#anyway thank you thank you for this ask!!!!!

[cosmictheo]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘 | bob reynolds

(gif credits to @tomundsen )

—summary: it's the first time you're wearing your new suit as an official (new) avenger and bob is a little too excited about it. —pairing: bob reynolds x female!avenger!reader —word count: 7k (oops) —content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, p in v sex, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, some porn with some plot, fingering, he talks to you through it, really passionate sex, a lot, lot of body worship, praise kink goes brrr, sub!bob, bob just loves his powerful strong girl too much. confident and self-assured bob is so dear to me.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

“H–hey, here's your milk— woah,” Bob interrupted himself when he finally lifted his gaze from the floor so he could look at you. His eyes fell on your figure, roaming up and down shamelessly, scanning in wonder-struck silence at the way you looked in the new suit. 

You were in front of your full-length mirror, analyzing with squinted eyes the way the suit that had just arrived, restyled and upgraded, looked on you. All the details you had mentioned were fixed now.

It looked good on you, you thought. It fit your body like a second skin though. But the fabric was pretty much perfect, it was comfy and flexible, it was designed to match your abilities and fighting style, without excessively exposing you.

And you still had to put on the cape, a feature Valentina had insisted on adding to the final look, that way you would impose more respect and appear more intimidating, according to her.

Bob stood frozen at the entrance of your room, in his hands he was carrying cups of milkshake he had ordered not too long ago, one of them probably meant for you.

Even though you had told him many times that you didn't like to eat or drink before a mission, he did it anyway. He cared too much about you to not to. So every time he ordered himself something, he had to order something for you as well.

“Thank you, Bob,” you offered him a kind smile nonetheless in appreciation, turning your head so that you could face him. His countenance was all flushed red and the content of the cups swirled a bit with the tremor of his hands.

“Can you help me with the cape?” you then asked, watching him as he awkwardly set the cups down on the small coffee table in the center of your bedroom before making his way towards you with swift steps, as if you were the center of gravity of the entire universe, of his universe.

He couldn't control how his eyes drifted down from your face and swept along your back, drinking in every curve, every outline of your gorgeous, perfect figure, relishing in the way the tight black fabric clung to your body like a second skin. 

Bob's gaze traced a very slow scan across your lower back, through the shape of your hips, the curve of your ass, the complex of your thighs—

“Isn't it too much?” you wondered out loud, making him flinch. Your eyes were looking at him through the reflection of the mirror as Bob stumbled to set the cape where it supposed to be, hooking it onto your shoulders very carefully, with trembling fingers. 

You could catch a glimpse through the mirror of the way his eyes were glowing under the soft yellowish light of your room, you could see your own reflection within them, melting into all the darkness of his particularly dilated pupils. The darkness in his eyes surrounded you completely.

He finished settling the cape on your back and Bob took a couple of steps back from you, permitting himself to gaze at you in awe, his mouth falling half-open.

“You're— you look nice.” He responded to you, in a stammering but entirely truthful voice, nerves racing on his tongue as he pronounced one of the many compliments that were flooding his head as he ogled you with big eyes. “L–like, really nice.”

He nodded his head in a short frenzy, approving the words from himself. Then his eyes searched yours through the reflection of the mirror and he found himself swooning as you spun around to face him, your cape twirling in the air with the effortlessly graceful motion.

You raised an eyebrow as you saw how Bob held his hands out in front of him, fingers clasped together casually. He kept an innocent visage, though his cheeks were flushed, nervous eyes dropping to the ground as he saw you walking towards him in all your glory and beauty, like a goddess stepping down from the heavens. And you didn't have to coax him into surrendering to you, he already stood in the palm of your hand, wrapped around your pretty finger.

You flustered him so much it was silly. Every step you took stirred an earthquake inside him.

He was as yours as the sun is to the moon, as darkness is to light, as craving is to love.

His heart raced as you stood in front of him, gazing at him from all your power and majesty. And Bob knew he was long gone.

“Are you okay?” you asked him in a tone that conveyed raw concern, just as much as what your eyes shared with his in their familiar, heart-warming silent intimacy.

You had your head slightly tilted and your brow just barely furrowed in worry. You looked so beautiful, so cute, that you had him speechless for a few moments.

“Y–yes, I—” Bob stuttered, jerking his head gently, dismissing any sign of worry he might spark in you. “I'll s–see you after the mission—”

Immediately after that, he rushed to grab his beloved milkshake, flashed you a lopsided smile all crooked with nervousness and stormed out of your room, almost tripping over the box full of vinyls you had yet to organize on the shelves.

Shortly before he left, Bob turned once more to look at you, with that sheepish little grin curving his lips and you noticed how he struggled to hold his cup of milkshake now low in front of him, trying to cover up the prominent bulge that had grown painfully harder the more he watched you in that suit.

And then he just disappeared.

You stood in silence, dumbfounded, staring at your door with puzzled eyes and gaping mouth. Then you glanced down at yourself, searching around for something wrong, something that looked ugly maybe, something that would cause such an outburst in Bob. 

But there was absolutely nothing wrong with you. In fact, you looked perfect. 

When you came back from the mission, the first thing you looked for in the living room once you stepped out of the elevator was Bob, naturally, eyes flicking to the couch where he usually lay down to read or gaze at the cityscape.

Yelena and Bucky were talking animatedly beside you, exchanging a single knowing glance as they both caught a glimpse of disappointment surfacing on your face, still a little sweaty from all the physical exertion the mission had taken. It had not been difficult. The guys had especially relied on your skills to accomplish it successfully.

For that, you were a bit tired, your mind and body had given up a lot to the energy of your abilities. You were still buzzing. Adrenaline was throbbing in your veins. And normally when you were like this, you reached for Bob's comfort to anchor you back to earth.

Your cape fluttered behind you as you made your way towards the hallway to the bedrooms, looking defeated.

Yelena huffed a small chuckle at you, taking a sip of water from the glass Bucky had offered her, “I can't believe that less than thirty minutes ago you were at full power, levitating off the ground, with your eyes glowing and all, and now you go crawling back to your boyfriend like this.”

You just shrugged, offering them both a small tired smile before continuing to walk towards Bob's room, needing to see him and hug him. You didn't even care that you were still wearing your suit.

You stopped in front of the door and as you were raising your hand to knock on it, it swung open with a ‘wooshh!’, revealing a very distressed looking Bob. His hair was a bit messy, he was still wearing that black shirt that looked so good on him. He had changed his pants, though, now wearing a pair of gray sweatpants, hanging dangerously low around his hips.

He looked like a hot mess. In every good sense of the term.

“You're back,” he breathed out, as if he'd been holding his breath all this time in your absence, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he gulped loudly. His eyes took a quick journey across you and widened as he noticed you were still in your suit. He pulled them back, forcefully, painfully slow back up to your face.

You looked at him strangely, realizing how you were both still standing in his doorway. “Yeah... are you okay, Bob? I feel you... closed off.”

“Yeah, it's just— I didn't want to distract you— before the mission and all that,” he explained, sounding more like a cheap excuse.

“Distract me?” You raised a single eyebrow, repeating his own word, noticing perfectly how his gaze wandered to your chest for just a split of a second, but nonetheless, you managed to catch up with it. A hint of an amused smile tugged at the corners of your lips, leaning against the threshold of his door, and he closed his eyes tightly, ducking his head in shame, knowing full well that he had been caught. Nothing could ever get past you. Not when it came to him.

“Looks like you're the distracted one here, Bob.”

“I'm not—” he stammered, his hands raised to his flushed face, “S-sorry, I don't mean to be like like a wacked out pervert— I don't want you to think less of me. It's just a s-suit.”

The last part seemed to be speaking more to himself than to you, as he grunted it under his breath, verging on a scolding.

But it wasn't just a suit.

It was you.

Your body, your naughty smile, your gaze, your lips tinted with that deadly crimson red.

A couple of beads of sweat led a wet trail down your neck. Bob could smell the saltiness oozing off your sweaty skin, mixed with that exquisite scent of your perfume. He could hear your heart pounding, the throbbing pulse in your jugular vein. Demonstrating that you were real, that you were breathing, that you were right in front of him, dressed like that.

You were devastatingly beautiful. And he was completely at your mercy.

Your hand rose to his face, making him stop his babbling with himself and lift his gaze slowly. His cheek felt warm under your palm, you didn't know if it was because he was a blushing mess or because that was the effect that your touch brought upon his skin.

“It's okay to feel desire, Bob, there's nothing wrong with that,” you reassured him, lowering your tone to a softer, more sympathetic one. “It makes me feel good that you desire me, actually.”

That got a reaction out of him, his lips quivered, hesitating whether or not to speak, until eventually, he made up his mind, “It makes you feel good?”

You nodded your head, your smile morphing to one of a little more shyness, “I thought you didn't like the way I looked in my suit. Since you just ran off without saying anything, I thought that—”

Bob interrupted you right there, shaking his head repetitively. You felt his jaw and flesh move under the palm of your hand as he spoke.

“What? No,” he blurted, huffing air as if it were the most obvious subject in the world. Regret passed over the expression of his face and he uttered your name in that adoring, soft way he did, “You look perfect. It drives me crazy, h-honestly. I haven't been able to stop t-thinking about you. You look so beautiful it makes me want to—”

He forced himself to shut up, suddenly feeling his throat constrict and his face grow even more red. One of his hands ran through his hair anxiously, looking really tense.

“You want to what?” You urged him, your breath feeling warm against his face, your thumb caressed his cheekbone, making him shiver under your touch, “Say it, Bob.”

Bob looked into your eyes again, struggling to maintain eye contact, his hands trembled at his sides, so desperate to reach out to you, to touch you, to grasp you. To hold all of you.

“Make love to you” He mumbled against your lips just before you kissed him, breathing in his air and devouring his words, covenanting them as a mutual yearning. A promise.

Bob kissed you as if you were the air his lungs depended on to breathe, his lips moving with yours like an old habit, like second nature.

“Jump,” he urged you between kisses and shaky breaths, his hands finally being set loose to reach out to touch you and hold your waist.

And you immediately complied, bouncing up and wrapping your legs around his hips. He lifted you up and held you so effortlessly. Sometimes you forgot that this man was the strongest among all of you. The strongest on the planet, most likely.

Without ever stopping kissing you, Bob locked you tightly against him with one arm while the other one stretched out towards the door, closing it behind his back once he started to walk with you in his arms over to his bed. 

Both of his hands grasped your body at the bottom of your thighs, squeezing and cupping your warm flesh through the fabric of your suit.

Promptly you felt the bulge press against the underside of your thigh, so desperate for attention, for you.

Bob broke the kiss, the noise of your mouths slipping apart from each other swept across the interior of his room, so filthy and hot. He looked at you with half-closed eyes, gaze darkened by desire and raw adoration.

He was breathless and feeling so flustered and anxious he was trembling, you could sense it as he held you close against him.

“I-I'm sorry, I don't want you to feel pressured into anything. It—” he mumbled, closing his eyes in ecstasy as he felt your fingers sinking into his hair at the back of his skull, “It just... pops up. It's inevitable when it comes to you. You drive me crazy.”

He was referring to his erection, of course. His big erection. He was ashamed of it. Bob didn't want to appear desperate —although for you, he certainly was—; someone who was unable to control himself. He was striving for control.

“Just shut up and make love to me, Bob,” you murmured, pleaded, right against his lips, your tongue grazing across his bottom lip, pulled outward, his countenance turn into a pout. “I need you inside me, now. Please, baby”

“S-shit,” he hissed a lot of cursing under his trembling breath. He was buzzing, “I-I need you too.”

Bob kissed you one more time as he laid you down on his bed very gently, careful not to trip or get tangled up in your cape.

His lips traced a path of kisses across your face, down your chin, along your neck. Your body quivered as you felt his tongue run across your skin, wiping away a bead of sweat.

Your legs were still on either side of his hips, one of his hands was running up and down the outside of your thigh and the other was supporting his own weight on the side of your body.

You arched your back for him, grinding against his crotch. Bob groaned lightly into your skin at the friction.

“You drive me crazy— you don't know what you provoke in me,” he uttered, rasping out against the skin of your neck, like an unhinged man, blinded by lust and longing. “This fucking suit— shit. You look so good, so pretty for me. I need you so bad, baby. All the time.”

Rarely did Bob call you by pet names, but every one of those occasions elicited the exact same reaction out of you. Your gaze would darken and your eyes would squint. You didn't have to tell him anything at all. Your body spoke everything to him, calling out to him in silence, in complicity.

With you, the intimacy, the complicity spoke for itself above the silence.

He knew the power he had in you. He knew exactly how to use it.

“P-please... ah—” yet he still begged you, whimpering just from friction and touch alone, pulling his head out of your neck and bringing his face closer to yours. He kissed your lips once more, just as your legs squeezed tighter around his waist, pulling him closer to you and making him pant against your mouth. “I dreamt of your legs wrapped around my waist. Just like this...”

Even Bob couldn't fully recognize himself. He was in some kind of deep lust trance, everything was blurred, except for you. Just beneath him, your beautiful body squirming, flushed against his.

To think that not so long ago you had been out there, in your nice suit, in full super-heroine mode, helping and saving people. Protecting kids from the bad guys, fighting for them.

They all probably looked up to you with adoration, everyone would most likely be jealous of him if they knew how he had you now.

None of them could ever see you like this. Only in their dreams. 

“Only in their dreams,” a voice murmured at the back of his mind.

“Bobby...” You breathed out his name, pleading for mercy, for him to do something, anything at all. One of your hands was curled around his forearm at your side, squeezing it to attract his attention. Your fingertips absentmindedly traced the veins outlined against his skin trough his arm. You could feel his throbbing pulse on them. Desperate and hepless. Craving. 

“Let me taste you, baby, please” Bob cooed, his voice coming raspy and desperate out of his throat, “I need to taste you, yeah?”

“Y-yes, yes,” your mouth moved faster than your mind, gazing at him with eyes glazed over with lust. “W-wait, I have to take off my suit first, let me—”

Bob cut you off with a sloppy little kiss, pressing his forehead affectionately against yours, his nose nuzzling yours just before he pulled away, “I-I got it.”

He patted your thigh gently and you unwrapped your legs from his waist, following him with your gaze attentively as he settled over you carefully so that his fingers reached around your neck, in search of the zipper of the suit. When he found it, he began to pull it down, looking at you with ravenous eyes, blinking so slowly that it seemed like he wasn't blinking at all.

“Turn a little and lift your hips up, baby.” He said to you once the zipper trail was almost reaching your lower back. As he unzipped the bottom of it, you took off your top to help him, leaving your bare chest on full display for him. “That's it. God...”

Bob shakily exhaled air as he became aware that you weren't wearing any underwear at all, he had to be extremely careful not to tear the zipper into a thousand tiny pieces with the force he squeezed it, pulling it further below your hips.

“You don't wear anything under it? Should I be worried about this?”

His tone of voice was so confident and borderline playful that for a moment you felt like he was someone else entirely. He really wanted to look confident for you, he wanted to provide you that security and comfort. You were stripping naked for him, for God's sake. Bob had to make an extra effort to appear confident and self-assured.

“Just for you, baby,” you assured him, shifting your legs slightly just once to help him pull the suit off completely, tugging it delicately down your thighs. The distinctive noise of the zipper, which this time was reaching your ears like the most arousing noise on the planet, ceased at last, reaching its end.

“J-just for me,” Bob echoed, leaning into you again like a magnet to a gravity core. His lips latched onto your naked thigh, kissing the side considering the position you were lying on his bed now. His wet, leisurely kisses awakened shivers on your skin. He could smell how aroused you were. He practically could taste how wet your sex was. Thinking about it made his mouth water.

“So pretty, so beautiful, my God,” he babbled, his trail of kisses reaching your lower stomach, tickling you in a way that made you sigh. Bob looked up at you for just a moment, his pupils blown out with pleasure, “How could someone like me deserve something like this?”

It all seemed more like a conversation with himself, like if he was walking through a daydream.

Your hand came to rest on his face, cupping his cheek, and he leaned against your palm instantly, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Bobby, please,” you pleaded.

And he gave in immediately, kissing the palm of your hand, “You don't have to beg me for anything. You already have it.”

His kisses trailed back down your stomach and you arched your back so beautifully for him. When he pulled away from your hand, it fell to the side of you on the bed. You clenched in a trembling fist all the fabric of whatever you could catch hold of.

“Are you— are you sure about this?” he looked up to you for consent, his fingers soothingly caressing your thighs, hands pressing them to either side of his face and settling them on his shoulders. When he saw you nodding your head, too much overcome with lust, he brushed a kiss on the inside of your knee, attempting to get your full attention back, “I need words, baby.”

You hurried to answer, babbling, gazing down at him, kneeling so pretty in between your legs as if they were the gates to heaven, “Yes, Bob, baby, please.”

He kissed your other knee now and then licked his lips, hungrily.

“I want to see you fall apart under me,” his hot breath brushed against the skin of your inner thighs, spreading your legs a little wider with a delicate but assured grip. “You're soaking wet, baby,” he marveled, in awe watching your pussy dripping with his adored honeyed water, yet his voice sounded disappointed, “you're wasting my meal.”

The mere sight of how his eyes sparkled with adoration as he gazed at your pussy could have made you cum right there if you started to think about it too much. Bob looked at you as if you were the center of the universe, the entrance to paradise, the sun he orbited around. 

It all made sense when you were there. Your presence in the room shifted the whole gravity of his being. His everything was for you. He was all made for you.

All the sense he could possibly envision now was to devour your pussy as if it were his last meal. He devoured it like a starving man, like reaching an oasis in the most arid desert, drowning and sheltering into it.

The sloshing sounds that spread with each stroke of his tongue between your wet folds made you flush all over, throwing your head back against one of his pillows and squeezing your eyes tightly shut, muttering and moaning his name out like a prayer.

To Bob, that noise was the most beautiful melody he'd ever heard. He sucked particularly hard onto your slit, pushing his tongue just barely into your gushing hole, pulling a loud, raspy moan from your throat. Oh, that noise...

His name sounded like the utmost hopeless and religious chant out of your pretty mouth. At that moment he was loving his name, loving the way you moaned it and kept murmuring it, as if it was yours, holding it close to your heart.

Amidst all the acoustic thrill of raw passion, mingled with his own soft whimpers breathing out into your core, Bob could nearly hear the stars themselves just above his red, hot ears. 

Your cunt was pulsing all around the tip of his tongue and Bob sensed, tasted your heartbeat through it. 

To feel that close to you nearly made him cum right there in his sweatpants.

One of his hands unclasped your leg, crawling up through your skin, his digits drawing a smooth path up your stomach, through your ribcage, all the way to reach your chest, cupping one of your breasts with a possessive hold.

“Bob— uhh—” you croaked out his name, glancing down at him with half-closed eyes, searching for his gaze in desperation.

Your back curved into such a perfect arch, your body squirming up against him as you felt his tongue flick your clit, his fingertips gently caressing your nipple. The stimulation would soon knock you into fucking heaven.

“Yeah, baby,” he responded to your call, disconnecting his mouth just an inch from your pussy, feeling lust-drunk enough to hold your gaze. His whole mouth was drenched with you, the slickness glistening under the dim light of his bedroom. His other hand sneaked between your legs, just barely brushing your pulsating cunt, “I'm here, hm? I got you, angel.”

Angel. That one was new.

You looked as close as he could ever imagine to an angel; sprawled on his bed, your body, magnificent, perfect, damp with sweat and arousal, your gaze searching for his in longing. There, in the shadows, Bob saw the whitish gleam of your energy flashing through your orbs, your power lingering in the air, pulsating along with your heartbeat.

You were so powerful, so strong and marvelous.

And you were all his to break apart.

“Are you going to cum for me?” He asked right before passionately kissing your pussy, his fingertips teasing your clit as he plunged his tongue deep into you, knocking all the air out of your lungs. “I got you, I got you.”

Bob felt you clench impossibly tight all around the two fingers he had thrust into your warm, fluttering hole, barely pressing against the spongy walls of your insides. He sucked your clit just right, breathing your name against your hot flesh. That's what pushed you over the edge, making you cum, falling apart so devastatingly beautiful against his mouth.

He slurped and drank in everything you had to offer him, lapping at your cunt as if he was drowning and it was the oxygen he needed to keep afloat. 

He paused to gaze at you attentively as he made you cum, your whole body buzzing, squirming so beautifully under his touch that you resembled some ethereal, otherworldly sight.

His name rasped out of your throat, as if it were your own religion.

“There you go...” Bob cooed, his eyes hazy with adoration, licking his lips clean and kissing your twitching pussy once again. “So good to me. So good...”

His lips kissed a trail upwards, swiping his tongue occasionally across the scars and freckles that decorated your skin as a constellation that appealed to him to adore. Eventually, Bob reached your face, looking down at you with pure love and a glimpse of that gentle shyness of his natural mannerism.

“A-are you okay?”

Bob watched your soul slowly crawl back to the ground and to your body, right back to him, finally snapping out of your post-orgasm trance. He propped his weight against the bed on the side of your waist with one hand, his thumb brushing against your bare skin and he brought the other to your face, caressing your cheek reassuringly. 

Your response was your mouth seeking his to join in a deep, loving kiss. Bob closed his eyes, kissing you back, his hand cradling your face.

You could taste yourself through his lips and tongue. And that managed to turn you on even more. 

Wrapped in an adrenaline surge of lust pumping through your veins, you rolled both of you over on the bed, laying him underneath you now. 

It was nice that you had much more stamina and energy than a normal human. Although there, you didn't feel like a human at all.

You were animals driven by their own instincts.

Bob gasped against your lips, his eyes barely opening so he could visualize you on top of him now, grinding your ass down on his rock-hard erection as you sat so prettily on his lap.

“Shit,” he croaked out your name, his hands grabbing as much of you as they possibly could, sliding past the curve of your waist to your ass, pressing you harder down onto him in urging. “If you keep doing that— I-I'm going to—”

You stopped all movement of your body and sat perfectly motionless on his lap. Bob whined hoarsely in protest, but you didn't let him utter a word, your finger pressed against his lips, silencing him instantly.

“I want you to cum inside me, Bob.” You purred against his ear, your tongue lazily stroking his earlobe. He froze speechless, just staring at you flabbergasted, still delighting in the way you had said those filthy words, so softly and lovingly. He strained himself to keep strong and not burst into his boxers at your words alone. “Let me take your clothes off, okay? Can I see all of you, baby?”

“Yes, p-please, just take everything of me— it's all yours” he promised you, helping you take off that black t-shirt he knew you loved to see on him so much. Exactly why he had put it on that morning.

When his naked torso was fully exposed for you, you bent down to kiss his neck, his collarbone, his pecs, your tongue spent some extra time fondling his sensitive nipples and Bob's legs twitched under your thighs.

The light in the room flickered for a split second and you just grinned against his flushed skin.

“I-I'm sorry—” he apologized with his voice lowering sheepishly, embarrassed. Then he closed his eyes when you raised your head to hush him with a kiss that was more tender than anything, reassuring him in silence.

Then your lips specifically grazed the spot where his heart was, beating maniacally on the other side of his skin.

He was so perfect, effortlessly perfect.

Bob was the most powerful man on planet Earth and yet, he was crumbling beneath you, bowing to the mercy of your touch.

You might as well just tear his chest apart and take his heart, it was already lying open for you, so full of you.

It was yours to take, to hold, to shatter.

You took your time to strip off his gray sweatpants, kissing his thighs, his knees and his calves, gently tugging at the hem of the gray fabric until you eventually slid it off his body and tossed it on the floor, forgotten alongside your scandalous suit.

Bob stared at you with a blushing, timid face as you rose again up through his body, your fingers lightly fiddling with the hem of his boxers now, fully ruined by all the pre-cum he'd been spilling. And you lifted your gaze, searching for his, silently asking for his consent.

He nodded tremblingly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

With wobbly hands he helped you take off his boxers, lifting his hips so you could slide them down his body and toss them into the pile of clothes lying on the floor as well.

His cock sprung free and you looked at it in awe.He was so big, bigger than you had ever had before. It was long too, hard, powerful and desperate for you, just like him.

It's head was furiously red, throbbing and oozing pre-cum incessantly. You found it impossible not to bend down to his groin and swipe your tongue along his slit, scooping up every essence of him and savoring it delightfully. Your tongue lolled along the prominent vein that bulged all along his shaft.

Bob's eyes rolled back and in a blur of bliss, he had to struggle to guide a hand to your head, fingers brushing across your cheek to get your attention. You looked up at him with big, lustful eyes, swallowing everything you had slurped out of him. The taste was bittersweet, hot, familiar, like him.

“No— don't do— don't do that, p-please,” he begged for your mercy in a raspy, cracked, breathless voice. “Come here.”

His hand gripped yours as you took it and carefully, but hurriedly helped you to position yourself on top of him once again, his digits latched onto you your waist, holding you as you squatted just above his lap, straddling him.

You grabbed his cock and held it up against your pussy, the swollen tip slowly sliding in between your wet folds, pushing achingly slow through your entrance.

Both of you sighed at the contact. Wet, hot, shaky and desperate.

Slowly you began to sink down on his cock, hands pressed on his shoulders, clenching them more and more with every inch he pushed inside you. 

Bob whimpered shudderingly, choking back the deep, heavy moan that crawled up his throat. He could feel his whole body shivering, squinting his eyes as he leaned his sweaty forehead against your shoulder, struggling to steady his breathing. It was like his soul was slipping out of his body and merging with yours.

No one had ever been so close to his soul. And he didn't think anyone else would, either. No one did it like you. 

His veiny hands at your waist gripped your flesh, yet they never pressed you hard enough to push you lower any faster, no, he would wait for you so patiently, giving you the pause to accustom yourself to his size.

“You do it so— so good.” Bob praised hoarsely into your shoulder, his wet lips grazing across your skin, drooling all over you, “you take it so good, you take me so good. There's n-no one like you— no one.”

Heavenly, him pressing against you, his lips laying softly upon your neck, marking you on the outside and inside, his mouth felt like heaven, his kisses falling upon you like stars, shaping a constellation of raw adoration. 

Your pussy fluttered around him, squishing him deeper inside. 

One of his hands wandered down to your back, fingers tracing your spine reassuringly. He just took the time to reassure you amidst all the blissful trance of pleasure you made him feel.

“Just a little more, baby,” he murmured, his hand caressing your ass appreciatively. Your warm, spongy walls clamped down tight around his cock and Bob's voice cracked. “Oh— S-shit—”

You moaned so loudly against his forehead that your whole spine seemed to twitch, finally feeling your ass pressed down on his lap. He was so deep that you easily thought his tip was almost reaching all into your guts now. 

“You're so deep, Bob” You whined, just barely pulling away from him so you could look at him. His eyes were already locked on yours and you caught a glimpse of that golden sparkle flashing through them, his irises glowing like two suns in the twilight. “Bobby—”

Your words struck him to the core and his eyes flashed golden once again, utterly starting to lose control. 

“I'm here,” he hissed, panting your name breathlessly, his hands caressed your skin, scoring his imprint on it. He kissed you sloppily, “I got you, I always got you.”

As you began to move on top of him, Bob suddenly felt like he was in heaven. He could no longer envision a life where he didn't feel this way, where he didn't feel you. He shall be yours in every life.

He dropped back on the bed as your hand pushed against his chest, bending down with him and bouncing your hips so lusciously against his that you actually could see his eyes filling with tears, looking up at you riding him in pure adoration. 

Bob whimpered your name endlessly, crying it out in a hoarse, broken voice, his hands squeezed your waist, your hips, your ass, anything they could possibly grope out of you.

“My God—” his eyes rolled back, arching his back as you delivered a particularly hard bounce down his cock, so deep that he saw the stars twinkle in the darkness right behind you. 

The constant filthy noise of flesh slapping against flesh soon merged with the pornographic acoustic medley of moans, shattered sighs, slurred whispers of names and nonsense words.

You kissed his lips lazily, then his nose, and his chin as you cooed, “You feel so good, baby.”

The bed was beginning to creak beneath the ruthless sway of your hips, ass bouncing up and down heavy against his thighs, so deep that every time you bottomed out you felt him in your throat. His heavy balls were pressed hard against your ass, throbbing, so ready to give you everything they had, to fill you up to the brim, as if it were his sole purpose in life. 

“You're perfect— perfect,” he croaked out so pathetically to you, thrusting his hips up to meet yours, plunging into you as if you were his nest, engulfing himself within your soft, warm, spongy walls, pressing against that squishy spot that knocked the breath right out of you.

He kissed your lips once more and in a fragment of a second Bob flipped you over on the bed, rutting into you so good that it made you gasp between kisses. 

Bob began to set the pace just as your legs wrapped around his hips, pressing him impossibly close to you.

“Right there?” he whispered, burying his head down on your chest, nuzzling your sternum. “You feel perfect— so tight, my God—”

He kept on praising you endlessly, kissing you, grasping you, breathing in the air you breathed out, sharing the same oxygen, the same time-space that existed between you, that little inches that belonged to both of you and no one else.

“You feel like heaven.”

That was enough for him to have you cumming again, in some way even more earth-shattering than the last orgasm. Your body started to wobble, your pussy squelching and clenching so tightly wrapped around his cock. 

The light voltage in the room lowered and raised, matching the racing beat of your heart.

Bob sensed the energy sparking off your body and blending with his own, merging and intertwining as one. 

After feeling that, after feeling you so close, so inhumanly close, beyond the physical plane, beyond anything he had ever felt in his life —it was euphoric, overwhelming—; he was cumming too, picking up the pace to reach the apex of his high. 

He buried himself in you to the hilt, sobbing out a ragged whimper as he leaned his forehead against yours. 

The atmosphere shifted and the light in the room flickered once again.

His load felt hot and thick inside you, coloring your insides with his color, spurting what resembled an ocean of him inside your womb. His hips jerked, his cock shooting out ropes and ropes of hot seed, marking you from the inside.

Bob remained motionless on top of you, panting up against your face, keeping his eyes closed, buried to the fucking hilt inside your overwhelmingly stuffed pussy, making sure nothing could spill out.  

And even though his body was drained and succumbing to post-orgasm limpness, he was careful not to collapse his full weight on you, supporting his hands on either side of your shoulders. 

Your arms wrapped around his neck, hugging him close to you, hands soothingly caressing his back. He sighed against your lips, slowly opening his eyes.

