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twohearts-hs · 1 day ago

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Dove & Captain: 1 - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader Series

Words in Total: 7.5k

Pairings: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Synopsis: She's his Dove. The ER nurse who is the definition of chaos, trauma and humour in scrubs. He's her Captain, gruff, emotionally guarded war veteran with a prosthetic leg and completely in love with her. Six years together, a mortgage, four dogs and the ability to conquer anything. This is a story of their life in one day. He is 49, she's 30. This is one day of their life based on the 15 episodes of 'The Pitt'. There will be little imagines of their relationship over the years.

Warnings: Swearing, Age Gap, Trauma, Medical Language/Procedure, Pregnancy, etc.

A/N: This is a complete series of ~60k. I will post a few snapshots of their relationship over the six+ years they've been together.

Hope you enjoy :)

Series Masterlist

0700

The bathroom tile was absolutely and utterly freezing against her bare knees, but Y/N did not move. She couldn’t. She couldn’t risk it, but she also, she couldn’t stop. Another wave of nausea crept up her spine and she leaned forward just in time to vomit into the toilet bowl again. Her hands gripped the rim of the toilet with white knuckles, her pulse loud in her ears. She stayed like this, motionless, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, eyes watering and sweat along her brow.

She knew now it was not food poisoning or stress. Yesterday, it confirmed it. She was indeed pregnant. Dana made her take a pregnancy test, and it came out clear. Then, they confirmed it with a blood test. Then again, with an ultrasound. Seven weeks along, she was, and she was completely terrified.

Y/N had endometriosis, a very severe case which at nineteen she was told by doctors that the chance of her getting pregnant is very slim, but the chance of her being able to carry full term was even slimmer. Therefore, when she and Jack got serious, Y/N expressed to him that she was not able to have children,, and he supported her in that. He was older, forty-nine now and she just hit thirty, together for six years. Not married. But common law. Share a mortgage, a credit card and joint bank account as well as, four dogs while he helped raise her brother.

Very serious, very committed, very much together, but just not legally binding to one another through a marriage contract. Though, they love one another with everything in themselves.

However, he did not know she was pregnant. She found out yesterday during her day shift. He worked the nights. They have been barely passing one another, barely able to talk with their conflicting schedule. Y/N used to work nights, but she got pulled to day shifts lately due to a nurse leaving on maternity leave.

She was planning on telling him tonight. He had the day off. His shift ended at seven in the morning, while she started hers at seven. When she got off at seven that evening prior, she had a whole speech prepared to tell him. However, only Dana knew at this moment.

Y/N took a slow, ragged breath, blinking back tears. Not because she was sad. Not because she was happy. But because she didn’t know how to feel. Never had she thought she’d be able to get pregnant with him. Never had she thought she’d have to talk to Jack about what to do.

He was forty-nine. He was older. To throw a child into their life would create chaos. She was younger, thirty and it could work. However, both were workaholics. Y/N never thought she’d be able to be a mother, so she never thought this through.

Tonight. She would talk to him tonight. They would plan, discuss and come up with the solution moving forward. A nurse. A homeowner. A mother to four dogs. In a stable, quiet, loving partnership with a very nice man. A man who understood her more than anyone ever had. They owned dogs, shared a mortgage, grew herbs in the windowsill, argued about laundry and both fought over who would cook in the evenings,as that is one of their shared love languages. It was good. Peaceful. Calm. Lovely.

However, morning sickness fucking sucks. And this? This was not part of the plan. Especially being told that this could never happen.

Sleeping in a bed alone last night while Jack worked the evening shift was something she did not like. However, she had to go to work, talk to him and see him for a bit before he went home and she had to keep this a secret. She had twelve hours to work through before they could have a serious talk.

Glancing at her watch, she groaned again.

Late. She was utterly, completely and terribly late.

Rounds were about to start soon. The handover from night shift to day shift was about to happen. Work was about to begin. Yet, Y/N was stuck on the ground of the ensuite, tears flowing down her face and nausea bubbling over.

Dressed in a pair of sleep shorts and a bra, her hair was matted and bags covered under her eyes.

She was fucked.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself away from the toilet bowl. Guilty a little bit because she was leaving with a spoiled toilet, and normally she would clean it after puking. However, she was late to work and Robby would have a fit.

Jack was at the computer, filing in the last bits of his shift. Writing patient notes, talking to Robby for the handover. However, his eyes furrowed as he glanced at his watch to see that it was just past seven and Y/N was not here yet. Where was she? She was never late. Rather, she was constantly early.

“Dr. Robinavitch?” a voice came from behind Robby as he leaned against the nurses’ station talking to Jack.

“Yep,” he replied, turning to the voice.

“Melissa King. I will be joining you today. I just came from two months at the VA,” Mel told Robby, voice pitched with excitement and a smile.

“Hey, welcome to the Pitt,” Robby replied, shaking her hand. “This is Dr. Jack Abbot,” Robby introduced, glancing over to Jack, who was focused on the computer in front of him and didn’t glance over to the resident.

“Nice to meet you,” Mel hummed before looking at Robby again. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to be here today, so…”

“Talk to me at the end of the day,” Jack muttered, looking over to the resident, voice low and serious.

Robby glanced at Jack. “Ignore him. He had a rough night,” he stated, “and is having an ongoing existential crisis.”

Jack stood up, straightening as he looked a them. “Don’t worry, you’ll get there soon enough,” he joked, coldly, face serious. “Robby, have you seen Y/N?” he asked, looking over to his old revival and long time friend. “She’s never late and I haven’t seen her.”

Robby’s brows drew together in concern. “No, not yet. She’s usually in by now.”

Jack didn’t respond. Instead, he turned his gaze to the main hallway, like maybe she’d appear if he just stared long enough. But there was nothing – nothing…no rushed footsteps, no half-apologetic smile, no Y/N clutching a coffee cup and calling out something sarcastic to the team. Just a sterile corridor buzzing with too many lights and not enough soul.

He tapped his fingers against the nurses’ station counter, the way he always did when he was trying not to overthink.

“Maybe she overslept? Traffic? Maybe one of the dogs got out?” Robby offered casually, but Jack didn’t bite.

“She doesn’t oversleep when she is supposed to work,” he muttered under his breath. Then, louder. “She never oversleeps. The dogs are trained. They don’t escape.”

Robby shrugged. “Traffic then? You two are like in the woods. Text her. She’ll be here,” he replied with a smile before patting Jack’s back. “Don’t stress.”

Jack nodded watching as Robby walked away with Mel, rounding up his interns, residents and med students for rounds. Pulling out his phone, he brought up his messages with Y/N, but she had sent nothing since last night.

Y/N slammed the door shut to her Bronco with more force then intended, her hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower, pulled into a low messy bun. She hadn’t had time to do her usual minimal makeup, and her scrubs were slightly wrinkled. She felt gross. Heavy. Empty. Swollen. Her bag was slung over one shoulder, and a tangerine stuffed in her pocket that was her makeshift breakfast. She knew Jack would lecture her. However, the nausea was still there.

Running across the hospital parking lot, her sneakers pounded against the concrete in rhythm. Each step sent a dull ache up her spine, her stomach still uneasy, her head spinning from the sudden movement and lack of food.

She burst through the staff entrance, making her way through the triage to the back, scanning her badge on each door.

It was 7:18.

“Shit,” she hissed to herself, brushing past coworkers as she headed towards the nurses’ station after placing her belongings in a locker. Jack was still there. Robby too. And several new faces which she placed as the new intern, resident and medical students.

Her gaze met Jack’s, and he raised a brow at her, but she just sent a small smile. He didn’t look angry. But his eyes were sharp, worried. That was worse.

“As you can see, we have some new faces with us this morning,” Robby began. “Good morning. Good morning. Come on over.”

Y/N stood behind the station, looking over the new faces. Jack was glancing at her, but she said nothing.

“Starting with second-year resident, Dr. Melissa King, fresh from the VA,” Robby announced.

“Everyone calls me Mel,” Mel said with a smile. “I’m so happy to be here.”

“Trinity Santos, intern,” a new face said, pale skin and dark hair.

Y/N crossed her arms as she glanced over to Dana who was on the phone. Y/N knew there was an incoming trauma.

“We’ve got two traumas from the T,” Dana said, holding the phone to her ear. “Five minutes out.”

“Ok, copy that,” Robby replied. “Actually, this is the most important person that you’re going to meet today. This is Dana. She’s our charge nurse. She is the ringleader of our circus,” he said before looking over to Y/N. “And this here is Y/N. Nurse as well. Nurses are your best friends. As you can see, our house is always packed, and our department is mostly clogged up with boarders. Those are admitted patients waiting for a room upstairs, sometimes for days. Beds are a very precious commodity around here, so please be quick and efficient with your workups. What else?” he paused for a moment to breathe, then nodded. “We treat the sicker patients back here, but please keep your eye on that waiting room. Make sure nobody’s gonna die out there. Your senior residents are Dr. Collins and Dr. Langdon. You report to them, and they report to me. Ok? Great.”

As the last of the introductions faded into the background, Robby took his team to deal with the incoming trauma.

Jack noticed she wasn’t listening. Not really. Her arms were crossed, fingers twitching like she was trying to ground herself, eyes glazed over just enough to make him uneasy. That wasn’t like her.

Before she could slip away to get a shift change from the night shift, Jack reached out, a firm but gentle hand on her elbow. “Kid.”

She looked up at him, startled.

“Hi,” she whispered, a small smile gracing her face. “How are you? How was the shift?” she asked, sending him a small smile.

He stared at her for a minute, whiskey eyes connecting with hers. “Fine. Rough, but fine. We can talk more later about it. Can I talk to you for a minute, though, in private?” he asked, his voice low. Not unkind. Just quieter than usual.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then gave a tiny nod, letting him guide her a few feet down the hallway near the med supply room, just out of earshot from others. It was private but not secluded enough to feel like a scene.

Jack looked over her carefully now that they were face to face. Her skin was pale, tinged with that clammy undertone he only ever saw in patients who hadn’t eaten or had something deeper going on. The bags under her eyes were harsh against her face. No mascara, no usual faint blush or a neat bun. Her hair was tied back like she’d done it blind, and her face looked dry, bitten.

“You were late. You’re never late,” he said quietly. Not accusatory. Just a fact. His eyes narrowed as he scanned her over. Then he tried to make eye contact with her.

Y/N glanced down, crossing her arms over her chest. “I know. I’m sorry,” she whispered, shifting uncomfortably. “It won’t happen again.”

“That’s not you.” He waited for a second, but she was still looking down. “What happened, Dove?”

They were alone, and the nickname slipped his lips.

“Nothing. I’m fine,” she replied a little too quickly, shaking her head.

Jack frowned. “Dove, you don’t look fine,” he replied, trying to get her to look at him. “Look at me.”

Y/N glanced up to see him, his eyes meeting her and all she could see what the complete care he had for her.

“I’m just tired. It’s nothing,” she said, brushing her hand through her hair. “I went to bed late. I overslept. Forgot to set an alarm. Stayed up late talking to Beckett.” Beckett was her younger brother, half-brother.

He tilted his head, raising a brow. Silence happened between them. “Y/N…”

“Jack, just drop it,” she muttered, voice tight. “I’m here now. That’s what matters, right?”

He stared at her for a moment, crossing his own arms now. Biceps bulging which usually makes her heart flutter, but she was glancing away. “I know you. You’re hiding something,” he whispered.

Y/N glanced around. They were always professional at work. People never really questioned their relationship. Him being a trauma attending and her a trauma nurse. But now, with his voice so soft and eyes so concerned, it felt like a crack in their practised armour.

“Jack,” she started, but the words faltered, her throat tight. “I didn’t sleep well. Ever since I’ve been put on days, it’s just weird sleeping alone when you are doing nights and–“

“You’re deflecting,” he interrupted. He leaned in a little closer, not touching her, but lowering his voice so that no one would overhear. “Dove, I’m not mad. I just want to know what’s going on. Talk to me.”

Her eyes flickered again, to the hallway beyond, to where voices were rising and monitors beeped from the trauma bay. She couldn’t do this here. Not now. She felt the weight of the morning crashing down on her all over again. The puke. The nausea. The fact that she was pregnant.

“We can talk later. I need to work now,” she whispered, looking up to him. “I want to know how your shift went. I’m off at seven. I’ll be home and we can order in, watch one of those serious documentary movies thing you like and talk,” she proposed. Then she took a deep breath. “I’m ok,” she said confidently. “I’m ok,” Y/N said again.

Jack didn’t believe her.

Not because he thought she was lying. But because he knew her. Knew the way her jaw clenched when she was holding back. The way her voice steadied was not out of calm, but control. A nurse who thrived in chaos. A woman who didn’t flinch in a code blue. But here she was – eyes too shiny, hands twitching like she was trying to hold her pieces together.

Still, he nodded.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Later then.”

She gave him the briefest nod. “I love you,” she whispered.

He nodded. “I know,” he whispered back. Y/N reached out and squeezed his hand. “It’s ok,” she whispered again, a mantra for herself more than anything. “Go home, sleep, have a shower, think of me in the shower,” she hummed, tone light as she winked, “give the dogs a kiss. Then I’ll be home before you know it.”

He chuckled lightly as he stared at her. “Did something happen with your brother?” he asked, raising a brow. She shook her head, and he narrowed his eyes. “Did something happen to your mom?” he asked. She shook her head. “Did something happen to you?” he asked, voice low now.

“Go home, Captain,” she stated, tone sharp. “I’ll see you later.”

He stared at her for a few more moments. “Have you eaten?” he eventually asked.

“No. I have a tangerine in my pocket that I grabbed on my way out,” she replied.

Jack rolled his eyes. “Christ, Y/N,” he whispered. “Let me go buy something from the cafeteria. I don’t want you to be running on nothing,” he muttered before walking off but squeezed her bicep as he left.

Y/N sighed, watching him leave. She stayed there for a moment before walking back to the nurses’ station. Y/N settled down next to Dana who looked over.

“You look like hell,” she muttered, chuckling and shaking her head.

Y/N rolled her eyes and glanced over to her friend. “You sound like Jack,” she muttered as she grabbed a tablet to look over.

“Jack said that. Doesn’t sound like Jack,” Dana replied.

Y/N sighed. “More like ‘Dove, you don’t look fine’ is what he said,” Y/N muttered as she looked over the charts. “Give me a shift change.”

Dana looked over at her, glasses perched on her nose, as she looked at the young nurse. “Have you told him?” she asked, hinting to the little secret she had.

Y/N groaned. “No. However, he is sniffing out that I’m hiding something.”

“He needs to know, sweetheart,” Dana replied.

“I know,” Y/N whispered back. “Spent the morning puking my guts out. That is why I was late.”

Dana clicked her tongue, her voice lowering but still tinged with that no-nonsense edge only a seasoned trauma nurse could carry. “Morning sickness is not your friend, but hey, you get something out of it in the end.”

Y/N looked over as Dana read her tablet. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Y/N whispered. “Don’t know how Jack will react.”

Dana’s eyes met with Y/N’s. “I’ve known you since you were a small, new graduate nurse. Well, met your briefly when you did your last practicum. What I know about you is that you already know what you’re going to do,” Dana replied. “However, Jack needs to know. He’s a lot of things – gruff, grumpy, allergic to small talk – but he loves you. If he finds out you didn’t tell him? Especially over something like this? He’s going to be very hurt.”

Y/N nodded. “I will tell him. Tonight. I won’t keep this from him, but,” Y/N sighed and looked around, “I’m scared.”

Dana reached out and gently touched Y/N’s wrists, grounding her. “Of course you are. You’d be crazy not to be. But you’re not alone, ok? You’re not doing this alone.”

Y/N swallowed thickly and gave her a small nod, eyes glassy. “It’s just…I was told I couldn’t. I couldn’t have kids. Couldn’t get pregnant. Therefore, Jack and I just didn’t care. We just went along with the ride. We didn’t think that I could get pregnant, and here I am. And now it’s like I’m holding a secret I never thought I’d have. Now I have the impossible and it’s terrifying,” she whispered, voice cracking, barely audible now.

Dana squeezed her wrist once before pulling away, sensing how raw Y/N was. “That’s a lot to carry, hon. And you’ve been doing this all alone. Let someone in,” she whispered, giving her a look.

“I let you in,” Y/N replied.

Dana raised a brow. “Let him in. How long have you two been together? Six years or something.”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. No ring though,” Y/N replied, trying to make a joke as she let out a low chuckle. “No, we aren’t planning on getting married.”

Dana rose another brow. “How many dogs do you have?”

“Four. Two rescues, then I have my dachshund from when I was twenty-two and Granny, Jack’s rescue from aeons ago,” Y/N replied, lowly.

Dana nodded. “Four dogs. You bought a house together a year ago. A beautiful house with a big yard. He’s your emergency contact. You go on camping trips with him even though you hate camping. He bought you a car when you were together for what, six months? Because he didn’t want you walking home in the dark. He’s basically like Beckett’s dad. You share everything. You two are serious. Practically married. Talk about everything together. He’s your best friend, your other half, though I would say you’re the better half and you deal with his trauma, and he deals with yours. Tell him. What are you scared of?”

Y/N was silent for a moment and the words were on the tip of her tongue, I haven’t told him the truth.

However, just when she was about to respond Jack appeared in front of them. Coffee in one hand and a wrapped sandwich in the other. His eyes narrowed between the two of them, trying to calculate what was happening.

“Eat, Kid,” he said, placing the sandwich down in front of her. “It’s a breakfast sandwich,” he told her. “And a coffee. Two sugars and a splash of milk.” He didn’t look smug about it, rather just quietly concerned.

Y/N stared at him. “Thank you,” she said. However, the sandwich stayed still.

He stared at her. “Eat.”

“I will,” Y/N whispered. “I just need to get a shift change.”

“Eat while you’re getting a shift change,” he replied. His eyes were bouncing now between Dana and Y/N, sensing the tension, the way Dana was sitting just a little too straight, and how Y/N was avoiding his gaze.

He looked at Dana. “You know something.” Jack raised a brow at Dana. “Tell me what’s happening.”

Dana gave him her best nurse face. Calm, unreadable, efficient, while Y/N said nothing. “Nothing. All good. We’re good. Just girl talk,” she said smoothly, tapping her table. “Thanks for feeding our girl, though. She needs it.”

Jack glanced at Y/n, raising a brow. He lingered for a moment, arms crossing over his chest again. “Girl talk, huh?” he asked, tilting his head.

She forced a smile, pulling up the coffee and bringing it to her lips. “Thanks for the coffee and food,” she whispered, then smirked. “Just girl talk. You hate girl talk. You know Dana,” Y/N said, looking over to the older woman, “probably telling me to eat better and stop dating emotionally unavailable men.”

Jack raised a brow, letting out a scoff. “I’m very emotionally available…now, aren’t I?”

Y/N huffed a small laugh, grateful for the reprieve, even if her hands were shaking slightly around the cup. “You’re evolving. Better than when I first met you.”

He studied her for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing just a better. “Talk to me tonight, ok?”

Y/N nodded. “I will. Just tired.”

He didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked like he was filing the entire interaction away in that steel-trap brain of his. The secrecy. The whispered tones. The way Dana had looked at Y/N.

Something was going on. And he didn’t like being left in the dark.

“You can tell me everything…anything. You know that, right?”

Her heart clenched. “I know,” she whispered. “And I do. You know too much about me.”

Jack gave a slight nod. “I’ll head out. Dogs are probably plotting a mutiny without me. Especially Delta. Barely a year, but pure chaos.” He sent her a small smile. “Text me if it gets too crazy here or if you get a really good case,” he finished.

Y/N nodded. “I will. Can you give Granny her medicine? I wasn’t able to when I left,” she told him, naming their oldest dog, a female named Alaska, but they call her Granny. She was Jack’s dog when they got together, which he got when he came back from his last tour.

He nodded. “Yeah, I can. Did you feed them?”

“I did. I let them out too before I came. Normal routine. However, Winston didn’t want to move from the bed so can you please let him out again?” she asked, sending him a smile. Winston was Y/N’s wire-haired dachshund, which she got when she was twenty-two after nursing school.

He nodded. “Yeah, can do. I’ll see you later, ok? Text me, ok?” he said, and Y/N nodded, agreeing.

Then Jack was gone, turning to leave, but he glanced back one more time, his brows furrowed, eyes sharp. Watching her like he was solving a puzzle.

As soon as he was gone, Y/N slumped back in her chair, sandwich untouched.

Dana glanced over; brow raised. “He totally knows something is up.”

Y/N groaned. “I know. He’s going to dig until he finds out.”

“Well, let’s make sure he hears it from you and not from putting two and two together.” Dana tapped her temple. “Smart man, that one. Scary smart.”

“I’ll tell him tonight,” Y/N muttered, more to herself than anything else. “Tonight.”

Dana gave her a look. “Promise?”

Y/N nodded, slower this time. “Promise.”

“Good. Let me get you something for the nausea,” Dana replied, getting up. She pointed to the sandwich that Jack bought. “But eat, you’re growing a baby,” she lectured.

“Dana, shush!”

Dana gave her medication to help with the nausea. They were going over their shift change when Robby appeared. Y/N was munching on the sandwich when Robby called their names.

“Abbot’s told me that he’s got a pregnant teen coming back today for mifepristone. Let me know when she gets here,” Robby said, looking at the two women.

“Sure,” Y/N replied.

“Yep,” Dana stated before turning back to the computer.

“Bowel obstruction still waiting on surgery consult. What about Garcia? She was just here for the traumas,” Robby rambled of the board.

“I think she was waiting for her attending to sign off,” Y/N muttered, looking over to Robby.

Robby and her met eyes. Then he shook his head. “Ok…” he walked towards a computer to file patient charting. “Oh, and one of the med students took a header,” he chuckled. “I parked her in the lounge under the guise of a work comp report. Will one of you go in there, eyeball her, and make sure she’s alright?” Robby asked, glancing over his shoulder to look at the nurses.

“Last time I checked, I have an eidetic memory and an IQ of 178,” Y/N replied, typing on the computer. “I don’t babysit med students.”

Robby turned to look at her. “Jack said you’re hiding something,” he said casually. “What are you hiding, Ace?” Then he raised a brow.

Y/N glanced at Dana. “My kinky sex life,” Y/N said with a smirk.

Dana snorted but didn’t miss a beat. “Yup. That’s exactly what she’s hiding. She’s got Jack handcuffed to the bed every other night. You should see the bruises.”

Y/N chuckled as Robby stared at them for a moment. “I’m kidding!” Y/N expressed. “Maybe on the handcuffing, but not on the kinky sex,” she added with a smirk. “Men with trauma, freakiest in town,” she replied with a smirk and a wink.

Robby just stared at her. “You deflecting adds to my hypothesis,” Robby muttered. “Abbot knows something’s up. I know some things up. Dana definitely knows what’s up.” Then his eyes landed on her. “You’re not planning on breaking up, right?”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “No!” she exclaimed. “God, if anyone would leave anyone, it’d be him. I am a whole wagon of problems,” she muttered.

Robby hummed. “Well, you deflecting is a sign. Secondly, Jack gave me this look this morning like he was ready to gut me with trauma shears, so whatever you’re hiding…he knows you’re hiding it, and he’s two seconds from losing his mind or figuring it out,” Robby muttered as he typed things into the computer. “Intelligent man.”

Dana hummed. “That’s what I said.”

Y/N turned in her chair to give them both an unimpressed look. “Do you know how exhausting it is to be this emotionally intelligent and book smart, responsible for lives, and handling interns, med students and residents who know less than me?” she poked.

Robby glanced over his shoulder and pointed a finger to her. “Deflection.”

Y/N rolled her eyes.

“I’m just saying. You were late. In the eight years you’ve been working here, you’ve never been late. You look pale, there are bags under your eyes, you’re quieter than usual, you didn’t jump into this morning’s trauma, and Jack is acting like some keyed his fancy truck.” He glanced at her and he chuckled. “I know…” he whispered, shaking his head. “Jack will either not forgive you or will…” Y/N raised a brow. “You’ve adopted another dog.”

Y/N stared at him and raised a brow. For a minute, it was silent as eyes were on her. “Yes. How’d you know?” she hummed.

“Knew it,” Robby muttered before going back to the computer.

“No. I didn’t adopt another dog,” Y/N said moments later.

“Delta chewed through the seaming of the couch?” Dana asked, looking over to the nurse. “She’s a menace.”

“That pup has the soul of a raccoon,” Robby added, clicking through patient charts. “Chaos and cuteness in the same package.”

“Keeps us on our toes. Never had I ever had to kennel train a dog as she is not worth trusting,” Y/N replied.

“Anyway,” Dana muttered, changing the subject, “med student is going to miss the arrival of the living dead.”

Robby glanced over at them again. “How many are we expecting?” he asked, voice serious now.

“We are getting three, but one died en route. Don’t know who’s luckier, us or them.”

“What’s open?” Robby asked.

“14,” Dana replied.

Y/N got up. “Good luck. I have patients to see,” she muttered, leaving the nurses’ station after Dana gave her a shift change.

Y/N was talking to Langdon about a patient, writing down notes as they talked about what she needed to do to care for them, when Robby showed up.

“Y/N, triathlete, Otis?”

Y/N glanced up. “He’s stable. Repeat potassium is 6.1. Renal wrote the dialysis order. Tech should be down soon…maybe fifteen minutes,” she told him.

Robby nodded, looking at her. “Good. Thank you.” Then he glanced over to Langdon. “Language mystery solved yet?”

Langdon shook his head. “No,” then he sighed before looking up. “Hey, what’s your take on dogs?”

“In what context?” Robby asked.

“For kids,” Langdon added.

“Kids and puppies go together like fish and chips. Man’s best friend, you know?” Robby said, walking around the station to go to one computer.

“Well, you don’t have a dog.”

“I don’t have a best friend,” Robby added.

“What am I?” Langdon hummed.

“You’re my best resident,” Robby replied. “Big difference.”

“Yeah, but we’re still friends,” Langdon poked.

Robby glanced over. “Not if this conversation goes on much longer. Talk to Y/N, she has dogs.”

Y/N’s head perked up from where she was sitting, looking over to Langdon and Robby. “What?” she asked.

“You have a dog?” Langdon asked, raising a brow.

“I have four,” she said with a chuckle.

“Four?” Langdon gasped, raising a brow. “Four dogs?” he asked again, shocked by her comment.

“Uh, yeah,” Y/N said with a chuckle.

“How can you have four dogs?” he asked, raising a brow.

Y/N glanced around for a moment, then turned slightly in her chair to face Langdon fully, amused. “Easy,” she said. “I don’t have kids. I don’t sleep much. And I live with a man who’s just as much of a softie for strays as I am. We also have a giant piece of land for them to run around and we enjoy being outside.”

Langdon blinked. “Jack’s a dog guy?”

Robby snorted but before they could respond, Mel came over asking for Langdon to check in with a four-year-old.

Y/N continued to type, but she could feel Robby’s eyes on her. “You’re staring,” she stated as she continued to type. “It’s creepy. Stop staring.” Then she glanced at him. Robby said nothing, and Y/N scoffed. “Robby,” she whispered, raising a brow.

He threw his hands up. “Good work, Ace,” he said with a smile as he went back to work.

Y/N was doing her job within the hour, checking on her patients when Otis began to crash. She ran back out to the nurses’ station, catching the eyes of Collins, Robby and Dana.

“Otis’ BP is crashing. 70 over 50. Still waiting for dialysis,” she announced, nodding to the room that her patient was in.

They entered and instantly got to work.

“How are you doing there, Otis?” Robby asked.

“Not so good,” he replied.

A series of beeping was heard from the machine as the patient crashed. Y/N began setting him up.

“50 litres. Non-rebreather, please,” Robby called out.

Y/N listened, working alongside them. An ultrasound was done.

“Fuck,” Y/N muttered, looking over at the ultrasound. “Diastolic collapse of the right atrium and right ventricle,” she muttered before Collins could say anything on the screen.

“Tamponade from uremic effusion,” Robby muttered.

“That is why his BP is low?” Santos asked, glancing over to the monitors.

“Yup, indeed,” Y/N replied. “Too much fluid and pressure around the heart, chambers can’t fill.”

“Otis, you’ve got some fluid around your heart,” Robby told the patient as Y/N grabbed gloves. “We need to get it off.”

Y/N lowered the bed, making him flat lying down.

“25 of Propofol, 10 cc’s of lidocaine with epi, pericardiocentesis tray,” Collins said to Y/N, who nodded.

“I have to get that from central,” Y/N replied, looking over to Robby.

“No, no. Just open a central line kit. Dr. Santos takes the head of the bed and bags him if he stops breathing, compressions if we lose the carotid. Prep and drape the subxiphoid, please. 10 cc’s of 1% with,” Robby ordered.

Y/N nodded, grabbing supplies.

“Chlorhexidine here.”

“Injecting lidocaine,” Robby announced before following suite.

“Pressure down. 60 over 40,” Santos explained.

Robby grabbed the ultrasound from Collins.

“Wait, you can’t ultrasound and place,” Collins barked to him.

“I know, that’s why I’m taking the probe,” Robby replied. “18-gauge thin wall on a 60 cc syringe, please, Dr. Collins. Let’s go,” Robby muttered, looking over to the resident. “You’re going in right over the centre of my probe…” The doctors continued to work as Robby explained the procedure to Collins. Y/N watched.

Eventually, the patient stabilised.

However, just before they were stabilised, Y/N ran to the bathroom. Robby watched her cover her mouth and instantly ran out of the trauma room, running across the bay to the bathroom. Dana watched her run as well, dodging co-workers before making her way to the bathroom.

Opening the door to the bathroom, she kneeled down to the toilet, puking her guts out. Breakfast sandwich and coffee coming back up as she clutched the toilet bowl.

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above her as Y/N stayed crouched, one hand gripping the edge of the toilet, the other holding her hair out of her face as wave after wave of nausea rolled through her.

The bathroom door opened gently behind her. Soft footsteps. Not rushed. Familiar.

Dana.

Without saying a word, Dana stepped in and crouched down beside her, pulling a handful of paper towels, wetting them and placing them gently on Y/N’s back of her neck.

“Nausea meds didn’t help?” she asked, rubbing her back.

“Guess not,” Y/N muttered, coughing and wiping her mouth before leaning back against the wall. She took a deep breath, rubbing her eyes.

“Are you ok?” Dana asked, looking at her.

“I don’t know,” she whispered back. “I don’t know what set it off, as I was fine.”

Dana chuckled lowly. “It’s morning sickness, sweetheart, you can’t control when it hits. It’ll be fine. You’ll stop being sick soon at the end of this trimester,” she responded.

“If this baby stays within me,” Y/N mumbled, not thinking. “If I decide to keep it too.”

Dana rose a brow. “What does that mean, sweetheart?” she asked, looking at the young nurse.

