#barely comes up for air but that’s okay

[pascalissmoked]

Sweeter Than Summer

Summary: It starts with helping Sarah. It ends with her dad looking at you like he can’t breathe without you. Soft smiles, stolen glances—until it’s not so soft anymore. Word Count: 8K Warnings: fluff, age gap (reader is 22 and joel is in his mid 30s), joel being the hot neighbor and a frienc od your dad's, tommy being a little shit to his older brother, team plotting from sarah and her uncle, blood (not gory though), joel not knowing how to take care of Sarah becoming a woman, food consumption, nervous!joel, texas!joel, no outbreak!joel, unprotected sex, A/N: I kinda let myself go with this one. But you can never have too much of dilf!joel anyway. I hope you enjoy xx

Sweat clung to your skin like a second layer, tracing hot trails from your neck to the hollow of your collarbone. Texas, in the dead of summer, had become less of a state and more of a furnace—an open-mouthed oven blasting dry, merciless heat at everything that dared to live in it. No breeze, no shade, not even the patchy ceiling fans in your father’s house could fight it off.

So you escaped to the only place with the illusion of relief: your old man’s rust-bitten Ford truck. The air conditioning groaned like an old man with bad knees, struggling to push out even a whisper of cold. Mostly, it just wheezed in competition with the faint melody of Avril Lavigne’s Complicated playing from a scratched-up CD.

That CD had been a gift from Sarah—the wild-hearted twelve-year-old next door with a halo of curls and a grin full of mischief. She’d handed it to you like it was treasure, wrapped in a scrap of pink paper with your name spelled in glitter pen. Babysitting her had started off as a favor, a quick yes when your father mentioned that Joel Miller—Sarah’s dad—needed someone to help out now and then. You’d barely met Joel, only knew that he worked with his hands, often gone at odd hours, and that he carried the kind of quiet sadness you didn’t ask questions about.

You were a high school senior back then, just counting days until freedom. But somehow, that little girl made you want to stay.

Your evenings slowly stitched themselves into a patchwork of Disney marathons, popcorn burned in the microwave, Sarah’s giggles echoing through the halls of the Miller house. She’d curl up beside you, head resting on your shoulder like a sleepy kitten, cookies half-eaten and forgotten on the table. She became something sacred—a bond, a heartbeat, the closest thing to a sister you’d ever have.

Even after you left for college, you kept coming back. Not out of duty, but because her tiny arms still wrapped around your waist when you walked through the door. Because her eyes still lit up like fireworks when you pressed play on The Little Mermaid. Because somehow, she had become your person.

You leaned back in the cracked leather seat, your legs sticking to it, the AC making a sad attempt at survival. You shut your eyes and let Avril’s voice carry you, half-lost in memory and heat-induced haze, until a sharp knock on the passenger window startled you.

Sarah.

She was grinning, as usual—her curls pulled into a wild ponytail, a Popsicle in one hand, and a look that said she was up to something.

You rolled the window down. “What’s up, bug?”

She climbed in before you could stop her, dragging a wave of hot air in with her. “Dad said we could go get ice cream if you’re up for driving.”

“Did he now?”

“Okay, I might’ve said you were bored and needed to get out. Same thing.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile. She shoved the melting Popsicle into your hand and snapped on her seatbelt with dramatic flair. “Let’s go. Before it gets hotter. I think I saw a squirrel burst into flames on the sidewalk.”

You laughed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, the truck rumbling beneath you like an old beast waking from a nap. You caught sight of Joel on the porch as you pulled away—arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression he always wore. You gave him a two-fingered wave. He nodded once, and that was enough.

Sarah chattered all the way to the ice cream place, asking about college, about whether you had a boyfriend yet (she asked this every time), and whether she’d be tall enough to ride the big coasters at the state fair this year. You let her talk, let her words fill the space like music.

When you finally parked in front of the ice cream shop, the sun had started dipping low, turning the sky into a hazy peach-orange watercolor.

Inside, the cool air hit like salvation. Sarah ran to the counter, already debating between cotton candy and cookie dough. You trailed behind more slowly, letting the change in temperature settle over your skin like a blessing.

As you waited, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A message from your dad:

“Joel asked if you’ll be home later. Said he could use help with something at the house.”

You stared at the screen for a second longer than you needed to. Joel didn’t ask for help. Not unless he meant it.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah looked up from her ice cream conquest.

You smiled. “Nothing. Just your dad being mysterious.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s always mysterious. He builds things all day and listens to music no one understands.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” you teased.

“I’m not mysterious,” she said, scooping her choice—cookie dough, of course—into a bowl. “I’m an open book.”

You paid for the treats and led her outside to a metal bench half in the shade. The breeze had picked up slightly. It carried the scent of pavement, crepe myrtles, and something else—something you couldn’t quite name. Something shifting.

The sun was beginning to slip behind the rooftops by the time you and Sarah returned to the Miller house, both of you sticky from melted ice cream and heat. The air had that golden hue of a Texas evening—dust motes glowing in the sunlight, cicadas beginning their slow song. The drive back from the ice cream shop had been quiet, but not in a bad way. Sarah had rolled the window down and was humming absently to herself between licks of her cone. You stole glances at her in the rearview mirror. She looked tired but content, her face a little flushed, her curls sticking to her temples.

You knew something had shifted. She’d been quieter than usual on the ride back, a little distracted. Not sad, just somewhere far off in her head. You didn’t push it. You’d learned a long time ago that Sarah always circled back in her own time.

When you pulled into the driveway, Joel was out front, leaning against the porch rail with his arms folded, like he’d been waiting. He looked up as the truck came to a stop, one brow lifting slightly in a kind of wordless check-in. You gave him a nod, just enough to say she’s okay.

Sarah climbed out of the truck slowly and stretched. “I’m gonna shower,” she mumbled, already heading toward the front door.

“You eat dinner?” Joel called after her.

“Ice cream counts!” she shouted back, disappearing into the house.

Joel huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes still on the screen door even after it swung shut behind her.

You shut the truck door and walked over to him. “Everything alright?”

He looked at you then, really looked. Not with panic, exactly, but something close. Hesitation. Worry. Maybe a little guilt.

“You got a minute?” he asked. “Need to run something by you.”

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Joel gestured toward the backyard with a jerk of his chin. The porch boards creaked beneath his boots as you followed him through the kitchen and out the back door, into the thick, humid air. The sun was low now, bleeding orange across the fence line. Crickets had started up in the grass, and you could hear a neighbor’s sprinkler ticking faintly in the distance.

Joel didn’t speak for a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out across the yard like it might offer him a script to read from. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and a little rough around the edges.

“Found somethin’ earlier,” he said. “In the bathroom. A, uh… towel. One of hers. Had blood on it…”

“Oh,” you said, gently. “Her period.”

He nodded, cheeks reddening, clearly trying to keep his voice level. “Yeah. That. She didn’t say a damn word to me. Just shoved a towel in the laundry like nothin’ happened and then asked if she could go out for ice cream. And I remembered… her mom used to—well, she always wanted something sweet on her bad days, so…”

You felt your chest warm. Not from the heat. From him. From this big, quiet man who looked like he could wrestle a bear but stood there now like a deer in headlights, wringing his hands over his little girl.

“She’s twelve,” he added, like that somehow made it more tragic. “I don’t… I didn’t grow up with sisters. Only Tommy. We were a disaster even on good days. I don’t know what to say, or how to—hell, I don’t even know what kind of… supplies she’s supposed to use.”

He fell quiet again, then sighed, long and slow. “I didn’t know who to call. I almost called Tommy, but you know, he’s as useless as I am when it comes to this kinda thing. So… I figured, maybe you’d know.”

There was something in the way he said it—maybe you’d know—that felt less like a request and more like a quiet surrender. Like this was his way of admitting he was scared, and he didn’t know how to say it out loud.

You stepped closer, your voice soft. “You did the right thing, Joel. Giving her space, getting her out of the house. That was smart.”

“She didn’t even tell me,” he muttered. “That’s what kills me. She used to come to me for everything. Now she’s just—dealing with it by herself. Like she had to.”

“She’s twelve,” you said gently. “She’s embarrassed. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Maybe she’s scared you’ll think she’s different now.”

Joel blinked at that. “Why the hell would I think that?”

“Because that’s what girls worry about when they start this. That people will treat them differently. That their body’s changing and it makes things weird.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the fence again. “Her mom used to say stuff like that. About how she hated how people treated her like she was fragile just ’cause she was bleeding.”

There was a rawness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Not just nervousness—grief, too. That quiet, familiar ache of someone trying to parent without the other half of the puzzle.

“I’ll take her to the store tomorrow,” you said. “We’ll get her what she needs—pads, whatever she’s comfortable with. Maybe some tea. And chocolate. That always helps.”

Joel nodded slowly, like each word you said was another burden taken off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then placed your hand lightly on his arm. “She’s not trying to shut you out. She’s just figuring it out in the only way she knows how.”

He looked at you then, really looked—tired, grateful, full of a quiet kind of worry that had nowhere to go.

“I feel like I’m messin’ it all up,” he admitted, so low you barely heard it.

“You’re not.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure.”

A long silence settled between you. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just full. Full of the things left unsaid, of the weight of love and responsibility and the kind of fear that comes with being someone’s whole world.

Joel rubbed a hand over his face and huffed a short laugh. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I think you’re doing your best,” you said. “And that’s more than a lot of kids get.”

He let out a breath, slow and steady. Then, after a pause: “You’re good with her.”

“I love her,” you said. “She’s like a little sister to me.”

Joel looked at you again—something unreadable in his expression. Maybe surprise. Maybe something else.

“I’m real glad you’re still around,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “Me too.”

From inside the house, Sarah called out, “Are we watching a movie or what?”

Joel didn’t take his eyes off you, but there was something softer in them now. Something unguarded.

“I guess we’d better get in there,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said, letting your hand fall from his arm. “Before she starts without us.”

It was the first time you'd stayed this late at the Miller house. Usually, your evenings with Sarah ended around sunset—movie paused, cookies half-eaten, Joel pulling into the driveway with dust on his jeans and tired thanks in his eyes. But this time, things were different.

Sarah had asked you to stay. She’d clung to your arm, eyes wide and wheedling, and Joel, surprisingly, had said yes.

“I mean… if it’s no trouble,” he’d added, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.

You’d said it wasn’t. And you meant it.

Now, the three of you were gathered in the living room. The lights were dimmed, the TV humming with the opening credits of Holes. Sarah had insisted on it—“It’s a classic, don’t even argue”—and had spread every pillow and blanket she could find across the floor like a DIY fort.

She was nestled into the middle of it, legs tucked under her, one of Joel’s flannels hanging off her shoulders. You sat on the edge of the couch, nursing a soda, while Joel took the armchair, one ankle propped lazily over his knee.

The movie started, and for a while, it was all popcorn rustles and Sarah quoting her favorite lines before they even happened. Joel chuckled at her enthusiasm, and you found yourself watching them more than the movie—how Joel’s eyes softened every time Sarah laughed, how she leaned toward you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere around the third lizard sighting, Sarah moved to sit on the couch between you and the armrest, leaning against your side like a sleepy cat. You didn’t even notice when her breathing evened out and her head rested on your arm.

Joel noticed though.

His voice came low, amused. “She out?”

You glanced down. “Dead to the world.”

“She’s like her mom that way. Could sleep through a tornado.”

It was the second time he’d mentioned her. His voice was gentle, a little distant, but not painful. Just remembering.

You both sat quietly for a while after that. The soft flicker of the movie lit his face in blues and golds. He looked… peaceful. More relaxed than you’d seen him at those neighborhood barbecues, where he always kept a beer in his hand and one eye on Sarah like he didn’t trust the world not to fall apart.

Now, she was here, asleep beside you. And you were here, beside her.

When the credits finally rolled, Joel stood up slowly, stretching with a soft groan.

“I’ll carry her,” he said, and you nodded.

He moved carefully, gently scooping her up in his arms. She stirred just enough to murmur your name and Joel’s, then went limp again against his chest.

You watched them disappear down the hallway, the quiet creak of her bedroom door closing like the final note in a lullaby.

When he returned, he found you curled up on the couch, clearly half-asleep yourself.

Joel stood there for a moment, just watching you.

He thought about waking you. He really did.

But then he sighed, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and muttered, “Alright then.”

A few minutes later, he was spreading a clean blanket over you in his room and stacking an extra pillow beside your head. He lingered there, eyes soft, before turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

The smell of coffee nudged you awake before sunlight did. For a few seconds, you lay still, half-dreaming, until the stiff cotton sheets and unfamiliar quiet reminded you—this wasn’t your bed. It was Joel's.

You blinked at the wooden beams above you, the smell of frying bacon drifting in through a barely-cracked door. Joel's room was neat but lived-in. The flannel shirt hanging off the bedpost, the guitar case by the closet, the worn boots by the door—it all felt very him.

You sat up slowly, pushing hair out of your face, squinting toward the hallway. It felt intimate in here. Like you were somewhere you weren't quite supposed to be. And yet, the warmth in your chest told a different story.

The floorboards creaked softly as you padded toward the kitchen, feet bare and cautious. Joel stood at the stove, t-shirt wrinkled, hair a little messier than usual. He was flipping bacon, one hand holding a spatula, the other nursing a coffee cup.

He turned when he heard you, and for just a second, there was something caught in his expression. Not surprise. Something softer.

"Mornin'," he said, voice low and a little scratchy.

"You gave me your bed?"

Joel shrugged, turning back to the stove. "You were out cold. Didn’t wanna wake you. Couch ain’t so bad."

You glanced over at the couch, then back at him. "That couch is shaped like a capital 'L'. No way your back's okay."

He smirked, sliding bacon onto a paper towel. "I'm tougher than I look."

You raised an eyebrow, settling onto a stool by the counter. "You mean grumpier."

Before Joel could reply, Sarah wandered in like a hurricane with the battery drained. She wore a hoodie zipped halfway and socks slipping down her heels. Her face was twisted in dramatic agony.

"It feels like a war zone in my gut," she moaned.

Joel tensed. "You need Tylenol? Heating pad?"

"I need ice cream," Sarah said. Then her eyes landed on you. "You're still here?"

You smiled. "Yep. Joel gave me his bed."

Sarah blinked. Then grinned like she’d just won a prize at the fair. "Ooooh."

Joel, behind her, quietly muttered, "Sarah."

She leaned in close to you like you were co-conspirators. "Did you sleep in, like, his bed? Like with the plaid sheets and the pillow that smells like sawdust and... man soap?"

You tried not to laugh. "That very one."

Sarah's eyes glittered. "I knew it! Dad always acts weird around you."

Joel nearly choked on his coffee. "Alright, that's enough. Go sit down."

Sarah plopped onto the couch, cradling a heating pad Joel must have already warmed up for her. Despite her cramps, she looked content. Radiant, even. You noticed her eyes drifting shut, the tiniest smile playing at her lips.

"We should probably go grab her a few things," you murmured to Joel.

He gave a quiet nod. "She said she used the last pad yesterday. I just... didn’t wanna get the wrong thing. Didn’t know there were fifty types."

You touched his arm lightly. "We’ll take care of it."

Just then, the back door creaked open with that familiar screech that only old hinges and a Miller brother could make.

"Hope I’m not too late for bacon," Tommy called, strolling in like he owned the place. He wore his Sunday-best version of casual: jeans, a button-up rolled to the elbows, and a grin that could get him out of any ticket.

Sarah brightened at the sound. "Uncle Tommy!"

"Hey, sweetheart," he beamed, ruffling her curls gently. "Heard you had a bit of a rough morning."

She held up a thumbs-up from under her blanket. "I’m surviving. Thanks to the ice cream and the guest star who stayed overnight."

Tommy's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to look at you, then Joel. "Guest star, huh?"

Joel stiffened where he stood. "She crashed after the movie. I gave her the bed."

Tommy leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling. "Your bed?"

Sarah giggled. "With the plaid sheets and the soap smell and everything!"

Joel let out a breath like he was trying not to combust. "Can y’all stop announcin' that to the whole neighborhood?"

Tommy laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "I’m just sayin’—breakfast smells like affection, and you’ve got your flannel lookin’ a little less grumpy today."

"She’s good with Sarah," Joel said gruffly, pouring another cup of coffee. "That’s all."

"Sure," Tommy said, nodding slowly. "And the way you’re hovering near her like a guard dog in flannel, that’s also ‘just good with Sarah’?" he whispered.

Joel shot him a warning glance, but Tommy only grinned wider.

"Uncle Tommy," Sarah said sweetly, suddenly conspiratorial, "do you think Dad has a crush?"

Joel nearly dropped his mug. You buried your face in your hands, laughing helplessly.

Tommy gasped theatrically. "Sarah! I think you might be right. Look at that blush—he’s turning redder than my truck!"

Joel groaned. "Jesus Christ, I should’ve stayed in bed."

"Too bad someone else was in it," Tommy teased.

Joel turned to you, his voice dry. "You wanna take her to the store now? Might be safer."

You, still laughing, nodded. "Before Sarah starts handing out wedding invitations."

Sarah waved a hand from the couch. "Too late, I already made a vision board."

Tommy threw his head back, howling. Joel just stared at the ceiling like it might open up and swallow him whole.

You grabbed your bag, still chuckling, and gestured to Sarah. "C’mon, let’s get you the fancy kind of pain relief. Maybe even a heating pad shaped like a llama."

Sarah sprang up with unexpected energy. "This is why you’re my favorite."

Joel muttered, "You weren’t sayin’ that when I was up at 2 a.m. gettin’ you ice water."

She kissed his cheek and skipped toward the door.

As the two of you left, you heard Tommy say behind you, "You know, I really am happy for you, big brother. But I’m gonna keep messin’ with you just the same."

Joel replied with a grunt, but his voice, softer now, said more than his words ever could.

He was grateful.

And he was in trouble.

The store's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you and Sarah wandered down the aisle lined with shelves full of period products. The “feminine care” section was a riot of pastel colors, cryptic labels, and brands that somehow managed to sound both comforting and clinical.

Sarah stared up at them, arms crossed, mouth slightly open. "Okay, so... what's the difference between ultra-thin and ultra-thin with wings? Is it, like, flying powers?"

You snorted. "No flying powers, sadly. The wings just help keep things in place."

"Disappointing," she said with a sigh. "I was hoping for at least a little magic."

You crouched to scan the lower shelves. "Do you want the same kind you had last time, or do you wanna try something different?"

Sarah shrugged. "Whatever you think’s best. I trust your judgment. You’re clearly a seasoned professional."

You tossed a box into the basket. "The seasoned-est."

Sarah peeked up at you, slyly. "So... speaking of judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh?"

"Do you like older guys?"

You blinked. "That’s... a jump."

She grinned, clearly proud of herself. "No it’s not. It’s an investigative segue."

You tried to stifle a laugh. "Sarah."

"What? I’m curious! You’re, like, a woman. With... grown-up tastes."

"You’re twelve."

"Exactly! I need mentorship."

You paused, holding a box of heating patches. "Is this about your dad again?"

"I mean, not entirely. But also: yes."

You gave her a look.

"I just think you two would be cute. You both make weirdly good pancakes. And when you were sleeping in his bed, I swear he was, like, standing in the hallway checking if you were still breathing. Like some kind of lumberjack angel."

You put the patches in the basket. "Lumberjack angel?"

"Don’t mock the poetry."

You walked toward the checkout, and she practically skipped after you despite the heating pad she clutched like a teddy bear.

"Okay but seriously—" she continued, lowering her voice dramatically, "—do you think he’s cute? Like, if he didn’t have the whole ‘dad’ thing going on?"

You sighed, amused. "Sarah, I’m not talking about your dad like that."

She smirked. "That means yes."

You gave her a mock glare as the cashier started scanning your items. Sarah, never missing a beat, leaned on the counter like she was discussing secret spy business.

"Also, Uncle Tommy said you could do better. I told him to hush. I think my dad is the best you’re gonna get."

"Wow. Brutal."

"I'm in pain. Let me live."

As you bagged everything up and started walking toward the exit, Sarah looped her arm through yours and leaned against you.

"Thanks for coming with me. It’s way less awkward with you. Dad would’ve had an existential crisis in the tampon aisle."

"I believe it."

"And also... thanks for not making this whole thing a big weird deal. I was really freaked out yesterday. Thought I was dying. You were cool about it."

You softened. "That’s what I’m here for."

She looked up at you, a little more serious now. "And I really hope you end up my stepmom. But, like, the hot kind."

You blinked. "SARAH."

She cackled. "What? Just planting seeds."

Outside, the sun was warm on your face. You shook your head, laughing as you loaded the bags into Joel’s truck.

And somewhere inside that little gremlin of a girl was the biggest heart you’d ever met. Even on her worst day, she was matchmaking and joking and holding your hand.

God help Joel.

He didn’t stand a chance.

The sun was angling low by the time you pulled back into the driveway, the kind of orange Texas glow that made everything look a little too golden and a little too unreal. Sarah was humming to herself in the passenger seat, clutching the drugstore bag like it held state secrets.

You climbed out of the truck, stretching, only to freeze halfway through.

Joel was out front, shirt sticking to his back in the heat, kneeling beside a crooked section of the fence. A small toolbox sat next to him, half-open, nails scattered in neat little rows. His shirt—dark blue and worn—was clinging to his frame in all the right places. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Forearms dusted in sawdust.

He looked up as you shut the car door, and for a moment, all you could do was blink.

“Hey,” he called, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Y’all make it okay?”

Sarah jumped out of the truck and held up the bag. “We conquered the period aisle!” she declared, marching proudly inside.

Joel chuckled. “That so?” Then his eyes flicked to you, and something in them softened. “Thanks. For takin’ her.”

You nodded, but your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Of course.”

He bent back down, hammer in hand, and you stood there a beat too long watching the muscles in his arm flex with each nail he drove in.

It’s just because of what Sarah said, you told yourself. That’s all. She put it in your head.

But that wasn’t entirely true. The man looked like a Calvin Klein ad shot in a lumber yard.

You forced yourself to turn toward the house before your brain made it worse.

Inside, Sarah was already curled up on the couch, heating pad in place, water bottle in hand, victorious and slightly smug.

Joel followed you in not long after, wiping his hands on a rag. He glanced at the clock, then at you.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I was gonna grill a few things for dinner. Nothin’ fancy.”

“Stay!” Sarah added immediately, perking up. “You helped today and you’re, like, family. Dad even makes real food when you’re here. It’s a rare event.”

Joel gave her a look but didn’t argue. His eyes landed on you again. “You’re welcome to. Honestly.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel grilled something—probably out of guilt for the frozen waffles breakfast. It smelled amazing. Burgers, seasoned fries, sliced watermelon, the works. You sat across from Sarah while Joel set everything out. Just as he was bringing over a dish of pickles, the back door swung open.

“Smells like a cookout for three, but I count four plates,” Tommy drawled, letting himself in like he always did. His jeans were too tight, shirt a little too fitted, like he was contractually obligated to flirt with the universe.

Joel gave him a side glance. “Don’t you have a house?”

“Sure do. But yours has food. And company.”

Tommy’s eyes slid to you, and his grin grew. “Well hey there.”

You smiled. “Hi, Tommy.”

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t even, Uncle Tommy. She’s my best friend.”

Joel muttered, “God help me,” under his breath and passed you the ketchup.

Halfway through dinner, Tommy was in rare form. He elbowed Joel mid-bite. “So. When’s the last time you cooked like this for anyone?”

Joel didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just sayin’. I visit and get leftover chili. She visits and it’s gourmet.”

You were trying to hide your grin behind your water glass.

Tommy pointed his fork at you. “He always gets like this when you’re around. All tense and upright like he’s bein’ evaluated by the food network. You got the man sweating over burger seasoning.”

Joel groaned. “I swear to God, Tommy.”

Sarah giggled. “He did check the grill temp like, five times.”

You caught Joel’s eye. He looked exasperated, but his ears were red. Very red.

Tommy wasn’t done. “You know, Sarah’s got a good eye. She’s not wrong. This whole thing”—he gestured vaguely between you and Joel—“feels domestic.”

“Tommy,” Joel warned.

Sarah added, “We’re basically a sitcom now. One where the hot dad doesn’t know he’s in love.”

Joel dropped his head into his hands.

Tommy raised his glass. “To sitcoms. And slow burns.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

Joel caught your eye again. And this time, he didn’t look away.

It wasn’t a big party. That had never been your dad’s style. But the backyard looked sweet under the string lights he’d looped between trees, casting a soft gold hue over the old lawn chairs and the fold-out table covered in mismatched paper plates and bowls of chips. A CD player in the corner hummed the tunes of old country and early 2000s radio hits, the kind your dad thought “young people liked.”

You’d just turned 22. Most of your college friends were scattered across the state—too far to make it for a casual Sunday night cookout. So it was just a few neighbors, your dad manning the grill, and a soft breeze that hinted at the edge of summer’s peak.

Joel showed up just as your dad was tending to the barbeque, Sarah at his side, her curls bouncing in a way that made her look like she was floating toward you. She held out a card like it was a trophy.

“Happy birthday!” she beamed. “I made you a masterpiece.”

You laughed and took it carefully. The card was covered in glitter and tiny doodles: a birthday cake, a sparkly dinosaur wearing sunglasses, and a poorly drawn but heartfelt portrait of you, her, and Joel standing under a rainbow.

“I love it,” you said, genuinely. “I’m framing it.”

“Good,” she grinned. “It took me forty-five minutes and three glitter glue explosions.”

Behind her, Joel gave you a small smile. He was in a dark gray button-down rolled to the elbows and jeans that didn’t look new, but still somehow looked good. Really good. You’d never seen him dressed like this—like he tried, just a little. He was holding a six-pack of Shiner Bock and a small rectangular gift wrapped in brown paper and string.

"Happy birthday," he said, voice quieter. “Didn’t know what to get, so…”

He handed you the gift and scratched at the back of his neck.

You gave him a curious smile as you took it. “Should I open it now?”

He shrugged. “Up to you.”

You peeled back the paper. Inside was a well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The corners were softened from age, and the inside cover had a note in Joel’s neat, deliberate handwriting:

“You mentioned this was your favorite once. Figured you should have a version that’s seen a few years too. —J”

For a moment, the backyard went quiet around you—music, chatter, all of it faded. You looked up and met his eyes. Warm. Kind. Embarrassed, maybe. But also something else. Like he saw you in a way that you hadn’t let yourself imagine too much.