Until then you hadn't realized that the room was completely dark now. 

“I think we just blew out the voltage of the room.” You uttered after a comfortable silence, your throat felt scratchy and though you were still in the haze of the afterglow, your voice came out rather playful.

Bob glanced lazily away from you, finally noticing that there was, in fact, no light. He was grateful for that in a way, that way you couldn't see the blushing, tear-stained mess that was his face, snuggling it against your chest. 

“I'm s-sorry,” he stammered in his own raspy voice as well, embarrassed, as if he wasn't balls deep inside you, his seed gushing out of your pussy. “I think— I think it was me.”

“I think it was both of us.” You smiled lovesickly as you kissed his sweaty forehead, fingers tracing his shoulder blades. “Don't worry, we'll fix it. Just give me a few minutes.”

Bob placed a couple of kisses on your chest before he began to reluctantly push himself up, carefully pulling out of you. You both sighed lightly at the over-stimulation and the loss of connection. Although, even when he had already slipped his cock off you, you could still feel him inside, leaking out of your gaping pussy, trickling down your thighs.

Bob rushed off in search of a washcloth, stumbling over the pile of clothes you had tossed on the floor. The sound of his feet walking clumsily back to you made you grin.

Then he swiped the cloth in between your legs, very delicately, wiping you clean. The contact made you shiver from the sensibility.

And even through the shadows of the darkness, you could see him frown slightly, very much focused on taking care of you, sensing how the fabric of the cloth felt uncomfortable against your sensitive skin, “I'm sorry.”

“You apologize too much, baby” you tried to reassure him, already in need of him close to you again. “Come here.”

Bob instantly flopped down on the bed next to you, careful not to crush you, but with your arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him tight against you it was complicated.

In between hugs and caresses, he ended up being the little spoon, happy to be able to feel your chest pressing against his back, arms embracing his torso.

“Did I— I do okay?” he asked after a brief silence, anxious.

“You were perfect.” You assured him, tenderly kissing his shoulder.

“You too” Bob whispered back, grabbing one of your hands on his chest and bringing it to his mouth, planting soft kisses on your knuckles. The words raced up his throat even before he could think, “I love you.”

He let the words carry up into the silence of the darkness and held his breath, already considering that he had ruined everything.

“I love you too, Bob.”

If it hadn't been for you holding him, his limbs tangled with yours, and because well, you were there, Bob had jumped out of his bed in joy.

But, because you were there, he stayed still, perfectly still, and smiled, utterly in love, savoring the way you had said the three words to him.

You were closing your eyes, drifting off in exhaustion when, through your super-hearing you heard steps approaching through the hallway, of more than a pair of feet, mixing with the voices of your teammates.

“What could have happened?” You heard Ava's voice ask, her tone hovering somewhere between worried and annoyed.

Yelena sighed. “I don't know. Some power failure?”

“A power failure in the whole city?” John remarked, as snarky as usual.

Your eyes opened wide and Bob halted his cute kisses on your hand, turning his head so he could look at you like a deer dazzled by lights.

[genshin-impact-updates]

Happy Birthday, Gorou!

I thought it over and decided to wait for you on the bridge. This way, we can talk a little in private before you reach the campsite.

Word of your heroic deeds in Natlan has already spread — everyone's eager to hear how you overcame the odds. Would you mind telling me how you pulled it off?

—Ah, wait! That's something the others will probably ask you too. If I bring it up now, won't that make our chat feel pointle—?

...Anyway, let's talk about something else first. The cherry blossoms falling around us... They're beautiful, aren't they?

Thanks to ごもさわ for the fantastic artwork!

[somanyideassolittletime]

crumbs.

Pairing: Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Summary: secret marriage just for shit and giggles. crack fic lowkey.

Warnings: language. insinuation to sex. mentions of cheating (not Jack). grammar inaccuracies as usual. have fun hahahaha idk why i write this.

Nobody ever pieced together the fact that both you and Jack are married to each other. Everyone, with the exception of Robby and Dana, that is. Everyone knows that Jack has a wife, whom he never refers to by name. Everyone also knows that you have a husband, who, to everyone’s convenience, is also referred to by you as your husband. 

It was common knowledge that you and Jack are close, eerily close to the point Whitaker once asked Jack if his wife knows you. One time, Langdon even asked Robby what’s going on in your house that you allowed yourself to be really close with Jack. 

Both of which were answered by “Not your business.” – In Robby’s case, he was right, though in Jack’s case, he was just messing with Whitaker.

Shen has a theory that Jack is cheating with his wife with you, and he got smacked by Ellis, saying, “What opposite sex can’t be friends now?” 

Javadi once asked you if Jack is your ‘Utah’, whom you can’t have but are attracted to. You laughed at her, saying, “I’m married” – to him. You should’ve said, but what importance is it anyway? 

When asked about her opinion – by Matteo, in one of their after-shift gossip sesh – Santos only answered with “Abbot? Yeah, no way that dude’s getting side chick. With her nonetheless” in front of Robby, who only scoffs, laughing nonetheless. 

It also doesn’t help with the fact that you two are damn professionals, never leaving any crumbs for others about your relationship with eachother – one time, the both of you had a big debate about patient care, making everyone who thinks both of you are married change their mind. 

(“See, if they’re married, you think Abbot would argue with her?” Mckay once said to whitaker. 

“It’s still weird they’re that close.”) 

It wasn’t like you two were overly secretive about it; if they were to just outwardly ask who it is you are married to, you would’ve answered them. But you know how kids are with their egos. You weren’t planning on making it a big secret anyway, but what started as a fun ‘private not secret’ thing became your source of entertainment. 

So when one of you accidentally leaves some crumbs, they eat them up like a starving wolf. 

| one

The first crumb started out with Jack’s car sweater, the one you insist on leaving in the car since he never outwardly says that he’s cold. It’s not like he planned on wearing the sweater that night, but it was so damn cold he started thanking you for leaving the sweater in his car on his way. 

“Didn't know you both went to the same school, man. Is that why you two are real close?” Shen commented to Jack as the latter peeled his sweater off his body and tossed it into his locker.

“What? Who?” Jack tried to be nonchalant in his response; if Shen were to find out, everyone would find out. Not that he minded, it was just so fun to see everyone trying to piece it together. 

“Y/n, man. Met her last week when she swung by my place,” 

“You met her last week?” Jack questioned him. Though he did remember you saying you’re going to Shen’s to drop something.

“Yeah, I was borrowing her speaker. Mine's busted. Told me that she rarely uses it now.” Shen sipped his iced coffee when a voice joined in behind.

“Whose stuff are you taking again now?” Ellis chimes in between the two men while opening up her locker and putting her stuff inside.

“Y/n. And no, I didn't take it, she kindly gave it to me – or I borrowed it – from her since she told me she never used it anymore.” Shen rolls his eyes, indulging in Ellis's antics nonetheless.

“ah yeah, is she coming today?” Yeah like he didn't just kiss her goodbye before going to work.

“Nah, man, it's her day off. Look, Abbot, you know I have like utmost respect for you, right?” Now this is getting fun.

Jack nodded slowly, unsure, and replied, “what do you mean?”

“Both of you always had like this weird connection, like mad weird. But don’t you think it’s bordering… I dunno like weird?” Ellis explained to him like it was a conspiracy theory they are unraveling.

“Yeah, I lost you,” Jack said. Shen sighed loudly, “You’re married, she’s married, y’know? Boundaries, man, boundaries.” 

“I’ll have you know my boundaries with my wife are perfectly intact,” Jack tried to say it as calmly as possible, but he bit his cheek in order to keep his smirk contained. 

“Okay, whatever.-” Shen sipped his coffee Jack was sure he needed to physically hold back from swatting it from his hand. “-just, respect, man, respect” 

Jack raised his eyebrow. “is there something I don’t know ?” Ellis cut to the chase, asking Shen. 

“y/n wear his sweater,” Ellis gasped, Jack mock offense. “What the hell?”

“You said it like only one exist, you can go to the nearest goodwill and find that shit man.” now Jack and you had promised not to lie if anyone were to ask, but he technically did not lie right now. 

“Oh the college one? Yeah, almost everyone who go there has one.” Ellis shoved Shen for giving her – what she thought – was misinformation. 

Jack huffed dramatically, rubbing his face (in a attempt to hide his grin) “thank you, finally some sense” 

“Nah, still gotta respect them boundaries, man,” Ellis shrugged. Shen still looked at him accusingly. 

“Y’know what? Why do I even listen to you guys? We got work to do, c’mon,” Jack said, clipping his badge to the side pocket of his pants.

Shen points his finger at him, walking away with Ellis “boundaries”. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he waved him off, before fishing his phone out of his pocket. 

|Jack : you know for someone who thinks this is fun, you keep giving them hints. 

|you : what now? 

|Jack : the damn car sweater. 

|you : Oh HAHA, you know if John just peeked out of his driveway, he would see I was driving your truck. 

|Jack : nah, he’s smart, but not that smart. 

|you : I have zero tolerance on my kid’s slander. How dare you????

|Jack : hon you can pick anyone and you choose him? C’mon now. 

He was called out before he can see your response, quickly he typed in. 

|Jack : i gotta go. Love you, don’t watch the new episode without me. 

|you: Hmmm hard bargain but love you too. 

| two 

The second crumbs were your fault. You were going to do some me time – and you always told Jack to get himself a good thermos for his coffee, he told you that he can always use yours, but when you pointed out to him that your bottles have bizarre colours, he gave in and gave you his card to, in his words, ‘surprise me’ before kissing your temple and walking you to the door – So your plan for the day was to get him a good thermos that can hold his coffee hot for at least his entire shift. 

How hard is it to get it right? Wrong. You’ve been to two target, one walmart, and one sporting store, only to find zilch. Okay, if Jack are okay with pastel yellow you could’ve gotten it in the first store. But you were looking for something more….him. So now here you are in an outdoor store looking for one freaking plain black thermos. 

Finally finding what you wanted to give to Jack, you were just taking it off the shelves when someone called out your name. 

“L/n? Fancy seeing you here.” You turned your head away to the voice, finding Jesse smiling at you. 

“Ugh, Jess, stop calling me that,” you groaned at him. “Habit, sorry-” he looked at the thermos in your hand, jutting his chin out to point at it, “-that’s a different vibe for you” 

You looked at the thermos in your hand, sheepishly, “ah yeah, wanted something neutral. You here alone?” you said, trying to change the topic from said bottle in your hand. 

He nodded, “Yeah, you in a hurry? I kinda need your input on a Jacket.” You shake your head, “nah, let’s see the jacket.” 

You should’ve been thankful that Jesse got himself on a different self-checkout, because if he were queuing behind you, he would’ve seen the card nameholder definitely not stating your name. But you put that encounter in the back of your mind until it was hinted at next time you met him.

It was a few hours into the shift when Jack took out his thermos at his station, sipping on it. Holy shit, it’s still hot. He thought. 

“Fancypants bottle you got over there,” Mckay pointed out at him. Catching the attention of nurses around – Jesse included. 

You heard McKay’s comment the first time, but decided that it’s probably just a chat, so you busied yourself. Looking over at him occasionally. 

“At least my coffee’s hot to keep me sane,” Jack commented to her, seeing the looks the nurses were giving him, he tried to pay no attention. 

Jesse approached him, “Actually, Abbot, can I see? I’ve been wanting to buy one” 

Jack nodded, handing his thermos to Jesse, who looked at the thermos way too thoroughly. He smirked to himself, “Didn’t peg you as someone who uses this,” he said, handing it back to Jack. 

 “Yeah, someone gave it to me. It’s cool, though. Still scorching hot.” 

Hearing that, Jesse looked over to you, who caught your eyes on him, and he raised his eyebrow suspiciously at you. You looked away too fast for someone innocent, and he smirked smugly at you. You shrugged at him, mouthing what? He laughed at that. 

“Why are you laughing, man?” McKay asked him. He shakes his head. “Nah, just reminded me of someone, I’ll put one on my wishlist though,” he said, the last part pointing at Jack’s thermos. 

Jack, who doesn’t understand what’s happening, over his damn bottle nonetheless, decides to continue focusing on the screen in front of him. 

It wasn’t until later that you realized why Jesse looked over at you when he called you “dr. someone.” fuck, he saw me buy that fucking thermos. You were going to talk back at him, but he was long gone. 

“Is it true? You gave him that bottle?” Ellis asked you as you were preparing to go home that day. 

You stopped your action, trying to stay cool. “What? Who?” – it has been a fun couple of years, shame it all go to waste because of a stupid thermos. 

“Jesse told me he saw you buy a bottle similar to one in Abbot’s hand” she explained, pointing at Jack, bag in his shoulder and the thermos in his hand. 

“So what? I gave Abbot a bottle and you act like it’s the end of the world” she looked at you incredulously, exasperated “dude, your husband, remember???” 

You laughed at her, “he won’t be mad. Gotta go bye” you said quickly, jogging over to the exit door. Still holding a grin. 

| three

The third crumb was a joint fault. It was because of a damn phone call. It’s not way too early in the morning, but it was one of those hours when it’s suspicious to be spending it together. 

Both of you just woke up, still trying to fight the sleep from your eyes with a cup of coffee in the silence of the kitchen, when the phone rang from the bedroom. 

Without a second thought, you stand up and walk to the room, looking at the caller. Langdon. You groaned, accepting the call. 

“Frank, I swear-” You looked over the nightstand. Huh, that’s my phone there. Langdon’s voice cuts through your thoughts. “y/n?” you stilled. Shit. That’s my phone. This is Jack’s phone. 

You ran through the house, over to the kitchen, ignoring Jack’s confused face, before shoving the phone to his ear. You mouthed to him. Langdon. 

“Abbot. What’s wrong?” his voice gruff, almost annoyed. He looked over to you before listening to what Langdon was asking him. Why are you giving this to me? 

You mouthed back at him. Not my phone. He smirked, holding back a laugh before explaining to Langdon what he needed. 

You decided to go back to the bedroom to get the right phone. You scrolled over the notifications, mindlessly walking back to the kitchen. 

When you get back to Jack’s side, Langdon’s voice is muffled, but you can still hear it from where you’re standing. 

“Is that Y/n before?” he asked Jack, who elbowed your side gently before putting his arm around your waist. 

“What? Who? It’s my day off today. Just let me turn my fucking phone off.” 

“Oh shit. It is-.” Jack disconnected the call as soon as possible. 

He turned over slightly, facing you, laughing. “Remind me again why we still play this stupid game?” 

You stepped closer between his thighs, he leaned his head into your stomach, “because it’s fun-” you said, putting your hand in his curls. “-and god knows we need some fun things to do.” 

He slipped his hands under your shirt, needing the skin contact. You put your hands under his jaw, tilting his head slightly before meeting his lips in a fleeting kiss. 

“Jack, you know I love you, but your hand’s freezing,” you said to him, taking his hands in yours, removing them from your skin. 

He huffed, “You know your kid’s theorizing that I cheat on my wife with you, right?” 

You laughed wholeheartedly, knowing who he meant. “Oh my god, did we just adopt Shen?” he nodded. “Sounds about right.” 

You reached for your coffee before entertaining Jack’s earlier admission. “Matteo told me that Santos said you can’t bag me.” smiling into your mug. 

“Huh. last night’s my only argument” 

You gave him a serious look, “do you think we should tell everyone? 5 years enough for secrets don’t you think?” 

“Love, can i be honest?” you nodded at him, urging him to continue. “I kinda find it fun.” 

You rolled your eyes, “fuck I thought you wanna say somethin” 

“Whoa you kiss your husband with that mouth?” he teased. You shoved him gently before walking away “yeah, my husband ain’t getting a kiss today” 

You couldn’t see him feigning mock hurt, “wait you serious?-” 

“Hon?” you laughed at him back in the bedroom, hearing shuffled footsteps. 

|four 

The fourth crumbs was not a crumb, its a damn cookie being dropped, aka Jack finally tell everyone the depth of your relationship. 

It wasn’t even the worst shift both of you have experienced; it was fairly mild, to quote Shen’s words. But the med student currently on his ED rotation is getting on his nerves with how much he hovers over you. 

“Dr. l/n can I join you?”

“Dr. l/n can you teach me?” 

“Oh I can help you” 

And the worst of it all? Was him asking you, his wife, “dr. l/n, you’re working nights, is your husband treating you right?” 

You handled him like a champ, it’s not your first rodeo after all, so you gently put a hand on his shoulder, “trust me, if that’s what you're asking after joining me on multiple cases, you should reconsider being a doctor. Now take 20, heard there’s some food in the break room.” 

Ellis, the angel that she is, called out to him to join her in the break room, where Shen and Jack – on your insistence to take a break – are eating pastries. 

“What’s he doing here? y/n’s wearing you down, kid?” Shen commented, earning a shake of the head from said kid. 

“She told me to take 20.” Shen whistled, “damn. 4 hours. Record breaker over here.” 

Ellis laughed, looking over at the kid who looked lost. “If y/n tells you to take 20 means either you’re overworking yourself or you piss her off.” 

The kid takes offense at Ellis’ words, “ I helped her. A lot. Not my fault she’s pissed at me.” 

“You literally ask her about her home life, kid.” Ellis shrugged, leaning over to take a plain croissant – knowing the last pain au chocolate is yours. 

“He what?” Shen looked at the kid with a raised eyebrow, waiting for Jack to say something. 

“It’s a fair question, I mean, why would she even be working nights when she should be at home with her husband, y’know?” he said that as if it was no big deal, hand reaching out to take the pain au chocolate. 

Shen and Jack instinctively swat his hand away. “Not that one,” both of them said at the same time. The new kid retracts his hand, scared, before reaching over to the cheese croissant. 

“Hey, Dr. Abbot-” he turns his head towards Jack, “you’re the closest one with her, right?” Jack nodded, still hadn’t said a word the entire time he’s been here. Shen stood up, walking over to Ellis, looking for two mugs, pouring coffee before passing one to Jack.  

“Do you think she’ll go for breakfast with me after the shift’s over?” 

Y’know what? I’m sick of this. “Why would you?” 

“Well, she’s hot-. And smart as hell. Doesn’t help that she’s-” he stopped his rambling when he saw you walking over to the break room. Jack has his back on the door, but he always knows you’re close – a freak superpower, Ellis once told him. 

“Should I say the q word so you guys aren’t bored or what?” you said as you entered the room. 

“Don’t you dare.” “If you can say it faster than my hands,” both Shen and Ellis said, making you laugh. You looked over Jack’s shoulder to see the hot coffee in front of him. 

Without thinking, you walked over, putting your hand on his shoulder, taking the mug in your hand before bringing the coffee to your mouth. Sighing in content. 

“That’s his coffee,” the new kid commented. It was nothing out of the ordinary for Shen and Ellis, both currently thinking about how to stir the pot. 

“I know?” you asked him, unsure what he was insinuating. “That’s dr. Abbot’s coffee. You just drank from his mug.” 

The pot need not be stirred. Ellis and Shen are already liking where this goes. 

“What? My wife can’t take my coffee? Go ahead, ask her for breakfast.” Jack said, his hand shooting up to his shoulder to hold your hand. 

While the kid was flabbergasted, Shen was the first one to speak up. “What the fuck? What about your wife?” Ellis slapped the back of his head. “She’s his wife, you idiot” 

You chuckled, leaning down to give Jack’s curls a peck. “Damn, you said it was fun?” Jack shrugged. “Eh, getting pretty tired.” 

The kid stood up, looking at you, “i’m sorry. I crossed a line. Hope you understand.” you offered him a hand, “no hard feelings, kid.” he shook your hand, walking away from the room hurriedly. 

Shen was still lost, and Ellis already had an inkling but never voiced it out – she once saw both of you making out in a bar watching a Steelers game. 

“Any questions, John?” you looked over at Shen, ��since when? HR? Why? Who knows?” you laughed at him, sitting down beside Jack. 

“HR’s good, no power imbalance. why? Hmm I don’t know. Was fun, I guess-” you put your hand on Jack’s knee, “was before your time, but who officially knows is Robby and Dana. How long? Well, how long have we been together, Jack?” 

Jack chuckled “fuck if  I know, we both ain’t counting. But married for 5”  putting his hand on top of yours. 

“So when I told you about that sweater, it actually is yours? And Frank’s phone call was actually you? And that damn bottle rumors Jesse said was true?” 

“Do you need them to spell it out for you or what?” Ellis said to Shen. Jack leaned toward you, “told you your kid’s stupid.” You shoved his shoulder, still smiling. 

Ellis points at you. “Hey? What about me?” Shen smiles smugly at her. “I’m their kid. Take the L”

You reached over to Jack’s coffee again, smiling into the cup as you took a sip. Jack groaned “dude, we just outed your main gossip source, and that’s what you guys are concerned about?” 

“Oh no, we don’t care about you. About y/n though, so which one of us you love more?” Shen asked you. You laughed, giving Jack a peck on the cheek – his eyes fluttered, one Ellis catch. 

If this is what it entails when everyone knows of your relationship, Jack would’ve told everyone the moment you guys got married. 

“Not my fault, I’m lovable.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going. You both can pester her all you want.” Jack said as he stood up, squeezing your shoulder, looking over at the kids. 

“So, what are you nosy about?” 

[ilovejb]

| Offside |

Pairing : Aitana Bonmatí x female!reader

Summary : A nude photo from Aitana Bonmatí landed on your phone. Now, playing on the same team feels different.

Warnings : slow burn, mature but not really smut

authors note : around 6k

You weren’t expecting anything unusual after training.

It had been the usual grind — two hours of nonstop drills, ball control, pressing under pressure, and movement between lines. You had a slight ache in your calves, a stain of grass on your thigh, and a knot forming at the base of your spine from all the pivoting and cutting.

You’d shared the pitch and locker room with the likes of Cata, Patri, Ingrid, and, of course, Aitana Bonmatí — the legend. The midfield queen. The tactical brain in cleats. She was the type of player who made you raise your level just to survive in her orbit.

Your interactions with her had been limited. Professional. Respectful. Polite nods, sharp passes, the occasional murmured “nice ball” or “watch the press.” Nothing more.

That’s why when your phone buzzed — walking home with headphones in, still in your training gear — you barely glanced at the notification.

Unknown number. Image attachment.

You should’ve deleted it.

You should’ve ignored it, assumed it was spam.

But you tapped it anyway.

And then you stopped walking.

Because it wasn’t spam.

Your breath caught. The street sounds fell away. The photo glowed on your screen — skin, lines, ink. A nude. Intimate, artful, confident.

You knew those tattoos. You’d seen them in passing, glimpsed them in the showers, on the edge of her hip, down her ribs.

Aitana.

Your heart thundered. You stared at the image as if it might morph into someone else. Some trick of the light. Some bad joke.

But it didn’t. It stayed exactly as it was.

The muscles in your stomach clenched. A strange wave of heat swept over you, crawling up your neck, blooming in your ears.

You locked your phone and stood there for a long moment.

Your fingers hovered over the screen.

What were you supposed to do?

Pretend it never happened?

Text her and confess you saw it?

Ask… why?

Was it a mistake? A wrong number? An accidental send?

Or — and here’s what made your brain spiral — was it on purpose?

And then you made an even bolder decision.

You texted back.

You: I think this was meant for someone else…?

Seconds passed.

Then minutes.

You stared at the bubble, watching for a reply that didn’t come.

Finally, when you’d almost convinced yourself to delete it again and let it vanish from your memory, your phone buzzed.

Aitana: Oh my god. I’m so sorry.

You read it. And then read it again.

She knew. She knew you’d seen it. She knew it was her.

And she was texting back.

You hesitated, fingers hovering again. Then typed:

You: It’s fine. Really. I just… wasn’t expecting that.

Another pause.

Then:

Aitana: I didn’t mean to send it to you. It was supposed to go to someone else.

That hurt. More than you wanted to admit.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting her to say. That she’d been thinking about you? That she’d hit “send” on purpose?

Wishful thinking.

Still, there was something about the way she texted — careful. Uncertain. Like she was trying not to scare you away.

Your thumbs moved before your brain caught up.

You: Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.

She replied quickly this time.

Aitana: Thanks. I mean it.

You almost left it there.

But then you added one more message.

You: You looked… good. Really good.

Aitana didn’t reply.

Not that night.

But the next morning, something shifted.

You could feel it in training — the weight of her glance when you received the ball, the extra second she looked at you during rondos, the strange electricity that buzzed every time you stood too close.

Whatever this was… it wasn’t over.

You hadn’t expected anything to change, not really.

But from that morning on, it was different.

The pitch still looked the same. The drills hadn’t changed. The staff gave out the same tired instructions. But your skin felt more alert. More alive. Every movement felt watched — not by the coaches, but by her.

You caught her eyes more often than you should have. And when you did, she didn’t look away.

It wasn’t obvious. Not enough for teammates to catch on. But you knew the difference between indifference and awareness.

It wasn’t nothing.

After training, while you peeled off your shin guards and sat on the bench beside your locker, she passed by behind you. Close enough that her arm brushed your shoulder. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t flinch.

You didn’t either.

Then came the team flight that weekend — an away match in Valencia. You always hated these. The hours of prep, the packing, the weird hotel rooms with bad curtains and one working outlet. But this time, it felt charged.

She sat diagonally across from you on the team bus. Sunglasses on. Hoodie up. But you could feel her watching you from behind the lenses.

The match itself was a blur. A choppy 1–0 win. You got subbed on in the 70th minute, didn’t touch the ball much, but covered ground like your life depended on it. And Aitana? Aitana was her usual self — elegant, brutal, clever, always a step ahead.

After the game, the team celebrated quietly in the hotel lobby. Then slowly trickled into rooms, exhausted and sore.

You were halfway into your pajamas when your phone buzzed.

Aitana: Room 814. Don’t feel like sleeping yet.

You stared at it.

Not a question. Not an invitation, either. Just… a breadcrumb.

And you followed.

You found her sitting on the edge of her bed in a tank top and shorts, hair damp from a quick shower, a water bottle dangling from one hand.

She looked up when you entered. Said nothing.

So you closed the door and leaned against it, not moving.

A beat passed.

Then another.

“Hi,” she said finally, voice low.

“Hi.”

Her eyes dropped to your shirt — a Barça tee — then flicked back up to your face.

“I wasn’t expecting you to come.”

“Liar,” you said.

And she smiled.

The conversation that followed wasn’t what you expected.

It wasn’t charged. It wasn’t sexy. It wasn’t even particularly flirtatious.

It was… nervous.

She told you she hadn’t meant to send the photo. That it was stupid, careless. That she never did things like that.

You listened.

She told you she wasn’t seeing anyone. That she wasn’t out to most of the team. That she didn’t know what she was doing.

You told her it was okay.

You told her you weren’t looking for drama either. That you respected her. That you liked her, honestly, even before the photo.

That made her blush. Really blush.

“You did?”

You nodded.

“How could I not?” you said, smiling softly. “You’re kind of… impossible not to notice.”

She looked down. Fiddled with the cap of her water bottle.

And then she said, almost shyly, “I notice you too.”

The air in the room shifted.

It wasn’t sudden, but it was definite.

You moved first — slow, giving her time to stop you. When she didn’t, you crossed the floor and sat beside her on the bed.

Her shoulder barely brushed yours.

“Okay?” you asked.

She nodded.

And then your hand found hers.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just there.

She squeezed back.

And then she leaned into you, cheek against your shoulder, like she’d been waiting all day for the permission to rest.

You stayed like that until your backs ached and your eyes burned from yawning.

You didn’t kiss.

Not yet.

You just sat there, together, and let the moment stretch.

The next few days were a strange mix of normalcy and tension.

Training was the same — long, demanding, relentless. But every time your paths crossed, there was an extra awareness in the air. A subtle tension that hummed between you both, like static.

It wasn’t awkward, per se. It was… something else.

She was more present than usual, more attentive, but in a way that didn’t draw attention. A glance here. A fleeting touch of your arm during drills. The smallest of smiles that felt different from all the others.

You caught her looking at you more often than before. And when you met her gaze, she’d just… smile. Not nervously. Just knowing.

It was maddening, the way she made you feel so seen, even when she said nothing.

But you didn’t talk about it. Not yet.

You couldn’t.

The day after the away match in Valencia, you found yourself alone in the hotel lobby. It was early — too early for anyone else to be up — but you couldn’t sleep. You didn’t feel tired. Not really.

Aitana had already checked out, you noticed, but you weren’t surprised. She always had this quiet, steady energy, like she was always a few steps ahead of everyone. You liked that about her.

It was then that you heard footsteps behind you.

You turned, and there she was, appearing almost out of nowhere.

She was wearing the same hoodie from the bus ride, her hair still damp from the shower, but now she had a quiet air of self-assuredness that you hadn’t seen before. It was like she’d decided something, made up her mind.

“You’re awake early,” she said, standing just a bit too close.

You smiled, a little embarrassed. “Can’t sleep.”

“You’re thinking about last night, aren’t you?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “I…”

She was quiet for a second, eyes catching yours, soft but intense. “I think about it too,” she admitted.

There was no hiding it now. She was here. You were here. And the moment was ripe with possibilities.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

She shook her head. “I think we’ve said everything that needs to be said.”

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she reached out, brushing your cheek with the back of her hand. The softness of her touch made your breath catch.

“I know what I want now,” she said, voice steady but with an underlying vulnerability that made your pulse race.

You swallowed, your mind racing. “What do you want, Aitana?”

Her answer came in the form of a kiss — sudden, but gentle. A soft press of her lips against yours, testing, waiting for your response. And when you kissed her back, everything shifted.

The world seemed to fall away. The bustling hotel lobby. The pressure of training. The uncertainty that had been hanging in the air since that photo.

For those few seconds, there was only the quiet, consuming connection between you.

You pulled away first, but you didn’t go far. Your forehead rested against hers as you both caught your breath.

“I’ve wanted that,” she admitted quietly, almost like a confession.

“I thought it was just me,” you said, smiling softly.

She chuckled. “You’d be surprised.”

The kiss was just the beginning.

The next few days were a blur of mixed emotions, lingering touches, stolen glances, and conversations that felt like they were building toward something you couldn’t quite define.

But one thing was clear: this wasn’t just a fleeting moment. Neither of you were content with it being that.

It was hard to describe what exactly changed between you two.