Y/N sighed. “It’s not my first time getting pregnant. The other times, I’ve lost it early on,” then she groaned. “I think it’ll be better if I just get an abortion so I can’t go through losing it again.”

Dana’s expression softened, the sharp edges of her no-nonsense persona melting into something gentler. She reached over and cupped Y/N’s cheek for just a moment, grounding her.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Tears began to brew in her ducts as she looked at the older woman, blinking them away, trying to hold herself together. “No one knows. No ex-partner. Not even Jack knows. Not even Beckett,” she whispered. Then she sighed. “I don’t know what will happen or not. I just…maybe it’s for the best to just get this dealt with and never tell him. But what if I do tell him and he gets so excited then I lose it. I don’t want to go through that again,” she continued to ramble. “I don’t want Jack to go through loss again.”

Dana sat beside her now, fully next to her, knees cracking slightly as she adjusted on the tile floor. “I get it. I do. But this isn’t something you should carry alone. Not this time.”

“I don’t want to see that look in his eyes,” Y/N whispered. “The quiet heartbreak. I know he would like kids. He says he’s too old, and he’s ok with my endo, but like I see the way he looks at his sister’s kids or like kids in general. Like he’s wondering what it would’ve been like if he hadn’t missed his shot.” She closed her eyes for a moment to breathe.

Dana was quiet for a moment before she said, “He loves you. Everything about you. Mess, chaos and all. Hope and heartbreak included. He’s your partner. Your other half. Talk to him. He deserves to know…not the decision, but the truth,” she told Y/N. “Go home. We will be fine without you today,” she suggested.

Y/N scoffed. “That’s the last place I want to be,” she replied.

“Let me cover for you for the next hour. Go lie down in on-call. I’ll say you’re charting or looking up labs.”

“Dana,” Y/N tried.

“Y/N,” Dana cut her off. “You just ran out of a trauma room and vomited into a toilet. You’re not fine. You’re a damn supernova most days with that brilliant brain of yours, but even stars burn out if they don’t rest,” she replied.

Before Y/N could reply, there was a sharp knock on the bathroom door.

“Y/N?”

Robby’s voice. Low. Concerned and filled with love.

She closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath, silence happening between them.

“She’s fine, Robby,” Dana called out.

A pause happened, then Robby replied, “I’m not leaving until I see that with my own eyes, Dana.”

Dana turned to Y/N. “You ok if I let him in?” she asked.

Y/N wiped her eyes quickly with the sleeve of her scrub top. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Might as well. He’ll probably come in–“

The door opened, and Robby walked in.

“My point exactly,” Y/N muttered, looking up to see the older male attending.

His eyes fell on Y/N instantly, crouched on the floor, pale and sweaty, but clearly alive. His concern deepened.

“Jesus, Y/N,” he whispered, crouching down beside her, not too close, scanning her face like he was memorising it for changes. “Scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry,” she whispered. “Just a rough morning.”

His brows furrowed. “You ran out on a code. That’s not like you,” he muttered. “What’s happening? You sick?”

Y/N shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

“Do you want me to call Jack?” he asked, voice dropping a little bit. A sympathy tone.

“No,” she said a little too bluntly. “I’m not fucking broken if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m fine. I can work. I just needed to puke. That’s all. I will take an anti-nausea and I’ll be fine. Do not call Jack,” she barked. “Do not even mention this to Jack. I’m not in the mood to deal with this,” she muttered, getting up.

Robby rose with her, slowly, watching every movement like he expected her to collapse again. “Y/N,” he said, carefully. “I didn’t mean–“

“I know what you meant,” she snapped, her tone sharp but her body trembling. She leaned against the sink for a moment, catching her breath. “But I don’t need saving.”

“No one said you did, sweetheart,” Dana replied gently, standing now, smoothing her hands down her scrubs. “We’re just worried.”

“Well, don’t be. I’ll be right,” Y/N responded as she looked at herself in the mirror. Her reflection betrayed her – pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, hair clinging to her damp forehead. “I’m not your patient. I’m your colleague. I’ll handle it.”

Robby raised a brow, stepping just a little closer. “If this is just a stomach bug or food poisoning, you’re really overreacting to the offer of help.”

Y/N glared at him through the mirror. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he replied, crossing his arms, and tilting his head, “I’ve known you for far too long. Eight years. You don’t run from a code. You don’t puke in your shift. I have never heard you take a sick day. You don’t bark at people who offer to call your partner unless something is really wrong.”

Silence.

Dana cleared her throat. “Robby,” she tried.

“No, it’s fine,” Y/N interrupted, voice strained. “There is something. But let me deal with it on my own.”

Robby sighed. “Y/N,” he tried.

“No. I’ll be right,” Y/N muttered. “I’m ok. I can work. I want to work. Honestly, the next trauma I’m jumping in as I haven’t gotten any blood on my hands yet today.” Robby and Dana slowly nodded. However, they stayed quiet. Y/N turned. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she responded. “Not with you. Or you,” she said, pointing to each of them, “definitely not Jack and definitely not even with myself.”

“Can you talk to Kiara?” Robby tried, raising a brow.

“Definitely not her,” Y/N barked. Both of them stayed quiet. “I love you all. I thank you for helping me. I thank you for your care. I thank you for your worry. I just need to deal with this on my own, and Jack will know eventually,” she said, voice softer now. Y/N’s eyes shifted between them. “Do not tell Jack, and if you do, I will make all your lives a personal hell,” she barked before turning to the door and walking out.

Robby glanced over to Dana once the door clicked shut behind her. “You know what this is, don’t you?” he asked, looking at his nurse.

Dana crossed her arms and levelled him with a look. “Not my secret to share.”

Robby sighed, running a hand down his face. “Dana,” he tried.

Dana snorted. “Do not try to get it out of me?” she warned, shaking her finger. “But she is going through something hard. Something she didn’t think was possible. And the fact that she’s still standing, still showing up, should tell you exactly the kind of woman she is.”

Robby leaned back against the bathroom wall, arms crossed tightly, staring at the door Y/N had just exited like it might swing back open and explain everything.

“She said Jack doesn’t even know,” he murmured.

Dana said nothing.

“She’s scared,” he added, quieter now. “Not panicked. Not sick. Not spiralling. Just…scared. Jack mentioned something was up with her this morning. He knows something is up.”

Dana looked over at him, rose a brow.

“Let me work the problem,” he muttered.

“She’s not your patient, Michael,” she said sternly.

He shook his head. “Just hear me out…humour me,” he said, holding his hand up as he began ticking off on his fingers. “Sudden nausea. She was late this morning. No fever. No reported GI outbreak in the hospital. She said she’s not sick. Ran out of trauma. Pale, lightheaded. Avoiding food. And her mood? All over the place.”

Dana was quiet, arms still crossed.

Robby held up both hands now. “And don’t even try to say stress, because Y/N thrives under pressure. She doesn’t run. She charges.”

Silence stretched between them like a wire pulled tight.

Then, he went softer. “Morning sickness. Hormonal shifts. Emotional volatility.” Robby looked over at Dana now, his voice lower. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

Dana didn’t even flinch. “That’s not mine to confirm or deny,” she replied.

“But I’m right,” Robby replied.

“I did not say that,” Dana warned.

“You didn’t have to,” his voice wasn’t triumphant; it was heavy. Like the realisation carried more weight than he expected. “Excellent doctor, I am,” he hummed with a smile, winking.

“Don’t tell Jack,” Dana whispered, voice blunt.

“Lips are sealed,” he replied, giving her a salute before going back to the outside world of the emergency room. “I am correct, aren’t I?”

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader

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pitlanepeach · 3 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, basically no plot just fluff, minor autistic meltdown, they say the words!!!!!

Notes — This is just a little filler chapter to close out the 2020 season. Lots of fluff with some time skips too. The 2021 season will commence in the next chapter!

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

2020

The three months after Spa passed in a blur of hard work.

Amelia didn’t think she’d ever get used to the rhythm of a Formula One season; the relentless forward momentum of it all. There were no breaks, not really. Just quiet moments between sessions, late nights in hotel rooms with Lando wrapped around her, and long-haul flights where she could finally catch her breath and run strategy models in her head for fun instead of for work.

Max’s car was improving week after week. The upgrades came thick and fast now that Amelia had full focus on him, refinements to aero flow, marginal gains in brake cooling, a few drastic shifts to weight distribution that she'd pressured the Red Bull engineering team to follow through with despite their hesitation.

Adrian had taken to calling her kid when she got too excited about a breakthrough, but it was always muttered with fondness.

And Max — Max was still Max.

He grumbled when she got picky with her data visualisation, called her irritant klein zusje when she insisted he sit through every single briefing, but followed her instruction anyway. Trusted her, even when she made calls that felt too risky. Especially then. He didn’t say thank you often, but when he did, it was quiet and sincere. She liked that about him.

And Lando.

She met his family in the weeks after Monza. He brought her to Glastonbury in the middle of a quiet break between races, beaming like he couldn’t wait another second to show her off. His mum was warm and lovely, welcoming Amelia with a hug and homemade cake. His siblings were all so unique, each of them brilliant in their own way, and eager to share their niche passions with her — from horse riding to finance to a surprising obsession with niche European cheeses. She adored them immediately.

It was easy to see where Lando got his unapologetic passion for racing from.

His dad, Adam, took longer to come around. He’d been blindsided by the announcement of their relationship, having found out with the rest of the world during the race coverage. Lando hadn’t told him — hadn’t wanted to risk the disapproval again. And Adam, used to being involved in every step of his son’s life, hadn’t taken kindly to being shut out.

But he came around. Slowly. Quietly. One afternoon in the garden, while Lando was inside, Adam turned to her and said, “I didn’t get it. At first. I was worried about what being with you would mean for his career. But he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. So I owe you an apology.”

Amelia, startled, could only nod.

She didn’t say it aloud — not yet, wasn’t ready to admit it even just to herself — but she was already more than halfway in love with Lando Norris.

—

Lando DNF’d in Eifel.

“They said it was a power unit failure,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “I could feel it going. Every lap, it got worse.”

Amelia nodded, watching him closely. “You did everything right. Everything Will told you to do.”

“That’s the worst part,” he said, eyes lifting to meet hers, tired and frustrated and still raw. “I didn’t mess up. I didn’t make a mistake. I just… there was nothing I could do.”

Amelia reached into her pocket, pulled out the soft, flexible tangle of her stim toy — one of the ones Lando had started calling squiggly guys — and handed it to him.

He took it without question, curling it absently around his fingers. “Thanks, baby.”

She leaned in a little closer now, shoulder brushing his. “You’re allowed to be upset,” she told him. “They have given you a car that is able to score points, but is dramatically unreliable. I would be upset too.”

He glanced sideways at her, a small, slightly twisted smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You always say the perfect thing.”

“No, I don’t,” she said, nudging his knee with hers. “You know I don’t. I’m not good at comfort. I just tell you the truth.”

Lando twisted the stim in one hand, then reached for hers with the other, tangling their fingers together. “Still think I’m impressive, even when I don’t make it to the chequered flag?”

She blinked at him, pure honesty shining in her eyes. “You’re my favourite driver on the grid.”

It was true. Max was a close second. Lewis next.

She’d have to work on her rankings in 2021, when Fernando rejoined, but until then, she had it solidly figured out.

Lando let out a soft laugh, eyes closing as he leaned his head against her shoulder. “God, I’d be a fucking mess without you, baby.”

Amelia smiled, heart thudding steadily behind her ribs. “I know.”

—

In those three months, Quadrant grew.

It grew fast.

What had started as a fun, half-serious side project between Lando snowballed into something far bigger than anyone could have anticipated. It wasn’t just the occasional livestream anymore. It was a full-blown content collective. A brand. A business. Merch lines. Sponsorships. Contracts. Streaming schedules. Production meetings. More cameras, more followers, more of everything.

Lando was the founder of a company. Not just the face of a project, but the brain behind it too; the one calling the shots, making the pitches, signing off on designs. Sometimes he’d ask for Amelia’s opinion on things; colour-ways, logo placements, YouTube video titles. She’d answer, often unsurely, and he’d just beam at her like she’d solved world hunger, not told him to remove an unnecessary apostrophe from a word.

It made her feel involved. Not responsible for any of it, but close to it; close to him.

That’s how she met Max Fewtrell, too. Not over a screen, like she might’ve assumed, but in person. A warm blur of a memory from a weekend after the Nürburgring. He’d walked up with a grin, greeted Lando like a brother, and then turned to her with an easy, “You must be Amelia, then.” His tone had been teasing, but not unkind. He didn’t make her feel weird for being quiet or for sticking close to Lando’s side at first. Just accepted it, like that was normal. And eventually, it felt like it was.

She appreciated that.

And she appreciated what Quadrant gave Lando; a space to be silly, expressive, fully himself.

He was clever, of course. Wickedly sharp when he wanted to be. But more than that, he had this charm; this ease that pulled people in. They listened when he talked. They laughed when he made a joke. He had a way of making even the most chaotic moment feel like fun.

He was a natural leader. The members of Quadrant, new and bright-eyed, gravitated around him like he was a planet and they were caught in his orbit, a solar system he never asked for but carried with him anyway.

Sometimes, when he dragged her into the frame during a stream, pulled her gently onto his lap, or handed her his headset so she could talk to Max and the others while he went to grab snacks, she let herself wonder what life would be like if she was more like them. Loud. Unapologetic. Effortlessly funny and open and always ready with something to say.

But then Lando would come back, settle behind her like it was the most natural thing in the world, arms looping around her waist as if to anchor her. The chat would light up with heart emojis and sweet messages, calling them perfect. Yin and yang. A balance. A calm and a chaos that just made sense.

And everything felt right.

—

By November, Amelia knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Max’s 2021 chassis would be championship-worthy.

Not just competitive. Not just "in the mix."

Capable of winning it all.

It was in the data. It was in the simulations. It was in the late-night sessions with Adrian where they fine-tuned wind profiles until dawn crept over Milton Keynes. It was in the way Max trusted her notes, asked her opinion, built his feedback loops around her suggestions.

It was in the silence after a long run on the dyno, where every number lined up just the way she’d imagined they would.

Every week, a new idea implemented.

Every week, something smarter, sleeker, faster.

Red Bull had built fast cars before; but this one felt different. This one was deliberate.

Dangerous.

She hadn’t just contributed to it. She’d helped shape it. Every inch of it.

Her fingerprints were baked into the car’s DNA, and when Max drove it next year, it would be hers, too. In every corner he took flat, in every overtake, in every tenth shaved off in qualifying.

Mercedes would still be strong. She knew that.

But Max would take them toe to toe.

And Amelia would be right there at his side. Building, watching, calculating.

2021 wasn’t just Max’s shot at greatness.

It was hers too.

—

The season ended on a high. Abu Dhabi, a stunning victory for Max. A sign of what was to come.

It was the perfect way to close out her time at Red Bull. One final ‘You’re welcome,’ to rub in Christian Horner’s face.

They celebrated in Monaco, Lando surrounded by his friends and fellow drivers, with Amelia right there beside him. It was relaxed. Unfussy. And for once, she let herself unwind. She hadn’t expected to have as much fun as she did. She thought she’d just be there as Lando’s plus one, a quiet observer in the midst of his chaos. But with him there, the night had felt easy. He made her laugh. He made her feel at home in a crowd she usually would have kept her distance from. She didn’t even mind the noise or the flashing lights of the club, because he was there, and with him, everything felt just safe.

Lando was everywhere; dancing, laughing, talking to everyone, but he always circled back to her, like she was the centre of his world. Every time he found her across the room, usually huddled beside Max, his face lit up with a smile that made her feel warm all over. He pulled her into the dance floor, whispered things in her ear that made her blush, and made sure she had everything she needed. Even when the music was loud and everyone was buzzing, Lando had a way of making her feel like she was the only person in the room.

—

They were curled together on a sun lounger, tucked under a thin blanket that Lando insisted they didn’t need, even though his nose was a bit pink from the breeze. The Mediterranean shimmered around them in lazy shades of blue, calm and glittering beneath the winter sun. Amelia could hear the faint clatter of someone, probably Fernando’s kitchen staff, moving around below deck, fixing up some strange version of a Christmas dinner.

For now, though, it was just them. Just warmth, quiet, and the steady beat of Lando’s heart against her ear.

His arm tightened around her waist, his chin resting in the crook of her shoulder. “My rookie year’s over,” he said quietly, the words slipping out like they’d been sitting on his tongue for a while. “Feels weird.”

Amelia shifted a little, not quite turning to look at him, but enough that he knew she was listening. “Mm.”

“No more Carlos, either,” he added, like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “Zak said Ricciardo will be good, though. Great for the team.”

She hummed again. “I'm sure he will. Max still talks about him a lot.”

Lando huffed a small laugh, but there was an edge of unease to it. “That’s what people say. I just… I dunno.” Amelia waited. He always got there in the end, just took a bit of a winding road to get to the truth. “It’s stupid,” he admitted, eventually. “I know it is. But what if he’s better than me? What if everyone just… forgets me? He’s Daniel Ricciardo. People love him.”

“Lando,” she said, voice flat, like she couldn’t believe he was even entertaining the thought. “You can’t be forgotten. You’re too loud.”

He let out a weak laugh against her shoulder, his day-old facial hair tickling her skin. “You know what I mean, baby.”

“Yeah. I do,” she agreed. “I still think you’re being ridiculous.”

He was quiet for a second. “So you don’t think he’ll overshadow me?”

Amelia tilted her head up, just enough to meet his gaze. “No. He’s very charming, but he won’t overshadow you. McLaren is your team, Lando.”

That made him smile, just a little. “It might become Daniel’s team too.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. He seems fun. Annoyingly extroverted.”

Lando chuckled, the sound soft and fond. “That’s… yeah, that’s pretty accurate.” He was quiet again, but this time the silence didn’t feel heavy. Just thoughtful. His fingers found hers under the blanket, laced them together without saying anything.

“I’ll still be in the paddock. With Max. No more Red Bull team kit for me, so I’ll be able to wear my dresses and skirts and you’ll be able to pick me out of any crowd.” She mentioned.

“Thank God,” Lando murmured, tugging her closer and pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head.

She let herself rest against him, her head tucked into the curve of his chest, the rhythm of the sea matching the quiet beat of her thoughts.

Eventually, from below deck, Fernando’s voice called out, “Lunch is served!”

“Race to the stairs?” Lando whispered in her ear.

“I will push you over deck.” She said back.

He grinned. “Dare you.”

Amelia rolled her eyes, sat up, and tugged the blanket off both of them. “Come on, annoying,” she said. “I’m hungry. And I’ve never eaten Christmas dinner on a yacht before.”

Lando grinned and followed her, still barefoot, still completely in awe that this was his life now.

They had decided, sometime in early December, to spend their first Christmas together with Fernando in the Med. No need to pick between their families, no guilt over disappointing one side or the other. It had been a relief, honestly, to have an excuse not to navigate the pressure that came with the holidays; especially given how busy they both had been in the lead-up to the festive season.

Fernando’s yacht was the perfect escape. It was quiet in a way that made it feel like the world had been paused just for them. The gentle hum of the waves lapping against the boat, the soft clinking of glasses, and the warmth of the inside filled with Christmas lights and laughter. It was everything Amelia never knew she needed.

It wasn’t a grand Christmas, with piles of presents and extravagant dinners. It wasn’t anything they’d been accustomed to before, but that was exactly what made it so special. It was simple. Calm. The four of them together, enjoying a slow morning with gingerbread cookies, chatting about nothing in particular while Lando made his usual attempts at mastering the piano that Fernando kept telling him to stop touching. And Melissa was her usual gentle self, all smiles and easy to understand jokes.

They had a small, carefully set table for lunch. Lando kept teasing Fernando about being the most patient host ever, especially when he’d made them take turns decorating the tree, then reorganising it in a much more “tasteful” way after they'd gotten distracted by the snack table.

Later in the evening, after the meal and after a few glasses of wine, they all settled on the deck. The boat was docked now, and the evening sky was a wash of deep blues and purples, the first stars starting to twinkle. There was a low hum of festive music in the background, something quiet, something that felt fitting for a holiday that wasn’t about extravagance, but about peace.

Amelia leaned against Lando, his arm draped around her shoulder as he fiddled with his phone, texting back every member of his family who’d reached out throughout the day. She was content, happier than she had been in a long while. She kissed him without thinking and flushed a pretty red when Fernando voiced his unhappiness with a grunt that made Melissa laugh.

Lando grinned at her. She grinned right back.

It was their first Christmas as them, but it wouldn’t be the last.

—

It was the middle of January. The weather outside Lando’s flat in Woking was dreary and they’d spent the morning lounging around; Lando on his couch, flipping through old racing documentaries on Youtube, and Amelia at the kitchen counter, working on her iPad. She had a pile of notes scattered around her, data from the off-season simulations she was reviewing for Max’s upcoming season. The iPad was essential; everything she needed was on there, from the technical reports to the strategies she was working out in her head.

Lando glanced over occasionally, catching little glimpses of her sharp focus, the way her brow furrowed when she was deep in thought. He loved watching her work.

But then, without warning, the screen on her iPad flickered. Just once, and then the screen went black.

Amelia’s fingers froze mid-scroll, and Lando didn’t even have to look up to see the tension building in her posture.

“Amelia?” he asked, his voice a little more alert now, noticing the change in her.

She didn’t answer at first, just sat there, staring at the frozen screen, then tapping at the screen with increasing urgency. “Come on. Come on,” she muttered under her breath.

Lando watched for a second longer before standing up and making his way over to her. “Hey. What’s going on?”

Her breath hitched, and Lando’s stomach dropped. He knew the signs of a panic attack when he saw them; he’d witnessed them before, knew how things could escalate quickly. She was already starting to breathe faster, her shoulders hunching up like she was bracing for impact.

“It’s… it’s not working!” Amelia’s voice cracked, and she slammed her hands down onto the table, the iPad still refusing to respond. “It’s all on there, Lando. It’s all on there.”

“Hey, hey,” Lando said, trying to keep his voice steady as he crouched beside her, his hand hovering awkwardly in the air. “Baby, it’s okay, we can fix this.”

“No!” she snapped, and he flinched. Her eyes were wide now, glassy. “I—I can’t… everything’s on there! The reports, the numbers, everything I need to do and now—” She broke off, her voice shaking with frustration.

And fuck; Lando was lost. He had no idea what to do. He could hear her breath quickening, her frustration bubbling over, and he felt that same tight knot in his chest. He hated seeing her like this. Hated it even more because he didn’t know how to fix it.

“Amelia, baby, hey,” he said, trying to get her attention. She wasn’t looking at him, her eyes locked onto the unresponsive iPad. He took a deep breath, then, in one sudden motion, he’d pulled her off of the stool and into his arms. “Amelia,” he said again, his voice a little more insistent, a little firmer now.

She tensed against him, her whole body stiff and rigid, but he held her tighter, wrapping his arms around her, squeezing with as much strength as he could before he was risking bruising her delicate skin. “We’ll figure it out, alright? We’ll fix it, I promise. You had everything saved to your iCloud, right? It’ll all still be there.”

Amelia let out a shaky breath, but she didn’t pull away. She let herself lean her entire weight on him, her head resting against his chest, still breathing in short, shallow bursts. Lando’s arms were wrapped around her so tight it almost felt like he was afraid she would slip away from him if he didn’t hold on.

“I’m not good at this,” Lando murmured, his voice tight with the weight of his uncertainty. He could feel her shaking in his arms, her body rigid with the aftershocks of the almost-meltdown. “I don’t know what to do when you’re upset. I’m, uh... kind of panicking a bit.”

She let out a little laugh, but it was thin, frail. Still, it was a laugh, and that meant something. The way her shoulders loosened, just a fraction, made him feel like maybe he wasn’t failing her after all.

“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered, her voice muffled against his chest. “I just… I need my iPad.” There was a shaky inhale before she added, quieter, “I didn’t realise it would be this bad.”

Lando felt his heart break a little at the vulnerability in her voice. He had seen Amelia lose her composure before, but this—this was different. “I know,” he said gently, brushing a hand over her hair. “It’s important. Don’t be sorry for being upset.”

She nodded, her breath still coming in uneven waves as she took in a deep, steadying breath, pulling away slightly to look up at him. Her eyes were still wide, but the raw panic that had been there just moments ago seemed to be fading, replaced with something softer. Maybe exhaustion, maybe the quiet relief that came from feeling safe.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her words quiet but full of something deep. Gratitude, yes, but also something else. Lando could see it in the way she lingered on him, the way her gaze held his for a fraction longer than usual.

Lando’s chest tightened, a strange sense of relief flooding through him as he reached out, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of her hand. He wanted to say something—anything—but the words just wouldn’t come. The air between them felt thick with things left unspoken, and for the first time, Lando found himself unsure. Was she ready for this?

He didn’t have long to wonder. She pulled back just enough to look up at him properly, a small, tentative laugh escaping her.

“I— I didn’t realise I was so attached to it until now.” She whispered. “I’m sorry I freaked out.”

“Don’t apologise,” Lando said, shaking his head. “I’m glad I was here to take care of you, and, uh, managed to not make it worse.”

“Lucky me,” she muttered, the words playful but laced with a softness. She settled back into his arms, fisting her hands in his t-shirt.

“We’ll go get you a new one, yeah?” he said, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. His fingers ran through her hair, his touch gentle as he let her relax against him. “A better one. Newest one they have. I’ll even give you some Quadrant stickers to put on your new case. Maybe that’ll make it worth it.”

Amelia let out a small, quiet laugh, her body warm against his. The tension in her shoulders had melted away.

“I think I love you,” she whispered softly, her words barely above a breath.

Lando froze, a lump in his throat as her words settled between them. For a moment, he was speechless. His heart pounded, and he pulled her closer, if that was even possible.

“Holly shit,” he breathed out, his voice shaky with emotion. His hands cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing over her cheek as he searched her eyes, looking for the truth in them. “Yeah, I love you too, baby. I’m so glad you said it.”

Amelia’s eyes softened, and she pressed her forehead to his, the warmth of their bodies and the shared closeness almost too much to bear.

Lando let out a shaky laugh, a soft exhale of relief. “I’ve been wanting to say it for a while now,” he admitted quietly. “I just… I didn’t want to mess this up. Pressure you.”

“You didn’t,” she whispered, the words as steady as the way her hands gently cradled his. “You haven’t.”

“I love you.” He said again.

She leaned up, brushed their noses together and smiled. “I love you too.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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wosospacegirl · 17 hours ago

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Enjoy your treat - Alexia Putellas

Summary: Something about Alexia being a provider makes my legs weak.

a/n: Not really a fic-fic--more like a soft rant because I needed a break from studying virology (send help). It’s messy, unpolished, but full of love for the idea of Alexia casually spoiling you <3

Alexia isn’t loud about the fact that she makes bank.

She’s quiet about it, almost casual–like the way she slips a shopping bag onto the table without a word. You’ll be doing something totally normal, studying on the sofa, reading, journaling, and she just… walks by.

Drops it. Kisses the top of your head.

And then leaves.

No announcement. No explanation.

The first time it happened, you stared at the sleek black bag like it was going to explode.

“Alexia Putellas,” you called, squinting suspiciously. “What is this?”

She appeared in the doorway, hair damp from a shower, brow raised like you’re like she is oh so innocent.

“You said your sneakers were getting uncomfortable.”

You looked inside.

They weren’t just new sneakers.

They were handcrafted, limited-edition, in the exact colour you said you liked to wear.

A colour you mentioned once. Half-asleep. Two weeks ago. Sage green.

Alexia shrugged again like it was nothing. It’s never nothing.

She listens. Stores it all somewhere behind that pretty face of hers, waiting for the right moment to use it against you, with love, of course. She just goes around buying stuff and hides them away until she’s ready to give them to you.

It starts to become a thing.

The surprise bags. The quiet kisses.

The no-comment luxury dropped into your everyday like it doesn’t mean anything.

Until one day, you snap.

You’re tired, high-strung from back-to-back classes, your laptop balanced on your knees and flashcards falling everywhere, when she sets another box down in front of you.

You don’t even look up.

“Alexia,” you say, voice tight. “You don’t have to keep buying me things.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Just watches you with that maddening calm of hers, hands in her pockets like she’s done nothing but breathe.

“I have a job, Ale”, you say, sharper this time. “A real one. That pays me, I can buy my own stuff.”

Did you work part-time on an internship that paid you half a living wage? Yes. Could you really buy your own stuff? No. But you didn’t want Alexia to actually know that.

Alexia tilts her head slightly, then speaks, very softly, completely unfazed.

“I know,” she says. “You work because you want to. Not because you need to.”

She leans down, kisses your cheek, and walks out of the room.

You look at the box.

It’s a watch. Sleek, elegant, and, when you look up the model later, worth more than your rent.

Which you haven’t paid in six months. Because Alexia bought you the flat.

Yes. She bought a whole flat once she learned about the whole rent situation

You tried to argue about that, too. You lost.

Alexia’s love language is acts of service. Providing. Protecting.

If you are getting sick, she’s already called your doctor, moved your meetings, tucked you into bed, and, somehow, gotten your mom on FaceTime even though you definitely didn’t give her that number??

Your period starts? She’s already next to you with painkillers, the most expensive chocolate on the market, and her big warm hands pressed gently to your lower stomach. Like she could draw the pain out of you if she just loved hard enough.

You’re cold? She doesn’t say “go get a hoodie.”

She leaves and comes back with the hoodie—the one you pointed at online and didn’t buy because you were trying to be smart, trying to be careful.

You let her dress you in silence.

And she never, ever asks for anything in return.

You tried to talk her out of it. The gifts. The money.

You argued. You begged. Damn you even cried once.

And so she stopped, kind of.

Instead of new things appearing every day, you started getting silent deposits into your account. Small at first. Then not-so-small.

You didn’t ask for them. You didn’t use them.

You lasted two months. You didn’t use Alexia’s money for two whole months.

“Teimona,” she muttered every time she checked your untouched balance. “Dios mío, you’re so stubborn.”

But then it happened.

The coffee shop happened. :)

It was sunny. Warm enough for a jacket but not quite coat weather. You were both in sunglasses, fingers laced, laughing about something dumb when you stepped into the café.

You ordered (Alexia was the one who talked to the man on the counter actually)

Then you sat down and waited.

Alexia reached for her bag, then froze.

“Shit,” she muttered, eyes wide. “I forgot my wallet.”

You blinked. “Oh?”

“I’m going back to get it, I’ll be quick.” She said, already getting up.

“No,” you said, stopping her with a hand on her arm. “Stay.”

She frowned.

And you smiled.

A slow, smug thing.

You reached into your bag. Opened your wallet like it was a grand reveal.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Alexia narrowed her eyes like she knew she was being played but couldn’t stop it.

“Don’t worry, amor,” you said, too sweet. “It’s on me. Enjoy your treat.”

Her coffee suddenly didn’t taste quite right.

You watched her sip it anyway, expression murderous.

You sat back in your chair, victorious.