“Thank you,” you said, and meant it more than he probably realized.

Sarah was watching the two of you with her arms crossed, smirking. “You two are so obvious.”

Joel cleared his throat and turned toward the food table. “Burgers should be ready soon.”

You followed, your cheeks flushed.

Later, after burgers and sides and Sarah’s overenthusiastic attempts to pin the tail on the inflatable donkey, which your dad found hilarious, the grill was cooling and the sky was a bruised violet. You were inside the kitchen, trying to find a knife that wasn’t dull to slice the birthday cake. Your dad had disappeared, muttering something about “checking the propane line,” which you were 99% sure was code for “giving you space.”

Joel came in behind you with a tray of empty cups. “Need a hand?”

You turned, knife in one hand, cake staring back at you. “Yeah. Unless you wanna watch me murder this thing.”

He smirked, stepping beside you. Close. His shoulder brushed yours as he reached for a stack of plates.

“What kind of cake is this, anyway?” he asked, leaning just enough to read the label on the box.

“Chocolate with strawberry filling. Sarah picked it out. Said it was ‘romantic birthday vibes.’”

Joel laughed softly. “That girl’s gonna run a matchmaking business one day.”

“She already is. We’re just her test subjects.”

You looked up to find him looking down, his eyes flicking to your mouth just for a second. Just a second—but it was enough to knock the air sideways in your lungs.

You turned back to the cake, hoping your hands weren’t shaking. You started to cut, and Joel leaned closer, one hand resting on the counter beside you.

“Need me to steady the plate?” he asked.

Your hands were a little clumsy, distracted by the warmth of him next to you. “Maybe. It’s a two-person job.”

He chuckled, and you could feel the laugh more than hear it—like it buzzed through the space between your arm and his.

Then—

“You guys are standing really close,” Sarah’s voice rang out behind you, making you jump. She was leaning on the doorframe with a smug little grin.

Joel jerked his hand away like he’d been caught stealing.

“I was helping,” he muttered.

“With cake?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.

“Cutting’s an art,” Joel said, deadpan, making her giggle.

You just shook your head and passed her a plate. She skipped off with her prize, leaving you and Joel blinking in the soft hum of the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you said after a beat. “For everything today.”

Joel nodded, still a little red around the ears. “Wasn’t much.”

“It was,” you said. “And the book… I mean it.”

He smiled, shy but genuine. “Glad you liked it.”

And then neither of you moved. The air hung between you like a stretched-out string.

Until Sarah called from outside, “We need cake now!”

Joel exhaled. “Duty calls.”

You followed him out, but something lingered behind in the kitchen—the warmth of him, the nearness, the feeling that this thing between you wasn’t just in your head anymore.

The backyard had emptied. The last of the neighbors had waved their goodbyes. The string lights were still glowing, bugs dancing lazily in their warmth. Your dad had gone to bed after mumbling something about “too many burgers, not enough bourbon,” and the house was quiet now — quiet in a way that left too much room for your thoughts.

You were in the kitchen rinsing out plates, the hem of your party dress damp from leaning too close to the sink, your hands wrinkled and smelling like lemon soap. There was half a chocolate-strawberry cake left, the one Sarah had insisted on, and somehow you couldn’t just toss it.

She would’ve protested. Loudly.

You dried your hands, boxed the leftover slices neatly, and stared at the little pink-and-brown cake box for longer than you needed to.

Your feet moved before you could talk yourself out of it.

It was pushing 10:30, but Joel’s porch light was still on, casting a dim halo around the faded welcome mat. You knocked lightly, the box balanced on your hip.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open.

Joel stood there barefoot in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, looking tired in the way only dads could be — soft around the edges but still solid, still present. His hair was tousled, and he looked like he’d only just sat down for the night.

“Hey,” he said, surprised but not unhappy. “Everything alright?”

You held up the cake box like a peace offering. “Didn’t feel right keeping it. Sarah picked it. Thought she might want it.”

He stepped aside, motioning you in. “She would’ve. She’s at Tommy’s tonight, though. Asked to sleep over.”

You paused on the threshold, your heart thudding a little louder. “Oh.”

“Come on in,” Joel said gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, stepping inside. The house smelled like clean laundry and cedar. Familiar and warm. Lived-in. You followed him into the kitchen and set the cake down on the counter.

Joel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Long day?”

You smiled faintly. “Fun day. Weird, too. Turning twenty-two in your childhood backyard while your babysitting kid gives you love advice.”

Joel chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. She’s... somethin’.”

You leaned back on your elbows against the counter. The room was dim — just the small lamp over the sink on — and the silence was comfortable at first. But then it turned charged. He hadn’t moved. Neither had you.

Your gaze drifted. His jaw was stubbled, his hair slightly damp, like maybe he’d just taken a shower. He looked... good. More than good.

You caught him watching you back, just a second too long.

The moment thickened.

“I, uh,” you started, voice catching slightly. “I meant what I said earlier. About the book. It was... really thoughtful.”

Joel looked at you then — really looked — and whatever wall he’d been holding onto, the one made of age difference and neighborly boundaries and the awkwardness of being Sarah’s dad... it cracked.

He pushed off the doorway slowly, walked toward you, stopping just close enough to make your breath hitch.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he said softly.

The space between you was a livewire.

“I keep trying not to think about you like this,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His jaw tightened — not in anger, but in restraint.

“Me too.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then — softly, carefully — Joel reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingered.

“You’re too young for me,” Joel said, the words barely more than a gravel-edged whisper.

You looked up at him, your chest tight, heart thudding in your throat. “I’m not a kid.”

His eyes darkened, like you’d struck a match in the middle of a dry field. He swallowed hard. “I know.”

The silence between you turned into something electric, something living. The only sound was the quiet hum of the fridge and your own uneven breathing.

Joel took a small step forward, just enough to close the last of the space. He stood so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows like he was warring with himself. His hand came up—slow, hesitant—and hovered near your face before he finally gave in and touched you. His thumb skimmed along your jaw, rough fingertips brushing the soft edge of your cheek.

“Been tryin’ real damn hard not to want this,” he said, voice ragged.

Your breath hitched. “Then stop trying.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you.

But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was weeks, maybe even months of unspoken glances, quiet admiration, long nights with Sarah between you, laughter over coffee, shared space, and now, finally, just the two of you.

His mouth found yours like he’d already dreamed it. His hands were sure now, cupping your face, sliding into your hair, then down—down to your waist, your hips—pulling you flush against him. You made a quiet sound against his mouth and that undid something in him. He groaned, low in his throat, and kissed you deeper, lips parting, tongue brushing yours, slow and deliberate.

You didn’t realize you’d moved until your back hit the counter behind you. His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in but never pressing too hard. Just close. Just real.

You slid your fingers into his hair, damp from a shower or maybe just the heat of the night, tugging lightly. He leaned into your touch, one hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt at your back—his palm hot against your skin, callused but careful. The contrast made your knees weaken.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing fast, uneven. You could feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours like a drumbeat in sync.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, but this time it sounded like a confession. A regret that wasn’t real.

“But you did,” you whispered, lips still tingling, hand still curled into his shirt like you couldn’t let him go just yet.

Joel’s eyes searched yours, something stormy flickering in their depths. “If you stay... if we do this... it ain’t casual for me. You understand that?”

You nodded slowly.

A beat passed. Then another.

His hand slid to your cheek again, and he kissed you once more—slower this time, a kind of reverence in it. His lips pressed to yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real.

When he pulled back again, there was a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Tired. Hopeful. Hungry.

“You wanna stay?” he asked softly.

You looked at him, really looked. His bare feet on the kitchen floor. His hair mussed. That tiny crease between his brows. The way his eyes had gone soft, all guarded affection and barely restrained want.

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

Joel’s breath was still shallow when he stepped back just enough to look at you, like he was double-checking that you were still there, still real. You didn’t let go of him. Your fingers were still hooked into the front of his shirt, still pressing against the solid warmth of him.

His voice was quiet, low and careful. “If we go upstairs…”

“I know what I’m saying yes to,” you interrupted softly.

He hesitated, studying you like you were a question he’d never been brave enough to answer until now. But something in your face, in your voice, seemed to break whatever final restraint he was holding onto.

Joel nodded once.

Wordless, he took your hand.

The walk through the house was quiet, heavy with tension—not the awkward kind, but the kind that hummed in the air like a string pulled taut. Each step up the stairs felt like it carried weight. Anticipation. Choice.

His bedroom door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

In the dim lighting, it felt intimate. Lived-in but not messy. Clean but unpretentious. The scent of him lingered in the space—cedar soap and sawdust, fabric softener and something deeper, something unmistakably Joel.

He turned to face you in the doorway, fingers still twined with yours.

“You still okay?” he asked, voice rough, eyes searching yours like he was afraid to blink and miss something.

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. “More than okay.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he leaned in and kissed you again — deeper this time, with more certainty, like the last of his resistance had slipped loose.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned softly against your mouth. He tasted like something rich and dark and slow. His hands roamed, reverent and careful, touching you like he was trying to learn you by feel — every curve, every sound you made under his fingertips.

When you gasped as his hand skimmed lower, he paused. “Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmured into your skin.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop. Please, Joel.”

He kissed down your throat, down your chest, leaving a trail of warmth wherever his lips touched. Your back arched instinctively, your body aching to be closer. There was nothing rushed in the way he undressed you — every movement was measured, like he was unwrapping something he’d wanted for a long, long time but never thought he’d be allowed to have.

And when you were bare beneath him, laid out in the soft hush of his bedroom, you felt more seen — more wanted — than you ever had before.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Joel murmured, his hand brushing along your waist, your hip, your thigh. “Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You reached for him, found the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it up and over his head. He was solid and warm and real beneath your palms, and when you kissed down his chest, he hissed through his teeth — a sound that made heat curl deep in your stomach.

The rest came off piece by piece — not rushed, but not slow either. Just… inevitable.

And then he was over you again, skin to skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His nose brushed yours, like a silent request.

You cupped his cheek. “I want this. I want you.”

He kissed you again — not soft this time, but sure, open, claiming. His hand slipped under your thigh, lifted you to him, and you felt him press against you, heavy and warm.

You both gasped as your bodies joined — not all at once, but slowly, carefully, like you were fitting puzzle pieces together. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm even if the rest of you hadn’t caught up yet.

Joel’s breath stuttered as he sank fully into you, and for a moment, he just held there — his forehead against yours, both of you trembling, trying to hold on.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

You didn’t have the words to answer. Just the way your hands clung to him, the way your body opened for him, welcomed him in.

He moved slowly, deliberately — not just fucking you, but feeling you, like this meant something. Like he was afraid to miss it.

And you met him, movement for movement, every breath shared, every sound caught in the dark like a secret.

There was something tender in the way he whispered your name when you cried out his — something reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have you like this. And when your body tightened around him, shuddered beneath him, he caught you through it, kissed your cheek, your mouth, your neck — whispered that you were perfect, that you were his.

He followed soon after, his voice breaking into a groan as he pressed as deep as he could, shaking with the force of it, with everything he’d been holding back.

When it was over, he didn’t move far. Just enough to roll you gently to your side and pull you close, your bodies still tangled together, still warm and slick with each other.

You felt him kiss your shoulder, then your neck. “You okay?” he asked again, voice softer than ever.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Joel…”

He pulled you tighter. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

You tucked your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, listened to his heartbeat.

And that’s how you stayed — wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt all the same.

A/N: Should i make a part two for this? Idk how i would continue it, so if you want drop some ideas in the comments. Thanks for reading hun xx

[mrsbarnesblog]

the zipper

masterlist

summary: when you ask Bucky to help with your dress while you two at the gala, it doesn't go the way you planned

words count: 2.1k

warnings: semi-public sex, fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, mild dominance, light overstimulation,

a/n: I guess there are already tons of fics with congressman Bucky at the Gala (even though I still haven't read any of them), but this has been on my mind for a few days, so I have to give it to y'all.

also, do any of you want to be on my tag list? I thought about it randomly because many writers do it and I have so many followers... so if you would like to be tagged on my bucky fics, you can leave a comment or send me a message in my inbox🪼

The gala was in full swing, with way too many important people wandering around, talking, and pretending that they like each other. Bucky didn’t like it. He didn’t like the crowdedness, the tight and fancy suit, and the fact that he still couldn’t fully figure out what Valentina was doing irritated him even more. 

At least he had you by his side, and most of the time you were on his arm, soothingly rubbing his back or placing a kiss on his cheek when you noticed him getting overwhelmed. You were a good distraction—his favorite and only one. 

Though while he was talking to Congressman Gary, Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that you went to the bathroom about fifteen minutes ago and still didn’t come back. His mind started wandering off, barely listening to the man in front of him, even if it was extremely important. He just couldn’t focus when he didn’t know where you were and what was happening. 

In that exact same moment, his phone rang with a notification from you. 

Buck, I have a problem with a zipper. Could you come and help me, please?

He physically felt himself relaxing, knowing that you were just struggling with your dress, and he excused himself from the conversation as he went down the fancy hall. Bucky knocked a few times at the door until your head poked out of it with a shy smile, and you gestured to him to walk in. He locked the door before fully taking you in when you stepped further into the room. 

Hair pinned up, with a lip gloss in your hand, you applied it standing in front of the mirror. Bucky’s breath hitched when his eyes fell lower, at your chest, to be exact. Probably that was the reason you called him, because the zipper on your back was only halfway done, making the front part of your dress hang dangerously loose. The fabric barely covered your boobs, as it slid so low that Bucky could see that there was no bra underneath. 

You stood there unbothered, looking at yourself in a mirror, and completely unaware that within a second you caused him to have a hard-on. 

“...and I took it off to remove the label from the inside, but I can’t zip it back.” His ears caught only the last part of your sentence, while you were still innocently focused on your reflection. “I’ve tried so hard to reach it, but I’m afraid that I might break my nail… Buck, you okay?” Your soft voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he stepped behind you, metal hand on your waist. 

“Yeah, just fine, doll.” He mumbled in a gruff voice. Bucky was higher than you, so standing behind your back, he could perfectly see that your loosely hanging dress left basically nothing for the imagination. He looked down at the smooth skin of your back, framed by the soft color of the silk fabric, letting out a deep sigh as his other hand hesitated in the air. 

His cock was pulsating in his suit pants, desperately craving your attention, the feeling of you. So before he could think of anything better, his hand tugged the zipper down to your ass, and he groaned, looking back in the mirror to see the full front part of your dress falling down and bunching at your hips. 

“Bucky!” You gasped at the feeling of cold air against your bare skin. Your hands instantly shot up to cover yourself, your lip gloss fell on the floor and was probably ruined, but Bucky moved quicker, wrapping one hand around your body. “We’re… at the gala…” 

“Like I care, baby. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.” His head fell forward into your neck, stubble scratching your delicate skin, lips ghosting just enough to send shivers down your spine. He pushed his hips forward, grinding his bulge against your ass and groaning at the feeling. You gasped again, instinctively melting in his arms, when his metal thumb brushed around your nipple. “No fucking bra, God damn, do you want to kill me here?”

“You don’t wear a bra in such dresses.” You mumbled weakly, throwing your head backwards and barely able to hold back your moans when Bucky teased each of your breasts. 

“Mhm, you should wear them more often then.” 

His other hand trailed down your stomach, using a high slit on your dress to sneak in between your thighs and press his palm against your core. He palmed you shamelessly, feeling the warmth of your pussy through the lacy material, which already started to get soaked. Bicky knew your body better than he knew himself, so the subtle movements like the tilt of your head to the side, parted lips, and barely noticeable rocking of your hips gave him everything he needed to take you right in this bathroom. 

You knew that you shouldn’t do anything in the middle of the gala, when you still had to go to the main room afterwards and face people, pretending that nothing had happened. But it was Bucky, the one who could make you feel lightheaded with only one touch, who always found an excuse to fuck you anywhere and everywhere, who was currently intoxicating you with his cologne and fingers that he already pushed inside of you.

“Oh, please—” You whimpered as he pumped his fingers into your dripping hole, pressing a thumb against your puffy clit. His other hand was still busy with your boobs, twisting and pinching your nipples, almost sending you to tears. 

“‘M gonna fuck you, baby. Fuck, you’re so hot like this.” He groaned against your ear, withdrawing his fingers with a loud, wet sound and immediately reaching for his pants. You felt him fidgeting with the buckle, then pushing your dress up for easy access. His hand softly pushed in between your shoulder blades until you bent over with your hands on the sink and your ass on display for him. 

Bucky’s metal hand pushed your legs further from each other, then slid your panties down until they were bunched around your ankles. At that point you wanted to cry from desperation, looking at him through the mirror and basically dripping from how horny you were. But then you felt the blunt tip of his cock sliding through your puffy folds, teasingly nudging your clit, as Bucky let out a loud moan. “Just soaking my cock, doll. You need it bad, huh?” He teased, slapping your ass once, just nudging your entrance but not pushing inside. “We got five minutes before someone notices. Think you can be quiet for me?”

“Yes. James, just please…” Your eyes rolled back the moment he slammed into you in one smooth motion, stretching you wide around him just the way you both liked, not even giving you time to think when he started slamming into you with full force. Bucky’s eyes stayed locked on the mirror, obsessed, addicted. Your reflection was pure sin—mouth parted, brows knitted in pleasure, tits bouncing with every savage snap of his hips. You tried to muffle your sounds, biting your lip until it hurt, but your breath kept catching on broken little gasps that made Bucky thrust even harder.

He groaned behind you, gripping the flesh of your ass, probably leaving marks on the skin, and keeping you still so he could use you the way he wanted. The wet sounds of your bodies slapping together filled the room, mixing with the faint music echoing from the gala. 

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He rasped, voice rough like gravel, forehead slick with sweat as he leaned over you. “You were made for me, doll. Fuckin’ made for me.” Your walls fluttered around his cock, making him twitch deep inside you, and Bucky let out another guttural groan. 

His relentless assault on your G-spot easily pushed you closer to the edge, making you gasp for air in poor attempts to not moan out loud. When an orgasm washed over you, Bucky didn’t stop or follow you the way you expected him to. Oh no, after mumbling a bunch of curses mixed with praise, the palm of his hand pressed on your lower stomach, and his fingers reached your clit, moving in circles. 

“Gonna cum again, doll? Soak my cock, huh?” He growled, breath hot against the shell of your ear, his fingers working your clit with maddening precision while his cock kept pushing into your sopping cunt.

Your answer was a strangled moan, your body trembling as overstimulation surged through you like fire. The first orgasm hadn’t even faded, and he was already pushing you into another, forcing your body to submit, to unravel under his touch again and again.

“Jesus, Bucky—” You whispered, your voice wrecked, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as your thighs started to shake. “Too much, I—” He hushed you softly, his metal arm wrapping around your waist to keep you steady as he pounded into you mercilessly, lips brushing your ear.

“You can take it. You will take it. Give me another one, sweetheart. Be my good girl.”

That tipped you over the edge. Again.

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, your nails scraping at the counter as another orgasm ripped through you, harsher this time, your vision nearly whiting out from how intense it was. Your whole body went limp, but Bucky held you upright, grunting as your walls clamped down on him like a vise.

“Fuck, baby—fuck.” He hissed, his thrusts losing rhythm as you dragged him over the edge with you. One final snap of his hips and he buried himself to the hilt, spilling into you with a moan and then pushing his cum into you like he didn’t want to waste a single drop. 

“You’re insane…” You managed to mumble, barely able to straighten up. Bucky shifted behind you, slowly pulling out with a groan and tucking himself back in his pants. He bent down to help you pull your panties back in place, and then, as if nothing had happened, he fixed the back of your dress, lifted up the front, and this time properly zipped it. 

“That’s your fault.” Bucky shrugged casually, giving you a shit-eating grin after spinning you to face him. You slightly wobbled in your heels, and you gripped his shoulders for some stability. He placed his hands on your waist, leaning in for a slow and soft kiss. Being a gentleman, as if he hadn’t just railed against the sink like there was no tomorrow. “Still shaky?” He whispered against your lips, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You gave him a playful glare, but it was half-lidded and dazed. “Gee, I wonder why.” You took one look in the mirror—your hair still mostly intact, makeup a little disheveled but passable, and your eyes? Yeah, they were screaming just fucked, and you wondered how many people could pick up on that instantly. “I guess we have to go back now. Even though I look totally fucked. Both literary and figuratively.” 

“You look perfect, I promise.” Bucky chuckled lowly, his hand slipping into yours as he led you toward the door, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. “I’m more interested in seeing how you’re gonna keep that poker face of yours. You’re gonna have to hold it together, doll. Until we get back home.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, fighting the flush that threatened to creep up your neck, knowing exactly what he meant. “Oh, I can do poker faces.”

“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced, but the playful gleam in his eyes told you he was looking forward to watching you try.

[wonderjanga]

First Meetings pt. 2

Bruce was hurt. He was shot multiple times and left bleeding in an alley on some trash bags. Thankfully, next to him, the perp was knocked out next to him after he tried to reach and steal his utility belt. It sent a non-lethal shock at him. Bruce called Alfred who is currently driving the Batmobile to him at the moment.

Bruce was blinking in and out of consciousness when at some point he blinked and a giant blob of red and yellow was leaning in over of him.

Marvel: “…sir?”

Batman: *grunts*

Marvel: “Okay… uhm…” *squats down* “Sir, can you hear me? Are you okay?” *smacks his cheek a couple times*

Batman: *swats the hand away*

Marvel: “Okay… at least you’re alive and conscious. Somewhat. Come on, son, let’s get you to a hospital.”

Hospital? Oh so this man was trying to help him. Wait, the man was reaching for his utility belt. He was going to get shoc— oh wow. He wasn’t even flinching.

The man was holding Bruce up by the belt and barely batting an eye as the utility belt administered non-lethal shocks that should’ve knocked out by now or at least singed the man’s hand.

Bruce blacked out from there. At some point he knew that the man was carrying him while walking, then at some point, he was very high in the air, and then finally he was on a hospital bed. It seen Bruce was finally conscious enough to realise what was going on. That he was in a random hospital room in God knows where. The man, he was dressed a bit like the speedster from Central city and the new hero from Metropolis, was talking to what was probably a doctor.

It seemed the doctor noticed him first and immediately grabbed a vial full of orange liquid and tried to make Bruce drink it.

Doc: “Here try this it’s my patented pain disappearance solution! Tell me if it works!”

Marvel: *smacks it away* “Trust me when I say don’t try that. It will either kill you, or worse, turn you blue.”

Doc: “Hey!” *scrambles to pick it up*

Marvel: “Anyways, son, how are you feeling? You had quite a few holes when I found you.”

Batman: “I’m fine.” *sits up* “Where am I?” *feels his belt for his communicator* “And where is my batcommunicator?”

Marvel: “Communi-what? You mean this thing?” *pulls it out and hands it to him*

Batman: “Yes. …Why I won’t it turn on?”

Marvel: “I don’t know.” *shrugs* “But it did suddenly started smoking when I touched it.”

Batman: “Did you short it out?”

Marvel: “Maybe? I don’t really know what that means.”

Batman: *long ahh sigh* “Do you have any tools I could use to fix it? And again, where am I? You didn’t answer me.”

Marvel: “We’re in Fawcett. In a clinic to be specific. And, I don’t really know what tools exactly you have in mind. Sorry.”

Bruce ended up being shown to a rotary phone. Vintage. From there, he called Agent A and got the flip out of there. The man was probably worried sick.

By the way, it’s because of this entire interaction that Bruce always thought Billy knew his secret identity. Because, well, why wouldn’t you unmask the stranger in a bat costume who you found shot four times? This ended up with him unconsciously more comfortable around Marvel than he realized as the years went by and the Justice League is formed.

Billy never looked under his mask.

[woso-story]

Through Thick And Thin - Part Two

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

You woke to chaos.

Blinding lights. Voices. Movement. Cold.

The world came at you all at once — too fast, too loud, too much. You groaned, the sound barely escaping your throat. It felt like someone had ripped your body apart and stitched it back together with fire. Everything hurt. Your legs, your ribs, your head — pain blooming in places you didn’t even know could hurt.

You tried to open your eyes.

White. Too white. The light stabbed into your skull like knives, forcing you to shut them tight again.

There were voices around you. Some yelling, others rushing through clipped medical terms. You couldn’t tell if they were talking to you or about you. Your mind swam, struggling to stay afloat. Nothing made sense. The words were muffled, like you were underwater. You didn’t know what they were saying. You didn’t even know where you were.

What happened?

Hospital. It had to be a hospital.

But… why?

You tried to think, tried to rewind the morning. You were on your way to training — that you remembered. But not with Alexia, no. She had left earlier, taking your training bag with her. You wanted to stop by the city center first, pick up a small gift for Patri’s birthday. Just something simple. You were riding your bike. The weather had been beautiful. Barcelona at its best — golden sunlight, warm breeze, the scent of bakeries filling the streets.

You’d been smiling to yourself, actually. Thinking about how lucky you were. How perfect life was.

And then…

You gasped, your body reacting before your brain could. A spike of pain shot through your side, making you writhe against the stretcher. Someone held your arm down gently. A voice tried to calm you.

Tires screeching. A horn. A sharp impact.

Then — nothing. Just blackness.

“Easy... it’s okay... you’re safe, you’re in the ER... we’re going to give you something for the pain now…”

The words blurred together again, the meaning slipping through your fingers like sand. And just as quickly as it came, the world began to fade again. Your grip on consciousness slipping.

You didn’t know yet that a car had run a red light. That you’d been thrown off your bike. That you’d landed hard — so hard they weren’t sure at first how bad the internal damage was. You didn’t know the injuries, the surgeries ahead, the hard conversations still to come.

---

But the pain — it told you enough.

Something was very, very wrong.

Meanwhile, at Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, the Barca training grounds, there was a different kind of tension rising.

“Where is she?” Irene asked, tugging off her warm-up jacket. “Did she forget that we have training today?”

“She said she’d come on her own today,” Alexia replied, lacing up her boots. “She wanted to stop in the city first.”

“She’s never late,” Ingrid muttered, checking the clock. “It’s been almost forty minutes.”

Alexia tried to laugh it off, but her fingers paused on the laces. You were never late. You were usually the first one to arrive — warming up, checking your cleats, chatting with the coaches. You were that kind of player.

She pulled out her phone. Dialed. Straight to voicemail.

A cold wave crept through her chest.