It wasn’t the kind of change that drew attention. No public declarations. No sudden bursts of passion that left the team gossiping. It was more subtle. A quiet shift, like the calm before a storm.

During training, your connection was undeniable. Every pass you made felt charged, every glance lingered just a little longer than usual. She was always a step ahead, anticipating your movements, helping you when you needed it, and when the play would slow down, she would look at you with something more than just professionalism.

When the team gathered for post-training meetings, Aitana would often sit beside you, her arm brushing yours in casual moments, and every time it happened, you could feel your pulse racing. You’d glance over at her, only to find her already looking at you, the corner of her mouth turning up into a soft, secret smile.

It was the little things.

She’d send you texts late at night, messages that weren’t about soccer but just about how your day was. And you’d reply, maybe a bit too quickly, but the conversations felt easy. Natural.

And yet, despite all the moments that felt right, you were still both dancing around the elephant in the room.

There was no discussion about what this was. No label. No “are we seeing each other” conversation. It was as if you were both comfortable with the unspoken connection, but the silence felt like it could burst at any moment.

It was late one evening after training when the air in the locker room seemed to thicken. You had just finished stretching, the usual post-practice exhaustion settling into your bones. You were almost done packing your things when you felt her presence behind you.

Her voice was low but clear. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

You turned to face her. She was standing a little too close, eyes searching your face, waiting.

“Of course,” you said, swallowing slightly, your heart picking up speed.

She hesitated, taking a step forward as she closed the space between you. The whole room seemed to fall away as she looked at you, the usual buzz of the locker room and chatter from teammates fading into the background.

“I need to know if this is something we’re both just… letting happen,” Aitana said, her voice quieter now, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t heard before. “I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care. Like this doesn’t mean something to me.”

You blinked, unsure whether your heart was in your throat or in your stomach. You felt suddenly exposed, as if she had stripped away all the layers you’d carefully built around yourself. She was waiting. You could feel her gaze on you, waiting for you to make a choice.

You could feel the weight of the decision hanging in the air. Would you continue this — whatever this was — or was it just another passing moment?

“I don’t want to pretend either,” you finally said, your voice steady, but your heartbeat still racing. “It’s not just something… I want to be real too.”

The words hung between you for a second. And then she closed the distance completely, cupping your cheek with one hand. Her thumb brushed across your skin, her touch soft and hesitant, but you didn’t pull away.

She leaned in, lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “I’m glad you said that.”

The kiss that followed was unlike the one in the hotel. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t a spark of electricity. It was slow. Deliberate. A quiet promise that neither of you had spoken aloud but both understood.

When she pulled away, she didn’t go far. Her forehead rested against yours, breath mixing with yours in the still air of the locker room.

“We don’t have to tell anyone,” she murmured. “Not yet.”

You nodded, your hands finding their way to her waist. The thought of telling the team, of exposing this growing connection between you, made the edges of your mind feel blurry. There was no rush.

“I just want this to be ours,” you whispered back.

She smiled then, a real, full smile. And for the first time, you felt the weight of the world fall away, replaced by something lighter. Something… easier.

And it felt good.

Keeping things quiet wasn’t easy — especially not on a team like Barça.

Everyone was close. Too close. Teammates noticed everything: who lingered in the hallway too long, who sat next to who on flights, who shared extra looks in the locker room. You weren’t foolish enough to think no one had noticed the shift between you and Aitana.

But no one said anything.

And maybe that was part of the code. As long as you didn’t make it a problem, no one would call it one.

The moments you had together were short, but they meant everything. A quick glance across the pitch before kickoff. Her fingers brushing yours when passing a water bottle. Late-night texts that made your stomach flip. And once, after a particularly tough game, you’d both ended up in the gym late, saying you needed to stretch. The second the door closed behind you, she pushed you gently against the wall and kissed you until your knees gave out.

You didn’t say a word the entire time.

After, you both sat on the floor, backs against the wall, flushed and breathless, giggling like kids with a secret.

“Are we crazy?” you whispered.

She smiled and leaned her head against your shoulder. “Maybe.”

But you didn’t stop.

One afternoon after training, Aitana asked if you wanted to go to her place — not for anything, she promised, just to rest, maybe eat something, watch a movie. The team had a free evening and you hadn’t had time together outside hotel rooms and dark hallways.

You agreed. And maybe you should’ve known.

Her apartment was quiet. Minimal. A little cold, like she didn’t spend as much time there as she wanted to. But there were books on the shelves and a guitar leaning in the corner. The small personal details made you smile.

She handed you a hoodie — one of hers — and you pulled it on without thinking. It smelled like her. You caught her watching as you did it, her mouth curling slightly.

“You look better in it than I do,” she said.

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

But she walked closer. “I’m serious.”

You weren’t sure who moved first. You just knew that within seconds, her lips were on yours again, and it felt different this time — slower, deeper, filled with everything you hadn’t said out loud. You sank into it. Into her. Into the quiet space you were building together.

It didn’t go further than that — not yet — but it left you both breathless. Touch-starved. Wanting.

You sat curled up beside her afterward on her couch, her arm around your shoulders, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh. You watched a movie neither of you paid attention to.

At some point, she kissed the top of your head and whispered, “You don’t scare me.”

You looked up, confused. “What do you mean?”

She met your eyes, her gaze soft. “What I feel. With you. It’s not scary.”

And in that moment, all you could think was: Me neither.

But nothing could stay secret forever.

It started small. Mapi raised an eyebrow one day in the locker room when Aitana defended you during a tactics meeting a little too hard. Then Patri asked why you always sat together on the bus. You played it off. So did Aitana. But the team was beginning to notice.

One afternoon, during a water break at training, Ingrid leaned close to you and murmured, “Just so you know… we’re not blind.”

You almost choked on your drink. “What?”

She smiled, not unkindly. “You two. It’s cute. Just… be careful.”

You didn’t ask what she meant. You already knew.

You were two of the most visible players on one of the most dominant teams in the world. Anything personal could become public in seconds.

And still, you couldn’t stop.

It was supposed to stay simple. Private. Yours.

But everything changed after the Atlético match.

You’d both played brilliantly — connected on the field like you had a telepathic bond. Commentators mentioned it. Fans noticed it. There was even a clip going around online of a moment after your assist to her goal: the way she ran straight to you, the way your foreheads touched for a beat too long.

The team had won 3–0. Spirits were high. Everyone was buzzing.

But the moment you walked into the tunnel, your phone vibrated with a message from Aitana.

“Come to the hotel terrace. Alone.”

You didn’t hesitate.

The terrace was quiet, the city lights twinkling below. She was already there, standing by the railing, arms crossed, hair damp from her post-match shower. When she heard your footsteps, she turned — and you knew something was different.

“You saw the clip, right?” she asked.

You nodded.

She sighed, turning her gaze back toward the city. “They’re starting to talk.”

“The fans?” you asked, stepping beside her.

She nodded. “And the press. Maybe even the club.”

You leaned against the railing too, shoulder brushing hers. “Do you regret it?”

That got her to turn toward you again, her expression sharp. “No. Do you?”

You shook your head. “Never.”

She exhaled, something easing in her shoulders. “Then I don’t care.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve been sure about you since that night you texted me back. This… whatever it is, it’s the only thing that’s made sense to me in a long time.”

You didn’t answer — not with words. Instead, you reached for her hand, laced your fingers with hers.

That was answer enough.

You stayed careful, but the closeness between you was no longer deniable. The team didn’t say much, but the teasing increased. Alexia made a few jokes in passing. Lucy called you “the power couple” once during dinner. Even Pere had started giving you double glances during film sessions.

But it wasn’t mean. It wasn’t mocking. It was just… real now. And strangely, that made it easier.

For a while, everything was good.

Until it wasn’t.

It started with a leak.

A blurry photo. You and Aitana, on a bench near Ciutat Esportiva. She was leaning against you, head on your shoulder. It wasn’t scandalous. It wasn’t anything dramatic.

But the headline made it worse: Barça Stars Closer Than Ever — Romance Rumors Heat Up.

The comments flooded in. Some fans were supportive. Some weren’t. The media picked it up. The press asked questions. The club didn’t say anything, but there were whispers.

You and Aitana sat on her couch in silence, both staring at the same photo on your phones. You could feel her body tense beside you.

“I knew this could happen,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

She turned to you, eyes wide. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because this is my fault. I leaned in, I let it happen—”

She shook her head. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t make this something it’s not.”

You looked at her. “Then what is it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out and took your hand again, grounding you. “It’s us. And I won’t let anyone make me feel ashamed of that.”

Your throat tightened. She was so steady, so brave — and you wished you could be like that too.

“What if they try to split us up?” you asked quietly.

“They won’t,” she said, fierce and certain. “And even if they did, I wouldn’t let them.”

You nodded, but your stomach still felt heavy.

This wasn’t just a secret anymore. It was a spotlight.

And the light could burn.

The following days felt like walking a tightrope.

Training resumed, and so did the pressure — not just from the media, but from within yourself. You felt eyes everywhere. Every glance from a coach. Every hushed conversation you weren’t part of. Your mind twisted it all into suspicion.

You weren’t sure if it was real or if the anxiety was just that loud.

Aitana was calm on the outside, but you could tell it was getting to her too. The jokes from teammates slowed. The mood shifted slightly — not cold, but cautious. As if everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see what happened next.

You didn’t sleep well that week.

Neither did she.

One night, after a win in the league, the team went out for dinner. Spirits were high again. The energy was lighter. You sat next to Aitana at the far end of the table, your legs touching under the tablecloth, though no one could see.

She leaned over after dessert and whispered, “Come home with me tonight.”

You nodded.

It wasn’t a question.

Her apartment was warm. Dim. Quiet. You toed off your shoes, threw your jacket on the couch, and turned to find her already watching you from the hallway.

The way she looked at you — like the only person in the world who mattered — made your heart stutter.

Neither of you said a word.

She walked toward you slowly, deliberately, and you met her halfway. Her hands found your hips, your arms wrapped around her neck, and she kissed you like it was the first time.

But it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic.

It was everything you hadn’t been able to say.

She kissed you like she needed to make you believe you were safe. That you were wanted. That she wasn’t going anywhere.

You moved toward her bedroom without planning it. Her fingers trailed along your wrist, your shoulder, your waist. You fell onto the bed together, tangled in each other — breathing, pressing, touching.

You undressed slowly, helping each other out of your clothes like you were peeling back armor. Every inch of skin revealed was a confession. Every whispered word, every sigh, every shaky breath — a promise.

She explored you gently, learning every part of you like she was memorizing it. Your back arched, your hands gripped the sheets, and her mouth was everywhere — your throat, your chest, your stomach — until all you could do was feel.

And then you returned the favor. Not out of obligation, but because you wanted to. Needed to. You wanted to make her fall apart, just like she had done for you. You wanted her to know that whatever this was — whatever was growing between you — you weren’t running from it.

It wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just release.

It was care. Intimacy.

Afterward, you lay tangled in the sheets, your head on her chest, her fingers stroking your hair.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

But you didn’t need to.

The next morning, she made coffee. You wore her hoodie again, padding around her apartment barefoot while she scrolled through her phone.

“Bad news?” you asked.

“Not really.” She glanced up, eyes scanning your face. “They want me to do a press thing next week.”

You nodded. “You’ll be great.”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “They want to ask about… off-pitch things. Personal things.”

You froze. “You think they’ll bring this up?”

“Maybe not directly.” She set the phone down. “But they’ll circle around it.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your heart picked up.

“What are you going to say?”

She walked over, wrapping her arms around your waist. “Whatever I need to. I’m not ashamed.”

You nodded, burying your face in her shoulder. You wanted to be brave like her. But you also wanted to protect what you had. You weren’t ready to lose it.

Not now.

Not ever.

The press conference came faster than you expected.

You weren’t there, but you watched it live from the players’ lounge, nerves making your stomach twist. Aitana sat calmly at the podium, her hair tucked behind her ears, expression composed and unreadable. Journalists asked the usual — tactics, recent matches, Champions League hopes.

Then came the question.

“Some fans have noticed you seem especially close with a teammate this season. Would you care to comment on that?”

There was a pause.

You stopped breathing.

Aitana smiled — not wide, but sure. “I think chemistry on and off the pitch is important. If people see something between me and a teammate, that’s because we care about each other. We all do. That’s what makes this team strong.”

Smooth. Vague. Safe.

But her eyes flicked toward the camera in a way that felt deliberate — like she was looking right at you.

Your heart squeezed.

Later that day, when she walked into training, everyone gave her a wide berth. Not in a bad way — in a respectful way. Even Alexia clapped her on the shoulder and murmured, “Well said.”

She caught your eye across the locker room. You nodded.

You couldn’t stop smiling.

Still, being careful became second nature.

You timed your exits. Sat apart during team meals. Didn’t share rides anymore. You still trained the same, played the same, felt the same — but everything had an invisible layer now. Like you were constantly performing.

One evening, after a Champions League match, you snuck into the showers after everyone had left. Aitana was waiting, leaning against the wall like she belonged there. You didn’t say a word. Just kissed her. Hard.

Later, breathless and wet-haired, you stood wrapped in towels, your forehead pressed to hers.

“This is getting harder,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“We can’t keep hiding.”

“I know.”

“So what do we do?”

She looked at you — steady, unwavering. “We win. Together. And we keep loving each other. Quiet if we have to. Loud if we can.”

You exhaled, tension breaking like a wave.

That was the plan. Simple. Powerful.

And then came the final.

The Champions League. The biggest stage.

You and Aitana were both in the starting XI. The pressure was unlike anything you’d felt before — not just for the club, not just for the fans, but for each other.

You could feel her eyes on you during the anthem.

Her fingers brushed yours during the huddle.

You played the game of your life.

Assisted the opener. Ran until your lungs burned. Held your line when it mattered. And in the 86th minute, with the game tied and the world watching, Aitana received a pass, cut past two defenders, and scored the winning goal.

The stadium exploded.

You ran toward her without thinking. She met you halfway. Arms wrapped. Bodies crashed. And this time, it didn’t matter who saw.

Her forehead against yours.

Her voice in your ear: “We did it.”

That night, in the chaos of celebration, no one stopped you when you pulled her onto the balcony of the hotel. No one cared when you kissed her under the stars. No teammates interrupted. No fans peeked. No coaches questioned.

It was just you and her — alive, victorious, seen.

No more hiding.

The photo that broke the internet wasn’t blurry.

It wasn’t from a distance or taken in secret.

It was you and Aitana, arms around each other on the pitch, cheeks pressed together, laughing like idiots with confetti tangled in your hair. A kiss hadn’t been captured — but somehow, it didn’t need to be. The closeness was loud. Obvious. Undeniable.

By the next morning, it was everywhere.

The hashtags trended. The fan edits multiplied. Headlines called you “Barcelona’s new golden duo.” Commentators praised your chemistry, your impact, your connection.

And though some voices online remained cruel or suspicious, they were drowned out by the support. You’d expected backlash — feared it.

Instead, you found freedom.

For the first time in months, you held her hand on the way to the team bus. No one flinched. No one stared.

It was real now.

Out loud.

Back in Barcelona, life shifted.

You started staying at her place more often. She stocked your favorite snacks. You left your cleats by her door. You learned her morning moods and her nighttime silences. You shared playlists. You fought over laundry. You kissed in grocery store aisles when no one was looking.

It felt like normal.

Or as normal as it could be, when your faces were still plastered across sports blogs and post-match interviews.

Pere sat you both down one afternoon at the training ground. Not for punishment — just to talk.

“As long as you don’t let it affect your performance,” he said, “I don’t care who you’re dating.”

Aitana looked him straight in the eye. “It won’t.”

He nodded. “Good.”

And that was that.

Of course, it wasn’t perfect.

There were still rough days. Games lost. Articles speculated. A few opponents made comments on the field that turned your blood cold. You learned quickly how to shield her — how to step in when her jaw tightened and her hands balled into fists.

She did the same for you.

There was one evening when you came home, silent and shaken after an ugly match. You didn’t talk. You didn’t need to.

She just pulled you into bed, wrapped her arms around your waist, and let you cry into her shoulder.

Later, she whispered, “You don’t always have to be strong for me.”

“I want to,” you said hoarsely.

“Then let me be strong for you, too.”

That night, you made love without urgency. Without the rush of secrecy or the thrill of stolen time.

It was slow. Unspoken.

Her hands mapped every part of you again — not searching, but remembering. Your sighs were soft. Your bodies moved like puzzle pieces fitting together. And when you fell apart, it wasn’t with a cry or a moan — it was with a whispered name and a breathless laugh.

Afterward, you curled into her chest, fingers drawing circles on her ribs.

“I think I love you,” you said quietly.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t hesitate.

“I know,” she murmured. “I love you too.”

You thought it would feel scarier.

It didn’t.

It felt right.

Summer break came like a warm exhale.

After months of matches, media, and emotional tightropes, you found yourself waking late in Aitana’s bed, tangled in sheets and sunlight. Some mornings she made breakfast, wearing nothing but your oversized tee. Other days, you took walks around quiet Barcelona streets, disguised under caps and sunglasses — not to hide from the world, but to keep the peace you’d earned.

No more secrets. But still, something just yours.

One afternoon, she took you to her childhood home. Her mother welcomed you in with a smile that said everything without words. Aitana showed you old trophies, old photos — her room with books stacked against every wall. You lay on her bed, flipping through photo albums while she sat beside you, face pink with embarrassment.

“You were such a nerd,” you teased, pointing at a picture of her at ten, clutching a soccer ball and a science trophy.

“I am a nerd,” she replied, grinning. “You just like that about me.”

You kissed her shoulder. “Yeah. I really do.”

Pre-season came too fast.

Your bodies were sore again. Drills resumed. The weight of competition returned. But this time, it wasn’t heavy.

The team noticed a shift — not just in you two, but around you. The chemistry wasn’t forced. It was fluid. Passes that found each other’s feet without looking. Celebrations that ended in shared grins. Arguments that ended in trust.

There was a foundation now. Something unshakeable.

One evening after training, you sat on the rooftop of Aitana’s apartment, the city stretching out below you.

“You know,” she said, “a year ago I didn’t even know if I liked you.”

You snorted. “That’s fair. I was kind of a ghost.”

“You were intense,” she admitted. “Quiet. Hard to read.”

“And now?”

She turned, brushing hair from your face. “Now you’re the easiest part of my life.”

It hit you then — all of it. What had started as a slip of a photo. A mistake. A moment out of context.

And how it had slowly, carefully become the best thing that ever happened to you.

You thought about how close you’d come to ignoring it. To pretending nothing happened. To walking away instead of leaning in.

You thought about everything you would’ve missed.

You leaned back on your elbows, smiling softly.

“So what happens now?”

She shrugged, playful. “We play. We win. We annoy the hell out of our teammates with our gross couple energy.”

You laughed.

“And?”

She kissed you, slow and sure.

“And we keep loving each other. Loudly.”

The stars blinked above you. Barcelona hummed below.

And for the first time in a long time, you weren’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You were exactly where you were supposed to be.

With her.

Always with her.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Four

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, autistic breakdown on page, racing accidents (Las Vegas 2023), domestic fluff, slight (?) cliffhanger

Notes — Another longggg one! Hope you love it.

2023 (Las Vegas)

It was one of those overcast afternoons where the sky couldn’t decide if it wanted to rain or not. The light through the huge windows was grey and flat, and the air inside the rented house-slash-shoot-location had that odd, sterile warmth that came from too many camera batteries and ring lights and people trying to look casual for content.

The house itself was the kind of place you couldn’t quite imagine anyone actually living in — all clean lines, brushed steel, and exposed concrete. There were too many stairs. Too many echoey corners. And absolutely no soft lighting. It had been chosen for aesthetics, not comfort.

Amelia sat curled in the corner of the oversized leather sofa, knees tucked under her, one hand gripping her iPad, the other fidgeting absently with the drawstring of a hoodie that had somehow ended up in her lap. She hadn’t asked for it. Someone had draped it over her when she sat down, and now it was hers, apparently. That was fine. She liked the weight of it.

Her focus, however, was fixed entirely on her screen. The Vegas GP loomed ahead — a race full of unknowns, simulations stacked high with red flags and conditional parameters that changed every time she blinked. The track was new, the surface barely tested, the layout odd and inconsistent. Every variable gave her brain another reason to loop. And loop. And loop.

She was halfway through calculating braking loads based on preliminary corner speeds when Lando wandered past, all soft socks and too-long limbs, dragging one arm into a puffer jacket he wasn’t really planning to zip. He slowed when he saw her, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You gonna wear that for a photo?” He asked, nodding at the hoodie.

Amelia didn’t look up. “No.”

He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “You sure? You’d look cute.”

She blinked once, then met his eyes. “I’m not in the mood for cute. I’m calculating brake performance for a track we have literally never raced on before. There are so many variables. I’m stressed.”

Across the room, Max Fewtrell barked a laugh, his voice echoing faintly as he adjusted a light stand. “That’s the most Amelia sentence I’ve ever heard. Like, ever.”

Pietra, seated on the floor nearby in flared jeans and a cloud-soft crewneck, turned toward Amelia with a gentle smile. She had a scrunchie looped around her wrist and two bracelets Amelia had given her after a layover in Japan. “You can do both,” Pietra said warmly. “Be cute and stressed.”

Amelia looked at her, expression softening around the eyes. “Honestly, I just want to stay sat down.”

“Okay,” Pietra said, and leaned sideways to gently press her shoulder against Amelia’s. “Then we’ll sit. Together.”

Amelia didn’t say thank you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Lando reappeared a moment later with a bottle of water in one hand and a small protein bar in the other. He plopped onto the armrest beside her, knees brushing hers. His eyes flicked to the hoodie.

“You know that one’s technically mine.”

“I don’t care,” Amelia said without looking up.

He grinned. “I figured.” He nudged her ankle gently with his socked foot. “Still think it’d look better on you anyway.”

“That’s not difficult,” she replied, tugging the cuff of the hoodie over her hand. Then, after a pause, she added flatly, “That was a joke.”

Max dropped into a nearby chair, flinging one leg over the side with practiced drama. “Just one picture of you, Amelia? Come on, people would love it. Bit of behind-the-scenes. The fans adore when you’re in anything.”

Amelia didn’t even blink. “No thank you.”

Lando snorted into his water bottle. Pietra let out a warm laugh. “Stop bothering her, Max. Lando does enough of that.”

“Oi,” Lando said, mock-affronted. “Leave me out of this.”

“You’re both bothering me,” Amelia replied, perfectly even. “I’m trying to work. I already hate the Vegas track.”

He turned his full attention to her now, brows lifting. “Why? We haven’t even been yet.”

“Because it’s new!” she burst out, sharper than she meant to. The volume bounced off the walls. She winced immediately, ducking her head into her shoulder. Her voice dropped low, controlled. “Because it’s new and we haven’t raced it before and that means no past data to lean on. That means sim work based on theoretical grip levels. That means error margins get wider. And that means I have to prepare twice as hard with half as much certainty.”

There was a pause.

“...Fair enough,” Lando said gently.

“I hate guessing,” she mumbled.

“No one likes guessing,” Pietra offered.

Amelia gave a small nod. “I like control. I like knowing.”

Max opened his mouth like he was about to tease her, then caught the subtle tension in her shoulders and wisely shut it again.

Lando tapped the top of her tablet lightly with one finger. “Well. You’ll figure it out, baby. You always do.”

She glanced up at him. “Because it’s my job.”

“And because you’re brilliant.”

She didn’t respond, but the corner of her mouth ticked upward.

“Are you wearing that to dinner later?” Pietra asked, gesturing to the hoodie.

Amelia looked down at it, then back at her. “Yes. I don’t want to change. I’m comfortable.”

Pietra smiled. “Good. I’ll wear mine too. We’ll match.”

“Accidentally?”

“Deliberately.”

Amelia considered that. “Okay. But only if we sit near the window.”

Pietra beamed. “Done.”

Lando looked between them, then leaned back on his hands. “You’ve replaced me.”

Amelia didn’t even blink. “I only want to kiss you.”

He made a thoughtful face. “Alright. I’ll allow it.”

Max rolled his eyes. “You’re both so weird.”

“I’m autistic,” Amelia said plainly.

“You’re the weird one,” Pietra added to Max.

“Rude,” Max said.

Lando grinned. “You’re still in love with us.”

“Terrible.”

Outside, the sky finally made up its mind — light rain pattering against the windows in slow, scattered streaks.

Inside, Amelia tucked the hoodie tighter around her, legs still folded, checklist still glowing on the iPad in her lap. Her head leaned lightly against Pietra’s shoulder now, and Lando’s hand rested on her shin — grounding, present, always within reach.

They’d survive Vegas. They would.

Amelia exhaled through her nose. “I need a backup plan for the Sector 2 hairpin.”

“You’ll come up with one,” Lando said, completely sure.

And she would.

Because she always did.

—

The sim suite smelled faintly of coffee and carpet glue.

It was making Amelia feel violently ill.

It was well past nine in the evening, and the McLaren Technology Centre was mostly dark — lights dimmed, staff dispersed, and only the low hum of servers and quiet keystrokes from the strategy team still working in the next room. On the main screen, a full layout of the Las Vegas circuit was overlaid with predictive data. Telemetry lines in orange and blue flickered in real time, charting Oscar’s run.

Inside the sim rig, Oscar exhaled sharply and let the steering wheel go slack as the run ended.

“Turn ten still feels off,” he said, voice crackling slightly through the headset. “Rear snaps too easily on downshift. It’s like— I don’t know. It just unloads.”

Amelia stood beside the sim rig, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t look at Oscar as she replied. She was looking at the data instead. “We’re too aggressive with the engine braking into the apex,” she said. “You’re already on a mid-bite diff setting. I can pull back the torque map slightly — see if we can stabilise it.”

Oscar lifted his visor and blinked into the low lighting. “We tried that earlier though.”

“That was with a higher track temp sim,” one of the strategy engineers chimed in from his desk.

Amelia nodded. “This time we’re modelling it colder. Night session, cooler surface, lower grip. It’s a different profile now.”

Oscar gave her a skeptical look. “You think it’ll make the difference?”

“I don’t know,” she said flatly. “We run tests. And I wait for the results.”

He frowned at her. “You’re stressed.”

“I’m not stressed,” Amelia replied. “I’m tired. And annoyed. This track is stupid.”

The strategist behind her snorted into his water bottle. “That’s the technical term, is it?”

“Yes,” she said, deadpan. “Stupid.”

Oscar raised a hand in surrender. “Okay, okay. No argument from me.”

Amelia stepped forward and typed something into the control console. “I’ll load the next setup with the revised map and a minor front wing tweak. You’ll run sectors two and three only.”

Oscar nodded, settling back into the seat. “Short run. Got it.”

“Not just short,” Amelia added. “Precision. I want minimal steering corrections. No overcommitting. If we’re going to adjust setup for the race, I need to see your clean line.”

Behind her, Lando’s voice chimed in from the doorway, “someone’s feeling bossy tonight.”

Amelia didn’t turn around. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m just here to observe,” Lando said, stepping in with a smoothie and a faint smirk. “Oscar’s face is funny when he gets told off for oversteering.”

Oscar flipped him off without lifting his head.

Amelia keyed in the updated run. “I don’t care what his face does. I care about what the car does.”

Lando walked over, watching the screen over her shoulder. “What’s the target delta?”

“Half a second gain from his last run if the balance correction holds.”

Lando let out a low whistle. “Ambitious.”

“It’s not,” Amelia replied. “It’s necessary.”

There was a pause.

“You doing okay, baby?” He asked, a bit more gently now.

“I will be fine,” she said. “After Vegas is over and no one asks me to model tyre deg on untested tarmac again.”

Oscar cleared his throat from the rig. “Not to interrupt, but—uh—ready when you are.”

“Go ahead,” Amelia said, refocusing instantly. “Cold tyres, revised torque, short sector two and three run. Confirm.”

“Confirmed,” Oscar replied.

The sim kicked back into life. Virtual Vegas, all garish lights and overblown spectacle, unfurled across the screen. Oscar’s car dove into sector two with smoother transitions, noticeably fewer corrections in the corners.

“Better,” Amelia muttered, half to herself.

Oscar’s voice came through again. “Still doesn’t feel natural, but it’s drivable now.”

“We don’t need natural,” she said. “We need consistency.”

Oscar snorted. “You should get that put on a mug.”

“I did,” Lando added from behind her. Sarcastically. “It’s in our kitchen. Pink ceramic. Very cute.”

Amelia didn’t respond to that. She was too busy watching the data smooth out. Torque delivery flattened. Brake pressure stayed linear. The car made it through turn ten without any hint of snap.

Finally, she let out a breath. “Alright. That’s something we can build on.”

Oscar coasted to a stop in the sim. “You going to sleep tonight?”

“No,” Amelia said plainly. “I’m going to write a full report for Andrea and then run sector modelling for Sunday. Maybe tomorrow I’ll sleep.”

Lando moved closer, brushing his hand against hers lightly. “You’ll sleep. I’ll make sure of it.”

Amelia didn’t argue, but she didn’t confirm either.

Instead, she turned back to the engineers. “We’ll do a full load run tomorrow, weather sim in two parts. I’ll rework the wing config tonight.”

Oscar pulled off his gloves. “Do we ever do anything the easy way?”

“No,” Amelia said simply. “But if we want to win, we’re going to have to do it the hard way.”

Lando smiled at that. “Now that should go on a mug.”

—

The Woking flat was dark except for the glow of Amelia’s laptop screen and the soft blue hue of the night bleeding in through the curtains.

Lando had been asleep for the last hour. Or at least, he’d been pretending to be—chest rising slow and steady under the covers, one arm thrown across the pillow she’d vacated earlier. He hadn’t moved, even when she’d shifted to the desk by the window and started typing furiously with only a desk lamp and the stars for company.

She’d barely noticed how stiff her back had become. Her legs were tucked beneath her again, one sock half-rolled, posture twisted into something unnatural. Her fingers moved with focused speed, mapping Oscar’s sector performance against a projected tyre wear curve.

“Amelia,” Lando said, voice rough from sleep but still gentle. “Baby. Come back to bed.”

She didn’t look up. “I’m almost done.”

“You’ve been almost done for forty minutes.”