And yes, you used her deposit to pay for it. And no, you did not feel bad.

At least this time.

#woso fanfic #woso x reader #alexia putellas #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas x yn

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dazedantics · 2 days ago

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Mark remembers being your husband.

Well, okay, he was never actually your husband.

But when you played house in the comfort of backyards and playgrounds, he never had an issue assuming that role in your game of make believe. Whatever it took to just to keep his friend.

You'd use whatever you had around as your "kids." New action figures, old dollies, spare blankets, the poor dog who wanted no part in being dressed up.

It wasn't Mark's thing, no. But he played along properly each time just to stay with you till the sun went down.

He'd fix the house, go to work, play hero with your kids, take you on pretend dates, he'd even pick you up and spin you around as a greeting for when he got home! Well, okay, maybe he wasn't quite strong enough to do that yet. But he certainly tried! Giggling when you two tipped over, talking about his supposed day at work.

He didn't stop you if you had an idea either.

You want to pretend you're going to the store? Sure thing, he'll push the basket. You stuff a ball under your shirt to pretend you got a baby in there? Okay, he'll do the chores while you sit 'n sew. You want to kiss him cause you just love your husband oh so much? Uhh ... well, maybe that's a bit ... oh, and now you're kissing him anyways. Super.

Admittedly, he didn't like that part at first, cooties and all, but his admonition went out the window as you huffed and started chasing him round and round until you landed a successful one on his lips.

He soon got used to it though, even puckering up before you had put your kids to sleep. He even found himself thinking about it when it was time for you two to hit the hay.

And even now as he got older.

When he sat there at his desk, spacing out. First wondering about what's for lunch, then the latest comic waiting for him at home, then you.

He hadn't seen you a long time. You probably forgot about him by now. Or maybe not? You two did spend a lot of time together and you seemed to have about as many other friends as he did (which wasn't a lot). But you guys were more grown up now, you'd probably repressed those memories, right?

Yeah, that seems more likely.

I mean, why worry about that one scrawny boy when you were probably surrounded by lots of hot guys now.

One who'd be your real husband someday. That you'd make play with your kids and cuddle up to and kiss over and over again.

Mmm ... for some reason Mark didn't like that thought. Nose scrunching up and brows furrowing.

You'd been his first kiss, you know. And probably his only one. That thought made him feel strange too. Though in a better way that turns bittersweet in the end.

Did you ever think about that?

How he could technically have been considered your first boyfriend?

Oh no, well now he hopes not. Cause if you did, you'd have to tell your current boyfriend, right? Then he'd want to come beat up the punk who knew his girl.

Mark rubbed his eyes, trying to get that out of his head. It'd suck if he'd made an another enemy he didn't even know existed. A guy could only take so much locker shoving, you know?

He sighed and looked up to the front of the class. He hadn't heard a word the teacher said and could only hope it wasn't important.

They guestured to the door.

A surprise principal meeting? Hadn't had one of those in a while. He should probably look at the other kids' desks to figure out what he should be pretending to do.

The door's opening.

Okay, no one has their notebooks so maybe he should- wait. Is that you!?

You were taller than back then, but he could recognize you from anywhere! He watched as your lips started moving, those lips that had countlessly kissed his. He blanked on what you were saying, but he heard your voice. The sound just made all those random specifics details of you appear in his mind all at once.

And he may have been making things up at this point, but he swears your eyes were on him the moment you walked in.

You remember him? Even if it is just a little vaguely? You don't know how high that'd make his heart rocket.

Did you maybe want to sit by him? He wouldn't mind. Maybe you couldn't play house anymore, but you could still do things as you used to right?

Or maybe he could work his way up to becoming your actual husband now?

That was why you were suddenly here, right? The fates decided you weren't done playing pretend. Was he cool enough to talk to you now? Could he even bring up what had technically happened between you?

Would you bring it up?

Or does he have to keep sitting here, reliving those tender moments till the rest of his days?

Please don't make it come to that.

Please ...

#Invincible #invincible x reader #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #x reader

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dreamauri · 2 days ago

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♪ — 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗦𝗜𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗬 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗚 𝗚𝗙 lewis hamilton x fem! genz! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . You never meant to fall for a man twice your age, but somehow, Lewis Hamilton makes thirty-something age gaps feel like background noise. In a world of fast cars and faster headlines, you become the softest scandal on the grid—his controversially young girlfriend (2.3k words)

( my master list | more of lewis hamilton ) ( requests )

You spot him across the room like a plot twist in a book you didn’t mean to start reading—one of those late-night, one-more-chapter choices that end with your sleep schedule in ruins and your heart a little dented.

He’s standing by the bar like he owns the concept of cool, leaning one elbow against the counter, glass in hand, dressed like he just got off a jet and into a Vogue spread. Chunky rings flash with every movement. A silver chain rests on his collarbone like it was born there. Sunglasses inside—normally a red flag—but on him? It’s working. Unreasonably well.

He doesn’t look real. He looks curated. Like someone who’s used to being watched. Someone who doesn’t have to try to be interesting, because the world already decided he is.

And the weird part? You don’t know who he is.

Which makes him fair game.

You down the last of your drink like a dare, swipe your thumb across your bottom lip in case there’s gloss out of place, and march toward him like the protagonist of your own little fever dream.

“Hey,” you say, voice dipped in confidence, grin hooked to one corner of your mouth. “Quick question. Are you this hot all the time, or is it just the lighting in here doing community service?”

He turns his head slowly, like he knows he’s about to be entertained. Looks at you over the rim of his sunglasses with those lazy, almost amused eyes. Then lowers them altogether, letting you see the full scope of his expression.

Blink. Slow blink. Smile.

Then—laughter.

A warm, surprised kind of laugh. Like you just opened a window in a room that hadn’t been aired out in a while.

“You don’t know who I am?” he asks, head tilting, eyebrows raised.

“Nope,” you chirp, popping the ‘p.’ “But judging by that look, you clearly think I should. Celebrity? Secret agent? CEO of Hot Men, Inc.?”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he lifts his drink to his lips. It’s whiskey, neat. Of course it is. “I like you.”

“Obviously,” you reply, deadpan. “So, what’s your name, mysterious man with excellent bone structure and suspicious levels of swagger?”

“Lewis,” he says. It rolls off his tongue casual and smooth, like he’s said it a thousand times to people already impressed.

You repeat it slowly, like a sip of something expensive. “Lewis. You got a last name, or are you trying to stay mysterious on purpose?”

“I’m trying,” he says, smirk tucked behind his glass. “But now I’m curious. How old are you?”

You narrow your eyes in playful suspicion. “Why? You tryna check if I need parental permission to flirt with you?”

He laughs again, and it’s even better this time—less surprised, more like he’s starting to settle into the rhythm of you. “Just making sure I’m not getting arrested.”

“Relax, officer,” you reply, pressing a palm to your chest with mock innocence. “I’m twenty-four. Legal, unproblematic, and only occasionally unhinged.”

But his smile shifts—just slightly. A flicker of something cautious flashes behind those honey-brown eyes.

“Damn,” he mutters, not unkindly. “I’m too old for you.”

You arch a brow. “You can’t be that old.”

He gives you a small shrug. “I’m forty.”

There’s a beat.

A pause long enough to pour another drink in.

Your jaw drops. You step back, press a hand to your mouth in mock horror.

“Wowe,” you gasp. “You’re a fossil. How were the dinosaurs? Did you ride a pterodactyl to school?”

He throws his head back and cackles, catching the attention of the bartender and a couple people nearby. It’s not just amusement—it’s delight. You got him.

“Ruthless,” he grins at you.

You shrug, unapologetic. “What can I say? I like my men aged like wine and slightly traumatized.”

He raises his glass. “Well. You might be in luck.”

You clink your empty glass against his full one, eyes never leaving his.

Somewhere in the background, a bass-heavy track starts to play. But the real beat is in the space between you—charged and golden and humming with the promise of something very, very interesting.

You’re not supposed to be here.

Not in the paddock. Not wearing borrowed sunglasses and an oversized McLaren jacket that smells like someone else's boyfriend. Not sipping on a bottled water like you belong, casually trying not to gawk at multi-million-dollar cars or the people walking around like they own oxygen.

But you’re here.

A friend’s plus one, a last-minute invite when her PR-boyfriend flaked on escort duty. So you tagged along—because hello, free food, hot people, shiny cars, and maybe the chance to flirt with a driver or two. You figured worst-case scenario, you'd leave with a selfie and a new screensaver.

What you didn’t expect was to see him again.

Lewis.

Mysterious Lewis from the bar. GQ-cover Lewis. Ring-wearing, chain-glinting, forty-year-old fossil Lewis who made you laugh so hard you almost forgot your own name.

He’s walking through the paddock like he’s parting the sea. Everyone moves around him like he's made of something sacred—crew nodding, fans whispering, someone with a camera backing up just to get the shot. He looks… different today. Like he’s not just dressed cool, but armored in it. Like confidence stitched into a race suit.

Your jaw almost hits the gravel.

You don’t even think—your feet just move.

“Lewis!”

He turns.

Sunglasses again, of course. But when he spots you? That smile. Slow, warm, like he knew you'd show up eventually.

You grin, planting yourself right in front of him, toe to boot.

“Okay,” you say, breathless but smug, “you cannot turn me down this time. This is clearly fate.”

He laughs. It rumbles in his chest, head tilting like he’s trying to drink you in without making it obvious.

“You really didn’t Google me, huh?” he says.

You raise a brow. “Should I have? Wait, are you, like, a famous pit crew guy or something? The energy drinks guy?”

He just smiles. The kind of smile that hides a hundred secrets and a thousand wins.

“I gotta go,” he says, stepping closer for just a second. “But I’ll see you on the podium.”

You blink. “What podium?”

But he’s already walking away.

Helmet under one arm, swagger turned up to eleven, disappearing into one of the Mercedes garages like some kind of very sexy magician.

You look to your friend. “What podium?!”

Your friend is pale. “You don’t know who that is?”

“Should I???”

“That’s Lewis Hamilton.”

You snort. “No it’s not. His name is just Lewis. He didn’t even give me a last name.”

“BECAUSE HE’S LEWIS HAMILTON. SEVEN-TIME WORLD CHAMPION. THE GOAT. LITERAL SIR.”

You freeze. Fully buffer. Brain spinning like a car on slick tyres.

Cut to three hours later, and you’re in the Mercedes unit, watching on the big screen as the man you once called a fossil overtakes two cars and wins the freaking British Grand Prix like it’s casual.

The crowd explodes.

Your heart does too.

You're on your feet, half in disbelief, half in awe. You just watched a man drive like a myth, and all you can think is: he told me he was forty and I made a dinosaur joke.

And just as you start contemplating crawling into a hole forever, he finds you again.

Post-race glow. Hair half-flattened from the helmet. Fireproof suit half-unzipped to reveal that chain you remember from the bar. Sweat and champagne still clinging to his skin like stardust.

He looks at you with that same grin.

“Still think I’m someone’s manager?” he teases, voice low, eyes shining.

You gape at him. “You won. Like, you—won. Your name’s on the trophy. That podium. That—your home race??”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Must be fate. You show up, I win. Gotta say… you might just be my lucky charm.”

Your brain short-circuits. “I—I called you a fossil.”

He laughs. Full, delighted, Lewis-laugh. “And you humbled me before I got cocky. We make a great team.”

You bite back a grin, cheeks burning. “So… you celebrating tonight, or what?”

“Obviously,” he says. “You’re coming.”

it’s supposed to be a quick trip. A flash visit, blink-and-you-miss-it, in-and-out kind of thing. You’ve been swamped—deadlines, drama, flights rerouted like bad karma—but something in you ached to be there. For him. For Lewis.

So you made time. You chose time.

And now? Now you’re stuck in Austrian traffic, inching toward the Red Bull Ring in a car that’s doing more idling than moving, hair frizzing in the heat and hands white-knuckling your phone.

You press it to your ear. “I swear to god, if I miss your race because a literal cow is blocking the road—”

Lewis laughs on the other end, warm and fond. “A cow?”

“A cow, Lewis. Just standing there. Living her truth. Meanwhile, I’m two bad songs away from losing it.”

“You sound stressed, babe.”

“Gee, what gave it away?” you snap, then sigh. “Sorry. I just wanted to be there before lights out. Front row, proud girlfriend, full ensemble.”

His voice softens. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

“Barely.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re still my lucky charm. Even if you’re watching from the parking lot.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “Go win something, fossil.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He gets P2.

You watch the final laps on your phone screen, pressed against the parkinglot gates, heart in your throat and hands half-numb. The crowd erupts. Flags wave. You swear you can hear the champagne pop all the way from the parking lot.

And then—

There he is.

Striding out from the gates like he owns Austria, still in his suit, curls damp under his cap, smile already loaded like a secret.

“Hey,” he calls out, just loud enough for you to turn.

You do. And then you forget how to breathe.

Because Lewis Hamilton kisses you like the cameras aren’t watching. Like the whole world doesn’t know his name. Like you didn’t just call him a fossil two weeks ago and now you’re wearing his hoodie like a badge of honor.

You pull back, dazed and pink. “That was… public.”

“Could’ve made it more dramatic,” he teases. “Want a dip next time?”

“You’re so cocky for a man who came in second.”

He grins. “I’ll take second if it means I get to see that blush.”

You're about to fire back—something witty, something flirty—when someone from Mercedes runs up, breathless. “Lewis, mate. You need to come back to the unit. Now.”

He frowns. “Everything alright?”

The guy looks between the two of you, eyes wide. “George got disqualified.”

You both blink.

“What?” you say, at the same time Lewis mutters: “No way.”

“Track limits. Deleted laps. It just came through.”

Which means—

“You’re P1,” you whisper, eyes wide.

Lewis turns to you, slow and stunned. Brows raised. Smile blooming like he knew.

“Guess you really are my lucky charm,” he says, low and gleaming.

You shake your head, biting back a grin. “I didn’t even see the race.”

“Didn’t have to,” he murmurs, already pulling you into his arms. “Just had to show up.”

Thursdays are usually soft-launches. Media day. Press conference drip. Everyone pretending they’re not sizing each other up, that they’re not itching for Sunday, that they’re not clocking every outfit and wink and subtle little flex.

But this Thursday?

You walk in and the whole paddock blinks.

Because Lewis Hamilton—Sir Lewis Hamilton—is already waiting by the entrance like a man on a mission. Like the sun rises wherever you land. And he’s dressed like a dream dipped in platinum, silver shirt half-buttoned, rings glinting, pants tailored within an inch of heaven.

But it’s the way he looks at you that melts reality a little.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmurs as you reach him.

You grin, a little breathless, fixing the collar of his shirt even though it’s perfect. “You’re overdressed.”

He eyes your outfit—slick and sharp, Prada shades and knee-high boots like you own the grid—and hums, “Nah. We’re matching.”

And you are. Silver and black, sleek and dangerous. A walking power couple with zero subtlety. Someone snaps a pic. Then another. Cameras start clicking like popcorn.

He slips his hand into yours. Casual, confident. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

And then the tweets start.

You scroll a few of them while waiting outside hospitality, phone buzzing like a feral bee. You snort-laugh at the “get it grandpa” one. Lewis peeks over your shoulder and raises a brow.

“They’re obsessed with you,” you say, smirking.

“They’re obsessed with you,” he corrects, tugging you closer by the waist. “You okay?”

You shrug, leaning into him. “I mean, people think I’m either your niece or your mid-life crisis.”

He snorts. “You’re my win.”

Your smirk falters—just for a second—because god, he’s so earnest. So warm. Like a damn sunbeam with abs.

You recover quick, flicking your sunglasses down. “Damn right I am.”

He laughs loud, head tipping back. “There she is.”

All day, people stare.

Team members smile politely. Fans whisper behind phones. Media pretends not to mention it while asking if you're enjoying your "first F1 paddock experience" (you’ve been to three, thank you very much).

You pose for a few pics. Kiss Lewis on the cheek when he heads into the garage. Sip your overpriced iced coffee like nothing rattles you.

But every so often—when it’s quiet—you hear the whispers again. About the age gap. The headlines. The way you don’t look like you belong next to someone as legendary as him.

So when you catch your reflection in the hospitality glass—twenty-four and glowing but clearly young—you take a breath.

And then you smirk at yourself. Flip your hair. Take a selfie.

Caption it:

“idk i just think i’m a slay.”

And Lewis? He reposts it.

voice notes 🔊. . . ( im so writting a p2 for this when he moves to ferrari and the disqualifying in china )

#‧˚⊹🪴 ଓ :: 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝘀 ‧₊˚⤾#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton fanfic #lh44 #lh44 fic #lh44 x reader #lh44 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 x female reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x y/n

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holypeachnightmare · 2 days ago

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Pairings: Sylus, Zayne, Rafayel, Caleb, Xavier x reader

Synopsis: The lads guys enjoy a variety of kinks, but here’s my take on what I think suits them best

Sylus: Size/Daddy kink (couldn’t pick one lol)

When it came to being around Sylus, you got to turn your brain off. You didn’t need to worry about anything.

You never left the house worrying whether or not you had your wallet or your phone. Instead, if anyone looked inside your thousand-dollar handbag gifted to you by the man himself, they’d find a compact mirror, lipgloss, and a pair of panties, just in case the ones you left the house with ended up ripped or stuffed in the older man’s pocket.

You got to enjoy things that other guys found annoying or childish. The chibi crow made from clay dangling from Sylus’ keys and the little figurines that you organized on the bookshelves were just a few examples.

He took care of you in ways no one had even tried. Your health and happiness was of upmost importance. You had the tendency to forget doctor appointments and skipped meals, ignoring your water intake as well.

But he wouldn’t allow that. Setting your appointments into his calendar and often times than not, sending you reminders throughout the day to eat and drink water, asking for pictures as evidence.

He needed you healthy if you were going to spend the rest of your lives together. He needed to extend those years as much as he could.

You couldn’t miss the parental air that clung to him. Your age difference only heightens it. He had years of experience on you and it showed.

“You’re an absolute doll, sweetie.” His hand laying on your belly pressed down against the bulge that appeared under your skin as he slid himself inside of you, down to the base of his cock.

“S’full.” You were breathless, face tucked into one of your bent elbows while your other hand held your thigh, pulling yourself apart for the big man slotted between your legs. “You’re s’big. Need you to move.”

There was something about the way you laid under him. Completely at his mercy and so frail-looking doing it. You were all soft, fat located in areas where he held pure muscle. His hands, wherever they were placed on your body, were ridiculously wide with long fingers that could reach deep inside your cunt.

“Silly baby.”

He murmured against your heated skin and pressed feather-soft kisses here and there. His body curled over yours, hiding you from view. Had anyone walked into your bedroom, he’d easily hide you from their unworthy eyes.

“Need you to wait ‘for I can give you what you want. Too little, too tight to take daddy just yet.”

When you shifted your hips a bit, a cry escaping you as his mushroom tip pushed against your womb, a smack landed on the fat where your thigh met the side of your ass. Tears swelled in your eyes, a pout catching Sylus’ attention but he wouldn’t fold. Your stubbornness irked him at times, especially when it came to things that would only end up hurting you.

Hand gripping your jaw, preventing you from looking away from him, he spoke through clenched teeth.

“What did I say? Huh?”

“I just wanted-”

Another smack came down at the same spot as before and another whine fell from your lips.

“That’s not what I asked. What did I say, sweetie?”

“I need to wait.” You whispered. “I’m sorry.”

The tip of his nose brushed along your temple to your cheek. “Sweet girl. I only start when I know you’re ready because?”

“Daddy knows best.”

Zayne: Brat taming kink

You didn’t mean to have an attitude with him. Sometimes it sort of just slips out.

The dedication Zayne had to his patients, and his craft, was more than commendable. It was fascinating to see him lose himself in it but sometimes, you’d wish he’d give you the same amount of attention. Even though you would plan weeks in advance, if something came up at work, he’d reschedule in a heartbeat.

In those cases, it leads to you giving him the cold shoulder or snapping at him.

Wasn’t your fault you felt lonely. You just wanted to spend time with him.

Though composed and reserved for the most part, Zayne refused to let himself be the one you targeted your anger at. He was used to people listening to his every word. Every order he gave, needed to be followed, in and out of the hospital. But he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t like when you stepped out of line, it gave him a reason to let his facade crack and put you in your place.

When he stepped foot into your shared home, he hung his coat on the rack, his shoes neatly placed by the door. While undoing his cuff links, he made his way towards you, who sat stiffly on the couch, eyes trained on the television.

Pressing a kiss to your temple, he spoke.

“Apologies for my delay, darling. I had to attend a last-minute meeting on the updated protocols. New standing orders to follow.”

You pulled away from him, standing from the couch and moving around him, heading towards the bedroom.

“Nothing new at this point. I’m going to bed. Dinner’s cold by now so heat it up or whatever”

With only a few steps taken towards the bedroom, you came to a halt when you felt Zayne’s hand on your nape, his fingers slipping into your hair.

“Want to say that with a little less attitude?”

You did your best to put up a good fight but he always had an answer for everything. Reasons for staying behind. Most importantly, he wanted to be your sole provider. He didn’t want you worrying about anything besides your manicure chipping.

Wasn’t long before he had you bent over the back of the couch. Your ass burning from the harsh spanks he landed before stuffing you full of his cock.

“You’re so damn stubborn. Damn brat is what you are.”

Zayne punctuated every word with a rough thrust of his hips. Your whines overpowered the sound coming from the tv, the sensation of his cock bullying your cervix always had you crying like a cat in heat. Your toes grazed the floor and your hands clutched the expensive leather

“Never listen, do you? But don’t worry, I’ll always have time to put you in your place.”

Rafayel: Mommy kink

The skin on the tip of your thumb was being subjected to nervous nibbles as you stared at your phone. You had texted Rafayel almost forty minutes ago and he still hadn’t responded. You didn’t particularly enjoy it when he’d go out drinking with the guys as he was a major lightweight. It was true, no matter how much he snickered at the name.

He was already feisty on his own, add liquid courage and he’s ready to fight, and flirt, with an entire militia. He could get himself into some trouble, but the guys kept him at bay for the most part. Sadly, he was a slippery one who could disappear the second you took your attention away from him.

You tried not to be so much of an overbearing girlfriend, but something about Rafayel managed to bring out a side of you you never had experienced before. He was just a little fish in a big pond. He needed you to look after him.

The knock on your door centered your thoughts. Instant relief washed over you.

You were met with a giggly Rafayel who was clinging to a stoic as-ever Sylus.

“Hey, sweetheart. Hope you weren’t too worried.”

Sylus greeted you, pushing the flushed Rafayel into your arms, who suddenly smushed his face into your neck. You can feel the small gusts of air against your skin as he takes in your scent. You smiled at the gentle giant before you.

“I’m just glad he had a good time. Hope he didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“Surprisingly, he was well-behaved. Zayne made sure to have him drink a few bottles of water before coming home.” He had a sheepish look on his face. “Shouldn’t be too long before he sobers up. He’s a lightweight but he bounces back quickly.”

“Guppy,” Rafayel’s whiny tone interrupted the two of you. “…wanna go to bed.”

Sylus, the sweetie that he was, accepted it was time to go. No small talk for tonight.

“Need help getting him into bed?” He offered.

“I’ll be fine. Not like the first time where he couldn’t even stand and I had to drag him.”

“Progress.” The signature smirk appears on Sylus’ face. “Have a good night, sweetheart.”

You offered him a “drive safe” before shutting the door. When Sylus’ footsteps were no longer able to be heard from where you stood, your attention was brought to the warm appendage poking into the fat of your thigh.

“I thought he’d never leave.” Rafayel sounded completely sober now. “I was so close to ripping your clothes off in front of him. Give him a show…unless he’d want to join us.”

Sucking your teeth, you pulled away, his warmth no longer encasing you.

“Now that you’re home, I can go to bed.”

“But you said if I came home sober, we could have some fun.”

He followed you through the living room as you turned off the many candles and lights.

“I also said to keep an eye on your phone. Looks like we both are breaking our promises.”

“Guppy!” He sounded like an injured puppy, dragging out the syllables. “But I need you.”

“Take a cold shower. You’ll be fine.”

That adorable pout was noticeable through the bathroom mirror as you brushed your teeth. His eyes were narrowed as they took in your bare legs, the purple silk shorts standing out against your skin. He didn’t like that you easily brushed him off. The dent in his pants was evident enough of his desire, yet you seemed unfazed.

With a huff, he turned away, angrily removing his blouse and shoving his dress pants down his legs, throwing them to the side rather dramatically. Stretching himself on the azure chaise longue, he burned holes into the back of your head as you applied your moisturizer.

Your back went ram road straight at his next choice of words.

“Mommy, please…” He purred, his hand already passed the band of his brief, fingers wrapped around himself, giving himself a few tugs.

No fair.

He knew how much you enjoyed when he called you that. It was the quickest way to get what he wanted.

It wasn’t something you ever thought you’d be into but then Rafayel came along. His big, round eyes and pink pouty lips were too much to ignore.

“I promise I was a good boy tonight.” He wiggled his hips, discarding his briefs somewhere on the floor. “Pretended to be drunk just so that the guys brought me home. Home to you.”

For fuck sake you thought. Your resolve was cracking.

He was a little shit for the most part, but he could be so sweet when he wanted to.

“Won’t you take care of me, mommy? Promise I’ll make you feel good.”

Caleb: Naive kink

With your fingers typing away on your computer, you failed to notice Caleb, who was watching you from where he sat on the leather couch. If you had turned to look at him, you would be met with his beady little eyes peeking over the back of the couch.

He was being the only thing he knew what to be. A total creep. Your innocence allowed him to get away with a lot of things. Patting your ass when you wore tight jeans, saying he was getting rid of pretend dust. Swiping the skin of your chest when you accidentally drop some of your drink. But his favorite was when you wore your pretty little milkmaid dresses, exposing your panty-clad lips every time you bent over to pick something up.

Not his fault he was prone to being a klutz on those days.

His eyes took you in, catching the way you’d bite your lip, your little tongue poking out just a bit to wet the spot you just had in between your teeth. Your feet were clad in fuzzy pink socks with the lace trim. You had the habit of constantly shifting in your seat, from letting your feet dangle down to the floor to propping them up, crisscross style. When you weren’t rubbing the soles of your feet together, your crossed legs would offer him a glimpse of what was in the apex of your thighs.

Thank the gods you loved wearing his oversized shirts. As it rode up, it exposed the soft skin of your thighs and the outline of your puffy lips that were covered in white cotton panties with red cherries, a little wet stain right in the middle.

You weren’t doing it intentionally. Caleb was a hundred percent sure you were in your own world, as you typed up your psychology paper. Yet, he was happy about your obliviousness.

There was only one way this was going to end.

With your shirt pushed over your chest, and panties dangling from one sock-clad foot, your breath caught in your throat after every single thrust of Caleb’s hips. Soft little “uh uh” were pushed passed your bruised lips every time his tip hit your cervix.

“What did I do now?” You’d cry, having been taken off guard when his hand wrapped around your bicep and pulled you towards the bedroom. Pretty tears burned at the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill over any second now. “I-I was just…oh god, r-right there…please, please, please, feels so good, Caleb.”

He smirked as you lost your train of thought. It never took long for you to get drunk off of his cock.

“Pretty baby, doesn’t know any better, does she?” When his fingers touched your swollen bud, he could feel the grip you had on his dick tightened. The sucking motion causes his seed to fill you. “Too busy doing her big girl work when she should be spending time with me instead. Didn’t psychology teach you too much alone time can be detrimental to one’s health.”

Your tears finally fell. Whether from the pleasure or his condescending tone, one couldn’t tell.

“I’m sorry, bubs.” Your hands reached for him, pulling him down so that you could hide your face in his neck. “Promise I’ll do better.”

Your naivety is something he’ll always cherish.

Especially when he’s able to use it to his advantage.

Xavier: Somnophilia kink

You wouldn’t let his cute face fool you. Those rosy cheeks and pouty lips were all a facade for the moans coming from him as he slept revealed his true intention.

His hips shifted under the sheets, pressing his hard-on against your tummy and his hand squeezed your tit.

You thought back to all the times you were woken up to his face pressed to your cunt, his tongue slipping against your throbbing clit, or when he slowly fucked into you, his face buried against your neck. There was something that excited the both of you. The complete trust you two shared appeared even in your sleep.

With a mixture of nerves and excitement fueling you, you pulled away from him, pushing him gently until he was lying on his back. He had a thing for claiming you while you were off in dreamland. Maybe he’d love being on the opposite end just as much.

You always wanted to return the favor and the opportunity was presenting itself.

Shuffling around until you were in between his relaxed legs, pajama pants pulled down just enough for his member to slap against his abs.

You looked at him, taking in his open mouth where small gasps came from. Remembering the time he taught you how to take him into your mouth, a glob of spit fell on the red mushroom tip, running down the curve of him.

You started slow. Kitten licks at the tip, stopping to look up at him at every sound he makes. His brows were furrowed but his breathing remained the same.

Little by little, you took him deeper into your mouth, cheeks hallowing and your lips burning at the corners due to the stretch. At a harsh suck, his hips twitched, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat.

You keened around him as your eyes burned, your pussy clenching around nothing, begging to be filled.

Pulling away with a pop, you left tender kisses along his shaft, nose nuzzling the vein that ran on the underside of his cock.

Quickly undressing yourself, you settled onto his lap, positioning his cock at your entrance.

Unbeknownst to you, Xavier had woken up when you denied him his much-deserved climax. In an instant, he had you under him, his mouth hungrily pressed against yours as he pressed your legs against your chest.

He could taste himself on you, his musk mixing with the lip balm you had applied before bed.

“Greedy little thing,” He whispered, still thick with sleep. “Didn’t even let me cum before you wanted to have me inside of you.”

Collecting your slick allowing his length before slowly pushing it, he continued.

“Though I will say, having your lips around me was an awfully nice way to wake up.”

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xjulixred45x · 2 days ago

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Imagine an adult Yuu who arrived at Twisted Wonderland PREGNANT.

This could be considered part of the Yuu! Parent variables (?). Perhaps the poor woman was returning from an early ultrasound (at 2 or 3 months old) when the black carriage hit her, scaring her to death upon her appearance in TWST. She must have thought she was about to be sacrificed to a cult.

I can definitely imagine the Squad characters being much more understanding/soft of this Yuu, especially Ace and Deuce. Ace wouldn't be so malicious at the beginning of the game (I'd like to believe that not even he would be capable of laughing in the face of a pregnant woman), and instead feels obvious guilt because Crowley has entrusted her with a mediocre job.

Deuce, my sweet boy, will set off all his alarm bells. He's the most outraged that the headmaster is forcing a pregnant woman to work ALONE, and if his dorm leader hadn't been so strict in the beginning, he definitely wouldn't let Yuu sleep in a dorm that's falling apart. Has Crowley gone crazy? Does he have no shred of decency?!