Still, she shook it off and followed the others out to the pitch. Maybe you were helping someone. Maybe you lost track of time. It wasn’t like you… but things happened.

It wasn’t until midway through drills that she noticed something was wrong.

She caught sight of Pere, the team’s head coach, standing stiffly by the sidelines. Two of the club staff were speaking to him in hushed, frantic voices. He nodded sharply, then turned toward the pitch. His expression was tight. Focused. Grim.

“Everyone stop.”

The session froze. The air changed.

“Alexia,” Pere called. “Come here.”

No. No, no, no.

The rest of the team gathered silently, watching as Alexia walked toward him. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until he spoke.

“There’s been an accident,” he said. “It’s Y/N. The hospital just called.”

She didn’t hear the rest.

The world dropped out beneath her feet.

Her hands were shaking when she stormed into the locker room. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. You had kissed her goodbye just this morning. Told her you’d see her in an hour. Smiling. Safe.

And now you were in a hospital.

She dug through her bag frantically, searching for her car keys. Her vision was blurring, her breath ragged. Just when her fingers wrapped around the keys, a hand snatched them away.

“No way,” Mapi said, her voice firm but calm. “You can’t drive like this.”

“Give them to me,” Alexia snapped, trying to grab them back.

“Alexia, no.” Mapi held them out of reach, her eyes filled with concern. “You’re shaking. You’re in no condition to get behind a wheel.”

“I have to get to her!”

“I know. And we will. But not like this. You don’t even know what hospital she’s in—”

“In Sant Pau,” Ingrid interrupted from the doorway, already tossing her own keys to Mapi. Her voice was steady, but her jaw was tight, her eyes stormy. “You drive. I’ll sit with her.”

Mapi hesitated for a beat, then nodded. No more questions.

The three of them walked out together, still in their kits, football boots clacking against the asphalt. None of them cared. All that mattered was getting to you.

Alexia sat in the back, her knee bouncing, heart in her throat, hands clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. She stared out the window but saw nothing.

Ingrid rested a hand on her shoulder, and for the first time since Pere had spoken, Alexia let the tears fall. Silent. Scared. Praying that the next time she saw you, you’d still be able to say her name.

Please be okay.

Please be okay.

Please, please be okay.

[mahmahmahmysharona]

When you and Bob have your first time…twice (pt. 1)

Bob Reynolds x Avenger Reader (Part 5/?)

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4

Here is what you learned about Bob after the kiss:

He loved kissing. Seriously, anytime you two were left alone, he was on you. In the day, these were light and quick, stolen out of the air in small moments of privacy. At night, when you two could hide out somewhere in the tower, they could be long, feverish kisses that left you both off-balance.

He stayed up late and woke up early. You never know what he did between those hours, but you were always dozing off before he did, and when you woke up, he’d already be alive to the world, watching the sunrise through the window or staring up at the ceiling. You wished you could learn the sound of him sleeping.

He waited up for you on nights when you headed out on missions. No matter how small, how easy, he was always there when you got back. (Apparently, he always did this.) Now, when you headed back to your room in the early hours, you’d barely touch your door before you heard his creaking open and felt him reaching out for you. He would follow you inside and watch you get ready for bed, climbing in beside you and letting you nest your head in the crook of his shoulder. Soon, it became the only way you could sleep at all.

You and Bob tried to hide your new relationship as much as you could at first.

You both acted normal in front of the rest of the team, but found solace in spending the nights hidden in one of your rooms. Honestly, it wasn't much different to what you were doing before — only this time, there was a newfound level of physical intimacy you were both trying to adjust to.

You hadn’t been in a relationship for years, thanks to your newfound status as an enhanced being and your never-ending line of duty. And Bob…well, Bob had his own reasons for a gap in his resume.

To put it bluntly, neither of you were novices in this particular field, but you weren’t exactly pros, either.

But it was undeniable: You both wanted each other. Now that you were allowed to, it was hard not to let the nights were you held each other get overheated fast. But you both broke away before things got in too deep. It became harder and harder, especially the more you fell for him.

Putting it down to a combination of shyness and lack of experience, you decided one day that it would be best to bite the bullet and take the plunge.

"Bob," you said one afternoon in the kitchen, with you and Bob eating lunch and hiding your joined hands under the counter. "Do you want to have sex with me?"

He let out a noise: half a laugh, half a strangled choke. "...What?" he asked.

"You heard me."

"Uh..." He looked around. It took him a few coughs to clear whatever food was now stuck in his throat from the double take. "Yeah. I mean, of course. Do you?"

"Yes." You picked some of the crust off your sandwich. You hadn't planned the conversation beyond this point. "Then I think we should. Tonight?"

He blinked. Then, remembering himself, he nodded, trying to match your professional tone. "Okay. Uh...looking forward to it."

You laughed: thank god. That was done with. And soon, you'd both have gotten over the initial awkwardness, and the real fun could begin.

That night, you waited up, wore your pyjama shorts and tank (the only thing you had that could even remotely be considered as alluring) and sat on the edge of your bed. You waited until you heard a knock at the door, and Bob came in.

He shut the door behind him and waited, softly smiling. There was too much waiting going on. "Hey. Come here," you told him, patting the mattress next to you. He moved over to your side, but you both remained in your own spot.

Eventually, he broke the silence. "I didn't know if you wanted me to get...stuff," he said. "Or if you already had."

"Stuff?"

"Condoms," he clarified. It wasn't a word you thought you'd hear Bob say when you first met him. Mind you, you never thought you'd be sitting here with him, getting ready to do what you were about to do. (Or at least, what you thought you were about to do.)

"Oh," you let out a small, breathy laugh. "Don't worry about that. It's not a problem."

He mimicked your laugh, not quite knowing why. "It's not?"

"I can't get pregnant. So, you know, it's your lucky day."

His eyebrows knitted together. "...What do you mean?"

"Just because of...what happened to me. The serum changed my biology. They said a lot of normal stuff isn't possible for me anymore."

You've told people this fact before enough times for it to become painless. But now, seeing the shattered look on Bob's face, you suddenly remembered the weight of it once again. You shifted in your seat, tearing your gaze away from him.

"I'm sorry," he said, resting his hand on your thigh. "...We don't have to do this if you don't want. Not tonight."

You snapped your eyes back up to him. You didn't want pity. You didn't want time. You wanted normalcy. You wanted him. You leaned forward and kissed him, bringing your hand up to his face and pulling him in.

He hesitated, but reciprocated as soon as he knew it was okay for him to do so. You stayed like this for a while, your lips moving against each other as you inched closer and closer. When his hand gripped your thigh harder, you took a sharp breath in. The sound seemed to flip a switch in him, and he brought his other arm to your hips, pulling you in and closing the gap between you.

You followed the movement and lifted yourself up, throwing your leg over him and resting yourself on his lap. Your arms looped around his neck, and you felt his hands grip handfuls of flesh on either side of your thighs.

"Do you want me, Bob?" you asked into his lips.

"Yes," he gasped in return. "You know I do."

In response, you rocked your hips against him, feeling the firm pressure underneath. He let out a soft moan, gripping you tighter, wrapping his arms around you. His lips found your cheek, your chin, your neck, striking the balance between pressing softly and giving away the hunger he was feeling from having you on top of him.

Your mouth found his earlobe, and you nipped at the skin there. "God," you heard from below you.

Taking that as a sign, you gently pushed him backwards until he was laying flat on the bed with you mounted above him. At being distanced from you suddenly, he appeared agitated, reaching up and grabbing you by the arms to pull you down and kiss you once more.

You rocked back and forth, increasing the friction between you, feeling him harden impossibly between your thighs. At seeing his face — a muddled mix of pleasure and concentration — you reached your hand down between you and guided your palm over him. The exhale he released was low and loaded. He was trying to hold back, and you didn't want him to.

As you slipped your hand along the border of fabric and firm muscle, one of his hands found your hair, hooking a handful and tugging gently. Finally breaking through, you reached down and took him in your grip. At the feel of him, you let out a soft hum, but he was nothing compared to the gasp that came from him.

"Shit," he said. "Oh, shit."

You held him in your hand, gently and slowly moving up and down, enjoying the feeling of his hips rising up to yours with each motion. He pulled on your hair even more, bringing your face down to his so your breaths became entangled between you. You increased your movement, pumping your hand harder. Bob moaned into your mouth, and you couldn't help it — your own moan followed, his name coming out right alongside it—

Suddenly, there was the sound of shattering glass. A lot of it.

A yell echoed from across the tower: "Holy hell!"

You and Bob sat bolt upright. You looked at him. He looked at you. You were both pink in the face and panting. It only took a second — and god, you didn't want to — but you slipped off him and went to the door.

"What the hell was that?" you asked, still feeling the knocks of your heart against your chest pounding through you.

"Uh...I think...I think that was me."

You turned to look at Bob. He was still sitting there, still at attention, now with a slightly bashful look painted on his face. You looked at him and back at the door.

"I'll be right back," you told him. You slipped outside, wandering towards the kitchen. When you got there, Walker is standing in the dark, in his pyjamas, staring at a pile of broken glass. It seemed every glass in the cabinet exploded, shattering fragments across the kitchen. Walker looked at you, dumbfounded.

"I just came in for some water, I swear to god," he said.

"Well..." You paused. "You know where the dustpan and brush is."

As you walked back to your room, you heard him yell, "But I didn't do this!"

"I don't see anyone else in the room with you!" you called back.

When you returned to your room, you were disappointed to see Bob standing, seemingly recovered from the position you were in not just a few minutes ago. Seeing your confusion, he came to you, grabbing your arms and pulling you closer.

"Is it a mess?" he asks, pressing his lips to your head.

"Yes. You really did that?"

"I guess so. I think I got overwhelmed, but in a good way. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I’m sorry. Maybe I pushed this too hard and too fast. I just wanted…I just wanted us to—”

“I know. Me too.”

God, now you wanted him even more. He’d never believe it if you told him, but you honestly thought that out of everyone in the building, Bob was the only one who ever said what you wanted to hear. You reached out and pulled him in. You felt his hand at the back of your neck, stroking the skin there. You wanted him again, and he wanted you (you could tell from the sound of his fluttering heartbeat by your cheek), but you wanted to let it be. You wanted to wait.

Turns out, you wouldn’t have to wait for much longer after all.

Coming soon: …Pt. 2.

Tag list: @purplefluffycows @i-shall-abide @avengersinitiative2012 @tatsunesworld @lovelyypythoness @yujyujj

[edensrose]

𐔌 𖹭 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒖 𝑮𝒐𝒋𝒐 ˖ ࣪✧

ᡴꪫ. part 2 & oral, curse gave him accidental aphrodisiacs oh nooo 𖹭 f. reader ˖ ࣪ꮽ˳

˖ ࣪ 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕. ۫ ۶ৎ the reception for part one was pretty good so I made this a lil longer. eat up ૮𐔌ᡘ ´ ˘ `๑꒱ა !

satoru gojo still won't let you suck him off.

you're on plan f after yet another failed attempt of tending to his morning wood. or maybe it's plan g if you include your attempt at sixty-nining? maybe plan h for thinking handcuffs could hold him? your pussy's still aching after that one. you're starting to lose hope.

but who thought help would come in the form of overworking and curses. two banes in your relationship with the strongest sorcerer — ended up being the ace up your sleeve.

the front door shuts. you brace yourself for warm arms and hearty kisses all down you neck. instead - slump. a sudden weight nearly bucks your knees and you push back to stabilise.

"satoru?" your eyes flutter wide and you spin to the boneless mess that is your boyfriend. blindfold pushed further into tousled hair. no grin, only a low pout. his face warm, bright pink. blue eyes like murky oceans as his forehead slumps into yours.

you don't quite notice the tremble on his lips, or the hitch of his breath when you press closer.

"baby . . . "

"oh toru, you look exhausted."

your tender hands become his sanctuary. his face buries into them while you stroke your thumbs along his cheekbones. dinner would have to wait, your boyfriend needs a shower and sleep.

he's panting, he must be beyond fatigued.

it's what he adored about you; how you took care of him. he — a behemoth next to you, and yet you so dutifully ushered him into the bathroom, helped him into comfortable clothes and laid him on his side of the bed.

"I'll be right back, yeah?" your hand strokes through his hair to lay a kiss on his forehead, before you're off. so blind to the way his fingers thread along your shirt's hem as you part. almost pleading, needing.

satoru groans and tucks his face into the pillow. he feels every breath, every twitch. it's far too warm in these four walls for winter. he just showered but his skin feels clammy. the air in his lungs shallows.

your pillow - your scent. that expensive floral perfume he insisted on buying for you. it does more harm than good. he barely even realised that he'd slowly, sloppily shifted it between his legs. one small roll of his hips devastated him. his head falls into the sheets. another groan. this is torture. how is he already so hard? how is he already throbbing into the fluff —

"toru?" that soft voice will be the death of him. he shakily casts a glance. tries to mouth an apology and fumble your pillow away, but you're over him in seconds. "are you okay? what's going on?"

so understanding. so caring. his throat bobs as he melts into your weight on his back and the thumb on his cheekbone.

"really weird curse today," another throat clear. "so tired. fuck, I didn't realise it even hit me. just feel s'hot, baby. so hot." as if he wasn't sorry for it in the first place, his hips stutter on your pillow again.

it clicks. how glad you are he isn't facing you. the grin you muster is both parts evil and mischievous. as if you cherry-picked the curse on his latest mission. perhaps the universe really is on your side.

"so hot, toru? let me help . . ."

his eyes snap open wide. he knew the second he felt your sneaky palm cupped over his bulge, he just signed his soul off.

and right now? he's too weak to fight you on it.

head tossed back. white strands strung over his sweat-glistened forehead. the pink dust painted into a hot, red blush over his face. every second breath warrants a gulp. wrists tied - frankly loosely - to the headboard. it didn't matter. satoru gojo didn't have his strength in this moment.

"shit - sweetheart - hah." your tongue traces on the lithe bump just below his cockhead. your lips join the mix in a slow suckle. coating his dick in gloss with every tentative movement of your mouth.

you giggle as his hips buck. nimble fingers squeeze around his dick's base you can just barely wrap your hand around. "yeah? you were depriving yourself of this all along, you know."

you smooch a sweet kiss to his tip. slow, sensual, before you start sucking down. from the angle you witness his pretty blue eyes flutter rapidly and nearly roll back. muscles tense as he tugs on his binds. how easy it would be to snap them. if every inch of his body didn't feel on fire. if every little lick and suck didn't have him spilling like a fountain.

"don't . . . 'ont, baby." he struggle through a taut jaw. your lips swiftly trace back down, along that one, throbbing vein on his underside. before your tongue presses flat and strokes a long stripe back to the tip. your hand follows the motion in a jerk. he whines.

"fuck. wait. don't - I — "

velvet wraps around his angry, hot tip once more. this time you take him deeper. push the plush head to the corner of your cheek then withdraw — then back again, this time down your throat.

satoru's eyes widen. pupils blown out. his mouth hangs agape as he focuses his remainder strength on not fucking his dick down your throat. his hands clench. his chest stutters. balls tighten as a release quickly builds, tight in his gut. every bob of your head is a sinful image. with your lips stretched round his girth while you gaze at him through sultry lashes.

fuck, he can't do this. he shouldn't - "babbyyyy," he whines, breathless, pitched. "gotta stop - fuck - gonna cum. please."

pop! you part with a pant while your hand mindlessly keeps a fluid stroke. "why?" airy, near-cruelly, sweetly. "why won't you let me? why are you stopping me?"

"want you t'feel good - wanna make. . . wanna make you feel good too -"

"I do feel good, satoru."

his breath hitches. you give him a glossy smile and trace kisses in a tender circle over his cockhead. together with a squeeze and a thumb stroking vertically onto that prominent vein, you croon.

"feel so good when I'm making you feel good. promise you're not selfish. please? I just wanna show you how much I love you."

another kiss. he's teary with need. it's the aphrodisiac. that damn curse. making him weak, making him vulnerable. but maybe . . . it's worth it, if it's for you,

maybe feeling good isn't such a sin, if it's you.

"okay," he gulps. throat tight. lips trembled. "okay, sweetheart. I'll — mngh!"

it's quite possible all six eyes rolled back. his hips jerk at the sudden warmth engulfing his dick. you took him back down your throat with ease. hand messily pumping on whatever you couldn't fit as you dutifully got to work. head bobbing, cheeks hallowing. how could you possibly be patient?

for months he denied you. half the year, even. deprived you of taste. of the satisfaction to make him feel good. his retribution will come in the back of your throat. his plush, throbbing tip hits it repeatedly and he squirms from the overwhelm.

"baby - fuck-!" snap. one bind falls from his wrist. instead of pushing you away this time, his fingers delve to your scalp and hold. tightly. hips fall into rhythm. he fucks your throat in a way you could only dream of for months. till your eyes are rolling back with his.

spit and slick drip to his thighs. down your chin. a mess you're proud of. you'll pull back to suck near-suffocation on his tip then dive back down when a familiar throb alerts you.

"gonna - g-gonna - shit - babbyyyyy," a small arch finds his back. his hips sloppily, pitifully try to match your pace. his balls throb again. tighten. his tip pulses. he aches in heat, in pleasure. jaw taut and head flung back as you take him higher - and higher — until finally,

"fuck, yes yes yes like that fuuckk."

he bursts. thick ropes of cum cream the back of your throat and your eyes flutter in a sinful display. whites clear with your irises rolled back, but you're still so eagerly gulping him down. every drop. you're sure as hell not wasting after finally getting a taste.

satoru limps. boneless. for once in his life he cannot see anything at all. only white, hot pleasure as his body reels from the intense, blissful tides. every muscle gives out. his hand flops over your head. his hips so needily grind up a few more times. he's lost. shattered.

and you still have the nerve to slowly part with the sweetest kiss to his tip. with a smile so angelic. like you hadn't just crawled from the depths of hell.

his gaze slowly eases to you; your tongue is awaiting. poked from your glossy lips with a glob of his cum trickled. his mouth parts at the sight. eyes crease and squeeze as he tries to catch his breath.

"finally." you croon, gulping down the final wad as you lean over and brush your lips to his. "see baby? see how good I feel when you're feelin' good?"

the wet patch on your panties flushed to his throbbing cock hitches his breath. he deeply groans. nods his head and weakly cranes into you.

"I get it now baby, I get it."

white lashes flutter. he looks at you as though you hung the sun, moon and stars. his lips pull into a tired pout.

"now can you get over my face? need my sweet pussy too."

͝ ⏝𝅄︶ ͝ ⏝ ⊹ ⏝ ͝ ︶𝅄⏝ ͝

  ꘓ  𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @downpourz @unadulteratedtranquility @meosq @k0z3me @le0na2 ۪ ୧

[ineedpaigebuckets]

always you

synopsis: i don't even know guys just read

an: i actually just like wrote this in 5 minutes so have fun

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

azzi was already on the couch, one leg tossed over the armrest, hoodie unzipped and falling off one shoulder. there was music playing low from her phone, some rnb thing azzi never knew the name of but always associated with paige. she'd gone out on a little run so azzi was alone.

paige let herself in without knocking, like always. “you’re a mess,” she said lightly, tossing her keys into the bowl near the door.

“takes one to know one,” azzi mumbled, not even opening her eyes.

“rude.”

“accurate.”

paige kicked off her shoes, padded across the room, and collapsed next to her on the couch. her thigh pressed against azzi’s. warm. familiar. azzi didn’t move.

“you missed lunch,” paige said, her voice softer now.

“i know.”

“you okay?”

“i’m fine.”

a lie. not sharp, not mean. just… closed off. and paige didn’t know why, but something inside her surged at the need to break through it.

she let her head fall gently against azzi’s shoulder. “you know you can talk to me.”

“yeah.” azzi shifted, but not enough to shake her off.

“seriously, i’m like… very good at comfort. five stars. certified in emotional support cuddles, only for you.”

azzi huffed something like a laugh, but her body stayed still, tight beneath the surface.

paige let her fingers trail over azzi’s arm, light, casual at first. “and if that doesn’t work, i also offer kisses. and maybe a shoulder massage. optional, but highly recommended.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

“you love it.”

she turned her face slightly, pressing a small kiss to azzi’s shoulder through the fabric of her hoodie. azzi didn’t react.

paige didn’t stop.

another kiss, this time to the skin of azzi’s neck where the collar had slipped low. slower. more deliberate.

“paige,” azzi said, barely a whisper.

but paige was still talking, still filling the space with warmth and nervous laughter. “it’s fine, right? this is fine. i mean, you’re always-, and i just, i thought maybe you wanted-”

“paige.”

this time, azzi pulled away.

not gently.

she sat up, put distance between them with a sharpness that felt like a slap. her expression was unreadable. tight. scared, maybe. angry, maybe. both.

“what are you doing?”

paige blinked. her mouth opened, closed. her voice came out too fast. “i wasn’t- i didn’t mean to make it weird, i just-"

“you kissed me.”

“barely, that doesn't even count- i just…” paige’s breath hitched. “i just wanted to be close to you.”

azzi stood. crossed her arms. looked anywhere but at her. “you don’t get to decide that for me.”

the air was too quiet now. the music still played in the background, but it felt like it was coming from another world.

paige stood too, but slower. “i’m sorry. please… i didn't wanna make you uncomfortable. just let me stay. i just- can i just lay with you? please?”

azzi didn’t answer right away. her jaw clenched. her hands flexed at her sides like she didn’t know what to do with them.

eventually, she sighed and sank back onto the couch, but turned away from paige.

“you can stay. just don’t… don’t- don't be weird again.”

paige nodded, even though azzi wasn’t looking. she curled up on the far edge of the couch, arms around her knees. she didn’t try to touch her again.

the space between them felt like a canyon.

and still, paige ached to cross it.

the apartment had gone still again.

paige hadn’t said a word since curling up at the edge of the couch. her eyes were fixed on the window, blank and glassy. she looked so small like that. pulled into herself, like she didn’t know if she was allowed to exist in the room anymore.

azzi had never hated herself more.

she sat there for what felt like forever, fists clenched, trying to stay cold, trying to stay safe. but paige was too quiet. too still. and azzi couldn’t pretend she didn’t feel it—this slow, aching guilt sinking under her skin like ink in water.

“hey,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

paige didn’t look at her.

azzi moved carefully, slowly shifting across the couch. she hesitated before reaching out, fingers hovering over paige’s arm. “look at me?”

paige turned her head. her face was red around the edges, and her eyes were glassy. not crying, but close. she looked like someone who’d just been told they were too much.

“i’m sorry,” azzi said, and it sounded rough, pulled from the pit of her chest. “i didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

paige gave a half-hearted shrug. “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“don’t do that.”

“i’m just tired, azzi.”

that broke something. azzi reached for her then, fully, her hand sliding over paige’s arm, pulling gently until paige let herself be held. her head came down against azzi’s collarbone, hesitant at first, then all at once like she’d been waiting for permission.

azzi wrapped both arms around her, held her tight. no jokes. no pushback. just stillness and heat and heart.

“i’m bad at this,” azzi murmured into paige’s hair. “like, really bad.”

“i know,” paige whispered.

“but i love you.” azzi’s voice cracked on it, the words like glass in her throat. “and it scares the hell out of me.”

paige pulled back just enough to look at her. her face was open now, raw and hopeful and afraid.

“say it again.”

azzi met her eyes. “i love you.”

paige exhaled, shakily, like the air had been trapped in her lungs for weeks.

“fuck,” she said, blinking fast. “okay.”

azzi pulled her back in, and this time, paige didn’t hold anything back. she curled into her like she belonged there. and maybe- just maybe- she did.

[littlegochu]

2am text │ jjk 18+

"You still up?"

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: exes to lovers, cold male lead, cold female lead

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: we broke up eight months ago. mutual, no dramatic fights—just distance and timing. but we made one rule before ending things: no texting each other after 2AM.

tonight, he breaks it.

Jungkook [1:59 AM]: you still up?

Y/N [2:01 AM]: if this is a drunk text, i charge hourly.

Jungkook [2:01 AM]: not drunk. just... restless.

Y/N [2:02 AM]: restless enough to break the 2AM rule?

Jungkook [2:02 AM]: technically, it's 1:59

Y/N [2:03 AM]: what do you want jungkook

Jungkook [2:03 AM]: drove past your place, felt weird not turning in

can i call?

Y/N [2:04 AM]: what are you planning?

Jungkook [2:04 AM]: nothing, answer

incoming call.. declined

Jungkook [2:06 AM]: ok y/n

Y/N [2:06 AM]: pull in, ill be down in 5

the elevator doors slide open with that same soft ding at 3am when jungkook would come home late, when we lived in each other’s lives like a habit.

i expect to find him outside, leaning against his car in the lot. hoodie up. arms crossed. rehearsing whatever half-truth he came here to sell.

but he’s in the lobby.

posted near the wall like he never left. hood still up. hands in his pockets. still and silent like this isn’t weird for either of us.

my steps falter, but i don’t let it show. not really.

“you let yourself in?” i ask, keeping my voice flat.

his eyes flick up to me, then away. “door still sticks.”

“it doesn’t.”

he doesn’t respond.

i take a few more steps closer. i didn’t expect this part—to see him in the light. to see him this close again.

he looks the same. just... bigger. his shoulders fill out that hoodie now. jaw’s more defined. he stands like someone who knows exactly how he takes up space. like he grew into the weight he always said he was carrying.

he doesn’t belong in this building anymore. not like this. not like him.

“you weren’t waiting outside?” i ask, just to say something.

“was tired of the cold.”

“you’re wearing a hoodie.”

he looks at me properly then. no emotion. just quiet observation.

“and you came down in socks.”

“come on,” i mutter, walking past him toward the elevator. “not doing this in the lobby.”

he doesn’t follow immediately, but he doesn’t argue either. just moves when the doors open.

the ride up is silent. stale air. old music humming from a busted speaker. i cross my arms and stare straight ahead. i don’t know what he’s thinking, but i know better than to ask.

when the doors open, i walk ahead. unlock the door. leave it open behind me.

he steps in like he still remembers the layout. like muscle memory.

i flick on the lamp and fold my arms again, just to give them something to do.

“you want water or something?” i ask.

“no.”

we stand in the low light. same apartment. same couch. same two people trying to pretend this is normal.

“just to be clear,” i start, voice steady, “this isn’t some 2am thing. right?”

his brows twitch, barely. “what thing,”

“you know.”

he stares. then— “you know i’m not like that.”

his tone is flat. not defensive. just stating facts.

i nod. “i know. i just… wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“you think i came here to sleep with you?”