“That’s because I keep finding new things to optimise,” she replied, tapping a key with just a little too much force. “The grip model’s still off in sector three. I think the sim is overcompensating for the surface temp. If Oscar brakes, he’s going to overshoot.”

Lando sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. “You know you’re going to fix it all tomorrow anyway, right? It doesn’t all need to happen tonight.”

“It does,” she said immediately. “It does, because it’s unpredictable, and if I don’t account for everything now, I’ll be scrambling when I’m supposed to be thinking clearly. And I hate scrambling.”

He rolled out of bed with a sleepy grunt and crossed the room to her, quiet and barefoot on the plush carpet. When he reached her, he leaned against the edge of the desk, arms folded, watching her for a long moment. Not judging. Just… taking her in.

“You’re spiralling,” he said simply.

“No, I’m working.”

“Amelia.”

That one word, soft and firm and Lando-shaped, made her pause.

She didn’t meet his eyes, but her hands stilled over the keyboard. Her mouth was set in a thin line. Tired. Frustrated.

“I don’t know how to switch it off,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “Not when I know I haven’t solved the problem.”

“I know,” he said, and gently reached to brush a lock of hair from her cheek. “But right now the problem is that you’re running on fumes, and if you don’t rest, you’re not going to solve anything.”

“But—”

“You’ll still be brilliant in the morning. I promise.”

She swallowed, jaw tense. “I hate how much I care. I hate that it makes me feel—” She clenched one hand into a fist. “Like I’m chasing something I can never quite catch. Because there’s always something else to fix.”

“I know,” Lando said again. “But you’re allowed to rest without fixing everything first. That doesn’t make you less good at your job. It just makes you human, yeah?”

Amelia looked at him finally. Her eyes were glassy, but not tearful. Just full — with pressure, with effort, with the weight of wanting to be the best and feeling like she had to prove it constantly.

He reached down and took her hand in his.

“Come to bed,” he said gently. “I’ll lie awake with you if your brain won’t shut up. We can talk about strategy, or nothing at all. But I want you with me.”

Amelia hesitated. Then closed her laptop with a soft click.

“Okay,” she said, voice a little hollow from the sudden shift in momentum. “Okay, I’ll try.”

Lando squeezed her hand and led her back toward the bed. She climbed in beside him, limbs slow and uncertain, like she wasn’t sure how to be still. He wrapped an arm around her and pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder.

“You’re allowed to rest,” he whispered. “You’re allowed to exist outside of your job.”

She let out a long, shaky breath. “I know.”

“Say it like you believe it.”

“I’m allowed to rest,” she repeated, curling into him. “Even if I haven’t fixed everything.”

He smiled against her skin. “Good girl.”

Amelia relaxed by inches, not all at once, never that, but her breath began to slow, her hands stopped fidgeting, and the tension in her shoulders faded as his warmth soaked into her.

It was enough.

—

Amelia stirred slowly, the weight of Lando’s arm still draped across her waist, his breathing deep and even behind her.

Her brain came online before her eyes opened. The first thought was always a race.

Telemetry. Overnight sim data. Updated Vegas surface temps. Sector three.

She kept her eyes shut. Just for a moment longer.

Her hand reached, automatically, half-blind, toward the bedside table. She found her phone and lit the screen — brightness low, eyes squinting. There was a new email flagged from McLaren strategy. An attachment from the sim team. A message from Oscar. Just a quick one.

Brake marker change in T11? Feel like it’s off. Can we run it again?

Her thumb hovered over the reply button.

Then a low, sleepy voice rumbled behind her ear. “If you answer that, I’m going to bite you.”

She stilled.

Lando’s voice was rough with sleep, his face still half buried in her hair, but his grip on her waist tightened just slightly — enough to ground her, enough to keep her in the moment.

“I wasn’t going to answer,” she said softly. “I was just checking—”

“You were doing the exact thing we talked about,” he said, not unkindly. “Waking up and not even giving yourself ten minutes to take care of yourself before you start thinking about everyone else.”

She blinked. Her screen dimmed and went black. She let the phone fall gently back onto the bed.

Lando pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. “Thank you.”

“I really wasn’t going to do anything,” she murmured again, not sure why she was defending it. “I just needed to know what’s going on. So I could stop thinking about it.”

“I get that.” He kissed the back of her neck this time, a little firmer. “But I also know you. One look turns into an hour of work. You don’t know how to stop unless someone physically pins you down.”

She rolled onto her back to look at him. His hair was flattened on one side. His eyes were sleepy but open now, watching her like she was something fragile he was determined not to drop.

“I just don’t want to miss something important,” she said. “Vegas is proving to be a nightmare.”

“We’ll be fine. You’ll be better than fine.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can guarantee that if you burn yourself out now, you won’t be able to fix the problems when they actually matter.”

Her lips twisted into something half-smile, half-grimace. “That’s annoying because it’s true.”

“Mm.” He nuzzled her hairline. “I like you when you’re being all smart-pants Amelia,” Lando said, pulling her closer again. “But I like it better when you’re well-rested.”

She sighed and let herself relax, her head falling against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat — steady and calm — the opposite of her usual thrum of anxious energy.

He tapped her hip. “Tell you what. You stay here, in bed, with me for fifteen more minutes. Then I’ll get up and bring you your laptop, your iPad, three highlighters and whatever else you need. Deal?”

She closed her eyes. Thought about saying no. Thought about Vegas. Then she nodded.

“Deal.”

Lando smiled against her temple. “My girl.”

—

Las Vegas

Amelia found herself blinking too fast at the way the skyline shimmered. There was no charm, there was only overstimulation. Neon screamed from every building; engines echoed off concrete; something in the air smelled like fried sugar.

Her stomach turned.

As they moved through the paddock, she turned sharply to her dad, who was walking beside her, and asked, "Can I do a track walk later? I need to see the surface in person. Kerb structure, cambers. The sim doesn’t replicate the actual feel, not at night."

Zak gave her a careful look, then a sigh that told her the answer before he said it. “Honey… I’m sorry. They’re limiting access this weekend. Safety regulations, plus a logistical headache with all the road closures. Sorry, kiddo."

She stopped walking entirely. “What do you mean? That’s ridiculous. My understanding of this track is directly tied to driver performance.”

“I know that,” Zak said, placating. “But it’s out of my hands. FIA’s ruling.”

Amelia blinked. Hard. Her jaw set. Her brain scrambled to make the logic work — and couldn’t. The denial didn’t make sense from a safety standpoint or a performance one, and worse, it was illogical and personal.

She threw both hands out in disbelief. “Are you kidding me right now? What kind of regulatory framework tells the people making car decisions that they can’t assess the track in person?”

Zak ran a hand down his face. “I know. Believe me, I tried. I even—”

“No, this is absurd,” Amelia went on, ignoring the curious glances of passing engineers and team staff. “I’m being told to rely on visual models and telemetry estimates on a track that doesn’t exist on any previous calendar. Dad.”

That word slipped out sharp and unimpressed.

Zak winced. “You’re mad at the wrong person.”

Amelia exhaled through her nose and folded her arms. “I’m mad at everyone.”

Lando, a few steps ahead, doubled back when he realised she wasn’t beside him anymore. “Everything okay?”

“She’s not allowed to walk the track,” Zak supplied.

Lando’s brows rose. “Why not?”

“Ask the FIA,” Amelia muttered, rocking slightly on her heels, clearly overstimulated and trying not to explode about it.

Lando gave a low whistle, stepping up beside her. “That’s proper stupid.”

“Thank you,” Amelia said, voice clipped.

Lando’s hand slid to the small of her back. Just the lightest pressure. She leaned into it instinctively, grounding herself.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “You’ve been simulating this track for two months. You probably know it better than anyone else already.”

Amelia didn’t answer right away. She looked out at the chaos of the strip behind the paddock fencing, then back at the rows of garages, the closed doors, the high fences. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

Zak, softer now, said, “Hey. Don’t give this the power to make you wobble, alright? You’ve got this!”

Her face didn’t soften, but her posture did, just slightly. She nodded, tight and short.

Then, “If Oscar crashes because I misjudge Turn 12 apex grip, I’m going to email the FIA and tell them to eat gravel.”

Lando grinned. “There she is. My beautiful, terrifying wife.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He leaned in to kiss the side of her head and whispered, “Now stop worrying so much.”

—

The media room was lit like a game show. Two stools, a camera crew, a backdrop with the McLaren logo, and a table of whiteboards and markers.

Oscar looked mildly bored. Lando looked amused. Amelia looked like she’s been forced to be there (she had).

A social media coordinator beamed behind the camera. “Okay, welcome to a special edition of 'Who Knows Her Best!'  We’ve got our race engineer Amelia here, and joining us are her driver, Oscar Piastri—”

Oscar gave an awkward little wave.

“—and her husband, Lando Norris!”

Lando winked at the camera.

Amelia stared dead ahead. “You have ten minutes. I have things to do.”

“Great! First question—What’s Amelia’s favourite food?”

Lando started writing instantly.

Oscar hesitated. “Does coffee count?”

Amelia frowned. “No. You don’t chew coffee.”

He groaned and scrawled something anyway.

“Alright—reveal!”

Lando flipped his board: Marco’s Italian Marinara Pizza Oscar’s board: …Toast?

Amelia pursed her lips. “Lando’s right.”

Oscar muttered, “She eats toast every morning.”

“I eat it because it's efficient, not because it brings me joy,” she replied.

Next question.

“Okay—what’s Amelia’s biggest pet peeve?”

Oscar didn’t hesitate.

Lando paused and narrowed his eyes. “Only one?”

They flipped.

Oscar: Inefficiency Lando: People breathing loudly near her

Amelia blinked. “Both are right. I can’t put one above the other.”

Lando smirked. “So I get half a point?”

“We didn’t agree on half points.” She huffed.

Oscar stifled a laugh.

The coordinator laughed nervously. “Alright! Final question: What’s her idea of a perfect day off?”

The boys scribbled.

Reveal:

Oscar: A quiet room, iPad fully charged, noise-canceling headphones Lando: No phones. No noise. Me, her, somewhere nobody can find us.

Amelia looked at both answers, then spoke flatly.

“Oscar’s is my ideal race-weekend. Lando’s is correct for a non-race-weekend.”

Lando grinned. “Boom.”

Oscar sighed. “I should’ve said that.”

“You were just guessing.” She shrugged.

The social media manager clapped. “Well! Looks like… Lando wins!"

Amelia stood. “Great. I’m going back to run a qualifying simulation now.”

She left frame without saying goodbye.

Oscar and Lando both laughed as the camera faded to the McLaren logo.

—

The McLaren garage buzzed with the low hum of machinery and murmured radio checks. Engineers moved with purpose, but Amelia sat on the edge of Oscar’s workstation, unusually still, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Oscar was halfway into his race suit, glancing at her between sips from his bottle.

“You’re staring at me,” he said, trying to make it light.

“I’m thinking,” she replied flatly.

He waited. She didn’t elaborate.

A beat passed.

Then, in that clipped, low tone of hers, “Track’s colder than ideal. Grip will suck the first stint. You’ll want to push, but don’t chase the feeling if it’s not there. Let it come to you.”

He nodded, tightening his gloves. “Copy.”

“Stay out of traffic, especially Sector 2. If someone impedes you, don’t get emotional about it. Just report and reset.”

Oscar studied her. “You okay?”

“I’m briefing you.”

“…Right.”

She unfolded her arms slowly, like the motion took effort. Her jaw was tense. The usual snap in her delivery was duller, like she was wading through fog and didn’t want to show it.

“You don’t need to prove anything to anyone today,” she said finally, without meeting his eyes. “Not to me. Not to the paddock. Just get the data. Clean session. That’s the win.”

Oscar hesitated. “You sure you’re alright?”

She finally looked at him. Her expression didn’t shift, but there was something behind her eyes—tired, maybe. Not physically. He couldn’t tell.

“Focus on your job, Oscar.”

A long pause.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s do it, then.”

He turned to leave for the car, but her hand briefly touched his forearm.

It was the first time she’d done that all season.

“You’ve got this,” she said.

And then she was gone; disappearing behind a headset and a screen, shutting the world out with precision.

Oscar didn’t say anything.

But when he climbed into the car and pulled his belts tight, his shoulders were a little squarer. His breathing calmer.

—

The TV feed cut to chaos. Red flag. Marshals sprinted onto the track. Carlos’s Ferrari was being craned away. Oscar hadn’t even managed to leave the garage yet.

Amelia stood at the pit wall, arms crossed, headset still on. She hadn’t blinked in fifteen seconds.

Her dad appeared behind her, phone in hand, expression a blend of irritation and corporate damage control.

“What happened?” He asked.

“Drain cover came loose,” she said flatly. “Sainz drove over it at 320. Floor’s completely destroyed.”

Zak frowned. “Seriously?”

“Yes. The cover wasn’t welded properly. Obvious risk. They didn’t check.”

He looked at the monitor. “Are we running Oscar?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She turned her head slowly toward him. “Because there’s a hole in the track.”

Zak didn’t respond.

She continued. “Sending a car out now is negligent. I already told Race Control we won’t participate until they give a structural inspection report. I won’t risk Oscar’s chassis because someone forgot a torque wrench.”

Zak sighed. “Okay.”

Behind them, mechanics hovered awkwardly, unsure whether to continue prep or stand down. Amelia tapped her headset.

“FP1 is over,” she said, voice clipped. “Go back to base. Check Lando’s floor and cooling ducts for debris. Full diagnostic.”

Oscar walked up, half-suited, helmet under his arm. “What’s going on?”

She looked at him. “You’re not going out. Drain cover came off. Session’s red-flagged.”

“That’s it?”

“It could’ve killed someone,” she said. “So yes. That’s it.”

He blinked. “Right.”

She turned to walk back toward her workstation.

Zak called after her. “Don’t be angry!”

She stopped. Looked over her shoulder. “I’m not. Anger won’t fix the track.” Then, after a beat, she said, “But I think someone should be fired.”

And she walked off to find her husband.

—

The lights along the Strip hadn’t dimmed, but everything else had gone strangely quiet.

It was well past midnight. The garage, usually crackling with anticipation before a session, felt more like a waiting room. Too many people moving too carefully, voices lowered like something had been interrupted. Amelia stood at the pit wall, headset already pinching slightly against her temple, her fingers motionless over the trackpad. Waiting.

She hadn’t said much in the last hour. Not out of some dramatic mood, she just didn’t feel like filling the air with worthless commentary.

When the green light finally blinked on at the end of the pit lane, there wasn’t relief. Just exasperation.

She keyed her mic, steady. “Box out. Let’s see how everything feels.”

Oscar responded immediately. “Copy.”

The car pulled away, the hum of the engine disappearing into the neon distance. She stared after it a beat too long.

They hadn’t run in FP1. None of the planned setup work mattered anymore, this was just about salvaging time, collecting data.

But now, every drain cover was now a threat. Just another thing to add to her list of concerns.

Amelia’s eyes flicked to the screen, watching Oscar’s telemetry as if she could will the suspension to stay intact through every straight.

Two chairs down, her dad made some offhand joke about this being “the most expensive late-night go-kart session ever,” and she smiled with half her face, but didn’t turn.

The data streamed in. Amelia’s brain parsed it automatically, throttle traces, brake pressures, steering angles, but the usual focus wasn’t clicking the same way tonight. She pressed the mic button. “Feeling okay with the grip?” She asked.

“Better than expected,” Oscar replied. “Still a bit green, but manageable.”

“Copy that. Let’s try Mode 7 next lap.”

A beat passed.

“You alright?”

She blinked. The question had come in over a private channel. Just him. “Yeah,” she said. “Just having to watch everything twice. Sorry if I sound a bit distracted.”

She didn’t add that the neon lights were starting to feel like they were flickering behind her eyes, or that the pressure in her chest hadn’t really gone away since the FP1 red flag. Or that the silence before the sessions had settled into her bones in a way that didn’t feel temporary.

But none of that mattered. Not tonight. He had 90 minutes, and they had to make every single one of them count.

She shuffled on her hair, opened the sector comparison window, and let out a quiet breath. “Let’s go hunting, ducky.”

—

Amelia sat on the edge of a low bench, her headset off, fingers tapping absently on the worn fabric of her skirt. Oscar slid next to her, helmet still under one arm, face flushed from the heat of the track.

“You did well out there,” she told him.

Oscar smiled, the kind that barely touched his eyes. “You sure? It felt like I was half driving with one eye on every drain cover.”

She let out a soft, humourless chuckle. “Yeah, well, that’s what we get for racing on a casino parking lot.”

He glanced at her, watching for the flicker of something beneath her calm. “You okay?”

Her eyes caught his. “I’m fine. Just... processing. You know how it is.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. If you need to step back or—”

“No.” She shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “No. I’m fine.”

Oscar leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Roll on tomorrow, eh?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Tomorrow.”

—

Oscar and Lando stood by the side of the track, away from the chatter and TV cameras, sharing a rare moment of quiet.

“She’s different,” Oscar said, voice low, like sharing a secret. “Not in a bad way. Just... more quiet, more serious. Even when she talks, it’s like she’s somewhere else.”

Lando nodded, eyes scanning the pit lane as if he could spot the cause in the distance. “Yeah. Noticed. You think she’s pushing herself too hard?”

Oscar shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t want to be that guy who notices too late.”

“Good call,” Lando said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll try to get it out of her tonight, but I appreciate it.”

Oscar smiled, half relieved. “Anytime, mate.”

—

The lobby’s glare hit Amelia like a punch, each flicker of neon and burst of laughter hammering against the fragile calm she’d been clinging to all weekend. Every unfamiliar voice seemed to multiply, overlapping into a chaotic storm behind her eyes. Her skin prickled, nerves sparking in every inch of her body. She tried to focus on the steady rhythm of her own breath, but it felt shallow, too fast.

The weekend had been a relentless tide of changes — the new track layout, unexpected strategies, the flood of questions from media she barely had energy to endure. Everyone expected her to be sharp, ready, unflappable. But inside, her mind was scrambling to process it all, the sensory overload making everything worse.

She could feel the walls closing in, the pressure building behind her ribcage, tightening like a vice.

Just breathe. But the breath didn’t come easy. Her hands clenched at her sides, fingers trembling.

She tried to steady herself, a practiced smile pressed onto her face for the reception staff, for Lando, for Oscar. But it was too much. Too loud. Too unpredictable.

The floodgate broke.

Her vision blurred, chest tightening until it felt like the air itself was betraying her. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want anyone to see this unraveling — but she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Lando’s voice cut through the haze — soft, patient, familiar.

“Hey, baby. Let’s go over here.”

His touch was a lifeline, grounding her in the chaos. She stumbled toward him, every shaky breath breaking as the raw exhaustion spilled out.

She wanted to explain, to scream ‘this isn’t weakness!’ but the words caught in her throat.

Lando didn’t say a thing. He just reached out, firm and steady, pressing his hand gently but insistently into the small of her back. A solid, grounding pressure that said, I’m here. I’ve got you.

She leaned into it, breath ragged, heart racing, muscles trembling. His warmth was steady beneath her — an anchor.

Her hands found his arms, clinging like an octopus, desperate for the hold that would stop the spinning. She didn’t have the words to ask for help, but the silent understanding in his touch was enough.

Without a word, Lando lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all, cradling her close against his chest.

The noise of the lobby faded into background white noise as he carried her through it, the solid rhythm of his steps matching the slow crawl of her ragged breathing.

They moved past the glare of the lights, past the curious eyes, straight back to the safety of their room — where she could finally just be.

—

The shower ran hot, steam swirling thick and heavy in the small bathroom. Amelia sat on the cold tile floor, knees drawn up, fingers tightening around her stim toy, the familiar texture a welcome relief. The water hammered down, relentless and fierce and perfect.

Behind the fogged glass, Lando crouched, silent and steady. His presence wasn’t words or pressure, just steady warmth, a solid anchor in the swirling storm she couldn’t always control. His hand rested lightly on the tub’s edge, close enough that if she reached out, she’d find him there.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. His calm, wordless support let her unravel at her own pace, gave her permission to sink low and find the fragments of herself again. The tight coil inside loosened, breath slowing, muscles softening.

When she finally reached out, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and exhaled a slow, quiet breath.

—

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. Amelia lay on her side, knees tucked in, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might swallow her whole. The bed creaked softly as Lando shifted beside her.

After a long pause, his hand found hers in the dark. “You doing alright, baby?” He asked, voice low but steady.

She hesitated before answering. “No. Not really. Today was... too much. Like everything was spinning, but I was stuck in place.”

Lando squeezed her fingers gently, patient. “You’ve been on edge since we landed.”

A small nod, tight with tension. “Since the plane, yeah. I felt sick the entire flight. And then here—everything just kept coming at me. Noise, people, changes. I thought I could handle it, but it kept building.”

He kept his hand in hers, steady and warm. “Nobody had enjoyed the weekend so far, baby. I promise you, you’re not alone there.”

Amelia finally turned her head to look at him, eyes searching. “I don’t want to sound weak. Or like I’m complaining.”

Lando shook his head, a soft smile breaking through. “You’re the last person that anyone would think was weak.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little, a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding escaping in a quiet sigh. “I’ve just felt physically sick with nerves since we left England. It’s like the whole weekend’s hanging over me, and I don’t know how to handle it.”

“Hey,” he said gently, fingers fluttering over her cheek and eyelids, “We’ll get through it together. We handle tomorrow, then we handle race day, and then we get to go home.”

She gave a small, wry smile. “I might lose it completely if it wasn’t for you.”

Lando chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t let that happen, would I?”

They stayed like that for a while, fingers entwined, silence wrapping around them like a shield.

“I hate feeling like I’m not in control.”

“I know, baby. And I’m sorry I can’t take that feeling away.”

She blinked back the hint of tears, voice softer now. “Thanks for being here.”

He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “Always.”

—

The morning light spilled gently through the curtains, softening the edges of the hotel room. Amelia was curled up in bed, the duvet pulled just below her chin. Lando balanced a tray with two plates of eggs, toast, and steaming coffee, trying not to spill as he settled it on the bedside table.

Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, knees tucked under him, already half-entwined in the quiet comfort of the morning. This wasn’t their first breakfast like this; the three of them, an unspoken little routine born out of long weekends and unpredictable schedules.

Lando grinned as he handed Amelia her coffee. “Here you go. Not too sweet, I promise.”

She gave a small, tired smile, reaching out to take it. “Better than last time.”

Oscar, perched close by, reached for a piece of toast and grinned back at her. “Glad I don’t like coffee. I’m just here for the food.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow, sipping. “You remind me of a stray cat sometimes.”

Oscar laughed, warm and easy. “I weirdly don’t mind that comparison.”

Lando shot Amelia a fond look across the bed.

“So, what’s the plan today?” Oscar asked, munching thoughtfully.

Lando shrugged, “Take it slow. FP3 later and then Quali, obviously, but nothing crazy this morning.”

Amelia leaned back into the pillows, her voice quiet but steady. “I might go and buy some Epsom salts. Write some strategy notes in the bath.”

Oscar nodded, eyes kind. “Sounds relaxing”

She glanced at Lando, who gave her a small, encouraging smile. “Hope so,” she said simply.

Oscar reached out and ruffled Lando’s hair. “Christ, mate. You could do with a haircut.”

Lando scoffed, showing him away. “Fuck off. Says you, mister swoop.”

Amelia pursed her lips and hid her smile behind her mug.

—

The gift shop was a small, cluttered oasis of weirdness and nostalgia tucked inside the hotel lobby. Amelia was scanning the shelves with practiced efficiency, eyes locked on the little jars of bath salts.

Lando and Oscar were already browsing the second aisle.

Lando held up a neon cowboy hat. “Mate, how can you say no to this?”

Oscar was inspecting a glittery, oversized keychain shaped like a slot machine. “It’s got lights and sounds. Look.” He pressed a button and the keychain erupted with flashing colours and a cacophony of jingles. “Jackpot! I’m rich.”

Amelia sighed, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “Guys, don’t start. I just want some bath stuff.”

Oscar grinned, undeterred. “But we’re just doing cultural research.”

Lando plopped the cowboy hat on his head sideways and attempted a drawl. “Y’all ready for the rodeo?”

Amelia gave him a flat look. “Great look, husband.”

Oscar laughed and reached for a novelty plastic cactus, pretending it was a microphone. “Welcome to the Las Vegas Gift Show! I’m your host, Cactus Carl.”

Lando, clearly in his element, grabbed a toy rattlesnake and slithered it along the floor toward Amelia’s feet. “Don’t step on the snake! It’s venomous.”

Amelia stepped back, raising an eyebrow, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Right. Venomous and ridiculous.”

Finally, she found what she was looking for; a small, unassuming jar of lavender bath salts with a label promising relaxation. She grabbed it, turning to the boys.

“Alright, I’m done.”

Lando tilted his hat back and gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Mission accomplished.”

Oscar picked up another keychain. “Hey, look at this one! It’s a limited edition.”

Amelia sighed tiredly.

—

Less than an hour later, the hotel bathroom was filled with the soft scent of lavender from the bath salts Amelia had chosen. The water was just the right temperature, warm enough to ease the tension knotted deep in her shoulders but not scalding. She sank down slowly, letting the heat seep in, her fingers tracing the ripples on the surface.

Outside the bathroom door, Lando and Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall with laptops balanced on their knees. Their voices were low, careful not to break the fragile calm Amelia was clinging to.

“So, the long straight,” Oscar said quietly. “Telemetry showed some unusual brake pressure spikes on your last run.” He said to Lando.

Lando nodded, flicking through the data. “Yeah, I noticed that too. Maybe the surface temperature was throwing off the balance?”

Amelia sighed, eyes closed. “Probably. Felt off the whole session.” She added, only having to speak a little louder than usual to be heard through the ajar door.

Oscar glanced toward the door. “You want us to try something different for FP3?”

She let her fingers trail in the water, thoughtful. “Maybe adjust front brake bias… just a bit.”

Lando nodded. “I’ll write it down.”

There was a pause, the only sound the gentle dripping from the faucet. Amelia opened her eyes a crack. “Thanks for this.”

Oscar grinned. “You asked for company and telemetry. We deliver.”

Lando chuckled. “Yeah, we’ve got nowhere better to be, baby.”

She let herself smile, a quiet warmth spreading beyond the bathwater. In this little bubble of steam and soft voices, the chaos felt a little less relentless.

—

FP3 was more than just practice—it was a chance to claw back control after yesterday’s chaos, and Amelia was feeling the weight of it.

Oscar was in the car, revving the engine, while her headset buzzed with team chatter. The track was unforgiving today, hotter, more demanding, but Amelia’s eyes stayed locked on the timing screen. She flicked through sector times, braking points, tire temps—all the little details she’d been obsessing over for days.

Her gut still fluttered, nerves stubborn beneath the surface, but she pushed it aside. This wasn’t the place for doubts. She spoke into the comms, “brake bias -0.3 for the next run. Watch rear temps.”

Her radio crackled, Oscar’s voice clipped but focused. “Got it. Feels different already.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Keep the feedback coming.”

A few laps later, she caught a subtle improvement in the data—sector two times shaving off milliseconds. Not perfect, but progress. The day wasn’t going to beat her.

By the end of FP3, the sun was blazing, sweat damp on her brow. Amelia’s mind was a swirl of analysis, but beneath it all was something steadier—quiet confidence, the kind that comes after pushing through the noise.

When Oscar pulled into the pits, she let herself exhale. One step closer.

—

Qualifying came in the blink of an eye and Amelia’s eyes were glued to the screen, every pixel of telemetry, every split second on the sector times drilled into her mind.

Oscar’s car cut through the track, precise and aggressive, pushing the limits. Amelia’s fingers tapped lightly on the desk—not from nerves, but calculation, running through every variable in her head. She caught the slight twitch in the rear suspension, the tiny loss of rear grip in sector two. Adjustments would be needed. Not a disaster, but enough to make a difference.

Will was nearby, watching too, but Amelia barely noticed him.

Oscar crossed the line, a clean lap, but not quite the best. Amelia’s brow furrowed. “Sector three’s where he’s losing time. Let’s tweak the brake bias for the final run.”

Will leaned over, quiet but warm. “You think he’s got it?”

She didn’t look away from the screen. “I don't know. He needs the car to behave like it’s supposed to.”

The final moments stretched taut, then Oscar’s second run flashed up. Faster, cleaner. Still not enough to get out of Q1. Her jaw clenched. 

Fuck. 

—

[Twitter Feed – #protectamelia]

@/f1fanatic123:

just saw that vid of amelia having a full autistic meltdown in the hotel lobby in vegas last night… why don’t you weirdos shut the hell up and disappear into a hole and leave the fucking girl alone omfg

@/raceengineerlvr:

people spreading that clip with zero context? big yikes. amelia is freaking brilliant and deserves respect. stop the ableism.

@/landosupportr:

if anyone can handle this insane pressure it’s amelia. lando’s lucky af to have her, and honestly? so are we. back off.

@/keepitrealf1: autistic, blunt, iconic. amelia’s meltdown is just her being human—get over your toxic asses.

@/f1momlife: as a parent to a neurodivergent kiddo, this blatant ableism online is disgusting. show some empathy. #protectamelia

@/oscarp443:

oscar’s team isn’t complete without amelia. her meltdown shows how much she cares. toxic ‘fans’ need to check themselves

@/nocapf1:

y’all acting like sharing a meltdown is funny or weak. nahhhhhhhh, that’s ableism 101. have some respect or just stay offline ????

@/disabledandproud:

this is EXACTLY why autistic ppl get unfair hate. stop weaponising someone’s mental health moments for clicks. grow up.

@/f1_truthteller:

seeing the clips blow up and ppl twisting it into jokes? pure ableist nonsense. end of.

—

[Instagram – McLaren Official Story]

Video clip of Amelia working intently in the garage, captioned:

"Focused, fierce, and the backbone of the papaya team."

—

[Reddit – r/formula1]

Post Title:

“Can we talk about the video of Amelia Norris? The backlash is unreal and uncalled for.”

Top comment:

“It’s easy to forget these people are human. Amelia’s dedication is clear, and the meltdown just shows how much she gives. This fandom can be toxic. Let’s be better.”

—

Amelia sat rigid, fingers barely twitching on the edge of the conference table. The room felt too bright, too loud—like a spotlight had been slammed onto her without warning. She watched her dad pace. His voice was steady but tight, every word laced with frustration.

