- I’m so sorry—“

Frankie’s fingers tangle through his hair, shuddering a breath while her other arm winds around his shoulders, settling back onto the pillows to let him relax and lean on her. She shushes him, and it’s soft, caring, not trying to suppress his cries for her benefit, but trying to comfort him as he comes down from the nightmare.

Steve’s arms snake around her waist, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt— his shirt— terrified to loosen his grip and lose her. 

“S’just a nightmare, not real,” She’s unsure of what to say, wary of what might trigger him into further panic or help ease his PTSD. “You’re s- safe. I’ll never, ever let anything bad happen to you. Ever.”

“Did I hurt you? God, please tell me I didn’t—“

“Babe, you’re okay.” Steve misses the pet name; it’d make his stomach flip, make him blush wildly any other time. Right now, he’s too deep in his memories, rolling back from his dream, to care about any feelings. “You did nothing wrong. I’m okay, I promise. Are you okay?”

Steve’s silent for a moment, only his shudders and whimpers fill the space around them. Then, he shakes his head. It’s brief, light, but he does, and Frankie catches it immediately. 

“What can I do to help? Would space work?”

“No— no, no, don’t leave,” He’s frantic, grabbing onto the fabric she wears tighter. “Please don’t go.”

“I’m right here, I’ll stay,” She promises as he ducks her head into the crook of her neck. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“N- no, just, I- I— I’m so sorry.”

“Steve, you need to tell me who made you feel like you constantly need to apologize for your trauma, ‘cause I got some words for ‘em.” A brief laugh woven in between hiccups and sniffling escapes him. Her voice, despite the weak threat, is soothing. “The last thing I want you to do is feel sorry for what you survived.”

That breaks Steve. Really, truly, breaks him. He cries steadily, the cries turn to sobs as he shakes in her hold. 

“I feel so… It feels wrong that I survived. There were others that deserved to survive, not m- me,” The survivor’s guilt drives him to to believe this so often. It’s a reoccurring discussion in therapy, but he can’t seem to shake it all these years later. His therapist has tried reminding and reassuring him time and time again that this won’t get better overnight, but hasn’t five years of suffering been enough?

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to carry the weight of surviving awful, awful tragedies that others did not, but I can say without a doubt you’re supposed to be here, Steve.” If there was a way to take Steve’s pain away, Frankie would act on it in a heartbeat. But she can only offer a safe space for him, with comforting touches and words. “You making it out of Hawkins, making it this far, that’s not wrong. Not one bit.”

Steve knows better than to argue with Frankie, knows she sticks by her beliefs, even if it means putting all her care and loyalty into a man broken by horrors beyond her comprehension. He can’t understand why she’s not sick of him yet, but until that day comes, he won’t turn her comfort away.

“Surprised you’re not tired of me yet,” He’s so quiet between his cries, Frankie almost misses him speak.

“Well, I’m not.”

“You should be—“

“Steve, it’s gonna take way more than all of this to drive me away,” Like Steve earlier, Frankie leaves a faint kiss on the top of his head without much thought. She’s too tired to overthink it, just as he would have. She misses the red tint blooming across his features, even through the tears.

It ends there; he’s unsure if he won’t argue back because he’s accepting her word as honesty, finally, or if its because’s he’s too damn drained to defend his self loathing.

In time, Steve falls back asleep, snoring softly with his face still buried in Frankie’s neck. She can’t fall back asleep as quickly, but until she does, she basks in the comfort of both of them tangled together. She takes the soft, steady breaths he makes as a sign that he’s in a calmer dream. She’d stay up until dawn, watching over him, if it meant ensuring him a good night’s sleep.

“You’re safe with me, Steve.” Frankie leans down to press her lips to his head with a lingering kiss. She pulls back, just enough, murmuring in his hair as she dozes off, “Always.”

[immoral-stranger]

𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 // 𝐋𝐍𝟒

Summary: “I got a nosebleed when you tried to kiss me. I told you — it’s like I’m fucking cursed!” — Or, in which an accident-prone girl stumbles and falls for everything, including Lando.

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem! reader

Word count: 23.2k (grab a snack)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ❀ Angst: injuries, hospitals, surgery, scars, blood, dead parent, mention of car crash. Smut: penetrative sex, oral (f! receiving), body insecurities, very vanilla. Fluff: idiots to lovers, so much pining and scheming. Other: inaccurate timeline and made-up race results. it's fiction, folks!

A/N: Posting this then falling off the face of the earth, because this fandom is scary. Kinda unedited for now. English is not my first language! ♡

Melbourne, Australia

Lando didn’t recognise you at first. Granted, he wasn’t the best at remembering faces, but usually if he’d met someone, he would remember them the second time around. Although, this wasn’t his second time seeing you, he would later learn. It was probably close to the tenth time. It had just been some time since your last encounter. For a logical reason, he would also later learn. 

Albert Park, 2024. Race day. That’s where he saw you this time. Walking down the paddock, next to Oscar and his girlfriend Jasmine, trying to keep up as the three of you made your way to the McLaren garage. Your hair getting messed up by the breeze, annoyingly sticking to your glossy lips, feet almost tripping on the seam of your baggy jeans. You were out of your element, putting on a brave smile — and Lando could tell. 

He didn’t realise he’d been staring at you, from his seat on the steps up to his motorhome, until you were out of eyeshot again, somewhere in the garage. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why you were familiar and it was killing him. If you were Australian, maybe that would explain it, since Lando had no way of keeping track of all of Oscar’s old friends. 

But you weren’t Australian. As he later walked into hospitality, he overheard a bubbly British accent talking to Jasmine and Oscar, an accent belonging to you. It confused him even more, really gnawed inside of him. He should know you, yet something wasn’t aligning, something wasn’t right. Oscar wouldn’t just fly anyone halfway across the globe. 

It all came crashing down when he heard Jasmine ask you a simple question. 

“Bunny, can you grab me a fork?”

Standing up from the table, you gave Lando a small smile as you caught his gaze, signalling that you at least knew who he was. 

Bunny, Bunny, Bunny. The nickname finally made him realise, finally made him recognise you. But you weren’t the Bunny he’d met at multiple races before. You didn’t look like she did. Or, you didn’t look like you used to. Bunny was Jasmine’s childhood friend who had gotten sick, who had stopped traveling, who had stopped coming to races at all. The girl before him however, wasn’t sick. You didn’t look weak in any sense. Nervous, fidgety, and out of place, sure — but never weak. 

As you were about to say a quiet hello to him as you walked past, Lando was already falling apart — socially that is. Words were stumbling out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to keep up. He cringed internally before he could even finish the sentence. 

“Holy shit, I thought you were dead!” 

He shocked you, that was obvious. Your eyes went wide as you struggled to say something in response. 

“Lando, you can’t just say that to someone,” Oscar chuckled from a few metres back. 

“I-I’m sorry, I just… didn’t recognise you,” Lando stuttered out as you still stood dumbfounded in front of him. 

“You don’t think I would’ve told you if my best friend died?” Jasmine butted in, standing from the table, placing herself beside you. 

She could tell that you didn’t know how to react, already expressing your nerves about how uncomfortable it would be to attend a race after not going for a very long time, afraid that people would ask too many questions.

“It’s alright, it’s been a long time,” you finally managed to say. 

Then, an uncomfortable silence fell over the four of you. It was like you knew that you should explain why it had been such a long time, but you didn’t know how to do it —casually explaining the second most traumatic experience of your, thus far, relatively short life. It wasn’t casual at all, and you couldn’t even try to fake it. 

“Ehm, I’ll go get that fork for you Jazz,” you broke the silence, swiftly excusing yourself to go back to the catering table. 

Oscar couldn’t stop chuckling and Jasmine looked borderline offended, something she tended to do, a resting bitch-face of sorts. Lando felt like the stupidest, most socially inept person alive, mentally facepalming himself as he watched you leave. This was going to be a long day. 

Lando’s race however, was frustratingly short. 

You and Jasmine watched the race from the garage, surrounded by muddled mechanics, blinking monitors and loud noises. It really was a circus, a well-oiled machine, fascinating to watch. You’d forgotten how fun it could be. Also, how nerve-wracking it was to be standing next to Jasmine while her boyfriend — love of her life, light of her eye — was going 300 km/h, head to head with insanely competitive people, in big death traps. 

The early races of the 2023 season that you had managed to catch in person hadn’t been too impressive, from McLaren’s standpoint. Your humble opinion was that anyone who even sat in one of those cars was more courageous and impressive than you would ever manage to be. As the last season went on, you had learnt to trust the process, but both you and Jasmine would be lying if you said that 2024 didn’t look like an even better year for the brightly papaya-coloured team you were rooting for.  

With both drivers in good starting positions and Verstappen’s brakes catching fire on the third lap, Jasmine couldn’t contain her excitement, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet next to you. Ferrari’s in the lead and McLaren fighting for that glorious third spot. It wasn’t until Lando had a chance to pass Leclerc that the castle in the air came crumbling down. Ooh’s and aah’s filled the garage as you watched the scene unfold on a monitor.

“Oh, fuck,” you said under your breath, knowing that barely anyone would be able to hear you in the crowded space. “Is it over for him?”

Jasmine had been too busy squealing over Oscar going into third that she failed to realise that it was on the cost of Lando. That was until his car came rolling into the pit lane with irreparable damage from making contact with Leclerc. 

You’d seen it happen before, but that didn’t change the feeling. Your heart basically lodges itself in your throat, making you unable to breathe for a couple seconds. And then it was the aftermath… Seeing the driver leave their car, head hung low, just wanting to scream at the world in frustration but bottling it all up inside. 

Leclerc wouldn’t even get a penalty, it was just how racing worked sometimes. That didn’t change the feeling of complete utter failure for Lando. You could tell that as he, with assertive steps, made his way to his driver’s room, slamming the door shut so hard that it only flew back open again. 

“Bunny.” Jasmine grabbed your arm to get your attention, leaning closer so that you would hear her. “One of us has to go ask if he’s alright. He doesn’t have anyone here with him.” 

“Doesn’t he have an entire team to do that?” you wondered. 

Surely, they didn’t send these drivers out without having enough support from the team when something went wrong. Surely, you thought. The look on Jasmine’s face told you the opposite. The fact that no one was running after Lando to his room was also quite telling. Or maybe… they knew better than to disturb him. Maybe Jasmine was setting you up for failure by asking you to comfort someone who didn’t want to be comforted. 

“He’s gonna need someone who’s not obsessed with performance and profit. Trust me, the people on this team may be nice, but they are not human when it comes to things like this,” Jasmine explained, and you took her word for it. 

“Am I the best option?”

You didn’t know him. And you were awkward. But so was he… Yet, you couldn’t even get your little brother to stop crying by making him laugh or comforting him — let alone a grown man, like Lando. 

“Please,” she insisted, and you could tell that she was serious. There was no point in arguing with her. Seeing the rest of the race with Oscar battling to keep his podium position would be enough of a feat for her poor emotions. She wouldn’t be able to walk away from it. 

You weren’t even sure if you were allowed to walk back there, but there was also no one stopping you when you did it. Your steps were the opposite to Lando’s assertive ones as you made your way to his driver’s room. You had no idea what to expect when you reached the already open door… 

… but Lando, sat on his little bench, racing suit halfway off, lazily scrolling on his phone was not it. 

“I understand that I’m most definitely not the person you would want to talk to right now, but Jasmine said that you were here alone and I just wanted to ask if you’re okay,” you rambled out way too quickly. 

It got his attention, looking up from his phone, but he didn’t say a word. He was mostly shocked to see that you were the first person to come talk to him. He had expected Jasmine, or maybe someone from the team that he wouldn’t want to talk to anyway. But not you. You had no reason to even be nice to him after how weird he’d been. 

“Uhm, so this is me asking that,” you reminded him when his silence got too much for you. 

“I’m fine,” Lando sighed, dragging his fingers through his sweaty curls, getting flashbacks of what had happened all over again.

You could tell from the look on his face that he, in fact, was not fine.   

It was toxic and harmful, that his first instinct when something like this happened was to immediately check his phone to see what people were saying about it online. But he had done it anyway. And sure enough, there were people blaming him — calling him reckless and a whiny little kid, finally getting what he deserved. There were also people calling Leclerc out, but Lando somehow couldn’t focus on it.

Because the thing he saw most of when he was scrolling through twitter was your face. Maybe that was why he was even more surprised to see that it was you standing in the doorway to his room and not someone else.  

“Do you know that we’ve gone viral?” he asked you, referring to the phone in his hand. He couldn’t help but let out a little laugh under his breath. 

“No?” 

You looked confused as Lando scooted over to make space for you to sit down beside him. You didn’t have any social media, and Lando knew. He definitely hadn’t tried to look you up after your encounter earlier to see why on earth he hadn’t recognised you. It had gotten him nowhere. You had no accounts of your own and Jasmine hadn’t posted any photos of you. He had stopped himself before searching up old paddock photos. So, it wasn’t a surprise that you didn’t know about the video that was circulating around right now.

“Apparently, someone was filming when I said that I thought you had died. It’s quite a funny clip,” he clarified, tilting his phone to show you the screen. 

He watched as you looked at the clip, a gentle giggle leaving your mouth at how ridiculous it was. Your smile then turned into concern, seeing the amount of interactions the post had earned. 

“Is that not bad publicity for you?” 

“I don’t care about that,” Lando said honestly. “But I am truly sorry for saying that to you.” 

Thinking someone had died was a new low even for him, and saying it to your face was just unexplainable behaviour. Yet, he still couldn’t understand why he hadn’t recognised you. Sure, he knew that you had been sick and then… probably gotten well again? But did that change your appearance? Maybe he just hadn’t really looked at you before. 

“I can’t blame you, Lando — I probably looked dead the last time you saw me,” you laughed.

You couldn’t remember exactly when it was, sometime mid last season. Right before it got really bad, but while your condition was stable enough for you to go to races. Maybe it was Silverstone. You had a vague memory of seeing Lando on that podium. You knew that you had looked horrible either way. When you thought about it, maybe Lando had never seen you completely healthy. 

“There was something wrong with your lungs, right?” he asked, wondering if he was remembering things correctly. 

“Just the left one. I had spontaneous pneumothorax three times in a year,” you explained, earning a confused look from Lando before adding, “Collapsed lung, basically air was leaking from the lung out into my chest.” 

He raised his eyebrows as you spoke. You made it sound a lot more trivial than what he assumed it was. 

It happening one time wasn’t actually that uncommon. Apparently, lungs collapsed right, left, and centre. It was usually a quite easy fix as well, not even something that required surgery. But when it happened to you, that third time — it was obvious that the problem was much larger. There was multiple surgeries and constant checkups. There were ugly scars and never-ending breathing exercises. 

It was a lot, for anyone. Even worse for someone just about to graduate from their bachelor’s programme. Your life had fallen apart, to say the least, and it wasn’t something you gladly talked about, so making it sound trivial was your way of coping. If Lando realised that was another question. 

“And I’m sat here moping about a DNF,” he heard himself mumble before realising how insensitive that might’ve come across. “But you’re okay now?” 

“One final checkup left, practically as good as new,” you said, putting on a smile. “You do know that it’s not comparable though, right?” 

Lando didn’t understand at first, so you kept on speaking. 

“Me, having a life threatening medical condition — and you, having a bad day at work?” 

Maybe you were the one sounding insensitive now, knowing full well that his work wasn’t normal in any way, shape, or form. But that was the opposite of your intentions, so you kept on rambling to try and save yourself. 

“You’re allowed to be selfish and angry about something going wrong in your life without thinking about how other people might have it worse,” you added. “Because let’s be honest, someone is always going to be in a worse situation. That doesn’t take away from your right to feel things about what’s happening in your life.” 

What had happened with Leclerc was shitty as fuck and if you were Lando, you’d be crying, cursing everyone and their mothers that even had a slight connection to Ferrari. But you weren’t a professional race car driver. You were an emotional young woman. What you were trying to say was that Lando had a right to even be a fraction more emotional than what he was showing right now. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Lando answered simply after a moment of silence. 

He wasn’t used to people telling him he had a right to be emotional. He’d been told since he was a child by people in the industry that being a whiny little kid would get him nowhere. Maybe you had a point. Whatever he was doing now to deal with his emotions (which was ignoring them completely), obviously wasn’t working with how he was feeling inside. 

“You don’t have to say anything to me if you don’t want to, just allow yourself to feel, because even I can tell that you’re shutting yourself out and I don’t even know you.”

Your voice was soft as you spoke. Your accent reminded him of the people he grew up around. That was something he hadn’t realised before. He was starting to think that he had been completely self-absorbed all the other times he’d met you. You were almost… pretty, when you sat there next to him in ugly fluorescent lighting. Maybe it was the way you seemed to actually care that made his brain a little mushy. 

You were scared to cross a line with him by saying too much, so you decided to retreat. Standing up from the bench, creating more space between you, you took a stance in the doorway again. It felt like you couldn’t breathe in his tiny little room. 

“I should probably go back to see how Oscar is doing,” you said, signalling with your hand to the garage. 

Lando looked up at you with big eyes, nodding understandingly. You could almost visibly see how he was holding back from telling you that he was, in fact, not okay. 

You really had no business pushing him to say something to you. But, something inside of you was calling you a coward for not even giving it a try. For not even giving it a second chance, trying to make him feel better about himself. It all reminded you a little all too well of something that your mother always used to tell you. Fuck it.