“i think it’s two in the morning and you’re standing in the apartment we used to live in.”

he doesn’t blink.

“then why’d you let me in?”

i meet his eyes. “i firgued you were drunk, i wasn’t letting you drive off and wrap your car around a streetlight.”

his voice is lower this time. “i’m not drunk.”

i narrow my eyes. “swear?”

“smell my breath if you want.”

i don’t move. but the heat in my chest flares.

he leans against the counter, arms crossed. “i didn’t come here for that,” he says again.

“okay,” i say. “good.”

but now i’m wondering what he did come for.

and i don’t know if i’m ready to hear it.

part 2 here: https://www.tumblr.com/littlegochu/783478807400202240/2am-text-23-jjk-18?source=share

[debonairprincesposts]

Loving Concern

Summary: You like to wear hoodies. Always. Jason is concerned that you might be hiding something underneath.

Warning(s): Involves topics like self-harm. Proceed at your own risk.

Words: 833.

Jason watched you across the dimly lit living room of his safehouse. His Angel, his sweetheart. You were curled up on the worn leather couch, a book open in your lap, but he doubted you were reading. Your eyes were distant, unfocused. As always, you were swallowed by one of your oversized hoodies, this one a faded black with the hood pulled low, obscuring most of your face. "Baby," he murmured, the endearment feeling both natural and like a desperate plea.

You glanced up, a soft smile gracing your lips. "Hey, Jay."

He hated this. Hated the way his chest tightened every time he saw you draped in those concealing clothes. He knew it was irrational, knew you had a whole wardrobe of these things, but the darkness clung to him like a second skin. He'd seen too much darkness, carried too much himself. He'd clawed his way out of the pit, both literally and figuratively, and the scars, both visible and invisible, were a constant reminder of how close he'd come to being consumed.

He knew your past wasn't sunshine and roses. You'd hinted at things, shadows lurking just beyond the edge of your words. And those damn hoodies... they were a shield, a barrier. What were you hiding?

He forced himself to breathe, to unclench his fists. He couldn't let his own demons poison your relationship. He had to trust you. But the fear, the gnawing, insidious fear, wouldn't let him.

He stood, the floorboards creaking softly under his weight. He walked over to the couch and knelt in front of you, taking your hands in his. Your skin was soft, warm, a stark contrast to the cold dread that had settled in his gut. "Sweetheart," he said, his voice rough, "can we talk?"

Your brow furrowed slightly. "Of course, Jay. What's wrong?"

He hesitated, searching your eyes for any sign of... what? Pain? Deceit? He didn't know. "It's... it's nothing, really. Just being stupid." He hated himself for the evasion, but the words felt like lead in his mouth.

You squeezed his hands. "You can tell me anything, you know that."

He took a deep breath. "It's just... you always wear these hoodies, Angel. And I worry." He hated how weak he sounded, how vulnerable.

Your expression shifted from concern to confusion. "Worry? About what?"

He swallowed hard. "I just... I worry that you're hiding something. That you're... hurting." The word hung in the air, heavy and accusing.

Your eyes widened, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of hurt. But it was quickly replaced by something else, something that looked suspiciously like amusement. "Hurting? Jay, what are you talking about?"

He gestured vaguely at your arms, hidden beneath the fabric. "Underneath... your sleeves."

You stared at him for a long, silent moment, and then a soft laugh escaped your lips. "You think I'm... self-harming?"

He flinched at the bluntness of your words. "I... I don't know. I just worry, okay? I care about you."

You reached out and gently cupped his face, your thumbs tracing the lines of his jaw. "I know you do, baby. And I appreciate it. But there's nothing to worry about."

He searched your eyes, desperate to believe you. "Can you... can you show me?" The words were barely a whisper, laced with shame.

You didn't hesitate. You pushed up the sleeves of the hoodie, revealing your forearms. Smooth, unmarked skin. A few faint scratches, undoubtedly from your beloved cats, were the only imperfections. No angry red lines, no faded white scars. Nothing.

Relief washed over him in a tidal wave, so potent it almost knocked him off balance. He hadn't realized how tightly wound he'd been until the tension began to bleed out of him.

"See? Nothing to worry about," you said, your voice gentle. "I just like hoodies. They're comfortable. And they keep my neck warm." You tugged at the collar, a small, almost shy gesture. "I get cold easily."

He took your hands again, turning them over in his. He kissed your palms, his heart overflowing with a mixture of gratitude and self-reproach. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I shouldn't have doubted you."

You smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that chased away the shadows in his mind. "It's okay, Jay. I understand. But trust me, if something was wrong, I'd tell you."

He knew you would. He had to trust you. He pulled you close, burying his face in your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of your shampoo. "I love you," he whispered, the words a promise, a vow.

You hugged him tightly. "I love you too, Jay."

He still didn't completely understand your obsession with hoodies, but in that moment, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that you were safe, that you were okay. And that he had you, his sweetheart, his Angel, right here in his arms. He would fight every demon, every fear, to keep you safe. Even if those demons were his own.

[f1-mcmuffin]

First Wins, First Times

(Requested) Lando Norris x Reader (5th Member of BLACKPINK AU)

A/N: lmk if y'all want the smut cut 😉

| Lando Norris Masterlist| Main Masterlist | Spotlight & Slipstream Masterlist |

SUNDAY – MIAMI GRAND PRIX – PADDOCK ENTRANCE

The morning sun burned high and bright, casting long shadows across the concrete as engines buzzed in the distance. The paddock was already a circus — cameras flashing, media zones full, heat rising like static off the tarmac.

The cameras were already waiting. It wasn’t a surprise anymore — not since Barcelona. They stepped through the gates together again

It was only their second time walking in officially like this — hand in hand. Yet somehow, it still felt surreal. The flash of cameras. The buzz in the air. Media attention swung toward them like a spotlight.

She held her head high. Her linen button-down was open over a tiny black tank top, paired with a Prada Natté mini skirt and vintage McLaren sneakers the team had sent her two days before. A VIP Paddock pass knotted on the handle of her orange Birkin. Last night’s eyeliner still lingered soft and smoky beneath her lashes, not quite slept-off, not quite intentional.

Lando looked relaxed beside her – crisp McLaren polo tucked into black slacks, sunglasses on, cap low, but she could feel the tension in his palm. Not from nerves. Focus. That quiet edge he always had before a race. And yet, even with the storm of competition brewing behind his eyes, he still made space for her — like he always did.

It was strange. The last time she was at a race, it had been a secret. Her name hadn’t been in a single headline. Now?

Now she’s  “Kpop Princess turned Paddock Queen.”

The walk toward McLaren’s hospitality unit was fast but punctuated — greetings, waves, a few shouted names. One Sky Sports interviewer did a not-so-subtle double take. Charles Leclerc called out a teasing, “Look who’s gone full team girlfriend!” from Ferrari’s side. Max Verstappen passed them with a grin and tossed Lando a thumbs-up.

She just smiled, tossed her hair back, and kept walking.

Lando nudged her playfully. “Still surviving?”

She glanced at him sideways. “Barely. You all do this every week?”

“You get used to it,” he shrugged. “Sort of like turbulence. Loud, disorienting, and no leg room.”

As they reached the McLaren hospitality suite, his manager and comms team were already waiting — friendly but slightly frazzled. She saw the moment coming, the way his posture shifted just a degree sharper, the way the team moved in like a pit crew with schedules and last-minute reminders.

But before they could pull him away completely, Lando tilted his head toward the second-floor balcony of the unit.

“Come on,” he said, and tugged her hand. “Five minutes. Just us.” 

They found a quiet spot with a view overlooking the paddock. Fans pressed against the fences below, media darting between teams, drone cams buzzing in the sky. But up here, it felt calm.

He leaned against the railing, and she slipped in beside him, arms brushing. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just breathed.

“You sleep okay?” he asked, voice low.

“Sort of,” she said. “Your mattress was trying to assassinate my spine. You?”

“Dreamt they fucked up my pit strategy,” he muttered. “Woke up sweating.”

She smirked. “Sexy.”

“I do what I can.”

She laughed softly and tilted her face toward the sun. “It’s weird being back here. Like déjà vu.”

He turned toward her. “What do you mean?”

“Last year, I was watching you race on my phone halfway across the world . Now I’m walking in next to you and getting dissected by Sky Sports Twitter.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her, thoughtful, then reached out to brush a piece of hair behind her ear.

“You’re handling it,” he said quietly. “Better than most. You make it look easy.”

 “It’s not.”

“I know.”

She leaned in then, kissed his cheek, lips lingering just a little longer than necessary. “You always make me feel safe, though.”

He smiled — that slow, crooked one reserved just for her.

“Good. Because after an hour of pretending to care about brake temps, I’ll need something real to look forward to. You in that skirt? That’s a start.”

She stepped closer, eyes flicking over his face. “Careful. You keep talking like that, I’ll be the distraction your engineers warned you about.” Her voice dipped lower, teasing. “Focus now. You can misbehave later. After you win.” He tilted his head, cocky. “But only if you promise not to ghost me afterward.”

“I always text you after the briefing.”

“Sometimes it’s just a thumbs-up emoji.”

“Still counts,” he grinned.

Below, someone called his name — sharp, clipped, urgent. Time was up.

He turned, pressed a quick kiss to the side of her head — then again, slower this time, lingering like he needed to draw from her, like she was his calm in the noise.

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

She squeezed his hand. “Go win,” she said softly. “I’ll be right here.”

He gave her one last look — a look that said you matter more than any podium ever could — and then he was gone, swallowed whole by orange polos, headsets, and the blur of the McLaren team.

She stayed a moment longer, watching until the last glimpse of him disappeared into the crowd. Then she straightened her sunglasses, smoothed the hem of her skirt, and turned back toward the paddock — chin high, heart steady.

The Red Bull setup was bigger, brasher. White umbrellas. Custom espresso bar. Giant screens looping highlight reels. Every part of it screamed we win, and we know it.

Lisa was already waiting in the shade, perched on a lounge chair like she owned the entire team. Her outfit was… questionable. Possibly ironic. Space buns, and sunglasses with mirrored lenses that reflected the paddock like a warzone.

When Lisa saw her bandmate, she stood immediately. “Took you long enough,” Lisa said bring her into a hug

She sank into the seat beside her with a sigh. “The walk through the paddock felt like Coachella with engines. People are trying to guess if I was carrying baby Lando already.”

Lisa snorted, pulling a can of Red Bull from a nearby cooler. “You should’ve told them you’re debuting your own team.”

“Team Pink Punk,” she murmured, accepting a drink of her own. “Powered by starting fandom wars and praying we’re planning a comeback.”

Lisa took a long look at her, then softened. Her smirk faded, just slightly. “I missed you, you know,” Lisa said quietly.

She turned her head toward her. Her voice was gentle. “I missed you too.”

The words were heavier than they seemed. Because she hadn’t just missed Lisa. She’d missed them. All of them. The late-night rehearsals that bled into dawn. The smell of studio candles. The off-key laughter on long-haul flights. The way Rosé used to hum into her hoodie sleeves. The way Jisoo always knew when She needed to be left alone, and when she absolutely didn’t. The way Jennie would invite her out to eat with her, they always end up fighting for the bill.

She hadn’t seen any of them in almost a year.

She remembers all five of them going their separate ways, no drama, no explosions — just a quiet scattering. She remembers crying on her solo flight to Monaco, forehead pressed against the window, unsure of when or if they’d make music together again. The silence between them had grown—not cold, just distant. Time zones and obligations and new lives.

“I don’t even know how to say it right,” she admitted, the words barely above the low hum of the crowd. “But it feels like something cracked a little when we stopped. Like… we had been orbiting the same sun, and then suddenly—”

“We were floating,” Lisa finished, her voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know.”

she looked down, twisting the ring on her finger. “I think I was scared to say it out loud.”

Lisa nudged her shoulder. “We all were.”She paused, then leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Rosé sent me a voice note last week. It was just her, playing guitar in her hotel bathroom. She didn’t say anything. Just… played. It felt like home and heartbreak at the same time.”

Her throat tightened. “Jisoo sent me a selfie of her and that same dog she said she wouldn’t adopt.”

Lisa laughed under her breath. “Of course she did.”

The two of them sat like that for a moment, drinks in hand, sunglasses hiding everything that their smiles didn’t.

“I’m glad our paths crossed today,” she said finally, her voice full of that weight she rarely let anyone see. “Even if it’s brief. It reminds me that we’re still us. No matter what.”

Lisa reached over, laced their fingers together for a beat. “We’ll find our way back. You know that, right?”

she nodded once, slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

The big screens flickered again — Lando’s qualifying replay. He looked fast. Focused. Electric. A spark of pride stirred in her chest.

Lisa caught her glance. “So,” she teased, tone shifting back. “Walking in with Lando. Very casual. Very low-key.”

she rolled her eyes. “We’re being casual. That’s not a crime.”

Lisa smirked. “Yet.”

They slipped into silence again, watching the pre-race shuffle build around them — pit crews rushing past, media swarming, camera operators sweating, influencers posing like it was fashion week. It was loud. Flashy. But strangely, not overwhelming. Not with someone like Lisa next to her.

“I’ll admit,” Lisa said after a beat, stretching her legs out, “I kind of like this. It’s different and loud and weird… but it suits you.”

She looked out at the garages, her gaze catching for a moment on the flash of papaya orange. Somewhere beyond the screen, beyond the fences, Lando was suiting up, calm and steady under pressure. Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of her drink.

“I just want to keep showing up for him,” she said. “And maybe… get the world used to the idea that I’m not going anywhere.”

Lisa grinned. “God, you’re sooo romantic. I love it. It’s gross. But I love it.”

She smirked, brushing her hair out of her face. “Gross love is still love.”

Lisa held up her can for a toast. “To gross love. And band reunions. And possibly stealing a race car later.” They clinked cans, and the world didn’t feel quite so far apart anymore.

Heat shimmered off the tarmac like a warning. Engines were silent but coiled, ready. Photographers lined the edges. VIPs clustered in designer sunglasses and exclusive passes. And in the middle of it all, they walked side by side — sunglasses low and completely unbothered.

She adjusted her ear cuff and scanned the grid. “So… this is what walking through the grid feels like.”

Lisa flicked her hair back, eyeing a cameraman already panning toward them. “You mean walking through a trap.”

“Same thing,” She said, waving a hand. “It’s like the Met Gala had a baby with a Red Bull can.”

A Sky Sports mic appeared in front of them. “Quick question—what brings you to Miami this weekend?”

She smiled politely, but her eyes were already calculating. “The weather,” she said smoothly.

Lisa added, “And our mutual obsession with carbon fiber.”

The reporter laughed. “Any predictions for today’s race?”

She tapped her chin. “Fast cars, sweaty drivers, and… um, champagne.”

 Lisa threw in, “And maybe one of us fainting in the heat. Place your bets.”

They kept walking, the reporter falling behind as the grid swallowed him in tire blankets, cameras, and mechanics.

“God, it smells like testosterone,” Lisa muttered, fanning herself with her VIP pass.

She leaned in. “Probably the Ferrari fans.”

“Yup. Eau de delusion.”

They passed Oscar mid-grid, who gave them a polite nod. Then Daniel Ricciardo, who greeted them with a cheerful “Hey!” and looked two seconds from asking for a TikTok cameo.

Lisa mimed zipping her lips and winked at him. “Oi!” Daniel called back, laughing.

Then came the familiar hum of McLaren orange. Lando, already in his race suit, jogged up from the front row — grin wide.

Her heart lifted instinctively. “Look who’s all dressed up.”

“Look who’s trying to outshine the cars,” he shot back.

He leaned in, kissed her cheek quickly, and pulled back just as a dozen cameras snapped. “Behave,” he warned with mock sternness before jogging off toward the national anthem lineup.

Lisa watched him go. “Is it weird that I feel like we just witnessed the cover shoot for GQ: Fast Boyfriend Edition?”

She snorted. “Wait until he wins a race. He’s going full Vogue spread.”

A woman from F1’s grid protocol team approached, trying not to look like she was herding cats. “Ladies, we need to clear the area—”

She gave her a perfectly measured look. “We know.”

Lisa raised both hands like she was surrendering. “We’re moving, ma’am. No need for the FIA.”

They reached the side barriers near McLaren’s section just as Martin Brundle came within ten feet. He was deep into his grid walk, practically beelining for them — until an AlphaTauri engineer stepped in the way.

Lisa leaned close. “That man wants us.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Well, he can’t have us.”

“Tell that to the internet,” Lisa muttered, spotting a boom mic floating just out of frame.

On the other side of the fence, fans shouted their names. Some held up Blackpink albums. One waved a hand-drawn poster that read:  “From Kpop Star to Pitlane Royalty 💙🧡”

She smiled and waved. Behind them, mechanics started rolling tire carts away. The anthem was coming. The energy shifted — tension curling through the grid like smoke.

Lisa adjusted her sunglasses. “Okay, but if I pass out during the anthem, I expect a dramatic montage and at least one Ferrari team radio reaction.”

She deadpanned, “Only if it’s Charles saying ‘Mon dieu, someone get her an iced latte.’”

“Honestly,” Lisa grinned

As the orchestra rose and attention swept toward the line of drivers, her eyes stayed fixed on the boy with the curls.

She slowed her pace as she and Lisa approached the Red Bull garage, the air humming with energy. The bass of a deep house track pulsed from hidden speakers, mingling with the rhythmic clang of pit gear and the scent of fresh rubber and sunscreen. 

Lisa adjusted her bucket hat and smirked like she’d just been handed VIP access to mischief. “You sure you don’t want to come in for just five minutes? There’s air conditioning.”

She gave her a knowing look. “If I go in there, I won’t come out until lap 42.”

Lisa laughed, then pulled her into a quick hug. “Tell him If he doesn’t win, I’m photoshopping him into Twilight posters or tweeting ‘he tried his best’ with a suspicious amount of sarcasm.”

“I’ll let him know,” She laughed. “Behave in there.”

“Obviously,” Lisa said, winking as she turned and disappeared into the Blue Zone like a girl on a mission.

She turned back toward the main walkway, already hearing a few camera shutters nearby, and that’s when she spotted Lily Z weaving through the crowd like she was floating. Iced coffee in one hand, her sundress catching the breeze, white sneakers looking criminally clean for a race day.

“Hey,” Lily called with a grin, lifting her drink in greeting. “You’re alive!” 11They hugged quickly, melting into each other’s energy with an ease.

“Barely,” she sighed dramatically. “I lost Lisa to Red Bull. Pray for her.”

“They’ll feed her Red Bulls and propaganda,” Lily said with a mock-serious nod. “She’s done for.”

They fell into step, heading toward McLaren’s hospitality tent with no urgency. Heads turned, phones came up, and a Sky Sports producer practically tripped trying to follow them discreetly. Neither flinched. It was the strangeness of the paddock — be seen, don’t be fazed.

“How are you really?” Lily asked after a beat, voice gentle.  “your travels, race weekends… dating a driver.”

She hesitated for half a second, then exhaled. “It’s… a lot. Amazing. But also… I feel like I’m living out of a suitcase and a WiFi signal. I don’t even know what city I’m waking up in half the time.”

Lily gave her a sympathetic side-eye. “Welcome to Formula 1. You’ll know you’ve fully adapted when you cry on a private jet while ordering a drink.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” she admitted, brushing a hand through her hair.

“Oh, I don’t,” Lily deadpanned. “I just pretend I’m not jet-lagged and sob into Oscar’s hoodie when no one’s looking. Yesterday I cried because I dropped my AirPods in the toilet. He thought I broke a nail.”

She laughed. “Relatable.”

“I mean, it looks good on the outside,” Lily continued, gesturing to everything around them. “But behind every good driver is a sleep-deprived girlfriend running purely on caffeine and repressed emotions.”

She nodded and smiled. “Last week I sent Lando a demo for a possible solo I was proud of and passed out before he even replied.”

Lily winced. “Oh no. Did he text back?”

“He sent back, and I quote, 3 fire emojis and “sounds pleasant.’ Which I think means he liked it.”

The noise of the paddock grew louder as the grid walk neared, but the moment between them was calm.

“Oh, that’s love. That’s modern-day Britain right there.”

The noise around them grew louder as the drivers were going to their positions on the grid

“Still,” Lily said, bumping her shoulder lightly, “You and Lando? You work. You soften him.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So he was feral before me?”

“Oh, absolutely. Still is. But now with slightly better time management.”

“Growth,” she said, mock-solemn. “We love to see it.”

They both cracked up, drawing a curious glance from someone in HAAS gear.

Lily sobered slightly, her tone softening. “I’m really glad you’re here. You belong here more than you think.”

Her throat tightened slightly at the sincerity. “Thanks. I think… I’m starting to feel that too.”

Ahead, McLaren’s garage shimmered in papaya orange like a safehouse in the middle of mayhem. The metallic heat of the paddock gave way to the cooler hum of the garage, where the air smelled faintly of engine oil, burnt rubber, and the lingering traces of sunscreen and energy drinks. Engineers in papaya polos moved with quiet urgency, radios crackling softly, and monitors flickered with telemetry data.

They stepped in together, their footsteps slowing instinctively as they crossed into McLaren territory. Someone handed them branded headphones with their initials and lanyards without a word—everyone was locked in. Focused. This was where it all happened.

A staff member guided them to a pair of seats just behind the main row of engineers. The chairs weren’t glamorous—more folding than plush—but the view was unmatched. A massive screen dominated the wall in front of them, already showing the pre-race feed: onboards, pit lane shots, the occasional dramatic camera sweep across the starting grid.

She slipped the headphones over her ears, the world going quiet except for the calm voice of the race engineer and the low murmur of comms. It was oddly grounding, like slipping below the surface of a storm into something steady.

Lily leaned closer, already fiddling with her mic toggle. “This is my favorite part,” she said softly, grinning. “The quiet before the chaos.”

She nodded, her eyes scanning the garage. Lando’s name blinked softly on a data screen nearby. She caught sight of his helmet in the car— neon green with black blobs. It made her heart stutter just a little.

Then the signal came through the radio: cars rolling out onto the formation lap.

The rumble from the track outside vibrated through the concrete floor beneath their feet.

Seated in the McLaren garage, headphones on, She watched the race unfold on the big screen. The atmosphere was electric, the tension palpable. She cheered as Lando climbed positions, her heart pounding with every overtake.

Starting from P5, Lando felt the familiar adrenaline surge as the lights went out. The initial laps were intense, with Max Verstappen leading the pack. Lando maintained his position, conserving his tyres and waiting for the right moment.

On Lap 29, a collision between Kevin Magnussen and Logan Sargeant brought out the Safety Car. Seizing the opportunity, Lando pitted and emerged in the lead, ahead of Verstappen. At the restart on Lap 33, he defended his position fiercely, then began to pull away as Verstappen struggled with tyre grip.

When the Safety Car emerged and Lando took the lead, she gripped her seat, barely breathing during the restart. Each lap felt like an eternity, but as the gap to Verstappen increased, hope blossomed. Tears welled up as Lando crossed the finish line, victorious. She whispered, “You did it,” her voice choked with emotion.

Each lap, Lando pushed the car to its limits, the McLaren responding beautifully. The gap widened, and with each sector, victory edged closer. The moment the checkered flag waved, Lando crossed the line, the world turned gold.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared at the timing screen. P1. Her knees buckled slightly, and beside her, Lisa grabbed her elbow, steadying her.

“Holy shit,” Lisa, who left the red bull garage after Max dropped to second, said. “Your man just won a Grand Prix.” She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t blink.

The garage exploded into cheers. Zak was hugging everyone in sight.  Mechanics vaulted over the pit wall. Papaya-clad arms reached for each other, some slapping backs, others wiping their eyes. The buzz of engines faded beneath the deafening roar of the crowd. The team erupted in celebration as Lando secured his maiden F1 victory. Lisa turned toward her, eyes wide, but she was already moving.

His voice cracked as he screamed into the radio—words slurred by joy, adrenaline, disbelief. “We did it! We actually fucking did it!” His engineer’s voice, half-choked with tears, came through the headset, but the rest was a blur. Mechanics flooded the pit wall. His team—his family—waited for him.

He parked the car, hands trembling as he ripped off his gloves. Helmet tossed aside, he broke into a sprint. Straight into the waiting arms of his crew.

They engulfed him. Cheers and swears and tears. Everyone yelling over each other. One arm around Zak Brown, another around his race engineer, and still—he kept searching the crowd, breath short, heart already pulling toward her.

There she was.

Still in her team pass and headset, standing frozen just beyond the barrier, one hand pressed hard to her chest like she was trying to hold her heart in place.

Their eyes met.

Everything else—mechanics, cameras, microphones—melted away.

He broke from the huddle without a word. Ducking under the barrier, cleaving through the crowd with a singular focus.

She ran too.

They collided with a force that knocked the air from her lungs more than singing ever could. His arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her completely off the ground, her feet dangling as she let out a laugh that quickly turned into a sob, ​​tucking her face into his neck.

“Jesus, Lando…” she whispered, overwhelmed. “You actually did it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he breathed, his voice rough. “You’ve been with me through everything.”

Her hands curled into his hair, into the collar of his suit. “I’m so proud of you. So—so proud.”

He tightened his grip, held her as though letting go might wake him up. “You kept me steady. Every bad race. Every near-miss. Every stupid doubt I had about myself. You were there.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, face flushed with the sun and something far deeper. He looked at her like she was the only real thing in the world.

And when he kissed her, it wasn’t shy or careful. It was months of holding back. Late nights in hotel rooms. Phone calls cut short. Dinners interrupted by strategy meetings. Every quiet sacrifice finally paid off in one, spine-tingling kiss. Some girl somewhere around the world fell to her knees at the sight.

Lisa, crouched a few feet away, phone in one hand, proper DSLR in the other, grinned like a cat. The media also caught it all. 

The cameras clicked like fireworks. The feed jumped from garage celebrations to the shot of Lando holding her like she was oxygen. Every commentator fell quiet for a moment, letting the image speak for itself.

@/f1girlythings: SHE JUMPED INTO HIS ARMS I'M SOBBING 😭💔 @/wagscentral: her in the McLaren garage, her in parc fermé, Y/n in my heart 🧡 @/raceweekromance: This is their world. We’re just living in it. @/formulalovee: LANDO JUST KISSED HER IN PARC FERMÉ?????? MY HEART @/motorsportromantics: the way he ran to her. like a man possessed. @/Landoandynsupremacy: I am not fine. I am sobbing in papaya-colored tears. @/gridgirlchronicles: no matter where you stood on the grid today, love won. 🧡

He finally lowered her to the ground, slowly, reluctantly.