Grim probably thought at first that Yuu had eaten her baby, haha, and had to receive the wonderful "birds and the bees" lecture (much to Ace's amusement at Grim's horrified reactions). Let's just say Grim now insists on standing sentry in case Yuu decides to do anything too "dangerous for the baby" (humans are fragile even with magic; he has to take care of his minion!).

Jack, bless him, also tries to help make the ramshackle dorm safer alongside Epel, whether by removing the most rotten parts of the structure, helping clean, assisting with Yuu's errands, etc. Especially when she starts showing more of her bump.

GOD, IMAGINE THE DORM LEADERS!

Riddle was probably the only one who didn't realize Yuu was pregnant until the events of the Savanaclaw episode. And when he found out he almost seriously hurt a PREGNANT WOMAN? Trey and Cater practically had to keep him from banging his head against a wall for half an hour out of embarrassment and shame. He also drafted a LONG apology for Yuu, which was delivered with a giant strawberry cake (and one of those exaggerated bows I KNOW Riddle would do).

Thanks to his mom (for once in his life), Riddle is the most knowledgeable about useful pregnancy stuff! Whenever Yuu goes to Heartslabyul, she has access to calcium- and iron-rich meals (prepared by Trey), and teas that boost her immune system and combat morning sickness. Riddle is careful not to give her things like black tea or rosemary tea, knowing they could have negative effects (if it were up to Riddle, Yuu probably wouldn't walk unaided).

Leona is much more respectful to a female Yuu, we know that, but I don't think he has the energy to be rude, or be especially , well, Leona, to a PREGNANT woman. This ends up bringing out a side of Leona no one thought existed: an almost delicate side. Sure, he's still lazy and sarcastic, but he doesn't say no to Yuu when she asks for help with something, whether it's bringing something to her dorm or dealing with a difficult situation. he dosent even COMPLAIN. what did he do to the real Leona??

We all know Crowley doesn't give Yuu and Grim enough money to live comfortably, let alone considering they could soon have a new member on ramshakle. Yuu is now surprised to find extra money in the dorm after certain visits. Not that he'll admit it, but it makes everyone feel more at ease.

Again, I want to believe Azul wouldn't be capable of leaving a pregnant woman homeless, at the very least he offered her a place to stay in Octavinelle. It turns out the twins (especially Floyd) quickly took a liking to Yuu.

A cute scenario I came up with, when Yuu already has a prominent baby bump, is that she tries to joke with the Leechs that the nickname "shrimpy" doesn't suit her anymore, and that maybe they should change it to "whaley."

AND FLOYD IS LIKE, "Why are you saying that, Koebi-chan? :( Is someone calling you that? Come on, tell me :)"

I think the Octavinelle folks genuinely don't know how human pregnancy works, so they're surprisingly gentle and caring with Yuu (even when the baby is born, I can see Monster Lounge having a kids' menu for them).

Kalim, my god, Jamil is going to have to stop him from giving Yuu a completely equipped nursery for both her and the baby. Ironically, the one who's the most normal about pregnancy (the guy has 30 younger siblings, so he KNOWS about these things) and genuinely knows some home tricks that helped his mother when she was pregnant.

offers to organize a baby shower/gender reveal party! The bad thing is that it ends up being a whole festival with all of Scarabia participating. But hey, it's the thought that counts.

There's no way Yuu, who's already 6-7 months along, will wear the school uniform simply for comfort, so if you need help finding comfortable AND cute clothes, Vil will gladly help! Obviously, he's not as strict or harsh with Yuu due to the circumstances, but he still wants the best for her. Who knows, maybe they can pick out some clothes for the baby in advance.

Idia is afraid to get close to Yuu, not only because of social anxiety, but because of the thought that he might "ruin" the baby in some way. He needs a lot of support from Ortho and Yuu to even allow himself to have normal physical contact with Yuu, and just as he does, the baby kicks. Idia's heart is gone (everyone wants to feel the kicks now, especially Ace, Floyd, and Malleus).

They probably use some STYX or Ortho equipment for some of the baby checks, and he even gives an approximate due date, which feels bittersweet. Even if everyone does their best, Yuu still hoped to have his baby at home, but he doesn't complain when the boys do all this for them. It feels like Home.

Malleus is another who doesn't fully understand human pregnancy and is incredibly intrigued. It doesn't help that Lilia's answers to his questions are even more confusing, so he ends up going straight to the source of his intrigue, Yuu. Malleus is completely mesmerized the first time he hears the baby's heartbeat, completely fascinated by what human life is like compared to fairies/dragons.

That said, he proceeds to "scold" the baby when it kicks Yuu for "hurting its mother," not quite understanding the concept, but he has the spirit. Malleus is very scared of the idea of childbirth once he's educated on it (WHERE will the baby come out? HOW!?) and will probably try to improve his healing magic SOLELY because of that.

All I can say is that if the baby is born in Twisted Wonderland, they'll have a wide array of adoptive siblings, father figures, babysitters, and weird and eccentric uncles who will take very good care of them and its mother. So you can rest easy.

__________

(ESPAÑOL)

Imagínate una Yuu adulta que llego a Twisted Wonderland estando EMBARAZADA

Esto podría considerarse parte de las variables de Yuu! Parent(?)Talvez la pobre mujer estaba regresando de un ultrasonido de los primeros meses (2 o 3 meses) cuando el carruaje negro le paso por encima, dándole un susto de muerte cuando apareció en TWST. La pobre mujer debio pensar que estaba a punto de ser sacrificada a un culto.

Definitivamente puedo ver a los personajes del Squad mucho mas suaves con esta Yuu, especialmente Ace y Deuce. Ace no sería tan malicioso al principio del juego (digo, quiero creer que incluso el no seria capaz de reírse en la cara de una mujer embarazada) y más bien siente una obvia lastima de que Crowley le haya metido en un trabajo mediocre.

Deuce, mi dulce niño, le disparan todas las alarmas. Es el más obviamente indignado de que el director haga trabajar a una mujer embarazada SOLA, y definitivamente si su líder de dormitorio no fuera tan estricto al principio, no dejaría que Yuu durmiera en un dormitorio que se cae a pedazos ¿¡que acaso Crowley perdió la cabeza, no tiene el mínimo de decencia?!

Grim probablemente al principio pensó que Yuu se había comido a su bebe lol, y le tuvieron que dar la maravillosa charla de las “aves y las abejas” (para diversión de Ace por las reacciones horrorizadas de Grim). Solo digamos que ahora Grim insiste en actuar como centinela en caso de que Yuu se le ocurra hacer algo demasiado “peligroso para él bebe” (los humanos son frágiles aun si magia ¡tiene que cuidar a su secuaz!).

Jack, bendito sea, también trata de ayudar en hacer el dormitorio destartalado mas seguro junto a Epel, ya sea quitando las partes mas podridas de la estructura, ayudando a limpiar, ayudar con los mandados de Yuu, etc. Especialmente cuando empieza a mostrar mas la panza de embarazada.

DIOS, IMAGINENSE LOS LIDERES DE DORMITORIO.

Riddle probablemente fue el único que no llego a darse cuenta que Yuu estaba embarazada hasta los eventos del capítulo de Savanaclaw ¿y cuando se enteró que casi lastimo gravemente a una MUJER EMBARAZADA? Trey y Cater tuvieron que físicamente detenerlo de que se golpeara la cabeza contra la pared por media hora por la vergüenza, también redacto un documento LARGUISIMO de disculpa a Yuu, que fue entregado con una gran tarta de fresa (y una de esas reverencias exageradas que SE que Riddle haría).

¡Gracias a su madre (por una vez en la vida), Riddle es el que sabe más de cosas útiles para el embarazo! Cada vez que Yuu va Heartslabyul, tienen acceso a comidas nutritivas en calcio y hierro (hechas por Trey), Tés beneficiosos para el sistema inmune y para combatir las náuseas matutinas, aparte de que Riddle es cuidadoso de no dar cosas como Te negro o romero, sabiendo que podrían tener malos efectos (si fuera por Riddle, Yuu probablemente no caminaría sin ayuda).

Leona es bastante más respetuoso con una Yuu mujer, eso lo sabemos, pero no creo que tenga la energía para ser grosero o especialmente, bueno, Leona, con una mujer EMBARAZADA. Esto termina sacando un lado que nadie creía que existía de Leona, un lado casi delicado. Claro, sigue siendo perezoso y sarcástico, pero no le dice que no a Yuu cuando le pide ayuda en algo, ya sea llevar algo a su dormitorio o con una situación difícil.

Todos sabemos que Crowley no da ni de lejos el dinero suficiente para que Yuu y Grim vivan bien, mucho menos pensando que PODRIAN TENER UN NUEVO INTEGRANTE PRONTO, por lo que Yuu ahora se sorprende después de ciertas visitas, aparece algo de dinero extra en el dormitorio. No es como que lo vaya a admitir, pero todos están más tranquilos de esa forma.

De nuevo, quiero creer que Azul no sería capaz de dejar sin hogar a una mujer embarazada, aunque sea le ofrecería una estancia en Octaville, ya que, además, resulta que los gemelos (especialmente Floyd) se encariñaron con Yuu muy rápido.

Un escenario lindo que se me ocurrió, ya cuando Yuu tiene una panza de embarazada prominente, es que ella trata de bromear con los Leech de que el apodo “camarón” ya no le queda bien, y que a lo mejor tendrían que cambiarlo a “ballena”

Y FLOYD ESTA COMO “¿Por qué dices eso Koebi-chan?  ¿alguien te está diciendo asi? Vaaaamos, dímelo ”

Creo que genuinamente los de Octaville no saben muy bien cómo funciona el embarazo terrestre, por lo que son sorprendentemente gentiles y cuidadosos con Yuu (incluso cuando nace el bebe, puedo ver el Monstre Louge teniendo un menú infantil para ellos).

Kalim, dios mio, Jamil tendrá que detenerlo de regalarle a Yuu absolutamente toda una guardería completamente equipada tanto para ella como para el bebe. Irónicamente el que es el mas normal al respecto del embarazo (el man tiene 30 hermanos menores, el SABE de estas cosas) y genuinamente sabe algunos trucos caseros que le sirvieron a su madre cuando ella estaba embarazada.

¡ofrece organizar un baby shower/ fiesta de revelación de genero! Lo malo es que termina siendo todo un festival en el que participa todo Scarabia. Pero hey, la intención es lo que cuenta.

No hay forma en la que estando ya en los 6-7 meses Yuu use el uniforme de la escuela por simple cuestión de comodidad, por lo que si necesitan ayuda en encontrar ropa cómoda Y bonita ¡Vil le ayudara con gusto! Obviamente no es tan estricto ni duro con Yuu debido a las circunstancias, pero sigue queriendo lo mejor para ella. Quien sabe, talvez puedan elegir algo de ropa para él bebe de adelantado.

Idia tiene miedo de acercarse a Yuu, no solo por la ansiedad social, sino por la idea de que podría “arruinar” al bebe de alguna forma. Necesita mucho apoyo de Ortho y Yuu para siquiera permitirse tener contacto físico con Yuu de forma normal, y justo cuando lo hace, el bebe patea. A Iidia se le salió el alma del cuerpo (ahora todos quieren sentir las pataditas, sobretodo Ace, Floyd y Malleus).

Probablemente usan algo de equipo de STYX o Ortho para algunos controles del bebe, incluso el da una fecha aproximada de nacimiento, lo cual da una sensación agridulce. Aun si todos hacen su mejor esfuerzo, Yuu esperaba poder tener a su bebe en casa, pero no se queja cuando los chicos hacen todo esto por ellos.

Malleus es otro que no entiende el embarazo humano completamente y esta increíblemente intrigado, no ayuda que as respuestas de Lilia a sus preguntas son aún más confusas, por lo que termina lleno a la fuente de su intriga, Yuu. Malleus se queda completamente hipnotizado la primera vez que escucha los latidos del bebe, totalmente fascinado por cómo es la vida humana en comparación a las hadas/dragones.

Eso sí, procede a “reprender” al bebe cuando patea a Yuu por “lastimar a su madre”, no entendiendo bien el concepto, pero tiene el espíritu. A Malleus le asusta mucho la idea del parto una vez que se educa al respecto (¿Qué el bebe saldrá DE DONDE? ¡¿COMO!?) y probablemente trate de mejorar en magia curativa UNICAMENTE por eso.

Solo puedo decir que si el bebe nace en Twisted Wonderland, tendrá un vasto abanico de hermanos adoptivos, figuras paternas, niñeros, tíos raros y extravagantes que lo cuidaran muy bien a él y su madre. Así que pueden estar tranquilos.

Shares, reblogs and comments are very welcome!

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luveline · 2 days ago

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hi jade I would love to see spencer post mexico with a BAU intern who’s nervous about her first few weeks, maybe he makes it his mission to see her settle in?

ty for requesting! fem, 1.2k

“I still can’t believe I missed out on working with Aaron Hotchner.”

Spencer nods as he stirs a spoon around his fiftieth cup of tea this week. “It’s genuinely a shame. And he worked here for more than half of the BAU’s lifespan, so if you look at it through a–”

“Mathematical standpoint?” you ask.

“Exactly. It’s a statistical improbability to work at the BAU without him. Even when he wasn’t unit chief, he was still a profiler.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, glaring down at a tray of coffee and tea, your note resting beside it.

“If Aaron were here,” Spencer says, taking his spoon to the sink for a quick rinsing, “he’d tell you that you don’t have to make the coffee for everyone. You don’t have to ask who wants a cup every time you make one. That’s… not very American.”

“Who cares about being American? I’m trying to be polite.”

“You’re being taken advantage of.”

“Thank you for helping.”

Spencer has taken the tea side of things. “You’re welcome.” And he knows a part of him has changed now after the last few shitty months, a confidence at having seen the worst scenario of your life playing out while you’re completely powerless to stop it, but Spencer has friends who love him, and he’s not really as powerless as he thinks. So when he looks at you and he thinks about how worried you are every day that you aren’t doing enough to belong here, he knows he can change that. “Maybe tomorrow, you can make coffee for you and nobody else.”

“They like me.”

“Well, yeah, but everyone will like you tomorrow when they have to make their own coffee.”

You slow your stirring. Under your lashes, your eyes carry a dark sort of glow, mid-lit kitchen and— Spencer doesn’t know for sure, but he thinks you might have the loveliest eyes in Virginia. “Is it really stupid of me?” you ask quietly.

Spencer shakes his head.

Your shoulders relax. You’re wearing this cutesy long sleeve shirt, cream with black piping along the neckline cross-crossing below your chest with a little black bow nestled at the valley, accentuating the line of your shoulders, and the lengths of your arms. Spencer tries not to stare, but you catch his looking and peer down. “What?” you ask.

“Nothing.”

“Do I have coffee on me?”

“No.”

“Spencer, were you…”

“Don’t even joke about that,” he says, glad to hear you laughing, then, to know that you know he’s not a perv. “I was just thinking that I like your blouse.”

“Blouse. You must be older than you look, Dr. Reid.”

“How old do I look?”

You huff a laugh under your breath and pick up your tray of coffee. “I’m gonna start passing these out. You don’t have to do the tea, I’ll come back.”

There’s far less tea than coffee. “No, I can do it.”

You nod with determination and turn away. ”Thank you!” you call as you go.

Spencer takes the tea out. The second to last is for Emily, who’s digging at her forehead with a fisted hand when he gets through the door of her office. “Hey, Em,” he says quietly.

“Spence.”

“Brought your tea.”

“Jesus, thank you.”

He lingers by her desk, glancing over her things. She kept some of Hotch’s stuff before he left. Spencer knows she can’t part with the photo of the group of them at their favourite bar a few months after JJ had Henry, even if she made a bunch of jokes after Hotch left it behind. Good boss, terrible guy. How could he just leave this here?

Spencer sees it as a passing of the baton. You’re in charge. “You okay?”

“Headache.”

“PMS?”

“Sure, but you shouldn’t ask me that, Spencer,” she says, laughing and taking her mug of tea eagerly.

“You’re always tired at the start.”

“Can you stop? You’re being creepy.”

“Did you want a hug?”

Emily sips her tea. “Mm, ask me later. So, who made this?”

“Me. Why?”

“The new girl steeps it for too long.”

“Come on, don’t call her that.”

Emily’s brows rise. “I don’t. To her face, I don’t. She is the new girl, though.”

“I think she’s more than aware of it.”

“Oh, you have a big crush on her, huh?” Emily leans back in her chair, her dark hair curled lightly against her shoulders. “She’s pretty.”

“If it were that easy, I’d have a crush on you.”

“You don’t?”

Spencer rolls his eyes lovingly. On the landing, he looks out over the office and follows you moving from desk to desk. You’re quick, and you sit at your own desk to dive back into ViCAP chores glaringly without your own cup of tea or coffee.

Emily’s right. He does have a crush on you. But it’s not something any of his friends need to know yet. He knocks Luke’s desk lightly as he passes and grabs his tea where it’s still steaming on his own. As he comes up behind you, he notices your fingers clenching and unclenching on your thigh, the tight knot of your neck. God, he’s not good at this, but he’s gonna try.

“Hey, angel?” he asks quietly.

You don’t realise he’s talking to him for a few seconds, then your head tips back, and you’re all softness in the April gloom when you smile shyly. “Yeah?”

“Tea.”

Your lips part. “Oh. Oh, thank you. I forgot my coffee.”

“Tea has an amino acid called L-theanine. It’s rare in that it can actually cause relaxation in the body. In comparison, coffee–”

“Sucks?”

He grins. “Sucks. S’that why you forgot yours?”

“I forgot mine ‘cos Anderson looked like he was gonna collapse, he’s so tired. Is that my future?”

“Maybe. But it’s worth it. If you can’t do it that’s fine, obviously, the turnover rate isn’t exactly low, Emily told you that herself. But it’s worth it, I promise.”

You hold his gaze. “I know.”

Spencer clasps your shoulder, tentative and deliberate at once. He feels the bone when he squeezes, but he doesn’t do it too hard.

“Sorry about all the fuss.”

He strokes your arm with his thumb. “It’s okay,” he says, hand falling down the curve of your shoulder to warm your upper arm, “I don’t mind it.” He takes his touch away, not necessarily because he wants to. It’s too early to know what you’re feeling; he hasn’t learned your tells or whiles yet, but he hopes he will.

Your face drifts toward your shoulder, as though following his touch unconsciously. Spencer’s heart races like a blinker circuit at the thought.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “I appreciate it, Spencer. All your help. I really do.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

As he stands up, he rubs your shoulder again, a half a seconds touch he thinks Hotch would be proud of, if he were still there to see it.

(And you —ViCAP is kicking your ass and the smell of coffee makes your head hurt, but your hot new coworker makes each day easier, ‘cos he touches like he talks. Soft, and gentle, and eager to please.)

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic

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studioeisa · 3 days ago

Text

the final defense of the dying 🥀 jeonghan x reader.

jeonghan has escorted twelve tributes to their deaths. he will do everything in his power to make sure you don’t face the same fate.

🥀 pairing. hunger games mentor!jeonghan x tribute!reader. 🥀 word count. 13.1k. 🥀 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: hunger games. heavy angst, action, friendship, romance. 🥀 includes. minors do not interact. minor character deaths; hunger games-typical depictions of blood, gore, violence; themes of ptsd, sex work; sexual content; mentions of food, alcohol. childhood best friends, jeonghan yearns :(, cameos of svt members. 🥀 footnotes. this is part of the angst olympics collaboration. i did say this would be above 5k. a direct hit for @diamonddaze01, and for everyone who soldiered through sunrise on the reaping. my masterlist 🎵 doomsday, lizzy mcalpine. meet me in the woods, lord huron. growing sideways, noah kahan. we hug now, sydney rose. no light, no light, florence + the machine. without you without them, boygenius. the prophecy, taylor swift.

I. YOON JEONGHAN, THE FRIEND.

Jeonghan’s nightmares always start the same.

The middles and the endings vary. If he’s lucky, he doesn’t have to suffer through an entire run of his Games. If he’s unlucky, he wakes up gasping for breath like he had his head dunked underwater the entire evening.

It always opens with the sprawling fields of District 11.

The very lands he had once thought to be so commanding. On his first train ride to the Capitol—when he was being sent out like a pig for slaughter—he knew, even then, that the sight was one to behold. Bountiful orchards, fruit trees in full bloom, tilled land as far as the eye could see.

When he sees them in his nightmares, there is always something wrong. An infestation. A wildfire. His loved ones, spilling blood all over the hay.

Tonight, it’s you.

Jeonghan’s subconscious is caught off-guard. It’s not the first time he’s dreamt of you, after all. And so he thinks it’s going to be pleasant, thinks he’s going to enjoy some ethereal adventure.

But then you open your mouth and nothing comes out. Not your sweet voice. Not your call of Hannie. Your face contorts, twists, like you’re in pain. It’s the very last expression Jeonghan would ever want to see on your face.

He tries to reach you. He takes a couple of paces forward. He breaks out into a run. But the fields stretch, and stretch, and stretch, and all the while, you stare straight at him with that soundless look of terror.

Jeonghan wakes with his chest heaving.

It takes him thirty seconds to realize he had been dreaming. It takes him another five minutes to clamber out of bed, unsteady on his feet as he makes his way to the en suite bathroom.

Here, in the Victor’s Village, it’s only him. And he doesn’t mean that in the sense that he has no living relatives to stay in this big, empty house with him. He means it in the sense that he’s the only district’s Victor, the only one to have come back alive after 73 iterations of the Games. It had its advantages.

Being all alone means nobody can hear Jeonghan when he screams. When he sits in the tub, head between his knees, and screams until his voice is hoarse.

He chalks up the eerie dream to what awaits him later in the day. The reaping looms over him like a storm cloud, but there’s also a silver lining he holds on to as he goes through his morning routine. It’s morbid. It’s cruel. He would never admit it to anyone.

For once, Jeonghan is looking forward to the reaping.

On average, the reaping was considered the worst day for any district. An annual lottery that decided who would be sent off to participate in that year’s Games. Behind New Year’s, Reaping Day was the second-most likely day for people to get drunk.

Today was your last.

The last day you had to have your name in the bowl. The last reaping you would have to endure.

You and Jeonghan were twelve when your names first got added into the mix. When he came back from his Games, he made sure you would never have to apply for tesserae—a year’s worth of grain and oil. He was richer than the gods, anyway, with all his winnings. And who else would he share it with but you?

So, in your final year, there are still only seven slips of paper with your name on it.

Jeonghan likes your chances.

The reaping kicks off at around three in the afternoon. Obligations keep Jeonghan away from sneaking out to find you, but he knows where to look once the ceremony begins. You’re in the roped-off area of the town square, towards the front where all the older eligibles await their fate.

Jeonghan doesn’t bother to hide the fact he’s staring, that he’s waiting for you to look his way. Almost willing it, even, and he can sense your vexation from the stage where he’s forced to stand.

You finally look up at him. For a moment, he sees the face in his dream. The one screaming.

It passes like a mirage, leaving your familiar expression of exasperation.

Stop, you mouth, trying to look somewhat stern. Failing. (A corner of your lip has twitched upward.)

He raises one shoulder in a shrug. Can’t help it, he mouths back, the knot in his chest loosening ever so slightly.

For the first time that day, he feels like he can breathe.

The mayor steps forward to recite the history of the founding of Panem. The Dark Days brought upon by the uprising, the Treaty of Treason that institutionalized the Games. There’s a measly attempt to discuss the spoils and riches that come with winning, but nobody is convinced. Not when there’s still only a solitary victor on stage.

“District 11’s victors,” the mayor rasps. This part is required reading, has been included in the program for the past six years. “Yoon Jeonghan, the 66th Hunger Games.”

There’s a smatter of polite applause. Jeonghan offers the gathered crowd a small nod in acknowledgement, but nothing more.

The list ends there.

The district’s escort since gods-knows-when moves up to the microphone. Bauble lived up to her name; she was a stout, shimmery thing embellished in absurd shades of gold and glitter. You once told Jeonghan that her voice was like a coin in a tin can, and he’s been unable to unhear it ever since.

She waxes poetics about the honor of being a tribute. Jeonghan tunes it out, focuses on staring straight ahead. He wonders, briefly, what he should have for dinner.

Bauble steps towards the glass bowl containing hundreds of folded pieces of paper. Hundreds. Some have their names in there on twenty-something slips.

Not you. You only have seven. Seven, because Jeonghan had made sure to keep the odds as low as possible.

“Ladies first,” Bauble warbles.

And perhaps that’s Jeonghan’s first mistake—that he does not worry.

He’s so sure, so certain, riding on the high of this reaping being your final one. His mind is already halfway into next week, into the special brand of kindness you afford him in the aftermath of the Games.

You were always a little softer to him whenever he came home from the bloodbath. A consolation, he had thought during his first year as a mentor. Perverse as it is, he soaked it all up.

The nights you’d spend at his home in the Victor’s Village. The cooked meals and the reassuring touches. The words you’d murmur whenever he woke up from his nightmares; your sweet nothings of you did what you could and no one blames you and it was just a dream, Hannie, you’re safe here.

He’s thinking of those, of you.

And so he nearly misses the way Bauble calls out your name.

The very name he had shrieked as a child when the two of you played games in the corn fields and rice paddies. The very name he had murmured soundlessly while he was delirious and sick in his own arena. (The thought of you, the only thing that kept him alive.)

It’s your name, but everybody in the crowd—from the farmers to the ranchers to the Peacekeepers, even—know you as something else.

Jeonghan’s darling. Jeonghan’s sweetheart.

The love of his life, now sentenced to die.

He can feel it. The tangible shift in the air.

The camera trying to get a tight shot of his face. The probing eyes, all flickering between you and Jeonghan like the district doesn’t know who to focus on.

You may be the reaped, but the slip of paper in Bauble’s hand has condemned you both.

Jeonghan doesn’t give anyone the satisfaction of a reaction

He watches, tight-lipped and steely-eyed, as you move through the crowd like a summer breeze. You don’t look towards him. A small grace.

You take your place on the stage. Bauble—ignorant as ever of the tension that has rippled through the district—flashes you a toothy smile.

“Lovely,” she sing-songs. Jeonghan barely resists the urge to tear the escort’s wig off.

She moves over to the boys’ fishing bowl and pulls out a name. It’s some rancher’s son, someone who got a little cocky about the amount of tesserae they thought they could get. He stumbles forward from the back row of eligibles, which means he’s young. Probably only thirteen or so.

Jeonghan doesn’t dwell on it it. He’s too busy holding his hands behind his back, his nails digging into his palms in a way that will leave crescent-shaped marks.

“Ladies and gentleman, join me in welcoming the District 11 tributes of the 73rd Hunger Games!” Bauble trills.

During Reaping Day, there is already barely any applause or cheers. Why would anyone celebrate when Jeonghan was still the only one to have come back after all these decades?

Today, though, it’s silent as a tomb.

Bauble looks like she’s at a loss. A quiet district doesn’t make for good television. “And may the odds be ever in their favor,” she’s saying hastily, but her words patter off when it begins.

A low hum. Somebody from the back of the crowd starts it up, and then the rows follow suit one after the other.

People are always angry in District 11.

The days are long and the work is hard. The sun is unforgiving; the labor, unjustified. And so the people have learned to sing, have taken to music so they could bear the strife. The two of you grew up to hymns in the fields, ballads on birthdays—

Songs at funerals. Grief shared in rumbling baritones, in lyrics passed down from one generation to another.

The weeping women begin to croon.

The fields whisper low where the tall corn sways, Calling your name in the hush of the days. Summer was golden, but frost’s moving in, Taking the bright ones again and again.

It’s a song as old as time, an honor as recognizable as the three-fingered salute. Jeonghan dares to steal a glance at you. You’re clutching the male tribute to your side, and your jaw is set with defiance.

The sun kissed your brow as you worked through the rows, Hands stained with labor, a heart no one knows. Now they have sent you where none should be sent, Leaving us hollow, our backs tired and bent.

Your parents. Gods, your parents. Jeonghan’s gaze skips over the crowd as he tries to find them. There’s so many, too many people. He’s a little grateful he can’t locate them. He wouldn’t know what to do if he saw the looks on their faces.

Back when the two of you had been playmates, your father had always teased Jeonghan about bringing you home before the sun set. Jeonghan had been so diligent, had never failed your father once, but now.

But now.

Gone like the harvest, gone with the wind, Taken too soon, though your roots ran deep in.

The earth holds your footsteps, the sky holds your name, But nothing will ever grow quite the same.

Bauble is getting restless. The mayor keeps throwing helpless glances at Jeonghan. He stares straight ahead. He has no plans of interrupting. Not this. Not when it’s for you.

In the corner of his eye, he can see you mouthing along to the words. In his honest, unbiased opinion, you were one of the district’s best singers. It kills him that no one will hear you, no one can hear you, as you give what may be your last performance for the people that have raised you.

The song crescendos. Dozens of voices, furious as the storms that rampaged through Panem and left the district on its knees.

Let the wheat bow, let the vines grieve, Let the rain fall for all we believe. If we had a choice, if we had a say, Not one of our own would be taken away.

Jeonghan hopes the Capitol cameramen are getting this, even though they’ll probably cut the broadcast. A district united in its sorrow is a dangerous one, and Jeonghan will pay a small price for letting it happen.

He will pay an even heftier price for singing along.

His tone has always been a bit on the nasally side, but the years have made it sweeter, sharper. He doesn’t have to pitch his voice particularly loud. The people see his mouth forming the words, see the way he joins in on the last chorus.

Gone like the harvest, gone with the wind, Taken too soon, though your roots ran deep in. The earth holds your footsteps, the sky holds your name—

But nothing will ever grow quite the same, he finishes, and then he finally looks towards you.

II. YOON JEONGHAN, THE VICTOR.

It had been his first reaping.

His name, in the bowl only once. His cousins had told him it was unlikely. You had reassured him it would not be him, although his concern, even then, had been that it might be you.

He had been basking in the relief of the female tribute not being you—instead being a wine-maker’s daughter—that he didn’t immediately register the fact his name had come out of Bauble’s gold-painted lips.

Twelve-year-old Yoon Jeonghan. District 11’s male tribute for the 66th Hunger Games.

You had screamed bloody murder. He remembers that. He remembers you running forward; you had always been quick on your feet.

You reached Jeonghan just in time to give him a bone-crushing hug, to babble something helpless like Come back, swear it, before you were shoved down into the asphalt by the nearest Peacekeeper.

Jeonghan had felt rage, then. Felt like he could win the Games solely based on the fact the violence had chipped one of your teeth and bruised your cheek.

He had to be dragged kicking and screaming onto stage, had to be placed next to the female tribute who looked sick at the thought of heading into the bloodbath with a literal child.

Cherry. That had been her name. Jeonghan remembers finding it ironic, because she smelled more like grapes.

He had tucked away most of his memories of the pre-Games activities, or maybe the trauma had them blurring all together. The lack of victors for District 11 meant that his mentors had been pooled from other districts.