“How did we let this happen? The video should’ve been reported immediately.”

She caught Lando’s fists clenching behind her, his jaw set hard. He wasn’t shouting—he didn’t need to. The anger radiated off him like heat, a shield she wanted to lean into.

Oscar was quieter than usual, but his eyes, sharp and steady, burned with the same quiet fury.

They all thought they were defending her.

But inside Amelia, it felt like a thousand static whispers; people’s opinions buzzing at the edge of her brain, overwhelming and unrelenting. She wasn’t weak. She was tired. The energy it took to smile, to explain, to pretend like none of this was a breach of her life felt like a lead weight pressing down on her chest.

The PR team rambled about damage control and messaging, but Amelia barely heard them. Her thoughts slipped away from the room, spinning cold and sharp.

She looked up, met her dads expectant gaze.

Her voice was flat, stripped of any theatrics. “Yeah, it sucked having it put out there. But I’m not going to make a scene about it. I can handle it.”

They waited, as if that was supposed to be reassuring. She knew what they wanted: a show of vulnerability, maybe some anger.

Instead, she smiled inwardly.

She pulled her phone out, thumb hovering. Then, with a quiet kind of defiance, she pulled up a new tweet.

Autism affects 1 in 36 people. Awareness beats stigma.

Also, I married Lando Norris and you didn’t. Suck it.

[Link to autism awareness resource]

She hit send.

Lando’s laugh was the first sound to break the tension. Her dad let out a short, grudging chuckle. Oscar’s eyes flickered with something like pride.

—

[DTS Outtake Clip]

Will Buxton

“Yeah, so… that clip of Amelia, it really went viral, didn’t it? I’m sure she must have thought her weekend couldn’t get any tougher after that moment. But then Sunday came…”

—

Amelia caught Lando just before he stepped into the car. The hum of the track buzzed behind them, but for a beat, it was just them.

She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him. “Good luck. Be safe. Drive fast.”

He smiled, eyes bright with that fierce fire she loved. “Always, baby.”

She turned and headed to the pit wall, heart steady but fierce — ready.

—

The roar of the crowd swallowed the pre-race tension whole as the lights blinked out, one by one. Oscar launched perfectly—an instinct honed from endless hours tracking telemetry and analysing every millisecond. He surged forward, slicing through the tight corners of the Las Vegas street circuit with brutal precision.

Amelia’s eyes locked on the screens, her fingers dancing over the buttons and dials at the pit wall. Every lap was a heartbeat, every split time a breath held. She was the calm centre for Oscar’s storm.

“Sector one clean, good pace,” she told him over the radio, voice even but focused.

“Copy. Tires feeling good,” came Oscar’s crisp reply.

She allowed herself a brief, tiny exhale. This was what she lived for, the rhythm of the race, the flow of strategy, the challenge.

But then, amid the relentless thrum of engines and tires gripping asphalt, the radio sparked. A sudden crackle, then Lando’s voice—strained, quick.

“Car’s sliding—shit—oh fucking—”

The pit wall fell silent except for the crackling radio. Amelia’s chest tightened. The word ‘crash’ hovered unspoken but undeniable in the space between sounds.

Her fingers froze. Her eyes darted to the live feed on the screen; Lando’s McLaren spinning wildly, slamming into the barriers.

Time fractured.

The noise dimmed, the crowd’s roar now a distant wave crashing against the edges of her mind.

“Lando’s out,” the comms guy said quietly beside her. “Full safety car. Medical car dispatched.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to swallow the sudden lump forming in her throat. Breathe. Focus.

She had to focus.

Oscar was still out there, still racing.

She shook her head slightly as if clearing fog. “Oscar, you’re clear. Keep the pace, watch brake temps—”

“I’m ok.” Lando reported, but his voice was tight — like he’d been winded.

Amelia’s voice cracked, and she hated herself for it. Hated how much it betrayed her insides.

Oscar’s voice came steady, but she could hear the surprise, the tension. “Shit. That was Lando?”

“Yeah,” she said before she could stop herself. “He’s… he’s climbing out of the car. He’s okay.”

She stole a glance at the live feed showing Lando being helped out, walking with a medic, shaking his head like he was fine. But she knew—knew the physical toll, the adrenaline masking the pain, the shock that would hit later.

She frantically grabbed for her golf ball — she always kept it beneath the monitors, and squeezed it. Grounding herself.

“Focus on the race, ducky. I’m here. We’ve got this.”

Oscar’s voice softened, “You sure?”

She swallowed hard again. “I’m sure.”

Every lap was a razor’s edge now. Amelia ran through data, strategic calls, tire management; but her mind kept drifting back to that crash, to Lando’s face on the screen, the unspoken “what if.”

The pit lane buzzed, the crew working, the team breathing with her through Oscar’s race, but she was somewhere else too.

She bit back a dry sob and pressed on. “Sector two clean. Let’s push on the next lap. You can get Sainz.”

Oscar’s voice returned with renewed fire. “Copy. Let’s make it count.”

She nodded, though no one could see.

And yet.

There was the ache.

The race carried on, unforgiving.

—

The monitor in front of her flickered with telemetry, lap times, sector splits—Oscar’s heartbeat in digital form. She had to be here. Had to be present.

Her fingers danced a quiet rhythm on the edge of the pit-wall console—a practiced stim to keep the rising panic locked behind a steel door in her mind. The world had already cracked around her today.

“Sector three’s slower by two tenths, watch the tyre temps,” she said, voice clipped, tight. Her gaze never left the screen, even as the chaos inside her threatened to seep out. The noise outside, the shouted team radio chatter, the flashing pit boards, it all blurred into one sharp focus: Oscar.

The world had been unpredictable all weekend. The unexpected video circulating. The judgment from people who didn’t know. Lando spinning out and hitting the wall. But here, in this moment, Amelia was the engineer, the strategist. The calm in the storm.

She clenched the golf ball in her palm, fingers twisting the soft silicone shapes until the ridges bit into her skin just enough to bring her back. The tears she hadn’t let herself shed yet pooled behind her eyes, but she swallowed them down. Not now. Not now.

Her radio crackled to life, “Oscar, focus on exit at turn seven, keep it smooth; tyres need managing.”

And then, after what felt like a lifetime of silence, she sensed him before she saw him. A warmth settling over her. Lando, standing just behind her, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. No words.

His arms wound around her waist and he squeezed. Tight and warm and perfect.

The sharp edge of panic softened in that quiet pressure. It was like a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding for hours finally escaped. The knot in her chest loosened.

She kept her eyes on the screen, voice steady but softer now, “Push on the next lap, Oscar. You’ve got this.”

The relief didn’t break her focus. Instead, it sharpened it, gave her the strength to keep Oscar moving forward through the pack.

But just for one brief moment, the whole world faded away, leaving just the hum of the race, the steady pulse of the monitor, and the quiet heartbeat pressing against her back.

—

Amelia sat at the small kitchen table, absently stirring her coffee, her mind half on the morning briefing notes she’d reviewed earlier.

She wasn’t in the mood to think much, really. Too many things buzzing in her head—the weekend, the viral video fallout, the constant undercurrent of stress that never quite left her.

Then, for no particular reason, her hand drifted to her phone, and she opened the calendar app. That’s when it hit her. 

The date she’d been quietly expecting had come and gone.

No sign.

A slow, quiet realisation settled in her gut. She hadn’t missed a period in years. 

She blinked, staring at the screen. No big dramatic wave of panic. No sudden flood of excitement either. Just… a plain, blunt acknowledgment.

Oh.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself quietly, voice flat but certain. “Should probably tell Lando.”

She stood and walked to the living room, pulling out her phone again.

iMessage — 13:03pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

My period is 3 weeks late.

--

She slid the phone onto the table, fingers lingering on the edge for a moment. Missing a period wasn’t a crisis, just a mildly inconvenient fact.

She glanced out the window at the bustling street below. Monaco was doing its usual thing, people rushing, cars honking, life barreling forward.

Amelia took another sip of coffee and muttered under her breath, “Well, that’s new.”

Then, with all the casual decisiveness of someone deciding what to have for lunch, she shoved the thought aside and got back to work.

NEXT CHAPTER

[princessfbi]

bucktommy+4 or 5 for the shivering prompt plssss

4. “I just… I’m really tired. Can’t really stop shaking.” + Bucktommy

Tommy didn’t consider himself a violent man. Not by nature at least. Growing up with his old man made nurture into survival and he knew how to throw a punch when he needed to.

He was two seconds away from doing just that. His nails dug into the flesh of his palm as his knuckles popped and he knew with a hundred percent certainty that if he lost control he would be arrested very shortly after but he didn’t give a single flying fu—

“He’s good!” Athena’s broke through like a sparrow cutting through a hurricane, screeching for attention in the storm inside his head. “Let him through!”

Tommy barely made it through the flimsy police barricade without yanking it down to get through.

“Sergeant Grant!” Athena made a face at that but didn’t correct him like she usually did. “Where is he?”

“This way,” she said simply and Tommy’s racing heart rate would thank her later for not even stopping to wait for him. She simply swiveled on her heel and expected him to follow.

He did. Somehow. Somehow he followed her through the chaos of bodies moving across the parking lot through the thick syrup of tension. He knees felt weak beneath him as he took in the scene.

“He’s okay,” Athena said over her shoulder. “But he won’t let me call anyone or go to the hospital. I’m hoping you can talk some sense into him.”

“Hospital?” Tommy demanded and Athena held up her hand.

“He’s okay,” she said again before she stopped and pressed her palm to his sternum. It wasn’t hard but it was firm and it was enough to rock Tommy back on his heels. “Tommy, listen to me.”

Tommy couldn’t see him. He was scanning the crowd over Athena’s head but he couldn’t see him. He could see everyone else, tight expressions contrasting the traumatized crying and detectives and crime techs, but not him. Not Evan.

“Tommy!” Tommy’s eyes snapped down to Athena again and her eyebrow cocked into a high arch on her forehead. “He is okay. He’s shaken up but he’s alive.”

Hearing that made the tightness in Tommy’s chest ease just a fraction but it was enough for him to exhale. It was enough to let out that stale, brittle sip of air that had been prickling in his lungs and burning at his throat from between his lips. Ever since he’d gotten the call, a frown marring his face at the unfamiliar number, he’d been holding that breath as he raced to get his keys and drove halfway across town desperately fiddling with the radio for some kind of information that meant he wasn’t walking into the situation totally blind.

“He’s okay?” Tommy asked anyway.

Athena nodded once but her mouth was pinched in a sharp pucker. “He’s okay. But he’s…”

Athena stopped and let her eyes drift to the side.

Tommy followed her gaze and felt his blood turn to ice at the white sheet draped over what his brain was slow to realize was a body. The ground was wet and Tommy chose not to dwell on what was a trick of the light and what was blood.

“It was close.” Athena said. “Too close. I need you to lock in and talk some sense into him.”

Tommy opened his mouth to argue. On the list of people in his life, Tommy should’ve been the last who could talk some sense into Evan. He didn’t even know what they were anymore. They weren’t boyfriends. But to call Evan an ex felt incomplete. It felt wrong. They weren’t friends either even though it had been weeks and Tommy still felt like he was orbiting around Evan night and day. And yet the thought of someone else receiving the call, someone else being there for Evan while Tommy might have never known, was enough to nearly make him rip his hair out.

“He doesn’t want anyone to know. But he needs them, Tommy.” Athena pressed. “And he needs to at least be checked out by a doctor. Just please, talk to him.”

Every one of Tommy’s instincts told him to run. It was too much, too real, too close to the line he’d sworn he would never cross unless he was absolutely sure.

But the tight pull in his chest was begging him to stay. That gravitational pull of Evan Evan Evan had him caught up in his orbit still.

Tommy nodded. “I’ll try.”

“He’s over there,” Athena said, pointing to an ambulance. “I’ll be over when I can.”

Again Tommy nodded and then let himself hurry over to the ambulance. He didn’t quite run but it was a close thing. He rounded the corner where familiar long legs were hanging off the bumper and —

His heart broke a little when he saw Evan.

Athena hadn’t lied to him. Evan was alive and while he was far from fine, he was okay. There was a cut going through his brow held together by a few steri-strips and a bruise across his cheek that ignited that urge to start swinging again but he was alive. He was alive and he was whole and he was shaking.

It was a tremble that he couldn’t hide even beneath the shock blanket draped over his shoulders. A terrible, all consuming thing that Tommy unfortunately knew well. It was a whole different thing to see it holding Evan captive though.

“Evan,” Tommy breathed before he even realized he was speaking.

Shiny blue eyes darted up and Tommy managed to catch a glimpse of the red almost welt strapped across Evan’s throat before he forced himself to move.

“T-Tommy?” Evan said, blinking like he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. A small smile twitched across his lips before Evan blinked again and he was still trembling. “He—hey! Hi! What… what are you doing here?”

He was pale, his skin slick with almost grey sheen that made his eyes nearly sunken in with exhaustion that bruised circles beneath them.

“Sergeant Grant called me,” Tommy said, crossing the distance between them in three easy strides. “Said someone used you as a human shield and you thought you’d get away with not telling anyone.”

He was trying for light. That was familiar territory. Light. Easy. Pretending.

There was blood on his face, flecks of dried blood that Tommy knew somewhere in his gut wasn’t Evan’s.

Evan pouted. “I—I’m okay.”

“Yeah?” Tommy hedged and he wanted to touch him. He wanted to cup his cheek and tell him it was going to be okay. He wanted to touch him so bad it hurt. “Think you could let a doctor confirm that?”

Evan’s lips twitched like he could see right through him. The scare thing way, he usually could. “I just… I’m really tired. Can’t really stop shaking.”

The crash. Every first responder knew it well. Evan’s body was at war with itself, fighting the adrenaline crash by skittering his blood beneath his skin and his nervous system trying to shut down and make him sleep.

“You… you didn’t have to come,” Evan said and the sting nestled under Tommy’s ribs. He pushed it away and focused on Evan. He had to focus on Evan because Evan may not want him but he needed someone.

Tommy was available. He would always be available.

“I can call E—”

“No!” Evan’s eyes went wide as he sat up, the trembling racking up into a high frequency that practically made his teeth chatter. “No please. I just…. I just need…”

A soft sound fell from his lips as he hunched in on himself, making himself small, and Tommy dropped down to his knees in front of him.

“Hey,” he said, searching up to catch Evan’s gaze. “What is it? What do you need?”

Evan’s lip trembled and that sound fell from his lips again, louder and more obviously a sob he couldn’t keep back. The sheen in Evan’s eyes grew wet and he was right there on the edge; right there and desperately trying to hold on.

Tommy smoothed a hand over his thigh. “Talk to me, baby. What do you need?”

“Tommy,” Evan breathed and then Tommy’s arms full of Evan’s trembling form.

Tommy held him tight, folding onto the pavement so he could take more of him into his lap.

He was shaking like he was about to break into a million pieces.

Tommy wouldn’t let him. He’d catch each one and put them back in their rightful place if he had to.

“I’m here,” Tommy said into his hair as the hot brand of tears scalded into his neck. “You’re safe. It’s okay. I’m here.”

[sealsshitpostden]

Get into other fandoms, we will welcome you happily, Your feelings of attachment to the franchise ARE valid...but you HAVE to face them, and learn to move on.

I am very sure that if you ask anyone in a fandom ¨hey, i wanna get int something new, i want to get away from hp ¨ they WILL help you out, and i know i myself would too! Its always fun to get into a new hobbie...But as it stands, hp is a cancer that needs to be extirpated, please, please see it as it is...i beg of you...Others can make it easier for you, but...you have to make the choice to move on yourself. Fuck it, literally DM me if you are interested! I will get you into 7 different things that will completely take over you if you let them, i am into so many fandoms. Play limbus company if you want something gritty, yet wonderfully written, and with a fair share of silly! I have 1300 hours on that game, and its a gacha game so you WONT have time to even think about hp, or if you dont want that, try out library of ruina! it is an amazing story with a greatly designed ¨beat enemy, get to use enemy's power¨ that i think you guys might like! Lobotomy corporation also exists, if you like the thrill of overcoming impossible odds, and SCP...AND the fanbase is welcoming to an almost fanatic degree! Join us, we are totally not a cult. Get into retroachievements, play games from before you were born, or from when you were a kid but never played, some games can take months and months Play VRchat if you want to meet people or, fuck it even get into ERP, i do not care and noone else will in the slightest Balatro exists, You probably know of it. Read Percy jackson, its a classic for a reason...and fuck it, if you wanna keep at it with ¨magic school¨ you can play a minecraft modpack with some friends that is focused on magic! theres a ton of them HELL, get into writing! make your own, legally distinct magical world with your friends and enjoy yourself! Writing is great And if that sounds appealing, but too much work, Try out Dnd! TTRPGs have never, ever been more accesible, and 5e is super easy to pick up with the help of literally anyone who knows how it works, you can make your OWN magical story, where you do not even NEED to be the main character, you can perfectly play the role of a side character watching/helping the protagonists do their thing, while being equally as important if you so choose! the possibilities are endless! I have had to discard my childhood completely, I am transgender, and it was miserable...But you can do it, i believe in you! AND i do mean it, Harry potter's actor, Daniel Radcliff (Who is quite *rad*) whose entire thing was being known AS ¨guy who played harry potter¨ has manage to overcome that completely, and just does his own thing now! i love his acting even if im not a big movie gal. You can do it, you do not need your past, even if it may be a comfort, to be a worthwhile person today, to be happy. I feel like this is what people, angrily, think when they say ¨READ A NEW BOOK¨ but its veiled in so much exhaustion due to JK's horrible, horrible actions that...I feel like some people could do with this post! Anyways, have a nice day, i do mean it, thanks for reading this far.

Let me make this clear. If I see you reblogging Harry Potter, if I see you doing that "Hogwarts house" in bio bullshit, if I see you writing hp fanfic or whatever I assume you are a transphobe. "But it's my special interest!" Don't care. "But it's just fanfic!" Didn't ask. "But I'm trans!" You should know better.

Don't like it? Stop putting the works of the world's worst terf on your blog. I don't care if you pirate it, you're still giving the series continued relevance and you're publicly making yourself look unsafe for trans women to be around.

[lmvari]

⟳ 26. INTOXICATED

You and Kaz arrive at the bar a little late, but just in time for the first few waves of shots being passed around. The place hums with energy, with dim lights, heavy bass, unfamiliar bodies pulsing near the DJ booth.

Ven spots you both from the second-floor lounge near the stairs, presumably the couch space he claimed for all of you.

“Over here!” he bellows, trying to cut through the music with bleary eyes. You spot your friends laughing at his theatrics, already nestled into the couch.

You snort. The night’s barely begun and he’s already half gone.

You scan the crowd between you and the stairs. Someone bumps into you in the chaos, jolting you off-balance. You instinctively reach for the nearest thing—

Kaz.

He feels your light tug and immediately turns to steady you, murmuring a quiet, ‘Careful,’ as he catches your arm.

He holds out his hand. “Don’t let go, okay?”

You smile and slip your fingers into his.

You weave through the crowd, hands clasped tightly so you don’t lose each other in the press of bodies.

“[Name]! Kaz! You guys made it!” Ven slurs, stumbling forward to greet you with a hug that lingers a bit too long.

“God, you already reek, and it’s not even ten p.m.,” you groan, hugging him back anyway.

He giggles. “That’s the thing! It is almost ten, and I’m not blacked out yet!”

You roll your eyes but smile. “Happy birthday, you menace.”

“Thank you!” he sings.

“Happy birthday, Ven,” Kaz says with a soft smile. Ven slings an arm around his shoulder.

“Take care of [Name] tonight, yeah?” Ven adds, waggling his eyebrows.

Kaz chuckles and gently removes Ven’s arm, patting his back. “I’ll look out for her.”

“Boo! No fun!” Ven laughs, tottering back to his seat.

You greet your friends, let Lumi pull you into a selfie, and down your first shot without even asking what it is.

Then another.

You slow down after a few more, pleasantly buzzed but still steady. Some of your friends head down to dance, pulled by partners or strangers into the tide of music. You and Kaz linger, watching from above.

“They’re so loud,” you say, amused as you hear their shouting voices above the music.

Kaz chuckles beside you, pouring himself a drink. “I’m surprised you’re not down there with them.”

Sighing, you take the same bottle and pour it into your own glass. “Normally, I would. But… I’m just not feeling it tonight. Not here.”

“The place?”

You simply hum in response, taking a sip of your drink.

“Soda? Really?” you say as you feel the liquid fizzing in your mouth.

“Someone’s gotta stay somewhat sober,” Kaz laughs as he proceeds to take another sip of his drink. “I already took my one shot of vodka and I already feel dizzy. I told you I don’t take alcohol well.”

You down the soda in your glass and fill it up again with the same drink.

“You do know Ven was just joking when he tweeted that,” you say with a breathy chuckle.

“Even so, I need to honor the celebrant’s wish,” he replies with a proud smile.

You shake your head and take a sip of your drink, not replying.

“Do you drink often?” he asks.

“Not recently, no,” you answer.

“Seriously? Even after the whole break-up?”

“Not a break-up,” you mutter, shooting him a look. He smiles amusedly in response. “And no. I didn’t drink then because I firmly believe alcohol doesn’t help with pain.”

And mostly because you didn’t want to end up doing something stupid while drunk.

“So you drinking now means… what? Progress?”

“Maybe?” You shrug. “I don’t know.”

But deep down, you know that’s not entirely true.

You’d be lying if you said you don’t feel anything for him anymore.

You just forced yourself to stop thinking.

No reminiscing, no late-night peeks at his profile, no checking what his ex posted.

You locked him away in your mind and told yourself not to look back.

That one day, time would dull it all.

His face. His voice. His touch.

Your feelings.

And honestly? Kaz helped with that. Willingly.

He knew all of this and was happy to help distract you and guide you through your emotions.

“You’ll get there eventually,” he says.

At one point you started to think the ‘therapist’ joke was becoming real.

You could feel him glance at you longer than usual, and you notice the warmth in his gaze.

And for a second, it feels like something you could want, something you could drown yourself in.

If only you were ready. But you’re still scared.

Maybe in the future.

“Yeah. I will,” you affirm to yourself.

But of course, just when you think the universe might give you peace,

out of nowhere—

Your eyes land on a familiar figure walking through the crowd at the entrance.

You squint to double check that it’s not just the alcohol in your system playing with your mind.

Your stomach drops.

Of course.

Just when you were talking about it.

And at such a vulnerable state, too.

You grip the edge of the couch instinctively, the cold of your glass grounding you.

Kaz sees your shoulder tense. He looks at you, wordlessly asking if you’re okay.

You turn to him. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

His worry slowly dissipates, and nods in understanding.

You make your way downstairs and to the dance floor.

Then you’re spinning around, moving too fast, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on Ven, drunk laughing with your friends, tipping back another shot like it’s juice.

You beeline to him.

“Ven.” You grab his arm and drag him out away from the group and near the bathrooms.

“Wah–? What’s wronggg?” he garbles.

“Why the hell is he here?”

Ven blinks at you, bleary-eyed. “Who?”

“Kuni.”

“Ohhhh,” he drawls, grin crooked. “Ajax asked to invite him. I said yes.”

“You what?” you hiss, louder than intended. “Why?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Thought it’d be fun.”

You stare at him in disbelief and betrayal. “Even her?”

Ven immediately sobers up. Not in expression, but in tone. “Hell no. I’d never let her near my party.”

“But he can?”

Ven just laughs—shrill, high, unbothered—and walks away with a stupid, ‘Good luck!’

You don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or go home.

Or strangle an intoxicated friend.

He’s lucky it’s his birthday.

So instead, you go to the open bar and order a whole bottle, bringing it with you.

You step upstairs and make your way toward the couch area, the bass from downstairs still thumping faintly beneath your shoes.

And there he is.

Sitting with Ajax and Kaz, a glass already in hand. Ajax is next to him, mid-speech, but freezes the moment he sees you, nearly choking on his drink. Kaz is settled across the couch, comfortably distant from them, staring at Kuni as if also not expecting him to be here.

You don’t hesitate. You walk straight to them and slide on the couch beside Kaz. Closer than earlier.

You pour yourself a drink, adding ice from the bucket.

No one says anything.

Not yet.

One shot.

Ajax tries, “[Name], he’s—“

The shot glass clinks on the table as you pour more.

Two shots.

Kaz gives you a subtle glance, like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t.

The tension is thick.

You lean back on the couch, letting your head rest for a moment. You don’t notice Kaz’s arm stretched behind you, resting casually on the top of the couch until you’re already half-leaning into it.

Not touching, but almost.

You don’t mean to look, but you feel it.

The weight of someone’s eyes on you.

He’s staring.

He hasn’t said a word. Just stares intensely at the both of you from across the couch like he’s trying to piece you back together in his head.

It’s like he’s waiting for you to break.

And it infuriates you.

You keep your face blank, but your thoughts spiral.

Why is he even here? Why did he accept Ajax’s invite knowing you’d be here.

Was it to mock you? To check up on you? To make sure you can’t move on properly from him?

You pour another drink, but hesitate this time. Your grip tightens. Your breathing hitches.

“You alright?” you hear Kaz whisper softly in your ear that sends shivers down your spine.

You nod. Barely.

Your surroundings begin to spin and blur. The crowd’s chatter and the music’s blaring beat fade into a distant, drowned-out hum.

You try to concentrate, not giving in to the alcohol. Your head tips against Kaz’s shoulder, resting. He doesn’t move.

You glance up, and sure enough, Kuni is still staring.

Still drinking you in like he has a right to.

But this time, he’s downing a bottle as he keeps his gaze fixated on the two of you.

Memories flood back.

The times when you kept saying to yourself that it’s the last time. That you’d end things with him.

And then Kuni shows up, like he always does, to remind you what you’re trying to leave behind.

You glare at him once. Hard. Daring him to look away.

He doesn’t.

If his expression earlier was somewhat readable, this time it’s impossible to comprehend.

Does he regret it? Or is he just proud of himself?

This pisses you off.

You want a reaction out of him.

He doesn’t just get to let you go and be happy. He can’t just be unaffected by all of this.

You want to show him what he took for granted.

There must be something.

And in a sudden burst of defiance, you grab the half-empty bottle on the table and down most of it.

The liquor burns, but it’s a distraction.

A blur.

Exactly what you need.

You stand up, wobbling as the rush hits your head.

Giggling, you turn to Kaz and grab his hand. “Let’s dance,” you say, voice slurred, eyes glinting with something between chaos and pain.

Kaz looks at you with a pointed expression, reluctant, but eventually follows.

From the couch, Ajax watches with wide eyes. “Hey, man…” he starts, already on alert.

Kuni’s still frozen, but only for a second. He finishes what’s left of his bottle and sets it down with a heavy thud and stands up.

“Don’t,” Ajax says under his breath, placing a hand on Kuni’s chest. “Don’t follow them. You’re drunk.”

Kuni doesn’t answer.

You and Kaz reach the dance floor. Amidst the bass pulsing and the people packed around you, in your mind, you have one clear drunk goal.

You start jumping to the beat, loose and unfiltered, dragging Kaz with you. You spin around and tug him closer, too close.

Arms on his shoulders, hips swaying near his. Kaz, ever steady, moves with you but still keeps a proper distance.

“Why are you doing this?” he mutters lowly, trying to catch your gaze.

You just laugh.

Loud. Drunken. Detached.

You don’t answer.

Kaz sighs. “Come on, let’s go bac–“

He’s about to let go and bring you back upstairs until he glances to the side.

Kuni.

Standing stiff at the edge of the dance floor, watching. Jaw clenched. Eyes locked on the space between you and Kaz, like he’s trying to will it away.

Ajax is behind him, trying to pull him back again.

Ah.

Realization hits him.

Kaz sees it now.

He sighs once more.

He knows this isn’t really about him, but he does it anyway.

He lets his hand rest on your waist, pulling your bodies closer. Your arms loop around his neck without thought. Despite being out of it, you can feel the tension between the two of you spike in the air.

Kaz takes it up a notch by slowly inching his face down to yours. You let him.

He doesn’t rush. Instead, he draws it out, lowering his face inch by inch, just enough for your breath to catch. His lips hover dangerously close, not touching, just waiting.

Daring.

And that’s when Kuni shifts.

A flicker of movement.

A reaction.

Ajax tries to hold him back, voice lost in the loud crowd. But Kuni pushes forward.

And before you can process it, a hand wraps around your arm, tugging you firmly, pulling you out of Kaz’s hold.

Your head spins. The crowd blurs. Your heartbeat spikes.

“What the hell are you doing?” Kuni confronts.

Kaz harshly shook off Kuni’s grip on you but kept his tone calm. “Maybe don’t grab her like that.”

“Maybe back the fuck off,” Kuni snaps.

“Oh, now you’re acting like this?” Kaz holds his stern gaze, challenging the other.

A few nearby partygoers paused mid-dance, turning their heads toward the commotion, eyes flicking between the raised voices and the tension unfolding. Some backing up to not get involved. Some were too drunk to care.

Ajax stepped between them, hands up. “Okay, cool it. Not the time–”

“Shut up.” Kuni brushes off Ajax and moves to grab your arm again.

You tug your arm back, voice slurred. “Stop it.”

You look at Kuni, eyes glassy. “You don’t… youu don’t have the right to act like this. You have Mona.” You point at his chest weakly, trying to push him away with your finger.

Fuck. The alcohol is really getting to you.

Kuni’s breath caught.

“You don’t understand,” Kuni speaks lowly.

You wobble a little as you take a step towards him, trying to straighten yourself. But the sheer audacity of what he just said sobers your mind up a bit.

“What?” you ask, still inebriated, but angry.

Don’t understand what?

That he can pull you in just to let go the second it gets real? Acting like he cares, only to vanish when it matters? That he can get back with his past while you mourn your one-sided relationship?

You’ve been trying to get well without him—trying to breathe, move on, forget—but he somehow finds a way to remind you of what once was.

So what exactly are you not getting?

“Why are you eve—”

You barely get the words out before everything crashes down at once.

And then,

You feel a pair of lips on yours.

⟳ BLURRED LINES — PREV | MASTERLIST | NEXT

You say you’re just friends. You say it every time you leave a party together, every time you wake up tangled in sheets, every time you swear it’s the last time. But habits form, lines blur, and pretending gets harder when jealousy starts to sting.