Her hands were still resting on his chest. His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek.

“I love you,” he said it so softly, as if the world might steal it away.

she blinked, then smiled like it physically hurt to hold that much emotion. “I love you too.”

From behind them, someone called his name—FIA official, maybe. He glanced back once, then leaned in, resting his forehead against hers.

“You’ll be there at the podium?”

“Of course,” she said again. Her voice was steady now. Sure.

He kissed her once more—quick, reverent—then turned and jogged toward the cool-down room, team members slapping his back, laughter echoing around him.

Lisa slung an arm around her shoulder once he disappeared down the corridor. “That was the most disgustingly romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”

she wiped her eyes with a laugh. “Shut up.”

she stood where he left her, her arms still crossed over her chest like she could hold the moment in place. She smiled through fresh tears, cheeks aching, breath shallow. 

The steps to the podium felt like they went on forever.

Lando’s heart was hammering, not from adrenaline now — but disbelief. He was still drenched in sweat, curls damp under his cap, still breathing like he hadn’t taken a full breath since Lap 47, and his cheeks already hurt from grinning. He took the final step, squinting as the crowd exploded into cheers.

They roared his name.

LANDO LANDO LANDO

His name echoed from the grandstands to the marina. Papaya flags waved like fire. Phones pointed skyward. The McLaren crew punched the air.

He waved, a little dazed. Lando stood in the middle. For the first time. The middle. A little disoriented. It didn’t feel real until he looked down.

Wearing one of his team shirts, oversized and tied at the waist. Hair messy from the wind, makeup a little smudged from tears. Hands clutched to her chest. He’d never seen anyone look at him like that before. 

Pure pride. Pure love. Like he was the sun and she'd just watched him rise.

She blew him a kiss, her fingers trembling slightly. He grinned wide. 

The anthem started. Lando stood a little straighter as the British flag rose behind him, chest swelling. He bit his lip to keep it together.

All those years. All the near-misses. All the heartbreak. And now?

Gold confetti exploded into the air. Champagne time.

The cork launched skyward with a sharp pop, and the podium burst into a storm of white spray. Lando slams the bottle onto the floor making the spray shoot up. Max aimed straight for Lando, soaking him. Charles turned and doused Max back. Lando turned.

A wide arc of champagne sprayed across the barricade. She saw it coming a second too late. “No—no no no not again—Lando!”

 She gasped, hands flying up. She laughed. Loud and unfiltered, even as the champagne mist splattered across her shirt and shoulders.

He beamed, soaking in the sound. He spun around to spray Max in the back.

McLaren crew nearby whooped. A camera caught it all—the race winner turning away from the formal chaos of the podium, grinning like a man with nothing to lose, just to drench his girl in his victory.

@/F1LoveAffairs: Lando spraying his girlfriend AGAIN with champagne from the TOP STEP. I’m sobbing. This is cinematic romance. @/GridGossip: Forget the trophy. Lando just baptized his girlfriend in Moët. @/McLarenFanatic: So this is what winning and being in love looks like. I LOVE THEM SO MUCH.

As the ceremony wrapped, the drivers made their way off the stage, but Lando jogged down the last few steps, handing off his empty bottle. He didn’t care about the media. Didn’t care about protocol.

She met him halfway.

 “You aimed right for my face.”

“You loved it.” 

He leaned in and kissed her hard before she could argue, champagne and sunscreen clinging to both of them.

“Lando!” one of the press officers called from the side.

He pulled back slowly, reluctant, still buzzing. “I have to go lie about how calm I was. Wanna go to the club later”

She smoothed his soaked race suit. “Of course, let’s celebrate your first win”

He winked, turned, and jogged toward the media pen.

The door swung open, and they practically fell inside — Lando kicked it shut with his foot while she kicked her shoes in the middle of the floor like she’d been in boots for twelve hours.

She sighed dramatically. “You know what I need?”

“A second shower because you reek of champagne.”

She shot him a glare. “I was gonna say food.”

Lando laughed, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it onto a chair. “Room service it is, then.”

she flopped onto the bed face-first, muffled. “We’re going clubbing in two hours. I’m gonna die.”

“You can’t die. I just won my first Grand Prix. I need to show you off.”

“You already did. In front of the whole world,” she mumbled, still face-down.

He collapsed next to her and rolled her onto her back, grinning. “And I’m gonna keep doing it until they name a corner after you.”

She wheezed out a laugh and grabbed a pillow to swat him with. “You’re so annoying.”

“You love it.”

She grinned. “Unfortunately.”

They laid there for a minute, just breathing, just smiling. Then Lando turned onto his side and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You looked really pretty today. In Parc Fermé. Even soaked in champagne and yelling at Lisa.”

She snorted. “You looked like a wet dog. I almost cried.”

“You did cry.”

She kissed him, quick and soft. “I couldn’t help myself.”

He kissed her again, longer this time, hand on her cheek. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Lando.”

“I mean it.”

She just held his gaze for a beat longer before whispering, “Let’s go be disgustingly hot and famous in a club now.”

Their hotel room turned into mild chaos.

She stood at the sink applying eyeliner over her sparkly eyeshadow, wearing his oversized McLaren t-shirt and blasting music from his big ass speaker. Lando walked past behind her, towel around his waist, still dripping water. He smacked her butt as he went by.

“Hey! I’m doing a wing!”

He peeked over her shoulder. “That’s not a wing. That’s a dagger.”

“Oh, perfect.”

In the mirror, she watched as he walked behind her again, now fully dressed in a black button-down he hadn't bothered to button properly and trousers that fit him entirely too well.

She blinked. “Okay, no, you can’t look that good.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve seen what I look like in a helmet.” she shook her head. 

When she finally emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later — hair curled and full of volume, Dolce&Gabbana sequin embellishment mini dress on, Satin Versace Medusa Aevitas in hand — he just stood there in silence.

“What?” she asked, self-conscious for the first time all day.

“You’re gonna start fights tonight,” Lando muttered from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dragging over every inch of her. He couldn’t look away.

She turned just slightly, checking her profile in the mirror, her earring catching the light. “Good,” she said casually. “Let the weak fall.” 

He exhaled hard, raking a hand through his hair. “No, seriously, baby. You walk into that club and men are going to spontaneously combust. I might have to knock someone out tonight.”

She smirked. “Possessive much?”

“You wore that, knowing I’d lose my mind,” he said, pushing off the wall, walking over with zero self-control. His hands found her waist, his voice dropping. “And now I have to act like I’m not picturing getting you out of it every ten seconds.”

“Pretend all you want. I’ll still be the one going home with you and.” She tilted her head, eyes glinting, her heel dangled from her finger. “You’re stalling.”

He dropped to his knees with a half-laugh, half-growl. She arched a brow but perched on the edge of the bed, amused as he took the heel from her hand and carefully slid it onto her foot, his fingers brushing up her ankle to clasp the strap around, slow and reverent. 

“Is this your Cinderella fantasy?” she teased, letting her knee nudge his shoulder.

He kissed the inside of her calf. “No. In mine, the clock never runs out.”

The second heel followed, just as gentle, just as charged. When he looked up at her, still crouched between her knees, she saw it—full, aching devotion burning behind those blue eyes.

He rose to his feet, slow and magnetic, hands finding her waist again. Now with heels on she was just below his chin. She tilted her head up at him, her hands sliding over his broad shoulders to clasp together around his neck, the smirk softening into something gentler. “You've won your first Grand Prix and you’re still obsessed with me. How tragic.”

“Hopelessly,” He groaned, leaning in to kiss her, deep and lingering, like he needed it to anchor himself. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed her cheek. She kissed him again—harder this time, the kind of kiss that promised they were already late and about to make even worse decisions. When she pulled away, breathless, she tugged him toward the door.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Before we get too carried away” before grabbing his face and kissing him again, hard. 

“God, I love you.”

“I know,” she said, already pulling him toward the door, “Let’s go give Miami something to talk about.”

He reached for the door handle, pausing just long enough to say, “With you on my arm, they’ll never shut up.”

And with that, they disappeared into the electric Miami night — golden, glowing, and completely in love.

The McLaren pulled up to the curb like a comet, low and gleaming under the Miami moonlight, its papaya orange catching every flash of paparazzi and phone screen like it was made to be seen. The thrum of the engine faded into the background roar of the club’s bass, but the car itself kept every eye on it.

Behind the tinted windows, she reapplied a coat of gloss with the casual confidence of someone who knew the world was about to watch her walk through it. Her legs were crossed, heels glinting under the streetlights, and her expression unreadable—until Lando cut the engine and glanced over at her.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low, but there was something boyish in his tone—a quiet awe that hadn’t faded since the hotel.

She turned to him, one brow raised. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

He chuckled, running a hand down his face like he needed a second to collect himself. “You’re gonna be the end of me tonight.”

Lando stepped out of the car first, straightening the collar of his black button-down. The second he appeared, the crowd shifted, the velvet rope pressing tighter as people leaned in for a glimpse. Miami was already buzzing about his win, and now it would buzz about this.

He circled around the McLaren like it was muscle memory, not a performance, and opened her door with a practiced sweep. Cameras fired. Lights popped. And then she stepped out.

She moved like she had all the time in the world—shoulders back, chin lifted, her dress hugging and slipping in the right places. The city heat curled around her, but she was the one setting it ablaze. Her hand found Lando’s, fingers threading easily, and the grin he gave her was pure worship.

The bouncer clocked them instantly, stepped aside without a word, and unhooked the rope. A handful of people in line gasped—one even dropped their phone.

Lando leaned in as they walked past the crowd. “I think someone just fainted.”

She barely blinked. “They’ll survive.”

They entered the club like a movie scene. The moment the doors shut behind them, the bass swallowed the world whole—pulsing lights, shimmering walls, and VIP lounges carved out like altars of neon and champagne. Heads turned. Whispers bloomed.

Every eye found them as they moved through the haze: Lando, fresh off his first win, glowing with adrenaline and unfiltered joy—and her, dressed like a siren in heels he’d knelt to put on, walking like she had him on a leash. 

They were greeted at the VIP balcony with drinks already chilled and staff already grinning. Lando tugged her close with one hand on her lower back, whispered something in her ear that made her laugh, and the DJ dropped into a remix of something fast and electric—Miami’s unofficial welcome. And still, he couldn't stop looking at her.

She leaned into his chest, letting him hold her drink while she fixed her earring. He watched the curve of her jaw like it was divine geometry.

“Can I confess something?” he said into her ear.

“That you’re obsessed with me?”

“That’s not a confession, that’s common knowledge.” He grinned. “But I mean it. You—you’re all I’ve thought about since I crossed that finish line.”

She paused, her expression softening just slightly. “It was always going to be yours, Lando. The win. The moment.”

He shook his head, pulling her a fraction closer. “Nah. It was never just about the win. It was about getting off that podium and finding you.”

She blinked, then smiled slowly. “God, you’re getting sappy.”

“You love it.”

“Tragically,” she admitted, taking a sip from her glass. “Now shut up and dance with me.”

And just like that, Lando Norris—F1’s newest Grand Prix winner—followed her into the center of the dance floor like a man willingly lost.

The beat dropped into something heavier, a rhythmic thump that vibrated through the soles of their shoes as she led Lando into the glowing pulse of the VIP dance floor. Neon lights flickered off glass, ice buckets glinted, and smoke machines curled mist around everyone like magic.

Just ahead, Lisa spotted them first—perched on the edge of a velvet couch with a cocktail in one hand and her phone in the other. She wore a silver mesh top over a black bralette, her eyeliner sharp and a wicked smile. Lisa gives her a quick hug.

Just then, the rest of their circle appeared—Ethan and Morgan pushing through the crowd, both already a little flushed from drinking, followed by a couple of Lando’s McLaren crew and one of her backup dancers still in sequins from their last performance. Champagne was flowing like tap water. Someone handed Lando a bottle straight from the ice bucket, and someone else passed her a lemon drop shot.

“To Landos first Formua 1 win!” Max F. toasted, lifting his glass. The rest followed suit and cheering, downing whatever they had in their hands. All making faces at the strong drinks. They laughed—loud, open, unbothered.

Lando couldn’t stop smiling. He pulled her to his side again, arm draped around her waist like it belonged there. She glanced up at him, makeup flawless, eyes shining under the strobes. He leaned down just a little, brushing his mouth by her ear.

“I could stay like this forever.”

She tipped her head, amused. “Sweaty, tipsy, and surrounded by idiots?”

“I meant you next to me,” he murmured. “But yeah, that too.”

The camera clicked, catching her mid-laugh and Lando gazing at her like he’d already won more than any podium could offer.

The group exploded into another round of drinks and banter, she felt Lando’s hand slide down her back, fingers brushing the curve of her hip.

“Come dance with me,” he said, voice low and warm in her ear, already tugging her gently away from the booth.

The dance floor was a swirl of bodies and color, all bass and heat and pulsing light. Lando pulled her close the second they stepped into the crowd, hands finding her waist with zero hesitation. She turned toward him, arms slipping around his neck, the sound of the club fading into the electric buzz between them.

The rhythm slowed into something sultry, deep and rolling like thunder. SHe swayed against him, her body pressed fully to his now, hips moving in time with the beat—and with his.

Lando ducked his head, letting his forehead rest against hers for a breath. “You’re unreal,” he murmured, his voice nearly swallowed by the music. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

She tilted her chin up, brushing her lips just beneath his jaw. “I have a pretty good idea,” she teased, smirking when she felt his grip tighten on her hips.

His hands slid lower, hands grabbing her ass through the sparkly fabric of her dress, holding her close—possessively. One hand traced its way up the bare skin of her back, slow and deliberate, until he was cradling the base of her neck.

She gasped softly into his ear, the feeling of his touch sending sparks up her spine. “Lando…”

“Mm?” His lips ghosted across the corner of her mouth.

“You keep touching me like that, we’re going to get kicked out.”

“Let them,” he said, his voice rough now. “You’re the only thing I want to get in trouble for tonight.”

She laughed, breathless, half-dazed from the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing in the room. The kind of look that could start fights. That could ruin him. That already had.

Their hips stayed in sync, moving to the deep, seductive rhythm of the music. She let her fingers tangle in the curls at the back of his neck, tugging lightly. He rewarded her with a soft groan, eyes fluttering shut.

She kissed him again, slower this time, deeper—right there under the lights, surrounded by strangers and stares. She didn’t care. Neither did he.

He pulled back just enough to say, “Let’s stay on this dance floor until your heels hurt and my hands stop knowing where to go.”

And for the next few songs, they didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. Everything they needed to say was in the way their bodies moved together, in the hands that didn’t want to let go, and the eyes that kept saying mine.

It was way past midnight, and the club had hit its fever pitch.

The air was thick with perfume and sweat, flashing lights casting electric shadows over the crowd. She was flushed, her skin glowing, hair wild from dancing, the hem of her dress hitched slightly higher with every spin Lando pulled her into. Her laugh was a melody layered over the beat—unbothered, untamed.

They’d barely left the floor. Drinks had been brought to them now—delivered like tribute by grinning friends who knew better than to break the spell between them.

Lisa reappeared at one point, sliding in with a drink and a devilish grin. “You two are putting on a show,” she teased,

Lando, behind her now, wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder, the crowd moving around them like waves breaking around a rock. He was still grinning—but it had softened into something darker, needier.

“You’re the hottest person in this entire building,” he murmured, breath warm against her neck.

She looked over her shoulder at him, coy. “Yeah?”

“Don’t ‘yeah’ me like you don’t know,” he growled, hands drifting down to her thighs again, thumbs brushing under the hem of her dress as the music pounded through them. “I’m two seconds from telling everyone we’re leaving.”

“You won today,” she said, leaning back into him. “Don’t you want to celebrate?”

“I am,” he said, pressing a slow kiss to the space behind her ear. “I’m just greedy. I want you all to myself.”

Her heart stuttered. That voice—rough, low, too intimate for a dance floor. She turned to face him again, their lips nearly brushing. “After this song,” she whispered.

He smirked. “You’re playing a dangerous game, baby.”

“And you’re losing it,” she said with a wink, just as the beat dropped again.

More friends joined them—Oscar and Lily showing up with neon drinks, a few others from the McLaren team, some familiar paddock faces now loosened by alcohol and glittering under strobe lights. A circle formed around Lando and her, the dancing growing more chaotic, more reckless.

At one point, she climbed onto a low platform with Lisa, both of them raising their glasses like queens of the night, dancing with eachother. Lando looked up at her, a dazed, reverent grin on his face like he couldn’t believe she was his.

When she jumped down, he caught her mid-air without hesitation, hands splayed on her thighs, lifting her easily before sliding her back down against him, slow and deliberate. Their eyes locked. Breath mingled.

“No more songs,” he said, voice like gravel.

She traced a finger down his chest. “Lead the way.” He didn’t even grab their things. Just her hand.

As they pushed through the crowd, She caught Lisa’s eye. Her best friend gave her a dramatic salute and mouthed ‘good luck’. She blew her a kiss.

They stepped out into the humid Miami night, bodies still humming from bass and touch, hands still tangled like they'd forgotten how to separate.

The McLaren waited at the curb—sleek and purring, engine soft as silk. Lando opened her door, gaze flicking down her legs as she climbed in.

“Tell me,” he said, eyes darkening as he got in on the other side, “how bad would it be if I made this the night you never forgot?”

She smiled, sliding closer until their legs were touching. “I was counting on it.”

The McLaren’s engine purred low as they pulled away from the club, the lights of Miami streaking past the tinted windows in blurred, electric ribbons. Inside, the air was quiet—except for the low thrum of Lando’s uneven breathing and the heavy beat of both their hearts filling the space between them.

She sat with her legs crossed, one hand resting on the armrest, the other dragging lightly along the hem of her dress like she could still feel the ghost of his hands there. Lando’s grip was tight on the wheel, knuckles pale, jaw locked. His eyes never left the road, but every inch of him was wired—buzzing, burning. Her voice was soft but sharp when she finally broke the silence. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m trying not to wreck the car,” he muttered, shifting gears like it might somehow calm him down. “Which is hard when you keep looking like that.”

She turned her head, feigning innocence. “Like what?”

“Like you want me to lose control.”

He glanced at her then—just a flash—but it was enough to see the way her lips curled into a smirk, legs uncrossing slow, deliberate. “You already did. On the dance floor.”

He let out a breath through his nose. “babe.”

“What?” she said, voice dripping with faux sweetness. “You said you wanted to celebrate.”

“I didn’t mean in public,” he snapped, eyes fixed ahead, but his hand drifted, unthinking, to her thigh, fingers pressing into the skin like he needed to ground himself.

She covered his hand with hers, holding it there. “Then you’d better drive faster.”

That was all the permission he needed.

The rest of the ride was a blur. Every red light was a curse. Every second not spent with his mouth on hers was unbearable. By the time they pulled up to the hotel, the valet barely had time to open her door before Lando was rounding the car, grabbing her hand, and pulling her through the lobby like a man on the edge.

The elevator ride was silent.

Not because they didn’t want to speak—but because one wrong word would’ve had them stopping the lift between floors. She leaned against the mirrored wall, watching him through heavy lashes. Lando stood in front of her, jaw clenched, fists in his pockets, doing everything he could not to turn around and press her into the glass. The doors slid open with a soft chime. They didn’t speak. Lando swiped the key card with shaky hands and shouldered open the door to their suite.

it all fell apart.

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, her heels were off, and Lando was on her—lifting her, kissing her, hands in her hair, down her back, gripping her like she was air and he’d been drowning all night.

Her legs wrapped around his waist. “You gonna pin me to the wall again?” she whispered, mouth grazing his ear.

He groaned, stumbling toward the bed with her still clinging to him. “I’m gonna ruin you.”

“Good,” she whispered, kissing him breathless. “Then we’ll be even.”

He laid her down gently, reverently, like she was breakable and burning all at once.

Lando kissed her like it was the only language he spoke. His hands cradled her face at first, gentle, like she might slip away if he wasn’t careful. But as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and pulled him closer, something shifted—urgency replacing restraint.

They moved together in a blur of whispered names and held breaths. She unbuttoned and peeled his shirt off, fingers grazing the warm skin of his chest like she was memorizing it again. He trailed kisses along her collarbone, each one softer than the last, until she tilted her head back and exhaled his name like a secret.

“Look at me,” he said against her skin, voice rough and low.

She did. And what she saw in his eyes wasn’t just desire—it was worship.

He took his time. Every touch was deliberate, slow, like he was proving a point: that no matter how wild the club had been, no matter how many eyes had been on her, she was his. Here, now, and only his.

They moved like they’d done this a hundred times—but still, it felt brand new. Deeper. Like the high of his win was still pulsing in their veins, but this was the real prize.

Her hands slipped into his curls, pulling gently as he kissed down her stomach, his voice rasping, “You drive me mad.”

She smiled, breathless. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he said, so fiercely it stole the air from her lungs.

When he finally laid over her again, chest pressed to hers, he kissed her like they had forever. Their bodies fit together in that way they always had—familiar, electric, sacred. Nothing else existed.

The world outside their suite—the press, the fans, the cameras—none of it mattered here.

There was only him. Only her. Only the quiet symphony of skin and breath and love blooming between them.

And when they finally stilled, limbs tangled, his forehead resting against hers, he whispered, “You’re it for me. Always have been.”

She brushed her fingers down his spine and smiled. “Took you long enough to say it.”

“I’ll say it again,” he breathed, kissing her nose, then her lips. “As many times as you’ll let me.”

The first thing she registered was the sunlight—bright, merciless, and filtering through the sheer curtains like it had a personal vendetta.

The second was her hangover. Sharp behind the eyes, a low throb at her temples, and a mouth as dry as the desert. Somewhere, the bass from last night still echoed faintly in her bones.

She groaned, hand coming up to rub her temples.

From beside her, a muffled voice replied, “Please tell me that wasn’t you dying.”

She cracked one eye open.

Lando was lying flat on his stomach, half his face buried in the pillow, hair a tousled mess, the bedsheets tangled around his waist. One arm hung off the bed, the other flopped across her stomach like he was still claiming his territory even in unconscious misery.

“You’re the one who challenged Max to tequila shots,” she croaked.

“You cheered me on.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually win.”

He let out a broken laugh, immediately wincing. “Mistakes were made.”

She reached over the side of the bed and grabbed a bottle of water from the floor that had gotten knocked over from last night's activities, holding it out to him like an offering. “here”

Lando dragged himself up on one elbow, looking at her like she was a divine entity. “God, I love you.”

“Don’t try to flirt with me while you look like roadkill.”

He grinned, raspy and unbothered, then took a sip and collapsed again. “I’m serious. Even roadkill has feelings.”

She let her hand rest on his bare back, trailing absent-minded circles along his spine. “Do you remember trying to convince Lisa to a dance-off?”

“Do you remember grinding on me in front of, like, half the grid?”

Her head dropped back onto the pillow with a groan. “Oh my God.”

“Best night of my life.”

“Our best night but your PR team’s worst nightmare”

He laughed again, nose scrunching. “Worth it.”

Their limbs slid together like muscle memory, her cheek resting against his chest, his hand brushing through her hair with lazy affection. They stayed like that for a long while—bodies aching, heads pounding, but hearts light.

Finally, he whispered, “Let’s never do that many shots again.”

She smiled against his skin. “Agreed.”

“But let’s always wake up like this.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft despite the headache. “Deal.”

And in the mess of sheets and champagne-soaked memories, they kissed—slow, hungover, and completely in love.

--------

Stay tuned for more hehe

[gracie-eilish]

dirty girl(s)

warnings: shower smut

an: thank you for all your kind messages and comments🥹 writing smut and basically anything other than fluff is starting to get easier for me to do, so it’s always nice to hear that you like a fic i wrote, makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside☺️ ok enough warm and fuzzy here’s a slutty fic😳

the sun had climbed higher by the time either of you moved again, your bodies sticky with sweat, hair a mess, lips kissed raw. you were both lying in a tangle of limbs and sheets, billie humming lazily into your shoulder, her fingers tracing soft shapes on your stomach.

“okay,” she murmured, voice rough from sleep and something else. “i love you, but we stink.”

you laughed into her hair. “speak for yourself, rockstar.”

“sweetheart, it smells like sex in here,” she smirked. “we’re practically melting into the mattress.”

“i don’t hear you complaining.”

“oh, i’m not. i could stay here all day.” she kissed the corner of your mouth, and then tapped your thigh. “but i do happen to have a very nice shower with excellent water pressure. and maybe a girlfriend who’s filthy but very cute.”

“filthy?!” you playfully nudged her. “i’ll have you know i scrubbed every inch last night before i came over.”

“i’m not talking about that kind of filthy, doll” she whispered in your ear making you flush red.

billie looked at you like she might actually melt this time. then she kissed you, all slow and warm, before nudging you playfully.

“come on, baby. let me spoil you some more.”

she stood and stretched, bare skin glowing in the soft light. you followed her, wrapping the sheet around your body, and trailed her down the hallway into the bathroom. billie turned on the shower, steam already curling into the air, fogging up the mirror as she grabbed a towel, playfully snapping it at your hips.

“hey!” you squeaked, laughing.

she winked. “get in, gorgeous.”

you let the sheet fall to the floor and stepped into the shower with her, the warm water rushing over your skin like a sigh. billie joined you, moaning as the spray hit her back, soaking her hair, tracing down her spine.

“god, this feels so good,” she groaned, tilting her head back. her eyes then flicked to you, and a grin tugged at her lips. “but not as good as you look.”

you blushed instantly, and she stepped closer, hands brushing your hips as water dripped from her lashes.

“don’t get all shy on me now, baby. you were crawling all over me an hour ago.”

you bit your lip. “that was different…”

“mmm, was it?” she purred, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder. “you’re still mine in here.”

you didn’t answer with words. you just turned to face her and reached up, fingers threading through her wet hair, pulling her into a kiss that made her groan into your mouth.

her hands slid up your back, over your ribs, as if memorizing you all over again. and even though you were both naked, the moment felt more reverent than sexual—like she was handling you with care, not hunger… for now.

she pulled back slightly, eyes scanning your face.