“My mum taught me to always linger in doorways for a couple extra seconds before leaving someone,” you said, feeling heat rise to your cheeks at the mere thought of how stupid this was. “That’s usually when people get to thinking about things they haven’t had the courage to say yet, since you never know when you’re next going to see the person.” 

You were over-explaining it, pressing your nails into the soft skin of your palms as you got nervous. You were trying to say that you always resolved to leave people feeling better than they did before you talked to them. 

Lando cracked a small smile as he watched you stumble over your words. He had now decided that you were pretty, standing in the doorway, your gaze oscillating between him and the floor. 

“I’ll ask one more time and then I’ll go — Lando, are you okay?” 

“No,” he sighed. He couldn’t hide it. “But I will be.” 

“It’s never okay after something like that happens. I keep on blaming myself for things I have no power over, but that’s got to stop at some point, right? I have to learn at some point,” he continued, voice coming across as slightly defeated. 

You recognised his mentality, Oscar usually said something similar after experiencing a setback. You still didn’t understand how he wasn’t more visibly upset, yet you now knew that he was harbouring it all inside. It made you feel better that he had actually said it out lout — that he wasn’t fine. You also felt a little bit worse, getting the feeling that his self-deprecation was far more severe than you originally thought. He blamed himself without good reason. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know you well enough to say the right thing now, but for what it’s worth, I’m so impressed by you,” you admitted truthfully, hoping you weren’t showing pity. He was actually such an inspiration, such an idol. Even when he sat there, looking like he had run through hell and back, fighting his brain to not feel sorry for himself. 

“Have I done enough lingering to make my mother proud, you think?” you joked, tilting your head while you looked at him. 

“Yeah,” he smiled. “I’ll join you out there in a minute.” 

Oscar had secured his third position and his first home race podium. Getting to see him up on that podium, covered head to toe in champagne was so special to you. Even though you were Jasmine’s friend first, you had really grown to love Oscar during their years of dating. Although, Lando never managed to make his way to the celebrations, something that lingered in the back of your mind. 

You had tried so hard to get it right, to say the right thing — to make him feel better about himself. That was more than most people did. He was used to people sucking up to him, but this was different. This was honest. You had no reason to be nice to him. You had no reason to even give him your time of day. But you did it anyway. Lando didn’t even think to say thank you before you left. He should’ve, because you were right. He didn’t know the next time he would see you, hell with your track record you might actually be dead tomorrow, and it was a shame if you didn’t know that your words had helped. 

Lando wasn’t sure how long he stayed in his room, sitting on that uncomfortable little bench. Letting his thoughts get the best of him while simultaneously trying to think of what you’d said to him. That he should feel, that he should think this through. He was just hoping that what he was feeling was healing more than it was self-destructing. 

He stopped spiralling when Oscar came back to his room to change, just next to Lando’s. He was covered in champagne, exuding pure joy of getting a home race podium. While Lando was happy for his teammate, trying his best to give him a heartfelt congratulations, he also couldn’t stop thinking about how that trophy could’ve been his. The first one of the season. 

What Lando didn’t know was that Oscar was very much aware of all of this, having learnt how to read his teammate’s expressions quite well after spending so much time together. He knew that Lando took defeat harder, or at least he showed it more clearly than Oscar ever did. He also knew that he needed someone to… turn on the faucet for him, making him feel like it was okay to spew out feelings about how the race had gone, without judging him for what he might say. 

“Did Jasmine come check on you?” Oscar asked, leaning in the doorway to Lando’s room. 

Lando would never be able to look the same way at a person standing in a doorway without thinking about what you had said about lingering, staying for a couple extra seconds. 

“No, uhm, Bunny did,” he replied, feeling himself smile for some reason. He felt odd using your nickname, as he had no idea where it originated from. Yet, it was just so you.

“What was that look?” Oscar laughed. Lando’s smile wasn’t just a normal one. Oscar could almost guess what had happened, that was just the kind of person you were. 

“She’s different from when I last met her,” Lando explained, feeling heat rise to his face as he wondered just about how transparent his emotions actually were. “Oscar, she’s trouble.” 

“This is about to be hilarious, isn’t it?” 

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

Greater London, UK

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

Lando didn’t have to wait long to see you again. On a week without racing, he decided on a whim to stay in England for a couple of days longer than planned after debriefing at the MTC. It was someone’s birthday — a mechanic, an engineer — he really didn’t know, but a bunch of people from the team ended up in a pub, drinking to their hearts’ content. It was nice, but most of all, it was relaxing. It wasn’t Monaco, where everyone had their eyes on him as soon as he stepped outside. He could blend in better with the masses here. 

As could Oscar. Lando had never really seen Oscar drunk before. Apart from now. Putting him in a cab alone and sending him home wasn’t an option when the poor lad could barely stand on his own. That’s how Lando ended up in his and Jasmine’s shared flat. Even helping Oscar up the stairs had been a mission, especially since Lando wasn’t that sober either. It was alright, they were young and without responsibilities for the rest of that week at least. The team leaders didn’t even have to know…

“Bunny is in the guest room, but you can stay on the couch if you want,” he heard Jasmine say from the kitchen, getting Oscar a glass of water, as Lando had just watched her wrestle him to bed. Jasmine was a short woman, but when she set her mind to something, she could move mountains. Or, her boyfriend.

It took Lando’s inebriated brain a concerning amount of time to figure out that Bunny meant you. You were Bunny. And he liked you. Or he thought so. He liked the picture of you that he had built up in his head after your conversation in his driver’s room. 

He wasn’t sure what you were doing here. Maybe you and Jasmine had a girls’ night when Oscar was away. He didn’t actually know that much about you, even less so when his brain was compromised by alcohol. 

Lando thought he was being sneaky as he walked over to the guest room, where the door stood ajar, but the wooden floors creaked beneath his feet. He could spot your head of hair peeping out from under the sheets, shoulders covered by a papaya-coloured shirt that he assumed was originally Oscar’s. Your eyes were closed but you weren’t sleeping. 

“Lando, I can feel you staring,” you almost whispered, cracking a smile but still not opening your eyes.  

“M’sorry,” he mumbled, suddenly feeling ashamed.  

You reached out to turn on the lamp that stood on the nightstand. Lando watched as you sat up in bed to get a better view of him, looking amused as soon as you caught his gaze. “Drunk?” 

“A little.” 

“Did you two have fun?” 

“Yeah, I’ve never seen Oscar this drunk before,” Lando said, letting out a soft laugh. He’d been like Bambi on ice getting out of the cab and up the stairs. It was certainly a bonding experience between teammates. “Jasmine had to wrestle him to bed.” 

The shirt looked huge on you, it was too big to even be Oscar’s. That was a nicer thought, for Lando. As you sat up, the sheets pooled at your waist, with a bare leg sticking out on the side. For a second, it struck him that you probably had no trousers on. 

No, nope, look at her face Lando. 

Your face was bare. If he stared long enough he would probably start counting your birthmarks and imperfections. It almost looked freshly washed. Maybe you and Jasmine had done face masks. He didn’t really know what a girls’ night entailed. 

“Your hair is shorter.” 

Lando said it out loud the moment he realised it. His drunk brain didn’t let him keep anything in. 

“It was easier to manage while I was back at the hospital,” you explained, on instinct reaching up to touch it. 

“Fuck, right, the surgery!” 

Oscar had told him about it and Lando had somehow forgotten. He could blame the alcohol for now. You only having one checkup left and being practically as good as new had been too good to be true. 

“Uh, how did it go?” 

“Simple checkup turned into an emergency surgery and two weeks in a hospital bed.” You shrugged, as if you had told him what you had eaten for dinner, not showing any signs of how awful it had truly been. “But I survived.” 

Lando nodded. “That’s good, I guess. Scary, but good that you’re good.”

How many times could he use the word ’good’ in one sentence? 

The both of you turned silent after that, unsure of what to say next. You watched him as he stood in the doorway, his feet tentatively moving as his eyes flickered around the room. You started to smile as you realised what he was doing. 

“Is this you lingering in the doorway?”

“I think so,” Lando shyly admitted. “Is it working?” 

You chuckled, still smiling all sleepily at him like what he had said was funny, or special. It made Lando’s heart hurt and his cheeks burn. 

Truth be told, you could’ve used some lingering right now. You had talked to your father and to Jasmine of course, but you still felt like you had this pressure over your chest for things you hadn’t said. 

You could’ve told him about how you’d gone alone to the hospital because you’d thought it would be quick, but ended up getting prepped and rushed into surgery before anyone you knew even had time to make it there to be with you. There had been no one there to hold your hand. 

You could’ve told him about the scar on your chest that was now worse than ever before. It was larger, more red, and way more noticeable. You’d cried trying on shirts before going to dinner with Jasmine tonight, which you hadn’t had the heart to tell her about. You’d wanted to cancel the entire thing, before sucking it up and putting on a turtleneck. 

You could’ve talked about it for ages, knowing that maybe he would listen. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not right now. Not to him. 

“I think we should both go to sleep, Lando,” you said, yawning comically loud as you turned off the light before falling back on the mattress. 

Lando didn’t push you. Instead, he chuckled and said a soft goodnight. He knew he maybe should’ve pushed you to talk. He sensed that he could’ve done it. But it also didn’t feel like the right time. Not when he was drunk. Not when you were tired. 

His eyes longed on you for a couple extra seconds, you looked adorable with the sheets practically swallowing you whole. He then walked back into the kitchen where Jasmine was standing, putting wine glasses into a display cabinet. Maybe you weren’t entirely sober either. 

He took a seat at the kitchen island, slouching over as he rested his face in his hands. Jasmine smiled at him, tilting her head to the side as if to silently ask him if something was wrong. 

“Jasmine, has she always looked like that?” Lando said, unsure of what he was even asking.

“Bunny?” Jasmine questioned, leaning her elbows on the counter, scrunching her eyebrows in confusion. 

“She looks different from when I first met her.” 

Maybe you just weren’t sick anymore. Maybe Lando had just been a right idiot the other times he’d met you and not properly cared to look at you. Maybe you had been shy and he had been self-obsessed. Maybe it didn’t matter what had happened before. 

“Well, for a start, she has two working lungs now,” she argued, a laugh slipping out under her breath as if what she said was obvious. “Got the colour back in her skin and gained some healthy weight, I think.” 

Lando hummed in response. It made sense. You did look different. That was the only sane explanation as to why you were constantly on his mind. 

“Why did you ask?” 

She looked at him for an answer, her eyes staring him down, searching for eye contact that he wasn’t able to hold. He couldn’t help but turn to the side so that she wouldn’t see how pink his face was.

“Holy shit, you like her!” 

Jasmine let out a gasp as she realised, having to contain herself to not squeal and wake the entire building. Lando had nothing to say all of a sudden, his drunkenness not showing at all.  

“You’re not even going to deny it?” 

He quickly stood up to go to the bathroom, ignoring her question and hiding his dumbstruck smile. 

“Goodnight Jasmine.” 

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

As you looked at yourself in the mirror, you felt your hands grow sweaty against the stack of papers you held in them. The costume looked nice — almost too nice to be on your body. Beautiful, sparkly platform heels. Delicate lace and trims on the dress. The corset showed off a waist you didn’t know you had. It wasn’t you, so thank god you were acting like someone else. 

“Go on, Magenta. Say your next line,” Jasmine urged you from her spot on the bed in your childhood room. The old canopy and fairy lights that decorated your bed made her look ethereal in a way.  

There was something heartfelt, seeing your oldest friend in that room again, now a whole lot older than when the two of you would play with dolls on your floor. When you dropped out of university, you had to move back in with your dad and little brother. It hadn’t been awful, but not ideal either. 

Magenta was the character you were playing in your local theatre's production of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. You’d been part of the crew at the little theatre for most of your life and now, when you had no classes to worry about and no summer job lined up for you — being part of a musical over the summer seemed like the perfect waste of time. You were going back to university in the autumn, so you felt like you had a chance to have some fun this summer. 

“…to sing and dance once more to your dark refrains. To take that step to the right...” 

Magenta was the opposite of you. She was bold, and sexy. She had a sultry voice and was dressed in a stereotypical maid costume. Showing off both legs and cleavage. It was a fun change, but a scary one too. 

“But it's the pelvic thrust… That really drives you insane?”

Jasmine couldn’t keep a straight face as she acted like your counterpart, starting to giggle like a schoolgirl, trying not to get told off by the teacher for laughing. The lines made no sense to her. 

“And our World will do The Time Warp again — Jazz, you’re not focusing!” you exclaimed, joining her laugher as you fell on the bed next to her, ruffling the huge amount of decorative pillows you had on there.   

“This was so much easier when you were doing Moulin Rouge, because then I at least understood the plot,” Jasmine scoffed as she looked over the manuscript, leaning into your shoulder as you both relaxed into the pile of pillows. 

“What do you meeean your character is a maid who is also an alien? Babe, why are they going to space?” she continued, gesticulating wildly with her hands at the pages. 

“It’s camp, Jazz. Or maybe just written by someone on acid,” you laughed. 

Rocky Horror was not the simplest of musicals to explain to someone who had never heard of it before. It was camp, and queer, and rock’n’roll. There were aliens, and virgins, and a man in golden underwear. It was a nightmare — and the most fun thing one could imagine. 

“Who have you invited for the opening night? I’m so sorry again that we can’t come,” Jasmine asked, turning over to lay on her back, staring up at the fairy lights. 

The premiere was only weeks away at this point, but you had known for awhile that Oscar and her were busy celebrating her parents wedding anniversary on the same exact date. She had kept on apologising and you had kept on telling her that is wasn’t that big of a deal. They could come on the second weekend, or the third, or any weekend during the entire summer. It didn’t matter to you.

“Don’t apologise,” you reassured her. “I haven’t invited anyone. Dad has to go with Matteo to his first ever football game.” 

Matteo was your little brother. He was the sweetest kid you knew, albeit biased. He was also the most anxious kid you knew, so you could already guess that performing well during his game would be important to him. Your father had to be there, even for your own sanity. 

“But you need someone there, cheering you on. This is a big deal!” 

It really wasn’t. You’d done it alone before. 

“Jazz, Matteo is 10. He needs dad there more than I do,” you remarked. 

“I didn’t just mean your dad. You need someone there in general, Bunny.” 

You really didn’t. You’d done a lot of things without someone holding your hand along the way. 

“Lando should be in England on that day, y’know, some MTC thing,” Jasmine hinted, her gaze catching yours. 

You thought you heard her wrong at first. She never talked about Lando casually. From what you had gathered, he and Oscar hadn’t even been that close up until the start of this season. Now, you knew that they hung out, but what did that have to do with you and your little musical? 

“Huh? That’s just absurd. He would hate it.” 

If you were allowed to be judgmental for a moment, you would assume that Lando had never seen a musical in his life. Let alone something as weird as Rocky Horror. You also didn’t understand at all why he should come watch you, on his own. That would honestly just make you feel like the joke was on you. 

“I think he likes you,” she commented plainly, as if it was clear as day and not at all something from her wildest imagination. 

She might as well have been speaking Greek. You did not understand Greek. 

“Why would he like me?” you squeaked, your eyes going wide.  

“You’re hot and funny, maybe a bit odd, but people like that. Why wouldn’t he like you?” 

“I’m sat here flipping pages of a manuscript, while he is flipping some model over in bed,” you expressed, throwing your copy of the script at her.  

Maybe that was harsh. You didn’t know Lando well enough to say something like that with confidence. But, you did know yourself well enough to say that you weren’t his type. 

“So, what? He could flip you over!”

You snorted in response, hiding your laugh. Jasmine was being ridiculous right now.  

“It’s like you lost all your confidence when you got sick,” she said, her voice suddenly softened. “Remember our trip to Malaga? That Bunny would’ve jumped on his dick without thinking twice.” 

It was crazy how she could make your trip to Malaga sound sentimental, or like an old memory of how you used to be. Malaga had been anything but orthodox. A group of teenage girls — too young to be drinking, making questionable decisions and racking up their body counts. 

“I guess I grew up, Jasmine. I also shouldn’t do something reckless with Oscar’s teammate.” You shrugged, standing up, ready to be over with this conversation and to start rehearsing again. 

“That is if he actually fancied me, which he does not,” you decided. 

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

Lando didn’t know what he was doing. When he sneakily asked Oscar if he was doing something after their meetings, he had really been thinking about you. In his mind, maybe they could’ve done something the four of them, so it wouldn’t be as obvious that it was you he wanted to see again. 

But Oscar had an anniversary dinner to go to with Jasmine. And you — you were in some off off-West End musical. He really had to get to know you better, because that was not something he would have ever imagined about you. 

Not that he was imagining you doing things… 

Oscar had told him to go. Lando had questioned his entire existence. 

Yet, he still somehow ended up outside of the small theatre on a Friday night. He wasn’t even sure if he was technically still in London, that’s how remote the little community he was in felt. Going out clubbing with Max was his plan B, if this turned out to be as ridiculous as it sounded. 

The Rocky Horror Picture Show — that was what the poster outside said. Nothing but a big pair of messily painted red lips were on it. He had no idea what he was in for and Google hadn’t been much help. It looked like a mixture of the story about Frankenstein’s monster and a drag queen show. 

He was early, arriving right in the middle of the final dress rehearsal. Something that Oscar had recommended he did, to not get recognised as much and to be able to leave swiftly if he turned out to absolutely hate it. Lando wondered how much of an avid musical-goer Oscar was, or maybe he had just gone to yours. 