There was District 3’s Beetee, who won the 34th Hunger Games after electrocuting the Career pack. There was District 6’s Maeve, who accidentally won the 44th Hunger Games despite being high on morphling the entire time.

Maeve trained Cherry. It didn’t do Cherry much good.

Beetee trained Jeonghan. The man had been critical, clinical. He pitied Jeonghan, though. Any time Beetee seemed to remember Jeonghan was only twelve, the victor would stutter and wince.

Jeonghan had hated that the most. That he was the youngest in the pool of tributes. That the Capitol citizens looked at him like he already had one foot in the grave.

A part of him wants to say spite got him to win. A desire to prove himself, to break the record previously held by fourteen-year-old Finnick Odair.

Jeonghan put on a good show. He charmed interviewers. He got a six as his training score after depicting particular adeptness at knife-throwing.

It didn’t matter. None of it did.

Going into the Games, Jeonghan’s morning long odds had been 60-1.

His arena had smelled of petrichor and blood.

Jeonghan blinked against the sudden glare of daylight as the plate elevated him into a clearing wreathed by towering trees. A canopy loomed above like a watchful eye, dappling the forest floor with fractured sunlight. The Cornucopia gleamed gold and monstrous at the center of the glade, its curved mouth yawning open with the promise of tools and terror.

Around him, the other tributes emerged, silhouettes sharpening into figures with each second. They looked older. Meaner.

Cherry had been across from him, eyes wide and frantic. Her hands trembled at her sides. She wasn’t looking at the weapons. She was looking at him.

Jeonghan shook his head once. A warning.

The gong sounded, and he sprinted.

The chaos unfurled behind him like a wave of shrieking metal. The sound of a throat being opened. Of someone crying for their mother.

Jeonghan didn’t look back.

His legs were short, but fear lent him speed. He vaulted a moss-slicked log, ducked beneath hanging vines, tore through underbrush until his lungs burned.

He only collapsed hours later, curled beneath the roots of a colossal tree, his palms raw, his clothes stained with dirt and sweat. He couldn’t stop shaking. Not from cold but from the weight of it all.

Cherry hadn’t made it.

He had heard her scream. High and shrill, cut short in the way all Capitol broadcasts made sure to capture. He had paused only briefly—just enough to register the voice—before running again.

It wasn’t supposed to be her. She was older, stronger.

Maeve had spent hours coaching her on traps and close combat. Cherry had taken to it well.

Jeonghan was the joke. The child. The one who should have been first to go.

He curled tighter under the roots, pulling fallen leaves around his body like armor. Beetee’s voice floated back to him: Observe. Hide. Let the others thin themselves out. You are not stronger. You must be smarter. Use their confidence against them.

Jeonghan’s fingers had closed around a flat, smooth rock. He didn’t throw it, just held it, letting the weight steady him.

That first night, the sky lit up with eight sepia faces. Cherry’s was among them.

Jeonghan didn’t cry. He thought he might never stop if he started.

Instead, he thought of you.

He told himself he wouldn’t die. Not until he saw you again. Not until he returned what the Peacekeepers took from your smile.

He slept with his back to the tree, one hand on the rock. Waiting. Listening.

Still alive.

Jeonghan stayed alive for 17 more days.

The arena was built to punish the reckless. A tropical forest that seemed quiet until it wasn't. The humidity sapped your strength. The mutant insects bit through your resolve. The rains flooded low ground without warning. Those who didn't know how to climb or swim were the first to go.

Jeonghan didn’t fight. Not at first.

He moved at night, listened more than he spoke, and memorized the rhythms of the forest. He watched the Careers from a distance as they slaughtered each other over dwindling supplies. He learned to tell which fruits made your stomach turn and which bark bled drinkable water.

He clung to Beetee’s instructions like a lifeline.

Lay traps when you can. Scavenge. Never sleep in the same place twice.

And always—always—keep your district token close.

His token had been something from you. A woven bracelet you’d made him one summer, years ago. Red thread with a tiny, smooth seed sewn into the knot.

You had called it lucky. He had scoffed.

In the arena, he held it every night like it might bring him back.

On day five, a small package drifted from the sky. Inside: a single strip of dried meat, a roll of gauze, and a note.

Keep going, little ghost.

He never did find out who sent it. Maybe someone who liked the way he vanished into the trees. Maybe someone who liked the tears he didn’t shed when Cherry’s face lit up the sky. He wasn’t sure it mattered.

What mattered was that someone out there believed he might make it.

The days had bled together. He trapped a squirrel on day six. Found a dead tribute’s knife on day nine. Avoided a firestorm on day 11 by diving into a mudflat. He never got cocky. Never came close to the Cornucopia again. When the number of faces diminished in the sky—ten, then seven, then five—he started to dream of home.

When there were three left, he knew he would have to kill.

He hated himself for what he planned. Hated the way he sharpened his knife in the moonlight and hummed your favorite songs like it might somehow remind him of his innocence.

That very innocence, shattered the moment he found himself face to face with the last of the Games.

The forest burned on the morning of the final day.

The Gamemakers had set it ablaze from all corners. No more hiding. No more waiting. They were starving for a finale. The audience wanted blood.

Jeonghan emerged coughing, soot streaked on his cheeks. His hair, once so pale and soft, clung to his forehead, sweat-slicked and singed. He stumbled out into a clearing he had once used as a water source, now parched and cracked from the heat.

Two others waited.

Cassian, District 2. Large, broad-shouldered, trained from the cradle.

Rueya, District 5. Slender, fast, clever. She had a twitch in her jaw when she was calculating.

They turned to look at him like he was a hallucination. A demon from the woods.

“You made it?” Rueya asked, her voice hoarse.

Cassian just laughed. “Twelve-year-old freak.”

Jeonghan said nothing. He adjusted his grip on the knife. His fingers trembled, but not from fear.

He was remembering.

You, shouting at him for winning hide-and-seek again. Your face scrunched in disbelief when you couldn’t find him for an hour. How the others accused him of cheating.

He hadn’t cheated. He had just watched. Paid attention. Remembered where shadows fell and what cracked underfoot.

He remembered you throwing stones at him one summer afternoon, not out of hate but frustration, yelling, You ruin every game, Yoon Jeonghan!

Maybe he did.

Rueya had struck first.

Her blade aimed for his neck. He ducked. Rolled. Kicked dust in her eyes and used the moment to run. Not far. Just enough to get them to follow.

He was small. Quick. He led them where he needed them to go. Past the tree with the false trunk. Past the buried snare he had laid on day fourteen.

Cassian tripped it. Went down hard.

A branch spiked through his thigh.

Jeonghan didn’t look back.

Rueya was faster.

She caught up by the riverbed, cornered him. Her knife was longer. Her reach, better. He bled from a shallow cut on his cheek and another on his shoulder.

Rueya lunged. Jeonghan pivoted, let her momentum carry her too far.

She stumbled. He didn’t.

Without a moment of hesitation, he slammed the heel of his hand into her nose. The crunch was sickening. She dropped her remaining blade to instinctively hold her nose, howling, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Those would be her last words.

When Jeonghan had staggered back into the clearing, Cassian was still alive, but barely. He had been dragging himself forward, face pale with pain. He looked up, eyes glassy.

"You—cheating little shit—"

Jeonghan’s knife sliced through the air and landed squarely over Cassian’s left breast. Where his heart might have been, if he had one.

The bracelet, your bracelet, blood-soaked and fraying, glinted when Jeonghan was lifted into the hovercraft.

He had been shaking, his left ear ringing from the blow he hadn’t seen coming. His knee was swelling. Both injuries never quite recovered; later in life, Jeonghan would still hear best on his right side and always walk with a slight limp.

But then, in that moment, Jeonghan had been alive. In the arena where smoke was curling up in the sky. In the hovercraft where he was deemed dehydrated, underweight, and on the brink of death himself.

You always win, you had once tearfully seethed when he kicked your ass in Duck, Duck, Goose. You always win these stupid games!

III. YOON JEONGHAN, THE LOVER.

He hears your footsteps before he sees you.

They echo down the corridor of the train like they always have, steady and sure and just a touch impatient. Jeonghan already knows it’s you; he doesn’t look up.

He keeps his gaze fixed on the swirling ice in his untouched glass of Capitol liquor, something pale and sharp that burns in his nose more than it ever will in his throat. A good number of victors had succumbed to alcoholism, but he always had you to talk him away from the bottle.

Today was no exception.

The door creaks open.

“Bauble sent me,” you say, even as Jeonghan focuses on the drink in front of him. Your voice is clipped, professional. Not unkind. “She said you need to prep us.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He swirls his drink, then sets it down with a dull clink. The ice has barely melted. “Prep yourselves. I’m not your babysitter.”

There’s a beat. “You are, actually,” you say matter-of-factly. “That’s literally your job.”

“Then I’m off-duty,” he snips.

The car smells like expensive polish and expensive drink and Jeonghan’s expensive silence. You don’t move. He can feel you watching him.

“Are you going to be like this the entire time?”

“Like what.”

“Like a jackass.”

That finally earns you a glance. He turns to look at you, and gods, it nearly kills him.

Your arms are crossed, shoulders squared, mouth set in that stubborn little line he knows by heart. You’re trying not to tremble.

He forces himself to look away.

“You’re angry,” you say, quieter now.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

“I’m the one who got reaped.”

“Exactly.”

It shuts you up. For a second. Just a second.

Then you walk forward and sit beside him. Not across from him. Beside him. So close he can smell the faint traces of that soap you always used, the one that reminds him of lemon trees, wet earth, and the sun.

“You’re not mad at me,” you say delicately. “You’re scared.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“You’re terrified, Hannie. You think you’re going to lose me.”

His grip tightens around the glass until the ice shifts, clinks.

“You think you already have,” you murmur.

Something crumbles in him then. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream, doesn’t shatter. He just sighs again—longer this time—and sets the glass down gently. It’s an acquiescence, an acknowledgement.

“Come on,” you say, standing. You offer a hand. “Let’s go. My partner’s probably trying to figure out how to hold a fork.”

Jeonghan only stares at your hand for a moment. He doesn’t want to fall victim to preemptive nostalgia, but he does anyway. His gaze traces over the lines on your palm, the dirt underneath your fingernails, and he thinks of all the things you’ve done. All the things you have yet to do.

You flex your fingers wordlessly, urging him. He lets you tug him up, almost all the way to the door—

—and then his hand pulls you back.

Not roughly. Not urgently.

But when his arms circle your waist, he leans forward like a man caving to gravity. He presses his forehead to your shoulder. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

You let him hold you.

Because this is Jeonghan, and this might be the last time he ever gets to.

You card your fingers through his hair. He stays absolutely still, as if he can keep the two of you in this snow globe of a movement if he doesn’t move an inch. The seconds stretch into minutes, and he pulls away only when there’s a knock on the car door. Bauble, this time, eyeing the two of you like she knows something.

She doesn’t know a thing, obviously.

Back in the dining car, Jeonghan leans against the polished wood paneling, arms crossed. The smell of Capitol-grade roast duck and syrupy wine thickens in the air. He watches the way Barley picks at his food like it might bite back, eyes darting from plate to window to the unfamiliar silverware.

You’re sitting straighter, trying to model bravery, but Jeonghan’s known you too long. He sees the tremors in your hands and fights the urge to reach for you.

“So,” Jeonghan says, and the word is brittle, sharp. “You both get one question each. Make it count.”

Barley frowns. He’s all knees and elbows, a thirteen-year-old with a summer tan and a coffin waiting for him at home. “How long do you think I’ll last?”

Jeonghan doesn’t sugarcoat. “Depends. You follow instructions, you might last longer than an hour,” he says.

Barley blanches. You shoot Jeonghan a look.

“He’s scared,” you say pointedly.

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “He should be.”

Your voice is steady, though your eyes aren’t. “Then tell us what to expect,” you say.

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head like he’s heard this request a thousand times—and he has. But not from you. Not like this.

The annoyance coating your words isn’t amiss to him, either. It brings him a perverse sense of comfort.

“You’ll be hungry. You’ll be hunted,” he says slowly. “And you’ll be alone, even when you’re not. Trust no one. Run the second the gong sounds. Don’t stop until your legs give out. And for the love of all things holy, don’t look back."

Barley is pale now, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Did it hurt? When they—when they came for you?”

For a second, Jeonghan sees it all again. Cherry’s panicked expression, the glint of Rueya’s blade, the snarl on Cassian’s face. He has to blink the memories away, has to focus on the fact you’re watching like you already know he’s going under.

Jeonghan clears his throat. “All of it hurt.”

Bauble waltzes in, then. “There you all are!” she chirps. “Oh, Jeonghan, you simply mustn’t hide my victors-to-be away like this. What if someone needs a morale boost?”

Jeonghan deadpans, “Morale died when you called her name.”

Bauble clicks her tongue, unfazed. While Jeonghan wouldn’t necessarily call the escort his friend, they did have a certain rapport built over years of sanctioned bonding. “Still so dramatic,” she tuts. “You’ve always had such flair.”

“You mean trauma.”

“You say tomato—” she flutters her fingers.

You smile faintly. Jeonghan sees it, the corners of your lips tugging upward despite everything. It’s too soft. Too real. It guts him.

When Bauble finally prances away to inspect dinner settings, when Barley decides he might as well spend his last few hours enjoying the pleasantries of the Capitol, Jeonghan shifts closer to you.

“You’ve always listened too well,” he says. “Even when I didn’t want you to.”

You look up. “I thought that was the point. To listen when no one else does.”

He tries to scoff, but it comes out too fond. He remembers every time you sat beside him in the fields, every time your hands were gentle when he woke screaming, every time you pretended he was still human.

He leans forward, lowering his voice. “You’re smart.”

“I learned from the best.”

Jeonghan watches you, the defiance in your posture warring with the fear you don’t want him to see. He can’t fix any of it. He knows that. But he can give you this—this small, ridiculous moment.

“You know,” he says slowly, “Barley’s too small for the Capitol tuxedos. You’re gonna have to teach him how to fake confidence. Smile like you’re selling poison as perfume.”

You laugh, short and tired. “And what about me?”

Jeonghan’s smile falters. Softens.

“You… just be you. That’ll be enough.” He pushes off the wall, straightens up. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the train.”

You start to move past him, but his hand finds your wrist, halting you. He doesn’t speak. Just tugs gently until you step into his arms.

He holds you like it’s the last thing tethering him to earth. Like letting go means losing everything.

“Just… hold on,” he says quietly as he slots his fingers through the spaces of yours. Usually, you told him off when he got too clingy or touchy. You weren’t together or anything, after all, and so you demanded that he be more conservative. That he reel himself in.

For once, you let him.

For once, he lets himself.

He holds your hand the entire way to the Capitol, where it’s a blur of color and shine.

For a moment, even with the dread curling tight in his stomach, Jeonghan finds himself admiring the splendor. He isn’t surprised to see you and Barley equally speechless, craning your necks as the train pulls into the station; your faces, framed in the tall, sterile windows mirroring your awe back at you.

Barley presses his hand against the glass, wide-eyed. “Is that... a moving sidewalk?” he breathes.

Jeonghan doesn’t answer. He’s too busy cataloging every flinch, every blink, every breath the two of you take. Watching the way you stand slightly in front of Barley, like you’re already trying to shield him from whatever came next.

Jeonghan loves you so much at that moment.

Bauble is chattering beside you, of course, gesturing wildly with one hand. She barely notices when Jeonghan steps between you and a Capitol attendant, his hand curling lightly around your arm.

“Stay close,” he says below his breath.

You look up at him and nod. The ease of which you trust him, the lack of questions you have, nearly bowls him over. He sticks by your side the entire way to the Tribute Tower, where the apartment is all sleek marble and warm gold accents. Impossibly high ceilings and digital fireplaces that don’t throw any heat. There’s fresh fruit on the tables and beds the size of entire haylofts. It looks more like a presidential suite than a prison.

“Holy shit,” you whisper under your breath, fingers grazing the frame of an oil painting taller than you. Barley finds the snack cart and marvels over a slice of something custard-filled.

Jeonghan hovers. He can’t stop himself. Not when you were somewhere the Capitol could get its claws in you.

When the time comes for the Tribute Parade, he’s still on edge. Still worried the stylist team will do their jobs too well, while also simultaneously dreading them not doing enough.

District 11 had always had a reputation for agricultural simplicity, which the Capitol liked to glamorize with varying degrees of taste. This year, apparently, they’d gone for mythical harvest gods. You’re draped in molten gold and deep, forest green, your arms dusted with shimmer like pollen. A long cloak of woven vines trails behind you, the ends studded with jewels shaped like pomegranate seeds and tiny bushels of wheat.

Barley dons something similar; a shorter tunic with a circlet of laurel around his head, a wooden staff in his grip that sparks gently with gold.

Jeonghan doesn’t know what to say when you step out from the dressing area.

He swallows hard. He had seen every horror the Games had to offer. But this—seeing you, radiant and ready for slaughter—is the cruelest thing.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

He shakes his head. Tries to say something. Fails. It’s a far cry from the practical, utilitarian clothing the two of you have grown up with. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you wear something so glamorous, and the thought of it only makes him want to run and hide.

“Hannie?” you prod.

He gets it together.

“You look—” He clears his throat. His voice goes imperceptibly softer. “You look like something no one should be allowed to destroy.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Maybe you don’t have to. After a quick glance around the backstage—to ensure nobody is looking—you reach out, give his arm a comforting squeeze.

He knows he’s doing everything wrong. It’s your Parade, your Games. He’s supposed to be holding himself better, supposed to be the one offering you reassurance and solace. Instead, you’ve taken up your typical caretaker role, and he falls apart at the mere sight of you.

When the chariots roll out and the cameras turn, Jeonghan has to stand just out of frame, mouth tight, hands clenched. The crowds react to you and Barley. Jeonghan hears none of it.

Instead, he keeps his head slightly bowed; his gaze, away from all the other tributes who will all have a kill-or-be-killed mentality.

Maybe if he wishes hard enough, Jeonghan thinks, he can stop the Games before they even begin.

IV. YOON JEONGHAN, THE MENTOR.

Jeonghan stands at the head of the training room, arms crossed, jaw tight. From this angle, he can see both you and Barley moving between stations. You’re focused, determined, adjusting the way you grip the rope at the knot-tying corner. Barley, less so. He keeps fumbling, looking over his shoulder for approval.

It should’ve been easy, this mentorship. He’d won. He knew what it took. He could recite Beetee’s advice in his sleep, every trick he’d used in his own Games carved into his memory like tally marks.

And yet, his throat burns and his hands won’t stop shaking.

He’s going to lose you.

The thought returns like a hammer strike. Over and over. No matter how hard he tries to bury it. Jeonghan drags his fingernails down the length of his arm as if pain might chase it away. He’s fairly sure he’ll have gashes by the time this week is over.

You approach without warning, your face sweaty from training, your eyes sharp.

“You can’t keep looking at me like that,” you tell him.

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve already got a gravestone for me in some plot back home.”

Jeonghan barks out a laugh—a surprised, hollow one. Your dry humor always did know how to cut through him. “I’m not doing that,” he snipes.

“You are. You haven’t looked at Barley once without wincing. You flinch every time I handle a knife. You’re not helping. You’re scaring us.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” you say simply. “You’re Yoon Jeonghan. You survived at twelve. You have to be stronger than this.”

He turns away from you. You didn’t know—couldn’t know—what it’s been like. Watching years of reapings, standing on the same stage, seeing child after child go off to die while he stood there, the only victor District 11 had to offer.

Every year, he makes himself hope. Every year, he trains them, watches the light in their eyes go dim as they were outmatched, outarmed, outplayed.

Every year, he fails.

He had never cried for them. Not once. Had never allowed himself to grieve. It was easier that way. To believe he’d done all he could. That they were always going to die, with or without him.

But not you.

You, who used to sneak into his house when he came home, just to leave honey cakes on the windowsill. You, who sang lullabies to him when the nightmares got so bad he couldn’t sleep. You, who had always seen him not as a victor, not as a killer, but just—

Jeonghan.

He turns back around and finds you still standing there, stubborn and unflinching. He lets out a breath.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders relax slightly.

“I won’t flinch anymore,” he promises. “I won’t wince. I won’t look away. I’ll train you.”

“Good,” you say, “because you’re our final defense, and you’ve been a pretty shitty defense so far.”

He laughs. For once, it’s not forced.

You, of all people, know just how much Jeonghan’s word means. He drums up support with prospective sponsors. He talks with the victors and tries to find alliances.

He teaches Barley how to hold an arrow. He watches you throw knives and shouts out instructions.

By the time your private training sessions come around, Jeonghan is fairly sure he’s never done this much work as a mentor in the past couple of years. As you and Barley get ready to face the Gamemakers, there is only one thing left for him to do: trust that everything you’ve learned will not fail you.

The scores come in just after dinner, during a quiet lull where the four of you—Jeonghan, you, Barley, and Bauble—sit in the quarters, feigning calm over cups of Capitol-brewed tea. The screen crackles to life, and the room stills.

There’s an introduction. A reminder of why this is all done. Capitol citizens are given an idea of who to bet on based on the scores ascribed to each tribute. The private training sessions were a matter of who could put on the best show, but not too good.

Score low, you would lose out on sponsors. Score high, you would be deemed a threat by other tributes.

Scores range from one to twelve. The Careers, unsurprisingly, get nines and tens. The girl from Four gets a ten. The boy from Nine gets a four.

And then it’s District 11. Your face flashes first. A moment’s silence. Then: eight.

Barley is the first to react. “An eight?” he breathes, nearly sloshing his tea. “That’s... that’s good, right? That’s really good, isn’t it?”

Jeonghan doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He’s staring at the number, willing it to hold still, like it might evaporate if he looks away.

Then Barley’s face appears on the screen. Six.

“Hey!” Barley exclaims, grinning at you. “We didn’t do half-bad!”

You laugh quietly, nerves still wound tight beneath your skin. “Guess not.” You glance at Jeonghan, whose brow is furrowed as if the numbers have personally offended him.

“Not half-bad?” you repeat to Jeonghan, as if urging him to confirm or deny your odds.

He snaps out of his haze. “It’s good,” he says, but his voice is tight. “It’s good. You both did well.”

Barley’s too thrilled to notice the tension. He retreats into a quiet hum of excitement, and Jeonghan watches him go to his room, heart aching at how young he still is.

You stay behind. You know better.

“He’s proud of his six,” you say softly. “You should be proud of us, too.”

Jeonghan finally meets your gaze. “What did you do?”

You shrug, but your eyes are shining. “Used a sickle. Told them I’d only ever used it on weeds, not people. Then showed them I could take the heads off three practice dummies in under ten seconds.”

He stares.

“Okay, maybe eight seconds,” you admit with a sheepish grin. “But still.”

“Gods,” he mutters. “Why would you tell me that?”

You tilt your head. “Because I need you to believe I have a shot.”

Jeonghan presses his fingers against his eyelids. Eight. A real shot. That’s what it means. But the Capitol loves nothing more than raising hope just to snuff it out.

And so he tries not to feel hopeful. He tries.

“I’ll be ready,” you say, your voice pure as the driven snow. “You made sure of that.”

He exhales slowly. He has to believe it. For your sake. And Barley’s. And for the twelve other faces in his head, the ones he couldn’t save. He opens his eyes and looks straight at you.

“Just keep doing what you did today,” he says. “And I’ll do the rest.”

He does what he can, but there is only so much he can do.

By the time the pre-Games interviews come around, he knows you will have to write your own ending. Even in the viewing room where Jeonghan sits with Bauble and a glass of untouched wine, it feels like every bulb is trained on the screen, on you.

He hasn’t breathed since your name was announced. He probably won’t breathe until your interview is over.

Barley’s had gone well. Nothing to call home about. He had been your typical young tribute, showing off boyish charm and vouchsafed innocence.

You, on the other hand, look devastating.

The prep team had broken their backs to make it work. Your outfit—woven in silks dyed the color of ripening wheat, dotted with reddish sequins like the leaves from trees—catches the light with every small movement. Your hair is twisted back in a braid like the reapers wear during harvest. And your smile, shy but steady, is enough to hush even Caesar Flickerman.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he croons, gesturing with flair, “from District 11, please welcome our stunning tribute!”

You walk forward, gracious and poised. Jeonghan clenches his fists in his lap. It feels like every step you take toward that stage is a step further away from him.

“Good evening,” Caesar says. “You’re quite the sight tonight. The Capitol is enraptured already!”

You laugh lightly. “It’s not every day someone from my district gets to wear something this fine. I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.”

Jeonghan flinches. He knows that tone—modest, self-deprecating, practiced. You’re playing your part. He just wishes you didn’t have to.

Caesar chuckles, his teeth gleaming. A shark, ready to draw blood. “Now, I’ve heard you’re quite the singer. Is that true?”

“Depends on who you ask,” you reply, to the laughter of the crowd.

Jeonghan stares. He knows how nervous you are. He knows how tightly you were wound in your quarters, how your hands shook as you ate. But here, under the scrutiny of all of Panem, you are luminous. You can joke around with Caesar; you hum a little tune when asked.

You are everything they want you to be.

He hates it. He loves it. He doesn’t know what to feel.

Caesar leans forward after your little song. His eyes glitter. “And tell me—I think everyone wants to know,” he says conspiratorially. “Our only Victor from District 11. Jeonghan. The youngest ever to have ever won the Games. A little birdy has told me the two of you are… close.”

Jeonghan goes rigid.

Bauble mutters something under her breath; Jeonghan thinks it might be a cuss. On screen, Caesar keeps his smile, but the question lands with precision.

You tilt your head, feigning thoguthfulness. “Jeonghan is my mentor,” you say. “But more than that, he’s my best friend.”

The audience lets out a collective murmur.

Jeonghan grips the arms of his chair.

“He’s the strongest person I know,” you say. “And I’m lucky he never gave up on me. I’m going into these Games with more than most. I have his faith.”

The crowd bursts into applause.

Caesar touches his chest theatrically. “Well, if that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

You smile. It’s a momentary slip in your carefully curated image, as if the thought of love and Jeonghan brings you a genuine sort of joy. The audience catch that, too, and the applause only gets louder.

Jeonghan lets out a breath. Not quite a sob. Not quite relief. But it’s something.

Because if he can’t protect you with his own hands, then he’ll let the Capitol fall in love with you. Let them send gifts, parachutes, lifelines.

Let them see what he’s always seen.

Later that night, Jeonghan finds himself staring at the ceiling.

The lights are off, the room mostly dark save for the faint Capitol glow filtering through the windows of his bedroom. It bleeds silver against the walls, but Jeonghan’s eyes are trained on the shadows.

He’s been lying here for over an hour now, still in his clothes, hair unwashed and face unshaven, unable to summon the will to move. The interview replays in his head, your dress still shimmering in his memory, your voice steady and luminous beneath Caesar's showmanship.

You’d been a star. You—his star. And tomorrow, you will be in the arena.

He breathes out, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes until colors burst behind his lids. The pressure does nothing to stop the ache in his chest. Jeonghan sits up.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.

He should stay put and not make this harder, but his body moves before his mind can catch up, and he’s halfway to your door when he finds you already there.

You’re barefoot. Wrapped in a soft Capitol robe. Your hair is tousled from tossing and turning, and your arms are folded tightly around yourself.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur.

His breath catches. “Me neither.”

For a long second, the two of you stand like that, inches apart, both unsure of what to say. Then Jeonghan steps back and pushes the door open wider.

“Come in.”

You don’t hesitate. You pass him with a soft rustle of fabric. He closes the door behind you and watches as you climb onto his bed without a word.

You’ve done something like this before. Too many times to count. But tonight, there’s no laughter. No quiet jokes. Just the hum of something deep and heavy.

You lay down on your side. Jeonghan crawls in after and faces you.

Usually, you’re the one who pulls him close when he startles awake from a nightmare. Usually, you’re the one whispering him back to sleep, pressing your fingers to his hairline and reminding him that he’s safe, he’s here. There’s no fire, no forest, no bloody bracelet.

Tonight, he wraps an arm around you instead.

Your nose brushes his collarbone. He feels your breath, warm and steady, and he shuts his eyes.

He wants to say it.

That he loves you.

That he has loved you from the moment you first yelled at him in the fields for cheating. That he has spent years loving you in silence, nursing the shape of your name in his chest like a prayer.

But the words rise to his throat and die there. They taste too much like a goodbye.

So instead, he presses a kiss to your forehead. This one, he thinks, is for the notes you two passed each other back in school.

Then one to your temple. For your parents, who he will now never be able to look at.

Then your cheek. For the time you threw out all the alcohol in his home and yelled at him until he agreed to only drink on special occasions.

A soft one to your eyelid. For your singing—the best in the goddamn district.

He kisses every part of your face except your lips. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stop, if he ever started there.

When you whisper his name, when you tuck yourself tighter into his arms like you mean to mold yourself into his very body, Jeonghan only holds you closer.

In a few hours, he will have to let you go.

But not yet.

Not yet.

V. YOON JEONGHAN, THE SINNER.

The arena comes into view and Jeonghan feels his stomach turn.

It’s a swamp.

Endless, waterlogged land choked with moss and trees heavy with rot. Mud so thick it might as well be quicksand. A heat haze distorts the sky in a way that makes it seem closer, like the clouds might melt onto the kids below.

The air looks like it stinks. Jeonghan knows it does. He’s smelled swamp before in the southern end of District 11, in the marshlands after the harvest. Stagnant water swallowing the weeds whole.

But the Capitol has made it worse. Of course they have.

The swamp is dotted with platforms. On screen, the tributes rise, one by one, as the countdown begins. All of them retch. A few are already shaking. One kid—the boy from 10, maybe—looks like he’s crying. Good. He won’t last an hour.

Jeonghan doesn’t look for Barley. He looks for you.

Your vitals blink steady on his monitor: elevated heart rate, but within reason. No signs of panic. Your face is unreadable on the screen, jaw set, eyes cutting ahead toward the Cornucopia or what passes for one in this muck.

It’s a wrecked fishing trawler, run aground in the center of the swamp, half-covered in algae and rust. Supplies are lashed to the deck with ropes, weapons tucked into fishing nets. Booby-trapped. Jeonghan knows it. The Gamemakers always hide teeth under the sugar.

“Swamp,” Seungcheol says, appearing beside him. The District 4 mentor. Tall, sun-weathered, wearing that half-smile Jeonghan used to think was charm and now knows is armor. “Our kids might actually stand a chance this year.”

“Let’s hope so,” Jeonghan replies without looking up.

He stares at your vitals. At your small figure on the screen. Still not moving, not even a twitch of hesitation. Just watching, waiting. The same way he’s seen you watch the sky from the train window, like you’re searching for something worth staying for.

The countdown hits zero. The gong sounds.

The Games begin.

The cameras flicker between chaos and slaughter. Screams crack the air, tinny and sharp over the Control Center’s monitors. Blood is spilled in less than five seconds—twin blades from District 1 find the neck of a smaller boy, and the Career pack forms with terrifying speed.