“you okay, baby?”

you nodded, cupping her cheek. “more than okay.”

she smiled, and you felt it down to your toes. “good. lemme take care of you.”

she grabbed the shampoo and poured a little into her palm, lathering it between her fingers before stepping behind you.

“close your eyes, pretty girl.”

you did, and the next thing you felt was her hands in your hair gently massaging your scalp with slow, tender strokes that made your knees a little weak. you sighed under her touch, water dripping down your chest as she worked the shampoo through every strand.

“god, that feels amazing.”

“mmhmm,” she hummed, kissing your shoulder. “you deserve to be spoiled.”

she rinsed your hair carefully, guiding your head under the stream, then reached for the conditioner and did it all again, even slower this time. her hands were everywhere, on your shoulders, arms, waist, touching you like you were something sacred. when she turned you around again, her eyes were soft.

“now i want a turn,” she whispered, handing you the shampoo.

you smiled and lathered it in your hands, stepping close to work it through her thick hair, giggling as the bubbles slid down her back, mingling with her tattoo.

“you’re so cute when you’re sudsy.”

she snorted. “rude.”

“i mean it!” you said, leaning in to kiss her temple. “you’re ridiculously hot, but like… domestic hot.”

“domestic hot,” she repeated, grinning. “that’s a new one.”

you shrugged. “i’d shower with you every day if I could.”

she stilled, then gave you a look that was soft and serious and totally floored.

“you’re gonna kill me with how sweet you are.”

she kissed you then. it was slow and deep, her hands cradling your face, the water rushing around you. and for a moment, there was nothing but the warmth of the spray and the warmth of her. eventually, she pulled back with a grin.

“i fucking adore you.”

you giggled, already flushed from the heat, the water, and the way her voice hit your chest like a warm hand over your heart.

billie chuckled against your skin, kissing a slow trail down your neck. “you’re dangerous when you’re wet and cheeky.”

“you like it though.”

she laughed under her breath, voice raspy. “i love it.”

she poured a generous amount of body wash into her palm and rubbed her hands together before turning you back around and sliding them over your shoulders, across your collarbones, circling around to your chest with a touch that was firm but reverent.

her fingers moved with care, but she wasn’t shy. she knew where to linger, where to tease. when her hands dipped lower, soaped up and slick, you let out a quiet, breathy laugh.

“billie…”

“mhm?” she asked, like she was the picture of innocence, though her fingers were very much not.

“you’re not playing fair.”

“i’m not playing at all,” she whispered into your ear, lips brushing the shell. “i’m just appreciating what’s mine.”

you turned around in her arms, water dripping from your lashes, and gave her a pointed look.

then she kissed you. it was wet and deep, mouths sliding together like it was instinct, like this was exactly where you were always supposed to be.

she pressed you gently against the tiled wall, not with force, just enough to feel all of her against all of you. her tongue brushed yours slow, purposeful, and her hands slid down your back, pulling you impossibly close.

“i could kiss you like this for hours,” she murmured between kisses. “you’re so warm, baby. so soft. feels like a fucking dream.”

you whimpered against her mouth, the heat of her skin mixing with the steam, her touch everywhere.

“is this part of the shower routine?” you asked, voice half-breath, half-laugh.

billie bit your bottom lip gently. “only for special girls.”

you grinned and tugged lightly on her damp hair, loving the little groan it earned you. “thought you said you wanted to get clean.”

“i lied,” she said, hands exploring the dip of your waist. “i just wanted to see you naked and wet.”

“well, i am definitely naked,” you started chuckling, taking her hand and moving it down to your heat. “but… why don’t you tell me if i’m wet.”

her fingers found your slick folds, wet with more than just shower water.

“babygirl…” she whispered, getting onto her knees.

she pressed warm kisses all over your lower belly, trailing lower and lower. carefully she lifted one of your thighs over her shoulder, making sure you were steady before doing anything. she teased your pussy, kissing everywhere except where you needed her.

“bils,” you whined, threading your fingers in her head hoping she got the message.

with a quick look through her lashes, she licked a long stripe from your weeping hole to your swollen clit, making you cry out, the sound bouncing off the tile walls.

she then proceeded to close her lips around your clit, kissing and sucking the bundle of nerves, leaving you panting, head against the tile wall.

“you steady?” she mumbled against your clit, looking up at you. you shifted until your thigh was snug against her shoulder, and nodded.

without missing a beat on your clit, she snuck her now free hand between your legs and pushed two fingers into you.

“SHIT! billie oh my god!” the pleasure was blinding.

her fingers thrusted into you hard, reaching that gummy spot deep within your walls, making your legs shaky and knees weak. billie wrapped her free arm under and around your thigh, holding you up as best as she could. you fingers threaded deep in her hair as she continued melting you away with pleasure.

“c’mon baby, cum in my mouth. i know your close mama.” her words were slurred and mumbled, she was completely pussy drunk on her knees for you.

she thrusted her fingers a few more times hard, before you finally unraveled on her tongue.

“atta girl,” she praised. “good job mama, doing so good for me.”

once she licked you clean and was sure you’d be able to stand on two feet, she slowly let your leg back down off her shoulder and stood up, her hands grasping your waist.

she kissed you, this one deeper, longer, until the edges of everything blurred a little. she pulled back just enough to look at you, her thumb brushing a drop of water off your cheek.

“god, you’re beautiful,” she whispered. “like… stupid beautiful.”

you leaned your forehead against hers, your heart pounding sweet and loud in your chest. “you’re not too bad yourself.”

“liar,” she said, nipping at your jaw. “i look like a drowned rat. but at least I’m a lucky one.”

her hands slid back up to your ribs, slow and certain, and she ducked her head to kiss gently at the base of your throat. you gasped softly, nails lightly digging into her shoulders, and she smiled against your skin.

“still okay?” she murmured.

you nodded. “more than okay.”

she kissed you again, slower this time. steadier.

“good. ‘cause i’m trying really hard to be good,” she said, nose brushing yours, voice husky. “but you’re makin’ it really fucking hard, sweetheart.”

you gave her your most genuine innocent look. “i’m not doing anything.”

billie laughed, breathless. “that’s the problem. you existing like this is enough.”

eventually, her touches softened, her kisses slowed, and she really did start rinsing you off, though not without the occasional squeeze or flirtatious brush of her fingers. you returned the favor, lathering her up with care, giggling when she moaned dramatically about how good your hands felt, how “spoiled” she was.

by the time she turned off the water, you were both flushed, slick, and a little dazed.

she toweled you off with so much care, her fingers grazing down your calves as she knelt to dry you, murmuring sweet nothings as she worked her way back up.

she walked you back to her bedroom, grabbing you a hoodie and some of her sweats to throw on, making sure you were comfy before she changed herself.

“i might be in trouble,” billie muttered, watching you from under her damp lashes.

“why?”

“because i don’t think i’m gonna let you leave my house today.”

you raised a brow. “oh no, what a tragedy.”

she stepped forward and kissed your cheek. “you’re a menace.”

you kissed her back, lips brushing her jaw. “you’re obsessed.”

she smiled, wrapping her arms around your waist and pulling you in.

“you have no idea.”

[torturedtypewritersdept]

omg baby an idea for dr rafe came up to me at work and i'm shksjcnd!!!! okay hear me out<33 reader is at work waitressing and for the last couple days she had that strange stomachache but she didn't really care about it when it suddenly hits her at work (it turns out to be an appendix) and she ends up in the hospital and when rafe sees her at the ER all the flashbacks comes back to him but he tries his best to stay calm to take care of her and be there for her 🤍

BABE <3 NOT ME WANTING TO GET HOME ALL DAY TO WRITE THIS!!!!!!!!!!!! HOPE YOU ENJOY, MY LOVE!

-

The ER doors burst open with a gust of hot air and urgent voices.

The emergency department was loud with the usual noise—overhead pages, squeaking gurney wheels, a child crying somewhere in the pediatric hallway—but Rafe barely registered any of it. His shift was rounding the corner of hour fifteen, and his spine was curved with exhaustion, the tendons in his shoulder aching from an earlier reduction. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t sat down. And he sure as hell wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

He was halfway through charting when he heard the commotion.

“Twenty-five-year-old female—acute abdominal pain, febrile, suspected ruptured appendix. Transport was delayed due to emesis and instability—possible septic onset.”

Rafe didn’t even look up at first. The words meant something clinical, standard—he'd heard a thousand variations of them over his years. But then a nurse muttered your name.

And the pen slipped from his hand.

His chair scraped violently against the floor as he stood, already moving, already knowing.

You.

Not a patient. Not a stranger.

His wife.

You—who had just started teaching again, your sweet voice now filtering into the corners of your shared home as you led virtual classes from the kitchen table in oversized sweaters and soft joggers, hair pinned up with one of his old surgical caps. You—who had fought through months of agony and immobility after the accident that nearly took your life. You—who now called him baby when you were half-asleep and Rafe when you were afraid.

He caught a glimpse of you on the gurney and it nearly buckled his knees.

You were curled in on yourself, one hand clutching your lower abdomen, the soft blue knit of your teaching sweater soaked with sweat. Your glasses were crooked. There were tears on your cheeks and vomit crusted near your collar. Your laptop bag had been hastily tossed onto the floor beside the EMT, as if you’d collapsed mid-lesson and someone had simply tried to gather your life in one arm before rushing you here.

His stomach dropped.

It was the accident all over again.

That night; The blood in your hair. The way your body seized in his arms, arching as your heart gave out. The weeks spent hovering between here and gone. The breathless nights where he held you through the pain, praying you'd come back. The memory ripped through him like a blade.

And now—this.

You whimpered as they adjusted your IV. The pain was eating you alive.

Rafe forced himself forward, teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. He reached your side, brushing the damp hair from your temple, thumb ghosting across your cheek.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice thick, steadying himself for you even as his knees trembled beneath the weight of it all. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Your eyes fluttered open—barely. But you found him. You always did.

“Hurts,” you whimpered, and Rafe swallowed hard, nodding.

“I know. Appendix ruptured—we’re going to surgery. I’ll be right there the whole time.”

You groaned, curling tighter, your knees drawn toward your chest.

“S-sorry,” you gasped.

That shattered him. Sorry—like you had done something wrong by hurting. Like your body failing was somehow a burden.

“Hey. No,” he said, firmer now, his forehead pressing to yours. “None of that. You’re going to be okay. We’re going to get through this.”

He glanced at the monitors. Your vitals were slipping—blood pressure bottoming out, heart rate climbing fast. Sepsis was setting in. Fast.

“She’s crashing!” a nurse called out.

And just like that, it was happening again. Too fast. Too much.

He was on the gurney, straddling your body, the curve of your hip digging into his thigh as he began compressions, his palms pressing down hard into the center of your chest. His wedding ring clinked against your sternum with every thrust. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

“Come on, baby. Stay with me. Stay.”

He could barely see. Everything blurred—tears or sweat, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that this was you, his wife, the woman he loved more than life itself, slipping away beneath his hands.

“Not again, please, don't leave me.” he whispered, his voice ragged, haunted. “Not again. Not today.”

They wheeled the two of you into the OR, your body beneath him, your life cracking open all over again—and Rafe holding it in his blood-stained hands, determined not to lose it.

Not to lose you.

-

The ICU was quiet in the way grief is quiet—dim lights humming, machines breathing in rhythm where lungs couldn’t. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped in slow intervals. A nurse whispered something behind the glass. But in room 3B, time had slowed to a crawl.

You were lying in the center of it, pale against the white sheets, your body still trembling beneath the weight of what it had survived. A nasal cannula curled into your nose, pushing oxygen through your system one soft stream at a time. Your wedding ring had been taped to your finger by the nurse after surgery, just beneath the IV port, and your sweater—now bloodstained and cut down the center—had been placed in a biohazard bag outside the room.

The surgery had gone well.

The appendix had ruptured. They’d caught it just in time.

But your body… your beautiful, bruised, stubborn body had gone into shock, and it had taken longer than expected to stabilize your heart rate again. The code Rafe called had been the third of his career—and the second on you.

He hadn’t left your bedside since.

Still in his scrubs—now stained and wrinkled, the collar stretched from where he’d yanked at it in the OR—Rafe sat in the chair beside you, hunched over your arm like a man at the altar of something holy. His head was bowed, eyes closed, fingers loosely wrapped around yours. A bag of saline dripped slowly into your arm above him, its quiet rhythm the only metronome in the room.

He hadn’t spoken in hours. He didn’t need to.

Because in the silence, he was remembering—every word you’d said before the pain took over, every look, every apology you’d never needed to make. The memory of your eyes—glassy and searching for him—burned behind his own. The way your body jerked beneath him as he’d done compressions. The way your lips had parted, trying to say something, anything, before your consciousness gave out.

And he’d been afraid. God, he’d been so afraid.

More than the night of the accident. More than the first time you coded. Because this time you had his last name. You were his. And the idea of living without you—again—was something he couldn’t survive a second time.

“Please wake up, honey,” he whispered, forehead pressing gently to your arm. “You’re okay now. You made it through. Just wake up.”

And as if your soul heard him across whatever threshold it had wandered toward—your fingers twitched.

Barely.

A tremble in the space between sleep and wake.

His eyes snapped up. Your lips parted on a dry breath, eyelashes fluttering.

“Hey,” he breathed, rising to hover over you, his hand moving to your cheek, thumb brushing a smudge of iodine from your skin. “Hey, baby. I’m here.”

You blinked at him, slow and heavy, eyes glazed with pain and confusion.

“Rafe?”

“Yeah. I’ve got you.”

Your brow creased slightly. “It hurts.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “It’s over now. They got everything. You’re gonna be okay.”

You made a small sound, barely audible, and tears immediately welled in his eyes. He pressed a kiss to your temple, hand cradling the side of your head.

“Shh. Don’t talk yet, just rest. You’re in the ICU. They’ve got you on fluids and antibiotics. I’m staying right here.”

“Did I die?”

“No.” He swallowed, his throat burning. “No, baby. You lived. You fought through again. You’re the strongest goddamn woman I’ve ever seen.”

You smiled faintly—just a flicker of it—and he swore the sun broke through the hospital window when you did.

“I didn’t even get to finish teaching,” you rasped.

A broken laugh left his chest. “Your students can wait. I’m the one who needs you now.”

You squeezed his hand, feeble but real. And he held it like a lifeline, like a promise. Because it was.

He wasn't going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Two

NSFW + violence/injury

She’s...just a normal looking little kid. She’s absolutely swamped by one of Eddie’s hoodies, and is currently rocking it like a dress, bare legs ending in floppy, too big socks.

Eddie couldn’t bring himself to leave her in the fluid spattered, clinical white pajamas she had been wearing.

Her eyes are brown; human looking.

The peach fuzz haircut even kind of suits her. Or at least, doesn’t look out of place. She could definitely pass.

Eddie lets his whole body clench, briefly, in fear. Now he has two unregistered Synths in his apartment. Hadn’t seemed so bad last night in the face of Eddie’s exhaustion, when the kid was an inanimate object on his couch. Seems real now though.

Steve had hugged her. It was the first thing she’d done once she’s blinked alert; thrown herself at Steve. And they'd hugged. For ages.

Normal. Human.

Too human.

Affection of the kind that’s organic, that would be almost impossible to fake. Spontaneous. A need for touch and reassurance that is not, even remotely, born from anything synthetic.

“Eddie, meet Eleven.”

She’d shaken his hand, gentle and warm.

“Yeah, going to need to call you something other than Eleven.”

She’d looked to Steve then, for guidance, “how about just El, for now?”

She had nodded, frowned, and then the first words she spoke were, “where is Henry?”

Steve hadn’t hesitated, “Mars.”

“Do you have anything signal blocking? Preferably static resistant too?”

“I...should do?” Eddie rummages through his things, comes up with an anti-static parts bag and small signal blocking storage box.

“Okay if I break this?”

“I...sure,” Eddie answers weakly, and then watches as Steve cracks the box at the seams with his bare fucking hands. He uses about the same amount of effort Eddie would use to open an envelope. Maybe less.

Steve...makes a thing, while Eddie watches. He lies the bag lining flat inside a small towel, then broken slithers of the box plating, lined up neatly, before folding the whole thing over and trapping the shield inside.

Eddie watches, with no fucking clue what’s happening, as Steve pulls the whole thing over El’s face, like a blindfold, blocking her eyes and tying it at the back, “good?”

“Good.”

“Errr..what are you guys doing?”

“Just wait a minute,” Steve tells him.

Eddie does. He waits. He desperately wants to make himself a coffee, but the apartment is silent, and it kind of feels like he shouldn’t disturb that.

So he stands, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching as El...does nothing.

And it feels like it goes on for a while, even if it probably isn’t. Just all the nothing making the minutes drag.

Eddie jumps when Eleven drags the towel off her face. It’s sudden, fast, and then she’s blinking, and there’s a drip of green coolant leaking from her nose.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re here, you’re here with me,” Steve kneels in front of her, letting her grip at his shoulders as she orientates herself.

Steve shakes the loose parts out of the towel and uses the corner to clean the green goop off El’s face, “you’re okay,” he keeps saying, “you’re safe now, it’s fine, you did great.”

Eddie has no idea what she did great at, but he sees now why Steve is the babysitter.

El, finally, speaks. “I found him.”

A little, tiny, prickle of fear skitter up Eddie’s spine, “found...who?”

It’s a redundant fucking question, they all know who she found. Eddie knows who she found, he just...needs to ask.

El turns to look at him, “you have a ship?”

“Oh, wow, no,” Eddie waves his hands in front of himself, “time out. Absolutely not. Nu hu. No way-”

“Henry has an army. That’s what he’s been doing. He has ships.”

“An army?” Eddie asks, feeling kind of like the air has been knocked out of him at the news. At the implication. It comes out sounding weak, fearful, but Eddie is only just being to grasp what it could mean. “He’s been building Synths?”

El nods, “thousands of them...but they don’t look like us.”

“What do they look like?”

“Monsters.”

Steve and El are sitting on the couch, watching Eddie pace.

“I can’t tell the girls, they’ll want to get involved. I can’t...they might get hurt. We can’t do that.”

“I agree,” Steve says calmly, “and we don’t have to take you, either.”

Eddie stops pacing, rounds on them both, “like hell, it’s my fucking ship.” He starts pacing again, “besides, we need to smuggle you out. Get you past customs and whatever. It’s easier, on the way out, they care less about the shit you might want to take away. You kind of need a human.”

Steve concedes with a nod, and they don’t talk about that any more, at least.

“We should tell the government, or something.”

“They would lock us up again,” El replies, immediately.

Eddie huffs, “yeah but you guys are...telling them something that could like, save the world, surely they have to listen-”

“We can’t ignore the probability that they already know.”

Eddie stops pacing again, “what? No…” but Eddie trails off because...that makes a huge amount of sense doesn’t it. Of course they already know. How could they not know? It makes so much sense. The uprising, the death of every human colonizer on Mars. The end of the terraforming project. Synths continuing to mine the belt...if they’re mining...then they’re building.

They would know everything about Henry, because it was the government that fucking built Henry in the first place. And everyone who would have been alive when the project was happening would be...well, they all would have died of old age fifty fucking years ago, so no help there.

“Well why haven’t the just like, nuked him or something then?”

Steve shrugs again, “it would admit culpability. And create a fear of Synthetics if the truth came out.”

“So??” Eddie chews his nails desperately, “worst case scenario Synths get like, outlawed, or something-”

“Eddie, what percentage of the work force is Synthetic? The richest people in the world would not be willing to give up their lifestyles just because of a possible threat from a different planet.”

Eddie paces in a tight circle, pretty horrified by the obvious logic; the richest people in the world almost certainly own the government too, or at least have some good friends there, considering the amount of taxes those companies seem to dodge with no repercussions whatsoever. “Well, fuck.”

“So you will take us?”

“What the fuck are the three of us going to do against an army of fucking Synths on a different fucking planet?” Eddie knows he’s being a little too loud, so he goes back to pacing a chewing his fingernails off.

“Henry is...arrogant. It will have made him careless.”

“And the new Synths are dormant, waiting.” El tells them, “the original Mars Synths are building them...but they’re basic models. Old, now.”

“You guys are old,” Eddie points out, waving a hand.

Steve stands, getting up and moving to block Eddie’s path. He takes Eddie’s hand away from his mouth, cradling it gently. Steve’s hand is warm, human. “There are no Synths like us Eddie, you know that. Nothing like us has ever been built, not before or since. We are the only ones left. Us and Henry. We have to do this. Only we can do this.”

“Oh this is such a bad idea,” Eddie breathes out quietly.

The ship has been fixed up, refueled. Eddie stares down at what he owes, looking, specifically at the labor cost for the airlock repair.

God damn rip off is what that is.

Eddie is very aware of the fact that he might be dead in less than a month, “what can you guys do for like, delayed payment? Or like, a payment plan?” Because fuck these guys, you can’t get cash out of a corpse.

Eddie sits with his head in his hands. It’s been a long time since he’s done this; Chrissy is his pilot. Turns out it all just came back to him, the second he sat in this seat. And now he’s waiting, waiting for the flashing comms light. A small, guilty part of Eddie hopes they get caught, and he won’t have to go through with this.

The light flashes, “clear for departure,” the bored sounding woman tells him.

Eddie remembers to close the channel before he swears up a storm.

“Uhm, here,” Eddie tells El, you can have this room.

She blinks at Chrissy’s unmade nest of a bed, “what for?”

“Just in case you…” well she doesn’t fucking sleep, does she? “want some privacy?” Eddie tries, before he scuttles away.

Eddie peels the foil off the steaming tray, sitting in the cockpit to eat, since he’s the only one on board who does that now. Eat.

The little compartments of vegetables and unidentified meat in semi congealed sauce look even more sad than usual, and Eddie stares at the blinking light he’s been ignoring for a day and a half now.

Once the mostly empty tray is discarded, Eddie hits the overhead lights, and sits in the dark. He watches the stars, and doesn’t look at the blinking red light.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when Steve appears with a coffee for him, “thank you.”

It’s shit coffee, but you get used to it. Then you go to Earth, and you drink the good stuff for a few days or a week, and then you’re not used to it any more. Tastes like disappointment for the first fortnight or so, at least.

“Are you going to listen to it?”

Eddie shakes his head, “I can’t reply, can’t risk it being picked up by someone else, it’s not secure, like short range. I don’t want to lie to them.”

Steve nods, like that’s sensible, “you could still listen.”

Eddie rubs his knuckles at the middle of his chest, trying to will away the ache, “no, I can’t.”

Steve sits next to him then, not saying anything else, just solace in the face of all those stars. After what feels like a really long time, Steve speaks again, “you’ll answer it, right before we get there.”

It’s not a question, but Eddie nods anyway.

Eddie can’t do jack shit in the face of a Synth. He’s less than an insect to them, physically. He has a weapon, but realistically even that’s no good if his target can move faster than he can track. At best he’s their get away driver, at worst he will be a sacrificial distraction.

“El will stay on the ship, with you.”

Eddie takes a breath, because although she looks, for all intents and purposes, like a little kid, that does make him feel better, “okay, you going to do your trick with the, you know,” Eddie vaguely mimes pulling something across his eyes.

She nods, “I will help Steve as much as I can.”

“You’ll drop me off, you can safely lower to around forty meters, I’ll be fine from that height at Mars gravity, and El can work from a low orbit. First sign of trouble, you guys get out of there.”

“We’re not going to just leave you-” Eddie starts to protest.

“You will if you have to,” Steve says, and he brooks no argument about it.

“Did you do something? You look different?” Eddie idly tinkers, watching Steve play some sort of Mahjong solitaire type thing with the girls tiles.

“I washed the jump suit last night.” Steve tells him, and yeah. Steve hasn’t changed his clothes since Eddie handed them to him a few weeks ago. But synths don’t sweat or anything like that, and Steve doesn’t have those usual opportunities to drop food down himself that humans have, so there’s been no real need for him to change.

Eddie feels kind of bad, “should have gotten you some actual clothes while we were on Earth.”

“We were a bit busy for that Ed’s,” Steve smiles softly at him. Kind. Full of fondness.

Eventually, Eddie makes himself look away, blush warming his cheeks, but he can still feel Steve watching him.

There’s no fucking chance Eddie’s going to get any sleep. He’s tried. He’s taken his bedding with him, the ship turning chilly through lack of power.

He lies in the cockpit, lights off, seat reclined all the way, the whole ship running dark. It’ll be enough to keep them hidden. In Eddie’s peripheral vision, the message light still flashes dully.

Mars is just visible if Eddie squints.

Close enough to make him nervous. He’s going to get closer to Mars than any human has for a century, more or less.

Only the hushed whisper of the material of Steve’s jump suit gives him away. He makes just enough noise so as to not startle Eddie by just appearing.

“How is she?”

“She’s okay I think, I’ve told her not to do any more today. All of Henry’s monsters are still dormant...she thinks she has a plan.”

“Yeah?”

“She thinks she might be able to wake some of them up, take control. She’s going to try, anyway.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence for a little while, the ship moving basically on inertia alone now, and the stars don’t really look like they’re moving. It feels unnaturally quiet to Eddie, who has lived for months and years by the hum of the engine.

“Are you going to answer?” Steve finally asks.

“Nah,” and it isn’t like Eddie hasn’t given it plenty of thought, “what the hell could I even say?”

Eddie finally turns, looking at Steve. He’s closer than Eddie thought he would be, having turned the co pilot seat as far as it will go, hunched up with his elbows on his knees, “you can answer them tomorrow, when it’s over,” his voice is whisper soft, but confident.

“Yeah,” Eddie swallows thickly, looking back up at the stars, and tries not to let the fear swallow him.

“I’ve...remembered some more things,” Steve’s voice still low, close by in the quiet dark.

Eddie looks back at him again, hair rustling against the seat, he tugs his blanket up higher, cocooning himself where he’s curled up, “yeah?”

Steve moves cautiously, slow, giving Eddie plenty of time to move away. Steve’s thumb is warm when it presses against the fullest part of Eddie’s lower lip, “yeah.”

Eddie’s tongue pokes out, a cautious touch; Steve doesn’t taste human. He feels human, but he doesn’t have the subtle taste that skin carries with it.

When Steve leans close, Eddie lifts his head a little to meet him. The kiss is soft, gentle. Just a touch to begin with. A soft exploration, a quiet hello.