The theatre was small, probably not more than a hundred seats. It was classic looking, with red velvet chairs and heavy curtains lining the stage. He slid into one of the seats at the very back, looking with anticipation at the stage. The room was maybe filled to one third with what he mostly assumed were the cast’s friends and family. 

The stage was decorated with delicately handmade props. It showed a grand hall with checkered flooring, a wooden staircase at the back. Multiple odd sculptures and a wonky replica of the Mona Lisa. All under bright red lighting. 

Lando didn’t even have time to take it all in before actors entered the stage. 

“Are you having a party?” said a girl in a baby pink dress and a comically blonde wig. Her voice was so high and brittle that it was almost annoying. 

“You’ve arrived on a rather special night. It’s one of the master’s affairs,” answered a man with a fake hunchback, his long white hair making him look nothing but creepy. 

“Oh, lucky him,” said the girl again. 

That’s when he heard a voice he recognised. A voice belonging to you. Sliding down the bannister of the stairs, you whipped an old-timey feather duster around.

“You're lucky. He's lucky. I'm lucky. We're all lucky!” you practically yelled as you made your way to the girl, who looked positively terrified by you. Her looser boyfriend (Lando assumed), who stood by her side looked even more frightened. 

It had been two minutes and Lando already rooted for the weird people — meaning you and the man with the hunchback. You were in what he would call a… slutty maid costume. Except it wasn’t slutty; it was more artful. What was he even thinking? 

Your wig was large and curly, the dark red colour of it suited you well. Your makeup was dramatic, and your entire costume was covered in silver sequins and glitter. You were not the nervous, out-of-her-element girl that he had seen in Australia a couple months ago. Right now, you were acting completely like someone else. And you were damn good at it. 

Much like he imagined a musical to be, the conversation immediately turned into song. The Time Warp, he had heard of that one before. The stage flooded with an ensemble of dancers, dressed in tuxedos. The plot of this musical was still something completely alien. Maybe it barely had a plot.

Lando couldn’t decide if he loved it or hated it. He felt like maybe that was the entire point of the show. Like it was supposed to be annoying, but also so colourful and odd that you couldn’t help but be amazed by it.  

Even with so much happening on stage, all he could focus on was you. You didn’t dance or sing like someone who’d injured her lungs not that long ago. You performed like you loved it, having a hard time hiding your smile even if your character was more of a moody type. 

Lando, too, found himself smiling. He was astonished by how such a small production still could archive basically perfection. The singing, the choreography — it was like watching something prerecorded. It had to be a passion project for all of you, because he wasn’t sure small theatre productions were the most lucrative thing. 

At the end of the number, the dance ended with everyone falling to the floor. That’s when it happened, when he for the first time in the performance, heard something that didn’t sound like perfection. No, that was the sound of someone in pain. 

His eyes tried to find you in the pile of bodies on the stage. 

You’d practiced it a million times. Falling over — gracefully that is — in high heels wasn’t the easiest of tasks. But never once before had it hurt like his. A stinging pain that never ended, so you couldn’t help but scream. It gathered everyone’s attention, quickly stopping the act and flicking on the normal lights. 

A broken ankle. Your broken ankle and your yelping voice. It hurt like hell.

You could see how the people around you started to panic, talking about a first aid kit and getting a stand-in ready to take your place. You couldn’t focus on anything but the pain, your eyes filled up with tears, clouding your vision. 

God, you would pass out if this pain didn’t stop. 

Lando watched it all unfold from his seat. Seeing you sat in the middle of the stage, clenching your hands over your foot, tears falling down your cheeks, taking your mascara with them. 

Ironically, something started to hurt inside of Lando, and he didn’t know how to react. Could he sneak out so you wouldn’t have known he was here? No, no. He was going to see if he could be of any help. That was the only right thing to do. In seconds, he had left his seat and started to march down to the stage. 

“Lando?”

Your voice was pathetic. Your tears clogged your throat and you felt ashamed, so fucking ashamed. 

You knew that Jasmine had talked to Oscar, and that Oscar had talked to Lando. But seeing him by the edge of the stage, a worried look on his face, wasn’t something you actually thought would happen. You did not understand why he would’ve wanted to come. 

“Is your foot okay? The fall looked pretty bad,” Lando said as he crouched down in front of you, looking more at your face than at your ankle so as not to scare you more than what was already inevitable.  

“You saw me fall? Oh fuck, why are you even here?” you groaned in pain. 

You didn’t mean for it to come across as rude — you just didn’t have much of a choice over your emotions right now. It was nice that he was there, so fucking nice. 

“Oscar told me to come — I mean, I wanted to come too,” he emphasised. 

Lando didn’t exactly know how to help you now that he had waltzed up on the stage like some knight in shining armour. He looked around to see a man in his mid-thirties come forward with a bright red first aid kit. He tried not to raise his eyebrows too much at the man — dressed in his costume, looking like if Elvis Presley had been in a motorcycle gang.  

The man tried not to look too much at Lando either — having known you most of your life and never once seen you bring a boy to the theatre. 

“Darling, that’s broken,” the man said as soon as he got a view of your ankle. 

Lando could’ve said the same thing. 

“No, it’s not Eddie. Just bruised I think,” you tried to tell yourself, and Eddie.  

Eddie, whose character in the musical coincidentally was also named Eddie, was your on-sight medic, working as a nurse when he was not busy acting and singing in his studded leather vest and greaser-like hairstyle. 

Bruising meant you could suffer through it. Broken meant spending the summer in a cast and missing every single one of your performances. That’s what you got for wanting to have a fun, selfish summer for once in your life. 

“Bunny, I don’t know how to tell you this in a nicer way — but it’s broken,” Eddie persisted, rummaging through the first aid kit for something to help with the pain. 

“B-but the show…” 

You said it quietly, but Lando heard. Your voice was heartbreaking. 

It showed how much this meant to you, and he realised now that you were probably embarrassed. He drew parallels to his own life and career, and how much a clumsy mistake could leave its marks for a long time forward. Even if this was only a hobby, it was still important. 

“I can wrap it up for you, but it won’t heal unless you go to a hospital,” he continued, not waiting for an answer before he began to gently move your foot. 

You whimpered in pain, biting down on your lower lip to not scream as it shifted. Grasping for just about anything to hold on to, you found Lando’s hand. You didn’t have time to think it through, but Lando had a lifetime. 

Your nails were painted black to match your costume, and your hand felt so small and cold in his own, yet you were strong as hell as you gripped his fingers in pain. He suffered through it, knowing that what you were feeling was a million times worse. 

Eddie wrapped your ankle in a tight bandage. Lando could tell that he’d done it before. Some girl had found a bag of frozen peas in the staffroom freezer, that he then strapped over it to ease the pain. By the look on your face, it did absolutely nothing. 

“I’ll drive you to A&E,” Lando offered without thinking twice. He could see Max some other time. 

Then it was the trouble of getting you down the stage and out of the building. Eddie throwing you over his shoulder could’ve maybe worked, but you had this thing called dignity. 

So, with one arm around Lando and the other one around Eddie, you hopped your way out of there on one foot, cursing Mother Earth herself every time you accidentally touched the ground with the injured one. 

“You’re supposed to go to a UTC with broken bones,” you pointed out when you remembered it, feeling the need to correct Lando.  

“You’ve broken a bone before?” Lando asked. 

Eddie didn’t have to ask because he already knew about your history with hospitals. 

“Twice. My wrist once from falling off a trampoline, and a finger from shutting a car door on it,” you explained. 

“You’re a walking emergency, aren’t you?” Lando said, like he was joking. 

It wasn’t really a joke to you anymore, though. 

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mumbled, thinking he wouldn’t hear you. 

But he did, and it got him thinking. 

You couldn’t help but laugh as you got out to the parking lot. In your periphery, you could see how Eddie’s jaw dropped. A bright orange McLaren was not what you had expected to see, but then again, you couldn’t have said what you expected instead. The man was a Formula 1 driver, for Christ's sake. 

Eddie kept his mouth shut, but the look he gave you said something along the lines of you have a lot to explain, young lady. You would have no idea how to explain how you ended up here, even if you wanted to tell him. 

“Lando…” you said to get his attention. “I don’t think I can get in this car without it hurting like hell.” 

“I borrowed it for the weekend. I didn’t think—” he stopped himself, unsure of how to continue. 

I didn’t think you would break a bone and I’d have to drive you? 

Yeah, no. He couldn’t say that. 

“I was about to tell you to just shove me in the backseat, but it doesn’t even have one,” you tried to joke, earning small smiles from both Lando and Eddie. 

Just as getting out of the building, slow and steady won the race. Only this time, you weren’t only cursing Mother Earth but Lando and Eddie too, blaming them for whenever your foot nudged something. You hoped they could take it lightheartedly because you weren’t angry or mad at them. You were angry at yourself. 

“You, young man — take care of our best performer, okay?” Eddie said to Lando as he shut the door on your side. 

You scoffed at his wording. He knew he didn’t need to take on the role as a protective older brother-like figure in your life, but you kind of liked it when he did. Lando probably met a lot of important and intimidating people with his choice of career, yet Eddie felt different. He had no actual influence, but he had a heart that cared for you. Lando couldn’t joke that away. 

“I will, sir.” 

The UTC was relatively calm for a Friday evening, so you didn’t have to wait long until you were rushed into a room to be assessed and treated. Nurse after nurse who saw your ankle said the same thing, get x-rays, evaluate, and hope it’s not surgical. 

Lando didn’t say much, only helping you explain what had happened when your pain made you unable to form coherent sentences. He stayed by your side, though. You had half-expected him to leave as soon as you got there, making up some excuse about being busy. 

But he never did. 

You even had to convince him to leave to get your bag that you had left in his car. He was unsure about leaving you alone the first couple of times you mentioned it. 

But you wanted to get your makeup off, and fix your hair which had been left a mess after you’d taken the wig off. You’d thought about that part, but the maid’s costume was still on your body. At least the nurses got a good laugh out of it — a barefoot, glittery maid with makeup smeared all over her face and a packet of peas strapped to her ankle. 

When you were rolled off to get x-rays taken, Lando finally agreed to go outside and get it. It wasn’t like he was allowed to go with you anyway. 

“Thank you,” you said as he handed you the bag. “The x-rays will take a while, but the doctor said it is most likely a simple fracture and I will only need a cast.” 

You immediately took out a makeup wipe and a comb. The braids you had on under the wig were starting to feel very stiff, giving you a headache. Or maybe you were just tense because of all the other pain you were feeling. 

“That’s good.” He nodded, taking a seat on the edge of the hospital bed. “Did they give you anything for the pain?” 

You giggled a little, rolling your eyes, overplaying how loopy you were. “Can you already tell?” 

“Just a little.” He pinched his fingers, showing just how little. “Do you want help with that?” 

“You don’t have to—” you tried to tell him, but his hands had already undone one of the hair ties, his fingers moving gently to separate the braided hair. 

He scooted behind you to reach better as you continued to take off the makeup, the wipe quickly turning a messy mixture of red and black with how much product was actually on your face. Stage makeup was no joke. His fingers through your hair sent shivers down your spine, but you tried not to think too much about it. He was just being nice. That’s all he’d been the entire evening. 

“You probably have better things to do on a Friday night,” you mumbled. 

Lando shook his head, and then he figured you couldn’t see it as he sat behind you. 

“I called Oscar when I went out. He said he would tell your parents.” 

“Parent. My mother’s not alive,” you whispered. “But that’s good, I guess. Did Oscar say anything else?” 

You didn’t give Lando any time to think or ask about what you had said. That was on purpose. He wouldn’t have known what to say anyway, with every possible sentence coming to mind feeling insensitive or way too pitiful. 

“No, not really,” Lando replied. 

That Oscar had made fun of him, for getting to play a knight in shining armour as you were a damsel in distress, was something he opted out of telling you. 

“He didn’t say that this was typical of me?” you muttered, rubbing your face in obvious distress. 

Lando was done undoing the braids so he could move to see your face again, seeing it streaky and glittery from you having wiped off the makeup without a mirror at hand. He reached for a clean wipe, his eyes silently asking you if it was okay if he helped. 

“I just… I can’t fucking believe it.” You exhaled from your nose as he wiped your undereyes clean from glitter.  

“It’s always like this,” you continued, showing frustration. “Whenever I’m about to accomplish something in life, I always get injured.”

“I don’t believe that—” 

You cut him off by explaining, “Well, I fucked up my lungs right as I was about to graduate.” 

“You didn’t fuck them up. Things like that just happen,” Lando interjected. 

“I lost my voice on the second show the last time I did a musical. Had to give up a leading role for one that was just dancing, no singing,” you counter-argued, proving that it wasn’t just some one-time thing. 

Lando looked at you, waiting to see if you could come up with more examples before he told you that it wasn’t fate that got you injured. They were coincidences. 

“My wrist was broken when I took my A-level exams, that was hell on earth,” you said, raising a finger of conviction. “Oh, and I had appendicitis on my 18th birthday. Jasmine still hates me for that one because I ruined a girl’s trip.” 

“Is there more?” he questioned, raising his eyebrows. 

You snorted out a laugh as another one came to mind. “I got a nosebleed when I lost my virginity. It didn’t stop bleeding for like three hours.” 

Lando pursed his lips to not laugh, but he couldn’t keep it in for long. “I’m sorry for laughing, but the picture in my head is really funny.” 

In hindsight, it was quite funny. At the time, however, it was the most embarrassing moment of your life. 

“I was going to say that probably everyone experiences these sort of setbacks, but… I don’t know anymore,” he tried to comfort. 

“I think I might just be cursed, Lando,” you huffed, locking eyes with him again.  

You both went quiet for a couple seconds as he took in your expression. A gaze so hollow, it didn’t matter that you were trying to hide it with a smile. The smile was blacked out anyway. 

He didn’t understand how you could talk to him and reassure him without making it sound like you were second-guessing things, or ever feeling unsure of what your words meant — but as soon as the subject was switched to regard yourself, you were suddenly cold. Or not really cold at all, but just not as warm as you were when you talked about other people. 

Your staring contest was interrupted by a young boy saying your name. A man came shortly after him into the small hospital room. Lando assumed it was your father and little brother, as he stood up from the bed to introduce himself. And to make some space between the two of you, since you were sitting suspiciously close together.  

The boy got shy as soon as he saw Lando. He looked a lot like you, with the same coloured hair and the same big doe eyes, only he was clad in a green football kit. Your father was wearing a matching one to show support. 

“Hi Matteo,” you called out as your brother walked past Lando to immediately get to you. He was like that — shy with people he didn’t know and anxious to talk to them. So you saved him, by talking to him as you saw Lando shake your father’s hand. That wasn’t awkward at all. 

“How did the game go?” you asked, ruffling his sweaty hair as you invited him to sit next to you on the bed. 

Matteo started talking, all excited about how they’d won and that he had gotten an assist. Pretty solid for a first game, he thought. You were mostly glad that he had a good time and that he seemed to get along well with the other boys on the team. He didn’t have it easy making friends because of his shyness. 

Lando overheard the conversation, taking notice of how you had asked him how it went and not if he had won. It was those little things that made you different, made the way you talked to people so much more worth it. You were so fucking lovely, and you seemed to have no idea about it.

Your father had recognised him, but Lando couldn’t tell if that was only because of Oscar or if he cared about racing. 

With your family there, Lando started to feel excessive. He couldn’t exactly argue his case for wanting to stay right there in front of you, and your father. He guessed it wasn’t too late to still catch up with Max, but a part of him almost didn’t want to do it. 

No, he had to leave. He couldn’t explain his reason out loud. 

As he said his goodbye, he met your eyes from his position in the doorway. He didn’t have much to say to you, or maybe he had so much to say that his brain couldn’t find what was most important. His shoes almost felt sticky against the sterile hospital flooring, something glueing him to the spot. 

“Will I see you at Silverstone?” Lando decided to ask before leaving. 

“Uh… maybe? I’ll have to talk to Oscar,” you said unsure, still sat in the bed with your arm around Matteo.  

“Can I come this time?” he whispered, looking up at you. 

You were shocked by his question. He’d never asked to come before. But it wasn’t really up to you if he could or not. It was always someone else getting you race passes, so you were in no position to be greedy. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll sort you out,” Lando hurried to say, seeing the uncertainty on your face.  

You let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you… for everything.” 

For showing up, for driving you, for staying. He’d done so much that he didn’t need to do. Maybe Jasmine was correct. Maybe he didn’t just see you as her friend that he had to be civil to. Or maybe, he’d been dealt really bad cards tonight and had no option but to comply. Otherwise, he would be seen as a complete dickhead. 

Lando nodded, pursing his lips into a smile, staying in the doorway for a moment too long, before finally walking away. You didn’t notice him doing it, but someone else certainly did. 

“Bunny…” your father said. 

“Mm?” you mumbled, perking up your ears.  

“Did that boy just linger in the doorway?” 

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

Silverstone, UK

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“Are you avoiding me?” 

Lando’s voice shocked you as he came up from behind. You’d seen him around during the day but kept your distance. You were technically his guest today, only ever having been invited by Oscar before. But you would be lying if you said that premise had made you more liberal with how you interacted with Lando. You stayed with Oscar and Jasmine, and your father and Matteo, because that was what you knew. 