Jeonghan’s eyes scan screen after screen until he finds you.

You’re running—not to the Cornucopia, thank the gods—but to the left, where a pile of knapsacks and canteens are scattered among debris. You duck, swipe two, and pivot just as another tribute lurches at you.

Jeonghan’s heart stutters. You use the knapsack like a flail, slam it into their face, and bolt toward the trees.

Fast. Smart. Alive.

Barley is slower. He lingers too long, fumbling with a coil of rope. He nearly loses it when someone charges at him, but a girl from Six takes the hit instead. Her scream rises—then cuts off abruptly.

Barley scrambles, barely escaping with a dented pot and a bottle of water. He doesn’t make it far, but he’s alive. For now.

A cannon fires. The first.

The room of victors stills as the screen flashes the casualty to them.

District 12’s girl.

Jeonghan glances to his right, where Hansol is already on his feet. The victor doesn’t say a word. He just unplugs his data pad and walks out, the steel door hissing shut behind him. Jeonghan watches him go.

No one says anything. They rarely do.

District 12’s boy goes down not long after. Another cannon. Another name. Hansol won’t be back.

The bloodbath drags on. It’s brutal, but not long. Six tributes die before the hour is up. Jeonghan leans forward, tracking the green blip that marks you on his pad. You’re tucked in the trees, breathing hard. You’ve stopped to bury yourself beneath leaves and branches, taking a note straight out of Jeonghan’s playbook.

Next to Jeonghan, Seungcheol lets out a breath and mutters, “Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck,” Jeonghan replies, voice hoarse. “I need a miracle.”

Your green blip continues to blink.

Please stay that way, Jeonghan thinks.

You eventually make your slow, measured way through the muck of the arena. The swamp is vast, ringed with spiny trees, their roots like skeletal hands clawing out of the fetid water. Fog coils through the underbrush. Every few hours, something hisses or howls from the shadows. It's hell in technicolor, broadcast to every screen in Panem.

You move with caution, dragging your left leg slightly—favoring the ankle you twisted on the first day, slipping on moss-covered stone. He winces every time he sees you falter.

Capitol patrons have been generous.

You’re pretty, and that counts for something. The dress they stuffed you into during the Tribute Parade did what it was meant to do. More importantly, you spoke like someone worth listening to during the interview. You’ve earned your sponsors. Jeonghan watches the pledge count climb.

But the funds dwindle faster than he likes. Bandages, food, painkillers—they cost more than you’d think. The sponsors pay for entertainment, not mercy. And half the job of being a mentor is making the calls no one else wants to make.

Barley hasn’t eaten in two days.

Jeonghan sees the boy stumbling along the banks of the stagnant pond, mouth cracked dry, trying desperately to chew a reed that isn’t remotely edible. His heart twists. Barley’s vitals flicker. Pulse dropping, dehydration setting in.

Jeonghan’s finger hovers over the interface. He has enough to send a protein bar. It’s not much, but it’ll get the kid through another day.

Then, you scream.

It’s sharp, sudden, a sound that guts him. On-screen, you go down hard, hand clutching your side. Blood blooms at your waist, seeping into the saturated soil. A mutt. Something you had gotten away from through the skin of your teeth.

A silver parachute of life-saving supplies cuts through the arena. It is not for Barley.

The cannon fires that night. A low, guttural boom. It is not for you.

Jeonghan closes his eyes. He can imagine it already. The projected photo of Barley, lighting up the night sky. Announcing his death. Broadcasting Jeonghan’s failure.

He exhales slowly, jaw clenched. It should never have come down to a choice.

But it always does.

He doesn’t check your reaction. He doesn’t think he’d survive it, anyhow.

Hours later, the camera feed switches to your sector. For the first time since the Games have started, you’re not alone.

District 7’s boy—the one with the heavy shoulders and steady hands—and District 9’s wiry, sharp-eyed tribute fall into step beside you. Glances are exchanged. Supplies are shared. It’s enough. For now.

Jeonghan doesn’t like it.

“She always this trusting?” Jihoon asks from where he’s perched near one of the monitors, arms crossed tightly.

“Not usually,” Jeonghan replies, cool. “Must be desperation.”

Seokmin leans against the paneling, softer, more optimistic. “They seem like they’re good kids. Maybe it helps her chances.”

“Or maybe they’ll gut her in her sleep.”

Jihoon frowns. “They’re not like that.”

Jeonghan doesn't respond. He watches you divvy up some dried fruit, offering the larger portion to the boy from Nine, who grins and says something the cameras don’t pick up. You smile back, faint. Tired.

A part of Jeonghan wants to tell you to run, but he also knows you won’t get too far.

The tentative truce lasts for three nights.

On the fourth, you’re the one on watch. Jeonghan knows you haven’t slept more than a couple hours at a time. You’re running on adrenaline and stubbornness.

At midnight, the boy from Nine rolls over. Pretends to murmur in his sleep. You lean in to listen, and Jeonghan nearly screams at his screen.

The boy from Nine pounces.

The boy from Seven follows a second later. They work in tandem, practiced.

They hold you down, your legs thrashing against the swampy ground. You’re muffled by the palm of a hand over your mouth.

These things happened. Jeonghan watched it year in, year out. But never to one of his, never to—

The cameras zoom in just in time to catch the glint of your blade as it drives upward into the shoulder of District 9’s boy. Always keep your weapon within reach, Jeonghan had advised you. Even when you’re half-awake. I had a rock. Have—anything.

Seokmin’s tribute howls. You break free.

Jeonghan’s fists are clenched. He doesn’t breathe until you’re sprinting through the trees again, bleeding but alive.

A couple of seats away—Jihoon and Seokmin share twin looks of horror.

“I didn’t know,” Jihoon croaks.

“Neither did I,” Seokmin murmurs, paling. “Jeonghan, I’m—”

But Jeonghan rounds on them like a storm breaking over the Control Center. He’s up on his feet in the next moment, angry in a way that nobody has ever seen. It confirms the rumors that had been swirling, puts down the cards that he’s held so close to his chest.

“Didn’t know? That’s all you’ve got?” Jeonghan snarls as he yanks Seokmin away from the panel, nearly sending the victor to the ground. “You raised these motherfuckers!”

“They’re tributes, Jeonghan,” Jihoon snaps back, maneuvering so he can also face Jeonghan’s rage. “They’re just trying to survive.”

“So is she!”

Bauble grabs Jeonghan by the elbow before he can do any more damage. “Enough,” she commands. “Outside. Now.”

Jeonghan shakes her off but lets himself be steered out of the room. The door shuts behind them with a heavy click. He presses his back against the cold wall, jaw clenched.

Bauble doesn't say anything. Just waits. Escorts typically didn’t interfere at this point in the Games, but Bauble had taken it upon herself when she seemed to realize how much of a hold you had on the man that was supposed to be keeping you alive.

Jeonghan covers his face with his hands. He doesn’t cry. He just breathes like he might come apart.

Inside the Control Center, the screens roll on. You’re alone again.

When Jeonghan returns, nobody talks about his outburst. There have been worse. Actual physical alterations. Victors spewing cusses, calling each other monsters. Forgiveness always came after the fact, but Jeonghan chooses peace and refuses to look at anyone else for the next hour.

The swamp only grows crueler.

There’s a haze that clings low to the ground, thick with spores and heat, and it makes the cameras flicker with static.

The Gamemakers let it linger. They always do when the numbers dwindle. Suffering looks better through distortion.

Jeonghan leans forward in his seat, eyes locked to the primary monitor. Your figure stumbles into frame—mud-caked, limping, one arm clutched uselessly to your ribs. The blood there isn’t fresh. He knows what that means.

The camera’s too far to see your expression, but he doesn’t need to. You’ve gone quiet. No more traps, no more clever distractions. No more running. You’re just trying to stay upright.

Something shifts in the mist behind you. Fast. Deliberate. Another tribute.

Jeonghan’s fists slam into the console.

He doesn’t hear the rest. The monitor blares as the tribute from Two emerges—a heavyset girl with a jagged blade and fury behind her eyes. You try to run, but your body gives out two steps in. Your knees hit the water first.

It’s not a fight. It’s a beating.

Jeonghan’s knuckles go white. He watches you crawl, desperate and drowning, as the girl drags the blade across your calf to slow you further. The water goes dark. You barely scream.

The camera cuts to a tight shot. Your face, smeared in blood and mud. Mouth slack. Eyes unfocused.

Then—

Your lips move.

Tiny. Cracked. Fragile.

But he sees it. He swears he does.

His name.

Hannie, you’re mouthing, pleading, praying.

Bauble says something behind him. A warning. A reminder. Jeonghan doesn’t hear it.

Jeonghan stands too fast. The chair clatters to the floor behind him. His hands press to the screen like he could reach through it, like if he could just touch you, anchor you, you’d remember how to live.

But the screen stays cold, and you go still.

Jeonghan’s breath shudders in his chest. He turns wildly like he might find something in the corners of the room to fix this.

The remaining victors pointedly ignore his panic. They can’t do anything, either. They’re not about to waste their few resources on a tribute that isn’t theirs, even if Jeonghan begged and bled himself dry at their feet.

There’s nothing. Jeonghan has given you everything he has, and it wasn’t enough.

Until the vitals blink.

Once. Twice. Slow, but there.

A faint pulse.

You’re alive.

Jeonghan stares, disbelieving. The tribute has already vanished into the haze, too bloodied to check if you’re breathing, or cruel enough not to care. Either way, it’s a mistake. One Jeonghan won’t let stand.

He reels back from the screen. “Stay with her,” he tells Bauble, voice rough. “Monitor everything.”

Bauble looks up. “What are you—”

But he’s already moving. Out the door, down the corridor. The Peacekeepers outside the Control Center don’t stop him.

There had always been whispers.

That Jeonghan was the victor they couldn’t market. The one with the too-sharp tongue and eyes that didn’t flinch when Capitol cameras pressed too close.

He smiled wrong. Loved wrong. Didn’t cry when his family died in that fire.

Too clean. Too convenient.

It had given him nothing to lose.

But now—

Now he has you.

He finds her at the champagne bar just off the Viewing Floor. Gilded, powdered, draped in silk. The richest woman in the Capitol within arm’s reach. Her name doesn’t matter.

Jeonghan takes a breath. Thinks of you.

Then he smiles.

The kind of smile they remember. The kind that sells promises he’ll never keep. His voice is velvet when he approaches, belying the desperation thrumming through his veins.

“You wanted to know what it was like to be wanted by a victor,” he says in lieu of a proper greeting, brushing her wrist with his fingertips. “How lucky. I’ve just remembered how to want.”

The socialite laughs. Bright, predatory.

He keeps smiling, even as his stomach turns. Even as the shame claws at the inside of his throat.

Her room reeks of expensive perfume and debauchery.

It’s in a suite at the top of one of the Capitol towers, walls made of glass and floors of velvet. It's the kind of place meant to make you feel small, make you grateful. Jeonghan doesn’t feel anything at all.

She kisses like she wants to devour him—painted nails digging into his back, her breath warm with wine and old longing. He lets her.

He performs.

Every soft sound, every graze of his lips, every practiced flick of his tongue—he gives it like it means something. He moans where she wants him to, touches her the way she’s probably imagined in her loneliest hours. He thinks of your face, dirt-smudged and bloodied, of the shape your mouth made when you whispered his name.

It’s not her he’s kissing. Not really.

He imagines it’s you beneath him. Imagines you needing him like this, touching him like this, loving him like this.

It doesn’t help.

She arches beneath him and calls him beautiful. He’s a bit clumsy, having never done any of this before, but it only serves to make him more endearing. A gorgeous thing that had to be broken in.

He had wanted it so badly to be you. He can almost picture it, can almost taste it. How you’d laugh in between kisses. How you’d moan as his hands roamed. How you’d be everything and more.

When the woman cries out, Jeonghan doesn’t answer. His eyes are already on the ceiling.

It’s over in minutes. A quick, efficient transaction wrapped in silk sheets and false gasps.

She sprawls beside him, sated, smug. Jeonghan slips from the bed before she can say anything else. She doesn’t ask him to stay. She already knows how these things go, having sampled her fair share of male victors who were just as desperate.

Jeonghan doesn’t shower. Doesn’t have the time for it.

He just dresses in silence, pocketing the cred-chip she leaves on the table beside a crystal flute of champagne. He doesn’t drink it.

The elevator ride back down is quiet. His hands tremble.

By the time he returns to the Control Center, his mask is back in place. Bauble doesn’t say anything, just glances at the chip he slides across the desk.

“Enough for a full care package,” she confirms. “Weapon, medicine, some soup. We’ll drop it.”

Jeonghan nods and looks back to the monitor.

You’re still breathing.

He presses his palm to the screen again and thinks of the myth you had loved so much as a child. The one with the fool—Orpheus, his name might have been—trying to lead his lover out of hell.

“Wait for me,” Jeonghan croaks to no one in particular. To you. Always to you. “I’m coming.”

The silver parachute lands. You reach for it with quivering fingers.

You live for two more days.

In those days, the swamp falls quiet.

No more cannon fire. No more mutts. Just you and the girl from District 4, standing ankle-deep in water that smells like rot and victory.

Your blade is slick in your grip, hands trembling. You don’t even know where you’re bleeding from anymore. Every inch of you aches. Your body doesn’t feel like your own.

The girl sways on her feet. She’s young. Too young. Her cheeks are streaked with mud and old blood, her breathing ragged. Her eyes are empty.

You both know it ends here.

“Please,” you choke out. It takes a moment to register that you’re not begging to survive.

The words come with tears, with all the wreckage of what’s been done to you. “Finish it,” you rasp, your fingers tight around your scythe not with the intent to strike. Just to have something to steady you.

Your opponent doesn’t move.

Up in the Control Center, it’s just Jeonghan and Seungcheol.

Everyone else has gone. The other victors. The escorts. This is between two districts, two tributes, two victors.

Jeonghan doesn’t look at Seungcheol. He can’t.

Back in the arena, you crumple to your knees, exhausted beyond belief. The swamp laps at your legs.

“Please,” you whisper again. “Please.”

The girl’s hands tremble. She looks at you like she’s seeing something else—someone else. She takes one step forward, then stops. Her fingers close around the handle of her knife.

You don’t flinch.

Then she speaks.

“You know Seungcheol, right?”

You blink, confused.

She forces a smile, small and broken. “My mentor,” Seungcheol’s tribute offers. “Tell him—tell him I’m going to miss him the most.”

Manipulated footage makes it look like you pushed her backward.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol see it as it happens. How the girl takes an intentional step back. How you reach for her, trying to stop her, only to watch her sink in quicksand that has been exacerbated by the Gamemakers.

The arena swallows her up.

The cannon doesn’t fire for several long seconds.

The sound, when it comes, is muffled. Like the swamp itself is mourning her.

You scream. You scream until your throat gives out. You’re still screaming as you’re declared the victor, as you sob into the wetlands, as you’re lifted out.

In the Control Center, Seungcheol’s hands curl into fists in his lap.

His eyes fixed on the screen. Dry.

Jeonghan finally turns to him. “Cheol—” he starts, but Seungcheol shakes his head.

“She’s coming home,” Seungcheol says, flat. “There’s your miracle, Yoon.”

And Jeonghan is sorry for it, sure, but he’s still much more grateful.

V. YOON JEONGHAN, YOURS.

Jeonghan doesn’t remember the walk to the Capitol hospital. He remembers leaving the Control Center. He remembers running.

The hallway is sterile and humming when he gets there. He knows where they’ve taken you. Of course he knows. He’s watched every moment of your suffering. He could trace the outline of your wounds with his eyes closed.

The nurse outside your room says something—protocol, maybe. He doesn’t hear her.

He shoulders his way in.

The lights are dimmed, the machines are quiet, but the sight of you lands like a gut punch. Jeonghan falters in the doorway.

You look like you’ve been hollowed out.

There’s barely anything left of the tribute he watched fight through blood and betrayal. Bandages snake around your limbs and torso. Your face is pale beneath layers of grime they haven’t scrubbed away yet. Your lips are split. Your eyes—

You don’t even blink.

He takes a step closer, slow, careful, like approaching a wild animal. His hand lifts, fingers reaching for your cheek, like he might cradle it the way he used to in the dark of the Control Center, whispering to your image like you could hear him.

But the second he touches you—

You flinch.

Hard.

Jeonghan’s heart stops. His hand drops back to his side like it’s been burned.

You don’t look at him. You just tremble, shoulders curling in, your breathing shallow, your eyes still fixed on something beyond him. Beyond the room. Beyond now.

It’s the first time you’ve ever pulled away from him.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

Part of him wants to fall to his knees. To apologize. For what, he couldn’t name. For not stopping the Games? For not being able to keep you from breaking? For still being here when so much of you has been scraped raw?

The silence presses in like swampwater, like a forest fire. Suffocating, unforgiving.

Jeonghan turns and lowers himself into the corner of the room. The floor is cold. The chair is too far. He needs to be here, close, even if you can’t stand his touch.

He wraps his arms around his knees and stares at you.

Your stare doesn’t move. Not to him. Not to anything.

He’s seen this look before. He wore it once, too.

Jeonghan swallows past the ache in his throat and speaks, barely audible. “I’m here. I’ll stay here. As long as you need.”

You don’t respond.

He doesn’t expect you to.

He settles into the silence like a penance and waits.

He waits for you to go through all the medical procedures. He waits for you to get an entire day's worth of sleep. He waits, even as the stylists dress you up like a doll.

Gossamer fabric, soft pastels to soften your image. Something that whispers vulnerability, not violence. They work in silence, careful around the raw edges of your skin, the lingering bruises.

You don’t wince anymore. You just endure.

Jeonghan watches from the wings of the stage, heart in his throat.

The stage lights bloom too bright. Caesar’s teeth gleam under them like weapons. The audience cheers. Applause swells.

And you? You walk out on trembling legs.

There was a time your smile could light up a room. Now it flickers, half-formed, and dies before it reaches your eyes.

Caesar catches your hand, holds it up for the crowd. You don’t pull away, but Jeonghan sees it—the way your fingers twitch, like they remember what it’s like to hold a weapon.

“Our newest victor!” Caesar announces. The crowd roars.

Jeonghan leans forward in the shadows. He wants to run to you. To shield you from the cameras, the crowd, Caesar’s well-meaning questions that twist into knives.

“How are you feeling?” Caesar asks.

Your voice is soft. Hoarse. “I’m alive.”

A ripple of awkward laughter. Caesar tries to coax something out of you, a joke, a quip, the spark you once had. But it’s gone. Buried so deep, not even you know where to look.

Your fingers keep trembling. You tuck your hands in your lap to hide it.

Jeonghan watches every second.

They want a victor. A hero. A darling. But all they get is a shell.

And Jeonghan can’t do anything but watch.

They crown you in front of Panem.

Golden laurels rest atop your bowed head, catching the light like a final joke. President Snow stands behind you, hand heavy on your shoulder.

You don’t shirk. You don’t cry. You barely breathe.

Jeonghan stands at the lower steps of the stage, jaw clenched tight.

The crowd is euphoric. Flashbulbs pop. Your name chants through the air like a war cry, over and over, and all Jeonghan can think is how hungry they look. Like they want to eat you alive.

You rise slowly when Snow lifts your chin. He presents you as the Capitol’s newest sweetheart—shattered and bloodstained and beautiful.

Jeonghan’s stomach twists. He hates it. The theatrics. The flowers. The falseness. The way they cheer for your trauma.

Later, at the afterparty, the music swells and champagne flows. You sit somewhere under a too-bright chandelier, being toasted by strangers with leering eyes.

Jeonghan tries to keep to the fringes, but he doesn’t escape for long.

The President finds him near the garden terrace, glass of something untouched in Jeonghan’s hand. The air stills around them like the world knows something dangerous is coming.

“Quite the victor,” Snow says mildly. “She’s memorable. Fragile in a way that sells well.”

Jeonghan says nothing.

Snow steps closer. His smile is polite. Tight. “You should be proud. The Capitol hasn’t felt this invested in years.”

A beat.

“Of course,” Snow adds, sipping from his flute, “such devotion comes at a price.”

Jeonghan’s throat tightens.

Snow glances at him, all cool amusement. “Do thank that patron of yours again. Very generous. Desperation makes strange bedfellows, doesn’t it?”

Jeonghan goes cold. His skin prickles. He can’t move.

“She’s lovely, your girl,” Snow goes on, seeming unconcerned by the conversation that has been one-sided insofar. “I do hope she doesn’t become... inconvenient.”

And with that, the devil leaves.

Jeonghan stumbles through the crowd, past gilded dancers and glass towers of champagne. He finds a bathroom, locks the door behind him, and falls to his knees.

He vomits until there’s nothing left.

Even then, he doesn’t stop heaving.

He empties himself out and drinks some more until he’s sick again. He thinks of what it means to be a victor—what you stand to lose if you don’t bend to the Capitol’s will.

Will you blame him for doing his job as a mentor? Will you wish you could’ve been like Seungcheol’s tribute, could’ve ended things clean and quiet like Barley?

On the way back to District 11, the train hums softly beneath the two of you. A lullaby for no one.

You sit by the window, forehead pressed to the glass, eyes on the blur of passing scenery. Home. Whatever that means now.

Jeonghan sits across from you. Not too close. Not too far. Just... there.

It’s been hours since either of you spoke. Days, really, because the most you’ve given Jeonghan are pleasantries and nods and thousand-yard stares.

Sometimes, a cruel part of him thinks it’s a fate worse than death.

Your voice breaks the silence like a match in the dark.

“I’m sorry.”

Jeonghan blinks himself out of his hungover stupor. His fingers tighten around the edge of his seat as he looks towards you, searching. “Why?”

“For flinching.”

His chest caves around the answer. “No,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Gods, no. I should be the one apologizing.”

You turn to him. Just barely. But he sees it in your eyes. You know.

He swallows. Tries to laugh, like it might smooth the sharp edges.

You don’t smile in return.

Jeonghan’s heart beats like a war drum. He wants to say something that makes it okay. That makes any of it okay.

But there’s nothing. Just the soft hum of the train. The ghost of everything that can never be undone.

“You saved my life,” you whisper.

He looks at you, really looks at you this time, and it almost ruins him.

Because he did. And he didn’t. Not really.

He pulled you out of the arena, but the arena never left. It will never leave. It lives in your eyes now. In your silence. In the way your shoulders curl inward like you’re still waiting to be hurt.

This is it.

Your lives now.

This train. This distance. Mentorship, and memory, and never quite touching because love is too heavy a thing to carry on top of nightmares and broken backs.

Jeonghan turns his gaze back to the window. He tucks his love for you deep, where it can’t rot anything else. It won’t do you any good now.

You may warm up to him one day, may come to forgive all he did to keep you around for longer. But as the song once did go—

Nothing will ever grow quite the same.

The train speeds on.

Outside, the sprawling fields of District 11 come into sight.

#jeonghan x reader #jeonghan imagines #jeonghan angst #svthub #keopihausnet #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt angst #seventeen angst #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #jeonghan fic #(🥡) notebook #(💎) page: svt

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pitlanepeach · 2 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Fourteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, jealous lando, protective grid, sexual content

Notes — Welcome to the 2021 Formula One season! (Testing, but still... it counts). Also... hehehehehehehe double update <3

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

2021

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Lewis H. A warm welcome to our 2021 rookies! Mick, and Yuki :)

Lando N. Yeah, welcome or whatever More importantly, does anyone know if I can call up the Apple store in Woking and get them to deliver to me? Even though it’s closed rn

Lewis H. What happened? Did her iPad break?

Lando N. Yeah mate, completely toast.

Max V. Shit. I can have one express delivered to your flat, Lando. It is, of course, a work expense.

Yuki T. Uh hey I guess! I thought this was a work only chat? Did I get the wrong briefing?

George R. It usually is, but as admin I allow Amelia-based chat @Yuki

Mick S. Hey! Great to be here. Um, just curious though. Who is Amelia?

Max V. My lead technical engineer.

Lando N. My girlfriend.

Lewis H. Zak Brown’s daughter.

Fernando A. Her iPad is broken? I will bring her one now. Lando, send me your home address.

Mick S. Ohhh, I actually know Amelia Brown!

Lando N. ?????????? @Mick

Fernando A. Lando you have not sent me your address.

Max V. @Fernando I have already purchased the iPad.

Mick S. @Lando we met years ago, mate. She used to ski with her family where mine did in the winter.

Lando N. You heard the part where she’s my girlfriend, yeah @Mick?

Mick S. Yes…

Lando N. Good.

Fernando A. @Max She will need it delivered to her soon.

Charles L. It finally broke? Wow. Lasted far longer than I believed it would.

Lando N. @Charles Not a good time for jokes, mate. She’s devastated

Daniel R. Should I start carrying a spare iPad to races with me just in case? LOL.

Lando N. Wait that’s a good idea Somebody write that down Max write that down

Max V. I purchased three. I will carry the spares

Fernando A. Vamos, Max!

Pierre G. I bet the rookies are so confused lmao. Welcome to the grid group chat. We discuss penalties, race conditions, plane shares, and Amelia Brown.

Carlos S. @Lando How is she? Did she freak out?

Lando N. She’s good now. All chill.

Lewis H. Tell her that I just bought her a new bunny sticker book. I’ll give it to her at testing.

Lance S. If I buy her the entire Apple company, do you think she will come and fix the Aston Martin car?

Max V. NO.

Yuki T. This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in any grid group chat, and the f2 chat used to get weird lol

George R. Welcome to the grid, Yuki. Keep your head on straight, and if you ever find a lost iPad with a bunny sticker on it anywhere in the paddock, make sure it gets back to Amelia asap

Lando N. Thats important for all of the rookies to know @Mick @Yuki

Mick S. Sure I’ll keep an eye out!

Lando N. Actually I change my mind Mick if you see an iPad just leave it yeah :)

Mick S. ????

Pierre G. This is going to be a great year.

Checo P. All of the other drivers have this chat muted, yes?

Kimi R. Yes.

—

Amelia was crouched down by Max's car, her hand resting on the tire as she scanned through the data on her iPad. The numbers on the screen felt too slow, almost static, compared to the racing thoughts racing through her head.

Beside her, Jos loomed over her, a red-ink pen poised above her little black notebook. He was taking notes for her. Her mind was moving faster than her hands could keep up, and sometimes, just sometimes, she needed someone like him, methodical, steady, and patient, to help her process it all.

Her fingers flicked over the screen, swiping through the data from Max's morning run, when she paused, eyes flicking to Jos. “You see what I see?” she asked, her voice low, as if speaking any louder might break the delicate focus she’d managed to carve out for herself.

Jos nodded, his eyes scanning the information on the screen before looking back down at the scribbles he’d started in her notebook. “More rear stability in the high-speed corners. We’ll need to adjust the dampers again,” he said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact.

Amelia’s eyes tightened slightly as she thought. “We might need to soften the rear more. The front’s too reactive. Max is going to be fighting it in corners three and four, especially.” She tapped the screen lightly, zooming in on the section of the track map. “The car’s settling into a snap too fast, can’t keep up with the rear load in the high-speed sections.”

Jos made a mark in her notebook. “Front end’s still too eager, then?” He sighed.

“Yeah, exactly,” Amelia made a face. “We soften that just a little bit more. Max needs more confidence in the corners. Less initial bite, more consistency. Maybe tweak the ride height slightly too.” Her words were coming faster now as the solution to their issues fell into place in her brain.

As the day wore on, Max’s car was fine-tuned with the adjustments, and Amelia watched on with satisfaction as everything came together in perfect harmony.

They had a plan. The tweaks would work. Max would be happy with the handling.

She turned to Jos when the mechanics started to wheel Max’s car back into the garage for the final time, day one of testing officially over, giving him a small but appreciative smile.

He pulled her notebook out of the pocket of his jeans and handed it over. “I hope you can understand my handwriting.”

—

Amelia sat opposite Max at one of the small team tables in the Red Bull hospitality unit. Most of the staff had already filtered out for the night, their voices fading down the hallway as engineers, PR reps, and mechanics headed for shuttles and taxis. But the two of them lingered — Amelia, still editing Jos’ scribbled notes from earlier in the day, and Max, who had quietly gotten into the habit of not leaving until she did.

It was almost sweet. He dropped her off to Lando at her hotel room at the end of every day like she was a preschooler getting passed between divorced parents. She hadn’t said anything about it, partly because it was practical, and partly because she didn’t mind it. It was nice not to have to worry about being alone.

Across from her, Max was hunched low in his chair, arms folded tight across his chest, mouth set in a hard line. His gaze flicked from the tabletop to her notebook and back again, a rhythm she’d seen a hundred times before. It meant he was thinking. Hard. Or more likely, overthinking.

She didn’t bother looking up. “Just say it.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been fidgeting with your straw for six minutes. It’s starting to irritate me.”

Max exhaled through his nose, leaning back into the bench with a groan. “You are very annoying.”

“Mhmm,” she hummed, finally meeting his eyes. “Max, tell me.”

He hesitated, then shifted forward, resting his elbows on the table. There was a pause, a rare, tentative kind, and then, quieter than usual, he said, “I’m nervous.”

That made her put the pen down.

“For the season?” she asked, although she already suspected the answer.

Max nodded. “Everyone keeps saying 2021 is my year. Like it’s inevitable. Like this is it. And I want it — Fuck, I want it so bad. I’ve worked for it my whole life. But now that it’s here, I don’t know…” He rubbed a hand down his face. “What if it doesn’t happen?”

“It might not,” Amelia said plainly.

Max looked like he wanted to argue, but stopped short, blinking at her. “Comforting.”

“You’re not asking for comfort,” she said. “You’re asking if you’re good enough. And yes, you are. But this sport doesn’t always care about that.”

He let that sit for a moment. Nodded.

Then, quieter still, “There’s something else.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow.

“I met someone. Over the break.”

She made a face. “Someone?”

He groaned. “Don’t do the eyebrow thing.”

She relaxed her face. “Who did you meet?”

Max scratched at the edge of the table. “I met her in Monaco. She’s nice. A lawyer . She thinks I’m just… Max. I didn’t tell her about the racing. About… everything. She doesn’t follow F1.”

Amelia leaned forward slightly. “So she doesn’t know who you are.”

He shrugged helplessly. “She knows who I am. Just not… what I do.”

Amelia tilted her head. “And you like that?”

“I think so,” he said. “It’s peaceful. She talks to me like a normal person. No hero-worship, no pressure. Just… calm.”

“You’re lying to her, essentially,” she said bluntly. “Not a good foundation for a relationship.”

He shot her a withering look. “Jesus. You’re worse than my dad.”

“I take that as a compliment. We have the same goal.”

“I know.”

She looked down at her notebook, flipping a page and skimming it for a second. “You think you can manage both? A relationship and a championship battle?”

He hesitated. “Is that selfish?”