It turns hungry quickly, Eddie shifting up and letting the covers fall away again, desperately ignoring the chill of the air as it sinks into his clothes. Eddie is half sitting, drags himself closer with fingers tangled in the orange material of Steve’s clothes, pulling fiercely, frantically.

Steve moves easily, half standing out of the chair to hover over Eddie. When Steve easily scoops Eddie up, Eddie goes with it, Steve taking his place smoothly in the reclined pilots chair, it creaks with the added weight of Steve. Eddie grips Steve tighter, not wanting to break the kiss despite the way he’s being manhandled and deposited easily, lying on top of Steve.

“Wait,” Steve speaks in between biting kisses, “wait it’s cold,” and he snags the blankets up, making sure Eddie is covered over where he’s laying over Steve. Eddie’s fingers feel clumsy, trying to work the poppers and zipper to get at Steve’s skin. It’s awkward in the tight confines of the chair, but Steve is just, so strong, he easily manages to take Eddie’s weight and wriggle the material down, the back of his jump suit is caught under his ass, but between them they work it low enough to get his dick out, all the while Eddie making whiny, wanting noises against Steve’s lips.

Steve never breaks the kiss, not for any reason; Steve doesn’t need to breathe.

Steve’s hard and, of course, perfect to look at, thick and heavy. Eddie has no idea just how functional Steve was built, “can you come?” he asks, a little breathless from struggling now to get his own pants off. They should have just stood up and done this, but at least Eddie is still warm. He doesn’t bother trying to strip his shirts off, and when the poppers on the ankle cuff catch he gives up on that too, leaving one leg of his pants dangling from the side of the chair and onto the floor.

“Yeah,” Eddie gives up with his clothes, popping up from under the blanket to kiss Steve again, Steve’s cock long and hot pressing next to Eddie’s, “you can just get inside me, if you want.”

Eddie reaches between them, giving Steve’s cock a squeeze. Steve’s eyes, for a split second, flicker white and back again, “I wanted you in me.”

“Okay. Okay yeah,” Steve’s hand is brushing Eddie’s off, the head of his dick suddenly leaking fucking profusely.

“That works,” Eddie’s already shifting, struggling to wedge his knees up around Steve’s hips, movements sharp and jerky with desperation, Steve’s fingers dripping wet from his cock and he shoves his hand between Eddie’s spread thighs.

They should probably talk about this. Eddie should probably say more than he has. He doesn’t, the need inside him overriding sensible thought. Steve’s hands are smooth and firm and he understands Eddie’s urgency perfectly, easily sliding in one finger, slicking Eddie good, and then following it with another almost immediately.

Eddie’s knees are wedged either side of Steve’s hips, his forearms resting on Steve’s chest so he can grip at Steve’s shoulders, cup the side of Steve’s neck, run a hand into Steve's perfect hair and tug harsh. Steve’s head moves with it, head tilted back, Eddie taking the opportunity to bite along Steve’s perfect, smooth jaw, feeling frantic with it now. Eddie can’t help but do his best to rut his cock against Steve, made difficult since he can’t spread his legs he ends up humping air half the time, until Steve grips his hip with a firm hand and holds him still.

Forces him to be still.

The third finger follows immediately after, feeling like it knocks the air out of Eddie’s lungs.

“Too much?”

“No,” Eddie insists, kissing his way back to Steve's mouth, “don’t stop.” Steve takes him at his word, and Eddie knows it hasn’t been enough before he insists, “in me. Please, now. Please Steve.”

“I don’t want to hurt you-”

“You’re so wet, you won’t, you won’t, please, need you.” And Eddie does. Needs to be filled with a burning ache, needs to have Steve close, replace his fear with something else.

Steve pulls his fingers free, guiding Eddie down with the hand resting tight on Eddie’s hip, the head of Steve’s cock breaches Eddie with stinging pressure, but Eddie feels empty, so empty, and he’s desperate to be filled. Steve’s leaking enough that Eddie starts to slip down almost immediately. Steve’s thick and wet and perfect, and Eddie burns to have him inside.

He takes Steve a little too fast, but Steve doesn’t stop him, the pain is delicious, the sting soon soothed by Steve’s fluids.

Steve holds him still, despite Eddie’s best efforts to shift, to move, to somehow ease the feeling of Steve taking up too much space inside him.

Steve holds him still. Forces him to feel it. Bites at Eddie’s lips, licking away the sting of it.

“Steve,” Eddie whines, pants against Steve’s lips, hands clawing at Steve's shoulders, he can’t think past the feeling of being fucking impaled, breath coming short, “Steve please, I need-”

“Not yet,” Steve shushes him, the grip on Eddie’s hip like a vice, like steel, Steve’s hand reaching between them, running fingers through the wet and sticky mess he’d left on his own stomach, before reaching further to grasp Eddie’s cock.

Steve might be underneath, but Eddie is completely pinned, ass forced tight into the cradle of Steve’s hips.

Steve starts to work him, but still won’t let him move. Eddie’s probably going to give himself bruises fighting against Steve’s grip, but the sting is grounding and feeds Eddie’s overwhelmed senses and Eddie can’t help but lean into the touch. He’s desperate, wants to buck his hips into the sensation of being filled, the tight grip Steve has on his cock.

Eddie whines, and Steve just swallows the noise down, Eddie’s eyes screwed tight shut as Steve starts to work him in earnest, firm strokes, and all Eddie’s body can do is clench down hard on the fierce intrusion that Steve is inside him.

Steve works him harder yet, hand jacking Eddie mercilessly, Eddie breaking away with a cry, back arching, muscles fighting to thrust, thighs desperate to pull together as Steve forces Eddie to the precipice far too fast. All he can do is sit and take it, caught between Steve’s hands, completely filled up with Steve, he can’t writhe to get away, he’s pinned, his body clenching rhythmically down on Steve, asshole fluttering and pulsing as his orgasm builds rapidly, forced to feel all of everything.

Still Steve doesn’t move. Eddie forces his eyes open, blinking down at Steve, Steve’s already watching him in return, eyes greener than Eddie’s ever seen them. It’s too much, the build too fast, Steve jacking him now a touch too fast to be human.

“Steve, Steve I’m gonna’ come, I’m gonna’ come shit I-” It’s dragged out of him almost, forced over the edge violently, Eddie’s body gripping Steve’s so tight he feels it when Steve’s cock kicks inside him, pulses. Pulses really fucking noticeably, the rhythmic orgasmic clenching of Eddie’s asshole dripping with bursts of Steve’s synthetic come. “Shit, Steve, Jesus fuck-”

Steve drags him back down, pulls Eddie in for a kiss even as Eddie is still making a mess of them both, last spurts of come dribbling weakly out onto Steve’s fingers.

Eddie ends up lying in it, pulled down flush to Steve’s chest, Steve's softening cock slipping free with a gush of wet, Eddie’s asshole continuing to drool long after.

Eddie’s heartbeat finally slows, his ragged breathing softens, Steve gentling Eddie with soothing touches.

Eddie didn’t realize he was nodding off; tired enough that sleep was taking him quickly, but he jerks awake when Steve shifts, carrying Eddie and all his bedding back to his bunk, one pants leg still hanging off his ankle, “stay?”

Steve doesn’t answer, not really, but he kisses Eddie’s curls and tells him, “I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

It’s easy to spot the place where Henry must be. The reddish surface of Mars is littered with black, creeping cables that curl like dead vines across the rocky ground. They all lead inward, circling a central point that’s thickest with Synth activity. It’s easily visible; the largest cables must be thirty or forty feet across. Eddie suspects the veiny network is much larger and more complex than he can see from here.

Any and all human buildings and supplies seem to have been cannibalized by Henry’s efforts.

“Okay,” Eddie tries to reassure himself, it doesn’t work, “okay.” Eddie slowly starts restarting the ship, bare minimum systems so as not to alert anyone too fast, but realistically he has to bring the engines back up, at this kind of range they’ll be caught by Mars’ weak gravity and end up crashing into the surface.

Eddie flicks the comms panel, and the screens above it, bringing up the airlock. Steve is already standing there, waiting, “ready?” Eddie asks.

Steve turns to look up at the camera, “yes,” he answers, nodding for Eddie’s benefit, before turning back to the airlock.

Eddie turns off the comms, looking over at where El is sitting, legs drawn up criss cross in the co pilot seat. She has her makeshift blindfold on, “super girl, you good?”

“Ready, Eddie.”

Eddie does his best to remember he’s piloting a fucking ship and that should be his focus, “okay,” he takes a deep breath, “this is all totally fine.” Once they’re low enough, Eddie deactivates the airlock door, and forces himself to watch as Steve opens it, then clings to the outside of the door, pushing off to push it closed behind him.

The light above the door flashes as the locks re-engage, and Eddie’s stomach feels like it’s trying to crawl up his throat.

“Steve’s out.”

El doesn’t respond. It was probably redundant; she already knows.

It’s quiet. Just the hum of the ship. Eddie can’t see a single thing going on beneath them, just Mars' strange horizon, nothing looks any different.

There’s a thud, it echoes along the empty corridor, and it’s quiet enough that Eddie eventually dismisses it.

Until it happens again.

“Eddie,” there’s green coolant dripping from El’s nose, “Henry’s waking them, there’s too many,” the arm rests of the chair groan and creek under her grip.

The noise startles Eddie half standing; a solid thud. Something that looks like a giant fucking monster bat just flung itself at the cockpit window.

“What do you need?” Eddie turns the ship, twisting sharply away from the cloud of creatures coming for them from the surface.

“I need to get closer.”

“Oh this is going to suck,” Eddie says through gritted teeth, even as he angles the ship down.

There’s hundreds of them, huge leathery looking wings and long articulated tails. They batter the hull as Eddie crashes the ship through them, sounding like the worst hail storm Eddie’s ever heard.

He prays he’s killing them.

Panic rises as more of them latch to the front of the ship, round mouths full of metal teeth banging on the glass, wings obscuring the outside, Eddie’s equipment showing a snowstorm of static and interference, “I can’t see. Can’t land if I can’t see.”

Except, he can land, he knows it, it’ll just be a really fucking bad landing. And he’s close already, they were hovering low, Eddie pulls up on instinct.

El stands, dragging the towel off her face, shards of material dropping away, she roars in effort, flinging her arm out, the windscreen clears of all the creatures, all flung off to the side, moved by an invisible force.

Eddie has a second to react to the freshly cleared view, making a sharp turn, the ships hull scraping along the side of one of those huge cables, an agonizing shrieking of metal on metal feeling like it goes on forever and yet ends almost before it begun, before the ship finally comes to rest in a gully created by two monster cables.

The sudden silence is oppressive, Eddie’s breathing by far the loudest thing over the odd plinking sound of cooling metal and cycling down engines.

Eddie’s voice sounds funny in his own ears when he finally has the wherewithal to ask, “you okay?”

El blinks, wide eyed, she looks as stunned as Eddie. Just like a kid, and she really is a kid, in some ways. But she pulls herself together faster than Eddie does, “I need to get outside.”

It feels like a bad idea, but they’re past the point of no return now. Eddie just nods, hands shaking so badly it takes him two tries to get into the weapons cache. It won’t do him any good, but he feels better for having it.

The outer airlock door is fucked again; of course it is. It gives just fine when El leans against it. Eddie’s panicked breathing is fogging up his helmet, and he desperately tries to slow himself, counting in his head as he looks around. He holds his weapon closer; safety deactivated before Eddie pulled on his gloves.

The sky is a strange reddish pink that distracts Eddie for all of a moment, and then he’s chasing after El as she marches off with no hesitation. Eddie immediately falls behind, stumbling as he leaves the ships artificial gravity. It doesn’t seem to bother El, but Eddie’s steps are suddenly almost bouncy with the lower gravity. It takes Eddie a few seconds to orientate himself to follow her.

She finds a likely spot on the nearest cable, all of the black coated in a fine layer of red dust. She doesn’t hesitate to drive both hands through the cabling wall.

Eddie lets her do her thing, looking back at the ship, she’s dinged up but looks okay, a bat corpse drops off the hull, landing with a dull thud in the dust.

Eddie raises his weapon, looking around warily; the sky is clear. All Eddie can hear is his own breathing and the dull thrum of whatever power it is that’s passing through the cables. Eddie’s sure he can feel it vibrating through the ground under him.

The chittering noise starts quietly, but Eddie looks up. Bats. A fucking lot of bats, “uh. El. Kind of have incoming.”

“I can stop them,” she frowns, Eddie backing up as much as he can to keep El and the cloud of bats in line of sight, side pressed against the black material.

“Uh hu. You sure? You better be sure?”

“Eddie.”

“Right, right yeah,” the nearest of the bats are close enough now that Eddie can clearly pick out the individuals, and he raises his weapon again, “El…”

As one, the whole cloud of them banks away, moving along the path of the cables.

Eddie breathes out a quiet, “holy shit.”

“I’ve found Steve. And Henry.”

Eddie has never, not once, felt more useless in his entire life. So helpless. All he can do is stand here and wait.

The boom is loud enough that a shock wave travels ahead of it. A cloud of dust and sand lifted and billowed out in a wave that batters and coats everything in it’s path. Eddie covers El with his body as best as he can, she has her eyes squeezed shut in concentration anyway. It takes minutes for the dust to settle from the air, the sound so loud Eddie feels like his ears are actually ringing, his brain shaken around in his head.

Eddie has to resist the urge to brush the dust out of her peach fuzz hair, but he can’t disturb her from where she’s elbow deep. There’s a faint blue glow beginning to shine around her forearms from where she’s entrenched in the cabling.

Eddie keeps her at his back, sheltered in case it happens again.

In Eddie’s peripheral vision; something moves.

A little red dust falls from it’s white skin as it stands. It’s tall, only vaguely humanoid shaped; skinny, and it doesn’t seem to have a face.

Eddie lifts his weapon, “El,” he whispers, but this time he gets no answer.

The thing tilts it’s head, then it twitches sharply. Damaged, Eddie guesses. It happens slowly, but place where it’s face should be opens up, petals peeling apart, dripping yellow black fluid from row upon row of curved metal teeth.

“Come on El,” Eddie tries again, but still, no response.

More red dust falls from the thing as it moves closer. The red dust sticks thickly to the things leg, mixing with something that’s leaking out, it’s definitely damaged, head twitching again, out of the things control. It charges, moving slow for a Synth, Eddie’s weapon firing reflexively, the thing twitching with the hit, a smoking black smear left on it’s shoulder. Eddie twists away on instinct, getting the danger away from El, the Synth suddenly moving faster than Eddie can track, he fires blindly. The Synth crashes into Eddie, and they both go down, Eddie can feel it when something in his chest cracks at the impact.

His weapon caught between them, Eddie pulls the trigger, the monsters wide open face dripping crap all over Eddie’s breathing mask.

The heat between them is beyond pain, but Eddie doesn’t take his finger off the trigger, the weapon whining as it fires repeatedly, Eddie’s mask scratched and then cracking as the thing bites at him, long clawed fingers slicing into the flesh of Eddie’s arms and shoulders.

Eddie doesn’t have the air to scream, the thing on him is so heavy, the burn from firing the weapon point blank searing Eddie’s skin.

The creature on top of Eddie suddenly seizes, becomes even more of a dead weight, and it takes several seconds for Eddie to realize he can stop, and takes his finger off the trigger.

Eddie lies there, panting. Pinned by the creature, he can’t get a full breath in, and he can’t see through the mess of his mask. He can taste chemicals and burning in the air where his cracked face cover must be leaking. He can’t feel his hands, the burning pain across his stomach is all consuming.

It’s all Eddie can do to wriggle, screaming with the pain and effort, twisting sideways just enough that the thing slides off him, and Eddie can just wriggle out from beneath it.

Eddie’s gasping now, short on air, he wipes his bare hand across his mask, smearing the goop and shit but making just so he can see movement, the outline of something coming for him, blurry and indistinct as Eddie’s vision fades.

It uses the last of Eddie’s energy when he raises his weapon.

Eddie’s eyes are gummy and his mouth is dry and shitty feeling, but Eddie’s pretty sure that means he’s not dead.

Yet.

He might be in a minute, if the searing pain is anything to go by. Eddie tries to get away from it on instinct, twisting sideways in pain fueled panic before strong hands press him back. “Hurts,” Eddie manages to whimper.

“I know, I got you,” Steve’s voice answers. The pain recedes, and Eddie floats off to a place that is half awake and half asleep. He’s pretty sure he can hear himself snoring, but he feels pretty out of it and it’s easy to dismiss.

El is there, the next time Eddie blinks awake, peering down at him, “hello Eddie.”

“Hi,” Eddie croaks, immediately relieved that he’s in very familiar surroundings. He can’t hear the engines, but years and years of familiarity tells him that they’re running fine. He can feel it in his bones.

El is passing him a coffee mug of water, keeping hold of it for him so he’s not fully responsible, guiding the straw around with her free hand.

After sloshing some around his mouth and taking several long pulls, Eddie feels better. “Does this mean we won?”

“Yes, I am sorry you got hurt. There were too many.”

“That’s okay super girl, I know you were doing your best. You helped Steve though right? Henry’s dead, so you saved the whole world.”

“Yes,” she smiles, but it’s sad. She has a look on her face that’s far too knowing, far too worn for the young face it’s on.

“I...he must have been your friend once, right?” And despite how fluffy Eddie’s head feels with the painkillers, it’s not until now, with that look on El’s face, that Eddie makes that connection.

“He was my brother. Steve says the...things that were wrong with Henry, they weren't all his fault. It wasn’t his fault he was built.”

She’s looking at him expectantly, waiting for Eddie to throw his hat in the ring. Doesn’t feel fair to have this kind of pressure on him within minutes of waking up, “yeah, I think Steve’s probably right. Regular plain old people are good or bad, too.”

She nods, clearly absorbing that, “I’m going to try and be good,” she says, child like and earnest again.

“Yeah. You and me both, super girl.”

Eddie’s picking at the bandages when Steve walks in, “I wouldn’t.”

“Is it bad?”

“In places,” Steve hedges, taking El’s empty seat.

He goes to take Eddie’s hand, then stalls out, like he’s not welcome. Eddie drops the edge of the bandage, laying his hand on the covers instead, palm up and open in invitation. Steve watches him for a long time, but whatever he sees in Eddie’s face means he’s linking their fingers together a moment later.

“So uhm...what happens now?”

Steve shrugs, “I have Henry’s remains-”

“On my fucking ship-!”

Steve shushes him, squeezing his hand, “what’s left of Henry’s remains. I’ve been salvaging some of his memories.”

Well that’s only vaguely terrifying, “put him out the airlock the second you’re done.”

“I will, but I need to keep El safe. His memories are...proof.”

Eddie tips his head, looking at Steve though slitted eyes, “you mean insurance?”

Steve smiles, “that too.”

“And...blackmail material?”

“Just a tiny bit.”

“Ohhhh,” Eddie nods, grinning at Steve’s mock innocence, “just a tiny bit.”

Steve shrugs, “might get us some identification. Get us left alone, at least.”

“Does that mean,” Eddie flinches as he sits himself up a little better, stomach muscles pulling and burning, “that you guys are going to be looking for work? Might have an opening.”

“Maybe,” Steve smiles again.

Eddie had insisted that he could fucking walk himself, thank you very much. Turned out pretty fast that he couldn’t, like, at all. His collar bone is broken, and the pain is sharp at the strangest times.

Steve carries him through the ship, wrapped safe in a blanket. When Steve sits him in the pilots chair, Eddie feels himself blushing at the memory. Steve smirks at him, before telling him, “when you’re better,” voice prim.

And then Steve leaves Eddie alone with the flashing comms button. Eddie doesn’t bother to listen to it. Eddie takes a moment, centers himself, before flicking a switch to start recording his own message instead, “ladies! Settle yourselves in for an epic tale of heroic derring-do...”

[mintyys-blog]

I am requesting cold hard angst for Shiesty! Where he is forced to watch his girlfriend die to her terminal illness, where he does everything he can to try and save her but is just wasting what little time he has left with her, and her dying but reassuring him it’s okay and that she’s dying knowing he loved her and that’s good enough for her.

…if you could also do small part of how he tries to move on but just can’t and cries over all her stuff she left behind! Please and thank you! ❤️‍🩹

FADED | sheisty mark x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: character death

The room was cold, sterile — a prison built of white walls and humming machines. The air was heavy with antiseptic and quiet dread. Shiesty sat by her bedside, exhausted, broken, trying to anchor himself to the tiny warmth of her frail hand in his.

Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and beneath it, the rapid, shallow breaths she took sounded like a countdown he was powerless to stop.

He swallowed hard, voice tight when he finally spoke. “There has to be something—there has to be a way to stop this.”

She turned her head slightly toward him, eyes glassy but still filled with the soft light that had always been her.

“You did everything,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “You fought for me.”

He shook his head, fingers gripping hers like a lifeline he was afraid to lose. “It’s not enough. It’s never enough. I’m supposed to protect you. Fix this.”

Her lips curved into a tired smile. “I know. And I’m sorry. But you can’t fix this.”

A jagged sob tore from his throat. His other hand covered hers, desperate to hold on—not just to her body, but to every moment left between them.

“You’re not supposed to leave me,” he said, voice cracking like glass breaking. “Not like this.”

Her eyes flickered with a tenderness that felt like a last gift. “You loved me. That’s what mattered.”

Tears blurred his vision as she squeezed his hand weakly.

“Promise me you won’t forget.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, feeling the thinness of her bones, the faint warmth slipping away.

“I promise. I’ll never forget.”

She exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering closed, and the beeping machines took on a slower, more solemn rhythm.

His world collapsed around him in silence as her hand went limp in his.

He stayed there long after they told him to leave—holding the ghost of her warmth, drowning in the cold that would never leave.

He didn’t remember walking out of the hospital. Didn’t remember how he got back to the apartment—their apartment.

All he knew was that the lights were off, the bed was too big, and her mug was still sitting in the sink like she’d only just used it.

Mark stood in the doorway, staring at the small things she left behind. The things that used to annoy him—the clutter, the mismatched socks, the way she always stole the blankets.

He used to sigh, roll his eyes, tease her.

Now he’d give anything to feel her cold toes on his legs at 3 a.m.

He collapsed onto the couch, fingers digging into the cushion she used to curl up against. The tears came quietly at first. Then not at all. It was worse somehow—the numbness.

The hollowness where her voice should’ve been.

“You forgot to water the plants again, dummy.”

“You stress-clean when you’re upset.”

“You always act like the world’s ending, but you’re soft. You just hide it.”

The memories weren’t gentle. They didn’t float in like comfort. They stabbed.

A flash—her smile, during a late-night gas station run. She was in his hoodie, dancing stupidly in the parking lot with a cherry slush in hand. He didn’t even remember what song was playing. Just her laughter echoing off the pavement.

He’d taken it for granted. That she’d always be there.

Another flash—her curled up in his lap, post-mission. Face buried in his chest, mumbling about how she worried every time he flew off. How she hated not knowing if he’d come back in one piece.

He should’ve stayed home more. Should’ve made her laugh more. Should’ve told her she was everything, every damn day.

But instead, he’d chased leads and called in favors, burned bridges trying to buy her time.

And it still wasn’t enough.

He thought he’d hated the world before. But now? He hated everything. Himself most of all.

Because all that power, all that speed, all that rage—none of it stopped the clock.

“Promise me you won’t forget.”

“I won’t,” he whispered into the silence, hugging the hoodie she left on the back of a chair. It still smelled like her. Like lilacs and vanilla and the warmth he couldn’t get back.

“I won’t forget, baby. I swear. I swear I won’t.”

His voice broke.

And this time, there was no one left to hear it.

[drtyelvisfantasy]

OH, BABY, BABY

CHAPTER THREE

note: I'm sorry this took so long to publish pls forgive me, but thank you for your patience. Please reblog and like🎀

warnings: emotional distress, toxic relationship, pregnancy, mentions of birth, toxic family dynamics

It’s the next morning, and even though the air still feels a little heavy, Margaret’s energy is doing a lot to lift the mood. She’s moving around the kitchen like she always does, humming softly, acting like everything’s okay. And somehow, just that—her being her—makes things feel a little less tense.

She’s always the one smoothing things over when Rafe and I butt heads. It’s like she can’t help but try to keep the peace, even when it’s not her mess to clean up. I feel guilty watching her do it, like she’s carrying the weight of keeping us all okay when she shouldn’t have to.

I wake up earlier than usual, but Rafe’s already in the kitchen, sitting there with a cup of coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s always belonged there. Like nothing ever happened. 

There’s something about the way he’s so at ease that gets under my skin—not angry, just... unsettled. He’s acting like this is just another morning, like we’re just a family, like we didn’t fall apart a hundred times before this.

Rafe looks up from his coffee as I walk in, his eyes tracking me like he’s trying to read something in my face. I know I look like hell—barely slept, head still full of things I wish I’d said.

He nods, that slight smirk playing on his lips, like none of it matters. Like last night didn’t happen.

“Morning,” he says, like it’s just any other day.

The casual tone makes something tighten in my chest. He’s too comfortable, too at ease—like he can just pick up where we left off without acknowledging the wreckage between us. And somehow, that bothers me more than if he’d just come out swinging.

“Are you leaving today, right?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but it comes out softer than I meant—like the answer might matter more than I want to admit.

Rafe pauses, takes a slow sip of his coffee. His face doesn’t give much away.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Figured I’d head out later today.”

Rafe stands, setting his mug down with a quiet clink. He walks over slowly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do what he’s about to do. Then, without saying anything, he rests his hand gently on my bump.

He doesn’t speak right away—just stays there, still and quiet, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling. Like he knows this moment might not come again, and he’s trying to hold onto it with everything he has.

“When’s your next doctor’s appointment?” he asks finally, his voice low.

I feel the weight of his hand on my bump, and for a moment, I’m frozen—caught between wanting to pull away and needing to hold on to whatever this is. His touch is so gentle, like he's afraid of breaking something.

I glance up at him, and for a split second, his eyes meet mine—there’s something there, something I can’t quite name. It’s not anger, not regret, just… a quiet kind of knowing.

“Next week,” I answer, my voice barely above a whisper. I don’t want to say more, don’t want to explain, because I know if I do, this moment might break, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

He nods, his hand lingering for just a second longer before he pulls it away. The air feels heavier, like something unspoken is hanging between us, but neither of us knows how to reach for it.

“Good,” he says quietly, but there’s no relief in his voice—just that same weight that’s been between us for too long.