The paddock at Silverstone was a lot, even for you who had been to this rodeo before. Matteo and your dad, however, would fall asleep quickly tonight with how many new impressions they’d received today. You’d only managed to come on the Sunday, with you on crutches and Matteo being, well… Matteo. It was good enough of an experience anyway. 

“No, there’s just a lot of people here to see you. I didn’t want to be a bother,” you explained, nervously laughing.  

It was jam-packed with friends and family, sponsors, and celebrities. Every time he had a moment for himself, it could quickly turn into a meet-and-greet if he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Now, minutes before he had to make his way to the starting grid, it was finally sort of calm in the garage. You were standing in the viewing section, a papaya-coloured headset around your neck. 

Lando shook his head and sighed. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

You could not be a bother, even if you tried. 

“So, it wasn’t a make-a-wish thing after you saw me fall on my face and break my ankle?” 

“Would I’ve been your wish?” he asked, voice affected by laughter.

“No, sorry, I’d pick a broadway show over this any day,” you responded jokingly. 

“How’s your ankle anyway?” 

The cast and the crutches you were leaning on didn’t look too dramatic. It just looked like you had broken your ankle and were now dealing with it to the best of your ability. 

“It’s healing just fine,” you nodded, leaning to rest on one crutch to show Lando your palm. “The worst thing right now is the heat and the crutches giving me callouses.” 

As you reached out your hand, Lando couldn’t help but gently grab your fingers to take a closer look. He was practically holding your hand. Sure, you held his when Eddie was wrapping your foot, but you were in an immense amount of pain at the time. This was something different. The callouses weren’t even that bad. 

Why was he holding your hand? 

In the same moment you could overthink it, he let go.

“Have you been hopping around the paddock all day? You should’ve told me, I could’ve gotten you a golf cart or something,” Lando wondered, feeling kind of bad. 

He hadn’t thought about your broken ankle when he’d asked you to come. 

“It’s alright. Matteo’s been having a blast all day, so… thank you,” you shrugged. 

You could deal with being uncomfortable for a day if it meant that Matteo got a once-in-a-lifetime experience. 

His McLaren cap was signed, and he had ice cream in his belly. He’d even gotten a wave from Sir Lewis Hamilton himself, and if that wasn’t enough to make him school ground royalty for at least a week, you didn’t know what was. Maybe you took your big sister duty too seriously, but literally nothing could make you stop caring for that kid.  

“And your dad?” Lando asked. 

You looked over your shoulder to see what he was doing. With Matteo in front of him, practically hiding into his side, you could see him talking to someone and smiling. You understood that he was mostly doing this for you and Matteo, but there was some underlying fascination that middle-aged men had with fast cars that you knew he was trying to hide. 

“He appears to be smiling, that’s always positive.” 

“He’s talking to my dad,” he revealed. That wasn’t awkward at all. 

Lando hesitated, unsure of asking you what was on his mind, but soon enough, words were falling out of his mouth anyway. You seemed to have that effect on him. 

“I need to get ready, but can I see you afterwards? Maybe you can come back like you did in Melbourne.” 

You smiled, agreeing before adding, “I’ll watch you get on the podium first.” 

The race started with both Lando and Oscar in good positions, which probably led to a false sense of security. Your gut feeling was unsure of it all. 

Matteo held on to your hand during the entire start, you could tell that it was mixed emotions of excitement and anxiety. His headset was big on his little head, and he looked positively adorable as he tried to understand what was going on. 

“Lando is third right now,” you explained to him, pointing to a monitor. “And Oscar is fifth, you remember them, right?” 

Matteo nodded. “Lando broke your foot, and Oscar talks funny.” 

“I broke my own foot, but you’re right about Oscar,” you laughed. 

It was you that had to hold onto Matteo for a moment during the race when it really looked like both Oscar and Lando had a chance at winning. But after some godawful strategic calls, you realised that the podium wasn’t as secure as you thought. Hamilton was steady in the lead, and Verstappen was chasing Lando like there was no tomorrow.

You were so focused on the leaders that you didn’t even realise what was happening at the bottom of the grid. Pictures of two cars making contact flashed over the screens, and Matteo tensed up beside you. 

“What happened?” he worriedly asked, clinging to your arm. “Did they get hurt?” 

“No, no, it was just a little love tap,” you reassured him. They probably didn’t even have any damage — that was how minimal it was. “Like when I reversed into grandma’s postbox.”

“That was you?” your dad laughed. 

“Be quiet, I’m trying to watch the race,” you hushed him, eyes back on the leaderboard. 

Verstappen ended up catching Lando. P3 was the bittersweet consolation prize that Lando would have to act like he was happy about. Parade around the podium, covered in champagne, as if he wasn’t completely gutted inside. You could see on his face that he was acting happy as they celebrated. He wasn’t that good of an actor, if you were to be honest. 

If only they had put on different tyres for his last stint. 

Afterwards, you made your way back to his driver’s room — just as he’d asked. You could have overthought that question a million times, but you decided to just go for it. It was crowded with people, both staff and guests, rushing to congratulate him. Or maybe to comfort him. Your guess would be on the latter. 

At last, the hallway cleared, and you hopped to stand in the doorway, finally seeing him.

“P3, baby!” you joked cheerfully. 

Lando stared at you blankly, shaking his head as he snorted out a laugh. 

“Yeah, no, that was frustrating to watch. I can’t even imagine how you feel.” 

He had no words. Already having had to put on such a fake façade to everyone else he had met after the race. He didn’t want to do that to you. So, he ended up speechless.

“Should I leave you alone?” you whispered, breaking the silence. 

“No!” he hurried to say. “Uhm… please, sit.” 

With some struggle, you managed to sit next to him on the bench in his room. Much like Melbourne. It was, however, a lot more difficult to move in the little room while on crutches. 

He sighed as you sat down, helping you rest the crutches against the wall so they wouldn’t fall to the floor. His racing suit was halfway off and filled the room with a scent of champagne. You tried to look him in the eye, but ended up focusing on how his helmet had left red imprints on his cheeks — like a gorgeous mark of endurance. 

“I just… I don’t know what to say, or what to feel. It’s always so fucking close, and then I lose it.” Lando’s voice was stern and measured, his face blank. 

It was a forced expression, though. He could cry if his tear ducks would’ve allowed him to. Some mental barrier stopped him from doing it. He almost wanted to do it so that you would see his true emotions. 

Your heart broke a little, seeing him be so harsh on himself. Because, with your mentality, he had just done something miraculous. He’d done something mere mortals couldn’t accomplish. 

“I’m impressed you get out of that car alive every weekend, so I might be the wrong person to complain to,” you softly told him. 

Lando had heard those sorts of words before, how he was superhuman for even getting in the car. He’d felt the same way when he started, and maybe he’d lost that initial spark he used to have. 

Your words didn’t mean that you didn’t want him to complain. He should vent, to the people that it mattered to. Get it out of his system, so that he could be sensible in front of the media. 

It was funny how the sport worked that way. That he was somehow less happy in third, than Sargeant was in eleventh. That the people on the second and third steps of the podium were the biggest losers. And, they were expected to be robotic about it, otherwise, they would be deemed erratic and emotional. 

What was the crime in being emotional anyway? 

“I think you drove a perfect race,” you complimented him. “And then I think there were some strategic… mishaps that you’re not to blame for. Overall, this race was like the coolest one I’ve ever witnessed, and Oscar didn’t even get a podium. He’s my favourite driver!” 

You tried so hard to get him to laugh again, but he wouldn’t budge. He had to tell himself not to. It actually kind of annoyed him that Oscar was your favourite. He knew he didn’t know you well enough to be your favourite, yet. 

“I don’t get how you’re not proud of yourself,” you finally sighed, gesticulating with your hands as you spoke. “You have every right to be proud, annoyingly so.” 

Lando knew he had to let his guard down. That was the only way he would feel better about this. This wasn’t like Australia, when it hadn’t been his fault for the bad result. He’d still blamed himself, but let it go after a couple of hours. This time, a good result was somehow his fault. It was insane, the mental game he was playing with himself. And he couldn’t let this go without talking it through. 

“I’ll be that later, I just need to feel sorry for myself for a couple of hours first,” he scoffed.  

It was Silverstone, after all. He’d gotten a podium on home soil. That was an accomplishment to be proud of. Last year, he was over the moon over his Silverstone race, but maybe that was because the car hadn’t been that great. This time he had a great car, but was somehow a worse driver. It didn’t make any sense to him. 

His spiralling thoughts were stopped when he heard his phone continuously vibrate from the other side of the room, somewhere hidden under a pile of clothes. 

“Are people blowing up your phone with congratulations?” you asked amusingly. 

“No, it’s the PR team,” he said as he looked over his notifications, a confused look on his face. “We’ve gone viral again. It looks like I held your hand when you showed me the callouses from the crutches.” 

You did technically hold my hand, was what you wanted to say. You decided that staying quiet felt better. 

Lando regretted his wording as soon as he said it. He held your hand in a garage filled with cameras. He knew that. He was to blame for that. But was any harm done? 

“I don’t get how it’s always with you that it happens,” he mumbled nervously. 

He sat back down beside you, giving you a view of his phone screen. The photos were cute, if you were to be honest. But also blurry and obviously taken by someone who wanted to be sneaky. 

“Always? Meaning once before?” you questioned. 

That showed how little you were on social media. You didn’t know about anything other than the video from Melbourne. 

“No, there were also photos of me at the hospital when you broke your ankle,” Lando explained. 

The photos had been everywhere. He, and that orange car, at a hospital parking lot on a Friday evening. It was quite the headline for news outlets and gossip accounts. 

“Oh…” you said, visibly surprised. “I’m so sorry if it caused you problems to be seen with a girl in a slutty maid costume.”

For a second there, Lando could watch you go through the five stages of grief, all through your facial expressions. 

“You weren’t in the photos. It was just me and that… obnoxious car when I went back to get your bag,” he quickly added, calming your nerves. 

You nodded understandingly, feeling yourself get less tense. “Did you have to explain it to anyone?” 

“Thankfully not, I’m such a bad liar.” 

What would he need to lie about? 

Then you realised that someone like him probably couldn't just say that they drove a friend who had injured themselves. That would only lead to a million more questions. And, if he had said something — people would’ve been able to put two and two together as you showed up to the paddock with a cast and crutches. Maybe he was protecting you. 

You didn’t know what else to say to him now, meeting his bright eyes once again. They had this way of shining, even though he was sad. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but you were starting to wonder if you’d overstayed your welcome. 

Then Lando spoke again, his voice in a happier tone. “Has Jasmine mentioned Italy to you?” 

“Monza?”

“No, now before Hungary,” he replied. “Oscar and I have to represent McLaren at some charity auction, and I thought about inviting you as my plus one so that Jasmine doesn’t have to be alone if we have to work a lot.” 

The invitation was carefully phrased, and you recognised that. If you had been more sure about Jasmine’s ridiculous idea that Lando liked you, you would’ve made fun of him for dragging in Jasmine in his way of asking you to come with him. 

“Oh,” you mused. “I’d be a fool to say no, but there has to be other people that you’d rather go with.” 

Lando looked at you in confusion. 

“Like, don’t invite me just to do Jasmine a favour,” you continued.  

He finally broke into a smile, not being able to contain it anymore. You were clueless, and Lando found that hilarious. “It’s not like I hate your company, y’know?”

You chuckled. You hadn’t expected him to say something so direct. 

“Can I talk to Jazz about it first, before I decide?” 

Lando nodded softly. “Sure, I mean, the invite is yours anyway. If you don’t want to come, I’ll just go alone.”

You turned quiet again, looking him in the eyes as you took in what he’d said. The invitation was yours. He hadn’t ever thought of bringing someone else. Maybe he truly was doing Jasmine a favour. Maybe this was him sneakily making a move. He’d have to be a lot more upfront for you to catch on, though. 

A tension settled over the room, an eternity passing without anyone saying anything. The mood switched, and you both could tell. It was probably time for you to leave, yet the expectation to say that last little thing was there. The little thing that would leave him feeling better about himself. You wanted to linger in the doorway, or linger on the bench, you guessed. You wanted to say so much more. 

Oscar intruded by softly knocking on the already open door. 

“Oscar, hi!” you squeaked out of surprise, straightening your back to make space between you and Lando. 

“Your dad’s looking for you,” he explained, chuckling. 

“I guess I better go,” you said, standing up, finding balance with the help of your crutches. “You both should be proud of yourselves today, or every day for that matter.” 

Lando looked down at the floor as you left. He knew that whatever face Oscar put on or whatever sentence he formed, it would accuse Lando of being down bad for you. 

“Did you invite her to Italy?” 

“Yeah, she said she’ll talk to Jazz about it,” Lando mumbled, hiding his smile. 

You hadn’t immediately said yes, but that was almost his plan by dragging Jasmine into it. She wasn’t even supposed to come with them to Italy at first. But Lando wanted the four of them to do it together. It was a foolproof plan to get to spend some more time with you that wasn’t in a paddock nor in a hospital. 

“On another note,” Oscar said while he remembered it. “How the hell did you get her dad to come to a race?” 

“I don’t know… I just sent Bunny three passes?”  

“I’ve invited him to races since I was in F3 and he’s never once shown up,” Oscar began explaining. 

Lando scrunched his nose, unsure of where Oscar was going with his reasoning.  

“He’s a good man, funny even — but he does not like racing, at all,” he continued. 

Was Lando being stupid for not getting Oscar’s point? Lando couldn’t tell if he was being stupid. He probably was. 

Then, it finally clicked for Oscar. “You don’t know how her mum died, do you?” 

Lando could do nothing but slowly shake his head, his mouth slightly open out of confusion. He could tell that Oscar hesitated to tell him. Maybe he shouldn’t be telling your story, but he trusted Lando. 

“Alone, in a car crash. She died on impact. Bunny was 15 or so when it happened,” Oscar said gently, his face showing pity with a downturned smile. “Her dad has always told her not to come to races, in case someone crashes and it brings up bad memories for her.” 

Now, Lando was definitely being stupid, because it still didn’t click for him. It made him understand your mentality more — that you’d said you were impressed he got out of that car alive every weekend. Because you had, close up, lived through someone not making it out of a car — a car going nowhere near as fast. But what did that have to do with your father attending a race? 

“I think Bunny must’ve convinced him to come see you, specifically,” Oscar finally said. 

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

Lombardia, Italia

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“I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” you sighed, looking from the balcony out to the beautiful garden. 

Fruit trees, pink oleander, and pungent lavender. Beautiful limestone houses. It looked picturesque, like something out of a movie. Yet, you were unsure if you belonged there. 

“You’re spending the weekend in an Italian villa. That is what you’re doing,” Jasmine insisted, wrapping her arm around your shoulder. 

The house was gorgeous. The area was gorgeous. Everything was just perfect. And you felt undeserving of it. You’d gotten to take off your cast just in time for the trip. This was your moment to be selfish this summer. 

So, why the hell did you keep on questioning yourself?

“You’d have no stories to tell from this summer if it wasn’t for this trip. You need things to talk about when you go back to university, otherwise, you’ll make no new friends,” she then pointed out.

You hadn’t even thought of that. All your other friends had graduated. You still had six months of classes left because of your stupid lungs. You didn’t want to make new friends. You wanted to keep your old ones. 

You crossed your arms, looking up at your best friend with a pout. “I’ll let you know that me and Jane Austen have had a riveting summer thus far in my dad’s hammock.”

Doing just about anything with a broken ankle was impossible, so reading in the garden it was. 

“While you travel the world and go to races, I will always entertain you with hilarious Goodreads reviews,” you added. 

Jasmine shook her head disapprovingly. “I really don’t need to know even more nasty things that you would do to Mr. Darcy.”

Deep down, you knew she got a giggle out of getting a notification on her phone with a five star review only saying Mr. Darcy could raw me and nothing more. 

“Isn’t this going to be awkward though? It’s like we’re double dating all weekend!” 

“Would that be so bad?” Jasmine laughed, thinking that it was probably Lando’s plan all along. 

You realised quite quickly that Lando hadn’t lied about them having to work. During the day, they were off to the manor house that was hosting the auction, doing lord knows what. It was something about cars being auctioned off and sucking up to millionaires. 

You didn’t understand why this type of event even existed. It felt like the 2011 classic Monte Carlo with Selena Gomez. That was at least your only experience with auctions for rich people. 

While this one was for charity, it still only felt like a way for these millionaires to seem humble. They would’ve bought the cars anyway, it was only for their own conscience that the charities even mattered. Maybe you were being harsh. 

You and Jasmine at least got to spend some quality time with each other in the villa. You ate a long breakfast, cycled down to the city centre to try odd flavours of gelato, and went into cute little boutiques to find her a pair of heels to wear with her gown for the auction. 

Your dress was black, and so were your heels. That was how fun you were going to be. 

Truth be told, it was a prom dress that you hadn’t gotten to wear because of covid, so maybe you were a little excited to get all dolled up tomorrow night. 

When the boys got home for the day, they decided you all should take the bikes to a nearby lake. You didn’t have much of a say, packing a basket with antipasti for dinner. It was unbearably hot even though the sun had started to settle, so maybe going for a swim wasn’t the worst thing. 

As the four of you swooshed down Italian country roads on rusty borrowed bikes, Lando and you ended up in front of Jasmine and Oscar, going much faster than they did. Everything wasn’t a race, but some things definitely were. 