NOTE i’m posting this without proper proofreading lol i’m scared once i finish this smau and go back to read it, i’ll regret writing it sm. anw so let’s just pretend that mc can hold her liqour so well <3 also happy one month advanced birthday venti!

TAGLIST @joiurz @sketcheeee @mywillt0live @kyouzki @ylapsha45 @eternallykira-143 @bananasquash @kunikissr @swivi @ariesloves @lloversss @b-bbytears @kokoscutie @vi0let-writes @tomsishere @franaby @scaraenthusiast1 @iloveescara @usagiarchive @ilovecats-26 @quiechee @snetr @axquella @tatsuomii @lalalaloveallmydays @liyahbug @feiherp @jinjjjia @automaticpatroltragedy @mysterypotatoink @zuhahearts @adres-tia @ssetsuka @strwbrrybbpop @sesamemin @blvdmrcnry @aspinny @jiminscarmex @sammybeefangirls @lxkeeeeee @yu-yumii @linasxoxo @quiet-place-for-thoughts @randomhumans-blog @aaudreys @lesbi-snail @jayzioxx @meowpmzai @s-f-rants @cosmic-rainestorm @honey-and-sweetdreams @vincelikestomince @mono-dontidae @simeonmybabygirlicious @gugumioooo [50/50]

if your name is in bold, that means i can’t tag you

[grotesquevi]

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ YOUR LOVE HAS GOT ME GOING ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ LIKE YOU COULDN'T IMAGINE.

cw  #  18+ mdni, stripper!reader + older and divorced!ellie getting all hot and bothered, dirty talk, contains metaphors to addiction and vices, fingering in the bonus side yikes. i'm sorry mutuals, i'm not usually like this but made this everything sean baker’s was dreaming of when he wrote anora with his dick.

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ boycott tlou || check out my fic directory

side note  #  i went above and beyond to search for this two motherfuckers, they were not even in tumblr so i thank this to moya since i had to go to the dark places to get 'em aka the wayback machine on internet's archive. if you recognize this? or are you my pillar nonnie? you may be confused but its because tumblr deleted my old account thinking i was a fucking bot, i used to be under the name vicorices. bare. with. me — wonderful art bellow by @nramv

things would be different if you weren't blatantly pressing your ass against ellie's belt, cause those feelings she exhaustingly told herself not to have? — she suffering from all of them.

it may have to be with the outfit or the lack of it, the way your long, pointed nails scratch over her naked arms. but it's the perfect combination to make all this façade of having her life already sorted out fall apart to the ground when she recently signed up her divorce papers and she's there, getting a lap dance from this girl she really, really fucking likes, as if she wasn't slipping dollar bills beneath the thin strip of your underwear.

so she's been in a similar situation before, promising herself she wont ever step a fucking toe back in the club — she's not that kind of person anyway, the kind that salivates over strippers. the club's packed with men, and being the only girl there it's almost shameful as she has this need to go on and ask for a lap dance from you cause yeah she's greedy, greedy, spoiled, ravenous: ellie has now turned into a junkie trying to get more of their vices.

and in the secluded room, she forgets about previous inhibitions cause you're leaning against her, dancing along the sound of the music already sitting in her lap and her mind bubbles around this stupid rule, the one that forbids her to touch you under any sense of the word if she wants to keep her hands attached to her arms, but she's temped, tempted even when the security camera is pointing right in front of you two.

"yeah? that's what you'd like huh?" the sound of your voice is almost normal, a huge contrast when ellie's feeling like drowning, when the bass on the speaker’s so low it resonates in her damn heart, pouring all over her like ocean waves in the sand "want me to be your little spoiled slut? you'd buy me expensive gifts and get me out of this hellhole?"

ellie's glasses rest on the lower part of her nose, almost slipping as she looks up to you, cheeks blushed cause she's hella ashamed of it, hellhole. when she's in the club you almost rejoice in bliss happiness cause she has money, a pretty face, nice hands and more important — she's not a pervert guy.

there's a huge difference between a perverted guy and a perverted girl in your brain — cause while 50-years-old trying to hit on you disgust you, she's in her 30's and in the best fucking moment of her life and you’re struggling to not ask her to touch you.

"i- fuck. i really don't know why i'm here" ellie admitted the first time after seeing your pole routine of a much shorter version of bauhaus's 'bela lugosi's death', conflicted as you're pushed to talk to her because of your boss: business, it's fucking business "don't know how this works."

"you should ask me for a private dance," you reply, of course you want to dance for her, feel her closer and she won’t say no, no when your index finger trail down her collarbone "maybe you can start finding out by that."

there's something insanely hot about the idea of taking a woman so put together completely apart. ellie knows that, you do. so when she comes back again two nights after, and every-single-time after that, she makes sure to ask for you, name loud and clear in her lips as she enters and you know, just know it's going to be a good night — please, fucking pay for me the rest of the night.

wrong. sets back feminism at least 30 years, but ellie's there anyway, seated like she is during various times the week, letting you take control of her cause it's just what she needs, comfortably seated on a velvet couch with you on top; it seems like the cure to all her ruins — how is she not going to be infatuated with you? how is she not going to suffer from withdrawal when she don't see you for days?

"you know i can," she replies, and your skin shivers against the serious tone in her voice, almost recovered from her sore throat as she takes a sip from the heavy glass of neat whiskey in the table next to the seat "i can afford your lifestyle if that's what you're asking. let me take care of you."

she don't know what's so funny, what entertains you so much as you giggle on top of her, but ellie's distracted as she stares at the tiny underwear you're wearing, the friction between you and her as her fingers ache to reach and touch you, make the triangle on your ass to the damn side.

the sound of your laugh catches her off-guard, and she don’t think when her hand gently pushes you down, making you rest your weight against her legs and let yourself rub your thin underwear in her jeans: sin feels good when you do it right cause shit if it's not the best thing in the world when you're taking her hands in between yours, polished and soft, they guide ellie into your sides, allowing her to trail down your body before giving a sly look to the camera, almost afraid you're going to be caught.

leaving her hands in your thighs seems an invitation cause your movements get slower. fuck the song, if someone's looking, let the lucky bastard live enough to see ellie's hand rub circles in the skin of your inner leg, close to the little outfit you're pulling and barely manages to cover your cunt.

your back presses against her chest, resting against her frame as you move your hips in slow circles, making ellie feel the scent of your perfume in her nose, the way it lingers in the air surrounding the private room.

"ask me again," you whisper, and her gaze lingers in the front part of your body as you lay on top of her: the curves on your skin, the silver and glittery fabric that cover your tits — nipples hard beneath as she has the damn need to use her right hand to do something much better than just sweetly touching your fucking leg "i'll be your good new wife, let you whine about your important job, fuck the stress out of you, all domestic and shit."

it's the way you say it, how you move on top of her, the sparkles splattered in your skin that makes you seem almost ethereal, however it makes ellie moan as she's nodding already on an invisible leash you tied around her neck from the very first time she came, intoxicating, her right hand moves from your leg to your hip, back to your navel and up to your very ribs.

"they are going to see that," you said, the camera always a fucking reminder of her ripping need to have a bit of decency, self-control as ellie's cheeks turn red — "you cannot touch me, love."

"to be fair at this point club 976's alive thanks to me" draining her money cent by fucking cent, she’s sure she keeps the place rolling during the week "so let them be pissed, m'snatching their best worker and takin' her away from this dump anyway."

it must be evil, should be if it isn't, cause just like you landed on her lap you're swiftly turning to face her as you dance, dragging your nails across her chest as from this angle, she becomes aware of your barely covered pussy that grinds against her legs; yeah, she has a much better view of your fingers slipping beneath her belt, of you basking in bliss almost unaware of how stupid ellie’s left when you're around.

"you really mean that?" you ask almost like it's a secret, and she’s smashed with this need of pulling you into a kiss, get lost in the threads of your hair “don’t fuck with me ellie.”

"i'll pay for your nails," her words are warm, her breathing now heavier as her fingers toy with the hem of your underwear: one little tug and it will surely let ellie see your soaked folds, sure you're wet when she see's the splotch in your underwear, the darker hue right between your legs "your clothes, fuck. i'll take you to fancy restaurants anything you want, just- just say you let me."

she can’t pay for interest, that reaction you got when moving on top of her, that almost silent moan you make as you dance or grind to seek for more friction. fuck it, she really don’t know it at this point.

“that’s enough for fifteen minutes,” she’s not aware also of the other people in the room until you’re standing up and she’s going to whine about the lack of touch until you’re screaming at the guard that’s yanking her outside the club — “respect the girls or don’t fucking show up here, got it?”

“outside,” she manages to says to you as she’s being pulled away “ah fuck off man- i’ll wait for you outside!”

the biggest surprise of the night though? she was serious, dead fucking serious; so when you’re leaving the club at almost five in the morning, she’s smoking there, back against her black mercedes as she tilts her head satisfied you’re looking out for her.

yes, ellie williams’s leash is tied to this pretty stripper she has in her sheets, spread over her kitchen island, under the cascading water of her shower, wearing her shirt, eating her food, taking her life — hand-cuffed.

i totally envision it and i’m getting brainrot about rich and divorced!ellie whos ex wife hates you when noticing how fucked up you have her already, wrapped around your finger — ellie’s important to her clearly and you’re quickly becoming a distraction: too much weed, late nights talking, buying you clothes, not picking up the damn phone. shocking cause makes ellie miss up work one morning since you convinced her to call in sick: yeah she’s important to the company, but why can’t she spend just one little morning with you? just one. cross your heart cause you’ll make her time worth it.

she likes it even when you’re a danger to her lifestyle, when you’re slipping inside her office after your collage classes (same ones she’s already offering to pay), and you go there sitting on her lap as ellie tries to be concentrated in reading this paper about the growing insides of the economy for tomorrow, but you’re making it hard to keep her attention in her best behaviour when you’re leaning to see more of her work curious about it, and she has the best view she could ever ask from your bare back and those pajama shorts you use to roam around her penthouse.

so politely fuck work. ellie’s planting some wet kisses on your back, her fingers tug on your crop top and suddenly, you’re leaving wrinkles over her papers cause you’re gripping the wood desk too hard in hopes to hold onto anything, anything that connects you to earth and prevents you from spiraling. shit, shit, shit. how did it end up like that? how she’s so quick to make you stand between her legs? to bend so she can shove her fingers on your already wet pussy? it’s so easy for her to reduce you to this state, this plain mess. her gaze seems to burn holes in your skin, wanting to say something about you ruining her work, yet her mind does not function when she cannot say nothing more than, — “that’s it- can you bend for me? cheek against the desk baby.”

her free hand holds on the fabric of your short and your panties to the side, keeping them hooked in a finger as she uses it to make you move, a gentle pull that invites you to roll your hips back to meet her digits again before she’s slowly shoving a third finger inside and yeah, work can wait.

“faster,” you ask, a lewd sound filling the air when your arousal drips on her hand, coates her palm and makes your folds glisten in evidence of your needs, only gaining a needy sound in return when she’s compelled to follow your orders, keep you satisfied “fuck ellie- s’good you’re filling me so damn good.”

it’s dangerous cause she’s driven by your words, those sounds she loves to hear, the way you seem to suck her fingers deep inside until she’s curling them to rub on your velvety walls, that spot you overly enjoy and ellie discovered during the week: sure.

work can wait for an hour or two, she has better things to take care of now.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 5

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Chapter Word Count: 7k+]

[Note: This part has 4 settings. Again, several time jumps. You can read it per setting if it's too overwhelming. Kook character development? Push and pull between our leads is still there. Angst will always be there. Sorry, I live with the pain. Let me know what you think. Keep dropping your comments and theories. Thank you everyone for reading so far. For the support💜

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The air between you settles like a held breath — the kind of quiet that doesn’t rush to be filled. Somewhere nearby, a bird rustles in the hedges, then flits away.

You nod toward the basket by your side, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. “You planning on trading pastries for labor?”

Jeongguk takes a step closer, a small smile forming. “Thought it was a fair trade.”

Without asking, he crouches beside you, setting the paper bag gently on the table nearby. His jeans brush the hem of your skirt as he reaches into the basket, picking up the stray sprigs you hadn’t noticed. His movements are quiet, almost careful — like he’s not sure where he fits, but wants to try anyway.

You glance sideways, brow lifting. “The weekends are yours.”

He shrugs, fingers brushing dirt from a stem. “Didn’t feel like staying in.”

You don’t ask why. The reasons are too quiet to name. Instead, you reach for the rosemary. “Well. If you’re here, might as well put you to work.”

He chuckles softly, the sound gentle in the quiet garden. “Bossy.”

“Efficient.”

You move together — your hands leading, his following with that calm focus he’s always had, even if his fingers fumble sometimes. Not because he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But because he’s not always looking at the plants.

You feel it. The way his attention shifts. Pauses.

“Don’t mangle the sage,” you murmur, nudging his elbow. “She’s sensitive.”

“Sounds familiar.” He’s already looking at you, smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

You look away quick, as if that was going to do anything with your abnormally beating heart.

A soft breeze passes, tugging at your shirt. Pulls a few strands of hair loose. You’re about to say something — maybe thank him, maybe point out a spot he missed — when your sight shifts slightly. Not dizzy. Not anything big. Just… a little off.

Jeongguk’s hand is at your arm instantly, firm but gentle. “You okay?”

You blink once, shake your head like you can brush it off. “Yeah. Just—stood up too fast.”

His eyes search yours. “You’re flushed.”

“It’s warm.”

“It’s not that warm.”

You force a small smile. “I’m fine, Gguk.”

He doesn’t believe it — not fully — but he lets it go, for now. His hand lingers at your elbow for a moment longer before he leans back slightly, giving you space.

“So,” you say, nudging the paper bag on the table. “These croffles any good?”

He breathes out, a quiet laugh hidden in the sigh. “For dessert? Absolutely.”

Inside, the change is soft — no hurry, no words needed. The garden fades away as the house wraps around you both again, like it’s trying to remember how things used to be.

The kitchen is filled with warm, golden light from the late afternoon. It slides over the counters, making the marble look soft and pale. You put the basket of herbs by the sink, your fingertips lightly touching the edge before you return to the doorway.

Jeongguk is already in motion — his sleeves rolled up, his shoulders loose. As if no time has passed. As if his hands still know the drawers, the rhythm, the quiet feel of your mother’s kitchen. The soft scrape of the cutting board, the tap of a pan on the stove, the faint sound of water running.

You lean against the frame, arms loose over your chest, just watching.

From the fridge, he pulls out eggs, leftover rice, a few vegetables. The herbs you just picked sit by the sink, waiting. It’s simple. But the way he moves — calm, confident, slow — makes your chest feel heavy.

Once, you would’ve sat on the counter beside him, bare feet swinging, teasing him between mouthfuls of half-cooked vegetables. You’d remember Christmas years ago here at your mother's house, sunlight pouring into the kitchen as you both laughed over spilled flour and tea. Then you would’ve poked at the pan, earned a warning glare before he pulled you close anyway.

Now, you stay back — not quite distant, just unsure.

Jeongguk glances at you over his shoulder, a strand of hair slipping across his forehead. “You’re quiet.”

You blink, caught. A small smile tugs at your lips. “I’m letting you concentrate.”

He huffs, low and amused. “Right. That’s new.”

You wander in, fingers brushing the back of a chair, and sink into your seat by the counter. Jeongguk doesn’t say anything — just keeps moving with quiet efficiency. A dash of soy sauce. The soft flick of his wrist. A sprinkle of herbs across the pan.

The rhythm calms something in the room — softens the tension and fills the stillness.

“So…” you start, lightly, “should I be worried you’re trying to impress me?”

His lips twitch, almost like a smile. “Would it work if I was?”

You smooth a wrinkle in the tablecloth, avoid his gaze. But the warmth’s already creeping into your face.

By the time the food is plated — warm rice, a golden omelet draped gently on top, herbs scattered like a finishing touch — something has shifted. Loosened.

Jeongguk slides a bowl in front of you. When your fingers brush, neither of you pulls away too quickly.

The first few bites are silent, filled only with the soft clink of chopsticks and the sound of the stove ticking as it cools. You glance up once — then again — catching him mid-look, or maybe just as he’s turning away.

“It’s good,” you murmur. “You haven’t forgotten.”

He leans back, eyes lingering on you. “Did you think I would?”

You twirl your chopsticks between your fingers, lost in thought. “People forget things when they stop doing them.” A small shrug. “When they stop being close.”

The fridge hums softly behind you. Somewhere in the distance, children’s laughter rings out, then fades.

Jeongguk’s voice is quieter when it comes. “I didn’t forget.”

There’s a softness and steadiness in his eyes. A spark of something familiar too – something you remember from before all the pain, the lies, before things changed. It’s something you’ve missed. Something you’d never say out loud anymore. The small tears of happiness you quickly brush away say it for you.

He notices. Doesn’t mention it.

And you don’t explain.

Instead, the conversation shifts — toward safer things, gentler ones. You tell him about the vendor in Paris who won’t answer emails, the two-shades-too-dark fabric that threw off an entire board. You mimic your assistant’s panicked voice notes, and Jeongguk chuckles, low and real, one that wrinkles his nose and makes his eyes squint.

The dishes are done, counters wiped clean. The clock ticks somewhere behind you, the kitchen dimming into quiet, late afternoon slowly dipping into evening. There’s no hurry to end it — not really.

It’s Jeongguk who glances first toward the living room, hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s not sure if he should ask but does anyway.

“Want to… put something on?”

You pause — not because you don’t want to, but because you do. And that terrifies you because you know it’s just a piece of paper making you see things, feel things from him. Or is it? You’re not sure anymore.

Still, you nod, brushing a damp curl from your cheek.

The couch sinks gently as you both settle in, the TV flickering on with its familiar glow. Jeongguk lets you choose — or maybe he already guessed — because when the Avengers theme plays, he lets out a quiet, surprised laugh.

“Seriously?” he groans, grinning as he sinks into the cushions. “Out of all the movies out there?”

“You love it,” you shoot back, pulling the blanket over your lap.

He huffs. “Do not. Only watching this under protest.”

“Uh-huh,” you say with a grin, snuggling down. “Tell that to your collectible shelf.”

Jeongguk doesn’t argue—just laughs quietly and nudges your knee. He disappears shortly, then comes back with a paper bag. “Almost forgot dessert,” he pulls out two warm, golden croffles dusted with sugar. Hands you one, pride barely hidden. “Got these all the way from across the city, you know.”

You take a bite, lips curving around a soft hum of approval. “Still warm.”

“Told you,” he mumbles through his own mouthful. “Best croffles ever.”

As the movie plays, the room feels softer. You both share quiet comments, half-whispers that barely rise above the sound. A few gentle jokes. A shared laugh when the Hulk breaks through a wall. And when Tony says his last lines, the weight in the room shifts.

Jeongguk fidgets. There’s a quiet sniff. Rubs his eyes like it’s nothing.

You look at him, a small smile on your lips.

“Don’t,” he warns, eyes on the screen. “It’s the… onions. From dinner.”

“Oh yeah?” you whisper. “The ones you chopped, like, three hours ago?”

He groans, dragging a throw pillow over his face. “Fine. It’s the weather. Very dry in here. Terrible humidity.”

“Right,” you grin. “And by ‘weather,’ you mean ‘Tony Stark.’”

His muffled voice replies, “He’s a hero, okay? You just don’t get it.”

But you do.

You remember the action figures lined up like trophies in your college dorm. The Iron Man pajamas he’d throw on when you dragged him out for late-night ramen breaks during finals week. The bright red and gold socks — his lucky charm — that he wore to his first big interview. The extra pair he got for you, still tucked in your drawer somewhere.

But of course, you don’t say any of that. Just smile at this version of him— softer around the edges, still a little boyish in the ways that matter.

The credits roll, silver light flickering over the room, the music fading into the soft quiet of evening. You stretch your toes under the blanket, feeling the stillness settle — warm, easy, familiar.

Jeongguk shifts beside you, his knee brushing yours as he leans forward to reach for the remote. Doesn’t press stop. Just lets the music play out, fingers tapping absently against the edge of the coffee table.

“You should…” You’re not sure what you meant to say. That he should head out? That you should call it a night? That things slip back to the list you’ve created?

You tug the blanket a little higher, as if it could help hide the thoughts burning in your head.

Jeongguk leans back, arm resting behind you, his thumb brushing lightly over the cushion near your shoulder — not quite touching, not quite distant.

“Long day,” he says softly.

You nod, eyes growing heavy, the warmth of the room tugging at your limbs. He doesn’t attempt to head out. You don’t remind him.

Time passes like that — slow, quiet, almost paused. Your head dips slightly toward the couch armrest. His fingers move softly closer to you, just barely touching your hair, as if he’s trying to remember how it feels.

You think you hear him breathe out — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh, something in between. Or maybe it’s just the house settling around you both.

Neither of you says goodnight. Neither of you say anything else.

And when your eyes finally close, and your head tips just a little closer toward his shoulder, Jeongguk shifts — only slightly — until the space between you is nothing at all.

Sleep still holds your limbs, your cheek warm where it rested on the couch cushion. A quiet stillness hangs in the room — soft light shining through thin curtains, the air filled with the smell of fresh coffee and something lightly sweet, like butter and sugar left on the plates.

You hear him somewhere in the kitchen, the soft creak of a cabinet opening, the clink of a spoon. From where you are, you can see the curve of his back as he leans over the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs.

Padding barefoot toward him, the chill of the floor becomes a quick wake-up call.

Jeongguk notices you before you say anything, his head turning slightly over his shoulder. “Morning.” He sets one of the mugs down for you. It’s the way you like it — just a splash of almond milk, no sugar.

“You cooked again?” The stove looks like it’s just gone out with the light heat fading into the kitchen.

Jeongguk rubs the back of his neck. For a second, you see that boy in the middle of your old apartment, waiting to confess to the love of his life. But then again, you’re too sleepy to know what you’re seeing.

“It’s just eggs. And toast. Nothing fancy.”

You take a bite anyway when he plates it for you, fork scraping gently against the ceramic. The eggs are fluffy, the toast a little too crisp, burnt on the edges, but warm and buttery all the same – just the way you liked it.

The thoughts in your mind grow harder to hold back.

Jeongguk staying the night wasn’t part of the deal. Neither was cooking meals. Neither was this breakfast. Nor choosing to spend the weekend with you when the list clearly says weekends are his—the one sliver of freedom you allowed him, a gesture meant to prove you weren’t trying to keep him. As much as that would’ve been the outcome your heart would gladly accept, you knew the weight of reality. And this… this wasn’t reality.

A small part of you likes it. Hell, you’ve missed this. Him. But it’s terrifying you that things are starting to feel almost easy again, like maybe you could forget everything that’s about to come.

“This isn’t what we agreed on, you know?”

Jeongguk pauses mid-sip of his coffee, lifting a brow like you’ve just accused him of a crime. “What’d I do now?”

You point at the plate in front of you. “This. Breakfast. You cooking for me. You cooking at all. It’s not on the list.”

He sets his mug down, eyes widening with mock offense. “Excuse you, the list literally says breakfast. It doesn’t say how breakfast should appear. Could’ve been cereal. Could’ve been toast shaped like a heart. There weren’t specifics.”

You narrow your eyes. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

Jeongguk raises a brow, grins, crosses his arms over his chest. “Technically, this doesn’t break any rules.”

“No?”

“No.” He reasons out. “We’re having breakfast. Breakfast is on the paper. Nowhere does it say though how breakfast should be presented. Breakfast.”

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, trying not to smile as you take another bite.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, pushing off the counter to rinse his mug. “Those eggs didn’t scramble themselves.”

“They were too fluffy.”

“Too fluffy?” He turns around, hand dramatically on his chest. “They’re exactly how you’ve had them since Uni.”

Letting it go with a sigh, you nod slowly, give him a soft warning. “Just…don’t make a habit of this.”

“Of cooking?” he teases, tilting his head. “Because I was thinking pancakes next.”

“Gguk.”

He holds up both hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. No habits. No rules broken. Just... eggs.”

Your gaze stays fixed on the plate. It’s just eggs. But you know it’s never just eggs. “You should probably get going. Monday’s not gonna wait.”

Jeongguk pulls off a small smile. “Right. See you later.” Grabs his keys from the counter, tossing them once in his hand like he’s stalling, then heads for the door without another word.

The studio hums like a beehive on the edge of collapse — steam hisses from a press table, fabric whispers beneath hurried fingers, heels tap over taped floors marking invisible runways. The sharp scent of dye and starch clings to the air like nerves. A model adjusts a loose strap in the mirror, her mouth tight, lashes unblinking. A stylist crouches beside a rack of silk gowns, threading a needle with shaking hands.

“Where’s the backup for Look Nine?” someone snaps behind a screen divider.

“We already rotated her out,” someone else replies. “Too pale under the LEDs.”

Mark paces near the mood board, phone pressed hard to his ear. His voice is low but clipped, half in English, half in French, Korean getting mixed up in between too – it makes you laugh for a second. Until one look at the board tells you everything — pinned shots of another line, swatches curled at the edges from overhandling, and a red marker line slashing across today’s schedule like an open wound.

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs like it hurts. His phone drops from his hand into his pocket, conversation ended. He turns toward the monitors just as you quietly take your place beside him.

“Still surviving, old man?”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You texted me. Said the final look samples came back two inches short.”

Mark drags a hand through his hair. “That was an update, not a plea for help.”

“You sent three angry emojis.”

“Wasn’t supposed to take that as encouragement. I’m telling Yoongi.”

“Like that’s going to stop me.” You’re already taking off your coat, passing it over to your assistant. Another staff hands you a garment bag. Someone else gives you your tablet. There’s no time for hellos, barely enough space to breathe.

He’s already giving in. “You’re staying out of Look Twelve,” he mutters. “Too many pins at the hip.”

You flash a grin over your shoulder. “Noted, partner.”

The day doesn’t get better. As much as you’ve tried working through it, one crisis comes after the other. Someone’s panicking about Look Six — one of the models missed her last fitting and now the bodice won’t zip. There’s talk of skipping it entirely.

You grab a handful of safety pins off a tray, offering it to the nearest stylist without slowing. “Use the veil to hide the back seam.”

At some point, the espresso machine shorts out. Kills the power briefly in the west wing. Night is almost here, everyone’s tired and, coffee is essential to keep the team going. No one has time to fix it, so the assistants take turns running to a nearby café.

The shoot hasn’t even started yet. You stare at the draft board, then the open camera rig — one staff experimenting how to set up angles, another trying to color match without lighting presets. No real-time feedback. No edits. No visual anchors. It’s all guesses and rushed fixes.

“What the fuck are they doing?” You ask Mark who’s already frantically texting. Doesn’t need to look at what you meant. Knows you’re referring to the sorry excuse of a visual team. Unspoken things you’ve both developed working together for years.

“They’re trying to make it work.”

“That’s not their job.”

“It’s got to be. Creative and Visuals just bailed.”

You pull your hair back with one hand. “Unbelievable.”

“Something about their equipment being stuck in cargo. Won’t get here till 9:00 PM, if at all.” He exhales. “They called two hours ago. I didn’t want to say anything till I figured out options.”

You’re on the verge of tears after holding yourself together for most of the day. Exhaustion is taking over your body. The tteokbokki you ate hours ago is long gone, along with the visuals and creative team that’s gone too. Then you feel it — a slow warmth under your nose. You wipe it away without thinking, expecting sweat or your makeup melting from the heat. But it’s red. Wet.

Mark’s voice fades mid-sentence. “—you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You tilt your head back slightly, already reaching into your pocket for tissue. Nothing there.

“Here.” He’s already tearing one from a kit bag. You take it without looking at him. “We could hold off—”

“No. We can’t delay.” You press the tissue harder to your nose and move toward the monitor, resume work like always. “Let’s just shoot raw. We'll clean it in post.”

Mark watches you for long – his stare burning on the corner of your eye. “We don’t have the manpower. Can’t edit this by myself either.” Excuses you’re familiar with, drops in. You know he’s trying to stop the day.

You give him a look — sharp, tired, unwavering.

“Okay boss,” he mutters. “Figuring it out. I’ll try following up with them till then.”

The phone on the table vibrates against the wood. You grab it without looking. “What?”

A pause. Then, warm, low, “Oof, you don’t sound good.”

The chaos blurs, the noise softens, the pain in you eases. The corner of your mouth lifts before you can stop it. “Gguk.”

“Was wondering if we’re still on for dinner?” Jeongguk’s voice lilts with something close to a smile. “Or am I being stood up again?”

Your heart stumbles. Dinner. Right. “Damn it”

“Guess that’s a ‘no,’” he teases softly, his voice calm when yours isn’t. “Getting stood up twice. Karma, huh?”

“No! I—” Your eyes dart to Mark, who’s shoving his phone into his pocket, waving you over. His mouth forms the word ‘cancelled’.

Panic pricks at the back of your neck. “No, Mark, wait—Jeongguk, listen, I can’t—”

“Breathe, it’s okay.”

“The creative team vanished, the camera rig’s being handled by one of our staff who’s supposed to be working on shoes—photographers—they just—” Your fingers squeeze the phone, eyes locked on the cluster of stylists whispering urgently. “Gguk, I’m sorry, but I—Mark! No, not that rack! —I have to go.”

“Hey—”

You end the call, pressing the phone to the table, breath slipping out fast.

Mark approaches you with an "I have an idea," and the next moment you’re pulled back into motion, the room closing in again, the pulse of crisis thumping steady under your skin.

There’s a shift in the air you don’t have the time to dwell into. With the lights being tested even when it should’ve been done hours ago, gowns still being altered because some model got caught on one of the lighting cords, makeup brushes flying across the room, a model sneezing mid-lipstick, someone’s tugging on your arm, asking about earrings. Another assistant waves you over, frantic about the backdrop.

You’re one step closer to ripping your hair out.

Mark’s at your side again, too fast, too smooth. “We’re back on track,” he says, lips twitching like he’s trying not to grin. “Relax.”

You want to ask — how, who, what — but then you hear it.

“Watch the stand,” a voice calls out, deep, commanding. “It’s angled wrong — your entire left frame’s blown out.”

When you look up, Jeongguk is already there. His team already dispersing, taking their places like a familiar routine in your space.