The door creaks open, and Margaret steps in, her face lighting up when she sees us. Her smile is bright, almost like she’s trying to will the tension out of the room. “Good morning!” she says cheerfully, her voice filled with that contagious energy of hers.

But then, as she notices the quiet between Rafe and me, something shifts. Her eyes flicker to him, and for a second, there’s that small, unmistakable sadness in her gaze—like she’s just realized what we’ve all been trying to avoid.

She hesitates for a moment, then looks back at me, offering a forced but warm smile. “Dad, you’re leaving today, aren’t you?”

Rafe doesn’t say anything, just gives her a small nod, and that’s enough to make the smile slip from her face, just a little. She doesn’t say anything more, but I can see it—the way her shoulders sag slightly, the way she holds herself back from asking the questions she’s probably too afraid to voice.

—

The rest of the morning drags on, each minute stretching out longer than the last. Margaret seems determined to fill the time, to hold onto every second she has left with Rafe. They play cards at the kitchen table, and I can hear her giggling as she teaches him a dance she learned from TikTok. Rafe actually laughs—loud and genuine, like the world outside this moment doesn’t exist.

I stay in the kitchen, pretending to be busy, but really, I’m just watching them. Watching how easily they slip into this rhythm, like nothing’s changed, like Rafe hasn’t been gone for so long, like everything’s still okay.

But then a thought creeps into my mind, uninvited and heavy: Will he show up for this one? Will he hold the baby?

It’s a question I don’t want to ask, but it’s there, sitting in the back of my mind, because I can’t shake the feeling that he might walk away again—just when things start to matter the most.

Margaret insisted on getting ice cream at the beach, her face lighting up with excitement like nothing was different. She’s ahead of us now, lost in her own world as she walks down the boardwalk.

Rafe and I trail behind, side by side but not really together. He keeps his hands in his pockets, glancing at me every so often, but neither of us says a word. The silence stretches between us, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s going to walk away again once this is all over.

“She’s growing up so fast, isn’t she?” Rafe says, his voice quieter than usual.

“Yeah, she is,” I reply, my words simple, but they carry more weight than they should.

Rafe nods, his gaze following Margaret as she walks ahead, her energy still bright, her innocence still untouched. There’s a softness in his expression as he watches her, something almost wistful, like he’s realizing how much time has passed while he’s been away.

For a moment, it feels like the world slows down, and the distance between us feels a little smaller—until the silence falls again, heavier than before.

I shift the conversation, needing to know—needing something real before he leaves.

“Um... I was wondering if you’d be able to stay for a while. When the baby’s born.”

Rafe doesn’t answer right away. He looks ahead, jaw tight, like he’s turning the question over carefully in his mind. I can see the weight of it in his silence—the idea of staying, of showing up this time.

His face stays unreadable, but when he finally speaks, there’s a hesitation in his voice that says more than the words do.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure if I can commit to that right now.”

“Rafe, please,” I say, the words catching in my throat. “At least be there. You’ve missed every doctor’s appointment so far... the least you could do is be there when the baby comes.”

My voice shakes, not out of anger—but something closer to exhaustion. To hope, maybe. I’m not asking for everything. Just that.

Rafe’s jaw tightens, and when he speaks, there’s an edge to his voice.

“Don’t start with that. I don’t have time to make every single doctor’s appointment. I have a life too, you know.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

He cuts me off, sharper this time.

“But what? You think I don’t care about this baby? That I don’t want to be there for you?”

“I didn’t say that, Rafe,” I reply quietly, but the hurt is already there—pressed between the lines of everything we didn’t say.

Rafe’s frustration boils over, his voice rising as he snaps back, more defensive now.

“But that’s what you��re implying, isn’t it? That I don’t care—just because I can’t be at every damn appointment?”

I flinch at the intensity in his voice. Whatever fragile calm we had is gone now, replaced by the same wall he always throws up when things get too real.

He looks away, jaw clenched, then calls out, louder than he needs to, “Margaret! We’re heading back!”

His tone makes it clear—this conversation is over. Whether I got the answer I needed or not doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

The silence in the car is thick, stretching between us like miles. Margaret’s soft snores drift from the back seat, the only sound breaking the tension.

I stare out the window, the landscape blurring past, but all I can feel is the weight pressing down on me—loneliness wrapping itself around my shoulders like a heavy blanket.

I want to say something, anything, but the thought of opening up to Rafe feels pointless. He’d probably just call me dramatic, brush it off like he always does. So I stay quiet, holding it all in, because it feels safer than being dismissed.

—

We finally make it back to the house. Margaret heads upstairs to her room without a word, worn out from the day.

Rafe and I step into the bedroom, the air thick with tension. He goes straight to his bag, focused, methodical—folding, zipping, organizing like it’s the only thing he has control over.

I move around him, pretending to tidy up, but really just trying to fill the silence. We don’t speak. There’s too much to say and no safe way to say it, so we let the silence speak for us—loud and aching.

I stand near the dresser, pretending to rearrange things that don’t need rearranging. My voice comes out softer than I expect.

“You’ll call her, right? Not just for birthdays?”

Rafe pauses, his hands stilling over the half-zipped bag. He doesn’t look at me right away, just stares down like he’s weighing what to say.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Of course I will.”

But something in the way he says it—too quick, too automatic—makes my chest tighten. I nod anyway, pretending to believe him, because it’s easier than pushing for more.

I nod, but it doesn’t feel like a promise—just words he thinks I want to hear.

Trying to soften the silence, I shift the weight in the room.

“I was thinking maybe… next time you visit, we could all go to Orlando or something. Take Margaret to Disney. You know, like a family trip.”

I try to keep my tone light, casual, but there’s hope tucked beneath it—thin and fragile. I don’t look at him right away. I don’t want to see his face if he’s already thinking of all the reasons it won’t happen.

Rafe lets out a short breath, his tone already edged with irritation.

“You want me to spend money on a whole trip to Disney? Do you even know how expensive that is?”

I look down, jaw tightening, the sting immediate. I wasn’t asking for luxury—just a moment. A memory. Something that might hold us together a little longer.

“I just thought it might be nice,” I say quietly, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. “For Margaret.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and in the silence, it’s clear—I asked for too much again.

Rafe sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, his voice still edged with irritation.

“Just don’t suggest things you know we can’t afford.”

I nod slowly, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. Of course. I should’ve known better than to hope out loud.

“It wasn’t about the money,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “It was about doing something... together.”

But he’s already turned back to his bag, and I’m left standing there, feeling foolish for wanting more than he’s willing to give.

—

The moment is here, and it feels like time has slowed down. Margaret and I stand at the front door, silent, watching as Rafe hovers awkwardly in the doorway. His bags are packed, the car’s engine idling outside.

There’s something heavy in the air, something unspoken, and it hangs between us like a wall neither of us knows how to break.

Rafe shifts his weight, glancing between Margaret and me, but neither of us knows what to say. We all feel the same thing—this is it. This is the last time we’ll see him for who knows how long. And somehow, even though it’s been this way before, it feels different now.

Margaret’s the first to speak, her voice small, almost fragile. “Take care, Dad.”

Rfe looks down at Margaret, his expression both soft and pained. He responds to her goodbye with a gentle smile.

“I’ll see you later, alright little one?”

I can’t bring myself to say anything. The words feel stuck, tangled up in all the things I never got to ask. Instead, I just stand there, watching as he pulls away and walks out the door.

Rafe steps out, the door clicking shut behind him, and the silence that follows feels even heavier. I turn to Margaret, my heart aching as I take in the sadness etched across her face. It’s there in the way her shoulders slump, the quiet tremble of her lip, and the way her eyes shine with unshed tears—her brave face faltering under the weight of everything she doesn’t know how to say.

“What’s wrong, baby?” I ask softly, my voice breaking through the quiet.

She blinks, as if trying to push the tears back, but they fall anyway, one by one, and I know she’s holding onto the kind of hurt only a child feels when someone they love walks away.

“I... I don’t want him to go, Mom,” she whispers, her voice small and fragile.

“Well, he has to go, but he’ll be back before you know it,” I say, trying to sound more reassuring than I feel.

Margaret’s response is quick, her voice sharp with both annoyance and sadness.

“What, in another four months?”

I feel a pang in my chest at the bitterness in her tone.

“He has to work, sweetheart. Who else is gonna keep the lights on?” I answer, my words sounding more defensive than I intend.

She nods slowly, understanding the practicalities of his work, but her expression says everything—the disappointment is too heavy for her to just brush aside. She turns away slightly, trying to hide the way her shoulders slump.

“I know,” she mutters, but I can see the sadness still lingering in her eyes.

Margaret doesn’t say anything else. She just nods, her shoulders stiff as she turns away. Without another word, she heads for the stairs, her steps quiet but heavy, like she’s carrying something too big for her small frame.

I watch her go, the sound of her footsteps fading as she disappears upstairs. A lump forms in my throat, but I don’t chase after her. Not now. I know she needs space to process this, to make sense of what we both already feel.

The house feels emptier, quieter, and I’m left standing there, with the weight of everything left unsaid.

[boopiemadz]

[Its hard to be forgotten] Travis X Reader

wanted to write a little hurt/ comfort. so here it is :) again i dont like writing warnings but just dont read if sensitive ig.

also shout out to my beautiful moots who make me feel so appreciated and loved <3

---

Travis’s head is pounding as he stumbles through the wreckage of the plane, the debris is everywhere, twisted metal and shattered glass creating an impossible maze. He calls out, his voice hoarse, panic rising in his chest.

“Y/N?” His breath catches in his throat as his eyes dart around, frantic, scanning the wreckage. “Where are you?”

He sees a figure, lying motionless beneath the twisted metal. His heart stops, dread sinking like a stone in his gut.

“No…” He hisses under his breath, rushing forward with a force he didn’t know he had in him.

There you are, crumpled on the ground, barely breathing. Blood stains your clothes, your face pale, eyes closed. Your body is surrounded by wreckage, your hand barely twitching, as if trying to reach out, but too weak to move.

Travis’s hands shake as he kneels beside you, gently touching your face, his fingers brushing through your hair.

“No… no, no, no,” he breathes, his voice shaky and full of desperation. “Please… stay with me.”

He cradles your head in his hands, feeling the warmth of your skin, the faint pulse beneath his fingers. But it's weak. Too weak.

“Please,” he whispers again, leaning down, his breath shaky against your ear. “You can’t… not now. Please.”

He hears movement behind him, Misty and Natalie rushing toward him, shouting at him to move, but all Travis can do is focus on you. “Travis, we need to go,” Nat calls urgently, her voice trembling. “We need to get out of here, now.”

“She’s still alive,” he manages to say, his voice a broken rasp. “I’m not leaving her. We can’t… we can’t just leave her here.”

He cradles your body against his chest, his arms shaking as he holds you close, willing himself to stay calm. He has to keep it together. For you.

They move, slowly, stumbling through the wreckage, the air is thick with the smoke and the scent of burning wreckage, and the sounds of distant cries fill the air.

---

A week passes, though the crash feels like it happened only moments ago, every day, they move further away from the crash site, hoping to find some kind of shelter, some kind of safety. You haven’t woken up. Not since they found you.

It’s a constant weight on his chest, a suffocating feeling that never leaves him. Now, every time he looks at you, lying unconscious, his heart aches. His hands tremble as he checks for your pulse, making sure it’s still there, still steady, still fighting.

And it is. Barely.

He doesn’t know if it’s enough. He doesn’t know if you’re going to make it.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever hear your voice again.

---

By the time they found a cabin, Travis had stopped counting the days. All he knows is that it’s been long enough for everyone else to lose hope. But not him. He can’t.

He carries you into the cabin with trembling arms, gently laying you down on the floor. The others are asleep, exhausted from the journey. But Travis is wide awake, sitting by your side, eyes fixed on your face, praying for some sign of life, anything to show that you’re still in there.

He doesn’t know what he’s hoping for, maybe a twitch, maybe a breath, maybe the sound of your voice. Something to make him believe that you’ll be okay. That you’re still here.

“Come back to me,” he whispers brokenly, running a hand through your hair. “I need you. Please.”

---

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was the searing headache that throbbed in time with your heartbeat. You tried to sit up, but the world spun around you, and you were forced to lie back down with a groan, blinking into the dim, shadowed room you were in.

You didn’t remember how you got here. You didn’t remember anything.

Your thoughts were scattered, trying to make sense of what was happening, but nothing seemed to fit. Your eyes adjusted to the low light, and you saw several familiar faces in the room. Akilah, stood from the group and moved toward you. Her eyes were tired. She knelt beside you, careful not to startle you.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" She asked gently, though her voice was shaky.

You didn’t answer immediately. You didn’t know how to. The words felt foreign in your mouth. You tried to remember everything, about where you were, but the more you tried, the more you realized... there was a hole where your memories should be.

“I... I don’t remember,” you whispered, swallowing thickly. “What happened?”

Akilah’s expression faltered for a moment, then she sighed softly. “You were in the crash. You’ve been unconscious for a while.”

“The crash?” you repeated, your heart beginning to race. “What crash? Where am I?”

"You're in the cabin," Akilah explained, voice still soft but laced with a tension you couldn’t place. "We found it a few days ago. After the plane went down."

The plane crash. It all sounded so unreal, like it was someone else’s nightmare, not yours. You tried to focus, but it was like your brain refused to cooperate, the details of everything lost in the fog.

"You don’t remember anything about the crash?" You shook your head slowly, confusion spreading like a cold sweat across your skin. "No... I don’t remember anything. Just... waking up here."

Her face twisted in concern. She looked over at the others, who were all watching you with unreadable expressions. “Well... we’ll explain more when you’re ready, but you don’t remember the crash, or boarding the plane, or anything?”

You stared at her blankly. The mention of boarding a plane meant nothing to you. "Where were we going? What plane?"

Mari then shifted uncomfortably and spoke up, “We were on our way to Nationals.”

The conversation left you reeling. You could sense something important was missing from your memory, but it felt unreachable, like a door locked inside your mind.

---

-Before the Crash-

Before the crash, you and Travis had shared a history. It wasn’t a great history, but it was a history nonetheless. There was something about his presence that made you angry and amused all at once. It frustrated you, but it also made you laugh when he wasn’t being too much of a jerk. You’d never thought about it too deeply. Subtle shifts in how things changed between you, those awkward moments when your laughter lingered longer than it should have, those brief moments when you actually appreciated his humor instead of resenting it.

The gym was full of noise, students running around, setting up decorations, and the usual chaos that came with school events. You were in the decorating committee, it was a mix of tinsel, twinkling lights, and awkward conversations.

Travis stood off to the side, arms crossed, not exactly participating but also not making an effort to leave. He’d been forced into this because of detention. "You're standing there like a tree, you know," you said as you passed by, eyeing him. "Maybe you could do something useful."

Travis looked up from his spot against the wall. "I am being useful. Someone has to make sure you don't screw everything up."

The final touch of the night involved hanging the last of the streamers along the back wall, the place you’d both been assigned to decorate. The others had all left, and it was down to the two of you. You were already tired of this whole thing, irritated that you hadn’t been able to escape earlier, and frustrated that it felt like Travis was deliberately trying to make everything harder for you.

You were struggling with the roll of ribbon, untangling it when it slipped from your fingers and fell to the floor. You bent down to grab it just as Travis walked over, apparently trying to help, though, knowing him, it was probably just a half-hearted attempt.

"Here," he muttered, reaching for the ribbon at the same time. You looked up at him, a little taken aback by the fact that he was actually being helpful. "Thanks," you said, trying to keep the sarcasm in check. "Not that you needed to do that. I’ve got it."

He shrugged but didn’t back off. There was an awkward pause between you two, neither of you quite sure what to say.

The lights dimmed a little as you both stood there, staring at the ribbon in silence. You caught yourself glancing at him. The way his hair fell in his eyes. The soft expression on his face that he usually hid behind the snark.

You looked away quickly, clearing your throat. "Well, we’re almost done. I’m sure you’re happy to be done with this."

"Yeah," he muttered, and for a second, you both just stood there, close, awkward.

Before you could stop yourself, you muttered, “It’s not so bad.” You didn’t expect it, but when you looked up, you found that you were both standing too close, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

You stepped back, trying to pull yourself out of the moment, but it was too late. Travis’s gaze flickered to your lips and, without thinking, he leaned in. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t sudden. It just happened, a brief, hesitant kiss, a brush of lips, soft and surprising.

You froze, your mind not entirely sure what had just happened. Travis pulled back just as quickly, his face redder than you'd ever seen it, his usual scowl replaced with something unfamiliar. "Uh... Sorry. I…I didn’t…"

You shook your head quickly, too flustered to form a real sentence. “No, it’s fine. I just... didn’t expect that.”

Travis looked at you, brows furrowed. “Me neither.”

The awkwardness between you two didn’t fade immediately. You both turned away, trying to pretend like nothing had happened. But the truth was, something had changed. Neither of you knew what it was exactly, but it was there, lingering in the quiet space between you.

The days after the kiss were strange. It was gradual, like a new rhythm you couldn’t quite ignore. Every now and then, you’d catch him glancing at you in a way that wasn’t quite normal, or you’d find yourself just a little more aware of him than before. The sarcastic comments didn’t go away, but they started to feel different, softer.

And then, one afternoon, you found yourself standing next to him by the lockers, both of you silently waiting for the bell to ring. You felt that familiar tension, but this time, instead of running from it, you leaned into it.

“So...” you began, unsure of how to break the silence. “Are we...I mean we cant just keep insulting each other after…”

Travis looked over at you, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “I could.” He pauses. “But no.. um… maybe we could go on a date.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Great. Because Id love that. But you’re still an idiot.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, “you’re still annoying.”

And that was that. It wasn’t a big moment. There was no dramatic confession. It was just the start of something new, something quiet and simple. 

---

The fire crackled low when Travis stepped inside, blinking against the dim light. The air in the cabin felt charged, tense in a way he couldn’t place.

He dropped the game he’d brought in, two squirrels, not bad for a quick afternoon, and glanced around. Van and Akilah sat by the fire. Lottie was whispering to Shauna.

He saw Misty crouched by the far corner.

The corner where you'd been for days. Still. Silent. Unmoving.

Until now.

Misty looked up. “She’s awake.”

That one sentence knocked the breath out of him.

Travis stepped toward you before he realized he was even moving. You were sitting up, propped against a bundled-up sweatshirt, eyes half-lidded and scanning the room with an exhausted kind of wariness. Pale. Still too thin. But alive. Awake.

He crouched beside you. “Hey…”

You looked at him like he’d just stepped in mud and tracked it across your mom’s white carpet.

“Travis,” you said, flatly, "Your eyes scanned him up and down. “You smell like actual death.”

Travis blinked. “I just got back from hunting…”

“Well, you also look like you fought a tree and lost,” you muttered, then turned your head away like you couldn’t be bothered. He stared at you, unsure whether he should be relieved or… insulted. “Are you… okay?”

You shrugged, lips tight. “Still alive, I guess.”

You were glaring at him like it was weeks before the trip again, like every time you saw him in the hallway was just another opportunity to insult him for being a dick during chemistry lab.

Behind him, he barely registered Lottie’s quiet murmur to Misty, “She hasn’t asked about him at all.”

---

Three weeks later Travis was sitting against a log, his elbows braced against his knees, hands dug into his hair. The sky was starting to dim, sun bleeding behind the trees. He was trying not to cry. Trying and failing.

You hadn’t looked at him like you cared since the moment you woke up.

Every time he tried to check on you, to help you gather water, to sit near you when you were shivering during the night, you pushed him away. Not with your hands, but with comments and narrowed eyes. That look of annoyance, of distance.

Like he was just Travis. Just the guy you used to argue with. Not the guy who kissed you under the bleachers. Not the guy who walked you home everyday after school. Not the guy who loved you.

She hates me now. She blames me for something. Maybe she regrets it. Maybe it was nothing to her.

He let out a sound, a bitter, quiet laugh, and kicked at the dirt.

---

You were sitting beside the dwindling fire, quietly ripping pages out of books to make more kindling. Your hands moved automatically, but your mind wasn’t focused.

Everything had felt… wrong. Off. Ever since you woke up.

The others had explained what happened, mostly. That there’d been a crash, that you were unconscious, that it had been weeks since then. But no one had said anything beyond that.

And Travis?

Why was he acting so weird?

Why did he keep looking at you like you’d punched him in the gut? Why did his voice soften around you, like you were made of glass? Why did the girls keep glancing between you two when you snapped at him?

He wasn’t your friend. You were never close. He was sarcastic and cold and kind of a dick. You used to throw insults back and forth in class like dodgeballs. But now… now it was like he expected something.

Tai sat down beside you quietly, brushing her hands off on her pants.

“You okay?” she asked, not pushing.

You hesitated. “Not really.” She nodded like she understood. You stared into the fire. “What day is it?” Tai gave you a small shrug. “We stopped counting exactly after the crash… but it’s been like a month.”

“I don’t remember it,” you said softly. “I don’t remember getting on the plane. Or anything since… like March.” She turned to look at you. “March?”

“Yeah. Last I remember, Nationals were two months away. I wasn’t even packed yet.”

She went still. “…What?” you asked.

She blinked, trying to piece it together. “That’s… that’s more than just the crash.”

“I figured I must’ve hit my head,” you muttered. “They said I was out cold when we landed. Guess that’s what scrambled me.”

Tai opened her mouth. Closed it again. Then spoke gently.

“No one knew that. I don’t think you told anyone how far it went back.” Then Tai’s face dropped, like she realized something.

You looked at her, cautious. “What? What is it?” She exhaled. “You and Travis… you started dating. Before the trip.”

You stared at her.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” She said. “He was different with you. You were always with him, even when he was being moody and… well, Travis. You were good together.”

You looked down, heart slamming in your chest. “I don’t remember any of that.”

“I know,” she said gently. “But he does.”

You swallowed. No wonder he looked heartbroken every time you brushed him off. No wonder everyone acted like you were being cruel, and he couldn’t figure out why. You hadn’t just forgotten the crash.

You’d forgotten him.

---

The sun was starting to dip, casting long gold shadows over the edge of the forest. You weren’t even sure why your feet had led you outside. But when you spotted Travis, alone, pacing near the edge of the trees, something in your chest twisted. You stepped off the porch quietly.

He hadn’t seen you yet. He was dragging the toe of his boot in the dirt, jaw clenched. You stood there awkwardly until he turned, mid-step, and spotted you. His eyes narrowed.

“You following me or something?” You folded your arms across your chest. “No. I just… I wanted to talk.”

Travis laughed, but there was no humor in it, just bitterness. “Oh, now you want to talk?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He scoffed. “Are you serious? You’ve been avoiding me since you woke up. Like I kicked your dog or something. And you act like I’m the crazy one?”

“I haven’t…” You stopped yourself, shoulders tensing. “I didn’t know I was.”

“Right,” he muttered. “You’ve just been giving me the cold shoulder and snapping at me for fun, I guess?” You took a step forward. “I didn’t mean to, okay? I didn’t even know you cared. Before the crash, we barely talked, and when we did, it was mostly sarcasm and side-eyes. You weren’t exactly Mr. Friendly.”

Travis blinked. “What are you talking about? We…” He cut himself off, face twisting slightly. “Wait… what do you remember?”

You looked away.

“I remember school. The team. Nationals being a couple months away. I remember thinking you were just that quiet, rude guy who made smartass comments.” You met his gaze again. “I don’t remember anything past that. I didn’t even know we were on the plane until I woke up here.”

Travis took a step back like you’d shoved him.

His lips parted, but he didn’t speak right away. His eyes searched yours, confused, almost desperate.

“You… you don’t remember?” You shook your head. “Not the crash. Not the flight. Not the days after. Nothing. Just black.” His mouth opened again. Then shut. He scrubbed his hands down his face.

“I thought you hated me,” he said quietly. “I thought you woke up and decided I wasn’t worth it anymore.” You frowned.“Because you wouldn’t even look at me,” he said, and his voice cracked a little. “Every time I tried to talk to you, you flinched. You shut down. I thought… I thought you regretted us.”

Your voice was quiet. “So we were really…? What Tai told me?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, your arms tightening around yourself. You felt so exposed suddenly, raw. Travis gave a helpless shrug. “I didn’t know you forgot that far back. I just… I couldn’t figure out why it felt like I lost you twice.”

You inhaled sharply. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” he said. “It’s just…” He trailed off and looked away, his jaw clenching. “It sucked,” he muttered. The air between you went quiet for a long moment. Neither of you moved.

Then he said, “We weren’t perfect or anything. We still argued. You still called me an asshole, like, weekly. But it was different. You didn’t really mean it.” You almost laughed, but your throat was too tight. “Eh, pretty sure I meant it.”

Travis cracked a tired smile. “There she is.” You let your eyes meet his.

He didn’t look like the Travis you remembered from school. That Travis had been standoffish, always lurking at the edge of the hallway like the world annoyed him.

This Travis was still guarded, but his face was open now. Vulnerable. Like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t know if you’d disappear if he tried.

“What were we like?” you asked, your voice soft. He hesitated, then took a tentative step closer.

“You were annoying,” he said. “But kind of brilliant. You made fun of me every time I said something dumb, but you also stayed up with me the night my dad got too drunk and smashed up the living room.”

You swallowed hard. “You stole that stupid hat from the gas station and made me wear it backwards for a week,” he added, lips twitching at the memory. “Said it made me look like a high school dropout.”

You laughed, just a little. You were quiet again.

And then, after a long beat: “I don’t remember any of that. But… something about it feels like it happened.” Travis’s breath hitched. “That’s something, right?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He was close now. Close enough that your shoulder could brush his if either of you moved even slightly. And when he looked at you, there was this pain in his eyes, this ache, but also relief. Like all the pieces finally made sense, even if they still hurt.

“I missed you,” he said softly. “Even if you didn’t mean to leave.”

You looked up at him. Your heart was pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it.

And somehow, without thinking, your hand moved, just barely brushing against his. You didn’t grab it. You didn’t force anything. But it was enough.

Travis turned his hand so your fingers could slide between his. He waited. Watching you. Letting you decide. And slowly, gently, you leaned forward.

His breath caught when your lips met his, soft, hesitant, unsure.

But familiar.

His hand cupped your cheek instinctively, like muscle memory, like home. The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was slow and a little awkward. A little tense. A little heartbreaking. But it was real.

And this time, even if the memories hadn’t come back, you had.

And that was enough.

---

sorry if this was poop from a butt...

hope u enjoyed :)