“No,” she said, then looked back at him. “But it might be a bit stupid.”

Max chuckled dryly. “Thanks.”

“I’m not saying you can’t have both,” Amelia added. “I’m just saying that it probably won’t work.”

He frowned, nodded slowly, then said, “But you’re managing your relationship and my championship.”

“I’m not the one driving the car, Max.” She argued.

“Still,” he muttered. “You’re making it work. I could make it work.”

She shrugged. “Okay. Is she nice?”

Max nodded, “I almost ran her over.”

She blinked at him. “Oh. That’s… romantic?” She tried.

He laughed shortly. “She was in a rush, didn’t look properly. I apologised and gave her a ride to work. She— she, uh, thinks that I’m just some wealthy businessman’s son, or something.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, anxiety curling in the pit of her stomach. “You should stop lying to her. I would… I would not like it if I was in that situation and I found out that I was being lied to.”

Max sighed. Nodded.

Then he stood, grabbed both their jackets, and slung hers over the back of her chair. “Come on. Let’s get you to your boyfriend before he starts texting me again asking where you are.”

She gave him a flat look. “He has a GPS tracker on my phone.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Of course he does. Typical Norris.”

She shrugged. “It’s sweet. Sometimes I get lost and he has to come and find me.”

Max laughed, and for the first time all day, some of the tightness left his posture. “Yeah,” he said, holding the door open for her. “Probably good that he has it, then.”

—

The lights of Manama twinkled in the distance, warm and hazy against the desert night. From the balcony of their hotel suite, the city looked like it belonged to another world; quiet and golden and slow in a way the paddock never was. The hum of the air conditioning inside was replaced by the occasional distant honk of a car, or the hush of wind weaving through the palm trees below.

Amelia was seated cross-legged on one of the outdoor chairs, wrapped in a white robe, her hair still damp from her shower. Lando, in a t-shirt and joggers, was fiddling with a tiny bottle opener, attempting to open a bottle of some obscure sparkling drink he’d insisted was “romantic, okay baby? Trust me.”

Their room service tray sat between them on the small table. Grilled flatbreads, mezze, roasted lamb. Lando had ordered for them and he’d gotten everything right.

“I don’t know how you always remember this stuff,” she said, dipping a piece of bread into a tangy yogurt sauce.

Lando grinned, finally getting the bottle open with a victorious pop. “Because I listen when you talk. I know the face you make when you think something tastes bad or has a yucky texture. I have eyes. Shocking, I know.”

Amelia gave him a pointed look. “Last week, you kissed my eyeball because you were being lazy and tried to kiss me with your eyes closed.”

“Shut up.” He huffed.

She laughed quietly, curling into him, giving him a bit of the blanket. “I think Max might be in love,” she said suddenly.

Lando blinked. “Max? Verstappen?”

“Mm,” she nodded, chewing. “He told me today that he met someone over the winter. She doesn’t know who he is. Like, really doesn’t know. Thinks he’s just some rich guy named Max.”

Lando made a face. “That… feels impossible.”

“She’s apparently very disconnected. Doesn’t follow the sport. Max likes it.”

Lando nodded slowly. “Weird. But kind of sweet, I guess.”

She frowned at him. “I told him he shouldn’t be dating during a title fight.”

“Very romantic of you.” Lando teased.

She shrugged. “I never said I was romantic.”

“No,” he said. “But you are.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t disagree. Instead, she reached for his hand where it rested on the table, her fingers brushing over his lightly. “I hope you do very well this year, Lan.” She told him, earnest and hopeful. “You deserve it.”

Lando turned his hand over to lace their fingers together. “So do you. Deserve to do well, I mean. You’ve worked so hard this past year. You deserve to see it pay off.”

Amelia didn’t say anything right away. She just leaned over and kissed him; soft, sweet, clinging. It wasn’t meant to lead anywhere at first, just a thank you. But she didn’t pull away. And he didn’t let her go.

She ended up in his lap, her legs curled against his chest, her robe brushing his knees. His hands slid instinctively around her back, fingers splaying wide against the thin fabric, grounding her. Grounding himself.

They stayed like that for a long time. The balcony lights dimmed behind them. The city hummed faintly in the distance, the last remnants of dinner cooling on the table, the silence between them easy.

Then, gently, she climbed off of him and stood. Her bare feet whispered against the tile as she stepped forward, and she stopped just in front of where he sat, between his knees. Her eyes searched his face for a beat, then she reached for the hem of his t-shirt.

“Come inside with me?”

Lando’s breath caught slightly. He looked up at her, her expression steady, soft, open, and nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Inside, the hotel room was cast in warm light, golden from a low bedside lamp. The curtains were drawn against the city, muffling the world outside. The bed was turned down, sheets crisp, pillows fluffed. A quiet kind of invitation.

She tugged him by the hand toward the bed, and he followed without a word, heart thudding in his chest.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t awkward.

There was a kind of reverence to the way they undressed, slow, curious. Amelia’s robe slipped from her shoulders, caught briefly on her elbows before pooling at her feet. Lando’s hands hovered just for a second before brushing up her arms, like he was making sure she wouldn’t vanish if he touched her too quickly.

Their kisses deepened, still hesitant but filled with intent, with the weight of everything they’d been building toward for over a year. Every laugh, every shared moment of delicate intimacy, every time they’d caught each other’s eyes across a garage or a hotel lobby, it all settled into the space between them.

Lando’s mouth trailed across her skin with an almost startled sort of wonder, like he was learning a language he’d been waiting to speak. Her fingers threaded through his curls, tugging gently when his lips brushed the hollow of her throat. They moved together with quiet urgency, limbs tangled, breath catching against skin.

At one point, Lando paused, hovering just above her, his eyes sweeping across her face, flushed, focused, real.

“You’re so... fuck,” he whispered, barely audible.

Amelia blinked, lips curling faintly. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

He kissed the curve of her shoulder, then her collarbone. “It is,” he murmured. “It really is.”

And when they finally settled under the covers, tangled together with her head tucked beneath his chin, Lando let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

She didn’t say much, but her fingers curled into his shirt like she wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon, and that was enough.

—

The sunlight was already creeping through the sliver of the curtains when Lando stirred, warmth pooling low in his stomach before he was even fully awake. For a moment, he didn’t move, just blinked up at the ceiling, trying to remember if he’d dreamt the night before, or if it had really happened.

Then she shifted against him.

Amelia was tucked beneath his arm, hair a little wild against his chest, one bare leg tangled over his. Her cheek was pressed just below his collarbone, lips slightly parted, her breath steady and warm against his skin.

Definitely not a dream.

He smiled, slow, stupid, unbelievably content.

She felt it too, maybe, his laugh or the way his fingers brushed along her back, because she mumbled something that sounded vaguely like a complaint and burrowed closer, clearly not ready to be awake yet.

Lando tilted his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Morning, baby.”

She made a noise that was more sigh than word. “Mm. No.”

“No what?”

“No talking,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. “Too early.”

He laughed quietly, the sound muffled by her hair. “It’s almost seven.”

“Too early for you to be this cheerful.” She grumbled.

Lando shifted just enough to look down at her, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. “I’m not cheerful.”

“You’re smiling.”

He smiled wider. “Can you blame me?”

She cracked an eye open, blinking up at him. Her face was still soft from sleep, a little puffy and makeup-free, but to him, she looked... ridiculously beautiful.

“What?” she asked, because he was staring.

“Nothing,” he said, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “I just really like waking up next to you.”

Her expression shifted slightly. And then, a second later, she exhaled and said quietly, “I like it, too.”

Lando kissed her, just a little one, lazy and warm.

They lay tangled in the sheets, the morning light spilling gently across the room. For a while, neither of them moved, perfectly content to exist in the quiet, wrapped up in warmth and each other.

Eventually, Amelia stirred, shifting just enough to reach over to the nightstand. She blinked blearily at her phone and then sighed and glanced across the room.

“Shit,” she muttered. “I forgot to charge my iPad.”

Lando, still half-asleep, pressed a slow kiss to her bare shoulder. “I plugged it in when I got up in the middle of the night to go for a piss.”

She turned to look at him, her expression soft, a little surprised. Her voice came quiet. “You did?”

He nodded, eyes still heavy with sleep. “Didn’t want you waking up to it dead.”

A pause. Then she gave him the smallest pout, sleepy and affectionate and so purely her. “I love you.”

He broke into a grin, one of those quiet, full-body smiles that lived in his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured, brushing her hair back. “I love you too.”

—

The McLaren motorhome was buzzing with early morning energy, the consistent hum of coffee machines working overtime. Amelia slipped through the front doors with her badge swinging around her neck, hair still damp from a rushed shower, and Lando trailing behind her, half-yawning into a croissant.

Zak spotted them first, already seated at one of the corner tables with Daniel, who was halfway through a heaping plate of scrambled eggs and talking animatedly about something.

“There’s my girl,” Zak called, waving them over.

Amelia dropped into the seat beside her dad with a tired sigh. “Morning, dad.” She kissed his cheek.

“You sound tired,” he frowned at her, sipping his coffee.

Lando slid into the chair beside her, nudging her with his knee under the table. She handed him a napkin in response, gesturing for him to wipe the crumbs away from his face, and he smiled.

Daniel looked between them, eyebrows raised. “You must be Amelia. I’m Daniel. Can’t actually believe we’ve not met properly before now.”

“I know.” Amelia agreed, already reaching across the table for a muffin.

Daniel leaned in a little, grinning. “Lando talks about you all the damn time. In debriefs, pre-race meetings, on his radio—”

“Please stop talking,” Lando glared at his new teammate, clearly embarrassed.

“She’s worth talking about,” Zak laughed, patting Amelia on the shoulder with a fond smile.

Daniel smirked at Lando, thoroughly enjoying his discomfort. Lando just narrowed his eyes at him, his cheeks flushing slightly.

Amelia took another bite of her muffin, savouring her food. But before she could finish, her phone buzzed violently against the table. It was from Max.

iMessage — 7:33am

Max Verstappen Are you here, sister? I want to talk about my steering set-up

Amelia On my way to you now.

She shoved the rest of her muffin into her mouth and stood up in one swift motion. “Okay. I gotta go.”

Lando looked up, surprised. “Already?”

Amelia kissed him quickly on the cheek, her lips lingering for just a second longer than expected. She gave her dad a quick shoulder squeeze before smiling at Daniel, her usual bluntness softened by a bit of shyness she wasn’t used to showing in front of him. “Max wants my advice.”

Zak called after her with a grin. “Tell Jos I want my daughter back for lunch.”

“No promises,” she replied with a glance over her shoulder, already speed-walking toward the exit. Her hair bounced with each step, and her phone was pressed to her ear before she even made it out of the motorhome.

Daniel leaned toward Lando as she disappeared down the hallway. “You’re screwed, brother.”

Lando shot him a look, kicking him under the table. “Shut up.”

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Yuki T. I have Amelia’s iPad in AlphaTauri garage

Lewis H. Yeah, this has to be a new record.

Lando N. Lol she’s just been rly busy. Probably hasn’t noticed she hasn’t got it yet

Max V. She just noticed and started freaking out. @Yuki I’m on my way to get it.

Lando N. She okay @Max?

Max V. Yes mate, no need to worry.

Mick S. @Max Can I pop by your garage and say hi to her? It’s been years!

Lando N. @Max Say no. Max, say no. Max, say no.

Max V. @Mick No, she is too busy for friends.

Lando N. LMAO, REKT @Mick.

Mick S. Bro????? I really don’t want to steal your girlfriend 😭

Fernando A. You do not believe my Amelia is good enough for you, Schumacher?

Max V. What the fuck Mick

Charles L. Uh oh 😬😬

Pierre G. Bro that was NOT the right thing to say 😭

Max V. @Mick She wouldn’t even look your way.

Lando N. Wild angle, mate @Mick

George R. We are witnessing a man dig his own grave live in chat

Daniel R. *shovels faster* Keep going, Mick. Say you think she’s boring next.

Sebastian V. This feels like bullying.

Yuki T. I think it is

Carlos S. @Mick Just lie down. Accept it. The storm will pass.

Mick S. I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT 😭😭😭 I literally just meant she’s your girlfriend and I respect that! @Lando

Lando N. Sure you did.

Fernando A. In my country we have a saying — "Schumacher has placed his own foot in his own mouth."

Lewis H. Pick your words better next time yeah? @Mick

Lance S. This is why rookies don’t get access to Amelia.

Esteban O. Wait does that mean I have access to Amelia?

Max V. No.

Fernando A. Absolutely not.

Lando N. You do not.

Valtteri B. I do not speak much in this chat but I just want to say: Mick, this is very funny.

Antonio G. +1

Nicholas L. same 😭

Sebastian V. Let it be a lesson to all of us. Never try to be polite in here. It will be weaponised.

Charles L. I miss when this chat was about tyre pressures and strategy.

George R. That’s adorable. It’s never been that.

NEXT CHAPTER

574 notes · View notes

theetherealbloom · 3 days ago

Text

It Only Falls Into Place When You're Falling To Pieces

Summary: There are a lot of people you thought would live forever. You swore Joel would be one of them.

Pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ HEAVY ANGST, Fluff, Crying, Tears, Sadness, Apocalypse, Cordyceps, Infected, Major Character Death(s), Funerals, Grief, PTSD, Depression, Kissing, Blood, Morgue, Star-Crossed Lovers, TLOU 2 Spoilers,

Word Count: 7.7k

A/N: Fml. I know that you know I don’t usually write angst, but fuck man, I need to mourn and maybe so do you… God I'm so sad. Like we knew the story and how it would end for Joel. Even if you think you're ready... But I know this from experience, even if you've braced yourself, brutality like this... will hurt a lot.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Still by Noah Kahan

Joel Miller Masterlist | MAIN MASTERLIST |

WYOMING, JACKSON — 2029

The mornings were slow in Jackson. Slow in a way that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t living in the end times anymore.

Joel had a habit of waking up before you. Not out of routine or discipline, but out of muscle memory. The kind that sticks even when the world’s long since changed.

Sometimes, he made coffee. Sometimes, he just sat at the table, plucking at his guitar in soft, incomplete chords while the sun started to push through the windows. The house you shared wasn’t big or fancy. But it was warm. It was quiet. It had his coat always draped over the same chair, his boots by the door, the scent of cedar and pine from the little woodworking studio in one of the rooms.

It had Joel.

You found yourself drifting toward him more often than not. Whether he was sanding a piece of maple or trying to shape a leg for a rocking chair he swore he’d finish someday, he let you linger. You’d sit on the bench next to him, fingers curled around a warm mug. He’d hand you scraps to practice carving, smiling softly when you accidentally broke off a corner.

“‘S alright,” he’d murmur, brushing sawdust off your cheek with a thumb. “Takes time.”

Everything with Joel took time.

Loving him. Learning him. Earning the space between his heart and the pain he never quite put into words.

But the quiet in Jackson gave you time. Time to laugh with him over burned dinners, to slow dance in the kitchen when he played a familiar tune, to lay on the couch with your head on his chest while he told you about old country songs and the guitar he lost in Austin.

And it gave him time, too.

Time to lower his walls. To see you not as a danger, but as something steady—something soft he could rest in. Time to share pieces of himself he rarely offered to anyone, fragile corners he'd kept locked away.

He would look at you and think, If I were braver. If I could just say it.

He’d imagine the words on his tongue, how they’d change everything the second they left his mouth. But he wasn’t ready—not brave enough, not honest enough.

So he just looked at you instead.

And maybe you knew. Maybe you always knew.

Because he did love you.

In quiet, consistent ways. In the way he made your coffee just how you liked it. In the way he memorized the sound of your laugh. In every glance, every softened breath, every moment where he didn’t walk away.

He didn’t love you because he was lonely—Joel had long since learned how to survive in the silence.

He loved you because your light made the dark seem less like a prison and more like a place he could leave behind.

It started small.

A found thing—half-buried in the snow behind the stables. You’d been looking for spare nails in a busted old toolbox when you saw it: a film camera. Dusty, scratched up, but the click still worked. You brought it back like a prize.

Joel looked up from the guitar he was restringing, brow furrowed. “You went diggin’ around in that old junkyard again?”

You grinned, breath fogging the air. “Found treasure.”

He squinted at the thing in your hand like it might bite him. “You sure that ain’t just some broken plastic?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He watched you tinker with it all afternoon, wiping the lens clean with your sleeve, warming the roll of film between your palms to bring it back to life. You caught him staring more than once—chin propped in his hand, fingers idle on the frets of a guitar he’d been meaning to finish tuning.

When it finally worked, you snapped a picture of the sunset from your porch. Then one of his back as he worked, his brow furrowed in concentration, sleeves rolled up, calloused hands steady over the worn wood.

You took one of his profile too. He’d been humming low under his breath, unaware.

“Hey,” he said, catching the click. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“You’re handsome when you’re focused.”

He huffed a laugh, but he didn’t stop you when you raised the camera again.

Later that week, you asked him for one together.

“C’mere,” you said, tugging at the front of his jacket. “Just one. You might like the memory someday.”

He looked reluctant, like the idea of being frozen in time made him itch. But he let you lead him into the light. You kissed him on the cheek just as the timer clicked. He smiled, wide and surprised and real.

The photo came out a little blurry. But your mouth was pressed to his skin, his eyes crinkled with something close to joy. You kept it in your coat pocket like it might keep you warm.

Sometimes, he came into the kitchen just to touch you.

No reason. No words. Just drawn to you like muscle memory.

You’d be standing at the counter, elbow-deep in something mundane—rinsing mugs, slicing vegetables, stirring whatever was bubbling in the pot—when suddenly there’d be a shift in the air behind you. A warmth. A quiet presence.

Then, Joel’s arms would wind around your waist, firm and steady, palms pressing low on your stomach, right through the thin fabric of your shirt. His chest would settle against your back like it belonged there, like you were meant to carry each other’s weight.

“You makin’ somethin’ good?” he’d mumble into your hair, voice rough with sleep or fresh air or maybe just the softness you always brought out of him.

You barely had time to answer before you’d feel it—his nose brushing just beneath your ear, his scruff scratching tender against your neck. The kind of touch that made the air feel thick with heat and memory.

“You smell like cinnamon,” he whispered one evening, lips grazing the spot where your jaw met your throat.

You stilled, blinking down at the spoon in your hand. “You been sniffin’ me, Miller?”

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Can’t help it,” he murmured, slow and sweet, like molasses in summer. “You’re intoxicatin’, darlin’. Makes a man forget what he came in here for.”

His mouth followed the curve of your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss against your pulse. Slow. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world to worship you.

You laughed then, breath catching in your throat. It wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. Just a soft, breathless sound that filled the space between your bodies as you leaned back into him, hips settling against his.

The laughter didn’t last long. It never did when his hands started to move—one curling around your hip, the other slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin.

The spoon slipped from your fingers and clattered into the sink, forgotten.

You turned slightly, enough to meet his eyes, and whispered, “The stew’s gonna burn.”

Joel kissed the corner of your mouth, smiling just enough to be trouble.

“Let it.”

One night, he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

It was late, storm tapping at the windows, fire burning low. You were tucked beneath his arm on the couch, legs over his lap, your hand tucked into the worn flannel of his shirt. He kissed you once, then again, then a hundred more times.

Short, sweet little things.

He kissed your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. You giggled, cheeks hurting from how hard you were smiling.

“Joel,” you whispered, nose scrunched, lips twitching. “What are you doing?”

His palms cradled your face like you were something delicate. Like he’d break if he didn’t touch you just right.

“Memorizing you,” he said. Then he kissed the giggle right off your lips.

Your hands curled in his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, soft and slow, lips sliding together like they belonged there.

And when he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his voice came out low and honest, barely above a breath:

“You’re everythin’ darlin’.”

He didn’t say he loved you.

Not with words.

But in every quiet moment, every gentle touch, every photo you took that he let you keep—he showed you.

And somehow, that meant more.

Love shows up in the quiet moments with Joel. Always has been.

Not in grand declarations or fireworks. Not in promises whispered beneath starlight or etched into stone. No, with Joel, love slips in softly—through the cracks of everyday life, in the pauses between sentences, in the silence he lets you share without needing to fill it. It’s there when the world is loud, and he chooses to be quiet with you. When everything aches and he doesn’t try to fix it—just stays.

It’s the way your hand always finds his, especially when he’s got that look about him—brows drawn low, eyes shadowed, body still as a storm about to break. You’ve come to know it well, that kind of tension that settles in his shoulders like he’s bracing against something only he can see. The kind of stillness that doesn’t feel like peace, but like he’s waiting to run or fight or fall apart.

So you reach for him.

You don’t announce it, don’t make a show of it. Just slide your hand into his, palm against his rough calloused skin, fingers curling between his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because it is. Because you’ve done this before, countless times. Every time the ghosts get too loud or the silence feels too sharp. You hold his hand and he lets you, and that’s how you know—how you always know—he’s letting you in again.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first. Just breathes out slow, like your touch takes some of the weight off, even if it’s just a fraction. His jaw unclenches. His shoulders drop a little. You can feel it—the shift, the surrender, the trust.

“Y’okay?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, soft enough that it could be mistaken for wind slipping through the seams of the old house, rustling the curtains just enough to remind you that the world is still turning outside these walls.

Joel looks at you. Not a glance. A real look. The kind that lingers. The kind that says more than words ever could. His eyes are tired, but there’s something else there too—something quieter, gentler, something that only ever surfaces around you.

His thumb moves in a slow arc across your knuckles, and when he answers, it’s not just with words. It’s in the way his grip tightens slightly, not desperate, just present.

“I am now,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, frayed at the edges. Like maybe he’s been holding it in all day, maybe even longer. Like your hand in his unlocked something he didn’t know he needed to say.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. You lean into him instead, resting your head on his shoulder, letting the weight of you press gently against him like a tether. Like a promise. His arm slips around you, steady and sure, palm settling at your hip. He presses a kiss into your hair—right at the crown of your head, like a seal, like a prayer, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.

The room around you is quiet save for the ticking of the clock on the wall and the crackle of the fire. Outside, snow falls soundlessly, blanketing the world in soft white. And inside, it’s warm. Not just from the fire—but from him. From this.

From the way he holds you like you’re something he never thought he’d have again. Like the simple act of your hand in his might keep the darkness at bay for one more night.

With Joel, love doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to.

It just stays.

And that’s always been more than enough.

The mornings are always slow.

Time feels syrup-thick when the sun hasn’t fully crested the horizon yet, and sleep still clings to your limbs like molasses. Your body is heavy, cocooned in the tangle of sheets still warm from the man who slept beside you. The air is cool beyond the bed, but the mattress holds the echo of his heat, and it makes you reluctant to move, even as your senses start to stretch awake.

You shift lazily, one arm reaching across the bed to where Joel had been moments ago. It’s empty now, his absence a soft dip in the mattress, but the scent of him lingers—cedarwood, a trace of leather, the faint hint of salt and earth from yesterday’s long walk back into Jackson. Comforting. Familiar.

You pry one eye open, squinting into the low light. Joel’s already sitting at the edge of the bed, the muscles of his back broad and bare, catching a gentle glint from the early morning haze seeping in through the window. He’s halfway through pulling on his shirt, slow and steady, the way he always is in the mornings. A quiet man doing quiet things.

Without thinking, without even fully waking, your hand slips out from beneath the covers and finds him.

Your fingers wrap loosely around his wrist—barely a tug, just enough to let him know you’re there, still tethered to him. And then you shift closer, burying your face against the small of his back, pressing a soft, languid kiss to the warm skin just above the waistband of his jeans.

“Mmm... good mornin’, Joel,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, muffled by the skin beneath your lips.

He pauses. Still for a moment, like the warmth of your kiss stopped time. Then he breathes out, slow and fond, and turns slightly—just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His eyes crinkle at the corners, soft with affection, and that familiar crooked smile curves beneath the rough scruff of his jaw.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” His voice is rough and low, like gravel soaked in honey, warm enough to melt straight through your bones.

You hum in response, already halfway to sleep again, forehead resting against his back. The bed creaks softly as he shifts, brushing his hand over your tangled hair in a slow, affectionate stroke. His thumb lingers at your temple, then trails down to the curve of your cheek, gentle and grounding.

“Go on,” he murmurs, bending down to press a kiss into your hair. “Sleep a little longer. I’ll get the fire goin’.”

You don’t answer, not really. Just let out a sigh that sounds like peace and contentment all wrapped into one. He stands slowly, quietly, careful not to disturb the blankets more than necessary, and as he moves toward the hearth, you stay curled in the warmth he left behind—your hand resting in the space where his had been, eyes slipping closed again.

You listen to the familiar rhythm of him moving through the room—boots being tugged on, the scrape of kindling, the gentle snap of a match. The softest clink of metal on stone. And through it all, the quiet knowledge that this is what love is.

Not always words. Not always fire and thunder.

But this.

These mornings. These moments. Him.

Sometimes, when the world gets too loud—even in Jackson—you find yourself gravitating toward him without a thought.

It doesn’t matter if it’s the bustle of the market, the chatter of passing patrols, or just the quiet hum of a too-long day catching up with your bones. Something in your chest tightens, overwhelmed and aching for something quieter, something still. And so you find Joel.

He’s usually somewhere close—he always is. Maybe talking with Tommy, maybe checking the perimeter, maybe just standing there with his arms crossed like he’s holding up the whole damn sky on his back again. But the moment your arms circle around his middle, everything else seems to fall away.

You press yourself into him, chest to his back, arms around his waist, and your face buries instinctively in the crook of his neck. That space between shoulder and jaw where you swear the whole world could stop and you wouldn’t mind. The smell of him hits you instantly—faint cedarwood, worn leather, a trace of smoke from the fire pit, and something else too. Something warm and steady and Joel.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away or ask what’s wrong. He just lets out a quiet hum, low in his chest, and leans back into your touch. His hands find yours where they’re linked around his stomach, thumbs brushing idly over your knuckles. You feel the weight of his chin as he rests it gently on top of your head, and then the press of a kiss into your hair—soft, unthinking, like muscle memory.

It’s the kind of affection that doesn’t ask for attention. Doesn’t need an occasion. It just is.

You breathe him in like you’re trying to anchor yourself. Let your eyes flutter shut. Let the rest of the world blur into background noise.

“I missed this,” you whisper against the warmth of his throat, the words barely more than a sigh. You don’t even mean the moment, exactly—you mean the peace of it. The quiet. The him of it all.

Joel turns his head just a little, enough for the edge of his beard to scratch gently against your forehead. His voice is soft when he replies, but there’s something thick in it, something full.

“You’re right here,” he murmurs. “Ain’t gotta miss a thing.”

You shift your face closer, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. “Sometimes I still do,” you admit.

He nods once, like he gets it without needing you to explain. “Yeah,” he says, his hand trailing up to cup the back of your head. “Me too.”

And for a long moment, neither of you say anything more. You just stand there, wrapped up in each other, while the world spins noisily on around you—too loud, too fast, too much.

But here, in the shelter of his arms, in the crook of his neck, everything is quiet. Everything is enough.

Crowds were never your thing.

Too many people pressed in too close, too many voices overlapping, footsteps echoing off wood and brick. Even in a place like Jackson—safe, familiar—it could still feel like too much. You were used to being on alert, always aware of exits and shadows, always bracing for what could go wrong. Old habits from the world outside didn’t die easily.

Joel wasn’t much better with crowds. Maybe a little quieter about it, a little more practiced at hiding the way his shoulders stiffened when someone brushed past too close. But you’d seen it. The way his jaw would flex when he was trying to be polite but already had one foot out the door in his head. The way his hand sometimes hovered near his belt like he was missing the feel of his rifle.

And yet, here you were.

The town hall was full to bursting, the whole place humming with life. It was some kind of celebration—maybe a harvest, maybe a birthday, maybe people just needed a reason to dance and drink and pretend that the world hadn’t ended outside those walls. Whatever it was, it was loud. Laughter spilled from every corner. Music vibrated through the floorboards. Glasses clinked together and boots stomped in time with the beat.

You stood near the far end of the room, half-heartedly nursing a cup of water, swaying just a little in time with the song playing—more to keep your nerves from buzzing than for enjoyment. You scanned the room like you always did. Faces. Movements. That unconscious search for something familiar, something grounding.

And then your eyes found Joel.

He was on the opposite side of the room, shoulder leaning against a wooden support beam, arms folded loosely across his chest. He hadn’t joined the dance, hadn’t made a plate from the food table. Just stood there, scanning the crowd—and you knew in your bones he’d been looking for you.

When your eyes met, the noise dulled. Not all at once. It didn’t go silent or freeze like in the movies. But it faded. As if the current of the room moved around the two of you instead of through.

You were mid-sip when it happened, your fingers curled around the cool tin cup, lips barely brushing the rim. But as soon as you caught his gaze, you paused.

It wasn’t a grand thing. No sweeping declarations. Just a glance. A quiet, steady look that said you’re here, and I see you, and that’s all I need.

You tilted your head a fraction, the corner of your mouth twitching upward into the kind of smile you only saved for him—small, but true. Your chest softened. Your breath eased.

Across the room, Joel’s lips quirked into that familiar little half-smile, the one that never quite reached both corners of his mouth, but you knew what it meant. He gave a subtle nod. Nothing flashy. Nothing for show.

Just, I see you too.

You held that look for a second longer, your body still surrounded by the warmth and noise and movement of the room, but none of it really touched you. Not in that moment. Not with his gaze wrapped around you like a thread pulled taut across the distance.

And even though no one said a word, something passed between you.

You smile again, this one a little wider, a little softer. A silent message of your own: I’m not going anywhere.

And Joel’s eyes softened like he heard it loud and clear.

You hum sometimes, without even knowing you’re doing it. It just slips out—soft and low, the way wind moves through tall grass. A half-remembered tune from before the world went sideways. Maybe it was from the radio, maybe from your childhood, maybe your mother’s voice singing over the hiss of boiling water. It’s not the melody that matters. It’s the feeling that comes with it—warmth, familiarity, something that once meant home.

Sometimes, when your mind is far away, you whistle it instead. Just a few notes, carried on your breath.

Joel never interrupts. Never tells you to stop or asks you to hush. He just listens—quietly, carefully, like the sound of your humming settles something in him too. Like maybe the song is stitching him back together in places neither of you can quite name.

He’s usually out on the porch when it happens, sitting on the old wooden steps with one of the guitars he’s been fixing up. Strings stretched taut, frets worn smooth by time and hands that once knew chords. His fingers—rough and weathered—move slow and steady as he tunes it. Every so often, he plucks a string, listens, adjusts. The sun casts a soft amber glow across his forearms, painting the scars in gold.

You’re nearby. Always. Curled up with your legs folded beneath you, back resting against one of the porch posts. A blanket draped over your shoulders. You hum like peace lives in your chest and is trying to find its way out.

Joel glances up when he hears it—mid-strum, his brow relaxed, lips parted just slightly like he’s about to say something but doesn’t. He just looks at you for a moment, and everything about him softens. His shoulders drop. The line between his brows disappears. Like the sound of you is the first deep breath he’s taken all day.