You forget the clipboard in your hands, the half-formed instructions on your tongue. Jeongguk meets your eyes, gives you a small lift of his brows — nothing big, nothing showy. Just a quiet hey.

Mark gives you a look across the room — equal parts guilt and triumph.

Anger should’ve been the right feeling. But instead, peace drapes over you like a heavy, unexpected exhale.

You worked through the rest of the evening, staying away from Jeongguk as much as you could. Letting him focus. Distracting yourself with the sudden change in chaos. Outfits suddenly fitting right, pins no longer needed, a new set of makeup brushes appearing from the luggage — as if the universe had finally decided to give you a moment of calm.

Between tasks, you steal quick glances – when he bends beside the rig, gestures to one of the panels, adjusts the stand himself when no one else moves. He’s changed since this morning — black slacks, a navy shirt rolled at the sleeves, his guest pass clipped on the loop of his belt. Professional. Composed.

Your throat tightens. You don’t remember him looking this sure of himself since his old shoots — back when you were the one in front of the lens and he was still figuring out his light. Practicing, fidgeting with settings he was still learning. Back when you were all the subject he’s focused on.

Jeongguk’s halfway through reviewing a frame with his crew when his eyes track you from across the room, softening, mouth twitching like he wants to say something but won’t in front of everyone. He tips his head once, barely a nod.

You step toward him, heels quiet against the studio floor.

He looks up from the light meter, catches your gaze mid-calculation.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur, just low enough for no one else to hear. “I’m not owing you anything.”

Jeongguk tilts his head, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Just so you know, I’m getting paid,” he says easily. “Think I’m doing this for free?”

Questions rush through your mind like a landslide, but only a simple, “What?” slips out.

He shrugs, adjusts reflector, keeps his eyes on you. “Seora pays well. I remember this CEO who once made me shoot a full pre-launch campaign in forty-eight hours with a half-dead printer and three cups of instant ramen. But when the rush ended, my team and I got a check—enough to stay jobless for six months.”

You blink. “That was years ago.”

“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter now, a little warmer. “Your first collection after you took over. Half the board didn’t believe in you, the investors were circling, and you had one shot to convince them Seora wasn’t going to sink.”

You don’t say anything. But you remember — the weight of it, the way the silence in those boardrooms used to press against your chest.

“I still have those shots,” he adds. “You didn’t sleep for three days. Made me retouch a belt loop for six hours.”

You huff, almost smiling. “You said the belt loop was crooked.”

“It was,” he says, mock-offended. “But six hours?”

“Buzz off.”

He places a light stand into place; tone breezy but eyes sharp. “Anyway, just because you’re my Mrs. Jeon doesn’t mean I don’t get my cut.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“What?” His voice lilts. “Mrs. Jeon? That’s still your legal name, no?”

You glare, still, a small smile breaks out. “Get back to work. Don’t waste my money.”

“Yes ma’am.” Someone calls his name — camera test’s ready. Jeongguk brushes past you with a light touch to your arm. Quick, grounding.

You don’t say anything when he steps away. Just watch the slow but certain way he pulls the chaos back into order — not loud, not commanding, just efficient. People listen when he speaks. They adjust when he gestures. And without meaning to, the tension in your shoulders begins to ease.

And then you find yourself stepping back. Not out of the room, but just far enough to watch. You hover near the monitors, arms crossed loosely, watching as Jeongguk moves through the chaos like he’s done years ago.

Near the backdrop, he crouches low, one hand gently tilting the model’s chin, thumb barely brushing her jaw as he adjusts her toward the light. She lets out a soft laugh — maybe at a quiet joke or just the moment itself — her lashes lowering before she meets his eyes again.

Jeongguk’s mouth curves into a quick, polite and easy smile, before he’s already shifting his focus back to the camera, adjusting the settings with steady hands.

Suddenly, the cuffs of your sleeves look more interesting. Why hadn’t you noticed the ugly button that didn’t compliment the color of the cuffs before? The shoot notes in your hand look like they need revisions again — though you’ve read through them twice and already think they’re perfect.

“Easy there, boss,” Mark sidles up beside you, a knowing hum under his breath. “You’re gonna set the poor girl on fire.”

“Was just watching,” you mutter, heat creeping up your neck.

Mark leans back on his heels, smirking. “Think I should pull her away before you cost us a model.”

“Perfect timing that you’re here,” you narrow your eyes, folding your arms. “Why’d you call him? You don’t exactly seem thrilled about having him near me.”

His grin fades. “Don’t have to like the guy. But when it comes to you, he’s the only one I’m sure would drop everything and show up.”

An argument gets caught in your throat. You want to remind Mark it’s not like that anymore. You know it hasn’t been for years. When it comes to Jeongguk’s planner, it’s like the pen ran out of ink just as your name was about to be written down. You shouldn’t even be on his list of things to do, but that’s the reality that’s been hanging over the last three years. It’s the reality you’ve made now.

Mark shrugs, looking at the busy set. “Sometimes, you have to put personal feelings aside and see that things have changed. You’re running out of options. He knows our work. Has done them before. Jeongguk’s the one guy I, sadly, know who won’t let you down.“

“You seem confident.” The words come out almost like a whisper.

“Takes one to know one.” He turns away before you can answer. You watch him disappear into the set, the weight of his words pressing down on you, making you question what you thought you knew.

Lights dim one by one when the night finally wraps up, casting long shadows across the scattered equipment. You stand near the table piled with untouched snacks, absently twirling the scrunchie on your wrist as you watch Mark wave goodnight, and leave with the last of the crew.

It’s just you now. Or so you think.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to hide by the snack table,” Jeongguk’s there, slinging his jacket over his shoulder, camera bag slung casually over the other. “Usually upfront putting on a whole mukbang show.”

You lean against the table, crossing your arms. “Didn’t feel like the snack choices for today.”

“How about carbonara from Benny’s?”

“They deliver this late?”

“They do if you know the owner,” he says, smug as he sets his bag down. “Should be here in ten.”

You try to hide the way that lands — like a knock you weren’t ready for. “Didn’t think you’d remember Benny’s.”

“Hard to forget when you cried that time they took the truffle fries off the menu.”

You sigh, sinking onto one of the stools. The set is quiet now, shadows stretching where there was once heat and motion. Everything softens around the edges.

“Didn’t eat dinner,” you murmur. “Could eat a whole buffet.”

“Figured,” Jeongguk takes the seat beside you. “Always forget when you’re in charge of too many things.”

The food arrives not long after — warm boxes, the faint scent of cream and parmesan and baked garlic butter curling into the air. You eat beside each other like no time has passed. No tension. No pretense. Just two people winding down after too long a day, like they used to — back when things were simpler, or maybe just when you didn’t know how complicated things would get.

The soft clink of glasses and quiet talks fill the dim hotel lounge. Plush armchairs and velvet sofas gather around small tables, warm amber light casting gentle shadows.

Jeongguk’s call had been brief, almost formal. ‘Prints are ready. Can I give them in person?’

No explanations. No questions. Just followed by another separate voicemail from him with the address of the hotel. You didn’t ask why he had prints made. Understood he’s always been old school, preferred things done the way he started – something tangible, something real, instead of digital things that could be forgotten or ignored.

You just couldn’t grasp why he had to pull you out of a random Wednesday afternoon when you were going to meet for dinner anyway. The time between mornings and evenings, you’ve clearly stated, should be meant for yourselves. 

Jeongguk stands as his client finishes speaking. Quick handshakes are exchanged before he settles back into the velvet armchair. A glass of neat whiskey waits on the table. Quietly making your way over, you take a seat across from him.

He offers a small, easy smile and slides the stack of prints across the table. “Thought you might want to see these.”

You pick up the top print, eyes scanning the sharp lines of the model’s posture — poised, confident, every angle meticulously captured. The lighting cuts clean shadows, highlighting the structure of the garment and the texture of the fabric. Another print shows a tight close-up of the intricate embroidery, every stitch crisp against the muted background. A few shots frame the collection as a whole, lined up beneath the glow of the studio lights — structured, clean, cohesive. It looks less like a trial and more like a beginning. Something ready. Something already on its way to Paris.

“Think Mark’s going to want to fly to Paris tomorrow once he sees these.” You say softly. “Thank you Gguk.”

Jeongguk leans back, a quiet satisfaction shining in his eyes. “He’ll want to — and probably sooner than that.”

“You didn’t have to rush it, though. We gave you a few more weeks to work on it. Everything was short notice.”

“Wasn’t doing much else, honestly.”

“The Calvin campaign?”

He shrugs, that familiar confidence settling around him. “Not on my Wednesday agenda.”

“But asking me to meet you this afternoon is?”

The soft click of polished heels breaks the ambient hush of the lounge. Your eyes flicker across the room as a familiar figure approaches — graceful, poised, carrying that quiet warmth that has always set her apart. Her gaze lands on Jeongguk first, fond and steady.

You both rise from your seats in surprise. You’re thankful he’s the first to speak. “Eomma? What are you doing here?”

She waves a hand, brushing off the formality, gestures for you both to sit again, already settling herself across from you with ease. “I stopped by your office to check in. Taehyung said you’d stepped out.” Her eyes shift to you, softening even further. “It’s nice to see you together again, sweetheart.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at the endearment. The way she says it — warm, familiar, unfiltered — stirs something old and tender in you. Still, you gather yourself quickly, wanting to clear things up before any assumptions settle in.

“We were just talking about work, Eomma-nim. That’s all.”

Her smile deepens, and the corners of her eyes crinkle. “That’s lovely to know. You two have always been inseparable — even when it was all about work. Your dynamic… it’s always been something special. I’m glad to see it back.”

You glance at Jeongguk, silently begging him to cut in, to say something that might redirect the course of the conversation. But he’s no help — only a smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Sit together, you two. Why are you across from her?” she says with a light scold, motioning for Jeongguk to move beside you. He follows far too easily, sliding into the seat next to yours with a faint grin still playing on his lips.

You take the opportunity to not-so-gently step on his shoe under the table.

He swallows a grunt, his jaw tightening as he barely holds in a sound, which earns a small snort from you. You hope she missed it.

“Ah, my beautiful children,” she says, clasping her hands together with a content sigh. “It’s been too long. Was it Chuseok when we last saw each other? A year ago?” Her gaze lingers on you, fond and a little wistful.

“Yes, Eomma-nim,” you reply, trying to keep your voice even.

“Where my little Ggukie wasn’t there.” Her eyes soften, not angry, but full of quiet sadness. “This is the perfect timing for you to attend another family celebration, together this time.”

Jeongguk straightens slightly, his brows drawing in. “What’s the occasion?”

She gives him a look — not quite scolding, not quite hurt, just enough disappointment to make him pause. “Jeon Jeongguk, you can’t possibly be that busy to forget your own mother’s birthday.”

He hesitates, fingers brushing the rim of his glass before he suddenly lifts it and knocks back the rest of the whiskey in one clean go — too quick to be casual. “Ah… no, I didn’t forget,” eyes flicker toward you after – the list you wrote lingers between a shared look.

“Thought you were celebrating next weekend?” he tries pointing out as if that was the plan all along. “I was going to drop by then.”

You appreciate his effort but Mrs. Jeon has always been hard to get by. It’s why you struggled with her the most when it came to coming up with excuses for your missing husband, her son, over the past few years. It used to come by easy until you’ve used up every reason in your book.

His mother raises a brow. “No, that’s when your brother’s in Jeju. I told you it’s tonight.”

Jeongguk nods slowly, his jaw tightening just a little. Silence threads between the three of you. You wait for him – no, you expect him – to come up with excuses like he’s always did. Before, he would’ve dodged this easily – out of town trips, client dinners, shoots he couldn’t move. But now, you don’t understand why he’s stumbling, why he’s acting like you have for all these years.

Guilt hits you. You never meant to put him in this spot. You don’t even know why he’s struggling with something that should’ve been easy.

“It won’t run late,” his mother cuts through the silence brightly. “Just a small party with some business partners and family. And your favorite cheesecake you two introduced me to – it’s my favorite now too. Made sure to get it from the same place you did.”

You want to tell Mrs. Jeon that it’s no longer her son’s favorite. She should know that. Your families aren’t being kept from the truth anymore. Her change in behavior digs a deeper grave for confusion.

With hands tied, you nod once, quiet and clear. Jeongguk answers shortly after, low and sure. “We’ll stop by, Eomma.”

Mrs. Jeon clasps her hands together, absolutely delighted. “Ah, that’s all I needed to hear. I’m going to set an extra seat for the two of you – together this time. No last-minute work emergencies, understood? Sweetheart, tell your mother to come as well if she’s not too busy still enjoying her retirement.”

The two of you nod in agreement. Your mother-in-law finally says her goodbye. The moment she’s finally disappeared out of the lounge, you both let out quiet breaths you didn’t know you were holding.

You don’t look at him when you speak. “What does your mother know?”

“She misses you.”

“Not what I asked, Gguk.”

He sighs. “Our parents know what they know. The rest of the family doesn’t. It’s better if you skip tonight. It’s on your list anyway.” The edge in his voice catches you off guard. You can’t pin point what exactly so you push further.  

“If that’s the case, why is Eomma acting like everything’s fine? What have you been telling her?”

“Nothing!” Jeongguk’s answer comes to quick, too loud. Earns a few stares from the tables nearby. “She probably thinks if she acts like it, say things out loud, it’ll become true.”

You finally look at him. Tried to search for answers in his eyes, answers you obviously couldn’t get from his mouth. But he avoids you – stares at the empty glass on the table instead. You desperately want to know what he means. Want to know if he’s still talking about his mother.

“Does she know it doesn’t work like that?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. Just drifts the conversation. “You don’t have to go. I’ll come up with an excuse. If Eomma gets mad, I’ll take the blow. About time I did.”

You don’t say anything. Just quietly gather the prints from the table, slipping them into your bag. Then a soft ‘bye’ leaves your lips before you walk out of the lounge—carrying more questions your mind can handle.

Jeongguk straightens his cuffs as he stands in front of the mirror, making sure he’s all set as if he hasn’t done that for the past two hours. A dark button-up, slacks pressed clean — simple, neat, just the way his mother likes. He breathes slowly and reaches for the gift on the table, a delicate ribbon tied around the box of hand cream sets she’d mentioned offhandedly weeks ago.

The watch on his wrist tells he’s stalled long enough.

He slips into his shoes and heads out.

The drive to his parents’ house in Hannam passes in a blur — streets familiar, traffic slow and predictable. It’s not like their family home in Busan, but it’s where memories have settled when his family first moved, where holidays are still celebrated, where his mother has redecorated the walls enough times to finally call it their home.

The sky’s turned a dusky gold, the city softening into evening. His parents’ house glow in welcome, lanterns already strung across the backyard, fairy lights peeking through the dining room curtains. He parks, steps out. The front door is already cracked open, the soft sound of music filtering through.

The house buzzes with soft chatter and laughter. A handful of guests are scattered through the living and dining areas — cousins catching up, a few family friends sharing drinks, and business partners politely exchanging small talk.

Jeongguk spots his brother near the bar, already enjoying a glass of whiskey.

“About time you showed up,” his brother calls out with a grin. “Eomma’s birthday party can officially start.”

Jeongguk offers a tired smile. “Sorry. Made it though.”

Their father joins them, hands him a drink, which he downs in one go, hoping to wash down the nerves he knows won’t leave him tonight. “If you plan on driving, go easy.”

“Unless you’re staying over?” his brother chimes in, raising a brow.

“No. Got work tomorrow,” Jeongguk answers simply, even though he’s taken a few days off. Doesn’t say it. Just knows he can’t stay at his parents’ house where too many memories and disappointments weigh on him the moment he’s stepped in.

“Jeongguk,” his mother’s already approaching him, with a radiant and calm smile. “I was starting to think you’d come up with another excuse.”

“Save the scolding for later, Eomma. It’s your birthday—don’t stress.”

“You're the one who gives me stress, Gguk-ah.” She tuts, lightly pinching his cheek before looking around. Her smile falters just a little. “She’s not with you?”

Jeongguk forces a smile, hoping it’s enough to pass. “She’s just running late. Caught up with work.”

She hums. Lets it go to greet a group of business partners, his father following close behind.

“She’s not coming, is she?” His brother pours him another drink, like he already knows the answer.

Is proven right when Jeongguk drowns the drink again, eyes lingering on the front door as if it was going to change anything.  

Soft classical music hums from the corner speaker, blending with the quiet clinking of wine glasses and the murmur of conversation. Warm overhead lights cast a glow over the carefully set table — a tasteful spread of small bites, flowers, wine bottles already halfway down.

Jeongguk moves through the crowd slowly, a drink in hand, nodding and smiling as he’s pulled into brief conversations.

A few chuckles. His cousin nudges him, raising a brow. ”You haven’t aged a day, Jeongguk-ah. What’s your secret?”

He shakes his head. “Work keeps me young.”

The dining area had started to fill — his aunts chatting while pouring makgeolli, his uncle already halfway into a debate with his brother about stocks. Plates passed from hand to hand, laughter rolled from room to room

But as Jeongguk nears his seat, his eyes land on the chair next to his, reserved for you. He hovers for a second. Debates whether to pull it out or ignore it altogether. Ends up not touching it.

Instead, he took his own seat, quietly smoothing down the napkin on his lap as the conversations carried on around him. Someone nudged a dish of banchan toward him.

His mother moved through the room with practiced ease, checking that everyone had enough to eat, calling across the table to nieces and nephews she hadn’t seen in months, refilling drinks for guests with a proud, glowing energy only birthdays could bring.

“She really went all out this year,” his brother said under his breath, leaning toward him. “Even got those fancy floating candles again.”

Jeongguk smiled faintly. “She deserves it.”

Someone raised a toast midway through the first round of soup. “To the most youthful and sharpest woman in the room!”

Glasses clinked. Cheers followed.

The evening moves along. Small conversations continue to float between bites of food. Jeongguk tries to stay present. Nods when needed. Answers when spoken to. But his focus keeps slipping. It’s not because of his fifth glass of whiskey. That’s never been a problem. His tolerance is strong.

He just feels drained. Like the night is stretching longer than it should.

Jeongguk knows tonight is about his mother. It’s her special day. He’s missed a few of her birthdays over the years. But he’ll make it up to her – like he always does. Some other time. Some other way.

But he just wants to go home. Sure, that place is quiet too – filled with worst nightmares lately that he has to face – but at least there, he doesn’t have to pretend. Doesn’t have to smile when he’s not sure how.

For now, he just needs to get through the evening without breaking.

Another toast had just ended when the doorbell chimed.

It barely cut through the noise at first — just a polite sound beneath the hum of conversation and clatter of cutlery. Jeongguk’s mother glanced toward the entryway, brows rising. "Ah, that must be another colleague," she’s already making her way toward the door with a practiced hostess smile.

He pays no attention. Just finishes his food. Reaches for his glass. Stops halfway when his mother returns with someone familiar beside her.

The hallway light spills behind you. Simple but elegant. A cream-toned dress that hit just below the knee, delicate at the shoulders, hugging your shape in a way that wasn’t loud—but enough to make the room fall quieter for a second. Hair loosely done, a soft gloss on your lips.

Jeongguk’s grip around his glass tightened before he realized.

His mother beamed, hand gently on your back as she ushered you in. “She made it,” she announced with far too much joy to mask.

Conversations resumed. A few new faces looked toward you with curious smiles, someone whispered your name. You offer a polite bow to the guests, some family members you’ve seen from previous gatherings, your eyes only briefly scanning the room before they stopped on him.

There was the smallest pause.

And then you walked toward a seat – the one beside him.

[acrux-rising]

sick and tired (but never of you)

ʚ♡ɞ synopsis how the aot men take care of you when you're sick ʚ♡ɞ wc 663 ʚ♡ɞ feat. e. jaeger, l. ackerman a. arlert, j. kirstein, r. braun, p. galliard

ʚ♡ɞ eren jaeger エレン・イェーガー

tries so hard to take care of you, he really does. but one thing’s for sure - he can’t cook for shit and has absolutely no idea how to take care of another human being (since he rarely gets sick himself)

googles your symptoms, inadvertently stressing you out

“you coughed, like, three times in a row… i think you might have pneumonia”

makes sure you hydrate well, and is literally at your beck and call the whole time, tending to your every need to make sure you get well as soon as possible 

he hates seeing you in pain, after all

ʚ♡ɞ levi ackerman リヴァイ・アッカーマン

honestly? the best possible caretaker you could ask for

first thing he does is put on a mask and disinfect every surface you might have come into contact with. (if he owned a hazmat suit, he would wear it.)

makes you herbal teas or warm broth and gives you your meds regularly on the dot like a strict nurse

he’s not one to express his love for you verbally, but you’ll wake up to your favourite book on the nightstand, or your favourite meal on the dining table as you stumble out of your bedroom in a daze, still wrapped in your warm blanket

"better not complain about how you can't taste anything. would you rather have hypertension?"

ʚ♡ɞ jean kirstein ジャン・キルシュタイン

complains a lot in the beginning (“i told you it was going to be cold out, and you still insisted you didn’t need a jacket! when are you going to learn?”) of course he says this while tucking you in and tenderly brushing your hair out of your face

actually enjoys taking care of you and spoils you rotten - hot, comforting meals, massages, and your favourite movies that he normally refuses to watch, but he’ll make an exception this time

tries to be cool about it but his heart melts when you smile up at him and say thank you in that hoarse but still sweet voice of yours (what a big softie…)

"it's insane how pretty you look even when you're sick"

ʚ♡ɞ armin arlert アルミン・アルレルト

is an absolute administrative machine. he wakes up at the crack of dawn to switch off all your morning alarms, and calls in sick on your behalf.

when you wake up (around noon), he’s sitting by your bedside reading a book, whispering a gentle “good morning” to you

not the best at cooking, but he makes you soup and frankly, the love he put into it is more than enough to make you feel better instantly

takes your temperature when you’re asleep, making sure not to wake you

“right now, you need rest. don’t worry, love, i’ve got everything covered.”

ʚ♡ɞ reiner braun ライナー・ブラウン

this man runs hot all the time, so you know his cuddles are the absolute best. you wake up to a pair of strong arms around you, enveloping you in a comforting warmth

carries you everywhere without question (putting his muscles to good use)

moves all his work to your room, not letting you out of his sight for even a second - that’s how precious you are to him

gives death stares to the neighbours’ kids when they make too much noise playing in the yard

“you’ll get sick too if you stay here like this!”   “don’ care… jus’ wanna be here with you”

ʚ♡ɞ porco galliard ポルコ・ガリアード

panics when you cough too hard, though he tries to hide it. he sits at the foot of your bed scrolling on his phone while glancing at you every 30 seconds

grumbles about you getting germs on him but dutifully stays by your side the whole time anyway

calls pieck for some much-needed advice (like eren, he does not know how to take care of a whole other person)

if you say thank you or show appreciation in any way or form, he gets all flustered immediately 

“yeah, yeah, just don’t die or whatever.”

-> to aot masterlist -> to main masterlist

© acrux-rising

[heavenlybodies333]

Daddy Issues - S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

The BAU is quieter after hours. No flurry of footsteps, no clipped commands or rustling case files. Just a low hum of computers left on overnight and the distant tick of the bullpen clock.

You’re curled up in the small corner of the library, cross-legged, back hunched, arms wrapped around yourself like they might hold you together better than he ever could.

You told yourself you weren’t going to cry. Not here. Not again. But the tears crept out anyway. And now you’re here, in the place that always steals him from you, waiting—again—because he swore he’d make it up with dinner, and you believed him. Again.

The door creaks open softly. You wipe your face quickly. “Hey.”

You look up, blinking through tears, and find Spencer standing there in his cardigan and slacks, a file in one hand, a slight furrow in his brow. “What are you doing here?” you ask, trying to sound casual, even as your voice cracks.

“He got pulled into a call,” Spencer says quietly. “He told me to tell you he’d be down as soon as he wrapped it.”

You nod. “Of course he did.” You wipe your face fast. “I’m fine.” He doesn’t respond right away. Just takes in the disheveled state of your textbooks, the uneven stack of flashcards, the smeared mascara on the sleeve of your sweatshirt. He says, soft as a breath, “Tell me what he forgot.”

Your stomach twists. You shake your head. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s so stupid. I’m twenty, I shouldn’t care.”

“That’s not how people work,” Spencer says, voice warm and achingly gentle. “That’s not how you work.”

You press your lips together. Hard. Trying to hold it in. “He was supposed to come to the presentation,” you whisper finally, like the words shame you. “My psych capstone. It was today.”

Spencer’s chest tightens. “He told me he’d leave early to make it.”

You huff a laugh through your nose. “Well, something came up. Probably another profile. Another victim. Another name on a file that matters more than mine.”

“That’s not true,” Spencer says instantly, but you cut him off with a look.

“You don’t get it. You have no idea what it’s like to be the thing he always chooses last.”

Spencer’s quiet. Not because you’re wrong. But because he knows you’re not. You look away. “He texted me after it was over. Said he was proud. Said he was ‘sure I did great.’ Like I’m some intern giving a slideshow instead of his fucking daughter.”

Spencer’s voice is barely audible. “You’re not second to him.”

You whisper, “Then why do I always feel like it?” voice breaking slightly. “It was on trauma-informed profiling. I used BAU cases for the foundation. His cases.”

Spencer smiles faintly. “Of course you did. I’d like to hear it sometime.” You looked over at him.

“I mean it,” he said. “All of it. The whole thing. In order. Start to finish. I’ll sit through it as many times as you want.”

Your throat tightened. “Even the stats section?” you whispered.

He smiled, warm and soft and proud. “Especially the stats section.”

“I even quoted you, you know.” You nudge him. “Statistically, you’re the most cited member of the team.”

He nudges back. “I’ll never let him live that down.”

And for the first time that day, you laugh. Quietly. Weakly. But it’s real. He holds your hand a little tighter. “I’ll remember your paper,” he says. “And I’ll ask to read it.”

You choke back a sob, “Thanks, Spence.” You lean your head on his shoulder. And for the first time that week, the ache in your chest starts to loosen. Because even if your dad forgets sometimes…Spencer never does.

a/n: Spence is my babygirl

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[ducksido]

I've been loving how you've written all of my requests so far. I love your writing in general so that isn't really a surprise. Well, onto my request. Could you do the Housewardens with a s/o who has a stutter? It usually isn't noticeable but sometimes it gets really bad, bad enough that it gets frustrating to communicate. Also the reader(s/o) gets embarrassed over the stutter due to some people making fun of them when they had to present in front of the class before.

-🥀🪻

(of course 🥀🪻)

Housewardens with Yuu who has a stutter

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, Riddle isn’t quite sure how to respond—he's not used to emotional nuance thanks to his strict upbringing.

But he listens. Listens intently. When you get stuck mid-sentence, he doesn’t rush you. He lets the silence stretch without pressure, a quiet signal of: I’m here. Take your time.

After learning about your classroom experience, he gets visibly upset—not at you, but at the people who made fun of you. “You were brave enough to speak. They didn’t deserve to hear you.”

He studies up on speech therapy techniques and gently asks if you’d be okay with a hand signal system—like you squeezing his hand when you’re too frustrated to continue, so he can read the room for you.

If you're ever in a class presentation again, he’ll stand in the crowd, meeting your eyes the whole time, anchoring you with nods of encouragement.

Leona Kingscholar

His first instinct? "Who the hell made fun of you?" Yeah, someone’s getting buried in the sandpit outside Savannaclaw.

He’s laid-back enough to not pressure you when you’re struggling to speak—he’ll just raise an eyebrow, smirk a little, and go: “Tch. I got time. No one says it like you do anyway.”

If you get upset or start shutting down, he won't go all mushy—he knows you hate feeling pitied—but he’ll bump your shoulder, mumble: “You don’t gotta be perfect to make me listen.”

Leona will be your unshakable wall. If anyone dares laugh again, one glare from him and the room goes dead silent.

Azul Ashengrotto

Internally? Panic. Externally? Calm and courteous. He's terrified of saying the wrong thing, especially given his own trauma with bullying.

He understands. Oh, he gets it. You remind him of himself—polished on the surface, but vulnerable in moments of exposure.

When you stutter, he subtly slows his own speech to match your pace, making it feel less awkward. You don’t even notice at first—it’s just suddenly easier to talk to him.

One day, when you’re particularly embarrassed after tripping over your words, he gently reaches over and takes your hand. “I used to dread speaking too. But every word you say is worth hearing—even the ones that need a moment.”

Kalim Al-Asim

Pure sunshine. Doesn’t even notice the stutter at first—he’s too focused on your smile, your ideas, your energy.

But when he sees you frustrated or pulling away from conversations, he gently asks, “Hey, are you okay? Did I talk too fast?”

You explain your stutter, and he immediately hugs you. “That’s okay! That’s just how your words dance a little before they come out!”

You can’t even stay embarrassed around Kalim—he celebrates every time you speak. “Yes!! I love when you tell stories! Even the way you say things is fun!”

If you’re having a bad day, he’ll offer to speak for you if needed—no judgment, just support.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil is hyper-aware of how you carry yourself. The first time he sees you recoil mid-sentence out of embarrassment, he’s already dissecting the entire situation.

“Someone made you feel ashamed. Unacceptable.”

He never interrupts your stutter—not once. His patience is calm, dignified, and never patronizing. If you apologize, he cuts you off with a firm but gentle, “You are not flawed. You are human. And I admire that about you.”

Vil even works with you on breathing techniques—not to fix you, but to help you feel more confident. He adapts some stage projection tricks to your comfort.

If someone mocks you, Vil absolutely eviscerates them with a cold, cutting line that makes them rethink their life.

Idia Shroud

Idia is so anxious around speech in general. He stutters himself, so when he realizes you do too, he’s like: “Wait… you mean… I’m not the only glitching NPC in the cutscene?”

He's instantly more comfortable with you than anyone else. Conversations are awkward, yes, but real. Soft. Shared.

When your stutter gets bad, he doesn’t even blink—just continues typing on his tablet, then flashes it at you: [“No worries. Wanna just chill in silence or type today?”]

If you cry out of frustration, he panics and offers you snacks, games, a blanket, and then just shyly says: “I-I like your voice… It sounds like you’re casting a spell when you talk... like real magic.”

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is unbothered. The idea of mocking someone for their speech is so beneath him he can’t comprehend it.