Oscar cycled closer to his girlfriend, asking her a question he’d been dying to ask all day. “Do we tell them something about how they are both madly infatuated with each other or will they figure it out on their own?” 

“I tried to tell Bunny, but she wouldn’t believe me. It’s like she doesn’t understand that people still find her attractive after she got sick,” Jasmine said. 

She didn’t know if she should sigh or laugh at your behaviour recently. She understood that your life had changed completely, but falling in love, or even just dating, shouldn’t be something to be scared about. Not when you had a boy acting like a fool right in front of your eyes. 

“So, we let Lando try and awkwardly flirt with her by himself? And watch Bunny be clueless about it?” Oscar laughed

“He has to be upfront at some point, right?” she responded. 

They probably wouldn’t have to wait long until Lando would scream in your face that he liked you. He had no filter left when it came to you. 

The lake was small, surrounded by a pebble beach. The water looked almost artificially teal, like natural sources of water tended to do. You’d never been to Italy before, but it was quickly becoming one of your favourite destinations. It was idyllic in ways you couldn’t have dreamt of. 

You threw the bikes in the grass and put out your beach towels close to the water. Feeling the pebbles under your bare feet and the sweet smell of sunscreen, you and Jasmine started to pack up your picnic basket.

There were almost no other people there, only seeing a family with children taking an evening swim on the other side of the lake. 

After eating a little, the boys tested the water, groaning about how cold it was, yet somehow getting in anyway. You still didn’t know what they had done during the day, but with their lifestyles, you guessed they always needed to find ways to relax. 

Jasmine rested on her towel with her nose in a book, recognising it as one you had rated highly on Goodreads. See, you knew she loved your reviews. She mumbled something about how the protagonist reminded her of you when you asked her if she was enjoying it. You took that as a good sign. 

You went down to the waterside, only dipping your toes in before deciding that it was way too cold for you to want to swim in it. Instead, you crouched down to look at the rocks, all round and polished from the water, in pretty green and coral shades. You’d already gotten Matteo a local football shirt as a souvenir, but you could definitely fit some cool rocks in your suitcase as well. 

Lando, zoning out from whatever Oscar was talking about next to him in the still water, tried to secretly keep his eye on you. He could catch a glimpse of a bright red bikini underneath the long, sheer white shirt you had on. His fondness had grown so large that even watching you pick pebbles warmed his heart. Or maybe that was the bikini’s doing. 

Jasmine could watch it all happen through the darkness of her sunglasses, having lost focus from her book. She furrowed her brows with concern. “Bunny, aren’t you warm?” 

Your hand subconsciously traced the edge of the your shirt collar, a faint smile forming on your lips. “Yeah, but I’ll scare the children away if I show the scar on my chest,” you replied, your tone light yet tinged with an undercurrent of insecurity. 

“It’s not that bad,” she said, promising, her eyes meeting yours as she tipped down her shades. 

You laughed a little in disbelief. “You haven’t seen it since they reopened it.” You were talking so loud that the boys in the water definitely could hear you. “I also hate touching it, so I don’t want to put sunscreen on.” 

Jasmine remembered the first time she saw your scar, a jagged reminder of the surgery that had saved your life. A long red line, right on your sternum, that had faded over time. But she hadn’t seen the new scar, the one left by the recent, unexpected procedure. 

“Don’t be such a wimp,” Jasmine urged, getting up from the towel, a bottle of sunscreen in her hand. “Get your shirt off and I’ll do it.” 

She knew you well enough to push you to do it. You would never get over this mental hurdle without people telling you that you looked fine. People had scars. That was the way life worked. 

You sighed, slowly fumbling with the shirt buttons as you tried to decipher Jasmine’s reaction. “See? It’s awful.” 

She shook her head, trying to keep a neutral face. It was worse than she thought, but she could never tell you that, because it hurt more than it helped. And it wasn’t like the scar tainted your entire being. You were still a gorgeous woman, in Baywatch-esque red bikini. That was an unstoppable combo.  

“It’s really not bad. It needs some more time to fade, that’s all,” Jasmine reassured you, having no problem with touching the uneven skin to apply sunscreen. 

You didn’t want to look at her hand as she did it, so you looked out over the lake, catching Lando’s surprisingly… odd gaze as he stood in the water next to Oscar. 

You hadn’t wanted to stare too much at him earlier, knowing that your head would get messed up if you saw him shirtless in swim shorts. But now, you couldn’t disregard the look on his face. 

“Lando, I saw that look. Just tell me that it’s bad,” you said, clearly still frustrated over the entire thing. 

Lando was shocked you were talking to him, struggling to find the words. 

“He’s staring at your tits, it’s totally different,” Oscar suddenly said, having kept quiet for too long. 

You almost didn’t know if you had heard him correctly, but Jasmine’s ringing laughter told you that it was true. Lando sternly said Oscar’s name before drenching him in water, a playful fight breaking out between the two of them, overshadowing what had just happened. 

That didn’t mean it left your mind, though. 

It was dark by the time you got back to the villa, stars hanging above you in the night sky. You knew it was the same sky as you had home in England, yet there was something much more magical about it this time. 

Jasmine and Oscar went to bed, but you had a few things to prepare for the auction. You wanted to paint your nails and do a face mask; maybe even get in an everything-shower to save time tomorrow. 

The night was still warm as you made your way out to the balcony in your nightgown, deciding that you might as well take advantage of the view while you painted your nails. The balcony felt like a secluded little sanctuary, bathed in a soft glow from the outdoor lighting and wafting in the breeze of the Italian countryside.  

Behind you, the glass door slid open with a soft creak, and you turned to see Lando stepping out onto the balcony, carrying what looked like a cup of tea. You’d thought he was asleep, the villa eerily quiet. 

He had an easy confidence about him — something you admired. Clad in a soft cotton t-shirt and sweatpants, the kind that looked threadbare and like the most comfortable fabric ever. His eyes silently asked you if it was okay for him to join you, and you nodded. He sat down across from you at the outdoor dining table. 

“Orange?” Lando asked softly, seeing the colour of the nail polish. 

“I thought it was papaya,” you joked, biting your tongue to not get it on your cuticles as you continued to paint. “I bought it for Silverstone but forgot to wear it.” 

Lando didn’t care. At least he told himself that he didn’t. You were just representing his team by carefully painting your nails orange. There was no need to get all mushy inside because of it. It wasn’t like it was permanent. Only a week or so of you thinking of him every time you saw your own hands. Maybe that was wishful thinking. Maybe you didn’t think of him. 

“I should’ve told you earlier, but you look great today,” he said like it was nothing, raising his cup to take a sip. 

He could tell that you were slightly baffled, a line forming between your eyebrows as you scrunched your nose in disbelief. “Scar and all?” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

Oscar had maybe been right about what Lando was looking at when you had asked him about the scar. They had overheard the entire conversation you had with Jasmine, so when he caught a glimpse of the scar, he had imagined something much worse. It truly wasn’t that bad. It at least didn’t steal his attention when you were standing in front of him in a bikini. 

For a moment, neither spoke, the silence filled only by the sounds of the night. Cicadas, a distant car, and birds chirping. Lights from neighbouring houses twinkled like scattered diamonds. 

“I don’t know if you wanted me to know, but Oscar told me about your mother,” Lando’s voice trembled, confessing it to you. His eyes searched your face for a reaction, a mixture of concern and vulnerability painted across his features.

You stared down at your painted nails, adding one last stroke before closing the bottle of polish. You were scared to look at him, unsure of how this conversation would play out. 

“It’s not really a secret, just a hard thing to tell people,” you replied softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

You somehow felt the warmth from Lando’s body even though there was a table’s length between you. His presence wasn’t uncomfortable to you, but the conversation certainly was. 

“Don’t pity me like I’m some motherless child. It’s really not that bad,” you continued, trying to keep your composure, the familiar ache in your chest making it hard to breathe. 

In moments like these, it was like you could feel your scar glowing, how the tight skin wanted to rip right open to help you take full breaths. 

A flicker of frustration crossed Lando’s face. 

He hated how you had said it — how you tried to downplay everything that had happened in your life. He understood that it was your way of coping, but your entire being basically screamed for the emotions to be let out. You were hypocritical, and he was tired. 

“It’s allowed to be bad. You were the one that told me that in Australia. You’re allowed to feel bad about things that are shit,” he insisted, his voice carrying a firmness that contrasted with the tenderness in his eyes.

His raw honesty sliced through your defenses. Your view of him blurred as tears filled your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Clearing your throat, you calmed yourself down. 

Lando wasn’t actually frustrated with you. It was more at the circumstances. He didn’t want to push you, and you didn’t want to upset him. It was just a very difficult conversation to have. 

“Do you ever have nightmares about crashing?” you asked, whispering. 

“No, not really,” he admitted.

If he was thinking about what might go wrong all the time, he wouldn't be able to continue driving. Racing showed some people horrible fates of life. The abundant success that could be archived was harvested by others.

It was all about finding a balance, about showing respect for the thing they put themselves through, but also overcoming it by showing no fear. 

Maybe it was different for you, Lando thought. Maybe you had already given in to the fear, because you’d get no success out of it no matter how hard you tried. You couldn’t get your mum back anyway.  

You took a deep breath before confessing. “I do. All the time.” 

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

The early morning sun filtered through his bedroom windows as Lando got out of bed. He’d slept like a king. The countryside was so quiet compared to Monaco and the cities he raced in. He stretched as he drew back the curtains, getting a view of the garden, and you. 

The conversation you had yesterday had left the both of you unsatisfied. Yet, neither wanted to push the other to really get to the bottom of the problem, 

This morning, however, you were waltzing through the garden on bare feet, a big bowl in one hand and a small ladder in the other one. The summer dress you were wearing blew with the breeze. You looked free. And slightly out of your mind, climbing a ladder to reach the fruit trees, without anyone keeping an eye on you.

Not that you needed supervision, but climbing a ladder could be dangerous. That was what Lando told himself as he rushed outside. 

“Oh god, please don’t fall down,” he said, voice laced with concern as he almost ran through the garden to get to you, keeping his steady hands on the ladder. 

You glanced down at him, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “It’s a stepladder, Lando. I’m one metre above the ground,” you reassured him.  

“Still, you should be careful,” he insisted.  

“I’ll break your nose if you look up my dress,” you warned. You weren’t serious, but Lando felt his cheeks flush anyway. “Do you want one?” you asked, referring to the fruit you were picking. 

“What is it even?”  

“I thought peaches at first, but they’re not hairy. Not small enough to be apricots but maybe hard enough to be nectarines, so that would be my guess.” 

You examined the fruit as you stepped down from the ladder, tossing one in the air before catching it again and placing it in the bowl. 

“Are you sure you’re still talking about fruit?”  

“Oh, shut up,” you laughed, rolling your eyes at the innuendo. 

You picked up a nectarine and took a bite, the sweet juice dribbling down your chin. “I made breakfast, but I assume you’re on the same diet as Oscar?” you asked, voice muffled by the mouthful of fruit.

Lando stared at you in awe, taking way too long before nodding. 

“Well then, I guess you can watch me eat while you stick to oatmeal,” you replied playfully. 

As the sun rose above the horizon, casting a warm amber glow over the cosy balcony, you and Lando sat by the outdoor furniture, eating your breakfast. The air filled with a scent of fresh coffee and the sweet nectarines. You ate them with yoghurt and honey, and Lando was totally jealous. 

You didn’t say much to each other. It wasn’t really necessary. The world around you started to wake up, but on that little balcony, it felt like time had slowed down just for you two. 

Lando turned to you, curiosity in his eyes. “Why do people call you Bunny?” He’d wanted to ask you that for quite some time.  

“It’s quite a sad story, to be honest,” you began, swallowing what was left of your breakfast. 

He almost regretted his question immediately. He hadn’t even thought about how a cute nickname like yours could be from a sad memory. You watched as Lando’s expression softened, his eyes encouraging you to continue. 

“Matteo stayed a lot at our grandparent’s house after mum died, because… well, life happened,” you explained, your orange fingernails tracing the rim of your coffee mug. “Since he was so young, he hadn’t really understood the fact that I was his sister, so I instead became the girl he would visit from time to time who owned a pet bunny.” 

Lando leant his elbows on the table, captivated by your way of talking, his interest piqued. 

“And Bunny was easier for him to pronounce than my actual name,” you continued, a faint smile forming on your lips. 

“You had a bunny?”

“Yeah, his name was Taco,” you laughed, your smile growing more genuine. 

He chuckled softly at the name. You would name a pet Taco, that was just the kind of person you were. 

“Do you like having it as a nickname?” Lando inquired, his tone gentle again. 

“I don’t mind it,” you shook your head. “Matteo doesn’t say it anymore, but it’s… it’s different when other people say it.” 

It’s different when you say it, Lando. 

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

“You’re drooling, mate,” Oscar’s voice laughed from behind him as they got out of the cars. 

“I am not,” Lando protested, but Oscar only shook his head. 

He wasn’t fooling anyone as he watched you and Jasmine step out on the front porch, dressed to the nines, ready for the auction. 

Oscar and him had picked up the two cars that were being auctioned off while you got ready. It was important that they were seen driving the cars up to the manor house as they arrived, and you and Jasmine were supposed to be arm candy. It felt both below and above your worth. 

You laughed as you saw the cars, shiny and polished McLaren’s. You didn’t care enough to know the models, you just knew they were worth millions. 

Jasmine walked down to Oscar with ease in her high heels, a beautiful burnt orange satin gown on her body. You watched as he greeted her with a kiss, feeling both a sense of pride and also some loneliness in your stomach. 

Your feet already hurt from your own heels. Something wasn’t entirely right since you broke your ankle, but you would have to suffer through it. 

Lando walked up to the porch, casually keeping his hands in the pockets of his well-fitted black suit. The white shirt he had on underneath probably had one too many buttons undone. Not that you were complaining, it looked gorgeous in contrast with his tan skin. He looked gorgeous. 

You were dressed in all black, apart from your orange nail polish. Your gown with a perfectly poofy tulle skirt and a flattering balconette corset top. You looked delectable, and Lando had a hard time hiding that.  

“Don’t look at me like that,” you said seriously to him. 

“Like what?” Lando replied, feigning innocence as he took your hand to help you down the front porch stairs. 

Like you’re falling in love with me.

“Like this is some early 2000s rom-com and I’m the nerdy girl who’s just gotten a makeover by a more popular girl,” you replied, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress the smile tugging at your lips.

He gave a genuine laugh, the kind that could only bring a smile to your face. He wanted to respond with some cliché statement about how it was only fitting since you looked like a movie star, but he remained silent.

Lando helped you into the car like a real gentleman, while Oscar and Jasmine got into the other one. The drive was two minutes at most. 

“Did you have a dress like that lying around?” he asked, fastening his seatbelt. 

You nodded, moving your hands over your lap to smooth out the fabric. “It’s a prom dress that I never got to use because of covid.” 

A spark lit up in Lando’s eyes. “I never got to have a prom either, y’know.” 

A moment of silence passed between them, the weight of missed milestones hanging heavy in the air. You assumed it was because he hadn’t really gone to school like a normal kid, too busy with karting. Then, with a sudden burst of determination, Lando revved the engine. 

“Come on, let’s treat this night like prom.” 

The manor house was bigger than anything you’d ever seen before. You couldn’t grasp it — the multiple stories, the annex buildings, the beautiful and meticulous gardens. It was all too much for you. 

Lando pulled up to park the car next to the grand entrance, handing the keys to the valet before coming to open the door for you. You were met with camera flashes as soon as you stepped out. It wasn’t paparazzi, thank god — only photographers hired for the event.  

Lando didn’t dare to hold your hand in front of the cameras, this time. He settled with a hand on your lower back as you made your way inside after Jasmine and Oscar. 

The auction was held in a grand hall — no, a conservatory. It had a glass roof. It was filled with decorations, floral arrangements, and candle lights. A stage was built by the end of the room, which you assumed would be where they auctioned things off. 

It was also filled with people, dressed in sharp suits and colourful gowns. It looked photoshopped with how perfect it was. Not a thing out of place nor a person behaving oddly. Except for you, of course. You did not belong here. 

“What are they compensating for? Tiny cocks?” you whispered for only Jasmine to hear as you took in the room. This was bonkers. 

“The tiniest of cocks,” she snorted under her breath. 

Oscar and Lando did have to work — work the room that was, mingling and sucking up to people with big wallets. 

You and Jasmine made your way around as well, albeit much slower and with less intention. You talked to some people, drank some champagne, and eyed the canapés being served around. It didn’t look like anyone was eating, so you didn’t want to be the odd one out. You already were. So, now you were both odd and starving. 

You also eyed the objects up for auction. It was jewellery, cars, and destination vacations in places you’d never heard of. All in favour of some charity that was hardly mentioned once. Was this just a rich person shopping spree without the guilt of overconsumption? 

Lando kept looking across the room for you, his eyes always seeming to find you within seconds. And you found him to, sharing smiles or joking faces, saying get me out of here. 

It wasn’t possessive — it was more of a secret bond that existed right there in time and space, going unnoticed by everyone but the two of you. 

The bond was broken when a man approached you. Lando didn’t recognise him, but he already despised him. He was flirting with you; that would be obvious to anyone but you. You didn’t necessarily look uncomfortable. It seemed more like you found the conversation he tried to have with you pointless. 