“What’s that song?” he asks after a while, his voice breaking the silence like it belongs there. Low and warm, barely above the hush of wind.

You pause, the melody tapering off in your throat. Your eyes flick toward the sky, as if the answer might be waiting somewhere in the clouds.

“Not sure,” you murmur, a smile tugging lazily at the corner of your mouth. “Mama used to sing it when she was cooking. I think it used to be on the radio, too. One of those songs that just… stuck.”

Joel nods, the kind of slow, thoughtful nod that doesn’t need words to follow. He strums another chord, something soft and sweet, and leans back on his elbows.

“Well,” he says, glancing at you with that familiar flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. “Keep goin’. I like it.”

There’s something in the way he says it—something that makes your chest ache in that soft, full kind of way. The kind of ache that’s not about pain at all, but about being known. About being seen and loved for the quiet parts of yourself you didn’t think anyone else noticed.

So you hum again, picking up where you left off. Joel doesn’t look away. He keeps strumming, matching your rhythm now. Not quite harmonizing. Just being there with you, in it.

And for a little while, the world feels like it’s made of nothing but warm wood, old songs, and two people learning how to feel safe again.

You’re curled up together in bed one night, everything quiet except the low pop and crackle of the fire burning in the hearth. The room glows in soft amber and gold, the shadows on the walls swaying like they’re dancing to the rhythm of your breathing. Outside, wind brushes against the windows, but inside, it’s warm. Safe. Still.

Joel lies flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped loosely around your waist. You’re pressed into his side, head resting just below his collarbone, your hand lazily combing through his hair—fingertips tracing gentle, aimless patterns. His hair’s soft tonight, freshly washed and still carrying the faint scent of cedar soap and woodsmoke.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s no need. Just the hush between heartbeats and the sound of Joel’s steady breathing, slow and even beneath your ear.

“I could stay like this forever,” you whisper eventually, your voice thick with sleep. Each word melts into the warmth of his skin. Your eyes are already slipping closed, lashes brushing his chest. You don’t even know if he hears you.

But then you feel it—Joel’s arm tightening around your waist, his hand sliding up under your shirt just enough to rest against your spine, warm and grounding.

“Then don’t move,” he murmurs, voice rough with tiredness and something gentler, deeper. The kind of softness he only ever shows in moments like this, when the world is quiet and his guard is down. “Ain’t no one tellin’ us to go anywhere.”

You smile into the dark, into the skin of his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath your cheek. His heartbeat thumps slow and steady, and you swear you could fall asleep to that sound alone.

Joel shifts slightly, just enough to press a kiss into the top of your head. His lips linger there—like a promise more than anything spoken.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles.

“So are you,” you say, voice feather-light.

A comfortable silence settles in again. Your fingers slow in his hair, curling around a soft wave near his temple. His hand stays at your back, thumb drawing idle shapes you’re too sleepy to name.

The fire crackles. The wind hums. And you drift off like that—wrapped up in him, hand still in his hair, the weight of his love wrapped around you like a second blanket. Nothing else matters. Not out there. Not tomorrow. Just this.

Just him.

The temperature dips before the sun even brushes the horizon. The last of the daylight clings to the sky in hazy streaks of orange and violet, but the wind has already turned sharp, biting through the seams of your jacket. You and Joel walk side by side down the path back toward Jackson, boots crunching over patches of frost-laced grass and half-frozen dirt.

You don’t say much—patrols tend to leave a certain kind of quiet between you, a silence that doesn’t need filling. But you can feel the chill starting to settle deep in your bones, your fingers stiff and cheeks raw from the cold. You try to rub your hands together for warmth, but it’s useless. The wind is relentless.

Joel notices, of course. His eyes flick over to you, worried in that subtle way he is—more tension in the jaw, more silence than usual. You know he’s about to offer you his coat or tell you he should’ve brought that extra scarf.

So before he can open his mouth, you reach out and grab a fistful of his jacket.

Without a word, you tug him in. Joel stumbles the smallest step forward, surprised but not resisting. You pull until you're chest to chest, until the warmth of his body bleeds into yours. Your frozen hands slip under the back hem of his coat and find the soft flannel of his shirt underneath, palms pressing flat against the heat of his spine.

“Jesus,” Joel mutters, letting out a breath that puffs white between you, his arms automatically sliding around your waist. “You could’ve just asked for my coat, y’know.”

“But then I wouldn’t be this close,” you reply, chin tilting up, a smile tugging at your lips despite your chattering teeth. “You’re warmer than any jacket.”

Joel huffs a soft laugh, the kind that melts around the edges. He leans in, resting his forehead lightly against yours. “You’re a damn menace,” he says—but his voice is warm and low, thick with affection.

You can feel his fingers pressing into your back, holding you tighter. His nose brushes yours as he tilts his head, and then—soft as snowfall—he kisses you. Once. Then again. And a third time, his lips barely touching yours, quick little pecks that make you laugh and shiver all at once.

“Joel,” you whisper, still grinning, your breath fogging between you both.

“I like the taste of your lips on mine,” he murmurs, the words brushing against your mouth like silk. He says it like a secret. Like it’s always been true.

Then he kisses you again—this time slower, deeper, his hand cradling the back of your head as he pours warmth into you one soft press at a time. The world falls quiet. No wind. No cold. No patrols or gates or the threat of anything waiting in the dark.

Just Joel.

Just this.

When you finally pull apart, you don’t go far. He keeps you close, your fingers still tucked against his back, his breath brushing your temple.

You smile into his collar. “Can we stay like this a little longer?”

He kisses your hair, voice barely above a whisper. “Far as I’m concerned, we can stay like this forever.”

And in that moment, time slows. Your heartbeat settles into the rhythm of his, safe and steady. Warm, despite everything. Because love—real love—isn’t just in the grand gestures. It’s in this. A quiet winter dusk. A jacket shared. The taste of his kiss. The way he holds you like you’re something worth braving the cold for.

Then there’s Ellie.

She was nineteen now. Strong. Sharp-tongued and guarded in the way Joel used to be. You weren’t her mother, and she never treated you like one—but she was curious about you. Distant at first. Then, little by little, she started asking questions. Sitting with you on the porch. Bringing you a book she found and thought you might like.

She and Joel… there were things left unsaid between them. You could feel it like a splinter under the skin. Something tender and unresolved.

He finally told you one night, long after you’d both settled into the quiet comfort of shared sheets and a life you thought might last.

It was after dinner. After the guitar and the laughter. After you’d kissed the corners of his mouth and pulled him into bed.

“I lied to her,” he said, voice hollow.

You blinked in the dark, still half-tangled in sleep. “What?”

Joel’s face was turned toward the ceiling. Still. Tense. “I lied to Ellie. About the Fireflies. About the hospital.”

The room chilled. Your fingers reached for his without hesitation.

“I killed them,” he continued. “Every last one that stood between me and her. ‘Cause they were gonna cut her open. To find a cure.”

He didn’t cry right away. He spoke through gritted teeth, like the guilt was a weight he carried every damn day and had never quite set down.

“She would’ve died. She didn’t know—still doesn’t really. I told her there were others. That she wasn’t the only one. But it was a lie. It’s all a lie.”

You didn’t speak. Just curled into him. Held his hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“She hates me for it,” he whispered.

“No,” you said. “She loves you. She’s angry, but she loves you.”

He shook his head. Silent tears rolled into his hairline. You kissed his shoulder. You stayed up all night, fingers running through his graying hair until his breathing steadied again.

That was the last night he told you something he’d never said out loud.

The screams had long gone silent. All that was left now was smoke. Gunpowder. Blood soaking into snow.

Your boots crunch through it—through the aftermath. Bodies, both friend and foe, lie crumpled like broken marionettes. The streets of Jackson, once humming with quiet life, are now a graveyard.

Tommy had held the line at the south gate. You saw him, blackened with ash and soot, flames dancing in the reflection of his eyes as he lit up a bloater with the last fuel of the flamethrower. His scream—raw, furious—cut through the chaos like a knife. You’d joined the others in the streets, turning bullets on the infected… and eventually, on the bitten.

Some of them you knew by name.

You don’t remember pulling the trigger. You only remember the stillness afterward.

The quiet after the roar.

By the time the last runner was put down, your hands were slick with blood—some of it not your own. And when they called for the dead to be gathered, you helped. You counted.

You lost count.

They winched open the gates sometime after. You were still standing by the old greenhouse-turned-morgue, watching Tommy collapse into Maria’s arms, his body shaking with the weight of what he’d survived.

And then—

The hoofbeats. The shuffle of footsteps. The drag of something heavy behind them.

You turned.

Jesse and Ellie rode in first. Dina followed, all their faces hollowed out by exhaustion and something far worse. Behind their horse trailed a shape wrapped in canvas, dark with frozen blood, limp in the snow.

Ellie’s eyes met yours.

Red-rimmed. Wide. Empty.

And you knew.

You knew.

Your legs gave out beneath you before the thought could fully form. The cold didn’t register. Only the scream that tore out of your throat—animal, guttural. You clawed at the snow, sobbing into the dirt and ice, your lungs heaving like they were trying to break through your ribs.

“No—no—no—!” It came out broken. Like you could undo it just by denying it hard enough.

Tommy grabbed you. Held you back. His own face soaked with tears.

You screamed again. You didn’t care who heard. Didn’t care that you were on your knees in the blood and the snow with your heart ripped open.

Maria stood nearby. Hands pressed to her mouth. Silent.

The bag didn’t move.

He was in there.

Joel.

You want to tear the canvas open. You want it to be a mistake. You want to see his face, alive. Cranky. Loving. Whole.

But you already know.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. How long your sobs echo off the ruined walls of Jackson. You only know this: he felt like home.

And now home is just… gone.

They carry him to the chapel. Ellie disappears inside, Dina trailing her silently. Jesse catches your eye and looks away.

You follow the corpse. Your legs move on their own. There’s nothing left to protect now, no fight to win. You’ve survived—but at what cost?

The snow keeps falling.

And somehow, the world keeps turning.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. No birdsong, no wind. Just the thick, suffocating kind of silence that wraps around your ribs and squeezes until it feels like you might shatter from the inside out. The kind of silence that doesn’t leave room for breath, or hope.

The makeshift morgue is colder than outside, colder than anything should ever be. Too sterile. Too still. Too many bodies of people you once smiled at in passing. A metal table stands at the corner of the room, and he’s there—Joel—lying beneath a white sheet that feels far too thin. Like if you peeled it back, he’d stir. Grumble about the draft. Ask where his jacket went.

But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t fucking move.

You sink to your knees beside the table. Wood floor biting into your bones, your hands trembling as they hover just above the edge of the sheet. Your throat burns like it’s been scraped raw from the inside out, but you haven’t said anything. Not really. Not yet.

Tommy sits down beside you, legs bent awkwardly, arms crossed over his chest like if he doesn’t hold himself together, he might fall apart right here with you.

“I don’t wanna say goodbye,” you choke out, voice so broken it barely sounds like yours. Your hands finally touch the edge of the table, and you grip it like a lifeline.

“I know,” Tommy murmurs. He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t try to fix it. Maybe because he knows there’s no fixing this.

You press your forehead against the cold edge of the metal, like maybe if you’re close enough, you’ll feel his warmth again. But there’s nothing. Only the chill of a world that kept turning without him in it.

“I needed him,” you whisper. The words break on your tongue like glass. “I still do. I need his voice—I need his arms. I need him to tell me this is all gonna be okay.”

A sob claws its way out of your chest, jagged and ugly. “He was supposed to be here.”

You think about the way he used to hold you—how his hands fit so easily around your waist, how he’d tug you close like the world outside didn’t exist. You think about his voice, low and rough, whispering “I got you, baby,” when the nightmares got bad. About the way he looked at you, like you were something worth protecting. Like you were home.

He was home.

And now he’s gone. And you’re nothing but a house with the roof torn off, standing in the rain.

“I don’t know how to be in a world that doesn’t have him in it,” you admit, tears falling freely now, soaking into your sleeves. “I was never scared of tomorrow when he was with me.”

Your head turns toward Tommy, eyes rimmed red. “How do I do this?”

He doesn’t answer. He just puts a hand over yours, squeezes it tight. It’s all he can give you, and you take it, even though it’s not the hand you want.

You close your eyes, breathing in like maybe you’ll catch some trace of him. Leather. Cedar. That soap he used when he tried to be fancy. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the dull antiseptic of this godforsaken room.

“I thought I knew grief,” you whisper. “But this… this is a whole new kind of broken.”

And it is. It’s grief with no bottom. No edges. No map. Like walking into a fog and never coming back out.

You reach up, finally, trembling fingers lifting the edge of the sheet.

You don’t pull it back.

You just press your palm over where you know his heart used to beat.

And you stay there, frozen in time, whispering his name like a prayer. Like if you say it enough, he might come back.

“Joel…”

He doesn’t.

And you know—no matter how many tomorrows come—you’ll miss him in every single one.

Because he wasn’t just the love of your life.

He was your life.

And now, all that’s left is the silence.

It’s three days later when Tommy finds you.

You haven’t spoken much since that day. Just shadows under your eyes and silence on your lips. People leave flowers near the mailbox. You go through the motions—eating when someone puts food in front of you, lying down when your legs give out—but you’re not really here.

You’re sitting on Joel’s porch when he approaches. Your knees are drawn to your chest, your hands wrapped in the sleeves of a jacket that still smells like him. It’s too big, and it doesn’t make you feel any less hollow.

Tommy stands in front of you for a moment, quiet.

Then he lowers himself to sit on the step beside you.

“I ain’t sure if now’s the right time,” he says, voice low. Rough. “But he… he asked me to give you somethin’. If…”

You look at him. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to. You both know how it ends.

Your heart stops. And then starts again, slower. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small envelope—folded and worn soft at the edges like it had been carried for a long time.

Your name is on it.

Your handwriting. Joel’s writing. It’s him. It's him.

Your fingers are shaking as you take it.

“I didn’t read it,” Tommy says, eyes on the horizon. “Didn’t wanna. Figured that was for you.”

Inside the envelope is a single piece of paper, folded once.

And a gold band.

Simple. Plain. No diamonds or carvings. Just a ring. One he probably bartered for quietly. One he probably kept in his pocket, maybe touched it when he thought about you. One he never got to give you.

Your vision blurs instantly.

The paper trembles in your hands as you unfold it. The ink is smudged in one corner—Joel had probably written it with those big hands, careful and slow. Trying to say something final in a way that didn’t feel like goodbye.

Your eyes find the first words.

Hey, baby.

If you’re reading this… then I’m not where I should be. I’m sorry.

God, I didn’t wanna write this. Been puttin’ it off for weeks. But the way this world is… well, you and I both know it don’t always give you time to say things out loud.

So I’m writin’ ‘em now.

First thing—I love you. You probably know that already. Hell, I’ve said it in a hundred different ways without ever sayin’ the words. In the way I hold you. The way I listen to you hum that song. The way I breathe easier when you’re near.

You gave me something I thought I didn’t deserve. Peace. A second chance. A home.

I hope I gave you the same.

Second thing—you’ll find a ring with this letter. Nothin’ fancy. I wanted to give it to you proper. Maybe on the porch. Maybe by the fire. Just… you and me. I had all these words planned. But none of ‘em matter now.

Just know this—I would’ve asked you to be mine. Not ‘cause I needed to prove anything. But because you already were. In every way that counts.

And I wanted the world to know.

I wanted to grow old with you. Wanted to find out what your hair looks like when it’s all grey. Wanted to kiss you goodnight a thousand more times.

I wanted all of it.

But if I didn’t make it—if you’re readin’ this now—I need you to do something for me.

Live.

Please. Don’t let this break you.

You got too much light in you to burn out now.

So wear the ring, if it helps. Or don’t. Keep it in your pocket. Toss it in the river. It’s yours, either way.

You’ll always be mine.

Forever and then some,

Joel

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until Tommy places a hand on your back, steadying you as the weight of the words crushes you from the inside out.

The ring glints in your palm, catching the dying light of the day.

You bring it to your lips, kiss it once, then curl it into your fist and press it against your heart.

“I would’ve said yes,” you whisper into the air, broken and breathless. “I would’ve said yes a thousand times.”

And the wind moves through the trees like it’s carrying the words to him—wherever he is.

Because love like that doesn’t die.

It just waits.

It lingers in the quiet. In the echo of footsteps that aren’t his. In the smell of cedar and leather that still clings to the collar of his coat. It stays tucked in the corners of every room he touched, every breath he took beside you.

You will mourn him forever. You will miss him every minute.

Your hands will grow old holding a photograph of the two of you—sunlight on your faces, his arm around your shoulders like he always meant to keep you safe. Your bones will ache with the shape of him, your soul carved hollow where he used to be.

And when your time comes, when the world fades soft and slow at the edges, you’ll go with his name dancing on your lips. A whisper. A promise.

Because some loves aren’t meant to end.

Only to be found again.

386 notes · View notes

stevieschrodinger · 3 days ago

Text

Part One Twelve

“There’s been a lot of attention around this album, a lot of Corroded Coffin fans aren’t happy. How would you respond to the fans that are calling you a sell out?”

Jesus fucking Christ, Eddie thinks to himself. And these are the questions after Chrissy vetted them. Well, at least that means Chrissy thinks he can handle it. He wishes to fucking god he’d had chance to look them over before this shit show of an interview though. Eddie used to be good at this. He used to be confident.

He straightens in his chair, “well, considering all profits from the record sales are going to a very good cause,” Eddie starts slowly, growing more sure of where he’s going, “...I think those fans aren’t the kind of fans I want, anyway.”

“A lot of the backlash is centered around some of the artists you’ve chosen to work with, what would you say to the fans claiming you’ve gone ‘mainstream’?”

Eddie clears his throat, sipping from his water bottle, “I think Corroded Coffin have fifteen platinum selling records, and almost all of them are platinum eight or more times over. We are mainstream.”

Behind the lights, Eddie can see Chrissy. He watches her cover her mouth, hiding a laugh.

“Would you say the inspiration for this record comes solely from your own struggles with addiction?”

Eddie’s half an inch from pitching a fit. But, still, if Chrissy thinks this is okay then...he takes a breath. It’s for the album, he tells himself. Publicity means sales.

Sales will help people.

“Some of the things I experienced, sure. The addiction. The rehab. The people who were there for me,” Eddie shrugs, trying to be nonchalant about this.

“When it comes to people who helped you, you’re talking specifically about Boy Scout, right? Probably the most intimate track on the album?”

Eddie grits his teeth a little, “right.”

“Would you tell us who it’s about? There’s been plenty of speculation.” Behind the reporter, Chrissy looks fucking pissed. Some dude with a clip board and an ear piece is actually having to get in her way. It makes Eddie feel a little better.

“No.”

“So your relationship with this person-” Yup. Chrissy did not okay this and she is angry.

“Ask me about the album or we’re done.”

There’s a beat, the reporter interviewer woman looks like she’s just swallowed something sour, but she does move on.

“It’s fine- it’s...it’s fine.” Eddie feels like his insides have been scooped out. He really just doesn’t have the energy. He really fucking wants a drink. It takes a beat, but, no, no he doesn’t want a drink at all, not really. Not once he lets himself take a step back from it.

To calm down.

To think.

To shuffle all the other Eddie’s back off the stage and into the audience where they belong.

He thinks about what he really wants, and he’s pretty sure Eddie of two years ago would be disgusted with him; he wants to eat a bowl of chocolate ice cream in a hot bath and then go to bed.

“Still, sorry, she was absolutely not supposed to go off the list like that.”

“What was on the list was pretty tough,” Eddie cracks an eye, looking across at Chrissy, his head rocking against the leather of the seat with the motion of the car.

She smiles cheekily, “knew you could handle it though.”

“Uh hu,” Eddie lets his eyes close.

“I spoke to him. To Steve.”

Eddie nearly snaps a string with how badly he fumbles his guitar. He’s not prepared really, for the emotions that well up. Still going strong, apparently. Still pining away, even after...it’s been a long time. “What, err, what did he say?” Eddie doesn’t even bother to try and hide what he’s feeling. There was a time when he would have played it cool, or tried too, at least. Not now. “He’s not mad is he? About the song?”

“No, Eds, he’s not mad. He said he really likes it. It’s got a good beat for jogging, or something.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, can’t help it. Obviously Steve uses his music to exercise. Fucking disgusting, is what that is, “gross.” But then Eddie feels a little giddy; Steve likes the song Eddie wrote for him.

“He saw the interview Eddie, that’s why he was calling. Kind of.”

“Right..?”

“He said I can give you his number, if you want it?”

“He didn't...you didn’t just give him mine?”

“I offered, he said it had to be this way around. He said it needs to be up to you.”

“Right,” Eddie starts fiddling with his guitar again, just quiet, soft, “so that sounds like he’s not going to say no right? I mean he wouldn’t do that, just to say no-”

“Eddie.”

“No. Right. You’re right. Yeah.”

Eddie had spent an hour pacing around thinking about it. Not that he wasn’t sure or anything, just that he couldn’t quite...bring himself to press the call button. Like, what if Steve was on board and Eddie just, immediately somehow fucked it up? Or what if Steve didn’t answer? Eddie was definitely not prepared to leave an embarrassing voicemail. It was just...it felt big. It felt like one of the most important things he’d ever done.

So Eddie sent a text that said, ‘coffee?’ and then shoved his phone under a cushion and sulked about it for twenty minutes.

And then he went and got his phone because, you know, Steve might have answered.

He had answered.

It said, ‘yes if this is Eddie?’

Because Eddie hadn’t, actually, included any identifying information with his text message. Which. Smart. But Steve said ‘Yes if this is Eddie,’ so unless there’s a completely different Eddie in the picture, it felt kind of hopeful.

And Eddie must have done okay. Because now he’s here. Steve. Standing in Eddie’s kitchen, making himself right at home, using Eddie’s coffee machine, telling Eddie how good he looks.

And Eddie guesses, he has kind of upped his game when it comes to basic personal hygiene, and he has gained ten pounds, and he got the worst tattoo covered up. His clothes are actually neat and clean and he’s even had his hair cut a couple of times so, yeah.

Yeah. He probably does look better, in comparison to before.

“You look exactly the same.”

Steve smiles, handing Eddie his coffee, “this place looks good. Different.”

“Yeah, I,” Eddie looks around. Redecorating has been done for a while now, so Eddie’s used to how the place looks now, “I didn’t like it, how it was before. Wanted to make it kind of...cozier."

And the kitchen had been all harsh modern lines, before, and it is a little more homely now. Still stylish, Eddie’s not a monster. But yeah, not so harsh. The lounge no longer looks like it should be hosting Hugh Hefner’s entourage and the coffee table is no longer glass.

“Changed the bedroom a lot,” and he has. He’s even given into his Alpha a little, and his new, still huge, bed, is wedged into the corner of the room, perfect for nesting. Which is a thing Eddie does now, sometimes.

“Good, don’t think I could have dicked you down in that b movie horror set anyway.”

Eddie nearly chokes on his coffee because. Yeah. Lot to unpack there. Steve’s got that smile on his face, the one where he knows he’s scored a hit but definitely isn’t being smug about it. Eddie’s not going to rise to it, he isn’t. He’s going to completely ignore the implication that Steve would be...fucking Eddie. Because he isn’t. Eddie’s the Alpha here. He’s better than that now, so he ignores that part, “it wasn’t that bad. If you like red and black.”

“Uh hu.”

Steve slips his sneakers and socks off to stand on Eddie’s lawn. Which. Feels backward to Eddie but, he watches anyway. Tinkling along on his guitar, a little Dolly, for old times sake. Watches as Steve turns his face to the sun and takes a real big breath. He lets it out slowly, before coming back and sitting next to Eddie.

“So...how have you been?” It feels suddenly stilted to Eddie, like the time is a yawning chasm that might continue to keep them apart.

“Yeah. Quit working for the center. Probably over a year ago now.”

“Oh,” Eddie doesn’t really know what to do with that, but he’s concerned suddenly that it’s because of him, somehow, “thought you liked it there? Thought you, you know, helping people?”

“Yeah...yeah I did but...it kind of felt like it was time for a change. And...it didn’t feel right to me, any more, after you, heart wasn’t in it.”

“I- sorry,” Eddie says it anyway, even though he’s pretty sure he had no control over that whole thing.

“Worked out, I’ve been teaching yoga classes and doing some hours as a personal trainer, I’ve been doing some distance learning, it’s...it’s been really good for me, I think. I’ve got another course I want to do, then I just need to…figure some stuff out. I want to open my own yoga studio.”

And Eddie can absolutely see that for him, “that’s great Steve.”

“Yeah, just wish insurance companies and landlords would get the hint you know? Yikes-”

“I could pay-”

“No. No thank you. Don’t do that, Eddie.”

Steve’s looking right at him, and Eddie gets it, “right. No. Of course.”

There’s a moment of silence that could be in danger of becoming awkward, “so what have you been up to? Tell me about the tour?”

And then it isn’t.

They lie on the grass together for a while, the sun bright and almost too warm, really. Eddie knows he won’t last long out here, but because Steve is so clearly enjoying it, he holds on.

He’s like a big cat, stretched out in the sun, his shirt has ridden up enough so show off his flat tummy and Eddie’s pretty sure Steve’s eyes are shut so he stares at Steve’s treasure trail for a little bit.

Steve’s hot, so sue him.

Eddie can feel himself starting to sweat a little; his hair is probably going to do that gross thing where it goes sticky around the edges and frizzy in the middle.

He thinks about Steve washing his hair; Eddie tries not to hope it’ll happen again soon, and fails dismally.

It’s hard not to think about Steve back then; when Eddie was still being a fucking nightmare at every turn. The memories are precious, worn smooth because Eddie takes them out and looks at them every single day.

Not so much the last one though, well, maybe the kissing part.

“Why didn’t you say something? Before?”

Steve hums to show he’s listening.

“When I fucked up...you knew I was going to fuck up, but if you’d...said something. Explained why you said no...I might- I mean it’s not your fault that I did what I did...but…”

Steve sits up, resting back on his arms, hands flat on the grass. He sighs, opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it again. Thinking. “Okay...if I’d have told you what I thought would happen, that you’d relapse, what would you have said?”

What would Eddie have said? He probably would have just told Steve he was wrong, denied it all. But would that have changed anything? Maybe it would have? Eddie has no idea, not really. Maybe he would have stayed sober, just to prove Steve wrong, but even Eddie can admit just how highly fucking unlikely that is.

The silence is long enough that Steve speaks again, “I’ll take a guess, you would have said something like, ‘pfffft. I’m not going to get fucked up because you said no to me. Jesus Christ you’re not all that. You’re such a cunt, fuck off out of my house’.”

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs, rubbing his head. He can’t even really bring himself to look at Steve right now, “yeah, that...sounds like me. Sorry.”

Steve laughs, and Eddie doesn’t move, but he finds comfort when Steve's hand slides overtop of his on the grass, “and then...if you did go and get fucked up,” Steve says carefully, “it would have been my fault.”

“I mean...it wouldn’t have actually been your fault, like, at all.”

“But would you have blamed me?”

“Probably,” Eddie rolls his eyes, shakes his head, “it’s fucking annoying how good you are at this.”

They move to the couch as the sun starts to set and the air turns chilly. Eddie pours them both a drink; fruity bubbly stuff that Eddie uses as his go to every time he would have been reaching for a beer.

Steve sips it and calls it good.

They end up sitting scrunched up together at one end of the couch, thighs pressed together, Eddie leaning enough into Steve’s space that Steve ends up putting an arm around him.

Presses a kiss to the top of Eddie’s head.

Eddie feels it when Steve lingers, takes a deep breath, scenting Eddie’s hair. He pulls Eddie in tighter. Eddie lets his eyes slide shut and just...soaks it in. Steve’s strength. Steve’s...here. He’s actually here, right now, and they’re snuggling on Eddie’s couch and. It hits Eddie all at once that he never thought he’d have this. Never thought, not really, that Steve would ever come back.

He dreamed about it, sure. All the time, especially in his weaker moments.

Eddie nuzzles against Steve’s chest, there’s the scent of laundry detergent, and then the subtle scent of Steve, lingering underneath. Fresh and clean, outdoor warmth.

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

He feels Steve shrug, “then do your best not to.”

Eddie snorts, twisting further on the couch, pulling his legs up onto the cushions so he can really press into Steve. Steve turns easily, pulling up a leg, holding Eddie with both arms now, committing to the snuggle.

“So there is something that I could fuck up, is what we’re agreeing on?”

Steve’s playing with Eddie’s hair, just the ends, light and careful, “if you want there to be. I’d like that.”

Eddie nods, “so what is it?”

“Partners?” Steve suggests, vaguely.

“Urgh. No. Sounds like we’re solving a crime.”

Steve’s chest moves sharply under Eddie, a surprised laugh that makes no noise.

“Boyfriends?”

Eddie hides his grin, makes his voice sound put upon, “we’re not twelve.”

“Companions?”

“We’re also not ninety.”

“Uhm. Paramour?”

“Doesn’t that one mean that, like, one of us is married and is cheating, or something? I am not the other woman, Steve. Don’t demean me like that.”

There’s a minute, Eddie can almost hear Steve thinking, “other half?”

It’s corny. Kind of kitschy. But...it makes Eddie blush and hide his face a little. If you take that one literally, they’re two halves of a whole...thing. Steve and Eddie...yeah. He likes that. Likes the idea that they’re so joined that no matter which way you slice it, you get a little bit of Steve and a little bit of Eddie.

“Yeah. You can be my other half, I guess.”

“The better half, obviously.”

Eddie doesn’t even fight him on it.

“You could...you can stay. With me.”

Steve smiles over, slipping his coat on, “you propositioning me?”

“A little?”

Steve laughs, the stupid, caught off guard one that makes Eddie smile too, “not tonight, okay? There’s no rush, right?”

Eddie kind of wants to protest, a little, but Steve’s right. There’s no rush, not really. Just the simple fact that Eddie hasn’t had sex with another person in literal years at this point, and since it’s Steve, he’d really, really fucking like to put an end to that dry spell.

Repeatedly.

On every flat surface of the house.

“What, you want to get to know each other better first or something? Because my name is Edward Munson, I like virgin pina coladas, getting caught in the rain, and my favorite color is the shitty brown green color you’re trying to pass off as hazel-

“I know, I’ve heard the song.”

“God you’re such a prick.”

But Steve’s right, and Steve’s backing Eddie up against the hall wall and, there’s not that much difference in their height but Eddie still feels like he’s looking up at Steve. He’s distracted for a second by the feel of Steve tangling their fingers together, and then Steve’s kissing him.

#steddie #pre steddie #rock star eddie munson #drug abuse #alcohlism #eddie munson #stranger things #steve harrington #ficlet #chrissy cunningham #eddie and chrissy #alpha eddie munson #beta steve harrington

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