When you stutter, he tilts his head and patiently waits, giving you space like a quiet glade in the woods.

If you get upset or try to hide it, he places a hand over yours, warm and grounding. “Child of man… Do not be ashamed. Each pause is a breath of your soul. Let it speak.”

He never makes you feel like you have to perform for him. Silence or speech, you’re cherished either way.

If someone mocks you in his presence? Oh, dear. Malleus may not react loudly, but the drop in temperature and faint green flicker of flame in his eyes sends a very clear message.

[feketeribizli]

hi ur art is perfect and such a lovely style and i lovee how you draw the drivers especially george 🫶🏼 you just capture their essence so well

thank youuu omg! 🥺❣️ my eyelash bug...

[mintedwitcher]

in honour of the transfer mention in canon (which I will be choosing to believe is still Buck's plan until s9 starts and ruins all my fun once again), let's have a slice of my 'buck leaves the 118 fic', shall we? we are finally at his first day.

==============

.“Heard you prefer to go by ‘Buck’, right?” Captain Deluca asks. Buck nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “There were, uh, three Evans in my class at the academy, so uh, ‘Buck’ kinda stuck, I guess.”

“And when did you get out of the academy? Last week?” One guy across the loft asks, a tone in his voice that immediately reminds Buck of Eddie. He bristles, but Deluca beats him to the punch.

“Roy!” he barks. “Don’t get bitter now just ‘cause we got someone prettier on the team.”

Laughs rise up from the rest of the team. The guy – Roy – raises his hands in surrender.

“Alright,” Deluca says, clapping Buck on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Go put your stuff away, then come back and meet your squad.”

“Yes sir,” Buck says.

“And don’t call me ‘sir’, jeez, I ain’t that old,” Deluca groans, but he’s smiling. Buck grins, quick and nervous, and nods. Deluca gives him a bit of a shove, and Buck heads down to the locker room.

One of the lockers is decorated with streamers, and a handwritten sign that declares ‘For the new guy!’ in a curlicue font. Buck smiles, but he still stands cautiously back as he opens it up. Thankfully, nothing pops out at him. He peeks inside to find it empty, and sighs in relief. He’d already put his uniform on at home before coming in, so he shoves his bag into the locker, and takes a minute to breathe.

This is good, he tells himself. This is a good thing.

He closes the locker, smiling again at the streamers. When he turns around, Roy is in the doorway. Buck’s guard goes up immediately. Roy sighs, and steps forward, extending a hand.

“Sorry, man,” he says. He sounds genuine. “We don’t know each other well enough to joke like that yet. I’m Roy.”

“Thanks,” Buck says. He takes the hand extended and shakes it. “Buck. Are you, uh, on the same shift?”

“Yeah,” Roy says. “Cap actually picked you as my partner. Sorry I made a bad first impression.”

“No, it’s uh, it’s okay,” Buck says. Their hands drop. “I should tell you about how I acted when I met my new partner, at my old house. I was a bit of a dick.”

“You?” Roy snorts. “Can’t picture it, Buck. Anyway, come on up, say hi to the rest of the guys. I promise, we’re not all assholes. Just Cap, sometimes.”

===============

tag list: (since we're so close to this fic getting posted, I won't be adding any more people to the tag list, but all of my posted snippets so far can be found under the tag 'buck leaves the 118 fic' on my blog, and of course, I'll post the AO3 link once it goes live. thank you to everyone who has kept up with this fic so far, yall are so wonderful, I love this community so much ❤️)

@littlepaws9 @loulou-land @dashing-disaster @kinardstits @tyrusshipper12

@samjohnssonvt @magdalyna @sweaters-and-silly @safelycapricious @onceuponatmi

@hubcaphalo @letsdosciencetoit @ladyeyrewrites @cm1031sr @sunsetandevningstar

@marsflower @buckitweride @joyfullyhauntedmiracle @sahtinekryze @agentpeggycartering

@gayjaytodd @darkjediqueen @avnasace @lostintheuniverseslies @breadread101

@whentheresidentsareevil @athenap47 @cheesycottagecheese @youreademonroyce @eliotwaughdeservesbetter

@dearqueend @paperyowl @todd-harper @spence922 @chococara25

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

WE’LL BE ALRIGHT

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 5.5k

SUMMARY:

Two truths and a lie:

1. You swiped right on the Tinder profile of JB, 33, only to discover that it was the profile of Bucky Barnes.

2. Bucky Barnes stole your heart then ghosted you all in the span of a single year.

3. You are totally and completely over him.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

bucky barnes has had me in a chokehold since 2011 and it really took me all this time to write something for him smh. anyway, big thank you to @chaotic-mystery and @dindjarinslegs for letting me scream about this. and i’m coming for bob reynolds next, mark my words.

WARNINGS/TAGS:

fatws!bucky AND thunderbolts!bucky, mild thunderbolts* spoilers, second chance romance, alcohol consumption, mild angst, declarations of love, pet names (doll/sweetheart/baby)

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact): kissing, dirty talk, nipple play, oral (f receiving), choking, unprotected p in v, multiple positions (missionary/prone bone), cream pie.

LINKS:

main blog | masterlists | ao3

Then

It’s Friday night and you’re on the couch, flicking through Tinder profiles to the soundtrack of a shitty reality show playing on your TV. You’re two glasses of wine deep and you’ve stopped scrutinizing most of the profiles and have settled for swiping right as long as they’re not holding a fish, a flag, or a baby.

You’ve had a shit week and you’re hoping to find someone to help you de-stress. If not, you’ll have to take care of things yourself (again) and while your vibrator is reliable (and doesn’t ask you questions about your investment profile like it’s foreplay), you’re craving something more. The weight of someone on top of you, the feel of them between your thighs, the rush of something new and exhilarating and hopefully satisfying.

The app dings, announcing a match between you and JB, 33. A message comes through shortly after.

JB: Are you okay?

You frown. Weird thing to ask in the first message. Surely it’s better to wait for the third date to ask something so personal.

Yeah, why?, you reply.

JB: Your profile says, “I need to be taken out. On a date or by a sniper.”

Don’t worry, it’s a joke. My therapist didn’t think it was very funny either.

JB: I’m pretty handy with a gun.

You snort.

Is that a euphemism for your dick?

JB: No, actually.

What a shame.

JB: I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk about my dick on here.

You click on JB’s profile and swipe through the pictures. He looks familiar and it takes your wine-addled synapses a few tries to make the connection but when it clicks you realize you’re looking at pictures of Bucky Barnes. As in, Captain America’s best friend, American prisoner of war turned Soviet assassin turned Avenger. You frown. There’s no way the Winter Soldier is on Tinder.

Swiping back to the chat, you begin to type.

You’re right. It’s much safer to talk about your gun.

JB: That sounds like sarcasm.

It definitely wasn’t sincere.

JB: Anyone ever told you that you have a smart mouth?

Anyone ever told you that catfishing people on Tinder with pics of an Avenger is a stupid idea?

At least pick someone who isn’t famous.

JB: Those are my pictures.

JB: And I’m not an Avenger.

Sure they are.

JB: Why would someone lie on their dating profile?

That does sound like something a 100 year old would say.

JB: 106.

You can’t help the laugh that bursts free, the sound bouncing off the walls of your tiny apartment.

If you’re really Bucky Barnes, then prove it.

JB: How?

Send a video of you waving in the mirror.

With the metal arm.

He doesn’t respond and for a while you think it’s because you’ve backed him into a corner. Whoever JB is can’t send you the requested video because he’s not Bucky Barnes and that’s the end of your excitement for the evening.

But then your phone pings with a new message from the app.

A video.

From JB.

You click play and the camera shows a tile floor before panning up to reveal a man’s reflection. His face is hidden by the phone but then he moves it a little to the right to reveal a chiseled jaw covered in stubble and pretty blue eyes, thick brows drawn together in either confusion or concentration.

He lifts a metal arm up in a wave and suddenly you’re desperate for the Earth to swallow you whole (maybe you shouldn’t say that — given the shit you’ve been through as a resident of New York, you can’t rule out the possibility of that actually happening).

You’re really Bucky Barnes, you finally manage to type.

JB: In the flesh. And metal.

So you are good with a gun then.

JB: I am. But I think I’d rather pick the first option.

You bite back a smile.

You want to go on a date?

JB: Isn’t that the whole point of the app?

You’ve got me there.

I’m free tomorrow.

JB: It’s a date.

Bucky asks you to meet him at a nearby bar the following night and you spend the day alternating between feelings of giddy excitement and nauseating anxiety.

You arrive a few minutes early to a quiet bar you never noticed in the years you’ve lived in your shoebox of an apartment a few blocks over. It’s all dark wood and moody lighting with booths along one wall and a stately bar taking up the other. There’s quiet jazz playing through the speakers and the bartender has an impressive handlebar mustache.

You choose one of the empty barstools and the bartender floats by to place a cocktail napkin and menu in front of you. You’re looking over your options when the door opens you look up to see Bucky entering the bar. He’s wearing a t-shirt that stretches across his impressive chest, highlighting his trim waist, a leather jacket and dark jeans that hug his legs.

He smiles when he sees you, a quick flash of teeth before he ducks his head and approaches you, taking a seat on the stool to your left. The bartender returns with another menu and napkin.

“Hey,” you say, voice cracking. Smooth. So smooth.

“Hi,” he replies. “Did you, uh, have any trouble finding the place?”

“No, not really. I’ve never been here, though. It’s nice.”

“Did you order already?”

“I was waiting for you.”

As if summoned by the conversation, the bartender returns to take your orders. Bucky opts for bourbon and you choose one of craft cocktails from the menu because you’re a sucker for a well made drink and Mr. Handlebar Mustache looks like he can deliver.

After one sip to calm your nerves (you were right, the man can make a damn good drink), a second for confidence, and a third for luck, you turn slightly on your stool, knees bumping Bucky’s beneath the bar.

“So,” you say, drawing out the single syllable. “I have to ask. Why are you on Tinder?”

He laughs. “Starting with the hard questions?”

“If you consider that one hard, I have bad news for you.”

“My therapist suggested it,” he admits. “Something about getting out of my comfort zone.”

“Well, they’re right about that. Nothing comfortable about online dating.”

“Right?” He takes a sip of his drink. “I’ve seen…a lot of shit and somehow I’m still surprised by some of the messages I got.”

“What’s the worst one so far?”

“A woman asked if the metal arm vibrates.”

You try not to laugh at the look of utter disappointment that flashes across his face. “Well? Does it?”

“No,” he deadpans. “But it is waterproof.”

“You might call that,” you wiggle your eyebrows, “handy.”

Bucky laughs and you watch him, the way he tips his head back and his shoulders shake with the force of it.

He has a nice laugh.

“That was terrible,” he tells you, but he’s wiping at the corner of his eye.

“Guess I won’t be quitting my day job to pursue my comedy dreams anytime soon.”

The rest of the evening is much the same, easy conversation and even easier laughter from you both. You steer clear of certain topics — superhero activities and pardoned war crimes among them. Your one drink turns into two and then you switch to water because Mr. Handlebar Mustache has a heavy hand and you don’t want to end up drunk enough that what little filter you have disappears entirely.

The bar has gotten a bit busier and you’ve drifted closer into Bucky’s orbit, your legs now tucked between his as you lean in close to be heard over the hum of a dozen conversations. You’ve caught him staring at your mouth with half lidded eyes more than once and it makes warmth pool between your thighs.

“It’s getting a little loud, do you want to head out?” You ask, a hand on his thigh, just above his knee. He nods.

Bucky takes care of the bill despite your objections and follows you out of the bar with a hand low on your back, just barely touching. On the sidewalk, he gently pulls you to the side, out of the way of pedestrians.

“I had a good time,” he says. “Best date I’ve been on since 1943.”

“Oh, yeah?” You step a bit closer, chest to chest. His hand grips your waist. “How did dates used to end back then, old man?”

He rolls his eyes. “Smart mouth. First, I’d walk you back to your apartment. Like a gentleman.”

“Mhm,” you hum. “Then what?”

“Then, you’d give me a kiss on the cheek.”

You tilt your face toward his, pressing your lips to his cheek. “Like that?”

“Just like that. But then, when you’re about to pull away—“ he reaches up, wrapping a hand around the back of your neck, “I’d pull you right back.”

You’re so close that you can feel his breath on your lips. “And then?”

“I’d kiss you.”

“You better start walking me home, Barnes,” you tell him. He smiles.

“Lead the way.”

The walk to your apartment is quiet but the tension between you is damn near corporeal and you’re practically buzzing with anticipation by the time you reach your building.

“This is me,” you tell him as you turn to face him. “I had a great time, too, you know.” You loop your arms over his shoulders. “In fact, I’m not sure I’m ready for it to end.”

“That so?” He asks, boyish smirk tilting the corner of his mouth.

You shrug. “If that doesn’t offend your delicate sensibilities.”

Bucky leans in and your eyes flutter shut just before his lips touch yours. The scent of leather and bourbon wraps around you and the rush of your blood in your ears drowns out the late night noises of the city around you. The kiss is sweet, gentle, until his teeth nip at your bottom lip and you gasp, giving him the opening to make it deeper, hungrier, an edge of desperation in the way his fingers curl against your neck.

He pulls away first, tongue darting across his lips like he’s trying to capture the faint taste of you on them.

“Wow,” you mumble. “That was…do you want to come upstairs?”

“But my delicate sensibilities,” he says, laughing as you smack him on the chest. He kisses you again, though it’s less of a kiss and more the two of you smiling against each other. “I’d like that.”

Bucky carves himself a place in your life.

His toothbrush next to yours on the bathroom counter. The coffee that he likes in your pantry. A book he’s been trying to read for a few weeks on your nightstand. A side of the bed that you consider his.

He brings you flowers from the farmer’s market and your favorite snack from the bodega down the street when he knows you’ve had a rough day. He makes you laugh so hard that your muscles ache with it.

You are so in love that your chest hurts just to look at him.

And then he disappears.

Now

Running into an ex-boyfriend at a coffee shop is already an uncomfortable enough experience. Add to it that your ex-boyfriend is Bucky Barnes, the devastatingly handsome face of the New Avengers, New York’s newest batch of superheroes, and you’ve got a recipe for the most awkward situation imaginable.

He’s waiting by the pick up counter, metal arm covered by his jacket and wearing a hat that you think it meant to act as some sort of disguise though it falls short of being effective, considering he has one of the most recognizable faces in the nation. You shuffle over to the same spot, keeping your head down and attention fixed on your phone, hoping he doesn’t notice you.

Despite the fact that he was there before you, the barista calls out your name first, placing your drink on the counter. Bucky lifts his head and looks around, a furrow between his brows. Then, as if the universe is playing a sick joke, another barista sets a second drink next to yours and calls out, “James!”

He doesn’t immediately reach for his drink and you just know he’s waiting to see if hearing your name called was just a coincidence. So, with a desperation for your caffeine fix and a healthy dose of feminine rage, you square your shoulders and march up to the counter, taking your drink without looking at him.

Bucky steps in front of you just as you’re about to make your escape and you look up into his familiar blue eyes, mouth going dry and stomach plummeting to the ground.

“Hey,” he says. “I thought that might be you.”

“Hi,” you reply tersely. “I knew it was you.”

He flinches slightly. “That’s…that’s fair. Uh, how’ve you been?”

“Pretty good. Well, except for that whole bit with the,” you wiggle your fingers near your head, “weird cinematic loop of traumatic experiences.”

“Right, right. That wasn’t great.”

“I’d ask how you are but I’ve already seen the headlines.”

Bucky sighs, taking off his hat to run a hand through his hair. “Look, I know—“

“Motherfucker,” you whisper, ducking your head down. Bucky frowns.

“What—“

Someone calls your name. Well, okay, not just someone. Your boyfriend, David, enters the coffee shop, walking up to you and wrapping an arm around your waist.

“I thought I was early enough to beat you here but I guess not,” David says, nodding toward the drink in your hand. He glances at Bucky, then does a full on double-take. “Holy shit, you’re Bucky Barnes.” He sticks his hand out toward him. “I’m a big fan.”

And Bucky, asshole that he is, looks you dead in the eye as he shakes David’s hand and says, “Thanks, man.”

“People used to tell me I looked a lot like you,” David continues, digging your grave of embarrassment deeper and deeper. “When you had short hair.”

“Is that so?” Bucky asks. “Yeah, I can see the resemblance.”

Which, okay, you understand how this looks. David does kind of resemble Bucky. He’s got blue eyes and a strong, square jaw and dark hair but it’s not like you went looking for a boyfriend that looked like Bucky.

You just have a type.

Besides, David was shorter than Bucky. There are definitely differences.

“I’m going to grab a drink. It was great to meet you,” David tells Bucky, shaking his hand again. “Be right back,” he says to you, leaning in for a kiss. You turn your head, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth.

“He seems nice,” Bucky says when David has taken his place in line across the room.

“Shut up,” you hiss. “You don’t get to judge.”

“I’m not judging.”

“You’re definitely judging.” You cross your arms. “Don’t you have superhero things to do?”

“I’m on vacation.”

“Nice to hear the New Avengers offer a robust benefits package.”

“You still have a smart mouth,” he comments, voice dropping low. Your brain short circuits and in your moment of weakness he reaches for the phone still in your hand, plucking it from your grasp with ease.

“Hey—“ you start to protest, but he’s handing it back before you can even finish the sentence. The screen is open to his contact information and it looks like he’s updated his number. “What’s this for?”

“If you need me,” he says easily. “I gotta get going. It was good to see you.”

Bucky leaves with the last word. You curse his existence even as you watch his broad shoulders disappear through the door and out into the wave of New York pedestrian traffic. David returns with his drink in hand, looking at you curiously.

“What?” You ask.

“How do you know Bucky Barnes?”

You shift your weight from foot to foot, searching for the right response. “We have…history.”

“History,” David deadpans. “Platonic?”

“Well—“

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he interrupts. “You dated an Avenger?”

“He wasn’t an Avenger at the time!”

“As if that makes this any better!”

“Why is this an issue?” You ask with a groan. “It was two years ago!”

“Are you only dating me because I look like him?”

“What? No!” You lower your voice. “Can we please just talk about this later.”

He seems to realize that you’re both still standing in the middle of a coffee shop, a dozen curious stares turned to you. “Fine,” he acquiesces.

You leave together, shoulders brushing on your walk to the nearby park where you planned to have your coffee that morning before everything was interrupted by a ghost from your past.

Things with David only get worse. He digs for more details about your relationship with Bucky and you snap at him to leave it alone. He grows tired of asking and you grow tired of avoiding until finally, inevitably, you get a phone call from him a week later.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he sighs. “I think we should just call it quits.”

“Fine,” you reply. “I’ll get a box of your stuff together for you to come get.”

“Seriously? That’s it?” He asks. “You’re not even going to ask me why?”

You can’t help but laugh. “Because you’re insecure that I dated Bucky Barnes and won’t go into excruciating detail about my sex life and how you compare to him.”

He sputters indignantly before finally landing on, “You’re such a bitch.”

“Charming,” you reply. “I’ll text you when your shit can get picked up.”

You hang up before he has the chance to respond. Tears of frustration prick at the corners of your eyes. You’re not upset about the relationship ending, not really, you just hate that somehow, Bucky Barnes managed to be the reason.

You call your best friend and she makes the appropriate noises of sympathy, followed by empty threats of bodily harm to David, before suggesting the two of you go out to get your mind off of the breakup.

You probably should have declined the invitation and stayed home because now you’re staring into the mirror of the bar bathroom, clutching the sink like it’ll make the world stop spinning (it doesn’t). Your friend is nowhere to be found and you’re ready to go home but the thought of calling an Uber in this state makes your stomach roll.

You pull up your contacts, finger hovering over Bucky’s name. Before you can change your mind or drop your phone in the sink, you tap the call button.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Barnes,” he says. His voice makes your breath hitch.

“Hey…it’s me,” you reply, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Are you okay?” He asks immediately. You huff a laugh.

“I’m okay. Just…I’m a little drunk and I think my friend left and I could really use a ride but if you’re busy, I could call an Uber!” You’re rambling. Bucky, thankfully, puts you out of your misery.

“Where are you?” You give him the name of the bar. There’s a shuffling noise and then he’s telling you, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

You wait outside the bar on the sidewalk, arms wrapped around yourself. A blacked out SUV pulls up to the curb and Bucky steps out, turning heads as he rounds the front of the car to the sidewalk and looks around for you.

You take a tentative step forward and his gaze snaps to you, softening from mission mode in a way that makes your head feel fuzzy. He opens the passenger door for you, holds a hand out to help you into the seat, still a gentleman.

Your breath catches when he leans over, tugging the seatbelt across your chest and buckling it into place. He smells the same, you think, like leather and metal and mint. No bourbon, this time.

When you’re buckled, he shuts the door and walks to the other side of the car, sliding into the driver’s seat. You tilt your head back against the headrest, letting your eyes fall shut. It’s good to be sitting.

“You okay?” He asks.

“You already asked me that,” you reply, keeping your eyes closed. He sighs.

“Why didn’t you call Daniel?”

“David,” you correct. “We broke up.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

You turn your head, opening your eyes slightly. “No, you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not.”

And that shouldn’t make your heart beat faster, shouldn’t send warmth coursing through you but it does because it’s Bucky. You close your eyes again. This seat is very comfortable.

“You still in the same apartment?” He asks. The question sounds fuzzy.

“No,” you mumble. “Moved.”

“Can you give me the address?”

But you don’t hear that last question because you’re already asleep in the passenger seat.

You wake up in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar (but extremely soft) bed, tucked beneath unfamiliar sheets. Your mouth is dry and your head hurts a little bit but not nearly as much as you deserve given how much you drank. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand and a bottle of Tylenol. You crack the lid and pour out two capsules, throwing them into your mouth and chugging down the water until the glass is empty.

You slowly get up and make your way across the room, checking to see if one of the doors leads to a bathroom. You’re thrilled that you’re right and that there’s even a conveniently placed towel, unopened toothbrush, and new set of clothes waiting for you on the counter. You briefly wonder where the clothes came from but given the opulence of the bathroom you’re standing in, you imagine anything is available at the press of a button.

By the time you’ve finished in the bathroom, you feel about ninety five percent human. The other five percent is the part of you dreading the conversation to come.

Because you know Bucky is somewhere beyond the bedroom door and the thought of seeing him in the light of day, after calling him to come to your rescue, fills you with dread. You give yourself a pep talk in the mirror and lift your chin, ready to face what’s beyond your bubble of safety.

You peek outside the bedroom door and find the hall clear. There’s soft music playing from somewhere further in the apartment and you follow the noise to the kitchen, where you find Bucky at the counter, his back turned to you. He’s in a tank top, which gives you an open view of muscles that you haven’t seen in two years but definitely remember. In vivid detail.

Bucky turns to face you when you’ve stepped into the room. He has two mugs of coffee in his hands and he slides one across the counter separating you. He’s already made it the way you like.

Asshole.

“Morning, doll,” he says.

“You don’t get to call me that.” You take a sip of your perfect coffee.

“You used to like when I called you that.”

“That was before you made me fall in love with you and then you disappeared,” you tell him. “And the next time I saw you was on TV, announcing your run for Congress.”

He at least has the decency to look a little chagrined. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be like that.” You raise your eyebrows but say nothing. “I was ready for normal but I keep getting dragged back into fights.”

“Are you dragged or do you answer the call?” You ask. He stays quiet for a minute, thinking, the muscle of his jaw ticking beneath the stubble on his chin.

“Both, probably,” he admits. “I’ve done so much bad that it’s hard to pass on the opportunity to do something good.”

A tiny fracture forms in the wall you’ve built. “If not you, then who, I guess. Right?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Something like that.”

Silence settles, thick with what needs to be said and, worse, with what should have been said two years ago. He abandons his mug on the counter, coming around to stand in front of you, close enough to touch. His dog tags hang in the middle of his chest and you reach up to tangle your fingers in the chain, like you used to. He smiles, a tiny, uncertain twitch of his lips.

“I missed you,” he says quietly. “You have no idea how much.”

“You could have called,” you tell him.

“I didn’t know what to say.” His hand catches your. “You loved me?”

“I did,” you admit. “Still do, if we’re having an honesty hour right now.”

Bucky laughs, low and warm. God, you missed him. You didn’t realize the depth of it until he was within your reach.

“I did, too.” He wraps an arm around your waist. “Still do.”

“Yeah?”

He leans in close, lips ghosting across yours. Barely a kiss but every nerve ending lights up at the contact, making you feel like a live wire. He smiles.

“Can I call you doll now?” He asks. You act like you’re considering it, like the answer isn’t an immediate yes.

“Only if you’re going to make it up to me,” you tell him.

“How would you like me to do that?”

“Well, you are really good with your gun—“

Your response is cut off by your yelp when Bucky picks you up, one arm supporting your back and the other under your knees. You laugh as he marches back to the bedroom you woke up in, kicking the door open and tossing you on the mattress. You bounce slightly with the force of your landing.

“Someone’s eager,” you tease, lifting yourself up on your elbows. He smirks, crawling toward you on the mattress.

“You have no idea, doll,” he says, wrapping his metal hand around the back of your neck and pulling you in for a kiss that’s hungry and messy, a borderline desperate creeping in as he settles more of his weight on your body, hips cradled between your own.

His teeth dig into your lower lip, hard enough to make you gasp. He takes the opportunity to kiss your jaw, stubble dragging across your sensitive skin. He drifts lower, down your neck, sucking the skin over your pulse and making you squirm.

“So sensitive,” he teases, his hand working its way beneath your shirt, warm palm sliding up your belly. He pinches a nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, making you whine. “And so needy.”

Bucky pulls away, just enough to get both hands on your shirt to lift it up and over your head. Both hands cup your breasts and you arch into the sensation. You’ve always loved the difference in sensation between his hands, soft flesh and unyielding metal but the same reverent touch. He bends forward to pull one nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it until you’re writhing beneath him.

He drags his mouth lower, down your belly, until he reaches the leggings he left for you. His fingers curl into the elastic, dragging the fabric down your thighs until he can pull them off and toss them to the floor. You’re left in just your underwear and Bucky smiles beatifically at you.

“Already soaked,” he says, settling on his stomach between your thighs. He drags a thumb over your clothed pussy, circling the digit lightly when he reaches your clit. “All for me, huh?”

“Mhm,” you nod.

He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, before slipping his fingers beneath the gusset of your underwear and yanking the fabric to the side. He drags his tongue from your entrance to your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with broad, flat strokes.

“Bucky,” you moan, reaching down to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull. He groans, the vibration adding to the delicious torture of his mouth. “Oh, fuck.”

You lose the ability to speak shortly after that as Bucky lavishes you with attention. Two of his metal fingers join his tongue, sliding into your wet heat with ease.

“Christ.” He tilts his head against your thigh to watch you as he pumps his fingers in and out of you with an obscene noise. “Fuck me,” he groans, dragging out the syllables.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Bucky.”

“Not until you come,” he says, curling his fingers and dragging them across that sensitive spot inside of you. “Come on, sweetheart.”

He slips a third finger inside of you and the stretch borders on painful, a slight sting that makes you feel like you’re on fire, ready to burst. When he returns his mouth to your clit, you’re a goner. Your orgasm crashes over you as you moan his name, grinding yourself up against his mouth and down onto his fingers.

Bucky eases you through it, waiting until your hips drop to the mattress before pulling away. The scruffy hair on his chin is shiny with your release, his blue eyes are dark with lust, and his hair is a mess from your hands.

“Open your mouth,” he commands, reaching up to slip his soaked metal fingers past your lips. “Clean ‘em real good, doll.”

You do as he says, keeping your eyes fixed to his. When he’s satisfied, he pulls his hand away and settles it at the base of your throat.

“You missed this, didn’t you?” He asks, squeezing gently. You smile up at him, bringing your hands to his forearm. “Yeah, you did. Bet you thought it about when those other guys fucked you, too.”

He releases your throat and gets off the bed only long enough to shove his pants to the floor. You get a brief moment to stare appreciatively, taking in the chiseled muscles and the old scars that you once had memorized.

“You’re so beautiful, Bucky,” you murmur. His expression goes soft as he crawls back onto the mattress and settles his weight above you, his cock dragging through the wet mess he’s made of your thighs.

He kisses you deeply, thoroughly, like he’s trying to erase any lingering memory of anyone who came after him. His hips flex against yours and you hitch your legs up, changing the angle of your body enough that the head of his cock dips inside of you, just slightly, just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. He pulls back, staring down at you as he sinks deeper, stretching you in the most perfect way.

“That’s it, baby,” he says. “Just like that, huh?”

The only answer you can give is a desperate noise as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, his chest against yours. He starts an achingly slow rhythm that has stars bursting in your vision, your belly tensing with the first signs of release.

“You have no idea,” he mumbles against your neck, “how much I’ve missed you.”

“I think I have an idea,” you whisper, bringing a hand to his jaw. “Missed you so much, Buck.”

He bites at your pulse and moves his hips faster, driving you to the brink before pulling out completely. Your responding whine is cut short by his hands gripping your hips, twisting you beneath him until you’re flat on your stomach and he’s sliding back into you, the new angle making you feel impossibly fuller.

His weight settles on your back and he slips his metal hand around your neck, using it to lift your head up from the mattress. He squeezes your throat as he drives into you mercilessly, hips smacking lasciviously against your ass.

“You’re going to come on my cock, sweetheart,” he growls into your ear. “I need it so bad, come on, baby, finish so I can fill you up just the way you like, okay?”

Your second orgasm hits you like a lightning strike and your mouth drops open in a silent scream as your muscles tense and you squeeze around his cock. He moans a broken prayer of your name as his hips stutter in their rhythm and then go still as he comes, warmth pulsing inside of you.

Bucky collapses on the bed, careful not to drop his full weight on you. He gathers you up in his arms, holding you with your head on his chest. You listen to the beat of his heart as it slows from a frantic pulse to a smooth rhythm.

You tilt your head to look at him and he smiles. The whole scene reminds you of your first night together and a bubbly feeling blossoms in your chest.

“This won’t be easy,” he murmurs, bringing a hand to your jaw. His thumb rubs against your cheek. “I’m still fighting.”

“I know,” you reply. “As long as you come back to me after the fight, I think we’ll be alright.”

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed the fic, please consider reblogging or commenting — I love hearing from you!