You were so oblivious to the impact you had on men, or maybe on all people in general. It made him want to set himself on fire. The itchy feeling inside of him, telling him to scream for everyone in the room to hear — that you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. And that you should be talking to him, and only him. Not some suave-looking asshole in an ill-fitting suit. God, you made him stupid. More stupid than normal. 

As Lando’s thoughts spiralled, you somehow got out of the conversation, swiftly making your way across the room and out of a door that he thought led to the garden. Or one of the gardens. This place was huge. 

He had things to do inside, people to talk to — but for a moment, he came to his senses and said fuck it. He needed to know if you were alright. 

His assumption that the door led to a garden was correct. The evening light cast a silvery glow over it, a tranquil contrast to the busy ballroom. From a distance, he saw you take a seat in an old stone gazebo, covered with ivy. You bent down to unclasp your heels. 

Lord, was he about to risk it all. 

His steps over the gravel path made you hear him, and he couldn’t help but feel busted. 

“Mind if I sit down?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. 

You shook your head, gesturing with your hand to the space beside you. He sat down, shyly looking at his hands in his lap. On the bench, he saw what he thought was the reason you had come out here, besides that man talking to you. Dessert. Two of them in little ramekins, but only one spoon. 

Lando breathed in the silence before hastily asking you what had been on his mind.

“Who was the man you were talking to?”

“Some stuck up think-tank-bitcoin-billionaire,” you huffed. “He asked me if my company was up for auction.” 

It wasn’t company as in a business. It was company as in your time of day. Or time of night more likely. He was asking to spend the night with you. Would audibly gagging be too improper of a reaction? Lando had to fight himself to not do it. 

“What was your answer?” he wondered, trying to keep his cool. 

Your lips turned into a smug smile. “That it’s free for people who deserve it, and then I walked away.” 

Lando chuckled, liking the fact that you showed a sense of pride with your actions. “Do I deserve your company?” 

“Haven’t asked you to leave yet, that should tell you something,” you mumbled, shrugging your shoulders.  

Lando nodded, scrunching his nose, a pink tint on his cheeks forming from the crisp air.

No, he was blushing. It wasn’t even cold outside. 

“Have you had fun otherwise?” He cleared his throat, making the conversation about something else. 

“I don’t know. I feel like a fraud, like I don’t belong,” you shrugged, fingers nervously fidgeting with the hem of your dress. “I think I might have convinced multiple people in there that I’m a communist, just because I was raised with a working-class perspective on things.” 

Lando suppressed his laughter for it to not be too loud. You saw his eyes crinkle at the corners.  

“This entire thing just feels performative to me,” you added. 

“Oh, it totally is,” he agreed. 

You glanced back at the manor, hearing the sound of voices in the distance. Your face reflected a mixture of amazement and discomfort. “And don’t get me started on the way people look,” you began again. “My mascara smudged and my dress got wrinkled the minute I stepped into that humid room, yet everyone else continues to look flawless.” 

Lando thought about interrupting you, saying that you still looked flawless to him. Or maybe you didn’t, and that was the best part. He understood your point fully, though. 

You shook your head as you continued, a bitter sigh escaping your lips. “And I can’t walk in heels since I broke my ankle, and my dress shows my scar, and I’m just… being a miserable little twat.”  

You dropped your shoulders, looking down at your bare feet as your heels were on the ground next to them. It hadn’t even crossed Lando’s mind, the shoes nor the scar, but it made sense that you didn’t feel confident about it. That he thought you should be confident wouldn’t exactly change your mind. 

“Oh! And they don’t eat,” you hastily pointed out. “They just hold the food and look pretty.” 

That was definitely true. He knew that you couldn’t eat yourself full at functions like this. His own empty stomach was a testament to that. 

“Is that why you came out here with two desserts and one spoon?” he questioned, containing his laughter to not come across as judgmental. 

You giggled. “Have you seen Amélie?” 

Lando shook his head no. 

“It’s a movie. It doesn’t really matter, but one of the main character’s favourite things in life is cracking the sugar on a crème brûlée, and I… think I agree with that,” you explained, grabbing one of the ramekins and carefully smashing the caramelised surface.  

It made a slight sound. Your eyes lit up as you looked at it. “See? Did you hear that?” 

He couldn’t help but grin at your reaction. 

“Try the other one,” you urged, handing him the spoon.  

He had tried crème brûlée before but never in this way. Never with someone telling him about how it was the best thing in life. As he cracked the sugar, he laughed so hard he felt his chest vibrate. 

He knew he couldn’t eat the dessert because of his diet, but seeing you take a spoonful was almost satisfactory enough. 

“Your mind is so… special,” he smiled in disbelief. He didn’t know what he was saying anymore, he just knew he needed you to hear it. “I don’t get how the universe could’ve created you.” 

Your smile faded as your laughter turned quiet. “Is that a compliment?” 

“In the highest form, Bunny,” Lando insisted. 

He didn’t know how to read your reaction, your sudden silence was a shock for him. Had he ruined a perfect moment by saying too much? That’s when he saw it, the tears pooling in your waterline as you fought with yourself to not let them fall. 

Lando was a soft mess in seconds. “A-are you crying because I complimented you?” 

“I’m sorry,” you said, trying to laugh but your voice came out hoarse. 

“Don’t cry, it’s alright,” Lando said softly, reaching out to wipe the tears away from your face, gently cupping your cheek with his palm.

He crossed a line as he did, moving closer to you than ever before. 

You knew where this was going, and you weren’t prepared for it at all.

“I just…” You were full on crying now. “I have no idea who I am, and this environment really showed me that.” 

Your lack of confidence broke his heart. Things had really piled up on top of each other to now finally get to you. A stupid auction being your downfall, the thing that made you realise how much your life had put you through. 

“I can’t get a degree, I can’t do musicals, and I definitely cannot fit in here. I have no way of being the girl that you want me to be, Lando,” you sobbed, your breathing picking up as your hands gesticulated out of pure panic. 

Your words hung heavy over the garden, suffocatingly, as you honestly believed them to be painfully true.

“Hey… don’t say that,” Lando tried to comfort, grabbing ahold of your hands to stop you moving, centering your focus. “You have no idea what I want from you.”  

“I want to hear you laugh at my stupid jokes. I want to feel your painted nails when you hold my hand. I want to see you get all giddy over a crème brûlée,” he listed things as they came to mind.

The warmth from his hands surrounded you as you let yourself relax, exhaling loudly. 

“I want you to linger in every possible goddamned doorway you can find,” Lando continued, looking you deeply in the eyes. “That’s all. Nothing more.” 

You were so close that he could see how colours reflected in your eyes. He liked you in ways he didn’t know was possible — for the little things that he’d never thought about before with other people. He couldn’t think clearly anymore. He didn’t want to think clearly. Lando hesitated, his eyes searching yours, as if seeking permission. 

You knew where this was going, and you weren’t prepared for it at all.

He scanned your face, his gaze finally landing on your lips. You were waiting for him to move, for him to lean in, because you were too scared to do it yourself. But you wanted him to do it. You wanted it more than anything else. 

But all of a sudden, the lust in his expression turned into concern, and you felt something wet drip down on your upper lip. Blood. 

“Oh, fuck.” Your hands flew to your face, trying to stop the blood from dripping further.

Of course this would happen now. You were cursed, after all. What were you thinking? A pretty boy could not just kiss you. The universe had decided that happiness wasn’t for you. 

“Let me help—” Lando said, trying to get a hold of you to stay still, but you had already stood up. 

You moved to pick up your shoes, and Lando sat frozen in his spot. “I’m gonna walk back to the villa, you stay and do your rich person duties,” your voice cracked as you said it, taking a step back to avoid his proximity. You had panic written all over your face and blood on your hands. 

Lando’s emotions finally caught up with him as he too stood up to try and stop you. “Bunny, please! Don’t go, let’s talk about this,” he pleaded, hearing how pathetic he sounded. But he felt like he had no choice. 

You recoiled further away from him, your eyes glistening with tears as you started to walk, your bare feet over gravel, heels swinging from your hands. 

He couldn’t understand — how you’d gone from laughing about crème brûlées, to crying, to almost kissing each other, and then to you getting a nosebleed. He also couldn’t understand how he had let you get away. Fuck, was he stupid. 

His thoughts got interrupted by the sound of someone running on the gravel. He met Jasmine’s worried eyes, contemplating if she should just murder Lando now. 

“Did she just leave? What did you do?” 

Lando could only shake his head, running a hand through his hair, the gesture portraying his inner turmoil. “I didn’t do anything…” he muttered, sighing loudly. “I was about to kiss her, and then she got a nosebleed all of a sudden.” 

Oscar came walking after Jasmine, just close enough to hear what Lando said. “That’s so typical of her,” he breathed out, baffled at how you always managed to almost comically mess things up.

Jasmine rubbed her temples. “Are the two of you actually fucking stupid?” she questioned angrily before yelling, “Lando, don’t just stand there. Go after her!” 

“To do what? Get rejected again?” he gesticulated with his hands in defeat, feeling his voice crack. His own tears had started to form. 

Jasmine looked back at him like he was stupid. Lando was stupid. That was a fact he now knew.  

“To clean up the blood and then actually fucking kiss her — because she did not reject you, she’s just scared!” Jasmine shot back, an intensity in her eyes that made Lando listen. “All she knows is fear, and falling in love with you hasn’t exactly helped with that.” 

He was stuck, his feet glued to the floor, the weight of Jasmine’s words hit him like a punch in the stomach. Falling in love — that was what the two of you were doing. Lando had been too blinded by his own infatuation to realise that you were scared of it — scared of that stability because your life hadn’t been stable for years. You truly believed yourself to be cursed. 

Fuck, was he stupid. He needed to fix this, and that was quick.

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

He left the auction, Oscar assuring him that he could handle the rest of the night alone. The villa was quiet when Lando returned. He didn’t know what he should say when he saw you. He didn’t even know what kind of mood you’d be in. 

For a moment, he stopped in the hallway with all the bedrooms. Your door was open, a faint yellow light seeping through. He heard you moving around, the tap running in your en suite bathroom. That made him dare to move, to stand in your doorway. 

Your room was a bit messy from earlier when you were getting ready, your suitcase basically turned inside out. Your dress was tossed on the floor, next to your heels. A small red stain could be seen on the beige soles. 

Suddenly, you exited the bathroom. Your face was washed clean from makeup and blood, and you were wearing an oversized sleep shirt, reaching your mid-thigh. 

You stopped abruptly when you saw him, first shocked, then annoyed. He had no right to use your own methods against you, even though you knew he was right. Whatever he’d said to you, he would be right. 

“Now is not the time to be lingering in some fucking doorway, Norris,” you snapped, more to mask your own panic than anything else. 

You walked up to the door with determined steps, your fingers hovering over the doorknob. Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as you clenched your fists, nails biting into your palms.

“I’m not letting you close that door, Bunny,” he said softly, but with an edge of determination, placing his hand on the door so it couldn’t move. 

“I don’t want to hear what you have to say,” you insisted, shaking your head as if to physically ward off his words.

Lando’s eyes softened, the frustration melting away to reveal an expression of raw sincerity. “Doesn’t that defy the point? Your mother’s entire idea with teaching you to linger?” 

“Don’t,” you whispered. He had no right to bring up your mother. 

“We might be dead tomorrow, but you won’t hear me out?” 

“Don’t say that,” you pleaded through gritted teeth, tightly closing your eyes to even bear with your emotions. 

“Why won’t you let me tell you that I like you?” 

He dropped the bomb. He had no option but to confess it to you. It was the scariest thing he’d ever done, yet when it was out there in the open, a weight was off his shoulders. This was meant to go this way. 

You opened your eyes. “Because I’ll screw this up like I always do!” you choked out, voice thick with unshed tears. “I got a nosebleed when you tried to kiss me. I told you — it’s like I’m fucking cursed!”

“Something always gets in the way of me and good things,” you continued. 

“I’m a good thing?” he whispered, but it almost echoed in the quiet room.

“That’s what you got from that?” you cried, looking up at him through wet eyelashes. “You don’t understand. Everything good that comes into my life, I mess up. I can’t even be normal around you because I’m so afraid of ruining it!”

“Because that’s the only thing that matters — that we like each other, that our feelings are mutual,” Lando explained like it was simple. “You’re not cursed. You’re just human. And so am I. We’re allowed to mess up, to be scared, to get nosebleeds at the worst possible moments.”

He took your hand, basically shaking as he held it. You didn’t move away. You let him hold you. You let him closer. 

“Or… if you are cursed, then I’ll start carrying a first aid kit,” Lando continued with a small smile, moving his free hand to wipe your cheek clean from tears. 

You let out a surprised snort, the sound mingling with your sobs. It was a ridiculous notion, yet somehow, it made perfect sense.

“Can I try kissing you again?” he softly wondered, a semblance of hope in his voice.

Lando watched as you started to smile at the question, nodding slowly. “Please, kiss me.”  

He brought both his hands up to your cheeks, your eyes intensely locking for a moment before he softly leant closer, his lips meeting yours in a featherlight connection.

The kiss was sweet. Softer than what you would’ve expected. It was also quite telling of all the emotions that you both harboured inside, finally being set free. 

Lando kissed you like it was important, like his life depended on you knowing how much it meant to him — like the two of you would never need another form of communication to tell each other things. This was for you to know that calling yourself cursed was just stupid. You were scared, that’s all. But you didn’t have to be scared anymore. 

He was the one to break the kiss, his breath hot against your face as he grinned. “See? Not cursed.” 

That was enough to get you laughing, turning your head down to lean against his chest as you let out a pathetic giggle. No blood, no broken bones, no compromised breathing. Okay, maybe your breathing was a little off, but that was to be expected after kissing someone. 

For a long, hazy moment, the two of you simply stared into each other’s eyes. How you ended up on the bed passed in a blur, the only thing your mind could focus on was Lando’s hands on your body. His lips back on yours. 

The kissing quickly grew fevered and devoted, his tongue exploring your mouth, neck, and chest as you melted against him and the soft mattress, your fingers clutching around him. He took away all of your thoughts, every lingering worry or doubt completely removed. Insecurities too, gone with the wind. 

He was breathless when he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. You fiddled with your fingers to undo the buttons on his shirt, revealing a landscape of freckled tan skin before your eyes. His palms moved over your hips, up your waist, cupping the underside of your breasts through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. 

As he moved to take off your shirt, you froze. Lando stopped in his tracks, waiting for you to say something. 

“The scar,” you said. “It makes me feel… weak, and I don’t want you to treat me like I’m weak.” 

Weak was the last word Lando would use to describe you. But he also understood. 

“I don’t have to see it. It’s alright like this if that’s what makes you comfortable,” he explained softly. 

You nodded, deciding on keeping your shirt on as you watched Lando remove his own. He was perfect, and you were you. Maybe that was enough. 

Lando caged you beneath him again, crawling over you, leaving sloppy kisses on your face, arms, and over the fabric of your shirt. The kisses ended with him biting your lower lip as his hands found home in a tight grip on your hips, the lace edge of your underwear tickling his palms. 

“Can I go down on you?” he whispered. His eyes looked for permission to continue, and you nodded, messily kissing him back.

He lowered back down your body again, his strong hands absentmindedly massaging the plush skin of your thighs, before finding the waistband of your panties, pulling them off you in a slow motion. He nestled between your legs, not breaking eye contact. 

You almost felt cold by being naked, even though the room was delightfully warm. You wanted to cringe at what his sight of you must be like, but he didn’t give you a chance to do so, a string of praise words falling from his mouth. 

As each word was said, he spread your wetness through your folds with a feathery movement of his fingers. Lando brushed your clit with a light touch, taking in your reaction before dipping his fingers into the pooling wetness.

“P-please, Lando, oh fuck—” Your voice was wrecked as you grew desperate for more. 

He grinned at your words as his face met your heat, leaving kisses around it before finally touching the part where you needed him the most. “So pretty,” he mumbled against you, kissing your clit. That made your brain short circuit. 

You reached down to push the curls of his forehead as he delved in, softly bringing you pleasure. Sucking on your clit with intention while his fingers curled deeper into you, his free hand gripping at your thigh, certain to leave crescent-shaped imprints from his fingernails as your soft skin spilled out between his fingers.

You truly did look pretty, though — through Lando’s eyes. With the evening glow of the sun shining through the windows and the white linen bedding surrounding your body, you looked angelic. As your shirt rode up, your stomach was revealed. He loved seeing your skin. Nipples pebbled through the t-shirt, hair dishevelled, skin gleaming from a thin layer of sweat. You made him painfully hard by just lying there, letting him taste you. 

“I’m—” You couldn’t get the words out, voice choking on your own moans, but Lando knew to increase the intensity. 

You were a fucking mess when you finished, letting that hazy feeling completely take over, whimpering his name out like it was the sweetest thing. He kept on babying your clit with the tip of his tongue until you tugged at his hair, lifting his face. He could’ve gone on forever if you’d let him. 

“Come up here,” you urged him, your voice shaky. You watched him lick his glossy lips, running a hand up your body in a soothing manner before collapsing next to you. 

“You should see how breathtaking you look right now,” he exhaled, looking at you with your face flushed and your eyes glossed over. You stared at him so deeply, catching your breath, as you realised you couldn’t decide what eye colour he had. They shifted from green, to blue, to brown. Fuck, you were spent. 

You thought for a while, and Lando could see it on your face, a mischievous grin forming on your lips before your hands moved down his stomach, stopping by his belt buckle. He let you undo it, your bottom lip nestled between your teeth as you teasingly looked up at him.

Already worked up from before, he moaned as you started to palm him over his trousers.

“I’m not gonna last if you do that,” Lando gasped, holding your hand still with a tight grip around your wrist. 

“Take them off, then,” you simply answered, earning a laugh. 

He couldn’t say no to that, moving awkwardly to get both trousers and underwear off as quickly as possible. He then settled closer to you, having you basically wrap your legs around him, clinging like a koala. You shared a look between each other, making sure that this was okay. It was so much more than okay. This felt necessary, like you were meant to do it. 

“I’m on the pill, so this is fine by me,” you explained to him, a tremble in your voice by having him so close to you. 

He kissed you before he did anything else, settling your nerves. Feeling your bodies mould together, creating a common heat. He glided himself through your folds, touching your already stimulated clit. As an act of desperation, you moved your hips lower, grinding against him. 

“You okay?” he chuckled. 

You hummed against the skin on his shoulder, playfully nibbling as you kissed him all over. His eyes met yours as he pushed into you, waiting patiently to see your reaction to the light stretch. You nodded, your breath hitching as he began moving more purposefully. 

The slow drags set of sparks of pleasure within you, so intense your eyes rolled back. You weren’t sure what kind of noises left your body, uncontrollable with the pleasure. Hearing Lando moan deeply into your ears made you feel less unsure.  

Completely intoxicated, you tried your best to take it all in. You focused on the golden shimmer in his eyes, the scattered freckles on his face, and the scar on his nose. It was so warm, and wet, feeling him thrust inside of you. You didn’t know what to do with your hands again, just desperately spreading them over his back to his shoulders. Your sharp nails were destined to leave claw marks. 

“Faster, baby,” you breathed out, ready for more. 

You felt Lando grin against your cheek as he heard the pet name. It had completely slipped out on accident, but that didn’t mean it drove him any less crazy. You felt him grip your body harder as he fucked up into you.

“Doing so well for me,” he moaned out your name. “C’mon, Bunny, let me see how pretty you are when you come again.”  

A litany of moans filled the room, from the both of you. That, along with the sounds of your bodies crashing together, made you fucking delirious. You were close, so close. You wanted to feel that feeling again, of him bringing you to the end.

You shamelessly used him as you felt the familiar fire spread through your veins. He wasn’t long after, almost lifting your body to get you closer to him as he finished. His moans were slow and shaky as he rested his lips on your forehead.

His hips lost all rhythm as he spilled into you, his cock twitching inside you while he slowly pumped you full of his release, thrusting several times as he rode it out. You wanted to memorise the guttural sounds and the tremble of his face muscles as he reached the ultimate high. 

“We’re a mess,” he commented, burying his face into the crook of your neck. 

You let out a small chuckle. “Stay still for a second,” you ordered him as you relaxed in his hold. Both of you sighed at the sensation of him filling you up completely. You would enjoy this feeling of having him as close as humanly possible for as long as he let you.

“I don’t ever want to move.” he murmured against your hair.

You caught your breaths in unity, staying close together without saying much more. You didn’t need to. Lando knew that all his future dreams would take place here, lying quietly next to you, in your own sacred heaven. You two, sharing heavy breathing and sighs, after delicately bruising each other’s bodies. 

He looked you deep in your eyes, seeing how tired you were, but solidifying what was once a doubt for you. He looked at you like you were a risk worth taking. A river worth wading. A river worth drowning in. 

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Lando woke up the morning after feeling well rested, in a bed that was warm and the sheets scented by you. He felt you moving next to him as he came out of his slumber, mumbling something about it being too hot and how you had forgotten to open the window before falling asleep. 

He didn’t understand how you felt hot when all he felt was ice cold as you left him alone in bed. The room got brighter as you moved the curtains, opening a window to let in the outside air. He opened his eyes to see you, back turned against him, stretching your body to wake up. A grin plastered on his face. He was painfully happy. 

You moved to wrap your arms around yourself, lifting the hem of the shirt you’d slept in. As you pulled it over your body, Lando got a view of your entire being. He was certainly awake now. Naked, your skin glowed golden technicolour from the sunlight, in stark contrast to the white room. 

You knew exactly what you were doing as you slowly turned around. 

“Just look at you…” Lando exhaled. “Fucking gorgeous, Bunny.” 

In seconds, you were back in bed next to him, pulling the bedding up to hide your face. 

“Gonna act all shy now?” he teased, chuckling. 

As you peeked back out, Lando was quick to get closer to you. He hovered over you as his hands found your body. 

He didn’t even have to tell you — your lips already parting as his thumb caressed your cheek, moving closer to your mouth. You took his thumb in your mouth, softly sucking as it rested on your tongue. You saw how his eyes fluttered at the feeling, gently removing it to press a passionate kiss to your wet lips. 

Lando was hesitant to let his hands wander lower, softly cupping your breasts and littering your sternum with open-mouthed kisses. His fingertips lightly pinched the sensitive peaks of your nipples, as he looked up at you through tired eyes, always wanting your reassurance, as his lips got close to the scar. 

You nodded gently, allowing him to kiss it. You didn’t like touching the scar, but somehow, you had no issue when his mouth did it. He kissed it gently before moving to kiss your nipple. He smiled with pride at the breathy gasp you let out as he placed his mouth on you. You were practically whining at the pressure of him sucking at your skin. 

He released you after a moment, lying down next to you. He felt your heartbeat through your chest as his head rested on top of your breast, softly padded by the plush skin. You looked down at him with joy, placing a finger under his chin so he was looking right back at you. 

Slowly, your fingers traced his face. He smiled at your orange nail polish. You took your time tracing the bridge of his nose, stopping when you got to the little mark he had right across it. He had his scars too. 

“My heart hurts,” you groaned quietly, as you ran your fingers through his hair. 

“Huh? Are you serious?” he mumbled against the skin of your chest. 

“It’s a dull ache, a desire almost,” you explained, and Lando understood your point. 

“I think it’s contagious,” Lando smiled. He let the words linger in the air before adding, “You should come with me to Hungary after this.” 

You sighed, realising how hard it would be to say no to him in the future. “I don’t go back to uni for another couple of weeks, so…” 

“I’m buying you a plane ticket right now,” he said, reaching for his phone, but your hands stopped him. 

“No,” you said. 

For a second, Lando started to second-guess everything. 

“Join me in the shower first.” 

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Thank you for reading ♡ Feedback is well appreciated!

[hanibalistic]

death evasion boy // two negatives make one positive. two deaths make one life. mark lee is accident prone. every time you see him in purgatory, you hunt him down and send him back by killing him.

[pucksandpower]

War Is Over

Lewis Hamilton x Rosberg!Reader

Summary: Lewis parks his car … right into his best friend-turned-nemesis’ little sister (and somehow reunites Brocedes in the process)

Warnings: descriptions of serious injury

Note: the fact that he not only won a race again but it was his home race … this calls for a Lewis Hamilton fic 🥹

The Monaco sun glints off sleek sports cars lining the streets as Lewis navigates his Mercedes through the winding roads. He’s running late for dinner with some sponsors and the traffic is only making things worse.

Lewis mutters under his breath, “Come on, come on. Just need to park this thing ...”

He spots an open space in front of the restaurant and starts to maneuver in, glancing at his watch. The ticking seconds only increase his frustration.

“Bloody hell, why is parking always such a nightmare here?”

Lewis throws the car into reverse, not bothering to look behind him. He’s done this a thousand times before. What could possibly go wrong?

The sickening thud comes a split second before he slams on the brakes. His heart leaps into his throat as he whips around, praying he just hit a trash bin or something.

But the crumpled form on the ground is undeniably human.

“Oh God, oh God, no ...” Lewis fumbles with his seatbelt, hands shaking as he bursts out of the car. “Please be okay, please be okay ...”

He drops to his knees beside the prone figure, a young woman with long hair obscuring her face. Blood is already pooling beneath her head.

“Miss? Can you hear me?” Lewis gently brushes the hair back, and his world stops.

It’s you. Nico’s little sister. The girl he’s known since she was in pigtails, cheering from the sidelines at their early karting races.

Lewis’ jaw drops open as the full horror of what he’s done sinks in. “Y/N? Oh God, Y/N, please wake up!”

He cradles your head, heedless of the blood staining his designer shirt. Your eyes remain closed, skin alarmingly pale.

“Someone call an ambulance!” Lewis shouts, his voice cracking with panic. “Please, somebody help!”

A crowd starts to gather, murmurs of shock and recognition rippling through them. Lewis barely notices, focused solely on your still form.

“Y/N, come on, open your eyes. Please, you have to be okay,” he pleads, gently patting your cheek. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you, I swear I didn’t mean to ...”

Your eyelids flutter, a soft groan escaping your lips. Lewis nearly sobs with relief.

“That’s it, that’s it. Can you hear me? It’s Lewis. You’re going to be alright.”

Your eyes open, unfocused and confused. “Lewis? What ... what happened?”

“Don’t try to move, okay? There was an accident. Help is on the way.”

You try to sit up, wincing in pain. “My head ...”

“Shh, just stay still. I’ve got you.” Lewis supports your shoulders, keeping you from moving too much.

“Did ... did you hit me with your car?” Your voice is small, disbelieving.

Lewis swallows hard. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t see you, I swear. God, Y/N, I would never ...”

You manage a weak smile. “Always knew you’d be the death of me, Hamilton.”

Despite everything, Lewis can’t help but chuckle. “Don’t joke about that. You scared me half to death.”

“Sorry to ruin your evening,” you mumble, eyes starting to drift closed again.

“Hey, hey, stay with me.” Lewis gently taps your cheek. “Keep those eyes open, okay? Talk to me.”

You force your eyes open. “About what?”

“Anything. Tell me ... tell me what you’re doing in Monaco. Are you visiting Nico?”

You shake your head slightly, then wince. “No, I ... I moved here. Got a job at the yacht club.”

“Really? That’s great. When did that happen?”

“Few months ago. Needed ... needed a change of scenery.”

Lewis nods, desperately trying to keep you engaged. “I get that. Monaco’s beautiful. Although the parking situation leaves something to be desired,” he adds wryly.

You manage a weak laugh, then grimace. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Lewis glances around anxiously. “Where’s that damn ambulance?”

As if on cue, sirens wail in the distance. Lewis breathes a sigh of relief.

“Help’s coming, Y/N. Just hang on a little longer, okay?”

You nod slightly, eyes becoming unfocused again. “Lewis?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tell Nico.”

Lewis’ heart clenches. “Y/N ...”

“Please. He’ll kill you. And then me. For being stupid enough to walk behind a car without looking.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Lewis insists. “I should have checked my mirrors. I was distracted, rushing ...”

You shake your head stubbornly. “Promise me. Don’t tell him.”

Lewis hesitates. “Y/N, I can’t just ...”

“Promise,” you repeat, gripping his arm with surprising strength.

Lewis sighs. “Okay, okay. I promise. But he’s going to find out eventually.”

“Let me handle it. When I’m not ... you know. Bleeding on the pavement.”

The ambulance pulls up, paramedics jumping out. Lewis reluctantly moves aside to let them work, hovering anxiously.

“Sir, can you tell us what happened?” One of the paramedics asks as they begin assessing your injuries.

Lewis runs a hand through his hair. “I ... I hit her with my car. I was backing up and didn’t see her. It was an accident, I swear.”

The paramedic nods, focused on taking your vitals. “Miss, can you tell me your name?”

“Y/N Rosberg,” you mumble.

The paramedic’s eyes widen slightly in recognition, but he remains professional. “Alright, Y/N. We’re going to get you to the hospital. Just try to stay still for me.”

As they prepare to move you onto a stretcher, Lewis steps forward. “Can I ride with her?”

The paramedic hesitates. “Are you family?”

“No, but I’m ... I’m responsible for this. Please, I need to make sure she’s okay.”

You reach out weakly, grasping Lewis’ hand. “Let him come. He’s ... he’s family.”

The paramedic nods. “Alright, but stay out of the way.”

As they load you into the ambulance, Lewis climbs in beside you, still holding your hand. The doors slam shut and the sirens wail as they speed towards the hospital.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Lewis says softly.

You give his hand a weak squeeze. “Couldn’t let you ... sulk all night. You’d probably ... crash into a street lamp next.”

Lewis chuckles despite himself. “There’s that Rosberg wit. You sound just like your brother sometimes.”

You grimace. “Don’t insult me when I’m down, Hamilton.”

The banter feels surreal given the circumstances, but Lewis is grateful for it. It keeps the crushing guilt at bay, if only for a moment.

“Y/N, I ...” he starts, then falters. “I don’t even know how to begin to apologize.”

You shake your head slightly. “Later. When everything ... stops spinning.”

Lewis nods, throat tight. He watches the paramedics work, feeling utterly helpless.

“Tell me something,” you murmur after a moment.

“What?”

“Anything. Distract me.”

Lewis thinks for a moment. “Did I ever tell you about the time Nico and I got lost in Ibiza?”

You manage a small smile. “No. Spill.”

As Lewis launches into the story, embellishing for comedic effect, he can’t help but marvel at your resilience. Here you are, cracking jokes and asking for stories while bleeding from a head wound he caused.

The guilt threatens to overwhelm him again, but he pushes it aside. Right now, keeping you conscious and calm is what matters. There will be time for apologies and recriminations later.

As the ambulance weaves through Monaco’s narrow streets, Lewis silently vows to make this right, whatever it takes. He may have destroyed his friendship with Nico, but he won’t let you pay the price for their rivalry.

The hospital looms ahead, and Lewis squeezes your hand. “We’re almost there, Y/N. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

You meet his eyes, a flicker of something — trust? forgiveness? — passing between you. “I know,” you whisper. “I’ve got my guardian angel, after all. Even if he is a bit rubbish at parking.”

Lewis laughs, the sound catching in his throat. As they wheel you into the emergency room, he realizes with startling clarity that nothing will ever be the same after tonight.

But looking at your brave smile as the doctors surround you, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, that might not be such a bad thing.

***

The steady beep of the heart monitor fills the hushed hospital room. Lewis sits hunched in an uncomfortable chair beside your bed, his eyes never leaving your sleeping form. The stark white bandage wrapped around your head is a constant reminder of his guilt.

A nurse pops her head in. “Mr. Hamilton? There’s someone here to see-”

She’s cut off as Nico barges past her, his face a mask of fury. “You son of a bitch.“

Nico’s fist is already swinging towards Lewis’ face when a doctor in a white coat steps between them. “Gentlemen! This is a hospital, not a boxing ring!”

Nico’s momentum carries him forward, nearly stumbling into the doctor. He catches himself, chest heaving as he glares daggers at Lewis.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Nico snarls.

Lewis stands, hands raised placatingly. “Nico, I can explain-”

“Explain? Explain how you nearly killed my sister?” Nico’s voice rises, causing you to stir in the bed.

The doctor clears his throat. “Mr. Rosberg, I presume? I’m Dr. Moreau. Perhaps we should step outside to discuss your sister’s condition.”

Nico hesitates, clearly torn between getting information and pummeling Lewis. Finally, he nods curtly. “Fine. But this isn’t over, Hamilton.”

As they step into the hallway, Lewis sinks back into his chair, running a hand over his face. He glances at you, relieved to see you’ve settled back into sleep.

In the corridor, Dr. Moreau speaks in low, measured tones. “Mr. Rosberg, your sister suffered a severe concussion and a fractured skull. There was some internal bleeding, but we’ve managed to stabilize that.”

Nico’s knees go weak, and he leans against the wall for support. “Oh God ...”

“She also has three broken ribs, a fractured wrist, and various cuts and bruises,” the doctor continues. “Frankly, it’s a miracle she wasn’t more seriously injured. The impact could easily have been fatal.”

Nico slides down the wall, sitting heavily on the floor. “She ... she almost died?”

Dr. Moreau nods gravely. “It was touch and go for a while. But she’s young and strong. With time and proper care, we expect her to make a full recovery.”

Nico buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. After a moment, he looks up, eyes red-rimmed. “Can I see her?”

“Of course. But please, try to stay calm. She needs rest.”

Nico nods, pulling himself to his feet. He takes a deep breath before re-entering the room.

Lewis stands as Nico approaches the bed. “Nico, I-”

“Save it,” Nico snaps, but there’s less venom in his voice now. He gently takes your hand, his thumb tracing circles on your palm.

Your eyes flutter open. “Nico?” You mumble groggily.

“Hey, little sis,” Nico says softly, managing a weak smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a car,” you deadpan.

Lewis winces, but Nico actually chuckles. “Well, your sense of humor is intact, at least.”

You try to sit up, grimacing in pain. Lewis and Nico both move to help, then freeze, glaring at each other.

You roll your eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Both of you, help me up. And then explain why you look ready to kill each other. Again.”

With their combined efforts, they manage to prop you up against the pillows. You look expectantly between them.

Nico breaks first. “How can you even ask that? He nearly killed you!”

“It was an accident,” you insist.

“An accident?” Nico scoffs. “He hit you with his car!”

“Which I’m pretty sure he didn’t do on purpose,” you retort. “Right, Lewis?”

Lewis nods emphatically. “God, no. Y/N, I swear, I never saw you. I was distracted, rushing ... but I would never intentionally hurt you. You have to believe that.”

Nico’s jaw clenches. “Maybe not intentionally. But your carelessness nearly cost my sister her life. How am I supposed to forgive that?”

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Lewis says quietly. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself. But Y/N is the one who was hurt. Shouldn’t it be her choice?”

You nod, wincing at the movement. “Exactly. And I choose to forgive you, Lewis. It was an accident. A stupid, awful accident, but still an accident.”

Nico shakes his head in disbelief. “Y/N, you can’t be serious. You’re lying in a hospital bed because of him!”

“And he’s been by my side ever since,” you counter. “He rode in the ambulance with me, held my hand through all the tests and scans. He’s barely left this room in hours.”

Lewis looks down, uncomfortable with the praise. “It was the least I could do.”

Nico runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “That doesn’t change what happened.”

“No, it doesn’t,” you agree. “But it shows he cares. That he’s taking responsibility.”

“I’ll pay for all her medical expenses,” Lewis adds quickly. “And anything else she needs for her recovery. It’s the least I can do.”

Nico snorts. “You think you can just throw money at this and make it go away?”

“No!” Lewis insists. “I know nothing can undo what happened. But I want to help however I can.”

You reach out, grabbing both their hands. “Listen to me, both of you. I’m tired, I’m in pain, and I don’t have the energy for your macho posturing right now.”

They both have the grace to look ashamed.

“Nico, I love you, but you need to calm down,” you continue. “Lewis made a mistake, a big one. But he’s trying to make amends. And frankly, I need both of you right now. I can’t deal with you at each other’s throats on top of everything else.”

Nico’s expression softens. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I just ... when I got that call, saying you were in the hospital ... I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

You squeeze his hand. “I know. But I’m okay. Or I will be. And having you two fighting isn’t going to help me get better any faster.”

Lewis clears his throat. “She’s right. Nico, I know you have every right to hate me right now. But can we please call a truce? For Y/N’s sake?”

Nico hesitates, clearly torn. Finally, he nods stiffly. “Fine. A truce. But only for Y/N.”

“Thank you,” you sigh, relaxing back against the pillows. “Now, can one of you please get me some water? And maybe sneak in some real food? I’m starving and the hospital jello isn’t cutting it.”

Lewis jumps up. “I’ll go. Nico, you stay with her. I’ll be right back.”

As Lewis hurries out, Nico settles into the chair beside your bed. “You sure you’re okay, little sis?”

You manage a small smile. “I’ve been better. But I’ve also been worse.”

Nico raises an eyebrow. “When have you been worse than having a cracked skull and broken ribs?”

“Remember when I was eight and fell out of that tree in the backyard?”

Nico chuckles. “God, I thought Mama was going to have a heart attack. You were so stubborn, insisting you could climb higher than me.”

“Still can,” you tease.

“Maybe hold off on the tree climbing for a while, yeah?”

You pretend to pout. “Spoilsport.”

The banter feels good, normal. For a moment, you can almost forget you’re in a hospital bed.

Nico’s expression turns serious. “Y/N, are you really okay with forgiving Lewis so easily? You don’t have to, you know. Not for my sake or anyone else’s.”

You sigh. “I know. And believe me, I’m not thrilled about the whole getting hit by a car thing. But Nico, you should have seen his face when he realized it was me. He was devastated.”

“He should be,” Nico grumbles.

“I’m not saying there won’t be consequences,” you continue. “But I don’t believe for a second he meant to hurt me. And holding onto anger isn’t going to help me heal any faster.”

Nico studies your face for a long moment. “When did you get so wise, little sister?”

You grin. “I’ve always been the smart one in the family. You were just too busy crashing karts to notice.”

Nico laughs, then sobers. “I was so scared, Y/N. When they called and said you were in the hospital ... all I could think was that I couldn’t lose you.”

You squeeze his hand. “Hey, you’re not getting rid of me that easily. It’ll take more than Lewis Hamilton’s terrible parking skills to take out a Rosberg.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Nico says, but he’s smiling.

Lewis returns then, arms laden with bags. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I got a bit of everything. Sandwiches, fruit, some pasta salad ... oh, and chocolate. Lots of chocolate.”

You beam at him. “My hero.”

Nico rolls his eyes, but there’s less hostility in it now. “Is this really the time for sweets?”

Lewis grins sheepishly. “Hey, chocolate has healing properties. I read that somewhere.”

“Sounds like solid medical advice to me,” you chime in, already reaching for a candy bar.

As Lewis unpacks the food, a tentative peace settles over the room. It’s fragile, built on shared concern for you rather than any real reconciliation between the two men. But it’s a start.

You watch them, noting how they unconsciously mirror each other’s movements as they fuss over arranging the food on your tray. For all their differences, for all the bad blood between them, there’s still an underlying connection there. Years of friendship and rivalry can’t be erased so easily.

“You know,” you say around a mouthful of sandwich, “this whole arch-enemies thing you two have going on is getting a bit old.”

They both look at you, startled.

“I mean, come on,” you continue. “You were best friends for years. You’ve known each other longer than most marriages last. Is it really worth throwing all that away over some stupid trophies?”

Nico frowns. “Y/N, it’s more complicated than that-”

“Is it, though?” You interrupt. “Because from where I’m sitting — or laying, I guess — it seems pretty simple. You both love racing. You’re both insanely competitive. And yeah, sometimes that caused friction. But at the end of the day, who else understands what you have been through better than each other?”

Lewis and Nico exchange uncomfortable glances.

“I’m not saying you have to be best buddies again,” you add. “But maybe ... I don’t know. Maybe you could try not actively hating each other? For my sake, if nothing else. I’m going to need both of you while I recover and I really don’t want to deal with World War III breaking out in my hospital room.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Finally, Lewis speaks up.

“She’s right,” he says quietly. “Nico, I know things have been ... difficult between us. And I know this situation hasn’t helped. But Y/N’s important to both of us. Can we at least try to be civil? For her?”

Nico hesitates, then nods slowly. “I suppose we can try. But Lewis, I swear, if anything like this ever happens again-”

“It won’t,” Lewis says firmly. “I promise you, Nico. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.”

You beam at them both. “See? Was that so hard? Now, who’s going to help me eat all this food? Doctor’s orders, you know. Got to keep my strength up.”

As they both reach for the tray, playfully battling over who gets to hand you what, you can’t help but smile. It’s not perfect, not by a long shot. But it’s a beginning.

And really, you think as you watch the two most important men in your life grudgingly share a bag of crisps, sometimes beginnings are the best part of any story.

***

f1-fanatic-2024

[Image: Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg exiting a hospital, walking side by side]

OMG IS THIS REAL??? Brocedes spotted together??? What year is it???

#what is happening #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes

---

brocedes-no1-stan

[reblogging f1-fanatic-2024’s post]

I’m sorry, but are we just going to ignore the fact that they’re leaving a HOSPITAL??? Is everyone okay???

#concerned #hope everyone’s alright #but also lowkey excited

---

vintage-f1-vibes

Okay but why does this feel like a glitch in the matrix? Haven’t seen these two willingly in the same frame since like 2016 😭

#blast from the past #what year is it #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

racing-queen-93

[reblogging f1-fanatic-2024’s post]

BROCEDES RISE!!! 🙌🙌🙌

My 2014 heart is SOARING right now. Never thought I’d see the day. BRB, gonna go cry in a corner.

#i’m not crying you’re crying #brocedes #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #f1

---

silverarrows4ever

[Image set: Multiple angles of Lewis and Nico leaving the hospital, including one where they appear to be mid-conversation]

New Brocedes content in 2024? Maybe miracles do happen 😭

But seriously, hope everything’s okay. Weird to see them at a hospital.

#concerned but hopeful #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #f1 #brocedes

---

formula1-history-nerd

[reblogging silverarrows4ever’s post]

Okay, but can we talk about how neither of them has aged a day??? What kind of vampire magic-

#aging like fine wine #drop the skincare routine boys #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

racingdaydreams

Me: I’m over Brocedes, that ship has sailed

Also me seeing these pics: 🥺👉👈

#i’m weak okay #f1 #brocedes #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

fastcarsgovroomvroom

[reblogging f1-fanatic-2024’s post]

Everyone freaking out about Brocedes and I’m just wondering why they’re at a hospital??? Hope everyone’s okay!

#f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

f1-drama-central

BREAKING: Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg spotted leaving Princess Grace Hospital together. Sources say they arrived separately but left at the same time, engaging in what appeared to be civil conversation. More updates as the story develops!

#breaking news #what’s the tea #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

---

retro-racing-vibes

[reblogging f1-drama-central’s post]

2014 me is SCREAMING right now. 2024 me is cautiously optimistic but also kind of worried because ... hospital?

#conflicted feelings #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes

---

formulaonefanatic

[Image: Close-up of Lewis and Nico talking, both with serious expressions]

Whatever brought them together, it looks serious. Hoping everyone’s okay. But also ... is it wrong that I’m a little excited to see them talking again?

#concerned but intrigued #brocedes #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg

***

f1-gossip-central

[Image set: Lewis, Nico, and Y/N on Lewis’ yacht. Another photo of Lewis kissing Y/N with Nico cringing in the background]

WHAT IS HAPPENING??? Lewis and Nico on the same boat??? Lewis kissing Nico’s sister??? I need answers!!!

#what timeline is this #i’m shook #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

brocedes-ride-or-die

[reblogging f1-gossip-central’s post]

EXCUSE ME??? Lewis and Y/N??? When did this happen??? How did I miss this??? 😱😱😱

#new ship alert #what is happening #f1 #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg

---

vintage-f1-drama

Okay but Nico’s face in that last pic is sending me 💀💀💀 Big protective brother energy

#siblings be like #f1 #nico rosberg #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg

---

formulaoneobsessed

[Image: Close-up of Lewis kissing Y/N]

New F1 power couple alert? 👀 But also, how is Nico okay with this?

#f1 #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg #nico rosberg

---

racingheartstrings

[reblogging formulaoneobsessed’s post]

I can’t decide if this is the best or worst plot twist of the 2024 season 😂

Either way, I’m here for the drama!

#pass the popcorn #f1 #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg #nico rosberg

---

silverarrowsforever

[Image set: Lewis and Nico chatting on the yacht, looking relaxed]

Can we talk about how this is the most relaxed we’ve seen these two together in YEARS??? Whatever’s happening, it seems to be healing old wounds and I’m here for it 🙌

#f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes

---

f1-fanfiction-addict

Me: furiously rewriting all my Brocedes fics to include Y/N

The plot twist we never saw coming 😅

#f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg #fanfiction problems

---

speed-queen-101

[reblogging f1-gossip-central’s post]

Y’all are focused on the Lewis and Y/N kiss but can we appreciate how GOOD everyone looks??? That Monaco sun is doing wonders 😍

#glow up #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

formula1-history-buff

Imagine telling someone in 2016 that in 2024, Lewis would be dating Nico’s sister and they’d all be hanging out on Lewis’ yacht. They’d think you were crazy!

#how times change #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

racingdaydreams

[Image: Nico’s cringing face as Lewis kisses Y/N]

Tag yourself, I’m Nico 😂

#third wheel vibes #f1 #nico rosberg #lewis hamilton #y/n rosberg

---

fastcarsgovroomvroom

[reblogging racingdaydreams’ post]

Petition for a reality show following this trio because I would watch the HECK out of that

#make it happen netflix #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

f1-drama-queen

THEORY TIME: What if the hospital visit from last week was for Y/N??? And that’s what brought Lewis and Nico back together??? 🤔

#conspiracy theory #but makes sense #f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #y/n rosberg

---

brocedes-forever

[Image set: Lewis and Nico laughing together on the yacht]

My Brocedes heart is THRIVING right now. Yeah, the Lewis and Y/N thing is cute, but look at these two 😭❤️

#f1 #lewis hamilton #nico rosberg #brocedes #friendship goals

[lyrefromthesea]

Can I request? How would male hashiras react if we bleed when we were doing it? You can take your time,thank youu

Male pillars x Reader - Blood isn't a problem.

author's note: I was certainly worried about how I should write this, there aren't many ways a woman can bleed down there without causing serious damage. Since I do not feel comfortable writing about those scenarios, I only wrote about period sex or virginity loss.

pairing: Tengen x reader, Obanai x reader, Rengoku x reader, Sanemi x reader, Giyuu x reader, Gyomei x reader

content warning: fem!reader, blood, period sex, virginity loss

Tengen:

• the first time you bled down there was a complete accident

• you were having your first time with him and he shoved it in too deep -> your hymen broke immediately

• he was really worried, but gladly you were fine

"i'm sorry- breathe, beautiful. breathe." he instructed you, hands coming up to rest on your hips. he rubbed soothing circles into your skin, knowing he was a lot to take in.

"is it better now? it's all in, you did so good.." he said, leaning down to press a kiss on your lips. you wrapped shaky legs around him, knowing he had seen the blood glistening between your bodies too.

you knew it was prone to happen, he was on the packing side in girth and length.

shaky lips pressed against his, assuring him that "it's fine.." you knew he would never try to hurt you - not on purpose. besides, the pain subsided rather quickly.

Obanai:

• knows your in pain during your period, doing anything to ensure you're fine

• chocolate, blankets, candles - he would bring everything you need

• he didn't know much about women - his past didn't give him the opportunity to learn - but he did it now

• read that sex helped against period cramps and came running towards you

"is it better now?" he asked, grinding deep into your pussy. his cheeks were flushed the same color as your own, brows furrowed together. he was focused on moving lightly, not wanting to hurt you.

he groans every so often, but tries to swallow the sounds he made down. he didn't want you to think that he was doing this for his own pleasure.

it did feel good, but he did it because he wanted to help you. he couldn't bare seeing you curled up in pain.

"you look m- more relaxed.." he mumbled, resting his head on your shoulder. he kissed along your skin, wanting you to feel loved all around.

Rengoku:

• was inwardly panicking when you had sex and he suddenly saw blood -> why was it bleeding? you weren't a virgin and he didn't hurt you either

• felt relieved when you told him it was fine, you just miscalculated the day your period would arrive

• he's not into period sex, not because it's unattractive, but is scared of hurting you if he pushes his dick in

• most importantly, found ways to still lessen your cramps

"it's okay, [name], you're doing so good.." he would quietly say, his voice barely a whisper. he knew he often was too loud for other, but couldn't find the right volume. you found it endearing, but that would be a story for another time.

"Kyo, it's starting to hurt again.." you responded, a whine slipping past your lips. he had two of his fingers pressed deep inside of you, slowly pumping them in and out of your pussy.

they were glistening with your blood and slick, but he didn't care. it wasn't disgusting to him, he was used to seeing blood. the only thing he regretted was not being able to taste you after finishing. the metallic taste of blood made it impossible.

"we'll get you through this, just relax for me.."

Sanemi:

• doesn't have a problem with period sex, but knows he can sometimes be too rough during the act

• doesn't want to hurt you because he's too dumb to control himself

• his solution? letting you take control

"fuck, doing so good for me.." he pants, throwing his head back against the cushions. you had been riding him for a while now, shaky legs having trouble to keep their tempo.

he wouldn't complain, he knew you couldn't influence it. his hands were gripping your waist, squeezing with every slow thrust.

he was used to a rougher pace - the pace he set - your slow tempo was a complete contrast to his. he felt like he was about to cum every time you sank down on him.

"just like that, yeah.. tell me if it's too much." he gasped out, squeezing his eyes shut.

it was hard to concentrate, but he would make sure you would be fine.

Giyuu:

• just like Obanai, he did it to help you, not wanting to see you convulse in pain

• didn't know it would turn out to feel so good though

• your insides were all warm and wet, there was no need for foreplay, he could sink right in

• easily gets addicted to the feeling of your cunt

• definitely still does it to help you, but can't deny that he's quite eager for it too

his hips slapped against you, much slower than the pace he would usually set, but still fast enough to make your breath catch in your throat. your arms were wrapped around his neck, holding him close.

"i- love, fuck.. you feel so good, ah-" he moaned into your ear, burying his head in your neck. you could feel his hot breath gliding over the shell of your ear.

"tell me you feel good, as g- good as i feel when i fuck you like this.." his moans soon turned into whines, matching the sounds escaping you.

he listened to you chanting his name, trying to tell him that you were about to cum. "let go, want to feel you cum on my dick.." he panted, his pelvis grinding against your clit more often than not.

he couldn't hold back his own orgasm when he felt you gush around his cock, pressing his hips flush against yours to make you take his cum.

"f- uh- so g- good.." he mewled, hips slowly coming to a halt. upon seeing you lay under him in pure exhaustion and relaxation, he decided to finally pull out.

he just didn't know the sight of your cum and blood making his cock glisten would turn him on so much.

Gyomei:

• knew he was bigger than the average man in every way

• understood why you were nervous when you shared your first time

• was scared himself and offered you to take him in yourself

• felt bad for the blood, but trusted your every word

"darling?" his deep voice asked, realizing there was a faint metallic scent in the air. your hands had tightened their hold on his shoulders, probably leaving small crescent marks.

"i- it's fine.." you stuttered out, trying to reassure him. you have been taking him in slowly, but his girth alone ensured that this would be painful at first.

however, you couldn't deny the relief you felt after having pushed him in so deeply already. your breathing has gotten quite shaky, feeling his large hands squeeze your waist in an attempt to comfort you.

"are you su- mh.." he didn't get to finish his sentence, you were squeezing him tightly. truthfully, it was hard for him to stay entirely still like this, but he forced himself to hold out longer.

he wondered whether you would be able to take all of it in.